* * *

many random men spoke to me in passing today; smiled, winked, called me sweetheart. normally this causes me scowl; however, today i slipped up once. i parted my lips and smiled just a crack- no teeth, but just enough to make some 60 year old man's day. did you see that? he nudged his friend, i made the little lady smile, she smiled! but let's face it folks, it's fucking humid out and i am a sweaty summer-time sicilian. mm alliteration. i'd conjecture that such attention has less to do with the beauty of my greasy brow and frizzy hacidic jew curls, and a whole lot more to do with the fact that today i was wearing a skirt which looked more like something to be worn underneath an actual skirt for modesty i.e. a 1940s bathtub gin-miss hannigan slip.

today feels unusual again. i wish so much that the sky would blacken and open up and unleash a hellish storm on this city, cooling us once and for all. that is, until tomorrow. the air is electric; i hope to wake up in the middle of the night to thunder and lightening and the sound of rain on window glass. i always love that, as much as i love only half-remembering the fright of it in the morning time. and what a glorious mark of the summer season; if only i could hear my crickets.

it is about that time of week where my brain has turned into a soft pool of stupid. i've somehow, in the midst of such idiocy, just managed to download WinRar and finally convert the hordes of music i had collecting electronic dust into audible formats. the achievement of this is grand not only because i am technologically retarded, but also because rufus wainwright's new album is now successfully ripping my heart out of my ass. thank goodness for that.

* * * *

things which i am thoroughly enjoying at the moment:

verna's donuts, down the street from my apartment. dense as a set of bricks and old-fashioned liked your good, new england mamma done. what i like more than verna's donuts: the old man who works in the kitchen (likely the son of son of verna's son, or something to that effect) who like clockwork is basking in the spatspat of the frialator as i stumble home drunk from the bar. what i don't like about verna's donuts: my growing ass (?) i need a scale, or another hispanic boyfriend.

mom & pop hair salons (especially like those of winter hill and north cambridge) which may or may not contain any or all of the following words in their store name: unisex, connection, international. the salons where every chatty-cathy stylist looks like my neapolitan mother, all of whom still offer permanents and deem their hair waxing to be "professional" as per window signs, hand-written on computer paper.

sessa's italian market- i like my prosciutto the good old-fashioned way; wrapped in butcher paper with its price by the pound scribbled in pencil by thick, callused deli-man fingers. also- marinated eggplant, fig jam, and chocolate pizzelles. most of all, staring at the variety of malocchio chotchkes available for purchase at the checkout counter.

sitting in front of a fan and not moving- sleeping in front my wind machine, my bed, my antique lace, morning a.m. radio.

denying the reality of student loans and pretending that my pockets are very deep; the subsequent wildly indulgent, late-night etsy escapades. i buy vintage shoes- i'm sorry granite state management & resources.

the homeless lady at park street station- cracks me up on a daily basis, sprawled out as if someone has thrown her and she was never ever able to recover, drowning in illegible cardboard signs, banging a tin can to the concrete and singing her ever so catchy song, "i need foods-money tuh-day, i need yo gen-oh-rah-sah-tay." all day, every day, bless her schizophrenic heart.

* * * *

tomorrow's eve i will be homeward bound on a luxurious peter pan bus to new haven. while solitary train rides are near and dear to my heart, i have clearly had to downgrade. it will be okay- hopefully the bus will have those snazzy carpeted seats of electric blue & neon confetti splatter designs, and the driver will use his microphone frequently. this is sure to ease the pain.

it's a cocteau twins kind of day

static electricity

there is something strange in the air; everything is a bit off these recent days.

years and years ago i had a serious boyfriend with whom i would share everything. it could be a perfectly ordinary day when all was well and good, in order, as planned. we would be content and satisfied and cool and full-bellied and calmed. and then, for no real reason whatsoever, i would feel it- the subterranean pit in my stomach, that deep-sick feeling, gnarling and reaching up for my throat. a sense of some thing off kilter; a throbbing heart and the nausea of a steadily creeping, impending doom. make it stop, i would plead him pitifully, curling into the fetal position and biting my bottom lip, make it stop.

in hindsight, i realize these moments may have made him feel so helpless and probably very confused, unable to empathize. at least now, as this peculiarly re-surfaces (and despite its unsettling nature), i can rest assured that i am not vexing any bystander with these panicked episodes of [nonsensical] clairvoyance. a blessing, and a curse.

