Open Mic--Presented by the All You Can Eat Waffles Writing Group
I wrote this piece and submitted it to a local theater, but, alas, they didn't want it. I'm hoping they didn't want it because it just didn't fit and not because it sucks. Who knows? This piece was designed to be broken up into three sections and presented during an evening of one act plays. Sooo....if anyone out there ever wants to perform some of these for real, or needs some material for short films, let me know. You can read all the Open Mic Scenes here.
CHARACTERS
CONNIE—in her 60s or so. Still connected with the hippie generation. Believes words have the power to heal and transform.
CARL –30-?? A burly truck driver. A man’s man. Likes to write inappropriate haiku while he drives his big rig.
MELODY— Connie’s teen granddaughter who is being forced to live with Connie while her mom’s in rehab.
PART ONE
CONNIE: Hello. Hello, everyone and welcome! Now, I know you’re here to see some plays and that’s great, but I’m not actually a part of that. No. I’m here with my troupe of writers from the Open Mic And All You Can Eat Waffle Night Writing Group. Sadly, due to some errors in pyrotechnics the last time, iHop will no longer allow us to present our poems there. So we have been forced to make a desperate move of our own, in the hopes that we can continue our soirée with words, and each other. Thankfully, this theater was presenting some work tonight and said we could squeeze in here when the stagehands were resetting with a few readings…as long as there were no fireworks involved. Or drugs. Fireworks and drugs are strictly for the after party.
Tonight, we have a few readers for you to illuminate your minds and transform your spirit. My granddaughter Melody is in the audience and will perform a piece she has written about recovery. She is thrilled…
MELODY (offstage): Fuck you grandma!
CONNIE: (collecting herself)…to be here and I am thrilled to have her with me. All the time. Under my constant supervision. We were supposed to have Mabel with us as well, but Mabel was attacked by her precious tomcat and is recovering at home. However, I will read one of her pieces. First though, I’d like to begin by introducing Carl. Please welcome Carl.
(Carl enters. He’s not a great performer. He’s wearing jeans, boots, a flannel shirt, and an inappropriate baseball cap. He takes the mic, while Connie watches uncomfortably from the sidelines.)
CARL: Hi. Hi there. Hi. I’m Carl. I’m a big man and I drive a big rig, but I’ve got poetry in my soul. I like to write words, haiku mostly, while I travel the country. I’m inspired by beauty, hookers, and pancake buffets. I’m self-publishing a book of haiku and you can buy that on my website. Here’s my poem. It’s a poem from Spring to Winter.
From Spring To Winter Winter, I want to Lick your cold cleft with my tongue Til your waters gush
That there was a hai-ku. I like hai-ku most of all because it really gets my thoughts across. Here’s another one. This one is about one of them there roses or the like.
To One Of Them Roses Your moist petals … I want to nestle my nose In your bloom and breathe
And then I have one about a peach. A nice ripe peach. I call it Peach.
Peach Your pink succulence- Warm juice dribbling down my chin- My tongue lives in you
I’ve got bout a hundred more or so of these. When I’m on the road, this is what I like to think about. You know. Nature. Womany nature. I could go on and on…
CONNIE: Uhm. Thank you. Thank you Carl. That is quite enough. We will leave you momentarily and be back with more poetry to take you to the edge and transform you.
PART TWO
CONNIE: Well. That was certainly a play with notes of sadness, and desperation. My favorite notes of all. While we take this interlude, I would like to introduce my lovely granddaughter, Melody. Like her name, her words are a song. Melody?
MELODY: (offstage) No!
CONNIE: Come on, now, Melody. We agreed.
MELODY: I didn’t agree to shit, Grand-ma.
CONNIE: (containing her anger) You did agree to this.
MELODY: Give me twenty bucks.
CONNIE: What?
MELODY: Twenty bucks. This bird doesn’t sing without some seed.
(Connie tries to pay her quickly without making a scene. Melody approaches the mic reluctantly. She is wearing all black, dark makeup, and looks generally disgruntled. Piercings would be a plus.)
