working check-out

doing moonlighting last night as a grocery clerk, i saw a guy who i once went on a date with. i don't remember his name. i don't remember where we went. i do remember it was a daytime appointment and it had all the formality and awkwardness inherent in the word. (an assignation, on the other hand, how i long for one hundred of those). he was divorced. but divorced from a palestinian expat which he wore as liberal bona fides. and i've seen him around before but we never acknowledge one another, probably because there is a speckle of doubt that he is he and i am i. or me. anyhoo, there i was working the express line scanning his goods (quinoa, organic chicken breast, tofu sausage, that kind of 'i'm lost without my birks' shopping list). and he's with a gal. and she's shorter than i am and short-short hair and maybe she had a tattoo on her bicep, i can't remember. could this be the palestinian exwife turned beard? in my internal monologue i said, 'remember me? we went on a date once. it wasn't that fun, but still. how's the lucky or unlucky gal?' instead i gave him his receipt and tried my hardest at a seering stare.

'you and i, we know each other,' i decreed with my eyes. (if you've ever tried to decree something with your eyes, you know it's a rather private enterprise, along the lines of internal monologue.)

no bite. shorty caressed his arm as they waited to exit.

my next customer bounded up with her organic ginger, recycled t-p, probiotic beverages, for crissake.

screen saviors

went to see art school confidential. it was in walking distance and there's not much around right now to see movie-wise that has enough oomph to warrant a wkend subway ride. and there was a trailer for al gore's save the world manifesto. now, i gots nothing against saving the world against its degradation. i'm pro it. really. whales. ice caps. snow in winter. enfeebled hurricanes—let's keep those.

but here's something akin to the trailer's opening omen (which, i'm absolutely dying to see):

"if you care about the future. if you care about the children. you will see this film..."

what?? hell no. if i care about the future. if i care about the children, i'll make sure my political representatives try their damndest to impose better environmental regulations. i won't use aerosols. i will not burn energy needlessly. i'll support groups like greenpeace or the sierra club or whatever that work on trying to make sure we don't further destroy the ecological balance.

but see a movie? will it help the kids too if i don't faux-butter my popcorn and refrain from soda in favor of l'eau? film-going's not going to avert epic refugee crises that ensue after florida, shanghai, manhattan, california are sunk by ocean waters that swell after the polar ice cap melts. ya dig?

trailers are often stupid (obvious). when the movie came out about the burlesque theater in london during ww2, the one with dench as madame henderson and bob hoskins as her second, the gravelly-voiced ominicient intoner said something like:

'in a time of war. in a city under seige. they fought for what mattered..."

er, the right to dance the can-can with cans exposed? had no blarney idea that's what that war was all about.

well, this ain't hardly about dating today...though there were plenty of folks on dates at the flick. none of them made out, as far i could tell, around me. unlike that time i went to see the documentary about the munich olympics and there was a prominent young novelist and his prominent actress girlfriend sucking face right in front of me, as a narrator spoke of shootouts and dead athletes and the games and jim mckay...but when the mood strikes french...we are all of us powerless to resist.

soccer, soccer everywhere—not a ball to kick

a world cup blog to reckon with. last time around, world cuppish, i went with one of the authors to various spots around nyc to watch games lives. we watched ireland in an irish pub at 3 am. we watched senegal in a senegalese neighborhood in harlem at 6 am. they played turkey at that particular hour on that particularly hot saturday morning and we were the only gringos there and everyone was speaking french and then, one guy, offered commentary in english expressly for us: "fear the lion. turkey is soft."

damn, bambi's fine

heard a dramatic reading yesterday of bambi. the book. the original. a violent passage. it made my heart race cause the prose was a knock-out.

oh to not be a friday before the big summer weekend kicks off and in front of a computer screen. this desk of mine: dirty. messy. filled with papers. littered with poppies and sesames from bagels past.

