Greetings:
August is a very active month for the Baron and Baroness. With the Newfound Lake area as a seductive backdrop, visitors and vacationers, friends and families flow assiduously. The intensity builds as Chris’ birthday on the 8th, Gini’s on the 11th, Dad’s on the 11th and our anniversary on the 11th make for a festive 72 hours.
This year was especially satisfying as all siblings were accounted for. Eileen rented a place on the lake, Tommy and Sandy stayed with us for a week and Bob also made the trek and stayed for several days. Versions of Mom’s tomato sauce, stuffed mushrooms, Chris’ spaghetti carbonara, pancakes, Walker corn were daily treats.
So with appreciable momentum, we headed for our old haunts in Cambridge, MA to rendezvous with Rich and Val. Their daughter, Simone, after many months of diligent strategy, travel and negotiations had, as The Director, organized the National Poetry Slam. Several venues, including the Middle East, the Cantab, the Brattle Theater, the Cambridge YMCA were garnered along with the finals at the Berklee Performance Center.
So, after synchronizing cell-phones, we headed for the Alewife parking garage and jumped on the Red Line. Central Square ho! Déjà vu all over again as we emerged onto Mass Ave. Our former pre-Chip home of six years (1978-1984) had been on the other side of Harvard Square.
We quickly found the ‘Y’ and headed upstairs for the ASL (American Sign Language) version of slam poetry. Richie was positioned on an isolated chair towards the back. He was one of the official photographers for the week-long event. I believe his status, according to one of the several passes pending from his neck, was “God minus two” (or something like that). Val joined us toward the end of the session. One of the interesting points of info is that to show a hearing impaired performer that you are clapping you raise both arms in the air and shake your hands with appropriate vigor.
Many of the audience were interpreters for the other competitions allowing the hearing impaired to take in the proceedings.
After this it was lunch at Asmara, an Ethiopian restaurant across the street. It was so much better than the Ethiopian restaurant in Bristol, NH (little joke – guess you had to be there). Food is served in a large bowl-topped table and scooped with the fingers. Great tastes! Richie managed to escape for some minutes to grab some fingerfuls. And then on to the Haiku competition back at the ‘Y’.
As you might know, a haiku is made up of 17 sounds. What you might not know is that, even traditionally, this short poem can be a wild and crude ride. My favorite from the competition (and I do apologize to the literati and the courteous among you):
“There once was a man from Nantucket…
Whose dick was too long for haiku.”
Arigatou gozaimasu.
8 Contestants were randomly paired competitively. Each one of the pair was given a red or ‘non-red’ medallion to wear. Three randomly picked-from-the-audience judges were given two flags each, a red and a non-red. One haiku was read by each of the two combatants and the judges vote. Rounds 1 and 2: 3 out of 5 wins; finals: 9 out of 17. It was a rock ‘em sock ‘em final with a brutal insulting ‘dis’ by the woman pregnant with twins proving to be the winning margin.
We frolicked and shopped our way down Mass Ave afterwards as we headed towards the Brattle Theater with hopes of viewing one of the semifinals of the main competition. However, as well-provided as Rich and Val were with passes, B&BVD were without tickets or passes. We hoped to purchase tickets at the door but upon arrival at the Brattle at 4:30 we saw the formation of lines and it did not look good for the 8PM performance.
Solution? Head for a pub – Andale! Arriba! Arriba! Here are the Baroness and Empress at tableside:
Logic, fuelled by a bottle of red wine, devised a one-prong attack on the ‘Y”, another site for the semis (there were 4). So at 6:45 we arrived to find a line of 80+ already assembled. Definitely less hostile than the ‘Group W’ bench we schmoozed with the ticketless masses.
Granted we were only, nominally, hours away from a full moon, little did we know that we knew so little.
A man with a clipboard was making his way along the line. He made eye contact with me but I was already married and looked away. He approached…”Have you ever been to one of these poetry slams before?”
“Not a competition, but we saw a showcase of poets last year at the Paradise”, was my attempt at accommodating his curiosity.
“Do you know any of the poets performing?”
That would be “No, I do not.”
“How would you both like to be judges?”
Time stood still, traffic noise faded, the organist was cued….
Gini pleaded to not be a judge, the nearby huddling masses begged us to reconsider…
“You can let him be the judge but you can advise him and give him your input” we heard coming from above the clipboard.
“Well, do you want to do this?” my bride queried.
And then we were being led from the line, brought through the front door and then upstairs to the auditorium – and seated in the front row. There was another couple, young, beautiful and black, who were also going the two-voice, one-vote route; a young robotics expert from Utah; a young Asian woman and a female couple from Jamaica Plains. Clipboard Guy (Eric) elaborately explained the 0.0 (get off the stage and out of our lives) to 10.0 (religious experience/multiple orgasms) scoring system as white boards and markers were distributed.
The auditorium then filled to capacity. It was astounding, time was fleeting…madness took its toll.
There were five teams from Providence, RI; Salt Lake City; Oakland, Santa Cruz and Berkeley, CA. There would be four rounds. Teams could send up one or more poets for each round. Order would be randomly chosen. Each poem could be no longer than 3 minutes.
