I must admit it was a low energy day today. I must stop blaming entropy for my own personal laziness, but I can't even muster the energy to do that, and I'm not even trying for a pun there!
But I wasn't bored, which is odd. Somehow the events of the day had a rhythm about them, and with rhythm in my corpus, I don't get bored. Things got done 'in rhythm,' meaning I did them at the time I wanted to, not when I had to. Even though it was a low energy day, I got a lot done. So, I'm quite delighted with myself.
What bores you? What gives you energy? Does rhythm matter to you?
Sunday, July 30, 2006
Thursday, July 27, 2006
and....Action!
Wow, my 25 peeps pic came through, and now I feel obliged to be entertaining! Let's see...what to say....what to say...man, I'm SOL!
I know, read the Wendy story! Scroll down,it's there....meh, not much of a salesman, eh?
Well, here's the blog, fellow blogflys, read on and enjoy yourselves!
Fluffy, his own bad self
I know, read the Wendy story! Scroll down,it's there....meh, not much of a salesman, eh?
Well, here's the blog, fellow blogflys, read on and enjoy yourselves!
Fluffy, his own bad self
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Proposed Term
I've noticed how people hang out at groups of blogs, partially by their interest, partially by social bonding. What is this like? This is like how the same groups of people will frequent the same bars, often for the same reasons as the blogs! Thus, I propose to call such folks "blogflys", like "barflys." Someone could alter that Blogger "B" to look like a fly, that'd be cool!
Whatcha think about it?
Whatcha think about it?
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
I take Cammie's challenge!
5 Things in my freezer
1. Frozen French Fries
2. Martini glasses!
3. Empty ice trays
4. Pepper Stoli!
5. Empty ice container
5 Things in my closet
1. Ancient wargames
2. Ancient Playboys
3. A sign from a long-departed local candy store that reads,
"Sorry -- The Walnut Room is filled to capacity this evening."
4. A box of old calenders, kept for the cool pictures
5. Matchbox cars
5 Things in my car
1. One lousy quarter
2. Spider webs
3. A small wrench
4. Sunglasses
5. Febreeze
5 Things in my purse (now if I can only find it!)
1. Shakespeare First Folio
2. My common sense
3. Autographed copy of Old Testament.
4. Jet-Pack
5. 12 billion dollars
5 Friends I'm inviting to join the game:
1. Old Panther
2. Ack/Nak
3. Art Gurl
4. Mike D
5. George
1. Frozen French Fries
2. Martini glasses!
3. Empty ice trays
4. Pepper Stoli!
5. Empty ice container
5 Things in my closet
1. Ancient wargames
2. Ancient Playboys
3. A sign from a long-departed local candy store that reads,
"Sorry -- The Walnut Room is filled to capacity this evening."
4. A box of old calenders, kept for the cool pictures
5. Matchbox cars
5 Things in my car
1. One lousy quarter
2. Spider webs
3. A small wrench
4. Sunglasses
5. Febreeze
5 Things in my purse (now if I can only find it!)
1. Shakespeare First Folio
2. My common sense
3. Autographed copy of Old Testament.
4. Jet-Pack
5. 12 billion dollars
5 Friends I'm inviting to join the game:
1. Old Panther
2. Ack/Nak
3. Art Gurl
4. Mike D
5. George
Sunday, July 23, 2006
I promise I won't stay serious for long!
This post is not intended for the world, but the half a dozen of you who show up on occasion who understand the range of crisis that have been occuring here at Chez Fluffy Stuffin'. It's been two months of panic attacks, depression, sorrow, fear, and more existential dread than a Kirkegaard/Schoepenhauer festival, but for the moment things are in the clear. This happened last Thursday, and just now am I able to write about it. Let's make it clear: I'm not out of the woods just yet, and there is a bit more strategic pressure on me, but there is a plan, and I'm going to try and act on it as best as I can. Watch this space: In another month, I may well be climbing the walls again. We will work to prevent this. Why am I writing this post? To stand up and thank those who need thanking.
Firstly, I want to thank those in the blogosphere who have help me financially and emotionally. You know who you are, and I think what you did was both incredible and wonderful. We may never actually met, but I am grateful to you in ways that trancend mere appreciation. If there were a Karmic PayPal, you'd be gettin' emails from it.
