David Fewster

THE NIGHT I MET ALLEN GINSBERG

It was April tenth, 1993, the Crocodile Cafe,

home of the world famous Seattle music scene,

where the Tragically Hip & Conspicuously Pierced

could be observed in their habitat,

clawing tooth and nail to get in to see their favorite bands,

and then stand around and talk loudly amongst themselves

during the actual show to prove that they were

Too Cool to Care,

and, if you were really lucky,

you could stand next to Peter Buck

at the vomit-splattered urinal

while taking a piss.

We had all laughed when, the January before,

Hamish, bar manager and clown prince impresario

of our local Spoken Word movement, had

stood onstage during a Seattle Writers' Guild show

and proclaimed with Old Testament fervor

that Allen Ginsberg would appear at the Crocodile and,

by implication, give his blessing to all our literary endeavors.

(This, of course, was before I discovered that Ginsberg

would show up in Jesse Helms' living room as long as he

had his $5,000 fee guaranteed.)

Anyhow, two-and-a-half months later,

there was Allen Ginsberg performing at ACT

(with Hamish, of course, as the warm-up act),

then back to the Crocodile, 

where a spoken word/music tribute

was held in the showroom. 

To add to the historical significance of the evening,

Roberto Valenza performed sober, which most of us

had never seen before and would never see again,

and can only be attributed to the proximity of his former mentor.

He was so good the kids actually shut up

for almost three minutes to listen to him.

Later, Allen sat in the bar for a couple hours signing books,

which I thought was pretty game for such an old fart.

As I craned to see over the heads and shoulders

for a glimpse of the poet,

I saw that he signed all the books with name, date

and the capital letters 'AH'--

What was this strange acronym?

No one else from the scores of autograph seekers was asking--

How typical of these Gen X slacker sheep,

curious about nothing, not even the potential

Key to All Knowledge, so when my turn finally came,

(my brand new copy of 'Howl' bought for the occasion

clutched in my hand)

I blurted "What DOES AH stand for?"

Looking up, Ginsberg fixed his seer's eyes upon me

for a nanosecond and replied

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH"

Wow, man, I thought. How cosmic. No wonder

I'm the guy standing in line for an hour and a half

and he's the one signing the friggin' books.

(Photo: Roberto Valenza and the back of Allen Ginsberg's head, 4/10/93,

Seattle Writers' Guild Literary Salon, 74 S. Washington,

right before AG's reading at ACT Theater)