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September 28, 2003

:: Throwing Snowballs at Satan ::

Go Cubs!

September 20, 2003

:: Arrr! ::

For those of you who were (blissfully) unaware, yesterday was Talk Like a Pirate Day. After Brady reminded me of this, I reminded dear Phineas, who took to it like a ship to sea. I'm telling you people, nobody can talk like a pirate like Phineas can talk like a pirate. He's, like, Bluebeard's long lost great great great great grandson. Or something. To wit:

L: Arrr, matey! Tis talkin' like a pirate day, ye scurvy dog!

P: Aye, that it be. I be wanting of a bottle o' rum and some wenches! Arrr!

L: Arrr! Aye, I could do with a strappin' young sailor to board meself! Will ye be wantin' te join me for feedin' later on?

P: I surely be, says I. But I must get back to port and fetch me skiff first. Arrr!

L: Ye'll want to be quick about it, er I'll hang ye from the yardarm!

P: I'll see ya in Davy Jones' Locker first, ya wharf rat!

L: Arrr! I'll clean me cutlass with yr lubber's blood!

P: I'll give yr ribcage to me parrot for a home, drink me grog from yr brain case and throw what's left to the squids and barnacles!

L: Arr, yer not fit to walk me plank! Me cat'll make short work o ye!

L: [later, obviously forgetting myself again] Running late- go on in , will be there asap

P: Avast, matey! Already here with a bucket o' grog! Center front, me hearty! Arrr!

See that ye be buyin' more grog when ye gets ashore! I'm a thirsty pirate, says I! And where be all the wenches at? I've been at sea a long time...

L: Aye, me hearty! I be hankerin fer the taste o young and tender flesh meself!

P: Arrr! Ye scurvy old sea dog! Can't get enough, can ye? I'll have ya keelhauled!

One of the things we noticed is that pirate speak is chock full of excellent euphemisms for sex: walk me plank; shiver me timbers; prepare to be boarded... Got any more that I'm missing?

If only every day were Talk Like a Pirate Day!

September 11, 2003

:: 2 Years Later ::

I didn’t realize the date until I came into the office this morning and saw the sign posted in the elevator lobby: September 11, We Won’t Forget. Strange, the way the human mind works – when confronted with an event that surreal, so far beyond comprehension, we tend to let it slip from our minds, taking on the same quality as a disturbing dream – remembered but not really absorbed, lingering half-over the edge of consciousness. On the one hand, I can vividly remember the whole day – the timeline of it, what I was doing when I found out, who came over to the house to watch CNN and drink wine, what time Coz and Eric, who had been scheduled to fly to New York that morning, finally called to let me know they were alive. On the other, it seems so long ago and far away that I might almost have seen it in a movie somewhere, and not in my own house. I also remember the first time I saw the post-9/11 skyline, months later. I was riding in the back of the hired car, forehead leaning against the window as usual, daydreaming and planning my weekend. As we crossed the Triborough Bridge, I got my first clear view of downtown, and it sucked the breath right out of me. There was this enormous hole. I hadn't banked on it hitting me so hard; I hadn't even thought about it, really.

The drama's over for me, now. Today, I'll just thank my lucky stars one more time that nobody I loved died that day, even as my heart goes out to those who were not so fortunate.

And isn't it fitting that I just happen to be hosting a little dinner tonight for some of my dearest friends? Totally coincidental, but I can't think of a better thing to do on this day than sit with them and laugh and eat and drink and love each other. Friends make the future bright - and the future, not the past, is where it's at.

September 2, 2003

:: The Ode You're Owed, By Popular Demand... ::

Many of you have suggested (some even insisted) that I post this and take credit for it, so here we go:

Before You Were Crazy
[an ode to the KrazyPantz]

We talked through the night like two torrid geeks
We smiled as we thought of the six to eight weeks
That lay stretched before us, and agreed to meet
To see if this thing might turn out to be neat.
You brought me some drugs, we went out for a while
And then fucked like it was going out of style
The day after that we did more of the same
You said, “You’re amazing.” You whispered my name.

