In which my feelings, long buried, are revealed

I�m walking wounded today, dazed and yet pleasantly unsettled by a week-long series of drinking binges�it�s all a haze, really. I have a fuzzy memory of late nights spent revealing far too much information about myself, sitting in the pleasant glow of a bar wallpapered in red flocked baroque paper, professional sports blaring from several TVs. In my memory, friends and strangers alike were enthralled by my banter, even applauding me, but today as dawn crept over the edge of the refrigerator box in which I inexplicably awoke, I had a sudden creeping feeling that once again, I have Overdone It. I swallowed a handful of Motrin to take the edge off my head wounds and crumbled into work, where I began to sift through the events of the past few days.

As usual, this latest foray down Whisky Alley was triggered by a late-night phone call. It started last Monday, around midnight. I�d just put myself to bed with a pint of Yukon Jack and the latest James Frey epic, but I was unable to sleep owing to vague thumping sounds coming from the deck, where the Keelhauler was teaching himself celestial navigation with the help of Kjarna, the Striking Viking from the trawler next door. (He reasons that, at 6� 3�, she can see the stars more clearly, as her eyes are closer to the sky, but I�m beginning to have my suspicions.) My usual method of lulling myself to uneasy sleep involves several codeine tablets and a day trader, but it was late, and cold outside, so I opened my book with the intent of boring myself to slumber.

It was then that the phone rang, showing an LA area code. I leapt to answer it, thinking it was a call about an audition I�d recently done for Flava Flav, who needed a partner on �Dancing With the Stars,� or so he said. Mostly, it involved me stripping down into my unmentionables and performing a shimmy to old NWA records while he played Donkey Kong on an ancient computer. I don't even know if that show is still on, but at any rate, it wasn�t Flav on the phone. It took me a moment to recognize the voice, which was screaming �Violet!� repeatedly, but when the high-pitched giggling started, I realized it was my old flame, Dave.

�What the fuck do you want?� I asked, annoyed. The man still owed me three dollars and a roll of scotch tape. My question precipitated a long period of giggling, followed by whistling and something that sounded like a belch of the alphabet from A to K. Dave is such a moron. Like a vicious, sociopathic, really hott moron. I'm still working through the ambivalence of my passion.

Although Dave and I dated for nearly three years, my hatred started the instant I met him one night in Seattle. For one thing, he had scruffy facial hair that resembled a bad Brazilian wax. For another, he was a musician. As a general rule, I love music and hate musicians, who are generally needy and self-important. Unless we are having sex, in which case I love them with a passion that has frightened several of them. I initially met Dave shortly following our first roll in the hay, and by then although I hated him, I had also developed a fondness bordering on addiction for a move he called �The Lambchop,� which reduced me to a shimmering mass of jelly.

Unfortunately, Dave�s band was just then taking off with unprecedented heat, and he was on the road constantly, so we didn�t have a lot of time together. He called me hourly from the road, which was annoying, and interrupted my dating schedule. The tension within the band was making him crazy, and he�d go on for hours, describing the delicate balance necessary to continue touring. �Kurt pinched my ass again, just as we started �Come As You Are�,� he�d complain, and I�d stifle a yawn and sweetly ask when he was sending me a check.

Dave began plans to take over the operation and throw Kurt out, which interested me not at all, but the money kept rolling in, so I stayed with him, pretending to encourage his new musical ambitions.

�I wrote a song for you,� he�d start, and then I�d hear the receiver clunk down on that old metal filing cabinet where he stored pills, and, after several false starts, the sounds of frantic guitar strumming would begin. Sometimes I�d be able to make out lyrics, but overall, he sounded like a kidnap victim struggling to escape from the bonds of duct tape.

�What were you singing?� I�d ask, irritated, when the song blessedly ended and he was back on the line. �Something about Dentucream?� He was incomprehensible and pompous, and soon even The Lambchop failed to deliver its signature thrills.

If our relationship was uneasy, our breakup was unbearably grim. As soon as he got my fax, Dave called, hysterical as a math teacher, begging me to reconsider. He wanted to get married. He wanted us to have a baby. Blah-de-blah-de-blah. I let him go on for a while about his love for me, and how we could Build A Future together and eat expensive foreign cheese, but my heart wasn�t in it.

�Not a chance, Short-Pants,� I purred, and hung up the phone, then disconnected it, then had my number changed, then disconnected that, then finally found a cell phone plan that worked for me.

And here he was again, on my phone at midnight, with news he was practically hemorrhaging to tell me. Against my better judgment, I agreed to meet him. I snuck out the forward hatch, avoiding the Keelhauler, and jumped into the dinghy. My Yukon Jack-soaked satin nightdress clung flatteringly to my curves as I rowed across the harbor to the cigarette boat where Dave was waiting. He tied off the dinghy to the dock, and I disembarked and re-tied the knot before being swept into his surprisingly sinewy arms. He was overwhelmed by my presence, and as I dragged him into the cockpit of the boat, he snuffled into my hair.

He withdrew a set of photographs and handed them to me. The light of the bong was very faint, but I could make out something that seemed familiar.

�What is that, a monkey?� I asked, holding the picture close to my face.

�Better than a monkey,� he replied, smiling gently and stroking my thigh, �That�s my daughter.�

�That�s good,� I said, looking around for booze.

�You don�t understand,� he said, eyes shining wetly, �I named her Violet. For you.�

I sighed, because frankly, I do not care about this kind of thing, and I really wanted to see if he had an update to The Lambchop.

�Wouldn't be the first time,� I answered, reaching for his belt buckle. He caught my wrist in one surprisingly sinewy hand, and said, �My wife can never know of our love. I told her that Violet was my grandmother�s name.�

�FINE,� I said, rolling my eyes. He made me promise I�d never tell a soul that he had named his daughter after his one true love, and then we went to bed. But you know, promises are cheap, and he still owes me three dollars, so I say, screw that.

See, I say that, but clearly, my resulting week-long drinking fiasco shows otherwise. Obviously, somewhere deep inside, I long for him and wonder what might have been, if only he hadn�t been such an irritating little bastard.

P.S.


Finally, the answer to my sleeping questions!

I am a seatbelt!
Find your own pose!



Star of the day. . .Sergio Mendes
posted @ 11:17 a.m. on April 21, 2006 before | after

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She lay awake all night,

zzzzzzzzzzz......