Nonsense Verse

Stroll, interrupted. A play in 18 lines.

An evening stroll to the wine bar. At the corner of 55th and 9th, as two people are about to cross the street -- with the "walk" light -- a yellow cab hits the gas and speeds around the corner in front of them, a treacherous turn, though thankfully at enough distance that no damage was done.

"Well!"

"I know. Jeesh. Go right ahead."

"I have this thing where I like to provide loud commentary when drivers do stupid things in front of me and they have their windows down."

"Like, 'It's your world!'"

"Exactly. For instance, the other day, just as I was about to step off the curb, this guy zoomed up to the sidewalk and parallel-parked right in front of me. Way close. So I said, 'NICE PARKING JOB.'"

"And?"

"And he did a 'what?!' sort of thing." (Gesturing with hands, shrugging shoulders.)

"Dick."

"I know."

"You totally should have faked an injury. Like this." (Grabbing foot, hopping up and down with pained expression on face.) "And sued the bastard for all sorts of money."

"Um, I'm fairly sure the guy's insurers would have demanded some sort of proof. Like X-rays."

"You could have used mine! My feet are all fucked up."

"I don't think bad bunions count."

"But they look impressive."

"Of course they do."

"They've got lots of calcium deposits. They're white and splotchy and large."

"White and splotchy and large?"

"Yeah. You know. Like many Americans."

The goose is greedy*

I'm conducting an experiment: Will the prospect of earning a few extra dollars a month be enough incentive to keep me writing here, on the interweb?

"Pshaw! Don't tell me you're in this for the MONEY?"

Well, no, of course not. It's just that I'm lazy, you see. And I live in New York City, where there are so many other ways to spend one's time than playing on, and writing for, the interweb. And many of those things require the distressing handing over of many, many dollars. Without some sort of incentive here, I'm worried that the fresh enamoration engendered by my sassy new logo and nifty TypePad tools will soon fizzle, as I seek out other ways to spend my time and other ways in which to earn those dollars -- like working more, or teaching dance lessons, or running off to join a burlesque cabaret.

Speaking of random, I have to say: Do you not LOVE the redesign of Dictionary.com and Thesaurus.com? So pretty. I visited them just now to look up "engendered," to make sure I was using it right, and a synonym for "dim," which I typed first instead of "fizzle," but which I knew ought to change because a "dimming" of "enamoration" just didn't seem right to me. Right? But yes, I could spend hours just clicking back and forth through those easy-to-reach dictionary/thesaurus/encycopedia tabs. Swoon.

And the encyclopedia tab! "Not much use for that," you may be thinking. "Looking up the meaning of a word or searching for a tastier synonym is one thing, but looking up, what, every use of that word known to man?" Not quite. The encyclopedia, you see, offers great juicy spasms of randomness. For instance, an encyclopedic look-up of "fizzle" yielded this amazing morsel: Doggy Fizzle Televizzle. (!!!) Do you know what this is? I am completely out of it, so my guess was that it was a children's show, most likely featuring rotund, primary-colored creatures with squeaky voices and scary I'm-high-on-E eyes who did a lot of bouncing. But no. If only I weren't lacking in the all-important MTV gene (whose first cousins once removed include the VH1 gene and the BET gene), I would have been signaled by the root, "izzle," that this was an extension of the "fo' shizzle my nizzle" ... thing. And from that I might have deduced that Doggy Fizzle Televizzle was not, in fact, a children's show, but an all-Snoop-Dogg-all-the-time show.

But wait! The wondrousnous does not end there. After this discovery I of course had to know, once and for all, what in god's name "fo' shizzle" really means, and so I turned to the Urban Dictionary, whose first explanation was this:

"fo shizzle ma nizzle" is a bastardization of "fo' sheezy mah neezy" which is a bastardization of "for sure mah nigga" which is a bastdardization of "I concur with you whole heartedly my African american brother"

(See there how I also got it wrong the first time? I said "my nizzle," when really the cool kids know it's "ma nizzle." There I go betraying my East-West-Coast-sushi-eating-latte-sipping half-whiteness.)

The Urban Dictionary being a free-for-all in its own right, "fo' shizzle"  is also explained to be, among many other things, an antiseptic-looking Vietnamese noodle house (is there any other kind?) and a term originating in medieval England whose meaning was "Alas! An advasary has come upon us! To the catupults!"

In a perfect world, the Urban Dictionary would also be a tab on Dictionary.com/Thesaurus.com. I am more than willing to help broker this deal. For my cut of the proceeds, of course.

* Thank you Marc Bell, "Shrimpy and Paul and Friends"

Dregs

It bothers me, finding the hindquarters of what used to be a large bug sitting flattened in my bathroom. The hindquarters plus some random piece of what used to be the skin off another part of its back.

