"I'm taking a cab home tonight," I declared as we exited EJ's luncheonette.
"Oooh. Look at you. Taking a cab," said Euro, sweet midwestern thing with a pretty smile.
"Um. Right. This is why I work two jobs." Fake irritation spreading over skin, vocal cords.
Euro laughed. She stood on the sidewalk with Roxie, another peer of ours, and waved me goodbye as I entered a cab on 3rd avenue.
Euro, Roxie, Coetz and I had just finished two plates of cheese fries and a fruity vanilla shake. I also ordered a peppermint tea. When our waitress set it down in front of me, I promised, "I'm going to take this mug." The others half-laughed, quarter-grimaced, quarter-clutched their bags as I eyed the stout treasure, labeled "EJ's Luncheonette" on one of its sides. I told them I collected mugs from diners; they turned away when I placed it in my bag and slapped a hearty tip on the table, slid across the booth and vacated the premises.
They were happy to wave me goodnight.
"Do you take credit cards?" Now too careful to speak slowly, enunciate clearly as I lean into cabs.
"Yes, yes. Get in. Where are you going?"
I gave him my address, buckled my seat belt and sat back.
Joe the Cab Driver, an Indian man in his fifties, showed clear disdain for his fellow drivers.
"Look at them. They are all over the road. All over the road. They aren't getting anywhere, any faster than us. They are crazy." I admired his cadence, rhythm of speaking; his habit of driving 25 miles per hour.
"They are all over the road. Total nuts. I don't know how you do it."
"It is crazy. I drive slow. Safe. They signal: left, right. They are all over the place. They are crazy."
Yes, they are.
"You do want me to turn at 116th correct?" Conscientious Joe the Cab Driver understands the plight of the east-of-Marcus-Garvey-Park resident.
"Yes, that would be perfect, sir." Total score with the "sir." Yes!
"Do you like living up here? Do people harass you?" He turned around to look at me as he asked this. Turned his car onto 106th, not 116th. Wrong way. Screech. Reverse. Turned around in the middle of the street.
I felt very safe.
"I meant to turn on 116th. That okay. That okay. We take Madison, it's quicker." Joe the Cab Driver knows his way around this city.
"That's fine, sir. Don't worry about it." As I watched his meter increase.
Finally, we made it to my street. A usually $12 cab ride cost nearly $20. But what service!
I paid with a credit card. As the receipt unscrolled from within the cab's payment console, he turned around to take a good look at me.
"You, get out of this neighborhood. You are too pretty. You are too kind and nice. Yes, you are too pretty to be living here." Joe the Cab Driver doubles as Joe the Sage.
"You are right, Joe. I am getting out of here." Proud, smiling widely at Joe, who tore my receipt with great fervor and made sure I had all of my belongings. I stepped out of the car.
"Remember, you take a cab wherever you are going. They will harass you. But you are too good. You must get out of this neighborhood. Now go inside. I will watch you as you go to your door." So much concern for a stranger. Joe the Sage Cab Driver triples as Joe the Mother Theresa.
"Thank you, Joe. I'll never forget you. I'll be safe."
"Good. Goodnight, dear."
That night, I dreamt about Mother Theresa Joe the Sage Cab Driver and imagined a universe where women and cab drivers move freely through an urban landscape, integrated and harmonious.
One day, I will find a Mother Theresa Joe the Sage Cab Driver candle and pray to it in the dim moonlight of a Queens apartment. I will be pretty. I will be kind. I will be safe. All because of Mother Thereasa Joe the Sage Cab Driver.
Monday, October 27, 2008
How to Spell "I Love You"
I don't ask for much when I go to work.
A little peace and quiet, perhaps. Bands of sun filtering through wired window panes. Tolerable women on the end of telephone lines.
It isn't much, really.
One crisp fall day, when the wind smartly swept my hair every which way, I found myself excited to leave my office for the afternoon. This clear air will take my breath away.
Surely, something captured my breath on the way to the elevator.
Another non-profit shares my office suite. Cheap office space. Sharing. This is Manhattan, after all. No big deal, right? We share a front door. Women rap on this exterior - sharp rattles, a wide wooden board in its frame - they seek someone to speak with about their work, about classes they should take. I answer the door frequently and they push their way in, they ask me about their work, what classes they should take. I send them away without answers. I return to my work, distracted.
One particular day a woman seeking work, who takes classes stood beside the elevator bank. I recognized her from around our shared suite. A forty-something, tall, slightly heavy-set woman. Bernadette.
We exchanged smiles.
"I already pushed the button. I think it's coming," she reassured me.
"Ah. Okay." I swung my bag over my shoulder and stepped back toward the wall beside Bernadette.
She took out her red Palm phone-computer-video device and it rang out some dance-trans music tune. After thirty seconds or thirty endless hours of "LaLaLaLaLa Epilepsy Hoedown," waves of laughter blurted from her, forcing her into a doubled over position.
"Oh my god, Oh my god. This is too funny. Too funny." Continuation of "Epilepsy Hoedown." Hands slapped knees.
I smiled. Where is this elevator?
"Girl, you have got to see this. You have GOT to see this. Do you want to see this?" Bernadette posed many questions and, before I could respond, showed me her phone.
"Look at that, girl!"
She thrust it into my face. I looked. I had to. I couldn't look away.
"It's a penis bouquet!"
All shapes and colors (brown, pink, white, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet), bulbous heads and crude un-circumcisions. Shafts arranged as flower stems in an elegant vase. An FTD special.
"Ha .... ha."
She expected a larger reaction.
"Isn't that amazing, girl?" The elevator arrived on our floor, the tenth, from down the block, another city.
Thank god. "Yes, that's something." Worried, conscious to accept her share.
We entered the elevator, where three twenty-something females stood blank-faced. Bernadette stood close to the door.
"I'm going to have to thank my friend. She just made my day."
I laughed, smiled, disappeared into the perforated grey wall of the mobile cube. The other women had no idea how my day had been made by this experience.
At floor eight, a balding man of forty-or-so joined us in this ever shrinking space. We plunged downward to the lobby. But Bernadette hadn't yet forgotten about her bouquet.
"Oh, girl, I'm going to have to tell my husband that this is the only kind of bouquet I want from now on." Bern shook her head, proud.
"Good idea," I chimed.
The balding man turned slightly - had he received this message too? - while the catatonic trio bored holes into the elevator door.
It opened, we filed out. Suddenly I heard "Epilepsy Hoedown" all over again, beginnings of a conversation.
"Girl, you are never going to believe what Shelly sent me. Damn..." And then she was gone.
Through the lobby, out the double doors, into the calm cool breeze, I shoved my hands in my pocket, strode down 43rd street, and smiled again, breath completely taken.
(PS - Click here for the special arrangement. Not safe for work. Or children. Or most adults.)
A little peace and quiet, perhaps. Bands of sun filtering through wired window panes. Tolerable women on the end of telephone lines.
It isn't much, really.
One crisp fall day, when the wind smartly swept my hair every which way, I found myself excited to leave my office for the afternoon. This clear air will take my breath away.
Surely, something captured my breath on the way to the elevator.
Another non-profit shares my office suite. Cheap office space. Sharing. This is Manhattan, after all. No big deal, right? We share a front door. Women rap on this exterior - sharp rattles, a wide wooden board in its frame - they seek someone to speak with about their work, about classes they should take. I answer the door frequently and they push their way in, they ask me about their work, what classes they should take. I send them away without answers. I return to my work, distracted.
One particular day a woman seeking work, who takes classes stood beside the elevator bank. I recognized her from around our shared suite. A forty-something, tall, slightly heavy-set woman. Bernadette.
We exchanged smiles.
"I already pushed the button. I think it's coming," she reassured me.
"Ah. Okay." I swung my bag over my shoulder and stepped back toward the wall beside Bernadette.
