Friday, September 28, 2007

Once Upon A Time In A Land 1500 Miles Away

Spring 2000 I traveled down to the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival to take in some great live music, eat fine food and see if I could run into an exboyfriend who attended the festival (attended by 100,000 people or so) each year. Not necessarily an ex, I mean he was never boyfriend, but we had a connection!--in our six months of dating 4 of which were long distance and conducted mostly through e-mail. You might read the previous statement and judge me. Perhaps you think I'm crazy. But nothing could be further from the truth. It wasn't like I was going to Chicago on a vacation to run into the dude. First off, Chicago is a big city with millions of people so my odds of running into him would be a long shot. Further, Chicago happens 365 days a year so who knows when he'd be there if ever. And, I mean Jazzfest is really cool, I'd go there anyway and if I could run into a boy I liked as well, then so much the better for me. I mean, all those jobs I was applying to post college were looking for a multi-tasker and now I could say I was one. I had genunine experience.

But that is all besides the point. This story isn't about me. It's about my Aunt Sue's friend Kathleen. A red-headed lady in her late forties who was orginally from New Jersey but would never cop to her garden state heritage. My Aunt heard that I was planning to travel the New Orleans Jazzfest by myself. I was hoping to rope some friends journeying down there with me, but most of my friends aren't jazz fans and none of them were Bill fans (he was the boy). Not that they didn't like him, they just didn't know him. It's like when I say I'm not a Margaret Cho fan, I have nothing against her, I'm just not familiar with her comedy, and my friends weren't really familar with Bill. It's a shame too because having friends on a stalking mission keeps you from looking like you're stalking and a little off kilter. Anyway, my aunt told me to contact her friend Kathleen, who had relocated to New Orleans a number of years ago, when I got down there. Which I did.

Kathleen invited me to a house party attended buy middle-aged, borderline alcoholics. They were sweet and seemed very concerned that I wore a wrist watch. "You're so New York with that wrist watch. Hey, Joey, get a load of this she's got a wrist watch. This is New Orleans you don't have to be anywhere at anytime." I tried defending myself by explaining the festival with it's many stages of music had a schedule and I hate to miss an act I was interested in. They laughed and then started telling me about the 70s when qualudes were fun.

Later in the weekend Kathleen was to perform with her gospel group at the gospel tent at 11am in the morning and she really wanted me to go. I really wanted to go to, how often does one get to see an all white gosspel choir in New Orleans? Unfortunately, I over slept and didn't make it to the fairgrounds in time to catch Kathleen and her choir. Apparently, one might not need a wrist watch in New Orleans, but an alarm clock sometimes comes in handy. Kathleen and I met up later on the festival grounds that day where I pretended I had actually heard her choir sing earlier. I was 22 and didn't want people hating me, so I lied. When she asked me what my favorite part was I responded, "When you guys brought up the little girl to sing 'This Little Light of Mine' with you guys backing her.' As a heathen from the North there is only one thing I know about gospel music: every choir sings "This Little Light of Mine" led by an adorable young girl. It just is.

As we're walking the fair grounds talking about her performance we bump into her boyfriend, an overweight, slightly dirty, drunkard. As they are talking I can tell there is some tension between them. He walks away without saying good-bye. Kathleen turns to me and says, "He wants to break-up with me, but I won't let him." What? How does that work? But before I can find out about her secret powers, her jedi-mind trick she's off scampering after her non-ex boyfriend. That was the last I saw of Kathleen. I never got an explanation. I didn't even know such a thing was possible. "I'm breaking up with you." "No, you're not. You're not allowed. I forbid it."

I might have attended Jazzfest on a mission to run into a boy, but I wasn't crazy.

Wednesday, September 26, 2007

Career Day

As I head into my fourth decade on the planet I'm changing career directions. Temping just hasn't been as rewarding as I hoped it would be. I've decided to become a philanthopist. My first order of business is to learn how to spell my new career. Once I open a dictionary or copy and paste this post into Word and it corrects my spelling I'll be on to phase two: marry a professional football player.

