May 17th: Come on'na my house, I gonna give you candy
Hello! I moved! I went over here! Mmm. I love that fresh new website smell. All mine, all mine! Join me, it's still the same old spew but look, pretty new colors.
05/17/02 and that's a wrap!
Thanks, Pita and special thanks your fabulous site mgr., I've really enjoyed myself.
May 14th: Heart of Beigeness
“What time is it?”
“Two-thirty seven.”
“What time is our flight?”
“Six A.M.”
“We have no way of getting there, do we?”
“Nope. Nothing official. I think Kyeswa completely shut us down. I can’t get any of the office staff to talk to me at all.”
“....”
“What? You think this is my fault, don’t you?”
“You didn’t have to say that in front of everybody. That’s what pissed him off.”
“Veronica, for pity’s sake, Nana was having her period and he wouldn’t let her get up to go to the bathroom! I think I had to say something. She was crying. He was picking on her like he always does. He was cowing her because she’s just a teenager and he could. Somebody had to say something.”
“Yeah, but look at us now. We’re in the middle of the jungle with no means of transportation out. What are we going to do? We’ve got non-refundable tickets. You planning to walk to the Kenyan border? I’m sure not.”
“Pffft. If worst comes to worst, we can start hiking down to the Hilton at four. We can probably hire a car there. Hopefully. It's raining pretty hard, but if we have to, we will. We’ll figure it out.”
“He told Deborah you spoke to him sharply because he’s African and you’re European. He told Deborah that you never would have spoken to a white man like that.”
“Well, Kyeswa doesn’t know me very well, does he? I would have spoken to anyone, man, woman, black, white, whatever like that if they were being half the bully he was. Come on, we’re all sick of his shit. He’s gone half-crazy on top of being a first-class controlling asshole to begin with. Parading us around like his prize pigs, his pet American ladies here to validate his importance back home. It was going to come to a head sometime. Look, I already apologized. I’ve been crying for two days straight and he still won’t relent or do anything to help us leave.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“What?”
“Maybe you should examine that, what you just said. Whether or not you’re maybe a little bit ethnocentric, not respectful of other’s cultural values. Check yourself.”
“Yeah, I’ll do that once we’re on a flight. And maybe Kyeswa will examine whether or not he’s a big sexist jerk.”
“I’m just saying there might be something there.”
“He used to be in Idi Amin’s cabinet, for God’s sake! I think that’s information the field office should have provided up front, don’t you think? ‘Was research director ever a minister in a genocidal regime? Why, yes, actually.’ Might have changed our travel plans a bit. So, no, I’m not going to reexamine my tone with him, thanks all the same.”
“Did you talk to Frederick?”
“Yeah, I gave Frederick fifty bucks to get a van and take us to the airport. I don’t know if he will, though. I couldn’t get a read on him. He just said “Mmm” and pocketed the money.”
“That’s kind of Ugly American of you.”
“I don’t know what’s expected of me here, Veronica. What now?”
“Just throwing money at him that way and ordering him to get a van.”
“I did no such thing! I asked him if he would be able to get us a ride to the airport and he said he might be able to if I gave him some money and I said how much and he said give me fifty dollars. He’s a professional driver, I asked him if he could drive us somewhere. I hardly see where my racist ways come into the equation. ”
“Gosh, I hope he comes through. I really need to get out of here. This place has the darkest pall over it, don’t you think? It’s like a menacing cloud after awhile.”
“Um.”
“What, now I’m being an Ugly American?”
“By your standards, maybe a little.”
“I guess I started to get a little uncomfortable when they started evacuating people by the busload out of Rwanda. That seems a little close.”
“I’m just saying.”
“....”
“We’re going to Harare next. Maybe we’ll make a better impression there. I don’t think we’re ever going to make it into the Kampala Social Register.”
“Hey, there’s a piece of paper under the door!”
“It’s from Frederick! It says the van has been secured and he’ll pick us up at half past four. Thank you, Frederick! Our savior.”
“Phew. That’s a relief. God. Maybe I’ll sleep for a couple hours.”
“....”
“Now what?”
“You called me a racist.”
