Crowded To Death

2004-01-12T17:09:00.000-08:00

McGinty, I loved that poem you posted.

Everything is sexual, sensual, residing in grey areas and tucked away in the nooks of our brains. Of course, I am coming from a biased standpoint, much like the women Freud studied. Sexually repressed. Even within the sexual revolution sexual repression stands tall, a monolith.

Why am I writing this? Where did this thought start? So far back that I cannot trace the synapses wherein with they originated. I suppose this line of thought was picked up in the blog I previously refered to. The two versions of women: the ideal & the real, the muse & she who ceaselessly dissapoints, the virgin & the whore. You know them both so well. Sensuality is not perpetual. I said that everything is sensual, but I really mean that we constantly see, thirst for, the sensual. We seek it, we revel in it: the moment, an afterglow. Then it ends.

That's how it is with drugs. I remember the first time I dropped acid. I was fourteen and seeking the answers to the universe. I found them for a moment. For a day. They lingered, maybe for a week, and then slowly dissapated.

Oh, that was so real.

2003-12-05T21:35:00.000-08:00

Went out to a poetry reading with my girlfriend the other night. She needed to attend one for a class and, with the semester almost over, the local shitty West San Fernando Valley poetry reading at this nearby coffee shop was the quickest, easiest one to catch.

I went along. I love poetry readings. I love to hear people read: good, bad, it's all entertaining to me. In fact, I'm not sure if I enjoy the awful poems MORE than the good ones. After a drink or two, they can certainly be more fun.

So we had a nice, heavy-handed drink under our belts from the bar three doors down when we strolled into the coffee house. The place hadn't changed much since I was eighteen: same old Salvation Army furniture; blue paint clung in clumpy masses to the walls like spoilt milk; even the MC was the same guy from all those years ago. He looked as if he'd grown slightly stouter. He's a rather short man, writes very funny poems. We used to sit near each other and pass notes making fun of readers or whatever. I remember one night in particular he decided to take a romantic turn; he wrote back to some haughty comment I had made about this guy who called himself Chief Tail Feather, this man who read the same 3 poems week after week, saying how naughty we were to pass notes. This was followed by a comment about how he was the perfect guy for me to take home to mommy: nice & Jewish on the outside, but oh so naughty on the inside. Unable to decide how to respond, I never returned the note. I still have it in an old notebook of poems. Sometime after that I stopped going there. That's how I deal with all men who make me uncomfortable--ignore and avoid them.

Yeah, back to the reading. So there was the MC; I was glad to see that he had a little girlfriend/groupie at his side, laying her head fondly upon his miniature shoulder. A man was reading humorous poems about crazy people on the Greyhound bus and stuff like that. It was funny enough, I suppose, but we were surprised to hear that this guy was THE FEATURED POET. The quality of said performance was a frightening allusion to what was yet to come.

Every poetry reading should be accompanied by many cigarettes, and it was during their ingestion that I saw him. Skinny, dark, not tall, but skinny enough to look tall. He wore a suit. I did the mental calculations and decided that at this point in his life (6-7 years after the fact) he could indeed be wearing a suit. He shot me a look that my friend didn't notice; she was absorbed in recounting the details of a poem she had read in her poetry workshop earlier.

I know I said I love poetry readings. I don't. Everyone's a poet. Everyone's own experiences are the only thing of any importance to them -- that's why they write crap and then stand proudly in front of others, spewing nonsensical bullshit into a microphone and looking rather pleased with themselves. I know the people at those readings and what they think about while others abnormal speaking patterns with which to recite their scribbles: they think only of THEIR poems, THEIR pieces, the way the audience will respond to THEM.

So while the next poet read his (her?) piece, I sat staring across the room at HIM, the man I assumed to be the one who gave me an STD over 6 years ago. It's not pretty. It's especially ugly to be a girl, taught from the start that her parts and pieces are nasty and dirty, and be diagnosed with an illness in the nether-regions of her undies. I was foul. I was ashamed. And here he was. My stomach was at the floor in the darkness of the coffee shop and I was staring at him from across the room and I was seized by an impulse to do both something and nothing at the same time.

It reminded me of when a father of one of the kids I worked with (also the ex of one of my co-workers) hit on me in front of a crowd of anxious parents waiting to take their kids home from school. We spoke briefly, he moved in for a hug, and I stood frozen as he stroked my side and hip, too confused to push away until something finally clicked and I moved away. After that, everytime I'd see him, I was overcome by this impulse to both act and not act; I would see him, my stomach would drop, and I would quickly take off in the other direction.

