THE RETURN OF THE BUFFALO NICKEL

If I had

Two,

I could
Rub them

Together.

* * *

See news article "Buffalo Nickels Returning by the Millions."

DITH IN FAMILY

In blue marker
On loose-leaf paper

Taped to the window
The reason

The laundromat
Was closed yesterday

Today I went
To pick up

Quiet air
About the place

Offered
My condolences

To the woman
In red slippers

* * *

Not sure if this is finished or not. Feedback most welcome.

Today's feature film: SAW (2004)

Yes, I know: I'm nuts.

Even renting a flick like this is immensely retarded, if not borderline insane. But rent it I did.

I promised to take my son to see it when it was in theaters; that never happened. I'm hoping to make good by having it around for his visit this weekend.

I will probably give it a pre-screening, though, to make sure it is appropriate material for a 13-year-old who spends most of his waking hours playing violent video games, particularly ones where high-caliber weaponry is featured in abundance.

Hmmm. Maybe I should change our last name to Menendez....

Can't wait to see Saw! (Sorry!)

NAKED LUNCH: THE RESTORED TEXT

Which is kind of like, The Elephant Man Gets a Tan. Or something.

By which I mean "restoring" a book like this is akin to putting clean towels in a torture chamber. Adding a dust ruffle to a guillotine.

The point being: Naked Lunch is such an oddly constructed book, the word "novel" hardly begins to describe it. And any hope of making it more coherent seems a) a futile undertaking, and b) utterly beside the point.

Is there an actual plot? I'm still not quite sure, though I've read the book four or five times in the past two decades, in various states of consciousness (including clean and sober). I only recently came across this latest edition, which was published in March of 2003.

As far as I can tell, the restoration is limited to moving the prologue to the end, adding a few missing pages, nothing substantial. But as the original book was slapped together in a drug-induced rush, I guess it makes sense to attempt to reshuffle it back to the way it should have been in the first place. Which again conjures all manner of oddball comparisions.

To this day I know of maybe three people who share my belief that this is a truly brilliant and important piece of writing. I've since given up doing so, but many times I have tried to persuade my more open-minded peers to take a gander; I was never successful in converting anyone to my way of thinking.

There were many interesting and hilarious episodes, however, wherein I would watch someone begin perusing the book. The look of (take your pick) astonishment, disgust, horror, etc. that erupted on said person's visage had me momentarily wondering if I might be enrolled in a Stella Adler workshop entitled "Sick to Your Stomach 101."

I noticed this funny observation in a customer review on Amazon.com: "...there is no other book quite like it, but squares should stay away."

Amen.

Just add fangs!

Here's a pic from the Valentine's Day Robert Gordon show. This shot proves I wasn't exaggerating in the slightest when I referred to Mr. Gordon as an Elvis Presley/Bela Lugosi hybrid.

Note the wicked sneer, the lewd "I vant to suck your blood" guile, the confidence that only years of listening to real rock & roll (most probably while reclining in a coffin) could produce.

And then there's all the Bela Lugosi stuff, too.

(Photo by MsAPhillips)

Guilty pleasures or signs of encroaching dementia?

Songs currently loaded on my iPod (& in heavy rotation):

Mickey - Toni Basil (I like the organ, but this is strictly out of pity.)

Time to Change - The Brady Bunch (Actually features wah-wah guitar.)

Wango Tango - Ted Nugent (There is no explanation for Ted Nugent.)

Rose Garden - Lynn Anderson (Mainstream country when it was good.)

Shake Your Coconuts - Junior Senior ("'Til the nut comes out.")

Double Vision - Foreigner (See Ted Nugent, I guess.)

Viewer Mail Theme (from Late Night with David Letterman) - James Galway (Composed by Henry Mancini!)

Second Hand News - Fleetwood Mac (See Foreigner.)

Sweet Pea - Tommy Roe (Always have, always will love this song - check out the farfisa organ.)

Don't Dream it's Over - Crowded House (Hopelessly '80s.)

Every Time You Go Away - Paul Young (Even more hopelessly '80s.)

Mr. Big Stuff - Jean Knight (Horn arrangement totally rocks on this.)

Dancing With Myself - Billy Idol ("Your empty eyes seem to pass me by....")

Da Doo Ron Ron - The Crystals (Less is more, replete with honkin' sax break.)

