Kiss Them Goodbye Day!
It's not your party. It's Patty's. Half the guests are people you just met tonight. People are putting on their coats. Grab your drink in your right hand, plant yourself by the door and kiss them all goodbye.
David and Janice were kind and they spoke of their impending move to Syracuse. David's going to be teaching there. You met them tonight and you'll probably never see them again. David will extend his right hand to you. Put your left arm around his shoulder and kiss his cheek, then say, "Good luck in Syracuse." Repeat with Janice.
Mark wants to sleep with you but has a girlfriend of nine years. Mark will hug you goodbye. Kiss his cheek and whisper in his ear, "It was great to see you again."
Jennifer loathes you with all of her being. She will say goodbye without an effort towards physical contact. Reach your hand around to pull Jennifer in by the back of her head and kiss her on the neck. It will force her to laugh and she'll say, "Okay!"
Louis and Francis, being queer, were the life of the dance floor. Draw them into a group hug, kiss them both on the mouth, and then make them follow your lead into a jokey three-way hump. They'll play along, then Louis will turn around to wave goodbye to the party to see if anyone caught their final skit of the evening.
The first wave of departures will have petered out by now. Get to the bar and refill your drink before the next group disperses. Back by the door, find Jimmy where he's sitting on the back of a couch. Jimmy'll be watching you. He'll wonder if you're going to be there by the door when he leaves.
Kevin was such a terrible lay and he's not bright at all. He's on his way downhill, financially and socially. He should be leaving the city within the year. Kevin's waiting for your kiss goodbye. He's grabbing out for any affection he can get these days. Give him a short peck on the cheek that would be hard to misinterpret. He'll probably call you this week, regardless.
Larissa, your favorite for life, will kiss you first. She'll kiss you on the lips and say, "Forget about him. Just come back and crash with me. I'll get you high." Tell her you're not going to do anything stupid and you need to wake up early in the morning but thanks and kiss her on the lips once more. One day, you'll have to buy Larissa an expensive birthday present. Something to let her know you owe her your life ten times over.
Kim and Pete made it out tonight, their first night out since the baby was born. You haven't been by to see the baby yet, so promise to come by soon and give them both a kiss to give to their daughter for you. You've always gotten the impression that Kim and Pete think you're an irresponsible mess. You can't help but agree.
Lester got your number tonight. Give him a kiss and tell him to call you. A kiss on the cheek will do the trick. Don't forget to call Patty tomorrow to find out whether you should avoid his call.
Here come the next five winter coats. Deborah and Jill in their matching black overcoats. Jeff in his hooded parka. And Laura, the arm of her red ski jacket hooked through the arm of Jimmy's Pea coat.
Deborah and Jill are loaded and loud. Kiss Jill on the cheek. She'll say "Bye baby." Deborah's gonna grab you by the sides of your head and stick her tongue in your mouth. Make loud ecstatic noises with her. When Deborah lets go, she'll slap your cheek lightly and say "Later on, twat."
Jeff's gonna grab you by the sides of your head and say, "My turn." Jill brought Jeff along and he seems fun, but you're not sure he's straight. Just give him a shove away then kiss him on the cheek. Call Jill this week to find out if Jeff is straight and if she's fucking him.
Jimmy will be doing all he can to talk to anyone in the vicinity so as to keep his back to you. But he and Laura are the only ones leaving by now. And Laura is telling you she's happy to have met you.
"Likewise," say. Don't kiss her. Don't extend your hand for a handshake. In fact, take a sip from your glass. Laura will look to Jimmy to see if he's finished his goodbyes.
That's when Jimmy will turn to say goodbye to you. He'll say, "Good to see ya."
"Mm," say.
Jimmy will say to Laura, "You ready." She'll smile and nod like a fucking retard.
Jimmy will say to you, "Okay then. Bye bye."
"Bye bye," say. Tip toe with your glass in both hands and put your lips to his. He'll kiss back.
Laura, easily confused, will look confused. Wave to her, even though she's standing a foot away from you. She'll wave back. She does as she's told.
Jimmy will mutter something inaudible to one of you and Jimmy and Laura will leave for the evening. Patty will come walking towards you now. She saw what happened and, it being her party, she'll feel it her responsibility to ask you what the fuck? Move into the living room before she can catch you. You don't have to kiss anyone else goodbye. You got to kiss Jimmy.
Happy Kiss Them Goodbye Day!
Friday, February 27, 2004
Drink The Magic Potion, Faggot Day!
There are three ancient flasks on your kitchen counter and an adorable girl in your bed who's gonna wake up sober. You have to drink one of the flasks and become superhuman before she wakes up and discovers who she mistakenly went home with last night, thanks to dim lighting and the 38 dollars of whiskey you poured down her throat.
Only one of the flasks contains the magic potion that makes you superhuman. Of the other two, one turns you into a giant frog, which she probably won't dig but at least when she leaves and never calls it won't be because she found out who you are and what you're like. And the third magic potion turns you into something indescribably horrible. But again, it's either "I got the hell outta there because all of a sudden he was this skinned wraith with clawed wings," or "Dear Christ he was dull and unattractive." Win-win.
If you're still afraid to drink the magic potion, see if you can get her drunk again after she wakes up. Bring the flasks into the bathroom and listen to the closed door for when she wakes up. When you hear her rustling, say through the door, "You're probably really hungover. If you want to drink a lot of whiskey, it's in the cabinet above the toaster." If she takes the bait, stay in the bathroom around 45 minutes, long enough for her to get so drunk that you're worth her time again. If she says she doesn't want alcohol so early in the day, drink the magic potion faggot and start thinking of places for brunch.
Happy Drink The Magic Potion, Faggot Day!
There are three ancient flasks on your kitchen counter and an adorable girl in your bed who's gonna wake up sober. You have to drink one of the flasks and become superhuman before she wakes up and discovers who she mistakenly went home with last night, thanks to dim lighting and the 38 dollars of whiskey you poured down her throat.
Only one of the flasks contains the magic potion that makes you superhuman. Of the other two, one turns you into a giant frog, which she probably won't dig but at least when she leaves and never calls it won't be because she found out who you are and what you're like. And the third magic potion turns you into something indescribably horrible. But again, it's either "I got the hell outta there because all of a sudden he was this skinned wraith with clawed wings," or "Dear Christ he was dull and unattractive." Win-win.
If you're still afraid to drink the magic potion, see if you can get her drunk again after she wakes up. Bring the flasks into the bathroom and listen to the closed door for when she wakes up. When you hear her rustling, say through the door, "You're probably really hungover. If you want to drink a lot of whiskey, it's in the cabinet above the toaster." If she takes the bait, stay in the bathroom around 45 minutes, long enough for her to get so drunk that you're worth her time again. If she says she doesn't want alcohol so early in the day, drink the magic potion faggot and start thinking of places for brunch.
Happy Drink The Magic Potion, Faggot Day!
Thursday, February 26, 2004
Girl So Sad Day!
Best, best, best sight in the whole world to see. A pretty girl so sad sitting on her bed thinking about a boy in a scarf who kissed her on a street corner once one year ago today.
There she was in a green painted cafe writing something down in a notebook when she heard a voice shout his name (DAN!). She turned to the voice to see a face looking at the door. She turned to the door to see a boy she never saw before named Dan. She was disappointed.
He hadn't been in her heart for four months and all of a sudden she was pissed at a stranger for never having driven her to Maryland for her grandmother's funeral, for never having poured beer into her mouth from a seashell, for never having fucked her up against a bookshelf. And yes, for never having pulled his scarf down to kiss her on a street corner.
A pretty girl so sad in a skirt on a bed leans back into some pillows and starts talking out loud, talking to Dan. She says, "This is weird," because she's imagining what it would be like if she and Dan found each other in the empty bathroom corridor of a house party and they extended their hands to each other's hips, each silently asking the other if it's cool if they kiss again. She doesn't get as far as them kissing again, because even her imagination can't pull that off. She just replays the hands reaching out over and over again. Sometimes she moves first. She pulls her hand off her hip and holds it out between them for a second, right after he's asked how she's been and she's said fine, she stares at her hand for a second then puts it on his hip. He puts both his hands on her hips like she pushed a button that makes his arms move. She says this is weird. In another version, he takes one of her hands in his first, then they both move to the hips and she says this is weird.
When she's done the replays she sits up, takes off her shirt, and cries in her bra. It is such a gorgeous vision you'd stab your eyes out if you saw it.
Happy Girl So Sad Day!
Best, best, best sight in the whole world to see. A pretty girl so sad sitting on her bed thinking about a boy in a scarf who kissed her on a street corner once one year ago today.
There she was in a green painted cafe writing something down in a notebook when she heard a voice shout his name (DAN!). She turned to the voice to see a face looking at the door. She turned to the door to see a boy she never saw before named Dan. She was disappointed.
He hadn't been in her heart for four months and all of a sudden she was pissed at a stranger for never having driven her to Maryland for her grandmother's funeral, for never having poured beer into her mouth from a seashell, for never having fucked her up against a bookshelf. And yes, for never having pulled his scarf down to kiss her on a street corner.
A pretty girl so sad in a skirt on a bed leans back into some pillows and starts talking out loud, talking to Dan. She says, "This is weird," because she's imagining what it would be like if she and Dan found each other in the empty bathroom corridor of a house party and they extended their hands to each other's hips, each silently asking the other if it's cool if they kiss again. She doesn't get as far as them kissing again, because even her imagination can't pull that off. She just replays the hands reaching out over and over again. Sometimes she moves first. She pulls her hand off her hip and holds it out between them for a second, right after he's asked how she's been and she's said fine, she stares at her hand for a second then puts it on his hip. He puts both his hands on her hips like she pushed a button that makes his arms move. She says this is weird. In another version, he takes one of her hands in his first, then they both move to the hips and she says this is weird.
When she's done the replays she sits up, takes off her shirt, and cries in her bra. It is such a gorgeous vision you'd stab your eyes out if you saw it.
Happy Girl So Sad Day!
Wednesday, February 25, 2004
Jungle Jim Day!
You and your friends are 23. You're all drunk as holy shit and you're perched atop the bars of an elementary school Jungle Jim. Your girlfriends are on their way to meet you there.
Occasionally, one of you will hang from one of the bars by your knees. But mostly, you all just sit there draining beercans in silence.
"Dave get a job yet?" one of you asks. Someone says no.
A group of kids walks past holding a wiffle ball bat. The kids are frightened of you. When they find nineteen year olds drinking on a Jungle Jim, they expect to be chased or wedgied. The kids don't know what to expect from 23 year olds drinking on a Jungle Jim. Their pace is hesitant. Their legs are stiff, ready to push them off into a sprint should someone holler.
The kids don't know to expect very little from you. You're drunk on a Jungle Jim tonight because you've never been drunk on a Jungle Jim before. And tomorrow you'll either be drunk at a gun show or drunk in a tent. You're just trying to get some stuff out of the way before you're 24.
Your girlfriends are here.
"Hey!"
"Hey, climb on."
Your girlfriends climb onto the Jungle Jim with you and open beercans. One of them talks about her temp job for a while, then it's quiet again.
Happy Jungle Jim Day!
You and your friends are 23. You're all drunk as holy shit and you're perched atop the bars of an elementary school Jungle Jim. Your girlfriends are on their way to meet you there.
Occasionally, one of you will hang from one of the bars by your knees. But mostly, you all just sit there draining beercans in silence.
"Dave get a job yet?" one of you asks. Someone says no.
A group of kids walks past holding a wiffle ball bat. The kids are frightened of you. When they find nineteen year olds drinking on a Jungle Jim, they expect to be chased or wedgied. The kids don't know what to expect from 23 year olds drinking on a Jungle Jim. Their pace is hesitant. Their legs are stiff, ready to push them off into a sprint should someone holler.
The kids don't know to expect very little from you. You're drunk on a Jungle Jim tonight because you've never been drunk on a Jungle Jim before. And tomorrow you'll either be drunk at a gun show or drunk in a tent. You're just trying to get some stuff out of the way before you're 24.
Your girlfriends are here.
"Hey!"
"Hey, climb on."
Your girlfriends climb onto the Jungle Jim with you and open beercans. One of them talks about her temp job for a while, then it's quiet again.
Happy Jungle Jim Day!
Tuesday, February 24, 2004
The Bartender, Waiting For The Phone To Ring Day!
Another one, please, Alice. Hey, you seem preoccupied.