MELODY: I’m Melody. But you can call me Pain. Here’s my ‘whatever’ poem. You think you know pain? You don’t know shit. Pain is me on the bathroom floor crying my eyes out The wind whipping through the busted-in window While mom is passed out on the couch. Too much booze and blow Too much hope snorted and released into the ether Too much regret and oblivion. I have regret too. You want to think life is poetry? There is no poetry here. Poetry is for the dreamers, the believers, the Justin Biebers. Poetry is for the demented, the escapers, the matinee crowd. I’ve got my boots firmly planted In the dung heap of reality. And when I’m old enough, When I can get out on my own I will climb this dung heap and make reality My Be-otch.
(She crumples her poem up and raises a fist then tosses it in the air and stomps off.)
CONNIE: Well. Okay. That was…just…lovely. I liked…the part…about the dreamers? The, uhm, idea, that poetry…can transform? And make…er…people…dedicated. Yes. We will return in a few moments with a final piece. Uhm. Thank you. Thanks.
PART THREE
CONNIE: (somewhat harried and downtrodden at this point)
Wonderful! Wonderful! I am so inspired by all of these words that your playwrights have penned. It’s, well, why I started my little poetry group in the first place. To inspire and encourage people to use words to express their soul…out loud!
CONNIE: And now, the piece from Mabel, who unfortunately was attacked by her Tom Cat when she was holding him and he scratched her retina. Both retinas. With his demon claws. Ah. And, ironically I guess, her poem is TO her Tom Cat. Here it is:
(Connie reads dramatically as if savoring every word.)
TO TOM, MY CAT
Tom Cat, Tom Cat Sit on my lap fat I love you so much That I have a hunch We will be Together Forever.
Tom Cat, Tom Cat Sit on the front mat And I will…
(Connie looks at the paper, half of which is shredded.)
Ah. It appears this is where the attack occurred and frankly…frankly it’s not a very good poem. There! I’ve said it. That was a terrible poem. I would’ve scratched her eyes out too! And you know…most of the poems people read at our Open Mic nights are awful. In fact, they’re so awful that I question the very validity of reading anything out loud. I question the whole point of any of this. I mean, Carl, and his cunnilinguist haiku is just…absurb! And Mabel! Your poem of despair is so…so…common! I could write a better poem without any words at all. In fact, I’ll do it right now. Here is my poem to every one who has given me such crap over the years, who’s made me work so hard to get words out there, who’s ignored my poems and books and collection of essays on the feminine spirit, who’s closed your eyes and ears to me and my words and my passion. Here’s my poem to you!
(She victoriously holds up her middle finger.)
In fact, here’s another poem!
(She holds up her other finger. Freezes for a moment. Withdraws her hands. Looks around. Collects herself.)
(Melody approaches Connie and does a slow clap, encouraging the audience to join in.)
MELODY: Grandma, that was…
CARL: Cunnalovely.
MELODY: Amazing. Just fuckin’…like…wind beneath my wings worthy. I’m sorta proud we share DNA.
CARL: (to Connie) It makes me want to share DNA with you too.
CONNIE: Well. Okay then. Thank you. (Realizes the audience is still there). So. All right. Even though we only have three members, one of which is forced to be there, we will be holding an Open Mic night at Pal’s Indian Lunch Buffet next month. I hope…I hope you’ll join me there. Thank you.
#
Open Mic Night at La Cantina Pt 5
In which our slightly strange cast of characters continue with their writer meeting with a reading from the tormented Melody. (With a slight nod to Halloween.)
(If you've missed the earlier sections in this blog/story, please click on the "Open Mic Night" tab at the bottom of this post.)
MELODY tries to stand up in the little adobe, but hits her head on the ceiling.
MELODY
It’s like being trapped in a Mexican womb.
CONNIE Now, Melody…
MELODY I’m just saying.
Melody sits down at the table.
MELODY Okay. I didn’t want to write a poem because I’m sixteen and Grandma C over there thinks I haven’t had sex yet and I don’t want to give her a heart attack because she feeds me and shit and all of your poems were like, hello, sex in words.
CONNIE
Uhm….Thank you.
MELODY
So here’s a short story.
