Bunniblog

All material on this webpage is protected by an army of slavering hell bunnies that will bite on command. Ok maybe not, but clearly I have an excess of hostility and am just looking for an excuse to use it.
Give away your books at BookMooch.com

Copyright © 2002-2012.

Write With Blood

So not a problem today to take the advice set out in Chapter 7 (Reading and Writing) of Thus Spake Zarathustra. Today is one of those days where if you want to talk to me at all, really, you best first slip that steak au poivre, bottle of good red wine (cote du rhone), and the tasty Paris Brest (from Payard no less) laced with darvoset under the door first. Once I am unconscious, you can say whatever you like to me and then run before I regain consciousness. Other than that, you better have a pretty good relationship with G-d because you are going to need his undivided attention to spare you from my wrath.

Mistakes, I've Made a Few

I should preface all this by saying that I am on my period-so all you men out there can go "I knew it, I knew it." Admittedly it does have the tendency of reducing me to a sobbing mess on the floor or transforming me into a raging maniac, which generally means no one can tell when my period ever stops. Further I didn't get any sleep on Monday night before I returned to the city, partially because I was doing a lot of writing then because I got involved in watching Personal Velocity and finally because the night before my period I can never get comfortable enough to sleep well. I know, you needed to know that.

I digress.

Now envision this if you will, a sleep deprived hormonally imbalanced little Bunni loads herself onto Amtrak and manages to get into Penn Station. On the escalator a woman with long brown hair and freckles turn to me. I recognize her. "Did you go to NYU?" She asks me. I was going to act like I hadn't noticed her, but I am forced to acknowledge her. "Yes. We went to acting school together."

NYU Alum: Oh I was just coming back from the house my husband and I bought upstate. And you?

Bunni: I was visiting friends in Hudson NY. Still acting?

NYU Alum: Oh yeah. Doing great. And you?

Bunni: English professor.

NYU Alum: Well it was great seeing you. I have to run. Have a good day.

Bunni: You too. (under breathe) Be sure you don't trip and fall on your way to your perfect life.

Now I ask you, did I really need that kind of reminder of what an epic failure I am right as I return to NYC. Do I? I quit acting. I don't own a house. I have a teaching job in the most marginal department there is. I'm thirty and I was home to visit my fucking mother.

But still I make my way uptown only to find out that not only has my once favorite hangout been turned into Molly Pitcher's Ale House (Molly Pitcher's?-at least Josie Woods on Waverly actually has a historic reason for the name-although the location is wrong if Luc Sante knows his shit and I'm pretty sure he does) but it has been painted bright Pikachu yellow. I mean, I don't know what kind of Ale House they are thinking of. Even the pubs in Florida aren't bright yellow. Perhaps it is some sort of misguided tribute to Batman.

I manage to keep my ass awake long enough to go to dance class only to find that Roman, my favorite teacher, who I can always count on to cheer me up, feels awful. He sits next to me and starts talking to me about going back to Russia. "I had friends there, you know. I was someone there. Here I have no one." I am about to point out that he has a wife when he says, "Or maybe Germany. I have an ex girlfriend in Germany who wants me to come out there." He goes on and on. I contemplate tearing off his arm and beating some sense into him with it. He is, however, a former boxer and most likely would be able to thwarrt such an effort.

Know Thyself-

Apollonian Maxim inscribed at the Oracle Of Delphi's Temple

So now I'm exhausted and fairly disgusted with my life in the city.I am thinking "Why am I back here? In the country I was able to write. Maybe I need to give up this city life. I have enough money, I would even need to work. It's brilliant." Brilliant but lonely, of course.

Now a smart person would have just gone to sleep, but there is a problem.

Last week, before I left, Brian optometrist extracted from me no less than four times a promise to be at his birthday, which was yesterday. He was going to be at the bar and I had to (his words) be there.

