Hello, Bozeman-area writers,
It's that time of year again! Yes, cabin fever time, when the walls of winter close in, the only two colors are white and night, and you ask yourself over and over: Why, exactly, did I choose Montana over Maui? It's time to think of the cheery days of early spring - and why not think of the cheeriest day? April 1st is the day I'm talking about, the day Southwest Montana's scribes have their moment in the spotlight. Foolish Words Day.
I've known a few writers over the years, and one thing I've noticed is that writers seek to appear humble. That, of course, doesn't mean we are humble; we just prefer people to think of us that way. If they knew the truth of our gargantuan egos and our need for constant praise and validation... well, we'll just keep that to ourselves. Except on April 1st! This is the day we get to be on stage and show the world just how big a bunch of hams we really are.
For the unindoctrinated, I'm talking about Foolish Words, a story passed along from one Bozeman-area writer to the next. Started by a meager handful of writers in 2004, Foolish Words has become, if not an institution, then at least something that deserves to be institutionalized. Fifteen writers took part in last year's ridiculousness, ranging from those whose work has barely passed before the public's eye to jaded veterans of the written word: authors, journalists, playwrights. After our live reading at the Leaf & Bean, an edited version was once again published in installment form in the Tributary magazine.
You may have noticed that Bozeman has something of a disparate - or should I say desperate? - writing community. There's tons of writers of all different levels of establishment, but they almost never do anything with each other. Here, we can create something wonderful together. Or nonsensical. Or wonderfully nonsensical. For an idea of what I'm talking about, visit the Foolish Words Bozeman blog at http://foolishwordsbozeman.blogspot.com/
So, here's how it works: Everyone who's interested gets e-mailed the progressively growing oeuvre for three days, and in that time he or she needs to come up with no more than 400 words to add to the story. When all is said and done, we all band together on April 1 and read our parts at the Leaf and Bean. Can't show up? No worries, someone will read for you. Got a friend who may be interested? Pass the word along! The more fools the better, I always say.
Please let me know right away if you're interested in participating.
Ray Sikorski
logorhythmic@hotmail.com
Note: Our dear former leader, poet Sam Louden, is now in law school in Boston, on his way to becoming a judge (poetic justice?). So that leaves just me in charge for now... although I will be out of town for parts of March. Does anybody want to be my organizational collaborator?
Showing posts with label Bozeman. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bozeman. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Monday, April 2, 2007
Katie Goodman
Katie Goodman is the creator, writer, and director of Broad Comedy, as well as the co-artistic direcor of the Equinox Theatre Company; is a founding member of the nationally touring improv comedy troupe Spontaneous Combustibles; and her piece on authenticity appeared in the March 2007 issue of O, The Oprah Magazine.
“A musical?” Adonai, The One Who Cannot Be Named, asked.
“Yeah,” Jesus said, thoughtfully. “It’s worked before. Look at what Menopause The Musical did for Orlando.”
“Orlando already had a few things going for it, financially speaking,” Shiva said smugly, always the one who had to be right.
“It might work,” Adonai said, popping a piece of pickled herring into his mouth.
“Yes, let’s not judge too quickly,” Jesus said.
“You always say that,” White Buffalo Woman snapped. She was tired from recent appearances.
“I thought we were just going to write off Butte,” Shiva sulked. “Let the damn thing destroy itself and fall away to dust. That’s such the obvious answer.”
“Look, they need a hand,” Adonai shrugged his shoulders, palms up, eyes squinting like his grandmother used to do. “They asked. Their intentions are pure… Plus I owe Finkelstein.”
“For what?” Buddha perked up. He was so damn quiet. It was unsettling. Everyone preferred it when he spoke up
occasionally.
“Um,” said Adonai. “I’d rather not say.”
St. Patrick was taking all this in. He was chewing on some road kill beef jerky White Buffalo Woman had brought for everyone. The stuff got stuck in your teeth like nothing else.
“I don’t think we should get involved,” he said.
“We’ve got several warring factions here and it’s getting hard to tell them apart. We don’t want another Middle East.”
“Or middle west!” laughed Baccus, lamely trying to lighten the mood.
“That is sooooo not the middle west, you moron. It’s the West,” chided White Buff, as her girlfriends called her.
“It’s all the West, out there,” Shiva snipped. “West, west, west.”
“That is so like an easterner,” White Buff shouted standing up. “What, you can’t tell us apart?”
“All right, all right! Enough!” Adonai shouted, shushing everyone into a shamed silence. He was good at making them feel guilty enough to shape up. “So, what should we do? Consensus says…?”
