Jared the Evil Queen has put it all together and proven indisputably that our president is not the man to lead a country such as this. Her proof appears here. Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country. Women, too, I guess. We need all the help we can get.
I’m getting nibbles. It’s not that I’m trying to sell anything or looking for work or to hire somebody. These are actual nibbles. And since I dont’ do the icthycide thing, you know it’s not my rod and reel that are getting the attention - not even euphemistically. What I have, rather, is a series of three little welts on the back of my right hand. Wednesday morning it was one at the base of my thumb. Thursday I awoke to find a new one a bit below the knuckle of my index finger. And now today, it’s yet another one down on the side of the ball of my palm.
(Aside, to those who have negative opinions on housepets: One thing I’m pretty certain of is that these didn’t come from a parasite that lives on our dog or cat. The dog gets treated monthly and is very clean. And I actually bathed the cat last night since she’s a fat lazy slob, and I saw absolutely no flea dirt or that sort of distastefulness. Whatever it is, it ain’t the pets.)
All three are in a tidy straight line. I’d think it was one bite, travelling around - but as I type up these notes (which I wrote on the bus) I see all three making a bug-bite exclamation point. And they itch. Or, more accurately, each of the itched when I discovered it. In my wisdom and restraint I have attacked my itchy bites until I de-epidermized them. Benefit: less itchy. Drawback: a tad gruesome. It amazes me that all the bites are in the same area, in a line, since I slept in different positions and totally under the covers. But nature’s majesty knows no bounds, neither in the loftiest peak nor the smallest bloodsucking parasite. Oops - lost my equanimity.
Regaining equanimity: Tomorrow Kel and I return to Philo for two days and nights of quiet, clarity and relaxation, thanks to gracious and generous friends with a lovely warm cabin on 20 unfenced acres. We’ll walk among the redwoods, visit the banks of the Navarro river; we’ll eat wholesome food and we’ll breathe air that the trees have just exhaled. The dog will accompany us, which gives me great satisfaction - such a good dog deserves a hillside to romp on, off leash and laughing as dogs indeed do laugh.
(Noted in my notebook: The bus just unexpectedly turned up Larkin at the Century Theater-and-25-cent-video-arcade (("Military: No Cover! Coming Soon: Summer Cummings!)) - something has apparently caught fire on O’Farrell and it’s caused us to make a route change due to the hook-n-ladders and pumpers in the middle of the street. Hmm. Those sound like, respectively, the performers and clientele of the Century.)
It’s been a bit of a grind of a week, as perhaps my posts suggest. Lots of heavy stuff, long nights, full days. I’m not complaining, but I’m ready to rejuvenate - but I still have one more full day to endure and I need that powerburst to lift me over this last set of hurdles. My dream last night (in which I was criticized harshly for having stained and discolored teeth) for some reason still bothers me; I un-set my alarm somehow and woke up late, leaving me no time to do my yoga and clear my mind. So instead I will recall a few nice things people have said to me in the past week or three:
* You’re such a nice deviation. (From the office manager of a non-profit where I volunteer, who stopped by to drop off some work for me to do.)
* You look fly today. (From a coworker who is youthful and stylish.)
* We owe you so much - here, have some chocolate. Really, have more. (From boss and co-worker in a planning and strategy meeting.)
* 33 (from a stranger-cum-new friend who asked my age and was told to guess first.)
* You’re the first one who’s really listened to me. I appreciate that. (From a friend facing a big decision and getting a lot of advice that wasn’t too helpful.)
* You’re a life-saver! (Accompanying a Starbunks gift certificate, given to me by the ED of a program we fund for doing my job, which is helping people fill out forms correctly so I don’t have to call them later and make them do it again.)
* Hmmm. Nice apples. (Context omitted due to modesty.)
That feels better. I’ll see you all next week, and for all of you Aussie tennis players, Happy Laver Day.
For those of you who have been distracted by the crush of multifarous realities, Alabama state supreme court’s Chief Justice the hon. Roy Moore has a 2.5 ton statement to make. Two years or so ago he caused to have erected a privately donated monument to the ten commandments in the rotunda of the State Supreme Court building. His rationale was to recognize and pay homage to the basic judeo-christian moral framework upon which our society today has been crafted, as further described here. Moore may be speaking for many Alabamians - he was popularly elected in a landslide, having already achieved some renown for his display of a carved wooden “ten commandments” plaque in his courtroom in a lower court. The rotunda monument, however, was immediately criticized by liberals and libertarians, and the ACLU brought suit in federal court to have it removed. That suit was ultimately successful and the 11th circuit USDC ordered the monument removed. Judge Moore was suspended by the Alabama Board of Judicial Inquiry on August 25 for refusing to comply with that order. He and his supporters are engaged in ongoing demonstrations, even as the monument was removed yesterday from the courthouse rotunda.
My extended rant on this subject continues below.
Prelaw courses were handled through the undergrad division of the business school, which was more renowned and respected than the university as a whole. I don’t know why pre-law wound up there, shnuggling up with the marketing and finance and globalization divisions, but that’s how they organized things. I was interested in a legal career so I signed up, setting my self one condition - if I didn’t get Dolfman’s section I’d take somethign else altogether. Scuttlebutt was, Dolfman was the man. He was tough, aggressive, confrontational. People learned a lot from him - his syllabus was thick and daunting. If you could handle him, you could handle law school. With slim hopes, I signed up for his section.
I got into Dolfman’s class, which was held in the business school’s shiny new undergrad palace, Stressful-Depressive Hall, with the classy swivel chairs and the clean acoustically-friendly walls and the killer snack bar. No bad seats in the lecture hall. Reasonably close to my dorm. No downside to any of it.
Except: Dolfman was a bit of a curmudgeon. He liked to put people on the spot, make them think fast… sometimes he’d try to get under your skin, making you defend your ideas or your work product or your personal philosophy from a barrage of cross examination-style questioning, and you’d have to come up with good solid answers under the pressure of his intensity and the cynical green eyes of your classmates. He’d push you to see if you pushed back, and to see if you could think on your feet even when the ground beneath them started shifting.
He was famous for being incendiary. Boys would bluster and bellow; girls had been known not infrequently to burst into tears under his tutelage. I came to class with my thick skin and quick wit at the ready, and just waited for the show to start - fully expecting to be one of the chief participants. But I was not expecting the show that we all got.
So I’m in the midst of reading budget submissions from our 99 grantees. Some are really high quality, and some make me wonder. Like the one that wants to use our money to pay for, among other things, “interpretator services.” I suppose that “interpreters” merely interpret, but “interpretators” actually interpretate. And that sounds so much more important and official, in a GWBush administratation way. When you interpretate the testimonony you amelioratate the proprietaty of the litigatation. Come on, people. Interpretators sound like spuds that can speak different languages. And the little ones are interpretator tots.
Proposal: please give us money so we can buy a freaking dicktionary. Of course, that one’s open to interpretatation.
