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WEDNESDAY, 10 MAY, 2000, PHILADELPHIA |
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I do not like to badger a point, nor beat proverbial dead horses, so this will be the last that y’all will hear about the Battle of the Dorks from me. Actually, it’s not a battle at all. Nor is it competition. Although Lees™ may think differently, judging by this lovely leap into the dork pool. I wish to make it clear that in no way do I want to slander the name of dear Goody Pinch, who is, in my ‘umble opinion, Of Goode Timbre (OGT). The point of yesterday’s rant was to elucidate upon the Dork Within. Pinch insists I’m a gothy vampy MayfairWitch-type person. Pishposh! The closest I’ve been to Mayfair was riding my bike back from the grocery store in New Orleans and wiping out in front of Anne Rice’s “Mayfair” house — only to find her laughing at me through the kitchen window. Eggs all over the road. Embarassing as hell. That should prove me to be a dork more than a fashionable spookyboy, now that I think about it. Pinch said it best yesterday: “If suffering is indeed hip, I’m laughing through my tears, Marquis. Laughing through my tears.” And that is what it’s all about. Fun little stories of random purse hurlings on trains or accidental pokings of co-editors in the eye are amusing n’ all, but the Tru-Dork™ has many more sorrowful tales to tell. I could tell the story of when I was 12 or so on a field trip to a beach at Lake Tahoe in Nevada. And how I was hiding in the bushes all day playing with bugs. And how the bus left without me. So I thought I’d walk back to my friend’s house. Which was 25 miles away. And in the wrong direction from which I chose to walk. And four hours later as the sun was setting and I saw the sign, “Welcome to California”, the little Marquis burst out in tears on the side of the road until some nice lady picked me up. Or the three or so years in grade school when the little friendless Marquis would (again) hide in bushes at recess to avoid getting beat up and quietly read his books (“Three Investiagors”, Madeline L’Engle, Poe), until Miss Day, the towering, gnarled, marblized 5th grade teacher with the authoritative Brit accent (the predecessor to my nun-fetish, no doubt) found me and demanded of me, “Why aren’t you being social with the other children! You’ll never get anywhere in life just reading!!” “I … (shudder) … justwannareadm’bookmumble-mumble-mumble…” The book was snatched away, leaving the little Marquis (again) in salty gulps of noisy tears. Over which I now laugh heartily. “The laughter through the tears.” Suffering is, indeedy-doody, hip. Thanks be to Lisa for helping me out with more captions for my dumb Fambly Cirkus rip-off. Like this one… 
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