Last month, my pal Rob Web (not his real name) agreed to let me read at the Circus of the Shattered Monkey at the Zeitgeist in Cambridge. I told my funeral story, because I'm obsessed with it, apparently, and I wore orange flowers in my hair, because I love orange.
Roodles took some pictures, the better to immortalize my foolishness. I swear to you that I am much better looking in real life. I'm not 60 years old, for one thing. It's not Rod's fault, by the way. I am, in actual fact, the least photogenic person on the planet, including Tom Brady. Those of you who live in the Boston area and have seen his Dunkin Donuts ads will know what I mean.
Tuesday, November 30, 2004
Monday, November 29, 2004
I also have a lovely singing voice
I cope with stress really, really well. So when the tow truck guy didn't believe that our address was correct, I handled it with grace and aplomb.
"I'm standing in front of a sign that says I'm at 325 Huntington Ave." I told him. "Is your guy standing in front of a sign that says he's at 325 Huntington Ave.?"
The tow truck driver said that he was.
"Well, then we've got some kind of a problem, because I don't know what other address to give you. I mean, if they're just going to start posting signs with fictious addresses on them, then I guess we're all just hopelessly lost, aren't we?"
I'm going to spare you the play by play. Here's the summary: we went back and forth for quite some time, as I got more irate, and he got more patronizing, and finally, I used the F word.
Don't ever use the F word with a tow truck driver. You might as well strap on your sneakers and start walking home.
Three hours later, when the tow truck driver arrived, I had wept away all my anger and was prepared to wash and wax his truck if he'd just fix the tire. Not that I had to wash and wax anything, because it was pouring out. POURING. My coat smells like a drunk lama and my hair is STILL frizzy.
Oh, and the sign I was standing in front of? Was wrong. Let this be a lesson to you all. When you think you're most right, you're probably dead wrong.
"I'm standing in front of a sign that says I'm at 325 Huntington Ave." I told him. "Is your guy standing in front of a sign that says he's at 325 Huntington Ave.?"
The tow truck driver said that he was.
"Well, then we've got some kind of a problem, because I don't know what other address to give you. I mean, if they're just going to start posting signs with fictious addresses on them, then I guess we're all just hopelessly lost, aren't we?"
I'm going to spare you the play by play. Here's the summary: we went back and forth for quite some time, as I got more irate, and he got more patronizing, and finally, I used the F word.
Don't ever use the F word with a tow truck driver. You might as well strap on your sneakers and start walking home.
Three hours later, when the tow truck driver arrived, I had wept away all my anger and was prepared to wash and wax his truck if he'd just fix the tire. Not that I had to wash and wax anything, because it was pouring out. POURING. My coat smells like a drunk lama and my hair is STILL frizzy.
Oh, and the sign I was standing in front of? Was wrong. Let this be a lesson to you all. When you think you're most right, you're probably dead wrong.
Tuesday, November 23, 2004
The Chinatown bus: $15 and the self-realizations are free
I got into town early Friday night after a horrifyingly long and uncomfortable bus ride. I'm a big fan of the Chinatown bus, generally speaking. It's about a four and a half hour trip from Boston to New York, it's only fifteen bucks, and my boyfriend is at the other end. I can deal with the cramped seats and the masses of unwashed humanity. I'm not nearly as OCD as I used to be. I will not use the bathroom, however, but that's just smart: the bathroom on the Chinatown bus resembles the toilet in Trainspotting.
This time, however, I was really starting to wonder if maybe I'd gotten on the wrong coach. It was dirtier than usual, and more full of folks, and the woman who was sitting in front of me definitely looked like she'd just escaped from somewhere with hinges on the wrong side of the door.
I had chosen the seat in the first place because I was avoiding a guy who'd started chatting me up in the line. I'd thought he was gay at first, but then realized fairly quickly that he was just sort of fashionable. And while I'm not so vain that I think every guy in the world wants to sleep with me, I don't care to test out the boundaries of someone's interest on a four hour bus ride.
Make that five and a half hours, because with traffic, that's how long it took. Meanwhile, in my efforts to dodge the not-gay-maybe-hot-for-me guy, I'd squished myself in behind the giant ex-convict lady, who was tapping out messages on her cell phone and looking surly and hard. Needless to say, I didn't feel all right about asking her to return her seat to its full and upright position.
It would have been fine, except for the fact that a tiny Japanese girl politely squished herself in next to me -- with her enormous luggage. She asked me if she could sit next to me, and instead of saying, "No, I hate people" or "No, I have fleas" or pulling a horn out of my pocket and tooting on it, I said yes, because I'm a pussy. I passive-aggressively compensated, however, by talking on my cell phone the whole time. Because I'm a bad person.
