Ned Danson, my good friend and fellow satirist of all that is American, has started his own blog, DrivenDriver. Before checking his page out, take a moment to read over his name again. Read it out loud. Ned Danson. I can't get over how funny that is. I mean, granted, my name means either "son of shame" or "son of the right hand," but neither of those things sounds anything like the names of the actors on Cheers.
Let's welcome him to the group and the world of weblogging with a song.
Chapter One: The problem with middle-age guitarists
I mentioned a few days ago that Brendan and I were going to perform at an open mic reading in Northampton. What I didn't mention, what I didn't know yet, was that it wasn't so much an "open mic reading" as it was an "open mic night." Which is fine, the only difference is that musicians can perform at an open mic night as well. Or, in the case of this particular night, it meant that in addition to the fourteen guitarists on the playlist, two shitty nonfiction writers could perform as well. With the exception of Brendan and I, every single performer that night was a folk guitarist. And you'd think they'd be excited for the change in pace, but they weren't. We both read funny pieces with a lot of enthusiasm, but they couldn't have cared less. It was disheartening at best, the sort of thing I would've written a poorly-rhymed folk ballad about, were that my thing.
Chapter Two: Anticlimactically, the world stops turning and everyone goes home to be with their families
Granted, our first reading had been a failure. Hardly anyone showed up, those who did show up tuned their guitars during our set, and few laughed at our laugh-out-loud comedy. But still, our second reading was an even bigger failure.
The plan was simple. Brendan and I would each prepare one line of poetry for the other, write the line at the top of a piece of paper, and put the paper in an envelope. The game: we would (A.) sign up for the poetry reading under assumed names (cough*cough*Duncan*cough), (B.) exchange envelopes, and wait for our respective turns before opening them. We would then (C.) read the first line the other had written, and improv an entire poem from that first line--a convincing poem, so convincing that no one in the audience of poets would suspect a thing. If everything went perfectly, as planned, the moment we read that first line out loud would be the first time we had read it.
So of course I devoted half my mental energy for an entire day to perfectly wording Brendan's demise. In Brendan's autobiography, he would attribute all of the problems of his professional life to one poetry-reading-gone-wrong in his early twenties.
"That night crushed me," he would say, "that first line was just too good. I didn't know how I could possibly follow it, and dammit, they booed me off the stage."
So if it was going to be as important as all that, I had to devote at least most of my energy to thinking about it. It had to be something he couldn't squirm out of. It couldn't be something he could dismiss and follow with something entirely unrelated. It had to be one of those bear traps that foxes get caught in, the ones where they have to willfully dismember themselves to escape. The line: "I have ten major faults I would like to describe." Brendan was going to have to leave a limb on that stage, and I was overjoyed.
And so we signed up. Brendan, under the assumed name "Parcell" ("It's pronounced Par-cell") was number twenty-four, and I, "Duncan," was number twenty-five. I fried first the other night and now it was his turn. And the worst part was that we were really going to fry. The other poets were much better than I had expected, and there was no question in my mind that we were insulting them by showing up at all, much less by using their stage to play improv games.
As the night wore on and more and more poets took their turns, I became more and more afraid. What had he written for me? What if it made me laugh? Can you laugh at your own poetry? I'm not a very good poet when I sit down and work on a poem, much less when I try to forcefully remove one from my colon in front of a group of serious artists.
But something unexpected happened. Poet number twenty-two announced before his long slam-poem that he was the last poet of the night, and that the rest of us would have to return the next week.
"But we're doing something here! We're embarrassing each other and insulting you all!"
We didn't have a chance to "read" our poems. But, if we had read, I would've had to come up with an entire poem, entitled "Giant Frosty," to follow "I never truly believed it was true until winter break when I saw 'Titanic.'"
(Click here from Brendan's account of the evenings.)
Standing, thumbs tucked into my waistline, waiting for the chatter to die down.
"Hello everyone. My name is Ben, and I'm a liar."
Which is not to say that's completely true. There are times when it may appear that I am, in fact, a liar. But there are also times, if you catch me in the right lighting, when it may appear that I'm a fantastic chef or a worthwhile human being or a decent volleyball player. That's the thing, appearances aren't everything. My name is Ben, and I'm a liar. Except I only admit that much because you already know me, and you already know my name. Except in the past week I've introduced myself by three other names and it hasn't made the slightest bit of difference.