Melody clear her throat and begins to read, loudly, so that everyone in the restaurant can hear her, even over the sound of crunching tortilla chips.
MELODY
I’ve made an intricate plan to kill my grandmother. She takes care of me because my mom is all hopped up on meth and is now residing in the local penitentiary where she gets free dental care.
CRICKET Excuse me? I thought this was supposed to be a story.
MELODY
It is.
CONNIE (growing nervous.) Of course it’s a story. Rule #1 is that we must assume it’s made up. Melody has a very active imagination.
MELODY So anyway. Killing my grandma, whose name is Constance Carol Calhoun…
Cricket turns to Connie.
CRICKET: But isn’t that your name?
MELODY …involves a lot of deception and intrigue. First, I had to research poisons online. I found you could grow certain plants and then put them in tea. I’ve been poisoning my grandma for three weeks now, and tonight I gave her the final dose in a margarita. In about half an hour, she’ll start sweating and will die, probably face first into a gigantic burrito. I ordered one to cushion her fall. When she bites it, literally, I’ll inherit everything and I can throw porn parties and move to Alaska if I want to. But first I’ll sell off her Hummel figurine collection. The End.
MABEL I like Hummel figurines. They’re so cute. Sorta liked they dipped a bunch of miniature children in wax.
CARL You okay, Connie?
CONNIE I’m fine. Just…fine.
CARL You look like you’re sweating. And your face is all red. How long ago did you drink that margarita?
CONNIE Now, don’t be ridiculous. Clearly, Melody is using real details from her life, but enhancing them. All writers do this. In fact, I think it’s a strength of the piece. What else is working in it?
MELODY That you die in it.
CONNIE You’re not supposed to comment on your own work. We’re supposed to give you feedback and you just sit there and listen.
The Waiter appears.
THE WAITER: Okay, four combos and a gigantic burrito. Who gets the burrito?
MELODY She does.
CONNIE No, no. Really. I’m fine.
CARL: Well, I liked the piece but I think you’re one twisted little punk. You need therapy. Or a good ass-kicking.
CRICKET There isn’t anything about God or Jesus in it. I think that would help. Maybe God and/or Jesus could talk to you and encourage you to kill your grandmother.
CONNIE Now, I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Maybe the ‘character’ shouldn’t kill the grandmother because the grandmother clearly adores the granddaughter and has given up everything to take care of the ungrateful child, even the hot house yoga, and swing night with the over sixties club, and dating on Sexy Seniors. So maybe the protagonist should try to back off a little bit and recognize the grandmother is pretty much a saint.
MABEL The grandmother sounds annoying. Now, when I killed my grandmother, I just got a sharp knife from the kitchen drawer and I went in when she was sleeping and…
CONNIE Bean dip! Who needs bean dip!
They all raise their hands.
CONNIE Good. I’ll go get some. When I get back, why don’t I read a poem to you? Let’s just focus on our meals for now.
Connie gets up and exits.
MABEL
I’m just saying that I liked your story and I know lots about killing so just come to me with any questions.
Open Mic Night at La Cantina Pt. 4
In which the writing group meets at a Mexican restaurant to go over their work, since the iHop kicked them out due to "inappropriate material shared over the loud speaker".
La Cantina is a Mexican restaurant off of 28th street. It smells of deep fat fryer, salsa, and bean dip. The walls are decorated with assorted paraphernalia like Sombreros and pictures with glitter. No one thinks this place is authentic Mexico, but it is authentic, cheap Mexican food.
In the back of the restaurant is a table tucked into a fake adobe house. The house is curved and rounded like a giant single breast. A place that Georgia O’Keef might like.
Connie, dressed in a long Spanish-looking frock and with her hennaed hair held up with a Spanish comb, addresses the table. On Connie, this outfit definitely suggests dime-store costume.
CONNIE:
Well, I’d like to begin by welcoming you here. I thought we were going to have an Open Mic night, but it looks like they weren’t able to set up a PA system without interrupting the mariachi singers. It’s a shame that iHop asked us to relocate. But, when life hands you lemons, make a margarita!
