I have been on some pretty good dates in my time, but none are ever as pleasant as a date with Sarah. Have you been on a date with Sarah? If not, and you're not married, an international playboy, a lower back fetishist, an anti-Semite, or someone who considers himself the living incarnation of vox populi (to name a few of the ennobled characters I have encountered on such outings myself), I suggest that you do.
We saw a modernized production of King Lear downtown. She looked very elegant and was wearing a dress and baubles. I, in pants and a ponytail, bore a striking resemblance to Cappuccino, the bull who has recently killed people with his noxious tusks in Pamplona. This particular performance offered a deal on tickets to "Young Professionals Under 35." It was lucky, therefore, that they did not ask for my "Young Professionals" ID, as I have only a fake one, and usually my "Young Nobodies" ID doesn't work as a substitute in such situations. The Young Professionals filed in.
They'd clearly segregated the young people from the old, we noticed, as we made our way to our seats in the balcony; bands of smartly-dressed just-came-from-work girls and their dragged-here-unwillingly-hope-I-get-sex-afterward dates were seated all around us. Below were the telltale heads of the usual theatergoers: gray and unswivelling. I decided that two very hot men would sit beside us: One who lived in Dubai or something and was therefore unavailable, and one -- the hotter and more intelligent one --who would live but a mere distance from Sarah and enjoy goat, traveling, musical performances, and gelato. Our reverie was broken as a smartly dressed young lady and her date plopped down beside us. The man turned to us.
"This is gonna be awesome!" he bellowed. He pumped a fist.
Thus unfolded Young Professionals Night at the Shakespeare Theater.
The play, which was three and a half hours long and contained some U2 and several gratituous penises, was all right but somewhat confusing. For someone who has read King Lear (although I only realized this during the intermission, which we used to snicker at other members of the audience), I was completely confused about the plot points until the end. The Young Professionals rose into a standing ovation, their uncomfortable high heels be damned.
We took the Metro back to Sarah's (after all, no gentleman lets his date go home unescorted in the once-and-future murder capital of the nation) where my sister, also gallant because it runs in the family, was there waiting to pick me up and take me back to Maryland. This was after midnight, but because my sister is energetic and free, she had already been out anyway and it was no trouble for her. I bid Sarah good-bye for a day and climbed into the car.
The DC area, as you can see, is a zone of Ladies of the Highest Quality. If you're jealous right now, you should be. Cappuccino over and out.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Wednesday, July 08, 2009
but I will miss everything else
Things I Will Not Miss About Maryland:
1. Mosquitos. Five bites have resulted in dark welts and a full-body rash, which seems like a clear breach of the idea of the punishment fitting the crime. Please also note I have committed no crime against the mosquitos of Maryland, who visibly abide by the state motto, Manly deeds, womanly words.
2. The Inner Loop of the Beltway. It took me 75 minutes to make what is usually a 15-minute trip to see my cousins in Silver Spring tonight. Once I got there, we unwittingly ate at a restaurant where a bellydancer was to perform for half an hour, dancing to extremely loud music and balancing swords on her hips. At one point my cousin leaned over to me and asked me what she thought the dancer did during the day. Since I am a writer and therefore have a wild, deep-reaching imagination, I suggested the far-flung "dance instructor" as a possibility. She looked deeply disappointed.
3. Poor Showings of Popular Summer Pastime "Drinking in the Park." Does no one drink in the park here? No, they do not. Why do they not? Because they all work for the government and fear the Lord. What Lord? you're now wondering. What. Lord. Touche, my non-Maryland friends. They fear Sir George Calbert, Lord Baltimore. Sir George Calvert founded Maryland, and he can take it away. That's right, young man: The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. There are certain perks to living in a state that the Lord clearly has nothing to do with. California, I'm obviously looking at you.
