friskin

I could be mad or disappointed that almost no one willingly appreciates creative endeavors around here, but mostly I just want to go home. I sometimes imagine that I can feel the twiny fabric of the downstairs sofa on my feet or smell baked cinnamon and oats. My favorite winter home-scent is the appley oil Mom put in the old vacuum cleaner (the blue one with the papery bags, that is). I vaguely recall lying obstructively in the middle of the carpet, feeling the vibrations through the floor and humming along with the harmonics the motor produced. Quite a nice change from the greasy hair, unwashed sweaters, and over worn sneakers of college life. Home is clean and close and not work. Home was a drafty, poorly built, green split-level with picture windows and decorative shutters. When I go back it will look quite different; my parents chose December as the perfect time to have the house re-modeled. Their investment seems to be their final resignation, after sixteen years, to stay in the neighborhood for a while. Now the house is a chic, beige, fuel-efficient, life-sustaining machine. Mom's next project is hardwood floors so she doesn't have to vacuum as much. Vacuuming hasn't been the same, anyhow, since we got a self-propelled bagless modern technological wonder. I anticipate a new kind of Christmas as the two kids return to the empty nest.

This is the middle class. This is the dream of upward mobility.

AMGB on WBCR was an hour of amazingly wonderful absurdity. My only regret is that we couldn't tape it.

AND I ATE SUSHI YUMMMMM NOW I CAN GO INTO HIBERNATION FOREVER.