Happy Ending

This third time at Joe’s Pub was for a music and reading series called Happy Ending. The title comments a bit more on the narrative nature of the performances than the naughtiness of the event’s embrace. MC Amanda Stern follows in the same glorious footsteps as hosts of other cabaret lineups like The Moth, and How I Learned in her rabid self deprecation and referential comedy. Unprepared with a theme for the evening’s performance, she polled the audience for suggestions, calling on folks by randomly picking initials and berating their flawed ideas. “Rococo” and “Handsome Men” were rejected out of hand, but “The Alphabet” was deemed acceptable, and then left unmentioned for the rest of the night. It’s fine by me, as authors attempts to conform to these rando themes are usually a stretch detracting from their work.

The first performer is Holly Miranda, a pretty-pretty girl, grunged up nicely with a deep blue slightly sparkly guitar for a bit of flair. An ethereal lilt to her voice, she’s well beyond my busted capacity to appreciate music, so I can only assume she’s a genius. Her narrative interstitials charm me. She tells the tale of her teasing a dutch reporter, He reviews her album and asks, “Are all your songs about your highschool boyfriend?”

“I dropped out” she says.
“I’m gay” she says.

“I’m charmed” I think.

The first reading is by Josh Ferris from his second novel, The Unnamed. He’s a young guy with buddy holly glasses dressed in coffee house splendor. The story’s alright. It’s got a terse rhythm to it reminding me of James Elroy in a kind of bad way. I’m fairly certain the whole passage he read was written to justify his turning of the phrase, “futility made off with his heart.” It’s basically worth it. The story centers around a dude with some brain condition, giving it a Joe vs. The Volcano vibe. That endears it to me, as does the weird segue into the protagonist bonding with his daughter over season after season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

I’m not used to such structured readings. Most of the events I attend are true life stories read without notes. I find their honesty and energy entertaining. I’m unprepared for how much power and drama is conveyed by a well prepared story, read aloud. The next reader, Ron Carlson, directs the writing program at UCI nearby where I lived for a year and six months and dated much of the student body. He’s a professional. Aged and experienced. His story is an intimate confession told by the inventor of a time machine, justifying his decision in destroying it and erasing the plan. It sounds trite, but deals with the arising issues in a practical and specific way. The time machine is destroyed not because of it’s broad effect on the world and its history, but because of the futility of attempted changes no matter how mundane. I hear it as a parable urging us to change our now, and move past our then. I hear it as encouragement that when you work on something for a decade or two, you get good at it. Real good. I’ll go buy his books.

Up last is Padget Powell, a disheveled specimen on the progression of the night’s writers from young turk, past wizened professor, climaxing with mad recluse. A darwinian illustration of the decent of creative man. For reasons beyond me he begins by demonstrating how he cuts his own hair. Seriously. He reads from his work “The Interrogative Mood: A novel?” It’s a series of amusing questions, parts koan, parts narrative delving into our perceptions on the past and how it effects our modern world. It’s a litany of questions flowing in one huge bulge across a country of ideas. There’s a rhythm to it, but it doesn’t quite build into a cohesive whole. It leaves me wondering how different the experience is from reading Dianetics (I understand that’s questions too?). On it’s own, it would have been an odd reading, but in the context of the other stories, classic in their structure and formal in their story, it’s a refreshing departure.

I stumble out into the cold slushy night. With a little help from the subway, I slide over to cousin B’s for family bonding. New York for me is the city of many stops. In LA there are one or two per day, but here, with the trains and cabs and bars there’s always one more out there in the late late night. It’s addictive and makes the city indispensable to its people. There is no way to move on. There is no substitute.