Go vote for Bubs' kid Nora

Hi all,

PG and I are just back from a cross country trip to move him from Brooklyn to San Diego. Our life as a couple of New York urban sophisticates has officially come to an end. From here on in we'll be floating around SoCal with the rest of the airheads. Suits me.

I have many tales to tell from our trip, but for now I want you all to follow Lulu's instructions to vote for Nora O'Sullivan, eldest daughter of beloved blogger Bubs. (Lulu already recapped everything nicely and provides the link you need to vote.)

Love and Coasters,

CP

Finishing the Bubs Interview

My grandpa Harald is on the left. Apparently he made extra money as a Herb Ritts model.

Blogger legend Bubs sent me five interview questions on May 28, 2007. It took me a while to get started, but since the first question was about how Poor George and I met, I felt compelled to tell the story in its entirety which took six installments over a period of time. (See here for Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5 and Part 6 of the CP+PG story.)

Only after that was I able to get to his second question, which centered on the inimitable Mama Gin (video included.)

Finally today, Thanksgiving Day (where incidentally I am bundled up on my couch sick as a dog) I have decided to give a crack at the rest of Bubs' questions. (editor's note: Today is actually May 3, 2008. I procrastinated yet another five months.)

In case you are feeling slighted by my taking six months to answer your questions, Bubs, be assured that you are receiving a quicker reply than the majority of my colleagues do at work, although that's mainly because they are annoying. With you I can only fall back on my laziness, which I do cherish by the way so let's keep the nasty comments to ourselves.

With that, let's get on to Bubs' third question.


3) You have a free weekend coming up, and you can go anywhere in the world on the condition that you throw a small cocktail party once you get there. You can ask any 5 or 6 people (living or dead, famous, not famous, whatever) to help you host it. Who do you get, and where will you be hosting this party?

I already blogged about my ideal dinner party list after which I was flamed in the comments on account of a snide remark I made about Robert Downey Jr.

(Mindy says it was probably RDJ himself flaming me, and I'd have to agree.)

So, I think this cocktail party is going to be a family affair so that I can get to know some of my ancestors better.


1. My grandpa Harald. Grandpa Harald was a crabby old Norwegian who died when I was a junior in high school, so I didn't get enough time with him. He was a neatnick (may be where I got my gene from) who would come to our house and take it upon himself to spiff up our lawn.

This is Grandpa Harald wooing my grandmother. He was 21 years older than her. Hmm, shotgun wedding, much?

One day I came home from school to find that my favorite tree in front of our house had lost all its lower branches, the ones I would use to get started on a good climb, because Grandpa didn't think it looked "neat" enough. I cried.

Grandpa in his minimalist yard design. I'm surprised he allowed those three leaves in the foreground to stay there long enough for someone to snap this photo.

Another time he decided to mow the lawn and used the mower to run roughshod over a climbing vine that had been growing nicely on a small hill in front of the house. "Yew don't need all dose leaves growin' all over da place like dat!" he said when my mom politely asked him what the fuck he was doing.

Grandpa was also very particular about what he ate. He pretty much only ate meat, fish and potatoes; any kind of greenery or crunchy raw vegetable would be shunned as "rabbit food."

Grandpa and Grandma were a great couple because they were both neatniks. Grandma made him wear a bib during his later years. He also had such particular food tastes and requirements that I would not be able to be his friend if I knew him today.

He married Grandma when she was quite young, so his Norwegian relatives taught her to make all his favorites like meatballs and that sort of thing. He was particularly fond of all the different types of herrings and sardines that you will find if you ever go to a breakfast buffet
in Scandinavia. Regardless of what he ate, however, he would invariably top the meal off with a cup of coffee sucked through a piece of coffee flavored Brach's candy that he would hold between his teeth. And when he was done with that he would pat his belly and say "dat wasn't much, but it sure was gud!" and then laugh like it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard.

Grandpa visiting Tijuana.

Grandpa Harald was really cute. I loved him and miss him a lot. This is him with my mom and my uncle.

2. My grandpa David, my dad's father. I don't know squat about this guy because he died before I was born - and my dad rarely talks about his family. From what I gather he was a crabby ass with a mean streak. Ran off and joined the Seabees during the War and left my grandma at home with a bunch of small kids, at which point she took to her bed and left the household under the care of my dad's older sisters (who, thankfully, are good people.) The only reason I know any of this is because I sat and grilled my Aunt Lura for a few hours one time - she is the oldest sibling who probably remembers more than anyone else.

So why would I want this guy at my party? Well, he is my grandpa and I've never met him. It would be nice to see what he was like for myself. (picture below)


3. My great-grandma Jeanette. Great-Grandma Jeanette was an Indian, at least that's what some people have said. My mom said when she was growing up there was always all this talk about "an Indian in the family" but that her mother would always shut it down whenever it was mentioned. I always thought something looked very Native about my grandma's face, although my mom told me in no uncertain terms that was never to be uttered out loud in Grandma's presence.