The tastiest catfish I ever consumed comes back in my memory (disturbingly long ago): Eric, his parents and I out beside Lake Cachuma, the central coast ranges - a cleft in dry mountains, improbably drowned; we went with a sailboat, pottered around a bit, fiddled with fishing but never caught anything, stayed at a campsite and cooked using propane - everything tasted great, even the cereal floating in powdermilk…
But speaking objectively, nothing came close to the fabulous catfish that other folk caught. You could see them offloading their excess and extras, just dumping them onto a compost of flesh: there were hundreds of catfish decaying inertly, banished like filth as superfluous kill… but some they kept living in old plastic buckets and brought them, still gasping, to wide wooden boards that were rutted and gashed from discourteous use: So you take you a catfish alive on the plank and a long skinny shank of a knife like a pigsticker; hold him still and fair with one hand, grab your sticker with the other, drive that knifepoint through his skull and pin his head right to the board - then you can cut a collar for him; take a second knife and slice around his throat and down his sides (but here’s the thing: he isn’t dead - his eyes are goggling, mouth gaping) You’ll need to hold his tail still, and then you get some broad-nose pliers - catfish skin is more like leather, too much work to skin’em later - just grab some skin and peel him naked (fish flesh stripped and stippled red, and fishface now ironically enmasked with skin that grew in place) it makes its little moo-face, looks around at all us people (breathing air and moving freely); then you cut the dorsal line - that’s up his backbone - finally you can fillet him (slice the living bleeding muscles off his water-craving ribs, and even so his eyes remain undimmed, he watches us as we dissect him) two enormous slices later, drop the tail - he can’t move it, gots no muscles; pull the sticker from his head and slip his spine and guts and face ( - still asking me that awful question) down into a pit of scraps (the offal, filth, that howling mouth, insulted remnants of a catfish)...
Walk away from all the cutting, get the meat back to my campstove, fry it with a little onion - best I’ve tasted anywhere, and memories to last a lifetime…
Patricia mentioned to me a month or so ago that she and Bobby had been thinking it would be fun to see how well we knew each other by sharing our stories and fibs, and seeing if we could tell when the others were lying. Over a few weeks this turned into something rather larger, and I just wanted to thank everyone who posted obfuscatory stuff over the past weekend - I’ve enjoyed the hell out of reading so much excellent and believeable mendacity, and visiting so many old friends, new friends, and total strangers. This became an experiment in mass action, with hundreds of connections interlaced among us liars and our friends over the course of a weekend. Huzzah for us.
So let’s see where Chuckles can be trusted.
Howdy, Campers! Welcome to Camp Obfuscatotum, where youngsters learn the skills of professionals and politicans. I am pleased to present herewith two true stories. (Plus one other one.) Show your skill in the comments: Can you pick the falsie?
As a courtesy to those of you who DON’T have an unfair advantage, if you have the pleasure of knowing me well enough to know when I’m lying here, do us all the favor of an official abstention for that item. You know the truth, and we all know you know it. Let’s leave some for the ignorant and credulous among us. Play nice and don’t leave your room such a mess. Company’s coming.
I. PRIVATE DANCER
I was working at a big studio on a summer internship as a personal assistant to an independent producer. He was taking me on a tour of the lot and I wanted very much to make a good impression.
We wandered around, visited a few soundstages, rode the little golfcarts, and then he took me to a low nondescript building thudding with noisy dance music. Inside the unmarked front door was a wide room, unfurnished, with a row of short windows high on one wall and floor-to-ceiling mirrors on another. Occupying this space were about thirty hotties (mostly female) in tight-fitting dance gear, working on an ensemble number for the tv show Fame. My new boss and I leaned up against the back wall to appreciate the spectacle - sort of a fringe benefit. I didn’t know why we were there, but I liked it and didn’t want to make any waves.
After about five minutes the choreographer called a sudden stop to the coordinated cavorting. “Who are you people?” he demanded peevishly of us. Every dancer turned to see who had invaded their sanctum, to see whether we were worthy of their attention… As they looked back at us, some were clinically bored, some were haughty, some seemed to wonder whether these strangers represented the big break they’d been waiting for…
All eyes were on my boss and me, and he turned slowly to me - making me responsible to answer for our presence. I, who was lost and confused and ignorant and horny. I, who was barely 20 and petrified of screwing up my ticket to paradise. Unrelated words clogged my mind and locked my tongue to the floor of my mouth. I said nothing, my jaws mutely flapping open and closed a few times. After about five seconds of silence, which undoubtedly took years off my life, my boss finally spoke up - “I’m an independent producer, I’m looking to cast a broadcast feature.” I feel the ambient levels of hope and interest spike as the choreographer told us, “This is a closed rehearsal; you’ll have to leave.”
We walked out and I saw disappointment in my bosses face - not that we’d been evicted but that I’d failed my test. He’d wanted me to talk my way into staying. Instead, I’d vacillated and wavered and lost the chance to make a powerful impression, to be an impressario, to take over a situation outside of my control and make it my own. That was what he’d hoped he’d seen in me when he’d hired me; that was the special trait he’d wanted to foster in me so that he could feed off my youthful energy and excitement and we’d have a creative synergy based on chutzpah and genius. What I’d done instead was to fall on my face, without a single syllable uttered in my defense. I felt like such a loser.
II. LARGE AND IN CHARGE
We were on a hike on Pt. Reyes with two dear friends. Way out at the northern wilds of Tomales there’s a herd of elk running around like they’re the top of the food chain or something. We wanted to see them.
When we set off it was foggy, and it stayed that way - thick milky fog, sometimes lifting to unveil a valley or hillside or even a cliff dropping sheerly to the sea; other times the fog just took over and drowned the landscape altogether. We hiked along the sandy trail, warmed by exertion and enjoying a bit of conversation and whatever scenery we could catch. We came over a low rise into a broad gully filled with elk.
I say filled; there must have been 50 elk out there, grazing and frolicking and occasionally bugling. It was a funny noise. Not “funny ha-ha” - though it would probably seem “funny” like that if you weren’t hearing it in person. But there in the misty meadow the sound was deep and haunting, somewhere between a whistle, a wheeze and a grunt. We stood a while on the trail to take it in.
It was easy to see how things worked with the herd. There were a bunch of females in the middle, huge and heavy creatures, grazing regally among reeds and grasses that were taller than me. Among them strode a handful of males, broadchested and alert, towering racks festooned with vegetation. They’d bully up to a female and get all huffy and bugly, sometimes push each other around a little - and then he’d show up. He was obviously The Elk in Charge. Everything the other males had, he had more of it. He was taller, heavier, with more antlers and bigger shoulders. He’d step up to whatever boy or boys were making trouble by exciting his cows or getting above their station, and he’d give them a look and a snort and a wave of his breathtaking rack, and the troublemaker would mosey along.
We watched this spectacle unfold several times over several minutes before the Elk in Charge got tired of us. I felt his eyes fix on us from across a good-sized copse. His shoulders squared to us, his brow lowered a bit and he huffed meaningfully. It felt personal.
It was. He came at us steadily, in a straight line, eyes black and glittering, antlers resolving into clear focus as he approached - a thicket of rapiers atop a proudly tossing head. He whistled his bugle at us, none too loudly but all too clearly. We began to back away down the path. He kept closing, flailing the bushes with his antlers, tearing up saplings with them. We needed to make better time and turned our backs on him toward the path back to the car. It was obvious that we’d never outrun him anyway no matter what direction we were facing. He stayed within fifty feet or so of us until we got the hell out of his little valley.
