BLOGMAN #5 FEB. 5, 2006

I ain’t got a lot of time. I’m looking at the brain trust lined-up across from me on their stools. We’ve been here since I opened waiting for the Super Bowl. They all got an opinion why the blog ain’t workin’.

“I’ll tell ya why ‘cause everybody and their mother has got a blog and unless you’re raping a poodle or givin’ out free tickets to the game nobody’s gonna be readin’ it.”

“If you don’t make a new entry every day, you might as well forget it. Won’t work.”

“ You proved his point. Nobody’s interested in the Slampapi.”

“What about me?” I’m saying this as I type it. Now they’re all laughin’.

The situation is this. Diane’s been in the hospital for two weeks -- walkin’ pneumonia. Warmest god damn winter in history and she gets pneumonia! And Flora quit after New Years because you, Domino! (I’m pointing at him.) kept on with the fat jokes until she said screw alls of you. Now I gotta work two shifts and who’s got time for blog shit.

That is a big question in my head. How do all these people have time for blogging? Don’t they work? Don’t they do stuff other than think about themselves and write down what they didn’t do? I take that back. From the blogs I’ve read (only a few) bloggers are very active or pretend to be.

Me! I ain’t got a lot of time. But I’m back at it.

Smith and his new ensemble (who have finally found a name – Speak’Easy) are doing their thing at Martyrs on Tuesday and at Comedy Sports on Wednesday, 8PM.

I’ll let my readership (I read this line back to the goons and they’re laughing.) know the Super Bowl Sunday Slam turns out – if anybody shows up.

Thanks to the three responses (pathetic) only 88 more to go.

Blogman signing off.
Go Steelers!

BLOGMAN # 3 Posted DECEMBER 17, 2005

TUESDAY NIGHT AFTER CLOSING
I’m discouraged. He may be right. There’s only been one new response. I don’t even feel like writing another word. How do these writer do it? I mean, Jesus, if nobody’s listen why talk. If I was at tavern and every stool was empty do you think I’d be blabbing away? Hell no, unless I had dropped a few screws or the old lady was giving me a hard time and I was working out the aggravation in private. But writing to empty stools. Not my style.
But I started this and I guess I’ll have to see it through. The only response in the last 10 days was from Smith’s co-author. How’s that for loyalty? You guys at the bar could at least chime in and help the cause. Hey, just because I ain’t qualifying you for no freebies don’t mean you can’t write something on behalf of alls I has done for you. That means you Ed. How many sponsorships have you tallied up in the last ten years. Write something.
Second thought don’t because His Slaminess will excuse me of cheating.

FIVE DAYS LATER
Bingo Bango! We’re back on track 6 responses. Two women and four men. (I’m counting the co-author on this.) Making the new tally Blogman 9 Smith 91. And, here we go again, another person thinks Smith is writing this not me. I don’t know whether to take that as a compliment or an insult. Here’s what the kid said:

“Stumbled across the blog and thought I would score one for the good
guys, i.e. the bartenders. As for actual insight, all I have to offer
is that one of the strangest components of the blog is that while I
read it I hear the voice of Marc Smith reading it aloud in my head.
Probably a result of the writing style, but also interesting in that
Mr. Smith is becoming an agent of his own downfall.”

What this kid (and others) may not realize is that everybody in the tavern talks this way and I’m just writing out stuff the way we talk. If that qualifies as a “style” so be it. I guess Smith’s “genius” (Bob, four stools down from the cash register, spit out his beer when I was reading this to the stoolites and came to that word.) … his “genius” must have been exposing the literary minded to the basics of the old neighborhood. Maybe all of us here are undiscovered jewels -- in the flesh Tavern Folk Art. Maybe when this blog really catches on, we’ll have a movement of our own. The TFA movement. We could use a few free trips to Europe to play at being important. Jacob ain’t never seen the Fatherland, and the way his father beat his head as a kid, he deserves to visit his heritage.
Anywho, I’m happy to report we’re back on the road to winning the bet. Don’t forget to go to the Green Mill on New Years Day. Say “Blogman” at the front door and get in free. Hey do the same at Martyrs on Tuesday, Jan. 3. I got it worked out with the doormen.

