Yesterday was the birthday of Bella, the evangelical in sales. She'd been talking about it for the better part of two months. It started with generic comments about her supposedly advanced age. "I'm coming up on middle age," she'd moan.
When actual middle-aged people suggested that she shouldn't consider her early thirties "middle age," she would respond with a sort of "But I'll be in my fifties eventually. You might as well call me grandma now."
A week ago, the moaning turned into the repeated question, "So, what are we doing for my birthday?"
This would be dropped into any conversation.
"Bella, we've got to review the 2005 Q4 data for Company Y. We think they've been using purposefully overestimated margins and then rolling them to hide huge operating losses coupled with an underreported goodwill impairment charge. You'll want to alert sector clients to the . . ."
"What are we doing for my birthday?"
"Hunh? Were you listening?"
"Sure. Goodwill margins for people with impairments. Hooray for the handicapped. What are we doing for my birthday?"
Or . . .
"I just kept telling people that I fell down the stairs or stumbled into the door frame. I thought maybe he'd chance with the new job. You know, less stress. But that is bullshit. He beats me, Bella! Do you understand that? He beats me! I have to leave, before he kills me or the kid. Once he hit the boy so hard, oh God, my son's jaw, it just crumpled around Jack's hand. I remember the noise - this dull, wet, snapping sound. The blood that . . ."
"Right. That sucks. What are we doing for my birthday?"
Yesterday was the birthday, and, to our surprise, Bella did not show up. Called in sick.
Still, several people did leave gifts for her on her desk. There was a handmade card, red drawing of a stick figure in a dress on the front. Scrawl font copy in red crayon read, "Happy birthday Momy!" On the inside, same scrawl, "I hope this is the Year You remember Who Dady was!" No signature.
Somebody left a "World's Greatest Grandma" mug for her.
Another group pitched in for a custom t-shirt that read "All This and Desperately Lonely Too."
She found them all this morning. She's wearing the t-shirt over her button-up blouse.
Picked up some CDs the other day. Went for a specific record, but ended up poking through the bargain bin. On sale they had a Big Daddy Kane "Best Of." Perhaps I'm not enough of a fan to know, but shouldn't any album claiming to be a best of contain his song "Pimpin' Ain't Easy"?
Perhaps, with its infamous homophobic lyric, it fell victim to the weird impulse that stripped Public Enemy's supposed "best" album of the sonically exciting, but dubiously misogynist "Channel Zero," or the brilliant "Night of the Living Baseheads," which features the infamously race-baiting Griff in a short but prominent section.
Are older rap artists revising their back catalogue to clean up their images? Seems unlikely given that these excess would pale next to the ranting, female hating, anti-gay lyrics of Eminem. Perhaps they're attempting to refashion themselves as the wiser "elder statesmen" of the genre and are trying to set aside the sins of youth. Or, maybe, they think the audience for these historic reviews is not the same one that digs on current rap. I don't know. I didn't end up buying it.
Found in the "Missed Connections" of the Dallas Observer.
File Under: No, Really, What Do You Think of Perky?
You really are an asshole.
Found in the Kansas City paper Pitch.
File Under: Whatever Floats Your Boat
I worshipped you from the day I first saw you, but now you are gone. Your eyes, your beautiful hair, your elegant fingers . . . I long to run my fingers through your hair, to feel your breath on my neck as we cling to each other.
I long to trace the outline of your tattoo with my tongue, and to make you mine.
Another Kansas City one – same paper. Who knew Kansas City was such a romantic town?. NB: the following was originally rendered in all caps, but I altered it to make it readable. 'Cause I can. 'Cause it's my freaking diary.
File Under: Closer
Looking for the guy who gave me crabs after the NIN concert.
Matt, I hope you know you gave me a horrible case of crabs. Remember me we had sex in my car, and then you ditched me!!!!!! In case I wasnt the only one you fucked that night, I was the red head with the prostetic leg. You owe me money for the cream I had to buy. You asshole!!!!!!!!!!
Finally, from Denver's Westworld, this sad little note.
File Under: I'm Sorry
hi its been / a year since i last since you, we meet on lavalife i was the girl that had a thing for birker boys.im not sure you remember.but we end it on bad note and i just want it to make things right and say sorry i was a B
well theres something i need to tell you i had your baby last year,and the baby didnt make it. im really sorry i hurt you and that i never give you the chance to know your baby. i hope someday you can for give me.
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