7 Minutes Under the Mistletoe (12-17-11)

On December 17th, I participated in the “7 Minutes Under the Mistletoe” show at Space 55. As usual, there was a great variety of acts, some familiar and others new to me. The opening act was a fellow, whose name I unfortunately did not catch, who sang a couple of acoustic numbers with Christmas themes and recruiting the audience for help with choruses. The first, I assume by the chorus, was “It’s Christmas in Arizona…and it sucks!” The other song was an amusing ditty about the “lost years” of Jesus, which painted him as a rabble rousing adolescent who had it made since he was the son of the Lord. Needless to say, he went over very well with the audience.
Returning from her last appearance at “7 Minutes in Hell” was Peena or Pina( spelling?) who this time recounted the wistful tale of a young girl who gives up her virginity to an indifferent lover. Many of the other acts sort of blend into a blur for me since it has been a while between the show and this entry. I recall a band of eager young men known as Rocket-ship who played a sort of jazz pop a la Squirrel Nut Zippers, but a little less old timey. If memory serves, I believe they covered the old Satchmo nugget, “’Zat You, Santa Claus?” There was also a young blond woman with glasses, who played a couple of tunes on the ukulele, including a quirky cover of “What’s Up” by 4 Non Blondes.
The Arcana Collective putin an appearance with a question/answer skit involving God and the Devil. Mister Moncada of course, wa the Devil, in a pin stripe suit, red face paint, horns and a tail, flanked by a sweet young thing in a red corset a mini skirt horns and kohl around her eyes. God was a large blue puppet with 3 eyes, manipulated by a fellow completely occulted by black stocking and clothing. The Deity was flanked by an angel similarly attired to her counterpart, but in white. Apparently, audience members had filled out questions in advance to be asked and the Devil and God answered to the best their abilities. If memory serves me well, there was a fellow who picked and read all of the questions out loud. This proved to be very amusing in spots with quick thinking on the behalf of the honored guests.
From the Space 55 staff we got a skit where my buddies Kevin and Ash asked the audience for some topics and decided to call up an audience member, the lovely Miss Porshia, to talk about her choice of “cows”. Surprisingly, or maybe not so much knowing my friends, they took the conversation to interesting places.
Hanna, Rich and a couple of people, whom I did not recognize, did an amusing skit about two husbands who get into mischief while waiting for their wives to finish holiday shopping at a department store. Essentially, the men forget themselves and get into a match of showing off to one another the elaborate ways in which they “Do it”. The wives, or course, have the final say in the matter.
To cap off the show, the rest of the staff along with assorted friends did a lively rendition of “We Are the World”.
For me, I decided to recall the old tradition of telling supernatural tales around the holidays, and read my tribute to Krampus, the nasty old devil who follows St Nicholas around and punishes naughty children, followed by my Victorian ghost tale, “The Bed”, both of which I shall post here for your perusal. Coming in January, the 8th to be precise, I shall be opening for the Cult of the Yellow Sign at the Trunk Space in Phoenix. For more information on that show, go here: http://www.thetrunkspace.com/
Without further ado…the poems:

At this joyful time of year, full of festive reveling
There is one whom you should fear, if you’re prone to deviling
On the heels of old St. Nick, comes a fellow dark and wild
Horned and beastly, like Old Nick, searching for a naughty child
Cloven hoof and lolling tongue, with a basket on his back
Filled with wicked Alpine young, wailing at his switch’s crack
Lapping at their bleeding welts, their cries foment his dire thirst
Heedless of their rueful guilt, doomed in demon’s clasp they’re curst
After which their borne to Hell, shackled in a clanking chain
On a sled of ne’er do wells, never to be seen again

In my Grandmamma’s house, there is a room decorated in the most sublimely under stated way;
and it is in this room that I customarily retire to, when I occasion to stay
Within this quaintly curious room of quiet disquietude, there is an ebony-posted bed,
which is my favorite place, at the day’s end, on which to rest my head.
It is an old family heirloom, which belonged to my Great Aunt Lucretia.
She spent the last six months of her life in it, wasting away from consumption and dementia.
It all started when she lost her lusty young lover to the sickness known as anemia.
She became listless, wan, and her behavior grew quite unseemlier.
She slept till late in the day, spent all of her time, and took meals in her bed;
as she pored over many a tome of eldritch lore, and was called upon by many self styled communers-of-the-dead.
As her illness progressed, they put her into trances to see if it could be divined what her ailment might be.
But mesmerism was indeed not the answer, and she deteriorated not just in body now, but also mentally.
She commenced to cry out in the middle of the night, and when asked what was wrong
would rant about shroud-clad revenants, with eyes of fire, breath so foul, and eye-teeth sharp and long.
These stories were met with much consternation and disbelief, as she was assumed to have gone mad.
But when she spoke of having been made love to by the cadaver of her beloved, they destroyed all of the occult books she had.
They say she died on the eve of May Day, and a ghastly shriek was said to have reverberated throughout the household.
They found her in her bed, wide-eyed, bloodless, and in her fist–something clenched in a death-grip hold.
Well, after some time, when rigor mortis gave way, they found what that something had been.
It was apparently a torn ear, a right ripe ol’ piece of carrion, all putrescent and green.
But that was long ago, and what need have I to fear old ghosts and undying loves?
For I am a smart young lass; virginal, pious, and pure as the snow white dove.
I say my prayers each night, and although I may indulge in a good ghost story now and again,
I steer clear of such writ of the like which my aunt treasured so and helped to drive her insane.
So when she comes to my bedside in the wee hours, with her cadaverous visage and sepulchral breath,
I recite some old psalms, and clutch the crucifix, which rests on my young tender breast
And when she finally leaves, a-hissing and spewing curses foul, with her one-eared lover in tow,
I whisper my grateful thanks to God, let out a nervous chuckle, pull up the sheets and dream about the evening’s show.


One Response to “7 Minutes Under the Mistletoe (12-17-11)”

  1. Sounds like a fun evening! You’ll always be my hero for introducing me to Krampus 🙂

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