Billy, Don't Be a Hero - Bo Donaldson & the Heywoods ("I heard she threw the letter away" - very cold sentiment for AM radio.)

Karma Chameleon - Culture Club (Harmonica + Boy George = rock & roll? Discuss.)

Born to Run - Bruce Springsteen (Best ever use of the glockenspiel.)

Lemon Tree - Trini Lopez ("And the lemon flower is sweet"; percussive 12-string guitar; love [life] is fleeting.)

God Save the Queen - Sex Pistols ("They made you a moron/ A potential H-Bomb." Genius.)

Dr. Hunter S. Thompson 1937-2005

What a year. First Robert Quine decided to end it all last May, and now another huge influence is gone. Both via suicide. (And if you count the NHL....)

Discovering what the world looked like through the eyes of Hunter Thompson was a pivotal moment in my life, and not just for the wrong reasons. He was a gifted writer with a superb sense of irony, a caustic wit, and a scathingly self-righteous indignation that was never self-pitying. He knew the score and never candy-coated a single thing he ever said or wrote.

His description of speeding down a highway off ramp and skidding out to a perfect standstill (the fast heel-toe work on the accelerator and brake, etc.) - while being tailed by a state trooper! - is still one of the most memorable passages in the brilliant Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.

Death sucks any old time, but in this case it is truly "grim business."

LEMON TREE

Lemon tree, very pretty
And the lemon flower is sweet
But the fruit of the poor lemon
Is impossible to eat

For reasons I cannot fathom or explain, the song "Lemon Tree," particularly as interpreted by Trini Lopez, has haunted me for most of my conscious life. Lopez added his driving Latin beat to this folk song, which had already charted for the Kingston Trio and Peter, Paul & Mary, and scored an even bigger hit (#20) in 1965.

When I listen to it today, I am immediately drawn back in time. I see the carpet in my parents' living room, the fabric covering the hi-fi speaker; hear the springy but urgently strummed 12-string guitar Lopez played. Somehow, this song was a comfort, despite employing the lemon tree as a metaphor for love: it's beautiful, but often sours.

My parents were big Trini Lopez fans, and his music could bring enjoyment to an otherwise angry and difficult household. I recall hearing this song played when my parents had parties, hearing the floorboards rock in time to the dancing above my bedroom when I was supposed to be sleeping through a slightly boozy get together. My parents then were younger than I am now.

In the intervening years, I saw the lyric as a metaphor not just for love, but for life: it can be beautiful (no thanks to Roberto Benigni), but it ends. Our time here is temporary.

One of the things that always interested me in Trini's version is the totally unironic joy present in his delivery. His trademark smile - just try to find a picture of him without it pasted across his face - is there in his singing of this fairly sad little song. That mismatch, a happy treatment of an unhappy tale, intrigues me to this day.

Maybe Trini's positivity is the only smart choice in an uncertain world. We're all going to die some day, so why not smile even through the sad parts?

Discuss.

THE JETHRO TULL STORY

Tights + flute =
Rock & roll?

Discuss.

* * *

This poem got a huge ovation this past Friday at Ozzie's Poetry Night in Park Slope. Generally, this poem goes over pretty well at readings - there is usually some amusement, a few chuckles. Of course, it depends on the audience age demographic; it strikes me that few people under, say, 35 would know what Jethro Tull is. Maybe 45, who knows?

But Friday was a totally different story. The audience was so there, willing to find real amusement in this terse poem. When I finished saying the words "rock & roll" the place went wild. There was a long, drawn out pause where I couldn't say anything further, the reaction was so loud. I felt like I was on a sitcom being filmed before a live audience.

Finally, after a glorious eternity - which was really about seven seconds - I delivered the punch line: "Discuss." Pandemonium. The previous reaction was dwarfed by a bigger and even more enthused outbreak of laughter, cheers and whoops of affirmation! I'm no mathematician, as anyone who has ever witnessed me trying to calculate a fair tip at dinner out will attest to, but I would say the second crescendo bested the first by approximately 2.5 times.

