CONVERSATIONS WITH MY STUDENTS


Over the last couple of weeks I held individual conferences with each of my high school students. The first marking period ended and report cards had come out. I wanted to talk to them about their grades and know how they felt about school. I learned that no matter what age, kids say the damnedest things. Some of it is very enlightening. Some of it just makes me wonder.

Here are some examples. Keep in mind that I work with inner city NYC kids who may have social or developmental challenges.


STUDENT: Javier
GRADE: 10th

Me: Javier, you’re grades aren’t very good. How do you feel about school?
Javier: Mista’, school’s wacked. It’s so boring. The teachers are boring.
Me: Why is school so boring?
Javier: Because we never do nothing fun, and the teachers be beasting.
Me: What do you mean?
Javier: They be givin’ so much homework.
Me: Homework is part of the learning process. Teachers give you homework to help you understand the material for the exams and regents tests. It’s to help you, Javier.
Javier: That’s wacked.
Me: Okay. Well, then what would make it better for you?
Javier: Teachers should ask us if we want homework.
Me: But if we ask whether you want homework, would you actually do it?
Javier: Mista’, I ain’t doing that shit.


STUDENT: Joseph
GRADE: 10th

Me: Do you think school is worthwhile?
Joseph: Mista’, I want to drop out of school.
Me: Certainly that’s a choice you can make. But if you quit school, how would that help you?
Joseph: I can get a job.
Me: Where do you want to work?
Joseph: Footlocker.
Me: Don’t you think you’d get a better job if you graduate from school first?
Joseph: I can’t quit school anyways.
Me: Why not?
Joseph: I talked to the courts.
Me: And what did the courts say?
Joseph: The judge said if I quit school, I’ll be behind bars again.
Me: Sounds like school is a better option than being behind bars.
Joseph: Yeah… But then I could see my brother. He a gang memba’. He got on parole.
Me: Why is he back in prison now?
Joseph: He quit school, so they locked him up again.
Me: ?


STUDENT: Jose
GRADE: 10th

Me: Jose, how do you plan to graduate with grades like this?
Jose: I don’t know.
Me: Are you not interested in school?
Jose: School’s okay.
Me: Then what’s the problem? Why aren’t you doing the work?
Jose: I don’t know.
Me: Jose… What do you plan to do after graduation?
Jose: Play football.
Me: I hear you’re one of the best on the school team.
Jose: Yeah.
Me: Where do you plan to play football after high school?
Jose: College.
Me: College? Jose, I have to be honest with you. No college will accept you with grades like these. You’re a really smart guy, but you won’t get into college to play football unless you start applying yourself now.
Jose: So. I’ll still play.
Me: Where?
Jose: I’ll stay in high school.



STUDENT: Leiny (female)
GRADE: 11th

Me: What book are you reading for Independent Reading?
Leiny: Nothin’, mista’.
Me: Why aren’t you reading?
Leiny: I hate reading. It’s hard.
Me: I know reading is sometimes hard. But the more you practice, the easier it gets.
Leiny: I guess so.
Me: What do you like to read about?
Leiny: People. And, what’s that’s called—drama?
Me: Oh, so you like to read about people and the things they experience in life?
Leiny: Yeah. I like that.
Me; One of my favorite dramas is a new book called The secret life of bees. Have you read it?
Leiny: That’s a book?
Me: Yes. It’s about a girl a few years younger than you and the experiences she has growing up. Would you like to read it for Independent Reading?
Leiny: Nah, mista’. I hate books. In 200 pages in a book, 190 suck. I only read magazines.
Me: Magazines? Which ones?
Leiny: Deli store ones.
Me: What kind of drama is in a deli store magazine?
Leiny: They be talkin’ about the stars and what they be doing. Ha! They more fucked up than me, mista’.


STUDENT: Maribel
GRADE: 9th

Maribel: I don’t like my teachers. They’re annoying.
Me: How are they annoying?
Maribel: They just are! They don’t do fun things. They just want us to work a lot.
Me: Your teachers aren’t trying to annoy you. I’m sure I annoy you in my class, too, but I’m just trying to help you.
Maribel: Nah, mista’. Before I use to think you were annoying. But now you’re mad cool.
Me: Oh? Why am I so cool now?
Maribel: Cause, mista’, you stupid. It’s funny.

STUDENT FIGHTS


In an email to my friend A.R. 10-21-05

On Tuesday morning, I started my day at school breaking-up a fight in the stairwell. I don’t know where boys in the 9th grade get the idea that they can beat up a 9th grade girl. Generally, at that age, the girls are bigger and stronger than the boys, as was the case that morning.

He had been fooling around and tried to trip the girl as they were walking up the stairs. She got upset over his constant pestering, and according to her, he touched her in an inappropriate manner. That was the last straw for the girl. She pushed the kid away and his drink spilled on him. That’s when I found them in the stairwell, in grips staring each other down like animals in the wild. The boy kept holding onto the girl despite her repeated warnings for him to let go. The yelling got heated. I tried to calm them down. The girl warned him, very seriously: “I’m going beat the shit out of you if you don’t let go of me!” The boy, however, kept holding onto the girl by her collar, not wanting to let go at the cost of loosing pride and standing with his friends if he were to back down. Then, he made his critical mistake, saying to her something to the effect of “fat, ugly bitch who...” Wham! He was knocked back onto the stairs. Staggering back up onto his feet, a little disoriented, he found his mouth full of blood. Wham! Once more, just in case he forgot the first one.

Who's lost some pride and standing now? As I’ve always said, experience is something you get only right after you need it. It was obvious this kid had no experience fighting a girl twice his size. But he does now.

It’s policy, for legal protection, that teachers do not physically get involved in student fights. Even in the case of a kid smashing the brains out of another, if I hurt a student while physcially intervening, then I’d get into nearly as much legal trouble as the offending student should he or she actually killed someone. (Hm, we'll leave the question of moral obligation out of this for now.)

And usually, kids don’t want to actually fight. They understand the odds of getting hurt are high, and they don’t want to get hurt. But often times in the urban “hood”, the front of being “tough” must be upheld. If a kid is ever seen as weak, even in front of a teacher, then his or her chances of surviving the streets before and after school (and sometimes even in school) are immediately in jeopardy. It’s the sad reality of life for inner city kids these days.

On the first day of class I explained my philosophy about students who want to fight in my classroom: “If you want to fight,” I told them, “give me 2 minutes. A bag of popcorn takes 2 minutes to pop in the microwave. Then I can watch you smash the shit out each other.”



Downs - Copyright © 2005

AUTUMN


Autumn is my favorite time of the year. With the changes in the seasons—the smells of fall, the northern motion of the earth, the cooling weather—my life seems to go through large and important changes as well. Historically, this time of the year has been an emotional time for me.

Looking back, I realize that I have met the most important people in my life during these turbulent times. Great friends and lovers, people with whom I have walked down both good and bad paths. Not all of them are in my life now, but all of them have contributed immensely to who I am today.

What are some of the new changes I have undergone so far this autumn?

I have started a new and challenging career.

I have made wonderful new friends, some of whom I think will influence my life, in one way or another, greatly in the year to come.

Last autumn, I fell deeply in love. Just before this autumn began, my heart was deeply broken. But that's over now. And I have grown and matured more than I thought possible, both emotionally and insightfully, from the experience. I have gained greater perspective on who I am and what makes me happy. I know what mistakes to avoid.

I look forward to what life has in store now. I’m happy with all of these changes, with where I am, and to where I’m headed.

I'M NOT SINGLE
I'm Romantically Challenged


Sometimes I like being single. I'm always there when I need me. But a lot of the time I can’t help feeling that I’m getting screwed while everybody else is getting laid. I can tell you, a bachelor's life is no life for a single man.

