Here’s Howard Stern’s problem: He got too emotionally healthy and he lost his edge. He used to be unhappily married, and he lashed out at every other celebrity, and he was generally angry and he was hilarious. Then he started going to therapy four days a week—and I imagine he went to a really good one there in New York—with all his riches. He got a divorce, met his second wife nine months later, and got happy. Now he’s all rescuing cats and seeming serene, and people hate it.
The good news is you don’t have any of that here. If anything, I get less healthy as time marches by. So, yay! Vague hilarity ensues.
I’m happy for Howard Stern, though, actually. I have genuine affection for him. And don’t be me and hate him if you’ve never listened to him at length. I once didn’t talk to some friends of mine for years—years!!—after we fought at a bar once about Howard Stern. I’d never listened to him. I’d seen him on those pay-per-view shows he used to do, or maybe I saw him once on E. Whatever it was, I didn’t listen to him until I moved to LA and he was just part of morning radio.
Then I loved him. Still do. The end.
The entire time I’ve been talking to you, my computer has BOUNCED things up and down at me, and SLID messages on the side. Do you want to update? How ’bout now? Now?
Jesus Christ, shut the fuck up. You just literally updated last week. You have an addiction to updating. Leave me out of it.
Anyway, weekend. Lemme scroll through my photos (WANT TO UPDATE PHOTOS!?!?!) and see what the heck I did.
We have a farmer and his wife, who takes a nurse but the cheese stands alone, come to work in their pickup every Friday, and they park under the shade of that tree where I found that baby squirrel that one time. Anyway, they sell their wares, and this week they had vaguely suggestive gourds.
“That looks like a porpoise jumping out of the waves,” said my boss, who is a nicer-minded person than I.
I worked until 900 forty-five and six-thousand o’clock in the p.m., because I got decks at the last minute. Decks are presentations, and sometimes they have intricate charts where I have to look at every number and every tiny word and spellcheck every name. They’ll send me one that’s 80 pages. “Can you do it in an hour? It should be pretty clean.”
Here’s how to make a copy editor phallic her gourd. I STILL HAVE TO READ EVERY WORD, NO MATTER HOW HYGIENIC YOU THINK IT IS. It doesn’t make it go faster, really, anyway, if there are few mistakes. That’s not what takes time. LOOKING AT EVERY WORD AND NUMBER AND PIECE OF PUNCTUATION DOES.
Anyway, the Poet was also working late, and we were the only people in the building yet we literally never spoke until I got ready to leave and bellowed, “GOODBYE, CITY LIFE!” at her, and since she is 96 like me, she got it.
On Saturday morning, I had a date. I think it went well, but other than a wrap-up text afterward, I’ve heard nothing. This is how it’s gone all year. Almost every person has said, “Would you like to do this again?” and I say yes, sometimes thinking Oh, I’ll just fake my death later to get out of this but sometimes meaning it. Then inevitably each person, to the letter, has not asked me out again.
WHY ASK IF I’D LIKE TO DO THIS AGAIN? Or maybe the question was — what’s that word? Reciprocal? Redundant? Maybe I do still have a concussion.
Anyway, maybe the whole thought really is, “Would you like to do this again? Because I wouldn’t.”
Then afterward, after possibly successful but probably not date, I took self to the Judy Garland movie, which was sad, and in which I’ve taken down a notch my abhorration of Brigitte Nielson Jones Diary or whatever her name is who starred in it.
Concussion? Table for one?
Why do we all dislike her, old lemon-face who stars in it? I don’t know one person who doesn’t go, “Ugh,” when you say her name. Is it all the work? The el plastico worko? That makes us dislike everyone. As do fake Spanish words.
Speaking of all the work, what the fuck did Courtney Cox do to herself?
Anyway, she did a good job, Jennifer Jones Diary or whatever her name is who starred as Judy Garland. She really did. And POOR JUDY GARLAND. Someone needed to #TotoToo the fuck outta that Louis B. Mayer.
On Sunday, at some godawful-early time like 11:30, Marty and Kayeee came over to do two things: Put in my new Firestick that my father got me, and take me to the Greek. See. That’s like that movie with Name Brand or whatever his name is.
June? Well, she’s 5’6″, concussed, about 118 pounds.
(I always stick with 118. I have big bones, god.)
Anyway, the Firestick went in without a problem, because Marty Martin knows all things technical, and then we headed merrily to the fest, which was another firestick altogether.
I’ve gone to the Greek festival in years past, and it’s always this last weekend in September, and I remember feeling a little breezy there, maybe wishing I’d brought a wrap to said thing.
Not this year. Jesus Hades Christ. All month it’s been June’s-118-pound-figure hot, it’s been haute, it’s been steaming. IT’S BEEN ANNOYING. I look at the weather, the 10-day forecast, and every time I’m all,
OH, COME ON.
Because once September got here I thought 90-degree days would stop. Sure, I know we’re gonna have 80-degree days here, but NINETY?
Now? IT WILL BE 90 IN OCTOBER. At this point I’m just furious.
“To be fair, it’s probably this hot in Greece,” I said, as we made our way to the haute festival. This year, they moved it from the pavement of the church to the grassy part, and there was shade, and that helped.
I felt sorry for the people manning the coffee booth. Talk about being your Maytag repairman.
And here’s the thing about the Greek festival. Here’s what they need to discuss in their festival wrap-up. We come to eat the Greek food, maybe buy a nice evil-eye necklace or two, and?
We want to hear the music. THE MUSIC. Not the guy who runs the music booth. Oh my god, every minute with that guy.
“OPAaaaaa! Let’s hear it for the junior dancers!”
“OPPPPAAAAAA! Everyone put your hands together for…”
Oh my god just play music and dance. Stop with the talking. The LOUD talking. Stop.
“We should play the ‘opa!’ drinking game, I said to MM and K, as we were all downing water like we were in the tropics because we were.
At one point, I took a nice selfie of Kaye and me, and is it a selfie if there are two people in the photo? Anyway, the guy behind us in line for Greek donuts photo bombed us, and I love him.
When we left, the church sign of the lot where we parked read 95 degrees.
Anyway, then it got into the evening hours, and I got groceries and waited for my foster kitten to go home. God, we’ll miss her.
Iris won’t. THE REST OF US WILL.
Maybe no one ever wants a second date with me because of the cat lady thing. Fuck ’em.
Okay, I gotta go. I must head to work, and even though I washed by hair before 7:00 and it’s currently after 8:00, my hair is still soaking wet. THANKS, HUMIDITY.