2 Jews Beat Poets-Act VII: The Reality Of Indiana

It’s 8am Sunday morning, October 14. I’ve just picked up my car from the Midway parking lot on the near south side of Chicago.

Pulled an all-nighter, driving back from Indianapolis, but it was Mykel who did the driving, not me. I slept a good part of the way back.

Let me back up; back up to the success of the Chicago shows, not knowing what was waiting for us on the other side of the border, the state line, rather, the loathsome state called Indiana.

Back in the mid-1990s, I lived there, fucked there and practically died there, mentally that is. It’s the state that I call the asshole of America; it seems to compete with New Jersey in many ways, but that’s another story for another time.

It wasn’t the best of times for me being there during that time period, living in a tiny town of 2,000 and being one of three Jews in the town. No future, a lot of bleakness and unfamiliarity in general. Even as I moved ahead to the next town, I ran into too much trouble, too much conservatism and unemployment was my friend.

Thankfully I retreated back to Illinois and found refuge and comfort in suburbia, but only for a short while.

Since that time I had visited Indiana a few times to go see the friends I had made there and like most things, one town I had lived in didn’t change all that much, while the other city was a boomtown, quite literally.

So, when I was planning this tour back in the summer, I had wanted to go to Wisconsin and not Indiana, but it was because of Mykel’s insistence that we go and so, we went, much to my inner chagrin.

Booking the Indiana shows were pretty easy; a converted movie theater in Bloomington, a hippie-style coffeehouse in Lafayette, a record shop and a punk club in Indianapolis. What more could an old punk like Mykel ask for and want and a spoken word performance artist like me desire?

We left mid-morning on the 11th, after parking my car at a secure lot near Midway airport. Our first stop was a lunch break in Hammond, Indiana at a pizza buffet.

The city of Hammond in Indiana is by all accounts weird; this place in particular was strange. On the 100-inch TV screen was Maury Povich’s talk show presenting the usual drivel; the bar was full of rednecks. The place was recommended to us by a Hammond local, when we stopped at the tourism bureau and it was relatively close in proximity to the interstate.

At the bar sat a rather large man with white hair and a long white beard, wearing a red, white and blue USA jacket. The rest of the people inside the joint looked like locals, what with their Gimme ballcaps and flannel shirts.

Somewhere in the midst of going for my third helping at the buffet, the large man was also standing there and as I was helping myself to a slice of pizza, he manically laughed to himself, but in a way that I was supposed to “get.”

I felt uneasy.

It didn’t get any better, when I went to wash my hands and looking for the men’s room, I came upon a little old man who spoke in an elfish kind of voice, who pointed me in the right direction, laughing manically to himself as well.

I felt out of place and wanted to get away from there as quick as humanly possible. We made it into Bloomington without further incident.


We drove to our host’s home and he met us so very graciously. He served us dinner, which I think consisted of a vegetarian meal and then it was off to the movie theater. When we got out and walked up to the theater, we saw that our names were right up on the marquee. That made me smile and I felt it was like one of the greatest times I would ever see my name in the spotlight.

The trouble was when it show-time, only three people attended, two young women and a young man. Mykel wasn’t too happy with that prospect, but I can’t say I don’t blame him; still I gave a performance that I felt was pretty grand, trying out a few new throat-singing pieces and a few new poems to boot.

After the show, I was pretty far gone and unlike Mykel who had his eyes on a friend of our host’s, I decided to turn in early, write in my journal and just sleep. We left the next morning after exchanging addresses, contact information and photographs.

Along the way, we stopped off at a Salvation Army thrift store and the Mongolian studies department at the University of Indiana, where Mykel dropped off a copy of his “Even A Daughter’s Better Than Nothing” book.

From there, we drove to our next destination, good old Lafayette, home of the Purdue Boilermakers and my old stomping grounds back in the mid-1990s. Not knowing what to expect at the coffeehouse, I made the best of it, as we hauled our props and merchandise into the venue.

This show seemed to come off a little better than the last location. Seven people and a few had enthusiasm. That was a relief! And to top it all off, there was a piano I made could use of.

Mykel did his usual spoken word and I did a limited performance consisting of poetry and performance art. After the show was over and both he and I sold a few items from our merchandise table, it was off to a local pub with a local fellow and our hostess, whom Mykel had found via the website, http://www.couchsurfing.com/.

Though she was short in stature, she was dynamite in many other aspects. She was a Purdue graduate student & visiting scientist & scholar from Brazil, she seemed to be a great ball of energy, wanting to go out and stay up all night.

It was the weekend after all, so why the hell not?

The next morning, as we packed up and took all the vitals down and with our cameras, the scientist wanted to tag along with us. At the time I thought, how cool is that? My very own groupie!

So, off we flew. Us in our rental car and her in her oversized SUV. Along the way, we stopped at a few garage sales and from there, made it into Indianapolis in record time.

We met the promoter, who was most kind, considerate and congenial; a true promoter’s promoter. He took us everywhere, along the way, meeting friends of his, stopping in shops and he even took us out to dinner.

Very cool indeed.

Our first venue was the backside of a record shop, where we performed in between bands. Though the set-up seemed kind of odd, I felt like I had to be right into the face of the audience, as we weren’t allowed to use the band space and instead use a side space.

And so that’s exactly what I did; get right into their faces and perform. It paid off. I got their attention alright.

After my performance, we packed up and headed off to the next venue; the historic Melody Inn, where in fact, we would be playing in between a host of punk & metal bands.

After sizing up the crowd, which amounted to several drunken punks, I decided to do my louder and more attention-getting pieces.

After watching Mykel perform and watching his increasingly odd behavior, which was extremely unusual for him, I felt it was in my best interest to not let it get to me.

As the 2nd band left the stage and I plodded up there with all of my gear, I immediately launched into two throat-singing pieces, “Mykel Board Weasel Squeezer” and “Noam Colon Mud Puddle,” followed by “Beano,” a performance piece that utilized my shofar.

The drunken punks didn’t seem to care or weren’t amused. Then I launched into a GG Allin spoken word cover of “Bite It” (You Scum).

Not sure where I would do next, I decided to perform “Suite For Furby On Shofar In D Minor.” As I began performing it, I felt both nervous and excited inside.

Here I was in a punk club performing before a bunch of drunks who notoriously could have easily ignored me, which I sort of felt was happening anyway. But I pressed onward, kept switching my movement so I could keep on my toes and watch their reaction at the same time.

It was a learning experience to say the least. Still, the crowd seemed to like me and Mykel was energized.

