She's In The Hospital Day!

You walk through the hospital with urgency. If there are any doors on hinges, you march towards them and fling them open with a loud clap. Everyone looks your way as you run to your ex's bedside.

The day you hear about the tumble, you don't arrive with a gift in hand. Of fucking course not. Everyone else believes her story about getting dizzy from antihistimines while gardening on the roof, but you know damn well it was an attempted suicide and you're furious. You don't hear from the twat for a month and a half, and then you get a call that she tried to off herself. The walk to the hospital room seems to be taking forever and you hope that by the time you get there your urge to slap her in the eyes has cooled down a bit.

Crowding into the room are her husband of one year, and his fucking mom and dad. They're all at every occasion. How she can keep from releasing a single never-ending yawn is beyond you.

She's in the middle of smiling her way through a story when you burst in. She spots you, and her face turns solemn. She mutters through the remainder of the story, then everyone turns to acknowledge you.

Her torso is in a body cast. "You look like a fucking idiot," you say.

She shakes her head, closes her eyes. "Tom, take Beth and Martin out to the vending machines for a bit." Tom's her dull as ducklings husband and he knows his place. He obeys.

"You wanna talk about this..."

"Who the fuck do you think you are? I could kill you."

"You wanna talk about this, you talk to me about it. These people are sweet."

"You just referred to the man you married as 'these people'."

"They love and care for me and they accept the fact that I accidentally fell from the roof. Because they would never want me to be so unhappy that I might want to jump. Don't upset them with the truth."

"I wouldn't care if your in-laws were tied to burning posts. I care about you."

"You care about yourself."

"I do. And if you take your life I swear to God I'll destroy this world."

She can tell you mean it, but she says, "You wouldn't." Perhaps to get you to say it again.

"You fucking know I would you miserable cunt."

Her husband pokes his head through the door. "Honey, can I get you some tea or a snack?"

"Run out to the deli, sweetie? And pick me up some magazines to read."

Her husband says sure thing. She says, "Lock that door."

You do. She says, "Climb atop my body cast."

You do. She turns her head on its side on the pillow. You rest your lips on her cheek. You keep them there.

She says, "We have about ten minutes before he comes back."

For about ten minutes, your lips sleep upon her cheek, your legs straddling her body cast.

Happy She's In The Hospital Day!

Everyone Into The Basement Day!

That's what your big brother tells you and your five sisters whenever your Dad comes home drunk.

"Everyone into the basement!" he shouts. "Dad's home and he don't look so good. Move IT! Move IT! Move IT!"

It makes you all laugh. Especially your Dad. He laughs the hardest, because he's a very jovial, gentle drunk. And your Dad loves it when your older brother acts like he's the kind of drunk Dad who's just gonna haul off and start beating the shit out of you all, burning your forearms on hot radiators and the like. When in reality, he's just gonna turn on Bravo and pass out in his chair.

Happy Everyone Into The Basement Day!

A Gripping Moment At The State Diner Day!

Reggie's learning to spend some time alone. It's going well enough. He's finding that his thoughts can be good company, especially since he's always thinking about what it would be like to have two girlfriends and the ability to run as fast as horses.

Tonight Reggie went to the diner. For a coffee and a view of the street. He's been there for around forty minutes with a vision of crossing a finish line in his head, and two smiling young ladies jumping up and down and applauding on opposite ends of the bleachers. It's a pretty Saturday night for Reggie.

In his mind he's drinking some gatorade and giving an interview to a television sportscaster when he shakes the fantasy away to notice the mailman with a mailbag slung over his shoulder stopping in front of the diner to check the address. The mailman looks at the postcard in his hand

Reggie looks at his watch to see it's 8:53 PM. "That guy woke up late today," thinks Reggie. The mailman enters the diner and speaks with the cashier.

Reggie drifts back to the track where he, Julie and Lorraine are trying to coordinate their plans for the evening. Julie wants to see Mystic River at 8, and Lorraine just wants to make sure the movie lets out early enough for Reggie to meet her and her visiting parents for a drink at the hotel where her parents are staying. Then he notices the waiter is standing by his table and not refilling his coffee. He looks up to see the waiter with a postcard in his hand.

"You Reggie...uh..." the waiter checks the postcard. "Reggie...Milanopolous?"

Reggie is. "How'd you know?"

The waiter drops the postcard on the table. Reggie picks it up and reads.

Reggie Milanopolous
c/o State Diner
Third Booth By The Window
333 Morton Blvd
Hayworth, TX

Boy, get down! Head to the tabletop! Now!

Reggie throws his nose to the table and waits for the gunshot. He turns his eyes up just in time to see a straw wrapper shoot past and float down onto the empty seat of adjacent booth. Had Reggie not gotten that postcard, the straw wrapper would've slammed directly into the back of his head.

He sits back up and looks behind him to find a little boy with a crewcut, the naked straw to his lips aimed straight at Reggie. The boy's mother takes the straw from his mouth and motions for him to finish his hamburger. Reggie goes back to the postcard and reads the rest.

Hope this helped kid.

Sincerely,

Tom Cruise

Reggie checks the postmark. It says "Hollywood."

Happy A Gripping Moment At The State Diner Day!

Being A Nurse Blows In Kansas Day!

I'm a twenty nine year old divorced nursing professional and I'm bored with the kind of nursing that goes on here in Wichita. Nothing but taking care of patients who live in or are visiting Wichita. Can you tell me some states in the USA where I can get in on some of that way bitchin' nursing I'm always seeing on television shows?

Being A Nurse Blows In Kansas

I have some good news and some bad news for you BANBIK. The good news is that you're not alone. Almost every nurse in the USA wakes up every morning thinking to herself, "I'm so disappointed with the occupation I've chosen. I wonder if all the other nurses in the USA feel the same way as me. That is, I wonder if all the other nurses in the USA wanna spit in faces and spraypaint graffiti onto sleeping bums."

The bad news is, there's one state in the USA where Nursing is awesome. Pennsylvania.

Happy Being A Nurse Blows In Kansas Day!

Just Like In The Movie "She's Having A Baby" Day!

Today, you're pregnant. It's just like in the movie "She's Having A Baby" except you already took the US FDA approved equivalent of RU 486, which amounts to not much more than a shitload of birth control pills all at once. There'll be some abdominal pain and a lot of spotting, but you've pretty much taken care of everything. You'll be fine in a week, though your doctor said you should call in sick tomorrow and keep to bed for the rest of the weekend. Again, there isn't a lot of risk to this. But there can be complications. Just don't push yourself.

And don't tell your guy. He knows you'll get pissed off at him if he acts like he's glad you aborted, so he'll go through the "What right do you have to make that decision for the both of us" tantrum in order to keep getting that ass when you feel better next week.

Happy Just Like In The Movie "She's Having A Baby" Day!

You're Sick Of Murder Day!

Today, you won't be able to control yourself. You'll be leaning over the torn up remains of a sixteen year old homeless boy who was found underneath some trash. There'll be some vomit on his belly and a chisel lodged in his left eyesocket. In his wallet, you guessed it, a photo of a mother and a father, each with a hand on the shoulder of a twelve year old boy. It's just a guess that the bloody mess before you was the boy in that photo.

A cop in uniform will say, "Think it's the same guy, detective?" You'll reel around to shout something, but you won't know what or why. Just doing his job, trying to solve a murder. Just like you for fourteen years now. But you need to shout something. Anything.

"Don't you...?"

The cop will wait for a scolding. He's used to being batted around at a crime scene.

"Detective?"

The alley will start to spin. You'll walk a few quick paces away from the cop, trying to get your bearings. Then you'll stop and shout up at the windows of the apartment buldings all around you.

"I am so SICK of murder!!!"

You'll feel like you shouted loud enough to crack the sky, and you'll wonder if you did because a silence will follow. A silence broken by a stifled snicker. You'll turn to find the uniformed cop with his shoulders shivering, his hand over his grinning mouth.

You'll be ready to shut him up when you spy the other beat cop and the landlady he's interviewing, both of them giggling together. A loud guffaw will echo from the mouth of a little boy hanging out his window up above. The crowd of bystanders will erupt in a rolling, building cackle.

Soon, everyone on the crime scene will be laughing at you. You can run or start shooting.

Happy You're Sick Of Murder Day!

The Kid That Dropped The Baton Day!

Today, you have a lunch date with Craig Latham. Yes, the Craig Latham. The kid that dropped the baton.

As far as you knew, there had been no word from Craig in the ten or so years since that baton clattered to the gravel of the track and he lost the relay race for his entire team. He stuck around school for another week or so after the race, but he was beaten so severely and ridiculed with such venom that he had no choice but to drop out and get out of town.

When someone from the school paper wanted to do a story on Craig a few years later, his parents were discovered to have moved four owns over. They left town as well because Craig's enemies did not draw a distinction between Craig and those who shared his blood. Rarely was the night that went by without a brick crashing through their window. Craig's parents knew it would only get worse, so they went away.

"But Craig didn't come with us," Mr. Latham said. "For our safety, he said he had to go off alone. Told us to forget we had a son."

Mrs. Latham added, "Goddamn did he ever cunt up a lotta shit for everybody when he dropped that cocksucking baton. Retard can't even grab onto a stick."

The Lathams showed the reporter a postcard with a postage stamp from Dubuque. "But he ain't there," said Mr. Latham. "See, it says so on the card."

Scribbled on the card were the words, "I'm not in Dubuque. I came down here solely to mail a postcard from here. Fucking baton. C."

You couldn't believe your eyes when you spotted him at the train station on Saturday. He was standing in the middle of the floor, underneath the clock, staring at you. Waiting for you it seemed.

"I don't have much time before I have to go underground again," he said. "Meet me at the lower level Au Bon Pain on Tuesday at 1:30."

You sucked in some air to ask a question, and he was gone.

