Second Reading, Side-Step the Drinking

It is never a good sign when the proprietor--an old, smiling Chinaman--of the cafe you had arranged to read at does not remember who you are, or why you are standing in front of him; nor is it a very good sign that one must walk through the kitchen to get to the bathroom. I was no one that night--my first in San Francisco--and I piss a lot. It is bad for business when the chef's hands get too cold because of a spectral presence; and the typical customer is wary of the place if it has a haunted bathroom--so perhaps the impression I got from the Chinaman of being unwelcome at his place was grounded.

In any case, that first night in San Francisco I read to two old friends, a Chinaman who could not even see me, and half a dozen folks with bright white hair, "spectacles," and big bellies. The Chinaman, being that he could not see me, also could not hear me; my friends liked what I had to say--but friends are usually good in that way; and then there was one old man--just after the reading, though before I had stepped down from the dim limelight--there was this one old man who decided to challenge me to a literary pissing contest.

Old Man: "Every time you say 'Mr. Bloom,' I can't help but laugh; you know there's a 'Mr. Bloom' in James Joyce's 'Ulysses,' don't you--have you ever read James Joyce's 'Ulysses'--huh?"

I do piss a lot--and enjoy the feeling of letting out a good, long piss--but this kind of pissing did not interest me. I understand you're familiar with a classic--do you want to mention its name again? Talk about the author? Maybe you would also like to make mention of Proust? Tell me about how Joyce and Proust never met, and tell me what it would have been like had they met? Or maybe you would like to have "Nabokov" on your tongue--"Lolita" in particular would certainly be appropriate.

None of that was said. Instead, Me(to the Old Man): "The 'Mr. Bloom' in my story is more of a pop-culture reference than literary--but thank you for adding that [unnecessary] dimension to it."

Old Man: "Oh, you're welcome."

Second night in San Francisco was an open mic, mostly music. The coordinator and host, a very nice woman named Pat, worked me in while the room was full. Only had four minutes to read. I announced, "I am [who I am], and I am not a musician," then got on with the two selections I chose to read, appropriately, from my book, "Songs: I Can't Sing." These folks took it well; these folks were good folks, even though none of them gave any financial aid to The Poor House. Not a single book sold. The house is still broke, a mess. Bills are piling up. There's a good chance they will not get paid, goddamn.