Je m’inquiète pas si vous vivez ou mourez. Je m’inquiète seulement de la vitesse de mon roadster.
(I care not whether you live or die. I care only for the speed of my roadster.)
Tag Archives: imaginary friends
Le petit Manoir
Mon nom est Melvin. C’est ma maison. Enviez-moi!
Spring
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… is so slow to arrive in Berlin. I refuse to leave the house until i can exhale sharply without producing a puff of steam. So what is there to do but stay home get drunk and write lists like this one:
Things I Should be Doing- making a chicken and pepper wrap with melted cheese, watching some liposuction on the surgery channel, calling up random strangers and singing them a couple bars of “I’ve Got You Under My Skin”, working out pent up hostility by smashing coffee cups on my balcony (it keeps my collection fresh at any rate), and returning to that scrummy dream i had this morning (SEXSEXSEX).
Well, before I could rot in my own filth, Steele decided I needed a good spring airing. As if a look at his tanned smooth calves isn’t refreshing enough! So he got us two tickets to a Yankee game. We spent the afternoon in Manhattan, eating pizza in the Village and handing out Bruschettas to homeless people. You should have seen them press their scabby fingers to their eyes when he flashed his blinding grin! Then we made our way over to the stadium. Steele was engrossed in the game- I was eyeballing the hot dog boy while the infielders plucked at their gonads and the afternoon went lazily by. The Yankees won of course, to some other team that did not have those charming pinstriped uniforms.
smooch
Thel’ About Town
Last week was March Madness here in Epsom Square. This year’s theme was “Diversity” so they had booths for ethnic foods like burritos, falafels and even Jumbalaya. I usually bake a marble cake or chocolate chip cookies but Flora and I decided even with chocolate swirls it wasn’t very ethnic. I did find a nice lamp at the antiques table though. It has a shepherdess sitting at the base with a lamb, listening while a shepherd plays to her with his miniature guitar. I go for the old fashioned stuff. I also bought my son a tie from Hypno-ties with an American flag on it. Come to find it has little skulls on it instead of stars. I didn’t want to make a fuss on such a fine day, so I just dropped it in the clothes drive box on the way home. People who can’t even afford ties probably won’t mind.
Yesterday brought some bad news. My daughter Jessica- she is studying to be a nutritionist over at the Epsom County Community College, called and she said something about McDonalds “losing it’s market share”. Apparently the young people are going to the coffee joints instead, which I don’t understand. They charge three dollars for a cup of coffee and if you want a roll they want another two dollars and it doesn’t even have raisins in it! That’s a darn shame about McDonalds. I think they should bring back the Lobster Sandwich. I must have had ten of those a day when they came out, must have been the summer of ’92. I know because I had the corns real bad that summer and I used to sit with my feet in a bucket of salts.
It’s a good time for that great taste!
God Bless,
Thelma Haney
Portrait of the artist looking real fine
There’s my title, now all I need are some characters, a plot, and umpteen thousand adjectives, verbs, and conjunctions. Oh, and articles, both definite and indefinite. Maybe some adverbs or prepositions. Punctuation. Why, this practically writes itself!
My younger sister is writing a book. And she’s not even out of college yet. I have scarcely the motivation to write a check to my mobile service provider, and there she is, poised to be the next Eggers, Eggers, Leggo my Eggers. See, I suck. I even stole Leggo My Eggers from her. Ah Grasshopper! The student has surpassed the teacher.
Anyway, she suggested my book should be about a post-bohemian self-actualizing in the face of a life-changing event. OF COURSE she was kidding. Still, I think I’ll just write about how annoying hipsters are. Po-Boho. Huh huh, Beavis.
Oh, a few housekeeping announcements, then on with the news of the day! You may notice a strange new box on the left. A coalition force from Amazon.com seems to have installed it in the night. Please use it to buy lots of things, as hosting costs money, and so do tampons and Lee Press-On Nails.
