The Shirt Off Their Backs

A glowing review of the Halloween Jugglefest in Bloomington, Indiana

BY THOMAS L

The Bloomington club has a reputation. They have an attitude. A cliquish bunch of artistic primadonnas with a nasty streak, they are not wimpish geeky weenies. They also hold the foamin' bucket combat trophy, wrested from Purdue in their very own cavernous yet filthy armory.

With standards higher than gymnasium rafters, and a critical, sneering gaze colder than a bouncing slab, the Bloomington club, noted for its bizarre initiation rites, actually discourages membership. Practice times and locations are transmitted through a complex signaling system developed by the studio five, utilizing a trapdoor code, a series of bird calls of both native and non-native species, and a rigged fraternity sweatshirt with removable letters.

This is the juggling club that has made fest-bashing a cottage industry. So when the posting for the Bloomington Juggle fest hit the wires, jugglers began packing their props for a road trip, to see what Bloomington had to offer. The prize of free return gas for the farthest carload didn't hurt, either.

There were no games, no competitions, no workshops, and no public show (which meant no lame magic acts, no folksingers, no cute little blond children drawing raffle numbers, and no tedious audience participation segments - all of which I have been subjected to at other festivals). There was, in fact, no annoying organization to get in the way of the juggling, at this festival that almost wasn't. But the price was right - it was free. For signing a registration roster with an amusing waiver, you got a nifty skull ring (which propmeister Michael Ferguson wore rakishly through the nose) and a raffle ticket. Ahhh, the raffle... it had more silicone than a Las Vegas kickline.

Not only did Bloomington raffle off the usual loot - video, book, clubs, rings, Two­Ply Press subscription, beanbags, t-shirts, etc. - there was also a set of five Todd Smith silicone balls, giant Radtke silicone balls, a 26" unicycle, and a set of silicone earplugs. And raffle tickets. Jamie was one of the early winners. She didn't buy any extra raffle tickets, which were 50 cents each, or 3 for a buck, but her free ticket won her five raffle tickets. Later on, one of her prize tickets won her another string of raffle tickets. By then her luck had run it's course, and she won nothing further.

Gary Shapiro, M.D., purchased 60 bucks worth of tickets, winning himself a unicycle, but few friends. There were rumblings, but the crowd didn't turn nasty, because there were other winners. Chris Larue, from Illinois, was very pleased to win the Radtke balls - they were the same size as his other silicones, and in the colors he was wanting, too. The grand prize winner was Jim from Atlanta. He claimed the five Todd Smith silicones, becoming the third member of the Atlanta club to win the silicone at a festival. The other two guys in that carload, George and Russell, had won the silicone balls at the last two fests they had attended. Next time, I carpool with Atlanta.

But coming from 550 miles away was not enough to earn them the cash prize, nor the impressive trophy donated by AAA (a spectacular dash-mounted compass, suitable for navigating safely homeward, or, in the event of mishap, upon impact ensuring the front seat occupants a headroll crater large enough to conceal a stage ball.)

Two carloads arrived from Madison. Melonhead, Matt and Steve arrived first, taking the scenic route around Indy, to ensure a win over the other Madison, Wisc., carload. To foil them, Mark and Axel took a detour to Waterford before arriving in Bloomington, beefing up their mileage slightly. Not good enough. The first words out of the Atlanta boys, upon arriving in Bloomington Party Central at 2:30 a.m. (after "where's the bathroom") was: "Are you Jones? Where's the guy from New Mexico?"

Happily, there was no "Jones from New Mexico." But, alas, Atlanta, Madison, even Blacksburg, Va., jugglers Ron and Barb of Reflections, were thwarted, and had to settle for a bushel of apples as consolation prizes, for the winners computed their distance in kilometers. Coming all the way from Toronto to juggle in Bloomington for the weekend, those crazy Canadians, Sean, Mike and Fabrice, swept down from the North to claim the prize.

Neighboring Purdue came over for the day, to pass remarks about the bucket, do some dishes and play combat. Phillip San Miguel planted himself on the gym floor, and warding off all challengers with two in one hand, could not be budged. San-D, after a full shift playing Mama Llama, worked out with the rest of Headcheez. Am Ward did diabolo tricks, while Lisa Caselli did numbers, and fondly rolled Deron's ball around.

There was a poignant note at this fest, as Bloomington and visitors alike remembered their loved ones who could not be with them. A card was signed for Jay Gilligan. Jay lay at home, swathed in bandages, in dark­room seclusion for valiantly defending his high school soccer goal from a three-foot penalty kick. Jay kept his eye on the ball, but the team managed to wipe it off later, and there wasn't even a stain on the leather.

Purdue numbers juggler Deron Barnhardt, last seen passing 12 on a beach in Ghana with L.A. numbers passing champ Dave (in photographs, which arrived via special courier) will be the recipient of the "GHANA­BAG" (tm) - a specially-designed numbers bag, guaranteed not to decompose or become dangerously fungal when juggled under harsh African conditions. Michael Ferguson designed the specially-commissioned bags, in tawny African earthtones gold and black, and jugglers had a chance to write Deron a note, toss the bags, and gaze fondly at a memento of Deron posted by the display: one of his big lopsided yellow stage balls.

Chloe, the newest member of the Bloomington club, was resplendent in progressively more outlandish festive gear. The foundation of her wardrobe was the smashing jugglefest t-shirt, in basic black. Yet another juggling t­shirt? Don't we all have enough t-shirts? What made this one a gotta-have item? If you stuck your head in the curtained box, to view the display, you found out: The wicked­good festival shirt glowed in the dark!

The traditional fest party began untraditionally, with some performance pieces by club members. Others joined in on the fun for some rounds on common household objects. Many jugglers were unfamiliar with this excercise, and Mark from Purdue spent the rest of the fest asking if we were going to get to play with the tubs again. Yep, it made a strong impression. It was "interesting." But in a good way, you understand. More interesting, I suspect than what followed. I understand it reverted to the default juggling video event. I don't know; I left.

How did out of town visitors find the fest? Easily. The flyers, sent to clubs and individuals in the surrounding states, and the posting to the Internet newsgroup had directions, and a map. No matter how you snuck into town, you could follow the highly-visible satanic orange signs which pointed the way from highway exits, through town, to the National Guard Armory, where the juggling weekend took place.

It was a friendly festival, given by a club which seems to take the idea of hosting seriously. The infamous hostility transformed into hospitality, and Fritz spent almost as much time schmoozing as he did spinning diabolos. And the sad result of that weekend is still making itself felt in the studio: Fritz's flail, a combat move which bears an almost uncanny resemblance to Phil's favorite move, albeit a bit more graceful.

What they did right, and what you should do, too:

Trim costs to guests as much as possible.  Provide free accommodations to everyone who wants them. Cheap eats and drinks were provided on site, and the facility was fantastic clean, high ceilings and a great floor for bouncing. Unicycling was allowed, and there was room enough for passing.  Combat was not only allowed, it was encouraged.

The building had showers, which many of the out-of-towners appreciated. There was music, but it was not obnoxiously loud, nor controlled by one person with horrible taste, but rather democratically comandeered by various people with horrible taste.

The vendors who were there had come to have a good time, not to make a quick buck. Novices seemed to feel welcome and comfortable, so even though there weren't work­shops, they still learned techniques and tricks from people on the gym floor. It wasn't monster-huge fest, but the company was great, the pizza was free, and it was a heck of a good time.