this imploding heart

One bad mother-Shut Your Mouth!

Okay... the results are in!

And the winner is...Number 6! (Runner up: Story Engine Engine #9) You know the rules. If Miss First Place is unable to fulfill her duties, Number the Ninth is going to be there to Young-MC it and bust a move.

Picture, if you will, a jazzy, local breakfast spot. Perhaps you have pictured one on Capitol Hill. Perhaps you have pictured B&O. If you haven't, that's okay...but you're wrong, Timmy. Terribly, terribly wrong.

Now, if one is acquainted with its quaintness, one will know that it is a fantastic place to take one's parents. Or rather... it would be if it weren't also a fantastic place to take one's roommate's boyfriend (and one's roommate, of course). You might, perhaps, imagine (although if you pictured Glo's instead of B&O's, then your imagination might not be up for it) the complications involved in combining a sensitive, inquisitive -- not to mention religious -- counselor/teacher with a straight-talking, open-mouthed sailor. I am still amazed that my mother did not fall right out of her lavender-painted church pew. Snippit of conversation as follows:

Cake (snuggled down into a plush, red velvet cushion, gesticulating when needed):
"And you know? Fuck it! FUCK it! I don't even fucking like it, but whatever."

Mom (sitting straight up, on the edge of her seat, intently listening to every word):
"Mm-hm. You know, you'd be a great manager. Have you ever thought about being a manager?"

But man! That sour-cream waffle sure was good.

As for Punky Rockster...Him: long-haired, scroungy, Bill's-Plumbing-(or some such)-baseball-hat-wearing druggie at the Quasinada CD release party. Me: swept-up blondie in a white kanga/newsie cap and polka-dot skirt ... also at said party. He: manages to stutter/slur out, "do you hathe any matcheth? a lighth?" To which I respond, a few minutes later, with a book of matcheth picked up at the bar. He (in the span of the longest two minutes ever): looks down at my hand, looks back up at me, looks down at my hand, takes the matcheth, and offers me a horizontal "rock on!" hand symbol (for those of you who don't know -- like, for instance, my poor, confused mother didn't before we taught her at the breakfast table -- that's the index and pinky fingers sticking out, with the thumb pinched out to the side, middle two fingers scrunched into the palm). At which point, I accept his druggie handshake by responding in kind, and we squeeze each other's middle and ring fingers with our indexes and pinkies. Really... much better than your average-bear handshake. It gets five stars from me.

-The Tiny

Posted by Sonya at April 19, 2004 02:38 PM