Entries from October 2004 ↓

(I just finished watching the second 2004 Presidential debate. I also just finished a vodka and tonic.)

First of all I want to send MAD LOVE to the lady in the audience with the American flag shirt on. You, Flag Shirt Lady, probably thought long and hard about what you would wear on national t.v. You decided to wear the American flag shirt to the debate after much debate. You wanted to stand out. Let me tell you Flag Shirt Lady, you really did. Oh say can you see, you really did.

I would also like to start by pointing out that Bush did way, way better this time around. Sure, what he was saying was lie after failed joke after lie, but he completed most of his sentences. He didn’t look like a short busser stuck on pause. He didn’t look like a kid in a booster chair stuck behind a lecturn like during the last debate. He looked eager. He looked parched. But he wasn’t drooling and stuttering and so people are going to be all, “LOOK! HE WON! Bush gets a cookie!”

Kerry was more passionate and eloquent this bout, calling Bush out on lies and boasts about boosting jobs and homeland safety and the environment. He was steadfast and unyielding. Bush was better than he was before, but Kerry was just as great as he was the first time around. And that is what he needs. To counter the Republican’s only charge against him: that he is inconsistent. By being great–the same great that he was the first round–he makes the flip-flopper charge look pretty flimsy.

Here are other thoughts, at random:

-The lack of a constant split-screen was to Kerry’s detriment. Bush didn’t smirk as much as before, but he did grind his teeth all night like he did a fat rail before hitting the stage. A president who chews his cud might be a president to let out to pasture.

-Bush called this here thing “the internets.” Plural. Gore invented the motherfucking thing, and this asshole can’t even pronounce it.

-I’m really, really glad they talked about Supreme Court nominations. That is one of the most pertinent issues to me in determining who wins this election. If Bush is elected and 3-4 justices resign as is projected, then women in this country will be forced to have a child if they become pregnant. Count on it. I don’t want to even think about what other travesties might take place. Note Bush joked about the question when asked.

-And that is another thing. It was highly amusing to watch Bush tell limp joke after limp joke and having them each fail. You’d think Bill Cosby was onstage during Bush’s campaign speeches thanks to his ass-licking hand-picked audience members. At tonight’s debate there were a couple of sympathy laughs. But mostly silence. I may have even heard an audible groan. Then Kerry totally killed when he joked about Charles Gibson not getting a tax break under his plan due to his $200,000+ a year salary. Because that was actually funny. [Hey! You need some wood?]

-How many times, I wonder, did Bush say, “That’s just the way it is.” That’s just the way it is?! You can’t say that in a debate! That is about as good as, “Because I said so.”

-Near the end Bush said, “Thank you all. It was enjoyable.” His face said, “Fuck you all. Tonight was freaking hell. I need a beer.”

-In Bush’s defense, he did call the terrorists “haters.” That was pretty cool. Except I think he spells it “haterz.” With a ‘z’.

If anyone still needs or wants a Gmail account, leave a comment here that includes a working email address. I’m tired of Gmail telling me I have six invites left.

The clientele at the restaurant where I work is quite varied. No one brings their kids, except for Sunday brunch, but we regularly serve just about every other age group. There is a single consistent characteristic in each patron that walks through our doors: They are all ridiculously lousy with money. Not “lousy” as in bad with money. “Lousy” as in infested with it.

The people I wait on can otherwise be charcaterized and grouped as such:

Music Industry Shitheads - These cool cats are always wearing jeans with their ties and waving around marked-on CD-Rs that bear the names of tomorrow’s hottest country music sensations. They order bottled water instead of drinking from the tap, and they answer my questions with things like, “Medium rare. Rock on.”

Totally Annoying Salespeople - They always, always need to borrow my pen.

Vandy Students - The Vanderbilt students who eat where I work are not representative of all Vanderbilt students. But the ones who eat where I work ALL LOOK THE SAME. It is some kind of freaky, I tell ya. The girls are thin. Endlessly, unbelievably thin with super, super shiny stick-straight hair. They all wear the same ponchos and flouncy skirts and kitten heels. Their tans are even the exact same, the kind of flawless tan that only truly rich people have time to achieve. The guys all have the same dopey, conservative haircut and Polo shirts and crisp khaki trousers. They are all so humorless-looking and stale.