She took out her red Palm phone-computer-video device and it rang out some dance-trans music tune. After thirty seconds or thirty endless hours of "LaLaLaLaLa Epilepsy Hoedown," waves of laughter blurted from her, forcing her into a doubled over position.
"Oh my god, Oh my god. This is too funny. Too funny." Continuation of "Epilepsy Hoedown." Hands slapped knees.
I smiled. Where is this elevator?
"Girl, you have got to see this. You have GOT to see this. Do you want to see this?" Bernadette posed many questions and, before I could respond, showed me her phone.
"Look at that, girl!"
She thrust it into my face. I looked. I had to. I couldn't look away.
"It's a penis bouquet!"
All shapes and colors (brown, pink, white, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet), bulbous heads and crude un-circumcisions. Shafts arranged as flower stems in an elegant vase. An FTD special.
"Ha .... ha."
She expected a larger reaction.
"Isn't that amazing, girl?" The elevator arrived on our floor, the tenth, from down the block, another city.
Thank god. "Yes, that's something." Worried, conscious to accept her share.
We entered the elevator, where three twenty-something females stood blank-faced. Bernadette stood close to the door.
"I'm going to have to thank my friend. She just made my day."
I laughed, smiled, disappeared into the perforated grey wall of the mobile cube. The other women had no idea how my day had been made by this experience.
At floor eight, a balding man of forty-or-so joined us in this ever shrinking space. We plunged downward to the lobby. But Bernadette hadn't yet forgotten about her bouquet.
"Oh, girl, I'm going to have to tell my husband that this is the only kind of bouquet I want from now on." Bern shook her head, proud.
"Good idea," I chimed.
The balding man turned slightly - had he received this message too? - while the catatonic trio bored holes into the elevator door.
It opened, we filed out. Suddenly I heard "Epilepsy Hoedown" all over again, beginnings of a conversation.
"Girl, you are never going to believe what Shelly sent me. Damn..." And then she was gone.
Through the lobby, out the double doors, into the calm cool breeze, I shoved my hands in my pocket, strode down 43rd street, and smiled again, breath completely taken.
(PS - Click here for the special arrangement. Not safe for work. Or children. Or most adults.)
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Wednesday, October 08, 2008
Sunday, October 05, 2008
This is Harlem, Denzel.
9:30 AM, Sunday morning: Bopping along to Common at New York Sports Club, it hits me. A ton of bricks, too loud crashing down making rubble on the sponge-like gym mat. Last night on 7th Avenue. What a trip.
It's really Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Boulevard but that's about 100 syllables too many for most people to mouth. When we call it 7th, we forget it's Harlem.
We're talking about Harlem. Just south of 125th, more American than ever with the newfound presence of American Apparel.
9:30 PM, Saturday night: I'm watching Titanic on TBS. Rose and Jack have just had sex in the buggy. That sweaty palm outline! The trembling! Rapture!
Text message from a friend who wants to meet up for a drink. Do you want to go to Minton's on 118th and 7th?
Yes. Wait - text message language. ys its nr my place so taz kul.
I don't really text like that (in fact, I'm not even sure what that says, do you know?). I'm proving Jamie Lee Curtis' point. I'm whispering ever illiterate.
10:15 PM: I walk out to Adam Clayton Powell Jr Blvd and turn left, walk the three blocks to 118th.
This is going to be an easy walk. How could something crazy and fascinating happen in a mere three blocks? Genuine thoughts, my heels clicking on cement and broken glass.
Between 119th and 118th, I see a gentleman facing the curb, a van blocking his body from streetviews. The legs of a scaffolding monster separate us. I quickly glance toward him and back to the sidewalk ahead of me.
Pssst. Pssst. No. Someone turned on a faucet. Where? I turn around. The gentleman holds himself, his crotch, his thing and whizzes all over the van.
"Get overe here you! You wanna feel it! You wanna touch it! I want you to feel it. Right now. GET BACK HERE."
His urine still streaming as he screams toward me. Nobody on the street turns around. I am invisible and completely obvious at once.
I walk faster, I don't turn around. Clickclickclickclickclick across the street toward Minton's, on the west side of Adam Clayton Powell Jr Blvd, just inside 118th. As I escape from his calls, I think about what happened to me and JaneAusten (JA) Friday afternoon in Crown Heights/Bed-Stuy.
On Classon Avenue. Just past Fulton Street. JA crossed the street briskly talking of books, of good recipes we enjoy, of family members. All warmly, as JA is quite warm, very sweet, smiles well. As we step onto the sidwalk, a young man on a bike yells at us, "You betta give me a blow job! Yeah!" Emphasis^10 on "blow job," there.
"He was totally talking to us." Who else could he be talking to?
"What about the woman who walked out of the house?"
I looked at JA, eyes wide, soft voice. "I don't think so, honey."
"Oh, this place is not for us." Great assessment, JA!
CLASSOFF, baby.
As usual, I am early for my Saturday evening engagement. Sounds from tat-tattat-tattering cymbals and steal-the-show snare drums skitter out the open front door of Minton's and meet me on the street. I smile at the loud jazz music, as women breeze by me on their way into the joint.
Now, there's no one on the street except for me and a man hunched over the hood of a car. He's closer to Adam Clayton Powell Jr Blvd. I stare forward, my back pressed to the bar's exterior.
10:20 PM: Denzel wanders up to me and says something, nonsense. "Goodnightyou whatyou what. What." He wears a tan fatigue tshirt with moderately baggy jeans; a du-rag and a baseball cap turned backwards.
I spring from my casual stance and step toward the center of the sidewalk, a getaway pose, hands outstretched as if to say I didn't bring my weapons with me this time.
"No, what you doing?! You afraid of me because I'm a black man. You white women always so afraid of black men."
"Um. I don't know you, and I'm not sure why you're trying to talk to me, that's all. We're the only ones on the street and I don't know you." Very convincing.
"Well you'll excuse me, I'm a little drunk here and I had to walk that crazy old man into his house over there."
"Oh, okay." No really, Denzel.
"My father is co-owner of this place." He stays about four feet away from me throughout our conversation, smiles every now and then.
"Oh yeah? I've never been here before." Nervous, concealed well behind constant smile.
"Yeah where you at?"
"Oh, me? Where am I at? Well I live in this neighborhood, a few blocks away actually."
"That's cool."
"Yeah. There's a lot of whites up here. It's weird."
"What you talkin about? Don't you know you're white?" Very observant, this Denzel.
"Yeah, I know I'm white, but this neighborhood is historically black. Seems fucked up for whites to take it over." I cross my arms over my chest because I'm cold.
"Listen to me, as long as we can still build our things, I think it's okay." What a sage, this Denzel proves to be. "Wait, a second, you afraid of me? What's the matter with you?" Not limited to sage-like wonders, Denzel is also a master of reading body language.
"But what the fuck is up with American Apparel up there? Wait, what?" I uncross my arms, realizing his attention to cues. "I'm not afraid of you."
"Okay. Good. Yeah, that place is whack."
"Serious whack."
We start to discuss the economy and issues of national and global importance. I'm finding Denzel to be a fine conversationalist.
"My cousin lives down in Georgia and says they don't got no gas."
"Fucked up! What? Is that in the newspapers?" Outraged!
"Nah! You know, they don't report on that kind of thing." Denzel is onto the ways of the media.
"That's really annoying. What's even crazier is that people here think it's just not going to affect them, because we live in this bubble that is New York City."
"You're so right about that. Man, what the fuck. It's gonna hit us too, and then, well, then we'll just see what happens."
10:30 PM: My friend walks up to Minton's at last and looks at me askew.
"Oh hi! I've just been chatting with this gentleman here for a little bit now."
Denzel continues chatting about the economic downturn and misfortune of his family members in southern states.
My friend seems skeptical of Denzel. I'm not.
"I think it's terrible that we don't know about what's happening in certain communities in this country. So insulated."
