Wednesday, January 24, 2007
“Who am I?” I wonder, gazing at the piles of magazines lining aisle after aisle of the Barnes and Noble down the street from my house. Am I the literary section? The art section? Entertainment? I spot the wedding section from the corner of my eye and keep walking. I’ve had the kind of day that finds me leafing through the latest issue of Long Island Bride. Today is not that day.
There are three different surfing magazines. In Brooklyn. New York. What kind of demand can there be for this glut of choice. “Hey, um, I was wondering if you had Surfer magazine? No, I already have Surf and Surfing…”
Hang ten on the Gowanus Canal, bro. Steer clear of dead bodies and you’re good ‘till spring.
The Men’s Interest section is called, “Sports”. The Women’s Interest section is called, “Women’s Interest”. It sounds like a euphemism for menstruation. “Leslie can’t go swimming this week. She has a case of ‘women’s interest’”.
On Monday I was rejected by a job that doesn’t pay any money. I feel like a woman who’s been dumped by a married man. I wonder if there’s a magazine section for that. “Other Woman’s Interest”. It would have magazines like Stalking and Deceit. “Top 10 ways to threaten to call his wife”. “Camilla Parker Bowles, adulteress of the century!”
I pick up a glossy English mag with Courtney Love on the cover. It weighs 85 pounds. Who writes this shit? Are they hiring? If I work for free will they love me?
An Asian couple huddles around the newest issue of Town and Country. A homeless dude reads Nylon.
Sometimes a person finds it difficult to muster up even the slightest bit of interest in things.
I wish I still smoked. I wish tomorrow wasn’t my birthday.