Words

Becoming Boring

Wednesday, 27 January 2010 10:26

I used to be interesting. My friends used to be interesting. We could tell wild or fun tales that would draw a crowd and make people listen. It is one of the perks of being an artist, or at least leading an artistic life. You do things that most people have the good sense not to do it themselves, but still want to hear about.

“I am being attacked by this lesbian stripper because I made the mistake of asking if she got a free tool belt with the hair cut. I was drunk and it seemed funny at the time. Now, I can’t hit her, because she is a woman and I made the joke, but needless to say that is why the middle of my tattoo is missing.”

Great story. One for the ages. And one that is pretty damn close to one I once heard. And there are hundreds of them. They get requested up like favorite songs, but instead of the words “Play that song” the request is made with the familiar phrase, “Remember that time…?” At that point, the person who was involved in the story or the person that tells it the best (not always the same person) starts the tale. And like a good song, each time it is told differently, different notes accented, different tempo—sometimes you just tell the story unplugged; sometimes you tell it with the amps turned to 11.

For example, if folks are talking about New Orleans and the wine is flowing and a someone new who hasn’t heard the story is in the crowd (many times a new date you are trying your hardest to appear civilized in front of), an old friend might pop in with “J.P. didn’t they call you “The Naked Guy” in New Orleans?”

And it begins.  You can only sit back and decide how you want to tell the tale, and sadly realize that with your past, you have as much chance to appear civilized as Sarah Palin has of appearing well read. “Well, it all started with a series of $1 bets…” And off the story goes.

This is one reason that I love my friends—the stories. We are a storytelling people. It is probably one of the reasons I write stories. And they have given me good ones over the last few decades: dancing naked around cheesecake, deadly encounters with cows, the perfect (if there is one) Holocaust joke told in the most amazing setup by a Jewish employee in a Jewish bakery.

But lately, we’ve become boring. Not that we aren’t doing exciting things. This website and the Motherlodge Festival, for example, are great, fun, entertaining and exciting things.  The music, performances, thoughts and art being produced by this motley band are as good, if not better, than they have ever been. But, it’s the business of it all that has turned us into the excitement equivalent of stay at home accountants.

Non-profit statuses, scheduling and logistics, editorial and thematic concerns, marketing and ticket-selling strategies, long-range planning, merchandise and fair profit sharing, collaborative vision statements—my mind goes numb just typing the top of the list. But, that is what is on the top of our minds. If you enjoy sausage, NEVER go to a sausage factory. And if you enjoy art, NEVER ask an artist how it is made—just enjoy it.

Nowadays, as we sit around the table, there still might be some of the quick banter. For example, a few nights ago, we were talking about the history of supper clubs for a show we’re producing. The question was asked, “Wasn’t there a supper club in Chicago that burned down?” And without missing a beat the response was given, “I think the entire city burned down at one point!”

Funny as hell, and if you had walked away from the table at that moment, you would’ve been left thinking, “What a fun and witty group.” But, flash forward a few hours, and there we are, huddled in the booth, passionately talking and debating about the programming for our theaters and festivals, the best non-profit web resources, and how to make what we do financially sustainable for the long term. Our parents would be proud, but our friends, who used to come to us for wild tales, want to stick knitting needles in their ears.

And I see it. I see it in the eyes of my friends. I see that glazed looking of counting the minutes or the darting eyes searching for an out. And I feel for them. I try to pull us out of the all-consuming, masturbatory, minutia-splitting conversations that are essential to being a creative professional but anathema to being an entertaining individual. But, it just doesn’t work.

It’s just part of getting older. The details matter more. First time home-owners can talk for hours about repairs and mortgages. Parents, when they gather, can hold marathon discussions about the virtues of cloth diapers vs. disposable, teething solutions and the finer points of baby fluids. And pet owners can wax epic about their fur babies. It’s natural. But the problem, when it comes to artists is that what we are debating is so damn theoretical. You can see a house, kid or dog, but an inclusive curatorial system is about as tangible as Santa’s farts.

So, I encourage you, read the site. There is going to be some great stuff. Come to the shows this spring in Louisville and New York. You’ll be blown away. But, if you feel tempted, after seeing us entertain or provoke you, to ask, “So, what is this Motherlodge thing all about?”—don’t. Not unless you have an hour or two. Not unless you need a cure for insomnia or you’re a conversational masochist. Not unless you’re an artist. Because, we can be fairly boring people.

