Holy Toledo (pt 3 of 3)
My wife would like me to mention straight away that I got lost several times on the way to Culture Clash Records the morning of the Lit Fest. That is simply not true. I turned down the wrong streets several times. I wasn’t lost, I just jumped the gun, directionally speaking, twice, thrice. When I said, “where the fuck are we, now?” It was more an existential question I posed, nothing to do with our exact location within the confines of Toledo, Ohio.
We did arrive at Culture Clash Records and with plenty of time to spare. The record store was glorious, clean and well-organized. I did get lost in the heavy metal section for twenty minutes. They provided a spacious performance area book-ended by a well-stocked bar catering to a European futbol fan-base, a clientele you would not expect to find in Toledo until you take into account the last several seasons the Browns and the Bengals played. It’s bad enough to traumatize anyone into seeking sports solace in the unlikeliest places.
I came close to throwing down eighty bucks on an Ozzy Osbourne Randy Rhoads tribute album, original pressing, like the one I had as a teenaged metalhead, but resisted the urge, instead flinging the money down on books, books, and more indie books. There were some holes in my Roadside Press collection I needed to fill. I purchased Misti Rainwater-Lites latest collection, Super Cherry Extra, from the lady, herself. An outstanding collection, by the way, which perfectly encapsulates the desperation of a life lived vividly.
I also secured a pile of books from Lori Jakiela and Dave Newman. I was most excited to meet these two talented writers. I’ve been reading their work for well over a decade in the pages of Nerve Cowboy and many other journals. You won’t find two more engaging, delightful people. They just radiate decency.
Strangely, everyone I met that day was incredible. It doesn’t even seem statistically possible that there were absolutely no rampaging egos, no unexpected weirdness… Could it be I was the asshole, and everyone came away saying, that was fun except for that one guy who demanded to be called The Polish Hammer and kept spilling his beer on everyone? No. My wife’s constant proximity forced me to mostly behave.
At the risk of boring you with a barrage of name-dropping, here are a few memories that stood out for me, events that may or may not have occurred. There was some drinking involved, of course, and I have a tendency to manufacture scenarios even as I’m living this bullshit life that become ingrained in my mind as reality. So, who knows what really happened? Everybody else in attendance, perhaps… Who can say?
Meeting Bob Philips was an honor. Bob is the elder statesman of the Toledo poetry scene. While I was challenging Westley Heine to a slap fighting duel, my wife introduced herself to Bob. She admitted right off that she wasn’t some random poetry lover who just happened to wander into Culture Clash Records to hear some pretty words bandied about, but the wife of the Polish Hammer who dragged her here partially against her will.
“The Polish Hammer?” Bob Philips asked. The Polish Hammer?”
“One of the Polish Hammers, anyway,” my wife hedged. “Are you familiar with him?”
“Yeah, that dumb Polack owes me fifty bucks.”
Conceding he likely had the correct Polish Hammer, being sadly well-versed in settling my debts, she slipped Bob two twenties and a ten. I, of course, owed that man nothing, but, you know, hats off to him. You don’t reach the age of eighty on the mean streets of Toledo without being wiley.
Westley, meanwhile, was inviting me to read at one of his shindigs in Chicago next time I’m in town to visit my brothers.
“You come out here, though,” Westley warned “you just can’t go around challenging people to slap fights. There are some sensitive souls out that way who don’t want the taste smacked right out of their mouths…”
“I’m not challenging those people to slap fights, just you, Westley, just you. Busking Blues was one of the finest memoirs detailing the rigors of homelessness, but I got to say, there just wasn’t near enough descriptions of drug addiction I prefer in my memoirs. I just feel like I’d be able to accept it better if we just got this slap fight duel out of the way for good and all.”
“See, that’s just crazy to me. And the book was written exactly how I wished it to be written. And you raising your hand in a threatening manner isn’t going to change anything. In fact, I didn’t even know you were a writer until you shouted it in my face three times, but the invitation still stands along with the slap fight restrictions.”
“All right, I’ll consider it, Westley Heine.”
I was able to touch base with Shawn Misener and Josh Olsen, two guys I think highly of and root for on the social media. I didn’t talk to Tim Murray who remains as inscrutable as a sphinx to me.
I’d met Danny Shot before on some Zoom event or another, so I already knew he was a great guy. We got to share a few words enabling me to bask in his positive, infectious energy. The guy’s pure joy. Likewise, Steve Goldberg is an intelligent, witty conversationalist. He seemed to believe we’d met before at some past lit fest event which alarmed me. I don’t attend too many of them, and I’m pretty sure I didn’t attend the one he mentioned though he swore we talked there. I hate to think there’s some other bastard who looks like me roaming the literary byways of this country. Add to that a penchant for poetry, and I believe I need to find this doppelganger of mine and put him out of his misery. Or, at the very least, challenge him to a slap fight.
A highlight of the evening for me was meeting Todd Cirillo. I’d read his work and enjoyed it. Disposable Darlings is available through Roadside Press for those who like their poetry with a side of wildness. I considered him a kindred spirit, and he did not disappoint. His reading style is something I aspire toward. He’s entertaining and sincere and engaging. I got to share a few beers with him and his buddy, Tobe. Their fun-loving company made me wish I had another night to spare in Toledo if you can believe that.
Now, I work with a welder at Hydra who kinda resembles Todd. Longish, blonde hair, easy smile. The same devil may care energy. So, I thought, what the hell and invited the dude to a poetry reading out in Huntsville. He told me to fuck off. So, I guess what I’m trying to say is there’s only one Todd Cirillo.
And there’s only one Miles Budimir. Pick up Licorice Heart, and his latest collection of travel writings due out soon from Roadside Press; the man is a talented writer. He’s an understated kind of guy. Laid back. Surely, there’s misgivings and worries in his life, but you’d never know it to talk to him. He seems truly at peace with the universe which is mindblowing to me since I tend to wage war with every aspect of my existence.
Aleathia Drehmer read beautifully, profoundly. Her words always have the power to seize you by the heart and her soulful delivery will surely break it. Bob Philips, that shyster, read several profound poems that hit so deep even my wife took notice.
“Wow,” she whispered. “How do you compete with that?”
I shuffled my pages. Each poem seemed to deal more and more with the subject of my cock. Shit, I can’t read these. I felt panic begin to set in.
“You know what you forgot to do?” My wife said. My mouth hung open. Christ, the answer could be literally anything. “You forgot to mention anything at all about Brian Fugett. His memorial chapbook competition led the whole thing off.”
“You’re right. Fuck. Well, that’s what I’ll lead off part four with.”
“This is only a three-part series.”
“You forget I’m Polish.”
“You forget Douglas Adams did something similar with his Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy Trilogy.”
“How’d that work out for him?”
“The law of diminishing returns hit those stories pretty hard. But, you know, you’re not really going like gangbusters here, either, so you might as well…”
Karl Koweski is a displaced Region Rat now living in rural Alabama. He writes when his pen allows it. He’s a husband to a lovely wife and father to some fantastic kids. He collects pop culture ephemera. On most days he prefers Flash Gordon to Luke Skywalker and Neil Diamond to Elvis Presley.
THE POLISH HAMMER POETRY CORNER is a weekly column, posted each Tuesday morning.
