Audio By Carbonatix
Last night, the New World Center was packed, more girls than
boys, a younger vibe than older, not a lot of color, but a great mix of
couture. This was a big night. Everyone needed to look dapper. Put on
your best threads, those new shoes, that pretty party dress, girl–James
Franco’s in-the-hiz-house. Well, sort of.
The event, Poetry and
Persona, was part of O, Miami, a month-long poetry festival, which has been
successfully inundating Miami with literary arts all through April.
Last night’s event featured James Franco
reading poetry along with his teacher and mentor, Tony Hoagland, while
moderated by Campbell McGrath, a local king of prose.
The problem: James
Franco missed the event. O’ WELL. Yes. James Franco missed the event, sort of, but we’ll get to that in a bit. The show must go on, and indeed it did.
Dave
Landsberger opened up the night, as if there is such a thing as an
opening act at a poetry reading, but apparently there is in the surreal
world of O, Miami. Landsberger, a capable and playful Chicago based poet
(also former scribbler for Miami New Times), delighted the crowd with a
few charming poems, setting the tone for what would be a special night.
As
Landsberger exited, the dashing P. Scott Cunningham walked onto the
stage, which was occupied by three empty chairs. Cunningham, the face of
O, Miami, the virtual master-mind, along with Pete Borrebach, behind all
of which is O, Miami, began to explain the aesthetics and mission
statement of the month-long poetry festival.
In a charming and concise
manner, Cunningham thanked the numerous partners and arts groups that
helped bring O, Miami to fruition. He joked about the name of the
festival, sharing some of the ideas they kicked around. Ink /Jet. The
Condo Poetry Festival. Ultra South. New Craft. Our favorite: Verse City.
And perhaps the funniest: The Foot Festival.
O’ FIASCO??
Around
this time we had heard Franco wasn’t in the building. Cunningham
smoothly admitted it. He could have stalled, kept us in suspense, but to
his credit he didn’t. He explained the problem with Franco’s plane,
complications due to the president’s visit, and the weather, but Franco
was on the way. No biggie.
Campbell McGrath and Tony Hoagland,
undeniably two of the best contemporary poets in the country, came out
and occupied two of the three chairs on stage. One chair, one lonely
chair with a seat cushion promised the best ass that would ever sit in
it, would get its heart broken. C’est la vei, as the French would say. “Who
cares,” someone whispered in the mezzanine.
Indeed, for Campbell McGrath
and Tony Hoagland were in the house. Some would say, if you cut through
the glare of fame, this night was not about James Franco, it was about
the professional poets, not the amateur.
And so Campbell McGrath
stepped up and introduced Tony Hoagland as “a unique mix of compassion
and confrontation.” To which he is…
O’ TONY THE TIGER
One could form an exploratory committee into the nature of Tony
Hoagland. He’s so simple, yet complicated. He’s a curious sage. An
honest politician. A teacher that’s a student. He’s peacefully
tormented. A hater filled with love. Wounded, but charming. An
introverted extrovert. A writer’s writer’s writer. He’s arguably the
best poet in the country. No big deal though, really. No one anywhere is
that big of a deal, except the president. And the night went on. Tony
stepped up, dressed in black on black, and read for a good 30
minutes.
He read from “Dickhead”:
To whomever taught me the word dickhead,
I owe a debt of thanks.
It gave me a way of being in the world of men
when I most needed one,
He read from “Poor Britney Spears”:
Oh my adorable little monkey, prancing for your candy;
With one of my voices I shout, Jump, Jump, you little whore!
He read and read and no one was disappointed.
“Should I read the race poem, or the sex poem?” he asked.
“Both,” the crowd responded.
“I’m not reading the sex poem.”
There is hardly a more honest, straightforward, accessible, empirical writer than Tony Hoagland. However, as far as observational writers go, there is one just as good, maybe better, and his name is Campbell McGrath.
O’BAMA DRAMA
Creative writers are taught to follow their mistakes. As it became
apparent Franco was not in the building, Campbell McGrath took it upon
himself to improvise. Trying to buy some time, he capably read from his
own work. He read “Lincoln Road” and “The Leatherback,” two
observational poems about Miami. He triumphantly read from “Shannon: A
Poem of the Lewis and Clark Expedition.” Tony Hoagland, and this was
worth the price of admission, looked absolutely enamored watching
Campbell read.
But alas, the bad news. O, Miami co-creator Pete Borrebach
took it upon himself to come on stage and break the story: James
Franco’s plane, due to Obama being in town and weather, was detoured to
Orlando, and it didn’t look good. He might Skype the reading in. He
might make it down to sign books. No one knew. Just hang tight.
Of
course many people immediately walked out upon that news. But many
didn’t. In fact a couple of hundred people hung around when everyone
learned Franco would make it down, just to sign books, not to read.
FRANCO’
With all due respect to Mr. Franco, and this is fair criticism, if he
didn’t have his paws in 50 different pots, things like this wouldn’t
happen. Tony Hoagland flew in the day before. Franco was flying in at
five o’clock, on a commercial plane, friday night, rush hour, a day the
president was in town, the start of rainy season.
This was supposed to
be an intimate night with one of the most celebrated, hard-working,
interesting figures of his generation. This was a chance to perhaps
deconstruct the mystery, perhaps view the dark side of the moon. And
that was taken away. O’ Snap. Shit happens.
To his credit, Franco showed
up, he didn’t have to, not flying in on some Spider-Man Green Goblin
doohickey, not spiraling down from the chandelier as some pre-teens
actually were looking for, seriously. He showed up tired, about four
hours late, a little disheveled.
He signed his short story
collection Palo Alto. He gave out an autographed comic strip he
created. It was cool. It had a McSweeny’s vibe and made for a neat
souvenir. Don’t get us wrong, James Franco is definitely cool. It is
impossible not to respect his ambition and reach and talent. Nothing but
love for the dude.
The 200 or so people who hung around were absolutely
happy. In fact, if one could’ve harnessed the giggles of some of these
pre-teen girls, they could’ve powered the city grid for a day. The whole
night is probably best summed up by an innocent anonymous 15-year-old girl walking out the door. “Ok, like, oh-my-god,” she
said, after getting her book signed. “That was like the best two seconds
of my life.”
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