THE BLOG-BLAHS COME-APART
Since my first go-‘round back in ’87, I’ve come to measure my middle life in Gatherings, 22 so far. Therefore, two Gatherings ago at my 21st in 2007, on Saturday, February 3rd the last day of a long week of workshops and performances, my schedule included a pair of unusual entries: 7:30 (yup, A.M.!)—Breakfast and discussion with Deep West Bloggers, and 2:15—Deep West Online Artists in the flesh. I had agreed sometime between my 20th and 21st Gatherings to participate as a Bardic Blogger, although to this very day I could NOT make a computer boot-up even if it meant the high-stakes 86ing of ol’ Beelzebub off my right shoulder to do so. I know I’m missing out on a lot of good porn, not to even mention all those sites that guarantee the extension of my anatomical manhood, but it still just is not worth the techno-havoc wreaked upon my UniPoet deportment (Zarzyski? Kaczynski? Manifesto-hunter-‘n’-peckers-on-manual-typewriters-a-pair?). Yes, I confess, I’m hammerin’ this baby out on the ‘50s Smith-Corona Silent-Super, after which I am entirely at the mercy and/or obligation of my dear, DEAR Elizabeth Dear to enter the booger and beam it out into the Elko Blogosphere. In return for Liz’s generosity and angelic patience, I don my Jeeves-The-Butler garb for weeks on end. We’re both content with the arrangement, although I occasionally am stricken with the notion that Elizabeth is BY FAR getting the better end of the swap, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it until Wild Bill Gates designs the Indestructible Polish-Eye-talian-rage-proof Kryptonite laptop. In any case, as I started to say, on that disastrous Saturday of my 21st, I incurred, at the brace of blog sessions, several minor unravelings that lead to a Zarzyski-Goes-Bloglistic-In-Public total blow-up during my late-afternoon presentation, in which I damned and/or denounced with venom-‘n’-vitriol all connections between our Cowboy Poetry Traditions and the internet. Since that episode, I’ve apologized in private to a good number of the organizers and participants. I was wrong, I was rude, I was ignorant and, perhaps worst of all, I was hypocritical because the truth be known, I’ve come to depend almost daily on Liz’s ability to punch-up something or another on my behalf. (Recently, my Father was diagnosed with the rare fatal blood disease, amyloidosis, and thanks to the internet, I was able to learn everything known about the affliction and make the wise decision to take my Dad to The Mayo Clinic in Rochester immediately after this year’s Gathering.) Also—forgive me, Theodore, for I have sinned—I have a website! All to say, quoting that standard line from 1950’s U.S. Cavalry flicks, whiteman (UniPoet) speaks with fork-ed tongue. For which I would like to apologize in print to everyone in attendance at that Saturday, Feb. 3, 2007 presentation. I vow—on my beloved Smith-Corona and on my Barstow Riggin’ Bag—never again to be so, in the words of my dear friend, Robbin Dofflemyer, super-poopy in public, especially in cowpoke poetry mecca public, in Elko. I sincerely ask your forgiveness and, in the same breath, thank you, should you choose to grant it.
THE METAMORPHIC TRANSMUTATIONAL ALCHEMY CALLED ELKO
Elko is not merely addictive, it’s life-altering. Somebody, far more ambitious than I, should gather and catalog the hundreds upon hundreds of testimonials by all those who, ever since attending their first Gatherings, have experienced Cowpoke-Woodstock-Positive-Flashbacks-of-Hopeful-Joyful-Creativity-To-The-Umpteenth-Power-Max. At my very same 21st mentioned above—the one at which I bucked off, pulled the ol’ hang-‘n’-drag, tore the crotch outta my brand new Wranglers and lost my lucky hitched-horsehair hatband in the blog-riding event—I scored in the high 80s during another perf where I debuted the light-sided side-effects of enterin’-up in Elko. Without further adieu, I give you
The Polish-Hobo-Mafioso-Rodeo-Poet’s TOP 15 (yes, ladies and gentlemen, half again as many as David Lettermen’s Top 10)—Indicators That You Have Recently Returned Home From THE 2007 ELKO COWBOY POETRY GATHERING:
#15. You can’t keep from answering your phone Howdy, Parrrd.
#14. Grandma! You’ve exclaimed, It’s purt-near as good as watching Deadwood!
#13. After eating at The Star, all other spaghetti tastes raw.
#12. You’ve witnessed so many old fat cowboys acting like teenagers, you’ve quit your yoga and pilates classes and have taken up team roping.
#11. Your credit card statement has to be delivered by Leroy’s Crate-It-‘n’-Freight-It.
#10. Your spouse still doesn’t believe your pocketsful of souvenir matchbooks marked MONA'S are from “Elko’s finest bistro.”
#9. You’re convinced matching Carhartt bathrobes will make the perfect Valentine's Day gift.
#8. You’re hoping the personal license plate “Spur Me Babe" is still available. (For your Volvo)
#7. You’re hoping your state, too, will someday legalize gambling, prostitution, and rhyme-‘n’-meter in public places.
#6. You’ve heard so many sick Brokeback Mountain jokes, you’ll never count sheep to fall asleep again.
#5. In recurring nightmares, you’ve died and gone to a place where everyone yodels.
#4. You were sure you’d seen EVERYthing until you saw Wallace McRae drunk on picon punch.
#3. Re-entry into normal life hasn’t been this difficult since your alien abduction.
#2. The box marked FREE! For your spring yard sale overflows with UN-wrapped Michael Martin Murphey CDs.
AND THE NUMBER 1 SIGN THAT YOU HAVE JUST RETURNED FROM ELKO 2007, Ladies & Gentlemen (drumrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrroll, please) ! ! ! ! ! !
#1. With James Brown gone, you’re proclaiming Glen Ohrlin “The NEW Godfather of Soul!”
