I was having one of those bittersweet moments you have in life when you feel utterly to yourself or as society deems it--lonely. But I don't have a problem with that because whenever I am faced with this situation, it makes me more motivated to do something productive. So I decided to go the the bookstore.
There I was surrounded by literature. A woman in the cafe was playing her guitar and singing for Friday night's entertainment. Her name was something or the other. Nothing I heard was too great to warrant me meandering around her stage trying to find out her name. I wondered if the other people at the cafe were bothered by her high pitches and uneven tones as they sat behind their wide screened laptops and amped their ipods on the highest volume setting.
I grabbed five books in no particular order including Truman Capote's In Cold Blood, Lorrie Moore's Self-Help, and a writer's guide for how to write. How ironic. There were no more seats at the cafe and there were no more plush chairs in the reading area so I was resigned to sit at the small wooden stools of the children's section. People don't bring their kids to bookstores anymore so the area was deserted which made things even better for me.
I opened up the Self-Help book and read the first short story which was entitled, "How to be the Other Woman." And I thought to myself, would that situation ever happen to me. Would a married man try to approach me? I talked to my friend about it and she laughed. "Hon, you're too sweet to be the other woman. You're the woman that gets cheated on."
I made a note to not talk to that friend for a while.
I was getting along quite well when a woman sits across from me in another one of the small wooden stools for children. We exchanged polite smiles because that's what polite strangers do. My mind eased in the thought of another person, a brethren, also looking for a place in this environment to rest their laurels and happened upon this sanctuary. I'm not the only one thinking out of the cake box!
But then, that girl, that deviant, that hussy began incessantly text messaging her friend, her mother, her mistress, her pimp, whoever. Each number punch resounded witha loud beep and after she clamped her phone closed it would resound with a twinkle twinkle melody indicating a reply message. This went on for about ten minutes before she picked up her phone and dialed.
"Hiyou'rehome?Imissyou.NoImatthebookstore.Nojusthangingout.Mystomachstillhurts.Whatsthattea thatyou reccomended.Green?Jasmine?..."
How rude. Why would you sit next to a person who obviously is reading and needs a bubble of silence around them and start being a cell phone whore?
I got up immediatly and decided to go see a movie.
The movie was based on a book I had read previously called Shopgirl (the movie is of the same title). It was about a girl and her struggles with life and her love triangle. It didn't really capture the depth of the characters like the book did but that's why books are books and movies are movies.
I still had a good cry because there were moments when it just hits you. It's right there in front of you and you're like yea yea, I know that feeling. But you realize that doesn't really matter. Movies are movies and reality is reality. It's just nice to be reminded sometimes, to have your insides jarred before you let them settle down again.
Saturday, December 10, 2005
Thursday, October 06, 2005
George and the Flying Things
Even though the manager’s knocking outside the door was loud, George ignored it. He lay limp on the hot, sticky bed of the small motel room and chewed on a piece of gum. He’d had it in his mouth for so long, it was like chewing band-aids now. But he didn’t mind the aching in his jaw. George put his hand on his left cheek and stroked his stubble. He was a mess.
“Sir, we’ll call the authorities if we have to….!”
Out of the corner of his eye, George saw a brown thing scuttle across the bathroom floor. He’d always gotten along better with bugs than people.
The cockroach stopped and shook its head, “Suck it up, pansy, stop being a wuss, and talk to FEMA for some free cash. Yea, free cash.” Cockroaches have survived for thousands of years so maybe it knew what it was talking about. But, it sounded too much like advice his mother would give him and George stopped listening to his mom ages ago.
A spider on the window blinds whispered to him in a raspy voice and chuckled after it finished its proposition. George looked confused, “How would I find a gallon of yogurt, two pot bellied pigs, and a giant ball of yarn anyhow?” Arachnids were never dependable much like his father.
“You’ve left us no choice!” the manager incessantly kept knocking on the door which made George’s head hurt. “I’m calling the cops……damn hippies.”
A flying thing scouring the ceiling offered to sell him some weed but George figured he should use his last few bucks on breakfast but getting high again sure sounded tempting.
No money, no friends, no family, no home. He had gotten himself into a deep shit-hole, but he felt like this wasn’t the first time he’d had this feeling. That comforted his 27-year old mind.
The ceiling fan above him rotated slowly, hypnotizing him. “Why the hell am I here?!” he shouted to the spider, the cockroach, the flying insect, the fan, the air….no one…everyone.
New Orleans had gotten under his skin. He needed a change of scenery, new faces, sweeter air.
The spider leapt from the window blinds onto the bed sheets and tottered over to George’s ear. “In retrospect, you should be thankful that you avoided that damn hurricane. You could have been killed and what good would you be dead?”
Outside the door, the cops had arrived. “Sir, are you in there? It’s the police. Open up!”
“Well, it sure looks like he’s no good alive either. Pansy,” the cockroach was now on George’s shoulder. “Go to the Red Cross. They’ll hook ya up with plenty of goodies.”
“But you aren’t an evacuee. You’re a…a…a.. tourist, really.” The spider taunted. It started spinning a web in George’s ear.
The policemens’ voices sounded close yet far away at the same time. “On the count of three, we’re busting through this door!!”
The flying thing interjected, “New Orleans made you feel like a weirdo and what better location to move than to a city that places weirdness on a pedestal. You’ve always depended on yourself; there ain’t no point in stopping now. You don’t need no stinkin’ FEMA or nobody.”
This made the most sense to George.
As he picked up his things and quietly crawled out the bathroom window, the flying thing buzzed past his ear and whispered, “Hey, hey, dude, wana score…?”
“Sir, we’ll call the authorities if we have to….!”
Out of the corner of his eye, George saw a brown thing scuttle across the bathroom floor. He’d always gotten along better with bugs than people.
The cockroach stopped and shook its head, “Suck it up, pansy, stop being a wuss, and talk to FEMA for some free cash. Yea, free cash.” Cockroaches have survived for thousands of years so maybe it knew what it was talking about. But, it sounded too much like advice his mother would give him and George stopped listening to his mom ages ago.
A spider on the window blinds whispered to him in a raspy voice and chuckled after it finished its proposition. George looked confused, “How would I find a gallon of yogurt, two pot bellied pigs, and a giant ball of yarn anyhow?” Arachnids were never dependable much like his father.
“You’ve left us no choice!” the manager incessantly kept knocking on the door which made George’s head hurt. “I’m calling the cops……damn hippies.”
A flying thing scouring the ceiling offered to sell him some weed but George figured he should use his last few bucks on breakfast but getting high again sure sounded tempting.
No money, no friends, no family, no home. He had gotten himself into a deep shit-hole, but he felt like this wasn’t the first time he’d had this feeling. That comforted his 27-year old mind.
The ceiling fan above him rotated slowly, hypnotizing him. “Why the hell am I here?!” he shouted to the spider, the cockroach, the flying insect, the fan, the air….no one…everyone.
New Orleans had gotten under his skin. He needed a change of scenery, new faces, sweeter air.
The spider leapt from the window blinds onto the bed sheets and tottered over to George’s ear. “In retrospect, you should be thankful that you avoided that damn hurricane. You could have been killed and what good would you be dead?”
Outside the door, the cops had arrived. “Sir, are you in there? It’s the police. Open up!”
“Well, it sure looks like he’s no good alive either. Pansy,” the cockroach was now on George’s shoulder. “Go to the Red Cross. They’ll hook ya up with plenty of goodies.”
“But you aren’t an evacuee. You’re a…a…a.. tourist, really.” The spider taunted. It started spinning a web in George’s ear.
The policemens’ voices sounded close yet far away at the same time. “On the count of three, we’re busting through this door!!”
The flying thing interjected, “New Orleans made you feel like a weirdo and what better location to move than to a city that places weirdness on a pedestal. You’ve always depended on yourself; there ain’t no point in stopping now. You don’t need no stinkin’ FEMA or nobody.”
This made the most sense to George.
As he picked up his things and quietly crawled out the bathroom window, the flying thing buzzed past his ear and whispered, “Hey, hey, dude, wana score…?”
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Interview with a Vampire
So how did you two meet?
Thalia giggles and continues, "Oh I was a waitress at the cocktail bar down on 17th street. I had been working there for shit tips and hangovers so I wasn't happy at all. My life sucked."
George interrupts,"But then I swept her off her toes one night. Remember that night, you were such a cunt to me."
"Oh, really, hahaha," Thalia punches him in the arm. "If I remember correctly you were the one who tried to get a free drink, didn't tip enough, and tried to grab my ass all fuckin night. That's not what I call sweeping me off my feet. But for some reason I put up with your nonsense. You were different from all the other bozos. Go figure."
So you two met at a bar and what was yall's first date?
"We went to the movies." Thalia says with confidence.
George has a look of confusion not the first time present since the beginning of this interview. "No we didn't; we went to the Shangri-la. That snazzy joint uptown. They have killer lobster ravioli."
She rolls her eyes and shakes her head disapprovingly, "He doesn't know what he's talking about. It was the movies. The Shangri-la was after that."
George, "Really?"
"Yes. Trust me. We went to the movies, saw that dip-shit Clooney flick, and ended up meeting that other couple."
George slaps his cheek reminicsingly, "Shit, that's right, babe. You have such a good memory. She takes Ginko Biloba. But vitamins like that scare the shit out of me. Heebie-geebies!"
Who's this other couple?
"Oh it was this young newlywed couple that were really cute. He wore black socks and she wore a beret. Black socks! That's genius!" George looks up at some imaginary screen above his head and is lost in his thoughts.
Where were they from? What did yall do?
The two look at eachother.
"That's when we both found out we were vampires and ever since we've been soulmates." Thalia grins a toothy smile and reveals her long canines.
"Oh babe, you said we're soulmates, " he leans in for a kiss. "I need that validation sometimes."
"He's such a pussy." Thalia gives him another kiss and George blushes.
So did yall end up killing that other couple?
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, we're vampires. Not murderers. Please. All we're doing is eating, feeding, energizing ourselves. Shit, its not like we're killing everything with a pulse. Me and George try to eat as much fruit as we can as long as its red. But for dinner, we have to have at least a body over 125 pounds or we're shot to shit the next morning. It's like a person who has to eat beef. Killing those cows are much more worse than what we do to our prey." Thalia sighs and calms down.
Sorry, I didn't know it was such a touchy term.
George smiles to reassure me Thalia won't get out of hand again, "Everyone's so PC these days. You're cool, dude."
Thanks. Anyhow, how are you guys coping with leading this lifestyle in this day and age?
"It has its rough days. There's so much shit going around these days, you really have to be careful about who you pierce. If you bite someone with thalasemmia or sickle cell, you can have diarrhea for days. There was this one old dude who---"
Thalia interrupts George, "You don't want to hear that story, trust me. Geez, you're such a dork, George."
Thalia giggles and continues, "Oh I was a waitress at the cocktail bar down on 17th street. I had been working there for shit tips and hangovers so I wasn't happy at all. My life sucked."
George interrupts,"But then I swept her off her toes one night. Remember that night, you were such a cunt to me."
"Oh, really, hahaha," Thalia punches him in the arm. "If I remember correctly you were the one who tried to get a free drink, didn't tip enough, and tried to grab my ass all fuckin night. That's not what I call sweeping me off my feet. But for some reason I put up with your nonsense. You were different from all the other bozos. Go figure."
So you two met at a bar and what was yall's first date?
"We went to the movies." Thalia says with confidence.
George has a look of confusion not the first time present since the beginning of this interview. "No we didn't; we went to the Shangri-la. That snazzy joint uptown. They have killer lobster ravioli."
She rolls her eyes and shakes her head disapprovingly, "He doesn't know what he's talking about. It was the movies. The Shangri-la was after that."
George, "Really?"
"Yes. Trust me. We went to the movies, saw that dip-shit Clooney flick, and ended up meeting that other couple."
George slaps his cheek reminicsingly, "Shit, that's right, babe. You have such a good memory. She takes Ginko Biloba. But vitamins like that scare the shit out of me. Heebie-geebies!"
Who's this other couple?
"Oh it was this young newlywed couple that were really cute. He wore black socks and she wore a beret. Black socks! That's genius!" George looks up at some imaginary screen above his head and is lost in his thoughts.
Where were they from? What did yall do?
The two look at eachother.
"That's when we both found out we were vampires and ever since we've been soulmates." Thalia grins a toothy smile and reveals her long canines.
"Oh babe, you said we're soulmates, " he leans in for a kiss. "I need that validation sometimes."
"He's such a pussy." Thalia gives him another kiss and George blushes.
So did yall end up killing that other couple?
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, we're vampires. Not murderers. Please. All we're doing is eating, feeding, energizing ourselves. Shit, its not like we're killing everything with a pulse. Me and George try to eat as much fruit as we can as long as its red. But for dinner, we have to have at least a body over 125 pounds or we're shot to shit the next morning. It's like a person who has to eat beef. Killing those cows are much more worse than what we do to our prey." Thalia sighs and calms down.
Sorry, I didn't know it was such a touchy term.
George smiles to reassure me Thalia won't get out of hand again, "Everyone's so PC these days. You're cool, dude."
Thanks. Anyhow, how are you guys coping with leading this lifestyle in this day and age?
"It has its rough days. There's so much shit going around these days, you really have to be careful about who you pierce. If you bite someone with thalasemmia or sickle cell, you can have diarrhea for days. There was this one old dude who---"
Thalia interrupts George, "You don't want to hear that story, trust me. Geez, you're such a dork, George."
Not Another Love Song
This isn't love. This is just the beginning of something. Something bigger than either of us know anything about. You'll see. When you experience love, you don't have to ask, it's just already there, defined in your heart and you can't believe that it's actually there, just sitting crossed-legged in your heart like it was effortless.
But this isn't love. You'll see. That's so sad, though, the saddest thing to say to yourself or to another person for that matter "NOT LOVE". Because that's what everyone really wants right-- love.
I'm doing you a favor, though, in the long run. You'll look back and say, Gee she sure was right. I'm sure I didn't waste my time. And I'll smile because I know that you're thinking that and it'll make me smile smile smile.
All I can say is don't give up, ok? If it doesn't happen, today, tomorrow, or the next day, it's because it wasn't supposed to happen today, tomorrow, or the next day. And when you finally give up, fed up with the smothered candle light dinners and hippie talk, you'll feel it crossed legged in your heart wondering, What took you so long?
But this isn't love. You'll see. That's so sad, though, the saddest thing to say to yourself or to another person for that matter "NOT LOVE". Because that's what everyone really wants right-- love.
I'm doing you a favor, though, in the long run. You'll look back and say, Gee she sure was right. I'm sure I didn't waste my time. And I'll smile because I know that you're thinking that and it'll make me smile smile smile.
All I can say is don't give up, ok? If it doesn't happen, today, tomorrow, or the next day, it's because it wasn't supposed to happen today, tomorrow, or the next day. And when you finally give up, fed up with the smothered candle light dinners and hippie talk, you'll feel it crossed legged in your heart wondering, What took you so long?
Thursday, September 08, 2005
Dirty Lady, that's just not right...
She was a normal looking lady. Like any other customer that would come into our store. At least nothing to make me take a second glance at her.
She came up to the register and said she wanted to ring up her food order from the kitchen and I said sure, of course. That's when it happened.
She handed me the stinky bills.
At first, I didn't even know where that odor was coming from. It just hit me like a sack of potatoes and I almost burst out saying, "Holy shit, do you smell that shit? What the fuck? What is that? Where is that coming from?" But after batting the empty air and looking down at the bills she had handed me, I realized...it was the stinky bills.
And it's not like I could give the money back. Because the money was real...it just was stinky...but not just stinky...it was STANKY. STANK STANKY. Dirty lady, that just ain't right. But I couldn't say anything to her because it probably would have just embarassed her and made me look like an asshole. And her order was already being cooked. So I had to finish up and give her the change. Once that was done and she had her back turned I hurriedly put the bills in a plastic bag and tied it up as to not have any odor leak out.
But the smell was on my hands now!
It was like the worst smell ever. Even worse than walking behind a garbage truck. Even worse than having a newborn's diaper taped to your nose. Even worse than some hobo in the street who hasn't washed in years and reeks of alcohol and than vomits on you and tries to wash the vomit off with his piss. A mixture of manure, urine, dirt, sweat, fish guts, rancid meat.....those things don't even give the smell justice. This was some prize-winning shit.
And as she waited for the order to finish, she kept buying things which made me have to touch her bills even more.
A candy bar....
...Then a pack of gum.....
.......Then a soda....
..............Then another candy bar.....
Goddammit, stop buying stuff with your stinky money! I was trying so hard to be strong but my mind MY MIND was just repulsed by this lady and her stinky money and for God knows what reason it was that way. I really couldn't think of a feasible reason. Geezus lady, did you wipe your ass with these bills or something??
Finally she left and I thoroughly sanitized my hands with soap, alcohol, bleach...battery acid. Anything I could get my hands on.
The day passed and I was ready to forget until my mom came to count all the money for the day when all of a sudden I hear her shout, "OH my god, did some one step in goose poo-poo??!!
She came up to the register and said she wanted to ring up her food order from the kitchen and I said sure, of course. That's when it happened.
She handed me the stinky bills.
At first, I didn't even know where that odor was coming from. It just hit me like a sack of potatoes and I almost burst out saying, "Holy shit, do you smell that shit? What the fuck? What is that? Where is that coming from?" But after batting the empty air and looking down at the bills she had handed me, I realized...it was the stinky bills.
And it's not like I could give the money back. Because the money was real...it just was stinky...but not just stinky...it was STANKY. STANK STANKY. Dirty lady, that just ain't right. But I couldn't say anything to her because it probably would have just embarassed her and made me look like an asshole. And her order was already being cooked. So I had to finish up and give her the change. Once that was done and she had her back turned I hurriedly put the bills in a plastic bag and tied it up as to not have any odor leak out.
But the smell was on my hands now!
