The Transporter Couch

Oh, and I neglected to mention that Aretha (the cat) (not the dusky-hued songstress) is completely freaked out by the balloon. She woke me up this morning, pawing my face, and yowled and yowled. I pushed her away for a while but I had to get up eventually. I reckon she yowled all night but since I was passed out drunk I was oblivious. So finally I dragged myself out of bed and she LED THE WAY to the balloon! And she stared at it with her tail straight up in the air and made this hideous noise and it was loud and clear, in cat language, “WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT THING AND WHY IS IT IN MY LIVING ROOM?”

I’ve managed to endear myself with the folks at Cuvee. (Hmm, endear with? endear to? whatever) I mean, we all are friends now and so I was lucky to get invited to a party last night at the proprietor’s house.

Now I have to set this up properly. Carolyn Walls died. God rest her soul. (And I understand it was a hard hard death.) And I got that news exactly three minutes after I accepted the invitation to come over Monday night for fajitas. And in the ensuing fray of my weekend I FORGOT the party invitation. Carolyn was not really a friend but she was my friend Carla’s sister and out of respect and deference I went to the viewing yesterday afternoon. And there, I ran into Hilda. And Hilda, who is one of the most beautiful women in the world, is quite shy, and she sort of clung to me. So after we left the funeral home we went DIRECTLY across the street to Lincoln Street and consumed Moscato d’Asti. Quite a bit of it. And then Hilda said, “aren’t you going to a party tonight?” And I thought, “SHIT! Yes I’m supposed to go to a party!

Well two glasses of Moscato d’Asti do not make Brian drunk, but I was certainly lit up. Hilda and I left the funeral home at about 5 and then went to have a drink and we sat in the “front living room” at Lincoln Street, which was once upon a time a house. Lincoln Street is, first and foremost, comfortable. We sat in the front living room and I closed the doors so it was quiet and we both had a little cry and then we talked about many things and Shawn came in and refreshed our glasses and shut the door behind him, and then we laughed about stuff and it was the perfect counterpoint to viewing a dead friend. So I was actually in a pretty good mood.

And then I went to Len’s house, and driving there I got lost…. .LOST in a podunk town! But I found my way, and suddenly it was a party.

Present were: Sheila and her boyfriend Terry, Jen and her boyfriend Matt, Julie and Lance (married), Sherry, Len, and myself. We were the singles threesome. Len’s wife and daughter are out of town so he was only tangentially single.

At some point I was talking sort of across the room to Terry about driving fast cars. It was a GUY moment and I was enjoying it, but busy doing that I missed some larger conversation about “juicy tits.” That became a recurring theme of the overall conversation last night.

There was lots of food! AND… AND!!! I drank about 483 margaritas. I think that was where I was ultimately going with this post. I feel like shit. I haven’t even summoned the courage to look at myself in the mirror. I’ve walked past one eleven times and just don’t look. I know WHERE my car is but more important than where it IS is where it IS NOT, which is….. here. And I have to go to a funeral in 2.5 hours and it’s raining and I feel like shit and loook like shit and don’t really want to go. Maybe I should blow it off. Maybe I should send an elaborate wreath and a condolence card. Maybe I should muster the troops and put myself together. Maybe I should have breakfast …… .no….. well maybe some watermelon.

The party last night was sort of a double party. Sherry is going to Australia for a month and leaves in about a week. So it was a bon voyage party for her. And I turned 40 in December and ….. well that being the holiday season and all those folks being busy, no one took notice of it. So it was sort of a birthday party for me. It was sweet. It was nice. It was alcoholic. We ran out of lime juice so Jen and Sheila went to the store to get some and came back with this helium birthday balloon (that if you touch in the right place makes noise, not unlike some people I know) and some watermelon, which I had been craving. That was extra sweet of them, no pun intended! But I haven’t dived into the watermelon yet. Nice watermelon, all cut up and seedless and in a little container!

The balloon is sort of creepy. It reminds me of Terrence Stamp. It’s pretty big …. biscuit shaped, about 18 inches in diameter and 6 inches thick, metallic, helium-filled (it’s on the ceiling now) and metallic in color. It says “BLOWS YOUR MIND! ANOTHER BIRTHDAY!” and depicts a blue face wearing weird glasses with confetti exploding out of his brain. And did I mention it sings?

My complete and total incapacity to focus this post is sort of annoying, to me at least. The wages of sin …. as they say… is death. I’ve never understood that subject/verb disagreement though it was at some point explained to me. Anyway, all it indicates is that I’m hung over, and pretty majorly.

Have a nice day

I had wood this morning. Not like that doesn’t happen but it just would NOT go DOWN! It was, frankly, a nuisance. I had things to do! Places to go! People to see! I had to pee, for god’s sake and HOW DO YOU DO THAT when your unit’s at attention? I kept waiting and waiting but there it was staring at me with it’s single little eye. It rained all night. Maybe that’s why.

I suppose I could have worse problems.

OK I take it back. I AM going to be prolific today.

Once upon a time my little sister said, after coming out of the bathroom, “I didn’t get a clean pinch.” That was hilarious. And then recently a friend said, “you can’t squeeze or you’ll make a mushroom.” That was less hilarious, but apt.

I’m not a scat freak or anything. (No offense to scat freaks…. we all gotta have something!) But I do …. monitor the turd. Just to make sure it isn’t bloody or sick. Poor little thing. Wretched piece of waste. It needs love, too, doesn’t it? Well no, it really doesn’t, but it does need monitoring.

The day does indeed dawn silver. Different, but embraceable. And not a cold metal car hood but a warm metal necklace, a gift from a friend.

I wrote a LOT yesterday and today I have some obligations so I won’t write anything at all beyond this post.

I know I know you’re tired of it but I’m on this Robbie Williams kick. It’s resonating with me. One lyric (that hell, maybe he himself pilfered, I can’t say) is “I’ve got so much life running through my veins, going to waste.” And later in that same song, “I’ve got so much love, running through my veins, going to waste.” And later, “I can’t give enough.”

They’re lyrics in a complicated song and they’re just “bit” actors but they really resonate with me.

All my life all I’ve ever hoped for is that when people see me coming, they’re glad.

And I think, by and large, they are. In a way, my personal troubles are about responding to when that doesn’t happen. Once you bust that layer. Once you make someone glad to see you. Once that happens, is there an obligation? I don’t think so. I think being good is its own reward and that sounds smarmy and notecardish but I think it’s true. But the question remains, if you’re kind to someone is there any further obligation? I say, No, that kindness its own reward. What do y’all think?

I want to drive in the New Mexico desert and listen to Ulrich Schnauss.

Oy! Once again…… good food, tooo much wine. Cuvee. Thanks Len!