Nick Part II

Note: Photos for these posts do not fit chronologically. 

September 19, 2008

 

I take Jill on a walk (4 mile hike) to the Haight Street Buffalo Exchange. And…it’s time to stand in line already! I’m feeling sick and sinusy, so Jill stakes out the line. She starts the line, actually, a bit before 2pm. I join her at 4, and damn I am hungry! Here’s a cheese sandwich. Four inches of cheese! Dangerous amounts of cheese. A dream overwished. I have to do some squishy surgery.

 

In line I meet Yuka, a Japanese woman who flies around the world to see the band. She’s on show 50 and has just arrived from Japan. She’s head-to-toe adorable. Yuka has photos of Nick with her, of her grandfather, the family’s house and the family dog. We both have to go to the Will Call line and then get back into the main line. Luckily, we have a placeholder. A tall, buxomy, harloty, beautiful placeholder: her name, Jill.

 

The show is at the Warfield on Market Street; doors are at 8. Heart beats get faster as the countdown begins. I am told to RUN to the front of the stage. This is an odd challenge seeing as I have never been to the venue before.

 

Here we are at the barrier. I am front and center thanks to Jill. I can be no more front and no more center. I will not break a sweat all night and I have a place to hang my coat. An effeminate, chubby, black boy from New York enthusiastically places himself behind Yuka. He’s very sweet. He’s alone, but doesn’t seem lonely.

 

The Red Sparrowes, an instrumental LA band, open and they are pretty good. It must be hard to play when everyone just wants you to finish already. There are some entertaining visuals projected on a screen. Later, I hear about them being prima donnas, but who knows.

 

It’s time. The band takes over the world. There are so many Seeds and they are all platformed and lit and smoky. Here’s Nick. Oh, he’s 15 ft, 10 ft, 5 ft away from me. He moves like a flame. He’s 100 ft tall and 90 lbs and lovely. He is in a suit with a wafer-thin shirt open to mid-chest, and he’s sporting a gold cross. Warren is in similar get-up.

 

 

Jill is a pro. She throws out a Beat-like “Yeah!” every so often. I don’t know what I look like. I think my smile’s too big for my face. Boy from New York squeals in joy: “Weeeee!” “Make the Bells Ring!” he screams. OK, it is getting annoying.

 

Nick cuts his finger on a string, knocking over the mic, running into stuff. Mick is making strange faces—he knows something sordid.  Conrad looks like Beetlejuice.

 

Someone gets Nick’s bloody towel. No, thanks. That’s not what I’m in the market for. Midnight Man comes and he’s awesome. We call upon the orphans to explain. And they do. They do.

 

I can’t believe he is playing “Hard On for Love.”

I can’t believe he is playing “Hard On for Love.”

I can’t believe he is playing “Hard On for Love.”

 

Nick cracks up during “God is in the House.” He’s forgot the lyrics. That’s one interesting thing about the show—he’s got piles of lyrics on a stand. They look abused and disorganized. The stage crew does their best to keep them in order.

 

Does he wax his chest?

 

The show is sadly coming to an end. A boy in lederhosen crawls up onstage and gives Nick two feathers.

 

We get in line for the afterparty, held downstairs in the Green Room.

 

There is a very, very short woman running door security. She’s in her 60s and her hair is fire engine red. She denies Jello Biafra access downstairs, saying he has to go to the back of the line. “I know who you are,” she says. When he walks to the back of the line, she says, “Rock Stars! You know what they’re like.”

 

Downstairs, almost the entire band comes out and socializes with people whom they mostly already know. I can’t believe it when Nick actually comes out. I’ve been to many backstage parties at which the star is nowhere to be found (and I do not blame them.) But, here he is. He’s beautiful. He talks with Jello and many, many people. Lots of people are hugging him. I do not have my camera, but that’s ok. My mouth is agape. Jill is coolly sitting across the table from me. “Go talk to him!’ Uhhh.

