Pinache
Walking into the Hotel Blue Balls on Wednesday night, shortly after our first bout, I ran into lowhumcrush, whose Bar 13 team had just taken a 1. When I explained how we did---we got a 3---and how we did it, she said, "Never change your strategy."
Truer slammy words may never have been spoken.
Here's how it went that night: After the first rotation, in which we did "Trigger," we were up by .1 over Columbus, and a full two points over Hollywood, who was in last. In the second rotation, Hollywood sent up Rives, who did "DPJ," which scored very well (for our bout, anyway). We sent up "I Do," which put us in position to either win or get second, depending on how the final rotation went.
The original strategy had been to send up Chris Lee. After Columbus sent up a black poet, and after the bout had seen a number of "identity" or "political" pieces do poorly, I second guessed myself. I figured Chris would get swallowed by that same trap, and so I decided to "flip the script" by sending up Mike Whalen. I thought the room needed some funny.
I was wrong.
Mike did a fucking excellent job, maybe the best I've seen him do that poem. But the judges wanted none of it, and his score put us in third. After the bout, when I'd gotten some disappointed scowls from some "slam supporters," I got on the phone with my mom, the person to whom I turn when the shit flies into the box fan. She put it in perspective for me, noting that I'd worked my ass off all summer, who knows how it would've gone if we'd sent up Chris, and not to question your instinct too much. God bless smart moms.
I was able to return to the post-bout festivities without wallowing in my grump. Still, I'm sure it'll sting for a little while. And, should I ever coach again (a proposition not likely to manifets in the next couple of years anyway), I'll know how to handle myself: with warm fingers and a little tug on the balls.
Next NPS subject: How, after hanging with a certain cadre of Midwesterns, I can't stop using the words "balls" or "weiner" or "handjob."
Truer slammy words may never have been spoken.
Here's how it went that night: After the first rotation, in which we did "Trigger," we were up by .1 over Columbus, and a full two points over Hollywood, who was in last. In the second rotation, Hollywood sent up Rives, who did "DPJ," which scored very well (for our bout, anyway). We sent up "I Do," which put us in position to either win or get second, depending on how the final rotation went.
The original strategy had been to send up Chris Lee. After Columbus sent up a black poet, and after the bout had seen a number of "identity" or "political" pieces do poorly, I second guessed myself. I figured Chris would get swallowed by that same trap, and so I decided to "flip the script" by sending up Mike Whalen. I thought the room needed some funny.
I was wrong.
Mike did a fucking excellent job, maybe the best I've seen him do that poem. But the judges wanted none of it, and his score put us in third. After the bout, when I'd gotten some disappointed scowls from some "slam supporters," I got on the phone with my mom, the person to whom I turn when the shit flies into the box fan. She put it in perspective for me, noting that I'd worked my ass off all summer, who knows how it would've gone if we'd sent up Chris, and not to question your instinct too much. God bless smart moms.
I was able to return to the post-bout festivities without wallowing in my grump. Still, I'm sure it'll sting for a little while. And, should I ever coach again (a proposition not likely to manifets in the next couple of years anyway), I'll know how to handle myself: with warm fingers and a little tug on the balls.
Next NPS subject: How, after hanging with a certain cadre of Midwesterns, I can't stop using the words "balls" or "weiner" or "handjob."