She's up on her perch, a revolving stool with a seat-back, her knees pulled up under her chin, her sweatjacket zipped up and bunching into her brown hair. She's staring at the rotary phone on the wall next to the Bass mirror.
Alice?
Henry? Oh God, I'm sorry. You need another?
I said, you seem preoccupied. But yeah, I need another.
Sorry. I'm?
Alice pours Henry his Maker's Mark. She pours one for herself. She leans on the bar in front of Henry, her eyes pointed at the glass.
What's his name?
James.
Why's he gonna call?
Alice glances back at the phone, then takes a sip from her glass.
If you had my number wouldn't you dial it?
Henry raises his glass to her. Finishes it.
Sometimes I wonder why we're bothering Henry. Why does anyone give a flying fuck about anyone else? Why do I hand my life over to a guy who isn't even asking for it?
Nothin' else to do I guess.
There's movies.
Booze, Alice. Booze.
Good food.
All three of those hold the promise of having sex after.
Unless you go it alone.
You ain't supposed to drink alone, Alice. And going to movies, going to dinner alone. That's frowned upon. One more.
Alice pours Henry his drink. She pours herself another.
More guys should be like you Henry.
You're pouring my drinks Alice. Take me home and I'm no better than the rest. No worse neither.
Then I better just keep pouring your drinks Henry.
Ain't broke. Don't fix it.
Henry looks over at the phone. Alice follows his eyes. They watch the phone and sip their glasses.
Man, that thing sure ain't ringin'.
Alice stares into her drink.
So quiet it's making noise. Like the absence of a ring could make a sound. What sound would that be Alice?
Alice laughs a little. She makes her lips into an O and lets out a guttural growl.
Henry lets air sift through his teeth. It sounds like wind blowing through some trees. Or water.
They laugh some more. Finish their drinks. Pour two more.
All I want is for that phone to ring and for him to be there on the other end telling me where I'll find him tonight. What the fuck do I do now Henry?
Henry shrugs. I know whenever I'm waiting for the phone to ring, I wait for the phone to ring. A gunfight couldn't take my mind off it. Henry downs his glass. I'll leave you to it.
Henry pulls his coat on, reaches over the bar to rub his hand to the back of Alice's brown hair. He heads out the door.
Alice drops his glass into the sink, pulls her hair back into her sweatjacket, and climbs back up on her perch. Her eyes, just over her knees, look through the window out at the street. They look just past the phone on the wall.
Happy The Bartender, Waiting For The Phone To Ring Day!
Another one, please, Alice. Hey, you seem preoccupied.
She's up on her perch, a revolving stool with a seat-back, her knees pulled up under her chin, her sweatjacket zipped up and bunching into her brown hair. She's staring at the rotary phone on the wall next to the Bass mirror.
Alice?
Henry? Oh God, I'm sorry. You need another?
I said, you seem preoccupied. But yeah, I need another.
Sorry. I'm?
Alice pours Henry his Maker's Mark. She pours one for herself. She leans on the bar in front of Henry, her eyes pointed at the glass.
What's his name?
James.
Why's he gonna call?
Alice glances back at the phone, then takes a sip from her glass.
If you had my number wouldn't you dial it?
Henry raises his glass to her. Finishes it.
Sometimes I wonder why we're bothering Henry. Why does anyone give a flying fuck about anyone else? Why do I hand my life over to a guy who isn't even asking for it?
Nothin' else to do I guess.
There's movies.
Booze, Alice. Booze.
Good food.
All three of those hold the promise of having sex after.
Unless you go it alone.
You ain't supposed to drink alone, Alice. And going to movies, going to dinner alone. That's frowned upon. One more.
Alice pours Henry his drink. She pours herself another.
More guys should be like you Henry.
You're pouring my drinks Alice. Take me home and I'm no better than the rest. No worse neither.
Then I better just keep pouring your drinks Henry.
Ain't broke. Don't fix it.
Henry looks over at the phone. Alice follows his eyes. They watch the phone and sip their glasses.
Man, that thing sure ain't ringin'.
Alice stares into her drink.
So quiet it's making noise. Like the absence of a ring could make a sound. What sound would that be Alice?
Alice laughs a little. She makes her lips into an O and lets out a guttural growl.
Henry lets air sift through his teeth. It sounds like wind blowing through some trees. Or water.
They laugh some more. Finish their drinks. Pour two more.
All I want is for that phone to ring and for him to be there on the other end telling me where I'll find him tonight. What the fuck do I do now Henry?
Henry shrugs. I know whenever I'm waiting for the phone to ring, I wait for the phone to ring. A gunfight couldn't take my mind off it. Henry downs his glass. I'll leave you to it.
Henry pulls his coat on, reaches over the bar to rub his hand to the back of Alice's brown hair. He heads out the door.
Alice drops his glass into the sink, pulls her hair back into her sweatjacket, and climbs back up on her perch. Her eyes, just over her knees, look through the window out at the street. They look just past the phone on the wall.
Happy The Bartender, Waiting For The Phone To Ring Day!
Monday, February 23, 2004
Bend The Spoon With Your Love Day!
Your girlfriend doesn't think you love her enough. She's been telling all your friends and your coworkers at the Coffee Cavern. "He says he loves me more than he's ever loved anybody. But his previous girlfriends were all real dim. Loving them would've amounted to saying, 'Whoah' to let them know they were about to walk in front of a bus."
She's gonna end it. No one will tell you that. But she's made it pretty clear. She's gonna end it unless you can prove that you love her more than George, her ex-boyfriend who got killed battling African jewel pirates for a diamond he wanted to give to her as an Easter present.
Now, it's clear that you don't love her enough. But she doesn't have to know that. She just needs some kind of physical evidence. And there's no better way to trick her into thinking you've got the goods than to tell her you're going to use your love to bend a spoon.
Hold a soup spoon up in front of her eyes and say, "I will not physically manipulate this spoon. But the affection I hold for you in my heart is about to enter into the world as an occurrence, a weather pattern, a force. The warmth of my love will turn to a blacksmith's fire around the spoon. The strength of my love will become a strong-man's fingertips. I will hold it only by its tail and will employ no force. This spoon shall bend. My love for you is what's gonna make it bend."
Then, while she's there watching with hopeful eyes, make the spoon bend over in two. But don't try to use your love. Use your mind.
Happy Bend The Spoon With Your Love Day!
Your girlfriend doesn't think you love her enough. She's been telling all your friends and your coworkers at the Coffee Cavern. "He says he loves me more than he's ever loved anybody. But his previous girlfriends were all real dim. Loving them would've amounted to saying, 'Whoah' to let them know they were about to walk in front of a bus."
She's gonna end it. No one will tell you that. But she's made it pretty clear. She's gonna end it unless you can prove that you love her more than George, her ex-boyfriend who got killed battling African jewel pirates for a diamond he wanted to give to her as an Easter present.
Now, it's clear that you don't love her enough. But she doesn't have to know that. She just needs some kind of physical evidence. And there's no better way to trick her into thinking you've got the goods than to tell her you're going to use your love to bend a spoon.
Hold a soup spoon up in front of her eyes and say, "I will not physically manipulate this spoon. But the affection I hold for you in my heart is about to enter into the world as an occurrence, a weather pattern, a force. The warmth of my love will turn to a blacksmith's fire around the spoon. The strength of my love will become a strong-man's fingertips. I will hold it only by its tail and will employ no force. This spoon shall bend. My love for you is what's gonna make it bend."
Then, while she's there watching with hopeful eyes, make the spoon bend over in two. But don't try to use your love. Use your mind.
Happy Bend The Spoon With Your Love Day!
Sunday, February 22, 2004
Sunshine Makes Your Friends Phone Day!
Come outside, it's nice outside. Come and join us. Sun and a mimosa. Come and join us.
It's good that you checked the weather report before eating all your pills. On sunny days, they call and they pop by and your earth-shattering suicide might have been reduced to just another pathetic little "attempt." You were right to wait until this Thursday, when that cold front's gonna push down over the lakes and give us a little bit of AM hail.
Happy Sunshine Makes Your Friends Phone Day!
Come outside, it's nice outside. Come and join us. Sun and a mimosa. Come and join us.
It's good that you checked the weather report before eating all your pills. On sunny days, they call and they pop by and your earth-shattering suicide might have been reduced to just another pathetic little "attempt." You were right to wait until this Thursday, when that cold front's gonna push down over the lakes and give us a little bit of AM hail.
Happy Sunshine Makes Your Friends Phone Day!
Saturday, February 21, 2004
In This Room Day!
So much excitement right smack dab in the middle of this room. There was that double homicide. And that cat that came through the window from the fire escape and gave birth to kittens on your bed. These walls heard you lie to someone nine times (not including all the lies you told over the phone, just the lies you told face to face, here, in this room, seven were told to the same person, the other two were to two different cable television technicians). You danced here, on your bed. One thousand, two hundred and nineteen times did you fart in this room. One thousand, two hundred and two times did you come (catchin' up!). Only thirteen homeless people slept here at your invitation (selfish! insular!). 800 waking hours spent wondering why you couldn't fall asleep. Seven thousand conversations between you and the ceiling that should've been between you and Stacey. You didn't bleed all that much here. And your eyes never fell out in here neither. Remember that one time, when you sat on your bed and stared at yourself in the mirror for eighteen silent hours before you finally said, "why?" The walls were so fucking bored that day.
The walls were talking and they compiled a list of their 88 favorite things they enjoyed seeing you do in here. Here's the top five:
5. You, jumping up in the air and slamming your fist into the middle of the bed
4. You, putting your penis inside people
3. You, crying while wearing a lei (it only happened that once but wow)
2. You, pretending to be a magician while wearing a bathtowel
1. You, laying in bed awake, in the morning, staring at someone who's still asleep.
These walls will miss you when you go, but they're looking forward to a change. You've accumulated one hell of a stink over the course of two years Pig Pen.
Happy In This Room Day!
So much excitement right smack dab in the middle of this room. There was that double homicide. And that cat that came through the window from the fire escape and gave birth to kittens on your bed. These walls heard you lie to someone nine times (not including all the lies you told over the phone, just the lies you told face to face, here, in this room, seven were told to the same person, the other two were to two different cable television technicians). You danced here, on your bed. One thousand, two hundred and nineteen times did you fart in this room. One thousand, two hundred and two times did you come (catchin' up!). Only thirteen homeless people slept here at your invitation (selfish! insular!). 800 waking hours spent wondering why you couldn't fall asleep. Seven thousand conversations between you and the ceiling that should've been between you and Stacey. You didn't bleed all that much here. And your eyes never fell out in here neither. Remember that one time, when you sat on your bed and stared at yourself in the mirror for eighteen silent hours before you finally said, "why?" The walls were so fucking bored that day.
The walls were talking and they compiled a list of their 88 favorite things they enjoyed seeing you do in here. Here's the top five:
5. You, jumping up in the air and slamming your fist into the middle of the bed
4. You, putting your penis inside people
3. You, crying while wearing a lei (it only happened that once but wow)
2. You, pretending to be a magician while wearing a bathtowel
1. You, laying in bed awake, in the morning, staring at someone who's still asleep.
These walls will miss you when you go, but they're looking forward to a change. You've accumulated one hell of a stink over the course of two years Pig Pen.
Happy In This Room Day!
Friday, February 20, 2004
Get The Lime Day!
33 years from today, speaking with your daughter:
I was walking along the Upper West Side of Manhattan, on my way to a date I'd been thinking about canceling. As I approached a sidewalk fruit stand I watched a lime spill down the green pyramid over the edge of the crate and bounce down onto the sidewalk. Gosh, it only took a matter of seconds but when I look back on it the moment seemed to span a lifetime. The shift of mass, the zig-zag tumble down, the bop to the edge of the crate, and finally the jump. Down. Down. All the way down to the concrete with a bounce like a happy man's first step out of the house on a sunny Saturday. The lime came rolling straight to me. I bent to retrieve it with my gloved hand, but a big, naked hand swooped down and snatched it away. I stood back up and saw the lime held up next to a smiling face.
"Beat'cha," he said.
I liked him. I said, "So agile."
He laughed, then looked around for someone to tell him what to say. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a dollar to shove into the fruit-stand guy's hand. He tossed me the lime. I caught it with some fumbling.
"I want you to have it," he said. "To remember me by."
I thanked him. And I never forgot about him. Every time things aren't going very well between me and your father, I remember that man by the fruit stand and I wonder if my life would have turned out better had I cancelled my date and taken a walk with him.
Happy Get The Lime Day!
