Monday, January 3, 2011

Thoughts On Tours

Thoughts and wheels and waters and lines on roads on tours.
Snag the front seat for a fritter and a chat.
Like when the fictional real life comic turned sit com protagonist takes her family in a van to the mountains.
Because the voice over lady had a baby so they had to do a flash back episode.
No matter how hungry or slow or spent or drained or high on small bags of chips we get,
Tours are always
In a word
Peanut shells on the floor fun
Even sometimes thrilling
Like a sharpie on a tank top.
But, exhausting, like a three day hang over without the comfort of your own coffee pot or toaster oven, like a grown up birthday party Indian styled around floor cushions and white wines, suddenly embarrassed over the navy blue corduroys you've had since ninth grade.
Who cares, I'll never see these people again.
Like the time I went to the temple with the fakes, mortified over my home perm, but relaxed over the dark grapes in plastic cups. I couldn't wear a short sleeved cream colored sweater from the Gap if you paid me.
But, sure, it's fun to count the similarities and the architectures of the lives we've been assigned.
I can hear my 1996 CD alarm clock going off between the sheets of my brass pronged day bed and packaged panties, Ladies and Gentlemen; Simon, and Garfunkel!
Oh, salt water, oh, school yard, oh, my.
Saved and shaved from coast to hood to space ship rain fallen lightly.
Come she will.
You know you'd be crazy to leave this life, this company of crush.
Unless, of course, dare I say, an even better came to pass with the clouds that stick to your frigid carrot stained air in cheesy jazzed fables about prints in the sand.
And when a whole row gets up to leave your dramatic monologue about your mother so that they can make it to their lips in time for the middle of the night.
Who cares?
I got a pan of maybe every thing's not gray anymore with my name on it.
And it's the life you imagined you were signing up for.
Because for the two to twenty one days you are away, you have one job to do, and enough money for a sandwich and a museum membership.
Even more strange then seeing your name in print is seeing the titles of your plays in print.
Even better then seeing your mother's silhouette appear for an instant between the curtains and the voms, spouting something important about a down stage chair into a head set and a wink; is the vacant eyes of six hundred twang talkers. We have come down with a hard case of the pleases to likes what I do's no matter the snow, fog, line, lot, counts, or really confusing wine spirit state rules.
Anyway, resolve should be small this year for a change, a Sunday audience, like, drink more water, and don't be a stranger.

Always do your best,
Skin and Toast

No comments:

Post a Comment