From Paris to Haiku

Because I’m detouring briefly away from Paris talk today, I’ll offer you a conciliatory Paris photo. Here, Pater stands in front of a clever example of street art in the La Bièvre section, in the 13th. The stepped audience figures are some sort of plaster relief, so if they’re guerrilla art, they represent crazy preparation, time, and materials, and if they’re system-sanctioned, they’ve quickly been modified by the addition of the stenciled dancer.

I know, I know, I owe you more Paris (and a lot of Portugal), and I promised to do Mardel’s meme, but then Une Femme tagged me for this one, and it looks like quick fun, so here goes:

In five syllables, no more, no less, describe the worst movie you can think of. Bonus points if you have to show off your Google skills because you can’t remember the name of it and all you can come up with is that it features Roz Russell and Sandra Dee. Turns out it was some tripe called Rosie! Exclamation point the producers’ idea, not mine.“Auntie Mame leavings.”
In seven syllables, no more, no less, describe your worst date. Bonus points if it was sordid. Subtract points if it sounds too much like an overweight fifteen year old Goth girl.“He pushed my head down. I puked.”
In five syllables, no more, no less, describe the worst job you ever had. Extra bonus points if it consists of Grim. Taxi dancer. Miss Janey, I’m talking to you. I had a miserable spell where I sat all alone in an empty office, handing out the keys to various hell holes for rent around New Orleans. One Lady came back and complained there was no window in the kitchen, I pretended to sympathize and said something like “Yes it would be nasty to have no light and air in there.” She replied “No, hone, you don unnerstan. Dere’s a hole for de winna but ain’t no winna in it.”“Slum lord in training.”Put it all together and you have a haiku of life’s low points.

That was the example Une Femme gave. You’ll have to head over to her site to see what she did with it. Now here’s my attempt.

All laughing but me,

Drive me home, I said. He kissed.

Burnt ears, berry juice.

Worst Movie: I don’t have a single “worst movie.” In fact, I always dread those “best” and “worst” and “favourite” questions, wondering what’s wrong with me that I can’t choose. But I do have an inability to appreciate very many minutes of any film that relies on frat humour, making fun of people, and overdone physical shtick. I get some of Adam Sandler’s stuff, Jim Carrey’s talents I acknowledge but can’t watch. Ben Stiller, okay, there’s something there that keeps me laughing but after a while, I’ll probably be the one with the very straight face while my husband and kids laugh ’til they cry. Odd, because I have tears running down my face just thinking about David Sedaris’ story about trying to flush the big turd down the toilet, so it’s not that I can’t appreciate bathroom jokes. And Peter Sellers, or even the late John Ritter, or Ross or Chandler on Friends can make me laugh with physical humour. So All laughing but me

Worst Date: Similar story to Une Femme’s except that I knew as soon as we got in the car and started driving to dinner. The date was with a friend of my very good friend’s, and altho’ I’d thought I’d liked him at her party the previous weekend, I quickly realized there was no chemistry for me at all, and there was no way I would ever want the inevitable physical attention that he was buying me dinner for (such were the expectations and politics of the day, perhaps they’ve changed? – ha!). So before we were five minutes on the road, I stammered out a story about a recent break-up, my apologies, but I just couldn’t go through with the date, etc., etc., Yes, it was probably rude and perhaps I should just have faked my way through the evening, given him a chance, got to know him, but I was only 20, and besides, you’ll have to give my instincts credit — I was simply saving him from spending money on something I knew he was counting on, but that he wasn’t going to get.

At any rate, to give him credit, after realizing he wouldn’t be able to change my mind, he graciously turned around and drove me home, making understanding small talk on the way. I heaved a huge inward sigh of relief. Except that after what I think might have damaged an ego a wee bit, knocked down the self-confidence so that one wouldn’t assume one’s desirability, this young man leans over, as he parks the car in front of my place, to score the good night kiss and, at least, “snuggling,” that he thought he had coming. Lesson learned: Young male egos attached to libidos are not as fragile as young women of our day were taught to think they were! Thus, Drive me home, I said. He kissed.

Worst Job Ever: That would have to be berry-picking, which I did all through the summer I turned 14. I did earn enough money to go visit my relatives in England, but that was very, very hard-earned money. For a flat of strawberries, which you had to pick with your knees in dirt, shuffling from plant to plant, you got $1, $1.10 by the end of the season when the pickings were much poorer. (A flat was about ten pounds). If you worked hard, you could do better than minimum wage at the time, but not much. By the end of the day, you’d be sun-burned, and if I took off my hat for long because I was too hot with it on, the tips of my ears would burn. My legs and clothes would be caked in dust, which mixed with the berry juice to make a charming paste. Good times! Leaving me with Burnt ears, Berry juice.

Thanks for the tag, Femme.

Whoops! After visitingShefaly’s site to read her haiku, I realize that I’ve completely forgotten to pass this one along. I’d love to see whatIndigoAlison does with this one, and perhaps Cybill, and definitely Thomas, and one more, oh, let’s see, I’d love to see Duchesse’s perspicacious wit give us a haiku.