Tuesday, November 30, 2004
CONCATENATION
I had a pair of dark brown pants and an armful of sport shirts. "Which shirt should I wear with these pants?" I asked LZ.
"They're all OK," she said. "But where's the one I bought when I bought you those pants? It matched perfectly."
"It was supposed to be an outfit, then?" I asked.
"I guess so," LZ said. "Why do you ask?"
---------------------------------------------------------------------
We were three couples sharing a borrowed beach house over a Memorial Day weekend. FW and I were getting dressed for a walk on the beach. I quickly rummaged through the old gym bag that was serving as my luggage for the weekend (the actual concept of real luggage was out of my grasp at that time; I was probably only a year or so removed from stuffing my travelling clothes into a brown paper grocery bag) and pulled out a blue pair of shorts and a blue and white striped shirt.
"I'm glad to see you're wearing that outfit I bought you," FW said.
"An outfit?" I said. "I can't wear an outfit. I'm definitely not the type of person who wears outfits. I'll have to find something else."
I went back to the gym bag.
"It's not really an outfit," FW said. "It's just clothes that match."
"Are you sure?" I asked.
Of course," FW said.
"I'm going out," I said. "I'll meet you down there."
I was in a hurry because I wanted to say hello to LZ as an independent person, not as part of a couple.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
JA and my sister were walking out by a jetty. I waved to them. I saw LZ and WHN sitting on a blanket by the ocean. LZ waved and walked up the beach. We met about halfway.
"Hi," I said. "Long time no see."
"Hi," she said. "That's a nice outfit you've got on."
"I knew it," I said. "I knew this was an outfit."
And I did know what had happened. FW had deliberately sent me out in a nice outfit as a way to humiliate and control me. Of course I knew there was little possibility that LZ would leave WHN so we could run off together, but I had hopes. Now that she had seen me outfitted, in an actual outfit, there was no hope at all. In my hurry to get to the beach I'd let my guard down for a second, now I was exposed as some sort of domesticated animal, all dressed up for an afternoon promenade on the beach.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
I was so mortified that I had to laugh. Outfoxed by FW.
Maybe next year then, I thought.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I had a pair of dark brown pants and an armful of sport shirts. "Which shirt should I wear with these pants?" I asked LZ.
"They're all OK," she said. "But where's the one I bought when I bought you those pants? It matched perfectly."
"It was supposed to be an outfit, then?" I asked.
"I guess so," LZ said. "Why do you ask?"
---------------------------------------------------------------------
We were three couples sharing a borrowed beach house over a Memorial Day weekend. FW and I were getting dressed for a walk on the beach. I quickly rummaged through the old gym bag that was serving as my luggage for the weekend (the actual concept of real luggage was out of my grasp at that time; I was probably only a year or so removed from stuffing my travelling clothes into a brown paper grocery bag) and pulled out a blue pair of shorts and a blue and white striped shirt.
"I'm glad to see you're wearing that outfit I bought you," FW said.
"An outfit?" I said. "I can't wear an outfit. I'm definitely not the type of person who wears outfits. I'll have to find something else."
I went back to the gym bag.
"It's not really an outfit," FW said. "It's just clothes that match."
"Are you sure?" I asked.
Of course," FW said.
"I'm going out," I said. "I'll meet you down there."
I was in a hurry because I wanted to say hello to LZ as an independent person, not as part of a couple.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
JA and my sister were walking out by a jetty. I waved to them. I saw LZ and WHN sitting on a blanket by the ocean. LZ waved and walked up the beach. We met about halfway.
"Hi," I said. "Long time no see."
"Hi," she said. "That's a nice outfit you've got on."
"I knew it," I said. "I knew this was an outfit."
And I did know what had happened. FW had deliberately sent me out in a nice outfit as a way to humiliate and control me. Of course I knew there was little possibility that LZ would leave WHN so we could run off together, but I had hopes. Now that she had seen me outfitted, in an actual outfit, there was no hope at all. In my hurry to get to the beach I'd let my guard down for a second, now I was exposed as some sort of domesticated animal, all dressed up for an afternoon promenade on the beach.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
I was so mortified that I had to laugh. Outfoxed by FW.
Maybe next year then, I thought.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tuesday, November 09, 2004
A SUPER SUNDAY, SOME YEARS PAST
"Bugel called," I said. "He wants us to come over for the Super Bowl."
"I thought you didn't care about the Super Bowl if the Eagles weren't in it," FW said.
"That's true," I said. "I don't care about it at all."
