The National Museum of Lara’s Boyfriends has an entire wing devoted to Todd, whom she dated for like one term. Surely you understand what that is.
It’s total bullshit.
The lone half-case it devotes to her relationship with Barry is unfair: some leading laralogists have noted that he actually gave her a mix tape on the Spanish Club trip six months beforehand, and that she didn’t see anyone seriously in the intervening period. Arguably, they were together that whole time.
And what’s with these “apocryphal” exhibits about her dating a girl in college? They can’t provide one photo?
Come on.
There’s a moment when the girl in the band whom you thought was just a singer swings back around with a bass on her hip. Aury’s decided that the only name for it is, simply, glee.
It’s a good feeling: she wants to share it. Maybe she could start a club? They’d only meet in the autumn, when the smell in the air makes you want to pick up a stick and go a-questing. They’d watch the part of High Fidelity where Tim Robbins eats a telephone over and over. They’d hit each other with telephones. They’d cackle, and bleed.
Lights are still on in the opening act’s bus: Helvek is practicing scales quietly while Lens of Stars and Gurter shuffle for whist. The Electric Hipster is doing a little coke but not bothering anybody. The gig’s just ended, and there is a tension of hope that the main act might still decide to share.
Two hours later the hope leaves only its spiteful residue. The Electric Hipster peeks through the window at Lenny Spitzman’s Bus O’ Laffs, visibly wobbling across the parking lot, groupies spilling out the door.
“Fuckin’ comedians,” he mutters.
Gurter nods glumy, and strums with horny fingers.
Big Time Leiber riffles a worn deck one-handed, a habit he’s cultivated to appear nervous when he’s not. Now he’s actually very nervous. But stopping would be an even more obvious tell.
“People in Simak City,” he says, looking out her high dark window, “all came here to be sharks, right? The city’s the house, and they think they can beat it. Maybe they can for a while. But the house can eat losses, and they can’t.”
“You have different plans?”
“You wanna win, you burn the house down.”
Darkness LeGuin pulls at the holder of two long white cigarettes.
I. i. There was a man walking alone at night; ii. and Pharez said, “I’m a rob that fucker.” iii. So he set upon him. iv. But the man overcame Pharez, and took his knife.
II. i. And Pharez was greatly amazed. ii. And he said unto the man, iii. “What are you, some kinda ninja or somethin’?” iv. And the man spoke, saying, v. “I am no ninja. I was simply prepared.”
III. i. The man left, and Pharez was sore troubled, and thought upon many things. ii. And the first thought was that iii. he would buy a gun.
“Anything at all,” croaks Konohanasakuya-hime, holding up her worn paper sign. Flame has licked its edges; blossoms rot in her hair.
“Okay,” says Phanindra, and digs in his memory. “Um, your name be praised?”
“I bless you,” she grins toothlessly, but Phanindra doesn’t feel very blessed. He’s been spotted as a mark and the crowd’s surging from street grates and alcoves. Gods paw at him, crippled, crying, one-eyed and fox-headed. “Pray to me!” they beg. “Just a little!”
“I’m sorry,” he says desperately, “I haven’t got any more,” and wishes to no one that he lived somewhere colder.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
When she and Sterling start over it’s glorious: they spend whole days together in the park, sunshine and honest silence, and the earnest rhythm of his words.
But six months in, she remembers why things ended. He rants at length and his arguments are ill-founded; he never listens to her. When she finds herself cheating with Bisson and Willis, she knows the time has come.
She takes him out to a coffee shop to break it to him. “It’s not me,” she scribbles on his cover page, “it’s you,” and leaves him with one of those stickers on his back.
“They didn’t mention the exact amount,” says the actress, “but I understand it was quite generous.”
Clemson shrugs a face. “Not important,” he says, “I would have given it anyway, but when I saw the top prize was having you read my screenplay…”
She smiles, and braces herself. “Yes, well, we should get started.”
“Of course.” He rummages. “Um. As long as we’re talking, would you mind reading some of it aloud?”
“I suppose not.”
“Starting with the title?” He plops it over.
“Telephone Directory,” she hesitates, “City of Los Angeles.”
“You can just start in the Js,” Clemson says dreamily.