More Life At The Homestead

What is it about life at the family house? I sleep ad nauseum, I'm always tired, ordering a movie from OnDemand is like a big achievement, and I don't change my clothes for three days. Okay, the Dukies know that I can go way more days than that in the same outfit, particularly if it involves The Black Sweatpants, but you get my drift, no?

But I move tomorrow!

I'm cooking the family blue cheese burgers, fried squid, and a warm golden beet and fennel salad to celebrate!

Upper East Side but not the rich part, here I come!



(Here's hoping for the squid. I'm going off vague memories of an old episode of Oliver's Twist).

Statements From Lance Bass's Former Popmates, Upon Hearing His Revelation

Joey Fatone: Thanks, bro. If you'd mentioned it in 1999, maybe I wouldn't've always been the one in the back, eh?

JC Chasez: So that's why Tara never banged him.

Chris Kirkpatrick: You totally forgot I existed until now, didn't you? Well, I KNEW! I KNEW ALL ALONG! And you can PRINT THAT! Please?

Justin Timberlake: [could not be reached for comment]

Outwardly Binding

I spent a surprisingly enjoyable day with Little Sister, helping her prepare for her upcoming Outward Bound trip. We're now in her room as she attempts to fit everything, including my Thermarest, into the satchel-sized "suitcase" she was originally going to bring on the plane (a no-go with the knife). I'm just waiting it out. The cats found the alternate, more appropriately proportioned suitcases and have claimed them as their own.

Went to Celebrate Brooklyn in Prospect Park last night. It started rather perfectly, with the ephemeral treat that is a traffic-free drive to the city, decent parking, and successful sneaking of wine bottles into the venue. We ate; we drank. There was a Slavic "soul" band with belly dancers. It was merry. Philip Glass and the Kronos Quartet began to play, and the feature began. Bela Lugosi! He vants to suck your bloooood! We actually never heard him say that line; shortly after the Hungarian hemophile introduced himself ("I am Count Duh-raaaaaaaaaac-oola") the skies opened and the screen went black. Yeah, we went the wrong way out of the park in the maelstrom and got soaked to the bone, but it was still fun. Went to the bar and played games.

I need to work on my Connect Four.

Forza Roma

New (but mercifully self-contained) addiction: Rome. I started watching it On Demand while doing laundry and then washed every rag in the house. This shit is a Matthew Barney movie with a plot.




Thank you, HBO. Do key characters lash together a seaworthy raft out of bloated human corpses on your network?

Goin' To The... Mansion...

A wedding. It was lovely. I garnered sympathy incredulity from no one:





"I'm going to a wedding. For a friend from high school!"
"Uh, yeah, I've been to four of those so far."

I guess these things are more common than I thought.





Anyway, it was very pretty and fun and all our high school friends were there. In fact, we all arrived together, sat together, ate together, danced together, peed together, and left together. Except that one of us has a new last name, nothing has changed!



Except, maybe, for all the kamikaze shots with the father of the bride.





Congratulations, Katie!

Crooklyn

It was 1:30, we were in an apartment, and someone said something about finishing the game and then we'll go.

Go? So soon?

No. Not go home. Go to the bar.

Because I don't live in LA anymore, and the bars are open all night!

I love Brooklyn. Think any Jews live there?

I'm Home

I'm tired.

I was talking to K. when I hit New Jersey. The instant I was over the state line, my call dropped.

Then there was road work. I called Yaf and vented as it took 17 minutes to move 3/4 of a mile.

Welcome to Jerz!

Then I got home.

The puppy is happy.

Good night.

Chicaaaaaago Part Deux

Ah Chicago is so nice. It has some seriously weird fountains.




I love weird fountains! Particularly this one, in Millenium Park. Children gather by the creepy two-story pictures, waiting for the visage to spit. The water is just thin enough over the ground for the children to look en masse like Jesus, just skimming over the surface as they run. Gregor and I made our way across it in bare feet, only to be accosted with splashing by a girl, fully clothed and soaked to the bone, and loving it.

Ah, but the Windy City has more than fountains, my friends. Witness the Art Institute, with its giant collection of contemporary art. I usually love it, but perhaps I wasn't in the mood today.