"Does Bugel care?" FW asked.
"I can't see it," I said.
"What time are we supposed to go over?" FW asked.
"Early," I said. "We don't want to miss the pregame extravaganza."
----------------------------------------------------------------------
"It's open," Bugel yelled. "Come in."
Bugel waved us and shushed us in one motion, without taking his eyes off the television. He was engrossed in something that looked and sounded suspiciously like a John Wayne movie.
There was an open bottle of tequila on the coffee table, but there were no glasses. Bugel must have been swigging straight from the bottle.
"What's that one?" I asked, pointing to the television.
"It's Pals of the Saddle," Bugel said. "One of the Three Mesquiteers series."
"Questionnable counterprogramming," I said. "Do you have any shot glasses?"
Bugel pointed toward the kitchen and refocused his attention to the movie.
I walked back into the kitchen and started to poke through Bugel's cabinets. I finally found some dusty shot glasses shoved way in the back of a cabinet overhanging the stove.
"Do you have any limes?" I yelled in to Bugel.
"I don't do condiments," he said. "If you need to chase the tequila, there's beer in the refrigerator."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
I grabbed the shot glasses and a six pack and made my way back to the living room.
"Where's Megsy?" FW asked.
"I sent her out to get some snacks and some other shit," Bugel answered. He gave me a quick look, to clue me in.
"You're very subtle," I said.
"I'm not trying to be subtle," Bugel said. "It's just the way I talk."
"Hello," yelled Megsy, from the kitchen.
"How'd she get back there?" I asked.
"She parks in the alley and comes in the back," Bugel said.
"Is that more convenient?" I asked.
"I don't know why she does it," Bugel said. He shrugged his shoulders.
"Hi everybody," Megsy said. She set down a bowl of chips and crackers on the coffee table.
"Did you get it?" Bugel asked.
"No problem," Megsy said.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was almost halftime. The tequila was almost gone, the beers were gone, the chips were gone.
"Let's go do some more lines," Megsy said.
We all got up and went into the downstairs bedroom. Megsy expertly cut eight lines on the upended mirror that was lying on the dresser. She did hers quickly and handed the rolled up bill to FW. I noticed that FW took the razor blade and fussed a little. Straightening, making the lines longer and thinner, then sliding some back and fattening them up again. Bugel did the same. When it was my turn, I inhaled without ceremony, and without altering Megsy's presentation.
"The game is boring," Bugel said. "We should do something else."
"What?" I asked.
"We could have an orgy," Megsy said.
"I think, with four, it's just group sex, not an orgy," I said.
"Then we could have group sex," Megsy said.
I looked at FW. She looked a little annoyed, but I could tell it wasn't about the sex. She was mad because she'd been taken by surprise. She had been half paying attention all night, lulled along by her lack of interest in football and her decided interest in the free drugs. She hadn't been thinking any farther ahead than her next line. Essentially, she'd listened to Megsy proposition me, and would now either have to go along, or end the night prematurely, and on an awkward note.
I wasn't worried. I knew FW's pique over having been outthought wouldn't be so great that she would miss a chance at some deviant activity.
At the same time, I appreciated Megsy's approach. I'd been thinking about her a lot recently, comparing her, favorably, to FW. They were both the same physical type, were both intelligent, and were both tightroping between borderline sanity and pure craziness. Yet lately, FW had seemed to fuzz along the edges to me, while whenever I pictured Megsy, she was sharp and bright. Her maneuvering and timing in the matter at hand were just more evidence of how she seemed like a quicker, improved version of FW.
"Let's get to it," I said.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Bugel and FW left for another bedroom without saying a word.
"So it's down from an orgy, to group sex, to swapping," I said.
"Are you complaining?" Megsy asked.
"Not at all," I said. "This will be just fine."
And it was. I was enjoying myself immensly, yet appropriately, I felt. But as we went on, I could sense that Megsy was crossing some line. Eyes rolled back, gasping for air, she was disconcertingly wild. If I were a little more naive, or a little less self-aware, I'd have been flattered. But, unfortunately, I knew that it really wasn't me that was getting the reaction from Megsy. It was the situation that was making her night. The deviance, the drinking, the drugging, it all fitted her own craziness like a key in a lock. That was what was setting her off.
I had the feeling that if I were a one-legged dwarf in a Nixon mask, Megsy would have liked it that much more.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
I was lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Megsy, a sheet half wrapped around her, was at the bureau preparing to cut out some more coke.
"We should get together, for real," she said. "It could work."
