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)
Friday, March 11, 2005
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.
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
Give Green Foam a Chance...
Today promised to be a good day.
The winter chill in the air hung gelatinous-like that morning as the mist caused fat drops of dew to burden innocent blades of grass. When you think you'll almost overdose from so much freshness. I had left my bedroom window open to let the cool air balance the warmth enveloping me from my heavy blanket.
Was that right? I squinted my eyes, but my poor vision still couldn't make out the blurry red digits on the clock. I finally rationalized that I had to sit up, so I did to grab the clock to place it about six inches from my nose to finally make out the time-- 5:27 A.M. Damn...hate it when I forget where I put my glasses....and double-damn, why is it so damn early?
But I could hear the sounds of my mother and father in the living room already preparing for the day.
---The whirring of the blender as my mother made us fresh juice. Not sweet tropical concoctions you'd like to see in a pineapple shaped glass with a cheesy mini Hawaiian umbrella sticking out of it. No, she liked to create these thick green cocktails of bitter vegetables and fruits that my mother was certain would extend our life spans for at least another 38.45 years. She meant well and it made us all feel like we were healthier, and to say the least...we were all 'regular' as can be.
---The crackle of the morning paper as my father skimmed the sports pages. His occasional clearing of the throat even though it wasn't necessary at all. And the shuffling of his house shoes against the worn down shag carpet to see if the neighbor was letting its dog poop on our lawn. "I'll catch that son of a bitch, one of these days, goddamit." This was his morning prayer.
---And the low hum of the Buddhist monks tape playing in the background...the somber bells chiming....the incense slowly wafting into my room beckoning me to wake up...
I heard my mother's small feet coming closer and closer to my room. Maybe if I tried real hard, I could fall back to sleep and she would give me another hour or so to dream. Or I could fake it...but she would know. I closed my eyes and I held on tight to my sleep for just a second longer before I finally had to let go of its soft, comforting hand.
"Indie...Indie wake up. Here's your juice." I opened my eyes half way and saw my Fosse mug brimming with green foam. A clear straw sticking out like the broken stern of a ghost ship slipping beneath the unwelcoming murkiness of a swamp.
"Thanks..mom...just..." I yawned for added effect,"...put it over on the table and I'll drink it when I wake up."
"Indie, you're waking up now. We have to get the day started. Lots to do. And drink your juice before it starts to change color...you won't want to drink it when it's brown." She put the cup on my table and walked out the room.
Hmm...I thought to myself. My tolerance level wouldn't really change if I was drinking green foam or brown foam....it's pretty much the same to me. I shrugged and decided it best to just get up and shower.
+++++++++++++++++++
My mother and father owned a little convenience store/deli. They also served Chinese fast food there and so that morning we had to stop by Mr. Hawkins Wholesale Butchery to pick up some things. I sat in the crowded mini-van we three shuttled around in. My father with his Hollywood Casino baseball cap made out of jean prominently displayed on his head. His favorite story was of him winning five hundred dollars at the slots. "I sat on that damn stool for four hours! I swear my butt cheeks were ingrained in that son of a bitch!" He was also wearing the sweater grandma had knit him for Christmas two years ago--the one with the hunter in khaki shorts shooting the duck in the sky...a sad creature with a broken neck suspended in red yarn.
My mother seemed to always wear the same thing when in fact she just bought the same outfits in mass quantities. My favorite was her blue and green tropical two piece (it came in both pants and skirts). She would use this as the base and then layer accordingly as the weather deemed fit. Today, since it was a chilly morning, she had on two sweaters and her large itchy red jacket.
A normal child would be abhorred at the fashion indescretions my parents were prominently displaying in public. But I had gotten to the point where I thought it was adorable. Embarassment was obsolete now. I loved my parents and I was happy for them, who cares if they wouldn't be showing up on anyone's Best Dressed List. Those are for pretentious yuppies anyhow. Its good when you get to the point where that war-craved teenager fascade of "you" against "them" melts away and you can finally appreciate your parents for just being human.
"Indie, you stay in the car. Let the engine keep running to keep it warm." Dad pulled into the delivery driveway of Hawkin's and I always was worried Dad would back up into one of those dividing poles, but he never did. I always admired him for that.
My parents climbed out of the vehicle and walked into the warehouse and I sat there in silence and wondered how many sad unknowing pigs were being slaughtered in that vestibule right now. All that squealing...crunching...bashing. But I saw a couple of men in white frocks, hair nets, and goggles walk by and wondered how sanitary could it really be with all that blood and gore. Would Upton Sinclaire be rolling in his grave or resting peacefully?
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Mom and Dad started getting hungry so we decided to go eat at this Vietnamese Pho restaurant my father's friend had just opened up. The building had been previously owned by five different other owners, none of them lasting for more than six months. This one had been opened for about a month now and everyone in the neighborhood was counting down. We walked into the building. A not-so friendly petite woman directed us toward a table near the window. We sat there and my mom and dad spoke in Chinese.
"Where's Frank? Do you think he's cooking? Maybe he's not even here in the mornings...maybe he comes in the evenings..."
"You should ask...ask that lady. But she might not even know...she's just a waitress..I don't like the looks of her."
The lady sauntered over and took our order.
Before she left my dad asked her in Vietnamese if the owner, Frank, was there. She said he was in the back and would go get him.
My father nodded in triumph. Dad told mom to get him some Vietnamese newspapers to read while they waited which he thought were on a table next to the cash register. Mom walked over there but came back with the 5-pound telephone book instead.
"There's no newspapers over there. Here, read the phone book."
My dad didn't even bat an eyelash. He merely placed the yellow bible in front of him, raised his glasses, and flipped to the coupons. "Look 10 bucks off an oil change. Tell me when the waitress isn't looking and I'll rip it out."
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The winter chill in the air hung gelatinous-like that morning as the mist caused fat drops of dew to burden innocent blades of grass. When you think you'll almost overdose from so much freshness. I had left my bedroom window open to let the cool air balance the warmth enveloping me from my heavy blanket.
Was that right? I squinted my eyes, but my poor vision still couldn't make out the blurry red digits on the clock. I finally rationalized that I had to sit up, so I did to grab the clock to place it about six inches from my nose to finally make out the time-- 5:27 A.M. Damn...hate it when I forget where I put my glasses....and double-damn, why is it so damn early?
But I could hear the sounds of my mother and father in the living room already preparing for the day.
---The whirring of the blender as my mother made us fresh juice. Not sweet tropical concoctions you'd like to see in a pineapple shaped glass with a cheesy mini Hawaiian umbrella sticking out of it. No, she liked to create these thick green cocktails of bitter vegetables and fruits that my mother was certain would extend our life spans for at least another 38.45 years. She meant well and it made us all feel like we were healthier, and to say the least...we were all 'regular' as can be.
---The crackle of the morning paper as my father skimmed the sports pages. His occasional clearing of the throat even though it wasn't necessary at all. And the shuffling of his house shoes against the worn down shag carpet to see if the neighbor was letting its dog poop on our lawn. "I'll catch that son of a bitch, one of these days, goddamit." This was his morning prayer.
