Escapism into Tapas

We're at a bar one night. There's a band that's gonna play a set in the next few minutes. It feels like its Hoobastank but when I see them it is not (and why would Hoobastank be in Texas anyhow?) and I don't know what the band's name is but the excitement is still there and the crowd is anxious to let the music wash over them. People with drinks and wafting cigarettes stand in their cliques mingling, talking?, or maybe just being. Probably patiently letting the inebriation set into their veins.

I am with my two best friends Carrie Bradshaw and Maragethe Von Trotta who both came in from New York to be with me tonight (the darlings!) but Margarethe has to leave for Munich this weekend for an upcoming film collaboration. We'll call it an early night, we promise.

We wait as the band sets up and I notice the lead singer who has a big fluff of curly hair and I like him. Our eyes meet and I smile which makes him smile which makes me smile even bigger because of his smile that matches mine. We realize we've stared at eachother too long and I shy away and busy myself with the stirrer straw in my vodka Red Bull.

Carrie tells us about how her and Samantha have had a falling out because she caught her having a blow job in her office and ran out and Samantha is hurt Carrie judged her or was Carrie mad that Sam came to her book party with a layer of skin missing because of her chemical peel....And then Maragarethe asks Carrie whether there is too much sex in the city or too much city in the sex? Carrie rolled her eyes to ignore the topic as if to say she'd heard that dime a dozen question over way too many cosmopolitans before.

Maragethe told us about a recent screening of her movie Rosenstrasse at the university and she's tired of the wishy washy Americans who think she's a radical feminist or an anti-semite and she's just tired of the bureaucracy of it all in the movie industry and wants to dance just dance on screen, why can't they just let her dance?

I focus my eyes on the lead singer as he begins the set and I smile once again and my heart flutters. The drummer begins and slowly the ensemble blend into a racy mix of beats. Suddenly the music has stopped and the lead singer scribbles something on his palm and jumps off stage and runs towards me. He opens his palm and I read the scribbled black on his sweaty skin. It reads, "Hi, Annie, do you like tapas?"

I nod and we make a drink date after his set. He runs back up and resumes his play.

Carrie and Maragethe look at me in astonishment. But then conversation ensues like nothing has ever happened. Has a musician asked if I liked tapas before and my two girlfriends find it commonplace now? I don't recall this ever happening. And I question whether or not I really do like tapas? What are tapas again...?

They ask about my plans after graduation and I cringe at the question because does anyone ever know? I'm not so sure, I say. I've gone through so many answers my mental filedrawer is completely deluged. A ask my mental secretary to please retrieve a viable answer and the little gnome limps to the cabinets, scans through the files and takes out a paper that reads WRITING IN GRAD SCHOOL. I smile, "Maybe writing in grad school."

But so many others seem to have their heads screwed on straight and here I am making tapa dates with curly haired guys and talking about feminism....or was it chemical peels? I forget.

But then I realize I have to take my best friend home because he has an assignment due tomorrow and he is stranded at my apartment and he has no car. But what about Curly Hair Guy? My best friend will be furious at me because plans always seem to change. But then again I seem to lose to always watch him win. But wouldn't he understand. I would wait for him if he met a big bosomed girl at a club. But then who's to say when it comes to these things?

The band is good and the crowd is loosening up as the night gets older and the alcohol is flowing through their bodies. I light up a cigarette and remember I have a sore throat and this would probably prolong my ailment. But I've already started one so I can't let it go to waste.

All of a sudden I'm sitting in front of Curly Hair Guy and we're talking about the simple things that strangers talk about and he asks me questions about school and my writing and I ask him questions about his formal vocal training. He laughs.

I realize I haven't felt this way in so long and I've wanted this feeling back under my skin and I couldn't wait for it to seep into my bones. But then Curly Hair Guy has vanished and so have my girlfriends (did they leave without saying goodbye?) and now all the other people in the bar are no where to be seen and the smell of cigarette smoke has been replaced with jasmine incense.

