Tag Archives: BFF

Texting: A Holiday Prep Guide

23 Nov

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Am leaving on a jetplane soon to visit The BFF in NOLA.

…I am by turn, excited and nervous about it. Cuz I never go anywhere certainly not alone across the U.S.. Certainly not ’round the holidays. Certainly not with almost no bucks after travel costs are all said n’ done. And I’ve no idea what to really expect…so I just make it up in a myriad of scenarios. Cuz I’m me and can’t just let a thing “be.”

…Which is how texting mini conversations like this happen:

Me: …We can do stuff suuuuuper on the cheap, right?

The BFF: Oh yes. Im basically broke but we can still manage to drink fine wines and eat fancy cheese.

Me: Your version of “broke” and mine are very different.

The BFF: We will go grocery shopping for the week and just cook all the time.

Me: …I love the cooking idea. Just NO jambalaya-gumbo fish food!!

The BFF: …Jambalaya is just rice, chicken and sausage. And gumbo doesnt have fish in it either.

Me: I think you’re lying and will cut em up all sneaky like and slip them in when I’m not looking. But I will know. I always know.

The BFF: You will get a fine sampling of cajun and creole food w/o having to eat any fish.

Me: Well fine. I guess. But I know you…

The BFF: …And there will be begniets. Just think about that!

Me: I don’t even know what begniets are…but as long as it’s hidden with no antenna or crustacean skeleton sticking out…I’ll try it. But I won’t promise to swallow.

The BFF: Subject: Beignet – Wikipedia the free encyclopedia
http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beignet

Me: Kay…now I want like twelve.

***
Email exchange #4 of prob’ly 400:

The BFF: Here is a completely preliminary and not at all definitive guide to some of the many New Orleans activities we may take part in on your visit. Just to whet your whistle, so to speak. ūüėČ

Go to this Tiki bar: 
https://www.facebook.com/TikiTolteca 

Eat Beignets 
(You already know about those) 

Get a Po Boy at Verti Marte or Parkway Bakery 
http://www.yelp.com/biz/verti-marte-new-orleans-2 

Drink at Tonique 
http://bartonique.com 

Drink at Bacchanal (weather permitting)  
http://www.bacchanalwine.com  

Day Drink/Window Shop in the French Quarter 
 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/French_Quarter   

Get Pho on the Westbank
http://dpbanhmi.com/DP_Bakery/Welcome.html 

Go to City Park and just hang out/go to Celebration in the Oaks 
http://neworleanscitypark.com/celebration-in-the-oaks 

Go see some graveyards! 
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saint_Louis_Cemetery 

Go see a Christmas Carol (we have comps obviously)
http://www.southernrep.com

Eat some croissants at the Maple St. Patisserie 
http://cargocollective.com/maplestreetpatisserie 

Ride Bikes! 

Walk in Crescent Park! 
http://www.reinventingthecrescent.org 

Take a walking tour? 

 
Go see this amazing cellist play in the St. louis Cathedral for free! 
https://holiday.neworleansonline.com/events/cathedral-christmas-concerts-4-3/

Go to the Frenchmen Night Market  
http://frenchmenartmarket.com 

More to come! 

Me: I LOVE Cathedral-playing cellists, numerous drinking establishments, plays, food, and doing stuff when normal people are sleeping!!! This is gonna be too FREAKING COOL.  And also like, super secret-back-door-non-normal-touristy.  I get my own guides who LIVE THERE! And also: Graveyards are like my favorite thing outside of book stores and THOSE ones have got to be amazeballs.

I CANNOT WAIT!!!!

***
The BFF: …So, on your last night in nola, we will be hosting a holiday cocktail party to introduce you to all of our friends. Cocktail attire is manditory.

Me: Shut up I’ll be so socially awkward…we better drink alot! Remind me in like a week. CUZ ILL BE PACKING IN LIKE ONE FUCKING WEEK!

The BFF: You’ll be fine!! And yes, yes I will.

Me: I’m sick excited. And scared. Cuz I’m me.

The BFF: Dont be scared. Its us. We will take care of you.

Me: I know. I’m a nerd. Did you forget? I’ll remind you often in that week…

The BFF: You are a nerd. But dont stress. Its going to be great!