---And the low hum of the Buddhist monks tape playing in the background...the somber bells chiming....the incense slowly wafting into my room beckoning me to wake up...
I heard my mother's small feet coming closer and closer to my room. Maybe if I tried real hard, I could fall back to sleep and she would give me another hour or so to dream. Or I could fake it...but she would know. I closed my eyes and I held on tight to my sleep for just a second longer before I finally had to let go of its soft, comforting hand.
"Indie...Indie wake up. Here's your juice." I opened my eyes half way and saw my Fosse mug brimming with green foam. A clear straw sticking out like the broken stern of a ghost ship slipping beneath the unwelcoming murkiness of a swamp.
"Thanks..mom...just..." I yawned for added effect,"...put it over on the table and I'll drink it when I wake up."
"Indie, you're waking up now. We have to get the day started. Lots to do. And drink your juice before it starts to change color...you won't want to drink it when it's brown." She put the cup on my table and walked out the room.
Hmm...I thought to myself. My tolerance level wouldn't really change if I was drinking green foam or brown foam....it's pretty much the same to me. I shrugged and decided it best to just get up and shower.
+++++++++++++++++++
My mother and father owned a little convenience store/deli. They also served Chinese fast food there and so that morning we had to stop by Mr. Hawkins Wholesale Butchery to pick up some things. I sat in the crowded mini-van we three shuttled around in. My father with his Hollywood Casino baseball cap made out of jean prominently displayed on his head. His favorite story was of him winning five hundred dollars at the slots. "I sat on that damn stool for four hours! I swear my butt cheeks were ingrained in that son of a bitch!" He was also wearing the sweater grandma had knit him for Christmas two years ago--the one with the hunter in khaki shorts shooting the duck in the sky...a sad creature with a broken neck suspended in red yarn.
My mother seemed to always wear the same thing when in fact she just bought the same outfits in mass quantities. My favorite was her blue and green tropical two piece (it came in both pants and skirts). She would use this as the base and then layer accordingly as the weather deemed fit. Today, since it was a chilly morning, she had on two sweaters and her large itchy red jacket.
A normal child would be abhorred at the fashion indescretions my parents were prominently displaying in public. But I had gotten to the point where I thought it was adorable. Embarassment was obsolete now. I loved my parents and I was happy for them, who cares if they wouldn't be showing up on anyone's Best Dressed List. Those are for pretentious yuppies anyhow. Its good when you get to the point where that war-craved teenager fascade of "you" against "them" melts away and you can finally appreciate your parents for just being human.
"Indie, you stay in the car. Let the engine keep running to keep it warm." Dad pulled into the delivery driveway of Hawkin's and I always was worried Dad would back up into one of those dividing poles, but he never did. I always admired him for that.
My parents climbed out of the vehicle and walked into the warehouse and I sat there in silence and wondered how many sad unknowing pigs were being slaughtered in that vestibule right now. All that squealing...crunching...bashing. But I saw a couple of men in white frocks, hair nets, and goggles walk by and wondered how sanitary could it really be with all that blood and gore. Would Upton Sinclaire be rolling in his grave or resting peacefully?
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Mom and Dad started getting hungry so we decided to go eat at this Vietnamese Pho restaurant my father's friend had just opened up. The building had been previously owned by five different other owners, none of them lasting for more than six months. This one had been opened for about a month now and everyone in the neighborhood was counting down. We walked into the building. A not-so friendly petite woman directed us toward a table near the window. We sat there and my mom and dad spoke in Chinese.
"Where's Frank? Do you think he's cooking? Maybe he's not even here in the mornings...maybe he comes in the evenings..."
"You should ask...ask that lady. But she might not even know...she's just a waitress..I don't like the looks of her."
The lady sauntered over and took our order.
Before she left my dad asked her in Vietnamese if the owner, Frank, was there. She said he was in the back and would go get him.
My father nodded in triumph. Dad told mom to get him some Vietnamese newspapers to read while they waited which he thought were on a table next to the cash register. Mom walked over there but came back with the 5-pound telephone book instead.
"There's no newspapers over there. Here, read the phone book."
My dad didn't even bat an eyelash. He merely placed the yellow bible in front of him, raised his glasses, and flipped to the coupons. "Look 10 bucks off an oil change. Tell me when the waitress isn't looking and I'll rip it out."
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Saturday, February 19, 2005
A Penny for Your Thoughts....
...and a nickel for your troubles.
I've been away from my computer lately. Busy with the store and just trying to simmer in my own juices. Contemplating life.
Computers (though they are wonderful in their innate ways) causes me, I find, to just waste time. When I'm sitting in front of my monitor I contantly check my email when I know I just checked it five minutes ago. And I constantly read my friends' blogs and other websites, when I've already read entries five times. So I've decided to reduce my intake of my computer time due to the high productivity calories....not nutritious just filling. The creation of the Internet was both a godsend and a bane to society..or at least those are my thoughts.
And I'm on the verge of a new premise for a story that has been brewing in my brain. Hope it doesn't disappoint...
I've been away from my computer lately. Busy with the store and just trying to simmer in my own juices. Contemplating life.
Computers (though they are wonderful in their innate ways) causes me, I find, to just waste time. When I'm sitting in front of my monitor I contantly check my email when I know I just checked it five minutes ago. And I constantly read my friends' blogs and other websites, when I've already read entries five times. So I've decided to reduce my intake of my computer time due to the high productivity calories....not nutritious just filling. The creation of the Internet was both a godsend and a bane to society..or at least those are my thoughts.
And I'm on the verge of a new premise for a story that has been brewing in my brain. Hope it doesn't disappoint...
Monday, February 14, 2005
A Day by Any Other Name.....
So to break from tradition, I'm writing a more common blog entry because my muse has taken leave (at least for two weeks! I found the ticket stub to Hawaii on my dresser...and she didn't even invite me..the nerve!) and my inspiration seems to have dried up into a sickly purple-brown prune. And I can't stand the thought of someone stumbling onto my blog only to be greeted by that painting of my crabs. Crabs! That's no welcome mat!
I'm not even going to mention the fact that today is the day that will not be mentioned (wink wink you know what I'm talking about). Nothing special for me. Not this year. How sad. But that's life and I'm not going to worry about it. If it wasn't fated for me to be spoiled with rose petals, cheap red wine, and calorific Swiss chocolates, than I'm better for it. (And I can drink red wine 365 days a year! Thank you very much!) The world has brainwashed us into thinking that the amount of love we feel should be measured by how large that stuffed bear on your bed is, or how many roses your boyfriend was able to afford. That's twisted and delusional. That bear will end up dirty and tattered at the Goodwill store by next year and those roses began wilting the very second the florist cut their roots off....Pleasure and happiness is constantly fleeting.