Shuddering because my window was left open and it had started raining, I awake from my slumber and shut the window. I curl back into my position on the couch and see that I had left Season 3 of Sex in the City on and I click the television off. I contemplate whether I should go back to sleep or work on the assignment for European Studies that compares the filmic strategies in Von Trotta's Rosenstraße versus Die Andere Frau.

*sigh* It's been such a long day.

Amalgamation of Three Texts

(Dedicated to Daddy. Happy Birthday, Dad!)

The long poem of walking manipulates

A straight-laced distingue gentleman

Aimlessly typing mundane thoughts

Neither foreign to them

To extend a helping hand

It’s cold outside in Sydney

Creates shadows and ambiguities

Ingrained in our street lexicon

Made out of sand, blow away

Like a peddler, carrying something surprising

First shriek of the summer cicada

One minute of space and time

Modern art of everyday expression

Meaning considerably more complex

Than drama-queen theatrics

Two complementary poles

Exercising our right to Democracy

And having a break for smokes and beer

Yesterday was only painted

Summer nights that smell like bushfires

Wafting smoke from his cigarette

Every walk constantly leaps or skips

Maintain some semblance of empathy

That’s bullshit

Gaps in the spatial continuum

Illustrated for us years ago

Rebuilding glass castles

Inseparable from the dreamed place

“F—kin arsey c—t”

This was fun—let’s do it again…

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

De Certeau, Michel. (1988) “Walking in the City.” The Practice of Everyday Life (trans. Steven Randall) Berkely: University of California Press, pp. 91-114

Owen, Alexander M. (2004) “UnAustralian? It’s just not cricket…” Blitz Magazine 16-22 May p.9<>

<>Trinh, Annie. (2004) “Email #2087-Observing from the 110^th floor.” 12 May

Bus Ride in Précis

homeless
corn husk hair
asian man
sits next to me
on the bus
trapped
falls asleep
on my shoulder
I shudder
and wake him
he stirs
and falls back
on my shoulder
i cringe
he awakes
no apologies
for his foreign slumber
empty eyes
of a forgotten man
wanting nothing more
than to sleep

Scale: Chapter 1

::The Unjust Persecution of Tom Brodie::

