Thursday, May 17, 2007

Pimp Up Your Prius

How cold do you let the gazpacho get before you know it will freeze your tongue?

This thought went through my mind as Alejandro maneuvered his stretch Mini Cooper across the Golden Gate Bridge and I saw the rainbow outlining the
mouth of the Waldo Tunnel like a riotous adornment of every tube of lipstick on sale at Walgreen’s.

Indeed we’d reached the end of the rainbow and now had to figure out where to go on the other side.

“Thebathapol,” Alejandro said as I glared at him, refusing to remove my earphones as I listened to my Rosetta Stone Catalan lesson number 78D.

“Yes,” I affirmed, amazed that after not even nine months we had come to this. That most dreaded and futile moment in any relationship, the postmortem ritual of therapy.

How had Alejandro transformed from that delicious vision on Goat Beach that emerged from the July fog, his deep, raspy river of a voice flowing out over rocky vowels and garnished with that endearing Castilian lisp that had now come to grate on my nerves so tremendously. Surrounded by amateur marine biologists from the Cotati Crustacean and Urchin Appreciation Guild, he waved his thick arm forested with dark, tiny liquorish hued strands of hirsute finery. “Thith ith the motht fathinating of all cruthtathianth,” he said, holding up a misty, minty green Porcellio scaber

“Unlike the Othtracoda or the Mythtacocardia, it can eathily adapt to either a freth or thalt water environment. It hath even been found in the Utah.

A salty senior in an emerald windbreaker and skanky Birkenstocks leaned in and examined it with intent fascination. Just as he handed it to the woman, he looked up, our eyes met and the intent grip of our gaze caught everyone’s attention.

Though no ectophile, I certainly longed to find out what soft pleasures might lurk beneath this glorious denim jacket shell that he wore. Like metal shavings drawn to an enormous horseshoe magnet, I lurked forward, extended my hand and said, “Hello, my name is JunkThief, and I’d like to learn about all the life that lurks beneath these shells.”

Gripping my hand firmly and flashing a heart warming grin, he sweetly replied “My pleathure to do tho thir.”

The ardor of our passion could not wait, and he adjourned the group early. We first explored one another right there on the beach, barely hidden by the cover of tide pools before advancing our lovemaking to a sleazy motor lodge in Occidental.

The speed of our connection was like none I’d ever known. We played dress up in matador uniforms, taking bets on who would be the first one able to swing the red cape without using his hands. Other times we took turns playing the bull.

Our often rough bedroom play advanced to the more political as I came to call him the conquistador, the civilizer, my Generalisimo Francolito, refusing to speak his elitist Castiliano, one night pretending to be the conquered Basque, the next night as Catalonia. Even as I savored him mounting and invading me with such passionate force, there was a certain despair as he held me down and I raised my one spare, clenched appendage and shouted out “Guernica! Guernica!”

So we had come to this. Light and rock therapy with this woman in Sebastopol named Kagreev. She had come recommended to us by many friends, some of whom claimed that she had taken volatile marriages and turned them into a gentle, harmonic waltz. I wasn’t sure if that’s what I wanted. But I did knew that something had to change.

With our Pradas checked at the door, we sat on a dusty kilim as Kagreev entered with a basket of rocks. “Oh, thith is jutht thilly!” Alejandro exclaimed.

I hated to admit I completely agreed, but I grabbed his hand and hushed him. “Just try it, sweetie.”

Taking a deep breath, opening her eyes and smiling smugly Kagreev explained that she was named after a sacred snow monkey from Bhutan having moved beyond her
original tag of Sally Ann Johnston. “Now grab a rock. Don’t give it thought. Just let your hand go to the one that is calling you.”

“Rockth can’t talk,” Alejandro mumbled as he grabbed a black stone with lightning bolt streaks. I grabbed a much smaller, ocher colored rock that felt more like a clump of fragile, congealed sand.

“Now these will be your guides during our journey of the next six months,” Kagreev said. “Now set them aside and know that they are always there for you if you get lost. But release your thoughts from them for now."

"Thixth monthth"Alejandro exclaimed. “I only have four monthth left on my vitha!"

Oblivious to the outburst, Kagreev closed her eyes again and then pulled out a yellow pad.

“Now I’m going to lead you through an exercise. It’s called the stone path of light discovery. As I say a word, imagine a pink light shining on your stone for just a fraction of a second. Release that thought, then say the first word that comes to you. I’ll ask each one of you alternately.”

“What the fuck!” Alejandro blurted out

“Just try it,” I groaned.

Kagreev adjusted on her pillow and began.

JunkThief: geese.”

I closed my eyes, had the vision and replied “Eiderdown blankets.

“Alejandro: fannel pajamas.”

“A thmelly butthole!”

“JunkThief: kittens.”

A chocolate bar with a picture of Ho Chi Minh on it.”

“Alejandro: carburetor.”

“Burnt cotton candy.”

“JunkThief: a woman’s vagina.”

“A crispy porcellio scaber fried in mink oil.”

"I think we are getting somewhere important with this!" Kagreev said, shining a pink flashlight into both of our eyes.

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At 11:34 AM, Blogger WAT said...

What an odd story this is.

I've only been with one Spaniard and I wasn't much impressed. I gotta keep on trying I suppose.

No hay muchos españoles en esta ciudad así que tengo que ir a España para conoTHer a más.

At 12:03 PM, Blogger Junk Thief said...

Si, Señor WAT. No tenemos muchos españoles aqui en la república popular de San Francisco tambien. Sin embargo, tengo otros amigos con un balbuceo.

An odd story, yes, and yet it all happened.

Oh, I think you just found the wrong Spaniard. Let me tell you, when those hombres are on target, believe me it's like the arrow hittin' the bull's eye!

At 1:16 PM, Blogger Bryce Digdug said...

I looked at the Waldo Tunnel picture carefully, the two tunnels make the eyes, and the Prius' speedometer makes a duck-like mouth like a cartoon from the 30's!

At 1:31 PM, Blogger Junk Thief said...

Oh, that's a good point, Bryce. I probably should have said eye shadow not lipstick. That makes more sense.

I think I was getting confused while focusing on my Catalan lesson. While mouth is "boca" in both Spanish and Catalan, eye is "l'ull" not "ojo" in Catalan. I was obviously "l'ulled" into confusion because of my studies.

No wonder I've started to lisp as much as Alejandro lately...


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