..February 2006 Williamsburg..
I stood in the corner of a backstage area that resembled the back room of a meat packing plant. The air musky and damp. The floors ice cold with the elegance of an inch of dirt beneath my shoes. Two long legged psycho women wearing pink bob wigs, frilly pink short skirts, and neon green stockings talk squeamishly to themselves. Their kindergarten vocabulary made it a scene out of a nightmarish Alice In Wonderland.
The room filled with a freakish marching band. Men randomly blowing into trumpets and a kazoo with all their might. Some wearing green plaid kilts, a couple of long sloppy haired plaid shirt wearing boys who look like they came from grunge band practice. You name it, every freak in the city had converged into the room like a Las Vegas porn convention. The long legged psycho women rehearsed their act, Five..Six..Seven..Eight.. dancing, jumping out of a fake birthday cake waving pink pomp pomps.
The anarchy hits a crescendo when a bearded man wearing a sparkling bell bottom suit emerges from the stage door. With the flamboyance and charisma of a middle aged Elvis impersonator and used car salesman from Dallas, he scanned the room like it was his playpen. Gesturing to a man with stars and comets tattooed on his face. The tattooed man, Eak, wraps him in a hug. “Paule, this is The Great Ferdini, the fastest knife thrower in the world.” I think I’ve seen this man in a bad dream when I was 5. With a gleam in his eye and smirk on his face, grabs his shiny silver belt buckle with two hands. Looks me in the eye…”no blood on the stage tonight. It was a good night.”
The anarchy, the long legged psycho women, Five..Six..Seven..Eight, and the marching band blowing their trumpets and kazoo. How did I get here? What I am doing with my life, my sweetest friend? I desperately want to do something with my life.