ingredients:
creme fraiche (open, expired)
gruyere (long open, very old)
prosciutto (unopened, very old)
pesto (open, almost empty, of mysterious origin, clearly ancient)
pappardelle (nontoxic pasta balls, safe bet)
parmigiano (open, probably nontoxic)
the odds are against us. but my bright college years as a slop-chef resulted in a tasty, drunken meal. in the end, we will be able to blame the alcohol anyway. moral of the story: maureen needs to snap out of her sulky summer depression and clean out the fucking refrigerator. where is megan? where have all the maids gone?
in other news, i will be back in the states on tuesday. all of you should call me as soon as i have a phone. if you are in france and haven't been invited to my costume picnic on sunday, you should call me, and then come.
dorothy got a new home today. she will be missed, though probably not by her true owner who completely abandoned her. in case you don't know, her name is elizabeth and her negligence is legendary.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
faut pas faire pleurer les filles!
it's one-thirty in the a.m. i just made some pasta for mo and me. it was delicious, but, like the alcohol we drank, it comes with a price. we are almost guaranteed to be ill. we will wake puking. but it will have been worth it.
Monday, May 29, 2006
carmen sandiego is hot.
i'm a bit tipsy in a café i dont recognize with some people i dont recognize. they're talking about films i don't recognize and making esoteric references that end in a hearty, echoing laughter i can barely stomach. the lighting is sick and yellowish, reflecting off brass banisters and in huge, brass-framed mirrors. the dull bright has me feeling trapped in one of those going-crazy van goghs, so i grab the girlie by the wrist and we ditch these fucking potato-eaters for a starry night. but what to do?
thankfully, my folks are in town for some reason, staying at some ritzy hotel in a neighborhood full of post-game celebrating spaniards. we run up the spiral staircase to the hotel room. knock. no dice. but there's some free tour bus about to leave from the lobby, so we hop on in and move to the side-by-side twin beds in the back of this triple-wide monster. i lay on my back and watch basketball on the giant ceiling-mounted plasma screen. she gives me head as i watch the playoffs, all the while trying to hide my mounting anxiety that the tour is about to end as a robot-voice announces all our stops: "république...châtelet...grands boulevards." crazy fucking trajectory but whatever. my tour, orgasm, and basketball game end in a well-synchronized fashion, and as we make out way out the double doors i get a phone call.
it's jason, who is apparently now working out of his apartment in paris as some kind of state-sponsored rocket scientist. his parents are in town also, supposedly to help him clean up his room, which had blown up like a chemistry lab in a high-school comedy because his alpha-phase rocket detonated while he was lighting a cigarette. we headed over to his apartment to meet his parents. the place was all gray and in shambles and his marvin-the-martian-looking rocket was on the floor behind his computer chair, peeled like a banana. his parents offered to take us to dinner, and we graciously accepted. however, their car couldn't fit five people, so, naturally, we had to follow them on top of a train.
the top of the train is made of chicken wire, so it sort of hurts to hold on, but we manage. as we crawl along it like trench warfare we find a little glass box like a carrying case for a small pet. we look inside. it's a tiny french restaurant with little people inside!
so, we decide to say fuck it to dinner with jason's parents and find a way to make ourselves small enough to go to the baby resto. we hop off the train and start watching the little waiters serve the little breads. when the train passes, there is a police car waiting on the other side of the tracks (the wrong side). apparently it's illegal to have in your possession a tiny glass restaurant box. so the fuckers take us into custody. fucking pigs, man.
thankfully, my folks are in town for some reason, staying at some ritzy hotel in a neighborhood full of post-game celebrating spaniards. we run up the spiral staircase to the hotel room. knock. no dice. but there's some free tour bus about to leave from the lobby, so we hop on in and move to the side-by-side twin beds in the back of this triple-wide monster. i lay on my back and watch basketball on the giant ceiling-mounted plasma screen. she gives me head as i watch the playoffs, all the while trying to hide my mounting anxiety that the tour is about to end as a robot-voice announces all our stops: "république...châtelet...grands boulevards." crazy fucking trajectory but whatever. my tour, orgasm, and basketball game end in a well-synchronized fashion, and as we make out way out the double doors i get a phone call.
it's jason, who is apparently now working out of his apartment in paris as some kind of state-sponsored rocket scientist. his parents are in town also, supposedly to help him clean up his room, which had blown up like a chemistry lab in a high-school comedy because his alpha-phase rocket detonated while he was lighting a cigarette. we headed over to his apartment to meet his parents. the place was all gray and in shambles and his marvin-the-martian-looking rocket was on the floor behind his computer chair, peeled like a banana. his parents offered to take us to dinner, and we graciously accepted. however, their car couldn't fit five people, so, naturally, we had to follow them on top of a train.
the top of the train is made of chicken wire, so it sort of hurts to hold on, but we manage. as we crawl along it like trench warfare we find a little glass box like a carrying case for a small pet. we look inside. it's a tiny french restaurant with little people inside!
so, we decide to say fuck it to dinner with jason's parents and find a way to make ourselves small enough to go to the baby resto. we hop off the train and start watching the little waiters serve the little breads. when the train passes, there is a police car waiting on the other side of the tracks (the wrong side). apparently it's illegal to have in your possession a tiny glass restaurant box. so the fuckers take us into custody. fucking pigs, man.
