The evening is dark, the sky is bright, look at the writers who’ve come out tonight
They’re gathering in the Kyiv Writers’ Club Hall of Literature, each in possession of a special invitation sent out by certified email only a few days before.
The dress code is strictly in keeping with what the general public imagines a real writer should look like if he were to know how to really write, as well as reside in Kyiv but not be Ukrainian, if you know what I mean, which I don’t – ha ha – because I only write commix, and therefore cannot be considered a “real” writer, so don’t listen to me, but just read further, fool, fuck face, I gonna kick your @#$54!!!
The hall has a low ceiling because it’s not actually a hall but the basement of a sometimes popular expatriate watering hole that’s been engaged by a lawyer-cum-writer and a PR executive come lately on condition that their following buy at least 1,800 hryvnias worth of overpriced drinks or risk getting kicked out by a Ukrainian waitress who doesn’t give two shits that they’re Kyiv-based writers.
It’s not happy hour, nor the witches’ hour, but you can still expect some frightfully fantastic fabulous flabbergasting fibs from a collection of mortals notable in their own minds.
Is that Uncle Fester? No, it’s Welsh Losser. That looks like a mummy but it’s really Sweaty Tank Top and he’s not wrapped in anything but an undershirt without armpits. How about that werewolf? That’s not a werewolf; it’s Jim Hidshit, who looks more like a mangy oversized owl, but definitely not a wolf.
There’s a green metallic suit, a simple business suit that didn’t cost all that much, another business suit that did cost all that much, but is no longer worth anything because it smells, a cheap-assed sports jacket, a white shirt that would look better if it had a cheap-assed sports jacket over it, a white shirt tucked into a saggy pair of jeans, a black t-shirt under another cheap-assed sports jacket with not saggy, but certainly unflattering jeans, and other assorted apparels that by no means meet the dress code of the Kyiv Writers’ Club, such as a flannel shirt covered in burrs, a sweaty tank top, suspenders, a large floppy hat, more suspenders, a five-dollar suit with a jacket in the shape of a turtle shell…
PERSONAE NON DRAMATIS:
Fishburger: Lawyer/Kyiv-based Writer
Welsh Losser: Belated PR executive/Kyiv-based Writer
Josh Davies: Old unemployed man in saggy-ass jeans/Kyiv-based Writer
Sweaty Tank Top: Exact occupation unknown; an ex-used car parts salesman in Scotland, currently rumored to somehow have become the chief editor and/or publisher of What’s Off English-language entertainment magazine/Kyiv-based Writer
Jim Hidshit: Philosopher, former publisher of the now-defunct English-language business magazine, the Easter Economy/Kyiv-based Playwright and, of course, Writer
Unidentified Kyiv Journalist: All evidence points to this being The Ferret/has never claimed to being a Writer, Kyiv-based or otherwise – probably the only good thing about him
Boss Lard: Head of his own PR firm in Kyiv, which employs Welsh Losser, AS WELL as the CEO of the Kyiv Poster, Ukraine’s leading (and only) English-language newspaper/Kyiv-based Writer
Bret Boner: Chief Editor of the Kyiv Poster and secretly Media Man (with costume, cape, and everything), savior of press freedom, freedom of speech, justice and transparency, among other things, in Ukraine/has never claimed to be a Kyiv-based Writer (as far as we know) – because he already IS one
Gaunt, jagged-toothed, vicious face sticking out of a flannel shirt covered in burrs: This is probably Andrew Plum, aka Animal Boy, and a few other names. Hailing from the alternative press industry of New York City and the progressive post-Beat, postmodern urban grunge literary movement, “Kyiv-based” is too small of a label to stick on this “Writer”
Fishburger: (from podium) Gentlemen and Ladies…? (to himself: Hmm, I don’t see any bitches in the crowd – darn. Leave it to Losser to not know any hot chicks.) Gentlemen, can we get started, please?
Welsh Losser: (from beneath the podium that Fishburger’s standing on) Hey, everyone, yuck, yuck, I think it’s about time that – (someone passing by puts an empty beer bottle on his head, and strangely it stays there)
Josh Davies: (engaged in small talk with a small group in the center of the room) And so I told him, ‘Listen Mr. Pasta and Pork Chops, or whatever you people eat on the East Coast…’
Sweaty Tank Top: (to himself) Well how do you like that? There goes another Kyiv-based writer in a shirt with sleeves and a collar… I told Losser I wasn’t going to wear any fancy expatriate writer business attire, and he assured me…
Jim Hidshit: I don’t know if he’s going to show up or not, I tell you.
Unidentified Kyiv Journalist: Heh, heh, maybe he will, though. Not that I told you, heh, heh.
Jim Hidshit: Well, if he does, I would certainly suggest that we call the police, or at least Media Man. I’ve told that maniac every time I’ve seen him that it wasn’t me who closed the Easter Economy and didn’t pay him his salary. I had big plans for that publication, you see, but now, happily I’ve found my rightful place in this community as a Kyiv-based writer who, you may have heard, is periodically introduced as such at cocktail parties full of people in suits at real hotels in this city. So you see…
Unidentified Kyiv Journalist: Heh, heh. Call the police? Yeah, why not? Just don’t tell anyone that I told you to do so, heh-heh.
Fishburger: Guys, uh, fellas, fellow writers…
Boss Lard: Damn it, I wanna speak. When am I gonna be asked onto the stage to say the same stupid, self-promoting things I’ve been repeating for more than 10 years running in a half-dozen different publications…
Bret Boner: Duh!
Boss Lard: (noticing Boner) What’s that you said, Boner?
Bret Boner: Duh!
Boss Lard: Didn’t catch that, Boner (looks down)… Son, are you sportin’ a hard-on in this place?
Bret Boner: Duh!
Boss Lard: Cuz if you are, you’d better stay clear of me with that thing… and for that matter, my staff… especially my receptionist, who was recently the vict…
Bret Boner: (thinking to himself) If only he knew I was Media Man, he wouldn’t talk to me that way…
Welsh Losser: (now on the stage holding a camera in front of his face) Now this little book is a good read… uh, er. I picked it up myself… er, and can highly recommend it. It’s available on Dumb.Ass.com… where I published my… Ouch!
A full, unopened and cold can of Coca Cola hits Losser square in the forehead just as he’s about to pull out the hard copy of his own book, “How to Publish a Paperback to Fit in Stretch-Band Pants”.
Gaunt, jagged-toothed, vicious face sticking out of a flannel shirt covered in burrs: You’re not a writer!
Josh Davies: Jiminy Crickets, he hit him square in the damn face with that thing…
Boss Lard: (to himself) Maybe it’s just as well I wait a spell to do my presentation…
Jim Hidshit: (to unidentified Kyiv journalist) Hey, what are you doing?! (shaking his pant leg) Get off my leg, for heaven’s sake… You’re going to tear my writer’s pants!!!
Bret Boner: Shit! Where is Hound Dog Face with my gear when I need her?
To be continued…
Filed by Dirk Dickerson, March 19, 2013