TOWEL GIRL: FLYING WITH A TERRYCLOTH CAPE CAN BE TRICKY

Every good competition starts with one profound and energizing element: trash-talking. Especially a literary competition, because you know how writers get off on beating people up with words, the pen is mightier than the sword and all that stuff, so the first writer to sling a big steamy pile of acerbic words via e-mail is Chris Colin, author of What Really Happened to the Class of '93.
I think I speak for all of us when I say it would be best if I, personally, accepted all the cash. IT'S ON, FELLOW READERS!”

There are four writers, including Chris, that are about to embark on a competition so unique and treacherous that only one of us will survive; that’s why they call it Literary Death Match. Here’s how Opium’s Web site describes this event: Literary Death Match is a reading series that takes place all around the world. It marries the literary and performative aspects of Def Poetry Jam, rapier-witted quips of American Idol’s judging (without any meanness), and the ridiculousness and hilarity of Double Dare. Out of four writers, two are chosen to compete in the Literary Death Match finale, which trades in the show’s literary sensibility for an absurd and comical climax to determine who takes home the Literary Death Match crown.

Just for the record, I’m not one to trash talk before a competition, I prefer to do it when I’m losing a competition; I find that there’s a certain dignity in telling someone how much they suck when they’re beating your ass to the ground. Dignity or stupidity, it’s a fine line. Another e-mail, from a guy named Chicken John, comes in as fast as a right hook.

You will all cry like little girls when I whip out my Ukulele. Keep your filthy money. I'll be having sex with every girl in the audience before I get off stage. I'll be reading about the small, independent circus I used to direct.
-chick master j

Then a sucker punch from Chris: he attaches the link to a story I wrote for the Advocate and underneath writes:
Not good enough to win on Friday, but good all the same. Looking forward to meeting You …

What did I do or say to incite this literary riot? I wait about 30 seconds to see if Ali Liebegott, the amazing author of the IHOP Papers, will e-mail in defense of us two non-lady-like ladies, but clearly she has a day job, so I enter the e-mail ring alone.

That is so weird, I thought Chris said something, but all I heard were lips flappin’ lies! Bring it on mother-ucker! The piece I'm reading is called “My Pockets Are Full.” Hey Chicken, all I can say is … enjoy my seconds!

The death match is being held at the Elbo Room in San Francisco. Ali, Chris, and Chicken Face all live in San Francisco, so I’m the outsider, having come to town to visit friends and give a talk at CCA, they definitely have home-court advantage. But I’m feeling fierce-ish, wearing my Tracy and The Plastics t-shirt with a silk-screened hand holding a microphone right up to my neck, as if just by leaning down an inch I could speak into the two-dimensional mic and be amplified for all to hear.

The Elbo Room is living up to its name, packed with people and continuing to fill up, San Francisco hipsters, local literati like Michelle Tea, there are literally hundreds of people with drinks in their hands ready to watch four nerds impale each other with words. Elissa Bassist, the organizer and emcee of the event, takes the stage. She’s got tons of energy, wears black Elvis Costello eyeglasses that are too big for her adorable face, and a zany dress that seems to have been transported straight from a Toni Basil video.
“And now your Literary Death Match judges!”

Like the literary equivalent to a pro-basketball game, but with no strobe lights and less dribbling, each judge makes her/his way up to the slender stage. There’s #1 Julie Greicius, Senior Literary Editor of The Rumpus; #2 Justin Carder of 826 Valencia's publishing and pirate store director; and #3 memoirist Rebecca Walker.

Ok, I have to admit that I’m a big fan of Rebecca Walker’s writing and, well, her aesthetic qualities, too. I think she’s ridiculously cute. Good Writer + Cute = Nervous Tania. When I found out that she was one of the judges I almost brought my copy of Black White and Jewish for her to sign, but decided against it because I suffer from a debilitating disease known as celebrity-Tourette’s. But instead of uttering obscenities I tic inappropriate jokes, that aren’t funny. At all. And then I punctuate the jokes with my own, maniacal laughter. I might say something like, “Wow, Ms. Walker, we have so much in common! Like, I’m white, black and Jewish too — except for the black part!” HAHAHA! Or “It’s been a long time since I talked with your mother, too!” Ha! Glad I left the book at home.

The judges are seated on metal foldout chairs ready for the first round to begin. Elissa asks for me to join her on stage for the first round of competition. I make my way through the crowd, hopping over bodies seated on the floor, squeezing past people leaning on walls, swaggering like a rock star, more out of necessity than coolness, but still, I’m looking good, as I easily jump up and onto the three-foot tall stage, giving the audience just a taste of both my physical, and mental, agility.

Chris’s name is called and he makes his way out of the green room, which is not green and barely a room, up a smooth ramp and easily appears onstage. Total weenie move. Elissa informs us that we’ll flip to see who goes first. She then produces a copy of The Bell Jar in lieu of a coin.
“Front cover, Tania wins, back cover, Chris.”

You know that when Silvia Plath is used to determine anyone’s fate, it ain’t gonna be good. It lands on … the back cover. This isn’t looking good. Elissa looks to Chris. “So, do you want to go first or second?” Without hesitation he says, “Tania can go first.” Going first is the WORST position when competing in anything. They should just call it, going worst. And without any instruction, no gunshot, no bullhorn, nothing denoting a beginning, I look over at the judges and mouth, “Should I just start?” And like nervous stage mothers they all mouth, “YES.”

