Let me begin with a recipe:
White Trash Mojito
Take a pint beer glass or a pint jar. Put a couple of sprigs of mint in the bottom (leave the leaves on the stem) and bruise them with the end of a wooden spoon or the drumstick that was thrown to you at the end of that Helix concert. Pour a couple of ounces of light rum in there. Pour in cold Sprite and top with ice cubes. Drink. Repeat as necessary.
("Buona Sera," by Louis Prima with Keely Smith)
Here's what I wrote in my little dogeared journal this afternoon:
10-11 Rudino's Rooftop. It's amazing what they can conceal in a suburban strip mall. The view is of nothing but suburban strip mall, but sitting on a rooftop on a very pleasant afternoon sipping a Guinness has a lot to be said for it.
Work has been hard, but I have reason to be proud. I have done well, I think.
I went to see Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow this past weekend. Enjoyable film as long as you fastidiously keep your disbelief suspended. Some girl tried to give me her number. Was she looking for something legitimate or just a fuck? Probably just a fuck; women don't hand their phone numbers to strangers in dark movie theaters because they see a potential husband. Or perhaps she wanted to drug me and sell one of my kidneys on the black market? I was completely caught off guard. By the time I finished saying "Uhhhhh," she said, "I'm sorry!" and scurried out the exit. Strange. I'll just take it as the misbegotten ego boost that it is and move on.
Lindsey is in San Diego. I wish I was with her. I miss her, and I want a vacation, and I miss San Diego.
("Return to Me" by Dean Martin)
I was hit on by some poor misguided lass who couldn't see my wedding ring in the dark. She wasn't a wallflower, either. Even if this would have happened to me as a single man, I wouldn't have taken her up on it out of pure uncertainty. What was she smoking? What diseases does she have? Did she have friends a few rows back, daring her to get some stranger in a brown flannel shirt to bone her? Was it a joke? Was she just lonely? Lindsey thought it was funny when I told her about it. I think it's kind of spooky. Lord knows what happens to girls like that when it's not a harmless schmuck like me to whom they offer their number scrawled on a pink Post-it note.
And now I'm sitting at my computer, listening to popular Italian-American tunes of the sixties and seventies, drinking, and wearing my NEW YORK FUCKIN CITY t-shirt that I purchased in Lower Manhattan in 2002. This is a snapshot of a renaissance man.
2 comments:
Orangeman,
Remember Cammie? Well, Shelob always thought I had something going on with her. I didn't, of course, but now I wish I did. She also thought I always was scamming one of my students. She'd figure I'd have a flavor of the semester.
When we were finalizing the divorce, things were pretty rotten. She was charging up my visa--which was still ours--with thousands of dollars of shit. When I stopped it, I got an "anonymous" email inviting me to chat. I ended up in an extended conversation with an actual student who was after my "virtue." No one has ever randomly given me a phone number. You must be a turbo stud. (Although, as a newlywed, I was turning down pussy at an alarming rate. It must be a pheromone thing.)
Do you still have her number? No, really.
LOL! just kidding.
You should also listen to Mario Lanza's great version of Vesti La Giubba.
Professor Mel, don't worry man... a shit-load-o'-pussy will come eventually...
Perhaps the girl was just high, as Mr. Orange hinted.
Oh, btw, I'll have to try that recipe soon! I'm prone to drink sprite over any other cola drink, so thanks for the recipe.
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