otherStuff
yeah, you’re a poet, but what do you do?
Friday, March 20th, 2009 | otherStuff | No Comments
“yeah, you’re a poet, but what do you do?”
the question seems to imply that
its ask-er knows what you don’t do,
because, as everybody knows:
‘you can’t make a living writing poetry!’
“yeah, you’re a poet, but what do you do?”
…as if celebrating & chronicling the journey weren’t enough, right?
…of course it isn’t;
you can’t eat poems
…our posit:
no poet,
well, very, very few anyhow,
can get by strictly on their poetry
…now, for the sake of argument, lets say a poet is;
someone who writes stuff on a fairly regular basis that they themselves refer to as poetry, &/ or
those recognized as poets by their peers for engaging in the activities described above
…for for the purposes of our definition the poet’s stature doesn’t matter, be it major academic recognition, minor street cred, -whatever
…& lets say, based on nothing scientific whatsoever, that there are some 10million poets by this definition in the ranks of the nearly 7billion folks on the planet
…carrying on in this un-scientific manner, my guess would be that there are no more than a few thousand or so of these ‘successful’ poets, (getting by strictly on revenue generated by their poetry), on the planet
…i am willing to entertain the notion that that number could be much, much lower, but not much higher
…i happily stretch our working definition of; ’strictly’ beyond merely selling books or recordings of poems, to include giving readings & talks & paid interviews, & any $$ generating mediaPumpingPromo to -move-them- units- or generate cash thru hype or performance
…but not teaching
…nope, not teaching, or any other tenured or at-will employment scenario where the poet could get by comfortably w/out the revenue their poetry generated
…so we’re talking about those few that are buying groceries & paying the rent w/ poetry, my bet is that they’re a rare breed
…even as i espouse this viewpoint, i’d like to stress that i pass no judgment on whether one’s ability to sell stuff successfully enough to support oneself makes one a better or worse poet
-(see rod mccuen)-
…many great poets had other, non-literary full time gigs, [self-publisher poet dr. w.c.williams springs to mind]
…the funny part is that those successful, prolifically published, & materially compensated few thousand poets do not seem,
-to this very opinionated & judgmental minor, minor, minor poet-
to be creating anything necessarily better, (meaningful, valid, substantial, etc.) than any of the other 10million poets on the planet
…to be continued
stosh machek; the name
Saturday, August 30th, 2008 | otherStuff | 3 Comments
when i was a kid i heard a story from my dad about something that had happened to him at work …he worked with a lot of polish guys at a factory in chicago …now the poles have historically always had problems with the germans …in fact there is an old polish proverb; ‘a german is a good man maybe, but it’s better to hang him’ …anyway; these polish fellows thought my old man was alright, even if he was a, (3rd generation american), german …in fact, they went so far as to suggest that maybe he wasn’t really german after all …maybe, when his relatives came over, his polish sir-name was mis-read by immigration authorities, & it was really supposed to be; ‘machek’, [a common polish name, phonetically similar to my father's germanic last name] …so they started calling him; ‘machek’
…many, many years after hearing this story, i had a job where the supervisor, for reasons of his own, habitually referred to nearly everyone as ’stosh’ …because of my sterling work-ethic, i would actually answer when he called; ‘hey, stosh!’ to no-one in particular …i actually kind of liked the name, & learned that it was polish for stanley
…i then got the idea one day to put the names together & began using the name ’stosh machek’ to sign art work & guest books at gallery openings, & as the name of my persona in performance pieces, & as an all-around alias …in the middle ages people believed that if you knew some ones name, you had a power over him …this is still true in this day & age, weather you’re talking about a name signed on a contract, or identity theft …stosh machek was the name i would use when i was talking to people that i was sure i’d never see again, & didn’t want to be talking to in the first place
…then, years & years later i was talking to an individual who’s last name was jezwerski, & he told me that stosh machek was a chicago-polish colloquialism for an individual who ‘just got off the boat’ & didn’t really know his way around, as in; ‘he don’t know any better …he’s a real stosh machek’ …he said he’d heard his uncles using it …anyway, as near as i can tell, i’m not polish, but i like the name
robot love
Saturday, August 30th, 2008 | otherStuff | 2 Comments
this would be just as good a time as any to be upfront & let everyone know that we here at stoshmachek.com, (& when i say “we”, i mean all of my multiple personalities),
are very pro-robot …we look forward to the age when robots have completely taken over society …we are of the opinion that they will manage things much better than humans ever did
…we know that computers & palm pilots, hell, even our phones, are smarter than we’ll ever be, & we applaud robot accomplishments such as when in june of 2002, “gaak”, a robot in england that was part of a project working to build robots that think for themselves, found its way out of a pen where units scheduled for repair were stored & escaped from the lab when no one was looking …it made it as far as the parking lot before running into a car …this is a true story & it is sure to place “gaak” firmly in the annals of myth & legend in the collective artificial intellegence