1. Mosquitos. Five bites have resulted in dark welts and a full-body rash, which seems like a clear breach of the idea of the punishment fitting the crime. Please also note I have committed no crime against the mosquitos of Maryland, who visibly abide by the state motto, Manly deeds, womanly words.
2. The Inner Loop of the Beltway. It took me 75 minutes to make what is usually a 15-minute trip to see my cousins in Silver Spring tonight. Once I got there, we unwittingly ate at a restaurant where a bellydancer was to perform for half an hour, dancing to extremely loud music and balancing swords on her hips. At one point my cousin leaned over to me and asked me what she thought the dancer did during the day. Since I am a writer and therefore have a wild, deep-reaching imagination, I suggested the far-flung "dance instructor" as a possibility. She looked deeply disappointed.
3. Poor Showings of Popular Summer Pastime "Drinking in the Park." Does no one drink in the park here? No, they do not. Why do they not? Because they all work for the government and fear the Lord. What Lord? you're now wondering. What. Lord. Touche, my non-Maryland friends. They fear Sir George Calbert, Lord Baltimore. Sir George Calvert founded Maryland, and he can take it away. That's right, young man: The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. There are certain perks to living in a state that the Lord clearly has nothing to do with. California, I'm obviously looking at you.
Monday, July 06, 2009
in which my mother helpfully puts me in situations where hot men are present
As though to underline my unsuitability for young modern life, this morning found me at a pool in Maryland with my mother, clad in a borrowed swimming suit and borrowed "water booties" (process this image and then please, quickly move on), ready to participate in water aerobics. It wasn't my proudest moment, but my mother seemed to really want me there -- and besides, I was among my spiritual peers: old people. The women (there were no men) were for the most part varicose, loose-skinned, grinning women with not only the water booties but also the water gloves, sunglasses, and in some cases, the ever-prized water belt. My mother was by far the youngest among them. I got into the water, feeling highly weird.
First of all, is it just me, or are pools kind of gross? Because you know people pee in there. And shed and whatnot. Shed hairs, skin. Who knows what else. It seems like the best possible place to contract the bubonic plague is in a public pool. Maybe what I'm saying here is that my real spiritual peers are so old, they don't even know what a pool is.
The instructor, who I immediately sensed was mean, turned on the music: showtunes set to techno. "There's No People Like Showpeople," to a techno beat. "And all that Jazz," to a techno beat. Poised atop some foam "noodles" we had secured between our legs to keep us afloat, we began flapping around to the music per her wolfish, unpleasant instructions. Many of these involved entreaties to "engage" and "push," like we were giving birth. Water babies! The women, including my mother, clearly found this sublimely glorious.
I would like to add at this moment that we were sharing the pool with a class of 8-year-olds who were having some swim lessons from a hot, tall, tan, toned hunk of an instructor, probably about my age, who intermittently regarded us with confusion and/or disdain. He was wearing a tiny Speedo and moreover appeared friendly to children. Our instructor's voice cut through any possible reverie.
"Upright torsos, ladies! Headlights! Give me headlights!"
He looked over at us.
This was the perfect time to be observed flailing around with a bunch of old women to "The Phantom of the Opera" set to techno, straddling a foam noodle and doing frog kicks.
The water aerobics must have taken some toll, however, because when we returned home I ended up falling asleep somehow. When I woke up, it was time to go pick my sister up from the Metro. Juan and I retrieved her, and then stopped for a quick errand: I was in need of new running shoes. I have been wearing the same running shoes since I began training for the marathon over two years ago, which, mileagewise, is like eight shoe lifetimes. My mother knew a place that discounted shoes and fit you individually, and that is where we went.
