July 3 - Paper I'm Shitty

I thought I would be a wallflower at The Paper Machete, as I'm interested in being a part of this live weekly magazine.
Interest + Hanging Around = Possibility of Fulfillment

Nursing a beer along the wall of Ricochet's I spotted Steve from The Chicago Reader/ Chicago AV Club/Time Out Chicago. Years ago he interviewed me for 58, the show I wrote about bike messengering. Since then, I say hi to him socially, whether it's at The Annoyance or in line at Hot Doug's.
I said hey.
"Hey," he countered curtly.
Maybe being curt is his pre-show ritual.

Then Jesse from The Absolute Best Friggin' Time Of Your Life arrived, followed by Boaz, musical director for last year's Blago musical. They hauled a guitar, an upright bass, a bongo, and some hand percussion.
"Are you doing something here, too?" they asked individually, not in unison.

Next, Katie and Lindsay from Sirens arrived with a written piece hot off the press.
"Wow, I didn't even recognize you," observed Lindsay.
I guess I haven't been around the improv scene with my new grunge conquistador look.
"Are you doing something for the show?" Katie asked.

Cast members from Second City's e.t.c. stage added themselves to the dart-throwing area of the bar. Michael, an understudy that night, extended his hand for an introduction.
"Hi, I'm Michael - oh, hey Tony! I didn't recognize you. Wow...". And he laughed a bit.
Hm.
I wonder if Steve just didn't recognize me, and that's why he looked at me like I was a complete asshole for saying hello.

At the bar I tried a less expensive beer. Christina from e.t.c. asked if I would like to play the bongo on her songs with Jesse and Boaz.
It looked as if would be a part of The Paper Machete after all.

This week's edition was tight.
Abe from Baby Teeth wrung the butter out of his electric piano with humor.
Ali Weiss spat a biting ode to Mayor Daley ala "Casey at the Bat."
Steve's history of fireworks read well aloud, especially when punctuated with crisp handfuls of happy snappers.
Katie and Lindsay's piece on Brits 'n' squaws tickled us from Lake Wobegon.

I achieved more beer as the afternoon wore on.
John Paul Davis read a knockout about shades of the color white. It was both genuinely funny and actually moving. Fuck, man. If I want to be a part of this thing, I'm going to have to step it up.
More quality pieces were read, but pre-show jitters prevented them from penetrating my stagefright.
More beer helped calm my nerves.
I didn't know what we would be playing, but soon I found myself "onstage" with Christina, Jesse and Boaz, squeezing a bongo with my knees. We played two songs, one of them being Warrant's "Cherry Pie". The pie that Warrant made famous.
And then the show was over!

I drank enough cheap beer to think I could socialize.
Milling about, I praised my friends, introduced myself to the host and John Paul Davis, and reintroduced myself to Ali.
Christina thanked me for sitting in on the songs.
Christina is African American.
"That was our debut playing music together," she said.
I decided to disagree.
"Didn't we do a Bizco gig a few years ago?"
"You're thinking of Claudia or Amber."
Claudia and Amber are also African American women.
Christina, Claudia and Amber have all worked with Second City.
I decided to press the issue, because I like to think that I don't do ignorant things like lump all African American women at Second City together.
"What about the variety show with Eddie and Zulevic? Didn't I play drums on your song?"
"That was probably Naomi."

And humiliation.
Actually, I was thinking of a woman named Dionna. That's who I was thinking of.
Dionna is African American.

My stupid white face turned red.
My stupid red face turned back to white.
With terror.
I did my best to clean up the mess, but it felt like I drove a car into a 7-Eleven, and all I had was a Dustbuster.

Well.
Now what.
More beer.
Right?

From the bar, I saw Steve about to leave.
I turned my neck and got him in my sites.
"SteveIlikedyourpiece."
It was a wobbly, clumsy arrow, but it pierced him.
"Thanks."
He paused, trapped.
"I liked your..."
Oh no.
My what?
My lazy racism?
My thoughtless thinking?
My blatant disregard for self-editing?
"...drumming."

Back at home I tried to take down my Jimmy the Greek posters, but ended up blaring Kid Rock and passed out in my rebel flag doo rag.

Verdict: Loss

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