More of the unusual Bull

When I was in college, I sat in on a workshop conducted by Irving Stone, the famous writer. Then again, he wasn't all that famous so I'll remind you what he wrote. He wrote "The Agony and the Ecstasy." He also wrote "Starry, Starry Night." Wait, that was Don McClean. Or maybe that was a software program. My mistake. But Stone definitely wrote... fuck! I can't remember.

Wait. That was me. Who wrote the word fuck. With such alacrity and authority. (Alliteration gives me wood. Assonance? A chubby.)

Fuck, fuck, fuck. This is just the setup and so far I've had to go to Google.com to find out what Irving Stone wrote. It turns out the book about Van Gogh was called "Lust for Life." I'm pleased to know that, are you?

When Stone came to Sonoma State University to conduct a writing workshop in the mid-80s, the SSU administration was so incompetent they sent two drunken Irishmen (me and Larry McTernan) in a stark white van to meet, greet and sweep Mr. and Mrs. Stone away from San Francisco International to Sonoma County, California where Mr. Stone had signed on to do a workshop for college students too stupid to get into Chico State. We're talking notHarvard.com for real people. There were times in class when I could actually see the double helix unraveling on these atavistic fucks next to me.

The best part about giving Mr. and Mrs. Stone a one-way ride is almost too obvious to mention. For the next ten days I told anyone who would listen, "Guess what I did last Friday? I picked up the Stones at the San Francisco airport. Yes... Yes.... Oh, yes... The Stones. Yeah, I did."

Before this column turns into what it's supposed to be -- a story about Daniel Bull, Matthew McCormack and me at the Carousel Lounge (it's always about me, you know) -- let me tell you what I learned at Irving Stone's workshop. (By the way, he's dead now. I blame myself.)

He asked us to write a 30-word-or-less sentence describing why we wanted to write. Like Mark Twain (dead too) once said, there are always two reasons for everything: the one you tell people and the real one. I decided "pussy for days" was probably not the real reason, so I strained to contrive another. I finally did. So did the rest of the lyin' ass class.

Once we completed our sentences, the venerable Stone asked us to turn in the soiled slits so he could deliberately humiliate us before the class. I clearly remember he read mine third. I also clearly remember, and am so relieved, that our names never appeared on the slits.

"I want to experience weird and unusual people and situations and then write about them," Stone said, quoting me. I thought, "How fuckin' lame is that?"

You know what? It's true. It's the whole damn truth. That's been my life, going to the weird and unusual, embracing it, getting drunk with it, likely fucking it and then writing about it. Lame? On slits of paper read by Irving Stone, sure. But I'm 46 and still alienating 19-year-old females. What have you done lately?

So when Daniel Bull asked me to come share a gig with Matt McCormack at the Carousel Lounge last Monday, how could I refuse? It's my calling. First, Daniel Bull -- also known as Cancerboy, because he's survived bone marrow cancer for the last ten years or so -- in and of himself is weird beyond belief and always has an incredible angle. Whenever he calls, I'm there. That's not always the case, you know. I've been known to hose people. I've been known to say, "I'll try to get there for that," knowing full well I was lying through my teeth. I've said, "Man, that sounds good to me," and believed it, only to oversleep or simply forget when and where I was supposed to be.

In other words, I'm Californian. I just happen to live in Texas.

THIS COLUMN SHOULD BE OVER BY NOW

I wanted to do something short and sweet so I could tell Theresa, one of my readers, "There. Are you happy now?" It's like I'm married, but the wives keep changing. "When are you going to write another column?" Or sometimes I get e-mail that reads, "You're late. You're really fuckin' late, dude." Or the e-mails I really can't stand, "I'm late."

What the fuck, do I look Mormon to you all?

Anyway, Daniel Bull asked me to sit in at the Carousel Lounge. Of course, I said yes. I don't always, you know, even if it's bizarre. For instance, I got invited to a pug dog's birthday party last Sunday, an annual affair hosted by my old friend Cossy. (Fuck it if I don't know her last name now that she's married. I can hardly picture her face. Now that she's married.)

I've got the flyer right here in front of me (I couldn't find it on Google) It reads, "Join us for Tyler's 8th Annual Birthday Party! Cake! Dog Antics! Treats! BYOD (bring your own dog. Get it? Get it?).Dogless humans welcome."

If that wasn't an invitation to disaster -- an automatic column -- then what was? But I hosed it. Thoroughly. And I ate at a Vietnamese restaurant that night to boot.

So I saw Daniel Bull on Monday. Strangely enough, the Carousel Lounge has suddenly become one of the hippest bars in Austin, which is funny because it's the first Austin bar I ever went to (ergo, a dive). There are only two places you can move on to after you've been to the Carousel -- a crack house or an AA meeting. It's the last stop on the denial tour. And they don't even serve hard liquor. Everyone brings their own, though.

So I go to the Carousel and I bring Karin (designated laugher, audience and driver all in one) to witness the carnage that is the dive-bar of Austin. Dan works the bar and does magic tricks. He's pretty good too. At least good enough to confuse the hell out of drunks.

And to top it off, it was Valentine's Day. That's the day where usually everyone I'm having sex with converges at once. Thank god for impotence. Thank god, thank god, thank god. On Valentine's Day, that is. On the other days, fuck god, fuck god, fuck god.

I mean I'd like to get it up once in awhile. On special occasions. You know, like Thursdays.

There's only one holiday worse than Valentine's Day, by the way. Father's Day. I don't dare answer the fuckin' phone on that day.

Anyway, I see Matthew McCormack and we do the show-biz, glad-hand routine "Hey man, you're looking good."

"You too man, it's been awhile."

"God, I really love that song of yours. You know, the one you sang on the roof of the Bel Age."

"Hey, I'm hoping you're going to play "Valley of the Moon" tonight. Can you crank that out for me?"

"No problem, buddy."

From there the lies escalated.

"We'll have to hang out some day."

"I'll call you."

"We'll get together soon."

"Definitely."

When I finally got on stage to perform for the dozen or so drunks in the lounge, I thought of a little riff.

"I'm going to play a brand new song, something you haven't heard before," I said. And that's funny, cause no one there had ever heard my shit before. Okay, well three people maybe, but they weren't exactly my target audience.

And I did sing a new song called "Let It Go." It went off pretty well. Soon, a synapse ignited.

"Hey, do any of you guys want to hear something familiar?"

No reaction.

"No, really. Do you want to hear something you might have heard before?"

Finally, after several pleas, a few hands went up and I heard some guy say, "Yeah, play something we know."

I played "Let It Go" again. Start to finish.

STANDARD DISCLAIMER: This column aims to be funny. If you can read anything else into it, you're on your own. Copyright 2000 by Mike Jasper.