It was like the worst smell ever. Even worse than walking behind a garbage truck. Even worse than having a newborn's diaper taped to your nose. Even worse than some hobo in the street who hasn't washed in years and reeks of alcohol and than vomits on you and tries to wash the vomit off with his piss. A mixture of manure, urine, dirt, sweat, fish guts, rancid meat.....those things don't even give the smell justice. This was some prize-winning shit.
And as she waited for the order to finish, she kept buying things which made me have to touch her bills even more.
A candy bar....
...Then a pack of gum.....
.......Then a soda....
..............Then another candy bar.....
Goddammit, stop buying stuff with your stinky money! I was trying so hard to be strong but my mind MY MIND was just repulsed by this lady and her stinky money and for God knows what reason it was that way. I really couldn't think of a feasible reason. Geezus lady, did you wipe your ass with these bills or something??
Finally she left and I thoroughly sanitized my hands with soap, alcohol, bleach...battery acid. Anything I could get my hands on.
The day passed and I was ready to forget until my mom came to count all the money for the day when all of a sudden I hear her shout, "OH my god, did some one step in goose poo-poo??!!
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
About those children...umm..maybe not.
So after having a training day as a substitute teacher, I decided it's not right for me. The position calls for a completely different person...not me. Yea, I like kids but then there's the part of disciplining them. I can't do that. Especially with someone else's kid. If it were up to me I would let the kids run wild naked in the forest. But I don't think that's what their parents paid for. And the other teachers there weren't as nice and friendly as I wanted. Maybe I'm asking for too much but these ladies were all about reprimanding.."No, mister...I don't think so young lady." Yeesh, all the kids want to do is play. Teachers are supposed to be fun, right?
But to bigger and better things, I also got a job as a cashier for a Chinese restaurant. Now that's more my style right? Half-off of Kung-pao..now that's what I'm talkin bout. ;)
And I also have another job interview at Marble Slab Creamery. Wish me luck. Yup, I'm just trying to get as many jobs as possible. I need a spectrum of experiences for my writing, don't you think?
But to bigger and better things, I also got a job as a cashier for a Chinese restaurant. Now that's more my style right? Half-off of Kung-pao..now that's what I'm talkin bout. ;)
And I also have another job interview at Marble Slab Creamery. Wish me luck. Yup, I'm just trying to get as many jobs as possible. I need a spectrum of experiences for my writing, don't you think?
Thursday, September 01, 2005
Won't anyone think about the children!
So, it's official. I have a job as a substitute teacher for toddlers at a Daycare/Academy here in Austin. I am also starting my writing classes next week as well. Wish me luck! Those kids won't know what hit them (and by that I mean, my mega-watt smile and giraffe puppet,Bubba, on my left hand...not corporal punishment or anything...yeesh..hahaha)
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
Earwax
Like an outer body
Experience,
I watch myself
watch and listen
watch and listen
watch and listen
To the words that
Fall from my lips
Like bricks
Onto my lap.
I pause for the next
Question.
Wondering if the interviewer
notices the shitload of
Bricks on my lap.
But he nods and rephrases the
Question.
Seeing what he wants to see
Hearing what he wants to hear
Molding my answers into
Correct ones.
And I watch and listen
As he jams those bricks
One by one
Into his ears.
Experience,
I watch myself
watch and listen
watch and listen
watch and listen
To the words that
Fall from my lips
Like bricks
Onto my lap.
I pause for the next
Question.
Wondering if the interviewer
notices the shitload of
Bricks on my lap.
But he nods and rephrases the
Question.
Seeing what he wants to see
Hearing what he wants to hear
Molding my answers into
Correct ones.
And I watch and listen
As he jams those bricks
One by one
Into his ears.
Friday, August 26, 2005
My own personal concundrum
I decided to not wear a bra to work today to see what reaction I would get from customers.
It's not like I wore a tight tank top to accentuate my mammary mosquito bites though. I wore a plain t-shirt so I suppose you couldn't really tell, but still..you could sorta tell.
Anyhow, there's been scientific proof that wearing bras causes a greater chance for breast cancer because of the constricted blood vessels or something or the other. So, in the greater scheme of things, I was just trying to protect my health.
So as it goes, 10 grown men blatantly ogled my breasts as I handed them their change. That was sorta gross but I forgave them because that's just what grown men do when they come into contact with a 23 year old.
27 people (both men and women) had the yo-yo effect of looking at my face, darting their eyes to my chest, and then darting back up to my eyes. It was quite entertaining though having them think that I didn't notice that 3 second reaction.
The men I didn't care for, but the women who did this I wanted to just shout out, "Yeah, that's right, lady. No establishment shackles on these beauties. Jealous, much?"
There were plenty of other customers who didn't have a reaction at all. Maybe they were just respectful and knew me too well.
Maybe the others thought I was a 16-year old boy.
It's not like I wore a tight tank top to accentuate my mammary mosquito bites though. I wore a plain t-shirt so I suppose you couldn't really tell, but still..you could sorta tell.
Anyhow, there's been scientific proof that wearing bras causes a greater chance for breast cancer because of the constricted blood vessels or something or the other. So, in the greater scheme of things, I was just trying to protect my health.
So as it goes, 10 grown men blatantly ogled my breasts as I handed them their change. That was sorta gross but I forgave them because that's just what grown men do when they come into contact with a 23 year old.
27 people (both men and women) had the yo-yo effect of looking at my face, darting their eyes to my chest, and then darting back up to my eyes. It was quite entertaining though having them think that I didn't notice that 3 second reaction.
The men I didn't care for, but the women who did this I wanted to just shout out, "Yeah, that's right, lady. No establishment shackles on these beauties. Jealous, much?"
There were plenty of other customers who didn't have a reaction at all. Maybe they were just respectful and knew me too well.
Maybe the others thought I was a 16-year old boy.
Thursday, August 25, 2005
Carnivale
Taking a cue from
The Ringmaster,
I tip my hat and
Smile, oh so big
And the crowds cheer
A mesh of chocolate faces:
Popcorn pimps and
Cotton candy whores
I do my best to entertain
Keep them happy
As my cheeks burn
My smile melts into pain
Then I wonder about
These freaks who
Tie me up
Bound and gagged
You do what you
Can for them
But you have to
Keep the applause
Rodeo punks
Flying diseased acrobats
Twist and turn
For your fancy
I left my soul there
Up on the high wire
And it fell with a
Thump, Splat, Squish
When all along
I was the clown
In the thick makeup
And big Shoes
Smiling, oh so big
The Ringmaster,
I tip my hat and
Smile, oh so big
And the crowds cheer
A mesh of chocolate faces:
Popcorn pimps and
Cotton candy whores
I do my best to entertain
Keep them happy
As my cheeks burn
My smile melts into pain
Then I wonder about
These freaks who
Tie me up
Bound and gagged
You do what you
Can for them
But you have to
Keep the applause
Rodeo punks
Flying diseased acrobats
Twist and turn
For your fancy
I left my soul there
Up on the high wire
And it fell with a
Thump, Splat, Squish
When all along
I was the clown
In the thick makeup
And big Shoes
Smiling, oh so big
Friday, August 19, 2005
Black Ink Words
And so it begins
The endless wait
At the heavily guarded
Airport gate
Maybe I should have
Brought a novel
Or a magazine
To thumb through
Silently, make believe
That I was actually
Interested in the
Black ink words
But like the man
Sitting next to me
With the fresh newspaper
Its only to pass appearances
And make it seem like he
isn't as bored as me
When it's worse, because
now he's $1.50 short
Because if it weren't for the sports pages
Diverting his eyes, he'd have to look into the air
At the strangers passing by
And no one likes eye contact
The painted faces
Blonde, cotton candy hair
Melonball handbags
And dry cleaned suits
A world I will never know
Or would want to
Why would I?
I am drowning in vintage
Or I just call my ripped jeans and
Peasant top that to make
Me feel
More cosmo retro
Who dresses up for the airport?
Not me? Why me? Whose me? Couldn't be.
This seat is uncomfortable
And this lady smells like french fries.
Waiting, waiting, only to see
Starbucks freaks, wireless geeks,
businessmen posers, suck up nosers,
rockstar glam, and fat, tourist hams.
And I hear the shiny group behind me
Reassure the newbie, "You'll love Austin
We see McConaughey and Bullock
All the time."
"And if it weren't for the college kids
It'd be the perfect town. --
Oh, and do you still watch Hollywood Squares?
My sister was on there and won
A bunch of washers and dryers...."
The endless wait
At the heavily guarded
Airport gate
Maybe I should have
Brought a novel
Or a magazine
To thumb through
Silently, make believe
That I was actually
Interested in the
Black ink words
But like the man
Sitting next to me
With the fresh newspaper
Its only to pass appearances
And make it seem like he
isn't as bored as me
When it's worse, because
now he's $1.50 short
Because if it weren't for the sports pages
Diverting his eyes, he'd have to look into the air
At the strangers passing by
And no one likes eye contact
The painted faces
Blonde, cotton candy hair
Melonball handbags
And dry cleaned suits
A world I will never know
Or would want to
Why would I?
I am drowning in vintage
Or I just call my ripped jeans and
Peasant top that to make
Me feel
More cosmo retro
Who dresses up for the airport?
Not me? Why me? Whose me? Couldn't be.
This seat is uncomfortable
And this lady smells like french fries.
Waiting, waiting, only to see
Starbucks freaks, wireless geeks,
businessmen posers, suck up nosers,
rockstar glam, and fat, tourist hams.
And I hear the shiny group behind me
Reassure the newbie, "You'll love Austin
We see McConaughey and Bullock
All the time."
"And if it weren't for the college kids
It'd be the perfect town. --
Oh, and do you still watch Hollywood Squares?
My sister was on there and won
A bunch of washers and dryers...."
Monday, August 15, 2005
Dulce for the Monks
It's that time of year again. That time of year where you have to be extra careful of what you do, where you go, and who you see because the gates of the afterworld are opened and the spirits (good and trifling) are set loose upon us unsuspecting living souls. You know, right?
Well, I suppose if you're outside of the Buddhist religion, you might have overlooked that this month bad things are more prone to happen because of the dead souls that run rampant causing trouble on Earth. Anyhow, if you don't, just go get a Buddhist book about it and you'll be up to par.
As for now, at this point in the story, me and my family are about to go to temple to pray for our innocent souls and to plead to our ancestors to protect us from uncomely demon-folk who may get in our path.
This is the reason I could not go to my friends dinner party that he invited me to the other day which I had been looking forward to. But me, being the devout Buddhist (YEA RIGHT! haha) decided that staying up drinking and smoking with good people wouldn't be the best thing to do the night before you have to burn incense to your deceased grandmother.
And its also the reason I didn't go out with some other people who had invited me to an outing for my girlfriend's graduation. They were going clubbing or something or the other and I could have met my other friend's new boyfriend from Atlanta who is not of the Asian variety which makes things even funner, don't you think?
And since when do I get invited to so many places in such a short span of time. Since when did I develop a religious conscience and why did it sprout up just when this social circle magically formed around me when I wasn't looking?
But it doesn't matter because now I'm here in front of 20 lotus sitting Buddha statues basking in their revery. I bet my friends are all having delicious hangovers, laughing at their last-night indescretions, and thinking of the greasy breakfast they'll be having at 2 pm in the afternoon. Those bastards, how I envy them and their throbbing brains.
Dad and uncle were unloading the van because mom got the notion that the Buddhist monks were avid fans of ring pops and sour straws, so she gave them three cases of each kind. We have a convenience store so it would be foolish of us not to take advantage of our plentitude of candy disposition. Dad complained to my mother all the way to the temple in the car that monks don't eat candy and that we were being silly. But mom was unwavering in her stance. She said the monks would know what to do with it and she'd have an extra large lotus leaf to sit on in the afterlife because of her generosity. Where would dad be sitting then?
I was a bit embarassed too. But in the end my apathy won out. I imagined the monks actually wide eyed with big smiles on their faces reveling in the sugary treasures. Because up till then, they had only been feasting on stir fried mushrooms and dried ginger. They'd be running around the botanical gardens with oversized ring pops, one on each finger, licking uncontrollably. During prayer, the head monk would have to chastise some for taking licks of their rings during the meditation hours. And some would sneak a sour straw into their mouths while he wasn't looking. And just before they went to bed, they would all see who could stick the most sour straws to their bald heads, remembering the times...so long ago, when they had hair.
Well, I suppose if you're outside of the Buddhist religion, you might have overlooked that this month bad things are more prone to happen because of the dead souls that run rampant causing trouble on Earth. Anyhow, if you don't, just go get a Buddhist book about it and you'll be up to par.
As for now, at this point in the story, me and my family are about to go to temple to pray for our innocent souls and to plead to our ancestors to protect us from uncomely demon-folk who may get in our path.
This is the reason I could not go to my friends dinner party that he invited me to the other day which I had been looking forward to. But me, being the devout Buddhist (YEA RIGHT! haha) decided that staying up drinking and smoking with good people wouldn't be the best thing to do the night before you have to burn incense to your deceased grandmother.
And its also the reason I didn't go out with some other people who had invited me to an outing for my girlfriend's graduation. They were going clubbing or something or the other and I could have met my other friend's new boyfriend from Atlanta who is not of the Asian variety which makes things even funner, don't you think?
And since when do I get invited to so many places in such a short span of time. Since when did I develop a religious conscience and why did it sprout up just when this social circle magically formed around me when I wasn't looking?
But it doesn't matter because now I'm here in front of 20 lotus sitting Buddha statues basking in their revery. I bet my friends are all having delicious hangovers, laughing at their last-night indescretions, and thinking of the greasy breakfast they'll be having at 2 pm in the afternoon. Those bastards, how I envy them and their throbbing brains.
Dad and uncle were unloading the van because mom got the notion that the Buddhist monks were avid fans of ring pops and sour straws, so she gave them three cases of each kind. We have a convenience store so it would be foolish of us not to take advantage of our plentitude of candy disposition. Dad complained to my mother all the way to the temple in the car that monks don't eat candy and that we were being silly. But mom was unwavering in her stance. She said the monks would know what to do with it and she'd have an extra large lotus leaf to sit on in the afterlife because of her generosity. Where would dad be sitting then?
I was a bit embarassed too. But in the end my apathy won out. I imagined the monks actually wide eyed with big smiles on their faces reveling in the sugary treasures. Because up till then, they had only been feasting on stir fried mushrooms and dried ginger. They'd be running around the botanical gardens with oversized ring pops, one on each finger, licking uncontrollably. During prayer, the head monk would have to chastise some for taking licks of their rings during the meditation hours. And some would sneak a sour straw into their mouths while he wasn't looking. And just before they went to bed, they would all see who could stick the most sour straws to their bald heads, remembering the times...so long ago, when they had hair.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Kari's Wedding
"So are you going to be free on Saturday?"
I shifted my cell phone to the other ear and scanned the mental calendar in my head which was pointless because I knew I had nothing scheduled for that day or any other day before or after for that matter.
"I dunno. I guess not. Why?" I asked Maurice quite apathetically. I had had a long day and wasn't feeling social at the moment.
"Well, you remember Kari? Petite Kari from high school? She was a year ahead of us."
I sighed and scanned my brain. It had been about six years since high school but it was still fresh on my mind but I didn't want Maurice to know that.
"Come on, Annie. Cambodian chick. Big boobs."
I giggled. "Yea, I remember her. She getting hitched or something?"
"Yup. Snatched herself a cowboy. So you wana go with me to the wedding?"
"I dunno. I haven't seen any of those people in a while and you know how I get around them. Its sorta weird. Saying things you seem to be saying over and over again and people seem to buy it as real conversation."
"It's up to you. I don't care if you go or not."
"Well, that's nice, asshole. Maybe I shouldn't."
"You know what I mean. I'm sure people will ask about you if you don't go."
By the end of our conversation, I had accepted the invitation but sternly decided that it wasn't necessary to get her a gift since I wasn't directly invited. But I would make sure Maurice put my name on the card. That's just good ettiquette.
****************************************************************************
Is it just me or do we put ourselves in these awkard situations just to torture ourselves because we have nothing else better to do. Most of the guests that would be at the wedding would be distant friends from the past, ghosts that I hadn't seen in awhile. Some maybe last year...some I hadn't seen since high school graduation. And especially at this stage of our lives where we're supposed to be building up our grown-up lives, we all seem to be talking with static in the background. Not knowing exactly what we're trying to say but trying to fool the other person into thinking we are the masters of our lives and knows exactly where we're steering our ship when in reality our compasses are bouncing all around. I'm not an anti-social. I just don't know if these are the people that I can completely be myself around. In a way, they scare me but I guess everyone has that feeling when confronting social situations like this. Right? Or does the cheese stand alone? Who knows.
*********************************************************************************
The wedding wasn't till five so I had all day to lounge around and do nothing which was lovely as I had taken the entire day off from work. But it started worrying me when I saw the grey clouds roll in.
Maurice was late as he rolled into my driveway. I hurried into his car and he blamed me for living so far away and on the other side of the tracks literally. "The damn train took forever to go by. Then it stopped, rolled backwards and then took forever to finish. Dammit."
He had a way of making things my fault when I had no control over the situation whatsoever. He was an asshole that way and I knew there was nothing I could do about it other then harbor asshole opinions of him and he knew that so it was fine. I rolled my eyes at him and headed for the church when the storm burst all around us.
******************************************************************************
"Where the fuck are we supposed to go in at?"
The church was a huge ancient looking thing and so since I wasn't familiar with churches (being Buddhist and all) I assumed it was just at the front door.
But Maurice being the staunch Christian treated me like the ignorant pagan that I was. "No, this church is huge and they lock most of their doors. Dammit." He kept circling the church and I had no idea what we were supposed to do as the rain poured all round us. There was another car that we saw pull into the church parking and we watched. A black woman, quite elderly in a a royal purple dress stepped out with a black umbrella. We watched as she tried the three doors at the front of the church but they were all locked. I felt so bad for her as her dress, hair, and everything were getting wet. All of a sudden we saw a man open a door from the side and wave us all in.
