if fishes...

the great poet rapper skee lo writes:

"I wish I was little bit taller, I wish I was a baller
I wish I had a girl who looked good, I would call her
I wish I had a rabbit in a hat with a bat, and a '64 Impala"

he's not really great. but he wishes he was.

in "nobody's fool", richard russo gives us Rub, a hard luck case, whose wishes fill up the minor space of his half life:

"I wisht I didn't have to work on Thanksgiving."

"I just wisht I had money for a donut. one of them big ole cream-filled deals."

but even in getting the donut, rub's thwarted, cuz he's sure the waitress has given him the smallest one on purpose.

such is the ephemera of wishes, you can get what you wish for and still feel cheated. i read a script about a genie who grants a woman, roughly my age and demographic, three wishes. and you know what she goes for?

a dog. a new car. dinner in a parisienne cafe.

this doesn't resonate for me at all. but, then, i'm naturally dubious about magic wishes. having watched too many episodes of twilight zone where your wishes fuck you over, with a hat trick and a back door. you wish for power and find yourself recast as hitler in his death bunker. wish for money and find the tax man all over your ass. wish for sex and find aids.

what would i really wish for? what do i really wish for? world peace? inner peace? a really hot piece?

jeff tweedy croons:

"all my lies are only wishes. i know i would die if i could come back new."

what about you?

crazed ragamuffin

you may think the biggest perk of being an absolute dictator is-

world domination or
palaces stocked with solid golden showers or
never ending supply of smores'n' whores or
the ability to wear military style epaulets without the snide michael jackson references

you're wrong.

the biggest perk is the cool ass 'officially sanctioned' nicknames your huddled masses have to call you. take kim jon-il for instance. his include-

"Supreme Commander at the Forefront of the Struggle Against Imperialism and the United States" (no, it aint michael moore)

"Lode Star of the Twenty-First Century" (when you meet him you can say 'what a lode!' and he won't take offense)

"Eternal Bosom of Hot Love" (this one makes me throw up a little)

"Master of the Computer Who Surprised the World" (i thought al gore invented the internet)

"that blows!" you may whine. "i gots me no palaces, no jaba the hut like ladies chained to my fat belly in metal bikinis. gots me no nickname. i hate myself and want to die."

don't be like that, baby. just do like i did. make up your own damn swanky nickname.

have we met? i'm..um..er.. "World's Best Ideal Scholar Slut?" no. "Heaven-Sent Lover of Cream?" "Woman with Encyclopedic knowledge of Pedal Fungi?" oh, man. i can't think of anything good.

call me hank.

look at my boobs

we move together like packs of territorial cats. birds of a feather flock together. and so do we. travelling in concentric circles, we each rule our own parts of this city.

if you draw a triangle around a hollywood intersection-

one side holds cafe 101 where the hipster cats go to out-cool one another with pixies references and pointy shoes.

the apex holds roscoe's chicken and waffles where hip hop cats bring the bling with energy and bravado.

the far side holds denny's, which lures in the scrappier family felines and our senior kittizens looking to fill their bellies and their time.

l.a. is not a melting pot. we don't melt. we co-exist, separately, by mutually unspoken consent.

except at the zoo. it draws everyone from upper class valley moms, to teenage punk rock lovers, to sprawling latina familias, and beyond. which is why i fucking love the zoo.

my favorite woman there, yesterday, was a florid botticelli. she wore her velour pants low and her tank top short. leaving about six inches of belly exposed. she was unabashed and unashamed of her newly formed, angry red stretch marks. she had a booming laugh and a playgirl strut.

i thought of the sullen faced, skeletally boy bodied angora's who skulk my hood with french tipped claws; and liked her cheery flooziness even better.

she gathered up a gaggle of kids who ranged from ages 3 to about 11 for a picture. they weren't looking her way and she really wanted it to be a good shot. so she shouted at them-