I sat there looking at him. Did he know it was me? Did he know that he had left something within me that turned the cells of my cervix against me? I was angry. I was ready to approach him at the next interlude provided for the ingestion of nicotine.

The short MC called out a name I'd never heard and he walked to the stage. With the spotlight on him, he looked different -- skinnier, more sallow in coloring, a forehead more prominent than I remembered. He cleared his throat and began to read.

It wasn't him. The voice was too quiet, the words too garbled. He held himself all wrong. He was someone else.

2003-11-15T17:44:00.000-08:00

Jesus Christo! I can't come up with an epigraph for the following correspondence between me & the man I have previously referred to as the Jew Freak. Suffice it to say that we have a class together & that he is working on a group project with me so a dialogue is sometimes a necessary evil. And now, for your reading pleasure/displeasure, if you are bored enough/have enough time to kill, a bizarre series of e-mail between me and a man who insists on addressing me using only my Hebrew name. . .

Dear Fellow Jews,

Yesterday, I was at a counter-rally at the Santa Monica Pier, opposing a large group of barbaric Moslem savages waiving the so-called Palestinian flag as they CELEBRATED the 65th anniversary of German crystalnacht against us Jews. After only being there maybe fifteen minutes, somebody on our side mentioned that a Rabbi was speaking in support of the barbaric moslem savage enemy. Curious to see if it was a certain well-known local hyphenated controversial rabbi whose name I better not mention, I went to see who was this Los Angeles kapo. Thank G-d it was not who I thought it was, but the speaker was a Jew nevertheless, and so I yelled out "Self-Hating Jew! You have zero credibility!" This may sound harsh, but it is quite tame for rallies such as these. Anyway, upon me voluminously vocalizing my mini-editorial, approximately 50-60 Jew-haters surrounded me, standing literally inches from me, so close that I could feel their hot, foul camel breath. One man stood particularly close to me, with a sign blocking me from seeing the self-hating Jewish speaker. I waved the sign away, much s one might brush one's hair away from one's eyes.which turned out to be my huge, utterly foolish mistake. The police proceeded to escort me away, later telling me that they did this for my safety, but meanwhile they arrested me for assault and battery!..yes, me, the Jewish Teddy Bear!..they actually had me in a holding cell, which they released me from after around three tense filled yet boring hours. They would not even give me a magazine to read! The police officer who spoke to me was a guy named Lewis, and was admittedly pretty nice to me, as he seemed to know that I am not an evil hardened criminal felon type of guy. Seeing my attitude, he let me go without requiring bail from me at all, although he did say that I am due to stand trial December 9th.

Then there those of you I am writing to you who had absolutely nothing to do with today's event, but may think highly enough of me to maybe perhaps be character witnesses for me, who can testify how I am G-d's gift to mankind so the judge can let me go. Okay fine, so I am delusory, I am a no-goodnick, but at least help me because I am a fellow Jew who is not SUCH a terrible person. Does it help me that i am a direct descendant of the Ba'al Shem Tov? Perhaps you can write a favorable letter to the hanging judge with the deep southern drawl, white hood, and swastika tatoo who is presiding over my case. Knowing the vendetta of deep hatred they have for us jews, i have no doubt that many of our barbaric moslem savage enemy willl show up in court that day, so you showing up to court that day in support of me may let the judge know that I am not really ganghis khan after all.

Any other constructive ideas you can give me, other than berating me for attending a silly, useless rally rather than engaging in studying the Torah (I know that already), would be greatly appreciated.

Shavuah tov...

R.
Jailbird of Alcatraz

R.,

I am sorry to hear about your experience at the rally and if what you say is so, it would seem that you were treated quite unjustly. However, I find the some of your racist-loaded jargon very offensive. Please either refrain from using such slurs in your e-mails to me or just don't send those e-mails at all.
Anna

dear chana,

i think we need to put things in perspective here. what is more crucial, that i am in serious trouble with the law because i care about israel, or that my speech does not quite fit into the politically correct mold?

by the way, what exactly did i say that is so racist? is it perhaps that i refer to the moslems as barbaric savages? what else does one call a group of people whose vast majority in mainstream poll after mainstream poll fully backs those moslems who murder the most innocent of jews for sport? if political correctness demands that i call those moslem savages poor and oppressed, does that mean i should call the nazis victims as well? because, whether you realize it or not, the moslems are continuing the job not quite finished by hitler. as an important aside, i think you need to be aware that the moslems do not distinguish between liberal secular jews and more traditional jews. they murder us jews simply because we are jews.

i will try to resist the temptation to suppose that maybe you have just been looking for some time now for some excuse to dislike me.

shavuah tov....
R.

