NTKOG #236: The kind of awkward still-adolescent (apparently) whose soul is frosted thick with cystic emotional acne.
I am: no longer, alas, the Worst Teen Poet in Boston. Fun run while it lasted, though.
I am not: exactly kidding about falling in love.
The Scene: Last night’s Mortified reading, at Club Oberon in Cambridge. Back in June, if you recall, I won the Bad Teen Poetry Throwdown and was crowned worst teen poet in this fair city on the hill. Last night, I got on stage once again to defend my title — and compete for a friggin’ sweet vintage AC/DC notebook.
How did the night go? Electric. Hilarious. Deeply mortifying. And, uh, did I mention I totally fell in love?
It might come as no surprise that I am desperately competitive, and that when it comes to head-to-head jousts, my preening writer ego is so severe that I will shamelessly mug and cajole to win a title even as questionable as Worst Teen Poet. That said, last night I was dethroned by possibly the worthiest competitor I could ever have dreamed. Literally, had I toiled countless eons constructing a man atom by atom to be the platonic ideal of the dude I would want to snake this title from me, said dream dude would have paled in comparison to the brilliant poet who made me nearly vomit with laughter last night.
The second he read, from his masterwork, “LSD Trip”: “My third eye is cleared / the trip is over / but the trip of life / has just begun,” I knew. It was love at first phoneme.
And look, I tried to write a poem to commemorate the occasion, but there are only so many rhymes for “uncomfortably aroused” and “seriously if things don’t work out with that foxy brunette you walked out with, you should maybe call me, because when I was twelve I spent a lot of time practicing kissing on my hand so I’m like probably pretty good at it in real life, maybe.”
Since my words, for once, have failed me, I turn to the greatest poet of our age. Twelve-year-old TKOG. Retiring one of my Worst Teen Poet-winning gems, for your schadenfreudistic delight. (Note: poem was originally written about my sister’s boyfriend at the time; present annotations in red.)
Accept a kiss from this deep well, From my lips, to your brow fell, Or decline-- As time shall tell. He -- uh -- he declined. They always declined. But leave not my tempestuous soul to fare Alone-- If you did truly care. ENJAMBMENT! Hells yeah! Poet mo-friggin' laureate! Leave me not in pain undecided, When so much of myself has been confided.. Pretty sure this means sexytimes. Related: pretty surprised the human who wrote this verse didn't die a virgin. But alas, you’ve run, and I am not whole, For you’ve taken my love and immortal soul. And so is all we ever find, Simple purgatory of the mind? Deep like your friggin' motha (after last night) (send her my regards) A flower grew once in a churchyard; Of COURSE it did. Its lifelong struggle growing hard, Until the world refused to hear it, Broke its soul and crushed its spirit; We can’t trust beauty until we can mirror it. You see? You see what I did there?! If you try to hold someone tight, soon they run away, But I have your memory stored for another day. There was once beauty, but it is lost, Though I would retreive it at any cost. Not a misspelling! NON-CONFORMITY, square. At least I know inside of my head, You were quite real; your memory not dead. Hit it HOME, semi-colon! Fuckin' artful. But no, not all we chance to find, Can be purgatory of the mind. Somehow didn't die a virgin. Miracles happen, dudes.
Oh god, guys, last night was just like middle school again. I just — I just have so many FEELINGS.
The Verdict: Uh, I know this is kind of a repeat of a previous NTKOG, but 1) I had to write quickly, before the gin wore off, and, more importantly, 2) if you’d told me a year ago that I would willingly get on stage — not just once, but several times — to encourage people to laugh at my searing emotional intensity and truly awful mutilation of the English language, I would have cut you off and called you a cab. Man, though, Mortified. What a great show, and truly humbling and exhilarating project to be a part of.
And seriously, not kidding about the new Worst Teen Poet champ. Dude was basically forged from the stoves of Hephaestus to eviscerate my awkward, still-adolescent heart. Plus, he smelled really good when he hugged me. Uh, call me, sir. My soul would like to scribble all manner of awkward sonnets upon thee.
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Just as I could listen to Howard Stern impersonate his Mother and Father for hours so could I read your Red Comments. Awesome.
Sorry to any one I repulsed with the HS mention
I think you found your soulmate. Hope he figures it out soon!
It’s your blog; if you feel a need to run a semi-repeat (and this is partly for context in this case) you have every right to do so.
Not that there would be any doubt, but I can say for certain that there is no exaggeration in NTKOG’s description of this dude. It being Massachusetts and all I briefly considered proposing.