I start reading: “Being married to a Latter-day Saint can be, well, demanding.” The audience is just warming up, not sure about my sense of humor, like if I have one. Then I launch into my partner, Angela, asking me to don a bonnet and churn butter with her in some sort of dyke diorama at a Mormon pioneer reenactment center in rural Utah. Now the crowd knows I’m funny, they are roaring, I’m holding for laughter in between lines, getting my stride on, running towards the literary finish line! And then, it’s over, applause rushes over me like a wave of love. The stage light is hot on my face, I feel flush with accomplishment, as I’m ushered to a bar stool near the judges. The judges start making their comments and I’m so hopped up on adrenaline I can only make out bits and pieces of what they’re saying.
“I love dyke diorama.”
“It was great the way you came through the audience and jumped on stage.”
“Mormon lesbians are just fun!”

And now it’s Rebecca Walker’s turn to judge me, all of the barroom chatting and ambient noise seems to slip away and it’s as if just Rebecca and I are on stage. She opens her mouth, slowly, and then tells me … how poorly I used my microphone, which is true, because I’m not into a mediated form of communication. I thought that my silk-screened microphone t-shirt would be amplification enough. As soon as Rebecca finishes with her critique on my inability to properly gauge the distance of my lips to the round electric orb in front of me, she stares at me for a moment, then starts twirling her foot, which I’m pretty sure is body language-ese for, I think you’re sexy in a nerdy, Jewish way. And now her judging is a little less formal, she’s commenting on how much she likes my old-school sneakers, my t-shirt and my tattoos. She likes my whole look. She is the judge of “Intangibles” and let me tell you, there is nothing intangible about my connection with Rebecca Walker. Well, maybe her husband’s fist grazing my face, but I don’t see him in the crowd, so … I leave the stage satisfied.

Chris weasels on stage. He says, “Let’s hear it for Tania Katan!” Everyone applauds, I guess I read this guy all wrong. Then he says, “If you like that kind of stuff.” Ouch, another jab to the gut! Chris reads some weenie white-guy 30-something story about how he used to think he’d be something other than a weenie 30-something white guy with a baby and wife and mortgage, but ultimately he ends up being a weenie 30-something white guy with a baby, wife and mortgage. At the end of his piece he does the requisite turning back to look at his baby in the car seat and realizing how full his weenie life really is. It was fine, I guess, if you like that kind of stuff. The audience really liked that kind of stuff. I’m backstage as the judges start to evaluate Chris’s reading. Rebecca Walker simply says, “I didn’t like how you were mean to Tania.” YEAH! Take that, you boring heterosexual chump!

Now Chris and I are side by side on stage, waiting for the verdict, who will go on to the final round to compete to the death! Elissa takes the microphone, “The winner of the first round is… TANIA!” Chris extends his humbled hand towards mine and says, “Good job.” I go to take his hand, but in the final moment whoosh past it, my hand going to smooth the side of my hair instead, a classic Fonzie move. Chris is stunned, the audience goes wild! Put that in your baby’s bottle father-ucker!

Second round, Chicken Little goes first. I’m sure he’s very hot in the chicken community, but with people, well, not so much. Sure, he’s got a ukulele, but what he didn’t say was that we’d have to endure 14 of the longest minutes of mediocre writing before we heard his lame song about, who knows, because by this time I’m on my second margarita. The judges are really generous with Chicken Liver, finding threads and irony in his writing when all I could hear was exoticizing trans people and the meaning of longwinded personified.

Ali Liebegott now takes the stage. She’s wearing an ironic t-shirt too; it’s silk-screened to look like a tuxedo. Her deadpan delivery receives laughter even before she starts reading. She reads from her book The IHOP Papers, from the vantage point of a teenage girl who is figuring out her sexuality. At one point the girl talks about wanting to lose her virginity and just getting it over with by using a magic marker. Well, everyone in the literary community knows that hymen + magic marker = literary success. The judges and audience go wild for Ali’s writing and reading, leaving Chicken Soup stuck in the coop! After no time deliberating, the judges make their decisions.
“We want the lesbians to battle it out!”

And the dyke-off begins. Ali and I meet on stage, hug, basking in our collective moment of ass-kicking two trash-talking straight boys! Ali grabs the microphone, “It’s quite a night for mannish women!” The crowd screams, we are Tommy Lee and Nikki Sixx! Chris and Chicken are sitting stunned in the audience, they appear to have sustained major concussions at the hands of two mannish ladies, maybe they’ll think twice before telling lesbians that they will make them cry like girls. Who’s crying now boy-byoches!!! Elissa takes the mic and informs everyone that, “We’re running out of time, so …We’re going to do a spelling bee and hopefully a winner will emerge really soon. Ali, you go first.”

I suck at spelling, here goes my chance at winning. Elissa begins reading a poem with some pretty lofty language and suddenly stops on a word I’ve never even heard before, she turns to Ali and says, “Your word is …Yes.” Ali chuckles, takes the microphone and says, “Yes? Y-E-S. Yes.” Then steps away from the microphone.

Elissa begins reading Shakespeare, not sure which play, but she’s going on and then stops. “Tania, your word is … It.” In this moment I know that there are two roads I can go down, and like Mr. Frost, I decide to take the one less traveled, hoping it will make all the difference. I approach the microphone. “It,” I say, doing my best impression of one of those savant kids from the documentary Spellbound, “It. Could you use it in a sentence?” “This is it.” Elissa says.
“It,” I repeat, “It. Could I please have the origin?”
This time all I get is laughter.
“It,” I continue, “It. It. It. IT,” I pause, “T-I-T. It.”
There is an explosion of laughter. I have thrown the match for the laugh. Ali is crowned Literary Death Match champ. And I wouldn’t have changed any of tit! If you don’t believe that this is a very true story, see tit for yourself [by clicking here] 

Tania Katan is the author of My One Night Stand With Cancer; please visit her at www.taniakatan.com