"It is. You're right about New York too." Denzel smiles crookedly, shuts his eyes for a brief moment.
My friend looks at Denzel, then me, then says, "Um, let's go inside."
"Bye Denzel." He takes my hand for a moment and looks me in the face, nods goodbye.
Well, I didn't say Denzel, but he might have liked it if I had.
It's really Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Boulevard but that's about 100 syllables too many for most people to mouth. When we call it 7th, we forget it's Harlem.
We're talking about Harlem. Just south of 125th, more American than ever with the newfound presence of American Apparel.
9:30 PM, Saturday night: I'm watching Titanic on TBS. Rose and Jack have just had sex in the buggy. That sweaty palm outline! The trembling! Rapture!
Text message from a friend who wants to meet up for a drink. Do you want to go to Minton's on 118th and 7th?
Yes. Wait - text message language. ys its nr my place so taz kul.
I don't really text like that (in fact, I'm not even sure what that says, do you know?). I'm proving Jamie Lee Curtis' point. I'm whispering ever illiterate.
10:15 PM: I walk out to Adam Clayton Powell Jr Blvd and turn left, walk the three blocks to 118th.
This is going to be an easy walk. How could something crazy and fascinating happen in a mere three blocks? Genuine thoughts, my heels clicking on cement and broken glass.
Between 119th and 118th, I see a gentleman facing the curb, a van blocking his body from streetviews. The legs of a scaffolding monster separate us. I quickly glance toward him and back to the sidewalk ahead of me.
Pssst. Pssst. No. Someone turned on a faucet. Where? I turn around. The gentleman holds himself, his crotch, his thing and whizzes all over the van.
"Get overe here you! You wanna feel it! You wanna touch it! I want you to feel it. Right now. GET BACK HERE."
His urine still streaming as he screams toward me. Nobody on the street turns around. I am invisible and completely obvious at once.
I walk faster, I don't turn around. Clickclickclickclickclick across the street toward Minton's, on the west side of Adam Clayton Powell Jr Blvd, just inside 118th. As I escape from his calls, I think about what happened to me and JaneAusten (JA) Friday afternoon in Crown Heights/Bed-Stuy.
On Classon Avenue. Just past Fulton Street. JA crossed the street briskly talking of books, of good recipes we enjoy, of family members. All warmly, as JA is quite warm, very sweet, smiles well. As we step onto the sidwalk, a young man on a bike yells at us, "You betta give me a blow job! Yeah!" Emphasis^10 on "blow job," there.
"He was totally talking to us." Who else could he be talking to?
"What about the woman who walked out of the house?"
I looked at JA, eyes wide, soft voice. "I don't think so, honey."
"Oh, this place is not for us." Great assessment, JA!
CLASSOFF, baby.
As usual, I am early for my Saturday evening engagement. Sounds from tat-tattat-tattering cymbals and steal-the-show snare drums skitter out the open front door of Minton's and meet me on the street. I smile at the loud jazz music, as women breeze by me on their way into the joint.
Now, there's no one on the street except for me and a man hunched over the hood of a car. He's closer to Adam Clayton Powell Jr Blvd. I stare forward, my back pressed to the bar's exterior.
10:20 PM: Denzel wanders up to me and says something, nonsense. "Goodnightyou whatyou what. What." He wears a tan fatigue tshirt with moderately baggy jeans; a du-rag and a baseball cap turned backwards.
I spring from my casual stance and step toward the center of the sidewalk, a getaway pose, hands outstretched as if to say I didn't bring my weapons with me this time.
"No, what you doing?! You afraid of me because I'm a black man. You white women always so afraid of black men."
"Um. I don't know you, and I'm not sure why you're trying to talk to me, that's all. We're the only ones on the street and I don't know you." Very convincing.
"Well you'll excuse me, I'm a little drunk here and I had to walk that crazy old man into his house over there."
"Oh, okay." No really, Denzel.
"My father is co-owner of this place." He stays about four feet away from me throughout our conversation, smiles every now and then.
"Oh yeah? I've never been here before." Nervous, concealed well behind constant smile.
"Yeah where you at?"
"Oh, me? Where am I at? Well I live in this neighborhood, a few blocks away actually."
"That's cool."
"Yeah. There's a lot of whites up here. It's weird."
"What you talkin about? Don't you know you're white?" Very observant, this Denzel.
"Yeah, I know I'm white, but this neighborhood is historically black. Seems fucked up for whites to take it over." I cross my arms over my chest because I'm cold.
"Listen to me, as long as we can still build our things, I think it's okay." What a sage, this Denzel proves to be. "Wait, a second, you afraid of me? What's the matter with you?" Not limited to sage-like wonders, Denzel is also a master of reading body language.
"But what the fuck is up with American Apparel up there? Wait, what?" I uncross my arms, realizing his attention to cues. "I'm not afraid of you."
"Okay. Good. Yeah, that place is whack."
"Serious whack."
We start to discuss the economy and issues of national and global importance. I'm finding Denzel to be a fine conversationalist.
"My cousin lives down in Georgia and says they don't got no gas."
"Fucked up! What? Is that in the newspapers?" Outraged!
"Nah! You know, they don't report on that kind of thing." Denzel is onto the ways of the media.
"That's really annoying. What's even crazier is that people here think it's just not going to affect them, because we live in this bubble that is New York City."
"You're so right about that. Man, what the fuck. It's gonna hit us too, and then, well, then we'll just see what happens."
10:30 PM: My friend walks up to Minton's at last and looks at me askew.
"Oh hi! I've just been chatting with this gentleman here for a little bit now."
Denzel continues chatting about the economic downturn and misfortune of his family members in southern states.
My friend seems skeptical of Denzel. I'm not.
"I think it's terrible that we don't know about what's happening in certain communities in this country. So insulated."
"It is. You're right about New York too." Denzel smiles crookedly, shuts his eyes for a brief moment.
My friend looks at Denzel, then me, then says, "Um, let's go inside."
"Bye Denzel." He takes my hand for a moment and looks me in the face, nods goodbye.
Well, I didn't say Denzel, but he might have liked it if I had.
Friday, October 03, 2008
Thursday, October 02, 2008
Monday, September 29, 2008
Intense Sandwiches and Taiwanese Friends
It all started when the M104 bus blew me off.
No, no, it began with a phone call. A well-placed call in the midst of apartment pandemonium. I dialed up V&T and took a stern tone to the receiver and said, "I'd like to order a chicken parmigiana sandwich. I'd like for it to be ready by 7:45 pm."
"Is that all you want?" Coy, leading me on. She would.
"Yes. That's all I want."
Judging from this short conversation, it's clear that the woman at V&T, Rosa, knew exactly what I needed.
"This is an intense sandwich. Wow!" He exclaimed as he unwrapped the tightly enclosed hoagie roll. Aluminum foil edged into every crevice. We sat across from a chapel, a supposed coffeehouse in its basement. We rested upon a stone bench with words of honor carved into it.
"I told them to make an intense sandwich for you. Well, I intoned that anyway." I crossed my legs toward him and showed him my leaf cookies. He was not interested.
"Delores," he began, "did you really tell them you wanted an intense sandwich?"
"Yes, I knew it was on the menu." I know these things. He called me Delores because he likes the way it sounds. Delores and Betty Lall get along well.
As we laughed, two young women skipped along and stood beside the halfsphere (or hemisphere, to worldly folk) in front of us. Dottie and Ben Stein, they were called. Tall, lanky, Dottie wore a knit beret, while Ben Stein sported an American Apparel hoodie, purchased from the local boutique that caters to Columbia.
They were clearly Barnard students.
Giggles. "Wait, talk now. No, talk now! Just say something!" Ben Stein sat a few feet from Moonif, my gentleman friend, and called to Dottie who was now dancing in the center of the halfsphere.