A few yeas ago I went out to dinner with some Native American friends who live in New York. I brought along some pictures of my great-grandma and said "do you think she has native blood?" They both took one look and said "Oh yeah, definitely." One thought she may have been full blood from some tribe like Sauk and Fox or Miami, and the other friend ventured she was probably half white.

Either way, they explained to me that during the homesteading days, there were a lot of Indians who could pass as white and more than a few of them tried to because that was the only way to be able to homestead and own land, since Indians were usually precluded from that. So it's not surprising at all that many people in this country who have had relatives here for any length of time probably have some Native American blood; and to the extent that people have any, it was probably well hidden for political-economic reasons. Still, I was surprised to think that mine could have been so close in my mom's bloodline.

My great-grandma, the alleged Indian, is on the right. My grandma is on the left. Great-Grandma married a guy with stickey-outey ears, who is holding my Grandma's twin brothers. Great-Grandma was supposedly a hoot, and she got divorced three times in the 20s and 30s. Bold woman for her day. Grandma was embarrassed by her and no one was allowed to bring up the Indian thing around her.

Great-Grandma in later years. I really wish I'd had a chance to know her. That's why she's invited to my cocktail party.

4. My Aunt Doris. She died when I was in college so again, not enough time with her. She was one groovy lady who liked to party and was always good at coming up with a whopper of a lie. She was known to have a little too much fun with the bottle and would do things like agree to bring over the roasted turkey for Thanksgiving but then would get drunk and forget. Good times.

Bubs, finding these pictures is what took me so long with this post. This is the only picture I currently have in my possession that pictures my Aunt Doris (cute blondie in the middle.) From left to right are Aunt Lura, Uncle David, Aunt Doris, Uncle Ray, and my dad.

5. My grandma Lida Mae, my dad's mother who died when I was nine. I remember her coming to visit for days or weeks at a time when I was a kid, but don't recall anything in particular about her except that she seemed like your basic nice old lady. For some reason I used to take great pride in showing her my cats' food whenever I was ready to feed them. She must have thought it was disgusting.

My mom hated her for reasons I have only recently begun to sort out.

Grandma Lida Mae and Grandpa David. I barely knew her, and never got a chance to know him.

I guess I'll host this party in Spain because I've never been there and have always heard it's nice. Probably Barcelona.


4) Tell me more about this "secret eating listener" fetish. I looked in DSM IV but I couldn't find it.

I can't really tell you much more about my secret eating listening beyond what I've described here. I guess it's because I have very sensitive ears (not in that I hear well, but more as in they are ticklish.) Poor George and I have a dumb new trick where we get our cat Ava to eat treats out of our ears. It's really cute; she grabs the little treat and then crunches it right by your ear - I squeal like a little girl every time.

We're sick bastards.


5) There's a glitch in the time/space continuum, and Tom as he is now, sage urban sophisticate, finds himself standing there holding a plate of cold cuts and jello salad at the high school graduation party of Tom the 18 year old. What do you say to that boy, and do you think he'll listen?


For starters, Bubs, let's not throw around this "sage urban sophisticate" label with too much wild abandon. While I would never describe my upbringing as "white trash," I still harbor a fondness for the four basic food groups of the Midwest: hot dish, jello, deviled eggs and bars. But I digress.

The four food groups of the post-modern Midwestern urban sophisticate

Hot dish. Tater tots optional. Arranged in whichever pleasing design you prefer.

Deviled eggs (plus relish tray)

Bars. A plethora of varieties from which to choose. The only prerequisite is that your preferred variety should be featured prominently in at least one church recipe book.

Jello. Preferably in molded salad format.

I was a complete mess when I was 18, Bubs - you wouldn't have wanted to know me. If I really could go back and talk to myself I would say "calm down, nothing is worth getting so upset over. You're just imitating your mother and you don't even realize it." I would also give myself some advice on what kinds of classes to take in college. I regret not trying more subjects on for size in an attempt to find an area of study that I really loved.

I don't know if I would have listened. Probably.


Done. Only took me six, um, make that eleven months!

(Dale, yours are coming...one day.)

The Bubs Interview: Question 1 - Finale

Our Nova Scotia Christmas. This is the first picture taken of CP + Poor George.

After the completion of our ill-fated card game, Michael and Timothy retired to their respective sleeping chambers on the second floor. Timothy went to his usual bedroom while Michael was in a large room with two full-size beds, one for him and one meant for me. George and I decided we weren't quite ready for bed yet, so we bade the other boys good-night and sat at the kitchen table a while longer. The rest of the house was just too damn cold.

George re-outfitted himself with the red Santa Claus hat that he wore while chopping wood outside, and moved closer to the stove to warm his hands.

"So you're a clarinetist, are you?" I said, shivering. The air seemed to grow ever more frigid by the second.

"Yep. And too bad I didn't bring one with me on this trip. I don't like to go too long without practicing; makes it easier to lose your lip."

"Yes, it is always tragic to lose one's lip. What kind of music are you working on?" I can never seem to resist a smart comment, especially where none is called for.

"My pianist and I are working up a recital of 19th century romance pieces. Some of it is really hard and requires a lot of fast tonguing."

"Fast tonguing?" Not being a wind player, I didn't know much about these things.