Vandy Professors - Vanderbilt professors look like actors playing professors in some stupid movie. Bowties for the gentlemen and topknots for the ladies. They are usually very quiet in a cranky way, and often dine alone.

Doctor’s Office Ladies - Doctors love to take the nurses and assistants and administrative types out to eat for their birthdays and whatnot where I work. They come in dressed in their scrubs and order “tea punch” (which we don’t have) and ask for straws and baskets of bread. THEY MUST EACH HAVE A STRAW. Straws are apparently a pressing, urgent matter for doctor’s office ladies.

Anal Face Club - These are the women who’ve had so much plastic surgery that their faces have caved in to resemble the butt orifice known as an asshole. They did not have a face lift or little tummy tuck. These women have implanted their cheeks and crumbled their noses and stretched their eyelids all out. They often have the body of a 20-year-old woman with their fake tits and tiny, tiny frames. It is impossible to estimate the ages of any of the Anal Face Club, but I would guess the average age is somwhere between 65 and 108. Their hands give it away.

Lawyers - It has been my experience that lawyers are endlessly amused by how much money they make, bringing it up often in conversation. But only to other lawyers.

Wears-sunglasses-indoors Artists - We have our fair share of print artists and designers and gallery owners and painters who come in high, wearing their sunglasses. They are often so fucked up they have to be escorted to the table at which time they order something off the menu of the restaurant our owner had over five years ago.

The Mean Girls - They don’t frequent the place as much as some of these other groups, but on occasion rich teenaged girls’ mothers talk them into going out to eat as a family. These girls are also thin, but you can see just how thin they are thanks to the tiny swathes of Gucci material they call clothing. These 13-year-old chicks are carrying $500 Coach purses around on 6″ designer heels! They look like sorry, pre-pubescent Paris Hilton clones until they order Shirley Temples. Then it is easy to remember they are just little girls.

Waldorf/Montessori Moms - No make-up for these moms! NO TIME! They are just too busy being the most nuturing parent they can be to their OBVIOUSLY brilliant 5-year-old who finally learn to shit in a toilet. Montessori moms often talk about what fabric is best the for bringing out the genius in their toddler, and how they’ve taken away all the black crayons in the house because it’s best to give a child only cheery options. They always take their uneaten food to-go, even if it is just a few grilled vegetables lying limply on an empty plate. They drive Volvos. They tip for shit.

-Tretorns (I desperately wanted blue plaid ones.)

-Keds (We could only afford the generic version. To my 12-year-old self that tiny blue label on the back was as much a status symbol as any Bentley or diamond ring. I got a pair of hand-me-down Keds from my cousin. They were completely trashed, brown with a big, huge hole in the toe. I wore them proudly anyway, making sure to mention how badly I needed to replace my Keds to anyone who gave my worn old shoes the hairy eyeball.)

-navy blue sweatpants (Gym in 7th grade required a uniform. A public school-issued shorts and t-shirt set worn by some other pubescent kid last year. Or you could just wear the provided shirt and wear navy blue sweatpants brought from home. We couldn’t get the sweatpants. I was one of two girls in my entire grade who did not wear sweatpants to gym. And I was one of one girls in my entire grade who was not allowed to shave their legs. That experience left me a scarred, wounded woman.)

-Eastlands (Specifically the soft brown shoes basically made of three panels of leather that tied with brown and yellow laces. It was trendy in my junior high to loop the shoelace around on itself like little curls on each side, leaving them a bit loose and untied. I got the generic version of that shoe, which was made of brown plastic and held together by glue.)

-I.O.U. sweatshirt (This highlights my redneck past brilliantly. Anybody but me remember those hideous things? Gaudy $45 sweatshirts best paired with mis-matched socks, a turtleneck underneath and a banana clip. Again, I got the generic version, which was I.O.V. or some shit.)

-balloon barrettes (I’m not even sure you could buy these in stores, but all the most popular girls in my school had them. Dozens of unblown-up balloons glued to a clip. ALL the coolest girls had them, and I wanted one too. I bought a pack of balloons and found a broke old clip and grabbed up some Elmer’s and went to town. The balloon barrette I made was big and beautiful, and my hair had finally grown long enough to get a little chipmunk ponytail in back, so I wore my balloon barrette proudly to school. And died over and over again all day long as balloons fell off one by one leaving me with a sad balding balloon barrette.)

