Un Jeff Andalou

Salvador Dali was said to be fascinated by the lack of surreality in reality - that of the many millions of things that could happen at any given moment, so few of them ever did. Supposedly, he was always surprised that, when he ordered lobster in a restaurant, the waiter never brought him a boiled telephone instead. It was this perplexing characteristic of reality that led to the creation of his famous objet d'art, the Lobster Telephone:

And so, in homage to Dali: I would like to record for posterity the phone message I received (in error) on my phone while I was away on vacation and which I only listened to last night. I would also like to say that sometimes I can’t believe how fortunate I am.
Here it is, though the printed word can’t quite capture the whininess of the speaker:

“Shane, It’s Matt. Hey, we opened those waffle cones and the whole tops of all of them are busted out. Would you call me back and, if you come up tomorrow, bring me another case and make sure they’re handled with care and then take this one back? ‘Cause, if they’re all busted up, heck, I don’t . . . uh, wanna have busted cones. Anyway, bring another box up tomorrow and take this one back or call me . . . or Linda.”

Once, years after he had used that line about the telephone, Dali was in a restaurant where a waiter brought him one in lieu of his order. Dali was inordinately pleased. I can understand why.

Hanga Roa: My Father versus Matt Lauer

Because my father is a walking menagerie of maniacal animals of the ridiculous variety, he has, it seems, an ongoing and bitter war with Matt Lauer of the Today Show.

It is a travel war.

I didn’t know about it until this past week, but apparently it has been in full bloom for some time, with casualties on both sides. It is an unconventional war, fought with frequent flyer miles and photo albums. Matt Lauer would seem to be winning.

Chiara and I flew down to Easter Island last Tuesday and my family took time out of their vacation in the Society Islands to meet us there. It’s a strange place, as mysterious and spooky as it is distant and hard to get to. It is home to a history unlike any other on earth and it is nearly impossible to photograph badly. All of this - at times - seemed entirely secondary to my father, so flushed was he that he had finally erased one of Matt Lauer’s stinging victories.

It seems Matt Lauer visited Easter Island as part of his ongoing “Where in the World is Matt Lauer” series for The Today Show. My father was always possessed of a keen interest in visiting the island himself, and was painfully stung when his travel nemesis beat him to the punch. When finally, last week, my father was able to even the score, he bragged of it to anyone who would listen.

As is his wont, my father told waiters, and Spanish speaking hotel staff, and tour guides, and family members. He told them that, though Matt Lauer had visited the island some two years prior, he had - he assured all of them with serious intonations - intended to come long before Matt Lauer had. It was only a coincidence - he would tell them - that Matt Lauer had gotten to it first.

We’d pause in front of some great stone moai, centuries-old and smashed on the turf, and he’d lean over conspiratorially and say: “When Matt Lauer was here, he got to stand right next to that one. Did you see him do that on the Today Show?”

I’d reply quietly that I have never seen the Today Show, that I am asleep at that hour, that I had never seen Matt Lauer actually being Matt Lauer. He’d continue on, “Should I go up there and stand next to it? You know, I would have beat Matt Lauer here if we’d come when I wanted to, but your mother . . . “

I’d just shake my head softly, stifling the sudden throaty noise that often precedes a laugh. My father would get that gleam in his eye and turn back to look at the moai.

“Now if I can just get to Antarctica before Matt Lauer does.”

Toward Napoleon by Jacket

A man can need something like a military jacket.

He can need the epaulettes and the pockets and the heavy metal buttons that clankle when he walks. He can even need the space between the buttons, because he can need to pose like Napoleon in photos, and to do that he’ll need somewhere to put his hand.

He can need all of these things and the crisp crinkle of canvas when he moves suddenly in the sun; but he can’t have always have them when he needs them.

I’m not a man like that, apparently.

When I need a thing like a military jacket, I search for one at the mall and find one in size small - because I like the fit better that way. Then I pay for it. Then I have them put it in a bag. Then I take it home and wash it in hot water. Then I dry it in the dryer.

Then I wear it around the house, picking up objects to see which will fit in the pockets and which will not:

Anthology of California Poets: Check.
Small terra cotta jaguar: No.
Art Deco inspired desk clock: Check.
Esquire magazine: Only if rolled.