 

Like a total jerk, I ghost him until he turns around and I am there. “I want a hug!” I blurt out. “A wah? Oh! A hug, yeah, ok.” He hugs me for about 3 seconds and he smells so clean. But I have it on authority that he has not showered since the stage. And he had worked it, and he had sweated--but now he’s immaculate. Are demons and angels both clean? His hair is so very soft. 

 

But I haven’t delivered a message to him. A message from me. There have been so many, but I never ever thought I’d ever ever meet him. He really likes hanging out with the older, black security guy. The man doesn’t seem to be a huge Nick fan. He is polite and jaded. But Nick really likes talking to him. “Worse thing I ever did was quit smoking,” he tells the guard.

 

But I am not to be stopped. I hound him again.

 

“Can I ask you a question?”

 

“It better be a yes or no question.”

 

“Actually, it’s not. I teach your music in my composition classes—I teach English—and I was wondering what song should I use?” (Honestly, a ridiculous question. I agree.)

 

“Ack. None of them, all of them, I don’t know.”

 

If you’ve seen “A Christmas Story,” you’ll remember that when Ralphie was pushed down the slide after he froze up on Santa’s lap, he pulled himself back up and pushed out his thought in one word. I do the same:

 

“Iteachyouasoneoftheverybestliterarymindsofourtimes.”

 

“Wha? Oh…(three beats) Thank you!”

 

I will always love you, Nick.

 

Here’s the set list from Friday:

Sept. 19, 2008 / The Warfield San Francisco CA

Night of the Lotus Eaters

Dig, Lazarus, Dig

Tupelo

Today’s Lesson

Red Right Hand

I Let Love In

When Numbers Get Serious

Mercy Seat

Deanna

Moonlight

The Ship Song

We Call Upon the Author (Orphans)

Papa Won’t Leave You, Henry 

More News From Nowhere

Encore:

The Lyre of Orpheus

Into My Arms

Get Ready For Love

Hard On for Love

God is in the House

Stagger Lee

Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. Part I

September 18, 2008

 

I have joined my girl Jill in San Francisco. She is going to show me how a real Nick fan operates. I mean, I AM a REAL Nick fan, but there are fans more fantic and fanatical. We take the BART down to Market Street and make our way to the Marriott. We will steal tea, bananas and water from the VIP lounge nonstop for the next two days. Free water!

 

We take a walk through China Town to North Beach to eat some risotto. There is a lot of porcini risotto. It is very good, but food shouldn’t come in wet, noisy piles. We stop by City Lights and defile the Poetry Room with our cleavage.

 

I'll Bite Ya, Kelly!

So I kept the TV on the other night so I could have some company and a way to make me not too afraid of random house and outside noises.

I woke up to the annoying voices of Regis and Kelly. They were about to have a bunch of zoo animals paraded before them, so I didn't immediately get up to turn it off.

First, there was a tiny, tiny leopard. It was squirming. And, as increasing restraint was applied to it, it started crying. Little leopard wails. Then the tiny yowls came. Someone gave Kelly a bottle. She tried to shove the nipple in its little angry mouth! She kept trying and trying as it wailed. Lady! You're an idiot. The cat does not want to eat. The cat doesn't want you to think it's cute. The cat does not want to be touched. The cat doesn't want to be anywhere near that stupid studio. You are traumatizing the poor cat. Someone finally had mercy on the leopard, or realized how terribly stupid the hostess was looking, and it was whisked away.

A Snow Macaque came out. Awwww. A monnnnkey! The first thing he did was grab Kelly's queque cards and start spitting them out. She shouldn't have made eye contact. Next, the monkey went for the camera man.

Animals are smart. Except sometimes when you're talking about human animals.

Sarah Palin Addendum

So someone left a comment disagreeing with my post and telling me that I don't know what I'm talking about and how MLK Jr. is weeping. I deleted it because it was posted by ANONYMOUS. This is my blog. My photos. My information. If you don't have the guts to sign your name, I won't publish your comment.

This is my little sitting room area. I hang out here with my friends. Surely you came to the wrong party (pun intended).

Sarah Palin Reminds Me Of...

