I know you probably gave up on the conclusion to the Vegas extravaganza. Those of you who know me personally understand the delay. The rest of you, I apologize for the inconvenience. And without further ado, the second to last installment of Vegas Diaries. Since the diaries are scattered when I completel them I will put together a compilation post for easier access.

Princeton, the Showgirl, and Frog Prince drop me off at the airport. While Princeton jumps out and gives me a kiss, the other two just wave from the car. I begin to roll my suitcase toward my gate.


Again shutting my mind to the times I've been here before. Forgetting the salty tear flavored kisses. The promises of phone calls and returns. Returns. But of course I always came back from Vegas alone. This time is no different. I told Princeton that when I landed I was going to head to my local instead of home. "That's why we love you," he said and hugged me as if my depressive drive for alcohol was actually endearing. I just couldn't stand going home to an empty apartment. To face the evidence of how little missed I am. To know that I could vanish for days even weeks, and no one would really care, or even notice.


I rolled to my gate and check in wearing my black cowgirl hat. The side of the airport where I would be taking off was a glass wall facing a mountain. The sun was setting making the mountain appear purple in the darkening sky. Purple mountains majesty. It used to be a phrase in a patriotic song, now it's just a color in a crayola box. On my fingers was chipped fingernail polish, pompeii purple. I wonder what color nail enamel will be named after September 11th. What is the appropriate nail color for utter fucking catstrophe?


I decide to check my phone messages on the pay phone. My cell is long since dead, and I suppose I should make sure that the apartment has burned down or anything. Kiss Kiss has left me some messages. Saying since I'm not returning his calls I must be having fun. Right. I call him. I'm so desperate for his sanity I practically lick the receiver of the phone like a dog.

We chat and joke as usual. I tell him briefly about the adventures. I want him to tell me he misses me. There's a pause. He doesn't, but he senses the mood shift. "Come home, Bunni," he says "Just come home." And I want to. There's nothing I want more. If only I knew where that was anymore.


I go back to the gate and sit with my bag. When the plan boards, the seat next to me is empty. I put Marv my co-pilot in all my travels on the seat. I've finished reading Fear and Loathing, so I pull out Sideways. I figure although it is not Vegas based it is still an appropriate book. An alcoholic failed writer on the road trip from Hell facing his failed marriage. Some good light reading.

When I land, I make good on my promise. Exhausted as I am, I make it to my local where there is a band of friendly faces who circle around me, trying on my hat, asking about how much I won or lost, inquiring about the shows that I saw. They think I'm lucky that I spent Thanksgiving in Vegas.


Lucky certainly is a word for it.
I've been getting a lot of hits lately for people searching for "Iggy in the Basket" the breakfast featured in V for Vendetta. In turns out that I, like many others, misunderstood Stephen Frye's accent. It is really Eggy in the Basket AKA Egg in the Basket, a fairly well known dish. Interestingly the inclusion of Eggy in the Basket is one of the objections Alan Moore, the creator, had to the film. He claims that it is not a traditional English breakfast and therefore does not belong in V. First off, as someone who lived in London for two months, I can't tell you how grateful I am that I was spared the sight of a traditional English breakfast. The sight of stewed tomatoes alone would have put me off my popcorn. Secondly, Evey's reaction to the dish makes it clear that it isn't traditional. But really who cares? For all of you who want to make Eggy in the Basket-the recipe is simple:

1 egg
1 piece of bread (any type)
butter
salt and pepper to taste

Cut a whole out of the center of a piece of bread. Butter both side of the bread and add butter to a frying pan. Once hot, place the bread in the pan. Fry both sides. Crack egg in the hole. Add salt and pepper to taste. Fry one side until you can easily flip the piece of bread. Add salt and pepper to taste. Serve hot.

Estimated cooking time: 3 minutes.
"There is no person who is above the need for unconditional love." The Sirens of Titan by Kurt Vonnegut

He asked me this once. 2 am on the sidewalk. "What do you want?"


So hard to answer that question.


What I want shifts from moment to moment, day to day. Depending on the melting of the polar ice caps. The time of year. My hormones. The New York Times Bestseller List. Wildebeest migration patterns.


