Dear reader, does today find you in a sort of moribund and morose post-holiday malaise, wherein you question the unnecessary ordering of holidays such as they are to provide you with a blast of shining goodness and then allowing you to slide back into the morass of everyday life? Oh dear, it makes me sigh so. Down come the shiny baubles and trinkets and doo-dads reminding you of a fat man slithering down your chimney and the shiny twinkle of light-wrapped trees.
I know you have burning questions as regarding my last blog post so lets get to it: no, I did not ever find out what happened with regard to that van of women. I do not know who kissed me. It has kind of made me sad but there's not much say about it. I ran into Sprinkles on the apartment walkway the other day and he seemed curious, unable to look me in the eye, muttering something about 'under the advise of my probation officer I'm off to a meeting'. I looked at him and said "Oh, well what about that van of women?" and I swear his eyes began to tear up - most likely due to the memory of what we experienced that night, which he can recall and I sadly cannot. He stammered for a second and then said, as if it were well-rehearsed "I'm sorry. I don't know what you're talking about. I don't think we can be friends" and then he got in his little Chevette and motored away. Very curious indeed. It's not particularly painful I suppose, I happen to be cut from a slightly anti-social cloth as it happens, this is the purview of the true artist, but still having a neighbor friend was a possible prospect that I considered for the coming year. Ah well, gone, like a puff of smoke.
On the actual holiday I woke up and played guitar, ate some cereal, wandered absently around the apartment with my bathrobe open. I live alone so I have that luxury. I decided that maybe the best thing to do would be to clear my head and enjoy the fresh air so I went to the mall. The cineplex was packed - everyone was all a-twitter about some movie that's the sequel to Titanic (? is that right?) but I could have cared less: I was going to see sweet Sarah Jessica Parker in "Did You Hear About The Morgans?" which did not disappoint in any degree. It was light, funny and charming which had the effect of drinking two cosmopolitans in quick sucession which is funny because that's my drink of choice after watching so much Sex in the City lately which naturally stars SJP. Perhaps you're judging me, thinking "hmm, Taffy that's not the most manly television option is it?" and I'd like to tell you that my response is: "Sir, I am an artist. I go where the heart takes me not where you're demographic literature and pinwheels and concentric graphs do". After the movie was over I wiped my tears with my popcorn napkin and sat up: the theater was empty. Noting my tears and sobbing body, an employee said: "Are you okay?". I took a deep breath and said: "I'm fine. I've just watched an amazing piece of cinema. That's all". The employee didn't quite know how to handle me so he merely said
"You're gonna have to go".
I got up and went back out to the ticket counter.
I cleared my throat and knocked on the glass. I said with a glint in my eye and Christmas spirit rushing up my body:
"One for "Did You Hear About The Morgans?" Please".
The ticket employee shot me a look, she could tell that I was in the throes of cinematic rapture, humming and vibrating with a sort of etheral charm.
She said "Didn't you just see that?"
I looked her in the eye and said "Yes m'lady. I most certainly mother-effing did"
No comments:
Post a Comment