Why you? Why now? Today, your questions will go unanswered. But what Craig has to say will prove your questions irrelevant.

He'll sit with his back to the wall, and he won't look you in the eye throughout your entire meeting. He'll be too busy looking for the face of his assassin.

He'll say, "Just a charity race for MS, I thought. What harm could it do. I just never thought everyone would take it so seriously."

Can you ever forgive the warrior heart inside of man? you'll ask.

"Forgiveness would imply a response to something resembling contrition. There is nothing to forgive." He'll lean in close. He'll stink. "I've seen the darkness inside of man, and I have chosen to study and embrace that darkness. To feed upon it and one day spread that darkness like a blanket over all the world. When I signed up for that race, it was an event of blblical proportions. If I can stay alive long enough, this world will end."

You'll sleep with him.

Happy The Kid That Dropped The Baton Day!

Dissuading The Architect Day!

The architect says, but if I build over the Ancient Indian Burial Ground, the sun will hit the skylight just so and the tile I've had imported from Peru will attain a permanent glisten. You adjust your shelf of bosom and stand very close to the architect, looking up into his eyes and playing with the buttons of his shirt and you say, but if you don't build over the ancient Indian burial ground, I'll remove my clothing and pull you inside of me. The architect says, hmm, you drive a hard bargain. But nope! I have to fulfill my vision or else my soul is fucked. You say, but it feels really awesome inside me. I've been told it feels, quote, Great, end-quote. The architect says, but why is it so important to you that I not build over the Ancient Indian Burial Ground? And, how great? You say, if you build over the Ancient Indian Burial Ground, those uppity Injuns'll pop up out of the ground shouting, "Guess how dead we are today, ya'll. Fuckin' shit up, it's on the agenda!" And, as great as a bath in a really big, clean tub. The architect says, Fine, pull me inside of you. BUT BE CLASSY ABOUT IT!!!

Happy Dissuading The Architect Day!

Howling Fat Man Day!

Today on public transport, you will spy a 365 pound man in denim shorts sitting with his hands resting on the handle of an umbrella. He will be howling softly.

You'll follow his eyes to the crowd of young people huddled around one of the floor poles. None of them will be especially attractive and neither will any of them be carrying a little dog in a sherpa bag. But the fat man will be howling into their general direction.

When you look around to the other passengers to see if any of them find this as strange as you do, you will discover that everyone but the howling fat man is staring directly at you. You are marked and they know you walk among them.

Happy Howling Fat Man Day!

It's the Girls Are Pretty Stakeout Weekend!

On Friday, October 24th at 7 AM, Prettygirl rented a Ford Taurus and parked it on a residential street on the Upper East Side of New York City. The Taurus is currently parked with a clear view of a third floor apartment window. The man who owns this apartment is Prettygirl's Uncle Morris. Uncle Morris' seventieth birthday is coming up soon. Prettygirl has no idea what to get him for a gift, but she wants it to be something special. Therefore, it is necessary that his day to day life be monitored, charted, and that conclusions be drawn as to just the kind of man this Uncle Morris truly is, and whether he would prefer a roll-neck J. Crew sweater, or a Tivo.

Thus far, Prettygirl has learned that Uncle Morris will not put on pants unless it is absolutely necessary. Additionally, his groin is itchy.

Not a lot to go on, which is why your personal regression assignments might be given to you on a less than regular basis, as Prettygirl is primarily alone on this Stakeout. Except when a boy named David visits the car so that she can run to a public bathroom or a Kinkos, then run back to the car to make out with David until he has to go back to class (he's studying to be an astronaut).

Yesterday's and today's assignments are below. Keep your head down and pass the donuts.

Saturday, October 25, 2003

King Libido Day!

Today, King Libido will leer out from his throne and decree, "Everybody come up here and rub upon me." And all shall obey.

Happy King Libido Day!

Friday, October 24, 2003

She's Way Fucked Up Day!

You fell in love with her on her first day of orientation at the museum. You showed everyone in your training group where the bathrooms were, and she said "Man, I'm gonna be spending a lot of time in there today. I've been sick to my stomach for three years now."

She's the prettiest museum guard you ever did see. And after months of shuffling your days off, you finally got it so that you're both in the Degas room on Fridays, and you both get off at six.

You'll ask if she'd like to grab a beer and she'll say, "I'll drive." You'll spend hours at the bar. The conversation will be just as perfect as you imagined it would be. The kind of ease with a person that you haven't felt since the last time you fell in love. You'll both have had quite a lot to drink, but alcohol doesn't make this kind of thing happen. You'll blame your hearts.

Finally, you'll suggest that the two of you get out of there. She'll say, "I'll drive." But she'll be way fucked up, and when she hits an icy patch she'll send the car into a ditch. You'll both live, but she'll have a horrible scrape on her face from the airbag. You'll wait inside the car for the police to arrive, holding each other for warmth, smothering each other with gentle kisses upon the face and neck. It's going to be wonderful.

Happy She's Way Fucked Up Day!

Daddy's Amnesia Day!

Your brothers bought it without a twitch of an eyebrow. "Dad says he has amnesia, fuck it. Dad has amnesia," they said. "You're a faggot, dudefucker," they added. Then they took off their shoes and made you smell them.

But something about this story never quite sat right with you. Are you especially distrusting of your father? Or were you simply the only one who paid attention to everything that occurred just before the amnesia set in?

You stood in the hallway and watched your mother clumping up his dress shirts and lobbing them out the window onto the lawn. "Let your little slut iron these from now on," she shouted into the night. And though you weren't sure what she was talking about, you felt in your bones that things were never going to be the same. You just never imagined that it would work out that your father would come home and not recognize your face.

He must have been out there wondering how and why he came to your house. He just stood there on the lawn, staring at the clothes and trinkets he didn't recognize splayed across the grass. He looked like he was trying very hard to come to a conclusion. Then your mother came to the door and didn't shout. She just watched him. Your father came into the house.

"Who are you? Do you recognize me?" he asked your mother. "I feel a great deal of love for you, but I don't remember ever having met you in my life. Yet I feel I am supposed to live here and love the people in this house. Perhaps I have amnesia and cannot remember any of the major events in my life, especially the more recent ones. However, the warmth I feel in my heart makes me certain that this house is the place where I am to live and where I one day will die a happy man who lived a full life. May I stay? I appear to have amnesia."

The anger crept from your mother's brow. She looked to be trying to solve long division. You were hiding behind a chair, breathless with the suspense as your mother decided whether to hold her husband in her arms or start screaming again like she had been doing for the past two days that he was gone.

Then she took a breath and took him by the arm, leading him to the couch in the living room. "Boys," she shouted. "Come down here."

You and your brothers lined up on the sectional opposite where your mother was sitting beside your father.

"Boys, something terrible has happened. Your father has amnesia and he can't remember anything about his life."

She waited for your father to say something. He said to you and your brothers, "Who are you? Do you recognize me? I appear to have amnesia."

Your mother then took his chin in her hand and said into his eyes, "These are your children. And I am your wife. Never, never betray us."

Then she let go of his face. "This is your home," she said. "This is where you'll stay."

After that, you all wore nametags for a few months, and occasionally you'd have to remind him where the toilet is. But everything pretty much seemed like it was after not too long. At first, if you mentioned the amnesia to your mom, she'd just say "Think of it like a do-over." Later she'd say, "Your father is home. That's what matters." And she'd look at you a little too long before giving you a hug. After a while, she just stopped answering you.

Happy Daddy's Amnesia Day!

Mistletoe Day!

Today, because you don't work, you'll dig out your Christmas decorations. Not to put them up yet. You start early but before Halloween is just silly. No, you'll make the excuse that you just want to see if there'll be anything you need to shop for when the time comes. In reality though, Christmas makes you happy. So you figured that it was worth a shot to look at some Christmas decorations if it might help you to not be so terribly sad.

Underneath the trays of ornaments and wrapped up in a tangled string of lights will be that fake twig of mistletoe that you always hang in the foyer. You'll hold that fake twig of mistletoe in your fingertips and you'll look back on all the boys from whom it won you a kiss. You'll go down the list of names, and you'll realize that you'd never kissed any of those boys. They're the names of boys you'd wished would kiss you under your mistletoe, but who had never been inside your house. You'll rack your brain to think of boys who had kissed you under the mistletoe, but there weren't any. You'll off yourself.

Happy Mistletoe Day!

Close To You Day!

You think David is dead because he stopped writing. He is not. Your mailman is simply in love with you and he's been hoarding David's letters to you and opening and reading them to find out more about you, find out what sort of man can win your heart. Your mailman is trying to learn who to be so that someone like you might one day wait for letters from someone like him.

First and foremost, your mailman thinks he should become the sort of man who works for an environmental concern in South America. Second, your mailman thinks he should be the kind of fellow that meets the woman he loves for a week's vacation in a province of Canada and then recollects the time he spent there with her in letters written months later. Third, your mailman believes his handwriting could do with some degrees of improvement.

But above all, your mailman knows that he should be the sort of man who has a relationship with a woman that goes well beyond timing his presence at the door of your building to coincide with your departure from the building just so that he might for a few seconds share the small vestibule with you. But he'll be there again today at 8:25 AM, and you'll ask him if there is anything for you and he'll hand you a cellular phone bill. You will be disappointed. He will be standing only eleven inches away from you.

Happy Close To You Day!

The Wart Day!

Today, put Compound W on the wart that's lived on your left index finger knuckle for the past 46 years.

Wait an hour, then start to dig at the base of the wart with a metal nail file. After enough digging, you'll break the seal and you'll be able to get nearer to the belly of the growth. After this point, it's going to start to hurt.

The base of the wart...hang on. You named the wart after the close friend who personifies everything that's wrong with your life. In that, were you a better person you would never call such a terrible fool your friend. Right? Okay, the base of the wart has been dried up and numbed by the Compound W, but the root of the wart was unfortunately untouched by the application because you started digging at it far too early.