On the other hand, the weather was real nice today, I tell ya what. One of those days where you want to go splash around in the creek and get all bronzed from the sun's kisses. Or sit on a rock and see if an unknowing fish will bite that shiny hook disguised in the slimy blood of a worm bait. Or sit in the middle of a meadow of sunflowers and contemplate why doing nothing can bring such contentment...
I on the other hand was not splashing around, or baiting a hook, or amongst any sunflowers of any sort. I was helping mom out at the old shop and it was like any other day except for the fact that instead of my customary "Have a nice day!" at the end of a transaction, I wrapped up with "Happy (day that will not be mentioned wink wink)!" Some of the highlights of today was when:
1. A man bought $5 worth of ginseng candy. Who buys that much ginseng candy? (BTW gross!)
2. A woman buys 8 cans of tuna fish. That's alot of dolphin safe cans. And she referred to saltine crackers as "cookies you eat the fish with."
3. A man came in looking awfully nervous because he didn't have a gift for his girlfriend for (the day that won't be mentioned) but I helped him pick something out nice and his nervous disposition melted away.
4. Four different customers came in and told me what a nice lady my mom was and that I was lucky to have such a kind lady as my mother. I already knew that :)
5. I finished my Su Tong novel and was disgusted at how he depicted women in it.
6. Learned that my mother lived in a big house with marble floors when she was in Vietnam but when she came to America, she was sewing sombreros for $2.75 an hour.
Later on in the day...
I got another rejection email from one of the places where I sent in one of my short story submissions. Boo-hoo. I feel like a dope. Like they don't get me. Come on, am I that complex? Maybe, maybe not. There's not enough petals on a daisy to play that game. I guess the market for short 'short stories' hasn't gotten it's spotlight yet. But the other day at Barnes & Nobles, I saw an anthology for the shortest short stories in the world and they were pretty much one-liners! Now if those got a real publishing deal, than surely....no, I'm not gonna jinx myself. The clammy veil of rejection easily wears away and only makes your eminent success that much sweeter. I guess all I can do is keep submitting...until my fingers break.
I'm not even going to mention the fact that today is the day that will not be mentioned (wink wink you know what I'm talking about). Nothing special for me. Not this year. How sad. But that's life and I'm not going to worry about it. If it wasn't fated for me to be spoiled with rose petals, cheap red wine, and calorific Swiss chocolates, than I'm better for it. (And I can drink red wine 365 days a year! Thank you very much!) The world has brainwashed us into thinking that the amount of love we feel should be measured by how large that stuffed bear on your bed is, or how many roses your boyfriend was able to afford. That's twisted and delusional. That bear will end up dirty and tattered at the Goodwill store by next year and those roses began wilting the very second the florist cut their roots off....Pleasure and happiness is constantly fleeting.
On the other hand, the weather was real nice today, I tell ya what. One of those days where you want to go splash around in the creek and get all bronzed from the sun's kisses. Or sit on a rock and see if an unknowing fish will bite that shiny hook disguised in the slimy blood of a worm bait. Or sit in the middle of a meadow of sunflowers and contemplate why doing nothing can bring such contentment...
I on the other hand was not splashing around, or baiting a hook, or amongst any sunflowers of any sort. I was helping mom out at the old shop and it was like any other day except for the fact that instead of my customary "Have a nice day!" at the end of a transaction, I wrapped up with "Happy (day that will not be mentioned wink wink)!" Some of the highlights of today was when:
1. A man bought $5 worth of ginseng candy. Who buys that much ginseng candy? (BTW gross!)
2. A woman buys 8 cans of tuna fish. That's alot of dolphin safe cans. And she referred to saltine crackers as "cookies you eat the fish with."
3. A man came in looking awfully nervous because he didn't have a gift for his girlfriend for (the day that won't be mentioned) but I helped him pick something out nice and his nervous disposition melted away.
4. Four different customers came in and told me what a nice lady my mom was and that I was lucky to have such a kind lady as my mother. I already knew that :)
5. I finished my Su Tong novel and was disgusted at how he depicted women in it.
6. Learned that my mother lived in a big house with marble floors when she was in Vietnam but when she came to America, she was sewing sombreros for $2.75 an hour.
Later on in the day...
I got another rejection email from one of the places where I sent in one of my short story submissions. Boo-hoo. I feel like a dope. Like they don't get me. Come on, am I that complex? Maybe, maybe not. There's not enough petals on a daisy to play that game. I guess the market for short 'short stories' hasn't gotten it's spotlight yet. But the other day at Barnes & Nobles, I saw an anthology for the shortest short stories in the world and they were pretty much one-liners! Now if those got a real publishing deal, than surely....no, I'm not gonna jinx myself. The clammy veil of rejection easily wears away and only makes your eminent success that much sweeter. I guess all I can do is keep submitting...until my fingers break.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Monday, February 07, 2005
Mermaids in the Sea
It seemed so hard.
To admit to myself the feelings that had been boiling in my belly. It reminded me of the huge pots of water grandmother would put on the stove to boil the crabs or the crawfish for Sunday lunch. When I was barely able to reach my grandmother's waist, clinging to her dirty apron, and my hair was tied in long pigtails, I would imagine a Tom Thumb miniature version of myself trapped in a pot, climbing on top of the reddening shell of a blue crab, trying to get away from the boiling liquid, but getting sleepy from the hypnotizing heat never to wake again....or at least that's how I wished those crabs met their fate, in a warm, relaxing bath, getting drowsy and then pitch black--but no pain. But in retrospect, that was much too idyllic and naive of a thought. I wondered what was worse, to be a crustacean or a human. I guess they were both on par with each other.
The waves lapped their tongues onto the shore to taste the sand, only to repel backwards from the saltiness. I sat there on the large boulder that we used to play on when we were little girls. The innocent times of when the gray clouds were brought on because she and I were witches casting spells on evil demons (not because it was supposed to rain.) When grandmother would wake us up at the crack of dawn to look for buried chests of gold and jewels (not to dig for clams for that week’s dinner.) When the seagulls were our loyal messengers gathering for their next mission, (not because the old beachcomber was throwing out stale pieces of sourdough into the wind.) When we were mermaids in the sea...
I had thought the situation up and down and decided that there was no good way things could end up. Someone would be hurt. I was going to be the martyr because it was my own fault for prying...for getting in the way...And if there was ever a decision of whether the gun should be aimed at me or her, I would willingly place the barrel against my own temple, pull the trigger, and fall into her arms, no question, before she could even let out a breath. There were so many times when I wanted to tell her that, but I was afraid she would think me too self-righteous.
I pulled my shawl tighter against my shoulders and wondered where she was. Earlier that morning, I had hesitated as I let the phone ring into my ear. I wondered if she could tell that I had unsuccessfully finished dialing her number for an hour before I could muster the courage to press the last 7th digit. She picked up after the third ring tone and seemed a bit startled that it was me. I told her to meet me at our old place and she agreed without a question. I was glad for that. She never made things harder than they had to be. I thought it best that I be the one to tell her. To let her know all that was, all that would never be.
I saw a dark figure against the edge of the tide about a mile off. I waved and she waved back.
