Late Night Wars

I should preface this by saying there's some grown-up language in this edition. I'm assuming any person reading this is an adult, since I can't imagine a child poring over a poetry blog. Still, I will do the courtesy of mentioning that this is intended for mature audiences only and you are free to stop reading it at any time. I'd rather folks not read this instead of getting all riled up.

I found this poem in a book called, preposterously, "The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry." The cover has a nice Gothic font for the title and underneath is an American flag, a rose and a femur all arranged to resemble the Jolly Roger or the Union Jack.

I bought it in college because it looked cool, was really thick, and promised something more interesting than "America's 100 Best-Loved Poems" or "The Penguin Book of Dead White Guys." And yes, you're right, most of it is pretty terrible.

The sentiments are usually your standard Whitmanesque, "I sing the body electric / acoustic / digital / analog" odes or the knockoff Rimbauds-with-a-twist (I'm gay AND of Vietnamese descent, haha! Didn't see it coming did you?). But there are a few really excellent things in there and it's nice to feel the power of language trying to break out of the box.

In fact, I got in some pretty serious hot water back then for bringing it in to work to read on my break. That's what I get for working at the bookstore of an evangelical college. You have to kind of take the view from Aesop's "The Turtle and the Scorpion": I knew it was a scorpion when I put it on my back, can't blame anybody else when it stings me.

Also, all the media hubbub surrounding NBC/Conan/Leno/et al made this poem seem pretty appropriate. In the interest of full disclosure and random trivia I should mention I'm a fierce partisan for Conan, but couldn't care less if he stays at "The Tonight Show." (What is it with that show? It's like the interesting-killer: I've never seen the appeal of Carson or Jack Paar. And Jay Leno is a joke, but not the funny kind.)

The Crucifixion of Johnny Carson

David Lerner

he smiled once too often
he cracked one too many
lame jokes
about Ronald Reagan
I got tired of watching the sequined backdrop
sway behind him as he
played air golf
while the commercial kicked in

the band was just too expertly bland
Doc's outfits hurt my eyes
he got married one too many times
to a Joan

so we decided to nail him up
we used a big old nail gun
and a stainless-steel cross
times have changed
but the song remains the same

he screamed bloody murder
it was pretty cool
and I felt a little bad
after all, he'd given me
hours of viewing pleasure

but I just got tired of that
pretty little smirk
that perfect gray hair
those retired-Lieutenant-Colonel suits
the headlines in the Enquirer 
I got tired of Ed McMahon's
booming, desperate laugh
got bored with his belly too
and the cracks about his boozing

I got tired of all that intensely false
show biz camaraderie jive
the guests were always
throwing around

I even got tired of Johnny's
smooth silver touch with
old ladies and children

so we crashed the party
way past midnight
slammed him up against the wall
and popped the steel home

you should have heard him scream
it was really tasty
stripped down to his underwear
he cried too
it was fantastic

at first he hung tough
said things like
"What's the meaning of this"
and Don't you know who I am?"
and "You'll never work in this town
again"

but when we
told him we never worked in this town
anyway
and yes, we knew who he was
and we couldn't tell him the meaning
for all the cunt in Malibu
his smile turned hard
then his hard face faded
and a blank look came over those features
that gleam so well

and the blankness started to shake
and the shaking shuddered
and then he began to cry

it was really special
when he cried
and suddenly I felt a little
bad for him
he breaks just like anybody else
I thought

it was nice to see him cry
and that was really all
we wanted
to see something that made sense
on that jewel of a mask

he wept like blazes
he screamed for his life

and I thought
shit, let's yank those things out
and give him another chance

but it was too late
the red light was fading
they were folding the set
he was
going off the air

and the look that crossed over his eyes
just before he
leaned over into The Next World
he sort of looked like Jesus

I know he forgave me for my sins

all in all,
I felt pretty good
about the whole thing.


I really love the "Fight Club" feel of this. There's something both iniquitous and sadly noble in it all. Searching for sin so you can search for redemption instead of a blank emptiness. Maybe it's all that evangelical schooling, but this idea of modernism stretching life into a blank, yawning maw of interminable tedium sort of makes sense to me.

I am Jack's murderous sidekick.

Even if what you feel is pain and sadism, at least you're feeling something. Gives you something to do during the ad breaks.

Let me be clear: I'm not saying "Someone should torture and kill Jay Leno and the executives at NBC." In the words of Chris Rock, "But I would understand."