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Archive for September, 2009

In the Guise of a Paraphiliac with the Heart of an Anaphrodisiac

My cat’s body is not unlike Wall-E’s. Her exoskeleton must be removed and recharged. My son has a terminal disease. At his expected time of death, protocol requires our participation in the studio audience of a live talk show. As we wait for the show to begin, my son buys an $800 cheese wedge from a vendor. His father/my husband looks on approvingly. This is how my autistic, overweight, quietly sensitive son chooses to spend his last living moments. I guess I approve. But do I miss him in advance?

Jim Carey and I visit Andy at his white railroad home bedecked in aluminum siding. It looks lived-in. Andy is embarrassed by his poverty. Jim Carey is embarrassed by his agedness. Andy’s parents and Katie come home and feed us and set us in front of the TV. Andy drives me to subway station where the ferry docks to proudly show me proof of his civic involvement. He’s the supervisor? I see a name I recognize on a chalkboard underneath the heading “See Andy for Improvements.” Andy gets angry at me for ignoring him and thus leaves me at the station wherefrom I timorously attempt to make my way back. Unsurprisingly, I get lost en route but find a pretty, doily and gingerbread-rich cake shop in its lack! The prices are so low and the cakes are so beautiful I buy a fluffy buttercream one, but I wonder how the hell I’ll transport it home.

British Rule. Iranians protest, at interval, on the highway, for freedom. It’s crucial to cross the street only when the violence momentarily ceases (like Frogger). Some sexually humiliating incident befalls me and I am exposed for my licentiousness (or maybe just exposed?) while wearing all blue, just like the girl who was all over the news, the one who bought up lots of TV space trying to retrieve her dignity. I send text messages to a little kid named Ben, messages which are promptly read aloud by his caretaker. Waiting with Brienne to get her carefully deliberated-over tattoo at a fancy, whitewashed, hospital corridor-hygienic tattoo parlor, I sneak away impulsively and aimlessly wander into a cheap tattoo parlor down the street and dreamily, but resolutely decide to get two Renaissance-typeface tattoos in rectangular boxes that look like two of my prettiest camp patches (one red and rosy, the other light pink and yellow). Why?

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