I got ready, although I didn't want to. I wanted to stay home and watch the paint peel. I wanted to stay behind my computer. I didn't want another late night out. Every time I'm outside of these four walls, I end up coming home around midnight. Every night. I get tired of that shit sometimes. I get deathly tired of hanging out.
But I'm a poet and I'm also edging to becoming a performance artist. These two things are key to my personal growth, I feel. Although there is no money to be made in either. Nothing. I get ready and do my obligatory inny, outty. Which is leave, forget my metrocard, return; leave again, forget my hat, return; leave, forget cash, return; leave, forget walkman, return; leave...shit like that over and over again. I know what those of you who are familiar with a Clockwork Orange thought!
I head out and next door to my now favorite package store and buy a portable. Knowing how these things go, there will probably not be wine neither titties at the joint. Nothing but poetry and prose, which I don't mind. I really don't. But I would like to bash my head in a little while I'm sitting in the audience. So, I get a portable and start tapping on it before I even make it to the Starbucks.
I find it empty and sit my cakes down at a table, playing with my camera, trying to figure out how to make it take a sharper, less grainy picture. I'm still finding it difficult to do. The girl at the counter brings me a coffee on the house. She had seen me come in and kept it at the counter for me. But when I never came, she brought it over. Sweetie. I spike it with my portable.
My brother walks in and we head downtown to the Lower East Side, to a row of restaurants and theaters. We were heading for The Living Theater in the falling rain. Coming from the theater, opening an umbrella, is an elderly gentleman, "Looking for the Living Theater?" He asks. "The Spring Show?" Yeah, that's us. "Well, you've found it, but you'll have to take your clothes off." That's great. I say, I've already done that. "Well, this will be right up your alley."
Right up my alley?? We take a descending flight of stairs to a basement theater which was very large, with stadium seating and a bar, which was closed, as I thought it would be. Juxtaposed within a group of men and women was a naked old man. His skin about his body like melted candlewax, flowing to his hips and then down to his crotch, where below the smallest penis I've ever seen were the hugest scrotum. I mean it was as large as a woman's purse or a small shopping bag. I had to look away, walk away. It was too staggering to see. I've come all this way to see prancing naked women to come face to face with a naked man. That's great.
I climb the audience, meeting up with old faces, shaking hands and make my way to a seat high and to the left side of the stadium and make myself comfortable. My brother was thoroughly pisssed that there wasn't wine being served, but I couldn't care less. I pass my brother a spot so that he could go out and buy him a bottle of hooch for himself. He came back with a bottle of Olde English Eight Hundred Malt Liquor. Good luck with that.
The show began. Mostly it was 'Big Fucking Mike's' show. He had the most acts in it. His was a more skit-like perform- ances followed by the naked guy. Forcing me listen to his bad poetry and to watch still longer, his huge, insanely huge nutsack. Presently the lights dimmed and out walked AJ in all of her resplendent glory. Dressed in little more than a scant few leaves and flowers. She stood and read off some rather good poetry, commenting on her well toned fifty four year old body. Here I am forty seven, and she makes me look like the slob that I am.
She was followed by two younger women, both perform- ance artists, who did their own odd renditions of spring dances, going from dressed to undressed. Interesting. One really hot young woman came out with a hanging dong between her legs. At first, we thought it was a young man, but as she began eating at the feathers around her body, and tearing at her body stocking, it became evident that the penis and testicles were false and soon made to go. She pranced naked about the carnage of her clothing at her feet. Interesting.
Well, it wasn't a bad night, even though the naked guy got back on the stage to do one last reading about standing naked before women and how much he enjoyed it. I'm certain that the women in the audience wished he kept his clothes on. I know I did.
Later, I spoke to Big Fucking Mike about doing a bit in his next show. I was percolating an idea in my head that I would like to try with my reading. First I needed to write the poem, then get into some form of shape for it, and then execute it flawlessly for it to really work. I told BFM would he be interested and he said he would keep in touch.
Before I knew it, after that, I was sitting in a van, toking on some righteous weed, smiling as if I was slapped around a few hundred times. Of course, this kind of behavior quickly gave me the munchies. Therefore the van dropped us off at the famous KATZ Delicatessen. Which was in fact closing just as we got to the fucking door. So we hit the Original Ray's Pizza right next door and ate pizzas and dough knots.
The night ended with me heading back uptown late, getting home well after Midnight and quite tired. I stopped at the mailboxes to see if they were online yet. It was still dark and empty in the small alcove. I simply can't wait until I can go and pick up my own mail.
I crawled into my bed gratefully after washing dishes, and call it a night after reading a few emails.
I drift off to sleep.
Titties are a blast!
HobobobSource URL: http://idontwanttobeanythingotherthanme.blogspot.com/2009/04/pop-gun-threat.html
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