Before I knew it, we were sitting on the boulder side by side looking at the sinking sun like a broken pirate ship slipping beneath the waves. There was a golden silence. No "hello's" or "how ya doing's." Fluff like that was obsolete for old friends like us. So then I told her.
The words fell out of me. Each word painfully pulled from my lips. Bricks that fell from my tongue only to crush onto my toes leaving me to wince at each sting.
But it was the only way to purge these troubled feelings that had formed between us. And I knew that if the rift were to grow any larger, I would lose her forever. And usually, the times when the truth is hardest to admit, is when its most necessary, the only cure for the self-inflicted wounds that had so naturally appeared on my body.
After I finished, I searched her face for some semblance of a reaction but all I saw were her glassy eyes looking far off into the distance. Her long lashes fluttered as a breeze wrapped around us but she didn’t even shudder at the chill.
I wanted to shake her. Make sure that she understood that the only reason I was saying the things that I did was because I felt she deserved the entire truth.
I didn’t even consider the possibility of losing her even after telling her this truth. All I could think of was the “before”, the veil that she had been under, the unmoving stage curtain that never allowed the show to begin. Because for so long we had all been living on the surface, in some kind of fantasy, a castle in the clouds made out of goose feathers. And it seemed to have gone on so long that it had somehow transformed into this hideous concrete reality. But I wouldn’t let her live in make-believe fortresses or walk on brittle sidewalks any longer.
Finally she sighed.
“I’ve missed you. Not just lately. But for a long time now. So many things have changed and…” I could see her clawing for the right words like she always did, trying to make things sound so storybook, straight from a novel. But it only made her seem more vulnerable. “…and, I guess I should have known all along. I was just not letting myself see it. Isn’t it amazing? The way you can fool yourself into holding onto something that’s not there, believing in some invisible safety net when you’ve already hit the ground, broken and bleeding. The power of desire, delusion….make-believe.”
She finally looked at me, and of all things, she smiled. It was a heartbreaking smile that simultaneously conveyed her resolute passivity and invariable forgiveness. “In the end, we’re all just a bunch of insignificant fools.”
I wanted to break down into hysterical sobs. I wished she had slapped me and run off into the distance, never to be heard from again. Or scream at the top of her lungs that she despised me with all her heart and she couldn’t believe that I had the audacity to call her my friend. Needed her to show me some semblance of anger…to justify my actions as wrong-doings. I wanted to feel her hatred for me that matched my own self-loathing.
So we sat there in silence not knowing what the days ahead of us would hold. Absorbing the words that had been exchanged between us. Me, wishing mine had hurt her more, and not expecting hers to have cut me so deeply.
Friday, January 28, 2005
Tuesday, January 25, 2005
Ocimum Basilicum
Harold looked at the terra cotta pots lined on his windowsill and closed his eyes really tight.
Grow. Please grow. Why won't you grow?
He clenched his fists tight. As if he were pulling the strings of fate, willing with all his might for the tiny buds he had planted to find the strength to open up and push their little nubs to reach the surface of the moist soil, revel in the cool spring air, and taste the sweetness of sunshine.
He had been told that basil was one of the easiest things to grow. And it tasted great, so why didn't everyone have a basil bush in their kitchen? Martha, from the gardening store, had assured him that it was easier than digging a hole.
Harold promised himself at that moment he would never trust anyone named "Martha" ever again.
He waited.
But like waiting for a pot of water to boil, it seemed like eternity for anything to happen. And that worried him. What if he had done something wrong? What if he had bought the potting soil that had too much fertilizer in it? What if he had packed the dirt in too tightly and the seeds were suffocating? What if he hadn't positioned the seeds in the optimum measured spatial areas recommended on the seed packet? What if he had overwatered it? Or underwatered it? He grabbed his spray bottle and squirted a mist of water and he watched the beads of liquid cling to the lumps of dirt and then vanish into the absorbant soil.
Maybe his prize winning green thumb that he had built up in his head was merely a quioxtic whimsy. He sat there imagining a dissected thumb with a putrid olive color wriggling next to the stubborn basil plants.
Suddenly, the terra cotta pots had been personified into bullyish heathens flinging their contents of soil in his face, laughing at his hand that now only boasted four sad fat digits.
The terra cotta plants had now sprouted squiggly black legs adorned with plastic garden clogs. And arms with heavy duty goatskin gloves on their oily hands. They weilded sharp pruners, pointy spades, and shiny loppers that dripped sinister plans for Harold. Harold leapt up but was tackled by the heavy yet reasonably priced pots. Why had he bought so many?
They pounced on his back tied his legs with hose. (Where did that hose come from?) They used gardening string for his arms behind his back. (Did Martha trick him somehow into buying gardening string?) They continued to torture him taking snips at his clothes and pruning his curly hair. He squeaked as each curly lock floated down before his eyes. Suddenly, he felt the pots going for his thumbs. They were going to chop off his thumbs!! He felt the sharp edges of the pruner slide around his right digit....
Then everything went black. The next thing he knew, he was lying on his kitchen floor. What time was it? How long had he been knocked out? He must have fainted from his daydream stupor.
In the process, he had tipped over all the pots save one small one in the corner.
And when he looked over the rim, he gave a small yelp of pleasure.
The first buds had begun to sprout to the surface.
He gave a sigh and cleaned up the dirt and broken pots that had been knocked over (or somehow miraculously lost their sinister powers. )
And though it was painful at first, Harold spent the rest of the night sewing back on his green thumb.
Grow. Please grow. Why won't you grow?
He clenched his fists tight. As if he were pulling the strings of fate, willing with all his might for the tiny buds he had planted to find the strength to open up and push their little nubs to reach the surface of the moist soil, revel in the cool spring air, and taste the sweetness of sunshine.
He had been told that basil was one of the easiest things to grow. And it tasted great, so why didn't everyone have a basil bush in their kitchen? Martha, from the gardening store, had assured him that it was easier than digging a hole.
Harold promised himself at that moment he would never trust anyone named "Martha" ever again.
He waited.
But like waiting for a pot of water to boil, it seemed like eternity for anything to happen. And that worried him. What if he had done something wrong? What if he had bought the potting soil that had too much fertilizer in it? What if he had packed the dirt in too tightly and the seeds were suffocating? What if he hadn't positioned the seeds in the optimum measured spatial areas recommended on the seed packet? What if he had overwatered it? Or underwatered it? He grabbed his spray bottle and squirted a mist of water and he watched the beads of liquid cling to the lumps of dirt and then vanish into the absorbant soil.
Maybe his prize winning green thumb that he had built up in his head was merely a quioxtic whimsy. He sat there imagining a dissected thumb with a putrid olive color wriggling next to the stubborn basil plants.
Suddenly, the terra cotta pots had been personified into bullyish heathens flinging their contents of soil in his face, laughing at his hand that now only boasted four sad fat digits.