“That was the punkest thing I’ve seen all year,” he later said to me.

Meanwhile, our Lafayette groupie slinked off with a dorky dancer and ended up doing who-knows-what-we-didn’t-ask-nor-cared.

It was 2:30 a.m., when Mykel turned to me and said he wanted to get out of there and back into Chicago, while I wanted to stay there and go to the place where we were supposed to stay.

But Mykel’s logic was simple; he wanted to go more than I wanted to stay and who could argue with that?

Though Mykel felt he didn’t do well in Indiana, I felt as if I had made a lasting impression and became a smashing success in process.

Touring, as I have learned in the past, can be hard and unpredictable; little or no money involved and many broken promises. But it can be an education too, in that you find out a lot about yourself, as in what works and how you get along with others.

I think I passed the audition.

Thanks to everyone along the way who we met, particularly Chris in Bloomington, Aaron in Lafayette and in Indianapolis, Bill Levin of Bling Jewelry who gave me a Furby (batteries included!) and to our Indianapolis promoter, Marvin Goldstein, who took us everywhere and was kind to us.

Sincere thanks to Mykel Board, who put up with me the entire length of the tour and my snoring.

For another look at our tour, visit this link:

http://mykelsblog.blogspot.com/2007/10/mykels-column-for-mrr-296-december-2007.html

2 Jews Beat Poets-Act VI: Quimby's Bookstore

"It's better to play in front of a little crowd verses a big crowd, because at least a little crowd can hear what you're playing..." George Harrison

It’s Tuesday afternoon, October 9 & I find myself getting ready for my first-ever reading at Quimby’s Bookstore in Chicago.

Mykel’s read there previously, but I haven’t. Still I have to say, it is one of the coolest bookstores in America outside of City Lights, in San Francisco, what with its vast array of fanzines, poetry chapbooks, alternative books, periodicals, photo books & kitschy knick-knacks, plus the free stacks toward the entrance of the shop. There's even a sign posted somewhere among the stacks that masturbating with erotica books is not allowed!

Back in my apartment, I pour through several manila folders filled with poems & essays. Considering I only have 20 minutes or so to read, I choose a few poems to read from the new poetry chapbook I’d published the previous month (September) entitled: Our Love For Liverpool, a book I had collaborated on with The Arizona Babe aka Mom, plus a few other choice poems & a couple of essays from my blog.

I don’t often read my blogs publicly, just very privately to friends, as it’s already out there to read anytime at the world’s disposal, so when I do read anything from it, it’s mostly poems I’ve written & posted on it. If I recall correctly, the only time I read a blog publicly, was when I did a reading with Mykel last fall that was entitled: The Art Of Writing Headlines AKA How To Be Witty, Cute And Stupid In 10 Words Or Less.

But tonight is special; it is October 9 after all & a year ago at this very time, I was in the middle of a mini-tour of venues in both New York City & Philadelphia, with free time spent knocking around New York City.

The 9th of October is quite special to me too; it’s the 67th birth date of the late Beatle John Lennon & back in 2006, for his 66th birthday, I was one of at least 600 people who gathered in Central Park within Strawberry Fields to celebrate his birthday.

Just my luck, Mykel can’t stand John Lennon or the rest of The Beatles, but we all have our imperfections, I guess!

It’s about 5ish when we leave for the bookstore & boom! We get stuck in the middle of rush-hour traffic on I-94; on top of that, my car starts to overheat, but then Mykel shows me a trick; he puts on the heater & the gauge goes down considerably. He tells me he learned how to do that when he was a cab driver in New York City and the cab engine would overheat.

By the time we get there, it’s about 6:50pm & wouldn’t you know? We luck out & find a parking space straight across the street from Quimby’s.

Although we’re supposed to start at 7pm, we don’t start the event until 7:30, in order to “fill” the place. But we do get a nice small crowd and Mykel starts with a familiar piece, one of his columns; quite honestly I don’t remember which one it is, but it is one of the three he reads throughout the remainder of the tour.

Then it’s my turn. I read a few poems of mine & Mom’s from our chapbook, a couple of other poems, & an essay on my experience of being in Central Park within Strawberry Fields in New York City for what would have been John Lennon’s 66th birthday (October 9, 2006) & the strange madness of the day.

The event winds down & people buy books; Mykel’s books that is. Afterwards, we are interviewed by a correspondent for the punk zine, Razorcake. Mykel invites her & her guy friend out to dinner with us, but she declines; school paper due in the morning & she hasn’t started it yet.

With the exception of the previous night at the open mic near home, we are also interviewed at The Green Mill, by a young woman from Northwestern University, though it’s mostly me that is questioned. On this night however, it’s Mykel who is mostly questioned.

We go to dinner a couple of doors down to a Thai restaurant.

Chalk up another great night!

2 Jews Beat Poets-Act V: The Morning After The Big Night Out

It’s the morning after the big night out, Monday, October 8.

Still have to get up early to return the rental car to Midway Airport on the Southside of Chicago, and we have to leave at 8:30am in order to beat the 10:30am drop-off time and that’s hard, especially on a Monday morning, but alright, such is the life of touring.

We get to the airport by 9-ish and we drop off the car. From there, we take a CTA bus and head to the Museum of Science & Industry (MSI); we get lucky, ‘coz it’s a free day. I haven’t been the MSI in goodness knows how long & Mykel hasn’t been there for perhaps 30 years as he says, but still it’s one of his favorite museums in America he says.

We spend all day there; that’s a rarity for me, as I used to go there almost all the time with my father, Rex Pater Homo from my formative years up through my 20s & maybe at the most spend 3-4 hours there. It’s also Rex’s favorite museum in Chicago as well.

During the time that we arrive at MSI until the finish of the day, we begin and end our "Senility World Series." The person who forgets the most, best out of seven, has to buy the other person a box of aspartame; the sugarless sugar with an ingredient that helps one forget. For me this is the easiest game in the world; Mykel tends to forget a lot of things; like his hat in the men's room at the MSI or something he said earlier in the morning. he trips me up a couple of times, but it's me that's winning, hands down.

Eventually, Mykel wants to stop playing the game. He says i'm taking it too seriously and that bugs him. So, we stop. Perhaps we'll pick up the series another another time.

It’s unusually hot this time of year; near 90 degrees in fact! Not the temperature norm for Chicago. Usually it’s in the 70s. Mykel wants a beer and so we go out in pursuit of one, but soon I grow tired; tired and weak from walking, almost to a state of dehydration. I can feel my palms getting all tingly.

