The Transporter Couch

Happy birthday to Harper Lee and Sadam Hussein.

This morning, very very early I called the tortilla factory and misdialed. I called a wrong number, and I swear to god the voicemail/auto-attendent whatever it’s called answered and said, “Thank you for calling wenches.com. If you know your party’s extension blah blah blah.”

I was so taken off guard I hung up and hit redial. Yep, that is what it said. Now it might have been winches, but I prefer to think it was wenches. I’ve been giggling over it for an hour. I’d like to open a catering company / cleaning service and call it “Wenches R Us” or “Wenches 4 Hire” and hire a bunch of buxom girls to serve cakes and ale. And spitted fowl legs. Let’s not forget those.

Eric’s Birthday
My friend Eric turns 20 in three days. I call him my friend. I don’t know what else to call him. I met him when he was 10 and a little kid, and I’ve been around to witness the beauty of his youth, not entirely unlike my own. And the fallout of his reckless youth, not entirely unlike my own. But he’s not a little kid now and hasn’t been for quite some time.

I used to just be “Brian” but recently he referred to me as “my friend Brian” and I liked that. It’s peculiar. I’m 40 and he’s 20. And I’m his mother’s BEST friend (second to her husband, of course). At least he doesn’t call me “Uncle Brian” which would really annoy me. So I guess I’m a “friend of the family.”

I like Eric. Well, of course I love him like a brother but I genuinely like him and enjoy his company. If I could have a son, I would want him to be like Eric. He’s very very very very much like me. He’s enthusiastic but lazy. He takes residence in moments. He’s sort of perpetually in that in-between phase of “cute” and “handsome.” He’s gonna get fat if he isn’t careful. He’s kind, but moody. He’s sensitive and generous. He has GREAT hair! Almost as good as mine. He’s me 20 years ago. He just hasn’t quite yet learned how to work it. Which is just a different way of saying that he hasn’t learned to take himself seriously.
And why should he? Nobody else does. His parents spoiled him and I certainly am no role model and people who COULD BE role models are authority geeks that haven’t earned and don’t much deserve his trust or respect.

Eric, I can’t give you a birthday present. You have everything and you lack for nothing and anything I could hand to you would be immaterial to your life and your folks probably already gave it to you anyway. So I’m going to take you seriously. I guarantee that. I’m going to give you some advice. (Don’t you love this part?) Get out of here. The world is large and complicated and you of all the people I know can do amazing things in it. I understand you’re looking at moving to California or Wyoming.

Go.

Don’t fear that people will forget you. We won’t. You’re truly unforgettable. Don’t fear that you won’t survive. You will. You’re truly a survivor. Don’t fear that you won’t measure up to the challenges. We will support you. And you haven’t even tapped your resources. You will be amazed at the vast, deep pool of life at your disposal.
Happy Birthday! I love you.
Brian

Someone seriously recommended that I wax my arms.

My arms are hairy, but they’re not atrocious! I was very very offended.

Here’s a picture….. it’s old, but you can get the idea:
http://www.ktc.com/personal/brwrakk/desk.jpg

I’m a hairy guy, I guess. But I’m not sweaty and gross. No offense to sweaty, gross hairy guys. Some people love playing with the hair on my arms, and on my legs. And frankly, I like it when people touch me because of the hair allure. When I lived in Japan, where children in particular but grown folks as well tend to NOT have hairy bodies, I would catch people checking it out. Adults would be reserved but I can think of a couple of housewives who ached, ACHED to touch the hair on my arm. Children were less conservative and would readily touch my, I learned it was called, “fur.” And no this isn’t a Michael Jackson moment. It was just cool to observe their utter fascination with something so different.

My face is hairy, too. If I don’t shave for two days, I look like SHIT. I mean I look like I just got out of jail! But this is good. I can change my style in a heartbeat. And what’s even better is that I have GREAT hair! On my head. Completely clothed and clean shaven, the third thing people notice (after they notice my eyes and my gentle demeanor) is my hair. And I can work it. And I do. My hair, wherever you might find it, is the manliest and most beautiful thing about me (aside from my eyes and my gentle demeanor). That someone would suggest I WAX my arms …. was so completely antithetical to my personal aesthetic. Well, it was sufficiently so that I am here talking about it.

I started this post, “how do your friends cease to be your friends?” And it was sort of an attack on some people I wanted to lay blame on, and whom I wanted to accuse aof abandoning me. But the truth is I abandoned them. I wouln’t presume to conclude that they needed me in their life, but I liked them in mine and it was I who walked away from them. Regardless whether or not it was warranted, it’s on me to embrace it. To savor it. To deal with it.

I just got a little harder.

I got a little buffer, too. I tanned a bit today …. in the actual sun. I don’t tan in beds. My dermatologist tells me I have too many moles and I tell him he has too many BMW payments. For the RECORD I have lots of moles but they’re all at the surface level and once upon a time they were “harmless.” I have, rather, a whole bunch of OTHER shit going on that is expensive and I don’t need my derm horning in on my miseries let alone creating them.

Apologies.

Ya know, I know there are lots of reasons why people don’t eat butter. But when something’s billed as “rich and buttery” I want some substancee. Second to nothing, butter is my favorite food. I know it isn’t nutritious and that it’s just fat. But along with salt it is the most prolific, valuable, versatile and useful substance on the planet. And I tend to add butter anyway even if something IS “rich and buttery.” But most of the time things that claiim to be rich and buttery …… aren’t. They’re just bread. Or something.

“Buttery” is a beautiful adjective. Regarding a situation, it means that it’s pleasant. Regarding a personality, it means that someone can work it. Regarding leather it means that it won’t be cheap. Regarding food it means it will taste good. I would consider myself “buttery.” In fact, that’s the best word for me yet.

What terible news. There was NO good news. Everything across the globe was bad. Wretchedness, misery and pain. Maybe they just timed it for Monday or maybe it was just a bad weekend. I sat here for 15 minutes cogitating on my OWN Monday and all I got off the AP was wretchedness, misery and pain. I’m going to do my best to abandon it and have a great day, though the weather won’t agree.

Mom and Dad had a party last night. It was nice! It was sweet. It was to meet the Romanian next-door-neighboours. They’re not really from Romania I’m just makiing fun. I didn’t get to talk to them much so I don’t really know. I think they’re Mexican but their name is something like Aszkidnazy. Theiy’re handsome people. She’s quite blonde and he’s quite studly, in a “I am 50 years old and I have $50 million in my bank account what do you have?” sort of way. I don’t think she’s a fake blonde…. I think she’s Danish. And I don’t thinks he’s pretentious; I think he’s insecure about his accomplishments.

All in all, had a great time. Lots of good food. Plenty to drink.

The cat sits in the windowsill yowling for attention. She won’t gain entry. She is being punished for jumping on the kitchen counter. I told her if she’s gonna behave like trash she can just live outside. And I mean it. She spends the nights out anyway, why not just live out there.