Moonif and I exchanged looks, then smiles, then what the fucks.
"Say something." Dottie mumbled words underneath her Goodwill-found scarf. She shook her head and burst into laughter, a jolt of vim, as though someone tasered her from beyond the halfsphere.
I half considered tasering her.
Dottie paused, mania shaking underneath streetlamps. Her hands were out, mid-sentence "jazz hands" at her waist. "Can you hear it echo?"
"No! No!"
Ben Stein sprinted from her seat and skipped down East Walk to some crazy women's studies class at Schermerhorn. Dottie followed close behind, tripping over her too-long scarf, her vision obscured by the knit cap pulling its way down her forehead.
Moonif and I wondered if they were on E, or if we absorbed Dottie's sound thus preventing her echo. There's something about this halfsphere, I thought.
After the fun we had with the sandwich and geeks, Moonif escorted me to his dorm. Or Taiwan, as I like to think of it. Look left, look right, they surrounded me in the elevator and followed me down the hallway.
So, why do you call it Taiwan instead of Broadway, floor 11?
Quite simply: the only people who live on his floor are Taiwanese.
Is this possible?
Yes, it certainly is. Rosa, Dottie and Ben Stein would agree.
Such diversity at Columbia University! Instead of integrating students, it is better to lift populations from other countries and place them into particular dorm floors--that's diversity. A wellness floor for Asian people, though I'm not sure they asked to be there. To assuage the "multicultural" pain, I left my Hungarian Pastry Shoppe leaf cookies there, among the Taiwanese.
On the way home, I tried for the M60 on 120th and Amsterdam. I waited, waited, waited for the great white whale to bend onto 120th.
There it is! My white whale!
I forced my Metrocard into the air, up, up, into the sky and waved it around as the light turned green, freeing the bus to sweep me off my feet and take me home.
Me, I'm here, waiting for you!
I even jumped into the street. I even jumped.
The M60 passed me without stopping.
Another bus blew me off tonight. Thanks, MTA. True lifesaver.
Next time, I'll dance in a halfsphere and call out, "Is this echoing," as the bus comes my way. Perhaps then it will stop for me. Or roll me over and taser me.
No, no, it began with a phone call. A well-placed call in the midst of apartment pandemonium. I dialed up V&T and took a stern tone to the receiver and said, "I'd like to order a chicken parmigiana sandwich. I'd like for it to be ready by 7:45 pm."
"Is that all you want?" Coy, leading me on. She would.
"Yes. That's all I want."
Judging from this short conversation, it's clear that the woman at V&T, Rosa, knew exactly what I needed.
"This is an intense sandwich. Wow!" He exclaimed as he unwrapped the tightly enclosed hoagie roll. Aluminum foil edged into every crevice. We sat across from a chapel, a supposed coffeehouse in its basement. We rested upon a stone bench with words of honor carved into it.
"I told them to make an intense sandwich for you. Well, I intoned that anyway." I crossed my legs toward him and showed him my leaf cookies. He was not interested.
"Delores," he began, "did you really tell them you wanted an intense sandwich?"
"Yes, I knew it was on the menu." I know these things. He called me Delores because he likes the way it sounds. Delores and Betty Lall get along well.
As we laughed, two young women skipped along and stood beside the halfsphere (or hemisphere, to worldly folk) in front of us. Dottie and Ben Stein, they were called. Tall, lanky, Dottie wore a knit beret, while Ben Stein sported an American Apparel hoodie, purchased from the local boutique that caters to Columbia.
They were clearly Barnard students.
Giggles. "Wait, talk now. No, talk now! Just say something!" Ben Stein sat a few feet from Moonif, my gentleman friend, and called to Dottie who was now dancing in the center of the halfsphere.
Moonif and I exchanged looks, then smiles, then what the fucks.
"Say something." Dottie mumbled words underneath her Goodwill-found scarf. She shook her head and burst into laughter, a jolt of vim, as though someone tasered her from beyond the halfsphere.
I half considered tasering her.
Dottie paused, mania shaking underneath streetlamps. Her hands were out, mid-sentence "jazz hands" at her waist. "Can you hear it echo?"
"No! No!"
Ben Stein sprinted from her seat and skipped down East Walk to some crazy women's studies class at Schermerhorn. Dottie followed close behind, tripping over her too-long scarf, her vision obscured by the knit cap pulling its way down her forehead.
Moonif and I wondered if they were on E, or if we absorbed Dottie's sound thus preventing her echo. There's something about this halfsphere, I thought.
After the fun we had with the sandwich and geeks, Moonif escorted me to his dorm. Or Taiwan, as I like to think of it. Look left, look right, they surrounded me in the elevator and followed me down the hallway.
So, why do you call it Taiwan instead of Broadway, floor 11?
Quite simply: the only people who live on his floor are Taiwanese.
Is this possible?
Yes, it certainly is. Rosa, Dottie and Ben Stein would agree.
Such diversity at Columbia University! Instead of integrating students, it is better to lift populations from other countries and place them into particular dorm floors--that's diversity. A wellness floor for Asian people, though I'm not sure they asked to be there. To assuage the "multicultural" pain, I left my Hungarian Pastry Shoppe leaf cookies there, among the Taiwanese.
On the way home, I tried for the M60 on 120th and Amsterdam. I waited, waited, waited for the great white whale to bend onto 120th.
There it is! My white whale!
I forced my Metrocard into the air, up, up, into the sky and waved it around as the light turned green, freeing the bus to sweep me off my feet and take me home.
Me, I'm here, waiting for you!
I even jumped into the street. I even jumped.
The M60 passed me without stopping.
Another bus blew me off tonight. Thanks, MTA. True lifesaver.
Next time, I'll dance in a halfsphere and call out, "Is this echoing," as the bus comes my way. Perhaps then it will stop for me. Or roll me over and taser me.
Monday, August 25, 2008
GYN 101 with Professor Jimmy @ Reed College
Bambi, Scarlett, Stanley and I sat around a table, diplomatically discussing people, the day's events, our life-challenges and philosophies. We tipped back beers and Tin House Martinis (which should be called "TinTinis"); we reveled in the afternoon sun and first of several conveniently scheduled happy hours. Not one of us--four intellectual poets at the Tin House Writers' Workshop--spoke a word about feminine hygiene and maintenance. It was Jimmy, intrepid vagabond, who introduced such issues to our discourse.
"Can I clear off this table?" He asked, gesturing toward the recklessly abandoned round table beside ours.
Where did he come from? was the look on each of our faces.
"Sure, go ahead." I called out. I wondered if he intended to collect the bottles to create interesting art projects. Perhaps he wanted to deposit them and use the money for his new cape.
Did I mention he wore a cape? It was actually a lightweight blanket with carefully sewn arm holes, fashioned as a summer shawl of sorts. It was a tailor's feat well-executed. I was impressed.
Arms full of bottles, he wandered toward the garbage area. "His name is Jimmy," I declared as he hobbled off. Bambi, Stanley, and Scarlett unquestioningly nodded.
"Hey, you know, they don't take their time with Pap smears." Suddenly, Jimmy sidled up to our table with gynecological tidbits to share.
The other three women looked at each other. Always sangfroid when faced with such situations, Stanley calmly replied, eyebrow slightly raised, "Well, that's ... true."
"It is true. It's absolutely true. They don't take their time. They don't look carefully at them." Jimmy had his facts.
"And they should take their time. That HPV is killing women." I thought we should broaden the conversation rather than harp on the same point.
"Yeah, that Gardasil vaccine. I've heard mixed things about it," said Bambi. Jimmy walked away again, distracted by a writer at a neighboring table who wore a poncho. Jimmy would not be outdone.
"Well, I got the first two shots, and I can't wait to get the third one. It's a big deal." Now I was serious about this Pap smear issue.
