The Blasterthon, Night Two

(Above - Lauren Ross portraying The Ling Master. Photos throughout, except the one of Francis Poole at bottom, are by Catherine Bennett)

There has been a well-oiled revolving door to the Beyond in Baltimore this year and the most recent to exit was slugger Blaster Al Ackerman. Every moment spent with him was a revelatory gift - other than when he was busting on some of my favorite grooves like Curtis Mayfield and Brigitte Fontaine, of course. I could leave Normal's for only ten minutes to make a bank deposit and sure enough I'd get back to ELO on the turntable.

But so many of my favorite books (including most everything by him), obscure movies and strange folklore I found out about through him. And his daily example of each day no matter what creating something new and " messing with the concept of time", pranking to create reality shifts, deflating the pompous or vampiric, will inspire me until I forget how to slip my hairy legs into trousers.

(Above - Blaster's most beloved and long running collaborator, editor of Lost and Found Times, John M. Bennett blowing Batworth's mind before the show).

Now that Blaster's gone I kick my gluey third eye for not running a tape recorder on at least a few of the days we worked together at Normal's, often hungover from an epic four hour Wig Night at Madame Drogoul's legendary 14 Karat Cabaret where Blaster would entrance the wild-eyed crowd with incredible output of new stories and poems. And Blaster was generally a pretty happy, fun loving guy - especially, of course, before the health woes that kicked in near the beginning of the new Millenium, but he was never happier than when he emerged from the back computer room of the store with a finished draft of a new story. Sweat, glowing skin, golden aura, the whole new poppa bit.

(Above - the set of Lauren and Gerald Ross' Ling Master playlet)

With Blaster dying when he did, though, right after two other close, beloved friends and the memorials and tribute nights that followed, my miserablist heart began to sag and I momentarily thought "Is another show a way to grieve? Shouldn't I just construct a large Shirker's Nest in Blaster's honor and eat only snackcakes and lose the resolve to defecate in receptacles?"

(Above - Eric Franklin performing with The Dirty Dozen)

Luckily, the thoughts and plans of a Miserablist are quickly scattered by the movement of life itself and with John Berndt doing most of the heavy lifting the Blasterthon was formed. In fact night two was my tiny contribution, organizationally speaking, JB did the rest.

(Above - The Dirty Dozen: Neil Feather, Bob Wagner, Eric Franklin and Dan Breen)

And through the acts of the great folks channeling Blaster and his work, once again it was made clear how fantastic, clear and distinctive his voice was, because it rang out chillingly and unmistakably like the creepy intro to the old Shadow radio show through John Eaton, Batworth, Megan McShea reading the gut busting recommendation Blaster had written for her to gain entry into a writer's retreat ("I wouldn't want to go anywhere where they didn't get Blaster," said Megan), Francis Poole, ex-Baltimorean and former Normal's star Courtney McCullough, who was the one who found Blaster post-stroke and convinced doctor hating Blaster to go to the hospital, singing George Jones' "The King is Gone"Catherine Bennett, John M. Bennett, Lauren and Gerald Ross' Ling Master play (wherein Gerald nailed the Ling Master's deranged nerdy secret master voice so well that I still belly laugh just thinking of it), The Dirty Dozen's new Orleans' style funeral march by way of Martian Harry Partch textured sound glory that built in exhilarating manic daffiness and then closed with a quiet spinning wheel of an energy that had to come to a halt and by Laure Drogoul's enchanting olfactory Blaster seance. Who that knew him doesn't have strong smell associations? Newly cracked beer can foam, tin of slightly impertinent tuna, musk of scalp oil basted bop cap. -

Blaster never went anywhere of course, other than to be everywhere still in the rich unforgettable voice of his large body of work. The Blasterthon brought him right up to the thin membrane of now for us to gaze once more with love on all he did for us and left us.

I will sign off with a beautiful email I received from Francis Poole, another beloved collaborator of Blaster's - in fact, I think their book Break Up My Water was Blaster's last printed book of his lifetime - after the soul salving Blasterthon.