Let me back up to tell you that my appearance post-water aerobics and nap was not exactly enrapturing. I had couch marks on the side of my face and my hair looked like a bird had alighted there and then whipped up a batch of egg whites with its beak. No makeup, needless to say. Dressed partially in pajamas. Lookin' reeeeeal fine. So of course it stands to follow that when we entered the store, we were greeted by an outstandingly attractive man, specialist in shoes, who my mother, from previous shoe purchases and because she makes friends everywhere she goes, seemed to somehow know personally. Chit-chat ensued, and quickly became a horrible, friendly interaction between my mother and the man, me standing at daughterly attention to the side. I tried to rally by acting offhand. Ho, ho, just here for a shoe, please! Regard this fine shoe, and that fine shoe! I am interested only in footwear! My sister sat on a bench and began furiously texting, no help. My mother informed the man and me that we have the same marathon in common. Then, clearly oblivious to my plight, she departed the store, leaving me with the man, my sister, my bird hair, and a bunch of shoes. While he watched me walk (undoubtedly like someone who just finished water aerobics to showtunes and then spent an hour dozing on a check-imprinted couch) I tried to make small talk like a bro. This is my usual MO when I know I look bad: I speak to attractive men like I am their bro. That way we can all be on the same page, like: I KNOW I look like shee -- I would never attempt to flirt with you! Why, the very idea! Why don't we suck down some Natty Lite, kick dogs, and then bang some hos?
The shoe store episode ended with my mother reentering, like some television producer had instructed her to do so, and making more small talk with the hot man while I cowered at her side, a vision of brohood. On the plus side, I got some shoes. And I think those frog kicks in the pool may have done something positive for my medieval posterior.
First of all, is it just me, or are pools kind of gross? Because you know people pee in there. And shed and whatnot. Shed hairs, skin. Who knows what else. It seems like the best possible place to contract the bubonic plague is in a public pool. Maybe what I'm saying here is that my real spiritual peers are so old, they don't even know what a pool is.
The instructor, who I immediately sensed was mean, turned on the music: showtunes set to techno. "There's No People Like Showpeople," to a techno beat. "And all that Jazz," to a techno beat. Poised atop some foam "noodles" we had secured between our legs to keep us afloat, we began flapping around to the music per her wolfish, unpleasant instructions. Many of these involved entreaties to "engage" and "push," like we were giving birth. Water babies! The women, including my mother, clearly found this sublimely glorious.
I would like to add at this moment that we were sharing the pool with a class of 8-year-olds who were having some swim lessons from a hot, tall, tan, toned hunk of an instructor, probably about my age, who intermittently regarded us with confusion and/or disdain. He was wearing a tiny Speedo and moreover appeared friendly to children. Our instructor's voice cut through any possible reverie.
"Upright torsos, ladies! Headlights! Give me headlights!"
He looked over at us.
This was the perfect time to be observed flailing around with a bunch of old women to "The Phantom of the Opera" set to techno, straddling a foam noodle and doing frog kicks.
The water aerobics must have taken some toll, however, because when we returned home I ended up falling asleep somehow. When I woke up, it was time to go pick my sister up from the Metro. Juan and I retrieved her, and then stopped for a quick errand: I was in need of new running shoes. I have been wearing the same running shoes since I began training for the marathon over two years ago, which, mileagewise, is like eight shoe lifetimes. My mother knew a place that discounted shoes and fit you individually, and that is where we went.
Let me back up to tell you that my appearance post-water aerobics and nap was not exactly enrapturing. I had couch marks on the side of my face and my hair looked like a bird had alighted there and then whipped up a batch of egg whites with its beak. No makeup, needless to say. Dressed partially in pajamas. Lookin' reeeeeal fine. So of course it stands to follow that when we entered the store, we were greeted by an outstandingly attractive man, specialist in shoes, who my mother, from previous shoe purchases and because she makes friends everywhere she goes, seemed to somehow know personally. Chit-chat ensued, and quickly became a horrible, friendly interaction between my mother and the man, me standing at daughterly attention to the side. I tried to rally by acting offhand. Ho, ho, just here for a shoe, please! Regard this fine shoe, and that fine shoe! I am interested only in footwear! My sister sat on a bench and began furiously texting, no help. My mother informed the man and me that we have the same marathon in common. Then, clearly oblivious to my plight, she departed the store, leaving me with the man, my sister, my bird hair, and a bunch of shoes. While he watched me walk (undoubtedly like someone who just finished water aerobics to showtunes and then spent an hour dozing on a check-imprinted couch) I tried to make small talk like a bro. This is my usual MO when I know I look bad: I speak to attractive men like I am their bro. That way we can all be on the same page, like: I KNOW I look like shee -- I would never attempt to flirt with you! Why, the very idea! Why don't we suck down some Natty Lite, kick dogs, and then bang some hos?