My plan goes like this. I marry a professional football player, preferably a New York Giant. After I marry one of these modern day gladiators I have sex with him. I then find myself pregnant and then give birth to a child with some brand new genetic disorder. A genetic disorder probably brought on by the varying chemical cocktails my new husband has been ingesting since high school. These chemical cocktails, which made man stronger and faster than he would have been sans the cocktails, altered his sperm thereby producing a genitically mutated child who probably will have enlarged forehead and doughy cheeks. I then will spend the rest of my days raising money to find a cure for the new genetic disorder my lovable child suffers from. I'll raise this money all from my mansion in NJ or penthouse in NYC, that is as long as I marry Giant. If I marry a dude from some other team my mansion will be located somewhere else.

Tuesday, September 25, 2007

An Open Letter To My Family

For varying reasons my family has witnessed Charles Star perform stand-up comedy three times or so. The following is a letter to my extended family regarding the issue of Charles Star and his comedy.

Dear Family (Both Isaacsons and Parentas):

This letter is to inform you that you are not in fact related to my friend and fellow comedian Charles Star. You are in fact related to me.

Effective immediately you will cease telling me how funny you think he is. He is not your daughter, niece, granddaughter, or cousin. So you should stop bragging about his comedic exploits as if he was. If you feel the need to talk about how funny someone is feel free to talk about me, as we are related and though family pride may disgust others outside the family unit, discussing the funniness of someone you are not related to who is not famous is freakish. Also considered freakish is putting him any of your wills. He has his own family from which he can inherit riches, and property. Unless of course you have arranged a inheritance exchange program with the Star family. However, if no arrangement has been made I strongly advise you not leave him anything as the communities where you live would probably ostracize you for breaking with tradition. Really, I'm just trying to save you and your social standing.

Also, note that Charles has a law degree to fall back and therefore is not in need of an inheritance. Unlike me, your relative, who is in my own right extremely funny.

Further, I'd like to make you aware that Charles will never write jokes about you to put in his act. In light of this I don't see how you could think he's funnier than me as you can not relate to his material as well as you can relate to mine because you are my act. You know all the players in my jokes, you don't however, know Charles' wife Carrie. I know this because you kept asking me if he were single and I had to inform you that indeed he was married and that his wife was in attendance at my surprise birthday party. Charles will never write jokes about your gender revealing parties as he hasn't been to one. I don't think you should start inviting him either. I'm already too much funny for those parties no other comedian is needed. Charles also won't be writing jokes on your inablity to eat diary, or your senility, or your bizarre unwillingness to travel West of Parsipanny within the state of New Jersey.

Speaking of the birthday party I'd just like point out that Charles had months to prepare his roast and I only had several minutes to prepare a rebuttal set of jokes. Which you have to admit my jokes were very funny. I heard you all laughing. So you've already admitted it.

Thank you for your time. I hope this matter can finally be put to rest and we can once again focus on my genius and not be side-tracked by people outside of our clan.


Rachael Parenta (resident family comedian)

Friday, September 21, 2007

Guilt: It's What's For Dinner

As I sit in my cube today, well Angie's cube (whoever that is), I have been thinking. It has occurred to me that the Christian God is definitely Jewish. It's obvious by the passive agressive guilt trip he gives his followers. Or is it their followers? Plural? The Christians have God and then they have his son who is also a god and also passive agressive. Which makes me wonder how is Christianity monothesistic? They have at least two gods if not three if you count the holy ghost, whoever that is maybe it's Angie the woman on her honeymoon whose desk I'm sitting at. Christianity should be one of the triothesistic religions. No matter how many gods the christians have it doesn't stop those gods from probably being Jewish. It doesn't get more Jewish than, "My son died for you sins" or "I died for you sins the least you could do is go to church. Maybe pray a little on Sundays. Would it be too much to ask to spread my word a little. I mean, I spent all day writing the word and dictating it to the apostles. Is it so much to ask that you do some outside sales for me? You know what? Forget it. You sit around watching your football. I'm going to get back up on my cross where I won't be bothering anyone. Apparently, you didn't like the wine I made and you hate the fish and bread I brought. So just forget it. I'm sorry I bothered you. I'll just be on my two pieces of wood out of the way of the television so you can watch your game. Which by the way is very violent, not that I'm judging."

