But last night we decided to take our chances and join the throng of scenesters in the old Penny Annie's location (now art gallery) for an evening of vulgarity, depravity, and, who knows, maybe even some jokes.
Here's the line-up:
Peter Lyrene. Peter came armed with some amusing sex jokes about "his and her" lubes and rules regarding porn-watching, but we preferred his geekery (a story about the largely-forgotten mid-to-late 90's fantasy series Early Edition; an unexpected use of the word "Dickensian.").
Chance Dibben. This cat made us laugh with his deadpan delivery. He offered up some good jokes about his stripper/pilot mother and a long story about the time he ejaculated like "the St. Louis arch" into his own mouth.
Suzannah Johannes. Yes, the very same Suzannah who sings quiet and contemplative love songs in a gorgeous voice will also tell you a tale about the time she left her bright blue vibrator (with 15 settings!) in full view, along with a box full of ribs she'd been eating. Photo courtesy of @Steve_Dalhberg:
Ed (somebody help us out with his last name). He regaled us with a tale of how Sir Paul McCartney blessed his baby in Branson.
Chip: "Branson gets a lot of flak from comedians, but most of them would change their point of view if they actually attended the Shoji Tabuchi show."
And (finally) the man of the evening, BARRR, took the stage, promising to "rape the shit out of us" for 45 minutes. Beginning with his exploits cheating "the Man" at Papa Murphy's Pizza with altered coupons, BARRR soon took us on a powerful journey through his frustrations with his job, the difficulties of marriage and fatherhood, and the sheer terror of being stalked by a local homeless woman. We learned that, when BARRR fucks, the sound (for some reason) is the sound of a big truck backing up (BEEP. BEEP). And we learned that he will sometimes answer the door of his home in N. Lawrence completely naked, with a boner, at 4:00 in the morning. Here's a photo of BARRR in his BARRRhartt jacket.
And then, as if the evening wasn't already weird enough, legendary Larryville denizen Wayne Propst took the stage to end the evening with a 35-second poem(?) about zygotes. He stormed off the stage with his arm raised in victory and the crowd thanked him.
Just when you thought Larryville graffiti was nothing more than "AJAX" written on every available surface, along comes this message on the 23rd Street Blockbuster. We think it's a trenchant commentary on the failing economy.