2004-05-03 - 1:46 p.m.
hmm. sort of quiet around here. despite the picture that was hanging out here for a while, no easter chickie or duckling gift. shafted again. my mom got one when she was a wee one and never repaid the karmic duckling favor to her youngest offspring. i guess because there are no more farms to bring the poor suffering fluffy thing to live when i get tired of trying to pet its beak. i love duck beaks. orange ones on a lil' yellow ball of feather. goodness. my friend lives at the tip of the italian market and has roosters for neighbors. my neighbors were fighting a few nights ago. i still hear the very angry man's voice saying "you better fucking listen to me" at least 42 times in an hour. i pressed three numbers on my cell phone when the loud references to choking and blood and "get off me" and "why don’t you abuse her? why don’t you hit her like you do me?" made it impossible (for me, at least) to merely unintentionally eavesdrop anymore. a cruiser pulled up, did nothing. eventually they wore each other out. a couple nights later they were outside, smart move on her part, i suppose, and she was giving him the heave ho. last night, a helicopter lit up the church across the way, casting a gorgeous blue hue on the cloudy night while seeking some sort of criminal. sirens the soundtrack, i imagine a man running through the little streets, the st. albans, the clymer, the st. martins, the montrose. i imagine he's been framed, and so i root for him. drunkards wake me up at 5:30 am, having the kind of conversation men who are prone to violence will have when drunk at 5:30 am. do people still use the term "call you out"? grow up, boys.
my clothes are growing up. i now own a suit. bought another blazer cause sometimes they want to see you fancified more than one time. the number on the label is kind of shocking. it's like when i grew 2 inches from 7th to 8th and didn't gain a pound. eventually the pounds came, and i left that size in my junior high locker. more importantly though, i can run four miles, if there are portapots on hand. there are public bathrooms in bryant park, nyc, half a block from where i go in suits these days to impress people with my ridiculous amount of (academic, professional, of course) interest in human sexuality. impressing people makes me nervous, which, like running, makes me need a toilet or a hole in the ground, and so i thank you bryant park. i will try your hot dogs tomorrow.