Signing off for now.

Yours ever so truly,
BLOGMAN

UNOFFICIAL BLOG NUMBER 2 DEC. 5, 2005
Well, I wrote the below (where it says Blog Number 2) before the weekend rush. I ain’t used to regular schedules other then opening and closing, and taking beer deliveries so this blog thing is going to be a bit of strain to keep up with especially with the holidays ringing bells and everybody coming into the tavern for a boost before they go back into shopping nutness.
But I have to insert this into what I had already prepared. Blogman has already had 3 responses! Thank you to Scott, Cecie, and Doogan. Considering that the Blog didn’t go up as planned on Nov. 8 things are on track for yours truliest to win. An average of .82 responses per day. Times that by 365 and Blogman will be way above the necessary 100 responses in a year.
(Due too a last minute conniving by “pussypapi” trying to squeeze two weeks out of the bet period, his kid who runs the website didn’t get the go ahead to post til the end of the month. The corrected date will be Nov. 29 when the blog actually went up and is the official start date for the wager. You’re all witnesses.)
I don’t know if I’m allowed to post responses. I guess I’ll do it by the book and ask permission, but until that happens here’s a summary of what was said:
Scott must have a love hate relationship with His Slamship. He said “Sorry Marc, could help it.” I forwarded this to Himself, and thank you Scott for being the first score on the Blogman’s side.
Mary Cecie was the most articulate of the three. “For a barman, you've quite a way with words...that is the written ones...and I suspect spoken too, or do you mostly listen then?” I like your style Cecie. Silver Tongue I have been called. And as far as listening, I’ve learned to tune out and give the appearance.
Doogan, must you use the C word in describing Mr. Smith? Whatever else he may be he is a man; we’ve seen him in the smelly locker room at YMCA
And now for what I wrote prior to your responses.

The Official Blog # 2. BLOG 2 written Dec. 1, 2005 while the Old Style was being loaded in Blogman here with Blog Number 2. It’s about Smith’s decorum at his weekly show, the world famous Uptown Poetry Slam.
He’s been retelling stories of his bad behavior in an effort to clear his conscious and prepare himself for the after life.
His favorite story of late is about the London Lady who inspired the “Stupid Stupid Man” schtick which he repeats every week at the beginning of the show. We’ll let him tell that. Go to the show if you want to hear it.
Our focus is on the two women who passed through town a few weeks ago and “blessed” us with their appearance and words.
As a tavern owner I see no special attribute in announcing to the world that you have a terrible hangover. Every stool in my joint has a hangover sitting on it. But these two touring poetesses seemed to think that it was of high interest to all of us that they “partied hard in Milwaukee” and were paying a physical tax for it.
Was this an excuse for the half-ass performance they presented? Do you think Blogman unfair to call their performance half ass? The first one fumbled through her book for five minutes telling us how muddy her brain before finally opening to a poem she could see clearly enough to read.
(I challenge anyone who was there to tell me one word of what she said. Email Blogman@slampapi.com .)
Okay the second woman was funny. Trailer trash funny. I guess that was her point. But great literature? Not even close.
All that’s my take on the night. Smith’s expressed view is that they talked loudly through everyone else’s performances -- through his performance of the dumb song which everyone has heard nine hundred times and could sing in their sleep. But it annoyed him and annoyed him until he had to be himself and call out the hung-over ladies for talking loud and being general amateurs and inconsiderate.
They got up in a huff and walked out. He went on with the show. The audience chuckled at another real life display of discourtesy at the Green Mill. (I hope someone from Slime Corner writes a report on this one.) And one young poet in the audience began to cry.
Yes, Smith’s actions induced tears out of a sensitive young poet named Griff who said later that he was not used to such a violent atmosphere at a poetry reading. He had started writing poetry after reading his deceased father’s “Stanford Street & Other Sorrows” by Rod McKuen. This was too much for him.
As Marc tells it, the young poet found the second woman’s poetry harsh and cruel. “But what about your outburst?” I asked him.
“I should have handled it with more tact.” He said, “I should have just stared at them until they stopped.”
“But you’re a poet.” I told him.
“That’s right. It’s a curse.”
“What about the kid?” I asked.
“I apologized to him.”
“And the touring poets?”
“They got paid.” He said with a tone that seemed to mean alls fair in poetry and gang warfare.
There are always ten different ways of looking at things. I’ve heard that the big mouth women (some say it was their friends talking) have continued on their travels telling city after city what an “ASSHOLE” Slampapi is. (There are many who would agree.) As Blogman I would like to hear back from you (if you were there) what’s your take on the night (if you remember it) and who was the real asshole? Smith or the ladies? I’ve got my opinion. But one opinion does not a good rumor make.
So start typing and send your responses to:
The Blogman
Blogman@slampapi.com