Saturday, April 1, 2006
you got what i need.
grève générale:
thanks to someone's less than completely justified desire to skip school and throw half-empty bottles of eau de vie at police barricades, it took me almost two hours to go twenty minutes. the bus stop at bastille had a sign that i believe translates "fuck off," so i obediently took the one-line to châtelet, where fiftythousand people had been waiting fiftythousand minutes for a train train that wasn't fiftythousand coming. resignedly enough, i decided to climb to ground level and catch the trusty thirtyeight, which was so nonexistant that it didn't even bother to leave me a (kind) fuck off: bonne journée. so i walked home. and it was tuesday. so it was pissing like a raining cow. (CPE: cow qui pisse sur evan.)
rêve général:
i'm in the lobby of the hilton next to the big metal thing looking to pick up a girl, maybe the daughter of a businessman here on vacation, interested in an exciting weekend but too timid to make one for herself. i'll know her because she'll smoke incessantly and probably dye her hair black. as it were, i find not the daughter but the wife, and no sooner do we find a bit a shade than her hand is looking for something in my pants. an almost frightening amount of desire. i chase something with a shot of whiskey and then wake up in that big apartment on rue de rivoli that i vaguely remember breakdancing in, but this time i remember nothing. i hear mumbled chatter in the adjacent room, interspersed with laughter and a few mispronunciations of my name. a girl comes in to clean my bloody knees and to tell me that i jumped off the bridge onto the boat. "you can't say i didn't warn you." like the night before in non-dream world, i grabbed her arm to pull her in to kiss me, but she was too annoyed that i'd grabbed her arm for me to be able to go throught with it. six times in one dream i woke up to no memory but the stories i heard from other people. when I finally woke-up woke up, i remembered everything from the previous night but convinced myself that i'd dreamt it.
thanks to someone's less than completely justified desire to skip school and throw half-empty bottles of eau de vie at police barricades, it took me almost two hours to go twenty minutes. the bus stop at bastille had a sign that i believe translates "fuck off," so i obediently took the one-line to châtelet, where fiftythousand people had been waiting fiftythousand minutes for a train train that wasn't fiftythousand coming. resignedly enough, i decided to climb to ground level and catch the trusty thirtyeight, which was so nonexistant that it didn't even bother to leave me a (kind) fuck off: bonne journée. so i walked home. and it was tuesday. so it was pissing like a raining cow. (CPE: cow qui pisse sur evan.)
rêve général:
i'm in the lobby of the hilton next to the big metal thing looking to pick up a girl, maybe the daughter of a businessman here on vacation, interested in an exciting weekend but too timid to make one for herself. i'll know her because she'll smoke incessantly and probably dye her hair black. as it were, i find not the daughter but the wife, and no sooner do we find a bit a shade than her hand is looking for something in my pants. an almost frightening amount of desire. i chase something with a shot of whiskey and then wake up in that big apartment on rue de rivoli that i vaguely remember breakdancing in, but this time i remember nothing. i hear mumbled chatter in the adjacent room, interspersed with laughter and a few mispronunciations of my name. a girl comes in to clean my bloody knees and to tell me that i jumped off the bridge onto the boat. "you can't say i didn't warn you." like the night before in non-dream world, i grabbed her arm to pull her in to kiss me, but she was too annoyed that i'd grabbed her arm for me to be able to go throught with it. six times in one dream i woke up to no memory but the stories i heard from other people. when I finally woke-up woke up, i remembered everything from the previous night but convinced myself that i'd dreamt it.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
il faut me jurer de m'aimer.