I think part of the answer lies in the fact that it’s tough to meet women in this city because I don't do the bar and club scene. What’s that saying—“A drunk person’s words are a sober person’s thoughts”? Well, in that situation my only thoughts are second thoughts. I'll have a drink now and then, and I like a great wine with dinner, but I drink very little alcohol. And I never need it to be social or have a good time; that is, I don’t drink to make other people interesting. I guess that’s my own fault, but it would be great to meet someone similar, someone who doesn’t follow this motto in life: “Beer—the reason I wake up every afternoon.”

(Many have told me that that is nearly impossible in New York City. If that’s true, then I really am screwed. I once had a girlfriend who would tell me that she wasn’t drunk because she could lay on the floor without holding on. Now, I like amusement as much as the next person, but after a while that just got boring.)

And meeting women can be dangerous work, like a mouse approaching a mousetrap garnished with cheese. She looks so lovely, smells so sweet, if I could just—WHAM, what the…?

Maybe that’s because my pick-up lines really suck. “I’d buy you a drink, but I’ll be jealous of the straw.” Or, “Are you wearing lipstick? Mind if I taste it?” And this one never works, “Hey, you want to go out for pizza and some sex? What, you don't like pizza?”

The other problem seems to be that I am a non-smoker. And non-smokers seem to be way out numbered by smokers in New York City. Even some non-smokers are smokers. In the last couple of relationships I had, my girlfriends would say, months after we started dating, “No, I’m not a smoker. I only smoke when I’m out drinking.” Oh, well then what’s the big deal? Hell, I’m not a cheater. I only cheat when I’m not with you.

Not that I think smokers or drinkers are evil people—many of my friends drink and smoke and we’re as happy as turtles on a log. To say that I do not want to date a smoker or frequent drinker is not saying something superficial or superior, such as, "Elevators smell different to midgets, and therefore I don’t like midgets." In terms of a romantic relationship—something intimate and loving—we all have certain criteria for that special person. Exactly what those criteria are depends on one’s personal interests and level of desperation at any one time, but I’ll save that topic for another time.

What, then, after all this ranting, do I find attractive in a woman?

All generalizations are dangerous, even this one. I might say that she'd be a little shy, which is sexy, but she can communicate her needs, desires, and feelings, which is very sexy. She's the 3 C's of intelligence: creative, curious, and challenges my own thinking. She knows who she is, and she doesn't try to be what she thinks other people want her to be. Except, be naughty—save Santa the trip. She doesn’t need to lead me into temptation. I can find the way just fine myself. But she should be feminine, smart, fit, healthy, and funny.

And just like a man wrapped up in himself, she’d make a very small package if she were wrapped up in her own image. Beauty isn’t everything. Everyone is beautiful if you squint a bit. Even me.




(And no, I do not use those, or any other, pick-up lines; but thanks for all the hopeful suggestions in that department, guys.)


Downs - Copyright © 2005


Related Posting: Top 5 Conversational Moments on Bad First Dates
Related Posting: The Knight Rider Guy
Related Posting: Reconsider This

REGAINING PERSPECTIVE

Great conversation is rare. It is rare precisely because it is so subjective. Its quality and color depend on your needs and interests at a particular moment in time more than on a set formula that, if followed, will reflect your ability to talk to others. And sometimes, you don’t even know what you need until you hear it.

Recently, that happened to me.

On a particularly interesting day, a day that leaned more towards the bad side of interesting than the good, a co-worker and I decided it would be best to get a drink. Neither of us really drink big people drinks, so getting a drink meant to us sitting in a comfortable place and milking our glasses of wine for hours. But the wine wasn't what we needed. In reality, what we needed was to have a casual conversation about nothing.

And that’s when it happened. We had never sat down together to talk like this before. The conversation was engaging, funny, at times surprisingly intimate and open, and often it was in flux from topic to topic. Just the way I like conversations to be. What made this conversation great, however, was a particular focus we returned to over and over: personal values.

The point is not that our values, save one, were more or less equivalent, but that we were able to talk about them unfalteringly. For me, hearing someone else speak of values with such unwavering confidence was refreshing and encouraging. The conversation reoriented me and gave me perspective in what has been a personally and privately turbulent time. Her strength has given me the courage to be indissoluble in me own needs.

Thanks, little t.



Downs - Copyright © 2005


(The painting above: Conversation - Pierre Borenave)

QUOTE OF THE DAY

And now a deep thought from the most powerful and intelligent man on earth:

"If we don't succeed, we run the risk of failure." - George W. Bush

Ah, this great country. In America, anybody can be president. That's one of the risks we take.

PLANNED PROCRASTINATION
Avoid getting a life


It’s not easy to procrastinate. I have seen many friends try to do it and fail miserably. Lacking the necessary experience and emotional strength to guiltlessly avoid one’s responsibilities, they always seem to get their shit done. And for that, they suffer in life. They have to go to jobs, they actually have to do work, and they have bosses to report to. They have homes to clean, cars to drive, and bills to pay. In short, they have lives. Horrifying, isn’t it?

That is why I’ve written this short article. Over the years I’ve learned that when something needs to be done, no matter how unimportant or trivial, efficiently and successfully neglecting it takes a well thought out plan. I would say that I am sorry I did not shared some of my secrets of procrastination sooner, for it would have saved many from needless suffering, but I am proud that it has taken me over 15 years. If I had done this sooner, then I too would have suffered from not procrastinating, and how could I have lived with myself?

Professional procrastinators, called cunctators amongst peers (or losers by the rest of society), use a variety of proven techniques to avoid getting a life. For example, all good losers know that it’s essential to set very high expectations. The higher the expectations, the less likely you’ll reach them and the sooner you’ll get frustrated and see the pointlessness of it all. It’s now emotionally easier to say, “Fuck it,” and do the many other things you’ve been meaning to do but have not done.

Go ahead—now’s the time to post that personals ad for casual sex on the Internet. Stay up all night doing cyber-sex through your instant messenger with the strangers who answered your ad. It matters not if the other person is someone you’d choose death over touching in real life, or that you don’t even know the person is the same sex as you but you are heterosexual. Good procrastination is open-mindedness.

Another technique is to clearly define the task or responsibility that you need to accomplish. A clearly identifiable goal is much easier to avoid than one left in ambiguous terms. If a task is left uncertain, one might accidentally accomplish it without realizing. To avoid this, write the task down, learn it, recognize its immense importance and why you should do it immediately, and then ask yourself: When was the last time I used my credit cards? Max them out now.

I hesitate to share the following, and last, technique with you because of its high fatality rate. Though it is very possible that upon execution of this method of procrastination the inexperienced loser could die, I feel that with proper coaching one could use it to unremittingly avoid getting a life forever. (Though I suppose if you die trying this, then you’ll accomplish that anyway.)

When presented with an important task to do, think of an outrageous character to dress up as and spend your day harassing people as that character. For example, when things get really heavy for me, I don my yellow kangaroo suit and run around the city squirting people with a water pistol from my crotch. Not only is this a great way to avoid whatever it is that I need to do and to meet new people, I also get amazing exercise running away from them while wearing a 30 pound yellow kangaroo costume that does not allow me to hide in a crowd if I need a breather.

Your character can be anything. The important part is how you harass other people. Here are a couple examples from my fellow losers.



Tommy prefers to knock on the doors of strangers, barge in, and use their toilets without permission.

Mark finds great stress relief in waking up his friends while wearing a hockey mask and holding a large clever.



Procrastination. It’s difficult to do, and do well. But once mastered, you can rest assured that you will never again have to deal with getting a life.





