ng about it lately.) Maybe they're looking at me because I'm so hot. Yeah. That must be it. Exhausted from a full day of snowboarding followed by an organ lesson, I am obviously oozing with attractiveness. Actually I was thinking yesterday that I don't mind looking a little older. I've long admired attractive middle-aged women. I like the slightly dry look to their skin, the fine lines on their faces. I think it's actually more appealing than that rosy, over-ripe look of youth that so many find attractive. But that's just me, and I'm sure what I think of this subject is just revolutionizing the known world.
Ooh- they're playing Robin Thicke now. I like this song, although something about the general hum and clatter in the restaurant cuts out all the mids so it comes out sounding like some large bird chirping over a bass line. Perhaps I only imagine this because of the inherent birdiness of his name, but as I let my mind wander further along this avenue I'm hearing hippos on the bass, woodpeckers on the claves...
"How's everything tasting?" a waiter asks cheerily as he breezes past on the other side of the bar. Gay! my mind trumpets as I answer him reassuringly. A second later another young man comes prancing by in the other direction, clearly effeminate. Hmm. I wonder what connection California Pizza Kitchen has with gay men in Salt Lake. It certainly doesn't extend to the all-Mexican cook staff before me. But then I wonder if I've ever noticed a gay, fresh-off-the-boat Mexicano. There must be plenty of them. Perhaps it has to do
with their culture, perhaps they hide it more than Americans do...
Earlier I sat waiting for the lady before me to finish her organ lesson. We were in the Assembly Hall, practicing for our recital this Saturday. There was my teacher, sitting on a lone chair in the middle of the stage, head down to avoid the bright sunlight
piercing through an upper window. What a great lady she is, my teacher. Surely in her late 70's she's funny, smart, dry of humor; I love that kind of older woman. My ears perked up suddenly to hear a much higher pitch coming out of the organ. That's strange, I mused, and not so attractive. In a moment, my teacher got up and rushed to the organ. I could hear her student explaining about how it was her new, upgraded cell phone. My teacher bustled away again, stopping to check for dust on a covered piano, adjust her
chair before she sat down
on it. Then she was pulling a long hair off her skirt; it glistened in the sunlight as she waved it over the stage beside her and let it fall. A moment later she had relaxed into her head-down position again on the chair, letting the soft notes of the pipes have their moment in the sun.
