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Sunday, February 26, 2006 My office is decorated in "crumbling Italian villa" paint job, which if I recall correctly, was achieved with a sort of yellow-y paint, sponges, liberal lashings of plaster. There are patches of plaster here and there-- the beauty of this approach is when I genuinely do nick or scuff or otherwise compromise the integrity of my paint job, I just grab the bucket of plaster lying in the corner, a plaster knife, and put on a patch. It gives the whole thing-- it's like a little "garret museum" display up here. The rest of the house is bougeois splendour-- you should see our bathroom, a whole family could live in there for months-- all they'd need is a fridge and a hotplate-- Pam really outdid herself there. You can really lounge around in there, and we do. With three little kids, you spend a lot of time in bathrooms. It should be the most comfortable, splendid room in the house. If it were any more roomy, I would install a couch in there: read the paper, chat with Pam while we bathed the kids, the ice clinking in my vodka-7. Speaking of couches we acquired a leather one-- and to me, that says I "made it." But my office is a little slice of the ghetto, of the place I lived in in Kensington market before a King Kong sized Pam lifted off the roof and reached in, pulled me out, holding me between her thumb and forefinger-- my arms and legs wiggling as she carried me across town, installed me in a better neighbourhood, and set about practically building a house with her own hands around me as I typed away and typed away, first on a manual typewriter, then finally on a computer...efficiently extracted my sperm three times, whelping such breathtakingly beautiful spawn (I wanted girls but that's partly because I did not realize boys could be so beautiful) I can barely keeping my arms off them... But I miss my old neighbourhood, where people shouted "Hey, Gino" and other imprecations across the street, where a band might spontaneously plug their amps and shit into the bakery next door and begin to wail away, impromptu concerts on the street. "the Junk Midget," remember him anyone? He used to fucking drive his little heap pickup onto Oxford Street (usually), jump on the roof, and he hit some sort of button on his megaphone-- the electric kind, that they use at college football games, where you hit a button and it plays 7 notes of a "rousing" tune-- TING-TA-TA-TING-TING-TA-TINGGGG!!! and then you start to bark orders into it, like Mussolini (I've since acquired one and use it to hector my kids: "STOP WHAT YOU ARE DOING IMMEDIATELY!") and yell into it: "CHEAPA! CHEAPA!" I think it was the only word in English he knew. Once I bought an old black metal fan from him, the kind with "baby chopper" blades, I plugged it in, within five minutes it started sparking and popping and my apartment filled with the smell of smoke and burning rubber. I brought it out to him but he wouldn't give me my five bucks back. Little shit. He was probably only PRETENDING he didn't understand my English. anyway...why look backward. onward, into the glistening future! work like michaelangelo...create things of great beauty, tear them from my soul with the sweat of my brow, aka the usual.
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