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Showing posts from February, 2017

The girl in the red pants

So there’s this girl.
There’s always a girl – isn’t there? – though God knows why, at this point.
This girl wears red pants. Every other Friday, the red pants. Like clockwork, which is a ridiculous simile, clockwork having no need for pants.
Why did I say that? I will delete it, surely, before I post this.
This girl – this woman, really – wears the pants to highlight what she believes to be her best attribute, but she is wrong. Her best attribute has nothing to do with pants because her best attribute is her nose. An Aztec nose, I believe, with hardly a break in its slope down from the forehead for the tiny divot between the eyes.
I talk with her sometimes, though never on a Friday of the Red Pants.
I try to view her in profile but this proves surprisingly difficult and involves much pointing at distant objects.
She was born on the day I graduated high school and if I had three hundred pictures of her, I would make her into one of my blog characters.

Kinky Friedman thinks I'm somebody

Kinky Friedman thinks I’m somebody.
He said so, and on national TV, to boot.**


It is always the same. On one day and only on one day each week, this happens:
I sit in an impossibly tiny office. The office is underground, beneath the Harris County Law Library. If I fail, at least once every two minutes, to wave my hands about me in the air, then the office lights shut off.
On this one day each week, people come down underground to see me and to talk to me. The people ask me questions about how they might go about doing legal actions on their own. They lack what we call “representation”, you see, because they are too poor or too stubborn or too demanding.
This is how the people find me: They go to court, trying to, say, get a divorce, or trying to get their kids back from a husband or a lover, and the judge says, “No. No, you’ve mucked this all up by trying to do it yourself.”
The judge says, “Now go across the street and talk to the man sitting in the dark beneath the law library and he will tell you how to un-muck this. If it can be un-mucked.”
This is my job.
Or t…

Deep breath

I wish I knew what to say. Hello there? Pleased to meet you? Hiya, perhaps? I’ll just get on with it:
For ten years, I was different people.
At first – not at my first, naturally, but at first when I’d started in as the different people – I was Adri. 2006 to 2010. Adri was reckless. Probably amoral. A hyper-sexual ginger who’d get in and out of troubles with her old friend, Harry.
But even in those days, I was not a reckless, probably amoral, hyper-sexual ginger.
Next I was Katy. 2011-2015. Of Katy, I will now list a few characteristics, just as I did with Adri. Katy was an intermittently homeless lesbian. What else? She was unfortunate, even to an extreme degree, I suppose. A co-worker, Harry, helped her to even the score at times.
If there was a score.
Either way, I was not an unfortunate, intermittently homeless lesbian.
Finally, I was Nasreen. This was in 2016, mostly. Nasreen was a pretty American Muslim who talked of little things and loved her family most of all. A man named Harry g…