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About Philadelphia

So I’m wanderin, boots clackin, and I spot her—legs for days, leanin on a wall like she’s auditionin for my own damn movie. “Everyone’s a character,” Kaufman’d say, and she’s playin hers perfect. I’m hyped, heart’s racin—UNLEASH THAT INNER BEAST! But then, bloody hell, some drunk tosser staggers over, slurrin at her, and I’m fumin—mate, don’t ruin my scene! I wanna yell, “Step up or step off!” but I chill, play it cool.

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The track is a stretch of road where prostitutes walk. Teen girls are pimped on Pacific Highway South; older women, many of them addicts, end up on Aurora.

Aurora’s a canvas of chaos and beauty. Every street, every corner, every goddamn moment sings like that electric Moulin Rouge number. And trust me, motherf***er, if you ever need a break, come by my spot on S. Riverfront Drive—kick back, let your worries melt away, and let life surprise you in every crumpled, gorgeous moment.

A case for ‘Crumbs From the Table of Joy’ as a great American play