We all know Moe Szyslak as the owner of Springfield’s Moe’s Tavern, as well as its trusty bartender. We also know he’s got a storied and problematic obsession with Marge Simpson, as well as a history of, shall we say, “inspired” petty crime. Most people don’t want to mess with Moe due to his tightly-wound nature and a tendency to, ahem, threaten to bash your face in. (Although that doesn’t stop neighborhood prankster Bart Simpson from messing with him on a near-constant basis.)
Yet our moody friend has another side. As Morris Szyslak, he’s a published poet, the author behind the acclaimed poem “Howling at a Concrete Moon,” published by American Poetry Perspectives. The Dot and Line, hoping to show the world the other side of Szyslak, got a rare chance to sit down with the poet to discuss, among other things, his literary career.
The Dot and Line: Hey, Morris. May we call you Morris or do you prefer Moe?
Morris Szyslak: I, uhh, I kinda don’t mind, but then sometimes I just hear the name Morris and it’s like…I just wanna— [clenches fists]
Okay, okay, let’s stick with Moe.
Jeez, yeah, I’m sorry about that. [begins sweating profusely]
It’s okay, Moe, really. Ready to chat about your work?
Uhh, yeah. Haha. I don’t do much of these, you know, things. They kinda make me nervous and then I get sweaty and then I—uhh, all I, uhh, can think about is busting the hell out or stabbing the person asking me all them questions in the spine. It’s like, why you asking me the 20 questions, like, who made you boss?
Interview. It’s called an interview. You agreed to it. It’ll be fine, no spine-stabbing needed. Cool?
Yeah, yeah.… [tugs collar nervously]
Let’s start simple. You run the neighborhood bar, Moe’s Tavern, in Springfield. How does the job help or hinder your writing?
Hinder? Oh, uhh, I don’t know about that. Like, uhh, I don’t even know what the word means. I mean, uhh, it’s popular. It makes a guy like me feel wanted, but then sometimes Homer and the guys won’t shut up, and they never pay their tab, buncha cheapskates. And Barney, you can’t let the guy in the back, or then I gots to drive him to the hospital. Not another alcohol poisoning. But uhh, what was the question?
How does your work influence your writing?
Well, I, uhh, don’t write much. I wish I read more, you know, books but I—I just don’t get around to getting ’em at the library because they all know me there, and I got a lot of overdue books ‘cause, you know, I gotta tend the bar, you know? [shrugs] Homer and Barney, they drink a case and a half of Duff every night.
That’s a lot of beer.
Yeah, yeah. [sweat pools on his forehead]
Anyway, so being a bartender is tough. But I see from a feature on you in Slate that you’ve got the backstory. Ever thought about writing a memoir?
Ah, well, uhh, nobody wanna read 200 pages about a guy with this mug.
We beg to differ. I hear you were raised by a yeti.
[leans forward and whispers] Where did you hear that?
Never mind. I also hear you were a professional boxer?
Oh, yeah. [trails off in deep thought]
Yeah?
Oh, sorry. [points to head] Too many punches to the noggin’ there.
That’s what we really want to know about. A memoir about that would be great.
Yeah, they called me “Kid Gorgeous,” and then later “Kid Presentable,” but then they, uhh, didn’t like that no more, so they called me “Kid Gruesome.” Tellin’ me it fit me better. Then I kept fighting and my face changed. [points to his face] My ears, extensive cauliflowerin’ from hooks and stingers. I ended up being “Kid Moe,” ’til’ nobody wanted to fight me no more.
And nobody would want to read a book about this?
Hey, what you trying to get at, huh? Maybe I, uhh, wrote the damn thing and uhh, nobody wanted to read it! Maybe nobody wants to read a book by Moe! Only Morris. But Morris, maybe he’s not all he’s cracked up to be. Maybe he’s, uhh, done a lot of bad things to people and he’s sorry and he wants to change and maybe, uhh, he wrote the book for them and dedicated it to them. But nobody I send the book to ever said anything back. No publisher’s even told me they got my manuscript in the mail.
That’s depressing. The publishing industry is changing.
Changin’ all the time. [nods] Nobody wanna read a memoir from some dumb ugly guy like me.
Can we talk a little bit about the “bad things” you did to friends? Never know, talking about it might help.
[wipes his brow with the back of his hand] Uh…
The Flaming Moe was a great drink.
Yeah, uhh, poor Homer. He’s been there for me, a lowlife like me. Then I saw a chance and, dammit, I took it. Kicked him to the curb. Made him really messed up, the poor guy. And he accepted my apology. But I never accepted mine. I, uhh, don’t know what to say.
Lisa helped you with your acclaimed poem.
I did bad things. Yeah. I was mean to poor Lisa. I shouldn’t be this way with Marge. I mean well, I want to mean well. I’m just some dumb guy, but this dumb guy, ahh. [whispers urgently] He gotta tell it straight.
Looks like we’re almost out of time. How about telling it straight right now?
[Leans into the recorder] Yeah, uhh…I don’t know. This guy, this guy that’s me, maybe you think he’s a bad, no good kind of guy. He is, but he also maybe was. Maybe not anymore? [looks for approval, gets none, and continues anyway] Morris. That name, it’s a new me. The new guy, the guy that is getting rid of the no good bad horrible dumb stuff he did. He did it for reasons: money is one. Loneliness is another. Moe wants to make things right, you know? He hopes to one day be Morris for real, for good. Morris won’t be a bartender. He’ll work somewhere else, maybe start over. But he’s got to make good with everyone he’s hurt first. And okay, yeah, uhh, this is his story set straight. I wrote a whole book, a confession, everything I did, Moe’s whole story. He has it all there. And uhh, like, a person changes. A lowlife no good guy like me can maybe change too. Yeah?
Yeah, maybe. It’s all on you.
Yeah. I know. [nods, then hangs his head low]
Do you have anything else you’d like to add?
I, ahh, really should get back to the bar. I can’t leave Barney alone with the booze for too long, or…
Right, you better get back.
Yeah, yeah.
Maybe we’ll read that book someday.
Maybe, yeah. [scratches head]
Take care, Morris.
[smiles painfully] Take care, there.
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