|
SUNDAY, 18 JUNE, 2000, FATHER’S DAY SO. CAL. |
Like, hello n’ stuff from L.A. or whatever!Okay, there are two LA’s. One with dots and it stands for Los Anguhleeze. One without dots and it stands for Louisiana. I’m in the wrong one. Actually, I’m not going to gripe n’ bitch as I am wont to do when I find myself inexplicably on the Wrong Coast. Despite being delayed a day by two canceled flights and despite the loss of my luggage and despite the oversaturation of cars and people and peroxide here, I’m having an okay time. Plane landed eventually; luggage returned eventually; people are put on the earth for me to poke fun at. And I get to see maman and dear papa and a few friends whom I miss very very much thank you. Not to mention I’m not at work. Which is a plus. The Weak Pretense™ for me being here at all is that maman is moving and didn’t want strange movers to snorfle through her underwear drawer — she’d rather have a trusted Marquis around. Maman so rarely calls upon me for favours that I cannot deny her one when she finally asks. The other Weak Pretense™ is that it’s Father’s Day and what better person to spend it with than Father? 
I done gone gave dad a painting that I have been working on for a couple of months now. I’m pleased (and even somewhat shocked) to find that the cruel airlines managed to get this glass window here without completely destroying it. But then I did pack it as carefully as if it were a rare piece of Waterford crystal and it took about 20 minutes with a sharp knife to hack through all the tape and cardboard surrounding it upon arrival.Er, uh, that’s not a portrait of papa. It’s bleedin’ Einstein, okay? Okay. Ahh, fambly stuff. I guess I secretly rue the fact that I’m so far away from most of them. 
Brother Pschtÿckque likewise made a clever little wall piece for notre cher papa for F.D./his birthday — a prezzie of a commonly-found street sign done on metal.Nice to work in a print shop. Spent the last couple of days packing maman’s house and moving shit over to the new place. It’s lucrative work because one occasionally stumbles across some item to covet and, because it’s mom, there’s a damn good chance she’ll part with it — ‘specially when it means it would be one less thing to move. “Hey mom! You’re not really reading this first edition of Dorothy Parker poems are you? It’s totally ass!” Last night was my Night Off®. I got to steal a car and go see a couple of friends from New Orleans who are living in North Hollywood now. A thought: Mom’s house is approximately 1.5 – 2 hours from N. Hollywood, and yet when in L.A., I do not think twice about the drive. “I’m just gonna pop up to Van Nuys and see Gypsy real quick,” I said without even blinking. And Philadelphia is approximately 1.5 hours from Manhattan, yet the thought of driving to NY from Philly is always a wearying thought indeed, and I seldom do it. 
So anyway, I “popped up” the 405 freeway about 60 or 70 miles to visit Gypsy and Carrie whom I have not seen in a wee fistful of years.Spent most of the night drinking in their living room, playing with the cat and glowsticks and laughing and crying and all that kind of stuff. (Gypsy, I apologise to you for constantly jumping on you. I know you probably got annoyed with it, but I couldn’t help myself.) Woke up the next morning and scurried out for a nice healthy hangover cure of Vitamin G at a local diner. It being L.A., Carrie said as we were walking in the doors of the coffee shop, “Gawd, what if we see, like, Dick Van Patten or somebody random like that?” A moment later, I notice Gypz & Carrie had fallen on the floor clutching their stomachs. “What the hell!” I queried. “Oh god, look!” wheezed Gypsy pointing across the room, “it’s Dick Van Patten!” Sure enough, there he stood, examining a menu industriously. MARQUIS: “Dick Van Patten! How the hell are ya’, buddy?”Only in Los Anguhleeze. Thanks be to brother Pschtÿckque for helping with some captions for the Fambly Cirkus, like this one…  |
   |