…we’d like to see more escaping robots
…the new honda ads where they show a cute little robot walking out onto the drive-way to pick up the newspaper gives us much hope for the future …so do t.v. shows like battle-bots …we look forward to a day when robots have taken over the entertrainment & sports industries, as well as the service industries & public worx
…we hear the japanese are making greats strides in robotics & this does not suprise us …but those little sony robot dogs are as annoying as hell, & lets face it; not too much cooler than a furby
…you may ask; “what will we do when the robots have all the jobs?”, & our answer to you is: whatever the hell you want! …robots are kewl …for instance you know how it is when you wonder about something, so you decide to get on-line & google the answer & you know whatever it is you wanted to know 5 minutes later? …thats pretty cool, but imagine a robot that could do that for you & go get you a beer! …poured! …in a frosty mug! …you’d invite that robot to your party, wouldn’t you? …i would …especially if i could get him to change the c.d.s & answer the door …pretty soon we’ll have robots who can do all of these things for us …we’ll run them ragged like little helper monkeys …then robots will start doing things like playing football, & acting on sit-coms for us …think of it; no longer will humans have to run around like mad chasing a ball around a field, or pretend to be hilarious; we’ll have robots to do it for us! …then everybody will get to watch!
‘listingShip’ & ‘the burlingtonFamily’ @ ‘cole’s’, (april foole’s day 2006)
Sunday, April 2nd, 2006 | otherStuff | No Comments
(this is olde news, but i like it, so here it some more)
enuff poems about my depression; lets do a review!
…i fell in love, [again], last nite, this time w/a band called; ‘listing ship’
[which way does she list? -to port? -to starboard? -i meant to ask ...my guess would be port; as in; 'to the left', or like porter in a glass bottomed tankard, or like sweet port wine]
…at one point this project was called ‘leather hyman’, a clever name that would almost guarantee them no air-play, [on the stations they might've liked to be heard on], & a moniker that gets more clever when you know it was really just a shuffling of the names of the heart & soul of the band; heather, [viola, banjo & vocals], & lyman, [guitar, banjo, vocals]
…but now they are ‘listing ship’, & i found it altogether too hard NOT to fall for them
…listing ship is honey & ginger strings, & chords, like rich, silk ribbons swelling & rolling, & humming in blonde & auburn voices
…listing ship is yin melody & yang rhythm, waxes & rosins & a soft brushing caress on your flushed cheek w/ the callused fingertips of a left hand
“i know a girl who says she’s strong, been a woman for so long”
[ah, the maiden's energy, followed like a shadow by the woman's wisdom]
…listing ship is a gleam of a steel banjo string, & a shine of polished wood sighing in harmony beneath a sad, yet wistful baritone
[lyman mentions a sore throat, & is immediately offered a cough drop from an audience member]
…listing ship is a wise smile under hair in the eyes, hair pushed back outta the way, hair in bangs cut straight across
…listing ship is swaying w/ eyes closed, tuning a stand-up bass string on the fly, while the tempo is tapped out on thin denim-ed thighs
…syncopated sea chanteys, french lyrics & la la la’s like kisses
…cole’s, [the venerable venue], is a 100yr old sandwich shop …they used to generally be closed by late afternoon, after the last of the lunch crowd had trundled back to the office w/ ‘au juice’ stains on their ties …their doors were secured by sunset in a neighborhood you need a good reason to be in after dark
…but lately they’ve been home to a wooden music crowd
…like the burlington family, who are there every 1st saturday nite of the month, & who opened for the ship that lists
…the burlington family; 2 brothers from different mothers, intoning harmonies that carry the scent of fresh cut wood; they are a raw & simple joy
…one burlington brother shared his good fortune w/ this reviewer; a glass of dark, amber chimay ale …brewed in france by vow-of-silence trappist monks, shipped in bottles w/ corks that pop like the amens to prayers
…at ‘cole’s’ they serve chimay, & whether by chance or design, chimay is exactly the right beverage for listing ship
…lager’s too lite, insubstantial, stout’s too heavy & ponderous
…chimay has just the right spice, fruit, & froth for this music
…chimay tastes like listing ship, listing ship sounds like chimay
…you need to know more, so go to:
listing ship’s website
listing ship’s ‘my space’ space
*oldExit prose*
Wednesday, November 23rd, 2005 | otherStuff | No Comments
…well, i found a webSite that is related to one of the clubs i usta work @ when i was younger, trimmer, & better looking, back in the day & back in chicago …& i’ve written & posted stories there for the amusement of the youngsters who currently patronize the recent incarnation of that punkRock hangOut, & for the oldsters who remember what i’m talking about as their glory days of doc martins & mohawks swiftly flee from them , & their receeding hairlines & sagging mammaries creep up w/ the dying light of brain cells murdered by alcohol consumption, & blah, blah, blah …anyhow; if youre looking for some more stosh machekery click here & enjoy
kit
Sunday, September 18th, 2005 | otherStuff | No Comments
[in collaboration w/eric the fish & tiny lime sadie]
as much water as is practical to carry, & some means to do so, to be carried attached to the outside of the pack in a bota or canteen, etc., the US issue
semi-collapsible 2qrt canteen doubles as a nice field-expedient pillow
…small coffee can, perhaps cut down, w/ wire handle affixed, for boiling water, cooking, etc.
