Liripipe
Saturday, October 30, 2004
<
bad title great movie
you can fly to places in the world on pudding. that's funny. that . . . is . . . funny.
Punch Drunk Love. Adam Sandler, even if you don't like him, is wonderful in this film. He's a lonely, overwrought man who wears the same suit every day and smashes windows at parties when he feels trapped. The world is out to get him, much like the Dude, but like the Dude, he abides and eventually triumphs over well-meaning adversaries (his seven sisters) as well as truly evil ones (a phoneslut called Georgia and her gang of thugs.)
Bonus! Philip Seymour Hoffman in an unlikely role.
A feel good movie for people who hate feel good movies.
<
you can fly to places in the world on pudding. that's funny. that . . . is . . . funny.
Punch Drunk Love. Adam Sandler, even if you don't like him, is wonderful in this film. He's a lonely, overwrought man who wears the same suit every day and smashes windows at parties when he feels trapped. The world is out to get him, much like the Dude, but like the Dude, he abides and eventually triumphs over well-meaning adversaries (his seven sisters) as well as truly evil ones (a phoneslut called Georgia and her gang of thugs.)
Bonus! Philip Seymour Hoffman in an unlikely role.
A feel good movie for people who hate feel good movies.
Thursday, October 28, 2004
<
lord help me
so i am practicing self control. no running to chinatown to buy fireworks til i clean my bathroom.
i'd never done this before. some poor workstudy kid has cleaned my bathroom for four years. or my mother, God bless her. but no more.
so i clumsily went in there with what seemed right, buckets, soaps of various kinds, sponges on long poles . . .
during the preliminary clearing of space, i merrily tossed my contact lenses down the sink.
why would i do that? did i forget i had my glasses on or was it SATAN? something is not right . . .
so i am practicing self control. no running to chinatown to buy fireworks til i clean my bathroom.
i'd never done this before. some poor workstudy kid has cleaned my bathroom for four years. or my mother, God bless her. but no more.
so i clumsily went in there with what seemed right, buckets, soaps of various kinds, sponges on long poles . . .
during the preliminary clearing of space, i merrily tossed my contact lenses down the sink.
why would i do that? did i forget i had my glasses on or was it SATAN? something is not right . . .
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
<
<
it's true
I didn't write this.
On any person who desires such queer prizes, New York will bestow the gift of lonliness and the gift of privacy. It is this largess that accounts for the presence within the city's walls of a considerable section of the population; for the residents of Manhattan are to a large extent strangers who have pulled up stakes somewhere and come to town, seeking anctuary or fulfillment or a greater or lesser grail. The capacity to make such dubious gifts is a mysterious quality of New York. It can destory an individual or it can fulfill him, depending a good deal on luck. No one should come to New York to live unless he is willing to be lucky.
From E. B. White's Here Is New York, written the summer of 1948 in the Lafayette Hotel.
I didn't write this.
On any person who desires such queer prizes, New York will bestow the gift of lonliness and the gift of privacy. It is this largess that accounts for the presence within the city's walls of a considerable section of the population; for the residents of Manhattan are to a large extent strangers who have pulled up stakes somewhere and come to town, seeking anctuary or fulfillment or a greater or lesser grail. The capacity to make such dubious gifts is a mysterious quality of New York. It can destory an individual or it can fulfill him, depending a good deal on luck. No one should come to New York to live unless he is willing to be lucky.
From E. B. White's Here Is New York, written the summer of 1948 in the Lafayette Hotel.
Monday, October 25, 2004
<
recipe for a cellar door
take E.T. and Harvey and put them in a blender. before drinking, throw in a dash of early nirvana recordings.
what you're enjoying is Donnie Darko. cheers.
take E.T. and Harvey and put them in a blender. before drinking, throw in a dash of early nirvana recordings.
what you're enjoying is Donnie Darko. cheers.
Sunday, October 24, 2004
<
prohibition
in certain places at certain times maybe wouldn't be so bad.
and that's coming from a borderline alcoholic.
