Music of the spheres

Help me to hear it? It should be easy.

SWF, 28, likes live music, dead meat,

red wine. UB 25-35, HWP, herb friendly

and willing to buy me tampons if

necessary. Friends first, celestial

symphony later. 4004

. . .

(Beep.)”Ah . . . hi. Hi. Uh, my name is Rick, and I, uh, I guess I saw your ad. I mean, I obviously saw your ad, and it, I, uh, I liked it, so I guess I’m calling you. About your ad. (Pause.) Fuck, I sound dumb. Uh, sorry I said fuck. (Pause.) I’m really making a mess of this. Look, I liked your ad and thought I would call. I, uh, really like live music, and I would totally buy you tampons any time. I’ll shower you in tampons! (Pause.) This is just getting worse. Look, I’m much cooler in person, and I’ve never done this before, so I hope you give me a call. Uh, like I said, it’s Rick, and you can reach me at 983-446-” (Beep.)

. . .

Rick, U Called Me

In response to my ad, but the service

cut U off before I got your number! I want

to call U but I need U to call back and

leave your phone number! Try again,

big boy, stuttering optional. 🙂 6793

. . .

From: xxxxx []

Sent: Tuesday, February 24, 12:13 PM

To: xxxxx []

Subject: Sunday night

Hey there, it’s Rick–

Just wanted to let you know what a great time I had at the show. I thought the Telescoped Spines pretty much rocked hard, but I wish the opening act hadn’t been so lame, you know? Nobody needs to do a raga cover of “Word Up.” Anyway, I had a blast and would totally love to see you again, if you’re up for that. Email me back or give me a call if that sounds cool. We have an unfinished James Clavell conversation! 🙂


. . .

(Beep.) “Hey, sweetie, it’s Fiona. I thought maybe I could catch you, but you’re probably on your way over with another load of stuff. This is really dumb, but do you have salad tongs? I wanted to make a nice salad later, but I don’t have any tongs. I could always go buy some, but if you have some . . . hee! hee! This is dumb, I’ll just ask you when you get here. See you in a few minutes! Love you.” (Beep.)

. . .

FILE #97-1000345-675

Officer Brooks responded to a 911 call in which complainant reported her boyfriend engaging in erratic behavior on their stoop. Complainant was frightened for her safety and had locked the front door. Upon reaching the scene, the officer observed suspect on stoop was wearing large diaper and shower cap and nothing else. When approached, the suspect brandished a handful of tampons and said something to the effect that the suspect was “trained by angry monks” in the martial arts. Suspect then began sobbing about the complainant, claiming that his “gift” would make her forgive him for his actions. The officer presumed the suspect meant the tampons, but was unable to extract more information due to overall incoherence. The suspect made further tearful statements regarding “innocent [sexual acts of oral nature]” and someone named “Tina” who “understood the fundamental innocence of infantilism.” The suspect was placed into custody and taken to Harborview Medical Center for observation.

. . .

Still Standing

Want to stand next to me? You won’t

be sorry. SWF, 30, who has seen some of

this, and too much of that. Likes live music,

her dog, and a responsive police force, so

don’t fuck with me unless I ask. U be: 25-30,

reasonably HWP, and, yes, willing to buy

me tampons if necessary. Some things are

non-negotiable in this life. No freaks. 3578


Thirteen Ways of Looking at Valentine’s Day

Among twelve expensive entrees,

The only thing moving

Was my rapidly mounting credit debt.


I was of three minds,

Like a man

Awkwardly watching the Spice channel with his girlfriend.


The valentine whirled in the autumn winds.

What dumb thing did I say this time?


A man and a woman

Are one.

A man and–

Damn, I’m sorry. I thought I could keep a straight face.


I do not know which to prefer,

The beauty of imperfections

Or the beauty of her toes

She says, “You’re kind of a freak.” Now,

Or just after.


Icicles filled my long-windedness

Because I am an ass.

I talked of Shadoe Stevens,

Unbelievably, to and fro,

The mood,

in discussing Shadoe Stevens,

Indicating: bad idea.


O thin hippies of Broadway,

Why do you ask me for change?

Do you not see how the fiancee

And I walk around your feet

Because we hate you?


I know wily stratagems

And lucid, clever rationales

But I know, too,

That the fiancee will not let me

Play Fear’s “Beef Bologna” at our wedding.


When the blind date flew out of sight,

It made you think

About the inappropriateness of handjob jokes.