The woman who talks on her cell phone while ordering food. If the cashier asks her a question, she looks annoyed. If the cashier refuses to ring her up until she finishes the call, then the manager is called.

The woman who steals your parking space and pretends not to hear you when you call her a bitch.

"Sometimes I doubt your commitment to Sparkle Motion."

The woman who stares at my tattoos, wrinkles her nose, rolls her eyes.

The woman who won't give up her seat on the airplane so that a couple can sit together.

The woman who, when she is called into school because her child has bullied another child, insists that her child is an angel.

The woman who sends back her food at the restaurant.

The woman who thinks all women must have children in order to be complete.

The woman who buys LEGGS pantyhose.

The woman who would never consider a vacation to anywhere in the entire continent of Asia or anywhere in the entire continent of Africa.

The woman who insists the maid at the Ramada has stolen her jewelry.

The woman who insists that she is not racially prejudiced but has never had anyone not white over to dinner.

The woman who tells her children not to drink from water fountains.

The woman who thinks gays deserve AIDS.

I don't know you Sarah Palin, but I've seen your type. Please go away.

8 Great Poets

Jill Alexander Essbaum and Louisa Spaventa

Lately people have been asking me for recommendations. Who should I read? they say. Well, as with anything, an answer is not simple. Here are some of my favoritest poets and poems. There are certainly more, and I will be posting more of my hits list in the future.

Elizabeth Bishop
One Art

Sylvia Plath
The Zoo-Keeper’s Wife


Emily Dickinson
Wild Nights! Wild Nights!
Split the lark and you’ll find the music
If I shouldn’t be alive

Margaret Atwood
Pig Song

ee cummings
"'kitty'. sixteen,5'1",white,prostitute"

Jill Alexander Essbaum
Harlot

I'm including the full text of these poems because I could not find good links that didn't call in pop-up windows.

Federico Garcia Lorca

Landscape of a Vomiting Multitude

The fat lady came out first,
tearing out roots and moistening drumskins.
The fat lady
who turns dying octopuses inside out.
The fat lady, the moon's antagonist,
was running through the streets and deserted buildings
and leaving tiny skulls of pigeons in the corners
and stirring up the furies of the last centuries' feasts
and summoning the demon of bread through the sky's clean-swept hills
and filtering a longing for light into subterranean tunnels.
The graveyards, yes the graveyards
and the sorrow of the kitchens buried in sand,
the dead, pheasants and apples of another era,
pushing it into our throat.

There were murmuring from the jungle of vomit
with the empty women, with hot wax children,
with fermented trees and tireless waiters
who serve platters of salt beneath harps of saliva.
There's no other way, my son, vomit! There's no other way.
It's not the vomit of hussars on the breasts of their whores,
nor the vomit of cats that inadvertently swallowed frogs,
but the dead who scratch with clay hands
on flint gates where clouds and desserts decay.

The fat lady came first
with the crowds from the ships, taverns, and parks.
Vomit was delicately shaking its drums
among a few little girls of blood
who were begging the moon for protection.
Who could imagine my sadness?
The look on my face was mine, but now isn't me,
the naked look on my face, trembling for alcohol
and launching incredible ships
through the anemones of the piers.
I protect myself with this look
that flows from waves where no dawn would go,
I, poet without arms, lost
in the vomiting multitude,
with no effusive horse to shear
the thick moss from my temples.

The fat lady went first
and the crowds kept looking for pharmacies
where the bitter tropics could be found.
Only when a flag went up and the first dogs arrived
did the entire city rush to the railings of the boardwalk.


Denise Levertov

The Well

At sixteen I believed the moonlight
could change me if it would.
I moved my head
on the pillow, even moved my bed
as the moon slowly
crossed the open lattice.

I wanted beauty, a dangerous
gleam of steel, my body thinner,
my pale face paler.
I moonbathed
diligently, as others sunbathe.
But the moon's unsmiling stare
kept me awake. Mornings,
I was flushed and cross.

It was on dark nights of deep sleep
that I dreamed the most, sunk in the well,
and woke rested, and if not beautiful,
filled with some other power.

