The IBS Guy

We went to a little coffee shop in Orange for a poetry open mic this Wednesday. It was just like ten thousand other open mics, except for one critical and hilarious thing: The IBS Guy. The first dude that read (we’ll call him Henry) walked up to the podium and engaged the crowd in a few pleasantries. So far so good. Then, just before beginning one of his two pieces, he gently tapped his right hand on the center of his chest, took a pronounced gulp, and announced nonchalantly, “I’m gassy”—to which the crowd laughed uneasily in what was a mixture of embarrassment and bewilderment. But that was just the beginning. Henry paused and, completely unashamed and without a sense of sarcasm or ironic bravado (I love him for this), said, “I’m like Spiderman . . . except, my superpower isn’t, you know, a web . . . mine’s like . . . IBS.”

I was howling. It’s the best thing I’ve ever heard at a poetry reading that was “non-scripted.” For those of you who may not know—making Henry’s little introduction even more confusing than it actually was—IBS is an acronym for irritable bowel syndrome. Another name for IBS is “spastic colon.” Enough said.

In honor of the occasion, and dedicated to Henry, I thought I would print the words to my spoken word piece “Spastic Colon,” which appeared on the 404 Not Found CD Nightmare Lullaby. As with many of my spoken word pieces, it does not lend itself well to the page, so you can listen to it here: http://www.geocities.com/sssiders/words_page.html.

Spastic Colon

Richard

a very white

well-dressed

corporate man

walks down main street

past meter maids & street sweepers

& opens the door to Flamingo Joe’s

flower shop

It’s Valentine’s Day

Standing there

peering at roses

he focuses on the stems

the thorns there

He pricks his finger on several of them

& when he fails to draw blood

thinks

these won’t do

Then out comes Joe with a fresh batch

tall & erect

obviously just plucked from the earth

their red lips pressed tightly together

Our man Richard finds the perfect dozen

every stem drawing blood

& as he jerks them from the bucket

he notices a small trembling

a sharp discomfort in his stomach

Having reached its destination

the meatball sandwich he ate at lunch

is fighting it out with the rum and cokes

he washed it down with

He quickly makes his way to the counter

hands over his credit card

& waits

the trembling

now

most certainly

a rumbling

Regardless of this development

our man Richard stands almost patiently at the counter

signs the paper

& walks out with the roses

he’s purchased for his wife

or his girlfriend

his wife

or girlfriend

He hasn’t decided exactly

but probably they’re for the wife

Up the street

next stop

jewelry

a more difficult situation

The options are overwhelming like

the gurgling in his stomach is overwhelming

Inside the glass

everything is glitter

The counter is packed with men shifting for position

Our man Richard

no stranger to the game

maneuvers his way to the front

the jewels laid out on display

like newborn children

A diamond is a girlfriend’s best friend

& Richard wastes no time pointing out

the necklace he wants

A ring would be too difficult

& besides

his body is ALL SYSTEMS GO

his bowels getting the green light

He’s sweating

pausing a moment to hold back disaster

his cheeks squeezed together and he’s

wiping sweat from his brow

Our man keeps his cool

says Boy, you guys got ‘em packed in here today, huh?

the man nods

wraps up the necklace

& Richard abruptly hands the credit card over

& out into the early evening he goes

his sphincter working harder than

a one-legged mule in an ass-kicking contest

Our man gingerly situates himself in his Lexus

drives from the curb

ever so slowly

mingles with traffic

ever so easily

& then the light changes yellow

The guy in the Chevy slams the brakes

& Richard stops just inches from the bumper

He’s shouting

Go

Motherfucker

Go!

& in all the excitement Richard’s sphincter eases its grip

& a minor explosion stings him to the seat

The next ten minutes are a blur

Richard races home

the war inside him

battling steadily on

the whole way

the radioman wishing everyone

a happy Valentine’s Day

Finally home

our man grabs the flowers

stuffs the necklace in his overcoat

& with his legs

sprung at the knees like a cowboy’s

he ventures towards the house with roses outstretched

As he crosses the threshold of the house

however

our man’s spastic colon erupts

from its rigid

road-sign sphincter

into the mutability of the off-road

underwear world

The wife greets him at the door with wine & a smile

At the sight of her he lets go the roses

the thorns shredding his hands

His terrified face says it all

She screams and spills the wine

Our man

frozen in February

his mouth is speechless

open

Richard’s already spoken

His face says it all

There are 605 days remaining in Bush’s presidency.

