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reader, writer, unregenerate comma-splicer |
When I met him, he had beautiful girl hair and a guitar. He still does though.
He is like twelve hundred fish, but they are rainbow trout. But he smells nicer.
At the end of the fall I think he will move to New York to be with Steve.
I can’t for the life of me figure out why he hangs out with me but I am glad he does.
And today is his birthday day.
This is getting posted today, since I know I won’t have time tomorrow what with the participating in *actual* birthday events. Oh, and sleeping until noon. So here goes.
MY FRIEND MICHELE
(aka Binky the Horse, LL Cool Cat (?), Brother Tupperware, Bambam, Mama Cow Man, Muppet)
You have taught me so many things over the years. To wit: The importance of British comic fantasy novels; how to move a Ouiji (sp) board without your friends knowing; how to cage spare change from high school boys; that brownies from a mix are just as good; how to materially affect the directional tilt of an innocent mailbox; that it’s okay not to drink even if everyone else is doing it; that if everyone else has had sex I better jump the fuck onto that bandwagon because now I am the LAST ONE LEFT (um, I extrapolated that one on my own though); that anime can be cool because anime boys are hot.
Yes, My Friend Michele is pretty great. Almost as great as me. Happy birthday!
Love,
didofoot
(aka Mort, Miss Meow, Brother Dimbulb, Boomboom, Cheesehead (?), Piggy)
A year ago today the Sicilian dumped me on my lunch hour. We went to lunch, we argued over something stupid, we went into the King Student Union building and broke up in a conference room. I sniffled my way through the rest of the day and promised myself I wouldn’t tell anyone. “I don’t need their pity,” I thought, then emailed the Lad in Germany with the news to get some sympathy. That night I went out on a date with Frank so of course I had to tell him. The next day I called in sick because I felt it would be dramatically appropriate and so had to tell my folks, since I was living with them. That night I came into Berkeley for Sushi’s birthday dinner at the (now tragically out of business) Lotus and since I didn’t want to ruin the day for her I immediately told her and Nuala while staring straight ahead in a wounded manner. I really wanted this to be an evening all about Sushi, since it was her birthday and she is my best friend, so I waited until a lull in the conversation at dinner before I stood up, tapped the side of my free soda with Jacob’s fork and made the announcement to all the patrons of the restaurant. I followed it with a snazzy singing number about heartbreak, then led my fellow diners into the street for a coordinated dance routine.
It’s a year later now and I feel fine. But if I didn’t, who would know? For you know I never complain.
On Thursday night, pre-Allen arrival, I was sitting in the kitchen at the Lad’s, pretending to be a cockroach. I had my index fingers pressed to the sides of my forehead and I wiggled them at the Lad’s back as he did the dishes. “So are we playing Get Out tonight?” asked the Lad.
“We could,” I said. “But what if I’m a cockroach?”
“Well, that would complicate it.”
“But see I can touch them,” I said, touching the tips of my fingers together. “Not all cockroaches can do that. It’s a genetic trait, like with humans how some humans can roll their tongues and others cannot.”
“Really?” said the Lad, turning and calmly watching me cross my eyes and tag my fingers together.
“No,” I said, “that was a lie.”
The next day, I encountered the God of Cockroaches behind my coffee maker. After some consideration, I realized that my imitation of a cockroach on the previous night and subsequent discovery of one surely meant I had been hit with a rare, though temporary, prognosticative ability which the universe sometimes grants to those who are worthy. To test my theory, I tried a game of minesweeper and won without even trying.
Eight hours later, I had used up my entire allotment of foreknowledge, but my minesweeper high score is now out of this world.
This morning my boss, who sits next to me, said “Okay, Ms. Larson, I want to read you this.” Then he read me the lyrics to another of his New Country songs. He reads them in a monotone, with a twangy accent which he doesn’t posess in normal speech. The interesting thing is that even though he’s just speaking, he still pauses and holds the vowel sounds as one would if one were singing.
He’s done this before. He’s trying to convert me to New Country. After every song I nod and enthusiastically say “Yeah, that one WAS good. I guess you’re right about New Country.” Unfortunately, it’s taking a while for him to process this, so he goes on presenting me with examples. All because I was foolish enough to express a real opinion. That is the LAST time I am genuine at work, I can tell you.
