The Outer Child

A letter written to the very vegetarian Audrey, whose imagination astounds me always:

“There is this one thing, and I have neglected to tell it to you throughout 2004 at least, and possibly longer. I can’t see how, but it’s true. Several years ago, a commercial came out with a little girl, waking up her parents on Christmas morning. Santa’s been most generous. There are toys floor to ceiling and a box of puppies. Dad says, “Those must’ve been *some* cookies you left Santa.” The little girl twist her hands in the air. She says, “I didn’t leave him cookies. I left him CHEESE.” Now it’s a funny thing, seeing someone else be you, but that little girl is me. Even though she’s not. She’s me. I love seeing me vivacious and scheming.

“Thus, I should have called you immediately, and how did I not, when I first saw the Oscar Meyer bologna commericial in which one little girl is you. She’s you, in one of your simply joyful moods. She even resembles you a bit. And when she holds the bologna sandwich up to someone off camera and makes a distinctly Audrey-y face, I wish the bread held something not made of snouts.”

One Way Or Another

My smoking buddies are in their mid-twenties, and one of their favorite hobbies is to bring up songs from the seventies and early eighties that have context in my life but not theirs. Ten minutes ago, they regaled me with selections from “Grease.” I hate this movie with my whole black heart, hate everything about it. Hate it. They were hoping one of these songs would get stuck in my head and I’d be whining about it until Hell froze over. Instead, I bet they’re fighting the urge to sing along with the Olivia Newton-John songs repeating on their mental jukeboxes. Ah, revenge.

Zoom Zebbatab

Too much to do and too little time, or at least too little uncommitted time. Yesterday, a Jonathan Richman fan blog re-published one of my Altrok articles about seeing Jonathan at the Court. This is the third time since September that I sat still and publication came to me. It’s a strange feeling. Too bad the fee is a link to Altrok and all the glory I can nibble.

An A Halo Called Fred song stuck in my head. Oh how I love those boys.

I’m in a bit of a mood since last night. Fired off a snarky email at the public art group that’s been sending me event announcements. They know me, I suppose. It’s just too weird to be singled out and turned into a target, not a comrade-in-arms.

Or are you just happy to see me?

It’s true. I’ve been avoiding you, which is to say me, and blogging. I’m engaged in a semi-rational part-time job search and a semi-reasonable new home search, and a semi-authentic search for a new life. All of it is too ridiculous to document semi-publicly, where I would have to call me on my true lack of effort. And I hate me, when I keep hanging up on us both.

So. How’ve you been?