I’ve been watching you for a while now. You look awfully familiar. Did you used to be a chick? I could swear we’ve met before.
I know you probably feel a little neglected right now, what with a very large national convention gobbling up the headlines. Not to mention a certain anniversary. It’s true: you’re probably not getting the attention you deserve. Don’t get bent out of shape just yet, though; your timing is pretty damn impeccable, and I think everyone will be looking your way soon….
Look, Gustav, truth be told: I know you have a choice in landfall sites, and I want to thank you for considering southeastern Louisiana. But with all due respect, I think there are better options in front of you right now. According to the guy with the hair plugs on my TV just now, you could hit almost any beach in the Gulf of Mexico. But here’s the thing, dude: we don’t even have beaches! And although people rave about our food, it’s kinda spicy–not quite what you’re used to. Ever been to Mexico? You know what I’m sayin’. Plus there are lots of other people who could use your rainfall. Drought-stricken areas in the South. I’m not naming names, but Google that when you have a sec, k?
Futhermore–and I’m going to get a little personal, man–I know you’re “acting out” a bit. I don’t know who hurt you when you were younger, or exactly what they did to you, but violent outbursts are never the answer. Plus, we’ve been working hard to get things up to speed around here. Even if you took your best shot, I doubt you’d do the damage you would’ve done a couple of years ago. We’d probably hang out for a couple of days, then pick up right where we left off–just like we used to do all the time. Ask your brother Ivan how we dealt with him. I’m surprised I can even remember his name. Don’t you want to be remembered?
Anyway, I know that chatting with meteorological events isn’t really sensible–at least not in public. And I’m sure you’re kinda busy right now, getting focused and all, so you’re probably not even paying attention to lil’ ol’ me, hundreds of miles away. But I thought I’d put this stuff out there, you know, for what it’s worth. Thanks for your time, and remember: if you’re feeling disorganized today, just go with it.
Warily,
Richard
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I’m not a huge fan of Banksy, though I know he’s popular with the cool kids. Still, I think it’s kinda interesting that an artist of that caliber may be lurking the streets of New Orleans right now (at least, that’s what the boyfriend has suggested). Maybe the guy’s notoriety will get Asshole At Large FredRadtke to reconsider his actions. But probably not.
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I’m not focusing very well. Not right now. Frankly, I’m a little overwhelmed with all the writing and the day job and the new play and such. I know that me being overwhelmed is nothing new, and reading about it isn’t terribly interesting. But there you are.
Gustav is not helping matters. Nor is the vast quantity of caffeine surging through my veins. I am having an extended ADD moment, rotating through a series of questions that include:
1. If the worst should happen and we are left homeless (again), should Jonno and I throw ourselves at the mercy of wonderful friends (again), or should we become nomads? And if we become nomads, should we make the most of it by following a particularly infamous route? Or is that too schticky?
2. In the bold, new, eco-centric aughties, is the traditional solar array an option for our house?
Given my condition, for the first time in years I’m looking forward to SouthernDecadence and the subsequent trip to the beach with dad and my brothers. (Note: the Cassandra in me wanted to add, “Assuming the beach is still there”, but the Pollyanna in me won out. Is that light at the end of the tunnel, or Wile E. Coyote on a fast-moving handcar?)
It is not as bad as you might think, but I would like a break now.
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Below: Lynn Anderson’s stellar performance of “I’ve Been Everywhere”, which is mostly in honor of the housemate, who’s returning from the wilds of Haiti today (I think). Not in Dave’s honor: the creepy guy who pops up at the end to tell chickiebaby, “I know someplace you haven’t been”.
A mere 125 years ago today, in a small corner of the Loire Valley, Coco Chanel was born. She is famous and infamous for many things, including handbags, perfume, pearls, and (alleged) lesbianism. Generally speaking, I don’t partake of such highbrow folderol; what I enjoy most about Chanel are the many tales of her strong, distinct character. Among the best is this brief anecdote from the late, great editrix, fashion icon, and Kabuki fan, Diana Vreeland:
* * * * *
One night, Coco was going to stay in New York on her way to Paris from Hawaii. I said, “Would you like to come for dinner on your way through?” She said, “No, no, no. Too strenuous. I’m too tired. I’m too bored! I can’t wait to get back to Paris.” Then there was a phone call saying, “Mademoiselle would love to come for dinner if she doesn’t have to talk.” I said there would be only four of us; she didn’t even have to come to the table–but I would so love to see her. She didn’t often come to this country; I think she came three times in all. In those days, the French seldom crossed the Atlantic. I have no idea why the French complain about travel. Of course, they complain about everything…including France.
