Friday, January 30, 2009
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Listening to the radio today and the RJ is asking us to tell her the thing we hate most about our roommate. Now, let me hasten to add that it is not J that I am going to talk about here- he is quite the model roommate and, besides, keeps the kitchen frighteningly clean. No, I have one particular horror-story about a roommate and food.
She was much older than I was, I being but a callow mid-twenties type in those days. So she disliked me already, and she objected to my very existence and the fact that I didn't spend my every waking hour studying or worrying, like her. One day, she put something on the stove and went off to visit a friend upstairs. Now bear in mind that we lived in a dorm, and it was January. The windows were closed and the apartment was, in keeping with the wildly fluctuating thermostats, overheated.
Presently, there started emanating an odor from my roommate's cooking-pot. When I say odor, I mean nauseating, suicide-inducing stink. I held my nose as long as I could, but not being a human whale, couldn't manage it for long. I finally sneaked over and lifted the lid, just to see what could be possibly be in that blessed pot. And what was it? It looked like a white, gluey honeycomb. I think I screamed and dropped the lid back on.
Later, when she was back and the food was gone, I casually asked her what she'd been cooking. She said, 'oh that was some tripe.' Which means, the stomach of some animal. Right. The next day, for breakfast I fried some eggs. She got out of bed, came to the kitchen and said, "can you open the windows? I can't stand this smell."
And lastly, what is up with Freida Pinto's choice? I cannot get on board with the bunching and the unattractive color. This is a pity because she's so pretty and self-assured; she would have won the red carpet battle with a better gown! Also disappointing was my girl Penelope Cruz in a boring, tube-like cream colored dress and poor Cameron Diaz in a hideous, wrinkled pink concoction.
Thursday, January 08, 2009
Well it's Ninth and Hennepin
All the doughnuts have names that sound like prostitutes
And the moon's teeth marks are on the sky
Like a tarp thrown all over this
And the broken umbrellas like dead birds
And the steam comes out of the grill
Like the whole goddamn town's ready to blow...
And the bricks are all scarred with jailhouse tattoos
And everyone is behaving like dogs
And the horses are coming down Violin Road
And Dutch is dead on his feet
And all the rooms they smell like diesel
And you take on the dreams of the ones who have slept here
And I'm lost in the window, and I hide in the stairway
And I hang in the curtain, and I sleep in your hat...
And no one brings anything small into a bar around here
They all started out with bad directions
And the girl behind the counter has a tattooed tear
"One for every year he's away", she said
Such a crumbling beauty, ah
There's nothing wrong with her that a hundred dollars won't fix
She has that razor sadness that only gets worse
With the clang and the thunder of the Southern Pacific going by
And the clock ticks out like a dripping faucet
'til you're full of rag water and bitters and blue ruin
And you spill out over the side to anyone who will listen...
And I've seen it all, I've seen it all
Through the yellow windows of the evening train...
However, I stepped up to the plate. I did my duty. With trepidation sloshing in every pore, I did it- called Customer Service. What with my long and roaring history with Those People, this was nothing short of an act of flag-waving gallantry. First, I called the automated number. A human chap whom I procured through clever navigation of all the auto-menus then told me a new number I could call for Internet queries.
So I called this other number. Again, I cleverly subverted their auto-menus and got another human chap. This one, however, did not respond nicely when I told him my account number. "Account number?" he wailed. "What is this regarding?"
"Er," I said for the ninth time, "this is regarding the fact that my Internet service is not working." "Oh," the chap said, sighing with relief. "You are an existing customer. This number is for new customers only. Do one thing, call the automated number."
So I spent the next ten minutes whirling round and round their suggestions and numbers and existing menus. Finally, after keying in about 12 different choices, I hit gold. I got another chap! Except that she was a girl. She proceeded to walk me through the most complex set of troubleshooting steps I've ever undertaken, involving blinking cursors, IP addresses, Subnet Masks and who knows what else. Midway through step no. 25, what happens? I get disconnected! The blessed call terminates.
In a cold sweat, I called them back. I went through the whirligig. And I got another chap. I patiently explained the entire saga. And then we began hacking our way through the troubleshooting undergrowth again. Of course, at one point I had to ask him to slow down. He said, "oh sorry ma'am. We are supposed to finish the call in 10 minutes and it's already 15 minutes so I applo-gize for that."
Right. My IQ fell by several points after this brutal confession. Anyhoo, I successfully folllowed the ninety steps and lo! the Internet is restored! I am the dog who has won the cake back!
J now calls me Tech Support Queen. I smirked and said-'see, told you there are advantages to marrying an Indian!'
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
out the window through the softly falling snow
at the last bit of gray light.
I can't say the sun is going down.
We haven't seen the sun for two months.
I am sitting in the blue chair listening to this stillness.
The only sound: the occasional gurgle of tea
coming out of the pot and into the cup.
How can this be?
Such calm, such peace, such solitude
in this world of woe.