Apparently my little blurb thing in the news and review was THIS week. I know this because the artist with whom I've developed an aquaintanceship told me about it when I saw him last night. The question from the paper was asking which artist I wanted to paint my portrait, and I just said Van Gogh because I couldn't think of anything. I got shit from the artist (and his attractive sister) as a result, because I didn't say him. Gotta love ego in its unfiltered form. If anyone grabbed it, let me know. Especially let me know if they spelled "eccentric" right. I'm almost positive the stupid girl who interviewed me spelled it with an X. There was a mini debate.
Second Saturday is fascinating. I greatly enjoyed myself, crowds aside. There was just an atmosphere, more than anything. It felt quite nice. Even the bar felt special. Well, for a while. I wrote at length about it when I was there. It was one of the more interesting nights. Met a weird girl who gave me a beer while we talked about writing, a weird Indian guy thought I was cool and wouldn't leave me alone until his friend showed up, I got to talk to a guy with alopecia (it still is the most amusing condition I can think of), got the aforementioned from the sister of the artist (she's very pretty, but too...well, agenda-driven; she pimps her brother like no one's business), and got exceptionally tired of people around eleven-thirty. Looking forward to seeing Weird Girl again, though, even if she made me realize how confusing I can be.
I got asked why I wrote (I write often, usually at the bar). I couldn't think of anything. The best answer is that I'm a writer, but that sounds like such a copout. It's like saying you put out fires because you're a fireman. But I seriously, honestly can't think of anything to say. It's all I've ever been remotely good at, and all I've ever really wanted to do. It's just the thing I know I do better than anything. It's just my thing. That isn't a sexy answer, really, but it's the best I can do.
Writing a blues song tonight. Should be neat.
I really should have wrote something when I came back last night. Moment's passed. But whatever.
I'm stopping now, I think.
Later.
Second Saturday is fascinating. I greatly enjoyed myself, crowds aside. There was just an atmosphere, more than anything. It felt quite nice. Even the bar felt special. Well, for a while. I wrote at length about it when I was there. It was one of the more interesting nights. Met a weird girl who gave me a beer while we talked about writing, a weird Indian guy thought I was cool and wouldn't leave me alone until his friend showed up, I got to talk to a guy with alopecia (it still is the most amusing condition I can think of), got the aforementioned from the sister of the artist (she's very pretty, but too...well, agenda-driven; she pimps her brother like no one's business), and got exceptionally tired of people around eleven-thirty. Looking forward to seeing Weird Girl again, though, even if she made me realize how confusing I can be.
I got asked why I wrote (I write often, usually at the bar). I couldn't think of anything. The best answer is that I'm a writer, but that sounds like such a copout. It's like saying you put out fires because you're a fireman. But I seriously, honestly can't think of anything to say. It's all I've ever been remotely good at, and all I've ever really wanted to do. It's just the thing I know I do better than anything. It's just my thing. That isn't a sexy answer, really, but it's the best I can do.
Writing a blues song tonight. Should be neat.
I really should have wrote something when I came back last night. Moment's passed. But whatever.
I'm stopping now, I think.
Later.
VIEW 4 of 4 COMMENTS
seriously though Yah do it cause that is you.
hey i'll be glad to see yah Saturday, even though I'll be drinking on like 20$...stupid taxes