LD - I want a snowball.
Me - The kind you throw at people, or the kind you eat?
LD, thoughtfully - Technically, I can eat either one. And now that I think about it, I can technically throw either one at people, too.
Me - You're right.
LD - I love to be right.
Me - So, which kind of snowball did you want?
LD - Well, you messed me all up. I want the pink Hostess ones, but now I want to throw them at people.
Me - Some poor pink smeared sucker is gonna be mad at me.
April 25, 2008
April 24, 2008
April 20, 2008
In Blue - 07/06/06
I'm back from Belize, and need a day or so to sober up.
Meanwhile, here's a rerun. I posted it in July 2006, I lived it circa 1996.
He came back on my memory hard this week.
Appreciate what you have before it's too late.
Veronica
I’m here for the fuel, babe.
I am here for the fucking fuel.
The waiter brings me another dirty martini. The room is impaired, the room is sinking. I’m wearing a blue gown. I’m the one in blue. I’m the blue one.
A big crystal chandelier, catered, event, Page 6. Photos. I’m ducking. I am the one in blue. The blue one, at the doorway, at the coat check, at the curb.
He is trying to hail a cab. He is pulling at his tuxedo tie. He is uncomfortable in his clothes, his skin, his surroundings. He is leaving. He is going.
He looks at me.
He makes his way toward me slowly. As if reluctant, as if forced. As if, he can't help it. I’m in blue, and waiting. He nods, not sure what to say. He used to tell me anyone that spoke to me in English was brave. He used to tell me many things. He stands next to me and we look out at the avenue. I notice his eyes don’t lift. They stay steady on the asphalt.
Full moon, I observe.
He nods, but doesn’t look. He won't lift his eyes to the moon. He won't lift.
The new album sounds promising, I try.
Thanks. Where did you hear it? He looks at me, lifts his eyes to mine. That's as high as they go. I’m in blue, and he has hope.
Radio.
His eyes drop again. He nods once. I see the hope go. He wanted to hear that I made an effort. He wanted to hear that I stretched and reached. But I hadn’t. It was just there. On the radio.
He shrugs.
I remember his broad beautiful shoulders, and his blueberry pancakes, and his dog. I remember his cheap scratchy sheets, that I used as drop cloths when I painted his hallway ivy green, making sure to ruin them, so I could buy him 500 thread count replacements. I remember the smell of ivory soap in his bathroom, and the little guitar on his keychain. I remember how he takes his coffee, and his whiskey, and his pizza. I remember those shoulders.
But I don’t pretend to know him.
He lets his eyes run off my dress like water. Blue is my favorite color.
I did not know that.
There’s a truckstop someplace off the Thruway, where we broke down in his drummer’s Nova, where we talked about vampires, where we had Doritos and Pepsi, where we fell asleep holding hands. Waiting.
A cab pulls over. He opens the back door and hesitates. Then he gestures for me. To go with him.
I shake my head no.
He tells the driver to start the meter, he will be just a minute.
I don’t remember his middle name. I don’t remember his birthday. I don’t remember where he was born. I don't remember if he snores. I’m the one in blue, on the curb, by the cab, saying good bye.
He moves close to me, I remember his shoulders. He exhales with nervousness. What went wrong?
Nothing. I smile. Nothing went wrong. It just … went.
He’s the one with the shoulders, head bowed, not looking at the moon.
I’m the one in blue.
He’s the one in the back of the cab that has just pulled away.
And I’m the one that goes.
Meanwhile, here's a rerun. I posted it in July 2006, I lived it circa 1996.
He came back on my memory hard this week.
Appreciate what you have before it's too late.
Veronica
I’m here for the fuel, babe.
I am here for the fucking fuel.
The waiter brings me another dirty martini. The room is impaired, the room is sinking. I’m wearing a blue gown. I’m the one in blue. I’m the blue one.
A big crystal chandelier, catered, event, Page 6. Photos. I’m ducking. I am the one in blue. The blue one, at the doorway, at the coat check, at the curb.
He is trying to hail a cab. He is pulling at his tuxedo tie. He is uncomfortable in his clothes, his skin, his surroundings. He is leaving. He is going.
He looks at me.
He makes his way toward me slowly. As if reluctant, as if forced. As if, he can't help it. I’m in blue, and waiting. He nods, not sure what to say. He used to tell me anyone that spoke to me in English was brave. He used to tell me many things. He stands next to me and we look out at the avenue. I notice his eyes don’t lift. They stay steady on the asphalt.
Full moon, I observe.
He nods, but doesn’t look. He won't lift his eyes to the moon. He won't lift.
The new album sounds promising, I try.
Thanks. Where did you hear it? He looks at me, lifts his eyes to mine. That's as high as they go. I’m in blue, and he has hope.
Radio.
His eyes drop again. He nods once. I see the hope go. He wanted to hear that I made an effort. He wanted to hear that I stretched and reached. But I hadn’t. It was just there. On the radio.
