Tonight the Smartgals Speakeasy stages a poetry slam pitting poets who died a natural death against those who offed themselves. It’s their first Dead Poets event, which asks members of the audience to guess who wrote what as live actors and writers read from the works of, say, Sylvia Plath (We cast our skins and slide/into another time), John Donne (We have a winding sheet in our mother’s womb, which grows with us from our conception, and we come into the world
wound up in that winding sheet, for we come to seek a grave), or John Berryman (Life, friends, is boring). I would imagine that Dorothy Parker will make an appearance, although whether her death is considered natural or suicide by drinking I can’t say.
Speaking of drinking, the Speakeasy, which is in the bottom of a church in Los Feliz and requires a password (this time: "stop rhyming and I mean it"), includes a spiked punch of some sort. Other beverages are also on hand; bring more than the $7 entrance fee if you want to purchase the limited-edition bookmark or become a member.
Because it still tickles me, and is appropriate, here is Dorothy Parker’s R?sum?:
Razors pain you,
Rivers are damp,
Acids stain you,
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren’t lawful,
Nooses give,
Gas smells awful.
You might as well live.
Every single time I make my list of quotable cultural works that I always can never remember exactly right as they’re floating right there in front of my eyes just not quite in focus enough, causing great frustration because quoting them at that moment would be the perfect thing to do, and in fact was the thing i just started to do but am seeming to find myself unable to follow-through with, resulting in obvious embarassment, whenever i make that list, that poem always makes the top spot.