Shiseido make-up counter exploded in his face. Apparently someone still had time to break in his new bong and play with Photoshop for eight hours.
Itâs as if the very last dinosaur or the last mammoth â or in my case, the very last dodo bird â suddenly looked up and realized that evolution had kicked in. Something had kicked in, someone had pressed play on the button marked TIME, Do not pass GO, do not collect two bits , and I had spent way too many years snuggled in the tattered nest with these other bewitching fowl and not honing my survival skills.
Someone had shaken the snow globe. This is not where I got off the bus at all. When did it slip away from me? Was I not paying attention? How did I not feel the plate tectonics?
One day, I walk through the pounding circus of my city and it creepily dawns on me. I feel like the creature from long ago, the coelacanth swimming in the lagoon of spangly reef fish. How did it all become so puzzling? Where did my city and its dwellers go?
Some weeks later, I venture out again, and once more, the rug had been pulled out from under me, the room rearranged, and the understudies have all taken over. Whoâs been playing musical chairs in my absence?
Itâs not as if I can re-live that past even if it were to suddenly resurrect in a new body, or a different time, or another place. Nothing escapes the fusillade, does it? One day, as it always does, it happens. The center, already soft, shaky and chewy, just cannot hold any more poop.
One morning, I just could not put up with having one more crackhead camped out on the front stairs, swaying his head in the smoke-ring clouds billowing from his crack pipe which looks suspiciously like my truckâs radio antenna, not another protracted spell of wheezing and coughing and hacking up sputum all over the take-out menus. One day I wake up and I realize I can no longer climb Meat Mountain at Hahnâs Hibachi. I can make a valiant attempt but the best I can muster is Base Camp Five, the Kal-Bi Super Combo Special; which is neither Super nor Special since it only contains two animal species whereas âsuperâ calls for a minimum of four, and âspecialâ calls for six, at least.
Some weeks ago, someone defecated on the side of my apartment building, and then some animal pooped right squarely on top of the pile of shit. Iâm guessing a cat, though a raccoon might also be possible. A squishy hazelnut brown patty on top of the choco-brown curled pile. At one time, I would have thought this was so damn cool; I would have taken Polaroids of it and showed everyone the sculptural effects, I would have postulated about the theories of abjection in art and culture. But now, I just want any one of my neighbors to wash that damn thing away before someone else poops on the existing totem. No one washed the poop away. And yes, the next day, there was another layer to the totem. And the day after, another.
Still, nothing familiar stirred in me. Not even a shitstack could prod a nostalgic ping out of me. I was gone.
I have less patience to suffer fools willingly anymore. This makes dating in the city a sheer challenge. Matters are not helped by my underdeveloped social skills and inept grooming sensibilities.
Itâs been years since Iâve mustered the balls or the heck to go out to the discotheque, and itâs not even called that anymore. Not since dancing got so damn complicated and I inevitably end up looking like the lost Solid Gold dancer, the one whoâs escaped from the island where theyâve been banished. (Itâs an island like Dr. Moreauâs and every Solid Gold dancer has a miniature version of his or herself who lives on a small column doing Debbie Allenesque Solid Gold jazz dances to power ballads only they and their intended victims can hear in their heads.) I always feel disconcerted in bars. I never mastered the art of street cruising, or even the intricate techniques of
Itâs as if the very last dinosaur or the last mammoth â or in my case, the very last dodo bird â suddenly looked up and realized that evolution had kicked in. Something had kicked in, someone had pressed play on the button marked TIME, Do not pass GO, do not collect two bits , and I had spent way too many years snuggled in the tattered nest with these other bewitching fowl and not honing my survival skills.
Someone had shaken the snow globe. This is not where I got off the bus at all. When did it slip away from me? Was I not paying attention? How did I not feel the plate tectonics?
One day, I walk through the pounding circus of my city and it creepily dawns on me. I feel like the creature from long ago, the coelacanth swimming in the lagoon of spangly reef fish. How did it all become so puzzling? Where did my city and its dwellers go?
Some weeks later, I venture out again, and once more, the rug had been pulled out from under me, the room rearranged, and the understudies have all taken over. Whoâs been playing musical chairs in my absence?
Itâs not as if I can re-live that past even if it were to suddenly resurrect in a new body, or a different time, or another place. Nothing escapes the fusillade, does it? One day, as it always does, it happens. The center, already soft, shaky and chewy, just cannot hold any more poop.
One morning, I just could not put up with having one more crackhead camped out on the front stairs, swaying his head in the smoke-ring clouds billowing from his crack pipe which looks suspiciously like my truckâs radio antenna, not another protracted spell of wheezing and coughing and hacking up sputum all over the take-out menus. One day I wake up and I realize I can no longer climb Meat Mountain at Hahnâs Hibachi. I can make a valiant attempt but the best I can muster is Base Camp Five, the Kal-Bi Super Combo Special; which is neither Super nor Special since it only contains two animal species whereas âsuperâ calls for a minimum of four, and âspecialâ calls for six, at least.
Some weeks ago, someone defecated on the side of my apartment building, and then some animal pooped right squarely on top of the pile of shit. Iâm guessing a cat, though a raccoon might also be possible. A squishy hazelnut brown patty on top of the choco-brown curled pile. At one time, I would have thought this was so damn cool; I would have taken Polaroids of it and showed everyone the sculptural effects, I would have postulated about the theories of abjection in art and culture. But now, I just want any one of my neighbors to wash that damn thing away before someone else poops on the existing totem. No one washed the poop away. And yes, the next day, there was another layer to the totem. And the day after, another.
Still, nothing familiar stirred in me. Not even a shitstack could prod a nostalgic ping out of me. I was gone.
I have less patience to suffer fools willingly anymore. This makes dating in the city a sheer challenge. Matters are not helped by my underdeveloped social skills and inept grooming sensibilities.
Itâs been years since Iâve mustered the balls or the heck to go out to the discotheque, and itâs not even called that anymore. Not since dancing got so damn complicated and I inevitably end up looking like the lost Solid Gold dancer, the one whoâs escaped from the island where theyâve been banished. (Itâs an island like Dr. Moreauâs and every Solid Gold dancer has a miniature version of his or herself who lives on a small column doing Debbie Allenesque Solid Gold jazz dances to power ballads only they and their intended victims can hear in their heads.) I always feel disconcerted in bars. I never mastered the art of street cruising, or even the intricate techniques of
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