This is a little piece I wrote a few years ago that was published in the Pink Minute, a one-sheet paper I have published a few times in the past years. Enjoy.
No true soul can deny their lover at sunset. Not in a place so amorous, that on the verge of night, even the obstinate sand-stone bluffs ripen like cherries and smolder and giggle and say, “Stop, you’re embarrassing me.”
Like an Arcade waffle cone, The Pink Moment is fleeting, butter-cream sweetness. Pink Moment’s Production adheres to a strict schedule — arriving daily 10 minutes before sunset — Pink wows Ojai rookies and comforts village lifers alike. Pink is steady, reliable, and entirely lovely and has a daily exclusive showing on the Topa Topa screens through late 2012.
Pink takes itself quite seriously, despite its ephemeral nature. Early on in its career, Pink secured representation from a cosmopolitan agency and has since become unbendably stubborn and obsessively Narcissistic. Would-be partners stumble back down Sisar Road, after three days max. Their stories all the same. They say The Pink Moment spends the entire day preening in front of the bathroom mirror, then just before dusk dashes out onto the stage all snappy and stressed that the show is getting stale. After a brief, but captivating routine – that never, ever includes an encore, Pink is back, asking if the gig was OK, if the timing was off, and complaining that its face is blotchy and cracking from too much late-afternoon sunbathing. Pink then downs a bottle of Jim Beam, smokes half a pack of American Spirit Yellows, and passes out watching reality television. And we love it. We rave about it. Big Pink is our muse, our call to worship, our reminder that we’re scheduled to catch a flight at Regals.
Despite a blend of deliberate creation and subtle groveling Big Pink has yet to return any of lil’ pink’s requests for a interview. And that’s okay, we all have habits; we all resist change to some degree. And after 40 million years (give or take) of the same gag over and over and over and over and over, Big Pink has miraculously avoided carpal tunnel and detox.
For in the end, cliché as it is, we covet The Pink Moment’s schooled, nonchalance, blanketing the foothills and draping over the bluffs. I am resigned to recognize that I want Pink more than Pink wants me. We know that the Minute in its youth is green more than anything. It shows up at its own leisure, naps on the couch and has conversations with its imaginary friends in the front yard.
Please do be patient, and share your thoughts with the editors Art and Rich whom you can contact respectively by email @pinkminute.com
Until next time use your brain and not your back.
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