Wednesday, March 24, 2004
Here are some of the more peculiar (and probably, therefore, more wonderful) moments of my day:
--Late this afternoon, I stood outside of the bathroom door at Madison Market. Just after a gorgeous ginger apple juice. Just before an hour and a half long massage. You do the math. So I waited patiently until the person before me came out. I was looking down at the floor when the door opened, so first I saw the boots. Brown, worn, and encircled by little bells. A jingling noise ensued. Looking up, I saw a pair of green tights. Above that, a BRIGHT skirt, covered in splotches of spring orange and green. And on top? A grey grizzled beard on a 60ish-year-old man.
--Later this afternoon, in a drenching rainstorm (with a bit of hail mixed in), I turned the corner at Pike and 3rd. I just wanted to make it to the bus shelter, the glass steamed up with all the bodies. Out of the McDonalds in front of me stepped a young Asian woman and man. He was dressed conservatively, all dark blue and business shoes. She was wearing a tan overcoat, over a bright orange skirt about a micromillimeter long. Sheer tights, then tight, black leather, fuck-me boots. As she toddled down the street before me, I was thinking, "Oh honey, why are you working so hard to look like a whore?" At this moment, three young black men, huddled in a doorway together, began calling out in whips. "Ooh boy, you've got some girlfriend!! Hey honey, come on over here!" And whistling. It took me back. I hadn't heard that since New York.
A few feet later, I turned my head in quick surprise, as a skittish clatter rose above all the other noise. A number of us turned back, only to see a homeless couple, walking side by side. I don't know if they were retarded, or drunk. Or both, probably. She had thick glasses, smudged by the rain, and hair pulled back skintight. He shambled by her, lost in a fog, his glasses a complete mist.
She was clearly embarrassed at the attention, and she yelled, in a thick voice: "Okay, I kicked the bottle. Okay? Just a bottle!"
No one answered. No one had accused her.
She continued, slurring her words as she rushed to have them leave her mouth. "Okay, next time I'll just trip over the bottle and fall. Okay?"
I was already starting to laugh at that sentence. But I laughed more when he suddenly roused himself, and at the top of his lungs, with a world-weary voice that said he had been through this twelve hundred times already, shouted: "SHUUUUTTT UUUUUPPPPP!"
As my friend Meri said, it's always a fun and freak show in downtown Seattle.
--And this is how I started my morning. On the bus to downtown, listening to random music on my iPod. (I'm still infatuated with it. In fact, I want to marry it. It plays with me all day long. It's technologically able. And it's always there when I want it.) I've learned that browsing randomly through songs means it goes methodically through songs, alphabetically. So I was somewhere in the Ts. I was surrounded by dour people, still sleepy and clearly not happy about going to their cubicle jobs. I had too much in my backpack, and I knew there would be a Vietnam War lecture to endure in a few moments. But for the moment, there I was, a hot cup of Macrina coffee in my hands, the window beside me fogging up, the sky outside it trying to lift. And there was a pause, and then the iPod must have slipped into the Us. Because what came on next? Unclefucker. From Southpark. Two cartoon voices singing in Canadian accents: "Shut your fucking face, unclefucker. You're the one who fucked your uncle, unclefucker..."
And suddenly, I was back in a cheap rental car with Sharon, on a hot July day two years ago. Just outside of Baraboo, Wisconsin. We were listening to a random mix cd Andy had loaned us for the trip, filled with old-timey bluegrass and obscure Belgian music. We had been appreciating it, nodding. And just outside of Baraboo, without any warning, Unclefucker came blaring out of the stereo. We looked at each other in astonishment, then burst out laughing, our bellies hurting immediately. And we played it again and again, laughing so hard that the car was swerving back and forth on the road, because I could hardly drive a straight line while listening to musical farts.
And so, this morning. Except that I was surrounded by these dour, silent people. And they couldn't hear it through my headphones. And they weren't Sharon. So as I listened to the triumphant swells of farts, a symphony of gaseous explosions, I held all the laughter just behind my lips. And I looked up at the sky, giggling to myself quietly, all that energy and memories buoying up my tired head, until I nearly exploded with happiness.
