Like any good, emotionally repressed person, I believe that people should not get any more specific in public about their problems than the words on the side of a Xanax bottle. Take two for...insomnia. Depression. Daddy didn't love me. Whatever's ailin' you. I was shocked, therefore, when I sat down for a nice, cold whiskey and Coke at Club Dada one Wednesday night and heard people opining onstage about the state of racism in America, domestic violence and the many moods of one's vulva. Much like the hokey-pokey, in slam poetry, that's what it's all about. (Clap, clap! Or maybe,... More >>>