The free hooch continues to roll in like manna from heaven.
I was out back watering the garden this morning when I heard my neighbor call out to me.
“Jeffrey,” she called from the other side of the fence. “Jeffrey,” she said again.
“Yeah?” I answered.
“Oh—hi, Eric,” she said.
She must be in her 70s, and I know her eyesight isn’t so great, but her hearing is just fine.
When it comes right down to it, I just can’t say no to free beer. But I almost did.
Having decided to stay home on a Friday night, I stopped to pick up a six pack on the way from the subway stop.
This was one of those mix-and-match places, where you can build a six pack out of $3 or $4 bottles and walk out $20 or $30 lighter, or you can just grab a pre-made six pack of something cheap and basic. I knew I shouldn’t be spending any money, but I figured I’d just get some lager for $8.50, one of the cheapest options there. So I quelled my guilty conscience by reasoning that going out would cost even more, so in a sense I was coming out on top.
Outside the shop, I saw a man standing with a stack of post cards in his hand. I avoided eye contact, because I was sure I didn’t want what he was selling.
“Want to save $10?” he asked, holding out a card as I tried to pass him by.
I was shoulder-deep in my closet, quietly fishing for a shirt I wouldn’t need to iron, when his alarm clock went off.
He raised himself slowly on his elbows and turned to me and said, “Honey. Are you gonna talk about the project at all?”
His voice was thick and slow, but the words were careful and clear. I hardly knew what to say in response.
“Talk about the project?”
“Yeah,” he said, emphatically gesturing toward the alarm clock.
He wants me to turn it off, I guessed. The sound was wrenching him from sleep, but it wasn’t enough to pull him through to awake.
I walked over and tapped the snooze button, and he crumbled, like I’d just pulled the cord on him, and fell immediately back to sleep.
“Time to wake up,” I said, gently massaging his shoulder.
He rolled over. “Um, you should call Texas and find out what the story’s gonna be,” he said.
Oh, man. Where the heck was he? “You’re delirious,” I said.
Frustration showed through on his face — frustration with himself or with me, or with the fact of waking up? “No. Bromine…,” he protested. And then he trailed off and sank back down.
I had a dream last night that the planet was invaded by an alien species of robots that could change shape. (I’m going to get on the phone to Hasbro immediately. We could make a mint!)
I was in a mountain cabin near “the city,” and I could see them approaching from below. A band of survivors came and took over my place as a home base.
I didn’t like their techniques, so I hatched a plan to escape and strike out on my own (like an idiot).
It was the dream of a 12-year-old boy, but it felt SO real, and I woke up in a panic.
My vegan wrap was something of a mess that day.
I’m not vegan. Nor am I remotely a vegetarian. I just occasionally take advantage of other people’s dietary principles to find something light and low-calorie, but filling and delicious, for lunch.
I would have taken it cold, but the girl at the cafe had thrown it on the panini grill so resolutely, so automatically and with no room for questioning or debate, that it seemed unthinkable to say anything against it. Anyway, once something has started heating, you don’t want it to take it half-heated. You might as well go all the way.
When I unwrapped it at my office and took the first bite, a dried-up chickpea fall onto my desk. It left behind an indentation in the tortilla, so I guessed it had been stuck to the outside and likely had cooked on the grill that way. Probably the order directly before mine had come undone or lost a few bits and pieces as it was removed.
I picked up the chickpea and ate it.
Then I was surprised by a dried cranberry. It was stuck to the tortilla like a jewel. I took it with a bite as if it belonged there. Could I really say it didn’t belong there? No big deal.
I don’t like to be particular, but I amused myself with fantasies of a different me — one who might be bothered by a stray chickpea in his lunch and an errant dried cranberry encrusted on his tortilla. Continue reading ‘No plastic to go’
MDNA might stand for "most definitely not awesome."
Since my first listen on Monday, I have been dying to kvetch about Madonna’s new album MDNA. I’ve been listening all week, and I am having a hard time with it.
Don’t let the title or the parental warning label fool you. There is nothing subversive or edgy about this album.
The allusion to party drug MDMA made me hope this would at least be a solid dance album, a Confessions on the Dance Floor mark II.
Nope.
I think of two things now when I listen to her new stuff:
1.) What would it be like recording this song? Would it be embarrassing to be in the studio? Before all the production, is the song just empty and meaningless and dumb?
2.) What would Kylie do? How would Kylie Minogue have done this song? Would she have done it?
For most of this album, Madonna fails or comes close to failing.
At first it’s alarming and briefly terrifying. And then it’s just heartbreaking.
I’m getting ready for work, rummaging in the closet, talking softly to myself — wallet, keys, phone — thinking of the first things I have to do when I get to the office. I am totally lost in my own head, totally alone.
I back up with my jacket in my hand. I am about to close the door, and manoeuvre an arm up my sleeve, and—
rrrrrrrreeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaoooooorrrrgh! Continue reading ‘the saddest thing in the world’
“Good morning. How are you?” I said, walking in off the street.
I kept the earbuds in, but I turned the volume down so I could hear myself speak. Also, if he said something, I could avoid the embarrassment of tugging them out of my ears to ask him to repeat some pleasantry or other that would only sound awkward and unnecessary in the repeating.
“How are you?” he said.
“Ok,” I said. Then I thought to say more, and I lingered slightly. “It’s Friday,” I added. “So that’s good.”
My voice sounded especially nasal. Is it always this bad? It was almost a whine, weak, hesitant. I talk too much out of my head and not my chest. Far too much of my life is spent in my head.
“Yes it is,” he said.
He had an intensity in his eyes, a directness, that I wished I’d matched in my tone. It was nothing, just his way. And this was my way. It was only a “good morning,” but it was all I would have occasion to say, and I felt like I’d blown it.
I ordered the usual iced tea and lemonade. I still could not bring myself to ask for an Arnold Palmer. And I grabbed a granola bar from the bowl on the counter and silently added it to the order.
Thinking about Monday morning, I watched him pour from both pitchers.
When I got out of the subway and turned the corner, there was a fight happening in front of my destination, so I turned around and started walking in the other direction.
I would have to go to the 7-11 instead of the Rite Aid, I decided.
All I saw at first was a quick burst of isolated action among a loosely gathered crowd of people. I thought two kids were rough housing, joking and shoving. And people were always loitering on that block. I thought of maybe just making a wide arc around them to get to the front door. If I minded my business, they’d leave me alone.
But then I noticed one of them had his belt in his hand, doubled up, and as he backed away from the other guy, he took swipes at his head. Continue reading ‘Conflict avoidance’
The first thing I thought as I fell was I’m going to tear my pants.
I knew I was going down. No way to stop it. No time for anything graceful. Just minimize the damage. Oh, shit. My phone.
And then I heard myself say it, casually, calmly—”oh shit”—as I landed on my right knee (There’s the tear.) and my left hand, scuffing the palm. The right hand swung out and landed somewhat more lightly, just to steady me and stop me from rolling forward, the corner of my iPhone scratching hard against the ground. (Its just the case. It’s just the case.) And my gym bag pivoted around my body on the strap across my chest and slammed down on the sidewalk behind me. I heard the combination lock, in an outside mesh pocket, rattle against the concrete.
The high school kid in front of me, on is way to school, looked terrified and suddenly wide awake. My headphones were still in my ears, but I heard the panic in his voice: “Oh, god. Are you all right?” Continue reading ‘Have a nice trip. See ya next fall.’
... but enough about me 