Downs - Copyright © 2005


Related Posting: Klingon as a Second Language

A WEEK OF LOSS

To Michelle and Bryan:

You are enduring a lot this week in the aftermath of hurricane Katrina. It could not have happened to people less deserving. But despite the great loss you’ve suffered—and I know that you feel you’ve lost more than a home and possessions, you’ve lost many things that trace the history of your lives together—I am happy that you are both alive and healthy! Hang in there. The worst is over.

My love, S


Click here to donate your support to the victums of Hurricane Katrina.
_________________

To Gen and Allyson:

My heart goes out to you and your family. Your grandfather was a wonderful man, and I'm lucky to have met him. My love, S

As a Japanese American, Bill Kazumi Ishida spent time in the US concentration camps during WWII, and he himself was a war veteran of later conflicts. He died at about a quarter to midnight, August 31, 2005. He was 88. There are few men who could live up to his stature.

TOP 5 CONVERSATIONAL MOMENTS
(on bad first dates)

I don't get too many dating opportunities, so when I do it's a big deal. But sometimes one never knows what one will get on a first date. Below are some of the more interesting moments I have had.


CONVERSATION #1

INITIALS: A.W.
AGE: 23
PLACE: Classy Diner
TIME FRAME: 20 minutes after meeting

Me: I bore you, don’t I?
AW: Nope.
(Silence.)
Me: So…want to order?
AW: Sure.
(Waitress arrives.)
Waitress: What cha want?
(AW stares.)
Waitress: Well, did you want something?
AW: Yeah, I do. I want something that died in pain.
(Exchange of glances all around.)
AW: Something that suffered in life.
Waitress: Are you sick?
AW: No, I’m hungry.
Waitress: So, what do you want…to eat?
AW: Anger. Flesh.
Waitress: You want a steak?
AW: I want feeling. Some kind of expression. Madness will do.
Waitress: Mister, your friend’s fucked up. (Waitress begins to leave.)
AW: No, wait. I want your tears, in a bowl. I want your hopes, boiled in fear. And I want your will, chewed by doubt and free to disappear.
Waitress: Shit, girl.


CONVERSATION #2

INITIALS: D.L.
AGE: 31
PLACE: Hotel Lounge
TIME FRAME: 7 minutes after meeting

DL: I think you’re pretty cute.
Me: Hey, thanks. You’re attractive, too.
DL: Let’s toast to our attractiveness.
(We toast and take a sip of wine.)
DL: Ah, that’s really nice.
Me: Yeah.
DL: So, let’s get to the real business. How big’s your dick?


CONVERSATION #3

INITIALS: J.K.
AGE: 24
PLACE: Fancy Korean Restaurant
TIME FRAME: 5 minutes into dinner

Me: This is a really nice place.
JK: Yeah, I like it. I come here all the time.
Me: You like the food that much?
JK: Hee-hee, yeah. And the waiters are all really hot.
(I look at the waiters.)
Me: Yeah, that’s strange. There are only really good-looking men working here. How’s that?
JK: The owner is a gay Korean guy. He wants only hot guys to work for him.
Me: Wow, that must be frustrating—to eat at a place with hot waiters serving you, but they’re all gay!
JK: No. I’ve fucked them all. Oh, and those two came over together last week. Hey, guys! (Waves to waiters at the bar.)


CONVERSATION #4

INITIALS: N.V.
AGE: 28
PLACE: An Italian Eatery
TIME FRAME: 30 minutes into dinner

Me: So tell me about the design project you’re working on.
NV: It’s a bar in the East village.
Me: Cool. What’s your inspiration?
(Her phone rings.)
NV: Sorry, hold on. (Looks at phone) Oh, shit.
Me: What’s wrong?
NV: It’s my boyfriend. But he’s supposed to be busy right now.
Me: You have a boyfriend?
NV: Didn’t I tell you?
Me: No.
NV: I have to answer this.
Me. Well, okay…
NV (on phone): Hi, baby. Yeah… Just having dinner with a friend. I thought you… What, why? Don’t you like her? I spent $300 on a stripper for you and you think she’s ugly? (Listens a moment.) Well fine, get a different one, but I’m not paying for it.


CONVERSATION #5

INITIALS: E.G.
AGE: 32
PLACE: Swings at a park
TIME FRAME: 4 hours after meeting

EG: This is so fun! (She swings.)
Me: It’s great to be a kid sometimes.
EG: Yeah. I feel really relaxed with you. Like I can tell you anything.
Me: Ha, okay, so tell me something.
EG: Hm, well. Have you ever fucked a cantaloupe?
Me: What?
EG: It’s something guys do, right? You cut a hole in the cantaloupe, and then you put it in the oven for a few minutes to warm it up. It’s supposed to feel just like a girl.
Me: Huh.
EG: I like frozen pickles.



Downs - Copyright © 2005


Related Posting: I'm Not Single, I'm Romantically Challenged
Related Posting: The Knight Rider Guy
Related Posting: Reconsider This

WHAT ARE YOU AFRAID OF?


I swear there is a phobia for everything. There are so many phobias out there that it’s pretty certain each and everyone of us suffers from one to some degree. So I went looking for a phobia to have. And to my delight, I found one. But, in the search for the name of my own phobia, I discovered that the range of human fears is vast and divergent, and when compared to some of the other phobias, mine is disappointingly uncool.

You have your common fears, like the fear of spiders (Arachnephobia), and the fear of heights (Batophobia), and the fear of flying (Aviophobia). Mine falls some where between these and the next level. For beyond these, you have the truly remarkable, like the fear of fat people (Cacomorphobia), the fear of being tickled by feathers (Pteronophobia), and of course Autodysomophobia, the fear of people with a vile odor. A step yet above these, you have the fear of hearing good news (Euphobia), the fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of your mouth (Arachibutyrophobia), and heaven forbid, the fear of the great mole rat (Zemmiphobia).

One of my personal favorites from this catagory is Levophobia, the fear of things to or on the left side of the body. Could you imagine being a lefty with this problem?

But wait, it gets even better. I came across a few other phobias that are deserving of some individual attention. These phobias must be the crowning achievements of the human ability to shit ourselves over everyday things, as I read somewhere recently, "Our deepest fears reside just behind the everyday and the banal."

Firstly, how the hell does someone who suffers from Barophobia, the fear of gravity, get through life? At a website titled "Barophobia: Treatment and Hope" one learns that "most barophobia therapies take months or years and sometimes even require the patient to be exposed repeatedly to their fear." What? If therapies only "sometimes require the patient to be exposed repeatedly to their fear," then where the hell are they when they aren't being exposed to gravity? You can’t exactly avoid gravity. Where do you go to feel safe? Does this person spend his or her life hanging from things? Are they the ones who become astronauts and want to live in space stations?

And as if that isn't bizarre enough, the website later goes on to say that "Barophobia will likely cost you tens, even hundreds of thousands of dollars over the course of your lifetime, let alone the cost to your health and quality of life. Now Barophobia can be gone for less than the price of a round-trip airline ticket." Would someone really, really smart please give me just one reason why a person who suffers from the fear of GRAVITY would even care how much an airline ticket costs. Planes come down, sometimes very hard, like crashing-type hard. At least if you're in orbit, you can pretty much chill and not worry about it.

Second. Last I heard, the Dutch were not a particularly frightening or dangerous folk. In fact, they are very peaceful and jolly. Historically, they have contributed greatly to the world with cartography, art, and smelly cheeses. Nevertheless, Dutchphobia exists.

One website assures us that Dutchphobia is "unwarranted and irrational." No shit. And I wonder - can someone who suffers from this fear actually detect a Dutch person in a crowd? I tried to find out, but there seems to be very little about this mysterious phobia. I did come across one chat room, however, dedicated entirely to Dutchphobia. But it was all in Dutch. (www.dimitri.org/?itemid=249)

And finally, Walloonphobia—The fear of the Walloons. Oh my god, who the fuck are the Walloons*?

