Bestiality

The goat isn't kidding.

The happy triple

Saw an interesting play called "Twisted Wine" about a threesome on Saturday. Read my review here.

The boy going on 20 and the girl who said "whoa"

I needed to cross, so I pushed the button. The light turned green but the little white permission man never replaced the red foreboding hand. If you've ever crossed a street with me, you probably tried to continue in our conversation for a moment then realized I had already raced to other side. My fear of intersections does it to me.

I stood and threw a silent tantrum on the darkening corner, even though I knew the white permission man was probably just out and the green light would still allow me enough time to cross unharmed, and without any jay walking accusation. An out-of-nowhere blond boy raced past me and, seizing the opportunity to have a crossing buddy, I raced with him and arrived at the corner as he was pressing the next crossing button.

"It's scary! When there's no white man light!"

"Ah, fuck the light. Excuse my language."

"That's okay."

"And there's what I missed," he said, pointing to an OCTA member driving away.

"The bus?"

"Yeah."

"Was it stopped there when we got to the corner?"

"Yeah."

"Well, is there another one coming?"

"I think so."

I noticed the functional white permission man beckoning us, so I pointed and started walking. He followed.

"Sorry for walking in the same direction. I'm not following you or anything."

"That's okay."

"I guess it's back to work."

"Where do you work?"

"Right between those two office buildings."

"What do you do?"

"In a nutshell, real estate. In not a nutshell, something very complicated."

"Is it legal?"

"Well considering that when I was doing it when I was 13, 14, and 15 years old and it was definitely not legal then, it must be legal now."

"How old are you now?"

"19. Going on 20."

"Cool."

"You?"

"22."

"Sorry, I guess I'm not supposed to ask."

"It's okay. I asked you."

"Where are you off to?"

"The library."

"You like to read, then?"

"Yep."

"Reading's good for you. It's good for your brain."

"Yeah, I've heard that."

Then I said something that was very much something I would say. If you've ever become friends with me it's probably because I said something like, "Hey let's be friends!" Or, "Hey, look. We're hanging out. We must be friends." Or, "Want to get a drink some time? I think we could be good friends." My friendships never seem to happen organically. I always feel the need to comment on the conversational or relational development, or lack thereof. So I said something like this, something like, "Look we became crossing buddy friends!" Or, "What a fast conversation we started and are now ending as we part our ways." But I don't remember exactly what it was because at this point I saw the fire hydrant, made to pass to the right of the fire hydrant, subsequently failed and incurred a bruise I'm sure will be hideous by tomorrow morning. I do remember what I said after that, though.

"I just ran into the fire hydrant."

"I saw that."

"It really hurts."

"I believe it."

"Owe."

"Well, it was good meeting you."

"You, too."

"And best of luck to you."

"Bye."

Returning from the library and approaching the same intersection, my new crossing buddy had an interesting outfit: helmet, wrist pads, knee pads, elbow pads, and a bike as an accessory.

"Why are you walking your bike?"

"I forgot my light."

"Oh. You should just wave your cell phone in front of you while you ride."

"I don't think the police men would like that," she laughed.

"Where are you coming from?"

"The library."

"Me, too!"

This middle-aged woman told me about how hard her tax class is and that she lived by the high school, which was in my direction, so of course I said, "Hey! Let's be walking buddies!"

"Okay!"

I held up my phone to her and said, "I'm expecting a phone call soon, though."

"Where do you go to school?"

"I just graduated from Vanguard University."

"Whoa! You look like you're in high school."

"I'm 22."

"Whoa. What did you study?"

"English. Literature."

"Whoa. That's deep."

"Where are you from?"

"Venezula. You're Californian?"

When people say "Californian" or "Oregonian" or "Delwarian" it seems to clarify that each state does in fact have its own culture, own people, own ways and shit of that sort. I like it.

"Born and raised. What's your name?"

"Korkee." (Clearly not spelled right, but it sounded something like that while we shook hands.) "Yours?"

"Hannah."

"Hannah, like..."

"Montana."

My phone rang and I answered, finishing my conversation so Cyntho could hear all the way in Miami.

"Well, I have to take this. Good meeting you."

"You, too! Have a safe walk home!"

"You, too!"

Harbor and Baker is a good intersection to meet two-minute friends.