“I didn’t! I just said you should examine your behavior.”
“I was maybe insensitive to local cultural mores when I spoke sharply to a Ugandan man in front of another Ugandan man. But is sexism ever acceptable because it’s the norm in a given society? Alternatively, would I have not been even more racist, accepting your terminology arguendo, if I had stifled my own response to Kyeswa’s treatment of Nana in order to spare his sensibilities?”
“You’re going to make me stay up and argue this with you, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am.”
“This is the last time I go to Africa with someone I met in Berkeley.”
“Duly noted.”
05/14/02
May 13th: You May Already Have Won...
Dear God,
Long time no talk to. How’s it going? How’s every last little cherubim? Happy belated birthday to Your Kid, btw. I know, I know, we’re all Your children at some level, but come on, between You, me and the lamppost I think we know who Daddy’s favorite is. Always at Your right hand, the first to get the mashed potatoes when they’re passed around. I’d hate him if he wasn’t so all-fired nice.
Also, I know you’re a busy Guy with all that omnipotence and the switchboards constantly lighting up with requests for blessings and imprecations. I bet You have quite the battery of crackerjack receptionists! Joke. Remember that, remember how I used to always tell You a joke instead of praying when my mother would make me do that before bedtime thing? “What kind of cheese do You eat? Swiss cheese. Because it’s hol(e)y!” I still got it, that rascally sense of humor. Please don’t smite me.
Anyhow, I’ll get to the point. Lately I’ve been completely consumed by the day-to-day tasks of keeping home and hearth together. Just getting from point A to B without screwing up too badly. It’s taking a toll on my ability to realize the gifts I feel You have already bestowed upon me. And that’s bad for both of us, right?
So I was wondering if You could arrange a great windfall of cash to come upon me. I know I’ve been going on for years on what a terrific madcap heiress I’d be, what I’d wear, how I’d swan around my fantastic salon bestowing grants on struggling artists, the foundation I would create to color-coordinate wardrobes for the blind. But here’s the thing: I wasn’t kidding. And it’s getting awfully late in the day for me to be as Carole Lombardian as my mind’s eye had envisioned. I got maybe five more good years to wear tulle without looking matronly.
Now I know You’re not Satan with all his flim-flam and trickery, but I also know You dearly love to teach Valuable Lessons. So I don’t want the great windfall of cash to come from a tragic bus accident settlement that leaves my entire family dead and myself horribly scarred and maimed. I don’t want the great windfall of cash to be the result of some Ponzi scheme I create to fleece the poor and gullible. I don’t want the great windfall of cash to be suddenly mine but oops, I’m in prison for a murder I didn’t commit. In short, I want a great windfall of cash, no strings attached. You’re omniscient, You know what I mean.
See, I’m not asking merely to be selfish. I know what I sound like, asking this and all, but there’s a passage in the Bible somewhere about asking for stuff, I do recall that vividly. If I could just have the luxury of time to think about the deep thoughts that come upon me on the subway train instead of worrying about getting off at the correct stop lest I be late to perform my trivial labors for money, I’m sure I could come up with a reasonable and cogent theory of human consciousness. I could finally write the novel I know lurks within me, sometimes erupting into pithy phrasemaking that inadvertently comes out my mouth at inappropriate junctures. Oh sure, I’d probably spend about a month taking a nap. And then there’d be the endless setting up of proper investment funds at Charles Schwab, followed by the reading of endless, heartrending faxes, emails and letters, imploring me to give away part of my Godgiven dinero to whatever panda-charity or dying kids camp has gotten wind of my windfall. And then I’d probably be really depressed because I was previously unaware of the scope of human misery, the sheer, vast, Guernica-like canvas of suffering that defines my planet. And then I would be immobilized in my grief and hopelessness, because until I had found a causality for all this despair and engulfing horror, until I had found greater meaning and transcendence, how was I going to get to the liquor store to buy sloe gin for my fabulous salon?
You know what? On second thought, screw it. I’m fine. Work’s what’s kept me happy. You don’t worry about me any more, I got me covered. Maybe that will give You more time to get Your job done, Amigo. Not to judge, but maybe You should outsource. You seem a little overwhelmed. I know I am, right about now.