Such an utterly masterful animal, ruling his natural domain with wisdom, restraint and unquestionable physical superiority. And all he wanted was to be left unperturbed in his one little valley with his herd. It seemed like such a reasonable request. Especially when it came from an angry stalking elk.
III. FINDING PURPOSE ON HIGH
It was a grey day and I was bored - home in the afternoon, a weekday, tired of my own company. At such times I sometimes visit the local park, as I did on this very occasion. The park is around 1100 acres of brilliantly planned gardens ranging from the highly formal victorian style of the east end to the wilds of the west side with its bison and brewery. I walked the three blocks to the broad northern edge of the park, entered at the rose garden, and turned right, having had my fill at the time of order and organization and seeking a less orchestrated perspective.
I walked past the uphill-flowing stream all the way to Lloyd’s Lake, a few acres of water surrounded on three sides by dense undergrowth and thickets of mature trees. I began to walk around the lake in a self-indulgent funk. It’s a kind of spooky place, with a dismembered entryway from a mansion that had been destroyed in the ‘06 fires set up on one shore. It’s called “Portals of the Past.” I walked on behind that landmark and looked out over the lake from the rugged, overgrown hill that backed against the area.
There was a huge tree standing across the lake from me, rising mightily out of a steep hillside of ivy and juniper. From this tree extended a mighty bough, and from this bough descended a thin yellow rope of some sort. From this rope, a middle-aged man hung by his neck. His head lolled off to one side and his body slowly twisted in the light breeze. His hands were pale, his face seemed relaxed. He appeared to me to have given himself enough rope to have died from a broken neck, rather than from slow strangulation.
Two park employees were standing at the bullrush marsh at the edge of the lake, as close to the dangling body as they could get, looking up at him and gesturing gravely. Within a few minutes four park police cars had arrived, along with a park utility truck . The utility truck had a cherrypicker on it; a cop climbed in and got lifted up to corpse-level above the grey lake waters. He took a few snapshots of the man before lowering the platform and then raising it up again right under him, putting a floor beneath his feet, so to speak - and then cutting the suicide loose and steadying his body against the rails of the picker platform on their trip back down to terra firma. When he cut the rope, the remaining portion fluttered in the breeze, drifting apart into several strands - yellow with black markings. He’d hanged himself with caution tape. His head rolled easily as they pulled him from the cage of the picker.
I had been watching intently so the voice in my ear startled me. “When did you get here?” It was a cop, sent around the lake to investigate, look for clues.
“Just a few minutes ago officer. Just before you got here. I came in at the waterfall, walked around behind the Portals, got to here, and just stood here and watched them cut him down. What happened?”
“I’ll have to ask you to move along. This is a crime scene.”
“Sure thing, officer.” I moved along. I’d been looking for something to shake up my complacency and apathy. Seeing a dead body hanging from a tree did the job. I went home with a renewed dedication toward being actively engaged in my life. The alternative looked terrible.
It wasn’t as if I were drunk -
yes I’d been drinking
but the night was still quite young
my first pint stood beside me still
and lo the moment I had dreaded
was at hand -
Greg turned to me and said
Your Game
I felt it forming in my future
germinating, vague, unformed,
but it was coming, that I knew
I took the pool stick, weakly broke,
and then the game began to crumble
Never mind that he’d professed
incompetence
the table told a different story:
five of my balls, one of his,
and eightboy winking in his darkness
I could feel the fates awaken
time to have a cosmic chuckle
I lined up a simple shot
and sank it sharply
economies of rest and motion
geometry and subtle action
“nice one” - and The Game began
The Real Game
the cue felt fluid in my hands
I felt a difference in my step
I kept on sharply, sweetly sinking
all my little stripy balls
the shorts weren’t hard, I played at best
with modest skill
but that’s much more than I’d shown up with
when I’d first picked up my cue
I sank my one remaining ball
(the 4, I think) with subtle grace
and left myself lined up for 8:
side pocket, just a little angle
I could almost see the patterns
seeping up from under felt
an unseen hand was guiding mine
and brought me to that sacred moment
when we are but cosmic toys
I loosed the shot, blissful release,
and cueball did as he was told
discretely shoulder-checked the 8
and sent it to the chosen pocket
there to sink as if in some
weed-choked sargasso
But do not be distracted
as the cueball keeps on rolling
drawing closer, ever closer
as if returning to a lover
glorious predestination
corner pocket yawning empty
extinguishes the white in blackness
Can’t you see how this is perfect
I have sunk the mighty 8-ball
scratched the cueball in the bargain
what you hear is heaven laughing
I have given Greg the game
that I had almost lost and won
by dint of some offense on high
I have been chosen as the punchline
Proudly I hand back the cue;
my role fulfilled,
I drink my beer.
Just want to point out the amazing little Obfuscations button to the left, that will take you to Pea’s page about the game on friday. My stories are already written. Yours are too, right? RIGHT? Don’t be fibbing me now....
It seems that a few words of advice are in order. I keep on encountering information on what not to do on a first date. “Don’t talk about other women.” “Don’t show up with other women.” “Don’t emulate other women.” There are many sources for this kind of advice, each one unflinching and accurate and less than actually helpful. Because, as all us oafish manly sorts are all too well aware, there is a nigh-infinite number of ways to make a bad impression on a first date. A boy could read all the “What Not To Do” lists and still humiliate himself and infuriate his date - because he’s an inventive, adaptive, creative little nimrod who is constititionally predisposed to finding new and utterly unanticipated ways to give a first date its last rites.
What guys need is not another “Do Not Do” list. We need a “Do This, Dummy” list - a list of things that are guaran-damn-teed to impress a date. And not in the typical “you’re changing my attitude towards nonviolence” way. So to get the ball rolling - I’m all about rolling balls, if you hadn’t noticed - here’s a few things that never failed to work for me. Note: This is because I never tried them. Dating history since high school: One date. Still married.
* Dress up as your favorite superhero or wizard. It will let the little boy in you come out to play, and at the same time will evoke images of strength, power, and either a crisply-defined and massive physique, or a commanding gaze and a long thick mysterious staff. Either way, you look good, buddy!
* Before the date, pop a gummy bear in your mouth and swirl it around for a few seconds, until it is slick. Then press it to your lapel or shirt - it will stick there until you nonchalantly pluck it off and eat it in the midst of conversation. A showstopper!
* Get matching hats for the date and wear them together. Try not to get anything too flamboyant, like a crown or a viking hat, because she might feel self-conscious - some women get that way. I’d suggest a small sombrero or the nylon hats that truckers wear, perhaps with a wry motto like “Buck Fever” or a picture of Calvin peeing on something or praying. The important thing is, you match. And that tells her you’re not commitment-phobic. Plus, you’re fun!
* Bring a monkey. Everybody likes monkeys. However: use only a monkey that is wearing a diaper. Poo-flinging has ruined more than one promising relationship on the first date. And it doesn’t seem to matter whose poo is being flung.
