How eagerly we await the imminent return of the Licketysplit! I have word that she is hanging her coonskin cap back on its peg, ailment packing up her weasels and heading back up North. But I have not been privy to further details of her whitewashing of fences or sailing wooden rafts down the muddy crick. I will know she is coming when I hear the clack of her stick, spinning the wagon wheel as she saunters, shoeless, back to town.
xo
Our dear Licketysplit is on the road to Richmond. Even as we speak, she might be squaredancing the living room of her mammy and pappy. Let’s hope she brings back a confederate flag like the one we stole from the grave of Gen. Matthew Fontaine Maury. Come to think of it, that was a fruitful expedition- on that same trip, we also stole a Mars Attacks! poster from a D.C. subway platform.
How I can make up for her temporary absence is unclear. Perhaps I will have to resort to posting nudie pics!
Oh, and listen to this song
xo
I wish I could get Irish Backs of Steele to transport my meager belongings across the Atlantic for a few coppers! A solid week of sifting through my possessions and staring balefully at the mounting collection of boxes has caused me to convert the half of it to garbage bags. Who needs Stuff anyway?
Me, that’s who! Me! Me!
Don’t worry, lads and lasses of the Colonies, I will not be disposing of anything particularly fetching. I will be living under that bridge in the Common. And as Mother always admonished Father, “Just because you are a Bum, is no excuse to dress like That!” Surely I won’t be a public nuisance for long. One of you fine folk are bound to fill my biscuit barrel with cash, in return for me doing mostly nothing. My resume is lined with fascinating and useless items! I am trained in falafel making and creative napkin folds. I am also a skilled liar. Opportunities abound!
Lambchop and Licketysplit used to rule the Boston airwaves, lollipops in hand. Lickety, while I search for my passport and try to match up my socks, do be a dear and find something else for us to rule. Or at least someone to lord it over.
xo
Is this week over yet? We done been busy. Our Lambchop is preparing for a transcontinental move in a few weeks, and I’ll be moving from Hip, Happenin’ Boston to thickly settled Somerville on Monday. Needless to say, we are thrilled to be able to rampage around the greater Boston area together again. It’s been a while! We’ve readied little director’s chairs and megaphones, and we’ll be donning puffy directing pants to bring all sorts of exciting developments to Vomitola.
Finally, the Beacon Hill Cat Lady is at it again. This Boston Herald article, Fur bawl: Cat woman: I’m not nuts, I just miss my kitty clan, should prove illuminating. People DO start to look like their pets! Her other Makeshift Chamber of Horrors was raided, and 52 cats were removed. There’s a sidebar on that article listing all past coverage. I’d just like to point out that they said “Deja mew.”
xxoo
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I spent the last day of my tour in Dessau, where I visited Walter Gropius’ famous Bauhaus School. The building is amazing. I stood on the very same geometric stairs that Oskar Schlemmer painted! Rows of windows in their aged black steel frames rotate open like horizontal blinds with a chain and pulley, casting deliberate gridded patterns of shadows. Incredible! There I saw photos from the 20’s of suit wearing art students on the balconies of the school, smoking and painting Nagy-like abstractions. Imagine! “What are you studying?” “Well, umm, Bauhaus!”
I also saw the Meister Häuser- the seats of Kandinsky, Klee and Feininger when they ran the School. It is impossible to take a single photo that captures the beauty of the design of these buildings, standing in a row. I stood in awe.
xo
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I was in a medieval town called Quedlinburg, pills near the Harz Mountains. It was beautiful there, not being so much of a giant dollhouse as other towns I visited. There were many tastefully restored buildings, standing next to those that were crumbling.
xo
I have finally returned from the wilds of western Germany. I journeyed through the Harz mountains and medieval villages, site castle ruins and decaying factories on the Elbe. I toured the countryside of the Westerwald, and ate too much cake. I visited Dessau, the playground of Walter Gropius and Mies van der Rohe. Bauhaus-o-rama! Like any traveller, I must sit here with my sunburn and gin and tonic, boring you all with some pictures of my vacation.
xo
The two feet of snow Boston received a few days ago are still snarling things. Last night it took a full hour to drive from zee Back Bay to Mr. H’s house in Slummerville. There was honking and gesticulating, and failure to yield to emergency vehicles. And then there were the other drivers, ba dum dum. No, I’m teasing. Of all the rages I am known to enjoy, road rage is not among them. I did read about one severe case of snow rage. In Framingham. Isn’t that the town where people kill each other at their kids’ hockey games? Go figure.
And I won’t even get started on the T. The rage has disipated to a collective ennui. If it had a sound, it would be a low-pitched whiny “nnnnnnnnnuuuuuuhhhh.”
It’s finally warm enough to go out without gloves and a ski mask, so to celebrate living through a hellish drive, we walked to Rudy’s Cafe, the margarita mecca of Teele Square.
On the way back, I noticed a salon called “Skin Skedaddle.” What is the meaning of this? “We extract to the point of disfiguration. People will skedaddle when they see you!” That’s almost as good as Hair-azz, which briefly existed next to the Outback in Burlington. And let’s not forget what always, always cracks me up in Porter Square: “Long Funeral Service.” It used to be Long-Hurley, which was passable, but I guess there was some sort of schism.