Your friend,
Kb
05/13/02
May 12th: The Enthusiast in "The Zone of Boredom"
ANNOUNCER: Blessed with extrasensory powers of insatiable curiosity since childhood, our heroine roams the world, finding interest in any topic of conversation, in any random strangers’ life story, even in the filmic works of Nora Ephron. The Enthusiast, as she is known, can find delight in anything that crosses her path. But tonight she faces her greatest nemesis as she confronts....BORING MAN!!!!
(Sounds of tinkling ice in cocktails, piano playing, the laughter and conversation of a large group of people.)
ENTHUSIAST: Gosh, Betty, it sure is swell of you to invite me to your party. All your friends seem really great.
BETTY: You’re welcome, Thusie! And why wouldn’t I invite you, you always fit in anywhere. Oh, say, look over there, it’s Sharon’s boyfriend, Doug. Look at him over there all alone, just going through my CDs and alphabetizing them. He looks sad.
THUSIE: Maybe I should go talk to him!
BETTY: That’s a great idea!
THUSIE: Hey, where are you going?
BETTY: Oh, I gotta...go get some more ice. From the kitchen. I’ll catch up with you later.
THUSIE: Okay, then! I look forward to it!
(Sound of Thusie’s footsteps crossing the room. Doug’s muttering becomes more audible.)
DOUG: I can’t believe she files “The Smiths” under “T.” She’ll never find it that way.
THUSIE: Hi Doug! I’m Thusie. I’m a friend of Betty and Sharon’s. It’s a real pleasure to meet you.
DOUG: Oh, hi. Can you hold these while I put the Led Zeppelin CDs in chronological order?
THUSIE: Sure! So, you like music. What kind of music do you like?
DOUG: I don’t particularly like music. I just hate clutter. Hate it.
THUSIE: Oh! Okay. (pause) So Sharon informs me that you live in Marina Ville. It’s quite lovely there, it’s like a small town, I think, more than a city. But I don’t live there, you tell me.
DOUG: I’m never home. I work all the time.
THUSIE: What do you do?
DOUG: I lease corporate office space.
(Long pause.)
DOUG: So, how do you know Betty?
THUSIE: We met in college. It’s actually kind of a funny story--
DOUG: What college?
THUSIE: Mega U. Anyway--
DOUG: What was your major?
THUSIE: World Literature and Media, but that doesn’t really matter. Anyway--
DOUG: My sister went to Mega U, she was a journalism major.
THUSIE: Wow, that sounds interesting, is she a journalist now?
DOUG: No.
THUSIE: Okay. I’m sorry, I interrupted, please go on.
DOUG: She had a professor named Simonson, Simonton, Symington, Sorensen, something like that. Back in 1973. Did you take any classes from him?
THUSIE: No, I went to Mega U in the mid-80’s, actually. Was he a good professor?
DOUG: I don’t know. She never said. Maybe it was O’Neill. O’Melveney? O’Rourke. Oscarson? I hate it when I can’t remember things.
THUSIE: (stifling a yawn) I’m sure it will come to you. So, your sister. What’s she like?
DOUG: We haven’t spoken in years.
THUSIE: Oh, I’m sorry. Family disagreements. That’s hard.
DOUG: No. No. I just...work all the time.
THUSIE: Gotcha. I gotcha. The...the...working thing.
DOUG: Newtonson or Johanssen, whatever his name was, he had a poster in his office of Chief Strongbow.
THUSIE: Chief Strongbow? I bet there’s a story there, huh? A story? Maybe he was incensed by the racial stereotyping? Was that it? Or did he like wrestling?
DOUG: I have no idea. He just had a poster of Chief Strongbow. Chief Strongbow the wrestler. McMorton? Hennessey? Davidson?
THUSIE: (growing ever more woozy) Maybe he liked...wre...wrestling. An academic who liked...wrestling. That...would...be....funny...don’t you...think?
VOICEOVER FROM INSIDE THUSIE’S MIND: Must...escape. Must...warn...others...