-Duck Head shorts (These went especially well with the balloon barrettes.)

-Debbie Gibson Electric Youth perfume (I actually finally got this! For Christmas! And it wasn’t too already out of style. But when your first bottle of perfume is hot pink and smells like bubblegum floor wax, someone ought to tell you how to wear it. Light spritz at the nape or wrist. Rarely both. I, however, wanted everyone to know I was wearing Debbie Gibson’s Electic Youth perfume so I woke up every morning and swum in it.)

I’ve reworked a short story I wrote and published here a long time ago for submission into my first ever writing contest. The new version of the story is posted below. Feel free to make constructive comments about the piece if you want. But you’d better hurry. Deadline is in just a few hours.

Have You Seen Darryl?

Darryl was allergic to onions, something he told me every time I saw him. He showed up late because he always worked late. He’d had the same job for twenty-six years working second shift at the local telephone company. He told me he hated it there, that he was tied all day to his desk. He was 55 and had to raise his hand for permission to piss. He spoke to no one at his job because no one spoke to him. A co-worker once suggested he may know my phone number, which made something behind my eyes tingle and my stomach hurt.

Darryl carried a strip of velvet in his pants pocket. He took it out sometimes and rubbed it between the thumb and third finger of his left hand. He stroked the material with purpose and affection.

Long Island Teas mixed in frozen pint glasses was his drink of choice. I mixed them strong for him. He drank them up eagerly and through a straw. In between sips he propped his stubbly chin on the rim of the glass while he waited.

Always waited. Always waited for me to speak to him first. His eyelids and hairline and brow were eager for attention as I refilled the ice or turned his way to ring up a check. He sat just behind the register where it was hard to hear him and difficult to reach his glass. But it was where he could be seen. He got up to use the bathroom many times and whenever he wanted.

He only came in twice a month or so, but every time he did all he talked about was Felicity Robie. Some jazz vocalist with whom he was obsessed. When he whispered her name he would nod and rub his papery hands together. Always whispering. Always requiring you to lean into him. Every time he came in I promised to find some of Felicity’s music, maybe on the internet. He really seemed to want me to and asked me to each time he came in. By the time I’d closed the bar and smoked a joint with the manager in the parking lot I’d already forgotten my promise.

I asked Darryl what he did for Christmas just before January arrived. He told me that he did nothing again, just ate some tacos and listened to Felicity Robie.

With what felt like a punch to the gut I recalled his account of Thanksgiving. It was much the same. Except in November he bought Burger King and rented some videos. I spotted that his icy glass was empty before I could think of a response and was thankful for an escape from his expectant face. I wish I’d remembered he had no one. I would have invited him over for my own meager Christmas dinner. Except I wouldn’t have because he stared right into my mouth when I spoke, his lips parted, his tongue visible, quivering and snake-like. Because he was forever folding his papery hands.

One night an hour before midnight, just before the managers locked up the front doors, Darryl slipped in. He marched straight in and spoke without waiting. He shouted out my name. I turned and saw him in the lobby, hidden under a shiny navy blue slicker, his face wet from the walloping rainstorm that had kept the bar mostly empty that night. He stood only a foot away from me and held up a clear plastic baggie polka-dotted with droplets of rain. Inside it were two colorful concert tickets. Felicity Robie’s name was printed boldly in a square-ish font on each.

“Did you listen to any of her songs yet?,” he spoke again. Again without waiting. My eyes fell to the broom I that was supporting my weight as I shook my head no.

He carefully removed one of the tickets from the bag, then wrapped it in the scrap of velvet he pulled from his front left pants pocket. He took my wrist and tucked the ticket into my palm. Before he let go he held my hand in his for a few seconds. It felt nothing at all like paper. Then blinked and turned and dissolved into the downpour.

The bar stopped chilling pint glasses a few months later.

I now own all of Felicity Robie’s albums and a few of her imports, too.

You can read the final, submitted version inside.
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