The Lexicographer's Rules

Something incredibly appealing about her overbite. Maybe something childish, kicks in my hard wiring, makes me concerned, fatherly, motherly, protective. She's got a hold of my idle brain cycles. English-Israeli, if there's such a thing. Yes, Israeli woman number two. Coincidence, but who knows? Four languages. World-travelled. Soft, doughy, smooth, skin, thick wrists. Shiny, straight hair, colored, sure, but nice. Curvy, unconscious of it, but classy, stylish, though sedate, conservative. Smells like. Smells, well, like tomato blossoms. Yes. And gold eyes. Last pair of eyes like that, lovely Julia, who met, married and moved to Israel with a man in two weeks. These eyes, though, sun perch, harvest moon, goldenrod, bear honey. We talk. Her mouth moves, words issue, I hear, I feel, I respond. Later, I remember nothing. Says nothing about herself, or am I lost, deaf, blind? Vedi, good man, cuts out early. Leaves us two, talking, ignoring the task at hand, explaining the world to each other.

Called last night, depressed, bawling. Me conked out like a woodpile, incomprehensible. Sleeping. No, talk to me. What? I am awake. No. Who is this? Okay. Tomorrow. Thanks. Bye. She's fine. Broke up with her boyfriend. Likes me. Very predictable about it. Don't mind. Smart girl. Loud, loud. Always just a few pitches louder than necessary. Talk about sex? Always loud. Words for organs bouncing off walls, people looking, Goldie oblivious. Raucous laugh, too much, kind of embarrassing. Always. She's fond of the low-cut top. Me too. But all the time? (Source Link)

Tuesday helped her with computer. Died earlier, now better. Two sweet kitties, red sauce with peas, wine, beer, idle chatter, gossip. Nice girl. You'd like her. Dating somebody on a path to fame. Not Harrison Ford fame, more like Ken Ober fame. Maybe. Ran into Henley at the train. Talked to him. Nothing to say. "What's up?" Nothing. How bout you? "Nothing. What're you doing out here?" All skeptical like. Nothing. Visiting friends. "You know people out here?" It's Williamsburg. Everybody knows somebody in Williamsburg. Yeah, a friend of mine. Make it sound important, make it a Thing, not just a thing. Yeah, we're having dinner. Yeah, her roommate's in movies. Yeah, they've been out here, like, forever. Before you, anyway. When it was hip. She's cool. He's cool. Apartment's huge. Apartment can be penis of a platonic roommate relationship. Big apartment is like big penis. Brag. Show it off. Make bold claims, even on behalf of others. I do. Yeah, Henley, they pay, like, no rent. Cheap. Margaret Cho shot a movie there. Yeah. Quick trains back. Man dressed as woman. Halloween? Two days ago, buddy. But whatever suits. (Source Link)

Not a sitcom plot. Tiki stole props off Star Wars set. He has them still. One of a kind, well, now two of a kind. Couldn't make movie without them. Can't tell you what they are, otherwise George Lucas on my doorstep, in my mail, on my phone. Tiki is fake name. True, true. (Source Link)

Tech magazine, trade journal disease. Article victims shown in photos with arms crossed. Who crosses their arms for photos? Nobody. Photographers ask for it. Lame trick. Says, I think I'm tough, but my arms are crossed to protect me. From the camera, dumb photo monkeys. Why are businesswomen shown with lips pursed and eyebrows raised? Slate caricature, columnist photos. Look tough? No. Maybe gas? Durian in the room? Also, drop the floppy necktie. 1986. Also bad: photo next to column should be different every time. (Source Link)