I really only lie to complete strangers, and generally only to ones I'll never see again. I've always done it, it's like a game to me. And I think it stems from the fact that I hate small talk. I hate it. People say the most inane, automatic shit. I just wanted to talk about something--anything--else than where people are going to school or what they're studying, because all the answers are automatic. So if I have to make small talk, if I have to answer the same questions over and over just to never see these people again, why not change the answers? It makes the small talk exciting for me, and I, in turn, can make "myself" exciting for the other person. The other day I convinced a girl that Barnard does, in fact, accept a small number of male applicants, and that I, of course, was among them. Ridiculous! My favorite part is that this girl is then going to go tell other people that Barnard does, in fact, accept a small number of male applicants, and that she met one of them. HA! Isn't that exciting? The best way to do it is not to have a plan. Make it all up off the top of your head. Sort of like "Whose Life Is It Anyway?"
On the bus back from Boston, I sat across from two blond girls who pretended not to see me for more than an hour. Which was fine, we all knew had to play that game, and I went back to living my life without them. After sixty miles of silence and having grown tired of my inattention, one of the girls pulled out a thick, brightly colored book. And though I pretended I was looking through them and out the window on the other side, I wanted to know what kind of books snooty Boston girls read. I probably rubbed my eyes four times before I realized that the title was in Dutch. "Oh! No wonder they're so cold! They're Dutch!"
I interrupted their ignoring me with wild tales of "Ooh! I've been to Holland!" and for a minute or two they look impressed. For a minute or two.
"You probably just spent a week in Amsterdam like the rest of the Americans."
How did she know that? Despite the fact that she was completely right, I was somewhat offended.
"Actually, no. I spent most of my time in Brussels." Take that, bitch.
"Oh, wow! That's wonderful! We are from Brussels! Where did you stay? Did you like it? Tell me your stories!"
I remember thinking to myself, "Shit." I realized from the moment I heard "we are from" that I had the amount of time it would take her to finish her questions to convincingly make up all I could about a major city I'd never been to. Because I've never been to Brussels. I was twice on a train that went through Brussels, on my way to and from Amsterdam, where I went to be for a week like the rest of the Americans.
I like the concept of "the point of no return." In lying, that point is always a consideration. In this instance, I was obviously past that point. Because there was no way that I could tell the girls that I didn't feel like talking about it and put my headphones back on; we were in the beginning of a conversation that I had initiated, and now I was going to have to talk about Brussels. I talked a lot about nebulous things: how amazing the people were, how friendly, how different. I talked about how much I loved the architecture, and went on and on about the food, which of course I had eaten in Amsterdam. I never answered her question about where I had stayed, I crushed it with the weight of long generic answers to the other questions she had asked and a few she hadn't. I asked questions of my own about Brussels and lit up with agreement while she answered. I remember the way I finished the conversation, by comparing Brussels to an American city. It was unnecessary, they already believed me, but I was overjoyed not to have cried "ABORT! ABORT!" and abandoned the conversation ten minutes earlier.
"I guess if I had to compare Brussels to any American city, I would say it's most like---have you been to Boston."
"Of course! We were just there!"
"Oh. Right, right. Well...have you been to San Francisco?"
"No."
"It's a lot like San Francisco."
8.29.2002
Brendan and I are going back to Northampton, for the third time in a week, this time to see the band Le Tigre. I actually know very little about the band, except I've been told by more than one reliable source that I hate their music. So we'll see.
However, I'm going to write a lot later tonight, so stay up late with me and we'll tell each other stories. I've got a few great ones.
8.28.2002 Things I have to post about: 1. The bus ride back from Boston and the problem with lying.
2. Our reading in Northampton and the problem with middle-age guitarists.
3. Pretending to be a professional movie critic and the problem with Gwenyth Paltrow movies.
Keelin's visiting today, and a bunch of us are going back up to Northampton to do another reading (this time it's poetry). So I have a lot to write about.
8.26.2002
If you're in the Northampton MA area, Brendan, Mike and I will be reading tonight at the Fire and Water Cafe. Come hang out, we'll be the ones pretending we're freshmen at Amherst.
Last night was the most fun I’ve had at home in a long time. Brendan and Mike Golden and I went to see Tadpole at the independent theatre in Hartford. It was only the three of us in the theatre, and I joked that I had romantically bought all the seats. We bought four gallons of popcorn and threw it at each other in handfuls like buttered snowballs. Later, Brendan found a piece in his hair and ate it. We talked the whole movie, we shouted our disagreements at the screen. Once we even sang along with the shitty soundtrack.
