This fruit is liable to snap.
Is this the little boy I carried? Is this the little girl at play?
Wahey. Brittle Lemon is one year old, more or less. Thanks for the presents, you bastards. You might in fact have noticed that I have been having a week-long celebration of this momentous event, mostly by keeping very still and quiet. Sorry. My excuse is that I'm lazy. But no more. In honor of the occasion, I thought I'll update you on a few things.
First and foremost, no, I never found that dead lizard, not even when I moved house recently. Other than Fat Lizzie, I also left behind my old neighbor, he of the public calligraphed boxers. Except that he actually left before I did: I found out that he and his wife are getting a divorce. Say it with me: ooooh. Can't say I didn't see it coming, what with the disappearing fish, and the occasional loud quarrels I used to overhear. Both me and my landlord, while bereft, only wished that they had thought to ask if either of us would have been interested in buying their place (they've sold it).
But I can't look back (especially on days when I have a crick in my neck). This new place that I've moved to has several advantages over the old. One, I won't get locked out again -- at least not by a high-tech lock, only by my own human stupidity. Of course, I have to carry actual keys nowadays, but that's okay, I like that. Two, there won't be any funerals held downstairs. No one dies in my new building, you see.
So far so good. However, the first week I lived there I actually had some trouble sleeping through the night. Returning to the womb via that couch helped a little, but it's hotter in the new living room than the old. The other major problem is that I haven't made settled in all my CDs yet. I need a new CD tower, so I went to Ikea, only to find that what I thought had happened months ago, but actually didn't happen, had happened: they don't make Billy shelves in medium brown anymore. (Ikea sales assistant: "We're concentrating on other colors now." How much concentration does it take, exactly?) If you can't trust a multi-national corporation to not vary their product line, especially a product line of shelves that are meant to be modular, who can you trust? Cruel world.
At work, there has been no change in my cleaning lady for a while, and the promotion for Ms. "Rubbessh?" seems to have stuck. The Winker is still a Wanker, but we knew that already. Oh, and I'm now pretty sure her name is Carolyn.
I still hate Charlize Theron. I was reminded of this the other day when I caught a rerun of SNL which she was guest hosting; she came on stage in leather pants, gyrating her hips as sexily as a lunch lady. I guess she thinks that her milkshake brings all the boys to the yard. And I still detest Mablean Ephriam, although I forgive her use of "babymama" more now that American Idol Fantasia has a funny song paying tribute to unwedded mothers by that title. Judges and pop singers: at one in love, y'all.
Someday I may get back to archiving my 80s mixtapes. I have to, if only to write a long boring essay comparing the stutter effect in those 80s tracks to the one employed by modern emo-electronic artists like Styrofoam, whom I've been listening to.
Heather is doing well: still enjoying those tummy rubs. She hasn't peed on anyone recently, nor has anyone peed on her. So in some respects her life seems to be better than mine.
I hope this year has treated you well.
This is your hair. This is your hair on drugs.
My hair has been much better-behaved the past week. This more or less coincided with me moving into my new apartment. When I was homeless, my follicles were completely out of control, all coarse and tangled. I don't quite know why -- I wasn't using a different shampoo or anything, so all I could think was that maybe I was washing my hair with hard water or something, even if I don't really know what that means.
Or maybe my hair was on drugs. A few weeks ago I went to see the new Oliver Assayas film, Clean, which was screening as part of a French film fest. The movie stars the fabulous Maggie Cheung as a drugged-out rock chick whose famous musician husband dies of an overdose at the beginning of the movie; she does some time in prison, and then tries to gets clean so that her father-in-law, played by Nick Nolte, will consider her a fit mother to her little boy. (In other words, it's like the Courtney Love story.)
It's a great film about the tough road to redemption, and Maggie, who won the Best Actress prize at Cannes for her performance, is as usual fantastic in it. Nolte is not too shabby either, except in appearance, where he continues to look like five miles of bad road. (He's never living down that photo.)