After the reading, he called a staff meeting, by saying “Maria, come here, we’re having a staff meeting.” Maria also works next to us. She rolled her chair over and we both faced him attentively and he pulled out a book of Chinese stories from the B.C. and read us one about a man who meets a sixteen year old girl and brings her home but she turns out to be a devil and rips out his heart but luckily his wife has him revived by giving a blowjob to a homeless maniac who magically causes her to vomit up a new heart for her husband. It was a pretty good story. When it was finished, he pulled out the original book and read us the same story in Chinese. There is nothing more surreal than hearing Mandarin coming out of this big white cowboy in a Southwestern shirt and boots.
in psych my professor pointed out that almost all psych studies to date have been performed on upper middle class white college sophomores
and i realized my demographic is better understood than any demographic in the world
and i wondered do they know enough to predict every thought i am having
and i thought about russia to put a spoke in their wheel
but it was just what they were expecting me to do
I want to talk more about Allen because he cannot be overstated. When he walked in and Gene said oh it must be Aaron (knowing however perfectly well that it was NOT Aaron) I heard his voice and thought oh it’s Allen isn’t it. But did not get up from the chair. This is because I was sitting on it backwards and knew that I would trip over myself and it would not be a good beginning.
I did however go all over in a tingle and blush and a pleased expression upon seeing how he was not fat and WAS present. It was a shock to the system for I have so long known him just as emails. He has skinny fingers and his toenails need clipping. All night I just could not think what to say to him but then I never can; mostly for the first hour I just stared at him as he talked to Sean(e) and the Lad. His profile did that tightly tensed thing that people’s do on the bus when you stare at them steadily and they know it and are afraid to look at you in case you are drooling or incontinent or about to introduce them to your pal Jesus.
It’s hard to believe he was here at all. I imagined this a number of times and they were all just as real to me. It seems such a waste to be tied now to just one.
Allen is home. He is not fat. He gave me a poncho and puppet, as if he knew the secret gift secrets of my secret heart.
But Jason leaves tomorrow. Every silver lining has a big, sad, looming, awful, thunderbolt-ridden cloud.
The Lad’s motorcycle has a little bathrobe which he keeps chained to a post when not in use so that it cannot run away. It fits snug over the motorbike and in its bathrobe the motorbike looks like a little cartoon viking guy. It is so endearing. This bathrobe is for keeping the wet off. When the wet is on you slide around and cannot brace yourself when you are approaching stoplights so as not to slide into the back of the Lad and give him, he says, carpal tunnel from supporting your very light, don’t get me wrong, sweetie weight all on his wrists like that.
Isn’t it great how there is a tunnel in the wrist? Turn your lights on, I always think!
This one is not a lie because I haven’t thought up any stories lately, but have been thinking mostly about death again. Death, the big nuh-uh. It is awfully dull and does not bear repeating.
Well, here is an email I might write today.
Dear Maggie,
Apparently many people are afraid of me. It is widely reported. Due to how I am intimidating. Mostly the Lad, who is not afraid of me and should be, tells me this, but he likes to say I am mysterious because he knows it makes me feel better.
The sad fact is, though, that I am like a deaf person trying to speak. I can see how other people behave in a friendly, warm, normal way, and I try to emulate it, but everyone finds me out right away. Mostly I think people assume I don’t like them. This I guess is the effect of teaching oneself to walk with one’s hands held out from the thighs, and being too shy to speak in company, and glaring out from beneath enough eyebrow for two people or three movie stars. I think the only solution is to bring potato salad everywhere as a peace offering, since who can be afraid of someone bringing them potato salad? I eat like an American. It’s a gift from God.
Your cousin,
didofoot
Sorry for the tantrum. (Or am I lying?) Upon further reflection I’ve decided it’s better not to lie about important stuff like having found the cure for cancer or Allen coming home, since it gets people’s hopes up and that’s no good. I need you people to remain hopeless, so that you can be coerced into doing my bidding when the revolution comes.
I’ve been thinking about this gun control issue. It occurs to me that the only cop I know is racist and kind of annoying, and I’m not too keen on him carrying a gun. Neither am I happy about a lot of strangers running around in police and military uniforms with guns that they’re allowed to use on me. I mean, sure, I’m on no one’s shitlist now, but I’ve seen “Enemy of the State” and I know how fast all that could change. And when the revolution comes…Anyway, I recognize that they go through training and all to prevent them from shooting their own toes off or accidentally nailing an infant in the line of fire, but I still don’t like it. So maybe I should be allowed to have a gun. Maybe we should all have them. I mean in an ideal world, no, there would be no guns anywhere and the cops would just carry big sticks (coughEnglandcough) but in this world I don’t think things are going to go that way. I’m all in favor of mandatory training courses for gun owners though Sort of like driver’s licenses.
How come when four drunk teenagers take daddy’s convertible out for a drive and kill four other teenagers, no one forms a coalition demanding that cars be taken away from all civilians? (And, but if they did, would it be such a bad thing?)
The sum total of my education about this issue comes from having watched “Bowling for Columbine.” I’m sure all this has been said (more betterly) before. But up until now I’d just been assuming guns are bad for children and other living things because that is the way of my people. Call this my rebellious stage.