Unmade

I can't exactly go to sleep just yet. My sheets are still in the dryer and I need to make my bed.

I just had a drink with a couple of my favorite people: a friend and a mentor. (I do consider this person a mentor, whether he knows it.) Every time I get together with these folk I get inspired; not necessarily in the artistic sense, but in the sense that I want to do things out of my routine.

My routine being...work, internship, walk the dog, hang, and read a book at some obscure place until I tire of it or it tires of me.

I had been reading "Wuthering Heights" until a few moments ago when I closed it and dog-eared page 168, although I never hope to open it again. I keep telling myself it takes a strong, a courageous, person to stop reading a book midway through. The other tiny person on my shoulder tells me I am being lazy. Honestly though, this books is boring. I have a problem reading things with such dated themes such as class conflict, romance, love, revenge!!!!!!

For now, I will give you a list of things I have in my mind. As good of a bullshitter as I am, these nuggets simply cannot be fleshed out into any paragraph worth reading.

1. My feet are clammy. 2. My nail has finally fallen off. 3. I picked at the remains of my nail. 4. Now my nail hurts. 5. I think I'll try my hand at fiction writing again. 6. I like preppy things and am too embarrassed to wear them. 7. My friend (boss) from work got engaged. 8. After this I am going to reorganize my bookshelf. 9. These pictures have nothing to do with my post. 10. I miss school. 11. Sometimes "Family Guy" takes it too far. 12. I draw 3-D boxes a lot. 13. I'm hungry. 14. I can't wait to see "Atlas Shrugged." But why are there so many newbies involved in the project?

A cluttered thought

Dick Hickock and Perry Smith,
the murderers of the Clutter
family and stars of "In Cold Blood"

The Clutter family before anyone
knew their names

Yesterday I met a man whose father knew the Clutters. That probably means nothing to you, unless you happened to have read the book that has turned out to by my favorite I've read all summer.

The Clutters were a family murdered for a handful of change in their farmhouse in Holcombe near Kansas City. Truman Copote--whose name is more famous among my generation for the title of a movie starring Phillip Seymour Hoffman than for his successful writing career--followed the case for six years and compiled what he called a "nonfiction novel" called "In Cold Blood." I had just finished the book the day before while lying on my bed covering my ears from Elle hurrying me up--she wanted to talk about Hawaii. (The last two pages of a book are crucial to your overall feeling of it. Don't let people ruin it for you.) Not only had "In Cold Blood" made me cry two distinct times, but I didn't exactly stop thinking about it since I had picked it up.

The next day, yesterday, I was ringing someone up while asking a fellow employee what he was reading. I like to try and include customers into the conversation, otherwise they get huffy and puffy about standing around as if in my living room while I completely ignore them and talk to the more amiable people in my life: the baggers. So I asked the middle-aged man in front of me, "Are you reading anything right now?" To which he said "no" but reciprocated the question.

"Yes, I just finished 'In Cold Blood' now I'm reading 'Wuthering Heights.' Have you read 'In Cold Blood'?" I asked.

"Yeah, I have. I was good."

"I loved it."

"My dad lived in Kansas City."

"What? Really? That's crazy!"

"Yeah and he knew the, what was their name? The people who got killed. The Clutters."

"He knew the Clutters."

"Yeah."

"Your dad knew the Clutters, Herb Clutter?"

"Yeah."

I was shocked and he acted like it was completely normal. Now, he most definitely could have been blowing smoke up my ass because, let's face it, some real freaks come into that store. (Just today a man named Hector came in, shook his hips, and sang a few bars to me and two other girls then carried on to do his shopping.) But I chose to believe he was telling the truth.

If you still can't understand what a big deal this was to me, imagine this. You just finished reading "The Fountainhead" by Ayn Rand. It took up most of your time and now it's all you think about. You are recommending the book to everyone. Then you recommend it to one more person and that person tells you, "Oh yeah, my mom went to school with Howard Roark and was neighbors with Dominique Francon." Or, let's see if you need a more pliable situation. You just finish the "Twilight" series and someone tells you his uncle knows Edward Cullen. Wouldn't that blow your mind?

The most disheartening moment when reading a book is knowing you can never meet the characters. I guess it's a little different when the story is true.