Scarlett nodded her head, threw it back, and laughed at our somber tone in light of the ambiguously homeless stranger with the cape. Bambi and I locked into a discussion about side effects/deaths linked to the Gardasil.
"I'm scared, I don't know. I've heard that people die from it." Bambi brought interesting ideas to the table.
"I knew someone. She died. She died because they didn't look carefully enough." Suddenly, Jimmy had a lot to say about death and dying, and the vaginal experience. Again, where did he come from? Scarlett glanced between the other two women and I, began laughing.
There was silence. "She had that cervical cancer. By the time they figured it out, she had to decide whether she wanted to live or if she wanted her baby to live. She died. She died because they didn't look carefully enough."
Okay.
Scarlett looked at me and I almost broke down, laughing. Luckily I didn't. Not before Jimmy wandered off again.
Once he left, we wondered what just happened. Two minutes later, I looked toward the bar building.
"Hey, what are those security guards doing talking to Jimmy?" I was concerned for his welfare. Would they take his cape?
Stanley noticed something we hadn't seen when he hovered over our table. "Does he have a crossbow? And is he carrying a yoga mat?"
Yes. Yes he was and yes he did. Jimmy sported a lovely stole with a yoga mat slung over his right shoulder and a crossbow facing front. A man must accessorize.
Another security guard joined their small meeting. Jimmy looked as though he had everything under control.
Fellow poet, Young'N (she's a rapper from MO), observed, "I heard him [she meant Jimmy] say to the security guard that he was wondering where he could get a resume."
That settled it. Job-hunting Jimmy graced us with his presence (and infinite gynecological wisdom) in pursuit of a job. Perhaps he hopes to become a community organizer. Or peer educator.
I've always had this philosophy: If you're trying to get someone to believe in what you're talking about, a crossbow never hurt.
"Can I clear off this table?" He asked, gesturing toward the recklessly abandoned round table beside ours.
Where did he come from? was the look on each of our faces.
"Sure, go ahead." I called out. I wondered if he intended to collect the bottles to create interesting art projects. Perhaps he wanted to deposit them and use the money for his new cape.
Did I mention he wore a cape? It was actually a lightweight blanket with carefully sewn arm holes, fashioned as a summer shawl of sorts. It was a tailor's feat well-executed. I was impressed.
Arms full of bottles, he wandered toward the garbage area. "His name is Jimmy," I declared as he hobbled off. Bambi, Stanley, and Scarlett unquestioningly nodded.
"Hey, you know, they don't take their time with Pap smears." Suddenly, Jimmy sidled up to our table with gynecological tidbits to share.
The other three women looked at each other. Always sangfroid when faced with such situations, Stanley calmly replied, eyebrow slightly raised, "Well, that's ... true."
"It is true. It's absolutely true. They don't take their time. They don't look carefully at them." Jimmy had his facts.
"And they should take their time. That HPV is killing women." I thought we should broaden the conversation rather than harp on the same point.
"Yeah, that Gardasil vaccine. I've heard mixed things about it," said Bambi. Jimmy walked away again, distracted by a writer at a neighboring table who wore a poncho. Jimmy would not be outdone.
"Well, I got the first two shots, and I can't wait to get the third one. It's a big deal." Now I was serious about this Pap smear issue.
Scarlett nodded her head, threw it back, and laughed at our somber tone in light of the ambiguously homeless stranger with the cape. Bambi and I locked into a discussion about side effects/deaths linked to the Gardasil.
"I'm scared, I don't know. I've heard that people die from it." Bambi brought interesting ideas to the table.
"I knew someone. She died. She died because they didn't look carefully enough." Suddenly, Jimmy had a lot to say about death and dying, and the vaginal experience. Again, where did he come from? Scarlett glanced between the other two women and I, began laughing.
There was silence. "She had that cervical cancer. By the time they figured it out, she had to decide whether she wanted to live or if she wanted her baby to live. She died. She died because they didn't look carefully enough."
Okay.
Scarlett looked at me and I almost broke down, laughing. Luckily I didn't. Not before Jimmy wandered off again.
Once he left, we wondered what just happened. Two minutes later, I looked toward the bar building.
"Hey, what are those security guards doing talking to Jimmy?" I was concerned for his welfare. Would they take his cape?
Stanley noticed something we hadn't seen when he hovered over our table. "Does he have a crossbow? And is he carrying a yoga mat?"
Yes. Yes he was and yes he did. Jimmy sported a lovely stole with a yoga mat slung over his right shoulder and a crossbow facing front. A man must accessorize.
Another security guard joined their small meeting. Jimmy looked as though he had everything under control.
Fellow poet, Young'N (she's a rapper from MO), observed, "I heard him [she meant Jimmy] say to the security guard that he was wondering where he could get a resume."
That settled it. Job-hunting Jimmy graced us with his presence (and infinite gynecological wisdom) in pursuit of a job. Perhaps he hopes to become a community organizer. Or peer educator.
I've always had this philosophy: If you're trying to get someone to believe in what you're talking about, a crossbow never hurt.
Monday, August 18, 2008
No Rest for the Devil
Today's my birthday. Minor detail in the scheme of things, but relevant to this story nonetheless.
One of my great friends, Grandma Sitay, offered to take me for a slice of pizza at the ever-popular Artichoke on 14th St. Lucky us, August 18th fell on a Monday this year so we grabbed the opportunity to stake out the pizzeria known for avenue-wide lines.
She works in the Rockefeller Center area, one of my least favorite parts of Manhattan due to its disturbing tourist-to-native ratio. We met on 50th Street and 6th Avenue, site of a famous Rosemary's Baby scene, where we discussed our transportation options.
"How should we get there?" Grandma Sitay asked, glancing around our environs, the numerous Europeans posing for pictures in front of Radio City Music Hall.
"I know! I have a brilliant idea. Let's take the NRW to get us farther east on 14th." I always have brilliant ideas about subway travel. You'll see why.
"Sure, that's fine." Grandma Sitay trusted my instincts. Something she'll never ever do again.
We wandered over to 49th and 7th to pick up the NRW. As we stood safely between the two white parallel lines, waiting to cross 7th Avenue, a woman stumbled past Grandma Sitay, slightly knocking into her. She called out, "Oops, I'm sorry, sweetie." So appreciative of this kind gesture, G. Sitay double-taked, asking, "Did she just call me 'sweetie'?" We both reveled in the moment of rare human connection and crossed the street, Times Square's flashing lights twinkling in our peripheral view.
This will be an unbeatable night, I thought. Everyone is excited for my birthday.
What a foolish notion.
The N train came to a halting stop at 49th Street and we boarded the last car, which was full, uncomfortable, a hot mess. We stood near the door, grasping the overhead bar to keep our balance. There was chit chat and silence, and I lost track of stops.
One brave soul decided it was time to split and pushed her way up out of her cozy bench seat, freeing herself from the chaotic sub-atmosphere. G. Sitay comfortably slipped into the woman's spot. Once G. Sitay was firmly placed on the bench, I sat beside her.
A tall, thin white woman - who we''ll call Rosemary's Baby - sidled up toward me as I took my place next to G. Sitay. Did she want my seat? I couldn't tell.
Two seconds later Rosemary's Baby aggressively shoved her size 0 body into the narrow space between G. Sitay, a pole, and an unsuspecting woman named Lonnie (my name for her). Lonnie squirmed in her seat as Rosemary's Baby wiggled in, thrashing her hips back and forth to create a space for her thin, lanky frame.
I couldn't help but laugh. There wasn't any room for Rosemary's Baby between Lonnie and G. Sitay. What is this lady doing? Was anyone else watching this shit?
Rosemary's Baby wildly opened and closed her free copy of the New York Post (the Devil's paper), a scared, blind sea gull flapping its way out of a nasty tar spill. (But much funnier.) I pressed up against the woman to my right, Gretel, as Rosemary's Baby pushed G. Sitay out of her space.
