Poetry Channel #50
9/9/98
Hey y'all,
I heard it usually takes a few weeks to heal from the injuries sustained in throwing the beautiful war-party known as the National Poetry Slam. I’m not even close; recuperative time was non-existent, so read the following at your own risk. (Respond directly to me at sofasurf@usa.net.) Thank you.
Everyone at work is being very nice; they were even properly impressed to see Deborah Edler Brown’s (Los Angeles) first-person article in this week’s issue of Time. (There was a little upset around the Internet that it neglected to mention who actually won the whole taco platter.) I say, whatever, go write your own first-person account and sell it to a magazine. Send me a copy so I can put it in my scrapbook.
Oh, so who won? For the first time, the New York team won (not to be confused with the Manhattan née Mouth Almighty team that took the championship last year). They came out in full force this year, super friendly and high energy; they were the Nuyorican Poets Café in the brightest light. (Even Miguel Algarin was there, his hand all bandaged up from being cut interceding in a beating two thugs were giving a woman as he was walking down the street a few weeks back in the City.)
Alix Olsen, Guy Gonzalez, Stephen Colman and Lynne Procope are this year’s team champions. Roger Bonair-Agard was their coach. (Roger works at Poets & Writers; umm. . . any chance of getting the slam covered? Just kidding. Let’s just say it’s as likely as New York ever hosting a Nationals!) Dallas came in second; wow, they totally worked for it.
(‘Superhero’ is being hailed as the high water mark to reach for, it impressed. . . everyone. And like that scene in Babe, five tens came back from the judges. Dallas team members Jason Edwards, Jason Carney and GNO, I’m giving it to you; that was so beautiful. Want my prediction? That’s going to be the poem that breaks open MTV. It’s just too delicious, and the kids will devour it. Clebo and Noemi must be proud.)
Jason Edwards, I hear, is moving to Albuquerque. Now we have Eirean Bradley (Mesa), Sabrina Hayeem-Ledani (NYC), Ken Hunt (Madison), Danny Solis (Austin) and Kenn Rodriguez (homegrown), but we lost Tom Harris (Salt Lake City) and Matthew John Conley who moved to Minneapolis last week with his beautiful girlfriend Mary. (And I don’t even live in Albuquerque anymore either -- San Francisco has been home for a few years now but people still get confused.) Matthew and I will be back for the Albuquerque Poetry Festival, third week in February. (When do we start player trading? How did Albuquerque get so popular?)
Thanks guys, especially Matthew, for the dedication on the Finals stage. I heard about it later outside sharing a cigarette with Christina Springer. How much fun it was to see Christina and meet her Pittsburgh teammates! Matthew and I haven’t seen her since the umm, you know, Lollapalooza days. It was the catalyst behind the biggest cross-pollination of poets across the country packed in a summer, and it really showed ths year at Nationals. The stunning Albuquerque-Austin-Dallas corridor was a direct result of that traveling madhouse and it’s nice to see how things fit together.
Wammo, Matthew and I met at the Howling Wolf in New Orleans the night we were doing a live radio broadcast, and Gorby burned Liz Belile’s book onstage for some fight they had in Miami; Clebo and Hilary Thomas made the scene at the Dallas show; Wammo’s best friend Danny Solis lived awhile in Austin before heading to ABQ; Kenn and I urged Gen into her first slam ever and introduced her to the Terror Twins and the Shapster (we were all sleeping under her dining room table at the time, or maybe that weekend just felt like it); the Austin and Dallas poets showed up by the carloads to kick off the first Albuquerque Poetry Festival in 1996. We’ve been sleeping on Clebo and Noemi’s big leather couch in Dallas for years now. (Garland Thompson, who hosted Chocolate City, returned the sleeping bag I left at Clebo’s house that Matt and Kenn were supposed to return to a mutual pal but forgot, what, three years ago, so now I’m sending said bag to Albuquerque in hopes of getting my comix collection back. Thanks, Garland!) And part of the Albuquerque contingent, myself included, has been featured in the SXSW spoken word showcase (Mike Henry’s baby) every year since 1995. Add to that the fact that Genevieve and I went to college together, you can see the history between Albquerque and Austin is formidable.
