driving through life with the "check engine" light on
I think I was deliberately deceived. I was told that H. wanted to prepare a dinner for a bunch of friends, but I arrived to discover that A. had been involved to a significant degree. By this point, I was committed and thus I have already broken my promise to myself regarding the avoidance of future food poisonings.
It was an odd night. I disliked the beverage possibilities I had been presented with (beer and wine), so H fixed me my first martini. According to others, he fixes an excellent martini. I found it quite distasteful and somehow reminiscent of drinking butter. It caused some significant drowsiness (particularly during our protracted pre-dinner conversation about P.'s terrible past film projects), so H. fixed me some green tea (which I hear is quite good for my prostate).
I was introduced to V.'s assistant director. This was the first I heard about the resurrection of the movie (which is being filmed in some three weeks). This distresses me a little since the last script I read was lackluster (at best) and I have been told that shooting will involve me spending two days in a cabin with the entire cast and crew (I like neither camping nor group scenes). On the otherhand, I may have sold V. on the idea of tossing in a completely superfluous scene involving me naked in a shower.
The assistant director seemed to know someone else who works at my company and, for whatever reason, insisted upon calling him up during dinner. She then handed the cell phone to me. He and I had a bizarrely awkward conversation as the rest of the table stared at me or added background commentary. While talking to this fellow on the phone (whose name I have already forgotten), I mentioned N. from work and suddenly H.'s girlfriend P. piped up with a claim of familiarity. The following insipid conversation resulted:
"Yeah, [N.]! I know him. He went to Cornell."
"I don't know. Maybe."
"Tall guy?"
"... I guess he's sort of..."
"Blond?"
"Could be. He doesn't really look..."
"British looking?"
"Well... this guy is definitely not British..."
"No, not British. But British-looking?"
"Ummm... He looks kind of Jewish."
"Yeah! Jewish British."
All this while that other poor fellow was still on the phone with me.
I rounded out the evening laughing my ass off in the basement with A. We watched a video tape from the early Nineties in which A., who had the highest grades in his high school civics class, was a member of a student panel arguing against the legalization of drugs. A.'s bong was sitting on the table between me and the television.
It was an odd night. I disliked the beverage possibilities I had been presented with (beer and wine), so H fixed me my first martini. According to others, he fixes an excellent martini. I found it quite distasteful and somehow reminiscent of drinking butter. It caused some significant drowsiness (particularly during our protracted pre-dinner conversation about P.'s terrible past film projects), so H. fixed me some green tea (which I hear is quite good for my prostate).
I was introduced to V.'s assistant director. This was the first I heard about the resurrection of the movie (which is being filmed in some three weeks). This distresses me a little since the last script I read was lackluster (at best) and I have been told that shooting will involve me spending two days in a cabin with the entire cast and crew (I like neither camping nor group scenes). On the otherhand, I may have sold V. on the idea of tossing in a completely superfluous scene involving me naked in a shower.
The assistant director seemed to know someone else who works at my company and, for whatever reason, insisted upon calling him up during dinner. She then handed the cell phone to me. He and I had a bizarrely awkward conversation as the rest of the table stared at me or added background commentary. While talking to this fellow on the phone (whose name I have already forgotten), I mentioned N. from work and suddenly H.'s girlfriend P. piped up with a claim of familiarity. The following insipid conversation resulted:
"Yeah, [N.]! I know him. He went to Cornell."
"I don't know. Maybe."
"Tall guy?"
"... I guess he's sort of..."
"Blond?"
"Could be. He doesn't really look..."
"British looking?"
"Well... this guy is definitely not British..."
"No, not British. But British-looking?"
"Ummm... He looks kind of Jewish."
"Yeah! Jewish British."
All this while that other poor fellow was still on the phone with me.
I rounded out the evening laughing my ass off in the basement with A. We watched a video tape from the early Nineties in which A., who had the highest grades in his high school civics class, was a member of a student panel arguing against the legalization of drugs. A.'s bong was sitting on the table between me and the television.