Life, Satire

Spoken Word — “How to be a Man”

Transcript:

How to be a Man: Splitting Firewood with your Face and Other Manly Skills

Say manly things. In fact, insert man into everything you say. It’s not that hard, man. There are plenty of manly words to diversify your manabulary. For example, mancore. It’s like a manticore, but manlier. Try shouting mancore after every manly thing you do, which should be all the time, and then some. DoMANate conversations with words like mandaculous, mandate, mandible, mandetta, mandlebars, comMANdo, mand.

Don’t get confused if people shit their pants. Real men have that effect.

Brag. Brag about everything. Even if it’s not true. No shame. I’ve never cock slapped a shark. I am not facebook friends with the Dalai Llama. I don’t even know how you’d arm wrestle a volcano but I brag about it all the time. And I’m so manificent that the world changes to fit my point of view. So brag, and if anybody calls you out on it, mount their genitals on a spear as a warning to others. Then brag about it.

I’ve actually concocted a few phrases to get your ginormous braggart balls rolling. “You know my girlfriend was complaining about her ex the other day so I threw him off a mountain.” “I’m sorry teach I’m late for class but you know I was too busy clubbing a bear to death with my schlong.”

Hit something. Be it a man, a woman, a child, then throw it. Ever seen judo? They throw stuff all the time. Don’t want to get up? Throw verbal abuse. “Your never going to amount to anything, son.”

Which brings me to my next point: pee on everything. Pee on the ground, pee on pee, pee on the audience, pee in space, pee on pandas, especially if they’re cock blocking you. Peeing is like marking your territory; it tells people where you’ve been and what you’ve been up to. It’s like Facebook. Where you’re going to pee next should be a constant discussion between you and your other men.

Finally, facial hair. It isn’t fashion, it’s life. It’s not accessory, it’s necessity. Mustachery is mandatory in the mantheon of manly men. Just look at the muschateers. Grow a mustache. No, two mustaches. Doublestache. Use the extra mustache as a boomerang to destroy your enemies. Can’t grow a stache, mortal? Staple a moose to your face.

So, if you’ve been listening to my mantra, you should be a man by now. Your balls should be dragging two feet behind you. You should have the ability to stare the sun to death. You should be like “yeah, sucka, you go down. You go down. Rematch!” Your very scent should cause women to keel over pregnant, but that’s okay, babies are great, they’re more people to fight!

So be a man, unless of course, you find a woMAN.

Life

Lip Bomb

Lip Bomb is an outrageous group of spoken word-a-holics who mostly met in Kip Fulbeck’s spoken word course Art 137, with a few stragglers (like myself) added later. These seriously attractive people decided to continue performing and writing and freaking out beyond the occasional classroom gig, leading to the bombastic foundation of the group. I’m consistently stoked by Lip Bomb’s bad ass bravado, affable antics, and meticulous humor (although my excitement might be reticent at times since, if anything, I’m the Pierce Hawthorne of the group – older, cynical, less wise). Now as I retire (err, well, graduate) I have an obligation to pay Lip Bomb some lip service: keep it up, youngsters! You’re walking, talking, definitely-not-balking balmshells and you do beautiful things.

Life

Spoken Wiz

Somewhere over the rainballs…

I’ve been asked to revive my one-hit wonder “How to be a Man: Splitting Firewood with my Face and other Manly Skills” for Wizard of Balls: A Night of Spoken Words. The show is being put on by Lip Bomb, a spoken word group on campus. The show’s TONIGHT, as in Friday, March 9th, 2012, at 7:30 PM sharp in the Theater & Dance Room 1701. Here’s a blurb about the show:

Lions and Tigers and Balls, OH MY!

We’ve all been scared before, worried, wondering, “Where are my balls?” Well, we were thinking the exact same thing. Come along on our journey down the yellow brick road in search of our courage fruit.

Writing

Spoken Word — “These were my brothers”


[A Spoken Word piece I improvised on-the-spot when somebody (as prank vengeance for doing the same to her) signed me up for Bean Night.]

