Posts Tagged ‘jazz clubs’

The Stay Home Dad’s Poetry Meet-Up

October 7, 2017
Jack met Martin before they finally

Jack met Martin before they finally said a few words to Buck.  All
three of them had small children that they would take to the park at
about the same time.  There were Spanish and Polish speaking au pairs
and a few young moms but the three men found one another and became
friends.
Jack, a stand-up bass player in Jazz bands at night, watched his two
boys during the day.  His wife is an attorney and she essentially pays
for everything.  Jack needs to pay his car insurance and for his own
food when he eats out.  Jack lives in a big house and loves watching
documentaries on Netflix.  He’s a good dad but has trouble being
patient with his son, Jack Jr. who has ADD.
Martin writes short stories and poetry and makes almost no money
except that he takes care of pre-school age children on Mondays from
9-3.  His daughter gets to be part of the school for free and they
give Martin $200.00 a day for his work.  That money needs to stretch
all week.  His wife is a schoolteacher truly believes her husband will
get one of his manuscripts published one day.  She asks Martin to see
the queries he sends out daily to ensure that he is not playing video
games all day while their toddler twins play close by.
Buck is a high school hockey coach by night and a stay at home dad by
day.  Buck also plays hockey and is a referee to earn a few extra
dollars.  Buck makes $10,000.00 between September and March and then
he gets a few hundred for running clinics and camps in the summer
months.
When times were tough at home for the boys and their spouses, the
fact that their wives were carrying them more or less, did not go
without mention.  Martin’s wife was probably the harshest with him in
that he would go long periods of time without writing anything.  His
response would be that when there is acrimony between them, he
couldn’t get in the mindset to write anything.  Her response would be,
“Then go get a fucking job like every other man on the planet and quit
fucking moping…”
Jack’s wife hated Jazz but was turned on by him playing the stand-up
bass.  She wanted her husband to give music lessons on the side to
children to help make more money but he said that he really hated
children other than his own.  Truth be told, Jack wasn’t entirely sure
that he liked his boys all that much.  They were loud and messy and
truly whining little bitches in his opinion.  He felt that their mom
coddled them way too much.
Buck’s wife liked that her husband was rough and straightforward.  If
you were ugly, Buck might tell you so.  He was hard on his hockey
players and trained them to be as rough as possible.  Buck often wore
a shirt that he had made up himself that read, “MAKE HOCKEY VIOLENT
AGAIN”.  Buck still played ice hockey and still fought as a man in his
later forties.  His large dick could get hard on command and for that
reason, his wife found redeeming value in her caveman.
Martin spoke to an owner of a small restaurant about having a poetry
reading night once a week on a Tuesday night.  Most of the poetry
sucked but the authors believed it to be good.  Some would read short
stories or essays but most were poems.  Martin began a Meet-Up poetry
night at the same small club where Jack played Jazz at a drop-in Jazz
night on Wednesdays.  The owner, desperate for extra business, allowed
the bad poetry night and circle jerking Jazz musicians to play the
same tired old shit like hymns at a protestant church.  Jack played
the bass softly while people read.  There was a local finalist who
read his award-winning poem first.  His poem earned him a place in an
anthology of poems and a $500.00 award.  His name was Bruce and he
smelled of onions and had greasy wispy hair.  His collared shirt was
stained around the armpits and his ass crack hung out of the back of
his pants when he sat down.  He looked nearly homeless but was
actually a rich trust funder who never had to work a day in his life.
Nobody understood his poem but they all agreed it was good.  A young
black man came up and read his next.  He dug the bass behind him.  He
had a large Afro and was slightly angry just because it was en vogue.
He came from adopted white lesbians in a well to do area of town.  The
young, thin man grabbed the microphone and paced back and forth like a
distressed lion in a cage.
“What you need to know is a knee makes me free.  A knee tells the
world about my plight and all the things in society that just ain’t
right.  What you need to know is that my life matters and as a matter
of fact, you can’t know what it’s like to be in my skin or understand
where I’ve been.  A knee makes it right and I have the right to right
a wrong…  Play that bass, motha fuckah!”
A man named Jose came up and asked Jack to play the bass line for the
girl from Ipanema while he strummed a guitar and sang in Portuguese.
Nobody knew what he was saying but it really sounded nice.  The
English translation was not as nice.
