Famous among dozens
This little boy is about three, just learning to talk and to count. He’s naming everything we pass and counting objects as the bus drives along.
A truck!
A sidewalk!
A flag! Two flag! One, two, three, four flags!
(We pass the San Francisco City Hall where couples are just leaving their same-sex wedding ceremonies.)
A boy and a girl. … No, a boy and two boy. Two boys.
A tree!
On the bathroom wall of this SOMA coffee shop, someone has scrawled, “I have a boner that could hit a homer.” I find this intriguing because the gentleman in question most likely wasn’t drunk, and yet he felt compelled to share. I myself have never put pen to plaster, because I can never think of anything worthwhile to say. Perhaps if I had a penis.
For the past few years, I’ve read almost no books because I subscribe to so many magazines. Right now, I’m getting:
Real Simple
O, the Oprah Magazine
Martha Stewart Living
Esquire
Vogue
Lucky
Dwell
The New Yorker
The Smithsonian
Time
Jason Kottke recently embarked on a campaign to read more magazines, and he got a surprisingly long list of
suggestions from his readers. Look it over and see what appeals to you. Scanning it, I realized it’s been way too long since I’ve picked up copies of Giant Robot, Readymade, or The Believer. Then again, I’ve been meaning to finish Cry, the Beloved Country, The Lost Contient, and Midnight’s Children for quite a while too. I could use a few weeks on the beach.
Scenario: A pushy man gets on the bus with a cart too big for the aisle. He stands just next to the bus driver. The driver tells him to move, so he shuffles back about a foot and stands with his cart in front of an older woman. She expresses concern; he ignores her; she reiterates. All the dialogue below is hers:
You can’t stand here.
(Pause)
You’re in people’s way.
(Pause)
I said you’re in people’s way!
(The bus driver tells the man to find a place to sit down. The man shuffles back a bit more.)
(Victorious now.) You hear him? That’s it.
Keep movin’.
You’re doin’ fine.
Keeeeep movin’.
A: When I was a kid and we played imaginary games, I was always the boss. If we played house, I was the mom. Or if we played work, I was the boss. I was such a brat. I used to always fight with this one neighborhood kid over who got to be mom. Mark Smith, remember him?
M: Oh, yeah!
A: He came out of the closet a few years ago. His mom was crushed. The rest of us were like, “Surprise.”
M: Ha!
A: Really no one wanted to play Dad, except my little brother. Dad was so boring. We’d just give him a briefcase and say, “Go to work now.” And he’d have to march off into some back room and play by himself for awhile.
M: Oh! That’s sad.
A: Yeah, he’d leave for a minute and then come back and be like, “OK. Work’s over!” So he’d pretend to read the newspaper.
This young man is strutting up the street with his boom box. He’s a big guy with a shaved head, sporting new sneakers and a parka. Suddenly he stops, looks behind him at ground level and gives a c’mon jerk of his head. Out of the crowd hurries a tiny Chihuahua. The dog rushes to the young man’s side and then sits nervously at his feet. The man pauses a moment, then resumes strutting.
Bryan and I went on a drive this weekend, and wound up behind a minivan with a bumper sticker that read, “If only closed minds came with closed mouths.”
Me: I’m so open-minded that I don’t want to hear any opposing opinions.
B: If you’re not open-minded, shut-the f**k up.
Me: Muteness upon those who disagree with me.
Bryan’s cell phone has one of those rings that make people stop and look in the street. It’s sort of a loud, futuristic, rolling chime. At my sister’s house, his phone rings and the kids sit bolt upright with wide eyes. Trevor says, “We don’t have any toys that sound like that!”
After a long day of copyediting:
Who’s zoomin’ who, Bryan?
What?
Who’s zooooomin’ whoooo.
You’ve had enough tea.
I’m not caffeinated, I’m joyous.
OK.
Who’s zooOOOOOmin’ whooooo!
OK, that’s annoying.
You’re right, maybe I should have a glass of wine before we go out.
No way. Then you’ll be amped and uninhibited.
Tell me, baby. Tell me, baby!
Scenario: An older man in a fedora has a brief conversation with a tipsy woman who boards and sits next to him.
Him: How you doin’ tonight?
Her: Not so good.
-What’s wrong baby?
-You know, you know, everything just out of control.
-What you mean?
-You hear about these boys? These boys gettin’ killed every day. Twenty of ’em.
-What you talkin’ about?
-These boys on the bus, all of them killed.
-This happen today?
-No! No, long time ago.
-Well, ain’t nothin’ you can do ’bout that.
-I cain’t hardly figure myself out over it.
-You can’t let that get you down, baby. You got to move on.
-I know, but I got so many worries.
-You got to pick your worries.
-Yeah. How you gonna choose, they all over the place like that?
-Listen, why don’t we go get ourselves a beer or somethin’?
-Baby, will you come home with me tonight and keep my company?
-We can talk about that.
-Yeah? Help me out, baby.
-Well, we can talk about it.
-Yeah…
-That sounds very interesting to me, you know?
-Help me out, baby.
-Long as it ain’t gonna be no problem.
-No. No problem.
-That sounds very interesting to me.
Mighty Girl 