Finally, after walking for nearly two miles or so, we duck into Jimmy’s Woodlawn Tap for a drink. He buys me a corned beef sandwich on rye and tells me to slow down and to take it easy. I suspect he doesn’t want to see me collapse. It’s a local neighborhood bar; kind of has that kooky college local yokel feel to it. I also remember sometime back, perhaps in the 1990s that they used to hold poetry readings here.

Ironically on the television set in the bar, there's a couple of news broadcasters talking about the past weekend's Chicago Marathon, in which a man from Michigan collapsed and died from heat exhaustion. The story made international news.

When I feel nourished enough, we grab a bus and head to the CTA Red Line. On the way home, a couple of high school-aged boys notice the slouch hats we’re wearing and playfully call us “The Blues Brothers.”

I grin.

We get our train and head north for the long trip home. I don’t do much, perhaps talk to Mykel or just look outside the window and point some local landmarks out to him. I can’t remember what if anything was said of that trip home.

Later that night, we go to a local open mic at a coffee bar near my apartment. There’s a man there, probably a little closer to my age, but I’m not sure. Mykel befriends him quicker than I do, due to the commonality of the love of literature he seems to enjoy.

He’s one of those shy guys that goes to open mics but never reads; just listens but never reads. Has a whole pocketful of work and then some, but never reads. Never wants to share his work with the world, yet, we trade CDs. I listen to it later and realize how good the music and the lyrics are, but again, he’s just one of those guys that works in a cubicle like some people I know, with other people that never appreciate what he does or what he writes, never shows him support and makes him feel frustrated enough to never go out and read, anywhere.

Period.

Inside I understand completely. I once stood in his place; well as a matter of fact, I’m still there to a degree; where I sit however, is different, in that I’ve been in and out of that box so many times, it’s not funny.

Sadly, the guy leaves before the open mic starts.

About 10:30pm, things start happening. The host sets up and people take turns singing, reading their work or doing stand-up comedy. When Mykel’s turn arrives, he does a piece from his column; I follow him with a couple of poems and a little throat-singing.

There’s a real variety at this open mic; including my personal favorite: an older gentleman, also a professor at Northwestern University, who composes songs on the spot, besides playing his own country & western music.

About 11:30pm, after the last poet reads and the last comedian takes the stage, the place clears out. I promise to come back to this open mic one night.

The problem I have with going to open mics every week, is after a while you lose the flavor of what you’re trying to accomplish; if you’re new at it, great, it’s a great learning experience, but if you’ve been going at it for months or perhaps years like me, then it’s a good idea to pull back and show up every once in a while; that way, you don’t wear yourself out or lose the novelty of whatever you’re trying to accomplish.

We walk home.

Another good night etched into history.

2 Jews Beat Poets-Act IV: "I've Been Waiting For This": The Green Mill

“Who did you have to blow in order to get into The Green Mill?”-Fast Fingers Wallace

“The entire staff…”-Sid Yiddish

In order to understand my apprehensiveness about The Green Mill performance that took place on Sunday, October 7, 2007, I need to back up a bit. Back to the early days when I first went to The Green Mill; back in the day when it first back in the late 1980s. Back when founder & host Marc Smith roared each time I showed up with great sarcasm, he’d point me out and say, “There he is with his tape recorder.”

Back in those days, I used to record everything I did on tape, every scrap of cassette I could find, I would tape every performance of mine & others on my small portable tape recorders, that I would run through just as easily as a working woman runs through panty hose.

But in those days, The Green Mill was brutal. The audiences and the performers were like a bunch of Dick The Bruisers, all waiting to pin the next man or woman down to the ground and sit on them until he or she cried “uncle.”

That’s no exaggeration.

In the spring of 1999, I am competing for a spot on the Chicago Poetry Slam Team, that will go on to the finals, being held that year in Chicago; the city that is birthplace of the Slam.


I advance to the semi-finals; then the quarter finals; then the finals, at which point I am knocked out of the third round at The Green Mill. I get easily disgruntled & disillusioned by the entire process & notice that the folks who I call “the dramatists,” verses “the real poets” have won.

Some of those dramatists had egos the size of black holes; never-ending, while others remained friendly & polite. Not always the case; but they did it the hard way; the school of hard knocks.

Dismayed, I turned away from poetry entirely & concentrated on my own muse; refocused my attention on music; in particular voice lessons, followed by piano, song & lyric writing, music theory & throatsinging.

I continue this process & slowly re-enter the performance arena with a richer & wider range of talent and skill in 2003. Then I drop out of the scene again & go into acting & improvising, but come back full circle to performing poetry again.

Then I drop out. In 2004, I jump back in & decide to do out-of-town gigs only. I like the thrill of an unknown audience & the ability to try out new material.

In 2005, as you’ve previously read, it’s my good friend and fellow writer/MRR columnist Mykel Board who really encourages me to come back out & perform more often than not. So I do. I begin building up courage, work on my weaknesses & sort out my disillusions with the entire process of performing poetry.

These days they call it spoken word. Looks more sophisticated; sells more books & CDs, anyway.

Fast forward to July, 2007; I’m in the middle of booking 2 Jew$ Be@t Poet$ Tour 2007, when I decide to inquire about the possibility of performing at The Green Mill, but I wonder and all those wounds come rushing back. But I decide to inquire anyway & send an email off to Marc Smith, the founder of the Slam. I receive a response, but it’s virtually nothing and I press on with other venues. In August, I get another email from Smith with further inquiry & a phone number & decide to contact him.

When I tell him who I actually am, he asks me why I didn’t tell him originally. I explain that I’m going under the guise of my recently established stage name, Sid Yiddish. We talk for a bit & he tells me he’d like to see my new act & he’ll give me a shot.

Inside, I am screaming with joy, jumping up & down, while doing cartwheels, combined with summersaults. Yet, I’m still nervous. Not sure what’s going to be by the time the fall rolls around. When The Green Mill gig is confirmed, everything else, including other shows seem to fall into line, almost exactly into place. It’s almost too perfect.

Fast forward again to Sunday afternoon, we’ve just finished up the gig at the Chicago Cultural Center. I’ve parted ways with Rat & I’m waiting for Wes to pull up in his overstuffed station wagon for a lift to The Green Mill.

While, I’m waiting in the lobby a week-old baby wails in front of me, until I suddenly break out in throatsinging & it quiets down, that is until his parents look at me with astonishment & disgust all in the same breath, wishing they could do that.

20 minutes later, Wes pulls up to the curb. We load all of his & my stuff into his car. I plop myself into the front seat. Wes comes out to literally strap me in, as I throw both my legs & feet up on the dashboard & away we fly down Lake Shore Drive until we get to our destination. Wes parks the car a block away & out I pull my belongings & head toward The Green Mill.