The terra cotta plants had now sprouted squiggly black legs adorned with plastic garden clogs. And arms with heavy duty goatskin gloves on their oily hands. They weilded sharp pruners, pointy spades, and shiny loppers that dripped sinister plans for Harold. Harold leapt up but was tackled by the heavy yet reasonably priced pots. Why had he bought so many?
They pounced on his back tied his legs with hose. (Where did that hose come from?) They used gardening string for his arms behind his back. (Did Martha trick him somehow into buying gardening string?) They continued to torture him taking snips at his clothes and pruning his curly hair. He squeaked as each curly lock floated down before his eyes. Suddenly, he felt the pots going for his thumbs. They were going to chop off his thumbs!! He felt the sharp edges of the pruner slide around his right digit....
Then everything went black. The next thing he knew, he was lying on his kitchen floor. What time was it? How long had he been knocked out? He must have fainted from his daydream stupor.
In the process, he had tipped over all the pots save one small one in the corner.
And when he looked over the rim, he gave a small yelp of pleasure.
The first buds had begun to sprout to the surface.
He gave a sigh and cleaned up the dirt and broken pots that had been knocked over (or somehow miraculously lost their sinister powers. )
And though it was painful at first, Harold spent the rest of the night sewing back on his green thumb.
Sunday, January 23, 2005
Any Given Weekend
Why were thoughts of Sick and Twisted animations running through my head?
Why was my usually straight hair, now curly?
Why was my Scrabble game gone?
Why was cold dim sum sitting on the coffee table?
Why were cracker crumbs all over the car?
Why were there melted Junior Mints in my purse?
Why was a French film with no audio playing on my laptop?
Why were my thumbs sore?
Why were tiny Krystals chicken burgers in my refridgerator?
Why were all my basil plants wilted and dead?
Why was my head throbbing?
Why was my usually straight hair, now curly?
Why was my Scrabble game gone?
Why was cold dim sum sitting on the coffee table?
Why were cracker crumbs all over the car?
Why were there melted Junior Mints in my purse?
Why was a French film with no audio playing on my laptop?
Why were my thumbs sore?
Why were tiny Krystals chicken burgers in my refridgerator?
Why were all my basil plants wilted and dead?
Why was my head throbbing?
Thursday, January 20, 2005
The Family Business
This is for the souls who happen to wander in. Wander into the place where many shy away from yet few are rewarded for their boldness... loyalty...... curiosity. The second home for those with first homes. The scarred souls who don't think, just take...but we forget and forgive.
To the woman who is the queen of caskets. Buying lotto like they were penny-candies and she has a sweet tooth. Asking about the family (or do you have business on your mind?)...Yes, we have shimp chips today...but sorry no more grape soda.
To the man with the slow step and salt and pepper beard. He calls my twelve-year old sister "ma'am" and reminds me of a simpler time when people thought a little longer and hearts were a bit stronger and being polite was a standard.
To my dad who likes to listen to the news loud so he can hear the newest immigration stories and asks me if they get rid of all the immigrants who will pick the strawberries?
To the ghost of the past who cut my uncle's ear with a broken bottle. Robbing, pilfering...cowardly fool. Let your ski mask become your Iron Mask, to adhere to your face so you will never have to show the shame of your dirty visage.
To the funny woman who comes in to ask for money. But my mom says no. And the funny woman says why. And my mom says because she has too many taxes to pay. The funny woman replies with Everybody gotta pay taxes--this America! And then my mom smirks with Well, then that makes me Mrs. America! And they share a mutual laugh.
To all the hungry souls who come in and order who only want my mom to cook for them. Who ask my mother to make the same thing that they ordered last time because they cannot remember the simple words of "chicken fried rice." Who tell me that she is the best cook ever and that they go no where else to get their food. How sometimes they drive an hour out of their way to our little shop and how they were craving egg rolls and sweet and sour chicken on Sunday but we were closed. But do they know how the compliments are all washed away when I hear you talk on your phone to your friend to ask them what they want to order only to hear, "What kinda Japanese food you wanna order?"
To Christopher and Fatboy who are both under 8 years old. How they cried to my mom when their mother was taken away by the cops and they wiped their tears on my mother's apron crying, "I told them not to take my mom away but they wouldn't listen!!"
To the opaque stanger who walks in for a "brown bag special" and doesn't think about anything other than his next quick fix and how for $3 bucks, that's a bargain.
To the tired mother, whose husband died at the hands of her father now in jail, whose daughter tried to cut her life away at the seams of her wrists. She has a twitch in her eye, a limp in her step, and a wrinkle in her heart, yet still hopes to hit it big tonight. One more QuickPick! We make sure to always stock her favorite soda--Diet Big Red.
To Ellie Bellie and Peas and Carrots who even though they complain of slavery, they still stand behind the counter like stoic statues smiling ready to give you the correct change.
To the hopeful entreprenuer who would always watch Nancy cook because he liked the exotic feel of Chinese food and would always ask questions. Is that some kind of Chinese spice? No, for the seventh time, it's just salt.
To the midnight burglar whose plan to break into the bricks through the air conditioning vent and didn't account for his wide waist and it took three policemen to wriggle him out of the vent hole and throw him in jail for 72 hours only to be out again waiting...waiting.
To my older sister--how do you do it? In one day, she was asked out on a date, proposed to twice, and asked to go on a holiday cruise all by different men.
To the landlord lady who will finally put my mother's name down on the title. My mother's sweat, tears, blood, and more tears widdled down to mere ink on sheets of thin paper. But no, to her it is her determination branded in stone.
To the woman who is the queen of caskets. Buying lotto like they were penny-candies and she has a sweet tooth. Asking about the family (or do you have business on your mind?)...Yes, we have shimp chips today...but sorry no more grape soda.
To the man with the slow step and salt and pepper beard. He calls my twelve-year old sister "ma'am" and reminds me of a simpler time when people thought a little longer and hearts were a bit stronger and being polite was a standard.
To my dad who likes to listen to the news loud so he can hear the newest immigration stories and asks me if they get rid of all the immigrants who will pick the strawberries?
To the ghost of the past who cut my uncle's ear with a broken bottle. Robbing, pilfering...cowardly fool. Let your ski mask become your Iron Mask, to adhere to your face so you will never have to show the shame of your dirty visage.
To the funny woman who comes in to ask for money. But my mom says no. And the funny woman says why. And my mom says because she has too many taxes to pay. The funny woman replies with Everybody gotta pay taxes--this America! And then my mom smirks with Well, then that makes me Mrs. America! And they share a mutual laugh.
To all the hungry souls who come in and order who only want my mom to cook for them. Who ask my mother to make the same thing that they ordered last time because they cannot remember the simple words of "chicken fried rice." Who tell me that she is the best cook ever and that they go no where else to get their food. How sometimes they drive an hour out of their way to our little shop and how they were craving egg rolls and sweet and sour chicken on Sunday but we were closed. But do they know how the compliments are all washed away when I hear you talk on your phone to your friend to ask them what they want to order only to hear, "What kinda Japanese food you wanna order?"
