Saturday, January 10, 2009

such a fine line between stupid and clever

I am ready to punch Today in the cock.

Wait. It’s Tomorrow. I’m sorry, Tomorrow. I have no issues I wish to resolve by way of violence against your cock.


Today was awesome. Awesome right up until 8:30 pm, when everything went to hell in an exceptionally priced handbasket in the middle of the IKEA parking lot. It is Jimmy Page’s birthday. Early today I began a letter to Jimmy Page –  a letter in which I expressed my love for him, for Led Zeppelin, and for Robert Plant’s pants circa 1970. But goddamn it! I couldn’t finish it. I couldn’t find the words to ask Jimmy why he is dressed like a box of Tastykakes at their (Zeppelin's, not the 'Kakes') 1970 performance at Royal Albert Hall. Why? Because I am downright belligerent. I AM PISSED. Again the question: Why? That’s hard to say. I know what triggered this whole mess, but I can’t say with certainty what’s sustained it. Perhaps together we can figure this out. I will be Trixie Belden, and you can be my Honey.

First, Jimmy Page. If you are like me then you love Led Zeppelin. Love. I once knew (or know, or am) a girl who loved Led Zeppelin so much that when she received a most coveted  Zeppelin DVD for Christmas while pregnant, she tucked it away for a time when she was very much not pregnant and could  enjoy it to its fullest capacity. She saved it until New Year’s Eve when, after her son’s fourth birthday party, she and her co-creator shared a pot of tea and settled down sans children to watch Led Zeppelin circa 1970, totally stoked at the magical rock-and-rolliness of it all and what they were about to behold and still not at all expecting the magic which was awaiting them in the form of Robert Plant’s goddamn pants. It may have been the tea talking, but that girl swore those pants were made of nothingness and sex. And I’ve seen the pants – she’s right! Nothingness and sex, which is just about as good as it gets in Pantsville.

So anyway. Happy birthday, Jimmy Page. I love you.

Now, because it is Jimmy Page’s birthday, I decided to celebrate in an appropriate fashion by getting high (on life!) and going to IKEA. Being high on life, I also submitted a manuscript for publication and applied for a job, because I love Jimmy Page that much. The Junior Brain Scientist decided to celebrate by dressing up in his blue and white seersucker suit, complete with linen shirt and tie, and parading around IKEA like a tiny Matlock hungry for the sweet embrace of an exceptionally priced stuffed bird that might have been a flamingo. The Other Junior Brain Scientist (i.e., the baby? Who has no blorum name? Formally known as the person who came out of my vagina?) decided to celebrate by sitting affably in his car seat while we pushed him around the store and waved tiny pencils in front of his face. Finally, the senior Brain Scientist decided to celebrate by being totally cool for the majority of the day and then donning his dick hat right around 8:30 tonight when IKEA put a dog collar around our necks and forced us to smell the glove.

Things went to shit in the parking lot. IKEA has that kind of parking lot. Walmart has the kind of parking lot that inspires people to at long last pour out the gallons of old milkshakes they’ve been hoarding in their cars, which is why I don’t ever go to Walmart and only send someone there on my behalf that one time per child when I have a breast pump emergency at 3:00 am because the bride and groom have whisked off to “consummate” their marriage with my breast pump in their car trunk and I am hammered and still dressed up like a (very heavily disheveled) lusty Renaissance wench maid-of-honor who may or may not have been photographed in compromising positions. IKEA, on the other hand, has a parking lot in which families are destroyed, because who knew that if you put 25 items that are only $7.99 in your cart, plus two that are $40, you will spend way goddamn more than you meant to? Not because you are irresponsible. No. Because you aren’t. You go to IKEA alone and have a list and a budget and do not allow any impulse purchases unless it is an absolute screaming deal, and you don’t really do that very often because a deal has to be screaming at you in a Scottish accent, like Ewan MacGregor, and usually needs to be saying something about The Velvet Underground or quantitative graduate student moms being really, really sexy. And typically that does not happen! And so you do not overspend. But then you go with other people! Impetuous cognitive scientists. Tiny southern attorneys. Adorable babies made of tolerant buttercream frosting. Then one thing leads to another, and there are purple bath mats and – oh my bitter ironic god – some other stuff that I can’t even remember right now, and suddenly you are being implicated in overspending at IKEA.

But You didn’t overspend.

The Collective You overspent.

No big deal, right? Yes, you fucked up, you exceptionally priced toothbrush holder loving whore. And yes, your living room does have a dearth of lamps given its size. But still. Was anyone talking to anyone else about numbers? Who was in charge of addition? Why are you such an idiot? I mean, some of you have advanced degrees. Whatever. You can take something back. But not until after someone has unjustly blamed you and your carefully considered list for the foible. You will take a moment and examine the receipt and point out to your associates that some serious do-re-mi was laid out in an effort to properly illuminate the living room, a series of purchases which was not on your list and was IN FACT motivated by your associates! You will be slightly perturbed, but will remain collected. Unfortunately, very soon something will get all fucked up in the course of the communications and their accompanying emotions and you will get frustrated to the point that you are hunting through the re-usable bags! which are only fifty-nine cents! in order to find the elegantly designed, exceptionally priced item that can be used most efficiently to slap the self-righteous indignation out of the bozo driving the mini-van. And perhaps the bozo will issue lame apologies at some point once he gathers himself and stops being an idiot or notices that you are about to brain him with a LACK end table for which you are also not responsible. But by then it’s too late. You are already wickedly pissed and trying to engage in the skillz you were taught in therapy, but for some unfathomable reason the bozo is saying But WHY can’t you talk about this right now? That’s RIDICULOUS even though you have patiently explained over and over and over again that this is one of your skillz and please show a little respect when you are asked to shut up about something for a while.

Before you know it you are home, and things are being brought into the house. You calmly identify items that could easily be returned. But then –  then! – someone criticizes the CD rack you’ve just agreed upon and purchased and then claims they’ve NEVER liked it, but since they’ve told you that the last two times you were at Dr. Sveelgood’s Household Item and Opium Parlor and you still keep asking about it they thought they’d just give up and let you purchase the goddamn thing which will look totally out of place in the living room.

And that’s it.

Suddenly you’re asking they remove the big exceptionally priced metal shampoo caddy that they’d moments before placed in the shower. You’re planning on returning that! You are eager to continue your routine of picking up everyone's toppled bottles while you bathe and answer questions about socks and factor analysis! And when they ask just where you’d like them to put the shower thing – because the whole house is already such a goddamn mess! – you suggest that they put it up their ass. Reconsidering your words a few minutes later, you throw it in the front yard. The shower caddy, not the ass. And then you retreat to a bedroom where you nap with an innocent ball of buttercream.

Later you will wake up and rapidly consume the remaining half of the bozo’s bottle of wine. You will be alone. You will tell your troubles to a made-up friend inside the computer. You will long for a real friend. You will drink more wine. You will lament not being able to see your Jimmy Page Birthday plans to their conclusion.You will curse – fuck! You will curse all things Scandanavian – fuck! get out of the sixties, Ian! You will wish you were a Buddhist lesbian. Actually, you will wish you were involved with a Buddhist lesbian. Because of the whole desire (IKEA)-and-ignorance (CAN’T ADD)-at-the-root-of-suffering thing. And, you know, the tits.



Sam said...

IKEA can totally do that to a person.

Padaria Navona said...

Hi, and the rest of the lyrics for "Darkest blues"? Do you have. I can't understand it well and I'd like to. Could you help?