NOVEMEBER 29, 2005
No, this isn’t Marc. Marc is too busy (and too bent on being below the radar) to expend the energy and persistent effort it takes to maintain a blog. So I’m doing it for him. Forget who I am. I’m not giving out my name. Those who know me are gonna figure it out on their own. Those that don’t, tough luck. Besides, I do not want attention meant for Smith to be misdirected toward me. Call me Blogman. I’m here to do for Smith what he won’t do for himself.
And just how did this arrangement come to be? Well, I and others in a small group who have known “da Poet” (as we refer to him) since before he got himself famous and became (we can not stand his nickname) Slampapi, were on his ass because he hasn’t kept up with the times. Almost every week for twenty-five years he has stopped by the tavern. Twenty of those years he’s been the “da Poet”. Before that he was this construction exec guy who talked about books and scribbled stuff on napkins.
Yes, I know, everyone believes, as a result of his implications, that he was out shoveling concrete into adjustable forms but that ain’t the case. He was a boss, and at the end a suit and tie boss. But I’m stopping right there with the history lesson. This is his blog about stuff he’s doing today, tomorrow, and a few recent yesterdays.
No, he doesn’t get drunk at the tavern anymore. He comes to visit and drinks coca-cola. His teeth should be rotting out of his head by now from all the god damn coke he drinks.
As I said, I and the other guys were nagging him because he is definitely behind the times and “promo-challenged”. And he said, “If you think it’s such a great idea to have a blog why don’t you get on with it and write one yourself.”
I, of course, am not a famous slam poet. I am a humble Chicago tavern owner who gets by. So I says to him, “No one would read it. Maybe, the guys here and a gal by the name of my wife, but I can just tell them what’s going on like I’m talking to you right now. There is no interest in the world beyond the corner about me and/or the tavern that has done just fine for three generations. Grandma, Great Grandpa, and yours truly. But you Mr. Slampapi, are a celebrity of small sorts.”
“Write mine then. I’ll give you the computer codes. Say whatever you want and well see how important a blog is.”
“And how will we judge the effectiveness to prove to you who knows what about which. And in the same area of discussion, what will be the wager?”

I am admitting this right off, so he can see it if he’s reading. I worked an angle on him. Slampapi doesn’t play cards anymore. Too bad. We enjoyed fleecing him. But (and if you’re reading, Marc, you know it’s the truth.) he’s a sucker for a creative wager.
“In a year’s time if I do not get at least one hundred responses via email in regard to the blog you will receive (win) from me a thank you “you were right” and a hundred free cokes. On the other hand, if I do inspire one hundred responses, you pay me One Hundred Dollars, and you stand on your stool and shout loud enough to stop a squad car, ‘I am an ass because I do not promote myself properly and my children will suffer because I’ll have nothing to give to them when I die.’”
“Okay, but one other thing,” he countered, “I get a bacon cheeseburger on the house for every 10 responses under one hundred.”
“Okay, but that will mean that I should be paid a half dollar for each response over one hundred.”
What a sucker he is.
“It’s a bet.”
See.
And so that is how it all began. Please respond via blogman@slampapi.com and copy Marc at slampapi@slampapi.com. Make me a rich man and I’ll buy each of you a cheeseburger if you can figure out who I am and where the joint is. Say the secret word, Blogman, and you eat free. (This offer does not apply to you regulars, so don’t even try.) That’s it for this one. Start typing.

More to come soon,
Blogman