Roses Ain't Red, Fool!

Portrait of the artist before his awareness of Slam Poetry


Tonight, back by popular demand, my gallery will host a "women's poetry slam and open mic." Due to a terrible miscalculation on the schedule, I, a man, will be the one overseeing the event.

A "poetry slam" is slightly different from the more familiar "poetry reading" because instead of a friendly gathering of poets in the community, a slam is a contest,* the winner being the person who came the closest to hyperventilating while speaking their various truths.

Although slam poetry is technically open to all types of verse, do not be fooled. In order to be considered a true slam poet there is very strict criteria. For one thing, a slam poet must never use a podium! I know this because as I was configuring the space I asked the organizer if they would like to use our podium, a lovely adjustable number with a faux-oak laminate top.

"Oh my, no," she said and made a face like I had asked her to pull my finger.

The reason for this, as far as I can tell, is that a podium would restrict your movement, effectively gluing you to one spot. This goes against one of the most important aspects of slam poetry, which is to stalk back and forth and point at the empty chairs in the front row.

The next thing about slam poetry--this is crucial--is that your poem must never rhyme.** This is especially important because your slam poem must also be very negative, and it has been scientifically proven that rhyming makes people happy. (Just look at the song Luka, by Suzanne Vega. Because of the catchy tune and tidy rhyme-scheme, a lot of people didn't realize that that song is about growing up Jewish).

If your poem has even one rhyme, you could be sending the wrong message, that is that you worked hard on your poem. It is vital as a slam poet that you come across as politically aware, irritated, and extremely busy and distracted, as though this poetry is just something you do quickly and by accident while you are on break from your job at the Co-op.

To further this effect, you must also dress down. If you wear anything other than ripped jeans and old bandanas, people will think that you planned to attend the slam ahead of time, and didn't just pop in on your way home from Obama headquarters. If you are not careful, you could come across as caring more about your poetry than the very real issues about which your poetry is not rhyming.

As I mentioned, negativity is key to a slam poem. For centuries, a very common mistake by poets was to write about beauty and nature and love. Well, if you are to be considered a real slam poet you must avoid these subjects like a fast food restaurant. There is not a person in the world that will take you seriously if you appear happy at a time like this. Moreover, it would be next to impossible to muster the appropriate "voice" required for slam if your poems are about flowers and grandmas.

The desired voice is difficult to describe, but when you are witnessing an authentic slam poet it is unmistakable. This is mostly due to volume, but there are several other qualities that one must strive for as a slammer. Among these are speed, fluctuation (tonal), and showmanship. If done properly, a slam poem will contain all of these things at once and will finish in a crescendo of rapid-fire phrases that will literally leave you gasping for air.

You will know that you have accomplished this by the thunderous applause of the other slam poets and one or two dudes who are there trying to seem sensitive. Only then may you smile.


* Like battle of the bands, only the bands are all Ani DiFranco.

** This is not as big an obstacle as one might think, as there are almost no words that rhyme with Wal-Mart or vagina.

Great Expectations

SPOILER ALERT--This movie royally sucked!!

If you know me at all, you will know that one of my favorite novels is the Dickens classic Great Expectations (it's o.k. if you didn't). I also like The Great Gatsby, and It's The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown (not a novel).

Although The Great Gatsby was passable with it's gorgeous art direction and costumes, and It's The Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown is some of the best work Linus ever did, I am sad to say that the third installment of the movie version (or cartoon) of the three greatest novels (or cartoon) with the word 'great' in the title fell far short of it's predecessors.

I shouldn't be surprised; I had heard that this movie wasn't very good (read awful), but I remained hopeful because I thought it had a lot going for it (Gwyneth Paltrow naked). Besides being a fantastic story that ought to lend itself well to screenwriters*, it was also directed by the talented Alfonso Cuarón, (Y Tu Mamá También, The Prisoner of Azkaban, Children of Men) and stars the beautiful Gwyneth Paltrow (naked).

To be honest, I don't know where it went wrong, so let's just start at the beginning where it was decided that the story would not open in rural England in the 1800's, but in the Gulf of Mexico in the 1980's. While this is not in and of itself an error, it did pose a problem for some of the character development down the road, particularly that of Finn, played by an extremely groggy Ethan Hawke, and his Uncle Joe, played by Chris Cooper.

At the risk of sounding trite, one of the main conflicts in the novel is class struggle--something the British are pro at. For some reason, the makers of the film decided to gloss over this. In the film it is shown and even stated that Finn comes from humble beginnings, but it is not an obstacle the way it is in the book. Rather than undergoing a transformation as he ascends the social trellis, his manners are static throughout because he is never really made to feel ashamed of who he is. During an important scene in which he is confronted by his past, the extent to which he shows his frustration is to raise his voice (kind of) when a tray of drinks is spilled by his bumbling Uncle.

