UNIVERSAL DONOR: MA VIE EN CROUTE
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Universal Donor
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Monday, January 10, 2005
I'm pretty sure that the Travelog blog entry is almost as boring as the proverbial slideshows that our parents were forced to sit through by Evil Dinner Hosts in the Swingin' Sixties. But maybe if I'm all impressionistic, woozy, and stream-of-consh, it'll be more tolerable? I will try to pepper my account with witty observations about life in Old New England.
Monday morning and I go to pick up lo in Williamsburg. I am tired as fuck so I take a nap on the couch while she frets about some grad school application form that makes unresonable requests like: "list the full name of every professor you've ever had" or "please estimate the number of pages of textbook you read during your Junior year" or "guess how many peanuts are in the jar on the desk of the Bursar's assistant." We go to diner for brunch and hit the road. A diner breakfast is a tricky start to a road trip because you have to drink enough coffee to counteract the soporific effect of the high-lipid bacon egg and cheese sammich. I undercaffeinate a little bit, but the Ritalin props me up. Driving out of New York City is a glorious adventure of soaring bridges, elevated highways, and complex, swoopy interchanges where twelve different arteries collide. I fucking love it. I especially love it when construction shuts down so many lanes that all you've got to drive on is an eight-foot strip between two jersey barriers, because everybody else hates it so much and I feel like I'm special because it doesn't bother me at all. At the rest stop the gift shop has a sign that reads "a $1,000 winning scratch-off ticket was sold here!" and it makes me want to cry. I take a nap instead, during lo's driving shift. Providence! (The place, not the concept of planning and guidance. This vacation is an exercise in antithesizing small-p providence.) Dinner with lo's cute friends K & E at the worst Mexican restaurant I've ever been to, where we are forced to rechristen the Carne Asada "the Beef Cape" (it could actually be used by a superhero to stop bullets) and lo's veggie burrito featured potatoes and tomatoes, which doesn't that just seem weird? [No, just incredibly boring to mention in a blog entry that was advertised to contain "wit." Get "wit" it already. -- God] Recovering at their house, we have a cup of tea and watch a rerun of Law & Order, which they cutely call "DrumDrum." I'm way off guessing Lenny's pre-credit cadaver wisecrack. I was like "he shoulda tipped 20%" but Lenny of course said "I always heard that people are dying to get a table in this joint." Damn! Have you ever tried to guess the CadaverCrack? It's fucking hard to do, but if you ever come close, it feels like five tabs of Extasy. Rest in peace, Jerry and Lenny. Back in the kitchen, I try to find the my teabag, which I left on a dish, in order to make more frokkin' tea. I find a cat named Uncle getting avunclar with my used teabag. Specifically, he's sitting on it, and not by accident. Yes, Kate's cat's got my wet sack up his cat ass. Meow, motherfucker! I am so sleepy by the time lo drops me off at Tom Thumb & The Gin Dog's house that my internal furnace has shut down and I need heavy FDR-style leg-blanketry in order to feel less like a meat popsicle. I sleep, however, in the L.L.Bean Sleeping bag, so I have to shut my shiverhole -- apparently L.L. found a space/time fabric rip that goes straight to the middle of the Sun and they put that shit in in the sleeping bag. Boston! Oh, I've bitched about you before, Berntern, but that was in the summer, when you still had street I could walk on and leaves on trees. I used to think the gagtastically high percentage of college "students" was the worst thing about the place, but Boston has a lot of these guys, too: the kind of guy who carries a Leatherman tool around with him wherever he goes -- but not an actually handy, useful, contractor kind of guy, no, just a guy who likes to think he can fix anything when really what he's good at is unscrewing and rescrewing stuff for an hour only to stand up, brush imaginary dust from his hands, mop the sweat from his forehead with a sleeve, and announce in a bemused but manly fashion "well I'll be damned if I can figure out what's wrong with her" -- he actually says "her" to refer to the sink -- and finally declares in his boundless, generous wisdom: "guess we'd better call in a pro" and helps himself to a beer. No, it's not that Boston has a lot of those guys. Boston IS that guy; the city itself. It's flabby, unkempt, a terrible driver, never completely sober, and with a massive, thrumming inferiority complex. More Trave-blogue Tomorrow, featuring the following chapters: • Fock you, too, Ben Stiller. • Slickéd Wippery! • Can Maine have a tortured metaphor too, Mommy? • Full Disclosure: the game of "Speed Scrabble™" involves no amphetamies. Only Scrabble™. BONUS POSTSCRIPT. My esteemed co-worker Joanne observed today that Paris Hilton always looks like she just stopped sucking a dick. Not like her chin is glisteny or anything -- she didn't necessarily finish sucking a dick -- but Joanne sees something in her eyes that says "Mmm. How was that? Hmm? Yeah? You like that? That's hott. Meet me in twenty behind that ficus plant." 0 comments |
OTHER REVIEWS: Scrabble NEW! LATEST BOOK REVIEWS: The Game Moneyball One-Upsmanship Siddhartha You need the Fear Not Guide to Life. Buy it already. ($4) Now available! The Broomfield Variations CD ($10) or go to The UD Store 
MY IMAGINARY GIRLFRIENDS Chan Marshall Rotem of the IDF Eleanor Friedberger Amy Goodman Bernardine Dohrn ('69) Maya Rudolph Joanna Newsom Imogen Heap Caroline Dhavernas Shana Rae Ray DISALLOWED FOREVER "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you!" - "from whence" - "...the exception that proves the rule" - any use of the question "spit or swallow?" - the phrase "drop trou" - fake-o reviewer verbs: "penned" for wrote "helmed" for directed "lensed" for whatever - "expat" - the euphemism "passed away" - pronouncing merci beaucoup as "mercy buckets!" (see also: "grassy-ass!") PET PEEVES "confinscated" - trying children "as adults" - "drownded" - misuse of reflexive pronouns, as when someone says "Please talk to Bob or myself." Come on people now. "Myself" is not just a fancy version of "me"! LEARN IT. - tattoos in the Courier font - any use of Comic Sans |