So then maybe you know how much the bout with Albuquerque-Austin-Vancouver meant to me and Phil West and Mike Henry. Mike came up to me that night and said, ‘this makes it all worth it.’ And I agreed. The teams, they were intense, loving each other and bringing Vancouver into their circles, and Vancouver rose to the occasion, they were wonderful. A great bout it was; the intensity and the heat caused three people to faint, including Gen. A fight broke out in the back between an Austin fan and an Albuquerque fan; the ambulance came along with the burrito wagon. It was the best, and I was so happy to have been a part of that moment.
So maybe what I’m saying is, it was a little uncool when people gave the teams the ‘kick their ass!’ punch in the arm; it didn’t wash here. These teams were there to show you how the slam is done and they did and nothing else really mattered after that. They went and partied together afterwards; the organizers would have been there, but, well, things were busy.
And I’m lying; a ton of important things happened after that. The United States laid some bombs on a ‘nest of terrorists’, DJ Renegade (D.C.) won the Haiku Head-to-Head championship, one of my cabbies wanted to kill Clinton, Reggie Gibson (from the Bellwood, Illinois team) won the individual championship title and Russell Gonzaga (San Francisco) launched a little poetic terrorism of his own.
Derrick Brown from Laguna Beach placed second in the indies. He was a sweet guy, really dreamy, Venice Beach team members Matthew Niblock and Jeff McDaniel were absolute angels, June Melby was total girl and Ellyn Maybe, it’s always wonderful to see her. (She seems to be on the tour circuit these days: look for her at Bumbershoot this weekend and at Taos Poetry Circus next June, lucky. The Circus folks were questioning her lineage; they’re under the impression she’s Ginsberg’s daughter. At least, that’s what they kept saying when the Venice Beach team, along with Derrick, read in Taos on the way to Austin.) Venice Beach made care packages (of their books and recordings) for the organizers, which was totally sweet.
So much of what I heard about Derrick and Matthew I thought was only so much cheerleader Next magazine hype, but I was happy to learn that they’re real. (Whatever my differences, I was sorry to hear that Next magazine stops being in October.)
Jeff McDaniel, he gets a call from the organizers on Friday afternoon: ‘hey man, you’re in the semi-finals!’ A few minutes later, he gets another call: ‘uh, sorry, Jeff, you didn’t make the cut after all.’ I nearly didn’t believe him -- it sounded too much like one of his poems -- but it actually happened. Of course, his reading in the finals showcase inspired a rush on The Forgiveness Parade,* that was cool. (Thanks, Jeff, for everything, I heart you.)
It was an intense pace. I was already wiped out from four days of working the International Comic Convention in San Diego. I got to meet Robert and Suzanne Williams (Robert’s from Albuquerque, of course you know we talked about Browntown). Danny Solis was impressed that I met Heavy Metal supermodel Julie Strain in the ladies restroom. I didn’t recognize her at first, I just told her she looked great, this tall sexy Juno in silver 8-inch boots, and she smiled and thanked me, totally sweet, then I realize the huge line inside the Con was all her fans hoping for a glimpse and an autograph. The name of her book is Six Foot One and Worth the Climb.* The Brothers Hernandez pulled a classic switcheroo on me, and I was red-faced realizing it 36 hours later, as I go to sleep with their comic books nearly every night and should have known better who was Jaime and who was Gilbert.
I had similar problems in Austin: people kept mistaking me for Tammy Gomez. (Maybe you saw her and her comrades parked outside the sold-out Paramount Theater with the banner ‘YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO BE LOUD.’ She also read in Night of the Chihuahua.) And people from New York kept telling me how much they loved my brother, loved my brother, and it took me a moment until I realized they were talking about Edwin Torres.
Edwin isn’t my brother; if he were, you would have known it. But, umm, thank you, I guess, for the compliment? Edwin says if he’s not in Spain in February, he’ll come to the Albuquerque Poetry Festival which would drive all the locals, myself included, mad with joy. Look for poets from New York, Los Angeles, Seattle, Detroit (Saladin!)and Texas in this upcoming festival; it’ll be a lovely party, not half the production of Nationals this year (Albuquerque isn’t funded, it's just a huge party) but we can definitely conjure up some mariachis.