Secondly, we have secured the services of a music critic! Mr. Howell Fairly will debut shortly. I believe he’s working on a review of the new EP by Snout, a promising group of tow-headed, tie-wearing youths. Also a real think piece entitled “Emo: Tears like grapes squashed on the supermarket floor.â€
Now for the news: Aaron tells me that some wackadoos from particularly fundamentalist-leaning states have proposed a resolution asking the president to designate a national day of fasting and prayer, so that God may shine his heavenly light of favor on America.
In other masticating developments, New Yorkers are staying home from restaurants [NYT, reg. req.]. People are opting to stay at home, eating massive quantities of cheap takeout, keening softly until they fall into a bloated slumber. Heather was just saying that the new trend won’t be Terror Sex, but the Terror 15. See, that’s obviously where the fasting and prayer is supposed to come in! “I pray my ass won’t spread as I watch all this war coverage.” Balance in all things, we say.
I checked my favorite snack portal, Taquitos.net, to see if they have any stress eating data. They don’t. But they do have this article about Krispy Kreme’s inexorable advance into Massachusetts, a topic near and dear to my ass.
Oh, for the record, we are not a bunch of bulimics just because we like to keep slim and trim and happen to have a site called Vomitola! I know the deck appears to be stacked against us, but we are prepared to be hated for our natural beauty. That’s nothing new anyway. If we don’t exfoliate, the terrorists will have won!
xxoo
The humanity
In these times of “AUGGGHHHHH,” it is somehow less appealing to natter away about boys and makeup and low-fat yogurt, but I’ll just have to give it the old college try. I just got an email about a mass “die-in” scheduled for this Saturday in the Boston Common. Hoo boy. Guess I will be avoiding that area. So much for walking uninterrupted between my house and the gym! Shouldn’t I be fit in case I’m called to serve my country? Perhaps in the Miss World pageant, or an international swimsuit model-off? Americans have the poweful Mother of All Bikini Waxes on their side. Not to mention Pilates and numerous Sephora locations. It would be a slaughter.
But the gym is depressing. Everyone stares bug-eyed at CNN on the individual TVs on the cardio machines. It is pretty hard to slack off when you’re watching marines slinking around on their bellies via a night vision cam. There is nothing you can possibly think but “Damn, do I have it good right now. Now I must PAY.” So everyone is limping pitifully when they get off the machines. And no one is obviously picking each other up, phooey on terror sex.
My actual opinion about current events changes every 10 or 15 minutes. I am in no way an accurate barometer of American pacifism or jingoism. Right now I’m wavering in the camp of “Enough of this shit, I’ll personally go over and rip off some moustaches and berets.” Just get it over with. I know people who are serving in the middle east, and I’d quite like to get them back. The TV news is also stepping up Iraqi human rights atrocity footage. The best story so far was unquestionably the human meat grinder with direct outlet to the sewer. You have to wonder how much is true, but Barbara Walters has recruited a prodigious amount of people with hideous scars. I am certainly all for ending torture (who isn’t! Well, maybe Barbara Walters.), but we are establishing a dangerous precedent of intervention, and we all know that Iraqi human rights are not the real motivation for this war. Ugh ugh ugh.
Oh, what was I talking about? Makeup! Yes. I may have to totter over to Sephora at lunch and spritz myself with various fragrant potions ’til I reek like a French whore. Or I could just sniff this whiteboard cleaner….mmm tolulene. I believe that’s the stuff that melts styrofoam.
