December 13
Do you all recognize the monkey in the background? He's waving to you. Say hello.
Apparently, I am a total loser. There IS a Chewbacca planet. Blotted was right. A few of you wrote me telling me that there was a Star Wars Christmas special in 1977, where everyone got to meet Boba Fett. Or that there was some kind of cartoon with Boba Fett. Whichever: he's cool. Though, the more that I sit here and think about it, the less like a loser I feel. After all, I'm the one who didn't know about the Chewbacca Planet. I was the speculative one. You people all knew about it. Not me. Hah! I feel much less dorky now. However, I did have a dorky conversation on ICQ with Nick about it:
Dana: If there's a Chewbacca planet & he's married and has kids, why on on earth would he leave her to go flitting around the galaxy with Han Solo? Why wouldn't he just stay home with them?
Nick: [silence]
Dana: Really! I mean you're Chewbacca, and you have a wife and kids! What are you doing flying all over the galaxy?
Nick: Um. Okay, Nerd Girl.So, from this point forward, I avow to always listen to drunken slobs when they tell me there's a Chewbacca planet, because goddammit, there IS. (People take note: this would make an ideal birthday gift for someone who's birthday is coming up, like say on January 1st)
Dan sent me the best piece of email I received on the subject, including the name of Chewbacca's wife and children along with references to some kind of kinky holo-porn. I've always thought that George Lucas was a little insane. This does nothing to change my mind. I would post his mail, but, in a fit of rage about that fucking Diary-L list of crap (if you post to that list, and are reading, go away. I mean it. You make my fucking life miserable. I DON'T CARE ABOUT YOUR BIRTH CONTROL. OR your son's masturbation habits. Or anything you have to say, in fact. Jesus H. Christ. This list reinvents the very thought of how stupid people can be, proving there's no bottom to its depths) I deleted every single thing in my inbox, including some good mail about a possibly combination BHT&TM party with someone who has family here in CT.
Angelo & Eleanor, Holy Shit on a Stick:
It's too late for me to back out of wanting them here now, as we all know. My fear has moved from "Oh, my god, I hope they don't expect me to entertain them every day" to "Holy CRAP. How on earth is Angelo going to find his way around?" I may not have mentioned that he's a little...shall we say...confused. A tad. A jot. A morsel. He listens to only what he wants to hear and plows on with his line of thought, no matter the conversation going on around him (I have that tendency, but it's only because I'm an idiot. I tell people I live in Dana World. Angelo lives in Angelo World, and his world is filled with Those Bastards. Damn Foreigners. Why the Hell Am I Eating Tomato For Breakfast? [read: stuff that no one else has any clue about]. To illustrate this point, I'll call Friday to attention:
They arrived at my door, flush with their new house purchase. For christ's sake, they BOUGHT A HOUSE. For the first time in twenty years. In a new state. All, and I mean ALL he could talk about was getting the title to his new car. {note on the new car: He told me it was blue, so I was completely unprepared for the stripper's g string TEAL automobile in my driveway} He was obsessed with the title. Obsessed. He couldn't even think of a house. It was all about car. No matter how often we tried to swing the topic to something other than the title, he just kept bringing it up. "Those bastards say it's going to take 6 weeks for the title to come!" and "Dane...did I tell you about those bastards who tried to sell me the other car? It was HIT!! Good thing I brought it to my friends, the Greeks, so that they could tell me right away that it was hit. Those bastards!"
I'm all like "Yaay! You just bought a house!" He'd smile indulgently at me and say "Yeah, but I was talking about the car." and launch into the same story over and over again. No matter what house talk came up, he always managed to bring the conversation round to him not having the title.
I'm concerned he's never going to be able to find anything once he's here. I've been hunting maps and escape routes. Hairdressers and Cardiologists. Carpenters and directions to the casinos. My mother put it best when she said:
"By the time he finds his pants, the day will be over!"
BS, Christmas Party:
Since she's such a great person, so organized, dedicated and wonderful, it only stands to reason that she should be the guru of the Death Star's Christmas party. ("It's a Holiday Party. We, in this Building always have to have standards just a little bit higher than all the other buildings, so we can't call it a CHRISTMAS party."). She had no idea that when all of her ass-kissing friends quit their jobs at the business office, that she'd no longer have an in and her opinions wouldn't count for anything.
