Say Anything

is also an Aimee Mann song. Killing time in a self-consciously funky record store, I flipped over the back of an old album unlikely I'd like from the title, Whatever, and accidentally bumped into favorite movie title. Hanging around I was not looking for Lloyd grown up to High Fidelity Rob record store owner. Just needed to murder minutes in self-consciously funky record store as part of Saturday afternoon's scheduled illicit activity. Explanation: Ivan came in from New Haven yesterday. After wandering city some, sitting Central Park some, and telling all summer stories of Paris (mine) and fish brains (mine) and psychotic family (his, actually), thought of all things city had to offer. Brilliantly decided a felony or fake identity was most wanted. He'd lost last one in the city. Seemed appropriate to replenish access to alcohol where it was misplaced. Not far from John's Pizza where suspected it escaped from his wallet winter break, we went into a tattoo parlor. A woman apologized. They used to make them, but post-9/11 the police had cracked down and lots of places shut down. A focusing knob sharpened the blurred image of the piericing seriousness of scam. For terrorism, not just teenagers like the preppy couple who came in after us seeking same thing, trying to circumvent laws don't respect but don't need to disrespect in most other countries. The woman directed Ivan to a clothing store where everything cost $16. Only Ivan, and then the couple one at a time. No one else or else the guy would get mad. But don't be scared, she added. With these instructions I moved from a street of mild concern to a broad boulevard of worry where I took up temporary residence. Before Ivan came back with a license from Michigan, before he told me how he'd been mildly terrified, before Housing Works where stopped shaking amid comfort of used books, I looked at song seven, "Say Anything," and knew a spot of relief amid waiting and that I'd like it without listening to it. I thought of the different directions to go from the idea. Speech without restraint. Nothing inutterable. Friends know well enough to spill your self, thoughts all over them. Or Ione Skye telling her father, I won't leave anything out because I know I can say anything to you. Calling on closeness as an allowance to tell everything, including what is hurtful. A sneering distortion of the meaning of proximity of parent and child or a mocking celebration of complete openness. I wondered if she'd seen the movie, but Aimee took anything not as everything but as nothing. Or sweet nothings. Or nothing true. Wondered if she'd met provocation to sing "Cause if you were everything you say/ things would be different today/ and though I'd be happy to believe/ I'd have to be much more naive -/ say anything, 'cause I've heard everything." Listening to lines at home, although album's been out ages, it seemed she'd written down a simple story I tell. And when music does that, or poetry, or painting, when it feels like you, when it gets part of your narrative, I feel so grateful. For someone phrasing it tighter or truer than I, for someone thinking something similar, removing the privacy of being human, being screened inside yourself, opaque flesh shielding or isolating emotions from others, and reminding me how unoriginal actions and even interpertations often are. This thought taking away the seriousness that comes with uniqueness of situation. Great gratitude to Ms. Mann. Another reason to put her in the category of people I'd like to have dinner with.

Happy Hours

All the signs advertise outside of bars in Paris. A slightly inaccurate appropriation of the idiom, but a charmingly literal appellation of the time people released from another day of the grind release themselves. Borrowed by a foreign mouth, the concept comes out 'Appy 'Ours. The French formulation implies ownership but is generous in its plurality. Last "s" leaks out the inclination to take their leisure leisurely. Didn't hang around happy hour often in Paris but caught the tail of an American version. Left lab less late than usual Thursday and snaked my way through the Bronx before the sunset I saw over rooftops and in reflections other days this week. Took the two train and met a friend and her co-workers on the west side. Walked in past a sign reading "Margarita Happy Hour" and smiled. A bar/Mexican restaurant, but didn't remind me much of Mama's. No high-schoolers in sight. Although they're out of season it didn't seem that crowd's kind of joint. Dimly lit, no purple orchids, but talkative parties around tall tables and wide glasses. Found friend with a bubbling group in the front. One woman wore a wide sombrero. They'd been there two hours, translates as three Margaritas. Sounds of Spanish mixed with English and I suddenly felt like speaking nothing but French. Oddly at ease, sat down and settled into some language's time zone of happiness.