What took you so long?

Welcome. I've been waiting for you to show up.

Friday, December 16, 2011

Bring Me His Head

This guy writes, you know the guy, Mamet, he writes dialogue that sounds like one side of a phone conversation.
Where did he grow up that people -- I'm telling you, listen to what I'm saying -- that people talk like the EL train's roaring by and you only hear part -- it doesn't matter WHICH part, just a part -- and they have to repeat it.
The guy writes, it's all herky jerky, it's all clicky-clackey, like the tracks on an old railroad bed.
That guy, the one like a turbine with words, the one they call Mamet. Bring me his head.
I don't care if it's still on his body, you ape.
Just bring me his head, that cerebral kiln of hot, ruddy verbiage and cadence -- yes, I said writing you can dance to -- and I'll toast to the rare guy who re-wrinkles my brain.

Thursday, December 8, 2011

Last in Line

They announce that the store will close in ten more minutes, shoppers. Pushing my cart double-time to the dairy aisle, I scoop up a tub of Greek yogurt (is it really more beneficial?) and a half-gallon of Lactaid fat-free milk (ahh, to drink milk without farting later).
Rounding the corner (nobly ignoring Little Debbie snack cakes) to the bread aisle, I search the rows and rows of nutritionally enhanced white puffy-bread for Arnold’s Jewish rye with caraway seeds (never buy the Earth Grains so-called Jewish rye: it sucks).
Tick tock, gotta beat feet to the cashier.
But no, wait, tomatoes.
They’re three city blocks away in produce. Mmmmmm, chug-a chug, I go. Produce is a distant dream. Tick tock. More running.
Tomatoes, okay! Vine ripened (fat chance), Roma or cherry? Okay, Romas it is.
Pull a plastic bag from the roll. Can’t open the bag. Bag sides are stuck together. Okay in the bag. Mmmmmmmmmmmm, chug-a-chug. Rounding the corners, again, looking for the cash registers.
The “Less than ten items” cash is dark. Ah, but there’s a light at number 22. Only a quarter-mile to get there.
And I do. I may be last in line, but my breathless smile gets one in return from the tired cashier.
As I grab my packages to go I say, “I’m gonna take ten minutes to write about this.”
And I did.