<
in certain places at certain times maybe wouldn't be so bad.
and that's coming from a borderline alcoholic.
brooklyn!
didn't you ever think there was more to life than being really . . . really, really . . . ridiculously . . . good looking?
didn't you ever think there was more to life than being really . . . really, really . . . ridiculously . . . good looking?
Tuesday, October 19, 2004
<
i heart free stuff.
"Everything is connected and everything matters. Now isn't that cool?"
It's a rainy day. A rainy I'm-broke-and-out-of-cigarettes day. So I go online to apply for jobs. Screen after screen, form after form, and I'm getting more and more discouraged. Am I in the right place? Should I have gone to a different school? What Does It All Mean?
So I go to craigslist to see what's shakin'. Amidst the usual stuff (The I'm-19-and-I'll-do-anything-for-rent-money girl, the I'm-45-and-want-to-cheat-on-my-wife man) there are always some gems on craigslist. Today, some angel of God was giving out free passes to a special screening of I HEART HUCKABEES.
It never hurts to try, so I emailed him.
He emailed back.
Off I went to Times Square, and would you believe it, the guy wasn't full of it. My name was on the list!
The movie could be a modern Clouds. Jason Schwartzman (Rushmore) is a confused 21-year-old activist who rides a bike to save the earth and plants trees in parking lots. He wants to know What It All Means. He seeks out Existensial Detectives Lily Tomlin and Dustin Hoffman to help him. They are trying to convince him that everything matters when a french nihilist shows up, complicating things by having sex with Jason and telling him nothing matters, which he's willing to believe, because it's easier. And so the battle/farce/romp through the dasies begins.
When the movie was done I clapped with everyone else, then, still laughing, went for a smoke . . . but didn't make it out the door because Dustin Hoffman was blocking my way. I did a double take, stammered hello, and shook his hand and thanked him. He had Lily Tomlin by his side. They were there for a Q and A that I'd forgotten was part of the deal. Sweet!
Some kid in the audience asked Dustin Hoffman about "making it in New York." I groaned inwardly, but when Mr. Hoffman spoke I almost fell in love with the man. He talked about how hard it was, living with Rober DuVall, because Robert was famous and hailed as the Next Marlon Brando, while Dustin had nothing. He spoke of moving back in with his parents, and uncomfotrable family dinners when relatives would ask when he was going to get a "real job." He told the New York Kid to stick it out. That it wasn't easy, but that it was going to be great. I could see that he'd really gotten into his role as an existensial detective, and by the time I left the theater, I was so uplifted that I really felt everything did matter. It was as if his character had jumped from the screen and was giving everyone a lecture called Tempered Optimism as Philosphy: Don't Think Twice, It's Alright.
See the film. It'll make you smile.
"Everything is connected and everything matters. Now isn't that cool?"
It's a rainy day. A rainy I'm-broke-and-out-of-cigarettes day. So I go online to apply for jobs. Screen after screen, form after form, and I'm getting more and more discouraged. Am I in the right place? Should I have gone to a different school? What Does It All Mean?
So I go to craigslist to see what's shakin'. Amidst the usual stuff (The I'm-19-and-I'll-do-anything-for-rent-money girl, the I'm-45-and-want-to-cheat-on-my-wife man) there are always some gems on craigslist. Today, some angel of God was giving out free passes to a special screening of I HEART HUCKABEES.
It never hurts to try, so I emailed him.
He emailed back.
Off I went to Times Square, and would you believe it, the guy wasn't full of it. My name was on the list!
The movie could be a modern Clouds. Jason Schwartzman (Rushmore) is a confused 21-year-old activist who rides a bike to save the earth and plants trees in parking lots. He wants to know What It All Means. He seeks out Existensial Detectives Lily Tomlin and Dustin Hoffman to help him. They are trying to convince him that everything matters when a french nihilist shows up, complicating things by having sex with Jason and telling him nothing matters, which he's willing to believe, because it's easier. And so the battle/farce/romp through the dasies begins.