After the movie we went to a diner and ran into three girls from the movie theatre. We introduced ourselves to them, and then receded into our booth to fight over the girls. Mike got the weird, well-read one. I got the one who, within ten minutes of meeting him, already hated Brendan. And Brendan, already taken by and taken with a girl named Amanda, got stuck with the ugly one.
We told bad jokes over pancakes at one in the morning. We found ourselves wives and then quickly grew disgusted with them. We raced cars on the freeway to the tune of a French opera, and for three glorious minutes I was living in a car commercial. It was a great night, and I found myself strangely happy to be home.
8.25.2002
I discovered stand-up comedian Mitch Hedberg a couple days ago, courtesy of Meller. Give this clip a listen, it's pretty funny. Not unlike Steven Wright, Hedberg has developed a comic persona, complete with a separate manner of speech, which allows him to elevate relatively standard jokes to the point of being really funny. Like Wright's jokes, they're impossible to re-tell, it's really the comedian who makes them funny.
8.24.2002 A personal apology to everyone I've ever known
In an attempt to mix things up a bit, I haven't check my e-mail in two weeks. If that doesn't sound exciting to you, well, then, your life is just more exciting than mine, and I hate you. Two weeks is a long time for such an abstinence--I get a lot of mail. Granted, most of it's pornography, but even beyond the assorted advertisements and debt consolidation notices, I still get a fair deal of mail that's at least mildly directed toward me. Anyway, I took a short break from reading it, I just got tired of typing in passwords and wading through spam.
Of course, the day I stopped checking my mail, every single person I've ever known or cared about decided to write me a long, heartfelt letter. And then, a few days later, after I hadn't responded, they each wrote me another, less heartfelt and more scathing letter, either implying or directly stating what a bad friend and/or person I am. I haven't checked my mail in two weeks, and now I'm everyone's worst friend. And if that doesn't sound exciting to you, well, then, you're just a better person than I am, and I hate you.
8.23.2002
I wanted to know more about snakes, so I did a quick Google search and instead ended up reading this article. And then I traced that backwards and found an entire book on a dozen complementary subjects by the same author. Check it out if you're interested in these sorts of things, he manages to work a lot of corresponding concepts into the chapters.
8.22.2002
I spent half an hour last night standing in front of a movie theater, acting casual, pretending I hadn’t been stood up. It’s harder than it sounds--acting casual--because unlike actually being casual, acting casual is a conscious process. I scribbled something important on the back of a receipt. I rifled through the backseat of my car as if I’d lost something. I fiddled with my phone. I like fiddling with my phone because to the untrained eye I look important. And god knows it was vital that I looked important to the fourteen year-old kids who had pooled in front of the theater, waiting for someone’s mother to pick them up.
I was still fiddling with my phone when one of them approached me.
”Hey, wait...are you a Popik?”
It was an odd moment in my life, for more than one reason.
1. I don’t know any fourteen year-olds. So standing there, alone save some kids in a Connecticut parking lot, I felt fairly secure in the knowledge that I wouldn’t be addressed.
2. The shock of being addressed shattered my concentration, bringing to an abrupt end the best game of Snake (a cell phone game) I’d ever played. It was tragic finale to an incredible game. My snake practically consumed the entire screen. I was seconds away from the mayor of Snaketown awarding me the honorary, oversized key to the city.
3. I am a Popik.
If your last name is Miller, it’s likely that at some point in your family’s history, someone owned a mill. Smith. Goldman. Baker. If your last name is Johnson, one of your ancestors was probably named John, and he probably had a son. Erickson. Thompson. Michaelson. The last name Popik doesn’t fall into either of those discreet categories. It wasn’t anyone’s father’s name, and I kinda doubt anyone made a living as a Popik. Because unlike Baker, from the English word for “one who bakes things,” Popik is from the Yiddish word for “bellybutton.” What the hell did one of my ancestors do to earn the name bellybutton? I think about that a lot.
”Hey, wait...are you a Popik?”
”Uhh...uhh...yeah. Yeah, I am."
”You’re Ben Popik, right?”
”Yeah. Yeah, that’s me."
”What’s up, Ben! Hey, everybody, this is Ben Popik.”
