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Stevens Point (and neighbors) Calendar of Events

ArtThrough February 18Carnivale di Venezia. Q Artists Cooperative.

Through February 19Winter’s Garden: An exhibition of floral inspired art with live orchids in bloom. River Front Arts Center.

Through March 1022nd Annual Midwest Seasons. Center for the Visual Arts, Wausau. Reception January 20, 5 p.m. - 7 p.m.

Through March 15At Dawn: New Work from Nicole Evelyn. The Scarabocchio Art Museum. Reception February 24, 6 p.m. - 8 p.m.

February 4Arts Bash 2012: In Support of Student Artists. 7:00 - 10:30 p.m., Noel Fine Arts Center, UWSP.

February 12 - March 12Xu Bing: Recent Work. Edna Carlsten Gallery, UWSP. Opening reception Monday, February 13, 5:00 - 7:00 p.m. Closing reception Saturday, March 10, 5:00 - 7:00 p.m.

February 16 - March 15Tapestry Weaving. UWSP Contiuing Education. Register by February 7 715-346-3838 or www.uwsp.edu/conted

February 28 - April 3Finding Your Photographic Voice. UWSP Continuing Education. Register by February 20 715-346-3838 or www.uwsp.edu/conted

DanceFebruary 16Fox Trot Dance Lessons with Toni Sage. 8:00 p.m., The Encore, UWSP.

FilmFebruary 16The Lexicon of Sustainability. 6:30 p.m. at the Local Food Fair, SPASH. www.farmshed.org.

MusicFebruary 4DJ Abilities with Man Mantis (Electronic/dub-step). 8:00 p.m., The Encore, UWSP.

February 4Irene’s Garden. 8:30 p.m., Kristin’s Riverwalk Food & Spirits.

February 6Galynne Goodwill on WWSP - live on 90FM at 3:00 p.m.

February 11Garnet & Rogers. 7:30 p.m., Jensen Community Center, Amherst.

February 11Galynne Goodwill and Mark on Drums. 10:00 p.m., Guu’s on Main.

February 17Sick of Sarah with Define Tension (Alternative Rock). 8:00 p.m., The Encore, UWSP.

February 18Galynne Goodwill and Mark on Drums. 4:00 p.m., The Book Bog, Tomah.

February 24People Brother’s Band (Jazz/Funk). 8:00 p.m., The Encore, UWSP.

February 25-26Cental Wisconsin Symphony Orchestra. Saturday 7:30 p.m., Sunday 4:00 p.m., 1800 Theater.

TheaterFebruary 10-12 and 17-19Philadelphia Story. Friday and Saturday at 7:30 p.m., Sunday at 4:00 p.m., 1800 Theater. 715-346-4100.

February 10-12 and 15-18The Normal Heart. All performances at 7:30 p.m. except February 12 2:00 p.m. matinee, Noel Fine Arts Center Studio Theater, UWSP.

February 17-19Annie. Jensen Community Center, Amherst. 715-824-5202.

OtherThrough March 3Elbow Room Annual Operation Bootstrap Food Drive. Party on Saturday, March 3. Icky Friction will provide the music.

February 11Nelly’s Echo (Slam Poetry). 8:00 p.m., The Encore, UWSP.

February 16Local Food Fair. 5:30 p.m., SPASH. www.farmshed.org

February 18Spring Gala, featuring slam poetry, live music, and juried student art show. 8:00 p.m., The Encore, UWSP.

February 23Chad Daniels (Comedian). 8:00 p.m., The Encore, UWSP.

February 24 - April 6Basic Photovoltaics Online course. www.midwestrenew.org/workshops

If you would like to see your event in The Bitchin’ Kitsch next month, please email the details to chris@talbot-heindl.com.