But yes, I’m just rambling. Must be hibernation wearing off. Must focus. On…who won the Bachelorette! I’m going to subtitle this: And Shamu makes 3
Good God, who would have thought she would choo-choo choose Ryan? Â He’s a poet, and he don’t even know it. But Charlie, Charlie had a serious hair problem. I kept flashing back to the footage of melancholy sea birds after the Exxon Valdez. Anyway, any guy who can tolerate the booming cadence of her biological clock totally deserves her. My stomach crawled up into my throat during the scene where she and Ryan, or maybe it was Charlie, were feeding bread to ducks. She cooed “Ready? Over here!” and I could picture her perfectly in maternity overalls, herding tow-headed children around on an “educational” experience.
I topped off my evening with a nightcap of “I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here!” Melissa Rivers blinked back tears as she realized she was there to be “humiliated” by having creepy crawling bugs and rats stuffed down her pants. Zen. And you bet your ass I will also tune in tonight to watch the Bachelor “follow-up” with Aaron and tearful Helene. I’d like to say I have something better to do, but somehow this has become important to me.
xxoo
So my boo’s crazy uncle is the master of baffling communication. He likes to pretend to be someone else. Recently he sent this to the family email list, including his own real email address:
From: “Burt Davis” (not his name!)
Date: Thu, 16 Jan 2003 11:46:33 -0500
To:
Subject: Hi everyone It’s Burt!!!!
Hi! I am writing from the Cruise Ship Sauffley in the Indian Ocean. What a great crew. Every night, right after dinner, we have life boat drills and life vest drills. We have met some great people during these drills.
Some people we met at dinner, were Bob and Samantha. They were married the Saturday before we left. Although Samantha is not my type, she got Burt laughing so hard when she was blowing raspberries on his belly.Bob is about 30 and he works in San Francisco as a salesman. Samantha works as a model.
Captain Rochette has been very informative. He says that we are going past the Cape of Good Hope tonight. We will be in South Africa this evening and Mr Mandela will be our guest on board. I hear he has some stories about the old times, and you know how much of a history buff I am.
Next week, the guest of honor is someone named Khadafi. Henrietta thinks he is sexy and mysterious under that turban. I just think of that guy in Harry Potter who unwraps his turban and there is a face that talks!!! Yuch! Can you imagine eating and having that guy unwrap a face!!! Not me. Henrietta can go alone. I’ll watch Samantha blow raspberries on Hollingsworth.
The weather hasn’t been bad, except for that day of rough seas. We had hit some typhoon or such and a few people got blown overboard. They have not been found yet, but it is assumed they swam toward those islands we saw the day before. While I was walking along in the bulkhead, I saw the room that they had. It was huge and spacious so, knowing they wouldn’t need it anymore, I asked the Steward if I could get the cabin. After paying the upgrade, both Henrietta and I feel it was well worth the price.
Hollingsworth has his own bed, and it is a relief for us.
Well, thats it until next week. I’ll send some more photos next time, and god bless.
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So, I decided to out Uncle him:
From: “Mimsy Varden”
Date: Thu, 16 Jan 2003 4:21:15 -0500
To:
Subject: Mimsy’s Baaack!
Burt!
Mimsy Varden here, I used to be Mimsy Van Der Ploo? I know we haven’t been properly introduced, but perhaps Henrietta has spoken of me? Hopefully she didn’t say anything that bad, ho ho! Anyhoo, I am so glad I’ve tracked down the elusive Davis family… A friend just mentioned the lovely letter they got about your latest cruise and I thought to myself “Can it be? Henrietta! It’s been years.†So if you can put Henrietta on the computer to read on from here, I’d be much obliged. Kisses, -mim
Henrietta, darling, it’s been far too long! This is such a stroke of luck. What a small world really. You see, I’ve been moving around quite a bit in these last few years. I’m sure you heard about Armand’s accident through the usual grapevine. I just couldn’t face the world for months after that. So off I went, one bag and a heavy heart. I stayed in Switzerland at first, in and out of various spas. It really got terrible boring. You can’t imagine the American Nouveau Riche and how they dominate a dinner conversation. I do not understand to this day what is a “dotcom.†Is that like a kibbutz? Such a long way from our simple days at school!
I’ve thought of our friendship frequently. I tried to send a postcard from Peru, but I wasn’t sure if the address was right. Did you get one of Lake Titicaca? No matter, I’m sure it was nothing but dribble…I was having quite a time with the pills. From there it was off to Tanzania, where I met the most wonderful guide while I was on a safari. He’s my idea of big game! Yes, I’m still a naughty lass, Henrietta. But I didn’t let him get away, I married him! He wanted to stay in Africa, but I really don’t trust the natives, even though they seem a beautiful people. Now we’re back in New York, just trying to get the renovations on the apartment wrapped up. The one bright spot in Armand’s whole ordeal was the settlement from the petroleum company.
But enough of my trials. I did receive the adorable photos of Hollingsworth in a Christmas card, what, 2 years ago now? They were luckily forwarded to my deposit box in Paris. How is he progressing? I hear they can do wonders in those special schools these days. Ah Henrietta, do write me back! We have so much to catch up on. Missing your wedding left me feeling like such a heel. I owe you one or five, old girl!
All my love – mim
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Ooh, I hope Henrietta writes back! It’s so nice to have a loon in the family. Lambchop said it reminded her of a genial T. Herman Zweibel, and I’d have to agree. I hope Mimsy connotes enough of a gin-soaked fading harlot?
xxoo