*************************************************************************
We walked in, late and wet. A woman at the door who was passing out the wedding programs shushed us as we shook off our wet clothes. she looked like a huge lilypad in this frilly green frock that made it look like she had no arms. She hurried us to our seats and our hearts broke as we realized that we had walked in right at the end of the ceremony.
The white haired minister spread his hands. "I now pronounce you husband and wife."
Maurice mumbled under his breath. "........fuckin train."
**************************************************************************
"Hey your sister is here. She was here on time. Why didn't we go with her?"
I pointed to Maurice's sister, Lynda. He shook his head. "Why would I want to come with them I don't even like them."
I went to say hi to Lynda and she grabbed my shoulder.
"Does this mean you and Maurice are back together?"
I laughed and shook my head. "No no no no no no, we just come to these things together. It makes him look good to have a date and I get free food. Everyone wins."
**************************************************************************
"So what are you doing now, Annie?"
"I'm helping my mom at our store. Just taking a break really."
"Annie, I haven't seen you in so long! What are you doing now?"
"Well, I'm trying to keep up with my writing. So I'm going back to school in the fall."
"Well, if it isn't Miss Annie. Do you have a corner office yet?"
"Not exactly. Gonna go back to school next month. Can't get enough of the classroom, I guess."
"Annie, I hear you're trying to be a writer? That's gonna be tough."
"Yea gonna take classes in the fall. I'm keeping my fingers crossed."
I got a change to hide in the bathroom for a few minutes. THe ceremoney, i was told, had only lasted fifteen minutes and we had walked in at the final two. Kari has told everyone to come early and that the ceremony would be quick. Maurice nor I had been given that notice. Now was that limbo stage where everyone waits for the reception which was a long two hours away. Some lucky souls slyly stepped out of the church and said their goodbyes until the reception. I was stuck since Maurice was taking this chance to catch up with old friends. I should be doing the same thing but my skin felt so uncomfortable. Maybe it was the rain...maybe it was something else.
I was starving and the reception was too far away. I popped a few peanut M&M's I had smuggled in my purse and fixed myself up. Be brave. These people won't bite.
After leaving the restroom I had a few more conversations with different faces yet the same questions. There were so many times when I wanted to answer someone who had asked what I was up to, "Yea, I've become a professional prostitute down on 6th and Cambria St. You know that corner? Yes, it gets really busy on Fridays. Oh my pimp lets me off on special occasions like this but I have to make it up with at least two times as many tricks tomorrow and that's gonna be hard on Sundays...you know people have church on their minds...but I have my tricks to take their minds off that sermon. AMEN!" If only...if only...
*****************************************************************************
The reception was at a nice fancy hotel but I was disappointed when I saw alcohol was served through a cash bar and I had only brought thirteen dollars. I started off with a Bacardi Coke with three cherries. Wait a minute. There's no alcohol content in cherries. What a waste of volume.
Maurice had chastised again in the car on the way to the reception that I was being anti-social and rude. I shot back that I shouldn't be here and these people freak me out and they make me feel like a shadow of myself. He said that I was being ridiculous and these people only want to talk to me and get to know me and that's all and that I was putting too much pressure on myself. I told him that it all felt fake and I didn't like the way I am around these people. There are just some people that bring out the best in you and shine because you can't help it because they see you for you. But then there are people like these people who make me feel as if I'm made of glass and that they see through me and it's polorizing. We drove in silence for the rest of the ride until the hotel banner hung above us.
***********************************************************************************
Dinner was chicken fried steak, mashed sweet potatoes, and green beans. True country fare. There was also line dancing so I spent most of my time in my chair. I had a good time sitting next to the five year old who was the son of the maid of honor. He told me how ketchup was made out of watermelons and that he had to dance with the bridesmaid who had braces.
************************************************************************************
It was nearing the end of the night and time to catch the bouquet. I sat in the shadows hoping no one would find me but of course the group of giggling girls I was sitting with dragged me to the floor. Thinking the bride would through the bouquet directly to the bridesmaids in the front, I lingered in the back waiting for the DJ to hurry up and count to three.
And then I watched this little petite Asian bride throw a first-down launch as if the bouquet of roses were a pigskin. The flowers were coming right towards me and my mind was already trying to decide---do I move out of the way...do I push this girl beside me in front of the projectile florels....or do I, me with the natural super-glue grip catch this prophetic symbol of matrimony? Of course my spastic self chooses the latter and I am left standing there...as the cheese usually does...alone with a handful of flowers. I am swarmed by giggling females ecstatic even though I don't know why.
A girl with a sweeping french twist and a huge smile gabs, "And see you didn't even want to get up there!! Now look! You're a bride!"
I gave a disingenuine smile and walked back to the table. Maurice knew I wasn't happy with the proceedings that had just taken place. We said our goodbyes, clapped for the line dance that had just finished and went home.
I shifted my cell phone to the other ear and scanned the mental calendar in my head which was pointless because I knew I had nothing scheduled for that day or any other day before or after for that matter.
"I dunno. I guess not. Why?" I asked Maurice quite apathetically. I had had a long day and wasn't feeling social at the moment.
"Well, you remember Kari? Petite Kari from high school? She was a year ahead of us."
I sighed and scanned my brain. It had been about six years since high school but it was still fresh on my mind but I didn't want Maurice to know that.
"Come on, Annie. Cambodian chick. Big boobs."
I giggled. "Yea, I remember her. She getting hitched or something?"
"Yup. Snatched herself a cowboy. So you wana go with me to the wedding?"
"I dunno. I haven't seen any of those people in a while and you know how I get around them. Its sorta weird. Saying things you seem to be saying over and over again and people seem to buy it as real conversation."
"It's up to you. I don't care if you go or not."
"Well, that's nice, asshole. Maybe I shouldn't."
"You know what I mean. I'm sure people will ask about you if you don't go."
By the end of our conversation, I had accepted the invitation but sternly decided that it wasn't necessary to get her a gift since I wasn't directly invited. But I would make sure Maurice put my name on the card. That's just good ettiquette.
****************************************************************************
Is it just me or do we put ourselves in these awkard situations just to torture ourselves because we have nothing else better to do. Most of the guests that would be at the wedding would be distant friends from the past, ghosts that I hadn't seen in awhile. Some maybe last year...some I hadn't seen since high school graduation. And especially at this stage of our lives where we're supposed to be building up our grown-up lives, we all seem to be talking with static in the background. Not knowing exactly what we're trying to say but trying to fool the other person into thinking we are the masters of our lives and knows exactly where we're steering our ship when in reality our compasses are bouncing all around. I'm not an anti-social. I just don't know if these are the people that I can completely be myself around. In a way, they scare me but I guess everyone has that feeling when confronting social situations like this. Right? Or does the cheese stand alone? Who knows.
*********************************************************************************
The wedding wasn't till five so I had all day to lounge around and do nothing which was lovely as I had taken the entire day off from work. But it started worrying me when I saw the grey clouds roll in.
Maurice was late as he rolled into my driveway. I hurried into his car and he blamed me for living so far away and on the other side of the tracks literally. "The damn train took forever to go by. Then it stopped, rolled backwards and then took forever to finish. Dammit."
He had a way of making things my fault when I had no control over the situation whatsoever. He was an asshole that way and I knew there was nothing I could do about it other then harbor asshole opinions of him and he knew that so it was fine. I rolled my eyes at him and headed for the church when the storm burst all around us.
******************************************************************************
"Where the fuck are we supposed to go in at?"
The church was a huge ancient looking thing and so since I wasn't familiar with churches (being Buddhist and all) I assumed it was just at the front door.
But Maurice being the staunch Christian treated me like the ignorant pagan that I was. "No, this church is huge and they lock most of their doors. Dammit." He kept circling the church and I had no idea what we were supposed to do as the rain poured all round us. There was another car that we saw pull into the church parking and we watched. A black woman, quite elderly in a a royal purple dress stepped out with a black umbrella. We watched as she tried the three doors at the front of the church but they were all locked. I felt so bad for her as her dress, hair, and everything were getting wet. All of a sudden we saw a man open a door from the side and wave us all in.
*************************************************************************
We walked in, late and wet. A woman at the door who was passing out the wedding programs shushed us as we shook off our wet clothes. she looked like a huge lilypad in this frilly green frock that made it look like she had no arms. She hurried us to our seats and our hearts broke as we realized that we had walked in right at the end of the ceremony.
The white haired minister spread his hands. "I now pronounce you husband and wife."
Maurice mumbled under his breath. "........fuckin train."
**************************************************************************
"Hey your sister is here. She was here on time. Why didn't we go with her?"
I pointed to Maurice's sister, Lynda. He shook his head. "Why would I want to come with them I don't even like them."
I went to say hi to Lynda and she grabbed my shoulder.
"Does this mean you and Maurice are back together?"
I laughed and shook my head. "No no no no no no, we just come to these things together. It makes him look good to have a date and I get free food. Everyone wins."
**************************************************************************
"So what are you doing now, Annie?"
"I'm helping my mom at our store. Just taking a break really."
"Annie, I haven't seen you in so long! What are you doing now?"
"Well, I'm trying to keep up with my writing. So I'm going back to school in the fall."
"Well, if it isn't Miss Annie. Do you have a corner office yet?"
"Not exactly. Gonna go back to school next month. Can't get enough of the classroom, I guess."
"Annie, I hear you're trying to be a writer? That's gonna be tough."
"Yea gonna take classes in the fall. I'm keeping my fingers crossed."
I got a change to hide in the bathroom for a few minutes. THe ceremoney, i was told, had only lasted fifteen minutes and we had walked in at the final two. Kari has told everyone to come early and that the ceremony would be quick. Maurice nor I had been given that notice. Now was that limbo stage where everyone waits for the reception which was a long two hours away. Some lucky souls slyly stepped out of the church and said their goodbyes until the reception. I was stuck since Maurice was taking this chance to catch up with old friends. I should be doing the same thing but my skin felt so uncomfortable. Maybe it was the rain...maybe it was something else.
I was starving and the reception was too far away. I popped a few peanut M&M's I had smuggled in my purse and fixed myself up. Be brave. These people won't bite.
After leaving the restroom I had a few more conversations with different faces yet the same questions. There were so many times when I wanted to answer someone who had asked what I was up to, "Yea, I've become a professional prostitute down on 6th and Cambria St. You know that corner? Yes, it gets really busy on Fridays. Oh my pimp lets me off on special occasions like this but I have to make it up with at least two times as many tricks tomorrow and that's gonna be hard on Sundays...you know people have church on their minds...but I have my tricks to take their minds off that sermon. AMEN!" If only...if only...
*****************************************************************************
The reception was at a nice fancy hotel but I was disappointed when I saw alcohol was served through a cash bar and I had only brought thirteen dollars. I started off with a Bacardi Coke with three cherries. Wait a minute. There's no alcohol content in cherries. What a waste of volume.
Maurice had chastised again in the car on the way to the reception that I was being anti-social and rude. I shot back that I shouldn't be here and these people freak me out and they make me feel like a shadow of myself. He said that I was being ridiculous and these people only want to talk to me and get to know me and that's all and that I was putting too much pressure on myself. I told him that it all felt fake and I didn't like the way I am around these people. There are just some people that bring out the best in you and shine because you can't help it because they see you for you. But then there are people like these people who make me feel as if I'm made of glass and that they see through me and it's polorizing. We drove in silence for the rest of the ride until the hotel banner hung above us.
***********************************************************************************
Dinner was chicken fried steak, mashed sweet potatoes, and green beans. True country fare. There was also line dancing so I spent most of my time in my chair. I had a good time sitting next to the five year old who was the son of the maid of honor. He told me how ketchup was made out of watermelons and that he had to dance with the bridesmaid who had braces.
************************************************************************************
It was nearing the end of the night and time to catch the bouquet. I sat in the shadows hoping no one would find me but of course the group of giggling girls I was sitting with dragged me to the floor. Thinking the bride would through the bouquet directly to the bridesmaids in the front, I lingered in the back waiting for the DJ to hurry up and count to three.
And then I watched this little petite Asian bride throw a first-down launch as if the bouquet of roses were a pigskin. The flowers were coming right towards me and my mind was already trying to decide---do I move out of the way...do I push this girl beside me in front of the projectile florels....or do I, me with the natural super-glue grip catch this prophetic symbol of matrimony? Of course my spastic self chooses the latter and I am left standing there...as the cheese usually does...alone with a handful of flowers. I am swarmed by giggling females ecstatic even though I don't know why.
A girl with a sweeping french twist and a huge smile gabs, "And see you didn't even want to get up there!! Now look! You're a bride!"
I gave a disingenuine smile and walked back to the table. Maurice knew I wasn't happy with the proceedings that had just taken place. We said our goodbyes, clapped for the line dance that had just finished and went home.
Friday, August 05, 2005
Stop and Shout
So the other day, I decided to go running. Well, it turned out to be more like 2/3 walking and 1/3 running. But it was really hot so you gotta give me credit for trying. Anyhow, today I woke up sore as a bruised banana. I musta been running incorrectly because my shins hurt real bad.
And now my neck is hurting and I keep rotating and rotating and rotating. I guess I should stop rotating.
But I wanted to write something new on here cause I haven't posted in awhile but I have many drafts in the background but nothing good enough for your attention. Hopefully in the next coming weeks.
I am gonna try this running thing though. Ok, maybe just walking. Around my living room. In front of the television. With at least ten minutes of jumping jacks in the corner. How's that? :)
And now my neck is hurting and I keep rotating and rotating and rotating. I guess I should stop rotating.
But I wanted to write something new on here cause I haven't posted in awhile but I have many drafts in the background but nothing good enough for your attention. Hopefully in the next coming weeks.
I am gonna try this running thing though. Ok, maybe just walking. Around my living room. In front of the television. With at least ten minutes of jumping jacks in the corner. How's that? :)
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Ivory String and Snare (note: W.I.P)
Rico's in the corner tapping the snare. His eyes are closed and the music is flowing from his fingers to the wooden sticks that make an explosion with each tap. It's his job to keep the pace. Always in the background, but a leader in the shadows. It feels like he's been doing this for years....different club, same ol' jazz.
Warren is the newbie who Rico picked up off the streets a few weeks ago. He was playin his bass for quarters on the corner of 8th and Dunbar. Warren had always wanted to be apart of a band but never really had any luck or a knack for opportunity. His parents kicked him out of the house when he turned 17 and ever since he was a floater. He had been playing this bass since he found it in the back of an abandoned music store...three years now it must be. He was self taught. Rico had passed by the kid one day and saw past the repetitive plucks and strings and saw potential.
Lois didn't quite like the looks of Warren. Maybe it was his dirty fingernails or his unkept hair but the kid reeked of big trouble in Chinatown. And she didn't like young pups sniffing their way into a pit bull scene. Maybe she was a snob...or maybe she was just too protective of Rico and didn't want Rico's idyllic fantasies of jazz band glory to cloud his judgement. But she'd let Rico have his apprentice....for now at least.
The trio were playing at Wylie's Banana Room tonight and the crowd was pulled paper thin. But it was a Tuesday night, so they couldn't expect any better.
Warren is the newbie who Rico picked up off the streets a few weeks ago. He was playin his bass for quarters on the corner of 8th and Dunbar. Warren had always wanted to be apart of a band but never really had any luck or a knack for opportunity. His parents kicked him out of the house when he turned 17 and ever since he was a floater. He had been playing this bass since he found it in the back of an abandoned music store...three years now it must be. He was self taught. Rico had passed by the kid one day and saw past the repetitive plucks and strings and saw potential.
Lois didn't quite like the looks of Warren. Maybe it was his dirty fingernails or his unkept hair but the kid reeked of big trouble in Chinatown. And she didn't like young pups sniffing their way into a pit bull scene. Maybe she was a snob...or maybe she was just too protective of Rico and didn't want Rico's idyllic fantasies of jazz band glory to cloud his judgement. But she'd let Rico have his apprentice....for now at least.
The trio were playing at Wylie's Banana Room tonight and the crowd was pulled paper thin. But it was a Tuesday night, so they couldn't expect any better.
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
A dream I'd like to share....
Banana and Kuno and I were in Mexico because it was my birthday.
It was real rowdy like it was during the Carnavale festivities but I can't quite remember for sure. But wait a minute...Carnavale is in Fenruary and my birthday is in June....I suppose it could have been Saint John the Baptist Day...but that just doesn't sound as cool. Alright, public notice, my birthday has now changed to February. All I know is that there were a plethora of drunks and crazies congregating on the dirt streets and the air was filled with dust and insanity.
I don't even remember the events that led up to us deciding to come to Mexico. One moment I'm at home in Texas trying to get some reading done, the next I'm sitting at a raggedy old wooden bench with my two good friends being solicited by prostitutes and drenching ourselves in tequila. My fingers were sticky with lime.
We were drinking alot and I felt like I wasn't feeling any of the effects of it though. How sad...what's up with that. I was going to be upset if I made this trek all the way out here and I don't even get fucked up.
But Banana and Kuno were sure having a good time. They were laughing and conjoling like a bunch of crows in a corn field. Then some of our buddies arrived. Hey how'd they know we were gonna be here? That's a big coincidence.
Killer, Froggie and two other guys I hadn't met before (or had I?) arrived. I gave each one a big hug and a kiss on the cheek and since Killer was about 7'1 and weighed nearly 300 lbs, he hugged me, tossed me in the air and threw me over his shoulder until my head was spinning.
We settled down and Banana came up behind me, told me I was sexy and threw up all over me. But it was ok, I wasn't going to cry over projectile vomit. It would make a good story one day.
Then all of a sudden there were a group of parapalegics who over took the streets and wanted to sit at our wooden table (with one broken leg being propped up by a tequila bottle--how'd they do that--only in dreams I guess) And who's gonna say no to a parapalegic, eh? Maybe Hitler...or Martha Stewart, I guess.
But I was upset. A black guy with chocolate smooth skin had rolled his wheelchair up to our spot and was griping for a cerveza when I go up to him, lean over the table and say, "You think you're tough shit don't you....asshole."