MABEL VANDERSTEEN: You use limes for margaritas. I say if someone gives you lemons, punch them in the face.
CONNIE:
Okay. Anyway. So since there’s no microphone and there are only a few of us here tonight, I thought perhaps we’d turn this into a workshop. You know, go over your pieces and we can all offer suggestions on how you can improve your work. Sound good?
CONNIE looks around the table. Mabel, in her wheelchair, has already slugged back one giant margarita. CARL is wearing a tshirt with an American flag, an eagle, and a wolf. He adjusts his red suspenders and then begins biting at a cuticle. CRICKET is saying a prayer. MELODY, Connie’s goth-grandaughter, sticks a chip in the bean dip and probes at it, as if she’s about to conduct an autopsy.
CONNIE:
Okay! Great! I’m glad you’re all excited. Let’s begin by reviewing the ground rules. 1st, we assume everything the writer writes is fiction. 2nd….anyone?
Cricket raises her hand.
CONNIE:
You don’t have to raise your hand, Cricket. Just talk.
CRICKET:
We don’t judge. We leave judgment to those who know best. Like God. And the Republican party.
CONNIE:
Great. And the third rule?
CARL:
We don’t talk about Fight Club.
MELODY:
(laughs). That’s the first rule.
CONNIE:
No. We’re not fighting, here. We’re supporting and loving. The 3rd rule is to use I statements, like we’re all in therapy together. Melody, why don’t you begin.
MELODY:
No.
CONNIE:
Now, Melody, you promised that you’d…
A waiter appears to take their order. He is tall and thin and speckled with acne.
WAITER:
Hey! I’m Billy! I’m your waiter! You know what you want, tell me and I’ll make it happen.
MELODY:
I want a burrito the size of his head.
She points to Carl.
WAITER:
Why his head? The menu says the burrito is the size of your head.
MELODY:
I have an unusually petite head. Carl, on the other hand, has a big head. I want a burrito that’s huge.
WAITER:
Okay. Gotcha.
CONNIE:
Why don’t you just bring all of us Combo #4 and I’ll pick up the tab.
MELODY:
Except something on my plate better be the size of a noggin, or I’ll stab you with this fork.
WAITER:
Okay! Cool! Thanks.
CONNIE:
Melody, please?
MELODY:
Whatever. I’ll read.
Melody clears her throat and begins to read.
TO BE CONTINUED
Open Mic Night At The iHop On East Beltline: Cricket PT 3
In which Cricket, the religious zealot, reads a perfect lovely poem about her cat, Pussy.
If you missed the 1st two installments, you can read them here: #1 Open Mic Night
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CONNIE: Thank you, Carl. That was…inspiring? Now, if we could quickly move on and…I have to ask…is there anyone who’s brought something that isn’t, uhm, of a…
She leans in and whispers
CONNIE: “sexual” nature? You know, something that’s a little more suited to this fine family establishment?
Silence
CONNIE: Surely there’s someone who has a poem that isn’t…licentious? Cricket, do you have something you’d like to share?
CRICKET: Me? Well, golly beans. Okay.
Cricket slowly makes her way to the stage. She is carrying a journal with a bedazzled cross on it. She is very petite, fragile almost, and wearing a sack. On closer inspection one can see that it isn’t a sack at all, but a homemade dress, one probably sewn without a pattern.
CRICKET: First of all, I’d like to thank all of you wonderful people out there and all the support you’ve given me over the years. You’re like my second church. And secondly, I’d like to thank my personal savior, Jesus Christ, and the love he shows me every single day.
She pulls a handerkerchief from a voluminous pocket and dabs at her eyes.
CRICKET: You know sometimes I think, God…why do you have to put me, your faithful servant through so much? I mean, there have been times where I have wondered. I have wondered! I’ve thought, oh, yoooouuu!
She shakes her fist.
CRICKET: But then I pray about it and I realize that God has chosen to make me incredibly lonely and poor and plain because that is part of His plan and I will find glory soon. Hopefully before I’m dead. But God is good! God is great! And so I’d like to share my poem with you about the love of my life. Not Jesus. Though he is the LOVE of my life. No. This is a poem about my cat. Actually this whole book is filled with poems about my cat and I’m just going to let God’s hand guide me and choose one randomly.