"Yes. Sometimes when you have fast sections you have to flick your tongue back and forth to play the different notes."

Hmm.

"Tongue flicking. Gee, you could really make the girls happy with that." I couldn't resist; it was just too easy.

"Well I can make the boys pretty happy too," George replied with a devilish grin.


Ha! I knew he liked me.


"Well, we'll just have to see about that," I answered, returning his play. Despite what he likes to tell everyone about how aggressive I was during our courtship, I maintain that it was George who started the whole dance.


****************************

After a bit, George announced he was ready to go to bed. I agreed that sounded like a good idea, and we exited the semi-frigid kitchen to retreat to our respective sleeping spaces, George's in the cozy living room next to the stove, and mine in the tundra that was the upstairs. I felt at least half of my face go numb as I made my way into the icy bedroom, and I momentarily feared for the health of my sleeping cousin who hadn't been feeling too well to begin with.

As I was fishing through my suitcase in the dark to feel for some warm sleeping clothes, I thought I was even beginning to lose sensation in my fingers. Enough was enough, I decided, and I marched back downstairs into the living room where George was busy stoking the wood stove's limp fire.

"How convenient for you that you'll be right next to the stove all night while the rest of us are up there freezing our butts off," I remarked.

"Well, would you rather sleep down here and feed the fire all night like I'm planning to do? How else do you think the house is going to get any heat at all?"

"As a matter of fact, yes, I would," I replied, sitting down on the tiny bed.

"Well you'll have to fight me for that spot, because I already called it."

"You already called it? That's very charming, George. The fact remains, however, that regardless of whatever school yard dibs game you think we're playing, I am not going back upstairs to sleep. It is too cold. I just moved back east from California and I'm not used to this kind of weather yet."

"Cry me a river." George started changing into his sleeping clothes while I remained on the bed.

I didn't really want to beg, but considering the circumstances I decided it wasn't necessarily beneath me.

"PLEASE don't make me go back upstairs. I will freeze to death. I'm serious. I could die up there, and then you'll have to blame yourself the rest of your days. I can't allow you to do that to yourself."

"I'll take my chances," he responded with not even a hint of sarcasm. "Good night, I'm going to sleep." George crawled right over me and got under the covers.

Silence for a few minutes.

"Get the light, would you?" George asked.

"I will. But I'm not going upstairs. I'm staying here with you."

"Whatever. Just close the damn light already. I'm exhausted."

"Ok." I turned out the light and changed into my sweatsuit. "You're going to have to move over," I said, lifting the covers.

"Move over where? Have you seen the size of this bed?" He laughed.

"I don't care. Anything will be better than sleeping alone in that cold room." I snuggled in next to George, who spontaneously wrapped his arms around my waist.




And that, Gentle Readers, is how it all began. It's also all you need to hear - although, for the record, nothing R-rated occurred until the end of the trip.



Which I won't be writing about.



So, Bubs, did we "meet cute?" I guess it's for you and my other Gentle Readers to decide.

Fun with Funerals

Mr. Social Zymurgy challenged me to list the songs I would like played at my funeral. I didn't know what to do with the question so I ignored it as any good cyberstalker would do. But after seeing other blog friends like Bubs and Dale rise to the challenge, I decided I am just as good as they are and am therefore entitled to share my funeral music choices with you, my Gentle Readers.

Mindy June and I were discussing this very topic recently after the funeral of her beloved father, may he rest in peace. Participating in funerals inevitably makes you think about your own, so with that in mind Mindy told me some of her last wishes. She wants to be cremated and then for all of her loved ones to take a portion of her ashes and sprinkle them somewhere they know would make her laugh - like over Ronald Reagan's grave and that sort of thing.


Brilliant idea, and I'd expect nothing less from her.


Whether or not I deserve the honor, I will nonetheless take partial credit for Melinda June's creative decisions with respect to her inevitable demise. This is because back when she and I were 20 year old college students, I decided it would be a good idea to make a list of the people who would attend my funeral if I died right then. I shared the list with Mindy, who was puzzled by it.

"What on earth would make you want to do this?" she asked.

"I think it's important to keep tabs on your life, and this is one way to do it," I replied. "If you can keep enough people around who would feel obligated to attend your funeral, you must be doing pretty well."

"So you're judging the happiness of your life by who will show up after you're dead?"

"Yes."

"Ok. Let me see it." Not being one to waste time asking a lot of unnecessary questions, Mindy rose to the challenge and started helping me refine my funeral attendee list.


"Why is Marla on here?"

"She's a friend of Jon's. I figured she'd go with him and his other friends."

"Yeah, but she hates you. She's still mad about that time you laughed at her sweater vest."

"I wasn't laughing at her sweater vest. I was laughing because KC threw up on you when you were wearing a sweater vest. They always make me laugh now."

"I know that, but she still thought you were laughing at her. She's not going." Marla's name was crossed off. "And why isn't Kirsten from down the hall on here?"

"I don't know - she's the type who would probably go to my wedding if she was invited and had a cute date, but I don't know if she'd get it together enough to make it to a funeral on time."

