Harold and Kumar go to Ustream

                Johnny Vulpine transmits from his secret compound in New England. I’ve met him in person, at Steve Roggenbuck’s reading in Bushwick, Brooklyn, New York. From what I gleaned off of meeting him, he’s a great man a man who will help change the face of poetry readings as I know it. With a quiet, thoughtful demeanor and obvious surplus quantities of that undefined item known as ‘swag’ I enjoyed seeing him in real life and hope to meet him again next time there’s a great East Coast poetry tour. Personally I’m glad that he did not question my identity, he could feel it in his bones. Sometimes I wonder if there’s a fake Beach Sloth out there like in that “Frasier” episode where Nathan Lane pretends to be Frasier to bang bodacious well-educated PhD holding bitches. Guess I’ll never know. 

                I waited in the Chat room. Multiple fans of Johnny Vulpine sat longing for his words of wisdom. We wanted Johnny to impart all his years of wisdom in a few short lines. You see that’s Johnny’s method. By focusing on shorter-length items (like the kind he read before on ustream, or in Bushwick, or in countless other-literary environments) he’s able to make the audience pay attention to mood, texture, and humor whereas with longer-form poems these little touches might be lost forever. 

                A room bathed in a yellow hue came up. Everyone in the chat watched people mill around and talk almost themselves. Johnny wore his Sheriff’s badge, full evidence he’d made it through the difficult process to become a full member of poetry-law enforcement. We got to see Johnny’s harem. Johnny lives in a house filled with girls who love poetry, or, as I call it “Heaven”. To fully make us feel at home we saw pictures of Pokémon with boobs, heard random Borat jokes, and overheard people coordinating alcohol consumption. 

                Ellen read Matt Margo’s work to drive him wild. Butt plugs came up a lot during the poem. You see with Flarf you don’t know what you’re going to get. That’s what happens. People around Ellen felt the love, the care, and the tender affection Matt had for the common butt plug device. 

                Abby came next reading her poetry. Read with flair, she managed to add a lot more intensity than I initially expected. People say I don’t have much inflection in my voice so I’m a bit jealous of other people who can express emotion. I’m terminally chill I reckon. “Juggalo Suicide Note” ended the work. She read in a Boston accent. 

                Everything froze with Sheila’s reading. Her computer froze. The video froze. For a few moments the whole internet stopped for Sheila. After she finished reading we looked at “The Nutty Professor” for a couple of moments. The Nutty Professor’s psychotic gaze disturbed me in ways I can’t possibly comprehend. I’m certain later tonight I’ll be visited by that Professor giving me some multiple choice test for a class I haven’t studied for yet.

                Bathed in amber glow came Amber French to read to us. We sat amazed while she read her poetry. In between her reading she kissed a black cat for luck. Black cats are known for bad luck. Kissing them gives you good luck according to ancient Slovenian folklore. Dragon dicks came up in the reading along with chocolate trees. 

                Many miles away Greg Santos came at us. Not from the secret New England location, no he pre-recorded himself. We watched his YouTube clip from the computer. So it was multi-computer viewing. “I wanted to hear the chorus” he said as the chorus began. Greg read a few pieces of work, including some lyrics. Pop music played in the background while Greg rocked out pretty hard. 

                Poetry readings require alcohol. During a ‘beer run’ an event considered a rite of passage for countless teenagers and twenty-somethings. Abby read. We applauded her. Then she read a ‘girl-depressing poem’ (her description). She looked at my online presence and asked me about my favorite author Thomas Pynchon. Matt Margo will start with “V.” which makes me infinitely happy. 

                Finally it ended with a certain amount of madness. Everyone came together to make Mac N Cheese pizza. We learned how to wash our hands. More than that, we learned about the thriving poetry community in New Hampshire. Perhaps the Republican candidates will realize that when they amble on through New Hampshire. Most likely they’ll just talk about some kind of ‘job creation’ nonsense. Their loss is our gain.