Next, I want to thank those who, in an oddball fashion, are also trying to help, even if not directly. You know it comes back to you as well. One of you is trying to get the Fluffy novel published; if this event comes through, and I sense you know you can make it happen, what boons would I grant you? Don't use your imagination; let me use mine. If you step up, I promise I will 'Release the Kraken' and let my mind pour itself onto blank pages like Bondo on a '68 Chevy. I could do no less. Think about that.
I also want to tip the cap to my spiritual bodhisattvas, who keep the day alive within my mind. Who are these? They range from Nietzsche to Groucho to Ginger to Sandra to Old Tree Town itself, and without them, I have no structure grounding me to both art and living.
Lastly, I must save special space for Cammie; she is the family I have never had, worth more to me on a bad day than my biological family was on a good day. She's done something no one has ever done with/for me; she has invested in me. It's not just help, and it's not just placing some kind of pressure, but both put together tightly, all there to make me more human. I can only give what love and care I can to you Camie; we will pull each other through one mess after another, and I think that when we triumph it will also be together as well. Not just for ourselves, but for the Little Man as well! I can't forget how much of a help he is, even though, right now, I don't think he gets it. But he will, we'll make sure of that.
This crisis is not without a casualty. Someone I've known for a long time has called it quits on me. I was saddened by this at first, but upon further review, I should have punted this person a while back. If you can't hang when things get tough, exit to the left, more beer for the rest of us! If this is the only price I have to pay to get through this grief, wow, have I made out cheap! This, by far, is the surest sign I've gotten old; I used to spot the worthless a lot further off, and acted accordingly. Ah, well, I'm only human-all-too-human.
Firstly, I want to thank those in the blogosphere who have help me financially and emotionally. You know who you are, and I think what you did was both incredible and wonderful. We may never actually met, but I am grateful to you in ways that trancend mere appreciation. If there were a Karmic PayPal, you'd be gettin' emails from it.
Next, I want to thank those who, in an oddball fashion, are also trying to help, even if not directly. You know it comes back to you as well. One of you is trying to get the Fluffy novel published; if this event comes through, and I sense you know you can make it happen, what boons would I grant you? Don't use your imagination; let me use mine. If you step up, I promise I will 'Release the Kraken' and let my mind pour itself onto blank pages like Bondo on a '68 Chevy. I could do no less. Think about that.
I also want to tip the cap to my spiritual bodhisattvas, who keep the day alive within my mind. Who are these? They range from Nietzsche to Groucho to Ginger to Sandra to Old Tree Town itself, and without them, I have no structure grounding me to both art and living.
Lastly, I must save special space for Cammie; she is the family I have never had, worth more to me on a bad day than my biological family was on a good day. She's done something no one has ever done with/for me; she has invested in me. It's not just help, and it's not just placing some kind of pressure, but both put together tightly, all there to make me more human. I can only give what love and care I can to you Camie; we will pull each other through one mess after another, and I think that when we triumph it will also be together as well. Not just for ourselves, but for the Little Man as well! I can't forget how much of a help he is, even though, right now, I don't think he gets it. But he will, we'll make sure of that.
This crisis is not without a casualty. Someone I've known for a long time has called it quits on me. I was saddened by this at first, but upon further review, I should have punted this person a while back. If you can't hang when things get tough, exit to the left, more beer for the rest of us! If this is the only price I have to pay to get through this grief, wow, have I made out cheap! This, by far, is the surest sign I've gotten old; I used to spot the worthless a lot further off, and acted accordingly. Ah, well, I'm only human-all-too-human.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Monday, July 17, 2006
Right into the danger zone...of Ypsilanti
Back in '88, when there was a Mrs. Fluffy, we went to an air show, and I climbed into an F-15, just for my photo op as 'Imperial Oppressor of the Month.' I'm grinnin' 'cause I turned on the FLIR, got that Sidewinder growl tone, and blew an AMC Pacer back to Kingdom Come...who wouldn't grin at that?
The Wendy Story, Part 4
We finish our first Wendy and Ramon segment...
