Friday, May 13, 2005

Duck and Cover

On the eve of Friday the 13th, the Henry Hudson parkway collapsed and a train bridge from New York to New Jersey caught fire and burned for three hours.

This (bedeviled!) morning on my walk to work, I tripped over shards of a shattered mirror. Two blocks later I crossed 6th Avenue just after a shiny black hearse sped past me, headed northward.

This does not bode well.

I wore my secondhand, schoolbus yellowAvon Lake sweatshirt today in hopes that the sense of security gleaned from passing off my pajamas as "casual Friday" wear would counteract the doom I detect coming down the pipeline. If not towards me personally, then at least towards the greater metropolitan area. It's Friday the 13th and I saw a hearse so a building's going to topple, or something, and whether or not it lands on my train or on my car or on my head I want to be wearing this sweatshirt when it happens.

[This is the part where I entertain a small paranoid fantasy that a building will actually fall down today, and someone will tip off the feds to my all too prophetic blog post, and I will be brought to some bunker for questioning, probably underground, probably slightly damp and I'll be wishing I had a coat, and someone will play back a surveillance tape on a TV bolted to a wall, hospital-style, and you will clearly be able to pick out a girl of my stature in a bright yellow shirt fleeing a building just before the camera goes all fuzzy. It wasn't me, I'll swear, I was at work! It's some horrible coincidence! I swear, I swear, there are other yellow sweatshirts in the world! Some kind of taser/chair/pen-to-the-neck fight ensues and I escape, but then have to spend the rest of my life checking into Motel 6s under assumed names in service of finding my Doppelganger. And then I remember that I don't live in a Murakami novel and that maybe, instead of reading tonight, I should, y'know, go out.]

The last couple of days have been strange. A FedEx disaster on Tuesday threatened to deny me my Weezer show on Wednesday but didn't succeed. The show was great, our tickets were, for some reason, in the VIP section (reason numero uno why scalping is fan-friggin'-tastic) and I have never in my life enjoyed watching a crowd so much. The audience was easily 75% male (and two-thirds of that were total lookers--I was like a hypoglycemic in the candy aisle) and 100% passionate about the band. There was fist-pumping, lyric-screaming, friend-hugging, and Rivers-loving as far as the eye could see. Dorky guys on all sides were shrieking orgasmically and throwing that weird Weezer gang sign.

I had no idea that Weezer's male fans were so devoted. These guys were not watching a show, they were worshipping at the Temple de Cuomo. I'm developing a theory about this strange, reciprocal, chicken-or-the-egg? relationship between the band and these guy fans, whereby the band writes some songs about being nerdy and wanting to be a rock star, which nerdy guys listen to and make bonafide rock stars out of the nerdy band, who then writes some more songs about being nerdy and being a rock star, which maybe three albums into their career aren't so great, and the nerdy fans still line up around the block and love them because they want to see themselves on the stage, because the band is them, and they are the band, and they want to be nerds who want to be rock stars who actually become rock stars instead of being just nerds. Or something. There's also something uniquely tragic and poetic and forgivable about Weezers albums of late being not so hot, but that's a different can of worms and, frankly, I don't have the stamina.

The show was great, light-up "w" and all. I think that's what I'm saying.

Kai and I got back really late afterwards. I got about ninety minutes of sleep before I had to get up, slap on my least stained business suit (the blazer of which was converted from 'indie rock ironic' at the Weezer concert to 'corporate casual' via Febreze and a pair of matching slacks) and head to the train station. I brilliantly, ingeniously, and ever so suavely scheduled a job interview for five o'clock yesterday.

Five o'clock. So, y'know, just in case the show the night before wasn't enough to kill me, I had an additional eight hours of Health Informatics excitement to guarantee yawning through another rehashing of my favorite books and computer skills. Genius.

I originally intended on writing about the job interview, but thought the better of it when I remembered it was Friday the 13th and roads are collapsing, bridges are burning, and broken mirrors decorated my path to work. I also entertained another brief paranoid delusion in which I would be googled, then rejected, then depressed, then unproductive, and then fired from my current job due to my extreme unproductivity. I'd have to move to Ohio but I wouldn't be able to get a job. I'd give my resume to every bookstore, coffeeshop and bar around, but no one would call. I'd end up working at the Denny's near Oberlin, serving hashbrowns ("Would you like those smothered and covered?") to current students who leave me pity tips because they recall once being in a fiction workshop with me.

The interview went okay. That's what I think I was trying to say. Let's just leave it with the fun fact that I saw Project Runway winner Jay McCarroll on the street in midtown yesterday just before I went. I love him dearly.

It's almost lunch and I'm trying to anticipate all of the things Friday the 13th could possibly cause to go wrong: salmonella, nasty burn on the roof of my mouth, silently choking to death while trying to Heimlich myself on a chair as my co-workers type and fax just feet away. If you happen to see my bluish body on the news accompanied by phrases like "unconscionable inaction" or "senseless tragedy," know that I was just another victim of the unluckiest day of the year.

Watch your backs, kiddos, and wear your helmets. Buckle up, look both ways, and use a condom lest you concieve some kind of horror-movie-premise child. Chew your food thirty-two times. Tie your shoes.

(And use those toiletseat protectors when you go to the bathroom, even if they just soak up all the pee on the seat the second you put them down and you're just sitting on uriney paper. You never know.)





[FRIDAY THE 13th STRIKES AGAIN: I lost this entire entry. I had to compose it again from memory. If you see anything lacking, rest assured that the original was Pulitzer Prize caliber.]

3 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

I'm sure you won't end up working at Denny's.


Maybe Blue Sky Diner, though. That place is klazzy.
-Clare

1:52 PM  
Blogger DMo said...

I once returned home to the fine Merrimack Valley of Massachusetts to see Rivers and Co. perform on the very stage that I had pranced across to accept my high school diploma.

I wish that the light-up "W" was there on commencment day; it would have made the whole affair more enjoyable.

3:34 PM  
Anonymous Rebecca said...

You saw Jay McCarroll?? Ooh, I'm jealous.

9:47 PM  

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