Its form follows the promotional hyperbole of guitarist and lyricist Maurice Tani who receives co-author credit. You can’t hear any of Maurice’s music in “Purple Prose,” but you can at Western-Independent.com.
New York. Too hot in summer, too cold in winter. That’s why I moved to San Francisco long ago. The City has a lot of charm, but the most entertaining thing about it is its night life. And people are what make nightclubs bearable.
Imagine for a moment the bar in hell, because there is one you know. Who will be on the stool seated next to you?
“It was a case of natural selection and I didn’t get picked.” The guy seemed sane enough when I sat down and ordered a dark ale. But, then, everybody’s normal until you get to know them. I made the mistake of nodding in his direction when my drink arrived. He said in response, “I love chaos. We have a two party system because anarchy is too hard to organize.”
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His stream of consciousness was becoming a river.
“Fact,” he said with a half full glass of wine at his lips. “The fine for not picking up your dog’s shit in San Francisco is $27. Fact: The fine for not picking up your own shit is zero.” Other than his mouth, his most distinguishing characteristic was a red bowtie.
I decided the conversation had taken a wrong turn long ago, saluted him silently with my beer and draped a cocktail napkin over its rim. There was no more perfect time to take a leak. Turned the corner and bumped into a mountain wearing a fedora. Nobody wears hats any more, and fedoras were out of fashion long before I was even conceived.
“The Yeesev wants to see ya.” My guess was: the mountain bumped into me on purpose.
”Funny, I don’t think we’ve been introduced.”
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