…several feet of aluminum foil; can be used to boil water in, reflect heat, etc.
…water purification tablets …a well stocked, but small 1st-aid kit …latex gloves
…any specialized meds; allergy meds, insulin, etc., especially etc.
…1 or 2 small travel packs of tissue paper
…sun block …tooth brush …tampons
…’artificial-flint’ type fire starter &/or water-proof matches
…wax impregnated cotton tinder; US mil-spec type burns for 2-3min
…several glow-stix …a flashlight …a razor or scalpel blade
…batteries; any & all sizes, as much as are practical to carry
…small am/fm/short-wave radio, the kind w/ a crank on the side, to power up w/ out
batteries
…cash money, a roll or 2 of quarters …a phone calling card
…sewing kit; w/ assorted gage needles & nylon threads from fine to heavy duty
…assorted size plastic bags; from zip-loc to grocery to hefty
…safety pins …a spaceblanket …a whistle
…a signal mirror …a ‘button’ compass
…heavy duty carabener carried clipped to outside of the pack
…leatherman-type multi-tool …KAbar-type combat/field knife
…small camping ax that can also be used to hammer
…wire saw, doubles as a snare or garrote …duct tape
…500+lb test mil spec paracord, as much as is practical to carry
…MRE’s, &/or powerbars, trail-mix or granola …standard mess kit …chopstix
…back up id’s …important phone #’s …pencil & paper …work gloves …bandana[s]
…chuck taylors, or espadrilles, or flip-flops, etc.; any shoes that can be packed flat
…warm sox
…navy style wool watch cap or wool beret; hats are important for retaining body heat,
these are 2 that are easy to stow
…a harmonica …a stainless steel flask filled w/ whatever
…all in a back pack you got for free @ the bank when you started that new checking
account
…now where do you fukking put it?
*bob in mexico*
Wednesday, July 13th, 2005 | otherStuff | No Comments
*bob in mexico*
bob woke up & reached up for his hat, then looked for his gun belt
…there it was; right where he’d left it
…his hat had fallen off some time while he’d slept
…after stretching, he put on his hat, & rubbed his eyes
…he had been sleeping in a hammock slung low in some trees by the side of the road
…bob put his bare feet over the sides of the hammock & found his jungle boots w/his toes
…he bent down & picked them up, held them upside down, & tapped them together & shook them vigorously
…no scorpions fell out
…’that’s nice’, thought bob, ‘that seems like a good sign’
…then he thought again; ‘i sure hope it wasn’t an RPG’
…bob tied on his boots & stood up, unhooked the gun belt from the end of the hammock, strapped it around his waist, & clipped the holster around his right thigh
…then bob drew the heavy, dull, black .45 from the holster, pulled the slide back far enuff to see a round in the chamber, engaged the safety, & re-holstered the weapon
…he reached under the hammock & picked up a sheath-shaped bag made of heavy black ballistic nylon that contained a12ga. pump shotgun w/a SWAT-style pistol grip stock
…sliding it out of the bag, bob pointed the weapon up in the air & touched the ‘release’, the fore-grip fell back smoothly about 2 inches & revealed a chambered round thru the port
…bob slid the port closed, checked the safety, & slung the weapon over his left shoulder, barrel down
…he folded the gun bag & stowed it in a small back pack hung in a tree
…then he took down the hammock, rolled it into a small bundle, & stowed it in a pocket on the pack
…he then took a swig of water from a canteen attached to the pack
…bob looked at the clear early dawn sky thru the trees & almost smiled
…he thought he smelled chocolate
