Once upon a time a polar bear with an American flag tattoo came into the library looking for gold. “Bullion!” He Screamed. “Give me all your Bullion!” His voice reverberated off of the books like fingernails shot at a blackboard from a cannon. The polar bear filled the foyer of the James K. Polk Memorial Library completely. His empty stare and enormous frame made him look like a methadone addict who had a patriotic accident in a tattoo parlor that specializes in bear arms.

Uncharacteristically confused, Eliza the stereotypically mild mannered librarian with impeccable hygiene stammered something about her unfortunate lack of golden coins and seemed immediately to return to her Jane Austen. She was scared. But Jane Austen prepares one for just about anything. The clinched fist of the tattooed bear arm slammed on to the reference desk with the authority and greed of a polar politician. “I’m not kidding. Give me the freaking Bullion.”

Being quick witted and pun-happy, always in a mild mannered manner of course, Eliza asked the brazen bear if he wanted Bullion or Bouillon. Oblivious to homophones the allegiant armed gold seeker thought she was making fun of him and not the English language. He bit the monitor off the computer and spit it across the library floor. Eliza knew this bear wanted gold and not soup.

Buried deep beneath the floor of the Polk Memorial Library was the city of Gold that had escaped the quest of Coronado. The Aztec city had been underneath an Indian reservation until 1995 when in an ironic sesquicentennial nod to Polk’s Manifest Destiny New Mexico used eminent domain to seize a Pueblo burial ground for memorial and literary purposes. The bear knew this. Eliza did not. The bear did not know that Eliza did not know. If this were Jane Austen this next part would take place through a series of letters.

“Stop messing around”

“I’m not messing around. There is no Gold Bullion in the Polk Memorial Libarary Mr. Bear Sir”

“Don’t call me sir”

“What should I call you then”

“Reginald”

The bears name was not Reginald.

“Well Reginald, I’m going to have to ask you to leave unless you can use your Library voice.

He speaks in the best library voice of a polar bear “I smell Bullion”

Eliza mentally avoids several puns “ I don’t know what to tell you”

“Tell me it’s mine”

“It’s yours”

This was all the permission the bear needed to start digging. He lifted huge parts of the floor out instantaneously with his uneatable bear claws. He knew if their were still Bullion it would be buried deep. Not Reginald was a naturalized U.S. Citizen and had been working in the construction business outside Albuquerque since he came here from Antarctica during the Carter Administration. His digging skills were well honed. After less than a minute he was 40 feet beneath the books.

Shocked at this bears lack of manners Eliza did what any Jane Austen loving Librarian would do. She shot the polar bear in the face.

When the police came to clean up the bi-polar polar bear Eliza claimed self-defense. She served 30 years in the New Mexico State Penitentiary for bear-slaughter. Besides joining the Arian Nation, she writes a lot of passionate letters and serves as the prisons librarian. The bullion is still buried beneath the old reference desk of the Polk Memorial Library where there now stands a statute of the mentally ill polar bear with the American Flag tattoo with a simple inscription: Not Named Reginald.

On the corner of a daydream and when Dylan went electric
They spoke with Bertrand Russell on the heart's of modern skeptics
The newspaper he read from twinkled like an epileptic
It was boring until sunset shouted down the man’s phonetics

On the corner of a rabies shot and paranoid delusions
He skipped through the democracy and suffered deep contusions
Intermittent lawlessness; the cause of revolutions.
Born of flesh the Hero dies at hands of institutions.

On the corner of a time constraint and false sense of myself
A bartender will pour a shot and drink alone his health
Dividing out the remnants of a murder victims wealth
Two pence for the mother and the rest goes on the shelf

On the corner of a sweater vest and Marxist nation state
Many fools collect the hearts of damsels laid in wait
Distracted beyond forgiveness in their progress toward a mate
Each will count the cost and find it hard to separate

On the corner of a Tuesday and black journals without lines
She caught a bus to Petersburg and watched the New York Times
Unaware the highways are all booby trapped with mines
The writer wrote tomorrow and choked softly on the rinds

Wilbur the Combat Wombat

Punch, kick, shoulder to the face
Wilbur takes no prisoners.
Tactically trained
By Homeland Security
Wilbur fights terrorism
And he fights dirty.

