Post-Festival Musings

Jazz combos + poetry = always already flarfy. Drew as mad konducktor kontrol freeek.

Kasey a spooky James Brown. His eyes are spooky and sometimes, even spookier, it seems like he is not kidding: “Some people think I have too much porn”.

Katie read pretty straightforwardly except for the opera singer bit Mike Magee already commented on. Themes in her work of family dynamics so fucked up that “dysfunctional” only works as extreme euphemism. Also, recurring indictments of motherhood, some psychological, some biological

Stan holding up the red Elmo (Marx/Elmo) like Kunta Kinte – Elmo as Isaac, sacrificial lamb…

Chicks Dig War and Mainstream Poetry the most anthemic of flarf specimens: “poems must have an argument.”

Startling showbiz talents Tim Petersen and Mitch Highfill. Mitch a walking whoopee cushion.

Jim’s collapsing bunny ears. Bagpipes – yipes…

Tim’s readymade dorito BBQ chips play as memorable as anything out of Monty Python. Gary crushing the bag of chips to his crotch. The room filling with the scent of Doritos.

Sharon a sassy elegant plaid column of rapid fire insult power: “Diabetic bitch!”.

Rod Smith’s goofy (googly?) helium voice. Stan Laurel?

Rodney twirling as “The Poet” in his own play “The Road to Inner Houston.” At once satiric and tender/graceful in its cadences, like O’Hara’s plays sort of but better…

Anne in her lite-brite dress reading vagina poems: “Why My Boyfriend Should Get the Nobel Prize.”

Abby and Gary’s film – splitting images: three-eyed houris, talking hairy pussies, constructed lesbo subnarratives, arched eyebrows, kaleidoscope-y.

Brandon’s film challenging all notions of “excellence”—stretching notions of “appropriate lengths of time.” “It went on too long.” “No it didn’t it was brilliant.” Scratchy muzak, language tape for Thais learning English: “Are you a Buddhist?”, world’s worst poem read by a woman in shoulderpads, insane images of … Roman friezes/orgies? … old man in a sickbed channeling Miles Champion introducing Coolidge… 70s Bollywood… gorgeous, sad, tacky, discomfiting…

Mel reading the lyrics to “Love is All Around.’ Verbatim. Perfect.

Kasey’s Muller: “That is SO fucking COOL!”

Gary’s play PPL in a Depot the best of all the plays, impeccably written and acted – a confluence of good timing. The lady’s glitter cap, her knotted-up pink ballgown with jeans beneath – how she balled up the script pages and stuffed them in her bosom…

In this Publisher’s Weekly article, brought to my attention by Ron, there is a reference to flarf, although the author doesn’t call it by its true name. Also mentions of Josh Corey and Jim Behrle. No women are mentioned in the article except in the title of a sixteenth (seventeenth?) century poem. NOT THAT IT REALLY MATTERS WHETHER I (or my sisters) EXIST OR NOT. I mean, NOT TO BE PETULANT OR ANYTHING, but….