These were my brothers.

The oldest breathed water and wouldn’t stay in the sea. Sprinting across the crags, he lived puddle to puddle. Why not just stay in the ocean? But I think he was broken.

The second found cadavers that walked and talked and kissed but were dead. Second would give them pieces of his soul so they could glow, but soul isn’t sunlight.

Third lived in a cloud fishing for people. When he caught them he would reel them up and eat them. Little stink pieces of heart and blood dripped from the vapor. I would have liked Third, maybe. At least he knew there were worse things than being lonely.

Fourth lived by an ugly statue, a humpty dumpty god. At night he burned his hands in fireplaces, and in the morning he pieced the monument together with Third-World tools. Noon, he would write poetry on its corpse.

When the Fourth died, there were no children to complete his work. But dying isn’t disappearing.

These were my brothers. They speak to me and make me want to do terrible things.

Satire

A Beatnik Imitation — “Americalypse”

 

Dear Post-America, no, Postal America,

I’m coughing myself to sleep on howling steps that were once the Gateway Arch in St. Louis, pillowed by the tombstones of Louis and Clark, spooning the mummified corpse of Sacagewea. I can see twin towers covered in fuselage and the dead men they swallowed. Before that we didn’t do ruins.

Now we are the modern Pompeii buried beneath newspapers and motel sixes, beneath brick and stone and the bones of Pharisees and Wall Street Brokers.

I’m foreign in a familiar land. I’m a bookless, homeless, bombed-out, burned-up pioneer in a dead world made of dead words facing a sea-washed statue liberated from meaning, her flame out, her arm stretched in the air as she sinks in the sand. Over there is a mountain with four worn-away faces, there’s Washington’s limp phallis, a white house sick with the blood of Indians and presidents. I start to think this is all one big middle finger to whoever came up with the phrase ideas never die and the phrase I’d give you the shirt off my back and to whoever thought democracy was immortal.

And I know the devil’s been most patient.

Life

Nonfiction — Mendengar Saya Menguam

 

Sumatra, Indonesia

We can’t afford color blinds on our windows, not with kids in Disney shirts waving from the roadside, young women stooped by rubber trees, old men smiling with malachite teeth. There is the International conglomerate and the poor indigenous and all that separates us are barbed-wire fences and fat bank accounts. I spend my day learning U.S. History; my nights playing soccer with a ball of teak root. Some locals drop a hornet nest near my head. I think 9/11 occurred in Kuala Lampur.

 

Tianjin, China

The skies are gray. There are no pigeons but deadly chemicals disguised as bread crumbs. We can’t let the pets outside – I wonder if it is because of the poison or the markets where vendors line stalls with freshly-gutted dogs. The Chinese see us less as bourgeois, more as barges. Strangers call their friends over to laugh at our large feet, our looming height. A business man wants my picture by a bull statue’s testicles. Poverty is swept behind skyscrapers and the larder of cranes. Our U.S. passports can only get us far. From there on it is knowing which barbershops cut your hair and which are brothels.

 

Lecheria, Venezuela

We live in rich man prison – a network of mansions connected by a network of canals. Transport includes travel-by-yacht. I’ll take the boat to the Mall, tie her up, watch a film with English subtitles. I’ll take her to open water and fish like Ernest Hemingway. We say what we want about Hugo Chavez. The taxi drivers never agree; they think they’re monitored. Nothing can stop the wanton – not the insurgents, not the kidnappers who take our neighbors, not the pirates asking for agua with pistols behind their backs, not the man collapsed in the Wendy’s drive-through with a bullet in his shoulder.

 

Santa Barbara, California

I’m idling incognito, an exclusive ooze, wasting away with a cynical smile. There are scars on my legs from jungle hornets, a little red book full of Mao. I think in languages I never use. I walk along landing strips and thumb airplanes and refuse to play tricks on Gimpel. I don’t belong. I don’t belong. I don’t know where this is going.