The Penthouse...

I was waiting for an elevator at the ground level. I nodded cordially to the woman holding a FedEx box next to me. A man approached quickly, throwing with equal speed, "Did I get anything," to the concierge. He replied no. The quick man stood there. I made eye contact and nodded hello. He looked at me with heavy eyes, as if trying to figure me out. He nodded a bit, so small a nod, in fact, that if it weren't for my extremely high visual IQ, I would've missed it.

We three, Fedex, Quickly, and I, got on the elevator. Fedex pressed 30. I pressed 24. Quickly flicked PH. It was a considered flick; concise and efficient. It made a sharp sound, like the sound a can-opener makes when it first pierces the can's surface. It was as if he'd been thinking about how to press the button the duration of our waiting for the elevator.

Fedex immediately conceded power to Quickly. Her head went down in a defeated slump. I saw her lips move as she occupied herself with reading the FedEx label. I looked at her and then looked at him. He was looking straight ahead. It was as if we didn't exist. I felt bad for the guy. I got the sense that he was embarrassed to live on the Penthouse floor. I say this because when he flicked the PH button, his head slumped in the same manner as Fedex's. However, he had not a label to read.

The doors slid open on 24. I said, "Good night." Fedex said, "G'night." Quickly said nothing.

Regarding Love...

Lot's of talk about love around my office. There is not a knight in shining armor(at least not in our century)--deal with it.

When she dies..

Kerry wants this on her "monument."

http://patrickkallay.blogspot.com/2005/05/un-snip.html

Sex (or something like it)…

Intellectual stimulation is the new sex. That's right; I said it.

Almost online dating dialog...

I was looking over some old files on my other, less used (by me) computer and found a letter meant for a very sweet looking girl who sent me an e-mail through True.com. I don't know what I was thinking when I wrote the following letter--I am posting it here because self-deprecation seems to be my bag.

Hi [Name Omitted],

I'm Patrick, an ex-fine arts student and my circle of friends has dwindled to Gus, the slovenly forty-year-old bagger at my local supermarket, who nods his head at me in a commiseratory manner, as to say, "I, too, am..."

I don't look at him long enough to pick up he rest of his sentence.

I find myself wondering what your headline "lalalala...." sounded like subvocally as you typed it. Is it a monotonous "la-la-la-la," a bubble-gum-pop Ashlee Simpson, "La La," or a post-grunge-skate-punk Offspring, "la-La-LA?"

Ok, that's that.

You have a beautiful smile--I look, how shall I say...unfortunate when I smile in pictures--they only work, if ever, in real-life situations. But then, I can't see myself in said situations, so--I don't know about my smile.

I'm glad you didn't call my dedication to filmmaking a shameful waste of my best years. "Passionate" is a very optimistic observation. Thank you.

And about the "8'11" thing, I will have to be brutally honest--I will never date a nearly nine-foot tall woman. Sorry if that sounds harsh as "never" is a long time; but, honesty is my policy.

As you seem to be a woman with an acceptable height and with your self-professed "love with the obscure" as an added bonus (have you seen “That Obscure Object of Desire?”) I look forward to further line dropping. Does that sound dirty? Line dropping...hmmm, maybe. Let me say, then, "...Further occurrences of dialogical exchange."

Best,

Patrick

Done. How painful are the first and last sentences? My answer? Very.

How Patrick beats up a cop…

I went to this club/bar/awesome-pizza-place (top four in the world, by the way) called Bar. I had to pay to get in, which is strange as I usually get in for free. I didn’t have a problem with the paying concept, but I had to wear a lime green wrist band, which, come to think of it, clashed with my shirt (Amber, here’s where you do your arm thing). I went inside, drank some beer, had some pizza, met some people (who asked the good old “are you Italian” question) and decided to leave.

As I was walking out, I started to fiddle with the lime green wrist band. It was about twenty feet from the point at which I started to fiddle to the front door. I became very involved in the process about two feet into my fiddling—I was lost to the world. It finally gave way when I decided to change my tearing technique, which was getting me results equal to none, to a hook and tug technique.

The hook and tug technique works as follows.

1. Place the hand not wearing a hard to remove wrist band directly in front of the area midway between your chest and navel.
2. Make a fist.
3. Extend your index finger and then bend it so that the tip is facing the ball of your fist, thusly forming a hook.
4. Wrap your “hooked” index finger around the wrist band and pull each arm in opposite directions, with all of your considerably impressive strength, until the band gives way.

I know what you’re thinking: “Wow. Patrick, you are a wrist-band-removing-guru.” Well, I would concede to that statement had I not belted a female-cop in the arm with my right fist as I was freed from the shackle of my oppression. She immediately grabbed her arm (a very cute arm, to match a very cute face) and said, “Owww.” She lingered on the “w” part of her “Owww,” and shot me a look that said, “Ef you.” I apologized profusely and walked away, feeling, as always, like a complete idiot.

What other people think...

"What other people think of you is none of your business."

I don't know who said it, but I like it.