asinine spotlight on:
Finny Deerfield

It was a great surprise to her friends and family when poet/personality Finny Deerfield elected to spend several months off the sauce and on the wagon in a health spa in, poor child, the suburbs. But soon enough her reasons for escaping to Emmaus, Pennsylania, became obvious — alcohol had become too available, too complacent for her, and she needed to feel its bite, its challenge again. Over many a cocktail, Fin has told me how she longed for the days of Prohibition, where drinking was forbidden and conducted in smoky secrecy. ''Hah, gin from a rooftop still filled with pigeons! That's the stuff!'' So, she signed herself in for the cure, but one suspects she does not adhere to it absolument. Another reason for her sojourn was the brochure for Dry Acres, which showed many male attendants endowed with what she dubbed ''absolutely darling rear ends.'' Why this is important to the woman shall become obvious.

Finny signed herself out for the day and agreed to take the long and bumpy bus ride in to New York City, where we would palaver at one of our old haunts. She stepped off the bus in a leopard-spotted coat, a radiant green pants suit, and leather boots. A purple silk scarf was tied recklessly around her neck; elaborate earrings hung to her shoulders. As she walked toward me, a young gentleman in front of her jumped with a start and turned to look back at her in shock. She gave him a beatific smile.—Houghton Piker

FD: Houghton, dearie! Thank you for meeting me at Port Authority. It's so revolting here. But truly, I find, for one who has lost her fortunes on pill benders, it's the only way to travel. Mr. Wilson, our bus driver, would not take crap from anyone. A man tried smoking in the bathroom, and Mr. Wilson pulled over. He confiscated the cigarettes and threatened to leave the smoker by the side of the road. I love controlitarians. They're so … authoritative. Don't ask me what he does allow in the public restroom at the back of the coach. Get me to McHale's and pronto!
HP: Of course, Fin. It is horribly crowded around these parts lately. But at this time of the morning I am sure we'll get a pair of stools to warm up.
FD: Screw these tourists! [She kicks a grown man in a Disney T-shirt.] Don't they know that 8th Avenue is for drunks? ONE BLOCK OVER, PEOPLE. ONE BLOCK OVER. Go see Aida in The Lion King, and pick yourselves up a pair of wacky 2004 glitter glasses while you're at it. I'M THIRSTY. [Kick, kick, kick.]
HP: I can smell a lawsuit. We better dash.
[We zigzag through oncoming traffic. Finny is oblivious of the danger, focused only on the large neon sign ahead.]
FD: Finally here. Good god. I thought we were going to have to pull into the Milford Plaza it was taking so long. Is it true that Joe Franklin's is really closing? You should have come to PA, dearie, you can still smoke in the bars there. BARTENDER, oh, there you are, right in front of me. How's about a double, you peach you. Oooh, turn around … and let me see your tush …
HP: Nice to see Emmaus hasn't changed you.
FD: So let's do this thing.
HP: Right. You became part of the asinine rather late in the game, in 2000, if I recall. What brought you to asininery? Had you always been writing asinine poems?
FD: Oh, since the 7th grade. I was a devout follower of the Maynard G. Krebs school. I would make fun poems proclaiming ''Life is but a shred of coleslaw'' with accompanying abstract ''artwork.'' I was a solo artist for several years, and delightfully misunderstood. There came a time when the lowliest of frat boys would confess to writing poetry in my presence. Which bored me to tears … but you often have to go through the charade of listening to someone before you bed them, don't you, dearie? My my. I seem to be empty again. Would you mind signalling the bar— thank you… For a time I was a part of a triumverate at university, and earnestly believed we were kindred tortured souls. We were very boring. And like most boring people, I found myself washing up in New York City — for if I didn't have my own stories or life to live, I could at least observe and comment on the lunatics around me. I ended up here at McHale's not so very long ago … and remember, Houghtie, I vomited on you. You could've sent me the dry cleaning bill, or let me work it off in trade, but instead, the witty poem I sent in a note of apology (one of the last apologetic letters I've ever written, mind you) smoothed everything over. I used to write a higher quality of asinine poetry, but contrary to popular belief, sobriety KILLS your creativity. I'm telling you the god's honest truth. Why else would so many greats have perished as the result of substance abuse? BARTENDER! You're KILLING me!