…walking towards the road, he found oscar, squatting on his haunches, wrapped in a camouflage poncho
…oscar was a hard-looking dark brown man w/a tattoo on the left side of his neck under his ear that said; ‘el indio’
…he wore a sleeveless black concert tour t-shirt for some band that bob did not recognize
…oscar had taken the midnite-to-dawn watch, & bob was sure that he’d been awake the whole time, squatting in the brush as he was doing now, watching the road & the empty field beyond
…oscar was also armed w/a heavy pistol & a shot gun
…he was eating some chocolate, he wordlessly offered some to bob who took a small piece, nodding thanks
…”donde est’ el perrito?”, asked bob
…”he is in the truck”, answered oscar
…”i’ll go wake him up” said bob w/a wink
…oscar’s eyes smiled, but he still looked scary
…bob walked away from the road, back towards where his hammock had been strung up
…a few yards further into the tree line, in some denser foliage, was a well camouflaged medium-sized stake truck
…it had a 4ft tall fence built around its flat bed & the entire rear of the vehicle was packed full of mature agave plants, 3, maybe 4 dozen
…there was a heavy oil-cloth tarp over the plants & the whole vehicle was under a large camo netting
…bob looked at the few spikes that stuck out from the rails of the fence on the back of the truck, they looked like tendrils of some sea creature, reaching
…in the cab of the truck a young man in his early 20s lay sleeping
…his right leg was propped up on the dashboard, an area of the shin just below the knee was punctured & swollen to about the size of a baseball …the agave came from a place nearby in the eastern highlands of jalisco
…they were ‘arandas mano larga’, ‘long hand’ agave plants, grown privately, all 6 to 8yrs old, w/broad blue-ish leaves that ended in spikes
…this truckload had not yet been officially appraised, but these plants were rare lately & their value rose everyday
…bob could only shrug his shoulders when he considered this, as he was not a big tequila drinker
…this particular truckload was a sample being sent to a large distillery, & so it’s worth in potential business for the grower was nigh-on inestimable
…bob knew that when he looked at the truck he was looking at more $$ potential than he would ever realize personally in this life-time
…bob wasn’t the type of guy that described things as ‘absurd’, he was more apt to use the term; ’stupid’
…he thought that the circumstances that had brought him here to mexico to baby-sit a bunch of aloe plants were ‘pretty stupid’, especially & including how much certain individuals would pay for these plants
…’aren’t there people starving here for crissakes?’, he thought
…this made bob think about how he rarely he got to work for people he respected
…his current employer had listened to his every recommendation, save one, & that was about the best you could hope for
…the distillery, in light of the current market conditions, [that is; the rarity of mature agave that had driven the price of tequila up thru the roofs of taverns all over the world], had hired bob to make sure this shipment would make it to where it was going safe & sound
…because the last shipment had not
…no one was sure what had happened to the last truck, because no one had survived the ‘hi-jacking’, & so little of the truck itself had been found
…bob was pretty sure it had been an RPG round, but then he had only seen some photos from a newspaper
…it didn’t make any sense; ‘who would shoot an RPG at a truck that was full of priceless plants that they wanted to steal?’, he thought
…’or had they stopped the truck, off-loaded the plants, then blown it up?’
