February 26th, 2003. Wednesday
A school in Canada removed the word "gun" from their spelling tests after a "horrified" pacifist mother complained. It became worse when there was an illustration of a pistol next to the word. The principal tried to defend the use of the word, saying it was a good phonetic word, a short vowel word that is easy for kids to learn. The parent said: "I realize people hunt in this area, but I still don't think that warrants the teaching of this word to my daughter or any other child. The word gun is synonymous with death. I'm racking my brain trying to figure out why a 7-year-old would need to learn this word." I probably don't even need to comment on this. oh what the hell: how about expressions like "smoking gun" or "gunshy" or "I'll fucking kill you with my big fucking gun"? Yes, eliminating "dangerous" words from the English language is indeed a very progressive step forward. Fucking wanker.I keep wondering if I almost died on Sunday night. Thinking back on it over the last few days, I remember thinking, right after I felt the car start to tip over "Is this it? Is this what it's like?" Then, when the car finally came to a rest, I heard the glass breaking and assumed we were being crushed, and I thought "Shit, is this really it?" Just that moment of uncertainty in the midst of peril. I really didn't know what was going to happen. I'd never really, legitimately been in a life-threatening situation before. And when I think about all the variables that went right, and how they could easily have gone wrong... The car could've easily skidded into the other side, where there was a ditch full of icy water. Worse yet, it could have gone into one of the lakes. But really, the impact is what stays with me. It's tough to actually remember it. I just remember the first half of the car rolling over, and the screams. Every time I try to think about, i just remember the screaming. I don't know if I was screaming or not. But before you knew it, we were walking out of Grand Central Station in New York, getting into a cab and going home. And then I was at work the next morning. The hustle and the bustle just sweeps you back up, like nothing happened at all. And you're immediately thrown back into your trivial daily concerns. So I've had a difficult time gauging exactly how momentous the events of Sunday night were. I can't tell if I'm being melodramatic.
Anyway, by 10:15 this morning the day was already pretty shitty. Bad enough that my neck is still so sore. While I was unpacking my laundry which I'd picked up on Monday night from the cleaners, and noticed that my favorite t-shirt was missing. Not only was it a great blue color, the decal on the front was perfect. It was the t-shirt that said "Leftovers" on the front. It was a jersey of some sort. I picked it up on Amherst, MA when I was there for Geoff's graduation. Loved that t-shirt, man. Shit. I went back to the laundromat to see if anyone had turned it in. I had returned a slipper that was accidentally put in my bag two weeks ago, you know, because it was the right thing to do. And cause I thought maybe it would produce good karma. And what happens? The very next time I take my laundry there they lose the one t-shirt I didn't want to lose. That's two nice shirts I've lost in the last two months. I lost a t-shirt from college that is also irreplaceable, and I thought I left it at home. Now I'm thinking these people lost it. Anyway, all I got from the lady there was a couple of slack-jawed "no"'s to my inquiries. I knew she couldn't speak English, but I thought I'd try anyway. The lack of communication was driving me crazy though, cos I really wanted to get it back. Another woman came over to translate. I described it- short sleeve, blue t-shirt- and she was like, "Was it like a sweater? Is that it?" pointing to a black long-sleeve sweater hanging on a hook. And I'm like "are you sure you speak english?"
People, it can be safely said, are pissing me off. Last night it took me an hour to get home from work after leaving around 11. I had to watch as a subway crew cleaned up all the trash on the L train track at Union Square. Of course, watching is better than actually having to do it, and I was deeply sympathetic of the workers' plight. If people weren't such goddam pigs, they wouldn't even have to be down there, and trains wouldn't be delayed 20 minutes while workers picked up their shit. And the worst part about it is that there are trash cans every thirty feet or so. Everytime I see someone throw metrocards or batteries or Big Mac wrappers down there, I want to throttle their litter-bug necks (or thorax?) and kick them into the tracks.
Also making me angry is the fact that I lost one of my gloves a few weeks ago, and it's gotten cold again. I refuse to buy another pair of gloves. If I'd lost both, maybe I'd consider it. But just losing one... I know I'll find the other one as soon as I buy a new pair. It's either at my apartment or Miss CM's. And last time I lost my gloves and took out money to buy new ones, I got mugged. But man, is it cold outside. But it can only go on for a few more weeks, then it's spring.
And so, with a neck still sore being suspended by the seatbelt, upside down, I'm worrying about my lost t-shirt, asshole in general, and my lost gloves. Little has changed. Wonder if that's good or bad. Some people have told me that surviving that kind of peril means something good will happen now. Of course, surviving could be the good thing in itself. Also, MCM said that her grandmother told her that on Sunday night, around 7, she just began crying for some reason. Which was right about the time we were crawling out of the car. That's kind of weird.
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