Me: I know that too ūüôā Am having pre shocks of awesome. Like was at World Market yesterday and thought of you (as always) and I was all: “OH! HEY! We gotta stock a bunch of wine for late at night….oh wait they just drink in the streets there! Oh hey, we should bake this thing! Oh hey, what about that?! Xmas cookies!!!! Oh hey, do I need gloves and stuff just in case or will it really be like 60 degrees there….?”

…Things like that. Then I get all excited and happy!

The BFF: ūüėÄ also, yes bring your pea coat. It gets a bit chilly.

***

Me: Um. Do I need bug repellent for monster blood-eating plague passers?

The BFF: Naw they’ll all be dead by then.

Me: …So all I have to worry about is stepping on their decaying carcasses. So: boots.

…also, what’s the swamp death probability ratio in winter, tween alligators and sink-pits?

…luckily I’m on my period now, so won’t have to worry about that part…like when my bff in high school went to the Congo and was warned all the animals off the trail would smell it and go psycho so she’d have to “watch out.” Whatever the hell THAT means in darkest Africa…

(P.S. I’m only partially joking.)

The BFF: No swamp death! Thats not a thing.

Me: I think it maybe is. They just Dont tell the tourists. Also: voodoo. So you’re not supposed to piss off the natives or accidentally desecrate something by say peeing or puking on it.

The BFF: Exactly.

Me: …Which is prob’ly a lot harder than you’d think, what with all that wandering around and drinking freely thing they all do. But I’ll try my best. Gosh. So many things to remember…

***

…Which is why I rarely actually go anywhere. Frankly, even the anticipation prep is exhausting.

But it’ll be so freakin worth it once I’m there, with two of the best humans on the planet to be m’guide ūüėÄ

~D

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Things That Make Sense [Possibly Only] To Me

5 May

Wicked busy day at work…pushing $122,000 in new orders and bookings that had my butt stuck to my swivel chair for the full eight hours. 

…Decided to counter this with a 4 mile walk through partial spit and sunshine by the waterfront, directly after errands run of bank and script pick up.

…Then I peed.

…Checked my texts which had accumulated throughout the day, totally ignored…(due to reasons they pay me for)…and I saw a set from Puff:

Puff: “Awesome news…I will be up for Pride through 4th of July…!”

…JOY!!! Because, now that am camped in HRC with the Seattle kids…AND signed up for the huge-as-fuck event committees LIKE Pride…I was only the other day saying how kick-ass it would be if he were here for my first one, and I was there for his (in Seattle), cuz (without being a giant cock-block), we could hang some, and have times of awesome with him and his boys (whom I love), ‘tween my booth tending, button passing, and picture taking.

TIMES of AWESOME will be had. Indeed.

…Came home next, to find a gigantic box on my doorstep, weighing approximately half a pound.  After perusing labels which told me nothing, finally came to my senses and just ripped the thing open.  Arms waded through a sea of crumpled newspapers, reaching deep into the box’s guts to fish out: a giant globe on stand, and a card from an antique store in New Orleans.

…Texted The BFF, directly: “I presume was you who bought me the world…”

…The BFF texted back: “…It is your oyster after all.”

(This is why she is The BFF…reason # 562.)

…Wandered about house, attempting to find the perfect place for the world…and I found it: On top of record player by the complete Sherlock and choicest Du Mauriers.

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…Winning. Or rather, “won.” “Winning” sounds better. I will just move everything into the present tense now. Because.

…Go about opening new script (role secured only just last night), and begin to peruse the merchandise. She’s good, the playwright. A local. Commence to take notes, pull up dialect and start working for a good ol’ Louisiana drawl…mid-texting The BFF, who is well into the religious ceremony of Margarita drinking that is: Cinco de Mayo.

…I say I’m too lazy to go to the trouble of “all that mixing,” so offer chilled champagne, (still sitting in the fridge from my woeful birthday), or a warm scotch, as substitute.

The BFF says, ” Definitely champagne. But maybe I’m biased. It’s 80 degrees here.”

I respond: “I think it’s still wise here at 60-something. Cuz I mean..it’s champagne…”

We agree she is right. This almost never happens. She (presumably) goes to mix another ‘Rita…I grab a bar towel, and pop the cork.

…I study some more…

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…Mid-study I try to gauge the distinct difference between Creole, Cajun and general Louisianian dialects. Dunno which I’m suppose to use, so decide to learn all three.

…The Champagne goes largely untouched for some period of time, as I work. Then, as I fold up the script for now, I suddenly remember it.

