Karmic Smoke

I was just doing a little mind-numbing channel surfing to pass the time before I figure out what I'm gonna do next and I came upon "The Bachelorette." I've never watched this show for a number of reasons. They're not important, but perhaps obvious.

It appears to be down to two guys and this is the night when they're to meet the family. I first turned it on when John Paul was at the dinner table. He's a dork and, well, his parents named him after the pope. The second guy is an "artsy" type. He's philosophical, apparently, and it doesn't look like she can handle that. Unfortunately, this aspect of him seems to be a negative for -- wait, I don't know the girl's name ... I'll call her Barbie. Poor Jerry. The show's lame, but I gotta say I'm pulling for the artsy guy.

And I also have to admit that I'll be watching the last hour. I'm ashamed. Maybe next time they'll have a latina woman, or a black woman, or an Asian woman. Of course they'd have to mix up the lot of guys. And ABC would probably be concerned about ratings. They'd rather leave "those people" for shows like "Blind Date," which airs after midnight. At least it was a night for the Other at the Oscars last night. The Other Oscars.

I especially appreciated how they paired Penelope Cruz and Salma Hayek together to introduce Antonio Banderas and Carlos Santana. When Jamie Foxx thankfully won his statue, the cameras were sure to catch Oprah's raised fist, Samuel L. Jackson, Halle Berry, Spike Lee, and Prince. I'm sure there were other black folks in the audience who were caught by the camera when Foxx was onstage. It was very strange. Not having a notebook in hand as I watched the telecast with Erica, I can't remember much else about this.

Erica finally noticed and agreed with me. It was just very strange. And at the end of the night, when "Million Dollar Baby" took the big award, I was baffled. I hated the movie. I saw it with Ida on Christmas and after the film pulled a 180 and turned into something completely different from the first half, I leaned over and told her it was pissing me off. I am glad Hillary Swank won, though. She's hot. And, of course, Morgan Freeman. He should have won a long time ago, so this nod seemed to be about retribution rather than an award for this particular performance. Oh well, I say. We'll see what happens next year.

So I have a story. Friday night, I went to a place in the East Village called Karma with a friend I hadn't seen since last spring. Smokers can enjoy themselves over drinks and cigarettes and it was wonderful. We were there all told for about eight hours. We were catching up, drinking and smoking. Around midnight, I had to go to the bathroom. I despise public restrooms, because I have yet to figure out a way to deal with the stairs by women unable to determine whether I'm supposed to be there.

So after gathering my courage, I got up and went. When I opened the door, there was a woman standing just inside. "Is that stall open," I asked her, not looking her in the eye, because I just wanted to get in there and go. "That one's open." There was a woman in the other stall, which I knew, and I thought I was safe now. Then, "Is that a boy?!" came the question from the high-pitched urinator. "No, just a deep voice," I said as I locked myself in. "No," chimed in the first girl, "just a hot chick in a bright-orange shit." "Aw you don't have to say that," I said, hoping I could just pee without any further ado. "I speak the truth." "Well, thank you." "Hurry up, you have to see this girl," she said to her friend in the stall next to me. Jesus Christ, just let me pee.

I suffer from performance anxiety issues and I had had to pee for about an hour. I considered ignoring the desires of my bladder but decided to just sit there and rub my forehead and think of my aches. "I hope the music downstairs is better this time. So far it seems to be, right?" Please stop talking for the love of god and let me pee. A couple of minutes had gone by and I was sure by this point that they were not leaving.

So I finally just forced myself to go. After a successful attempt, I flushed and exited. And there was the girl from the other stall, standing next to the first one, with an outstretched hand and a big smile on her face. I shook it, without having washed my hands first. Disgusting. But it wasn't me.

They told me to go downstairs; I didn't want to, but I said maybe I would. I rejoined Kara on the couch, thankful that the bathroom moment was over. About an hour later, the bathroom duo found us. They interrupted Kara and I, which wasn't cool. They were there for about a half hour and then Kara and I finally got up to go. They invited us to a masquerade party next month, so she gave me her number.

When Kara and I left, we all hugged. "Call me," she said. "I'm waiting, holding my breath." Damn. I thought I was dramatic. When I got to the subway, I looked at the card again. She spelled "masquerade" wrong (mascarade). I threw it away. But the flattery was nice. And I've never been picked up in a bathroom before. And it's also nice to know that girls actually do come out and say what they want. She was a bit much, though. It made me realize I'm not into dating at all. I'm into writing.

I'm still at it, having written about 53 pages by hand in this notebook. It's a wonderful feeling. I've even been stuck at times, which has the power to get me down. But I'm going through it and just moving on. I realized it's ok to let something I don't like sit there. It's not set in stone. It will change. The point is that I'm going right through it and not letting it stop me. Had I been writing on a computer, I wouldn't have had written this much. I know that for a fact. I'm relieved that I pulled out this notebook. I can't imagine not having written this much. That thought is frightening.