As a general rule, I don’t go to poetry slams, but last Sunday I made an exception for my family. Coming off a Cubs game and then a greasy Chinese dinner, my parents and my mom’s two brothers were tipsy and belligerent and somehow decided it’d be a good idea to go to the Green Mill, where the art of poet heckling was born. Whole evenings–not to mention egos–are ruined in a moment there, when all the courage it takes to get up in front of a bunch of strangers is squashed by the audience’s gestures of disapproval, from loud conversation and finger snapping to outright booing. It’s meaner than Showtime at the Apollo, because at least those performers can hope for the sympathy of a home audience.
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Later I was sitting between my uncle Bill–who reminds me a little of Homer Simpson–and my father, watching a young woman called Tennessee Mary testify about the first time a certain creep made her come. Bill, who married a woman, got divorced, then married her sister, turned to my boyfriend and said, “Hey, if you get tired of Liz there’s always another,” referring to my little sis. Then he busted into a loud rendition of “Family Affair,” and the door guy shushed him.
When I was 12 David turned me on to Hawkwind, Bad Brains, and the idea of self-fulfilling prophecy. As an exercise he had me imagine exactly what I wanted. No, not just imagine it–feel it, experience my life as if I had it, and picture a red circle glowing around me as I was meditating. And lo and behold, Pete asked me out.
About 20 minutes later my parents crashed the party, looking kind of confused. Apparently David had just called and asked them if they wanted to come over and hang out. He never said anything about a party, or even a birthday. “What are you doing here?” they asked me. I felt too guilty to ask them the same thing.
Before his turn, Joe Meno, who promotes his readings the same way a punk band promotes a show–pasting up posters, handing out samplers–opened a bottle of Creme de Banana, poured himself a cup, then passed the bottle around. (It tasted like Laffy Taffy dissolved in rubbing alcohol, but it was almost gone by the time we all left.) He spoke softly, eyes twinkling. His story, a sort of modern version of the Ixion-Hera myth, was about a woman who turns into a cloud whenever her husband attempts any kind of intimacy. I felt like crying afterward–requited love and consummated love are two totally different things.
