So, I apologize for not posting for so long, but you know. You know. Life is difficult, there is a dead goldfish involved, women in aqua halter-top bathing suits appear on your lawn wearing a pink innertube around their waists preparing for a photo shoot. I had not requested any aqua-suited women or pink innertubes, and I certainly had not requested that anyone slaughter my friend Raoul's goldfish, which he had left with me for Safe Keeping, just because I had my back turned to take a tequila shot. O lord, no. But the next morning the goldfish is quite palpably dead, and Kenneth from Radio Shack is telling me that someone was picking it up with chopsticks. Good God. We buried it with no small ceremony in the yard, pouring its gooey remains from a strawberry-banana yogurt cup into a shallow grave, chanting aquatic words in Latin. Then I threw up three times in the bathroom and everyone heard, even though I had the water rushing like fucking Niagara Falls in fucking tribute to the fucking fisssh. O fissssh, I thought, how delicious you would taste to Gollum! Then I curled up in a small ball on the floor. I thought my vomit tasted of stale water, which it did, because it was alcohol minus the alcohol. Which is ga-ross, no matter how delicious you say it is in cookies, or pasta sauce, or stirfry.
As for the Anonymous Guy -- I know you're all waiting eagerly for the details -- the bastard stood me up. I have no idea what color hair he has. I imagine it's the color of excrement, actually. I was waiting outside that goddamn restaurant for forty-five minutes, and I looked gorgeous, lemme tell you: eggshell silk thigh-length sheath with knee-high pewter-colored boots and a necklace made out of huge knobbly freshwater pearls, each one seriously the size of a Brussells sprout. AND three silver bangle bracelets and white iridescent eyeshadow AND my hair was standing out around my head in an amazing puff like Laine's from the Baby-Sitters' Club. But, no goddam Anonymous anyone. So I went inside and ate tiramisu and drank dry white wine as befitted my outfit, then wandered the streets of the city with my handbag swinging like a fucking mace and ended up smoking pot with some high school boys or something and riding up and down in some glass elevator attached to some fancy hotel. Don't get me wrong, the elevator was wonderful -- you could see all the lights of the city twinkling drunkenly beneath you and then around you and above you as you plunged earthward & lurched skyward again, and everything outside was dark and velvety and humid-looking, and the lights were as moist as some nymphet's eyes from the August humidity, and even more from the wine and even more from the pot, and one of the seventeen-year-olds (maybe he's the anonymous guy!) made out with me feebly while the other two talked about whether Tony Danza or Skeletor would win in a fight ("what if it was a battle of wits?" countered the one with glasses when the other one had made some point about physical prowess or magical powers or something -- the third one, the one without glasses who wasn't feebly making out with me, was the best one, actually, and I would have made out with him, maybe, except that I didn't really want to make out with any of them, since they were clearly seventeen and way too excited and it was probably illegal) but anyway I didn't really participate in the making out that much, so it was easy to convince them to play gin rummy with me in the hotel lobby and then they gave me a ride home in their shitty high-school-kid car that had condoms wedged between the seats, which embarrassed them, but you could tell they were just hopeful condoms that they picked up at, like, street outreach.
Anyway, if the Anonymous Guy still wants to get together, he can drop me a line at email@example.com, and if he doesn't, he can drop dead for all I care, though if he did drop dead I'd feel really guilty, actually.
In other news I went to see the Tourettes play in New Haven last weekend and they are some real fucking firecrackers. Paul's girlfriend is incredibly charismatic, even though Paul didn't come, so I got no reading on his loves, though I heard he was into the drummer. Apparently they have a new CD now, called "Life is Pretty." Cute, girls, cute. Once again, their website: www.thetourettesloveyou.com
I also had brunch somewhere and Arnaud was there. We mostly didn't acknowledge each other, but I made some joke about something and he made some appreciative comment and Lillian of course had no idea & kept giving him small passionless cheek-kisses and making little comments about his sexlessness and it was terrible and when I left he gave a little shrug and a smile and I think it might be all right.Posted by anonymousblonde at août 30, 2002 12:32 PM