Dispatch: Beach Poets (Chicago)
An afternoon of poetry, pizza debates, puppets, and accidental theology
Beach Poets has been anchoring itself to the lakefront since the early nineties. It’s a remarkable survival rate, and this year, the lineage shifted slightly out of pure necessity. After Westley Heine lost his long-standing open mic at The Gallery Cabaret due to a management change, Cathleen Schandelmeier brought him on as a co-host. It was a move born out of community karma, and perhaps a mutual love for confusing everyone.
When I arrived, there were no microphones, no speakers, and absolutely no polish. The setup was just a loose, unamplified circle of fold-out lawn chairs nestled under the shade of some trees where the sand meets the tall grass. Just down the beach, a completely different crowd with graphic tees and tats was grilling, blasting music, and generally having the kind of summer afternoon I usually gravitate toward. At one point “High Hopes 3000” drifted over our circle, followed later by a steady loop of Drake. I was intensely tempted to abandon poetry altogether and go hang out with them. The smell of funnel cake and BBQ in the air wasn’t helping my resolve.
Instead, I stayed in my chair and watched the open mic find its footing.
The afternoon began with the sort of hyper-local housekeeping that makes these spaces feel like a small town. Someone wondered if anyone had found a missing copy of The Chosen Few left behind the previous month. Another writer asked if Dmitry (because somehow everyone in Chicago knows Dmitry Samarov) was coming before the circle quickly agreed he is, without question, a night person and would never come to an event like this. We learned Westley is heading to a residency at Osage Arts in Missouri, and then, without warning, the reading itself was underway.
The tonal shifts hit like rogue waves. Which is something that only the Great Lakes and the ocean are capable of. Shout out to Lake Michigan’s ambient background noise throughout the entire event.
Chris opened with a poem called “Body Count.” Then a man named Mark stepped forward carrying a guitar. The organizers briefly debated skipping ahead because it looked like he might take a while, but they let him play. His first song, “Debbie So Dear,” was written for his wife, who passed away last year. It was raw, heavy, and deeply earnest.
The moment he finished, everyone sat quietly for a beat, letting the song settle. Then, as if grief had naturally run its course, the conversation veered without warning into an enthusiastic debate over Chicago pizza.
The emotional whiplash was staggering.
Naturally, the entire circle abandoned grief and launched into a spirited debate over local pizza places. Right then, Scott Laudati called my phone. Given Scott’s current fixation on pizza, the timing felt cosmically stupid. I ignored the call, shot him a text instead, and watched the conversation somehow drift from deep dish to the country of Spain.
Cathleen had brought her grandson, who spent the afternoon wandering through the grass and occasionally requiring audience members to retrieve him mid-poem. Normally I’m great with kids. I have 11 nieces and nephews. But something about introducing a toddler into a poetry reading short-circuited everyone. Writers visibly reconsidered whether their next poem was child appropriate before walking to the center of the circle.
The eclectic rotation continued. Someone compared one songwriter to Shel Silverstein, instantly sending my brain back to elementary school. Lorna Wood read an intense, heartbreaking piece about Ukraine. Another poet followed with a political poem featuring the line, “Proud not to be a proud boy,” while, in the background, two men quietly assembled a sign announcing something called The Bob and Bob Show.
Before the featured readers, the group took a short break that somehow evolved into an impromptu discussion about Catholicism. Someone declared, “The pope is dope.” A few people admitted they still found comfort in the rosary and the ritual of the Church, while others talked openly about leaving it behind. I usually have an incredibly sharp radar for spotting former Catholics. It’s a specific combination of guilt and aesthetic sensibility. But my radar completely failed me this afternoon. I wouldn’t have guessed a single one.
Westley wandered over while everyone drank LaCroix and escaped the sun beneath the trees. He’s been organizing readings since the aughts, starting as what he happily described as a punk poet. At one point he admitted he’d tried grabbing food from the concession stand only to discover an ex-girlfriend he hadn’t seen in years standing there, prompting an immediate tactical retreat back to the poetry circle. We both agreed that if nothing else, it was nice attending a beach reading where we weren’t actively freezing.
Kat Freeze opened the featured portion of the afternoon. Westley introduced her as one of Chicago’s best poets and a Louder Than a Bomb slam champion. She immediately took command of the space with “Hot Girl Summer,” performing with the sort of confidence I suspect I’ll never experience firsthand.
I found myself scribbling down lines that landed especially well:
“I want to be what sharpens your blade.”
“Learning how to bend and snap out of it.”
“Shooting my shot so you can’t shoot back.”
One moment during her set made me laugh more than it probably should have. Kat casually mentioned she didn’t really know anyone in the crowd, completely unaware that I’d covered one of her previous readings. It reminded me of the time an editor from Always Crashing quoted one of my own articles back to me without realizing I was the one who wrote it.
Apparently I have a remarkable ability to document literary spaces while remaining almost entirely invisible inside them.
Then came the main event: The Bob and Bob Show
Bob Lawrence and Bob Rashkow, both sporting matching Cubs hats, opened with what sounded like the theme song to a forgotten nineties sitcom before introducing a puppet.
The puppet immediately stole the show.
It eventually launched into a skit phone conversation with Bob calling “The Bobster,” and using the phrase “Audience Anxiety Variety” (which I’m absolutely stealing). They mused that “depression is a form of inverted anger,” referenced Lenny Bruce, took a quick shot at Gallery Cabaret, and somehow made every bit of it work.
The duo followed with a poem about White Castle, a personal tragedy considering I’ve been craving it ever since they raised the prices, then closed on JFK before passing around a hat for donations. I’ve always loved the quiet solidarity of a pass-the-hat moment.
As everyone packed up their lawn chairs, the history of Beach Poets came up one last time. Cathleen explained that the series began back in 1990. During the very first reading, the police showed up and informed everyone the lake was closed.
Whatever happened next, they clearly didn’t listen.
Thirty-six years later, we were all still sitting in exactly the same spot.
Really loved this and felt admiration for Chicago as a city