i had a dream some evil doer was after me and i kept out-foxing him, but barely, and he'd send his flaks after me too. one had a medieval device, that round metal ball on a chain with spikes coming out of the ball? do you know what i mean? death befell one girl mixed up in the shenanigans. and then i hid in the bottom floor of some kind of multi-floored apartment on a windy cobblestone street in an old european town. (if you're american when you go in the bathroom...and japanese when you come out...what are you when you're in the bathroom? why, you're a-pee-in). it was like alias meets dickens meets my creditors. had a little oopsy with a insurance claim that i overlooked to my utter dismay and embarrasssment. it's resolved and the guilt diffused and i applaud the fellow who joined me for dinner who was polite enough to listen to me grind on the matter.

speaking of which, boy am i hungry. so glad it's mem day and i can break out my whites at last.

how to get your way

ever feel like someone took a vegetable peeler to the inside of your throat?

i have.

i do. this whole weekend.

so i called my doc to see if i could see someone. but it's the weekend and his answering service, though kindly, only took a message. and then i woke up over and over last night in pain. really. that is, pain with a capital p that rhymes with p that stands for pool. called again this morning and replied, no, not quite emergency proportion warranting emergency room time, but extreme discomfort warranting antibiotic. and so the lady was taking my stats to contact the doc and said,

'so, the message is—you have a sore throat.'

whereupon i started crying, full-on 8 am tears, and i sniffed and slurped and hoarsed my reply,

'that makes it sound so incidental. it's not just a sore throat. it's like my throat is on fire and when i swallow it makes my ears ring. there is a problem and i need some help with it.' and then i cried some more.

and guess what happened? doc called me fast, called in meds, and i haven't cried anymore this day.

emote-a-con-job

what to do with emoticon users, and worse still (is it possible?) icon devotees? they stick smiley faces at the end of their emails and in the same emails ask, cause we're in an epistolary 'getting to know you, getting to know hells about you' phase,

'what pisses you off?'
(other questions too, better ones, 'what is the funniest writer you've read?' that sorta thing)

and i answer: 'on the trivial tip, public finger-nail cutting,' when what i want to say is: 'on the trivial tip, public fingernail cutting and also, the use of emoticons and icons in email.'

why, god, why have you let this scourge grow so popular?

and emoticon user, especially the manly among you, would you draw a heart over the letter "i" if you wrote a note by hand? would you scribble 'swak' on an envelope?

i remember once, in the pioneer or is it salad days of emoticon-age, my friend r showed me a hilarious one she invented. i share:

:(
L

you got to look at it sideways. like many things, to get the better perspective.

all alone in a supermarket

So, it’s after work, I’m in the produce aisle of my supermarket. There are lots of people, you might say, it’s crowded. That would be one word for it. Another is packed like lemmings, to quote Sting, who once taught English so he really knows his way around a dictionary. But we’re not in shiny metal boxes, which is kind of ironic since Sting wound up selling one of his songs to Jaguar.

No, we’re pushing carts around. Ow. Someone’s cart rams into me and pinches my finger. That hurts. I immediately pick up a bag of frozen berries to make it feel better. I bought them before I reached the produce aisle. I do that sometimes, hit the frozen section before I get produce. It doesn't make sense, well, because frozen things melt, you know what I mean.

It’s funny because my mother and father met in a supermarket when he accidentally on purpose rammed her cart and pinched her fingers. They laugh now when they tell the story of how swollen her fingers got after that.

But in the supermarket I go to where all the vegetables are, because I love vegetables. Well, honestly, I don’t much care for string beans or kale or chard, but orange peppers and carrots and cucumbers, I just love those.

Suddenly I’m having a real problem, because there are four different cucumber choices. Oh no! I guess in the U.S. of America we have so many choices it sometimes is downright confounding. Do I get the kirby or the persians or the regulars or those really long ones that come wrapped in plastic and I think they might be hydroponic but that makes me think of pot and heat lamps and can vegetables be hydroponically grown or only herb?

The thing about kirbys is they’ve got a lot of crunch, and crunch is something I really treasure. But if you get more than one, and the one you don’t eat sits in your fridge for a while, even a day, its skin hardens and its consistency changes. Persians are good, they have crunch too but I don’t always find them flavorful. The regulars are a standby or a staple, either one really, but I have found from time to time that the seeds are just too meaty and the meatier they are, the less distinct. The pot-like cukes simply rot fast. I mean I’m only one person—I can’t eat a whole foot long cuke in one sitting. Can you?