DOUG: Chief Strongbow the wrestler. A big poster of him. I thnk it was 16 by 20. Maybe 17 by 21. My sister’s professor from the journalism class at Mega U in 1973. Are you sure you don’t know him? Spiegenthaler or something.
ANNOUNCER: Will Thusie escape in time before her powers of enthusiasm are completely sapped by Boring Man? Stay tuned to next week’s exciting conclusion!
05/12/02
May 11th: Alien Sex Fiend
“Wow, that light was wicked cool. Was that a tractor beam or was it more a teleportation device? Freaky. I feel all tingly and shit, did you do that too?”
“Silence, human! We did not bring you aboard our craft to have a conversation. Your puny brain could not comprehend our sophisticated communicative protocols. Unless you wish your head to explode, we suggest you lie still on the Miaplacidus Prime slab and let us proceed.”
“I KNEW it! Your lips don’t move. I told Frankie you guys would be telepaths but he was all ‘Shut up, they’d have to adapt to our way of talking or we won’t hear them,’ and I was all “Dude, these are superintelligent beings, at least the Grays are,’ which you are, right? Awesome.”
“Did I not just command you to silence? This is only going to take longer the more you persist in annoying us.”
“Shit, man, take as long as you need. I ain’t in a hurry. Are you going to anally probe me? Because I’d like to roll over, if that’s the case.”
“Dheh, sptz...why does everybody ask that? We have never done any such thing. What purpose would that serve? Can you think of one? I’m 472,126 to the twelfth power times more intelligent than you and I cannot.”
“That’s what all the books say you do. And all the websites. That and hybrid alien-human baby implantations. You’re not gonna do that, are you? Because I’m a guy, right? It would be sorta hard to explain. But I’m cool with the anal probe, I’ve kind of, you know, done stuff like that before. I mean, I hope you don’t just--”
“Bizaroth! Do we have any duct tape? No? Human, I will, um, mentally silence you forever with my awesome powers if you do not stop with your disgusting palaver.”
“You know, I mostly dig chicks, but I’m really open to experimentation.”
“For the last and most terrifying time, stop with the anal probing nonsense! We do not do that! I do not know who started that rumor.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
Mnptrzat, ready the procedure.”
“Is that it? Dude, you just scraped a popsicle stick inside my cheek. Lame.”
“Lame? LAME??? We now possess the entirety of your DNA and can clone you into an army of slave laborers on our home planet.”
“Yeah, whatever. I can’t tell my friends that I got abducted and you fucking just swabbed me. They’ll never believe that. They’ll be all ‘you so did not get abducted you fucking liar.’ Can you at least take some sperm? That’s got DNA. Come on, I’ll show you a good way how.”
“Puny human, we will erase all memory of this encounter as soon as we return you to your sleeping chamber.”
“Yeah, dude, again, whatever. What a rip.”
“Bizaroth, is he gone? Is he? Good. I feel dirty. We have got to get new jobs.”
05/11/02
May 10th: Who Do You Want To Be Today?
Maybe we all overwrite our memories, or maybe it’s just me. Just got a kick up the Khyber rereading some old, handwritten scraps of things from a file cabinet I have carried from place to place for years, usually using it as a printer stand. Now, this material dates from a time that is also remembered by friends I still possess today, all of whom will state with certainty that I haven’t changed a whit, I’m the same juvenile and criminally self-absorbed dork that I was in my youth. Certainly, they’ve remained in many ways fundamentally the same, the things I loved about them then remain constant, but they have taken on more solid citizen personas, married and had children and careers, are able to resist taking personally societal changes that do not have any direct effect on their everyday lives. I have the luxury of time to be the Baby in my Universe, so I get to be the same old Kuda. But some things have changed, clearly. Here’s some samples of scribbling to make the angels cry, by proto-Kuda. It’s all “fiction” by the way. Any resemblance to persons alive or dead or typing on an iMac right now are purely coincidental:
I wish I was better at math. I wish I could be absolutely in love with something safe and boring. Or someone safe and boring. I wish there weren’t so many books I ought to have read. I wish I had gotten an education that meant something. Maybe that’s ridiculous. I wish I didn’t have to work for a living. I wish I wasn’t so damn nervous all the time. You know, I should be more noble and self-sacrificing. Work with kids. Stop backstabbing my friends. Give blood. God! I’m so middle-class.”