R.,
This has nothing to do with politically correctness. I am personally offended by name-calling: "barbarian Muslim hordes," "foul camel breath," etc. I would expect more from a Jew because Jews have suffered through persecution and racism for centuries. It's sad to me that such a background wouldn't give you a better perspective on lumping all folks together. There are bad people of every race, creed, and culture as well as good people.
This also has nothing to do with not liking you. You said (or wrote) something that offended me and it was important for me to let you know that I do not like it and would appreciate you refraining from speaking/writing like that to me. You act as if I have never met anyone of the Muslim faith, or perhaps as if you never have. The Muslims I know are kind, respectful, regular folk. And yes, they know I am Jewish.

The crisis in the Middle East has to do with a lot more than religion.
Anna

Dear Chana,

I woke up this morning exhausted, and have tried to wait until I have enough energy to adequately respond to you. Unfortunately, I still have the energy of a zombie, so I am not sure if what I am about to say will make any coherent sense to you.

Also, before I get into the topic at hand itself, I want to say that only thing that really bothers me about anything you said is that I may have offended you. To be honest, even if you have the most unfavorable opinion of me, I like you a lot and never want you to feel hurt by me in any way. We may have our disagreements about various topics, but I find you to be one of the most brilliant people I have ever met, as if you are so filled with new, intensely deep, original, and profound ideas that can hardly wait to become manifest. I am sure I am not the first person who has noticed this quality about you.

Getting to the topic at hand, part of the reason why I have used the term political correctness in this situation is that part of that concept involves placing feelings above truth. What matters most to the politically correct crowd is not what is true or false, but what feels good and what spares the most feelings of people. Do not misunderstand, of course being considerate of people's feelings are extremely important. Yet we cannot simply throw truth out the window. Kindness must be balanced with truth.

Back in the 1930's, a very powerful man in the Roosevelt cabinet whom you have no doubt heard of by the name of Joseph Kennedy Sr believed that the nazi philosophy of the master race with all of its horrific consequences is as legitimate a system of government as is the American philosophy of freedom, opportunity, and liberty. You being such an intelligent person, I am sure you would agree that this is an absurdly evil philosophy. Now, ever wonder why is it that no sane person objects when we say the most insulting things about nazis? Precisely because we realize how utterly evil the nazi philosophy was.

Now, compare the Jews and Moslems. I do not want to make this into a doctoral thesis, but the contrast between the two cultures is at least as glaring as the differences that existed between nazi Germany and the United States. Compared to their numbers, Jews have made far more cultural contributions than any other people on earth. The Jewish state of Israel is the only democracy in the middle east. Think of all the Jewish Nobel Prize Winners, the Jonus Salk, the Albert Einsteins, the Arthur Millers, and so on. Think of all the Jewish doctors, social workers, accountants, and so on. The Moslems, in contrast, have contributed very little to civilization. I sense you getting angry when I say this, but remember, I said very little, not nothing. There is a group of mystical Moslems called the Sufis, and they are actually a very peaceful group of people. But they number about five million compared to 1.2 billion Moslems in the world. There are a handful of truly peaceful Moslems who are not even Sufis, but those who make themselves known are promptly murdered by their Moslem colleagues. It is not a fringe fanatical group that is somehow defaming Islam; it is mainstream Islam itself that is evil and corrupt. Mainstream poll after mainstream poll shows that the vast majority of Moslems approve of suicide bombing Jews. 95% of educated Saudi Arabians were found to approve of what happened on September 11th.

Chana, the mideast is not the Midwest. I think the difficulty in you accepting what I am saying is that you are such a nice person. My point is NOT to flatter you, but rather to make a point. You, and other civilized people like you, respond well to kindness. That is, the nicer a person is to you, the more you will be encouraged to be nice to them. I have always seen you behave in such a sweet way, and so for all I know, maybe you are not capable of being mean back to those who are mean to you. And yet, you are human, and so I am sure that when people ARE mean to you, that there is a part of you who resents them. Now, I hesitate to say what I am about to say, because I see you not so much as some sort of leftist radical, but rather this really sweet, innocent person that may not realize the often cruel ways of the world. The thing is, really evil people are not like you at all, at least not in the following moral sense: mean people interpret niceness as weakness, and have respect only for harshness. This is how it has been in Israel. Every time the Jews try to make peace, either through formal treaties or by withdrawing our troops, the Moslems mock us and proceed to murder even more of us Jews. Likewise, the tougher Israel gets with the Moslems, the more they back off in fear.

