Information Gathering, Part the First

The ultimate purpose of this wacky blogging exercise is to stimulate the juices in regards to novel-writing. Below is an excerpt from said novel; believe me when I say it's a very rough draft. It also might help if you've ever read any Dashiell Hammett. This takes place immediately following the previous post.

I asked Mikey about him the next day, when I trusted the big lug to be sober enough to keep his temper in check.

“Nolan? Why’re you asking about him? He’s nothing special.”

“We’re having our party in less than a month and you ask why I’m a little worried about hanging out with cops?”

“Forget it, darling. Nolan hasn’t been a cop for years, and he’s not that type anyway. We’ve got nothing to worry about.”

I let it go. Mikey may have been confident, but there’s a reason I’m brains and he’s brawn. I wasn’t going to get anywhere with him: it was time to throw a few other lines out.

I didn’t make it to Sal’s until early evening, but that was fine since Elbow had started his shift late that day. Elbow’s real name was Tim Clemens, but I had never disturbed the peace enough to find out what had warranted the change. You don’t need a concise history of a man’s trials and tribulations for him to serve you a good cocktail. I sat myself at his bar, in one of the lighter corners, and waited for him to finish serving the drunk four chairs down.

“Sweetcheeks!” he said when he saw me. “Haven’t seen you in days! How’s life treating that pretty face of yours?”

“Pretty good, Elbow. How’s business?”

He made a face as he grabbed a glass to make my usual. “Same as always. Drunks and hopheads and fools who think the world owes them a whiskey and soda and a clap on the back.”

“No captains of industry? I’m shocked. They must have found another bar.”

Elbow laughed, pushing the glass across to me. “The only captain of industry in here is you, darling. I’ve never seen a more hard working dame.”

I took the glass and the opportunity. “Speaking of: I’ve got a character I want to ask you about. This a good time?” I indicated the other drinkers with a tilt of my head.

Elbow waved in their general direction with the towel he was using to wipe off the bar. “If they’re paying attention to anything over here, it’s your legs. Shoot.”

“Last night I met a guy called Lieutenant Nolan. He was drinking at Teeny’s place and seemed to be an old friend of everyone in the room, including Mikey. I’m not disputing his right to drink with whoever he wants, I’m just questioning his timing.”

I got a single raised eyebrow from Elbow, which was impressive. Elbow looks surprised for no man, and only for the most select of women. He reached behind the bar, pulled out a nearly-full box of cigarettes, offered me one, then took one for himself. He lit it, inhaled, and rested it on the ashtray between us.

“Look,” he said after thinking a bit. “I don’t want to cause a panic here. It’s entirely possible that this Nolan character got sick of being a useless chump, quit the force, and took up doing odd jobs to pay the rent. But a couple of months back I heard that the Old Man had hired a pet cop to keep an ear to the ground.”

“Nolan’s not on the force anymore,” I pointed out.

“He wouldn’t need to be. It’d be better if he wasn’t, even. Corrupt cops are a dime a dozen, but a loyal man with the same skills is worth any paycheck. And if this Nolan made Lieutenant he can’t be too much of a chump.”

“I’d rather be dealing with the pigs than the Old Man,” I said, “although neither would be my favorite scenario.” I paused to take a drink. “Mikey trusts him.”

Elbow snorted. “You and I both know Mikey’s not invited to the party for his smarts.”

“Why do you think I’m down here asking you?”

“Aw, sweetheart, I’m hurt. I thought you were here ‘cause you loved my company.”

“That too, Elbow. But I’m serious now: I don’t know what to do about Nolan other than keep an eye on him.”

“I think that’s all we can do. If he’s watching the party for the cops or the Old Man, we’re bound to see him turn up again.”

“You’ll tell the other boys what I told you?”

“Sure thing. You want another drink?”

“No, I’ve got another place I want to try for information.”

Elbow’s grin lit up like fireworks. “You going to see the whores?”

I rolled my eyes. “I’ll see you later, Elbow. Save me a drink.”

“Always, sweetcheeks. You take care now.”

“You too, Elbow.”

Avert Your Gaze

The ultimate purpose of this wacky blogging exercise is to stimulate the juices in regards to novel-writing. Below is an excerpt from said novel; believe me when I say it's a very rough draft. It also might help if you've ever read any Dashiell Hammett.

The apartment was thick with stale smoke. Unmarked half-full bottles and dirtied glasses littered the beat-up table in the middle of the room. I’d have said it looked exactly like the place we’d just been, but for the reputable character slouched in a chair with a cloudy glass in his hand.

