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The Hogs of Entropy 0946
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$$$ [ HOE E-Zine #946 -- 12/08/99 -- http://www.hoe.nu ] .,$$$
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Once upon a time, in 1995 I was in school. I spent the majority
of 1995 in school, because at this time I was a student. Which is
ironic, because I was completely disinterested in all things learning.
So, one afternoon in 1995, in English class my very cool teacher
suggested I join her poetry club trip to the Northern NJ Poetry Festival.
I suppose this was her humble attempt at making me feel included in a
class where I was a total outsider. I agreed, figuring it was a day off
school, and hey I like poetry.
The morning of the trip I found out my buddy would be this chick
Erin that I knew from art class. Picture if Bif Naked and Dennis Rodman
had a baby. The bus ride was two hours, all she talked about were gold
cigarette cases, feather boas and Betti Paige. Eventually I kicked her
in the face and she shut up. Anyway after two hours with my buddy Erin
we finally arrive at Waterloo Village. Waterloo is one of those rebuilt
settlements where people walk around in period costumes and churn butter.
We all got maps and schedules and were sent out on our own. My buddy
Erin and I wandered around for a while, churned some butter and then we
came upon a large group of people taking turns reading their poetry up on
a boulder. Lil' Miss Drag Queen jumped up on the boulder and read an
epic poem about being brutally raped, people cried. I was in shock.
When she was don't I said "Erin that happened to you?" She replied, "No,
I just made that up last night." Then I punched her in the jaw and made
her cry.
While Erin was reeling from the right hook, I took off. I
wandered around for a few hours scoffing at all the angsty teens. Angsty
flannel wearing, Nirvana loving, Grungites everywhere. Just as I was
about to expose my m16 and waste some patchouli smelling hippie chick, I
felt a tug on my coat. I turned around to see my teacher Ms. Pecora.
She grabbed my hand and said come on, someone in my class is going to see
this if it kills me. I thought to myself "If she pulls my coat one more
time, that just might happen. She pulled me into a speaking tent where
some older gentleman was just taking the stage. He read some wonderful
poetry, and some weird poetry. He read every poem twice, and said he did
so because that way people listen. I remember one about a mouse, that he
read 3 times. I don't know the name or how it goes, I just remember. I
knew after leaving I would never forget what that man looked like or how
his voice sounded. I suppose it was because it was the only time a
teacher took interest in my learning. Or maybe because my urge to kill
was gone. There was a question and answer period. Ms. Pecora made a
point and he said "Excellent, I'm glad someone understands." Which she
giggled in glee over. When it was over he shook our hands and we went on
our way.
About 2 weeks later my teacher told us Alan Ginsberg died. I knew
he was some poet, I didn't really care. I suppose I forgot about it
right after she told us.
After high school, my sister got me this giant book of poetry and
I started to read it and like it. I read about all the poets in it. It
was probably the best gift she ever gave me. Of course, until she took
it back a couple years ago insisting that it was never a gift. I read
all about the beat poets. I think I liked their stuff the most.
A few years have gone by since I've read anything from that book.
On Thanksgiving, the subject of Ms. Pecora the English teacher came up.
She's getting married, to a guy she met at the poetry festival. I said
hey was that the guy she met when I went, and my sister confirmed. Then
she said "Hey Al, is that the same day you saw Alan Ginsberg speak?" I
was like "WHAT? When did I see Alan Ginsberg speak, he's sort of dead you
know?" My family started to laugh and Jessica then relayed the whole
story according to Ms. Pecora. At the poetry festival, he did a last
minute appearance, Ms. Pecora and I were the only ones from our school
that saw it.
So apparently in 1995, I heard Alan Ginsberg read and he was
awesome. Then he died. I had no idea who Alan Ginsberg was until 1997.
In 1999 I put two and two together, and got 16.
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[ (c) !LA HOE REVOLUCION PRESS! HOE #946, BY SIX - 12/08/99 ]
