O Canada!
I pooped a boot.
A thousand stories
Daryl and I saw Rick and Teel yesterday. That means stories.
Evelyn: What did you do this weekend?
Joe: Went fishing in the Colorado River.
Evelyn: You went all the way to Colorado just to fish?
Joe: Evelyn, a river don’t change its name just because it crosses the state line. The Colorado’s in Texas.
Evelyn: Well. They do call me Fay in Bridgeport!
Marfa Turkeys
A delightful thread from Marfa’s version of craigslist.
For my carnivorous friends in Dallas
It’s been a while since I posted a review by my favorite food critic, Alice Laussade. So here you go.
What goes around
About 8 months ago, a 7-11 that I pass each day on my way to work got bulldozed. It was on a prime corner, and I wondered at the decision, since the store seemed always to be packed. A For Sale sign went up, “Will Build to Suit.”
About a month ago, construction began on a new building. Today it finally became recognizable.
Another 7-11.
My Egret
Some of y’all know that I recently purchased a taxidermied egret to use in an art project. Flannery took some excellent photos yesterday that will give you an idea of the outcome.
Four-year-old in Target
Grammy, Christian kicked me in the peanuts.
Rediscovering Gertrude Stein
I recently found my way back to Gertrude Stein after many years. Her writing is even more astonishing, more moving than I remembered. I plan to read her all summer.
Here are two excerpts from Paris, France.
Sarah Bernhardt made me see the thin arms of frenchwomen. When I came to Paris and saw the little midinettes and Montmartoises they all had them. It was only many years later when the styles changed, in those days they wore long skirts, that I realised what sturdy legs went with those thin arms. That is what makes the french such good soldiers the sturdy legs, thin arms and sturdy legs, if you see what I mean, peaceful and exciting.
~~~~
And then the way they feel about the dead, it is so friendly so simply friendly and though inevitable not a sadness and though occurring not a shock. There is no difference between death and life in France and that too made it inevitable that they were the background of the twentieth century.
Ask a law librarian
Couple enters, he like a gangsta rapper, she ghetto chic with long false eyelashes, long acrylic nails, skin-tight clothes, both with bling-bling and attitude.
Gangsta: “’Uuuuuhhhh, I been payin’ chile support but my baby mama doan woan lemme see m’kid whada I do?”
Librarian: “Do you have court orders givin’ ya visitation?”
Gangsta: “Yeah.”
Librarian: “Do ya woana enforce yer visitation?”
Gangsta: “Yeah.”
Librarian: “Here’s a motion t’ enforce an’ a order t’ enforce.”
Gangsta: “So whada I do, fill dis ‘ere out an’ take it t’ the court?”
Librarian: “Thas not a fill-in-the-blank form.”
Gangsta [shocked]: “Huh?”
Librarian: “They ain’t no blanks oan it. Ya gotta retype it.”
Gangsta: [as if jolted out of sleep]: “Huh? I doan un’erstand.”
Librarian [exactly the same as before]: “Ya gotta retype it.”
Gangsta: “Whadya mean retype?”
Librarian [air-typing on invisible typewriter]: “Re.” [air-typing] “Type.”
Remembering Scott, 5
From Mark.
I figured that it would be the last time I visited him. Charlene asked me to find out “what he wants.” She needs to know if he wants a funeral, and if he does, what kind of funeral. She also wants to know what kind of medical treatment he wants at the end—if he wants to be “kept alive” with medical machinery. I tell her that I’ll ask. Truthfully, I’m happy to be a part of his dying in this intimate way. So here I am now on Ross Avenue in his living room with a Chinese carved wood sculpture, an Empire sofa upholstered in dark pink silk, and a coffee table consisting of a square piece of glass resting on an antique wooden box. The house was dark and smelled like sickness, or medicine, or both, but I didn’t mention it to him. I sit in the living room while he’s in the kitchen mixing vodka and grapefruit juice and sprinkling salt into mismatched glasses. I hear him opening metal ice trays, I hear ice drop on the floor and I picture him picking up ice cubes and chucking them into the glasses and hear his internal thought “what the fuck.” Nina Simone is playing on the record player. He bought this album at the dusty old record store on Broadway, just below 8th Street, when he was in New York visiting me in January of 1978 for our 21st birthdays. Scott brings the drinks and a bag of Fritos into the living room and sets everything down on the coffee table in front of us. We played this record in my one room apartment on Tompkins Square and drank cheap bodega wine. We went to the Mudd Club and we danced with Sylvia Miles to Grace Jones’ Warm Leatherette. And now, 9 years later, we sit on the floor next to each other, resting our backs against the Empire sofa that used to be in his mother’s living room and drink Salty Dogs, and I try to find a way to ask him what kind of funeral he wants. Read more
Hey, Deron
Guy with shotgun: “You boys have any last words before I kill you?”
