NPS #2 - Tuesday
I was up all night on Monday and woke up relatively early on Tuesday. The famous insomnia cycle had begun.
I laid low for most of the day and tried to rest (unsuccessfully.) It was kind of a relief to be coaching and have an upcoming bout; it forced me to focus on something else. No matter what I was feeling, I had to put the game face on and lead the team. As the day went on, it became clear that I would probably have to do a poem- something I was hoping to avoid.
Our first bout was Hawaii, Paris, and Boise. This was easily the most diverse bout I'd ever seen on paper. Not only did we span crazy timezones, but the teams themselves all bring very different styles. The bout was in The Lounge, a small alley of a bar with a tiny stage. I actually like venues like this at NPS because 20 people could make the place feel packed. The bout before us was Nuyo, Cantab, Houston, and some team I'm forgetting. The quality of that bout definitely kicked up my personal intensity level.
Going in, all I hoped for was to be following Hawaii. No such luck. We drew the B and Hawaii drew the C. With Paris in the A slot I knew right away our climb was going to be a tough one. The sac poet was good, but wacky-ass-Northbeast good. He went right over the judges heads. The first official poem was in French and the scores were less than great. I made the decision to put myself up in the first round. I knew Hawaii had a lot group pieces and I didn't want to put ours up, flashpoint the shit, and give them a chance to counter an break it open. Judges tend to compare group pieces to other group pieces; whereas they typically compare solo poems against the entirety of the bout. I did "Of Fathers and Footwork" knowing it was not only my most consistent scoring poem, but one that would set the tone for the rest of the bout. I also hoped that by putting that poem up, Kealoha would use Danny Sherrard to parry and we wouldn't have to worry about him later, at the height of the creep.
Just as I expected the scores jumped way up (from 24s to 26.9), but much to my dismay, Hawaii sent up a group piece and broke it open. The chase was on. Not to take anything away from Boise or Paris, who did some really great stuff, but it was a footrace between Hawaii and Chicago the whole way.
I sent up a group piece, "Concrete Lion," in the second round. It scored really well and we were able to pull within .3 at the halfway point. We were following Hawaii in the 3rd rotation so I held my call until I saw what they were doing- and that's when Danny went up. And he killed it. His score was something like 29.3. The only thing i could do was send up our most powerful guy, Greg Pickett, and pray that the scores would stay up. They didn't. Greg did fine, but there was nothing in our pocket that could match Danny. Greg scored in the low 28s, making Hawaii almost impossible to catch.
In round 4 we went with Iggy Mwela's "Fathers Day," a heavy poem that had never been tested in a legitimate slam. Iggy killed it and it scored well (low 29s). Hawaii immediately sent up Tui, who is great at connecting with the audience, and he rode Iggy's score to the finish line.
Overall, it was a fun bout. The work was as diverse as promised and very enjoyable to watch. The aforementioned Jacco from Paris was great and Boise did a great group piece about mustaches that was so fucking absurdly Boise I had no choice but to cheer. And really, if you're going to lose, who better than Hawaii? Even after they kick your ass you still want to hug 'em. Regardless, I was happy for the 2 and very proud of my team.
After the bout, I wandered over to Respectable St. for the comedy showcase. I wasn't planning on doing anything but Eirik and Shappy asked me to and who am I to decline? I went up and did "May 6th, 1998" (the Kerry Wood masturbation joint) to lackluster acclaim. I don;t know what it was about that venue but it seemed like getting anyone to give a shit after 11PM was futile. I got annoyed with the whole thing (the audience and general feel- not the performers or the event itself) and headed down to Roxy's to check in Christian's event, The Toast Slam. When I walked in I was slightly intoxicated and very sleepy. I planned on catching a few chuckles, saying hello to Xn and going home to get some rest. Let's just say it exactly work like that.
Upon my arrival the slam hadn't started yet. The crowd was sparse, but full of people I really like. Immediately, Jesse, Stephen, and Xn approached me and shoved the sign-up list in my face. Clearly, any resistance wouldn't fly. So I signed up and grabbed a beer. Please allow me to state, for the record, how much fun this event was and could be in the future. It was essentially an excuse to get drunk and crack jokes and be heckled by your peers- my kind of party. Toasters went head to head toasting everything from Sarah Palin to Kung Fu, the audience would then vote for who they thought had the better toast, best of 3, yada yada, you get it.