Man, this is gonna be just the best! I'll use some of that bullshit-o Spanish she loved so much, Ramon said to himself as he rounded the corner and all he could see as he came into the room was that ass, that unbelievable ass, as she was there, right there, up against the window, OH MY GOD he thought, this is just incredible, she knows my thoughts, she can see my very soul, like I don't even have to say anything and she just fuckin' knows ( a few neurotransmitters in Ramon's brain raised the question of marriage and were told "No" by the vast congress of both hemispheres so quickly that it did not really qualify as "a conscious thought") but when she turned her head, he froze and all he could see were the tears going down her face, tinted red by the neon hot dog sign two stories above across the street. She figured it out and she was going to go through with it ...for me... even though it's gonna.....really bad.... even though she thinks I'm a...and I am a...thoughts of asking the forgiveness of the Virgin Mary brought the erection down and into himself like the raising of a drawbridge, and between blustery apologies,teary gasps, and whip-stings of self-flagellating guilt, Ramon gathered his clothes hurriedly and left the apartment so quickly even Wendy could hardly say anything.
.....the outer door slammed shut, and Wendy had her answers. "The shit I have gone through to avoid using the goddamn vibrator on a Saturday night," she said aloud, this time fighting back tears of laughter at poor Ramon again. A deer in the headlights of self-discovery she knew she couldn't go backwards; raising the stakes makes it that much more seductive, and that much more necessary. Staring out the window at the object of her desire, this time out of awe and not fear, she knew she no longer needed a man, but a skyscraper. Wendy, and Wendy alone, had to have the Maxty Building.
Man, this is gonna be just the best! I'll use some of that bullshit-o Spanish she loved so much, Ramon said to himself as he rounded the corner and all he could see as he came into the room was that ass, that unbelievable ass, as she was there, right there, up against the window, OH MY GOD he thought, this is just incredible, she knows my thoughts, she can see my very soul, like I don't even have to say anything and she just fuckin' knows ( a few neurotransmitters in Ramon's brain raised the question of marriage and were told "No" by the vast congress of both hemispheres so quickly that it did not really qualify as "a conscious thought") but when she turned her head, he froze and all he could see were the tears going down her face, tinted red by the neon hot dog sign two stories above across the street. She figured it out and she was going to go through with it ...for me... even though it's gonna.....really bad.... even though she thinks I'm a...and I am a...thoughts of asking the forgiveness of the Virgin Mary brought the erection down and into himself like the raising of a drawbridge, and between blustery apologies,teary gasps, and whip-stings of self-flagellating guilt, Ramon gathered his clothes hurriedly and left the apartment so quickly even Wendy could hardly say anything.
.....the outer door slammed shut, and Wendy had her answers. "The shit I have gone through to avoid using the goddamn vibrator on a Saturday night," she said aloud, this time fighting back tears of laughter at poor Ramon again. A deer in the headlights of self-discovery she knew she couldn't go backwards; raising the stakes makes it that much more seductive, and that much more necessary. Staring out the window at the object of her desire, this time out of awe and not fear, she knew she no longer needed a man, but a skyscraper. Wendy, and Wendy alone, had to have the Maxty Building.
Saturday, July 15, 2006
The Wendy Story, Part 3
Wendy and Ramon...still talkin' to themselves...
The reason Wendy admired and was fascinated with men so much is that they did things. I mean, not always well, but so what? If it didn't work out, you moved on. Men did; women waited. She had emulated the men in her life well enough to have a decent place in Manhattan, but she had never completely turned the corner. She had occasionally wondered if this were an accident, but each time she had such doubts, she just ratcheted up the intensity of her competitiveness. She had to; it's how you stayed in the game, the game where money was the maguffin. But this was different; she knew she had won. What kind of self would she be now? The sheer amount of money meant she would no longer need to hustle, no longer need to count coup. Hustlers would come to her; she would wait. She couldn't turn a blind eye to all this; she couldn't turn the money down could she? No, no, unthinkable; the future would never forgive her.
Wendy stood up, and still nude, went to the patio window overlooking Hell's Kitchen. Leaning tiptoe, legs splayed, she pressed her forehead and palms flat against the large sheet of glass. She couldn't help but look out and down, the car horns and taxis a B-movie backdrop like bluebirds and daffodils would be to someone from the country... She took all the succor she could from this image; she now felt she would have to leave New York as well. Too many familiar snarls, too many psycho-land mines to step on, too many people like who she used to be... Like every other person running away from themselves she wanted to stay right here. Her tears came when she closed her eyes and just listened... She imagined each self she no longer needed falling to the street below, being taken away by New York, being left screaming in pain and crying for help in New York, unsure who would be left up here in the air to look out over New York each morning. Anyone at all? Anyone she could stand? And if you win, and are not you, did you win? She longed so much for kindness now, and realizing that no man ever understood that it's kindness when you need it, not when they feel like giving it to you, the tears came harder and she pushed the glass even more, hoping...
