Novel American Novel

A Dream Undeferred

2008-11-05T15:43:00.000-08:00

On February 17, 1801, Thomas Jefferson, a Democratic-Republican, defeated John Adams, a Federalist, to become the third president of the United States. Adams had ran as the incumbent, and with his loss, partisan control of the executive branch shifted for the first time in the young republic's history.

Those eligible for suffrage had begun voting in April of 1800, eleven months before the president-elect was announced. The delay was due both to a seven-month polling period, which allowed for the distances voters traveled to state-run centers, as well as a flaw in the Constitution, which had been previously unexposed.

When the initial counts were tallied, Jefferson and his vice-presidential candidate, Aaron Burr, had received an equal number of Electoral Votes.

Lured by power, Burr refused to withdraw, and the task of selection fell to the House of Representatives. Their first ballot resulted in a tie, and over the course of a week, so did the following thirty-four.

According to one spectator, "The scene was now ludicrous. Many had sent home for night-caps and pillows, and wrapped in shawls and great-coats, lay about the floor of the committee-rooms, or sat sleeping in their seats. At one, two, and half-past two, the tellers roused the members from their slumbers, and took the same ballot as before.""

During round thirty-six, Federalist James A. Bayard from Delaware chose to break the partisan deadlock and cast his lot with Jefferson, effectively selecting Adams's successor. Acknowledging the alliance, Jefferson reminded Americans in his first inaugural address, "We are all federalists; we are all republicans."

At the 2004 Democratic National Convention, a junior senator from Illinois named Barack Obama expressed similar themes in his keynote address.

"There's not a liberal America and a conservative America; there's the United States of America," intoned Senator Obama. "There's not a black America and white America and Latino America and Asian America; there's the United States of America."

Last night at the Driskill Hotel --- the cattle baron lodge where LBJ and Lady Bird had their first date --- I drank several beers, ran into some friends, and watched the networks announce Barack Obama as the forty-fourth president of the United States. With his nomination, federal power transferred from the Republicans to the Democrats, and George W. Bush officially became a lame-duck president.

After the announcement, my fellow revelers began yelling "Yes we can!" and high-fiving. Others hugged each other, or took photos, or sent text messages. The victors that were in cars honked, while the victors that were in bars drank. Supporters of John McCain refrained from rioting, and the final tallies were uncontested.

When Thomas Jefferson was elected president, the transfer of power was referred to as the Peaceful Revolution, as it was unaccompanied by bloodshed or revolt. Five score and eight years later, Barack Obama was elected president during the Peaceful Revolution's modern equivalent. Ordinary citizens simply seized their rights and exercised their powers of decision, and the result was a referendum of democracy itself.

Can I get some change with that?

Goose on the Loose

2008-05-26T22:39:00.000-07:00

I now live by a Joe's Crab Shack. Technically, a flock of geese live next to Joe's Crab Shack. I live next to the flock. The geese are basically squatters, though, dedicating their time to honking at patrons, so I like to say I live by "the Shack." I like to say this often.

Recipe for Brass Monkey

2008-04-02T20:25:00.000-07:00

40 ozs. Olde English 800
1 cup orange juice

Drink 40 until label. Fill with orange juice.

Easter Parade

2008-03-23T18:38:00.001-07:00

When I was little, we would go to church on Easter. The stained glass windows made me feel European, and after services, I took fruit punch and chocolate chunk cookies.

Spring Foward

2008-03-09T15:00:00.000-07:00

I saw a shade of green today I hadn't seen in months,
or should I say the green saw me.

I ran up the hill and the grass blades blushed,
a translucent hue of verdant reserved for peas.

I was not ashamed and stared right back,
surprised by the lavish intensity.

And the meadow seemed greener, not for the lack
of all the spent rainfalls it weathered to be.

Gullible and Emphatic

2008-02-28T17:49:00.000-08:00

The tweaker across the street is going to tell "that dumb ass motherfucking cheesedick roommate that [he] don't have to pay rent if those dogs keep shitting everywhere their ass can fit." And that "there is enough energy in a pinch of baby powder to power the whole planet until the apocalypse brings a heap a hurting on youse too dumb to ride on out before." And that if he "ever goes to jail for good, like for good good, he's going to get an Arby's Bacon, Beef 'n Cheddar for his last deserts."

Cupid's Arrow, Straight and Narrow

2008-02-14T16:02:00.000-08:00

Who is your Valentine?