In unrelated news tonight begins Yom Kippur the Jewish day of atonement. I will not be atoning for my sins this year, because Yahweh, the god of the Jews probably isn't Jewish so he hasn't guilted me into atoning. However, I will be attending Yom Kippur dinner at my parents' house tomorrow because my mother is Jewish and I don't have the emotional fortitude to withstand her powers.

Wednesday, September 19, 2007

Revisiting an Old Pet Peeve

Regular readers know that I'm not a proponent of friendship with ex-romantic partners. My long time argument against such arrangements is that it is emotionally dishonest as well as torturous. Well, my mind hasn't changed on the subject, but I have new reasoning on why it's so fucking stupid.

Say you're dating someone, and it's just not working out: either you're not getting along, or you bore one another, or one of you stopped bathing. Whatever the reason you find yourselves in the midst of a "talk." In the talk one of you suggests you should remain friends. Why? Why would you be friends with someone you are arguing with or bored by or who smells just awful? If you couldn't get along when you were dating what makes you think you would get along now, now that you definitely won't be having sex. Let's admit that sex a pretty good incentive to try to get along with someone and now that this part of your partnership has ended what makes you think it'll be fun to get a beer together or play mini-golf? Unless, of of course, you're someone who only socializes with vexing people this post romance friendship choice makes no sense.

I say when breaking up people should do the opposite. The talk should go something like this, "Hey this isn't working. We're not getting along. I think we should break-up, but we can still be non-socializing sex partners." In this scenario you no longer have to worry about trying to get along with someone intolerable but you still get to have sex with someone you trust not to kill you. Of course if the reason for breaking up is that you or he isn't bathing then it's best to severe all ties.

The only exception to this friends rule is if the sex was awful but you guys had the best time on vacation together. Then I guess you should be friends. Except how are you going to be friends with someone who thinks you're an awful sex partner? Everytime the two of you hang out all you'll be able to think about your bedroom foibles and inadequacy as person.

Let us be honest with ourselves and our former romantic partners. We don't actually want to be friends with them. What we want is to either A) keep the sex door open or B) break-off all relations with the person, but not have them hate us. For so many of us knowing someone out there thinks ill of us drives us crazy (not me, I'm paranoid and assume everyone is out to get me, so go ahead hate me, I don't care. I don't trust you anyway.) So we try not to be the bad guy when breaking up with someone and offer faux friendship. In the end you hope your ex doesn't call you to tell you about his/her day, or to ask how you are doing. You hope he/she doesn't try to socialize with you or ask you to emotionally suppport them in a time of crisis. You don't want to drive him/her to the airport or watch his/her cat. You just want them to think fondly of you.

And for those who actually want to be friends I have a feeling you don't think you have the ablity to make more friends. Or you are still in love with your ex.

Randy Newman Wasn't Even From NY

I think I now have a handle on Napolean's atittude problem. And as a short person who rides the NYC subway everyday I too have moments where I want to conquer Europe. Everyday I get off the subway only to have to walk up stairs to get to the street. Everyday, someone's ass in my face.

At 5ft 1in I'm at perfect face to ass height while climbing stairs. It's very stressful. I don't know what my co-commuters have been eating, I could be erradicated at any moment. It's times like these when I just want to put on a blue army uniform, wear a big ridiculous hat, get on a white horse, and send Europe back to the stone-age. In the Stone-Age Europeans were not settling on North America. Their anscestors weren't digging subway tunnels and erecting staircases. I'm just saying. Maybe Napolean had a point.