The film, by the way, begins at a club in Canada, and who should be performing in the club? It's fab Canadian band Metric! Singing "Dead disco" on stage! And then Emily Haines even gets a few lines, muttering something backstage about how Maggie's character -- who is actually also named Emily -- should take better care of her kid. She totally channels Parker Posey. I love it when movies drop these kinds of surprises on me, although it didn't mean anything to anyone else in the crowd. Unfortunately, later in the movie another surprise comes along in the form of Tricky, who turns up playing himself, in an arc that really should have been left on the cutting room floor. And at the end of the screening Assayas himself popped up to answer questions. To my sadistic disappointment, no one asked about the divorce.
The one thing about the film that was disconcerting for me was how bad Maggie's hair looks. Not quite a fright wig, but it was all frizzled. I might have been alone in thinking this, though; after the film, my friends and I were debating this point -- we're good film critics, eh? -- and some liked her 'do fine. Even I would concede that the bad hair was probably in character. It was saying: kids, don't do drugs! It'll mess your hair up! This is what Nancy Reagan was talkin' about!
A month ago the big news in Zingerbore had to do with a cocaine bust, in which several well-heeled local movers and shakers were implicated. Most intriguingly, a TV newscaster may or may not have been involved. Let's just say that her name rhymes with Feral Cox (Snort.) (So to speak.)
I've never liked Feral Cox. She has a huge face, and her manner just annoys the hell out of me. Plus she also hosts a quiz show, and completely seems unconcerned with the way she crosses the line between entertainment and news. But most of all her hair -- it's so tragic. She has these bangs that are constantly threatening to eat her considerable face. Look, google her yourself. Hint: she's not the redhead, and she's not any of the dogs.
In fact, in the midst of la scandale, I was at dinner with a few friends, one of whom was in the media biz. So of course we pumped her for whatever info she had about Feral Cox. (Not much, so we were happy to make shit up.) For a moment, we all contemplated the idea of the TV presenter in the slammer. Maybe they'll do a Reform School for Girls reality TV series out of it. In the midst of our revelry, I said, probably a little too savagely, "Well, if it takes throwing her into prison to get her to cut her bangs, then I'm all for it." That's the kind of Scared Straight program I can get behind.
And on the seventh day, He launched the fall line of Manolo Blahniks.
Because Sex and the City was for a long time banned in Zingerbore -- they do now screen episodes on HBO, with, according to a friend, the risque language fairly intact -- it has become in this country such a marker of all that is forbidden and tantalizing.
Sometimes to a frankly bizarre extent. God is Big. And, you guys, He is such a dreamboat!
Theater of the absurd (an occasional series).
(By way of explanation: I've mentioned before how the buses here have these intrusive TVs that hurl insipid programs at you as you try to go about your business and get to where you want to go. I've given up trying to fight them. Indeed, I now relish them, especially since what's currently showing at Hell's Cineplex tends to be really badly made local TV programs -- cheesy sitcoms with comedy so broad it could have its own band, or melodramatic soaps. I never have much context for the snippets I see, which makes them better. I know, it's hard to believe they could be better. But devoid of context, it's like walking into the middle of a conversation betwen space aliens. For your vicarious pleasure, then, I may sometimes transcribe the best of such televised dramatic or comedic conversations.)
"They won't donate 10 cents, let alone give you a kidney."
"I was thinking that you would donate me yours."
"Me?"
"You may not be a match either. The only way to find out is through a blood test. Shall we go take the test tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow? But I've made plans to go shopping with Jane."
"The test will only take a while. You can still go shopping with Jane afterwards."
Aaaannd -- scene!
You move me.
I should mention that the movers came for most of my stuff last Saturday, and the whole operation went pretty smoothly. The team was rather late, but when the men got there the actual labor took very little time. And they did break stuff -- most of my fragile (aka cheap) martini glasses didn't survive, but I was probably drinking too much anyway. Now I'll just drink out of glasses that have broken shards, and my cut lips will serve to remind me that I should lay off the booze. Also, the red will make the drinks prettier.
But, in all, the anticipation was worse than the reality. As usual. When I was planning the move, lots of people opined that I needed to be careful about not getting ripped off, and many contributed urban legends about how friends of friends had their stuff held hostage by movers until they agreed to pay more than the quoted price, etc.. Thankfully, none of that happened, although the movers did drug me, took my kidney, and left me in a bathtub full of ice on their way out.