Now I know from miserable birthdays. I also know from depression and loneliness and Brian is clearly both of those. He is also mostly harmless, although his stories get slimier every time I speak to him. Still, I thought I would do the nice thing. The right thing and go to this freakin' party at the bar.

I should know better than to try and be a nice person. I have no talent at it. I always screw up in a fairly flamboyant way whenever I do. But I never remember this in the moment that I am trying to be nice.

So I'm exhausted, but I get myself dressed up in a very nice outfit, cover myself in glitter, and head to the bar so that I can wish Brian a happy birthday. On the way there I call the Anonymous Poetess, who I shall hense forward refer to as Rabid. I was planning to go to the open mic again and so having missed out on the last time, she decided she wanted to be there to support me this time.

except

Rabid has a crush on Tsarina. Well crush isn't the right word, but you know there is something there, but they are just friends. I don't know Tsarina. I've met her once, but from what I've heard about her, I don't really trust her, and I don't like her methods. Now although Rabid is constantly saying I don't have ethics, I do. And Tsarina is someone who makes me look like a fucking paragon of self sacrifice, and that is difficult to do.

Rabid mentioned the open mic and Tsarina invited herself along and Rabid essentially accepted. And I am trying, TRYING, to be fine with this. It's an open mic I have to be able to perform in front of anyone, anyone. Still I'm going to be enough of a wreck as it is. I'm already really worried about performing and now I have this other rogue element to consider when my self esteem is already in the fucking toilet as it is. Now I have someone with a platform stiletto heel poised to flush me down.

But I am trying, trying to do the right thing. Rabid wants this. OK. I'll be OK with it. I walked sixty fucking blocks, I survived cancer, I can handle the Tsarina.

So I get to the bar to find no one is there. Mu, Abby, the Amazon, the usual bartender, even the birthday fucking boy himself isn't there. It's just me utterly exhausted standing in a bar.

Fools to the Left of Me

Brian's two brothers arrive first and sit chatting with each other with their backs to me. The claiming to be straight gay vetrinarian shows up sporting a jagermeister wifebeater to show off his tan (probably from Fire Island), and finally, just when I am ready to go home and sleep Brian shows up. He goes directly to his brothers, and an older, but still good looking man in a suit sits down on the stool to my left (you know since neither Brian nor his brothers seem to want to acknowledge me). I've seen him here a bunch of times. Usually he sits by himself at the end of the bar. He is good looking considering that he is probably 50 although maybe he is just late forties. Brian turns to say hello to him and introduces us. Let's call him The Philanderer. He had a very nice, but thin wedding band on his left hand.

Now those who know me know I live by one golden rule, no married men EVER. (Also I refuse to fool around with anyone who has been with someone I know. I don't care how drunk, how innocent, how long ago, if you've been with someone I know, you're right out of ever touching me in this life. Take note.)

So I chat politely with The Philanderer. He manages nursing homes. I can talk trade with him about doctors and nurses and unions. I'm trying to keep things above board but he keeps falling silent and looking at me like Wiley E Coyote regarding the Road Runner. He finds subtle ways of brushing his leg against mine or touching my shoulder. And all the while Brian, Brian is chatting away with his brothers as if I had never bothered to come in the first place.

Jokers to the Right

I never thought I would happy to see Captain Ron come ambling in suburned from renting his little motorized boats at the pond in Central Park. The Philanderer was getting close to being drunk enough to ask me for a rendez-vous, I could see it in him, and Ron's entrance gave me the reason I needed to turn my back on him. Ron sat down on my right side and began a long monologue about how he was going to go back to grad school to study environmental science because "that was where it is going to be ten years from now. You know, in ten years we won't have electricty. You won't be able to run your AC. We aren't going to have any resources." This isn't what I needed to hear especially since I still don't have AC even now. Then Ron launched on a big harang about overpopulation. Finally he ordered a glass of white wine and fell asleep on the bar.

By this time Courtney (Abby's roommate) and Abby had showed up. I was able to chat with them and not have to worry about geo political issues or getting hit on. Two girls, one who is Brian's cousin, arrive. Brian doesn't feel the need to introduce us.