Fasten your seatbelts. It’s going to be a bumpy night.
The judges were introduced and credentials examined. The Utah robot man had been rejected from two colleges. The black couple was introduced as 2Cute4TheRoom. We were introduced as Baron Von D’Lucci and that we were old and could see through all the bullshit. This was met by wild cheering and adulation.
Three nerd poets individually warmed up the crowd. There was a poem imploring a nerd woman to complete his life and a letter from Mrs. Vader (Darth’s better half). Then a ‘calibration poet’ was served up to help us learn how to score. It was a black poet descrying racism. We deliberated to a 7.6 but were feeling lost in context as we saw that the black couple had given him a 5.0. Oops!
The intensity was steady and increased. Soon another poet was mesmerizing us with a description of an ancient Chinese symbol. This elaboration expanded into other uses of the icon. When placed in its western context it became clear what that symbol was. The poem stirred distaste for the atrocities committed in its shadow. He began to simulate the swastika with his body. But the indictment was accompanied by a subtle modification of his posture and his words. Soon he was juxtaposing another icon that he held responsible for millions of deaths perpetrated under its cruciform image. Yikes! I want my Mommy!
There were articulate compositions vividly reliving drug addictions, abortions, racial abuse. To be honest, the passion and imagery were fantastic; the reality – jarring. Finally a gay poet used 2 microphones to alternately speak stereotypically with first a lisp and then a deep throated macho retort. The topic: you start mixing with those homos and then the next thing you know, you’re gay and so is everyone else. The humor used to deliver a very serious perspective was welcome.
Another fine poem had us convincingly in the Library where we could survive without politics, religion, hate or war and pick from an infinite variety of wonderful milieus. This was also a wonderful respite.
It was now the third round. The third of the five teams came out, it was a single poet, his name was Storm. He carefully gathered himself and began to describe his father, their relationship and his father’s message of what a ‘real man’ is. It seems that his father witnessed some man who was so foolish as to swish his hips in such a fashion that his dad beat the living crap out of that person. Perhaps to death. As the performer continued, he emphasized that ‘how to be a man’ was always uppermost when he thought of his father and purpose in life. I had to grip my chair as he intimated that it may have been he that found himself with his own two hands gripped violently around someone’s throat…knowing that this is what it feels like to truly be a man. ………….Judges can we have your score please….can someone see if the judge from NH is okay?
Gini and I arrived at 9.0 (our highest to that point).
The next artist began his telling… now where is he heading with this? He’s talking about something intense…but, wait a minute…
Lights start flashing, alarms are happening… are we supposed to keep on judging? No one is moving, keeping a stiff upper, you know.
The poet crescendos with a description of a fire… is he responsible for this?
Authoritative figures appear and announce we must clear the building. Several audience members say they can smell smoke. We reach the street to be greeted by several fire trucks, police cars, emergency vehicles…all kinds of lights flashing! Colors ….cats and dogs sleeping together!
We call Chip. We figure if he can call us from Grant Park in Chicago when Obama got elected this is about the best we can do back. He is hysterical with laughter. He can barely hear us over the brouhaha. We try to explain it all from judging to uberangst.
The Director appears (Simone, Rich and Val’s daughter). She and the other event organizers try to figure out what comes next and will it be fair to the teams and the other semifinal sites. There is talk of going across the street to the lawn in front of the library. There is talk of waiting two hours for the fire inspection procedure to finish. Finally it is decided that, yes, there was a fire and it is under control and..and…yes, the judges may re-enter the building first.
Simone sees us; realizes we are judges…as the front door is closing behind us we hear her yell, “They can’t be judges. They’re from New Hampshire!!” (The very idea)
We try to settle in as the rest of the crowd returns. It is now 10:30. According to the rental agreement the contest was to be finished by 10:15 because there are residents here in the ‘Y’ and they want some quiet. It is decided that the audience will not be allowed to talk, clap or snap. The applause from the hearing impaired session is revisited and an ovation of shaking hands ‘applauds’ the decision.
The third round will be started anew. All third round scores will be erased and poets can choose a new poem. The team order will remain the same…..o-o-o-o-kay.
Again we are warmed up by a nerd poet to try and get the momentum going…in a silent room. It is admittedly different. We listen and rate the first two new poems. The third person returns. He emotionally announces he will do the same poem that he had done previously. He will repeat what his father taught him about being a man. OMG!! appears in a thought bubble above my head since I can’t cry out. I grip my seat.
He begins…word for word the same… it is a bit strained…he is being caught by the undertow of emotion…he is having difficulty…speaking…breathing…..
He falls to the stage. His teammates rush up and gather ‘round’. “Give him air!” An electric fan is brought to the stage. Finally he moves with a violent lurch. It has been a seizure. He is eventually brought to his feet and led off stage.
Continue? You gotta be kiddin’ me! Give the same score as last time? Can we talk about this or at least use sign language? We wait again.
No, it will be re-done tomorrow. We quickly admit we cannot make it (wedding in Plymouth, NH). They take our info. We regroup and head for Finale in Harvard Square - cappucino and butterscotch pudding and boston cream cake. Ah-h-h-h.
It really is a full moon isn’t it? More sirens and lights go by.
Let’s go home.