Tuesday, September 18, 2007

The Rabbit Didn't Die: Not that Kind of Late

I have been cautious as to post writings concerning my latest temp assignment, as on my first day I let it slip that I do stand-up and the office manager (for lack of a better title) immediately google searched me and found this blog. However, I no longer care.

I have temped at an equities company for a week and almost two days (5pm today will mark that 2nd day) and I have done almost nothing. I have answered the errant phone call, bound a couple of books, scanned two maybe 3 documents and filled out a couple of certified mail cards. Yesterday, one of the partners gave me a stack of mail to address right before lunch. By the time lunch was over they had taken the work away from me and given it to receptionist. So color me so surprised today when I got reprimanded for being late to work by 22 minutes. I was told that I need to be here on time and if I'm going to be late I need to call. Really? Well, I'll call when the 4 and 5 train call me and tell me they're running behind schedule. When Lee Sander (head of the MTA) calls me at 7:40 in the morning to let me know his trains aren't running on schedule and will be making unannounced stops in between station. I'll call in to your office to let you know I'm going to be late.

Because I know that there is a seat in a cube that is cold and if it is not warmed exactly by 9:00am all hell breaks loose. The pillars of capitalism begin to crumble. The four horsemen of the apocolypse ride on in and start slaying secretaries and the executives they assist. And even worse my email gets checked 22 minutes later than it would have, my horoscopes go unread nearly a half hour later than they would have otherwise, and catostrophes of catastrophes this blog doesn't get updated until nearly 10am.

Yes, lesson learned. I will demand Mayor Bloomberg allow cell phone towers in the subway.

Monday, September 17, 2007

For Those Who Grew Up in the 80's and Went to College in the 90's

I was listening to radio via the internet a few months back. The internet radio station played a song it was so familiar and yet I had never heard it before. I recogonized the vocals to belong to Lo-fi, indie rock pioneer Lou Barlow but the chorus he sang, "Round and Round" was from somewhere else. Somewhere more distant. Oh My God! Sweet, sensitive Lou Barlow was singing 80's, hairband RATT's hit single "Round and Round." For your enjoyment I found videos of both versions on Youtube. I know present them to you.

The Moonpie and My Great Aunt: 90 Years and Counting

This weekend I traveled to New Jersey to help celebrate my great aunt Ester's 90th birthday. Ester is the fifth woman related to me to reach the age of 90. This is awful. The writing is on the wall. I am doomed to a minimum of 6 more decades on this planet. Honestly, I'm not in the mood. Three decades has been quite enough, thank you. Even though I have accomplished very little. But this isn't about me. Or at least it wasn't on Saturday when my family celebrated Ester's 90 years on the planet.

My parents were unable to attend the birthday bash at Charlie Brown's steakhouse as they had a wedding to attend. However, my mother informed me that I was not to arrive at my aunt's party empty handed, that I needed to bring a birthday gift. I always thought my evervesant presence was present enough. My mother disagreed. I tried explaining to mom that a 90 year old woman is not a five year old child, even if they are the same height, I don't think she really needs a gift. I suggested that for Ester's birthday we give her the gift of having to pretend she likes what people have gotten her. I find that gifts are so rarely about the gift receiver. Usually it's about the gift giver who wants mad props for the gift they have given the gift receiver. Which is ironic because it's a rare case when the gift giver actually puts much thought into the gift they are giving. However, if the gift receiver doesn't act like each gift is a winning lottery ticket the gift receiver is deemed rude and ungrateful. As if the gift receiver asked for gifts in the place. I think all gifts really do is show how little family members actually know about one another. My mother a slave to social convention rejected my thesis and said, "Go get her a gift, and say it's from the three of us. (me, my mom and my dad)"

