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Oh, and another thing about that commute…

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I queued up for the train as always, healing like a concession of defeat. The colder it gets, physician the larger and more desperate this mob becomes. This morning I was part of a faceless torrent of blighted souls, like a yuppie death march toward Dunkin Donuts, hunched over and lurching forward. I dropped a glove and thought I might be trampled if I bent to retrieve it.

While release from the train may be ecstasy, we are swallowed instantly by the cavern.

This is what I feel like:

OOH, congratulations to Licketysplit for achieving, uhhh, something.

-xo

Grover Sings the Blues

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He’s so anxious, and he is always screwing up. He hollers and bounces off the wall. Need I tell you how strongly I identify with Grover? I was in a cafe today and I read a Grover poem in a Little Golden Book:

when my imagination

takes me by the mind

it leads me so far, so fast

my body’s left behind

yet that’s when I am most myself

lost in wish and dream

and coming back, I smile and think

“I’m more than I might seem.”

While I was reading it, Tom Jones was howling “Boulevard of Broken Dreams” on the piped-in music.

P.S. Lately I have been feeling uneasy about working for a Firm and squandering all my dough on likker and gewgaws, especially the way I ignore panhandlers. So I have volunteered to become a Big Sister. I know you people think I am inherently incapable of anything approaching sincerity, but I really want to give some time and take a kid to the library, and rollerskating, and listen to her problems.

Oh Shut Up.

-xo

Queer Eye Hit and Run

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So I was in the thrift store today, squeezing into some pants and a tacky one-dollar belt. I was eyeballing them in the mirror when a handsome, gay man strides by and intones “that’s HOT” in that dry, world-weary mary-way. And was just as suddenly gone. Hot, eh? Aren’t gay men by definition not supposed to find things hot on me? I had more or less made up my mind not to buy anything. But apparently, Lambchop is powerless to resist the endorsement of a gay man. No wonder nice boys don’t like me.

-xo

‘Tis the Season to be Tipsy

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It was a brand new freezing day and even though I said NEVER AGAIN, I still came to work in that blighted vessel of the damned.

Last night was my swell roomate’s office xmas party. Thanks for inviting me guys, in spite of my propensity to make out by the copier! (note:I did no such thing. I don’t even think they have a copier.-ed.) Tonight is my firm’s party. I plan to chew and screw. Who needs to get drunk and chatted up by the guys from the mailroom or those screwheads in accounts payable? More to the point, I don’t need my boss to see me acting like an idiot.

Get well soon, most beloved Lickety!

-xo

She’ll Drive a Big Car

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Oh God how I hate the motherf@#$ing B. (For those of tuning in from a safe distance from Boston, the B is a hulking, train-like object that crawls down the street crammed with the dense folk that populate Boston University). I thought it was bad in the summer, all those chunky college girls in low slung spare-tire-pushup pants. Rolling bare guts everywhere. When I got a seat they would surround me at eye level. I felt like I was trapped ina bag of marshmallows.

Oh but winter promises a crushing of the soul. The morning train is packed and its all elbows and humongous backpacks and cellphones. It fills me with hatred for my fellow humans. It laces my inner monologue with a frenzy of “motherf@#$er” I take deep breaths- its not their fault they are two human sizes too large and they have to read Lord of the Rings with their elbows planted in the small of my back. Of course one must flip their waist length hair with one’s hands, even if it lashes into my eyes and mouth.

I wish I were a Woodsman by trade. Then I could board the train with an axe slung over my shoulder (and a jaunty feathered cap!)

I took a taxi twice this week. What bliss! I sail into work on time with well-groomed fingernails and a broad smile. I talk to Greeks, Haitians, Dominicans, Trinidadians. We laugh and agree that life is short so fuck it. I admire the skyline, I tip well.

I can’t help it that I was also born a human, but I just can’t take Satan’s Herd!

-xo

Half-assed

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This is about right: fuh2

I stole that from Mr. Baby’s daddy. And the other day I was saying that I simply must meet his baby mama. You people have no visible means of contact on your site, what else am I spozed to do? Don’t you WANT crank letters? That’s the whole reason I have a site.

In the meantime, I’ve instructed him to make up things about me in advance of this potential meeting. I dearly love rumors, especially ones that go something like “Well, Helen’s a little different, she has a hump…and a speech impediment. You might want to prepare yourself.” Speaking of rumors, my co-worker who recently attended the FurCon would like you all to know that he missed out on the cold going around because of the protective powers of his squirrel mask.

The hump idea reminds me of a spectacularly bad roommate situation I had way back in college. I shall not begin to detail the faults of the third mate, but let’s just say they motivated mate #2 and I to go to great heroic lengths to pester her back. The single weirdest thing we did involved prosthetic deformities. She’d traipse in with a posse of ne’er-do-wells to find one of us scuttling into the kitchen with one giant fake butt cheek, or perhaps eating microwave popcorn on the couch in the guise of a hunchback. We wouldn’t acknowledge the get-up, and people would become very uncomfortable and frequently leave.

Come to think of it, I should reprise my Quasimodo role at the family Christmas jamboree. That would be a larf!

-xxoo

Bowie has the flu and so do You

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Of course, in YOUR case, you do not have a nine foot tall african to spoon feed you chicken broth with little dumplings. YOU are sitting and wheezing in a crusty bathrobe, wishing for death. Not so our lovely Licketysplit. She bravely endures countless rubdowns with Vicks and drinks tea with garlic and salt.