Moreover, the title Great Expectations was meant by Dickens to be ironic in light of how little Pip** accomplishes once he is handed his fortune. For some reason, in the movie it was decided that Finn should be not only a talented young artist, but also an unbridled success in high society, the feature of publications and interviews, and all the while being told that he is a wonderful painter (he isn't).

This movie also contains one too many of the following montages:

Ethan Hawke running through a rainstorm in a suit.
Ethan Hawke dancing on a rooftop with a bottle.
A crazy old bat dancing to salsa music.
Ethan Hawke working hard on his art.

But perhaps the worst thing about this movie, besides the final scene, was the soundtrack, from the dreadful montage of Finn's drawing session with Estella (Paltrow), right down to Mr. Hawke's narration, I was continuously being abused in entirely unexpected ways by the audio. I actually threw up in my mouth a few times.

What the fuck? Never in my wildest dreams did I think that this movie would be so badly mishandled. As the credits rolled, my wife and I could only repeat variations on the sentence, "Expletive, that sucked!"

But the best thing that happened was during the credits, which feature an illustrative smattering of Finn's art, when I noticed a drawing of a very simply rendered life-preserver which covers the page from edge to edge. If you know me at all, you will know that I have made more than one drawing that looks exactly like this.

Rats.

One star (Gwyneth Paltrow naked).


* Dickens originally wrote it as a serial for newspapers. Each chapter ends with a dramatic cliff-hanger so that the readers would have to buy the next paper to see what happened.

** Pip was the original name of the character in the novel. It was inexplicably changed to Finn by the Hollywood geniuses who hammered out the details.

Robbing the Cradle

"I used to be in this barbershop quartet, back in Skokie, Illinois."

It was a perfect end to a perfect week.

The phone rang right at 5, just as I was shutting down the computers to go home for a much needed weekend. The woman on the other end was exasperated.

“Are you still there? I’m coming in right now. This is Deborah, (or Barbara), from The Cradle Project. I need to pick up Nick’s cradle to photograph it. We’ll have it back by Monday. Can you wait there for 10 more minutes?”

Ok, I told her. I had heard something about a person coming to pick up Nick’s work, but I had forgotten about it completely until the phone rang. As I said, I had been working a 6th day in a row, and was considerably tired and stressed out from the long week as we prepared to open our next exhibit, so it was fortunate that she called when she did. One more minute and I would have been gone. Thankfully, she arrived just as she said, 10 minutes later.

Nick’s cradle is a large, ungainly looking thing. It doesn’t weigh a lot, because it is made mostly of old rocking chairs, bamboo, and wicker, but it is difficult to find a good spot to grasp. Deborah, or Barbara, began to hoist it from the plinth on her own, and I quickly grabbed the other end.

“Do you think this is a two person job?”
“I would just feel better if we both did it.”

As I backed my way down the curb and toward the woman’s Volvo station wagon, the woman continued to speak quickly as she had on the phone.

“Thank you again for waiting. This piece was actually made from an old chair I gave Nick. I found it in my basement, and I was going to throw it away, and then I thought Nick could probably use it. Anyway, I’m glad you were still here. I completely forgot that I was supposed to come get this until just now.”

I confessed that it had slipped my mind as well as we jammed the thing into the trunk. She shut the door, shook my hand and sped off, easy as pie.

I went back to the office, scribbled a quick note to my co-worker not to worry, that the cradle would be returned Monday morning before we opened, that it had not been stolen. And it was only then that I realized I had not done as thorough a job as I perhaps should have.

My job duties at the gallery are varied, but they almost all amount to ensuring that the artworks are looked after, handled properly, and installed safely. It is hard to imagine a more thorough collapse of said duties.

Now that the cradle was no longer in my possession, it was clear to me how very silly my story would sound if the woman does not call back on Monday, if she does not remember to return it, if in fact she has absolutely no intention of ever returning it. The rotten thing about my memory is that it looks and feels a lot like my imagination, and in times of stress I have been known to confuse the two. In this case, I was wondering if there had been talk of an appointment to pick up the cradle at all, or if that had been a post phone call, post 60-hour week hallucination.

I must say that to a sleep deprived Art Handler, she appeared to be an unremarkable middle-aged woman with an old car and a lot of bumper stickers about Earth and being nice to it. She did not seem dishonest, or wear black, or have on a ski mask or anything, so she is either the person she claimed to be⎯someone involved with The Cradle Project who was running a bit behind schedule⎯or Keyser Söze, and all the things she said and did had been to put me on my heels:

“…be there is 10 minutes.”
“…found it in my basement.”
“…a two person job.”

!!

I am trying to think of ways so that my police interview will not sound so unbelievably stupid:

“And then you carried it to her car for her?”
”Not for her. With her!”
“Did you have her sign for the artwork?”
“No.”
”Did you get her phone number?”
”No.”
“Did you ask her for some ID?”
“No.”
“Did you talk to the artist about this?”
“No.”
“What was her name?”
“Deborah. Or Barbara. She drives a Volvo.”

Rats. Sorry, Nick.
But I guess, if a person is going to get fired, they might as well have a good story to tell.