Anyway, by the time we got to New York, the Japanese girl, the ex-con, and the gang of obviously middle class wanna be gang members in the, I kid you not, turbans in the front probably all wanted to kill me. But not the not-gay guy. He wanted to know what I was up to for the weekend, and how to get to the 6. Just then, however, the Moozle rounded the corner and fixed him with his best Get Away From My Woman stare, and he skittered off.
Which means that this bus ride taught me that, in addition to being passive-aggressive, I am probably both prejudiced and anti-feminist. That's a lot of self-realization for only fifteen bucks.
This time, however, I was really starting to wonder if maybe I'd gotten on the wrong coach. It was dirtier than usual, and more full of folks, and the woman who was sitting in front of me definitely looked like she'd just escaped from somewhere with hinges on the wrong side of the door.
I had chosen the seat in the first place because I was avoiding a guy who'd started chatting me up in the line. I'd thought he was gay at first, but then realized fairly quickly that he was just sort of fashionable. And while I'm not so vain that I think every guy in the world wants to sleep with me, I don't care to test out the boundaries of someone's interest on a four hour bus ride.
Make that five and a half hours, because with traffic, that's how long it took. Meanwhile, in my efforts to dodge the not-gay-maybe-hot-for-me guy, I'd squished myself in behind the giant ex-convict lady, who was tapping out messages on her cell phone and looking surly and hard. Needless to say, I didn't feel all right about asking her to return her seat to its full and upright position.
It would have been fine, except for the fact that a tiny Japanese girl politely squished herself in next to me -- with her enormous luggage. She asked me if she could sit next to me, and instead of saying, "No, I hate people" or "No, I have fleas" or pulling a horn out of my pocket and tooting on it, I said yes, because I'm a pussy. I passive-aggressively compensated, however, by talking on my cell phone the whole time. Because I'm a bad person.
Anyway, by the time we got to New York, the Japanese girl, the ex-con, and the gang of obviously middle class wanna be gang members in the, I kid you not, turbans in the front probably all wanted to kill me. But not the not-gay guy. He wanted to know what I was up to for the weekend, and how to get to the 6. Just then, however, the Moozle rounded the corner and fixed him with his best Get Away From My Woman stare, and he skittered off.
Which means that this bus ride taught me that, in addition to being passive-aggressive, I am probably both prejudiced and anti-feminist. That's a lot of self-realization for only fifteen bucks.
Monday, November 22, 2004
Travel-size
New Yorkers are thin. If you mention this to a New Yorker, they will most likely tell you that it's because they walk everywhere, or that they're so poor they have to choose between booze and food, and booze wins. These things are true. It is also true that they are very fashionable people, New Yorkers, famously so, and that thinness shows off their clothes better.
But mostly, I think New Yorkers are thin because there's no goddamn room in this city for fat people.
I have been in New York for four days now, and I notice that I have perfected the art of taking up next to no space. Sitting in a restaurant, I fold my huge coat into a teensy bundle at the back of my chair and turn my purse into an armrest, all while managing to ignore the fact that the people at the "next table" are, in fact, sitting exactly three inches from my right elbow. It's not okay to talk to them unless they want you to, you know. And if they want you to, that usually means they're crazy.
Let's have a tangent, shall we? I've been talking to everyone in New York, crazy or no: people in bars, people in stores, people on the street. And I have no idea what anyone is talking about when they say New Yorkers are rude. New Yorkers aren't rude. They're actually really friendly. Now, whether or not they'll steal your wallet after you finish your chit-chat -- that's another story.
But mostly, I think New Yorkers are thin because there's no goddamn room in this city for fat people.
I have been in New York for four days now, and I notice that I have perfected the art of taking up next to no space. Sitting in a restaurant, I fold my huge coat into a teensy bundle at the back of my chair and turn my purse into an armrest, all while managing to ignore the fact that the people at the "next table" are, in fact, sitting exactly three inches from my right elbow. It's not okay to talk to them unless they want you to, you know. And if they want you to, that usually means they're crazy.
Let's have a tangent, shall we? I've been talking to everyone in New York, crazy or no: people in bars, people in stores, people on the street. And I have no idea what anyone is talking about when they say New Yorkers are rude. New Yorkers aren't rude. They're actually really friendly. Now, whether or not they'll steal your wallet after you finish your chit-chat -- that's another story.
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