Happy actual Hallowe'en.
This morning, I stole candy, unwittingly, from a small child dressed in a long nylon cape who had left his Hallowe'en Pumpkin, full of loot, resting near the till at the UPS. I thought it was for customers. It was not for customers. It was only for people who want to steal candy from babies. When the child came back to collect his, uh, purse, I had my mouth full of candy, guiltily, like a formidably stuffed rabbit. It was my breakfast and lunch. Will you begrudge me this nutritious Fun Pack of M&Ms, child, for my breakfast and lunch? You will.
Abby sent me this graph, which both confirms and increases my terror of all the suspicions I've held about people's dumb Hallowe'en costumes. It is really best if you view it in its original context.
The restaurant below me is covered in cobwebs and fake spiders. One man who was waiting for a table when I left the Fort tonight was dressed as Justin Timberlake in the "Dick in a Box" video. The box was there, wrapped nicely. I was absolutely terrified that he was going to open it. He kept fondling the bow in a sort of weird, unappetizing way. I ran past. I wonder how he sat down when he finally got seated at that table.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
in which phillip is once again braver than i am, all the while continuing to be made of polyester fibers
There was an earthquake last night! Oh, the things that happen on the west coast. I pictured palm trees swaying ominously on Dolores Street and dropping coconuts onto the heads of unsuspecting hipsters (this is why you should wear bike helmets when you're riding your ridiculous fixed-gears, hipsters! or don't; I don't care). The Fort began to shake ominously, and sort of rock. I was very uneasy. Then I realized it was an earthquake, and unease led to panic.
"Oh my god," I said to Ben, with whom I had been speaking via the wonders of the Internet, "is this an earthquake?"
Ben, who lives about a mile and a half away, confirmed that it was.
I AM TERRIFIED, I typed, not so neatly.
A glass that had previously contained some kind of green spirulina, spinach, something-or-other concoction (California!) fell to the ground and broke. I screamed. This was a pretty tame earthquake for screaming, I know, but I am simply not used to the ground moving under my feet at all. I stayed rooted to the spot. Phillip, over on the bed, looked delighted and began to jump around with glee as though this were fun.
I thought I was going to cry. And then it was over.
"Did anything break?" Ben asked.
"Yes!" I said. He was enthused:
"I have a friend with damage!"
The USGS reports that the epicenter of the earthquake was 9 miles outside of San Jose. I imagined my classrooms melting, melting, melting (yes, I know melting isn't the major activity of earthquakes). I was glad I had not been there for it. If the earthquake was this terrifying in San Francisco, I can only imagine what it would have been like in San Jose. I think if I had been teaching during the earthquake, my students would have mutinied and thrown me out the window into a crack in the Earth. Then the Earth would have closed up again and I would have been trapped in the mantle or something, very bored. All I remember from 8th grade Earth Science class is that it is extremely boring in the mantle of the Earth because there are no books, games, or people to mock. Also, very few burritos. I think Milli or Vanilli may be down there, but in another section, closer to, uh, the "Core," or some other fictional part of the Earth.
West coast, you terrify and delight me.
"Oh my god," I said to Ben, with whom I had been speaking via the wonders of the Internet, "is this an earthquake?"
Ben, who lives about a mile and a half away, confirmed that it was.
I AM TERRIFIED, I typed, not so neatly.
A glass that had previously contained some kind of green spirulina, spinach, something-or-other concoction (California!) fell to the ground and broke. I screamed. This was a pretty tame earthquake for screaming, I know, but I am simply not used to the ground moving under my feet at all. I stayed rooted to the spot. Phillip, over on the bed, looked delighted and began to jump around with glee as though this were fun.
I thought I was going to cry. And then it was over.
"Did anything break?" Ben asked.
"Yes!" I said. He was enthused:
"I have a friend with damage!"
The USGS reports that the epicenter of the earthquake was 9 miles outside of San Jose. I imagined my classrooms melting, melting, melting (yes, I know melting isn't the major activity of earthquakes). I was glad I had not been there for it. If the earthquake was this terrifying in San Francisco, I can only imagine what it would have been like in San Jose. I think if I had been teaching during the earthquake, my students would have mutinied and thrown me out the window into a crack in the Earth. Then the Earth would have closed up again and I would have been trapped in the mantle or something, very bored. All I remember from 8th grade Earth Science class is that it is extremely boring in the mantle of the Earth because there are no books, games, or people to mock. Also, very few burritos. I think Milli or Vanilli may be down there, but in another section, closer to, uh, the "Core," or some other fictional part of the Earth.
West coast, you terrify and delight me.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
not-okay activities, non-halloween division
Last night, apparently, was Halloween. People seem to have some kind of weird aversion to celebrating anything on a weekday, Halloween not excluded. There were people on the street dressed in all manner of costume, most of which fell into that category by which I cannot abide: the "sexy" Halloween costume. Halloween is not for "sexy." It is for candy and brains. Hello? Was everyone just absent on that day? Full-grown sexy witches, sexy lightbulbs, sexy Ghostbusters, sexy vampires, sexy Fred Flintstones roamed the streets. On the bus to the Haight, Ben and I saw a few Scrabble pieces, a Q and an I, which were the only ones I found acceptable. I pointed out a group of adults, about my parents' age, who appeared to be trick-or-treating.
"That is not okay," Ben said.
Making it especially not okay: Last night was October 27.
We went to a bar in the Haight where Ben proceeded to tell me about anoxia. He told me it is an ailment suffered by high-flying pilots: A lack of oxygen turns their fingers blue and simultaneously makes them cocky; they see their fingers turn blue and do not care. Some internet searcherie when I got home wielded this description of one of the symptoms: "an inappropriate sense of euphoria." Aha! And another unpublishable story is born.
Before I got home, however, and after I left Ben, I stood on a street corner in the Haight trying to decide how I would get back to the Fort. It was pretty late and I have, as you know, been mugged a couple times. I have an unreasonable fear of being kicked in dark alleyways now. I am a pansy.
I considered waiting for the bus for forty-five minutes and then, once it neared the Fort, walking a sort of seedy block to home. On the other hand I considered spending money I don't have on a cab. To be fair, I had just spent a certain amount of money I don't have on whiskey, so scrimping on personal safety did not really seem logical. Just when I decided I would take a cab and live to see another destitute day, a group of sexy witches came out of nowhere and stole a cab right out from under me. Me, a once-New Yorker! Bested by sexy witches!
"Fucking sexy witches," I grumbled.
One of them heard me.
"Thank you!" she said, as they clambered into the cab.
It had not been a compliment.
I kept waiting on the corner, hoping a free cab would come by. The bus was certainly not coming. All the cabs were taken. Suddenly someone appeared on the corner next to me dressed from head to toe in a sort of black-and-white striped sleep costume, and a tie festooned with hamburgers.
"We match!" he cried. I was also wearing a black-and-white striped item, a sweater.
"Yes, sort of," I said. "Are you a hamburglar?"