Going All the Way

Jerry Falwell died this week. It’s not right to cheer at the news of somebody’s death (is it? Never? Never ever?). He epitomized the pervasive hypocrisy of the so-called religious right, preaching intolerance every waking day. Oh well, I suppose we all have to have our enemies.

In closer-to-home news, we went to a local bar this week that has spoken word/music on Wednesday nights. One of the guys had some solid, interesting work and was a good performer. I hope to perform there (and at some other places we’ve discovered in our relatively new town) at some point after et cetera et cetera is released so that I can hopefully hock some CDs to the locals.

Other than work, which is keeping me pretty busy, it’s been a rather uneventful week. We’re going to a birthday party this weekend and will probably spend some time on the beach. Oh my, I have such an exciting life.

In the interest of including one thing in this post that (may be) interesting, below is a (short) short story that was published by commonties.com late last year. It’s titled “Going All the Way.” However, they inexplicably changed it to “The Glovebox Tale” (a dreadful title, indeed) when they published it on the site.

Going All the Way

Tommy never had a problem with girls.

It was junior year of high school. He was on the swim team. I was on the sit around alone and play sad songs team. I don’t remember a single week of high school in which Tommy didn’t have at least one girl with him—or waiting to be. My interaction with girls resembled that of a talking horse—it looked like I was saying something, but really I was just trying to get the peanut butter from the top of my mouth.

It was October, the evening after I bought my first car—a blue 1985 Oldsmobile Cutlass Classic. My father found me sitting on the hood playing my guitar.

“There are things you’ll be able to do now, certain freedoms, now that you have your own car,” he said.

He opened the passenger door and climbed in, motioning for me to join him. He took a stick of gum from a pack in his pocket.

“You want a piece,” he said.

“No, thanks.”

“Look,” he said. “You know your mother and I don’t allow you to have girls in your room. Well, there’s no way I can stop you from taking a girl out to the middle of some cornfield somewhere.”

My stomach was bouncing around like a drunken monkey. I kept shouting to myself, “Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god—this is the talk. I can’t believe this is the talk.”

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” he asked.

I nodded. I was tearing skin from the edge of my middle fingernail.

“I guess what I’m trying to say,” he said, “is that I want you to feel comfortable coming to me to get protection—if you need it. I’d much rather give you protection, than see you, you know, get somebody pregnant just because you didn’t have the money, or because you weren’t prepared or something.”

He paused a moment, looking away from me for the first time—focusing on a large shovel dangling from a hook on the front wall of the garage. He was chewing gum like it was an Olympic event, the sound of his smacking mouth echoing in the damp garage.

“Could you give me a hand digging the last post holes for the fence this weekend? We need to get that thing built before the first snow. You know how your mother is.”

I nodded. There were a few moments of silence.

“Yeah,” I said. “Okay. Well, I need to finish. . .”

“Wait,” he said, interrupting. “One more thing.”

He dug into his right hip pocket and pulled out a small blue packet.

“I’m going to go ahead and leave this condom in the glove compartment. If you need more, I’ll take care of it—no questions asked.”

My finger was bleeding. I said nothing. He sort of half-smiled, half-frowned—his mouth stuck in thought—like a man breaking up with a woman might look. He got out and headed for the house. I turned out the light and played a hard one.

Weeks went by. Tommy must have moved through six different girls. I’d learned that many songs. He had fifth period off, so he began a ritual of moving my car from one end of the lot to the other. We’d discovered that the ignition didn’t actually need a key to start it—any straight and strong object would do the trick—and my locks didn’t work. He took advantage of it. Sometimes after school, while he was at swim team practice, I’d spend an hour looking for the car.

It was about this time that my father seemed particularly interested in landing me a girlfriend. At dinner he’d be complaining about Jim so-and-so at work and then, out of nowhere, he’d look at me and say something like, “You know, if you ever want to have somebody over for dinner—your mother and I would love to have her.”

Then he’d go back to Jim so-and-so. I’d always nod and say nothing. My mother would look at me like I’d taken her first-born.

A month went by. Fall became winter. One afternoon, arriving at Tommy’s, I opened his bedroom door to find him making a balloon out of a condom. I laughed and asked him where he’d gotten it.

“Your car,” he said, pinching the air of the oblong balloon.

“What?” I said. “You must be kidding.”