Acme Novelty cartoonist Chris Ware was the Big Cheese at ComiCon this year. I didn’t realize he was a Longhorn, or we coulda gossiped more about Austin. He got his big start at the Daily Texan. (Another Longhorn alumni, Inez Russell, was recently named the editor of the Taos News. Congratulations, Inez!) I bought posters from Steve Weissman (the master of the supercute comic Yikes -- I love his stuff), James Kolchalka sang cute songs at the Alternative Press booth and Keith Knight (Dances with Sheep) was setting up renegade displays where he could. The Fantagraphics folks were the most enthusiastic about my Sofasurfing Handbook.* (My own house was way way too busy to say anything -- we were on full battle alert including a full artillery of naughty French books.) I got to meet Evan Dorkin (Milk and Cheese) and his label mate Johnnen Vasquez (Johnny the Homicidal Maniac) at the Slave Labor booth, purveyors of some of the most dangerous comics around. The 1995 Austin team reminds me a lot of Milk and Cheese.
Isis Rodriguez was running around with the Mexican wrestler folks and they were all very sweet; I told them that El Poeta was going to be this year’s mascot at Nationals, and they nearly sold me a mask of my own and persuaded me to run away with them back to. . . Boston, the secret hub of the movement. Yes, mostly it was fun though it was tough going on the convention floor. I saw Matt Groening and forgot to tell him about the Grammar Rodeo (if you didn’t go, Paul Devlin kicked ass and Taylor Mali ran a wonderful rodeo and spelling bee).
Anyway, it was a strange yet appropriate segué into poetry world. There are a lot of parallels between cartoonists and poets (Peter Bagge makes that reference all the time). Anyway, I was just happy I didn’t work the PornCon this month; my mind would have been blown. As it was, I was ready; I was prepped. I knew what was coming, and after the machine was started, it was mostly a matter of holding on. I’ve built these monsters before -- Albuquerque Poetry Festival is excellent training.
Nousha was waiting at the airport. I was thinking, ‘Haven’t we met before? Don’t you live in Southern California?’ We had, and she did; we met in Taos, now she was spending her vacation to be a part of Nationals and it was a joy to see her smiling face all week long. Volunteer coordinator (and New Mexico native) Sonya Feher was buried in the computer, and she was nearly flooded by boxes as all the free stuff for the poets started arriving by UPS. Darcie and Darcy were guardian angels, and Johanna, the Electric Lounge manager -- these were all key players in a top notch production crew and it was such a pleasure to work with all of them and the many many others who helped make this happen.
I thought it was a party, though with all the competition around, I know that’s not the case for some of you. Regie Cabico told me, at these functions, many people come for war. I learned that quickly during the course of the event. Regie was part of the Fantastic Four with Justin Chin, Douglas Martin and Cheryl B. (What a great pick-up team that woulda been!) Bruce Jackson rode in on a Greyhound from San Francisco to read in Chocolate City and sign his book at the Manic D party. Jimmy Jazz and Steve Abee flew in from SoCal for the Incommunicado party.
In the post-Nationals email flying around, some of you refer to the slam community as a family, and while I totally appreciate the lovey-dovey, we’re not -- don’t set up that trap for yourself. It’s a very nice thought, to be sure, but hardly accurate. This is (excuse me, Steve Cannon) more like a gathering of the tribes and clans, a collection of poets, writers (and actors) who choose to work together under this very entertaining umbrella called slam. (Don’t forget to factor in the competition.) There’s a wide cross-range of folks that come here, but we don’t necessarily all get along. Politics, personalities and poetic content are all dividers and unifiers (and even the people I consider the elders of the scene are not above making reactionary asses of themselves now and then and that’s fine, that’s human nature and we’re the mirrors). Whatever, just lobbing a friendly warning to the fresh faces: don’t start having expectations about ‘family.’ There’s a ton of community here, which is what attracts many of us, but there are also some folks who will simply never get along. Personality clashes and differences of opinion are to be expected.