On the plus side, my new apartment has a bathtub. I'm not fully moved in yet, since I still have stuff elsewhere, but so far it seems like a pleasant enough environment, at least for the short term.
One aspect of the move I enjoyed, to use the word loosely, was the boxes that the moving company provided. Since the company "believed in recycling," I got a bunch of boxes that had been previously used. On them were all sorts of descriptions -- "Joshua's Room," "Kitchen Stuff," "Important Divorce Papers" -- so each was a bit of a found object. The best, if most unsettling one, was a solid rectangular box. A previous user had written one mere word on the side: "Cat." I don't know if that means what it appears to; I hope not.
Let's never work apart again.
I guess as far as flaws in one's superiors goes, this isn't the worst. But my boss has this strange and awkward tendency to misunderstand the things I say, to other people, and then elaborate wrongly on them.
Case in point: yesterday we had to entertain some important visitors, one of whom was going to give a talk later in the day to the larger body of which my department is a part. At one point we're all chatting; Important Person professed to be very impressed with what we do, and thus said that she feels as if her speech later would simply be "preaching to the choir." I replied: "Well, we're just a small choir -- "
By which I meant: what we do in my department is quite unique; the crowd you will lecture to later doesn't necessarily do things the same way; they still need conversion --
Before I could explain all that, my boss does it for me. Except, you know, completely wrongly. He jumped in and said: "Yes, it will be a small choir, because we're not expecting a big crowd at the lecture. It's a busy time of the year."
Thanks, man. I don't know how I ever appeared like a clumsy asshole without your help.
I said, "Heel."
You know what I hate? I hate it when someone wins, and then he's all like, "Oh, let's not fight any more," and is also like "Let the healing begin" and then is like "Let's just be friends, mmkay?" because you know what he means by "healing" and "not fight any more" is really "ha ha, I won, and now I can pretend to be magnamious but really it's now going to be my way or the highway for you, because it's not like I'm really going to meet you half-way or do anything for the 55,905,02 people (and that's just in America) who detest my every fiber, and in fact, I'll still think of faggots as faggots and that I rule women's bodies, so if you think that any of my shit is going to change when I said 'let's heal,' then -- HA!"
"Also, PS, I'm a huge cunt."
No particular reason why I bring that up.
Keyser's good, keyser's good.
I'm walking a little funny nowadays. A bit off-balance, because my right pants pocket is weighed down by a million keys. I have the keys to my old apartment; the keys to my new apartment; the keys to my parents'; my office keys; and probably the keys to a tricycle I owned when I was seven or something. (And of course, the keys to your hearts, my darlings.)
When I was a kid, I used to dream of this day. Back then I think I had one sad, forlorn, miserable key, which let me in and out of my parents', and I probably never even had to use it. In those days, every door was open to me. I hated that; I wanted more and more keys, no doubt because it seemed to me that a boy isn't a man until he had the responsibilities and duties that keys bring.
I know. I too am surprised that I didn't grown up to be a prison guard.
Peeing in the bush.
Today I'm stumping, and trying to generate some good google hits.
The last we checked in with Heather, she had fallen into a scum-filled pond, but things were about to look up since she was anticipating a visit from her good friend Tyson --
Yes, I know. That was several months ago. What about it? Do you want to hear the story or not? I swear it's topical.
Okay then. So Tyson comes to stay with Heather for a week or so. Frolicking ensued. I heard about all this from Heather's dad, Leafhead, who, it should be relevant to now note, sometimes say the oddest, most random things. Even if they start off normally enough. And even when he is not under anaesthesia (but that's a story for another time).
"Heather and Tyson were happy to see each other, and of course immediately started wrestling."
"Of course."
"The weirdest thing happened, though, right when Tyson got here. They were sort of wrestling around, and then Heather sniffed Tyson's ass."
"As you do."
"But as she's doing that...Tyson lifted his hind legs...and peed in Heather's face."