Typo Vigilantes

Typo vigilantes banned from national parks

...Deck and Herson, both 28, toured the United States this spring, wiping out errors on government and private signs. They were interviewed by NPR and the Chicago Tribune, which called them "a pair of Kerouacs armed with Sharpies and erasers and righteous indignation."

I just put together my English nerd shelf. Who needs 10 different grammar handbooks?

Me. That's who.

By the way, the kid is practicing punctuation.

Barrelhouse Roller Derby Contest Winner

I'm here. I forgot myself, but now I remember.

I am the winner of the Roller Derby invitational in Barrelhouse magazine. It's a really cool journal, and I am honored to be in it. Not to mention...I won the contest!

It's not a poem. It's a prose-thingy. If you are interested, here's the TOC for issue #6.

There. I've done it. I've blown my own horn.

I don't know if I'll bother with catching up with the last month or not. There's so much inertia. I'm in a really good place at this moment.

My Jill is coming back! And then she's whisking me off for two nights with Nick Cave in September. This is important.

I love my man so much. This is important.

I know this blissful moment is rare. I will look back on this wistfully. You know how these moments buzz by.

Tom Waits

I'm a wobbly girl. Inside I make the noise of popcorn and bells. I would like to put some glitter in a bindle and set off down a country road next to cornfields on an overcast day. My boots would be quilted inside with pinks and reds. My hair would be long and swept up in a messy way under a bandana.

Along comes a horse-drawn circus. Melancholy clowns with skinny dogs walk next to the carriages. Paint is flaking off the wooden siding. A dancing girl braces herself inside the moving dressing room. She tries to steady the mirrors and steady her drink. It's very hot inside there. Someone plays an accordion. Why is there a theremin? There in lies the theremin. Screaming ladies are released from the lurid box. The makeup is melting. The elephants need water. If they had tears...

The monkey is not so shy. In fact, he's a bit perverted. He's brought me some lemonade. Thank you.

Seeing Tom Waits was amazing. It is an experience that unrolls further daily.

Hangover

1.	the disagreeable physical aftereffects of drunkenness, such as a headache or stomach disorder, usually felt several hours after cessation of drinking.

2.	something remaining behind from a former period or state of affairs.

3.

any aftermath of or lingering effect from a distressing experience: the post-Watergate hangover in Washington. It's been a long time (thankfully) since I've had a hangover from alcohol, but that doesn't mean that I don't get them. I used to think they were "contact hangovers," but it's just that I've caused a great disturbance in my body. I get them after a day in the sun, a night in a smoky bar, or a period of extreme physical exertion. I danced a lot in 80 degree humidity last night, and I am a bit useless at the moment. Hangovers often follow fun. I guess it's the payoff. When I was 14 I had my first "realization." Not, of course, my first real thought, but the first thought I felt was "philosophical." The route to happiness or satisfaction is to achieve balance in all things. To parallel the scales. To equally distribute the pills. To gracefully walk on beams. I think of myself as a somewhat graceless person. I've been called dainty and classy (not sure about this one!), but I've never appeared graceful--to myself or anyone else that I know of. When I find something I like I don't usually want to moderate my experience of it. If something feels, sounds, looks, tastes, or smells good, I want to continue. Which brings me to food, which I seem to be obsessed with if you look back through my posts. I like bread and butter. Good, fresh bread and gourmet (sweet cream?) butter. When I go to fancy restaurants I am always the piglet who asks for more bread. I think I would be happy eating good bread, butter, fresh mozzarella, and fresh tomatoes every day. And many berries. I had this vision about 15 years ago in which I got to sleep on a giant piece of fresh-baked wheat bread. It was soft and warm and my body left deep impressions in it. I felt safe and pampered. Bread and butter. A clear head. A cool breeze. Moving water. Generous roses. My nose pressed against my lover's neck. There are many things that fill me with delight.

