LISTENING
The Lemonheads "The Lemonheads"
The Who Boys
Pavement "Wowee Zowee"
Tapes 'N Tapes
READING
"Why They Hate Japan (New York Review of Books, Volume 53, Number 14, September 21, 2006 )" by Ian Buruma
"A Johnson Reader (Modern Library 363)" edited by E.L. McAdam, Jr. and George Milne
WRITING
"Esparilda Cincere was a Liar" by Scott Link
Esparilda Cincere was a liar.
A
total
fucking
liar.
Nobody would believe her.
Marlon Brando, La Toya Jackson and Michael Jackson together at the Pearl Harbor Memorial.
Jesus Christ.
It was like a fucked up dream induced from leaving the television on while you slept.
She stared at Brando, rumpled and obese, and wondered how he could ever have been considered a sex symbol.
Next to him, the self-proclaimed King of Pop was in a platinum wig, a halfhearted attempt at anonymity that brought more attention not less. An electric recluse, Morgan Fairchild without a nose, itself a concept unthinkable not so long ago.
No Paris or Prince, no Blanket, just his sister clutching the railing and staring at the water’s reflection while combing her hair with overgrown fingernails, releasing a shower of dander into the watery tomb of the servicemen below the elevated walkway.
“What gentleman would wear a hat while eating dinner with such a lovely companion?” Brando asked.
“No one give a shit about manners these days,” Michael answered. “It doesn’t surprise me. Nothing surprises me.”
In the midst of this surreal convergence, Esparilda inexplicably remembered a time long ago. The Harvest Moon Dance at the secondary center. Her girlfriend was sick in the lavatory after drinking too much.
Esparilda left her.
She left her to dance with the boy in the Adidas shirt, stinking of aftershave, with the personality of an aspirin.
It was thrilling.
It was an excitement rivaled only by the joy felt by retarded people who work salad bars in fast food restaurants.
If only it could be so easy, like at the local grocery.
“Paper or plastic?”
So easy it rolled off his lips without a moment of thought.
“Paper or plastic?”
“I love you.”
Two less syllables.
“I love you.”
She told him that evening but he couldn’t or wouldn’t repeat it.
“She’s Out of My Life” bounced off the gymnasium walls.
After that evening her heart sang no more.
It merely hummed along.