That last one? A Constantin Brancusi. I personally hate Brancusi and consider his work the type of thing a Hollywood set dresser would put in the faux apartment of a deadbeat cheating-fiance type character to telegraph douchebaggery, particularly if the film is set between 1979-87, but the Art Institute seems to love him.

The sculpture's called "The White Negress," btw.

And tomorrow, to home. Home again home again jiggity-jig.

Chicaaaaaago

In February 2005, when I drove out to Los Angeles, Chicago was my very first stop. Gregor and Schmindsey took me in, fed me, watered me, drove me around the whole town, and finished the night at the Old Town Ale House, right near Second City. I remembered looking around at all these artsy intelligentsia types in headscarves and funny glasses, wondering if I'd find such a crowd in LA. I was tempted to just stop in Illinois, if it weren't for the weather.

So, back in Chicago, Gregor and I (after seeing a show at the Goodman starring recurring guest-star Rose on Lost whose part they should beef up because she's awesome) immediately high-tailed it back to the bar.




Um, which is why I have a headache today.



100-degree heat! To the Art Institute! Public refrigeration!

Central Time

Pike and I failed to meet up; he called from Ogalalla when I had already reached North Platte. We had passed each other through in the wind, I-80's considerable wind; Nebraska does not screw around with its gusts. For some reason, driving in Nebraska has never been a bother. I'll scream about eastern Colorado, but the Good Life State always seems a pleasant surprise.



Also, I rather like midwestern sunsets. Over oceans the sun seems to be a disk--some kind of pink tissue paper cut-out, being slid, slowly, down the sky. Over cornfields the sun looks sturdier, possibly scarier, like a hot 3-dimensional ball of fire threatening to scorch this particular farmer's livelihood. Reds sink their way between the rows and creep along, eventually disappearing but never on guarantee.

The Ferlics, parents of Libby The College Friend, have taken me in for the night and I have eaten a balanced dinner two evenings in a row. It's crazy. The body is like, yo, I could get used to this. It shouldn't get so excited.

I see my grandmother tomorrow and regard it with apprehension. Mrs. Ferlic suggested that I just laugh when she forgets me, pat her arm, and tell her not to worry, to just enjoy the moment and know that I'm someone she loves. This seems sound advice. Last time I saw her I blubbered like a leaky showerhead or perhaps just a faucet in the 'on' position, and I'm not sure she enjoyed it so much.

Anyway, my throat's starting to feel better. Only two big driving days left, and tomorrow's only 8 hours, a blip, really. I think the Camry will be happy when we're done. Right now her back tires are sitting like 3 inches from ground to hubcap from the weight and it's kind of worrying, actually.

Onward! Chicago!

Nebraska, How I've Missed Thee (Kind Of)

To Omaha! Feeling v. refreshed and revivified. Had a perfect day yesterday: hanging by the pool, playing with small relatives, adult swim.

Going to try and meet up with Pike and friends somewhere on 70 in Nebraska.

Incidentally, people like to say, "You're driving cross-country? That's so cool!" Except at this exact moment, Pike is on a sponsored trip in an ethanol-fueled vehicle to Kick The Oil Habit, which attracts way more press attention, and Teb's friend Gracie, who already won a permanent place in my heart when she snuck us down to the floor at the Rolling Stones show last year, is traversing the nation on a fucking unicycle.

My main challenge points come from the doubled weight of my car and flying solo status.

I guess I'm still medium-cool.

More Pictures

In no particular order. Most scenery shots taken in totally safe fashion from moving vehicle while manning cruise-controlled wheel at 85 MPH.

I wrote some really amusing and witty entries in my head while driving, particularly regarding the neverending nature of Idaho and the consistent, comforting mediocrity of Motel 6s, but they're gone now. Blame it on the illness; I still feel mostly like five kinds of shit, but the presence of family, particularly baby cousins, makes it forgettable, thankee lordee! Plus Denver has an excellent Acquisition connection for easy illegal audiobook downloading. Wheeeeee.

