Crushing Krisis

The Newest Oldest Blog In New Zealand

Archives for October 2005

AotWME pt3: Stospberry vs The Goose

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I forget sometimes that Elise and I are total yuppies who have jobs at insurance agencies across the street from each other, and that part of being said yuppies is that we spend money on… well, just about everything.

Case and point: we both like good liquor, and Elise is sprouting a bit of a taste for wine. I say this not to brag about having good taste in liquor, cause i mostly buy by brand and by what doesn’t leave me with a headache, but just to illustrate how the two of us like to HAVE things. We’re very have-y people. I typically keep at least three different kinds of vodka in the house, and none of those kinds are Banker’s Club or Smirnoff. Elise has a similar assortment of tequila (and never the twain shall meet). We even buy nice mixers; i think the only truly cheap thing in our cabinet is brandy i bought for making sangria.

I sometimes forget that not everyone is like this. The ex, between stories about nearly being arrested in London, crashing at his house until he was made a formal roommate, and following his favorite punk band on tour (all relatively isolated incidents – he’s actually quite charming; the most objectionable thing he’s done all night is touch my computer screen, which i somehow managed to endure but quickly clean up after in an OCD frenzy when he visited the bathroom) had made a sizable dent in my Strawberry Stoli. As that’s my favorite of the current vodkas, when he went back to the kitchen to mix another drink i hollered from the living room, “you should work on the Grey Goose, it’s in the freezer.”

He looked from me, to Elise, and back to me, tipsily dumbfounded. Was this sort of ex-boyfriend test? Was i really asking him to switch from Stoli to GG?

“Well, we’ve got more of the goose.”

AotWME pt2: Interlude

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(And, i’m up here writing about him on my blog, which would seem lame on top of being passive aggressive except for i was, you know, at the forefront of blogging culture and have had this site for, like, eight decades in blog years. But, for a second i was just thinking “i’m up here writing about him on my blog” and i just shuddered, but then i thought “well, at least it’s not on my livejournal,” and then i felt a little bit better.)

Attack of the Well-Mannered Ex part deux (cont’d): All These Poses

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Okay. I have now given him the tour of our house, eaten dinner, and had three more drinks.

I think i have identified the perfect drink-to-Elise’s-ex ratio, because we’re having a more charming conversation between the two of us than Elise is having with either of us.

Well, not right now, but a minute ago, when i was in the kitchen.

We shared a moment. Actually, several consecutive moments. Like, a naughty daisy chain of moments. See, first he was talking about Golden Girls, which is one of my favorite television shows ever. So, we’re in the kitchen enthusing about our favorite GG moment’s and he says “Bea Arthur” and I off-handedly remark to Elise “of course, now i’m singing that song in my head,” meaning Rufus Wainwright’s “California” where he belts out “and my new grandma Bea ArTHUR!” And, he was like, “oh, yeah, i know that song. I love that album.” And, THEN, we simultaneously launch into Rufus Wainwright concert stories in which we cry for the majority of his set.

I mean, what are the chances of two guys who like Rufus independent of a girlfriend’s influence and who are straight (mostly) (i think).

So, yeah, i think as long as i keep drinking and he keeps liking Rufus Wainwright i won’t even be freaked out by the fact that he’s sleeping in my house.

Attack of the Well-Mannered Ex part deux

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It is t-minus something to Attack of the Well-Mannered Ex part deux. He is in a cab somewhere, trying to find our tiny street.

As a precautionary measure, i have already begun to drink.

My only ex being not exactly a house-guest caliber person (for fear she would steal or break things, or try to sleep with one or both of us), i really don’t have any exes to bring into the have-over-for-dinner equation. So, the concept of an ex i’d not only allow into my home, but be happy to see and want Elise to get along smashingly with is entirely outside of my grasp.

Inching towards the four-year mark of our relationship i can’t say that i’m jealous, but…

Oh, here he is. shit shit shit, he’s coming into my room. minimize blogger. must not be passive-aggressive in front of company.

Unless I Am Talking To Liz Phair

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I may have become slightly obsessed with Sasha Frere-Jones during the Performance to Production panel at the New Yorker festival as he dispensed his incredibly biting witin the form of sentences shrinking upon themselves with self-deprication.

(this is too giggle-inducing not to include: Sasha refers to panel-member Ric Ocasek as Ric “My First Album Is Better Than Yours, Unless I Am Talking To Liz Phair” Ocasek)

Apparently i was supposed to be in love with him already (said H), but i barely even knew New York media people even existed before i started reading Gawker so i can hardly be blamed. Having now idly investigated his writing for a month i’m even more charmed by him – he writes incredibly informed, typically obsessed odes that make every artist sound like his erstwhile favorite, and he sometimes avoids a review altogether in the interest of making his point.

Sasha has a very interesting picture-fueled scattershot blog that yields many interesting links, including a piece by a rejected queer eye and S/Fj’s lovely straightforward interview with Fiona Apple (whose album i have managed to hate less by not listening to the last five tracks).

Funny how straightforward interviews are always better than feature magazine articles.

Moveable.

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With Hemmingway on my lap i began to shed layers acquired since the night before.

Raining all week, people at work began claiming that they were depressed. I think rain just gives you time to realize why you might have been depressed in the first place. Having that generally figured out, i quite like the rain.

I peeled off my sweatshirt and stuffed it down into my bag to cover the bottle of vodka, still undrunk. I carry a grand’s worth of electronics on my body almost every day, but i am scared that someone might want to knock me down when i get off the train so they can take my vodka.

It is good vodka.

On Market everything is too beautiful. The bums, even. I draw deep, diaphramatic, atheletic breaths. These are not breaths i take on a daily basis. Forgetting the vodka, i feel drunk on crisp autumn air. Drunk on oxygen.

Ross asked me as i was leaving, “You’ve got to find something to do outside, huh?” I answered that i don’t know how to do anything outside, except walk.

So i walked home.