And Step on It

2008-02-05T15:09:00.000-08:00

We danced in the living room like sweaty psychos, like dervishes, like saints. It was a Saturday, a flaneur day, a bright light night day and we were going downtown. Our voices were loud from being young and the music made them more so. "Did you call a cab?" we all shouted. "Yes," one of us said.

We piled into the taxi and sat on top each other. We were all laughing like we didn't know or care where we were headed, but we weren't lost, no we weren't lost. "Red River and 7th" said the backseat and that too was funny. "Cesar Chavez and Sixty-Nine!" said the backseat and no, that wasn't funny, but we all laughed.

The taxi hadn't moved yet. "Really, Red River and 7th would be perfect," I said. And then there was silence. The cab driver stared forward, eyes dead ahead. "Yes, I think I could do that," she said. The taxi still hadn't budged and we didn't know whether to laugh or be calm too, and so we said thank you. She said, "You're welcome," and then explained, "It's a little test I do to see people's reactions, to predict my tip. A sense of humor is important. Humor is a way people are able to ease the fear of death we all share." She let up on the brake and we were off.

We made eyes at each other but kept our mouths shut. "Yes, I've been driving a cab for fourteen years, and humor is what saves me, saves all of us. Jokes, practical jokes, antics and pranks are created in order to be funny. I once saw a stand-up comedian, but I don't remember the punchlines."

Our driver spoke, uninterrupted, for the remainder of the trip. "Taxi driving, when you think about it, is the noblest profession. Because we show up where we are needed. Because we accept strangers, allow them our company, and let them trust us with their lives. Each taxi ride is a brief, vehicular community. Our souls strapped together with seatbelts. But I am weary of strangers. And I live with four fish. I once knew a joke about a fish but I forgot it. Humor is very important."

The cab driver's voice was deep and honeyed, like a radio talk show host. She had picked up that way of phrasing, too, and you could hear her searching for her words, as if she was addressing an important audience. "Traffic lights are another one of the sacred mysteries --- controlling the crossing of paths. But when the universe favors you, and you hit that stride of green after green, it feels like flying."

The cab had been stopped since "universe" but she hadn't stopped talking. So we handed her a twenty and tumbled onto the sidewalk. Not able to walk away, I leaned back in through the open window and asked, "Were you able to predict the tip?" The cab driver stared forward, eyes dead ahead. "Tipping can be a measure of civilized society," she said. "It is a gesture of gratitude for a service rendered and the average person will often," we heard her voice continue, alone, in her cab as she drove away.

At that moment, I stepped off the curb, a step closer to where the cab had been, and my foot was swallowed by a muddy puddle. And we all laughed, yes we laughed, and we felt even younger for it.

Quarter to Ten

2008-01-29T09:31:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I found myself in a store called Quarter to Ten. My friend bought Air Jordan logo earrings and I tried on some wigs. I also found a cabbage patch doll birthday card. It was a delicate watercolor on textured ecru card stock, with a floral filigreed border. The center depicted a cabbage patch doll in red overalls lying on her stomach reading a book. The front said, "Wishing You a Storybook Birthday." The inside read "With Many Happy Endings." The mark on the back said it was from 1983. Not the image, but the actual greeting card. I wanted this to mean that it had been part of Quarter to Ten's floor stock for almost a quarter of a century. Turnstile full of them amongst the turbans, barrettes, and pomade, all patiently waiting to be sent.

Did you ever get a cabbage patch doll for your birthday?

I Can't Stand the Rain

2008-01-25T16:19:00.000-08:00

It's all yellow ground now. Yellow ground and naked trees. For a while, too. Gettin' enough water but don't matter's too cold. Just brume and gloom. Sticks and a quilt of cotton over our heads.

Photography Show @ Austin Figurative Gallery

2008-01-16T19:52:00.000-08:00

Flyer Final, originally uploaded by whitney lauren.

Can you make it?

If You're Going to San Francisco

2008-01-10T09:31:00.000-08:00

The wind was keening as we were sleeping. Gale force and fast, it made for a shrill drone in my dreams. Then we heard Hailey's scream. The instrument room had flooded.

Cables and pedals were addressed first. The marumba was then moved to higher ground, its wood already warping. Amps were stacked. The bass drum went to the bathroom, but the high hats and cymbals withstood the rising waters, proudly. They would beat once more.