It's not your fault. Girls Are Pretty told you to.

So now, you have a wart that's pretty much just resting like a beach ball in a crater right there on your knuckle. With all the digging, what was once a bit unsightly is now downright disgusting. The mound is holding on by just a few sinews of extremely sensitive tissue. Cut it the fuck loose.

You need to shove the rounded blade of the nail file in there. Don't try to slice or dig. Just shove it into the mass like you're pushing through a crowd. The blood should really be flowing now. And you'll be crying and screaming the name of that friend you hate. But just a few more shoves and, though messy, it's out. The wart's gone. 46 years. It's gone. It'll start to grow back immediately.

Happy The Wart Day!

Booth By The Window Day!

It's Sunday again so you're drinking alone. Normally, you'd take the second booth from the back. The one by the newspaper stack so you can leaf through the Sunday entertainment sections. But tonight you wanted to look at faces. Tomorrow you'll remember it more as you waiting for a face, like you made plans to meet someone there. But tonight, as far as you're concerned, you're just sitting in the booth by the window and letting your eyes register the folks passing by.

Down the block, crossing the street towards you, will be Jonathan. It will take you a second, then you'll remember that he had a small part in an awful one-night play you got roped into eight months prior. You shared twenty seven words with him that night and you remember liking him and hoping he might come out to the bar after the show. He did not and you decided he probably did not drink and therefore had nothing in common with you. You forgot about him.

He'll get close enough to hear you knock on the window, but you won't. He'll be close enough for you to see that his is not the face of a man who wants to come in and catch up over a Sunday evening drink. He'll be close enough for you to see that he's broken. You won't put on your coat before you run out after him.

Your gray sweater is a thick one, but it'll still be too cold out for you to leave your jacket in the bar. It'll all be okay in a minute though, you'll think.

You'll have to run half the block before you're within arm's length of him. His pace will be quick. When you can reach out and grab him, you'll hesitate. Then you'll reach out and grab his left hand. He'll wheel around, not like he's going to take a swing, but like he might be getting arrested.

Close up, you'll see his limp cheeks climb back onto their bones with not a little effort. You'll watch him take in your face and go from puzzlement to recognition, then back to puzzlement. He'll say, "Oh, hey. How've you..."

You'll cut him off when your left hand joins your right in holding his left hand tight. You'll squeeze his hand tight in both your hands, then you'll look up and let him know without saying so that he can keep on looking terrible in front of you.

His face will fall and he'll take a deep breath then two steps into your embrace. Eight months ago, you shared twenty seven words. Tonight he'll take two steps into your embrace and you'll stop thinking about how cold it is outside. He'll kiss the side of your head, your cheek, then your lips. Then you'll walk back to the bar with your arms around each other and you'll take a seat in that booth by the window. He'll have a whiskey, thank goodness.

Happy Booth By The Window Day!

Your Friend Mark Wants To Fuck The Living Shit Out Of You Day!

Got a friend named Mark? Then Mark wants to fuck the living shit out of you. It doesn't matter if Mark is married and impotent and you are dead and buried. It doesn't matter if you and Mark are both dudes who are the kind of heterosexual that just end up worshipping every girl you date, without ever once exhibiting the kind of angry womanizing so indicative of borderline closet-cases. It doesn't even matter if Mark is fucking the living shit out of you whilst you read this. Mark still wants to fuck the living shit out of you. Deal with it you big fat baby.

Happy Your Friend Mark Wants To Fuck The Shit Out Of You Day!

Life At 8239 Sunny Cove Lane Day!

The house is full of gray. Gray air, gray faces, gray shirts. Your little sister is dead.

Your mom's hands are the color of the end of the day. They're cold and her arms are all bone. It's better she not hold you for a few months.

Your friends, Derek and Lee, they're going to be knocking on the door any minute now. There's an ambulance in the driveway, but Derek and Lee are only six years old and an ambulance will not tip them off to make like the rest of the neighbors and stand rubbernecking from the edge of their lawns. Derek and Lee will just go ahead and knock on the door to find out why there's an ambulance in the driveway and whether you're still going to come outside to play. You're six years old too, as it happens.

Your Dad and your older sister are the ones in the living room (the couch used to be brown but it's gray) sitting on the couch with the policeman. Your dad is explaining to the policeman in the gray uniform why the wrong pills made your little sister stopped breathing. Your big sister isn't crying.

There's a knock on the door. That'll be Derek and Lee. They're going to ask your Mom whether your little sister is really dead and your Mom's not going to answer. She's just going to shut the door, making a point not to slam it.

Happy Life At 8239 Sunny Cove Lane Day!

Hot Cowboy Day!

You hate the stink of hot cowboy. But you've been DJ'ing this line dancing gig for six years now and it's all that you know how to do.

Also, you're the best.

First time you breathed in some hot cowboy, you brought him home to stay for two years. Two wonderful years that ended the night a bounty hunter burst into your bedroom and ripped his naked swearing body from your arms and dragged him off to honor the word he gave to his bail bondsman.

You swore that night that your sheets would never be tainted with the stench of hot cowboy again. But four years is a long time to go it alone. And you've made some slips along the way, one slip that lasted eight months, another slip that lasted three years and four months. A slip that's driving his truck to Los Angeles as you sit there behind your turntables, spinning like only you know. With every flick of your wrist the booted folks up and down those lines can feel your declarations of never, never again. Hot cowboy just ain't never gonna be cool.

Would you be this good if if didn't make you ache? Is being a linedance DJ all you have, or is being a linedance DJ all you ever wanna be? Linedance DJ gonna stink with fresh hot cowboy on her shirt collar tonight.

Happy Hot Cowboy Day!

Seventeen Minutes At Kennedy Airport Day!

He's going to get on a plane to Madrid and you can't go with him past the security gates. Past the security gates, he's going to leave you behind. The love ends here, at Kennedy Airport. So make some small talk with the people in line around you.

"Hi. He's going to send me a letter in three months telling me that he's a different person who's met someone new and he doesn't think we should see each other anymore."

"Hi. He got me pregnant twice. In seventeen minutes, I'll be kissing him for the last time. I'm okay with it I guess. I'm only 20."

"Hi. Did you drop these gloves? One and a half years we've been in love I think. I mean, it was definitely love, but shouldn't I be sobbing or something? In August, we stayed in bed for twelve days straight. That's something, isn't it? Is that something?"

When he is standing at the security gate, looking at his watch, make faster small talk with the people in line around you so you don't make him miss his plane.

"Hi. See him over there? Do you think we look good together? I never thought so. I think I look better with his friend Marcus, honestly. Though I was never attracted to Marcus. But I look better standing next to Marcus. He can fuck like it's gonna end hunger. No not Marcus. Him."

"Hi. Do you speak English? Fuck."

"Hi. Wanna see something cool? I'm going to go kiss my boyfriend goodbye forever. We're not breaking up. He's just going to Madrid. He'll come back, but not to me. Watch this."

Now go to him and wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him with all you've got in you. Stick one of your fingernails underneath another of your fingernails to bring tears to your eyes.

Happy Seventeen Minutes At Kennedy Airport Day!

Build Clouds Day!

Build four clouds. One from newspapers, one from a soap bubble and the smoke of a cigarette, one from stone, and one from shirts. Then hold the clouds over your bed when it's time for your lover to wake up. When his eyes flutter open and he looks up and sees you waving the clouds over him, say "Wake up sleepyface. What's a matter, too cloudy?" When he laughs, switch clouds. Drop the two in your hands and pick up the two that are sitting on the bed and wave them over the bed in a circular motion. Your lover will ask you to c'mere, in a let's screw kinda way. Don't. Instead, move the clouds around in an even faster circular motion and shout, "Uh oh! Storm front!" Then start spitting on the blanket.

Happy Build Clouds Day!

Smiling Over Coffee In Your Jackets And Everything Through The Glass Is Faggy Day!

While the idea is in your head, the sweetness makes your teeth hurt. It goes thusly:

You call. She answers. You ask. She accepts.

You suggest. She agrees. You wait. She arrives.

You speak. She stiffens with the shock at having heard put into words a point of view she'd always embraced as undeniably true but always imagined to be far too silly to ever think anyone else might feel the same way.

She speaks. You warm, as if an extra pint of blood had suddenly been pumped into your veins, after hearing a sentence that you've been waiting to hear for two years. A sentence that lets you know, without a doubt, you will sleep for eight hours tonight.

You smile over your coffee in your jacket and everything walking past the streetside window of the coffee shop is faggy. She smiles over her coffee in her jacket and everything walking past the streetside window of the coffee shop is faggy.

As you wait for the hours to pass, you wish you could just live in the idea in your head. You know it never works out so sweetly.

And it won't this time either, but by around 7:44 PM tonight, it's gonna be pretty darned tasty. Check it out:

You call. She answers. You ask. She accepts.

You suggest. She agrees. You wait. She arrives.

You speak. She responds.

She speaks. You respond.

(about a half hour passes without epiphany, or anything you'll even remember, and then at 7:44 PM)

You smile over your coffee in your jacket and everything walking past the streetside window of the coffee shop is faggy. She smiles over her coffee in her jacket and everything walking past the streetside window of the coffee shop is faggy.

What sucks about you is there's still gonna be a little fraction of your heart that's pissed off that all the stiffening and the extra blood pumping never happened and you just went ahead and jumped to the smiling and everything going faggy. What sucks about you is you still won't accept that people only smile when they're too tired to try and look pissed off.

Happy Smiling Over Coffee In Your Jackets And Everything Through The Glass Is Faggy Day!

This Game Is Not About How Many Things You Can Buy With Your Light Green Money Day!

This game was devised thousands of years ago when God created the Earth and he said, "This game is about people meeting people and falling in love with people and making promises to people and creating people who are gonna be people who crave people and search for people or wait for people who meet people and fall in love with people and make promises to people and create people who are gonna yeah yeah this'll be a great game. Now should it be with pieces travelling around the board according to a roll of the dice or should it be more like Checkers? I'll think on it in the bath later."

