When will I see you again?

Yesterday she sat in a near vacant, large patch of grass.  She was in the park.  The park that is situated centrally in the dense city she calls home.  Or rather, she was sitting on a bench that allowed her to almost hover over the patch of grass.  Surrounding the grass on three sides was dirt.  Perhaps there once was grass there as well, as the grass beneath her looked dappled and a touch dry, as if it too was about to become dirt.  On the forth side was the concrete path that had escorted her to that bench on which she presently sat.  A navy blue duffel bag sat next to her on the bench.   Protruding out of a gap where the zipper stopped on either side were the end grips of a metal baseball bat and a tennis racquet.  

Three identical benches, wooden and painted green, curved around the edge of the path to the left of her.   On the furthest one from her sat two men who were facing towards the path to look at a third man who was smoking a cigarette.

This made her want a cigarette as well.  She was nervous someone who didn't know she smoked would see her in this public space, so after she lit the end of her camel she smoked covertly, watching the three men.  

They seemed young enough.  Somewhere in their late twenties.  One of the men had a white styrofoam cup in his hand and would periodically slurp its contents through a straw.  She secretly wanted to be closer to him, so she could hear the slurping sounds.

But they soon left.  Even before she stomped out her cigarette, she watched them walk away with a frisbee until they disappeared around the corner.

Birds and pigeons are everywhere.  Most of them are a dark brown or grey.  But there is one pigeon that is a lighter brown, almost a beige.  It looks like the color of a milkshake and suddenly she is craving a subtle, chocolate milkshake.  Not too much chocolate, but just a touch, so that its color would match that of the tan bird.  The pigeon stumbled over to where the men had been sitting, searching for a fallen crumb or perhaps a drop of sweet liquid.  Then, quite casually a small plop of thick, white shit escaped from underneath its folded wings, landing on the path.  This is when she thought about him.

She is not sure which him she is thinking about.  She is aware that she is consumed with the thoughts of two separate hims, but is unsure which one dominates her thoughts at any given moment.  The two boys are separate boys indeed, but they are so closely connected for her that her thoughts about them she can't separate.

She decides against looking at her cell phone to check the time and chooses to instead ask the next person who walks by on the path.  

She turns her head in anticipation.

A woman dressed in moderately high-waisted (a waist that hits her stomach directly at her bellybutton, not high enough to be at the waist and not low enough to be at the hips) khaki, capri pants.  On top she has on a bright, tangerine colored blouse with three-quarter sleeves.  She's noted that a lot of the woman who walk through this park seemed to be dressed in this fashion . 

She looks down at her feet and quickly back up, to make sure the capri-clad woman is still approaching.  She is.  She looks down at her feet again.  Then up again.  She waits until the woman is just a mere foot from her and looking up at her says, "Excuse me, but do you have the time?"

The woman stops her briskly paced stride and stares down at a thin gold watch that is tightly clasped on her wrist.  

"2:55."

"Thanks."

The woman abruptly continues along the path.  She watches as she walks away, looking intently at her perfectly clean, white sneakers.  

Time for one more cigarette.

She smokes again.  She is again nervous that someone who doesn't know she smokes will see her.

No one does.  

The thoughts of the two boys duel in her head once more.  She can't be anything but ambivalent toward the thoughts because there is no distinction among them.

The cigarette is finished.  She slings the duffel bag over her shoulder and heads east to pick up the eight-year old boy from school and take him to tennis practice. 

Part of a larger conversation

On the third of June in the year of 2008 Molly knocked on my door and I awoke from bed.

It was hot outside, I realized, feeling the heavy air that was creeping into my room from the open window adjacent to my bed.

We were beach bound, something that was decided upon the night before.

We took the A train to Far Rockaway with Christine and Joey. Before we made it to the beach to lay down underneath the sun on the warmed, soft and glass dribbled sand, we went to the Wharf, on the bay side, for drinks and a light lunch.

