So I posted this missed connection on Craigslist on Wednesday August 6^th, 2009:

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Verb-Wednesday-1:30PM-raised eyebrows – w4m

I’m not sure if this counts as a missed connection but I’ll post it anyway.

Wednesday at Verb, as I was coming in you were walking out. You smiled at me I think I smiled at you, but I for certain raised both eyebrows simultaneously. You were carrying an iced beverage, I held the door for you. I sat inside on a stool looking out the window, you sat outside with your back to me. You were talking with a 40-something bespectacled Verb lurker and when you got up to smoke you walked over with him to look at a bicycle. As I was leaving I walked by you as you stood smoking. You turned, we made eye contact, you exhaled smoke in my face. I don’t think it was intentional and I tried not to wince. I like to think I just took you breath away.

You-reddish/blonde hair?, blonde arm hair, wearing large silver ring on left hand (middle finger?), taller than me but not tall, you had a black shoulder bag/briefcase you left on the back of your chair.

Me-blonde, pony-tailed, dimples, straight from the gym, green deep-v t-shirt with a 2 headed cock on it (not sure you would have noticed it) we mostly made eye contact, you seemed to keep your gaze upstairs.

If this sounds familiar, maybe tell me something you noticed, something I missed.

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I never got any responses from this post and it expired after a week.

Today, September 4^th, 2009, I was at the Verb and saw someone resembling this description sitting outside. He looked different than I remembered, no ring and seemed taller, but it was hard to tell because he was sitting down. I was inside reading an article in the New York Times about a man in Texas who builds low-income housing out of recycled and discarded building materials. I glanced up and he looked through the window at me, he had piercing blue eyes. I made eye contact, sort of smiled my furrowed-brow inquisitive but suspicious smile and then went back to reading the paper. When it was time to leave I just walked away in the opposite direction. I went to the drugstore and seeing that they were out of my favorite face wash, I retraced my steps, and passed by him sitting outside the Verb and tried, non-chalantly to see if he had a black shoulder bag/briefcase hanging off the back of his chair. On the way back from the second drugstore, it occurred to me that I could determine if it was my missed connection by conducting a short interview if he was up for it.

So on my third pass, I walked up to him and said “hello.” He looked up, smiled and greeted me; he had a German accent. Right away I thought to myself, this isn’t the guy. Although I had never spoken with my missed connection, I would have guessed that he was American, Californian if I were to speculate, because of his laidback posture and the fact that he looked like a surfer. I continued, “I think I’ve mistaken you for someone but I’m pretty sure I can figure it out by asking three questions, do you mind?”

“No, would you like to take a seat?”

“Thanks. Do you have a black shoulder bag/briefcase?”

“Um, I’m thinking…of all my bags. It’s possible.”

“Do you have a large silver ring that you sometimes wear?”

“Definitely, not.”

“Hmm…I think I might already have my answer. Do you smoke?”

“Yes, I do. Do you want a cigarette?”

“No, thanks, I don’t smoke.”

“I’m from Berlin. Have you ever spent time in Berlin?”

“Yes, a lot.”

“Really?”

“But I definitely know this person from here.”

“Well I was here, maybe two years ago.”

“No, it wasn’t so long ago. May I ask how tall you are? It’s hard to tell because you’re sitting.”

“I am one meter ninety-four.”

“So nearly 2 meters, you’re too tall.”

He was nice but he wasn’t the guy and having determined that, I excused myself.
“Well, thank-you.” I said and got up and left.

I could tell it was kind of abrupt end to the conversation and that he wanted to continue talking. There’s a strange vulnerability that comes with summoning the courage to approach a stranger and strike up a conversation. So never mind however successful the exchange, I tend to hightail it outta there.

Dear Jim Dodge,

I want to trick you into writing more books. To make my words massage the parts of your brain that put pen to paper. To coax you in from cutting firewood and pluck your nose out of the newspaper and redirect your energy to putting your thoughts and humor on paper. Okay so I imagine you do more than cut wood and sit around reading the newspaper, perhaps you even get your news like me: through osmosis.

Honestly I’d rather clean a toilet than struggle with the written word. Writing, like art, is mainly isolating and rarely lucrative. Reading on the other hand can be an incredible experience and source of inspiration. So I’m torn in asking you to endure a process I loathe to create a product I love.

Writing requires an intellectual discipline that perpetuates restlessness that physical labor usually deters. I’d rather spend my day in a filthy shop grinding metal than in front of a computer, but here I am.

My favorite book is Stone Junction, followed by Fup, then tied between the introduction of Not Fade Away and the poem “Bathing Joe” from Rain on the River.

If there is anything I can offer you as an incentive, barter or motivation (short of a monetary bribe) please let me know.