So don't act like you're cool just because you have a lot of money.

Happy This Game Is Not About How Many Things You Can Buy With Your Light Green Money Day!

Do You Mind My Asking How Your Wife Is Doing? Day!

I'm forty three now, married, a father. Still strange to be saying it. Strange for it to be true for all these years already (five). I guess I'm sort of finishing up things, yes. For so much of my youth, I was clawing into myself, trying to dig out from under the hair and the layers and layers of skin that one thing that will make me golden. There was a greatness inside me, there still is, and I drove myself mad trying to root it out. But it was a squiggly little fucker, slippery and sly, it knew just when to feint my lunge. One day, in my late thirties, I concluded that my hunt for that greatness was its only sustenance, the only thing that kept it alive. So I stopped looking for it and let it die.

Anyway, you know about me and your wife. A year and half we had around 13 years ago. Well, I loved her. And I kept loving her. But unless I became the man I wanted to be, I knew I could never have her. I could not present myself as I was, as I am, a man less than a fraction of who he'd hoped to be, I could not give this man to her. It would have been an insult. But while I was searching for that better man inside of me, I held out hope that one day I would feel that I deserved to take her by the hand.

That day never came and it never will, I've decided. And when I made that decision, with it came acceptance of the fact that your wife will be the only woman I will ever truly love until the day that I die. Yes, I am married, and I am married to a beautiful woman who has given me beautiful children. I repeat, your wife will be the only woman I will ever truly love until the day that I die. Which is why I hope you don't mind my asking you presently, how is she?

Happy Do You Mind My Asking How Your Wife Is Doing? Day!

Lately, The Only Time You Put Your Boyfriend Up On A Pedestal Is When You Need To Vacuum Under The Couch Day!

Back in 1999 when you two first started dating, he was up there so much he started complaining about the nosebleeds. It was always, "No darling, don't you worry about a thing. You just plop yourself up on the pedestal and eat this sandwich. I'll go off to work and when I come home I hope you don't mind if I bring some friends and colleagues by to admire you. They'll be quiet."

But the days of giving the baby boy 500 dollars every time you leave the house just to make sure he never wants for anything are long gone. You've been noticing more and more that he has a blemish on his neck and that he eats 40 dollars a week in takeout heroes, which is tiresome because you still can't bring yourself to ask him to work. And that pedestal. The only time it supports anything but your car keys is Saturday evening when it's time to straighten up. But you can't even refer to it as what it once was. You just give him a "Honey, sit on the thingy for a second." And he groans because it's a Barney Miller marathon on TV Land, but you don't love him anymore. Youn don't. You don't love him anymore.

Happy Lately, The Only Time You Put Your Boyfriend Up On A Pedestal Is When You Need To Vacuum Under The Couch Day!

Get Good Lookin' Day!

First, lose the parrot. Next, buy seven bow ties and assign each bow tie to a day of the week, so that if it is Thursday, everyone can be sure you will be wearing your "Thursday Bow Tie." Bein' good lookin' is about more than just doing facial flexes to try and naturally chisel your cheekbones. Bein' good lookin' is about offering coworkers and potential fuckfools a little bit of certainty in this life. "What can I count on in a world where children just disappear without leaving any clues, like my son did. Here's his picture, have you seen him. He'd be 14 by now. I miss him. Nice tie. Oh hey, that's your Thursday tie. It's Thursday! I feel like this big boat we call human existence now has an anchor. Help me with this zipper good lookin'."

Next, and this is just for the guys, wear lavender eyeshadow on one eye.

Happy Get Good Lookin' Day!

Don't Fuck Up The Machine Day!

The machine works. It's refined, oiled, and good. Every part of the machine understands its duty, and every part expects the same of every other part.

"Nex?"

"Chicken broccoli white rice to go."

Good. Right and expeditious. The machine understands that you understand the machine. You are welcome here, as you prepare your exact change of five dollars and twelve cents. You are why lunch sometimes is perfect.

"Nex?"

"Hi are there vegetables in those noodles?"

The man behind you is a threat to the machine. As long as the man behind you is allowed to proposition the machine with a transaction, the machine is in danger of coming to a complete halt. Kill the man behind you with a large metal fork.

"What you do?"

"I've done what is necessary."

"I call police."

The machine has to call the police. The machine can't appear to condone such a crime against society, no matter how necessary it might be to the machine's survival. Watch the server as he dials the three digits of 911. He'll wink, and he'll wait to dial the second 1. He wants you to run. For your own benefit. For the benefit of the machine. Run.

Happy Don't Fuck Up The Machine Day!

Living With AIDS Beats The Shit Out Of Living With Your Parents Day!

At least AIDS doesn't tell you to get a fucking job every five minutes. And if you're living with AIDS, you can bring home babes any time you feel like it. And you don't have to worry about your Dad all of a sudden coming down to use the basement bathroom just so he can get a look at her. And the best thing about living with AIDS is that people think you're awesome just for living. Try to get someone to admire your courage for pushing two of your folks' old couches together and pretending it's a king-sized bed. I'm telling you, you have to get out of that situation. Catch AIDS.

Happy Living With AIDS Beats The Shit Out Of Living With Your Parents Day!

If On Payday Your Boss Insists On Stuffing Your Paycheck Into Your Mouth, Don't Rock The Boat Day!

In today's shit-stained economy, the American dream is all about taking what you can get and clutching it to your chest like it was a Korean baby. So your boss insists on pushing you up against your cubicle wall and forcing your lips and teeth to part and make way for the check bunched up in his fingertips while he twitches his upper lip and says, "Yeahh...yeahhh...uh..." What are you gonna do, sue?

No way they'd fire you. But they'd fire your boss. And they'd dissolve your department. And they'd keep you on for a year or however long it takes to avoid another lawsuit. But after that you can be sure you'd be out of a job. Sure, you might be loaded from the settlement you got in the harrassment suit. But you'll never work in middle management again. And then who will you matter to?

Happy If On Payday Your Boss Insists On Stuffing Your Paycheck Into Your Mouth, Don't Rock The Boat Day!

It's the Girls Are Pretty Pumpkin Patch Weekend!

It's October, which means Prettygirl has to go to work. Prettygirl only works around 29 to 30 days a year, all in October, and always dressed as a Scarecrow who walks around saying shit to people buying pumpkins and candy apples at the Old Maid's Pumkin Patch. It pays $6.00 per hour. So Prettygirl really only makes around $700 a year. Anyway, since Prettygirl is going to be at work for around 7 hours a day for the next few days, Friday through Sunday are going up all at once so it can be over and done with for God's sake finally.


Sunday, October 5, 2003

Hold Him Close To You And Don't Let Him Go Day!

Today, if you let go of your boyfriend, he'll die. Literally, if you don't keep your arms wrapped tight around your boyfriend, wrapping yourself up in as much of him as you can, his lungs will fill with bile and he'll stop breathing. And it's not like loosening your grip will open the valves and let just a little bit of bile feed into his lungs, then when you hold him tight again his passages will be all cleared up. No, it's really just like you'll be putting a gun to his head and pulling the trigger. Basically, if you loosen your grip just enough, and it's unclear how this is measured, but if you give him just enough wiggle room, his lungs will suddenly flood with bile and within three minutes he'll be brain dead. The only way to keep from killing him is to either steadily increase your grip or never waver in how tight you're hugging him.

This is just like Hands On A Hardbody. Except instead of touching the truck you have to hug it nice and tight, and instead of it being a truck you might win, it's the boy you love with all your heart that you might kill.

Happy Hold Him Close To You And Don't Let Him Go Day!


Saturday, October 4, 2003

She's Locked In The Meat Locker Day!

If you're wondering where your girlfriend is, she's locked in that meat locker over there with the guy everyone thinks she should be with because there's no chemistry between the two of you. I'm sure nothing's going on inside there. I mean, yeah, they probably have to kind of cuddle together to keep warm, but I'm sure it means nothing to her. She's only doing it because she has no choice. Relax, she loves you. She could stay inside that meat locker with the guy everyone, including you, thinks is the right guy for her forever and it wouldn't make any difference. Your love is strong enough to conquer an undeniable need for the one she's supposed to be with.

Anyway, these two strong guys are gonna hold your arms and just make you stand there staring at the locked door for a couple hours. Your girlfriend and the guy she's supposed to be with are locked up in there.

Happy She's Locked In The Meat Locker Day!


Friday, October 3, 2003

Last In Line For Cookies Day!

Today, there are delicious cookies that come out of the oven piping hot. The boy in the front of the line gets the hottest, moistest, most wonderful cookie in the whole wide batch. The boy in the back of the line gets the shittiest cookie. Today, you are the boy in the back of the line. Today, you get the shittiest cookie, if you even get a cookie.

Happy Last In Line For Cookies Day!

Cabride With A One Night Stand Day!

Her sweet tender kiss makes you think that having sex with her tonight
Would be the perfect revenge for that three and a half year old break up you never got over

His kiss tastes like chewed food, so you try to focus all of your concentration
On his erection poking into your hip.

You’re both a little carsick from the alcohol
So you stop kissing, play with each other’s jacket zippers, and start in with the questions

How long have you lived in the city? Are your parents still together? Isn’t it cold out lately?
She says 4 years, they divorced when I was ten, and yes but I kind of like it
But you don’t pay attention
You just watch her profile up against the passing cityscape in the taxicab’s window
You think that she would look good showing up to parties with you

Where did you grow up? What do you want to be? What made you come up and talk to me?
He says New Jersey, a drummer in a band, you look pretty when you sip from a glass
But his answers aren’t important
What’s important is that his hair comes down in front of his eyes
It might be nice to be old and lying in a hospital bed and brushing that hair away to look into those eyes just one last time

Maybe it’s just because this is your very first cabride together, your very first time going home together, the very first time you’ll ever sleep together
That you both can’t help but think that for the two of you, this’ll always be the very first time
Assuming it isn’t the last

The cool night air
Makes you feel that your stomachs have settled
So she climbs atop your lap and you start to kiss some more

And you try not to let on how panicked you are over the fact that your erection disappeared 30 blocks ago
And you’re afraid it might not ever come back again EVER! EVER! EVER!