Went to Trax on Broadway today to get some dish towels and a new garbage can. I walked in and Savage Garden's Truly, Madly, Deeply was playing as I scurried through the middle of the aisles, looking to the left and right, up and down each one as the glorious love ballad that made me nostalgic for all the boys I liked in junior high continued to play. Soon, I forgot where I was and imagined myself in a much larger store, one with towering beige metal racks filled with gallon sized jars of Ragu and boxes containing fifty packets of macaroni and cheese. All the while Savage Garden is still playing and I imagine that I am not looking for a trashcan or dish towels anymore, but my lover, who I have or haven't met yet, I haven't decided, but either way he is lost in this Costo-like store and I must find him before the song ends.
Music video anyone?

God is a superstition

Praise to the Lord for whoever snuck out of their spouses (or child's) bed in the middle of the night to erect this billboard somewhere in some town in Florida:


People in the town are upset by this because they think it is "wrong" to call religions fairy tales. (By the way, I'm sure all them Christians down there have no problem calling Buddhism or Taoism a fairy tale.) I just don't understand why the citizens of whatever town it is in Florida are so disgruntled by this. When did being compared to a lovable, delightfully optimistic, fictitious children's story get such a bad rep?

Everyone LOVES fairy tales!! They make us feel all giddy inside and when we feel giddy we are more willing to give to others (hint hint - Sunday's collection plate.)

And now that I am thinking about it; religions do seem to resemble our culture's beloved fairy tales:

We all simply adore the story of Little Red Riding Hood and how the wolf disguises itself as Red's ailing grandmother - which is just like when Jacob dressed as his older brother, Esau to get the birthright from their father in the book of Genesis. We fawn over Aladin's struggle to eat as a slum member of the lower class of Agrabah. Yet, doesn't Florida understand that Aladin was just like the apostles and prophets? Jesus LOVED people like Aladin! This is what most of the bible is about - poors! And alas, who could forget the enchanting duo, Timon and Pumbaa from the Lion King? "Hakuna Matata" is practically the mantra of all religions. Is anyone else thinking that that phrase sounds an awful lot like "What Would Jesus Do?" OK, now we're on the same page - I can feel it. Can't you feel it too? (This is what Scientology is like! Which of course is the religion furthest from resembling a fairy tale. But it can still be compared to a quaint story like the rest; Scientology is just a more realistic fairy tale.)

So, Floridians, calm the fuck down. Fairy tales are happy things. Religion is a happy thing. (Not for me though, being the stubborn, close-minded atheist that I am.) Therefore these two things belong together!

Happy things + other happy things = Overflow of extreme happiness.

What the HELL?

This is too much, too too much! (see no. 1)
But this person says that it was a David Cross "look-a-like" and not actually him. But it was reported earlier that it was him! Oh, how I wish I could say that there was no possible way it could have been him because he was actually in my bed, naked, at the said times of these alleged sightings.

Why on Earth am I not this girl?!

Amber Tamblyn - your name was unknown to me until this morning and it is with regret that I learn of your existence under such undesirable circumstances. Now I know that I don't like you, not one little bit. You stole my man. I want to tie you up and leave you in a closet and wear your face around all day - just like Castor Troy and Sean Archer - so I can make out with David Cross at movie premieres.

A fat curling tale...

So I know that skipping school is wrong, and those who are stupid enough to get caught doing it (it takes finesse to know which doors aren't locked and a keen intelligence to plot a path that avoids patrolling teachers and hall monitors) deserve to be punished.
In my day, I skipped school at least twice a week, which was a difficult feat at the Catholic high school I attended because we were never allowed to leave campus and all the doors were always locked (because of Columbine) during the school day except for the one near the visitor center at the front of the school (which of course was monitored.) But, I never got caught. Though I did come close once, the school swimming coach becoming suspicious when he saw my friend and I leave through the gym and return fifteen minutes later with red eyes and placid faces.
"Where you been Maine?"
"Just had to get an assignment out of my car, coach."
He had his doubts, considering I wasn't carrying anything in my hands that would have validated that I had indeed retrieved something from my car. If he would have asked I would have said tampon or maxi pad and that would have shut him up. But there were no further questions, he just let us go back up to lunch.
But what if I hadn't just gone into the parking lot and sat in a car for fifteen minutes? What if, say, once I got into the parking lot I saw that the copper crucifix sculpture, standing erect in the middle of the school's lawn, was engulfed in flames and I came to the rescue by grabbing the fire extinguisher inside the gym and ruthlessly combated the flames, ultimately saving Jesus single-handedly, leaving only tiny marks on the sculpture, which no one minds because it gives it character and it's a good story to tell in the future...
2030:
"And this is our almost 100 year old Jesus-cross thing."
Oh's and ah's from the gathering crowd.
"Mrs. Featherbottom?"
"Yes Thor?"
"What is that black, ashy looking stuff on Jesus' upper thigh?"
"Well Thor, that is the only remaining scar from a terrible fire that
plagued this sculpture years ago, when a heroic student solely (or
souly, maybe in this case) saved Jesus' life."
More oh's and ah's.
"Um, Mrs. Featherbottom?"
"Yes Thor?"
"I thought Jesus was supposed to come back again by now and save all
of us...?"
"Not now Thor..."
etcetera...

