He says, “Several stories have been lost in the media frenzy over President Bush’s noble and controversial stand against the sexual enslavement of children…”
I love noisemakers; siren whistles are my favorite. They make a happy noise that sounds a little like… a siren, WHOOOOOOPPWEEEEEENNUUUUuuuuuuuuu! I ordered some for the wedding, and was giddy when they arrived. I opened the box and ran my (thoroughly washed) hands through the wealth of siren whistles at my disposal. Then I grabbed a shiny silver whistle for a trial run. I brought it to my expectant lips and gave it a go. The whistle coughed and then responded with a weak, fweeeeee. It sounded not unlike a dying baby seal. They’re so bad that Bryan and I have taken to blowing on them sarcastically.
“I’ve scheduled our appointment for the honeymoon innoculations… fweeeeeee.”
“I can’t wait until Schwarzenegger is our governor… fweeeeee.”
The things actually seem to be wheezing. Of course, now we find them so amusing that we’ve become attached. This means that we’ll most certainly be exiting the church to a chorus of fweeeee.
Walking past a head shop on the Haight, I notice a
Maneki Neko (Chinese lucky cat) in the window. This one is made of plastic and is battery operated, so the raised arm moves up and down. As I pass, the cat’s arm movement is perfectly timed to the music blaring out of the shop’s door. For the moment, Maneki Neko is rocking out.
Public pipe smoking has always seemed like a misguided pretension to me, one that’s especially odd in a younger man. A pipe-smoker in his twenties may as well stand on a corner shouting, “Look at me everyone. Observe my young yet thought-worn brow. I thoroughly enjoy Yeats!”
That said, yesterday I saw a guy in his early twenties parking his motorcycle. He removed his helmet, reached into his bag, and pulled out a pipe. Leaning against the bike, he packed and lit the pipe, and took a few puffs. Only then did he finish parking the motorcycle, and head inside with the pipe anchored in his jaw. So I was forced to wonder about his deal for a while. Which, I suppose, was the point.
manque–unfulfilled or frustrated in the realization of one’s ambitions or capabilities
somatize–to express psychological conflict through bodily symptoms
- Had three seemingly innocent cocktails at the hotel. Noticed I was having trouble balancing. Turns out Vodka, Tequila, and Watermelon Schnapps (with a twist of lime) are pinkly delicious.
- Almost climbed into a Toyota–occupied by a family of four–because I was under the mistaken impression that it was our cab.
- Climbed into an actual cab with aforementioned Pink Terror cocktail in hand. This was less of a problem than you might expect, as the cab driver already had a bottle of beer in his cup holder.
- Danced with another bachelorette’s giant inflatable penis.
- Thanked my dear friends for not making me carry a giant inflatable penis.
- Danced with a bridesmaid near a wall of cheering Latin gentlemen. When one of us tipped too far off vertical, said gentlemen caught us, tilted us upright, and resumed cheering.
- Wore a pink, leopard-print G-string on my head.
- Accidentally sprayed cherry-flavored whipped cream all over a friend’s blouse.
- Assured my roommate that it was fine that she was making out with my high school sweetheart, who happened to be dressed as a very unattractive woman for the evening.
Scenario: A 13-year-old girl in a thrift store holds up a trucker cap, showing it to her approximately 20-year-old shopping companions.
Girl: What do you think?
Guy: Of that?
Woman: For what?
Girl: For, like, wearing.
Woman: Are you serious?
Girl: Yeah. (Puts cap on.)
Guy: It’s ugly.
Girl: You don’t like it?
Guy: No. It’s ugly.
Woman: He’s right.
Girl: These are, like, really cool right now.
Guy: No they’re not.
Woman: It doesn’t look good on you.
Girl: Are you sure?
Woman: Very, very sure.