When I walk into with all my luggage & props in tow, I open the door & am greeting by about 20 or so people who shout at the top of their lungs “Happy Birthday!” to me and start singing the song of the same title.

I am amused.

I get settled in and see Smith & talk to him for a bit. After conferring with him about something, I begin to place little plastic toy instruments on the tables within the club. They’ll be used for one of my performance pieces later in the night.

Another 30 minutes pass, then I see him; my buddy, my good pal, fellow adventurer & tour-partner, Mykel Board. We talk for a bit & then he sets up the booth where we hope to sell merchandise. I thumb through my work, to see what I’ll be reading, but I already know, as I sort of had a simple plan set up for The Green Mill show.

The hour grows closer. Then at 7pm, the show begins! Wes performs during the open mic. Before the break, Smith holds a contest; the best poem that uses the words meatloaf, Venus & volcano wins $10. He says he needs four contestants. Mykel, myself & two others volunteer. We don’t win, someone else does, but I whip off a quick poem about anal sex, while Mykel writes up a quickie with a Jewish-related theme.

During the break, I see my good friend, The Rev. in the front row; he comes up to me and pumps my right hand. “Hey Squirt,” he laughs, referring to my anal sex poem.

I smile. It gives me true hope, that knowing he’s in the audience, that I will do okay tonight.


After the break, Mykel is introduced by Smith & reads one of his prose pieces about plastic medicine from his book of columns entitled, “I-A-Me-Ist.” I’ve heard it before, probably half-a-dozen times; I never get tired of his work.

While he is reading, I get myself prepared; I am nervous, but calmer and more determined than ever.

Then I’m up.

The first piece I do is Jazz-Haiku-A-Rama; the crowd “gets” the concept of the piece & responds joyfully with the little toy instruments that I had laid out on the tables only hours earlier. I’m pleased.

I follow up with Moloch The Watchman. The crowd claps again. I’m intrigued.

Then I tell the audience that I‘m going to do a little throatsinging. That’s when I hear Smith say, “I’ve been waiting for this.”

I launch into my throatsinging mega-hit “Mykel Board Weasel Squeezer.” I hear a deafening roar & thunderous applause from the crowd. I am thrilled. I’ve survived my comeback. Just as I am leaving the stage, Smith asks me if I might do another one.

An encore!

I stop & think for a minute and say, “Yeah, I do have another one, but I need a drink of water first.”

A man in the front row offers me his glass & I take a few sips from it. Then, another man comes over & hands me a tall glass of cool water. Smith says, “That’s the first time Pete (the club manager, I later find out) has ever brought anyone a drink to the stage.”

I start drinking while I hear choruses of “chug-chug-chug” along the way.

Then I tell the crowd that I will be doing a Yoko Ono cover, called “Don't Worry Kyoko(Mummy's Only Looking For A Hand In The Snow),” to which I hear murmurs of groans & laughter. I tell the audience that I will be doing the cover in two voices, first throatsinging, then falsetto, then back to throatsinging.

I eye the crowd and then I launch into the piece. The crowd is stunned, but in a good way. I finish the piece, to which the crowd responds with great enthusiasm.

I feel like I’ve conquered one of my greatest fears. During the break, I spy one of my co-workers sitting at the bar; he tells me I did well. Then I see The Rev. who tells me I was “smoking!”

Everybody else I talk to all say the same thing, different phrasings, but the same thing.

I am sitting on a cloud at this point.

Wes and Mykel both congratulate me as well.

But the night’s not over; no, not by a long shot or a rocky mountain slim, either. The first-ever baseball poetry slam is about to begin…


The teams are ready. It’s The Green Mill slammers verses the Bardball team. On my team, besides me, are Jim Garner & Stu Shea, both gentleman are well-established authors & founders of the website, in which people submitted poems during the 2007 baseball season.

The rules are simple. In order to get a home run, one has to have three placards held up by the judges that all say “Going,” but if they get two of the “Going” placards & one “Pop Out” placard, then it’s considered an out & no runs are scored. Of course, the worst case scenario can also be three pop-outs too.

One by one we all come to “bat.” I, for one of a better phrase, am batting 1.000 all night! Mykel is amazed; so is everyone else inside The Green Mill, including my teammates.

We get to the seventh inning stretch & I hear Smith mention something about a song. Without having to be asked, I stand up from our booth, hop up onto the stage & lead the crowd in throatsinging “Take Me Out To The Ballgame” and hop back down.

The crowd is mesmerized.

We go to extra innings and I am sent up to bat for our side. Meanwhile, Smith pinch-hits for the other team & smacks a grand-slam within the slam & beats our team quite handily. Still, everyone goes home a winner.

As the night winds down & I pack up & leave The Green Mill & go out for a steak burrito at Garcia’s in Lincoln Square with Mykel, I am still on fire, stars in my eyes & the moon in my throat.

And I all I can think is, what a grand night!

The Botox Frankenstein Poetry Series>Faces In The Park

hello friends, hello! time for a little tour diary break and instead enjoy a new little poem that I wrote last night after a visit to a throat specialist across the street from Millenium Park in downtown Chicago...as always, enjoy!

Faces In The Park

I want to take a picture

but instead I'll write a poem

about the people and their recognition

the tourists and the locals seem so astonished, as they point their perogitive toward the peculiar and in modest venacular, ask out loud, "What is that?"

A face within brick

A shining example of fantasticsm, but isn't that always the way?

Modern art isn't supposed to be anything but art

But why all these questions? Just take art for art and feast upon the soul of the depth

The hand-holding crowd will "get" it

The soda-sucking subterreans?

Won't.

And that too, is all part

of

art.

2 Jews Beat Poets-Act III: Suite For Furby On Shofar In D Minor; The Last Pre-Tour Date Before The Actual Tour Begins!

It's Sunday morning, right about 8am; my cellphone has already buzzed three times. It’s my big brother Louie, leaving behind messages something to the effect that the Chicago Cubs have just been shut out of the divisional playoffs by the red-hot Arizona Diamondbacks the night before.

I’m up early because today is the day I’ve been waiting for a couple of months. Two performance dates; the first is set for the late afternoon downtown at the Chicago Cultural Center as part of John Cage's Music Circus Chicago 2007, with me and my boys…Furbies that is, plus the band, $2 Cockroach and the other is the evening date, the first night of the 2 Jews Beat Poets 2007 tour at the Green Mill.