Should, like, I grease her up?, thought Ramon. Like that big fat Brando guy, in that really dumbass movie she made him watch twice? It's not really easy to be aggressive and sneaky all at once, but it's what he wanted to try...maybe this wouldn't be so cool after all....Ah, fuck it, let's do it. The bathroom door creaked as he opened it and went into the next room.
Her loneliness had hardened the air in the room, in her space, when the door creak clued her in... Who?.... She had totally forgotten about Ramon, when he stomped in not so much a man as an erection and a smirk. She really didn't need this now. Keeping her nude self facing the City she turned her head to tell him to go when....
The reason Wendy admired and was fascinated with men so much is that they did things. I mean, not always well, but so what? If it didn't work out, you moved on. Men did; women waited. She had emulated the men in her life well enough to have a decent place in Manhattan, but she had never completely turned the corner. She had occasionally wondered if this were an accident, but each time she had such doubts, she just ratcheted up the intensity of her competitiveness. She had to; it's how you stayed in the game, the game where money was the maguffin. But this was different; she knew she had won. What kind of self would she be now? The sheer amount of money meant she would no longer need to hustle, no longer need to count coup. Hustlers would come to her; she would wait. She couldn't turn a blind eye to all this; she couldn't turn the money down could she? No, no, unthinkable; the future would never forgive her.
Wendy stood up, and still nude, went to the patio window overlooking Hell's Kitchen. Leaning tiptoe, legs splayed, she pressed her forehead and palms flat against the large sheet of glass. She couldn't help but look out and down, the car horns and taxis a B-movie backdrop like bluebirds and daffodils would be to someone from the country... She took all the succor she could from this image; she now felt she would have to leave New York as well. Too many familiar snarls, too many psycho-land mines to step on, too many people like who she used to be... Like every other person running away from themselves she wanted to stay right here. Her tears came when she closed her eyes and just listened... She imagined each self she no longer needed falling to the street below, being taken away by New York, being left screaming in pain and crying for help in New York, unsure who would be left up here in the air to look out over New York each morning. Anyone at all? Anyone she could stand? And if you win, and are not you, did you win? She longed so much for kindness now, and realizing that no man ever understood that it's kindness when you need it, not when they feel like giving it to you, the tears came harder and she pushed the glass even more, hoping...
Should, like, I grease her up?, thought Ramon. Like that big fat Brando guy, in that really dumbass movie she made him watch twice? It's not really easy to be aggressive and sneaky all at once, but it's what he wanted to try...maybe this wouldn't be so cool after all....Ah, fuck it, let's do it. The bathroom door creaked as he opened it and went into the next room.
Her loneliness had hardened the air in the room, in her space, when the door creak clued her in... Who?.... She had totally forgotten about Ramon, when he stomped in not so much a man as an erection and a smirk. She really didn't need this now. Keeping her nude self facing the City she turned her head to tell him to go when....
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
The Wendy Story, Part 2
We continue with a little internal dialogue...
In New York there was Disnification, and there were rumors of Disnification. When the Fairy Dust of East Asian capital hit mid-town, the Lost Boys slithered back to their Soho nightspots, the men with meathooks for hands went back to Brooklyn, and the Boys Who Would Not Grow Up flitted back to the East Village, all for the noble cause of Greater Tourism. Ever since then, every time two bankers from different hemispheres got together for lunch in the upper '50's, people for ten blocks around, knew,in their heart of hearts, that their rattle-trap of an elevator-less building would be plowed over to sell coon skin hats, Goofy neckties, and Scrooge McDuck Money Bins to endless strangers from Kyoto, Singapore and Seoul, so that by the simple virtue of having sat there and having done nothing at all, they would be allowed to leave the Greatest City in The World for West Palm Beach bank statements intact. But that evening, Wendy had pieced together the real truth; that right here in her backyard, would be where the tsunami of greenbacks would hit, and if she were quick enough, she should be able to buy a damn building out from under some saps nose, and turn it around with such force, that, well, the Darwinian struggle for survival would be over. The fortune cookie made her think of how all these people she's been chatting up individually didn't know much, but the logic of their combined knowledge led to unflinchingly obvious conclusions. She had even gone so far as to figure out the building to buy, a building whose placement was crucial to all of the proposed plans for the area. What she couldn't figure out was why this knowledge had left her so depressed.
