| Day 17 |
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July 17, 2004 In July, we have learned, the thoughts of the young and spirited turn to the great outdoors, to weddings on green lawns, and rainstorms, and carnival rides. They also turn to sex, another major theme of this month's Day 17. We don't pick them, we just pass them along. Puja Telikicherla (Washington, DC)
Cheryl Huber (Brooklyn, New York)
Brian Minter (Brooklyn, New York)
Elizabeth Edwards (Champaign, Illinois)
Sarah Lyon (Washington, DC)
Meredith Bragg (Washington, DC)
Jenny Miller (Washington, DC)
Sonya Walker (Seattle, Washington)
Joe Janda (Port Jefferson, New York)
Amanda Cardone (Port Jefferson, New York)
Cindy Calgaro (Washington, DC)
Pete McClymont (London, England)
PUJA TELIKICHERLA
Nobody ever said there wasn't enough mariachi in our neighborhood. It was never debated on the front porches of the homes, on late summer afternoons as the sun dwindles in the vast sky. The bus was rambling up 14th street, typical afternoon air oppressive, but the inside air, cold and dry, hardly welcome against our skin so used to the humidity, and I step on, settling into the cold blue seats and getting comfortable with a gaze outside the bleary window. Josh Rouse in my head, crooning sadly, "What started as a late night conversation, turned into a fight" and I wondered what late night conversations of my own would become new heartbreaking disputes. I closed my eyes against the sun. Cologne, the kind that has lingered on a man's skin for a few hours, free from the alcoholic sting, came wafting across the bus. Guitars strumming in my ears, I look up. The red and green embroidery of chickens, of mud huts, of young maidens, skittered across the thick leather belt, its edges meeting in a glorious display of carved silver and turquoise inlay. He sits, leaning the guitar against the window, inches from my face. I inhale deeply and catch a faint aroma of the wood. I can even smell its elaborate décor, arabesques trail the edges in endless pursuit of its curves. They dance, and writhe, when he plays. The song ends, another fades in. The bus rambles north.
CHERYL HUBER
The two of us apparently decided peanuts would sober us up. So a cab full of peanut shells deposited me on my doorstep shortly before 5:00am on the morning of July 17. I'm not sure when I last stayed out that late. Dan, on the other hand, had stayed out until 5:30 the very night before. Those out-till-sunrise nights seem to occur with more frequency when you have no one to go home with or to. People tend to get antsy when they know they will have company in their bed. My company left for Europe on July 16, so that was grounds enough for me to extend my night way past its logical end -- when we couldn't manage to meet up with our other friends due to drunken cell phone misunderstandings-- right into the realm of, "Let's swing by Buttermilk and see if it's still open." We spent the daylight hours of July 17 at Coney Island watching bands and soaking in the sites. Pasty kids storming the beach, an orange-thonged woman that we could not get away from, goth teenagers taking pictures of each other's mohawks, girls with ridiculously unsensible shoes trying to navigate the sand. I guess you don't really need to be well-rested to marvel at the freaks.
BRIAN MINTER
How To Build A Table Without Knowing How To Build A Table. We went to the giant home supply store, and wandered among the shelves like the Israelites in the desert. She asked a man in an orange vest if they had "you know, like a 'table-in-a-box' kit" and he was unhelpful in his response. We agreed that such a product would sell extremely well, and the lack of such a product was the home-furnishing industry's loss, and furthermore, the unhelpful man could jump in the lake. Later we laid out pieces of wood on the cement floor until they looked like the top of a table, selected an armful of table-leg-sized pieces, a hacksaw and some wood screws, and took them all home. It looked like a little raft for a while, and after that it looked all wrong, and tilted heavily. We changed course several times, and finally it stood up, although we were afraid to trust it with very much weight. The neighbors have a much nicer rooftop than I do, with a deck and fancy chairs, but they loaned us a power-drill, and complimented the table when it was finished. My friends were all at the outdoor indie-rock festival in Coney Island, and I was supposed to go meet them. Her friends were also at the outdoor indie-rock festival in Coney Island, and she was supposed to go meet them too. We hid our cellphones and ate cheeseburgers and sat on the pullout sofa and watched television until it got dark. Then we went back up on to the roof to look at the table. I think it is my favorite table ever. :: website ::
ELIZABETH EDWARDS
Is there a feminine equivalent for "emasculated"? I slipped my birth control ring in post-coitally and wondered if the hormones that prevent unwanted pregnancy are also making my hair fall out. And I wondered about my identity as a woman with thinning hair, hormone-caused or not. At work I served iced tea and an apple fritter to a transvestite named "Debbie". It was extremely uncomfortable -- not necessarily the dress or the wig or the adjusting of fake breasts -- just something in his/her manner that made me feel weird. And I felt guilty because I was internally questioning his right to be a her. I made a two-cheese plate for a little club kid -- a girl in a tight tank top with an amazing body. I couldn't help but notice her high perfect be-glittered breasts, and I couldn't help but notice my own, not so perfect any longer. I've never really been one to define myself by my appearance -- but my hair, my breasts, my femininity -- who or what am I without these things? :: website ::
SARAH LYON
On my Day 17 I bought two perfect nectarines and did the chicken dance with Mary, the world's most precocious four-year-old. (There were other things that happened, but I feel they lacked the necessary poetry.)