A few breathless seconds passed and Rosemary's Baby sprung from her contortion and leapt to her feet. Deep crimson hues shot up from her toes to her face. She was as red as a raspberry, which is more pink or magenta (wouldn't you say?).
"SEE, I GOT UP DIDN'T I?" Rosemary's Baby yelled into G. Sitay's face, a dybbuk's spirit possessing her voice and violent motions. As if G. Sitay did or said anything at all.
We were all silent. Lonnie, Gretel, G. Sitay and I.
Thank goodness I focused on the unusual facial hair of another subway rider (a woman named Augustina). Otherwise I may have burst into unbridled laughter. I twisted my face to make a somber smirk, unable to draw a thin line of New-York-apathy across my lips. I think Rosemary's Baby noticed. But I DON'T CARE because Rosemary's Baby got problems and Rosemary's Baby should try lithium. I hear it works wonders.
A distant voice announced: "14th Street, Union Square, Transfer to the 4, 5, 6 ..."
"THIS IS OUR STOP. LET'S GO. NOW!!!!" I pushed past tourists, hoping G. Sitay would grab onto my hand, shoulder, hair, skirt, shirt, anything to safely follow me out of the Devil's lair. We made it. We're alive. Rosemary's Baby stayed beneath. Where she belongs.
So here's the bottom line: MTA - PLEASE QUIT PUTTING BLANK, UNFORMED BENCHES IN YOUR SUBWAY CARS. We need lines, we need divisions, parameters! Give me seats, or give me death! Because death is exactly what it may come to next time we go downtown.
The end. (Applause)
PS The pizza was a-m-a-z-i-n-g. Try the artichoke slice. Tell Artie I sent ya.
One of my great friends, Grandma Sitay, offered to take me for a slice of pizza at the ever-popular Artichoke on 14th St. Lucky us, August 18th fell on a Monday this year so we grabbed the opportunity to stake out the pizzeria known for avenue-wide lines.
She works in the Rockefeller Center area, one of my least favorite parts of Manhattan due to its disturbing tourist-to-native ratio. We met on 50th Street and 6th Avenue, site of a famous Rosemary's Baby scene, where we discussed our transportation options.
"How should we get there?" Grandma Sitay asked, glancing around our environs, the numerous Europeans posing for pictures in front of Radio City Music Hall.
"I know! I have a brilliant idea. Let's take the NRW to get us farther east on 14th." I always have brilliant ideas about subway travel. You'll see why.
"Sure, that's fine." Grandma Sitay trusted my instincts. Something she'll never ever do again.
We wandered over to 49th and 7th to pick up the NRW. As we stood safely between the two white parallel lines, waiting to cross 7th Avenue, a woman stumbled past Grandma Sitay, slightly knocking into her. She called out, "Oops, I'm sorry, sweetie." So appreciative of this kind gesture, G. Sitay double-taked, asking, "Did she just call me 'sweetie'?" We both reveled in the moment of rare human connection and crossed the street, Times Square's flashing lights twinkling in our peripheral view.
This will be an unbeatable night, I thought. Everyone is excited for my birthday.
What a foolish notion.
The N train came to a halting stop at 49th Street and we boarded the last car, which was full, uncomfortable, a hot mess. We stood near the door, grasping the overhead bar to keep our balance. There was chit chat and silence, and I lost track of stops.
One brave soul decided it was time to split and pushed her way up out of her cozy bench seat, freeing herself from the chaotic sub-atmosphere. G. Sitay comfortably slipped into the woman's spot. Once G. Sitay was firmly placed on the bench, I sat beside her.
A tall, thin white woman - who we''ll call Rosemary's Baby - sidled up toward me as I took my place next to G. Sitay. Did she want my seat? I couldn't tell.
Two seconds later Rosemary's Baby aggressively shoved her size 0 body into the narrow space between G. Sitay, a pole, and an unsuspecting woman named Lonnie (my name for her). Lonnie squirmed in her seat as Rosemary's Baby wiggled in, thrashing her hips back and forth to create a space for her thin, lanky frame.
I couldn't help but laugh. There wasn't any room for Rosemary's Baby between Lonnie and G. Sitay. What is this lady doing? Was anyone else watching this shit?
Rosemary's Baby wildly opened and closed her free copy of the New York Post (the Devil's paper), a scared, blind sea gull flapping its way out of a nasty tar spill. (But much funnier.) I pressed up against the woman to my right, Gretel, as Rosemary's Baby pushed G. Sitay out of her space.
A few breathless seconds passed and Rosemary's Baby sprung from her contortion and leapt to her feet. Deep crimson hues shot up from her toes to her face. She was as red as a raspberry, which is more pink or magenta (wouldn't you say?).
"SEE, I GOT UP DIDN'T I?" Rosemary's Baby yelled into G. Sitay's face, a dybbuk's spirit possessing her voice and violent motions. As if G. Sitay did or said anything at all.
We were all silent. Lonnie, Gretel, G. Sitay and I.
Thank goodness I focused on the unusual facial hair of another subway rider (a woman named Augustina). Otherwise I may have burst into unbridled laughter. I twisted my face to make a somber smirk, unable to draw a thin line of New-York-apathy across my lips. I think Rosemary's Baby noticed. But I DON'T CARE because Rosemary's Baby got problems and Rosemary's Baby should try lithium. I hear it works wonders.
A distant voice announced: "14th Street, Union Square, Transfer to the 4, 5, 6 ..."
"THIS IS OUR STOP. LET'S GO. NOW!!!!" I pushed past tourists, hoping G. Sitay would grab onto my hand, shoulder, hair, skirt, shirt, anything to safely follow me out of the Devil's lair. We made it. We're alive. Rosemary's Baby stayed beneath. Where she belongs.
So here's the bottom line: MTA - PLEASE QUIT PUTTING BLANK, UNFORMED BENCHES IN YOUR SUBWAY CARS. We need lines, we need divisions, parameters! Give me seats, or give me death! Because death is exactly what it may come to next time we go downtown.
The end. (Applause)
PS The pizza was a-m-a-z-i-n-g. Try the artichoke slice. Tell Artie I sent ya.
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
Starbucks 2.1 - Any suggestions for where I can write?
I am very disturbed.
To the point where I am having trouble falling asleep. Now, I don't want to keep you awake but I imagine you'll read this over AM coffee and boring work tasks. A little ruffling of feathers never hurt that regime.
Tonight I went to Starbucks to write. This time I opted for the 96th/Broadway fixture, with high hopes of avoiding the string of weirdos at the next express stop.
Well, apparently I need to choose a Sbuck (as I'll refer to it) at a local stop.
7:00 PM
As I happily type away on my computer, listening to the new Conor Oberst cd, which you should buy when you're done reading this entry, I watch customers come and go, talking of Michelangelo among other topics - usually not in English. I turn up the volume, drown out their noise, and carry on, thinking of smart metaphors and turns of phrase to aptly capture my subject.
Half-way through the CD, I hear a man's voice directed at me.
"What kind of computer is that? What is it? A fluff book?" He says, startling me.
"Um..." I am taken by his appearance. He is not ambiguously homeless, unlike Kenny. There is a direct, explicit quality about his homelessness that shines through his wooden teeth and stained clothing.
His stare demands a response.
"Um, it's a MacBook Pro." Why am I talking to him?
"Oh, what's the processor? A dual processor?" Interested in computers, I see.
"Uh, um." I am genuinely fearful of him, but remove only one earbud to indicate I intend to end this conversation sometime before the song I'm listening to ends.
"You don't know."
"No, um, it's dual processor. I don't know." Do I not know? Why I am talking to him is what I don't know.
"Okay." He waves his hand at me, saying, You're dumb and bought a computer you know nothing about.
I return to my music, shaken up, but he walks behind my chair to plug in his power cord.