(pierrot le fou taught me that a life of excitement can be so boring.)
i find myself overtame and underjudged. i yearn to make a fool of myself. all of you who constantly see me drunk: expect to see me drunker. i want to know that my friends are whispering behind my back in tones of disapproval. that i break glasses. grab asses. i want that my cheeks know the heat of embarrassment. i want you to have to justify me to people i don't know. "nah, he's all right when the spirits don't gots him."
i think i've forgotten what stories are and how they're told, or that's at least the impression i get from looking back at what i've written here. all fuzz with some minimalist narrative. woke up at the mayor's house; argued with a haughty native american. that was my week. it's all hot air except the dream about s&m incest. which reminds me.
it seems i'm throwing a party and some mean old hag demands that i fetch her some ice cream. i go halfway up the stairs where it's sitting in a big bowl. but in the ice cream is my pet mouse, who is so fat that he's just this perfect sphere with little arms and a face sticking out. he's been eating the ice cream, which worries me because it's chocolate (and because he could catch a cold). i don't have time to tend to him though, because i have to go put together a drumset really fast. which reminds me.
we now have a pet rat named dorothy. the conditions under which i was willing to approve of this adoption are yet to be met.
je ne boirai pas de ton eau.
i find myself overtame and underjudged. i yearn to make a fool of myself. all of you who constantly see me drunk: expect to see me drunker. i want to know that my friends are whispering behind my back in tones of disapproval. that i break glasses. grab asses. i want that my cheeks know the heat of embarrassment. i want you to have to justify me to people i don't know. "nah, he's all right when the spirits don't gots him."
i think i've forgotten what stories are and how they're told, or that's at least the impression i get from looking back at what i've written here. all fuzz with some minimalist narrative. woke up at the mayor's house; argued with a haughty native american. that was my week. it's all hot air except the dream about s&m incest. which reminds me.
it seems i'm throwing a party and some mean old hag demands that i fetch her some ice cream. i go halfway up the stairs where it's sitting in a big bowl. but in the ice cream is my pet mouse, who is so fat that he's just this perfect sphere with little arms and a face sticking out. he's been eating the ice cream, which worries me because it's chocolate (and because he could catch a cold). i don't have time to tend to him though, because i have to go put together a drumset really fast. which reminds me.
we now have a pet rat named dorothy. the conditions under which i was willing to approve of this adoption are yet to be met.
je ne boirai pas de ton eau.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
déviation.
"totalement, tendrement, tragiquement."
two days in the last five get an exclamation point; or maybe an interrobang. See also: colonostrophe, quotentheses, typhoid.
chapter one: Saturday
sometime around eight, before the tournament began: dizzy. feverish. something high enough to make hot feel cold. i was already commited to play so i ended up staying until one in the morning, reeling. decent luck, but i attribute that to the african wristcharm. (thanks.)
one o'clock. don't have my keys.
"don't have my keys."
"shit."
"can you meet me at home?"
"rather not."
"can you work it out?"
"yeah. hold on a second."
"you know i can't trust you when you speak in units of time."
two o'clock. enter the apartment. darkness. three lightswitches: no, no, no. fuses blown. i fumbled around with a lighter. yanked out all the fuses, rearranging them. three lightswitches: no, no, no. repeat.
two thirty. still dizzy, pukish. no. no. yes! kitchen light works. find medicine. lie down. phone rings seven times. can't get up, too heavy. where are you? come fix this. come with a cold rag and fix this.
six-thirty o'clock. sleeping, finally. pool of sweat.
six-thirty one. awake, coughing.
chapter two: wednesday
completely alien lovesickness. what is this? heavy like a fucking fever. further punctuated by utter confusion; looking at myself from the outside. who is that?
concerts are sold out. stay home to wash dishes, unthinkingly exhausting a very finite supply of hot water.
bad idea #99345: i'll cut my own hair! should be simple enough. i have clippers. (something they never tell you about clippers is that they only work on the parts of your head where you can push them against the grain. so if you have hair like mine, which just sort of juts out directionlessly, well, they only work in a few select places, leaving you ridiculous-looking.) so i'm left ridiculously-looking, but still covered in itchy hair, which i can't shower off for fear of hypothermia. fuck, fuck, fuck.
so, naturally, i vaccum myself. and the floor. file my nails. wait for the hot-water heater. completely alien lovesickness. what is this? i unintentionally water it, and it thrives (like the late-great milton, god rest his little jacinthe soul).
in a fit of something, i jump in the luke-cold shower and get the spiders off me. i dry off. dress. run to the arab shop.
a cup of tea. beers like tiny hugs. next up: pills.
"donc, tu m'aimes totalement?"
two days in the last five get an exclamation point; or maybe an interrobang. See also: colonostrophe, quotentheses, typhoid.
chapter one: Saturday
sometime around eight, before the tournament began: dizzy. feverish. something high enough to make hot feel cold. i was already commited to play so i ended up staying until one in the morning, reeling. decent luck, but i attribute that to the african wristcharm. (thanks.)
one o'clock. don't have my keys.
"don't have my keys."
"shit."
"can you meet me at home?"
"rather not."
"can you work it out?"
"yeah. hold on a second."