Fine. But, what do you get someone who is turning 90? What could they possibly need besides another drink or maybe a 70 year old giglo? If my aunt Ester's party is indication 90 year old women are in desperate need of cardigan sweaters. I guess when you hit a certain age your arms get very very cold, yet your chestal area remains comfortable. Also I gather that the rough and tumble world of the nursing/retirement homes has these ladies tearing through cardigans because my aunt received no fewer than 7 cardigan sweater. 7! And not even 7 different cardigan sweaters. She got two of the exact same sweaters from two different guests. What is funny is that a sweater was one of the gift ideas my mother had given me. However, I rejected that suggstion and thought "outside of the box." I got my aunt new bike tires. Then I told her to make sure she left these tires to me in her will. I figure I'm going to need bike tires in about five years and the timing should be about right. I mean how much longer can she live? She's not going to live 20 more years, is she? Oh god, I hope not. Not that she's not a lovely lady, she actually is pretty cool. But just like those gifts this isn't about her, and I don't think I can handle a 110 years.

Thursday, September 13, 2007

Clog My Arteries

I saw a news report on Wednesday informing the public that Americans are living longer than ever. The average life expectancy is somewhere around 77.2 years (I'm going off memory here, you don't expect me to do actual research). Some of the causes of the extra years on Earth for humans has to do with earlier detection of cancers (so they get treated before it's too late) and a decrease in heart disease among others which I can't call recall right now.

The elimation of heart disease is very troubling. That's the way I wanted to go out. I wanted to die of a heart attack. What better way to die than a sharp shooting pain in your left arm followed by a cramping of the left chestal area, followed by dropping dead? Perfect no too painful and not drawn out. Hell, heart attacks are so easy you can do them in your sleep. But once again my generation gets fucked. Not only will we have no social security by the time we retire. That's if we get to retire, the report on ABC's nightly news also explained Americans are working later in life because they are living longer and need more money. That's just great. We get more years of life only to spend those years in a cube or coal mine. And to top it off won't even be able to die quickly and relatively painlessly of a heart attack.

My whole I've always dreamed of dying of a heart attack. I think it's my life's goal. Sure I'm somewhat active and not overweight, but I cook with alot of butter, and eat my fair share of icecream. I can't believe it's come to this. You realize the less likely an American is to die from heart disease the more likely they are to die from other causes such as: drowning, being buried alive, stabbing, gun shot wounds, a grizzly bear attack, gang warefare, etc. Granted the grizzly bear attack is probably as unlikely as a heart attack because eventually there will be no grizzly bears. But gang warefare will probably take most of generation as we get older. I mean if you, the office manager, will be working into your eighties so will the gang banger. Why wouldn't a gang banger also continue in his/her profession as well? Gang members also need to eat. I imagine with so many of Americas elderly working in the decades to come we'll probably see a surge in gang recruitment. Having a gang presence in a nursing home keeps the nurses from stealing your shit. And if you have ever talked to a person in one of these places you know those nurses are up to no good.

Anyway, my point is I'm going to have to start planning for the future. If I'm not going to be able to die of a heart attack I might have to become an opium addict. Can you even get opium anymore? I know you can get herion which is an opiate, but that has all this other junk in it. Doing herion is kind of like eating a frozen dinner. Both items are cut with all these chemicals you don't need to make them go further. That crap they put in heroin can make a person's overdose gruesome full of vomit, seizures, and flooded lungs thereby negating the whole point of becoming an addict.

Well, I don't know what I'm going to do about dying. I know I have to do die some day-- probably in 47-67 years. I have sometime to think about it. Maybe there will be knew ways to die painlessly by the time I apply for my AARP card. One can dream.

Wednesday, September 12, 2007

America: Home of the Brave Land of the Scared of the Dark

I heard "God Bless America" Tuesday evening. The following lyric was belted out "God Bless America, Land that I love. Stand beside her, and guide her Thru the night with a light from above..." and that's when I knew that I was an American. Just like me my country is also scared of the dark. America needs someone non-threatening to stand beside her, to guide her through the night with a night light--preferably from above so it doesn't cast creepy shadows whilst America is trying to sleep.

