Song for a Crappy Tuesday

"I hate you."

You are in the bathroom at work, washing your hands in the never-warm water. Tuesday is shuffling around in the stall behind you. There's the occasional whisper and soft chuckle. You wonder who she's talking to, because it certainly isn't you. Your brain asks the fleeting question, "What on earth is she doing in there?" since she occupied the restroom before you arrived. The question is immediately dismissed for more entertaining thoughts.

You are about to apply a coat of lip gloss, when the toilet flushes at last You try to ram the tube into your pocket and make a speedy exit.

Tuesday emerges from the stall and looks your way.

"I hate you." She says this with some resignation. You turn to face her, still gripping the gloss.

"Beg pardon?"

"I just-I don't know. I hate you, I guess. I thought you should know."

Can this be happening? Your heart races for a moment as your body floods with the queerest sense of relief. You knew it all along, that she despised you. And you despise her, too, though without any concrete reason. Your hate just is.

Now, your hate is just. No more covert cringing, no more self torture. Her hatred of you is a fact, and that is enough to confirm every suspected slight, every imagined undermining sneer. It was all true. You are not crazy.

The relief that buzzes through your head with the wings of a thousand caressing butterflies almost impulses you to love Tuesday. This was pretty forthright of her, after all, to admit such an adolescent notion as simply hating a co-worker for the hell of it. The two of you can regale each other with revenge fantasies and delight in a future of best-friendship. The divide wasn't so wide. In years to come, the inseparable pair of you will relate the story to your children, how your hate blossomed into the dearest bond. Don't judge a book by its cover. Even the ugliest duckling may yet turn into a swan of kinship.

Your hand is still grasping the tube of lip gloss. The two of you are silent. Tuesday erupts into a sudden barking laugh.

"I'm kidding! God, what a terrible thing to say to someone, righ?" (Christ. She never pronounces the T at the end of the word Right.)

"Yes," you muster, "That is." You try to laugh, but the sound is more akin to a chair scooted across the floor. You have squeezed the lip gloss tube to the point of bursting. The ooze of petroleum jelly trickles into your fist.

Tuesday doesn't wash her hands. She clops past you and pats you on the shoulder. "See y'out there!"

From out in the hallway, you can hear her voice cawing to another co-worker, "Guess what I just said!"

You are left in the humid restroom to stew in your own loathing. And lip gloss.

We saw the Magnetic Fields in concert on Sunday. It was a terrific concert. I join the throngs of Stephen Merritt's fans in saying that he is a brilliant lyricist, and the Magnetic Fields' arrangements are truly musically creative.

(Laura Barrett is also someone to check out. The spritely Toronto native is imaginative and has a lovely voice. She occasionally lingers on the Isle of Twee, but a couple of her songs were earnest and beautiful.)

My one complaint is that they didn't play one of my favorite songs.

With Whom to Dance.

Thoughts about the Magnetic Fields Concert

And opener, Laura Barrett.

Taking Off Emily Dickinson's Clothes

By Billy Collins
From Picnic, Lightning

First, her tippet made of tulle,
easily lifted off her shoulders and laid
on the back of a wooden chair.

And her bonnet,
the bow undone with a light forward pull.

Then the long white dress, a more
complicated matter with mother-of-pearl
buttons down the back,
so tiny and numerous that it takes forever
before my hands can part the fabric,
like a swimmer's dividing water,
and slip inside.

You will want to know
that she was standing
by an open window in an upstairs bedroom,
motionless, a little wide-eyed,
looking out at the orchard below,
the white dress puddled at her feet
on the wide-board, hardwood floor.

The complexity of women's undergarments
in nineteenth-century America
is not to be waved off,
and I proceeded like a polar explorer
through clips, clasps, and moorings,
catches, straps, and whalebone stays,
sailing toward the iceberg of her nakedness.

Later, I wrote in a notebook
it was like riding a swan into the night,
but, of course, I cannot tell you everything—
the way she closed her eyes to the orchard,
how her hair tumbled free of its pins,
how there were sudden dashes whenever we spoke.

What I can tell you is
it was terribly quiet in Amherst
that Sabbath afternoon,
nothing but a carriage passing the house,
a fly buzzing in a windowpane.

So I could plainly hear her inhale
when I undid the very top
hook-and-eye fastener of her corset

and I could hear her sigh when finally it was unloosed,
the way some readers sigh when they realize
that Hope has feathers;
that reason is a plank,
that life is a loaded gun
that looks right at you with a yellow eye.

Random Thoughts

1. This morning, on the train, we saw a security guard and his dog.

The security guard was a young African-American man, and the dog was a muzzled German Shepherd. The two of them were alone, looking across the train platform. A couple of tough archetypes.

The German Shepherd leaned it's fettered snout over and nudged the Guard. He looked down, and the dog looked up at him.

The Guard brought his hand up behind the dog's ear, the still puppy-soft part, and ran his fingers through the dog's fur. The German Shepherd leaned in more, allowing the Guard better access to his coat.

The Guard smiled a little, leaned over just an inch or two, and spoke to the dog.