"you know i can't trust you when you speak in units of time."
two o'clock. enter the apartment. darkness. three lightswitches: no, no, no. fuses blown. i fumbled around with a lighter. yanked out all the fuses, rearranging them. three lightswitches: no, no, no. repeat.
two thirty. still dizzy, pukish. no. no. yes! kitchen light works. find medicine. lie down. phone rings seven times. can't get up, too heavy. where are you? come fix this. come with a cold rag and fix this.
six-thirty o'clock. sleeping, finally. pool of sweat.
six-thirty one. awake, coughing.
chapter two: wednesday
completely alien lovesickness. what is this? heavy like a fucking fever. further punctuated by utter confusion; looking at myself from the outside. who is that?
concerts are sold out. stay home to wash dishes, unthinkingly exhausting a very finite supply of hot water.
bad idea #99345: i'll cut my own hair! should be simple enough. i have clippers. (something they never tell you about clippers is that they only work on the parts of your head where you can push them against the grain. so if you have hair like mine, which just sort of juts out directionlessly, well, they only work in a few select places, leaving you ridiculous-looking.) so i'm left ridiculously-looking, but still covered in itchy hair, which i can't shower off for fear of hypothermia. fuck, fuck, fuck.
so, naturally, i vaccum myself. and the floor. file my nails. wait for the hot-water heater. completely alien lovesickness. what is this? i unintentionally water it, and it thrives (like the late-great milton, god rest his little jacinthe soul).
in a fit of something, i jump in the luke-cold shower and get the spiders off me. i dry off. dress. run to the arab shop.
a cup of tea. beers like tiny hugs. next up: pills.
"donc, tu m'aimes totalement?"
Thursday, February 16, 2006
excerpts.
"pencil me as an adventurous and felicitous cat; hardly anyone knows me better than this."
"je me suis pris un rateau
trente-six chandelles sur le gateau
on a fait l'amour sur un bateau
mais ton amour tombait dans l'eau.
"women don't say know with their hands. they say no with their mouths."
"who will be the fastest to recover?
the one who's first to find another lover."
"you'd think that these days nobody outside the clergy could make it past sixteen with a hymen."
shortly after arriving in paris last year, my hard drive exploded. it didn't crash or malfunction or any sillily such euphemisms. i plugged it in, it made a blam! and then smoke came out of it. i lost all my documents, hundreds of pages of writing, hundreds of albums of music. luckily i had copied all of the documents onto a laptop. its drive crashed a few short days later. chagrin!
"i'm not the devil, but I possess you."
"emotional insurance
the best kind of assurance
i can't spend money, but honey
i can sure spend time on you."
and all the things i've forgotten to write down.
"je me suis pris un rateau
trente-six chandelles sur le gateau
on a fait l'amour sur un bateau
mais ton amour tombait dans l'eau.
"women don't say know with their hands. they say no with their mouths."
"who will be the fastest to recover?
the one who's first to find another lover."
"you'd think that these days nobody outside the clergy could make it past sixteen with a hymen."
shortly after arriving in paris last year, my hard drive exploded. it didn't crash or malfunction or any sillily such euphemisms. i plugged it in, it made a blam! and then smoke came out of it. i lost all my documents, hundreds of pages of writing, hundreds of albums of music. luckily i had copied all of the documents onto a laptop. its drive crashed a few short days later. chagrin!
"i'm not the devil, but I possess you."
"emotional insurance
the best kind of assurance
i can't spend money, but honey
i can sure spend time on you."
and all the things i've forgotten to write down.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
plaqué.
i guess this is my first valentine's day alone since i was old enough to be together. for fear that i might actually not care, i spent yesterday compiling a heartbreaking playlist, beating hours of jiltitude into my tiny head. in effect, i managed to convince myself that i was still in love, that i wasn't capable of it, that i prefer masturbation, and then that gravity didn't exist. it is, you know, just a theory. no one in iceland believes in evolution. and vice versa. some lowlights...
1. Roy Orbison - Crying
2. The Smiths - I Know It's Over
3. Patsy Cline - I Fall to Pieces
4. Jacques Brel - Ne Me Quitte Pas
5. TV on the Radio - Don't Love You
6. The Broken Family Band - You Broke My Fucking Heart
7. Bob Dylan - Don't Think Twice, It's Alright
8. Magnetic Fields - No One Will Ever Love You
9. Beat Happening - I've Lost You
10. Carla Bruni - Quelqu'un M'a Dit
11. Silver Jews - Random Rules
12. Hank Williams - Lovesick Blues
13. The Velvet Underground - Pale Blue Eyes
14. Love - Live and Let Live
15. Otis Redding - I've Been Loving You Too Long
16. The Sixths - As You Turn to Go
and much, much more!
saint valentine was beheaded i think. so, in his memory, tonight we shall drink whiskey and watch the texas chainsaw massacre.
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