“I loved to love you and loved you with all my muscle.  When you
fucked me in the ass, I  fucked you in the ass for real.  How dare you
take my shit and give me diseases.  Even though you did many wrong
things, I would take you back but lock my things up.  I love you…  I
love you…”
Next was the sushi woman.  The sushi woman catered parties dressed
like Betty Page from the 1950’s with no shirt on and a multitude of
tattoos.  Guys hired her for bachelor parties and football games.  Her
name is Gretchen; she’s 27, teaches Pilates and has a side gig as a
topless sushi maker.  Her poetic rant against Trump was with her shirt
off.  Over her nipples were two X’s of black tape.  She wore tight
black exercise pants and high heels her hair was poofed up high and
her black lipstick was thick.  Thick enough to need a scrubber to get
the paraffin off of her wine glass at the end of the night.  The men
didn’t give a damn about the message.  They marveled at her tight body
and round breasts.  People off the street stopped as they walked by to
look at the young woman on a stage, under lights.
“You’re not my president.  I’m no longer a resident of this country…
You shattered my hopes; you’ve shattered my dreams.  You taken the
best part of me and pulled it from my breast…” Gretchen cupped her
left breast from underneath.  Her natural breasts were round and firm.
Everyone clapped for her as if it was the best thing they ever heard.
She then passed out cards for her sushi catering with a picture of
herself without a shirt on, arms crossed, holding two knives.
Last to come up was Buck.  He had never done something like writing
poetry and reciting it.  He was strong looking and stood with his left
hand in his pocket.  He wore a CCM hat and an Expos T shirt.  Buck
looked out of his element.
“I was a lad near Montreal.  J’ai parle Francais chez moi…  My dad
listened to Hockey Night in Canada sur la radio…  Patriotic?  you
better believe, I wear it on my sleeve.  Red, White and Blue, les
trois colouer of the Canadiens of Montreal.  I might buy you a beer
and talk about the power play, I might beat your ass on the ice the
following day.  Don’t take offense, its just hockey.  Hockey might be
better than sex.  The sound of the crowd and the puck inside the net.
The wind blowing around my ears and the snot flying around your helmet
and the tears as I cartwheel your ass with a solid hip check.  A slap
shot, wrist shot, a child in the stands cheering a lot.  Wearing the
sweater to your favorite team, playing outside on a winter day, sweat
steaming from under your hat.  This is life; this is where it’s at.  I
hope to play this game til I die.  Don’t understand?…  Enough of this
bullshit and listen to the man play the bass.  Coffee tomorrow at the
park, boys?  Solid Jackson play it out…  In case you didn’t know,
Kerouac was Quebecois too… I rest my case.”

aid a few words to Buck.  All
three of them had small children that they would take to the park at
about the same time.  There were Spanish and Polish speaking au pairs
and a few young moms but the three men found one another and became
friends.
Jack, a stand-up bass player in Jazz bands at night, watched his two
boys during the day.  His wife is an attorney and she essentially pays
for everything.  Jack needs to pay his car insurance and for his own
food when he eats out.  Jack lives in a big house and loves watching
documentaries on Netflix.  He’s a good dad but has trouble being
patient with his son, Jack Jr. who has ADD.
Martin writes short stories and poetry and makes almost no money
except that he takes care of pre-school age children on Mondays from
9-3.  His daughter gets to be part of the school for free and they
give Martin $200.00 a day for his work.  That money needs to stretch
all week.  His wife is a schoolteacher truly believes her husband will
get one of his manuscripts published one day.  She asks Martin to see
the queries he sends out daily to ensure that he is not playing video
games all day while their toddler twins play close by.
Buck is a high school hockey coach by night and a stay at home dad by
day.  Buck also plays hockey and is a referee to earn a few extra
dollars.  Buck makes $10,000.00 between September and March and then
he gets a few hundred for running clinics and camps in the summer
months.
When times were tough at home for the boys and their spouses, the
fact that their wives were carrying them more or less, did not go
without mention.  Martin’s wife was probably the harshest with him in
that he would go long periods of time without writing anything.  His
response would be that when there is acrimony between them, he
couldn’t get in the mindset to write anything.  Her response would be,
“Then go get a fucking job like every other man on the planet and quit
fucking moping…”
Jack’s wife hated Jazz but was turned on by him playing the stand-up
bass.  She wanted her husband to give music lessons on the side to
children to help make more money but he said that he really hated
children other than his own.  Truth be told, Jack wasn’t entirely sure
that he liked his boys all that much.  They were loud and messy and
truly whining little bitches in his opinion.  He felt that their mom
coddled them way too much.