I could greatly bolster my case with some very dramatic, extremely sad examples, including people I know indirectly, who have been murdered in cold blood by the Moslems. But I do not want to lose the focus of my point, that some cultures are indeed more evil than other cultures. Now, if you protest by saying that not ALL Moslems are like that, you are again talking like a nice, civilized American rather than as a horribly backward, primitive, violent Moslem. Remember, America is a free country. We can live and think and speak as we please. There is room for a whole range of thought in this great country of ours, and it is all okay. Moslem countries are America's exact opposite. If somebody speaks their mind, they are murdered. Just yesterday I heard of a case where a student expressed his view that Islam is an evolving religion. The teacher responded by grabbing the young man, and throwing him out the window to his death.

One more important point to make, and this is one of the scariest things of all I have to say about this whole subject. Several generations ago, when Israel had not yet been recognized as an officially modern country, Jews and Moslems in Israel did indeed live side by side in peace. In fact, they were often neighbors, and the Moslem children would play with the Jewish children. And then, the massacres of 1929 came. Once the Moslem leaders called for mass murder of Jews, these supposedly friendly, civilized Moslems not only joined in on the bloodshed against the Jews, but also because they had been such intimate neighbors, knew all the secret places in the homes where the Jewish men, women, and children were hiding. So when you say you are friends with Moslems, I just hope and pray that those Moslems are either the peaceful Sufi Moslems, or are so secular that Islam is not even a real force in their lives. Because if they are devout Moslems, the moment they think they can get away with it, they may do you some major harm. G-d should protect you from such horror.

Anyway, I know much of what I said is horrifying, and maybe it is not my place to make you see life in its stark, disturbing realism rather than the pure, idealistic way you see the world. Yet as somebody who cares about you, I feel that if you know what dangers you and our Jewish people face, you can better protect yourself.

Shavuah tov..

R.

*These next two e-mails refer to a quarrel we had while working on our group project. We were asked to create a two week curriculum for high school students based on a theme. Our theme is revenge.*

dear chana,

i challenge you to answer the following questions.

ghettos are riddled with, among other things, gang warfare. people who live in ghettos either directly or indirectly experience the consequences of such violence. so how is it racist to say that ghetto students understand revenge?

you said that i had been making non stop racist comments all night long. can you come up with any actual examples?

saddam hussein has murdered countless thousands of his own people, including his sons-in-law. he rewards famlies of suicide bombers $25,000. he envisions himself to take over the entire middle east. he would just as soon send a suicide bomber to radical leftist jews as he would to more traditional jews. so why is it evil to stop him? would you also have been against fighting hitler during the 1930's and 1940's?

who do you think is more evil, saddam hussein or president bush?

if it is racist to name authors like shakespeare, milton, and hemingway is exemplary authors of great literature because they are dead white males, does that mean that music of beatle john lennon, who himself was a leftist radical who supported irish terorism against the british, is music that one should not listen to? should we only study literature of radicals and minorities? but isn't that in itself a form of intolerance and racism?

shabbat shalom...

R.

R.,
I did not say that you had been making racist comments all night. I said that I was amazed at the way racist shit just spews out of your mouth so easily. By reading what I really said, you can see that my actual comment was aimed at more than just that evening. What amazes me is that you say things that are packed with a Western/white superior sentiment and you either can't see it or deny it.

Consider the statement about "ghetto youth". Why is revenge only pertinent to "ghetto youth"? I think revenge is something EVERYONE can understand. I felt that your comment betrayed the way that you buy into stereotypes because you only pointed out the way that revenge relates to "ghetto youth" -- meaning black, impoverished, inner city youth. Furthermore, although it was not explicit, your statement that night & your statements in the e-mail that I am replying to imply that it is those students who are the most difficult to reach the traditional way. Being as I know your stance on the "superiority" of the Western Classics, it is obvious to me that this (for you) has a strongly negative connotation.