I walk away not knowing why I did that but a little voice in the back of my head was calling me a cunt. Or maybe it was the black parapalegic calling me a cunt. It's alright, I can deal with that especially since I'm already a self proclaimed bitch. I think people can call themselves worse things--like a pharmacist, for example. Yeesh, gives me the heebie-jeebies.
It was real rowdy like it was during the Carnavale festivities but I can't quite remember for sure. But wait a minute...Carnavale is in Fenruary and my birthday is in June....I suppose it could have been Saint John the Baptist Day...but that just doesn't sound as cool. Alright, public notice, my birthday has now changed to February. All I know is that there were a plethora of drunks and crazies congregating on the dirt streets and the air was filled with dust and insanity.
I don't even remember the events that led up to us deciding to come to Mexico. One moment I'm at home in Texas trying to get some reading done, the next I'm sitting at a raggedy old wooden bench with my two good friends being solicited by prostitutes and drenching ourselves in tequila. My fingers were sticky with lime.
We were drinking alot and I felt like I wasn't feeling any of the effects of it though. How sad...what's up with that. I was going to be upset if I made this trek all the way out here and I don't even get fucked up.
But Banana and Kuno were sure having a good time. They were laughing and conjoling like a bunch of crows in a corn field. Then some of our buddies arrived. Hey how'd they know we were gonna be here? That's a big coincidence.
Killer, Froggie and two other guys I hadn't met before (or had I?) arrived. I gave each one a big hug and a kiss on the cheek and since Killer was about 7'1 and weighed nearly 300 lbs, he hugged me, tossed me in the air and threw me over his shoulder until my head was spinning.
We settled down and Banana came up behind me, told me I was sexy and threw up all over me. But it was ok, I wasn't going to cry over projectile vomit. It would make a good story one day.
Then all of a sudden there were a group of parapalegics who over took the streets and wanted to sit at our wooden table (with one broken leg being propped up by a tequila bottle--how'd they do that--only in dreams I guess) And who's gonna say no to a parapalegic, eh? Maybe Hitler...or Martha Stewart, I guess.
But I was upset. A black guy with chocolate smooth skin had rolled his wheelchair up to our spot and was griping for a cerveza when I go up to him, lean over the table and say, "You think you're tough shit don't you....asshole."
I walk away not knowing why I did that but a little voice in the back of my head was calling me a cunt. Or maybe it was the black parapalegic calling me a cunt. It's alright, I can deal with that especially since I'm already a self proclaimed bitch. I think people can call themselves worse things--like a pharmacist, for example. Yeesh, gives me the heebie-jeebies.
Saturday, June 25, 2005
I apologize in advance...
The pen breaks underneath my uninspired fingers and the ink flows in the cracks of my hands like a river rupturing through a damn.
Crap. Now I have to go to Walmart for more pens. And its way too hot outside. Fuckin Texas summers. And I hate Walmart. And yet I find myself going there almost everyday. Go figure. When my mother gave birth to me here in America she didn't know that they inject capitalism into your veins right after they cut the umbilical cord. And she wonders why my bank account is always in the red. You shoulda had me in Luxenbourg, ma. Yeesh.
I get up to go to the restroom to wash the blue from my palms. How am I going to turn on the faucet without getting ink all over the nozzles? I could put soap on first but then the bar would get blue smears all over as well.
This is what us in the literary world would call a 'conundrum'? I don't even know if I spelled that right but I never won any spelling bees. That's what I get for trying to sound smart. Ok, I won't try to do it amymore..cross my heart and hope to have writer's block. Or in my case 'writers-Great-Wall-of-China".
Ok, my little brother and sister wanted to play LIFE. Board games are good for their social development, I guess so I agree. It actually ends up being pretty fun. Especially when we discover the trick to winning is buying all the stocks and the best occupation is a police officer. All in all, its a good game. What other game can you marry a lesbian without question (except the glances my bro and sis were giving eachother--what's wrong with two pink people in a orange car anyhow?) who can have a set of twin boys with the roll of the dice and get $25 grand for adopting a dog.
There's these mosquito bites all over me because with Texas sized summers come Texas sized mosquitoes. I look like I have chicken pox-squared. Gross, huh? haha But kinda funny too.
Alright. Sit back down. Start all over again.
Crap. Now I have to go to Walmart for more pens. And its way too hot outside. Fuckin Texas summers. And I hate Walmart. And yet I find myself going there almost everyday. Go figure. When my mother gave birth to me here in America she didn't know that they inject capitalism into your veins right after they cut the umbilical cord. And she wonders why my bank account is always in the red. You shoulda had me in Luxenbourg, ma. Yeesh.
I get up to go to the restroom to wash the blue from my palms. How am I going to turn on the faucet without getting ink all over the nozzles? I could put soap on first but then the bar would get blue smears all over as well.
This is what us in the literary world would call a 'conundrum'? I don't even know if I spelled that right but I never won any spelling bees. That's what I get for trying to sound smart. Ok, I won't try to do it amymore..cross my heart and hope to have writer's block. Or in my case 'writers-Great-Wall-of-China".
Ok, my little brother and sister wanted to play LIFE. Board games are good for their social development, I guess so I agree. It actually ends up being pretty fun. Especially when we discover the trick to winning is buying all the stocks and the best occupation is a police officer. All in all, its a good game. What other game can you marry a lesbian without question (except the glances my bro and sis were giving eachother--what's wrong with two pink people in a orange car anyhow?) who can have a set of twin boys with the roll of the dice and get $25 grand for adopting a dog.
There's these mosquito bites all over me because with Texas sized summers come Texas sized mosquitoes. I look like I have chicken pox-squared. Gross, huh? haha But kinda funny too.
Alright. Sit back down. Start all over again.
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
Rabbit's Milk
"Where am I?"
I look around me and I see walls of glass. Yet beyond the glass is nothingness-white. It scares me and chills me to the bone. I'm afraid to move. The icy fingers of fear frostbiting my toes, slowing my breath.
Knock. Knock. Knock. Nothing but my echoes and the madness of my mind.
"You know, you might want to try scaling the wall."
I spin around. Who said that? And I see straight in front of me, a white rabbit. Pink eyes, long ears, and strong hind legs ready to pounce.
His pink eyes look up. "See. There's a hole up there."
I gawk as the realization of a talking rabbit soaks into my brain but I am not troubled by him for some reason. The presence of another...anything..was comforting. I look up and then back down. Yes, there was a hole up there. The glass walls....the funneling of the room to the top hole in the ceiling. I was in a bottle. A glass bottle.
"Who are you? Where am I?" Was I really talking to a rabbit?
The rabbit bounces around which causes its thumbing to echo throughout the bottle. "This is a milk bottle. And I am a rabbit named......Maurice." He smiles at the made-up name. "But those aren't the questions that are important now because you already knew that." He smiles and his teeth are sharp.
This sight frightens me and I cross my arms, puff out my chest in a futile attempt to seem in control. "I can't scale the walls. The walls are too smooth. Its glass." I palm my way up but my toes don't leave the ground. "If I were you, I would try to hop out, I suppose."
"But you assume that I am here to escape. But I am not. " He smiles again, the sharp teeth are still there.
I smile back. More of a timid grimace. I think. I think hard. What was I doing last. Where was I before I woke up here?
Mother.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
I spin around because it wasn't me nor the rabbit who knocked on the glass wall. I see my mother. But she's on the other side of the wall, outside of the bottle. She's trying to tell me something. I run up to where she is and wish to hug her, hold her, feel her safety.
I cannot hear her. I cannot make out her silent wailings. She keeps knocking and it echoes throughout the bottle. It makes my head hurt.
"STOP, MOM. I CAN'T HEAR YOU. STOP IT" But she continues until I close my eyes hard and wish her to stop. I open my eyes again and she's gone. The silent screams gone. The knocking gone.
"Where'd she go?" I turn toward the rabbit who is licking his paw.
He's startled as if he didn't realize it was his turn to speak in a school play. He listens to the empty space as if someone from off stage feeding him his lines.
"Are you sure that was your mother? Or is that just what you wanted to see?" He continues licking his paw.
My mind races. My eyes burn with salty tears of fear and frustration.
"GET ME OUT OF HERE!!!!"
I grab the rabbit by its foot and swing it around around around around around until my steps feel heavy and my head it light with dizziness. I hurl the rabbit against the glass wall over over over over over over. Until there's blood on his white fur. Cracked skull against the clear walls.
Finally one last crash of his head against the wall brings the whole bottle crashing down around me and I'm left with, blood in my hair, shards in my skin and a rabbit foot in my hand.
I look around me and I see walls of glass. Yet beyond the glass is nothingness-white. It scares me and chills me to the bone. I'm afraid to move. The icy fingers of fear frostbiting my toes, slowing my breath.
Knock. Knock. Knock. Nothing but my echoes and the madness of my mind.
"You know, you might want to try scaling the wall."
I spin around. Who said that? And I see straight in front of me, a white rabbit. Pink eyes, long ears, and strong hind legs ready to pounce.
His pink eyes look up. "See. There's a hole up there."
I gawk as the realization of a talking rabbit soaks into my brain but I am not troubled by him for some reason. The presence of another...anything..was comforting. I look up and then back down. Yes, there was a hole up there. The glass walls....the funneling of the room to the top hole in the ceiling. I was in a bottle. A glass bottle.
"Who are you? Where am I?" Was I really talking to a rabbit?
The rabbit bounces around which causes its thumbing to echo throughout the bottle. "This is a milk bottle. And I am a rabbit named......Maurice." He smiles at the made-up name. "But those aren't the questions that are important now because you already knew that." He smiles and his teeth are sharp.
This sight frightens me and I cross my arms, puff out my chest in a futile attempt to seem in control. "I can't scale the walls. The walls are too smooth. Its glass." I palm my way up but my toes don't leave the ground. "If I were you, I would try to hop out, I suppose."
"But you assume that I am here to escape. But I am not. " He smiles again, the sharp teeth are still there.
I smile back. More of a timid grimace. I think. I think hard. What was I doing last. Where was I before I woke up here?
Mother.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
I spin around because it wasn't me nor the rabbit who knocked on the glass wall. I see my mother. But she's on the other side of the wall, outside of the bottle. She's trying to tell me something. I run up to where she is and wish to hug her, hold her, feel her safety.
I cannot hear her. I cannot make out her silent wailings. She keeps knocking and it echoes throughout the bottle. It makes my head hurt.
"STOP, MOM. I CAN'T HEAR YOU. STOP IT" But she continues until I close my eyes hard and wish her to stop. I open my eyes again and she's gone. The silent screams gone. The knocking gone.
"Where'd she go?" I turn toward the rabbit who is licking his paw.
He's startled as if he didn't realize it was his turn to speak in a school play. He listens to the empty space as if someone from off stage feeding him his lines.
"Are you sure that was your mother? Or is that just what you wanted to see?" He continues licking his paw.
My mind races. My eyes burn with salty tears of fear and frustration.
"GET ME OUT OF HERE!!!!"
I grab the rabbit by its foot and swing it around around around around around until my steps feel heavy and my head it light with dizziness. I hurl the rabbit against the glass wall over over over over over over. Until there's blood on his white fur. Cracked skull against the clear walls.
Finally one last crash of his head against the wall brings the whole bottle crashing down around me and I'm left with, blood in my hair, shards in my skin and a rabbit foot in my hand.
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Mr. Goodbar
Maggie looked at her eyes and winced at her reflection. There were puffy bags under them and she didn't like that tired look on her face. It made her look 10 years older and the guy at the counter hadn't even asked her for her ID when she was buying her morning pack of cigarettes earlier. What an asshole. But, now, as she looked at her eyes, she forgave him.
She had already had two cigarettes from her way back from the corner store and now she had to take a shit. Because that what cigarettes, along with many other things make you do sometimes--have to take a shit.
She sighed and splashed water on her face.
*************
The day was hot and the sun beat down hard. Maggie wondered where all her neighbors were. She lived on the second floor of a dingy apartment complex and still considered it a temporary abode even though she'd been there 5 years already. She leaned over the railing and exhaled. The cigarette shone in the glare of the sun.
Maggie looked left.
#213 usually left their door open and whenever she'd pass she'd see a 300 pound (in reality, probably 400 pound but who was weighing?) woman seated on the floor watching Jerry Springer with a banana in one hand and a candy bar (usually a Mr. Goodbar) in the other. But the door was closed today and you couldn't hear any wailings from the television.
Maggie looked right.
Benson and his current gay lover, Morad, was not to be seen either. Benson was from El Salvador and was teaching Maggie some Spanish. But since Morad had come into the picture, the lessons had become fewer and far between. One afternon Maggie had seen Morad knocking on Benson's door.
She'd said, "Que paso, hombre?" trying to be polite.
But Morad rolled his eyes and spitted, "Don't talk that broken Spanish with me, sister. You don't even know me." Benson opened the door, looked Maggie up and down and didn't say a word. He pulled Morad inside by the collar and Maggie listened to their sexual escapades through the thin walls for the rest of the night. How could she sleep with all that wall banging anyhow. Benson was probably coked up which reminded Maggie to ask him for another hit next time around.
******************
Maggie sat on the spinny bar stool and sipped her beer. Three guys had tried to hit on her.
#1: Hey beautiful. Want another drink cause I can't wait to see you hammered.
Maggie gave a polite smile and moved to the other side of the bar.
#2: Are you here alone...cause um..I'm here alone too. And since we're both alone why should two alone people be alone...
He continued on like this for another five minutes and he was just so pathetic Maggie couldn't cut him off in mid-depression. For a moment she thought he would break into sobs. She smiled and excused herself to the bathroom and found a booth in the corner.
#3: Wana dance? You look like a dancer? Do you play sports cause you have the biggest thighs I've ever seen.
Maggie decided to call it a night after that. When she got home she did an hour worth of squats and vowed to go on a diet.
**********************
It was a Sunday morning and Maggie was outside smoking. #213 had her door open and Maggie could see a big fat foot with five big fat digits wiggling whenever Jerry Springer introduced the next transvestite.
Maggie contemplated having another cig when she saw Mr. Goodbar wrappers being thrown from #213.
She heard a deep throaty androgynous voice. "Hey."
Three more wrappers tumbled through the threshold followed by more yelps.
Maggie walked closer and peered in. She waved at the mass on the floor and thought that #213 would make a killer Java the Hut for Halloween.
The mass spoke to her. "Hey I need more Mr. Goodbars, but my sister hasn't got back yet. Can you go buy me some from the corner store. I'll pay you."
Maggie contemplated and thought what a sad existence to live for Mr. Goodbars and talkshows. How could she say no. She nodded. #213 pointed to a jar of nickels on the television.
#213: Take that. It should buy you alot of them.
Maggie walked down the steps slowly with the heavy glass jar of nickels. People that passed her probably thought she was crazy. How embarassing.
******************
It was a big decision looking down at the box of Mr. Goodbars and wondering how many she should get. For one, she wanted to do a good job since #213 had put her trust in her to go on this independent mission. But on the other hand, she wondered how many more candy bars it was going to take for #213's heart to stop. Maybe she should just buy her some peanuts. That's like a Mr. Goodbar...but without the "good", she supposed. If she were a bad person, Maggie would have bought one candy bar and spent the rest of the money on cigarettes and lottery tickets. But she decided on 5 Mr. Goodbars, a lighter, and one $2 lottery ticket instead.
******************
She got back and #213 had dozed off but when Maggie set the half empty (or half-full) jar of nickels back ontop of the tv, the mass awoke.
"Thanks." She wiped her eye crusties away and proceeded to devour two candy bars at once.
Maggie handed her the scratch-off. "Here I bought you this too. Maybe you'll have some luck." She turned to leave.
"Thanks. Wait. Lemme scratch it and we can split it if I win." She dug her chocolaty nails into the ticket playing area. "Hey, I won $2 bucks. That's three Mr. Goodbars."
Maggie smiled. "Yea, hey keep it."
#213 smiled. "Come by whenever you want."
"Ok." Maggie decided to have another cigarette. She sat on the threshold of #213's door and listened to the chomping of candy and television, strangely taking comfort in the sound.
She had already had two cigarettes from her way back from the corner store and now she had to take a shit. Because that what cigarettes, along with many other things make you do sometimes--have to take a shit.
She sighed and splashed water on her face.
*************
The day was hot and the sun beat down hard. Maggie wondered where all her neighbors were. She lived on the second floor of a dingy apartment complex and still considered it a temporary abode even though she'd been there 5 years already. She leaned over the railing and exhaled. The cigarette shone in the glare of the sun.
Maggie looked left.
#213 usually left their door open and whenever she'd pass she'd see a 300 pound (in reality, probably 400 pound but who was weighing?) woman seated on the floor watching Jerry Springer with a banana in one hand and a candy bar (usually a Mr. Goodbar) in the other. But the door was closed today and you couldn't hear any wailings from the television.
Maggie looked right.
Benson and his current gay lover, Morad, was not to be seen either. Benson was from El Salvador and was teaching Maggie some Spanish. But since Morad had come into the picture, the lessons had become fewer and far between. One afternon Maggie had seen Morad knocking on Benson's door.
She'd said, "Que paso, hombre?" trying to be polite.
But Morad rolled his eyes and spitted, "Don't talk that broken Spanish with me, sister. You don't even know me." Benson opened the door, looked Maggie up and down and didn't say a word. He pulled Morad inside by the collar and Maggie listened to their sexual escapades through the thin walls for the rest of the night. How could she sleep with all that wall banging anyhow. Benson was probably coked up which reminded Maggie to ask him for another hit next time around.
******************
Maggie sat on the spinny bar stool and sipped her beer. Three guys had tried to hit on her.
#1: Hey beautiful. Want another drink cause I can't wait to see you hammered.
Maggie gave a polite smile and moved to the other side of the bar.
#2: Are you here alone...cause um..I'm here alone too. And since we're both alone why should two alone people be alone...
He continued on like this for another five minutes and he was just so pathetic Maggie couldn't cut him off in mid-depression. For a moment she thought he would break into sobs. She smiled and excused herself to the bathroom and found a booth in the corner.
#3: Wana dance? You look like a dancer? Do you play sports cause you have the biggest thighs I've ever seen.