Pretty, Girly Things

Above: The Adultress

Above: Savoy

Both of these mixed media pieces are by Elizabeth McGrath. I love where she takes me. The artists and writers whom I respect make statements that I feel have already been growing inside me. They fertilize these ideas, incubate them, and coax them out. Then they know how to dress them up in paint or words. Occasionally I feel this way about my own work. That there are old words that ripen into poems every once in a while. Mostly, though, I am surprised at what I write and say. It's discovery. I didn't know that was in there! Either way, I get proud sometimes. And then sometimes I am impotent. The words go away unsatisfied, and I become embarrassed.

Harlot, the first piece is for you!

The second piece makes me want to be a ghost of the sea. Booing into bubbles and swimming right through sharks. Skipping inside the belly of the whale. Drinking invisible tea. Searching for the Water Babies.

I had a big crush on Tom!

When I was 7 I was really into the Flower Fairies.

I played matchmaker with the different plants and flowers--I have my old books to prove it. I wrote the name of the new love on the page of the mate. For example, I might pair a female rose with a male berry. I've always been such a girl!

The Lament of Dog

Oh, humans. I hate you sometimes. There are not enough pig's ears and rawhide playthings to make this worthwhile. I am a dignified creature. You--not so much. I understand very well the way you eat ice cream out of the tub. I can relate to that. Why do you sit so still and watch the bright box with the noisy men? You don't move for hours and you ignore me. What exactly are my daily duties? Because THIS was not in the job description.

Stop Eating Almonds and Cherries!

Stop eating the cherries! (freshly washed and crunchy)

Stop eating the almonds! (salted and roasted)

But I cannot. I cannot stop. I grab them by the fistfulls and try to go slow-ly. But I cannot. I get the hunger, just like Catherine Deneuve did.

Those little berries, slut berries, offer themselves to me. They are cold and smooth and I spank them with my tongue. The initial burst of juice--intravenous juice. Slutberry crack.

And, Oh! The Almonds! They taste like fancy rooms in architecture magazines. The 1,000 square foot living room with the regal fireplace and proud hardwood floors. There is one thing on the coffee table, and it is not a napkin. It is so classy.

But it is hard for ME to be classy when I'm making deals with the cupboard and the fridge (Don't let me in for an hour, Okay?) And then the belly-belly remorse. Whyyyyy?

I delight in problems like this. It's pretty gross when you think about it. Other people are dying and dead under rubble and water and mud and sand, and here I am worried about eating too much. I live in fear of being bourgeois. I think I already am. Damn.

This morning I saw a vomited-up rat. His little nose was identifiable. The vomit was richly yellow. Why can't I hide in my almond and cherry world?

Platypups!

Of course we know that platypi lay eggs--most people know this. That's one reason that they are such wacky mammals. But, hey, I did not know this until last night. How do you think they feed their young? Milk, sure, milk. But no nipples (I am so sorry, Mrs. Platypus):

The mother secretes this milk from large glands under the skin, the young platypus feed from this milk which ends up on the mothers fur.

Wow. Megawow. It oozes out. (Sorry, I could find no good pics of this).

But there's more. Even though they have no teeth, the males can kill a small dog (or something less cute) with their poison! They keep this in their legs:

The male platypi have a hollow spur about 15 milimetres in length on the inside of both hind legs.

A baby platypus is not called a puggle, which seems to be a common misconception. There is no official name for a baby platypus, but a common suggested name is "platypup".

I am going to adopt the term puggle. I'm not sure how I'll use it, but I must have puggle for my vocabulary.

This is another reason to wake up in the morning.

In other news, Cary and I celebrated our two year anniversary yesterday. We had breakfast at Kerby Lane, and we had dinner at Asti. Super yum! The chocolate mousse cannoli. Oh, yeah.

Cary is the very, very, very most.

La Despedida

Remedios Varo, my favorite painter, entitled this painting La Despedida--in English The Farewell. I keep going two directions at once. At 35 I still don't have the slightest idea what I'll be doing when I'm 50. Will I have to work until my 70's? Surely there will be no government support for me. And what would I do? Teach? It is unlikely that I have a future in teaching. Without a PhD I am pretty much stuck at ACC (assuming I stay in Austin). If I stay with ACC, it is unlikely that I will ever have a decent salary, job security, retirement, or even benefits that are paid for.