I want to believe that at least a majority of my decisions have been the right ones. I don't want to be the biggest enemy to my own happiness. I want to feel genuinely happy when my friends tell me they are moving in with their boyfriends instead of thinking "Where the fuck did I go wrong in my life?" instead of thinking of all the sacrifices I've made for men over the years that have come to nothing. I want my job to pay for my health insurance. I want to look foward to going home at night instead of dreading an empty apartment. I want a clean apartment. I want to be able to go into class and not have it be as bad as I imagine or worse. I want to stop feeling like I've been left behind, like I'm too old for all of this. I want to be able to have the discipline to finally finish all these writing projects and send things out to get published. I want to be able to afford a nice apartment or maybe even a house. I want to have some hidden reserve of strength to help me get through all of this. I want every episode of MST3K on DVD. I want someone to smile when they hear my voice on the phone. I want all of my friends to remain healthy. I want to be loved enough that if I should suddenly die it won't take a week before anybody notices. I want to learn how to crochet a granny square. I want to be honored at an awards ceremony. I want to go back to Paris, but not alone. I want to think that something I've done has actually made a difference for the better. I want to lose 20 pounds. I want to be remembered. And missed. And loved. And useful. I want to believe that I can still change for the better. I want a straight guy to ask me to a formal event and ask me to dance to "All of Me." I want the universe to prove to me that it can still surprise me. I want to wriggle my toes. I want things to end differently than the way I predicted they would in high school. I want to have a man I'm involved with actually take me away for a weekend. I want to go to sleep and wake up rested and feeling safe and needed and wanted and loved. And if none of this possible, I want to forget.



But in that moment, all I wanted was to get home quickly. I kissed him and hailed a cab.



And said nothing.
Buddhist keeps trying to talk me into continuing my teaching career because, "We are going to get added to the union. We are going to get health insurance and a pay raise and all that." And I briefly think in those moments, that if IF it happens, I might stay.


And then I have a day where after teaching a four person class, FOUR PEOPLE, I go into another class which is the equivalent of wrangling a herd of human sized hamsters on crack.



If you have the choice between giving birth to a flaming republican lesbian anorexic porcupine and teaching...I'll buy you the maternity clothes.
Last night, I was in a funk. I've been fairly depressed, even for me, the last two weeks. When I say fairly depressed, I don't mean my usual walking around looking like an extra from the Boulevard of Broken Dreams. I mean, suddenly and without warning bursting into tears in my apartment much to the disturbance of my cat.


Last night, I went to visit Mu thinking that hanging out with her had to be healthier than sitting on my couch trying to get over a crying jag. As we were sitting there having our tea, a young fireman came in with some posters. "Mind if I put some of these posters up?" We could tell just from looking at them the posters were for a frundraiser for someon fireman who died during 9-11. "Sure," Mu said. The fireman disappeared into the back while we kept talking. About five minutes later, he waved on his way out.


After about an hour, I began to wonder, "Where did he put those posters?" I couldn't see any of them up. Not by the pool table or the dj booth certainly. I took a quick stroll around. No posters. I even peeked in the bathrooms. No posters.


It wasn't until I ventured into one of the bathroom stalls that I discovered where he put up the posters. There staring at me, intentionally placed at eye level, was the face of the dead fireman and the Twin Towers.


When I die, or even if I should contract some horrible and bizarre disease, and all y'all decide to do some fundraiser for me, you are absolutely forbidden to posters up in the bathrooms. Especially if my face is on 'em. It's just plain creepy.
Mere Lapin called me at my desk today to talk about my trip to upstate in order to attend a ball in honor of Princeton ( because heaven forfend that I should ever attend a formal event on the arm of a heterosexual-certain standards must be maintained). When she told me she recently purchased a pepper grinder.

Mere Lapin: I splurged.

Lapin: Oh really? On what?

Mere lapin: On a pepper grinder.

Lapin: Well how much can that cost?

Mere Lapin: It has a motor and a light.

Lapin laughing.

Lapin: You aren't joking, are you?

Mere Lapin: Nope.

Lapin: What is this? Did they attach a John Deere riding mower to a pepper grinder? In case you need to put pepper on a salad during a power outtage?
One of my coffeehouse cronies has coined two new insults, which I offer to you for usage. They are pretty self explanitory, but if you need help let me know.

Conversational Terrorist
Pseudo Intellectual Taliban