Another Old Couple

An elderly couple with accents—could have been anything from German to Russian, that area of the world—came into the Y the other day. They wanted to know about membership and Ashley, my coworker, offered to give them a tour. The woman said, “Give us papers first. I haf been here before.”

This is happening at the front desk in the lobby area. From where we were sitting, you could see the pool area through some floor-to-ceiling windows.

Ashley gave them the packet of information. The woman looked at it and said, “Yes, this is what I want. We come back later.”

They got up to leave.

“I haf been here before. The pool, it is over there?” She points in the opposite direction of the pool, towards the childcare area.

“No, it’s that way. See those windows?” Ashley said.

“Oh, they must have moved.” The woman said.

Story of My Life

If her question [How come nobody ever told us what was important?] is meant to be a neon arrow pointing damningly at our culture, this is a pretty serious book. It’s a pretty serious book.

I read Story of My Life by Jay McInerney recently (thank you Jon Fox). McInerney is an American author who wrote it in 1985. I have part of Vic Bobb’s review of it in italics at the top. (He gave it a B/B+ if you’re interested.) I’ve given STML to Jessica Lung, so if you see her, tell her to get reading it.

The first line is “I’m like, I don’t believe this shit.” Yep, it’s like that the whole way: whiney first-person narrative from a 20-year-old woman spoiled and coked out of her mind living in New York City.

I’ve also read Sex and the City by Candace Bushnell—if you know me at all, this should not shock you. A couple things surprised me about this book. (Vic hasn’t reviewed it... that’s not one of the surprises though.) First, it’s not a novel; it’s not even fiction. It’s a compilation of newspaper columns written by Bushnell. Unlike the HBO series, the women in the columns are not bonded by healthy friendships, there are way more drugs, and it really happened. It was depressing and put me off Sex for at least a week.

But for as much as the materialism, the objectification of people, the days without sleep, the sex, the makeup, and the 100% batshit-bonkery are depressing and morally bankrupt, those things are alluring. I read both books rapidly—I devoured them—for the spectacle.

What’s important to me right now is making life as pleasing as possible. (You can ask Mitch.) If you left me alone with a pile of fashion magazines, a library of books, some Mexican food, good beer, and my bicycle, I’d be completely happy.

I suspect that this is not the correct answer to “What’s important?” But all the right answers I can think of (God, Love, Education, Helping People, Saving the World) quickly spiral into abstractions whenever you get two or more people talking about them. And I’m sick of abstractions.

Materialism. Hey-o.

It was very dark.

Last night I went to Safeway, just before 11, to get Better-Than-Sex Cookies. I had driven Mitch’s car after dropping him off at his house.

Of course, going to Safeway alone late at night isn’t the safest idea. I’m not saying it’s dangerous... just there are safer things I could have been doing. Like reading. There was a drunk-looking man in the otherwise empty parking lot. And it’s dark. The sprinklers were going. I clutched the car keys, but an attempt to attack someone with them might have just made my assailant angrier. Maybe I should have made Mitch go with me, I thought.

When I got back to Mitch’s car, BTS cookies in hand, I checked the backseat twice. (In case I missed the hulking evil man the first time.) I felt a little better surrounded by metal and glass with a gasoline-powered piston-pumping mechanism at my disposal. The first street light I came to was red.

I heard someone yelling.

“Hey!”

I checked to see if the doors are locked, but I couldn't find them (the locks not the doors).

It’s very dark, and I told myself that the yelling was just the radio on low.

“Hey!”

I spotted a man standing in the grass on the other side of the road. I couldn't make out anything but his silhouette in front of the faintly lit gas pumps. C’mon light, turn green, I pleaded.

And the light did turn green. I gunned it across the intersection and as I did I heard, “Hey, your lights are off.”

And sure enough.