The three of us stood on line for box mail at a filthy, run-down post office branch this morning, and to our surprise, after 10 minutes or so of mutual silence, we discovered we had something in common: A security breach had occurred in the mail rooms at our respective apartment complexes, and delivery was suspended until further notice.
Upon arrival I stood there seething because my breach had taken place more than a month prior. The clerk then asked what my address was and wanted to see my ID. The guy behind me then shared that he lived at my complex, which was about 3 miles west of the post office. And the old lady behind him said she lived a few blocks from us.
We bitched for some minutes about having to travel off-site to retrieve our mail. “At my complex, all we were told was that there was a security concern in the mail room that needed to be addressed,” I stated. We theorized on what our breaches may have entailed as none of us was privy to details of whatever incidents took place.
After I exited the post office, I sat in my car and posted a snarky comment on the community wall on the online portal for residents at my complex. That was at about 9:30 a.m. It is now 4:30 p.m. and the comment has not yet been approved.
The recommendation of 8 hours of sleep
Doing stuff in the daytime and going to bed at night
The regimen of 3 square meals a day
Conventional interior design, such as coffee tables belonging in the living room
The binary in all its incarnations
Standard breakfast items, eg. bagels, bacon, cereal, pancakes — it’s all fat, grease and sugar
Getting married and having kids
Looking before you leap
Avoiding conversation with strangers
I fancied that the large sign mounted on high along Jones Boulevard advertised for a cosmic dentist. A streetlight had obstructed the “et” in the word cosmetic.
The doc himself was pictured alongside the enormous text, laughing, seemingly at me, as if I had purple skin and multiple heads, maybe six eyes.
I sat at the red light and imagined that the doc provided magic mushrooms or peyote to his patients in lieu of laughing gas or procaine.
Last night while watching the first Spider-Man film with Tobey Maguire for like the third time, it dawned on me that Peter Parker’s aunt and uncle were cut from the same template as Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham from the old sitcom Happy Days, both of who were American archetypes. This seems to make a degree of sociological sense being as the Spider-Man comic was created in 1962. No?
Which would make Peter Parker somewhat of a Fonzie figure — you know, infallible and all. With the exception of Peter Parker being a social klutz, in contrast to The Fonz’s finesse and charm.
That’s about the only semi-interesting thing I have to say today, methinks. It’s hard to have more than just one or two decent observations when all you do is go to work during the week and then restrict your weekend social activities to grocery shopping.
I will say that I like that when you watch a movie multiple times over the course of whatever time period, you start to gain enough original insights and ideas about it that seem almost essay-worthy.
Almost anyone with hiccups will sound cute. Just like almost anyone with a cold — when they speak, that is.
I like the way people’s voices sound when they just wake up. Sort of scratchy yet soothing.
Maybe people sound better or come across as more winsome when their defenses are down.
It’s not merry Christmas or happy holidays or have a nice Kwanzaa or Hanukkah. It’s:
Unidentified driving object.
Because I see more than my fair share of dicey, ambiguous-looking vehicles on the road here in Las Vegas. Trucks held together with twine & such. Rickety automobiles in danger of collapsing in a cloud of dust & smoke like the occasional hotel-casino implosions here in town.
How’s this for the first line of a short story?
“They couldn’t avoid being slobs at the restaurant table during their first date.”
I mean, anything can happen after that. Just anything. But I like it ’cause right off the bat it’s a predicament.
We could make these two people horny as fuck. And you know where it would go from there. Someone passes the ketchup, and then one thing leads to another. Mayhem. Half-cooked hamburger meat and everything else. Pickles. Soda. Hot sauce, for crying out loud.
Or perhaps they are guests at a wedding where lobster is being served. Assuming it’s a woman and a man, the woman would have to wrangle with the shell to exhume the meat, which may or may not look appealing to the male. Maybe the woman’s hands might look too masculine, or maybe she has really short nails, and the fact that she is digging into something moist and fleshy makes them look all the worse. And the guy — maybe he can’t bust open the shell. Or he gets stabbed by a claw and makes a big deal over it. Walks around in a huff looking for the first-aid kit and such. Yells at the waiter. The woman’s father shaking his head disapprovingly. Nobody getting any that night.
they had a long conversation over coffee at the coffee place. Uninterrupted eye contact. She was leaning toward him, hunched over the table. He was leaning back in his chair — reclining almost, wearing pricey sweats, footies and Nike SBs. She was in a dishy black dress and pumps, had big eyelashes on. She had long hair, nearly down to her butt, but she still managed to make a bun on top of her head, as in ancient Rome like a patrician. A participant of taxpayer-supported orgies. The guy, meanwhile, looked delighted. His nose was long and sharp. He had a maniacal smile. He showed her a photo on his cellphone. She laughed, mouth wide, in a deriding way. She was playing with her hair. He was gesturing, attempting to look sincere. She concurred. Leaned in toward him and laughed. She went to pee and then came back and nursed the last of her water. His macchiato was now just a puddle of foam and ice. They stared at each other, wordless. She tapped her upper lip with the tip of her finger, smirking at him, playing at suspicion.
The mushroom lady is afoot after a winter-long downtime. She has the air of someone who worked in retail or perhaps an administrative office in a grade school. In her Old Navy shorts and button-down shirt and her hair done like Margaret Thatcher, she prowls the grounds of the apartment complex for sprouts of fungi. Then she sits on the ground and tears away tufts of the lawn like a kid in a sandbox.
Did her line of work have her yanking out hair of her own?
Or maybe she suffered a broken heart?
A widow, sometimes she uses
her two small dogs as a ruse
to go digging for mushrooms
more than once a day, the
yield stashed in a plastic
bag in lieu of poop,
which she allows
the dogs to do,
but she does
A middle-aged businessman, dressed accordingly, at lunchtime does not enjoy the presence of his wife. He does not appreciate her neon green footies, worn with black patent-leather loafers. He doesn’t think much of her tie-dye yoga pants, which ride up above her ankles. He does not go in for her emerald green velour pullover. They sat on stools at the wine bar inside the restaurant on a workday afternoon.
“Wallpaper to ashes to sky / sunrise to necklace to embrace / we are running our hands through our hair…” -Kevin Weisner, from a poem called “Memoire,” published by the Berkeley Poetry Review in 1992, Issue 26.
From miles away, downtown Vegas looked like a smoker’s lounge.