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.