"Every reading and performance flowed together seamlessly into one great celebration of Blaster Al's creative genius. While much of his work was playfully subversive it also had the power to reveal the sense of absurdity that lurks beneath the surface of much of what passes for reality and normalcy. The love and regard for Al and his works by those who read him or knew him is proof that his life and gifted imagination made a positive contribution to this crazy world. And ironically in sharing his vision he was able to show others that it's ok to give in to the undertow of one's own wacky universe. Blaster Al was an artist, a therapist, and a great guy. And like a mischievous ringmaster his spirit was there at the Blasterthon to keep the groove going. And it worked beautifully." - Francis Poole

(Below - Francis Poole)

Okay, actually I will wrap this with the lyrics to the Fitting George Jones tune that Courtney belted out for Blaster:

Last night I broke the seal on a Jim Beam decanter
That looks like Elvis
I soaked the label off a Flintstone Jelly Bean jar
I cleared us off a place on that
One little table that you left us
And pulled me up a big ole piece of floor


I pulled the head off Elvis
Filled Fred up to his pelvis
Yabba Dabba Doo, the King is gone
And so are you


'Round about ten we all got to talking
'Bout Graceland, Bedrock and such
The conversation finally turned to women
But they said they didn't get around too much
Elvis said, "Find 'em young"
And Fred said "Old Fashioned girls are fun"
Yabba Dabba Doo, the King is gone
And so are you


Later on it finally hit me
That you wouldn't be 'a comin' home no more
'Cause this time I know you won't forgive me
Like all of them other times before
Then I broke Elvis's nose
Pouring the last drop from his toes
Yabba Dabba Doo, the King is gone
And so are you
Yabba Dabba Doo, the King is gone
And so are you


Last night I broke the seal on a Jim Beam decanter
That looks like Elvis
I soaked the label off a Flintstone Jelly Bean jar

The Blasterthon, Night One

If you missed Friday night’s Blasterthon premiere in the Red Room at Normal's you missed a room full of love and a smorgasbord of derangement. John Pego Berndt filling in some of Blaster’s bio, including his brutal period trying to stay out of the Hell of Vietnam. And his secret life as the Lothario of the Mail Art World!

Plus there was hard charging performances by Rotty What with poet and publisher John M. Bennett, saxophonist Jack Wright and percussionist, frotteur, sound originator Ben Bennett, Kevin Takacs recounting tales of “The Old Spice Gang”, Bonnie Jones revealing her morbid dental history which used to enrapture Blaster, Catherine Bennett performing some of Blaster’s final texts, Bethany Sick Din going down a vocal dream corridor pursuing a dog and then Lauren Bender finished off the night by appearing in Blaster full dress all the way down to the slightly orphopedic white sneaks with untied laces. And the ever present beer and black plastic bag. (His were all from the Schnapp Shoppe).

And I swear to the gods that in the Red Room during the kickoff of the Blasterthon I heard Chris Toll’s chuckle twice and that of Peter Pan! Two sterling spirits visiting us from Beyond.

"Olvido" by John M. Bennett for Blaster Al, plus Blaster Bibliography

(above - Sleazy, Kantor, Ackerman, dec 20, 1985 San Antonio, Texas, photo Bretty Nova)

Dear Lord, or Shiva, or John Smith, or Vicious Cosmic Vacuum Cleaner Salesman,

Baltimore and the world of the arts have been losing some grand masters this winter! This blog is starting to feel like an obituary column! First Chris Toll, who on top of everything else, was my first publisher, so he was a god to me right off the first crack of the bat! Then sweet night prowling flesh covered music encyclopedia Pope Croke. Now dear old Blaster.

Blaster first blew my mind in the '80s when I came across him in Crowbar's "Popular Reality". Tentatively a Convenience and I were both working at Second Story Books on ye olde Greenmount Ave. and he turned me on to said rag. When a group of us decided to start Shattered Wig Review to push those we loved to create more of what we love, Blaster of course became my dream contributor.

I sent him a copy of Wig #1 with three sodden burritos and a case of Schlitz and begged him for some words of his Secret Master Essence. In a matter of weeks I was holding "2,976 Vienna Sausages" by Blaster, what proved to be one of my very favorite stories by him, and it found its first printing in humble side-stapled Shattered Wig Review #2.



(Blaster with my Chimp Tantalus)

When Blaster and his wife Patty broke up in the early '90s John Berndt and I told him he should come drink up the seedy climes of Baltimore and we even sent him bus fare to add to the temptation. The cheap bars, the populace packed with creative humans barely clinging to sanity and a huge appreciative fan base and like-minded weirdos was able to glue Blaster here. Every Shattered Wig Night he would hold forth and stomachs and minds would hurt from the expansion of laughter and beer and Phil Dickian time/world slips, not to mention drip with Lovecraftian ordure! He changed my life, he changed Baltimore, he made us all wonder if we were living in inside one of his stories.

