emma b. says

Tuesday, November 16, 2004

Sentimental Edumacation

We have just come from seeing Jane Birkin at the Great American, actually we and our pals left mid-way through the first set because poor Serge is spinning in his grave and it's just not right that that tall buck-toothed, rhythmless, warbling gawky bird should still so thin. I got my snark on almost instantaneously, and knew that leaving was in order. Elle a sacagge Couleur Cafe, by clipping it and her band were the terribly professional equivalent of Kenny G.

I put in a call to D. last Wednesday, I was bemoaning that fact that I am quite simply do not have the constitution for whoredom, as it is raining men at Bovary headquarters, it's just not raining the one that we really want.

I shall start with the wanted one, Tuesday November, 2nd. Election results are spooling in. P's colleague has some ridiculously potent hydroponic pot, we have successfully navigated the hill from P's to chez moi and are glued to the internets when the wanted one makes a call. Where am I, he queries, I am at home, I respond. Shall we watch returns, he asks, I say, yes, I am lighting candles as we speak. Needless to say, returns went unwatched and we lost, but we tried and made a little juju magic. But the wanted one is too busy having a love affair with himself and collecting pretty flowers to be anything but a delightful fancy, but of course Emma knows better, drawn like a moth to a flame to the power of a man who doesn't doubt his charisma, I have gladly watched my wings catch fire, sparkle as I disintegrate, self immolate. But not this time.

That following Friday, and this is where the dates start to get hazy... San Franciscans are out all over the city, drinking hard liquor straight from the bottle and overtipping bartenders and there is the promise of fisticuffs for no good reason and fucking for no good reason and many of us have been dazed and self medicated for four days and here it is the first weekend of the four year apocalypse, so is it any wonder that I took home someone that I shouldn't have.

Is it any wonder that I had dire regrets the moment that he quitted my bed that Saturday morning, or that I wondered what sort of consequence I might have to pay up.

Fast forward to Tuesday, a week since the election. My first love has fled Ohio to drink in California, we are to meet for dinner. An odd thing happens on the way to dinner. Just to further gouge my faith in humanity I was robbed in the bus going home, the thief made off with my wallet and all of the treasures therein. At which point I called First Love and tried to beg off, but he was firm in confirming my need for a cocktail. We forsook dinner in favor of, I vodka, he, tequila, and things degenerated from there. What I know is that I hit the floor of the Zeitgeist and I have a bruise on my cheek to prove it, what I am told is that it is all captured on film, and that on top of being robbed I lost my cell phone, and that FL ended up back at my house, and then in my bed making out until we passed out. I must say that FL has a girlfriend, and I am not proud of my actions. But the two of us have had difficulty keeping our paws off of one another for seventeen years, which, depending on how you weigh it, is either totally lovely, or, really adolescent. But at the height of my slutitude and despite our drunkenness I have to proudly say that we exercised remarkable restraint. I awoke nearly fully clothed and nothing happened below the waist, then again, he always was my bestest makeout king.

When I got a new cell phone, his message was, congratulations Blondie, we did it again.

and on coming full circle... last night at P's behest I dredged through old photo albums to find a picture of my original punk rock boy and came across the pictures of he and I when we ran away to Paris with my parents consent, circa 1987. There is a picture of me smoking a cigarette in our garret room, just after I had shown him the Serge Gainsbourg album (your under arrest, cuz your the best) and Jane Birkin a week later.

Flash forward to this last Friday, French Toast shows up at Claude, en manque. R sends salacious emails. Saturday Francois calls across the parallels to mark his turf. The Someone keeps ringing up on the newly replaced cell phone like a freight train gacked on steroids, and Emma is hiding in the bath tub.

Contrary to what you might presume, showers of attention drive us to distraction, and not in a good way, we want to chase, not to be chased, hunt and not be hunted, I do not wish to be anyone's prey. And that the Someone should be relentlessly wearing me down with his compliments and kind words and that that makes me want to run far and run fast, obviously means that I really ought to be back in therapy, because clearly there is something very wrong here.


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