I have to admit that "The Jethro Tull Story" has always been one of my favorite poems - once I allowed myself to accept that it was perfectly okay for a poem to be comprised of 5 words and a plus and equal sign. I thought long and hard about whether such could validly constitute a "real" poem. Ultimately, I looked to my hero Richard Brautigan - a true master of brevity - and decided "What the frig?" If Brautigan can write poems consisting only of titles, then what's wrong with a little simple arithmetic? [N.B. Brautigan includes four poems that are titles followed by a blank page beneath in his book Rommel Drives On Deep Into Egypt.]

Sadly, I've not yet convinced anyone to publish "The Jethro Tull Story," but I won't give up trying. In the meantime, be among the first to enjoy it. Right here.

"It's not too late to uncancel it."

Thus spake Detroit Red Wings captain Steve Yzerman, a mere day following the NHL's official cancellation of the season. Despite my suspicion that "uncancel" may not be a word, the guy is looking like the Orcale of Delphi.

Apparently, a big do-over is afoot. A secret meeting is being held - at this very moment! - that could conceivably salvage the season.

While I think it would be great to have hockey back, the thought of a 28-game season followed by a full four rounds of playoffs seems kind of silly at this point. And what of the further damage the NHL might be doing to itself by "uncancelling" the cancellation?

Is this league so fly-by-night that it can't even stand by its own edicts? Is this what I've been following since 1973?

Whatever. Similar to the idiotic Academy Awards, the NHL's clear lack of logic and casual concern for its fan base can't really be helped. These people just don't seem to know any better. Pity.

Gates, shmates

     
Sure, Christo's Gates are coming down in a few days, but here's another not-to-be-missed artistic curiosity: The Nomi Song. This documentary about classically trained Berlin countertenor Klaus Nomi is showing on exactly two screens in the U.S.: L.A.'s Nuart Theatre, and Cinema Village, here in New York.

Critics are universally praising this film, while simultaneously scratching their noggins - lo these 22 years after Nomi's untimely demise - in an effort to fathom just what he was all about. Phrases like "profoundly bizarre," "freak among freaks," and "strange, almost inhuman creature" pepper various reviews.

I very clearly recall sitting in the studio audience of Saturday Night Live in late 1979, as Nomi sang backup vocals for David Bowie. The rendition of "The Man Who Sold the World" performed that evening is still the best version I've ever heard by Bowie or anyone else, and Nomi's contribution to that end was significant.

With any luck, this intriguing flick will still be showing once I've seen those Gates.

Hockey, art & the flu

NHL 1917 - 2005

Coincidental to the NHL cancelling the 2004-2005 season, I was reading David Markson's This is Not a Novel yesterday. This is the 2nd book of Markson's trilogy of plotless novels, which attempts to capture his protagonist (called "Writer") in the midst of the creative process. Each book is a collection of facts, interesting minutiae and little-known but fascinating tidbits - frequently about art, writing, death, suicide and anti-Semitism. I've already read the first book, Reader's Block, and plan on getting to the final installment, Vanishing Point, shortly.

Yesterday's cancellation guarantees that there will be no Stanley Cup champion this season. The only other time the Cup has gone unawarded, since its 1893 introduction as the most identifiable trophy in pro sports, was back in 1919. A major epidemic of the Spanish Flu (or La Grippe, as it was known in the Great White North) was wreaking havoc across the world.

The Stanley Cup finals, being played between the Seattle Metropolitans and the Montreal Canadiens, were knotted at two games apiece (plus a scoreless overtime tie). When the flu-decimated Canadiens were unable to put a full compliment of players on the ice, the series was cancelled. Four days later, Montreal defenseman Bad Joe Hall - one of the league's roughest players - died of pneumonia.

The coincidence part comes in the form of a factoid Markson drops on page 61 of This is Not a Novel: "The worldwide influenza epidemic of 1918-1919 killed forty million people. Including Apollinaire. And Egon Schiele."

And Bad Joe Hall.

        
(Left to right: Apollinaire, Schiele, Hall)

Granted, the hipcheck isn't usually held in the same regard as poetry and painting, but there is an art to it.

R.I.P. NHL (& F.U.)

Well, it happened. The NHL has (finally) officially cancelled the 2004-2005 season. Hockey fans know this marks the first time since 1919 (86 years), when the Stanley Cup finals were cancelled due to a flu epidemic, that the Cup will go unclaimed.

No season, the first time in the history of North American sports that an entire season has been wiped out. Unreal.