To Christopher and Fatboy who are both under 8 years old. How they cried to my mom when their mother was taken away by the cops and they wiped their tears on my mother's apron crying, "I told them not to take my mom away but they wouldn't listen!!"
To the opaque stanger who walks in for a "brown bag special" and doesn't think about anything other than his next quick fix and how for $3 bucks, that's a bargain.
To the tired mother, whose husband died at the hands of her father now in jail, whose daughter tried to cut her life away at the seams of her wrists. She has a twitch in her eye, a limp in her step, and a wrinkle in her heart, yet still hopes to hit it big tonight. One more QuickPick! We make sure to always stock her favorite soda--Diet Big Red.
To Ellie Bellie and Peas and Carrots who even though they complain of slavery, they still stand behind the counter like stoic statues smiling ready to give you the correct change.
To the hopeful entreprenuer who would always watch Nancy cook because he liked the exotic feel of Chinese food and would always ask questions. Is that some kind of Chinese spice? No, for the seventh time, it's just salt.
To the midnight burglar whose plan to break into the bricks through the air conditioning vent and didn't account for his wide waist and it took three policemen to wriggle him out of the vent hole and throw him in jail for 72 hours only to be out again waiting...waiting.
To my older sister--how do you do it? In one day, she was asked out on a date, proposed to twice, and asked to go on a holiday cruise all by different men.
To the landlord lady who will finally put my mother's name down on the title. My mother's sweat, tears, blood, and more tears widdled down to mere ink on sheets of thin paper. But no, to her it is her determination branded in stone.
"So can you?"
"So can I, what?"
"Picture having a relationship with her?"
The thought hadn't really crossed my mind. When I found someone I was interested in, all I knew was that I enjoyed being around that person, no matter what gender. A relationship, no matter what kind or on what level, by any other name would still be a relationship. Sometimes, I think humans can be too picky, or in this case, judgemental. But I guess, many would say that I am not that type. I've thought many a time about that sentiment and would either shrug or say "Fuck you" with my middle fingers held up in the usual rebellious solitary fashion but that's all in my head. I'm not the burly, butch lesbo type. But there was one time where I wanted to beat two teenage girls up for looking at my shoes too hard and laughing....but anyhow.
Kaleigh just so happened to be a girl. I couldn't help that she was the type of person that got under my skin.
I looked at my friend who had posed this reasonable question yet with underlying homophobic tones and I answered, "Sure, I guess."
"Really?" he replied in unneccessary disgusted fashion.
"I don't know..." I trailed off.
I continued drinking my mamosa and hoped the subject would pass. Is this proper brunch conversation? I looked around. To the left was a mother with her two children making a mess with their fruit bowls. To my right was an elderly couple drinking coffee and looking into the distance contemplating more worldly pleasures. I regretted ever bringing Kaliegh up. Now maybe our relationship would be jinxed!
Don't confuse my response of "I don't know" for sexual confusion though. Sexual confusion is just an excuse, I think. My response was merely a reflection of my own self-doubt and lack of self-esteem. If only they sold them in bottles at the corner store.
The marketing posters would say, Steam up your life with a bottle of Self-Esteem now! Buy one, get the next bottle half off for a limited time only! Mmmm....steamy! They'd sell like hotcakes.
We had met in this History of Dinosaurs class. Kaleigh was from Slovenia, a post-grad student taking the class for fun. I was trying to get my degree in paleontology. Did I think it would increase my chances of landing a role in Jurassic Park 5? Maybe...maybe not.
I remember she and I were the only minorities. We had hit it off right away. Clinging to eachother like we were the only albino squirrels in the bunch. Maybe, it was the comfort of knowing that we had more cultural depth in our blood. Maybe, it was her adorable Slovenian accent. Or maybe it was her big brown eyes.
We hadn't really had any deeper conversations than the goings on of class or the surface of our lives. And we'd only seen eachother outside of class on a day when the professor wanted to treat the class for a beer or two at the local pub. He even threw in some nachos, what a sweetheart. I remember when the class was beginning to disperse, I got nervous, said a hurried goodbye, and headed straight to my car and went home. What an idiot!!
But on the last day of class, my heart was ripping at the seams because the thought of this being the last time of seeing Kaleigh was too much for me to bare. No more exchanging notes. No more laughing at the professor's train conductor hats. No more moments of exhileration when she touched my hand to get my attention. It was time to go and I was going to accept it, this was life and life could be at times, for lack of a better word, a bitch. I slowly pulled on my backpack and was ready to say my parting adieu's when Kaleigh turned around--
"Hey, are you gonna be in town for awhile? Let's exchange numbers and maybe we can hang out?" My heart which had had a burnt out light was now shining with a 100 mega-watt bulb. How quickly the tides change! And how excruciatingly easy she made it sound. To just "hang out." Exchange numbers. Maybe it really was that easy...but something in my mind always seems to add extra layers of hardship. I think it's human nature. When things seem too easy, you have to be suspicious.
We exchanged numbers and I was on cloud 9 nonethe less.
I was tired of my french toast. Finishing off my mamosa I decided to leave my friend there alone and solitary like how he had made me feel questioning my relationship.
Somehow I found myself in front of her apartment. Could I? Should I? Would I?
After a debate with myself, I ended up calling Kaliegh and setting up a movie date. I walked up and she let me in.
As I sat in her apartment, a foreign fantasy land of new hopes and possiblities, I noticed the little garden of pots on her windowsill. There was one pot of yellow daffodils that had come into bloom and I thought--Hmm...I thought daffodils would be much bigger...
"Picture having a relationship with her?"
The thought hadn't really crossed my mind. When I found someone I was interested in, all I knew was that I enjoyed being around that person, no matter what gender. A relationship, no matter what kind or on what level, by any other name would still be a relationship. Sometimes, I think humans can be too picky, or in this case, judgemental. But I guess, many would say that I am not that type. I've thought many a time about that sentiment and would either shrug or say "Fuck you" with my middle fingers held up in the usual rebellious solitary fashion but that's all in my head. I'm not the burly, butch lesbo type. But there was one time where I wanted to beat two teenage girls up for looking at my shoes too hard and laughing....but anyhow.
Kaleigh just so happened to be a girl. I couldn't help that she was the type of person that got under my skin.
I looked at my friend who had posed this reasonable question yet with underlying homophobic tones and I answered, "Sure, I guess."
"Really?" he replied in unneccessary disgusted fashion.
"I don't know..." I trailed off.
I continued drinking my mamosa and hoped the subject would pass. Is this proper brunch conversation? I looked around. To the left was a mother with her two children making a mess with their fruit bowls. To my right was an elderly couple drinking coffee and looking into the distance contemplating more worldly pleasures. I regretted ever bringing Kaliegh up. Now maybe our relationship would be jinxed!
Don't confuse my response of "I don't know" for sexual confusion though. Sexual confusion is just an excuse, I think. My response was merely a reflection of my own self-doubt and lack of self-esteem. If only they sold them in bottles at the corner store.