and so changed were our lives

scene: two earthy, unassuming twenty-somethings drink hoppy mountain beers and play a drinking game in their grassy somerville side-yard on a warm june's eve. she is a giggling kind, with an affinity for gourmet cooking and records on vinyl. he is a mild mannered fellow who builds and rides bicycles, and maintains a flourishing roof-top garden. it is dark, but the warm glow of a bedroom light illuminates their rustic wooden playing table just enough for them to finger their way through the dirt and retrieve bottle caps to toss, haphazardly intoxicated, toward partially filled ceramic mugs. they listen to music, namely of the hippie variety, which emanates from an ipod set atop the window's ledge. there are twangs of the banjo, the mandolin, heady voices, songs about skies and moons and rivers and things.

and then, all at once, it happens. ipod shuffle. a song, downloaded from a file-sharing application and labeled as by the artist "belle & sebastian" begins. only not. legs twitch, hips thrust, prudence is abandoned. a shut up triggers their inner but latent passion for mid-nineties german dance club pop. and so it goes...

hmph

Simon and Garfunkel have announced that they've indefinitely postponed their summer tour, including their show at Tanglewood set for July 27.

The duo originally scheduled the tour for April and rescheduled for July, but it's now on hold due to Art Garfunkel's recovery from a vocal paresis is being blamed for the cancellation.

Garfunkel said in a statement, "I do feel bad about disrupting so many people's plans by, as I continue to mend, I can't yet bring my 'A Game' to a tour, and I would not perform for you with anything less."

Tickets for the Tanglewood show will be automatically refunded within the next four days if the payment was made by credit card, and a check will be sent on June 21 to people who paid by cash or check.

* * * *

dear art,

get a grip on your life.

how long do you expect me to wait around for your "paresis" to improve? let's be real; bob dylan has seemingly had this "paresis" business since 1972 and you don't see him bitching and moaning (well maybe moaning, but that's just his singing). i get it- you may be experiencing "vocal fatigue and mild to severe reduction in vocal volume." no fun, no sir. but you're practically a septuagenarian and to be perfectly frank, are not likely to have many good years left in you. i am already depressed by the sheer sight of you- your deep-seated wrinkles, your rapidly augmenting nose and ears...and now i'm pummeled with the news of your waning angel voice? with every glimpse of you i can feel the pressing weight of time and the harsh reality of my fleeting, insignificant life. this was supposed to be an enraged note to you, garfunkel, and look what you've gone and done now; i'm having an existential crisis.

with kind regards and dwindling hopes,

kiki

dedications to an ex

robert & shana parkeharrison; "architect's brother" series

this is a short story by etgar keret, taken from the girl on the fridge. it is entitled "so good." coincidentally, it is quite good. i loved it so intensely i read it repeatedly until my eyes crossed and clouded. some day, at some point, self-inflicted misery must cease. masochism and depression provide a warm, alluring cocoon; however, learning how to let go and experience happiness is really one's only hope. love can be an anchor.

* * * *

wearing nothing but pajama bottoms and cowboy boots, itzik sat on the edge of the bed and stared out the window. the sun was shining out there. he felt like a jerk. Happiness was supposed to arrive today. his sources had just informed him about it five minutes ago, and here he was, sitting on the bed like an idiot, not doing a thing about it. he thought back over the last time Happiness had come--how his father had opened the door for it, just like that, and how itzik himself, a pale-faced little boy, had sat there at the kitchen table making paper collages, not afraid of anything.

he started to tremble. "it can't get in," he whispered. "no matter what." if only he could keep it from getting inside, everything would be okay. he lunged at the dresser and started pushing it toward the door. once he'd blocked the entrance completely, he got out his hunting rifle and began shoving the cartridges into it. this time, he'd be ready. not like at his parents' house. nobody was going to turn him into a grinning zombie who loved daytime tv and garcia marquez, and kissed his mother every chance he got. "where's my flak jacket?" he yelled to no one. "where's my flak jacket, son of a bitch." he rummaged frantically through the cabinet under the sink till he found it, then put on an undershirt and the jacket. next he stuck the ice picks and stanley knives into the fireplace, with the blades pointing straight up. if they're so smart, let them try the chimney. he'd teach them a thing or two about Happiness. five years he'd done at club med. five years, damn them to hell. with the girl he loved, with sex both oral and anal, with money to spend like there was no tomorrow. he'd had it real bad. he knew it for what it was. if grandma hadn't died, he'd still be there now.

the first to arrive was Opportunity. they always sent her in first, like some goddamn bedouin scout. probably figured she was expendable. she knocked at the door, then tried the handle, which was electrified. the shock stunned her to the ground. that's when itzik broke the window with the rifle butt and stuck the barrel out. "think of something nice," he muttered through clenched teeth and pressed the trigger. "think of something nice, bitch, all the way up to heaven. i'm not giving in without a fight. i'm not my father. i won't let you drag me away in some van festooned with walt disney characters and a shit-eating grin on my face." he pumped another slug into the blank-faced Opportunity just to be on the safe side.