When the movie was done I clapped with everyone else, then, still laughing, went for a smoke . . . but didn't make it out the door because Dustin Hoffman was blocking my way. I did a double take, stammered hello, and shook his hand and thanked him. He had Lily Tomlin by his side. They were there for a Q and A that I'd forgotten was part of the deal. Sweet!
Some kid in the audience asked Dustin Hoffman about "making it in New York." I groaned inwardly, but when Mr. Hoffman spoke I almost fell in love with the man. He talked about how hard it was, living with Rober DuVall, because Robert was famous and hailed as the Next Marlon Brando, while Dustin had nothing. He spoke of moving back in with his parents, and uncomfotrable family dinners when relatives would ask when he was going to get a "real job." He told the New York Kid to stick it out. That it wasn't easy, but that it was going to be great. I could see that he'd really gotten into his role as an existensial detective, and by the time I left the theater, I was so uplifted that I really felt everything did matter. It was as if his character had jumped from the screen and was giving everyone a lecture called Tempered Optimism as Philosphy: Don't Think Twice, It's Alright.
See the film. It'll make you smile.
Sunday, October 17, 2004
<
the fall
of course the tip came from orlovsky. shady, shady, shady: "take the e to the g to the l, get off somewhere after nassau, then go down the hill, then follow the people."
but williamsburg? i whined. all those hipsters?
oh, come on, he said. you'll be glad.
so i slapped on a little black eyeliner, threw morphine on my headphones, filled a flask with gin and followed the directions until i was deep in the heart of the indie breeding ground. the desired warehouse distinguished itself by a little astrisk made of light flickering above the door. girls in miniskirts and boys in fur coats kissed eachother and smoked cigarettes and stumbled up and down stairs and yelled into their phones, with their hands over their ears and their heads bent into corners, "WHAT? WHAT??? I can't hear you- i SAID i can't HEAR YOU i'm at a CONCERT!!! i SAID-"
i listened for the music. cool, i thought, they're playing the fall. then i walked in and saw- oh, it's the FALL. playing the fall.
the boy in the ACHIEVER shirt stood guard in front of the bathroom door while the kids inside got their fixes.
when i got home, the ballot i'd recieved in the mail informed me, YOUR CURRENT PARTY IS INDEPENDENCE.
of course the tip came from orlovsky. shady, shady, shady: "take the e to the g to the l, get off somewhere after nassau, then go down the hill, then follow the people."
but williamsburg? i whined. all those hipsters?
oh, come on, he said. you'll be glad.
so i slapped on a little black eyeliner, threw morphine on my headphones, filled a flask with gin and followed the directions until i was deep in the heart of the indie breeding ground. the desired warehouse distinguished itself by a little astrisk made of light flickering above the door. girls in miniskirts and boys in fur coats kissed eachother and smoked cigarettes and stumbled up and down stairs and yelled into their phones, with their hands over their ears and their heads bent into corners, "WHAT? WHAT??? I can't hear you- i SAID i can't HEAR YOU i'm at a CONCERT!!! i SAID-"
i listened for the music. cool, i thought, they're playing the fall. then i walked in and saw- oh, it's the FALL. playing the fall.
the boy in the ACHIEVER shirt stood guard in front of the bathroom door while the kids inside got their fixes.
when i got home, the ballot i'd recieved in the mail informed me, YOUR CURRENT PARTY IS INDEPENDENCE.
Thursday, October 14, 2004
<
the debate
Kerry told us with conviction that it was against the law to hire people illegally in the United States.
Bush, when asked directly if he wanted to overturn Roe v. Wade, said he would not use a litmus test for his judges.
Kerry claimed to be an altar boy . . .
Gosh! I'm voting for Pedro Sanchez.
Kerry told us with conviction that it was against the law to hire people illegally in the United States.
Bush, when asked directly if he wanted to overturn Roe v. Wade, said he would not use a litmus test for his judges.
Kerry claimed to be an altar boy . . .
