Between June 29 and July 13, the University of Rochester will pay between $7,500-$10,000 for me to go to the arctic, take notes, and then come back and write a story about it. First of all, my loving reader, I would like to assure you that YOU may be the very first to read about my sub-zero adventures. Isn't that spectacular? Isn't that just fucking fabulous?
The trip is going to leave on June 29 from Rochester. That means I have to take a plane up from Boston on the 28th, stay overnight in a hotel, and then take a taxi to campus the following morning. This wouldn't be a problem if all of taxi drivers' fathers and mothers hadn't conceived them in alleyways downtown and parted ways afterward, she straightening her panties and wiping herself off with a Kleenex from her purse before emerging onto the street, he merely wiping his dick with his shirtsleeve. Easier that way. She had to get to the dentist's office anyways, what with the wait and all, and she had to be at work soon. We don't know where he went. He disappeared. Never to be heard from. Except for, as luck would have it, a brief mention of him in a Kafka story. And you know as well as I, dear reader, that ne'er a fate worse than appearing in a Kafka story.
She had her cavities filled, made it back to work--a small restaurant at the center of a residential neighborhood--and took the first order: a stack of blueberry pancakes, a side of bacon, and a cup of coffee for customer one, and a ham and mushroom omelet for customer 2. Both resumed chatting noisily. We do not know their sexes, names, or places of birth.
She put in the order and walked quickly to the bathroom. Inside, she pulled down her pants and urinated. Nine months later, walking out of the same bathroom, her water broke.
This is a problem because it seems to have happened quite often in this godforsaken city. Not only does every taxi driver's mother go into labor at work, but none ever think it prudent to take an ambulance to the hospital, instead popping out their kids in their managers' offices with the help of the short order cook. However, dear reader, I'm sorry that I'm unable to please your sick tastes, but no spatulas were involved in any of these processes. Although driving in one of these godforsaken cabs, I would be surprised if most had been dropped in a hot frying pan after their umbilical cord was cut, had blueberries poured on them, got flipped twice before being served, and then proceeded to be processed in the stomach of a burping trucker and dissolved into cholesterol, belly fat, and feces.
No such luck.
Instead, one such individual gets to drive me from the Marriott downtown (I know I'm setting my sights high as it will probably end up being the Days Inn off of the 590...but a boy(/man) can dream, can't he?) He'll charge me at least twice as much as I owe, threaten to kill me if I don't pay, and drive off before I get a chance to get my bag out of the trunk. Then I'll be off to the arctic without any mountaineering boots, without any waterproof pants or gators or heavy-duty jacket with fleece lining or hat or gloves or camera or 80gb iPod. This is taking for granted that his rattling '89 Cutlass makes it, of course.
I apologize for having deflected, dear reader. I won't have anything else to say about it until after I return.
Hugs and Kisses,
David
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3 comments:
David- I didn't read, I went somewhere else.
But I am excited to hear that you were accepted to go to the tundra at last. You will probably get frostbite or get eaten by a polar bear while outside smoking a smiggerette.
well (ahem), if you had read the previous post, you would know that I have quick smoking (gasp). point taken though.
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