33 years from today, speaking with your daughter:
I was walking along the Upper West Side of Manhattan, on my way to a date I'd been thinking about canceling. As I approached a sidewalk fruit stand I watched a lime spill down the green pyramid over the edge of the crate and bounce down onto the sidewalk. Gosh, it only took a matter of seconds but when I look back on it the moment seemed to span a lifetime. The shift of mass, the zig-zag tumble down, the bop to the edge of the crate, and finally the jump. Down. Down. All the way down to the concrete with a bounce like a happy man's first step out of the house on a sunny Saturday. The lime came rolling straight to me. I bent to retrieve it with my gloved hand, but a big, naked hand swooped down and snatched it away. I stood back up and saw the lime held up next to a smiling face.
"Beat'cha," he said.
I liked him. I said, "So agile."
He laughed, then looked around for someone to tell him what to say. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a dollar to shove into the fruit-stand guy's hand. He tossed me the lime. I caught it with some fumbling.
"I want you to have it," he said. "To remember me by."
I thanked him. And I never forgot about him. Every time things aren't going very well between me and your father, I remember that man by the fruit stand and I wonder if my life would have turned out better had I cancelled my date and taken a walk with him.
Happy Get The Lime Day!
Thursday, February 19, 2004
Pumping Gas For Beach Kids Day!
THAT'S WHERE YOU'RE GONNA END UP IF YOU DON'T STUDY FOR THE TEST!
You think the world's just sitting on the edge of its seat waiting for you to get high again don't you? Well, while we are looking forward to it, we also expect a little more from you. We, as a world, want you to become an astronomer. We got together last night at Don's and we figured it all out. You like to look at the sky. And you're not sure whether you can say without a doubt that aliens don't exist right here on Earth. That inquisitiveness and your affinity for laying down in fields and staring is what's gonna send you to the top of NASA.
BUT YOU'RE NOT GONNA GO ANYWHERE IF YOU DON'T STUDY FOR THE TEST! NOW STUDY FOR THE TEST!
Make us proud.
Happy Pumping Gas For Beach Kids Day!
THAT'S WHERE YOU'RE GONNA END UP IF YOU DON'T STUDY FOR THE TEST!
You think the world's just sitting on the edge of its seat waiting for you to get high again don't you? Well, while we are looking forward to it, we also expect a little more from you. We, as a world, want you to become an astronomer. We got together last night at Don's and we figured it all out. You like to look at the sky. And you're not sure whether you can say without a doubt that aliens don't exist right here on Earth. That inquisitiveness and your affinity for laying down in fields and staring is what's gonna send you to the top of NASA.
BUT YOU'RE NOT GONNA GO ANYWHERE IF YOU DON'T STUDY FOR THE TEST! NOW STUDY FOR THE TEST!
Make us proud.
Happy Pumping Gas For Beach Kids Day!
Wednesday, February 18, 2004
Brick Frisbee Day!
You don't have to be very strong, or male, no matter what people tell you. Find the spirit inside you to beat the odds, puny Janine.
Brick Frisbee is a winter sport. It was created by some guys who wanted to play Frisbee on a very windy day whilst very, very drunk. They didn't know what to do. Their names are withheld.
One of the guys realized the Frisbee needed to be weighted down. Another of the guys tried to cake the Frisbee in mud (it was muddy, the field in which they woke up that November afternoon). But mud alone was not strong enough to battle the ferocious autumn wind.
Another of the guys suggested, well, he suggested some more mud. So a large mound of mud was piled atop the Frisbee. But the problem was the mud would soon dry and chip off of the Frisbee after just a few throws. And they would all suggest that they give up and go and find more alcohol, which made their stomachs churn with anxiety.
Finally, another of the guys offered to tie one of his bricks to the Frisbee using some of his rope. The rest of the guys said they were fine with this, as long as he didn't feel too put out. And with that, a brick was tied to the Frisbee and the bitter cold sport of Brick Frisbee was born.
Twas a glorious afternoon. A bunch of drunk guys and a little bit of ingenuity turned their cold empty field into a playground. They sent their Brick Frisbee back and forth along around their little circle of fun. The weight of the brick was heavy enough to battle the harsh wind, but a little too heavy to give the Frisbee much of a glide. So the guys essentially tossed the Brick Frisbee to each other. Occasionally, it would land on one of their feet, and a gleeful bellow of pain would ring out. Sometimes, one of them would dive to catch the Brick Frisbee and it would hit him in the eyes and the game would stop until everything seemed to be okay. By the end of the afternoon, walking to a bar with their fingers bruised black and bleeding profusely, the guys knew that they had created a wonderful new winter pastime. Brick Frisbee.
Play it today. You'll be the first to play it since the day those guys invented it. None of them could remember much of what happened that day, is why they never got around to playing it again.
BE THE BEST
Happy Brick Frisbee Day!
You don't have to be very strong, or male, no matter what people tell you. Find the spirit inside you to beat the odds, puny Janine.
Brick Frisbee is a winter sport. It was created by some guys who wanted to play Frisbee on a very windy day whilst very, very drunk. They didn't know what to do. Their names are withheld.
One of the guys realized the Frisbee needed to be weighted down. Another of the guys tried to cake the Frisbee in mud (it was muddy, the field in which they woke up that November afternoon). But mud alone was not strong enough to battle the ferocious autumn wind.
Another of the guys suggested, well, he suggested some more mud. So a large mound of mud was piled atop the Frisbee. But the problem was the mud would soon dry and chip off of the Frisbee after just a few throws. And they would all suggest that they give up and go and find more alcohol, which made their stomachs churn with anxiety.
Finally, another of the guys offered to tie one of his bricks to the Frisbee using some of his rope. The rest of the guys said they were fine with this, as long as he didn't feel too put out. And with that, a brick was tied to the Frisbee and the bitter cold sport of Brick Frisbee was born.
Twas a glorious afternoon. A bunch of drunk guys and a little bit of ingenuity turned their cold empty field into a playground. They sent their Brick Frisbee back and forth along around their little circle of fun. The weight of the brick was heavy enough to battle the harsh wind, but a little too heavy to give the Frisbee much of a glide. So the guys essentially tossed the Brick Frisbee to each other. Occasionally, it would land on one of their feet, and a gleeful bellow of pain would ring out. Sometimes, one of them would dive to catch the Brick Frisbee and it would hit him in the eyes and the game would stop until everything seemed to be okay. By the end of the afternoon, walking to a bar with their fingers bruised black and bleeding profusely, the guys knew that they had created a wonderful new winter pastime. Brick Frisbee.
Play it today. You'll be the first to play it since the day those guys invented it. None of them could remember much of what happened that day, is why they never got around to playing it again.
BE THE BEST
Happy Brick Frisbee Day!
Tuesday, February 17, 2004
A Damp Cloth Day!
Lay back on the couch, feet up on the arm, a damp cloth on your forehead, wait. Your daughter has got some explaining to do.
"What are you doing with condoms?!" shout. Hold the open box with one missing up in front of her face. "And by the way, don't think I didn't notice that you're an hour past curfew.
She'll at first try to brush it off as some sort of gag, but she loves you too much to expect you to buy something like that. So she'll bring up a friend with whom you don't like her spending her time. She'll try to say she was holding them for her.
"Jackie…"
"Seriously, her dad would kill her. He's not like you. He drinks and hits and I think he touched her once."
Sit her down and explain to her that you know there's a lot you can't offer to her raising her all alone since her mom died. But you're doing your best, and you need her help if you start to go down the wrong path. Ask her for her help.
"I'm in love Daddy," she'll say. "But we haven't had sex yet. We tried, but we couldn't…get it in. That's why there's one condom missing."
Ask her why you haven't met this boy.
"You'd like him, don't worry about that. I think I was just being selfish. I love you both more than anything in the world, and I liked having those two completely separate worlds of love. Introducing the two of you would be sharing each of you with the other. Understand?"
Jesus, if your daughter doesn't off herself before she's 25 she's gonna be huge. Anyhow, tell her you're happy for her, but you want her to bring the boy by. You trust her judgment, and therefore you're excited to meet her first love. She'll assent. She'll kiss you and tell you you're a good daddy. Before you start to quiz her on her knowledge about sexually transmitted diseases, ask her one more important question: The boy's name.
She'll smile like you've never seen before. "His name is Johnny."
Happy A Damp Cloth Day!
Lay back on the couch, feet up on the arm, a damp cloth on your forehead, wait. Your daughter has got some explaining to do.
"What are you doing with condoms?!" shout. Hold the open box with one missing up in front of her face. "And by the way, don't think I didn't notice that you're an hour past curfew.
She'll at first try to brush it off as some sort of gag, but she loves you too much to expect you to buy something like that. So she'll bring up a friend with whom you don't like her spending her time. She'll try to say she was holding them for her.
"Jackie…"
"Seriously, her dad would kill her. He's not like you. He drinks and hits and I think he touched her once."
Sit her down and explain to her that you know there's a lot you can't offer to her raising her all alone since her mom died. But you're doing your best, and you need her help if you start to go down the wrong path. Ask her for her help.
"I'm in love Daddy," she'll say. "But we haven't had sex yet. We tried, but we couldn't…get it in. That's why there's one condom missing."
Ask her why you haven't met this boy.
"You'd like him, don't worry about that. I think I was just being selfish. I love you both more than anything in the world, and I liked having those two completely separate worlds of love. Introducing the two of you would be sharing each of you with the other. Understand?"
Jesus, if your daughter doesn't off herself before she's 25 she's gonna be huge. Anyhow, tell her you're happy for her, but you want her to bring the boy by. You trust her judgment, and therefore you're excited to meet her first love. She'll assent. She'll kiss you and tell you you're a good daddy. Before you start to quiz her on her knowledge about sexually transmitted diseases, ask her one more important question: The boy's name.
She'll smile like you've never seen before. "His name is Johnny."
Happy A Damp Cloth Day!
Monday, February 16, 2004
I Heard Something Day!
A rustle. Say it was a rustle. In the bushes. When he goes outside in his slippers to check on the noise, do your cocaine.
Outside, he'll find nothing, no one, nowhere. He'll walk around the house. He'll shine a flashlight around the back of the shed. He'll say, "Anyone there?" Then he'll realize that you only sent him outside so you could do your cocaine.
He'll fall to a seat on the top-step of the rear porch and light a cigarette he fishes from his robe pocket. He keeps a pack there, since you keep on sending him outside late at night so you can do your cocaine.
"Why does she have to keep on doing her cocaine?" he'll ask the honeysuckle bush. "She says she won't ever do it again, every single day she says, 'Honey, never again. No more will you find the grains of that cursed powder spilling over the edge of our night-table. I've just been so sad now that I don't have my teaching.' And the very next night, here I am. Pretending to go and look for imaginary intruders because I'm too exhausted to go inside and slap that mirror away from under her nose. There's all the shaking of the shoulders. The grabbing at the shoulders and the shaking and the screaming, 'Goddammit how many times are you gonna give in? Is it worth it? Is our marriage worth it?'"
Inside, you'll be doing your cocaine, trying do it all as fast as you can, unaware that you're fooling no one. He's just waiting for you to finish up and get into your chair to start reading with that mini-book light he bought you last Christmas after he realized how much you like to stay up and read after doing your cocaine.
Outside, a man will come walking down the middle of the street. He'll stop when he sees your husband coming around from the back of the house in his bathrobe. He'll say, "Friend?"
Your husband will stop and shine his flashlight on the man. A couple of flannels and some workpants. Clearly a vagrant.
"Friend, have you something to eat? Or do you know where an able-bodied man such as myself might find a decent day's work for a decent day's pay?"
Your husband won't be able to swallow his smile. I found her intruder, he'll think.
"Do something for me," your husband will say. "I'll give you fifty bucks."
Inside, you'll be packing away your mirror and you'll get up to wipe your nose in the bathroom and marvel at the Grecian magnificence of your physical presence in the bathroom vanity. You'll hear your husband shout.
"But I made it all up," you'll think. "Or by making it up, did I will a murderous intruder into being, sending my husband out to a doom of my making? Motherfucking cocaine." You'll say that last part out loud to the drawer of the night-table. Then you'll hear your husband shout again. This time he'll shout your name.
You'll run out to the front step and you'll find your husband on the lawn, bleeding from the forehead. You'll see a silhouette running off down the street.
"Oh honey, oh my baby I'm sorry." You'll cradle his wounded head in your lap on the lawn.
"Call the police," your husband will whimper.
You'll suck in some air and try to curb the rocking in your cocaine-charged knees.
