Memories from Dumpster Reading #6. Sycamore and Munger.
-Location: green dumpster behind 12 unit apartment complex.
-Some contents: diapers, stray beer cans and cereal boxes from torn open trash bags, oily rags, cardboard boxes, used prophylactics, bicycle chain, and some dried up tissues.
-Smell: nothing potent enough to unclog my sinuses.
-Audience: hippie looking dude in cowboy hat and homeless black guy who wanted the cans.
-Hippie jokes: 3.
-What I did: read six poems from "Ahora, tengo que ir..." and closed with a newly minted short story called, "When you get fucked at the Motel 6, you really get fucked at the Motel 6."
-Time: 23 minutes, 17 seconds.
-Talking with hippie guy:
Me: So, what's up ya hippie fuck?
Hippie: Not much. You Port-o-Reekin?
Me: I'm American.
Hippie: Oh. Me too.
Me: Yeah. Well, if you're a Mexican day laborer, you disguise yourself well.
Hippie: I'm not a hippie. I was born in '68.
Me: Look, if you don't have no thai stick or LSD or shit, you're wasting my time.
Hippie: Oh. So why you standing in the dumpster?
Me: It's a statement on artistry and a strong re-affirmation of the importance of the DIY ethic.
Hippie: No clue what yer talkin' about.
Me: It just means that I'm a cheeky fucker. I don't have a fuckin' book deal, and I don't roll 6-10 deep in some internet writing clique. Every artist I associate myself with I respect and would never want to emulate them or have them emulate me.
Hippie: Oh.
Me: You're really only like forty? Dude, you look sixty.
Hippie: I useta do drugs.
Me: I still do. Fuck me you look like shit. Best anti-drug abuse ad ever.
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