"You're right. So she'll go on the wedding list. Who is Leo?"


And so we spent the next several hours. Back then it felt like a wise time investment - you could never be too prepared, in my book. You know, that whole Boy-Scout-Motto thing.


Eventually I lost track of my funeral attendee list, which I'm sure has changed substantially over the past 20+ years anyway. But Mindy's recent decision about her own funeral did get me to thinking about mine.

I decided that George can plan whatever traditional funeral he wants for me, with all the attendant wailing and sobbing - the more dramatic the better, in my opinion. But I'm taking charge of the after-party. Here's how it will go:

My funeral after-party will be a piano bar sing-along, show tunes only. The kind that they do at Marie's Crisis - you get a bunch of show-tune obsessed queens and their friends to sing the entire book of a musical, one after the other. Drinking heavily all the while, of course.

I've already enlisted the future services of my not-cousin Marnie, a showbiz professional who runs her own theater. Marnie has been charged with renting out the space, hiring a pianist, making copies of the lyrics to all my favorite shows and gathering everyone together. When they get to "Annie" she'll have some pre-teen girls or drag queens or something act out "Hard Knock Life" with metal buckets and brushes and all that jazz. Of course, the rest of you will be welcome to join in at any time.


My funeral after-party is going to kick major ass. Be sure to keep being my friend so that you will receive an invitation.

The Bubs Interview: Question 1 Part 5

Poor George + Karen Black = Love

As we concluded the tour of Timothy's Nova Scotia seaside cottage, Michael and I put our bags in two of the upstairs bedrooms and returned downstairs to start unpacking the general provisions we had brought: pounds of fresh coffee beans, gallons of wine and liquor, gourmet cheeses, boxes and boxes of various dry goods and some fresh produce. Timothy, being a self employed artist, did not have unlimited means with which to purchase some of the higher ticket items that would be harder to obtain in the province's outer regions. His eyes bulged at the splendor we laid out before him.

"I will make dinner," Timothy offered as he rummaged through the display, selecting a few boxes of whole grain pasta and some organic crushed tomatoes.

"That sounds great!" I replied. "It's been a while since I've had a chance to cook a nice meal, what with school and all. Anyone object if I take charge of Christmas dinner? I would love to roast a turkey in that stove!" I didn't know the first thing about roasting anything in a wood burning stove, but I was in the mood for an adventure.

"Sounds good to me!" Timothy said.

"Me too!" George chimed in, although in a slight "this I have got to see!" kind of way. I didn't yet understand the full array of George's cooking skills, which is a good thing because, if I had, I might not have been so eager with my offer.

Score three for Tom in the George Camp of Coolness: I had already grabbed a check in a restaurant AND introduced him to America's most hilarious author; and now I was offering to cook a major dinner. Nothing annoys George more than people who claim they are "afraid" to cook for him, so I'm glad I didn't yet know I had reason to be concerned.

************************

Timothy prepared us a casual dinner of salad and pasta which we all enjoyed. After the dishes were done I said "would anyone like to play a game? I raided George's collection and brought a few things. How about Mille Bornes?"

"Mille Bornes? Why did you bring that? We really shouldn't be playing Mille Bornes. It's an awful, hateful game," Michael replied.

I was confused by Michael's characterization, as I had played Mille Bornes as a kid and had never thought anything of it. It's a Parker Brothers rummy-style card game which is set up as a road race. You play in teams, and the first team to finish the race by obtaining 700 km worth of cards wins. You also try to delay your opponents by giving them flat tires and making them run out of gas and that sort of thing.

"Puncturing people's tires and causing accidents is not my idea of a fun time. You can count me out," Michael declared.

"But we need four people or we can't play. Come on Michael, it will be fun!" George implored.

"Yeah, come on Michael. You can be my partner!" I added.

Reluctantly, Michael agreed. But little did I know what I had gotten us all into.

Almost as soon as I laid down my first card, Michael started objecting to whatever "strategy" he perceived me to have. "Oh look, he's throwing away mileage again. I have NO idea what he's doing - he is NOT playing well at all. Would one of you please trade partners?" Reminded me of Lucy and Ricky Ricardo playing bridge.

Things got worse as the game progressed and the accidents and flat tires started happening. George, in his increasingly impish manner, seemed to acquire every flat tire and accident card in the deck, and played them against us until I thought Michael would scream himself hoarse. "VERY FUNNY, George! Do you have to LAUGH at us every time you do that????" I was getting concerned about Michael's serious take on this "game."

Worse yet for Michael were the Coup Fourré cards, which you could play as a trump when someone tried to make you have an accident. As soon as they play the accident card, you yell "Coup Fourré!" while you lay down the card, countering the accident and causing your opponent to lose his turn.

As fate would have it, George got every Coup Fourré in the deck. And he didn't hesitate to throw them down with great aplomb, usually with an obnoxious fake stutter for added dramatic effect: "Oh, look, look what I have! C-C-C-C-C COUP-COUP-COUP-Fourré!" He nearly squealed with delight as the veins popped out of Michael's forehead.