"look at my boobs! look right here. at my boobs! that's right. look. at. my. boobs." then she beamed over at her man. "this picture's gonna turn out great. they were all looking right at my boobs."

later, she ordered a cold beer and shared a swig with the 11 year old.

and i went off to pick a fecal flingling fight with the chimps.

enchilada nirvana

during a cleanliness jag yesterday (call it, a 'scouring out emotional distress with pinesol' jag, if you must, it works for me)-

i discovered a long castaway notebook of mine. a small artifact from my few years past.

mostly it's filled with 'to do' lists and random stuff like this song list-

"kick out the jams: mc5, customer: replacements, bye bye love: george harrisson"

but there are also little veins of high grade quartz. forgotten memories.

"at rock'nroll hall of fame, looking at Nirvana exhibit with kahle and slim. slim quietly reading...suddenly "oh, i get it. nirvana. like 'enchilada nirvana!!'" she didn't know the band, but she knows the taco bell ad. yay america!"

she knows the band now. sliver's her favorite song. then we've got this poorly poetic missive that i kind-of like anyway-

"lips like sugar. steamy windows. warm mouths. soft tongue. stroking hair. stroking leg. wrapped up tight. lovingsweetsexyfun. softskinsoftkissdeeperkiss. damnyou, dagostino. eels how many times. head on my shoulder tucked in warm. kisses outside clothes blowing. warm air, pressing stroking friction. little moans. 'you are a brunette.' 1 night in echo park. crushing swoony."

and this snippet of song lyric by the halo benders-

"glass eyed tiger. trash vampire. i wish i glowed brighter in your eyes."

it's odd to look back on your not so distant past and find out you were pretty much the same as you are now.

thank the sweet baby jesus i'm not growing or anything.

pasty face killah

skin the pallor of children's paste. shellacky inked hair. skin tight black tee and jeans draped over a skeletal frame.

he sits outside holly's donuts, mourning the dregs of a long gone cup of coffee. the joe he finished hours ago, along with the sugar twist and a half pack of unfiltereds.

most passersby don't catch his gaze- glassy, vague, unfocused.

but he always has a lopsided smile and a 'hello gorgeous' for slim.

his words curdle her in a visceral way. she hugs my legs, buries her face between my knees, as if wishing i wore layers of petticoats under which she could hide. i think if there were a short cut back to my womb, she would take it.

he doesn't seem to notice her aversion or anyway doesn't mind. so we're stuck repeating this awkward kabuki every morning.

until the night when my viewing of 'wonderboys' was interrupted by the wail of sirens. outside my window, a swarm of cops and ambulances descended. i thought 'vitellos' had been robbed. but i hadn't heard gunshots.

the next morning brought yellow tape and a makeshift shrine and every t.v. news van from nbc to telemundo. our old a.m. routine was replaced with a new one. called 'dodge the reporters.'

they chattered at us- "did you know robert blake?" "was he a good neighbor?" "do you think he's a murderer?"

i just tugged slim's hand and replied- "we're late for donuts."

now, they're back, taking the jury on a fieldtrip to the crime scene. which happens to be my backyard. i watch the delighted jury members mill about the infamous restaurant as i type. they looked flushed and happy, like tourists just in from the heartland.

slim nudges me. "is this about the pasty faced creepy guy who killed his wife?"

"yes."

"i never liked him."

stalkers unite

a sister. interesting proposition. not that i was disinterested. more like semi-interested with a healthy dose of dubiosity.

she born a year before me. an early seventies high schoolers', free lust, 'whooops!' child. her mom had no love for my dad and the feeling was mutual. even still, he braved a snowstorm to find baby tanya in colorado. her mom called the cops and bid him a non-fond 'fuck you.' her boyfriend adopted the baby and my dad never saw her again.

when i was 17, tanya returned to utah. my ex-stepmom gave me her phone number, said she was eager to meet me.

my best friend stacie drove me to denny's, where i was to rendevous with my estranged half-sibling. a panicky doom descended and i suddenly thought this was the worst idea ever.