Portland Rose Test Garden

Okay, I've seen lots of stuff since leaving Portland, not just flowers, but I'm tired so this'll do for now. I drove 750 miles through Oregon, the hated Idaho, and then Utah with a low-grade fever and excessively swollen glands, sweating and hacking and collapsing in an Ogden motel within minutes of entry. Things improved on the second leg, from Ogden to Vail. I chilled with Teb and am now ensonced in the domestic bliss of sister's house in Denver. I don't have to drive AT ALL tomorrow.

Anyway, here are some pictures of flowers:

Portland!

I have about the energy of a pumpkin, but Portland is pretty cool. Jen took me to Powell's Books today, which is a full city block and several stories high. And it's cheap. I purchased a copy of Lucky Girls for $5.98 and got all distracted when the crunchy girl behind the counter asked for $5.98, taking a moment to realize that Oregon has no sales tax.

No sales tax!

So not only does someone else pump your gas for you (only state besides New Jersey to forbid self-service), but then, they charge you less!

It's amazing!

It's pretty, too.




Pictures from the drive:

Lake Shasta (I had to climb an electrical tower for optimal angle):



Mount Shasta (note snow):



Mountain near Mt. Shasta of similar size yet lacking snow, which confuses me:




Did I mention the giant bookstore that is not a Barnes & Noble?

A Personal Opinion

Personally, I love e-mail. It's no letter by post, but the telephone had nearly killed that anyway; it at least keeps a little life in the written word. And I love the written word! And I love e-mail! By what other medium, in the saga of Meghan's Final Paycheck That Bounced, could such deliberately polite nastiness abound?

I won't paste them all here. Oh, it is tempting. Maybe I... no. No, I won't. But I got a gem from one of the former managers in Brazil, who I was relatively sure had absconded with my $817.35, yelling at me for running to the New York office just because he had been rendered unreachable and his cell phone disconnected.

My response was exceedingly polite: compassionate yet firm. It gave me pride in my suavity. However, I had at first written a different reply, and I would like to share it with you here.


Dear [redacted],

PAYROLL CHECKS SHOULDN'T BOUNCE.

Sincerely,
Miss Blotto.

I Left My Heart In...

Out in San Francisco. Or perhaps not "out," as I'm not really "in," or I've just always been out? Um.. anyway.

I'm in San Francisco! I was greeted with a text message:

hey there ho-bag. smunty times are a-comin!

Yes, my lovelies, YES. It was none other than the inimitable Vinly "Vinny" Eng. That sound you just heard? A thousand Duke alums turning simultaneously lime with envy. Vinny and I were the unstoppable theater duo of the 2001-2002 school year, tag-teaming on three shows and co-hosting the infamous Anything For Two Dollars: Superhero Pimps and Hos Nuclear STD Explosion party. I was the Greek goddess Chlamydia. He was my noble hero Testikleez. He did all this while majoring in econ and anchoring Duke Student Government. He is my rock of insanity. He is a machine.

Anyway, we had margaritas and tapas and went to see Happy End at ACT (American Conservatory Theater; he works there; it was good), followed by dive bar drinks, sushi, and meeting up with his friend and mine, the evergreen Smash. They met after a mistaken reply-all from her to me and have been fast and joyful friends ever since. Smash works in product design. Her company has an in-house masseuse. We met in middle school.

The next day brought the World Cup final, watched at the abode of some senator's daughter. The prepsters ate off fine china on the divan while our childish triumvirate ogled Fabio Cannavaro's ass (loudly) from the chaise lounge. I learned that senator's kids have huge apartments at the bottom of Lombard street with rain showers and a full line of La Mer face creams, but also provide Veuve for the Sunday-brunch mimosas. I don't know much about her dad but thought avoiding politics wise.

V. and I spent the rest of the day wandering downtown San Francisco, stopping to see Matthew Barney's petroleum jelly sculptures (cool) and video art (whatever) at SFMOMA. Approximately a thousand people stopped Vinny on the street to say hi. The more things change...

I extended my visit by a day and leave tomorrow for Portland.

Right now, though, I have to track down a returned check for $817.35, which I can apparently re-deposit, but also cannot find... ergh...

