I spent last weekend in the highlands, with my step-family, who shall hence be referred to by their surname [Ferrier]. We were there to celebrate and respectively mourn the life and subsequent death of my step-father's mother, whose ashes were being buried redundantly in a small cat-sized coffin in the ground next to her late husband's grave in a small bumbling graveyard located right at the edge of a very small, very antiquated village. It was very cold for Scotland, colder than it'd been in weeks, and the Spring that had been balefully peeking its head over the great stone wall of winter precipitation had seemingly vanished upon detecting the roar of Ferrier hooves all in unison, stampeding collectively upon the country like so many purposeful, wild-eyed Clydesdales. Well, perhaps not wild-eyed. They're fairly subdued, for the most part. Some of them even mundane. So there was a funeral for a very old woman to whom people had preemptively been saying goodbye to every time they saw her over the past ten years, and whom I only had the chance to acquaint in a time most senile for her. Yes, it was nice to see everyone. I packed like a goon and had to borrow a dress from my step-sister. It was the most questionable shade of Dynasty violet; it washed me out like a thin rag, and accentuated drunkenness, because it was deep purple, and, I don't know, what sober woman would drape herself in a color so demanding? Did some driving (walking?) through the hills, took some pictures, all of which mysteriously yet typically just didn't come out upon exposure. I became extremely carsick on the drive home. I didn't go to London as planned.
Now, there were events that occurred in the interim between the Ferriers' arrival and that of Lisa Greco. These were fairly insignificant, and I shall refer to them collectively and trivially. Errands. Productive things. Namely, schelpping a leather boot to cobblers all over the city, all of them too lazy to take a whack at its unruly zipper issue. 'It's simply too time consuming,' said one man on Nicolson. I wanted to remind him about our current economical situation, and that, unless he puts a little time in, we'll all be taking our zippers to Malaysia, where consumption of any kind is no issue at all. But, of course, I have no idea what I'm talking about, and yeah, I left, and I still have the boot, and its zipper is still broken, and it is still a fine boot, only I can't wear it, because I've no way of keeping it on my able foot.
Then Lisa came. Okay so what happened then? We ate take out Chinese and watched Sex & The City in my bed, spent an entire day drinking hot toddies in different pubs all over the city, lolled around Holyrood Park with some wine and crosswords, indulged in a homemade curry feast and singalongs with Shaun & Co., hung out with my Polish friends and drank more White Russians than I could count on my hands, tampered with mild psychedelics, wolfed down twelve New Jersey born bagels in two days, trekked all over the damn city, and slept really late, every day. Am I missing anything? Lisa bought a Ziggy Stardust mask. That was a milestone, for sure. Oh, and we watched a ridiculous movie at the film society, called Picnic At Hanging Rock. I recommend it. It's about a group of school girls living in Victorian Australia who go on a picnic, and a few of them are lured to the top of this big rock by demonic forces. And they all take off their undergarments. And one of them looks like a Botticelli angel, apparently, and there's lots of strange and creepy Freudian undertones, and in the end all these people just eat it and die. Laughs for days. T'was all around a delightful time.
March has been a strange month, in an even stranger year. Listening to lots of Sunset Rubdown, John Lee Hooker, J Dilla, and The Shins, and settling down with DFW's Infinite Jest for a very, very long time.
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