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super bowl note to

Me:

You must be some kind of sick sick racist. I mean, that movie “Pride” with Terrence Howard crying about his inspirational black swim team might be really good. Stop laughing at the commercial. STOP it! You like Terrence Howard. You like swimming. What is your damn problem?

Love,

Me

Posted on

super bowl note to

Whoever’s in charge of this:

WHERE is my favorite ref — the only ref worth a damn — my MAN, Ed (*Rocky) Hochuli? I mean, you coulda had Hochuli trotting about on the Super Bowl field with his snappy ass and firmly-packed biceps and commanding presence and you don’t do it?

C’mon. Throw the girls a bone.

Love,

Me


*Just a little nickname I gave him because, uhm, I love him.

ed-hochuli-3.jpg

Posted on

super bowl note to

Billy Joel:

Please do not sing the National Anthem ever again. Only sing the National Anthem if the National Anthem suddenly becomes “The Stranger” or “Scenes from an Italian Restaurant.”

I need to still love you. Don’t make it so hard.

Love,

Me

Posted on

control

I rolled my hair in curlers today. For no apparent reason. Suddenly, I just found myself robotically rolling my hair in those old-fashioned spongy rollers that my mother used on me when I was a kid. I think these were my mother’s actual rollers once, from the 60s. And here they are, on my head again. Orange and pink and enduring, I guess. I’ve always liked their gentle sponginess, their unassuming way, but I almost never use them. Are they soothing somehow; is that it? I don’t know. Really. I don’t even know why I did this. I have nowhere to go. Not until later, when we meet with our potential landlord again. So I sit here and type with a head full of curlers and I wonder why I did this. I saw myself in the mirror just now, startled a bit and laughed; I’d forgotten they were there.

Maybe it’s control, trying to control something — tame my hair — because I feel out of control right now. Here I am, trying to be a businesswoman. Playing a role, really. Out of my league in so many ways. I don’t know how to be a “hard-nosed businesswoman.” I don’t know how negotiate a business lease. But I can curl my hair. Tame it. Make it do what I want.

And suddenly, out of nowhere, I’m not sure I like him — Thee Olde Landlord. I liked him okay before, even though he seems a bit odd to me because he almost never blinks. He just stares. He has little chocolate chip eyes and he uses them mostly to stare. They are small and dark and expressionless, really. They may be actual chocolate chips for all I know. But I’ve learned that when he does blink, it means something. Something bad, usually. Someone else may furrow a brow; he just blinks … finally: I don’t think I like what you just said. Bllliinnnk. And it’s a slow blink. It’s not automatic. It seems conscious, deliberate. Some people remind themselves to breathe during yoga, he reminds himself to blink during life.

He bows a lot too. That Buddhist bow, the wai I saw in Thailand where it didn’t bother me. But in this context, I have no idea what it is. In one instant, he will approach you, all short and pigeon-toed, press his little palms together and bow. The next instant, he will straighten up and rattle off a stream of Spanish to one of his employees. In Thailand, it’s cultural. Here, it seems like affectation. He’s basically a very short, pigeon-toed Mexican man who stares and bows, but he’s Buddhist to match the decor.

At our recent Sunday meeting, he acted like a jerk, questioning our commitment after we’d spent thousands of (borrowed) dollars already. He lectured us. Pressured us. And he hadn’t been that way before. What is his problem? I sat there and wondered. Why am I letting myself be afraid of him? I wondered that too. My mind wandered, trying to figure out the vibe, obsessed with what his problem was. I said very little, cut the meeting short, lying that I didn’t feel well. He didn’t bow goodbye. I didn’t look at his chocolate chip eyes. And out on the sidewalk, I burst into businesslike tears of frustration.

We meet with him again tonight. So I’m psyching up. Maybe that’s what the curlers are about. Trying to dress the part I have to play tonight.

Here I come, Senor Buddha.

Posted on

ode to a magical horse

We are now writing love letters to the dead Barbaro.

It started in the comments here, when I demanded that Brian pen a love letter to dearly departed Barbaro for his silly pun. What could I do? I can’t put the man in timeout, for God’s sake! So he gamely stepped up to the challenge. Now others are chiming in. Well, one’s not a love letter so much as some sort of, uh, business transaction.

See?

Dear Barbaro,

I am so sorry we never got to know each other, I’m sure you were a nice horse.

I shall think fondly of you as my daughter and I make magazine picture collages with our new Elmer’s glue stick.

Much Love!

Your almost dear friend,

Brian

**********

A horse is a horse
(of course, of course)
A horse is no angel face, of course
Unless of course
The name of the horse
Is the famous Barbaro!

We went to the source
And asked the horse
When he’d be back out on the course
He said, of course
Once his leg’s in force
He’ll be running to and fro!

“Maybe I’ll just go out to stud
Or frolic along and chew my cud
I’ll stamp and neigh
Make the kids say Hey!
It’s the famous Barbaro!”

But now that he’s gone
It’s sad of course
He really was kinda cool (for a horse)
But a horse he was
No more tears, because –
Barbaro wouldn’t want you to be so sad…

Nightfly

*********
Dear “Don,”

I was beginning to lose hope in your work, but now I can rest easy. No more mares rolling their eyes when I show up, no more gelding jokes or “second greatest horse in Philadelphia history,” no more whispers about being the Harding to Barbaro’s Kerrigan.

Payment is on its way, in the usual manner: third paddock from the door, under the feedbag. If the groomer’s there just tell him you’re looking for the john.

Sincerely,
Smarty Jones

(Also Nightfly, hahahahaha!)

**********

Dear Barbaro,

All of Philadelphia mourns your departure. How could we ever forget all the wonderful things you did, like when all those kids in comas at CHOP* awakened as the result of your triumphant win? Even Andy Reid’s sons couldn’t drive properly, what with all the tears in their eyes. Now that you’re gone, terrible, terrible, things are happening on our streets. We can only hope that all the studwork you did during your “recovery” will bring forth more magical horses like you to save our sorry, drug-laden, gun-violence ridden town.

Your hometown admirer,

Kate

*Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia for youse guys not from the area.

Yes, more magical horses, please!

Anyone else? You know it’s not good to keep your grief locked up inside, peeps.