Fame

He says, “I’ll take a photo of you and make you famous.”  And he takes out his smart phone, and smiles.

Today’s the end of the world.  No party, it just is.  That’s that.  Some guy gets stabbed outside of the Apple Pan.  A mom witnesses this, texts her son, and he reads it out loud, inside his century-old shack.  “Stabbed?” everyone gasps in horror.  “Yes,” the girl squeaks, “today’s a weird-vibe day.”  And the girl in the long flowing dress asks, “Because it’s judgment day?”  Yes, they all agree, because it’s judgment day. 

So, the skinny girl with skinny hips and wild Shakira curls, steps out of her curtained-in dressing room, in the skinniest cigarette jeans you ever saw, sucking into her skinny-tanned crevices like a hand vacuum.  Her wild black hair hangs down her breast, her white lace bralette, and she says, “What’s going on out here?”

Oh!  He thinks, putting down his phone with a ghastly warning from his mother, I need to photograph you.  I need to immortalize this beautiful moment, where a guy gets stabbed in front of the Apple Pan, and you come out, like a little nymph, with your wild curls and your skinny legs.  “I’m gonna make you famous,” he says, and he takes out his smart phone.  And this is her big break, immortalized as someone’s cell-phone desktop picture.  “Well, golly!”  And she shakes her full head of curls to the right, and looks shy at the camera, her white bra pointed.

So, today’s judgment day.  And this is true because some rich pastor bought a bunch of billboards across the globe, and told everyone: May 21, 2011.  5-21-2011… and you’d think the accumulation of numbers would be more interesting...like a bunch of ones, or a bunch of sixes, or even sevens.  Nope, just five-two-one-two-zero-one-one.  Just like a phone number.   

A girl, sloppy drunk, tells a boy, who’s not so sloppy drunk, “call me.”  “What’s your number?” he asks.  And it’s judgment day.  Don’t call her, buddy.  She won’t remember anyway.  Plus, it’s judgment day.  And it’s a bad omen.  Ask anyone; it’s a bad omen.

And I don’t care if I die poor.  As long as I’m famous. 

Mother's Day

Mother dearest... the only e-mail subscribed to my blog feed... I've abandoned updates on this, but after I post this, you'll get an automatic e-mail.  You'll check it on your orange iPad2, while watching 60 minutes or a pre-recorded reality show.  And damn those automatic e-mails!  So hasty, and you forward them to all your tennis friends before I get to edit all the grammatical errors.  And to be honest, you only have one tennis friend... Hi Sandy.  Maybe Sherry too, but I don't think she cares for you much.

And did you both enjoy your Palm Springs rendezvous?  I'm sure you did. 

You're probably expecting a sappy Mother's Day letter.  And no siree.  This is public, so I'm not going to get all mushy.  I'll say one thing.  This past Sabbath, when I was Orthodox for a day (and don't get me started on that bitch Erica Schwartz), I missed you painfully.  But, maybe I'll regress and mention Erica for a quick second... in her bucket hat and skirt suit.  Besides the obvious truth that I'm a lucky bastard that you're my mother, as chance would have it, and not the bitch Erica, I'm lucky you're so hip... a bit sacrilegious...but, the most spiritual individual I ever did see.  See, Erica's religious, but cold as stone... spiritually void.  When I'm down and out, you say something so darn zen about energy or the universe, or some new age crap like that.  And all those SECRET-type books on your bookshelf... Divine Wisdom...guides to a centered self.  I remember your meditation story... about how you met Jesus one afternoon in our backyard.  Erica could never manifest the spiritual divination of Jesus, even if she really wanted to.

Does it bother me that your cooler than me?  I think that's subjective.  Who's to say what's really cool... and what isn't.  But, no, it doesn't at all. 

So, mom... I'm going to put on a mineral mask with you and Chelsea... I'm going to post this and, if all goes as planned, I'll join you on the couch, catch the middle of 60 minutes, and maybe during a commercial break, you can read this.  I'll watch you read it, of course.

Happy Mother's Day.