Waxing

When I call my friends in London, Aspen, LA or anywhere but here I always announce myself as follows: "Hi, it's your best friend in Oklahoma." Which is true and makes me feel really special. But in the case of the lady on the right she is my bestest, mostest friend among a constellation of superlative friends.  Lisa Gunther who is just wrapping up a 22 month round the world TWICE Odyssey managed to squeeze in three days in The Homa. In London we are known as The Two Lisas and particular she is known as Lisa Om and I am know as Lisa Dog. The former because she often sports a big gold Om on a chain around her neck and is pretty cosmic, and the latter because she (meaning me) is a bona fide Dog Whisperer of some renown. So Lisa Om managed to sandwich a trip to Oklahoma City, (where progress is near), after Goa, Bang! Cock!, Bali, Australia, New Zealand, LA, OKC, LA and will be going back to London day after tomorrow but promises to be back in LA in the autumn before fucking off to Hawaii in December and then heading back to Goa after a brief Holiday stopover in Spain. Not that I'm jealous.

Anyhow, I'm sure you all got the news that there was an earthquake in LA yesterday. So after her eyelash extension appointment Lisa Om was in the back room havin

g a Brazilian when the 5.8 rocked the city. She thought the technician (I find it funny that a person removing ones nether hairs is called a technician. But then again, considering that they work in an area that might involve yeasty cultures I guess it sort of fits the bill and it sounds really euphamisticy) had fallen over. The Technician had fallen over, not Lisa Om. But then she saw the ceiling undulating as the "Technician" was yelling "Earthquake! Earthquake!" I did not hear how the story ended, because I'm sure that hundreds if not ten of thousands of Brazilians are performed each day in The City of Angels, so I just had this visual sequence of A, B, C and D list stars, some of them men (George Cluney), running out of treatment rooms all over the city from Santa Monica to Topanga Canyon covered in wax and muslin strips with all of their bits flapping in the wind. But then I thought it being LA they might have a speci

al "Earthquake Brazilian Emergency Towel" hanging on the back of the door, and that the Technician, before asking you to get naked and put your ankles behind your ears would do an airplane-like demo: "In the not so unlikely event that an earthquake should take place while I am farming your Beav-Hairs..."

What are they offering to Blow dry anyway?

So back to Janet's story...

Just so you know, Janet is my biggest fan and my only regular reader. Which makes me like her more than I already do like her, if you know what I mean. If I like you already and then you like my writing and think I'm funny, it's like dousing the friendship with gasoline and dropping in a lit match. It is a "friendship accelerant" in the same way that a CD mix and a back rub are a sexual accellerant.  Except in the friendship thing no one gets naked. Usually. 

Anyhow. Janet, who has already lived nine lives and is currently carving out life number ten, was telling me how the intern in her office, a recent college graduate, said that he did not have a very big vocabulary. So Janet suggested they have a word of the day. Now keep in mind that Janet is in what should be her retirement years and is often turned out in a crisp linen shirt and khaki capri pants. So  when you hear the rest of this story just hold tight to that image. Her first word of the day for the young Intern was "impeccable". The Intern did not know the meaning of "impeccable" so Janet provided him with the following definition: Impeccable means that something can no longer be divided. And just to be thorough Janet provided the etymology of "impeccable": the word derives from the time when we were still an agrairian society. When a grain had been pecked by domestic fowl to the point where it could no longer be pecked, ie the grain was too small to be further divided it was called "impeccable" from the latin root, pecare. God I love this woman. Because I make up fake words too, so when I told her the definition of cantilever was a guy who is pussy whipped she paused for about 3 seconds before laughing. Three seconds and no explaination required on my part. Janet then relayed the following story that was the intended subject of my previous blog but never got around to because I got distracted, and I will presently relay, but I need to give you some background information. 

