David Fewster

L.A. WEEKLY GOES TO FRANCE

Michael Ventura went to Paris

To sit in the bathtub where Jim Morrison died

Because that's the kind of guy he is

Slamming shots of tequila and

Smoking Gauloises-Bleu's by the handful

He fills the tub until the water reaches his chin

Screaming "Go, baby, go

Break on through to the other side"

Knowing that with the mere dip of the head

He could crash that barrier and join Jim

And read him the essay on

"Dionysian Archetypes & the MTV Generation"

That he had written that afternoon on Baudelaire's tombstone

While drinking vin rouge and smoking hashish

That he had bought early that morning from a young Arab dealer

Outside the building where Modigliani's wife

Leapt to her death, all the while

Remembering with regret the night before when

He had tried to sleep in the room where Oscar Wilde

Suffered his massive cerebral hemorrhage,

Shooting brains, blood, pus and mucus out of every orifice

In front of terrified onlookers

But someone had rented it out first

Some goddamn little poseur, no doubt,

And then and there Michael wrote an article

"Those Goddamn Mealy-Mouthed Pathetic

Empty-Headed Little Poseurs

Without Lives of Their Own Who Get Vicarious

Kicks Out of Renting Rooms Where Famous Iconoclasts

Have Died and Make It Almost Impossible for Me to

Get Reservations There"

Which will be coming out in 'The New Yorker' later this year

Because right after he finished it he ran into Tina Brown

Sitting in a little cafe in Montmartre

At the table where Verlaine puked his liver out

When Robert Bly came over,

Having spent the day in the hotel where Strindberg went mad

And he and Michael started a dialogue on suicide

Each hoping the other would commit it first

But, unfortunately, they knew each other only too well

So the conversation will be published in book form

By St. Martin's Press this fall.

Back in the bathtub,

Michael Ventura blows bubbles through his nose

And makes little humming noises,

Pretending he's a speedboat.

The moment of danger is past.

His only regret is

That he forgot to take off his street clothes

Before he turned on the tap.

(Originally published in "Revival: Spoken Word from Lollapalooza 94" Manic D Press, 1995)