I knew it really couldn't work, but that didn't bother me. What bothered me was the sudden disruption, a disruption I wasn't prepared for. Apparently, Megsy was even farther ahead of me than she was of FW. The problem was that I thought of myself as being in a story with FW, and even though I knew it wasn't going to end well, I was enjoying the twists and turns along the way. It just didn't seem right to end that story prematurely; I would have felt I'd cheated myself as surely as if I'd read the first two thirds of a decent, though not great, novel, then thrown the book away.
And what about Megsy anyway? First Andy. Then Bugel. Now me. I wasn't at all sure I wanted to jump into her story.
"A tempting offer," I said. "But I think I'll pass."
Megsy laughed. "What's stopping you?" she asked.
"I don't trust your taste in men," I said.
"Well," she said, "you have quite a pedantic streak, but I was willing to overlook that."
"Can you cut me one more quick line?" I asked. "Then I want to go see what the score is."
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Bugel called," I said. "He wants us to come over for the Super Bowl."
"I thought you didn't care about the Super Bowl if the Eagles weren't in it," FW said.
"That's true," I said. "I don't care about it at all."
"Does Bugel care?" FW asked.
"I can't see it," I said.
"What time are we supposed to go over?" FW asked.
"Early," I said. "We don't want to miss the pregame extravaganza."
----------------------------------------------------------------------
"It's open," Bugel yelled. "Come in."
Bugel waved us and shushed us in one motion, without taking his eyes off the television. He was engrossed in something that looked and sounded suspiciously like a John Wayne movie.
There was an open bottle of tequila on the coffee table, but there were no glasses. Bugel must have been swigging straight from the bottle.
"What's that one?" I asked, pointing to the television.
"It's Pals of the Saddle," Bugel said. "One of the Three Mesquiteers series."
"Questionnable counterprogramming," I said. "Do you have any shot glasses?"
Bugel pointed toward the kitchen and refocused his attention to the movie.
I walked back into the kitchen and started to poke through Bugel's cabinets. I finally found some dusty shot glasses shoved way in the back of a cabinet overhanging the stove.
"Do you have any limes?" I yelled in to Bugel.
"I don't do condiments," he said. "If you need to chase the tequila, there's beer in the refrigerator."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
I grabbed the shot glasses and a six pack and made my way back to the living room.
"Where's Megsy?" FW asked.
"I sent her out to get some snacks and some other shit," Bugel answered. He gave me a quick look, to clue me in.
"You're very subtle," I said.
"I'm not trying to be subtle," Bugel said. "It's just the way I talk."
"Hello," yelled Megsy, from the kitchen.
"How'd she get back there?" I asked.
"She parks in the alley and comes in the back," Bugel said.
"Is that more convenient?" I asked.
"I don't know why she does it," Bugel said. He shrugged his shoulders.
"Hi everybody," Megsy said. She set down a bowl of chips and crackers on the coffee table.
"Did you get it?" Bugel asked.
"No problem," Megsy said.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was almost halftime. The tequila was almost gone, the beers were gone, the chips were gone.
"Let's go do some more lines," Megsy said.
We all got up and went into the downstairs bedroom. Megsy expertly cut eight lines on the upended mirror that was lying on the dresser. She did hers quickly and handed the rolled up bill to FW. I noticed that FW took the razor blade and fussed a little. Straightening, making the lines longer and thinner, then sliding some back and fattening them up again. Bugel did the same. When it was my turn, I inhaled without ceremony, and without altering Megsy's presentation.
"The game is boring," Bugel said. "We should do something else."
"What?" I asked.
"We could have an orgy," Megsy said.
"I think, with four, it's just group sex, not an orgy," I said.
"Then we could have group sex," Megsy said.
I looked at FW. She looked a little annoyed, but I could tell it wasn't about the sex. She was mad because she'd been taken by surprise. She had been half paying attention all night, lulled along by her lack of interest in football and her decided interest in the free drugs. She hadn't been thinking any farther ahead than her next line. Essentially, she'd listened to Megsy proposition me, and would now either have to go along, or end the night prematurely, and on an awkward note.
I wasn't worried. I knew FW's pique over having been outthought wouldn't be so great that she would miss a chance at some deviant activity.
At the same time, I appreciated Megsy's approach. I'd been thinking about her a lot recently, comparing her, favorably, to FW. They were both the same physical type, were both intelligent, and were both tightroping between borderline sanity and pure craziness. Yet lately, FW had seemed to fuzz along the edges to me, while whenever I pictured Megsy, she was sharp and bright. Her maneuvering and timing in the matter at hand were just more evidence of how she seemed like a quicker, improved version of FW.