"Go on," he'll say. "He's getting away. Call the police."
"He's already gone," you'll say. "In fact, he was never there." Now you'll start crying.
Your husband won't let his face show how pleased he is with his ingenuity. He'll clench his features up in feigned agony. "What are you saying?"
"That man who hurt you," you'll sob. "I brought him to our house. When I sent you out here, I had heard nothing. I just wanted to do my cocaine."
"You were doing your cocaine?" your husband will shout, with a little too much shock.
"Yes, and that man that hurt you. He was just a manifestation of my addiction. A physicalization of the hurt I'm bringing upon those I love by doing my cocaine. He wasn't real. Or at least, he was as real as the wedge I'm driving between us. Oh honey, I promise, I'll never do my cocaine again."
"Shake on it?" your husband will say from your lap.
He'll hold his hand up to you. You'll hesitate for a second, but you'll take his hand in yours and you'll shake. Therefore, you'll never do your cocaine again.
Happy I Heard Something Day!
A rustle. Say it was a rustle. In the bushes. When he goes outside in his slippers to check on the noise, do your cocaine.
Outside, he'll find nothing, no one, nowhere. He'll walk around the house. He'll shine a flashlight around the back of the shed. He'll say, "Anyone there?" Then he'll realize that you only sent him outside so you could do your cocaine.
He'll fall to a seat on the top-step of the rear porch and light a cigarette he fishes from his robe pocket. He keeps a pack there, since you keep on sending him outside late at night so you can do your cocaine.
"Why does she have to keep on doing her cocaine?" he'll ask the honeysuckle bush. "She says she won't ever do it again, every single day she says, 'Honey, never again. No more will you find the grains of that cursed powder spilling over the edge of our night-table. I've just been so sad now that I don't have my teaching.' And the very next night, here I am. Pretending to go and look for imaginary intruders because I'm too exhausted to go inside and slap that mirror away from under her nose. There's all the shaking of the shoulders. The grabbing at the shoulders and the shaking and the screaming, 'Goddammit how many times are you gonna give in? Is it worth it? Is our marriage worth it?'"
Inside, you'll be doing your cocaine, trying do it all as fast as you can, unaware that you're fooling no one. He's just waiting for you to finish up and get into your chair to start reading with that mini-book light he bought you last Christmas after he realized how much you like to stay up and read after doing your cocaine.
Outside, a man will come walking down the middle of the street. He'll stop when he sees your husband coming around from the back of the house in his bathrobe. He'll say, "Friend?"
Your husband will stop and shine his flashlight on the man. A couple of flannels and some workpants. Clearly a vagrant.
"Friend, have you something to eat? Or do you know where an able-bodied man such as myself might find a decent day's work for a decent day's pay?"
Your husband won't be able to swallow his smile. I found her intruder, he'll think.
"Do something for me," your husband will say. "I'll give you fifty bucks."
Inside, you'll be packing away your mirror and you'll get up to wipe your nose in the bathroom and marvel at the Grecian magnificence of your physical presence in the bathroom vanity. You'll hear your husband shout.
"But I made it all up," you'll think. "Or by making it up, did I will a murderous intruder into being, sending my husband out to a doom of my making? Motherfucking cocaine." You'll say that last part out loud to the drawer of the night-table. Then you'll hear your husband shout again. This time he'll shout your name.
You'll run out to the front step and you'll find your husband on the lawn, bleeding from the forehead. You'll see a silhouette running off down the street.
"Oh honey, oh my baby I'm sorry." You'll cradle his wounded head in your lap on the lawn.
"Call the police," your husband will whimper.
You'll suck in some air and try to curb the rocking in your cocaine-charged knees.
"Go on," he'll say. "He's getting away. Call the police."
"He's already gone," you'll say. "In fact, he was never there." Now you'll start crying.
Your husband won't let his face show how pleased he is with his ingenuity. He'll clench his features up in feigned agony. "What are you saying?"
"That man who hurt you," you'll sob. "I brought him to our house. When I sent you out here, I had heard nothing. I just wanted to do my cocaine."
"You were doing your cocaine?" your husband will shout, with a little too much shock.
"Yes, and that man that hurt you. He was just a manifestation of my addiction. A physicalization of the hurt I'm bringing upon those I love by doing my cocaine. He wasn't real. Or at least, he was as real as the wedge I'm driving between us. Oh honey, I promise, I'll never do my cocaine again."
"Shake on it?" your husband will say from your lap.
He'll hold his hand up to you. You'll hesitate for a second, but you'll take his hand in yours and you'll shake. Therefore, you'll never do your cocaine again.
Happy I Heard Something Day!
Sunday, February 15, 2004
Cutoff Denim Shorts To Be Unbuttoned By Another Day!
Young lady, you dress with an agenda. Those pale little low-fat thighs are packed into your shorts with the same meticulous precision you employed to fasten the jam jar into the southwest corner of your picnic basket.
history: lee jeans purchased second-hand from a stoop sale in carroll gardens, brooklyn, autumn 1998, $2.00. two washes later, an autumn favorite. notable wears: summer, 1999, outdoor waterfront jets to brazil concert, dumbo, met lauren ("you could be my new best friend" when lauren gave you a third from her six); winter, 2001, metroliner ride to philadelphia funeral following younger sister's successful suicide attempt, breathed twelve times over 80 minutes; spring, 2002, sat alone in central park on a hill, felt okay. a gap in the knee made itself known, autumn of 2002. the lee jeans were retrieved from the closet and chopped two inches into the thigh in june, 2003. went to the top of the summer a-list with a bullet.
The white ones with the little blue whatchamathings polka'd all over them, perfect for popping into the evening light at the release of three stops on the button-fly. Will he use one hand or two? Will he be able to keep on kissing you, or will he have to look back and forth between the horizon of your torso and the dimple of your smile? The blue of the whatchamathings echoes the blue of your picnic blanket, a faded blue. The white's gonna scream out loud, the white's gonna laugh out loud, the white's gonna be quiet as a mouse. Don't tell us what's gonna happen next. Just tell us his hair color and whether he gets your jokes.
Happy Cutoff Denim Shorts To Be Unbuttoned By Another Day!
Young lady, you dress with an agenda. Those pale little low-fat thighs are packed into your shorts with the same meticulous precision you employed to fasten the jam jar into the southwest corner of your picnic basket.
history: lee jeans purchased second-hand from a stoop sale in carroll gardens, brooklyn, autumn 1998, $2.00. two washes later, an autumn favorite. notable wears: summer, 1999, outdoor waterfront jets to brazil concert, dumbo, met lauren ("you could be my new best friend" when lauren gave you a third from her six); winter, 2001, metroliner ride to philadelphia funeral following younger sister's successful suicide attempt, breathed twelve times over 80 minutes; spring, 2002, sat alone in central park on a hill, felt okay. a gap in the knee made itself known, autumn of 2002. the lee jeans were retrieved from the closet and chopped two inches into the thigh in june, 2003. went to the top of the summer a-list with a bullet.
The white ones with the little blue whatchamathings polka'd all over them, perfect for popping into the evening light at the release of three stops on the button-fly. Will he use one hand or two? Will he be able to keep on kissing you, or will he have to look back and forth between the horizon of your torso and the dimple of your smile? The blue of the whatchamathings echoes the blue of your picnic blanket, a faded blue. The white's gonna scream out loud, the white's gonna laugh out loud, the white's gonna be quiet as a mouse. Don't tell us what's gonna happen next. Just tell us his hair color and whether he gets your jokes.
Happy Cutoff Denim Shorts To Be Unbuttoned By Another Day!
Saturday, February 14, 2004
King June Day!
Today a rapper named King June will ask you out on a date. He is the rapper who writes raps about wildflowers in bloom, love, and tasteful weddings.
Daisies in your hair
Love is in the air
Brotha groom waitin' with a smile
Go on Gina, wreck tha aisle
-excerpt from "Gina Goin Down Tha Aisle"
King June, copyright 2002
Unfortunately, you're seeing someone. King June's shoulders will fall and he'll ask, "Are you in love?"
"I think so," you'll say.
"But you ain't tol' him so yet?"
"No," you'll say. "But this one feels like the real deal."
King June will shake his head in sorrow. "Man it seem like a century since I been up in that kinda shit." You'll rub King June's shoulder. He'll smile and wish you luck.
Happy King June Day!
Today a rapper named King June will ask you out on a date. He is the rapper who writes raps about wildflowers in bloom, love, and tasteful weddings.
Daisies in your hair
Love is in the air
Brotha groom waitin' with a smile
Go on Gina, wreck tha aisle
-excerpt from "Gina Goin Down Tha Aisle"
King June, copyright 2002
Unfortunately, you're seeing someone. King June's shoulders will fall and he'll ask, "Are you in love?"
"I think so," you'll say.
"But you ain't tol' him so yet?"
"No," you'll say. "But this one feels like the real deal."
King June will shake his head in sorrow. "Man it seem like a century since I been up in that kinda shit." You'll rub King June's shoulder. He'll smile and wish you luck.
Happy King June Day!
Friday, February 13, 2004
Why You're Gonna Vomit Day!
You're gonna put on an old sweatshirt you'll pull three years deep from the bottom of your closet and you'll pull it over your head and there'll be the scent of Joe, who wore it whenever he'd step out on your fire escape to smoke a cigarette and that scent of burnt tobacco paper and Joe's neck will send grey lilly pads drifting over your line of vision and you'll tip back onto your bed so you can try to stretch your frame of bones out just enough to breath again. Breath the air up above your bed. That's fresh. But Joe'll be in your nostrils and so you'll have no choice but to send the acid three hours deep at the bottom of your belly up and out through your nostrils to burn through a layer or two from your nasal passages. You'll allow a near-digested chunk of today's General Tso's to sit just at the back of your throat to fight off any Joe sense-memories that try to resurface. Eventually, the chicken will slide down your throat and you'll be defenseless so you'll throw up once or twice more before you manage to sleep and dream horrible dreams about car crash Dads and Moms.
Happy Why You're Gonna Vomit Day!
You're gonna put on an old sweatshirt you'll pull three years deep from the bottom of your closet and you'll pull it over your head and there'll be the scent of Joe, who wore it whenever he'd step out on your fire escape to smoke a cigarette and that scent of burnt tobacco paper and Joe's neck will send grey lilly pads drifting over your line of vision and you'll tip back onto your bed so you can try to stretch your frame of bones out just enough to breath again. Breath the air up above your bed. That's fresh. But Joe'll be in your nostrils and so you'll have no choice but to send the acid three hours deep at the bottom of your belly up and out through your nostrils to burn through a layer or two from your nasal passages. You'll allow a near-digested chunk of today's General Tso's to sit just at the back of your throat to fight off any Joe sense-memories that try to resurface. Eventually, the chicken will slide down your throat and you'll be defenseless so you'll throw up once or twice more before you manage to sleep and dream horrible dreams about car crash Dads and Moms.
Happy Why You're Gonna Vomit Day!
Thursday, February 12, 2004
Heart To Heart Day!
She'll tell you she doesn't think she can go on with having so little money for much longer, that she's not as young as she used to be and she's going to need to get some comfort pretty soon.
"I'm just so very tired."
She'll tell you she's always cold, that every night she hugs the empty space in bed beside her and it's like clutching onto a block of ice or something long dead.
"A giant shiny bullet. And I hug its perfect curves to my belly and my chest and I wrap my legs around its trunk and I go stiff. I fall asleep like that, stone stiff."
Like the blood in her veins just stopped right where it was with a squeal of the brakes, she'll say. She'll tell you she hasn't cried in a year. That she's always aware of when she's smiling. That when she's at a party, standing with a group of three or more people, trying to appear like she's listening, she sometimes yelps.
"I'm losing control."
An oil painting will fall from the wall of the café smack down on the top of your head. The 5 by 4 foot canvas will rip and your head will poke through the gap. The painting will rest balanced on your shoulders, the shards of canvas climbing up your neck like a jester's collar. The frame will be heavy and you won't be able to breathe that well.
She'll laugh. You'll smile and struggle to pull the painting up over your head. Her laughter will turn to a wail. Not quite a howl. Not quite a scream. Just a deep AAAAAAAAAAAAGH flying out of that little black haired head. But she'll be smiling while she lets it fly. You won't ask if she's aware that she's smiling, the poor thing.
Happy Heart To Heart Day!
She'll tell you she doesn't think she can go on with having so little money for much longer, that she's not as young as she used to be and she's going to need to get some comfort pretty soon.