It’s slightly after 8:30, as I run outside and make a few final phone calls to both Rat Niptik, the bassist and Dr. Wes Heine, the electronicist, to make sure they are on their way; both reassure me they are.

That’s the only trouble I’m having this morning, is making the calls; both the clouds and the wires don’t seem to want to cooperate. By the time I leave my apartment, it’s closer to 9am.

Walking to the El never seemed so exciting than today, as my backpack is tight, full of flyers, poetry chapbooks, my spoken word CDs and a full water bottle, with a dark green duffel bag slung over my left shoulder while dragging behind me and ever as noisily the baker’s dozen Furbies. It seems longer than usual walking to the El that is and I gather, that it’s probably due to the weight of everything that I am carrying, but all the discrepancies aside, everything else seems okay.

But of course not.

The real trouble begins. As I get to the corner of Main and Sherman in Evanston, I begin to notice the back of my legs and shirt are getting wet and I can’t figure out why, until I put my pack down and realize the water bottle wasn’t shut tight enough.

It’s leaked all over my backpack, causing everything inside to get wet, no drenched including the new and older poetry chapbooks, flyers, business cards and most importantly, the instructions for my band-mates to follow, when we perform this afternoon.

When I finally reach the El station, the security guard tells me that my backpack is leaking and I, out of spite, tell her “My oxygen tank inside my backpack has just exploded and if I don’t get another one soon where I’m headed for, I’ll simply die.”

She doesn’t believe me, as she angrily tells her friend on her cell she was gabbing to for several minutes before it looks like as I came in, that she has to call her back because of my wetness, silently grabs a mop and wipes the cement floor from where I’ve just passed through and shoots me a dirty look. I just smile.

Once I get upstairs, I rearrange my backpack and salvage what I can and put the rest into my duffel bag. The Furbies are still causing a ruckus, but nobody seems to notice, as the Purple Line train pulls up and I get on.

The only person who seems to notice the disturbance they are making is an older black man, who stares at the suitcase in which they’re housed in to see if I really do have an Asian child locked inside.

The train makes one more stop and then pulls into the Howard El. I wait about 10 more minutes until a long empty Red Line train pulls into the station, opens its doors and lets its waiting passengers in.

As more people get on the train, I notice they are carrying signs. Then it hits me; I forgot today is also the day of the Chicago Marathon, a smorgasbord of sweaty runners and their own personal cheering squads to encourage them toward the finish line.

Many are wearing homemade tee shirts with their runners of choice name emblazoned on it, while still others are holding placards and banners to wave up and down at them like a bunch of idiots one usually seems at a sporting event or the Today Show in New York, in order to get on TV. As we arrive at the Belmont stop, scores of passengers load in and I am beginning to feel the crush of frantic human traffic all trying to get to the same place at once and my third problem kicks in.

Claustrophobia.

I feel like a sardine in a tiny tin can on electric wheels. People are talking loudly to each other inside the car, when all of a sudden, my cellphone rings. I look at the number and I see it’s Wes. I tell him that the Furbies were nervous and have peed on me. A couple of people listening to my phone conversation look at me and laugh.

I tell him I’m on the way, but I’ll need to end the conversation as the train is going underground, so I tell him I’ll be there in about 10-15 minutes tops.

Meanwhile, I devise a plan on how I’m going to get out of the crowded train of over 300 plus, a train car that probably is only supposed to hold 100 at the most.

We stop at North & Clybourne, Clark & Division, Grand and Chicago, less people getting off the train and more are getting on. I start to sweat, in hopes I will be able to get out of the packed train with ease.

A few passengers nearby help me out; they will pass my luggage to me and all I need to do is try to finagle my way out of the car. At last, the train pulls into the Lake Street station.

I jump up, grab my luggage and in a loud, projected voice, I yell, “Out please, out please!” swinging my duffel bag like a giant purse, thereby smacking 10 passengers in the process. I apologize and smile as I get out of the stopped sardine can. At last, I am out!

I work my way up the stairs and out onto the upper sidewalk. Down State Street I trod, with luggage and Furbies in tow until I get to Randolph and hang a left and go east. I whip out my phone and call Wes. He’ll be there in 10 minutes, can’t seem to find parking. I tell him no worries.

It’s nearly 11am.

I get closer to the Cultural Center and take a short cut. As I get closer to the steps of the building facing the Michigan Avenue side, I see Rat is already there, waiting.

We talk and go inside to the designated “Green Room” area and sign in. I get a couple of water bottles and we settle in with the varying groups of people. They tell us, that if we leave, our gear will be safe, but Rat wants to see the space we’ll be performing in and asks me all sorts of questions, questions I can’t answer for the moment, as I myself haven’t seen the space up close either.

I tear out a couple of pieces of paper from a yellow legal pad and begin writing out an instructional set list for myself to direct with. It is similar to the one I emailed only days previously to Rat and Wes. My phone rings; it’s Wes; he’ll be there in 5 minutes to unload his gear and then go look for a parking space somewhere in the already altered parking situation in the Loop.

Rat and I head outside and wait for Wes, who shows up shortly thereafter. We grab his gear and wait inside. About 20 minutes later, after Wes has found a parking space, he comes back and meets us and together the three of us ride the elevator to the 4th floor, where we park our gear and move around a little.


We all come back into the space about 2.30pm with our requested gear; an extra table for the Furbies. Meantime, curious onlookers want to get inside the suitcase where they are housed temporarily, to see them all.

As the time gets closer to our slot, I notice that the group ahead of us shows up late, making us even later.

That doesn’t please one man, an older and presumably Jewish gentleman who has come to the show just to see me perform and insists I tell them to stop playing, just so he can see me perform and then move onto another performance he wants to see.

I politely tell him I can’t do that and it only makes him angrier and insists I do it. I tell him it’s not my call and sure enough, he flashes me a “dirty Jew” look, the kind of look I used to get by non-Jews when I attended grade school in the middle 1970s.

We begin setting up shop and about 3:10pm, we begin performing Suite For Furby On Shofar In D Minor. Rat and Wes take direction very well, as they fly hard on their instruments, trying to get my little Furbies to speak up.

After a couple more minutes and a few more set changes, the Furbies are taken out of their suitcase cage and placed onto the table, one by one.

A crowd forms, waiting to see what will happen next.

Not much does, as the Furbies actually cooperate with me, Rat and Wes for a change.
This almost never happens when they remain silent.

A true miracle indeed.

The performance ends. We take our bows and then let the Furbies bow.

As if they ever could.