"Rabble rabble," he confirmed. "Are you a hamburglar?"
"No," I said. (In my complicated hamburglar experience, most h-burglars do not wander around in jeans and sweaters, carrying purses filled with books and FedEx receipts. But okay.)
He tried again.
"What's your costume?"
"Modern-day curmudgeon," I said. This offering fell on dumb ears, in more ways than one.
"Well, it looks good," he said. (Sexy modern-day curmudgeon!) "Are you waiting for a cab?"
I said I was.
"Do you want to share?" he asked. It transpired that he was going in the opposite direction. "But I could go where you're going," he said. I was confused.
"But that's not where you're going," I said. "That doesn't make sense."
"It could be where I'm going," said the Hamburglar.
"No," I said, "it could not really be."
There was silence as more full cabs went by. He offered me a piece of candy. I took it. The Hamburglar and I stood there on the corner for some time more, eating these pieces of candy that he had apparently trick-or-treated to obtain, inappropriately for his age. A band of Sexy Schoolgirls came by and said "Rabble rabble" to him.
"That is the benefit," he explained to me, his mouth full of chocolate,"of wearing this costume."
"That is not okay," Ben said.
Making it especially not okay: Last night was October 27.
We went to a bar in the Haight where Ben proceeded to tell me about anoxia. He told me it is an ailment suffered by high-flying pilots: A lack of oxygen turns their fingers blue and simultaneously makes them cocky; they see their fingers turn blue and do not care. Some internet searcherie when I got home wielded this description of one of the symptoms: "an inappropriate sense of euphoria." Aha! And another unpublishable story is born.
Before I got home, however, and after I left Ben, I stood on a street corner in the Haight trying to decide how I would get back to the Fort. It was pretty late and I have, as you know, been mugged a couple times. I have an unreasonable fear of being kicked in dark alleyways now. I am a pansy.
I considered waiting for the bus for forty-five minutes and then, once it neared the Fort, walking a sort of seedy block to home. On the other hand I considered spending money I don't have on a cab. To be fair, I had just spent a certain amount of money I don't have on whiskey, so scrimping on personal safety did not really seem logical. Just when I decided I would take a cab and live to see another destitute day, a group of sexy witches came out of nowhere and stole a cab right out from under me. Me, a once-New Yorker! Bested by sexy witches!
"Fucking sexy witches," I grumbled.
One of them heard me.
"Thank you!" she said, as they clambered into the cab.
It had not been a compliment.
I kept waiting on the corner, hoping a free cab would come by. The bus was certainly not coming. All the cabs were taken. Suddenly someone appeared on the corner next to me dressed from head to toe in a sort of black-and-white striped sleep costume, and a tie festooned with hamburgers.
"We match!" he cried. I was also wearing a black-and-white striped item, a sweater.
"Yes, sort of," I said. "Are you a hamburglar?"
"Rabble rabble," he confirmed. "Are you a hamburglar?"
"No," I said. (In my complicated hamburglar experience, most h-burglars do not wander around in jeans and sweaters, carrying purses filled with books and FedEx receipts. But okay.)
He tried again.
"What's your costume?"
"Modern-day curmudgeon," I said. This offering fell on dumb ears, in more ways than one.
"Well, it looks good," he said. (Sexy modern-day curmudgeon!) "Are you waiting for a cab?"
I said I was.
"Do you want to share?" he asked. It transpired that he was going in the opposite direction. "But I could go where you're going," he said. I was confused.
"But that's not where you're going," I said. "That doesn't make sense."
"It could be where I'm going," said the Hamburglar.
"No," I said, "it could not really be."
There was silence as more full cabs went by. He offered me a piece of candy. I took it. The Hamburglar and I stood there on the corner for some time more, eating these pieces of candy that he had apparently trick-or-treated to obtain, inappropriately for his age. A band of Sexy Schoolgirls came by and said "Rabble rabble" to him.
"That is the benefit," he explained to me, his mouth full of chocolate,"of wearing this costume."
Friday, October 26, 2007
disgruntlement, and its enactments in relationship to the dairy group
My triumphant return today to Yogurt Park -- long-lost meeting place of myself, Michelle A. , and Jeff S. of the Carolinas -- was unfortunately anything but triumphant. During the summer, while we were teaching nearby, we were not allowed to drink. We also did not have breaks, or days off. This sort of put a damper on identifying any sort of Destination for our scant downtime -- or it would have, had there not been a giant yellow sign two blocks from our dorm (yeah, we lived in a dorm; bring it) that read YOGURT, then PARK. Michelle and I were instantly in love and even (it was a difficult time for everyone) made up a Yogurt Park chant, which I wisely did not attempt solo today.
There would be days when we would each easily finish -- no, easily demolish -- one of those seemingly weenie yogurt offerings while I moaned percussively about live and active cultures. (True, maybe we were taking out our professional disgruntlement on this, the object of our sole fifteen-minute break in a twenty-four-hour workday, but I think we were usually also hungry, since our diet was otherwise mainly vegan. Everyone knows that in addition to being undernourished, vegans are also rude and quarrelsome, and destructive when presented with sources of nutrition. No one wants... to feed a vegan.) Unless you have severe professional disgruntlement, however, Yogurt Park's ungodly portion size makes it difficult to eat past the top of the cup. Apparently this holds true even if one orders a Mini size, and even if that Mini has been paid for by a former employer via gift certificate, as a "token of appreciation" for "hard work" (quotation marks necessary here). As you probably have already gleaned, I have a healthy amount of professional disgruntlement toward that job I have that is not copyediting, the one where I stand in front of people and teach things about reading that no one but me has done (copyediting I continue to enjoy; please hire me). But apparently it wasn't enough professional disgruntlement to finish a Mini yogurt. God, I feel so impotent.
The PWCM, however, is apparently on his A-game of professional disgruntlement, because that shit was gone before we had even walked a block from the Yogurt Park premises.
"Did you eat all that already?" I asked incredulously. I was still picking at the top of mine. He shrugged.
"Basically," he said, and then revealed that he does not even enjoy foods. Gone the days of Michelle and Jeff and our slow, mean destruction of dairy products! This is business now! We have moved into the "business" portion of our professional disgruntlement show! Laying waste by consumption to undesired substances, at speed! This is how mastodons worked. So my impotence was slightly saved by his yogurt-destroying gesture, if only by association. Still, I feel lame, powerless. I need another chance.
Later, I was reading Dinosaur Comics when I was supposed to be working. (Thanks for contributing to my lack of productivity, Ben! No, those are real thanks.) I came across this particular strip in the archives that reminded me -- unpleasantly?-- of a story I am writing that will never get published. Why will it never get published, besides the fact that it will have been written by me? I think the strip sort of answers that question for itself. Click to enlarge.
