Saturday, January 29, 2005
That Person Wanted To Talk To You, Rob. Fuck Them
I am sitting on the black leather couch in my old apartment, watching Maurice play some video game where all you do is kill people. Rob is supine on the very same couch, asleep, ocassionally woken up by his phone. Nearby, Joey is also asleep, snoring, on a futon, an avocado-colored blanket covering most of his body.
It is Saturday afternoon, January 29th, 2005. The weather is partly cloudy outside, and cold. There isn't a blue sky so much as a white and light blue marble slate high up above us. From this apartment on the 30th floor, I can see all over--the Upper West Side to the left and cliffs of New Jersey peeking from between the buildings, Bronx to the north, suburbs far beyond it. The sun is beginning its descent, and subsequently all of the buildings out there are duotones of light and shadow, half covered in a peach-like color, half ashen in shadow.
It is a peaceful afternoon here in the apartment, amongst the sleepers and the cigarette butts and the cellphones. One ponders how many of these peaceful Saturday afternoons there have been throughout history and it makes one kind of woozy. Roman emporers and their ilk would laze around on late afternoons like this, planning out their night, anticipating the revelry. It continues now, centuries later, although we have more shit around to occupy us and keep us from our thoughts, always beneath the surface, bubbling, rolling, coursing about.
I am sitting on the black leather couch in my old apartment, watching Maurice play some video game where all you do is kill people. Rob is supine on the very same couch, asleep, ocassionally woken up by his phone. Nearby, Joey is also asleep, snoring, on a futon, an avocado-colored blanket covering most of his body.
It is Saturday afternoon, January 29th, 2005. The weather is partly cloudy outside, and cold. There isn't a blue sky so much as a white and light blue marble slate high up above us. From this apartment on the 30th floor, I can see all over--the Upper West Side to the left and cliffs of New Jersey peeking from between the buildings, Bronx to the north, suburbs far beyond it. The sun is beginning its descent, and subsequently all of the buildings out there are duotones of light and shadow, half covered in a peach-like color, half ashen in shadow.
It is a peaceful afternoon here in the apartment, amongst the sleepers and the cigarette butts and the cellphones. One ponders how many of these peaceful Saturday afternoons there have been throughout history and it makes one kind of woozy. Roman emporers and their ilk would laze around on late afternoons like this, planning out their night, anticipating the revelry. It continues now, centuries later, although we have more shit around to occupy us and keep us from our thoughts, always beneath the surface, bubbling, rolling, coursing about.
Thursday, January 20, 2005
In Memorium
The world prematurely lost a tremendous voice on January 16th, that of Washington Post columnist Marjorie Williams. To get a sense of the beautiful way in which this woman crafted the English language, please read her final column, from shortly after Halloween of 2004. She knew she would not survive to see the autumn of the next year, and, well...a synopsis cannot do it justice. Please read it.
Thank you.
The Halloween Of My Dreams
Obituary: Columnist Marjorie Williams Dies
The world prematurely lost a tremendous voice on January 16th, that of Washington Post columnist Marjorie Williams. To get a sense of the beautiful way in which this woman crafted the English language, please read her final column, from shortly after Halloween of 2004. She knew she would not survive to see the autumn of the next year, and, well...a synopsis cannot do it justice. Please read it.
Thank you.
The Halloween Of My Dreams
Obituary: Columnist Marjorie Williams Dies
Friday, January 14, 2005
Encyclopedia Dad
Encyclopedia Dad was frustrated. He sat in the garage, forlorn, waiting for the phone to ring. It was a beautiful Saturday morning outside, but he sat in the dark behind a card table and a cardboard sign reading “Encyclopedia Dad: Mysteries Solved. Not A Reference. Don’t Ask. $25.00”
Earlier that morning, Encyclopedia Dad had cracked the case of the effeminate son. It turns out the son was gay, he learned, after finding CDs of musical scores and old issues of Architectural Digest tucked beneath the teenager’s mattress. He had walked into the kitchen that morning, waving a semen-stained copy of the Digest with disgust.
“Encyclopedia Son, what is the meaning of this?” He bellowed, startling Encyclopedia Mom and Encyclopedia Daughter, and sending Encyclopedia Cat running for the living room.
The son had said nothing, staring at his plate of hash browns. Perhaps he felt guilty for having left the clues in such an obvious hiding place. Now it had blown up in his face, and he had no clues himself as to how to handle the situation.
Encyclopedia Dad was most upset that none of the other family members had done any sleuthing of their own to get to the bottom of this. It was on this thought that he dwelled as he sat in the darkened garage/detective’s office, amidst the dusty lawn tools and rusty bicycles.
Around noon, little Maya from across the street knocked on the aluminum garage door. Encyclopedia Dad perked up and activated the automatic garage door opener, only to slouch back to his previous position upon spotting the backlit silhouette of the seven year-old.