BUB-BYE TO THE BLOG
Elko’s a contagious place, alright. The Cowboy Poetry bug runs rampant and if you spend much time there, chances are you’ll contract it, become infectious, catch yourself speaking in bardic tongues and, thus, spreading the wordsmith-wealth. It doesn’t help to uncoil your wildrag from around your throat and snub it up over your stage-robbin’ face bandito-style. It doesn’t help to scrub your paws with lye soap, or to apply that clear gel hand-sanitizer, Poem-X, with its Kills 99.99% of the rhymes guarantee on the little plastic bottle. It doesn’t help to pack your ear canals with cotton, foam rubber, plumber’s putty, silicone caulking, or even Gorilla Glue, although the latter does work well as a hair extractor and rumor has it that Hal Cannon—after a single G.G. application prior to a Baxter Black performance—can now, without those brush piles sticking outta each side of his noggin, hear a tsetse fly hum the melody to How Dry I Am at 25 paces. Simply put, if you even drive within a hundred miles of Elko or fly over it in any aircraft other than a stealth bomber or the space shuttle, YOU ARE GOING TO CATCH THE POETRY BUG, period, end of discussion, bah-dah-boom, bah-dah-bing. I have permission to share with you the following email (yes, damnit, email!) sent Monday April 2, 2007, two months after the Gathering:
Hi Paul,
I met you at the Cowboy Poetry Gathering in Elko. My friend had
mentioned that I read your poetry in bed to my husband. You had
asked me to write a little something about how this all happened.
I apologize for not responding sooner but that inner poet in me
(never having been tapped!) decided to write our experiences as
a poem. I started and had a rough draft, then went to an Ina
Coolbirth Circle poetry reading meeting. The guest speaker
handed out a sheet with "Unwritten Rules of Poetry." After going
over the 20 rules, I knew I was a true beginner at writing poetry!
I did make some changes in my poem and decided not to tear it
apart, just enjoy the process of writing.
First, I will tell you in prose our in-bed poetry, then will come the
poem.
Having been given your Wolf Tracks On The Welcome Mat and
Cowboy Poetry, The Reunion, I brought the books to bed one night.
I asked my husband (Michael is from Garrison, Montana) if he
would like me to read him a poem. His answer was yes. The next
night, he said, “Aren’t you going to read another poem?" That is
all it took. The ritual was started. Each night we either laughed,
discussed or just thought silently about the poem. Your poems
usually took on a more lengthy discussion. (That is a good thing!)
It has been a wonderful, fun time.
I am sure you could come up with an exceptional poem about
reading poetry in bed. If you do, I would love to read it. Thank you
for spending the time talking with me in Elko and for giving us a new
experience in life.
Poetry in Bed
Settled in my grandfather’s rocking chair,
Words flow from my pen
As thoughts of an evening ritual
Come from that special place in my heart.
Nightly, my husband lies in the warmth of our bed,
Anticipating what will unfold.
I slip between the flannel sheets, grasping our familiar book.
Settled in, with cat planted between us,
The time has come.
Woodworking magazine falls gently to his chest,
Eyes gazing at the ceiling,
Knowing he will be enriched once again with a poem,
Looking at life as a cowboy.
Musing, laughing, pondering, commenting
Or silence.
Gently the words rock us to sleep.
Good night. Sweet dreams.
Kathy Gerdts
Good night. Sweet dreams. Thanks, Kathy, for the nifty segue, because with this swan song blog, I bid you readers farewell. From this Western Folklife site, that is. As I confessed, I DO have a website on which I occasionally post NewsFlashes-‘n’-Fast Dashes—http://www.paulzarzyski.com. Thank you for reading my postings and for tolerating my rants and, I suppose at times, peculiar point-of-views. If you’ve appreciated, on the other hand, any of my musings in this form oh-so-foreign to me, prose, please express your gratitude to Christina Barr and Darcy Minter, who have both sweated, AND DODGED, bullets in orchestrating this cyberspace venue on my behalf. It’s always an artistic adventure to work with the staff of the Western Folklife Center. I apologize to them for shirking my commitment, for the long silence over the past year—less to do with my super-poopiness toward blogging, trust me, than with responsibilities on the old home ground. Accordingly, I’ll close, and say my final adios, with this poem:
How I Tell My Dad I Love Him
Knocking down the standing dead
oak, maple, ash, yellow birch
in July humidity all day long, we
take a blow only to guzzle
spring water from moonshine jugs—
same jugs, same artesian seep, same
father and son who made wood
together one-half century ago, me at six
swinging a hickory double-bit
Dad carved as he whittled
into me the virtue of work, same pride
a blue-collar poet knows
sizing-up the ricks, the short cords of words,
split and fit into stacks
during another hard shift in the woods. Dad
gestures to me his slow-motion
coup de grace—quitting time—
straight razor across the throat
Sicilian sign language with thick Polish finger
just as my chainsaw, racing
out of gas, bucks into two
matching sixteen-inch rounds
the butt-end of a fifty-footer
I was itching to finish. Flocked
with sawdust from my boot laces up
to the crown button of my Paul Bunyan ball cap,
I saunter to the stump
Dad sits on, The Lumberjack Thinker
pondering four score and two years of BTUs. He
does not see me peeling the heavy red
sweat-soaked t-shirt
inside-out up over my torso and face—
popping its collar, like a cork
out of a crock nozzle,
off my forehead. I toss it
splashing into his lap
with reptile heft. He jumps,
cusses me with a laugh, agrees
to replenish my Pabst Blue Ribbon reservoir,
replace my shredded gloves. Our deal
sealed with a handshake, far
less virile lately, tender as a hug,
we drive the same slow miles home—
dripping in the sweetest silence he knows.
