As I was walking along in the mall to-day, a young woman asked me who was on my shirt.
"Robert Smith," I said. It's a black t-shirt with Robert Smith's big pale face with a dash of red lipstick. Under his chin, in red letters, it says, "The Cure."
"And what's the cure for?" she asked.
"The Cure's actually a band," said I.
"Oh . . . so it's the cure for entertainment?" she deduced cheerfully.
"No, no. The band's name is 'The Cure'." No one understands me.
"Oh! . . . I went to a Misfits concert once. Are they anything like The Misfits? Like, rock n' roll?" Yes, this individual was not attended by a parent, and in fact looked to be around thirty years in age.
"I haven't heard much of The Misfits' stuff, but I don't think so."
She said, "Oh, neat! How's your cell phone?" which I should have seen coming. Only some goofy Verizon salesperson would feel perfectly natural in the bizarrely pathetic-little-neighbour-kid-trying-to-fit-in tactic of "You like music? Me too! Let's be buddies!"
I started writing a new short story at my aunt's Starbucks. Looks like the first non Sci-Fi/Fantasy fiction I've ever written in my life. It's a little noir-ish.
And just before going to my blog here, I finished watching a Stephen Frears film noir that Marty lended me called The Grifters. It was terribly good and surprisingly disturbing.