I asked Boris Yeltsin if he wanted to paint the town red. "No," he said, backhanding the wall. "We'll paint the town Boris Yeltsin." (He was infatuated with referring to himself in the third person and with inserting his name into idioms: "tilting at Boris Yeltsin"; "once upon a Boris Yeltsin"; "all Boris Yeltsins on deck.") I nodded as if I understood. He spoke perfect English. I was on primo hallucinogens but I never did detect an accent. We sipped and enjoyed two bottles of Johnnie Walker Blue and headed to the college bar scene.
It was a balmy spring night, and we wore khakis and pastel polos. It was beyond weird to see Boris Yeltsin in khakis and an apricot polo, but he made it work. "Perestroika? More like Pee-estroika," he said, wobblingly urinating behind a dumpster in a dim alley.
Boris Yeltsin didn't walk. He strolled down the sidewalk, his white hair shining under the moon and in the neon. He glided through swarms of collegians. Some looked askance at him. Others patted him on the back. Others made ignorant comments. "Welcome to Nebraska, Khrushchev!" "Watch where you're going, Gorbadouche." "I loved you on Gilligan's Island." "Joe Stalin, hey! What's Joe short for? Joseph?" Boris smirked and whispered, "Nebraska sounds like a Russian invective. 'Go Nebraska yourself.' 'Suck my Nebraska.'"
We barhopped like crazy. Boris Yeltsin was not a man who had two drinks in a bar. It was one and gone. I repeatedly offered to order him a White Russian. He continually refused, saying, "Boris Yeltsin is not a cliché, not a so-called good German. I want a screwdriver."
At one bar, he ordered a Guinness and proceeded to pour half of it on his left pant leg. The dark liquid beaded off and pooled on the floor. "Stain-proof! Stain-proof pants!" he beamed, before adding, "What's the greater invention: the hydrogen bomb or stain-proof pants?"
Two bars later, an accoster poked Boris in the chest and asked, "Why's your face so red? Is it because you're a flea-bitten commie bastard?"
"No," Boris said, his eyes hooded and glassy, "Boris Yeltsin is an alcoholic. Boris Yeltsin wets a duffel bag of whistles."
He had one glaring problem: He was unskilled with the ladies; however, chicks may did the long ball but they dig the titillating power to bombard Russian Parliament more. They were naturally curious, and Boris wasn't above a friendly graze here or an unplanned grope there. It wasn't exactly good, clean fun. In his immortal words, "A breast is a breast" and "Nipples need twisting." After exchanging pleasantries with a random woman, he'd say, "Boris Yeltsin wants to know if you have syphilis." Conversation over.
The bars closed at 1 a.m., and that's when his iPhone began blowing up. "I can't hear you!" he'd yell into the phone, "Where you at? You having after-hours? Boris Yeltsin makes after-hours happen. Holler." We went to an after-hours party which Boris deemed a sausage fest. He quipped, "What is this, the Ukraine?" We left and went to Perkins for pancakes, where his insatiable lust for liquor and women revved up again. He elatedly and wildly swigged from a flask, made none-too-smooth remarks to our waitress ("Unlike these pancakes, I'd smother you in more than syrup and powdered sugar"), knocked three forks on the floor, and left a $2,000 tip on a $20 ticket. Still, he couldn't convince her to quit her job, leave her husband, abandon her children, and join him for some "Easy Rider-like misadventures."
I dropped him at his hotel. "Let's do it again—tonight," he said with a wide, childlike smile, his face redder than a tomato in a glass of Merlot. "What happens in Boris Yeltsin stays in Boris Yeltsin."