So you would think in a scenario like the one above, where I save the flaming Jesus sculpture, and am therefore, due to the mass press such an incident would receive, discovered to have been skipping school that I would be pardoned of the traditional punishment in light of my heroic deed. Right?
Well, school officials in Seaside, California don't agree. A 15 year old girl was given a detention after she saved a load of elementary school children inside a runaway bus. Apparently, the driver fell out of her seat after making a turn (where was her seat belt?) and hit her head, impairing her. (Now, all my bus drivers, and I rode the bus for eight years, were fat and wore floral tent-dresses, so I am wondering how such a big person squeezed out enough to fall from a simple turn? Usually, their fat thighs are lodged underneath the steering wheel and no amount of impact could set them free. Or their thigh fat curls around the edge of the seat, sticking to the vinyl (kinda like this girl), thus also making it difficult to get up and out.) Anyways, she fell and the 15 year old jumped up and pressed on the brakes, saving everyone.
And they gave her a detention because she was skipping school. The 15 year old wasn't feeling well and left school, asking the bus driver for a ride. (Why isn't the bus driver getting any flack for this? Who lets a strange person get on a bus full of children?)
The teacher at the 15 year old's school said, "She is in trouble with school because she made the wrong decision. But I can't help but believe that she was where God wanted her to be."
So maybe if this girl was at my Catholic school she would have gotten off, claiming divine intervention. "God made me skip school to save those innocent children."
Alas, all things come back to the big man in the sky.

Warm Beer, Cold Women

San Francisco is full of beautiful hordes of boys hastily pedaling over the hilly streets of the city with a laid-back ease rarely seen on the flat terrain here in Brooklyn. (God, yes.)
I saw a devastatingly attractive young man riding his bike up a rather steep hill while also holding the handle bar of a vacant bike, riding parallel with it. I was amazed and in love.

When I arrived in San Fran we went out with OA's friends to a party in the Mission. I was talking to some guy from Westchester, NY (coincidence? no, I met at least five people from Westchester in San Francisco.) So this guy starts talking about these incredibly fast concrete slides that he used to go down as a kid and I said "Take me there." Ten minutes later OA, me, this guy and his friend who had a car were driving to the slides.



These luge-like slides were the steepest, fastest slides I'd ever slid down. (The picture doesn't really do it justice.) It's five seconds of stomach-flopping madness before it shoots you out horizontally and gravity finally pulls you down and your ass collides with a hard pile of sand. West Coast kids had it so much better than us Midwestern-raised pups.
After our childish-desires were fulfilled, we walked over to a bench that stood alone on a vacant, green hill that overlooked the entire city. Beautiful.

Next day OA and I went on a hike in the mountains that overlooked the Pacific Ocean. There were wild Elk everywhere and the ground was scattered with vibrant poppy flowers. We stopped on a steep cliff and had a picnic while the eagles that soared above barked at us.







OA: "This looks like one of those allergy commercials."



The following day OA and I took to the hilly streets on our bikes, cycling up a tall, winding path to Twin Peaks. (I was looking at a map my first day there and pointed my finger on Twin Peaks and said, "There. Take me there.")




Afterwards, we biked back down, which isn't any better than biking up, because while it is less strenuous, it is completely terrifying. I was going down hills at such a sharp incline that I felt like I was going to flip over the top of my handle bars as I was applying the brakes the entire way down. At last we arrived at Delores Park, bought locally brewed, delicious beers and laid in the sun.




Then we went to Zeitgeist, where their slogan is "Warm Beer, Cold Women."
See below:


I love this woman.