Genevieve Van Cleve is somewhere in England as I write. I hope she remembered to send Hank Hyena’s tapes. (Don’t freak out, Hank; I’m not trying to be an asshole on purpose; Phil said he’d go to her house next week if they still haven’t shown up.) I missed her exhibition at the slammaster’s meeting, though I had ample warning what was planned. At that moment, however, I was on the phone calling Thom the World Poet to see if he would start the open mic at Bookpeople, as I was running late. Then I heard this huge cheer from the other room, and I thought, “Oh jeez, Genevieve must have taken off her shirt.”
I came back to see Clebo’s reaction (Gen was making a point about the disparity between the sexes when it comes to shirt removal, directed at Clebo who has a penchant for it), and he was being big hearted, full of love, and I think that moment was a big bonder between them. How weird that Frank Edwards (Hot Springs), who wasn’t even there, chose to take umbrage with Gen. Then I saw he had a Dallas address on the contact list, and figured that was a misdirected attempt to make points with Clebo. But hey, I’m indie again, what the hell do I know? Not a lot, thank goodness! Anyway, Gen, points well taken, put it on the agenda!
There were 45 teams this year, so many people I was still meeting poets at the finals party. I think it was the same for everyone else. The screening of slamnation and Slam! at the Alamo Drafthouse was sold out; I couldn’t even get in to watch it. Thanks to Monica Copeland (L.A.) and Glenis Redmond Sherer (Greenville, NC) for taking my emcee duties; I was really overloaded and I totally appreciate it. The readings in the daytime program were a smash hit; the attendance at all the events which tells me that people were into it. And the Fringeware parties got bigger and bigger as the poets found out that was where the free beer was in the afternoons.
Thanks to all the folks who donated cool stuff for the poets’ bags, including the Academy of American Poets (is it true the Academy president really called the slam ‘poetry karaoke’?), Poetry Flash, Poets & Writers, Autonomedia, High Times, Poets House, Dark Horse, Kitchen Sink, Last Gasp, Fantagraphics, AK Press, Austin Chamber of Commerce, Amazon.com, Powell’s Books, Fringeware, and the Ammerican Poetry & Literacy Project. D'you know those huge beautiful books of world poetry? They came from Andy Carroll at the APLP, so give him a big kiss when you see him.
Thanks to Scott and Justin at Fringeware, Joe and Teddy at Mojo’s and Keith and Brandi at Bookpeople for helping to coordinate the daytime events. The merch table and my sanity would not have survived were it not for Marty Kruse (Portland), who flew down specifically to help with the merch table, glutton for punishment that he is. Wendi Loomis (Seattle) was my girl at Bookpeople; she ran the daily open mics and stage managed the feature readings. Bob Redmond (Seattle) was all over, stage managing and merching. If you missed his feature with Spike Gillespie and Doug Martin, you lost out; they were all very sexual in their readings and it was quite lively.
Seattle was in the house full-on this year, and everyone got to fall in love with the Sirens of Seattle (Wendi, Allison Durazzi, Paula Friedrich, Gabrielle Bouliane, Marta Sanchez and Claire Keegan). Not only are they great folks, but I consider them some of the best poetry producers in the country (Noel Franklin, girlfriend, you were missed), due in part to Judith Roche’s internship program at Bumbershoot.
Seattle wants to host a Nationals in the future (like, in the year 2001), and I couldn’t be more delighted. I think they could produce a show that could surpass Austin. Chicago hosts the Nationals next year for the tenth anniversary; Providence, R.I., hosts it for the year 2000. Congratulations and good luck to the host cities. It’s going to be a blast -- fun, not atomic, I hope.
Ruben Nisenfield (Portland) did one of the sweetest things I saw at Nationals. There was a young woman at the merch table, looking at the Aloud anthology, saying “I’ve been looking for this, but I didn’t bring any money. . . ” And Ruben, he’s standing next to her and he overhears this, reaches in his pocket and buys the book for her. She’s open-mouthed and protesting, profoundly flattered and asking me, “Did you see what just happened? That was one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for me. Did you see that?” Ruben, you are such a hero in MY book. Also, thanks for helping at the merch table. Portland team member Rob Hibberd, I got to meet him this year (please don’t be mad at KS for what I repeated; I’m sorry, it was intended as a joke) after hearing so much about him from mutual pal Kristen Casselman.
