BE A PROFESSIONAL & COME OUT SWINGING: SOME TIPS ON GIVING A SUCCESSFUL LITERARY READING.

Be prepared to read wherever your travels may take you, even
from a smartphone, if necessary. Blurriness optional. 

I reckon that, by now, I have attended and / or managed enough literary readings—from soloist recitals to cattle call events at several national conferences—to aver that I have witnessed better than 2,500 authors officiating at the podium. Some of these readings have stunned me, to be sure, influenced me, and revitalized my faith in literature, while the majority of them have been mediocre, and within that group, I have witnessed several bust-out disasters, and I mean vehicles afire, crashing, amid screams. For those readings (and readers) as well as for the Future of Our Kind, I offer this basic primer on stepping to the podium and offering a sturdy account of one’s writings.

1. BE A PROFESSIONAL. I just love a reader who slinks to the microphone without having selected what he intends to read. He thumbs through a couple books, mutters like a bum, and holds the audience responsible for his predicament. Never mind the reader who arrives an hour late, and must be fed the Big Boy Platter, first, before he can step to the microphone and thumb dumbly through his material. Can you prepare in advance? Yes, you can, Hot Pants, you can apply stickies, if necessary, to your pages, you can be on time, and you can be truly Dependable.

2. COME OUT SWINGING. That’s a double entendre meant to channel the spirit of a boxer, for one, but mostly the spirit of a jazz musician. Be loud. Chase the nerves. If you let the nerves chase you, then your voice will shrink and shrink until it cracks, a sound not unlike a person falling through thin, thin ice into a cold, cold lake. Need to warm up first? Why not sing? I endorse a song, so long as it’s unpretentious, so long as you’re not pretending to be Mr. Five By Five, since, you know, there was only one Mr. Five By Five, and his name was Jimmy Rushing.

3. DON’T EXPLAIN, JUST READ. In all likelihood, you haven’t been invited to preside over a Literary Explanation but a Literary Reading. Show us your work. Don’t launch into lengthy “tellings” that may rival the lengths of your stories or poems. Some explanations turn out to be more compelling than the actual creative piece, leading the audience to wonder why the writer had published the creative piece, as opposed to the explanation. I’m hardly against a few short words to preface a story, or a novel excerpt, or poems, but that’s all: a few short words.

4. KNOW YOUR AUDIENCE / KNOW YOUR VENUE. Perhaps you ought to avoid reading your series of gnarly poems—“Gigantic Beef Cutlets, 5 a.m.”—at the annual gathering of the North American Vegan Association. [Aside: I was once invited to read for the Senior Cits group at a synagogue, but all they wanted to talk about was the poor lunch they’d been served; there was no reading!] A daytime audience, for example, in columns and rows, will probably demand more measure, whereas a night-time pub crowd will demand more chaos. Plan accordingly.

5. PLEASE AVOID THOSE FALSE IAMBICS. Not all lines of fiction or poetry are meant to be recited, “whose WEED this IS i THINK i KNOW / his STASH is IN the VILLage THOUGH”, or if they are, then all audience members are meant to go home and register themselves, posthaste, as Next in Line for Invasive Examination. Deliver no two lines the same! You can read slower or faster. With more emphasis or less. Quieter or louder. With potato starch or tapioca starch. With Cholula or salsa verde. You can exclaim. You can hush. You can pause!

6. PRACTICE FOR THE UNEXPECTED. I recommend that you practice reading your writings regularly, and at that, practice with the stereo playing. That is, practice amid distraction, such that you won’t be thrown off-kilter when (A) Riders on horseback gallop through outdoor event* or (B) Engineers with political haircuts heckle* or (C) Chubby man snores in front row and cuts boggling fart—while asleep—that sounds like water cooler gurgling*. (Asterisk = actual event.) Oh yes, The Beast & His Value Set will interfere with a literary reading, again and again.

7. A CONVERSION TABLE ON DURATION. If asked to read for 45 minutes then read for 40 minutes. If asked to read for 30 minutes, then read for 25 minutes. If asked to read for 25 minutes, then read for 22 minutes. If asked to read for 20 minutes, then read for 18 minutes. If asked to read for 15 minutes, then read for 12 minutes. If asked to read for 10 minutes, then read for 8 minutes. If asked to read for 5 minutes, then read for 3 minutes. If asked to read your literature for 1 minute, then read your literature precisely for 20 seconds, including intermission.

