everyone's going to

PORTLAND

...... for good reason!

by Eric Bagai

 

It rains most of Friday, but this is Portland so nobody pays much attention to it.  At registration everyone receives an offical PJF commermoriative, tie-dyed Mr. String laced through a hole in the 16 page festival program.  This is our badge for the festival.

 

Mr. String is a yard of sash cord, uniquely dyed with golden-yellow ends (to distinguish it from your ordinary Mr. Strings) and multihued in the middle. What does one do with Mr. String? One throws knots. The idea is to hold one end and dangle the rest just above the floor, then gently snap-turn the wrist in a blurrish direction, and look Billy! Mr. String has a knot in him!

 

Usually it's a simple overhand knot, sometimes a "cosmic" knot, and every other blue moon you get a bow. Mostly you get nada. Mr. String makes Mr. String. That is, a very nice man by the name of Bruce Cate invented Mr. String and makes a modest living selling it.

 

He is a world-class master of knot throwing and has taken the professional name of "Mr. String." Bruce is also our guest of honor and will lead a workshop. Once you have developed a little proficiency with Mr. String (like many juggling skills it requires a fine balance of Zen-like attention and pig-blind stubbornness) several competitive games can be played: high knot, low knot, and knot-off (most knots in 60 seconds). A good knotoff leaves about four inches of string and a fist­sized ball of knots. You find out who won by counting the knots as you untie them. If you want to reach Mr. String, write him at The Cosmic Goose Juggling Farm, Leander TX.

 

The vendors are set up and busy from the start, including Renegade, Juggling Capitol, Serious Juggling, Mr. String (in case you want an extra one), and Flying Clipper (maker of fine leather footbags and juggling balls). Also, Paint the Sky Kites and a new vendor, The Professional Beanbag Hatchery.

 

Rather than try to feed everyone dinner on the first night as in the past, this year we give everyone dessert. Almond-chocolate mousse, chocolate brownies, great whipped frothings of fruit and nuts, mounds of freshly baked cookies. No one

objects. Too busy eating!

 

Henrick Bothe, Frank Olivier and Stevie G are practicing a strange little line dance, each with a hand on another's shoulder, like a file of Mr. Naturals a-truckin' on down. Everyone else is doing the things people usually do at open juggling during festivals: greeting old friends, checking out the vendors, and of course, juggling. A few people spend most of the evening eating dessert.

 

By 10 p.m., everyone is ready for Club Renegade. Getting into the Reed College Student Union is problematic. It's furnished like a living room that happens to be about 80'x40', and it comfortably seats 60 or so on the couches and stuffed chairs. But there are about 300 of us. I find a nice spot on a windowsill that exactly holds my beer cooler.

 

One of the attractions of any juggling festival is finding wonderfully bizarre people. I've known Animal for almost five years, and the years have made him no less strange.

 

Animal (Jeffrey Johnson) is our emcee. Animal is distinguished by many things: his size (XL), his personality (XL), his talent (XL), his spirit (XL), and his laugh (XXL). No one laughs louder or more thoroughly than Animal. Think of him as a Dr. Seuss character come to visit. He begins the show with a surrealist bit of street theatre and Frank Olivier immediately joins in. Then Animal greases his shaven head, sticks three plumber's plungers on it, sets them afire, and poses on a globe, imitating the Hawaiian Vaudevillian figure on this year's T-shirt.

 

Then come the acts. First are the Drops-A­Lot Twins with good kid talent and good kid jokes with good kid timing. It even has a beginning, middle and end, which beats anything seen on Saturday Night Live for the past 10 years.

 

Next comes a marvelously choreographed kickbag duet between the very tall Paul Yorick and the very small Tricia George. They dance around and under and over each other, the footbag constantly weaving and bouncing about them. A pity they drop so much, but it's still the most unusual and intricate footbag routine I've ever seen. The only change I'd suggest is a brighter, perhaps larger, certainly more visible footbag ­ just so the folks in the back can see it. (Yes, I know other footbaggers will scoff at a giant bag, but this is showbiz!)

 

Ben Schoenberg does a round of mixed-prop juggling, from squash racquets to garbage cans. Unpretentious and with no particular point other than fun, it is appreciated not just for the technical virtuosity, but because Ben is appreciated. Boppo then presents the only intellectual performance I've ever seen at Club Renegade. It's funny, but don't ask me to explain it. Get him to do it again at your festival.

 

Mr. String hisself does the improbable by throwing a knot over a golf ball and picking it up. Animal comes on again and demos his fiery AstroBalls, inadvertently reprising the archetypal flaming-object-into­the-audience routine. Fortunately, a juggler is there to properly catch it. Tim Furst comes on and tells how his father was an Olympic athlete in club swinging, and demonstrates a typical routine. It is unlike most of what's seen today, and has the speed and precision of a Neil Stammer act.

 

Then Iman lip-synchs to a recording of the Barber of Seville, while giving festival director Rhys Thomas a haircut. It presents strong, well-defined movement, much of it a parody of actual opera pantomime, and is thoroughly, minutely, choreographed. This is the best and most professional bit of the evening, and everyone knows it.

 

For the four minutes her act takes, I am in love. Maybe longer.