Purple Wednesday's

I am no performer.
I am an essayist.
I was really freaked out.

Purple Wednesday's is the love child of The Pete and Guy Show and Geoff's band, The Floating Lotus, and is a weekly variety show hosted by SF's favorite storyteller, Guy J. Jackson. The point you ask? Well, I was finally featured. Finally fuckers, finally, finally. And? Well, I flipped out royally.

But what was it Hunts said?

"Just because you have a talent for writing essays doesn't mean that this is to the exclusion of anything else."

Hmmm... I guess that turned out to be true. I had four sets, which in total included 7 assorted poems, Play Me, and this delightful new story that went through a frantic last minute rewrite.


In the morning, we roll over beneath our sheets to see who is laying next to us. Not always, but most mornings, it is one of our nomad girlfriends and when it is, we chose to wake her softly, watch her hand draw to her face, eyes rolling, and wipe sleep away with her fingertips.
We will say our good mornings.
And when we wake the bedspreads are thrown from our bodies, the windows and doors are opened, the empty beer cans are kicked around and moved aside searching for that half smoked pack of Camel Lights that we are sure is left over from the the night before. We can never actually find them, and so we ask the girl who slept next to us for an American Sprit Yellow or a Marb Menthol--anything before braving the streets this early, sleepy and unshowered, to retrieve another pack from the sandwich shop, as the placard on the front door of the mini mart will almost assuredly read "back in 10 minutes". Anything to fit between our first two fingers as we drape ourselves in the armchair by the window, anything to keep tidy the illusion that this morning will be unlike the others.
We will then briefly relate to each other when we work that evening, utilizing the word 'close' as if it is a position on a clock as in 'three to close'. We often work three to close.
When we are sprawled across this armchair, when we have our borrowed smoke and stolen lighter, more will drift in and recline on the bed we've just left. We will relate events we were all present to share, filling in the blanks when necessary, punctuating each tale with the occasional burst of laughter. We will remark on our new day. We will decide who will be the one to go out the front door, down the stairs, through the gate and seven doors down to the sandwich shop to replace our stolen cigarettes. Our methods in deciding this are, every morning, just short of drawing straws.
We will of course, eventually relent. We will decide who will get cigarettes, yes, but also who will get coffee, and who will the lucky one to make breakfast.
We love breakfast. Specifically, we love eggs and bagels and inn the morning, every morning, we make scrambled eggs and sesame bagels with black coffee and Camel Lights purchased down the street at the sandwich shop. We feel this makes ours a happy home; and we, seated at a table, eating together, chain-smoking and caffeinating ourselves begin again to speak of the the night before, but mostly of the other women of our acquaintance. We speak of many of them as but common bitches because clearly, they are.
We make an ordeal of naming thier flaws, peppering each new example liberally with the word 'whore', because...well, because they are such whores. And bitches.
And they are indeed bitches, and yet, I suppose we too are bitches in a certain respect, and so when we are done demeaning them, the tables slowly begin to turn on us. We, over eggs, bagels, coffee and Camel Lights begin to speak of the night before, but this time of the mistakes we might have made. We, together, seem to make a great many mistakes. It is never as easy to speak of us as it is of them, but we always come back around to the conclusion that we might want to start picking our partners sober so that we can assure rather than hope that things will remain, as we would say, 'cool'.
And yeah, usually it is, save a few exceptions, and we tend to rationalize it all and each one until every bagel is gone, leftover eggs are cold and unwanted, until the bedspeads have been righted, draped properly across the bed, until the ashtray next to the armchair by the window is emptied and readied for when night will fall and it will all begin again.
When we have worked our three-to-close, when we get off work, we will visit the mini mart but the placard will not read "back in 10 minutes", but rather the door will be wide open, and everyone in the neighborhood will be there for the same reason we are. We will buy 12 canned beers, and they will be silver and blue, and we will buy one pack of Camel Lights. This will cost us $12.75, and when we give the man a ten and three ones we will pocket the remaining quarter rather than place it in the palm of some degenerate or drug addict milling about the entrance of the store.
We buy these beers to fuel one more night, so that we may drink them and create new stories. So that we may, again, make the same mistakes we always seem to make. So that tomorrow, after saying our good mornings, we will have something to kick aside when searching for our cigarettes. So that we will have something to speak of over eggs and bagels.


Dale said...

National Lampoon Goes to College
Who better to comment sardonically on the current state of Hollywood than the underappreciated screenwriter? Here now are some of our favorite screenwriter blogs, reflecting both those who have made it and ...
Hey, you have a great blog here! I'm definitely going to bookmark you!
I have a bonsai book site. It pretty much covers bonsai book related stuff.

Come and check it out if you get time :-)

~PhoenixRising said...

Dude. Hommie has a BONSAI BOOK WEBSITE? Shit! Whatever I came here to say is, rather unfortunately, killed by the fact that there is, let me repeat, a BONSAI BOOK WEBSITE.
With such dope testimonials as

"I had a major problem, my Dad gave me a Bonsai plant as a gift and then the plant started turning brown and was dying. I then searched for help on the Internet and came across this book. It has helped me save my plant with the information provided, so... Thank You!
Lauren Castaldi - NC - USA"

If Lauren is so happy with bonsaicaresecrets.com, how could anyone else be unsatisfied, yo!

But, what I meant to say, before getting sucked into this bonsai madness, is to ask, well, HOW'D IT GO, like the reading, yo, was it TIZZIGHT?
Well, I doubt it could have gone too horribly awry, but still, have to check... :)


Milkshake said...

It was, indeed, TIZZIGHT. I just wish I could remember what else I read that night...I remember closing with nick + william's pieces, the rest is foggy. Now I'm fucked though--got nothin' for tomorrow.

~PhoenixRising said...

You'll come up with something.
Gotta love foggy poetry readings. Sippin on the Sizzurp?

I actually found Sizzurp in the liquor store by my house. Purple Liquor, who can stop a purple liquor? no one.