Veuve Clicquot it ain’t, but it itches the scratch when yuh got it.

…I decide this would be an excellent marketing line, and I am totally in the wrong profession.

…I pour out some more.

…I drink it.

…I see the lap top sitting over there on the couch arm, plugged in and getting juiced.

…I decide maybe I should blog some. Then I can say I did a little study, a little writing, and a little walking with my evening…not just, “laid on the couch like a whore, swilling champagne and watching Burn Notice specials. Again.”

…Although, whatever sounds so bad about that, I’ll never know.

…You’d have to ask a non-actor civilian.

~D

BFF: The Famous, & Marty’s Ma

24 Nov

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Turns out, The BFF is a little bit of a Rock Star. 

…Her “celebrity,” via general awesomeness and bitchy wit, (which in turn, fulfills the requirements I reserve for being my BFF), thus often blogged, talked, and FB’d about…has created a monster woman of epic proportions, with our cast, on this her first visit home from L.A..

With the rate that me n’ The Fella go on about her, how could it be any other way?

…Of course people want to meet this freak-personage who is willing to put up with all our shit (and also happens to have a killer vocal comeback.)¬† Of course they wanna talk and laugh with the person who said that one thing about the ya-de-yah-duh, and made them spew coffee out their nose, while reading FB updates. Of course her and Marty are already thick as thieves to almost dangerous proportions.

…And, of course people tugged on my sleeve shyly and whispered, “introduce me?” at the bar, post show last night…eyes wide as saucers with both the wonder and joy of this person’s comedic histories already well known to them. But, also because…even not having met her yet, they can tell she’s a helluva dame.

…All of which The Fella and I totally agree with, even if we did get punched for our efforts of accidentally liking her so much that we talk about her and things.

…And now, as her reputation begins to grow further and build upon itself with every new post, like this one…it makes me happy to share her with the world. Cuz I love her, and others do too…even if just through proxy. So she is just gonna have to get used to it.

There, I said it in print.

Meanwhile: Much Christmas cookie baking with The BFF, and a lovely dinner with Marty’s Ma…a diminutive woman of certain eye sparkle n’ Judi Dench-like command of speech and presence.

…We talk theatre…as theatre too is her field…and football, and friends and kill a good two hours with laughter and stories.

…Then onto show, and trying to temper the four cups of coffee in my guts, meant to infuse energy…perhaps slightly overdosed.

Facepaint. Hair setting. Corset. And vocal warm ups. A bad night to screw up with a new friend and theatre crush in the audience.

…Let’s get this done!

~D

How Things Are From Here

6 Oct

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I am counter-acting last night’s chick-fest with a shit ton of James Bond hotness. It’s all about finding totally realistic balance in life, between men who will ride up on a white horse and pine for you, and men who beat the shit out of people while wearing Armani.¬† This is all I want.¬† And frankly, I don’t understand why it’s so difficult for the guy upstairs to get it right.

…And speaking of Bond.¬† How about a hand for my girl, Adele’s, epic leap into all-time cult status for her newest track to hit the “Oops, it leaked” viral rage.¬† Love it, babe.¬† Keep ’em coming.

Since last night actually ended mid this morning, spent the better part of the day working myself up to the point where I would be inspired enough to take a shower and get dressed. This happened eventually, around four…after making “breakfast” and finishing my book. Then a walk n’ talk with a bud, and now home to Bond.

…Oh Bond. There is something about men of extremes. Really does it for this dame, I gotta say. Cuz there’s a time and place for the roguish pretty-boy Willoughby, the right moment for the deeply devoted Brandon, and plenty of space for the sexy “I will fuck you up and look hot while doing it” Bond. Manly men. It’s all we want. Am I right?

…This would be the opposite to “M’s” current obsession of grilled-out rappers, who spend all their time pointing at the camera and tossing their dreadlocks like really disturbing shampoo ads. I only know this, as rounding the corner from 3:00 to 3:30, this is what she was playing on her ipad while zumbaing, to a tag-mix with JLo’s latest album. I giggled a lot in between eating chips. (And anything else that wasn’t glued to the coffee table.) Fun was had. It’s how we roll.

