Friday, December 22, 2006

I'd Give Anything



I Want To Be Home For Christmas

"I'd give anything to see
a little Christmas tree
And to hear, hear the laughter
of children playing in the snow
To kiss my baby, under the mistletoe.


But I can't promise my eyes this sight
unless they stop the fight.

'Cause I'm a prisoner of war

lying here in my cell, hoping
my family is well.
Wish they wouldn't worry so much about me,
just try to get us home, in time for the Christmas tree.
Listen,
oh yeah, oh,
I want to see snowflakes fall
I want to see Santa Claus
Oh I want to hear jingle bells ring,
want to hear jingle bells ringing.
But I can't promise my eyes this sight
unless they stop the fight."
If I can't make it home in time
I know you'll be keeping my spirit bright
by wearing my name and trying to stop this fight
Ah, but I'd give anything to see you, the family... and that little Christmas tree."

I moved to London in June of 2001, fully intending that I would be there forever -- and if not forever, then a very long time. I found work fairly quickly (I won't say that I found good work quickly: I got a job as a bartender at a "western" eatery in Earl's Court called the Texas Lone Star. My job duties included pouring frozen margarita after frozen margarita (we were mad packed on the weekends) and trying not to choke on the irony that I'd left Wyoming all those years ago only to end up lulled into catatonia by the endless loops of Shania Twain on the Gloucester fucking Road in the heart of London fucking England. As you might imagine, I got that job because my American ass added a dash of verisimiltude to the whole farce of a theme (James Baldwin was right, you know: black people are never more American than when they are abroad), but my salty attitude almost got me fired on the regular -- and I was only there a few weeks! I just refused to take that job seriously. I was constitutionally incapable of appreciating the absurdity. I might have tried harder, but I was prevented from doing so by the clientele, who didn't even have the good sense to be British citizens. The customers were overwhelmingly Americans who were staying in hotels in the area (like the dude who's posted a comment at the link above) -- and I get being overwhelmed with homesickness and needing the comforts of home, but we're talking about business travellers and other vacationers who just couldn't be arsed to find a restaurant that didn't look like a

UPDATE: I started this post around Christmas, and I it was epic. Ultimately, I was trying to talk about the soul ache I had because my little brother had been deployed to Iraq and was spending Christmas over there and then I...well, anyway, he came home safely, praise God. So we'll just leave this sad little holiday post where it is, a'ight, family?

Monday, December 18, 2006

No Lie!

When I was composing that last post, I couldn't remember if "surprise" was feminine or masculine in French, and I thought, I hope Alli is reading this and writes in to tell me if I should have typed "Quel surprise!" instead of "Quelle surprise!" And then my cup of coffee jumped out of my hand and punched me in the mouth for being so cotdamn ridiculous --

...okay, I gotta bust in here and say that I am still in Anodyne, which is why y'all discount motherfuckers are getting three discount posts today instead of none. And there is this dude* sitting at the back of the cafe who keeps looking at your girl -- and before you suck your teeth at my overwhelming arrogance, let me interject here and say that he is giving the side eye to everybody in here -- and then taking notes in a little notebook. Well, he was doing that for a couple of hours; he's now pulled out his iMac -- all the quicker, one imagines, to sculpt the masterpiece he is crafting from his observations of his fellow Anodyne patrons. Can I just say that I am desperate to know what he is writing over there? If that bitch goes to the bathroom, I am running across the room and stealing his notebook...

--and yet, so nostalgically random. I love that I have a vague memory of being in a 7th grade French class with someone and my brain files that under "People to turn to in case of linguistic emergency."


*confidential to Broc: you would be little Suzy for this dude, no lie. He is so your type I am losing my mind over here, working on ways to set you up with this strange man.

Looking Back




I haven't used my laptop for anything but home-based wifi piracy for so long, I'd forgotten that I had a couple of post drafts floating around on the hard drive. I found the following today while I was at Anodyne. I thought I had posted this already, but as it's clearly half-formed, perhaps I'm hallucinating. I wish I could remember what in the hell I was thinking about while I was writing it. I promise you that I was either just off the phone with Fergus or just about to call him.


"These Things Are True"

These things will never fail to crack me up:

Pimpadocious: it’s the “-docious” that makes it funny. Say it loud. Roll it around your mouth.*

I walk erect: Fergus used to say this when someone was being patronizing -- insinuating that something was beyond his limited intellect. He would say it all frustrated, like “I walk erect, dammit!” It used to crack me up! He doesn’t say this anymore. I wish he did.

Haggis McBaggis: I think this is the name of a store. I am laughing just typing that! Whew!


These songs always make me tear up, which is embarrassing if I am in public listening to my mp3 player:

“Fighter”: While I am mildly embarrassed about this, I don’t know why I should be. I have always loved a rousing personal empowerment anthem. Shit, I can listen to Bouncy ‘nem sing “Survivor” on repeat. When they talk about not trash talking someone after they did you wrong, because they were raised better than that? Come on! I love that, as ghetto fabulous as Beyonce can be, the sentiment of that song is actually very sophisticated. It takes a lot to not want to be just as ugly back to someone who has been ugly to you. Anyway, we’re talking about “Fighter” here, and the reason it makes me tear up is because I imagine I’m singing it to my dissertation. I’m pounding away on the computer singing like a damn fool and telling this bitchass magnum dorkus that with each letter I type I am learning a little bit faster, I’m a little bit smarter, a little stronger, and I’m ready to work a little bit harder. So thanks for making me a fighter. Woo! Now I’m tearing up again.**

* I remember laughing so hard at this word several months ago when I composed this post, but now, sadly, "pimpadocious" fails to amuse me. Actually...I take that back. I'm laughing again.

** Quelle surprise! I found this antiquated mention of my dissertation as I was avoiding work on it for what is likely the very last time. I am in the midst of piping the final icing on this bitchcake and waving goodbye to it forever. I have to turn in the final revisions to my advisor this Friday, and then we are going to get drunk and probably screw some hoes.

Beautiful Black Christmas

My people! Somebody call me and talk me through this final 7 days before I hit 32. Damn! The dirty thirties have set in like truth, family! I guarantee you that this birthday snuck up on your girl like the Hamburglar, but I am continuing to keep it moving...because this rap game needs me. Tell 'em, Hov!

Anyway, since my Lord and I will be celebrating our respective naissances next Monday, I thought that I would let all of you know what I'm really hoping for this holiday season. That's right, everybody: I want a d*ck in a box.*



* It's like somebody gave my boyfriend a microphone and a Color Me Badd suit. Seriously. Ask Bernie. This is precisely the kind of sentiment Doug would lay on me while drinking spiked eggnog and watching holiday porn. I mean, this is the same man who sleepily rolled over and called me "Little Booby Two Shoes" one night. Bless him.

Tuesday, December 12, 2006

Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

This one's for Todd!