Making Connections

Saturday, 26 December 2009 13:49

A few months ago, I went to Brooklyn to participate in the Motherlodge Festival there. I was excited. I was humming Sinatra. I booked a flight and hotel room on the cheap and decided to take my constant travel companion, The Blonde Saint.

I was determined to master this city and all that it had to offer. We were going to take the trains from the Newark, New Jersey airport to Brooklyn—just like the locals. (I found out later that most locals would grab a gypsy cab). But, The Saint and I were excited and incredibly naïve. In my plan, I had not counted on three things:

1.       The amount of luggage that an average woman packs for uncertain fall weather in New York.

2.       The strangeness of the NYC subway system (in particular the Alantic/Pacific terminal) the first time you navigate it.

3.       The fact that someone’s patience is inversely proportional to the time spent in a subway system.

We started well. Landed in Newark. Took a short cab ride to the train station. Soon we were on the train and headed to the WTC station. Then it became a little harder as we navigated a few series of stairs with five thousand pounds of luggage. The first warning shots were fired by The Blonde Saint: “Thanks for offering to switch bags with me. Mine isn’t heavy at all…” But, then came the Atlantic/Pacific station in Brooklyn.

I should be honest and admit that this station was not that far from our hotel—less than a mile. Exiting here and getting a cab, would’ve saved the day. Instead, we spent the next thirty minutes discovering that there is no Atlantic Ave/Pacific Ave Station. Rather there is an Atlantic Ave. Station and a Pacific Avenue Station that are a short distance from each other that can, by a seasoned subway traveler, be travelled between using a series of elevators and tunnels. But you cannot make this move just going up and down steps. It is especially hard when one of the wheels of your date’s over-packed luggage has ripped off and is flapping around like a JFK head wound. And it is impossible, when that same date has put on Yoko Ono sunglasses to cover her tears and has warned you not to look at her or talk to her on pains of death.

Desperation, led to me catching the first train I could. Of course, it took us many miles off course. Finally, I was forced to surrender and leave the subway system to get a cab. As I carried each piece of luggage up the steps for my exhausted date, I realized that we had surface somewhere near the corner of New Jack City and Carlito’s Way—two white, confused people had popped up from a hole in the ground and were sitting on a treasure trove of luggage. We slowly realized that you could count five police cars for every cab that whizzed past with no intent of stopping.

By the time we finally arrived at our hotel room, we were out a decent sum for cab fare (even though I had to give the cab driver directions using my phone), behind schedule, and The Blonde Saint was nursing a sprained right shoulder/arm/soul. And today, this story makes us both smile. Not because I won any brownie points in the interim, but because the rest of the trip and the Motherlodge Event was so good.

Great artists came together. Friendships were forged across states and oceans. Art was created and professional contacts were cultivated.

The reason I am relating this story as my inaugural post on the new motherlodge.com is that it is very similar to the story of this website. Our industrious and loyal web programmer, Matt Scobee, has been ready to throw me out a window several times. I have been perplexed why “web magic” just can’t make happen what I want to happen. And our grand leader, Ray Rizzo, has been overseas.

But, in the end, it is worth it.

This site will be a virtual Motherlodge Festival happening continually throughout the year. You will be able to enjoy new artists and their work. You will make new connections. You will discover great events in your back yard that you didn’t know existed.

So, relax. Join our feed, facebook page, tweets, etc. And be patient—this is still very much a work in progress. And pack light, because connections can be a bitch, but the trip is always worth it.

You can read more from this author at themadbastard.com

The Meadow by Alicia Goranson

Saturday, 26 December 2009 11:53

As Bambi's mother
Led her fawn
Onto the meadow
And was gone,

So I was shown,
And, thus, exposed
To pastures where
Foreboding bodes.

Without the trees
That hide the sun,
The vast expanse
Belied the gun.

For when the shot
Shattered the calm,
The earth became
A maelstrom.

The moment's shock,
The past forgot,
I ran to where
I had been not.

In foreign forests,
Overgrown,
I realized
I was alone.

And in the absence
Of my mother,
The canopy
My only cover,

The meadow, then,
Proposed a test
Of fortitude
And mindfulness.

While I still graze
Beyond the grove,
The hand recalls
The burning stove.