Month: November 1999
Flirting
Even before teasing, flirting is purest communication. Beats talking. No doubt what’s being said: I dig you. Wanna see my apartment?
Goldie
Got her all worked up today. Thinks I’m making fun of her, don’t want her around. Ummm, yeah. How do you say that? “Please, beat it. You’re driving me up the frigging wall with your shouting and your yelping laugh and your endless supply of crass breast-baring skin-tight clothing and the way you speak incessant…
Buildering
October 1994, Park Avenue, a block south of Grand Central. One of Manhattan’s mirrored glass buildings, looked great in the architectural sketches but completely bland, anonymous, vague in the cityscape. Lots of those. Sitting by the window on the twenty-first floor, 11 in the morning, thinking about lunch, a network problem, the tight necktie. A…
Kay
Something incredibly appealing about her overbite. Maybe something childish, kicks in my hard wiring, makes me concerned, fatherly, motherly, protective. She’s got a hold of my idle brain cycles. English-Israeli, if there’s such a thing. Yes, Israeli woman number two. Coincidence, but who knows? Four languages. World-travelled. Soft, doughy, smooth, skin, thick wrists. Shiny, straight…
Goldberry
Called last night, depressed, bawling. Me conked out like a woodpile, incomprehensible. Sleeping. No, talk to me. What? I am awake. No. Who is this? Okay. Tomorrow. Thanks. Bye. She’s fine. Broke up with her boyfriend. Likes me. Very predictable about it. Don’t mind. Smart girl. Loud, loud. Always just a few pitches louder than…
Theft
Not a sitcom plot. Tiki stole props off Star Wars set. He has them still. One of a kind, well, now two of a kind. Couldn’t make movie without them. Can’t tell you what they are, otherwise George Lucas on my doorstep, in my mail, on my phone. Tiki is fake name. True, true.
Alexandra
Tuesday helped her with computer. Died earlier, now better. Two sweet kitties, red sauce with peas, wine, beer, idle chatter, gossip. Nice girl. You’d like her. Dating somebody on a path to fame. Not Harrison Ford fame, more like Ken Ober fame. Maybe. Ran into Henley at the train. Talked to him. Nothing to say.…
Shopping
The refrigerator is empty, trudge to the market. Bread, milk, cereal, fruit. The lines huge, twisting, unruly. Sunday afternoon. Pick the least long line. Right is a large woman, Trinidad in her voice, light. Not reading magazine in her left hand. One foot on the axle of a shopping cart, empty. “Andre! Andre. Get your…
Photo
Tech magazine, trade journal disease. Article victims shown in photos with arms crossed. Who crosses their arms for photos? Nobody. Photographers ask for it. Lame trick. Says, I think I’m tough, but my arms are crossed to protect me. From the camera, dumb photo monkeys. Why are businesswomen shown with lips pursed and eyebrows raised?…