"I'm just so very tired."
She'll tell you she's always cold, that every night she hugs the empty space in bed beside her and it's like clutching onto a block of ice or something long dead.
"A giant shiny bullet. And I hug its perfect curves to my belly and my chest and I wrap my legs around its trunk and I go stiff. I fall asleep like that, stone stiff."
Like the blood in her veins just stopped right where it was with a squeal of the brakes, she'll say. She'll tell you she hasn't cried in a year. That she's always aware of when she's smiling. That when she's at a party, standing with a group of three or more people, trying to appear like she's listening, she sometimes yelps.
"I'm losing control."
An oil painting will fall from the wall of the café smack down on the top of your head. The 5 by 4 foot canvas will rip and your head will poke through the gap. The painting will rest balanced on your shoulders, the shards of canvas climbing up your neck like a jester's collar. The frame will be heavy and you won't be able to breathe that well.
She'll laugh. You'll smile and struggle to pull the painting up over your head. Her laughter will turn to a wail. Not quite a howl. Not quite a scream. Just a deep AAAAAAAAAAAAGH flying out of that little black haired head. But she'll be smiling while she lets it fly. You won't ask if she's aware that she's smiling, the poor thing.
Happy Heart To Heart Day!
Wednesday, February 11, 2004
This Cabride Day!
"Now what?"
"Fuck if I know," she says.
Ten blocks pass. Uptown. Everything's just lights and concrete trying to smash through nighttime. The right passenger side window is open by your head. Hers is closed shut. It's quiet on her side.
"Where we headed kids?"
You say, "No stops."
The cabdriver wants that repeated, but he keeps quiet. He got a look at her in the rearview mirror.
Ten blocks pass before the cabdriver turns east at the top of the park. You're going to head into downtown on the east side tonight. It's going to be colder on the east side, it always is. But you won't roll up your window.
"I don't need you, you know."
"I know it," you say.
"You could leave tonight and never come back and I'd be just fine."
"I believe it," you say.
"Wouldn't miss a beat. I'd be a lot better off. Everybody says so."
"I'm gonna need twenty bucks."
You raise your eyebrows in the rear view mirror.
"I got no problem being a part of this. But the meter's already at 15. I'm gonna need twenty bucks up front to keep going."
You slide two twenties into the cabdriver's hand through the partition. Like you paid to be rid of it, 50 blocks of East Side are obliterated in one grey blur. No words until downtown. "I'm not holding a gun in my hand on Sundays."
She says, "It's a flaw that keeps me in your bed on Sundays. It's something that's wrong with me that I wish I could correct. I'm not happy there."
"Take us over the Williamsburg Bridge."
"You think I'm happy there? You think a drunk is happy when he gets his drink? He's not happy. He just gets his drink."
In the middle of the bridge you think about how boring it would be to jump. As boring as it is to stay alive, to stay in this cab. No more, no less. You tell her, "I think we're the best there is."
"Take us to Queens now," she says when the cab hits Williamsburg. "Take surface streets only. When you get to Queens, head back into Manhattan. Surface streets only. Do you need more money?" That's all she says because, though it was harsh, she knows you're right. You're the best there is.
"Not just yet," the cabdriver says. "My wife was a cagey one for a long, long time."
"What was she afraid of?" she asks.
"Me. The last word I spoke. Whatever I was about to say."
On Williamsburg streets newspapers fly everywhere. You're almost through it.
"What made her come around?" you ask.
He shrugs, "No choice I guess."
"Maybe she just settled for you," she says.
The cabdriver says, "We're not gonna live that long. Gotta settle for somethin'," because cabdrivers are wise.
Queens windows are dark and people on the streets are alert, alone, and walk with a purpose, even at 2 AM. You always thought Queens would've been a great place to go to elementary school.
"Hey," she says, banging on the partition. "Hey." You forgot how drunk she was when you got her to leave the bar.
"Hey what? Quit bangin'."
"What'd you settle for then?"
"You ain't got enough twenties darlin'."
She leans back into her seat.
"I ain't gotta make a left turn you know. I can keep going, take you right to Kennedy and you can get yourself on a plane back to Michigan or wherever you came from."
You say, "She grew up in Maryland."
"Nice down there."
She's looking out the window and shaking her head. You're looking at her thighs poking out from her skirt. You want your hands on her thighs, pressing hard like you're trying to rub the blood out of her veins. She'd just let you go ahead, like she does. You'd slide both hands up under her panties and let your fingers clasp in her bush. You'd open up her pussy with a thumb. She'd lift her arms up and put her hands on the rear window like she does. You'd kiss her breast through her blouse, then slide her collar down with your chin and stretch your tongue down underneath her bra cup to wet a nipple. You'd kiss her neck then. Then her mouth. Her white neck. Then her mouth. Then you'd be home.
"That's the first red light I hit all night."
It's an intersection and it's three cars deep at every end. People cross the street in drunken bunches. Teens slap at the hood of the cab in front of yours. There's a cop car on your right with two bored policemen inside.
"What about you?"
You look away from the policeman who just looked over at you. You meet her eyes.
"What are you settling for?"
She wants to draw you into battle. You open your mouth to speak and say nothing. She shakes her head to the street outside the window again. It's like pointing a rifle at a kitten that just sniffs around the barrel.
The light turns green and you head for Manhattan. In the middle of the East River, the cabdriver says, "I need some more money." You give him ten more dollars and your address.
She doesn't object. It's already Sunday. She moves across the seat and leans into you, giving the top of her head to your mouth. She hasn't softened, she just got sleepy. You kiss the part of her hair a hundred times.
At the curb, you owe ten more dollars for a tip. "This is the stop?"
"Yes."
"Roll up the windows for me. I'm gonna close shop for a while."
"No more fares?" you ask. You're leaning inside the doorframe. She's waiting on the curb.
"Not like you two. The game's coming on again in a little while. Don't get freaked out if you look out your window and see me here because I'm just gonna park here and listen to the game."
You say okay. Upstairs, when you're waiting for her to get out of the bathroom and come to bed, you look out the window and discover that your windows face out of the wrong side of the building. You can't see the cab from there.
Happy This Cabride Day!
"Now what?"
"Fuck if I know," she says.
Ten blocks pass. Uptown. Everything's just lights and concrete trying to smash through nighttime. The right passenger side window is open by your head. Hers is closed shut. It's quiet on her side.
"Where we headed kids?"
You say, "No stops."
The cabdriver wants that repeated, but he keeps quiet. He got a look at her in the rearview mirror.
Ten blocks pass before the cabdriver turns east at the top of the park. You're going to head into downtown on the east side tonight. It's going to be colder on the east side, it always is. But you won't roll up your window.
"I don't need you, you know."
"I know it," you say.
"You could leave tonight and never come back and I'd be just fine."
"I believe it," you say.
"Wouldn't miss a beat. I'd be a lot better off. Everybody says so."
"I'm gonna need twenty bucks."
You raise your eyebrows in the rear view mirror.
"I got no problem being a part of this. But the meter's already at 15. I'm gonna need twenty bucks up front to keep going."
You slide two twenties into the cabdriver's hand through the partition. Like you paid to be rid of it, 50 blocks of East Side are obliterated in one grey blur. No words until downtown. "I'm not holding a gun in my hand on Sundays."
She says, "It's a flaw that keeps me in your bed on Sundays. It's something that's wrong with me that I wish I could correct. I'm not happy there."
"Take us over the Williamsburg Bridge."
"You think I'm happy there? You think a drunk is happy when he gets his drink? He's not happy. He just gets his drink."
In the middle of the bridge you think about how boring it would be to jump. As boring as it is to stay alive, to stay in this cab. No more, no less. You tell her, "I think we're the best there is."
"Take us to Queens now," she says when the cab hits Williamsburg. "Take surface streets only. When you get to Queens, head back into Manhattan. Surface streets only. Do you need more money?" That's all she says because, though it was harsh, she knows you're right. You're the best there is.
"Not just yet," the cabdriver says. "My wife was a cagey one for a long, long time."
"What was she afraid of?" she asks.
"Me. The last word I spoke. Whatever I was about to say."
On Williamsburg streets newspapers fly everywhere. You're almost through it.
"What made her come around?" you ask.
He shrugs, "No choice I guess."
"Maybe she just settled for you," she says.
The cabdriver says, "We're not gonna live that long. Gotta settle for somethin'," because cabdrivers are wise.
Queens windows are dark and people on the streets are alert, alone, and walk with a purpose, even at 2 AM. You always thought Queens would've been a great place to go to elementary school.
"Hey," she says, banging on the partition. "Hey." You forgot how drunk she was when you got her to leave the bar.
"Hey what? Quit bangin'."
"What'd you settle for then?"
"You ain't got enough twenties darlin'."
She leans back into her seat.
"I ain't gotta make a left turn you know. I can keep going, take you right to Kennedy and you can get yourself on a plane back to Michigan or wherever you came from."
You say, "She grew up in Maryland."
"Nice down there."
She's looking out the window and shaking her head. You're looking at her thighs poking out from her skirt. You want your hands on her thighs, pressing hard like you're trying to rub the blood out of her veins. She'd just let you go ahead, like she does. You'd slide both hands up under her panties and let your fingers clasp in her bush. You'd open up her pussy with a thumb. She'd lift her arms up and put her hands on the rear window like she does. You'd kiss her breast through her blouse, then slide her collar down with your chin and stretch your tongue down underneath her bra cup to wet a nipple. You'd kiss her neck then. Then her mouth. Her white neck. Then her mouth. Then you'd be home.
"That's the first red light I hit all night."
It's an intersection and it's three cars deep at every end. People cross the street in drunken bunches. Teens slap at the hood of the cab in front of yours. There's a cop car on your right with two bored policemen inside.
"What about you?"
You look away from the policeman who just looked over at you. You meet her eyes.
"What are you settling for?"
She wants to draw you into battle. You open your mouth to speak and say nothing. She shakes her head to the street outside the window again. It's like pointing a rifle at a kitten that just sniffs around the barrel.
The light turns green and you head for Manhattan. In the middle of the East River, the cabdriver says, "I need some more money." You give him ten more dollars and your address.
She doesn't object. It's already Sunday. She moves across the seat and leans into you, giving the top of her head to your mouth. She hasn't softened, she just got sleepy. You kiss the part of her hair a hundred times.
At the curb, you owe ten more dollars for a tip. "This is the stop?"
"Yes."
"Roll up the windows for me. I'm gonna close shop for a while."
"No more fares?" you ask. You're leaning inside the doorframe. She's waiting on the curb.
"Not like you two. The game's coming on again in a little while. Don't get freaked out if you look out your window and see me here because I'm just gonna park here and listen to the game."
You say okay. Upstairs, when you're waiting for her to get out of the bathroom and come to bed, you look out the window and discover that your windows face out of the wrong side of the building. You can't see the cab from there.
Happy This Cabride Day!
Tuesday, February 10, 2004
Dry Clean Only Day!
Give chase when you spot the masked gunmen tossing the girl from the Dry Cleaners into the back of their van before taking off down the road. They either took her because they wanted a hostage with which to bargain, or perhaps they were as charmed with her as you are. Your Five-Year Plan has you marrying that girl by October of year three (you learn her name this coming July). And you'll be damned if a couple thugs with handguns are going to make you boot up Powerpoint and edit your Five-Year Plan presentation again.
Don't call the police. They'll only get in the way. Just follow the thugs to the abandoned warehouse they use as a hideout. Once they're inside, drive around the building and make note of all potential exits. Then go and buy weapons. You're going to need forty-six hundred dollars.
Spend the next few days outside the warehouse eating sandwiches and noting when the thugs come and go. If they ever let the girl from the Dry Cleaners out for some exercise, note that as well. It's important. If you have to go to the bathroom, use a public place nearby, maybe a library, and don't take too long. Though you should only be away from the warehouse for as little time as possible, you shouldn't hold it in because the discomfort will wear on your concentration.
"They're probably raping her in there," you're going to think. Don't. The rage will make you burst in and kill everybody before the time is right. Listen to radio stations.
Once you think you have their schedule of comings and goings down pat, calculate when you think they're the drowsiest. 3:30 PM? Thought so.
At 3:30 PM, burst into the warehouse through one of the exits and use your weapons to kill everyone except the girl from the Dry Cleaners. She'll be afraid of you at first because she just watched you murder many men. Hold out your hand to her, palm first, like you're summoning a kitty. She'll come.