By the third or fourth "C-C-C-Coup Fourré!" from George, Michael started shouting "KNOCK IF OFF, GEORGE! YOU ARE BEING COMPLETELY OBNOXIOUS! It's bad enough that I've got Lucy Ricardo for a partner; I don't need you rubbing my face in my own SHIT!!!"

"Calm down, Michael, it's only a game!" I said.

"Yes, it's a game! An evil, horrible, hateful game! I told you we shouldn't have played this!"

He was being so unreasonable and such a spoil sport that George and I couldn't help but giggle, although we both tried to stifle it. Later on in a calmer moment I approached Michael about his inappropriate competitive attitude with the card game, and in his defense he admitted it was an unreasonable trait he had picked up from his parents as a small child.

I suggested he refrain from engaging in any and all future recreational competitive activities, and he agreed it might be a good idea.

"But I don't need to remind you that you practically forced me into the game, do I?" Michael added.

"Well, I did encourage you to join us, but that was before I realized you weren't my cousin after all. You're like the secret love child of Joan Crawford and Attila the Hun."

"No, he's more like the little spear-guy from Trilogy of Terror!" George chimed in.

I nearly collapsed laughing at his mention of this 1975 Karen Black classic movie-of-the-week. For your enjoyment, here is a ten-second clip of the spear-guy:

Now it was my turn to be impressed. This George character was something else, I decided.

The Bubs Interview: Question 1 Part 4

Site of our rustic Nova Scotia Christmas

Needless to say, when I woke up the next morning I was still crabby about Michael's verbal thrashing the night before. I felt somewhat trapped because I really didn't want to address my problem with Michael in front of George, or worse yet, do anything that would cause Michael to launch a new attack. Having temporarily forgotten how emotionally evolved I am, I bristled when Michael greeted me with a warm smile.

"Good morning," I replied curtly.

"How did you sleep?" Complicated question. The truth was that I didn't sleep well at all because I was so angry. However, since I had already been unable to sleep because of the high emotions, I was simultaneously able to enjoy the sound of George's loud snoring during a large portion of the night. In my temporary emotionally unevolved state, I took the easy way out and blamed my poor night of rest on George.

"I couldn't sleep through all that fucking snorning," I announced, as if randomly acting like a bitch was going to solve anything.

I still feel bad that I said that, especially since it was not George's fault that I couldn't sleep that night. Worse yet, as I found out years later, is the fact that George actually overheard me say it. And not being one to pass up the opportunity for a good guilt trip, he still finds occasions to bring it up to this day.

"Oh, that's terrible," Michael replied. "Why don't you reserve a separate room for the trip back so that you can sleep better," he suggested, genuinely trying to be helpful.

"Whatever," I grumbled as I collected my belongings and headed out to the car.

When Michael and George were ready, we went back to the diner for breakfast. Not surprisingly, it was a fairly quiet meal during which I remained mostly silent. I'm sure George was thinking I was just one of those crabby morning characters, the kind that grunts and barks out orders until an appropriate level of caffeination is reached.

After we were done eating, George retreated to the restroom again while Michael and I went out to the car. As he sat down in the driver's seat, Michael started to make some kind of joke about not knowing how to operate the automatic door-unlock button. I decided enough was enough. I looked him right in the face and spoke my mind.

"I did not appreciate the way you spoke to me last night. You owe me an apology."

"You're right," he replied. "I'm sorry."

"You were out of control."

"Yes, I'm sure I was. And you would know more than most people how to spot that kind of behavior," he added, obviously referring to various members of my somewhat colorful immediate family.

"Yes, I would. And you were."

"Again, I'm sorry." I appreciated that Michael just laid his apology out there without trying to blame his behavior on the fact that he'd been feeling sickly most of the trip.

"Ok." As Michael started up the car I decided things were going to be all right.


*****************************************************

We rode a ferry from St. John to Digby, Nova Scotia, and we sat in the cafeteria drinking coffee and chatting during the most of the three hour crossing. The weather was wonderful outside - only a slight wintery chill through the early December morning sunshine, and the waters were still and calm. Good thing, as I'm known in some circles for my occasional short yet violent bouts of seasickness.

When the ferry had reached its destination, we got into the car for the final leg of our journey: a two hour car ride from Digby to our friend Timothy's house on the southwest coast of the province. We enjoyed the rustic beauty of the drive through the western half of Nova Scotia. "It looks like Wisconsin," I stated repeatedly, without adding that any rustic place with a lot of coniferous trees reminds me of Wisconsin.

"Yeah, well remember, we're not headed into any lap of luxury. Timothy's house is pretty spartan," Michael reminded us.

"Sounds like fun," George and I both replied. After a while we arrived at Timothy's house, a charming fisherman-style cottage right on the water. The white paint was peeling in most places and some of the shrubbery looked like it could use a good pruning, but otherwise the house looked fine.

Greeting us warmly, Timothy ushered us inside with our bags and provisions. The first room we entered was the kitchen, a large open square with the four walls painted various colors and an oblong table alongside a set of frosty windows. In the corner nearest the table sat a cast iron wood burning stove.