Gosh! I'm voting for Pedro Sanchez.
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
<
yum
The Beautiful and Damned, F. Scott Fitzgerald, 1922.
"I detest reformers, especially the sort who try to reform me."
"Are there many of those?"
"Dozens. It's 'Oh, Gloria, if you smoke so many cigarettes you'll lose your pretty complexion!' and 'Oh, Gloria, why don't you marry and settle down?'"
As soon as you read the title, you know the story. Anthony Patch, a well-educated slacker, marries Gloria, a jazz baby who bobs her hair before it's fashionable and holds New York's roaring social scene in the palm of her 22-year-old hand. The two tear it up, get tired, and finally are ruined by their early thirties, having squandered all their money, time, and talent on small blazes of glittery glory.
Don't expect to be remarkably changed. The main characters in this book make kiddie pools look wayyyyyyyy deep.
Read it for: Morning-after scenes so well drawn the reader gets a vicarious hangover; as a cautionary tale if you find you make more trips out for liquor than food; a historical piece interesting because it mirrors Scott and Zelda's own lives and marriage, from their giddy, cutting-edge start to their alcohol-soaked, nuerotic end.
Yum, yum, yum.
The Beautiful and Damned, F. Scott Fitzgerald, 1922.
"I detest reformers, especially the sort who try to reform me."
"Are there many of those?"
"Dozens. It's 'Oh, Gloria, if you smoke so many cigarettes you'll lose your pretty complexion!' and 'Oh, Gloria, why don't you marry and settle down?'"
As soon as you read the title, you know the story. Anthony Patch, a well-educated slacker, marries Gloria, a jazz baby who bobs her hair before it's fashionable and holds New York's roaring social scene in the palm of her 22-year-old hand. The two tear it up, get tired, and finally are ruined by their early thirties, having squandered all their money, time, and talent on small blazes of glittery glory.
Don't expect to be remarkably changed. The main characters in this book make kiddie pools look wayyyyyyyy deep.
Read it for: Morning-after scenes so well drawn the reader gets a vicarious hangover; as a cautionary tale if you find you make more trips out for liquor than food; a historical piece interesting because it mirrors Scott and Zelda's own lives and marriage, from their giddy, cutting-edge start to their alcohol-soaked, nuerotic end.
Yum, yum, yum.
Monday, October 11, 2004
<
minnes-oh-tah
The groom, his chest puffed up and bow-tied, said, "This is the happiest day of my life." The bride, floating down the aisle, winked one large eye towards us, causing every heart to quicken. The groom yelled "I DO" into the mic so loud everyone winced and laughed at the same time. The bride, walking back up the aisle, flashed a smile so natural you had to grin back.
Then came the reception. 50th floor of a downtown building! Little silver frames around each guests place-card, making everyone feel valued and wanted! Old friends, lovers, and classmates! Dancing, smoking, kissing Allie Shoen smack on the mouth! OPEN BAR!
I went up to congratulate Anne. Instead of the usual polite-but-totally-overwhelmed-and-distant-plus-somewhat-stressed vibe brides usually seem to have, Anne's eyes lit up. "Oh, Marian!" she said. "I was hoping to see you!" She proceeded to tell me last minute table switches she'd made, so that I could sit with my boyfriend. Anne, the Eternal Categorizer. Here it is -- Anne's Day -- and she takes the time to think of each guest and where they're sitting. If only everyone could be that classy.
If only I could be that classy. I drank many drinks. My Boyfriend made a judgement call and tossed me into a taxi before the clock struck midnight. Next time I shall pace myself. Though I still maintain I would've lasted at least six more hours, if only I'd had a little water and a chance to walk around the block.
p.s. don't go to the mall of america, you'll get the fear. and they do NOT show good movies.
HOWEVER
the twin cities do boast a lovely downtown area. a totally managable but very respectable metro area. walk around, eat a sawndwich, dig the midwest.
