The sweat stood out cold on Ford Prefect's brow, and slid round the electrodes strapped to his temples. These were attached to a battery of electronic equipment--imaginary intensifiers, rhythmic modulators, alliterative residulators and simile dampers--all designed to heighten the experience of the poem and make sure that not a single nuance of the poet's thought was lost.
Arthur Dent sat and quivered. He had no idea what he was in for, but he knew that he hadn't like anything that had happened so far and didn't think things were likely to change.
The Vogon began to read--a fetid little passage of his own devising.
"Oh freddled gruntbuggly . . ." he began. Spasms wracked Ford's body--this was worse than even he'd been prepared for.
"? . . . thy micturations are to me - A plurdled gabbleblotchits on a lurgid bee."
"Aaaaaaargggghhhhhh!" went Ford Prefect, wrenching his head back as lumps of pain thumped through it. He could dimly see beside him Arthur lolling and rolling in his seat. He clenched his teeth.
"Groop I implore thee." continued the merciless Vogon, "my foonting turlingdromes."
His voice was rising to a horrible pitch of impassioned stridency. "And hooptiously drangle me with crinkly bindlewurdles, / Or I will tend thee in the gobberwarts with my blurglecruncheon, see if I don't!"
"Nnnnnnnnnnyyyyyyuuuuuurrrrrrgggggghhhh!" cried Ford Prefect and threw one final spasm as the electronic enhancement of the last line caught him full blast across the temples. He went limp.
Arthur lolled.
"Now, Earthlings . . " whirred the Vogon (he didn't know that Ford Prefect was in fact from a small planet somewhere in the vicinity of Betelgeuse, and wouldn't have cared if he had), "I present you with a simple choice! Either die in the vacuum of space, or . . ." he paused for melodramatic effect, "tell me how good you thought my poem was!"
I am back from performing at the Calumet Theatre. The show ended last night around 9:30, and, by the time I got to my hotel room, I had just enough energy to order a pepperoni pizza, eat a few slices, and then fall asleep. Any blogging I might have done last night would have sounded like Vogon poetry, so I decided to forgo any attempt at it.
I think the show went well. I didn't notice anyone spasming in their seats or screaming "Nnnnnnnnnnyyyyyyuuuuuurrrrrrgggggghhhh!" Therefore, I will take that as a sign that the we didn't suck.
All kidding aside, I am really lucky to work with some great artists at The Red Jacket Jamboree. They have become like family to me, as I said in my last post. As a poet, I don't get a whole lot of opportunities to be around people who truly appreciate what I do. If someone asks me what I do for a living, and I reply that I'm a poet, that someone will suddenly find a mole on his/her arm that needs to be removed. Poetry is like sorcery to most everyone I meet.
The other thing that The Red Jacket Jamboree gives me is the opportunity to flex a few of my other skills--acting, singing, writing scripts, and comedy. I used to do quite a lot of theater work. I actually was the lead in A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum. I played the Stage Manager in a production of Thorton Wilder's Our Town. I've directed plays and musicals, as well. Until I started working at the Calumet Theatre for this radio show, I didn't realize how much I missed being on stage.
So, Saint Marty gets the best of all worlds on these weekend jaunts to the Keweenaw. And the audience pays good money to hear, among other things, a few poems. Pretty cool.
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