Maggie decided to call it a night after that. When she got home she did an hour worth of squats and vowed to go on a diet.
**********************
It was a Sunday morning and Maggie was outside smoking. #213 had her door open and Maggie could see a big fat foot with five big fat digits wiggling whenever Jerry Springer introduced the next transvestite.
Maggie contemplated having another cig when she saw Mr. Goodbar wrappers being thrown from #213.
She heard a deep throaty androgynous voice. "Hey."
Three more wrappers tumbled through the threshold followed by more yelps.
Maggie walked closer and peered in. She waved at the mass on the floor and thought that #213 would make a killer Java the Hut for Halloween.
The mass spoke to her. "Hey I need more Mr. Goodbars, but my sister hasn't got back yet. Can you go buy me some from the corner store. I'll pay you."
Maggie contemplated and thought what a sad existence to live for Mr. Goodbars and talkshows. How could she say no. She nodded. #213 pointed to a jar of nickels on the television.
#213: Take that. It should buy you alot of them.
Maggie walked down the steps slowly with the heavy glass jar of nickels. People that passed her probably thought she was crazy. How embarassing.
******************
It was a big decision looking down at the box of Mr. Goodbars and wondering how many she should get. For one, she wanted to do a good job since #213 had put her trust in her to go on this independent mission. But on the other hand, she wondered how many more candy bars it was going to take for #213's heart to stop. Maybe she should just buy her some peanuts. That's like a Mr. Goodbar...but without the "good", she supposed. If she were a bad person, Maggie would have bought one candy bar and spent the rest of the money on cigarettes and lottery tickets. But she decided on 5 Mr. Goodbars, a lighter, and one $2 lottery ticket instead.
******************
She got back and #213 had dozed off but when Maggie set the half empty (or half-full) jar of nickels back ontop of the tv, the mass awoke.
"Thanks." She wiped her eye crusties away and proceeded to devour two candy bars at once.
Maggie handed her the scratch-off. "Here I bought you this too. Maybe you'll have some luck." She turned to leave.
"Thanks. Wait. Lemme scratch it and we can split it if I win." She dug her chocolaty nails into the ticket playing area. "Hey, I won $2 bucks. That's three Mr. Goodbars."
Maggie smiled. "Yea, hey keep it."
#213 smiled. "Come by whenever you want."
"Ok." Maggie decided to have another cigarette. She sat on the threshold of #213's door and listened to the chomping of candy and television, strangely taking comfort in the sound.
Monday, May 23, 2005
Another Casual Thought
I sit atop my pedestal as I read another novel;
And listen as red and blue sirens pass the storefront.
An ambulance going to pick up a victim,
Or perform CPR,
Or rescue a cat from a tree.
And I wonder about whether the next door
Funeral home director is sitting in her chair,
Her gelatinous proportions too large for the
Mere man-made chair she's squeezed into.
Listening to those sirens;
An orgasmic chill runs down her plotting spine
And evily taps her fingers
And looks up at the ceiling and gives a
Slow smile.
And listen as red and blue sirens pass the storefront.
An ambulance going to pick up a victim,
Or perform CPR,
Or rescue a cat from a tree.
And I wonder about whether the next door
Funeral home director is sitting in her chair,
Her gelatinous proportions too large for the
Mere man-made chair she's squeezed into.
Listening to those sirens;
An orgasmic chill runs down her plotting spine
And evily taps her fingers
And looks up at the ceiling and gives a
Slow smile.
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
Mouth
What's the matter with
Solitary coffeeshop visits and
Reading books in the corner?
Is it taboo to take a few seconds
To gaze a little longer or
Smile a little brighter?
What's wrong with loving
and then leaving
and loving back again?
Why can't you feel the person's
presence, but not say a word
Afraid you'll scare them away?
We all have those days, where
we had no idea, our foot could
fit so perfectly in our mouth.
Solitary coffeeshop visits and
Reading books in the corner?
Is it taboo to take a few seconds
To gaze a little longer or
Smile a little brighter?
What's wrong with loving
and then leaving
and loving back again?
Why can't you feel the person's
presence, but not say a word
Afraid you'll scare them away?
We all have those days, where
we had no idea, our foot could
fit so perfectly in our mouth.
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
Being the Rhinoceros
I woke up today with a scratchy throat. And watery eyes. What is this? This is weird.
While taking a shower, I sneezed. Three times consecutively which on any other occasion would be a novelty to me because I still believe the superstition that that indicates someone is thinking about me. But I was overcome with lightheadedness and the sheer force of the triplet sneezes made my nose a bit red and swollen, I couldn't even take pleasure in the thought of it. I couldn't even finish washing the conditioner out of my hair because I began getting the chills, I had to step out of the shower immediately. Great, I thought, now I'll have flat hair all day. Geez.
While pulling on my jeans and Rolling Stones t-shirt, I pondered my predicament. It's the middle of spring. I suppose allergies could be the culprit--but, I don't get allergies, stupid. Is it normal to just get it all of a sudden? And does it really make you have a sore throat and chills (and paranoia to the point of me talking nonstop in my head)? Questionable.
While searching the web for various sites on the topic, and spending a good thirty minutes reading related articles on WebMD, I diagnosed myself as having allergic rhinitis or more commonly coined as hay fever. But I prefer the more formal name--it makes me sorta think that I am a rhinoceros. Hay fever just makes me feel like I got hay stuck up my nose which is not as fascinating. For a second I thought I had the West Nile Fever stuff that's been freaking everyone out ever since allergy season started. But I rationalized I wasn't fortunate enough to get something that drastic.
So anyhow, I muster up the courage to go to work. It ends up being a normal day other than the incessant sneezing and coughing. I feel guilty everytime I have to hand people their change wondering how many diseases I've transferred to them. I'm a big ball of germs. I play with the idea of maybe wearing latex gloves but I don't like how my fingers feel floury in them. Or maybe wearing a sign around my neck that says "DON'T TOUCH ME." Or using tongs to give them their change back and tweezers for the smaller coins. Would that be too weird? Think about it for a second and imagine how much cleaner us humans would be if we did that...come on...admit that you sorta like the idea.
Half of the day is almost over and I'm enjoying a cup of tea when a frazzled looking customer walks through the plexi-glass doors. I can tell he's not going to buy anything. He's about middle-aged, white with dusty blonde hair that hasn't been washed in days. I wondered what bridge he must have slept under last night.
"I'm sorry to bother you but my car is stalled out there and I need some gas, can you spare any money?"
I hated these types. Losers who think just because you work at a store you have a bronze pot of money under your seat that says "In case of losers who need gas money."
I looked out the door and saw no car. And he had no keys on him.
I stared at him blankly and twitched my nose. If I had hidden witch powers, this would be a great time for them to be realized. I would like to turn this bum into a cockaroach or maybe a dust bunny.
"Sorry, I can't do that." I take a sip of my tea and wait for his reply.
"Come on, just a couple of bucks. I have to get home to my wife and kids. They're waiting on me. I really need your help."
I grimaced at the statement of him having a family. This guy had no wedding ring. And if he really was a father, I felt sorry for the bad fortune of having such a loser as a father. If he had said, "Come on, I need money to get hopped up on heroine and then crash out on a matress covered with empty beer bottles..." I would have beleived that and maybe have given him a quarter. But then again, it was hard beleiving anything coming out of his mouth because of his dirty cut-off shorts, long ape-ish leg hairs contrasting against his pasty calves, and his pungent stench of slim jims.
I got off of my stool irritated and tired. This conversationw as draining me. I looked at him face to face and said, "Sir, I--I--I--ACHOOOO"
And there it was.
My sneeze all over his face.
It was quite disgusting but so entertaining. I watched his face contort into a twisted ball of shock. As the realization seeped into him, he shivered and slowly began to walk away. I watched as he walked out the door, paused, wiped his face on his already dirty shirt and walk off into the distance.
Well, that took care of that.
Having allergic rhinitis sure comes in handy when you need it to, I tell ya what.
While taking a shower, I sneezed. Three times consecutively which on any other occasion would be a novelty to me because I still believe the superstition that that indicates someone is thinking about me. But I was overcome with lightheadedness and the sheer force of the triplet sneezes made my nose a bit red and swollen, I couldn't even take pleasure in the thought of it. I couldn't even finish washing the conditioner out of my hair because I began getting the chills, I had to step out of the shower immediately. Great, I thought, now I'll have flat hair all day. Geez.
While pulling on my jeans and Rolling Stones t-shirt, I pondered my predicament. It's the middle of spring. I suppose allergies could be the culprit--but, I don't get allergies, stupid. Is it normal to just get it all of a sudden? And does it really make you have a sore throat and chills (and paranoia to the point of me talking nonstop in my head)? Questionable.
While searching the web for various sites on the topic, and spending a good thirty minutes reading related articles on WebMD, I diagnosed myself as having allergic rhinitis or more commonly coined as hay fever. But I prefer the more formal name--it makes me sorta think that I am a rhinoceros. Hay fever just makes me feel like I got hay stuck up my nose which is not as fascinating. For a second I thought I had the West Nile Fever stuff that's been freaking everyone out ever since allergy season started. But I rationalized I wasn't fortunate enough to get something that drastic.
So anyhow, I muster up the courage to go to work. It ends up being a normal day other than the incessant sneezing and coughing. I feel guilty everytime I have to hand people their change wondering how many diseases I've transferred to them. I'm a big ball of germs. I play with the idea of maybe wearing latex gloves but I don't like how my fingers feel floury in them. Or maybe wearing a sign around my neck that says "DON'T TOUCH ME." Or using tongs to give them their change back and tweezers for the smaller coins. Would that be too weird? Think about it for a second and imagine how much cleaner us humans would be if we did that...come on...admit that you sorta like the idea.
Half of the day is almost over and I'm enjoying a cup of tea when a frazzled looking customer walks through the plexi-glass doors. I can tell he's not going to buy anything. He's about middle-aged, white with dusty blonde hair that hasn't been washed in days. I wondered what bridge he must have slept under last night.
"I'm sorry to bother you but my car is stalled out there and I need some gas, can you spare any money?"
I hated these types. Losers who think just because you work at a store you have a bronze pot of money under your seat that says "In case of losers who need gas money."
I looked out the door and saw no car. And he had no keys on him.
I stared at him blankly and twitched my nose. If I had hidden witch powers, this would be a great time for them to be realized. I would like to turn this bum into a cockaroach or maybe a dust bunny.
"Sorry, I can't do that." I take a sip of my tea and wait for his reply.
"Come on, just a couple of bucks. I have to get home to my wife and kids. They're waiting on me. I really need your help."
I grimaced at the statement of him having a family. This guy had no wedding ring. And if he really was a father, I felt sorry for the bad fortune of having such a loser as a father. If he had said, "Come on, I need money to get hopped up on heroine and then crash out on a matress covered with empty beer bottles..." I would have beleived that and maybe have given him a quarter. But then again, it was hard beleiving anything coming out of his mouth because of his dirty cut-off shorts, long ape-ish leg hairs contrasting against his pasty calves, and his pungent stench of slim jims.
I got off of my stool irritated and tired. This conversationw as draining me. I looked at him face to face and said, "Sir, I--I--I--ACHOOOO"
And there it was.
My sneeze all over his face.
It was quite disgusting but so entertaining. I watched his face contort into a twisted ball of shock. As the realization seeped into him, he shivered and slowly began to walk away. I watched as he walked out the door, paused, wiped his face on his already dirty shirt and walk off into the distance.
Well, that took care of that.
Having allergic rhinitis sure comes in handy when you need it to, I tell ya what.
Monday, May 16, 2005
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
Daddy's Little Girl
My father thinks that I'm a lesbian....but I can't be quite sure.
I'm not though. I'm not, though? (Raised eyebrow...) Confused, I guess...no..no Questionable...curious....but anyhow...
We haven't talked about it face to face. Just little hints and vibes I get from him. Like curious sideways glances as if trying to probe my psyche or quick headshakes of frustration...
The thought of it sorta makes me laugh and want to help the charade along by maybe buying more guy shirts and cutting my hair shorter than it already is. Or maybe putting K.D. Lang's picture as my desktop. (Genius!) But then I don't want him to have a heart attack...or a broken one at that.
It started when I began working at our family store. My days were perfectly scheduled to make time go by faster and just be more efficient. Get in at 10:30 A.M. Restock the scratch-off tickets, put out the latest results, change the lotto jackpot sign. 11:00A.M. stock the soda machines and chip racks. 12:00-1:30 p.m. take care of the lunch rush and Pick 3 rush. 1:30 p.m.-3 p.m. miscellaneous dusting and stocking.
And then the time of day when the sun seems to shine a bit brighter....3 p.M. watch the Ellen Degeneres Show. She's funny and it makes me smile. My dad noticed my little afternoon pick-me-up and even began watching it with me. He thinks she's amusing in a weird androgynous sorta way, i guess. Whenever the signal would fade on and off for that channel, he'd hurry to the roof to correct the fuzziness. He's a sweetheart and it was good doing something we both could share and enjoy.
But then word got out about her homosexuality somehow. The cat was out of the bag. I dunno...maybe he was watching news or something and a blip about her new mistress bubbled up to the headlines. Or one day while standing in the grocery line he saw a tabloid headline...something about how Ellen prefers smaller chested women with blonde hair over a slim waist and big feet...those darn tabloids..! Or the article about how curiously similar Ellen and Owen Wilson look...that darn Owen Wilson...god bless 'em. Anyhow, Dad was talking to my little sister and my little sister reported back to me, "Annie, Dad says Ellen is nasty because she likes girls."
He never joined me in watching Ellen's show ever again.
Which was fine. I could be a solitary spectator. But I had to admit--I missed him.
But then there was the night I was online and I just so happened to be in the market for some new undergarments and was perusing through the Victoria Secret website (which is a horribly, non-user friendly site) and I didn't notice my father behind me watching television while simultaneously glancing in my direction with a confused look on his face wondering why his daughter was so staunchly concentrated at looking at the skimpily clad models on my screen.
That night I heard my father's exasperated voice question to my mother, "Do lesbians run on your side of the family?"
I'm not though. I'm not, though? (Raised eyebrow...) Confused, I guess...no..no Questionable...curious....but anyhow...
We haven't talked about it face to face. Just little hints and vibes I get from him. Like curious sideways glances as if trying to probe my psyche or quick headshakes of frustration...
The thought of it sorta makes me laugh and want to help the charade along by maybe buying more guy shirts and cutting my hair shorter than it already is. Or maybe putting K.D. Lang's picture as my desktop. (Genius!) But then I don't want him to have a heart attack...or a broken one at that.
It started when I began working at our family store. My days were perfectly scheduled to make time go by faster and just be more efficient. Get in at 10:30 A.M. Restock the scratch-off tickets, put out the latest results, change the lotto jackpot sign. 11:00A.M. stock the soda machines and chip racks. 12:00-1:30 p.m. take care of the lunch rush and Pick 3 rush. 1:30 p.m.-3 p.m. miscellaneous dusting and stocking.
And then the time of day when the sun seems to shine a bit brighter....3 p.M. watch the Ellen Degeneres Show. She's funny and it makes me smile. My dad noticed my little afternoon pick-me-up and even began watching it with me. He thinks she's amusing in a weird androgynous sorta way, i guess. Whenever the signal would fade on and off for that channel, he'd hurry to the roof to correct the fuzziness. He's a sweetheart and it was good doing something we both could share and enjoy.
But then word got out about her homosexuality somehow. The cat was out of the bag. I dunno...maybe he was watching news or something and a blip about her new mistress bubbled up to the headlines. Or one day while standing in the grocery line he saw a tabloid headline...something about how Ellen prefers smaller chested women with blonde hair over a slim waist and big feet...those darn tabloids..! Or the article about how curiously similar Ellen and Owen Wilson look...that darn Owen Wilson...god bless 'em. Anyhow, Dad was talking to my little sister and my little sister reported back to me, "Annie, Dad says Ellen is nasty because she likes girls."
He never joined me in watching Ellen's show ever again.
Which was fine. I could be a solitary spectator. But I had to admit--I missed him.
But then there was the night I was online and I just so happened to be in the market for some new undergarments and was perusing through the Victoria Secret website (which is a horribly, non-user friendly site) and I didn't notice my father behind me watching television while simultaneously glancing in my direction with a confused look on his face wondering why his daughter was so staunchly concentrated at looking at the skimpily clad models on my screen.
That night I heard my father's exasperated voice question to my mother, "Do lesbians run on your side of the family?"
Thursday, April 28, 2005
Chocolate Eyeballs
Another day behind the cash register and I was bored. Usually I would be hungrily stocking the shelves trying to make every single label perfectly perpendicular to the flat surface shelf so each would be beaming its bright label at the next unsuspecting customer. Buy me! Buy me! That's what people are unknowingly bombarded with as they walk through the aisles with perfectly aligned products--subconscience verbal abuse by inanimate objects. It's a science, really. But today, all the shelves were fully stocked, every label face-out, every object dusted to perfection.
I could reorganize the lottery tickets. As fun as that would be, it would confuse people too much because they'd already gotten used to this schema that I'd put in place a week ago. All containers were full and each ticket name shone brightly through the plexiglass cubicles. I spent extra careful time to cut bright, fluorescent labels to show what the new tickets were and their costs. It was a beautiful sight. I pondered where the new tickets that would be coming out next week would be placed. Maybe above the $1 Money Jars, or the $5 Gold Mines, or the $3 Cashword, or the $2 Pure Gold or the coveted spot above the best selling $5 ticket--Break the Bank. If the tickets were personified they would all be in a flutter and discussing who deserved to be above the Break the Bank ticket.
$1 Money Jar: Well, I should be placed there because people love $1 tickets and I should obviously be above the best selling ticket overall. And come on...my name alone..."Money Jar" implies my associated nature with "banks" and the eminent "breaking" of them. People break their money jars all the time...
$2 Pure Gold: Come on. I'm pure gold. Ya put that in banks. Yadayadayada. I deserve to be above there. Someone...anyone...throw me a gold nugget...please!