From behind? Ramon wondered about this as he toweled himself off and, looking about, found some bitchin' oil that would make his pretty damn buff bod look like it had been through the spray wax at the car wash. Yeah, I think it's time. I mean, she knows I'm not a tough guy, she knows that it's time to move the sex life up a notch, time for him to show her he could take control.
In New York there was Disnification, and there were rumors of Disnification. When the Fairy Dust of East Asian capital hit mid-town, the Lost Boys slithered back to their Soho nightspots, the men with meathooks for hands went back to Brooklyn, and the Boys Who Would Not Grow Up flitted back to the East Village, all for the noble cause of Greater Tourism. Ever since then, every time two bankers from different hemispheres got together for lunch in the upper '50's, people for ten blocks around, knew,in their heart of hearts, that their rattle-trap of an elevator-less building would be plowed over to sell coon skin hats, Goofy neckties, and Scrooge McDuck Money Bins to endless strangers from Kyoto, Singapore and Seoul, so that by the simple virtue of having sat there and having done nothing at all, they would be allowed to leave the Greatest City in The World for West Palm Beach bank statements intact. But that evening, Wendy had pieced together the real truth; that right here in her backyard, would be where the tsunami of greenbacks would hit, and if she were quick enough, she should be able to buy a damn building out from under some saps nose, and turn it around with such force, that, well, the Darwinian struggle for survival would be over. The fortune cookie made her think of how all these people she's been chatting up individually didn't know much, but the logic of their combined knowledge led to unflinchingly obvious conclusions. She had even gone so far as to figure out the building to buy, a building whose placement was crucial to all of the proposed plans for the area. What she couldn't figure out was why this knowledge had left her so depressed.
From behind? Ramon wondered about this as he toweled himself off and, looking about, found some bitchin' oil that would make his pretty damn buff bod look like it had been through the spray wax at the car wash. Yeah, I think it's time. I mean, she knows I'm not a tough guy, she knows that it's time to move the sex life up a notch, time for him to show her he could take control.
Saturday, July 08, 2006
"I came here for the witty conversation." "What witty conversation? This is the Internet" "I was misinformed."
 | You scored as Humphrey Bogart. Humphrey Bogart is your classic movie persona. Trenchcoats and classy dinner jackets are all you. People are instantly drawn to your suave charisma and nonchalance. Your cleverness enables you to solve mysteries. You're probably the classiest one of the bunch!
Which classic movie actor/actress are you? (pics) created with QuizFarm.com |
The Wendy Story, Part 1
Here's our opening....
She deliberately, consciously, let her toes uncurl. She kept her eyes shut.
Now....who was this? The mumbled Spanish, the way he held on to her left breast like a doorknob, let her know this was Ramon. Good. She really wasn't feeling very talkative. Their relationship had moved to a very comfy place of non-verbal interaction. He looked up with the same puppy dog eyes which asked for some sign of sexual approval. Her downward unsmiling stare simply stated, "Off." As he withdrew and stood up chastened, her tilted head, slightly crinkled pixie-grin, and widely spread thighs denoted, "Thank You." This was as much as he would get, but he was pleased. Easily pleased. This was one of the reasons Wendy liked Ramon and called him far more often than any other man. He was about as subtle as a freight train, but he had the energy of one as well. About the moment of her own exhaustion, he was more than ready to keep going. It was at this point that she had to lose just enough control to make things... interesting.
As Ramon bounded off to the shower, Wendy pulled herself up and sat staring at the wet spot. Solitary post coital technical analysis had been a very good snuggling partner for Wendy her whole sexual life, but this time something wasn't right. It's not that Ramon had been perfect -- good god, no! -- but, really, what did she expect from someone so inexperienced in, well, everything? "Not Much," she caught herself saying aloud. Still, her sadness lingered in the room like the smell of the sheets. For a tiny second she pressed this analogy too far and hoped that a bit of fresh air (maybe a new man, someone much more skilled...) would clear things up. But she knew deep down, this wasn't true. Time was against her, and the "Married, filing jointly" option was just an admission of defeat, of capitulation, of total surrender. She knew herself so well that this would never even vaguely be a possibility.