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content february 2012Bedside - Amiee Wetmore

Calendar of Evens

Musician Interview: Rev. Norb from Boris the Sprinkler - samuelbeaton

Late - Eric Krszjzaniek

i miss your face: triplet - Chris Talbot-Heindl

i miss your face: steve and carosene - Chris Talbot-Heindl

The Empress - Wlkn_Fire

i miss your face: nikki - Chris Talbot-Heindl

i miss your face: mama t - Chris Talbot-Heindl

Here We Go Again - Jan Haskell

Robin I - Rachel Peeters

Robin II - Rachel Peeters

natalie - Doug Somers

Forgotten - Tanya Haller

The Mild Things - Robin Lee

Snow Walk- Robin Lee

Grrr - Michelle Wojtaszek

seal the deal - Doug Somers

krash your computer - Doug Somers

Donors & Index

Your Fertile Heart - Caroline Reynolds

advertising:bitchin’ kitsch is offering crazy low rates of $5 for a fourth-page ad, $10 for a half-page ad, and $20 for a full page ad. book yours today by emailing chris at chris@talbot-heindl.com.

donation:we love our donors. If you would like to become a donor, email chris@talbot-heindl.com and make your pledge.

about b’k:bitchin’ kitsch is a zine for artists, poets, prose writers, or anyone else who has something to say. it exists for the purpose of open creativity. if you have something you want to share, please email it to chris@talbot-heindl.com.

Rachel Peeters - pg. 10 Tanya Haller - pg. 12

on the front cover:Bedside Amiee WetmorePhotograph

inside back cover:Your Fertile Heart Caroline ReynoldsScreenprint

cover

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samuelbeaton.

So, what was the original line up of Boris?

Rev: While Boris had different lineups on each of their first four albums -- 1995’s “8-Testicled Pogo Machine” and “Saucer to Saturn,” 1997’s “Mega Anal” and 1999’s “Suck” ((with 2000’s “Gay!” being back to the 8 Testicled POgo Machine album lineup)), plus a fifth lineup for our final 7-inch, the OFFICIAL post-breakup Boris lineup is 1997’s “Mega Anal” lineup -- Rev. Norb on mouth, Paul #1 on guitar, Ric Six on bass, Paul #2 on drums.

We should get another pitcher of PBR.

Rev: Indeed.

Off the subject, I know we are both left wing supporters. Who do you think will win the GOP safeguard election this year?

Probably Mitt Romney, just because he has an even more stupid name than Newt.

So, Boris isn’t so much a local thing anymore?

Well, it is and it isn’t. Boris members currently live in Green Bay, Rhinelander, Door County, and New Jersey.

We’re going to get a pizza.

Do it.

So, is it a hiatus with the band or what?

It’s.....I’ll just say that we will release at least one more album. It will only be on vinyl, but we will be giving the online versions away. And no, we haven’t recorded it, and don’t know when we

samuelbeaton:

Rev.:

samuelbeaton:

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Musician Interview: Rev. Norb from Boris the SprinklerBy guest columnist: samuelbeaton

I was watching America’s Next Top Model when Rev. Norb called me back to let me know that the day was, in fact, going to happen. How do you prepare for such an event? I started with Bud Light. About an hour later, Norb came dashing down the narrow roads as I stumbled down the steps. As I sat myself into his car, we immediately knew the game plan. Let’s go to a bar. Who cares if it’s 1:00 on a Wednesday afternoon? We slink through about 3 blocks of bullshit before we see the (Always-There) Party Line.

I’ve seen Boris The Sprinkler many times in my youth, so it was with pleasure that I got to buy the lead singer some pizza and beer while we discussed the possibilities of a reunion, the tough times, and our favorite political backdrafts. As always with Norb, I was left in a Star Wars type of mystifyed justice. For all I know, kids have been trying to get this one-on-one for years. I couldn’t blow this chance. Yet, I did.

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samuelbeaton (con’t).

samuelbeaton:

Rev.:

will.

So, a reunion isn’t out of the picture?

No, no. But nothing has been set up. We’re not against it.

I know that there should be more questions, and I am sorry that I forgot them. The day then delved into a set of pitchers of beer and finding security cameras that we thought were somewhere that they weren’t. Waving our hands around and causing a great disturbance in the smoking room was something I can only imagine would be funny to a sober person. This happened to be some of the best parts of that day. Norb is fun, youthfull, and a rare species. Also, one of the best drinking partners a guy could ever have.

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eric krszjzaniek, chris talbot-heindl.