I was snapped out of my lottery ticket daydream by the ding of the opening door. I saw a little boy run inside followed by his father--Edward.
Edward had been coming into the store for who knows how long and we had never really gotten past the conventional "How ya doing?'s" and stuff like that which was disappointing. He was gorgeous and so sweet and nice. Sometimes I just wanted to pounce on him--eat him up--show him things he never thought possible...
A few months ago, it was revealed to me that he had two children but he had no wedding ring on so that was a sign right? Or was he getting it cleaned for some reason?? Maybe he was recently separated? No matter, we had casually developed this air of flirtation and the tension between us was suffocating. There was an obvious attraction there. It was as if we were characters in a sitcom and we were the two that belonged together and everyone knew it except for the two characters and they just seemed so oblivious and----
"Hey, how's it going?" Edward coyly asked me. He leaned against the counter and it gave a squeak. He had these amazing chocolate brown eyes that held their gaze on me and it was intoxicating.
"Hey, Edward. Nothin much. Just the same ol' stuff."
"That's cool. Hurry up, Josh. We gotta go." His son scurried left and then right overwhelmed by our wide selection of candies and sweets.
"So...uh...do you go to the movies and stuff?" Ed asked very nervously and uncomfortably. This was a guy with two children. Surely, he had smoother lines than this.
I smiled. "Yea, I go the movies all the time. How about you?"
"Yea, yea, I like a good movie here and there. What was the last movie you just saw?"
"Hmm...I saw that new kung-fu movie that came out last weekend. It was surprisingly good."
"Oh, yea, you saw that already? Man, I wana go see that." There was a pause as we locked gazes and then we both turned away at the exact moment. "Hurry, up Josh. They got ice cream too. Here look vanilla."
"Vanilla is the best." I say. Geezus, I'm such a dork. Vanilla retard. Vanilla groupie. Vanilla whore.
"So did you go see that movie with your boyfriend?"
I paused. He was trying to dig for info and it was so cute and endearing. I looked into his creamy chocholate eyes and was lost in them. "Nope. Just went with a friend."
There was a nod and a smile. I couldn't take my eyes away from his eyes. I wanted to fall deeply into them. Swim in the pool of his irises. Sleep in the folds of his eyelids. Run through the fields of his eyelashes.
There was a crash as a jar of lollipops fell to the floor. Suddenly Josh was running around in a hyper, 5-year old frenzy.
"JOSH! STOP THAT!"
But all I could do was look at Edward's eyes (though wrought with frustration with this son).
"JOSH! HURRY UP!"
His delicious chocolate eyes....
"DON'T DO THAT!"
His gorgeous chocolate eyes...
"YOU ARE IN SO MUCH TROUBLE!."
His completely edible, made-for me, creamy, dark, come-hither and be my love-slave, chocolate eyes.....
"Sorry, he gets hyper like this all the time. JOSH!"
I smiled. "It's ok. I want to eat your eyeballs."
My body froze and I felt like I was paralyzed. No way. Did I really say what I think I just said...OUT LOUD???
There was a mind-numbing silence. Josh had tired down and was sitting on the floor now, his hand on his father's leg. Edward looked down at his son and then back at me and now his eyes questioned whether he heard what he thought he heard.
"Gumballs! We have gumballs. Did he want some gumballs?" I motioned to our colorful gum section and gave a sigh of relief when Edward merely shook his head and let the strange (Twilight-esque) moment melt away behind us. Thank the heavens for gumballs.
Finally, they decided on a pack of green apple gumballs and a pint of vanilla ice cream.
There was a pause as I gave him his change.
A question in his eyes and a patient reply waiting on my lips.
But then he began to walk away. I wanted to scream COME BACK COME BACK ASK ME ASK ME ANYTHING AND I'LL DO IT!!!
He looked back at me and I looked at him and we both smiled. I watched as the glass door shut behind him. He started up his car and drove away.
I couldn't wait till the next time he came into the store.
I could reorganize the lottery tickets. As fun as that would be, it would confuse people too much because they'd already gotten used to this schema that I'd put in place a week ago. All containers were full and each ticket name shone brightly through the plexiglass cubicles. I spent extra careful time to cut bright, fluorescent labels to show what the new tickets were and their costs. It was a beautiful sight. I pondered where the new tickets that would be coming out next week would be placed. Maybe above the $1 Money Jars, or the $5 Gold Mines, or the $3 Cashword, or the $2 Pure Gold or the coveted spot above the best selling $5 ticket--Break the Bank. If the tickets were personified they would all be in a flutter and discussing who deserved to be above the Break the Bank ticket.
$1 Money Jar: Well, I should be placed there because people love $1 tickets and I should obviously be above the best selling ticket overall. And come on...my name alone..."Money Jar" implies my associated nature with "banks" and the eminent "breaking" of them. People break their money jars all the time...
$2 Pure Gold: Come on. I'm pure gold. Ya put that in banks. Yadayadayada. I deserve to be above there. Someone...anyone...throw me a gold nugget...please!
I was snapped out of my lottery ticket daydream by the ding of the opening door. I saw a little boy run inside followed by his father--Edward.
Edward had been coming into the store for who knows how long and we had never really gotten past the conventional "How ya doing?'s" and stuff like that which was disappointing. He was gorgeous and so sweet and nice. Sometimes I just wanted to pounce on him--eat him up--show him things he never thought possible...
A few months ago, it was revealed to me that he had two children but he had no wedding ring on so that was a sign right? Or was he getting it cleaned for some reason?? Maybe he was recently separated? No matter, we had casually developed this air of flirtation and the tension between us was suffocating. There was an obvious attraction there. It was as if we were characters in a sitcom and we were the two that belonged together and everyone knew it except for the two characters and they just seemed so oblivious and----
"Hey, how's it going?" Edward coyly asked me. He leaned against the counter and it gave a squeak. He had these amazing chocolate brown eyes that held their gaze on me and it was intoxicating.
"Hey, Edward. Nothin much. Just the same ol' stuff."
"That's cool. Hurry up, Josh. We gotta go." His son scurried left and then right overwhelmed by our wide selection of candies and sweets.
"So...uh...do you go to the movies and stuff?" Ed asked very nervously and uncomfortably. This was a guy with two children. Surely, he had smoother lines than this.
I smiled. "Yea, I go the movies all the time. How about you?"
"Yea, yea, I like a good movie here and there. What was the last movie you just saw?"
"Hmm...I saw that new kung-fu movie that came out last weekend. It was surprisingly good."
"Oh, yea, you saw that already? Man, I wana go see that." There was a pause as we locked gazes and then we both turned away at the exact moment. "Hurry, up Josh. They got ice cream too. Here look vanilla."
"Vanilla is the best." I say. Geezus, I'm such a dork. Vanilla retard. Vanilla groupie. Vanilla whore.
"So did you go see that movie with your boyfriend?"
I paused. He was trying to dig for info and it was so cute and endearing. I looked into his creamy chocholate eyes and was lost in them. "Nope. Just went with a friend."
There was a nod and a smile. I couldn't take my eyes away from his eyes. I wanted to fall deeply into them. Swim in the pool of his irises. Sleep in the folds of his eyelids. Run through the fields of his eyelashes.
There was a crash as a jar of lollipops fell to the floor. Suddenly Josh was running around in a hyper, 5-year old frenzy.
"JOSH! STOP THAT!"
But all I could do was look at Edward's eyes (though wrought with frustration with this son).
"JOSH! HURRY UP!"
His delicious chocolate eyes....
"DON'T DO THAT!"
His gorgeous chocolate eyes...
"YOU ARE IN SO MUCH TROUBLE!."
His completely edible, made-for me, creamy, dark, come-hither and be my love-slave, chocolate eyes.....
"Sorry, he gets hyper like this all the time. JOSH!"
I smiled. "It's ok. I want to eat your eyeballs."
My body froze and I felt like I was paralyzed. No way. Did I really say what I think I just said...OUT LOUD???
There was a mind-numbing silence. Josh had tired down and was sitting on the floor now, his hand on his father's leg. Edward looked down at his son and then back at me and now his eyes questioned whether he heard what he thought he heard.
"Gumballs! We have gumballs. Did he want some gumballs?" I motioned to our colorful gum section and gave a sigh of relief when Edward merely shook his head and let the strange (Twilight-esque) moment melt away behind us. Thank the heavens for gumballs.
Finally, they decided on a pack of green apple gumballs and a pint of vanilla ice cream.
There was a pause as I gave him his change.
A question in his eyes and a patient reply waiting on my lips.
But then he began to walk away. I wanted to scream COME BACK COME BACK ASK ME ASK ME ANYTHING AND I'LL DO IT!!!
He looked back at me and I looked at him and we both smiled. I watched as the glass door shut behind him. He started up his car and drove away.
I couldn't wait till the next time he came into the store.
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Wednesday Afternoon at New Amsterdam Coffeehaus
"So have you gotten to the point where you can't stand the stink of money yet?"
"Hmm...I don't think so. There are times when there are people who bring in really smelly money. And that's gross. But right now, I'm happy with the fact that I've been able to hold so much money in my own hands."
"Haha. Man, yea, I can't stand it though when people come into the store and they're looking for their money and finally they realize it's in their sock. And I'm watching in horror as they unlace their shoes and hand me a filthy bill smelling like goddamn feet."
"Geezus."
"And the women who put money in their bras? What's up with that?"
"So you think fat people stink because they can't reach everywhere cause their so fat?"
"That's my theory. They shower or whatever but there ain't no way they can scrub under every single fold of fat, right? That's why they smell. And its a common smell among fat people. I know, I've got my share of obese people who come through the store. It's all the same. I'm not makin fun...I'm tellin the facts."
"Yea, there are some stinky people who come into the bank and there's this one guy who just smells so bad, I just wana hurry up and count the money. He can't walk away fast enough for me."
"Hahaha, that's funny."
"Tell me about it.....hey, since when do you smoke cigars?"
"I dunno. Just when you said you wanted to smoke cigars. I have to say I've smoked more cigars then cigarettes lately. I guess that's a good way to stop smoking cigarettes. haha."
"We definitely need to go get some better cigars. These things just ain't cuttin' it."
"Yea. We need to find a good cigar shop. Did you know the cigs in the vending machine here are five bucks. That's bullshit."
"One time, me, **********, and *********** bought a cigar down in ********** and we all three were puffin at it for like an hour and we still weren't through with it before we couldn't take no more. That's a real cigar."
"That's cool. Hmm...I sure could go for some onion rings right about now."
"Hmm...I don't think so. There are times when there are people who bring in really smelly money. And that's gross. But right now, I'm happy with the fact that I've been able to hold so much money in my own hands."
"Haha. Man, yea, I can't stand it though when people come into the store and they're looking for their money and finally they realize it's in their sock. And I'm watching in horror as they unlace their shoes and hand me a filthy bill smelling like goddamn feet."
"Geezus."
"And the women who put money in their bras? What's up with that?"
"So you think fat people stink because they can't reach everywhere cause their so fat?"
"That's my theory. They shower or whatever but there ain't no way they can scrub under every single fold of fat, right? That's why they smell. And its a common smell among fat people. I know, I've got my share of obese people who come through the store. It's all the same. I'm not makin fun...I'm tellin the facts."
"Yea, there are some stinky people who come into the bank and there's this one guy who just smells so bad, I just wana hurry up and count the money. He can't walk away fast enough for me."
"Hahaha, that's funny."
"Tell me about it.....hey, since when do you smoke cigars?"
"I dunno. Just when you said you wanted to smoke cigars. I have to say I've smoked more cigars then cigarettes lately. I guess that's a good way to stop smoking cigarettes. haha."
"We definitely need to go get some better cigars. These things just ain't cuttin' it."
"Yea. We need to find a good cigar shop. Did you know the cigs in the vending machine here are five bucks. That's bullshit."
"One time, me, **********, and *********** bought a cigar down in ********** and we all three were puffin at it for like an hour and we still weren't through with it before we couldn't take no more. That's a real cigar."
"That's cool. Hmm...I sure could go for some onion rings right about now."
Naked and Bleeding
Peel off my shirt
Unbuckle your belt
Kick off our shoes
Keep your socks on.
Nothing to lose
Don't worry
We'll clean up later.
Pull me away.
Hold me close.
Fast forward...then rewind.
Lost and tangled
Suffocating (...breathe...)
Falling apart(...stay close...)
Keep your head on.
Now all I feel are
Your finger prints on me.
Don't worry...all bruises fade.
Are you there yet?
Let it wash over you.
And let me watch.
Keep the lights on.
Then you ask about my scars.
Don't if you can't take
The bleeding.
For now I'm sitting on
Your shoulder...
With white wings and red tail.
Existing somwhere between
a temporary fascination..
and a long-term complication.
Unbuckle your belt
Kick off our shoes
Keep your socks on.
Nothing to lose
Don't worry
We'll clean up later.
Pull me away.
Hold me close.
Fast forward...then rewind.
Lost and tangled
Suffocating (...breathe...)
Falling apart(...stay close...)
Keep your head on.
Now all I feel are
Your finger prints on me.
Don't worry...all bruises fade.
Are you there yet?
Let it wash over you.
And let me watch.
Keep the lights on.
Then you ask about my scars.
Don't if you can't take
The bleeding.
For now I'm sitting on
Your shoulder...
With white wings and red tail.
Existing somwhere between
a temporary fascination..
and a long-term complication.
Thursday, April 21, 2005
Two lesbians walk in....
Two lesbians walk into the store in a very nonchalant manner. I recognize them immediately.
I could refer to them as many things--"The two chicks who buy lots of fruity chews and candy" or the "The shrimp fried rice with extra shrimp chick and the pepper steak chick"...you get the drift. But the "two lesbians" seems so much more appropriate as I watch them walk right past me with interlocked pinkies to the back of the store to order some food.
One of them is on the hefty side with tiny braids crisscrossing her scalp. The other is slimmer with sleek black hair and long, hanging "Mother of Africa" tits. They were gorgeous, really, in their own right (the two individuals as well as the tits).
I could refer to them as many things--"The two chicks who buy lots of fruity chews and candy" or the "The shrimp fried rice with extra shrimp chick and the pepper steak chick"...you get the drift. But the "two lesbians" seems so much more appropriate as I watch them walk right past me with interlocked pinkies to the back of the store to order some food.
One of them is on the hefty side with tiny braids crisscrossing her scalp. The other is slimmer with sleek black hair and long, hanging "Mother of Africa" tits. They were gorgeous, really, in their own right (the two individuals as well as the tits).
Monday, April 18, 2005
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Recognition
She stood there, still like an icicle
Cold and unwavering, holding her breath
As he passed by
She had recognized him from afar
Far back from the trenches of
The past
And she sighed. Seeing a tangible
Form of him that so casually trailed
Through her mind so many times
It was like a dream. Was it really him?
Yes. Of course it is.
But she knew he did not recognize her.
Clutching her purse in one hand.
Squeezing the basket full of groceries
in the other.
She waits and lets his presence wash over her.
See me? She silently screams. Let my face
fall into place in the puzzle of your mind
And recognize me. Take that instant and
Sigh with surrender, and smile.
Tell me how much you've missed me.
And then we'll walk through the dairy and
cereal aisle and realize we both like 1% and
Captain Crunch. Let's get married.
But no, my fear grips me. You're a bit ahead of me now
Looking at the grapes. You look over your shoulder.
And see a girl picking lemons.
You think, Hey that girl sorta looks like......what's her name?
Even pessimism creeps into my hopeful thoughts.
And that's all. You turn back to your goddamn grapes.
Look how my mind has wrapped and twisted
Your presence into a wave of yearning and expectation
Only to crash onto the fragile sands of my hope
There's probably a girlfriend or a wife waiting
For you to bring home the groceries for dinner
And doesn't appreciate the kisses you offer before bed
So long ago, so long ago, but was it that long?
How could my memory fade so easily in your head
While your face was always present for me, clear and crystal
Yearnings of a madwoman, yearnings of a stalker
Sigh. This is silly. If I were normal, I could just walk
Up to you and start a conversation, end with an invitation
But I am an icicle, cold and unwavering
Cold and unwavering, holding her breath
As he passed by
She had recognized him from afar
Far back from the trenches of
The past
And she sighed. Seeing a tangible
Form of him that so casually trailed
Through her mind so many times
It was like a dream. Was it really him?
Yes. Of course it is.
But she knew he did not recognize her.
Clutching her purse in one hand.
Squeezing the basket full of groceries
in the other.
She waits and lets his presence wash over her.
See me? She silently screams. Let my face
fall into place in the puzzle of your mind
And recognize me. Take that instant and
Sigh with surrender, and smile.
Tell me how much you've missed me.
And then we'll walk through the dairy and
cereal aisle and realize we both like 1% and
Captain Crunch. Let's get married.
But no, my fear grips me. You're a bit ahead of me now
Looking at the grapes. You look over your shoulder.
And see a girl picking lemons.
You think, Hey that girl sorta looks like......what's her name?
Even pessimism creeps into my hopeful thoughts.
And that's all. You turn back to your goddamn grapes.
Look how my mind has wrapped and twisted
Your presence into a wave of yearning and expectation
Only to crash onto the fragile sands of my hope
There's probably a girlfriend or a wife waiting
For you to bring home the groceries for dinner
And doesn't appreciate the kisses you offer before bed
So long ago, so long ago, but was it that long?
How could my memory fade so easily in your head
While your face was always present for me, clear and crystal
Yearnings of a madwoman, yearnings of a stalker
Sigh. This is silly. If I were normal, I could just walk
Up to you and start a conversation, end with an invitation
But I am an icicle, cold and unwavering
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
Here I am
Hmm...I've been called alot of things before. And recently I was called a racist, a liar, as well as being referred to as ignorant of the Vietnamese culture all in one unsuspecting morning when all I wanted to do was eat my cereal in peace.
Oh, please, don't make me gag, Anonymous Poster. But to clear some things up, Am I any of those things you so vehemently tag me as?
