Jesus H. Christ on the cross-town laserjet express (as me friend HB would say), what in holy hell am I doing awake. I'm not entirely sure if I'm still drunk or embarking on a hangover or what. Either way, in a few hours unfortunately I have to pull it together to hang around some under-10 kids. I wonder if I can pull off a Vera Charles fix me a bloody mary sonny dark sunglasses kind of thing. I do have that line from the book running through my head over and over: "pipe down, kid, your old man's hung." That is from Auntie Mame, right? The horrid Edgewater Beach father who dies... Well, not horrid -- cold. Whatever.
Last night I floated out of sleep to find the TV still on. I reached for the remote to turn things off and ended up with my fumbling fingers going back and forth between a True Hollywood Story about the girls from the Facts of Life, which wasn't even as interesting as a People profile in the end and this horrid documentary I had seen once before about Frederick West, the English serialkiller, completely with totally disturbing interviews with his kids. I kept thinking...these are my options. Same thing same thing. Le meme chose le meme chose.
My old roommate had a catchphrase from her term abroad in France that came from one of the chicks she was on the program with who was desperately afraid of getting a wacky haircut and was yelling at the hairdresser, like--please god, make sure I still have my pageboy bob I got back in Edina. "C'est la meme CHOSE...c'EST la MEME CHOSE!"My roommate and I used to chant it at each other sometimes too, but I realized the other day it's evolved into a general catchphrase in my head for that kind of thinking in any situation. Isolationist kind of thing. I don't know why, but this pleases me--the evolution of it, I mean. Just happened. I like that. Plus the way you have to say it (you hit everything but 'la' in an increasing crescendo) conveys it too.
Good hangover fud: raspberry sorbet with ginger ale poured over in a ceramic bowl, but you have to eat it with your Gorham silver baby spoon.
I took down my last post--a public apology for somethin really dumb I did--because I realized it perpetuated the stupidity as much as the first post, although it was necessary at the time. The right people have been apologized to. But it doesn't mean I'm not still sorry. Oh boy. Good golly, what a day yesterday. It was like that line in Murphy's Romance--the main line just busted. Spent more time in cabs sobbing hysterically and piss-drunk than I expected, although frankly, what the hell *did* I expect: this week has been some kind of wild learning experience and reminder that life doesn't get any more manageable just because you have more of it under your belt. Also that I am human, and that there's an equal and opposite reaction for EVERYTHING (I really do believe that applies outside of the physical world too), and ...more freshman year thoughts about the unfortunate role the ego plays in things...
Okay, back to cranky impersonal cultural ramblings. Jane Powell (?) yes - warbling away in Royal Wedding in the bedroom. God, I hate her voice. Just before that was the very end of On the Town and my favorite favorite bit -- the sleepy longshoreman who opens and closes the film with the "I feel like I'm not out of beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed yet!" little aria. It's just a little too worldly-wise, that thing--somebody who knew way too much about life had to have written it. Was it Lenny himself or the people remaking the musical for hollywood tastes? It's genius. Plus it's great fun to sing. The flourish is the guy *waking* himself up.
I think I need to go read Auntie Mame. Been a while since I had a nice little Patrick Dennis orgy. Auntie Mame and hydrate.