Famous among dozens
At the bar, Laura leans against a column to reach for her purse. The column falls against the wall with a plastic thud.
L: So that’s not attached to anything.
B: No, it’s not so much a structural element as a…
M: Big plastic column, made to look like a structural element, that will actually fall over the moment someone touches it.
B: Yeah, every bar needs one of those.
L: Good for drunk people.
M: Keeps ’em guessing.
I push past the crowd in the kitchen to get some ice for my drink. He’s standing next to the refrigerator, and I hear him say:
My cat watches me pee…
Then I return to the living room.
The best part of Cry the Beloved Country by Alan Paton:
“A boy salutes as he has learned in the school, and cries umfundisi. He waits for no response, but turns away and gives the queer tremulous call, to no person at all, but to the air. He turns away and makes the first slow steps of a dance, for no person at all, but for himself.”
For the last ten minutes, I have been watching quasi-celebrity commentary on the Williams sisters’ asses. In the last ten minutes I have not begun to learn French, started the next great American novel, or told anyone I loved them. I have not done any sit ups, flossed my teeth, or contemplated my future. Most importantly, I have not reached for the television remote, which is mere inches from my right hand. Projecting this data set to its logical conclusion, it’s probable that I will drown in a puddle of my own drool a few hours from now during an E! documentary on Scarlett Johansen’s lips. Someone pass the Chee-tohs.
L: Do motorcycles run on gasoline?
M: Yeah.
L: Where does the gas go?
M: … In the gas tank.
L: Well, yeah, of course.
M: You asked.
L: But, I mean, where? Like does it fill up into the handlebars or something?
R: That doesn’t seem like it would be safe.
M: What did you think it ran on?
S: They should make bikes that run on pee.
L: Like you’d pee into a tube and the bike uses it as fuel?
M: Yuck.
R: I want a car that runs on pee.
M: You’re a dreamer, baby.
Starbucks Unveils Aggressive Growth Plan
Now the chain stores will simply gestate in human bodies and eat their way through the wall of the stomach when they’ve reached maturity.
Bryan and I pass two men picketing on the sidewalk. The typeface on their signs is too small to read. “Something is unfair,” Bryan says. And ain’t it the truth.
This businesswoman is waiting for the bus. She wears a slim black suit with kitten heels, and her hair is pulled into a neat bun at the nape of her neck. She removes a dark compact from her pocket and peers at herself in the mirror, then begins picking at a zit on her chin.
I’m sorry for the silence, it’s been a busy few days. First there was Bryan’s birthday, then we both did some work for the John Kerry campaign fundraiser in San Francisco.
This was the first campaign event where I got a staff pin, or as I call it, a “don’t shoot me” pin. It’s a little metal badge you wear on your lapel that tells the Secret Service that you’re a goodie. Part of my job was distributing hotel information to the campaign staff hotel rooms. I’d passed the Secret Service room a few times, making sure to face the open door so they could see my pin and ID.
After about the fifth time passing the room, I figured everyone inside had seen me, so I just walked past. Friends, you don’t want to do that. That makes several polite, well-trained people in dark suits very curious about you. By “very curious” I mean “within a foot of you without you knowing it in under 1.5 seconds.” And that’s the kind of thing that will make you swallow your tongue when you turn around. Trust me.
After blogging for more than three years, I finally made some T-shirts. I made them mostly because I wanted one for myself and figured you might want one too. They’re risque, but you’re no milquetoast. So, without further ado…
Maybe you run like a girl, throw like a girl, catch like a girl. But there’s one more thing you do like a girl, and no one’s complaining about that.
Mighty Girl 