Dear internationally famous person, I don’t remember your face,
just your blond hair teased like cotton candy from the Coney Island
days of childhood. The noonday sun, let me say, was a beast, raising
once again the question how anyone can deal with perpetual flames
burning hotter than gasoline if having your bum fried in a giant pan
is too much to take. It was strange to run into you, and my thoughts
were even stranger, given my fatigue. Allow me, however, to assert
their genuineness, if such can be ascribed to the vagaries of
the mind. I don’t care about specialness. Don’t tell me how great you are.
That would be a fair sampling. This in the challenging environment of
bad food being devoured at outdoor cafes by folks who don’t like to be
seen in natural light.The dance instructor used a French word for the step I couldn’t get,
“chasseur” or the like, as in hunt. He didn’t offer me the French word
for defeat nor prevent my early exit from the class.
Beginners, my ass. The creeps were doing physics with their feet and
logarithms with their hips. Some kind of precise purity was going on
I couldn’t get with. I’ve been here before, in this sort of sadness state,
watching others perform while I sit on the sidelines offering an idiot
smile. What kind of man and yeah yeah, cha cha cha.The first thing about the woman on the bus was that she was young and
pretty and required a second look. The second is the two weren’t
talking to each other and gave the appearance of strangers.
Possibly they planned it that way. If so, the identical fish store
Bags blew their game. No way she was going to lure me into
something foolish so he could bust my face.Let me tell you. It was a hard day at the Chinese laundry. The shirts
and pants were beyond Mr. Wong’s control, and his kids looked like
they were making other plans. Everywhere you turn tradition is a memory
and people are trying to get it back with minimal allocations of their time.
Mister, you have a family business, you’re going to have problems. Trust
me, this is true.2002