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2006-04-04 @ 1:35 a.m.
blonde amazons...fascinating....yawn.


Ok, its a given fact that I like to make fun of yuppies. But when given a chance last summer, the first thing I did was move back to The Village, which is like the high tofu pilates SUV center of the total yuppie coolness universe in the area where I live. Because you do know that I secretly want to be one, right? I mean, I may not have the bank account, or the clothing, or even vehicle, but I do have the frame of mind. I grew up rich. I was raised in Marin County (the epicenter of yuppitude). But unfortunately my brain forget to send my body the memo and I’m still driving a 14 year old rusted out car and getting food stamps. Can you imagine? How rude! And yet I’m still under the illusion that I’m one of them by mere association. See how fun being delusional is? It protects you from that icky thing called reality and I actually walk around the Village saying “Howdy” to all the SUV ownin’, Chablis swilling rich people and (whispering)...”they don’t even know I’m not one of them”. Its great!!

They’re kinda dumb sometimes though, like today when I was driving home from my $8/hr. job. I had driven a nearly 20 mile round trip for a 2 hour stint. Am I not dedicated? So lets do the math. $16 pay. The government gets it share so maybe $12. Wear and tear on the old Ford Tempo of Doom, which of course has a hole in the gas tank. So probably $6 worth of gas poured out of my car as I was driving down the boulevard. But of course, I always like to look on the bright side. My car didn’t blow up from a stray cigarette butt being thrown by a wino. So Score!!!!!! I still brought home $6 (!!!!) today. Woohooo! I made $6. and you didn’t. Neener, neener, neener. Okay, I’m not necessarily talking to you. But maybe like that wino guy who didn’t blow up my car by throwing his cigarette butt by my gas tank. Geeze, you’re so sensitive.

So I was driving up Route 92 into the Village and just after you drive over the bridge and the road goes from two lanes down to one lane, suddenly all the Porsches and Escalades and pimped out SUVs started slamming on their brakes. Now this isn’t that unusual, because people are usually really pushy about being first in that single lane. But today it was more abrupt than usual and people were all slamming on their brakes and cars were skidding off onto the well manicured lawns along the historic main street. And yuppies were bursting forth out of their vehicles with their cell phones ablaze, screaming in delight. “Oh Roberto, you won’t believe what I just found!!”

Evidently, somebody along the main street had dumped a few old pieces of crap out on the sidewalk and a bunch of the yuppies were dumpster diving, the shameless bastards. It was sooooo embarrassing. I mean, a pile of old paperback books and a rickedly old metal bookcase? Can you imagine? At least I had the good taste and decorum to drive straight home. Okay, I really just had to pee and it was starting to rain and who wants a bunch of books pawed over by a bunch of pampered yuppies. And besides, I’m sure that bitch in that Porsche got what I wanted anyways. Book and husband wise.

When I got home I ran into Walter the maintenance man. I do believe he’s gone all schmoopy on me. Because everytime I leave my door now, he’s like right there walking. Today he said I had a twin. It was a little hard to hear him between the creek and a really fierce wind storm we were having, so I had him repeat himself three times. I finally surmised that he saw somebody who looked like me over at the library who ignored him, so I said, “Was she good looking?” He chuckled appreciatively during our golden moments together. Oh dear god, witty. Don’t flirt with an 80 year old apartment maintenance men! He’ll install cameras in the smoke detectors in your bedroom and watch you get the freak on.

I did take a short nap. You know with my heavy work schedule today. Phew. Two hours. I was exhaaaausted. I was woken up by the guy who I gaze at rhapsodically over across the way in his boxers at night while he watches TV. He was actually out on his porch talking on the phone with his clothes on. Funny how different people look with their clothes on.

And then tonight was my last night for my acrylic painting class at the “Y”. I had walked over to the library earlier in search of a picture of Janice Joplin. I only had one in my Rolling Stone book, but she was naked and we’re not allowed to do any nudity at the “Y” since there are young children afoot. But unfortunately I couldn’t find any books or pictures of her so I went home and snagged a picture of Billie Holliday off my refrigerator to paint. Or if it doesn’t look like Billie Holliday, forget I said that and say, “Oh, a Black jazz singer. Yeah. I can kinda see that.”



I was angry at myself though. I got over there and I had forgotten my glasses and at this point in my life, I am pretty blind without them. So I’m looking at this small postcard and trying to see the details and they’re all very fuzzy and then everything I was painting was fuzzy and I kept cursing myself aloud. Finally our Russian lady Svetlana very kindly handed me her bifocal, which were like the exact perfect power and I used them for like the last ten minutes. Yay! What an amazing difference they made.

But the real story tonight was our supermodel girl. If you read my last art class entry, you know that I did a smackdown on her mom last week for whining so incessantly. I just got tired of listening to her putting herself down just so we would all come running to hold her widdle perfectly manicured hand and say, “There, there.” Well, this week her mom was “away on business” (cough-botox gone wrong), so the Blonde Amazon came solo. She’s been working on the same painting for 6 weeks now. A blue rose with pigeon wings.

Now I get along really well with the Boy Art Teacher. We joke. He tries to impress me with facts about obscure artists. I tease him when he says how great he is at something. But since the Blonde Amazon has come looming over the horizon, and blocked out the sun on the rest of us mere mortals, the Boy Art Teacher, like any good male, has become totally entranced. Why a 6 foot tall, blonde (?) skinny girl is so utterly fascinating, I’m not sure.

Like for instance, she came in late tonight and the Boy Art Teacher mentioned it and she said, “Oh, I forgot about the time change thing. I was watching TV.” Ummm, wasn’t that two days ago? And what does watching TV have to do with it? Was “America’s Next Model” on at like a funny time, dear?

And then for the next hour and a half, no less than 3 good looking young men dropped into the class to chat with the Blonde Amazon, much to the chagrin of the Boy Art Teacher, who, like me, relies mainly on a good sense of humor rather than looks. He let them talk to her, but kept reminding her that they were interrupting her concentration. (ha, ha. Her concentrating. Sorry. I was just wondering if she was even capable of such a concept). Because for the first time, since she was being overshadowed by her obnoxious mother, I realized how utterly spoiled and self involved she was and how she used her “beauty” for attention. As I was listening to the Art Boy Teacher trying to make her laugh all I could think of was all the material spewing forrth for my “Mean Girls Part II” script.

Int: Fancy bedroom. Early morning. Blonde Amazon wakes up and realizes that her robe is over across her bedroom on a nearby chair, so she reaches for her diamond encrusted cell phone and calls Jim, Boyfriend #1.
Blonde Amazon: “Jim. Hi, its me. I can’t reach my robe. Can you come over? I need you to get it for me....NO? You get your ass over here right now or I tell the swim team you’re a faggot.” (slams her cell phone shut and throws it across the room).

And yet all the guys are so agog with her beauty that they don’t even realize how vacant she is. Or that she doesn’t respond to them in any way. And the worst part, at least for me, was that she turned out to be a carbon copy of her mother. Once there wasn’t a large male contingent there stroking her ego, she started whining about how bad her artwork was and I think I heard the word “SUCK” about 15 times. Even the hillbilly nannylady hissed “whiner” when she walked passed me. Fortunately I wasn’t sitting close enough to administer another wittykitty smackdown this week. And truly, it really would have been my pleasure. For all of womankind.

But actually our art teacher did it inadvertantly. At the end of the night, he didn’t say anything about her artwork but rather lavished praise on this Russian lady’s work. I’m sure she’s not used to being outshone by a 60 year old Russian lady with a hairy chin.



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