altered states

Caramels, from Vienna, with sea salt sprinkled on them. Mmmmm. Oops, there goes that tooth.

Extraction needed. I read Ann's blog post on this. Wow, that sounds like a nightmare! Better have a general anesthetic. Say what? I can’t drive after? I can’t party? I gotta take it easy? Forget it. Tough Polish peasant stock. Make friends with the surgeon by filling out initial form with BIG BLOCK LETTERS STATING PROFESSION: LAW PROF.

It gets his attention. So what do you teach? Do I say Family Law? Do I say Torts? No. Let there be no misunderstanding here: oh, personal injury, among other things. You know, medical malpractice.

Oh, and I want that laughing gas thing.

Man do I get a dose of the laughing gas. It’s like being totally drunk. My head buzzes in the nicest way, without the hangover. I think of all the wonderful people in my life. They seem more wonderful than ever before. I love ‘em all. I’m in love with them. I am making love with them. One at a time. What the hell, oral surgeon too, even though we just met. Pink cosmos are standing on the little dental table. God, I love having teeth pulled.

couples, part 3

So last night I took a friend and we hung out with the third in my list of cool couples.

Typically (but not this time) when I go there, I encounter a handful of others, mostly men, of varying ages, uncoupled men, or, if they are in partnerships, you get the feeling they wont last.

Both the he and the she in this relationship are professional white collar types. But it has not always been thus. For a number of years he was a Madison cabbie (and the assorted types who congregate here often are as well) and there is nothing more fascinating than listening to his tales of the city’s underbelly.

Because, apparently, there is an underbelly to this town. One that sweats its way into the open late at night. One where you suspect that the drop-off point for the passenger is also the drop-off point for, well, other stuff. One where poor women with children and with bundles that you imagine contain all their worldly possessions are transported to Beltline motels where they will await affordable housing.

God, you need to be tough to do the night runs. You need to insist on pay and try not to imagine how those dollars were procured. There is no romanticism or poetry (even if indeed, my friend, in his spare time, dabbles in poetry) about driving those who cannot or will not sleep. Though now, in the aftermath, there are tales to be told -- chilling tales with unfinished endings, for who knows what happens after the door slams behind the rider, never to be seen again by you, or maybe anyone.

[I have to say this: in addition to Madison’s underbelly, there is also the matter of this writer’s belly. I was told to show up for appetizers and drinks. Okay. I’m thinking peanuts and pretzels. But no. The photo tells part of the story. The rest is in my stomach.]


lox, leek cheese, fruits and stories