Month: May 2001

EMAIL MOMENT!

Subject: Summer jobs.

Excerpt:

The first thing I found out about selling cars is that the dumber you are,
the better. These women come up and say, “What’s the difference between
these two convertibles?” So I say, “This one has 190 horsepower, and this
one has 170 horsepower.” And then they say, “But this one is purple.”

3:47 p.m.

So this guy dies in his rocking chair. Papers keep being delivered, the grass keeps growing, the neighbors are getting pissed. But no one realizes the guy is dead until four years later when someone buys the house at a delinquent taxes auction and finds a corpse in the living room.

10:08 a.m.

How I read the sign at the bottom of the Muni stairs:

No

Smoking

Drinking

Eating Graffiti

10:51 a.m.

From Messy Chestnut:

“One month after my second son was born he was notified that he was pre-approved for a Mastercard.”

Also, a poem he posted:

Watermelons

Green Buddhas

On the fruit stand.

We eat the smile

And spit out the teeth

-Charles Simic

10:51 a.m.

At the Cinco de Mayo party, Amit carries over a container of green Margarita salt and calmly points to the slogan. All of us lean forward and exclaim, “WON’T STAIN SKIN!?” We are tipsy, and this is a major selling point. Also, the salt is very green. So green, in fact, that it definitely seems as though it would stain. Briefly, I imagine turning the party into an impromptu episode of “Fight Back!”. Calling everyone out into the yard, sprinkling them with a garden hose, and instructing them to roll around in the salt. I glance at all the men wearing Corona shirts and backward visors. These men have unusually square jaws. I decide that they are hardly the types who would cover themselves in salt if given the opportunity. I lick the back of my hand and offer myself up as a guinea pig. An hour later, it washes right off. I’ll be damned.

11:09 a.m.

Seven cheesy things I love anyway:

  • Finger guns in photos
  • Black umbrellas with “sunny sky” detail inside
  • Gilligan hats
  • Fashionistas!
  • Talking to cashiers
  • What-will-I-wear-for-this-important-event? clothing-change montages
  • Old men who wink

9:48 a.m.

Me: Wait! That’s Prince!

R: That’s a good reason to put in my Wallflowers CD.

M: Are you kidding me?

R: Prince sucks big dick.

M: Whaaaat? What are you talking about? You have to love Prince. Did you not grow up in the ’80s? It’s your duty to love Prince.

R: Prince is a has-been, leftover pop-star wannabe, a-sexual, talentless chump. He’s no Jakob Dylan.

M: NO JAKOB DYLAN? Are you listening to yourself!? I don’t even know you anymore. “Purple Rain?” “Raspberry Beret?” Where were you, brother?

R: Come on, listen to these lyrics, “It takes two to tango/but only one to let go.” That’s poetry.

M: All I have to say is, “She wore her raspberry beret/the kind you find in a second-hand store/Raspberry beret/ And if it was warm, she wouldn’t wear much more.”

(extended pause)

R: Touche.

9:43 a.m.

From a “Survivor” party e-vite:

“Hey folks. With less than a week away, Survivor tension is building, especially in our legs and lower backs.”

11:04 a.m.