junkmail for blankets

when i get rich, i'm buying Tang -- encomium

i hope somebody got fired over it. i'm so sure--they're supposed to be in some swanky hotel ("we've entertained presidents, actors, royalty" blah blah blah), and the guy is in one of the storerooms in the kitchen, and he's standing there trying to look all scary, and there's a shelf behind him, and on the shelf are 10+ industrial cans of Tang. granted, Tang's no inexpensive dry drink-mix, and i wish i could afford it--oh, that sweet sweet dehydrated orange--but come on.

scene: waldorf astoria
waiter: "mr. huggins, i hope i'm not out of place, but the writing you did for that informercial was brilliant. i gather the family around everytime the PAX network airs it."
me: (coyly) "really, you like it? wow, thanks. it was a good time in my writing career."
waiter: "the best. so will you have your usual?"
me: "yes, and could you bring another glass of Tang? Franke Potente will be meeting me here shortly."
waiter: "of course. i had no idea that Germans like Tang."
me: (feigned, humorous facial expression) "who doesn't like Tang?"
waiter: (laughs, though for courtesy or with sincerity we don't know) "i suppose you're correct."

thus, The Shining will not make my Top 100 Movies of All-Time list.

on another note, i was sitting in the Dart this morning, warming her up for a trip to a church, and i saw a guy staring down the sidewalk in cowboy boots, holding bags full of rattling-looking things. he had just missed the bus. he looked back at me, and i, assuming that he was going to ask me for a ride, automatically prepared to not notice and drive off, and just in case he came to my window, i put my bible under my seat so he wouldn't see it and think, "asshole christian." as soon as i took my hand off the bible, i thought to myself, "asshole christian." he stood outside the window and made the universal roll-down sign, so i rolled down, and an all-night mad dog smell slapped me. cold sores. casserole dishes in the bags. i smiled and told him to hop in. i shook his hand and asked his name, he told me, i put my hand on the steering wheel and felt it smear. i drove him downtown while he talked about a girl with coal-back hair, and as he got out of the car, he thanked me, i said no problem (which it ceased to be only after i stared my worship of convenience in the face and realized that my hand belonged in a hand seeping liquor and last night's sex more than it belonged on a bible). the wine at the church meant something. and tasted better than tang.