8. QUIT ALL THE SELF-DEPRECATING COMMENTARY WHILST ONSTAGE. I just love a writer who interrupts his readings to apologize for the inadequacies of his presentation. He hardly means it, of course. To the contrary, he’s trying to win sympathy from those assembled, and he’s shameless in pursuing such a tack. When he offers—“That giant sucking sound going south isn’t NAFTA, nope, it’s the sound of this reading”—he’s issuing a declaration which compels the audience, in his estimation, to reply, “Come one, man, no, you’re great!” Cut it out!

9. YOU CAN BE TIGHT BUT NOT BLIND. It doesn’t make you tough to empty a fifth of Jack Daniels at the podium, but prepares you, instead, for a series of slurred syllables and awkward stumbles, as your body attempts to reconcile your inebriation with the centripetal forces of the Earth. A drink before the reading can help steady the nerves, of course, and there’s nothing wrong with that, but to be “blind” is to invite embarrassment, Hot Pants, not only upon you, but upon the people who invited you to read. Hey: moderation ain’t just a role in a dispute.

10. SPECIAL CASE: IF SCHEDULED TO READ IN THE LATTER ROUNDS OF A CATTLE CALL EVENT. Generally speaking, I do well enough at a literary reading, but I’ve had trouble at the ‘Cattle Call’ events that can occur in and around conferences such as AWP, MLA, or the Waiters’ reading at Bread Loaf. If you go early enough, it’s no big deal, but all that nervous energy can build up, if you’re scheduled to go later in the night. My suggestions: leave the venue at some point; play pinball or pachinko; return a few readers before your slot.

11. WHATEVER YOU DO, MAINTAIN A LITTLE EYE CONTACT. There are probably a few cute people in the room, and you’d miss them, if you didn’t sling your eyesight here and there. You won’t lose your place if you mark your place with the thumb or pointer finger of your free hand. Meantime, check out the hotties. Read to them. You’re not reading to a piece of paper, after all. You’re not reading to a podium. Have fun. Enjoy yourself. Laugh at a few of your own jokes, but don’t laugh at all of your own jokes. Maintain an appropriate level of malevolence.  

12. OFFER THANKS. At the end of your reading, don’t forget to thank your hosts, your fellow readers, and the audience. If you’re not in a pub, then proffer an enjoinder such that the audience—including hotties from #11—should join you for conversation at a pub. The reading is one thing, and is great, but community is the next logical thing, the logical outgrowth of a reading, and fine conversation and fine libations should be associated, at all costs, with a great event. I, myself, drink STOUT, but there should be an array of medicaments available for all.

For a few tips on the writer’s lifestyle, see Blogpost to aYoung Poet. 

THE TOP 10 REASONS YOU TOOK OUT YOUR SCRAPER BOX IN 2012.

Think Outside The Scraper Box!

10. Because The Worm Is Living With Shayna In The Trailer. Why call him The Worm and not The Wriggler or The Snake or The DigDug Creature or The Silverfish? Because he’s The Worm! And he’s living with Shayna in the trailer! So you fired up the Scraper Box (again) dammit!

9. Because Your Daddy Took Out His Scraper Box And Your Daddy’s Daddy Took Out His Scraper Box. There’s nothing so powerful as the notion of three generations taking out their Scraper Boxes, driving them around properly in the usual manner, returning them to a sensible storage area, and disembarking to the traditional welcome that one would receive, including a reasonable portion of suckling pig.

8. To Join The 1,000,000 Scraper Box March. What a spectacle! All them Scraper Boxes amidst the circular wavings of Patriotic Towels, amidst the droppings of Patriotic Confetti, amidst the Keynote Address by the ghost of Marlon Brando, and his Keynote Refrain: “The Hauling, The Hauling!”

7. Woke Up In The Middle Of The Night And Didn’t Know Where You Were. Nothing comforts a touch o’ the Nocturnal Paranoia more than a little trip on the Scraper Box, unless, that is, the Nocturnal Paranoia does not abate, and you were then a Paranoiac riding around on your Scraper Box at night.

6. To Show Someone Else A Good Time. Uh huh, okay, I see how you—wink! wink!— ‘took out the ol’ scraper box last night’, you ol’ devil you, you ol’ Casanova you, you ol’ PLAYA!

5. One Too Many Jokes That Began With A Boot Up Someone’s Butt. So, a patient appears in the Emergency Room, complaining of an “Inability to Void.” Upon further examination, the doctor discovers a boot lodged in the patient’s butt, and says, (Irish accent optional), Would that Inability to Void ‘ave anything to do with the boot stuck up your arse? Oh that, says the patient, Nah, that’s but a coincidence, been there for years, the boot. No, I really cannot void, I can’t!

