Dying
To Tell III:
Part Six Growing Pains
Mark
Flanigan
428
Milton St.
Cincinnati,
OH 45202
(513)
608-3089
mflanigan@semantikon.com
12-08-05
Contemporary Arts Center
Sixth and Walnut Streets
Cincinnati, OH 45202
Attention:
Linda Shearer, Director
Dear Linda Shearer:
I
am writing today with regards to an unfortunate series of
events that occurred on June 10, 2005 while I was performing
at your facility for the Cincinnati Fringe Festival. In an
attempt to find out if in fact I have been banned from performing
and/or entering your museum as a spectator, as I was informed
by both the police and one of your security guards, Isaac.
Also, to explain from my point of view the circumstances that
prompted such a response from them.
First,
some context: I am a local writer and performance artist that
has had the luxury of performing in places such as the Aronoff
Center for the Arts and The Playhouse in the Park, to name
a few. My relationship with the CAC dates back to April 2001,
where I put a program together for your Contemporary Fridays
series; two other performances followed in your new building,
the first of which during your inaugural weeks. All three
came off without incident, and apart from this past instance,
I have no experience with not being allowed back after performing
at any other venue....
The following morning I
barely noticed my hangover. After all, I was excited. For
one, in a few hours, I’d be turning the corner and have
the homestretch in sight: show number three, the musical set
with my partner-in-crime Steven Proctor, the way I’d
get there. And of all the shows thus far, this was the one
I had prepared for the most. Which was good, because I was
getting assurances at every turn that people were actually
going to come out for this one.
Still, there was some work to
do before then. My good friend the guitar player, wonderful
as he is, also has the propensity to utilize relatively singular
tunings, and as such, in the past the onus had fallen on me
to entertain the troops between songs. Something, it dawned
on me around our tenth show, I wasn’t very good at doing.
As a result, I figured I’d do it in advance by laying
down some choice, lengthy samples that would lead into each
song appropriately and lend the set a new seamlessness.
It was hardly work, really.
When in doubt, one could always rely on the infinite wisdom
of our President for a few choice sound bites. The only thing
it did, then, was eat up the day.
Setup was more like a whirlwind,
and sure enough, folks were filing in as advertised. Face
after face came through, with a couple surprises even; namely,
my father and my eleven-year-old sister, Danielle. The last
time the former had come to one of my performances it was
a different century; yeah, Christmas night and I had to leave
the warmth of my family’s gathering early because, strangely
enough, I had a rare gig. At the York Street Cafe, to be exact,
for CincyRing.com, an online magazine run by some guy I didn’t
even know by the name of Arie Vandenberg.
I was reading with some friends,
thankfully, and I’m not sure who but one of us thought
it was a good idea, despite my not having read in public for
four years, that we walk outside and share a joint before
going on. This while also being more of a coke than pothead.
Consequently, once back inside, I became increasingly nervous
as I wrestled with the unbelievable fact that no one had yet
to come up with a cure for cottonmouth when, bam, who do I
see but my old man.... Fuck!
I couldn’t believe it,
so I responded by pretending I didn’t recognize him
and high-tailed it to the bar for a double. And, while there,
I forgot all about my stoned immaculateness as I remembered
what I had prepared to read: a story wherein “the protagonist”
(i.e. me) shoots up in the opening frames. All this
and I wouldn’t be online the first time for another
five years.
It was quite the dilemma, really.
Sure, I had other stuff with me, on the off chance that I
happened to whip the crowd into such a frenzy with my prose
that another five minutes was absolutely warranted, but I
had practiced and wanted to read that particular story.
But I didn’t, in the end.
Fact was, unlike now of course, I was something of a speed
freak at the time, and thus much more guarded about such things.
I mean, throughout the nineties, I really thought I was the
only one doing it. As a result, that night I read something
else instead and suddenly, over half a decade later, my father’s
sneaking in the theatre mid-opening song with little sis in
tow....
Say what you want about the
old man, he’s full of surprises. Meanwhile, I’m
not. The opener over, I quickly realize that next up is a
little ditty in which “the protagonist” (i.e.
me) shoots up in the opening frames.
Well, it’s not even fair
to say I must have grown up in the ensuing years, for I had
no choice but to proceed; way I figured it, with my luck,
it would be the first time the guy actually listened to me.
And throughout the show, I longed to clasp my hands around
my little sister’s ears as I had visions of an after
show intervention.
Obviously, there was no such
thing. Or, if there was, at least it didn’t take. And
that night, too, went well. If there was any shortcoming,
it stemmed from the unfortunate fact that I can’t sing,
not really, but we’re not talking about that.
Instead, break the shit down
and let’s get a drink. There was a fringe after party
at one of my doctor recommended watering holes, the Courtyard
Cafe on Main. Truth was, those folks at the festival had a
party every night and I had yet to so much as show my face
at one of them. Not sure how we had missed each other heretofore,
but we had. What’s more, I was getting the feeling that
the “fringers,” as they were known, were more
of a close-knit community of net workers than a series of
individuals thrown together by circumstance. And this no count
ne’er-do-well black sheep recluse of a ‘fringer,’
for obvious reasons, had yet to take in any of the other performances,
which didn’t help his box office receipts any, you can
bet. Nor had he contributed anything to the festival’s
blog even.
I went to the bar instead. Besides,
I had an ulterior motive. Earlier that night, I had overheard
that both smoking and nudity were forbidden during
performances, and it was of utmost import that I find out
if this was true. Because in two nights I intended to perform
a story in which I have to fuck an agent before he takes me
on, and as such, I was in bad need of a dildo. Not that fucking
myself on stage would be a wonderful sight to behold for those
unfortunate enough to attend, but all the same I felt the
need to, you know, stretch certain boundaries, or at least
stir the pot.