“What do you want?” He grumbled. “You can’t possibly have a good case for me.”
Maya skipped forward, an open packet of Skittles clenched tightly in her rosy palm.
“Oh but I do, Ensykopeedier Dad,” she said, her voice lilting above the scrapings of the door opener.
Encyclopedia Dad rolled his eyes. “Oh? And what would that be?”
Maya placed the packet of Skittles in the front pocket of her overalls and reached into her sock. From it, she pulled a small gold ring and a piece of notepaper, folded over repeatedly until in the shape of a small square. Encyclopedia Dad leaned back, arms crossed, perplexed.
“Where’d you get this from?” He asked, as Maya skipped off and away, through the open garage door and out onto the sunny, leafy street.
“Oh no you don’t,” said Encyclopedia Dad. He ran out after her, donning his Sherlock Holmes-style detective’s hat. As he reached the sidewalk, he spotted her, skipping towards the neighboring cul-de-sac. “She’s getting away,” he thought.
Quickly, Encyclopedia Dad reached for his holstered 9mm Glock pistol. Firing one round into the air as a warning but yielding no surrender from the little girl, he ran into the street to his vehicle, a late 1970s-model station wagon with faux-wood side paneling.
Gunning the engine, Encyclopedia Dad rapidly rolled down the driver’s side window to aim the pistol. The last we all saw, he was accelerating down the street, hot on the little girl’s trail, his station wagon receding into the distance under the canopy of elm trees. Exhaust spewed from beneath his Illinois vanity license plate, which simply read “GAY SON.”
We moved from that neighborhood shortly after all the news vans started staking out the place.
Encyclopedia Dad was frustrated. He sat in the garage, forlorn, waiting for the phone to ring. It was a beautiful Saturday morning outside, but he sat in the dark behind a card table and a cardboard sign reading “Encyclopedia Dad: Mysteries Solved. Not A Reference. Don’t Ask. $25.00”
Earlier that morning, Encyclopedia Dad had cracked the case of the effeminate son. It turns out the son was gay, he learned, after finding CDs of musical scores and old issues of Architectural Digest tucked beneath the teenager’s mattress. He had walked into the kitchen that morning, waving a semen-stained copy of the Digest with disgust.
“Encyclopedia Son, what is the meaning of this?” He bellowed, startling Encyclopedia Mom and Encyclopedia Daughter, and sending Encyclopedia Cat running for the living room.
The son had said nothing, staring at his plate of hash browns. Perhaps he felt guilty for having left the clues in such an obvious hiding place. Now it had blown up in his face, and he had no clues himself as to how to handle the situation.
Encyclopedia Dad was most upset that none of the other family members had done any sleuthing of their own to get to the bottom of this. It was on this thought that he dwelled as he sat in the darkened garage/detective’s office, amidst the dusty lawn tools and rusty bicycles.
Around noon, little Maya from across the street knocked on the aluminum garage door. Encyclopedia Dad perked up and activated the automatic garage door opener, only to slouch back to his previous position upon spotting the backlit silhouette of the seven year-old.
“What do you want?” He grumbled. “You can’t possibly have a good case for me.”
Maya skipped forward, an open packet of Skittles clenched tightly in her rosy palm.
“Oh but I do, Ensykopeedier Dad,” she said, her voice lilting above the scrapings of the door opener.
Encyclopedia Dad rolled his eyes. “Oh? And what would that be?”
Maya placed the packet of Skittles in the front pocket of her overalls and reached into her sock. From it, she pulled a small gold ring and a piece of notepaper, folded over repeatedly until in the shape of a small square. Encyclopedia Dad leaned back, arms crossed, perplexed.
“Where’d you get this from?” He asked, as Maya skipped off and away, through the open garage door and out onto the sunny, leafy street.
“Oh no you don’t,” said Encyclopedia Dad. He ran out after her, donning his Sherlock Holmes-style detective’s hat. As he reached the sidewalk, he spotted her, skipping towards the neighboring cul-de-sac. “She’s getting away,” he thought.
Quickly, Encyclopedia Dad reached for his holstered 9mm Glock pistol. Firing one round into the air as a warning but yielding no surrender from the little girl, he ran into the street to his vehicle, a late 1970s-model station wagon with faux-wood side paneling.
Gunning the engine, Encyclopedia Dad rapidly rolled down the driver’s side window to aim the pistol. The last we all saw, he was accelerating down the street, hot on the little girl’s trail, his station wagon receding into the distance under the canopy of elm trees. Exhaust spewed from beneath his Illinois vanity license plate, which simply read “GAY SON.”
We moved from that neighborhood shortly after all the news vans started staking out the place.
