Friday, November 16, 2007

You Don’t Have to Speak Back

The other night I was at my local bar. Outside for a smoke, group of men I don’t know give me a light. Woman walks up.

“Wooow,” says one guy.

“Hm,” I say. “I wish people would say, ‘Wooow,’ when I walked up.”

“I did in my head when I saw you!” that guy says. “And I wanted to talk to you, but I didn’t know what to say. So I came up with a joke to say to you.”

“Oh, yeah?” I say. “I’m definitely not leaving until I hear that joke.”

“Well,” he says, “it’s actually more of a song title.”

“Go for it,” I tell him.

“Ready?” he asks. “It’s called ... 'You Don’t Have to Speak Back.'”

[Blank stare.]

[Blank stare.]

“Night,” I say.

“Night,” he says.

Thursday, November 08, 2007

Intrigue Comes to My Inbox

I received this message a few minutes ago:

On Nov 8, 2007 6:37 PM, Max wrote:
Hey there, so I made this email address for conspicuous reasons, we can chat safely on here?

[Redacted]

(Thinking this is my friend Max but wondering why it was signed with another name, I went with)

On 11/8/07, McBickle wrote:
what's up?

(upon further thought)

On 11/8/07, McBickle wrote:
ok, wait a minute. i thought you were a friend of mine named max. i don't know a [Redacted]...who are you?

(he writes)

On Nov 8, 2007 6:42 PM, Max wrote:
just some guy

(and I’m starting to feel funny)

On 11/8/07, McBickle wrote:
what? you're not max?

(then he comes back with the obvious)

On Nov 8, 2007 6:43 PM, Max wrote:
sorry I think that I have the wrong email address

(and the mystery ends...sort of)

On 11/8/07, McBickle wrote:
yes, i think you do too. bye.

(I’m not going to write his chosen address, but it had to do with a particular department at most companies. I’m thinking definite inter-office affair. Titillating. And voyeuristic from here.)

Less Misery Through Obscurity

And because I feel I owe you (yes, you, AD) a bit more love and less unhappiness, I give you this photo. It was taken at a bar in Tribeca that I go to with the Welder, where he drinks beer while I drink bourbon and look at his crazy eyes and wonder what the hell we are doing at the edge of Manhattan, for the 347th time, laughing, eating mozzarella and not being sure, again.

I am sure, however, that I love this photograph. The building housing the bar dates back to before 1817, and old misshapen bottles line shelves by the ceiling—brown ones, clear ones as wide as the circle of my arms with spouts as narrow as the outline of my wrists. This painting sits behind the bar itself. I know it is dark, this photo, but I am only at this bar in the late evenings, sitting on a stool with a man who makes me feel present and aware that the walls surrounding us contain a kind of important revelry, a feeling that life would not be as wonderful as it is if this place did not exist, and if these people were not in it. So a dark photograph of a painted man in a bowler hat partially obscured by pint glasses feels just about right to me.

So here it is.

You Want Misery? I'll Give You Misery

Violence.
So much violence all around me these days.
Death, too.

Cancers are spreading in two of my cousins, both of whom will die soon. One is 34, the other is about 50.

My work involves trying to curb violence, but nothing works sometimes. I stopped at a pile of some newspapers a minute ago in my office, and read this chilling story in The Washington Post about a rape, a clue, and a funeral home.

I have other stories to tell you, ones with angry young men and bitter old ladies. But for now, I leave you with this link to last week’s stories on “This American Life.” You know, more doom and gloom to get you through the day. I'm going to close my office door, plug in my headphones, and hunker down to work now.

From the "This American Life" episode:
Act One. Dry Eyes and Videotape.
Jason Minter lived through the worst trauma you could imagine: he was at a friend's house, a gun pressed to his head, while his mother and another woman were raped and shot to death in the next room by robbers. He was six. And even though he saw a series of therapists as he grew up, he's never been able to feel anything about what happened. He's never even cried about it. So almost 30 years after the crime, Jason decides to make a documentary, to revisit every aspect of his mother's murder, in hopes that he'll connect to what happened, and to her, in some way. (30 minutes)

Act Two. The Good Son.
A story about a mother who wants to commit suicide and a son who dutifully helps her do it—even though his mother is a happy, healthy, independent person. How did they manage to pull it off? Practice, practice, practice. (16 minutes)

~

P.S. AD: I just saw your comment. I'm not sure I've successfully gotten my pertness in order, but I very much enjoyed the phrase. Will try to right that ASAP. I suppose it would be OK to laugh at this point over my landlady blaming me for a leak in the pipes in the walls of my bathroom: "You've been careless. I NEVER leave my house before I make sure the toilet flusher is in the correct position."

FYI: The leak was invisible in my bathroom; only visible to the people who live below me. But yeah, definitely I will remain transfixed by a TOILET FLUSHER I never knew was broken and NOT LEAVE MY HOUSE until it is in THE CORRECT POSITION. And then I will push her off the roof, leave a clue, preferably a torn muumuu and a toilet part near her body...

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