LateBy: Eric Krszjzaniek

With hand-muffled brow he sat in the hall, staring towards the heavy oak door. A sullen fluorescent light crept through the crack between the door and the floor. Entering the hall, the light mixed with the muted pallor of a rainy autumn morning from the adjacent living room. The colors blended giving everything they lightened a heavy, melancholy fog.

The door, heavy with a history known only to it, had shielded for one hundred years the showerings, the pissings, the defecations, and the bathroom habits of generations. But it was only at this moment, at this point in its history, that the power of a door and its segregation of two lives from one another was made known.

It was through and beneath this door that he heard the first unwrapping of plastic, the crinkling of paper instructions and the pioneering drops of a stream of piss that held two futures in the balance.

Ten seconds of interrupting the stream was all it took.

His belief in god stayed or stuttered with the sway of a hip or the slip of a day. The fewer the increments of time, the intensity of memory echoed greater and greater and greater. It was her smile that had many times over taught him the virtue of patience.

Nine seconds.

He had had dreams of her before he ever knew who she was. Troubling dreams of a person who understood him and whom he understood, in which smiles begat smiles and long afternoons were spent in conversations, which consisted little of any audible speech. Fantastical dreams that gave the waking life a hint of bittersweet, because the dreams were not real. Not yet. And perhaps would never be.

He had made many mistakes in his life. Decisions that troubled him for a time, decisions that had hurt others, decisions that he had regretted, but he was adept at being himself and made no apologies to himself, least of all to others. His salvation was his own, and he did not request anyone else’s.

Eight seconds.

Love. Love as he saw others obtain, was always out of reach, always a thing to be admired, to be given, but never reciprocated. He longed for understanding and another, any other, to touch his fallen and imperfect ideal. Love had been to him what a thunderstorm was to the drought-ridden farmer kept awake at night by the storms in the distance that always passed without incident, without the sacred baptism of relief. He wished for someone to see inside him what on his best days he could not even see of himself.

All he knew of her, all he ever needed to know of her, was in her miraculous smile. He had seen that smile before he had seen her. It lit him inside and would illuminate his dreams when he closed his eyes at night.

It drew him in so unguarded that he could have been spit out; he didn’t care. He didn’t read the book she suggested because of the book’s greatness, but read it because it would mean something to her for him to read it.

Seven seconds.

When he kissed her for the first time, he had drawn his head back and discovered secret freckles he had never before seen. Ever since, he had been able to see her

i miss your face: tripletChris Talbot-HeindlInk and watercolor sketchwww.talbot-heindl.com

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eric krszjzaniek (con’t), chris talbot-heindl.

smile and those freckles through his closed eyes – a superpower second to none.

Six seconds.

When he first glanced her in the flesh, he regarded her as a lovely novelty, an anomaly in an imperfect world, and a quaint distraction; anything but the living, breathing specimen of femininity and sexuality that she would come to embody, wholly and uniquely, in his heart, in his soul.

Five seconds.

No one could have foreseen, least of all himself, the depths her beauty and effacing charm would plumb inside him. Seeing the men – the boys – that she collected was of little interest to his indifferent eyes. Who ever notices or cares about the inner lives of strangers, anyhow? Some do and some may, but they are not meant for this world, and he, at this moment, at that moment, was most indebted to this world and had to be of it, good or bad.

Four seconds.

The night she caught his interest was also the night she almost gave her body to him entirely, as was her

custom of ensnarement, the practice of inner-city drug lords everywhere – just a taste, then you are hooked. Her body was an intoxicant, which his hands, eyes and lips imbibed with the frenzy of sincere madness. The night was his pinnacle, a melding of passion with relinquished desire; it was an afterthought of a notion to her, forgotten and repressed without sympathy of notification.

Three seconds.

She wasn’t cold-hearted; she was just raised this way. A confluence of outer stimuli, experience with bad boys, uncertainty and prudence that did not belong to her time, nor her inner struggle to maintain composure in a life she felt she held no sway over if a man was allowed to enter too deeply.

Two seconds.

He did not enter her that night, deeply or otherwise, and she permitted him intermittent visits to her gate thereafter. Time can be the greatest locksmith, eroding walls, bars and iron, as well as locks. And soon, in the terms of a life, time became his key to her gate.

