A couple Monday’s ago a long-time family friend Gary and his daughter Rachel visited the city from Louisiana and they called me up to get together. They were going to the Bowery Poetry club to see this octogenarian poet perform. Not knowing what the hell an octogenarian was, I gladly accepted. Gary kept telling me [...]
A couple Monday’s ago a long-time family friend Gary and his daughter Rachel visited the city from Louisiana and they called me up to get together. They were going to the Bowery Poetry club to see this octogenarian poet perform. Not knowing what the hell an octogenarian was, I gladly accepted.
Gary kept telling me over the phone as we were making plans that this guy had a cult following, which interestingly enough was comprised dually of himself and his boss at work. He wanted to introduce me to this poet in hopes of recruiting a third cult member. I wasn’t quiet sure what to expect but I’m pretty sure after seeing him perform I wouldn’t hesitate to take up the third leg of the Bingo Gazingo tripod.
I got to the Poetry club just in time to miss the rain and to see Bingo begin his performance. Gary wasn’t kidding; aside from the three of us, there wasn’t a single other person in the club. I was never asked for my $3 cover charge and figured the place had pity on anyone who was here and sat down as he started his first ballet about J-lo and the affect she has had on his heart. Between his moans and mumbles I discerned a pattern of rhymes on the name J-lo like Hey-lo, Fay-lo and for a minute thought that they had pulled a homeless man off the street to fill 20 minutes before the next act. He then moved effortlessly to a poem about Beyonce which actually was sort of interesting and provided for my favorite line of the evening: “Beyonce, you are my Champs-Elysee, I love you, I love you.”
The Bowery Poetry club reminded me of my Fraternity and the eloquent rush dinners we would put on in our band/party room. We would line up those plastic granite tables end to end and surround them with those cheap black chairs you might see at cheap banquet halls. There were three rows of of this assortment, a jumble of chairs on stage that reminded me of an unused high school classroom during the summer and a nice chalk mural on one wall. I don’t think it cost to much to throw everything together.
The last poem was about a stalker between the yellow lines of a road who never gave up chasing UFO’s or something like that, I dunno, I sort of lost consciousness at that point. Seemingly unsatisfied with himself, his 20 minutes were up and he nonetheless had to end his performance and was helped off the stage by the sound tech. He slowly made his way through the tables and past his audience trio. I stood up and shook his hand, not sure what I was expecting to happen, hesitant that anything I might say would open a floodgate of profane and wet verbal carnage. Gary, seemingly familiar with Bingo’s eccentricity, wanted a picture to commemorate the moment, giving his daughter his camera and jumping next to him expecting him to stop. Oblivious to everything at this point, Bingo proceeded to trod along despite Gary’s attempts to get in the same frame for his picture. As I watched this slow and painful process I noticed Bingo kept his sullen gaze directed towards the shimmering light that was trying to escape between these two large plush curtains at the end of the bar. On the other side of these curtains was the exit, and as he made his way to the light and disappeared through the curtains, I have no doubt at that point Bingo envisioned being birthed by Madonna.
One Response
like the wise saying – \”No one ever reached the worst of a vice at one leap.\” (Juvenal)!!