Saturdays on Another Planet
Why is a raven like a writing desk?
A guido is not a guido when he’s actually Israeli. He may break the ice by sitting on your friend’s lap, placing her hands over his bulging, bosomy pectoral muscles and flexing them in time to Sean Paul (“Ssshh,” he’ll respond when you ask what he’s doing. “Sssh.”), but that doesn’t mean he isn’t a law student with a genuine interest transgender politics. It does mean, however, that he will break your conversation about the books you’re editing at work to yell things like Pop that pussy! at a girl dancing a few feet away. It also means that his shirt appears painted on and reads “Looks Better Naked” on the back.
But it doesn’t mean that he won’t readily admit guido style is gay bar style. Personal theorem #7583 confirmed.
A sneaker is like a puddle of blood when it’s attached to a foot sticking out of a shadowy gas station back room, and the door is locked, and all the lights are on, and all the signs say the establishment is 24-hours, and your friend has been leaning on her car horn for a few minutes, and you’re beginning to think something deeply disturbing has gone down. Fortunately the foot will wiggle and the man attached to it will emerge from his paid slumber before you finish dialing the number for the local police department, but until that moment, a sneaker on a lifeless foot is equally suspicious as a few carnelian drops leading around some dark corner.
[For what it’s worth, I just googled the raven/writing desk riddle and aside from several answers given by a veteran puzzle solver (because Poe wrote on both; because the notes for which they are noted are not noted for being musical notes), Lewis Carroll himself said: “…Enquiries have been so often addressed to me, as to whether any answer to the Hatter’s Riddle can be imagined, that I may as well put on record here what seems to me to be a fairly appropriate answer, viz: ‘Because it can produce a few notes, tho they are very flat…” But he goes on to confirm the riddle was supposed to have no answer at all (duh). Thanks again, Straight Dope!]
Maybe Mercury was in retrograde, or maybe mercury had contaminated the New York drinking supply, but either way Saturday night was like a page torn from one book and glued into another at random. Sometimes taking the train from the city to where I grew up is nothing more than a change of scenery. On Saturday night, I might as well have hopped into a blender. All the elements of normalcy were frapped into a weird smoothie of recognizable ingredients yielding bizarre flavors: here is someone I’ve known my entire life living out an episode of “My So-Called Life”; here is me sleeping on the couch of a person with whom I’ve hung out only a handful of times; here is an actual, intentional hunt for guidos and here is me sitting backseat for the ride. Here is a conversation with a guy whose accent is so thick it took me two times to understand that he was, indeed, asking me whether or not I like Journey.
Here is me wondering exactly how other people can pick that up just by looking at me.
I at least once a day I wish for something to completely shake up the routine of going to work, going home, and rarely seeing an unfamiliar face. Then, though, when it happens, I spend a Sunday recuperating like I’d taken a fall and some how bruised my entire life.
I think I’d rather be black and blue than bored.