"Let's get to it," I said.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Bugel and FW left for another bedroom without saying a word.
"So it's down from an orgy, to group sex, to swapping," I said.
"Are you complaining?" Megsy asked.
"Not at all," I said. "This will be just fine."
And it was. I was enjoying myself immensly, yet appropriately, I felt. But as we went on, I could sense that Megsy was crossing some line. Eyes rolled back, gasping for air, she was disconcertingly wild. If I were a little more naive, or a little less self-aware, I'd have been flattered. But, unfortunately, I knew that it really wasn't me that was getting the reaction from Megsy. It was the situation that was making her night. The deviance, the drinking, the drugging, it all fitted her own craziness like a key in a lock. That was what was setting her off.
I had the feeling that if I were a one-legged dwarf in a Nixon mask, Megsy would have liked it that much more.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
I was lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Megsy, a sheet half wrapped around her, was at the bureau preparing to cut out some more coke.
"We should get together, for real," she said. "It could work."
I knew it really couldn't work, but that didn't bother me. What bothered me was the sudden disruption, a disruption I wasn't prepared for. Apparently, Megsy was even farther ahead of me than she was of FW. The problem was that I thought of myself as being in a story with FW, and even though I knew it wasn't going to end well, I was enjoying the twists and turns along the way. It just didn't seem right to end that story prematurely; I would have felt I'd cheated myself as surely as if I'd read the first two thirds of a decent, though not great, novel, then thrown the book away.
And what about Megsy anyway? First Andy. Then Bugel. Now me. I wasn't at all sure I wanted to jump into her story.
"A tempting offer," I said. "But I think I'll pass."
Megsy laughed. "What's stopping you?" she asked.
"I don't trust your taste in men," I said.
"Well," she said, "you have quite a pedantic streak, but I was willing to overlook that."
"Can you cut me one more quick line?" I asked. "Then I want to go see what the score is."
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Monday, November 08, 2004
ON THE LIMITS OF TECHNOLOGY
I've been slowly working my way through the iTunes music store, downloading a song here and a song there, concentrating on ones that appear on cd's I know I'll never buy. I did the same thing when I was a kid, pawing through the singles at Woolworth's, even then looking for transcendence for less than a buck. Thirty plus years later and I'm at the same place, only without the turtle tank.
"Girls, listen to this one," I say.
It's Clarence "Frogman" Henry's "Ain't Got A Home." I put it on so loud that they are forced to turn from the tv and listen.
It ends. "Did you like it?" I ask.
"Yes. Can you play it again?"
"Sure," I say. "And try to listen to the words this time."
They listen enough to sense that something unusual is going on.
"Play it again!"
"Listen, he's singing like a girl!"
"Now he's singing like a frog!"
General hilarity ensues. The girls dance wildly, then drop down and hop around the floor like frogs.
"Again!"
I afraid I'm losing control of the situation. If LZ comes down and finds me whipping up the girls (once again) "right before bedtime," there will be heck to pay.
"Last time," I say.
The wild rumpus continues, but mercifully winds down as the song ends. The girls are on the floor, still half-laughing, but mostly gasping for air. Two crawls over to me.
"Now make him sing like a pig, Daddy."
I've been slowly working my way through the iTunes music store, downloading a song here and a song there, concentrating on ones that appear on cd's I know I'll never buy. I did the same thing when I was a kid, pawing through the singles at Woolworth's, even then looking for transcendence for less than a buck. Thirty plus years later and I'm at the same place, only without the turtle tank.
"Girls, listen to this one," I say.
It's Clarence "Frogman" Henry's "Ain't Got A Home." I put it on so loud that they are forced to turn from the tv and listen.
It ends. "Did you like it?" I ask.
"Yes. Can you play it again?"
"Sure," I say. "And try to listen to the words this time."
They listen enough to sense that something unusual is going on.
"Play it again!"
"Listen, he's singing like a girl!"
"Now he's singing like a frog!"
General hilarity ensues. The girls dance wildly, then drop down and hop around the floor like frogs.
"Again!"
I afraid I'm losing control of the situation. If LZ comes down and finds me whipping up the girls (once again) "right before bedtime," there will be heck to pay.
"Last time," I say.
The wild rumpus continues, but mercifully winds down as the song ends. The girls are on the floor, still half-laughing, but mostly gasping for air. Two crawls over to me.
"Now make him sing like a pig, Daddy."
