Festival Of The Weird

I sat in perfect contradiction to everyone else in the room. Next to me was a teenage girl that looked like a member of a cheer squadron ready to pump a pep rally fully of jubilation with spontaneity and grand outbursts of jocularity. Across from me was a man that sweats while he eats and couldn’t predict the mayhem of a riot after a Nazi parade in Harlem. Then there was me, unemployed, which is easy to explain, and looking to ward off the advances of creditors.

It is easy to explain my unemployment and can be summed up in one word, artist. That is what I called myself and all artists are unemployed. They are only employed at the one instant of a sale then they go back to wondering where the next one is coming from. It is a life much like the muck and mire of an addict trying to get a hit. The best artists are whores with pimps and an entourage. These are the artists that are remembered because they are properly lubricated by a host of staff. I did not want to be an artist that was handled by anyone, in other words I am poor and need to take work at places like Renaissance Festivals. It supports my habit.

The girl next to me was fourteen and this was going to be her first job. After telling the sweaty man her name, she went into detail about a tournament that she needed time off for and a family vacation to the Magic Kingdom that she would need to schedule around. She did not get the job.