Happy Cabride With A One Night Stand Day!

You're Just Another Ballerina Day!

Beg him back. And hurry. Think he won't get over you? You're just another fucking ballerina.

For God's sake he's wardrobe. You all come running to him with your frays and your split seams and you beg and plead and cry. He sews it all up, good as new, and it's like all of a sudden you've been handed the Daddy who was never sober enough to make it all better when you fell off your bike, so you fuck the living shit out of him. He's slept with almost every girl in the cast, except for Monica. But that's only because she killed herself before he had the chance.

Beg him the fuck back. And hurry. What you had with him was a love special enough that he'll come back if you get to him in time. But it wasn't special enough that he won't have to run through more than three or four more ballerinas before he can say out loud to himself "guess she must have been just another ballerina."

He's young and he's stupid and he still believes that there's no limit to how many times a man can fall in love (the limit is six).

Happy You're Just Another Ballerina Day!

Finish Your Beers Day!

You by the door.

You in the back.

Down it.

You too. Slap the shit back, ya'll.

Both of you, now, slam your pint glasses down on the faux wood table top.

Slam from the man by the door. Smack goes the lady in the back.

In unison, you hear your clap in stereo. You both look up to ask "what was that?" You both look up into each other's eyes. You both get up, step out from behind your tables, and you give out the grades.

shorter than I'd like but her tiny smile packs a whallop. i hate her tits but love her hips. i just hope she doesn't open her mouth and say she's the one for me.

tall enough but his nose is stupid. however, and this is good because this point is non-negotiable for me, his eyes are prettier than my mother's. his hand's on his belly, i want it on mine. if he's sweet i'll kill him in his sleep and get the hell outta there. tonight.

Now move to each other, move through the bar towards where you got no choice but to keep going to, to the center of the floor, just in front of the waitress' service station, and hold hands. Not like you're gonna be holding hands a year and a half from now on the way to brunch. You, take her left hand in your right. Lift it from her side and watch it. You, watch it too, but also watch him watching it. Watch him watch his thumb glide along the skin of the back of your hand. This is the first time he's doing that. This is the first time he's touching your skin. You haven't even kissed yet.

This is the first time he's touching your skin.

Happy Finish Your Beers Day!

Your Dead Girlfriend's Dirty Black Sweatjacket Still Smells Like Her Hair, And Your Dead Girlfriend's Hair Always Smelled Like Fire Day!

You search every morning when you wake up with the jacket in your arms, and you search again most Saturday nights after 2 AM, but there aren't any strands left.

You took them for granted. When you first pulled the jacket from underneath the afghans, it was caked with so many stray strands of her hair you were forced to wonder whether she had had more to worry about than she ever let on to you. You'd pull the strand from the bosom of the jacket and let it coil up in your palm, and you'd set aside a few days at a time to just lay in bed and stroke that lock of your dead girlfriend's hair, but you never made it past a few hours. Hair just disappears. One distracted glance and it either catches a breeze and floats away to the dustbunnies under the bed or it just stops being.

Maybe you and the strand of hair have that in common. Maybe the strand of hair feels that continuing to exist without your dead girlfriend around is just as pointless as you do. But maybe the strand of hair has the power to simply will itself out of the universe, whereas you have to use a gun and/or pills.

No more strands of her hair left. It's been four months of intensely regimented mourning after all. But the scent is still there. The one you used to smell when you pressed your lips down upon the top of that parted-down-the-middle mop of deep deep stringy brown.

You smelled fire. Not smoke, ash, sulphur or the debris of aftermath, but only the fire. Perfect, terrifying flame. The scent it would release if it could ever roam alone. If it could ever wear a belt or drink a glass of whiskey. If a flame could weigh something, that's what her hair stunk of.

And it's what her jacket still stinks of. So stay in bed and hold it over your eyes and your nose and your mouth and your neck and breathe it in. It's perfect.

Happy Your Dead Girlfriend's Dirty Black Sweatjacket Still Smells Like Her Hair, And Your Dead Girlfriend's Hair Always Smelled Like Fire Day!

You've Got The Special Scent Day!

You smell like my ache. You stink of everything I crave, every lonely pant in the middle of my gargantuan twin-sized bed on a Saturday night. My friends all say you're disgusting because your breath stinks of coffee and cigarettes. But when I sit in the path of your exhalation, all I smell is that time I wanted my Dad to say "good job" but he refused. Your hair stinks of snowy walks and your clothes smell like Sundays in bed. Your feet reek from car trips to foliage and your ass indicates you weren't too careful about wiping away the kiss you put to the tip of my nose leaning across the tabletop of a candlit dinner. You smell like what I think about when I drink.

Happy You've Got The Special Scent Day!

If You're Both Attractive, Stay Together For The Sake Of The Rest Of Us Day!

You know couples who hated each other but continued fighting it out for twenty years for the sake of their fucking kids. Who'd that help out?

But you two are a sight for sore eyes. When the metropolitan population sees you two leaning into each other to share a brief peck during a wedding ceremony, or on the sidewalk clutching at each other's jackets and watching grimly as a fleeing shoplifter is tackled to the pavement by an undercover police officer in the middle of the street, or walking down the street holding hands, we are reminded of a few things:

1. I should not wish for that person to be inside of me because such a wish is unrealistic. That person belongs with someone more attractive than myself. I can go about my day now.

2. Beauty can comprehend "beauty." And beauty is fond of itself.

3. If both parties in a relationship are beautiful and each has brown hair, as a couple they will necessarily be far more beautiful than a blonde-haired couple. And they cannot be stopped.

4. Given the opportunity, I would have no choice but to watch them screw, though I would be frightened of how such an experience might affect me in the long run. Kind of like seeing the face of God, right?

5. If you think about it, blonde hair is kind of a birth defect.

6. It is possible for events in this universe to be absolutely appropriate.

7. If two people look good enough together, they should be ordered to walk around a lot in my neighborhood and I'd appreciate it if they'd buy bagels where I buy bagels. I'd like to pick out their sweaters as well.

8. Love is a myth. But physical beauty may be objectively graded on a scale of 1 to 10. Those two in a park in autumn are like a 90,000. Jesus I hate my dad for getting drunk and holding my face over the stove when I was nine, leaving me to live with this miserable scar just below my left eye. I'm sick of meeting people and knowing they're going to call a mutual friend later to ask for an explanation.

9. I was in love once. And the feelings I held for my lover, if I were to imagine those feelings of love taking the form of a little tiny couple in love themselves, that love-couple would look like those two. Except with different shoes. And, oh wait, is that dude wearing an earring? Oh wait, sorry, never mind.

Happy If You're Both Attractive, Stay Together For The Sake Of The Rest Of Us Day!

On Loan From The Museum Of Incredible Asses Day!

It's just a really fucking old chair. This is why all museums suck dick. They name an exhibit "Knights In Shining Armour!" so you show up and you get like two suits of empty chainmail and then about five rooms full of wooden bowls "from which jousters would take their porridge!" Total bullshit. Where are the human heads that have fossilized upon the tips of spears?

Then you saw a banner through your bus window that read "On Loan From The Museum Of Incredible Asses - Through October 12th" so you decided to give museums one more shot. And here you are staring at the indentation in the plush velvet cushion of a bejeweled dining chair that purportedly supported Queen Elizabeth I during her morning Froot Loops. "Yes," you think. "I'm sure the Virgin Queen had an ass that was out of this world. But I didn't pay a 25 cent donation today just to look at a seat cushion that had to endure the Earl Of Leicester dropping to his knees and digging his nose into the fucking upholstery every time the help stepped away to apply a balm to their eczematic scales." Break some glass.

Happy On Loan From The Museum Of Incredible Asses Day!

She's All Fireflies Day!

If she gets up from the grass the world's gonna come to an end. If she breaks the stride of the stroke of her hand through your hair all the babies in the world are gonna start screamin all at once, yes they will. If her pants fall lower on her waist and cover up even one more centimeter of that creamy little ankle the spirit of our troops overseas will fall to an all-time low, nothing but letters home begging for swap meet play-by-plays, yup it'll happen that way. If she doesn't put her lips to your shoulder forty five thousand times before midnight, from now on math will be wrong. If you ever feel unsure about the number of freckles on the back of her baby girl hand, you'll stop drinking.

And if she ever asks a question and her pitch black eyebrows don't frown...fucking hell

But it's all about timing
It's just because it's Indian Summer
You're getting more than your share of something you actually enjoy for once in your life but trust me
Couple more weeks and you're gonna have a coffee with someone who looks better in sweaters
I'm telling you, she's all fireflies

Happy She's All Fireflies Day!

Her Boyfriend's Name Is Rick Day!

Go to the bar again, she'll be there tonight. It's Wednesday.

This is how you know it's right between the two of you. Because she'll be at the bar tonight because it's Wednesday. Normally, you'll see a lady on the train that morning you get up ten minutes earlier and you'll think, "If I just get up ten minutes early every single day, I'll get to look at that lady every morning. And soon she will love me."

But you wake up early for a week and a half without ever seeing her again and you accept that perhaps she woke up late that day you saw her. Or perhaps she was only a visitor in your city. Or perhaps you only imagined her. You do that sometimes, imagine things that never really happened. It's been getting worse lately, btw.

