off in Pennsylvania...
t turns out that it was cocaine, not heroin, that killed former Big Funster Shira. Isn't that a relief? Okay junkies, sorry about the false alarm, you can continue with whatever cool thing it was that you were doing when I interrupted you. The cocaine had been injected into Shira's neck by the male friend who subsequently left her to die. It kind of reminds me of the guy who injected cocaine into his own dick. That guy survived, but after all his limbs, fingers and toes were through falling off, he probably wished he hadn't (see sidebar). Philadelphia police are treating Shira's death as a homicide.
I wonder if the ghetto-slang term "homie" is linguistically related to the Latin homo (and Spanish hombre)?
meanwhile here in Virginia...
eya let me off on the Corner on her way to work so I could get my bicycle, which I'd left at Comet over the space party weekend. I rode to the Downtown Mall and paid up a large multi-month gas bill that had languished in neglect. I wonder if Deya and I will ever be able to recoup anything from Matthew Hart for his part in that bill. It's not as easy to keep heat in a building with broken windows. Well, at least I heard he had a lot of fun on that New Orleans trip, the one where he and Angela somehow blew $1400.
I wanted to go into the Downtown Artspace and recover a half gallon of vodka I'd left down there on Friday, but no one was there. I assumed someone would eventually turn up, so I blew time in various ways.
I went into a new record store in the glitzy newish mini-mall across from Miller's. It's called "CDs for Less" and it's run by a guy with one of those teaming shores accents. He asked what kind of music I liked. "Rock and roll" I said casually, appreciating the unhipness of the words. He tried to interest me in expensive rarities and imports, and I flipped through them politely. Most of the CDs in the store seemed to be relics from the glam-metal age. Is the stuff that I listen to actually still called rock and roll? I've noticed that a lot of DJs have quit saying the "and roll" part. How about punk rock? No one wants to say that any more either. Punk rock bands today would rather you'd think them ska, and they rent a horn section every now and then to add credence to the claim. But "ska" is an even older term than punk rock. And punk rock was never "punk rock and roll."
My Dad once insulted a woman by dismissing jazz as a form of "folk music." He also once made the mistake of asking a Chinese guy if the "chow" dog was named that for the quality of its meat.
In front of Chaps, the ice cream place near the center of the Mall, I ran across tall Brook, dressed as he almost always is, in a red apron, dark pants and white shirt, taking a little break from his job as a waiter in nearby Sal's Pizza. Brook has that easy-going calm that goes along with being six and a half feet tall. Everything seems to be going fine with him, or so I suspect from his laid-back demeanor and his perpetually squinty eyes. He tends to mumble when he talks, and his head is so far up in the clouds that it's difficult to make out his face sufficiently to read his lips.
Brook was one of the first people I met in Charlottesville. In all the time I've known him, I've rarely seen him anywhere except in the middle of the Downtown Mall. He's virtually become a trademark of Sal's Pizza, where his charismatic calm no doubt brings repeat customers and high tips.
I was hungry and Sal's was having an all-you-can eat buffet for $5.50, so I decided to dine there.
I felt a little odd eating at a restaurant all by myself in my own home town. I rarely eat at restaurants, and then almost never alone. Aren't you supposed to have a date, a business partner or something? Otherwise, what's there to do between bites? I found myself watching a football game on the teevee. I wasn't really watching; I was mesmerized by the visual busy-ness of it all.
Other patrons came in, some solo. Those who did, even middle aged men, did so hesitantly, lest they be perceived as entering a restaurant to eat by themselves. They seemed so relieved to find their parties waiting for them.
A group of dapper young business men next to me ordered a non-buffet lunch of subs and iced tea. They were soon joined by an older man who looked exactly like Mr. Smithers of the Simpsons. Talk was of business, and not only that, but stacks of businesslike papers had been brought to lunch to be pored and fussed over. The poor guys. They, the young men especially, looked so uncomfortable in their stiff business uniforms, particularly when they had me to compare themselves to. What did they do at the end of their days? They probably had complete businessman suits tatooed on their naked bodies.
I don't think I got my money's worth from the pizza I ate. It turns out that I wasn't all that hungry. But something about tall gentle Brook had made me want to eat there.
I never did get my vodka. I had some Mudhouse coffee and returned to Kappa Mutha Fucka to do not especially interesting things.
n the evening, Deya and I sat in my room with Nicholas the cat and watched the Simpsons and Seinfeld on my computer monitor. I guess this was Deya's way of demanding more socializing from me. Of late I've found little reason to leave my room, and I've felt kind of guilty for how little I hang out with her.
Ray Snabley came by briefly. I've heard that he lives nearby somewhere, and that Raphæl, who has been having differences with the easy-going mother of his child, is staying with him. Ray wanted phone numbers for Jessika and Sara, perhaps related to the Shira thing. Up until fairly recently, Ray had been living the reclusive life with a doe-eyed blond girlfriend somewhere in rural Nelson County.