I’m crushed. I’m crushed and you’re maudlin. Crushed and Maudlin, attorneys-at-law. Maudlin and Crushed, the vaudeville sensation that’s sweepin’ the nation. Who’s your friend? That’s right, Nobody but that crazy girl who lives in your apartment with you and squeezes toothpaste from the middle and eats raw sugar cubes.”
“I was your ally, your equal, I was even your good luck. but now I’m just a bitch, huh? Fine. Live in the land of the bland with your muffin girlfriend. I hope you enjoy hearing her airhead comments on how Reagan is the salvation of this country and how her father makes more money than God the rest of your life.”
Yes, the title to all of the above could be “When Writing What You Know Attacks.” I’m just not that person any more, although I share her memories. They’re different memories now though, the colors have simmered down and faded, there’s no reflexive emotional charge to rereading any of this. Instead, I’m just rather embarrassed, although clearly the shame does not preclude me from posting this crap on the Internet.
Someday, the teenagers and young adults who are blogging their diaries will probably feel much the same as I do. Who the heck IS that and why are they so moody and dramatic? And could I have used slang that dated more poorly than this? But it’s good to have psychic landmarks, to realize that, yes, there are things that you experienced that were unbelievably wrenching at the time, that were all you could think about or feel or communicate, in however fumbling a fashion. And then, not that long after, those things are just ripped up pieces of binder paper in an old folder, or a Flying Dutchman of a URL that you come across by accident once again. Wave hi to your old self. There’s more where that came from, if you’re lucky.
05/10/02
May 9th: Ask a Cat
Dear Mittens,
I hope you can help me. I’ve been married for 17 years and lately my husband has been distant and incommunicative. He’s a good provider and we have four kids. I try to talk to him about it, but he just shrugs me off and says he’s under a lot of pressure at work and doesn’t need to hear more complaints and whining at home. Also, we haven’t had sex in nearly seven months. I may not be as young and svelte as the girl he married, but he’s not the studmuffin he used to be either. That’s what marriage is, right? In good times and in bad, for richer, for poorer, for older, for fatter? I don’t want a divorce. Please advise. Signed, Lonely in Louisville.
Dear LIL: Your husband sounds like he has lost much of his sense of smell in some kind of fight. Has he been going out the back door in the evening in order to expand his territory? Here’s a hint: if the neighbor’s yard smells of his pee, he’s been doing some exploration. The neighbor probably bested him in combat, so he’s feeling kind of beta. My advice for you is to insistently back up into his face until he gets a whiff of what he’s missing. Afterwards, you should bite his neck. Also, don’t let him eat any of your children that are not his. All the best, Mittens.
Dear Mittens,
What can I do to restart my faltering career? I am a broker employed by a big Wall Street firm. Unfortunately, the demise of the bubble economy has caused a huge downturn in my clients’ portfolios. I’m on the ropes with my boss, who is a callous bastard given to growling “Big dogs eat first” and “We feed strength around here.” I’m afraid if I don’t do something quickly, I’ll be canned. Help me! Signed, Morose on The Street.
Dear MOTS: Have you no hackles? Have you no claws? Have you no teeth? How big is your boss? Could you take him? If so, I don’t know what you’re crying about. Portfolios are not what this is about. I don’t know what “portfolios” means. Alternatively, you can try spraying his chair until he instinctively knows that you are higher than him in ranking. Also, have sex with his female. At the very least, if you’re put out on the street, you’ll have the satisfaction of knowing that he’s raising your litter on his dime. Looking forward to your rampage, Mittens.
Dear Mittens,
I am a thirty-something single male living in a large metropolitan city. I am decent-looking and make an okay income. My problem is that I cannot find a girlfriend. I do all the things you’re supposed to. I ask my married friends to set me up with single women, I do the online personals, I even went to church a couple of times with my Mom to check out the nice girls she swore were there for me. But I persist in being single. I have so much love to give, and it’s distracting me from the rest of my life. I just want to settle down with somebody nice, what am I doing wrong? Signed, Ready and Willing.