The landlady was called and her tenants scrambled to clean the dregs of the keg and cocktails. "Do you have a shop vac?" she said. "Do you have renter's insurance?"

The grocery store stayed open, though, despite the lack of power. We left our friends to deal with dampness and hoarded food for the storm. In the darkness customers walked slower, squinting at the shelves and using cell phones as light. Grocery employees had begun the task of moving refrigerated items to the beer cooler, which seemed to have a separate generator. No one looted. Everyone remained calm.

What's the weather doing?

Drink Champagne When We're Thirsty

2008-01-01T19:18:00.000-08:00

Black Eyed Peas, originally uploaded by nep.

What's your New Year's Resolution?

The Snowman Melts You

2007-12-25T18:58:00.000-08:00

What'd you give for Christmas?

I'm at the Corner of Lomita and Lomita

2007-12-16T15:04:00.000-08:00

Pizza and wine
makes a mighty fine time
if one chooses in that to partake.
But pizza and wine
and fine company's minds
makes merry for merry's sake.

The Odds are Good, And the Goods are Good

2007-12-14T17:46:00.000-08:00

It is difficult to begin a review of The Drowsy Chaperone without revisiting the musical’s first line: “I hate theater.” Some have tried. But I return to the line because it best introduces the audience to a musical world where “ice water” means “vodka” and Bob Saget can be found on Broadway.

Technically a musical world within an apartment, The Drowsy Chaperone’s namesake is a 1928 show adored by onstage Man in Chair. The role was originally written and performed by Bob Martin, who portrayed the lonesome, obsessive musical fan with warmth and restraint. Could Bob Saget be trusted to fill Martin’s loafers when he goes on tour with the national company?

A former Full House father and America’s Funniest Home Videos host, Saget is no stranger to the camp sensibility essential to the musical genre. But he has since rebounded from G-rated servitude with a cocaine addiction and a joke in The Aristocrats that stood out from the ranks of an already foul collection. Yes, Danny Tanner is now controversial, which means bucks at the box office for a show lagging in sales (though not short in accolades).

As Man in Chair, Saget looks for a balance between the two extremes of his career. His Man in Chair is more nervous than Martin’s, but this seems more an honest display than an acting choice. Beth Leaval continues to be a standout in the role for which she won the 2006 Tony – the soused Drowsy Chaperone herself. But the enforced wall between Man in Chair and the rest of the players seems a strain for Saget. He just can’t resist making hard-on jokes.

How rude or Cut it out?

Matt Damon Sexiest Man Alive!

2007-11-30T12:13:00.000-08:00

Lindsay Lohan was spied gallivanting around Hollywood with smoking cessation aid Ariva in her clutches. Composed of 60 percent compressed and powdered tobacco, Ariva differs from a gum with a chemical nicotine additive. The tobacco mint was developed by Star Scientific.

What's your favorite candy?

I'm the Only Hell Mama Ever Raised

2007-11-25T10:43:00.000-08:00

I wonder if Rhonda ever found her Yaris.

The Pilgrim's Progress from This World to That Which Is to Come

2007-11-21T23:03:00.001-08:00

Much like last year, President George W. Bush commemorated the Thanksgiving tradition by pardoning two turkeys from a delicious certain death. In his speech, President Bush asked that they "may live the rest of their lives in blissful gobbling." Clemency was granted in the Rose Garden.

May and Flower then traveled first class to Disneyworld where they will be the Honorary Grand Marshals of Disneyworld's Thanksgiving Day Parade, much like last years' pardoned poultry. The year before that, President Bush pardoned Marshmallow and Yam.

http://www.whitehouse.gov/news/releases/2007/11/20071120-3.html

What are you thankful for?

65,372,324 Veiws on YouTube.com

2007-11-20T22:38:00.000-08:00

Gettin' Jiggy Wid it?

2007-11-20T22:34:00.001-08:00

Slurpee® a Slippery Slope

2007-11-13T17:59:00.000-08:00

In the mornings I get McMuffins® . Or some Hot Original Glazed. But it ain't morning and the world don’t run like Denny’s so I got to fry myself. With a Seasoned Curly Fry. Not the Natural Cut. I was thinking Tator Tots for a while but a Seasoned Curly Fry always hits the spot. Like a 7-Layer Burrito. Or a Frosty.

