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reader, writer, unregenerate comma-splicer |
Kris: “I’m lusting after a $500 pair of boots right now. It’s pretty sick.”
Gene: “Yeah.”
Kris: “I mean, even if you have limitless funds, is it ever okay to spend $500 on shoes?”
Gene: “No. If you have $500 to just throw away, you do something interesting with it. You buy Dick’s hamburgers for every kid at the local high school.”
Kris: [Blinks.] “But…you can’t do that!”
Gene: “Why not?”
Kris: “Because…kids are fat?”
Gene: [Shrugs.] “Dick’s, man.”
Waaaant.
American Retro Ginger coat in black ($292.60); Colin Stuart over-the-knee black boots ($189); Frye Matilda red boots ($448); The Complete Calvin and Hobbes ($94.50); “Hapworth 16, 1924” by J.D. Salinger ($500).
“I mean this guy was fully hairy. All over.”
“He could shave his chest.”
“Yeah, but what was he gonna do, shave his whole back and chest and leave the bottom half hairy?”
“Like Mr. Tumnus!” [Blank looks.] “The faun in Narnia?”
“So he strips for some girl and then goes ‘It’s okay, I’m just like Mr. Tumnus!’ Assuming she would know what that meant.”
“It would get me.”
“As long as she’s somewhat literary, I guess.”
“Although in the panic of the moment, I might forget Narnia and just assume he was referencing a nickname for his penis.”
This is not my Mr. Tumnus.
You missed Lombard Street being turned into a giant Candyland board…what are you going to miss next?
If you’re smart, the answer will not be “the Caspian Hat Dance show at Ashkenaz tonight.” Caspian Hat Dance is Allen’s band (come on, you remember Allen: smart, pretty, moved to Amsterdam? Hell, four of my six readers went to college with him) and they are in town TONIGHT ONLY (and some other nights, but you already missed those), and they are, no kidding, fantastic. They make you want to dance and shout and cry at the same time.
Run do not walk to this show. (But actually do walk, and maybe even amble and stop somewhere for dinner, because it’s only 12:40 now and it doesn’t start until 9.)
This is not my genius idea.
Last night, turning onto my street around midnight, I passed a guy wearing a Cal hat, a whistle on a string and nothing else.
He seemed undistressed so we exchanged smiles and moved on.
One of my neighbors left a stack of home design magazines free for the taking in the lobby yesterday. After a day of work and house-cleaning, they were the perfect reward.
Beautiful as they are, seeing the rooms in these magazines makes me more content with my living space. We could still do with less furniture in the dining room, but at least our house looks like someone lives here. You can see us indelibly imprinted everywhere — and not just because of the grime, smart guy; I cleaned yesterday. (Sort of.) Anyway, I’d rather have a kitchen filled with shelves of untidy-looking food than the sterile kitchens in these magazines where the food is all hidden.
Except lemons, for some reason. Bowls of lemons and limes in every kitchen. You see this a lot in photos of outdoor weddings as well. Someone out there really loves the idea of amassing a large collection of fruit that people only eat in very small amounts.
This is not my lovely, lemony wedding.
From the entry on fairy basslets:
“The larger, more colorful males […] defend a harem of females. As they grow larger, the females change sex and turn into males.”
Does that not blow your mind?
This is not my gender-bending fish.
We went skinny dipping after dark. Marina sat on the edge of the speedboat and lit sparklers for us and we swam out into the black lake (heedless of the seven-foot sturgeon or other lake monsters) and performed drunken sparkling water ballets. On the far reaches of the landscape a lightning storm flashed at the edge of the cloud cover in pale imitation.
Later, standing on the back deck, someone put “Billy Jean” on the stereo and we whirled around in happy squealing circles. What serendipity, I thought, what utter perspicuity, to identify the exact song necessary to wind up a night like that.
Later on, I realized that maybe it doesn’t take exceptional perception to figure out which song will cause drunken white girls of a certain age to lose their minds. But at the time it seemed like auditory manna.
I spent some time in a hospital this past weekend. One of the doctors was almost certainly younger than me, a mere hobbledehoy covered in pimples and good intentions. This Howser kept absently prodding my grandfather’s gouty knee as he discussed him, as if to include him in the conversation without doing anything so gauche as looking him in the eye or addressing him, as if the sheer Grand Canyon between their ages made this patient into an insensible curiosity rather than a witted human being. Granted, Grandpa isn’t always in top form, mentally. But some polite pretense would have been appreciated.
Then again, is there any way this boy could have behaved that would have made me forgive him his unlined face and adolescent spots and superior work ethic and better-educated-than-me brain?