He shrugs.
I remember his broad beautiful shoulders, and his blueberry pancakes, and his dog. I remember his cheap scratchy sheets, that I used as drop cloths when I painted his hallway ivy green, making sure to ruin them, so I could buy him 500 thread count replacements. I remember the smell of ivory soap in his bathroom, and the little guitar on his keychain. I remember how he takes his coffee, and his whiskey, and his pizza. I remember those shoulders.
But I don’t pretend to know him.
He lets his eyes run off my dress like water. Blue is my favorite color.
I did not know that.
There’s a truckstop someplace off the Thruway, where we broke down in his drummer’s Nova, where we talked about vampires, where we had Doritos and Pepsi, where we fell asleep holding hands. Waiting.
A cab pulls over. He opens the back door and hesitates. Then he gestures for me. To go with him.
I shake my head no.
He tells the driver to start the meter, he will be just a minute.
I don’t remember his middle name. I don’t remember his birthday. I don’t remember where he was born. I don't remember if he snores. I’m the one in blue, on the curb, by the cab, saying good bye.
He moves close to me, I remember his shoulders. He exhales with nervousness. What went wrong?
Nothing. I smile. Nothing went wrong. It just … went.
He’s the one with the shoulders, head bowed, not looking at the moon.
I’m the one in blue.
He’s the one in the back of the cab that has just pulled away.
And I’m the one that goes.
April 13, 2008
I Won't
Stop trying to fix me. It's my damage. I earned all these scars, and all these wells. Life balances itself.
And some of these wells produce the purest water.
He could never handle that.
And that's OK. It's not for everybody to handle.
He liked the idea of me. But he couldn't handle the reality of me.
He would always tell me, he would not play second chair. Well, honey, first chair was decided long before you were born.
I would remind him you don't go see a band to hear the new album. You want to hear the stuff you know: the stuff that attracted you in the first place. So don't pretend that if I changed you'd be happy. This is what attracted you. I can accept that you can't handle it. Why can't you.
He still takes my calls at 3 am, even though I won't take his.
And he always says, "I wish you weren't writing."
A Veronica not writing is never going to happen. That's why you're there, and I'm here.
He always ends the call saying, "Do you want me to come over?"
No. And I haven't for years. And I know this baffles him.
I don't remember the first thing he said to me. I don't remember the first smile or laugh. I don't remember what song was playing the first time we danced.
But god damn, do I remember the day he left.
And some of these wells produce the purest water.
He could never handle that.
And that's OK. It's not for everybody to handle.
He liked the idea of me. But he couldn't handle the reality of me.
He would always tell me, he would not play second chair. Well, honey, first chair was decided long before you were born.
I would remind him you don't go see a band to hear the new album. You want to hear the stuff you know: the stuff that attracted you in the first place. So don't pretend that if I changed you'd be happy. This is what attracted you. I can accept that you can't handle it. Why can't you.
He still takes my calls at 3 am, even though I won't take his.
And he always says, "I wish you weren't writing."
A Veronica not writing is never going to happen. That's why you're there, and I'm here.
He always ends the call saying, "Do you want me to come over?"
No. And I haven't for years. And I know this baffles him.
I don't remember the first thing he said to me. I don't remember the first smile or laugh. I don't remember what song was playing the first time we danced.
But god damn, do I remember the day he left.
April 10, 2008
Takes. Not fixes, just good
"I Will Survive"
Gloria Gaynor cover by
CAKE
Bohemian Rhapsody
Queen cover by
Molotov
April 06, 2008
The Sunday Funnies
"Boy, one minute Elliot Gould is sitting on you and the next thing - you're yesterday's trash."
-Kramer,
Seinfeld, Episode 162
"We danced a little, and we kissed. And we danced a little, and we kissed. And we merengue'd. And Veronica, he kissed me, and I mean, it was this kiss, I mean, literally I had to put my hand on the wall. Well, I mean, it might have been the drugs. But I'm pretty sure it was the kiss."
-DR
"I don't know what you're talking about. I woke up on the bad side, and then there was no coffee. And I don't remember that conversation from last night. And now, I do not know what in the hell you are talking about."
-Husband
"I can't go to the bathroom in that bathroom. I had sex in that bathroom. So now if I go to the bathroom in that bathroom it will just be dirty."
-LD
"My brother and I were dookin' it out in Rite Aid because he was wasted and that's when I said, yeah, you can't live with me anymore."
-DR
-Kramer,
Seinfeld, Episode 162
"We danced a little, and we kissed. And we danced a little, and we kissed. And we merengue'd. And Veronica, he kissed me, and I mean, it was this kiss, I mean, literally I had to put my hand on the wall. Well, I mean, it might have been the drugs. But I'm pretty sure it was the kiss."