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olvido

shoulder water an my wave re
petition the soggy blade my
leg remeats my repe
tition where my your po
cket cheese finds the rep
etition scrawls the nu
mber same the numb r
epetition ur swallow off
the elbow juice repetit
ion nods all closet
treasure repetition dust an
gritty sock repetitio
n ease yr fading b
ones yr repetiti
on itching like a g
nat repeats repeated
in yr r ear no wonder
they call you King of the World

John M. Bennett
for Blaster “All Different All the Same”
Al Ackerman (with tiny addition by Blaster Al Ackerman)

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Here is a link to a bibliography of Blaster's writings that Sir Bennett worked on:

http://www.library.osu.edu/"

Click on "Books and More", and do an author search for "Ackerman, Al". There are 29 entries there, all stuff in the Avant Writing Collection.

onword
john

AS I HAVE SAID BEFORE by Austin Al Ackerman

As I Have Said Before

Face the lumpy one the hairy cookie
under the couch and my stone of stunning water
where I broke my ticktack camera do it
even before meat's door grows sticky with your black heads
finding an airport destination, setting and landing
on a giant empty hole known to all of us in the club
as what if not a scream to yourself into an empty hole
anyway I drew my trash thicker across my forehead
with pagination had I clutched the wheel
mumbler dazed into the windshield scummy
its holiday strips open late
my foreskin lost in towels
         basins tongues watches trembling
petulant you've addressed yourself to all that surgery
I thought I'd whistle locker's throat fainter than
the key's throat but that was not the locker's throat
that was brittle nesting theory brought to you by
crossed eyes and how many open late

(from jmb of 2/24 etc.) - Blaster Al Ackerman

"Yay Empty Spider Catches Fire" by Blaster Al Ackerman

I've been having too much fun with four out of town visitors a few weeks ago and then a glorious escape to Chincoteague Island, but it's made me fall way behind on posts. Here is a fresh morsel
from Blaster Al that came in the mail while we were away.


Yay Empty Spider Catches Fire


When empty spider crumpled in the gutter
gross this must be to those choosing sleep with my sweet clock choosing to eat
real clamor, real chamois, then over my kidney stone my sweet clock's blazing
and my drizzling bone on my desk
for the locker in my lap
let me fight them off with my Saturday afternoons
towelette when having sandwich reveal my paste hole
soon my squealing ladder mice go charging up the hill
but to be really out of it,
see how tongue shadow quivers on the page
and hopping toward the spat sardines
we'll be better too, better than your whistled eye, gasoline
helps taste the shadow in your sock that's friendship for you
but it's also obscure and nothing should be obscure when it's on fire

(thanks to JMB of 1/26/11 etc.)

"Fuzzy Grape Drink" by Austin Al Ackerman

Fuzzy Grape Drink

    And as my doggy link drops behind garage
my stone box rotted like a frog wet with what
I clawed forgot like head a box of matches
filled with
       buttons barking making those who come
to peddle
       flat pants and piles peddle flat pants and
piles plus certain large black face phones
             leaking
paragraphs. The Purple Big Heads with my ghost
sit there
       tantamount so that in the file cabinet
where my tongue sits greased you may find a little
laughter in your life.
          Still, you can't have everything,
I'm no Ray Bolger.
          I'm no collection of gopher holes
neither.
       I'm a believer! which is to say you can have
an OK time
       if you'll just realize that suddenly everyone
starts screaming.
       Because you might say dung clock radish
the size of a door while through it the noodles creep on an
adorable high
       as an enormous root begins breaking the walls


(from jmb of 1/17/11 etc)

John M. Bennett Is Hoisted Aloft By The Shattered Wig Dancers

(From Piedra Portatil by Sheila E. Murphy and John M. Bennett)




John M. Bennett is not only the hardest working mench in the poetry avant-garde and just retired curator of the experimental writing wing of the University of Ohio library, but his long running and vital magazine Lost & Found Times, which ran from 1975 until 2005 (54 issues in all! The last few assembled while Professor Bennett was undergoing all kinds of hellish eye surgery), was the conduit for me to discover the weird and wonderful world of Blaster Al Ackerman.

(Sheila E. Murphy & John M. Bennett)

"From its origins in mail art to its more recent participation at the edges of language (and what is coming to be called post-language) poetry, Lost and Found Times provides a model of how marginalized cultural workers can create productive areas of engagement within a network of activity." — from Loose Watch.

Although Bennett no longer publishes his magazine Lost & Found Times, his press, Luna Bisonte Productions, continues to crank out tiny beauties like the above Piedra Portatil and Benzene, his collaboration with Musicmaster, below.

But of course the meaty core of Bennett's production is his own slippery writing. Shattered Wig was very pleased to just receive a thick packet of new work by Bennett and we feel it sings among his finest. Here are a few. And although it's too soon to call this a Shattered Wig Review #29 sneak peek because God only knows when I will arise from sluggardness to put that one together, I guess that's what this sort of is.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Numb Thorn

the jerky suit the chest of hair

and socks .blast of number phone

called my I you did .your did

my unit clamber .dice and dime

.dressed in lieberwurst conejo !mine

dusted ,bash what spoon nimbles the

thoughtless dust ,I dressed ,you

dreamed I pulled you pilled .ah

epiphyte rolling down the steps !

