I Am Trying to Break Your Heart
Even less successfully continuing the equality forum celebration, I went to Shampoo, as seen on television’s the Real World: Philadelphia. And Willie from said Real World was there, in person. As I suspected, he is pint size (can’t be over 5’4”, honestly). I had fun dancing there with JP, JB and especially Chop. In fact, Chop and I stayed after hours to dance to the hits of the 80’s and early 90’s in the outdoor tent. Chop picked up a Kraut. He said he met a German, but I thought he kept telling me he met a Sherman. I had no clue what that meant, so I just kept nodding my head. I ran into someone with whom I have made out (cute med student), who thought my name was Ben. I went with that for a little bit. Why not? I completely lost my nerve to talk to a smoldering little indie boy I had my eye on all night. Pussy-disease struck hard, like whoa. He was way out of my league, but someone told me he was following me around all night. Out-of-my league, smoldering indie boy, if you’re out there? Call me.
I went home on Saturday night so I could wake up early Sunday morning to celebrate second resurrection of Christ in less than 5 weeks. That’s right, that crazy Jesus was at it again. My father follows the Julian calendar as a member of an Eastern Orthodox religion. Therefore I am lucky/unlucky enough to celebrate 2 Christmases and Easters per year. It makes my family nuts, not to mention making Jesus very busy. It was assuredly more of a blast when the Easter Bunny was involved. Now, we just go to Church and watch a crazy Russian priest bless everyone’s Easter basket, laid out in front on the front steps of the Church. It would be a beautiful ceremony if we weren’t so afraid that the priest were going to injure someone with his haphazard handling of the incense bong thing. There my brother and I ran into many old women whom year after year pretend they haven’t seen us since we were babies. And my, how handsome we have become. (confession: my brother actually has!) Their praise is effusive, and it makes us uncomfortable. One woman asked where I got my “beautiful, bee-stung lips.” I lied and said they were natural. She would be simply crushed if she knew that Lindsay Lohan and I shared a plastic surgeon!
There is a clerk that roams the hallowed halls of the CJC where I work. We had our training orientation together. He knows my name. I know his. Every damn time I see him, he avoids eye contact and refuses to acknowledge me. He is shifty, and he will pay. Now, understand that I do not want to be his friend, and he is not anywhere near attractive. But I want him to say hello and confirm my existence when I am near him. I will interpret his attempt to elude me as his throwing of the gauntlet, and as such, I will respond the only way I know how. I will win. I will make him have to notice me. He probably thinks that I cower away from awkward situations like this. Little does Clerkjerk know that I live for this shit. I eat awkward situations like this for breakfast. I will prolong eye contact for so long that he’ll have to hide behind columns to escape me. I will make sure I catch the same elevator as him all the time, and when in this elevator I will hum loudly the theme song from Bosom Buddies. I will find out where he parks his car and wait at the garage for him everyday, even though I walk to work. I will stand at the urinal next to him and drop my pants to my ankles. And when it gets to the point where he has no choice but to notice me all the time? I will ignore him. Hard.
By the way, the jury pool in this building is maybe the nastiest group of people I have ever seen assembled. I just wanted to get that out of my system today since tomorrow is Philadelphia Juror Appreciation Day. I would appreciate it if they had to take a different elevator than I did. Here’s hoping that their decisions that inform the administration of justice are less “unique” than their decisions regarding proper courtroom attire. I shudder to think of having to face a “jury of my peers,” half of which is wearing Nascar shirts, denim Winnie the Pooh jackets or weaves that not even the girls from Beautyshop could fix.
I was totally existential last night (think more Cher from Clueless than Camus), parked on the side of the road near the airport. I was waiting for KC’s plane to arrive as I watched blinking lights, planes taking off and landing and drivers eager to pick up their loved ones. I was listening to Yankee Foxtrot Hotel by Wilco (“Ashes of American Flags”) and thinking about how the last time I was landing in a plane, I had someone’s head on my shoulder. I was looking out the plane window at the sunset wondering how anything could go wrong. Now, I was looking out my car window waiting for something to go right.
That’s just to remind the reader that despite my snarky, snide commentary on life, I am still a sensitive, humble gentleman with hopes, dreams and the capacity to love that's as large as the ocean is wide and the day is long. And apparently a killer set of “beautiful, bee-stung” lips. Word to your mother.