May 28, 2008
May 13, 2008
A Smorgasbord of Irritation and Oddities
I really don't know what is or isn't funny—as if these blogs aren't comparatively indicative of that. This became very apparent on Sunday while in a dark theater; no, not a porn theater. The trailer for Hamlet 2 rolled. I smiled and chuckled throughout, thinking, Hmmm, looks absurd. I'd check out a matinee. When it ended, I was set to whisper to two friends, "What an ingenious premise. I'll illegally download it a week after it hits theaters." I didn't. Before I could, I heard a gentleman behind me gruffly mutter, "Looks stupid." Then I heard one friend say, "Looks dumb," which the other seconded. Not wanting to be seen as too nonconformist, I reverted to embracing the sound of silence.
Some of this prose, this logorrhea, this bluster isn't high comedy, illuminating, or even entertaining. The well of material is dry at this time, so yours truly is a rudderless writer. That said, I'll detail a few recent occurrences that I found amusing.
A. Thursday, May 8. 10:00 p.m. I was showering. A boom box on the floor played a CD I'd just burned. What song? Oingo Boingo's "Weird Science." My cell phone rang. Dandy thoughts of intoxication, tomfoolery, strolling the stroll, unhealthily fearing pickpockets like a paranoiac, fibbing the fib(s), and tan women in sundresses danced in my head. (I call any tomato, an "offensive" term that I use with love and affection, in a sundress "Sunny D" and am so looking forward to drinking in an orange grove's worth of Sunny D this summer.)
I shut off the water, flicked droplets off my hands, yanked back the curtain, and answered the call. I was more brusque than usual as I shivered and hummed and spun like a top. The night was a go. Hooray. Ended the call. Water on. New song: Oingo Boingo's "Dead Man's Party"—yes, I burned consecutive Oingo Boingo songs on a CD. What's my major malfunction? Who answers a somewhat meaningless call while showering? It wasn't a hospital calling with the results of a biopsy. It wasn't a mandatory phone interview for a job. It could've waited. What's five or ten minutes between future alcoholics? Nothing. Ugh. Taking this call may've been life's low point, you know, thus far. Of course, it'll soon be topped, er, bottomed. But that night, it was, "Gents, bottoms up!"
B. May 10. 7:30 p.m. Random thought: Clay Aiken is creepy. He looks like a mannequin or a post-op tranny.
C. May 11. 10:30 p.m. Hy-Vee on North 27th Street. Hy-Vee closes one of the electronic doors at ten, and two petitioners had set up shop at the only working entrance/exit. I wanted to elude them, but a collision was unavoidable. I growled and wheeled my cart out the doors. They bombarded me with "Will you sign this petition about electing candidates this November who are the most qualified and the best trained?" I begrudgingly said yes and filled out my information.
Small talk ensued. A shopper left Hy-Vee. The petitioners tried to cajole her. She said, "I'm not registered." That struck me as rude and odd. Was she lying to evade signing? If so, well done. Artful. People are shady like that. I asked, "What's the percentage of registered to unregistered voters?" A petitioner said, "Oh, probably sixty to forty." Wow. Whoa. Hold on. Timeout. Either Lincoln has a superabundance of fabricators, okay, stinking compassionless liars, or a superabundance of unregistered voters. I don't know what the true statistics are, but neither reality is at all comforting. Then the other petitioner said, "A lot of felons too."
Felons? What the flip?
I asked, "Are you serious?"
He nodded intently and said something like, "Yes. You wouldn't believe the number of people who said, 'Sorry, I can't. I have a felony on my record.' It's kind of startling."
My brain was mush by now. Oatmeal. After some forgettable jokes between us, I wished them a good night and left.
Well, I won't be squeezing fruit like there's no tomorrow in that supermarket anymore. Who knows how many ex-cons are carrying shivs in the cereal aisle while shopping for Frosted Cheerios?
D. May 11. 4:00 p.m. Relaxing outside The Mill, eating uncut, plain bagels that were supposed to be French toast-flavored. Overweight couple after overweight couple tramped up and down 8th Street, blocking the sun, waddling like crabs, and holding hands. Each planet—and that's what these walking soda and vending machines are, planets—needs to remain in its respective orbit. Why is Saturn palming one of Jupiter's moons?