Buck’s wife liked that her husband was rough and straightforward.  If
you were ugly, Buck might tell you so.  He was hard on his hockey
players and trained them to be as rough as possible.  Buck often wore
a shirt that he had made up himself that read, “MAKE HOCKEY VIOLENT
AGAIN”.  Buck still played ice hockey and still fought as a man in his
later forties.  His large dick could get hard on command and for that
reason, his wife found redeeming value in her caveman.
Martin spoke to an owner of a small restaurant about having a poetry
reading night once a week on a Tuesday night.  Most of the poetry
sucked but the authors believed it to be good.  Some would read short
stories or essays but most were poems.  Martin began a Meet-Up poetry
night at the same small club where Jack played Jazz at a drop-in Jazz
night on Wednesdays.  The owner, desperate for extra business, allowed
the bad poetry night and circle jerking Jazz musicians to play the
same tired old shit like hymns at a protestant church.  Jack played
the bass softly while people read.  There was a local finalist who
read his award-winning poem first.  His poem earned him a place in an
anthology of poems and a $500.00 award.  His name was Bruce and he
smelled of onions and had greasy wispy hair.  His collared shirt was
stained around the armpits and his ass crack hung out of the back of
his pants when he sat down.  He looked nearly homeless but was
actually a rich trust funder who never had to work a day in his life.
Nobody understood his poem but they all agreed it was good.  A young
black man came up and read his next.  He dug the bass behind him.  He
had a large Afro and was slightly angry just because it was en vogue.
He came from adopted white lesbians in a well to do area of town.  The
young, thin man grabbed the microphone and paced back and forth like a
distressed lion in a cage.
“What you need to know is a knee makes me free.  A knee tells the
world about my plight and all the things in society that just ain’t
right.  What you need to know is that my life matters and as a matter
of fact, you can’t know what it’s like to be in my skin or understand
where I’ve been.  A knee makes it right and I have the right to right
a wrong…  Play that bass, motha fuckah!”
A man named Jose came up and asked Jack to play the bass line for the
girl from Ipanema while he strummed a guitar and sang in Portuguese.
Nobody knew what he was saying but it really sounded nice.  The
English translation was not as nice.
“I loved to love you and loved you with all my muscle.  When you
fucked me in the ass, I  fucked you in the ass for real.  How dare you
take my shit and give me diseases.  Even though you did many wrong
things, I would take you back but lock my things up.  I love you…  I
love you…”
Next was the sushi woman.  The sushi woman catered parties dressed
like Betty Page from the 1950’s with no shirt on and a multitude of
tattoos.  Guys hired her for bachelor parties and football games.  Her
name is Gretchen; she’s 27, teaches Pilates and has a side gig as a
topless sushi maker.  Her poetic rant against Trump was with her shirt
off.  Over her nipples were two X’s of black tape.  She wore tight
black exercise pants and high heels her hair was poofed up high and
her black lipstick was thick.  Thick enough to need a scrubber to get
the paraffin off of her wine glass at the end of the night.  The men
didn’t give a damn about the message.  They marveled at her tight body
and round breasts.  People off the street stopped as they walked by to
look at the young woman on a stage, under lights.
“You’re not my president.  I’m no longer a resident of this country…
You shattered my hopes; you’ve shattered my dreams.  You taken the
best part of me and pulled it from my breast…” Gretchen cupped her
left breast from underneath.  Her natural breasts were round and firm.
Everyone clapped for her as if it was the best thing they ever heard.
She then passed out cards for her sushi catering with a picture of
herself without a shirt on, arms crossed, holding two knives.
Last to come up was Buck.  He had never done something like writing
poetry and reciting it.  He was strong looking and stood with his left
hand in his pocket.  He wore a CCM hat and an Expos T shirt.  Buck
looked out of his element.
“I was a lad near Montreal.  J’ai parle Francais chez moi…  My dad
listened to Hockey Night in Canada sur la radio…  Patriotic?  you
better believe, I wear it on my sleeve.  Red, White and Blue, les
trois colouer of the Canadiens of Montreal.  I might buy you a beer
and talk about the power play, I might beat your ass on the ice the
following day.  Don’t take offense, its just hockey.  Hockey might be
better than sex.  The sound of the crowd and the puck inside the net.
