So how was your weekend? I realize that I spend a lot of time telling you lot about my life, but you never tell me anything about yours. The whole idea of me talking up my life (such as it is) is so that you would respond in kind. That way, it’s less about me being attention-starved! Let’s hear it for reciprocation!
I’m listening to the new Radiohead album. If you haven’t bought it yet, then why the hell not? It’s wonderful. I’m utterly shite at describing music in any sort of descriptive way (I’m limited to “breezy power pop” and “Bacharach-esque”), and this new album confounds me, so I won’t bother to explain it beyond saying that it is incredible. Go to your local record store, find the listening kiosk, and give it a go. Go on. I’ll wait here.
Okay, so wasn’t that good? And while you were at the record store, you bought the new De La Soul album, right? Good boy/girl. I’m so proud of you.
So I house-sat this weekend, and I’m not sure if I’ll do it again. It was pretty easy back in college when I still lived in Hyde Park and my social life revolved around DOC, the Med, and Jimmy’s, and in that order. But I actually found myself wanting to mooch about town this weekend. I settled for browsing at 57th Street Books, picking up guys at the Co-op liquor store, and pricing disposable razors at Walgreen’s. I have to say, I looked pretty damn hot Saturday afternoon — my hair was appropriately tousled, Elvis pendant swinging from my neck, holding a Winston in one hand and a plastic Walgreen’s bag in the other. Ooooh, girl, hold me back.
I bought this great pair of old lady sunglasses from Walgreen’s. They’re glam in a sort of geriatric way — I should probably dab a little Ben-Gay behind my ears and go out looking for men at the local cafeteria wearing my most festive pair of platform Easy Spirits. Better yet, I could wear those heels that you could play basketball in. Not that I would ever play basketball, let alone in heels, but it’s nice to know that engaging in such activity is a viable option.
While I was getting ready for my shower Saturday afternoon, I kept finding cat hair in the strangest places. I made sure to scrub extra hard, as I had a birthday party to attend. Michael’s, to be precise, so you know I had to look good. And there was no way I’d go covered in a thin layer of cat hair. Number 1 reason being that people are allergic to cats. And there was no way in hell that even I’d be able to play off the cat hair as a fluffy boa.
Which brings us to Sean Ewert’s fabulous Wicker Park apartment. Lots of people and lots of booze — picture a card table groaning under the weight of bottles of gin, Cointreau, vermouth, cranberry juice — it looked divine. The people were divine. All sorts of fabulously dressed people looking *HOT*. Me, possibly less so if only because I wasn’t wearing heels. Also, there was this guy lying on the couch and puking into a waste basket for most of the night. But there you go. It was too dark to wear my new sunglasses, so I kept them tucked into my shirt, whipping them on at a moment’s notice to do my Jackie O./Jackie Susann impersonation. I should have brought my cigarette holder.
There was a survey available to revelers, asking questions such as the following:
- “Who stole the kishka?” (I didn’t know)
- “Who shot J.R.?” (best answer would be Kathy’s: “that skinny ho with the big lips”)
- Peaches or Herb? (I picked Peaches) 4. illustrate your relationship to any number of pop culture icons, including but not limited to: Carrie Bradshaw, Jo from “The Facts of Life”, Bill Clinton
Afterwards, we repaired to Cinnabar for more dancing. Well, other people did, anyway. I began to schvitz as soon as I got past the bouncer. I gamely wiggled my ass, knocking over people’s overpriced drinks in the process. Say what you will, but Fendi baguettes and their ilk are easily worth the amount of money that Trixies pay for them. It’s hard to look fabulous at the club, swaying your glass of champers in the air like the hip hop videos, when you’re carrying a bright yellow messenger bag. A yellow bag for a yellow girl . . .
I love this bag, but it always feels like I’ve slaughtered Big Bird for his valuable pelt. Those bastards from the Children’s Television Workshop are after me, as always. Which is just as well, as I blame them for the identity crisis from which I’ve suffered since childhood.
Sometimes, I think I’m Ernie. Ssssssssssssh.
Seriously, when you think about it, we are the same person. We both shared a room with a grumpy, tall, yellow person — him with Bert, me with my older sister. We are both silly. We are obsessed with ducks. We look pretty good in horizontal stripes. And we are both *great* dancers.
Fuck this Charo shit, I’m going to be Ernie for Halloween.
Back to Saturday night. I bid my adieus to as my people I could find, then took an expensive taxi back to HP.
I never do anything new on Sundays, so there’s not much to say. Bought some new music, like the aforementioned radiohead and De La Soul discs. Again, you must get these. They’re so good. Also, The 6ths’ “Hyacinths & Thistles”. Life, music, and the creamy, garlic shrimp pasta at Pizza Capri are all wonderful, lovely things. I’ll be at home tonight, watching telly and eating tuna fish sandwiches. Please feel free to come over, as I’d love the company and you can help me plan my Halloween costume. It’s going to be so much fun.
PS: I often leave words out of my sentences, like:
“I saw Michael the other. He was resplendent in billowing rayon.”
You have to guess that I meant to say “other day” or “other night”. I would ask one of you to copy edit the flip front for me, but then that takes out all the surprise of getting a new one. Until then, suffer my grammatical errors and love me just the way I am.
PPS: I found “Night Time Is The Right Time” by Ray Charles — do you guys remember that episode of “The Cosby Show” where the Huxtables do a little number to that song? So cool.
PPPS: The only things I’ve eaten today were an ice cream sandwich and a bag of pork rinds. I am such a rock star.