Janet's son Clark (which is a totally gay name by the way) is gay and lives in Paris. I KNOW. Let's not state the obvious. Anyhow he and his partner flew to California last weekend to take the matrimonial plunge. An old friend of the family from London had also flown in for the celebrations. She is a writer named Anne or something, and Janet keeps wanting to put me in touch with her, but London seems like a total Ghost of Christmas Past at this point which makes me really depressed because all of my London friends except one have utterly abandoned me. That's not true, one full friend has stayed in regular touch and about 4 friends have only half abandoned me because they call or e-mail occasionally.  But the ones who have totally abandoned me (I seem to be getting farther and farther away from the Janet story, but I'll get there eventually) I hope they rot in one of the mildly uncomfortable Aligherian rings of hell but not one of the really bad ones, and only for about half and hour, 45 minutes tops, because I love them anyway and understand the whole out of site, OOM thing. So this London writer friend was talking about Sing-A-Long Sound of Music which you can see at The Prince of Wales Cinema off Leicester Sq. It's one of the things that I never got around to doing in the 12 years I lived in London and if I ever get back there I vow I might get around to it or not. But I will definitly look up Janet and Clark's friend Anne or Mary or Jane? I think it is Jane, because she was talking about the scene where Mother Superior calls Fraulein Maria a cunt face. That's right, a cunt face. Apparently it is in the scene where MS asks FM to be brought to her after FM has been in seclusion after running away from her governess post, or rather was chased off by that snooty, jealous Baroness beeyatch in the marvelous red dress, and MS is asking why FM has left and FM is saying she can't go back toThe Von Trapp's because she is all muddled up about being a nun in training and wanting to jump Christopher Plummer's Weiner Schnitzl while Hitler is anschlusing the Ostereich (that O should have an oomlaut over it, btw) And then Mother Superior says: "Maria, my child, what is it you can't face?" But you have to say it with that faux British accent that American movies substitute for any kind of foreign accent, except for French accents, we seem to at least take a stab at doing the French accent. So try it now with the faux British accent, say it aloud: Maria, my child, what is it you can't face?

Cunt wait to see it again. 

What is it you can't face?

My lovely friend Janet (see previous blog with the enthusiastic drinking fountain photo) is a source of knowledge. She is what the ad people call a connector/uber mensch.  

Anyhow, she just saved me $222.29 in car repairs by recommending me to a different mechanic for a repair on Blue Rinse (see previous blogs on BR) and they said that there was nothing wrong with BR and they also told me that the last mechanic who replaced my alternator charged me double what they should have. The assholes are called TJ's Auto Repair on Brittain Road between Walker and Broadway. Don't go there. Go to Hoover's on 37th and Portland. Mr. Hoover rocks and chews a cigar and looks like he's a movie character of himself. 

And by the way, I did not drop off the map. I just had several weeks of "unstructured time" which sounds kinda rock star, and would be if I were being unstructured anywhere in the Cyclades but I'm not, I'm in Oklahoma. And when I have too much unstructured time, it's impossible to get anything done: there are dishes not to do, beds not to make, hair not to wash. Between not doing laundry AND not folding it, I just have very little time left in which to not blog. So I'm back, sort of. I'm trying to create my own structure. As I type these words I ideally would be making quotation signs with my fingers when I type "unstructured time" except I'm typing, because when I say [hand quotes] unstructured time I mean unemployed. Which is not entirely true, it's just the work/not work ratio is a bit unbalanced.  [God it feels good to blog; I'm brimming with ideas, I feel like a loose thread waiting to be pulled, or is that the extra cup of coffee? What-ev. must be the coffee or possibly a bit of hypomania or a bit of both because I just wrote "what-ev, and I'm still doing imaginary hand quotes. Fuck. And now I have pressured speech, except it's pressured typing, which makes me think it's hypomania, but that does not entirely rule out the coffee thing. ]

Okay so back to the Janet story. 

No, Janet's gonna have to wait because I am really tired suddenly. But it's a great story and I will get at it tomorrow when I am well rested and not feeling like a BB pellet in a blender.

But here's a hint: aidieu, aidieu to yeuh and yeuh and yeuh!