The wind blowing around my ears and the snot flying around your helmet
and the tears as I cartwheel your ass with a solid hip check.  A slap
shot, wrist shot, a child in the stands cheering a lot.  Wearing the
sweater to your favorite team, playing outside on a winter day, sweat
steaming from under your hat.  This is life; this is where it’s at.  I
hope to play this game til I die.  Don’t understand?…  Enough of this
bullshit and listen to the man play the bass.  Coffee tomorrow at the
park, boys?  Solid Jackson play it out…  In case you didn’t know,
Kerouac was Quebecois too… I rest my case.”

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Cool Hand Ray

April 1, 2011

Maeve was one of those really lucky people who were born unto money. Her father made money on simple things like parking garages, laundry mats and gumball machines. He made Maeve a partner in a Jazz club he owned and purchased her house for her as well as paid her taxes. To make her feel as though she was doing something more than just spending money, Maeve’s father purchased a club and made her “The Boss”. There were accountants and general mangers and everything worked just fine without Maeve. Maeve’s main job was to travel the world to find good wine. They stopped serving food for a while and people stopped coming to the club for the most part. They once served juicy steaks that commanded $45.00 a plate. Free range, grass fed Bison was their specialty. These bison roamed not far from where Custer met his match and then they wound up on plates in downtown Detroit. This all came to an end when Maeve took over.
Maeve physically accosted the chef and sous chef and then invited food shelters and the homeless to take all the meat in the restaurant and so they did. For a good week or so, the most fabulous smells emanated from vacant lots not far from downtown Detroit. Salads with nuts and alfalfa were served and not too many people cared for that. Maeve’s father convinced Maeve that she had to at least serve exotic cheese from Spain, France and Germany. Maeve picked the cheeses herself from farms that she visited while in Europe. She wanted to be sure that none of the animals were being abused or exploited in the giving of milk. The club began to rebound a bit.
The next order of business was to make the Jazz super club a Jazz club once again. Maeve’s unwashed, unshaven, slovenly bust out of a husband was only allowed to play his homemade Blues on Sunday nights after 9pm until everyone left which was usually around 11pm. George spent the rest of his week watching their toddler son who spent his time watching Elmo and throwing handmade German blocks with numbers and letters on them at their cat. George was very nervous about their son Nathan being abusive towards the house cat since his wife was a member of PETA. George hated the indifferent feline for pissing on his 1959 Guild Guitar that was once played by Dwayne Eddy. George tried to get the pungent smell of cat piss off of his guitar but it was to no avail. The cat urine had saturated the wood. And so George played his $20,000.00 collector‘s item and had to put up with the smell of piss. For that he hated the cat. Their son just loved making the cat run and hiss by throwing finely crafted blocks from Germany. He was after all a boy.
Now when Maeve was not finding exotic wine and cheese for her Jazz bistro in Detroit, she was flitting around the world in a quest to find stuff that was good but that nobody had ever heard of. Maeve came back from Bilbao, Spain and featured a Basque guitarist that she met and managed to have relations with while visiting a small farm. Dunixi played at a small café near the ocean and was handsome with long hair and a rugged four day growth on his face at all times. He wore a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the top four buttons unbuttoned and clam digger pants rolled up. He wore a tortured face and banged Gypsy like music on the guitar and sang in Basque. He spoke no English and nobody spoke a lick of Basque and so for a week the Jazz bistro featured the great Dunixi. Some people swore they had heard of him and really they hadn’t. After Dunixi, there were Mexican guitarists and Brazilian guitarists and even a large Samoan looking man from New Zealand who played the Didgeridoo while another man played dissonant Jazz on a tenor saxophone and read poetry. Maeve made it with all these men. It was like big game hunting for her. She loved her husband and her son dearly but at the same time the domesticity bored her and besides, saving animals was really her passion.
Wherever Maeve went, she donated money to people that were fighting zoos or stores that sold leather goods or even grocery stores. She didn’t have the time and energy to be a foot soldier and so she showed up at rallies to speak and throw money at those that had given up their lives to more or less walk in the path towards a non-carnivore existence for humanity.
