soup

i’ll have what she’s having
“let’s go out tonight,” i say.
“okay. same place?”
we’ve never been able
to make up at dinner,
but it’s always been a start.
“if you don’t say anything,
i’m assuming same place.”
our problem, i think, is that
we both operate under the flawed logic
that we’re all right
as long as we both admit
we were wrong.
“same place.”
“it’s on me.”
because i owe her that much, at least.
maybe i owe her for everything.
it’s like i’m brian de palma,
and she’s my hitchcock.
wait– no, she’s not.
that’s a terrible analogy
(life is terrible).

i meet up with her after she gets off work.
as we’re talking, all i can think about
are the funny things i’m going to write
on the bathroom wa[15:10] ts: yesssssssssssssssss
[15:10] ts: yeeeeesss
[15:10] ts: yes
[15:10] ts: yes!
[15:10] ts: yessssssssssssss
[15:10] ts: oh yessssssss!
[15:10] ts: oh
[15:10] ts: yeeeeesssssssssssssssssss
[15:11] ts: i’ll have what she’s having

[16:49] ts: this sucks
[16:49] JT: yeah
[16:49] ts: i’ve live
[16:49] JT: LOL

conservation
do you have any idea
how much paper is wasted
each year
on legal mumbo jumbo?

uhm, all the soup pages have disappeared. i’m not sure why that happened or if any of the videos, etc. were still working anyway. any thoughts?

radio, etc. nowhere
i’m more comfortable singing
in my car
when i’m surrounded by friends,
but they need to be people i trust,
in whose company i can allow myself
to reach for those high notes that,
despite my straining,
will probably remain out of reach.

i find comfort in having companions
to practice my runs with,
my falsetto,
my baritone,
to work on hand movements,
finger wags,
head nods,
shoulder leans,
catchy lyrics,
guitar licks,
professional-quality drum approximating,
and my party rap guy persona.

to do this alone would be to submit myself,
to throw myself,
at the mercy of the person or people
stuck next to me in traffic,
and their judgements are harsher
than the studio executives
who return my demo
WITHOUT EVEN LISTENING TO IT.

so, i’ve found that
in a car filled to the
brim with my best buddies,
working on routines,
singing and laughing at mistakes
before correcting them
and punishing the guilty party,
i don’t get the stares.
if anything, onlookers are envious!
oh, my, what fun!
what a well-oiled machine!
they’re referring to usssssssssssssssss!

this heavy on my mind
and driving to work
with my best friends–
we’re singing our hearts out…
to dolly parton, of all people!
there’s nothing gay about it.
one of my friends is a woman,
and we are singing “just because i’m a woman”
as a duet.
trees are passing by to the beat of our hearts,
and, thank god, we are alive.

but it will always be clear to me
that i’m not going to be OK.

not all good days
are turning points.

sunrise
if you’ve got nothing better to do
(perhaps, if you were, say, unemployed),
there’s something almost romantic
about staying up
until the wee hours of the morning.
not romantic, really.
it’s more like an empty romantic gesture
to cover up for an infidelity–
like, instead of feeding starving children in africa,
you buy your unsuspecting girlfriend of seven years
a blood diamond.

sables
this jacket
was black
when i bought it.

small business
in life, ladies,
there are no winners
or losers–
except, maybe, in sports
and divorces.
speaking of which, as we are–
our neighbor, carrie, was telling me
that she’s been running into her ex-husband
around town lately:
at the 7-11,
at her uncle andy’s american bbq,
at the gym,
at jiffy lube (where he works),
or the wal-mart in panorama city (where she works and he shops)…
sometimes, even at the park
or the beach
with his new family.
“and do you know why?” she said.
“because the world is SMALL.”
if you can’t share something,
why do it at all? i wondered.
“that’s what john used to say.”
john, of course, was carrie’s ex-husband:
former utah jazz point guard john stockton.