The Transporter Couch

Sunday my mother is having a party.

I remember being a little boy in the arms of the maid when my parents would leave for parties, and my mother was a creation in red lipstick and powder. It’s not exactly that way, anymore. Lipstck colors change.

But she’s HAVING the party this time and she’s on extra-alert.

I think people should remember their college days when they have parties. I can’t imagine mom in college. I suspect it was all very formal.

INTERMISSION: what’s up with powder, anyway?

OK so, she’s got this party happening and I just don’t know where I fit in except to be the bartender. But am I “this is Brian, he’ll attend to your drinks?” or “this is our son, Brian, who pretends to write, and if you’re nice to him he might pour you a drink”; or “this is my son, Brian, the unemployed bartender who will see to your needs?” or “get me a scotch and soda.” I guess time will tell.

The party is for “the new neighbors.” I’ve never met them. Evidently, I will. Zeo can’t come, which is sort of alarming. Shit fire! his name as “Zeo” is so ingrained in me I can’t recall his actual name though it’s something like James or John. Don’t ask. Don’t tell. My own father’s name is James, though he goes by Jim, or Jaime. Or “Massa Walker!” Depends on the help.

Errrr…. yes, so the new neighbors mom says are quite intereseting people. And there are ….. well let’s see…. 4 sets of new neighbors. Not like they swooped in. Rather they congregated and everything’s settled down. I note that the Joneses were NOT on the list. This after the last time mom invited them to a party and they were too aloof to appear. Their loss. And quite literally, they are the Joneses. Catch up, bitches! You don’t keep up with the Joneses anymore. You keep up with the Walkers.

Seriously, it hurt mom’s feelings when the Joneses politely but firmly declined to attend her Christmas party two years ago. And they’re people of substance and can do what they want and go where they want, when they want; but they live ACROSS THE STREET and mom took it personally that they wouldn’t come to her party because it was just the local riffraff. Or so she perceived it. Anyway, she got over it pretty quickly and it was a NICE party and no one missed the Joneses.

That actually was a nice party. There were about 50 people there. Kitty came and decorated, but couldn’t stay. But Anne was here and I held my own. There was plenty of food and plenty of wine and everyone who came had a good time. This party sounds equally exciting. Probably more like 30 people. A little more intimate. And mom’s got her shit together with the menu but still I have to be the bartender. I guess my role in life is sealed *sigh*.

So I had torn apart…… er separated ….. these two lobes of foie gras and decided to do an experiment. Some I just sauteed and ate. The end. I experiemented with some little pear and port dressing that worked ok flavorwise but not texturewise. And some I poached for 30 seconds and that was a disaster. You can’t poach fat without wrapping it up first. What a mess. And some I just mashed up with some butter. And I ate it all. I still have about 1.5 pounds of it though and I think I’ll take it to Jaime at Cuvee and say “do with it as you will and serve it to the staff.” “And me.” The problem with having restaurant quality things is that you need an audience. I don’t have one. And it’s too much for me.

FYI The little pieces I mashed up with the butter…. that’s O M G delish! But you can’t just have THAT. Have it on a cracker or something with a little piece of beef or ham or something atop. Not shellfish. No shrimp or crab. And a small cracker! I hate two-bite crackers! I hate two-bite crackers. A canape should be a one-bite experience. Preferably a glorious one! These canapes with cherry tomatoes and dill feathers that look like miniature drag queens, well they’re lovely in a cookbook photo shoot but they suck as food goes.

OK I think I’m done.

I have this enormous craving for one of Rebecca Rather’s sweetrolls. Each sweetroll contains the following:

1 stick of butter
1 cup of suger
1 tablespoon of flour
raisins
glaze ( aka SUGAR )

there might be other things in there but that’s all I discern with my limited experience.

OK now I really AM done and will proceed to the kitchen.

The spring rain came. Again and again. We’re all glad for it! And the concommitant thunderstorms are fun to watch and listen to, though lightning threatens people. So, with best wishes to all, bring it.

Not sure what to do with myself. I can’t drink anymore and I fear I will seek solace in food. Or, I should say, I fear I will be tempted to do so. I had three servings of foie gras last night. But it was all I had. But it’s 98% fat. You can’t just NOT eat. And you can’t NOT afford yourself some luxuries. (Well I suppose if your life fits in a stolen shopping cart you can.) But god DAMN I had the best night’s sleep last night!

I have been so … good looking lately. And I’ve taken pleasure in that. I’m scared of getting fat again. Scared. And I was never repulsively fat (no offense intended toward repulsively fat people) but I was 17 shades of out-of-shape and I overcame that. I’m not a “lifter” or a “builder” so I just had an average body and a gut. I lost the gut. I retain the average body and I’m happy with that.

Where are I going with this? I dunno. Some storm is brewing. When I can’t think it means I’m thinking.