I knew everyone else around the table. Louie Burke, who tipped his head at me, Big Grant Vance, who grinned and raised his glass, and Teeny Morgan, who leered. The reputable character glanced at me before shifting his gaze to the man behind me.

“’Lo, Sullivan.”

“Nolan!” Mikey said, stepping forward. “Didn’t expect to see you. What’s tricks? You can’t be here for Teeny’s rotgut.”

“Mine’s good as yours any day,” whined Teeny.

“Sure, if don’t mind the taste. Come on Nolan, fess up. What’s a good copper like you drinking with the likes of us for?” Mikey said, grinning broadly like he’d made a good joke.

“Just catching up with old friends,” Nolan said. He nodded at me. “Who’s the new friend?”

Mikey put a hand on my back and grinned again. “This here’s Miss Katherine Trent. She’s a doll.”

I smiled like a girl’s supposed to. “Charmed, Mr. Nolan.”

“Lieutenant,” he said. “Lieutenant Nolan.”

“No kidding? Seems a visit from so important a man as a police lieutenant has made these boys forget their manners.”

“Aw, Teeny, what are you doing? Get another chair for the lady already!” Big Grant boomed, standing. “Now, Dollface, if you’re willing to risk Teeny’s hooch, what can I get for you?”

I looked at the pale liquids in the bottles on the table. “Got anything a little browner?” I smiled at Big Grant persuasively.

“Well now, I’m sure. Teeny!” he bellowed.

Teeny was dragging two chairs in from another room. “What?”

“The lady here wants some whiskey.”

Teeny whined some more, but brought out a bottle three-quarters full of rich, brown liquor. Big Grant poured me a glass while Mikey and I settled into chairs at the table.

“You been to Sheeny’s?”Louie spoke for the first time.

“Yeah, just came from there” Mikey said, slinging an arm around the back of my chair. “But Wade showed up. I thought I’d get Angel out of there before someone decided to take a pop at him.” He smiled at me.

Red Wade invited a dry agent into Arlo’s speak last week. Accident or no, he wasn’t too popular with anyone who enjoyed a strong drink right now. I checked on Nolan out of the corner of my eye but he didn’t seem to be getting too excited.

Mikey and Big Grant started in on an old argument about the dry agents stupid enough to try for Chicago. I sipped my whiskey and studied Nolan.

He wasn’t attractive. His nose was too pointy and his lips were too thin and he smelled too much like cop. He was broad enough around the shoulders to make a point in rougher company, and thick enough around the middle to prove he wasn’t lying about his rank. I put him in his early forties.

He caught me looking. “Miss Trent, you have the advantage: I don’t know what you do.”

“Call me Katherine,” I said. I always say that. They never call me Katherine. “And I don’t do anything.”

He glanced at Mikey and the rest of the group. “Seems to me you must do a lot.”

I laughed. It’s usually the best thing to do with a man when you want to change the subject. “Nothing a police lieutenant would want to hear about anyway. How do you know Mikey?”

“Me and him worked on the same project a couple years ago.” Nolan grinned. “Of course we weren’t exactly working for the same goal, but it all settled out.”

“Funny, that’s how I met Mikey too.” I indicated the other boys at the table with a tilt of my head. “So what brings you around?”

He took a sip of his drink. “Like I said, just catching up with old friends.”

“Cops don’t usually consider these gentlemen old friends.”

“I guess that makes me special.”

“I guess so.”

Mikey’s loud laugh interrupted us. “Angel, tell Burke here he ain’t going to get nothing done by ignoring pretty ladies like you.”

I smiled so my teeth showed. “It’s true, Louie. You want something done right, you need a woman to work on the details.”

Louie snorted. “I don’t know many women like you.”

“Fair enough. You want something done right, you need me to work on the details.”

Everyone laughed. I sipped my whiskey.

We had a few more drinks before Mikey decided it was time to leave. That was fine with me: I don’t like hanging out with cops; they give you a bad reputation.

I FAIL

The point of this whole "blogging" exercise was that I was going to post every day, without fail. Come hell or high water, nothing was going to stop me from contributing my inanities to the great sea of stupidity that is the internet!

Well, apparently one thing will stop me: all-day meetings at work. And then, of course, I had to go drink heavily to erase the lingering mental pain of listening to the same damn presentation four times in a row. (Related: we're only doing it three times today! Heck, I might even manage to do my job for an hour or so! Sarcastic exclamation points ahoy!)