--Late this afternoon, I stood outside of the bathroom door at Madison Market. Just after a gorgeous ginger apple juice. Just before an hour and a half long massage. You do the math. So I waited patiently until the person before me came out. I was looking down at the floor when the door opened, so first I saw the boots. Brown, worn, and encircled by little bells. A jingling noise ensued. Looking up, I saw a pair of green tights. Above that, a BRIGHT skirt, covered in splotches of spring orange and green. And on top? A grey grizzled beard on a 60ish-year-old man.
--Later this afternoon, in a drenching rainstorm (with a bit of hail mixed in), I turned the corner at Pike and 3rd. I just wanted to make it to the bus shelter, the glass steamed up with all the bodies. Out of the McDonalds in front of me stepped a young Asian woman and man. He was dressed conservatively, all dark blue and business shoes. She was wearing a tan overcoat, over a bright orange skirt about a micromillimeter long. Sheer tights, then tight, black leather, fuck-me boots. As she toddled down the street before me, I was thinking, "Oh honey, why are you working so hard to look like a whore?" At this moment, three young black men, huddled in a doorway together, began calling out in whips. "Ooh boy, you've got some girlfriend!! Hey honey, come on over here!" And whistling. It took me back. I hadn't heard that since New York.
A few feet later, I turned my head in quick surprise, as a skittish clatter rose above all the other noise. A number of us turned back, only to see a homeless couple, walking side by side. I don't know if they were retarded, or drunk. Or both, probably. She had thick glasses, smudged by the rain, and hair pulled back skintight. He shambled by her, lost in a fog, his glasses a complete mist.
She was clearly embarrassed at the attention, and she yelled, in a thick voice: "Okay, I kicked the bottle. Okay? Just a bottle!"
No one answered. No one had accused her.
She continued, slurring her words as she rushed to have them leave her mouth. "Okay, next time I'll just trip over the bottle and fall. Okay?"
I was already starting to laugh at that sentence. But I laughed more when he suddenly roused himself, and at the top of his lungs, with a world-weary voice that said he had been through this twelve hundred times already, shouted: "SHUUUUTTT UUUUUPPPPP!"
As my friend Meri said, it's always a fun and freak show in downtown Seattle.
--And this is how I started my morning. On the bus to downtown, listening to random music on my iPod. (I'm still infatuated with it. In fact, I want to marry it. It plays with me all day long. It's technologically able. And it's always there when I want it.) I've learned that browsing randomly through songs means it goes methodically through songs, alphabetically. So I was somewhere in the Ts. I was surrounded by dour people, still sleepy and clearly not happy about going to their cubicle jobs. I had too much in my backpack, and I knew there would be a Vietnam War lecture to endure in a few moments. But for the moment, there I was, a hot cup of Macrina coffee in my hands, the window beside me fogging up, the sky outside it trying to lift. And there was a pause, and then the iPod must have slipped into the Us. Because what came on next? Unclefucker. From Southpark. Two cartoon voices singing in Canadian accents: "Shut your fucking face, unclefucker. You're the one who fucked your uncle, unclefucker..."
And suddenly, I was back in a cheap rental car with Sharon, on a hot July day two years ago. Just outside of Baraboo, Wisconsin. We were listening to a random mix cd Andy had loaned us for the trip, filled with old-timey bluegrass and obscure Belgian music. We had been appreciating it, nodding. And just outside of Baraboo, without any warning, Unclefucker came blaring out of the stereo. We looked at each other in astonishment, then burst out laughing, our bellies hurting immediately. And we played it again and again, laughing so hard that the car was swerving back and forth on the road, because I could hardly drive a straight line while listening to musical farts.
And so, this morning. Except that I was surrounded by these dour, silent people. And they couldn't hear it through my headphones. And they weren't Sharon. So as I listened to the triumphant swells of farts, a symphony of gaseous explosions, I held all the laughter just behind my lips. And I looked up at the sky, giggling to myself quietly, all that energy and memories buoying up my tired head, until I nearly exploded with happiness.
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