* Take her to a baseball game and beat up an umpire for her. Or, think outside the box: the baseline coaches are also fitting foils upon which you can demonstrate your virility. In a pinch, take a swipe at a basketball referee, but those guys are pretty wiry. It could even be a ballboy at a major tennis tournament. It doesn’t matter who you take out - just show her you’re 100% man. You can be her GI Joe, with or without kung fu grip!
* If you have to mention other women, dwell on their imperfections. Words like “moody,” “indecisive,” “castrating” and “clinging” will show that you have no continuing attachment to those stunning, voluptuous, nubile bitches.
* Call her up afterwards and tell her you had a great time with her. Suggest that you might see each other again. And don’t play the waiting game, either - if she means something to you, step up and tell her. She’ll appreciate it! Once she’s home and safe, just use your cell phone from your car and give her a call or three that night. If fact, if she’s got a cell phone too, you can make the call during the date itself, like in a movie theater or laserium. Pure class.
This is, of course, only a partial list, but let’s face it - you’re only going to get a partial date. So stop complaining, use these hints, and embrace your future. It’ll be the closest embrace you’ll be likely to enjoy for a while.
GYPSY
Everybody has a little bad luck.
FLANGE
But nobody has only bad luck --
GYPSY joins in on the end of the sentence:
FLANGE & GYPSY
-- except for me.
Flange looks at the man like a potentially long lost brother.
FLANGE (continuing)
Are you a lucky man?
GYPSY
Do I look lucky?
FLANGE
Yes you do. You look like you have a lot of luck. My kind of luck. Bad luck.
GYPSY
Well if that’s what you’re looking for, you’ve found it. I’m Gypsy.
FLANGE
Have you had a lot of hard luck, Gypsy?
GYPSY
Oh yes I have. I’d say I’m the expert on hard luck. My expertise goes back to my earliest days. I have studied the history, anthropology, and sociology of blights, banes and evil dispensations. I’ve joined many congregations of many different denominations in a fruitless quest to change my fortune. My intellectual investigations have been tested and confirmed through rigorous, repeated experiments over a long career of hardship and disappointment. I have never successfully completed any undertaking or venture. I have, in short, an abundance of experience in the back of fate’s high hand.
FLANGE
Have you ever seen one of these?
He hands Gypsy the token.
GYPSY
No, but I know what it is.
Got a new sidebar reference under “The Bloody Mess” - a site for writers who want forensic medical advice on what happens to a body when something happens to a body. This is where good writing starts, people: with the exit wound!
I’ve been thinking a bit about the blackout and how easily we overcame it. No widespread looting, no statewide wilding, no revolution of forest creatures overwhelming suburbs and returning vast stretches of development to a state of nature. It seems like we’re ready for the next step. We’re all energy addicts but we got the monkey off our back for a few hours and it felt great, didn’t it? Sure it did! (Don’t talk back to me.) Well, now that the energy jones is licked, some areas of the country have other addictions too. Maybe we can build on our success in dealing with the blackout to try going without some other regional favorites:
Philly: Cheeze Whiz
N’Awlins: drunken, dumpy, desultory strippers
Boston: that freaking accent
Atlanta: Ted Turner
Chicago: bratwurst consisting of fat wrapped in intestines
Milwaukee: lousy beer
Phoenix: Phoenix
Seattle: Starbunks
Hawaii: Spam (the luncheon meat)
Los Angeles: egocentrism
San Jose: Spam (electronic)
San Francisco: Burning hot summer days without a cloud in the sky.
San Francisco is participating with a nice cool foggy morning. Come on America - Give it up! You know you want to! With the exercise of just a little self control, just think of all the stuff you can do without! Of course, the real lesson we learned from the blackout is, once it’s over, your old addiction is only that much sweeter and more precious to you… oh electric lights, computer power, refrigeration and television, never leave us again…
I shouldn’t be taking pleasure in the misfortune of others but I sure do get a kick out of reading about a lawsuit called “Duran v. Duran.” Litigation has never been sexier! But “Girls on Film” has been stepped back to “Girls on a Stenographic Record,” which is a little less exciting…
Forgive, if you will, the paucity of posting (or “postcity"). I have a lot to do - work, other projects, ransom notes, the regular stuff… but during my lunch here let me catch you all up on my thrilling experiences.
Last Tuesday: Blaster virus. Stayed up till 2 am on weds cleaning it out.
Last Wednesday: Happy hour (emergency version). Loved meeting Caitlin and her friends, who came all the way from as far as Sacramento to share the moment.
Last Thursday: restful slumbers following the penultimate installation of Amazing Race, which is now down to one dull team, one irritating team, and one team I’d like to see taken out by an unbalanced cleaver salesman.
Last Friday:
Given: Monkey see, monkey do.
Is it therefore true that: See monkey, do monkey?
This is the kind of crap that keeps me awake at night…
This post is in the nature of a public notice:
One week from today, on Friday August 22, I will post three stories about myself. I will tell you at that time how many of the stories are true. I DOUBLE-DOG DARE you to PICK THE FALSIES.
I’m pretty sure I won’t be alone in this endeavor because I am following in the footsteps of true revolutionaries and profound creators - the haunted and lyrical Skullbolt Bobby and my own dear landlord, muse and co-conspirator, Patricia. It was they who came up with this sly notion and they who put it in my head, driving me inexorably toward making it a reality - and it is they who have agreed to play along with their own stories next friday too.
So you’ve been advised: next friday, three stories, one or more is not true. I tell you how many you’re looking for and you post your guesses in the comments. Monday the 25th I put up a new post with the answer. Visit my genius friends for more chances to play. Hell, put up your own stories too. Life’s too short to hold back a really good lie.
* G’Mornin’ and welcome back to ScoreLine, we’ve got Henri Duchamps, the left end from Marsailles who’s taken the league by storm. G’Mornin’ Henri and I hope I didn’t butcher your last name too badly.
* You’re close. It’s Duchamps.
* Oi I don’t think I can make it sound like that but alright how are ya this mornin’?
* Well I’m pretty good, Jim. I got a lot of rest, a lot of sleep you know, and I had a very good breakfast this morning.
* Is that so? What did you have for breakfast today?
* I had a piece of toast, okay, and a fried egg, and also a cake.
* A cake? Do you mean like a biscuit? A cookie?
* No no - un gateau, a real cake, it was about 25 cm in diameter and oh maybe 10 cm tall.
* So that’d be a bit less than 10 inches across and about 4 inches tall. Super. That’s quite a cake to have for breakfast.
* Yes it was, it was terrific. It had this raspberry filling between the layers, eh, really knocked me out. And then, there were three layers - the top and the bottom were chocolate and the middle layer was this really good white cake with raspberries baked in it, like a brioche almost.
* Wow Henri that’s quite a cake. And I’m sure our viewers will be as curious as I am what kind of frosting it had.
* Well Jack here’s where they’re gonna lose a couple points, the frosting was a plain chocolate glaze and really pretty much of an afterthought in my opinion. Nothing to write home about, eh?
