:: BLOG NATION aka BlahBlahBlog ::

:: 7.18.2003 ::

:: The Father needs work ::

Here's an old piece that I just dragged out, bringing it forth from a decrepit floppy. It was written years ago and desperately needs major surgery. If any amateur editors would like a challenge, please e-mail me at shakedown23@hotmail.com. In any case, this piece has appeared in a number of places over the years -- including bINGO nATION, the Internet Herald and SCREAM -- so here it is one last time. I dedicate this post to the memory of "Frankie!" (mentioned below) who passed away earlier this year.

The Father's Night Out,
OR, how to have fun dressed up as a priest, flashing a machete, pulling poetry out of a hat, and menacing a given region's supposed intelligentsia at a p-slam,
WITH your host,
Sg8 (the father)

Poetry slams. It seems at some point, within the relatively recent past, there might have been some nice-- albeit naive and idealistic-- potential within the concept. However, much to the cynic's astonishment, these slams now seem to move in the twilight zone of karaoke bars. In a recent interview, the current U.S. poet laureate commented that poetry is experiencing a "boom," and that the kids who dug comedy in the eighties, dig slams in the nineties. Hmmm. MOOTapalooza? (Or so I am compelled to inscribe here.)

SO, that exquisite ring of m-o-o-t, indeed, was finally heard by the illuminated minds of the campus with which I have recently been involved, the lovely Frostburg State University. One idyllic, snowy evening-- falling seasonally somewhere between late winter and early spring-- the slam went down (with a spoonful of sugar and...) at the Hotel Gunter in historic downtown Fuckburg.
I had heard about the slam well in advance, and the rumblings had lingered of elaborate terrorist performance pieces being plotted. And meanwhile I, having never experienced such an event in person, had been asking around what to expect. "Get up and talk more shit than the rest, and you win," as one particularly articulate bar patron intimated upon my inquiry. The spirit of this response, however, was present within most of my semi-relevant discussions.

The night before the portentous happening, as I was writing a letter to a distant friend, what had eluded me all along suddenly approached and slammed (do forgive) me; my performance persona. It occurred to me, in a rare moment of clarity, that the logical move would be to show up dressed in my Halloween priest costume, and armed with a battered steel colander, a distinguished & gentlemanly green corduroy hat, a machete, and a hellacious harvest of fragments from my cut-up collection/phantasmagoria. This particular aspect decided upon, the arena of conflict now concerned streamlining this plan into action, "that dear mainstay of the world."

I remained heavily ambivalent as to my participation in said event right up until literally the last possible moment, however. Alternately pacing the three rooms of my student apartment, which had that ugly lingering stench of gas leak, and staring out a central window which afforded a smashing view of the town police headquarters' brick wall a few feet away, I finally resigned to the inevitability of it all.

The polite atmosphere of an old hotel's ballroom, adorned with quietly conversing, neatly dressed, slam curious patrons and potential participants; fertile ground for performance terror, I suppose. As I positioned at a table that yielded some lean-against-the-wall space in the rear, I kept alive the fire of auto-interrogation-- WHY was I putting myself into this position? My self torment reached acute heights as I glanced down at my bulging travel bag, and continually pulled the neck line of my overcoat up to hide the fake priest collar. My resolve, however, visited me upon the realization that the entirety of the English department was seated in front of the stage area. Serving as impetus, likewise, was the sight of such atrocious indignities as a sensitive arts patron (probably illiterate), posing in the audience, feverishly flipping through pages of his onion-skin manuscript (probably a grocery list), in some Anthony Robbinsesque preparation for that monster performance which, of course, never happens. ("Stare at my teeeeeth...")

When the sign up sheet had been circulating, off the top of my chaotic, nervous head, I wrote, quite simply, "the father." And why not? During the preliminary phase, bean, the amusing & quite talented MC for the p-slam, began calling out "the father. Is this a real name? Where's the father?" When I heard this, I was en route to the restroom, and merely afforded our dear host a quick glimpse of my fake collar as I slithered out the door. This, of course, served as cue for a series of jokes (bean, who thought me "the real thing", went on, apparently, for fifteen minutes about how I would certainly assure his eternal damnation, and so forth), the first of many that I would provide during the course of the awkwardly lingering eve. As well, I would later call a member of our esteemed English department a debauched Ed McMahon (Double negatives anyone?). And in reference to my quaking hands; "oh, I must have, by mistake, popped a round of vivarin instead of valium. They both are, after all, little yellow pills charmingly adorned with a "v."