My first opponent was RC Weslowski, who was obliterated. The drunkest I'd seen anyone so far. When it was his turn to toast he really just rolled around on the floor gurgling and making nipple references. The crowd voted to keep him in it just to see what the hell he would do next. Ultimately, I won the round.
A few more rounds happened, we drank, I kept winning. Now, for every round, the toaster must have a fresh drink with which to toast. At the beginning, it was beer. At worst, I figured I'd drink 4-5 beers, which would make me drunk but manageable. However, by the time the semi-finals rolled around those Vancouver bastards insisted that we switch to shots of whiskey. Trying to be a good sport, I agreed. Had I known that the "shots" would actually be triple+ sized, I would have told those jags to piss up a rope.
By the end of the slam, which I won with a toast to David Carradine, I had imbibed about 3 beers and 9 shots of Jameson. The Jameson was all within around 25 minutes. I was handling it ok until I walked out of the venue and into the muggy night air. All at once, my knees buckled and my eyes turned into slot-machines. Thank god Jesse was there. He poured me into a cab. When we got to the hotel I was f-u-c-k-e-d. I bolted out of the car and immediately up to my room. This was officially the drunkest I have been since high school. I laid on the bed, sweating, clinging on to life. Without warning, the whiskey decided it wanted out. Through the main entrance.
I spent about 2 hours on the floor of the bathroom. At one point I asked a teammate to kill me. Twice.
"Hey Baz, you ok?"
"Please kill me."
--20 minutes and a river of bile and whiskey later--
"Seriously. Rik, please come slit my throat. I won't be mad at you."
Another 20 minutes went by and I was apparently weeping like a little girl. Here's to setting a good example.
The only good that came from this debacle, aside from winning, was that I was actually too drunk to do any damage. I can't curse, insult, alienate or fuck anyone if I'm wrapped around a toilet. Eventually, I fell asleep and got the only full night of sleep all week.
The next day was a whole other story.
link
I laid low for most of the day and tried to rest (unsuccessfully.) It was kind of a relief to be coaching and have an upcoming bout; it forced me to focus on something else. No matter what I was feeling, I had to put the game face on and lead the team. As the day went on, it became clear that I would probably have to do a poem- something I was hoping to avoid.
Our first bout was Hawaii, Paris, and Boise. This was easily the most diverse bout I'd ever seen on paper. Not only did we span crazy timezones, but the teams themselves all bring very different styles. The bout was in The Lounge, a small alley of a bar with a tiny stage. I actually like venues like this at NPS because 20 people could make the place feel packed. The bout before us was Nuyo, Cantab, Houston, and some team I'm forgetting. The quality of that bout definitely kicked up my personal intensity level.
Going in, all I hoped for was to be following Hawaii. No such luck. We drew the B and Hawaii drew the C. With Paris in the A slot I knew right away our climb was going to be a tough one. The sac poet was good, but wacky-ass-Northbeast good. He went right over the judges heads. The first official poem was in French and the scores were less than great. I made the decision to put myself up in the first round. I knew Hawaii had a lot group pieces and I didn't want to put ours up, flashpoint the shit, and give them a chance to counter an break it open. Judges tend to compare group pieces to other group pieces; whereas they typically compare solo poems against the entirety of the bout. I did "Of Fathers and Footwork" knowing it was not only my most consistent scoring poem, but one that would set the tone for the rest of the bout. I also hoped that by putting that poem up, Kealoha would use Danny Sherrard to parry and we wouldn't have to worry about him later, at the height of the creep.
Just as I expected the scores jumped way up (from 24s to 26.9), but much to my dismay, Hawaii sent up a group piece and broke it open. The chase was on. Not to take anything away from Boise or Paris, who did some really great stuff, but it was a footrace between Hawaii and Chicago the whole way.