As horrible as it would be to have to suffer from any one of these phobias, it soon occurred to me that it’s possible for someone to suffer from more than one phobia at the same time. Imagine the possible repercussions of this. If you have Stasibasiphobia, you have the fear of standing or walking. But what if you also have Kathisophobia, the fear of sitting down? Now what are you going to do? If you suffer from this combination, then you’d probably be happy to also suffer from the fear of gravity if only you could do something about it. But you can’t.

However, it works the other way, too. Having to go through life with Panophobia, the fear of everything, is inconceivable. Everything you taste, touch, smell, hear and see—clothes, food, shower curtains, lady bugs, a Q-Tip—would scare the shit out of you. The only way I can imagine one could live a semi-normal life with this problem would be to also suffer from Optophobia, the fear of opening one's eyes. At least with your eyes closed, you can’t scare yourself to death if you look in a mirror.

Lastly, I have some advice for women. I highly recommend that every woman screen their potential partner for the following four phobias before committing to a serious relationship. You may otherwise be very disappointed.

1. Dishabiliophobia—the fear of undressing in front of someone
2. Clinophobia—the fear of going to bed
3. Eurotophobia—the fear of female genitalia
4. And finally, Ithyphallophobia—the fear of having an erection

All of this makes me feel a little dissatisfied with my phobia. It’s not so bad going through life with Helminthophobia, the fear of being infested with worms. (It's just that I'm always so hungry, and so I wonder...)

If you’re interested in finding the name of a phobia, or just want to see what other phobias are out there, you can visit:

www.phobialist.com

Cartoon: "I have a phobia of people with phobias."



( * The Walloons, by the way, are a group of people living in Southern Belgium who traditionally spoke a dialect of French called Walloon, but who today for the most part speak standard French.)



Downs - Copyright © 2005

THE KNIGHT RIDER GUY

I am up late tonight and, feeling like I don't have anyone in my life right now, started thinking about the first time I was interested in a girl. (Really, I'm thinking about the larger, metaphysical aspects of relationships and love, what it means to find "the one" and whether people are in our lives to fulfill a certain purpose for that period, then move on - but all that shit is just way to heavy to write about at two in the morning.)

When I started liking girls, I was in elementary school. Back then, and I mean way back then, the coolest thing around was the Knight Rider guy, David Hasselhoff. The Knight Rider guy showed the world how to swoon women, and every Friday night at 8, you bet I was taking notes.

He always knew what to do. And I noticed his shirts were always unbuttoned down a few holes. Even though at 12 years of age I didn’t have curly eye-catching chest hair, like my idol and mentor, I understood that an unbuttoned shirt was the key to getting girls. And that was how I was going to score my first date ever.

I had the hots for this girl named Carrie. She was delicate and reminded me of tissue paper. One day in class we were standing in line to pick up our projects. Carrie and I were at the back of the line. This was my in.

Trained to be ever vigilant, my shirt was already unbuttoned and I arranged the slit of the opening to show just the right amount of my muscular 12 year old chest. Show too little, and it might not work. Too much, and she might faint. I stood right behind her and leaned one shoulder against the wall, an advanced move that I still had not fully mastered, but she couldn’t tell. I was too good, and I was good to go.

“Hi, Carrie. What’s up?”

She turned around. “Hey, Space Boy. How are you today?”

“Fabulous, now that I’m looking at you.” I did a dramatic look-away, to lure her in. The Knight Rider guy used it once on a lawyer chick that kept ignoring him. Carrie didn’t have a chance.

“W-whaaat?” She was obviously sweep off her feet.

“You know, baby. Want to sit together at lunch?”

“Oh, Space Boy…”

Yeah, baby, just say it…

“…your shirt’s undone. And, you look ridiculous.”



Downs - Copyright © 2005


Related Posting: I'm Not Single, I'm Romantically Challenged
Related Posting: Top 5 Conversational Moments on Bad First Dates
Related Posting: Reconsider This

KLINGON AS A SECOND LANGUAGE


One day, years ago in Las Vegas, I decided to take a break from my college studies and go to the Strip. I wanted to check out the new pirate show at the Treasure Island where they have actual pirate ships sail across the front of the hotel and actual pirates battle it out with cannons and sabers and swinging on ropes and shit. One of the ships even sinks right there in front of the hotel! Cool. So, I hopped a bus.

It was a hot late afternoon. I waited 20 minutes for the bus. No water. No A/C. No bench to sit on. No bus stop booth to hide from the sun. You could have played connect the dots with the balls of sweat on my face if they would have just stopped streaming down my neck. When the bus arrived, I was relieved. Finally! The doors opened and I flung myself in.

I paid my fare and thanked the driver. Eager to get off my feet, I turned around to look for an open seat. My heart stopped. Every seat was taken. No, not only was every seat taken, but every seat was taken by a Klingon. That’s right, Klingons were on that bus. How many? Like, all of them.

I thought about backing slowly off the bus, but the driver suddenly closed the doors and hit the gas. Shit. I was being kidnapped by a bunch of Klingons on public transportation. You just can’t make this shit up, man.

“You’re going to have to find a seat, sir,” said the driver.

I looked at the driver. “What...You're driving a bus and you're fucking blind?" I felt like saying it, but I didn’t. He might have been half Klingie or something, and I didn’t want to take my chances. I took a deep breath and forced myself to move down the narrow aisle between the seats. I avoided dozens of legs and feet covered in what I’m sure was the latest in Klingon fashion: boots with horns and studs and gadgets, leather pants with what looked like blades strapped to them. I think I stepped on someone’s cape.

Way in the back I found an empty seat. Of course, there was a Klingon sitting in the seat next to it. He, she, it stared at me a moment. I looked away, searching for another seat but knowing full well that that seat was the only one available. I was already at the back of the bus. Where was I going to go? So I looked back at the seat. The Klingon grimaced, or smiled--I couldn’t tell what it was exactly because his, her, its forehead and nose were wrinkled permanently into place.

I sat down, compactly. The bus moved along for a little while and nothing happened. Suddenly, the Klingon wanted to communicate with me. He, she, it gave me an inquisitive look.

“Hey there,” I said. “Vacationing?”

“nuqneH!” it bellowed. (Roughly translated as “Hello,” but it’s closer to “What do you want?”)

“Uh, so… Okay…” (Exactly translated as "What the fuck?")

“qaStaH nuq.” (What’s happening?)

“Huh?”

“qaStaH nuq,” it said again.

“Listen, I’m not a…a Klingon...sir, ma’am? I don’t know what you’re saying.”

“yIDoghQo'.” (Don’t be silly!) It did that grimacing smile thing again. “Ah, spek some Englash, I do!”

“Ah, well that’s wonderful. Just wonderful.”

Others of its kind began to take interest in our conversation. They were turning around in their seats and looking at us. I looked out the window and wondered how much longer it would be to my stop. I considered getting out a little early.

“You learn Klingon!” One of the bigger ones shouted from a couple seats away. “Come with us!”

“Oh no, I’m busy. And, I don’t see much use for Klingon, uh, on this planet. But thank you.”

There was that uncomfortable silence that you hate when two people have just met but have nothing to say to each other. Except in this case, I was wondering just how serious these people were about being Klingons. I mean, in the Star Trek shows, aren’t Klingons merciless warriors or something? Don’t they kill things they don’t like? Drink blood, collect skulls, and all that?

“So, are all of you part of some convention or social-psycho study or something?” I tried to deliver the question with a warm, friendly smile. I didn’t get any in return, though.

A few of them started talking in their own language. Others turned around, seemingly finished with me. My little neighbor, however, was not finished with me.

“Heghlu'meH QaQ jajvam.” (Today is a good day to die.)

