Aug. 24: All the critics love U in New York
I went to New York once. Just once. Went to see a hockey game. I
wrote a column about my trip and we published it in the newspaper where I
work. Here is my favourite paragraph from that column:
Yes, and I was told not to look up at all the tall buildings because then people would know Iwas a tourist. But I looked up at the Empire State Building anyway and I’ve no idea how many people looked up at me and said to themselves “that fellah is a tourist.” And Ivisited the David Letterman studio and I drove through Times Square and Ipassed the Statue of Liberty and I bought a hot dog from a street vendor and now I can say that I have been to New York.
I'm not sure if the critics loved it. I'm not even sure if my readers did. Probably a few of them didn't. My column tends to dwell on my own personal experiences too much, just like this note-a-day thingee does.
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In New York, I went to an open mic night. I brought some of my writing with me and I hoped that my work would prove as popular as it was in the mid 90s when I was a superstar at the writers' nights at Words Books and Cappucino Bar in Calgary.
But I was not a hit. There were about 15 people in the room, all middle-aged writers, and they barely even acknowledged me. There was no applause, no groans, and certainly no laughter. One man, a fortysomething black dude in a grey jacket, was watching me with a careful degree of scorn. I tried to introduce myself to him during the break and he brushed me off. "I got nothing I can learn about life from a white boy like you," he said.
There was a blonde lady, about 50, who said her name was Ice. She read very long poems. I remember nothing about them except they were angry and had lots of imagery about winter and death and old men going to church.
Ice got plenty of applause after she read. So did the black dude (even though his audience was entirely white.) I wasn't offended. I just realized that I was an outsider and I should not be expected to be loved just yet.
I went back to the hostel and I slept well.
Yes, and I was told not to look up at all the tall buildings because then people would know Iwas a tourist. But I looked up at the Empire State Building anyway and I’ve no idea how many people looked up at me and said to themselves “that fellah is a tourist.” And Ivisited the David Letterman studio and I drove through Times Square and Ipassed the Statue of Liberty and I bought a hot dog from a street vendor and now I can say that I have been to New York.
I'm not sure if the critics loved it. I'm not even sure if my readers did. Probably a few of them didn't. My column tends to dwell on my own personal experiences too much, just like this note-a-day thingee does.
-
In New York, I went to an open mic night. I brought some of my writing with me and I hoped that my work would prove as popular as it was in the mid 90s when I was a superstar at the writers' nights at Words Books and Cappucino Bar in Calgary.
But I was not a hit. There were about 15 people in the room, all middle-aged writers, and they barely even acknowledged me. There was no applause, no groans, and certainly no laughter. One man, a fortysomething black dude in a grey jacket, was watching me with a careful degree of scorn. I tried to introduce myself to him during the break and he brushed me off. "I got nothing I can learn about life from a white boy like you," he said.
There was a blonde lady, about 50, who said her name was Ice. She read very long poems. I remember nothing about them except they were angry and had lots of imagery about winter and death and old men going to church.
Ice got plenty of applause after she read. So did the black dude (even though his audience was entirely white.) I wasn't offended. I just realized that I was an outsider and I should not be expected to be loved just yet.
I went back to the hostel and I slept well.
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