Notes on Black Friday
1.
It's really nice to make new men friends without the Verweile doch, du bist so schoene sell-your-soul-to-the-devil thing. There are Real Men out here in the desert. And lots of sexy Old Babes. Pretty much don't want to talk politics with em though. Grama was right: no tedious personal details, no organ recitals, no politics.
2.
After nearly telling my neighbor, the Hispanic-American Princess, how much I hated the Hogwarts Portal mailbox, her mother, the Hispanic-American Queen, who works for the city and drives a Solid Waste Management pickup truck, and who is my new BFF, has offered to buy it off me 'cause they love it. I'll never be rid of it.
These things sell for one hundred and forty bucks at Lowe's. And is exactly the kind of verkachte deeply debauched shit the Peebees would splurge on, while installing $25 plastic doors, windows, cabinet pulls, tile and floors. Please note The Horror The Horror cheezass bricks that formed the threshhold in this photograph, a serious matter of very bad voodoo, which the $140 could and should have amended.
3.
Thanksgiving was fantastic. All the more pleasurable without the ghost of 60 years' of bitching and boozing, thank you, Lord, who was back east puffing smoke on his grandchildren. No choice between Thanksgiving with the fam and three weeks in bed.
Acey spent the dinner party under the blanket in the bed in the studio. She's afraid of the cat, Miss Peeps. I tiptoed back there every once in a while with some crab dip on a cracker or a morsel of turkey. Acey is so afraid of Peeps she jumped up to take a detour on the sofa on our way out to avoid have to walk around the cat. Who weighs about eight pounds soaking wet.
The cranberry salsa, the grapefruit aspic with cheeseballs, the giblet gravy and the sweet green chile relish on cream cheese were standouts. The walnut-cranberry tart was like a bolt of insulin lightning and we all staggered home with Karo-syrup glazed eyes. Fantastic.
Guests included the spiky St. Louis debutante, ca. 1959, cum Bennington grad, who works in a top secret job for Sandia Boom-Boom Labs and a seventh-generation Mormon desert rat handyman who knows all about the Apache. We're definitely not in Kansas any more.
4.
I miss the formerly literate people who used to write wonderful posts here and who now have fallen for that easier slut, Facebook. You know who you are, dawg.
5.
I doubt seriously that the late lamented![[profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
whitelinefever has fallen for Facebook, though I would if he did. One of his killer entries in the purejuice Annual HappyWinterFestival Memoir Contest was about the year his mother was so broke she made a Christmas tree out of tumbleweed. There's a pic on the front of yesterday's ABQ Journal of the arroyo workers erecting their annual 20 foot snowman along the highway. Made of tumbleweed.
This one's for you, Feav.
It's really nice to make new men friends without the Verweile doch, du bist so schoene sell-your-soul-to-the-devil thing. There are Real Men out here in the desert. And lots of sexy Old Babes. Pretty much don't want to talk politics with em though. Grama was right: no tedious personal details, no organ recitals, no politics.
2.
After nearly telling my neighbor, the Hispanic-American Princess, how much I hated the Hogwarts Portal mailbox, her mother, the Hispanic-American Queen, who works for the city and drives a Solid Waste Management pickup truck, and who is my new BFF, has offered to buy it off me 'cause they love it. I'll never be rid of it.
These things sell for one hundred and forty bucks at Lowe's. And is exactly the kind of verkachte deeply debauched shit the Peebees would splurge on, while installing $25 plastic doors, windows, cabinet pulls, tile and floors. Please note The Horror The Horror cheezass bricks that formed the threshhold in this photograph, a serious matter of very bad voodoo, which the $140 could and should have amended.
3.
Thanksgiving was fantastic. All the more pleasurable without the ghost of 60 years' of bitching and boozing, thank you, Lord, who was back east puffing smoke on his grandchildren. No choice between Thanksgiving with the fam and three weeks in bed.
Acey spent the dinner party under the blanket in the bed in the studio. She's afraid of the cat, Miss Peeps. I tiptoed back there every once in a while with some crab dip on a cracker or a morsel of turkey. Acey is so afraid of Peeps she jumped up to take a detour on the sofa on our way out to avoid have to walk around the cat. Who weighs about eight pounds soaking wet.
The cranberry salsa, the grapefruit aspic with cheeseballs, the giblet gravy and the sweet green chile relish on cream cheese were standouts. The walnut-cranberry tart was like a bolt of insulin lightning and we all staggered home with Karo-syrup glazed eyes. Fantastic.
Guests included the spiky St. Louis debutante, ca. 1959, cum Bennington grad, who works in a top secret job for Sandia Boom-Boom Labs and a seventh-generation Mormon desert rat handyman who knows all about the Apache. We're definitely not in Kansas any more.
4.
I miss the formerly literate people who used to write wonderful posts here and who now have fallen for that easier slut, Facebook. You know who you are, dawg.
5.
I doubt seriously that the late lamented
whitelinefever has fallen for Facebook, though I would if he did. One of his killer entries in the purejuice Annual HappyWinterFestival Memoir Contest was about the year his mother was so broke she made a Christmas tree out of tumbleweed. There's a pic on the front of yesterday's ABQ Journal of the arroyo workers erecting their annual 20 foot snowman along the highway. Made of tumbleweed. This one's for you, Feav.