My goal in this e-mail is to clarify what I said as well as what I meant. I'm not going to answer your other questions because they are over-simplifications of much, much larger issues. Suffice it to say that I think Saddam Hussein is a very bad man & that I like Shakespeare. However, you are baiting me with these "questions" & I don't appreciate it. Do you really think that I would support Hitler? Or that I think that it is racist to name S., M. & H. as great authors? Open your mind a little! The views you oppose are not as simplistic as you make them out to be & if you really think they are, then you're just not paying attention.
Anna

2003-11-13T18:13:00.000-08:00

I got a letter the other day from my oldest, bestest girlfriend, Jennifer. She's been living in France since she went to the IMF rally in Prague in 2000 & met Benoit, her crazy, brilliant anarchist husband. Now they live off of the socialist welfare system on a cooperative with other anarchists/leftists/guerilla political warriors. It's an interesting life.

Jennifer is in a state of utter turmoil, wanting to come back to the states and nurse her mother (who is apparently dying of diabetes and heart disease) and be active in her own sick country rather than someone else's sick country.

I want her to come home. I miss her. We used to take long walks and read each other's poetry and she would call me on the phone when she was sad and I'd sing depressing, sappy songs to her until she could sleep. No one has ever understood me as completely as she does, and no one has ever made me feel like the person I've always wanted to be.

This is becoming a lament to Jennifer. How sad. It is almost as if I am picking the lint out of someone else's belly button.

I want to say how her super-political nature makes me feel almost completely a-political. I mean, I don't think I've written anything remotely political on this short-lived blog and although I vote religiously, protest occasionally, and spew my own personal political commentary whenever the desire hits me, still I feel the Terminator/Dubya/privatization/compassionate conservative/war hungry wave of idiocy is wearing down my optimism.

Quentin and I often argue about America. And people. I suppose it's the same argument, in a sense. Quentin doesn't like people (you'd never know this if you met him because he is one of the friendliest, nicest people around). Okay, my little aside there makes me want to re-state this -- Quentin thinks that people have an inherent "badness." I, on the other hand, think that people, deep down, are good. The same, in a sense, goes for America. Quentin thinks this is just an evil nation. Well, not evil, but immoral, greedy, and generally despicable. I have always felt a strong connection to my American-ness, but not the kind that those "Proud to be an American" people are talking about. I am proud to be connected to the same historical background as Ben Franklin, Roger Williams, the early feminsists (Emma Goldman, Mathilda Jocelyn Gage, Elizabeth Caddy Stanton) and the abolishinists, Mark Twain, Thoreau, jazz, MLK & Malcom X & Ceaser Chavez & on & on in that same vein. Howard Zinn's America.

But weren't all those people against much of what America stands for? So where does that leave me?

I am depressed by the last 5 years (my personal last five years have been quite good; I mean politically) and the time before that, I was too young to really pay all that much attention. I am depressed that we have a moron for a president. I never thought he would win (well, some say he didn't but that's a mute point). I never thought Arnie would win. I never thought our nation could pass something like the Patriot Act & we'd all just roll over, yawn, and rub our assholes to soothe the burn from penetration.

So maybe I should tell Jennifer to come home. We need her. We need people who see that our country is sick & who want to help it get well.

Or we will eat people like this alive as they hand-feed us hot chicken noodle soup.

2003-11-12T17:07:00.000-08:00

Well, my beloved Sex McGinty, here are some words for you:

I think that the Jew freak who found out I am Jewish too is infatuated with me. By "Jew Freak" I mean someone who loves anything/anyone simply because it was produced by/the person happens to be a Jew. There are lots of these people around, not just limited to the Jewish faith: Christian Freaks, White Freaks, Black Freaks, Chicano/a Freaks, Freaky Freaks, ad infinitum.

Would I feel different if this man was not a large, fat, balding, middle-aged, racist loser who has a thing for strippers (or so I've heard through the grapevine)? Probably. Why do fat guys like skinny girls who don't like fat guys instead of liking the fat girls that like them, huh, Sex?

I've always felt uncomfortable about receiving attention from older men. I mean markedly older men. Actually, I've always liked older men, but if they are old enough as to have possibly been able to father me, then I get the heebie jeebies.

I remember being a freshman in high school and I went out of town with my family to go to a cousin's wedding. My mother and I were walking down the hall of the hotel when she hissed at some man passing by, "She's only 14!!!"

I had no idea he was looking.

