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--a report from King Wenclas
The most interesting moment of the ULA's visit to the readings at
Housing Works on Thursday, January 30th, 2003, happened at the
end, outside, when a prominent literary figure behaved, in our
opinion, bizarrely when he violently took a ULAer's camera away.
That part will have to wait.
I won't give a full picture of the evening, only scattered
thoughts about it.
The crowd of several hundred was upscale and nearly all white.
The crowd was well-behaved, considering its size and the presence
of free beer. Host Darcy yet wanted no expression at all, but
total gentility; absolute politeness. ULAers Michael Jackman,
Chris Zappone, and myself made statements to people. We were
talking. Because we didn't behave like pod persons with plastic
smiles over our faces, Darcy was displeased. It's her place.
She's an affluent person doing good in the world. Her call.
Our point was that American literature is coming under the
dominance of an exclusive, often exclusionary elite. This isn't
healthy for American letters, nor for society. We're trying to
spark debate about this. Such conversation is unwanted in the
literary salons of New York City.
The ULA was among a cultural aristocracy that evening, an
aristocracy filled with smugness about their meaningless art;
clearly in love with themselves and their role. Many things are
happening outside the doors; a widening gap between America's
classes; an approaching war. There was scarcely a vibration of
any of this among the trust funders. Can our nation's most
nurtured writers be so out of touch with their own country (or
even their own city)? Should they be?
The readings themselves were awful. We missed the first reader, a
poet with a quiet voice. Several reports pegged the performance
as boring. ("Crappy poetry.")
Ben Greenman, a NEW YORKER staffer and writer, and a MCSWEENYite,
read a story about a tree.
Then a young woman from FENCE died at the podium. She said she
had a poem about the President. The President was never
mentioned, though, in the poem. I was perplexed. She said the
words, "sea otter," at the end. One has to understand the
connection. It was by implication. She also read a poem with the
word "cunt" in it. A cunt poem. This was the transgressive part
of her performance. This is what passes among our pampered elite
for rebelliousness. "Cunt." That'll change things mightily, no
doubt. By her last several poems, all the many people in the vast
bookstore sat in silence. I was embarrassed for the poet, in fact.
Sam Lipsyte of OPEN CITY read a story about a candy bar. Quite a
transgressive and thought-provoking evening! A tree, a cunt, and
a candy bar. Today that's what passes for literature.
Michael Jackman and Chris Zappone cornered Ben Greenman about his
tree story. I stayed out of the way. Joanna Yas, a past
antagonist, had recognized me. "I know you!" she screamed. Mike
and Chris can give their own descriptions of Greenman's futile
and hilarious attempts to justify his story.
Chris and I spoke to Lipsyte about his candy bar story. Lipsyte
thought his story was great. We didn't get it. I guess it went
over our heads. (The climax of the story had come when his mother
took away his candy bar. Call it: tragedy. That's the point, you
see. It's supposed to be lame.)
Chris and Michael were told to leave by Darcy. I sat in a chair,
and was fairly quiet. People weren't frightened in the least.
Someone had grimaced, when we'd asked: Where were the current
Balzacs, Zolas, Tolstoys? (They hadn't been at the podium that
evening!) We were accused of wanting to inject politics into
literature, because we asked for literature to be relevant.
"Politics" has no place in literature today. It's not allowed.
Why make waves? There's the doorway.
We were rude. Darcy was snobby and condescending. She countered
my arguments with her superior moral virtue, her shield against
the uncouth barbarians of the world. Of course, Housing Works
does good things. Well-mannered Darcy is giving back her
advantages to the world, her inherited privilege. It's hard to
argue with it. Without charity and philanthropy--without events
like this reading, where the privileged gather to acquire their
moral virtue while pursuing the arts--nothing whatsoever would be
done for the downtrodden in this country, so when all is said and
done, given the nature of the society in which we live, such
events are, I suppose, a good thing.
Carnegie, Rockefeller, and the rest of the robber barons (Bill
Gates today), were ruthless men, but they were also
philanthropists. It's hard to argue with philanthropists!
Philanthropy is a great thing. It justifies the society.
The excitement happened on the sidewalk where the ULA was
chilling after being shown outside.
First were the two women in fur coats in an SUV who arrived late
to the party and ran over beer bottles in the street.
We met another two women who were cool, who were real people, not
snooty mannequins; who run regular poetry readings in New York
City. They thought as we did this event had been unbelievably
boring.