Tom Brodie started breathing heavily as he looked at the scale under his waxy, pudgy feet. Could it be? 302 lbs? Could that be right? He fainted and the Health Police were at his door 5 minutes later hauling him out on a gurney into their ambulance.
In a world where image is everything, the world's obesity problem was climbing to staggering numbers especially in the United States. 50 years ago, the government was having talks with representatives around the world and many leaders were also concerned. The concern laid in scientists predictions that within 200 years, the world's food supply would run out. Things had to be done.
There were experimentations of genetically grown foods, chemically enhanced. But even those findings would not sustain the human race especially at the rate the population was exponentially growing. And many activists were concerned of the long term health ramifications of human consumption of all those chemicals.
Then Mr. Howard Duvalle from Perth came up with a radical plan. "The problem is not the food sources gentlemen. The problem is the consumers that are eating this food at an enormous rate and the more pressing culprit is the obese human. Obese humans eat an average 5000 calories a day whereas a normal person only consumes 2500 calories a day. What we need to get rid of are people who are morbidly obese."
"Well how do you plan we do that? Slaughter them so we can eat them ourselves?" The representative from Lithuania said half-heartedly but quickly frowned when he saw Howard's stone face. "My god, man, you're not serious. That's inhumane!"
Howard laughed. "No no no, I for sure would not want to eat the ass of a fat man who probably has more diseases than a pigeon. I just don't think this is a laughing matter. Our race is in trouble and we will not be taken out because there are humans who can't control their stomachs. There are parts of this world that are not even occupied. The glaciers of Antarctica, the rain forests of South America. I suggest, gentlemen, that we take these fat people and make them drastically lose weight on these deserted places and when they are of acceptable size, they can be integrated back into humanity. This is what our world is heading towards. Drastic measures. I suggest we focus this plan on America where the obesity problem has gotten out of hand. Just as a test run."
The leaders were in an uproar.
"You're a crazy man, Duvalle! Incompetent!"
"That's involuntary slavery, you fool! The public won't stand for this!"
"Would you put your own mother on an iceberg in Antarctica, ignoramus! I'm disgusted!"
"There must be a better way..."
People were shouting and no one could understand anyone especially with all the different languages being spoken. The presiding officer banged his gavel.
The conference mellowed into a light stir and then was quiet. It felt sinister as if they were in the middle of a sci-fi movie. Was this really an option? What about the mental state of these obese people? What about civil rights? How would they implement this? Had the human race really been reduced to this morbid solution?
Fast forward 50 years....
When Tom Brodie awoke, he found himself in a hospital bed. The stale smell of antiseptic stung his nose and he realized that he was plugged up to an IV drip and the tubes going in and out of his body were numerous. The tears were rolling down his cheeks. "I'm only 25. 25, this can't be happening. I can change. I already started this new diet...." His words trailed off when there was a knock at his door.
Three men dressed in white smocks and a woman in a nurse's uniform walked in and stood at his bedside.
The woman stepped closer and checked his vitals. "Mr. Tom, I'm sorry but your weight has gone over the acceptable limit of national standards and you will have to be reprimanded. I'm sure you've read about our process, yes?" It seemed as if she were reciting a speech she'd done many times. Her toothy grin was mordant and sinister and gave Tom an uneasy feeling.
Tom wanted his mother. "Where's my mother?"
The nurse smiled. "Have you been monitoring your weight on a daily basis, Mr. Brodie? Well, the Health Police sure have and they have a bone to pick with you." She gave a nonchalant laugh. Tom felt as if he were back in primary school being condescended by his kindergarten teacher. The nurse continued, "I'm sure the government has sent you the brochures. The process is nothing special. In a way, you can think of it as a vacation. You get to go and relax, not have to worry about work or school. We just need your signature....," she fluttered a stack of papers in front of his blurry eyes. The tears were making his eyes swollen. "....here. Pen?" She clicked the pen and the tip gave an evil sparkle. He looked up. The hanging light above him swung slowly and gave a slight squeak.
Tom shook his head. "But I thought they give you a month's notice! A month's notice before you come! My friend said she knew a woman who was able to stay home for a two month's grace period and she ended up losing 50 pounds!! She didn't have to be shipped off! I can do that. .. I don't want to go away...."
He thought of all the investigative news blips on how people were shoved into tiny cabana huts and forced to eat banana leaves and caterpillars. And the worst part of it was most people went crazy, or committed suicide or ended up dying before their time was up. Drastic Weight-loss Rejuvenation Deportation....
The tall man with the mustache stepped up. "Mr. Brodie, yes, we usually do give people a month's notice but haven't you kept up with the Weight Report News? They announced 4 months ago that if a person is gaining too much weight, too quickly, the Health Police take over jurisdiction and are able to make the call of who goes or doesn't. And you've been chosen and we cannot do anything about it. We have the warrant right here, " He waved a light yellow paper with an official emblem embossed at the top. He pointed to Tom's name printed at the bottom. "You, my sir, have been eating too many pancakes."

My Holiday Cup Runneth Over

It's 7 A.M. on a Saturday morning and I'm tired from driving all night to Dallas from Austin and I cringe because my biological clock won't let me go back to sleep. This has been happening for a while now. Every time the clock strikes 7 in the morning, something inside my brain goes off and says, "Annie, wake up. You're not allowed to sleep anymore." How sad...so I lay there awake underneath blankets and pillows trying my best to sqeeze the sleep back into me, but to no avail. Coincidentally this is also the time my little sister and little brother have been conditioned to wake up at as well since they attend primary school still. So my little siblings bounce on my bed and smile, "Let's put up the Christmas tree!!" Why not? It's already mid-November. We're following in the footsteps of capitalistic America and its department store ploys to get us to consume consume consume. But I digress. We put up the 9 foot artificial pine and adorn it with a collage of bright lights and ornaments and to say the least, its very....colorful. Let the holidays begin!!