Man, this chick was just fucking unbelievable! Well, at least unbelievable at fucking! Ramon laughed at his own joke in the shower, now regretting using her shampoo. Its delicate floral scent, which he really loved last night, would cause no end of teasing from his older brother Cristobal, and intense probing questions from his mother who would warn him for the 100th time to stay off of Bleecker Street. Still, he knew why she hung around with him; he knew that he wasn't like his brother and his cruel friends; he knew that she could see his inner gentleness, his love of art and flowers. All he needed was a chance, a bit more exposure to class and he knew that his love for her would grow, and like, her love for him as well. That's why he was grateful she got him the job delivering sandwiches to the Stock Exchange. Man, what a step up from that damn busboy job!
They fucked that first -- no wait, he caught himself, we made love that first night -- and women don't do that without... without...love? He was afraid to say it, but he knew it was true, because, man that's just how chicks are. Everything for them was about love and that's why he smugly knew he was better than nearly every man he'd ever met. He loved women; and he was happy that he found one that could see that, and that, with time, and care, she would love him too. Ramon recited these little speechments in the quiet of his room many times, but this was the first time he did it at her place, talking to the wash cloth, gesturing and pointing in the steam. The blood rushing to his groin indicated that he was gearing himself up for another round.
What was wrong? This ate at Wendy to the point that she was disturbed by her own obsessiveness. This itself was disturbing; she had never worried about her obsessiveness before. All her life she had saved up for this series of moments and now that they had come she just couldn't bring herself to believe it. How different life would have been, if six weeks ago, she had ordered the Woo Dip Har as she normally did, instead of what she had ordered.
Wendy didn't save every fortune cookie message, but each one she did save had to be tacked onto a little framed cork board in a particular order forming a kind of PostModern Book of Days, with the occasional touch of duck sauce or sweet-and-sour lending an organic verisimilitude to this life's work. These cork boards - now numbering 7 - would constantly be shuffled around the bedroom walls as if some kind of fractured English feng shui would produce inner peace, but dammit, it just wasn't working. Why she got the Egg Foo Young that night she honestly couldn't say; maybe the longing for a childhood comfort food? She ate it, but didn't really bond with it enough to check out the fortune. Just as she thought this, she dropped the cookie into the gravy making a sploosh of coagulated grease on the table, her clothes, her face. A burst of anger made her tear open the cookie and melodramatically read its contents: "Awareness of others will lead to an awareness of self." So many of her recent thoughts and problems resolved themselves so cleanly when she read it each word sounded like a bank vault tumbler clicking open.
She had been trolling her usual information nets; mailroom clerks, CEO's, financial consultants, the tired huddled masses of cubicle drones, the survivors of corporate downsizing, their employee numbers practically tattooed on their arms. Wendy knew what every good bartender knew; people ache to unburden themselves on you. If you seemed to be a light, a warm place, a comforter during a rainstorm, the amount of information they were eager to tell you was amazing. It was as if a small betrayal of confidence compensated for the removal of any form of life outside of work. Wendy had long ago honed her trust-building techniques -- quiche and latte for the ladies, whiskey and fellatio for the menfolk -- but if people honestly didn't know the truth they couldn't impart it in the leather and mahogany confessionals of Park Avenue. Gossip was the die that cut the truth into puzzle pieces, and intelligence is seeing the patterns of those pieces where others did not. Wendy hyper-concentrated on this baroque jumble of kooky glances, statistics, ennui, and thinly suppressed postalrage until she couldn't concentrate on anything else. Certainly she knew what to do when she had been in this position before; she needed to get laid. She had stopped for tortilla soup at a place near Washington Square. It was small, cramped, disgustingly dirty -- but it had the cutest wait staff. It was the way Ramon tried to conceal his obvious staring that she found attractive. He was easier to pick up than the check. By mid-afternoon of the next day, she had forgotten all about him. But then, 3 days later, he called! He whined about her not calling him the next day, he whined about her leaving while he was still asleep -- he really,really,really wanted to see her again, maybe get a sno-cone or a hot dog and walk through the park feeding the pigeons off the hot dog bun while he told her how important Freida Kahlo was to him as not just an artist, but a person. She bit her lip, each tear of laughter finding its way into the speaking part of the phone. She couldn't help but agree to the next date -- and the next. The reason it was great was that when she decided it was over there would be no reasons; one day she would not answer his calls anymore and that would be that.
She deliberately, consciously, let her toes uncurl. She kept her eyes shut.