"this is stupid, stacie. turn around."

she refused. and so, i stood at the entrance, 'moons over my hammy' wafting yummily my way... do i go in?

'pick you up in an hour. have fun! you'll love having a sister. i love all my sisters and brothers!' (stacie was perky like that.)

i went in, because of the look on my dad's face and the way he jumped around the room when i called her. cagey. nervous. hopeful. sheepish. he wanted us to meet and like each other and then he wanted the three of us to have dinner. he wanted to know his other kid. how could i say no?

tanya was thick and blond and curly of hair. big blue eyes and already halfway through an order of fried mushrooms with ranch sauce. she dispensed with the pleasantries and launched into the body of her wildy inaccurate tirade.

"my mom talked your stepmom and we want you to stop stalking me."

'i'm sorry?"

"don't be sorry. just stop. seriously, parking in front of my high school every day, watching me get on the bus and crying because you don't know your sister? pathetic. running away from home to try and find me in ohio and refusing to come home until your dad promised to hire a private investigator? insane, bordering on psycho. i don't want to know you. i don't want to meet YOUR dad. i want to be left alone. got it?"

before i could even muck my way through these wavelets of bizarre, she was already up and throwing down a five dollar bill.

"don't ever call me again."

she wore guess jeans. i saw the triangle on her ass as she triumphed out the door. i fired slowly back-

"i don't even have a car. how could i be sitting in front of your high school?"

"ohio? i always thought you lived in colorado."

"dad's gonna be so fucking sad."

but she was gone, so i polished off her fried mushrooms and waited for stacie to pick me up.

insults and injury

the rain has stopped. and i rejoice.

the boy who beds down amongst maple leaves has sent sweet regards via electronic mail. and i flutter.

but the gods mock me. i think it is because i wrote these words-

"alas, i have lured no suitors to my chamber these windswept days..."

-and accidentally set a very sad set of cosmic matchmaking in motion.

*note: while technically true, the sentence was meant as tongue-in-cheek self deprecation. i'm not really sitting at home dipping potato chips in caramel sauce, while watching 'sixteen candles' on tbs at 3am.

or am i? someone thinks so. in my yahoo inbox this morning-

"You shouldn't always be sitting home on the weekends.  You need to find someone
special to go out with. I recommend you check out Friday Night Plans and arrange a date for next Friday!
Why waste another evening sitting in front of the television?  Stop moping and start
having fun! Get out there and fill up your dating schedule.  You CAN find the person of your
dreams, if you put in the effort.

Wishing you love, happiness & Friday Night Fun,
Christina :-)"

who is this smug, condescending chistina, that she has the audacity to smiley face me? me? the chicanery. perky christina admonishes me to stop moping? the shame. how does she even know i'm moping? sure, i got a little blue, what with the rain and all, but moping? that's harsh. and what's this jive about my lack of effort? i'm all kinds of efforty.

christina just doesn't understand.

the humanity.

hard days rain

it's inevitable. the new thing rushes in and floods the senses with wonder and possibility. euphoria takes root in the soul.

rain, in sunny so-cal? day one. i threw myself, with the abandon of one who knows sunshine is just around the corner, into sodden good times.

cuddling in front of the fireplace

jumping in puddles

baking warm and hearty breadstuffs

watching a movie with the heat turned up high wearing nothing but a chenille blanket in the middle of the day

wearing a knit skull cap and heavy jacket while walking the puppy through a bluster and counting the seconds between lightning and thunder.

left undone is my favorite rainy day activity, but alas, have lured no suitors to my chamber these windswept days.

the ennui sets in. and as chris cooper was 'you know, done with fish.' i am done with rain. a long forgotten memory fills me up all meloncholy like.

a week of rain and me running late for elementary school. sheila is waiting to walk with me and mom's getting impatient with my lollygagging. i feel wrecked. despondent. sad and useless and i just want to cry in a puddle on the floor.