4. The, Everything Happens For A Reason, Reason. Don’t know why you took out your Scraper Box? Many Americans cannot fathom the Action-Consequence Continuum, either, so let’s just say what they say—that Divinity wanted you to take out your Scraper Box, and anything that happens (e.g., happy or destructive) must be due to Divinity.

3. To Think Outside The Scraper Box. One always sits outside the Scraper Box, of course, but the real trick is to do some Deep Thinking while astraddle your Machinery.

2. The Economy Is Rebounding. The rebound will lead to Many Possible Americas, including DigDug Creatures, Breakfast Potatoes, and Obese Conservatism, thus choose the off-ramp for your Scraper Box judiciously.

1. Willard “Mitt” Romney Was Defeated. Good ol’ Mitt wouldn’t own a Scraper Box, unless Cadillac made one, and then I spoze he’d strap the dog to it, or drive it into an elevator, or buy 50 of them: two for each house. 

WHEN RAPID GROWTH UNCOUPLES FROM LOCAL PRINCIPLES: REFLECTIONS ON THE WICKEDNESS OF MY FIRST EMPLOYER, ARTHUR ANDERSEN & CO.

The horror! A rediscovered notepad.

The man who founded Arthur Andersen & Co. nearly a hundred years ago in Chicago, a young professor conveniently named Arthur Andersen, once refused a client’s plea to ‘cook the books’ during the client’s annual audit, even as Andersen was struggling to pay his employees. He famously proclaimed that “all the money in the city of Chicago” would not lead him to compromise his ideals, and the client, the owner of a railroad utility, fired him. The railroad company, as the story continues, failed, and in the wake of this double bankruptcy—both commercial and moral—the little accounting firm stood, vindicated, in the sturdy terrain of ethical principles. (Two heavy wooden doors, replicas of the firm’s original entrance-way, would become the company’s enduring trademark.) A partner rehearsed this ditty for me when I joined ‘Arthur’ in 1990 as an entry level research economist charged to support the firm’s growing practice in cross-border transactions. In short, my group would assist foreign multinational corporations—mostly Japanese and German—in dodging their fair share of U.S. tax. These corporations, from the lands of the former Axis Powers, did staggering American business in vehicles, machinery, electronics, and other goods, yet in many cases, paid little or no tax on their U.S. operations. Given the deep pockets of these clients, Arthur could out-muscle the understaffed Internal Revenue Service, which otherwise sought to collect. A two million dollar investment in hiring the heft of Arthur, for instance, would likely avoid a two billion dollar judgment, and in the end, fewer than all the Yen in the city of Tokyo and fewer than all the Deutschmarks in the city of Berlin could, indeed, purchase creative reporting from Arthur. Work-products were often tailored to please the client, and amid the firm’s break-neck sprint to amass billable hours, professional objectivity was discarded in the name of profits. Around the same time, the United States entered a fairly steep recession, one that underscored the decay of American manufacturing, and where U.S. manufacturers had shuttered their doors, Japanese and German companies in many industries prospered. To my knowledge, Arthur did not engage personnel in Tokyo or Berlin to assist American multinationals in avoiding their fare share of Japanese and German tax, or if it did, the firm derived little revenue from this activity. The idea of growth isn’t, by itself, corrupt, but growth uncoupled from the ‘local’ principles upon which Arthur Andersen & Co. was founded, did lead to systemic corruption. I sat at a cubicle for two years, researching and writing bits and pieces, occasionally directing small client engagements, leaving in 1992. Numerous scandals could have erupted in various corners of Arthur, and eventually, some court actions did materialize. One in particular, involving the audit of Waste Management, served to weaken the firm’s clean-cut aura, before another case, Enron, drew considerable attention and toppled both companies in 2002. Before the Enron debacle, the firm’s consulting wing severed itself from Arthur and became Accenture, a company that continues to thrive today. At its peak, Arthur had been the ‘Titanic’ of global auditing firms, with billions of dollars in annual revenue and a couple hundred thousand audit and consulting employees worldwide. In its greed, however, the firm misapplied its role as independent auditor and consultant, enabling other enterprises in their greed to shelter profits (among other scams). Ten years after Enron, many wealthy corporations—notably led by the financial services sector—continue to abuse their relationships with money . . . and the law. It’s easy to argue for oversight, and there should be oversight, of course, but on the other hand, the larger and wealthier and more arrogant the corporation, the more it comes to resemble a disease. After Arthur’s indictment in federal court, its worldwide practice buckled and perished in a matter of weeks, one client after another dumping its former auditors. I resigned from the firm for three reasons: a supervisor refused my petition for a reduction in overtime so I could care for a dying relative; the unethical commerce at play; and I accepted a small fellowship to write poetry. Ultimately, I, the little poet, endured. 