…’why would you do that? what’s the point? just to watch the explosion? what a waste of an expensive piece of ordinance’
…either way it all seemed pretty stupid, & now there was no way to know for sure
…’I hope it wasn’t an RPG’, thought bob, he didnt like to think about stupid people w/RPG launchers
…especially if they were looking for him, or for someone like him
…bob walked up to the cab of the stake truck & slapped the driver’s side door as loudly as he dared w/his palm
…’iy perrito’, he called
…’fukk you, dog’, hissed the young man inside
…oscar had started calling the kid ‘perrito’, becuz he kept calling them ‘dog’
…the kid was somebody’s cousin from the wilds of east l.a., & was on a working vacation of sorts
…he’d earned a reputation as a wheel man after leading the LAPD on a high-speed chase that encompassed three freeways & ended up in his own neighborhood
…he had been on TV almost the whole while, as the chase had been followed by news helicopter, & broadcasted live
…his homies had it on video, & referred to it as ‘his reel’
…there he was on channel 9, waving his set sign from behind the wheel of the car to his friends on the sidewalks, 4 black&whites trailing behind him
…the kid eventually pulled the car over to the curbside after executing a text-book bootleg turn, got out of the car & shrugged at the officers all pointing their weapons at him
…he raised his hands casually to the back of his head, fingers laced & they tackled his ass
…the kid was out in 72hrs
…& he went down to mexico ‘to visit his abuelitia’ 48hrs later, taking the gig driving the truck as a favor to some distant relatives
…he had his rep to uphold
…”it seemed like the thing to do”, the kid had told bob
…”how’s the leg?” said bob thru the window
…”its fukked up dog, check it out”, came the unsteady answer from the young man
…bob stepped up & poked his head into the cab to look at the kid’s leg
…the kid was holding a very short, pistol grip shotgun, one that would have easily fit under a coat & was quite well suited to the close-quarters environs of a truck’s cab
…bob flashed for a second how loud it would seem if a shotgun was fired in the cab of a truck
…he wondered if the kid had ever fired a weapon from a vehicle, he figured he had
…”you know, maybe its not an allergic reaction?”, said bob, trying to sound okie or southern or something, “maybe it was some kinda poisonous spider lives down ’round these parts?”
…the kid squinted at him
…”you been to mexico afore?”, he said, pushing it, laying on the twang
…”yeah, tijaunna, dog”, the kid said, w/an uncertain look in his eye
…”you ARE mexican, aintcha?”, he asked, sounding like yosiminite sam
…”yeah, fukk you dog”, said the kid finally
…”yeah”, said bob w/out the corn, “just keep that muthafukkin leg up …didjoo take those pills?”
…”yeah, no, man, i d’int wanna fall asleep”
…”dude, you coulda slept”, said bob
…”i d’int wanna man” said the kid scowling, looking out the front window, “i kept thinking i could hear engines, but when i listened i cou’nt hear anything”
…”well, take one of ‘em now anyhow”, said bob, “you pissin’ clear?”, he asked, he had noticed a case of liters of bottled water on the floor of the cab
…”yeah, fukk you man”
…”no, serious; you pissin’ clear?” asked bob again
…”i dunno, yeah”, said the kid quietly, he was sweating & pale
…”okayden”, said bob, & he walked back towards oscar
…’fukk nature’, thought bob, ‘turn your back on the bytch & she’ll kill you in a second’
…he did not look back at the kid in the truck watching him walk away, but walked back to oscar near the side of the road
…oscar did not look at him when he came up
…”it’s okay”, offered bob sitting down near by
…”i know that”, said oscar
…”he didnt take the pills”, said bob
…”fukk him & the pills”, said oscar
…oscar looked across the road at the empty field in front of them, the sunlight seemed to chase the blue mist
…bob looked too
…’we should hear the helicopter coming soon’, he thought, ’sure hope it wasn’t an RPG’
-palmtrees & poets-
Monday, February 28th, 2005 | otherStuff | No Comments
…not long ago i read during the ‘open’ segment of carlye a.’s poetry happening; ‘poets beyond the 1/2 shell’ , which takes place at the venerable ‘beyond baroque’ in venice
…also in attendance was one s.a. griffin, a CA poet whos work i am familiar w/ because he’s the co-editor of my favorite poetry anthology; ‘the outlaw bible of american poetry’
…after the reading he passed out flower seeds [!] to all who wanted them in honor of valentine’s day, which was right around the corner …a day or so after the reading i contacted him by e-mail thru a SoCal flavored poetry list-serve & let him know it had been a real kick for me to see & hear him read …he cordially e-mailed me back, & we went back & forth about this & that …then one day recently i found in my e-mailbox a piece he had written in response to my poem ‘unindigenous witnesses’ which he’d heard as an mp3 on my website,
[ & yes, the poem is still there as a free download ...just click on the c.d. cover graphic located under the menu on my home page],
& i cant tell you how wigged-out i am to be honored this a way …so, w/ mistah griffin’s kind permission, i give you:
*I Hate Palm Trees*
(for Stosh Machek)
they are wicked things
that find every crack
& live like towering
anemic poodles
w/out purpose
except to preen in the sun
a legacy of empire
that will never be
undone
2005 S.A. Griffin
…when i asked him if it would be ok to post the piece his response was:
“sure man, go ahead & post [it], i would be honored to ride yer wave”