mom rolls her eyes at sheila. vis a vis me. she says "mona bona butt cheese, pull it together and go to school."

i start to cry. "i just hate the rain."

mom's thing is that you lightly laugh and tinkle away anything sad or icky. with a sweep of her hand we are sent off.

sheila and i run our fastest through the downpour. it's kind of exhilerating. i find i'm crying and laughing both.

she wants to know why i hate the rain.

i can't find the words to express that it isn't the rain. that it is the whole stark bundle of goo that life has become.

so i say- "i just hate all the worms on the pavement."

sheila nods. she hates that too.

ass grabbing good times

i didn't know anyone at the party and the friend who invited me hadn't shown up yet.

the hipster in the 'fuck art, let's dance!' tee shirt queried- "how do you know willie and kaye?"

i, always feeling like an interloper, like i have an illegally clubbed baby seal in my pocket, said-

"oh, i don't. but i'm allowed to be here. really. benno invited me."

"who the fuck's benno?"

"um, er, have you noticed my hot rack?"

when in doubt, play the rack card. then move on, quickly. met an 87 year old pathologist named milton, who still practices at a non-profit hospital downtown. five minutes in, i decided he was so inspiring, i should make him my own personal profit. then he started talking about how his brother invented the microwave. his sister flew jets in world war 2. his brother had a hospital named after him. either this kindly coot came from the magic family of all times or he was off his meds.

next up, came a cal arts grad student with a ebulient puppy dog air who decided that my real name would make a great swap for exclamations like "holy smokes!" or "oh my goodness!" so, randomly throughout the night, in different parts of the house i heard "angelia!" shouted gleefully. mmm, fun.

at midnight, mayhem abounded in kisses and cheers and general merriment. someone grabbed my ass. i asked who dunnit but no one would fess up.

though several others volunteered. before you know it, there was a small group of us, ass grabbing one another- patting, pinching, and even throwing in a genuine caress or two.

good times. happy '05, lovelies.

bee charmer

dana.

equal parts bewitched and bedevilled.

a three alarm fire doubling as a six car pile up.

they ask, "why do good girls like bad boys?" but good girls like bad girls, too.

there is freedom and wind, and a dark oily undercurrent in a friendship with a haunted bee charmer.

she bent down on a knee to throw her arms around kato's neck. struggling a little against her pregnant teenage belly. her skirt too short. her liner too heavy. she was still the prettiest hard girl i knew.

her arms encircled his furry neck, her face moved in for the inevitable lick. the one he's given her since we were tiny girls.

his jaws opened too wide for a kiss, canines flashing...

my mind either ratcheted down to a gear drowned in honey or whirred like a hummingbird. either way, in that nanosecond before everything changed, i saw-

the new years eve five years earlier when kato was our babysitter. my dad and her big sister left us in his care. we made a party for them, as a surprise, sandwiches and crepe paper and triscuits with spray cheese. but they came home coked up and keyed up and pissed about the mess. dana thought it was funny but i was heartbroken.

the thanksgiving dana sneaked me a whole cherry pie because my dad wouldn't let me eat. we hid in her room, ate the whole thing, then made recordings of ourselves as a spinal tap style british rock band named 'voltage'. our hit single was 'grab one, down one, get yourself around one.'

the christmas her dad caught us breaking into the basement window, drunk at 3am. dana, defiant. her dad, a bitter drunk, fourteen years sober notwithstanding. her dad, an aspirin swallowed dry. he pulled her by the hair and sunk a cowboy boot into her ass. she laughed. she willed herself to laugh.

my ears kicked back in before my brain. dana's boyfriend screaming. she, down on both knees now, covering her blood soaked face.

i put an arm around her "you okay?"

she swats it away. "get me a paper towel."

sweet unlucky bedevilled girl. a paper towel against all that destruction? i don't think so.

on the rush to the hospital, all she said was, "don't put kato to sleep."

but we did.

and she never fully forgave us.