7:30 PM
"I got to charge it up." He's talking about his laptop that he's pulled out of a Duane Reade shopping bag. I notice a few speakers in the bag as well. Capacious.
"Right." As he's moving behind me, he looks over my shoulder to read what I'm writing and makes a face at me, close to mine, then bends to insert his cord into the wall. He knocks my adapter out in the process.
"Oh! I'm SO sorry! That was so rude of me." Exclamatory is he. There's no need for embellishing on my part (!).
"It's fine. You didn't mean to do it." Stern at first, then soft, sympathetic.
"It's just so rude to do that. I really didn't mean to." He didn't mean to. He means to keep talking to me.
"Don't worry about it." Like we're old friends.
"What's your name?" Here we go again.
"Nicole." Genevieve should have been tonight's alias.
"Nice. Do you come here often? Yeah, you come here often. I can tell. You got a boyfriend?"
He knows so much about me. Already. "I come here every now and then" - intermittent reinforcement for his stalking - "and I don't have a boyfriend. That's probably why I'm here right now."
I laugh to myself. He doesn't think it's funny. He stares into me, through me with his big blue eyes. As we're "talking," a woman friend of his, with an equally horrifying dental situation, brings him a venti tea. He chides her for placing it on the table with his valuable hardware.
"I've been working in computers since 1983." So he knows a lot about them.
"Oh yeah?" I shut down my computer.
"Yeah, an insurance company I worked for. I could have sued them but I didn't. I'm not someone to do that. Know what I mean?"
"I do. It's a morality thing." Remove the adapter from the wall.
"Exactly. It probably wouldn't have made a difference to them, but for me, it felt like something I couldn't bring myself to do."
"I totally understand what you're saying." Adapter in the bag, velcro crunch, pocket sealed.
"You should listen to this song about changing the world. I wish politicians would follow it." He's one to follow the important issues.
"Oh, I will sometime. Thanks." Laptop in the bag.
"You like the band Tool? Nine Inch Nails?"
"I've heard of them." Zipper - zoot! - bag shut.
"There's this song I have on my computer. Let me play it for you." He opens the file and attaches his speakers to the computer. "They won't mind." He points to the baristas behind the counter who are chatting about their love lives.
"What's your name again?"
Genevieve. "Nicole. What's yours?"
"My name's only for friends, but I don't have any of them." Then who is the lady you're sitting with, buddy? "It's Tom." He smiles.
"Nice to meet you." A quick smile. I don't extend my hand or fantasize about blending it in someone's frappaccino.
My tote full of personal items is on the table, ready for lift off. The laptop bag is already slung across my chest.
"Sure, play it."
On his screen, Trent Reznor, ball of sunshine that he is, appears, suspended in a cloudy sky. Music wells around him. His dark precise facial hair contrasts his pale face. The camera cuts to a large bird with giant ugly claws and big blinking eyes. Then some woman, part of Trent's sexist fantasy, writhes on a couch, clothed or not. I am too lost in my escape plan to notice the minute details of this presentation. Trent sings something like, "I want to be with you. I want you."
During the two minutes of this spectacle, I've become increasingly anxiety-ridden, looking around at the people in the Sbuck, who all seem to think this is the usual for Tuesday nights.
"Nicole, this is what I want to say to you. What he's saying right now." He's referring to the NIN lullaby chorus about "wanting you."
Jaw drops, nausea begins. Luckily, a barista, done talking about her boyfriend, intervenes, telling Tom to turn the music off.
"You got this Enya crap going on in here. I don't know how you can stand it all day. What's next? Tony Bennett," he yells at her across the room as she sweeps the floor.
This is my opportunity to leave, so I grab it and shake it like an infant, run the hell out of there. On my trip home, I feel paranoid that Tom is following me. I am up tonight because I can't shake this man's stare.
Good night?
To the point where I am having trouble falling asleep. Now, I don't want to keep you awake but I imagine you'll read this over AM coffee and boring work tasks. A little ruffling of feathers never hurt that regime.
Tonight I went to Starbucks to write. This time I opted for the 96th/Broadway fixture, with high hopes of avoiding the string of weirdos at the next express stop.
Well, apparently I need to choose a Sbuck (as I'll refer to it) at a local stop.
7:00 PM
As I happily type away on my computer, listening to the new Conor Oberst cd, which you should buy when you're done reading this entry, I watch customers come and go, talking of Michelangelo among other topics - usually not in English. I turn up the volume, drown out their noise, and carry on, thinking of smart metaphors and turns of phrase to aptly capture my subject.
Half-way through the CD, I hear a man's voice directed at me.
"What kind of computer is that? What is it? A fluff book?" He says, startling me.
"Um..." I am taken by his appearance. He is not ambiguously homeless, unlike Kenny. There is a direct, explicit quality about his homelessness that shines through his wooden teeth and stained clothing.
His stare demands a response.
"Um, it's a MacBook Pro." Why am I talking to him?
"Oh, what's the processor? A dual processor?" Interested in computers, I see.
"Uh, um." I am genuinely fearful of him, but remove only one earbud to indicate I intend to end this conversation sometime before the song I'm listening to ends.
"You don't know."
"No, um, it's dual processor. I don't know." Do I not know? Why I am talking to him is what I don't know.
"Okay." He waves his hand at me, saying, You're dumb and bought a computer you know nothing about.
I return to my music, shaken up, but he walks behind my chair to plug in his power cord.
7:30 PM
"I got to charge it up." He's talking about his laptop that he's pulled out of a Duane Reade shopping bag. I notice a few speakers in the bag as well. Capacious.
"Right." As he's moving behind me, he looks over my shoulder to read what I'm writing and makes a face at me, close to mine, then bends to insert his cord into the wall. He knocks my adapter out in the process.
"Oh! I'm SO sorry! That was so rude of me." Exclamatory is he. There's no need for embellishing on my part (!).
"It's fine. You didn't mean to do it." Stern at first, then soft, sympathetic.
"It's just so rude to do that. I really didn't mean to." He didn't mean to. He means to keep talking to me.
"Don't worry about it." Like we're old friends.
"What's your name?" Here we go again.
"Nicole." Genevieve should have been tonight's alias.
"Nice. Do you come here often? Yeah, you come here often. I can tell. You got a boyfriend?"
He knows so much about me. Already. "I come here every now and then" - intermittent reinforcement for his stalking - "and I don't have a boyfriend. That's probably why I'm here right now."
I laugh to myself. He doesn't think it's funny. He stares into me, through me with his big blue eyes. As we're "talking," a woman friend of his, with an equally horrifying dental situation, brings him a venti tea. He chides her for placing it on the table with his valuable hardware.
"I've been working in computers since 1983." So he knows a lot about them.
"Oh yeah?" I shut down my computer.
"Yeah, an insurance company I worked for. I could have sued them but I didn't. I'm not someone to do that. Know what I mean?"
"I do. It's a morality thing." Remove the adapter from the wall.
"Exactly. It probably wouldn't have made a difference to them, but for me, it felt like something I couldn't bring myself to do."
"I totally understand what you're saying." Adapter in the bag, velcro crunch, pocket sealed.
"You should listen to this song about changing the world. I wish politicians would follow it." He's one to follow the important issues.
"Oh, I will sometime. Thanks." Laptop in the bag.
"You like the band Tool? Nine Inch Nails?"
"I've heard of them." Zipper - zoot! - bag shut.
"There's this song I have on my computer. Let me play it for you." He opens the file and attaches his speakers to the computer. "They won't mind." He points to the baristas behind the counter who are chatting about their love lives.
"What's your name again?"
Genevieve. "Nicole. What's yours?"
"My name's only for friends, but I don't have any of them." Then who is the lady you're sitting with, buddy? "It's Tom." He smiles.
"Nice to meet you." A quick smile. I don't extend my hand or fantasize about blending it in someone's frappaccino.