It was truly bizarre. I’m still not exactly sure who this kid was or how he knew me, but he knew a fair deal about me--a strange phenomena that he used to impress both his friends and me. He knew about things I’d done in high school, he knew about things I’d written. He introduced me to his friends as an artist, and then commented on which of my pieces was his favorite. He made a point to stress that he knew everything from what street I lived on to the name of my younger brother’s girlfriend. He reminded me about things from my past I’d forgotten about. It was truly bizarre. And then, in the middle of my short biography, a minivan drove up and the entire pack filed into its back, leaving me, standing alone in the movie theater parking lot, cell phone in hand and casual.
8.18.2002
I've been caught up these last couple days in designing a new layout, which will be up soon. Today I'm going to Boston to visit Alex Hale, but I'll be back tomorrow and then I'll post the new layout and a few worthwhile stories. Until then, here are a few pictures from my Paris/Amsterdam adventure, complete with shitty little descriptions. Enjoy! - Ben
In Amsterdam, you can't walk two blocks with passing a store that specifically sells wooden shoes.
Danielle looking really pleased to be photographed.
I like the design of the Eiffel tower, it's really the only tourist monument I photographed.
Emily at the erotic museum.
This is by an artist named Kupka, whose work I adore. A lot of it's very funny. But not this one.
An Australian girl in Amsterdam, outside the Van Gogh museum.
Sunflowers in the fields of Champagne. ("Shum-pan-ya")
The tango dancers. Imagine I'm one of the blurry ones.
At night, the couple in the apartment building across from mine would swing dance.
I have a few things to write today, including my final post about my trip. But until then, check out this song comparison: Moby - Run On Elvis Presley - Run On
8.11.2002
It rains every day in Amsterdam. Joggers with umbrellas. Bicycles with umbrella attachments. One minutes it's perfectly sunny and the next the sky is opening up and everyone without an umbrella is running for their lives. Which I don't understand. We wash our clothes with water. We wash ourselves with water. But the minute water starts falling from the sky, everyone begins panicking. That's how you can tell who the tourists are. The locals have umbrellas built into their hats.
I like to imagine the Dutch weather channel. I like to imagine that it's just a fifteen-minute recording on a loop that repeats indefinitely, with a little digital display in the corner so you know what day it is.
"Today will be warm -- blues skies with patchy clouds which we can expect to produce some light rain in the afternoon. Expect the showers to continue on and off for a couple of hours, but to clear up in the late afternoon in time for you to catch the sunset. Have a beautiful day, Amsterdam." Loop. Loop. Loop.
And then came one of those moments. I remember living through one when I was eighteen and spending the afternoon in bed with my first wife, before we were married. Our naked bodies started glowing, and the air turned such a strange color I thought my life must be leaving me, and with every young fiber and cell I wanted to hold on to it for another breath. A clattering sound was tearing up my head as I staggered upright and opened the door on a vision I will never see again: Where are my women now, with their sweet wet words and ways, and the miraculous balls of hail popping in a green translucence in the yards?
8.10.2002 An updated story 8.9.2002
I have a very vague memory of an old man waking me last night at three in the morning. "You're in my bed." He wasn't speaking English but I understood him. But at the same time, I didn't really understand him, because it was clearly my bed. I'd been sleeping there uncontested for three days. There are four beds in my room, three of which were occupied last night at three in the morning. So it was obvious which bed was his. But still, he woke me up to argue about it. I guess he really wanted bottom bunk. The more he spoke, the more obvious it became to me that not only did I not understand him, but I didn't even recognize the language he was speaking. I told him "I don't understand" in four different languages before rolling over and pretending to sleep, while he jabbered on relentlessly. In the morning he was gone, and I was relieved.
8.10.2002
Ironically, I came home last night to find an old man in my bed. It wasn't the same one, though. This one snores. He snores like he's trying to break his face. It's a horrible sound, but incredible for its power. I could hear it when I stepped off the elevator, and I immediately felt bad for his roommates. Imagine my surprise to find the source of the sound asleep in my bed.
I opened the door and all time became circular.
"You're in my bed!" I didn't actually say it, I didn't have the heart to wake up an old man at three in the morning to yell at him, but dammit he was in my bed. He had to move half of my things before he could lie down on the thing, it's not like he didn't know. "I've been sleeping on those sheets for three days. I'm a filthy human being. Do you know where I've been?"
And he reset my alarm clock. It was one of the few things, along with some gummy bears and a bottle of Sprite, that he didn't move. I guess he thought that the hostel came completely furnished with my possessions. Alarm clock. Shower shoes. Gummy bears. I don't think he ate any of my gummy bears, which was a wise decision on his part. You can't buy guns in Amsterdam, but you can buy knives.
