Today was the kind of day I have grown to dread whenever I am visiting my hometown. Ever since my college days, the “Let’s get you some warm clothes to wear while you’re home” clothes-shopping jaunt has been a useless routine that rarely if ever has positive results. Yet, I continue to let my mother talk me into such ventures.
Although yesterday’s post says it was published 11:59pm (so too will today’s), it was actually written at 3:30am when I could not sleep. Blogging, much like a Flexeril/Ambien cocktail, proved to be a perfect sleep-inducer. Unfortunately, my yenta mother started yelling at someone over the phone at eight o’clock this morning, and the shrill tone of her Jew-voice awakened me from my light slumber. When I made my presence known (with a swift “Who the fuck are you yelling at so loudly?”), she made sure to point out that I had started my day early, which meant we could go clothes shopping before I had to go across town for that haircut she scheduled for me. Jesus Christ, it was still five a.m. in LA-time, and it was turning into one of those days…
We drove to the mall and went into a store. She asked if I saw anything I liked and I commented on how the store smelled like an old man. She held up a sweater and asked if liked it, so I asked her if she’d like it if she got a phone call in the middle of the night informing her that I was beaten to death for looking like a fag. She called me “rigid” and “impossible,” so I let her pick out some kind of long-sleeved dressy shirt to quiet her perpetual character judgements. We grabbed some socks and underwear, then walked to another store. This one made me feel even worse than the first store, and I did my best to let her know that I wasn’t comfortable wearing any of the clothes there. I told her every shirt looked like what a 1950s Ivy Leaguer would wear to play football or rugby, and I just wanted something that didn’t have elbow pads or a collar or any inherent implications about my perceived sexuality. We returned to the first store and I picked out a bitchin’ wool sweater with snowflakes on it. She laughed and told me I wasn’t going to a Christmas party, and I told that I wanted to feel like I could go to a shitty office Christmas party whenever I wanted to, and that I was getting the sweater. So, I did. I think I love it.
We drove to the local hair salon and I had my hair cut. It was brief and painless, and afterwards I looked a little less like a psycho. Unfortunately, the stylist trimmed my sideburns with an electric razor, so I was forced to go home and shave or I’d be walking around with weird strips of shaved hair where my dirty scruff meets my sideburns.
She dropped me off at my father’s house, where I played with the dog and waited for him to finish his work day. I got some more cataloging done, but I won’t be ready with a complete list of my record collection in time for tomorrow’s WFMU Record Fair. My father and I went to Winberies for dinner. No Andy Breckman sightings to report. Afterwards, I returned to Jack’s to hang out with him and Ken and Katie. They showed up with a bottle of wine AND a bottle of Jim Beam. We shot more pool and played some video game called Rock Band on the Xbox. It was fun for a while, until the drums broke. I was beginning to fade at 1:00am so I snuck out of the house. Of course, it’s 3:30am again and I’m not asleep. I have to be awake in five and a half hours.
Record Fair tomorrow all day. I’ll post all about it (including some pictures) upon my return. Wish my luck! If you see me, say hello.