My tote full of personal items is on the table, ready for lift off. The laptop bag is already slung across my chest.
"Sure, play it."
On his screen, Trent Reznor, ball of sunshine that he is, appears, suspended in a cloudy sky. Music wells around him. His dark precise facial hair contrasts his pale face. The camera cuts to a large bird with giant ugly claws and big blinking eyes. Then some woman, part of Trent's sexist fantasy, writhes on a couch, clothed or not. I am too lost in my escape plan to notice the minute details of this presentation. Trent sings something like, "I want to be with you. I want you."
During the two minutes of this spectacle, I've become increasingly anxiety-ridden, looking around at the people in the Sbuck, who all seem to think this is the usual for Tuesday nights.
"Nicole, this is what I want to say to you. What he's saying right now." He's referring to the NIN lullaby chorus about "wanting you."
Jaw drops, nausea begins. Luckily, a barista, done talking about her boyfriend, intervenes, telling Tom to turn the music off.
"You got this Enya crap going on in here. I don't know how you can stand it all day. What's next? Tony Bennett," he yells at her across the room as she sweeps the floor.
This is my opportunity to leave, so I grab it and shake it like an infant, run the hell out of there. On my trip home, I feel paranoid that Tom is following me. I am up tonight because I can't shake this man's stare.
Good night?
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.
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?
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.
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.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Our Favorite
Not only is Barack Obama the BEST CANDIDATE FOR PRESIDENT WE HAVE EVER SEEN OH MY GOD, he is also the finest writer the world has ever yielded.
We're all so proud of him. He doesn't even have an MFA. How impressive.
We're all so proud of him. He doesn't even have an MFA. How impressive.
Monday, March 03, 2008
Watch her fall! It's fun, we swear!
Look at this. NOW.
OK. If you're not disgusted, I suggest you turn your browser to another site, one without feminist, no, humanist convictions. You have plenty of options, go.
What does a falling Hillary signify? I don't know, really, I can't get past her poor shoe choice and pink bikini. Or that awesome body she has. Who cares if she's funny or smart or capable (or, or, or, or, or) with a rack like that?
Right? Right.
There's a moral to every American story. Stripped of her pantsuit, this candidate is still a glossy centerfold fashion victim without any stable ground to stand on. (Do the clothes make the man? Or kill him? Only if she's a woman underneath.)
On the night before super-irritating Tuesday, I watch her bounce between the balls, wait for her body to end up twisted, mangled in a crevice somewhere irretrievable. Oh hold on, she's been there. For months now. This stupid show is nothing new.
OK. If you're not disgusted, I suggest you turn your browser to another site, one without feminist, no, humanist convictions. You have plenty of options, go.
What does a falling Hillary signify? I don't know, really, I can't get past her poor shoe choice and pink bikini. Or that awesome body she has. Who cares if she's funny or smart or capable (or, or, or, or, or) with a rack like that?
Right? Right.
There's a moral to every American story. Stripped of her pantsuit, this candidate is still a glossy centerfold fashion victim without any stable ground to stand on. (Do the clothes make the man? Or kill him? Only if she's a woman underneath.)
On the night before super-irritating Tuesday, I watch her bounce between the balls, wait for her body to end up twisted, mangled in a crevice somewhere irretrievable. Oh hold on, she's been there. For months now. This stupid show is nothing new.
Sunday, March 02, 2008
NY Times & Women: a multi-part love story.
How many times is the New York Times going to publish this article? Or a permutation of it? Less than one standard deviation from another article about gender differences using one myopic expert to prove the rule, the assumption, the sexist expectation?
What's the consensus? Do we feel bad for boys this time? Are they not getting enough attention? Oh, I see, this time we're mentioning that age-old concern that females aren't encouraged in math and science - seeking equality in the text. How genuine.
I think students should be separate based on braces or no braces. Or Hannah Montana fans or Zac Efron fans. Sounds more productive to me. Everyone would get along in harmony, singing and staging choreography as they construct geometric proofs.
Oh, but we wouldn't split them up by race. No, no. That'd be absurd. That'd be like splitting them up based on Free & Reduced eligibility (FRLP, remember?). We like to touch and prod and step all over gender in America; it's the clearest decision to make and least messy. It's not like we've witnessed how that's played out lately here or here or here or here (the only one that makes ANY sense), or give me a few minutes and I'll find more.
So, I wonder, NYTimes, who you actually endorse. Women? Never. Not on the page not in your spacious cubicles and floors down by Port Authority.
And Obama, king of non-stick politics, when can we expect that huge endorsement from Teflon (and others, the NRA, nuclear power, etc.)?
...all I hear are words to a changing tune...
What's the consensus? Do we feel bad for boys this time? Are they not getting enough attention? Oh, I see, this time we're mentioning that age-old concern that females aren't encouraged in math and science - seeking equality in the text. How genuine.
I think students should be separate based on braces or no braces. Or Hannah Montana fans or Zac Efron fans. Sounds more productive to me. Everyone would get along in harmony, singing and staging choreography as they construct geometric proofs.
Oh, but we wouldn't split them up by race. No, no. That'd be absurd. That'd be like splitting them up based on Free & Reduced eligibility (FRLP, remember?). We like to touch and prod and step all over gender in America; it's the clearest decision to make and least messy. It's not like we've witnessed how that's played out lately here or here or here or here (the only one that makes ANY sense), or give me a few minutes and I'll find more.
So, I wonder, NYTimes, who you actually endorse. Women? Never. Not on the page not in your spacious cubicles and floors down by Port Authority.
And Obama, king of non-stick politics, when can we expect that huge endorsement from Teflon (and others, the NRA, nuclear power, etc.)?
...all I hear are words to a changing tune...
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
My Audition - A Fantasy
When I audition for American Idol, I know exactly what I'll sing.
Okay, so maybe you're wondering why I'd audition to be the next American Idol. Well, I think it's pretty obvious so we won't get into that. You skeptics, go read someone else's blog!
(Just kidding. Sorta.)
Getting back to the important matter at hand: I will sing the Empire Today jingle. You've heard it, an advertisement for really awesome flooring! 800 588 2300 EMPIRE (smile) It'd be original, obscure, yet strangely powerful. I will beat box between 588 and 2300 and really belt out EMPIRE at the end to show my range of performance styles. This will woo Simon, as Randy notes the clever throw back yet contemporary thing I've got goin' on. Paula will just nod and sway. Sway and nod. I will find my way to Hollywood where I'll meet important executives who will sign me to record jingles for finer products such as Mr. Clean cleaning products and a menopausal woman's supplement.
Next year, when American Idol comes to my "neck of the woods," I'll be ready. The question is: Will you?
Okay, so maybe you're wondering why I'd audition to be the next American Idol. Well, I think it's pretty obvious so we won't get into that. You skeptics, go read someone else's blog!
(Just kidding. Sorta.)
Getting back to the important matter at hand: I will sing the Empire Today jingle. You've heard it, an advertisement for really awesome flooring! 800 588 2300 EMPIRE (smile) It'd be original, obscure, yet strangely powerful. I will beat box between 588 and 2300 and really belt out EMPIRE at the end to show my range of performance styles. This will woo Simon, as Randy notes the clever throw back yet contemporary thing I've got goin' on. Paula will just nod and sway. Sway and nod. I will find my way to Hollywood where I'll meet important executives who will sign me to record jingles for finer products such as Mr. Clean cleaning products and a menopausal woman's supplement.
Next year, when American Idol comes to my "neck of the woods," I'll be ready. The question is: Will you?
Monday, January 07, 2008
and this isn't about hillary
they will
go to great lengths to elect
anyonebutawoman.
i watch
half the american race selfsabotage
election
electionelection
elect
ion
elect
i
don't
elect.
go to great lengths to elect
anyonebutawoman.
i watch
half the american race selfsabotage
election
electionelection
elect
ion
elect
i
don't
elect.
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