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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: elsewhere :: profile


09.05.02, thursday noon again

Should you wish to attend a b-day party thrown by an alcoholic (and bruised) bookworm tomorrow (the 6th) in west Oakland, e-mail me and I will send you the address. You will recognize me as the pink-veiled girl sipping her beer through a straw, inventing stories 'round her wounds and channeling Greta Garbo with custom-made German accent. You vant ice vit tat?

Humph. I would get into an accident only a few days before my 25th birthday . . . and on a bike, the first bike Iíve straddled since December. As my first act as an inhabitant of Oakland, I will be penning an annoyed citizenís letter to the city about the danger posed by certain street constructions/obstructions.

Otherwise, the city has been rather mah-ve-lous, all thrills: Mel and I, arm in arm, tripping through the streets in thrifted suits, hats tilted cockly over our eyes; waking up next to Mel, a preacher in the nearby church extolling the virtues of the Lawd to his congregation; eggs, bacon and potatoes stinking the house so beautifully (and unless you are a occasional meat-eater living in a vegetarian, do-not-cook-fish-please house, you might never understand how beautiful it is to sniff deep this stink); one sticky afternoon biking to a music festival downtown.

Then I wasnít reckless because I was, as Fernanda laughingly pointed, wearing the previous nightís shoes, impractical pointy patent-leather Marc Jacob shoes.

Alas, Cabernet during dinner at Le Cheval only a few hours later (as well as the 22 of Olde English at Melís and the few beers at the Ruby Room) will contribute to my downfall. As my Mongoose barrels down 14th Street, I fail to assess the raised concrete dividers in the road. Ouch.

In the morning, the liquor store clerk rings up my Neosporin and comments, Shorty, what happened to you? Eh, I shrug, It wasnít the pavementís fault.

So, apparently, with a new place, accompanies the re-alignment of face. There are pictures to prove it, if not the pool of blood I saw gleaming in the street. Four chipped teeth, one fractured tooth, abrasions on my left cheekbone, nose-bridge, forehead, upper lip, left elbow, left hip and left knee; cut on my chin, and general soreness on my left side. The right side is still thankfully molestable.

. . .

It could have been much worse. As I got here, there was another accident scene down the street. A mangled bike, lotsa blood, no body, reported Colin, Sonyaís EMT friend.

. . .

Um, yes. No more biking after wine (and beer and malt likker). Instead, crossed fingers and a helmet even if it is raw-ther unfashionable.

.






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