SF Cinema--in Haiku.

A proposal for a text message service.

Do you remember?

John Travolta was so thin!

Grease. Now sing along.

(Castro Theatre. Fri to Wed. $15. Call 415-621-6120.

2 pm matinees Sat/Sun/Wed.)

Then? Lite brite scare. Now?

Milk shake. French Fries. Meat Wad. Oh--

Unholy trio!

(Aqua Teen Hunger Force. The movie. The Red Vic. 1727 Haight St.

Tues & Thurs, July 3 & 5, 7:15 & 9:15 pm.)

What's up, Doc? Hatred?

Could Bugs Bunny be racist?

Yes, alas, it's true.

(Bad Bugs Bunny. 6/8 & 6/10 @ 5:15. Roxie Cinema.

3117 16 th @ Valencia. $10 1/2. Tickets/info 415-820-397.)

It's 18 short films?

Yes--about love in Paris.

Say: “Paris, je t'aime.”

(A valentine to the 'City of Lights'--and love. The Embarcadero, 1 Embarcadero Center.

415-267-4893. 2 hours. Rated R. 12:30, 3:30, 6:45, 9:40.)

--E. R. O'Neill

Donut. Aka Realty Check.

I don't usually wear this shirt. I like it. I do. But it's snug.

It's a long-sleeved cotton T with a higher neck than that implies. A bit of stretch to it--Lycra, I think.

It's not too Mary Lou Retton. Or Blades of Glory. Not that stretch-y. And it's dark brown, so how leotard-ish can it be?

But I thought: well I've weighed less when I wore this. I probably bought it at 137 pounds when I lived in Santa Cruz and there was really only one great place to eat.

Now I'm 145 pounds. Not huge. But you know: in something stretchy, a little tummy can be--well, a little too much.

As I'm thinking this, I see a woman walking down the street towards me.

She is wearing a T-shirt that says BEBE--you know, like French for 'baby,' not like musical star Bebe Neuwirth.

And this woman has a tummy, a spare tire.

Not a little thin bicycle tire either.

But a really sizeable roll of fat.

I can see it perfectly, its contours delineated with effortless clarity by the stretchy fabric of the shirt.

It's like a donut around her waist--which I suppose in a sense it is.

It's actually flopping over the top of her jeans.

Yes, it's not just bulging but hanging.

Nothing wrong with weighing that much. But you know, maybe that is not the time to wear a skin-tight T.

Nevertheless, I think to myself: um, I think my shirt looks okay on me.

--E. R. O'Neill

I Hurt My Fingee

I really did.

And I don't even remember it happening.

At one point I just felt my finger hurting--the middle one on the right hand. (Perhaps I hurt it driving.)

And a bit later I noticed it again.

Finally I looked at it. The top dingus--joint?--bends forward okay. But it won't bend back straight. (I know I know: it's like some awful pro-gay T-shirt. I can't even flip the bird straight.)

Go to a doctor?

Nah.

I went online--despite poor typing slills. (I mean "skills.")

So I became sure pretty quickly it wasn't broken.

First sign of a broken finger: excruciating pain.

Second sign: massive swelling.

Third sign: bone sticking through the skin.

Well not really the bone part. But the other parts.

I figure if I didn't even notice the moment it happened, it probably wasn't broken. I'm great but not superhuman--at least as far as pain-tolerance goes.

So I got some athletic tape. I figure this happens to boxers all the time.

In my case it was probably searching rapidly in the pockets of overly tight jeans. I'm a fashion victim!

But the tape didn't keep it straight--there's that joke again--so I made my own splint.

Now I can both bend and straighten it--or a bit more.

It can't be serious. No swelling. Very little pain.

What's less than dislocation? It's at the tip of my fingers.

--E. R. O'Neill