Dear RAW: You are pathetic. I bet the other males in your working place playfully bat you about for sport before pretending to hump you. If you stood under the porchlight near my stoop howling mournfully, I would stare at you from the window with incomprehension. No right-thinking female will mate with you because your offspring would be puny and weak. You should get yourself neutered immediately, you will feel better and stop wrecking the furniture with your furtive emissions and frustration clawing. Calling your vet right now, Mittens.
05/09/02
May 8: The Preciosity Exhibition
No Television. What is this thing called “The Sopranos” you speak of? Oh. No. I don’t watch television. No. I don’t own a television. I haven’t owned a television since 1987. I used to watch the Iran-Contra hearings on it. I found it a useful tool then, but now I prefer to expend my energies on more enriching pursuits. Television is a commercial-delivery-vehicle, don’t you think? Yes, yes, PBS. Yes, yes, pay television. Still and all, wouldn’t your time be better spent reading a book? I read several a day. I recently read a fine treatise on cartoon art during the Third French Republic, riveting. Why should I sit spellbound and drooling before a bunch of subliterate pretty people pretending to be trapped in a droll misunderstanding when I can go out and see “The Misanthrope?” Well, as long as you are pleased by whatever it is you watch mindlessly, that’s all that matters. I don’t want to be a killjoy.
The Early, Pre-Record Contract Albums. Let me see what you bought. Oh. Radiohead’s “Pablo Honey.” Huh. Have you heard “Drill?” That’s an EP, not easy to locate. I find it’s a purer version of the Radiohead experience, undiluted by commercial considerations. It’s always worth it to sleuth around a bit and discover an artist’s earlier works. The sad truth is, once you sign on with some bloodsucking corporate entity, your creative soul dies a little. It’s hard not to be seduced by Mammon, to not lay down your artistic sword and take the path more travelled. One day you’re Ani DeFranco, the next day you’re in wardrobe for TRL wearing Shakira’s cast-offs. Not that Thom Yorke wouldn’t look smashing in a pair of tight lace-up leather trousers. It’s just that...well, hey. Let me loan you this killer bootleg CD I got at Rasputin’s. It’s a group called “Chocolate Booger.” They’ll NEVER lose their cred. They’re purposely unlistenable, you’ll love it.
It’s Fancy. Which film do you wish to rent? Oh. No, I’ve never seen any of the Star Wars movies. I suppose I should, given how much I loved “The Hidden Fortress.” Still. I wish “Un Coeur en Hiver” was a trilogy that inspired thousands to camp out on the sidewalk. I’m sure Hollywood will buy the rights and bastardize it. Let’s just stay in. What are you making there? Oh. Cheese and crackers. That will be a lovely repast, thank you. Hmm. This is Havarti, yes? It’s fine, as far as the mild cheeses go. Couldn’t you find the Rouleau de Beaulieu that article in Mandatory Gustation recommended? God, why can’t I have some absinthe? I am strangely craving absinthe.
Delicate Petals. What is that supposed to mean? Oh. If that isn’t a personal attack aimed directly at me, I don’t know what is. You know how strongly I feel about violence against women. And yet you persist in making comments about how much you’d like to punch Ann Coulter in the neck. In front of me. Or where it is extremely likely that I will overhear your spluttering rage. Right, "just an expression." Words wound. Words scar and create psychic damage. Words are just the blueprint for violent action. You are nothing but a bully. I’m not listening to you anymore. Misogynist.
05/08/02
MY HIDEOUS ARCHIVE PAGE, SOMEDAY IT WILL BE PRETTY
NEED MORE COWBELL? GO HERE:
Ghost Dog
Dead Man
Night on Earth
Mystery Train
Coffee and Cigarettes
Down by Law
Stranger Than Paradise
Permanent Vacation
WHAT HURTS SOMETIMES:
"Fly high on intelligence, not drugs"
Still dead. Still my imaginary boyfriend.
Caution: may cause head to explode.
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