The Best Laid Plans
Despite the hideously failed action plans used for our last festival reports, Jestersaurus decided to use the same plan to cover NEARfest 2005. This basically meant that Hammond Hill would once again provide our festival coverage. We gave him flawless directions to Zoellner Arts Center at Lehigh University in Bethlehem Pennsylvania, which for some reason led him to Buggaboo Kritters Preschool and Daycare Center in Passadumkeag Maine. Coincidentally, Mr. Hill found himself at what appeared to be a music festival for small children. Not that he realized it at the time of course. Since his last NEARfest was covered from the inside of a locked maintenance closet, he had little idea what the real NEARfest venue or crowd should look like. Thus, our outraged correspondent laid siege on the facility when he learned that the Wobbles would not be using Mellotrons after all at the Buggaboo Kritters Kiddie Fest.
Since armed with the knowledge that he was at the wrong event, he is nevertheless quite keen, nay, threateningly insistent, to have his coverage appear here anyway because he's rather proud of what he describes as his violent, South American-esque "coup d'etoddler". Even though the festival was free and "open to all friends who bring a warm smile and a happy heart", he decided to blast through a rear door at the far end of the building using his car as a battering ram. After a brief "reconnaissance mission" to locate the enemy camp, he launched his attack using the various accouterments of assault that he happens to keep in his 1972 Buick Riviera because "you never know." To be fair, he also uses them for hunting. He's probably the only hunter in the world who models himself after a sports fisherman. He claims he's helping perpetuate his sport because after he fells a bird he throws it back. Frankly, he would never be inclined to eat what he shot anyway because it doesn't come in tablet form.
Courtesy of Passadumkeag press
In Search of Face
Normally Hammond's report would be welcomed with polite cordiality; okay, panicky desperation. But the J-Dude is ripping pissed and he's determined to have his say.
Jestersaurus doesn't ask for much. Admire him from a distance and mind your own business are good starters; the occasional genuflection is preferred but not mandatory. Just keep off my turf, pal. You know who you are. There I was, sauntering about Zoellner Arts Center like nobody's business, drawing lustful, longing looks from the babes and let's face it folks: from the guys as well. As my regular readers are probably aware, Jestersaurus likes to consider himself a maley-male of a devastatingly Bronsonian caliber. I snap my tail like a whip and men snap to attention. I cock my head and raise my right brow ever so slightly; give a suave, subtle tinkle of a bell perhaps, and the chicks swoon. But my signature in these circles is my face, tastefully adorned in tortured artiste white with black accents. The word is "stunning", okay folks? STUNNING. And it's MY signature.
Then I saw him, The Imposter, Matthew Parmenter, moving in on my territory. Now, I don't like to call attention to myself in a loud manner -- I don't need to. But when I saw him from across the room I accidentally howled with rage. It shook the walls a bit but I don't think anyone noticed. There he was, drinking his Hop Devil Ale, chatting away and chuckling with that breezy, carefree laugh of his, brushing aside his hair with the same casual ease with which he is quite intentionally instigating a bloodfest the likes of which the world hasn't seen since the day I woke from a drunken snooze and found myself in the company of a bunch of gaily prancing deer cubs, cluelessly frolicking within mouth-reach just as I was dreaming fondly of a midday snack.
Some people say I'm overreacting, but for the sake of empathy dear reader, think of how you'd feel if someone broke into your house, invaded your meat freezer and stole all your sweetbreads, organ meats, last season's venison and winter foul, and your last 35 sides of beef. Now you're getting it. I was nostril-flaring furious like an enraged gorilla who's just discovered his females have all been had by some puerile, hierarchy-breaking upstart with herpes who proceeds to mock and laugh at him from across the river like a dumbass chimpanzee. In short, I wanted him out of the picture at all cost, but preferably at someone else's expense. To that end, I tried to convince Dave Kerman to substitute Parmenter for one of his Barbies, but Dave was concerned about the resulting lack of balance between the "sticks". Uh, excuse me? Can we talk about priorities here? Okay, so Dave's worried about Present's NEARfest performance which is of such relative insignificance that viewing its magnitude surely necessitates the lens of a state-of-the-art, helium-cooled high-resolution electron microscope to register a shadow of its existence compared to the annihilative orgy of destruction facing your humble correspondent. Obviously not everyone can ruminate with a scientific standard of neutrality like yours truly. I offered to find another similarly weighted "stick" for the other hand but he balked. Last time I look to Kerman when I need a felony.
