p.s.

keep forgetting to note that my 'counselor' from rock and roll fantasy camp (yes, i went. yes, it was for a story, yes, it was several years ago before everyone went to rock and roll fantasy camp for a story) none other than mr liberty devito, a drummer for the piano man, lives a block away from me. i saw him and his girlfriend (who's about 1/3 his age) coming out of a little house nearby.

summer reading

i was on the subway, i was reading in cold blood (it's good, i regret it took me so long to get to it). the guy next to me, a little ample in the middle, jeans, t-shirt, kicks, reading a book i took for the bible, had one of those leather-looking bendy covers. he was engrossed in the pages of gospel. some time later a hot young thing gets on the train, walks by him, he watches her pass, and i notice he's got a yellow highlighter in his hand, which has gone slack, and then i notice, that ain't no scripture—it's the game, neil straus's tips for picking up da ladies. oh yah da ladies like da lines about da bullshit.

i know that book of mister straus because i read it and it was interesting stuff. illuminating as a flickering nightlight. but probably it works great, cause people are not too discerning and also, nothing wrong with a little line now and then.

on the subway lately i've seen lots and lots of transexuals. is that the right word? is it transgender...hard for me to remember and that doesn't make me a racist! im-a-talkin' about people who have taken hormones and obviously were born as men but now they got nice racks and eye shadow and chanel sunglasses like me (well, my sunglasses are fendi but they were a giveaway at a job i had once). anyways, lots of them lately, everywheres i look.

tonight the guy i hired to install my a-c, a sweetie pie from i can't remember where but not born here and he does super-ish kind of work for my landlord, started asking me if i believe in god and if not what happens when you die (he does believe, see), why do people do good if they're not afraid of hell and such, said, 'well, we could get a beer and talk about god some more. call me.' and i said, 'okay.'

but is it?

he's cute that one.

q-ball

this email arrived today in my queue:

'If you love a guy with a shaved head, have we got the event for you. We've partnered with HeadBlade®, the ultimate head shaving razor, for a special speed dating party for men who shave their head and the women that love them.'

that's the gist courtesy of the speed-date folks. i am temporarily speechless, dumbfounded by an event centered solely around the fact that the men in question are bald. maybe it makes sense, does it, since there are events for people who are straight, old, young, christian, jewish...bald is just another parameter.

but what about a more reasonable parameter? a more discerning one—an event for fans of the nights of cabiria or people who like to read memoirs or lovers of the song 'piano fire' by sparklehorse and pj harvey (which i was just listening to and oh how i love that song). maybe a dating event for the hazel-eyed or royal-toed or outie-belly-buttoned or chronic lefties or mono-browed or geographically-tongued?

i wonder and i know that at the least, the shizz is worth a post.

spending and earning

a title eerily similar (malomar?) to that play...shopping and fu*%ing...that every news outlet seemed to grin childishly at not printing its name when it came to town. so to celebrate the weekend, to compensate my lack of wearable clothes, to console my having to work (well, starting to) on a sunday aftenroon, i bought myself some kick ass foxy dresses this weekend. and then wore a less foxy but still quite nice number yesterday. and had a date in the evening. feels like a long time since i had one of those. dates (i like medjool. what about you?) and we went to a bar of my choosing. on perry street. in manhattan. a place where i once had a birthday party during august's dog days and the a-c broke down and we were all sweating into our drinks and on the small of our backs.

how i love summer.

and on my date last night the fellow, he being the fan of movies i cannot imagine watching even under duress, said he was going to be impetuous and kiss me. cause we met online and i said i like the quality of being impetuous and dutiful soul, he obliged. and then he kissed me. and i kissed him. and it was pretty fun stuff. but the thing of it is that i like the bar where we were and now i feel a wee embarrassed to return. i was not as, uh, cherchez la femme as i was in a different bar some years ago (where a fellow passed me a note while my date was out of sight telling me he thought i was 'amazing' which must have meant he liked my low cut dress and my french skills, mais oui!) but still, sucking face at the bar ain't no way to be in the land of oz. or is it?

my date, quite a nice guy really had reread my online ad before we met and had incredibly hilarious and specific questions for me based on it. like a job interview. downright punctilious. asked if i had noted certain things he'd written. i hadn't partly because i read his profile a while ago and the mind only has room for so much words and partly because it didn't offend me; it was rather unremarkable but not in a bad way. just in a nonmemorable way. ya digable planet?

i digress. and regress. it's that duress.

tuesday, s and i head to another dating hoo-hah. this one sponsored by a public radio station. should be full of bleeding hearts and feist fans. but that's sure better than folks who utter incinerate in the same sentence as people.

it's a von trapp!

killing some time before i meet a friend, i peruse craigslist (still hopelessly thinking there'll be a note to me and also my other procrastination technique—trying to figure out the wiring on my speakers so i can switch speakers because i currently have three sets of them in my bedroom and want to upgrade but am stereophonically challenged—isn't working). i comes across the following hed (that's headline to you non-journo types):

PLUMMER LOOKING TO LAY PIPE///NSA////SERIOUS

and all i can conjure is the lovely baronness, cigarette holder delicately in hand, purring 'oh, georg!' as maria looks jealously on.

but maybe the poster is thinking more along the lines of the thornbirds or syriana. that last a much more insidious sort.

and maybe too nsa does not mean the national security agency, but something else. entirety.