I'm not much of a romantic. Chivalry is under the sod. PDA? Strictly for the birds. I understand literal handwringing but not literal handholding. What does it prove? Does it shout your love to the world? I'm lost. Adrian Monk these touchy-feely folks aren't. I'm naturally dismissive, so it seems that holding hands is a sign of insecurity. Oh, I'll hold your hand in mine. We'll lightly swing our arms to prove that, yeah, we're together. I'm with you. Hey, everybody, I'm with this person! That'll show 'em. Balderdash. Picture me hawking a loogie.
There should be a weight limit on couples desirous of holding hands. How about 300 bills? Is a two-chin max too mean? If you've been responsible for a solar eclipse in your day, you should hold a Slim-Fast shake and not the sweaty, fleshy paw of your indubitably obese enabler.
Some of this prose, this logorrhea, this bluster isn't high comedy, illuminating, or even entertaining. The well of material is dry at this time, so yours truly is a rudderless writer. That said, I'll detail a few recent occurrences that I found amusing.
A. Thursday, May 8. 10:00 p.m. I was showering. A boom box on the floor played a CD I'd just burned. What song? Oingo Boingo's "Weird Science." My cell phone rang. Dandy thoughts of intoxication, tomfoolery, strolling the stroll, unhealthily fearing pickpockets like a paranoiac, fibbing the fib(s), and tan women in sundresses danced in my head. (I call any tomato, an "offensive" term that I use with love and affection, in a sundress "Sunny D" and am so looking forward to drinking in an orange grove's worth of Sunny D this summer.)
I shut off the water, flicked droplets off my hands, yanked back the curtain, and answered the call. I was more brusque than usual as I shivered and hummed and spun like a top. The night was a go. Hooray. Ended the call. Water on. New song: Oingo Boingo's "Dead Man's Party"—yes, I burned consecutive Oingo Boingo songs on a CD. What's my major malfunction? Who answers a somewhat meaningless call while showering? It wasn't a hospital calling with the results of a biopsy. It wasn't a mandatory phone interview for a job. It could've waited. What's five or ten minutes between future alcoholics? Nothing. Ugh. Taking this call may've been life's low point, you know, thus far. Of course, it'll soon be topped, er, bottomed. But that night, it was, "Gents, bottoms up!"
B. May 10. 7:30 p.m. Random thought: Clay Aiken is creepy. He looks like a mannequin or a post-op tranny.
C. May 11. 10:30 p.m. Hy-Vee on North 27th Street. Hy-Vee closes one of the electronic doors at ten, and two petitioners had set up shop at the only working entrance/exit. I wanted to elude them, but a collision was unavoidable. I growled and wheeled my cart out the doors. They bombarded me with "Will you sign this petition about electing candidates this November who are the most qualified and the best trained?" I begrudgingly said yes and filled out my information.
Small talk ensued. A shopper left Hy-Vee. The petitioners tried to cajole her. She said, "I'm not registered." That struck me as rude and odd. Was she lying to evade signing? If so, well done. Artful. People are shady like that. I asked, "What's the percentage of registered to unregistered voters?" A petitioner said, "Oh, probably sixty to forty." Wow. Whoa. Hold on. Timeout. Either Lincoln has a superabundance of fabricators, okay, stinking compassionless liars, or a superabundance of unregistered voters. I don't know what the true statistics are, but neither reality is at all comforting. Then the other petitioner said, "A lot of felons too."
Felons? What the flip?
I asked, "Are you serious?"
He nodded intently and said something like, "Yes. You wouldn't believe the number of people who said, 'Sorry, I can't. I have a felony on my record.' It's kind of startling."
My brain was mush by now. Oatmeal. After some forgettable jokes between us, I wished them a good night and left.
Well, I won't be squeezing fruit like there's no tomorrow in that supermarket anymore. Who knows how many ex-cons are carrying shivs in the cereal aisle while shopping for Frosted Cheerios?