The shoe store episode ended with my mother reentering, like some television producer had instructed her to do so, and making more small talk with the hot man while I cowered at her side, a vision of brohood. On the plus side, I got some shoes. And I think those frog kicks in the pool may have done something positive for my medieval posterior.
Thursday, July 02, 2009
california dreaming, and a visit to the big OH
The sky in the Big OH (note how all states have somehow become "big" -- all, that is, except for California) is huge. Why is the sky so huge? Because everything is flat and low. Juan and I went there to help my grandma move into assisted living. I'm going to go ahead and say that the assisted living apartment is... oh... a good seven times the size of the Fort. Frankly I would need assistance navigating my way around a space so large. ("Hello? (Hello? Hello? Hello?) Is anyone using the bathroom? (Bathroom? Bathroom? Bathroom?)") You stick someone in a box for long enough and that's what happens: They can't function in regularly-sized housing arrangements. For my grandma, however, this was a downsize. Someone there explained to us that when you put someone in a small apartment ("small"), they're more likely to get out and socialize. As someone who lives in a box, I can categorically say that this is not true. I spend basically all my time lying in the closet crying or writing short stories, neither of which counts as socializing. Maybe if I moved into half a studio! Or a quarter of a studio! I mean, I'd practically be the life of the party, probably.
Here in the Big MD I'm already dreading my return to California. I know this because every night I have terrible dreams about people I know or knew in California. Often the events of the dream happen in DC, but the people are Californian. Last night's dream featured someone getting a hold of my diary (in real life, I don't have one), reading it, vomiting into my mouth about it, performing a musical montage of how stupid and pathetic I am, and then appearing in an unlikely white suit with a woman who was also wearing a white suit, and spitting into my eyes while the woman did the same. Once satisfied that I couldn't see, they left me in a ditch that had conveniently appeared by the side of the road. In the next day of the dream, I received a disturbing telegram -- a turd, STOP -- with the message you can't write for shit (something in my subconscious clearly considers itself hilarious) after which I was sucked into what appeared to be a hole in the Earth where I burned amid a spunky, upbeat sea of hot magma. I know what you're thinking: I've been watching too many trailers for ABC's Wipeout. That's true. (Why anyone would ever willingly go on that show is beyond my understanding.) The real truth, however, is that I have dreams like this all the time. Usually when I wake up it's just me and Phillip there, and there's pretty much no way to get the taste of the dream out of my head. Here in Maryland, though, there's no reason to believe that there's anything to the dream besides figments of my imagination. Except that in California they seem real, and they are.
In some recent correspondence with one my advisers from grad school, I've been informed -- in kinder, more diplomatic terms -- that I should give up on my book of short stories and just try to plow the shit out of Mother Earth by soiling it with my novel. (If she had read any part of my novel she might give me different advice.) For years people have been saying that stories don't mean anything, and frankly the whole argument back and forth about it is pretty boring. Is the short story dead? OMG! It is! It isn't! Resuscitate! It's flourishing! O, Lazarus! I'm sorry, I was just taking a light doze over here. Whatever: I like to read stories and I like to write them and I'm going to. Still, there's some real truth in what she says: That without that novel, ain't no crap going to happen to nobody's stories. I think this just means working twice as long every day, on twice as much. Sorry, Mom Earth. Pay you back.