Walk her out to the car, repeating to her, "You're safe now. It's okay. No one's gonna hurtcha." Drive her back to the Dry Cleaners, where her father will be waiting on the sidewalk wringing his hands. Because the girl and her parents are ethnic, they will invite you to their home and feed you lots of food. If it won't screw up your five-year plan too much, you can try and find out the name of the girl from the Dry Cleaners over the course of one of these meals. You can also ask her father if it'd be okay if you married her. He'll probably go for it, because not long after people meet you they come to the conclusion that you are a wonderful man.
Happy Dry Clean Only Day!
Give chase when you spot the masked gunmen tossing the girl from the Dry Cleaners into the back of their van before taking off down the road. They either took her because they wanted a hostage with which to bargain, or perhaps they were as charmed with her as you are. Your Five-Year Plan has you marrying that girl by October of year three (you learn her name this coming July). And you'll be damned if a couple thugs with handguns are going to make you boot up Powerpoint and edit your Five-Year Plan presentation again.
Don't call the police. They'll only get in the way. Just follow the thugs to the abandoned warehouse they use as a hideout. Once they're inside, drive around the building and make note of all potential exits. Then go and buy weapons. You're going to need forty-six hundred dollars.
Spend the next few days outside the warehouse eating sandwiches and noting when the thugs come and go. If they ever let the girl from the Dry Cleaners out for some exercise, note that as well. It's important. If you have to go to the bathroom, use a public place nearby, maybe a library, and don't take too long. Though you should only be away from the warehouse for as little time as possible, you shouldn't hold it in because the discomfort will wear on your concentration.
"They're probably raping her in there," you're going to think. Don't. The rage will make you burst in and kill everybody before the time is right. Listen to radio stations.
Once you think you have their schedule of comings and goings down pat, calculate when you think they're the drowsiest. 3:30 PM? Thought so.
At 3:30 PM, burst into the warehouse through one of the exits and use your weapons to kill everyone except the girl from the Dry Cleaners. She'll be afraid of you at first because she just watched you murder many men. Hold out your hand to her, palm first, like you're summoning a kitty. She'll come.
Walk her out to the car, repeating to her, "You're safe now. It's okay. No one's gonna hurtcha." Drive her back to the Dry Cleaners, where her father will be waiting on the sidewalk wringing his hands. Because the girl and her parents are ethnic, they will invite you to their home and feed you lots of food. If it won't screw up your five-year plan too much, you can try and find out the name of the girl from the Dry Cleaners over the course of one of these meals. You can also ask her father if it'd be okay if you married her. He'll probably go for it, because not long after people meet you they come to the conclusion that you are a wonderful man.
Happy Dry Clean Only Day!
Monday, February 09, 2004
Eighteen Hours Day!
Her husband flew out last night. She's tying up the loose ends and flying out tonight. It's 6 AM. She has to be on her way to the airport at midnight. The speed limits don't go above 35 MPH in her little suburb. She's doing 57 so that she can get inside a house across town with as little of the remaining 18 hours wasted on travel time as she can manage.
He lives almost dead smack en route to the airport. All those times in the past, when she said never again, when she panicked, thinking her husband knew, she never imagined her very last visit would be a pit stop on the way to leaving town forever. She never noticed that he would be right there on the way. She hasn't been back for months. She only just contacted him to tell him goodbye, and he said once more please let me kiss you. When she looked at the map, the convenience of stopping by washed away all guilt. So convenient it belongs on her to-do list. She's delirious, yes, made evident by the fact that she feels she could tell her husband about the stop when she sees him tomorrow and begins to laundry list everything she got done.
Cancelled the paper. Turned off the electric. Dropped off the spare sets of keys to the realtor. Grabbed Kevin by the naked clavicle and didn't let him go for 18 hours straight. Boarded Rex…
She has nine more minutes drive time. She's driven there enough to know it. It's 6:08. She'll find him smoking on his step at 6:17. By no later than 6:18, he'll hold her. That leaves her only 17 hours and forty two minutes. Strange to know for certain that such a brief window of time opens out on the rest of your life.
Happy Eighteen Hours Day!
Her husband flew out last night. She's tying up the loose ends and flying out tonight. It's 6 AM. She has to be on her way to the airport at midnight. The speed limits don't go above 35 MPH in her little suburb. She's doing 57 so that she can get inside a house across town with as little of the remaining 18 hours wasted on travel time as she can manage.
He lives almost dead smack en route to the airport. All those times in the past, when she said never again, when she panicked, thinking her husband knew, she never imagined her very last visit would be a pit stop on the way to leaving town forever. She never noticed that he would be right there on the way. She hasn't been back for months. She only just contacted him to tell him goodbye, and he said once more please let me kiss you. When she looked at the map, the convenience of stopping by washed away all guilt. So convenient it belongs on her to-do list. She's delirious, yes, made evident by the fact that she feels she could tell her husband about the stop when she sees him tomorrow and begins to laundry list everything she got done.
Cancelled the paper. Turned off the electric. Dropped off the spare sets of keys to the realtor. Grabbed Kevin by the naked clavicle and didn't let him go for 18 hours straight. Boarded Rex…
She has nine more minutes drive time. She's driven there enough to know it. It's 6:08. She'll find him smoking on his step at 6:17. By no later than 6:18, he'll hold her. That leaves her only 17 hours and forty two minutes. Strange to know for certain that such a brief window of time opens out on the rest of your life.
Happy Eighteen Hours Day!
Sunday, February 08, 2004
Your Suspenders, They're Scandalous Day!
Dangling down and flanking your barstool are two blue-then-red-then-blue-again suspenders that belong much more gentlemanly up atop your 38 year old shoulders. They fell when you stepped from the hotel bed to disrobe before mounting your volunteer coordinator again, just like you promised yourself you'd never do again.
She has photos and you have seventy dollars left of your change of a hundred sitting on the bartop. She threatened to send them to your wife and your opponent's campaign manager when she pulled them from the envelope three weeks ago. One hundred thousand dollars is all she's asking, a small price to pay to hang onto your marriage and your shot at a seat on the Dayton City Council.
You have it. You're going to pay it. You're still sleeping with her. Today was the second time since the photos were revealed.
Young men look at horrible men and wonder, is there a moment in time when such a man looks ahead and accepts that the beautiful man he'd hoped to become is nowhere on the horizon? Does he then decide his ideals have been for naught? Is he aware that he is the man he used to look at and wonder about?
All you know is you have seventy dollars worth of drinking to do before you gather the hundred thousand and sleep with your volunteer coordinator again.
Happy Your Suspenders, They're Scandalous Day!
Dangling down and flanking your barstool are two blue-then-red-then-blue-again suspenders that belong much more gentlemanly up atop your 38 year old shoulders. They fell when you stepped from the hotel bed to disrobe before mounting your volunteer coordinator again, just like you promised yourself you'd never do again.
She has photos and you have seventy dollars left of your change of a hundred sitting on the bartop. She threatened to send them to your wife and your opponent's campaign manager when she pulled them from the envelope three weeks ago. One hundred thousand dollars is all she's asking, a small price to pay to hang onto your marriage and your shot at a seat on the Dayton City Council.
You have it. You're going to pay it. You're still sleeping with her. Today was the second time since the photos were revealed.
Young men look at horrible men and wonder, is there a moment in time when such a man looks ahead and accepts that the beautiful man he'd hoped to become is nowhere on the horizon? Does he then decide his ideals have been for naught? Is he aware that he is the man he used to look at and wonder about?
All you know is you have seventy dollars worth of drinking to do before you gather the hundred thousand and sleep with your volunteer coordinator again.
Happy Your Suspenders, They're Scandalous Day!
Saturday, February 07, 2004
Clue The Game Night Day!
You don't know who did it in what room. You don't know what was used as a weapon. You're preoccupied. Claire attempted suicide this morning and you've been in the hospital all day long. They let her out, trusted her to your supervision. But Claire didn't want to see your face. She claims you are the reason she wants to die, the tone of voice you've chosen to adopt when you've spoken to her over the past nine years. Her disgust with you turned to a fury when you foiled her effort to die. She demanded that you get out and that you never come back. Tonight was Clue The Game night at Charles', which you'd assumed you would skip when you found Claire hanging from the exposed pipe in the study (her flailing legs kicked over the computer monitor). But here you are, and Claire is at home, probably dead already, unless she got lost in one of her fits. Had the hospital not trusted you to supervise, they would have kept her there, kept her from hurting herself. And you would have been free to attend Clue The Game night and compete with your opponents to the fullest of your capacities for strategy and cunning. But your mind can only conjure images of what sort of tableau you'll find when you open your front door a half hour after Clue The Game night comes to a close. Your money is on Claire, in the living room, with the pills.
Happy Clue The Game Night Day!
You don't know who did it in what room. You don't know what was used as a weapon. You're preoccupied. Claire attempted suicide this morning and you've been in the hospital all day long. They let her out, trusted her to your supervision. But Claire didn't want to see your face. She claims you are the reason she wants to die, the tone of voice you've chosen to adopt when you've spoken to her over the past nine years. Her disgust with you turned to a fury when you foiled her effort to die. She demanded that you get out and that you never come back. Tonight was Clue The Game night at Charles', which you'd assumed you would skip when you found Claire hanging from the exposed pipe in the study (her flailing legs kicked over the computer monitor). But here you are, and Claire is at home, probably dead already, unless she got lost in one of her fits. Had the hospital not trusted you to supervise, they would have kept her there, kept her from hurting herself. And you would have been free to attend Clue The Game night and compete with your opponents to the fullest of your capacities for strategy and cunning. But your mind can only conjure images of what sort of tableau you'll find when you open your front door a half hour after Clue The Game night comes to a close. Your money is on Claire, in the living room, with the pills.
Happy Clue The Game Night Day!
Friday, February 06, 2004
Cruelty Day!
Lie to him. When you lay with him, tell him a lie. Tell him you had Chinese for lunch, when truthfully, you had a pizza.
Steal from him. A postage stamp. One first class stamp. Steal it from his day planner whilst he showers.
Humiliate him. Secure a plastic bucket of confetti above the front door so that when he walks in, the confetti showers over his head and his shirt. When he's standing there with little pieces of paper all over his body, point at him and laugh and say, "You look like such an asshole."
Make him shit when he doesn't want to. Fix him a sundae full of chopped up laxatives right before he leaves for choir practice. He'll sing off key and his fellow choir singers will find him disgusting and shun him. He will be too embarrassed to explain that it was only because he had to take such a mean shit. He'll drive home crying. He'll drive home crying.
Make him believe he lost something irreplaceable. You. Call him with a disguised voice and say, "I'm sorry to tell you that there's been an accident. She's dead. We can't find her body, but we know she's dead. There were hair fibers, all dead." Don't come home for eleven weeks.
Move him around while he's sleeping. If he's on the bed, put him on the couch. Don't leave a note.
Frustrate him. The next time he approaches you, say "Do we know each other?" He'll spend days trying to convince you that he is the man you've loved for three years now. Don't let on that you know. Just keep saying, "Um, I think I'd remember something like that. I'm calling the fuzz."
Blindfold him and spin him around and swing a bat at his face. This will kill him.
Order him to switch religions. Tell him, "It's splitsville unless you join me in the light of Lutheranism."
Cover him in ants. You'll need a lot of ants and he'll probably need to be tied up or drugged asleep to give you enough time to get each of those ants on him.
Hold him down on the bed and fart in his mouth.
Get fat. He'll be so disappointed. He hates fat women. Put on like 40 pounds and act like you don't think you're gross looking. He won't be able to tell you you are.
Kill yourself. He'll be so sad. He'll say, why? He'll wonder if there's anything he could have done. For the rest of his life, he'll wonder.
Happy Cruelty Day!
Lie to him. When you lay with him, tell him a lie. Tell him you had Chinese for lunch, when truthfully, you had a pizza.
Steal from him. A postage stamp. One first class stamp. Steal it from his day planner whilst he showers.
Humiliate him. Secure a plastic bucket of confetti above the front door so that when he walks in, the confetti showers over his head and his shirt. When he's standing there with little pieces of paper all over his body, point at him and laugh and say, "You look like such an asshole."
Make him shit when he doesn't want to. Fix him a sundae full of chopped up laxatives right before he leaves for choir practice. He'll sing off key and his fellow choir singers will find him disgusting and shun him. He will be too embarrassed to explain that it was only because he had to take such a mean shit. He'll drive home crying. He'll drive home crying.