She asked me about it. "Do you know that men look at you?" I felt rather embarrassed and stared at my Converse, withholding any reply. At the time, I had been practicing my female interpretation of the mannerisms of Jim Morrison as stated in NO ONE HERE GETS OUT ALIVE, perhaps Morrison's best known biography. Part of the persona I was attempting to adapt included not making eye contact becuase I was so busy looking beyond this lame ass world full of dumb fucks who had never even heard of Rimbaud, let alone read him (o god I hope I spelled Rimbaud right or else my whole pretensious act is right out the window). But it wasn't too long after that that I began to notice men old enough to be my dad staring at me. I just pretended I didn't.

Or maybe it all started when my 90 year old great great uncle stuck his tongue down my throat when I was 11 as a way of saying good-bye.

At any rate, I began to hate the Jew Freak when I explained to him how I never wore form fitting/sexy clothes because I don't like to be oggled and he told me that a lot of guys perfer the girl-next-door look and then sealed the deal with a big hug that lasted far longer than I was comfortable with.

Blech.

2003-10-23T20:43:00.000-07:00

Bored? Confused? Do you hate what I wrote? E-mail me:
annachiat@yahoo.com

2003-10-21T19:03:00.000-07:00

People don't fall in love with people; they fall in love with the way they feel about themselves when they're around certain people.

I'm certain of this. That's because I am the biggest flirt I know.

Well, that's not true. I know far bigger flirts, people who flirt with anyone and anything -- men, women, children, mailcarriers, family members, dogs, whatever (that's not to say that mailcarriers are undesirable, don't misconstrue my point; those little blue shorts can work wonders on certain sexy thighs). But people love to be around a good flirt, at least for a little while. Cheeks turn pink and polished like little, ripe apples. Smiles become uncontrollable; there is no way to hide that ugly tooth you've been meaning to get fixed. But that ugly tooth doesn't matter because when someone is flirting with you, if they are doing it masterfully enough, you are instantly transformed into the most beautiful/handsome, appealing, absorbing person you've ever met.

And don't we all deserve to be the most appealing person we know, even if just for a little while?

That is why I see flirting as a humanitarian issue. I think an organization should be created to bring flirting into the homes that need it most, maybe like a "Meals on Wheels" program. Volunteers will climb dark, dank stairwells and knock upon rickety doors made of splintery wood to be invited in, perhaps by old folks, leaning precariously upon crummy, hospital issued canes, squinting their cataract ladened eyes through thick, plastic lenses at the face smiling coquettishly at them. Imagine the joy elicited from a mere touch of an arthritic knees, or the squeeze of a liver-spotted hand.

And don't worry, prospective volunteers, you don't have to be especially attractive to be a high caliber flirter. In fact, you don't need to be attractive at all! That is because no one will really be paying attention to you; they will be so absorbed in themselves and be reveling in their own feelings of personal appealing-ness.

2003-10-16T22:41:00.000-07:00

I left class tonight at 9:15. 7:00 classes don't let out until 9:45, so campus was pretty much deserted. I went down the new outside staircase, bathed under protective nighttime lighting, hoping to come across one of those young security guards that ask if you'd like to be escorted to your car. Normally I'm fine with walking to my car alone, but normally there are a lot of other people walking to their cars alone, too. Anyhow, no such luck in finding a security guard.

What was I scared of? Last semester there was a rapist in the area who was never located, but he only struck in the early mornings. One of my co-worker's nieces was recently abducted. Well, okay, she ran away with some guy she met on line, but she COULD have been abducted. Maybe she realized that he wasn't some young stud from the neighboring high school a little too late, after she crawled into his beat-up Pinto and smelled Miller's High Life on his breath.

No security guards, so I began scanning the area for someone to walk near -- no one would attack someone technically alone but in close proximity to another body, would they? Up ahead, headed in the direction I was parked, walked a man, not tall, slim, glasses, carrying a washable briefcase and a couple of 99 Cent Store bags. He didn't look like he could really protect me from some faceless rapist or beer guzzling, pinto driving white trash motherfucker, but he was better than cars keys sticking out from between my fingers. I walked faster.

When I neared him, we kept pace for a few steps, and then he began to hang back. I quickly glanced ahead and behind me -- there was no one else around. I knew I had to speak to him if didn't want to soon be alone.

"Hi!" I said smiling. "Do you mind if I walk with you?"

"No," he replied. He had a nice face, pleasant features placed in a pleasant fashion upon a well-shapped head, short blonde hair, little wire rimmed glasses. Okay, he was hot. In a somewhat dorky, scholarly way. But hot.

However, I was not looking for a date. I was looking for protection, albeit from my own imagination.

"I'm only going to Lindley."

