okay! Happy Memorial Day
When I was growing up, it was called Decoration Day, because it was the day you went to the cemetery and put flowers on the graves of dead soldiers and/or dead loved ones. Now it's called Memorial Day -- and it isn't held anywhere close to the actual "Memorial Day" -- and I think the entire holiday is now about trying to remember to have a cookout, or something like that.
(I am such a kill-joy, aren't I? Just have a cookout, Marilyn, and get over yourself already.)
Anyway. So everything, plans-wise, changed.
I didn't buy a new summer handbag although I tried really hard to; there just weren't any summer handbags for sale that I liked as well as the little straw bag with the yellow gingham lining that I've had now for 3 summers already so I thought, "Oh who the fuck cares if my handbag is 3 summers old now? I'll just keep using it." And I left the store.
Although I did get the new sunglasses (see post below) somewhere else.
I went to look in on mom's cats but they had a ton of food still in their bowls and, frankly, weren't much interested in seeing me, preferring sleep at that particular time, so I left.
My massage got postponed until next Friday. (But the upside to that is that heaven/bliss is still on the horizon.)
My cousins & I met first for breakfast and then again for dinner, but not for lunch, as planned, because of a medical emergency that popped up. Which left me a huge chunk of free time in the afternoon and I found myself reasonably close to the cemetery and it was technically "Memorial Day very-long-weekend-ish" so I decided to go to the cemetery to see my long-lost (not lost, per se; dead, actually) boyfriend.
I didn't know I'd be going to the cemetery that day so I hadn't brought along any flowers. And I was so thrilled to see that someone (his mom or sister most likely) had put flowers on his grave. It was the first time I'd been there when someone besides me had brought him flowers. This was a very big, happy deal for me because he's been dead 35 years already and I always feel like people have forgotten he ever lived. (But I remember vividly. I first fell in love with him when I was 11. When I was 12, he almost noticed I existed, but then when I was 13, he really noticed I was alive, and then I found out what sex was about -- or, I should say, sex that involved a person other than just myself. ha ha. And then when I was 14, he died. He was almost 16 & got killed in a motorcycle accident. And as you can see, not only was it difficult for me to forget him; it was actually impossible. And then a couple months after he died, through the heartlessness of several other boys -- this is a very, very long, convoluted story that will be in my memoir, Manhattan, Mon Amour -- I got raped because he was dead. And by that, I mean that a bunch of boys suddenly felt that since he was dead then I was up for grabs, as they say. So perhaps a more appropriate title for my memoir would be Ohio, I Hate You.... but. Onward.)
While I was at the cemetery, I realized with a real start that he would be 51 now, had he lived. How the fuck did that happen? Time flying like that. I cannot imagine what he would have been like as a 51 year old.
And then when I was leaving, I turned around and headed for my car and walked right into the grave of the really loving and wonderful woman who had been my granparents' live-in housekeeper for her entire adult life. I always try to find her grave when I go out there and this is the first time in 15 years that I'd managed, without even trying, to find it again. It was so weird. It was one of those things where I literally practically tripped over her and then realized, oh my god, there she is! So I talked to her for a little while, too.
On another note entirely.
I am perturbed by this news that Johnny Depp might be playing Frank Sinatra in an upcoming Martin Scorsese film project. I am just so not seeing it. I just feel like he is way too talented to do something no-brainer-ish like Frank Sinatra, especially at this stage in his career. And to not even be doing his own singing when he was so incredible in Sweeney Todd. But you know, to be honest, I am usually at odds with all his movie choices and then when I go see the films, I am almost always really amazed by his performance. So I guess it's a good thing that he doesn't rely too heavily on my opinion of which roles he should or shouldn't take (I am talking about Johnny Depp here, but I suppose it holds just as true for Martin Scorsese). Actually, there is really just an amazing dearth of movie professionals out there relying on me for career guidance.
But I guess we'll see. Johnny Depp will do whatever he wants to do. Regardless, I am one of those people who would pay to watch Johnny Depp read from the phone book. I'd also pay to watch John Malkovic read from the phone book. And William Powell, as well -- if only he were still alive. In fact, I love William Powell so much that he's the only other person on the planet that I actually wish I could have been instead of being born myself. I only have to think about William Powell and everything in my world becomes instantly better. He was so marvelous. (Wouldn't it be cool to be the kind of person who, decades after you'd died, people could just think of you and their lives got instantly better?)