2 Jews Beat Poets-Act II: Strangers In The Night

There’s a certain special affinity I held for audiences that came to our shows all throughout our 2 Jews Beat Poets Tour 2007 earlier this month; they were all strangers.

I get along easier with strangers. God only knows it’s harder for me to get my friends to come to any of my shows and when they do come it’s a total surprise.

As in unexpected.

Planning for this tour was a challenge; a challenge I was up for and succeeded at with flying momentum.

But when it came to friends coming out to a show; well, that was virtually harder than taking candy away from a baby and giving it to Jesus Christ.

Lots of people promised they’d come out to support me, but…always that big but; they couldn’t. Something about having to work late into the night and getting up the next morning and then were the promises of co-workers who said they would come and didn’t bother to show up.

I quit asking co-workers a long time ago wherever I worked; just would mention it sort of off-the-cuff to closer co-workers than others. Enough had seen me to know what they wouldn’t be getting; something atypical of what they’re used to seeing.

So, when it came to this tour, I sheepishly and perhaps foolishly blabbed about it a little too much to co-workers. Enough people knew about it, but hell! Only two people showed up; my bass player came to two gigs, other than the pre-tour Sunday show at the Chicago Cultural Center in downtown Chicago during the John Cage festival, amidst the overheated runners from the annual Chicago Marathon, that became national news due to the death of a runner from Michigan and mismanaged plans.

Then there was the man I’ll refer to as “Dizzy Diz.” He’s the man that pushed me to try a class at the Peoples Music School in the Uptown neighborhood of Chicago this past summer.

Dizzy Diz came to the Green Mill show the night of October 7 and had his socks knocked off; raved about the show as far as I remembered; he was impressed. A music man himself, one of the few men I can talk to at the spit sink almost daily about music in any form and he understands where I’m coming from.

Because I took up trumpet at the Peoples Music School, he calls me “Miles” or “Mr. Yiddish,” which other people refer to me as.


They see my work on YouTube and seem to get enthused, but to make it to a show?

Impossible.

Something always comes up. Excuses like, “I had to wash the cat” or “I saw you & Mykel (Board) performing, but I just didn’t bother to come in.”

I’m not saying friends or co-workers show up; they do, but it’s a more often scenario that some won’t come for one reason or another. I am guessing that the individual, who doesn’t show, probably believes it’s all the same; the doldrums of poetry; their inability to comprehend it or even grasp something that is not conventional or bad memories from their educational careers, perhaps.

Maybe it’s professional jealousy. I’ve run across that before and it’s a main reason I don’t mention it to certain colleagues I’ve befriended in the past. They seem to want to support you, but not really; words might soothe and stroke the ego, but in making it a known presence, actions count and by not showing up, the presence statement is almost louder than mere words alone.

My favorite among these folks, is the newly-self-styled film-maker with a Sony camera purchased from Best Buy, whose original use for the camera was for baby films, but has since graduated to fantasy baseball league documentaries and whose new film I’m in; the story based on his life (ugh!) and he had the nerve to tell me, “I’d love to support you, but I have to get up early and go to work.”

Like I don’t daily?

Still, he expects me to be part of his film, while taking off from my regular 9 to 5, cutting into my schedule and work for free.

I don’t think so.

It’s because of that school of thought, that I rely heavily on the kindness on strangers. It’s a way to build-up audiences. Try out new material; see what works and what doesn’t work. I can be myself in front of strangers, which is why I greatly enjoy performing outside my home territory.

They won’t know my work and will most likely be hungry for something innovative and different.

And that’s what I tend to work for, whether it’s an art party in Seattle, Washington, an open mic in New York City, a featured performance in my hometown of Chicago or a couple choruses of throatsinging amongst the silent cactuses and howling coyotes in the deserts of Arizona.

They will listen; listen with intent and curiosity, willingly and hoping to come away with something they haven’t heard before and apply it to their own lives.

That’s my intention. Expect the unexpected. Only then will one learn what is brought to the table and eat.

Eat heartily, that is.

2 Jews Beat Poets-Act I: Origins Of A Tour

There’s a time in everyone’s life when you learn a new skill. Mine? Booking a spoken word/performance tour! Never did I think that I would do that, but here I am on the road, somewhere on the road, touring with Mykel Board, headed toward our first destination tonight in Bloomington, Indiana, after having spent the first half of the week performing in Chicago. But let me back up a bit, tell you a bit of history between Mykel & I, tell you about our performance history, a bit of booking experience and a bit of everything else in between!

It’s spring, 2007 & Mykel…no wait, let me back up even further to last fall, 2006, when I arrive in New York City to do a few gigs. Mykel meets up with me as I arrive at the venue via taxicab, with a driver who absolutely hates his job. Don’t we all?

The venue is a small studio on Times Square; I’m one of three features, while Mykel gets up on the open mic portion and reads some of his work. Vivianna Grell the host dubs Mykel, “Mykel Board The Bard.”

That same week, we perform at a friend of mine’s bar, Grey Lodge Pub in Philadelphia, a performance that took us five hours to drive to due to an unusually hard and long torrential rainstorm. That same afternoon, a light plane flying along the Hudson River, piloted by New York Yankees pitcher Cory Lidle and his flight instructor takes a wrong turn and smacks directly into a 42-story apartment building on the upper east side of New York City, killing both men instantly.

Not knowing if it’s a terrorist attack or not, United States President George W. Bush takes no chances and sends fighter jets to protect New Yorkers. The plane accident ties up traffic for hours…

But back even further to Madison, Wisconsin and Chicago, Illinois, late May, 2005. Mykel’s just published two new books, I-A-Me-Ist & Even A Daughter’s Better Than Nothing and is on a book tour filled with up with Illinois & Wisconsin tour dates.

It’s Mykel who encourages me to go back out on the performance circuit once more after a few years of sitting out, if for no better reason, for at the moment escapes me. He tells me he’s got a gig at the Reversible Eye in Chicago and wants me to be a part of it. So I agree to do it. We both do seemingly well, the audience is extremely polite and attentive and well; looks as if I’m hooked on performing again!

A few days later we drive up to Madison, Wisconsin with another friend, where I open for Mykel at Rainbow Books with a little throatsinging that ends up scaring away four potential audience members. Mykel doesn’t seem too pleased by that, but I figure if I can scare them away here, I can scare them away anywhere and do whatever I please in terms of performance.

Some hours later, Mykel goes on his way and I head over to an open mic with my friend and play an unmemorable, no-rules game of Scrabble in which I get the title for my next (and third) CD, I mean of course, the word, holfatzib.

