u s e y o u r h a n d s

Gillian finally woke up after nearly twelve hours of dreamless sleep. Before she opened her eyes, she twisted around in the bedclothes and enjoyed the sun and breeze streaming through the window. There was nothing she wanted more than to bury herself under the comforter again and spend the balance of the day sleeping.

But then she opened her eyes.

Above her, Gillian saw a canopy of clear blue sky framed at left and right by the poplar trees. Their spastic leaves glittered and seemed, for a moment, to make sense. But this feeling of well-being was short-lived. Gillian realized she was floating in water, down a river. The current was steady, but she didn’t feel like she was in danger. She tilted her head from side to side to take in the view of the bank. Even the feeling of cold water filling her ears didn’t disturb the altogether pleasantness of floating down a river when you didn’t expect it.

Gillian felt the pitch of the river change and felt her body slip with the water over a little waterfall. She was never afraid. In fact, she’d never felt more lithe and free. Gillian began to think she might not have a swimsuit on, so she kicked up a leg to check.

But no leg came up to meet her gaze.

Gillian didn’t have legs, nor did she have arms. No head, no torso, nothing. Her body, so happily twisting in 300-count percale a few minutes ago, had become a leaf. This didn’t bother her, though Gillian did wonder which tree she’d been a part of whether she chose to float down to the water or whether she’d been pushed.

The idea went away as quickly as it had come. Gillian had accepted that she was a leaf. Instead of trying to figure it out, she just floated. The river never came to an end. She never got caught in the still water at the shoreline. Gillian relaxed, warmed herself in the sun, and decided that it wasn’t much different than her very own bed.

Last night’s Academy Awards were strange, what with the war, what with the winners.

The whole no-red-carpet thing seemed a really hollow gesture. Who would that affect? What would the message be? Did families of both Iraqi and American dead take comfort from this silly tribute? Will a soldier feel a curious solidarity with Russell Crowe because the after-party he attended was slightly less ostentatious?

I’m sorry that Eminem was otherwise engaged and wasn’t present to accept his Oscar from a flabberghasted Barbra Streisand. The handoff would have been half the fun, but the speech, ah, the speech. Instead, the Oscar was accepted without antics by a “Lose Yourself” collaborator clad in Detroit Pistons jersey and dinner jacket. Instead of a silly list of shout-outs, he accepted the award gracefully with heartfelt thanks to Eminem who he described as a good and creative man.

Michael Moore’s poo-in-the-punchbowl acceptance speech leaves me confused. I’m glad someone stirred it up, especially such an unlikely Hollywood player. Everybody expected a protestation from Michael Moore, but I expected an eloquent, well-reasoned speech from the man who so delicately coaxed Charlton Heston into hanging himself with his own rope in Bowling For Columbine. Instead, he was frantic and boisterous. I think his meaning was drowned out by his tone, and it’s a shame, because I think his vioice is a powerful one. Adrien Brody’s war statement was so much more touching as he wished for speedy resolution and safe passage for a soldier friend in Kuwait.

I’m glad I wasn’t watching for the Best Director award. Although the Oscars are in no way comments about the recipient’s morality but rather a critique on their art, I feel sick about Roman Polanski’s win. Did Hollywood decide to turn into the Catholic Church for an evening? Polanski is a convicted (not just accused) child rapist. As Church hierarchy looked the other way in order to advance the cause of religion, Hollywood looked the other way to honor this man’s artistic creation. The connection (at least to me) is not a tenuous one. It’s a bit ironic to me that Polanski was honored for his film, a touching depiction of the courageous life of Wladyslaw Szpilman, but lacked the courage to serve his own jail sentence.

The dresses were pretty and Steve Martin (at times) made a presentable host. But I’m glad it’s over and we can stop staring into the really bright spotlight that distracts us from where we should be looking. It’s just as painful, but far more important.

Ok, so there’s a theme to this week’s Missed Connections! When I first started reading Missed Connections-type ads in the LA Weekly, many of them involved Trader Joe’s in some way. Strange. So I’ve rounded up four ads involving the grocery store. Trader Joe’s even makes an appearance!

These four ads come from the Chicago Reader and the Austin Chronicle. As always, my stories appear below each ad. Enjoy!

TREASURE ISLAND, LAKEVIEW, 3/11, evening. You: long-haired handsome guy buying detergent. Me: shy guy in leather jacket behind you at checkout. Couldn’t take my eyes off of you. You were looking back. You were standing outside when I left, I was too chicken to talk. Love another chance to introduce myself. (Chicago Reader)

Every day, I fall in love with some stranger. Totally and hopelessly. The guy in Treasure Island? Before I even looked at him, he had me. He asked an employee if they carried the new Woolite for black clothing, which I’m a big fan of. It wasn’t so much the detergent, but it was how he asked that got me. After the employee pointed it out, I heard him answer, “Thanks kindly.” Don’t know why, but I got the shiver. You know that shiver.

TRADER JOE’S, FRIDAY 2/28, 6:30pm. You: glasses, sideburns, buying anchovies and chocolate chips, said goodbye while leaving parking lot. Me: black glasses, curly hair, wouldn’t mind hearing more about that recipe. (Chicago Reader)

On Valentine’s Day, Grant got dumped hard. He took his girlfriend out to dinner and as he gazed at her so happy that he finally felt comfortable and happy in a relationship, she leaned across the table and said it was over. Grant had a batch of her favorite cookies waiting when she came to pick up her stuff. When she interrogated him later about the ingredients, he just laughed.

CENTRAL MARKET 2/21: You: blonde, buxom, tan pants, bought flowers. Me: sandy blonde, red shirt. We smiled in aisle. Saw you check out and leave. I’m interested. You? (Austin Chronicle)

“This is the most beautiful girl in all the world,” said Circe’s mother as she gazed lovingly at the painting she’d hung in her daughter’s room. A girl with flowing blonde hair holding a bouquet in a field surrounded by a gilt frame. The woman in the market that day lacked the frame, but the rest of her was straight out of that painting.

MARISOL: WHOLE FOODS I’m lousy at check-out line small talk but would enjoy getting to know outside of work. I’m the shy Waterloo boy with the big sideburns. (Austin Chronicle)

Gus was a very jealous man and he always imagined that his wife Marisol flirted scandalously with customers at work. This idea tormented him and began to treat Marisol like a cheat and a liar. He sought confirmation one day by hiding around a corner and watching her work for an hour. But Gus didn’t see anything suspect in her behavior. She was kind and polite, but never solicitous. He felt like a fool.