Saturday, September 18, 2010

To The Blonde Woman in the BMW

To the blonde woman in the BMW: At the red light I stole glances of your red lipstick and when the light went green:


I swear, one of these days you Toronto women are really going to fuck up my insurance rates.

To the girls of Bloor St: I don't know what Dolce & Gabbana are telling you but it's working. The glossy magazines are whispering in your ear and you are listening. Well most of you anyway.

To the girls of Bloor St not listening: It's definitely more than okay, don't get me wrong. I like you just the way you are. I think I'm in love with the girlfriend of the man who works at the full serve Esso station by my apartment. She just sits there with aviator glasses on; her boyfriend pumps gas into all the expensive cars and it's reflected in her eyes. Every so often a jalopi will roll in and I think to myself, What is WRONG with the universe? But this girl, she just sits there reading and watching the world go by. And I don't want to change the world, I just want to watch it go by too. Why can't we watch it turn together? The world is turning, yes, but I hope it doesn't turn away.

To the homeless girl at the Hwy 427 and Dundas exit: I drive by you often, I presume you're homeless, or maybe you just hang out at the Hwy 427 Dundas St. exit. What a healthy looking German Shepherd to keep you company too. You're dressed in dirty jeans and an old t-shirt but I know there's a woman under there! I was looking for a sign, a placard reading "WILL FUCK TAYLOR FOR FOOD". I roll down my window and ask you and your dog to hop in. "Put the bitch in the back, honey," I say opening the door AND smoking a cigarette with no hands. All a man like me needs is to be left alone and a decent piece of ass once in a while.

"Sure, you can use my shower while I'm at work; and here's some money for dog food. Buy the good stuff," I say, on my way out leaving a twenty on the table. I bet she'd give me a good blowjob when I came home after a hard day's work at the office. Better chance her than YOU the blonde woman in the BMW. So in love with yourself, when having sex you're really just using a human dildo.

Around this time my fantasy turns on me and I'll be at work--I CAN'T STOP thinking that this goddamn homeless girl is hoofing my computer and guitar to buy CRACK.

And really, what is it with crack lately? In the 90's it was an epidemic in the projects, poor black men on Cops proclaiming, "Those are my keys, but THAT'S not my CRACK." Obviously that's still happening but now it's au couture. Now celebrities are sucking on the end of that glass pipe like they're trying to get a golf ball through a garden hose.

I am the BOBBLEHEAD of Bloor St. Craning my neck, mining for that one look, a fraction of a second alone with the outline of that ass to put it in the bank. We could be so good together--I'd wash your BMW on the weekends, scrub off all the grime. Shining hot to the touch glimmering in the noon day sun. It has all the bells and whistles, sometimes I wonder if the car isn't driving you.

We'd go out for dinner with Tom and Cindy and then home and I'd give it to you just the way you like it. Instead I'm eye-humping you in a black BMW; in the mind it plays like a cheap porno movie, my cock slicing into you. You just want more more MORE!

How sharper than a serpent's tooth the pain is to have the blonde woman in the BMW disappear down the road and out of my life and into this blog.

Come to think of it, a woman's career in Hollywood has the same arc as one in the WTA (Women's Tennis Association). It's ovah by thirty five. Unless you're Maryl Streep. Can you BELIEVE I actually enjoyed Julie & Julia? The whole time I was watching it I kept telling myself, "Taylor this is horseshit, don't fall for this smarmy tale of life and love and cooking and hope and relationships and love, oh I already mentioned love, and parenthood, and blogs, and terrorism, no not terrorism you fool, though one of the characters dealt with insurance claims from 9/11 victims but that's as far as it went into terrorism, and food, how could I forget the food? Remember when Amy Adams cooked that duck? Oh brother, what a love story.

I watched the movie with my parents; Mom thought it was just okay and Dad was dismissive as he should have been as a real man but I was all choked up. WTF (What The Fuck)? I think it had to do with the song at the end, Time After Time. That damn song by Sammy Cahn. I swallowed those tears like a man though. Fought 'em back like Ali in the 12th or Tyson in the 1st.

And time after time, you'll hear me say that I'm
So lucky to be loving you, the blonde woman in the BMW.

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