Miss Marilyn Monroe Pees Only in her Litterbox

Or, the fine art of eavesdropping...
The scene: a sushi restaurant in Japantown, San Francisco, Wednesday night (yesterday).
The players: two men in their late twenties sitting in the next booth. One blond American who looks like he walked out of a Ralph Lauren ad. One tall, dark Frenchman in a form-fitting cream-colored turtleneck.

Frenchie: Listen, I got home, I was exhausted, it was ten o'clock at night, and my room was full of cat piss.
Ralph: It was eight o'clock.
Frenchie: It was ten o'clock! My plane was delayed! I got in at nine, so--
Ralph: You were on Burbank time.
Frenchie: I--wait, Burbank is the same time zone.
Ralph: No it's not.
Frenchie: Well, but--wait, yes it is. Fuck! Listen! I got in at nine, so I'm home at ten, I'm completely exhausted, and you've locked my fucking cat in my room. The cat has pissed everywhere and shat on the bed. What would you do if I locked your cat in your room when you were gone?
Ralph: I'd laugh. I'd get the fucking joke. Except it wouldn't happen to me, because Miss Marilyn Monroe is a princess, she doesn't pee anywhere except her litterbox. Your cat is psycho. It was pissing everywhere. It was my bed or yours. If you want it to stop, get it neutered.
Frenchie: Listen, I was saving up. Do you know how much it costs to castrate a fucking cat?
Ralph: Yeah, it's free.
Frenchie: It's five hundred fucking dollars!
Ralph: No, it's free.
Frenchie: No, look, I called. It's five hundred fucking--
Ralph: Yeah, because you're a moron and you didn't call the SPCA.
Frenchie: Listen, I'm working on it! This doesn't mean you can just lock my cat--I mean, there was cat piss everywhere!
Ralph: Well, at least it got you out of your room for once.
Frenchie: Why do you care if I'm in my room? I come home at the end of the day, I'm tired, I don't bother you, so why is this such a problem?
Ralph: Why is it a problem that there's a French bastard in my apartment who spends all his time locked in his bedroom masturbating? Look, yeah, that bothers me! I try to have fun, I say "Hey, let's go get something to eat," I invite friends over--
Frenchie: And then you tell them I have been in my bedroom masturbating. This does not make me feel so sociable, you know?
Ralph: Look, they knew I was joking.
Frenchie: Listen. I have thought about this thing you said. I understand you were drunk, I'm not going to be mad at you for what you say when you're drunk. I will let this pass. But my cat--

Etc. This conversation continued the entire time we were there, eating our sushi in the adjacent booth and trying to stifle our laughter. As we were getting up to leave:
Me (to Frenchie): 'Scuse me for eavesdropping, but you guys should write a screenplay, seriously. Listening to your argument is so entertaining. It's like something out of a Tarantino movie.
Frenchie: Well, thank you. But it is not an argument, really. It's--you know, two people working out their issues, I don't know what you would call it, but--
Me: A discussion?
Frenchie: A discussion, yes. Not an argument.

Understated Sexiness

This decade's award for Understated Sexiness in a Musician or Band goes to: Britta Phillips and Dean Wareham. Why this quality of theirs is quite apparent when seeing them live, but barely perceptible from the few publicity photos I'd seen, I don't know. I guess that's where the understatedness comes in.

Those who want more photos, or who wish to view my video of them singing "Bonnie and Clyde" in the original French, just say the word; your inbox will rejoice. Moi, Bonnie, je tremble pour Clyde Barrow...

Foot in Mouth Disease

So far my engagement ring has triggered two attacks of foot-in-mouth disease. I don't mean the kind of foot-in-mouth that afflicts cattle and is treated by veterinarians. I mean the kind that afflicts me, making me wildly embarrassed, and is apparently untreatable. Here's how this works: I run into someone who either does not know I'm engaged or hasn't seen the ring, and I have to explain the ring to them, because for some reason people are confused by engagement rings that fail to conform to the platinum/diamond solitaire expectation. It's like so:

My interlocutor: Oh! A, uh, a blue stone! That's really pretty! So does that mean you're engaged? And is that a, uh, what is that?
Me: It's a sapphire. It was made in a lab, and the gold is recycled--he had the ring made by this hippy outfit that's all environmental, so nothing's mined.
My interlocutor: Oh. And those are little diamonds?
Me: No, they're moissanites, which we got because I object to diamonds.
My interlocutor: Oh.

It is at this point that I notice that my interlocutor is wearing a diamond ring. Why it does not occur to me to glance at her finger before opening my big yap, I have no idea. And how I've managed to do this twice already--twice in the past week--is truly mystifying. Is there a support group for people with foot in mouth disease? Please can I join?

Quote of the Day

It's Einstein's birthday. That has nothing to do with this quote, maybe.

"We all have skeletons in our closets and monsters in our hearts....
When a relationship is soulful, the soul's irrationality will be revealed for all to see.... Such love of the soul, sometimes felt as nothing more than tolerance of its unreasonable demands, is the basis for intimacy."
- Thomas Moore, Soul Mates

Mountains of the Moon

While I realize that only about three people on earth ever read this blog, so it truly doesn't matter what the hell I post, I still want to call the attention of those three people to my favorite song of the moment. I just listened to it four times and am listening to it again: "Mountains of the Moon," by Michael Holland, from his CD "Tomorrow's American Treasures" (that link is to an excellent review). Folks, it's on iTunes: it couldn't possibly be easier to buy. Oh, and he's opening for Dean and Britta these days. Check 'em all out.

Hamosexual

Is it safe to blog while inebriated? We shall see.
Tonight, at a French restaurant, I faced a basic truth about myself. It is a truth I denied for many years--specifically, the five and a half years I spent as a vegetarian.
I am hamosexual.
I am a flaming hamo.
Put me in front of a French saucisson. Or a slice of pate. Or a serving of jambon cru, France's equivalent of proscuitto: dry-cured ham. Or even bacon. The result? I am totally enslaved.
To deny this, would be to deny some of my most basic desires. I will not do that anymore. It is time for me to come out.