June 23, 2006
New photos
The last of the Europe photos are up. You can see the remaining London pics, our weekend in Oxford, and our time in NY with Dave. Also please enjoy these photos of last weekend's little poolside gathering.
Posted by didofoot at 08:12 AM
June 15, 2006
Conversations with Anais
The Lad and I are still trying to find a good solution to my problem of phonelessness; until that happens I must maintain radio silence and I spend my days with la Nin in kind of a dream state.
Anais, I say, what do you think of all this?
I have raged at the wall growing denser between myself and others. I do not want to be exiled, alone, cut off.
It's not so bad, I tell her.
We need adventures, she says.
We need clean laundry, I say.
I rile at the human condition, which means domestic life, chores...
Well, tomorrow we can go lie in the sun all day, I tell her. We are dogsitting Molly this weekend.
What new loveliness is there in Molly, she wants to know.
I say, The loveliness is not so much in the dog, although she is lovable. The loveliness is the sun on our skin, the fresh fruit and coffee by the pool.
I enjoy breakfast, she admits.
In the meantime, you and I must wait in the house for the cable man, I tell her, and do the dishes and the laundry, tidy up the clutter, and have a day of housewifery.
I never minded the monotony of housework, she says, as long as my life has its lyrical climaxes, its high moments, the certainty of full living.
Two months in Europe seems fairly lyrical, I say, so let's throw the whites in the wash and scrub the rice out of the pots.
Posted by didofoot at 01:05 PM | Comments (0)
June 13, 2006
Ring the bell: school's in, sucka.
Home at last. Home means hanging out with Michele, and hanging out with Michele means complaining to her about how old we are getting. "Do you realize," I said, "that there are freshmen in high school now who were born in nineteen ninety-two?"
Those of you inclined to lust after the younger generation (you know who you are) should pause and take note. These children believe "Ray of Light" was Madonna's best album. The only Prince they know is that lovable scamp William or the rebellious young Harry. Metallica is a shade of nail polish. To these fragile flowers of the schoolyard Michael Jackson is just another creepy old white guy from Santa Barbara.
These kids read the first Harry Potter books at the correct age to read them. They have no idea why pricey designers make clothes that look like they came from thrift stores. Not one of them can spell out "you are," "laugh out loud" or "please."
Perhaps most distressing is the thought that had the Moms not gently talked me out of sleeping with a certain Goth in high school, I could conceivably have given birth to one of these children. Even now we could be having screaming arguments about her wardrobe. (Me: Do you really have to wear pants that show your entire damn thong? Why don't I just buy you some assless chaps, would that make you happy? Oh hell. Just get in the car.)
My only comfort is the thought that perhaps some of my older-than-me friends will read this and be disgusted. Do you realize, they will say, that this kid was born in nineteen seventy-nine? Music does not begin with Madonna, you know. Why, when I was her age...
Whatever, grandpa. If you'll excuse me, my ten-year reunion is coming up; I really don't have time to stand around chatting with you.
Posted by didofoot at 11:08 AM | Comments (7)
June 01, 2006
America plays the hits
We are at last back on American soil and American soil is suffering from 1000% humidity. New York is hot, loud, crowded, roachy and hideous but by god it's home.
Sort of.
The Lad and I are both feeling dazed by the sheer Americanness of everything. "Our money is so BIG," I say in wonder, "and why is it just this one color?" At the diner they just keep on filling your coffee cup. Cars are huge. And I don't know quite how to put this in a sentence, but: burritos, man. Burritos.
I miss London though, or rather Thomas's flat in Stoke Newington which we rarely left except to buy more alcohol. If there were an award for "Most Wasted Trip to London" we would get it, and we would get special honors for the implicit pun, because we both wasted our time and were wasted most of the time. Days began at around 1:00 in the afternoon and ended around 5:00 in the morning; drinks began around 3:00 p.m. I have never poisoned my body so thoroughly in such a short period of time and I am proud of myself for sinking to the challenge -- a complicated challenge, actually, since the point was not only to keep up with veteran drinkers Thomas, George and Lad, but to carefully supress all signs of drunkenness. This is easy to do when sitting around watching the Back to the Future trilogy but gets a hell of a lot harder when you are all reading Shakespeare out loud.
We did manage to venture out to Cambridge for a day: Thomas's 85 photos of the day are here, cut down from the original 180 he first took. Captions are provided by Thomas, which is why they convey information as well as pith.
I am looking forward greatly to being home, my clean and purple city, where burritos are $3 cheaper and my parents will cook me dinner while our faithful dog Molly barks at me and tries to hide behind the house until I leave.
Posted by didofoot at 11:42 AM | Comments (5)