"The whole place is heated by wood," Timothy noted. "I've got one stove here and one in the front room. The heat travels upstairs to the bedrooms through these ducts in the ceiling." He pointed to the kitchen ceiling "duct" above the stove, which was really just a large open hole into the room upstairs.

"I hope he doesn't have any toddlers crawling around up there," I thought, summoning every inch of my willpower not to start in with the charred baby jokes, which I figured would never be appropriate before cocktail hour anyway. Timothy directed us into the next room, a small living area furnished with another wood stove, an armchair, a non-functioning old fashioned parlor organ, and a tiny bed in the corner nearest the stove. A large woodpile sat just opposite the bed on the facing wall.

"This stove heats this room and the two front bedrooms," Timothy noted. "That bed used to belong to one of my friend's kids. He outgrew it by the time he turned 10, so I moved it in here as a daybed and an extra sleeping space for when I have a lot of company." I could see what he meant; the bed couldn't have been more than 20 inches wide.

"I'll sleep there!" George announced. "That way I can get up in the night and feed the stove so that the rest of you can stay warm." How magnanimous of him, I thought, especially considering that it would also probably be the warmest spot in the house. We were heading into late afternoon; the sunlight had grown dim, and I sensed a distinct chill in the air as if winter were preparing to beat down on us right through the walls of Timothy's rustic seaside cottage.

It was definitely going to be a cozy Christmas.

The Bubs Interview: Question 1 Part 3

After breakfast we jumped back into the car to resume our long journey to Canada.

Having just completed my first semester of law school, I was eager as a bee to read a few books for sheer pleasure instead of having to slog through a lot of really boring texts. I opened my knapsack in the back seat and examined a few of my choices: Geek Love, a book Mindy gave me which chronicles the lives of a circus freak family (a must read for you, Bubs, if you haven't already); The Shipping News, which takes place in Newfoundland, but which I figured was close enough to Nova Scotia to suit the ambiance; and David Sedaris's anthology Barrel Fever which, because it contains the story of "The Santaland Diaries," is a customary holiday read for me.

"Would you guys like me to read aloud The Santaland Diaries as is my annual holiday tradition?" I asked.

"What is that?" they both replied.

"A story by David Sedaris. You've never heard of it?"

They both replied that they had not. So, I opened up my dog-eared volume of Sedaris's short essays and started in on his highly amusing tale of his experiences working as a Christmas elf at Macy's. I began to read aloud. "Working as an elf in Macy's SantaLand means being at the center of the excitement...."

George and Michael positively howled as I made my way through this hilarious story of Sedaris's elfly trials and tribulations which include everything from dealing with pox covered children, to enduring the abuse of an African-American mother who complained that the black Santa wasn't black enough, to assisting a little girl without a nose.

"Oh my god, that was hysterical!" George exclaimed when I was done. "You read that so well - you must have practiced it for years!"

"No, but I have heard him read it aloud many times on NPR. I can't believe you've done without it at Christmastime for so long," I replied. I think George smiled broadly for the remainder of our vacation.


*******************************

It was a long trip that day as we drove all the way to Saint John, New Brunswick, where we found a roadside motel room to sleep in for the night. We unloaded our essentials and went in search of dinner.

"Do you think they have poutine in New Brunswick?"

"What is poutine?" George asked.

"You've never had a poutine?" I replied incredulously. "You're in for a real treat. It's basically a mound of french fries covered in gravy and then smothered under melted cheese. It's a Canadian specialty, or at least in Quebec. It's fabulous."

"I think I'm going to be sick," Michael said. He wasn't feeling well for most of the trip, which made him more than slightly cantankerous a lot of the time.

"Well, it sounds, um, interesting," George said, trying to be diplomatic.

The menu of the diner where we settled in for dinner sadly did not feature poutine, although they did have some other Canadian delicacy involving fried meat which I tried but was not impressed with. We were all tired anyway.

After dinner George got up to use the restroom, while Michael and I went out to warm up the car. Michael sat down behind the wheel and I went over to the passenger's side. My door was locked.

"Unlock the door please," I said.

"I'm trying to. I think it's stuck," he replied. I couldn't see what he was doing because it was very dark outside.

"Did you press the automatic 'unlock' button? I think it is supposed to unlock all four doors at once."

"YES I PRESSED 'UNLOCK'! WHAT AM I, SOME KIND OF FUCKING MORON? JESUS CHRIST!" He totally lit into me. "GOD DAMNIT, DON'T YOU THINK I KNOW HOW TO UNLOCK A FUCKING CAR DOOR?" He was literally screaming.

I was stunned. I knew Michael could be a crabby pants and that he wasn't feeling well, but this went well beyond the limit of acceptable behavior. Once the door finally opened I got into the back seat and just bit my tongue. I wasn't sure how to respond to his sudden upbraiding, as if there were any appropriate response at all, and besides, I saw George approaching and I didn't want to get into any kind of discussion in front of him.

Instead, I did the only reasonable thing which was to take out my passive-aggressive card and remain as silent as possible for the rest of the evening. When we got back to the motel, I promptly unpacked my sleeping attire, brushed my teeth and got into one of the three beds.

