Secret Pop

Oct 24, 2002

Bloody Marys of Days Gone By

This was another day that was filled to the box tops. And still I flog myself with certainty that I haven't done anything at all. But I'm glad that today took place. And I'm sure that something got done. That's fine with me.

When it's cool enough outside that you can use the fireplace in the morning, I'm twinkly-eyed and smiling. It reminds me of days off from school for holidays like New Year's Day, watching Die Fledermaus and asking to be taken out for miniature golf. There are no rules. It doesn't have to be dark outside for a fire to make sense. Set your blazes as you fire up your waflle irons, America. I will not judge you.

I never go to bed when I intend to. My brain gets busy and I indulge it. And I am reluctant to set the pen down or close the laptop lid when words are spilling forth. I love to write in the wee hours. I love to set down my teeny tiny handwriting in my journal -- the one with the old school schematic drawing of a horse on the cover and the cardboard-colored binding. I wish I was writing something that had a real purpose. But I'm glad I'm writing just the same. Whether it means that things are okay or that things are abysmal, I'm glad that I'm forming sentences and searching for more interesting ways to say the plain things I think. It is the illusion of accomplishment. And it keeps my penmanship sharp.

So, there's this sniper arrest special report all over the networks right now. And there has been a modicum of information offered, but mostly it's just news anchors filling and repeating and filling and pausing to make serious faces into the camera. This reminds me of the day that John F. Kennedy Jr.'s plane went down. For days, the networks would cover nearly nothing else, but there wasn't any new information to offer. Just revisitations to childhood newsreel footage and magazine covers (including the People magazine issue that declared him the sexiest man alive) and George press conferences and paparazzi clips of John John and his girl making the most of the sidewalks of New York City. I wasn't unhappy to see all of this nostalgic fodder. But I got frustrated with how little new data was coming up. I felt like I was watching looped file footage. I get nervy and impatient, even when I should probably be mournful and reverent. I'm glad there have been arrests made in the sniper case. I am very angry at the sniper, and I rail against the idea that good friends of mine are having to put off refilling their gas tanks or having to walk in a zig zag pattern because of all of this. I want the sniper to be caught and "processed." But I also marvel at how many many many hours of commentary can be devoted to the singular announcement that arrests have been made. Can you imagine having an emotionally-charged discussion with someone who anchors the news? They'd probably blather on and on, repeating their points ad nauseum, recapping all of the salient points that have already been made, drawing correlations between this and previous discussions, and then let you know it's your turn to respond by saying, "Back to you." You'd never get anywhere. You'd roll your eyes and want to shove a Thanksgiving-sized turkey in their ear. That's the sort of thing frustration breeds.

I'm just taking note of the number of times this chick on NBC has said, "Again," in preface to her repeating everything she said 45 seconds ago. She's not even pretending to say anything new. She's just making sure that, if you joined the broadcast mid-sentence, you'll get the full scoop. She's very considerate. But I don't think she chose sensible earrings. And I'm beginning to doubt her sincerity. She's not really listening to the field correspondent. She's just looking at herself in the monitor. Egotist.

The drinks were good, but I shouldn't have passed on the edible fare. Now, I'm hungry. And forlorn about it. This is a microcosm of my greater dissatisfaction. If a pizza were to magically arrive in my lap right now, it would mean great things for the future -- all things being metaphorical. Incidentally, I am not a pizza purist. I like so many different kinds of pizza. I think it would be an unkind burden to have to feel loyal to a certain type of pizza just because of where you were born or because of how many vowels you have in your surname. So what if my pizza isn't like the kind you get in New York. So what if that's not the way REAL Italians make pizza. So what if it has ramen on it. Or cranberries. Or Chiclets, for that matter. I'm fine with it. And I'm not asking for your vote.

I'm only typing now because my computer is battery warm and the heat transfers cozily down through the comforter and onto my knees. I have run out of things to say, but spot warmth reminds me of living in Japan and surviving the cold, cold winters in the unheated houses with hot water bottles tucked under hefty bedspreads. I once cuddled with a metal hot water bottle that came in a corduroy drawstring sack. At some point in the night, my ardent clutching caused part of the bottle to be exposed, and I awoke with burns on my midriff from the hot metal. The burning itself didn't wake me. It must have happened gradually. As with frogs being boiled. I wanted the heat. And the burns on my belly were not too great a price to pay. Strange how our negotiating skills get diminished when the elements intervene.

I enjoyed taking pictures in the twilight. I liked playing violin on hardwood floors. I liked driving around town with a sweet little dog in my lap. Today was the sort of day that doesn't exist on the calendar. It's part of a holiday no one else is celebrating. It's a private escape. Very few other people had a today like mine. There is both privilege and elitisim in that.

Anyway...stop there.

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