Butthead: “Uh. I have a couple. Butt cheek.”
Three words that I do not like
Simpatico
Copacetic
Segue
Evolution of a song
Joni Mitchell performing a raw version of All I Want in concert, 1970. For anyone unfamiliar with the final version, you can hear it here.
Dear clusterflock
How do you measure love?
Ask a law librarian
Big woman with imposing bosom: “My husband tole me he had done the divorce, but I ain’t seen ‘m in years, an’ I didn’ ever git no papers.”
Librarian: “So what is your question?”
Big bosom: “Well I been remarried. If the divorce ain’t been done, would the compooter see that I’s already married?”
Librarian: “No, it’s not automatic like that.”
Big bosom: “Uh-oh. Aw well. I guess I’m a bigamist.”
Death Bloom
Last weekend, Daryl cut down our 25-year-old sweetgum tree. Dallas soil is wrong for sweetgums; it is too alkaline and causes iron deficiencies in the trees. But the prior owners had planted one, and it was beautiful, so we fretted over it for the 20 years we have lived here. Daryl would give it iron supplements, but it always looked anemic. It was beautiful, even as it failed to thrive. Last year, though, the tree was spectacular. The leaves were a rich green, its foilage full, and we thought perhaps a tap root had broken through the alkaline soil to a richer level. We realized this spring that last year’s performance had been the tree’s death bloom. It called on all of its resources for a final showing, in an attempt to make seeds that would carry on. It used itself up in a glorious display, then died.
Ask a law librarian
Caller: “I wanna know how my son can get outta a marriage. Somebody tole me annulment.”
Librarian [robotically]: “I will read to you from the Texas Family Code section 6.001. There are seven grounds for annulment. One: underage. Two: under influence of alcohol or narcotics. Three: impotency. Four: fraud, duress, or force. Five: mental incapacity. Six: concealed divorce. Seven: marriage less than 72 hours after issuance of license.”
Caller: “They were married for 3 months.”
Librarian: “And?”
Caller: “The time.”
Librarian: “What about it?”
Caller: “The last one. Number seven.”
Librarian: “Is three months less than 72 hours?”
Caller: “What about the age thing?”
Librarian: “Number one: underage.”
Caller: “What about concealed age?”
Librarian: “No, thas six: concealed divorce.”
Caller: “What about concealed age?”
Librarian: “Naw, naw, yer confusin’ two differnt thangs. One is underage; six is concealed divorce.”
Caller: “What does underage mean?”
Librarian: “Under eighteen.”
Caller: “No, she was over eighteen. Way over. She concealed her age.”
Librarian: “So.”
Caller: [in a scandalous tone]: “She was a lot older.”
Librarian: “Bein’ older ain’t one of the categories.”
Ask a law librarian
Caller: “How much does it cost to file the petition for a name change?”
Librarian: “About two hundred twenty.”
Caller: “Per name? If I change my middle name too do I have to pay two twenty more?”
Chimney swifts
We have lived in the same house for 20 years, and each spring a family of chimney swifts nests here. As the name would imply, they build the nests directly in the chimney. They make the most wonderful sounds. The chirps and peeps are nice, but my favorite sound is the whooshing noise that comes down the chimney as they fly about. When the babies hatch, they let out loud chirps when a parent nears with food. Over the years, a couple of babies have dropped to their deaths onto our hearth. But the vast majority survive. One day we notice all is quiet and realize they have moved on. I’m always a bit sad when that happens, though I know I shouldn’t be. And we always know they will return the following year. I wonder who comes back? It can’t still be the original pair. I like to think it’s some of the babies, returning to the place of their birth, to begin the cycle again. I’m honored that they do it here. We never build a fire, so that they can keep this place.
