Sunday, December 25, 2005


I hadn't the heart to write since my last entry. Part laziness, part avoidance, I've had a considerably eventful holiday (although not nearly as dramatic as Sam Anderson's take on the New York transit strike).

I was a little drunk a few hours ago -- and no, not on the Christmas spirit. My uncle was pouring Bailey's into my glass like manishevitz wine. "You're legal, you're legal," he reassured me. A plastic smile inched across my face as I reached for the milk. Diluting it will make it less potent, I lied to myself. An hour later, I was sitting on the floor of the bathroom, slumped over the toilet seat, trying desperately to stave off fatigue before the baby found me.

I woke up smelling of meat.


Banana Chic and I went to see The Chronic -- What? -- cles of Narnia. I let her pick the movie because, well, after a bad incident involving Le Divorce and a Russian, I was never allowed to choose anything from Blockbuster again (though it didn't stop me from suggesting Syriana anyway: "It's about oil, and politics! And a fat George Clooney!" The flames from her burning glare tickled my ear through the phone). Now normally, we are a fine audience. We rarely whisper, never talk, and hardly make a noise. But this! This piece of crap was sacriligious! "Why aren't the beavers wearing aprons?" I demanded. "And why am I strangely drawn to that half-naked faun?" Every scene looked like it was taken straight from the original BBC version. "Oh, here's something I don't recognize," Banana Chic pointed out behind her blatant sarcasm. "Right. Like who doesn't expect Gandalf to rise from the dead?" (Aslan, Gandalf, give her a break: she had initially guessed "Golem".) The movie relegated the concept of the remake to an even cheaper state. Every long shot and close-up felt like deja vu: "I could've sworn Lucy walked around with a flask in the first one too!" When Santa Claus bestowed the children with their wonderous presents, I couldn't resist subbing in my own interpretation as the gifts were handed out: "Yah, a pearing knife and some rum. Thanks Santa./ Aww, I've always wanted a bag full of darts; how'd you know?" And Mr. Claus himself looked like a reject from a whimsically gay production of King Lear (featuring Nathan Lane as an all singing, all dancing Cordelia). The whole thing was a rehash of that special childhood memory we shared with everyone from our generation: "What the hell? We paid 10 dollars to see another set of buck teeth?" The producers could've, at the very least, changed something. I mean, Elton John is still Elton John whether or not he has a crotch full of willing man -- the source material isn't compromised due to an element or two of change. And yet! they churn out this shit anyway. Even the Turkish Delight appeared more delicious in the beebs' rendition -- the current incarnation had Edmund eating something that resembled a coagulated tampon from a back alley abortion clinic. Millions of dollars were spent on exactly what? Props from Puppeteer of the Penis?


Guitar Guy is back in my life again. Sort of. Shotgun Toter and I attended his first gig. Let me explain how oblivious I am to normalcy: When she suggested that we go, I thought we would be ridiculing the guy. See, to me, it's more believable to go all the way across town to make fun of someone than be there because one of us likes the guy. "Why would I go if I didn't like him?!" Shotgun Toter asked. I was shocked: "You LIED."

(*Full disclosure: I've known Guitar Guy since I was 12. We've grown to appreciate each other's company on numerous occasions, but nothing ever went past the platonic. The reason being my phobia of men. Okay, and him. He's too nice! I've put him through the ringer so many times, he should technically be flapping in the wind, clipped to a clothesline. Yet, he'll continue to be there for me whenever I need company or a laugh. And it's not like he's unattractive because he is, he really is. It's just that, damnit! Why does he have to be so damn decent and dependable? Fucking working class stereotype. But back to the story ...)

So Guitar Guy approached our table during the break. We chatted, inside jokes abound, Shotgun Toter virtually drooling by the verbal wayside. He asked me how I'm enjoying myself. I replied it was nice to hear one song from this century. He promised he'll play something by the Killers. I shrugged my shoulders, Whatever. He hopped on stage and dedicated the song to me. Shotgun Toter swooned: "He's so nice!" Half an hour later, I was ready to leave for the second time -- "Lily, you better stay for this one," he spoke into the mic. Heads turned. How embarrassing. We heard the opening chords to Weezer. Shotgun Toter swooned all over again.

Later that evening, he messaged me, telling me how much he appreciated me coming. "No problemo, but thank [Toter.]" I then proceeded to not-so-casually drop her name in the conversation to fish for his reaction, but he refused to take the bait. *sigh* They'd make a good couple. Two terrific people, both relatively sane: He'll finally find someone to serenade apologies to who wouldn't, in turn, threaten to smash his guitar against the lockers if he did.

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