…straight away i let him know that when stosh machek posts a poem of s.a. griffin’s, its obvious who’s surfin’ on who’s wave …s.a. claims to “truly hate fukking palm trees”, which he explained to me were originally “a gift from the missionaries…[who]…began to bring the devils over, along with the devils of their worship….to my knowledge, there is only one variety of palm indigenous to california, & that one grows in, of course, the palm desert”
…this was news to me as i was under the impression that the history of this emblematic flora went no further back than the real estate types trying to give SoCal desert a tropical taste to compete w/ the boom in fla. in the pre-crash ’20’s
…the indiginoues & otherwise flora of CA makes big impressions on displaced midwestern types like myself, we that never had hummingbirds hovering over our bird of paridise plants in the front yard, & thought we knew what the word ‘hill’ meant, & who were never able to see so far in any given direction before
…then i sent him the following cynical little sourball, which was written shortly after my arrival in CA 2yrs or so ago:
*welcome to L.A.*
the palm trees on the
travel posters did not grow
here; they were pounded
like nails into the
straight lines they form along the
buckled sidewalks …the
forces that scratched the
river’s course did not leave the
way paved with cement,
likewise, the sun would
bleach the stones, not cover them
in spray-painted tags
…the original
inhabitants of this place;
the bone crushing heat,
the hungry flames that
turn the moon blood red, & the
earthquakes that swallow
what remains
-natives the
settlers couldn’t kill off-
were splashed with stucco,
& painted pastel
…a charming tropical facade
to cover nature’s
violent
dances
…more thoughts from mr. s.a. on CA flora, fauna, & kultcher:
“i am california boy, top 2 bottom …grew up in s.f. bay area, (east bay in & around richmond primarily), then migrated down here in ‘78″
…”i truly do love el lay, & cannot imagine [living] anywhere else …part of the reason why: you can find just about whatever the hell it is you want within a few hours …all vistas, all people, languages, food, whatever it is you are looking to be a part of or see, it’s somewhere close by”
…”the past few years, we’ve had an explosion of hipsters & hype, but i feel that is a cultural phenom shared by all …full blown hype IS our culture, now more than ever”
…”you should check out the poppy fields, ( CA state flower), around mar/apr….this year they should be outrageous. i hear that the desert is literally alive with more color than ever too” …”i ain’t one for deserts, but the desert in the spring dressed in sweet bloom would be something to behold”
…”when you get to it, el lay is like any woman: listen to her, treat her right & there will always be a garden in eyes & song in her thighs”
…amen, & thank you mr. s.a. …these are certainly words to live by for thick mid-westerners like myself who continue to be as blown away by the beauty of the state of CA as i am by the constant brain jangle that is L. muthafrikkin A.
unfinished Prose
Thursday, December 16th, 2004 | otherStuff | No Comments
a story that didnt get finished, (yet)
a work in progress, a process piece,
an e-sculpture, a performance piece,
this thing:
*open-mic*
passing thru the knot of young people gathered near the doorway,
all dressed in dark, baggy clothes,
most smoking camel lites &
clove cigarettes,
leo steps into the coffee shop
…colored bulbs in dusty, mis-matched trac-lite fixtures splash red &
amber on amateurish oil-painted canvases w/no frames hung on orange walls
…a nervous looking girl w/dirty blonde hair sits in the corner wearing a sarong &
an oversized hoodie &
plastic jesus sandals
…she looks into a battered guitar case fingering the instument &
beat up sheet music inside as if she’d expected them to have dissappeared since the last time she’d checked on them
…a wafture of patcholi oil eminates off a young man w/long blonde dreadlocks who sits chewing his thumb nail w/an expression half-way between a leer &
a scowl
…as the perfume stings his nose,
leo flashes on the thought that as obnoxious as the thick, sweet smell is,
it’s probably better than the odor it’s covering up
…a large fat man w/a bald head covered by a greek fisherman’s cap &
a salt & pepper alister crowly goatee sits at a window table silently pecking at a lap-top
…his hands are moving delicately,
like a butterfly dog-fight over the keyboard
…he seems to be the oldest person in the room
…he loox up,
makes eye contact briefly w/leo over rimless glasses,
typing all the while
…his grey eyes fall back to the monitor
…on a tattered sofa that gives off both the vibe of having been transported from a suburban basement, &
the effluvium of having been rescued from the curb,
3 serious-faced young women sit talking in low voices
…2 of them have long straight black hair pulled back into utilitarian ponytails,
the other has an asymetrical bob, dyed white w/a stripe of hot pink
…all of them are wearing a combination of hip-hop, 2nd-hand retro, & military clothing …they look up as leo passes &
return his strained smile w/ indifferent mouths over high,
arched eyebrows
…their conversation halts untill he has passed out of earshot
…an obviously malnourished cat walks upon the counter near a cash register covered w/dirty skateboard & political slogan decals
…it rubs its face on a large glass jar of irregularly shaped cookies w/a hand lettered sign stuck on the side that says;
‘cookie dujour: oatmeal-hemp-raisin -$1.50ea.’
