beulahbondo's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Beulah is OUT of the house! I forgot to report the funniest exchange of Halloween night. At party #3, Donna Puma went up to a woman in a pregnancy outfit (clearly fake, not like the woman with the real baby at party #1). This woman was smoking and drinking in a showy, costumy way, and she wore a housecoat and curlers and big fake arm tattoos and beat-up slippers. "Are you a feminist?" asked Donna Puma, with her big charming Donna Puma smile. "I'm pregnant white trash," said the woman huffily. There were also an extraordinary number of puffy brown afro wigs worn by both men and women, perhaps in homage to the over-styled curls of the American Idol guy. A couple of women looked really good in the wigs, along with their matching blue pea coats and large, square, metal-rimmed shades. Very Klute-era streetwalker. Egads, I'm at Diesel in Somerville with the Boston-area NaNoWriMo group. They're all plugging away at laptops and in notebooks. I am so surprised that I've left a) my house and b) Cambridge on a Saturday morning that I can't even begin to write. I haven't even done the crossword puzzle yet! There's a funny skinny Somerville youth in a black tank top and a menorah necklace shooting pool by himself, and just one table of authentic hardcore dykstras. On Friday nights this place gives over to rowdy, gender-uncertain, homoflexible teenagers, but on Saturday morning it seems more chipper and earnest, with social work-degreed young women in their Campers kicking back with their roommates and boyfriends. One of the dykstras has the most amazing hair-do: It's a fluffy gray mullet with a braid to the middle of her back. It looks like a gray Davy Crockett hat. She's a very handsome woman with polished-looking skin. Too bad about the hair. At the table next to the dykstras, there's a nine-year-old girl, her regular-looking mother, a guy in a short mohawk, a regular-looking guy, and a stuffed white cockatoo on the table. The new new-kyu-ler family. ...Pause to work on novel. ... I wrote a scene, about 800 words. I don't feel loose and blabby enough to produce at the rate that will get me to 50,000 words. I'm still writing like I'm knitting with fine needles and baby-weight yarn. (Baby-weight yarn is actually called "fingerling," like the potatoes. Cute!) 1:20 p.m. - 2002-11-02 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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