Saturday, August 05, 2000

A weekend in the county

I have six hours to kill without benefit of modern transportation. The plan was that I would drop off my car at Circuit City to have the CD player and security system installed, then spend my time wandering around a couple of nearby shops and the mall before going back to claim it.

I should have consulted the weather forecast.

This is the county, after all, and things that are nearby with wheels are somewhat more distant on foot. The walk to Pier One Imports took me 15 moist and muggy minutes, followed by another lazy half hour perusing all the miraculous things scientists have discovered to do with bamboo. Then it was another 10 minute ramble to the next nearest store that wasn't a tanning salon or plus-size women's clothier.

And that's where I am right now, ensconced in a bookstore cafe, my tall latte half finished and a deluge coming down outside. In my natural habitat, the city, the Central West End, this would be a pleasant enough way to pass an hour, even six. The coffee bar adjacent to Left Bank Books is cozy and friendly, and its proximity to the area's last remaining independent bookstore means there's a better than even chance the cutie you're cruising at the table by the window is literate and knows who Nietzsche is.

But this is, as I have noted, the county; the cafe is Starbucks and the bookstore is a gigantic cookie-cutter Barnes & Noble. The Muzak synth-pop crap, the crowd is primarily senior adults and the only cutie in evidence is a frat-like barista who has spent the past 45 minutes making indelicate passes at the perky blond counter clerk. Aside from my iBook, the only diversion I have brought with me is a copy of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets.

I fleetingly consider making a run for it, packing up the laptop, optimistically opening my umbrella and dashing across six lanes of traffic in the rain to the mall where the most appealing of the eight movies on offer at the multiplex is Coyote Ugly. It then occurs to me that perhaps the only thing worse than being trapped in the epitome of soulless, commercial sprawl is being trapped in the epitome of soulless, commercial sprawl wearing very wet pants.

No. Barring a break in the barrage of rainfall, I will be the guest of Barnes & Noble for the next four hours.

I did not expect the work on my car to take so long, but I was detained at home this morning and instead of arriving at the stereo shop at 10 a.m., I made it at 10:15, just in time for four other audiophiles to slip ahead of me in the installation queue. (Circuit City does not accept reservations for car audio installations, a fact that I have added to my list of the many ways Circuit City resembles a fine French restaurant.) This, coupled with the fact that two minor parts needed to complete the job, despite having been indicated as in-stock by the store's space-age inventory control system last night, are not in stock, has compounded the delay.

Three years ago when I accompanied my friend Rick to the jeweler to pick out an engagement ring for his intended, the salesman explained that there was a formula for determining how much to spend on such a momentous purchase. It was something like the equivalent of six months salary (or was it four months?) or your fiance's weight, added to her birthdate, divided by pi and multiplied by $1,000. Anyway, some simple rule of thumb like that.

I wonder if there's a similar tip for figuring out how much is appropriate to spend on a car stereo. After all, I drove my last car for four years, which qualifies as my longest relationship of any sort, and I'd elected for a top of the line audio system in that case. So selecting a CD player is almost like getting engaged, right?

(The Muzak is sapping my ability to form cogent metaphors. You may wish to skip to the end of this passage, by which point I will no doubt be comparing the Israeli peace negotiations to photosynthesis.)

Anyway, without any convenient guidance in the matter -- except for having consulted Consumer Reports and a few Internet resources several months before -- I walked out having dropped around 1/5 the price of my car into the audio and alarm. I don't think I overspent; they're both middling systems, the top of the line having moved up considerably since I was last in the market.

If this afternoon I return to Circuit City only to have my car tell me that, on consideration of my proposal, it would like to see other drivers, I will be surprised and disappointed, but forgiving. And I will assuage my wounded heart with dinner at Applebee's and a late show of Coyote Ugly. When in the county, you do as the countians do.

Friday, August 04, 2000

Jedidiah

I went to the bookstore Wednesday desperate for a copy of the second book in the Harry Potter series (yes, I have succumbed to the hype and am now immersed in Hogwarts demimonde). The handsome young man who rang up my purchase was named Jedidiah. It was spelled out, in full, on his nametag, not just Jed but Jedidiah. I didn't realize that people still named their children Jedidiah, and I'm thrilled that they do.

I love "old-fashioned" names like Jedidiah. They stand out in a world of Johns and Michaels, and they will certainly be distinctive in the post-90s horror that will present us with a generation of Britneys. I'm sad that I will be made to think twice about naming my son Courtney, after my mother's brother, because it is now considered a girl's name. I wish that my friend Michael went by his middle name, Isadore, so I could get away with calling him "Izzy".

I'm not in the habit of having immediately intimate, personal conversations with sales clerks, but I asked Jedidiah about his name. Turns out it was the name of a maternal great-grandfather, pressed back into the service for the family's youngest male child. He seldom goes by Jed. He likes the name, a lot. I do too.

I also like his home phone number. It has a lot of sevens in it.