I don't feel like such a coward or a child any more. I mean if big bad America uses a night light then why shouldn't I?

Monday, September 10, 2007

Self Indulgent II: Electric Boogaloo

Monday evening as I rode my bike home over the Manhattan bridge my mind began wondering to obsessive thoughts. My legs pedaled my bike as my mind thought of mean yet obsficated things to say to a dude I know who attended a party I also attended a week ago. At the actual party the dude ironically and awkwardly suggested that next time Charles and I produce a show he should be on it. My retort was lame. But today I present to you the better more thought out retort. In my head the retort takes place in front of other party goers who are able to decipher metaphor.
"You want to be on the show? I don't know that I can trust that you'd actually perform on the show. I mean you seem like the kind of guy who doesn't finish what he starts and then gets mad everyone else for your own lack of follow through or stamina. I could just see you inviting me to hike the Grand Canyon with you. I of course would hop at the chance to to hike the Grand Canyon. I would purchase a plane ticket out to Flagstaff, AZ for a couple of hundred dollars and then drive up to the South Rim of the Grand Canyon where we would meet up to begin our hike. The hike would be going well, we'd be having fun seeing the beuatiful vistas but then not even half way down you'd get tired. You'd say, 'I can't go on. I'll never make it back up this canyon. I have to stop, rest, and turn around.'"
"Now, of course that's fine. I'm not going to force you to do something you don't want to do like some rapist. You stop. But I'm not tired. You invited me out to AZ to hike the Grand Canyon and I want to finish. It would have been cooler to have someone to finish with, but if I must I'll go it alone because I have the cardio-vascular wearwithall to continue."
"Any reasonable person would be fine with this arrangement. But I can tell you are not a reasonable man, and would get mad at me for continuing on my own. Which is ridiculous. I mean, you were the one who suggested we hike the Grand Canyon. I accepted the invitation, paid my own way to get out to Arizona, and then you're the one who can't continue. Somehow in your mind that makes me the asshole. Which might be true if you were injured on the Bright Angel Trail heading down the canyon, and I abandoned you instead of assisting you to a doctor. But you're just tired. And because you're tired I should go without."
"I guess what I'm saying is, you seem selfish and out of shape. I can't trust that type of person to complete a set for a show I may produce with Charles in the future."

Flaking in the Desert

Osama Bin Laden released a new video tape this past week. It's the first one he's produced in a number of years. Which should come as some relief to all those other independent film makers out there. I mean if Bin Laden, a millionare who literarily kills people, can't get people people to show up when they say they will to make a short film, then how are the rest of us artists supposed keep our collaborators from flaking on us ?

Granted the man is living an undisclosed cave, but if Jamal his video-ographer said he was down for shooting Osama's project then Jamal should have shown up. At least sent messenger saying he couldn't do it with a few names of people who might be able to replace him. But no, Jamal just like every other video dude just didn't bother show up. See miltant muslims aren't any more considerate or reliable than western capitalists. And, it's not like Bin Laden can just get another video-ographer the day of the shoot. He's living in a cave for god's sake. He has no cell phone or he might but there are no cell phone towers. The man has to write letters and send them out of the desert via camels or carrier pingeons. How can anyone create under these conditions? And you know the 3 of the five video-ographers Osama contacts reply to his request for them to shoot his "I hate America" series of personal videos reply with, "Sorry dude, I'm just really busy with my own anti-Infadel videos right now. I'd totally help you but it's just crazy here. I'm really trying to promote my stuff on Myspace to increase my You Tube hits. Maybe next year or in two years." And once he does find a video-ographer who actually shows up, Bin Laden has got to find someone to edit the thing. Those people always yes you death but never get around to actually editing anything. You have to keep harrassing them. You have to call them everyday and how is he supposed to do that? Telepathically? He's not a club footed New Yorker. He's just a terrorist.