So suddenly I think, maybe all these kinds of cucumbers are having a conversation. It goes something like this:

"Pick me," the Kirby chortles, because that’s what a Kirby would do, it would chortle. "Pick me because I’m so versatile. Sometimes people pickle me."

"No, me," says the Persian."I’m exotic. I come all the way from Persia, which is far away from where you live."

"I’m the one you want," says plastic-cuke, "I’m so exquisite, I must be shrinkwrapped and it makes me pristine." At first I think the cuke says, "it makes me Christine," but then I realize I mishear. What a hoot! Sometimes that happens when I don't clean my ears out so well.

And the regular says, "I’m the choicest since I represent the average guy. I’m the cuke that Springsteen would heroize if he heroized cukes and not working stiffs."

By the time I imagine all these conversations, why, I’m laughing and laughing. And then laughing some more. And everyone in the produce aisle stops to stare. But then, they start laughing too. And the clerks behind the cash registers laugh and the manager with the do-rag, well even he laughs, though he lives in a hippie town, and his living in a hippie town doesn't mean he can't laugh, but his do-rag seems not to quite match the fact of where he lives. Anyway, they all laugh. Not at me, but with me. And soon, I buy my food, and walk out and I never know if they keep on laughing.

get your beer here

had some friends over last night. they brought beer. i bought beer. and now my fridge and cabinets are full of the stuff and a jackhammer (not inside my head; one actually in the street) started thundering in some emergency concrete reconn mission at 6:20 am in the morning. i feel like i haven't slept in years.

and amid all this i had a strange phone conversation with a guy who sort of baited me into a fight or, as he put, into 'sparring.' i had a brief fling with fencing in college, whose lesson was: i am not the jim craig of the saber. (quite sure too i'm not the yaz of the ring, but having never boxed, i abide metaphorical blurring). i'll bottom line-it: phone-sparring's no fun. it ain't gonna get me to meet you. so i sent an email saying that, more or less, since i agreed in spite of my instinct to meet. and he wrote back, very considerately, noting at the least, meeting could yield a friend; and open minds are good; and reading is fundamental.

perhaps it's on account of exhaustion or just on account of my hoping i do indeed have an open mind that i changed it from closed to ajar, and said yes after all to a date. i am the muhammad ali of indecision, the sugar ray of flexibility.

bombs away

warmer weather gets me salivating for a firecracker, ne (that's nay, without the accent) bombpop. those are the red/white/blue popsicles that discolor your mouth and drip sticky onto your hand. after lunch today, i got one, since the ice cream truck brigade is back for the season and parked nearby.

except they've sleeked out the firecracker this year. it's thinner and longer...and, eating it on the streets of manny-hanny feels pervy. is nothing sacred? not even popsicles? does my imagination dwell close to a gutter? does yours?

more than a feeling

last night i got home from buying two-buck chuck and groceries (oh, my aching arms) and turned on the telly.

this post has nothing to do with courting, but still i must discuss this stupid show about a guy, brian, whose hair is nearly feathered, and his close-knit 30-something crew of seemingly really rich californians who do little (anything?) but bemoan the hardships but worth-its of love. after they do that, they express outrage! disbelief! naivete! that people actually do cheat, cause that's what happened on the show. one of the couples decide to have an open marriage, the woman got it on with a dad from the playground. the husband found out about it and was bereft. his friends couldn't believe given the great depth of their love that he'd allow for open marriage. oh what a terrible fix!!

oh, looky here, this is about dating, after all, or at least sex. anyway, the dialogue stinks, the acting smells worse, roseanna arquette is on it (was she good once upon a time in the madonna flick? or was it i who was naive?) in a weird battle of the arquettes, her sister has e.s.p. in the same time slot on a different network.

in one of the show's dumber moments, the bring-about-your-own-betrayal-husband (with his muppet-like jawline) goes on an unintelligible tirade about the slippery slope from open marriage to living in recita. i get the sense that ain't good. but i don't live in 'fornia, so it's just a hunch from our dear friend, context.

except this: soul coughing has a whole song about recita with a lyric like:

we are all of us going to recita, to make love to a model we don't know...

