When I was finally conscious the next morning, I was really feeling my hair. Back then in March I still had long hair. We were near the end of our […]
I was in Villefranche. I was in Paris. I was at home. I was walking through Los Angeles. I was thriving and having something of a spiritual moment as the music washed over me. My eyes got all watery — probably some kind of allergic reaction to the curtains, you know? — and it was magic. I always forget how profound an impact music and stories make on us. This one has been in my life for so many years, and I had grown accustomed to the idea of never having this chance. So to be in that audience having this rare opportunity was a delirious delight. I did not take it lightly at all.
The blizzard was not nearly as severe as all the weather forecasters had predicted, but the fact that I had to suffer in this insufferable way was simply too much for me. Forlornly, I made my way to the little cafe in the lobby of the Jane Hotel. I glowered at the freshly painted walls, signed wistfully at the memory of the Café Gitane’s lost nearness, scowled when I was told that they didn’t have an espresso machine, haughtily accepted drip coffee, and took a seat beside the windows whilst waiting for overpriced avocado toast to arrive. I was insufferable. The toast was actually great. I love a seedy bread.
I was completely satisfied with my journey to Mexico’s capital. I wish that I had never left. I wish I lived there now. I adored the Metro and the cemeteries and the glorious Catholic churches and the marvelous felines that roamed the streets. Each day I was there, I found something new and wondrous to delight me. I won’t go into too much detail right now because I’m going to start my travel narratives soon, so just know that Mexico City completed me. I miss it with the aching heart I have for Paris and Luxor.
She said something profound right then, after tutting dismissively at me, “You just live, Ben! Don’t listen to anybody, and if they ask what’s wrong, say that you fell in a damn ditch and you hurt your knee. OH! And always talk to the bartender; he has all the right answers and you don’t have to take him home.”
“Queen!” I muttered, but I don’t think she understood.
Serendipitously, one night when I was in London, a small theatre was putting the show on, but I oddly decided to go to the Apple Store in Regent Street to watch Eddie Izzard do a show. I’m glad I did as I met the woman who is the voice actress for Piglet in Germany, and that’s just a silly thing to write, and I’m inordinately pleased have had that experience.
I adore them, obviously, I worship their existence, but I realized that I’m not always consciously thankful for their presence in my life. That changed yesterday when I realized Eddie might be no more. I love that behemoth of a moody feline. He’s an angel and he’s already used up three of his nine lives. I don’t ever want the last one to come. Until it does, I will love him with all my heart.
LOVE: War Paint: When I visited New York City last month, I had a single goal in mind: give Glenn Close a standing ovation for her performance in Sunset Boulevard. […]
Every summer I have a purpose, a goal, an intent. This summer, I don’t have that. And it’s making me absurdly stressed out. I have places I could go and things I could see, but there is nothing pulling me to a new continent. Romania did for a spell, and it still does, but I’m trying to be fiscally responsible. That’s why I’m not going, and that’s why I’m not going to UCLA. Will somebody please give me buckets of money? It’s for a good cause. I’ll buy a cute archaeological wardrobe and take intense courses and be a better Ben. But until then, I’ll just be the same me in very nice shoes.
LOVE: Schitt’s Creek: Ever since Netflix was stupid enough to remove every episode of Murder, She Wrote, I have been lost and cast adrift. My life had less purpose without […]