There was something about him I just couldn't

There was something about him I just couldn't put my finger on. He looked vaguely familiar, sitting there on the curb, hit feet tucked under & hat pulled low. Slowly I approached

the microphone at the Beatniks Bash Open Mic Poetry Slam night. I said "To the man on the curb. With his hat pulled low. Who are you? Do I know you? What's your deal bro?" The man

pretended to be in a windstorm and holding onto a rope. He struggled against in the non-existent wind in a really committed way. I said, "Groovy man, that's really heavy.

I'll be your wind turbine." And I was. I spun my arms to his wind and powered our imaginary world of groove. I was too committed to break character and smacked several people in

the gob. A swift blow to the kidneys later and still whirling like a turbine, a bouncer jettisoned me onto the pavement. The cruel world's indifference to experimental theatre was

painful, to say the least, especially to those of us committed to working the genre in areas devoid of humor. Why I had insisted that tonight's performance be completely silent?

It was silent... but deadly. My bodily humours enveloped the cramped stage. It would have been funnier if I clenched, but pantomime did not permit noise.

The artistic reviews of my pantomime act mistook my flatulence for intentional. "Mimicry once made me question god. Last night it made me question it again," wrote one reviewer.

Other reviewers failed to even notice me wallowing in my cesspool of ineptitude and mediocrity. "This is my fault" I admitted, staring in the mirror at my shitty pantomime rags.

Their awards and accolades were bitter mockery if they didn't notice my morbid nuances. Even I couldn't see myself in my pantomime mirror. I started to tear the walls away ...