The groom, his chest puffed up and bow-tied, said, "This is the happiest day of my life." The bride, floating down the aisle, winked one large eye towards us, causing every heart to quicken. The groom yelled "I DO" into the mic so loud everyone winced and laughed at the same time. The bride, walking back up the aisle, flashed a smile so natural you had to grin back.
Then came the reception. 50th floor of a downtown building! Little silver frames around each guests place-card, making everyone feel valued and wanted! Old friends, lovers, and classmates! Dancing, smoking, kissing Allie Shoen smack on the mouth! OPEN BAR!
I went up to congratulate Anne. Instead of the usual polite-but-totally-overwhelmed-and-distant-plus-somewhat-stressed vibe brides usually seem to have, Anne's eyes lit up. "Oh, Marian!" she said. "I was hoping to see you!" She proceeded to tell me last minute table switches she'd made, so that I could sit with my boyfriend. Anne, the Eternal Categorizer. Here it is -- Anne's Day -- and she takes the time to think of each guest and where they're sitting. If only everyone could be that classy.
If only I could be that classy. I drank many drinks. My Boyfriend made a judgement call and tossed me into a taxi before the clock struck midnight. Next time I shall pace myself. Though I still maintain I would've lasted at least six more hours, if only I'd had a little water and a chance to walk around the block.
p.s. don't go to the mall of america, you'll get the fear. and they do NOT show good movies.
HOWEVER
the twin cities do boast a lovely downtown area. a totally managable but very respectable metro area. walk around, eat a sawndwich, dig the midwest.
Wednesday, October 06, 2004
<
oh, $H*t.
"Are you going to work today?"
"No. Actually, I don't think I'm going anymore."
"Did you quit?"
"No, I'm just not going to go."
Just like in Office Space, I have stopped going to work. So I can do things like go to Minnesota and see my friends get married. And drink and DANCE.
I know this is not noble. I know it is not responsible. I know my roommates are a little skeptical. But, as I tell them, without the job I will have SO much time to find that tree the money grows on. Must be on Wall Street somewhere, don't you think?
"Are you going to work today?"
"No. Actually, I don't think I'm going anymore."
"Did you quit?"
"No, I'm just not going to go."
Just like in Office Space, I have stopped going to work. So I can do things like go to Minnesota and see my friends get married. And drink and DANCE.
I know this is not noble. I know it is not responsible. I know my roommates are a little skeptical. But, as I tell them, without the job I will have SO much time to find that tree the money grows on. Must be on Wall Street somewhere, don't you think?
Tuesday, October 05, 2004
<
Good Manners
I didn't write this.
Salesman: May I help you?
Young Buck: Perhaps. Actually, we were looking for a present for the lady.
Salesman: Certainly, sir. Was there something special you had in mind.
Young Buck: Well, we had considered diamonds. I don't want to offend you, but the lady feels diamonds are . . . "tacky" for her.
Audrey: Oh, I think they're divine on older women, but I don't think they'd be right for me-- you do understand.
Salesman: Certainly.
Young Buck: In all fairness, I think I ought to explain there's a secondary problem. One of finance. We can only afford to spend . . . a limited amount.
Salesman: May I ask . . . how limited?
Audrey: Ten dollars.
Salesman: Ten dollars.
Young Buck: That was the outside figure, yes.
Salesman: I see.
Audrey: Do you have anything for ten dollars?
Salesman: Well, frankly, madam, within that price range, the variety of merchandise is rather limited . . . although I do think might we have, let me see . . . strictly as a novelty, you understand . . . for the lady or gentleman who "has everything" -- a sterling silvery telephone dialer, at six seventy-five, including tax.
Young Buck (mystified): A sterling . . . sliver . . . telephone dialer.
Salesman: Yes. At six seventy-five, including federal tax.
Young Buck: Well, the price is right, but I had hoped for something more-- how shall I put it-- romantic. What do you think?
Audrey: A sterling silver telephone dialer-- although I do think it's handsome-- well, you do understand . . .
Young Buck: Well, we tried-- wait! We could have something engraved, couldn't we?