There would be days when we would each easily finish -- no, easily demolish -- one of those seemingly weenie yogurt offerings while I moaned percussively about live and active cultures. (True, maybe we were taking out our professional disgruntlement on this, the object of our sole fifteen-minute break in a twenty-four-hour workday, but I think we were usually also hungry, since our diet was otherwise mainly vegan. Everyone knows that in addition to being undernourished, vegans are also rude and quarrelsome, and destructive when presented with sources of nutrition. No one wants... to feed a vegan.) Unless you have severe professional disgruntlement, however, Yogurt Park's ungodly portion size makes it difficult to eat past the top of the cup. Apparently this holds true even if one orders a Mini size, and even if that Mini has been paid for by a former employer via gift certificate, as a "token of appreciation" for "hard work" (quotation marks necessary here). As you probably have already gleaned, I have a healthy amount of professional disgruntlement toward that job I have that is not copyediting, the one where I stand in front of people and teach things about reading that no one but me has done (copyediting I continue to enjoy; please hire me). But apparently it wasn't enough professional disgruntlement to finish a Mini yogurt. God, I feel so impotent.
The PWCM, however, is apparently on his A-game of professional disgruntlement, because that shit was gone before we had even walked a block from the Yogurt Park premises.
"Did you eat all that already?" I asked incredulously. I was still picking at the top of mine. He shrugged.
"Basically," he said, and then revealed that he does not even enjoy foods. Gone the days of Michelle and Jeff and our slow, mean destruction of dairy products! This is business now! We have moved into the "business" portion of our professional disgruntlement show! Laying waste by consumption to undesired substances, at speed! This is how mastodons worked. So my impotence was slightly saved by his yogurt-destroying gesture, if only by association. Still, I feel lame, powerless. I need another chance.
Later, I was reading Dinosaur Comics when I was supposed to be working. (Thanks for contributing to my lack of productivity, Ben! No, those are real thanks.) I came across this particular strip in the archives that reminded me -- unpleasantly?-- of a story I am writing that will never get published. Why will it never get published, besides the fact that it will have been written by me? I think the strip sort of answers that question for itself. Click to enlarge.
Monday, October 22, 2007
"Jump," or "Just Don't Be An Asshole"
I'm not sure that this video is really doing anything for the glutted verbal ecosystem of sex-sports metaphors. If it really insists, though, I feel like it could do better than showing a bunch of guys jumping into sandpits and over poles (and, at the end, the painfully inevitable dunking montage. Oh, Sisters).
Surely you agree that there are way better jumping images that could be used. Like the pogo stick... did anyone think of that? What about trampolines? Those are good for jumping. These people, the track-and-field people, are clearly already good at jumping. How about showing a scene in which jumping is difficult? Maybe someone with no legs! Now we're talking! The whole point of this is, Look, dude, if you want to be with me, you'd probably better make a small effort. Jumping in place, for example, might inexplicably be an example of this. But maybe you could also, I don't know, be nice to me, or whatever women with flowy skirts want. Well, I don't know about you, but for me, being nice takes way more effort than competing in an event at which I'm already pretty good.
If only all the Pointer Sisters were still alive, I would write to them with a request for a song called simply, " Just Don't Be An Asshole." Get to the point, Pointer Sisters! Nice skirts, though, and I have to say I admire the boldness of a group that can exclaim without bashfulness, "You know these arms can feel you up!" Yes, it sort of detracts from the point, but there's no harm in stating the obvious.
Surely you agree that there are way better jumping images that could be used. Like the pogo stick... did anyone think of that? What about trampolines? Those are good for jumping. These people, the track-and-field people, are clearly already good at jumping. How about showing a scene in which jumping is difficult? Maybe someone with no legs! Now we're talking! The whole point of this is, Look, dude, if you want to be with me, you'd probably better make a small effort. Jumping in place, for example, might inexplicably be an example of this. But maybe you could also, I don't know, be nice to me, or whatever women with flowy skirts want. Well, I don't know about you, but for me, being nice takes way more effort than competing in an event at which I'm already pretty good.
If only all the Pointer Sisters were still alive, I would write to them with a request for a song called simply, " Just Don't Be An Asshole." Get to the point, Pointer Sisters! Nice skirts, though, and I have to say I admire the boldness of a group that can exclaim without bashfulness, "You know these arms can feel you up!" Yes, it sort of detracts from the point, but there's no harm in stating the obvious.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
organs in the 'loin!
This morning I did something unpleasant. I weighed myself.
I have this scale that I keep under my dresser. It's a good, electronic scale, and mainly it collects dust. I step on it when I am having a moment of great weakness, or to see if the urban myth that you lose 7 pounds directly following running a marathon is true (it isn't). I also step on it when a doctor tells me to. Sometimes I am supposed to step on it and report numbers back to the doctor for a week, or two weeks. I am supposed to obtain these numbers at the same time of day, having eaten the same thing, wearing the same thing, so this is always the way I weigh myself, even when I'm just fooling around.
I have recently received such a request. I was very curious myself to see how much I weighed, since I had not weighed myself in months, and have recently taken up a regimen of no exercise, and an all-burrito-and-bagel diet. I pictured myself informing the doctor that I weigh 300 pounds.
"Yes," I would say proudly, like a Roman Emperor, "clearly I cannot be coming out of remission! I am huge! Passersby bounce off my toga-wrapped torso on the street as it jiggles toward the BART! Bounce, bitches! Bounce!"
But instead when I stepped on the scale an unfamiliarly small number that I had seen before, but only in books about baby iguanas, appeared. I figured the scale must be broken or something. I stepped on it again and again and again. I reset it. I changed the battery. I reset it again. No, this seemed to be correct: I had lost 20 pounds since I last stepped on the scale, and yet looked remarkably the same, if not even more obese than usual. (For those of you who have written in, offended about my comments concerning obesity, know that in Crohn's, a fattish person is a healthy person. The accumulation of bulk is much like the activity of bears saving up for a long, encaved winter. Yes, I'm basically telling you that I'm like a successful bear.)
But, wait: Where could these 20 pounds have gone? What were they made of? Organs, I concluded! Organs, wholesale organs, had escaped my body on little cat feet and crept away by night to the Tenderloin, where they had been kidnapped and sold! It would, in any case, explain why I don't seem to have a heart.
I wrote up my little report for the doctor using the form that I'd been provided. I wrote down the weird number, a number appropriate for the weight of babies, scarecrows, or medieval martyrs. In the space provided for comments, I wrote, "Despite this number, I am really extremely fat still." I just wanted to let them know. "I'm wearing all the same clothes," I added in the margin. I wanted to also add what hecklers yell at me when I walk down the street, things like,
"Unnnh, fat bitch, I'd tap that fat ass," or else "I like my good eaters!" or similar. In New York, someone had even famously yelled out to me,
"Yo! Fat bitch! How does it feel to be so FAT?" Of course, that was over a year ago.
I thought I also might add something about how, not too terribly long ago, I had had, you know, relations, with a man who literally said to me,
"I'm just not used to girls of your size." (I raised my eyebrows and waited for further, excuse the word here, amplification.) There was a long uncomfortable silence. "But it's great," he concluded lamely. "Really great." (That was pretty much the end of his tenure as one who has relations with me. I can't be involved with someone who thinks "great" is a delightful word choice. Surely you understand.)