MEREDITH BRAGG
On Saturday I taught a child that cheating is the best option. While others were busy reacquainting, comprehending new camera models and singing Garth Brooks at volumes reserved for the highly intoxicated, Cindy and I took a walk from her cousin's wedding to a pavilion just down the hill. We were soon joined by a very fidgety four-year-old flower-girl who was intent on showing us the lost art of somersaults. Rather than watch her ruin what looked to be a very expensive dress, we decided to teach her rock-paper-scissors. After getting through the ground rules -- rock beats scissors, scissors beats paper, paper beats rock -- we were ready to start playing. After a few games it became clear that behind this flower-girl's smile was the cold hard heart of a card shark. I would throw a rock, she would hesitate, slowly make the shape of paper and squeal "I win!" I would choose scissors, she would pause and miraculously come up with rock. "I win!" she would shout as she battered my poor shears with her diminutive fist. I decided it was time to impart to her the finer points of fair-play. But just as I started her mother whisked her away to join in on "I Got Friends in Low Places." If, in the near future, you are hustled out of your insulin money by a four-year-old in a cute white dress, I apologize.
JENNY MILLER
Haiku for future recovering alcoholics I met Bob at the bar
We reminded me
:: website ::
SONYA WALKER
My mom and dad are moving out of the house I grew up in. While I was spraying 409 on green wedding glasses that have my parents names printed on them, I realized that once everything is packed, this house will become just another house. The low cupboards, the shelves under the stairs and the cubbies my dad built into the closet when I shared a room with my older sister will be stripped of all mystery and familiarity. No more unfathomable kitchen gadgets decorated with pea-green daisies hiding behind the old pressure cooker. No more boxes of all white buttons in Christmas cookie tins. I spend the entire day supressing the urge to bury these bits of my childhood in the back yard. :: website ::
JOE JANDA
A couple we had over are leaving the country soon, he to England, she to Holland. They are over-educated political science types who somehow picked up, inadvertently, over their many years of moving from cheap apartment to cheaper house, a chainsaw. I am at a loss to explain how an inappropriate saw has made an appearance two months in a row on the same day. They are not the folks you would ever guess owned a chainsaw. Earlier that day, a woman showed up to their massive garage sale, and picked unexcitedly through all the random crap one wouldn't want to pack on a trans-Atlantic move. Her face lit up at the sight of the chainsaw. No one ever knew if the thing even worked, but luckily she didn't ask. She only asked how much, and was told two dollars. She then raced back to her car, to consult her mother, a 90-ish crone on the passenger's side wearing giant round sunglasses. She asked mom if the chainsaw was a good investment, and mom nodded yes. She raced back, and took the chainsaw, and paid her two dollars. Entirely in nickels. Explain that.
AMANDA CARDONE
Since I can’t discuss -- at least not at a length exceeding 200 words -- the lovely gourmet food we cooked for the dinner party we threw, or our naughty afternoon romp in the sheets, and since I am totally, completely in love with him, so much so that it might not be considered interesting, even if it is honest, and since no particularly unique or extraordinary events occurred for me (excluding the romp), I will refrain from writing an entry this month, although I did in fact enjoy quite an excellent July 17, 2004.
CINDY CALGARO
Towards the end of the reception, guided by the DJ's promise of imparting good luck upon the happy couple, all the guests obediently stood in a circle, strangers clasping hands, arms around each other's shoulders, with the lovely bride and boyish groom in the center... Then the DJ played "Friends in Low Places" and ordered us to sing along at the top of our lungs (louder = more luck). That's when I realized that I only know the chorus. It's a terrible blunder to start off singing the wrong lyric -- I always get a little jolt, like hitting your funny bone (Ack!). When I was little I would sing "oooo papa red eye" for the line "smooth operator" -- this understandably made the song confusing... Now that I know better, it is a little less so. No place for beginners or sensitive hearts
No need to ask.
PETE McCLYMONT
Rain of biblical proportions flooded the patio. Next up came marble sized hail. I’ve just been reading about those epic midsummer storms on the Great Plains, but I didn’t expect one in Greater London. It was Saturday. So, no choices allowed. After a late breakfast and 20 minutes debating the week’s menu, food shopping is obligatory. Rover, with his trusty one-liter engine, knows the route. Down the hill, past the grubby fast food outlets of Norwood Road, skirting Brockwell Park with its fine views of the Metropolis. At the staggered crossroads, we hang right on the edges of the Norh Dulwich Triangle. But, soon our path is blocked by the remnants of the earlier cloudburst.Whilst brave souls in SUVs, Beamers and rust buckets slosh through two-foot depths lying under the railway bridge, Rover waits as I choose an option. We take the coward's way, doubling back to higher ground. Safe, but so unexciting. :: website :: |