Everyone got very quiet.
Then, the one who hadn’t spoken yet, sat up:
“A musical?” Adonai, The One Who Cannot Be Named, asked.
“Yeah,” Jesus said, thoughtfully. “It’s worked before. Look at what Menopause The Musical did for Orlando.”
“Orlando already had a few things going for it, financially speaking,” Shiva said smugly, always the one who had to be right.
“It might work,” Adonai said, popping a piece of pickled herring into his mouth.
“Yes, let’s not judge too quickly,” Jesus said.
“You always say that,” White Buffalo Woman snapped. She was tired from recent appearances.
“I thought we were just going to write off Butte,” Shiva sulked. “Let the damn thing destroy itself and fall away to dust. That’s such the obvious answer.”
“Look, they need a hand,” Adonai shrugged his shoulders, palms up, eyes squinting like his grandmother used to do. “They asked. Their intentions are pure… Plus I owe Finkelstein.”
“For what?” Buddha perked up. He was so damn quiet. It was unsettling. Everyone preferred it when he spoke up
occasionally.
“Um,” said Adonai. “I’d rather not say.”
St. Patrick was taking all this in. He was chewing on some road kill beef jerky White Buffalo Woman had brought for everyone. The stuff got stuck in your teeth like nothing else.
“I don’t think we should get involved,” he said.
“We’ve got several warring factions here and it’s getting hard to tell them apart. We don’t want another Middle East.”
“Or middle west!” laughed Baccus, lamely trying to lighten the mood.
“That is sooooo not the middle west, you moron. It’s the West,” chided White Buff, as her girlfriends called her.
“It’s all the West, out there,” Shiva snipped. “West, west, west.”
“That is so like an easterner,” White Buff shouted standing up. “What, you can’t tell us apart?”
“All right, all right! Enough!” Adonai shouted, shushing everyone into a shamed silence. He was good at making them feel guilty enough to shape up. “So, what should we do? Consensus says…?”
Everyone got very quiet.
Then, the one who hadn’t spoken yet, sat up:
Ray Sikorski
Ray Sikorski is a freelance writer and the author of Driftwood Dan and Other Adventures, who likes participating in Foolish Words because he has to finish what everyone else starts.
…and their toes tapping and heels clicking signified an authentic sense of rhythm.
They had not come to Bozeman to rumble. They had come to Bozeman to audition.
They intoned, from high to low, and went into their redition of “It’s a Long Way From Claire to Here.” A hush fell upon the Seedy Bean. Those Irish Fairies could harmonize. They even had matching outfits. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house.
“You guys are in!” yelled Lenny. Irwin and Bottled Stillwater grunted their approval.
“The male lead shall go to me,” demanded the Plumber. “For I am the most charming Irish Fairy in all of Uptown Butte. I can dance the Riverdance, and I can sing from me heart so sweetly, why, the fair Lady of the Rockies herself would come down for a listen.”
Mumblings arose from both the over- and under-upholstered seats of the Seedy Bean. “Prove it!” the crowd yelled.
“It would be me pleasure,” said the Plumber. “I shall sing this song as a tribute to me plumber’s helper, Danny.
“’Oh, Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling…”
The Seedy Bean patrons put down their cups. Even the milk steamer was silent. And way, way off in the distance – 81 miles away, to be exact – one could discern the faint yet unmistakable percussion of massive stone footsteps.
Just then Jane and the rest of police burst in to the coffeeshop. “The Berkeley Pit is coming down the Insterstate,” she cried.
“It’s headed for Bozeman!” she cried.
Tables overturned, coffee went flying. The Irish Fairies urged calm. “The water in the pit isn’t bad for ye,” one said. “Me brothers and me drink it all the time. Keeps ye young.”
The police tried to settle the crowd. “He may be right!” Jane said. “What we need is a guinea pig to go out there and test it. And, if we can’t find a guinea pig, I hear a pangolin will work in a pinch.”
Sweet Banana Tail’s ears perked up at that. She put down her latte, wiping the ant residue off her upper proboscis. “I’ll be freakin’ damned if I’m going out there,” she said.
Off in the distance, the footsteps grew louder. And sploshier.
“Oh, dair, she’s a comin’ all righty,” said the Plumber. “Sounds like she’s walking along the Interstate. She’ll be a’trompin’ in the Pit water, and I fear she won’t be wearin’ her irrigation boots.”
“Sir, let me get this right,” said Jane. “Along with the floodwaters of the Berkely Pit, the giant Our Lady of the Rockies statue is headed to Bozeman?”
