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No Place To Run To, Bay-be
Jan. 27th, 2006 09:27 amThe Chinese acrobats turn out to be called New Dynasty – which sounds like something you'd order off a menu at the only Chinese restaurant in Truckee. Maybe you're running away from a bounty hunter. Say your car has broken down just west of the state border. Well, the dog is gonna get you now so you might as well sit back and enjoy the MSG.
I think it's a hideous name myself, but I'm done arguing with assholes. I just take their money and implement their dreams.
Valerie turns out to be pushy. She's a Mac user. In email, she was whining about her lack of Photoshop. I told her I'd burn her a copy of mine – please! no lectures on copyright protection: I paid for mine and I'll do what I want with it – and give it to her when Cirque de Méprise hits California (two months.) But no—o! That's not soon enough for her.
Mail it to me, she begs.
But you don't have an address! I point out. You're traveling with a circus that pulls up its stakes every two days.
Send it Post Restante, she says. And send me Illustrator, Toast and Stuffit too!
Oh, those wacky French, and their naive notions of American kindness.
Actually, I feel a bit sorry for Valerie, living with a Peruvian Rolla Bolla Guy and a one-month old baby in a cramped trailer, even if the Peruvian Rolla Bolla Guy is the World's Most Handsome Human Male. I remember those Peruvians from my bad girl days – they're not big on foreplay. They're big on having their needs serviced. They like to ram it home. And a traveling circus is no place for a UTI.
In other news, Cannery Row remains as dead as that Twilight Zone episode where nerve gas took out everyone but William Shatner. The Little Store's revenue figures for January have been pathetic. I have no idea how I'm going to pay February's rent. I don't know what to do. When I was young I used to charm people with my looks. But now that I'm middle-aged and a failure, I have to fall back on other resources – like the kindness of strangers. So one of the leasing agents from the Cannery Row Company calls me up on some pretext or other, listens to me babble for a couple of seconds and then says, "Listen. I'm not telling you this, understand? But your lease can be renegotiated. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
"I understand what you're not saying," I say and I am so grateful to this invisible voice that I want to send it flowers.
I think it's a hideous name myself, but I'm done arguing with assholes. I just take their money and implement their dreams.
Valerie turns out to be pushy. She's a Mac user. In email, she was whining about her lack of Photoshop. I told her I'd burn her a copy of mine – please! no lectures on copyright protection: I paid for mine and I'll do what I want with it – and give it to her when Cirque de Méprise hits California (two months.) But no—o! That's not soon enough for her.
Mail it to me, she begs.
But you don't have an address! I point out. You're traveling with a circus that pulls up its stakes every two days.
Send it Post Restante, she says. And send me Illustrator, Toast and Stuffit too!
Oh, those wacky French, and their naive notions of American kindness.
Actually, I feel a bit sorry for Valerie, living with a Peruvian Rolla Bolla Guy and a one-month old baby in a cramped trailer, even if the Peruvian Rolla Bolla Guy is the World's Most Handsome Human Male. I remember those Peruvians from my bad girl days – they're not big on foreplay. They're big on having their needs serviced. They like to ram it home. And a traveling circus is no place for a UTI.
In other news, Cannery Row remains as dead as that Twilight Zone episode where nerve gas took out everyone but William Shatner. The Little Store's revenue figures for January have been pathetic. I have no idea how I'm going to pay February's rent. I don't know what to do. When I was young I used to charm people with my looks. But now that I'm middle-aged and a failure, I have to fall back on other resources – like the kindness of strangers. So one of the leasing agents from the Cannery Row Company calls me up on some pretext or other, listens to me babble for a couple of seconds and then says, "Listen. I'm not telling you this, understand? But your lease can be renegotiated. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
"I understand what you're not saying," I say and I am so grateful to this invisible voice that I want to send it flowers.