"Are you going to sleep now?" Michael and George both asked me.

"Yes, but you two can stay up and do whatever you want. You won't bother me." I closed my eyes and turned my back to them. I was majorly pissed.

The two of them sat up for a while and chatted. To add insult to injury, Michael just acted as normal as pie, as if he hadn't twenty minutes prior verbally abused me without so much as a whisper of an apology afterward. I felt it was going to be a long, long trip, and I dreaded whatever was to follow.

Haiku from Poor George

After reading the first installment of the Bubs Interview, Poor George composed the following haiku:

Cutie at the door

The Frango Mints tossed aside

Never forgiven.

The Bubs Interview: Question 1 Part 2

After an unreasonable delay, we now continue where we left off a few weeks ago.

*************

After dinner I offered to help with the dishes, but George graciously refused my request. Thank God, because I didn't really want to do them anyway. Instead, Johnny told me to come with him into the sitting room again.

"Here, I give you Lucky Money, one from me and one from my wife. It for good luck." He handed me two small red envelopes, each containing a dollar bill. The Chinese usually hand them out to their friends and family during Chinese New Year, but sometimes at other times of the year too, such as when a new friend visits your house for the first time. I thought it was really sweet.

"I tired now. You go downstairs."

I thanked Johnny and Mama Gin for the hospitality once again, and went down to talk to my cousin, who was packing for our big road trip which was to start early the next morning.


**************************************************

We arose at the crack of dawn and loaded George's car with provisions to take up to Nova Scotia, where we would be spending Christmas with my cousin's friend Timothy, who had a house on the shore. Michael had warned me the house was quite "rustic," and that we needed to bring a lot of stuff, most notably warm clothing. I was really looking forward to it - it all sounded so charming.

When we were all packed, we got into George's large Pontiac Grand Am and set off.

"Wow, a New Yorker who has a car and drives," I noted.

"Well, he just learned to drive a few months ago. This is his first car. We'll have to keep a close eye on him," Michael replied. It turns out that Michael was quite serious about that part. He henpecked and back-seat drove on George the entire trip, to a level of obnoxiousness that would have gotten him bludgeoned to death if he'd tried it on me. Admirably, George had the patience of a saint with him and rarely gave any response at all.

Somewhere in Connecticut we stopped at a roadside diner for a spot of breakfast. When the check arrived, I took it and said "I will buy breakfast. It looks like you guys have already bought a lot of provisions for us." I was referring to the many bags of groceries and dry goods we had loaded into the car earlier that morning.

George smiled. Little did I know about the Asian propensity for check grabbing; often if you dine with a Chinese, they will tackle you to the ground before letting you pick up the check. Which can be quite annoying at times because you know that a lot of it is all a show. They don't really want to pay all the time; they just want to appear as if they do. And if you don't make some sort of effort to fight them back for the check, they get annoyed eventually. Not that we Midwesterners don't have our own little passive-aggressive etiquette games, but still. We tend not to be big check grabbers.

George didn't fight me for the check, yet I had no idea that simply picking up a breakfast tab would make such a good impression on him. Finally, I had done something right, even if I didn't know it yet.

The Bubs Interview: Part One

Chicagoland cop and freak fetishist Bubs has turned the tables on me after my award-winning interview with him last month. As is the custom these latter days, Bubs provided me five interview questions. Today we start with Question Number One.



Bubs: I found several mentions of a character known as "Poor George" throughout the CPW archives, but I'm not sure when, exactly, he appeared in your life. Did you two, as they say in Hollywood, "meet cute"? Or is it just a boring story that you don't want to bother us with?

CP: Although he is certainly a character to speak of, Poor George is not simply a figment of our collective imagination as some of you may expect, but is in fact a real person who lives and breathes. Whether he is a bona fide child of Mama Gin or, as he claims, the long-lost heir to one noble Anastasia Beaverhausen is still a matter in dispute.

I don't know what it means to "meet cute," although I can tell you that PG and I were "properly introduced" by my cousin Michael - which is probably the first "proper" thing that whore has ever done in his life. Our heartwarming tale begins at Christmastime in 1997, shortly after I had moved to the East Coast to attend law school in Washington DC. Michael had invited me to come up to New York to go on a road trip with him and his friend George for the holidays. I graciously accepted.

After my last final exam at Georgetown, I rode up to New York on the train and stayed overnight with a former flame of mine, where we succumbed to temptation and rekindled our extremely stale romance just for that evening. What can I say; the cocktails at dinner were strong.

The next day I hung out in the East Village where my friend lived, did some sightseeing, and in the late afternoon took the subway out to Bay Ridge, Brooklyn where Michael's friend George lived. This was my first time in Brooklyn, and I enjoyed my walk from the subway to his house where I passed various groups of people speaking their thick Brooklynese: "Whaddya tawlkin 'bout?" and that sort of thing. Charming.

I approached the brownstone that George shared with his parents - he in one apartment and the parents in another. I had no idea which apartment was his, so I just picked a doorbell and rang it. A nice looking Chinese-American man opened the door.

"Hi, are you George?"