After I filled out the form, I felt melancholy. Where had all the pounds gone, long time passing, and how could I not have noticed? Why did I look so portly, if this was true? I felt around to see if I could locate my organs. Aha! I didn't feel any. Just as I suspected! They were all gone! God damn it. Fucking sneaky innards. Of course, only the Crohn's Disease-ridden intenstines remained, dogged till the end. Heart, brain, liver, kidneys, all that shit was g-o-n-e. I wondered how they had liked their traipse up South Van Ness by night, and if they had been mugged. I wondered how much money they had been sold for, and if they were enjoyed by their purchaser. Furthermore, I wondered how long I could continue lecturing to college students without a brain before someone noticed. Sadly, I think the answer might be indefinitely.
This is the only explanation I can think of to explain
a) why I look the same, and
b) how I am definitely not coming out of remission.
Because how could I possibly be coming out of remission? That's not possible. I'm not sick. Look at me! I'm like a well-fed bear! I'm enormous, I'm fierce!
I have this scale that I keep under my dresser. It's a good, electronic scale, and mainly it collects dust. I step on it when I am having a moment of great weakness, or to see if the urban myth that you lose 7 pounds directly following running a marathon is true (it isn't). I also step on it when a doctor tells me to. Sometimes I am supposed to step on it and report numbers back to the doctor for a week, or two weeks. I am supposed to obtain these numbers at the same time of day, having eaten the same thing, wearing the same thing, so this is always the way I weigh myself, even when I'm just fooling around.
I have recently received such a request. I was very curious myself to see how much I weighed, since I had not weighed myself in months, and have recently taken up a regimen of no exercise, and an all-burrito-and-bagel diet. I pictured myself informing the doctor that I weigh 300 pounds.
"Yes," I would say proudly, like a Roman Emperor, "clearly I cannot be coming out of remission! I am huge! Passersby bounce off my toga-wrapped torso on the street as it jiggles toward the BART! Bounce, bitches! Bounce!"
But instead when I stepped on the scale an unfamiliarly small number that I had seen before, but only in books about baby iguanas, appeared. I figured the scale must be broken or something. I stepped on it again and again and again. I reset it. I changed the battery. I reset it again. No, this seemed to be correct: I had lost 20 pounds since I last stepped on the scale, and yet looked remarkably the same, if not even more obese than usual. (For those of you who have written in, offended about my comments concerning obesity, know that in Crohn's, a fattish person is a healthy person. The accumulation of bulk is much like the activity of bears saving up for a long, encaved winter. Yes, I'm basically telling you that I'm like a successful bear.)
But, wait: Where could these 20 pounds have gone? What were they made of? Organs, I concluded! Organs, wholesale organs, had escaped my body on little cat feet and crept away by night to the Tenderloin, where they had been kidnapped and sold! It would, in any case, explain why I don't seem to have a heart.
I wrote up my little report for the doctor using the form that I'd been provided. I wrote down the weird number, a number appropriate for the weight of babies, scarecrows, or medieval martyrs. In the space provided for comments, I wrote, "Despite this number, I am really extremely fat still." I just wanted to let them know. "I'm wearing all the same clothes," I added in the margin. I wanted to also add what hecklers yell at me when I walk down the street, things like,
"Unnnh, fat bitch, I'd tap that fat ass," or else "I like my good eaters!" or similar. In New York, someone had even famously yelled out to me,
"Yo! Fat bitch! How does it feel to be so FAT?" Of course, that was over a year ago.
I thought I also might add something about how, not too terribly long ago, I had had, you know, relations, with a man who literally said to me,
"I'm just not used to girls of your size." (I raised my eyebrows and waited for further, excuse the word here, amplification.) There was a long uncomfortable silence. "But it's great," he concluded lamely. "Really great." (That was pretty much the end of his tenure as one who has relations with me. I can't be involved with someone who thinks "great" is a delightful word choice. Surely you understand.)
After I filled out the form, I felt melancholy. Where had all the pounds gone, long time passing, and how could I not have noticed? Why did I look so portly, if this was true? I felt around to see if I could locate my organs. Aha! I didn't feel any. Just as I suspected! They were all gone! God damn it. Fucking sneaky innards. Of course, only the Crohn's Disease-ridden intenstines remained, dogged till the end. Heart, brain, liver, kidneys, all that shit was g-o-n-e. I wondered how they had liked their traipse up South Van Ness by night, and if they had been mugged. I wondered how much money they had been sold for, and if they were enjoyed by their purchaser. Furthermore, I wondered how long I could continue lecturing to college students without a brain before someone noticed. Sadly, I think the answer might be indefinitely.
This is the only explanation I can think of to explain
a) why I look the same, and
b) how I am definitely not coming out of remission.
Because how could I possibly be coming out of remission? That's not possible. I'm not sick. Look at me! I'm like a well-fed bear! I'm enormous, I'm fierce!
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
hulihee, close cousin to the huliho
Adam sent me this poster yesterday with the important information that he plans to adopt the Friendly Mutton Chops look. I replied that I prefer the Hulihee.
"You would have to have enormous balls to wear the French Fork," Adam added.
"Yes," I said, "so large that you would have to wear a set of pewter bowls just to support them. The balls."
Then there was silence.
"You would have to have enormous balls to wear the French Fork," Adam added.
"Yes," I said, "so large that you would have to wear a set of pewter bowls just to support them. The balls."
Then there was silence.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
my work is a lucky guy
On the way home today from that festering city where I teach, I fell asleep. I fell asleep on the DASH and then again on the Baby Bullet and then again on the BART. (That's right, I commute by three forms of public transportation. This is an entirely unsubtle plea for those who journey from the San Francisco area to the San Jose area on weekdays to ferry me about in their cars like a leg of lamb.)
I woke up temporarily on the BART to find that there was a hipster getting on at the airport stop. I am not afraid of hipsters, because I have learned to live among them, sometimes hissing or singing the "Ho Ho Hipster" song in a jolly manner. ("Ho Ho Hipster" is sung to the same tune you might sing at a sporting event along the lines of, "Let's-go-Ti-gers" *clap* *clap* *clapclapclap*.) This particular hipster was dressed all in skinny black clothes, was wearing some faint eyeliner, and wore a thin red tie clipped to his shirt with a bird pin. He sat down and commenced staring at me intently, like it was a job.
I don't like being stared at. I looked back at the book of essays that I teach from, which I fall asleep upon in my spare time. (Everyone has to have a hobby.) Every time I looked back up, there was the hipster, staring at me with his hipster eyes.
