“I’m tired of talking about bravely overcoming deafness and blindness all the time. Stop tapping shit on my palm, and leave me to my day-drinking. Seriously. Fuck right off, Annie Sullivan.”
~Helen Keller, probably.
The Camry is in the shop until tomorrow morning, getting some long-overdue maintenance work done. So I’m stranded in Somerville for the night. I’m taking the opportunity to rest and maybe write a little. I need to get my writing muscles working again. I’ve become the intellectual equivalent of Alfalfa on Little Rascals, so I must pump iron.
Tomorrow, I’ll drive to Max’s place, and we’ll go on a Newport trip. We’ve been checking out the mansions – one or two each weekend for the last two weeks. The architecture is often interesting, but some of the interior design is a bit too busy for me. Also, the children’s nurseries with their stiff, scary dolls sitting awkwardly in tiny chairs set off many dormant creep-out alarm bells in my mind. It’s as if the dolls are whispering to me. Where are the children? Who murdered little Ronald? Why did little Ronald have to die, mother?
So, there’s that. Then a Tom Stoppard play on Sunday, because we are cultured. I took Monday as a personal day, and I did not give a reason, because – hey – it’s personal.The truth is that I’m just planning on being out late in Providence and don’t want to rush home. But if anyone does ask me, I’ll stammer and turn red to make that person feel sorry for asking. Maybe force them to assume I have an embarrassing condition like an ass rash or I need to visit the boobs doctor.
Theory: Every once in a while, your life needs to blow up.
My car may or may not have died tonight. It seems to be alive at the moment, but it may have suffered a serious palpitation or stroke or other serious event that signifies an impending death.
I was almost home. Less than a mile. Zooming along, singing along to my Prince CD.
YOU. I would DIE 4 U.
And the Camry answered. Without a sound or a warning. I stopped at a red light, and felt the brake pressure change. Everything jammed. The dash lit up: Battery light, Oil light, and Check Engine light. Hello, old friends. I’ve never seen you all at the same time.
On my good list: The AAA operators, the guy who came to tow my car to my house, and the state policeman who waited behind my car while I crossed the McGrath Highway to the local Burger King to use the restroom.
PEE. I would DIE 2 P.
Naughty list: The two women working at Burger King who decided to close 20 minutes early, and would not let me in to use the restroom. I wasn’t planning on ever buying a Whopper in this lifetime, but I must now cast bad juju at you and all of your establishments from this day forward. I hope the cattle rise up and trample all over your kingdom, fuckers. Thanks for nothing. May you be spend a lonely evening crying into your work smock, watching a cardboard crown circle a toilet bowl endlessly like a cheap metaphor for whatever dreams you may have had in this sad, finite life.
Not how I wanted my evening to go, but I’m at peace with it. Sometimes life needs to shake you up, challenge you. Whatever happens with the car, I’ll handle it. Life will be challenging, and then I’ll figure it out.
Mike Pence. If you were to make up a name for a governor who was so goddamned no-nonsense, he looked like this hair was tattooed on for the sake of efficiency, you might just land on the name “Mike Pence.”
Mike Pence. A name you can trust, without a bunch of unnecessary vowels and syllables. All-American, like shitty reality shows, shitty sitcoms, and shit beer.
Our country needs a vice president with a name that hits hard, but with a thud like a blunt object. You want businesses to treat gays with the respect that the constitution and the Supreme Court affords them? Well, here’s a stack of bibles for ya, bucko. Enjoy the THUD of GOD. How do you like that? Mike Pence don’t play around, no sir.
We are not a nation of losers looking for handouts. Mike Pence! So all of you slow elderly losers, and smelly unemployed losers, and undateable disabled losers can go blow it out your loser a-holes. OK? OK!
The world seems mad at the moment. It seems as if every coalition formed over the last century is in danger of disintegrating. Up is down. Black is white. The worst of 80s fashion is back, and Donald Trump is a serious presidential candidate. It feels as if we’re all walking around in a shared fugue state, just lumbering forward into a pointless future, pointlessly.
None of this is new. History is rife with tales of calamity. We’re overdue for some major worldwide catastrophe.
At least it won’t be boring. I’m already on the edge of my seat.
If a member of the press asks you to answer questions about me, I hereby authorize the following descriptive terms. Be sure to pepper any list of my vast, impressive accomplishments with astonished references to my humility. I thank you. ~kc
- Diabolical Villainess
- Wealthy Socialite
- Any other adjective ending with -ly
- Brilliant Light in a Dark World
- A Book-Smart Dame With Legs That Go For Miles
- A Leggy Dame with Brains That Go For Miles
- A Smiley Dame With Gams That Belie Her Braininess
- The Brainy Gam Lady
- Humble, To a Fault
I’m boring lately. I hope it’s all for good.
My life right now consists of me getting as much writing done as possible. When I’m not writing, I give myself hell. I have about 90 pages of a first draft of a screenplay written so far. On some days, I imagine my Oscar acceptance speech and my 60-Minutes interview with Anderson Cooper. Those are the good days. The salad days.
And then, after a while, that salad turns into a soggy mush of unrecognizable, insubstantial nothing, as salad does. I don’t know what you’d call those days.
- The Overcooked Spinach Days?
- The Toothless Tapioca Days?
- The Days of The Red Pen of Harsh Self-Reproachment?
Right now I’m in the middle of a salad time, and I’m trying to stay with it as long as I can. Let’s just get this thing written. And if it turns out to be insubstantial crap that leaves a bad taste in your mouth, so be it. At least I won’t have it over my head any more. I will go out and move on with my life, which is… wait. Who am I? What am I doing?
Maybe it’s bullshit. I can’t know at this point.