She closes her eyes and flips through the pages.
CRICKET: Here we go.
She looks for Connie who is sitting in the back with her disgruntled granddaughter.
CRICKET: It’s family friendly, I assure you!
CONNIE: That’s great, Cricket. You just go ahead.
Cricket leans in super close to the mic, as if she’s eating it, and her voice deepens and resonates in the iHop.
CRICKET: My poem. To My Pussy.
My Pussy is always with me.
Wherever I go, there she is.
She keeps loneliness and sorrow at bay
Away.
Away!
When she is hungry, I feed her.
I feed her with love.
My Pussy is covered in silky dark
Fur
And I stroke her up and down
And sometimes in circles
Because God is infinite,
God is good.
My Pussy has teeth and sometimes
If you make her angry
She will bite! But that’s okay, because I forgive her.
And to forgive is divine.
My Pussy and I share
Everything
But especially the love of God
Because what is more divine
Than a creature who only
Needs to be stroked and loved
To love you back?
My Pussy. I love you.
MELODY, the goth-like teenager in the back row giggles and says “Amen!”
CRICKET: That’s it. Can I go now?
Connie covers her face with her hands
Bud, the manager of iHop, quickly steps in front of the mic, allowing Cricket to slip away silently in the shadows.
BUD: Now, that’s enough folks! That’s all the Open Mic we can handle. Do you people want to get me fired? Do you? We’re ending this session, now, and I want you all to think long and hard about your poetry. It’s just not decent. Where’s the decent poetry? Huh? What happened to poetry about good, fine things like our country, and the flag, and pancakes? Jesus Crimminy, where are the poems about pancakes?
CARL: I have a haiku about pancakes!
BUD: No. You don’t. We’re done here tonight. Eat your bacon and your Senior Specials and then get out. Just…get out. But come back and buy food, but just come back separately. And don’t write anymore. Just stop it.
He pulls the cord on the mic and turns the house lights back onto full. “Bridge Over Troubled Water” plays over the sound system.
MELODY: Grandma, that was awesome. You’re right. Poetry readings are so much better than drugs.
***
Will there be more "Open Mic Night" or is this the end of the world for the Women's Writing Group? I don't know. I do know some regular blogs are coming...but I think it's highly likely Open Mic night will be back.
Open Mic Night At iHop On East Beltline: Carl PT 2
In which we meet Carl, the trucker, who also writes slightly obscene haiku.
BUD: Well, okay. Welcome back to our 2nd Open Mic and All You Can Eat Waffle Night hosted by us, your iHop, and the Women’s Writing Group. Sorry about the abrupt end to the poetry reading last week, but things were getting hot. In the kitchen that is. Before we start, just a reminder to keep it clean, folks. We’re a family establishment. And tip your servers! Polite applause.
Connie takes over the mic. She’s in her late sixties and is wearing a long velvet dress, Renaissance Fair style. Her long, clearly hennaed hair falls down her back. She wears a crown of plastic flowers.
CONNIE: Welcome back everyone! Tonight we have an assortment of interesting people to read. I’m pleased to say my granddaughter Melody is going to read some of her poems.
MELODY: Fuck you, grandma!
CONNIE: (Pause.) My sweet granddaughter is staying with me for a while while her mother finishes up her sent...her vacation...and Melody will read some of her work once she gets some food in her system and spikes her blood sugar a bit. Until then we have Carmen…
She looks at her sheet again.
CONNIE: Excuse me. We have Carl who wants to share something he’s written.
Connie exits the stage as CARL approaches. Carl is huge. He’s wearing big boots, big jeans, a t-shirt with wolves howling at the moon, and red suspenders. He has a big beard and a bald head. His voice is deep and sounds like he either drinks a lot of whiskey or swallowed a porcupine. Maybe both.
CARL: Hey. I’m Carl.
AUDIENCE: Hi, Carl!
