Mr. A. O. Katz

This is Andrew Otto Katz,  so shy I could only sneak in a picture after our bizarre conversation the other day at "The Corner Bar" on Ossington. When I asked what he wanted to drink he replied:

"Diet Dr. Pepper and Jack,

And Pepperoni sticks, just a small pack"

I asked Mama Cass, at the bar, for my usual and whatever he said (we call her Mama Cass because she weighs 82 lbs. soaking wet, real name Cassia Konarowsky), she asked: "Jack and Diet Coke OK, hon?", to which he:

"Sure, no ice, no slice, 

Would sure be nice"

I commented on his instrument: "Nice Tuba", to which he: 

"The correct name, my friend, is Sousaphone,

Which is like a tuba clone,

That very much likes to be blown"

I thought he may have Emotional Prosody (compulsion to speak in rhyme) and probably a bunch of other related Ds (PD, DepressionD, OCD, PTSD, and such)

Inquiring of  his name I said slyly "I know two Otto Katzes" and he seemed to get it because he replied:

"Feldkurat Otto Katz, my friend, is fictional,

My great-uncle Andrew Simon's use of name, is intentional.

A handsome man, Jewish, Russian spy and gay, 

At least that's what they liked to say.

In Prague, in fifty-to they hang him,

After they all got tired to bang him."

We stared into our half empty glasses for a while and Mama Cass, who hears everything without really listening, came around the bar to hug Otto and sing softly in his ear her version of Koko Taylor's "Come to Mama". We all went outside and I asked if he is any good with his Sousaphone. He looked sad, turned and walked away playing softly a barely recognizable "Eleanor Rigby". 

I said: "There he goes" and Mama Cass said "And so he blows" we turned to each other in terror: "Fawk it's contagious"

Marc Anthony Butcher

I bet, gentle readers, that few, if any, of you remember where you was June 23rd, 1994 at precisely 2:45 PM. I do: in a yellow cab at West 57th and 7th Ave. going to my hotel (Millennium, at 55 Church). In those pre-Uber times NY cabbies only had two subjects: the Mets and poetry. My guy Marc Anthony Butcher (according to his license card) was poetry. Halfway there, about West 14th, we bonded over Bukowski, Edna St. Vincent, Esenin, Dylan Thomas and Mayakovski. A few blocks further south, due to race, creed and general background, we started diverging. 

He to me: "Rhyme, optional at best"

Me to he: "Rhyme, nice to have"

He to me: "I am a published author"

Me to he: "I am neither either"

He to me: "Here's my book for you"

Me to he: "Here's ten bucks for you"

He pulled up and the doorman, George (his real name: Gică Sfetcu and he was the former goalie for Textila Buhuși), hastened with the door: "S-trăiți, dom Miki". I paid and tipped Mr. Butcher five bucks.

He to me: "Thanks brother, I have a cat called Mango and a dog called Tango"

Me to he: "Not at all, man. My mom was Chlöe and my sister was Zöe"

M.A. Butcher's books are still in print by YAMOO PUBLISHERS, Brooklyn  and his Spoken Word is available wherever you gets your podcasts. In 1999 his books were approved by New York City's Board of Education for use as a textbook for grades 6 to 12.