At least, that's what Iolia Cherryhomes says. For all the splendid virtues of google mail, termed affectionately gmail, it seems that no spam filter will ever be perfect. Not only do e-mails from folks like Ms. (since she could very well be a Miss, or a Mrs.) Cherryhomes slide through, but e-mails from people I actually know sometimes end up in my spam folder. It's a shame I'm not computer savvy enough to know by what criteria that gmail filter works, but I'm sure it's fascinating. When I used to send e-mails to my sister at her work e-mail, they were routinely bounced, more than likely due to my penchant for gratuitous use of profanity, especially the f-word.
A story I've been meaning to put down for a couple of weeks now comes to mind for no particular reason. I think it's because I just started reading Bright Lights, Big City and there was a reference to prostitutes and they are in some way related to the story at hand and it doesn't hurt that I segue whenever possible although, technically the segue is supposed to be a smooth transition of sorts and I can't say that is the case when I slide from topic to topic. Incidentally I had no idea they had made a movie of this novel, and with Michael J. Fox no less. Michael J. Fox rules.
Anyway, the story, which has now had too much introduction and build-up is what probably amounts to a pretty standard night in New York City: buying over-priced drinks, despising at least two-thirds of the other patrons in your watering hole of choice (this isn't mandatory, but I am a bastard and up close I don't hate that many people, just from afar and, to be fair, it isn't just New York, I dislike lots of people wherever I go and, chances are, lots of people dislike me wherever I go), and getting some late night eats, preferably pizza. That is one thing New York, New Jersey, and even shitty (I'd originally said worthless, but that's too harsh) Connecticut can lord over the rest of the United States (okay, I've never had pizza in Chicago so, maybe): the worst slice of pizza you can find is probably going to be as good as the best slice of pizza you'll find anywhere else. This is an exaggeration, which I am pointing out because everything else in this blog is one-hundred percent factual, but pizza tends to be shitty or needlessly hard to find in other areas.
So we end up in a high class pizza joint, so deemed as a result of the need to be buzzed in to use the restroom. When I was buzzed in accordingly, I noted an angry-looking balding man, and quickly apologized and closed the door. Moments later it seemed, in what can be described as a drunken blur, this Indian bum was accosting all of the friendly gentlemen behind the pizza display counter. "I'll fucking kill you," he was shouting as I went up to grab my slices so, fool that I am, I intervened to the tune of something like, "Hey, don't be yelling at my man there." His response was a somewhat expected, "Fuck you, I'll fucking kill you too." Every now and then I decide it's a good idea to try to settle an altercation I'm not involved in. It never is. One day the empty threats redirected might not be so empty and I could be in deep shit. Maybe he was just pissed that someone walked in on him taking a shit.
So the relation of angry shitting Indian bums to a mention of prostitutes in a novel I happen to be reading is that there happened to be two suited gentlemen with skanky women in skanky black dresses eating alongide us at said pizza place. I actually came up with a list of facts to prove my point, but it hardly matters. I just think it's funny that they brought them to a pizza place but then, if you're hungry and you've got hookers already, it seems the decent thing to bring them along rather than leave them waiting outside. The only real question remains: do you pay for their pizza too?