I used to like a Jack-in-the-Box-#6-cut-the-mayo but I’d rather not go mad cow right now. That goes the same for the Chicken Plank® too. I prefer a Crunchwrap Supreme™ or a Ranch Snack Wrap™. With a Cherry Limeade Slush. Or maybe a Gordita Baja® with Fire Sauce. But then I would definitely need a Frosty. And there's always that one more Fry at the bottom.

Fry Kids, originally uploaded by englishkris.

Can I take your order?

Come through Fulton Street in a Vanquish

2007-11-08T16:45:00.000-08:00

the projects, originally uploaded by whitney lauren.

What does the cloud outside your window look like?

Blind Item

2007-11-06T19:48:00.000-08:00

What au naturel percussion enthusiast was seen running round the lake? With Hyperion curls of sunkiss and a complexion that had to be fake?

McConaughey?

Trick or Treat

2007-10-31T17:08:00.000-07:00

When a carbon monoxide alarm goes off, I wake up.
I call 311 to ask what to do.
311 directs all carbon monoxide inquiries to 911.
911 dispatches the call to the Fire Department.
911 dispatches all carbon monoxide inquiries to the Fire Department.
I tell the 911 operator I think the alarm is low on batteries.
I hear the wail of sirens.
I see two fire engines outside my window.
I see enough firemen to man two fire engines.
My flatmates put on robes.
I meet five firemen in the stairwell.
I tell the firemen I think the alarm is low on batteries.
One of the firemen is lugging industrial fire extinguishers.
One of the firemen is brandishing a spear.
One of the firemen is holding a hand-held carbon monoxide monitor.
There are acceptable levels of carbon monoxide in the apartment.
One of the firemen suggests the possibility that the alarm is low on batteries.
The tallest fireman removes the alarm from the ceiling and removes the batteries.
A flystrip covered in tiny fly bodies sticks to the helmet of the tall fireman.
The flystrip unsticks from the helmet and only my flatmates and I notice.
We offer to make them coffee.
The firemen are on duty. They linger on the stoop.

flystrip, originally uploaded by whitney lauren.

two fire trucks, originally uploaded by whitney lauren.

What's your costume?

Al Gore Scores Nobel Nod

2007-10-20T15:42:00.000-07:00

Sixteen Hours in the Geneva Airport (Part III)

2007-10-18T14:29:00.001-07:00

Even in Geneva, even in the airport, the hair removal infomercial plays late at night. The one where the Before scenes are in black and white and a red "X" crosses over the pile of razors. I can’t help but cringe every time the lady nicks herself and it was at that point I decided to explore.

I felt like a mall guard with the graveyard shift. I whistled. I window-shopped. The designer sunglasses were indistinguishable from the Moscow knock-offs. The cigarette warnings, however, were very candid, ranging from “Smoking causes a long and painful death” to “Cigarette smoke will damage your sperm.”

Sleepier now, I took the escalator to the second floor and was faced with row upon row of plastic bucket chairs. One would think the Swiss could design functional, ergonomic airport bleachers, but they had opted for the oversized eggcrate, too. I walked over to where the V.I.P. lounges were but a heavy door with a keypad blocked my entrance. I jiggled the handle forcibly. I typed in some birthdays and my cell phone number. I laid my forehead against the door with my eyes closed and slowly petted the numbered buttons. No sesame.

I left the V.I.P. lounges resigned and wandered over to a sign of a stickfigure baby . Through glass windows, I saw there a romper room filled with toys and bean bag chairs and blocks and crayon drawings. It looked so cheerful I was almost happy. Almost happy until I was refused entrance into that room, too. My tired eyes disbelieved what they saw next, not trusting that something so appropriate could exist at this moment of defeat. According to the plaque, I had discovered at the end of a dead-end hallway, a self-described Meditation Room, and it was open.

I entered the wood-paneled sanctuary. The wood was particularly striking because airports are grey and metal and this room felt so warm, so upper-class squirrel family's living room. A religious squirrel family, from the looks of it. There were multiple Bibles in a battery of languages, several versions of the Torah, prayer rugs, alters and plants. Not nondenominational, but every-denominational. It seemed unceremonial, frequently used, and safe; I knew that’s where I would sleep that night.

I was sitting on the floor when I reached that decision, gazing at a back-lit royal blue screen that covered most of the back wall. I was thinking that someone must take care of this room and water these plants and also remember to not turn off the light that made the screen in front of me look downright holy. The screen was so captivating at the time, I felt compelled to stand and approach it. I padded over to one side, now in my socks, and not knowing why or expecting anything for the effort, peeked behind the screen. I was to be shocked for the second time that night.