Thank you so much,

CHANDI

I Have a Secret To Tell You on National Television. That was title for the episode of Ricki Lake I appeared on in 1994. My friend Aurelius was obsessed with Ricki Lake from John Water’s movies. She had been watching her talkshow for weeks searching for topics we could meet the criteria for. One day she told me that I “should be getting a call from Ricki Lake.” She had told me the title of the show but not the secret. Someone from the show called me for a telephone interview,

“Do have any idea who might want to reveal a secret to you?”

“No, I can’t think of anyone.”

“Can you think of a secret that someone might be keeping from you?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Has anyone mentioned anything about the Ricki Lake show to you?”

“No.”

“Are you in a relationship with anyone?”

“Yes, I have a boyfriend Greg.”

“Do you think he would be willing to come on the show?”

“I don’t know, I can ask him.”

Later someone called to get our address and ask our meal preferences. We were all in college together at Pratt. They picked us up in limos, Greg and I together and Aurelius separately. Greg and I were vegan at the time and they had gotten us Falafels.

Greg had purple hair and an eyebrow ring. He had this weird style, kind of a cartoon hobo. He had this thing for really big round shoes with platforms. He wore fat old men’s pants, the widest he could possible find with a belt and pins to hold in all the excess fabric. He was into stripes, Sonic Youth style. He made a lot of his own clothes; he liked polyester and the color brown.

I had bleached blonde hair and a tongue ring. I was in between my rave, punk and gothic stage, never fully committing or identifying with any one scene. I had made a spiked collar out of velvet and metal drywall screws that security tried to take away from me until they realized I was a guest. I was wearing an infant’s shirt, one of those ribbed lap tees, where the collar overlaps the shoulder. I had been getting them at the discount stores and buying the largest size I could find, this one was royal blue and I had painted a black bat on it. I was wearing black vinyl pants that I had made, let me remind you it was the early 90’s and cool.

Aurelius had a shaved head with a patch of bangs in the front Tank Girl style and was the most tattooed and pierced. She was wearing her usual uniform of black: baggy guy’s shorts, combat boots, a Christian Death t-shirt and as many silver chains and necklaces she could manage-a walking metal detector’s nightmare.

After eating falafel in the Green Room they walked me out to backstage where I had to wait in a booth listening to music on headphones. I was nervous walking out and as the audience kind of cheered and gasped I felt it necessary to expose my tongue ring. Aurelius was waiting for me on this little loveseat. Greg was sitting next to her in a chair. Aurelius began her speech.

“I just wanted to bring you here because—I LOVE YOU RICKI! I’ve watched all your movies—“

“Thank-you” Ricki says,

“What did you want to tell your friend?”

“Well I just wanted to say that Greg didn’t get even get you anything for Valentine’s Day (audience boos) and I would treat you much better than that (audience awes). I’m in love with you and I want you to dump him and go out with me (audience goes crazy, clapping, screaming, gasping).”

I feigned surprise. I opened my mouth and covered it with my hand. I opened my eyes wide as if in shock, realizing I had all the acting abilities of a cartoon. Ricki said,“You seem really surprised.” I was thinking do I? Am I believable? That was so FAKE. Greg just kept cursing, they bleeped out everything he said. I just played dutiful girlfriend and said that “it wouldn’t be fair, I couldn’t just dump whomever I was with” as if etiquette was relevant given the spectacle we had just made of ourselves.

I had told my Dad that I was going to be on the show, he had his friends at the bar recording it while he was at work. When he came by to get the tape they warned him

“I don’t think you want to see this.”

After watching the tape he told them that he thought that I “had handled myself very well.”

My aunt couldn’t even watch the tape “with all those things in your face.” I can’t remember if I had the cheek and septum piercing then, but I had them when she picked me up from the train station when I came home to visit once. She had just gotten a new used car and her son began asking me about my piercings as we were pulling out of the parking space. Just as he was contemplating out loud what would be his first piercing she ran into a parking meter and ripped off her side view mirror.

Ten years after the show I was still being recognized from the show, which was miraculous since I was kind of a chameleon with my ever evolving style and hair color, eventually returning to bleach blonde or as I like to call it, a failed attempt to recapture my youth. We lived in Fort Greene/Bed-Stuy where people would ask us on the street, the subway and yell out of car windows:

“Yo, you were on Ricki Lake!”

“Whatever happened with that girl?”

“Did you dump that guy?”

We’d usually be recognized apart and would make up different answers. Aurelius would say, “Yeah we got married,” pointing to her girlfriend, being white and blonde could pass for me since all white people really do look alike. I’d say. “Yeah, I dumped that guy,” which was true but not for reasons that would make for good TV, not yet.

*disclaimer: or suffer from delusions of grandeur, be a moderate narcissist or just have a great sense of style.

In the fifth grade you made your grandmother buy you two lace bows from a street vendor in D.C. after seeing the movie Desperately Seeking Susan. You also made your grandmother take you to see Who’s That Girl. Sorry Nana.

You dressed up as a bumblebee in middle school and survived.

