Saturday, January 04, 2003

Tech note to Julie: try holding down the key with the apple on it and clicking on the pictures at the same time; that's usually the mac equivilent of right-clicking in windows.

At one of the shows, Brook thought she spied Colette. I never found out if she really did or not. I never knew Colette well, but the mention of her name reminded me of being at a party once at her apartment- also out on the Old Jonesboro Hiway, I think. I remember she had a drafting table, which I thought was just the height of luxury. Imagine having parents-or anyone- who believed enough in your career as an art student to buy you your very own drafting table. Imagine being able to buy one for yourself. I can remember it being summer, or late spring, remember wearing a purple shirt which essentially had no back in it, just a bunch of lattice-like strings back there (God help me, it was the '80's- the MID-80's in fact.) Ann Triplett was making small signs that had groovy hippie messages on them in fluorescent crayon. I did not know Ann, but I thought I could join in on that fun. For a while we drew peacefully, sitting on the floor with some other people, Martin maybe, for one. Then Ann took violent exception to the slogan on my sign, which I had thought innocuous and good-vibey enough for anybody (can't remember now what it was.) She screwed up her face and shouted at me, "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" "I dunno," I replied, with all the tone of a stepped-on pup and the profundity as well. Thus I met Ann. Right around then, another creature strolled in, looking for all the world like Wild One-vintage Marlon Brando. A bit hard to remember, but Donnie used to could look like a right surly motherfucker when he was of a mind to. He sneered at me, then marched up in my face. It seemed most plausible that he and Ann shared a divine psychic link and he had come to grind my bones into powder. Still snarling, he reached into the pocket of his black leather jacket, and handed me...a can of play-dough, then walked away, not a word spoken between us. The play-dough was fresh, too, and full of that wonderful, unwholesome play-dough smell. I squished and squished it to my heart's content. Now that, I thought, watching him go away, is exactly what a man should be. And thus it was I met Herr Poole.


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