THINGS THAT NEED TO GO AWAY RIGHT NOW, VOL. 14

• People who talk on cell phones in the park. Yesterday, while strolling in Washington Park, I overtook a group of three girls (I stroll fast). One of the girls was a Paris Hilton doppelgänger, at least from behind -- she had long platinum blond hair and wore a tiny pair of terrycloth shorts that clung to her butt like a drowning man clutching a life preserver. At first I thought she was missing her left arm, but as I drew closer I realized she was talking on her cell phone. As I passed, I caught this angry snippet of conversation:

  I have a life. Maybe it's not as extravagant or as big as yours, but I have a life. And I have friends. My friends called me this morning to make plans, and I said, "No, I can't because Curtis is coming over." You have to let me know what's going on, Curtis!

  I barely suppressed the urge to snatch the cell phone and scream, "Run, Curtis, run! I know she's got a hot little ass, but it's not worth it! She's not a hotel heiress -- she just looks like one!" Then I would have pitched the phone into the lake and hauled ass. Injured or not, I'm pretty sure I can outrun a pretend socialite.
  
  Washington Park is a pretty little park, with lots of trees, green fields with kids playing soccer, a couple of ponds with ducks and geese, luxurious flower beds, even a resident fox skulking in the shadows. A walk in Wash Park brings a lot of things to mind -- fresh air, sunshine, exercise, relaxation, good times with friends -- none of which seem compatible with chewing out one's boyfriend on a cell phone. Good grief.
  
  
• The thing where I clip my nails and the clippings fly all over the goddam place. Sometimes they fall neatly in front of me, but mostly they whiz out onto the floor, where they use their chameleon-like ability to blend in with the hardwood. Sometimes they glance off my face. Once I got a clipping stuck in my eye. Did my mother forget to teach me something?
  
  
• People who take too long in airplane toilets. What do they do in there? Even I can put off masturbating for the length of an 11-hour transatlantic flight. "Come now, Kilgore," you are saying. "Surely this is just a matter of warped perception. Of course it seems you are waiting a long time when you're standing outside the toilet, with a bursting bladder and bored flight attendants watching you. But likely you took just as long as everyone else."
  
  Well, ha. I timed each of my trips to the lavatory, and on no occasion did I require more than 71 seconds to complete my business, including washing my hands. And don't call me Shirley.
  
  
• Weird conversations with strippers. I went to Shotgun Willies a few weeks ago to help a friend celebrate the waning moments of his bachelorhood and had the following exchange:
  
  "Hi!" the stripper said, as I sat down at her stage. She was pretty, with dark blond hair and tiny breasts on a tiny body. "Have I talked to you before?" she asked.
  
  "No," I said. "It's our first time." I was the only one at her stage. One of the nice things about liking small breasts is that you get the flat-chested strippers to yourself.
  
  "You weren't here another day?" she asked, squinting down at me.
  
  "No, I've never been here before."
  
  "Hi, I'm Halo," she said, sticking out her hand.
  
  It's an odd feeling to shake hands with a naked person, but I did okay. "I'm Kilgore," I said. "I'm sorry -- I don't have a made-up name to tell you."
  
  "Kilgore?" she said. "That's my dad's name!"
  
  "Oh," I said. "Um... is that weird for you?"
  
  "Oh, no," she said, gyrating her nipples half an inch from my face. "He's dead."

+posted by Lawrence @ 10/10/2004 09:44:00 PM