This lady who is at the bar on Wednesdays, however. She is at the bar on Wednesdays. The first time you saw her there, it was a Wednesday. So you naturally made a point of going to the bar the following Wednesday to see if she would be there (your appointment book is pristine). And on that following Wednesday, she was there. Just like all those Wednesdays in August. This has never happened before, a strange lady sticking to the schedule you assume she'll keep.

So go to the bar again. She'll be there and her boyfriend's name is Rick. You heard the bartender (a lady) ask her about "Rick." And when she was on a cellular phone call, you heard her say both "Rick" and "Goddammit Rick." Rick is her boyfriend's name and he doesn't come to the bar on Wednesdays.

But you do. Win her. Tell her the story about how your mother has been in a psychiatric facility for twelve years and you stopped visiting her in 2001. "It got so I couldn't catch my breath for a week after I'd visit. So I've had to pretend that my mother is dead in order to go on living myself." Your story will intrigue her. And the fact that you chose to confide in her so suddenly will trick her into thinking there is a connection between the two of you, and soon she will love you.

Happy Her Boyfriend's Name Is Rick Day!

The Aircraft Carrier Day!

Today, the aircraft carrier is thinking, "It's cool and all, I mean, it's my job, but seriously, FUCK AIRCRAFT! Or, I mean, planes."

Planes, choppers, pilots and those guys with the glowsticks. They're all on the aircraft carrier's back and they act like they're doing it the fucking favor. "I'm fucking huge," thinks the aircraft carrier. "There's a majesty about me. But they don't ever see it."

Just then though, the Aircraft carrier stops its grumbling because it notices Private Nairns alone on the upper deck with a letter clenched in his fist. Nairns is standing still and he's not looking at anything. Just has his eyes open.

"That's Nairns," the aircraft carrier says to people just like you and me. "Looks like he got another shitty letter from his girl. He really loves her, but she does this all the time. She seems real twatty. I mean the guy's at sea."

Looks like Nairns' pain is just what's needed for the aircraft carrier to put things into perspective, because it'll stop bitching until Nairns goes back to his bunk. Then it will think, "Some of these guys are okay I guess. But most of them, God I hope they die."

Happy The Aircraft Carrier Day!

Take A Class In How To Tell The Truth Day!

This is offered at most continuing education centers and some of your more prestigious community colleges. Here's a bit of the syllabus:

9/23: How to say "Yes" when someone asks if you love them and you do. Reading: ch. 6, Aronson.

9/30: How to say "Yes" when someone asks if you want the last piece of french toast and you do. Reading: ch. 8, Aronson.

10/6: How to say "No" when someone asks if you have enough money to buy this boat and you don't. Reading: ch. 3, Aronson.

10/13: How to say "Yes" if you're outside in a rainstorm with someone and that someone asks if it's raining outside. Reading: ch. 10, Aronson.

10/20: How to say "No" if you're dying and someone asks if you're relieved and you're not. Quiz.

The class is usually around $225. Enroll, or we're through.

Happy Take A Class In How To Tell The Truth Day!

Your Guardian Angel Is Loaded Day!

It's been a hard week, what with you all of a sudden deciding that looking both ways when you cross the street is for homos. You're not the only corporeal being he's gotta look out for you know. Your guardian angel has got two others on his roster, and one is a speed freak for God's sake.

Additionally, angels don't line up trying to get on guardian detail. It's a pre-requisite if you've been declared an L9. L9 means you were kind of a cunt on Earth, usually selfish, sometimes just emotionally unavailable. And while it's not a crime in itself, almost of them were abusers of some kind of substance or other. Anyway, if you meet a guardian angel, you can bet your ass he's got a lot of regrets about how he handled his life on Earth. And God doesn't wipe those regrets away neither. Being a guardian is kind of a punishment. The assignment is given to Angels who don't wanna do nothing but brood over themselves and all the mistakes they've made, but they're charged with the responsibility of paying attention to the every movement of others and preventing those mistakes.

And once everyone on his roster is steered clear of uncovered manholes, your guardian angel has no choice but to go home, sit in his recliner, and get fucking blitzed to stop thinking about all the times he said no when he was too much of a pussy to say yes. And to stop thinking about the fact that all he has left is an eternity in the wake of a life just barely lived.

Now why don't you try not to fuck up for a little while? Let him cry in his recliner.

Happy Your Guardian Angel Is Loaded Day!

And Then Laura Walks In Day!

You light some candles and then you go back into the kitchen to check on the roast your mother told you how to cook over the phone (your mom ain't dead like everyone else's and she's very excited about your decision regarding Laura). It's almost done. It looks almost exactly like the picture you saw on that website.

You go into the bedroom to change out of your tee shirt and into your pretty shirt, the blue one you always wear to weddings. Laura always says how proud she is to walk inside weddings with her arm hooked through yours when you're wearing that blue shirt.

You look at yourself in the full-length mirror and you let yourself take a moment to acknowledge that you look older than you did when you were younger. "But so does Laura. In fact, she's gained ten pounds since 1998," you say out loud. Time to take a seat at the empty dining room table and practice sending some pleas over the candlelight.

"Be my wife Laura. C'mon! Laura. Laaaauuuuuuuuraaaaaaaaaaa. Beeeeeee myyyyyyyyy wiiiiiiiiiife."

Take a sip of wine. Then,

"C'mon! We rule."

Now is when your should get down on your knees and take her hands in yours. Until Laura walks in, practice with the cat. Sit Mesopotamia on Laura's chair and take her paws in your hands.

"What do you wanna do, hit me and see if I can take all you got to give? Is that it Mesopotamia?"

Use Laura's name, even though you're talking to Mesopotamia.

"What do you wanna do, Laura? Wanna just hit me in the face and see if I can take all you got to give, Laura? Is that it Laura?"

MMMMMRRRRROOOOOOOW

Okay, let Mesopotamia go. You're ready. So you drink a few glasses of gin, no ice, no mixer, just straight gin, and then Laura walks in and you ask her what then fuck took her so motherfucking long. Storm out.

Happy And Then Laura Walks In Day!

The Winter Day!

Today, the winter is ten miles away. People are running through town with their babies in their arms. I saw a businessman trying to stuff his papers back into his briefcase. And a boy kissed a crying girl, right there in front of my eyes. They both had snowflakes in their hair.

There's a man in our hospital who says he was just lying there on his office floor minding his own business when the winter burst in and accused him of things. He said the winter accused him of unspeakable acts that he won't repeat to anyone except his own wife, who cannot be reached. It is believed that the winter got to her first, The man in the hospital swears the winter is a liar. He has a runny nose, the man in the hospital does.

Have you noticed how much dirtier the bottom halves of cars are? The ones speeding down state street, the only two lane street in town. Dustin said, "That's slush. Dontcha see?!"

Dustin wants to get us out of here. He thinks anyone who stays in town is in for it. I can't tell if Dustin really believes all the rumors he's repeating, or if he's just trying to scare me into packing up and running off with him. But I'm staying.

Happy The Winter Day!

The Clean Woman Day!

Not to be confused with The Cleaning Woman, who is, ironically enough, filthy. No, today The Clean Woman is dead and her body is at The Undertaker's. She has already been washed of the vomit she had expelled down her chest when she died, and her hair is presently being rinsed.

The Undertaker uses an entirely incorrect soap and he scrubs in a most damaging semi-circular motion. This marks the first time The Clean Woman is being washed wrong since she was six, when her mother passed away beside the tub whilst giving her a bath. Just a little girl in a giant clawfoot tub, The Clean Woman had been used to being lifted from the water to the bathmat. But she had to run for help, so she climbed atop the edge of the tub and stepped down upon her dead mother's hip like a little stepstool. But her dead mother's frame adjusted under her weight and The Clean Woman lost her balance and her wet naked body tumbled atop her mother's corpse. Then she picked herself up, found a towel and fetched her father. Since that day, The Clean Woman has been very particular about her washing. And until today, there was never anyone trying to butt in and interfere.

Happy The Clean Woman Day!

16 Year Olds, In Love And Scalding Fucking Hot, Run Off And Get Married Day!

Her dress has got little flowers all over it and she wears it so well it could be the uniform for a comic book superhero called "Super Absolutely Delicious Girl." Jet black hair and eyelashes designed to let a teardrop dangle just a second too long for gravity to be real. Her little knees and her little hands.

He has a long black shadow where his eyes and eyebrows should be. He has the kind of steely fat-free body that looks like he'll soon be on the run for accidentally killing a drunk in a barfight for disrespecting his new bride.

They left last night at one am. He climbed up to her window, yup, and helped her down the awning, yes he did, and then they scaled the trellis, mm hmm, you bet your ass they scaled the trellis.

Now they're on their way to Virginia where he thinks it's legal to get married at 16 without a parent's consent and he might be right. Then they're on their way to Tucson to meet up with his Dad who he thinks will give him work, but who will just ask him for some money and who will make a pass at his new bride. He'll beat the shit out of his dad and they'll go to California where he'll start stealing cars and go to prison and she'll become a world-wide pop music sensation.

Happy 16 Year Olds, In Love And Scalding Fucking Hot, Run Off And Get Married Day!

Crouched And Loaded Day!

You've been drinking all night and it's time to scare your friends before you get in the car (you're driviing, you shouldn't). Walking through the parking lot, you should make a sudden dash around the corner of the bar, pull yourself up against the wall, crouch down and wait for your friends to follow. Wait until they take their first steps around that corner and then spring up from your crouched position to scare them.

Unfortunately, your friends won't come around the corner before you fall asleep there against the wall set atop your bent knees. In fact, your friends won't come around the corner at all. Once you disappear, they'll all keep following for a few paces before Tommy will spread his arms and stop everybody.

"Wait a minute guys," he'll say. "I don't like the looks of this. We have no idea what's around that corner."

"C'mon," Jeff'll counter. "Let's just get to the car."

Tommy'll call to you. "Greg? Greeeeg!?" But you'll be unconscious.

"Oh shit," Jeff'll say.