First, my mistake, Mr. Tarantino didn’t write, direct or produce this movie, he just “presents” it. I’m not entirely sure what that means. Once I was talking to John Winston, who is (or was) rather familiar with the film industry, and he told that “it’s always complicated to ascertain who owns the ‘property’ .” So, whatever, I apologize for being a boob.

But someone, somewhere, has a fascination with body parts being sliced off.

OK, I step back and ask myself, was this just a trash movie or is there actually a message in there? I think of the horrible things we heard about Romania about 20 years ago …. or so ….. but this film isn’t set in Bucharest. Perhaps it’s a vehicle for conveying a sense of how that whole part of the world is emerging. We’re tired of picking on the asians so why not pick on the central Europeans? In a very Hollywood, articulated way.

The girl jumping in front of the train. That sort of blended the two. She was Japanese, in Slovenia, and she was really fucked up. Irreparably, if you ask me, and she jumps in front of a train, a la Anna Karenina. Honestly, it was best. And then you stop and ask if this movie actually has a message, about how tortured a person’s mind can be.

(You, dear reader, may or may not know that many suicides in Japan involve jumping in front of a train. In fact, once, if not still, the conductor’s cabin held a “suicide clean-up” kit because it was important that trains run on schedule!)

Or is it a parody of people’s notions? A mockery at American right-wing distaste for things different? A carefully- and darkly- and nastily-crafted parody of what people think about the rest of the world. Does the author, whoever he (or she) may be, even know the images and sentiments that are stirred by appalling films? Probably.

Or is it a trash film and someone just pulled out all the stops and happened on some substance?

I’ll say this. It provoked my thoughts. But it isn’t a joyful movie to watch. I notice it didn’t last long in theaters.

I just finished watching The Hostel. It’s “Reservoir Dogs” in Slovenia, to the 5th degree. See it, if you like. I watched it. I didn’t like it. But why, one wonders, does Mr. Tarantino have this fascination with body parts being sliced away?

Who knows? Who cares? But it’s that sort of movie. Be advised.

Art is my partner in crime in this blog. It was he who put the bee in my bonnet and he who encouraged me to get into it. In some sense I owe him my life.

I met him in college. At St. John’s there are “core” groups. Classes are very small but in any given semester you will have four or five people who are in all your classes. Art was in my freshman core group. We didn’t click at first because I was kind of preppy and he was an anarchist. Yay! Then one day a couple of weeks into school, actually it was at night, I walked into the Peterson Student Center, sort of heading to my mailbox, and he was sitting on this bench, and I said hi and he said hi, and…….. I sat down and we talked for three hours.

How does that happen? We had nothing in common except that we were both prone to sarcasm. We’d come from completely different parts of the country, had had completely different upbringings. I disparaged his politics and he disparaged my pretentions. But by and by he taught me some things about politics and the ways of the world, and I taught him how to make a martini, and we’re best friends. I was his best man. Twice. Maybe one day he’ll get to be mine. Should it ever come to that, he’ll certainly be offered the job.

In a way it’s kind of weird. Art is married and has kids and respectability and while he PROBABLY doesn’t vote Republican, he does vote and he’s established and stable. I, on the other hand, well I DO vote but I’m sort of an anarchist. Interesting how things change.

oh….. my sister’s husband is named Shawn. This is NOT about him.

I had a relationship with this guy named Shawn Sutherland. Actually, to be completely honest, his name was Cleveland but he didn’t like that or any of the derivations so he went by Shawn, his middle name.

Shawn’s name came up because I wasn answering a questionairre about “whom do you most miss.” I most miss Shawn and I elaborated a little on that. But I really don’t think I did him justice. He’s departted this world, not according to plan, and doesn’t care about justice, but I continue to reside here and…. well ….. I’m a writer and I’m itchy to say something.

A couple of things, really.

First, you never met a handsomer man. tallish guy with clean cut appearance and even features and and easy smile ….. He was me with blond hair and he was taller.

He was a truck driver. His route took him from Portland to Newark and back again, but every three weeks or so he would swing throug San Antonio. And that’s when we would meet.

He would say goofy shit like, “I took some pitchers in Montana.” And I would correct his locution and he secretly enjoyed it. Though on the face of it he didn’t enjoy it.

I still can’t talk about Shawn without getting sad and emotional. I think about what a waste of time Sex in the City is. For starters it’s about women and I’m a man. But it’s …… shallow, not heeartless but shallow ….. and while its amusing it tackles things on the surface. Even Ally McBeall dug deeper. (Thought look where THAT went)

ShAwn was a beautifil man. He was big. He was dumb enough to love me. He was a rodeo star. He was a truck driver. He was horny. He had substance and ambition and dreams.

I never knew either of my grandfathers. My dad’s mom passed away when I was more or less a kid. My mom’s mom was pretty largely in my life. She died.
Shawn died.
My grandmother died …… because it was time for her to die. She was 974 years old and frankly she had given up on life. Shawn’s story is different. Except, the ending is the same. He’s dead.