…It makes me miss The BFF…who is alive and well and currently residing on the books of Central Casting. And though I have rehearsals to keep me busy, and buddies to keep me company, you can’t replace a person who is “your person.” The Fella and I both know this to be true. It’s hard when other-halfs move two fucking states away…and you can’t just roll back and forth to one another’s houses anymore, for a talk, or do the weekly dinner makings, or go on ‘ventures. You realize how much a PART of your daily life they had become, and how important that family bond is…even though it’s stretching from casting agent offices right now, to me in sweats, tapping away at my blog per usual.

…It’s weird not to smell garlic cooking on the stove simultaneously…or corks popping. It’s weird to have a Saturday and not text almost first thing in the morning: “Dude, whatchu doin’ today?” And weird to not have our usual play-by-play conversations, over a walk, end-of-the-day.

I’m really proud of her to have made such a huge jump to such a different place. And I know she will make of it the best that can be made, cuz the woman doesn’t waste ANYTHING…least of all time, talent, or resources. She’s gonna be okay. And so am I, (in the current new position of private matters I’ve found myself in, since her leaving. ) It’s just…I wish there was a bridge that could be built to fill the gap, a time blip that could be established…so that no matter where on earth your people happen to live, at the end of the day, all it would take is a button pressing to zap you both into the same kitchen (whoever’s that is) and get back to the way things are supposed to be, when catching up takes place.

~D

Harbor Lights, Drunken Old Men, & Some Salsa

8 Sep

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The BFF, texted me at 10 A.M., demanding we kick off my week of vacation on Friday, by consuming extra strong cocktails in the company of drunken old men, directly after work.

…To catch you up: there’s this place on the waterfront called Harbor Lights, which has the reputation of levelling anyone within a two-drink maximum consumption…I don’t give a shit WHO you are.

…You could be the hairiest, Harley-riding, spike-pierce-tatted, four-hundred-pound-beer-gutter ever invented, and I promise that you will still crawl your ass out of those doors like you’ve never had a drink before, if you even TRY to go one over the limit.

…I mean, we are talking “professionals” here, people. With it’s chasing globe-light sign and retro interior, it is the notorious favorite haunt of the older crowd pensioners — who have all been drinking socially for three times your life span and can still hold their liquor better than the badest-ass badass.

Routinely, we pass this place while taking the Ruston walk for fresh air, and see the willow-like frames of it’s inhabitants passing in and out it’s doors, smelling like the Jack Daniel’s distillery, yet amazingly still totally functioning and upright. To date: neither one of us has ever actually ventured into it’s doors. We are pretty awesome drinkers, but we know it would break us in nothing flat and we secretly fear for our egos*. (* “I fear NOTHING!”, The BFF counters immediately as I read her this sentence, in review.)

…But tonight! That all changes, my friends!

…The goal here is to get comfortably plowed at minimum cost, without a ralphing hangover lasting halfway into tomorrow. If we can manage it, I will declare us the, “Righteous Dames of Perfected Excess.” If not, you might be looking at another in-depth study on my stomach contents as they float in a toilet.

We can only try.

As curious as I am to launch into said experiment at all, this comes with a double bonus in the types of character study, that even my brain couldn’t possibly make up. What glory of ultimate delight awaits us? It’s frankly too good to waste by not leaving an open-ended two-parter episode option, I think.

…For this reason, I leave you now, in order to complete the kind of investigative reporting that you fully deserve. If I had a book deal or research grant, I could totally write it all off as an expense, based on topical study. But since I don’t, I can’t. Instead, this entire enterprise will be privately funded by The BFF’s Fella, so its kind of a giant deal.

…So don’t bitch that we never made sacrifices or gave you anything. Me: by willingly exposing my stomach lining and The BFF: by dating a gentleman, The Fella: for bankrolling our exploits.

…At some point, we’ll need to establish a PayPal Kick-Starter account, just to continue to enthrall you with our various shenanigan-wonderments.

(Pause.)

…Dear God, that was a freakin brilliant idea. I am so glad I just wrote that down…

**End Act One**
**Act Two**

It is Happy Hour.

…Almost everything they make is five bucks, and at first sip we instantly realize the rumours have been true. I cough. The BFF grins. I make it through one and a half Mai Tais before my words start slurring as we take in the crowd.

We choose the bar instead of the restaurant…all of which is themed like something between a Captain’s ship and the cavern set for “The Goonies.” Everything is dated and falsely-preserved…including the bartender, upholstery, and dead, stuffed fish on the walls. It takes zero time at all to realize that all the septuagenarians in the room know each other…on account they call out one another’s name as new ones are added. This is what “Cheers” would have been like if it was still filming today.

…Only three people who don’t belong in the mix (besides us) are present: a youngish woman sitting by herself. A forty-ish man stirring a drink with his finger and staring morosely out the plastic tinted window toward the sea. And, the creepy dude at the bar who totally makes a point to turn, take in The BFF from head to toe and back to her boobs, before making his drink order.

“That just happened,” I say, as The BFF roles her eyes.

…It is shortly after this that The BFF’s Fella is added to the group. To make him feel properly welcomed, we yell his name upon sight, like everyone else in the bar sees fit to do. They smile and toast us in our efforts. He orders a “Peachy Drop.” It takes a “man” to just throw that kinda name out there, and still drink it with confidence.

The Fella is all over it.

…We finish our drinks and haul off home. It’s decided that “eating” should probably take place…and should probably have done so before these monster drinks. Free food takes precedence to sitting here all night, soaking up overheard conversations (and looks from Creepy Bar Guy.) And, since we are privately funded and can apply our non existent grants at our whim, we exit with about twelve kinds of alcohol swishing our insides, like three walking, toxic waterbeds.

**Intermission**

…A lot of food-making action thence takes place…and sweating, cuz the kitchen is one step hotter than hell…and eating, cuz we could medal in that. It is somewhere shortly after dinner, that The Fella suggests our next feat of wonder: going Salsa dancing.

Our guts: full of baked chicken, mashed potatoes and stuffing, all trying their best to beat down the alcohol into a functioning position, aren’t sure that they agreed with the plan. But DAMMIT, this is my VACATION, and I am the boss of the me! Plus, the idea has already come up about a dozen times before this, every time we collectively passed that studio on 6th Ave. Along with lessons, it has free open door social dancing on Fridays, and we keep meaning to go, but get too lazy to actually do it. Tonight, since we were already breaking precedence, we decide to break that one too.

**Act Three** (a bonus)

We divide to doll up, and digest our evening’s imbibings privately.

Then: Behold, only fifty minutes later, I’m being flung all over the studio by a variety of partners I have never met before. Though arriving with no partner, I never sit out a dance…even when I try to, (so I can bogart one of the fans and search for water.) Only about ten seconds into my plan, a dude materializes, holds out a hand, grins, and nods. This is the universal sign of “wanna dance?” when the music is set louder than the five industrial fans blowing sweat all over a studio ballroom. And because its fun as hell, of course I take them up on it. Every time. Which gets me everywhere from partnering with a barely pubescent boy, to a tiny, tiny Asian man who flings me around in super speeds…which I somehow manage to follow…thus looking like I not only actually know what I’m doing, but might even do it at competition levels.

“Oh my god! Did you see that?!” I demand of The BFF as I wobble back toward the fan she and The Fella are currently frequenting. “I had no idea where in the hell to spot or anything, and that turney-turney-turney-loop thing? What the hell was that?! It was masterful!”

“That dude has serious game! You actually looked like you knew what you were doing!”

“I know, right?!”

…And the screaming conversation ends, as another hand shoots out in front of me, and I’m off to the races again with what turns out to be the co-owner of the studio.

…We had quickly become favorites of the other one, earlier, on account of me jabbering about theatre. This was in hopes it would sidetrack her from noting my total lack of technique when it became my turn to be her partner, in the earlier mini class lesson (which we arrived at the ass-end of.) She got so excited about legit fellow performers in the room that she demanded I point out The BFF and The Fella too. (Which, come to think of it, is prob’ly the real reason I got so much instant man-dancing-meat out of the deal…but I totally don’t even care…cuz it was amazing-fun.)

“Who needs sex? I can just Salsa the rest of my life!”

This is my new slogan and theme I invent, as we wobble back to the car. Upon exiting, we promise to come back, and receive monster hugs despite all that sweat, for doing so.

“Do we know that woman who just hugged us?” The Fella asks, outside of the door.

“She owns the place. She thinks we’re rad cuz we actually dressed up. And do theatre, and she used to, and misses it. Also: she was a mad-skills ballroom dancing competitor, but had to quit cuz she got injured and sick.”

The Fella’s eyebrows raise in question.

“…Back when we first wanted to come here, I did a shit-ton of research on the studio and the owners.”

“Of course you did,” The BFF resounds. “Hey, lemme have the keys, I’m driving.”

“You okay to drive?” The Fella counters, just to make sure.

“Babe, I’ve been sober since about five minutes after we showed up there. All the alcohol got sweated out like an hour and a half ago.”

…And I realize this is actually true.

I also realize that maybe I wanna do this EVERY Friday night.

Possibly, for the rest of my life!

…But maybe, minus the stuffing.

~D

Conspiracy To Chicken-Dog & Other Things

6 Sep

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Conspiracy Theories.

…It’s one of my favorite things.¬† I thought maybe I’d share a couple with you and then if you agree, we can form a team and do secret Op investigation on it all.¬† This has nothing to do with what I’m watching on T.V. lately, btw.¬† All I know is, if I suddenly go missing (or this blog does), and you only faintly think you remember wasting time reading something resembling this entry… you’ll know I was on the right track and they had to silence me.

My theories are in no particular order:

* KFC chicken isn’t really chicken, that’s why they did the whole new marketing name change in the 90’s.¬† So what animal with tiny bones are we actually eating then?¬† I have it down to Chihuahuas imported from Mexico.¬† And the thing is…I totally still eat there sometimes.

* The term we have come to know as “Aliens” is only the evil kind that they keep covering up, so we don’t freak out all the time. The good kind of Aliens have already adapted into our society, so we can’t really tell the difference.¬† But I can.¬† Here is a listing that may help you figure out their patterning:

 Good Aliens                                 
РElvis                                                                                                                    
РShakespeare                                               
РHelen Mirren                    
РAbraham Lincoln                                      
РBill Gates                                                      
РWhoever invented coffee                        

Bad Aliens
– Simon Cowell
– Whoever wrote Beowulf
– Ann Coulter
– Rasputin
– Bill Gates
– Politicians in general

* Almost every disease known in the world already has a cure, but the pharmaceutical companies make more money for endless treatments, versus a single dose of “fix it” meds.

* Somewhere, a CIA agent is reading this blog right now, because it just got dinged as “suspicious” due to the tagging contents. They totally agree with at least half of the things on this list, and prob’ly could add to them.

* Reality TV has nothing at all to do with “Entertainment Programming.” It’s only a monster syndicated product placement program. The joke is totally on you for investing in it emotionally. Even a little bit. All they really want is for you to buy their stuff.

* Secret Agents actually break into your laundry room routinely in order to steal your left socks. This is so you will spend all your time wondering on where they disappear to instead of things like “the government” and real conspiracy theories.

* All advertising is actually in a special code that allows people to sell you old or compromised versions of things that didn’t sell the first time, but without getting sued for it. Here are some of the codes I’ve broken so far:

– All New! = (We painted, dyed, or repackaged it.)
– Fat & Sugar Free = (We pumped that shit with toxins to make up for it’s total lack of flavor.)
– Four Out Of Five Specialists Agree! = (One or the other group we asked about this is right, we aren’t sure which one, so we are covering our asses by including them all.)
– Extra Strength = (Trick advertising. Nothing comes “regular strength” anymore, and hasn’t since sometime in the 50’s.)

* Stupid people herd in groups in hopes of lessening their individual weeding out. This is why when you have “one of those days” where it seems like every person you communicate with is a total asshole or idiot: they actually are. Your aren’t imagining it.

* On another planet in another solar system right now, a little kid version of their world-rulers are looking at us through a microscope, being told that what they are seeing has been dead for thousands of years. And we probably are, we just don’t know it yet.

* If statistics can be applied to patterns, and patterns can be applied to coincidence, and coincidence can be justified by choice, and choice can be based on averages and averages go into the making of statistics, then your life span is totally computable, and “fate” is real because whatever choices you make already have a mathematical path of possibility. (I’m just totally making shit up now, but it sounded like a real thing at the moment, didn’t it?)

~D

Fingers, Feet & Fetish

5 Sep

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After a long day back at work, with month-end closings, and Holiday sells analysis and blah-blah-blah-blah…how about we get back to the basics? A few flashes into the rest of m’day, to carry with you:

Long walk looking at posh houses with Ma.  I think they have their lawns cut with hair clippers. They also all have mullioned windows breeding like ancient rabbits. If you wanna make a lot of money, you should move here and take up window washing.  It could be very lucrative. Or maybe I will.  Shut up. I told you nothing. It was my idea the whole time.  I have it in writing, so remember that.

