Don’t do this to me first thing in the morning, internet. Now excuse me while I stare dead-eyed at my Metamucil and absently stroke my long white beard.
The New Pornographers / The Bleeding Heart Show
In case you need to run from the airport to my new house, here’s the route.
It’s 3 miles. Should take you about half an hour if you’re in decent shape or being chased by TSA dogs.
This is almost exactly where a smooth, pale youngster by the name of Me came of age. I was in Burlingame, Calif., home of the Burlingame Museum of Pez Memorabilia and the IT’S IT factory, from fifth thru twelfth grade.
You see the little coastline near the Hyatt? That’s where I first touched a boob for real. We were supposed to go over to someone’s house and watch … I dunno, Evil Dead 2, probably? But then we got into the whole boob thing and ran late.
Folks, there were no cellphones in those days. Those were the days when you’d be in the middle of a boob session and say, you know what, let’s ditch that party and just keep doing this. And later you could blame it on something stupid like traffic because there were no cellphones and nobody ever really knew where you were.
True Story
We were playing spin the bottle in the parking lot and it pointed at Robby. When the girl was all ew he got mad and threw the bottle and it hit this guy coming out of the drug store. The guy dropped his plastic bag and out tumbled two boxes of Tampax and a bunch of Snickerses.
As usual Robby was instantly apologetic but the guy didn’t even get mad, he just sighed and picked up the bottle and went to his car, leaving everything else on the ground. Once he was gone we split the tampons and candy bars with the girls and someone said well now what.
I said we could keep playing but the bottle would only exist in our minds. The girls said Josh are you retarded or what which was kind of a catch phrase by that point. I pantomimed spinning the bottle and then eagerly watched the empty space between us. Look at him and all his acting, the girls said. Oh my god remember when he was in the school play.
Uh oh! I said. The bottle’s stopping … on … you! and I pointed at Robby. He looked at me, aghast, said: So your pretend bottle is pointing at me. You want to kiss me on the lips. And I said: No, but sometimes it points at a dude. Sometimes that happens and you have to deal with it. I want it to be realistic.
And everyone got up and wandered back to the bus stop and talked about something else. I cried out: I just want you to believe in my imaginary creation! And then twenty years later I made up this story and put it on the internet.
Um how exactly am I supposed to NaNoWriMo over here when Wikipedia won’t tell me what they called menopause in olden times?
Aphex Twin / Come to Daddy
:(
The bar I frequent has a nice selection of greeting cards but I didn’t see one that said exactly what I needed to say. I flip through the blank ones but god, you know? Babies wearing fedoras and tinted lovers kissing in Paris or wherever? I can’t work with that.
So I stumble home and raid the wife’s scrapbooking nook. (“Our counselor says it’s critical that I have a place of my own, even if it’s crammed next to the Miata in the garage.”) There’s construction paper, Elmer’s, dull-edged scissors, the works. I put together something really cute with a penguin and a tree on the front, and inside I write Sorry your wife died while giving birth to my daughter and then a frowny face.
But I chicken out at the last minute and sign my brother’s name. My life is way too crazy to deal with this shit right now.
Do You Like Gifts
Because guess what there is a gift for you in the glovebox. Ha ha no it is not gloves! Your sense of humor is very refreshing, Maya. Eh? Maia? Ah yes. Maia, hearken: Most of the ladies I allow into the 240Z do not tell good jokes, Maia. Knock-knock, they say. Hello, who is this? I ask, delighted. They say they do not know, they forgot, and then they gaze out the window, at the world passing by.
But you, when you say knock-knock you know who is at the door. It is I, resplendent. My cape swoops around you, catching you like a thieve in a sticky net. There is no escape!
Open the glovebox. See what treasures it holds.
Yes, yes, maps. Yes, the tire pressure gauge. Is there not anything else? Didn’t I—I thought I put a little box with an anklet or some candy in there? No? Ah well. Does m’lady mayhaps want to see Saw VI? I think its terror may eject you out of your comfortable seat and into my expectant lap, no?
No. Very well. Next time, then, Mia. Maia. Whatever. Go, then. Flee! But know this: When the moon swells full and your womanhood cries out for massage, know that you have cast aside Heaven itself. By the by, canst thou direct me toward Venus Waterfallz or the nearest exotic emporium? Sir Miguel Longfellow here needs tending to, as you can plainly see.
