Back to Diaryland

the latest waddle:

good morning, wordpress - 10:36 a.m. , 2009-07-03

elaborate murder attempt - 2:56 p.m. , 2009-07-01

building a tractor in the basement - 10:42 a.m. , 2009-06-19

ask no questions tell just a few lies - 3:17 p.m. , 2009-06-09

my long lasting flavor really lasts long - 1:10 p.m. , 2009-06-04

2002-10-02 ... 2:49 p.m.


Yesterday I had a free sandwich. Free! At this particular sandwich place they give you a little card with ten little sandwiches. (One little, two little, three little sandwiches...come on, sing it with me! It's a lot more mellifluous than "One little, two little, three little Native Americans!") I had all the requisite stamps on my sandwich card, thus qualifying me for a free sandwich, but I had been carrying the sandwich card around forever because I always forgot about it. Are you a coupon person? I am not a coupon person. I sometimes save a coupon, but invariably it just lives in my wallet until it expires.

So although I am fairly frugal, I guess am not willing to go out of my way to save money. When I was a teenager, it drove my dad insane that I would go to the Shell station in our neighborhood to get gas, instead of going to the gas station a bit further down the road that routinely had cheaper gas. The cheaper place required a tricky left turn against traffic to get in there, which gave me a stomachache and I'd really rather just pull into the Shell. Although I paid for my own gas my dad would spend a good fifteen minutes explaining how the two-tenths of a cent on the gallon added up. Yeah, yeah.

All this talk of frugality made me realize that I have been putting off scheduling eye exams for me and LT, because we pay for those out of pocket and new glasses are expensive and I wanted to finish paying the Visa bill first, and then I thought: Wait. These are our EYES. I will schedule them soon, I promise.


Starting two weeks ago, I took note of the manner in which I was addressed by strangers---sandwich-counter personnel, cashiers, bus drivers, etc. I only counted in-person instances of direct address, not telephonic ones.

MA'AM: 2 times

MISS: 7 times

KIDDO: 1 time

SWEETIE: 1 time

DOLL: 1 time (a bartender)

LADIES (only plural: as in, "you ladies enjoy your lunch"): 2 times


1. Personal ads. I have two broadly defined favorite categories: (a) the men-seeking-men ads that mention how they are 100% straight-acting, 100% straight-looking, a "guy's guy," like sports, and are not into "the gay thing." What is "the gay thing"? If you don't like opera, jeez, just say so. Also, hopefully you ARE into at least one aspect of "the gay thing"---you know, the part about wanting a boyfriend and liking to have sex with other men---otherwise you are going to disappoint all the other men seeking men who answer your ad. (b) I also like the ones where someone (usually a straight guy) is looking for "oral service," on demand, at his place, no strings, no reciprocation, wants to "get down to it" after "minimal pleasantries" (I really am quoting here), and wants it on a regular basis. I believe this is called a "prostitute," which hey, is perfectly fine, just don't be such a fucking cheapskate about it and don't lie to yourself by placing a personal ad.

2. Bad reviews. Sometimes I feel a little sorry for the people involved, especially if it's a local thing, but there's a certain glee in saying something is godawful if indeed it is godawful. Bad reviews are fun to read. Here's one from the Reader: scroll down to the show called "Guys." Hee hee.

I am not feeling too well. Although I keep [silently] repeating my mantra of "it's just allergies" I think a tiny rhinovirus might have worked its way into me, because the snotfactory is working overtime, manufacturing snot for the war; my eyeballs are like hot stones used in some New Age-y massage technique; and my voice is all smoky Dietrich edges (except in this case the cause is phlegm and not unclean living). Of course, even if this were "just" allergies it doesn't change the fact that I feel like crap (my head feels like a can of pumpkin pie filling, all densely packed with fibrous goo), so why do I have to invent possibly false viruses to justify the wearing of pajamas immediately after work, and the futzing around at home instead of going out and experiencing all the rock and the roll and the booze that this fair city has to offer? I am a weirdo.

I, too, am a fan of fading ads on the sides of buildings.

The most textbook-perfect Carver story ever. It's like he is parodying himself: you've got the drinking, the screaming woman, the unsettling revelation, and so on. (I will admit to liking the ending, though.) There should be a "bad Carver" contest the way there is a "bad Hemingway" contest. That would be funny.

In yesterday's mail I received a mysterious copy of Gourmet magazine, addressed to me and everything. I don't remember ordering Gourmet magazine, and although I have been known to do things in drunken stupors, it seems a bit far-fetched that I would go online and subscribe to Gourmet magazine. Anyway, I am pretty much a Whore For Reading Material, so I paged through Gourmet magazine yesterday evening while I ate my dinner of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Really.

Here is a scene that I hesitate to mention, because I don't want you to think that my life consists of running around the city having conversations with crazy street people. Why nothing could be further from the truth! Truth is over here! Postulating that my life consists of running around the city having conversations with crazy street people is way, way, way over here! Now that is one vast distance!

Okay, disclaimer over. Here is the guy I met while waiting for the Western Ave. bus. You have to speak his part in a thick Russian accent. Oh, and he's drunk. (What a surprise! A drunk Russian! What's next, an inscrutable Chinese guy? A snooty Frenchman? I WOULD LIKE TO BUY SOME LESS-CLICHÉ URBAN ENCOUNTERS PLEASE.)

Guy at bus stop: Chopin, Beethoven.

Me: ...

GABS: Albert Einstein.

Me: (stern look of disapproval)

GABS: You are beautiful. You have boyfriend?

Me: Yes.

GABS: Who's your boyfriend?

Me: His name's Fred. Fred Chopin.

(Bus arrives and he stumbles off. Curtain.)

Bring up the house lights! Good night, everybody.

---mimi smartypants tried and failed and learned to never try.


join my Notify List and get email when I update my site:
Powered by