One can only wonder how far the shrapnel will fly. Most of the world's population was already indifferent to, if not utterly ignorant of, hockey's existence as a professional sport. Will diehard fans be too bitter to ever root again?

Despite last minute negotiations, the NHL and the players' union remain far apart on dollars and sense (sic) and philosophically polarized (i.e. hate each others' guts). It has been a long, difficult winter. Spring and summer may well follow suit.

Robert Gordon on Valentine's Day

Robert Gordon, the Rockabilly Bad Boy (his own designation, as far as I can tell), was in fine voice tonight at the Turning Point in Piermont, New York. Backed by a incredibly tight trio, Gordon seemed anything but bad. Words like playful and fun come to mind, as Gordon mugged, strutted, and charmed the packed house.

Bouche Douce and I enjoyed a romantic evening together at the show, feeling - and looking - younger, and more in love than most of the crowd present. Plus, they were all sloppy drunk.

Gordon's Elvis Presley meets Bela Lugosi swagger was in ample evidence, as he sang hits, covers, and some new tunes, taking requests from the audience and dispensing with his E-Z read set list. (The man literally held up a laminated placard with his set list printed in gigantic letters, lamenting, "This is what happens when you get old.")

Check back for pics from the show, coming soon!

The NHL has a heart after all...

And it will announce the cancellation of the entire 2004-2005 season on Wednesday, February 16th. The original plan called for the league to announce the cancellation today, Monday, February 14th - St. Valentine's Day.

News reports earlier today then suggested that the St. Valentine's Day massacre would not take place, but instead the league would cancel the remainder of the season on Tuesday, February 15th (my son's birthday!). Hours later, Tuesday became Wednesday. Who thinks it'll get moved to Thursday?

[Sorry, I should have mentioned earlier in this post that to follow along you might want to break out your Eternity-at-a-Glance calendars.]

While I'm glad that neither Valentine's Day nor my son's date of birth will forever be associated with such a sad day in hockey history, the NHL's inability to definitively pull the plug on the season - and put its fans out of their collective misery - speaks volumes about this troubled sport.

At this rate, they'll still be negotiating well into the summer, with the Stanley Cup finals eventually being held on the surface of a frosted beer mug.

Arianna in Creta

Also known as Ariadne in Crete, an amazing opera by George Frideric Handel, currently enjoying a short run (February 10-18) at the Harry de Jur Playhouse on Grand Street. This past Saturday, me and Bouche Douce checked out this stunning, post-modern interpretation by New York's Gotham Chamber Opera company - which happens to be the American premiere of the 1733 opus.

A shorthand explanation is difficult to provide, but suffice it to say this production features a minotaur, two women playing male roles, a countertenor (i.e. falsetto) Frankenstein monster, and a very large pair of knitting needles.

After seeing BAM's Siroe, Re di Persia last spring (also a U.S. premiere), catching Theodora on the Trio cable station shortly thereafter, and now Arianna, I am a total convert to Handel's operatic works. Yes, his music is incredibly baroque, but I think that's what attracts me. There is something utterly satisfying about the cadenzas in his music - they feel almost mathematical in their precision.

Others might consider Handel too "plinky," but I now count myself a huge fan. Though my CD collection includes GG Allin, Motörhead, and Lou Reed's infamous Metal Machine Music, I plan on making more room for Handel.

Fucking finally!

The NHL appears set, finally - after more foot-dragging than a shotgun wedding groom on the way to meet his inbred bride in their nuptial sty - to cancel the entire 2004-2005 season! Yippee!

Said announcement is rumored to be slated for Monday - tomorrow! - February 14th, St. Valentine's Day!

Can you feel the love?

Must... have... coffee...

Today marks the first day ever that I set foot in a coffee shop and asked the question: "Do you have herbal tea?"

Thus have I become one of those people.

Exhausted this entire week, suffering from terrible insomnia. Odd, ain't it? I eliminate caffeine from my diet and my reward is total sleeplessness.

On the positive side, I have been catching up on my bad movie viewing. Last night I got to watch bucktoothed, gawky Gary Busey in The Buddy Holly Story. (Hmmm, a quick bleach job and Jim Carrey would be an outstanding choice to play the lead in The Gary Busey Story, it suddenly occurs to me.)

Fifteen-yard penalty: improper use of Blog

It's been exactly 7 days since I was shit-canned, and I think it's official: I am depressed over this turn of events.