Here in the Big MD I'm already dreading my return to California. I know this because every night I have terrible dreams about people I know or knew in California. Often the events of the dream happen in DC, but the people are Californian. Last night's dream featured someone getting a hold of my diary (in real life, I don't have one), reading it, vomiting into my mouth about it, performing a musical montage of how stupid and pathetic I am, and then appearing in an unlikely white suit with a woman who was also wearing a white suit, and spitting into my eyes while the woman did the same. Once satisfied that I couldn't see, they left me in a ditch that had conveniently appeared by the side of the road. In the next day of the dream, I received a disturbing telegram -- a turd, STOP -- with the message you can't write for shit (something in my subconscious clearly considers itself hilarious) after which I was sucked into what appeared to be a hole in the Earth where I burned amid a spunky, upbeat sea of hot magma. I know what you're thinking: I've been watching too many trailers for ABC's Wipeout. That's true. (Why anyone would ever willingly go on that show is beyond my understanding.) The real truth, however, is that I have dreams like this all the time. Usually when I wake up it's just me and Phillip there, and there's pretty much no way to get the taste of the dream out of my head. Here in Maryland, though, there's no reason to believe that there's anything to the dream besides figments of my imagination. Except that in California they seem real, and they are.
In some recent correspondence with one my advisers from grad school, I've been informed -- in kinder, more diplomatic terms -- that I should give up on my book of short stories and just try to plow the shit out of Mother Earth by soiling it with my novel. (If she had read any part of my novel she might give me different advice.) For years people have been saying that stories don't mean anything, and frankly the whole argument back and forth about it is pretty boring. Is the short story dead? OMG! It is! It isn't! Resuscitate! It's flourishing! O, Lazarus! I'm sorry, I was just taking a light doze over here. Whatever: I like to read stories and I like to write them and I'm going to. Still, there's some real truth in what she says: That without that novel, ain't no crap going to happen to nobody's stories. I think this just means working twice as long every day, on twice as much. Sorry, Mom Earth. Pay you back.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
in which david gahan bursts unbidden into a yoga studio
Yesterday Sarah took me with her to yoga. I have never done any sort of yoga before, although people far and wide have advised me that due to my infirmity and perchant for workaholicness, yoga is something I should pursue.
"It's gentle yoga," Sarah told me, which I envisioned optimistically to be a time where we would lie, zenlike, on floor mats, taking deep breaths -- something not very unlike sleeping. I agreed.
Alert: This is not what yoga is. Yoga is placing yourself in difficult, unfriendly positions, and then staying there, shaking and looking around to see whether anyone else has quit yet. It is also standing upright on your mat looking confused while other people burst out of strange poses into other poses, all named after animals you frequently see on New York City sidewalks. On a scale of 0 to 10 of yoga prowess, where 0 is dousing the yoga studio in gasoline and then lighting the thing aflame, and 10 is being elevated to Grand Yogini or whatever happens to you when you become great at yoga, I would say I performed at about a 0.5, or, if we're giving points for producing some sweat, maybe a kindly 1. For one thing, I am not flexible. For another, I am not outrageously strong. Nor am I "of blank mind." The part that was supposed to be easy, the lying-on-the-floor part that came at the end, was accompanied by some prompts by the instructor to "let certain parts of our bodies go," as well as to "enjoy the silence." (Who knew yoga had so much in common with Depeche Mode?) We were not supposed to think about what we had to do. We were not supposed to think about problems in our lives. That's sort of like showing someone a delicious cookie and then being like, no, you and that cookie shall never be one. That's right: For me, worrying is like a delicious cookie. Now you know.
"It's gentle yoga," Sarah told me, which I envisioned optimistically to be a time where we would lie, zenlike, on floor mats, taking deep breaths -- something not very unlike sleeping. I agreed.