The worst part, of course, is always the waiting (& the wading through...). Finally, through the veil of my fear of fear itself, those two words rang out: "THE father!" I quickly disrobed of my overcoat, and raising my prop bag over my head, walked uneasily to the fore. A pregnant pause profound lingered as I retrieved my goodies. Three loud taps on the podium with my indigo machete manifested a stunned silence, and waves of fear spread across the pale faces of the crowd, particularly those within reasonable swing distance ("is everybody in?"). That perfect moment of holding high the brutal blade, Noriega style. Delicious.

I've always had an extraordinary case of what could be simplistically pronounced "stage fright." That overwhelming rush that essentially paralyzes. I suppose if there is any viable mode of adaptation, it is somehow becoming capable of converting this into a delirious river. But moreover, this river becomes merely psychobabble, horrifying those with ears to... "In the spirit of Camille Paglia, I thought of appropriating the exquisitely annoying rhythmic phrase from Lenny Bruce, 'okay, alright???{ad nauseum}'" And with the carrying silence, I continued, "perhaps not."

First phase of a live cut-up performance: choosing a title. So, my next prop came into play, the battered steel colander I'd picked up courtesy dollar bag day at St. Mike's annual rummage sale. I'd filled up this exquisite piece with hundreds of phrases I'd cut out of cheap, meretricious works discovered at thrift stores, rural yard sales, and so forth. I held high the sacred vessel, and shuffled my hands through the wonderful confetti. Selecting a fragment, I extracted it with one hand, and emptied the balance in the direction of the bewildered slam patrons with the other. (Among those bathed... my creative writing prof.)

"The title for this piece, apparently, is 'THE DOOR HAS SWUNG BACK ON YOU,'" I declaimed, and continued; "this is in dedication to Tristan Tzara, the man from nowhere, who was expelled by the Surrealists in the 20's for merely proposing what I shall do for you now." Just before leaning forward in my own odd sort of curtsey, I grimly noted, "and now for some poetry." In the truest style and form of the gentleman, I removed my hat, which contained the lion's share of my cut-up phantasmagoria. Inside this holy vessel, were fragments of Rimbaud, the book of Matthew, The Book of the Subgenius, Jane Austen, Douglas Coupland, Descartes, Sherry Elswick, Pound, the incomparable POE, Ayn Rand, William Peter Blatty's "The Exorcist," and myriad other favorites, particularly William S. Burroughs, and his long time collaborator, Brion Gysin.

Had you, dear bINGO nATION patron, been there, you might have been both abused by, and amused with, such exalted phrases as: "everyone into space! you are enfolded in a mindset!- you say you want evolution? visitation of memories, you have been offered a choice, a trap clattering along the floor toward another currency- this either/or cancer! and a delicate step of magic from a simpler dialectic to point central!- you speak of liberty and freedom! you cannot have both & you'll have neither- the great calling open skies!- concerning the monopoly of dreams, and the resurrection of the dead, the idiot's frightful smile across the dim balloon face- they are shutting down your utilities, shutting down sex, fucking euclidean ignorance! go home with your weak masturbation- a dull, deadly desire clatters along the floor, when no tomorrow becomes no today- heads up, look out below, the piper brought down the sky (and other such sweet nonsense)."

Ultimately... well, I did not win. But what an odd triumph itself to stand before such a crowd, mocking them thus, and as my reward, their rich and abundant applause. Following my first round, the person arbitrarily designated as the one matched against me, essentially threw in the towel; "you expect me to follow that?!" I was denied my win, however, in a later round, by some sort of strange formula; unfortunate, popesque love-gone-bad common denominator rhyme, packaged in a red Che Guevara t-shirt, and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. "Well, these things happen, kid."

To be fair, actually, at this late hour, there were some worthwhile performances. Among them was Frankie!, a local artist, who got up and sang three pieces (the only two poems he'd written in his life, as well as one spontaneously created on the stage), delivered with his exquisite De Niroesque quality. Present, as well, were some rather gracious, charming people in the audience, who revealed themselves to me as the long evening came to a close (As did others who allotted me a vast berth with which to leave the building.) An unusual note of flattery, though, came when bean, who was nodding formally to everyone as he was probably plotting an expeditious withdrawal from this horrendous burg, chased me down to let me know how much he enjoyed my delirium. In any case, by way of conclusion, where Baudelaire spoke of a "form of prostitution," in describing interaction (appropriately enough, as I tend to be a creature of solitude), I might obliquely drop some pop cultural reference pertaining to fun, that is, "If I wanted to speak the beautiful language of my time." [ALTERNATIVE CLOSER: I might say, by way of conclusion, that pan piped his blue notes, that is, if I were to speak the beautiful language of the godfather of the American Nightmare, great co-author of The Father's Night Out. "Silence to say Goodbye."]

posted by me
:: Mr. TRONA 3:43 PM [+] ::
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