Cleveland

November 19: Reading with Kimberly Johnson at Cleveland State University as part of the Cleveland State University Poetry Center's Writers/Reading Series, Fenn Tower Theater, 1983 E 24 Street, Room 102, Cleveland, OH.

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Finally blogging again… about CLEVELAND. I am lying in bed, sick with a cold (or maybe—God forbid it—an allergy to the BAD KITTY I LOVE SO MUCH!)… tickly throat, itchy eyes, seemingly continual sneezing…

Since our last installment, I read in Cleveland, Providence (lovely, but more on that later…), Hudson (also later), Buffalo, and taught a class in Rochester. I am off to Athens, GA on Tuesday, and if I don’t get to writing about CLEVELAND now, well… I’ll be impossibly behind.

I am also on tenterhooks waiting to see (at MIDNIGHT) if the New Yorker really is going to publish the Talk of the Town profile that they fact-checked with me last week… it’s never over till the fat lady sings, I always say, and plus: I fully expect to be MORTIFIED.

But back to CLEVELAND: I arrived… dead tired… more tired than I have ever been in my life (OK, hypothermia on the three-month NOLS trip I took before going to college might actually take that cake)… at the Wyndham…. NEVER EVER STAY AT THE WYNDHAM IN CLEVELAND.

I sensed (from my management days at the hedge fund) that the fundamental problem with the Wyndham was not the nice people (everyone from the clerk at the desk to the room service people to the valet was very nice), nor was it the building, which, though a bit run-down was perfectly functional enough; rather it was MANAGEMENT. MANAGEMENT didn’t seem to communicate with the underlings very well… no one seemed to know quite what was going on elsewhere in the building, which resulted (most spectacularly—there were other incidents) in me being woken up my last day to the sound of a VERY LOUD DRILLING SOUND ABOVE MY HEAD. This VERY LOUD DRILLING SOUND caused in me a fight or flight response, and I ended up showering in a kind of freak-out mode and running out of that place with my hair dripping wet and my suitcase poorly packed just to get away from the VERY LOUD DRILLING SOUND.

Before I ran out, however, I called the front desk and, before hearing them say hello or saying hello myself, I put the receiver up to the ceiling so they too could hear the VERY LOUD DRILLING SOUND. I then hung up. A manager then called. I chewed him out about the VERY LOUD DRILLING SOUND saying they should really warn people about this sort of s---. He assured me that 80% of the hotel was usually “out and about” before they started with the DRILLING and I assured him that I didn’t give a f--- because I was a member of the other 20%. He then apologized and tried to offer me a free stay another time, but I told him I was sorry because I WOULD NEVER BE SETTING FOOT IN CLEVELAND AGAIN.

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But that was the Wyndham. The time I spent at Cleveland State itself was rather lovely. I was hosted by an old friend, Michael Dumanis. Michael, being the highly competent administrator he is really put me to work. Here are some nice poetry students from the first engagement I had—a lunch, which was supposed to be with memoir and nonfiction students, but ended up being attended exclusively by poetry writers, I believe. Here’s one nice fellow:



And another:



A couple more:



[Is New Yorker up? I don’t see why it would be, since it’s 11:20, and they never go up until midnight, but I’m feeling bonkers, so let’s check… Um, nah-ah…]

Here is the CSU building with “CSU” on its façade in bright green letters; Michael is pretty sure the campus was modeled on a prison. (I believe the campus where Cate Marvin—Michael’s co-editor on Legitimate Dangers—works was also modeled on a prison (or maybe it was a mental institution… oh wait… I think her campus actually _was_ a mental institution…. Anyhoo….)):



Here is the class—disbanding—that I spoke with after lunch. It was a nonfiction class (Looks more Superfriends-Hall-of-Justice than prison-ish, this one). Because I have a memoir, Michael really had me do double-time!:



Here is a poster that made it all “feel real”:



Me waiting to talk with Cleveland NPR. All anyone ever wants to talk about is poker!!!:



Here is the link to the interview… I was frightened to listen to this, but it ended up being “OK.” Hopefully the New Yorker will also be “OK” (though I am fully expecting to be MADE A FOOL OF)!: http://www.wcpn.org/index.php/WCPN/an/15311/

(Speaking of—I almost forgot. Back in 2001-2002, when I was TRAPPED in Las Vegas, I actually wrote and pitched a Talk of the Town profile to an editor there named Nick Paumgarten (who was actually a senior at my high school when I was in tenth grade, but that is another story). I think I was baby-sitting for my sister a lot back when I did this, because I remember writing while staying in a sort of condo apartment… I would kind of strew a bunch of salami and cheese—and also fruitloops—all over the apartment for the baby to pre-occupy herself with, and then run into the bedroom to write a little bit (and read Dante’s Inferno—great book!). Pokemon was a godsend back then… Here is the piece. I think it’s not half bad!:

"
Never a city to shy away from the use of superlatives, Las Vegas has, in the past few years, laid claim to hosting the world's biggest gift shop (Bonanza), the world's largest capacity hotel (The Venetian), and now, the country's most successful master-planned community. Just twelve miles southwest of the Strip, a vast expanse of tract housing for the rich called Summerlin has been metastasizing at such a rapid rate that even its planners are astonished. "I was once a reporter," says Summerlin functionary Tom Warden, a tall and dazzlingly tan man with the prickly confidence of Survivor host Jeff Probst, "and I remember when they built the road. We reporters called it 'the road that leads to nowhere.' But now we're the number one master-planned community in the country!" In honor of this distinction, The Howard Hughes Corporation (posthumous corporate scion of millionaire businessman Howard Hughes and Summerlin developer) recently hosted the "Summerlin #1 Celebration," which took place in The Willows, one of Summerlin's seventeen subdivisions. At the center of the festivities was a much-publicized attempt at breaking the world's record for the largest group hug, an achievement that, while it might have pleased the Hughes who was known for breaking a number of air speed records, would most probably have abashed the well-known Las Vegas recluse.