He snored ceaselessly throughout the night, and by morning I had developed a full-blown hatred for the man. In the morning, when he left, he looked at me like he understood that we were not on good terms.
I met Denise at the train station my second day in town. She was a while ahead of me in line, and the first person in the long cue not to get a room in a hostel. She introduced herself to me in hopes that we might live together on a houseboat. It sounds more romantic than it would have been. Denise doesn't really seem like the romantic type. After a few mintues on the phone, she told me that she was tired of seamen (it's a boat joke), and that there was nowhere to stay. And so, Denise and I parted. After she'd left, I turned to the girls behind me in line and started talking about what a flake Denise always is, how she was alway backing out of all of our plans at the last minute.
"But...wait. Didn't you just meet that girl?"
"Who? Denise? Yeah, totally."
"Then why are you talking shit about her?"
I ran into Denise again last night, so we went to a big comedy club together. It was a great improv-sketch-style show that made me really envious of all the members, and it was absolutely hilarious. I also learned that I don't particularly like hanging out with Denise; she has no sense of timing in dialogue, and she stops telling half of her stories right in the middle, often in the middle of the sentence. She creates these horrible awkward gaps in the conversation, and I say horrible awkward things to fill them. But she was the first American I'd spoken to in a week, and I appreciated her vocabulary.
1. There are mosquitoes in my room at night. There is no sound that I hate more than a mosquito near my ear. Who doesn't smack the side of their head when they hear that sound? My body is covered with red pocks where they feasted on me in my sleep. The other night I had a dream that I had athlete's foot, and woke up to find that they'd gone to school on the bottom of my feet. The problem is that our room is too warm to shut the windows, but their is no screen. I went to the front desk to ask about a room with a screen.
"I am afraid zere are no roomz wis screenz, ze mosquitoz are here for only two week per year. And ze first time ve have seen zem was possibly sree dayz ago."
"So I came here during mosquito week?"
"Ja! Zat is vut my manager has named it as vell!"
2. Now out of France, I kissed a french girl for the first time last night. The funny part was that she french-kissed the whole time. It was hysterical. I actually needed to stop kissing to laugh out loud. I hate french kissing, I really don't enjoy it that much, but it felt great to laugh like that. It's like french bread or french onion soup: in France they're just called bread and onion soup.
(8.8.2002) 3. The phrase "it's like riding a bicycle" demeans my entire afternoon. It took me more than an hour to get used to riding that thing. The shape of its frame is a joke at my expense, and it has foot-brakes like my childhood Huffy. It's hard to look like a local while falling off a bright red rental bike. Although, yesterday a woman at a movie theatre spoke to me in Dutch for what must have been twenty seconds, which was both complimentary ("Nice, I don't look like the big tourist that I am") and terrifying ("Why it this woman spitting on me?"). Dutch is a horrible language, I have no problem being blunt about the matter.
(8.9.2002) 4. At least in this corner of Europe, the Doritos chip flavor "Cool Ranch" is called "Cool American." I'm not sure what that means.
5. I pushed a German teen out of the way of a tram today. And, in return, he spit his thanks in Dutch. It's really such a horrible language. But it felt good to help him, even if he was a German tourist, because I myself can't seem to keep out of the way of the trains. People have been saving my life all week long. In Paris, my friend Emily noted that the chime of a bicycle bell is probably the most friendly and pleasant-sounding way to say "Get the fuck out of my way." The bells on the front of the trams aren't much different. They're not alarming, they're not bothersome, they're almost...pleasant-sounding. And they certainly don't say "Get the fuck out of my way." At least not to me. And so it's really just a matter of time before I get hit by one of them. One girl told me that at least one tourist a week gets hit during this season. And while I normally wouldn't buy any fact preceded by the phrase "one girl told me," I don't really have trouble believing the statistic.
6. I tore my favorite pants today climbing onto a bicycle. It's a huge tear, stretching down the upper portion of my right thigh and quite obviously revealing my underwear. Luckily, there was a group of elderly Dutch women there to laugh at me. To quote the band Queen, who, I might add, has a huge following in the gay masses of Amsterdam, "I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride my bike." It's not a sentiment I particularly share. No, I'd say my bike and I have more of a fear-hate relationship. I look at it with the same look of scorn I'd give anyone who'd just desecrated my favorite pair of pants.
