éléphanteau in the window at louis vuitton.
57th St. and 5th Ave. NYC
This might be my favorite holiday window yet.
éléphanteau in the window at louis vuitton.
57th St. and 5th Ave. NYC
This might be my favorite holiday window yet.
Actual conversation at a restaurant yesterday:
Me: Hi, table for two, please.
Host: Is your partner with you?
Me: No.
Host: Ok. You can wait here until they arrive. What’s your name?
Me: Teresa.
Host: Julie?
Me: Sure.
Albert woke early, before his alarm. “Ah, Saturday,” he sighed. “No work. No obligations. No nothing.” He rolled over and looked at his clock – a wooden-looking relic of the ‘80s with small buttons and switches, and large, green digital numbers. He wanted one with the flip numbers, but he couldn’t find one. Sometimes he set it so the radio woke him up, but he usually set it so that it started beeping softly and grew louder as time passed. His wife had hated the clock, mostly because it never woke him at the time he set it. It woke her at 6:45 every morning because he set the time 15 minutes ahead.
“Just set it for 8:30,” she’d say.
“But sometimes I have to get up early,” he responded.
She pointed out that he never got up early. And that was true. On weekends he rarely rose before 11:30 in the morning. But today was different. Today was a beach day.
He rolled onto his back, put one arm behind his head and absent mindedly rubbed his belly with the other as he stared at the ceiling. “Beach day!” he thought to himself. He got out of bed, considered making it, decided against it and walked out of the room.
He passed two large boxes in the living room and turned on the coffee maker in the kitchen. The boxes arrived earlier in the week, but he decided to wait until today to open them. “It really is Christmas in July!” he thought to himself, pouring his coffee into a blue mug and reaching for the sugar bowl. The bowl was empty, so he grabbed the ice cream from the freezer and added a scoop of vanilla to his cup. “Christmas in July!” he said aloud as he took his coffee into the living room.
Albert forgot to put his pants on when he got up (and he never closed the drapes) so his neighbors had a full view of him standing – clad only in green-and-orange-striped boxers – in his living room smiling broadly and toasting his coffee mug in the air. He looked at the boxes and decided to open the longer one first.
He stood it on end and let the contents slowing slide out: A Detectoramo 26,000. It was the most top-of-the-line, highest-quality metal detector on the market. Albert spent weeks reading about it before making the purchase. He put a pair of rechargeable batteries into the detector, turned it on and began sweeping his apartment. He loved the beeps it made. He removed the headphones from the box, plugged them into the detector and put them over his ears so he could get closer to the sound.
He swept the detector over the other box and listened to the beeps. He walked to the window and looked down the street to the beach, grinning excitedly. He had been waiting all summer to go. He didn’t notice that his neighbors were watching him.
Albert walked back to the box and swiped it again. He set down the metal detector, picked up the box and gave it a jiggle. The box was heavy, but he could hear its contents slide a little. He carefully opened the box, savoring the sounds of tape ripping apart. He removed the first item wrapped in brown shipping paper. “Christmas in July!” he said aloud.
He unrolled the paper from the item with the delicacy he would have used to handle a priceless piece of art. He removed a large metal hat. It had a flat top, a slit for eyes and a large cross embossed on the front. He put it on. The hat covered his head and neck completely. Albert removed the hat, placed it on the couch and continued unwrapping the contents of the box: a long shirt made of chain mail, breastplate, iron gloves, iron leg pieces and shoes, a sword and – the piece de resistance – a long white cape with a red cross.
He looked at his spoils and then began putting them on, starting with the chain mail. Albert decided that the shoes and gloves were too cumbersome to maneuver in, so he left them on the couch. He put on his white leather Adidas sneakers instead. He attached the cape to his suit, placed the helmet on his head and practiced walking in his living room. “Perfect fit!” he thought.
Albert stopped walking around and threw up an arm, “Who goes there?” he demanded. He liked the echo of his voice in the helmet. He went back to the window and looked out. His neighbors now saw a strange knight in his window, peering down the street. Albert picked up the metal detector and swiped it a few more times. He couldn’t hear the beeps through his helmet, so he took the helmet off, placed it back in the box and slipped the headphones over his ears. He also put on a pair of aviator sunglasses.
When he picked up his keys, he discovered a technical flaw in his plan: the armor suit didn’t have pockets. He looked in the box that the metal detector came in and found a pouch that could be attached to the detector’s handle. He attached it, put the keys inside and walked out to his front porch, locking the door behind him.
The neighbors watched in silence as Albert descended the stairs dressed as a knight wearing sneakers and began walking towards the beach. Some of them came out of the house to watch. Albert smiled and waved to the neighbors he knew, who waved back, not sure at all what to think.
At the beach, Albert wobbled unsteadily over the sand until he got his balance. He swiped at the sand with his metal detector, occasionally stopping to examine the source of a beep and placing it in his bag. He walked along the shoreline, where swimmers and surfers stopped what they were doing to watch him. He walked and swiped through the sunbather-strewn beach, occasionally asking someone if the object he found belonged to them, and always addressing them as “good man” or “good lady.”
Only one person asked what he was doing and why he was wearing the armor suit. “I’m celebrating Christmas in July, my good woman,” he responded before giving her a courteous bow and a wave of the hand. “It’s Christmas in July!” he said, and continued to walk and swipe the beach.
[Three Word Wednesday post using the words early, quality and jiggle.]