When you were 15 a transvestite broke into your house and stole your bras.

In middle school you had your aunt sew you a jumpsuit out of leopard flannel. You wore it with the belt tied in the back to look like a tail.

You taught yourself how to sew. Sewing projects included hemming your grandfather’s seersucker pants into shorts, superhero outfits for your cousin and a pillow in the shape of a surfboard.

When applying to art school for Painting they mistakenly sent you a class schedule consisting of only fashion classes, you decided to major in Painting anyway.

You get compliments on your style from crack addicts.

You once made an entire subway platform of elementary school children break out laughing because of your outfit; or maybe it was your hair, anyway you pretended to ignore it.

You mentioned to your father that you secretly wished Alexander McQueen would adopt you, accidentally hurting his feelings.

You dress according to mood.

You judge people based on their shoes.

You wear jackets inside out because you like the lining.

You’re not afraid to wear lederhosen.

You know that Onesies aren’t just for babies.

I was on talking on my home phone to Kim. At the same time I was texting back to Dasha on my cell phone. I stood on one leg and leaned back against the brick wall. The heel of my boot slipped on the concrete floor and I slid down the wall and fell on my butt. I was so flustered I began talking into my cell phone to Kim, wondering why I couldn’t hear her. I thought I hung up on her but could still faintly hear her saying “hello, hello, hello?” from the home phone. Then I absently mindedly hung up my home phone to call her back on my cell phone. Then I explained the whole thing to her while laughing uncontrollably.

I was walking to the UPS store carrying a large box.

As I passed a group of firemen, one of them said, “He’ll help you carry your package,”
pushing another fireman towards me.

I laughed and said, “So you’re volunteer firemen.”

I had borrowed my boyfriend’s bike when he was in LA. We lived on the Notorious B.I.G.’s block. I had been riding it during the day and locked it to the gate outside with a u-lock and forgot about it. I usually either bring it upstairs at night or lock it with a kryptonite bike chain for the frame and back tire and use the u-lock for the front tire. It was about 2AM and I was sitting in the living room at the front of the apartment with the windows open, it was summer. I was up way too late for no reason at all and found myself watching some really bad softcore porn. I heard the sound of metal against metal and jumped up to look outside the window. I saw a homeless guy with a huge crowbar; about six feet tall, trying to pry open my lock.

I yelled down from the window, “Hey, that’s my bike!”

He looked up and said, “Ok, I won’t take it.”

I came downstairs with the bike chain in tow; a weapon I now know as a ‘smiley.’
I had no intention of leaving the bike downstairs now.
The homeless guy was still there, riffling through the garbage.
I was trembling as I began to unlock my bike.

The homeless guy said to me, “I told you I wasn’t going to take it.”

I’m thinking I’m going to trust you? I just caught you stealing my bike!

I’m television psychic. I have the ability to predict the surprise outcomes and shocking twists in plots. Fifteen minutes into a show I can tell you that the brother murdered his sister and made his girlfriend get plastic surgery to look like his sister in order to inherit his mother’s estate. Sometimes there is a clue planted, like the way the brother held his girlfriend-pretending-to-be-his-sister’s hand in the interrogation room. Even when the plot tried to lead you towards believing it was incest, I wasn’t buying it, I knew.

In my neighborhood in Brooklyn, there are photo shoots every weekend. Even though its no longer ‘edgy’, it doesn’t stop people from posing in front of pull down metal gates, bad graffiti and on dead end streets, I should know, I live on one.

This Sunday I was walking home from the grocery store where I bought baking soda to make biscuits from scratch. Forgetting that I was missing a few other supplies, like a rolling pin, cutting board and biscuit cutter. I heard you could improvise a rolling pin with a wine bottle, but since I don’t drink I bottomed out there too. I could substitute an upside down glass for a biscuit cutter but in the end I decided to just make toast.

When I approached the corner of my street, I saw what I feared to be a Mime. He was wearing black pants and a white shirt with black horizontal stripes, the uniform of the Mime or just some Danish guy in Copenhagen. His face was in profile and he was slightly obscured by a person standing in front of him but then he turned, revealing his white-painted face in all it’s revolting glory. A wash of anger came over me. I don’t know why Mimes make me so angry. But then I saw the photographer, it was the Pilgrim.

The Pilgrim is a guy that dresses like, you guessed it, a Pilgrim. I believe he’s lived in this neighborhood longer than I have, which is over eleven years, since my friend Kim used to tell me about him when she lived here before me. He looks exactly like a Pilgrim, right out of a Thanksgiving’s Day card. The cropped black pants with white stockings, the shoes with square metal buckles, the cartoon-like black hat, even round old-fashioned glasses.

Somehow the sight of the Pilgrim photographing the Mime made it okay. It was okay that there was a Mime if he was being photographed by a Pilgrim. 

This morning when my alarm went off I jumped out of bed and crumpled like a marionette.

My leg was asleep.