I don't think the bug molted. There was too much heft and darkness to the bum. It was less tissue-thin than just plain smushed. Which can mean only one thing: the cat got to it.

Upon this charming discovery I baby-stepped a circle around myself, to make sure I wasn't surrounded by, or standing on, other bug parts. There was nothing in the bathroom, so I tried to pick up the trail in the kitchen, the living room. And lo, I found another ragged piece of torso. Then the trail ran cold. I walked the length of the apartment and back -- alas, no legs, no top half, no head. I say alas because it also bothers me, finding pieces of bug about the apartment but not knowing where the rest of it has gone to. It could have been pushed beneath a piece of furniture, or into a dark corner where I would never have to see it again. But it could also have been placed into a shoe, or a bag, or underneath the covers.

I tried calling the cat to see if he would lead me to anything. I cooed and meowed and snapped my fingers and made kissy sounds. But now he's hiding, too -- no rustle of curtains, no crinkle of dry-cleaner plastic in the closet, no pitter-patter of little cat feet.

He's sitting in the apartment somewhere, being veeewy, veeewy quiet. Guilty behavior. And now I'm afraid to stick my hand into my purse.

Insomniac Sketches #1

Two days in a row, tired at 1 in the morning, I haven't been able to sleep until 4 or 5 a.m. Both those bleary nights I have set an alarm for 10 a.m. because I've had a telephone date with a friend on the West Coast, for 11 a.m. his time.

Let's recap: I have set my alarm for 10 a.m. to give myself plenty of time to wake up before calling him. At 11 a.m. HIS time. As in 2 p.m. my time. I am a genius.

Yesterday I woke up and found I couldn't make the phone call anyway because of a last-minute conflict in scheduling. Today I woke up and actually started to call the poor dude before realizing it was 11 a.m. my time, 8 a.m. his time. I remember him as being the kind of guy who's probably up at 8 anyway, but there was the potential that I would be his wakeup call, and that being an unspeakably hideous prospect, I promptly slammed shut my cell phone.

And that was just the last two days.

A few days ago, after another late-late night followed by a too-early waking, I was doing my daily breakfast ritual -- OJ, Americano, oatmeal -- which is usually an example of stunningly choreographed efficiency. To wit:

I flip on the espresso machine to allow it to heat up.

I put an espresso pod in its espresso-pod holder and shimmy it into the machine.

While that sits, I pour water into my kettle and set it on the stove to boil.

I take out my glass, my mug, my bowl.

I empty a packet of oatmeal into my bowl.

I open the fridge, take out the OJ, pour it into my glass.

I replace the OJ in the fridge, take out the creamer, pour a glug's worth into the bottom of my mug, replace it in the fridge and close the fridge door.

If the water hasn't boiled by now, I empty whatever dishes are in the dish drier and may even do a few dishes while I wait.

Once the water has boiled, I flip the espresso switch and watch my caffeine gurgle into the little espresso cup below.

As that water gurgles, I pour my hot kettle water over my oatmeal. Then, I grab the finished espresso, pour it into the mug, and top it off with the hot water.

With the same spoon I'm going to use for my coffee and my oatmeal, I stir -- the coffee drink first, so as not to get any floaty oatmeal bits into my drink -- and then I transport my various breakfast receptacles to either the coffee table or my desk, depending on whether I want to check e-mail and read news or watch an episode of Weeds (or Entourage or Sex and the City or whatever) while I eat.

This usually works out great for everyone.

But as I was saying, the other day, after another late night, I woke up to begin this ritual. As you can imagine, I can practically do it in my sleep. In fact, the other day it probably would have gone more smoothly had I done it in my sleep. Because this time, half awake and eyes three-quarters closed, I did my usual flipping on of things and heating up of things and taking out of things. But then I reached for the creamer and poured -- and realized I'd drowned my dry oatmeal in cinnamon-hazelnut International Delight®.

So I had creamier oatmeal that day. With a bit more artificial flavoring.

I suppose things could have been worse. I could have been holding the orange juice.

Wednesday night. A play in 13 lines.

A living room. The sloppy remnants of takeout Thai food -- and random papers, magazines and computer parts -- are spread over a dark wooden coffee table. The end credits to Raising Arizona are rolling on the TV screen. Two people are splayed on the couch, half-comatose, full bellies. One of them lifts the remote and clicks off the TV. A cat meows.

"So. What's your plan for the rest of the evening?"

"I don't know, what's your plan?"

"I don't know."

"Well, I could play on the computer. Or we could watch another movie. Or read."

"We could do all those things. I could watch a movie. Or read."

"We could make it a Holly Hunter film festival and watch The Piano."

"No."

"Okay, then."

"We could make it a funny movie festival and watch The Big Lebowski. Or Old School."

"Or both!"

"Eeehhh, I think both may be a little ambitious."

Looking around at the telltale signs of sloth.

"I am nothing if not ambitious."