Well, dear readers, here it is, Sunday, the start of a brand spanking new week. I feel this week should be better than last week, because last week we had petty annoyances to deal with and you know how annoying petty annoyances can be especially when said annoyances are petty which, by the way (BTW, in Internet lingo), I find annoying. Speaking of annoying, how about this paragraph?
Last night I dreamed I was at Manderley.
In my dream, I was somewhere doing something (that part is already too hazy to remember), when up pulled a white Cadillac. Out of the white Cadillac stepped Nancy Sinatra who was dazzlingly dressed all in white. Someone was with her (her manager?) and he, too, was dressed all in white and he had white makeup, like a mime, on his face. I went up to Nancy and she remembered me right away. She looked stunning, although I noticed that somehow Nancy was now a cross between herself and Ann-Margret. I then woke up from that dream. Wasn’t that an excellent dream? I call that dream The White Dream, because everything was dazzlingly white, like the cover of The Beatles’ The White Album. That dream had deep deep meaning and if anyone knows what it was, please tell me because I haven’t the faintest idea. I then thought about getting up to go to the bathroom, but before I could I fell back asleep, at which point I had the next dream. In the next dream I was in Las Vegas with the Wechters (and I will be soon, so dreams do come true) – we were being shown to our rooms, which were very strange as I recall. In any case, I was led through a door, presumably to my room, yet I found myself outside and the bellhop was running away, laughing. I wandered around, trying to figure out how to get back in the hotel, which I suppose I did. In the next bit, David Wechter and I were sitting in some theater, and we were fooling around with decks of cards, which we both had. There was some comedian going up and down the aisle for some reason, and he pointed at David and I and said, “They’re cheating.” Suddenly, seven security guards approached us, as the theater was emptied. They gave us the third degree, they grilled us mercilessly, especially one swarthy punk – no matter how we tried to tell them we were just fooling around with decks of cards, they wouldn’t believe us. They let David go, but they held me. Then, one of the security guards was looking through a book and found a rule that said that customers could fool around with cards, and do anything they liked with those private decks of cards, including cheat (even though we were not cheating). Apparently, this was a new rule because it was written in the book in a color different than the rest of the rules. Everyone suddenly apologized profusely, but I only cared about the swarthy punk apologizing, but he’d gone off duty and was nowhere to be found. Then I woke up. Wasn’t that an excellent dream? Wasn’t that just too too? So fraught with meaning, so obtuse and oblique in its detail, don’t you think. Of course, I haven’t the foggiest idea of what any of it means. How come I don’t have the faintest idea what The White Dream means, and I don’t have the foggiest idea what the Las Vegas Dream means? For example, why don’t I have the foggiest idea about The White Dream and the faintest idea about the Las Vegas Dream? And if an idea can be foggiest can an idea be smoggiest? If an idea can be faintest can that idea be revived by smelling salts? I tried reviving a faintest idea by smelling salt but my salt has no smell. So, I left the idea lying on the ground like so much fish. I believe that these last few sentences are actually more obtuse and oblique than The White Dream and the Las Vegas Dream put together. In fact, I haven’t the faintest or the foggiest idea of what the hell I’m talking about.
Did you know that people were posting here until the wee hours of the morning? It’s true. In fact, I venture to say that while Nancy Sinatra/Ann-Margret was showing up in her dazzlingly white Cadillac, there was posting going on right here at haineshisway.com. I like that. I like that there is posting going on in the wee hours of the morning. If I recall correctly (IIRC, in Internet lingo) there were a few posts about the width of these here notes. First of all, these here notes seem to show up on different computers in different ways. But apparently, at times the column is very thin. That is because these here notes are toned and buff with abs and buns of steel. In any case, we can’t distract Mr. Mark Bakalor with such distractions, because he is hard at work designing our new Interview section. I’ve already begun doing the Interviews, and we’re hoping the first of them will be up and running by the end of this month, if not sooner.
Well, I do believe the time has come for all good Hainsies/Kimlets to click on the Unseemly Button. Oh, I know it’s a petty annoyance but let’s do it anyway, just to show the world at large that we are not petty about petty annoyances.
Have I mentioned that today is the start of a brand spanking new week? There are many things happening this week and I’m hoping that none of them will be as annoying and petty as the things that happened last week.
Last night, I attended a one-woman show entitled, Where Do Babies Come From?, which was written and performed by Vicki Juditz. It was all about her long struggle to have a child. She and her husband ended up having a child via a surrogate mother, and the trials and tribulations of that journey is what the evening is about. Miss Juditz is an actress and storyteller and she does a fine job. But, it’s all so personal and even though it’s all true, much of the drama has a repetitiousness to it, that the evening feels long. I also thought that the decision for her to be seated at a little table for the entire duration of the show was a mistake. I know she’s telling a story and she wants the story to speak for itself, but sitting at a table for an hour and forty-five minutes (two hours with the intermission – although she is not sitting at the table at intermission) is an energy-sucker. I mean, you don’t want her to do choreography or anything, but a little carefully chosen stage movement would have been nice and helpful. Still, it’s all from the heart and the writing has some nice moments in it. After the show we met Vicki and she pointed out that the actual surrogate mother of her child was in the audience. In any case, if you like this kind of theater, it’s playing at The Elephant on Santa Monica Boulevard, one block west of Vine.
Prior to attending the theater, I ate dinner at the French Quarter. When I saw that they had my favorite pasta dish, carbonara, on the menu, I asked the waitress if it was good, and she said she loved it, so I ordered it. It was, without question, the worst carbonara ever made anywhere ever. It was actually offensive as carbonara. Once I started thinking of it as not carbonara at all, but just some penne pasta swimming in some milky substance with hard peas and ham chunks and fresh tomato bits, well at least I could eat it. But carbonara? Hardly. However, the appetizer of Popcorn Shrimp was excellent and so was the garlic bread that came with the faux carbonara. For decent carbonara, I recommend, of all places, the California Pizza Kitchen, where they do it quite well – spaghetti in a nice thick cream sauce with nice soft peas and pancetta and no fershluganah fresh tomatoes.
Well, dear readers, it is Sunday, the start of a brand spanking new week – I shall put all the petty annoyances of last week in the petty annoyance bin, including the faux carbonara. Yesterday, I wrote about the book I’m reading, all about the making of Sunset Boulevard, and I erroneously credited the author as Sam Staggis. Then, our very own dear reader, Mr. Ron Pulliam, corrected me and said it was Sam Stagg. At no time, mind you, did it ever occur to me to go and actually look at the book to see what Sam’s name was – then Ron corrected himself, because the author’s name is really Sam Staggs. So, we were both close, but neither of us get a cigar. Well, it is time for me to be on my merry way – the sun is shining and there is not a petty annoyance in sight and thankfully there is no faux carbonara in sight either. In fact, I think the petty annoyances and the faux carbonara go hand in hand in their obnoxious grotesquerie. Is that a word, “grotesquerie”? I like it, and if it isn’t a word, it is now because I have decreed it so. Yes, you heard it here, dear readers, if “grotesquerie” is not already a word I hereby pronounce it a word, and if the fershluganah word people have a problem with that they can go eat some faux carbonara. Meanwhile, today’s topic of discussion is, of course, a free-for-all, because today is free-for-all day. Now, I want to see some fine discussions going on, and I will be checking throughout the day and I shall contribute to the various and sundried postings. So, put on your thinking caps and post away, my pretties.