29 May, 2005

Prank Night

...flowers in her hair, flowers everywhere....

"To Brunch," we toasted last Saturday night. The Limey didn't understand, and we didn't explain. We were too busy laughing.

The Prince has accepted Sparkey's Manhattan cherry and is working the stem in his mouth to knot it, which is, yes, hot, and he knows I think so, so of course it's deliberate.

He's never nice to me in public.

Tiberius and I greet one another affectionately in the parking lot. He rolls a smoke for me while we plan our treachery. I will enter first, introduce myself as Terry from the Bud Basket, and look for the victim, er, recipient of my bouquet.

Tiberius, also named Terry, but from the Daisy Chain, enters with another floral arrangement. We trade barbs; he announces his is a SINGING floral delivery, and we fall to, destroying both bunches of chrysanthemums.

The cast does not know we are crashing the show.

We wind up doing a wild chase through the audience, beating one another with our bouquets, whacking the Limey-cum-investigator in the process, and generally cutting up in a distractingly funny manner until we're both thrown out of the room.

"I haven't laughed that hard in MONTHS," says BuddahPat. "I had to hide in the corner." Snoopy hasn't joined us for beerage, so his nonplussed reaction at the moment of truth stands as his sole contribution.

"I didn't break once this time, until you two barged in," scolds the Prince. "And then I almost fell off my chair." "I missed it all, I was dead," mourns Mimic, who received "her" battered bouquets with delight after curtain call. But wait, there's more: "At the end, he pulls the gun on me," says BuddahPat, still shocked. "And then he FIRES. I thought, what do I do now? and figured the simplest thing would be just to die."

Coco just grins and grins. It's been a long time since she's pulled a prank on her cast.

We know, and the murderous medium in which we work insists that we remember, that we are one small step from death at every moment. So we love each other fiercely, tell each other often, and work hard to laugh ever harder. It doesn't do to take life seriously: we'll none of us get out alive.

(The Rain, The Park, And Other Things; The Cowsills, 1967)

27 May, 2005

Raw Passion

...fins to the left, fins to the right/ and you’re the only bait in town....

In New Orleans I once watched a cigar roller, hoping, hoping, hoping that the guy rolling would make the Gookie. He didn't, but I think of him now, as there is a certainty of me making a purchase today, as there was a certainty of my NOT purchasing a cigar.

She piqued his interest. Well, why not? Bibi is blonde, stacked, vivacious, pretty, and dresses in the cutest outfits. She walks into my house wearing a post-separation, pre-divorce "Over Him" tee shirt. (I whisper to Mags, 'most men her husband's age are looking to trade up. How do you trade up from HER?' Mags shakes her head.)

She piques his interest. Does that make him kinky? Is it? Am I, because I like it?

My first time was with a man I adore and don't see often enough. Another time was with someone who makes me giddy. And now, Hawk wants to try it.

What can I say but Yes? Yes! Yes!

It's my favorite word.

Careless, he lifts the rice-covered nori, wipes beneath it, flips it, slices avocado for a third layer. He slices pink fish very thin and adds it alongside the avocado, then coaxes the rectangle into a cylinder. This he slaps onto a tray where it waits for more of its kind. Every move he makes with his left hand, he follows with a swipe of damp cloth in his right. When there are three sesame sprinkled tubes, he flops them back on the counter to hack into slices with a huge knife. They go out on a slab of wood. On the other counter, the other chef arranges his slices in a plastic container, which must be mine.

I have been watching the wrong man. But the right one's waiting at home, ready for something new.

(Fins; Jimmy Buffet)

24 May, 2005

Toasted Buns

...inch worm, inch worm/ measuring the marigolds....

Facedown, I fry my moon sunny side up and watch the gelatinous progress of an earthworm through the mulch. This scrappy suit has seen better days, in perhaps 1985, but it covers the required bits, which is sufficient. Rain is on the horizon. I'll toast while I can.

(Inchworm; Danny Kaye in Hans Christian Andersen)

23 May, 2005

Clip Art

...people in every direction....

I'm off to a murder mystery.

