In the spirit of existential comedy

We (me + the boy) haven't been sleeping much lately.  We've been stuck inside a lot and lots of little things that make us all click along have gone by the wayside this week.  The dishes, for example, have greeted me in the morning every day (they seem to sneer at me) because I keep falling asleep before checking them off the nighttime routine list in my head.  I had a wise friend once with the most colorful life I've ever known and she said that cleaning the dishes after a meal was the conclusion to the process of eating and enjoying a meal.  It was essential.  Hmmm.

I have a giganto stack of things cut out, ready to sew in preparation for our little street fair in two weeks.  As it stands I'll have nothing to even try to sell (well, aside from the things in the little shop that refuse to sell and a veritable field of calla lilies).  The plan is for the boys to head out to The Children's Museum and leave me to it tomorrow. 

Anyhow, I'm tired and boring.  Odd things always happen to me though, so today we have these random photos and this random bit of meaninglessness:

One early weekend morning I headed from my dorm to the Quad.  I remember the destination was the Ave, but I don't know what I was planning to do once I got there.  I loved staying up late, late in college but I also really enjoyed getting up early and heading out while everyone slept.  Come to think of it, I still like doing both of those things.  Anyhow, there was nobody, no one, anywhere and all I heard was birds chirping.  Then a man popped out from behind the corner of the art building with a little journal in hand and he didn't look scary in the least.  He was fairly young, with stringy, greasy hair, and he had a pleasant smile and, it turns out, a French accent.  "Skoozeh (you get the phonetic thing here... I don't know a bit of French)...  Ehxkoooz me!  Miss!"  He ran over to me and, again, I wasn't freaked out in the least for some reason. 

He was a "journalist" for the most "POPpuhlr" radio station in all of France.  It was big.  It was famous.  He was important, yaddah, yaddah, yaddah.  He was also in deep, sweaty what-the-heck-am-I-going-to-do trouble.  He was supposed to be doing a radio segment on Kurt Cobain and he was supposed to be in front of Kurt Cobain's house but he hadn't been able to find it.  Kurt Cobain had died half a year or so before this, and "AAAAaahhlll ze French want to know?  What iz it like for zee Americans?  How do zey miss him?  What iz hiz beautiful home like?"  I'm not so sure he ever tried to find Kurt Cobain's house but I know he was in a bad place all the same because I know I was the only person out on campus and he needed the view of zee Americans.  He was dezzzperate, for sure. 

So I said, yep, I'd talk to his radio people and no, he didn't need to tell me how many millions of people would be listening, thank you.  The guy broke into a huge, sweaty, greasy smile and kept up with his "mercis" for awhile, and then I was on the pay phone (next to us, incidentally) and everything I said was translated by a woman into French on a delay as I said it.  The man on the other end "interviewing" me spoke OK English and asked me all about how much zee American guys and girls love zee Kurt Cobain and what was his house like, zat I waz standing in front of, of course (in tribute to Kurt with a candle and an album cover, no doubt).  I don't like to lie but I wasn't sleeping off a drug stupor or anything so on the college scale of things I think it's forgivable. 

After we'd covered Kurt in depth the dude on the other end of the phone said, "Are you pretty?"  "Huh?" I thought.  "Do you like ze boys?  Or do you like ze girls?"  Interview over.

The fellow next to me, much relieved that he still had a job I suppose, was quite thankful.  He promised he would send me a tape of the show and never did (I imagine he needed my name, etc., to document his journalistic integrity or some such thing).  Then I was off, heading to the Quad again, and ten odd minutes of my life were so isolated and bizarre that it felt like it never happened. 

But it did.  Millions of French people thought of me for a few moments, standing in front of Kurt's gate waving my lighter.

Comments

[Jen]

Jeez, what a riot. I've been sitting here reading with my mouth hanging open. It's all just so... strange. Like it ought to have been a hoax, but was really real in a completely unreal way. Good luck with the sewing today!

[Vasilisa]

Oh dear, I can't believe no one wants to buy those cute things at Etsy! Will I have to get a credit card just to buy something you've made? I've been so proud of being the last family in the Western hemisphere without a credit card!