Behind the blue there was a red and tattered mattress. Hidden from plain view but there for my service nonetheless . A mattress, of all the things to find at two in the morning behind the back-lit blue screen in the Meditation Room of the Geneva International Airport.

The following morning when I awoke I had no idea where I was until I blearily received the prayer rugs. The events of the previous night took shape from a very groggy place – I reached beneath me to physically confirm my bed. I then popped in gum, packed up and returned the mattress to its concealed state.

When I left the Meditation Room I frightened a vacuuming maid. She was not expecting someone to emerge from a room she had seen no one enter. My presence was noted with an intake of breath and a hand over her chest, but when I smiled, she relaxed and wished me good morning. She was pleasantly surprised when I took both her hands in mine and returned the salutation.

When I was seated, finally, I kicked off my shoes and stared out the window, wondering who had left the mattress there and who had used it besides me. There seemed to lurk some urgent, life-affirming lesson in there for one to meditate on in an airplane.

But this revelry was broken by the passenger in front of me, who minutes after take-off turned around and asked me, “Excuse me, do you speak English?” When I amiably responded in the affirmative, she announced to the plane, “Thank God, your feet stink.” Touché seat 27B. My feet were stinky. Stinky feet that were on their way back home.

Mattress, originally uploaded by whitney lauren.

What's your favorite airport?

lastnightsparty.com

2007-10-17T09:17:00.000-07:00

www.lastnightsparty.com/strapmatch/slides/IMG_4107.html

Why do I have one upside-down Amy Winehouse eye?

Sixteen Hours in the Geneva Airport (Part II)

2007-10-12T17:49:00.000-07:00

Now crazed with fear, I raced to where the informational signs indicated I could find a fork and knife. There were eight different types of sandwiches listed on the board, but instead of the ubiquitous tomato mozzarella vegetarian option I had requested, I received a ham and cheese. It was all they had left at this time of night.

I also bought two different pouches of nuts and some paprika flavored chips, mentally remarking on the diversity of international chip flavors and their consumers. (I’d be very curious to know what demographic buys Consommé Pringles.) I also bought a bottle of water, a bottle of Diet Coke, and this is where the night starts to really get interesting, a draft beer.

I sat down at a table just outside of the smoking section and drank half the cup of lukewarm in one gulp. I removed the ham from the sandwich and ate a small portion. I saved the rest for the morning. It was then that my ears perked up to someone speaking English, the utter dearth of my native tongue in Moscow being responsible for my finely tuned ears. Turning my head, I found the source of this haughty lilt. It belonged to a man. No, even better. It belonged to a guy, a cute guy with a British accent. The clouds began to part.

I sat pondering how next to proceed. He certainly didn’t look like a serial killer. He was talking to one of his mates about when they were going to pick him up at the London airport. A backwards baseball cap sat on his head and a music festival logo adorned his chest. And like me, he was drinking alone. Feeling plucky, I right then and there I decided to pull out of my back pocket the all-time, guaranteed best conversation starter ever invented. It has worked in every country and in every language, outside every house party and at every bar. With the cool aplomb of an old pro, I solicited a cigarette.

It felt gutsy to put on my backpack and cross into his section, but then I realized he only had loose tobacco – I am terrible at rolling cigarettes. But I set to my task and got to know Todd, who gentlemanly introduced himself and offered his hand the moment I sat down.

He was an itinerant contract butcher living in a rural French village, but he was from the white cliffs of Dover, UK. He had been butchering for fourteen years, since he was nineteen, but he looked younger than that. I learned that England employs a different technique of removing bone from meat than France and he was doing an apprenticeship in the French style.

I told him I didn’t eat meat and I asked to use his lighter again because my cigarette had gone out, again. He said he just eats fish and chicken, “Because I like me chicken.” I asked him if he ever gets squeamish. He said only when he gets sprayed in the face by blood. I empathized.

Apparently, Todd’s day involved smoking pot, sawing away to rock music, and breaking for lunch, when he’d eat chicken and smoke pot again. He said that he definitely does not “eat piggsies, because,” now pausing to exhale for dramatic effect, “pork is the meat that most resembles the taste and texture of human flesh.” Which of course begs the question that given the situation I thought best to avoid: “How do you know what human flesh tastes like, Todd?”

