One-sided cell-phone conversation overheard (reluctantly) today in the restroom of a popular local chicken restaurant:
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t have that with me.”
“I’m not in front of my computer.”
“I don’t have a card with me.”
“I can’t do that right now.”
“I told you – I’m not at my desk.”
“I’ll get back…”
“No…I’ll give you…”
“I’m at lunch.”
“No…I don’t have his card.”
“Look! I’m in the can all right!”
I caught a panel discussion once about cell phones on the often irritating counterSpin. This was back when the smug Avi hosted. Yes, a panel…on cell phones. The members of the panel were two sociology/psychology/contemporary culture academic types and a writer from the Space channel.
Thank god for that lone voice of reason in the form of a geek. After enduring endless blather about public versus private space and how we should institute cell phone ethics classes - the Space-man awoke. He made the only pertinent point of the show as far as I’m concerned.
Assholes will be assholes, regardless of their tools.
Yesterday, I was reading Susannah Breslin’s wonderful the reverse cowgirl’s blog, when I followed a link to here. The brief description of the ‘reverse cowgirl’ left something to be desired as far as I’m concerned. The author attempted to counter the “curiously impersonal” label with a joke about partners with great asses.
I feel some sort of civic duty to mention a story I saw on the Sexfiles. Researchers have determined that the ‘reverse cowgirl’ is the best position for simultaneously stimulating the clitoris and g-spot. (How in god’s name do you get a job researching this kind of thing?) Most face-to-face positions don’t find the g-spot. Now, I’m something of a romantic. I’m swayed somewhat by arguments about intimacy, but sometimes you just want the technique to get the job done, right?
The artists models used in the ‘reverse cowgirl’ picture brought back a long forgotten art-school memory. A girl – slim, dark hair, nerd glasses, black clothes – in my “Issues in Contemporary Canadian Art” class did a project involving Barbie dolls. She gathered us together in a small dark studio for a lavish slide show with sound track. A traditional blonde and a brunette Barbie were photographed in a wide variety of sexual positions – including lingerie and leatherwear – some mild S & M. The boudoir sets were highly detailed. The lighting glowed. I can’t remember what the soundtrack was. The first thing that leaps to mind would be the girl reading from Simone De Beauvoir…or something. Apparently, her point had to do with the objectification of lesbians in porn.
Looking back now, I remember feeling vaguely aroused by the whole thing.
I needed a time-out from this life. A quick trip to the Maritimes to spend Thanksgiving (Canadian) with my sister and I am rejuvenated. Standing on a rocky point jutting out into the Eastern side of the mouth of Saint John Harbour there is so much ocean laid out in front of me that the horizon looks curved. The sun, in a cool but cloudless sky, lays a wide sheet of gold directly in front of me. Waves faintly lap the shore far below. A cool wind blows through, rustling the heather and gorse underfoot. A ship crawls into the far distance – over the edge of the world. My thoughts rise and fall with the breeze. They are too private for you people.
Instead, I present some random impressions of a two-hour flight in a Dash 8 Turboprop:
- Shit…I’ve packed my Paul Auster book in an inaccessible part of my too large carry-on, which is wedged under the seat in front of me. Oh well, I’m not sure yet if I’m even enjoying it.
- The beige plastic interior of the much-used aircraft has taken on the patina of a 10-year-old Holiday Inn – thousands of smudged fingerprints around the tiny widows.
- It is impossible to determine what the body of the pretty French stewardess might look like due to the boxy nature of her blue polyester suit.
- The shaggy man beside me hunches over his mystery-meat boxed snack like I might make a dive for it.
- The wailing baby, two seats back of mine, has set everyone on edge – the tension is palpable. I am amused. I wish I could offer some encouragement to the poor mother who is clearly embarrassed and unhappy.
- The in-flight magazine is extremely well designed and almost wholly free of content.
- If we go down, I will clearly be responsible for opening the emergency exit, as the man beside me looks untrustworthy.
- The loud couple from East Virginia at the back of the plane is panicked because the pilot has announced that it is five degrees at the airport. None of the locals on board seek to console them with the metric system. I believe that there is an unspoken compact that these Virginians will be the first eaten.
- A lovely dark-haired woman two seats up and to the right is reading one of those dreadful rural Canadian novels that’s supposed to be good for you. She has this habit: her long, delicate fingers stroke through the pages on the left side of her novel. She doesn’t flip them with her thumb – like the magazines in the terminal – rather, she gently runs her fingers over the edges. She does this the whole time she reads. I wonder how many chapters I’ve watched her do this for.
The shaggy man crossed both fingers and clenched his whole body like he’d received a shock treatment. The quiet and quick landing was obviously a white-knuckle nightmare for him. Despite the stress of shaggy – or perhaps, in debt to his crossed fingers – we arrived safely.
I am returned to this life. I’m ready - bring it on.