The marketing posters would say, Steam up your life with a bottle of Self-Esteem now! Buy one, get the next bottle half off for a limited time only! Mmmm....steamy! They'd sell like hotcakes.
We had met in this History of Dinosaurs class. Kaleigh was from Slovenia, a post-grad student taking the class for fun. I was trying to get my degree in paleontology. Did I think it would increase my chances of landing a role in Jurassic Park 5? Maybe...maybe not.
I remember she and I were the only minorities. We had hit it off right away. Clinging to eachother like we were the only albino squirrels in the bunch. Maybe, it was the comfort of knowing that we had more cultural depth in our blood. Maybe, it was her adorable Slovenian accent. Or maybe it was her big brown eyes.
We hadn't really had any deeper conversations than the goings on of class or the surface of our lives. And we'd only seen eachother outside of class on a day when the professor wanted to treat the class for a beer or two at the local pub. He even threw in some nachos, what a sweetheart. I remember when the class was beginning to disperse, I got nervous, said a hurried goodbye, and headed straight to my car and went home. What an idiot!!
But on the last day of class, my heart was ripping at the seams because the thought of this being the last time of seeing Kaleigh was too much for me to bare. No more exchanging notes. No more laughing at the professor's train conductor hats. No more moments of exhileration when she touched my hand to get my attention. It was time to go and I was going to accept it, this was life and life could be at times, for lack of a better word, a bitch. I slowly pulled on my backpack and was ready to say my parting adieu's when Kaleigh turned around--
"Hey, are you gonna be in town for awhile? Let's exchange numbers and maybe we can hang out?" My heart which had had a burnt out light was now shining with a 100 mega-watt bulb. How quickly the tides change! And how excruciatingly easy she made it sound. To just "hang out." Exchange numbers. Maybe it really was that easy...but something in my mind always seems to add extra layers of hardship. I think it's human nature. When things seem too easy, you have to be suspicious.
We exchanged numbers and I was on cloud 9 nonethe less.
I was tired of my french toast. Finishing off my mamosa I decided to leave my friend there alone and solitary like how he had made me feel questioning my relationship.
Somehow I found myself in front of her apartment. Could I? Should I? Would I?
After a debate with myself, I ended up calling Kaliegh and setting up a movie date. I walked up and she let me in.
As I sat in her apartment, a foreign fantasy land of new hopes and possiblities, I noticed the little garden of pots on her windowsill. There was one pot of yellow daffodils that had come into bloom and I thought--Hmm...I thought daffodils would be much bigger...
Monday, January 17, 2005
My Love Affair with Verne Troyer
We met at a posh party in NYC. His manager knew my manager and thought we should meet because Verne had always wanted to meet me for reasons I will not disclose--the sly dog. We'll just say he liked reading some of my books.
It was quaint at first. We chatted about how I got into my writing and how Verne was tired of playing freaks in Austin Powers or goblins in Harry Potter. The business had so much bullshit swimming in it, he thought maybe he should just settle down and become a yoga instructor. Then the alcohol started flowing through our veins and we stumbled to the pool.
At first glance you wouldn't think him much of an athlete. But at a paltry two feet-eight inches, he can swim like a dolphin on steroids. I, being a drunken fool and a weak swimmer, ended up falling into the heated pool and Verne had to jump in and save me. He's my little life saver, my little turtle.
I don't know how I got back to my apartment that night, but I did and with Verne's number scribbled in permanent marker on my left ankle. How could I not call him and thank him for not letting me drown. (Or had he planned it all out all along?) haha Paranoia makes you think of crazy shit. But you can't really put one past minature midgets.
It was a hard courtship. People would think that he was my baby and the first thing that came to my mind was, "You, fucker, you think I look old enough to have a baby that age? You, cunt."
Verne would ease my hostility and we'd go have a gelato. He always knew how to pull my heart strings.
I'd miss him when he was gone for his acting gigs. He told me that an Austin Powers 4 was coming out and wasn't going to let another two foot eight hard ass take his gig.
"Mini Me is mine, " he'd sometimes scream in his sleep. "Mini Me is mine, you pig fuckers! You can't take it away!" I couldn't sleep for weeks but then I got used to it.
But one day he was completely outraged when he heard rumors of who the next Austin Powers girl was going to be. "If they even put Paris Hilton five feet from me, I will shit rocks! I won't work with people like her. It's an outrage. We have to uphold the respectability of the Austin Powers movies. Goddamn those Hollywood cunts. This is bullshit."
When he met my parents, I knew it would be weird--to say the least. And I knew the first thing my mother would think would be--
"What? A white guy?"
But she got used to it and they became best friends afterwards. They still go play bingo together every Wednesday at the local recreation center. She told me in secret that she thinks of him as her "lucky troll doll."
When we moved in together, I wasn't sure how it was going to work because he needed tiny closets and tiny hangers and tiny desks and tiny drawers. I felt like I was in a Barbie playhouse.
When most people see us, they gasp, gawk, or guffaw. It took awhile for me to get used to it. I almost got to the point where I didn't think it was worth the trouble. But then I would look down into his baby blue eyes and hold his stubbly fingers and realize, wild horses couldn't drag me away.
It was quaint at first. We chatted about how I got into my writing and how Verne was tired of playing freaks in Austin Powers or goblins in Harry Potter. The business had so much bullshit swimming in it, he thought maybe he should just settle down and become a yoga instructor. Then the alcohol started flowing through our veins and we stumbled to the pool.
At first glance you wouldn't think him much of an athlete. But at a paltry two feet-eight inches, he can swim like a dolphin on steroids. I, being a drunken fool and a weak swimmer, ended up falling into the heated pool and Verne had to jump in and save me. He's my little life saver, my little turtle.
I don't know how I got back to my apartment that night, but I did and with Verne's number scribbled in permanent marker on my left ankle. How could I not call him and thank him for not letting me drown. (Or had he planned it all out all along?) haha Paranoia makes you think of crazy shit. But you can't really put one past minature midgets.
It was a hard courtship. People would think that he was my baby and the first thing that came to my mind was, "You, fucker, you think I look old enough to have a baby that age? You, cunt."
Verne would ease my hostility and we'd go have a gelato. He always knew how to pull my heart strings.
I'd miss him when he was gone for his acting gigs. He told me that an Austin Powers 4 was coming out and wasn't going to let another two foot eight hard ass take his gig.
"Mini Me is mine, " he'd sometimes scream in his sleep. "Mini Me is mine, you pig fuckers! You can't take it away!" I couldn't sleep for weeks but then I got used to it.
But one day he was completely outraged when he heard rumors of who the next Austin Powers girl was going to be. "If they even put Paris Hilton five feet from me, I will shit rocks! I won't work with people like her. It's an outrage. We have to uphold the respectability of the Austin Powers movies. Goddamn those Hollywood cunts. This is bullshit."
When he met my parents, I knew it would be weird--to say the least. And I knew the first thing my mother would think would be--
"What? A white guy?"
