I am not alone.
I wrote the above sentence then leaned to my right, peering into what once was my kitchen and is now something resembling Dresden after the bombing.
And so it goes.
How this guy has managed to cram a huge ladder into a kitchen so small I barely have room for the second Pop Tart included in the packet, is proof that he is no amateur. (This is what I tell myself, hoping for the best.)
Sonically, I am hidden deep inside my iPod, which just made a seamless transition from Marvin Gaye & Diana Ross’ duet album (titled, mysteriously enough, “Diana & Marvin”) to that inescapable Amy Winehouse record. Every once in a while, on average twice a decade, I find myself enjoying the same album as the rest of the country. Such is the case with “Back to Black”. It makes for boring copy though; I mean, do we really need to hear anymore talk about it?
The answer is “no”, and thankfully there’s a workman in my kitchen providing us with stories.
Last week, amidst my well-documented Vicodin haze (I’m feeling much better these days, thank you), I walked home from Amoeba, as I always do (unless Patti Smith is performing), for lunch.
Whereas normally I am greeted by the meows of my “cat”* I instead walked into a scene from “Brazil”.
Ruling out the possibility of a suicide bomber (I realize they go through a lot of training, but I live on the fourth floor of my building) I found, amongst the sea of bric-a-brac, cleaning supplies and dishware - normally so organized in my kitchen - a lone man doing to my sink and walls what I imagine Jeffery Dahmer would do to a dinner guest.
And I’ll say this about myself: I really am polite. Even when faced with an un-announced stranger tearing my home apart, I start with a simple hand-wave and “Hi,” – waiting for the appropriate social cues from the other person to indicate we can proceed to a conversation. Perhaps about the weather, last night’s game, or maybe why he’s mistaken my kitchen for a newly discovered Egyptian tomb.
And because he grunted hello back, then ignored me, I did what Miss Manners would suggest. I called my landlord and politely asked what the f*** was going on.
The good news is that I now have actual hot water in my kitchen sink, where before only tepid torrents ran. The bad news was that I’ve been MISSING PART OF A WALL this weekend. Naturally, I had out of town guests during that time. That goes without saying, right? Luckily they were staying in the Best Western Hollywood Hills, in town for the Silverlake Film Festival, and…
Wait – this isn’t interesting at all, is it? Have I really been blogging about my home repairs? Especially when I could’ve been telling you about last night’s game of Truth-or-Dare with Janeane Garofalo and Jake Gyllenhaal? (Who I begged never to get married because the hyphenation of their name would send my tongue into hours of seizures.)
Jesus. I really need coffee, I guess. But I can’t make coffee because of the man in my kitchen! Which brings us back to square one.
Tori Amos fans: (How’s that for a graceful segue?) I’m not going to give my two cents on the new album because I haven’t heard it, but because my iPod’s shuffle chose just now, a track by a French artist named Jorane, I thought I’d let you know about her. She’s a cello player, but writes similarly to some of Amos’ earlier works, like “Boys For Pele”. Serious, beautiful, confessional (sometimes embarrassingly so), and certainly a deft musician. She recorded an album in English in 2004; I prefer her earlier, French-language effort “Vent Fou”. If you’re a Tori fan, or just like feminine angst coupled with a instinct for an instrument, see if you can’t hunt down one of her albums.
Can I get fired from the Amoeblog for referencing Tori Amos? Probably not, though I’m certain to be greeted with some amount of derision from co-workers. Those that can read, anyway.
Whatever. I’m too coffee-less to care. And besides, these same co-workers, too “cool” to even discuss Tori Amos, will howl with approval when Boston or Journey gets airplay. Time and distance and irony makes all things shine.
In twenty years, twenty-somethings who work at the Amoeba Music Moonbase will be ecstatically pogoing when Avril Lavigne is blasted in-store.
And so it goes.
*I put quotes around cat only because I’m not completely convinced the little monster isn’t just a wolverine with some stunted growth hormone.
I wrote the above sentence then leaned to my right, peering into what once was my kitchen and is now something resembling Dresden after the bombing.
And so it goes.
How this guy has managed to cram a huge ladder into a kitchen so small I barely have room for the second Pop Tart included in the packet, is proof that he is no amateur. (This is what I tell myself, hoping for the best.)
Sonically, I am hidden deep inside my iPod, which just made a seamless transition from Marvin Gaye & Diana Ross’ duet album (titled, mysteriously enough, “Diana & Marvin”) to that inescapable Amy Winehouse record. Every once in a while, on average twice a decade, I find myself enjoying the same album as the rest of the country. Such is the case with “Back to Black”. It makes for boring copy though; I mean, do we really need to hear anymore talk about it?