Boogieman (Cleveland) fell in love with a peach cobbler (a pastry, not a person) and the love was reciprocated. However, despite his pleadings, Vievee Frances (herself an East Texas girl) refused to turn the car around as they headed back to Detroit. (I heard they gave Reggie Gibson a ride home after one of his teammates flew home with Reggie’s plane ticket still in his back pocket. D-oh!)
Albuquerque’s van, belonging to Coy King, blew up and they caught a ride home thanks to their guardian angel Nousha. (She was heading that way anyway, but lucky for them, eh? If you see her, please tell her I left my black blazer in the back of her ATV.) I heard a Northeast team totaled their van on the way home, but everyone’s okay. Sean Shea (Providence) lost his van as well. It finally died, after giving him a hell of a ride around the west all summer.
Uncle Bart (Houston) and his girlfriend got all their stuff stolen out of their truck. The Venice Beach team started out 30 minutes after the finals party ended to make a reading in Las Cruces. The Fort Worth girls were rocking, and it’s so nice to have wild women around who are the poets and not the groupies. (Thanks for the present, Jena!)
Patricia Smith kissed me nearly every time she saw me. I figure she had a good time. I caught the start of her reading (what a great intro by DJ Renegade!) but had to leave early to start up Chocolate City. (I heard she made the audience cry, cry, cry like little children. Good, I’m glad. Much of her reading was from an upcoming one-woman show called ‘Professional Suicide.’) Chocolate City was a smash, so large that Gayle Danley (D.C.) and Glenis started a spontaneous reading outside when it came time for the Head-to-Head Haiku competition. (Thanks, Daniel Ferri, you sweetheart, I’m glad you made it to the party.)
Alexis O’Hara (Montreal) was another guardian angel, and the Pacific Ocean Team, as always, managed to adopt me and the other misfits under their protective and loving wings. (Don’t forget about their NAP Jam in Las Vegas, September 21-24.) Bowerbird, Mark Schaefer and Aaron Yamaguchi said they’d turn me on to some video, since I left Austin feeling like I missed everything. I didn’t; I had eyes and ears out everywhere, but all the same, I’d love to see some things for myself. Yes, I think at the top of my list would be the now-infamous semi-final bout between the two San Francisco teams and Cleveland. Russell Gonzaga and his verbal bomb landed right where he wanted it, creating a ton of negative attention and bad feelings all over (which could be detrimental if that’s what people remember when Russell represents the National Teen Poetry Slam next spring) and it brings to the forefront whether we can or should censure our members.
The answer is, we can’t. Once you start, where is the line drawn? What if a poem is racist and advocates something like, let’s say, Nazism -- do we kick out the offending poet? (A few of you know where I’m going with that.) I’m not trying to defend Russell; he knows he fucked up (excuse my language), sabotaging his team and threatening his neighbors. I was glad he apologized; that’s all he could do after the fact.
Of course, if the structure is legislative, this could be brought up as an agenda item and Robert’s Rules could be utilized to bring up a vote of censure against one of our members for misrepresenting the slam community at large by taking personal power conflicts on the stage in a competition, and using it as a opportunity to physically threaten other members of the community.
(This opens up an ugly can of worms, doesn’t it? Imagine all the dirty laundry that’s going to fly if this practice is instituted. You would need a subcommittee to sift through the malarkey, because we will never lack controversy. That is the nature of this beast.)
Gee, maybe we should introduce legislation that a poet has to take a break from Nationals competition every two or three years to help the local communities to expand. Or make group pieces a separate competition. Or make all the poets go onstage naked. Or make the drag queens conform their fashion sense (don't you dare!). Legislating poets is a dangerous business; we’re rule breakers by nature, worse than anarchists.
