PatCH

Tokyo Drifting

And then, my boyfriend, he was like, he was like on the phone, and--chew chew chew--and I just got off the phone with him, and he was like, oh my god oh my god I just saw the Fast and Furious movie--chew chew chew--you know the Tokyo Drift thing, you know it was like so cool, and all my boyfriend wanted to do--chew chew chew--all he wanted to do, because you know how, like, how he's into cars and things, and he was saying how cool Tokyo looked, and--chew chew chew--and like I couldn't get him to stop talking on the phone, and it was all about cars and stuff, you know, and all he could say--chew chew chew--all he could say was that everything looked so cool, and he wanted to go there because of the movie, and oh my god, he was so excited to see the city in real life, and like--chew chew chew--and like, he was going online right then and there to see if he could get a flight to Hong Kong.

Poor thing. Between the entertaining banter and the delightful open-mouthed gum chewing, I didn't have the heart to tell her that Hong Kong wasn't exactly the place to find a little town called Tokyo.

We should know; we're heading to Japan today.

Hopefully we have the right country.

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Private Dance

Tonight on the Queensbound E, I watch out of the corner of my eye two men sitting across from me. They are both the Harley types, bald heads and handlebar moustaches, eyebrows furrowed and frowning at everything and nothing in particular. The taller of the two sits with his legs crossed, daintily and just so, and is reading from a tabloid of some sort, occasionally scowling into it and pointing to his seatmate at this or that or the other. Some time after I sit, his eyes catch mine and we lock gazes for just that amount of time that makes us both shift awkwardly in our seats. Could they be a couple?

My question is answered five minutes later when the shorter of the two, the more muscular and stockier of the pair, reaches into a paper bag and pulls out a giant Miss Piggy doll dressed in a purple velvet evening gown. He stands her up on his partner's lap and begins to brush at the golden curls cascading down her neck, and they break out into a fit of quiet giggles.

They both reach over and start fussing over her at once, brushing her hair and adjusting her dress, and pointing to the shoes that the taller one suggested oh so clearly should have gone with another outfit. They laugh and giggle and break into porcine falsetto as they make the doll dance. And all on board, the stragglers and commuters who take the E after nine o'clock on a weekday, the ones who had earlier frowned and scowled along with the two men, they all smile. I smile too, and they smile back at me, so very warmly, as they sing in quiet falsetto, a purple-gowned Miss Piggy dancing her private dance right there on their laps tonight.

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Poor thing. Between the entertaining banter and the delightful open-mouthed gum chewing, I didn't have the heart to tell her that Hong Kong wasn't exactly the place to find a little town called Tokyo. We should know; we're heading to Japan today. Hopefully we have the right country. [permalink] :: Wednesday, June 21, 2006 Private Dance Tonight on the Queensbound E, I watch out of the corner of my eye two men sitting across from me. They are both the Harley types, bald heads and handlebar moustaches, eyebrows furrowed and frowning at everything and nothing in particular. The taller of the two sits with his legs crossed, daintily and just so, and is reading from a tabloid of some sort, occasionally scowling into it and pointing to his seatmate at this or that or the other. Some time after I sit, his eyes catch mine and we lock gazes for just that amount of time that makes us both shift awkwardly in our seats. Could they be a couple? My question is answered five minutes later when the shorter of the two, the more muscular and stockier of the pair, reaches into a paper bag and pulls out a giant Miss Piggy doll dressed in a purple velvet evening gown. He stands her up on his partner's lap and begins to brush at the golden curls cascading down her neck, and they break out into a fit of quiet giggles. They both reach over and start fussing over her at once, brushing her hair and adjusting her dress, and pointing to the shoes that the taller one suggested oh so clearly should have gone with another outfit. They laugh and giggle and break into porcine falsetto as they make the doll dance. And all on board, the stragglers and commuters who take the E after nine o'clock on a weekday, the ones who had earlier frowned and scowled along with the two men, they all smile. I smile too, and they smile back at me, so very warmly, as they sing in quiet falsetto, a purple-gowned Miss Piggy dancing her private dance right there on their laps tonight. [permalink] ::