Title: The Dish
Author: Trish the Dish
From: San Diego
Blogging since: May 2003
Post Date: November 11, 2006
Post Title: BMW 7-Series Last night as I left a crowded restaurant bordering Hillcrest, I locked eyes with a man who was standing in line. I tried to squeeze myself into the tiniest possible me and get out of there without a panic attack. I knew he was gay, because I was watching him earlier -- wrists flailing, weight resting on one leg as he stood talking to his boyfriend. I wanted him to smile at me when I squeezed past him, to say something funny -- as I've known gay men to do -- to comfort me, as I was obviously (in my own mind only, perhaps) distressed at being with all these people in such close quarters. Instead, he looked at me with level eyes that sort of said, "I don't have time for you. I'm tired of people like you -- women." Walking to my car, I was lamenting that I've never had a gay man as my friend, like so many women seem to have. I have always CRAVED that sort of closeness with a man who I knew would never want me sexually. Gay men always seem to hate me, as do most women.
I was pondering this as I drove down through Mission Hills and merged onto the 5, where I was blocked by a BMW 7-series going about 45 mph. The car reminded me of a story that my boss, Alex, told me last week about his neighbor, who drives Alex nuts and drives a BMW 7-series. When he said "7-series," he rolled his eyes back and let his jaw go slack, meaning the guy was a pompous ass. Alex said that the man is very anal, that he measures the height of his lawn with a ruler. That his kids -- high schoolers -- are forced to dress alike. He said the lights in their house go out in eerie synchronization at specific times: 9:00 for the kids; 9:45 for him and his wife. I commented on what the relationship must be like between the neighbor and his wife if they only get 45 minutes together a night.
Alex ignored me and went on with the rest of his story. I smiled politely, but I was thinking how sad a life like that must be. What power that man must have over his family if they allow such rules -- and with teenagers, too! The wife must drink, or take pills, or perhaps she is a devout Christian. Then I thought Alex might be projecting. He is a bit anal, too, so I was unsure what it was about his neighbor that irritated him. Alex won't let us pop popcorn in the office because he hates the smell.
So, as I struggled to merge onto the highway and around the BMW, I was thinking about Alex's neighbors. Why do so many people drive silver BMWs? I decided that they were the sharks of the road, and that people who drove them must be similar in character to sharks -- driven, always moving forward, never slowing down, ruthless, soulless. I thought police cars are the killer whales of the road. Black and white, usually peaceable, capable of murder. I wondered what my red Jetta said about me.
Finally! A chance to merge. As I passed the BMW, I looked to see who was driving. Were they foreign, old? What could account for such poor driving manners? As I passed, all I could see was a slender arm attached to a skinny watch on the dainty wrist holding the wheel, and a slender hand, backlit by the orange lights of the dashboard. I wondered if it was Alex's neighbor's wife. * * *
Post Date: October 31, 2006
Post Title: The Night of the Living Dead Throughout my life, especially lately, I've been struck by the fact that I (along with every other human being) am very alone. Not alone as in lonely, but separate from everything else. I guess it's always been clear to me, this sense that we're all in it with nothing but ourselves to fall back on, but the gravity of it has just registered. It's a culmination of things, I guess. Maybe it sprung from my disbelief in love or the capacity of humans to love or be loved. What's left after that? I see our separation everywhere. Most noticeably in pop culture. Abercrombie and Fitch is the metaphoric thread tying together an entire generation of high schoolers and college students who can afford it. The iPod lets you personalize your belongings by what you choose to load it with. But what's left is just a sweater that's too short and shrinks when you wash it or a bunch of bytes and bits on a hard drive. There is no bond created, no joining of persons.
What's there then? Your family, friends, husband, wife can't share the same dreams as you. When you die, they can only hold your hand until you're dead.
Which brings me to God. Is God real? Could that be what makes everything one? And if so, why don't I feel that?
Oh, the futility of it all.