Saturday, March 27, 2010

Islands in the streaming ...

Lately I have been really fascinated by the idea of "curling up with a good book." While I read a lot, it's never in a leisurely way that requires a fisherman knit sweater, a cup of tea, and a cat far-more precious than the lumbering teen-aged oaf clomping around this place. I read before bed, over lunch, on toilets, and whenever I have at least a 2-minute wait for anything. What a pleasant idea, though. I'm going to sit here and reeaaaddd. Just read. That will probably never happen because now our Wii is capable of streaming Netflix. This means I can spend 18 hours watching mediocre whatevers that I probably wouldn't even watch if it was on TV. But this, this is novel. "March of the Penguins"? Meh. Why not. As long as there are moving pictures.


Me: "I should see if the pizza delivery guy will give me a ride back downtown to get my car."
Chuck: "Someone should start a business where they do that, take you back to your car."
Me: "They do. It's called Yellow Cab."


When I thank the pizza delivery guy for traveling out of what I assume is their pie-zone, he uses the statement as a diving board into crazy talk. Hermantown, he tells me, is a tricky community. It's the moms who do the ordering there, and if you piss one off, it can sink your biz. This is hard: Some of their drivers are 20-somethings, an unpredictable lot to say the least. Who knows when one is going to piss off a mom in Hermantown and sink the biz?

I think this is what he was saying. I was distracted by a) the paint in his hair; b) the panic associated with not knowing exactly how I was going to get this guy to leave.


"Where'd you get those shoes," a man asks me at the bus stop. "I've never seen shoes like that."
"A trail store at Fitger's," I say. "There kind of hiking, all terrain shoes."
"Oh! Do you hike?" he asks.
"Well, I walked here," I said.


I'm sitting in a chair at Barnes & Noble reading. I hear the man next to me taking photos with his cell phone. I adjust so I can see what he's looking at. Profile shots of boobs in magazines. Photos a little edgier than what would run in Maxim, but not edgy enough to warrant "behind the counter" status.

I can't help that I immediately am able to see exactly how his night will unfold. Leaves store. Transfers photos to computer. Opens a bag of Cheetos. ... I can't stop watching him take these photos, and thinking about his bravery in unabashedly announcing to this store: I'm a boob man. I can't wait to look at these boobs again later.

That's when I remembered that I was sitting here about 60 pages deep into the memoir "Whip Smart" by Melissa Febos, her story of being a dominatrix. The difference between me and this amateur photographer, however, is that I'm not a pervert.

Postscript: When I left the store, Camera slappy was sitting with his mom in the coffee shop.


Sproactually said...

In some parallel universe, the word "internet" translates via a binary to EBCDIC conversion that spells out "free boobs, no need to sneak playboys any longer"

Yes, print media is dying, however, a select few are recording the dying days on cell phones. Or as it then dawned on me, this guy is a classified sex offender, i bet he is not allowed a computer, so shift those cheeto's thoughts to an orange stained cell phone later.

Amy said...

once at BN we caught a teenager taking pictures on his phone up ladies' skirts. and asses. we busted him. i try to warn parents that dump their kids in the kids department that creeps hang out in there all the time, but to no avail.

feisty said...

wow. those fricken crazy moms in hermantown ordering pizzas and sinking businesses. that is hilarious. i'm pretty anti-hermantown, myself....