working toward understanding
one another. making few promises
along the way.

Tuesday, July 29, 2008

Tin Out House

The energy feels better in this Starbucks so I think I'll take a moment, record some thoughts, wayward experiences. There aren't any ambiguously homeless individuals clamoring for my attention at my counterside stead.

We'll see how long that lasts.

A few weeks ago, I spent seven days in Portland, OR for a writing workshop. Hands down, these were the best days of my life.

But weren't you irked and driven to insanity by the pretentiousness of your peers?

By the unfounded overconfidence and egoism of the writers on faculty?

What about hippietastic Reed? That didn't bother you either?


No, none of this bothered me. I felt warmed by my surroundings and enthralled by the "real" writers in my presence. I even asked for their autographs.

Best of all were my workshop peers. Their eagerness to push themselves inspired me to do the same. Some pushed themselves in directions I never thought I'd ever see.

For instance, one night after the reading I came upon a generous surprise in a very public campus bathroom.

Come with me to the bathroom, for a moment. I'll show you what I saw.

I escaped quickly from the open amphitheater where the reading happened. There weren't many people on my tail as I approached the bathroom. Just me and the sinks, I imagined.

I pushed open the door. A voice rose.

"Oh. My. God. It smells soooooooo oooooo oooooooooo bad in here." The valley called, they're missing their idiot?

She stood next to the sinks, directly across from a friend, frozen or paralyzed or dead by the horrible stench consuming every air bubble of the room. She didn't let her friend agree, disagree, blink, cough, breathe.

Urgently: "There is, like, a GIANT poo in the handicap stall." Such vivid word choice. A fiction writer, no doubt.

Disoriented by a) the overwhelming smell of human feces, b) the prospect of a live poo outside of its destined receptacle, I stepped toward the handicap stall and peered in. There was no time to process the ramifications of such actions.

It was a foot long with massive girth and stranded at least a foot and a half from the glistening porcelain bowl. Two squares of one-ply tissue paper covered a fraction of its dimensions. A discreet move, clearly.

The two girls left and laughter burst from me. An explosion. I covered my mouth as I relieved myself, wondering if another woman enters this bathroom, would she blame me for the remote turd?

I composed myself and left the bathroom and didn't speak a word of it to anybody. Not even the five people who tried to talk to me on the bus ride home. Though I should have told them.

The next afternoon

Some of us sat around a large round table eating lunch. Scarlett* told us about the bad dreams she had the night before.

"Really?" said Mary. "My roommate said that she had very strange dreams, too. But I think her dreams had something to do with an incident."

My ears perked up. "What kind of incident?"

Mary took a moment to respond and slowly began. "Well, last night, after the reading..."

"Yes..."

"...well, she went to the bathroom..."

"She went to the bathroom?" This incident sounded familiar, deja vu?

"Yes, and she went into one of the stalls." She paused. Scarlett and I looked at her, wide-eyed.

"She saw a ... bowel movement on the floor."

I jumped out of my chair. "She saw a bowel movement on the floor!" I began to laugh hysterically to the point where I almost cried and relieved myself right there at the lunch table.

Scarlett and Mary exchanged glances at each other, politely waiting for my maniacal laughs to calm.

"No, no. I saw this bowel movement, too, but I didn't have any bad dreams because of it."

"Could it be the same bowel movement?" An inquiring mind.

"I sure as hell hope so. Here's my story." I told them what I just told you.

When I finished laughing/crying/squealing, Stanley said, "It seemed like you were laughing about something this morning when I saw you."

"Well, I didn't want to tell anyone about it because I didn't know who did it. What if one of you did it and I made a joke about it?"

They looked at me and burst into laughter, no, guffaws. "But someone shit on the floor," Stanley pointed out.

"Yes, I know, but what if someone couldn't help it. What if someone was sick?"

Mary, with sympathetic nods, cooed, "Oh, Nicole, that's so considerate of you to think that way."

I guess this means I'm special. What do you think?

All I know is the Mad Shitter may strike again. Probably at Starbucks.

*I've changed the names to protect the innocent.

Thursday, July 24, 2008

Listening to Crap 4 Fun

This is a meme (that I won't participate in as a true meme) I found somewhere when I was bored. I hope you find it as invigorating as I do.