Where is the other half of me? Where is she going? There must be somewhere better to go. If I take a 9-5 job how long can it last? Would I be able to stand the loud bark of high school should I make my way towards teaching it? I am a great worker. I have a lot to offer, and I don't think there are any takers.

I am not alone.

I should have been more focused with grad school. Chosen a real career. I have a masters in Creative Writing. I have no books published yet. I have not received any grants. I feel like a fraud standing in a puddle of poetry.

The women in the painting are passing up so many hallways. Are they making mistakes? Are there great opportunities inside those arches?

I love painting. poetry, music, costumes. These are not marketable skills.

Almost every friend I have is drifting around, just like me. We are untethered--which is exciting--but we are not in any way safe. When we all grow old what will become of us?

Perhaps if I had some protective reef. . . I could swim out from under it and play in the waters for limited amounts of time. Then I would dutifully go back to my reef.

I could have taken the stairs. The floor has fallen out, and underneath--the dark water.

This entry comes with a symphony of tiny violins.

Trailmix to Hell

There are things I want to say about why I'm dizzy and why my hands are dry. But I won't say them. Instead I will tell you that I ate trailmix while very hungry. No good comes of this. None. My stomach has been stapled to a rock in hell. My aunt had to have some stomach surgery because of eating too many nuts and seeds. Yikes! What IS good for me?

Water. And I love water. Sometimes I forget how much I love it.

I am trying to sort out my manuscript. I write about shiny stones and food a lot.

I'm trying to sort out the things in my head. I think about moving my body more than I actually move it. When I was in 4th grade I was involved in this gymnastic "circus." I was lady of the high wire: awkwardly fumbling across a balance beam a foot off the ground. Kinda pathetic. I ran track, but only for a short period of time. My ankles hurt. I hit volleyballs, ate softballs, burned my ice-skating dreams and bellydanced in a corner. At work I have the desire to stretch and massage my feet. It is generally inappropriate to spread one's legs at the ceiling when one is in a college classroom.

The horrible ice cream song is in my head...hell-oow...ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding...hell...oow...

I ate a frozen custard from Sandy's on Thursday. It had no calories because I was eating a cone of history. History is tasty. Except for Colonial America. That is bland.

See how unfocused I am? Cerberus lives in my abdomen.

She's Off Her Head!

Good news! Barrelhouse has named me the winner of their contest for rollerderby writing! The issue comes out in the fall. I'll keep you posted. I've had interviews, reviews and poetry published in the past, but this piece is mostly prose. So it's a new thing for me and I'm encouraged that others like it

In the past few days I've worn zombies on my fingers, confused my boyfriend for a girlfriend, confused faeries for mermaids, and confounded my body with strenuous dance moves. My noggin makes a hollow sound if you knock. Some strange cloud keeps landing on my shoulders and telling me when to get up and go to work and such. It even cleaned the bathroom for me and did the dishes. This cloud is not afraid of some bleach.

I'm loathe to do anything unfun right now. Cary's grandmother died on Friday--she was a most amazing woman. I was in the room when she died. I don't think I feel comfortable writing more about this right now, but this fact may inform my future postings.

Death will snap one back into place right quickly.

That's why I keep shaking my head. Shaking things up inside there till they land in different ways. Boggle pieces? There are more words in there than I can decipher in 3 minutes, but I hope to figure out a few more each day.

Yogi/Yogurt

I went to yoga last night. It's one of those things that I think I'd be really good at if I stuck with it. Like acting in musicals, being a lesbian, or working as an accountant.

I've been eating a ridiculous amount of yogurt lately. Is this harmful?

I had a dream this morning in which I was dancing the Time Warp with a small group of people, not dressed up, in the daylight on the campus of some Ivy League college of my imagination.

We won't discuss the bad dream. The one in which I was watching a junkie friend die.