Abby goes to say hello to her friends playing pool leaving me to chat with Courtney. I am asking her about her man in Baltimore. "Well, I like him, but I like the one who lives here better." "Ah yes, but you always have to have back-up, you know, insurance." The Philanderer has been listening. "I didn't know girls think that way." "Well we learned from men. I'm all about the quid pro quo and free trade." The Philanderer is silent for a moment. "I like your style," he tells me. This is the high point of my day to be admired by some would be cheating older man who sits alone in bars. I can't tell you the thrill.

Courtney and I ignore the Philanderer and when Abby returns Courtney decides, rightly, to go home. Brian, who I didn't know liked country music, puts on selections from Country Music's Greatest Hits to Commit Suicide By.

A tall blonde with a model's physique walked in. I saw her from behind and based on her rhinestone trimmed jeans and tank top plus her body, I thought "Oh she must be about 26." She turned around.

She was about forty five. Her trim physique was at the expensive of her face which looked like Holocaust survivor meets David Cronenberg special effect meets Mary Kay Cosmetics. It is one thing to have high cheek bones, it is another for your cheeks to be sallow cavernous basins. Her hair was dyed that awful hay yellow and she wore Miami retiree iridescent pink lipstick. Her tanktop said, in hot pink, TRAMP. I shook my head as she walked up to the bar.

Stuck in the Middle

After napping for an hour, Ron decides to go home, but assures us he might be back later. Abby, taking advantage of my state, tells me all that is going on in her life, a long and meandering narrative involving a complete and utter lack of point. We agree that after finishing our drinks we will walk home together. Brian is now chatting very involved with the Cronenberg Effect. He brings her over to Abby and I. "This is Bunni and Abby, my friends." "You know it is his birthday today." She has a heavy accent, Brazilian I think. "Yes," I tell her, "I know that its his birthday." That's why I have been sitting at this bar utterly fucking exhausted covered in glitter for four fucking hours. Yes, I am aware it's his birthday.

Abby and I finish our drinks. I walk over to say good night to Brian and his brothers and the Cronenberg Effect. As I walk up I hear Brian saying to the Cronenberg Effect, "You don't really have to go into work tomorrow. Call in sick." Brian goes to hug me and I am so disgusted I don't hug him back. (Ask Rabid for verifiication but I am the master of the cold shoulder.) He pulls back "You can't hug me back?" he says. "You ignore me at the bar for four hours so you can talk to this slag in ho wear and now NOW you want a hug?" I don't say this, but I am tempted. "Oh I just don't want to ruin your chances with her." I can't even bring myself to say CE's name.

Abby hugs Brian and I am so angry that I tromp out of the bar without saying good bye to anyone else. "Why are you so angry? You weren't going to fuck him were you?"

"Even if, IF, I ever considered sleeping with Brian, and no generally I don't find depressive optometrists who suffer from gynomastia attractive, he's lucky I even hug him considering what I know about him."

"Like what?"

"You don't want to know."

"Just give me an example."

"OK how about the woman in Israel he had sex with and it turns out she had scabies, but it was OK because he is resistant."

"You're kidding."

"Or going to a Korean massage parlor or having sex with a married woman while her husband watched. That's just a smattering of what I never needed to know in this life. So no I would never EVER touch Brian."

"So why are you mad?"

"Because I'm fucking exhausted and I've had a miserable day and I come out here to try and be a good person and I don't even get fucking aknowledged. I could have been sleeping. I COULD HAVE BEEN SLEEPING."

By this time, I'm at my door. I go inside tear off my clothes and climb into bed.

The One Good Part of My Day

As I put my head on the pillow, my cat curls up by my head and licks my cheek. Then she stretchs out facing the room as if to protect me from whatever horror may attack me in bed. Finally I fall asleep and manage to not even dream.

Bad Bunni posted at 6/22/2005 01:37:00 PM |

Comments: Post a Comment