I was so disarmed by this unexpected moment of tenderness, that I had to look away.

2. Favorite word this week:

crum·my
also crumb·y (krm)

adj. crum·mi·er also crumb·i·er, crum·mi·est also crumb·i·est Slang

1. Miserable or wretched: a crummy situation in the family.

2. Shabby or cheap: a crummy little rowboat.

---

[Probably from crumb.]

3. Least favorite word:

Slim.

Nature.

Song for a Crappy Tuesday

Tuesday looks at you across the break room table. The two of you are eating, but not together. Tuesday has his usual microwaved burrito, you have your Bowl Appetite you got on sale at Walgreens (along with a New York Times impulse buy). The both of you eat in relative silence. Only the occasional self conscious chew or page turn.

You can sense Tuesday's attentions have turned to the side of your head.

"Hey..." he says.

"Yeah?" You don't look up.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Mm-hm."

"It's kind of weird, but do you ever wake up one day and suddenly go, 'Shit, man, I'm not funny anymore.'?"

You never thought Tuesday was funny. Your eyes dart his way, but your head does not follow. "What are you talking about?"

Tuesday's face softens, he leans in, "You know...like you go around and you say things, but no one laughs...or your brain just hiccups and you can't think of anything...or - I don't know...."

You are terrified to ask the question, but here goes: "Um...are you talking about-" Your eyes glance below the table to your pant-zipper.

Tuesday lets out an explosive laugh. "What? NO. Really? JE-sus. That shit is working like a charm. Little TOO good, if you ask me...Aw, dude, do you have problems like that?"

A sigh escapes your lips. "No. No, Tuesday, I don't." You start to clean up your meal. "So, you're not funny anymore, huh?"

Tuesday makes a sharp return to despondence. "Jeez. Not so loud."

"Look, I don't know what to tell you. Maybe if you just relax and try not to think about it so much..."

Tuesday shakes his head, trying to brush it off. "Yeah...yeah...you're probably right."

You exit the break room and head back to your cubicle. On the way, you pass one of your co-workers.

"Afternoon." She says..

"I wish." You blurt out. She crinkles her brow at you, breezes past. For a split second you are unsure of what just happened. A flash of paranoia strikes you.

Suddenly, you aren't funny anymore.



Have you watched Billy Squier's Rock Me Tonight video, recently? Because, if you haven't, you really should.

The song itself is typical 80's Pop: a dancey, playful invitation to get it on. There is something about Rock Me Tonight that launches it in to the to stratosphere of cringe. The lyrics move from laughable (Guilty of love in the first degree) to downright naughty (Hold tight - you're in for a ride/Can you feel the blood poundin' way down inside).

And then there's the video. Satin sheets, keds, skippy dance moves, ripping his shirt off in favor of a pink and white tank top dealy, then putting on a NECK BANDANA. Never has a grown man made a more bizarre transformation into a 14-year-old girl. This video is the perfect storm of unrestrained adolescent sexuality.

Will a woman please do a cover of this song? If she made the video the exact same way, it would probably be banned for being too explicit.

Pleasure Fatigue

The other night, we passed a sign**. It read:

As we passed this sign, my heart sagged a little. The tug wasn't the joy of promised bacon, or the thrill of three cheeses at once. It was fatigue.

How much more can we withstand? Is it ever possible to reach the end of pleasure? The end of the thrill? What will it take? Does it have to end in total gluttonous oblivion, when we've snarfed down that last crumb of Bacon-Chipotle-Ranch Drizzled Four Cheese Stuffed Pasta in a Bread Bowl, sandwiched between two 1/3 lb. Burgers, slathered with Chili and Garlic Mayo, served with a Sweet and Sour, Honey Mustard, Cream Cheese, Caramel Dipping Sauce?

This has nothing to do with nutrition, arteries or weight loss. It has to do with the wearying overload of taste sensations.

When I was a kid, I used to freak out at the very thought of going to Carowinds. Carowinds is much like every other theme park in the United States: Roller Coasters named for natural disasters, animatronic animals, college students lip syncing American Standards on the half hour, a melange of mascots. It's very purpose, the only reason for a theme park to exist, is EF-YOU-EN.

(Oddly, I mentioned Carowinds in a post last year at about this time. Perhaps I need to make a pilgrimage.)

And Efyouen, was most certainly had...for a while. As the sun set, the splurges of the day weighed heavy on the organs. The heat prickled up the backs of knees. I would sit, nearly silent on the way home (probably wearing a glo-necklace), while my lungs labored against the embolus of undigested food somewhere near my diaphragm.

These types of indulgences were pretty rare in Kid-dom. Birthdays, Holidays, Treats for jobs well done. That's when the gates were set open to the fields of Doritos, French Onion Dip, and Funnel Cakes.

But now, with every strip mall or street corner looking like a carnival midway, I find that I am weary of the Bacon Flavored Cotton Candy Bonanza.


**This sandwich is featured under Potbelly's "Skinny" offerings. Small print: Must remove Cheese and Bacon.