Soon he took out a delicious-looking sandwich. I was very hungry. No: "Very hungry" is understatement. I was ready to kill that hipster for his sandwich. I had had a lunch of sorts, but afterward had not felt very well, a phenomenon for which I issued more than adequate foreshadow to the PWCM. ("I don't feel well!" I exclaimed dully, bending double, and then, getting up from the bench where we were sitting, "No, I really don't feel well." We decided that the item I had eaten, which was sold from a coffee shop in the place of our employment, was probably laced with rigor mortis, or rigor-mortis-having dead bodies. (In an attempt to keep enrollment costs down? Kill faculty so as not to have to pay us the pennies we are owed?) Whatever it was, I had to leave class while while my students were doing an in-class writing to vomit it up in the bathroom, barely having made it there to do so. If you were wondering, I still have Crohn's Disease. And do I ever! I think I'm going to go pro.) Anyway, I wanted that hipster's sandwich big-time.
I guess it's probably not clear, if someone is staring at you, whether it is really you they are staring at, or your sandwich, so I can forgive the hipster for what came next. Toting the desirable sandwich, he walked over to me and introduced himself.
"I am Dave," said the hipster. "Can I sit in your bank?"
I had never thought to call those little two-seat areas in the BART or on a bus or subway a "bank," and the context in which he said it sounded distinctly dirty to me, but I did not see how I could say no. Plus, letting him sit there would mean being nearer to the sandwich. I wondered how strange it would seem to Dave, the hipster, if I just leaned over, hands-free, and took a bite. Unleash the cannibal! It seemed to be turkey.
"You may sit," I said hesitantly, "there." (I could not bring myself to say "bank" again.)
"Are you on your way home from work?" asked Dave.
"Yes," I said.
"I," said Dave, "am on my way home from the airport. What's your name?"
I seem to have a knack for inadvertantly inviting people to speak to me on the BART. I really hoped that Dave, like Brian, a fellow BART rider of old, was not going to ask me for girl advice.
I got my wish, unfortunately.
"Kara," I said. That was true. In answer to his question about how my day had been, I said, "Long, thank you." That was also true.
"It looks," Dave mused, "like you need a beer!"
No, I thought to myself seedily, my eyes darting back and forth toward that sandwich like rabbits, I need a sandwich.Your sandwich!
"Hmm," I said, which is what I say when I do not want to be rude but would definitely be rude if I spoke.
"Think about it," said Dave, and then we awkwardly sat in silence past South San Francisco, Colma, and Daly City. I was not thinking about it. I was thinking about whether it would be possible for my employer to really lace a paralyzing enzyme or something into a bagel. What am I talking about? I don't even know what an enzyme is.
In the meantime, Dave had finished off his sandwich. He was no use to me now.
"Well?" said Dave around Balboa Park, smiling winningly through his eyeliner and -- I was now noticing -- an extremely hipsterish pin affixed to his lapel in the shape of a skull surrounded by small hearts.
"I can't, unfortunately," I said, I hoped kindly. "I have a lot of work tonight."
"A boyfriend," Dave inferred.
"No," I said, "just a lot of work."
"He's a lucky guy," said Dave.
Yes, my work is a lucky, lucky guy.
I woke up temporarily on the BART to find that there was a hipster getting on at the airport stop. I am not afraid of hipsters, because I have learned to live among them, sometimes hissing or singing the "Ho Ho Hipster" song in a jolly manner. ("Ho Ho Hipster" is sung to the same tune you might sing at a sporting event along the lines of, "Let's-go-Ti-gers" *clap* *clap* *clapclapclap*.) This particular hipster was dressed all in skinny black clothes, was wearing some faint eyeliner, and wore a thin red tie clipped to his shirt with a bird pin. He sat down and commenced staring at me intently, like it was a job.
I don't like being stared at. I looked back at the book of essays that I teach from, which I fall asleep upon in my spare time. (Everyone has to have a hobby.) Every time I looked back up, there was the hipster, staring at me with his hipster eyes.
Soon he took out a delicious-looking sandwich. I was very hungry. No: "Very hungry" is understatement. I was ready to kill that hipster for his sandwich. I had had a lunch of sorts, but afterward had not felt very well, a phenomenon for which I issued more than adequate foreshadow to the PWCM. ("I don't feel well!" I exclaimed dully, bending double, and then, getting up from the bench where we were sitting, "No, I really don't feel well." We decided that the item I had eaten, which was sold from a coffee shop in the place of our employment, was probably laced with rigor mortis, or rigor-mortis-having dead bodies. (In an attempt to keep enrollment costs down? Kill faculty so as not to have to pay us the pennies we are owed?) Whatever it was, I had to leave class while while my students were doing an in-class writing to vomit it up in the bathroom, barely having made it there to do so. If you were wondering, I still have Crohn's Disease. And do I ever! I think I'm going to go pro.) Anyway, I wanted that hipster's sandwich big-time.
I guess it's probably not clear, if someone is staring at you, whether it is really you they are staring at, or your sandwich, so I can forgive the hipster for what came next. Toting the desirable sandwich, he walked over to me and introduced himself.
"I am Dave," said the hipster. "Can I sit in your bank?"
I had never thought to call those little two-seat areas in the BART or on a bus or subway a "bank," and the context in which he said it sounded distinctly dirty to me, but I did not see how I could say no. Plus, letting him sit there would mean being nearer to the sandwich. I wondered how strange it would seem to Dave, the hipster, if I just leaned over, hands-free, and took a bite. Unleash the cannibal! It seemed to be turkey.
"You may sit," I said hesitantly, "there." (I could not bring myself to say "bank" again.)
"Are you on your way home from work?" asked Dave.
"Yes," I said.
"I," said Dave, "am on my way home from the airport. What's your name?"
I seem to have a knack for inadvertantly inviting people to speak to me on the BART. I really hoped that Dave, like Brian, a fellow BART rider of old, was not going to ask me for girl advice.
I got my wish, unfortunately.
"Kara," I said. That was true. In answer to his question about how my day had been, I said, "Long, thank you." That was also true.
"It looks," Dave mused, "like you need a beer!"
No, I thought to myself seedily, my eyes darting back and forth toward that sandwich like rabbits, I need a sandwich.Your sandwich!
"Hmm," I said, which is what I say when I do not want to be rude but would definitely be rude if I spoke.
"Think about it," said Dave, and then we awkwardly sat in silence past South San Francisco, Colma, and Daly City. I was not thinking about it. I was thinking about whether it would be possible for my employer to really lace a paralyzing enzyme or something into a bagel. What am I talking about? I don't even know what an enzyme is.
In the meantime, Dave had finished off his sandwich. He was no use to me now.
"Well?" said Dave around Balboa Park, smiling winningly through his eyeliner and -- I was now noticing -- an extremely hipsterish pin affixed to his lapel in the shape of a skull surrounded by small hearts.
"I can't, unfortunately," I said, I hoped kindly. "I have a lot of work tonight."
"A boyfriend," Dave inferred.
"No," I said, "just a lot of work."
"He's a lucky guy," said Dave.
Yes, my work is a lucky, lucky guy.
Monday, October 15, 2007
i'd rather dance than talk with you.
I'm in love with this song in an unhealthy way.