* Ah! Ah-haha-ha-ha! Oh goodness Henri it’s a treat to have you on the show and thanks for your special insight into breakfast cakes. Now I hope you can stick around for my next guest, legendary coach Johnny Knowles, who’ll tell us how to make your next brunch more memorable - after this.
I usually take the underground MUNI cars from work to my favorite tavern. I like to check the billboards as I wander through the stations, because it’s a creative and anarchistic city in many ways and lots of people like to deface the advertisements, sometimes in amusing or politically provocative ways.
So there’s a big campaign where BART wants to make sure people are keeping an eye out for terrorists or bad people or whatever we call potential malefactors these days. It’s a picture of a bunch of people, some who look like BART employees, some cops, some passengers - all with big sherlock holmes magnifying glasses, looking out of the frame at me. The text reads, “We’ve Increased Our Alertness, Have You?”
Since I’m usually walking past this ad on my way to a night dedicated to the consumption of fermented malt beverages, I really appreciate that some clever vandal has blanked out the “rt” from “Alertness.” Now I’m being asked by these serious-looking protectors of the public weal to “Increase My Ale ness.”
I’m working on it, buddy. Catch me in half an hour. And bring ale. You can’t be too careful about these things.
So her sister’s best friend is in this sorority, see, and so they got to go to these bitchin’ parties alla time, and then once they’re like at this party and this guy starts hitting on her and she’s like all buzzed so she’s like, cool, and so they’re in like a closet and she’s totally into it, and then suddenly like two other guys rip the door open and they drag this dude out and start kicking the crap out of him and he’s like, no, no, and she’s like not sure if she should come out of the closet or not, and then like five girls from the sorority totally charge into the closet and drag her out and this one really pissed off girl is off by herself and they take her to her and the one girl like looks at her really hard and her voice is hard and mad and she says “who the hell are you” and she goes like “I’m Suzy’s sister” and her voice is really small and they’ve turned off the music so everyone can hear her even though she’s barely whispering and the one girl goes “Suzy who?” and she goes “Suzy Murphy” and she goes “who the hell is that?” and her sister is totally watching all this cuz it’s happening right in the living room and the guy is still getting beat up and he’s crying and Suzy goes “she’s my sister, I brought her, she’s just a kid, she didn’t know, he was like totally hitting on her,” and the one girl just goes “who the hell are you?” and her voice is even harder and angrier and Marcy comes up and goes, “she’s my best friend from high school, we’re BFFs, she isn’t going to school here but she’s hella cool” and she looks at her with like totally dead eyes and goes, “never speak to her again, she’s not your sister, she’s an ugly stupid slut, we’re your sisters now, that part of your life is over, do you understand?” and then she goes back to Suzy’s sister and she’s like totally crying now cuz she’s thinking they’re gonna kick the crap out of her too but the one girl just looks all grossed out at her and says, “what’s his name?” and she’s like choking and crying and she goes, “I don’t remember” and the one girl just stands there for a second and her face is totally blank and then she like totally spits on her, a big loogie, right in her face, she’s like standing there with her pants around her knees and no panties and her bra is all weird and she’s crying and the spit is all ropy and hanging off her chin and her cheek and her eye, and the one girl just goes “you and your sister are banned for life you stupid fat sluts” and they took them to the door and pushed them out and she couldn’t even go back in to get her purse. So that’s why we can’t go to the sorority parties anymore.
Bummer, huh?
One of the things that makes blogging so valuable to me, as I’ve mentioned before, is the sense of community and support I so often feel among my on-line colleagues. You guys have given me guidance, kind words and a lot of big laffs. And sometimes you even let me into your lives in painfully private and personal ways so that I can appreciate the vagaries of fate as it tramples each of us in our turn.
One of my favorite sites is Witt and Wisdom, the creative output of one alleged “CW.” CW has pimped me, berated me, and been one of my most vocal commenters. I am extremely impressed with the writing I find out here in blogville but he’s in a different class. When he’s funny he’s hilarious. When he’s serious he gets right to me and I carry emotions with me all day that are painfully familiar despite having been so recently grafted from some other body’s head.
Lately CW has had some heavy stuff to share. I’m not here to sniff his laundry, I’m just recognizing that sometimes challenge and loss conspire to gang up on a person. He’s written so eloquently about these matters that it’s easy to think he’s got a firm grip on the short hairs of the cosmic crotch. But that’s what distinguishes a good writer. I feel that there is a lot going on in CW’s life and heart that will take a while to absorb, if any of it ever makes sense.
Yesterday I read another potentially powerful, and actually hilarious, CW post about his dad’s health. It’s a subject that’s been on my mind a lot lately too, and what he said got to me. I tried writing a glib response, and then a totally off-the-subject response - but afterwards I just felt empty about it. It’s unusual for me to regret hitting “send” but I did yesterday after my second comment to Witt and Wisdom.
So first I just wanted to tell CW that my silence on serious matters is not to be construed as apathy. It’s more like being frozen in time and space, feeling compelled to reply but not knowing what to say. But I’m saying it anyway, so sometimes it comes out wrong or not at all. Sorry about the circumstances, CW. Hope things are working out for you and your loved ones the way they’re supposed to.
Now for two tangents:
The second comment to which I referred above concerned a game that I would like to play with all of you which I am currently calling “Obfuscations,” but which any of you can rename if you come up with a better name for it. The idea is that, on a given day, people post three stories about themselves, one of which is untrue. Readers guess in the comments which is the lie. I think I can get Patricia and Skullbolt on board. Anybody else want to play? Maybe next friday, 8/22?
And also: A few days ago I sat with blank pages in my hand, waiting for inspiration to strike me. I had a lot of words floating around in my head but they weren’t coalescing into any coherent story or under any theme. I just kept on thinking, “yeah, that sounds good, but what is it saying? and to whom, and why?” - and I couldn’t answer any of those questions so I wrote nothing. After a few minutes of this, discarding clever locutions because I didn’t know what they meant or where they were going, I gave up on coherence. (Some may say this happened long ago. Screw them.)
Here, then, in the incoherent and random order in which they occurred to me, are my new Phrases In Search of a Story:
* a darkness so thick it hurt my eyes
* faster than pain
* disbelief untempered by comprehension
* less an article of faith than a proposition of improbability
* dressed to impress any ex-girlfriends he might encounter
* profundities of irrelevance
If any of you know what I was working toward with any of these snippets, don’t hesitate to crank out a whole story in the comments. I’d love to find out what I’m talking about. It might suggest a useful course of therapy.
I had a lovely time visiting my parents recently. It’s always a trip to stay with my dad because he has his marksmanship targets tacked up on the back of the door of the guest room. You close the door to go to sleep and see a silhouette riddled with bulletholes. Sleep cozy, dammit.
But that’s a rather misleading artifact of his chaplaincy, a scrap of ambiguous evidence. A more relevant artifact might be the pamphlet he left with us from the Department of Justice, Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives’ Seventh Annual ATF Awards Ceremony. (I was pleased to notice that “Explosives” had been added to their name. About damn time. They aren’t going to regulate themselves, are they?)
