11.18.04

Today's soundtrack/song/goldangit, I can't get that tune out of mah haid:

Throw out your hands,
Stick out your tush,
Hands on your hips,
Give 'em a push.
It's no surprise,
you're doing the 'French Mistake.'
Ooh la!
Blazing Saddles

Things got a bit giddy at OLI with all the carrying on, swishing, and ooh-la-la-ing. As I left, there was one more rousing round of French Mistake with gestures and the dance. Disturbing. Funny. Funnily disturbing?

This evening, as I waited for the train, I spent some time looking, really looking, at the buildings around me and the people on the street. There are old-fashioned streetlights, with two knobbed-glass, upside-down beehive-shaped globes hanging from an elaborate crossbeam arm, painted dark green with gold accents along the street. Their grimy globes, silhouetted against the darkening sky made me think of cities--how they appear shiny/sparkly from the distance, but up close their cracks show.

A Latino man ran for the train. His mouth was wide open, and even though his hair had shocks of silver running through it, he looked like a little kid. He ran for the sheer joy of moving fast under his own steam. When he leapt onto the train, I almost applauded, because he looked so pleased.

When the next train arrived, I got on it. As we inched through town, I looked out the window. A bridal shop, Bella Bridal on Morrison Street, has five mannequins in its front window. Every one of the mannequins is slouched, like a Vogue-ing drag queen, or like bridesmaids at a reception after a few hours and an open bar.

Well folks, I'm off to meet with some friends regarding an as-yet unnamed, unrealized project. We're still pie-in-the-sky, and nothing may come of it. Or something may come of it. Who knows? However, dem's dat don't aks, nebah receib.

Go. Be fabulous. Y'are, y'know.

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