"Do you get to kill, or die?"

Neither tonight, unfortunately.

He pats my hand. "Better luck next time, Mama."


She leans over, body gilded by shaft of morning sun that streams through the bedroom window. The light ignites her hair into a burnished renaissance halo. Smiling sweetly, she feathers a kiss on my shoulder and is gone.


It's noon before he notices I've nothing underneath.


He brings me a South African wine called Angel Tears.

"You'll have to tell me if it's any good." He's charming and delightful and funny and warm. He's Robert, and he's leaving.

He promises to return when I've finished losing weight and together we will gorge ourselves on pastries at Vaccaro's.


He hides the evidence in his hand, a guilty expression crawling uncomfortably across his face.

"I cut off more than I meant to."

I check his hand. It's a lot. I check the mirror.

Not so bad. Now, instead of raggedy ends hanging to the top of my thighs, I have tidy ends falling straight across just above my beltline.

Can't cover up my best asset.


We have a beer before the show, in case the show's not good. She's been shoe shopping. I attack her bags.

The first box is uninspiring. Basic white standard-issue lady executive commuting sneakers. Bo-ring.

The next box has a lift-off lid and lots of tissue. Promising. I lift, unfold, inspect.


Beige Birkie-style flat thong sandals.

"They're comfortable," she protests, as if this were adequate defense. Puh-leeze.

She thinks she has not much time left.

"Maybe fifteen years. I'm going to make the most of them."

Me, too.

"What? Why?"

Because I always pictured us together at seventy-five years old, cackling like the crones we are at the bookstore, pool, mall, bar. Like now only with more wrinkles. It hurts me to think that might not happen.

It hurts me to think that might not happen.


He feeds me, tickles more than my imagination, makes me laugh at things that were never funny before. It's been far too long since I've seen him.

Tragedy exists on every scale.


"I'm five minutes away. Can I come over for tea?"

Are you kidding? Drive your fluffy ass over here, girl. I'll take off my underwear in your honor.

(I lie. I don't have to remove anything.)

I greet her at the door with a hug that ends only so we can talk to one another. That Girl is fabbo as usual in a chocolate top and those snakeskin pants, again underwear unencumbered. She's 22. She's my role model. I wanna be her when I grow up. I mean, if.


I take a sip. Ohhhhhhhhhh. Oh, ahhhhhhhhhh.

"I feel inappropriate just watching your face," he says.

Good wine? Yesssssss.


Maybe I should change this tiny tank for a real shirt before the kids get here.

"Maybe. It's amazing how your bra matches your shoes."

Well. I don't know whether to blush or to thank you for noticing.

I look at his face. And laugh.

You're blushing enough for both of us!

And laugh some more.

"I have a cold," he says. "Did you like the smooth transition I made just there?"

Seamless segue, that.

"Like butter."

Just like buttah.

And he's still blushing.


Weekends, the whore next door sits on the tailgate of the truck parked in her driveway, drinking beer and waiting for the neighborhood to amuse her.

I lie.

She lives two doors up.

(Ants Marching; Dave Matthews)

20 May, 2005

Wet Daydreams

...let the red rain splash you/ let the rain fall on your skin....

Three blue rigs stand vigilant in dinosaurian dignity across froth-dotted murky waters of the harbour. I don't know what they do. I imagine they move when I am not looking.

Rain slashes down in diagonal sheets. My black trenchcoat flaps madly. The umbrella threatens to turn itself inside out, but does not. Spray from faux cobblestone wets my toes. I am wearing foolish footwear, sandals, on this storm-heavy day, for though I don't care for wet feet particularly, I'm truly miserable in sodden shoes. My toenails are the color I wish for the sky.

"I don't want to say it's windy out, but somebody just dropped a house on my sister."

Three out of the four people I say this to stare at me, baffled, missing what I thought was a broad cultural refernce. I give up trying to amuse the General Public.

Instead, I smile brightly at each stranger bold enough to meet my gaze, fewer than I'd hoped. The woman at the pastry stand neglects to charge me for the cookie I request with my coffee. A family lunching in the window of the Science Center waves to me as though I were an attraction.