Tom Beller of OPEN CITY, MR BELLERS NEIGHBORHOOD, BEST STORIES,
Parker Posey, etc., fame stepped outside accompanied by a burly
guy who looked like his bodyguard. (One would think a 6 foot 6
giant doesn't need a bodyguard.) Beller paused to say hello to
myself and Michael Jackman. The ULA's Leah Smith, our
photographer for the evening, snapped Beller's picture--and all
hell broke loose. Beller snapped--or maybe he thought he was
being funny. Suddenly he arrogantly grabbed Leah's camera. Feisty
Leah--a Detroiter--didn't give it up without a fight, rising off
the ground as Beller's large hand raised as he wrested the camera
away from 5 foot 2 Leah. "Give me back my camera, asshole!"
red-headed Leah screamed as Beller, complacent or wasted, began
to walk away. The ULA in the form of Jackman and Zappone were on
Beller like wolves taking on a moose. I drained my beer and
tossed away the bottle--it shattered loudly--as the struggle over
the camera took place. As they got the camera back from the moody
giant I stepped in front of Beller, who seemed to be tottering. I
could've punched him out--he would've made a very large human
heavy punching bag; he acted ready to fight, though he scarcely
knew how, and his eyes were dazed and spinning and empty and he
said from the fog of his brain, as if I were the problem, when
he'd been the asshole, "I thought you were my friend!"
All the ULA had done, as always, was speak.
The bodyguard stepped between us. Then Beller and Zappone were
wrestling, Chris pushed Tom back several feet, and the people
around us were shouting, we were all shouting, most of all the
still stunned and angry pretty Leah. But we had the small camera,
somewhat damaged, somewhat squished. Possibly the pictures have
been saved.
Just another day in the life of the ULA.
(One of the cool New York poets e-mailed me later about
"gigantic" Tom Beller, saying they thought it "rather scary since
I thought he was having an epileptic seizure. I thought it was
awful that he took the camera.")
---King Wenclas
Now read Michael Jackman's report.
Another tale of the evening...
--a report from Michael Jackman
All we did was ask a few questions.
We didn't come to Housing Works to bust up the joint. We went
there to see the so-called alternative, the joint venture between
the four prominent independent lit magazines in New York. Looking
around, it's easy to see why we need a literary alternative these
days: there's so much injustice in this world and so little
discussion of it in literature. On the eve of an all-out war,
would there be any outrage? Would there be any relevance?
I watched for a while as Ben Greenman, published in McSweeny's,
well-connected staffer at The New Yorker, cleared his throat and
prepared to read a work that had not been published. I waited
expectantly. I'll paraphrase as best as I can:
"I am a tree. I noticed that there was another tree next to me.
It took me a while to notice -- it's so easy to get caught up in
the motion of the water, the rustling of the leaves. But one day
I said to the tree, 'Hello.'
He said 'Hello' back. We talked for hours. 'How about when the
breeze comes through here between us at night?' 'Isn't bark
weird?'" It went on and on like this.
When he was done, Chris Zappone and I went up to ask him a few
questions. I tapped him on his arm and asked if he'd mind if we
spoke to him. He was uncomfortable, his arms crossed in a sort of
defensive body language, his face scowling, but he agreed to
listen to us.
"Here we are," I said, "with a war in the offing where tens of
thousands of innocent people are likely to be killed, we're
coming up on twenty years during which life has become more and
more miserable for the working class, everywhere you go people
are disgusted with life in this country, and...you're a tree?"
"That was written before the talk of war," he protested.
"Yeah, but, you're a TREE."
"I'm not a tree."
"You're writing about being a tree."
"There are two trees," he pointed out.
"Okay, there are two trees, but what relevance does that have to
ninety per cent of the people in the country? Do you expect
people to read about the inner life of a tree? Is that supposed
to strike a responsive chord with a broad section of people? Why
all this imaginary pretend stuff when there's so much to write
about out there in the world?"
At this point, Joanna Yas came by with a wincing smile, saying,
"Now, guys, there's not going to be any trouble here tonight is
there?"
I pulled her aside and assured her that we were not going to
cause a ruckus.
I clapped Greenman on the shoulder in a display of warm
fraternity to show her what a "good sport" he was being. She
seemed appeased and strolled off.
By now Zappone had been asking some rather pointed questions of
Greenman, who protested, "I write about what I want. I don't have
any responsibility as a writer to write about society?"
"Yes," I said, "but why is the writing I'm hearing so far here
tonight about being a tree? There are other valid subjects, but
why ignore them to write about being a tree?"