Enter the Christma...Holiday Party. Well, you know, she's been here for 10 years, practically (well, okay, only 8, but every time she prefaces a conversation with that, the years leap) and in all of those years, she's had her hot and stinky fingers in the planning of the party. Until this year. When it came time to start thinking about it, she started calling downstairs: "You know, I'd love to help you guys out, show you the ropes, show you how a Death Star party should be..because there are certain things we HAVE to do here at the Death Star...". She got a perfunctory "yeah, great, whatever" from downstairs.
She took "yeah, great, whatever" to be a sign: "They NEED ME!" Setting off a full week of phone calls to her friends:
"Well, you know, they called and begged me to help them, since I have been here for almost 10 years, I'm sure I know a bit more about it than they do!"
She'd call downstairs and harass them:
"When can we get together? You guys really are going to be needing my help soon.."
In the meantime, they're busily putting everything together without her help. A wreath is hung in the lobby. With a RED BOW.
"Oh, my GOD. Did you see that bow?? it's so tacky! I mean, I went out and specifically bought a white bow because red bows say "Christmas" and white bows are just so classy. I spent 30 fucking dollars on that bow!" she whispers into the phone.
To the people downstairs:
"You know, in all the 10 years I've been here, we never used a red bow because we do things differently here at the Death Star. They never wanted us to have a red bow because it's too Christmassy. The bow should be classy and simple. Like my white bow. Maybe you just overlooked it? It's there, in the room!"
They ignore her, the red bow stays.
On the phone:
"I don't give a shit what those fucking people do downstairs. Did you see that they put a RED BOW on the wreath? RED!! Like hooker red!! Can you imagine?? How TACKY! They keep begging me to help them, then they fucking don't listen to a word I say."
Downstairs:
"I've got all of this free time. Today, tomorrow, whenever you want. I'd love to go over the party preparations with you. You just pick a time and place.."
Phone:
"I'm not even going to go to the fucking party. I don't give a shit about it. They plead with me to help them, then ignore every absolutely perfect suggestion I give. I don't fucking care. No, I'm on this short fuse and they can go fuck off. I'm not helping them set up or clean up or ANYthing. Fuck them!"Downstairs:
"Oh, listen guys, you're all doing such a great job on your own, I don't think you really need my help. I'm very busy all day Thursday, and will only be able to help you if you really get stuck..but call me if you do! For sure! Good luck!"
It's fucking perfect. She spent weeks calling and begging them to let her help, which translates to: "Please allow me to come into your office and tell you the tacky ass, cheesy way we did things when my retarded best friend still worked down there!" And they were having none of her. NONE. They smacked her in the face a million times, and the more she called the more they ignored her.
It did this heart good. I'm going to go to the party and have an amazing time. I might dance. I'm definitely going to congratulate the business office on a job well done, even if it sucks.
Driving BS Slowly Mad:
I bring in milk for my coffee. I share my milk with people who ask me. Unfortunately, people who have not asked me take it upon themselves to share my milk. There's not a lot I can do about that. Pissy letters on the container might be good for a laugh, but when it comes to dissuading a person who's jonesing for milk in their coffee it's not terribly effective.
Once a month or so, BS makes a big fucking elaborate to do about the fact that she's BROUGHT IN MILK FOR US ! Did you catch that, Dana? I BROUGHT IN MILK FOR US!! (this announcement is accompanied by a visual flourish of the container. It's a "Ta-da! Here is The Finest Milk Money Can Buy!") I respond with a "huh!" as she repeats: Milk! For US!! Then, she gets tough: I'm going to put a note on this milk!! I hear scribbling. She presents me with the container. I read, aloud:
"This is BS's MILK! I DON'T TAKE YOUR FOOD, PLEASE DON'T DRINK MY MILK!!""that," she says "will keep people away from our milk!"
Four days later, the milk is gone, because it's four days later, and I've been using it. She'll storm in:
"THE MILK IS GONE!! GONE!!! I CAN'T BELIEVE THOSE ASSHOLES!! NEXT TIME I'M GOING TO PUT EX-LAX IN THE MILK!!"