He looked at me kind of weird and then said "I think so."

"I'm sorry, I didn't know which bell was yours. I hope I didn't disturb your parents."

"It doesn't matter. God, you sure brought enough luggage," he said, referring to the two reasonably sized black bags at my side. "Come on in. I'll take one of these for you. Here, you carry the heavy one." He thrust my rolling suitcase at me and proceeded into the dark entryway.

"We have to go down these stairs. Watch yourself, some of them are a little tricky."

I saw what he was talking about as we started down the narrowest staircase I had ever seen. I almost fell forward three times due to the extreme downward slant of several of his steps.

"Nice place you have here," I said as we entered a long narrow room almost completely devoid of natural light. Probably because he had a 26 inch TV squarely blocking one of the only windows in the room.

"Take your shoes off. I just installed these tiles and I don't need you getting black streaks all over them."

"Ok." Reasonable enough request, although I might have simply suggested removing the shoes rather than throwing about thinly veiled pre-offense accusations. I opened one of my bags and extracted a nicely wrapped box, which only I knew contained delicious Frango Mints from Marshall Fields that my mother had sent me for Christmas.

"Here George, this is for you to thank you for your hospitality." He took the package, briefly glanced at it and tossed it down on top of the radiator.

"Thanks," he replied. "I'm busy making dinner for my father. You can come up to my parents' kitchen if you want." I complied, and followed George back upstairs.

We entered his parents' apartment and went into the kitchen where my cousin was sitting at a small round table with George's father, Johnny. George walked over to a large cooking stove with an enormous wok built right into it and resumed his dinner preparations.

"Georgie cook like me!" his father said proudly. "He don't cook like mother. She terrible. Everything he learn, because of me!" He cackled loudly, and I decided I liked Johnny immediately. He got up from his seat and said "come, you follow me, I show you my house."

He hobbled into a living room just off the apartment's kitchen. "This my wife, Georgie mother. Her name 'How Gin.'" He was referring to a diminutive woman sitting on the end of a crumpled futon sofa. She appeared to stare at a blank TV screen about five feet in front of her.

"Hello, my name is Tom. It's very nice to meet you." Mama Gin looked up slightly confused and limply accepted my outstretched hand.

"Where you mother and father?" she said.

"They're at home, in Chicago. I'm just here on vacation." She made no reply, and resumed staring into the blank screen.

Johnny ushered me back into a carpeted sitting room near the front of the house. "Here, I show you picture. Last year we celebrate, we marry fifty year." He opened a photo album containing pictures of an elaborate banquet with Mama Gin and himself seated at a large round table surrounded by ten other people and mounds of delicious looking food. Mama Gin had on makeup in the picture and looked somewhat normal. Boy was I in for a surprise.

"This restaurant, I know them well. I deliver food to them years ago. They do very good banquet for me." He continued to turn the pages, offering random comments to describe various photos.

"You know, I have cancer. Prostate cancer. But it no get me. I a survivor!" Johnny laughed again, beaming with enthusiasm and energy.

"Well I'm glad to hear that. I'm glad you have George here to help you with that."

"Right. Now, I rest. You go talk Georgie now."

I went back into the kitchen. George had gone back down to his apartment to get something, so I sat down at the table to talk to my cousin.

"Careful, don't spend too much time talking to his parents. They're really weird," Michael said.

"Weird how?"

"Just weird, you'll see. How was your trip?" George returned from downstairs. Michael and I continued talking to catch up, making an effort to include George in the conversation. I told them about finishing up my final exams, riding the train up to New York, writing all my Christmas cards on the train and about the amorous reunion with my old friend the night before. George snorted and remained silent.

When dinner was prepared, George called his parents into the kitchen to eat with us. Johnny appeared in the doorway, unaccompanied by Mama Gin. "Georgie mother no eat now. She eat later. She never like eat with people." He sat down with us.

George placed a small bowl of rice in front of each of us, and then at the center of the table a chicken and vegetable stir fry, a plate of sauteed leafy greens and a large poached ocean bass covered with ginger and scallion. My mouth watered at the mere sight.

George and Johnny carefully instructed Michael and me on the procedure for eating the fish, which consisted of reaching onto the serving plate with your chopsticks and using them to loosen the fleshy white meat before transferring it to your own bowl of rice.

"George, this is absolutely delicious!" I exclaimed, reveling in the strange and wonderful new flavors. "How on earth did you learn to make a fish like this?"

"I tell you, from me!" Johnny replied. "I have to teach him everything. Mother not cook." He giggled again before sucking an entire stalk of juicy greens into his mouth, barely assisted by his chopsticks. "Georgie cooking very good. He learn from me."

We proceeded through the remainder of George's wonderful meal. At one point I dropped one of my chopsticks on the floor, and picked it up to wipe it off. George grabbed both chopsticks from me and threw them into the sink. "You never replace just one chopstick, it's bad luck." He reached over into a drawer and handed me a fresh pair. "Here, and stop eating all the fish. Save some for the rest of us, please."

He was cute, but he sure had a mouth. He also didn't seem to care for me very much.



to be continued...