I sent up a group piece, "Concrete Lion," in the second round. It scored really well and we were able to pull within .3 at the halfway point. We were following Hawaii in the 3rd rotation so I held my call until I saw what they were doing- and that's when Danny went up. And he killed it. His score was something like 29.3. The only thing i could do was send up our most powerful guy, Greg Pickett, and pray that the scores would stay up. They didn't. Greg did fine, but there was nothing in our pocket that could match Danny. Greg scored in the low 28s, making Hawaii almost impossible to catch.
In round 4 we went with Iggy Mwela's "Fathers Day," a heavy poem that had never been tested in a legitimate slam. Iggy killed it and it scored well (low 29s). Hawaii immediately sent up Tui, who is great at connecting with the audience, and he rode Iggy's score to the finish line.
Overall, it was a fun bout. The work was as diverse as promised and very enjoyable to watch. The aforementioned Jacco from Paris was great and Boise did a great group piece about mustaches that was so fucking absurdly Boise I had no choice but to cheer. And really, if you're going to lose, who better than Hawaii? Even after they kick your ass you still want to hug 'em. Regardless, I was happy for the 2 and very proud of my team.
After the bout, I wandered over to Respectable St. for the comedy showcase. I wasn't planning on doing anything but Eirik and Shappy asked me to and who am I to decline? I went up and did "May 6th, 1998" (the Kerry Wood masturbation joint) to lackluster acclaim. I don;t know what it was about that venue but it seemed like getting anyone to give a shit after 11PM was futile. I got annoyed with the whole thing (the audience and general feel- not the performers or the event itself) and headed down to Roxy's to check in Christian's event, The Toast Slam. When I walked in I was slightly intoxicated and very sleepy. I planned on catching a few chuckles, saying hello to Xn and going home to get some rest. Let's just say it exactly work like that.
Upon my arrival the slam hadn't started yet. The crowd was sparse, but full of people I really like. Immediately, Jesse, Stephen, and Xn approached me and shoved the sign-up list in my face. Clearly, any resistance wouldn't fly. So I signed up and grabbed a beer. Please allow me to state, for the record, how much fun this event was and could be in the future. It was essentially an excuse to get drunk and crack jokes and be heckled by your peers- my kind of party. Toasters went head to head toasting everything from Sarah Palin to Kung Fu, the audience would then vote for who they thought had the better toast, best of 3, yada yada, you get it.
My first opponent was RC Weslowski, who was obliterated. The drunkest I'd seen anyone so far. When it was his turn to toast he really just rolled around on the floor gurgling and making nipple references. The crowd voted to keep him in it just to see what the hell he would do next. Ultimately, I won the round.
A few more rounds happened, we drank, I kept winning. Now, for every round, the toaster must have a fresh drink with which to toast. At the beginning, it was beer. At worst, I figured I'd drink 4-5 beers, which would make me drunk but manageable. However, by the time the semi-finals rolled around those Vancouver bastards insisted that we switch to shots of whiskey. Trying to be a good sport, I agreed. Had I known that the "shots" would actually be triple+ sized, I would have told those jags to piss up a rope.
By the end of the slam, which I won with a toast to David Carradine, I had imbibed about 3 beers and 9 shots of Jameson. The Jameson was all within around 25 minutes. I was handling it ok until I walked out of the venue and into the muggy night air. All at once, my knees buckled and my eyes turned into slot-machines. Thank god Jesse was there. He poured me into a cab. When we got to the hotel I was f-u-c-k-e-d. I bolted out of the car and immediately up to my room. This was officially the drunkest I have been since high school. I laid on the bed, sweating, clinging on to life. Without warning, the whiskey decided it wanted out. Through the main entrance.
I spent about 2 hours on the floor of the bathroom. At one point I asked a teammate to kill me. Twice.
"Hey Baz, you ok?"
"Please kill me."
--20 minutes and a river of bile and whiskey later--
"Seriously. Rik, please come slit my throat. I won't be mad at you."
Another 20 minutes went by and I was apparently weeping like a little girl. Here's to setting a good example.
The only good that came from this debacle, aside from winning, was that I was actually too drunk to do any damage. I can't curse, insult, alienate or fuck anyone if I'm wrapped around a toilet. Eventually, I fell asleep and got the only full night of sleep all week.
The next day was a whole other story.
link