The answer is “no”, and thankfully there’s a workman in my kitchen providing us with stories.
Last week, amidst my well-documented Vicodin haze (I’m feeling much better these days, thank you), I walked home from Amoeba, as I always do (unless Patti Smith is performing), for lunch.
Whereas normally I am greeted by the meows of my “cat”* I instead walked into a scene from “Brazil”.
Ruling out the possibility of a suicide bomber (I realize they go through a lot of training, but I live on the fourth floor of my building) I found, amongst the sea of bric-a-brac, cleaning supplies and dishware - normally so organized in my kitchen - a lone man doing to my sink and walls what I imagine Jeffery Dahmer would do to a dinner guest.
And I’ll say this about myself: I really am polite. Even when faced with an un-announced stranger tearing my home apart, I start with a simple hand-wave and “Hi,” – waiting for the appropriate social cues from the other person to indicate we can proceed to a conversation. Perhaps about the weather, last night’s game, or maybe why he’s mistaken my kitchen for a newly discovered Egyptian tomb.
And because he grunted hello back, then ignored me, I did what Miss Manners would suggest. I called my landlord and politely asked what the f*** was going on.
The good news is that I now have actual hot water in my kitchen sink, where before only tepid torrents ran. The bad news was that I’ve been MISSING PART OF A WALL this weekend. Naturally, I had out of town guests during that time. That goes without saying, right? Luckily they were staying in the Best Western Hollywood Hills, in town for the Silverlake Film Festival, and…
Wait – this isn’t interesting at all, is it? Have I really been blogging about my home repairs? Especially when I could’ve been telling you about last night’s game of Truth-or-Dare with Janeane Garofalo and Jake Gyllenhaal? (Who I begged never to get married because the hyphenation of their name would send my tongue into hours of seizures.)
Jesus. I really need coffee, I guess. But I can’t make coffee because of the man in my kitchen! Which brings us back to square one.
Tori Amos fans: (How’s that for a graceful segue?) I’m not going to give my two cents on the new album because I haven’t heard it, but because my iPod’s shuffle chose just now, a track by a French artist named Jorane, I thought I’d let you know about her. She’s a cello player, but writes similarly to some of Amos’ earlier works, like “Boys For Pele”. Serious, beautiful, confessional (sometimes embarrassingly so), and certainly a deft musician. She recorded an album in English in 2004; I prefer her earlier, French-language effort “Vent Fou”. If you’re a Tori fan, or just like feminine angst coupled with a instinct for an instrument, see if you can’t hunt down one of her albums.
Can I get fired from the Amoeblog for referencing Tori Amos? Probably not, though I’m certain to be greeted with some amount of derision from co-workers. Those that can read, anyway.
Whatever. I’m too coffee-less to care. And besides, these same co-workers, too “cool” to even discuss Tori Amos, will howl with approval when Boston or Journey gets airplay. Time and distance and irony makes all things shine.
In twenty years, twenty-somethings who work at the Amoeba Music Moonbase will be ecstatically pogoing when Avril Lavigne is blasted in-store.
And so it goes.
*I put quotes around cat only because I’m not completely convinced the little monster isn’t just a wolverine with some stunted growth hormone.
Dude. Seriously. Dude.
1) AAAAAUUUUUUUUGH!!!!!!
2) thanks you veddy much.
3) i like when you break the script format. is it the vicodin? if so, please remember to hydrate. that stuff will make your poop into hard little raisins. i know, i've had 7 root canals in the last few years.
4) avril lavigne used to be my spirit animal but then she got married and our connection was broken. i forgive her. i'm still adrift, but there is hope on the horizon.
5) i saw someone in amoeba sf writing a blog about avril or hillary duff or maybe both. i was not on vicodin, so my fog is purely geographical in nature. no pun intended!
6) i cut and paste the following name due to an inability to spell it and an unwillingness to learn: Janeane Garofalo - you should introduce us. i am quite certain we would hit it off marvelously. references: there'd be no weird stargazing, i'm over that AND i'm totally in love with my partner so no scary lesbo-stalking.
yes, dear job. you know me. i mean, we met last week in the jazz room on the day of PATTI SMITH. just remember that and how you were like, 'oh my god' (kind of gay there) and 'god, you're adorable in person!' (which was a tetch hetero of you) besos my good man, both cheeks! like the french, not the butt!