The previous record of eight-hundred and ninety-nine was set by New York brokerage firm Goldman Sachs and reported in a December 2000 issue of this magazine. When asked to explain the reasoning behind this new attempt at breaking that record, Warden chanted, mantra-like that "Summerlin is now the number one master-planned community in the country!" Less vociferously, but more to-the-point, Melissa Warren, Warden's blonde and bubbly Hughes Corp. contemporary, explained, "It's just a really touchie-feelie, warm and fuzzy way to bring the community together!" What better way, in other words, to celebrate the success of a master-planned community, than with a master-planned group hug?

As a lure to the less touchie-feelie segment of the Vegas population (and in grand Sin City tradition), the Hughes Corporation offered a choice of a custom golf tournament, a children's birthday party for seventy-five, or a family-style barbecue for fifty close friends to the winner of a raffle that only participants in the group hug effort would be eligible to win. As an added draw, the Summerlin-area school that sent the most huggers would win $1,000 and a free ice-cream social -- not a bad jackpot for members of the under-age set. But as hug-time drew nigh, no one seemed concerned about the spoils. "We're just two old ladies wanting to do it for the fun and free cake," squealed a jolly retiree named Billie Barry. And then, as if on cue, Cora Williams, Billie's cheery, bird-like friend chirped: "We just wanted to see what it's all about and get a hug!"

At precisely 11:30 a.m., the desert sun blazing down upon the lush, green, and expertly manicured Willows Park, the huggers congealed into a ring. Warden took the stage with Summerlin Councilwoman Lynette Boggs-McDonald, and recited the rules: "Don't get too carried away," he joked, with a perky élan. "We will feel the love!" The entire group then did a mangled version of the wave, the motion of which traveled the circumference of the giant hug. As final and dramatic prelude to the attempt at breaking the record, councilwoman Boggs-McDonald, led the group in a mass Hokey Pokey dance. "This could be the world's largest Hokey Pokey too!" cried Warden.

As the group hug commenced, "What the World Needs Now is Love Sweet Love" warbled onto the PA system, and for just one shining moment (a full minute, to be exact -- the required duration to make it official in the eyes of the people at Guinness), Cora and Billie and everyone else stood shoulder to shoulder, arms wrapped shyly around one anothers' waists, and -- well -- hugged.

By Monday, the city had returned to business-as-usual. Warden and his partners sat blithely in their air-conditioned corporate offices, and Cimarron High School had been awarded the coveted ice-cream social. Only five-hundred and eighty Las Vegans had registered for the group-hug attempt, a number far short of the record, but Vicki Blazer, another Hughes Corp. crony remained unfazed. "We don't know if there's an existing Hokey Pokey record," she mused. "If not, we'll try to open a new category." The people at Guinness are notoriously miserly with new categories, however, and it remains unlikely that Las Vegas will be able to lay claim to "World's Biggest Hokey Pokey." The ghost of Howard Hughes, producer and director of The Outlaw and paranoid aficionado of sealed-off hotel suites, continues to rest in peace.
"

The editor pointed to the apparently too-recent Talk (mentioned in the body of the piece) on the Goldman Sachs hug (note THE IRONY... also THE LESSON: one should never buy stock in corporations that participate in group hugs is what I've learned)… so he didn’t run my piece… I was demoralized and never tried again...

Anyway.

After the NPR, I went to another lunch (I had three full days in Cleveland, which was fine, but also at THE WYNDHAM, which was not fine); this one was all poets. Here is one nice woman (Michael is to her right):



This is Kimberly Johnson, my co-poetry-reader, giving a completely 100% fascinating (and kind of effed up) talk on infidelity as a trope invoked by Renaissance poets to help illustrate the relationship between God and the human soul:



She handed out this gem of a poem by Robert Herrick (Imagine any “s”s in brackets actually look like lower-case cursive “f”s—apparently that was how the typography was back then… and readers would pick up on the fact the “s” actually looked like an “f” (and vice versa)—a kind of typographical pun):

Luke II
Ble[s][s]ed be the paps which Thou ha[s]t [s]ucked

Svppo[s]e he had been Tabled at thy Teates,
Thy hunger feeles not what he eates ;
Hee’l have his Teat e’re long ( a bloody one )
The Mother then mu[s]t [s]uck the Son.

Completely, flabergastingly disgusting.

Here are our books later than night before the reading looking rather… sex-eh:



Rather smiley audience (Michael is in the front there):



[Oh God, New Yorker… Oh God… I am going to run down and go to the bathroom and… barf or something…]

OK, now I am just waiting, twiddling my thumbs…

OK…

OK…

Ugh… 12:02….

HELLO! NEW YORKER! DO YOU KNOW IT IS 12:10AM! HELLO!?

[This is, of course, hideous: http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/stevecoll/2008/11/decoding-mumbai.html]

OK, I'm just going to go to sleep now...

Phew!: http://www.newyorker.com/talk/2008/12/08/081208ta_talk_rothbaum