Even if I could hear what you said/
I doubt my reply would be interesting for you to hear/
Because I haven't read a single book all year/
And the only film I saw, I didn't like it at all.
Also, I dance like this, a little.
I find the piano incredibly moving.
Like I said, sometimes I get ideas that are unhealthy.
And this isn't even the half of it.
Even if I could hear what you said/
I doubt my reply would be interesting for you to hear/
Because I haven't read a single book all year/
And the only film I saw, I didn't like it at all.
Also, I dance like this, a little.
I find the piano incredibly moving.
Like I said, sometimes I get ideas that are unhealthy.
And this isn't even the half of it.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
conversations with baked goods
Last night Ruth & I had a party at her phenomenally nice apartment in North Beach. The guest of honor was a huge, beautiful, professional cake made by Magical Majkin. I found that the cake was the easiest person to talk to at the whole party, largely because it did not bring up any embarrassing topics and didn't have any comments to make about my unsavory appearance. I was very happy to see my friends, however, since my friends already know that I have no social skills and have accepted that I am more adept at talking to a cake than to real, live people. Ben W. rode his bike all the way there from the Haight. Zachary brought themed (themed!) mix CDs. In addition to the cake, Magical Majkin brought both Mathew and Shane. Even some members of the Jack Foster pace group joined us, wearing jaunty caps and some already drunk. Many writers were there -- many, many writers. In answer to those who are not already my friends, asking what I'm working on, I once again dourly said,
"Nothing."
"What do you do?" someone asked me near the end of the night. I would, once, have replied that I was a writer.
"I grade papers," I said, and nearly started to cry. "Let's not talk about it."
When I got home Phillip was sitting on the bed with his arms crossed, looking upset.
"Phillip!" I said. "I forgot to bring you to the party!"
DID YOU BRING ME SOME MAGICAL MAJKIN CAKE, he wrote on his notepad. Like most beardogs, Phillip is not familiar with common punctuation.
"Oh, Phillip, it's all at Ruth's house!" I said. I tried to look sorry but I was really a little bit inebriated and just wanted to go to bed like the old person I am. There was a long silence where Phillip sucked in his stomach indicatively, as if to remind me that I am starving him to death. Note that for two people who rarely eat, Phillip and I are outrageously portly. I mean really enormous, in Phillip's case, especially. I don't think either one of us is going to waste away anytime soon.
In the middle of the night he woke me up again.
DID YOU DO ANYTHING I WOULDN'T HAVE DONE, his notepad said.
"Well, if you mean breathed, walked around, spoke aloud, and wore clothing, yes," I said.
Thank you to Ruth for offering as a venue her beautiful apartment, the view from which is pictured below. Back to what I do, which is, apparently, grade papers. All. The. Time.
"Nothing."
"What do you do?" someone asked me near the end of the night. I would, once, have replied that I was a writer.
"I grade papers," I said, and nearly started to cry. "Let's not talk about it."
When I got home Phillip was sitting on the bed with his arms crossed, looking upset.
"Phillip!" I said. "I forgot to bring you to the party!"
DID YOU BRING ME SOME MAGICAL MAJKIN CAKE, he wrote on his notepad. Like most beardogs, Phillip is not familiar with common punctuation.
"Oh, Phillip, it's all at Ruth's house!" I said. I tried to look sorry but I was really a little bit inebriated and just wanted to go to bed like the old person I am. There was a long silence where Phillip sucked in his stomach indicatively, as if to remind me that I am starving him to death. Note that for two people who rarely eat, Phillip and I are outrageously portly. I mean really enormous, in Phillip's case, especially. I don't think either one of us is going to waste away anytime soon.
In the middle of the night he woke me up again.
DID YOU DO ANYTHING I WOULDN'T HAVE DONE, his notepad said.
"Well, if you mean breathed, walked around, spoke aloud, and wore clothing, yes," I said.
Thank you to Ruth for offering as a venue her beautiful apartment, the view from which is pictured below. Back to what I do, which is, apparently, grade papers. All. The. Time.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
i prefer vehicles in which i can express my despair
Hey there. Hi. You know, there's nothing more hard-rock than travelling about town on a Segway.
Coming back from the bank today, Magical Majkin and I saw one of these at Castro & 18th Street, with a very erect person on it. Like a scooter, it's impossible to ride a Segway without remaining militantly, terrifyingly erect. I would love to see one of these Segways in traffic on 280 around 6 pm. Why would you "drive" (direct? mastermind?) a vehicle in which you couldn't slump over the wheel or handlebars? How, on a Segway, could one change his body language to show exasperation, delight, confusion, despair? Show me a Segway rider in despair, please. Go on, show me. You can't, because all the despair is on the inside.
In the meantime, I'm sticking with City Carshare, and not just because I look like ass in a helmet.
Monday, October 08, 2007
stalled batmobile -- che deludente!
Yeah, so, you know all that stuff about the proposal to lead the class in Rome, the maths overcome to finish the proposal, and everything? Bureaucracy has foiled me again, Batman. It looks like I may not even be able to turn it in now, although it is done. This is the kind of phenomenon that makes you want to put on a jumpsuit and start performing Bruce Lee maneuvers on an unsuspecting aninimate object, like a tree or compost compactor. All may not yet be lost, but all may be lost, in which case I say, Oh, to be an okapi, and live a life of leisure, spreading one's legs in order to take a drink.
What is the okapi, you say? Oh, ignorant you! It is only one of the Earth's newest animals! It is related to the giraffe, but it is fucking short, like even shorter than I am. Okapi, don't be sad. See? It's bad all over.
This particular cinematic work is narrated by someone with whom you would never want to be stuck in a waiting room.
What is the okapi, you say? Oh, ignorant you! It is only one of the Earth's newest animals! It is related to the giraffe, but it is fucking short, like even shorter than I am. Okapi, don't be sad. See? It's bad all over.
This particular cinematic work is narrated by someone with whom you would never want to be stuck in a waiting room.
karma police/arrest this man/he talks in maths!
Dear Math Police,
Uncle.
I have been staring at these Excel spreadsheets and trying to make them have small numbers on them. Budgeting? Is not my strong suit.
I have Excel spreadsheets for my own expenses (although they have not been maintained in some time, since the logic behind managing a stout file of zeros is sort of beyond me) but they do not involve equations. I was great at math in high school until calculus came along, at which I was so not-great that I eventually dropped out of the class. My lack of talent there was in no small way aided by the fact that I was absent a lot that semester, illustriously hospitalized for both hepatitis (not from sex!) and gall stones (not from sex!) at the same time. (The old adage "old man trapped in a young woman's body" might really be more appropriate as "old man trapped in an old man's body with smooth skin and female characteristics," which, sorry, is admittedly kind of gross.) The calculus teacher, knowing I knew nothing, would invite me to go up to the board to attempt a problem in front of all my classmates, who were smarter than I was. I couldn't even write the numbers. I would stand there with the chalk in my hand and eventually make arrows, lines, circles. (Sometimes a talking bear, later to become the brilliantly-named character Bear in the cartoon I drew in college.) I would write on the board, but I wouldn't write any math. There was a flow chart in the calculus classroom, some kind of poster that teachers send away for. I just remember that a location called "Hard Work" led to a location called "Fat City," and I did not understand why anyone would want to arrive there. I'd been fat for many years at that point, and I was aware that my City was not a good City. It seemed to me that to get there by working hard on math rather than by eating lots of hamburgers would simply make one's arrival that much more bitter.
