?> this is annie | Monthly Archive | June
Archive | June, 2002

Jesus of Lakeview

26 Jun

Jesus of Lakeview

The other day I went to the supermarket to buy some fresh vegetables and daisies. And much to my surprise, in the pasta aisle, there was Jesus of Lakeview!

Jesus of Lakeview is a man in his late twenties (?) who walks around the city dressed in a long white robe over his jeans and scuffed white sneakers. He has grown a long dark mane and a scroungy beard. “Oh, that’s no big deal,” you may be thinking. “Lots of hippies look like that.” But the difference here is that Jesus of Lakeview is the only guy who walks around with a big cross over his shoulder. Not a plastic cross or a small veneered one, but a full-blown, splinter-filled, life-sized cross. He doesn’t do this only during Easter or Halloween; he plays the Son of God all year long. (more…)

Only (dis)connect

22 Jun

You can go for weeks without touching another human being. Sure, there’s the occasional brush of the shoulder on a city street, or the brief jolt of an elbow at a crowded show. Those are accidents. But actively being touched, or actively touching somebody else: this is not a regular occurrence. Go without for long enough, and you might forget you’re missing anything. Of course, you feel an inexplicable, mild loneliness—but you can’t put your finger on its cause (pun intended).

Occasionally you’ll find somebody who reminds you that perhaps it’s worth it to risk your shelled safety. You’ll allow yourself the luxury of being touched, and the happiness of touching. Here I refer not to the sexual, but to the sweet and gentle: a kiss on the forehead, the light scent of someone else’s skin. And then, suddenly and unexpectedly, it’ll be gone, and you’ll have to learn to forget.

Dear E.M. Forster:

21 Jun

Dear E.M. Forster,

I know everybody wants to have a catchphrase these days, a memorable “zinger,” if you will. Well, I’ve long taken yours to heart, reminding myself that when dealing with other people, one should strive to “only connect.”

Only connect. Simple enough advice. But to be honest, Mr. Forster, that is easier said than done. My attempts to connect often inexplicably fail. It’s not that the gentlemen don’t like me. No, they say I am funny and beautiful and kind. They say this right before they stand me up for a museum date, or pretend to not see me in a crowd, or abruptly switch from affection to apathy. Just between us girls, it’s made me feel kind of blue.

As you can imagine, it is often tempting to stay at home alone with a bag of Bugles and the DVD of Texas Rangers (have you seen this? Tom Skerritt is phenomenal). This “only connect” business is no small task, and I sometimes think that maybe your pal Sartre had the right idea about other people.

In the end, though, maybe both of you can be right. Maybe you mean that the important part isn’t the connection, but having an open mind and gentle heart. Or who knows, maybe you just made the whole thing up as a potential slogan for a wireless telephone company. Either way, I’ll someday live in fragments no more. I’ll send you a postcard when I get there.

Onward,
annie.

Best joke ever!

19 Jun

I love the nights just before summer begins, the way the evenings quietly buzz with anticipation and time ticks by slowly. Just walking around is an activity in itself, because you’re bound to run into somebody, and perhaps they’ve got plans, and maybe you’ll tag along. Or boys on bicycles zip by, and your eyes meet for a moment, and you both give each other a flirtatious “I’ll never see you again” smile. Last night I ate al fresco at Mirai Sushi. The company was good, the food was passable, but the atmosphere was simply awful. Tube-topped yuppies were everywhere, their cell phones piercing the night’s quiet din. Our waiter was not very friendly, and when Karinsa asked politely for the bill, he seemed to think she was joking. Come on now, there’s nothing amusing about getting the bill.

Speaking of joking, what do you call a Frenchman in sandals? Do you give up? Do you? Ready? Philippe Philoppe.

Novocaine heart

17 Jun

In approximately twenty minutes I will be sitting in my dentist’s chair. As I stretch out my legs, Dr. Gracias will ask if I’d like the back massager on (yes, please). She’ll prepare to fix my teeth, and I will nervously shift in the seat. As the needle comes forward, I’ll start sweating and clutching the armrest, and then a little novocaine pinch, and then everything will be numb. “So,” I’ll ask, “Got any more of that stuff? For my head? My heart?”

And now I’m back from the dentist, my tongue moving over the newness of the filling. As it turns out, the dentist decided that the cavities were so small that novocaine wasn’t necessary. So the drilling occurred with no numbness, and I didn’t get to present the grimly witty request listed above. At least I’ll be able to brag about my resilience and toughness all week. “Yeah, I totally had fillings done with no novocaine. That shit is for amateurs,” I’ll tell an enthralled gaggle of mopheads at Thursday’s mod night.

I re-read Prufrock again today. I’m not a fan of poetry—I find much of it too flowery, the rest too jumbled—but this poem always puts things into perspective for me. I think that’s one of the things I appreciate most about the poem, that at the end of the day, I did dare to eat the peach, and I’m better for it.