leaving the big smoke

Due to unforeseen circumstances I find myself in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma. And after nearly 12 years of being accustomed to having a Big Red Limo at my disposal 24/7/365 in London, I now find myself relegated to having to provide my own transportation, like some sort of regular person. The indignity does not stop there, however; I am currently living in my mother’s house, which at [##] is increasing the burden of humiliation that is mine to carry at this particular point in time. I find myself saying things like, “Mom, can I borrow the car?” Which will, no doubt, in time lead to getting caught making out on the sofa.

Here is how I try NOT to imagine it will go down: I will meet a Hot Guy and we will have “chemistry”. After a few coffees out, a movie and some phone calls we will go to a gig and engage in the Devil’s sport of dancing [OKC is in The Bible Belt] which in turn will lead to the following verbal transaction:

HG: want to come back to mine?

Me: ummm…

HG: or we could go to yours if you prefer…

Me: ermmmm…

CUT TO: Close-up of my alarmed face as I imagine how that would work out, then

FADE OUT AND UP TO:


NIGHT, INTERIOR: Camera pans across the darkened interior of my mother’s well-appointed home. Me and HG are locked in a clinch on The Celery Green Silk Sofa, The Needlepoint Pillows are on the floor and my shirt and bra are in a careless pile next to the Scalamandre Covered Louis XV Fauteuil. HG’s shirt is unbuttoned to the waist. The camera slowly zooms in on me and HG.

Me: mmmmschlurpahhh

HG: mfwgggrrrrr

Me; ooooohhh

HG: schlopmfwaaagahhh

From another place in the house the sound of a footstep is heard and the camera
CUTS TO:

The shadow of a be-robed woman slowly descending the stairs in the dark

Mom: [VO] Lovebug…? Darling…? Is that you...????

Here we do not fade to black. We CUT to BLACK quickly, quicklyquicklyquickly, because I don’t even want to go there or, go back there because there I have been before. Different house, different city but same Sofa, Pillows and Chair with a Fancy French Name:

To wit:

Ian in 6th Grade
Brad in 7th Grade
Lorenzo in 8th Grade
Ivan, Summer Break, Junior Year, College
Dietrich, Christmas Break, Senior Year College

Gentle Reader, I have the Gestalt on this scenario, good and proper. Let me enlighten you. My mother, who I love with all my heart probably more than anyone else in the world in fact, persists in referring to older divorced couples who are co-habitating as being “shacked-up.”

I need to find my own place, but before that can happen I have to buy a car.

Where to start?

Here is a list of things I have been thinking about writing but not writing:

First, a trek to Aspen with my four-years' dead dog Pigeon's cremated ashes to drop in our fave spot up Hunter Creek, where we used to swim and hike 12 years ago;

Trying to manifest a 70's Mercedes SL for my trip to LA;

But manifesting a rusted out '71 380CD instead.

Trying to de-manifest said Merc;

Starting my second [unfinished] novel to avoid rewriting my sitcom for the US market;

The pleasure of reading Malraux's Anti-memoirs aloud to myself [I'm not as pompous as that makes me sound, I'm just weird]