I get premonitions. I can't really trust them because they are correct only half of the time. The other half is pure paranoia, so I guess I am in a cry-wolf pattern.

Can't you wait to see my crazy yoga poses in a year?

It's All Called the Weekend

Do not worry, I am not going to write in 3rd person all the time. I am eating beans and rice and sour cream. I do that--eat at the computer. It's probably a bad thing.

I love eating good food. I mean I realllllly do. But I am really over trying to prepare food. Choosing what to eat is a horrible dilemma. It's one my least favorite things. Do you have any idea what it would be like if I were to become suddenly wealthy? I would have a chef cooking delicious and healthy meals. Someone telling me what to eat! I would have time and energy to work out all day. At night I'd reward myself by going to the movies or going out dancing, or, when the chef was off, going out to eat at restaurants that buy local organic vegetables and prepare them in daring ways.

Friday. Well. We know about the pedicure. The day sort of went downhill from there. For all practical purposes, Friday did not exist.

Yesterday was White Trash day at Nicolby's House. Cary says that I should dress white trash more often. There was much Little Debbie and laughter. What stands out strongest to me is the moment when Cary was slicing potatoes into the giant human stew, in which Colby was the meat, and my brother was attempting a dance, and some friends were singing a stew song. That's good stuff. Cary favored the Jack Daniels Coke Slurpees. Or were they Squishies?


Today I worked and then practiced a fun dance and then went to Sun Harvest and struggled with the concept of buying groceries.

And that's it. A pea-sized weekend!

A Few Things I currently hate (this list will grow daily):
whistling
harmonicas
flip-flops
driving
preparing food
people who don't cover their coughs
using the toilet
Street Teams
Colonial America

A Few Things I Like:
people dressed like animals for non-sexual purposes
chocolate mousse
really good mozarella
smelling like cake
witches and their brew
arcane words
the red glow in my bedroom
really giant or really wee furniture
people who are willing to do a little dance for me

Where Does One Begin?

She begins in the middle, on a very pretty, not-quite hot Friday while other people are miserably packed on freeways. She slurps a mango. What's the trick? How do you really handle a mango? She tears into it like a savage and revolves around the giant pit. Strands in her teeth. Fringed teeth. Angry toes!

Today was her first pedicure. What nonsense! This is torture, pure and simple. After making an appointment, she had to wait for half an hour. When it was time for the process, she asked for direction. No one wanted to take that responsibility. And to be fair, there was a wee language barrier, but the message was clear: Where do I go? Where are my feet supposed to be?

Instruments of torture are stuck in small, shared glasses, feebly attempting to look sterile. The feet are fairly safe in the bath-TRY not to think about the fact that the neighboring male Nail Tech washed down the tub only by swiping it with a towel. Now parts of her skin are being shorn off. Not. Fun. Mini hedge clippers. She is not made of leaves, my friends.

The polish is on. Paper towel is between her toes. And here comes the "paper sock." It's a flip-flop made out of packing tissue. Vile. She abhors flip-flops. Our sad heroine is placed with feet under a dryer. It should be noted that people have been staring-staring-at her tattooed legs and shoulders from the moment she walked in. They are not amused. Dour menopausal women send out their self-righteous signals. You don't belong here.

Her meek Nail Tech is hiding. She'd done everything she could to avoid eye contact with the client, and now she's run off. What to do? Put on the shoes? They are wedge sandals, not her usual footwear, but fancy footwear for the occasion. The Nail Tech returns and takes her gift certificate. It's for $30, but the service is only $20. Nail Tech is perplexed. What to do? She, her, me, she must get out. No time to learn what one might do with a Gift Certificate (most people write another one for the remainder). "Keep it all," she says. She tips $7 to overcompensate for her uncomfortableness and because she wants the Nail Tech to know that freaks are not cheapskates.

She gets the sandal straps tightened and walks out, feeling relieved that it's over. In the car now, she looks at her pretty toes. The sandals have pushed the polish around on the left big toe: the polish job has been destroyed. She is laughing.