Sure, why not? (Even though it was not my intention to do so.) If it's the persona I'm taking when writing than that's my right and it's your right to call me that but with such hostility? Did I possibly stub your toe in a past life...or maybe hit you in the face with a dodgeball when we were in gym class in elementary school? If so, I apologize, I just don't know my own strength...
And referring to your lung cancer comment. Oh, man, I wish. Do you know how many more presents and money packets would be sent my way if that were the case. I'd probably get a sweet settlement from the tobacco companies too....Geez...You have no idea.
Oh, please, don't make me gag, Anonymous Poster. But to clear some things up, Am I any of those things you so vehemently tag me as?
Sure, why not? (Even though it was not my intention to do so.) If it's the persona I'm taking when writing than that's my right and it's your right to call me that but with such hostility? Did I possibly stub your toe in a past life...or maybe hit you in the face with a dodgeball when we were in gym class in elementary school? If so, I apologize, I just don't know my own strength...
And referring to your lung cancer comment. Oh, man, I wish. Do you know how many more presents and money packets would be sent my way if that were the case. I'd probably get a sweet settlement from the tobacco companies too....Geez...You have no idea.
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
Bronze
Sometimes she reflects on herself and the things that have made impressions, footprints and scars on her life.
She reminisces about some theory she can't quite remember the name of or who thought of it...but that they had discussed in class one day about the theories of human psyche development...one in particular about how we are constantly changing and we are different people placed in one solitary body. How who we were ten minutes ago has undergone numerous changes and now ten minutes later you are a different being. This brings comfort to her mind...
The theory rings true to her as she lays by the pool and thinks of who she is in this moment. The girl in the fuschia bikini and swimming shorts lying on the plastic lawn chair bronzing in the beating sun and feeling the beads of sweat form on her smooth skin and the contact of the plastic lining on her body. She'll probably have imprints on her thighs and stomach. She revels in the weight of the cigarette smoke filling her lungs contrasted with the lightheaded dizziness in her head that puts her into an almost hypnotic state. But she isn't a chain smoker. She only does it on occasion when the situation deems fit and today in the deliciously lazy afternoon of nothingness, a few cigarettes aren't only a spontaneous pleasure, but a neccessity to raise the bar of relaxtion.
She turns over and continues reading her book which she is drinking in like an alcoholic to vodka because she had been on a literary hiatus for some weeks now for lack of time to go to the library. This novel was particulary enjoyable because the author had an uncanny style of writing similar to her own and she internally aspired to have her own thoughts binded in a tangible form like this and maybe somewhere along the road in the future, some stranger would be sitting in their lounge chair next to the fire with her book in hand thinking exactly what she was thinking at this moment...That's damn good writing. She couldn't discern which was more enticing--the thought of other people's praise as validation or a final conclusion to her own lost journey for value and self-worth?
The next few days of nothingness were like gold flecks in a watering pan. She took one glance at the passing clouds and closed her eyes and pushed all thoughts of the impending cease of all of this by the end of week when she would be tossed back into the mundane life in Dallas where she would be back behind the cash register where no one knew her name, but only her feigning smile.
She reminisces about some theory she can't quite remember the name of or who thought of it...but that they had discussed in class one day about the theories of human psyche development...one in particular about how we are constantly changing and we are different people placed in one solitary body. How who we were ten minutes ago has undergone numerous changes and now ten minutes later you are a different being. This brings comfort to her mind...
The theory rings true to her as she lays by the pool and thinks of who she is in this moment. The girl in the fuschia bikini and swimming shorts lying on the plastic lawn chair bronzing in the beating sun and feeling the beads of sweat form on her smooth skin and the contact of the plastic lining on her body. She'll probably have imprints on her thighs and stomach. She revels in the weight of the cigarette smoke filling her lungs contrasted with the lightheaded dizziness in her head that puts her into an almost hypnotic state. But she isn't a chain smoker. She only does it on occasion when the situation deems fit and today in the deliciously lazy afternoon of nothingness, a few cigarettes aren't only a spontaneous pleasure, but a neccessity to raise the bar of relaxtion.
She turns over and continues reading her book which she is drinking in like an alcoholic to vodka because she had been on a literary hiatus for some weeks now for lack of time to go to the library. This novel was particulary enjoyable because the author had an uncanny style of writing similar to her own and she internally aspired to have her own thoughts binded in a tangible form like this and maybe somewhere along the road in the future, some stranger would be sitting in their lounge chair next to the fire with her book in hand thinking exactly what she was thinking at this moment...That's damn good writing. She couldn't discern which was more enticing--the thought of other people's praise as validation or a final conclusion to her own lost journey for value and self-worth?
The next few days of nothingness were like gold flecks in a watering pan. She took one glance at the passing clouds and closed her eyes and pushed all thoughts of the impending cease of all of this by the end of week when she would be tossed back into the mundane life in Dallas where she would be back behind the cash register where no one knew her name, but only her feigning smile.
Thursday, March 31, 2005
Meatball War
My father had been having a very tiresome morning.
It didn't help that my mother kept pestering him about things that were neither here nor there which made it just empty air transforming into lead weights dropping into his ears. And yet his bottomless well of patience helped him keep his hands steady on the steering wheel and his right foot not too heavy on the pedal.
"....and when are you going to clean out the back shed? And then the grass? I could probably feed all the cows in India with all the tall grass growing wild back there..."
"I'll get to it when I get to it."
I had been hearing their constant back and forth trivialities since I was young and it had become commonplace now. I'd learned to zone them out and tune into my internal radio or listen to the melodious voice of Joseph Fiennes as his perfect English accent falls from his lips.
"And I don't want you going over to George's anymore. All they ever do is talk you into playing cards and you don't even know how to play poker! Don't you know that's the only reason why they want you over there?-- To take all of our money!"
"Yes, dear, it's a conspiracy between George and his wife to see us on the streets because they have nothing else better to do." My father said this in his monotone voice, dripping with sarcasm.
My father was always a calm man, never really raising his voice with mom or any of us kids. But when he got upset you can tell with his eyes and his pensive silence that could crack concrete.
"Don't you get smart with me, mister. You're not going and that's that."
He always let my mother win even though he'd probably find a way to go to George's anyhow while conning my mother into making George a custard pie, too. He always had magic tricks.
We pulled into the parking lot of the Hong Kong Supermarket and my mother said she'd be over at the tofu shop and me and dad were supposed to go buy some bread at the bakery.
As we walked side by side, daughter and father, I could tell he was glad to be away from my mother even for just a few minutes. In the little strip of vendors, there was a bustle of people doing their Sunday shopping.
I asked dad, "Should we buy $1.00 or $2.00 worth of bread?" And realized he had wandered off to one of the neighboring vendors. I decided two bucks and quickly paid the baker and went to find my father.
His salt and pepper hair stuck out in the crowd in front of the Vietnamese fast food place. I realized that there was a sort of verbal argument going on. And it was being led by my father.
"All I want is one meatball! Why can't I buy what I want? You have plenty of meatballs there, just let me buy one for a $1.00!" I stared in a twisted ball of embarassment and shock, letting my eyes flick back and forth to see if anyone around looked familiar but luckily they were all strangers.
The old woman behind the counter had a stern face, small eyes, and powder white skin as if she'd pressed her face in a vat of flour. She might have been beautiful when she was younger but now she just looked like a bitter old hag who wouldn't sell a meatball to my father.
"We have a $2.00 purchase minimum. You have to buy two for two dollars."
My father huffed and I could see his eyes turn a red hue. He was pretty upset. But my embarassment seemed to have melted and I was enjoying watching my father's battle.
"$2.00! What if I was a hungry man on the street with just one dollar and needed something to eat?! Would you still make me buy two dollars worth. You old woman, you don't know anything! Where's the manager? I know you're not the manager. Tell the manager to come out here!!"
The old woman rolled her eyes and called out to the back for the manager who was a young man. Maybe her son?
Dad leaned on the counter and pointed to the pile of meatballs. "I want a meatball. Just one. N0t two. Not three. Not a half. One for a dollar! But this old hag won't sell me one. What kind of business are you running here?"
Hmm...does dad really like these meatballs this much? And I know he had three dollars in his hand, not just one. I stood placidly behind him wondering if people were wondering how embarassed I was feeling when in reality, I was happy my dad was doing this. I also didn't know how to speak Vietnamese so I coudln't chime in.
Finally the exasperated manager gave into my father's reasoning and packed up one meatball to go and took my father's crumpled dollar.
Even though he hadn't been in many confrontations in his life, he was walking away weary from this battle yet, my triumphant dad held his head high with his trophy meatball held tightly between his hands.
It didn't help that my mother kept pestering him about things that were neither here nor there which made it just empty air transforming into lead weights dropping into his ears. And yet his bottomless well of patience helped him keep his hands steady on the steering wheel and his right foot not too heavy on the pedal.
"....and when are you going to clean out the back shed? And then the grass? I could probably feed all the cows in India with all the tall grass growing wild back there..."
"I'll get to it when I get to it."
I had been hearing their constant back and forth trivialities since I was young and it had become commonplace now. I'd learned to zone them out and tune into my internal radio or listen to the melodious voice of Joseph Fiennes as his perfect English accent falls from his lips.
"And I don't want you going over to George's anymore. All they ever do is talk you into playing cards and you don't even know how to play poker! Don't you know that's the only reason why they want you over there?-- To take all of our money!"
"Yes, dear, it's a conspiracy between George and his wife to see us on the streets because they have nothing else better to do." My father said this in his monotone voice, dripping with sarcasm.
My father was always a calm man, never really raising his voice with mom or any of us kids. But when he got upset you can tell with his eyes and his pensive silence that could crack concrete.
"Don't you get smart with me, mister. You're not going and that's that."
He always let my mother win even though he'd probably find a way to go to George's anyhow while conning my mother into making George a custard pie, too. He always had magic tricks.
We pulled into the parking lot of the Hong Kong Supermarket and my mother said she'd be over at the tofu shop and me and dad were supposed to go buy some bread at the bakery.
As we walked side by side, daughter and father, I could tell he was glad to be away from my mother even for just a few minutes. In the little strip of vendors, there was a bustle of people doing their Sunday shopping.
I asked dad, "Should we buy $1.00 or $2.00 worth of bread?" And realized he had wandered off to one of the neighboring vendors. I decided two bucks and quickly paid the baker and went to find my father.
His salt and pepper hair stuck out in the crowd in front of the Vietnamese fast food place. I realized that there was a sort of verbal argument going on. And it was being led by my father.
"All I want is one meatball! Why can't I buy what I want? You have plenty of meatballs there, just let me buy one for a $1.00!" I stared in a twisted ball of embarassment and shock, letting my eyes flick back and forth to see if anyone around looked familiar but luckily they were all strangers.
The old woman behind the counter had a stern face, small eyes, and powder white skin as if she'd pressed her face in a vat of flour. She might have been beautiful when she was younger but now she just looked like a bitter old hag who wouldn't sell a meatball to my father.
"We have a $2.00 purchase minimum. You have to buy two for two dollars."
My father huffed and I could see his eyes turn a red hue. He was pretty upset. But my embarassment seemed to have melted and I was enjoying watching my father's battle.
"$2.00! What if I was a hungry man on the street with just one dollar and needed something to eat?! Would you still make me buy two dollars worth. You old woman, you don't know anything! Where's the manager? I know you're not the manager. Tell the manager to come out here!!"
The old woman rolled her eyes and called out to the back for the manager who was a young man. Maybe her son?
Dad leaned on the counter and pointed to the pile of meatballs. "I want a meatball. Just one. N0t two. Not three. Not a half. One for a dollar! But this old hag won't sell me one. What kind of business are you running here?"
Hmm...does dad really like these meatballs this much? And I know he had three dollars in his hand, not just one. I stood placidly behind him wondering if people were wondering how embarassed I was feeling when in reality, I was happy my dad was doing this. I also didn't know how to speak Vietnamese so I coudln't chime in.
Finally the exasperated manager gave into my father's reasoning and packed up one meatball to go and took my father's crumpled dollar.
Even though he hadn't been in many confrontations in his life, he was walking away weary from this battle yet, my triumphant dad held his head high with his trophy meatball held tightly between his hands.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
Rain Puddle
I am a constant confusion.
A contradiction of my reflection.
Striving for eclecticism.
The rush in my head
Takes me there
But pulls me back.
I accept my visitor status
In your world.
Doesn't that make
You weep.
I'm also an anachronism
In my own universe.
Doesn't that make
You laugh.
Multi-talented in ways
Your mother would not
Approve of but I was never the
One for pillow talk
Don't try to pigeonhole me.
Or mold, break, crush, bend
Me into your
Safe, square categories.
My left foot is in
The trash can
And my right is in
The rain puddle...
A contradiction of my reflection.
Striving for eclecticism.
The rush in my head
Takes me there
But pulls me back.
I accept my visitor status
In your world.
Doesn't that make
You weep.
I'm also an anachronism
In my own universe.
Doesn't that make
You laugh.
Multi-talented in ways
Your mother would not
Approve of but I was never the
One for pillow talk
Don't try to pigeonhole me.
Or mold, break, crush, bend
Me into your
Safe, square categories.
My left foot is in
The trash can
And my right is in
The rain puddle...
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Scratch-Offs
Hmm...I wonder what numba that Break the Bank scratch-off ticket be on. Probably dey done sold all the winners already. Look like Miss Redhead gone buy all of 'em noways.
"Could I get the rest of those Break the Banks, please. Thanks"
Dang, lady, get out the way so I can buy my winners, please, shoo. Oh, I'm sho glad that nice register lady is here today. I thank that the owner's daughter. She remind me of my own lil' gal, Chaleene. Oh Chaleene, if she can see me now. Her ol' pops wastin' his Social Security check on some scratch-offs. Well, if I ain't gonna lose it here, I'ma lose it on the boat over in w'ouisiana. Or on some tv dinners at the sto'. And I always gotta buy me some honey buns for dessert. Maybe I buy me some new razors today. This ol' salt and pepper scene on my face gettin tired.
Only two more people left in front o' me. My poor black, ashy legs can't stand this standing! Let's look over dese winnas I already done scratched off. Two dollars on Coyote Cash....five dolla's on Bingo (man, dat Bingo sho is fun...which reminds me that I gotta tell Zoo I ain't goin to the Bingo tourney this weekend..ooh-wee he sho gone put up a fuss.)
What's this? Awe, why can't people have the right amount of money in dey pockets before they buy something. Who this fool thank he be? Lookin on the floor for some stray change. Oh alright, the regista gal gone let him slide this time. Man, I would told that fool to leave his driver's license and a slap in the face...and tell him to better his manners straight befo he come in dis sto' again. Alright, just one more customa.
Dang, Mrs. Wally from the funeral home. I dint even recognize her from behind. Surprising cause that sho is a big behind..hahaha...some thick hamhocks, I tell ya what! Oh, lord, forgive me. I know, I just know, she gone buy all the winners up now. She always seem to muster to buy at least a hundred dolla worth a tickets. Ooooh, her living room must be scattered with the scratch card shavings...they probably get mixed up in the ashes urns of those cremated folks, sho nuff. If I done known Mrs. Wally was in front of me I woulda brought my sitting chair in line and maybe a beer.
That reminds me of what I gotta do befo my fishin trip this weekend which is why I gotta tell Zoo I can't make it to no silly Bingo tourney. Skeet done already bought the bait and extra fishin line. Just left me with the beer and sandwiches. Now what kinda sandwiches we ate last time? Was it Spam..? Or maybe liverwurst. Hell, if I know. I just bring bologna and mustard this time.
Finally, that Mrs. Thick Hamhocks done finally got all her tickets. I hope she don't win nothing. Always flaunting her money in front of everyone's noses. With all them fancy jewels she be wearin to church ever'eh Sunday and them big toes stuck in her shiney Mizrahi heels. Only reason I know its Mizrahi cause Chaleene done told me. Dat just aint somethin an ol' black man should know.
"Hi, Mr. Sam. What can I get for ya today?"
I squint my eyes cause I can't barely see the names on the tickets but my blood sho is bubbling to start scratchin something good. I better buy some extra so I can scratch on the boat this weekend when I go fishin.
"Could I get the rest of those Break the Banks, please. Thanks"
Dang, lady, get out the way so I can buy my winners, please, shoo. Oh, I'm sho glad that nice register lady is here today. I thank that the owner's daughter. She remind me of my own lil' gal, Chaleene. Oh Chaleene, if she can see me now. Her ol' pops wastin' his Social Security check on some scratch-offs. Well, if I ain't gonna lose it here, I'ma lose it on the boat over in w'ouisiana. Or on some tv dinners at the sto'. And I always gotta buy me some honey buns for dessert. Maybe I buy me some new razors today. This ol' salt and pepper scene on my face gettin tired.
Only two more people left in front o' me. My poor black, ashy legs can't stand this standing! Let's look over dese winnas I already done scratched off. Two dollars on Coyote Cash....five dolla's on Bingo (man, dat Bingo sho is fun...which reminds me that I gotta tell Zoo I ain't goin to the Bingo tourney this weekend..ooh-wee he sho gone put up a fuss.)
What's this? Awe, why can't people have the right amount of money in dey pockets before they buy something. Who this fool thank he be? Lookin on the floor for some stray change. Oh alright, the regista gal gone let him slide this time. Man, I would told that fool to leave his driver's license and a slap in the face...and tell him to better his manners straight befo he come in dis sto' again. Alright, just one more customa.
Dang, Mrs. Wally from the funeral home. I dint even recognize her from behind. Surprising cause that sho is a big behind..hahaha...some thick hamhocks, I tell ya what! Oh, lord, forgive me. I know, I just know, she gone buy all the winners up now. She always seem to muster to buy at least a hundred dolla worth a tickets. Ooooh, her living room must be scattered with the scratch card shavings...they probably get mixed up in the ashes urns of those cremated folks, sho nuff. If I done known Mrs. Wally was in front of me I woulda brought my sitting chair in line and maybe a beer.