Day One

The trip began well enough. I decided to skip the Big Sur route to San Francisco due to cat concerns. I wasn't really worried specifically about Mildred per se, but I kept remembering last year when we brought Marty Kitty down the NJ shore and he shat himself in the crate within the first twenty miles. What an hour and a half of pathetic bleating and putrescence that was-- it was a bonding trip for Brother Blotto and I, certainly, but I didn't necessarily want cat pee in the car on the inaugural day of a two-week drive.

So Mildred, anchored in her Nylon Cat Carrier Cage of Emotion and I in my Seat Belt, set off up Route 5. Once she wore out her Kitty Scofield act trying to break through the Deluxe Cat Carry-all Duffel with the faux sheepskin lining, she proved to be a pleasant co-pilot, even purring at times. I gorged myself on Tamari Roasted Almonds and Fiji water, both courtesy of Trader Joe's, the unofficial sponsor of my trip.

Arrival in San Francisco was early, so Mil and I trolled the streets as I stopped in front of every niceish apartment building, checking for an open wireless signal. A Mexican guy jumped a fence in front of me, and, upon seeing me, got all sheepish. I was like... dude. Free internet?



Oh, and in other news, I saw The Biter my last night at Q's. And ran.

(For a full recap of Last Night At Q's, click here. I love you, my sweet LA friends!)

T Minus 21

Twenty-one hours and counting. The Camry Of All My Earthly Possessions And Delights has been (very nearly) packed, I've deleted The Young and the Restless from the Mondo Condo DVR, I got cheap gas and a car wash in Venice, and I'm ready.

Mostly.

Chocolate Chips and Ice-Nine

This guy I met at Q's called me the other night.

"So... I'm standing outside of Ralph's. And I'm thinking... I want cookies. Want to bake cookies?"

"Now?"

"Yeah, now."

"Um... well, you know, it's Saturday night, I'm kind of already on my way somewhere."

Cookie Man persisted, and we do baked goods until the next day. He arrived bearing Country Crock Spreadable Sticks and a bag of Ghiradelli, and I dug out Saint Roommate's KitchenAid (mine's been packed, dear thing). Things were going fine--pleasant chatter, amusing anecdotes, etc. Despite my aversion to margarine, the cookies were smelling pretty good. We sat on the floor with Mildred, listening to the tick of the timer.

"Hey," he said, moving closer. He kind of cocked his head. "You should bite me."

I looked at him. He was displaying his neck.

"Seriously, bite me." He wasn't telling me to fuck off; it was a literal request. He wanted my teeth in his epidermis. I began to realize why this very cute guy was still single.

I'm not proud of what I did next. I thought it was weird and I'd known him for like an hour and a half and all logic points to throwing him out or at least faking a need to pee, but the "eh, whatever; I'm moving" thought took over and I did it; I gave his neck a nip.

And did he sigh in gratitude and then explain how this was some odd test of my open-mindedness and that I had passed with soaring colors? Uh, negatory, my friends. He felt that I could do better. "No," he said. "I want you to bite."

It was just a bit much. Am I judgmental? I don't care. I sat back, put on my noncommittal scrunchy face, and picked up the cat as a physical barrier between us.

"Oh, listen, the cookies are ready!"

He later suggested boku-maru (I am not making this up) and mentioned that he had a bottle of wine in his car. I told him I had somewhere to be at 3.



Yeah... good bye, you LA dating world. Good bye, and good luck.

Oh Me Oh My

So I don't have to leave the Mondo Condo just yet, but things are certainly in upheaval. My room, emptied of all my stuff, has seemingly shrunk and developed a depressing dinginess. Saint Roommate engineered the final cleanout this morning, realizing it was never going to happen with me on my lonesome, lugging my desk and carting away my trash bags, suggesting that if I just waited a minute for her to adjust the (my) mattress she'd moved out in front of the TV, I could finish watching Must Love Dogs. The helping frenzy will only escalate in the coming days: the new girl has a freshly broken ankle. This Condo Of The Physically And/Or Emotionally Crippled is, basically, Saint Roommate's heaven.

So.. yeah. Things are good, even if I'm living out of a Mountain Hardware pack somewhere in Limbo.