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Plunder

chased my cloudburst you a golf

ball mildewed in my soapdish

what the mist dried like ziti

in your lap a dozen masks g

runt and chain inside the soup

closet dribbly with your dogwash

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Check out John M. Bennett's Luna Bisonte/Lost & Found Times website at:

http://www.johnmbennett.net/Lost_&_Found_Times_Luna.html

There are video poems, text poems, a catalog of the immense amount of titles published by John and some history of the press and its mission/passion.

Conflicting Mayan Prophecies & Start Your New Year With Blaster's "Great Yellow Hairs"

Well, what a year it was indeed. I bought a house at "George Bush Destroyed The World Cut-Rate All Houses Must Go" prices, got married, turned motherfucking FIFTY! (My legs, bring me my legs!), Normal's Bargain Cobbley World got a new landlord (praise him and his new roof and new Red Room and new facade soon to come) and turned 20!, Blaster Al moved back to Texas after a brutal winter of record breaking blizzards and the economy hit what I hope was the bottom of the Catfish Pond, rising, at least for Normal's, gloriously in time for Christmas just as my nails were eaten down to my hairy knuckles. And I finally put out a new Shattered Wig Review after a two year hiatus, my first as a domestic man, shredding papers from the couch as my beloved sipped a martini from the easy chair, watching Mrs. Minerva and eyeing my feverish actions warily. "No honey, I think it's good you have this outlet, no matter how futile and despised it is."

But, what about that Mayan prophecy, that our already tenuous time is about over? That the Cosmic Eggtimer sand is running as thin as my once glorious Glen Burnie 'fro? As it states in the sacred Popol Vuh: "well, it looks like we have run out of tablets and cave walls upon which to paint. Sacrifices just don't provide the rush to our groin like they used to. The skies roar no more, but kind of bleat. We seem to be at about 2012 White Man Time on this calendar, maybe we should just call it quits. After all, by then they will most likely have Mother Gia covered head to corns with Great Marketplaces filled with shoddy clothing that was made by enslaved peoples and will fall apart after three wearings, as opposed to one of our decorative huipil that will last for a dozen harvests. Let's just erase time after that, even though it will wash the Brown and Yellow down the Blackhole along with Whitey. Aaghh, I just had a vision of a woman resembling an Itzam Cab Ain and with the mindset of the young boy who hangs about the ceremonial platform in Tikal trying to lick the severed heads dripping from the tzompantli. She is wearing great spectacles that mask her face like a war eagle and she is laying down great stalks of corn and heralding them as wisdom. Apparently if we don't end the world she will rule "North America" and collapse the sky. Oh, I am in great need of many Balche and I must erase Future Time."

But also in the Popol Vuh there is talk of "The Decade that ends with Saint Roland delivering the Spaniel to the compact Asian car" will herald a new decade of great bounty and world peace. Above is a photo of just that act indeed happening. Perhaps, as it says in this kind of New Agey but fairly level-headed statement - http://www.13moon.com/prophecy%20page.htm#2 - the Mayan calendar has been misinterpreted by Westerners and it's just the end of a World Cycle, which it really does feel like we're at the end of something. Could we ever turn away from putting all our resources into endless fruitless war, or will we just start cranking out robot soldiers that will save the lives of some of our broke-assed young people that have no other career options, but kill lots of broke-ass people in other countries without the bother of emotions.

The Hell with all this. It is a glorious new year and new decade not yet tainted, though the cabbagey smell of the last one can still be detected, and the Blaster Al mail is rolling in from down South. Austin, to be precise, the oasis of Texas. Here is a new piece by him that he called his recent favorite:

POEM (The Great Yellow Hairs)

The great yellow hairs are not so different from the tiny yellow hairs/

so long as you're sorta slow and mistake the whistle in your elbow/

for one whose budget rent-a-car tumbles down the drain cute as cute can be,/

and all the dopeadicto logs wait for you as my crispy thumb peddles drugs./

No yellow hairs, no whistle from your elbow, these were using drugs long before

you knew it. The trout house madly bangs outside while you get your act together/

finally knowing that anything this "flabby-strong" rates an invite down the street/

to the birthday party where all the children watch you chew all the candles

not knowing you do this at every meal because every meal's a party

and because it is my chalchihuti.

Blaster Al Ackerman (from jmb of 11/24 etc.)