See, today, I took my virgin voyage through the endless cybermall of eBay. The constant surfing and ever-present tease of instant gratification has made it nearly impossible to stick to a single thought for a prolonged period of time.

I’d really love some shrimp fried rice right now.

You know, for a quiet, brainy girl, I had quite a few “bad boy” admirers when I was in grade school. Wish I still had that appeal. As much as I would love to be a blackred rose, the inspiration for Nick Cave love ballads, I must admit that I’m more of a daisy. Maybe a Gerber daisy. Such is life.

Chris Hopkins was bad news. He was a new kid in my class, wore oversized flannel shirts and workboots WAY before the grunge era, and was in all the wrong reading groups. Chris liked to leer at me and pass me love notes and stickers during class. The stickers had blatantly been found on the ground in the hallway, or on the bottoms of his shoes, and the edges were folded and the adhesive undersides were covered in grime and hair. I don’t think he spoke to me, but his was the first lascivious stare to which I was subjected. The kid was leering lasciviously in first grade. I wonder where Chris Hopkins is now.

Charlie Paulson was a total dork with bright blonde hair, a wide mouth, and enormous ears, and he gave me LOTS of stickers. He was always in trouble, because he was loud and goofy and completely hyperactive, so he was forever being relegated to the end of the line and the back of the classroom. Charlie had a dirty mind and was capable of telling jokes exhibitive of an advanced understanding of lewdness, and he was one of those children who seemed perpetually sticky, but he was really sweet.

He lived in my neighborhood, and his family had a duck pond in their backyard, where I remember tossing breadcrumbs to the ducks after school. My favorite memory of Charlie was when he immediately offered to share his lunch with me after I had dropped my tray on the ground, as I did about 75% of the times I bought school lunch. I had made a huge mess, and was mortified and disappointed and frustrated, and I sat down on the tiny kid-sized cafeteria bench and started crying. Charlie sat down next to me with a look of such empathetic concern on his face, and without so much as a hint from me, shared his lunch. He gave me his whole cookie that day.

Mark Simon was kind of frightening. Another really nice boy, but he was completely out of control, and he was fucking huge. Not overweight, just prematurely gorilla-sized and completely unable of mastering his physical strength. He was LOUD, too, which used to freak me out a bit when I was little.

Michael Korea was like a teeny little Vinnie Barbarino. A total wiseass in a denim jacket, and jeans that were strangely form fitting on a second grade boy. He gave me a Jackson Five sticker, and I remember being completely transfixed by the afros they pictured.

Jimmy Chassie was a pimp-daddy from the day he was born. He punched me in the stomach on the playground when we were in first grade, and he was the first person to tell me to fuck myself. By third grade Jimmy and I were friends, and he would sit behind me in gym class, rub my feet, and tell me he wanted to hang out with me in his basement. When we were in high school, Jimmy was in love with one of my best friends, Sarah, who turned out to be a lesbian.

(I realize how totally full of euphemistic-sounding phrases that was. “Boys who gave me stickers …” “He gave me his whole cookie …” “perpetually sticky but really sweet”…

Just stoppit.)

I know that thrift/vintage/second-hand stores are lovely little treasure troves full of potential magical goodness. And I like the stuff they sell, but I just can’t handle being inside those places for very long. Everything’s too close together, it all smells weird, and it’s just DUSTY. I get paranoid because most such stores are either crowded, tiny, or both, and I can’t see around corners and I get really antsy trying to dig around in the trunks full of costume jewelry and hats and shoes. I know, it’s supposed to be fun, and sometimes I enjoy it, but I start to feel all blanketed over by the memories and attic-mites of strangers, and I become desperate to go outside and bathe in the air.

I feel like I just lost SO much indie rock street cred.

And, what makes me a loser? These neurotic associations, come to find out, carry over into eBay shopping. I made my first jaunt over to eBay today, and after a little while, I started to get a little freaked out. At first, I was all excited, because, hey! Here’s a way for me to shop for cool shit without having to leave the house! But then, in keeping with my freaky-shopper identity, I became overwhelmed.

There’s just so much STUFF on eBay. And in order to make sure you get something that fits, you have to know your measurements, which you’d think I’d know by now after being fitted for so many fucking costumes … but no, I’m still very much of the don’t-ask-don’t-tell school of thought when it comes to my figure.

But I think I’ll go back to eBay and try to score some groovy swishy 70s dresses. And maybe a hat.

I think “scatological” should mean “of or pertaining to scat-singing.” Or “of or pertaining to things scattered.” It’s such a jammy, fun, staccato word, and I immediately associate it with jazz. Not poop. Such a shame.

Speaking of jazz-not-poop, my friend Troy is the one of the only people I know who can smoothly scat like a natural. Last weekend, we had a yard sale, and Troy attracted customers by playing the ukulele and scatting. Also? He and his wife sang the Bernadette Peters/Steve Martin duet from “The Jerk.” So cute.

My high school had a jazz band, and they tried to scat during one of their performances. A dismal failure, it was. Scatalogical in the truest sense of the word.

My bosses have both left. I think I’m going to skip out soon, and get my hair cut. Then I’ll mosey down the street from the salon, and buy me one of those boob-hugging rocker t-shirts. Because I like to keep it real, yo.

Yeah, I don’t know, either.

~ 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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