WRITE CLUB is described as, “blood sport for the squeamish… bare-knuckled lit.”
Basically, six combatants square off in pairs with assigned opposing topics. Think: Fight Club, but instead of bloodying each other with our fists, we read our essays aloud to a captivated audience and the winner is determined by audience applause.
It was [dramatic pause] incredible. I’m not kidding. This was the first sort of reading I had ever done and I could not have asked for a more perfect evening.
Also, I beat Ian Belknap. *puffs chest* Ian wrote about light and I wrote about dark.
Undeafeated, thus far, I look forward to another WRITE CLUB at PushPush Theater soon. Hopefully, it can be a once a month gig. SO fun.
It was videotaped and, as soon as I get the word on it’s location once it’s uploaded, be certain I’m going to pimp the SHIT out of it.
For now, here’s my essay:
I made a really long list about how dark kicks light’s ass but I’ve had to edit it down a bit. Originally, it was 12” long and as thick as coke can but I knew my father would be in the audience so I wanted to keep the dick jokes to a minimum.Since I’m a woman, I’m going to go ahead and roll with the stereotypes and I’m gonna talk about really important stuff like hair. And chocolate.I have first hand experience with why dark beats light. You may not be able to tell right now, because I’m in that terrible growing-it-out-inbetween-stage, but I’m naturally a dark blonde. I’d pull my pants down and prove it, but I’ve only got seven minutes and it takes me three to get these tight-ass jeans back up over my hips. I dyed my hair black five years ago. It was one of those “FUCK THE WORLD—I’M’A DO WHAT I WANT!” things that women do when they finalize their divorces. It was hot. My hair was long and wavy and dark as the night and I got so much tail. I mean, last year, I had to take a break from dating – not because I was jaded or broken hearted – but because I was TIRED. It appealed to the good guys that wanted to date a bad girl because bottle-black hair somehow equals… bad girl? I don’t know. I do know that I got a lot of nice dinners and flowers and I got my door held open a hell of a lot by a shit ton of nice boys last year. And the bad boys loved it, too… I don’t really think I’m that much of a bad girl, but the black hair really sent that message to the universe.And this year? When I stopped coloring my hair and chopped it all off in my attempt to get back to my natural dirty blonde? The dudes that step to me now have no game. They’re bad at sex. They’re aloof. And even the quantity is down. I’m the same semi-fat girl that I was last year. I’ve got the same job. I have the same friends. I live in the same neighborhood. Nothing has changed except my hair. It’s getting bad enough that I’m considering becoming a bisexual just so that I can get laid by someone that isn’t a socially retarded loser.Now I’m depressed which brings me to chocolate.When I was a barista, because really, all good writers have to serve time working in a coffee shop, there were two kinds of chocolate: the rich, thick dark chocolate sauce that we made fresh every day. This chocolate required special care and was always refrigerated for your safety and enjoyment. It had just the right balance of bitter and sweet. But thewhite chocolate? That shit came in gallon-sized jugs, six to a box. It would arrive on a big ass hot truck and from there, get put right on the god damned shelf. When you pumped it into a cup, the consistency and color looked exactly like jizz.The boy baristas would intentionally shoot it on each other’d green aprons, mimicking I guess, some homoerotic fantasy that lay deep inside their stupid, bong-resined heads. So, this fall, when you’re thinking it would be a perfect night to go up to your local coffee shop and warm up with a big steamy mug of hot white chocolate, don’t forget that your drink began with four pumps of something that looks like baby batter.You know what else? Blackheads. Blackheads are so much more satisfying to pop than whiteheads. You get this little tiny pimple with this little light colored head and all it takes is a little nudge and, pop, it’s done. Or worse, you get a little tiny whitehead and it won’t pop and you’re left with this giant red welt on your face because you’ve been squeezing at it and touching it and fretting over it and it JUST WON’T POP. But blackheads? They’re awesome and PRODUCTIVE. Likea little treasure trove of pus-sy goodness. Give a blackhead a squeeze and he’ll gush a snake-like pus string that will spring out and then lay down on itself, like whipped cream on your hot white chocolate.And don’t sit there and try to pretend like you’re SO grossed out. You love it. Everybody loves popping their own zits. It’s cleansing and you want it to be a productive exercise in your beauty routine.And what about The Dark Side? Darth Vader was the villain of all villains when I was a kid. Head-to-toe black, he even wore gloves and covered his face because dark equals scary. Dark equals mysterious. Dark equals you’re gonna probably get your god damned hand chopped of by your own freakin’ daddy. And speaking of Luke Sykwalker, he never made my panties drop until he started wearing black.You know who wears all white? Brides. Well, I guess brides that didn’t slut it up before the wedding, or at least kept it on the hush-hush. And you know who else? Angels. Fucking angels. Alright, if I’ve got an angel on this shoulder and a little, bad ass devil on my other shoulder, without them even ATTEMPTING to sway me with their verbal arguments, I’m going to choose to do very bad things based simply on what they’re wearing. On my left, we’ve got the devil. He’s either wearing a full, red spandex body suit plus cape and pitchfork or he’s wearing a smart 3-piece suit with a red tie. Either outfit is badass – the spandex because, seriously… Having that level of confidence is incredible and the 3-piece suit because everybody’s crazy ‘bout a sharp dressed man. The angel on my right shoulder is wearing a dress. A motherfucking long, white dress. And not only that, he’s got wings too… Just like a fairy. He probably curls his hair, too. I mean, seriously… When faced with one of those decisions where two little dudes are going to pop a squat on your shoulder, who would you listen to? The dude that’s telling you to break rules and be a badass or the cross-dressing goodie-goodie in the wedding dress?You need more examples? Alright.[read like a beat poet]Beat… poets know… that dark turtlenecks… and dark jeans… make you… Look…. smart, educated and interesting… The dude in the bright white shirt? He’s probably got a pair of dueling pit stains and a little dribble down the front because he can’t feed himself properly.But you don’t care about beat poetry. You want to get laid and this is how you do it: Poorly lit, dark bars. Seriously, going to a dark bar will improve your sex life, or at the very least pad your stats. Nobody notices your imperfections and once you get about four drinks in, you’re both so sloshed that it doesn’t matter any more. Well-lit places don’t get you laid. You don’t walk into the doctor’s office and plop your ass down on the paper-lined table and then get some.What else?Coke beats Sprite.Coffee beats milk.Whiskey beats Vodka.Gregory Hines beats Billy CrystalPlay beats Kid. What the hell was he thinking with that hair anyway??Danny Glover beats Mel GibsonBlack Michael Jackson beats White Michael Jackson.Dre beats EminemKumar beats HaroldSeal beats HeidiRuben beats ClayJules Winnfield beats Vincent Vega because eatin’ a bitch out, and givin’ a bitch a foot massage ain’t even the same fuckin’ thing.Dark beats light.Still need further convincing? Close your eyes. Everybody… Go on… Close your eyes.[whisper]Now touch yourself.Nobody’s gonna see, man… You couldn’t do that in the light.