I discover later that night, as my car radio stops working and to amuse myself and in order to keep myself awake, I sing at least 100 different versions of “Take Me Out To The Ballgame,” I realize that I am digging what is transpiring...

The Botox Frankenstein Poetry Series>The Greatest Revolution In Birdland!

Well, hello my good friends! A quick tip of the fedora and a great good late evening to you, one and all! Ah, Friday has at long last arrived and yet, it was not the day I looked forward to, but in many ways, it's a day I will long remember and will make me stronger in the days ahead. But, Friday! woohoo! It's come around again and so has our good friend, that crazy, capper to help us lift our spirits high and mighty for the next 48 hours. And speaking of poems, it's brand-spanking-new poem time!!! Remember my dear readers, please tell someone you love them and always, always, always, enjoy!!!

The Greatest Revolution In Birdland! (For Jobie Hughes)

Once upon a dream ago
I was a jailed canary bird
Never thought much about flying, just laying eggs and strutting in line with all those other feather-brains.

One day, I heard a young finch's voice, so beautiful, so pure, singing a tune I ain’t never heard before, so I asked this finch where it learned that tune and the finch showed me, note for note, line for line.

I knew something was different, as I felt myself cooing inside, still I had this feeling, I hadn't felt in years.

So I spread my wings and began to fly around my cage, almost clumsily at first, then I got back onto the perch, directly into the line of fire, much to the chagrin of the prison raven's demonic (des) ire.

It was then that I began to sing.
And sing loud and clear.
Sung a song so dear and meaningful, that it rattled the rest of those caged birds, and so it began the greatest revolution in Birdland, that ever ceased to be.

And out of their cages they flew, they strutted, shook a tail feather or two and twittered and tweetered and cheeped and chirped.

And now, I fly and strut and sing on my own.

I looked around to thank that young finch, but it was already gone, flown the coop.

I was glad to have listened, knowing now that I can bail myself out of my nest in a pinch.

Oh! But this finch left me more than an inch, (more like several), still shoveling his poop, with a bag and a winch.

The Botox Frankenstein Poetry Series>Last Moments Spent With You

Well, hello my good friends, hello! It's been such a very long time since I've made a visit to this space, let alone near my blog in many, many weeks, but I am back! Back with a new look as well, back with brand new ideas, opinions and poems to share with you, one and all! And speaking of poems, here it is Friday! That day that I as well as you look forward to and who should be here waiting for us? Why, it's that sweet capper, ready to take us into a busy & fun-filled weekend, that's who! And yes you guessed it, it's brand spanking-new poem time!!!Remember my dear readers, please tell someone you love them and always, always, enjoy!!!

Last Moments Spent With You

I never liked sad endings, so let’s get this over with, just as soon as we can
Though I like it when it’s drawn out,
Nice & slow, so I can savor the last moments and remember, the happiness of the day, for what will seem like a lifetime
And in the end, as this is ending
I can shed a few tears in the brief moments left with you, privately
And thank you for everything
Walk out the door and feel nothing but happiness, while crying a river, then a flood.

The Botox Frankenstein Poetry Series>E-Love

Well, hello my good friends, hello! It's been a long time since i've been here, but, this being Valentine's Day, I guess it's as good a time as any to post a poem for you...And yes you guessed it, it's brand spanking-new poem time!!!Remember my dear readers, please tell someone you love them and always, always, always, enjoy!!!

E-Love

He made the mistake of letting her break his heart into one million pieces.
Sadistic statistic, e-love baby
He got his signals mixed, sank into the abyss
What is this thing called, e-love?
Online cupid? You expect him to believe that?
One million hearts all screaming out at once?
Well, he's not stupid, he's no dunce.
One million hearts all looking for the same thing,
a big fat wallet and a diamond ring

What Would Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Do?

I spent the latter half of my Saturday night after dinner and took in a long walk to the campus of Northwestern University, not far from my pad. Other than the hundreds of females I saw marching toward the student union as I was leaving, not a whole heck of a lot was going on there, other than movie night. After catching my breath and looking at the lovely artwork within the union, I’d have to say it was relatively dead night at the union.

During my brief sojourn there I noticed an upcoming event for today, which was centered on the celebration of Martin Luther King Jr. Day, a national holiday in the United States.

Lots was happening at Northwestern University, the usual stuff, like speakers, films and other activities that concurred with the *legacy* of Dr. King, yet it got me to thinking; what would Dr. King do today if he saw violence on the upswing in sports? And not just the major leagues either? What would he think about the fact that there’s violence on the field and off the courts?

Dr. King aside for a moment here; the very idea of violence in sports on the upswing is alarming. Something must be done to quell the thirst of violence in sports once and for all, period.

Of the four major sports, baseball, football, basketball & hockey, hockey by far is the most violent, what with constant fighting game after game, blood splashed on the ice, broken noses, black eyes, fistfights, but the fans eat it up, strangely enough.

Then there’s baseball; all it takes is a baseball thrown by a pitcher at the opposing player’s body to cause a fight. A few punches are thrown, both team benches clear and voila! A good old-fashioned fight ensues. By the time it’s over, a few players are ejected from the game, suspended, and fined and that’s about it.

Although football and basketball are seemingly the least violent of the four major sports, that’s starting to slowly change and it’s not necessarily the players who are initiating the fights either.

Enter the fan; the end-all instigator of the newly-renewed violence in sports facilities, especially at baseball and basketball games. Often times the fan will taunt the players anyway they can. That’s nothing new, but to actually taunt the players with malicious intent, including and not limited to jumping on the court or field, showering the athletes with debris or inflict bodily harm, well, that’s just uncalled for.

But the violence doesn’t end there, oh no! The big leagues have passed the savings onto the little leagues too, especially when parents take a swing at a coach, an umpire, another parent or even another child. It’s outrageous!

Just because their offspring didn’t make the cut or are bench-warmers or a call wasn’t made in their favor. Parents’ responsibility should be that of support, not the role of beast-slayer; that’s what coaches are for and always have been for.

Violence does not belong anywhere near sports, period!

What would Dr. King do? Unlike today where sit-ins and demonstrations seem to do little, other than make the evening news in a five-second clip, with an equally effective sound bite, probably nothing.

After all, you can’t hypothetically play guessing games when you’re dead.

New American Yarnprose>Frankenstein Boy Wonder Emerges With New Screw-On Wrists

There are some feelings you try to fight off like a bad cold & you struggle hard to be rid of those germs, but sometimes they never escape you & you come under viral attack in many varied ways.