But she got used to it and they became best friends afterwards. They still go play bingo together every Wednesday at the local recreation center. She told me in secret that she thinks of him as her "lucky troll doll."
When we moved in together, I wasn't sure how it was going to work because he needed tiny closets and tiny hangers and tiny desks and tiny drawers. I felt like I was in a Barbie playhouse.
When most people see us, they gasp, gawk, or guffaw. It took awhile for me to get used to it. I almost got to the point where I didn't think it was worth the trouble. But then I would look down into his baby blue eyes and hold his stubbly fingers and realize, wild horses couldn't drag me away.
Friday, January 14, 2005
Devoted to this Day
Decided to walk instead of taking the bus.
Let the cold wind's kisses make my cheeks blush.
Said hello to seven strangers.
Smiled at three babies in strollers.
Gave a homeless man all the coins I had.
Apologize to another homeless man for having no more coins.
Dropped seven rolls of film off to be processed.
Felt the squishy goodness of four loaves of bread at the grocery store.
Enjoyed the "Lounge" exhibit at The ArtHouse downtown.
Read Time Magazine from cover to cover.
Thought about the verses in this poem.
Wrote them down in my "Idea Book."
Walked to the site of next season's MTV's Real World in Austin.
Stood in front of a historical church for 10 minutes, appreciating its architecture.
Smiled at the sound of gravel under my shoe as I walked to the bus stop.
Talked to the man next to me on the bus about Terry Macmillan.
Answered the phone when my little sister called to chat.
Listened to some relaxing Brazillian music.
Ate sponge cake and strawberry jam for lunch....
Let the cold wind's kisses make my cheeks blush.
Said hello to seven strangers.
Smiled at three babies in strollers.
Gave a homeless man all the coins I had.
Apologize to another homeless man for having no more coins.
Dropped seven rolls of film off to be processed.
Felt the squishy goodness of four loaves of bread at the grocery store.
Enjoyed the "Lounge" exhibit at The ArtHouse downtown.
Read Time Magazine from cover to cover.
Thought about the verses in this poem.
Wrote them down in my "Idea Book."
Walked to the site of next season's MTV's Real World in Austin.
Stood in front of a historical church for 10 minutes, appreciating its architecture.
Smiled at the sound of gravel under my shoe as I walked to the bus stop.
Talked to the man next to me on the bus about Terry Macmillan.
Answered the phone when my little sister called to chat.
Listened to some relaxing Brazillian music.
Ate sponge cake and strawberry jam for lunch....
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
Bubble Bath
She lay there in the tub of warm water and bubbles and imagined things.
She liked to turn over on her belly and submerge her head under the water and pretend she was a spy on a secret mission for the CIA. Her team members had all been taken out by the opposing ganglords of Tanzania. She had said a quick prayer for them but had no time to salvage their bloody bodies. She had to let them flow down the Zambezi for heaven to take their souls and the crocodiles to take their flesh. She was on a mission that must be completed or the very sancitity of the world would be at risk. She was now wading in a swamp headed towards the headquarters of the dreaded Tanzanian Syndicate. She scoffed at the eels that slithered against her skin. Though she was alone, she knew no fear. She was on a mission to find out the secret plans and nothing was going to get in her way.
She gasped for air and lifted her head up. She opened her eyes and the bubbles ran down her face.
She liked to pick up a cloud of bubbles and bury her face in it. It felt like swimming in a pond of fairies and pixies. Their silvery rainbow wings brushing against her cheeks. She was the ancient Elven princess who was being given a festival by her followers. The land of the fairies and pixies were honoring her for her extraordinary powers. They had enjoyed 1000 years of peace in their lands and the surrounding sanctuaries. They danced with leaves in their hair and dreams in their hearts. She felt the sheer happiness surrounding her and for a moment she almost felt like she was suffocating from so much love.
She let a snake of bubbles run down her calf.
It looked like melting marshmallows. She imagined that this is what it was like to be in a cup of hot chocolate. Wading in complete and utter warmth. The steamy goodness curly-cueing around her with an aromatic scent of pleasure. It penetrated her soul and she wished she were hot chocolate flowing through the body of a cold-blooded mortal being the object of warmth that brought so much comfort to his long day of cold icy snow. The melted marshmallows sticky on her skin was always her favorite part.
It was time to get out now. The water was getting cold.
As the water drained away, she lay still on her back. Still as a corpse. The air kissing her wet skin made her shiver and goosebumps appeared on her arms and legs. As if she were a long forgotten memory of someone's past crime now resurfacing after the police got a tip to dredge the lake. The water slowly being sucked away revealed the naked wet body of her. The cops were dumbfounded and weren't sure whether or not they would be able to figure anything out at the autopsy. But though her lips were blue and her limbs frozen, her eyes cried out, "Listen to me....hear my secrets."
She liked to turn over on her belly and submerge her head under the water and pretend she was a spy on a secret mission for the CIA. Her team members had all been taken out by the opposing ganglords of Tanzania. She had said a quick prayer for them but had no time to salvage their bloody bodies. She had to let them flow down the Zambezi for heaven to take their souls and the crocodiles to take their flesh. She was on a mission that must be completed or the very sancitity of the world would be at risk. She was now wading in a swamp headed towards the headquarters of the dreaded Tanzanian Syndicate. She scoffed at the eels that slithered against her skin. Though she was alone, she knew no fear. She was on a mission to find out the secret plans and nothing was going to get in her way.
She gasped for air and lifted her head up. She opened her eyes and the bubbles ran down her face.
She liked to pick up a cloud of bubbles and bury her face in it. It felt like swimming in a pond of fairies and pixies. Their silvery rainbow wings brushing against her cheeks. She was the ancient Elven princess who was being given a festival by her followers. The land of the fairies and pixies were honoring her for her extraordinary powers. They had enjoyed 1000 years of peace in their lands and the surrounding sanctuaries. They danced with leaves in their hair and dreams in their hearts. She felt the sheer happiness surrounding her and for a moment she almost felt like she was suffocating from so much love.
She let a snake of bubbles run down her calf.
It looked like melting marshmallows. She imagined that this is what it was like to be in a cup of hot chocolate. Wading in complete and utter warmth. The steamy goodness curly-cueing around her with an aromatic scent of pleasure. It penetrated her soul and she wished she were hot chocolate flowing through the body of a cold-blooded mortal being the object of warmth that brought so much comfort to his long day of cold icy snow. The melted marshmallows sticky on her skin was always her favorite part.
It was time to get out now. The water was getting cold.
As the water drained away, she lay still on her back. Still as a corpse. The air kissing her wet skin made her shiver and goosebumps appeared on her arms and legs. As if she were a long forgotten memory of someone's past crime now resurfacing after the police got a tip to dredge the lake. The water slowly being sucked away revealed the naked wet body of her. The cops were dumbfounded and weren't sure whether or not they would be able to figure anything out at the autopsy. But though her lips were blue and her limbs frozen, her eyes cried out, "Listen to me....hear my secrets."
Tuesday, January 11, 2005
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