Make him believe he lost something irreplaceable. You. Call him with a disguised voice and say, "I'm sorry to tell you that there's been an accident. She's dead. We can't find her body, but we know she's dead. There were hair fibers, all dead." Don't come home for eleven weeks.
Move him around while he's sleeping. If he's on the bed, put him on the couch. Don't leave a note.
Frustrate him. The next time he approaches you, say "Do we know each other?" He'll spend days trying to convince you that he is the man you've loved for three years now. Don't let on that you know. Just keep saying, "Um, I think I'd remember something like that. I'm calling the fuzz."
Blindfold him and spin him around and swing a bat at his face. This will kill him.
Order him to switch religions. Tell him, "It's splitsville unless you join me in the light of Lutheranism."
Cover him in ants. You'll need a lot of ants and he'll probably need to be tied up or drugged asleep to give you enough time to get each of those ants on him.
Hold him down on the bed and fart in his mouth.
Get fat. He'll be so disappointed. He hates fat women. Put on like 40 pounds and act like you don't think you're gross looking. He won't be able to tell you you are.
Kill yourself. He'll be so sad. He'll say, why? He'll wonder if there's anything he could have done. For the rest of his life, he'll wonder.
Happy Cruelty Day!
Thursday, February 05, 2004
Letter To A Lost Friend Day!
(Found ripped to little pieces in Denver)
Frank,
You belong here in love with your wife and children. They forgive you and only want you to come home. Love is yours for the taking, Frank. And your job at the refrigerator store is waiting for you too. I asked Matt.
Lou's dead Frank. Ain't nothing gonna bring him back. I know you blame yourself and that's why you took off. But there ain't nobody to blame but Lou. That guy's been shooting his mouth off for too many years. Everyone knew it would one day catch up with him, just a matter of when and what he'd say. Lou's death wasn't your fault Frank. He got skin cancer fair and square.
Frank, I got a broken heart. My friend's gone and my heart's all broke up into three and four pieces. I'm trying to glue it back together, stitch it up, maybe some twine or hold it over a candle so the pieces melt back together, spirit gum, but it ain't helping. I got a broken heart and it ain't gonna get put back together until my friend cools off and comes home to be my friend again. I miss you Frank. My heart's broke.
Nick's Chicken, Frank. They finally finished remodeling and their doors are open. Same old Nick, same old five dollar pitchers. They sell rotisserie chickens too now, but they're not that good. Lorraine always wants me to bring one home to her though.
It's snowing right now here Frank. It's so beautiful. I wonder what the weather's like where you are. I just realized, when I finish writing this I have no idea how to address it. Maybe I'll just write:
To: Frank
Follow The Streak Of Gold
America.
Jesus I miss you Frank. I took in Bartleby. I didn't trust your kids to take good care and Denise sure as hell didn't wanna go out walking your dog every night. So I got him here in the house. He's doing all right, but he's a bit thin. I think me and Bartleby are both too sick to eat with you gone. Aw Jesus my heart's broke Frank.
That's all I got. I'm beggin' you to come home. Can't do nothing else. Now I'll be waiting for you to come walking up the middle of the street some sunset. Hope it's tomorrow, but I'll be lookin' for you the next day too. Take care of yourself. Lemme see you one more time Frank.
Love,
Kelly
Happy Letter To A Lost Friend Day!
(Found ripped to little pieces in Denver)
Frank,
You belong here in love with your wife and children. They forgive you and only want you to come home. Love is yours for the taking, Frank. And your job at the refrigerator store is waiting for you too. I asked Matt.
Lou's dead Frank. Ain't nothing gonna bring him back. I know you blame yourself and that's why you took off. But there ain't nobody to blame but Lou. That guy's been shooting his mouth off for too many years. Everyone knew it would one day catch up with him, just a matter of when and what he'd say. Lou's death wasn't your fault Frank. He got skin cancer fair and square.
Frank, I got a broken heart. My friend's gone and my heart's all broke up into three and four pieces. I'm trying to glue it back together, stitch it up, maybe some twine or hold it over a candle so the pieces melt back together, spirit gum, but it ain't helping. I got a broken heart and it ain't gonna get put back together until my friend cools off and comes home to be my friend again. I miss you Frank. My heart's broke.
Nick's Chicken, Frank. They finally finished remodeling and their doors are open. Same old Nick, same old five dollar pitchers. They sell rotisserie chickens too now, but they're not that good. Lorraine always wants me to bring one home to her though.
It's snowing right now here Frank. It's so beautiful. I wonder what the weather's like where you are. I just realized, when I finish writing this I have no idea how to address it. Maybe I'll just write:
To: Frank
Follow The Streak Of Gold
America.
Jesus I miss you Frank. I took in Bartleby. I didn't trust your kids to take good care and Denise sure as hell didn't wanna go out walking your dog every night. So I got him here in the house. He's doing all right, but he's a bit thin. I think me and Bartleby are both too sick to eat with you gone. Aw Jesus my heart's broke Frank.
That's all I got. I'm beggin' you to come home. Can't do nothing else. Now I'll be waiting for you to come walking up the middle of the street some sunset. Hope it's tomorrow, but I'll be lookin' for you the next day too. Take care of yourself. Lemme see you one more time Frank.
Love,
Kelly
Happy Letter To A Lost Friend Day!
Wednesday, February 04, 2004
Lemme Swing Out With You Day!
Lynn's skinnydipping with coworkers and she's scared of the rope swing. She's scared of getting unsightly burns on her thighs. She's scared of losing her grip before she gets out over the rocks. She's scared of looking like a fool in front of everyone from the office.
Janine, her supervisor, just swung into the water with a big splash. When she came back up to the surface of the lake, everyone was applauding. Lynn watched closely to see how Janine pulled away from the rope to avoid any burns. She watched to find out when to let go. But Janine's breasts are much smaller than Lynn's. Nothing to catch. What if Lynn lets go of the rope swing and the rope comes tearing up between her cleavage? For the rest of the day everyone will point at the red streak of rope burn searing up between her breasts and wonder if she has a skin condition. Everyone including the very adorable Daniel from Accounts Payable.
And what if there's blood? No. Absolutely not. Lynn hasn't even said hello to Daniel yet. And she absolutely refuses to greet him with blood streaking out over her bared breasts.
But she's afraid to step out of line. It's her department's turn at the swing. If she steps out of line she'll be letting everyone in Data Management down. She has to go through with it.
She's distracted by the guys from Legal playing volleyball. It's amazing, the way their cocks change shape. When she first saw Amrit get out of the water he had practically pulled up all the way within himself. And now he has five full flaccid inches flapping around with every set and spike. Lynn hears a splash, then applause.
It's Debra, the supplies coordinator. The applause is for her handstand. After her splash, she swam back to a shallower level to raise above the water only two legs and a glistening, untended black bush. Like a chopped down tree her legs slowly tip over into the water for one last splash. Then she jumps up from the water for a bow, drawing the biggest applause of all. In her bow, Debra shakes the water from her hair with a whip of her head, causing her very full breasts to reverberate with a ripple.
Debra's breasts are much larger than Lynn's and she came out without any damage. But there's still those rocks. And there are only two in line ahead of her.
"Hey Lynn." It's Daniel from Accounts Payable.
"Daniel. Hey."
They both have their hands on their hips. That happens when two people who are nervous around each other talk while completely naked. At the office, they have pockets to which they can retreat. Lynn tries folding her arms, but she's afraid Daniel will think she doesn't want him to see her naked breasts. So she keeps them on her hips.
"Hittin' the rope swing huh?"
A splash startles Lynn. Applause follows.
"Oh. Yeah, I'm a little scared."
"Oh come on," Daniel says. "There's nothing to it."
Daniel moves his hands up behind his head, then back to his hips. Lynn's eyes follow his hands, and when they drop back to his hips she's able to steal a glance at his genitals. She thinks he might be just a little erect.
"Those rocks though."
"You just have to keep from letting go too soon." Daniel looks out at the rocks, then leans in to Lynn. "Tell you what," he says. "Lemme swing out with you."
To do that, they'll have to wrap up their naked bodies around a rope. Lynn doesn't let the big loud Yes roiling in her belly escape. "Is that allowed?" she asks. "I mean, it's Data Management's turn."
Splash. The rope swings back and Daniel grabs it and holds it out to Lynn. "Hop on," he says.
Lynn wraps her right hand around the rope, her left around Daniel's back.
From the picnic area there are shouts of, "Hey Daniel, Accounts Payable already swung." And, "Get a room you two!"
"Push off with your left foot," he says. He puts his left arm around her waist and pulls her to him. She tries not to arch away when her breasts kiss his pectoral muscles.
"On three," he says. "Let go when I say now."
Daniel begins the count. On one, she wraps her right leg around his left calf. He's more than a little erect against her pelvis. On two they look at each other and smile.
On three Lynn is in Daniel's arms flying out over the surface of a lake. Accounts Payable and Data Management, floating in a naked embrace. When he tells her to, she falls with him.
With the splash, Lynn swallows a big gulp of water. When she breaks the surface, she can hear hoots and hollers behind her coughing. And she can hear Daniel asking her if she's okay.
She manages a smile in between her gasps. His hands are on her shoulders. When she can breathe again, his hands hold the sides of her head. He asks if she's okay again and she nods with a few more coughs. He pulls some hair from over her eyes, which are trained on his. He looks back at the picnic area where the cheering has died down. Then he whips about and puts his lake wet lips to hers. Data Management is pulled to Accounts Payable's naked body and the cheering from the picnic area explodes.
Lynn is nothing but a smile when they pull away and walk back to shore, holding hands underneath the water. People on the beach are singing, "Daniel and Lynn, swingin' from a tree," but stop after not too long because that makes it sound like they were hanged.
Happy Lemme Swing Out With You Day!
Lynn's skinnydipping with coworkers and she's scared of the rope swing. She's scared of getting unsightly burns on her thighs. She's scared of losing her grip before she gets out over the rocks. She's scared of looking like a fool in front of everyone from the office.
Janine, her supervisor, just swung into the water with a big splash. When she came back up to the surface of the lake, everyone was applauding. Lynn watched closely to see how Janine pulled away from the rope to avoid any burns. She watched to find out when to let go. But Janine's breasts are much smaller than Lynn's. Nothing to catch. What if Lynn lets go of the rope swing and the rope comes tearing up between her cleavage? For the rest of the day everyone will point at the red streak of rope burn searing up between her breasts and wonder if she has a skin condition. Everyone including the very adorable Daniel from Accounts Payable.
And what if there's blood? No. Absolutely not. Lynn hasn't even said hello to Daniel yet. And she absolutely refuses to greet him with blood streaking out over her bared breasts.
But she's afraid to step out of line. It's her department's turn at the swing. If she steps out of line she'll be letting everyone in Data Management down. She has to go through with it.
She's distracted by the guys from Legal playing volleyball. It's amazing, the way their cocks change shape. When she first saw Amrit get out of the water he had practically pulled up all the way within himself. And now he has five full flaccid inches flapping around with every set and spike. Lynn hears a splash, then applause.
It's Debra, the supplies coordinator. The applause is for her handstand. After her splash, she swam back to a shallower level to raise above the water only two legs and a glistening, untended black bush. Like a chopped down tree her legs slowly tip over into the water for one last splash. Then she jumps up from the water for a bow, drawing the biggest applause of all. In her bow, Debra shakes the water from her hair with a whip of her head, causing her very full breasts to reverberate with a ripple.
Debra's breasts are much larger than Lynn's and she came out without any damage. But there's still those rocks. And there are only two in line ahead of her.
"Hey Lynn." It's Daniel from Accounts Payable.
"Daniel. Hey."
They both have their hands on their hips. That happens when two people who are nervous around each other talk while completely naked. At the office, they have pockets to which they can retreat. Lynn tries folding her arms, but she's afraid Daniel will think she doesn't want him to see her naked breasts. So she keeps them on her hips.
"Hittin' the rope swing huh?"
A splash startles Lynn. Applause follows.
"Oh. Yeah, I'm a little scared."
"Oh come on," Daniel says. "There's nothing to it."
Daniel moves his hands up behind his head, then back to his hips. Lynn's eyes follow his hands, and when they drop back to his hips she's able to steal a glance at his genitals. She thinks he might be just a little erect.
"Those rocks though."
"You just have to keep from letting go too soon." Daniel looks out at the rocks, then leans in to Lynn. "Tell you what," he says. "Lemme swing out with you."
To do that, they'll have to wrap up their naked bodies around a rope. Lynn doesn't let the big loud Yes roiling in her belly escape. "Is that allowed?" she asks. "I mean, it's Data Management's turn."
