A fairly uneventful shift on the door until an attractive young lady with bangs dyed fire-engine red comes outside to smoke, accosts me and apropos of nothing tells me that she doesn't have any American girlfriends (she arrived with 3 French friends) because American women are spoiled and conditioned -- partly because of their male counterparts and partly because of technology/"the media" -- to be less independent and to "get whatever they want handed to them" even though most of them have no idea what they want (another symptom of technological dependence); that she could survive alone on an island for five days if provided a lighter; that she was born in Israel and because of this is automatically more independent, something she has been since age 16 even though her mother and father are akin to Israeli celebrities in the fields of medicine and science, respectively; that she wants to pull aside label-conscious women in the subway and tell them that if they shopped at "lower-end" places like Zara and focused more on color coordination and what looks good on them instead of "unfortunate Louis Vuitton bags" they might attain a greater state of happiness; that she makes "nice money" and owns a vintage Chanel bag because it's vintage and therefore acceptable; that she has lived in NYC for seven years and had an abortion the first year; that minorities are inherently bad parents; that she works in the "diamond industry" and if i mention her name (which she has not offered) to any respectable person affiliated with said industry they will attest to her success and "people skills"; that she is dyslexic and suffers from ADD which made college difficult and resulted in a short-term inferiority complex; that she knows I might not be enjoying listening to her but that she is confident that through her banter she has made me think about things I never would have otherwise considered and in this way she feels fulfilled; that her parents disinherited her when she started dating her non-Jewish French boyfriend. At this point her boyfriend and the two other French people they came into the bar with come outside and her boyfriend gleefully shouts that he's won a bet because she is talking to the doorman, then turns to his friends and jokingly says something that includes the word "salope" which if you know French is a pretty naughty word for a lady. As they light cigarettes and continue talking she bends over and whispers "Thanks for listening" before sticking her tongue deep into my ear and briefly wriggles it around in a manner that can best be compared to the burrowing eel of planet Ceti Alpha V that burrows into Mr. Chekov's brain in Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan. At this point, I haven't said a word longer than "Uh."

ear to the street

New review of Monkeytown is at The Small Press Book Review. Thanks Ben and Mel.

The opening of lips, the disappearing.

"C-Bomb" is a short story and it is up at The Fat City Review.