On a related note, anyone remotely near any Get Mortified Live event should go, no questions asked. Absolutely worth it. Just be ready to feel the urge to blurt out all the deeply held secrets of your 13 or 14 year-old self even if you’re not participating.
Wait, how did we not share decade-old secrets after the show?!?! I have so many of them! SO MANY! Mostly involving the fiery torment of pining over band geeks, but still.
Hee! ‘Fraid he’s married…aren’t they all? Ack! (-Cathy) Thank you, again, forever, for being in the show. Come back soon!
I’d be disappointed if he weren’t married!
Dear, I am sorry for your loss. Now I’m going to begin looking up all the words in your post that I did NOT know (many). Sister and I were just discussing your fixation on her bfs. Can you drop me the initials? You were a handful, dear, a handful.
Oh man, I was a friggin’ terror ’til I was 19. Don’t think I don’t know it! This particular poem was written for that crush/boyfriend(?)/homecoming date of Sister’s who always wore dragon shirts. You know the one I’m talking about.
Honestly, I didn’t even like him, but I had a fixation to keep up, so I lathered up enough of a crush to write a few truly heinous poems about. It’s just what I do!
…”from the stoves of Hephaestus to eviscerate my awkward, still-adolescent heart. Plus, he smelled really good when he hugged me.”
Dear, I have to say up to age 21. I’m not sure what the above sentence means, but smelling good is what’s it all about. Was the bf “I?” Dear, your BCD and I saw “Donny & Marie” last night. Dear, Donny rocks, but he was perspiring botox. Marie’s hair extensions were better than Stevie Nicks’ and she cried only once. I’m not sure about her new passion for Opera: she’s a little bit country you know.
You’re being mean just for the sake of being mean. Once The Ex and I started dating, I was very calm and worked my ass off on academic stuff. Remember that time I graduated with distinction and wrote a kickass thesis? No need to be dismissive.
The “bf” was BH. I have no idea why I thought he inspired poetry.
Also, sorry to hear Donny Osmond was sweating botox. I have a totally age-inappropriate crush on him and, of course, think he’s a natural beauty. But I suppose we’re living in the botox age now! Maybe I should consider a few shots. I’m starting to get laugh lines from spending so much time reading PG Wodehouse.
Dear, you are so correct. I was another TKOG I was thinking about.
Experts say the adult brain does not kick in until age 22 or 23:
what do you think of them apples? Was it BH’s blue eyes that captivated you, although you went for all the bfs. Go to
donny.com, dear, and join the fan club. Last night was a special show for the dot -comers and they were there in full force doing the “wave.” Marie did a terrific “point number” with Frank from Denver for her fans. It was magical dear….magical. Wish we could have been at “Mortified” instead sans botox.
Next time I do Mortified, I’ll have to talk Sis into video taping it so I can send you a recording! Also, I would like to sign up to be an OFFICIAL Donny Osmond fan, but one has to wonder — is it politically correct to be both a Donny Osmond aficionado and a Fanilow? Hmmm…
Yes, dear, it is. One must always think discounted tickets. Now that Barry is at Paris the ticket prices are bound to be higher.
BCD and I were pleased to have comped tickets to the D&M
Show at the Flamingo Hilton. Great show and I do recommend it to all of your dear readers, although, I might suggest that they cover up their tattoos (Mormons, dear).
Ha, I love that after the tattoo post, all of my readers are inked-up rapscallions unsuitable for playdates. Too funny. I’ve got to say, whenever I meet people who read the blog, one of the first things people tend to say is: “I want to meet your mom!” shortly followed by, “But I’d be a little bit afraid…” Just absolutely awesome.
Dears, don’t be afraid. After looking up rapscallions, I have to agree, dear, however I do not have issue with the temporary tattoos. Never be afraid of M O T H E R dears. You only have one, or in the case of our Mormon friends: Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom and Mom.
oh, teenage love poetry. i still talk to some of the people i wrote about, so i will not share what i wrote about them. but suffice it to say that one of my projects was so teen-angsty that i wrote it first in french, then in english. oh yeah. i was that good.
the commentary on your poem — shit, i just peed myself! this post was the first thing i read this mornin—er, afternoon, and by god, i do believe i heard violins.
FAHREAKING HILARIOUS.
I can also read Your and Mom’s banter all Day :)
I know that NTKOG values what internet anonymity she has, but how is there not video of this?!?! What is this, 2000? No, it’s 20-friggin-10, how can we not have video of this event.
Dear NTKOG Mom – You crack me up as much as your daughter does! Well done Ma’am.
I found your poem very moving. It made me want to listen to November Rain on repeat while writing girls names on my pencil case.
Toast