"That's okay," I smiled. "I'm sure I'll be fine after that. But if I'm not, I'm blamming you." I dead-panned this last bit and he laughed good-naturedly.

"Are you a student here?" he asked, then looked away. "Well, obviously," he corrected himself, "you probably don't just enjoy wearing a backpack."

"No, I just hang around campus. The backpack's a decoy. I wait outside of classrooms and force people to walk with me." He laughed again. His cute little well-placed nose wrinkled adorably with laughter.

"What about you?" I asked.

"I'm a part time professor."

"With what department?"

"Geography. Have you ever taken any geography courses?"

I shook my head no. "I'm an English major," I told him.

"That's a long cry from Geography."

"Well," I shrugged, "they both use words." He laughed again, watching me. I nervously twirled a braid under the gaze of his well-placed eyes, peering out between those wire-framed glasses.

"One of the first thing I tell my students is that geography is anything that has to do with the land. Maps, lines, words, stories -- anything." I wondered what else he tells them.

What is it about professors that make them so hot? Granted, a lot of them are old shmucks whose only desires in life are to be called "Doctor" and to speak before a captive audience (captive because they need the grade, but captive nonetheless). But the hot ones are far too hot. I love the way they always wear those little glasses and keep their hair so short and wear button down shirts with the sleeves slightly rolled and no tie. But mostly I love their smiles. The smiles that say, "I'm smart, but I learn from my students."

Okay, that's bullshit, but whatever.

He said good-bye to me at the corner. I stuck my keys out in between each finger in protective mode and crossed the street, heading down the lonliness of the last dark path before the last parking lot, the one I always park in because I hate fighting for a spot.

When I got there, I turned around to look for him, but he was gone.

2003-09-30T19:37:00.000-07:00

What the hell is up with people?

Right now, as I type this in obsessive two-finger fashion, someone in another apartment across the way is screaming at her son. I know it is her son because I often see him exiting the apartment in question.

Their fight seems strange and otherworldly. She has a deep, angry growl and I rarely can make out any specifics of what she says. She screams, disturbing the quiet, hotel-like courtyard with its green and white stripped umbrellas and well-maintained shrubs. And he never screams back. Sometimes I wait for his voice. Secretly, I root for him, hoping he'll stand up to her, show her that he's not a little boy anymore, won't be made to stay in line through threats or intimidation. I always make a point of saying hello to him in the hall, and I wonder if he knows of my attempts to ally myself with him through this simple, ritualistic greeting. He always says hi back.

2003-09-13T21:39:00.000-07:00

I picked Quentin up from work. We were supposed to go to a party thrown by one of my co-workers. I had been looking forward to it all week until said co-worker asked me what names he should put on "the list." I'm sure he registered the change in my expression as I flashbacked to high school, keggers, $3 at the door, bringing your own t.p., and vomit on the back steps.

"Don't worry," he said. "I'll be working the door."

I had been running the scenario over in my head while waiting for Quentin to get off of work -- we'd be pushed in line with a bunch of fat, sweaty college kids who'd be yelling "Fuck yeah!" and shit like that, waiting to get a red, plastic cup of lukewarm, crappy beer (probably Keystone Ice or some equally watered down piss) and then wind up in some crowded living room listening to a third rate garage band, ears ringing, nodding our heads at people we don't know and don't care to talk to.

I rattled off my vision as Quentin stood outside my car door, his mouth held in a wincing imitation of a smile.

"Well, Mike asked if we wanted to come by his place."

Mike (Quentin's new manager) had just purchased some custom-design boat that he had been dying to show off. Quentin would occasionally run off the details to me: it was a lake boat that could be used to go wake boarding, had some insane stereo system with huge speakers, a heater, a shower, private seating in the front, custom interior in red, black, and gray. Mike and his fiance, Lauren, who I'd never met, wanted us to go out to the lake with them and enjoy this boat that would be being payed off for the next fifteen years.

It sounded fun, I guess, but I was afraid that us hanging out with Mike and Lauren was nothing more than some superficial connection made between two couples are about to enter into the holy and sacred institution of marriage. I tried to have a good attitude about it, but I was secretly entertaining unpleasant visions of hours of conversation about wedding favors and appropriate messages for the invitation reply cards.

Well, not so secretly.

"You friend lives far," I told Quentin as we pulled up a hill outside of Sun Valley. He laughed.

"Whenever you get annoyed at something we're doing, you have an interesting way of placing the responsibility on me. YOUR FRIEND."