CARL: I’m a trucker. That big rig out there in the parking lot, she’s mine. And we’ve seen some long roads, let me tell you. I’ve been all over this country and, sheesh, I’ve seen things that should be in books or movies or something, but then maybe not because you’d want to poke your eyes out. Yeah. Anywho. I’ve seen the love days of the sixties, the sexual freedom of the seventies, and I was fiscally irresponsible in the eighties. I repented in the nineties. And now I’m nearing retirement, but I’ve still got a few thousand miles of hard road before me.
Life is hard on the road, and it gets mighty lonely. So some days after I’ve listened to some audiobooks where people get murdered and such, well, I turn off my iPod and I like to write poems. Mostly I write them in my head, because if I wrote them down in a book while I’m driving, I’d probably jackknife or something. Or run over things like squirrels. Deer. Moose. Hitchhikers. What have you. At any rate, I forgot most of my poems on account of all the uppers I take to stay awake. It can make you sorta hazy like, but this poem I’ve got for you is real special. It’s part of a series. It’ll make you think. It might even change your life. And I guess maybe I’ve said enough about it. Now I’ll read to you. This is my poem. It’s one of them haiku things. I call it “Springtime”.
Carl clears his throat.
CARL:
Springtime. A Haiku.
You sit on my face.
I ponder hummingbird wings
And flutter my tongue.
Silence. Carl nods his head and then sits down.
Silence.
Somebody coughs.
Mabel VanderSteen, in her wheelchair, claps.
WAITRESS: Anybody here order the Senior Sampler?
MABEL: I’d rather sample some of that.
***
Stay tuned for more scenes from Open Mic Night. And some 'real' blogs too.
Open Mic Night at the IHOP on East Beltline Pt. 1
In which we meet a strange assortment of slightly twisted individuals who have shown up to read their poetry at the local iHop.
BUD:
Is this on? Is it? Anyone? Okay. Great. Welcome to our first Open Mic and All You Can Eat Waffle Night hosted by us, your IHOP. But before that I need to remind you that in honor of this new endeavor, you can get our Poet Stack of Pancakes. That’s four pancakes and you dress it the way you like it—or heck. Leave ‘em naked. Anywho. Welcome to our first Open Mic Night. The Senior Women’s Writing Group that meets here asked if we’d set up a mic and such and we agreed. So, you’ve got half an hour or so here to be all poetical, and then we’ve got to shut it down to get ready for the bar rush. Allrighty then. Remember to tip your servers!
(Bud turns the mic over to Connie, a four-foot tall woman in her late sixties wearing a tie-dyed shirt and a long flowing skirt. It is not evident if she’s wearing shoes, or even has any feet, as the skirt glides over the carpet.)
CONNIE:
Thank you, Bud. Our first reader tonight is Mable VanderSteen. She’s seventy-five, has four grandchildren…what’s that? Okay…five grandchildren and believes that through writing world peace is possible.
(Long transition as Mable is wheeled up to the microphone and the microphone is adjusted.)
MABLE:
My poem. It’s an Ode.
Ode To The O
by Mabel VanderSteen. That's me. Okay then.
(MABEL raises her hand dramatically and makes her voice sound all poet-like)
MABEL:
I thought I knew what you were, oh mighty O.
I’d read about you
and in the 60s I told everyone I knew
how to find you
but I lied.
I lied like the demon spawn I am.
(Demon Spawn--
a shadow shivering behind the outhouse.)
I lied because fear clutched my heart,
but it never clutched my clitoris.
Now I’m seventy-five and I found you,
my love,
and I thank those late night TV commercials
and their sweet spring promise
of a package sent in plain paper
so that the eyes at Whispering Pines wouldn’t know.
But now, now, Oh, sweet music,
sweet dancer on a silvery lake of passion,
I know you, Orgasm. You shiver my soul.
And now I can read my erotica fiction
and I can understand
truly understand
what it means
to be complete.
The end.
Thank you.
That’s the end of my ode. If anyone wants a coupon for the Mighty Tingler, I have…
(Sound of applause and then strangely, the fire alarm is set and the IHOP on East Beltline erupts in chaos.)
Stay tuned for more scenes from "Open Mic Night at the iHop on East Beltline".