“Aye, and she’s hoppin’ mad! Oh, and that Pit water will make her grow, a kilometer if she’s an inch. And that’s no Blarney!”
Half the crowd went into a panic - too much caffeine. The other half, who also had too much caffeine, started brainstorming.
“I know, we’ll fight her with an enormous icon of our own!”
“What have we got?”
“Uh, how ‘bout the ‘M’?”
“But that’s just a big letter m. Can it fight?”
“Comes in handy in Scrabble.”
“I know!” said Lenny. “We’ll film it. It’ll be the greatest new reality show ever – part Cops, part Survivor, part American Idol, and part America’s Funniest House Pets.”
“I resent that,” muttered Sweet Banana Tail, swallowing an ant clump.
“And part Godzilla versus Mothra!” yelled Virginia.
So it was on. The denizens of Bozeman no longer feared being flooded with toxic water and stomped to death by the mighty Lady from Butte, because they would be made famous in the process… with help from the song and dance accompaniment of the Irish Fairies. The producers brandished their cameras – it was showtime.
The drumbeat of stone footsteps grew louder. Darkness fell along Main Street; it wasn’t a thundercloud, it was the massive shadow of Our Lady, now passing the 19th Street interchange, her feet sloshing with poison. Rather than hiding in their basements, Bozeman’s overly recreated came out in their Patagonia hazmat suits, hoping to be on TV.
The Plumber was right: She was a kilometer tall if she was an inch. She approached Main Street, towering above it. Some people screamed. The rock climbers in the crowd desperately searched for their chalk bags and harnesses – opportunities like this didn’t happen every day. It would be Bozeman’s day of darkness; Butte would finally get the respect it deserved.
But the Plumber wasn’t right about everything: Our Lady of the Rockies wasn’t hopping mad. She was concerned.
“That Berkely Pit toxic sludge made my feet itch,” she boomed. “And it’s headed for the North 7th Avenue exit!”
The crowd screamed. Panicking looters broke into Schnee’s and cleared out their stock of irrigation boots.
“No!” boomed Our Lady. “You can be saved!”
“Save us, O Lady!” yelled the crowd.
“I’m not the one to save you. The one who can save you is among you. It’s… Donna Lou deChris!”
A confused murmur went through the crowd. “Who’s she?” someone asked.
“She is an actress,” said Our Lady. “And she will be the true star of this show.”
Donna Lou, who had been moping silently this whole time, suddenly brightened. At last!
“Is she any good?” asked another.
“She sucks,” said Our Lady. “I mean that literally. She has an exceedingly large capacity for air intake… and, hopefully, for toxic Berkeley Pit effluent intake. She is Bozeman’s only hope!”
They all look at her endearingly, Lenny and Virginia and Irwin and Squids and Bottled Stillwater and Sweet Banana Tail and Gary Geek and Patti and the Plumber and the Irish Fairies and the Great Falls Leprechauns and the Gilette Pennywhistle Gang (who had also come to audition) and Irwin’s mom and Bob and Adonai and Jesus and White Buffalo Woman and Shiva and Buddha and St. Patrick and Ullr and Jane and Deputy Max and Cormac McCarthy and Our Lady of the Rockies. They implored: “The show must go on, Donna Lou.”
Donna Lou pondered for a moment. She would have to swallow up the entire contents of the Berkeley Pit. She considered the pros and cons: She’d be famous, but it probably wouldn’t be very good for her complexion.
“I’ll do it!” she said.
The crowd cheered, and carried the exhuberant Donna Lou on their shoulders to the I-90 interchange, just as the toxic stew was bubbling off the exit ramp. “You suck, Donna Lou,” the crowd yelled. “You suck!”
And suck she did. At last, it was her moment in the spotlight – all the auditions, all the humilation was finally paying off… and for something she was naturally good at. She inhaled powerfully, and the toxic Pitwater was vacuumed straight into her cavernous mouth. As gallon after gallon of the gurgling brew disappeared into Donna Lou’s capacious maw, the crowd held its collective breath.
She had done it!
Donna Lou had sucked the entire Interstate dry, and she mopped the damp asphalt with her unibrow.
Bozeman was saved, Butte made it happen, and it would all be on TV. Both towns erupted in glee and merriment, praising Donna Lou, the Irish Fairies, and Our Lady of the Rockies. Even the screaming panda finally got around to doing his bit.
As drunken revelers ascended her flanks to give her big, wet kisses, Our Lady shushed the crowd, for she had one last question before returning to her perch above the Richest Hill on Earth:
“Just what the hell is that reptilian-anteater thing, anyway?’