We pulled up to Mike's apartment in Montrose. The building he lived in was older, but nicely kept up. We walked up a little cement path lined with grass and shrubs. A little blonde girl in board shorts and an Aloha T-shirt opened the door.

"Hi Mikey!" she cried in a high-pitched, Valley-girl squeal. It was a strange compliment to Mike's perpetual hoarseness which sounds like he's always getting over a real bad cold. She threw her arms about his neck and presented two pursed lips to be kissed.

The apartment walls were bare except for an iron-rod mirror. Two little black flip flops were lined up neatly on a perfectly folded rug placed precisely to the left of the door. I took notice and removed my Converse.

"Babe, what's this? You have BOTH of these out here?" Mike carefully placed one pair of flips on top of the other with and irritated look to make room for his shoes. He removed his button-down, Hawaiian print shirt, grabbed a strategically placed hanger, and hung it up in the most neatly arranged closet I had ever seen. I felt nervous in the presence of such tidiness.

"Sorry about the mess," Lauren piped in a startling soprano. Needless to say, there was no mess. The apartment looked like the set for an Ikea ad. The couches might have never been sat upon before. Two little throw pillows were propped on separate seats. They were decorated with the ABC's, I kid you not.

It couldn't be so bad after a couple of drinks. Mike brought Lauren and me rum and cokes, while the men gulped down Silver Bullets. Mike stepped outside to talk to the neighbors.

And it wasn't so bad after I got over Lauren's voice. She was nice and wanted to know all about Quentin and me. We engaged in the whole relationship talk, she wanted to know about my ring, talked wedding briefly, blah blah blah. In a way, it was what I had envisioned on the car ride only I was feeling buzzed and Quentin doing a good job of picking up a lot of the conversation and moving it into safer territory. Finally, Mike joined us and we got stoned.

And then it started. Mike talks a lot. A LOT. And he talks in circles. It is impossible to say anything without interrupting him. The only person I've ever met who could even challenge his abilities is our old housemate Mitch. One time our friend Tom had spent the night and I came home from work the next day to find him sitting on the couch, covered in blankets, with Mitch perched on the far cushion, going at high speeds. Tom looked like a deer caught in headlights. In the privacy of my bedroom, he had whispered, "I'm so glad you came home! I had been stuck like that for three hours!" That's how it was. When you didn't want to talk to Mitch anymore, you just said you had to go to the bathroom and didn't go back in whatever room he was in.

And that's how Mike was. He was talking about work and staring at me the whole time. I had gotten unusually high off of a couple of bongloads and was stuck in the safe, repetitive ritual of nodding and uttering the occasional "Mmmm" or "Yeah." Quentin and Lauren attempted interruptions. At one point, both Lauren and Mike were talking at the same time. Apparently, this was more than Mike could stand and he tried to overpower her by waving his arms in front of her body. He did this until she relented.

Mike was also stupid. He made up words that made no sense when he couldn't express himself, and he mixed up his idioms. Lauren watched him the whole time he spoke with a glazed-over look in her eyes, even though she was the only one who wasn't high. It seemed as if she had given in to the undercurrent of his conversational skills and was slowly drowning beneath waves of nonsensical bullshit. I wanted to throw her a life preserver. Instead, I glanced over at Quentin; he was examining his cuticles.

When Lauren announced that she was going to bed at two o'clock in the morning, I felt that our out was near. About fifteen minutes later, Mike said that he'd take us to see his boat and then walk us to our car.

It was three and Mike rattled on and on about nothing. Quentin, belly full of beer, was stupidly egging him on by asking questions and I had been edging our way towards the car for five minutes. When it became obvious that this method of escape failed, I decided I had been polite enough. I got in the car and turned on the motor.

How does an incident like this end? I was overcome with new revelations about Mike. He had seemed so nice before and now I was trying to incorporate all these new conceptions I had of him with my old ones. I remembered being in Isla Vista at some house party. It was $3 at the door with some third rate garage band playing in the living room and vomit on the back steps. I had escaped with a friend who lived there into the upstairs until there was a loud commotion coming from the street. I went down to check it out. There was a crowd of blonde, tan, drunk teenagers screaming "Fuck yeah" as they set a couch on fire. A fire engine pulled onto the block, stopped for a minute or two, and then drove away. Some guy was piling a bunch of plywood on top of a car. Suddenly, I was sure it was Mike.

Quentin and I drove silently, the only car on the freeway

2003-09-13T21:38:00.000-07:00

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