ordinary noise

every spur-of-the-moment homicide begins with good intentions

Or that's my new theory, anyway.

12:45 a.m. and it's storming over Lumsden, Saskatchewan.  Where I am sitting, curled in the passenger seat of my roommate's 1991 New Yorker, in the parking lot of the town bar.  The New Yorker, as it happens, is nearly out of gas, so I've given her my last ten dollars in cash and sent her down the street to Evans Towing -- where, we've been told, we might be able to trade the remainder of my worldly assets for half a jerry can of regular unleaded.  If anyone bothers to answer the door.

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From the notebook, 04/05/08:

Saw that old transvestite again, on Cornwall Ave., say 10:00 in the morning.  The one who looks like he's auditioning for a Wisconsin steel town version of Madame Butterfly.  A face so thoroughly worn it  makes me think of cracked earth.  No foundation, no blush, but elaborate eye makeup:  heavy black eyeliner & three inches of blue-green shadow.  Hair pulled back in a bun, eyebrows plucked into an expression of permanent surprise.

*

A girl -- eight, ten maybe -- parking her pink bike outside the 7-11 on Winnipeg and Vic.  Wearing a white t-shirt with a faded Pepsi logo.  The shirt reads "Sexsi."

*

A sign advertising "99 cent mamas."  Burgers, that is, but I'm envisioning a bad all-girl country band, tired women in red vinyl halter tops doing Tammy Wynette.

This afternoon, at a goodbye party for one of my staff:

"I want more cake."

"Okay, but you have to do the Mick Jagger walk."

"She's the one who does the Mick Jagger walk."

"Yeah, it's wicked.  I can do the" -- demonstrating -- "hips and everything."

"You've spent time perfecting Mick Jagger hips?"

"Years of my life.  Years."

"What do I mean, then?  Not Mick Jagger.  The one where you kind of tilt your head and, y'know, glide.  The model walk.  Do that one."

"Anytime.  Sometimes when I'm by myself I do the model walk for fun.  Pat'll do it too.  Like if we're in the store or something.  He won't just walk down the aisle to get the creamed corn, he'll" -- demonstrating -- "glide."

seen

From the notebook, 04/05/08:

Saw that old transvestite again, on Cornwall Ave., say 10:00 in the morning.  The one who looks like he's auditioning for a Wisconsin steel town version of Madame Butterfly.  A face so thoroughly worn it  makes me think of cracked earth.  No foundation, no blush, but elaborate eye makeup:  heavy black eyeliner & three inches of blue-green shadow.  Hair pulled back in a bun, eyebrows plucked into an expression of permanent surprise.

*

A girl -- eight, ten maybe -- parking her pink bike outside the 7-11 on Winnipeg and Vic.  Wearing a white t-shirt with a faded Pepsi logo.  The shirt reads "Sexsi."

*

A sign advertising "99 cent mamas."  Burgers, that is, but I'm envisioning a bad all-girl country band, tired women in red vinyl halter tops doing Tammy Wynette.

at moments like these, I love my coworkers

This afternoon, at a goodbye party for one of my staff:

"I want more cake."

"Okay, but you have to do the Mick Jagger walk."

"She's the one who does the Mick Jagger walk."

"Yeah, it's wicked.  I can do the" -- demonstrating -- "hips and everything."

"You've spent time perfecting Mick Jagger hips?"

"Years of my life.  Years."

"What do I mean, then?  Not Mick Jagger.  The one where you kind of tilt your head and, y'know, glide.  The model walk.  Do that one."

"Anytime.  Sometimes when I'm by myself I do the model walk for fun.  Pat'll do it too.  Like if we're in the store or something.  He won't just walk down the aisle to get the creamed corn, he'll" -- demonstrating -- "glide."