Punch, kick, forearm to the groin
Wilbur hates terrorists
A congressional commission
After 9-11 authorized
Wilbur to eliminate enemies
Wombat style

Punch, kick, finger in the eye
Wilbur fights to kill
From Afghan hills to
Baghdad streets
Wilbur the Combat Wombat
Means business

Punch, kick, elbow to the spleen
Wilbur is unstoppable.
Stealth like a virus
Belly crawling into caves
Wilbur hunts Osama
Bowie Knife in his mouth

Punch, kick, boot to the throat
Wilbur is an American hero
A cross between Superman
And a Wombat
Wilbur wants justice
Wombat justice

Waiting For Godot:

A Tragicomedy in Two Acts

Hey Everyone.
If I haven't told you yet

I am in Gorilla Theater's Production of
Samuel Beckett's
Waiting For Godot.
It will be at
The Just Off Broadway Theatre
3051 Central
in Penn Valley Park
January 25th, 26th and 27th and
February 1st, 2nd and 3rd at 8:00 p.m. and
January 28th and February 4th at 2:00 p.m.

Tickets are 15$or 12$
for Students and Seniors
You can get tickets at the J.O.B Box Office
or by contacting
David Luby with Gorilla
at (816) 510-3372
or duby@kc.rr.com

Here is the whole press release if you want a professional write up of what the play is about. It is so professional they call me William. But if you just want my unprofessional take on it keep reading.

Waiting For Godot is a play about two men waiting for Godot. Two other guys come along and then leave, and then a little boy comes and leaves. Although it sounds pretty lame it is actually my favorite play of all time and really interesting. It is fun and philosophical and pretty powerful. As my wife would say it is kind of about nothing. But more so it is about what happens between birth and death. It is supposedly a pretty "important" literary work as far as I know. And now that I am trying to explain it, I see why Beckett when asked himself what it was about simply replied "It means what it says"

I play the part of Lucky. He is a slave/carrier of bags with a rope around his neck. I do a lot of standing around holding stuff. But for 3 straight pages in the middle of the show, I go on a long philosophical/nonsensical rant. It is pretty awesome.

Here is what the character looks like

I'm not quite as old as these guys but hopefully with a little bit of make-up I will look tragically/silly old-ish too. I am excited.

And for those of you who might be interested in a little more theological look at the play read this. My director gave it to us and I'm not sure I agree completely with the author but it is intriguing. It's a little long and I'm not sure anyone cares, but I read it so I’m going to link to it.

America: A Jerry Bruckheimer-ish Film
Rated R

All Politics Aside
It's time for an Assassination
No one in particular
The president comes to mind
But I would settle for a Vice
Or a Governator

If America is a Movie
And it is
We are in the long
Boring
Plot Thickening Middle
And I think it is time
For someone to get shot

Shot by some crazed
Out of work actor
Or something less cliché
Like a transvestite
Pro Wrestler
With Alzheimer's

There is too much talk
In Washington
And not enough
Getting Shot

As a citizen of this great country
I paid full price for my ticket
And I don't care who's in power
Nothing takes my mind off
The problems of the world
Like a good old
Assassination

So come on all you right wing kooks
You environmentalist whackos
You bi-polar anarchists
Bring your missile launchers
And your prison shanks
Make my popcorn
Taste of freedom.

I put a possum in my pocket
Everywhere I go
To protect against probability
My sister says I’m superstitious
But Probability is Math
And Math is a Science
And Scientists are not superstitious

So to sway my sister
This is my hypothesis

The probability of a piano
Plummeting from the sky and
Pancakeing a passerby
Is for the sake of argument
A one in a million
That’s not bad
But not bad is not good enough
For Science
So I put a possum in my pocket

Let me show you the Math
No one has a possum in their pocket
Because they eat pockets
And smell like pee.
The probability therefore
of a person who has a pocket possum
getting pummeled with a piano is
One in the entire population of the planet

Now potentially
Upon publication of this premise
People will Put Possums
in their pants pockets
Pushing the probability
Past the perfection point
And soon there will be news stories
Involving people possums and pianos
Popping up all over the place.

That is not the fault of Science
That is the fault of my sister

Let me show the Math
Sassy sister says scientist
Sibling is superstitious.
So said sibling summarizes
A Scientific supposition
Which suddenly circulates
His safety secrets
Somehow the son of science
Synchronizes his standard
Into a simple syllogism

If you subtly store something simple
In a sack a sock or a side pocket
Said simple something will
Substantially supplement survival
Or
Probability protects
Providing persons
Are good at Math
And sister-less

So select something
Not a possum to potentially pocket
And live forever.
It’s Science.

So this weekend I heard an awesome performance on Garrison Keillor's radio show A Praire Home Companion by my new favorite poet Billy Collins. Here is his fan site. He has an entire one of his CD's called The Best Cigarette avalible through a Creative Commons Licencse. That is awesome. It is also at Download.com.

I'm pretty sure he is my new poetic hero. Read this poem that made me fall in love with him.

The Revenant

I am the dog you put to sleep,
as you like to call the needle of oblivion,
come back to tell you this simple thing:
I never liked you--not one bit.

When I licked your face,
I thought of biting off your nose.
When I watched you toweling yourself dry,
I wanted to leap and unman you with a snap.

I resented the way you moved,
your lack of animal grace,
the way you would sit in a chair to eat,
a napkin on your lap, knife in your hand.

I would have run away,
but I was too weak, a trick you taught me
while I was learning to sit and heel,
and--greatest of insults--shake hands without a hand.

I admit the sight of the leash
would excite me
but only because it meant I was about
to smell things you had never touched.

You do not want to believe this,
but I have no reason to lie.
I hated the car, the rubber toys,
disliked your friends and, worse, your relatives.

The jingling of my tags drove me mad.
You always scratched me in the wrong place.
All I ever wanted from you
was food and fresh water in my metal bowls.

While you slept, I watched you breathe
as the moon rose in the sky.
It took all of my strength
not to raise my head and howl.

Now I am free of the collar,
the yellow raincoat, monogrammed sweater,
the absurdity of your lawn,
and that is all you need to know about this place

except what you already supposed
and are glad it did not happen sooner--
that everyone here can read and write,
the dogs in poetry, the cats and the others in prose.

- Billy Collins

Political Animal

On Thanksgiving I took my brother’s cat out for breakfast sausage
But IHOP was closed.
Probably because of the stupid parade
So we decided to go home and drink Bloody Marys.

I’d been wanting to get drunk and talk politics with an animal
Ever since the election,
And because my brother’s cat is a communist
I thought I would pick his brain about the current political climate.

Communists are fun to talk to while inebriated in the morning
Or anytime really
Just because of their mixture of Marxist ideals and mustaches
And my fraternal feline is heavy on the facial fur.

So he starts talking about the war and segues into the future utopia
Cats tend to over segue
Then because I agree to his basic premise of putting capitalists into gulags
We end up toasting Stalin and shouting about Land Reform

Out of nowhere my brothers cat starts making Jew Jokes
And it’s uncomfortable
Either because it was Thanksgiving or because I was drunk, I laugh.
And to this day I feel guilty when I eat at Jerusalem Café.

Once again another amazing piece of documentary madness.

Get ready for Ninja moves and Annie Oakley

Without further ado Two Original Song Poems by Caglar Juan Singletary.



This is from the flick Off the Charts. It originally aired on PBS and contains some magic moments that are absolutely incredible people. This guy writes poems and sends them off to a company that makes them into songs. And he pays them money.

