Sunday, February 25, 1996

No, Mr. Bond, I Expect Ya'll to Eat Pork Lard

Why does James Bond always get assigned to casinos in the French Riviera, five-star hotels in Hong Kong, etc.? By the law of averages, one of these days, he should wind up in a shitty location. Like, say, the more depressing suburbs of Atlanta.

So, the villain would be the morbidly obese Pork Finger; Good-n-Plenty, the Bond girl, is even fatter; Bond's car is a battered Chevy Nova (patched up with Bondo, natch). Narrowly escaping death, Bond burns a path of death through auto demolition derbies, garbage dumps, meth labs, trailer parks, depressingly cheap strip clubs and sneaks into a hog fat rendering plant -- Pork Finger's secret HQ.

At the climax, Pork Finger captures Bond and prepares to funnel a vat of pork lard down his throat. At the last possible second, Good-n-Plenty puts a bullet in his brain and rescues Bond. After some quick sabotage; the rendering plant explodes in apocalyptic pyrotechnics, scattering snouts, hooves, and various hog fragments all over DeKalb County. Good-n-Plenty drags Bond back to the Motel Six, jump his bones and crack his spine.

Bond spends the next film in traction.

Wednesday, February 21, 1996

Spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, lovely spam

Evidently, the spammers have me confused with an unemployed, bald, fat guy with a small penis and no girlfriend.

Poetry Workshop



Aw c'mon. Let's not beat up on the poets...it's just too damn easy, with the possible exception of those angry Dylan Thomas-types who, in the initial "angry drunk" phase can be dangerous for at least five minutes before they fall over.

Instead of beating them up....why not become one with the JACK GETZ INSTANT POETRY WORKSHOP! It's easy!

For our first lesson, select from the four following varieties:


Attack of the Diarrheic Theasaurus with a Phony English Accent
Guys! The phony English accent is a BABE MAGNET!!!!  Latinate words always a plus here, stick with the abstract, avoid anything that might create a word picture.

tenuous diffidence
betrays the interstices of confusion
parallax of incidents
detained
in unreliable memory
Metonomy of monotony

Read slowly, hypnotically. Keep it up for another 15 minutes or so and they'll be so glad you're done they'll call you a genius and you can start giving "Poetry Workshops" and charging money for it. (And be sure to bring pen and a pad for those phone numbers!)

Is it Charles Bukowski...or is it Memorex?
If you're doing a live reading, remember not to shave for at least two days beforehand (I know this doesn't work for chicks...but there's always burnt cork, right?). Stick to walk-on-the-wild-side urban references (get a "Village Voice" and you're in business!), mumble, and make sure to say "shit, piss, fuck" every three lines or so. (Extra points for white people if you throw in a few lines of bad rap.) This kind of thing works great in yer basic Barnes & Noble reach-out-to-the-community poetry readings. The embarassed Manager will come up and whisper in your ear that you have to stop--you can tell 'em to fuck off, he or she will throw you out, and you can tell the town how they censored you. Just remember to talk louder than the cappuccino machine.

shit, piss, fuck
drunk whores fucking dogs
in alleys of broken glass
a junkie screams like a needle
up the ass
in the black dead vein of the city
New York Post newsprint
mixing with blood and semen
in the back of a taxi
message scrambled
like another new retrovirus
mutant RNA
that will fuck you
you, you, you
fuck you
Shit piss fuck


Inner child? Ohmigod...I thought you were watching the inner child!

The trick is, write a personal essay but set the line breaks like a poem. Tug on the heartstrings with weepy incidents of childhood trauma, I remember mama anecdotes (no one will dare to say it's a bad poem if it's about your mama!) & Cliff Notes Joycean epiphanies that even YOU don't have to understand. Because it's poetry. Be sure to read slowly....

There were different colors
Then
The refrigerator
Was avacado
The countertops
Were screaming orange
Mother your hands were
Flesh-colored
Without the spots
They didn't shake
Your hands I remember
Them always
Holding and folding
Towels
Turning the pages
Of
The Wild Things
Putting a compress
On your eye
O cold, cold, comfort
Where the bruise was
Blue and red and mottled
It's all right you said
I ran into a door
The color of lying!
I did not know
I did not know
I did not know
The door was Father!

And, when all else fails ...

GUMBY POETRY!
Be sure to read in idiotic British accent while smashing your head with bricks!

violence is bad because it like hurts 
people its bad if you see a violent
person make them stop take two bricks 
and bang them on the side of their head
and shout at them 
STOP IT 
STOP THE VIOLENCE STOP 
STOP THE VIOLENCE 
STOP STOP
STOP VIOLENT PERSON 
VIOLENT PERSON 
that makes them stop 
but it gets the
bricks messy

                                                        --J GUMBY