That reminds me of what I gotta do befo my fishin trip this weekend which is why I gotta tell Zoo I can't make it to no silly Bingo tourney. Skeet done already bought the bait and extra fishin line. Just left me with the beer and sandwiches. Now what kinda sandwiches we ate last time? Was it Spam..? Or maybe liverwurst. Hell, if I know. I just bring bologna and mustard this time.
Finally, that Mrs. Thick Hamhocks done finally got all her tickets. I hope she don't win nothing. Always flaunting her money in front of everyone's noses. With all them fancy jewels she be wearin to church ever'eh Sunday and them big toes stuck in her shiney Mizrahi heels. Only reason I know its Mizrahi cause Chaleene done told me. Dat just aint somethin an ol' black man should know.
"Hi, Mr. Sam. What can I get for ya today?"
I squint my eyes cause I can't barely see the names on the tickets but my blood sho is bubbling to start scratchin something good. I better buy some extra so I can scratch on the boat this weekend when I go fishin.
Friday, March 11, 2005
Goodbye
He watched as Heather (....or was it Helen?) get dressed and fix herself up in front of the full-length mirror on his door. She matted her freshly coated lips on a tissue and glanced at him over her shoulder. "This was fun, but I gotta go now. I'll leave my number."
Gavin shifted in bed and thought, Did she wear that much make-up last night?
He looked on in disgust as she scribbled her digits on his mirror with the tube of lipstick she had just finished using.
Why do chicks always do that? It's fucking annoying to have to clean up that shit. I think I'm out of Windex too. Fuck.
She bent over and kissed him on the lips and walked out of the apartment. Finally. Another weekend gone by. Another pile of credit card receipts. Another headache. Another crushed cigarette pack, its contents eating away at his lungs. Another forgotten name and another number to clean off of his mirror.
If he had a notch on his bedpost for every girl he had had in that room, he would have a pile of sawdust by now.
He looked at his tired face in the mirror and decided he was tired of this. Let's get some breakfast.
His phone rang and he let the machine pick it up. It was his friend Madeliene. "Hey, stupid, its me, Maddie. Pick up. I'm bored. Ok ok, no doubt you're with another one of your skanks. Man, you should be ashamed of yourself or at least ashamed of all the diseases you've probably racked up by now. Yucks! Anyhow, I'm gonna put a sign on your door for all those poor souls that say, "Beware of wolves in sheep-skin condoms. Call me later."
(to be continued)
Gavin shifted in bed and thought, Did she wear that much make-up last night?
He looked on in disgust as she scribbled her digits on his mirror with the tube of lipstick she had just finished using.
Why do chicks always do that? It's fucking annoying to have to clean up that shit. I think I'm out of Windex too. Fuck.
She bent over and kissed him on the lips and walked out of the apartment. Finally. Another weekend gone by. Another pile of credit card receipts. Another headache. Another crushed cigarette pack, its contents eating away at his lungs. Another forgotten name and another number to clean off of his mirror.
If he had a notch on his bedpost for every girl he had had in that room, he would have a pile of sawdust by now.
He looked at his tired face in the mirror and decided he was tired of this. Let's get some breakfast.
His phone rang and he let the machine pick it up. It was his friend Madeliene. "Hey, stupid, its me, Maddie. Pick up. I'm bored. Ok ok, no doubt you're with another one of your skanks. Man, you should be ashamed of yourself or at least ashamed of all the diseases you've probably racked up by now. Yucks! Anyhow, I'm gonna put a sign on your door for all those poor souls that say, "Beware of wolves in sheep-skin condoms. Call me later."
(to be continued)
By Train
On a particularly insignificant day, the 8:17 A.M. train out of Sydney pulled out of platform 7 on time and with a full cabin. The whistle blew once, twice and the newly oiled wheels went from a slow turn to a speedy buzz. The train headed north.
An old man sat in row 67 alone. No one knew that he had also purchased the seat next to him so he wouldn' t have to bother with a stranger sitting next to him. There was a time when that seat was taken by his wife, Matilda, who had died two weeks ago. He had many memories of he and Matilda taking summer trips by train and he knew he would miss the thrill of the ride. This would be the last train ride he would ever take.
This thought weighed heavily on his mind.
(to be continued)
An old man sat in row 67 alone. No one knew that he had also purchased the seat next to him so he wouldn' t have to bother with a stranger sitting next to him. There was a time when that seat was taken by his wife, Matilda, who had died two weeks ago. He had many memories of he and Matilda taking summer trips by train and he knew he would miss the thrill of the ride. This would be the last train ride he would ever take.
This thought weighed heavily on his mind.
(to be continued)
Monday, March 07, 2005
Singular Descriptive
I wouldn't call myself a stalker, per se.
But I guess I would classify some of my actions...on some occasions...stalker-esque, if you will. But I bet all of us have their own secret-stalker-behavior. I just know it.
Don't get me wrong. I'm just like you. Normal. And for those who say "What's normal?" No one's normal." Well, bullshit. You know the difference between Normal Jack that carries the mail and Crazy Delilah who gets arrested twice a week for shoplifting....or loitering...or solicitation...whatever it is, she's always back on the corner by next weekend with the same pink curlers in her hair and cigarettes and dirty tissues spilling out of her purse. But anyhow, I'm normal. But am I crazy for knowing that if I had to choose between either getting a cup of coffee with Normal Jack or Crazy Delilah, I'd choose the latter? Go figure. (But wouldn't you want to be able to say, "Yea, I can't make it for lunch, I'm having coffee with Delilah the prostitute." Imagine how much more fun life would be if everyone had a singular descriptive at the end of their name. Hmm..mine would be "Indie the Thinker"...."Indie the Observer"..."Indie the Witty"...or "Indie the Stalker"..haha that would be festive, wouldn't it?
There I was, at my window, sitting in front of my computer but more looking out to the street. I wondered where Mr. Ping was. He usually opens the fruit stand promptly at 8:00 A.M. But it was already 8:09. I'd give it another ten minutes before calling the police. That's just the type of considerate slash concerned citizen, I am. That reminds me that I need to buy more plums for my bowl. The ones in it now are all smushy. I don't particularly like to eat plums, I just like the way a fruit bowl looks on my breakfast table. And plums give such a striking color to the amalgamation. It's the aesthetics that are important.
Mom called again this morning and asked whether or not I had a boyfriend yet. Geez. She's always breathing down my back about that but when I do introduce her to someone, she freaks out and says they're gonna beat me. She says she has a sixth sense for wife-beaters. But anyhow, I'm 35 and still no hopeful prospects. There's always Pete down the hall but he always smells like Slim Jims and wears mocassins. I could never ultimately end up with a man who wears mocassins. It's just a thing of mine.
Parry called last night and wanted to go take a run around the park this afternoon. Parry is my twin brother. He's great and probably one of the funniest people I know, but he doesn't do it on purpose. Those are the best comedians--when the humor just comes natural. Last time we were sitting on a park bench and all these white pigeons were huddled on the grass pecking at seeds. And Parry asks, Why did someone put all those white tennis shoes in the middle of the park? He's a genius.
But I guess I would classify some of my actions...on some occasions...stalker-esque, if you will. But I bet all of us have their own secret-stalker-behavior. I just know it.
Don't get me wrong. I'm just like you. Normal. And for those who say "What's normal?" No one's normal." Well, bullshit. You know the difference between Normal Jack that carries the mail and Crazy Delilah who gets arrested twice a week for shoplifting....or loitering...or solicitation...whatever it is, she's always back on the corner by next weekend with the same pink curlers in her hair and cigarettes and dirty tissues spilling out of her purse. But anyhow, I'm normal. But am I crazy for knowing that if I had to choose between either getting a cup of coffee with Normal Jack or Crazy Delilah, I'd choose the latter? Go figure. (But wouldn't you want to be able to say, "Yea, I can't make it for lunch, I'm having coffee with Delilah the prostitute." Imagine how much more fun life would be if everyone had a singular descriptive at the end of their name. Hmm..mine would be "Indie the Thinker"...."Indie the Observer"..."Indie the Witty"...or "Indie the Stalker"..haha that would be festive, wouldn't it?
There I was, at my window, sitting in front of my computer but more looking out to the street. I wondered where Mr. Ping was. He usually opens the fruit stand promptly at 8:00 A.M. But it was already 8:09. I'd give it another ten minutes before calling the police. That's just the type of considerate slash concerned citizen, I am. That reminds me that I need to buy more plums for my bowl. The ones in it now are all smushy. I don't particularly like to eat plums, I just like the way a fruit bowl looks on my breakfast table. And plums give such a striking color to the amalgamation. It's the aesthetics that are important.
Mom called again this morning and asked whether or not I had a boyfriend yet. Geez. She's always breathing down my back about that but when I do introduce her to someone, she freaks out and says they're gonna beat me. She says she has a sixth sense for wife-beaters. But anyhow, I'm 35 and still no hopeful prospects. There's always Pete down the hall but he always smells like Slim Jims and wears mocassins. I could never ultimately end up with a man who wears mocassins. It's just a thing of mine.
Parry called last night and wanted to go take a run around the park this afternoon. Parry is my twin brother. He's great and probably one of the funniest people I know, but he doesn't do it on purpose. Those are the best comedians--when the humor just comes natural. Last time we were sitting on a park bench and all these white pigeons were huddled on the grass pecking at seeds. And Parry asks, Why did someone put all those white tennis shoes in the middle of the park? He's a genius.
Saturday, March 05, 2005
Roughdraft
I lay there as the puddle of blood began to spread wider and wider around my body. My lungs felt as if someone were squeezing them tighter and tighter. But then they let them go, and I was able to inhale again, only to be met with a tighter grip of cold, clammy hands.
Man, I should have thought this through a little better…
The warm liquid seeping from my body was contrasted against the cold chill that began to envelope me from the inside out.
I listened carefully, but there was nothing. Not a sound. One of those eerie silences when things are too silent, when you know something has to be making it that quiet. But nothing pounced from behind the corner and nothing burst through the back door. Just pure silence at its best. Or, had I gone deaf in the last moments of my life?? Or was this the moment of clarity they all speak of right before you pass..?
In my left hand was the long, sharp blade of the kitchen knife. My fingers barely gripping the rubbery handle..my numbing digits were trembling. The tip of the blade which wasn’t stained glistened against the afternoon sun shining through the window. The knife that had in the past cut so many onions, tomatoes, cucumbers, oranges, blocks of parmesan cheese….
In my right hand, I still clutched the Ice Cream Drumstick I had been craving for so bad after lunch. I hadn’t even gotten a chance to take a bite. The fall had caused most of the nuts to drop to the floor into the pond of scarlet. My mind trickled to the thought of how big the market would be for this vampiric dessert. How many vampires are there in Texas...? But then fell away as I realized I wouldn’t be alive to see the business plan through…but then again the thought wouldn’t have occurred to me if I hadn’t been laying in the pool of blood. If that isn’t the dandiest catch-22, I don’t know what is. Maybe if I gather up all my strength I'd be able to write at least the segmentation of the market in blood next to my body...oh how my professors would be so proud...
Man, I should have thought this through better.
It’s strange the things you think about at the brink of death. The impending doom makes you reflect. I wish it didn’t.
Like how I thought that maybe I should have straightened my hair today, maybe used a little hair gel, to look a little more presentable. But now the paramedics will have to deal with yet another homely looking body. Geez. And it probably would have helped to be wearing something a little more stylish. My plaid sleepy pants and polar bear t-shirt. What was I thinking?
What WAS I thinking?
I blinked a few times. I began seeing flecks of light floating in front of my face and I was worried mosquitoes were already flying around my decaying carcass.
Whose going to be at your funeral? [who said that?]
Everyone has that thought of what if they died, who would miss them. That’s a really narcissistic thought, but I’m 97.5 % sure that every single human being has that thought cross their mind at least once in their lives. If only we could all stage our death and then as we’re being lamented about in our casket layered with cakes and cakes of unnecessary make-up but your perfectionist self wouldn’t see it any differently….you suddenly pop up in an upright position while your Aunt Mae was about to put the carnation on your legs slick and shiny from the panty hose. You jump out of your casket and say with enthusiasm--
Thanks everybody, but I just wanted to see how many people would come and let me tell ya, you people exceeded my expectations. Thank you. Thank you. Lorna, how ya doin? Uncle Bob, always a pleasure. Jesse from college, wow, now that’s a shocker, wow. Alright, how about all the guys untuck their shirts and all the gals wipe away their running mascara and let's get this party started…and let’s have a piece of that cake too. Chocolate, my fav, yum!
But would it make any difference. Would knowing that information really cause a resurrection of yourself and would that version necessarily be better?
I should have thought this through.
But no. People don’t do that. They just hide away in their thoughts the yearning of the attendance of their impending funeral. We all just want to think that people care about us or at least the people who we cared about knew and that was enough to make them show up anyhow.
What are you going to miss? [who is that speaking?!]
That was the next thought that came to my mind. I thought of all the zigzagging and jumps as my tiny brain cells began their last race around.
The way Dad always left his keys in the door.
The way Mom cooked---goddamn, her famous custard tarts.
Bowling and getting drunk with my big sister and friends.
Watching my little brother and sister grow—seeing the mere shadows of the amazing people they were going to inevitably become.
The feeling of a thought being born in my head and the how I always think to write it down but I always get lazy and think I’ll remember, but then feeling it slowly slipping away.
How I loved reading and finishing novels and how perfectly the words lit up as bright sunlight hit the pages at the perfect angle.
When in the middle of the city, I saw a beautiful African woman balancing what seemed to be a heavy box on top of her head without a care in the world.
The complete calm you get when you’re standing in front of a painting in a museum—drowning in the artistic ambiance.
Taking a really good drag from a sweet cigar.
Oh, my life was pretty good. I guess this is it. Man. Everything seems so clear when it’s already too late. I guess that’s the essence of hindsight. Wait…wait…here comes something else.
What do you wish?
I wish I had done more..and hesitated less.
Man, I should have thought this through a little better…
The warm liquid seeping from my body was contrasted against the cold chill that began to envelope me from the inside out.
I listened carefully, but there was nothing. Not a sound. One of those eerie silences when things are too silent, when you know something has to be making it that quiet. But nothing pounced from behind the corner and nothing burst through the back door. Just pure silence at its best. Or, had I gone deaf in the last moments of my life?? Or was this the moment of clarity they all speak of right before you pass..?
In my left hand was the long, sharp blade of the kitchen knife. My fingers barely gripping the rubbery handle..my numbing digits were trembling. The tip of the blade which wasn’t stained glistened against the afternoon sun shining through the window. The knife that had in the past cut so many onions, tomatoes, cucumbers, oranges, blocks of parmesan cheese….
In my right hand, I still clutched the Ice Cream Drumstick I had been craving for so bad after lunch. I hadn’t even gotten a chance to take a bite. The fall had caused most of the nuts to drop to the floor into the pond of scarlet. My mind trickled to the thought of how big the market would be for this vampiric dessert. How many vampires are there in Texas...? But then fell away as I realized I wouldn’t be alive to see the business plan through…but then again the thought wouldn’t have occurred to me if I hadn’t been laying in the pool of blood. If that isn’t the dandiest catch-22, I don’t know what is. Maybe if I gather up all my strength I'd be able to write at least the segmentation of the market in blood next to my body...oh how my professors would be so proud...
Man, I should have thought this through better.
It’s strange the things you think about at the brink of death. The impending doom makes you reflect. I wish it didn’t.
Like how I thought that maybe I should have straightened my hair today, maybe used a little hair gel, to look a little more presentable. But now the paramedics will have to deal with yet another homely looking body. Geez. And it probably would have helped to be wearing something a little more stylish. My plaid sleepy pants and polar bear t-shirt. What was I thinking?
What WAS I thinking?
I blinked a few times. I began seeing flecks of light floating in front of my face and I was worried mosquitoes were already flying around my decaying carcass.
Whose going to be at your funeral? [who said that?]
Everyone has that thought of what if they died, who would miss them. That’s a really narcissistic thought, but I’m 97.5 % sure that every single human being has that thought cross their mind at least once in their lives. If only we could all stage our death and then as we’re being lamented about in our casket layered with cakes and cakes of unnecessary make-up but your perfectionist self wouldn’t see it any differently….you suddenly pop up in an upright position while your Aunt Mae was about to put the carnation on your legs slick and shiny from the panty hose. You jump out of your casket and say with enthusiasm--
Thanks everybody, but I just wanted to see how many people would come and let me tell ya, you people exceeded my expectations. Thank you. Thank you. Lorna, how ya doin? Uncle Bob, always a pleasure. Jesse from college, wow, now that’s a shocker, wow. Alright, how about all the guys untuck their shirts and all the gals wipe away their running mascara and let's get this party started…and let’s have a piece of that cake too. Chocolate, my fav, yum!
But would it make any difference. Would knowing that information really cause a resurrection of yourself and would that version necessarily be better?
I should have thought this through.
But no. People don’t do that. They just hide away in their thoughts the yearning of the attendance of their impending funeral. We all just want to think that people care about us or at least the people who we cared about knew and that was enough to make them show up anyhow.
What are you going to miss? [who is that speaking?!]
That was the next thought that came to my mind. I thought of all the zigzagging and jumps as my tiny brain cells began their last race around.
The way Dad always left his keys in the door.
The way Mom cooked---goddamn, her famous custard tarts.
Bowling and getting drunk with my big sister and friends.
Watching my little brother and sister grow—seeing the mere shadows of the amazing people they were going to inevitably become.
The feeling of a thought being born in my head and the how I always think to write it down but I always get lazy and think I’ll remember, but then feeling it slowly slipping away.
How I loved reading and finishing novels and how perfectly the words lit up as bright sunlight hit the pages at the perfect angle.
When in the middle of the city, I saw a beautiful African woman balancing what seemed to be a heavy box on top of her head without a care in the world.
The complete calm you get when you’re standing in front of a painting in a museum—drowning in the artistic ambiance.
Taking a really good drag from a sweet cigar.
Oh, my life was pretty good. I guess this is it. Man. Everything seems so clear when it’s already too late. I guess that’s the essence of hindsight. Wait…wait…here comes something else.
What do you wish?
I wish I had done more..and hesitated less.
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