Now....who was this? The mumbled Spanish, the way he held on to her left breast like a doorknob, let her know this was Ramon. Good. She really wasn't feeling very talkative. Their relationship had moved to a very comfy place of non-verbal interaction. He looked up with the same puppy dog eyes which asked for some sign of sexual approval. Her downward unsmiling stare simply stated, "Off." As he withdrew and stood up chastened, her tilted head, slightly crinkled pixie-grin, and widely spread thighs denoted, "Thank You." This was as much as he would get, but he was pleased. Easily pleased. This was one of the reasons Wendy liked Ramon and called him far more often than any other man. He was about as subtle as a freight train, but he had the energy of one as well. About the moment of her own exhaustion, he was more than ready to keep going. It was at this point that she had to lose just enough control to make things... interesting.
As Ramon bounded off to the shower, Wendy pulled herself up and sat staring at the wet spot. Solitary post coital technical analysis had been a very good snuggling partner for Wendy her whole sexual life, but this time something wasn't right. It's not that Ramon had been perfect -- good god, no! -- but, really, what did she expect from someone so inexperienced in, well, everything? "Not Much," she caught herself saying aloud. Still, her sadness lingered in the room like the smell of the sheets. For a tiny second she pressed this analogy too far and hoped that a bit of fresh air (maybe a new man, someone much more skilled...) would clear things up. But she knew deep down, this wasn't true. Time was against her, and the "Married, filing jointly" option was just an admission of defeat, of capitulation, of total surrender. She knew herself so well that this would never even vaguely be a possibility.
Man, this chick was just fucking unbelievable! Well, at least unbelievable at fucking! Ramon laughed at his own joke in the shower, now regretting using her shampoo. Its delicate floral scent, which he really loved last night, would cause no end of teasing from his older brother Cristobal, and intense probing questions from his mother who would warn him for the 100th time to stay off of Bleecker Street. Still, he knew why she hung around with him; he knew that he wasn't like his brother and his cruel friends; he knew that she could see his inner gentleness, his love of art and flowers. All he needed was a chance, a bit more exposure to class and he knew that his love for her would grow, and like, her love for him as well. That's why he was grateful she got him the job delivering sandwiches to the Stock Exchange. Man, what a step up from that damn busboy job!
They fucked that first -- no wait, he caught himself, we made love that first night -- and women don't do that without... without...love? He was afraid to say it, but he knew it was true, because, man that's just how chicks are. Everything for them was about love and that's why he smugly knew he was better than nearly every man he'd ever met. He loved women; and he was happy that he found one that could see that, and that, with time, and care, she would love him too. Ramon recited these little speechments in the quiet of his room many times, but this was the first time he did it at her place, talking to the wash cloth, gesturing and pointing in the steam. The blood rushing to his groin indicated that he was gearing himself up for another round.
What was wrong? This ate at Wendy to the point that she was disturbed by her own obsessiveness. This itself was disturbing; she had never worried about her obsessiveness before. All her life she had saved up for this series of moments and now that they had come she just couldn't bring herself to believe it. How different life would have been, if six weeks ago, she had ordered the Woo Dip Har as she normally did, instead of what she had ordered.
Wendy didn't save every fortune cookie message, but each one she did save had to be tacked onto a little framed cork board in a particular order forming a kind of PostModern Book of Days, with the occasional touch of duck sauce or sweet-and-sour lending an organic verisimilitude to this life's work. These cork boards - now numbering 7 - would constantly be shuffled around the bedroom walls as if some kind of fractured English feng shui would produce inner peace, but dammit, it just wasn't working. Why she got the Egg Foo Young that night she honestly couldn't say; maybe the longing for a childhood comfort food? She ate it, but didn't really bond with it enough to check out the fortune. Just as she thought this, she dropped the cookie into the gravy making a sploosh of coagulated grease on the table, her clothes, her face. A burst of anger made her tear open the cookie and melodramatically read its contents: "Awareness of others will lead to an awareness of self." So many of her recent thoughts and problems resolved themselves so cleanly when she read it each word sounded like a bank vault tumbler clicking open.
