emma b. says

Sunday, February 29, 2004


before we begin, a warning. Emma has had a lot of wine, and she is not entirely sure that she wont slur.

Because I have had a strange day, and I needed to wash it down with copious (nearly two bottles worth, and we are not done yet) amounts of this tastelicious cote du r(fuck I can't type, let alone see straight, but I Have Things To Say) hone.

But I forgot already.
(fumblng for cigararettes)

about that cote du rhone blanc, quite minerally for a mere seven buck fiddy, prolly why I opened the second... then again nothing greets a sunday morning like that hellacious white wine induced hang-over.

somewhere in there I have a point that I am getting to, but in the mean time I would like to offer up a mea culpa for making a drunk posting. For all ye baptists and other non drinkers out there, do forgive my drunken ramblings, and to the rest - harken, for I thought I had something to say, before I fogot what it was.

- let's see if I can piece this coherently- but oy it requires back story...

let Emma just say, that she had danced until the wee hours on friday, and had to meet a dear friend from highschool in the early AM on Sat. She and husband, baby, and cousin were on a mission to eat, from the market at the Ferry Building to North Beach. And this lady I love, a true caustic wit... but all that is incidental...

As I was crossng into Washington Square Park, who should I run into but FLFF and my good friend Mysharona. On a date, non-date, let's get aquainted walk-about.

and to my everlasting shame I ony wanted to turn tail and flee, and was spotted. having freaked out, hours later of course, I phoned Mysharona.... oh shit - I can't even begin to get into the how the ego stewed, and the ego wondered if he was performing the very same marvels with his tongue he did to me. And then the ego turns inward, were we not properly groomed, were we inadequate (we would like to think not) for jeebus's sake did we taste funny... Mysharona thinks we ought to call and ask, how do you ask a friend of seven years who you would like to keep as such, just why exactly FLFF that you don't want to fuck me, cuz I am not sure that I want to hear the answer...

Thursday, February 26, 2004

Emma B. says if she twice posted it's the fault of the pink champagne.

Of course it is later now and the weather has ceded to scattered clouds on a back drop of midnight blue, sliver moon, stars hither and thither.

That fortifying cocktail was to be had at Claude, an establishment I have been quaffing in for eleven years. As Mel says, we are like old furniture in need of varnishing... well, I made up that last part about varnish, our varnish is the various libations he serves us according to our whimsy.

After the menfolk had left, it was just my dearest, dearest Mme. Barrelofagun. We made a ladies night out of it in the lower Haight at the lovely RNM. Ahi tartar, black bass, duck confit and a bottle of pink champagne between us. Yum. V.V. Sex almost in the City, minus the couture and the fact that I am not (very resentfully) getting properly laid - she is.

As I wended my way home, I was lost in thought, or something very close in approximation. As to the why for's, where for's and why on earth I dream't last night that I had sex with a porpoise - and that is unfortunately the tip of the iceburg... I don't even know where to de-convolute that I was dreaming about a child molester that liked to cut up his young suckling victims was suddenly reformed at a wedding, wearing a white suit like the pied mother fucking piper.... I blame it entirely on that horrific photo of jeebus in the NY Times missing half of his flesh.

and so I have wended my way home, to my big bed, my big empty bed, and I am feeling intensely ambivalent about that. I like it so. I like it not.

so I am playing the Flaming Lip's, possibly loud enough to disturb my neighbors and contemplating a hot bath

segue a propos of everything:

I am a luddite, intensely suspicious of the Information Super Highway (does anyone employ that term anymore?)
And yet the lure to write for the world in (relative anonymity) proved to great a siren song to resist.
So I have commenced to "blog" a verb that I find rather unsettling, because it reminds me of smog, fog, cog, slog, tog (my dad's nickname) log, jog all words that are harsh and unwieldy, all harshness and dissonance. Then again, perhaps that is the nature of laying bare the soul for anyone from Kabul to Urbana.

That said, Mme. Barrelofagun had a splendid evening entre dames, she had sound advice about the defaults of FLFF, and we had some good laughs. When in doubt, never doubt the sagacity of a girlfriend. After all, it was she who nursed me through the fallout of my divorce.

and that muck divulged, it is my clawfoot wonder tub who beckons me to his hot blooded warmth.

"do you realize, that you have the most beautiful face, do you realize that everyone, you know someday will die....

On weather and serendipity:
It's been a fine day for watching Mother Nature go cuckoo von nutsville. From my perch in the sky it has rained, and been sunshiney, and then hailed, and then glorious rainbow (FYI that pot of gold is under the second span of the Bay Bridge, should anyone like to dive for it) and more sunshiney goodness with a certain chance of showers.

But the hail, that was impressive.

My mood has swung with the weather, at first glum. Then I managed to work myself into a lather over the misdeeds of what I thought was my current flirtation. So I went shopping at lunch to assuage poor, poor bruised ego and the sun came out and all was well and right with the world in my new pink sweater.

Back at work it hails, further causing me to (over?) scrutinize misdeeds of flirtation (henceforth known as FLFF) causing me to get my bitch on, and despite the fact that the sun is out and Marin is verdant and gleaming I cannot seem to get my bitch off.

Thank heavens for a restorative cocktail, I mean after work...

FLFF failed to realize that the only thing on my agenda is sex, frequently, please.

helas, helas

On top of that Liz Smith says we are going to be hit with a fireball this summer, Arianna Huffington practically confirms... NTY magazine says that we are all going to live longer. I can hardly wait, a bunch of centarians wondering through a fireball wasteland, trying to out-walker one another to the nearest contaminated water source. (If I knew how to link these things I would, but I only recently mastered changing lightbulbs, so...)

And that's only if our Feckless Leader isn't re-elected, imagine how much worse it could be if he was?

On gay marriage: I don't rightly understand why the divorce attorney lobby is not all over this like bees to honey...
remember that Eddy Murphy routine where his African wife says "Eddy, I want half"? Well now it would run something like this; "Eddy, yes Eddy, I want half"