Let it also be said that
I considered it an honor to perform at your institution; one
that I did not take lightly.
I was performing five completely different one-hour shows,
which was quite an undertaking
on my part. One I had quit my job of nine years in large part
to see through. It was my intention
to approach each show as less performance and more as theatre,
utilizing the space and its
lighting to get this point across....
Amazingly, the producing
director, Jason Bruffy, was in attendance and still standing.
Talking to him, I thought to slip him some speed but decided
to merely thank him for including me in his program. Then,
asking him about the nudity thing, he replied, “That’s
hogwash, nudity’s permitted so long as it’s announced
beforehand.”
Which, for a one-man show, pretty
much shot the wad. But it would have to be good enough, I
imagined, and then drank some more.
PART SEVEN: Gratitude
That next afternoon I didn’t
even bother with the paper, went straight to work. I was opening
the next set with an a cappella song called “Everybody
Get Up (I Need A Seat)” which would require a back-up
singer; namely, me. So, I decided to put off my venture to
one of the two adult bookstores in Cincinnati, and tackle
said samples instead. Then, I practiced the narrative pieces
with an eye to staging them. I’d need a table to go
along with my dildo; that, and I figured I had better do some
sit-ups or something. After that, I had to practice singing
the song while plugging in the samples in time. Realized not
long after that the samples I had laid down were horrid, that
I had to do them over. I experimented with different sounds
from my vocal FX processor, found some interesting ones but
none that were quite appropriate. Ended up just re-recording
them.
Before long, the adult bookstores
were closed and, if I was to get any sleep, I best do it now.
I went to bed with one of the experimental sounds, a drumbeat
with a delay, playing on repeat in my head. And laying there
I thought to myself, hell, you’re reading a poem at
the end of the night, you could record that beat with the
melody and lyrics from the opening song mixed in, play it
while reading the closing poem and thus bring the thing full
circle. Yeah, the sound was in my head, my head on my pillow,
and knowing me I knew the former wouldn’t be there in
the morning, but I was simply too tired to do anything about
it. I threw the dice.
And, in the morning, jumped
into the shower. To my surprise, there it was! As soon as
I dried myself off, I went straight downstairs and laid down
the basic track in one take. Then, I threw in some of the
verses, some very bad fake guitar, ooohs and aaahs and nananas
and so forth. As I practiced reciting the poem with the song
playing in the background, I sensed it was the neatest thing
I had ever done and thus couldn’t wait, truly for once,
to perform it....
I wouldn’t have long.
Time to pack up again, load the car. I changed my underwear,
weighing my choice more carefully than usual. Realized I had
no dildo in hand, but I did have my little ditty.
Still, I had a few minutes before
load-in, so I checked my email. The festival was set to name
their “Pick of Fringe” sometime today—a
strange thing, considering I had two more shows—and,
sure enough, the news was waiting for me. They had three “Picks”—Audience,
Critic, and Producer—all of which would have a special
performance on June 12th, with all the proceeds going to a
worthy cause, the Fringe Festival. Well, I knew I wasn’t
going to win the audience award, having one was probably a
pre-requisite for that. And the critics, hell they weren’t
about to give the Best Director nod to Rob Zombie were they?
Nor, probably, me. Thinking maybe that I should have offered
Bruffy some speed after all, I had to hang my hopes on the
Producers.
But, alas, not having an eating
disorder, or being recognized as a gifted retard must have
handicapped me out of the running. Oh well, I figured, what
do they know? Least I still had my little ditty; I’d
show ‘em what’s what....
What few of them there were,
at least. For, once on stage, I couldn’t help but notice
that the trend of larger crowds had screeched to a halt. Seating
was such that there were two sections split evenly down the
middle. On the left, I guessed maybe fifteen folks. As for
the right, I didn’t have to guess; there was one.
A woman, aged sixty or seventy, sitting alone and waiting
patiently for me to entertain her with my story of coerced
sodomy.
I stumbled through the opening
song, horribly. Lamented as much mid-song. The crowd, despite
its size, was animated and friendly. Some small part of me
pitied them, for what I would first set them up for and then
subject them to. Probably the most lively and attentive group
I’d ever been blessed with, and this was their reward?
But the rest of me, well, I had to trust what he was doing,
really, at this point.
“Everybody Get Up (I Need
A Seat)” had required a special microphone, which was
placed in front of the more populated section, so once that
was done I very meekly crossed the stage and effectively read
to one person.
This until the moment in the
story where everything turns south, the moment I had written
in large part for this very festival but now was dreading
somewhat. There was a rapport between this crowd and I; one
that I feared losing with one violent stroke. Thus, when the
agent whipped out his penis on our poor protagonist, I braced
myself for just that but heard titters and chuckles instead.
And when he chose to suck it, magically more of the same....
Just then, I looked to the
older woman and saw that she was leaning forward, her hand
on her chin and a bemused smile above that. What luck! What
a crowd!
I was off, moving around the
stage/the office, recreating the scene, stripping down only
so far as my heart-shaped boxers out of respect for the older
lady, for Joe Winterhalter and Deb Schwaner and Laura Bosse,
who had been to most if not all of the shows. And segueing
from the narrative to the final poem, my backing song was
cued and, lying prostate on the ground in front of that wonderful
crowd, I noticed most everyone leaning towards me, that one
slim guy in the center aisle was vacillating between looking
at me and scribbling frantically in a pocket notebook. Hell
yeah, I thought, maybe the guy’s going to review me,
what an interesting chore that would be! And as I started
chiming in overtop my sample while standing on a chair, this
thought then occurred to me:
This was all the seat anyone
might ever need.
As far as I know, everything
went smoothly for the first four shows. I found the CAC and
its staff quite accommodating,
as usual. But on the fifth night, in the middle of my performance,
something happened....
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