So Coco came with a very charming man, French, she’d been traveling with. She sat exactly where you are, crossed her legs, and started to talk. Dinner was announced; she came to the table; she ate everything in sight. She never stopped talking. In the middle of dinner, she asked: “Couldn’t we send a message to Helena?”–meaning Helena Rubenstein. Did you ever see any pictures of her? Marvelous looking. Polish Jewess of splendor. Splendor! So I telephoned Helena and said, “If you don’t mind coming after dinner, we’re half through, but Coco wants to see you.”
She arrived. It was summer, and Coco had on a little white quilted satin tailleur, skirt, below the knee, but short, a white ribbon and a gardenia in her hair, and a white lace shirt. I have never seen anybody look as delectable, as adorable. What age was she then? She died at eighty-eight. What difference did it make? Helena Rubenstein was in a very distinguished coat to the ground. By “distinguished” I mean the buttonholes and the loops were so beautiful; the collar was really high; the coat was bright shocking-pink Chinese silk. The two women stood facing each other. Then they went back to Reed’s room. After a while, I went back to see if they were all right. I thought perhaps they had a suicide pact! They hadn’t moved. Helena said, “I only like your husband’s room. I love it here.” The two of them stayed in there the rest of the evening talking about God knows what. I went in from time to time to check up on them. They never sat down. They stood–like men–and talked for four hours. I’d never been in the presence of such strength of personality. Both of them. Neither of them was a real beauty. They both came from nothing. They both were so much richer than most of the men we talk about today being rich. They’d done it all alone. Of course, there’d been men in their lives who had helped them, but they earned every cent they made. You ask if they were happy. That is not a characteristic of a European. To be contented–that’s for the cows. But I think that they were, at least when they were in power, at the wheel, and when they were running everything. And they did–these two women ruled empires.
Happy birthday, Coco. (And Bill Clinton. And Tipper Gore. And Bryan Block. And Robert Spark. And Melissa Bergeron. And Flynn De Marco.) I’ll knock back a French 76 on your behalf.
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RANDOM SPARKLY BITS
1.New York magazine can be weird at times. I mean, yeah, it’s funny and snarky, but then there are articles like this overview of hot Olympic bodies, which basically says, “THERE ARE NO ATHLETES OF COLOR. NADAL IS JUST VERY TAN. DO NOT ADJUST YOUR SET.”
2. You know how you just stumble across things on YouTube–stuff from your childhood, or stuff you forgot about, or stuff you thought no one else on Planet Earth saw? Well, I just found a sizable cache of Dawn French’s Murder Most Horrid, an early 90s comedy little-known in the states, but which I find damn funny. Maybe it’s not your cup of tea–or maybe it is….
3. Speaking of stumbling, yesterday I happened across a weird item from Queerty entitled Madonna and brother share loads–and it reads exactly like you’d think. Fan fiction, or real dish? Knowing the parties involved, I’m not willing to make a wager.
4. I’m not a poetry buff–that much is clear. But every so often, I’ll find a piece I like–one that (maybe) doesn’t take itself too seriously. This one, reposted by Jesus’ General, mostly fits that category, even though I’m not sure it’s a poem. Where does one draw the line between blank verse and short story?
Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal
By Naomi Shihab Nye
After learning my flight was detained 4 hours,
I heard the announcement:
If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic,
Please come to the gate immediately.
Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there.
An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress,
Just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly.
Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her
Problem? We told her the flight was going to be 4 hours late and she
Did this.
I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly.
Shu dow-a, shu-beduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick,
Sho bit se-wee?
The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used—
She stopped crying.
She thought our flight had been canceled entirely.
She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the
Following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late.
Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him.
We called her son and I spoke with him in English.
I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and
Would ride next to her—Southwest.
She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of
It. Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and
Found out of course they had ten shared friends.
Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian
Poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours.
She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering
Questions.
She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered
Sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag—
And was offering them to all the women at the gate.
To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a
Sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California,
The lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same
Powdered sugar. And smiling. There is no better cookies.
And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands—
Had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing,
With green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always
Carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.
And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought,
This is the world I want to live in. The shared world.
Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped
—has seemed apprehensive about any other person.
They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too.
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