Papa, please preach 
I wrote this pwem* a year ago, when I realized my youth was as lost as Britney Spears’ virginity. The point was driven home this weekend when I saw some friends I hadn’t seen in a while. I’m clearly stuck in some kind of prolonged adolescence because I still just want to have fun and I’d rather swallow rat poison than have babies and move to the suburbs.
It’s hard to wake up and go to work every day knowing I’m supposed to be living in 1920s Paris.
Anyway, for good or ill, here's my pwem.
Drinking Margaritas on a Tuesday Afternoon
I miss drinking margaritas on a Tuesday afternoon,
And our July vacations that started in June.
I miss Opening Days that lasted all night,
And walking and talking until the first light.
I miss the sun at the Cape, and climbing the hill;
The buzzing of bugs, the smell of the grill.
I miss sitting outside, beside the canal,
While the colors of Amsterdam sang a chorale.
I miss waiters in Paris, and brats on the train,
That house in London, the freezing cold rain.
I miss dinners, the Drop, and ants in our room.
I miss trips to New York while thunderstorms loomed.
I miss nights at the Cask and Pedro games;
Meeting cute boys, and giving fake names.
If only I’d known it was ending so soon,
Drinking margaritas on a Tuesday afternoon.
***
I know the New Yorker will not be knocking on my door anytime soon, but I still like to rhyme stuff.
*Pwem = my friend Tiffany from college who was from New Orleans always said “pwem” instead of “poem.”
***
My upstairs neighbors are having very loud sex right now.
***
Okay, it's been like an hour, can I complain? Jesus.
Top Five Other Places I'd Like To Time Travel To
5. Allison's graduation party, June 25, 1988
4. The Shamrock House, East Durham, NY, May 27, 1990
3. The Cape, August 15-22, 1998
2. Studio 54, NYC, 1977
1. The Grasshopper, Amsterdam, August 1, 1999
Loud Sex Update: Well, ironically, as "After The Lovin'" by Englebert Humperdinck plays on my 70's music channel, I can hear Mr. Loud Sex leaving. So in his honor, I think that instead of "After the lovin', I'm still in love with you," the lyric should officially be changed to "After the lovin', I'm gonna catch the C train."
1 comment:
Kate,
I was gone for a few days, and fell behind on your little blog here. It's nice to say, I'm all caught up. NOW...let's get to the meat of the story here.
First off...I was gone for a few days in Europe, and literally gonzo for one of them in Amsterdam. So when I read your poem (phat, btw...I love to rhyme things -- words, that is -- as well), and loved your stanza (is that what it's called? Makes me think of Tony D. when I say that word) about sitting on the canal in Amsterdam. Made me all nostalgic even though it was only six days ago I was by the canal. But the best part ... I was probably sitting in the same exact spot as you at the Grasshopper. I almost shit when I got to your number one time travel destination. I was at the Grasshopper on my birthday...started in the coffee shop when I pushed the big red button to display the menu of weed of which I got to choose from. Alice in Wonderland steps into the tiny door. Blueberry haze ... the strongest he says. Purple haze ... kinda mild. Bubble gum haze ... to keep the fairy tale theme alive, I was like Goldilocks face-deep in a bowl of sweet, warm porridge.
Long paragraph...need a break. So then I get ripping high outside by the canal, and drink a very large, cold Heinekin. I really want a cigarette, so I venture back into the coffee shop and ask for regular smokes. Of course I'm handed a magic coin. What else would I get handed? The room is a hazy green with soft lights and alien chatter, groovy tunes sail from the speakers and tie the room together in one green bouquet of madness. Wow ... sheer bizarro world. Happy fucking birthday to me.
Two hours later I was on the third floor devouring a rib-eye steak cooked medium, with another Heinekin. Then I got the shits for two straight days, but it really didn't matter. My wife turned 30 at midnight, and we kissed by the canal in the heart of the Red Light District, with the silhouette of a fat hooker in my peripheral vision. How romantic am I? Does it get any more Humphrey Bogart than that? I think not.
Great poem.
- Chris
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