And when they were finished, he kissed her neck gently, and she did not kiss him. And his countdown to exile

i miss your face: steve and caroseneChris Talbot-HeindlInk and watercolor sketchwww.talbot-heindl.com

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eric krszjzaniek (con’t).

had begun. But he did not know this; he could not know this. To know the ending before the start is of ancient Greek practice, not that of a world over the cusp of a new century numbered in the twenties. Anything could happen, and, in time, it would prove to.

One second.

He thought only of the past now, and he missed her for her, whatever that meant and whomever that was.

Sometimes the overcast sky made him feel claustrophobic and trapped.

Finishing trickles and a flush.

Regret. Panic. Psychic pleading. Hurt. Love. Anger. Lust. Hate. Agony. Helplessness. Acceptance. The doorknob turned. The heavy oak door opened. Redemption.

“Well?” he asked.

“I have to wait three minutes,” she said, looking past

him towards the living room where there was laundry to fold. Her mind meddled in the matters of her heart until she could no longer discern what she loved from what she loathed, and so she said nothing else and walked to the laundry that eagerly awaited her attention.

The love of a child was still theirs to give; neither was prepared to receive such a horrible blessing.

She remembered the first act – that led to many – vividly as she drew upon the sofa a pile of socks to be divided evenly and paired together with their mates. The socks held a simplicity and quiet devotion that mocked her inability and fear of being paired by design, not by choice.

Her round hips had bucked against his. The room filled with an intense liquidity of heat and drug, controlling the pace with ecstatic patience, she drew herself on him to milk and coax every drop out of him. As quickly as a neuron firing, a decision had been felt, no precautions and in the world entire, not another action took place

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eric krszjzaniek (con’t), wlkn _ fire, chris talbot-heindl.

The EmpressWkln_FireInk and watercolor on paper

at the moment their reward was reached. Sound seared into silence of heavy breathing, arching backs and flexed hips. A deep, longing kiss on lips and hips, intertwining their bodies and their souls.

In between this conquest of caution and the consequence of creation, theirs was an ecstasy of promises and horizons leading away from the mendacity of sorrowful pasts and requited fears. This was theirs. And then, simple and painful like chasing the sun to never see night, it wasn’t.

Eternity is measured in three-minute increments.

i miss your face: nikkiChris Talbot-HeindlInk and watercolor sketchwww.talbot-heindl.com

i miss your face: mama tChris Talbot-HeindlInk and watercolor sketchwww.talbot-heindl.com

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rachel peeters, jan haskell.

Robin I Rachel PeetersSolar Etching/Monoprintwww.wix.com/rpeet811/rpeeters

Robin II Rachel PeetersSolar Etching/Monoprintwww.wix.com/rpeet811/rpeeters

Here We Go AgainBy: Jan Haskell

If for some reason you have been caught unaware, it is election time ones more. “But didn’t we just get done with that?” Well, yes, but we seem to be in that silly season of, I’m not quite sure myself. Oh I know some will say the world is changing, and we are fighting for something. What that something is seems to change day to day depending on who wants to control the yoke.

You see this constant push and pull to fight has got me a little down. Not because I don’t think there is a cause to believe in or fight for, but because what we

are being asked to do, asked to risk is for the agenda of others. On one side there are deep pockets of rich conservatives, and their special interest groups. On the other side is, well deep pockets of the liberals, and their special interest groups. This contest is best exemplified in Wisconsin.

The political games in Wisconsin have gotten so volatile that both parties, Republican and Democrats, seem as though they are fighting for their lives, and in some respects they are. The problem, however, is that neither party is willing to give an inch. Within this struggle are out side forces, not fight for Wisconsin, but rather their own agenda. These groups are willing to spend millions in order to take what they can and

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jan haskell (con’t), doug somers.

natalieDoug SomersPrint

leave a scorch earth behind. They have pinned brother against brother, sister against sister.

Are we not tired of these games yet? Is the yoke on our shoulders not heavy enough, the whip not harsh enough?