THE END
…and their toes tapping and heels clicking signified an authentic sense of rhythm.
They had not come to Bozeman to rumble. They had come to Bozeman to audition.
They intoned, from high to low, and went into their redition of “It’s a Long Way From Claire to Here.” A hush fell upon the Seedy Bean. Those Irish Fairies could harmonize. They even had matching outfits. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house.
“You guys are in!” yelled Lenny. Irwin and Bottled Stillwater grunted their approval.
“The male lead shall go to me,” demanded the Plumber. “For I am the most charming Irish Fairy in all of Uptown Butte. I can dance the Riverdance, and I can sing from me heart so sweetly, why, the fair Lady of the Rockies herself would come down for a listen.”
Mumblings arose from both the over- and under-upholstered seats of the Seedy Bean. “Prove it!” the crowd yelled.
“It would be me pleasure,” said the Plumber. “I shall sing this song as a tribute to me plumber’s helper, Danny.
“’Oh, Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling…”
The Seedy Bean patrons put down their cups. Even the milk steamer was silent. And way, way off in the distance – 81 miles away, to be exact – one could discern the faint yet unmistakable percussion of massive stone footsteps.
Just then Jane and the rest of police burst in to the coffeeshop. “The Berkeley Pit is coming down the Insterstate,” she cried.
“It’s headed for Bozeman!” she cried.
Tables overturned, coffee went flying. The Irish Fairies urged calm. “The water in the pit isn’t bad for ye,” one said. “Me brothers and me drink it all the time. Keeps ye young.”
The police tried to settle the crowd. “He may be right!” Jane said. “What we need is a guinea pig to go out there and test it. And, if we can’t find a guinea pig, I hear a pangolin will work in a pinch.”
Sweet Banana Tail’s ears perked up at that. She put down her latte, wiping the ant residue off her upper proboscis. “I’ll be freakin’ damned if I’m going out there,” she said.
Off in the distance, the footsteps grew louder. And sploshier.
“Oh, dair, she’s a comin’ all righty,” said the Plumber. “Sounds like she’s walking along the Interstate. She’ll be a’trompin’ in the Pit water, and I fear she won’t be wearin’ her irrigation boots.”
“Sir, let me get this right,” said Jane. “Along with the floodwaters of the Berkely Pit, the giant Our Lady of the Rockies statue is headed to Bozeman?”
“Aye, and she’s hoppin’ mad! Oh, and that Pit water will make her grow, a kilometer if she’s an inch. And that’s no Blarney!”
Half the crowd went into a panic - too much caffeine. The other half, who also had too much caffeine, started brainstorming.
“I know, we’ll fight her with an enormous icon of our own!”
“What have we got?”
“Uh, how ‘bout the ‘M’?”
“But that’s just a big letter m. Can it fight?”
“Comes in handy in Scrabble.”
“I know!” said Lenny. “We’ll film it. It’ll be the greatest new reality show ever – part Cops, part Survivor, part American Idol, and part America’s Funniest House Pets.”
“I resent that,” muttered Sweet Banana Tail, swallowing an ant clump.
“And part Godzilla versus Mothra!” yelled Virginia.
So it was on. The denizens of Bozeman no longer feared being flooded with toxic water and stomped to death by the mighty Lady from Butte, because they would be made famous in the process… with help from the song and dance accompaniment of the Irish Fairies. The producers brandished their cameras – it was showtime.
The drumbeat of stone footsteps grew louder. Darkness fell along Main Street; it wasn’t a thundercloud, it was the massive shadow of Our Lady, now passing the 19th Street interchange, her feet sloshing with poison. Rather than hiding in their basements, Bozeman’s overly recreated came out in their Patagonia hazmat suits, hoping to be on TV.
The Plumber was right: She was a kilometer tall if she was an inch. She approached Main Street, towering above it. Some people screamed. The rock climbers in the crowd desperately searched for their chalk bags and harnesses – opportunities like this didn’t happen every day. It would be Bozeman’s day of darkness; Butte would finally get the respect it deserved.
But the Plumber wasn’t right about everything: Our Lady of the Rockies wasn’t hopping mad. She was concerned.
“That Berkely Pit toxic sludge made my feet itch,” she boomed. “And it’s headed for the North 7th Avenue exit!”
The crowd screamed. Panicking looters broke into Schnee’s and cleared out their stock of irrigation boots.
“No!” boomed Our Lady. “You can be saved!”
“Save us, O Lady!” yelled the crowd.
“I’m not the one to save you. The one who can save you is among you. It’s… Donna Lou deChris!”
A confused murmur went through the crowd. “Who’s she?” someone asked.