Thursday, August 03, 2000

Losing my sense of taste

I decided I needed to quit smoking once and for all when I realized my cravings for food were based more on texture than flavor. I had dulled my sense of taste sufficiently that I was choosing foods for the physical sensations they gave me, not their flavor, their seasoning.

You can imagine my shock when I realized I was choosing men for the same reasons.

I caught myself evaluating guys not for how I felt about them (because, by and large, I didn't) but for how they felt. Like my sense of taste, I had reduced my sense of men to the very basics: tactile sensations, appearance, convenience. This wasn't the direction I'd thought I was heading at all.

Wednesday, August 02, 2000

A political poem

A poem, based on graffiti by an unknown author:

As the election draws nearer
Let us bring peace to pass.
I'll hug your elephant
If you'll kiss my ass.

Tuesday, August 01, 2000

The Twins take me shopping

I am extremely susceptible to "shopping suggestibility". Cleaning out my closet in anticipation of an autumn tag sale has made that much clear. There's something about the atmosphere of retail clothiers and catalogs that renders me incapable of logic. I sort through the racks at Structure or leaf through the pages of International Male and a little voice inside my head says, "You know, if you ordered that stretch Lycra Hawaiian print shirt with the faux-Tiki epaulets, your chest would look just as ripped and tan as that model's." I somehow come to believe that my anxiety about appearing poolside will be abated if only I were the owner of a leopard print bikini brief with mesh vented side panels, to earnestly know that such swimwear would make my thighs appear on a par with, say, Bob Paris.

It was with no little apprehension, then, that I accompanied The Twins on a shopping expedition to the Galleria last week. The pair was determined to, as they put it, "enhance my wardrobe." Apparently, although it was never said in so many words, my assortment of Gap golf shirts and practically ancient ACT-UP tees was starting to wear a bit old on the circuit. "You need something stretchy, clingy, shiny," Twin A enthused.

"I remember when proper laundering could prevent that sort of thing," I said.

The last time I set foot in a Banana Republic store, years ago, they were still hawking exotic fashion styles, seemingly gathered from the closets of intrepid adventurers around the globe. They actually sold pith helmets at one point, I recall. On this visit, though, they were pushing something called "Stretch Poplin," which struck me as less a fashion choice than a good name for a very tall drag queen.

We eventually made our way to the comparatively conservative men's section at Famous-Barr since -- although The Twins were gleefully entertained by playing Dress-Me-Up-Brad -- everything outre they suggested I try on made me look a bit like Andy Dick trying to pull off Prada. After four hours in the mall, I walked out with three "ribbed" cotton-Lyrca t-shirts and a promise from The Twins never to subject me to their efforts at "reform" again.

Monday, July 31, 2000

Don’t you think that’s odd?

Colt has an unusual speech pattern that took me all of ten minutes to notice and another five to tire of. He has a slow Carolina drawl, which is endearing, but his habit of punctuating practically every conversation with a declarative sentence, followed by a question, and then another declarative annoys the hell out of me.

"I think that's odd," he'll say. "Don't you think that's odd? I think that's odd."

Sometimes the pattern will invert itself -- question, statement, question.

"Isn't that the damnedest thing you've ever seen? That's the damnedest thing I've ever seen. Isn't that the damnedest thing you've ever seen?"

Sunday, July 30, 2000

A Conversation From the Bar Scene

A Conversation From The Bar Scene:

Jeff: Man, that guy is really cruising me.

Brad: Which guy?

Jeff: The tall blond number with the striped shirt and cut-offs. That's the third time he's walked by since we've been here.

Brad: He just went into the bathroom.

Jeff: So?

Brad: So that's also the third time he's been to the bathroom since we've been here.

Jeff: What do you think that means?

Brad: Well, he's either interested in you or he's incontinent. Frankly, I'm not sure which is sadder for the poor man.

Saturday, July 29, 2000

Dissonance of perception

Before, I had been certain I wanted him back in my life, but now that I had him back, I wasn't sure I liked the terms. The terms, of course, were his and while it was never said in so many words, it amounted to "I've alienated or used up all of my other friends. Now I'm back to you."

I began to wonder if I was being petty and selfish about being "the friend of last resort," or if, just maybe, this was the nature of real, abiding friendship, the person who'll be there for you when no one else will. All of this was complicated by the fact that I was still very much in love with him.

We had a tense dinner, at which not much was said. What was said was all wrong, I thought. Or, at least, my lines were deviating too wildly from the script. For three months, I had cast myself as the wounded bird, smiling bravely but barely concealing a deep pain. Now I was coming off self-assured and independent, happy -- hell, almost smug! What was that all about?!

Naturally, what was unsaid was just as important, and the thought hung heavily over the table. We would never again have the easy, loving rapport we had enjoyed just weeks ago. Never again. "From here on out," neither of us said, "things will never be the same." We -- I -- had gone too far. The emotional Rubicon had been crossed but not bridged. I waited hopefully, expectantly and ultimately alone on the other shore. It was becoming abundantly clear that he would not cross to join me.