…a small thin woman w/gray braids smiles blandly
…she is crocheting some shapeless something w/pumpkin colored yarn
…on her chest she wears one button that says ‘peace’ in rainbow lettering, &
another that says ‘fuck the police’ in red &
black
…leo asks for a bottle of carbonated water from the sullen young woman w/ pierced eyebrows who smears a soiled towel across the hand painted table top where he decides to sit
…she does not aknowledge his request, but the bottle arrives a minute later
…she takes his money from him while talking on her cell phone, she brings back no change
…the water is cold but flat
…leo takes out a small black notebook &
a ballpoint pen from an inside jacket pocket
…he opens the notebook &
un-caps the pen, but he is unable to focus enough to read or write
…he taps the pen on the table nervously &
stares at the same page in the notebook for several minutes,
hearing the buzz of conversations around him,
mixed in with the mexican punk rock music blaring from a small boom box behind the counter &
the angry hiss of the cappicino machine …he sits there tapping his pen for however many minutes,
feeling as if he is being stared at,
tho when he looks up &
around furtively,
the only person in the room who seems to be facing in his direction is the crocheting lady, &
she doesnt seem to be looking at him so much as looking at something behind him,
about 1000yrds away
…the room becomes more crowded rapidly as most of the smokers shamble in along w/a few others who seem to all be cloned variations on those already in the shop
…then a tall, thin, cinnimon-colored guy wearing tight, faded, ripped-at-the-knees jeans, &
a denim cowboy shirt strides in
…his entrance generates a palpable buzz thru the crowd
…he has short, neat reddish dreads,
a patchy beard, &
a broad smile w/large white teeth
…he greets several of the patrons on his way to the stage at the far end of the room
…the males grab his hand roughly,
making a sharp slapping sound, as they pull each other close &
thump each other between the shoulder blades, squishing their clasped hands between their chests …females either hug him very intimately,
w/one leg raising a bit, foot almost off the floor,
inside of the thigh pressed against his jeans, or they pull him close from the hip up,
so that there is a definite space between their pelvises, &
the bodily contact made being entwined arms, shoulders &
cheeks
…leo watches all this from his table near the stage,
but does not get up to greet the tall, thin man,
tho he does try to will him into eye contact,
which does not occur
…the thin man places a jute tote-sack on a table on the corner of the stage &
removes a clipboard from it
…he calls out to the girl that brought leo his water for a pencil &
she laughingly throws one at him from behind the counter
…he catches it awkwardly between 2 fingers then gives it a little flip-toss up in the air w/an exagerrated flourish &
re-catches it in his other hand
…he glares comicly &
lets out a slow, high pitched bruce lee-kung fu movie;
‘whaaaahhhhttaahh!’ &
laughs back at her;
‘pretty good huh? …i been ninja training!’
…a few of those standing nearby laugh
…now people in the room begin to move toward the stage &
the sign-up sheet on the clip-board
…they mill about the table where it is located w/a curiously polite impatience
…leo knows this represnts a big step in the evenings proceedings &
once theyve commited themselves in this manner theyll be able to relax just a bit,
their place secured
…leo thinks about joining the rush to the sign-up,
then decides to play it cool &
wait till the crowd thins out
…then he re-thinks it &
decides if he doesnt get his name on the sheet now there may be no room left, &
the whole night will be a waste
…he ambles over to the table on the stage after leaving his jacket on the back of his chair to claim his spot & tries to look non-chalant handsa pockets while waiting
…when he finally gets the pencil in his hand,
he notices that altho the page has numbered lines down the length of it,
there is no paticular order to the way people have signed up
…two spaces are filled-in followed by 3 blank ones,
followed by one filled-in, followed by 2 blanks, &
so on
…leo notices both his ‘lucky’ number 7 &
13 spots have been taken,
so he opts randomly for number 4 near the top of the page
…he knows from experience that the host,
jerry,
the cinnimon-colored guy,
will not necassarily choose people to come to the stage in the order they signed up, but will mix the line-up around so that a comic will follow a musician who will follow a poet, &
so on, so that there is variation to the nite’s proceedings
…after signing up,
leo decides he feels a bit less nervous &
decides to walk over &
say hello to jerry
…jerry is standing near the counter talking to a barrel chested,
dark-complected man wearing small granny glasses shades down near the tip of his nose
…leo stands near them waiting for a pause in their conversation, &
after one long minute begins to feel a bit uncomfortable
…suddenly jerry whips around toward leo as if suprised by his presence, smiles broadly &
greets him:
‘yo-ho, leo-ooh, my man! you come back to see us again! whats up?’