I don't let on that it's been me using it, and finishing it. I empty the container and stick it back in the fridge, as though I'd never used it at all. "Really, BS? Wow..I think I've only used it once.."
This infuriates her. "With that those people make a year, you would think that they would buy their own fucking milk!! Those pigs!!"
Each and every time she brings milk, I do this. It never gets tiresome. It's all made worthwhile when she stomps in with the empty container (Parmalat, 1%, always.) and proclaims how much everyone sucks. I have to sit here with a poker face, but inside, I'm hysterical. I always pretend I have no idea why the milk is gone, and agree with how horrible everyone is.
Oh, man, it's great. I'm so easily amused.
This photo proves, beyond a shadow of a doubt that that's true:
So here's the conversation between Rob and Dana:
Rob: ....is my ability to play the Mexican Hat Dance on the trombone, even when I'm drunk.
Dana: You can so not play the Mexican Hat Dance.
Rob: What? Are you telling me I cant?
Dana: I'm not saying that you can't. I'm just saying that you can't.Rob: I was in a Country Western karoke bar and played the Mexican Hat Dance. I was so drunk my friends had to hold me up, and I could still play it.
Dana: Why did you have your trombone at a Country/Western karoke bar? And besides, perhaps you COULD play it then, you simply can not play it now.
Rob: Are you telling me I should go play the Mexican Hat Dance?
Dana: I'm not saying you should, I'm saying you can't!
Rob: (Dropping phone & taking photograph)
Damned if he didn't play the Mexican Hat Dance. However, for the sake of accuracy, he only played the first 20 notes. You know, the first ones. You want to be my friend? Call me up and play songs to me while wearing a hat. I'm all about people using props to amuse me. If there are photographs, so much the better.
I was actually in one of the blackest moods I've been in a long time this evening. Sometimes my mother just manages to work that nerve.
Mom: Why doesn't the real estate guy want the check now? Why did he make such a big deal of getting it on monday and he doesn't want it now?
Dana: I have no idea. They'd have to ask him. He said he'd take it on thursday.
Mom: But how will we get it? where will it be??
Dana: Well, I can rip it up & she can write another.
Mom: But...why did he say he wanted it if he doesn't? Isn't it his job to do this stuff? He sure earned his money working with those two!
Dana: But, he mostly worked with me. I'm pretty accommodating.
Mom: Ohh...rightt...you're really laid back. And what's "Westville?"
Dana: Where I live? What do you mean, what is it?
Mom: Where is Westville? Is that New Haven? Or is New Haven something different?
Dana: What do you MEAN? Westville is a neighborhood. You know that, I've lived here for four years!
Mom: But why is it different from New Haven? Is it IN New Haven? Why is it Westville??
Dana: What are YOU TALKING ABOUT??
Mom: Your grandmother said the house was in New Haven. I thought YOU said it was in WESTVILLE!
Dana: I need to go.
Mom: But that's what you SAID!
Dana: Westville is Dyker Heights. It's Bay Ridge. It's Park Slope. Its the name of the neighborhood.
Mom: Oh.
Dana: I really need to go, talk to you soon.
I was so tense when I got off the phone, I stamped around angrily for a while until Nick sat with me and spoke soothingly to me. I was like BS whispering about the Holiday Party. The conversation with my mother infuriated me. I'm okay now, so don't worry. My killing spree is postponed for another day, at least.
Don't know what made me think of this, but there's a reggae singer I really like, Yellowman. He is the butt-ugliest creature on this earth. Seriously. But god, he's cool. He sings (and I'm not making this up, all of you fans will back me on this):
"All the ladies love the Yellowman, yellow like cheese"
And damned if he doesn't have a full bevy of slutty chicks tossing their bras at him at every single show. The man is pure sinew. He makes Iggy Pop look like a fat old lazy sack of crap. I shit you negative.
See? I told you. He's cool as all get out and puts on one hell of a show. I recommend you go see him if he happens into your nook of the country. At the very worst, you'll get a slight headache from the fog of pot smoke. At the very best, you'll dance yourself silly. You win, either way.