I haven't blogged for the past 2 days for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is an inability to find humor and/or hope in my current situation.

While washing my hands a few hours ago, I made myself smile when I thought: hot, cold, Prozac. Then I focused on the faucets, and saw only the hot and cold. Figures.

I have never owned a piece of property or a car.Yet I have about 500 CDs, many of which are utterly bizarre, weird, and purchased only for their oddness. Example: Everyone Should Be Killed by a band called Anal Cunt.

I have more books than I have shelving space for, and am reluctant to part with any of them - even those I have re-read several times over.

I have a box filled with sketchbooks compiled over the course of the past decade.

I have a digital camera I really don't know how to use.

I recently quit playing in a band called Bikini Bottom, when I realized that the idiocy exhibited by fully half of its members was right up there with Nigel Tufnel.

I have a Master's degree, am working on a second, and have no idea why anyone in their right mind would hire me to do anything.

I have no job and no prospects. Did I mention this, already?

I see that Arthur Miller, creator of Willy Loman, has passed away at the age of 89.

I'm halfway there.

Ah, the French! Paris diary: entry #2

The French are bastards, some of them literally:



Yes, this is an actual mausoleum found in Le Cimetière du Père-Lachaise, final resting place of many famous historical figures, including Gertrude Stein, Frédéric Chopin, Oscar Wilde, Sarah Bernhardt, Jacques Louis David, and of course, Jim Morrison.

The Lizard King's grave is the only one that needs a security gate and full-time gendarme.



Morrison's epitaph reads: "Kata ton daimona eaytoy," which has been translated from the Greek variously as "True to his own spirit" and "He did his own thing."



(Photos by MsAPhillips)

Staring at the Ceiling

I think I figured out how large the panels are that comprise the tin ceiling in my bedroom.

Ok, so now what?

It's Monday, February 6, 2005, 2:16 p.m.

Normally, I'd be getting things squared away at my erstwhile job. But, alas I was no swimmer and I lost my Clementine....

So, I'm attempting to make the most of my new-found free time. I ate a nourishing breakfast. Had two cups of herbal tea (peppermint is my new favorite). Had sex a couple of times (quoth Borat: "Niiize") - with someone other than myself, even (my best gal, Bouche Douce). I trimmed my nails. Then, I, uhm, well that's really about it.

Oh wait - checked my email. Several times. Looked at a few blogs. Watched about four minutes of TV. Don't even recall what, just channel surfing, I guess.

Later on I'm going to check out the flick Sideways. Then I'll be studying my French (adding the phrase "I am a total loser" to my lexicon). Then some late night TV, ice cream or cookies or some such comfort food, bed.

Repeat til evicted.

Cancel the fucking thing, already.

Few people these days are stupid enough to admit being a hockey fan, but, hell - I'm that stupid.

The hopelessly absurd situation that passes for reality here is a five-month long lockout that is completely off the radar of the majority of human beings currently living. Oh wait, that was the state of hockey to begin with. My bad!

The fact is, few people give a shit about hockey when it's being played; even fewer have noticed that there is no hockey currently being played; hardly anyone cares if it is ever played again.

And that leaves morons like me wondering why I have allowed myself to feel so marginalized by loving a sport that has become a total joke. Yes, folks, it's right up there with tiddlywinks.

Every day I hit the sports pages online desperate for news of substance. I don't even care if it's positive at this juncture - I'm pretty much fed up to the point that I just wish the NHL would grow a pair of balls and cancel the entire fucking season.

Let hockey descend further into asininity by becoming the first major (ha!) North American sport to lose an entire season due to a labor dispute. Hell yes, bring on the cancellation!

Reports that there could still be a "meaningful" season of 20-30 games, followed by a full four rounds of playoffs are an insult to anyone who: a) knows how to count, and b) knows that the eventual Stanley Cup winner will have that dreaded asterisk in the record book (i.e.: "lockout-shortened season" [i.e. "doesn't count"]). Meaningful, my ass.

The time has come to call it a day. Cancel the fucking thing, already. I'm begging you.

Fi-yud!

Canned. Shown the door. Given the pink slip. Told to "Get the hell out."

Such was my experience this past Friday at the place where I had been working as a permanent freelancer since September 29th. I won't name names, but the joint rhymes with Shmotham (you know, where a superhero named Shmatman might live).