Baking makes the house smell good.

One of the most fun and rewarding things to bake are madelienes. They are soft, sweet, light little bites of heaven, I swear. And all it is is eggs, butter, sugar, and flour!! And when's the best time to bake other than the holidays? And so after the Christmas tree is set up, and the old dirty cassette tape of Christmas carols is scratching through the music player, the only reasonable next step is to bake something. So madeleines are a favorite in our house so we whip out the eggs, the flour, the sugar, and butter. The best part is whipping the eggs until they are fluffy peaks. No, we don't do it by hand--we cheat with our Kitchen-Aid Delux Mixer with Multiple Speeds and Functions (circa. Christmas 1999--remember, capitalistic America) Ladle into madeleine pan and bake for just 8 minutes. 8 minutes! That's all. And since my mother sees us baking stuff, she lugs out a 50 pound bag of pecans that need to be shelled (50 goddamn pounds!!) and says, "Look, pecans! I got the whole bag for a great price. For pecan pies!"

Great mom, are we making enough pecan pies to feed the whole country?

If my mom could read my mind she would probably say, "Oh in that case, we should be making apple pie."

So after our fingers are sore and scratched from shelling the devilish nuts, we make two pecan pies--just for mom.

Confronting the Bullshit

9:05 A.M....
My hands my hands my hands too sweaty too sweaty what will i say to make them like me or maybe start off with a funny story what the hell do i know about funny stories oh dear oh dear breath mints breath mints yea put some extra in your pocket but not too many because last time you put mints in your pocket you put too many so when you stood up to shake the interviewer's hand, the mints poured out of your pocket onto the floor and you both stood there in awkward silence and i just smiled and walked out what a retard i am oh gee in retrospect i should have swept the breath mints into a neat pile with the side of my shoe and dustpanned them into the cusp of my palm with the business card he had given me but maybe just maybe the interviewer swept them up himself and put them in a glass cup and offered them to the other unsuspecting interviewees after me and inside his head he was devilishly laughing to himself do i look alright i need a haircut oh dear what would mom say i wish i wasn't like this just relax just relax its just an interview not the end of the world but it sure does feel like it when you walk out that door and you know they're not going to call you back bullshit i hate it

9:10 A.M....
My last interviewer gave me a "satisfactory" for my appearance mother-fucker what does he want me to wear a Dolce & Gabbana pinstriped two piece mother fucker what does a girl have to do oh well it was only for Walgreen's what do i know maybe the store managers at Walgreen's do wear Dolce & Gabbana pinstriped two pieces and if so then to hell with them i dont need that shit mother fucker the interviewer was nice though i wonder if when i left he laughed just a little bit or laughed alot maybe some guffaws at what a fool i was what did i say i don't even remember he had a mustache Speedy Gonzalez mother fucker no no no thats not nice Annie why do you say shit like that just to make yourself feel better its human nature though oh fuck off you're so full of yourself Annie the ego the ego the goddamn mother fuckin ego i swear get it together you're Annie you're Annie just be yourself but they dont tell you to do that in all the Career Center literature they give you or the workshops you attend they tell you to always wear skin toned pantyhose and always smile and slick back your hair mother fuckers this is absolute bullshit

9:15 A.M.
Should i go in now i dont know who am i interviewing with again oh yea oh yea a mortgage company what the hell do i know about mortgages the other interview with the insurance company i went fifteen minutes early and just sat there in the sanitized aroma of the career center with the labrinth of interview rooms tiny rooms where they expect to fit you and your nerves and your butterflies as well as the interviewer and his bullshit questions in what the hell thats not fair they should have the interviews in bars where people can just drink and relax because corporate people these days go to happy hours after work anyhow and that's where they really have fun and the alcohol will surely ease the nerves and kill the butterflies and make your brain cells throb so you can tell witty stories you probably made up but people do that when they're sober why make this process so cut throat breathe in breathe out pop in another breath mint my teeth hurt

9:20 AM
Alright here we go here we go just another day just 30 minutes of meeting another person 30 minutes of talking about your strengths and making them see your winning smile 30 minutes of.....excrutiating pain and my insides rip up whenever they ask me a question and when i see them searching my face for an answer i want to slide out a butcher knife i've been hiding in my suit jacket and cut out their tongues and scream WHAT THE HELL DO YOU HAVE TO ASK ME NOW MOTHER FUCKER

9:25 A.M.
Hi, are you Annie?
Yes, nice to meet you.

