Nasty Habits

Saw Shine A Light, Martin Scorsese’s Rolling Stones movie, last night. In a theater! (Such things get an exclamation point when you’ve got a one-year-old: We! Went! On! A! Date! And! Saw! A! Movie!) And really this one should be seen in a theater because, I mean, if you want to see Keith Richards sweating, which I realized last night that I do, you might as well see it on a big screen. I realized two other things:
1. Poetry’s great tragedy is that it never has been and never will be as much fun as rock and roll. Until we admit that to ourselves, we, as artists, will be fundamentally unserious.
And
2. All I’ve really ever wanted out of life is to be a backup singer. One of a row of three, maybe a little overweight but game, in a fun sleazy dress, gesturing and harmonizing and moaning and dancing in place, maybe the one with the tambourine.
O’Hara said poetry should be as good as the movies, but really it should be as good as big movies about big rock and roll.