Grinning, I wave back. Perhaps I am.

(Red Rain; Peter Gabriel)

17 May, 2005

Rainbow Thread

...if you want to destroy my sweater/ hold this thread as I walk away/ watch me unravel, I'll soon be naked....

I lift, squeeze, stroke. I caress. I fondle. I brush, handle, rub, embrace, finger. Everything. Including items people are wearing, and live creatures. No one stares, or if they do, they smile.

The sun and wind take turns sliding over my skin. Dust makes tiny clouds around sneakers, sandals, boots and Birkies. Conversation is muted. Music in the paths is unamplified and folky. No blaring lights or neon colors assault my eyes.

I am crowded among sheep and wool hippies: handcrafts to look at, furry animals to admire, fresh cooked meats to sniff and skein after skein after skein of lovely, touchable homespun. Alpaca roving, hats, angora wool, shawls, pincushions, felted bags, mittens, sheepskin slippers, rabbit fur toys, lanolin lotion.

I have purchased no yarn, no needles, no wool-bearing livestock. Admission was free. My senses are satiated.

Until tomorrow, anyway.

(Undone- the Sweater Song; Weezer)

16 May, 2005

Breezy Musing

...ahead in the distance, I saw a shimmering light ....

Sweet fragrance drifts into the car. Top down, I approach the bridge. The highway is lined with green and lavander. The river sparkles below.

I think I will be too immersed in people and activities to have time to brood, but of course I'm wrong.

(Hotel California; The Eagles)

12 May, 2005

Wouldnya Know....

...I'm not dead yet!....

Blogger's back up, and me with no time to write....

...in the meantime, check out someone who has actual talent, Martin Ewen, who is the Rogue Satellite. He's got STORIES. Yummy.

--Monty Python's Search For the Holy Grail

06 May, 2005

Me, blush?

...it's a mystery!....

The camelia bush is blooming with beautiful bright pink blossoms. She brings one to me, framed with waxen leaves. I pin it in my hair.

No one can tell, but it matches what I am wearing.

03 May, 2005

Human Interaction

...I think that God's got a sick sense of humor/ and when I die I expect to find him laughing....

"'Campy and eclectic'? What the hell does that mean? That you're appealing in many ways, all of them tacky?"


According to him, every man who claims to be a 'leg man' or an 'ass man' is lying.

"We have legs. We have asses. Every man's a breast man, because we don't have those."

The flat fanny of his fiancee proves that this is at least a personal truth.

Nice rack on her, though.


She says she used to worry that she would lose me early, that because I burned so hot and so bright, I'd consume myself in a firey blaze. She says she doesn't worry about that anymore. I wonder if I am content to be a candle rather than a comet.

I suppose on some level, I must be.


"How was it?"

Can you say 'clusterfuck'?

She tilts her head.

"I think so."


People from my past gleefully invade my present, intent on influencing my future.

Or perhaps inventing it.

Possibly, sometime in the past, they already have.


I overhear a conversation that seems apropo of exactly nothing. And yet.

"She used to be a man, and she still is living with the woman who was his wife. They don't have sex, though, and Oprah wondered why he bothered to change."

"What did he, uh, she say?"

"She leaned over and asked Oprah, 'Would you like to have a penis?' and that shut her up for a bit."

I believe I've met this woman.

"Really? What was she like?"

Very nice. Very normal, actually.

"Like, just a tall woman?"

Yes, but not unusually so. Still, I kept looking at her hands.

I have a tiny but important bond with transsexuals. My parents, who were going to name their son (me) Christian, because of a transsexual, did not name me (not a son) Christine. Thank you, Ms. Jorgensen.


I yank off the shirt I'm wearing to dump it into the stovetop dye bath.

Princess, run up and get Mama one of the shirts on the bed.

In my white bra I stand, stirring steaming clothing 'til she brings a different shirt. It is a testimonial to the strength of their conditioning that no member of my family blinks at this behavior.

(Blasphemous Rumors; Depeche Mode)