Throughout our drunken getting-to-know-you session he dropped this adorably droll vocabulary, using words like “right diamond” and “murder” as adjectives. Eventually when I confessed to why I was hanging out in an airport, we invented an ill-advised scheme to break into duty free and drink Hennessey until morning.

At this point we were about five beers deep each, all of the rounds he paid for. He had also given me all the Swiss currency he had and his Virginia Gold and rolling papers. When I asked him why he was being so nice to me, Todd responded, “Because I feel sorry for you.” And when an itinerant pothead butcher feels sorry for you, you tend to agree with the sentiment.

Our restaurant started shutting down so we kept moving over in sections until we were just drinking in the terminal. I knew that his plane was taking off soon and began dreading the night in earnest. In a fit of desperate hope, I asked him if there was anyway at all he could stay with me and leave the following morning. His company bought his ticket; he couldn’t.

He told me I was going to be alright, kissed both my cheeks, and was gone. I watched the bill of his backwards cap blur in the distance, only then realizing I had learned much more about Todd in our three-and-a-half hour exchange than I have with people that I’ve known for much, much longer than that. He was the best friend a stranger could ever hope to have and now I was alone.

Boomer Sooner

2007-10-10T19:22:00.000-07:00

Texas/OU!, originally uploaded by whitney lauren.

two-headed albino snake, originally uploaded by whitney lauren.

, originally uploaded by whitney lauren.

sunset, originally uploaded by whitney lauren.

What's your favorite Midway Game?

Sixteen Hours in the Geneva Airport (Part I)

2007-10-10T18:32:00.000-07:00

It was shockingly stupid. It was alarmingly blockheaded. It was dumbfounding. To discover at the age of twenty-three that one has not grasped the difference between noon and midnight is a sobering revelation indeed. It was like forgetting how to tie a shoelace, stumped right after you form the two bunny ears.

I had arrived in Geneva at 8:25 p.m. After a quick trip to the ladies I walked to the monitor to find my gate, one hundred percent expecting to find a plane bound for JFK. I scanned. I searched. I fine-tooth-combed that screen. No New York.

Wrong terminal? No, Geneva International Airport only has one terminal and in what seems like a historically typical Genevan design, only one large runway that all the airlines share. Wrong country? No, no, I can smell chocolate and everyone is speaking French. “Well Whit, let’s go find a friendly face to ask,” intrepid Whitney said to herself. Intrepid Whitney always speaks in third person.

“Do you speak English?” “Oui, I speak English,” responded the Swiss customer service representative. She seemed radiant, like she had gone skiing before work. I mumbled, “Where’s New York.” She responded with a prim, “Pardon?” but I was dauntless. “The plane to JFK that is leaving tonight? Where is the gate for that plane?” She firmly explained that the soonest plane bound for New York City was tomorrow, at twelve thirty-five, and I gasped.

Most of Europe enjoys the twenty-four hour clock and just for good measure, the metric system, too. Leave it to the USA to be unique and stubborn and insist on using ambiguous, arbitrary units like a “yard” that is three “feet” that is twelve “inches.” The plane is leaving at 12:35 “p.m.” not 12:35 “a.m.” “Planes” don’t leave airports “after midnight.”

Fat tears sprung to my eyes. That mixed with a penchant for black eyeliner made me look like a raccoon that had just lost a fist fight. I was mentally, physically, and alcoholically spent. I was wrapping up a week drinking so much vodka with my old college roommate that I was forced to switch to these pink, flavored malt beverages hysterically named Tequila Sombrero and Sunny Beaches. Basically they are the Russian equivalent of Smirnoff Ice, but taking into account how Moscow is five years behind the rest of the world in terms music, movies, and chick drinks, I’m going to have to say they are the Russian equivalent of Zima.

Through the fog of this interminable hangover I struggled through some mental math until the truth of my situation hit me like a kilogram of Swiss watches. I was starting a sixteen hour layover and walking away from the counter, I did what anyone in my position would do. I said “Aw, man c’mon” aloud to no one in particular. I tilted up my face and shook jazz hands in front of my eyes because I was embarrassed I was crying. I irrationally panicked I was going to starve to death. That a security guard would find my lifeless body, all skin and bones and whisper, “After the food court closed at ten, she just gave up all hope. You can’t live without hope.”

What did you eat the last time you were at the airport?

