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2:47 p.m. : 2002-08-14 : Postcard Give Me Wedge

How I react to things presented to me with few facts says a lot about how neurotic I can be. (Of course there are quite a few assholes out for blood, money, sex, and salvation so I like to consider myself more cautious than neurotic). I am trying to probe the enigma of a postcard Brent found in his suitcase (and had never seen before) while moving some items from the lovely Sunnyside Terrace. It has Van Gogh�s Three Pairs of Shoes on the front, from the Fogg Art museum, which makes me think it was not actually purchased or even carefully chosen, as Steve used to work there and probably has all kinds of impressionist/writing paraphernalia lying around the house, just ripe for the picking by mysterious girls ignorant of pop culture name spelling. It is dated May 11, 2001 and reads:

�Brent, thanks so much for everything. You are a good person and will go far. Please give this small token of a gift to your girlfriend �Jen.� She is a dear person and has helped me, you could never know how much. Love, [something illegible that looks like Lepril or Lepie] Sue Beth

PS. I figured out who she reminds me of�Cindy Loper (sp?) ��> the singer�you know, �girls they just want to have fun.� Please take care of yourself, Brent.�

Strangely (or not so strangely, I guess, for a child of the 80�s), lovely Cyndi is solely responsible for my need to dye my hair red. It started when She�s So Unusual came out and I would cut/dye the hair of my Barbies with orange watercolors and water. And then I turned sixteen and the health food store offered a dazzling array of henna products which I promptly landed and donned, much to Mom�s dismay and have been happily red/burgundy ever since, except for a brief 2 to 2 � year blonde stint. And I still have this fantasy of owning one of those silver Airstream trailers like she had in the �Time after Time� video and would take it on exotic trips. I would come out of it with my lunchbox attached to the outside of my rucksack, pouting the good pout, and looking fabulous in my plaid pants.

Anyway, Paranoia Big Destroya on the postcard tip.

Ok. I have no idea who wrote it. I don�t know anyone with any Sue Beth in her name. And of course I�m inclined to believe it�s some cruel joke and that the girl who wrote it was hopelessly in love with Brent and spent nights sleeping in his room and smelling his pillow, only to say I helped her more than anyone could know because I broke her of her inane fantasy by dazzling her with my ironic knowledge of dining utensils, upon which she thought to herself, �Who couldn�t love a girl like that with all of his heart? I�d better pack it up and move onto some other boy�s circus. There�s already one delightful trapeze artist here.�

I suppose I�d just like to know who I helped, "you could never know how much.� And why don�t I recognize the name?! I mean, I�ve been known to give people innocuous spiritual advice, perched on cat pee stained couches at four in the morning after one too many kamikazes when the party has already jumped the shark but I usually remember if something worthwhile comes out of it. Or if someone�s left tear-streaked but happy, I file it away under �Actually had a decent cathartic conversation so party wasn�t an absolute wash.� So since nothing fluffs the pornstar in my brain I of course must assume something sordid about the capacity in which it was written. Which is why I�ve written this down and am walking away. I have a tendency to get my panties in a bunch over meaningless crap and most things just aren�t worth wasting the energy metamorphosing that many stomach caterpillars into butterflies.

Word of the Day for Wednesday August 14, 2002:

tocsin TOCK-sin, noun:

1. An alarm bell, or the ringing of a bell for the purpose of alarm.

2. A warning.

Some of the allegations put round are so frenzied, however, that some caution should be exercised before the tocsin is rung too loudly. --"New President of the NUS," [1]Times (London), April 10, 1969

The first atomic bomb fell and its radioactive cloud became a tocsin for mankind. --Herbert Mitgang, "The Bomb as Horror and Warning," [2]New York Times, August 1, 1990

But Mr. Beckett is wise in choosing the form of the myth in which to sound his tocsin on the condition of human society. --Brooks Atkinson, "Beckett's 'Endgame,'" [3]New York Times, January 29, 1958

Tocsin derives from Medieval French touquesain, from Old Proven�al tocasenh, from tocar, "to touch, to strike, to ring a bell" + senh, "church bell," ultimately from Latin signum, "sign, signal."

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