I tried to convince Cirque that "Uhhhhh. Uuuuuuuuuuh. Uuuuuurrrrr." was a totally valid post, but it turns out she's prejudiced against zombies and she refused to let it count. Zombies have things to say, too, Cirque! End zombie oppression today!

Which reminds me of a great joke: what do zombie vegetarians say?

Graaaiiiins, graaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiins!

Oh come on, admit it, you laughed.

Irrational Fear of OH MY GOD IT'S ALIVE AND IT'S CRAWLING DOWN MY THROAT

This past week I have made some huge breakthroughs regarding my irrational fear of sushi. On Saturday I hesitantly nibbled a single shrimp-based maki roll and became so enthused with the heretofore rejected food that I inhaled a slightly-more-adventurous variety of maki last night.

It's always been a secret shame of mine that I didn't eat sushi. I'm always the one in the group saying "Of course we'll have the chicken feet: they're delicious!" and "I'd like my steak rare, please. Or blue, if possible. Or, better yet, still fighting for life." Not eating sushi did not fit my image of intrepid diner.

My father's entire family is allergic to seafood. Tuna? No. Shrimp? Definitely not. Seaweed? Let's not risk it. And because my parents liked me breathing on a regular basis, they never let me eat seafood. Fast forward to a semi-autonomous P&G trying some tuna: one bite and I turn bright red. Okay then!

Even after it became obvious (through an ever exciting period of trial and error!) that my allergy had become very, very mild once I entered adulthood, I avoided seafood of all types. Part of the reason was that I had never developed a taste for it; from my perspective, it all tasted fishy. Ew.

But then I was diagnosed as being allergic to gluten, which depressingly encompasses wheat, oats, and barley. That's it!, I declared. I can cope with only one crippling food allergy at a time! I shall learn to like seafood!

I eased my way in: scallops and shrimp and salmon and the like. Maybe a little tuna with mayonaise. But always I avoided the raw stuff, because that always smelled the fishiest to me.

I finally broke down on a date I went on last year. He looooved sushi, and I was in that adventurous first-couple-dates mood, so I said, hey, I want to try, why don't you order for me.

Mistake.

In retrospect, I think the fish was...lacking in essential freshness. At the time I was completely horrified by the amount of fishy-smelling raw fish I was expected to choke down. And these California rolls? God, why do people like these so much? Nasty!

Obviously I subsequently rejected all proposals of sushi, at least until this past weekend. Maybe it was because we had just come from seeing some experimental theater, but I was in an adventurous mood. Instead of ordering multiple fish-free appetizers, I went for it. And I am ecstatic that I did, because damn, now I get what the fuss is all about. So good! Such wonderful balance of flavor! So much fun to eat! I am so there!

Now it's time to start covering up my embarrassing sushi ignorance. Sashimi, maki, what? What does this mean? ...oh, eel? Is that any good?

I have hopes for rapid re-education, after which I can finally assume the title of Completely Stereotypical Yuppy. In the meantime, shhh, don't tell; I'm faking it quite well.

It's All Cirque's Fault (As Usual)

Items my coworker Cirque and I have used as projectiles in our ongoing Office Throwdown:

• paper clips
• rubber bands
• Fauchon candies
• tic tacs
• m&ms
• gobstoppers

It turns out I'm a lefty when it comes to rubber bands. Who knew?

Guard your water glass closely, people: Cirque has laser-like precision. Incoming!

Warning: Pretentious Literary Babble Ahead

Currently consuming my brain: I've been reading Salman Rushdie's The Satanic Verses for last few days. I'll freely confess that I originally picked it up because it's one of those books I thought I should read. The Obligation Reads are always a toss up: Moby Dick—fantastic; Crime and Punishment—a thousand agonies.

I was surprised by how much I liked The Satanic Verses (or at least the first three hundred odd pages I've read thus far). I suppose I shouldn't have been: I adored Rushdie's children's book Haroun and the Sea of Stories. I suppose I figured any book that was so overtly political as to cause such a brouhaha could not possible be of much literary interest.

Okay, so I was wrong. The stories are absorbing, the language is elegant, and the underlying premise is persistently intriguing. I have very much entered into full-blown obsession mode, in which every minute spent not reading this book seems to be a waste of time. If only my office had a door: I'd be done by dinner.

My favorite parts (if I may revert to third-grade-book-report-style for a moment) are the sudden outbursts of frustrated questions. Invariably a character will reach the end of his or her rope and erupt into furious inquisition. A minor example— a character struggling in the wake of her father's suicide:

"...why does a survivor of the camps live forty years and then complete the job the monsters didn't get done? Does great evil eventually triumph, no matter how strenuously it is resisted? Does it leave a sliver of ice in the blood, working its way through until it hits the heart? Or, worse: can a man's death be incompatible with his life?"