Bach Pad

2007-09-19T14:01:00.000-07:00

In two of my guy friends' apartments, there were nail clippings in the indoor ashtray.

Is that like a thing?

ACL Fest

2007-09-18T06:32:00.000-07:00

I'm going to decapitate that cartoon balloon.

Who's pumped for South By?

Wartime Pin-up Girl

2007-09-10T23:25:00.000-07:00

Sara met Ryan at Willy’s Grill. Waitressed with his best friend forever. Dated all of college.

Ryan joined the Navy and they got married. Ryan saw the Mediterranean. Dubai, Crete, Sardinia. From a boat. The medical’s good but the dental’s shit.

Even though he was a Navy man the Army got him and in Fort Riley, Florida Ryan learned the difference. Got to Afganasthan last week. Got to where he’s going last night, wherever that is.

Ryan calls Sara from Afghanistan. Email sometimes. He keeps a blog for friends and family. He doesn’t have a MySpace, but he can see hers. Shows it to his buddies, maybe.

Ryan’s in Afghanistan for a year and then he’s going to come home and be a teacher. Sara sees him as a professor.

Sara Nicole, originally uploaded by lorrAAAine.

Free Form Freakout, originally uploaded by lorrAAAine.

While You Were Sleeping

2007-09-02T11:58:00.000-07:00

There are spiderwebs everywhere.

What's your least favorite bug?

Mrs. Cundieff's Ghost Story

2007-08-11T15:15:00.000-07:00

"I was unpacking books upstairs,” she began. “Everything was still in boxes. I was so involved in the project, I distinctly remember, not coming down for lunch. Don was hanging a chandelier in the foyer which required multiple trips to the hardware store.”

I was at the Hotel Fairmont to spend time with my godchild and her mother but Mrs. Cundieff was in a mood.

“At dinner I asked Don how his day was and he said fine except Fanny kept getting out. See, Fanny’s quarters are limited to the old wing of the house. But Don kept coming home to the cat on the storm porch.”

Don, also in the room, mhmmed. “Swears every time he put her back in the master and locked the door. Then he’d get back from the store and she’d be on the porch once more. Swooning. That’s when I knew.” Mrs. Cundieff had been lying down on the bed but she sat up now and crossed her legs. I was sitting on the floor.

“The worst thing I can say about having a ghost in the house is that it’s inconvenient. Plugs coming out of sockets, lamps on that shouldn’t be. I’m just glad she hasn’t discovered the disposal.” “So you think it’s a girl,” I asked, now curious.

“Oh, I know it’s a girl," she answered. "She wears this distinct perfume. A real pungent eau d’toilette that makes your nose burn. Like flowers on fire.”

“Besides, Don swears he saw her once. Says that he was in the kitchen and saw a young and slender thing glide by out of the corner of his eye. He thought it was me at first, because he’s sweet, but I was in the garden.”

I shivered. Don smiled.

“I never felt threatened except for once. Don was out and it was late. I was walking through the dining room and heard an echo from the floorboards. I’d take a step then hear a step, a little softer. I got as far as the kitchen door and said, ‘We need an agreement. You can stay. But you can’t be scary. I won’t stand for scary in my own house.’ And it pretty much stopped, except for once.”

“I was in the shower and I smelled her. Loud and clear over my shampoo. And I shouted over the water, ‘What do you think of my azaleas?’”

What's Your Ghost Story?

Please Turn Off Your Cell in the Waiting Area

2007-08-08T09:57:00.000-07:00

My friend has a picture of his wife's C-section on his camera phone.

The Big H.E.B.

2007-07-31T21:33:00.000-07:00

In the parking lot outside the twenty-four hour grocery some kids were playing hackeysack in the handicap space.

Next to them was a van with a window unit.

Purse Lips Sink Ships

2007-07-28T09:07:00.000-07:00

Her purse was gaping open. Even though the clasp that held it together was magnetised.

Amongst the rubble were two prescription pill bottles, a Coach wallet and a deck of cards, bound together by an elastic hair band. There was hair on the hair band.

What's in your purse?

Pit Stop

2007-07-23T14:59:00.000-07:00

On a road trip I needed gas so I pulled over at Buckees. I got in the kolache queue after I had filled up.

Uneventful was the waiting until in walked a couple of teens. He was wearing cargo shorts and tan. She was wearing tennies and a homecoming tee. Her sleeves were rolled up and held in place by her bra straps, which she had pulled outside and over on purpose.