suddenly he remembered what greenberg had said about the fast one they pulled using cable tv. son of a bitch. here he was, sitting around like a jive rookie, with his back to the family channel, as if he'd never heard about what nbc did to the depression underground in seattle back in '87. how stupid could he be! he spun around and fired another one into the tv, a split second before cosby kissed lisa. "gotta stay cool," he muttered under his breath. "gotta stay cool, no matter what happens."

he was just beginning to focus on somalia when he heard rustling in the bushes. it was Sheer Enjoyment with the take-away pizzas and the porn magazines, inching her way along the hedge. he couldn't quite get her in his sights. but she didn't try to get any closer.

"hey, babe, i hate my pizzas cold," he screamed. but she didn't even answer. the helicopters were overhead now, with their enormous loudspeakers booming techno hits and schmaltzy crooners at top volume. he put his hands over his ears and concentrated on holocaust memorial day, on women with a breast cut off, on homeless people shivering in the new york winter. he did have a hint of a smile on his face, but the music remained on the outside. still, there was something going on. it all seemed too easy. the helicopters. Sheer Enjoyment not making a move. it had to be a ploy. "the roof, damn it," he blurted. "it's got to be up on the roof." he took a few potshots through the shingles. something fell down the chimney straight onto the spikes. that was Success! she was holding a packet of winning lottery tickets. itzik doused her with gasoline and threw his zippo into the fireplace. the body caught fire instantly. along with the winning tickets. the flames lapped them up long before they had a chance to spread through the cabin. smoke was filling the room, mixed with another smell, the fragrance of hot corn on the cob, of old-fashioned ice cream, of mom tucking him in at night. gas. he crawled along the floor, trying to get to the gas masks. aids, he thought to himself. people abusing children all over the world at this very moment. children. so sweet, i'd love to have some of my own, and a wife. who loves me. being tortured in the security service dungeons--he tried. no way. the smile just kept spreading. threatening to swallow him up. three emotions he couldn't quite make out were taking over, removing his flak jacket, wiping the number off his arm with saliva. replacing his "why?" undershirt with a "don't worry be happy" one. don't lose hope, it'll work out, he said, trying to cheer himself up as they dragged him outside. she'll be there, waiting for you. you'll have an amazing future. you'll have an apv minivan. so intense was the anticipation that his knees were turning to mush. you'll have it so good, you lucky son of a bitch, you don't know how good.

by then the tears in his throat had dried up. the trees outside were all green. and the sky was bright blue. the weather was just right, not too warm and not too cold. a van covered with simpsons characters and mortgage ads was there already, waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs.

forza italia!

in light of the 2010 FIFA world cup which is now in full-swing, i would like to take a moment of silence to commemorate the magnificent roberto baggio in all of his jheri-curl-mullet-pony glory. bestill my heart. better known as il divin codino, or the "divine ponytail", baggio (along with the rest of the italian national team) fully consumed my 10 year old life over the course of the steamy summer of 1994. oh, to witness that glistening olive skin and mop of ratty curls flouncing upon his back of jersey blue once again would be but a dream.

i have such vivid memories of this particular summer. we were experiencing the most intense heat wave; the air was intolerably thick and moist, and the only brief relief we could find was directly in front of our solitary (and barely functioning) household air conditioner. to catch the early games i would sometimes wake up at 6am or earlier, stumble groggily into the family room, press record on our vcr, and return to bed. i would spend mornings riding my bicycle to the nearby nature center where i would sit and reflect, much in the way does a middle-aged woman in the midst of a life crisis (i've clearly been like this for the entirety of my life). and then, checking my over sized stop watch, i would hop back on my green huffy and race home to catch the afternoon games. salty fingers in gardetto's snack mix. tall perspiring glasses of lipton iced tea. sweaty bangs. hanes v-necks & umbro shorts. bare thighs sticking to leather couch cushions. and a whole lot of squealing.

italy vs. brazil in the final tournament match was agonizing, and the no scoring game + overtime was emotionally debilitating. poorpoor roberto, set to kick the final penalty shot to win it, was overcome by all sorts of stress demons and sent the shot soaring well over the goal post. i am slightly chagrined by the fact that this still makes my heart hurt and my eyes sting. and so roberto, wherever you are- i hope you have sought a route in the likes of michael bolton and/or the great pauly shore by shedding the solace of your pretty-pony-mane, that you have reclaimed your life and masculinity, and become at peace with your strange, buddhist self. i salute you, sha-wing.