skot AT izzlepfaff DOT com
Wednesday, 05 October
Carlos Castaneda! I Can See Your House From Here!
Well, the wife is about to open another show here this weekend, so all week I will be enduring Bachelor Week. While she attends technical rehearsals--which involves mostly wasting actors' times while geeks in black t-shirts fret over things with ominous names, like "Fresnels" and "gobos" and "buckets of rancid stage blood"--I am left to my own devices at home.
Since the week also coincided with the start of baseball's playoff season, you might think this was a good thing, but as I do not give one fucking fig for any of the teams in question, it's really kind of not. I suppose that, at some point, I will of course reflexively begin to root against the Yankees, but right now I just can't bother to care. Go . . . Angels? Bah. Fuck the Angels; at least the Yankees know pretty definitively who they are and where to go home at night. Rooting for the Angels is kind of like cheering on Sybil.
At least the wife knows how to find the little moments where she can. She got a hold of me at work today and offered to pick me up; the idea was to go get a drink to celebrate . . . uh . . . well, not working any more, I guess, and also to celebrate the act of drinking. So we did! The wife had a demure glass of wine while I tossed back a couple of martinis. Hey, I didn't have to go to rehearsal. (Incidentally, if you're wondering, they were gin martinis. I'm not saying anything against those of you who enjoy vodka martinis or whatever, except to point out that you probably are ruining civilization.)
Then we went home and had a nap. By which I mean I had a nap, a real pillow-drooler, while the wife got 20 minutes of shuteye before heading to the theater to watch geeks adjust cabling. I'm sure I was dreaming loving things of her as she rushed out the door.
Like loving shots of an actual dinner. The worst aspect of Bachelor Weeks like this is the horror of considering cooking for one. Me? I just won't fucking do it any more. I am lazy, it leads to leftovers that I inevitably will not eat, and I am lazy. For instance, tonight I consumed a quantity of sour cream & onion potato chips and some canned chili. At one point I hallucinated I was Vince Vaughn, for some reason. Can you see Vince Vaughn grimly spooning chili into his maw while watching The Amazing Race: Jesus Loves America Edition? Try mentally putting him in a wifebeater. It helps. Anyway, as I Vaughned out, I assuaged some of my wifebeatery feelings by opening up a bottle of really great red wine. The whole thing was a big experiment with cognitive dissonance, and as those feelings deepened, I blackly started to think about Duchamp's urinal, and that guy who canned his own crap, and the whole thing got kind of fractured.
Probably the chili. OR . . . it occurs to me! . . . the ketamines. Nothing speeds Bachelor Week by like diving right into the K-hole. I WANT TO KILL YOU, MOTHER! (I don't really know what I'm saying. This is what I get for buying my PDR at Half-Price Books.)
Tomorrow night, instead of retreating into some hellish drug-induced foxhole filled with chili and rampaging Vince Vaughns, I have unexpectedly taken steps to spend time with friends. I am dropping off the wife at the time-wastery and then speeding off to hang out with pals at a place that specializes, apparently . . . in pot pies.
I'm not entirely sure what's real any more.
Note: Comments are closed on old entries.
Isn't a vodka martini technically a Gibson anyway? Some say you have to put pickled onions in it instead of olives to make it a Gibson, but I say if you want a martini, it has to be Gin.I hate the fad of calling anything in a triangular glass a martini or some other "ini," and applaud your insistence on proper Martinis.
a gibson is still made with gin. the difference is that it has onions instead of olives. also, i agree. chocolatini, appletini, tini tini tini, ugh.
I tried a flirtini once. It was pineapple juice and gin. It tasted like someone had thrown up in my mouth. I still get flashbacks when the wind is just right.
What meat do they put with the drugs?
Pot pie must be a north american kind of thing.
Why oh why do you refer to your wife as "The Wife"? I know, I know that's what she is, but it makes it sound like you really resent her or worse perhaps, just put up with her. It's such a boring, derogatory title. You seem so nice, your wife sounds great, if you don't want to say her name, can you give her a cute assumed name? Please?
See, Sarah Jane, you've hit on the problem. I do resent my wife. And worse.
Sigh. I never wanted it to come to this, but since you've forced the issue . . .
Ah, nuts. All right. My wife is Ethel Rosenberg. And I resent her. Wouldn't you? Number one, she betrayed my country, maybe. Number two, she's dead, so that sucks.
You try living with a dead traitor some time! It's not easy! But anyway, now that the dead cat's out of the smoking bag, you get your way. From now on, I will no longer use the term "the wife."
Everyone, meet Ethel Rosenberg. Don't be mad if she doesn't say hi. She's dead. Also, watch your mouth around her, because she's a stinking traitor.
This is a dark day in Izzle Pfaff history.
.."You seem so nice, your wife sounds great.."
do you READ this column??!! it is a dark day indeed
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