Back When

Back before I wrote anything except awkward poetry or read anything except Beat writers or kissed a girl who wasn't my mother or really knew why I hated the suburbs (except that I really hated them); back when I stole beer from people's open garages in the summertime and dreamed about living in some shitty apartment and filling page after page with undiscovered genius; back when I didn't have a job or have to worry about health insurance; back when I liked girls with tattoos and carried Ginsberg in my back pocket; back — way back — when I could afford the luxury of poverty and destitution as romantic ideals, I would have really loved Poe Ballantine, a kind of Bukowski-meets-Kerouac type of writer with a penchant for destitution, drugs, booze and eccentrics.

Tonight at 7:30 p.m. Ballantine will present and sign his new book, 501 Minutes to Christ, at the Tattered Cover, 2526 East Colfax Avenue. Admission is free. For details, go to
Wed., Sept. 5