Well, on that happy note, I leave you with his photo below... And I actually have work to do, here. It's called "revisions on the new novel" so I'd better scoot! Have a great holiday if you're living in the USA! See ya, gang!
(I am such a kill-joy, aren't I? Just have a cookout, Marilyn, and get over yourself already.)
Anyway. So everything, plans-wise, changed.
I didn't buy a new summer handbag although I tried really hard to; there just weren't any summer handbags for sale that I liked as well as the little straw bag with the yellow gingham lining that I've had now for 3 summers already so I thought, "Oh who the fuck cares if my handbag is 3 summers old now? I'll just keep using it." And I left the store.
Although I did get the new sunglasses (see post below) somewhere else.
I went to look in on mom's cats but they had a ton of food still in their bowls and, frankly, weren't much interested in seeing me, preferring sleep at that particular time, so I left.
My massage got postponed until next Friday. (But the upside to that is that heaven/bliss is still on the horizon.)
My cousins & I met first for breakfast and then again for dinner, but not for lunch, as planned, because of a medical emergency that popped up. Which left me a huge chunk of free time in the afternoon and I found myself reasonably close to the cemetery and it was technically "Memorial Day very-long-weekend-ish" so I decided to go to the cemetery to see my long-lost (not lost, per se; dead, actually) boyfriend.
I didn't know I'd be going to the cemetery that day so I hadn't brought along any flowers. And I was so thrilled to see that someone (his mom or sister most likely) had put flowers on his grave. It was the first time I'd been there when someone besides me had brought him flowers. This was a very big, happy deal for me because he's been dead 35 years already and I always feel like people have forgotten he ever lived. (But I remember vividly. I first fell in love with him when I was 11. When I was 12, he almost noticed I existed, but then when I was 13, he really noticed I was alive, and then I found out what sex was about -- or, I should say, sex that involved a person other than just myself. ha ha. And then when I was 14, he died. He was almost 16 & got killed in a motorcycle accident. And as you can see, not only was it difficult for me to forget him; it was actually impossible. And then a couple months after he died, through the heartlessness of several other boys -- this is a very, very long, convoluted story that will be in my memoir, Manhattan, Mon Amour -- I got raped because he was dead. And by that, I mean that a bunch of boys suddenly felt that since he was dead then I was up for grabs, as they say. So perhaps a more appropriate title for my memoir would be Ohio, I Hate You.... but. Onward.)
While I was at the cemetery, I realized with a real start that he would be 51 now, had he lived. How the fuck did that happen? Time flying like that. I cannot imagine what he would have been like as a 51 year old.
And then when I was leaving, I turned around and headed for my car and walked right into the grave of the really loving and wonderful woman who had been my granparents' live-in housekeeper for her entire adult life. I always try to find her grave when I go out there and this is the first time in 15 years that I'd managed, without even trying, to find it again. It was so weird. It was one of those things where I literally practically tripped over her and then realized, oh my god, there she is! So I talked to her for a little while, too.
On another note entirely.
I am perturbed by this news that Johnny Depp might be playing Frank Sinatra in an upcoming Martin Scorsese film project. I am just so not seeing it. I just feel like he is way too talented to do something no-brainer-ish like Frank Sinatra, especially at this stage in his career. And to not even be doing his own singing when he was so incredible in Sweeney Todd. But you know, to be honest, I am usually at odds with all his movie choices and then when I go see the films, I am almost always really amazed by his performance. So I guess it's a good thing that he doesn't rely too heavily on my opinion of which roles he should or shouldn't take (I am talking about Johnny Depp here, but I suppose it holds just as true for Martin Scorsese). Actually, there is really just an amazing dearth of movie professionals out there relying on me for career guidance.
But I guess we'll see. Johnny Depp will do whatever he wants to do. Regardless, I am one of those people who would pay to watch Johnny Depp read from the phone book. I'd also pay to watch John Malkovic read from the phone book. And William Powell, as well -- if only he were still alive. In fact, I love William Powell so much that he's the only other person on the planet that I actually wish I could have been instead of being born myself. I only have to think about William Powell and everything in my world becomes instantly better. He was so marvelous. (Wouldn't it be cool to be the kind of person who, decades after you'd died, people could just think of you and their lives got instantly better?)
Well, on that happy note, I leave you with his photo below... And I actually have work to do, here. It's called "revisions on the new novel" so I'd better scoot! Have a great holiday if you're living in the USA! See ya, gang!
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