She had been trolling her usual information nets; mailroom clerks, CEO's, financial consultants, the tired huddled masses of cubicle drones, the survivors of corporate downsizing, their employee numbers practically tattooed on their arms. Wendy knew what every good bartender knew; people ache to unburden themselves on you. If you seemed to be a light, a warm place, a comforter during a rainstorm, the amount of information they were eager to tell you was amazing. It was as if a small betrayal of confidence compensated for the removal of any form of life outside of work. Wendy had long ago honed her trust-building techniques -- quiche and latte for the ladies, whiskey and fellatio for the menfolk -- but if people honestly didn't know the truth they couldn't impart it in the leather and mahogany confessionals of Park Avenue. Gossip was the die that cut the truth into puzzle pieces, and intelligence is seeing the patterns of those pieces where others did not. Wendy hyper-concentrated on this baroque jumble of kooky glances, statistics, ennui, and thinly suppressed postalrage until she couldn't concentrate on anything else. Certainly she knew what to do when she had been in this position before; she needed to get laid. She had stopped for tortilla soup at a place near Washington Square. It was small, cramped, disgustingly dirty -- but it had the cutest wait staff. It was the way Ramon tried to conceal his obvious staring that she found attractive. He was easier to pick up than the check. By mid-afternoon of the next day, she had forgotten all about him. But then, 3 days later, he called! He whined about her not calling him the next day, he whined about her leaving while he was still asleep -- he really,really,really wanted to see her again, maybe get a sno-cone or a hot dog and walk through the park feeding the pigeons off the hot dog bun while he told her how important Freida Kahlo was to him as not just an artist, but a person. She bit her lip, each tear of laughter finding its way into the speaking part of the phone. She couldn't help but agree to the next date -- and the next. The reason it was great was that when she decided it was over there would be no reasons; one day she would not answer his calls anymore and that would be that.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
If you grow your hair like this as well, you get extra dough...
People in America get paid to drive around cars with product placement on them...This one is parked near my friend Lucy's apartment in Seattle...
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
The Wendy Story, intro
Because Puppy requests it, I may put up The Wendy Story chapter of my novel. Each chapter of this novel begins with a quote from the lead character from the chapter before, so here's the Crazy Mike quote to start us off...
The Wendy Story
"... in short, gentlemen, your entire cognitive enterprise is a load of crap, a polysyllabic abstraction forced upon you by an over demanding professioriat. Look, the whole damn problem is pretty simple. Our subconscious minds are one gigantic roller coaster, a roller coaster with every possible drop, water slide, and 360 degree corkscrew imaginable. Our conscious minds, our 'rational selves' are US, the passengers in that roller coaster, side-by-side in the cars of personal space, all connected in the Great Human Chain of Thought! The reason people are unhappy is simple: they fail to realize that THEY and they alone, bought the damn ticket! God's role in this is equally simple: he takes the tickets, straps you in, and you're off! He says only two things to you: "ticket, please" and "exit to the left." The rest is up to you! So, all this mock white-knuckle terror and screaming, all this dizziness and puking, is not about the fear of death, but the failure to see the joy in being free of gravity! The most intelligent people, while they're riding, throw up their hands and laugh! And the most noble, beautiful people, the strongest willed, the most gracious of heart know exactly what to say when it's all over and their feet are firmly planted on the ground: 'What a rush! Let's go again!'"
-- Crazy Mike, in a letter to the Journal of Cognitive Psychology July 1986.
The Wendy Story
"... in short, gentlemen, your entire cognitive enterprise is a load of crap, a polysyllabic abstraction forced upon you by an over demanding professioriat. Look, the whole damn problem is pretty simple. Our subconscious minds are one gigantic roller coaster, a roller coaster with every possible drop, water slide, and 360 degree corkscrew imaginable. Our conscious minds, our 'rational selves' are US, the passengers in that roller coaster, side-by-side in the cars of personal space, all connected in the Great Human Chain of Thought! The reason people are unhappy is simple: they fail to realize that THEY and they alone, bought the damn ticket! God's role in this is equally simple: he takes the tickets, straps you in, and you're off! He says only two things to you: "ticket, please" and "exit to the left." The rest is up to you! So, all this mock white-knuckle terror and screaming, all this dizziness and puking, is not about the fear of death, but the failure to see the joy in being free of gravity! The most intelligent people, while they're riding, throw up their hands and laugh! And the most noble, beautiful people, the strongest willed, the most gracious of heart know exactly what to say when it's all over and their feet are firmly planted on the ground: 'What a rush! Let's go again!'"
-- Crazy Mike, in a letter to the Journal of Cognitive Psychology July 1986.
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