Friday, February 03, 2006

Dada Friday

Friday: A Haiku

Bloody hangnail
someone near me is wearing THE COLOGNE OF THE DAMNED
is it wrong to crave a Mai Tai on the way into work?

It is a bright sunny day. The frightening vertiginous spires of the Mormon Temple looked—dare I say—menacing this morning, all gilt and spike and crazy angelic flair. Who is the angel atop that marble behemoth? Please, God, don’t make me Google it. Is there a form of methadone for Google?

I'm back. The angel is Angel Moroni (we don’t have this angel in Catholicism, clearly a fraud) anyway, he is the one who buried those crazy gold Mormon plates!

Thoughts of lunch transpire, a revelatory sandwich from Café Gelato, or a sparing maguro sushi with an accent of California roll from Hinatu across the street?

Do you ever get randomly irritated that people keep walking by your office?

Here’s an excerpt from a story I am trying to get published:

Cynthia alludes to her life a lot. She doesn't think I can grasp all the finery and her descriptions always come with careful footnotes. It's my fault. I have a hard time telling people about my life. I don't say things like, My father drank Pimm's Cups, Black and Tans, Campari, and other potables after a round of golf at the Tollygunge Club. I don't mention his chestnut racehorse Pocket Money, the steak sandwiches under the rubber trees, or polo at the Calcutta Pony Club. These are silent facts.

I also leave out the part where my father's small plane goes down over Bombay and I have to fly home alone above his casket with a card pinned to me that says, "Unaccompanied Youngster."

Wouldn’t you want to read the rest of that? I must find a home for it. Believe me, I’ve tried.

It’s a silent, sunny, unseasonably balmy day here in BEAUTIFUL downtown Bethesda.

Isn’t there a dance called the Boney Maroni?


Cynicism is another word for reality

Email me, you derelict wastrel

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