We are about to put our house on the market, and I will not sell it unless I trust the buyers to protect the swifts.
If I weren’t a vegetarian
I’d go into a restaurant and ask, “Tengo niño back ribs?”
Note from Flannery
Mia is watching the episode of Beavis and Butthead where they go to the plastic surgeon for wiener implants.
I remembered a joke!
It’s a cartoon, actually. A tall, lanky lounge singer bird croons:
Egrets, I’ve had a few
But then again
Too few to mention
Law librarian out of context
From the law librarian’s life-life rather than her work life:
Daddy [pointing to the border collie which he has lost faith in]: “Tha’ dumbass ain’t got no more sense than a turnip. He ain’t no more a registered border collie than I am.”
Librarian: “Whad’ee do this time?”
Daddy: “Aaawww, ‘ee went down the road t’ Joyce’s house, where them new renters is livin and got t’fightin eez dog. An tha fool tried t’ pull em apart an got eez arm ripped up.” [look of contempt] “I mean, goddamn. Yer a grown ass man. An’ you doan know not to git between two dawgs? Shit.”
Librarian: “So then wha happened?”
Daddy: “Well, tha stupid sumbitch kep callin me an callin me can leavin messages on m’phone whinin bout rabies. So I got sicka tha shit an I drove over there.”
Librarian: “Yeah.”
Daddy: “An win I got over there ‘ee said ‘I’m sorry we have to be introduced in this situation.’ I said, ‘I ain’t got no situation. I tole ya over the phone tha eez gotta rabies shot. So I kin either leave ‘eem ‘ere fer you t’see if ‘ee develops rabies, er I kin put im in the truck an drive home.”
Librarian: “So thin what happened?”
Daddy: “I grabbed im an wint home.”
Librarian: “Did tha guy keep callin ya? What happened t’ him?”
Daddy: “I doan know. Eee coulda died a rabies fer all the fuck I know. I jus wanted to make sure tha he knew tha I was not concerned about it.”
Remembering Scott, 4
From my friend, M.
In the spring of 1974 I’m in our side yard outside the guest house talking to my dad, waiting for Scott who’s coming to pick me up. We hear a huge crash at our corner. The next thing I know I hear my dad yelling, “Lay down Scott. Lay down, son.” Not watching the traffic (the one other car on the street), Scott had crossed in front of an oncoming pick-up truck. Scott’s head goes through the windshield (remember the scars on his forehead?), and it’s like the car explodes. His car was spun around and jammed against the curb, glass sparkling on the ground, and the hatch back was open and stuff was scattered across Mrs. Cantey’s front yard. Scott crawls out of the car, bleeding profusely from lacerations to his head. The woman who was driving the pick-up truck was crying and saying “he just turned right in front of me, he didn’t look, oh my god.” There was a long Loretta Lynn style wig laying in the gutter and someone asked if it was a dog he’d swerved to avoid. Scott’s still lying in Mrs. Cantey’s yard, my dad’s with him telling him he’ll be ok, while I call an ambulance and his mother. I go back to the street and by now the whole neighborhood is standing around looking, and now I’m looking too. Bras, fake jelly boobs, gigantic high heels, a sequined top, wigs and other hair pieces and all sorts of drag paraphernalia are lying all over the place. By now the police are there and the ambulance. The police officer asks me if I can get Scott’s driver’s license. So I reach in Scott’s front pocket where he carried his license, 3 dollars, and a small bottle of poppers. I went with Scott in the ambulance. My dad stayed and managed the business of the tow truck, and I suppose he gathered the wigs, shoes, makeup and fake boobs and put them back in Scott’s destroyed purple Gremlin hatchback. My dad never mentioned a word about the stuff.
from the comments
I was going to have to go into this whole protracted thing about condoms and unprotected sex or salad and I just don’t think I have it in me.