Alert: This is not what yoga is. Yoga is placing yourself in difficult, unfriendly positions, and then staying there, shaking and looking around to see whether anyone else has quit yet. It is also standing upright on your mat looking confused while other people burst out of strange poses into other poses, all named after animals you frequently see on New York City sidewalks. On a scale of 0 to 10 of yoga prowess, where 0 is dousing the yoga studio in gasoline and then lighting the thing aflame, and 10 is being elevated to Grand Yogini or whatever happens to you when you become great at yoga, I would say I performed at about a 0.5, or, if we're giving points for producing some sweat, maybe a kindly 1. For one thing, I am not flexible. For another, I am not outrageously strong. Nor am I "of blank mind." The part that was supposed to be easy, the lying-on-the-floor part that came at the end, was accompanied by some prompts by the instructor to "let certain parts of our bodies go," as well as to "enjoy the silence." (Who knew yoga had so much in common with Depeche Mode?) We were not supposed to think about what we had to do. We were not supposed to think about problems in our lives. That's sort of like showing someone a delicious cookie and then being like, no, you and that cookie shall never be one. That's right: For me, worrying is like a delicious cookie. Now you know.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
charm city
Returned from the borough of Queens, I picked up and left again for another borough: the borough of Baltimore. (All right, I'm done.) As you know, Baltimore is home to such denizens as Jimmy McNulty, The Bunk, Omar, Clay Davis, Doctor-Doctor Caitlin, Phil, and veritable legions of brisk, two-steppin' crabs. One can barely take a step in the city of Baltimore without running into one of these persons or crabs, and therefore it was more than just good luck that I got to spend the evening with Doctor-Doctor Caitlin and Phil, the crabs and others being occupied and frankly not nearly as good company.
Sadly, I spent a sizeable chunk of that time barking down the phone to San Francisco Best Buy and my landlord, who were "responsible" (and I use that word with great dubiousness) for the delivery of my new refrigerator today. Neither party seemed to know when the refrigerator might arrive. My landlord's story all along has been that my original refrigerator, which broke "because of the economy" (who knew refrigerators were so angry?) could also not be replaced because of the economy, and then could not be delivered because of the economy, and so on. So I assumed that it was probably the economy that, once again, rudely, was obscuring this important information from me. The Bay, however, did not assume this. The Bay spat vitriol down the line, threatening to shove the refrigerator and several other appliances where the sun did not shine on my landlord, to leave refrigerators dangerously in his path of mobility, to basically shower his waking dreams with refrigerators in retribution. The Bay, you see, had to start waiting at The Fort today at 8:30 am for the new refrigerator to come, and was none too happy about it. However, word is that it has arrived, and I have offered The Bay "anything [he] wants" to commemorate this favor. I'm hoping he says a packet of Certs, because I bought a 12-pack of those at a truck stop and am basically swimming in them.
But back to Baltimore. No fewer than four (4) separate people, upon hearing that I was going there, asked me to give my regards to Omar. I did look for him. I looked for him as soon as I came out of the tunnel under the harbor. I looked for him at the weird sandwich shop where D-D Caitlin, Phil, and I ate dinner, surrounded by tiny figurines of dead babies. I looked for him on the walk back. I looked for him this morning on the street on the way back to DC. No Omar. I'm sorry, everyone. I tried.
Sadly, I spent a sizeable chunk of that time barking down the phone to San Francisco Best Buy and my landlord, who were "responsible" (and I use that word with great dubiousness) for the delivery of my new refrigerator today. Neither party seemed to know when the refrigerator might arrive. My landlord's story all along has been that my original refrigerator, which broke "because of the economy" (who knew refrigerators were so angry?) could also not be replaced because of the economy, and then could not be delivered because of the economy, and so on. So I assumed that it was probably the economy that, once again, rudely, was obscuring this important information from me. The Bay, however, did not assume this. The Bay spat vitriol down the line, threatening to shove the refrigerator and several other appliances where the sun did not shine on my landlord, to leave refrigerators dangerously in his path of mobility, to basically shower his waking dreams with refrigerators in retribution. The Bay, you see, had to start waiting at The Fort today at 8:30 am for the new refrigerator to come, and was none too happy about it. However, word is that it has arrived, and I have offered The Bay "anything [he] wants" to commemorate this favor. I'm hoping he says a packet of Certs, because I bought a 12-pack of those at a truck stop and am basically swimming in them.