Celia shaded herself with a wide, floppy-brimmed hat that stretched out past her shoulders and nearly obscured her face when she wore it at an angle, like a model. She checked her bathing suit, making sure her cleavage was just so. Satisfied, she wrapped a sparking red sarong around waist and secured it a large diamond-encrusted brooch in the shape of a long-legged spider. It had been a gift to mother from an admirer during the days she sang opera in a small cabaret in the city. She looked at her toes, decided that she still liked the garnet color she painted them, and reached for the black, strappy stilettos sitting on a shelf filled with high-heeled shoes.
Celia only wore high heels. “They make my legs look so long and lean!” she thought while admiring herself in the full-length mirror. She slid a leg out from the slit in her sarong, bent the other leg so the exposed leg pivoted on her toes, and dramatically ran her fingers up her leg from her ankle to her hip, flipping her arm up into the air and tilting back her head. It was the end of a tango for one.
“Perfect!” she said, looking at the ceiling. “I am a star!”
Celia giggled to herself, did a little dance step with sweeping arm gestures, gathered her bag and her diary, and twirled into the next room. The room was once a great dining room with rare-wood furnishings, exquisitely decorated china, glittering crystal chandeliers and glasses, and deep burgundy velvet cushions. Very Important People used to come for dinner. Now the room was empty except for a long, cracked Formica table flanked with faded turquoise chairs accented with torn cushions, featuring tufts of stuffing and sleeping orange cats. The only sound that filled the great room was the echo of her pointy-heeled footsteps clicking softly past piles of newspapers and magazines.
“The day nurse was in the house. She can deal with Mother,” Celia thought. “But still…” Celia didn’t want Mother to hear her moving about, so she decided that it would be best to glide, not click, through the room. She slipped through the room like a silent-movie phantom with arms outstretched and hands and head tilted back. She navigated her way through the storage room that was once a kitchen, and silently exited the house through the back door.
Outside, she crept along the side of the mansion, arms still outstretched, lest Mother be sitting on the upper terrace and spy her. Celia made her way to the overgrown jumble of privot, wisteria, hydrangea and whatever else was growing along the fence and into the yard. There was a path beneath the overgrowth, and Celia followed it to an equally obscure clearing the back corner of the yard. She could see the house from here. She was certain that Mother, who couldn’t see past her own hand without her thick glasses, wouldn’t see her in the yard.
Celia sat down on a crumbling stone bench under an ancient dogwood tree. She drew her legs up beside her, removed her diary and a pen, and held the pen aloft, thinking of something to say. She was thankful that the afternoon heat was mild, and the bugs had opted for a different part of the garden.
As Celia turned her gaze toward the house, she saw Mother emerge onto the terrace. Her long white hair was piled high on her head behind a tiara, and she wore a faded, ill-fitting opera gown that wouldn’t close in the back, and hung perilously around her bosom.
Mother walked unsteadily to the terrace railing, turned three quarters, placed her left hand on the railing, and the right to her chest. She surveyed the yard with a dramatic turn of the head.
“So it’s going to be one of those days,” Celia thought. “Mother’s going to be the opera diva with the nasty temper.”
The nurse nervously followed Mother outside, pleading with her to come back in. Mother waved her off. “My audience will be disappointed if I don’t give them an encore,” she stage whispered.
Mother turned and faced the empty yard. She saw lights and heard thunderous applause and “bravas” from an adoring crowd. Mother smiled gratefully, nodding her head to various parts of the garden.
“Oh!” she exclaimed clasping her hands to chest, pushing the low-hanging gown down even further with her fleshy arms. “As long as you continue to love me, I will never cease to love you!” Mother spread her arms out wide as if graciously accepting the well-groomed audience’s adulation rather than the silence of an overgrown, junglish garden. Her gown miraculously stayed in place as Mother bowed, blew kisses to every corner of the garden, made a grand, wobbly curtsey, and stepped backwards into the house, waving.
Celia glanced back to her diary with its blank, yellowing pages; her arm was still posed in the air. She looked over her shoulder to the back of the garden, then back at the diary. She licked the pen and was about to start writing when she heard Mother’s shrill, operatic voice from inside the house calling, “Ceeeeeeelia! Celeeeah! Ceeeeelia!”
Celia simultaneously snapped shut her diary and unclicked her pen before stowing them away in her purse. She stood up, raised her arms overhead in a stretch, and returned to house as strangely as she had emerged, all the while repeating, “I am a star! A star, I am! I’m a star!”
[Three Word Wednesday submission using the words cease, nasty and heat.]
I wrote these with the intention of submitting them to a contest. I must have gotten sidetracked because I never entered the contest. Each story is 25-words long, on the nose.
Crossed Lines
“Indiana. Indi-ana,” Cheryl stressed into the phone. Robert looked around at the Hindi and Sanskrit signs, knowing he could never make up for this one.
The Test of Love
She believed that if she stood still, Charles wouldn’t see her, so Emily stayed in the corner. Charles saw her, and continued to ignore her.
Mumbling Through
After putting her dog, Dennis, to bed in his crib, Joan sat on her plastic-covered couch and wondered why her daughter didn’t talk to her.

Saw these in the window of an antiques store last night on Madison Ave, and I just found out that my brother is the type of person who would have them in his living room. You know, his birthday is coming up…
While looking for some old radio spots that I had written, I came across this poem. I wrote it after house and critter sitting for a friend. One of the critters was a beautiful, longish-haired black cat.
For Thelonious
If every step you took
Was a light, resonant trip
Of piano wire,
The house would fill with jazz colors
As you run
From the table to the chair
And greet me
With your great yellow eyes
Of importance.
A Friday in Gotham
Elephant trot.
He outlined the linguistic devices he...
I Wrote This For You: The Airport Is Next (via kari-shma)
Aw, I’m feeling a bit romantic today, I think.
Screen Print edition of 12
philiplumbang: 12ft bear head of the dead.