Bronson Unchained

Friends,

I think I'm going to space out the posts about Clint's visits to three different chunks because, well, the photos make more sense if I do it that way then try to smash them all together into one cohesive photo essay, so consider this part one.

One the second night in town, we took Clint to go see Dick Terrill's jazz band perform at The Sugar Room. For those who don't know, the Sugar Room is a bar that's forcing it's speakeasy kind of appeal onto a space that is roughly the size of a small-ish efficiency apartment. You know, the kind of places where you can do your dishes while sitting on the toliet? Anyways, we were there, and I enjoyed Dick's band better than I thought I would, even when he read one of his poems while the band grooved behind him...or whatever the appropriate term...noodling? do jazz people noodle? The poem was fun because I didn't know people actually did that. That's the poet stereotype I always held. You know, the failed beatnik walloping some bongos and snapping, always snapping, in the back of a coffeeshop. Then of course I read a Tony Hoagland poetry book and realized that poetry can also be about the work cocksucker, anyways, good time.

Then Bronson started drinking. You see, we all love Bronson. He's a good guy, the first of the newly minted third-year MFA class to get nationwide print exposure, so we're all plenty proud of him. But, he's uncontrollable wild man when you get a few Leinie's in him. It must have something to do with the Gulf War Sickness or some kind of PTS from battle where liquor just unleashes some darker, violent Bronson. Behold...PROOF:

This is Bronson and Natalie prebooze. Look at those smiles. The love! The friendship! Oh, is there anything more beautiful.........but then....

He gets a few dozen or so beers in him. His speech slurs, he starts to lose control, and then....

BRONSON ATTACKS! The monster unleashed, and Natalie, dear sweet Natalie, pays the price. Of course, afterwards she said she just fell down the stairs. And look at the smile on his face....oh Bronson...your dark heart scares us all.

VIVA EL MUSTACHE