Charles Black organized the readings and made the flyers on his computer at work. His was a unique spirit, and he drew poets from across the Westside to this tiny place, where we’d drink Guinness and listen to poetry. And that is how I met the poetic roman candle that was Scott Wannberg.
Scott was a bear with breathing problems. He managed Dutton Books in Brentwood. His hair was always greasy and his gigantic forehead always glistened. He en-THUSED. When Scott was there he was your biggest fan. And we were ALL fans of Scott’s. Inside Scott was a pair of lungs that weren’t up to the challenge and a heart that BEAT.
He was, very simply, the BEST poet. Even with his under achieving lungs, the man would get up with a sheaf of papers and WAIL, his delivery half Television’s jerk, half Ramones rampage. He plowed through poetry that came out of him like the sweat. He was PRO-lific.
Scott loved movies. We were sitting at a table one night during a break, admiring a particularly beautiful cascade on a pint of stout when I mentioned I had studied film in school. I don’t know how it came up, but we discovered that in addition to a common interest in film, we both really, REALLY loved John Frankenheimer’s film ‘The Manchurian Candidate’. Scott got really, REALLY excited and began sweating profusely. We drank Guinness and swapped reasons we loved the film.
I began expounding on one of my favorite scenes. Scott grabbed a steno pad and started writing as I described how Frank Sinatra’s character (Major Marko) first encounters Janet Leigh’s character (Eugenie) on a train. Major Marko is going through a sort of breakdown as the brainwashing he received at the hands of the Communists is leaking into his conscious mind. Leigh watches him as he tries to light a cigarette, only to drop it in his cocktail and flee the compartment for the seclusion of the end of the car. Leigh joins him, speaks to him slowly, pleasantly, as she lights a cigarette for him.
The more I talked, the more excited I became. And the more excited I became, the faster Scott wrote. He gripped the pen like it was trying to get away. They wrestled, filling the page of the steno pad.
“The way she spoke to him, the things she said,” I told him, “and the things he said to her…It was like a rendezvous between two spies, exchanging some complicated set of passcodes in order to establish each other’s credentials.”
Scott tore the page from the steno book. He slid it across the table and took a long drink from his beautifully-cascading stout. I looked at what he had written. It was a poem called ‘Steve’. It was where we were and what was happening around us. I was telling him about ‘The Manchurian Candidate’.
He wrote it in real-time.
“…the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes “Awww!”
Scott was a wonderful man and an amazing poet who Kerouac would have liked, because no one embodied those mad yellow roman candle spider stars more than Scott Wannberg.