Who's kidding who?
Figuring a little alcohol might fertilize the diabolical contrivance development process, I decided to drink a couple of barrels of beer. And spare me the Hop Drivel folks; only an ultra-premium olde worlde class beer with impeccable balance and a tasteful label would do, to wit: Weyerbacher's Blithering Idiot Barley Wine. I was soon seeing purple jesters dancing in my head, taunting me as I lay unable to move while each one's face morphed into the laughing face of Matthew Parmenter. By the time I woke his show had begun. I managed to get there just about on time, but was I really the only one booing? I swear I heard everyone cheering, some riotously, and in the midst of hearty applause there was my lone, solitary boo, bellowing from the rear of the theater like the blast-wind from the Bikini Atoll Bravo test. Oh, it threw him off alright. Then I waited outside of the hall for him to come out and I followed him as he made his way through the masses, booing continually along the way. People actually lined up for autographs while I stood in a corner and booed at him, making him look ridiculous by making silly noises, gestures, and dances at him from across the room like a uh . . . dumbass chimpanzee I guess, but it was right for the moment. He continued to flog his tawdry wares to people left and right in spite of me. The Laser's Edge and Wayside both came over for copies of is new Discipline DVD - and don't expect assistance from me on where to find it! Throughout it all, he acted as though he had no clue whatsoever of the state of war he's declared between himself and a 17 foot, flesh-eating dinosaur.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Letters ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear Mr. Jestersaurus,
On behalf of the Township of Passadumkeag, I'd like to proclaim my intent to hunt you down and reaffirm the extinction of your species.
Bob of Passadumkeag
Dear Bob of Passadumbass,
You and whose asteroid?
Dear Mr. Jestersaurus,
I'm so glad you're giving such a valuable artist some well-deserved exposure! I reviewed all of his work in my magazine, "All Reviews About Anything And Everything That's Art". I love reviewing other peoples' art! Look for my new book, "The Art of Reviewing Other Peoples' Art", which is based on the textbook used at my International University of Art Reviewing (Other Peoples').
Rainer Maria Rilke
Dear Mr. Jestersaurus,
I've read a lot of NEARfest coverage this year, but the above piece has to be the single most insightful, comprehensive coverage of them all. In fact, in the annals of NEARfest coverage of years years gone by, I'd have to say that yours is the most detailed and thoroughly researched documentation of the event since the dawn of time. Kudos to you and your fine "paper", and may you continue to study all such social phenomena and provide us readers with the awe inspiring fruit of your labors for many years to come.
Yours in professional peerage,
Professor Ivory F. Tower
Dear Mr. Tower,
May you cross the street in a state of distraction and find yourself with a sold-out chartered coach bus headed to a convention for the morbidly obese up your scholarly ass.
<>Be famous! Write to Jestersaurus at firstname.lastname@example.org<>
Jestersaurus is Mac Beaulieu, a warm, beautifully humble human being; a delicate flower whose fragrant petals bless the world with their smelly niceness. He thanks his lovely hosts at Gnosis for their kindnesses and warm touches of warmth: Tom Hayes, Mike McLatchey, and Dirk Evans. There are others too but frankly they're more like skunk cabbage than flowers.
Expose Writers Staff
Jestersaurus is a satirical newsletter published by The Gnosis Project. Jestersaurus uses invented names in some of its material. Exceptions include cases in which public figures and other individuals are being satirized. Any other use of real names is accidental and coincidental. The content of this newsletter-graphics, text and other elements-is copyright (c) The Gnosis Project, and may not be reprinted or retransmitted in whole or in part without the expressed written consent of the publisher. Jestersaurus is not intended for readers under 18 years of age.