ALL THIS TALK ABOUT TIGER WOODS.

A Fair & Lovely Lea.

All this talk about Tiger Woods and his ‘sex addiction’ as if the man were humping what, the front nine holes at Augusta? How many American men regret not going out for JV Smurf in high school? That, of course, could’ve led to Varsity Smurf, and ultimately to lettering, i.e., a jacket, but no, didn’t go out for JV Smurf. Instead, these men grew up trying to emulate Captains of Industry—as if a ‘Captain’ in this context were some kind of ceremonial post, as if one would be the ‘Captain’ of Exxon, or Mercedes Benz, or the House of Hapsburg. As if there was any industry for anyone to captain, in any event, as opposed to a bunch of shoddy warehouses rusting the very dead ground upon which they were erected. What’s the greater joke—that our business leaders are ‘captaining’ square feet of empty air, or that generations of ‘Captains’ have presided over one big ejaculation that squandered the nation’s fixed assets? Perhaps a prophylaxis should be administered to every chap who seeks to emigrate or establish asylum in our fair land. He should be read the words “Welcome to America” as he is being flossed. His sons, he will think, in that moment, will grow up and go out for JV Smurf. That, or they could, one day, make love to a bearclaw or a cruller. It would be too dangerous after all to masturbate with a doughnut, seeing how the average law enforcement professional gravitates toward those confections. The clouds, the clouds, over the water tower, the water tower. Despite all the human activity to the contrary, the cycle of beauty—nimbostratus, stratus—can reassemble every day. 

THEY DON'T LET YOU LIVE 3: THE BLUE SWEATER FOOTAGE.

My pop responds to stimuli w/ his favorite phrase.

When I arrived Chez Gutstein for Thanksgiving, it was clear that my pop had readied himself for some serious Q & A, given his choice of sweater. Blue means business, so we didn't waste any time getting right down to brass tacks, and once again pop proved to be singly opinionated, and audible, both. The magic is in the answer that really isn't an answer, and with that thought in mind, I give you The Blue Sweater Footage. 

TO ACHIEVE A MORE DIGNIFIED POVERTY.

“Airing one’s laundry” used to be respectable!

Let’s start by changing the word “ghetto” to “grotto”, in that, you don’t live in The Ghetto, you live in The Grotto, and how about that girl you’d like to chase?, she doesn’t dress “so ghetto” but she dresses “so grotto.” Consider some famous people who arose from humble circumstances, such as the First Artist of the Renaissance, Giotto di Grotto, and the fifth Marx brother, Aleppo, the Syrian Marxist, who engaged in Trumpet l’oeil, which is Vaudeville for ‘Trompe the eye.’ It’s all about getting to be Persona au Gratin as opposed to being Potato non Grata. Are you hiring? Who’s hiring? Well, how about employing a word if you’re hiring, and that word is Celestiality, the urge to have relations with the constellations. Have you lost your virginity? Have you found someone else’s virginity? Either way, you can visit the Virginity Lost ‘n’ Found, to claim a lost virginity or make-available a virginity you discovered in an underwear state, like Ohio. I mean, I’m from Ohio, and I can tell you that Ohio is home to any number of people who have Truss Funds. Sonny Pro Bono didn’t Cher & Cher alike, but he did act in the public interest, he did install his Cherware, and he didn’t really flaunt his timecher in Vietnam, where the Vietnamese kosher pig situation has hardly been resolved. That is, the pig has come to understand that it’s not in his best interests to chew his own cud. I say the pig because there’s only one pig in question, so even if he were declared kosher, there’d be a considerable battle for him and his, uh, loins. Up that alley, Ask Not For Whom the Taco Bell Tolls — the Taco Bell Tolls for Thee.  

THE GREAT SCANSION OF 2012.

This was a stressful election!

This is, what I would call, “Trochaic / iambic dimeter.” You could argue a secondary stress on the “ba” in “Obama” but I prefer the “THUMPety” of the trochee, myself. I don’t consider myself a “Trochee Man”, necessarily, since I like to think of myself as a “Man of All Meter.” (I’m quite egalitarian in that way.) Of course, there’s a trochee to “Willard” but we won’t need to deal with that trochee very much longer. Some trochees come and some trochees go. Some trochees spend billions of dollars over seven years doing nothing more than complaining. While this blog, and this post, are 100% free. One election won’t solve our problems but I’d like to borrow an old joke and say that “iamb hopeful.” And I’d like to vote for Joe in 2016.