The awards ceremony was just two months ago. As I get the story from dad, and he doesn’t understand it very well himself, he got nominated for some kind of recognition for exceptional service above and beyond. There were several “ranks” of honorees - the first were the Medal of Valor, the Gold Star Medal, and the Hostile Action Award; dad surmises all of these mean, euphemistically, “Actually/Damn Near Took a Bullet.” Dad was one of two to get the “Honor Award” (the other is Robert Fromme, Detective, Iredell County Sheriff’s Dept, Statesville NC). Pretty good for a guy who’s gearing up for his 70th birthday and isn’t going out in the line of fire much anymore. He’s listed in the program just above the six professional staff members of the House and Senate Committee on Appropriations. At the ceremony, John Ashcroft himself gave the keynote address.
Asscrap. Thud. What a booger in the brownies. When dad told me that part, he immediately backed off of it - “Whatever you might say about the man, he’s very intelligent and he’s a very effective speaker.” I stammered something about him being a political celebrity, a very busy man, and very popular with a large part of this country’s population; we went on and didn’t mention him again. But even if I don’t care for the man’s politics, I have to recognize his position - and it’s pretty cool that he was on hand for dad’s recognition.
My father has dedicated more than a quarter of a century to providing pastoral guidance to law enforcement officers, but I don’t have much of a sense what he does for the ATF or what he did for the county sheriff for 20 years before that. Regardless, as long as The Man has a use for him, he stands ready to report for duty. I think he’s still rated as an expert pistol shot, but he’s done some pretty powerful ministry during his tenure as well. At scenes of horrific crimes, shootings, suicides; at weddings and funerals; at times of ethical confusion or simple exhausted despair - he offers what guidance and support he can and tries to usher his flock past life’s milestones and over its rough patches.
This is all pretty abstract. Let’s focus: Dad served as an on-site chaplain at the Ground Zero excavation site. For a week he worked 12 on, 12 off, offering aid to the crews digging through the wreckage to find evidence and to recover remains. Dad particularly commented afterwards on the stench of decay - a stink that haunts anyone who’s smelled it.
And then there was the firefighter working at the site, filthy and drooping, having spent his strength in dangerous physical labor while bearing witness to unspeakable waste and brokenness and death - and who needed to re-gather his strength so he could turn right around and go back to work. My dad wore a distinctive helmet and flak jacket to distinguish him as a clergyman. The fireman stepped up, dropped to a knee, asked “Bless me, Father.” Dad had taken some latin in high school so he muttered some conjugations while tracing a cross in the air. He wrapped up with “Bless you, my son.” The man stood up, turned around, and went back in.
To be able to impart such strength to others - that’s a gift. To be willing to do so, to dedicate your life to bringing out the best and most in others - that is a gift to us. Way to go dad - Ashcroft notwithstanding.
I have to start to trust information from family members. When my fatherinlaw told me to watch out for the Giant Hogweed, I thought he was flashing back on one of my favorite old Genesis songs, which seems to be about marijuana growing wild in england. No, he was thinking of something even less benign than pot - this plant actually burns your skin if it’s exposed to the sun. You turn into a photoreceptor and your skin burns suddenly and seriously, sometimes with consequences years down the line.
Horticulture. The plants are striking back. The pot you bust may be your own.
Perhaps violence is not the answer. Regardless, it can be extremely useful in clarifying the question.
She thought she was in trouble when she found out her first required course was “medieval french literature.” Then she realized that it was just a prerequisite for “fully evil french literature.”
On the way home from a celebratory luncheon on Saturday we saw many things about which one of us or the other said, “you don’t see that every day.” Not ordinary stuff like the dragon parade or the Feng Shui Supply Center or the Hempatorium - these have taken on the status of “ordinary weirdness.” Rather, what we saw came under the heading of “extraordinary weirdness.” By way of example:
* Mr. Westernware: he was different from the boots on up - snakeskin boots with really pointy toes and lots of ornamental silver. The pants were black leather; the shirt was azure blue rayon and the hat was a big ol’ stetson. The guy looked to me to be japanese, maybe in his early 60’s. Someone was asking to have her picture taken with him. He was totally psyched.
* The big poster ad for a new Chinese movie version of The Wizard of Oz. I don’t know what the Cowardly Foo-dog was wearing dangling around his neck but I don’t trust it. Sort of a cross between a fire plug and a prosthetic virile member. If it’s a fashion statement, the statement is “I have a fake doggy nose and a child-friendly dildo around my neck. Deal with it.”
* The ads for the tasty bubble tea drinks with no words except for the brightly colored english-language tag line reading “Let Me Crazy.” No, that’s all it said.
The very clever among you noticed and questioned the seventh word of this post. You are wondering, “what’s he got to be so damned happy about?” Well, Kel had just taken a big standardized test for a teaching credential, called the C-BEST test. (That might be redundant, as “SAT test” would be, but I’m not going to look up the whole acronym. Consider it your Chucklehut homework.) We had lunch to celebrate - her idea. I wanted to grill some sea bass, go to a theater and watch Sea Biscuit, go to a dermatologist to have a sebaceous cyst removed, visit a nudie bar so we could see breast, make wagers with snow planks so I could win some ski bets, and then hang out with a few old videos of the Avengers because Steed’s best. But we had lunch instead, and it was fine too. Thanks for asking.
* Excuse me, would you please turn that down? And by down, I mean off?
* Oh um - No. Screw that, dude.
* I get it, you’re turning it up now, is that right? You know what, I think I’d rather talk to you than listen to your music. I think that’s how I’m going to spend this ride - talking with you about how people treat each other.
* Dude this is a public place, I can play what I want to and you’ve got no right to get in my face about it.
* ‘Dude,’ this is not a public place, it’s a public conveyance - it’s a closed train car and you’re not supposed to be playing music here. There should be a sign posted but you aren’t actually telling me you’ve never heard of this, are you?
* What are you, dude, a tourist? Don’t give me this shit.
* Yeah, I’m a tourist who’s lived here fifteen years, works here, rides this train every day, and doesn’t appreciate your taste in music. Don’t impose it on me. Outside, I’d just walk away from you. Here, we have to live together and I’m asking for your courtesy. Is that going to work?
* Dude there is no reason to go off on me, Jesus, you’re totally going off on me, I have a total right to be here, to ride this train and to listen to my music, it’s not hurting anyone and you’re just freaking out. I paid my money and I can ride and jam out however I want to. Oh man there is absolutely no reason for you to be taking this out on me. I’m going over there so I don’t bother you. Will that shut you up?
* It’ll dude for the time being.
I was not entirely without self-confidence when in high school; I had decent posture and was comfortable talking to people, so I approached my occasional interactions with titans as perhaps more noteworthy, but not really very different, than interactions with anybody else. I had not encountered Loni.
Loni’s daughter went to my high school, and was really cute. She seemed nice, too, but my self-confidence did not extend to being able to deal with girls so that was a non-issue. So I just knew who she was - D., Loni’s daughter. And we all knew who Loni was.
