01:29 - July 18, 2003 #987
At the risk of sounding like one of those people who writes books titled things like 203,832,857 Small Pleasures In Life, or '1,000,001 Things To Be Happy About', the small pleasure that made me happy yesterday was that we went to a ludicrously expensive restaurant, which was nice, I suppose, but the wonderful part of it was the dessert, which was peach sorbet in a hollowed out frozen peach. I ate the sorbet and they gave me a little takeout carton for the peach, looking surprised that someone was actually going to eat it, and my dad, who never lets me even chew gum or drink water in his car for fear I'll spill, let me eat a dripping, thawing, juicy peach out of a paper carton with sticky fingers all over his leather seats, and put all the windows down, so it was hot, and quick driving, and eating a frozen messy peach with my fingers with my hair blowing back in hot wind on expensive leather seats.
20:29 - July 14, 2003 ass woes
Just to save myself any future games of truth or dare, here is possibly the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to me, or at least the one that most makes me cringe when I think of it.
I was a junior in high school and there was a cute freshman who was in the percussion line with me. We were friendly enough, and I was always asking him to come eat in the student center with me on Fridays (the only day freshmen were allowed in the student center). Meanwhile, being gossipy, I had told all of my friends about him and what a lovely ass he had (I don't normally look at people's asses, but his warranted the exception). During the band's performance of 'Walkin' On The Sun' by Smash Mouth, he would always get up from his drum set at the break and do a little dance that I dubbed his 'Ass Dance.'
Anyway, one Friday he finally came with me to lunch. We were about to put our lunches down on the table and start eating when a friend of mine, Hazel, came over to us. 'Is that him?' she asked. Loudly.
'Yes,' I whispered, trying to be discreet, despite the fact that he was two feet away from me.
'Am I him? Yes, I think I am,' he said, even louder, laughing.
'Ok. Turn around,' Hazel said.
Confusedly, he did a slow circle.
'You're right,' said Hazel to me with an approving nod at his ass, and left.
19:19 - July 14, 2003 s? garden
I'm playing Microsoft Pinball and suddenly this godawful light-jazz-drummy, boy-falsetto-croony, smooth-guitar-riffy music comes exploding over the store sound system, accompanied by Lorrie's perky voice going: 'It's about a woman who is beaten and has to get away! It's Soundgarden!'
Um. Soundgarden? 'Soundgarden?' I yell, and when there's no answer, because it's turned up too loud, I go up to the counter and say it again: 'Soundgarden?'
'Yes,' she says.
'No, it isn't.'
'Yes, it is!'
'No.'
'Yes.'
'I'll bet money on that it isn't.'
She takes the disc out and squints at the lettering. 'Ohhhhh! Savage Garden. Well, they're both S's.'
I go back to my pinball, thinking about laughing but can't because she's put the din on again and turned it up, yelling at RePeter to come hear.
'I have trouble listening to music that spans a lifetime,' Peter is saying, 'because it makes me sad.'
Sadness spawned by Savage Garden? Aghhhhhhh. My tolerance for other peoples' preferences does not extend that far.
22:41 - July 13, 2003 it's vivaldi
I�m sitting on a folding chair over a corner of our old brown/blue blanket with a book in my lap: Magic, Myth, and Medicine; reading about how the history of what people believed caused illness (sorcery, breaking of taboos, intrusion of disease-objects, action of disease-spirits, loss of soul) and the ancient fertility dances in Eastern Europe where couples would have sex in the plaintain fields to encourage the plantain to grow. And when couples would have twins, they would be considered experts in fertility and would be given the year off from village chores in order to �visit the homes of childless couples in the district, performing the sex act before them in turn�. (John Camp,1973.) A few feet away, a bleach-blonde woman giggling, red-faced, into her wine glass is salsa dancing on her blanket, her feet deftly avoiding the glasses of wine and sticks of cheese on the picnic blanket. A man lies on his back, rapturous, eyes following her hips. After a bit she stops giggling and stares back, straight into his eyes, dancing for him now. The music is Vivaldi, Latinized, as much as you can Latinize an Italian, even one from the baroque era. The Four Seasons, exploding into maracas and Spanish singing. An old man, dubiously employed, maybe, wanders through the grass carrying a sign that reads: �Please Be Quiet During the Performance.�
I put down my book and tie bracelet thread around my big toe and start making a bracelet. The music is soft again, a rare original Vivaldi moment, quiet violins and oboes. I think about what would happen if someone stood up and started screaming and waving their arms. Then I think about what would happen if someone was time-traveling, coming from the era of the roller coaster, and they suddenly appeared in the center of the Pavilion, screaming and waving their arms, unaware that the scene had changed. They would take a few seconds before they would apologize, and vanish. Would the people who had been sittingnear enough to see the appearance and disappearance even discuss it with one another? Or would they allow themselves to be shushed by the dubiously employed sign-carrier? What would it take to break tradition? �We have to be quiet. There�s a performance going on.� �But someone just appeared out of thin air who was time traveling, right between us.� �It�s Vivaldi. Shhhh.�
