Listening to: The Strokes
Drinking: pineapple juice
Two new jackets. The first, purchased for a mere dollar at the world's coolest thrift store, is ankle-legth ultra-suede with five shining buttons. The shade is an odd sort of grey, appearing either purple or emerald green depending on the weather, my mood ... The second, a waist-length brown courderoy, a birthday present from my parents. A belt, that cinches. Fake elbow patches. The Season of Jackets has begun!
African yam and peanut soup simmers on the stovetop. A 1923 recording of Bessie Smith's "Gulf Coast Blues" drifts from the stereo. I paid off $106 of my VISA bill, and set aside $325 for October's rent. I'm wearing rolled jeans, my flowing orange hippie shirt, and a blue bandana. I never have to work at the luggage shop again. Matt has gone to fetch beer and The Nightmare Before Christmas. Allen Ginsberg's "Cosmopolitan Greetings" is working its way into my subconcious: Inside skull vast as outside skull. Brunch at Floyd's, library books returned. Kitchen cleaned. Recycling taken outside and placed in the proper bins. Cigarettes, smoked while walking atop crunchy leaves. A jam jar filled with virginal gladiolas.
- gladiolas
- hot house tomatoes
- strawberry-banana yogurt
- green peppers
- onions
- ginger root
- yams
- red peppers
- nectarine
- organic sweet potato
- Italian bread
- mayo
- peanut butter
- pineapple
Drinking: rye
Listening to: the Breeders
Such a wonderful thing happened to me! As I ducked out to the bank for Work Change, sneaking a cigarette as I loitered down Fort St, Ben appeared out of nowhere and shouted, close your eyes! I did, and something was placed in my hands: I looked down to see two Allen Ginsberg books: Kaddish and Other Poems and Cosmopolitan Greetings! A junkie who has waited a year and a half for a fix (the same length of time E.M. has kept Planet News from me, and counting) could not have felt a greater rush.
Kaddish is dedicated to "Peter Orlovsky, in Paradise," and actually has a poem in it called Death to Van Gogh's Ear! First line: "Poet is Priest / Money has reckoned the soul of America." Yes.
You're Abraham Lincoln! You are honest, kind, and
friendly....that's why they call you honest
Abe! You fight for what you think is right and
stick to your friends like glue. You are
friendly to all races. Good job, everyone loves
you!
Which famous (or infamous) person are you a reincarnation of?
brought to you by Quizilla
Okay, consternation: okay, walking into Chapter's, browsing the lit-mags, finding the names of three peers of mine. Okay, feeling envy, redefining envy: consternation at lack of own initiative? Okay, realization that I've appeared in the lit-mags, myself. Okay, realization that it happened two years ago. Okay, two stories in circulation, okay, write more stories, okay, more stories in circulation. Okay, rejection. Will that be okay?
Okay, cigarettes on the kerb as I absorb the complications of aging. Okay, 24 isn't that old. Okay, stop drunk-dialling.
Okay, you are a writer. Okay, Joy is a writer. Why, when inspiration hits, would Joy rather write on her blog than write mystical-genius short fiction? Okay, it's okay to have fun. Okay, what's the fucking point? Okay, those years of homeschool-isolation-nothingness-void are futile unless I capitalize. Capitalization is futile, as is memories of Camp MacKenzie and a bi-weekly paycheque. Okay, make a story out of this. Revel in the existential pride that you know how to spell 'cheque.' Okay, my cat is restless. Okay, we can all learn something from our cats. Okay, I'm spiralling: okay, I've got to write fiction or I'll die.
Drinking: rye and Coke
Listening to: Eliot Smith
A couple of shout-outs to people who read this blog and also know me in real-life:
1) My phone account is fucked up. It will ring and when I answer, there is a dial tone. It's going directly to voicemail. What the tarnation! So I am not screening my calls, and I am not always somewhere else: just grit your teeth and leave a message and I will likely get back to you in five minutes.
2) Will anybody who is still at UVic please steal me an agenda book? If not a student, I am thinking of someone who holds an administrative position at the institute -- you know who you are ("Fuck you, lady.").
I've been getting snippish with the American tourists who make up a large percentage of the clientelle at the luggage shop. My new job will have a significant mentally ill contingent and a drug-impaired element, but I don't see it being any worse than what I have to deal with now .... Because I can:
Tips for American Tourists:
1) Prices on merchandise are in CANADIAN DOLLARS. I know how offensive it must be to travel to a foreign country and find yourself forced to deal with foreign currency. I know how little sense that makes. But deal.
2) Along the same vein: if you pay with American dollars, you will get Canadian change back. The exchange rate will be applied and you will not be getting ripped off. I promisepromisepromise you're not getting ripped off, and if you were, it wouldn't be by the coolly indeifferent girl behind the till who doesn't know a whit about luggage, never mind international finance, or POS mainframes or whatever they're called.
3) Canada has sales tax.
4) If you manage to deal with the fact that Canada has sales tax without storming out of the store, try to avoid sympathetic smirks and comments like, "And we thought we had it bad!" Similarly, try to pull your jaw off the ground when the coolly indifferent girl behind the till says, "Actually it's not bad at all: ever hear of affordable health care, social services, and publically funded education?"
Rant-de-dant. The usual apologies to Maggie and Brandon, who are exempt from these awful things I'm saying. Mostly because they have great hair, and I mean great. Anyhow, three more shifts left ...
Part of my new job requires me to operate a dolly, which stuns me somewhat -- and seems to make the other people who work there a little anxious. Today I blasted through piles of breakables with at least 150 pounds of books in my care, narrowly missing the edges of things, while delivery men scampered in front of me to yank obstacles out of the way and I called out merrily, "You ought to see me drive!" There is free coffee at this wonderful new job. Many, many pots of free coffee. Also freezies and assorted treats. And lockers!
Okay: Jessica Simpson is hot; nobody is trying to deny that here. However. If her job in The Dukes of Hazard is to simply sit there and look pretty, and she does so in an implausible manner, ie, yes, she's sitting there and yes she looks pretty, but also embarassed, also uncomfortable, well, has something gone wrong? Has it? Matt seems to think nothing is the matter. I called his attention to Sarah Jessica Parker's performance in L.A. Story: a similar role, no depth, pure eye candy, but she made it believable. "Yes, but Sarah Jessica Parker is an actor," says Matt. .... I feel I've lost my point, somewhere. Drat.
- Feet hurt.
- Going to wash some socks! And many, many red shirts. Almost all of my shirts are red!
- Five days of work down, six to go, and then Sunday off! Hurrah!
- Plans for dinner: salmon, green beans, potatoes. Perhaps some sinful ranch dressing to stir into the potatoes. Ah, sin. Condiments.
- Jay's show at Steamer's: he was beautiful and honest, and handled the standing-room-only crowd with ease.
- Cab hysteria. Why get hysterical? Why burst into tears as I trudge along Fort Street, gulping a gin and tonic from a pop bottle while Matt tells me to stop complaining?
- Mixed said drink in the Roxy bathroom. Had forgotten that every bottle of tonic water I've ever opened has exploded and drenched the surrounding area. The toilet paper was ruined, and I felt very sketchy, like the kind of person you wouldn't trust to babysit your children on summer afternoons.
- Hunger.
- The urgent urge to do laundry. Why am I not there now, watching strangers' underwear tumble in zen-like circles of plaid and polka dot? WHY, WHY?
- Jay's new cd is great. So is his band's shirt, which is red, which I will be laundering tonight.
- Four more shifts at the luggage shop.
- Idea for a short story: "The Romanian Count Meets the Bag Lady: A Retail Thriller in Four Parts."
Buses, you say? Cabs? Reliable means of public transport?? NO! Must rely on your LEGS, child, your LEGS.
Ben and Michael's 2-year anniversary on Tuesday (Tuesday's coming ... Did you bring your --?). I arrived in a nervously sober state, downed several drinks, began to shout about Jim Jarmuch. Saw Jake, full of working-on-films and ex-girlfriend stories; a couple of other old faces. Became quite drunk, quite talkative. Forced Matt to drive me home on his bike, although we were in no state to drive or ride, respectively. Commanded, diva-like, that we go on, despite various imbalances that tumbled me onto the pavement of streets with names like Walnut, Bay, Redfern. All my fault.
Jay's birthday the following evening: a pitcher of beer to myself and a table of beautiful, popular people who made me shy and introspective. Sat on Christian's lap for a spell, as our seats were stolen, and people threatened to take blackmail pictures. Saw Potato, although at first I did not know it was he -- met up outside over cigarettes and he said "Nice to see you again" and seemed to smirk; I was thinking Who is this person, why is he smirking, why does he look familiar -- Steph explained later and that whole summer night came back: the glorious truck, the crash of nicotine-quittage, the very public fight with my man, the tears and jogging through windy streets to pass out in a youth hostel with an untouched bottle of rye in my backpack. Youth.
Matt's final Semi-Louise show just now. Brilliant. Cheap plastic cups of beer from a keg, which ran out before 11 (Steph and I look at each other knowingly: They didn't know WE'D be coming, did they?). A ride home with Rye-Dawg. Work tomorrow, as fucking usual.
I ventured out into the Oak Bay shopping district today in search of Allen Ginsberg books, and found none -- big suprise -- I assume they've all been stolen by desperate, repressed local teenagers, or banned by the municipality. But I did find three very good books, which I purchased for a song: Sheri-D Wilson's "Girl's Guide to Giving Head," Derk Wynand's "dead man's float" (a present for Matt), and M.A.C. Farrant's "Altered Statements."
Mr. Wynand's book is signed. The inside cover reads: For Ginny & Herb -- This slow work, and the head above water! Love, D. (and the "cover girl"!)
Ms. Wilson's book has a front cover graphic of a woman's head on a plate, being offered to someone.
Ms. Farrant's book includes this: "It's unfortunate that we have to keep Grandma on the leash now when we go out for our daily walks. She's taken a sudden and dangerous dislike to the other Grandmas and starts screaming as soon as she sees one."
... here is the story of quite possibly the coolest Christmas Eve ever, written by me almost two years ago.
"Matt and I hit the Lorne at about 4 - my favourite pub in Comox ever! Potato skins and plenty of beer. Barry stopped by and I got moderately drunk. So I was all pleasantly buzzed back at the house, and Jon refused to deliver a Christmas goody package to the neighbours, so I had to go. I enjoyed myself, but worry about having made a sloppy impression ... I wanted to say, "This isn't my fault! I've never been allowed to drink on Christmas Eve before!" But they wouldn't have understood.
Then a grand dinner at the home of some relatives, most of whom I knew a little. I kept very quiet during dinner, prompting Aya to point at me from across the table and whisper questions to Ryan in Japanese. In response I downed a rye and Coke, 3 or 4 glasses of red wine, and some port. Then things got very bright and loud, and I was shouting about how I had met Josee Choiunard (mostly true) and how sensitive she is about her weight even though she is devestatingly cute, it's just that she's a figure skater and female figure skaters are expected to be aenorexic but still have enough strength to land triple jumps, and everyone seemed quite fascinated. And we sort of got into my own tragic skating days, the foot problems that ended my promising career, etc.
I left to have a cigarette and fell down the stairs. A worried uncle's face above the bannister: "Are you okay?" Me: "Yes, yes ..." Then back inside, I decided to take it easy, and poured a mug of coffee. I hunted about for cream, and an uncle hefts this massive bottle of Irish Creme liquer into the air. "Cream!" he shouted merrily, and my downhill state continued.
We left at about 10:30. I was certainly ready to pass out, but instead we went to Barry's house and drank heavily until Barry's mom kicked us out at 3 in the morning. It was a glorious, wonderful time - a bunch of people were there that I hadn't seen in a while, including my old roommate's old boyfriend, who I had always liked - and Barry's parents partied along with us, telling fascinating stories about Yoko Ono happenings back in the day, and playing us Miles Davis on vinyl. Beer was circulating, and Matt and I killed an entire .26 of gin. ("The GIN!" as Ben would say, respectful.)
We stayed at Barry's house so long that the family started opening presents. It was very bizarre - the old roommate's old boyfriend opened a package that was COMPLETELY EMPTY. It was never explained and he looked disappointed. And a 16-year-old girl opened a kitchen tile. Everyone was confused.
Right before we left we were all on the patio smoking various things, and Matt's ex-girlfriend was there. I had shocked and amazed both Matt and myself by being very nice to her - normally I get senselessly jealous in situations like that, feel threatened etc., but the gin had put me in a good mood and I was feeling slim - and she asked me for a cigarette. "Of course, of course!" I shouted, my arm around her shoulder, but then I realized I had only one left, and it was Christmas Eve. Nothing would be open the next day (Comox, for those of you who don't know, has a population of about 10,000 and there are no 24-hour corner store type things). But I gave it to her.
Then there was a blur of activity, and I found myself in a taxi zooming down darkened streets. I kept insisting we stop for cigarettes, and the cabbie kept insisting that it was impossible. Finally I sobbed, "I gave my last cigarette to my boyfriend's ex-lover!" and the cabbie said, "Awww," and reached for his pack and gave me 5! I was so touched. "Now you won't freak out on Christmas morning," he said kindly, but then started ranting that there had now been a total of 3 drunk girls in his cab that night and he'd had to give all of us smokes. It felt cheery, though.
Suddenly I was deep in a forest near Matt's parents house, and Matt was getting me to do breathing exercises to keep from puking.
Christmas morning: a little tragic. I could hardly move my head, and felt stupid. Who is hungover on Christmas morning? Not someone with my kind of lineage. A deep, deep sense of shame."
Interesting. This morning, about 8 o'clock, I was barefoot and bleary-eyed and in baggy pajamas, perched above the recycling bins outside, my arms filled with empty yogurt and mayonnaise containers, a 2-litre bottle of tonic water, and various beer cans, about to deposit them. My landlord appeared and asked if he could show the suite to someone who was interested in living in it after Matt and I move to Japan.
"Of course," I said automatically.
"Tomorrow? Three o'clock?" he said.
"Of course," I said again.
And now I am confused. Firstly, because I don't believe I've ever mentioned our Japan plans to him, although it's possible he could have overheard. Secondly, our likely departure for Japan will be January at the earliest -- over 3 more months -- why have somebody come to look at the place tomorrow?
Perhaps we're being evicted!
I know I should probably ask, but as I say, I am tired, and in pajamas still.
I think I nailed the interview! Everything went fantastically; I sounded reasonably smart and experienced, plus I genuinely liked the two directors I met, and the job seems super-fun -- a combination of challenging and fulfilling. The only thing that bugged me is I went into my shy-girl mode a bit: soft voice and all. I did something new though, and explained. "Normally I'm very outgoing but I sound shy right now because I'm nervous ..." (Flashback to a Green St. party a few years ago, RL ragingly drunk and in full military dress uniform, doing wildly inappropriate things and shrieking at the top of his lungs to anyone who would listen: "I'M NOT NORMALLY LIKE THIS! YOU GOTTA BELIEVE ME! I'M NOT NORMALLY LIKE THIS!") Anyhow. I should know within the week.
Drinking: coffee
Listening to: Metric
A snarled past couple of days. No potluck on Saturday night, which was actually nice because I was far too tired to go, I probably would have hogged the food and been beligerent, scathing. But then no Monkey Tree last night, either: a combination of truck accidents and van cancellations. I plunged into a depression, communicating only with mute nods (I can hear Cameron now: "Can a nod even be verbal? Hmm? No, it would be oral, if anything!"). Read a sad novel about a brother and sister who live in isolation on a hill, homeschooled by their mad-physicist father. The themes were achingly familiar! Oh, lost teenagehood, wasting away on Silver Star Mountain with notebooks and snow and grief! No driver's license even!
Laundry on the go. Two cups of coffee, four replaced light bulbs, 175 grams of raspberry yogurt and a nectarine, waiting like gorgeous presents in the fridge. Wild sheets of cloud in the sky above, sun pulsing faintly behind them: a promise. My interview is at 2 (I hope -- a nagging fear it might be 12); I shall wear my brown pants, orange shirt, and brown velveteen fitted jacket that belonged to my mother in the 1970s. She wore it with a broach made of a dried rose. I wear it with jagged dreams and mystical agony. My mother, by the way, looked like a model in the 70s, although too short: waist-length chestnut hair, small hips and big tits, could pull off a pink flowered bikini with ease and a soft seduction. Slender fingers and flawless skin. This was when she was 18. When I was 18, I favoured hipster jeans, baggy green army jackets, skater shoes and sharp-edged jewelry in my eyebrow and around my neck. My skin was flawless but I couldn't have pulled off a bikini; I was shorter than her, and had my dad's short, sturdy hands, the sort of hands designed for chopping wood and pressing lengths of particle board through a table saw, and which I use instead for pouring glasses of gin and writing stories, tracing my lover's chin, chopping organic vegetables and sliding cigarettes from the pockets of burgandy hoodies.
A wonderfully productive past five minutes! Called both Lord Barry and previous manager at the luggage shop to confirm they can act as references for my upcoming interview. Checked phone messages: five! (Ben: regarding the Tuesday night jacket/anniversary party; Yo Video: Sylvia is overdue yet -- mysteriously -- it is not in the house; Matt: to slur about Budweiser and sluts and say he would be home in an hour; Steph: to discuss potluck tonight, which we will perhaps not attend; Matt again: to slur about Budwesier and apologize for not being home in an hour and to call him at a phone number ending in SLUT).
There are currently four burnt-out light bulbs in my house. Bear in mind this is a ground-level suite that is generally only lit with natural light between the hours of 10 and 3.
Realized I forgot to add Johnny Depp to my Celebrity Crush list. Blast.
(So, dogs are a man's best friend?)
JOY: So I'm sure you read on my blog that one of the seven things I plan to do before I die is cohabit with one or preferably five large dogs.
MATT: Joy ....
JOY: It will be marvelous! You'll come home and they'll --
MATT: Dog hair EVERYWHERE; like, dog SHIT everywhere, everywhere, no peace --
JOY: But they'll LOVE you, they'll take an interest --
MATT: And what, what will you do, have a career and five large dogs? You'll work and you'll come home to the DOGS --
JOY: You're jealous; men are always jealous of --
MATT: No time for me; your WHOLE DAY will be spent with work and dogs --
JOY: But they're so HAPPY --
MATT: Do you know how much it would cost to feed five large dogs? They'll eat more than we do.
JOY: YOU want to have KIDS. How much do you think food and designer backpacks and educational books and --
MATT: I didn't say FOR SURE I wanted kids; I just said who knows, in ten years MAYBE --
JOY: They could all have little dog beds --
MATT: I thought you liked dolphins. I thought dolphins was your new big fucking thing.
JOY: Fine, you get five big dolphins and I'll get five big dogs --
MATT: Fine, I'll fucking swim with them --
JOY: And how much would it cost to feed five fucking dolphins?
Name your favorite....
1. Soothing sound:
Car engines. When I am half-asleep and have my head rested against the side of the car, and can hear/feel them at the same time.
2. Comfort food:
Stoned Wheat Thins and cream cheese. I can eat about twenty of these in a row, no problem.
3. Relaxing music:
Ani Difranco. Particularly the acoustic disc on that double-disc she put out a while ago.
4. Gentle voice:
My grandmother's. She sounds very cultured and wise and impish and good.
5. Calming smell:
Almond and vanilla scented candles. Tangerine essential oil. Coffee brewing. Salt in the air when the breeze blows in from the ocean.
Good Golly Miss Molly: Sunday night Karaoke at the Monkey Tree Pub. Morgan and Joy, for sure. Semi-Louise, pretty sure. And anyone else who DARES! Nine-ish.
I have an exciting and very cool interview set up for Monday. Wish me luck .... It's a dream job and I think I have a good shot.
Dinner: tater gems burned first by the freezer and then by the oven. A specialty here in the outback.
Reading: a biography (authorized) of Mother Teresa. She's my new Interesting Person. The biography was written by a man of the Hindu faith, which I think speaks volumes about the universal nature of Teresa's life and work ...
Just got back from a nocturnal bike ride with Matt -- pedalled to the liquor store, where I parked my pink bike on the pavement, adjusted the neon yellow bike helmut (borrowed), lit a cigarette, and proclaimed: "Dude. You realize that took us less than one minute?" Enchantment! Purchased a chilled six-pack of Pilsner and biked our way to the park; drank them on the bleachers as we exchanged Work Stories for hours. It feels very awful and very creative to be Working-Class.
My disco-ball necklace shattered at Work today. Misery.
Strong urge to watch Robert Altman's Short Cuts, and soon.
Subway for lunch: tuna on whole wheat with tomatoes, green pepper, olives, red onion, lettuce, and mayo. Neutered Reuters news. The shame. Also Coffee Talk.
The guy at the local independent coffee house is finally warming up to me! Bliss. It started the morning after my birthday, when I, still drunk at 11am and headed for Work, chattered and raved about the wonderful and delicious smells around the place -- waved my arms expressively, shouted that I would have to come there for food one day. Flattery will get you everywhere, darlings. It is important to me that I be accepted by the owner-operators of independent coffee houses, especially when I'm a regular.
7 things I plan to do before I die:
1) Cohabit with a large husky-retriever cross, or preferably 3 or 4 of them.
2) Open and operate a cafe/bookstore.
3) Live, if only temporarily, near an olive grove.
4) Write and direct a film that is accepted for both Cannes and Toronto.
5) Write and publish at least five short story collections.
6) Develop and implement a creative writing workshop in a prison.
7) Tend to an organic vegetable garden, surrounded by raspberry and blackberry bushes.
7 things I can do:
1) Roll sushi.
2) Write creative letters to collection agencies.
3) Stay standing (mostly) after 3/4 of a 26.
4) Calm aggressive dogs.
5) Wall-climb up to ... well ... pretty high.
6) Create and adhere to extensive lists.
7) Charm (mostly) people's mums.
7 things I cannot do:
1) Pay my phone bill on time, it seems.
2) Drive -- legally, I mean.
3) Eat meat.
4) Operate a chainsaw -- willingly, I mean.
5) Find babies cute, except for animal babies.
6) Operate large power boats -- at the end of Mable Lake where it descends into rapids and strong currents, specifically.
7) Care about luggage.
7 things that attract me to others:
1) Eyes
2) Cheerful cynicism
3) Intelligence
4) Quirk
5) Interesting skills: ie, spelunking
6) Firm ethical beliefs
7) Creativity, in food, literature, clothes, choice of lovers, music, etc.
7 things that I say most often:
1) Riiiiiiiiiiiight.
2) Excellent.
3) We can't stop here! This is bat country.
4) My spoon is too big.
5) Fuck the bank I work for.
6) Alrighty. (I hate that I say this, but can't seem to stop)
7) Byyyyye ---
7 celebrity crushes:
1) Owen Wilson
2) Luke Wilson
3) Jude Law
4) Jake Gylenthal (still don't know how to spell his name)
5) Lauren Ambrose
6) Scarlet Johansen
7) Moby
7 people I want to do this
1) Matt
2) Ben
3) Steph
4) Clint
5) Elisa
6) Caroline
7) Michael
Drinking: coffee
Listening to: Ani Difranco
Mysterious email troubles: my UVic account no longer allows log-in, although it was supposed to stay active until six months after graduation. Problem: Many story files are saved on that account (and nowhere else!). My resume and letters of recommendation are there, as is my email address book and several urgent (and un-opened) letters from the Student Loan People. Criminy. You'd think they would have sent me a note to say they were shutting it down ... Since they have my email address 'n all. But I've heard some current students can't access their accounts, either. Conspiracy? We'll have to wait and see.
For breakfast: raspberry yogurt, mixed nuts, a nectarine, an apple. I wish I had a croissant! Also some kind of superpower, perhaps the ability to touch a book -- or a person! -- and immediately know its content. In full. As well as the Table of Contents.
Drinking: white rum and raspberry juice
Listening to: Cat Power
First line from Mark Anthony Jarman's New Orleans is Sinking (1998): "Racing around the room in killer shoes with a tray of High-Test clinking and bills folded lengthwise between my nuckles: this is my sluttish destiny."
I tied my helium birthday balloon around Sambuca's waist and watched her hobble around the house. She was simultaneously fascinated with the indigo ribbon, which could be pawed; terrified of the orb above her, which she seemed to control but found unfathomable: how?
Homemade sushi for dinner: avocado, cucumber, crab. Added zest to the rice vinegar dressing by including sake -- I usually use water -- the recipe calls for white wine but I don't keep cooking wine around because let's face it: I would drink it all before supper was finished. Tragic.
Been super-busy the past week. Work till the late evening then various nocturnal events, among them:
- My birthday. Big Bad John's -- my favourite Johnny Cash song after I tipped the barkeep $1.25; a helium happy-birthday balloon tied to my wrist; a white rose from my lover; a woman vomiting at the bar; many cigarettes and polite discussions with C's new man. Then -- against my will -- off to Evolution: balloon bobbing in the air above the dance floor as I flailed about. Predictably got too drunk and was kicked out; Steph said something to the bouncer and I was allowed to stay for a little while -- I think -- then a cab ride home and RIDICULOUSLY BRUTAL work the next day.
- "The Birds" with Ben and Michael. Too much gin. Too many shrieking birds. Not enough Ben and Michael. Perfect amount of homemade nachos.
- A birthday party for one of Matt's co-workers. A rather wild evening: cops, honey lager, baked salmon, possible stolen cars, and the truest tall tales you ever heard -- I would love to update about this one in detail, but I don't know any of the people involved very well, and, you know, privacy issues ...
The downside to this week was not getting to see Maggie, up for a rare visit from Hawaii. Tarnation! Couldn't seem to coordinate anything.
Desk installed in newly revamped study. Matt was quite opposed to the whole thing: it took me three months and a lot of hassling to get him committed to what turned out to be 30 minutes of work. In his own words.
The best thing about the otherwise appalling Sylvia is watching a drunken Matty-B shriek with delight on not one but two of the occasions when Sylvia destroyed Ted Hughes' writing. To me, destroying writing is a grave relationship blunder, akin to infidelity, but Matt watched avidly; proclaimed: "He fucked around on her; instead of fucking around on him, she fucked him!" He kept clapping. He was also fascinated by the several moments in the film where Sylvia makes fresh-squeezed orange juice. He became obsessed by it. It got to the point where he would lower his voice and hiss, "Time for my ORANGES," every time they appeared.
Just a heads up. Not in any position to update. Just wanna say: The Birds!