Loni was the one who had Howard Hessman and every other slave to testosterone eating out of her hand. Though she had a job she seemed to be maintained by a man - or men - with international connections and unlimited resources. Her apartment was a palace. And she was to the female form what the 70’s corvette was to sports cars - voluptuous, curvy, vaugely dangerous in an irresistable way.
Of course, I knew that some of what all of us thought of Loni was a product of the excellent writing and direction that turned her show into such a success. Les and Johnny and of course Venus Flytrap - these guys were like family to me. The weirdo members of my family but we loved them regardless. And of course Bailey was so very pretty and efficient and diligent and dedicated and you had to love her for that.
And then there was Loni, whom you loved for a whole different set of reasons.
I was used to the idea of Loni being around, seeing her daughter, seeing her on tuesdays in our family room, she’s livin’ on the air in Cincinnatti… but I wasn’t prepared for her herself. I just wasn’t prepared.
I was recovering from an ankle injury of some sort - I think I tore a ligament? - and was leaving my physical therapist’s office. I tend to work hard on recovery and had used up all my strength and stamina on the various devices on which they’d had me exert myself. As I pushed against the heavy door of the brightly lit medical suite to reenter the darkness of the hallway, I was already staggering a little and my eyes were slow to adjust to the dimness.
Once I blinked hard and saw clearly, what I saw was Loni. Unmistakeably Loni, much bigger than she appeared to be on our 20 inch television, wearing a very pretty pink dress, her blonde tresses shellacked into an irresistable prow as on a cruise ship that might be bearing down inexorably on one’s dinghy.
We were mere yards apart and I was staggering into her path. Her heels were precariously high and she was moving fast. I knew that she would never be able to avoid crashing into me if I got in her way, and that the impact would be catastrophic. The look on her face told me that, not only had all this occurred to her too, but she was also well along in her considerations of how utterly she would kick my ass if I tripped her up or ran into her. It was, I suspected, very utterly.
My legs were like rubber but I salvaged some scrap of strength and swayed out of her way. The air behind her was fragrant with the scent of gardenias. Gardenias that had once been flowers but then were mashed and macerated into an unrecognizeable form that emanated beauty that was too intense to endure.
MORAL: Don’t even think about knocking over Loni Anderson. Seriously.
We were at a huge Grateful Dead concert at the Oakland Coliseum, an indoor arena from the 70’s with a harsh utilitarian aesthetic. (Needless to say, this was a few years ago.) Some sort of major sports event was happening at the same time. Someone a few rows down had brought in a tiny television - which, in those days, was pretty cutting-edge. So he was watching the game during the set break. No biggie.
The tv watcher was one seat in from the stairs of the main aisle. Staff were assiduous in keeping the aisle clear. But one kind of yuppie-looking guy wanted to watch the game, so he took a spot on the stairs and just hunkered over like someone trying to park in an illegal space so that it looked legal. He attracted the attention of an usher - an older black woman with a no-nonsense attitude. I couldn’t hear their interaction but the yuppie’s body language was clear - I don’t recognize your authority, you don’t even exist for me, begone. I was offended by his high-handedness. The usher went away, face frozen in an impassive gaze.
In a few minutes she was back with backup. This was a white dude on the far side of six foot tall, at least 250 pounds, muscular, bulky; his long stringy black hair fell well past his shoulders but didn’t obscure the well-worn biker club patch on his leather jacket; his thick jowly jaw sported thick jowly bristles and his broad bony brow beetled with malign intent. She pointed out the yuppie to him. He rushed forward. The yuppie was apologizing - profoundly, abjectly - as he was escorted briskly back up the stairs toward the teeming vortex of the exit. He was not seen again that night.
MORAL: If you want to break the rules, do it politely so that nobody minds. Other things might get broken too.
He’s so wrapped up with getting into his character that he actually started shooting smack in order to understand the part better, and wound up addicted to a replacement drug all through the filming of the movie.
Oh, I get it. He’s a methadone actor.
I’ll be at the IOLTA conference for the ABA meeting most of today and tomorrow, so my on-line presence may be a bit whifty. Whatever. I get a buffet lunch and dinner at Thirstybear out of it. And all I have to do is sit quietly in a variety of lectures for hours on hours on hours. For days. Two of them. God I need a nap already.
But instead I’ll foist this bit of ill-tempered dogmatism on you:
- You’re wrong.
- It’s not a matter of right or wrong. One book says one thing, one book says another.
- Your book - I’m sorry to have to tell you this - is wrong.
- And your book is right, right?
- Yes.
- And there’s only one way to read it - your way, right?
- Yes. And people who reject the truth, they won’t be saved.
- No?
- I’m sorry, but your denial of holy scripture is going to condemn you to hell.
- Because of your book.
- Hey, it’s your book too. It’s everybody’s book. It’s for us all.
- You know that book pretty well, don’t you.
- From Genesis through Revellations.
- Who wrote it?
- God did, through divinely inspired human intermediaries.
- What are the first words of Genesis?
- Are you testing me? “In the beginning, there was...”
- Wrong!
- What?
- When do you think this was written? I’ll tell you - more than five thousand years ago, long before English was even a language. None of the words you’re saying existed when the bible was written. Now tell me, what is the language of the bible?
- I know what you’re trying to do. You’re trying to deny the holy spirit that filled the translators of the bible. Which, to answer your question, was written in hebrew for the old testament.
- First, the language of what you call the old testament is not hebrew. It’s Aramaic. I guess it’s not a major distinction unless you are putting faith and meaning into every word. At that point it becomes pretty significant. And I don’t have to deny that the men who wrote your bible were working on their own, without holy intercession. Their own failures prove it amply enough. They changed the order of the books, you know. Jews throughout history have always organized these writings very differently.
- So what? All the words are still true.
- By changing the order, the inventors of your bible completely change the place and role of god in the cosmos. It’s totally different - like if you take a movie and re-edit it so the middle is at the end and the end comes in the middle. That’s obviously taking one movie and turning it into something else altogether.
- This isn’t a movie. It’s holy scripture.
- That just makes the changes more significant. The jewish bible ends with god detached and observant, and we’re responsible for our own fate; your bible makes the god of the end of the old testament the great holy fixer who’s involved in every mistake and failure we suffer from the day we’re conceived to the day we stand in judgment. Totally different cosmologies. Totally different gods. And you’re saying the difference doesn’t make a difference?
- Each word is true; we have men of god to teach us how to understand them. You just haven’t availed yourself of the wisdom of sages. That’s why you’re confused.
- So in your mind it’s okay if the sages take the aramaic word for “girl” and translate it into greek, then english, as “virgin?” That’s a meaningless change to you? Do you think all girls are virgins and all virgins are girls, and the words are freely interchangeable without affecting the meaning of a sentence?
- That didn’t happen. They didn’t change any words. They are all as god wrote them for us.
- What’s the aramaic word for “girl?” And for “virgin?” And what are the greek equivalents that appeared in the original monastic translations of Ezekiel and Jerimiah?
- I don’t know.
- Face it, you’ve never read the bible. You are taking it on faith that others are advising you correctly when they hand you a book and tell you it’s an exact translation of something you can’t read on your own. I can accept that. What I can’t accept is you telling me that my faith is wrong where yours is right. Only god knows all. You can’t know that you’re right. That’s the sin of pride. Pride in your supposed omniscience. But that’s okay - I forgive you. And as for god’s forgiveness - you’ll have to take that up with her.