On the bright side: they waited til the end of the last day of the week to can my ass; security wasn't called to escort me from the building; I got to keep my personalized note pads and cubicle name plate.

On the dim side: I'm heading over to P.C. Richards post haste to see if there are any discarded refrigerator boxes lying around for me to inhabit.

I'm tempted to be vaguely bitter about the situation, but can't seem to find the energy. The gig was supposed to go permanent after a one-month breaking in period, and that never happened for various flimsy reasons.

At first I found myself wondering when I was going to be hired. That gave way to wondering if I was going to be hired. Finally, as the months dragged on, I spent most of my days there trying to determine just when I would be fired. Excuse me, I mean: fiyud!

Still, I was quite surprised to feel the axe fall. Funny.

I am reminded of those theories surrounding guillotined French criminals, as to whether or not they are able to see, hear, think and feel once they've been decapitated.

Published on poetz.com

Two of my poems - "With Somebody Who Loves Me" and "The Old Bad Moral Vector Routine" - have been published by Jackie Sheeler at her excellent poetz.com.

This site is an amazing calendar of poetry readings, literary events and such; it currently includes happenings in Atlanta, Boston, Connecticut, Long Island, Pittsburgh, New Jersey, Philadelphia, Hudson Valley, Texas, and Vermont - in addition to NYC.

I'm honored to be published on such a prestigious and widely-read site.

OF PLEASING ODOR TO THE LORD

Writ big in lipstick letters,
Old school scrawl
On jaundiced skin.
Lifted from The Book of Lewd Enlightenment
(page 52), adjacent to: "Here I lie, broken-hearted...."

Adios, Kid Intricate.

I never thought the
Lemon flower was sweet, myself.
            —But that's me.

A cancerous attitude precludes tumors—
They're scared shit.
Clean bill of health and an enema gratis,
And all systems are go.

'You can love your life,"
The TV pleads, as hordes are cured:
Canes, walkers dispensed with
(They get a nice dollar on
Returned prosthetics).

And I run
Out of the room,
Laughing and crying.
Mostly laughing, though.

* * *

One of the two (count 'em) people who actually read this blog (other than myself) recently asked about the origins of the name "Kid Intricate." It comes from the above poem, which I wrote in the spring of 2002. Poet and editor Jonathan Penton was nice enough to publish it on his web site, Unlikely Stories. It and a few other poems of mine - as well as a truly ghetto picture of me - can be found here.

The Day the Music Died

Today marks the 46-year anniversary of arguably the most tragic day in rock 'n' roll history. On February 3, 1959 a small plane carrying Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens and The Big Bopper (Jiles P. Richardson) crashed in Clear Lake, Iowa.

I've always wondered: Did Don McLean coin the phrase "the day the music died," or did he appropriate it for "American Pie"?

TOO MUCH KEROUAC AND A CHALUPA SUPREME BEFORE BED HAVE GIVEN ME THE GUADALAJARA NIGHT TERRORS

Bad form to say dream
In a poem.
Ditto poem.

But it’s not just
Sweet acid reflux
And ragtag mariachis

Playing the Mexican hat dance
On dented trumpets
Here.

The New School York Poets

Ever desperate for any small advantage that might elevate my poetry career (which seems akin to elevating Starr Jones' ass off a stool at an ice cream parlor), I have decided to create my own poetry "school."

My inspiration is three-pronged: The New School (where I am in the midst of completing my MFA in Creative Writing), the original New York School poets (Kenneth Koch, Frank O'Hara, James Schuyler and John Ashbery), and the York Peppermint Pattie.

My plan is to constantly be seen eating the aforementioned candy - at poetry readings, informal gatherings of poets, at bookstores, etc. - and thus become inextricably associated with it. Once this pattern has been established I will refer to myself as a founding member of The New School York Poets. Get it?

Ça va?

French -er verb conjugations for the word parler (to speak):

I (je) parle
you (tu) parles
he (il) parle
she (elle) parle
we (nous) parlons
you [plural] (vous) parlez
they (ils) parlent
they (elles) parlent

Note: All are pronounced the same, "parle", with the exception of the we form and the plural you form.

Moi, je m'appelle Steve. Et vous, comment vous appelez-vous?