Maeve came home in her H3 Hummer that was gift from her father late one evening to their Farmington Hills mansion that had a large circular drive, two water fountains in the front and a pool sized Jacuzzi in the back. Maeve decided after closing the club for the night to come home and go directly to the back yard and hop into the Jacuzzi. The light sensor light in back that detected motion was out and the night was as dark as pitch. There was no moon and not enough starlight to see one’s hand in front of their face. Maeve crept down the wooden staircase to where the dial was to start the jets. Maeve stumbled and fell buck naked over a bag of garbage that was left on the bottom step. As she was falling she kneed the head of a large raccoon that was feasting on the garbage left in the bag. George didn’t make time to change the light earlier in the day and was afraid for himself that he would cross the path of a coyote and so he made the decision to leave the plastic bag full of garbage on the steps until morning. Maeve had interrupted a large male raccoon’s feast.
Maeve screamed George’s name as if she was being killed. She stood on the dewy, wet grass. The raccoon was not moving aside for Maeve to climb the stairs and get into the house. George was paralyzed with terror himself. He was too afraid to go outside and risk being killed by robbers or rapists and thought did come to him that if they offed his lovely wife, he stood to make a lot of money. George stood in the shadows of the kitchen and let the chips fall where they may. He was rooting for a violent finish.
Ray, an architect from next door, was single and liked it that way. He built his home and modeled it after a Frank Lloyd Wright home he had seen in Wisconsin. Ray was in bed watching a movie when he heard the blood curdling scream. He grabbed his Maglight and the only weapon he had which was a great household appliance called a Swiffer.
Ray jogged over in his University of Michigan shirt that had a huge yellow M on a blue shirt and a pair of shorts. Ray was shocked to see his neighbor who was tall and shapely with breasts that were not too droopy for a woman of forty and not a strand of hair that could be detected around her vagina. Maeve actually had five out six visits necessary to complete the laser surgery and the last one was sort of like taking out the weed whacker after cutting the grass: just to get those hard to reach areas that the mower and edger cannot reach. To the untrained eye, Maeve was as bald as the day she was born.
After a good three seconds of the Maglight which was directly on Maeve, was then focused on the raccoon that was showing his teeth and growling. The raccoon was not going to leave the buffet he created without a fight. Ray poked at the animal that swiped at the Swiffer.
“Get him! Oh my god! Please get him!” Exclaimed Maeve, as she did her best to cover herself with her hands.
Ray jousted with the raccoon that hissed and edged closer to him in an attempt to climb the fence and take off. Suddenly Maeve didn’t seem to care if the animal was in danger of dying. She came to understand what animals know all too well; it is either the raccoon or them that were going to lose. Ray swung the Swiffer like a Louisville Slugger and smacked the raccoon in the ass, sending it tumbling over the fence. Maeve cried tears of relief and hugged Ray as she sobbed. Ray wanted to put his hands on her firm ass but instead patted her on the back the way a parent consoles a child who skinned knee. Ray had from a distance admired the woman’s free spirit and take charge attitude as well as her body. Ray gambled that to be forthright would be welcomed and so he rolled the dice. He spoke in a fake drawl. Ray was after all watching Cool Hand Luke on DVD when all hell broke loose.
“Anytime you need a real man… I mean a man you can depend on; you know where to find me. Whether you scream into the night or ring my bell. I am here for you Ms. Maeve Magorn.”
Ray grabbed her chin between his thumb and index finger and planted his warm tongue in her mouth. Maeve did not mind since she was already numb. George stood at the kitchen window and watched his wife kissing the neighbor who was still holding his wife with one hand and the Swiffer in the other.
Maeve slipped on her polka dot underwear with little ties on the side and walked in through the back door to find her husband standing in his white briefs with a bit of rust stain in the front holding the telephone. George’s hairy man boobs sagged as did his second trimester gut. His helpless expression only angered Maeve more. George couldn’t speak or blink as he stared at his angry wife. Maeve’s nostrils flared and her lips disappeared. George knew he had to speak and said the only thing most humans say when they cannot fix a situation properly.
“I’m so sorry…”
Like most other situations, it did nothing but further angered Maeve. Things were thrown and there was screaming and the sounds of an infant crying. Ray thought to himself as he settle back into bed in his quiet room and resumed the movie that maybe having nothing, like Luke said, was a cool hand.