1. A REDHEAD.

When I worked in Boston, I spent most of my lunch hours in a café on Newbury Street, where I would order tea to accompany my Tupperwared (Tupperworn?) salad, and sit at one of the small, round tables to read. The staff was cool and new me by my name and drink order, and they were allowed to play the music of their choice.

The manager of the place was a tiny pixie punk with black hair dyed bright blue, enormous eyes like black fringed blue marbles, and a penchant for tiny, pleated skirts of black and blue plaid. Her nose was crooked, and her front teeth were visibly damaged by obsessive, clacking contact with her tongue ring. She loved Bjork, Air, and Betsy Johnson, and was genuinely candy-sweet. I don’t remember her name, but let’s call her Emily, because she looked like she could have been an Emily.

The café exhibited works by local artists, some of which sucked, most of which was quite good, and some of which I couldn’t form an opinion on because it focused on the juxtaposition of string and rusty nails or whatever, and I didn’t fucking understand it. Sometime during the spring, one artist donated a number of hand-painted tables for use in the café. They were lovely.

One of the table-tops featured a black and blue, dual-chromatic portrait of widely-smiling Emily. It was entitled, “Sad Girl.” Even apart from the modernized Andy Warhol aesthetic which she effortlessly embodied, which made her almost funny-looking, Emily was singularly beautiful.

As I ordered my apricot tea one afternoon, Emily and I discussed hair color, and sometime during the course of the conversation, Emily said to me, “I can see you with red hair. No … I think you are a redhead. I’ve always thought that.” Then she served me my tea before retreating behind the counter, and I sat down with my lunch and my book.

For whatever reason, and not because I dislike my light-brown hair, I took her comment as a compliment. Maybe it’s because I secretly long to be Jessica Rabbit.

2. FRENCH.

This past July, whilst walking down Michigan Avenue to meet friends for the outdoor showing of “Invasion of the Body Snatchers” on Grant Park, a passed a portrait artist who called after me.

“Excuse me,” he said, “are you French?”

“Um … no?”

“Oh. Because your outfit … you look French.”

I was wearing an embroidered linen skirt, a black jacket, and flip-flops, so I really don’t know what he meant. He was trying to sell me something, and was looking for a hook. Whatever. It was interesting, anyway.

3. A BUXOM AMAZON.

Let’s forget, for a moment, that true “Amazon women” were technically quasi-buxom, having auto-mastectomized themselves for the sake of archery.

Anyway.

Sometimes when I’m walking down the street, I picture myself as being much taller and more formidable, not skinny, or even thin, but ferociously curvy, with short, platinum-blonde hair, and my own face. It makes my stride longer, and it’s fun.

Maybe soon, my ideal mental image will coincide with the actual. And maybe by then, I’ll be a redhead. But I still won’t be French.

Alright, I should not be allowed to take night-time sojourns. Not because it’s dangerous, really, but because I have the worst sense of direction you can ever hope to encounter. I still turn the wrong way when heading to the laundry room, and I’ve lived in this apartment for six months. You should never, ever count on me to remember where you’ve parked your car.

That, compounded with nocturnal pitchiness, and you might as well gauge my eyes out, spin me three times, and put me in a sealed crate in the center of the earth. I’m not kidding.

Still, lone walks, especially at night, are one of my fall-back methods of coming back to myself. So, fukkit.

1. I was 17, at a party, and had just had my heart broken for the second time. I slipped away from the party house to wander and cry, and soon discovered I was dead lost in the winding, hilly recesses of a remote suburban Massachusetts neighborhood. The only way I knew that I was still in the vicinity of the party, was that the streets were lined with illegally parked cars. This didn’t help much, though, because I’m an oozy, explosive crier, my eyes were swollen and my vision was veiled, and I couldn’t see a damned thing.

I was found by the culprit of the heartbreak, who gently said “There you are,” and “I’ve been looking all over for you,” and insisted on taking me in his arms. I answered him with, “Snargh. Blorf.”