but this is a show that would never reference soul coughing, much less play it. instead, in one of their time-wasting-but-making-a-scene-with-dialogue-is-too-much-work video montages, they actually have a number by mit's finest...boston. supposed to make the gen x-ers feel nostalgic, i guess, for junior high school mixers. i love boston's epic rock but if there's a sure fire way to see to it you get cancelled cause you repel your audience with overly-tutored, off the hipster mark cultural references, get rights to a boston song. maryanne will be walking away, and you're dead by fall.

tattoo you

how i wish, pursuant to a previous post, that fantasy island truly did exist and not just as a tv vacation destination but as a real life eden. that would be a kick. and on fantasy island these things would happen:

i would skip through days and nights unaccompanied by the sour haunting of unfinished business that right now makes me lumber through them instead;

i would not have to do any extra work and i could be carefree and always unencumbered;

my notes of introduction to people i fancy would be answered with zest and elan;

i'd have extra dough, yo;

my belly would not rumble after lunch, resentful of that sour haunting;

prez would fall off the wagon and we'd dance in the streets at comeuppance.

i read today how some hipster kid is trying to use his radiohead ticket to scam a date. the last time i tried to get some random person to go with me to a show, it was about two years ago, the band--bette seveert (pls excuse mispelling) and there warn't any takers. that speaks more to the trendiness of radiohead, i hope, than the unlikeability of moi.

now, i've got a golden ticket too, two in fact, but i'm going with a friend, a radiohead-head, though my days of fandom have waned some. and even more rockwise, i just learned that i was at rock and roll fantasy camp (for a story, i swear it) some time ago with bush's new press dude. he can play a mean rush lick. should have broken my tambourine over his head while i had my chance.

instead, with the help of liquid courage, i covered ramones covered in sweat and then got flamed in playboy for having a bad voice.

but on fantasy island, my devotees raise lighters in appreciation.

fantasy island

no helicopters bringing guests to the island. no midgets (can i say that?) arching eyebrows auguring crazy hijinx among the tipsy guests.

but this: on the way into manhattan—the island, see—a friend and i passed gabriel byrne on the brooklyn bridge, on our walk from a pizzeria to a party my friend n. was having for vi de mayo. and i swear he checked me out. well, can't swear on it, but i like to think so.

bad speller iso drorable gal

i have done a share of internet dating on lustier sites and the more boychik-oriented ones too. playing such games leads to hunch confirmation—the land of bizarro is densely populated.

to wit, this note:

'I look at you and thing you are the most drorable gal I heave ever seen. If you know want a guy that can worship you then forget me'

true, his ability to capitalize puts me to shame. in other ways, though, (spelling, stalking) he's not inspiring heaps of confidence and i think this is one i pass on. meantime, i spoke of nunchucks to the ninja, so we're all in the open now about climbing walls and kickboxing.

today's subway ride was mercifully unlike yesterday's when two people offered me seats. in the a.m, it was a portly, middle-aged man and i gave him the benefit of the doubt about his intention, figured he was being polite to a lady. on the way home, a young redhead, feline/library specs that fixed her on that geek/hipster transom. demured, but wanted to roar, 'i'm not pregnant, goddammmit! it's the goddamn, motherfucking skirt!!'

a particular denim number i have come to loathe after first having come to love. when i wear it, people think i look knocked up (though when i first bought it, i worried it made me look religious in that allegra goodman kind of way).

a couple of years ago, i wore it into a shop that sells crap for animals, and by crap i mean, hand-knit cashmere sweaters for fido, that kind of joint. the clerk asked, 'when are you due?'

she caught hell. consider it a cautionary tale.

mayday

everyone's all "may! yay!"

it's warm out today, definitively so at last, and my jacket's obsolete, finally, for a while. tulips pop everywhere you look and i had to see a doc in the afternoon. she wants a followup at the end of the month and in a flash, may came to an unremarkable close. onward to june. i thought of the people who go places every weekend until labor day, the beach i mean, getting ready for their visits to the sea. time flew by and made a high-pitched whooosh.

in spite of fleurs, i saw the end of summer.