“Sure, sounds like fun.” I had no idea what it was saying to me, but I couldn’t stop the flow of feeling a little sinister at this point.

“bIjatlh 'e' yImev. naDevvo' yIghoS.” (Shut up! Go away!) And it pushed me a little out of my seat.

“Hey, now! I don’t know how Klingons flirt, but on this planet, buddy, pushing is considered a little rude.”

We had a short staring contest. I don’t think Klingons even have eye lids.

We arrived at my stop. I stood up. They all watched as I moved to the rear doors and exited. I stood on the edge of the street and waved as they peered at me through the windows of the bus. I walked over to the Treasure Island hotel and watched the pirate show. Somehow, it just wasn’t as interesting as I thought it would be.


(Did you know that there is actually a Klingon Language Institute? What a crazy little world we live on.)



Downs - Copyright © 2005


Related Posting: Planned Procrastination - Avoid Getting a Life

THE DRAMA OF EATING


Lately, I’ve been eating out a lot. Like, every meal. I rather go to the diner three blocks away for 2 eggs over easy than get the pan and spatula out to do it myself. Anyway, I’ve tried a number of wonderful new places in the last few weeks. It’s always an interesting, eccentric experience eating someplace new. New environments. New smells. New options and new possibilities. And to add to the adventure, it’s even more peculiar when having dinner with a new friend, or someone with whom you’ve never eaten before.

One recent evening, I was eating at a trendy French restaurant called L’Orange Bleu for the second time ever (in two weeks). The atmosphere and décor are Mediterranean, alluring. The presentation of the food is inspiring. And the food itself has capricious qualities. Everyone, like my friend and I, was dressed casually, but nicely. The wine was good. The air was crisp. Everything was perfect.

That’s when I started to feel a little sinister. I asked myself questions like: What makes all of these things important so as to make this a fun place to eat? And, why is it so interesting to watch how other people eat? I started to watch how my friend ate her food. How far away from the edge of the table is she? Does she chew enough before she starts talking so partially chewed food doesn’t become airborne? What’s she going to do with that little piece of meat that’s sort of hanging off her plate? Does she even see it? And then I started to worry that maybe she was watching me, too. What if I don’t negotiate my roughly chopped salad in an impressive manner, will she think less of me? Should I pretend there’s something really interesting on the wall behind her so she’d look at it while I pick my teeth, or will she not notice if I just cover my mouth with my hand, pretending to ponder one of her great questions, while covertly probing the afflicted area with the nail of my thumb?

The whole act of eating out, or a “formal” meal at home, is theatrical. The dishes, the candles, the linen, the china, the placement of the silverware, the décor, even the atmosphere and the lighting are all props and parts of a stage scene. In fact, we even refer to the setting of the table much like we do the setting of a dramatic play. Mannerisms, etiquette of the table, the public conversation, the dolled-up outfits, all seem like characterizations in a production called Public Social Interaction.

Especially when eating out, the food we eat often arrives from some unseen special room called the kitchen which is hidden behind closed doors or curtains, as if the wizard himself were back there pulling levers and pushing buttons. Once the food is prepared, serving it is a presentation of discrete surprises, like little gifts on a plate (generally intended for just one person). And somewhere between the kitchen and the table, secrets were hidden. How was this food made? What exactly is in it? How many fingers were in this food that I am now expected to eat with a fork and knife?

It’s not like we’re peasants or farmers, for whom food eaten represents a hard day's work, and that work has a relationship of cultivation and preparation to the food itself. No, our food is a thing purchased, separate from the work required to obtain it (except for the trip to the store or market, but even now Fresh Direct delivers). It is often prepared for us, and we are excited to enjoy it within the highly formalized drama of eating. And in its ideal state, that drama is entertainment.

Eating out is not meant to be boring. It is meant to be fantasy. That’s why there is drama, and staging, and acting. It is an additional expense we pay to do, like seeing a movie or a play for that matter, where we suspend our disbelief that what we are experiencing is not real (that French restaurant is not in France); except, in our dining experiences, we pay to be an active part of the production.

And we’re often judged on our performance. Emily, an actress, use to tell me to move my plate closer to me while eating, instead of leaning into it and “looking like a Neanderthal.” Socio-cultural backgrounds respected, does it really make a difference? Do I suddenly devolve into a lesser creature if I do one or the other? On the other hand, she’d overlook the placing of my elbows on the table during the main course. Why is that okay? As you know, elbows on the table during the main course is just plain inappropiate table etiquette, as if one's elbows tarnish the flavoring of the food or ruin the enjoyment of the whole evening. (After the transformation of the table from a main-course setting to a dessert or drinks setting, however, elbows and pretty much anything else is allowed on the table.)

So why is it so fun to go out to eat? There's good food and good conversation, that's true, but perhaps we also have an inner desire for impromptu performance. Perhaps we all fancy ourselves great actors. And somehow the act of eating, and going out, reflects one's social capital and establishes one's social standing (if you're a good performer) in the eyes of those around us. In any case, it makes a good topic of conversation at the table.



Downs - Copyright © 2005

(Ideas were inspired by the art critic John Berger and by Emily, a very talented actress.)

WARHAMMER


When I met my new roommate, Mitchell, I thought he was normal. He worked in security. During the week that he moved in, he was very quiet, he kept to himself, and he was always respectful. He had a girlfriend, and the week after moving in he was often gone. I thought, “Great, he has a life.”

Then came Warhammer.

One Saturday morning I woke up late. I went through my usual wake-up routine. One: check the bed for a woman. Nope—yet again. Two: open eyes and, staring at the ceiling, feel depressed. Three: decide it’s pointless to think about it, smile, and move on.

I walked downstairs to the kitchen to make breakfast. The stairs are creaky, but I’m a light walker and I never make a sound. I could be a ninja if I wanted to. Seriously.

Mitchell was already up, sitting at the dining table. I snuck up behind him and said hi. He jumped and dropped a sausage.

“Hey, Space Boy, I didn’t hear you come down the stairs. What are you, a ghost?”

I gave him a serious look. “No. I'm a ninja. Obviously.”

“Oh, I’ve been wanting to show you something! Remember what I was talking about a couple weeks ago?”

“Oh yeah—” A couple weeks ago, was he mad? I didn’t have the faintest clue.

“Come on!” Grudgingly, I followed him back upstairs.

In his room he pulled a chair up to his desk. He swung a work lamp with a 5-inch magnifying lens over the desk and turned it on. The halogen light pierced the already bright room like a Jedi light saber. I squeezed my eyes shut and looked away.

“No, go ahead. You’ll want to use it!”

I sat in the chair. He opened his closet and pulled out a large shoebox. Its lid was fastened down with twine. Sitting on his bed, he untied the knot and removed the lid carefully, as if whatever was inside might jump out. Intrigued, I adjusted myself to get a better look.

Mitchell took a deep breath and, cupping it in his hands, he removed a small wrapped object. Then he removed another, and another. He lined them up on the bed. Inside the box were dozens more, neatly stacked. The tissue paper that protected the objects was not crumbled, but methodically folded. And, like an archeologist unwrapping a mummy, Mitchell began to slowly peal back the paper from one of the mysterious objects.

What could it be, I wondered. China? Rare jade? An ancient fossil? Jewelry? Scenes from movies like Jumanji, Indiana Jones, and Tomb Raider filled my head. I was starting to think that it was going to be an interesting day, that my new roommate was going to be an interesting guy. Maybe even a ninja, like me.

He took a deep breath and held it in. “This,” he said, still holding his breath as if savoring a particularly good drag of jeeba, “…is Warhammer!”

He held up a 2-inch pig wearing armor.


“Oh...” I blinked, mouth slightly open.

“It’s my first conversion!”

“Wow. Congratulations.”

“Thanks! Well, check it out! Check it out under the lens!”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to break it….”

