14 04 2008
I was born in New York. I am a fan of baseball. There are only twenty people in this country that have the same last name as me.
See? That isn’t difficult. I don’t have to divulge national secrets, but goddamnit I do have to say something. Just whatever. Make some kind of effort. C’mon kid, it’s game time. Focus. No crowd. No lights. No cameras. Just you and the ball.
I look at her. Sitting up straight, poised, ready for something to happen. But, nothing’s happening… I’m trying… something spontaneous… let’s go to Vegas… naw, let’s just go the bathroom. Be the ball, Danny, nananananaa… A tiny straw is between her fingers. She is stabbing it violently, hopelessly through a slush of ice and alcohol. This is crazy! This is a mistake! Don’t say that, though. Now, she’s checking herself out in the mirror behind the bar, ah! The lust sparkling in her eyes! Oh yeah, you look good. Work it. ‘Cause I’m gonna work you. I’m gonna lay some shit on you like you ain’t never heard.
I wonder if I made the right move going with the casual look, the baseball jersey, the sneaks. What are my clothes saying about me, seeing how they are the only thing talking? Maybe she doesn’t want good conversation. I don’t know what she wants, but there is a look in her eye. It means something. Every look means something. Even if it means nothing. Earth to Zen master- stop staring at her breasts. A conversation is a road. To her place. Think about it that way. The looks are signs.
Maximum speed and so forth.