All I'm saying is maybe we should give Osama Bin Laden a break. I'm sure the guy is really trying to get videos out there. I'm sure he has a stack of scripts just waiting to be produced, but when you have to collaborate with other artists and you're not paying them big money they just don't show up.

Friday, September 07, 2007

Maybe the Closet is a Walk-In Closet

As I travel around this crazy planet and get to know more and more people I think to myself, "Is it really so bad if your boyfriend or husband is a closested gay man?"

I've heard the snide comments behind some women's backs, "Doesn't she know her boyfriend is gay?" Hell, I've made the snide comments. But I'm started to think who cares. As long as the man in question is fullfilling his partner's sexual needs and not cheating on his lady (only if she cares about monogomy) it sounds like as good of a relationship as any. Cheating is cheating whether it is with a man or a woman and a heterosexual dude is just as likely to cheat on his partner as a gay one.

The argument could be made that eventually a gay man will come out of the closet and leave his woman for his new gay life style. Most hetersexual relationships end anyway. And in their end the people involved feel betrayed and hurt. I think it'd be great to be given the, "It's not you it's me speech" and it actually be true.

All I'm saying, women, is give that gay guy who is hitting on you at the party a second chance. He could be your next husband.

Sign of Innebriation.

You know you're drunk when the magic 8 ball starts making accurate predictions.

Wednesday, September 05, 2007

Self indulgent

My whole entourage (my boyfriend Jack, my best friend Anna, and my fiance James) and I attended a bar-b-q this past weekend. We had fun eating meat cooked on an open flame, drinking alcoholic beverages, and conversing with people new to us. As the bar-b-q wore on I heard my boyfriend Jack berating one of the other party guests.

Jack was yelling, "Just call her! Jesus Christ, man. Are you going to stand here and belly-ache for the rest of your life or are you going to take your life in your hands?"

Jack has a very low tolerance for people who pity themselves and seek the pity of others. I guess because he's seen so many people who were struggling for survival who never once asked for anyone's help or pity, seeing a well fed American with both his eyes do it really grates on him.

The dude replied, "I did call her. I sent her a telepathic message two years ago and she never responded."

Jack countered, "Well, do you think that maybe she didn't get your telepathic message?"

"I sent her other telepathic messages in the past and she always responded. You know? I get it. She's not interested anymore. I don't know why or what happened."

"Did it ever occurr to you that she didn't get this telepathic message? Or she did and you didn't get her returned telepathic message and she also was thinking of her ego and not making another attempt at telepathy?"

"That doesn't seem likely. I mean, you know, she was in 'Nam, no one ever came back from there the same."

"How old is this girl?"


"When was she in Vietnam?"

"In 1994."

"What the fuck are you talking about dude?"

"Maybe she's crazy from her experience in Vietnam and now she just falls in and out of love at whim."

"First of all she probably wasn't in love with you. Secondly, maybe she did get your message but then she got sick or something bad happened and so she didn't call you back but then things were better but she felt stupid calling you back after a month or so passed. Or thirdly, maybe you prefer to live some fantasy world where she's the girl 'who got away' and it's all so tragic and dramatic. Or fourth, maybe you should stop thinking of yourself. If you really care about this girl and think she's having a mental breakdown from not fighting Vietgong in the mid 90s maybe she could use a friend. You could be that friend if you pulled your head out of your ass."

"What do you know about it, dude?"

"I know that self-inflicted limp of yours isn't going to get any better with you cursing the world for your predicament."

"That's incredibly rude to mention my club foot especially at a party. I struggle with this limp."

"You weren't born with the club foot, man. You abused your foot until it was clubbed. You deserve to be alone. Think of someone besides yourself sometime."

Then the club footed guy took a swing at Jack, but they were both so drunk the both fell backwards. Don't ask me how someone can throw a punch toward someone and fall backwards but this dude with the club foot did. I grabbed my boyfriend, apologized to the host and went upstairs so he could talk about sex with the more lighthearted guests.

Sunday, September 02, 2007