Here is the shitty stuff I listen to and totally get down/belt out lyrics to on the subway, I mean in my apartment:

(1) Britney Spears--all of Blackout & Greatest Hits (My Prerogative) - Does this even require commentary? Um, did you know that she didn't even sing all of "I'm Not a Girl, Not yet a Woman"? Dido totally sang some of that ... or Britney Spears's entire oeuvre. (Word choice?)

(2) Dashboard Confessional–As Lovers Go - This song warms me. Like those heat packets you put in yr boots when it's cold outside.

(3) Avril Lavigne–Girlfriend (remix feat. lil mama HELLZ YEAH!) - Lil Mama got it going on. And so do I.

(4) Sonny & Cher–I Got You Babe - I love Cher. She's an eternal flame. Seriously.

(5) Katy Perry–I Kissed a Girl - This is possibly my favorite song of the summer. Are you surprised?

I'm not tagging anyone. Feel free to tag me. I like being 'it.'

Monday, July 21, 2008

Been a long time: Starbucks 2.0

Hello strangers. I hope you are well. End times are nigh, they tell me. Maybe I mean "end times are night," a cryptic message forgetting its final consonant. Rubbish, you might say.

Read on. I miss you. I'm telling you why.

I've had many "interesting" experiences over the past weeks. I won't share them with you right now, but I will tell you about Kenny.

Tonight I sat in Starbucks for a few hours. Mostly Google stalking. I mean, writing. I went to the one on 71st and Amsterdam or Columbus or Broadway - who can tell at that intersection? - and I think there's only one at this particular meeting of streets so you should know which I'm talking about. It's by McDonalds. That might help some of you out there.

Lucky me, there was exactly one seat open so I snagged it, greedily, shoving my Pike Place Market brew onto the table. I sat down behind it and opened my computer. I realized that my table was directly in the way of the bathroom line. This is fine, I thought, and got down to stalking. Writing. Whatever.

Time: 7:00 pm

As I type, a polite gentleman of about 50 years sidles up to my table.

"I'm waiting for the bathroom," he says. I didn't ask, but at least I know he isn't reading my manifesto. How embarassing that would be.

"Okay." I turn back to perezhilton.

"You going to the bathroom?" asks Kenny, he seems like a Kenny.

"No. I'm not. But thank you for asking." Did I just say something about the bathroom?

"You're really pretty." I notice his stitched Obama hat and Princeton basketball shorts, his logger boots. Ambiguously homeless.

"Um, thank you." It is now his turn to go into the bathroom and he stands still. Maybe it's because the women's room is the only available place to take a leak.

"Yeah. I'm gonna go to the bathroom now."

"Okay." Back to wikipedia. Or that essay.

10 seconds pass

"Yeah, I was just riding a bike with one of my buddies," says Kenny, answering the question that burns deep within my soul.

"Really. That's nice." Can I help you?

He looks down at my feet. "Those are really sweet shoes. Do you live here?"

"Thanks. Um, yeah."

"Manhattan?"

"Yeah. That's where I got the shoes."

"You are really pretty. Damn. You are just gorgeous."

What the fuck is this guy talking about. "Thanks, he he." Did I just say/type 'he he'?

"What's your name?" Do I have a choice? I can't run away from Kenny. A huge column and queue of sweaty coffee drinkers stands between my small round table and the door.

"Nicole." Darn, I should have said Maude.

"That's a nice name. I'm Ron." Hand extended, okay I guess I'll shake it instead of ripping it off and throwing it into the frappaccino blender. He would have said Maude was a nice name even though it isn't (no offense, Maude).

"Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you too. It's really my pleasure. You're gorgeous. Stay that way, Nicole."

"Okay. I'll try." What?

Flabbergasted by my ridiculous response, he says, "You don't gotta try."

Thanks Kenny. Big smile. He walks off, and turns around, and says goodbye, and turns to the door. AndishegoingtotellmeI'mprettyagain ...

.... and he's gone!

What the fuck? My question is really directed at Starbucks: WTF Starbucks, why you only got one bathroom open?

I'll be back soon.