Regurgitating the Same Tired Performers

By Ryan D. Gorsche | Friday, June 11, 2004

As many on campus have no doubt heard, I drank from the dirty Keystone can of life, and with an insatiable thirst, went back for seconds. My devil-may-care actions have resulted in an illness that demands two months of abstention from the paradigm of Review free-time activity: getting knee-deep in the cups. Now that I'm a medical devotee to Jasper's Grand Remonstrance—a man can get tight once or twice a term, but no more—what's a young fellow to do? Why, college-sponsored activities, of course! Utilizing the age-old Review article formula (one heaping part ridicule coupled with militant and untenable conservative ideas), I've put aside my invalid's hobbies (fevers, sleeping, herpetology) and joined the great unwashed for the administration's weekly variety show.

— "Shoot pool, not people." —

Jim Wright is a lot of things, but fraternity social chair he ain't. Granted, he's probably not directly responsible for the latest campus entertainments, but rest assured, their childish appeal pairs comfortably with the Student Life Initiative (think Kick @$$ Party [see TDR 2/4/2002]). This spring term, the Dartmouth Programming Board has arranged a slew of mind-numbing distractions: Saturday Night Live not-so-great Tracy Morgan will yuck it up; Maroon5, a band I've never heard of (oh, the hazards of being young and a reactionary square), sold out quickly. Last week, Jack White, pocket billiard player to the stars and "internationally famous trick shot player," arrived to teach students the ins-and-outs of hustling the table for fun-and-profit. The Department of Homeland Security cancelled his much anticipated "Skyscraper Stop Shot," ranked by Billiards Magazine as a 37 difficulty, due to terrorism fears. He's the only billiards player to be invited to the White House—presumably to receive the civilian Medal of Freedom for running an inner-city youth billiards tournament, reminding the kiddies to "shoot pool, not people." (How many young bloods must be shot gangland-style for their Air Jordan Nikes or Jack White pool cues?)

Just when these entertainments seemed déclassé, enter Stevie Starr, Scotland's cultural ambassador. For those of you who think Russell Kirk played Cash in Tango & Cash, you probably already know Mr. Starr: he is "The Regurgitator." With all the hip-hop scholars and Democratic dropouts solidly booked last weekend, Dartmouth invited a man who swallows things for a living… and vomits them up for the audience's drunken delight. This act might seem a bit tired—perhaps, the kind of thing you can see in any fraternity basement. But you show me a fraternity brother who can swallow a light bulb, and I'll show you an Ivy League College willing to pay for his international airfare and agent's booking fee.

Perhaps, I'm being too harsh. For Stevie is not merely a physical anomaly; he's an entertainer. For every object that goes down the pipe, the audience gets a few witty remarks. And because we're college students and Stevie is a swallower, those jokes generally involve thinly veiled references to oral sex. We heard about the "solicitations" from males in the previous audience, his popularity in prep school (wink, wink, nudge, nudge), and all the girlfriends he's sated. Now, I'm no prude, but an hour of "BJ" jokes is enough to trigger even Stevie's gag reflex.

Stevie, however, is a showbiz great, and he knows his audience. If they grow tired of locker-room humor, it's time to go big. Real big. So he asks an audience member to verify by taste the contents of a dish-soap bottle—suggesting, that despite her puckered face, she's tasted worse, har-har—drinks it and proposes a show-stopping, death-defying stunt: The Regurgitator says he will swallow a billiard ball. Stevie carefully stuffs the ball into his mouth. The audience titters in delight. Fathers shield their children's eyes. Fraternity brothers crane for a better view. A quick gasp, a loud sucking sound, and down the little red lane it goes. I've seen a lot of outrageous spectacles in my day, but never something this disgusting. Well, that is until he swallowed two goldfish. And, um, disgorged them unharmed into their bowl.

Why all the talk about Stevie Starr and his oral fixation? In all honesty, I hardly mean any disrespect—the man came a long way at my great expense (tuition isn't just for classes these days) to delight and disgust me. Further, my human anatomy book indicates that swallowing billiard balls, nails, balloons, light bulbs, coins, rings, keys, padlocks, and goldfish would land a man in the morgue, not on the stage. Most likely, Mr. Starr is a very talented conjurer, adept at manipulating objects through legerdemain: that is, sleight of hand. Despite the don't-try-this-at-home disclaimer, the only person swallowing anything Friday night was the audience member. But I'm not here to dish dirt on The Regurgitator's secrets of the craft. Regardless of whether Mr. Starr is a skilled conjurer or ripe material for a Ripley's Believer It Or Not cartoon, I'll accord him the same respect I give to all the street-corner three-card monte dealers and lizardmen I've met in my life: a little spare change into his grimy coffee cup to help pay for the day's bottle of Thunderbird.

Now allow me to redirect my complaints and ridicule to where it truly belongs: the College's Programming Board and the administrators who shovel money at them. As we've tirelessly reported for the last year, the College claims to be in a tight spot financially. I'm sure they, like all the rest of leftward America, will eventually blame their market failures on the Bush tax cuts. But for now, they're content to pass the buck. First, the school tightened the swimming team's Speedos and cancelled their season. Thankfully, a wealthy alumnus wrote a substantial check. Sanborn no longer serves its function, and will probably help reduce next winter's heating bills by burning its books. Certain department bibliographers were told to curtail purchasing volumes for their libraries. Other programs are also feeling the comptroller's lash; no need to repeat ourselves, pick up a few issues from the past year, and you'll see our point. But I'll remind the College that the best way to save money isn't making Stevie Starr swallow the same billiard balls Jack White used the night previous. Even the Daily Dartmouth's editorial board has caught on, recently criticizing the administration for the same reasons. And it's years before they catch on to anything (good writing, for instance).

Let's put financial reasons aside for the moment, because I'm all for free markets and financial efficiency. But if a necessary program, one important to the College's academic mission, can't pay its bills, I'm fine with the College bolstering it against financial collapse. I'm just having trouble equating, say, the Classics Department (merely an example; they're probably in the black year after year) or the swim team with the billiards hustling and goldfish swallowing. I'm not sure how much Mr. Starr charges—probably a HungryMan TV dinner and a night at the local motor lodge—but I'll bet it's money better spent elsewhere (like a croquet field, keg of beer, or library books). More to the point, even if the College's coffers are flush with cash, is this the type of entertainment we should be promoting? The College has railed against the Greek System for being anti-intellectual, but The Regurgitator is school-sponsored entertainment. I'm not asking for weekly performances of La Sylphide or readings of Hawthorne essays. But, perhaps the administrators can quit pretending their childish amusements are breeding "creative loners" and future leftist intellectuals. I stopped putting foreign objects in my mouth by age five; Mr. Starr does it for a living.

Regurgitating the Same Tired Performers

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