Wave of Heat
I’ve been walking around with ice cubes in my pants in order to keep cool or lying prone on the floor ala Emma Carol. Thank God for the air conditioner in my bedroom otherwise, I’d have to start shooting up. But, no, there’s no such thing as global warming. Or economic distress. In response to a reporter’s question about the declining economy, our
President said, “Well, heck-fire, I’m not an economist! I don’t know!”
I’m reading this nonfiction book called The Sociopath Next Door. The author keeps emphasizing how statistics prove that one in every 24 people is a sociopath. Consequently, I’ve now diagnosed about ten people as sociopaths including Shawn, Angela, other exes from Chicago, my neighbor, the guy working at H & M, Coffee Shop Boy, and Ernesto.
Padhraig let me borrow about twenty of his CDs to add music to my i-pod. I’ve never been a groupie. Don’t know why except it seems like a lot of work to like a guy in a band. They travel all the time, they keep late hours, they’re on the road half the time and are accosted by other girls in tight clothes and loose morals, they probably don’t smell so great after spending two hours onstage in bright lights. Maybe I don’t have enough appreciation of music. I know it’s hard. I admire a person who has rhythm. I dated a guy in high school who was a drummer in a Christian rock band. Really cute, mullet hair cut (this was the 80s), wore blue Converse sneakers, kind of shy, had Jesus in his heart, and was a great kisser. I did have a crush on Michael Stipe because he also seemed shy and introverted and intense and because he was from Georgia and the writer of some lyrics that seem like poetry (and bi-sexual, though 75% gay. I heard him say so to Terry Gross). Oh, and Bruce Springsteen for certain with his blue jeans, sideburns, and love of the Midwest (evidence: the album Nebraska). Also because I love the song and video that goes with “I’m On Fire” and his scratchy, low-down, troubled voice. And then there were the Billy Joel years in middle school. I thought he was political and deep because of Nylon Curtain and all the references to Vietnam (“Remember Charlie. /Remember Baker./ They left their childhood/on every acre”). Maybe I’ll turn over a new leaf and start following a local indie band with wan, thin-armed anemic-looking boys who are so frail it’s difficult for them to hold their instruments without toppling over.
Here is a photo representation of how I feel in the heat, courtesy of a South Philly window:
And my two favorite religious icons in one place. The Virgin Mary and St. Francis, patron saint of cats and birds!
President said, “Well, heck-fire, I’m not an economist! I don’t know!”I’m reading this nonfiction book called The Sociopath Next Door. The author keeps emphasizing how statistics prove that one in every 24 people is a sociopath. Consequently, I’ve now diagnosed about ten people as sociopaths including Shawn, Angela, other exes from Chicago, my neighbor, the guy working at H & M, Coffee Shop Boy, and Ernesto.
Padhraig let me borrow about twenty of his CDs to add music to my i-pod. I’ve never been a groupie. Don’t know why except it seems like a lot of work to like a guy in a band. They travel all the time, they keep late hours, they’re on the road half the time and are accosted by other girls in tight clothes and loose morals, they probably don’t smell so great after spending two hours onstage in bright lights. Maybe I don’t have enough appreciation of music. I know it’s hard. I admire a person who has rhythm. I dated a guy in high school who was a drummer in a Christian rock band. Really cute, mullet hair cut (this was the 80s), wore blue Converse sneakers, kind of shy, had Jesus in his heart, and was a great kisser. I did have a crush on Michael Stipe because he also seemed shy and introverted and intense and because he was from Georgia and the writer of some lyrics that seem like poetry (and bi-sexual, though 75% gay. I heard him say so to Terry Gross). Oh, and Bruce Springsteen for certain with his blue jeans, sideburns, and love of the Midwest (evidence: the album Nebraska). Also because I love the song and video that goes with “I’m On Fire” and his scratchy, low-down, troubled voice. And then there were the Billy Joel years in middle school. I thought he was political and deep because of Nylon Curtain and all the references to Vietnam (“Remember Charlie. /Remember Baker./ They left their childhood/on every acre”). Maybe I’ll turn over a new leaf and start following a local indie band with wan, thin-armed anemic-looking boys who are so frail it’s difficult for them to hold their instruments without toppling over.
Here is a photo representation of how I feel in the heat, courtesy of a South Philly window:
And my two favorite religious icons in one place. The Virgin Mary and St. Francis, patron saint of cats and birds!
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