Salesman: Yes-- I suppose so-- yes, indeed-- the only problem is, you would more or less have to buy something first in order to have some object on which to place the engraving-- you see the difficulty.
Young Buck: We could have this engraved couldn't we? (Pulls something from pocket.)
Salesman: This . . . I take it . . . was not purchased at Tiffany's?
Young Buck: Actually, no. It was purchased concurrent with-- actually, well, came inside of . . . well. A box of crackerjacks.
Salesman (blinking): I see. Do they still really have prizes in crackerjack boxes?
Young Buck: Oh, yes.
Salesman: That's nice to know. Gives one a feeling of solidarity. Almost a continuity of the past, that sort of thing.
Audrey: Do you think Tiffany's would really engrave it for us? You don't feel they'd think is was beneath them, or anything like that.
Salesman: Well, it is rather unusual, madam. But I think you'll find Tiffany's is very understanding. If you'll tell me what initials you would like, I could have it to you by morning.
Audrey (kissing him on the cheek): Didn't I tell you this was a lovely place?
For more about poor young people buying things for each other read O. Henry's Gift of the Magi.
I didn't write this.
Salesman: May I help you?
Young Buck: Perhaps. Actually, we were looking for a present for the lady.
Salesman: Certainly, sir. Was there something special you had in mind.
Young Buck: Well, we had considered diamonds. I don't want to offend you, but the lady feels diamonds are . . . "tacky" for her.
Audrey: Oh, I think they're divine on older women, but I don't think they'd be right for me-- you do understand.
Salesman: Certainly.
Young Buck: In all fairness, I think I ought to explain there's a secondary problem. One of finance. We can only afford to spend . . . a limited amount.
Salesman: May I ask . . . how limited?
Audrey: Ten dollars.
Salesman: Ten dollars.
Young Buck: That was the outside figure, yes.
Salesman: I see.
Audrey: Do you have anything for ten dollars?
Salesman: Well, frankly, madam, within that price range, the variety of merchandise is rather limited . . . although I do think might we have, let me see . . . strictly as a novelty, you understand . . . for the lady or gentleman who "has everything" -- a sterling silvery telephone dialer, at six seventy-five, including tax.
Young Buck (mystified): A sterling . . . sliver . . . telephone dialer.
Salesman: Yes. At six seventy-five, including federal tax.
Young Buck: Well, the price is right, but I had hoped for something more-- how shall I put it-- romantic. What do you think?
Audrey: A sterling silver telephone dialer-- although I do think it's handsome-- well, you do understand . . .
Young Buck: Well, we tried-- wait! We could have something engraved, couldn't we?
Salesman: Yes-- I suppose so-- yes, indeed-- the only problem is, you would more or less have to buy something first in order to have some object on which to place the engraving-- you see the difficulty.
Young Buck: We could have this engraved couldn't we? (Pulls something from pocket.)
Salesman: This . . . I take it . . . was not purchased at Tiffany's?
Young Buck: Actually, no. It was purchased concurrent with-- actually, well, came inside of . . . well. A box of crackerjacks.
Salesman (blinking): I see. Do they still really have prizes in crackerjack boxes?
Young Buck: Oh, yes.
Salesman: That's nice to know. Gives one a feeling of solidarity. Almost a continuity of the past, that sort of thing.
Audrey: Do you think Tiffany's would really engrave it for us? You don't feel they'd think is was beneath them, or anything like that.
Salesman: Well, it is rather unusual, madam. But I think you'll find Tiffany's is very understanding. If you'll tell me what initials you would like, I could have it to you by morning.
Audrey (kissing him on the cheek): Didn't I tell you this was a lovely place?
For more about poor young people buying things for each other read O. Henry's Gift of the Magi.
Saturday, October 02, 2004
<
INDOMITABLE.
A long, personal blog no one will read all the way through.