At the sight of people making out

In the Starbucks parking lot

I clutch at my pickaxe

And cry out sharply.


He sat over the freeway

In a tall glass office.

Once, a fear pierced him,

In that he realized

He’d forgotten where

He’d parked the damn car.


People are crabby and stressed out.

It must be Valentine’s Day.


It was afternoon all evening.

It was not snowing

And not going to snow.

The couple sat

In stupid Seattle.

Happy Valentine’s Day or not, depending on your point of view.


A Prostitute By Any Other Name

Like I imagine most larger cities, we have a couple of “indie” weeklies (that are of course published by large media companies, but they’re allowed to say “fuck” and stuff, so, “indie”). I read them on occasion, usually when there’s some specific article or review or something that I care about. Otherwise, nah, because they of course suck.

One of the weirdest things about them–and it’s been this way for a while, I realized–are the classified ads in the back, specifically the ones that are advertising “adult entertainment.” Oh please. These are whores. And what whores they are! This is the most democratic sampling of whores I’ve ever seen, but then again, I don’t get out whoring as much as I used to.

There really is a pleasing diversity in terms of the girlflesh available for what is coyly referred to as “Outcalls” or, more rarely, “Incalls” (which I suppose must mean “I prefer to fuck on sheets that I know are clean, and plus, I’m probably armed”). There are petite girls, larger girls, Sears catalog bra model girls, ugly girls, older girls who aren’t even girls any more, girls who technically were never girls in the first place, girls of every race, girls who were professionally shot, girls who were shot in somebody’s garage, and on and on and on. Just about the only universal is that they are holding their boobs in their hands. LADIES! Don’t you know that you’re obstructing our view? Oh, right.

But not the men’s ads. Homogeneity rules the day here: nothing but Speedo-wrapped sausages with the occasional inclusion of some really ripped abs. It’s an interesting contrast. The women, mostly, seem to be saying, “Ain’t this a package, boys?” And the men seem to be saying, “THIS IS MY PACKAGE, BOYS.”

The text, when it is present aside from the de rigeur listing of measurements and phone numbers, also makes for pretty good reading. One lass is brilliant: “Call for Good Morning Wake-Up Specials.” Good gravy! She’s got morning blowjobs on special! This is the sort of thing that makes me so fucking proud of this country. Well, and several other countries, where this sort of thing is perfectly legal, but you see where I’m coming from. Other snippets are less successful, mainly because of unfortunate phrasing. “Enjoyable Moments with Premium Satisfaction.” Enjoyable . . . moments? What’s going on when I’m not enjoying myself between these moments? Does she punch me at odd intervals?

Of course, even if I weren’t in a happy relationship, there’s no way I could ever manage to get through a “session” with one of these gals.

She (at door): Hi, sweetheart. Come on in.

Me: Hi! Okay! Um! Hi! (Long pause.) Boy am I sweaty!

She: That’s all right, honey. Now, what–


She: Thank goodness. He stank like anything.


New Year’s Eve Fails to Solve Our Problems Again, But Champagne!

Happy New Year, everyone. And remember, be safe: if you’ve been drinking, buckle up. The shoulder strap will help keep your floppy torso and lolling neck in a more vertical position as you speed down which-way streets. Install a temporary cowcatcher on your fender if you have time. This will prevent troublesome child-shaped dents to your car. And I probably don’t have to tell you to remember your fake set of car keys to hand over to those idiot, prying hosts when they mention you’ve had a bit too much. Put the real set of keys somewhere you’re likely to find them later, such as the ground.

A few thoughts to round out things. I made a few personal discoveries this year:

*There is a movie out there that is actually called Soft Toilet Seats. When I found this out, I spent a couple hours laughing, vomiting, and emitting piercing cries of despair. I’ve never felt so dyspeptically alive. It is . . . oh, it’s the best movie title in the universe. I don’t know what will happen if I try to watch it. I might collapse into a tiny, vomiting singularity.

*I discovered that this Internet thing is pretty easy, provided you get a friend or two to do everything for you. I shower praise on these suckers, and look forward to exploiting them further into the new year.

*Finally, I discovered this year that there was actually a human on the planet who was willing to marry me, and not for money, because I have none, and have no intention of getting any. I shower adoration on my as-yet-accent-free fiancee, and look forward to exploiting her further into the new year. She’s the most special kind of sucker: the one that will have me.

Happy New Year, everyone! Except for Corbin Bernsen. That guy can go eat it.