I chose to eschew an evening of fine theatrical delights in favor of working on Novel #2, which has its first mindblowingly Jewish chapter already written. Instead, I find myself having a mental war with myself over the future of my literary stardom: I am congenitally incapable of doing that shitty wistful author look. You know what I'm talking about. I cannot cultivate that kind of sexual relationship with a camera lens. I cannot make myself look vulnerable and therefore deep. I play deep on television.
Still, I face an uphill battle with publishing the Big Armenian Novel. I find that I think everyone else's art is crap, unless it sets the world on fire by making my art look like crap. I'm a lofty self-defeatist. I need to get over this.
My friend from the ladycollege, KR, sent Bob and I a ham in celebration of our nuptials. KR hails from the state of Iowa and therefore is well-versed in all things pork. At her wedding in the big DM three years ago, I tasted the most delicious bacon I have ever put in my mouth. It was the most perfectly salted and smoked porcine product and I am still talking about it. Bob and I are very excited about this ham, which we suspect might actually be a prosciutto. I have no idea what to do with a prosciutto other than slice it up and eat it. Or make that cream pasta sauce that causes heart attacks.
Thank you, KR.
My mother had to go piss all over my leg and tell me that my beloved Manny KLP cake mixes contain large quantities of transfats. She drove all the way to La Jolla to buy a box and then she and her squinty health food ways had to actually read the label, then report back to me in a scornful tone. Scornful meaning "I don't want you eating those Hebrew healthbombs!" This after I went to my local Kosher grocer and bought five boxes! This shit ain't cheap. There's a band of Jews out there making bank on boxes of ground matzoh and cottonseed oil. I and my hot, moist leg plan to prepare and eat these delicious Kosher delicacies anyway. They are, as some people say, "off the hook."
Success is a funny thing. When I was younger, I did not sit in my room and fill my notebooks with plans of being in one of the most successful musical improv troupes someday. I stumbled into Geegsterdom by accident and it has been such a blessing. For reasons such as this, I am hesitant to want anything too badly. I did want a cuddly, amusing, and yam-shaped husband and I managed to find one of those, although I had to wait until the age of 27 for that to happen. I suppose the novel-writing career will take much longer. But it only took me seven months to write Norvel #1, meaning I am a word-hurling studhorse.
"word-hurling studhorse" is one of the best phrases I've heard in some time.
Posted by: margaret at March 23, 2007 10:26 AM