“Nah! I use the best plastic epoxy. Here, hold him. Feel his weight! He’s a field commander!”

“Gosh, is he really a field commander? Impressive…yeah, he sure feels like a commander. Listen, I’m really hungry.”

But Mitchell had me take a better look at Warhammer. And under the magnifying glass, I discovered what I already knew: Warhammer was simply a plastic pig-man figurine sporting armor and a battleaxe. Some of “him” was painted, but he wasn’t complete. Yet.

“I have a whole army of them.” He gestured to the shoebox. “I don’t like to paint them all the same, like other people do. People forget that each one is an individual and has individual personalities and abilities.”

“Psss—Of course. Those silly other people. Got any more sausage downstairs?”

Mitchell explained everything—Warhammer's race and religion, the history of his kind, the 2 major epochs of his world, the ensuing struggle for domination and glory. I endured a step-by-step description of Warhammer’s more notable battle talents, acted out, of course, by Mitchell. I even flipped through a 730-page catalogue dedicated entirely to Warhammer figurines. Not even my ninja powers could get be out of there. I was going to lose my mind.

A scene from a reportedly fierce Warhammer battle.


Downs - Copyright © 2005

RECONSIDER THIS


Down in a subway station is the last place you’d want to try to find a date during September in New York City. If the temperature above ground is 97, then where you are is the best metaphor for hell on earth. Down here, mid-towners stand around sweating through their business suits. They look like they just ran a marathon wrapped in designer tissue paper. I once saw a kid wring out his T-shirt and leave a puddle on the ground. Women’s nipples show.

Nonetheless, while waiting for the downtown 6 train at Union Square a woman introduced herself to me. She was wearing a black business suit with Pumas on her feet. Model-like in stature, with long, straight red-red hair, she moved in true New York fashion and did not waste time.

“Hey,” she said, “My name’s Erin. You look like someone I’d be interested in getting to know. Dinner or drinks tonight? I know a great little place. My treat.”

A bead of sweat hung on the tip of my nose.

She smiled and wrote down a time and address for dinner, stuffed the paper into my pant pocket. “I’m making reservations, so don’t keep me waiting,” she cooned.

It seemed that I was acquired, like a business trust or an auction piece. The risk must have been very minimal, however, because she just sort of strolled a few feet away and resumed waiting for the train like nothing happened. I looked around. Did that really happen? But people were just staring down the dark tunnels of the subways, seeming not to notice me, and hoping to see a refrigerator car or giant Popsicle emerge and sweep them away.

We met for dinner at The Kitchen Club on Mott and Prince, in Soho. I didn't recognize her at first. Instead of a business suit, or something casual, she was wearing a leather red choker with spikes to match the color of her hair, which was tied up like bondage with a thick black ribbon. Her eyes were colored black, as if with crushed coal. Across her tiny black tank top it read "Angry Little Dead Girl." Great...

She actually turned out to be a very interesting conversationalist. We talked about her career in fashion marketing, where we’ve traveled, and what we liked in various parts of the world. So far we were actually getting along great, and she wasn’t as poised and assertive as earlier. I began to find her beauty and personality attractive.

But, I couldn’t help feeling that she was well prepared and rehearsed. She had an answer for everything. With a few probing questions, interlaced with sexual nuance, I admit, I was able to get her to tell me her motives.

“How’s the fast life in LA?” I asked. She traveled between New York and LA a lot.

“Business is good. Friends are great,” she said happily, “ but the sex sucks. My husband turns 45 next week.”

“Your—Uh?" I looked at the choker around her neck. "Well, that's gotta suck. Stick with younger guys.”

“I try to. Less medication.”

“Ah... So, how old are you, anyway?”

“28. I'm still young and he's over the hill. He's always busy with work anyway.”

I processed the possibilities. “Wow. Approaching 30 and not getting the attention you need, huh?”

“Something like that. Hey, are you dependable?”

“Huh?”

“I need someone really dependable, someone who’s going to be around when I’m in town."

"Oh, like a mutually beneficial thing?”

"Yeah, that's exactly it. Mutual benefits."

“Oh. Well, that doesn’t sound very appealing to me.” I wasn’t about to get involved with someone who casually sleeps around, especially when that someone has a husband from southern California. They shoot each other out there for cutting one another off on the highway. Shit, no way was I going to take it a step above road rage.

“I’d pay for everything, of course. Dinners, movies, drinks, trips, shows, toys..."

"Toys?"

"...you just need to be available, and have a sense of humor!” Her stern, assertive voice was creeping back.

“A-oh, hee-hee,” I giggled, nervously. "You were just joking." Oh shit—how do I get out of here?

“No emotional attachments or baggage. Just just clean, safe fun.”

"Um, no thanks."

From under the table she put a hand on my thigh, leaned forward slightly and puckered her tight little black lips. Light freckles stretched across her face. “A couple of my female friends could visit too, you know, for threesomes and stuff, if you'd reconsider.”

Now, what exactly is it that makes a man stop and think about things? Is it the hope that truth can be knowable and worth pursuing? Is it the fact that in this world there just isn’t enough love, man? Or is it some Lucanian circular equation shit, like: “To desire is to want knowing. To know is to want having. To have is to want conquering. To concur is to want desiring.”

Well, I, for one, haven’t the slightly clue. And at that dinner table, I was like a Windows program: I was working just fine a moment ago, and then, suddenly, I was frozen and not responding.



(As it turned out, I tactfully and purposefully dismissed the topic, which ended our evening early.)




Downs - Copyright © 2005


Related Posting: I'm Not Single, I'm Romantically Challenged
Related Posting: Top 5 Conversational Moment on Bad First Dates
Related Posting: The Knight Rider Guy

WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN?

I left Starbucks over an hour ago because I happened to glance up and see Emily walking by. She was dressed for the gym, so naturally I remembered something or other that I had to do for work at the gym. I quickly packed up my stuff and ran out, hardly holding myself back.

When I got to the gym, I found nothing to do. There was no paperwork on my desk. I made all of my sales calls earlier. I didn’t want to just hang around the front desk, like—khm—someone without a life. So, I took a shower. Sure, why not? I had showered not an hour before, when I left the gym, and that was fun too.

But there’s only so much personal hygiene a man can do; and besides, standing in a shower in the men’s locker room wasn’t going to do shit for me in terms of asking Emily out. So I toweled off, got dressed, and went out on the gym floor, where I had absolutely no reason to be.

She was on an elliptical machine. As she worked out I didn’t approach her. I didn’t even wave a hello from a distance. But, as she finished and she stretched (seemingly in a spot that she knew I’d easily run into her) we had an anomalous conversation.

“I’m glad to make it to the gym tonight. I’ve been feeling tired all day.” She leaned over to stretch her hamstring. A small lock of hair fell across her face.

“Oh? Are you feeling better now?” It took everything in me to resist reaching over to brush back her hair. I could have held back an ocean with the restaint I exercised.

“Yes! And now I’m awake and all energetic and have nothing to do.” She looked away, but only slightly. Out of the corner of her eye I knew that she could still see me. She wanted to observe my reaction. She had set her trap, and now she was in waiting, casually stretching her hamstrings.

But I was terrified. That simple statement came at me with blunt frontal force, and though however harmless it may seem to you reading this right now, for me, right then, it paled any true danger or peril I have ever faced. The sound of her voice swirled around me like the swoosh-swoosh of a bird of prey, waiting for me to make what could only be a fatal move. I proceeded cautiously, anxious that I would be snatched up for the kill.

“Well,” I started, then paused. “Well, you know, it’s Saturday. I’m sure you’ve got something to do or someone to see.”

Dumb ass. But maybe she’ll divulge information about people she may be seeing or, if not, I could pursue it further.