But back to Baltimore. No fewer than four (4) separate people, upon hearing that I was going there, asked me to give my regards to Omar. I did look for him. I looked for him as soon as I came out of the tunnel under the harbor. I looked for him at the weird sandwich shop where D-D Caitlin, Phil, and I ate dinner, surrounded by tiny figurines of dead babies. I looked for him on the walk back. I looked for him this morning on the street on the way back to DC. No Omar. I'm sorry, everyone. I tried.
Friday, June 19, 2009
borough borough borough borough borough
Greetings from the borough of Queens. Have you ever heard Michael Bloomberg say the word borough? Well, have you? It is simply delightful. "Beeeh-ro," he bleats, like a sheep with gas. Whenever I have the opportunity to say borough, I do. The borough of Oakland. The borough of Marin. Since those aren't really boroughs, it's far more fun to say it when I'm really here in the center of the world, where all hearts beat: New York City. I mean, ahem -- the borough of Queens.
After riding the Hasidic bus line up here from Maryland with entirely too many materials (thanks mostly to my panic over whether or not I should bring my computer to New York; decision: sadly for my biceps, yes) I walked in the pouring rain through Midtown to the subway, which I am happy to report smells the same. There was plenty of pushing, shoving, and cursing to make me feel right at home. Glowing with the happiness that can only come from narrowly avoiding being defecated upon, I switched to the W at Times Square with my many bags, dripping wet, and then proceeded to the neighborhood of Abby, where I continued for fifteen minutes, non-heroically, in the rain, with the bags, until I finally arrived at la Casa dei Pellicani (that's House of Pelicans, friend), aka the home of Abby. Somewhat later thereupon, we consumed substances that prompted me to order Abby to prepare popped corn and then that lent her the brain wave of a viewing of Point Break, a miracle of modern fails in acting. How can Keanu Reeves not know how vacant his voice sounds when he invites Bodhi to "vaya con Dios"? I'd love to hear him say "borough"; I really would. Can someone make this happen? Can someone make Keanu Reeves say "borough"? Substances make this problem even more pressing.
We are about to embark to the opening day of the Morgan's medieval manuscripts exhibit, and I am literally about to pee my pants. Some habits, especially medieval ones, die hard.
After riding the Hasidic bus line up here from Maryland with entirely too many materials (thanks mostly to my panic over whether or not I should bring my computer to New York; decision: sadly for my biceps, yes) I walked in the pouring rain through Midtown to the subway, which I am happy to report smells the same. There was plenty of pushing, shoving, and cursing to make me feel right at home. Glowing with the happiness that can only come from narrowly avoiding being defecated upon, I switched to the W at Times Square with my many bags, dripping wet, and then proceeded to the neighborhood of Abby, where I continued for fifteen minutes, non-heroically, in the rain, with the bags, until I finally arrived at la Casa dei Pellicani (that's House of Pelicans, friend), aka the home of Abby. Somewhat later thereupon, we consumed substances that prompted me to order Abby to prepare popped corn and then that lent her the brain wave of a viewing of Point Break, a miracle of modern fails in acting. How can Keanu Reeves not know how vacant his voice sounds when he invites Bodhi to "vaya con Dios"? I'd love to hear him say "borough"; I really would. Can someone make this happen? Can someone make Keanu Reeves say "borough"? Substances make this problem even more pressing.
We are about to embark to the opening day of the Morgan's medieval manuscripts exhibit, and I am literally about to pee my pants. Some habits, especially medieval ones, die hard.
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