At this point, a young lady named Darcy, connected with the
bookstore, came by to check up on the debate, asking us if we
were going to cause trouble. I pulled her aside and did my best
to talk explain our cause and keep her occupied so the discussion
could continue unrefereed. She led me aside to a beer table where
she offered me a beer.
At one point she asked me, "Isn't writing about the 'human
condition' important to the world? Isn't it possible that this
writing is doing some good?"
"What, at the expense of all other subjects?" I asked. "Look at
this audience. Almost all white, certainly mostly the upper
crust. Of course they enjoy writing about the 'human condition.'
You can write about the human condition and never discuss the
harsh realities ninety per cent of the people in this country
have to deal with every day. I thought this was supposed to be an
alternative to the irrelevant mainstream."
I think Darcy did her level best to try to talk up the bookstore,
her good works, to proclaim that she's not guilty of anything
just because she came from means.
"I think I can do good work even though I come from a comfortable
background. So what if my family had money."
"It's not your fault," I said. My comforting words had the
opposite effect on her, as her face pinched just a bit at my
remark.
Darcy tried, but she couldn't help but come off as a snob. She
had the soothing tone of a social worker trying to do something
for you because she was so full of pity for you. She accused me
of being insincere to her and juvenile for coming out to engage
the writers on the issues. Funny. People who have been
comfortably guided through life, fed, washed, cared for,
educated, and financed, these wonderful people with clean clothes
and nice apartments, they meet us, working class people, and they
accuse us of being impolite when we're honest and insincere when
we're polite!
I grabbed my beer and retreated to the rear for the next two
readings, a woman who read poems with obscenity for shock value
(I guess THAT'S not juvenile, since it's all about the 'human
condition' somehow) and a guy who discussed a candy bar at
length. The ULA's Leah Smith leaned in and said, "I thought it
would be sort of bad but not BAD!"
I walked up front at the end to see what Wenclas and Zappone were
up to. Zappone again discussed the duty of a writer to engage
society, and remarked to the author of the candy bar story that
he had failed in the chief duty of a writer.
"No," the man shouted, "It's YOUR failure as a READER!"
Little did I know, but behind me, Zappone had given this
gentleman the single-digit-salute. I tried to calm him down and
get him back into a discussion, and he did pause for a moment,
considering it.
But, at that moment, Darcy walked up and said with a
condescending, sing-song tone, much like a young mother breaking
up a squabble among children, "Okay, you know what? You're
drinking our free beer, you're not being respectful. It's time to
go."
"I'm not going anywhere," said Wenclas, smiling and taking a
seat. "Call the cops if you want."
I walked outside with Zappone, and Wenclas met us out there later.
After talking with disappointed attendees for about a half-hour,
I noticed that writer Tom Beller was inside. He's not hard to
miss, standing at six-and-a-half feet tall. I urged Leah Smith to
go in and take his picture.
She did this with great style and flourish, disarming the hipster
Goliath and then thanking him on the behalf of the ULA. At our
collective gratitude, the tall fellow balked. With a scowl he
groaned, "Is that what this is about?" Leah Smith ran outside to
join us.
When he left the building, Beller seemed civil and good-humored,
if a little bit too drunk for his own good. He greeted Wenclas,
and even remembered my name and shook my hand. At this, Leah
Smith felt inspired to take another photo of the giant.
The flash had barely popped before Beller's hand closed over the
camera. The giant tore the camera away from our five-foot-two
cameraperson. I grabbed Beller's arm while a beer bottle smashed
somewhere.
Zappone piled on. Karl took another side. In the midst of this
desperate scuffle, I asked, "Tom, what is this Sean Penn, macho
bullshit?" Beller whirled around, holding the camera up, playing
keep away. Finally, it fell to the ground, breaking open, losing
a battery.
Looking somewhat incoherent, Beller cried, "Karl, I thought you
were my friend!" Indeed, I thought Beller was pretty friendly
too, at least before he went hog wild. I thought his 'Et tu,
Brute' was inappropriate, to say the least.
Then, he wandered off, looking into the crowd, calling softly,
"Sarah?" before disappearing into their midst. We wandered off to
the bar to share the afterglow of a controversial evening over a
few drinks.
Like I said, all we did was ask a few questions.
--- Michael Jackman
Below, a photo of the deranged Beller hassling Camo-Wenclas and
Fedora-Jackman. A mysterious person is trying to keep Beller from
lunging. (Photo CZ.)
