Trick looked up at the bay window. He raised the phone and dialed. No answer. He looked at the window again. He dialed again. Brystol answered. She asked him what he wanted. She sounded irritated. He asked if he could come up. She told him no. In his romcom fantasy, she had welcomed him with warmth and gusto. He sighed and trudged off.

In her romcom fantasy, he had ignored her no, burst through the door, and generally behaved in such ways that, if her friend Chessil had expressed the same scenario, she would have described as most resembling a creepy stalker. When she peered out the window, he was no longer there. This happened several more times, and always ended in disappointment.

Brystol's boyfriend Trock knew that she wasn't into him enough. That much was obvious. In his romcom fantsay, though, his persistence and unwavering devotion finally melted her cold, black heart, and she changed into the woman of his dreams. In her romcom fantasy, he effortlessly changed into an entirely different man. Trock lavished her with attentions and affections, directly in furtherance of his aims. For this reason, she disrespected him greatly. Brystol did not want someone to put her on a pedestal, nor did she want someone who wanted to spend all his time with her. What she wanted was something entirely different.

One day, when particularly irritated by Trock, she called Trick and invited him to dinner. She made clear that it was strictly platonic. He dropped everything, cancelled all his plans, made several sacrifices that could not be justified if he were to try to explain this to someone logically, and met her for dinner. In his romcom fantasy, things would not be strictly platonic. In her romcom fantasy, he would ignore the platonic bit and put the moves on her. Both were disappointed that night.

Life began to wear on Brystol. Trock continued to grate on her nerves. She was losing hope for all aspects of her life, and panic caused her to travel on false pretenses to go visit her ex-boyfriend Treck. Treck was probably not what you would call a ladies' man, but he had lots of women, and he treated them all like dirt. In her previous dealings with him, Brystol had been subjected to all manner of abuse, and though she complained about it and reciprocated, this was treatment with which she was very comfortable. In her romcom fantasy, their mutual mistreatment was indicative for their great love for one another, and Treck would someday forego all his other affairs and declare her to be his one and only. In his romcom fantasy, he bested the Sultan of Brunei in personal combat, somehow won his title, and satisfied himself with no fewer than ten concubines per day.

Still, Brystol's soul was not completely filled, and when she returned home, she positioned herself in three ways to provoke Trick. In her romcom fantasy, he would recognize her vulnerability, accommodate her whims, and fight her boyfriend for her. He did not recognize her vulnerability, nor did he understand that her callous airs of indifference masked the significance of her seemingly innocuous statements to him of late. In his romcom fantasy she would stop being such a bitch.

Shortly thereafter they both died of broken hearts, one after the other. Trock was devastated. He couldn't figure out what had happened. Then again, who can?

This is the night that the clockwork burns down. This is the night of elbows scraping against iron bars. Tom Stoppard thought he had a glass full of fractals, when really it was an ass full of dactyls. This is the night of candelabras crashing into the shoes of giants. This is the night when the man with the homburg sings a hymn for the hopeless. The novice groped an honored mater outside the slic hut. This is the night that the hunger reached out for the abyss and fell in. This is the night that the crack broke its own mother's back. Sweet Nutty went to the levee and the levee didn't like it one bit. This is the night of the British spellings. This is the night of the sandpiper's dream. Lady Starbucks wondered about the healing powers of the dental-floss bikini. This is the night that nothing lasts forever. This is the night that nothing ever ends. The Q2 Gang tripped the light fantastic while waxing the text unreadable. This is the night of the Magic Mainspring. This is the night of remembering Trufflehunter's name. There's ice cream waiting for me in another world.

The loud girl wasn't there. The dynamic boy missed her only in the most tangential sense. As the radio plays. The flighty girl missed her when she wasn't getting enough attention, for the loud girl was disturbingly good at giving her attention. I just can't face myself alone again. The weary boy did not miss her, for he had peered into her soul and seen the evil fomenting within. Maybe we ain't that young anymore. Italian blared. You ain't a beauty but, hey, you're all right. The euphuistic boy was of three minds about the subject and he made no prætense about it. Throw roses in the rain. The rude girl flip-flopped like a politician on speed. For a savior to rise from these streets. They maintained their course, with smut, standards, and debauchery. Is beneath this dirty hood.