If you like watching real people who live strange lives rent this from your local library

The Observant and the Crossdresser:
A Morality Play

Man 1: Those are women's socks

Man 2: So

Man 1: I didn't know you wear women's socks

Man 2: There is a lot you don't know about me.

Man 1: I've never seen you wearing women's socks before

Man 2: Are you constantly aware of my socks

Man 1: I make a point to notice things.

Man 2: Socks?

Man 1: Occasionally I notice socks.

Man 2: I think that that is a problem.

Man 1: And I think that it is a skill.

Man 2: A worthless creepy skill that will cause you problems.

Man 1: Are you threatening me?

Man 2: Not specifically

Man 1: Was it a general threat than?

Man 2: Just a warning. Know that sock watching may have consequences.

Man 1: No that is a threat. A malicious threat. I'm going to press charges.

Man 2: Go ahead.

Man 1: I'm serious.

Man 2: Be my guest.

Man 1: Oh you better make the guest bed because I am not messing around.

Man 2: I'll tell my wife

Man 1: Those are her socks aren't they?

Man 2: My socks are my business.

Man 1: Maybe that would be true if you wore longer pants. But they are clearly visible, Ipso Facto they are public space.

Man 2: Ipso Facto. Are you a lawyer now?

Man 1: Everybody says ipso facto.

Man 2: Nobody just goes around saying ipso facto about someone else's socks.

Man 1: That's just it. They are everyone's socks. Because of your high water pants.

Man 2: Just because I like my ankles to breathe now my socks belong to the masses.

Man 1: Masses? What are you some kind of philosopher.

Man 2: People say masses. Don't try to make masses into ipso facto. They are in totally different worlds my friend.

Man 1: The masses don't say masses.

Man 2: Some do.

Man 1: But the majority of the masses don't say masses. So ipso facto, masses and ipso facto are the same.

(Pause)

Man 2: You really think people can tell. I mean black socks are black socks. I was out of black socks and she hand some socks so I thought. Who cares, nobody notices socks.

Man 1: You'd be surprised what people notice.

Man 2: The fact that you are not dead or in jail makes me think that most average people don’t notice like you notice.

Man 1: What is that supposed to mean?

Man 2: I mean if everyone noticed you noticing them all the time they would punch you or shoot you or throw you in jail.

Man 1: It’s not a crime to be observant.

Man 2: It depends on whom and how you observe.

Man 1: I’m not illegally observing important peoples private property.

Man 2: Well you sure are all up in my ankles.

Man 1: All up in? Snoop Dogg is in the house.

Man 2: Oh shut up. Mr. “important peoples private property”. That alliteration is out of control. You sound like a 19^th century English poet on speed.

Man 1: Which one is the 19^th century?

Man 2: The 1800’s

Man 1: I always get that confused.

Man 2: Maybe you should have noticed more in school.

Man 1: Touché

Man 2: Because it means that you concede my point, and I also happen to like the word touché, I will not make fun of you for using it.

Man 1: Very well. Where were we? Ah Yes. I may concede that historical observation is not my strong suit, but that in no way makes cultural observation, which is indeed my specialty, somehow as you have suggested illegal. I mean who are you to go around threatening “consequences” for people who notice the gender of other people’s footwear. . .

Man 2: Just lay off about my socks.

Man 1: You mean your wives socks.

Man 2: Whoever’s socks.

Man 1: They could be more aptly described as stockings, or maybe even pantyhose.

Man 2: (Punches him in the face)

Man 1: (On ground) I’m trying to think of something witty to say after getting hit in the face by you . . . Something with punching and women’s socks . . .

Man 2: (Pulls gun) Say it, but just know it will not go unpunished.

Man 1: You sock like a girl.

Man 2: That is funny but it seemed a little forced.

Man 1: I know.

Man 2: What about “you sock”.

Man 1: I thought about that but I think it’s too raw. And we lost the whole female angle.

Man 2: Yeah.

Man 1: I’ve got it. Those socks go great with that right hook.

Man 2: Touché (Shoots him in the face)