Rushdie proposes earlier in the book that the opposite of belief is not disbelief, but doubt. Which is, I suppose, what ultimately makes his book so dangerous: it cracks a window on widely-held religious beliefs, and that's really all it takes. Rushdie takes the biggest swing at Islam, but no major religion remains unscathed.

Despite the temptation to revert to my graduate school days and turn this blog into one long dissertation on religious theory, I'll restrain myself, delete all those long-winded paragraphs I just wrote, and spare my single reader the agony of prolonged philosophical discussion.

Instead I'll just tell you to read the book. It's good, really! It contains monsters, ghosts, lots of sex, apocalyptic visions, and all sorts of wacky magical realism antics. Highly recommended! Dropping acid optional! Guaranteed mind fuck!

High of 78!

Simple pleasures that accompany the arrival of warm weather:

• realizing that it's warm enough to wear your favorite pants
• showering with the bathroom window open

More to come, I'm sure.

I'm Famous Now

I've never before been google-able. Of course I've checked— and don't look at me like that, I know you've done it too. Job interviews and all of that: one always wants to be sure that future employers won't turn up those pictures of you drunk off your ass at a college party wearing skimpy lingerie. (Not a randomly chosen example; they really exist! But are not available on the internet, as far as I'm aware. Thank goodness).

Back to the point! A friend recently informed me that I am, in fact, now google-able, so of course I went ahead and tried it for myself. And behold: there I was, the second result, right behind some woman who wrote a travel guide to Venezuela. I am so internet famous!

I owe it all to my place of employment which, being a rather famous institution, is linked extensively by the rest of the internet. Thanks, internet! I feel so loved.

I'd also like to thank my parents, without whom I would not exist, and my friends, without whom I would be a much more boring, sober human being. I couldn't have made this happen without your love and support! And- I wasn't going to announce this now, but I just feel so moved- since I'm famous and all now, I'm going to go ahead and adopt my African baby tomorrow! Contractural obligations and all: you know how it is. I'm taking country-of-origin suggestions— you can hand your vote to the nearest usher. Fingers crossed for somewhere with a fashionable genocide!

Stay cool, internet!

A Refutation

In regards to this post: it was brought to my attention by someone with a filthy mind that the post could be interpreted as meaning that I, myself have a foot fetish. That is not only false, but also a poorly reasoned conclusion. Allow me to use logic!

1. I'm talking about my own feet, not someone else's feet. Other people's feet hold no interest for me.

2. Feet do not turn me on; rather, it is the hedonism of acts associated with foot fetishism that appeal.

I win! Oh, hey, while we're at it, let's list some foot fetish fun facts:

• it is the most common fetish in men
• neurologist Vilayanur S. Ramachandran proposed that foot fetishism is caused by the feet and the genitals occupying adjacent areas of the somatosensory cortex
• researchers have hypothesized that foot fetishism increases during epidemics of sexually transmitted diseases

Wasn't that fun? I'm particularly enamored of the last fun fact. Human beings are weird!

And that is the last time I'm going to write about foot fetishes this week. I promise.

Germany: still happily espousing racial and religious prejudice, apparently

So this article was fairly astonishing. The heart of the matter:

"In a ruling that underlines the tension between Muslim customs and European laws, the judge, Christa Datz-Winter, noted that the couple came from a Moroccan cultural milieu, in which it is common for husbands to beat their wives. The Koran, she wrote in her decision, sanctions such physical abuse."

There are so many offensive elements in that paragraph! Let's count:

1. Muslim "tradition" supercedes German law in a court of law? What? How? What?

2. The Koran does not sanction spousal abuse. It does not. Really.

3. A non-Muslim German judge is, shockingly, not generally considered qualified to interpret the Koran. I might argue that her interpretation is a valid opinion if she reads Arabic, but (a) I'm fairly sure that is not the case and (b) her interpretation of a religious text STILL should not impact her ruling in a court of law.

4. Less grounded in rational argument, but I find it particularly horrifying that the judge was female. How can she sanction abuse that she evades only by luck of birth?

5. The religious and racial prejudice here is staggering.

On a side note, I'm going to Morocco in less than a month. Maybe I'll be beaten! Since it's part of the "Moroccan cultural milieu" and all. Maybe I'll be stoned for an obscure religious reason. Wouldn't that make a good travel story!

The only consolation of the article is the vehemence with which the German public and court system responded. Still, I remain horrified that it took an appeal to the press before action was taken.

