Once again I find myself in a position where I am unable to
finish The Quandary because there’re just more important things going on. This
was my plan for the weekend! Hey, maybe tomorrow, the weekend is young.
Here’s the deal: On Thursday night my friend Mason, A.K.A.
the drug dealing murderer from my fictional work, called me with an invitation
to a show. To be more precise, a shit show. To be accurate, The New Sh!t Show,
somewhere in Minneapolis. He amused me with stories of creepy men in dresses on
a stage with poorly tuned audio equipment, and awkward interaction with the
audience. It sounded better than what I normally like to do on Friday nights;
sit at home in front of the T.V. Since one of my goals as of late is to be more
socially interactive, I said yes.
We arrived at a hole in the wall called the Fox Egg Gallery
on Chicago and 38th on the other side of the river. The windows were
literally covered with tarps and the stage was lit with two aluminum work
lights adhered to the wall with what looked like duct tape. The place looked
packed because it was small. We paid a small donation and took our seats and
waited. The house lights dimmed, and the shit show began.
I only took the one picture to capture the venue in its essence. Beautiful, no?
The Sh!t Show has some history. It was started in San Francisco
many years back as a way for emerging writers and poets to be heard and the
idea expanded to many major cities throughout our country and once it hit
Minneapolis the idea shifted slightly to allow any sort of artistic
performance, however crude.
As an aspiring writer, I liked the idea. And I was stimulated by most of what I saw.
Last night, as compared to the description of the last show, people seemed to
stick to the original concept. There were four walk-ups’ who all shared some
form of poetry. They were hit or miss, but it took courage for them to get up
on stage in front of forty or so people and spit it out. One man simply read
three minutes of a fictional book he had written, and that was it. Hell, I
could do that, right?
There was a brief intermission and we sat back down for the
main portion of the show. There would be
four performers, each taking the stage for roughly 15 minutes. I was prepared
for the show to turn to Sh!t, but it did not. There were two poets who really
knew their way around words. I sat there in awe as pure talent drifted down
from the stage and filled my ears with inspiration to use words good. In
particular, there was a rap song written and performed by a very white, college
professor that was an homage to rap, past and present, and he didn’t try to do
anything weird with it. Like Mason said afterwards, “Just be a white guy
rapping.” And that’s what he did. I thought it was the best part of the night
up until then. And the rap was just one of his poems, none of which were like
any of the others. I liked the variety of poetry that I never knew existed.
Next up, the man in red. Both Mason and I agreed that he
wasn’t really our style. He was overbearing in his descriptions of all things
gross. I may have mentioned before that I don’t do well around discussion of
blood, needles, or surgery, and when he began speaking I wondered if I would
topple over when I passed out, or if I would just stay upright and nobody would
notice. I began to see white as the man was describing arm surgery in graphic
detail and I sat back in my chair and prepared myself for the inevitable. And,
it passed. I was able to channel my thoughts into a different place where
surgery is replaced by hand-woven wicker baskets of puppies and chocolate. He
went on to several other poems including one about a dead crow, the female
vagina, and I don’t remember. I thought it was the miss out of all of the hits. But he no doubt had talent. I thought
about it later and realized that I was going to pass out because he made me see
all of those bloody things, and his words were intelligent and eloquent, and he
paralleled Dean Koontz for elaboration. It just wasn’t my cup of tea.
Last, but most… Cricket. Cricket is a graduate-school aged,
rather attractive female who stole the show with her stand-up comedy routine. I
felt like I was in the presence of somebody on another level—she had done this
before? I couldn’t tell you. But if this was her first effort getting up on
stage in front of people, she is going to be famous. She had the crowd going
through the entire 15 minutes. There were jokes within jokes, callbacks, and a
fair amount of poop material; a crowd favorite. Her timing was expert, her expression
flawless, and her wit razor-sharp. I would pay to see her at another venue. I
haven’t looked her up on Google yet, but I recommend you do just that and see
what comes up when you type in Cricket. Hmmm.
That might not work. Try comedian Cricket. Do what you want.
The New Sh!t Show happens every third Friday of every month.
If you’re looking for something new to do, I highly recommend going. I don’t
think you’ll be disappointed.
