So, last night I’m at The Boneyard, a bar where they don’t toss me out. It’s really one of my favorite places in this otherwise dead city. It’s dark, yet warm, friendly. People know me by name, it’s a comfortable place to relax and think about writing, or not think at all. The idea for my Weird Tales poem came to me in this bar.
Anyway, I’m there last night and I decide to throw my twelve favorite Elliott Smith songs onto the jukebox. A guy picking up his drink is talking about music with the bartender, he asks her, “who’s this playing now?” He says, “it’s depressing.” I smile and think to myself, “nice.” It’s interesting how music and writing can affect people in completely different ways. Elliott sings his last song, and I leave, not depressed for a little while.
Oh, and there’s something astonishingly satisfying about listening to Between the Bars, sitting in a bar.7 comments
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