Stories about religious impact on secular law always make me think of the India. The Indian constitution provides differing sets of laws depending on whether the citizen is a Christian, Muslim, Hindu, atheist, etc. Being an American, raised with a quickie, one-off constitution, I can't even wrap my brain around such a method of law. It seems to work to a sufficient degree, although cases that involve individuals of varying religious affiliations just blow my mind. There's a reason processing court cases takes a ridiculously long time in India.

Still, there are elements that I still find difficult to accept: it is much easier for a woman to acquire a divorce is she's Christian than if she's Muslim. Is that okay? On the one hand, I think it's nifty that the law is so accommodating of the diverse faiths of its citizens. On the other hand, it makes me uneasy to see restrictions applied unevenly to the citizenship. And in my darker moments, I fantasize about evangelical Christians in America getting just the government they want. So it's a mixed bag!

Conclusions: Judge Christa Datz-Winter is an embarrassment to Germany, the Indian constitution is really confusing, and I can be a vindictive bitch sometimes.

size 7, short toes, high arches

I was ready for today with a serious, academic post about the book I’m reading. It was an analysis of one of the heretical themes in Salman Rushdie’s The Satanic Verses and, while brief, it raised a number of interesting questions about the nature of belief and faith.

But frankly, that sounds way too boring for a Friday. So let’s talk about foot fetishes instead!

A few weeks ago there was a letter in Dan Savage’s Savage Love column about a woman who thought she had found the perfect guy. Smart, interesting, considerate, and more than happy to give her a foot massage every day after work. Charming! Charming, right up until he admitted to her that he was a foot fetishist. At which point she flipped out, accused him of using her (and her feet), and dumped him.

I think that’s the most tragic story I’ve ever read in Savage Love. I would love to date a foot fetishist! What’s to dislike?

1. Foot Massages
Oh, yes please. Do I really need to say anything more on this front?

2. Pedicures
I’m always too lazy to do them for myself, even if they make my toes look edible. I wouldn’t mind having additional motivation to do them, however. And if he wanted to do them? Even better. I’ll just set up a tub of hot water, shall I?

3. Outrageous Shoe Budget
I realize foot fetishes do not go hand-in-hand with shoe fetishes, but surely he’d want my feet to be on attractive display. Admittedly I do not need someone other than myself to justify my ridiculous shoe purchases, but positive reinforcement is always welcome.

Note that a foot fetish does not substitute for any of the following characteristics: intelligence, wit, generally attractive exterior. Nonetheless, it would be a pleasant bonus.

Dear heartbroken foot fetishist with uptight ex-girlfriend— Call me!

But would it be better than a couch?

Yesterday Cirque asked me where I don't want to travel, as she knows the list of Places I'd Love To Visit takes ten plus minutes to recite. After a long pause, I mustered "sub-Saharan Africa" and "Antarctica." Which isn't to say I wouldn't go to either if someone offered me free plane tickets, it just means that I'd rather spend the plane ticket/hotel money on a couch.

The couch: sadly not metaphorical.

I have no living room furniture. Not on purpose, you understand; it just sort of happened. I moved into the current apartment six months ago, realized I did not have enough furniture to fill the space, elected to sacrifice the living room, and it's been like that ever since.* I've gotten quite used to it, actually.

My real problem is this: I save up enough money to buy a nice couch. I say, "Huzzah! I have saved up enough money to buy a nice couch! I shall go shopping this weekend!" And then I mention to someone that I've been meaning to visit Travel Destination X and it all goes blurry and when I wake up I find I've purchased plane tickets and booked a hotel room.

Last time this happened I ended up with tickets to Barcelona. The time before? Casablanca. I'm already plotting my accidental stumble into plans for Vietnam.

I'm not saying it's a bad thing. When I'm old and crotchety, I'm pretty sure I'll remember that nifty trip I took, and I probably won't be recounting stories of how awesome my first couch was. It's a trade off that works for me, although my parents keep threatening not to come for Thanksgiving if I don't find something for them to sit on.

My conclusion for Cirque: almost anywhere is more interesting than a couch.


* All good stories (particularly sea stories), begin with "No shit there we were..." and end with "...and it's been fucked up like that ever since." This story is in no way worthy of the bracketing, however, and the similarity of phrase is purely coincidental.

Responsibility will be assigned

As in admiralty courts, blame will be allotted in percentages. The following are responsible for the existence of this blog:

83% cirquetraverse.blogspot.com
9% unpleasant meteorological conditions
3% red curry tofu
3% general dissatisfaction with life
2% arrogance