…Eating warm falafel pieces with homemade tomatillo salsa, from The BFF’s oven.¬† This is my second dinner for the night, so I guess it’s good that I did all that walking before.¬† Chickpeas are yum, but I like their other name “Garbonzo beans” better.¬† I think cuz it sounds like Gonzo. Which is both my favorite kind of journalism and Muppet. A coincidence?¬† I think not.

…On a whim, we suddenly decide on the frozen yogurt bar.

She picks pistachio. (She’s wrong, but I love her anyway.)¬† I get the vanilla and caramel mix.¬† With marshmallows.¬† She saves hers.¬† I eat mine like it doesn’t matter how much shit I’ve already consumed for the day.¬†

…We sit at The BFF’s house…me: flipping through a 1930’s intelligence book on fingerprinting as The BFF picks at her feet.¬† She has monster calluses from Kickboxing.¬† I have monster interest in old paper and weird research fetishes.

Me: (from behind book.) “Did you know you can’t permanently destroy your fingerprints?¬† Even with burning and acid?”

The BFF: (frowning at her foot in closeup as she picks.) “Huh.”

Me: (still behind book.) “The ridges just grow back.¬† Six months later. Here, look…there are totally pictures.”

…I don’t even show her the page.¬† Why should she get to see all the good stuff just cuz I find it?¬† Even if it is her book.¬†

She grabs some scissors.

Me: (looking up at the flash of metal.) “Um, what the hell are you doing?”

The BFF:¬† “It’s just for the dead stuff.¬† It’s crazy…feel my calluses.¬† Feel ’em!¬† Feel ’em!”

…She waves her Flinstone feet in my face, which I refuse to touch on principle.¬† They are all gnarly on the bottoms like she has a third career in firewalking.¬† Which she might.¬† She does a shit-ton of things on a daily basis, and I can’t possibly be responsible with keeping up on ’em all.

…”I have nothing to blog about tomorrow,” I say, while returning to the book.

“You can always talk about me picking at my feet, while we listen to Tom Waits…”

(P.S. We are listening to Tom Waits. On vinyl.)

…”That’s just stupid,” I say, turning the page.¬† “Why in the hell would I write about that?”

The BFF shrugs and I¬†start reading about this one guy.¬† It’s all about fingerprint ageing, following this one dude from twenty, through forty and into eighty.¬† They all look exactly the same.¬† “These fingerprints all look exactly the same,” the book says.

…And this gets me to thinking.¬† Mostly about how to get the skin cells on fingertips to replicate all over the body…cuz then we would never change in appearance or age.¬† Ever.¬† I consider making this research my new career for the good of all mankind.¬† Then I remember my first period Chemistry class in High School, and decide that if it’s up to me, mankind is basically just fucked.

…Unless you guys wanna get in on this. In which case, my fee-cut is a very reasonable 20%.

Me: (putting down the book.) “Doesn’t your Kickboxing class start in like five minutes?”

The BFF: “Twenty.”

…I sigh heavily as I lay there exhausted, from looking at pictures, and curing aging and rich people’s dirty windows.

“I need a nap,” I announce, as I heave myself from the couch.¬† “Call me later.”

…The BFF answers without looking up, with a sound that I know means, “sure/maybe/whatever,” as I walk out the door.

Once home, I put on “Alias” again. Because I can’t help myself.

Season two.¬† Near the end.¬† Don’t spoil it for me or I’ll have to kill you.

…I turn abruptly, and bang my fucking knee on the the same fucking edge of the fucking coffee table that I do every goddamn day.¬† The bruises have never healed since I first brought the fucker home, six years ago.¬† In the end, it’ll prob’ly be the thing that cripples me.

…I take it out on a pillow.¬† He takes it like a man. I plow into the couch, and press “play.”

As the last episode wrap-up begins, I look at my laptop in the corner there, and my brain begins to chant.

My Brain: “what-to-write, what-to-write, what-to-write…?”

I think of a finger, dressed like Sherlock Holmes, who solves crimes primarily via errant prints. Maybe it’s a children’s series.¬† Or something like Sponge Bob which applies to grown-ups with dependency issues.¬† This would double my viewership, easily.¬† Then I think of The BFF picking her feet to Tom Waits poetry.

I take the lesser of two evils and just fucking commit…like a Gonzo journalist should.

…Sometimes, it’s all you have.

…That, and a whole lot of expletives.

~D

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