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  if she were dating peter fry, she wouldn't have these problems

i was trapped in a coffee shop in the rain, suffering from four seperate sadnesses (dead fish sadness, upper east side loneliness, and saturday evening mass longing, and car crash regret) when orlovsky called. i can always count on him to turn my night around.

orlovsky talks too loud into his phone because he hasn't had one very long. i can hear his voice but not what he's saying.

orlovsky: williamsgfhg corner of fsdh and rishero.

me: fish? what?

orlovsky: i SAIF corner oFISRHT. ONE. ONE and RIVSHDF.

me: WHAT??

orlovsky: JESUS! sdakjgsa; lgkjakerju pgadjrooshf!! why r you so SHTUIDD??

me: are you under water?

orlovsky: oh NEVERMIHDFN! i'll jsutsdkf start walking towards sadghlajhr!!

teetering around brooklyn's seedy river edge in my mass clothes, i finally saw his waifish figure at the end of the block. we brown bagged cans of sparks and headed inside a warehouse where the bar was made out of broken pianos and i couldn't tell how old anyone was.

a long haired girl dressed like a high priestess took the stage. first the guitar couldn't be heard. she unplugged things, swtiched dials. then the vocals were all wrong. feedback. bored audience. people got up and went out for cigarettes, started gossiping. orlovsky shook his head. "this has happened to her every time i've seen her," he said, mournfully. "maybe you're the problem," i offered.

she got through two watery, gentle ballads before giving up and storming out in a graceful, apologetic rage. i bought her CD because, well, she's not a rock star. she's a folk singer, and a good one, and those are hard to come by in our generation. she never mentions drugs in her songs, and she never mentions the city. she is a pioneer's widow, a gypsy. she plays her guitar like the wind plays the kansas prairie. her voice is like a green ribbon. she's one of the new idealists i've been looking for.

and we had to watch her get hit on by hipster after hipster after the aborted show.

"i'm an artist?" peter mimicked behind their backs. "and i think you are really good? and maybe we could, like, collaberate? on some art? back at my place? between the sheets? oh christ. who is that guy? and how am i going to hit on her now?"

write her a note, obviously. "oh, right." he said. i tore a page out of grendel for him. a good page with an illustration of the monster. here is what he wrote:

MN: your songs (and you're doing fine, keep going) give me the feeling of a covered wagon, and we are only halfway to our destination, the oxen are so exhausted, the ruts are so deep, and our mother just died. but somehow it's alright. i am so glad you exist.

and so am i glad. and so will you be too when you listen.  ¶ 8:16 PM

  obituary

Paper Bag died during the night or early this morning. circumstances and exact cause of death are not known; an investigation is underway.

Paper Bag is survived by one broken-hearted owner and three more-or-less indifferent roommates. services are to be held in the garden of the nevada apartment complex today, at five thirty in the evening.

(the broken-hearted owner, even in her grief, was able to procure a coffin, formerly a box of norwegian matches or "hjelpestikker." the box has a picture of a sunset and a tree and could almost have been designed with Paper Bag's death in mind.)

in lieu of flowers please make checks payable to the Chin Up Fund, or to the IFVCHPA.   ¶ 7:11 AM

  does anyone know

i have recently come into posession of a goldfish. i have named it Paper Bag. i do not know how to care for it. i need tips.  ¶ 6:58 PM

  gosh damnit, merry christmas, whatever-the-hell, what's your name?

(happy birthday.)  ¶ 3:40 PM

  no, marian. don't do it.

ad in the village voice: $10.00/hr. The Pump Energy Food is looking for people to promote their restaurant with flyers while wearing a carrot suit. Apply in person, M-F, btwn 6th and Broadway.

see, i really want that suit. i want to ride the subway in carrot suit, and come home in a carrot suit. i sit on a park bench in wahington square park and feed the birds in a carrot suit. i want to go to sleep in the carrot suit.

i think i would pay THEM $10.00/hr to LET me wear the carrot suit.  ¶ 1:05 PM

  and to think i came three thousand miles

it's dinner rush and the guacomole is hitting the fan. the woman i am serving tells me, "i hope they're paying you three people's wages the way you're working." i tell her i'd be happy if they paid me one.

i've got a bleach stain on my pants and i'm worried about my court date tomorrow. the line is twelve people deep and jamie is trying to tell me, in spanish, something really urgent about the state of the shredded cheese. sw-bm is out "getting more cilantro" and i miss face. why did i ever come to this stupid city, i wonder.

a tiny asian woman comes in with her white hands cupped around her abdomen and orders something weird that's not on the menu. she has a two year old by the hand. he looks up at me with flower-peral eyes and raises his chubby arms and all my resolve to not be a young catholic mother goes out the window.

i reach down and hoist him up on my hip. the line will have to wait. the mother, who doesn't speak english, makes a little kissy noise with her mouth, and the two year old, who understands this, kisses me on the cheek.

i am shattered. i spend the rest of the day fantasizing about a having a nice big conservative family somewhere in the midwest. jamie notices this and teases me. "you like?" he says. "maybe good for you?" "yo quiro ninos," i tell him. "quanto?" he asks. "yo quiro ocho ninos." i say. serious. "oh, shit," he says, smiling wide. "so much, chiquita? so much!" "at least," i say.

and to think i came three thousand miles.  ¶ 9:15 PM

  peter gets high

peter: either the flower is dyslexic and you're both right, or someone is lying to us.

  ¶ 10:47 AM

  here are the frys

ooh, monterey. i am blogging drunk, rilly drunk, and this is not easy, to get all the letters and spaces right, so i hope you people appreciate or at least recognize.

when did i meet sarah. sarah. dawn. fry. i met her freshman year. she had these eyes. she has a heart shaped face and large, wise eyes. they see everything but they do not judge. sarah's eyes.

then i met stef. stef had the same heart shaped face. the same eyes. i liked stef. she had been through some shit with the regnum christi. so had i. they left me at the airport when i was twelve. i liked stef.

then one day i saw their brother. peter fry. sarah turned to me and said that's my brother. and i said that's your brother??

he was so tall, you see. he was so tall and so beautiful. same face. same eyes. but as i am not a lesbian (at least not mostly) he was the only one of the fry-faces i could date. and ooh! did i ever want to.

but he was involved, and somewhat younger, and someone told me to stop "eyeing the freshmen."

but now it is later. he is not a freshman and no one is in college but the eyes have not changed.

i let sarah wear my earrings which look dynamite on her. they are long silver wings and she wears them with an army jacket and she looks like a fighter angel, which she is, and i should know, because she helped me pass my philosophy final at least two years in a row, patiently, and not judging me.

peter is the same, but he does not wear my earrings. i mean he is patient and does not judge me.

they take me into their life, which is beautiful, and i am happy, and they have made me so.

sometimes god wraps me in his arms, but since he is infinite and i am finite, he uses california to wrap me in his arms, but since california is a place and i am a person, it uses the frys, who are people and not a place, so then it is clear, QED, that god loves me because:

here are the frys.  ¶ 8:50 PM

  is it time to bring back quotes from last night?

a: i have a mighty thirst.

r: there's still a splash of gin left.

a: that's not going to cut it. i'm more than a splash of a man.

r: the corner store's gonna open in a couple of hours.

a: when adam named things, he named that a Bad Idea.  ¶ 1:05 AM

  sometimes i let the boys mess with my netflix account

what the hell is going on in texas?  ¶ 9:21 PM

  the sixties are over

make art not love.  ¶ 12:58 PM