A few short days later, you started to freak
You asked me strange questions, you thought I would sneak
Around with my good friend, and shag him instead
You were angry I’d had other men in my bed
I tried to explain how I thought it should be
And you chided, berated and insulted me
Even though I was honest, you said I was not
But still, you kept saying, the sex was so hot
And you were falling for me, and you asked me again
And I told you the truth- there were no other men

You were sorry the next day for things that you’d said
Insisted you weren’t trying to fuck with my head
You wanted to see me, you wanted to try
So despite my gut feeling to tell you goodbye
I let you back in. What an error that was!
I told myself you weren’t crazy because
You were only a nice guy, afraid of the fall
I convinced myself you weren’t loony at all.
But three short days later, you freaked out once more
Sent notes to my friends, more or less declared war

And now, a week after I thought you had gone
You’re sending me texts saying let’s get it on
And the things that you said to me, you didn’t mean
And suggestions that range from funny to obscene
I’m sorry, my dear, but you’re clearly insane
And I can’t see how I would have a thing to gain
From trading you sex for a lesson in code
Or trying to downshift to “casual” mode
So I’ll make it as plain as I possibly can:
Please stop it, just stop it, you KrazyPantz man.

:: 1986, revisited ::

Since I was a child, I have had a propensity for nostalgia. I’m not sure where it came from or how I got my head around it with so little experience behind me, but there it is. Perhaps I learned it from my mother, who has had much in her life to long for; perhaps it came to me through the blood of my Slavic ancestors, who have made an art of wistful (and occasionally bitter) remembrance and living in the past – I don’t know. What I do know is that even when I was 14 years old, in the first romantic relationship of my life, I instinctively looked forward and anticipated looking back on it when it was all over. I found a way to be nostalgic for something I hadn’t even lost yet. It was a self-indulgent practice, but one that fed my writing. It’s also one that I’ve struggled to eliminate (with some success) over the years.

Autumn is the best season for nostalgia. In the waning of the year, it seems natural to take stock of what you’ve had and seen and heard and loved, and it’s only natural to remember something missing and mourn its absence. This morning, the sky as I drove to the office was a fall sky, the first of the year: sunshine and blue juxtaposed against gray thunderheads; the lake ruffled by a not-quite-wind that’s still more than a breeze. I was listening to New Order, which has been in my head since I watched 24 Hour Party People (highly recommended!) last night, and at one point, rounding a corner in Evanston, the sun on the water, just at the beginning of True Faith, I felt a stab of something that was almost like pain, but not quite. It was a familiar feeling, one I knew from long ago. It occurred to me half a second later that it was a bolt of pure nostalgia, rife with angst and drama, hearkening all the way back to those high school years when I’d torment myself with thoughts of how things would be when they weren’t so good anymore. I’ve missed things since then, lord knows I’ve had my heart broken more than once, but I don’t know if I’ve had a moment this pristine. I can’t blame Bernard & the gang for it, really, although it’s true that they were my favorites back in ‘86. It’s me that brought this up, it’s me that’s feeling it. So what’s going on? It’s been a rough month, but so? I’ve had rough months. But here’s the thing: I really am longing for a time when things were simpler, or at least seemed to be. I feel so old saying that, and so dramatic and so immature all at the same time. But I can’t find better words for this feeling. I have been scarred by a recent encounter with a virtual stranger – in particular, my trust has been broken, and it’s spilling out of that encounter and into the rest of my life. I won’t get into all the details here, but I allowed myself to be lured in and now I’m paying for it. I actually caught myself last night distrusting a good friend because of this experience. How quickly, I thought then and am still thinking now - how easily I can be broken, after all. Is it just this one experience I’m feeling the brunt of, or the weight of a collection? I never thought I was one to hold a grudge, but am I?

It’s a disturbing thought, that I might be changing in this particular way. I’m interested to see what will happen – can I shrug off the shroud that this past month has thrown over me? How quickly can I go back to being myself, even if myself is too open an idiot for her own good? I don’t want to distrust people, even though I’m often told it’s an exercise I should learn. Constantly asking myself if someone’s trying to deceive me strikes me as much the same kind of exercise in futility as the preemptive nostalgia of my younger days. And this year, I’d rather spend my free time playing in the leaves.

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