"Greg's gone, man. Something around that corner got him. And it's probably right there just waiting for us."

Then they'll run and you'll continue to sleep on your crouched knees until 6 AM. You won't be able to walk for three days after you wake up.

Happy Crouched And Loaded Day!

Be The Star Of Your School Play Day!

Today, if you're the star of your school play, you'll get around 38 minutes of stage time, more than everybody else by nearly 14 minutes. Also, you'll get to kiss your co-star, which will happen right there on stage in front of everybody in the room. Even though she has a boyfriend and he's right there in the third row waiting to kick your ass, you get to kiss her. Her breasts developed two years ago.

Don't forget, if you're the star of your school play it will either help you get into college or it will light a spark in your belly that won't be extinguished until you've lived A Life in the Theater. The school play is called "The Music Man."

Happy Be The Star Of Your School Play Day!

The Aunt Your Dad Cut Off Is Dead Day!

That's what that call was this morning at nine. No message, of course. But he'll call back. Your Dad will call and say, "Just want to let you know that, uh, your Aunt Elena. She passed away this week."

You'll say, "Oh God." And then you'll hope your Dad will talk again before you have to concoct some way to react to the death of a blood relative who has been forbidden to contact you since you were six.

Your Dad will say, "Yeah she had a stroke in her sleep. Or, actually just before she got to bed. Your cousin Jimmy found her."

Just wait for a second. Or say something like, "Jesus, Aunt Elena. It's so..." but use a tone that your Dad understands. A tone that says, "What the fuck did she do anyway, that you would cut your own sister off for the last 25 years of her life?" The tone will make your Dad laugh a bit, because your Dad can't believe he pulled it off either.

He'll chuckle a bit more just before he tells you, "So the funeral's tomorrow. I'm paying for it." Here's where he laughs out loud.

He'll tell you you're welcome to come but he understands that you have to work. But he will point out that he's using the caterers from your cousin Michael's wedding, who were awesome.

Happy The Aunt Your Dad Cut Off Is Dead Day!

Do You Like Your Medicine? Day!

If your medicine is keeping you from, as you call it, "Living a scowl," then it might be worth the 30 pounds you've put on. But if your medicine is still leaving you feeling, as you described it, "Dusty. Here. In my sternum." then we can try to find you some different medicine. 30 pounds is a lot.

Happy Do You Like Your Medicine? Day!

Girl Of Fury Day!

Everyone can tell when you're about to stop being plain old Kim and start being Girl Of Fury. It's getting old and by the numbers, frankly.

You stop talking. You stop talking and the person adjacent to you at the table notices you haven't spoken for twenty minutes. That person thinks, "And it begins."

Next, you transmogrify into a beautiful blue light. From the barstools to the pool cues, all are transfixed by the wondrous glow that is you. For a moment at least.

Just as knees begin to weaken, that's when you begin to radiate heat. At first just a creaky throated desert heat. But after a few minutes, the bar is a kiln and the elderly are dead.

Next, the windows shatter, the shelves fall from the walls and the pretzel mix is in everyone's hair. That's when you start to freak out.

No one sees it, but everyone feels it. Everyone, one by one, suddenly feels they have less blood than they just did a second ago. They felt it get tugged out from just below the backs of their necks. Just a yank of blood into the air, but it doesn't splash to the floor. Rather, now a kind of gas, the blood of everyone in the room is intermingled and sucked into each person's lungs. They've lost life, and they have taken life from their neighbors. The people are tainted with each other.

Finally, you freeze time, then take corporeal form again and go behind the bar to down a few free Ketel Ones. And when you return to your seat, we return to our conversations, the memory nowhere to be found, all of us without suspicion.

We get it. Go learn a bar trick.

Happy Girl Of Fury Day!

Cut Off Your Shoes Day!

You can smell your stinky feet from under your desk which means everyone who comes over to ask you a question can too. It's your shoes. You have to get rid of them.

To discard them in a brisk, clean manner, you don't want to touch the laces to untie them again. Every time your skin touches your shoes, that odor seeps a little further into your elemental being. Make today the day you put a stop to the rotting.

Be seated and put your right foot up on the desk, then hack through your ankle with a meat cleaver. This should not take more than ninteen or so swings. Once the cut is clean, get your left foot up on the block and again, slam a cleaver down upon your ankle over and over again until your foot flies from your leg and across your desk. Remember, no matter how sharp your cleaver might be, once you hit the bone all you're really trying to do is shatter it. You might as well be using a hammer really.

Once both your feet and shoes have been cleanly severed from your legs, light a match and get the hell out of there.

Happy Cut Off Your Shoes Day!

Your Boring, Terminally Ill Boyfriend Day!

What. A. Fucking. Ripoff.

Of all the guys you've dated, the architects, the archaeologists, the lifeguards, it had to be Count Yawnsalot that ended up in a deathbed. This kid wouldn't know how to die if he took a Learning Annex class called, "Dying With Such A Flourish That Your Girlfriend Never Screws Another Dude Again."

"Isn't there anything you want to apologize for or anything you don't want to leave unsaid?"

"Um, I love you. Do you think there's anything I need to apologize for? If so, I apologize."

Fucking hell. Of course he has nothing to apologize for. He doesn't even hit. And all these years he said "I love you" more than he farted. "I love you" was the blanket he put you under so as to avoid having to focus on on anything specific about you.

"You must be pretty angry right now. About dying I mean. You must be furious."

"Luck of the draw I guess."

Fucking hell. If it ain't broke, don't fix it, he once said when you brought up the topic of you two trying to fuck differently. To him, presents were always sweaters and gold necklaces. He was a kind, generous man who would've given you anything you asked of him if it was within his grasp. An example of something that's not within his grasp: A refusal of all visitors, including yourself, for 23 days in an effort to say fuck you to the world and everything he ever cherished during his time upon it, before of course making a shaky peace with his fate and welcoming his loved ones to say goodbye, occasionally lashing out at them for not knowing what it's like to spend a night alone in his hospital room.

"I'm sure glad you're here with me. It really makes the time go by faster. Hey did you remember to put my baseball cards up on Ebay?"

"Mm hmm."

Fucking hell. To think, when he first told you he would be spending the rest of his life in the hospital, you imagined climbing atop his cancer-ravaged body in the dark, working for hours, days even to arouse an erection from him and guiding his body into yours for one final moment of utmost love. But some douche gave him Scattergories and now he's hooked. You love him to death but Christ almighty can't he give you some kind of drama that'll keep you locked up in bed for a few weeks after he's gone? Most girls don't get to watch a boyfriend die more than two or three times in a lifetime, and look how this one's being squandered away with a bunch of slightly tender moments and...fuck...is he fucking laughing at Will and Grace? Pretend to cry again and get the hell out of there for a little while.

"Are you okay honey?"

"I think I need some air. I'm just gonna miss you is all."

"Aww."

Aww fuck off.

Happy Your Boring, Terminally Ill Boyfriend Day!

Love Of Your Life Like A Deer In Your Headlights Day!

You stopped saying her name a long time ago. When you talk of leaving her, you refer to it as, "When I left Los Angeles." Your friends understand.

Your old friends at least. The ones who used to surround the two of you, who seemed to celebrate the love you shared. Dinner parties felt like ring around the rosie, everyone hopping out of their chairs, joining hands and revolving around the two of you at the first sign of you spooning some sorbet onto her outstretched tongue.

And your fights were like a long-awaited summer blockbuster. You would show up alone to the bar and brood by the payphone all night. Or someone would spot her having coffee with Alan, her ex-husband. Word would spread, anticipation would be at a fever-pitch. Until opening night, when your old friends would pull into a rain-swept parking lot and spot you with your hair drenched in spikes down your forehead, arms wild and wide, clearly sobbing, her in a floral-print dress hugging her frame, responding with black eyeballs and a wailing squeal of a scream. All plans would be cancelled, your old friends would park their cars in a circle, headlights pointed at the main event, they'd sit back in their seats and recline their necks and prepare to be awestruck and ask each other, "Hey how'd they do that?"

Your old friends saw it all so you necessarily cut them off and moved to Tempe. Where tonight, out with your new friends, somewhere around your sixth drink you'll bring up "Around the time I left Los Angeles" and the table will go quiet. No one will ask you, "What happened back there?" They'll just wait in silence to find out how much you're willing to offer them tonight. Whether you care to share more than the usual, "Guess sometimes things just stop being the way they oughta." Or whether you'll just down your last sips and pack up and go.

You'll down your last sips and pack up and go out to your car and pull out of your space too drunk to drive on an Arizona night. But you're good at it and you'll ass the Chevy out onto the highway. And you'll pause to search the crack of the seat for a cigarette, and you'll find one and light it and the lighter will haze your eyes to the flash of white that just ran across the concrete. Probably a coyote.

In gear, you'll spin the wheels left and edge out onto your way home, getting 14 feet down the road and no more than four miles per hour before she's back. Standing there in the middle of the lane, no blink, no smile, no tears. Just a suitcase and a floral print dress pulled south with the wind. She's back, staring straight at you, eight and half years after the fact. It's either nighttime or she's dead because she hasn't aged a minute. And she won't move an inch. Oh wait, here she comes.

"Can you take me home?"

Yes. She's leaning inside the open passenger door, her suitcase by her feet on the road. The lamp from the parking lot shining a halo on her head. Both of you must be dead. You always said the day you two share a smile again will be the day you shake hands in hell. Yes. You can take her home.

Happy Love Of Your Life Like A Deer In Your Headlights Day!

In Some Nightmares You Said Day!

