la femme follette

maybe 100 or so

Mona ran into a friend of ours from high school, coincidentally married to some far-flung former colleague of hers.  I was disinterested; Mona chastised me for not being forgiving.  Mona is in a mood because a friend of hers from grad school dropped dead a few months ago:  he was 38; she is on a wicked carpe diem bender.  She sent the first message to Turk through me.  Turk replied readily, similarly.  They are both wary & circling, waiting for me to facilitate.  Mona should pony up her brave new outlook; I already facilitated ten years ago. A second chance -- imagine.

I do. I won't.

Mari and I are lately unable to resolve the matter of Superman spinning the world backwards to save Lois.  He says it is the stupidest thing ever.  I say it makes perfect sense.  He regales me with all the reasons it is "totally stupid," why spinning the globe to time-travel would never work.  I say, "yeah, whatever.  like a clock, ok?"  This is not like when I cheekily made fun of LOTR to love it & laud it in the end.  Resolving a conflict like this is why marriage was invented. 

100 words

Mari wonders why I want a BlackBerry.  Its seductiveness lies in its command potential. All the channels, silenced &  thrown in my bag.  Like 1993, in the bar where I spent every afternoon.  The phone rang & the chorus sang, "not here!" I could finish a fifth of scotch and a cheeseburger with bacon, pickles, and russian dressing; all while George told me another story from his life between Normandy and Heartbreak Ridge.  Kowalski hovered, waiting for me.  When George died -- at his funeral -- his wife knew my name.   

100 words

Kowalski rang early serenading with a recently-worked-out sequence of Wilco on his mandolin.  I told him he had timing issues.  Two close friends I matched up 10 or 11 years ago want a rematch. Now two divorces and 1200 miles between them, they think the time is right.  It seems too hard. Garçon embraces difficulty & fights me every day about whether he or the metronome is wrong.  Dancing in the kitchen after breakfast, I told him Carlos Santana surely once hated quarter-note practice, but he & his mother persisted -- just listen.

"Sorry, I don't have any orange juice," Lara said.