**********************************************************************
10:07 A.M.
Oh my god oh my god decompress decompress its over its over they liked you but you still were a spaz at times did you have to SAY spaz so many times lets review the transcript a whopping ten times oh gee who wants to hire a spaz and you paused way too long after they asked a question and before you began and why did you tell them the Norma Jean story they probably thought you made that shit up because whose name is still Norma Jean oh gosh how disappointing mortgages are bullshit oh stop oh stop always trying to talk yourself out of feeling like shit well maybe its time you just wallowed in your own self misery interviews suck ass goddamn fuck why can't you be more like that girl who has it all with the perfect makeup and perfect pinstriped suit who already is in her second round of interviews and not only is she flying out to New York this weekend for an office visit she already has offers from Dell, IBM, and mother fuckin Microsoft goddamn but do you want that do you really want that or do you want something more something more that makes your insides shake with passion and something that when you do it you just feel like its just you and your skin and your thoughts and just being honest with your soul thats what i want to do i don't want that other bullshit i just want to write and write good and write for those who like my writing fuck confront the bullshit of it all and just be honest with yourself stop being a scared shit and just do it dont worry you can get through this lets take five and have a cigarette

An Evening with David Sedaris

"To Nancy and Annie--Thanks for making me rich!" Signed David Sedaris.

The phrase was both witty and mordantly caustic which is what I like to call the Sedaris Touch (ala The Lubitsch Touch). We had waited a good 45 minutes in the line to have our book signed by the talented author and both of us were ecstatic. What would WE say? What would HE say?

Finally it was our turn and Mr. Sedaris looked smaller, frailer, and more human up close and personal. But I guess that's how it always is when you build up someone in your head and finally meet them in person and realize, "Oh yea, they're just flesh and bone too."

He had asked mundane questions to us like where were we from and why the hell had we driven an hour and a half down to San Antonio to see, of all people, him. We were flubbering fools and gushed as if we were teens in front of some fad pop idol. We told him how we tried to go to his Austin show but it was sold out and I asked if he had time to see the city and maybe get drunk on 6th Street. He said no and that he usually sees former governor Ann Richards when he's in Austin and we listened intently.

We were ushered into our seats and the Empire Theatre in San Antonio was quite fancy. The red chairs and heavy velvet curtain shone in the beaming spotlights. The wine and cocktails served at the bar would have pushed the event towards being pretentious but then sitting next to the couple that was already almost half drunk brought the status levels down a notch.

I realized. "Nancy, do you think he was being serious about Ann Richards?" Nancy looked at me and said it was a grey area. He seemed to be telling us the truth but then again the Sedaris Touch creeps in and the room for sarcasm is endless!! I buried my face in my hands, "Oh, we're fools! Of course he was just joking!!" There was the possibility for him to know one of the popular political figures of Texas such as Ms. Richards....but he also had a morbid fascination with monkeys and spiders. I guess like the age old tootsie roll-licking question, the world may never know.

The two hours of grandeur was filled with Mr. Sedaris reading from his writings, two pieces I recognized from "Dress your Family in Courdoroy and Denim" and others I didn't but were equally as funny. It was an entertaining night and I felt redeemed in my own literary pursuits. Or to say the least, I had a broader knowledge of spiders:

Did you know that there is a spider that carries its egg sack attached to its behind. And if for some reason, the sack gets stolen or lost, the spider is content with carrying around a piece of trash in its place.

I hope I never lose my egg sack...