I saw some heads turn, but I was at the front now so I concentrated on my pastries: one apricot, one cream cheese and two pigs-in-a-blanket. Only when the wax bag was in hand did I turn to the registers and notice what everyone else already had.

On the flank of the girl’s bicep, no wait, on the flanks of both biceps, someone had drawn a swastika. In sharpie, swatstikas.

And it was like the whole store was dumbfounded. Staring at how unaware she was. At how she got some turkey jerky and a Big Red and stood in line with her boyfriend. Twisted her hair up with a jaw clip. Left a penny in the Leave-a-Penny.

kolache, originally uploaded by jovid52.

sausage, jalapeno, & cheese kolache, originally uploaded by ashbloem.

What's your bodega/gas station snack?

I'd Rather Be Driving a Golf Ball

2007-07-19T23:02:00.000-07:00

My neighbor drives a hearse and I don't think professionally.

Swatches

2007-07-18T09:48:00.000-07:00

I needed an accent green for the wainscoting in the bathroom. I had picked Morning Jade and was reading in the outdoor furniture area while it mixed. I didn’t realize an hour had passed until the book’s chapter finished.

Back at the counter the taking so long made sense. A customer was crying. Becca the paint-girl was handing her tissues. A page of House & Garden was between them, its edge jagged from being torn out too quickly.

Becca caught me up. “We started with Delicate Bud and a squirt of orange 8 but that came out coral. Kashmir is a bluer pink but in the end we went with Puff in satin.”

“Which I think,” now holding the paint streak up to the picture, “is a match.” The lady had stopped crying and nodded back. I also nodded.

With that go-ahead Becca mixed two galloons. She thumbprinted the lids, knocked them down and placed the cans in the shopping cart. The lady thanked her and disappeared down the fan blade aisle.

“Her son called her old,” Becca said. “I’d get some of the wider blue tape if you’re gonna use a roller."

westie painting leftovers, originally uploaded by Candylei.

What color is your room?

Weighting for the Man

2007-07-14T22:30:00.000-07:00

There is a public scale in the bank downtown.

Windstar Suburban

2007-07-14T15:25:00.001-07:00

On Saturday the car dealership had camels and free watermelon. Even going fast on the freeway I could see the camels. One had balding shoulders.

I didn't see the watermelon but I knew it was back there because of the FREE WATERMELON! sign. Stretched between two poles, slits cut like smiles to let the wind through.

How do you get to work?

Luby Foodie

2007-05-27T15:13:00.000-07:00

The old man picked up two knives and a spoon and placed them on the plastic. He didn’t notice when I replaced the duplicate with a fork or when I helped slide his tray along the guide rail. He didn’t notice because he was absorbed in picking sides for his white fish almondine. The old man stuttered, but LaQuinne behind the counter was patient.

She remained unfazed with my order too, though I'm a departure from her average customer. Luby Cafeteria's demographic is the dentured elderly -- I am a twenty-four year old alcoholic. I know LaQuinne, though, because I am a Luby’s regular. See, when I hunger comfort, it's either butter or the bottle. And cornbread and cream corn and fried okra and fried chicken and mac and cheese and peas.

But then the row of red jello brought my thoughts to massacere. And I regretted the interruption, thinking 'bout George Hennerd killing all those people in Killeen's Luby's. Twenty-three people that would never come back for seconds. Two dozen counting George.

I guess he didn’t like cream gravy.

I can drink buckets.

yellow, blue, red, originally uploaded by cybertoad.

What's your comfort food?

This Train is Bound for Glory

2007-05-24T22:31:00.000-07:00

I live by a train across the tracks in a house I always miss. It is green and the lawn is green and the tree that cuts the lot is green. So the house is hard to make out. Along the sidewalk there is a box garden whose tallest plants are weeds. These I’ve learned to look for, like lighthouses.

The train rolls through every quarter hour. First the gates clang caution and blink orangely. Then the strident Doppler drone in crescendo until it passes too and whimpers down. Then crickets and crickets.

During the day, the traffic drowns the railroad noise. So I can only hear the train at night, when I’m trying to sleep. It bothered me at first because I am a “light sleeper,” but now it makes me feel historical. As if I was in the boonies and the train was the only thing coming or going. My name could be Clementine Belle Farmer and Willa Cather would write about me.

Where do you live?