“She is an actress,” said Our Lady. “And she will be the true star of this show.”
Donna Lou, who had been moping silently this whole time, suddenly brightened. At last!
“Is she any good?” asked another.
“She sucks,” said Our Lady. “I mean that literally. She has an exceedingly large capacity for air intake… and, hopefully, for toxic Berkeley Pit effluent intake. She is Bozeman’s only hope!”
They all look at her endearingly, Lenny and Virginia and Irwin and Squids and Bottled Stillwater and Sweet Banana Tail and Gary Geek and Patti and the Plumber and the Irish Fairies and the Great Falls Leprechauns and the Gilette Pennywhistle Gang (who had also come to audition) and Irwin’s mom and Bob and Adonai and Jesus and White Buffalo Woman and Shiva and Buddha and St. Patrick and Ullr and Jane and Deputy Max and Cormac McCarthy and Our Lady of the Rockies. They implored: “The show must go on, Donna Lou.”
Donna Lou pondered for a moment. She would have to swallow up the entire contents of the Berkeley Pit. She considered the pros and cons: She’d be famous, but it probably wouldn’t be very good for her complexion.
“I’ll do it!” she said.
The crowd cheered, and carried the exhuberant Donna Lou on their shoulders to the I-90 interchange, just as the toxic stew was bubbling off the exit ramp. “You suck, Donna Lou,” the crowd yelled. “You suck!”
And suck she did. At last, it was her moment in the spotlight – all the auditions, all the humilation was finally paying off… and for something she was naturally good at. She inhaled powerfully, and the toxic Pitwater was vacuumed straight into her cavernous mouth. As gallon after gallon of the gurgling brew disappeared into Donna Lou’s capacious maw, the crowd held its collective breath.
She had done it!
Donna Lou had sucked the entire Interstate dry, and she mopped the damp asphalt with her unibrow.
Bozeman was saved, Butte made it happen, and it would all be on TV. Both towns erupted in glee and merriment, praising Donna Lou, the Irish Fairies, and Our Lady of the Rockies. Even the screaming panda finally got around to doing his bit.
As drunken revelers ascended her flanks to give her big, wet kisses, Our Lady shushed the crowd, for she had one last question before returning to her perch above the Richest Hill on Earth:
“Just what the hell is that reptilian-anteater thing, anyway?’
THE END
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Foolish Words 2007 schedule
Here's the order for Foolish Words 2007. It looks like everyone should get about three or four days to slam out their bit. Currently (as of Thursday, Feb. 22) Heidi Lasher is working on her segment.
Sam Louden
Liz McRae
Heidi Lasher
Craig Kenworthy
Rebecca Kinman
Sid Gustafson
Mike Finkel
Marjorie Smith
Mike England
Michele Corriel
Ryan Cassavaugh
Polyestra
Keith Suta
Randy Glynn
Soren Kisiel
Katie Goodman
Ray Sikorski
Let us know how badly we spelled your name.
Something else we want to do is make an introduction of the scribblers to the audience. Please e-mail to Sam Louden (samyarpsam@yahoo.com) or Ray Sikorski (logorhythmic@hotmail.com) a one sentence biography that can
be read aloud before the main reading.
To further help audience members to know who-the-what-the-heck-is-going-on, the compiled bios will be printed as sort of a program. If we do not know who exactly you are by March 31, we will just make something up.
Note: Once again, the Tributary will be publishing Foolish Words over the course of the summer (and maybe into the fall, seeing as we have quite a lot of participants!).
Have questions or comments? Post 'em below! We'll see if we can address them.
Sam Louden
Liz McRae
Heidi Lasher
Craig Kenworthy
Rebecca Kinman
Sid Gustafson
Mike Finkel
Marjorie Smith
Mike England
Michele Corriel
Ryan Cassavaugh
Polyestra
Keith Suta
Randy Glynn
Soren Kisiel
Katie Goodman
Ray Sikorski
Let us know how badly we spelled your name.
Something else we want to do is make an introduction of the scribblers to the audience. Please e-mail to Sam Louden (samyarpsam@yahoo.com) or Ray Sikorski (logorhythmic@hotmail.com) a one sentence biography that can
be read aloud before the main reading.
To further help audience members to know who-the-what-the-heck-is-going-on, the compiled bios will be printed as sort of a program. If we do not know who exactly you are by March 31, we will just make something up.
Note: Once again, the Tributary will be publishing Foolish Words over the course of the summer (and maybe into the fall, seeing as we have quite a lot of participants!).
Have questions or comments? Post 'em below! We'll see if we can address them.
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