Cat picks me up early and spirits me away to New Jersey, where I met several famous authors and got naturally high talking to them. My heart pounded during the question and answer period when I raised my hand high in the air and asked the panel of Famous Ones, who were discussing class and literature
"No one's actually said it yet, but am I risking my artistic integrity by getting an MFA?"
This sparked a lively discussion. Writers talking like people never do at TAC, well articulated about feelings and art, oh my God, I have found my own, I was DYING.
And my phone rings. And it's sweet old Mr. Alam. Wondering why I am not serving Nepali men their Johnny Walker Black Label.
Oh, jeez, I say. Umm, I'm caught in traffic. I'll be late, but I'll be there.
I had actually forgotten I had a job.
When I walked into Bombay, the proverbial shit was hitting the proverbial FAN. It was a birthday party for a kid of 11. The CD player wasn't working, we were out of coca-cola, the waitresses were beside themselves and poor Mr. Alam, my 70-year-old manager, who should've been in BED, was trying to please employees and customers alike. No easy task.
I tried to do damage control. American-style, otherwise known as "the-customer-is-always-right." But when a drunken rascist came up to the bar (apparently there's a *thing* between Pakistani and Indian men) this happened:
Indian: SHIT HEAD FUCK MAN!
Mr. Alam: Your language, please, suh.
(Several small children, including the birthday boy, stop playing hide and seek, look up.)
Indian: NO BLACK LABEL . . . FUCK YOU ASSHOLE!
Mr. Alam: Your language, suh, please, you must watch it . . .
Indian: You speak Urdu? (Spittle flying, insults in an eastern dialect . . .)
I couldn't tell what he was saying, but edged between them. Mr. Alam's eyes got huge, his lip trembled, and the weak, thin man, (who practically lives in the restaraunt at the mercy of accountants, owners, customers and waitresses,) looked close to tears-- but ready to fight. Even with his little reading glasses on.
This was more than I could take. I took action. The Indian was removed. (And I would've been fired under normal American circumstances.)
But trouble wasn't over. The birthday kid's Mom and Dad tried to pay the bill with an American Express, which Bombay doesn't accept. Poor Mr. Alam. I decided to sit this one out, tromped outside borkenly for a smoke. Who should be out there but the birthday kid. We stood in the wreckage that is Jackson Heights. He was hidden by birthday balloons, me by my reliable cloud of toxins. The subway is under construction and it's not a pretty sight. I didn't want to say Happy Birthday to him after everything he'd seen and heard- it would've sounded sarcastic. One of his balloons slipped and went up, up, up, up, up into the cloudy night sky. We watched it fly. I looked at him. He looked at me. I smiled. He smiled . . . and let another balloon slip. One by one, each of his balloons, into the sky. Ever higher. I raised my arms and twirled around, relinquishing my cigarette. He laughed.
"Happy birthday," I said.
<
A long, personal blog no one will read all the way through.
Cat picks me up early and spirits me away to New Jersey, where I met several famous authors and got naturally high talking to them. My heart pounded during the question and answer period when I raised my hand high in the air and asked the panel of Famous Ones, who were discussing class and literature
"No one's actually said it yet, but am I risking my artistic integrity by getting an MFA?"
This sparked a lively discussion. Writers talking like people never do at TAC, well articulated about feelings and art, oh my God, I have found my own, I was DYING.
And my phone rings. And it's sweet old Mr. Alam. Wondering why I am not serving Nepali men their Johnny Walker Black Label.
Oh, jeez, I say. Umm, I'm caught in traffic. I'll be late, but I'll be there.
I had actually forgotten I had a job.
When I walked into Bombay, the proverbial shit was hitting the proverbial FAN. It was a birthday party for a kid of 11. The CD player wasn't working, we were out of coca-cola, the waitresses were beside themselves and poor Mr. Alam, my 70-year-old manager, who should've been in BED, was trying to please employees and customers alike. No easy task.
I tried to do damage control. American-style, otherwise known as "the-customer-is-always-right." But when a drunken rascist came up to the bar (apparently there's a *thing* between Pakistani and Indian men) this happened:
Indian: SHIT HEAD FUCK MAN!