Splash. The rope swings back and Daniel grabs it and holds it out to Lynn. "Hop on," he says.
Lynn wraps her right hand around the rope, her left around Daniel's back.
From the picnic area there are shouts of, "Hey Daniel, Accounts Payable already swung." And, "Get a room you two!"
"Push off with your left foot," he says. He puts his left arm around her waist and pulls her to him. She tries not to arch away when her breasts kiss his pectoral muscles.
"On three," he says. "Let go when I say now."
Daniel begins the count. On one, she wraps her right leg around his left calf. He's more than a little erect against her pelvis. On two they look at each other and smile.
On three Lynn is in Daniel's arms flying out over the surface of a lake. Accounts Payable and Data Management, floating in a naked embrace. When he tells her to, she falls with him.
With the splash, Lynn swallows a big gulp of water. When she breaks the surface, she can hear hoots and hollers behind her coughing. And she can hear Daniel asking her if she's okay.
She manages a smile in between her gasps. His hands are on her shoulders. When she can breathe again, his hands hold the sides of her head. He asks if she's okay again and she nods with a few more coughs. He pulls some hair from over her eyes, which are trained on his. He looks back at the picnic area where the cheering has died down. Then he whips about and puts his lake wet lips to hers. Data Management is pulled to Accounts Payable's naked body and the cheering from the picnic area explodes.
Lynn is nothing but a smile when they pull away and walk back to shore, holding hands underneath the water. People on the beach are singing, "Daniel and Lynn, swingin' from a tree," but stop after not too long because that makes it sound like they were hanged.
Happy Lemme Swing Out With You Day!
Tuesday, February 03, 2004
New Boys Day!
Four important new boys will enter your life before April 12, 2005. One will be violent.
Jacob. He'll work at a bookstore for God's sake. You're gonna meet him December 9th, 2004 at around one PM. He'll only be 25. Jacob will be a "kind of artist." He'll take you to a performance night that an acquaintance of his will have put together in a giant loft with no furniture in it. You'll wander alone through all the various "exhibits" for hours and hours. You'll only be by Jacob's side for ten minutes while at the show. Eight when you arrive. Two before you go home and sleep with him. You'll see Jacob a few times over the course of the following month (not on New Year's). You'll never go on a date again. You'll just go to his apartment and spend the night when you find yourself in his neighborhood. When he stops answering his phone, you'll decide to never set foot in Plan B Books again.
Tim. Tim will be rich. You won't be able to recoil quickly enough from the thought of what it would be like to marry someone rich. But you're not a bad person. Tim will be the violent one. On June 12, 2004, after dating for two months, you'll be at a summer home of a friend of Tim's. You'll get tired and decide to turn in before Tim is ready and you'll start to fight a bit. The fight will expand to cover a whole bunch of other crap, both of you just laundry listing what's not right. All of a sudden, wordlessly, Tim will grab you by the shoulders and shake you until your vision goes black. Then he'll shove your chest hard enough to drop you to the sand. You'll sleep on a couch in Tim's friend's house that night. The next day, you and Tim will drive home. He won't say a word. Neither will you. You'll get out at your apartment and if you look back, that will be the last time you ever see Tim before you die on September 9, 2023.
Maurice. He will insist that he hates the name Maurice but he won't answer to any sort of nickname. Maurice will have been close with your ex-husband after he left town. Your ex will have given Maurice your number so he can look you up and you can show Maurice around. The thought of romance with Maurice will enter your mind, of course, because Maurice will not be unsightly. And it will be exciting to think about having been set up for an affair by your ex-husband. But that won't be in the cards. Maurice will be a very funny and intelligent friend, but he will loathe himself. You and Maurice will spend every night for about two weeks together (May 11, 2004-May 24, 2004) before Maurice takes a job. After that, you'll ease into a comfortable, lifelong friendship. Maurice will be your "Bride's Maid" at your second wedding (August 1, 2010).
Neil. This is the one. Neil will be a writer who has always traveled on the outskirts of your circle of friends. One night, February 20, 2005, Neil will sit at a table at a bar and all of a sudden he'll just say "Hi, I'm Neil." For the rest of your life (September 9, 2023) not a day will go by that you don't take a moment to stop in your tracks and marvel at how so brief and bland a phrase could announce so vicious a twisting of your insides. Blonde, broke, drunk, Neil will talk to you until three AM on February 20, 2005. You'll go home with him. You'll stay in his home until February 24, 2005, and then you'll only leave to get some things out of your place. Your first year with Neil will be heaven. The clearest and plainest love you've ever felt. The days between April 16, 2006 and December 25, 2007 will be the worst of your entire life (September 9, 2023). After that, things will get a little better with Neil. But you'll split up early 2009. This is the one, though. You'll love again, but not like with Neil. Neil's gonna take you captive. It'll be hostile, even though you'll have surrendered.
Happy New Boys Day!
Four important new boys will enter your life before April 12, 2005. One will be violent.
Jacob. He'll work at a bookstore for God's sake. You're gonna meet him December 9th, 2004 at around one PM. He'll only be 25. Jacob will be a "kind of artist." He'll take you to a performance night that an acquaintance of his will have put together in a giant loft with no furniture in it. You'll wander alone through all the various "exhibits" for hours and hours. You'll only be by Jacob's side for ten minutes while at the show. Eight when you arrive. Two before you go home and sleep with him. You'll see Jacob a few times over the course of the following month (not on New Year's). You'll never go on a date again. You'll just go to his apartment and spend the night when you find yourself in his neighborhood. When he stops answering his phone, you'll decide to never set foot in Plan B Books again.
Tim. Tim will be rich. You won't be able to recoil quickly enough from the thought of what it would be like to marry someone rich. But you're not a bad person. Tim will be the violent one. On June 12, 2004, after dating for two months, you'll be at a summer home of a friend of Tim's. You'll get tired and decide to turn in before Tim is ready and you'll start to fight a bit. The fight will expand to cover a whole bunch of other crap, both of you just laundry listing what's not right. All of a sudden, wordlessly, Tim will grab you by the shoulders and shake you until your vision goes black. Then he'll shove your chest hard enough to drop you to the sand. You'll sleep on a couch in Tim's friend's house that night. The next day, you and Tim will drive home. He won't say a word. Neither will you. You'll get out at your apartment and if you look back, that will be the last time you ever see Tim before you die on September 9, 2023.
Maurice. He will insist that he hates the name Maurice but he won't answer to any sort of nickname. Maurice will have been close with your ex-husband after he left town. Your ex will have given Maurice your number so he can look you up and you can show Maurice around. The thought of romance with Maurice will enter your mind, of course, because Maurice will not be unsightly. And it will be exciting to think about having been set up for an affair by your ex-husband. But that won't be in the cards. Maurice will be a very funny and intelligent friend, but he will loathe himself. You and Maurice will spend every night for about two weeks together (May 11, 2004-May 24, 2004) before Maurice takes a job. After that, you'll ease into a comfortable, lifelong friendship. Maurice will be your "Bride's Maid" at your second wedding (August 1, 2010).
Neil. This is the one. Neil will be a writer who has always traveled on the outskirts of your circle of friends. One night, February 20, 2005, Neil will sit at a table at a bar and all of a sudden he'll just say "Hi, I'm Neil." For the rest of your life (September 9, 2023) not a day will go by that you don't take a moment to stop in your tracks and marvel at how so brief and bland a phrase could announce so vicious a twisting of your insides. Blonde, broke, drunk, Neil will talk to you until three AM on February 20, 2005. You'll go home with him. You'll stay in his home until February 24, 2005, and then you'll only leave to get some things out of your place. Your first year with Neil will be heaven. The clearest and plainest love you've ever felt. The days between April 16, 2006 and December 25, 2007 will be the worst of your entire life (September 9, 2023). After that, things will get a little better with Neil. But you'll split up early 2009. This is the one, though. You'll love again, but not like with Neil. Neil's gonna take you captive. It'll be hostile, even though you'll have surrendered.
Happy New Boys Day!
Monday, February 02, 2004
Ice Skates Day!
Girls in ice skates are for falling in love with. Girls who just took off their ice skates and are plodding their stockinged feet up to the counter to return them are to be chased after and begged back. Girls with ice skates hanging from a hook in the corner of a bedroom are to be broken up with. Girls who don't know how to ice skate put out. Girls who are presently ice skating should be smacked in the backside (but not so hard that they fall and scrape their faces). Drunk girls ice skating failed 7th grade. Girls who go ice skating and complain about the cold failed 7th grade and 3rd grade. Girls who hold a boy's hand while ice skating won't amount to much in life. Girls who bought some ice skates from a garage sale but never used them even though they've kept them for fourteen years and three apartments (two cities) are the most beautiful, intelligent, and attractive girls in the world and you should not be afraid to let them control your every thought, word and choice (you're stupid). Girls who lick the blade of an ice skate at the end of the night are pretty motherfucking awesome (check out Lauren ya'll). Girls who always get two left shoes when they rent ice skates are pretty cute and absolutely amazing in bed but they come off as kind of the "she'll do, I guess" variety. Girls who not only do not want to ice skate but are actually kind of phobic of it will steal your heart for several years before you realize they're only as interesting as their neuroses (terrible in bed too). Girls who buy drugs at an ice skating rink are pregnant again. All the other girls, lift up your pretty faces.
Happy Ice Skates Day!
Girls in ice skates are for falling in love with. Girls who just took off their ice skates and are plodding their stockinged feet up to the counter to return them are to be chased after and begged back. Girls with ice skates hanging from a hook in the corner of a bedroom are to be broken up with. Girls who don't know how to ice skate put out. Girls who are presently ice skating should be smacked in the backside (but not so hard that they fall and scrape their faces). Drunk girls ice skating failed 7th grade. Girls who go ice skating and complain about the cold failed 7th grade and 3rd grade. Girls who hold a boy's hand while ice skating won't amount to much in life. Girls who bought some ice skates from a garage sale but never used them even though they've kept them for fourteen years and three apartments (two cities) are the most beautiful, intelligent, and attractive girls in the world and you should not be afraid to let them control your every thought, word and choice (you're stupid). Girls who lick the blade of an ice skate at the end of the night are pretty motherfucking awesome (check out Lauren ya'll). Girls who always get two left shoes when they rent ice skates are pretty cute and absolutely amazing in bed but they come off as kind of the "she'll do, I guess" variety. Girls who not only do not want to ice skate but are actually kind of phobic of it will steal your heart for several years before you realize they're only as interesting as their neuroses (terrible in bed too). Girls who buy drugs at an ice skating rink are pregnant again. All the other girls, lift up your pretty faces.
Happy Ice Skates Day!
Sunday, February 01, 2004
Two New Kittens Day!
Name the black one Crunchtime, and the orange one Everlasting Love.
Watch Crunchtime and Everlasting Love scamper.
Watch Everlasting Love welcome Crunchtime to sleep in the warm crook of his curled out belly.
Roll a ball. Crunchtime and Everlasting Love will race to capture it. Everlasting Love will get the ball and sit with it. Crunchtime will sit not a few feet away, looking into Everlasting Love's eyes.
At night, Crunchtime and Everlasting Love will sleep in between your legs. In the day, they'll walk around digging you.
One last thing.
Crunchtime and Everlasting Love need you to know they are there to add something to your life. Not to save it. Crunchtime and Everlasting Love know you, and they know you're on the right track. They're happy to be with you, in your home. Everything, tonight, tomorrow, all this year, everything is going to be just beautiful. You have nothing to worry about. Sleep well, beautiful.
Love,
Prettygirl
Happy Two New Kittens Day!
Name the black one Crunchtime, and the orange one Everlasting Love.
Watch Crunchtime and Everlasting Love scamper.
Watch Everlasting Love welcome Crunchtime to sleep in the warm crook of his curled out belly.
Roll a ball. Crunchtime and Everlasting Love will race to capture it. Everlasting Love will get the ball and sit with it. Crunchtime will sit not a few feet away, looking into Everlasting Love's eyes.
At night, Crunchtime and Everlasting Love will sleep in between your legs. In the day, they'll walk around digging you.
One last thing.
Crunchtime and Everlasting Love need you to know they are there to add something to your life. Not to save it. Crunchtime and Everlasting Love know you, and they know you're on the right track. They're happy to be with you, in your home. Everything, tonight, tomorrow, all this year, everything is going to be just beautiful. You have nothing to worry about. Sleep well, beautiful.
Love,
Prettygirl
Happy Two New Kittens Day!
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