Buddha: Possessions are fleeting.
Ben: Fuck you, Buddha, I'm talking about my favorite pants.
8.06.2002
Because pennies and nickels are as useless here as they are in the states, I never use them, and they collect heavy in my pocket. If I don't get rid of them throughout the day, by nightfall my right left weighs significantly more than my left, and I walk with a terrible stagger. So yesterday, when a man approached me for change, I did the un-American thing and acknowledged his existence. I reached into my pocket and pulled out an assortment of maybe ten coins, handing them over to the gristled local, who never so much as looked up from his outstretched hand.
"What is this?" he asked. "No, you give me euro, don't be cheap."
I was blown away. I couldn't believe he didn't know this.
I wanted to say, "You're a beggar, you're not allowed to be a chooser. That's the only thing anyone says about beggars. I can't believe you've never heard that."
8.5.2002 I was walking down the street yesterday when a man whispered at me. He didn't make eye contact, he didn't look up or turn back to look at me after we'd passed each other, our only communication at all was his whispering "cocaaaaine."
One of my friends told me this would happen. In Europe, to sell hard drugs, dealers whisper the name of a drug to people in passing. If you're interested, you're supposed to indiscreetly follow the dealer, who will no doubt lead you somewhere shady, to some alley or darkened park, where he will then either sell you some serious narcotic or bludgeon you with your belongings after taking them from you. "Oww! My wallet!"
I'd been here three hours before I'd had both cocaine and heroin whispered at me. It's alarming. Not just because I apparently fit the profile of a junkie, but because these guys are are ruining whispering. I'm not an advocate of hard drugs, but I am an advocate of whispering, especially in a place where the only loud people are American tourists.
Today is whispering day. Today is the day to win back whispering, drug dealer style. Either win it back or creep the hell out of a lot of people.
I'll be the one staring at the ground.
"Have a nice afternoon."
I won't even look up, I'll just keep on walking.
"I like your outfit, you have a good sense of style."
I could even do it the way the dealers do it, where my targets are encouraged to follow.
"You should join me for lunch. We could order soup and tell each other riddles."
8.04.2002
Wow. Wow. Amsterdam is crazy. It's an absurd city, and I love it. I'm really glad that I spent so much time in Paris before coming here, because I think I appreciate everything much more. For instance, everyone smiles at me. I haven't been smiled at in a month. The women look at my face when they smile, and the men, well, I happened to show up during the biggest gay pride festival in Europe, so the men smile too. It's a beautiful city, somewhat like an amalgamation of Paris and Venice, of canals and French architecture. And the bars and sidewalks smell suspiciously like South Hall.
More to come soon, I have a lot to say about this place.
8.03.2002 I learned to tango in Paris. Not well, the steps can be complicated and I'm not a good dancer, but I understand it now. On the bank of the Seinne, the dirty river that divides Paris, a hundred people gather every night to dance the tango. It's a beautiful dance, erotic and graceful and gorgeous, I'm sad that I only learned the basic steps this week. And I really only learned how to fake them, but I learned enough to lie my way onto the same plane as the real lovers. Bumping into their backs. Tripping over their feet.
Since my friends and I discovered the gathering, I've been going down consistently to watch. It's really beautiful. More than once I've lied my way out of hanging out with people to sneak down to the river alone. There are always several parties going on -- the rastas and the drum circlers and the Irish folk dancers -- but I spend almost all my time watching the tango dancers. I just know how much I would love doing this if I could. Most of them don't come as couples, they come alone and ask perfect strangers to dance, and then for five minutes they have this absolutely graceful, erotic relationship. These people dance every night until two or three in the morning. Women have never been so beautiful. Paris. The food is excellent and the bread abounds and my favorite candy company has a wonderful monopoly, but the tango dancers, the tango dancers are my favorite part of Paris.
In Morgan's fourth-grade class of twenty-six people, five of the twelve boys had a crush on her. She, however, was blind to their fascination. But they knew who each other were. Each could feel the other's gaze on her like it was his own, and the sensation sat low in their stomachs like Wednesday lasagna. Once she wore a tank-top and the walls of the classroom hummed. Danny Parkins requested to sit next to Chris Thompson for his proximity to her, and later during lunch he would be strangled for it. Years later, when she was struck down by a car and killed, three of the five boys would cry, and all five would collapse into bed as if the bones had left their bodies.