The weary boy invoked the power of pork, and the euphuistic boy invoked Chaim and his band of goyim. Let the wind blow back your hair. The flighty girl grew more insecure. We got one last chance to make it real.

Oh, Thunderoos.

That was the best flan I've had since A-Rod's cousin brought me some. Hers wasn't topped with dulce de leche though. Suite Judy Blue Eyes, the dulce de leche. Mmm.

I don't know how I managed to get intoxicated. The waiter did flash me a creepy, mischievous smile when he was pouring my wine, so maybe he spiked it. Maybe the fine herbs in my cooked cheese were of a special psychoactive variety. I don't know.

What I do know is that I noticed something was wrong when I found myself walking up to a police officer and wishing him buenas noches. This is an unwise thing to do in police states like the US or UK. Depending on region and jurisdiction, this type of behavior can get you searched, cuffed, jacked, detained, questioned, interrogated, co-opted to help steal a fire truck, beaten, shot, looked at with disdain, or Clockwork-Oranged. He just looked at me like I was completely unsuspicious.

Then I inquired about how babby is formed. A few minutes later I was trying to escape from the ninth floor of a construction zone.

I have a friend whose name isn't Ronaldinho. not-Ronaldinho lives at the crossroads between two cultures. One culture is all about paying attention to your fellow human, trying to behave with honor and propriety, not inconveniencing anyone or causing them distress. The other culture is more about being reactive. Do what it is you like, and if you end up bothering people, they will alert you with loud complaints. Depending on the situation, the loud complaints can either result in apologies and behavior correction, or escalation.

The two of them don't mix particularly well because they're founded on entirely different assumptions. It's like what the Uruguayan prostitute says about the sponge used to wash ambos lados. I really hate her for that attitude.

ropa vieja : old rope :: sopa vieja : ?

1. old soup
2. old soap
3. shrimp butty
4. The Sexual Misadventures of Natty Gann

The West Virginian is huddled over his bong, swirling the ice cubes around his glass of cream sherry. There is a montage on the television, set to some factory-produced pop song sung by a no-talent teen who was thrust into major stardom with the help of comb filters and clever marketing. He is not watching the montage; he is thinking about Chris Wallace and nepotism.

He will stand in the end.

I'm in Manitoba, drinking port and eating Jarlsberg and fontina. This is not a pleasant combination, yet I have no intention of aborting the mission.

Robert DeNiro is wearing a rubber fat suit and shouting belligerently about carpentry. I still have never been to Winnipeg.

Throughout the years, people have informed me that various animals are unable to swim. In the first Diplomacy game I ever played, it was frequently mentioned that sheep cannot swim. At the Parade of the Flailing Clowns, it was observed that chimps cannot swim. The chimpanzee cannot swim, apparently, because of a total lack of body fat. That's right; chimps have absolutely 0 body fat. Not a single gram.

Tell someone obsessed with eating low-fat meat this factoid. You shall observe an order for potted chimp meat being placed immediately. On the other hand, if you point out that goat is lower in fat than chicken, this person will appear nonplussed, and continue to maintain the same diet, because even though goat is a leaner meat, it is red meat and therefore higher in fat than chicken, which is higher in fat than goat.

You can witness the same sort of behavior when pointing out the farmed nature of farm-raised fish to a free-ranger. There is a classification for this kind of interplay between faith, logic, and rationality. It is either insanity or religion; I forget the difference.

We sat at the round table, decanting the Tokaji. Elkins gave me a quizzical look. Podjad stared at the label on the bottle. Elkins wiggled her nose at me. It was then that I knew I was going to lose.

The Scourge of Scranton made his entrance, striding just so to maximize his projection of gravitas. His long, purple velvet cape trailed behind him as his knee-high leather boots clacked on the parlor floor.

Podjad studied a word etched on the carafe. Elkins smirked. The Scourge of Scranton stood before the table as beads of sweat collected on his widow's peak.

He looked at us. We looked at him. He strode out whence he came.