Short attention spans

So you like your literature and you don't mind being read to out loud. It sort of reminds you of being a kid but then these days you often have hard liquor in your hand.

Liquor. Yeah, you notice you tend to drink more these days at those bloody events. The chinking ice and the drink, well the several, you reason, sustain you—writers seem to figure that a three minute limit actually means ten.

You know what, to be honest you've stopped going to these things altogether. Readings nights. Yeah. You've stopped going. The booze is cheaper at home and at least you know if the show on the telly is shit then in another two minutes there'll be a commercial break to pour another. Yeah another. It's a reliable night.

But you heard whispers about 'short attention spans' and something about whiskey and you figured it has your name written all over over it. Written, yeah, writing. Thirty readers sounds a bit rich, but you figure what the fuck? You hear that they're only reading for sixty seconds each. You can deal with that you reckon. You're not picking up women in your lounge room anyhow are you now?  Women. Yeah.

So this 'Short Attention Span' thing, it's a fund raiser but you don't care. You heard those literary chicks are easy so long as you drop Bukowski into the conversation and while the blokes can prattle on a bit they appreciate a stiff drink, that's what matters. Good Liquor. Hmmm. That Whiskey girl—you heard about her. She seems to get a whole lot of girls in one place and that can't be half bad.

So fuck it. Saturday you'll go. It's an early start. Seven yeah. You can always head to that strip joint all those well dressed hipster-boys were banging on about. You could go there after. And you figure that if Brunswick Street Gallery has kebab joint either side of the place it can't be half bad.