Grotesque Affectation

Three Saturday evenings ago, Tom and I went to a goodbye/birthday party at David and Lisa’s. It was a really nice party, full of congenial people, including Lisa’s parents (hi, Reggie!). We had an open mic and people read poems, their own or others’, and I brought along a tape of a gloomy piece of music I composed.

When Tom and I arrived, we threw ourselves on the ground and hung onto David and Lisa’s ankles and wailed, “Don’t go!” At least, I clutched David's ankles; I trust Tom was doing the same with Lisa. We knew it wouldn’t work, but we had to make at least a token effort.

When I said on the bus over that maybe we should do this, Tom said Lisa’s parents would think we were idiots. I said that they like us (as we like them) and they would understand, but it turned out we were the first ones there, anyway, not to mention the last to leave, because that’s the type of guests we are.

That Sunday I made Jamaican-style rice and beans, peanut butter cookies, and lasagna. The lasagna recipe came from Lisa C. and I have always made it using fake cheeses, to make it vegan, but my lady acupuncturist has discouraged the use of fake food items, so I made it with the required ten pounds of so of cheese, and must admit it was scrumptious. I cut it into itsy-bitsy pieces and froze them.

I was reading something lately about how food reviewing is hard because there are few adjectives to use after you’ve used “tasty,” “yummy,” “delectable” and a few others. I like to listen to the stock report because they think of so many great ways to say “up” and “down.” I was delighted to hear an announcer say the other day that some index had “sanded off” however many points.

I was also delighted to hear Terry Gross interviewing James Hetfield recently on Fresh Air, during her Labor Day heavy metal series. It was actually a repeat of an interview that was done after Some Kind of Monster came out. She played my favorite bit of dialogue from the movie, where James says to Lars something like, “Uh, I think of the drummer as being the one who keeps the beat,” or words to that effect.

James Hetfield has a really lovely speaking voice, low and resonant, and he did not interrupt Terry Gross, unlike Rob Halford, lead singer of Judas Priest, in another interview in the series. Rob Halford interrupted Terry Gross virtually every time she opened her mouth.

James Hetfield sounded very relaxed and genial, and like he had all the time in the world, not like he was in a huge rush for Terry Gross to shut up so he could talk.

Emily Post, in Etiquette, on handshake firmness: “Who does not dislike a ‘boneless’ hand extended as though it were a spray of sea-weed, or a miniature boiled pudding? It is equally annoying to have one’s hand clutched aloft in grotesque affectation and shaken violently sideways, as though it were being used to clean a spot out of the atmosphere.” And there is 400 pages of this! It’s wonderful.

I was feeling a slight sense of dread in regard to the long Labor Day weekend because I knew Tom would be out of town and David and Lisa would be busy packing. It turned out to be as bad as feared. I had meant to go to a couple of matinees, but felt like I was coming down with a cold, so instead skulked around my apartment.

By Monday, I had recuperated enough to make Deborah Madison’s mushroom-barley pilaf (very good, especially reheated with olive oil and served with avocado slices) and West African peanut soup, also good.

Monday afternoon the building manager called and said she was going to cook outdoors. “Oh, no!” I said. “I haven’t gotten the supplies,” meaning the plastic I had offered to try putting over the windows.

“This is going to be different,” she said. “No grilling. We’re going to barbecue.”

“What’s the difference?”

“No fire.”

“No fire?”

“No.”

“Then have fun!”

Of course, there was fire, and charcoal, and lighter fluid, and 90 minutes of near-carbon monoxide poisoning in my highly porous apartment.

I hastened into the bathroom with Hammett. Fortunately, there was something I could do in there that hadn’t been done in a long, long time, namely clean it. After a while, I thought, “This is ridiculous,” and called the building manager to say I was not going to be able to stay in the bathroom for hours and could she please let the fire go out?

Later I sent a mildly worded email saying perhaps she could consider cooking inside and then taking the food outside, and that in any event, I need 24 hours’ notice next time. I would have been enraged if I’d been out that afternoon and come home to find Hammett sitting innocently in a cloud of lighter fluid fumes.

Then I spent the next several days worrying about getting a nasty response.