I’ve been wondering lately where I belong, who I belong to, why I belong, what do I belong for & when I can stop belonging. Thinking too much gives me headaches. Crying too much gives me sadness and frustration & lately I’m full of that.

I’ve been trying to unload a rather old home full of baggage lately, but it’s been frustrating when roots get in the way. The trouble with roots is that they cling to you, like the way vines cling to walls & sometimes pulling these roots out can really hurt, especially if it’s not done correctly.

Within a circle of destiny, there are places I tried to get into, but they were never available; there were opportunities made for me, but I never took advantage of them; there were so many initiatives I tried to make on my own, but I failed, failed miserably & so I withdrew.

And I kept withdrawing. Withdrawing was much easier than facing the world. As I found myself withdrawing more, I discovered a whole new world within myself, but along with that I also found half a dozen other vices that just about ruined me.

Still, everyone needs a fix & lord knows that I have tried every legal fix there is, but it’s only quick & temporary, leaving me desiring more. Those fixes made me sick, putting me into strangleholds I didn’t want to be in, dug holes so deep & wide, that I wondered if I would manage to climb my way out alive.

The strangleholds are harder to slip out of though, because you can strangle yourself for the longest period of time & not even realize what you’re doing, until someone takes you by the hand, stands you next to them & forces you to look into the mirror & shows you how your reflection has become jaded & cracked.

You need new blood. Perhaps a transfusion or an injection of some kind, a shot in the arm that will make you a new person is what they tell you, like say Frankenstein Boy Wonder, a positive, passionate, peculiar person, who might energize an aging skeptical nation full of amazement, ready to take on anything he is handed.

Time is on his side, sometimes, but often as the Frankenstein Boy Wonder gets his feet wet, there are plenty of wolfmen, phantoms and bitter old Draculas, just waiting to take a bite out of him, a him who tries his best to be all positive and happy, because they themselves cannot have those desires and are determined to bring them down to their level, just like a fallen house of cards.

Frankenstein Boy Wonder knows that situations happen for a reason; that success is not overnight & that working out the kinks is far better than taking everything handed to him as is.

There are one thousand, million, billion, zillion, gazillion other Frankenstein Boy Wonders out there, all roaming around, trying to accomplish the same darn thing, with the same darn results, but they fail, due to lack of originality.

And they try to ape him, but can’t.

And he’s so darned glad.

Do The Oz! Do The Oz! Do The Oz! An Occupational Hazard>Act 35

Disclaimer: We become innocent when we are unfortunate. In innocence there is no strength against evil, but there is strength in it for good. What can innocence hope for; when such as sit her judges are corrupted! O God, keep me innocent; make others great! Fiction can be that way sometimes. Any similarities to persons living or dead are purely coincidental & should not be taken or misconstrued as such. Anyone who thinks otherwise probably believes that if powers divine our human actions, as they do, I doubt not then their mind of innocence consciousness laughs at the lies of rumor.

Do The Oz! Do The Oz! Do The Oz! Sadly, as the shouts rang out in and around the execution chambers recently here on Devil’s Island, it seems as if the execution chambers have been reactivated in the most jovial of spirits.

To listen to The Ozman tell his story just moments before he was led away in shackles amid shouts and cheers of “Do The Oz!” you’d swear they were executing an innocent man.

The Ozman came to Devil’s Island long ago and far away on a trumped up charge of perjury, back in the day when such issues were one-sided and rarely checked, so he was sent up the river for a spell.

The Ozman developed a likeable personality everywhere he stepped, trotted and walked in and around Devil’s Island; that is to everyone except The Most Devine Heart, whom never did see eye-to-eye, rather going for each other’s throats many years ago at the annual Devil’s Island’s Prisoner Men vs. Prisoner Women Softball Charity Game, whose proceeds went to lining the pockets of the most finest of thieves in and around Devil’s Island.

It seems that The Ozman who managed the men’s team, disagreed with a game call made by the game umpire, The Most Divine Heart. At first the disagreement was light, then it became heated; mostly cursive in nature by The Most Divine Heart.

Apparently the play the two were disagreeing about was a deliberate pitch from Lugsy McTurk that turned out to be a bean ball against the head of Danceman Daryl, which knocked him down to the ground flat! That cleared the bench and a brawl ensued.

As Lugsy McTurk was led off the prisoner field, The Toothless Terrorist & Broadcast Betty could be seen moving in and around the crowded field, interviewing other prisoners, who of course were potential witnesses full of details and that always pulled in the attention of The Toothless Terrorist & Broadcast Betty.

In the meantime, the argument became more heated & cursive, when suddenly, The Ozman was ejected from the game. As The Ozman slowly walked off the Devil’s Island prisoner field, he said to himself that “enough was enough,” took a quick look around to make sure the coast was clear, scaled the turned-off Devil’s Island electronic fence and walked free.

During his brief time on the lam, The Ozman worked odd jobs; fixed cars, pumped gas, washed dishes, walked dogs, swept streets and shined shoes, until one day someone recognized him from a “Most Wanted” poster placed on a bulletin board at a local post office near the shop where he shined shoes.

Devil’s Island Upper Prison Brass was notified and The Ozman was promptly arrested, taken back into custody and placed straight back into solitary confinement for several months, until it was deemed he was safe enough to be placed back into the prisoner population once more.

The Ozman turned out to be a model prisoner, kept to himself, but made a few friends along the way, but when the snap decision came down to execute The Ozman quite suddenly, no one was able to stop it.

As The Ozman was escorted down to the execution chambers, prisoners shouted, “Do The Oz!” “Do The Oz!” “Do The Oz!” from every corridor possible, thereby forcing The Most Divine Heart to hear the love of the innocence about to die wrongfully.

When asked if he had any last words, The Ozman turned directly toward The Most Divine Heart, as he was preparing the execution chamber emotionlessly. The Ozman looked at him square in the face and said, “Yeah man, as a matter of fact, I do! Do The Oz! Do The Oz! Do The Oz!”

An innocent man he was.

A Quick Happy New Year Note From The MishegasMaster

It's a reasonable assumption that I haven't been writing that much in the last 17 days, mostly since I have been trying to tie up loose ends from the previous year and it's been rather difficult these past three weeks between sickness and the recent death of a friend's spouse, so before I get carried away with another one of my essays, I'd like to step away from the messy entanglements and wish all of you, my dear readers, a very, healthy & prosperous new year.

In the coming days there will be a few last minute leftovers from the previous year and then from there, on we shove off into the new year, with lots of new stories to share, plus a few new features here in this very space.

Until then, see you soon, gang!

The MishegasMaster