“Actually, no.” She looked up and thought for a moment. “All of my friends are out of town, and one is sick. So I’ve got all this energy and no one to hang out with.”

She could not have more slowly and painfully teased out my guts. I agonized in her gentle application of torment. An occasional glimpse down her shirt at her breasts, when she’d lean towards me to stretch her legs, only heightened my desire to put myself out of my misery. I went for it.

“Well, I’m going to get something to eat soon, and you’re welcome to join me.”

Whew! There! Done! The hardest part was over. She obviously wanted to do something together, and I proffered a suggestion, however trite, and now I had only to hear her gracious acceptance.

“Well…”

Oh shit—did she just do the well-dot-dot-dot thing, and then didn’t say anything more? I paniced, saying, "So, what do you think?"

She looked at the padded floor of the gym for a while, like it was a Rembrandt or something.

Oh my god... Are you going to tell me? How much suspense do you think I can handle before I collapse here, woman?

She looked up a moment later, and said, “Well…it’s tempting, but no.”

AHH, shit!

Had the world stop spinning at that moment, and all the earth fell to chaos, had the oceans lifted into the sky, the ground crumbled into oblivion, and the atmosphere dispersed into the vacuum of cold space, I alone would have noticed none of it. In that total lack of centrifugal force of an entire planet, I was somehow crushed under the gravity of a single, simple word: No.

A “No” is simply what it is, unfortunately: a rejection of something hoped for. Its sting is excruciating, its venom instantaneous. However politely she tried to tell me, using other words to soften my fall, it did not work. She offered me a safety net made of fishing hooks in which I was torn apart.

This was not what I expected. My mind wandered over the recent steps that had brought me to this unexpected end. Emily started saying something, something or other about abba-blabla-blabla-bla and needing to take a shower. Something about her friends. Something about maybe getting up the energy to do something later.

Her voice was like a wind as I stood on an open plain, encompassing and invigorating, but fleeting. I drifted away from her to usher other people out of the gym. It was closing. Emily wandered off to the locker room to change. The night was over.

And yet, before she left the gym, I noticed her hanging around the front desk, alone, seemingly not wanting to leave. At least 5 minutes passed. She had not moved from the area. I was puzzled. Curiosity got the better of me, but a lesson was learned. With our state of affairs clarified, I had no trouble walking to the front desk to stand corrected. She smiled and we exchanged one word: Goodnight.

I honestly don’t know what it all meant: to seem interested, to leave an opening to be asked out so large a barge could have sailed through it, to say no, to change the subject, and then to wait around as if a moment more might prove all the previous to be a big misunderstanding. Was she just being amicable in the end, to ensure that no hard feelings would fester? Or, was she interested but thought that I try to date every woman at the gym? Was the client-trainer relationship a stumbling block for her? Did I smell really bad? I just took two showers. Or, have I just lost my mind and fabricated an episode of delirium?

Come to think of it, though, she did ask in the end if I’d be around the gym tomorrow. I answered that I would be around only in the morning, and she seemed slightly disappointed.


(Months later, after we finally got together, I asked her about this day. She told me that she really did want to get something to eat with me, but she felt really gross from just working out. That hadn't occured to me. Keep in mind that we had only ever seen each other at the gym. We knew how the other sweat, and that was about it.)



Downs - Copyright © 2005

WHAT’S THAT GLANCE ABOUT?


This morning, I had a tough but great workout with my client Nelson. He’s a skinny little Bulgarian guy in his late 20's who wants to gain muscle mass. All 5 foot 5 inches of him weighs in at a diminutive 115 pounds. Not exactly formidable in scale. I could pick him up over my head. But he’s intelligent and he actually has great potential if only he were consistent with his workouts.

On another note, each time we train together I wonder about his sexual orientation. He tells me about past girlfriends, and seems to always have another dirty straight joke, but from the corner of my eye, sometimes I find him staring at me in that peculiar way.



(No, that is not a picture of Nelson. Nor is his real name Nelson. And while I'm at it, he's not even Bulgarian. And I have never picked him up over my head, but he does weight just 115 pounds, so it's a little tempting.)



Downs - Copyright © 2005

SO, DO I WRITE TOO MUCH?

Is it because I have so little else to do that I write so much? Or is it because I’m still "searching for the purpose of this journal"? Will I stop writing when my life is fuller, when I have a real job, when I have someone to spend my personal time with?

Shit, am I a loser?

Don't losers sit at 24-hour coffee shops like Starbucks because they have nothing better to do?

Starbucks. The Great Alexander of our time. It has conquered a continent of the neurotically fickle. And I am sitting in one, writing this shit. It’s the frappacinos. I love these damn strawberries and crème frappacinos. This is my third one today….



Downs - Copyright © 2005

FEELING A LITTLE SINISTER

Ah, what a beautiful, slow morning. The sun is bright and warm. Distinctive hints of the end of summer are hidden in the air: a slightly cooler breeze, a soft, earthy smell, longer shadows at midday. I am sitting on a bench in the little park at the corner of Spring and Mulberry streets, and I’m watching kids play on a plaything almost big enough to house them. There is water spraying from a fountain nearby. There are supervising parents and nannies all around. The first leaves are starting to loosen their grip on the branches and some have fallen onto the cobblestones and small puddles of water. This seems to be the closest to experiencing the innocence of children playing in a wooded stream while living in a city of urban filth, cold walls, and honking taxi drivers. What more could one ask for?

How about a raunchy looking French girl in a mini-shirt pushing a baby stroller towards my bench?

Just now the French girl moves from her bench on the other side of the park and sits down at the other end of mine. I know that she is French because she makes it known to me by speaking French a little too loud to the two children she is watching, and because she is not pretty. She reminds me of a hasty impressionist painting of a peasant girl worn by years of fieldwork in the countryside. She is young, no more than 25. But her eyes are tightly sewn at their outer edges into crow’s feet. Her skin is youthful, and sun damaged. Her nose, hastily constructed. She is waiting for me to take notice of her, formally. She is instructing the two children, obviously not hers for she would want to play with them, not me, to stay close to her but not too close.

I find myself feeling a little sinister.

I think she shall be my sacrificial lamb. I will ask this French peasant girl out. I am not romantically interested in her. I am merely practicing for the real thing. I am building up strength and courage to ask someone else, someone not so French and not so peasant-like.

One of the two little girls runs by me.

“She’s very cute!” I use the most sincere voice I could.

“She’s too much to handle.” This French girl’s English isn’t bad. It actually sounds nice, in that sexy, foreign, French way. “But they aren’t mine. I’m a nanny.”

“Well, it looks like enjoyable work. Playing with kids, going to the park, taking walks. That’s a good living.” She explains that she’s in New York on vacation.

“You’re working while on vacation?”

“Yes, because it is a long vacation. I leave back to Paris next week.”

Perfect. No chance of running into her again.

“So, we should go out! I’ll treat you and your friends to a farewell night out!”

“Oh…”

“It’ll be fun! Where do you like to go? What do you like to do?”

“Ah, well…”

“What’s your number? Well, then, here’s mine. Saturday good?”

“You know, I’ll have to think about it. Thank you.”

Think about it? Didn’t she just walk her ass, pushing that baby stroller, across the entire park just to sit next to me? Wasn’t she just talking her French all loud and shit, saying “Oh petite Marie, wah-wah-waah-wah”? Didn’t she just do that? And now she has to think about it?

Bitch.


(There is a favorite quote of mine: “A man on a date always wonders if he'll get lucky. The woman already knows.” Yet, there is even a harsh sting from a rejection hoped for.)



