Scorecard

Afropunk!

We only attended the first day, and only in the late afternoon. (Sometimes it's hard to get started.) A guy started walking alongside us near Fort Greene Park, wanted to know if we were heading to the festival. He was an associate professor at Brooklyn College, he said, teaching an Urban Studies seminar. He was excited to see Bad Brains, though he didn't think H.R. would be there. ("I heard that guy was crazy.") And we talked about some of the more outlandish acts on the bill: "Body Count? Ice-T's metal band from the 90's? But he can't possibly still be in it, right?" (He is.) But Bad Brains was the band I was dying to see, and they had just started playing when we got inside. There were three stages this year (up from two and at the expense of a dedicated area for skateboard and BMX stunting) and Bad Brains were playing on the new (smaller) black stage, the punk stage, where the A/V setup was apparently less than ideal. Darryl Jenifer made a few tongue-in-cheek remarks about the accomodations: Why do we gotta play the black stage? They sounded phenomenal, though. Their distinctive mix: Lots of attack on the bass, which was turned up over Dr. Know's buzzsaw guitar. In lieu of H.R., there was a rotating cast of vocalists, including John Joseph from Cro-Mags (though I could've sworn Darryl had a nickname for him. Something like "Choke" or "Squeaky") who struggled to keep up with a lightning fast version of "Attitude."

Nina and I were standing just outside the stage area, our faces pressed to the chain-link fence. Just inside the fence in front of us, there was a young woman wearing a cowrie shell circlet. Is it? I thought. Then I noticed the security detail, a couple of dudes and a lady wearing tuxedoes and earpieces. It was! The queen of the Mermaid Parade, Chiara de Blasio. Bad Brains wrapped up their set, and we walked across the park to check out Body Count, who had just started playing. Sure enough, there was Ice-T, front and center, gripping a wireless mic in a motorcycle-gloved hand. "The next song is called 'Manslaughter,'" he boomed. "It's about the number one threat facing black men in America today."

I braced myself to hear the names of Trayvon Martin and Michael Brown; a litany of atrocities carried out by America's racist police forces. Ice-T's still got it, I thought.

"Pussification!" he resumed. "Ladies, look around you. Does your man have a vagina?!" Snickering from the crowd; some isolated boos. The red stage; the grandpa stage. We stuck around for a few songs, but it was just so much noise. Fat dudes in sleeveless shirts bouncing around the stage. The sun had set. We stood in the trampled field in front of the green stage and listened Sharon Jones and The Dap Kings get warmed up. She's got a really impressive voice. Which is not news, I guess. I considered buying one of the new Afropunk t-shirts printed with commandments of broad acceptance (No racism; No sexism; No homophobia; etc.) but it didn't feel like it was really for me. We stopped at Junior's on the way home for cheesecake to go. Summer winding down.

The tally:

I went to Astoria to see Forest of the Dancing Spirits at Socrates Sculpture Park. It was very sad: A pygmy woman anxious about miscarriage prepares to deliver her second pregnancy. A very normcore (basic, even) crowd in the Park. L.L. Bean fleece types. A lot of them brought their own chairs.

I went to Brooklyn Bridge Park to see Cat On A Hot Tin Roof. I'd never seen it before. That Brock guy sure hates mendacity! The lawn was utterly packed, and people kept coming and going, well through the duration of the movie. Continuous photography of the screen via cell phone cameras, SLRs, even a guy with a full tripod rig who was asked to leave by the event staff. Fuss in the audience to equal the fuss on film. But what is the point of any of it? Hypothesis / inescapable conclusion: Outdoor movies are over, babies.

Two trips to the beach.

Three barbecues: Two in Eve's opulent garden while she and Jon were out of town, burning citronella and misting the air with DEET and shooing the cats back inside, the children of the rich people next door bouncing on -- no joke -- a for-real trampoline in their astroturfed back yard. One party in Prospect Park in a big patch of dirt on a hill by the picnic house. I made real meat burgers, using this recipe. (Whenever I search for "best burger recipe" -- once every few years -- I get something new.) Technically a birthday thing for me, one month delayed. Everyone showed up. Chris brought a whiffleball bat and some whiffleballs, but I was so preoccupied with the grill and getting all the meat cooked through that I didn't play. That's how I always react to cooking or party planning. I like it but I don't like it, either. Satisfying, pathological, frustrating. Instead, Nina and I played a "night game" at the Thomas Greene Playground handball courts. It was empty, except for a few people sleeping on benches courtside. We named our teams and each player at bat. The Yomiuri Hamburgers. Joey Baseball. The crew for The Americans were still at work on Nevins street when we walked home around midnight.

Two visits to the Douglass-Degraw Pool, though it never got hot enough to really warrant it.

We never even installed the air conditioner.