Heather herself isn't above peeing on people, but, really? Eeewww. Is that the way dogs are greeting each other now? Apparently, it was just a light pee; a light dusting of urine, as it were. But Heather's face has indelibly been marked as Tyson's territory.
We kept talking, and at one later point I said to Leafhead that he should get another dog.
"Yeah, I'm thinking about it."
"They could pee in each other's faces."
"Just like the Bush twins."
"Hee! What?! Hee! What?!"
"I have no idea why I said that."
Nevertheless, wise words; they have the ring of truth. Well, they are actually false, but false words can have the ring of truth, can't they? At the very least, that's the rumor I'm starting. Jenna and Barbara Bush enjoy peeing in each other's faces. And it's their daddy's fault.
There. Now, if you are American, don't forget to vote.
Home plate.
At 10 pm this past Saturday night, I was sitting, in my office, in front of my computer. I wanted a fast internet connection with which to watch the live webcast of the Red Sox victory parade.
That I was spending my Saturday night thus made me both delirious with joy, but also a little wistful. Delirious for obvious reasons, of course. The parade -- sorry, the "rolling rally" -- was a joy to behold, even for my bitter cynical heart. (Speaking of which, though, it's pretty funny that Pedro, while cruising down the Charles in a duck boat, got hit in the forehead by a fan-thrown ball. I know, I shouldn't laugh; he could have been hurt. But, Pedro, dude, you catch balls for a living.) But I was also a little wistful because I was feeling twice displaced. Most immediately, I was grumpily thinking that I should already be watching the webcast from the comfort of, you know, an apartment here in Zingabore. But, really, if we were talking wishes and fantasies -- even better would have been to watch the parade in Boston! Damn. Homeless twice over.
It should go without saying, but I do associate the Sox with, um, Boston, and following the travails of the team is a way of keeping in touch with the city in which I lived for close to seven years. My interest in the team started not-so-innocently enough. In this it's great to find out that I have something in common with David Sedaris, who was typically hilarious when he found himself doing a reading, to what was no doubt a conflicted and antsy audience, in Boston on Wednesday night, during game 4 of the World Series. Sedaris is not a baseball fan, but admitted to having "watched bits and pieces of TV games, just to ogle players' bodies." That too is how my love of baseball started. I'm not proud of it...actually, who am I kidding. I'm telling you about it, ain't I? I can't be that ashamed. I have no shame.
I did get past my carnal weakness pretty quickly. (This explains a lot about me, in general.) I joined Red Sox Nation in 1995, when I had been living in the Boston area for about a year. Heading into my second year, I was faced with a huge project at work, which required lots of reading during my "spare" time. Then, as now, I can hardly ever be at home without having the TV on, but the nature of the reading I had to do was such that it actually required concentration. So I started having Sox games on in the background all the time, which frankly wasn't hard, since during the season oftentimes the game is all that's on. I kept the sound turned down, but it's still easy to follow the game, and to sit up when things got interesting. From being noiseless white noise, however, the games came to fascinate me. I wouldn't be the first to point out how metaphorical the game and the baseball season are, but more than that, so much of the city of Boston is in that team.
It's now 2004, and while I'm still a huge Sox fan, I'm more aware that it's a diasporic nation. But with the gratifying events of the past two weeks, when the Sox stormed back from being down 0-3 to the MFYankees to take the final four games, proceeded to sweep the Cards in the world series, and then staged a parade that attracted 3.2 million fans who were child-like in their joy and glee, that distance to home feels both surmontable and insurmontable.
How I spent last Thursday morning -- Wednesday night in Boston, as the Sox played the Cards for the last time, as Sedaris read his funny stories -- was therefore appropriate. When I started by saying that I was in my office on Saturday grumpily thinking that I should have already been in an apartment, "already" was meant to a bit of a hint. Thursday morning I was on the phone with a realtor, when I confirmed my desire to lease a cute little apartment; that done, I then watched the last few moments of the game. Sox win! Sox win! The Boston Red Sox are world champions! I found a good apartment! I get my keys soon! I hope to be in by the end of the week! Home, at last, or at least for now.