Because last night was special, you were a featured character in five different nightmares. In your friend Jeff's nightmare you said, "I'm leaving town. You were right, we never really touch anything in our lives Jeff. You shouldn't have thrown Beverly away." In your Mom's nightmare you said, "Stop it! I can't get dressed." In the nightmare of Moira, a girl you met at a pizza dinner three days ago, you said, "Moira, you're too weak for me. Are we really gonna get married? It's good I guess." In your friend Kara's nightmare you said, "Just keep the bees away! They're getting into my shirt!" And in your very own nightmare, you said, "I'm sorry that I broke into your apartment and spent the night in your bed while you were at your boyfriend's. I was just dropping off some things and I got tired. You taking the train in?"

Happy In Some Nightmares You Said Day!

Lay Back, Nice Wind Day!

In a field. In a park. In almost Autumn. In almost love. In the line of sight of bikeriders and baseball players and boys and girls on blankets cuddling. In bikini tops some of them. In sweatpants, shirts and ties, mesh tanks and spandex, all the others. In debt and hock and line for unemployment benefits. In the sun. In line with his lap, your head. Lay back.

Your long brown hair, half your neck, your smile now pointed straight up at the sky, your eyes now squinting to make out his nose, the conversation you're continuing to have as if this is the position from which conversations should continue to be had, all of it in his lap. Nice wind.

Happy Lay Back, Nice Wind Day!

The Kind Of Guy Every Girl Dreams About Day!

He's got long, sharp fangs dripping with menstrual blood and clotted with chunks of uterine lining. He's drunker than he's ever been before in his life and he's proud of it. He owes you nine hundred dollars and he has a court date for a desk appearance ticket for public-- Correction: He had a court date for a desk appearance ticket for public urination last Thursday (no one, including him, knows where he was that day). He hits and once kicked. He often falls asleep sobbing into your breasts begging you to never ever leave him alone because he'll kill himself if you go, and then he wakes up and disappears for six days. Your roommate moved out to get away from him and you haven't been able to replace her yet so you've been paying double your rent. He sometimes smells like trash.

The dream every girl dreams, and the one you should dream today when you nap, is the one where you throw him out and he comes back and he says he's changed and you believe him, but this time you believe him because it's true. Then your dream should flash forward to later that night, to a fuck that lasts about 100 months, the kind where your physical form fades to dotted lines. Then your dream should flash forward about twenty years, to you sitting on a lawn in a park feeling wonderful about having the guy who is the opposite of everything that attracted you to him in the first place, a guy who is suddenly responsible, attentive, can fuck hard yet still be tender, employed, sober, doesn't say "cunt," showered, likes women, doesn't wear leather pants anymore, paroled, but who is still as attractive as the first night you saw him fall down and drool on something. When you wake up, change the locks because he's out of money.

Happy The Kind Of Guy Every Girl Dreams About Day!

A Nine Year Old Turns In A Poem About His Dad Beating The Shit Out Of His Mom Day!

The first line is, "It always happens at nighttime." The sixth line is, "Please mommy don't cry." Halfway down the page, the kid's hiding under his bed and near the end he's remembering a trip to the beach they all took when everyone was happy. The end is of course the kid pleading for mommy to wake up. Anyway, Mrs. Thompson will drop it into the assistant prinicipal's box before she leaves at 2:30 and family services should be on campus by next Wednesday to ensure that every step towards protecting the mother and child is ridiculously bungled, pretty much handing the father a handgun with two* live rounds in the clip, both of which will be discharged within six months.

Happy A Nine Year Old Turns In A Poem About His Dad Beating The Shit Out Of His Mom Day!

*Three live rounds should the father choose to turn the gun on himself after.

A Popularity Contest Day!

You can win this because people love seeing love work out.

Janice and Frank were meant to be together. But Janice married young to Laurence, a miserable alcoholic who always made her show up alone to Scattergories night at your house. That's where she met Frank and that's where their love affair began. But they couldn't be together as long as Laurence was alive. Your entire circle of friends felt the frustration of seeing a love that is in every way correct being forced to hide behind closed doors. Every time someone got her alone, Janice was given the same advice: Kill Laurence but don't go to jail or anything. And if you were around, Janice would always invite your opinion with her eyes. And you could only shrug and say, "They're right Janice. Laurence has to die."

So after she bludgeoned Laurence in his chair with a lamp, she knocked her bloody fist upon your door and asked to use your shower. The police showed up not soon after and asked if anyone had anything to say about anything. You replied, "Yes." And you've been in jail ever since. And Janice and Frank are free and doing pretty well, though they're having a little money trouble of late.

You would say that your sacrifice was mere responsibility. Not just because they met at your Scattergories party. No. It was a responsibility to Love itself. And people who demonstrate responsibility in the presence of true love are very popular amongst friends and coworkers. You should enter the contest.

Happy A Popularity Contest Day!

This Is A Kiss Day!

When you kiss her at the train stop, when you give her a kiss to send her on her way, when you give her the first kiss you'll ever give her for as long as you both manage to keep from fucking this up, say something first. Say.

"This is a kiss."

She was in position, her chin up high and her eyes waiting for something perfect to happen. And then you, as your head leaned in, as her eyes began to close, as your lips had just a few seconds traveltime before collision, you said.

"This is a kiss."

Your eyelids are parted just barely enough to make out the furrowing of a brow, the slackening of a mouth, the clenching of all the facial muscles that define the face of a person who is thinking, Did he just fucking say "This is a kiss?" Did he really? Did he? Seriously. Really? Did he say?

"This is a kiss."

When you pull your lips from hers, she will be in love with you. Yours will be the love that will not fade.

Happy This Is A Kiss Day!

Will We Win The War? Day!

Today, as you sit in darkness in the depths of your underground bunker listening to the planes strafe your hometown in a thunderstorm of bullets and shells, your wife will try to comfort your crying child. She will say to the baby, "It's okay, it will be over soon."

Then she'll look at you as if you were responsible for all of this. She'll ask, "Will we win this war? Or are we just patiently waiting to die?" Shrug your shoulders without bothering to look at her and just continue eating your beans.

She'll shake your baby with a little more vigor and mutter to herself, "At least you could get out there and fight them like the rest of the husbands."

Say to her, "But I don't have any legs." It's true, you don't, and she'll buy it.

Happy Will We Win The War? Day!

Drive Slow Day!

There's someone in your passenger seat and she's marveling at how gray and autumn it is outside and she's marvelous. You're there, don't worry, she'd be lost if you weren't there with her. But lately, she's no longer scared you're gonna run off somewhere. So she's able to just stare out the window for a while and not moon over at you from behind her seatbelt every five minutes to let you know how wonderful she thinks it all is.

It's all wonderful. But now, wonderful is just another day. She knows it's going to stay that way, so she can stop trying to suck the marrow out of every single second of you and occasionally take in a sky that's all pretty and gray, a sky that's up above your head too.

Drive slow. Point at horses.

Happy Drive Slow Day!

(The following is what you were supposed to do yesterday and the day before that. Prettygirl hopes that you had a lovely yesterday and the day before that. If, by coincidence, your yesterday or the day before that adhered to the personal regression assignments below, write to prettygirl@girlsarepretty.com and tell Prettygirl how your day(s) went. The content of your email will not be reprinted on this or any other website, and your email will be deleted unread.)

Sunday, August 31, 2003

Go To His Rock And Roll Show Day!

He's a small boy with unpocked skin and adorably tousled, stringy black hair. He has an 8 1/2 by 11 inch flyer in his left hand and a scotch tape dispenser in his right. He's two back in line. You've already smiled at him. You recognize him.

A bagel sandwich has been paid for and the boy is now one back in line. He's not looking at you. He's making a concerted effort to stare deep into the case of muffins because he has something to ask you when it's his turn at the counter and he doesn't want to appear too eager. You're steaming a cappucino now and from around the corner of the machine you're able to make out a deep brown mole on his earlobe, looks like an earring, and you want it in your mouth.

A cappucino has been served and directions to the sugar counter have been given, and now it's the boy's turn. With the countertop between you, you're looking each other in the eye. But the floor behind the counter is raised three inches, which makes him three inches taller than you. Just enough. Hi.

"Hi. Can I put this flyer in your window?"

"What's it for?"

"It's for a rock and roll show. Tonight. My rock and roll band is in it."

"Go ahead," you say. He waits for an awkward millennium, and finally remembers how to walk away when you giggle a little.

He takes nine minutes to find a space in the window by the door, carefully tape the flyer to the glass, go outside to check that the placement is ideal, then step back in to catch your eye and shout from across the floor, "So, thanks."

"What's your band called?"

"The Evelyns. We're really good and I play guitar you should come tonight."

"Where is it?"

He doesn't answer. He just turns to the window and rips his flyer down, leaving four small triangles of white paper taped to the glass, and brings it to your counter before anyone can get in line for another bialy. He puts the sheet of paper in your hands. You make sure to never let your smile fade because he looks like he could easily be frightened away by a chance to second-guess. It's all written in rock and roll flyer sharpie scribble so you don't really read it. You'll read it later.

"You should come."

"I might."

He says okay and walks away with the flyer still in your hands. You should come.

Happy Go To His Rock And Roll Show Day!

Saturday, August 30, 2003

Put The Word "Love" On A Postcard And Mail It Day!

Tell her where you are, what's pretty about the trees and her, then put the word "love" at the bottom, just above your name. Then a "ps:" and something funny to dilute the terror caused by the "love" just a few centimeters up.

You won't have to worry about owning up to it for three more weeks. But you've still got four more cities to float through, and the next three weeks will be a lot less lonely if the word "love" is sitting in your handwriting on a bureau back home, a bureau that's held your wallet and keys and ripped up condom wrappers on more than a few wonderful nights.

A few wonderful nights when you kept her awake. When you and her watched dawn. And this way, from a distance of 1200 miles, you'll keep her awake at least that first night after the day she gets the postcard, and maybe a few nights after. She'll stay up all night, listening to that "love" hum from where it sits across the room on her bureau, and she'll argue with herself over whether or not to hum along or fuck Joe (he's been by while you've been away).

Put The Word "Love" On A Postcard And Mail It Day!