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Autographed Novellas
Lorina's ex-husband plays with plastic sharks in public pretty near, in proximity, the place where Lorina performs one of her seven jobs. I'll come into the public place and nod at him and he'll, taking a break from the positioning of plastic sharks, nod back.

I would not say there is a growing lack of amity between us, yet, now that the words are out here, let's at least suggest that there is. There's only about 500 people you would have to know around here to say that you literally knew everyone so it is probably counterproductive to make snap judgements, or quick enemies.

Lorina's ex-husband goes by the name Spencer, although Lorina says the name on his birth certificate is Morton. I pondered the why-fore of such a thing until finally, coming up with nothing, I asked Lorina. I said, "If his name is Morton why doesn't he go by Morton, or Mort, or Mortie." Lorina nodded sadly, but with the crease of a smile on her red lips, and I, sure that I had asked a stupid question searched my database of limited knowledge for the obvious answer before she could give it to me. I did not want to seem too dense on the subject of why a person would change names. But Lorina, who was only midway through the one act play comprised entirely of facial expressions, entitled, Why Morton Calls Himself Spencer, simply raised her eyebrows, blinked her eyes (first concurrently one with the other and then sequentially), scrunched up her nose, puckered her lips, sucked in her cheeks and finishing with an impressive neck roll and a punctuating cluck of the tongue, said, "I really don't know."

So for now some things will remain mysterious. There are questions that will remain unanswered.

I was at a basketball game yesterday at the MCI Center in DC. There was a miniature but fully operational blimp floating around the stadium doing, to my knowledge, the only thing blimps are capable of doing, other than floating and steering, and that is advertising a product. The product was, nah, uh uh, psyche.

They now play over the sound system abbreviated arrangements of popular hip-hop and rap tunes throughout the game, instead of just at the breaks.

Right before the game began fireworks shot up from hidden cannons mounted on top of the goals. The smoke did not rapidly dissipate. About twenty minutes into the game the person sitting to my left, obviously so distracted by the ongoing spectacle of the modern day professional sporting event, and having forgotten about the fireworks said, "Is it smoky in here?" This guy, the guy seated to my left, is someone who, like me, is old enough to accept unpleasant possibilities as explanation for anything that may occur in life. Completely forgetting the fireworks he must have been accepting the possibility that life for him was going grey. I do not know if my answer was enough to pep him up from the potentially unpleasant reality he was facing, going blind in the middle of a professional sporting event, but he did, like me, upon receiving my answer that it was indeed smoky, fireworks be blamed, wonder just what the hell are they doing shooting fireworks in an indoor stadium. The fireworks did not even spell out the name of a product.

It was kids' day at the stadium and I got a portable basketball hoop and ball to enjoy in the comfort of my own home.

Do not get me wrong. I love the spectacle of professional sports. Even though I would fire whoever is the chief in charge of courtside priorities. I would replace those two pimply teenagers who get to sit practically under the goal so they can wipe up from the floor the leaking bodily fluids of professional athletes, with the entire cheerleading squad, who have somehow been most ridiculously delegated to the outer wings of the stadium. I would of course justify this change in terms of dollars and cents and not by the implied whim of some antiquated sexist mind-set. You know what I'm saying? Butt cheek product placement.

There was a baby race, an air guitar contest, a best smile contest, a kiss your girlfriend contest, a little kids slam dunk contest, a shoot around the world contest, an entire elementary school amount of kids singing the national anthem (off key), and of course the obligatory cute and quirky mascot. The cheerleaders had the floor for a while as did a dance team. There was a guy dressed up like a superhero who with the aide of a trampoline and landing mat executed some high-flying slam dunks, one with a full flip included. The same guy later shot t-shirts into the upper decks from a strap on device looking like a flame-thrower but which was instead a type of bazooka.

A tall guy from one team attempting to score against the tall guy from the other team became entangled with his competitor but scored anyway and to punctuate his prowess under the basket, after landing, spanked his opponent on the ass. His opponent became angry, but nobody cared, or paid him any attention, so he just went about looking confused and sullen for a few more minutes, before being taken out of the game for a rest, or to apply salve to his sore ass.

There is a huge TV screen hanging from the rafters in case somewhere in the middle of the game you realize you would rather be at home.

A guy came right up to my seat offering beer and peanuts but I figured there was probably a catch to it so I declined his offer.

A famous tall person looking slightly ill at ease in his clothing was projected onto the big screen and after seeing him on TV people nearby wanted his autograph even if they had no idea who he was. The famous tall person took more than a little time with each autograph, as if he had suddenly realized this was the time to begin that novel he had always wanted to write. He would write and concentrate and write some more. He would then look up and see the little kid who had given him the paper or ball to write on and he would smile apologetically and say a few words of explanation as to why these particular autographs might seem more like novellas. None of the children complained about this.
- jimlouis 11-15-2004 7:26 pm [link] [8 comments]