When you see me and my military jacket, say hello. You’ll know me by my savoir vivre.
If that doesn’t do the trick, try being needed by me like a military jacket. I’m excellent at finding what I need and putting my hand in it like Napoleon.

Believe me.

To Suffer Just a Little

At a shoe boutique yesterday, the following exchange:

Chiara (holding a pair of red, strappy heels out at me): Aren’t they faahbulous?

Me: Yeah, they’re cool.

Chiara: They better be, they cost enough.

Me: Too bad you don’t have a birthday coming up with which to scare me into buying them for you.

Chiara: Shuddup.

Me: What?

Chiara, with a gleam: Should I try them on?

Me: Are you thinking about buying them?

Chiara: Ab-so-lute-ally NOT.

Me: Then why would you want to try them on? You know you like them and you know you aren’t going to buy them. What’s the point?

Chiara (sighing): Just to suffer a little?

And she wistfully put them back on the shelf.

I found it a telling thing to say. I don’t enjoy to put myself through the turmoil of being near to something I desire, but can’t have. This is why I never enjoyed strip clubs as much as I wanted to enjoy them; window-shopping annoys me.

That said; I have the enduring and silly problem of being sexually attracted to mannequins in storefronts.

Chiara regards this as evidence of my immaturity. I am assured by others that this is normal for a man of my height and weight.

Pygmalion, so why not me?

It could, of course, also be residual sexualization from the 1987 film Mannequin starring Kim Catrall, which I distinctly remember as being the first time I felt sexually attracted to a woman. You can imagine what this did for the otherwise tepid Big Trouble in Little China.

This is probably a whole other blog, isn’t it?

I Nearly Become a Republican Activist

“My name is James and I am calling to thank you for everything you did last year for the Republican party.”

But all I’ve done for the Republican party has been to occasionally clench my teeth, pull my hair, and spit when it is mentioned. It isn’t personal; it’s only their hypocrisy, backwardness, and ineptitude.

So you can imagine my surprise at this rather forward telephone introduction. On the other hand, I voted for Kerry and that seemed to work out pretty good for the Republican party, I guess. Maybe I do deserve their thanks.

In any case, I just laughed. James continued.

“Well, Mr. Nielsen, we need your help again. The Dems think they have us on the edge and we can’t let them take back the House and Senate, now can we?”

I’m warming up to the whole thing by this point. I reply: “We certainly can’t.”

“Well,” says James, “And Schwarzenegger needs your help, too. I mean, California is finally doing pretty okay and we can’t let ‘em bring back the days of Gray Davis.”

“Dear God, no.” I said in community theatre-grade horror.

“Well, I’m happy you feel that way Mr. Nielsen. That’s why you’ll see how important it is that we get everyone signed up this year - to fight those tax-raisers. What can I sign you up for? A hundred or a hundred-fifty?”

“Dollars?”

“Yessir. Dollars we’ll use to get the word out about the party and make sure Republicans keep America on the right track.”

“Well I think we’re okay here in Orange County.” I said dryly.

“What’s that?”

“Orange County. I think we’re okay here. Have you any idea how many golf courses there are?”

“Well, your donation will help Republicans across the state of California, Mr. Nielsen.”

“So lemme get this straight. You’re asking me to redistribute my hard-earned money to you?”

“Huh? Mr. Nielsen, your money could help us keep America moving in the right direction.”

“Nothing. Look, James, it’s a nice pitch. Really it is, and I wish you all the luck, but I’m just not the sort of Republican who gives money away to people who need it. I mean.”

“Well, you know, any size donation would be appreciated.”

“Yeah. I mean, I know, but market forces and Adam Smith and all.”

“Huh?”

“I’m just not going to—” and I’m cut off by a dial-tone.

It was too bad. I had a whole bit about Hillary I was going to try to slip in. I can't believe he hung up on me. My Republican impression was fine. Anyone would have sworn I was wearing a golf shirt tucked into khaki pants by the tone of my voice - hell, you could hear the side part in my hair. I didn’t snicker behind my hand or anything.

Afterwards I took a hot, soapy shower.