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Sunday, August 22, 2004 The temperature here at 7 a.m.: 39 degrees. This really has to stop. Yesterday I took part in the great American sport of outlet shopping. Rained like hell Friday night and all yesterday morning. I had to go into Montpelier for gym/errands -- given the gray sky and falling moisture, seemed like a good day to keep heading west, investigate the small outlet mall in Essex Junction, near Burlington. A beautiful 30-minute drive, at the end of which suddenly appeared: the mall. Seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Much smaller than the monstrous, sprawling complexes of outlet stores in Kittery, Maine. Far more manageable. Relaxed. Plenty of people about, but not oppressively so. Stores not heaving with shoppers, parking lots not overflowing with cars. My goal for the day: black jeans. Found other stuff, of course. A bunch of other stuff, actually, though I did not lose control and go absolutely fucking wild. Just took advantage of some serious bargains. When I drove home, the back of the car was nicely packed with acquisitions. No black jeans, though. (*Sob!*) As might be expected, the folks at the mall all looked like the Vermont version of middle Americans, out enjoying Vermont's current damp, cool version of summer. (Within an hour of my arrival, gray clouds gave way to mellow afternoon sunshine, evoking a contented sigh from me.) All of them with the exception of a few foreign tourists (looking slightly disoriented, as if with no idea how they wound up in this outpost of cut-rate consumerism), a handful of the more redneck-style local folks and, walking with one family unit -- clearly a member of the family, clearly loved and indulged by them -- one lonely goth kid. Done up in a high-schooler's version of goth duds. Head recently shaved, just starting to grow back in (save one patch of long black hair functioning as angular bangs). Clothes black, layered, torn. Big, big, big bellbottom pants, ragged leg bottoms scraping the floor, trailing behind black thick-soled boots like twin wedding-dress trains (on a particularly bad day, after a dip in a coal bin, with a serious 'tude). And many chain loops swinging from his waist, making him sound strangely, incongruously like a spurs-wearing Western type as he shuffled along with the family unit. He picked up his share of stares, appeared to feel out of his element, venturing gamely into stores with his family until he couldn't stand it any more, then fleeing outside, leaning up against a convenient wall to waited for his kin, looking moodily about, not meeting eyes. His family appeared to give him no flack at all about his get-up, about who he was. I saw nothing but matter-of-fact acceptance, as if he were no different from them. As if he were just a young soul, being who he was at this time of his life, them allowing it without self-consciousness, without conditions. Allowing it, in fact, with love. Good for them. Before leaving, I ordered a plate of chicken lo mein at a small Chinese restaurant at the mall. A mountain of surprisingly tasty food, complete with fortune cookie. Which got me remembering occasions back in Cambridge, Massachusetts -- meals eaten with friends at various Chinese joints, where I learned the ironclad rule of reading cookie fortunes: the true meaning of the aphorism can only be divined with the words 'in bed' tacked on to the sentence. "Good fortune will find you (in bed)." "Love awaits you (in bed)." And of course, the fortune must be read out loud, preferably in the company of friends who will do the same. Very silly, sometimes producing extreme hilarity. The wildest, most intense display of fortune-cookie comedy ever: with friends, at the end of a meal in a crowded restaurant, communicating our fortunes via charades -- an activity that extended the meal by 30 or 40 minutes and had us nearly prostrate with laughter, to the point that other diners cast many startled glances our way, the waitstaff with no idea what to make of the loud goofiness taking place at our table but smiling gamely as they let us enjoy ourselves. My fortune from yesterday's meal: "Someone is speaking well of you (in bed)." Madrid, te echo de menos. rws 10:07 AM [+]
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