Hot Alcoholic Librarians
W 7-30 1:40
Best Deer Antlers Trading Co.
I'm at Colonel Sanders' Kentucy legacy on Olympic about a half mile from school. I've got to start walking back in a few minutes. The architecture of the apartments makes me think of mythical days of the sunny 1950's. I'm drinking pink lemonade. Paul Simon is singing his happy, whistly, tune, "Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard." I'll leave when it's done. Principal Perez wants to see me about room environment.
Now I'm sitting at the lunch table facing the view of downtown. We are drawing our art project a little while every day until someone kicks us off to seat a class here. Even though there are many other tables here, and this is the only one where we can see our view of downtown, the yard duties do not seem capable of deviating from their simple plan. I explained the logic once, unsuccessfully, and gave up.
The bell just rang. Children scurry about putting away balls and jumpropes.
Larry used to steal girls' panties from the dorm driers. Morning wood. Mourning would. Carlin says Thing doesn't want to socialize. She told him to put on his extrovert mask. I murdered people on the pool table. Thing says, "I should go talk to this girl. Go talk to her, Carlin." She says, "YOU go talk to her." He says, "YOU." She says, "You." Another guy moves in. Carlin says, "He looks like a dullard." We got 40's swing music in here. Regular crowd mill noise. "Who let the Hair Bros. in." "They just walked in here. They were playing at the Coconut Teazer." They stop talking. Wait for a spark. Nothing comes. A girl grabs her forehead. Carlin says, "That guy looks like the guy from the band...shit..." She can't think of the name, sings a few bars of the song, "Swim out past the breakers/and watch the world die." Thing says, "Toad the Wet Sprocket?" She says, "No." I go, "Everclear." Carlin doesn't drink, but she's slurring like she's wasted. "You're like Edgar Allen Poe," she says. I tell her she doesn't know what she's talking about. She insists. I insist. I say, "Edgar Allen Poe was a dreary, melancholy, morbid, gloomy, death-obsessed alcoholic." She shrugged her fingers at me, like I had just proved her point. I frowned at her. She said, "What are you writing? You write so fast."
"Where are all the hot alcoholic librarians?" I asked.
Best Deer Antlers Trading Co.
I'm at Colonel Sanders' Kentucy legacy on Olympic about a half mile from school. I've got to start walking back in a few minutes. The architecture of the apartments makes me think of mythical days of the sunny 1950's. I'm drinking pink lemonade. Paul Simon is singing his happy, whistly, tune, "Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard." I'll leave when it's done. Principal Perez wants to see me about room environment.
Now I'm sitting at the lunch table facing the view of downtown. We are drawing our art project a little while every day until someone kicks us off to seat a class here. Even though there are many other tables here, and this is the only one where we can see our view of downtown, the yard duties do not seem capable of deviating from their simple plan. I explained the logic once, unsuccessfully, and gave up.
The bell just rang. Children scurry about putting away balls and jumpropes.
Larry used to steal girls' panties from the dorm driers. Morning wood. Mourning would. Carlin says Thing doesn't want to socialize. She told him to put on his extrovert mask. I murdered people on the pool table. Thing says, "I should go talk to this girl. Go talk to her, Carlin." She says, "YOU go talk to her." He says, "YOU." She says, "You." Another guy moves in. Carlin says, "He looks like a dullard." We got 40's swing music in here. Regular crowd mill noise. "Who let the Hair Bros. in." "They just walked in here. They were playing at the Coconut Teazer." They stop talking. Wait for a spark. Nothing comes. A girl grabs her forehead. Carlin says, "That guy looks like the guy from the band...shit..." She can't think of the name, sings a few bars of the song, "Swim out past the breakers/and watch the world die." Thing says, "Toad the Wet Sprocket?" She says, "No." I go, "Everclear." Carlin doesn't drink, but she's slurring like she's wasted. "You're like Edgar Allen Poe," she says. I tell her she doesn't know what she's talking about. She insists. I insist. I say, "Edgar Allen Poe was a dreary, melancholy, morbid, gloomy, death-obsessed alcoholic." She shrugged her fingers at me, like I had just proved her point. I frowned at her. She said, "What are you writing? You write so fast."
"Where are all the hot alcoholic librarians?" I asked.
posted by johnz at 8:36 PM
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