A friend of mine thinks California cool has died. Well, I'm here to tell you that it hasn't and I found out where it resides.
Oh, god, if I make this whole thing rhyme I'm gonna be sick.

Okay, shoo. That was close. I get into that rhyming thing and it just starts to tick.

ACK!

Okay, last week ,and my friends can attest to this, I was in a funk because I had to go to yet another slam workshop.
"They just make me feel old and slow."
"Well, don't go. F..'em." My friends said.
But I had to give it one more try.
So I took a poem I wrote about how I felt old and used up and I was mad at the younger crowd for being smarter and more stylish. I'd print it here, but it's got too many f-ing words in it. I do go for shock value sometimes.
So I stood up in front of this group of 30 youthful faces who have all slammed or understand slam poetry and I was really scared. All the things I did were wrong. I didn't describe who the "you" was in my poem, it was too short, etc.
And...

They loved it. They laughed at themselves and they loved it. They loved me. They thought I was good. This is really hard for me to understand, that's why I say it so many times here. And the interesting thing is, I forgot several lines of my poem, but it still held water because they all got it.
So I go to the next class no problem. And this gorgeous black man with long eyelashes and a wonderful smile and muscular limbs comes to speak to us. His name is Bamuthi. He does a slam. It's a long and wonderful story about his reflections on life including his 13 month old son.

At one point he proves he studied dance in New York by doing these wonderful leaps all around the room as he recites. And it was like music and so private. There was only 20 of us that came. It felt like I was witnessing a legend in action. And he really moved me and stirred up memories. And I wanted to write.
After class this other poet who also is just a beginner and has only written one slam like me, asks if I am going to go to Second Sundays (Slam in SF). So I decide to meet a friend for dinner and then go to the slam.

I got to the slam at 7pm and Storyville was just a small bar with bare settings. Everything was black or red. "Where's the name from?" I asked Frank the bartender.
"New Orleans red light district was called Storyville." Frank explained.
So little groups of people started arriving. And they all looked like they lived on the street. The guys wore caps or knitted hats that didn't look particularly new or clean and I pushed my purse in between my legs at the bar and thought about New York.
People started drifting towards the back room, so I got up and followed.
And Bamuthi was there. This was his show; he runs it. He didn't perform; he emceed.
A skinny guy in a cap and a flannel shirt asked me how I was. We talked, but he looked at me like I wasn't interesting and I felt dull. Then I sat down and tried to remember my one and only slam. I pulled out my note book and started writing. Guys in beards showed up. Girls in bar garb showed up. Belly buttons stared at each other. A scraggly looking guy in striped tee-shirt sat down with a notebook close enough to bump my knee.
"What are you writing?" he asked.
"I'm trying to remember my slam. I'm new at this."
"Are you going to perform?"
"I don't know."
"Well, I am." He said and his head sort of slid sideways like maybe he couldn't hold it up. "I've written a story about toilets. I have some poetry, but I think I will read this little story." He said.
Woo boy, that sounded really bad.
He read my thoughts and moved on.
Some guy with dread locks sold me a chapbook. I felt like they were all starving in America. "Please buy my book so I can put gas in my car to go to the next gig."
They asked for judges. I raised my hand. The crowd thickened.
The guy who sold me his chapbook got up. He stumbled over words and read from a paper and then he caught on fire right in the middle of the poem. Before my eyes a man became impassioned about life and expressed it.
It was magic.

Then Mike McGee got up and he used good body language and the mike and he was rhyming at hyper speed, and then he jumped off the stage and shouted his rant while roaming the now overstuffed room. He got in our faces and we listened.
I gave him a ten.
Other poets stood up with messages and rants and challenges that made you think. The skinny guy with the flannel shirt was good! The guy with the toilet story was so funny that I was doubled over with laughter. One of my friends from class, Julia, stood up. And even though I had heard her poem before about being a woman, it was more powerful because I could see how her body language had improved and she shouted with righteous anger this time, "I am NOT on DRUGS!"
And then a woman from Vancouver, Canada, Rachel Flood got up and talked about interrupting. And she made me love her.
It was so fabulous.

Bamuthi announced that the two Vancouver women needed a ride back to Sausalito, so I just had to do it. Anyone who understands interrupting is someone I want to support.
I sat at the bar and the other girl from Canada, Sarah, sat next to me. We talked (mostly I interrupted) and laughed. Then we saw a band starting and we went back into the back room and danced and danced. It was like a big party and
IT WAS SO COOL!

I drove the two women home only after we were all exhausted and sweaty. Or at least, I was sweaty. I only got lost twice in SF (a new record). It was a marvelous night.

If you are looking for California Cool, go to a SLAM!

For information about the slam workshop in Berkeley, contact Charles Elik at charlesellik@yahoo.com
It only costs $5 dollars a session and they do welcome drop ins even if it's just to listen.

To learn more about Slams check out the http://www.norcalslam.com/calendar/sv_calendar.html