Here We Go Again....

[captainsblog]

After five whole nights off from any form of entertainment outside the house, we ventured out again last night as another round of multiple opportunities began. In addition to it being the usual “every other Wednesday“ of poetry at our beloved Caffe Aroma, our friend Maria was playing in a duo (not a duel, Siri) at our equally beloved local music bar "new cheese" (no, Siri, "Nietzsche’s," you had it right the first time) while other friends were up on a roof in Larkinville.

This particular musical incarnation is a tribute band called the Black Rock Beatles, that name homaging the Sportsmen's Tavern neighborhood they were formed in. Every summer, they duplicate the famed rooftop concert from the final days of the Fab Four, and it has become a very popular and ticketed event. I’ve known about it for months, even had it on my calendar, but forgot about it until one of the band members mentioned last week that it already sold out.

No matter, we still had poems  to hear, even if we didn’t make it to Nietzsche’s first. Eleanor had continued her deforestation along the fence, in a full day of very warm and humid weather, so we decided not to push things and just headed over to Elmwood Avenue for the one event. I did find myself thinking of my friends up on  a rooftop with amps and other equipment. “At least the Black Rock Beatles aren’t getting rained on tonight.”

About 15 minutes later, though, I expected a text from the aforementioned Black Rock Beatles:

“Shut up, Ray.”

One of my friends from the group later posted this photo from when they abandoned the rooftop:




Somehow, I can't picture Yoko doing that for John if it had rained on their session.

We'd gotten safely inside before the rains came, though some latecomers, and those on the patio, got pretty well drenched when it really started pouring.  Some of the regulars who usually hang out al fresco and read from the window were out at other things, including famed freestyler Ten Thousand. He did co-lead the last reading we attended at the UB art gallery a few Sundays ago, and that was I got the inspiration for my contribution to last night's session.

And so, present for your approval,....

Crosssing the Streams


Two Sundays ago, somebody introduced Ben with a WHOYAGONNACALL-Ghostbusters reference.

That was enough for me to remember the line about their equipment:

"It’s that you should never cross the streams."

"Why?"

"Well, it would be bad."

"How bad?"

"Well, try to imagine all life as you know it stopping instantaneously and every molecule in your body exploding at the speed of light."

So we don’t.

Unless you need to stop a Mister Sta-Puft. Or a Gozer. Even if it’s only Zuul. Then it’s good, and necessary.

I’m fun that way. I cross the streams all the time in the three genres that make me smile, make me feel, make me happy, make the closest thing I’ve got to a religion.

There’s your poetry, your music, and your comedy.

All of them have Open Mic nights.

All of them take careful preparation, meticulous meter, and a sadistic mixture of extrovert and nerd to stand in front of a crowd, whether ten or Ten Thousand.

Is it a coincidence that I inhabit a world where a band AND a poet I admire the most are both named Ten Thousand? 

That’s not coincidental, it’s Maniacal!

Poet audiences sometimes cry out reactions. Music audiences sometimes cry out requests. Comedy audiences sometimes cry out heckles. 

The performer can honor, ignore, or clap back. None of it affects the quality of the work.

The performers all know each other, mostly love each other, introduce each other, support each other’s work.

All of them hate when it rains when you’re on a stage outside. Poets and comics have it easier that way.

A poet, a musician and a comic walk into a bar.

The bartender says what’ll ya have?

The poet says,  Haiku!

The musician sings, High C!

The comic says, HIYOOOOOOOOO!

Another thing they all have in common? Keeping it real, keeping it fresh, but especially keeping it original.
They all hate when you steal material. And I swear on all three of my open mics that I’d never do that.

Poem.
Song.
Joke.

----

There were far more powerful ones. Lots of new readers, some very young, at least one close to our age. One poet passed out a Greek chorus handout for several attendees to join in.  There were laughs, and tears, and snaps at some very eloquent words.

We were 12 miles from home, yet we were home.

----

Sleepyheads awoke to the sound and smell of the street construction finally getting under way.


"I love the smell of asphalt in the morning... it smells like victory!"

 I got my car out before they started the serious ripping on our side of the pavement, giving the dog the world's shortest ride before her morning walkies.  Oddly, the beeps and boops coming from all those vehicles didn't bother Pepper at all.

Eleanor got to witness a couple of moments from it, getting up earlier than I did.  First, it's also garbage day, and neither hot asphalt nor ROAD CLOSED signs shall keep those couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.  She saw one of the Highway guys out in the middle of our (not very wide) road, standing between the incoming recycling truck and the passing construction truck.   I could hear a voice in my head from 1982 crying out,



She also heard a leaf blower.  Why?  Well, to blow away the bits and bobs of 50-year-old asphalt being shot into the air as the miller went by. There's an even older historical precedent for this:
 

Watch on YouTube

Now here's something we think you'll really like:

Another event tonight at the Albright Knox, which I rearranged my travel schedule for so we could both go together.  That appointment got moved to Sunday, before a friends' barbecue and comedy pop-up show at their Rochester home, where I may read that poem in standup mode.  Next week beyond that is fairly quiet for my stream-crossing until the weekend, when retired Maniac singer Mary Ramsey returns to Sportsmens with her new trio, but then the next poetry night on August 9 also has the Black Rock Beatles at a more intimate venue on the river and a friend of ours fronting her solo act at the restaurant where we went to dinner with Emily and Charlie last month. 

Just keep Slimer away from us, plzkthnx....