Realization while running in the park and noticing which birds got out of my way and which ones seemed to try to divebomb me: Pigeons are bitchin’ but blackbirds are wackbirds.
thankyouverymuch.
I have a whole bunch of little notes that don’t amount to a whole post but why should that hold me back?
I should recognize that I’m not being a gracious conversationalist when I refuse to speak unless I’m disagreeing with something, and it doesn’t make any difference if I couch my recalcitrance in phrases like “I decline to take a position on the matter” or “I regretfully decline to disagree.” If someone said that crap to me I’d either kill him or break into tears. (Depending on who’s doing the talking.)
I saw a commercial recently in which Lou Rawls was helping to sell some damn thing or other that I didn’t want - funeral plans or life insurance or a computer literacy program or something. I got the feeling that he was pitching the pitch to a segment of the population that wasn’t very well educated - he was using little words and big hand gestures. There was a brief message flashed under his grinning visage at one point: “Lou Rawls / Compensated Endorser”. Are they trying to hide the fact that he’s getting paid by using seven syllables to convey the point? Are they hoping their target audience won’t freeze tivo to sound the phrase out phonetically and then look it up to see what it means? It would be nice if, along with the SAP button to convert spoken language into forms more familiar to certain audiences, they also had a converter for written material that would take a phrase like “Compensated Endorser” and translate it to something easy and accurate, like “Shill.”
New words I’d like everybody to start using as soon as possible:
* for food that’s a lot of work but worth it: Strenulicious
* for the sensation of being strong, effective, and virile: Compotency
* for thoughts that fall apart as soon as you try to think all the way through them and tell them to someone else: Mental Teleprosy
And finally, here’s a wry rejoinder that you can all enjoy muttering under your breath when someone messes up your jive today: “Hey, that’s okay - some of my best friends are incompetent buttwipes!”
Of course, not you, my friends. Those are hypothetical, let us say, rhetorical friends. I would never use such a phrase with regard to your contributions to my life. Now back the hell off. I have work to do.
The fire-escape emergency stairwell is near my desk, so I sometimes use it for short trips to other floors. That’s how I know that the landing on those stairs closest to my desk has two red emergency phones on the wall, one of which is labled “Local Fire Emergency Phone.” (I suppose that’s so we use the other phone for long distance fire emergencies, or to ring up Commissioner Gordon if the bat signal is illuminated....) Near these wall-mounted telephones is a jack for plugging in another telephone, labled “Fire Emergency Jack.” There’s also a red panel on the wall next to it labled “Fire Emergency - Open Door to Operate.” In the midst of all these is a small plaque with instructions on what to do in an emergency. This plaque is stained and carbonized as if someone tried to set it ablaze. I guess with all that emergency equipment standing ready, someone just had to have a little emergency. You know the type.
I was driving to work, a little later than I wanted to be - as usual. The car was a bit run down, but serviceable - as was I. My route took me down through Polk Gulch. I was stopped at a traffic light, listening to loud music loudly. My window was open so I could get some fresh morning air on my necktie and points north. Her voice in my ear caught me by surprise.
I’d seen her on the street before; she’d always seemed like a woman who was in distress. She was probably pretty, once, with curly brown hair and fair skin. I would guess she was in her early 20s. I’d seen her, at various times, scabby, snotty, washed out, strung out, and lying flat out on her back. She typically wore the cheapest of tartware, trolling for tricks in the chilly early mornings when successful hookers were getting their sleep. Not her. She always looked so very tired as she trudged her wares at 7:25 am.
She was at my car window. I didn’t understand the burble of her words. “I’m sorry, would you repeat that?” I asked automatically. Tears had been pouring from her sunken eyes; she was out of them now. Her face was bruised. She wore a light t-shirt and panties. No bra. No pants. Her legs were filthy and her skin was torn. She repeated through sobs, “Mister, do you want a date?”
I was late. I had ten dollars in my wallet to last the week - lunch money. I shook my head. “I’m sorry, I can’t.” I wanted to say more, to explain, to apologize, to let her know I knew who she was and wished things were different for her. She didn’t have time for that. She howled her despair into my car and, turning, out into the street. She ran to another car going the opposite way. I drove on, and eventually turned up the music again. Even louder than before. Regardless, I could still hear her solicitation reverberate against the shuttered buildings that lined the street.
Lady, if I were going to hire a whore, it wouldn’t have been you. But if I’d had the money to do that, I’d have given it to you outright. You obviously needed it. Lunch was bitter for the rest of the week.
It wound up being something like 1,400 miles when we disembarked last night - or this morning - at 1:00 or so. Miles I regret: zero.
A few details: I left work early on friday to see my dear friend Andy in his incarnation as my Primary Care Physician. His new office is much smaller and the decoration process is ongoing but it’s much friendlier and more pleasant than his old digs, plus his staff is attractive and he’s just one quiet block off of a great part of Berkeley. And also, he’s Andy, whom I love like a brother. His overall assessment of my condition was “fantastic” and I was approved for another year of corporeal integrity. I can’t wait to see him again, and this time he won’t ask to grope me. And I won’t have to let him, if he does.
On my way to Riverside and LA this weekend to see my parents. It’ll be a whirlwind trip of about 900 miles, and the air conditioner compressor on the soob is busted so the AC’s not getting cold. Luckily most of our driving will be at night. In fact, despite a few frustrating coincidences of timing relating to this trip, I’m a damn lucky guy. I’ve touched on this theme before but it bears repeating. And just yesterday I got TWO TWO TWO cd’s from geniuses both hither and yon, to the which I’m enjoying the hell out of listening, plus a critically needed packet of extremely tasty and generously proportioned cookies.
I have a lot of work to do today. Since I’ll be gone for a while and that pirate joke was starting to wear thin for me, here’s a bunch of crap I wrote a while ago. Consider it an exerpt, if that makes life more meaningful to anybody.
EXT FRONT DOOR OF FLANGE’S APARTMENT BUILDING – DAY
Flange is pressing the intercom buzzer. BRUNO’S voice answers:
BRUNO
What?
FLANGE
(confused)
What?
BRUNO
What, already? Waddaya want?
FLANGE
I’m looking for Moira Flapgate?
The volume of the intercom lowers as it picks up a conversation in the room:
BRUNO
He’s looking for you.
MOIRA
Well, who is it?
BRUNO
I dunno.
MOIRA
Shit, Bruno, are you always this stupid? Goddamn it, gimme the buzzer. Who the hell is this?
FLANGE
Moira?
MOIRA
Aw, crap, it’s you. Waddaya doing here?
FLANGE
Moira, I got robbed. He stole my keys. It was horrible. I only just got untied. Who’s that guy? Please let me up.
MOIRA
Um, okay, but you know you don’t live here anymore?
FLANGE
What?
MOIRA
Yeah, this ain’t your apartment anymore. But come on up if you gotta. For a second.
The buzzer honks and Flange enters the building.