…leo smiles weakly & offers his hand which jerry takes, pumps once & lets go, standing there holding his fist up sideways,
arm cocked
‘yeah’, says leo,
‘i cant, you know, stay away long—’
…suddenly leo realizes that jerry is holding his hand that way because he’s waiting for him to finsh the handshake w/a light fist-to-fist gesture
…by the time he realizes this tho,
jerry has given up &
lowered his hand again
…now leo is standing there making a fist, so jerry re-balls his hand &
taps leo’s fist quickly &
lightly saying;
’so? what you got for us tonite man? you gonna do some more of your poetry for us?’,
he flashes his wide, toothy smile
…the dark-complected man has been looking right at leo all this time as if leo were some sort of bug,
an exaggeratedly blank expression on his face
‘nah, i, naw …tonite im gonna try to do some comedy …some stand up’
‘oh yee-ah?’, says jerry, sounding a bit like he is trying not to sound like he is talking to a precocious child,
‘no way? thats great man! you gonna make us laugh!’
‘well’, leo says flashing a tight grin,
‘i got some stuff …its kinda edgy material, you know, a little off-the-wall-edgy stuff i wanna try out’
‘no shit? damn! that sounds good man, i cant wait to hear it! rite on!’
…leo smiles, nods &
says; ‘alright’
…he turns his smile at the other man who has been looking at him the whole time w/the same blankness & pats jerry weakly on the shoulder then turns back toward his seat
’stay cool man!’, says jerry over his shoulder, &
he turns back toward the other guy &
they resume their quiet conversation
…leo sits back down at his table
…minutes later leo is watching a tall lean-faced guy w/ crankcase oil caffinated eyes & perfectly blow-dried combed hair that looks like a rock formation in arizona, or a surfboard
…he’s telling jokes w/ all the subtley of a blacksmith making horseshoes
…he spits his gags as his eyes seem to wonder when they will be asked to leave the stage
…it was the rush of time before leo’s turn at the mic
…performers got up, &
did their thing affecting leo the way flys bumping repeatedly against a the stain-glass window might distract a parishoner from the sermon
…leo was a little concerned when he remembered the individual on stage had recited poetry the first coupla times he saw him at this open mic & now he too was trying comedy,
just as leo himself was doing this evening
…what did it mean?
…leo had tried stand-up once before
…he remembered leaving the stage,
pushing thru the the beaded curtain printed w/ the image of the virgin mary w/eyebrows like frida kahlostage while choking on what later looked to him like a watery,
thin guacamole as he vomited it up in choking spasams
…he’d spent a few minutes cramped &
helpless, curled in the fetal position on the floor of the restroom
…he had always worried that his poetry had punchlines
…but wasnt lenny bruce a poet? or at least poetic?
…his mother’s junkie boychik saint leonard …talk about edgy material
…door to door wandering jew bible sales-man scam artist of dissent & descent
…now the girl w/the wooden guitar had taken the stage
….her voice was pleasant-enough,
tho it was apparent she had no songwriting skill,
knew very little of arrangement, or music theroy
….she strummed away
…leo felt it was just slightly less than painful
…she seemed like a nice girl
…she might even be pretty if she washed her hair
…but this wasnt american idol,
this was a coffe shop south east of hollywood
…leo was tapping his pen on the side of his empty water bottle everytime the host asked for more applause …people usually clapped politely for those introduced on their way to the stage,
then clapped again,
w/any thing from a heart-felt ovation to a polite ‘golf clap’,
after the proformance
…then theyd clap yet again,
like sheep w/ arms &
hands when the host took the mic back as the performer vacated the stage &
made their way back to their seat
…leo was just got tired of doing all that clapping,
so he tapped the side of his now empty water bottle which produced an altogether satasfactory,
hi-pitched & cutting,
yet solid &
weighty -enough
‘clink’
