Mark Twain’s House Will Remain Open

“Rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated.”

Mark Twain

Over coffee, I read an article in the New York Times saying that the museum at Mark Twain’s house would soon close its doors. Two weekends later, I went there to see the place. I had to see it. It’s an incredible Victorian house, in a beautiful spot. Not only that, but it’s the place where Samuel Clemens wrote most of the best work of his career, in a room where he also drank whiskey, smoked cigars, and played billiards. Standing in that room, seeing that desk, it was the next best thing to hanging out with the man. I couldn’t pass up an opportunity to be in that room, especially since the rumors had it that the place was about to shut down.

I’m happy to report that the museum at Mark Twain’s house in Hartford, Connecticut is not going to close after all. I have that on the authority of the museum itself. They added that, if they do have to close for some reason, they’ll make an announcement on their website. I’m also happy to say that it is a wonderful place, full of history and scenery.

The Worst Music Ever Made

In the web unit where I work, we have been locked in a fierce battle. The contest: to determine once and for all which song is the worst song ever made. Our main criteria were that a song must be the kind of song that sticks in your head for any reason, and of course, it must be the kind of song that sucks. The list of bad songs keeps growing. First, there was Rick Astley’s “never gonna give you up” then the content manager suggested the “achy breaky heart song”. I suggested that “you are the wind beneath my wings song”. Not to be outdone, the graphic designer came to us with the song that vanilla ice wrote for one of the ninja turtles movies, “Ninja Rap” with its annoyingly catchy “go ninja, go ninja go!” The flash developer’s wife even chimed in remotely with “We Built This City on Rock and Roll”. We’ve decided to open the floor to any and all songs, to determine which song really is the worst song ever made.

Here is a list of some really bad songs. Got any more?

• “Mister Jones” by Counting Crows
• “Who Let the Dogs Out?” by Baha Men
• “Rico suave” by Gerardo Mejía
• “Make Em Say Uhh” by Master P
• “Straight Playin’” by Shaquille O’Neal
• “Ballad of Bilbo Baggins” by none other than Leonard Nimoy
• “God Bless The USA” by Lee Greenwood
• “The Super Bowl Shuffle”
• “Tiptoe Through the Tulips” by Tiny Tim

… and the current owner of the title of the worst song in the world is …
Barney’s song

An honorable mention goes out to the song with the worst chorus ever: “Sometimes When We Touch” by Dan Hill. The chorus goes like so (gag!):

And sometimes when we touch
The honesty’s too much
And I have to close my eyes and hide
I wanna hold you til I die
Til we both break down and cry
I wanna hold you till the fear in me subsides

Journey to the Ice Cave

I’m on vacation, the first in a very long time. A bunch of my family is here, for a reunion. We took a trip this afternoon to the Ice Cave in Decorah, Iowa.

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This Poem Isn’t About Wine

How did I choose the wine?
There are so many flavors to keep in mind.
Taste is so difficult to define.
Categorize the wine into “red” or “white”,
but there are so many subtler kinds.
I picked the one I’d prefer to imbibe;
Never mind which, never mind why.
(That’s not what I mean to describe.)

But I couldn’t get the cork out of the stem.
I couldn’t get the cork out on the first try.
I broke most of the cork off and then,
I couldn’t get the cork out on the second try.
It’s so simple to use the device and to use it right:
Twist until tight, and then unwind.
The bottle would not yield the wine,
because I buried the cork deep inside.

I didn’t dare break the bottle at the neck.
That wouldn’t be dignified.
OK, fine, I wanted the wine.
I couldn’t keep my desire in check.
I wanted that bottle to wreck, to see it break,
and to get quickly at the stuff inside.
I’ll try one more time, keeping in mind:
Twist until tight, and then unwind.

(I’ll try again if that’s what it takes.)

The Crap Poetry Manifesto

by Crapra, Log, & Toylit
Source: Brass Tacks Press

Crap poetry is what happens to good poetry after you eat it and you’re left with nothing but a sack of appealing gelatinous goop swelling in a storm of indecision. There’s no place for conclusion, destination, evolution. Just beginnings of turds, partially formed words, badly drawn birds, half-eaten curds, and YOU. What is the redeeming value of the dying screams of an animal except to inspire guilt and make children cry? The Dadaists abandoned reason. We abandon hygiene. Farts for forever!

The world is devolving into the raw sewage slush of a psychological maelstrom. Classicism is the faggy flower of culture, fragrant formalism for fidgety fags. Decadence is the dykish fruit of culture, faggier still and addicted to painkillers. Crap is what’s left of the fruit of culture after all the nutrition has been sucked out of it and it’s been ejected out the anus. If money is the sexuality of the dead and your hair is a tunnel into the past then we have more poetry up our asses than exists in the entire Puniverse.

We are the mighty poetic proctologists, the conquistadors of the mighty brown-out of civilization. As crap poets, our biggest job is to not be watching television. As long as we’re not watching television, we’re winning. We want to poison our own minds, thank you very much. Because poetry is the least important thing, it’s the most important thing. Like the Taoists say, “Know the big, but stick to the small.” Similarly, “Know talent, but stick to the crap.”

Cough. Catastrophe. Christ-Consciousness. Retards. Raunchiness. Rage. Apathy. Androgynes. Astroglide. Prickle. Prosthetic. Pucker up!

To say that a poem stinks is to make the synesthetic leap from words on paper to a sensual experience. In crap poetry there’s no such thing as writer’s block. Our motto is “Just push through.” There’s nowhere left except failure. Our only regret is our failure to destroy all our talent.

Why wheedle the approval from some fucking intellectual asshole? We’re the shit!

Jesus and the Dinosaurs

Bottled Water is Stupid

Welcome to Infinity’s Kitchen

I’ve put together a new graphic literary journal in Baltimore, called “Infinity’s Kitchen.” To celebrate the publication of the inaugural issue, there will be an opening held at the Metro Gallery on Feb. 22 at 7 p.m.

Here is a run-down of the performances that will be at the release party.

2007 Roundup

At year’s end, it’s customary to reflect on the year and ask, “so what?” Here are some highlights, from the blog and offline. Life offline has been work-intensive: I moved to a new apartment, settled into a new job as a web developer for a non-profit, and I finally began to learn my way around Baltimore. The blog has been quieter this year than it was last year, but there were a few interesting moments.

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Spoken Word on the Ed Schrader Show

Here it is folks, the video from episode 5 of the Ed Schrader Show. Here I am performing my spoken word routine. Enjoy.