Look closely, dears. This is what three generations of loveliness look like: Flotilla DeBarge, moi, and Emanuel Xavier. The photo was taken at the Glam Slam, a spoken word contest at Bowery Poetry Club, courtesy of Emanuel’s House of Xavier. (Flotilla and I judged, holding up scores and finger snaps. Despite the power rush—and the constant flow of erotic poetry—we stayed dry and objective.) I’ve done this gig many times before, but this year—the last one before the event takes off for the UK—seemed extra looney and special. For example, the “loss poem in blue” category brought out a weirdo who screamed drug regimens and time announcements in between railing about “Angela” Jolie. Later, we realized he’d interpreted loss as in “lost my mind.” Brilliant! There was also a Jamaican guy who dropped his pants and kept chanting about how his sperm had turned blue. We took his word for it. At other times in the night, Flotilla cleansed the crowd’s palette with a brilliant Macy Gray impression; MC Mother Diva Xavier emitted nonstop verbal hilarity; and one of the finalists began a poem with “Lick it!…Did I stutter?” The limeys have no idea what they’re in for.