Instead of pec-ularialy celebrating my sexuality the Long Beach way (May 18 and 19 are our pride days, and the star who graced pride’s main stage this year was celebrated illiterate Fantasia Barrino! H-I F-A-N-T-A-S-I-A), I willingly drove to Riverside.
Riverside makes me feel like I’m a protagonist in a Camus novel. Its dullness leaches my ability to morally arbitrate between good versus Republican. My ethical self becomes comatose. Moroccans of Riverside beware.
Too bad Killing a Carob isn’t an existential fro yo flavor.
So anyways, I descended into the bat cave that Riverside’s DIY Print Fest was happening in and the odor of DIY slapped me. The smell of DIY makes me want to DIE. It’s part BO, part BO, and part BO. Dirty vegana. Despite its funk, DIY inspires me. People doing their own shit? That’s just cool. You don’t need a press with a bunch of shy consonants (KNOPF) to be a writer whose shit skitters through the world and into the minds of others. All you need is a brain, a heart, something to write with, and an unmonitored copy machine at your workplace.
I roamed tables of zines, stickers, and quinoa eclairs and flipped through this manual.
As I was learning about “the pigeon,” my colon began to do it. I flew out of the bat cave, entered the light, and stomped up the street, looking for someplace where it was okay to let my asshole see the light. I found a cafe with a woodsy bathroom that I stayed in way too long.
After I was done TCBing, I couldn’t stop pretending I was lost in the forest painted on the walls.
I wondered how long it would take for rescuers to find me. I worried about the imaginary drugs in my car. Then I remembered that I was supposed to be reading at 3:15 and looked at my phone.
I hiked out of the forest and back to the bat cave.
I performed my poetry-like substances on a floor-level stage with a pencil-drawing of an angry cat meme hanging behind me. I sold some books, traded some books in return for zines about polyamorous cats, and without killing a carob, left citrus city to return home and change into an orange party dress that hasn’t seen the moonlight in six months.
Now, let’s add TJ:
With our faces stuck like this, we drove to a fiesta where we spared the valet the shame of parking our Honda. We carried two bottles of Fess Parker port topped with merkinesque coon skin caps uphill, to the front door of our hostess’ house, which politely dangled off a cliff.
In the sea of beautiful people in the backyard, we might’ve come across a female actress who created a character with the same initials as me: (OMG) MKG!
What I might’ve noticed about her was that when I compared our toes, I was wearing the Les Miserables version of the high-heeled sandal she wore better. My tattered, little whores of the French Revolution just wanted to eat cake. Her Marie Antoinettes glittered, but I didn’t want to smell her feet. Since I was nervous, I wanted to stick my hands in her armpits and then smell them like this…