And this with knowing what a metpahor was.
Now, almost a decade later, I'm trying to propose a reasonable amount of money for students to pay to send themselves, me, and the PWCM to Italy this summer, where I'll teach them how to write stories. It's expensive to go to Italy; this is no joke. To keep myself from going insane doing all this prep work, I am trying to picture how great this class will be. I picture us outside, in piazza, workshopping. I picture how my students will write short stories instead of what my current students write, which is comparative analyses and critiques of articles in their (sorry, students; my bad) soul-crushing reader. I picture all the cappuccini I'm going to drink, and the pizzas, the thousands and thousands of pizzas, and how I will show the kids all my favorite places, and how we will go see amazing art and write about it, and how we will peoplewatch and almost get run over by uomini in moto, and how they will want to write so much just from being there, and seeing this, and feeling overwhelmed by all the ways it's been described before by the authors we will read, and realizing that there is probably a better way to describe these things, too, a way they can come up with themselves, a way that maybe involves jackrabbits and the madonna and a plastic-wrap factory. And leather tights. And the word "plasterwad." I am so excited, and I just wish math did not have to come and ruin it all.
Uncle again,
love,
Kara
Uncle.
I have been staring at these Excel spreadsheets and trying to make them have small numbers on them. Budgeting? Is not my strong suit.
I have Excel spreadsheets for my own expenses (although they have not been maintained in some time, since the logic behind managing a stout file of zeros is sort of beyond me) but they do not involve equations. I was great at math in high school until calculus came along, at which I was so not-great that I eventually dropped out of the class. My lack of talent there was in no small way aided by the fact that I was absent a lot that semester, illustriously hospitalized for both hepatitis (not from sex!) and gall stones (not from sex!) at the same time. (The old adage "old man trapped in a young woman's body" might really be more appropriate as "old man trapped in an old man's body with smooth skin and female characteristics," which, sorry, is admittedly kind of gross.) The calculus teacher, knowing I knew nothing, would invite me to go up to the board to attempt a problem in front of all my classmates, who were smarter than I was. I couldn't even write the numbers. I would stand there with the chalk in my hand and eventually make arrows, lines, circles. (Sometimes a talking bear, later to become the brilliantly-named character Bear in the cartoon I drew in college.) I would write on the board, but I wouldn't write any math. There was a flow chart in the calculus classroom, some kind of poster that teachers send away for. I just remember that a location called "Hard Work" led to a location called "Fat City," and I did not understand why anyone would want to arrive there. I'd been fat for many years at that point, and I was aware that my City was not a good City. It seemed to me that to get there by working hard on math rather than by eating lots of hamburgers would simply make one's arrival that much more bitter.
And this with knowing what a metpahor was.
Now, almost a decade later, I'm trying to propose a reasonable amount of money for students to pay to send themselves, me, and the PWCM to Italy this summer, where I'll teach them how to write stories. It's expensive to go to Italy; this is no joke. To keep myself from going insane doing all this prep work, I am trying to picture how great this class will be. I picture us outside, in piazza, workshopping. I picture how my students will write short stories instead of what my current students write, which is comparative analyses and critiques of articles in their (sorry, students; my bad) soul-crushing reader. I picture all the cappuccini I'm going to drink, and the pizzas, the thousands and thousands of pizzas, and how I will show the kids all my favorite places, and how we will go see amazing art and write about it, and how we will peoplewatch and almost get run over by uomini in moto, and how they will want to write so much just from being there, and seeing this, and feeling overwhelmed by all the ways it's been described before by the authors we will read, and realizing that there is probably a better way to describe these things, too, a way they can come up with themselves, a way that maybe involves jackrabbits and the madonna and a plastic-wrap factory. And leather tights. And the word "plasterwad." I am so excited, and I just wish math did not have to come and ruin it all.
Uncle again,
love,
Kara
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
on being a curmudgeon, and what it's getting me (all the girls? a shitload of sand?)
On Saturday, back at the beach, I was being a curmudgeon again. I'm not sure if Shimon really knew the extent of my curmudgeonliness before, or if he did, if he remembered (since he has a tendency to forget a large percentage of what I say, something that more often than not works in my favor). We had been planning on walking around the beach, which is what we normally do there, but it was so unexpectedly warm and beautiful that we decided to just hang out there, not-in-motion. ("Like mummies!" I assented delightedly when he suggested this change of plan. This was another one of those times when it was probably better that he did not hear me, or else forgot what I'd said immediately upon hearing it.) We were way up by what I guess you would call the dunes, if there were dunes on this beach.
Once we were sitting down, however, I became strangely uncomfortable. The sound effect I wished to make recalled the faux French mutterings featured in the Flight of the Conchords video "Je Voudrais Un Croissant" that I featured on here some weeks ago. I did not make this sound, on the chance that he would hear it or remember it. I did not like sitting still; there was a lot of pressure all of a sudden. What are you supposed to do, again, when you lie on a beach with somebody? I couldn't remember. I felt like I was supposed to be doing something specific. I think the discomfort came from the act of actually lying down, something that I transitioned in and out of by popping up and down from a sitting position like a Can O' Snakes. I feel like maybe people tan at the beach, or read Stephen King books, but I don't do those things. Plus I was wearing a coat and socks and shoes, and even a scarf. (Semper paratus!) So, in typical fashion, I diffused my inexplicable discomfort by keeping my socks on. Um, and scarf. That's right, I kept my socks on at the beach. If you're wondering, it's kind of a sandy experience, and hot. I also did not have sunglasses on, so I kept my arm raised just over my face so that I could still squint unpleasantly at Shimon, like he had just squirted grapefruit juice in my eye. (Boy, am I a delight!)
"I think I'm going to go down to the water," he said. "Want to come?"
"Ooooookaaaaay," I replied, in that way of people who do not want to do things.
"You don't have to come," he told me.
"Great," I said, as though that was all I needed to hear. "Then I guess I'll, you know, stay here."
And stay there I did, fully clothed and with my socks on and no sunglasses, roasting up by the faux dunes while Shimon went down to the water. I could see him down there from afar with his pants rolled up, looking very beachy. I thought about the Lorrie Moore book I had left in his car, and how I wished I had not left it there. I tugged on my shirt so that no part of my fish-white stomach would receive any sun. I adjusted my socks.
When Shimon came back he showed me some sort of nifty button he had discovered on the legs of his pants, seemingly put there to keep one's pants rolled up.