-DR
"I don't know what you're talking about. I woke up on the bad side, and then there was no coffee. And I don't remember that conversation from last night. And now, I do not know what in the hell you are talking about."
-Husband
"I can't go to the bathroom in that bathroom. I had sex in that bathroom. So now if I go to the bathroom in that bathroom it will just be dirty."
-LD
"My brother and I were dookin' it out in Rite Aid because he was wasted and that's when I said, yeah, you can't live with me anymore."
-DR
April 04, 2008
Disassembly
We were all once so close once. Now I don't even know what countries these people live in.
I pull out a yearbook. 25 years ago.
Fading faces.
Names I can't recall.
Forgotten moments that I think were good.
People I thought were friends.
I gave away so many chances.
How I loved easily and strong.
How I've lost that.
My first book. The first person that read my first book.
I had such deep and different desires back then: The boy who sat behind me in German 2, the boy who lived on the river, the boy who moved away. The girl from art class.
We had the luxury of choices.
So many options, distorting the obvious and disturbing perception.
We had it all: Energy. Freedom. Time. We weren't stained. We weren't tainted.
I had forgotten how great that felt. God, to be so young and so stupid.
Time was so gracious.
Until right now, the only things I frequent from then, are the things I ached over.
The things I did terribly wrong.
The things I handled badly.
The people that hated.
The things that were bigger then my world was.
A fight. A lie. A robbery. A broken heart. A suicide.
All isolated.
All isolating.
That piano in the auditorium, where I sank so many hours, so many emotions.
That room doesn't even exist anymore.
He sat at that piano with me.
Many many times, a million years ago.
It matters that he's dead.
It matters.
I pull out a yearbook. 25 years ago.
Fading faces.
Names I can't recall.
Forgotten moments that I think were good.
People I thought were friends.
I gave away so many chances.
How I loved easily and strong.
How I've lost that.
My first book. The first person that read my first book.
I had such deep and different desires back then: The boy who sat behind me in German 2, the boy who lived on the river, the boy who moved away. The girl from art class.
We had the luxury of choices.
So many options, distorting the obvious and disturbing perception.
We had it all: Energy. Freedom. Time. We weren't stained. We weren't tainted.
I had forgotten how great that felt. God, to be so young and so stupid.
Time was so gracious.
Until right now, the only things I frequent from then, are the things I ached over.
The things I did terribly wrong.
The things I handled badly.
The people that hated.
The things that were bigger then my world was.
A fight. A lie. A robbery. A broken heart. A suicide.
All isolated.
All isolating.
That piano in the auditorium, where I sank so many hours, so many emotions.
That room doesn't even exist anymore.
He sat at that piano with me.
Many many times, a million years ago.
It matters that he's dead.
It matters.
April 01, 2008
Sunrise
Tracy was alright. She and I were bartenders together in the late 80’s at this little dive bar in Jersey. Her boyfriend was such a fucking tool. ‘Big dumb liar asshole. He thought he was hot shit. He talked down to her. She deserved better.
I borrowed some of her friends. I fucked some of his. He had so much to say about that. ‘Ran his mouth like a philistine. The rest of his friends were as petty and ignorant as he was.
I felt so sorry for her when she said they were getting married. I went to their wedding. We all did. Her husband decided to ignore 75% of my gift and told everyone how I stiffed them… that is when he wasn’t telling them about the two friends of his I nailed. A year later when she was having an affair with a guy half her age and asked to use me as her coverstory, I let her.
She gave me a dresser, and a haircut.
We each stopped bartending. I got tired of the owner’s advances, and his girlfriends lies and jealousy. Tracy just got tired. It was just a bad little groove in the Earth, and when I finally got my wheels unstuck, I never looked back.
We kept in touch for a little while. We’d meet for drink. We’d exchange Christmas cards.
She didn’t leave her dickhead husband, and I guess I just couldn’t be around it anymore. She never knew why I let go. Or maybe she did. Our friendship took a detour. And she got lost along the way.
I borrowed some of her friends. I fucked some of his. He had so much to say about that. ‘Ran his mouth like a philistine. The rest of his friends were as petty and ignorant as he was.
I felt so sorry for her when she said they were getting married. I went to their wedding. We all did. Her husband decided to ignore 75% of my gift and told everyone how I stiffed them… that is when he wasn’t telling them about the two friends of his I nailed. A year later when she was having an affair with a guy half her age and asked to use me as her coverstory, I let her.
She gave me a dresser, and a haircut.
We each stopped bartending. I got tired of the owner’s advances, and his girlfriends lies and jealousy. Tracy just got tired. It was just a bad little groove in the Earth, and when I finally got my wheels unstuck, I never looked back.
We kept in touch for a little while. We’d meet for drink. We’d exchange Christmas cards.
She didn’t leave her dickhead husband, and I guess I just couldn’t be around it anymore. She never knew why I let go. Or maybe she did. Our friendship took a detour. And she got lost along the way.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