In spite of the fact that I have been drinking enough to retard a fetus, not sleeping much, and riding my bike around at night in a blizzard in hot pants, I have not been struck down. This kind of madness is its own reward- the city of Boston is gorgeous on a clear wintry night, sailing (ok, skidding) over the Charles River on the MIT bridge with no other traffic.

The postponement of the Bowie show and perilous hangovers are not my only woes. I have lamps in my room that hang too low. I lived with them without incident until someone pointed out that they were too low. Then I started hitting my head on them every time I came into the room.

It has been very cold and just the other day a friend was describing the nirvana of waking up, laying under six blankets and feeling very warm, but knowing that the world outside is treacherous and bitter and that you can’t stay. And it feels so delicious because you can’t hold on to it for more than a few minutes. To me thats the greatest thing in the world.

-xo

brain in a jar, that’s the life for me

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Whoa people, you don’t want to know what’s been coming out of my head lately. This is the sick that just won’t quit. It’s the time of the year when I start obsessing, thinking I must have HIV, oh why oh why did I ever do those things with all those sailors? Then I realize “ohhhh, I get ragingly ill every single year at this time, and every year I convince myself I have some dreadful auto-immune problem.” I have this sick schedule down. First we start off with a cold in October. Then the first two weeks of December are a total wash with some sort of strep-like thing. Finally, things cap off in January or early february with a bout of bronchitis. Sure, one year I bucked the trend and got pneumonia in November, but really that was just to get out of going to the symphony. I had an assignment to review a performance of some Mahler, and damned if I didn’t end up getting to review Being John Malkovich instead. Make up work, boo yeah. Lower culture, holla back.

Speaking of culture, I read a book. It happens. It was pretty good, even with all the Writing. Middlesex. I am sure Sofia Coppola has already optioned it. I shed a wee tear at the end. One little detail just absolutely killed me. No, I’m not going to tell you what it was. Freaking read it, then maybe we’ll talk. It’s got Detroit, it’s got incest, it’s got hermaphrodites, it’s out in paperback. What’s not to like?

That brain up there really is mine. I used to volunteer for any medical study involving an MRI in college. I love x-ray vision. I’ve been thinking a lot about what a bummer it is to be human meat. I’d totally go for being a brain in a jar, except then I couldn’t play at being attractive on weekends. Although the MRI tech did say I have lovely, perfectly formed ventricles. I have another shot that shows them. They look just like butterflies.

-xxoo

President Doctor Evil

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Just what we need, a manned base on the moon. Someone alert Astronaut Jones at once!

“”You’ve got the Chinese saying they’re interested — we don’t want them to beat us to the moon. We want to be there to develop the sweet spots,” Republican Senator Sam Brownback says.” Got it. Gay marriage is the new Communism. Asians are the new Russians. The new season of Queer Eye is all about turning straight men into clones of celebrities. Week 1: David Bowie. Week 2: Moby. Week 3: Adam Curry?! I’m hip to the jive.

Personally, I’d get more use out of a clone than a space station on the moon. Clone, go to work for me. Clone, go to the bathroom for me. Clone, administer to my mate, he had a rough day. Oh Clo-one? I could use some more scalloped potatos. Out of the box, just like I like ’em.

Confidential to the two co-workers on vacation while I sit at work rather peaked and weary: First one — I already coughed on your keyboard, or possibly your door handle. You too have a 50-50 chance of dying of rabies now. As for the other, I spread a rumor that you are off attending a FurCon. I keeeeed. Just making sure you’re paying attention. I would never ever do anything like that. Or would I?

-xxoo

The Simpsons Are Going to Japan

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Thanks to my pal Thrifty J for pointing out the stupid cheap $360 fare from Boston to Tokyo! Huzzah. Turned out to be a misprint (it normally would have been $3000 for us to fly on those dates), but American honored it anyway. When I called to finagle it, the world-weary Texan lady who answered said “Oh, the Boston thing again.” Sigh. And now it’s gone, and someone probably got fired. I can’t wait for April. We’ll pirouette ‘neath daintily falling cherry blossoms, and I’ll croon “Hot Child in the City” with some drunken businessmen. Mr. H is all hot to go to a country n’ western bar.

Other than that stroke of luck, today was a major ass-ramming. And not in that good way. Just as poor Heather suffers from ailments of the tract, there seems to be a capricious gnome squatting in my chest. His friend Stabby lives in my throat. Maybe it’s rabies. I’m about to hit the Nyquil pretty hard.

We took Spare Cat (a stray who lived on the front porch) to the animal shelter last night, and he savaged us right and proper. I understood, I really did. I don’t like to get crammed in tiny boxes either, even with my very small frame. You’re right, I *can* curl up into a very small ball. Oh no, you flatter me! It didn’t help that Spare Cat had space madness from being stuck out in the cold. In a triumph of my mother’s meddlesome DNA, I made him a wretched little insulated hovel on the porch, which is how he survived the past week. If anyone is interested in a handsome devil of a white cat (with big blue eyes and an extra toe), I can point you in the right direction. Unfortunately he does not play well with other cats, which is why we couldn’t keep him. And he’s got a meow like a rusty hinge.

-xxoo