D. May 11. 4:00 p.m. Relaxing outside The Mill, eating uncut, plain bagels that were supposed to be French toast-flavored. Overweight couple after overweight couple tramped up and down 8th Street, blocking the sun, waddling like crabs, and holding hands. Each planet—and that's what these walking soda and vending machines are, planets—needs to remain in its respective orbit. Why is Saturn palming one of Jupiter's moons?
I'm not much of a romantic. Chivalry is under the sod. PDA? Strictly for the birds. I understand literal handwringing but not literal handholding. What does it prove? Does it shout your love to the world? I'm lost. Adrian Monk these touchy-feely folks aren't. I'm naturally dismissive, so it seems that holding hands is a sign of insecurity. Oh, I'll hold your hand in mine. We'll lightly swing our arms to prove that, yeah, we're together. I'm with you. Hey, everybody, I'm with this person! That'll show 'em. Balderdash. Picture me hawking a loogie.
There should be a weight limit on couples desirous of holding hands. How about 300 bills? Is a two-chin max too mean? If you've been responsible for a solar eclipse in your day, you should hold a Slim-Fast shake and not the sweaty, fleshy paw of your indubitably obese enabler.
May 2, 2008
Yeah, I Called You a Racist. Tough!
"You're a racist!" she half-shouted at me last Thursday at Gecko's, er, Iguana's. Her portly friend, a real bowling ball, chirped in too, saying, "Oh, she called you out."
Bollocks. Uh-uh. Not a BombPop's chance in hell.
(She of the potty mouth and forked tongue—a friend's girlfriend whom I've wasted less than five minutes of conversational breath on in total since summer 2007—was an acquaintance at best. Look, I'm perversely happy that she slandered me. I instantly thought, "Well, here's a blog.")
I didn't deserve this putdown. I hadn't said anything racially insensitive. Other times? Sure. I'm as imperfect as broken glass. But I was on my best behavior. Not a peep of offensive material. Though I was in ultra-critical mode as always, she hadn't heard any of it. In point of fact: I'd hardly spoken a word to her. That's what was so queer about it. Her attack was entirely unprovoked. She said her group was going to Main Street and urged me to join them. I declined. Then with a devious grin, she tossed the racist frag at me. That is a label whose appropriateness I will dispute until I'm royal blue in the face.
Yeah, I could've berated her—and maybe cracked that "listening to you is worse than listening to Arianna Huffington"—but my all-important torpor was too great.
In a futile attempt to backtrack, she said something like, "I know my boyfriend's friends, and they're all racists."
I didn't know how to reply then. I don't know how to reply now. I still have lockjaw.
Look, you don't even know me, Geraldine Ferraro!
Bollocks. Uh-uh. Not a BombPop's chance in hell.
(She of the potty mouth and forked tongue—a friend's girlfriend whom I've wasted less than five minutes of conversational breath on in total since summer 2007—was an acquaintance at best. Look, I'm perversely happy that she slandered me. I instantly thought, "Well, here's a blog.")
I didn't deserve this putdown. I hadn't said anything racially insensitive. Other times? Sure. I'm as imperfect as broken glass. But I was on my best behavior. Not a peep of offensive material. Though I was in ultra-critical mode as always, she hadn't heard any of it. In point of fact: I'd hardly spoken a word to her. That's what was so queer about it. Her attack was entirely unprovoked. She said her group was going to Main Street and urged me to join them. I declined. Then with a devious grin, she tossed the racist frag at me. That is a label whose appropriateness I will dispute until I'm royal blue in the face.
Yeah, I could've berated her—and maybe cracked that "listening to you is worse than listening to Arianna Huffington"—but my all-important torpor was too great.
In a futile attempt to backtrack, she said something like, "I know my boyfriend's friends, and they're all racists."
I didn't know how to reply then. I don't know how to reply now. I still have lockjaw.
Look, you don't even know me, Geraldine Ferraro!
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