Mr. Alam: Your language, please, suh.
(Several small children, including the birthday boy, stop playing hide and seek, look up.)
Indian: NO BLACK LABEL . . . FUCK YOU ASSHOLE!
Mr. Alam: Your language, suh, please, you must watch it . . .
Indian: You speak Urdu? (Spittle flying, insults in an eastern dialect . . .)
I couldn't tell what he was saying, but edged between them. Mr. Alam's eyes got huge, his lip trembled, and the weak, thin man, (who practically lives in the restaraunt at the mercy of accountants, owners, customers and waitresses,) looked close to tears-- but ready to fight. Even with his little reading glasses on.
This was more than I could take. I took action. The Indian was removed. (And I would've been fired under normal American circumstances.)
But trouble wasn't over. The birthday kid's Mom and Dad tried to pay the bill with an American Express, which Bombay doesn't accept. Poor Mr. Alam. I decided to sit this one out, tromped outside borkenly for a smoke. Who should be out there but the birthday kid. We stood in the wreckage that is Jackson Heights. He was hidden by birthday balloons, me by my reliable cloud of toxins. The subway is under construction and it's not a pretty sight. I didn't want to say Happy Birthday to him after everything he'd seen and heard- it would've sounded sarcastic. One of his balloons slipped and went up, up, up, up, up into the cloudy night sky. We watched it fly. I looked at him. He looked at me. I smiled. He smiled . . . and let another balloon slip. One by one, each of his balloons, into the sky. Ever higher. I raised my arms and twirled around, relinquishing my cigarette. He laughed.
"Happy birthday," I said.
COMING TO YOU LIVE FROM NYC:
SS: OH MY GOD! WHO would call me now?? . . . hello? . . . oh, hi. DUDE, the PINES. the PINES.
Patrick: Here, Marian, you can have what's left of this rose . . . I need my jammies . . .
Marian: I could get a silver dress, dye my hair blonde . . .
SS (on the phone): Oh, I remember talking with Kate . . .
Patrick: Don't let Rich show you the pictures.
Marian: Cat's picking me up in two hours to meet Joyce Carrol Oats-
SS: FEENEY? Am I on speakerphone?? Hi everybody . . . who all's there? I hear girlvoices . . . . my virginity was at risk the entire time, but I defended it, I'll have you know . . .
SS: OH MY GOD! WHO would call me now?? . . . hello? . . . oh, hi. DUDE, the PINES. the PINES.
Patrick: Here, Marian, you can have what's left of this rose . . . I need my jammies . . .
Marian: I could get a silver dress, dye my hair blonde . . .
SS (on the phone): Oh, I remember talking with Kate . . .
Patrick: Don't let Rich show you the pictures.
Marian: Cat's picking me up in two hours to meet Joyce Carrol Oats-
SS: FEENEY? Am I on speakerphone?? Hi everybody . . . who all's there? I hear girlvoices . . . . my virginity was at risk the entire time, but I defended it, I'll have you know . . .
juvenile, but satan-resistant. pack your other moustache, we're going to kansas city.
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california (gorgeous):
face
nomikkh
pretty powers
surfer boy
burn cells brained out
not of this world
5ives
donzilla
dialog blog
matthew lickona
lisa tucker
wasted mind
maxwell murders blog of DOOM
texas (don't mess with):
HANSEL (he's so hot right now)
texanne
little sister
weird weeds
slow to wrath
czech republic (other side):
wanton and forlorn
jedno pivo porism
kansas city (prairie punx):
kansas city baby #1
a damn shame
kansas city babies #2 and #4
kansas city baby #3
kansas city baby #5 (krystle)
kansas city baby #6
unknown (but famous):
the prophet (has flowers and special-ness)
foxy
dan
un sitio cualquiera
wife
don't ask, don't tell
running/not running
new york city (hell yes):
the galloping consumption
seldom sober
brooklyn girl
the subway chronicles
joey
some are good most are trash
project museum