"It was like they knew you wanted to go to the beach," I said. "Or were going to be wading through a very high stream." I looked indicatively at my pants, which looked like they wanted to encourage their wearer to crawl into a cave and begin eating Cream-of-Wheat.
"They're called parachute pants," he told me, "though I have not yet found out what the parachute part is all about."
"Mine are not called anything," I said, which pretty much sums up everything you could compare about our pants, and our larger contributions to the world in general. (C.F. Writers Who Are More Successful Than I Am, Population: Everyone.)
When I got home, I was covered in sand. My socks were wet and filled with tiny dunes. Every crevice of my shoes was filled. My non-parachute "see you in the cave" pants were saturated; my pockets were full; I had sand in my hair and in my ears. What had I been doing on that beach, apparently without my own knowledge? Had I been caught in the midst of some sort of sand tornado and been too curmudgeonly even to notice? The hallway was filling with sand. When I took my shirt off, a pile of it fell onto the rest of my shoes, and over a pile of stories (the most attention they've gotten from anyone or anything besides me probably in their lifetimes).
"Shit," I said aloud. "Where did all this sand come from?"
It was not the last time I would utter that phrase that weekend.
On Sunday, I went with Zach to babysit two very incredible, adorable, and mischievous boys, aged 7 and 5, kids of a friend of his. We took them to a playground in Golden Gate Park, where they screamed, ran, climbed large foam models of waves, swung on the swings, and climbed hyperactively all over a rope spiderweb. I learned that 7 year olds as well as 5 year olds can run faster than I can and grab way harder than I remembered. I also learned that boys like nothing better than to make dams out of water and sand. While this last discovery was being made, Zach and I sat on the side of the sand pit observing the creation of the sand dam and various incarnations of sandcastles. I took my shoes off and put my feet into the sand pit. (It's really best to improve on these sand-interaction matters on a day-by-day basis.) It seemed innocuous enough. But hours later, back in the Mission, I still kept having to stop on the sidewalk and empty out my shoes.
"Still? God," Zachary sighed, incredulous at the amount of sand I had accumulated. I have, apparently, the clown car of shoes.
It's still all over the bathroom, in the tub, ingrained between the folds of the towels, stuck in the hairbrush, glutting the sink. The black sand from the beach and the beige sand from the sand pit at the playground. If you can't go to the beach everyday, let the beach come to you everyday. Apparently. Or something.
Later, more on what was acceptable in the 80s, the reason that e-mail addresses are now delivered with the appearance of paychecks, like wolves in lamb's clothing, and what you imply with your New York Times forwards.
Once we were sitting down, however, I became strangely uncomfortable. The sound effect I wished to make recalled the faux French mutterings featured in the Flight of the Conchords video "Je Voudrais Un Croissant" that I featured on here some weeks ago. I did not make this sound, on the chance that he would hear it or remember it. I did not like sitting still; there was a lot of pressure all of a sudden. What are you supposed to do, again, when you lie on a beach with somebody? I couldn't remember. I felt like I was supposed to be doing something specific. I think the discomfort came from the act of actually lying down, something that I transitioned in and out of by popping up and down from a sitting position like a Can O' Snakes. I feel like maybe people tan at the beach, or read Stephen King books, but I don't do those things. Plus I was wearing a coat and socks and shoes, and even a scarf. (Semper paratus!) So, in typical fashion, I diffused my inexplicable discomfort by keeping my socks on. Um, and scarf. That's right, I kept my socks on at the beach. If you're wondering, it's kind of a sandy experience, and hot. I also did not have sunglasses on, so I kept my arm raised just over my face so that I could still squint unpleasantly at Shimon, like he had just squirted grapefruit juice in my eye. (Boy, am I a delight!)
"I think I'm going to go down to the water," he said. "Want to come?"
"Ooooookaaaaay," I replied, in that way of people who do not want to do things.
"You don't have to come," he told me.
"Great," I said, as though that was all I needed to hear. "Then I guess I'll, you know, stay here."
And stay there I did, fully clothed and with my socks on and no sunglasses, roasting up by the faux dunes while Shimon went down to the water. I could see him down there from afar with his pants rolled up, looking very beachy. I thought about the Lorrie Moore book I had left in his car, and how I wished I had not left it there. I tugged on my shirt so that no part of my fish-white stomach would receive any sun. I adjusted my socks.
When Shimon came back he showed me some sort of nifty button he had discovered on the legs of his pants, seemingly put there to keep one's pants rolled up.
"It was like they knew you wanted to go to the beach," I said. "Or were going to be wading through a very high stream." I looked indicatively at my pants, which looked like they wanted to encourage their wearer to crawl into a cave and begin eating Cream-of-Wheat.
"They're called parachute pants," he told me, "though I have not yet found out what the parachute part is all about."
"Mine are not called anything," I said, which pretty much sums up everything you could compare about our pants, and our larger contributions to the world in general. (C.F. Writers Who Are More Successful Than I Am, Population: Everyone.)
When I got home, I was covered in sand. My socks were wet and filled with tiny dunes. Every crevice of my shoes was filled. My non-parachute "see you in the cave" pants were saturated; my pockets were full; I had sand in my hair and in my ears. What had I been doing on that beach, apparently without my own knowledge? Had I been caught in the midst of some sort of sand tornado and been too curmudgeonly even to notice? The hallway was filling with sand. When I took my shirt off, a pile of it fell onto the rest of my shoes, and over a pile of stories (the most attention they've gotten from anyone or anything besides me probably in their lifetimes).
"Shit," I said aloud. "Where did all this sand come from?"
It was not the last time I would utter that phrase that weekend.
On Sunday, I went with Zach to babysit two very incredible, adorable, and mischievous boys, aged 7 and 5, kids of a friend of his. We took them to a playground in Golden Gate Park, where they screamed, ran, climbed large foam models of waves, swung on the swings, and climbed hyperactively all over a rope spiderweb. I learned that 7 year olds as well as 5 year olds can run faster than I can and grab way harder than I remembered. I also learned that boys like nothing better than to make dams out of water and sand. While this last discovery was being made, Zach and I sat on the side of the sand pit observing the creation of the sand dam and various incarnations of sandcastles. I took my shoes off and put my feet into the sand pit. (It's really best to improve on these sand-interaction matters on a day-by-day basis.) It seemed innocuous enough. But hours later, back in the Mission, I still kept having to stop on the sidewalk and empty out my shoes.
"Still? God," Zachary sighed, incredulous at the amount of sand I had accumulated. I have, apparently, the clown car of shoes.
It's still all over the bathroom, in the tub, ingrained between the folds of the towels, stuck in the hairbrush, glutting the sink. The black sand from the beach and the beige sand from the sand pit at the playground. If you can't go to the beach everyday, let the beach come to you everyday. Apparently. Or something.
Later, more on what was acceptable in the 80s, the reason that e-mail addresses are now delivered with the appearance of paychecks, like wolves in lamb's clothing, and what you imply with your New York Times forwards.
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