Here is our chance, a chance to show both parties and their carpetbaggers that we, we in Wisconsin are done being pushed, done felling threatened. Let their mouths wag, let them frail their tongues, but this is our state. It is our beautiful Cardinal flag that they have stained blood red with the mark of Kane. And I say lets kick them all out. Let us show them that money can’t buy our state, that we will no longer fight their war, that we can self determine the direction we wish this State and country to go in. Let us no longer blindly give our consent and our state away while others rape it for nickles and dimes.

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tanya haller, robin lee.

Forgotten Tanya Hallerxxxhttp://vawness.deviantart.com

The Mild ThingsBy: Robin Lee

Max had no time for dinner.There was too much work to do.Now that he was an adult.Now that he up ‘n grew.

Where did all the wild things go?

Well, they went to work as well.They had to brush their gnashing teethand hide their terrible yells.

There was no more swinging from the treetopsor howling at the moon.There were only meetings

held in dry white rooms.

There’s rarely a wild rumpus.If there is it seems subdued.All the wild things are tiredfrom working the whole week through.

Their minds are dazed from the computer.Their yellow eyes are glazed from the screen.The wild things are no longer wild,they’re no longer scary and mean.

Heck, they’re barely even hairytheir heads’re bald, their faces shaved.They’ve lost that fire in their eyes,they’re just too well behaved.

Where did all the wild things go?They’re all trying to pay off all their loans.They’re working for insuranceand their mortgage for their homes.

All the wild things are tired,but they don’t get peaceful sleep.They’re always having nightmaresof their work piling high and deep

And Max has no time for his children,they watch T.V. at daycare.The only way they can communicateis through empty soul-less stares.

Where did all the wild things go?How’d they let their wild side die?Where they went, we all know But we have to wonder why?

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robin lee, michelle mojtaszek, doug somers.

GrrrMichelle WojtaszekInk on paper

seal the dealDoug SomersInk on paper

Snow WalkBy: Robin Lee

The time has come for the first snow walk,with shades of tinted gold.Time to get bundled and booted.Time to face the winter cold.

Johnny’s on the corner,I stop and pet her hi,and transfer to the false Frenchman,his identity a lie.

Kids slide down Mt. Demetralguarded by the samurai’s swordwho lurks in paintd sunsetprotecting the homes of hoard.

The dog walker is beautifuldelicate and fair.Even though she’s bundledI see through every layer.

The plastic owl stares abysmally,with ominous owl threat.There is danger out hereand nobody should forget.

The Starkweather creek is frozenand blanketed snowy white.I turn ‘round at the loop-bridge,cause I’ll soon be out of light.

Shovelers keep on shoveling.The blowers continue to blow,Door to door, engage in the warthats been waged by the snow.

Bare burch branches in pre-sunse.tTwiggy shadows spindling.Action starts to pick up,as the day begins a dwindling.

The time is done for the first snow walk,with shades of tinted gold.Time to get unbundled and booted.Time to leave the winter cold.

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we love our donors!We love our donors, and to prove it, we’re going to let you know who they are. Without their generosity, the Bitchin’ Kitsch would probably not make it through the year. If you would like to become a donor and see your name here, email chris@talbot-heindl.com and make your pledge.

acquaintences of the bitchin’ kitsch ($1-10)Colin Bares, Casey Bernardo, Eric Krszjzaniek, Dana Lawson, Jason Loeffler, Justin Olszewski

friends of the bitchin’ kitsch ($11-50)Charles Kelly

lovers of the bitchin’ kitsch ($51-100)Scott Cook, Jan Haskell

partners of the bitchin’ kitsch ($101 & up)The Talbot-Heindl’s, Felix Gardner

advertisersBitchin’ Kitsch 8, 16

mcfishenburger 9

MREA Basic PV Online Course 11

Second Space 5

www.talbot-heindl.com 5

artistsTanya Haller 12

Jan Haskell 10-11

Eric Krszjzaniek 6-9

Robin Lee 12, 13

Rachel Peeters 10

Caroline Reynolds 15

samuelbeaton 4-5

Doug Somers 11, 13, 14

Chris Talbot-Heindl 6, 7, 9

Amiee Wetmore cover

Wlkn_Fire 9

Michelle Wojtaszek 13

doug somers, donors, index.

krash you komputerDoug SomersPhotograft

a talbot-heindl project1600 reserve st, stevens point, wi 54481www.talbot-heindl.com