It’s Talkin’ Shit On Fiction Week, so wherever you are, put the book down. Even though we’re all touched by a tabloid or charmed by a tall tale, and some of us draw inspiration from child lit, we’re fortunate enough to live in a city that writes itself…

This Shit Is The Truth

I stopped writing fiction when my life became comical and bizarre, or when my mom left me bundled up in a blanket on the steps of Philebrity. The shit I could make up is no match for the real of it:

At first, she is but a long white skirt swooping at me. As the swish beatz quiet, I make out the strong brown feet that uphold her. I do not invest in the sepia-toned face until it is level with mine. Crayola has trained me in colors, yet never in loveliness.

She could belong to a doe, if her mouth didn’t open right then and hiss at me.

“Put your feet in.”

A rust-colored stone basin is set before me. I dip each foot in and out as instructed. With firm grips around my ankles, they are clipped and scrubbed, pommeled and at her mercy. She points to the OK stamp on my hand.”Did you go to da club?” The THIS-IS-SOOTHING background music is momentarily replaced with Gui Boratto‘s “Beautiful Life” and everything else that went bump in the night at Click. My body moves at the thought.

“Uh, yeah.”
“Where at?” There is a knowing smile.
“Fluid? It’s right up the street.” I reach for my tea, knocking back the liquid courage.
“What happened?” she murmurs, pointing at my knees.
My mind drifts back to the bruised European countries that darken my last legs.
“Dance class. The wood is really hard. I was rolling around.” I’m willing to delete that last exchange. I can only imagine what she is thinking.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” she follows.
I shake my head. If she were to hit on me, I’d not object. My toe brushes her breast at least twice.
“Hand me your color.”

When she strokes on the droplets of dark cherry, some of it reaches her skirt. I apologize swiftly and think back to the availability of neutral tones.

“It was my fault”, she insists, jerking the towel to cover the Swiss Alps in her lap, now dotted with the mark of man.

The receptionist pads carefully into our bubble, pops it with the gentlest of inquiries, a whisper. He is barefoot as well.

“You’re from Philebrity, aren’t you?”

Goddamn you, Philadelphia.

That was Sunday at the spa, when I should have been hunting down the Animal Collective Angry Mom’s offspring via a game of Guess Who? with all of the Springside kids that I somehow know and love. That was only top news because there was a deficit in action. Good thing it’s the first week of the month and we can get back innit. Put your hands out.

DO WANT/DO NOT WANT

Indians/Cowboys
Marriott/Loews
Sans/Witout

Confessions On The Dancefloor

“It’s BYOC. Bring your own controller.”

How To Get Kicked Out Of…A Phillies Game/Macy’s

This is a simple matter of drinking too much. By too much, you’d have to outdrink the majority of shitfaced fans that surround you. Enough to cause a scene. Cheaper attention-grabber? STREAK. That’d get your bare ass a sweet boot.

Since we’re losing our loved ones to the Macy’s Card Virus, that got me thinking. How to be revoked of your right to a free mini makeover in our last real CC department store? Loitering outside of the third floor executive offices will get you nothing. Stealing a kiss in the Holiday Wonderland (which exactly exists in this October that we live in) doesn’t even warrant a stern look. Stealing is pretty much encouraged by the lack of dressing room attendants. Therefore, I concur: It is not a possibility. Macy’s knows how to party.

TrendFucking

Slunch

The hipsteraux in Paris are already done with brunch. 4th Meal? So over it. Our slick french friends, already known for their two-hour lunches, have designed a new meal. Behold, I bring to your table SLUNCH. This combination of supper and lunch, a dinner party that begins in late afternoon and stretches on well into the evening, has succeeded because those motherfuckers leave work whenever they feel like it and actually enjoy life. I’m feeling this, and you should, too. Because sometimes you don’t want to wait until dinner, or you’ve skipped lunch because it’s boring sandwich shit and you can’t be bothered. Don’t let this be the start of Dinfast, though. 4AM dinner could hit the gross alarm.

This entry was posted on Thursday, October 4th, 2007 at 3:04 pm.