Ah, but let’s not forget my real port in a storm! Heather has introduced me to Steele’s twin brother Sloane. Sloane is a pillar of the community. He looks good in bike shorts. He makes a stunning spring vegetable risotto. Sloane is always available for consultation on matters of fashion. He plucked my eyebrows the other day, and I must say he uncovered a natural arch I never thought possible.
xxoo
Thel’ About Town
You probably all know that our boys are about to go to war, God Bless ’em. Licketysplit and Lambchop want to know, “what is America thinking?!” And darned if they didn’t ask me, Thelma Haney! Now I don’t know much about politicking, but I can tell you all about life here in Epsom. Even with Mr. Haney gone (God rest his soul) life here is pretty exciting. Just last week my niece wanted to take me to dinner, and I had just seen an advertisement for a shrimp platter at the Ground Round on the TV! I don’t normally go in for a fuss, but I like to spoil myself now and again, so off we went. As I was driving home in my Buick Skylark, I passed the neighborhood arcade, where all the youths go to play the pinball, and it looked like the whole P.T.A. was out there protesting. Apparently, the young people of this town use the arcade as a meeting place to go out into the woods and drink alcohol! I am not really clear on what became of the matter, but my good neighbor Flora said it had something to do with Heavy Metal music.
This afternoon I was down the beauty shop to give Rosie all my soda can pull tabs for all those poor kids with leukemia, and I decided to have my usual wash and set. And she told me that George Clooney would not be present at the Oscars this year because he is a terrorist. I was shocked! Handsome Dr. Doug Ross, I told her it can’t be true. He’s a Kentucky boy! So I was out in the yard reading my papers (Flora gives me her Enquirers when she is finished with them), and that was no baloney. Rosie is known to exaggerate, but it said right there, George Clooney to be barred from the Oscars. It’s a shame when a handsome boy goes bad. I better call up my son and make sure he is keeping up with his studies.
Good day from Epsom,
Thelma Haney
These are a few of my favorite things
Steele’s favorite hobby might be bouncing the pectoral muscles of his well-oiled torso, but he is a man of culture, too. The other day we went to see the Malevich show at the Guggenheim. Which day? Wednesday, the free day!
I was trying on dresses at the Chinese shop down the street. He does not have a changing room, but he set a wooden screen in the middle of the shop for me. I happened to be wearing stockings and garters as I slung my dress over the top like a james bond villainess. People were swanning in and out, to buy tea or ask for change for the tram. I have a feeling I should have gotten paid for this.
I am feeling underrated, underappreciated. Except by the panhandling punks in front of my door. They trail their sticky pink-eye up and down my body as they holler for change and snigger for me to take them with me. I tell ’em to fuck off and sing the happiness song to myself:
“Whenever I start to mope and pout
And there’s nothing left in my soul,
I check the toilet paper and if we’re out
I buy another roll!”
oh! Here is something else that really makes my day. Flopsy mopsy and some hardcore midgets! Rockin’!
smooch
My Boyfriend’s Back
I am so pleased to introduce you to my better half. For the last six months, generic Steele has been sailing around the Americas. He has just returned today with a marvelous tan and a little sack of worry dolls for me from some godforsaken village where they wear blankets over their heads. I am so happy to see him again! I have prepared his favorite- Pasta Primavera. Steele is a godly man. He has a chin you can stuff quarters into. Each of his locks have been individually kissed by a Florentine hairdresser. He loves Grand Marnier and takes me to every Hugh Grant movie. I am going to run around the room drawing red hearts over each of his pictures. My favorite is this one where he is holding a puppy. Not so much holding it, healing as hugging it.
Here we are vacationing in Ibiza.
smooch
A little bit country…
No, I’m not going to talk about that stupid Osbournes Pepsi commercial… Instead I want to share the latest in gay porn star country music. [Via Faustus, who is always an enchanting read, and Aaron, who is smarter than me and reads things.] I have decided that I want to hire Jeff Stryker to sing at my wedding! What do you think, “Pop You in the Pooper” should get all the aunties onto the dance floor.
See Lambchop, I can’t top Tom Hanks, but I’m always prepared to bring up the rear anyway. ow.
xxoo
Oh, P.S., I still can’t find MJ RC…. I think she has a photo shoot for www.gothharpy.com today. Maybe tomorrow?