It's Like the Military Without HonorFinding home becomes a rabid struggle. I open the door and there is everything exactly the way it was left. My house has been described as one huge office. Its true. The detritus of all my comings and goings are blanketed among the walls, shelves and odd furniture that fills the house. As I travel I wonder what to keep; what will jar the mind in 20 years, when I am on the porch, yelling at those damn kids who ride through my yard. I try to be sparring, I keep only the kobe steak of souvenirs. I have great hotel books, amazing hotel pens, first class cashmere airline blankets, fancy, contracts of interest, posters of shows, commemorative shirts, the usual. One day, I hope that my daughter will do something with this stuff. I don’t really want to see this stuff in a hard rock café (I saw Kurt’s publisher’s clearinghouse junk mail in a hard rock café in Barcelona (its near the men’s room) and what was I doing in a hard rock anyway? See my other blog sickof paella.com) And what was the point I was trying to make. Familiarity. I like to see my shoes right where I left them; even the load of laundry STILL in the dryer is somehow comforting. Opening the fridge is another story. Old food. Big plans for those lemons. Intentions wilted in the crisper drawer. Once I came home and there had been a blackout. I don’t know how long or when (this was one of those 9 week stretches that makes me forget how to clean up after myself). I came in, checked the garbage for smelly stuff and looked in the freezer. On the shelf above the icemaker, was melty, wavy colored goo. It came out, as if it were Technicolor carpet, creeping out under the yellow box. The popsicles had melted! It was semi-artistic. You know what I am talking about too. The syrupy stalactites edged down toward the lower shelf, frozen. To marvel at all that sucrose and maltrose and red, orange, purple, and yellow dyes frozen almost made up for the fact that I had to clean up the evidence. Just off of 3 planes and two layovers with no sleep.
Sometimes I come home and dive for the television. Tonight was one of those. I often hope when I come home that some stoner at Fox has put on all the episodes of the Simpsons that I haven’t seen and locked himself in the control booth. Usually, there isn’t such a fortunate occurrence but tonight the Shawshank Redemption was on one of the channels. A woman I once let down used to always say to me, “You love movies where they talk to you!” That’s basically true. All the movies I like, even TV shows, have a form of narration. In the 90s I loved that show, The Wonder Years. I didn’t mind the way every episode had that Daniel Stern guy saying “..and from that day, my life would never be the same. Blah blah” it was comforting. Friendly. Like an old tshirt that fits just so. I got to watch the S. R. tonight and I still enjoy it. Morgan Freeman is such a calming narrator, the way he lulls you to sleep with that milk and cookies timbre in his voice. Its your basic prison movie-rape, fighting, corruption. But the human part of it, the ennui of losing 19 years of your life for a crime you didn’t commit and having to go to an inhuman place to become human again. Its only missing light sabers. When I travel, which is often, I carry a few movies with me. There are a few standards I usually have; some are macho and full of testosterone; others are so utterly devoid of substance its almost embarrassing to type. My late night friends are usually, Gladiator, Braveheart, Forrest Gump, Training Day. Those are pretty missionary position when it comes to movies. The embarrassing ones are (and I don’t want to start a dialogue, just listing) Visionquest (who knew a 1985 wrestling movie could be so homoerotic); Superstar (Molly Shannon’s Citizen Kane) Notting Hill (Julia Roberts makes me weep like a little bitch with her “I’m just a girl” speech) Love Actually (It really hurts to LOOK at Keira Knightley. The part where the wedding choir sings “All You Need Is Love” also gets the tears flowing.) I also bring the movie Practical Magic. I know, I know. Sandra Bullock is such the epitome of restlessness. And some of the cheesy lines just get me in the heart. I will check into a hotel and just put one of these movies on repeat until I check out. Its like having a friend that doesn’t talk to you but still sits in the room, quietly, without tearing into the minibar.
I have to go. I am beat. The words really aren’t falling out.