The dinner ended -- the last glass of house wine, the final cigarette, and then a brief hug before we went our separate ways. Truly separate, for what felt like the first time and would likely be the first of many.

I have become aware that memory is very closely tied to perception, and in the telling of Rashomon that was our relationship, he and I had very different viewpoints and wildly divergent recollections of the same events. Moreso than lovers who differ in their accounts of a shared experience, we were both literally and figuratively living in different worlds.

To me, he was my lover -- in every way that mattered. To him, I was his friend -- in every way. Period.

That's a dissonance of perception that skews the truth into an unrecognizable thing, and that was the undoing of our relationship, whatever form it ever really took.

Friday, July 28, 2000

The Best Damn Kudu He Can Be

My favorite animal at the Zoo is the lesser kudu. You have to admire an animal with a name like that, laboring as he must in the shadow of the greater kudu. It must be like having an older brother who excelled at sports and academics in school, to whom you have always been compared and found lacking. A few months ago, I was visiting the Zoo at lunch with a friend and discovered the area where the lesser kudu is ordinarily found was empty.

I hope he made a break for it. I hope he made his way out into the world, free of expectations, shedding labels, determined only to be the best damn kudu he could be.

Thursday, July 27, 2000

New Saturn

If all goes as planned, around 1 p.m. on Saturday afternoon, I will take delivery of my new-ish car, a 1997 Saturn SL2, a dark, regally green sedan bearing only 34,000 miles and a three-year bumper-to-bumper warranty. By 5 p.m., I shall have acquired and had installed the requisite stereo, security system and -- Visa balance allowing -- chassis-mounted laser cannon and oil slick generator. (On sale at Best Buy this weekend, $99.95 after mail-in rebate, or so I'm told.)

This vehicle will be the fifth of the BradMobiles, supplanting the current 1992 Saturn which, having acquired nearly 109,000 miles in my employ, deserves to be put out to stud. The fourth of my mongrel automotive lineage is the only one I never officially named, although it was often referred to as "noble steed."

My first two cars were both Renault Alliances (what was I thinking?!), named Herbie (ibid?!) and Wembley, respectively. The third, purchased when I was doing a lot of commuting between two summer stock theatres some 400 miles apart and schlepping all sorts of junk in both directions, was a Ford Aerostar. By virtue of its size, compared to the Renaults, it was dubbed "Brutus".

I haven't picked a name for the new wheels as yet; an appropriate moniker for any inanimate acquisition generally suggests itself within the first tew weeks of our relationship. There seems to be an informal three-month window, though, whereafter if a car, computer or other major appliance has not been given a nom de plume, it is destined to have only nicknames, likely transient ones, for all time.

Wednesday, July 26, 2000

How much is the friggin’ car?!

"Excuse me, how much is that car over there?"

"Good morning, sir!"

"The car. There's no price on it. How much?"

"Nice weather we've been having."

"The blue one, leather seats, automatic transmission, AM/FM crap factory radio, driver's and passenger's side airbags, air conditioning and what have you. It's sitting right over there. How much is it?"

"So, the Cardinals are on a roll, eh?"

"HOW MUCH IS THE FRIGGIN' CAR?!"

"Well, sir, how much were you looking to spend?"

"Arrrgh!!!" (strangles smarmy, evasive, "I'll-chat-with-my-sales-manager-and-see-what-we-can-do" car salesman).

Tuesday, July 25, 2000

Music I Play to Torture Myself

The power of the senses upon my memory never ceases to fill me with wonder. Lots of folks have memories -- pleasant or otherwise -- associated with certain fragrances, a fragment of music or other sound, the sight of a particular totem or motif that recalls a definite place and time. For me, it's generally clothing and music. I'll be digging through my closet and run across the sweatshirt I purchased at Kennedy Airport because I was freezing and my flight was delayed eight hours and I can recall with remarkable clarity the grim purpose that took me to New York that November in the first place.

But mostly, it's music. Now, in the movies, when the hero or heroine hears a favorite old song and is transported to another time, another place, it's generally something rather high-toned. A bit of Gershwin, perhaps, whisks Ingrid Bergman back to a sidewalk cafe in Paris. In yet another needless demonstration that my life is nothing like the movies, tonight the song was Animotion's Obsession (damn you, Y98 "Eighties at Eight"), and in a flash, it's 1985 and I am lying on a blanket in the back of Roger's pickup truck, gazing at the full moon and believing I was blissfully and enduringly happy.

There is, in my record collection (weighted though it is toward showtunes and the predictable disco chart hits), a particular genre commonly referred to as "Music I Play to Torture Myself." This is the music of my memories, and I can quickly locate the few tracks necessary to delineate the phases of my all-too-brief relationship with Roger.

Obsession, of course. How many romances were launched or consumated to the melodies of one-hit "wonders"? Duran Duran, because for about four months, we were the Wild Boys. And, finally, Styx. The Best of Times? For a while, at least. But at last, plaintively, Don't Let It End.

I am so not Ingrid Bergman. It is painfully clear that I am, in fact, Molly Ringwald in every John Hughes movie ever made.