I was very proud of the San Francisco poets; they were so beautiful and talented and both teams got along with only a couple of notable exceptions. That afternoon, before Russell Lost His Shit, I was talking to Cas McGee and Omolara. “Oh, it’s Tarin’s brithday?,” I remember saying, “That’s so cool, she’s on one team and slammaster of another, both teams are in the same bout, we’re all pals, you should tell the emcee so everyone can sing her happy birthday!” And I am so glad, in retrospect, that didn’t happen. It would have added another weird twist to a very surreal evening. (Charles Ellik, sorry I laid into you; I was holding you up to Gary Glazner standards, but this is your slam now. Sorry your scene got out of control; positive solutions were available, including mediation. This could have been handled at a local level, but now the slam kingdom is all abuzz.)
Cas McGee’s birthday was the day after that. (Daphne Gottlieb’s birthday was a couple of nights ago -- she had a wake for turning 30.) Thanks to Kenny Rodriguez for hosting Night of the Chihuahua; it was great to see Marta Sanchez (Seattle) read with her uncle, Trinidad Sanchez Jr. His brother/her dad thinks they’re nuts, but well, whose dad doesn’t, except maybe Wammo’s: his dad is an opera singer. I was glad to meet Ben Ortiz, the verbose and very conscious arts editor from San Antonio. (He comes from the land of Jason Pettus; that is to say, the Chicago Reader. Who knows what kind of pie he’ll serve up in print, but I can hardly wait.)
Firestorm was awesome, and I was sorry that I missed most of it separating chapbooks for poets who never showed up for them anyway. Glenis did a great job, and I want to use her chant and teach all the girl poets to eat fire. Poetically Incorrect was a fun experiment (thanks, Tarin, for coming up with that). Johnny Cheesecake (Montreal) did a wonderful job emceeing The Truth About Superheroes, the queer showcase. Bill McMillan (Worcester) saved the Prop Slam, when emcee Sean Shea was standed somewhere with his van. Bob Holman was around and about; I didn’t see much of him though there were plenty of sightings.
Only three people made arrangements with me regarding their books: Clebo Rainey, Cass King and the Arkansas girls. I told them I’d ship the books to them. The rest of you are screwed. Just kidding! I said at the slammaster’s meeting I was getting the books ready at Fringeware, that I would eat the shipping if they weren’t ready to be picked up. Well, folks, the books were ready. There were a lot of poets who didn’t bother to check because many of you chose to hear something different from what I said and pretty much blew me off.
A few questions I don’t expect anyone to answer: Why would I want to continue to lug around these boxes of books that were sorted and ready to go back home to their owners back in Austin? Unless arrangements were made, why would I pay for shipping your books out my own pocket? Why do I get myself into these situations? (“Because you’re crazy, Juliette,” some of you are saying.)
What I should have said at the slammaster’s meeting was, “Forget you and your books, I’m taking the afternoon off to see Firestorm, take a nap and look nice for the Finals. Your books will be ready on Sunday morning, pick them up or I give them to the homeless.” Yes, the spirit of the stairs strikes again. Here’s the real nail biter: of the 11 boxes sent book rate from Austin, only seven have arrived. This is just delightful. I’m never ever going to merch another poetry event; this one burned it out of me. (“But, Juliette,” some of you are saying. “You always say that.”) No, really.
If you have questions regarding your merch, please contact me. This part is very important: Be nice. If you didn’t pick up your books, you have only yourself to blame. I don’t like getting hollered at. In fact, being yelled at will prompt me to jump on a Greyhound bus to deliver your books to your door just so I can say to your face how much you piss me off. It’s a good gag, but it’s only funny the first time. Let’s work through this together.
What I meant to say is, that about does it for me. Apologies to the subscribers who have no interest whatsoever in the Poetry Slam Nationals. It's thick even for the aficionados. I'm talked out, though I'm sure I could go on and on. If you hate the Poetry Channel & Information Network and want to unsubscribe, you are invited to do so. To send email directly to me, sofasurf@usa.net is the address. Please don’t use Poetry Channel for fight fodder. Views expressed here are not the views of the station. There’s a bunch of other stuff happening, hopefully next time I’ll remember what it was.
xox
juliette torrez
P.S. Daniel Roop, I got yr message; the address is in the front of my book. I also have the Duffy Littlejohn book (!), if you can't get it let me know and I'll send you my copy to browse.
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