Downs - Copyright © 2005

THREE FRIENDLY SMILES

I spent a long time talking to Lauren C today, a New York Italian real estate agent in her late twenties. She has typical features for a New York Italian girl—dark hair and eyes, a beautiful face, a thick waist and round lips, a shy but friendly personality, and breasts like a bonanza. She speaks with the cool rasp of a smoker. She is sweet and we get along like a field trip. When she smiles, she is inviting. And her smile adds extra meaning to anything she says. “I’d like to run a marathon,” she might say, her voice steaming like vapor. And her lingering after-smile adds, “And my panties are sweaty wet right now.” She could never say a word and still tell a secret.

We will never be friends.

Later, I talked to Stephanie L. She seemed rather interested in me, though I’m sure it was just my imagination. She is a teacher—9th grade, English. She is a very sweet Michigan girl. Light skin and blond hair. I don’t know how they come out there in Michigan, but this one’s not so innocent. I will see her again on Friday for a workout at the gym, because that’s my job—to sell personal training sessions by first giving a free one. She expressed extreme delight in the idea, smiling nicely in acceptance. But her smile was, well, sinister, like a spider surveying a heavy web of flies. She’s the girl next door with the deadbolt thrown open but has a bear trap hidden just inside the entry.

We, too, will never be friends.

But there was one other smile that was very different from these. Emily's smile captivated me. I found it hard to concentrate when she smiled, because it was simply a beautiful smile. No hidden messages, no complications. In her smile, I could see stars, it seemed. Again, probably just my imagination, but I can't be sure. She was a little reluctant about committing to training. We sat opposite each other in the manager’s office, a glass table between us, discussing the matter. I tried to discern her level of seriousness towards buying training session, and I tried to make the sale, but she kept doing that smiling thing with the stars. Usually at this point, I get a little pushy to make the sale. I'd toss in an couple of extra session and start the bidding at a higher price, or maybe I'd try to squeeze a few more sessions out of her wallet, but she just kept doing that smiling thing. So fine, forget it. Want to think about it? Sure...I didn’t care about no sale. Who care's about the sale? Here, tell me what it is that you want.

And she just kept doing that smiling thing.

I think Emily and I will become great friends.



Downs - Copyright © 2005

SPONTANEOUS TIMING

I meet Elisheva just outside a storefront in SoHo. I took notice of her walking down the sidewalk because she was not especially attractive. Her features were sharp, really sharp. Her bones could hurt you. Long curly dark hair framed her distinctive, sharp face, like a knife in a fluffy wool cap. The look in her eyes was distant, removed. She could have been a serial killer, but that day, a week ago, she walked quite contently eating something sweet out of a plastic store bag. She was just passing by.

“Got enough in there to share?” I asked. What was I thinking? I never do things like that. Am I feeling a little sinister? And just as I came to this realization, she made one efficient turn toward me and stopped just inches from my body. She opened her bag.

“Take anything you’d like,” she said with a smile.

I was not expecting.

As it turns out, Eli is a freelance writer. She writes about anything she wants. She was working on a subject that recently interested me: spontaneous swarming and its sudden disintegration back into autonomous behavior. She explained that it all came down to the timing of discrete actions among indivduals that triggered swarming behavior, and that other individual behaviors triggered the return to autonomous states. (I was rather impressed at how much she knew about the topic. Then again, she was researching it.)

That night, we spent hours sitting at her place. Literally, all we did was sit. I spread myself comfortably on her sofa. She organized and worked and wrote at a table across the room. And we sat, like furniture.

I watched with intrigue because Elisheva was a peculiar individual. She seemed to have a sense of time and of what it is, I thought to myself, but either she had no respect for it or she had no respect for the fact that others do. I say this because she was often caught up in what she was doing in the moment. Focused and thoughtful. Always silent. Time did not command her, and if it tried, she just ignored it. Occasionally, she’d look up from her work and smiled for a moment about something personal—memories, perhaps, or a hope. I could never tell.

Suddenly, she called a friend. It was 1:30 on a Saturday morning, still early, and she talked for 5 minutes. “I’ll be right over,” she said enthusiastically. Expecting to see her move to prepare herself to leave, I did the opposite and settled in for a nap. I was intent on sleeping. But she didn’t get up from her chair. Instead, she turned her attention back to her notes. She wrote something down. Hours passed. I’m awoken but the sudden sound of her voice on the phone, nearly shouting in excitement. She was calling to confirm that she was leaving her place right then, as if it had been only a few minutes since she last called. While on the phone, she wrote something else down. She turned a page, sat back and began to read. Without a word, she closed her cell phone. No one called back. I drifted off to sleep again.

“Okay, I’m ready to work out. Take me to the gym.” Her voice pulled me out of a dream like a deep sea fishing hook. I was disoriented.

“It’s 3:30 in the morning,” I said. “The gym is closed.” But I realized that she would know that.

“I need to lose 15 pounds in 1 week,” she said while gathering her gym clothes.

“Oh? Starting right now?”

“So, we need to get to the gym.”

“But you don't need a gym. You don’t even need food or rest. Just work on her article—don’t sleep, don’t eat—and you’ll lose 15 pounds in 1 week.” I closed my eyes to fall to sleep.

She finished gathering her workout clothes into a handbag. “Great. Let’s go then.” She playfully kicked my foot and jerked her head toward the door.

We walked over to the gym, which, of course, was closed. She waited patiently, searching for something in her bag to chew on, while I unlocked the doors. She followed me in, offering a stick of gum.

At 6:30 Eli finished working out and was showered. She walked into my office and called her friends from my phone. “I’m ready to hit every bar in town!” she told her friends. “We’ll be right over!” She hung up and smiled proudly.

“Eli," I said, "it’s 6:30 in the morning. I need to open the gym in nearly an hour. And didn’t your friends want to go out, er, last night?”

“It’ll be an after-hours thing. You have time to make it to midtown and back. I’m bringing wine, and I need to pick up a melon. Walk me to the store.” She put an apple on the corner of my desk.



Downs - Copyright © 2005

INNOCENT CONFESSION 1.0


When I was a kid of about 14, I set my friend on fire. I wasn’t upset with him or anything. I mean, except for the time when he imitated my dad as a clown with Tourette syndrome at the town picnic , and the one time he made fun of my favorite parachute pants, I thought he was a pretty nice guy. I sort of didn’t really mean to set him on fire. It just kind of happened. Weird.

INNOCENT CONFESSION 2.0

The first time I masturbated I thought I had pissed myself. I was 12 years old, in bed one night. I don’t know what prompted me to do it. I think I heard about it in school one day. Got curious.

I didn’t really know what had happened. The closest thing I had ever experienced to an orgasm before that was urination. So, I thought I pissed myself.

And I got to thinking about it. They aren’t that much different. Both are warm, both make a mess, and both are relieving (to a different degree, but sometimes to the same). The only difference I could see was that with pissing, you’re always trying to hold it for later, and with masturbating, you’re always in a hurry to finish. It takes work either way.

INNOCENT CONFESSION 2.1

I think that most boys while growing up, having just reached puberty, has humped a swing set. What a ride on the seat of a John Deer lawn mower is for a young girl, the poles of a swing set is for a boy.

My guy friends and I would play this game where we had to climb the poles of the big swings in the playground. It was easy. Everyone just wrap thier legs around the post and raced to the top. The first there, won. Except, none of us seemed to want to win. We kept pretending we couldn’t reach the top. Sometimes it would be too high, even though we were already 12 feet off the ground, and neck-and-neck 3 feet from the top. Or, we’d be too tired to go on, having to lose that round, yet we still managed to continue stroking our pole bewtween our legs for another 10 minutes.

INNOCENT CONFESSION 4.3

My first crush was Mary Poppins. There was something about the idea of a strict, pretty, English woman all buttoned up and playing with me in my bedroom. I wanted to know what else she could do with that umbrella of hers.

INNOCENT CONFESSION 6.0

I wanted to be David Hasselhoff.