HP: The Edmund Poems. They made you a heroine to modern women, and a personal friend of Oprah's. Dear, tell us the story behind the Edmund series.
FD: Who? Ohhhhh, Edmund. Edmung. Edmung is a composite of all the prats I've known since I came to the city. I only wish mine was the angriest poetry written about him. Excuse, me, I'm just going to hop behind the bar and refill my drink. Don't worry, dearie, I can talk while pouring. Never mind, bartender, I got it myself. Which is fortunate, because I'm a good tipper. Edmund still rattles around in a great smog, unwashed and alone, and convinced of his genius. To write about him is silly, as that Carly Simon ''Vain'' song is silly — Oprah helped me realize I was only giving him POWER in those poems. I still write them. It's like eating chocolates, or any other addiction. It just feels right.
HP: You're one of the few women who could put up with the male asinine poets. What was appealing and appalling about them. Arthur Radley? Richie Narvaez? Moi?
FD: Ah, Arthur Radley is a gentle soul. And possibly the funniest human being I've ever met. I've never met Arnie Wayans — is that what you said? It's a bit loud in here— but I'm sure he's a peach, with a lovely toochus. Houghton, you know I can't talk about you … not yet. But I'm kidding. Houghton is the best piece of poet ass in the industry.
HP: Thank you, dear, but I was going to buy these drinks anyway.
FD: No harm, no foul then.
HP: Let's talk about i am water. Some say you're the only asinine poet who knows his or her real identity. Will you spill it now?
FD: Aren't we all at least 80 percent i am water? I think I learned that in a science class. I've been hoping for an update to the commutation series — it's been ages since I went for a refreshingly cold diet soda pop with i am — back in my 12 step days, I think …
HP: Stoli or Grey Goose?
FD: Stoli, in the girly fruit flavors, if you must know. Nah, honey, it could be lighter fluid and I'd sock it down. Now come over here and let me pinch your ass.
HP: Your predilection for ass pinching has gotten you into several sex harrassment suits. Is arse pinching a lost art?
FD: My predilection for ass pinching has gotten me into several business suits too, honey. Still, I couldn't convince Trump to DO something about his hair. If we learned anything from top business execs of the 1950s, it was how to pinch an ass. Why should the gents have all the fun?
HP: Your poem ''Pieces of My Aunt, or My Aunt in Pieces'' is known for making J.D. Salinger come out of hiding and weep openly on Geraldo. What inspired the poem? How does it connect to Salinger?
FD: My aunt was a lousy drunkard. As far as I know, she still is. She maxed out all her credit cards and tried to drink herself to death, yet lived on. I'm hoping to inherit the family business. My fling with Salinger was a total secret — I never wrote about it like that high school chick did in her tell-all. Five years after we're both gone, Richard Cairo has a manuscript … I tend not to accept drinks from that gunsel now days, neither does J.D.
HP: Laura Dern recently portrayed you in the David Lynch film Asinine City about the asinine poetry movement. First of all, what did you think of the film, and what did you think of Dern's performance?
FD: I STOPPED SLEEPING WITH LAURA DERN WAY BEFORE BILLY BO— oh, oh, I'm a little jumpy since we can't smoke in here. Um. Fine choice. Next question.
HP: Your mother-in-law, Agnes Deerfield-Norton recently began writing asinine poetry of her own. Do you inspire her, or vice versa?
FD: I think her bottle of Stella inspired her! We don't talk shop very often — but we do talk fine beers. And alimony payments.
HP: Scott Barwick?
FD: I've read everything he's never written.
HP: You once punched out Larry King when he suggested you were not a natural blonde. Do you speak to Larry today?
FD: Not since I turned down each and everyone of his 18 marriage proposals. He calls me every time he gets a divorce. I tell him, ''PLEASE, only KISSENGER had the power to look sexy in those giant glasses.'' Larry is a bitter, bitter man.
HP: Flock of Seagulls?
FD: They really knew how to wear red eye makeup.
HP: Asinine is …?
FD: James Lipton.
HP: Thank you so much for your time, Finny.
FD: No, thank you for the Jello shots your office Fed-Exed to me in PA! They were gone in ten slurps flat!