“Nope. There’s been a new one in the glove box every day,”

The latex exploded from the end of his fingers, falling into a small heap on his bed.

“I thought you had extra,” he said, “and when you didn’t say anything. . .”

He interrupted himself.

“How many girls have you slept with this year?” he asked.

He was genuinely curious and jealous—even incredulous. He looked down at the broken condom.

“Look,” he said. “I was a man in need. You know how that chick Trisha is. If it’s a question of money, don’t worry about it. You ever need one—just ask.”

There are 612 days remaining in Bush’s presidency.

Ben & Eric Have Lunch

et cetera et cetera update: We’ve finished the tweaks on “omnino” (disc 2), and Josh has done most of the sound editing that still needed to be done on “per se” (disc 1), so we’re getting closer. We finally figured out the track order for “omnino,” which was tricky, but I dig it. Mixing and mastering is next, as well as wrapping up the CD art.

Completely unrelated to anything, the following is a very short and ridiculous one-act that I wrote and posted on my old blog a while ago, but it might as well find its way into the arms of blogger at this point. I couldn’t resist:

Ben & Eric Have Lunch

SCENE: two guys, ERIC and BEN, are having lunch.

ERIC: So I finally washed my car today.
BEN: I don’t care.

[ERIC looks up from his burger, as if he didn’t hear him right]

ERIC: Huh?
BEN: I don’t care.
ERIC: What do you mean?
BEN: I mean I don’t care. I don’t care if you finally washed your balls today. It’s none of
my business.
ERIC: Well, that’s a weird thing to say.
BEN: No, “I finally washed my car today” is a weird thing to say.
ERIC: Why?
BEN: Because nobody cares. Certainly not me.
ERIC: Look. It’s not a big deal. I was just saying...
BEN [cutting him off]: You were just saying that you washed your car today, and I was
just saying that I don’t care.
ERIC: What’s wrong with you, man?
BEN: Shut up and eat your lunch.
ERIC: You shut up!
BEN: Now you’re just being childish.
ERIC: What’s that supposed to mean?
BEN: It means that you’re acting like a child.
ERIC: You’re a dick, man.
BEN: See?
ERIC. See what?
BEN: That’s something a child would say.
ERIC: You’re unbelievable.
BEN: How’s your burger?
ERIC: My burger?
BEN: Yeah. That piece of meat with bread on either side of it. You’re eating it right now.
How is it?
ERIC: Fine. It’s fine. What’s it to you?
BEN: Just trying to make conversation.
ERIC: Well, it’s a little undercooked, actually, and the fries are a little...
BEN [cutting him off]: I don’t care.
ERIC: What?!
BEN: I don’t care.
ERIC: But you just asked me...
BEN [cutting him off]: You should have left it at “fine.” That’s all I need to know.
ERIC: Whatever, man. Fine, then. It’s fine.
BEN: That’s good to hear.
ERIC: How’s yours?
BEN: Delicious.
ERIC: Yeah, they make a good burger, here.
BEN: Yeah. They make a lot of good burgers here. I guess we should get the check.
ERIC: Are you in a hurry?

[BEN gets the waitress’ attention. She comes to the table with the bill and BEN pays her without even looking at ERIC.]

ERIC: You didn’t have to pay for...
BEN [cutting him off]: Forget it. It’s on me.
ERIC: Well, thanks.
BEN: Not a problem.
ERIC: We should do this more often.
BEN: I don’t think so.
ERIC: What?
BEN: I really need to split. I’m finally going to wash my car this afternoon.
ERIC: Really?
BEN: Yeah. It’s been like two months. The thing is filthy.
ERIC: This morning I went to the car wash on 16th and...
BEN [cutting him off]: I don’t care.
ERIC: What?
BEN: I don’t care.
ERIC: You know, you really are a prick. I just wanted to catch up a little, have a nice
lunch, and...
BEN [cutting him off]: I didn’t know it was so important to you.
ERIC: It’s not that...It’s that I...
BEN [cutting him off]: I don’t care.
ERIC: Fuck you, man!
BEN: Now that’s really mature.
ERIC: Seriously, man. What’s your problem?
BEN: That car isn’t going to clean itself.
ERIC: You’re unbelievable.
BEN: That’s what the ladies say.

[BEN leaves the restaurant, gets in his car, and speeds away.

There are 619 days remaining in Bush’s presidency.