june 19 2000
the take for the weekend is:
-one fresh-out-the-box pair of all white leather pumas with matte silver accents. bangin'.
-one alphanumeric t-shirt from the hardest-working girls in the apparel business down at stackhouse on lafayette. it's got albert einstein, because origami thugs need love too.
-one, uh, handspring visor deluxe. don't hate the player, hate the game.
-one joyful consumption of shaft. the movie, damn it. stop snickering.
i was happily surprised. that rascal, he's a deus ex machina to all the chicks. 97 minutes of rompa stompa black rage (black raaaage!), tempered with some nice redeem-everyone-so-they'll-still-come-see-it conciliatory cultural backpedalling. i'd like to join critics the world over in hailing geoffrey wright for chewing up the scenery with the most over-the-top accent since john malkovich in rounders. in all fairness, it came close to almost having a remote chance of dwelling in the outermost circle of the extended family of feasible puerto rican accents, but i have a bad feeling that wright did all his research watching warriors and scarface. yes, i know scarface was cuban. that's not the point. the point is that everyone needs to leave work/their dank little room/the internet cafe right now and lay down their hard-earned money, not to line john singleton's or samuel jackson's pockets, but to bask in the overacted evil that is geoffrey right as peoples "chu play golf?" hernandez.
on my crumbling descent into the world of people with pda's. anything that lets me get news updates and read my favorite websites while i'm on the train plus compile my hundreds and hundreds of phone numbers and addresses plus play donkey kong junior whenever i damn well please is fine by me. okay, so i got it for the donkey kong, jr. but still. i'm currently entering a quasi-obsessive phase of finding free add-ons. crossword puzzles, tetris, chess, cnn news. now, when i'm on long train rides, i don't have to stare menacingly into space anymore. lick off a shot for technology, y'all.
in the daisy chain of the week, i spent saturday night with maganda girls on the horns of a maura dilemma and erasing the mop marks left by the sparking wind-up toy. there were many cameras there, as well as many people who will probably be chronicling variously filtered version of the night's events on their own self-absorbed slices of the internet-publishing pie. there was heineken and pinball and a strangely large amount of rye toast. there was also one completely humiliating moment, since no misadventure of mine would be complete without it.
see, in the bar where we all assembled to trade bon mots, the bathrooms are gendered only by their corresponding chromosomal dyad. and for those unable to remember which is xx and which is xy, the xy bathroom features three staples of maleness, being a) a urinal, b) no lock at all, and c) a stench not unlike what would happen if the contents of the ganges river were dredged and distilled into eau de toilette form. pretty clear, i would think. so after a few beers, i excused myself from whatever scintillating conversation i happened to be engaged in at the time (and which probably consisted of me going on at length about myself while the other person took my frequent rapt self-examinations in the mirror as a chance to glance across the table at her friend and make horrific fish-like asphyxiated faces meant to convey both boredom and searing psychic pain) and sauntered/staggered back to the xy room. bars are loud, and they don't get quieter on saturday night. this is why i didn't hear her plaintive and ill-timed "there's someone in here!" until i was fully inside the tiny bathroom.
with the young woman.
on the toilet.
with her skirt around her ankles.
why, yes, i did feel like an asshole. thank you for asking. rationally speaking, it was her fault, given the huge XY on the door and the three aforementioned semaphores of maleness, but that didn't stop me from mumbling something like yosorrymybadiswearididntseeanythingimajustbegoingnownicelegsbytheway and backing out clumsily. my sensitive-but-rugged side is programmed to feel extreme guilt over any miscontrued perceptions of testosterone-fueled villainy on my part, so i refused to go back on the off chance that another woman would be occupying the bathroom and thinking i was some sort of voyeuristic miscrant. finally, her ears ringing from my cries of bladdery anguish, christine went back with me and secured the wc for my modest needs. for this, i owe her my dry pants. or rather, my dry pants i owe to her. not that i'm actually giving my...pants. oh, never mind.
the line that's been resounding in my head all day:
"i'm tattooed over sixty-five percent of yo' flesh; i come fresh and i stress the inkpress/
suppose that i came back from the dead--it would only be from unrest...ful..ness."
—multiple fractures, "simile vasectomy"
to recap: rompa stompa black rage. cries of bladdery anguish. thank you.
p.
and yo. my full-on venture kneejerk.net is up and running, though not nearly full. go and getcha read on. for me.
props to darkcounter.com
and sitemeter