An Unkind Christmas Poem: Reprinted from My Former Blog, 12/23/2003.

"T'was the night before Christmas,

and all through The Novel,

Not a human was stirring,

Though many a-devil."


"Fat boy was sitting from me not too far,

Ogling boys and eating a Mallomar.

And the one legged fellow was there in a slump,

Waxing and polishing the tip of his stump."


"At a table nearby, a filthy man sung a tune --

only term for it, it was the call of the loon.

Outside, a hag screeched and more she did howl,

While inside a man picked the lice from his jowl."


"The clerk rolled his eyes, and sneered with a grin,

while outside all the groats split a bottle of gin.

When out in the parking lot, there arose such a clatter,

I got up from the counter, to see what was the matter!"


"When what to my wandering eyes should appear,

But a staggering drunk, filth-covered, ear to ear.

He wore a red suit, fur-covered, I think.

His Santa Claus hat could not hide his godawful stink."


"He weaved and he staggered, his shirt covered with sick.

Clear, he was a bum, dressed up as St. Nick.

He fell on his knees, whipped out hose for a piss.

And babbled and roared, on a meth-amphetamine kick."


"His eyes -- how unfocused! His breath -- oh, how fowl!

His face-veins all-busted, his mouth shrieked in a howl!

He had a broad face and a little round belly,

That shook when he cackled, like a bowl full of jelly."


"MOTHER FUCKER! TITTY SUCKER!

TWO BALLED BITCH FUCK YOU ALL!

COMMIES AND JEW BASTARDS AND SLUMLORDS SO SMALL!

His voice roared and it echoed, through the whole place,

As Santa fell forward, landing right on his face."


"The Novel clerk called 911 as the crowd cheered,

While for the bum Santa, it was just as he feared.

As a cop car pulled up, oh so black and white,

And a brute cop dragged him off, holding him tight."


"So, round the corner, the cop car a-flew,

With the bum Santa in back, trapped as its crew.

From the back seat of the car, his hands all in chains,

The bum Santa called out, curses falling like rains."


"GOD DAMN YOU ALL, YOU ARE ALL PILES OF SHIT.

HAPPY CHRISTMAS? LIKE HELL! GO ROT IN A PIT!"

Library Story: The Magic Sunglasses.

Today a patron came up to my desk in the library’s Computer Commons. He was a young Asian man, fairly stocky, and quite respectable-looking, except for the huge, opaque sunglasses that were covering his face. He had just used the library’s reservation system to make a reservation to use a computer, but he was displeased by where he’d been assigned.

“I was wondering,” the gentleman smiled, “whether I actually have to take that particular computer. Even though I have a reservation for computer 12, can I sit down at some other computer and use it instead?”

I assured him that he could, of course, do just as he pleased, and he was quite delighted.

“That’s terrific!” he noted. “You see, since I started wearing these polarized sunglasses, it becomes incredibly easy to see the future – and I can tell that this computer…” he pointed in the direction of computer 12, “has only 4 months left to it. So I would rather have a different computer!”

I showed him to another computer, though I admit I had to hold myself back from asking what he saw in my future. I mean, don’t you wish YOU had those polarized, future-seeing sunglasses?

BLACK LEATHER at the Unknown Theatre.

It blazes like a shining beacon of snowy whiteness in the dark, guiding wise men to its vicinity and keeping them enthralled by its glowing convex orbs for the entire holiday season! No, silly, I am not talking about the Christmas Star of Bethlehem – I’m talking about playwright Michael Sargent’s pasty naked bottom, which is on near omnipresent display in his latest opus of excess and debauch. The bottom in question may not be the Star of the Nativity, but it is sure the salient feature in Sargent’s plays, which are, frankly, as known for their frequent sightings of naked flesh as Pinter plays are known for pauses. And, while “Black Leather” is not overly rigorously plotted -- and occasionally seems to bear the imprimatur of having been written with haste -- the piece is as strikingly ferocious and morally ambivalent as to be almost archetypal “Sargent.” I suppose the play could best be called a sort of Manhattan Art World Roman A Clef, centering on the notorious life of hardcore photographer Robert “Krapplethorpe,” who’s known for taking lurid photos of his naked tricks performing sado masochistic sex with him. The play opens with Krapplethorpe (Sargent) hilariously tearing apart a business meeting involving his sugar daddy (Jan Munroe) and the hag art gallery director (Kathy Bell Denton) who wants to exhibit Krapplethorpe’s photos – but wishes he’d give her more of the shots of avocados and fewer of the ones of whips going into anuses. Yet, the play’s focus crystallizes during scene two, when Krapplethorpe ditches his sugar daddy to bring home a hot trick (Kevin Daniels) from the Mineshaft, who then proceeds to rigorously roger Krapplethorpe’s rump. Then, as both men snort cocaine and booze it up in the post-coital glow, Krapplethorpe orders the trick to head to a rival’s house and chop off his head. The rest of the play centers on Krapplethorpe’s subsequent terror (upon regaining his senses) that the trick has actually done such a reprehensible thing. Director Chris Covics’ staging intentionally skirts any attempts to depict the sleazy characters sentimentally – they exist in an atmosphere of moral vacuity, orbiting around nothing at all – but there’s also something unusually believable about them. Sargent’s Krapplethorpe is an appetite-driven, spoiled child, whose behavior reflects an entitled, inwardly vacant person that has managed to get away with everything his entire life. The show’s nudity is, of course, blatant and exploitative – but it’s also oddly germane to a story that suggests the human body is a ridiculous object and that recreational sex is itself a bestial, vaguely porcine function. You’ll want to see this show on a night when the actors have all had showers before going on, though.

CARNIVAL KNOWLEDGE at The Lex Theatre.

After watching playwright Naomi Grossman’s solo show about her travails in the Purgatorial limbo of dating and relationships, you will absolutely and categorically want to swear off men. And why not? There never was such a deplorable collection of miserable man-boys with commitment issues, immaturity, and hygiene lapses as the he-baboons that Miss Grossman courts and is courted by. Grossman’s tale is told as a monologue, placed within the context of a circus setting. The show opens with the heroine playing a whimsical game of “whack a mole,” albeit with the rodents being replaced by the jaw-unlatching collection of ginormous pink (and brown) dildoes. From there, Grossman discusses the veritable rogues gallery of dudes she has gone out with, including a lumpen Trader Joe stockboy, a hypercritical neurotic, a middle aged professional masseur with a magnormous shvance, and many more – all of whom probably had reason to regret their dalliances if they accepted their invitation to Opening Night of Grossman’s show. Director Richard Embardo’d Circus Staging, complete with crazy “freakshow” posters, a fortune teller table, and more, jazzes up Grossman’s narrative marvelously, adding color and a twisty sardonic context to the monologue. Yet, Grossman’s reliance on endless malebashing, while never actually offering any soul searching to analyze precisely why these are the men she’s attracted to, inevitably causes the piece to reduce to being little more than a one note stand up act. Still, Grossman herself is a vibrant, charismatic, and sexy protagonist, whose witty and ironic turn comes across as simultaneously sexy and world weary – a vivid embodiment of a survivor of the dating wars.