I was completely embarrassed, because by that point I was snotting so profusely that I practically perspired mucous. Heartbreaker ignored my protests and practically smeared my snotty face on his shirt, probably as some form of penance. I snarghed and blorfed a little more, and we went back to the party. The rest, as they say, is history.

2. I was 20, and returning from a Halloween party in London. Not smart. I was scantily clad in some gauzy fairy outfit, wasted, alone, and visibly staggering, and my London neighborhood wasn’t exactly savory. There were some cat-calls and a few footsteps behind me which I pretended not to hear, and when I got back to my dorm, I laughed at myself. Whatever. The party was sucking, I was done, and it was time to go. So I went.

I remember writing an email to my friend, Clay, while I was still drunk, which included the strange line, “OH, YES, MY FRIEND! THE PLASTERED FAIRY WEARS THE PANTS!” I vowed to write that into a play one day, forgetting for the moment, because I was wasted, that I don't write plays.

3. I was 22, living in rural Vermont. Walking at night was like swimming in ink, with no people, cars, or street lamps in sight. I wondered momentarily if the streets were haunted, and then figured that they probably were, but that the ghosts weren’t necessarily hostile. That was the best way to go about it.

Oddly, the more my eyes adjusted to the darkness, the more freaked I became, and I retreated back to the land of the living sooner than I had wished to. The trees were silver.

I need new music.

1. Okay, today I was listening to an Ani Difranco album which I’ve loved for years, and for the first time, it inspired me to think, “OH, MY GOD! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!” Breaks my heart, a little. Ani stuff has some serious coming-of-age memories for me.

I needed something a little weird, melodious, and maybe a bit harsh. And, so? THE PIXIES TO THE RESCUE! GUIDED BY VOICES! Stuff with surreal and/or easily misheard lyrics and harder beats is what I crave, lately.

Lordy, lordy, though. I hope I’m not entirely sick of Ani, or of heartstring-stretchy folky stuff. It would seem like a betrayal.

2. I had an opportunity to go to a Morrissey show in Milwaukee this weekend, but couldn’t. Too bad, really … I think it could have been really funny. Admittedly, I only know Morrissey through The Smiths, but my two favorite Smiths songs are about (a) suicide and (b) some seemingly happy love song which refers to the slaying of horses and nuns, and I think that’s a little hilarious.

3. I did, however, attend the Tragically Hip concert with my friend, Kitty. The audience was full of rabid fans who knew every single lyric and bobbed in unison, when Kitty and I just kind of stood and watched. It was a great show.

At this concert, Arrhythmic White Guy was in the form of the dude in front of us, who wore a hockey jersey and a Canadian baseball cap. He was wasted, but sweet, and ricocheted between his arrhythmically white buddies and his girlfriend, embracing them all in turn.

When Kitty and I were walking back to her car, one of his buddies ran up behind us, caught me around the waist, and asked, “Where’s the party at, laydeez?”

Hee.

1. FIRST, THE BAD:

I drank, like, a full pot of coffee today, which was yummy, but has left me wondering if there isn’t a bubbling tar-pit in my stomach. Oh, and then there’s the “I’ll never sleep again” factor that coffee has on me. I’m a caffeine lightweight.

2. AND, THE GOOD:

I kicked my ass out of bed early enough to stumble to the gym this morning, and as a result, I’m feeling ladders and ladders better than I have been. Eating better, feeling more energetic and less depressed.

And a lewd “tthhhPOP” sound is heard as I pull my head out of my ass. When it comes down to it, I’m such a simple critter.

And also, I’m not wearing pants right now.

Ranting, raving, panty-waving,

Kay to the Ee to the double-Ell, Why?

~ Last Five Entries ~

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

One-Armed Paper Hanger Earns her Wings - 07.29.05

Sugar & Lemon - 07.28.05

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BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

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BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

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