The Tennessee Willams Literary Conference

Stella Shmella

Tennessee Williams was a local gay drunk and for that we will celebrate him with a literary festival this month; NOooo…, probably more so because he was a kick ass writer who was immune to being jerked off by the powers that profited from his angst. Don’t take my word for it, ask me.
It’s easy to be a local gay drunk, not so easy to be a kick ass writer. Writers are barely above liquor salesmen, who are just slightly above the homeless. I consider myself a writer…I should know. Like Marvin the paranoid android will tell you: “brain the size of a planet and they want me to make tea, open the door”… “pick up that scrap of paper, Marvin--- sheesh --- you call this a life?”
What’s my problem? I’ll tell you: It’s another literary conference and yet again I have not been invited to sit on a panel, host a workshop or give a speech!!
Once again I will sit in audiences and think ‘I was going to say that!’ or rack my brains for an intelligent question only to have one pop into my head hours later. Perhaps it’s author envy or some such sucky malaise; but, I see myself up on the podium with the big boys (and girls) speaking freely, wisely and off the cuff. “ Yes Rex, I remember telling Tennessee about my idea concerning my first novel about sex, drugs, depravity, danger, bloodshed, mystery and Rock and Roll and he turned to me, exhaling cigarette smoke, and said… “Oooo….a documentary!”
Noooo--- I have to sit in another audience, having begged press passes (again) from Ellen Johnson and listen to how hard it is to find a good editor publisher getaway place in order to spill my guts pounding out ten thousand words a day to exorcise my demons while drinking single malt scotch and reliving the wreckage of my misspent youth, when, after all was said and done, antidepressants were the only thing that eventually saved me. That and not (again) be invited to the kick off party because I’m just a slug, parasitic, wannabe journalist that doesn’t have two pennies to rub together and can’t keep a line of thought going for more than three hundred and seventy words at a time. Where was I?
Being a writer is really very simple. You put some words on paper and somebody gives you money. You use that money to buy you some time to put more words on more paper for more money, for more time, more words, more money, more time and finally the antidepressants.
What do you write about? Well, about drinking single malt scotch while your marriage crumbles, your kid that hates you, and the dog; one of which finally succumbs to some incurable virus that turns him into a blood sucking goat; the husband, the kid or the dog… take your pick, it’s all good copy. Or as Tennessee would say: “Oooooo, a documentary!”
I didn’t want to be a writer, I wanted to play the saxophone in Aretha Franklin’s backup band. I wanted to sell red balloons in Paris. I wanted to be an organ grinder with a monkey on Fisherman’s Wharf. I wanted to act, like Brando, and say “you’se my brudduh Charlie, you wuz ‘sposed to look out fuh me!”
What I got? A one way ticket to Faulkner-ville. A ringside seat at another STELLA!! shouting Contest. Marda Burton’s salon that I can’t go to because I work seven days a week.
I guess I just got lucky. I even get paid to write; no, not enough to do the money/time/words/antidepressant tango, but paid nonetheless. And there are some people that read my stuff; however, no one has approached me about my memoirs…yet. Hey, don’t laugh, Chris Rose is in his second printing already, he has a publisher…an editor, etc. etc. Of course he’s much older than I am.
I’m reading a book by Elizabeth Wurtzel titled ‘Bitch’ sub titled ‘in praise of difficult women’ (now there’s someone that I’d like to see on a panel). I’m also reading the Kama Sutra, The life of Saint Joan of Arc and The Gambling Secrets of Nick The Greek. Between that and my recent trip to Europe, wouldn’t you like to see me up there, discoursing on the foibles of fables. My workshop would be called “The well rounded reader as writer” or “Po-Boy Askew Views”.
Is Joni still a saint? I’m speaking of Ms. D’Arc, not Baez, Mitchell or Crawford. I can call her Joni if I want, ever since I overheard a buggy driver describe her statue as “Joni on the pony” which to me sounded a trifle obscene.
The story of her life portrays her as being a little dumpy thing, with short dark hair and a trifle homely; which goes against my grain, as such a woman should be pictured a little more flatteringly, I feel. So, I immediately skipped over that part and went on to the good stuff so that I could continue to picture her as a long legged, busty, beauty who rode a prancing stallion with long hair blowing in the wind, waving a four foot long saber, ready to eviscerate any and all comers.
Don’t you think that all heroes should be frightfully attractive? And, wouldn’t you like to hear me bore you with that subject, for hours (on a panel, of course). Or maybe tell you about being a Seventh Day Adventist (I’m not, but I could wing it). Or, what if I told you about being in London tracking down a place called Lee Ho Fook to get myself a dish of Beef Chow Mein.
Nah, not this year. I’m not invited. I’ll be among the folks with sensible shoes and bad hair with a yellow pad and pen ready to jot down any pearls of wisdom that drop. Anyway, it could be worse…it could be raining.
So, what do you think? March 26-30. Gonna come play with me at the writer’s conference? I think this year I’ll try a comb-over; Oooooo!
phil@whereyat.net