LUDIC LOG

(from a letter to Hortense Kalumni, dated June 30:)

"Have you ever had Thanksgiving dinner at some distant uncle's house, and you kind of have to go, even though you didn't want to, since you hated the uncle because he called you 'Peaches', or the aunt smelled like really stale tobacco and drugstore-brand vodka, or there was this insufferable pubescent cousin who always wanted to show you the clippings in his wallet from dyke porn mags to see if they turned you on, but you have to go anyway because it's only once a year, and besides it's Thanksgiving, and can't you make just a little bit of effort once in your life to do something nice for your family?, so you drag yourself to the dinner table of this vinyl-coverend morgue in the suburbs and there's all the traditional fat-and-cholesterol hand grenade foods, and the turkey has the texture of a hot piece of paper towel, and the cranberry sauce has clearly been shaken out of the can with such a lack of effort that the lines of the bead are still visible and the only thought put in the direction of presentation is that the can-shaped mass has been cut in half and garnished with a wilted sprig of parsley, and you can't find a single thing on the table that looks like it's worth eating, and besides that you can't smoke inside and they won't let you drink with dinner, and you're absolutely starving and even though you find the food revolting in every way you have to eat it because there isn't anything else and if you say you're hungry they'll just tell you 'but look at how much food there is', and you'll never be able to explain, so you figure you might as well eat this monstrosity of a meal while it's still at least hot, so you start shoveling it down and, unbelievably, you actually start enjoying yourself, and you eventually get to the point where you'll just plunge anything into your mouth that some buffoonish dull-eyed relative sticks in front of you in a Corningware dish, and by the time you start to think about what a disgusting blob of ground muscle you've just stuffed down your gullet, you've already eaten so much that your stomach's one-pound capacity is being seriously taxed, and you feel like you have to crap, but you can't, because if you try to move you'll collapse in a pile on the floor and the dog will eat flecks of stuffing off your face, and the only sure thing in your life right now is that you can't possibly eat another bite of food, and if you're ever in a room with a piece of overbasted yet strangely dry turkey again, you'll have a nervous breakdown, but your family is Jewish, and besides it's Thanksgiving, and you haven't had enough to eat, what's the matter, don't you like the food, you're too thin, you need some meat on your bones, and besides, you haven't had any dessert yet, you've got plenty of room left for pie and ice cream, and Aunt Anne has made some of those Magic Bars you like, and the dinner has suddenly become a screaming gastrointestinal nightmare, but everyone around you doesn't realize it, and they're just laughing and having fun and yucking it up, and the worst thing is, even though you want to explode and you can't take another minute, and you feel like you're just this side of gibbering insanity, it all just keeps going on and on and never seems to end, and everybody wants you to have a good time too?

"Well, that's my review of N.E.G.'s Saturday night show at Club Lingerie."

Whattya think, sissy? Possibly my finest hour. The editors were furious because it got in so late, but it all worked out for the best because it sailed in so close to deadline that they didn't have time to edit one jolly drop of it; and it made the spoonheads in N.E.G. so mad that they're calling around to club owners, frantically trying to discover my identity so they can have me permanently barred from their shows. And what a burden that would be.

So, anyway, things are going swimmingly in the Dream Factory for your girl Hannah; although things are tense in anticipation of the verdict in the Rodriguez Trial (hey! did I capitalize that? Wow! I'm making history! In fact, it's making me!), but at least it gives morons something to be wrong about other than sports. My apartment manager, a hulking Eastern European seven-footer named Slivac, mentions to me every time I see him (and without any prompting) that in his country, the police would have just shot Mr. Rodriguez dead, rather than merely crippling him with their car. I can't yet figure out whether he would prefer that were the case in this country as well, as the language thing is kind of a problem. Slivac is unresponsive to my attempts to speak French at him.

But speaking of apts. (yes, Hannah Schoenmaker, there you sit, Empress of the Seamless Segue), you should be moving into your new one by the time you get this here letter! You must tell me all there is to tell about the "Clearview" (sounds like a country club Daddy would join if they let Jews golf in Arizona), and in addition, please supply your dear friend with news from your new job as well! My darling love Hortense, rising from her humble roots as a college thespiette to the iron-fisted power trip of Administrative Assistant to Some Guy Running for State Senator! Holy gee whiz, as no one in my sphere of acquaintances would be even remotely likely to say. Make sure you dish me the hot scoop, to pureé a metaphor, and remember: trust your mailman! He's a government employee, and he may be armed.

Now, dear heart, it's time for me to sign off (here is a meaningless parenthetical aside to compensate for the fact that none of the last three sentences have had them and I wouldn't want you thinking that this is some kind of a forgery) (although how anyone could forge this distinctively delicious blend of irony and unabashed giddiness is a stumper) (oh, look! Three in a row! I must go buy some inexpensive champagne), so write your friend back soon or she will become cross and find some way to refer to you unflatteringly in her next column. I crave details of home, work, leisure, family, health, upcoming visits to California (G-d's gift to people with too much money), and of course, the obligatory boyfriend situ. So long! So very, very, long!

Always love you,

Hannah-doll Schoenmaker

P.S. Here's a picture of me passed out on the floor of my bedroom the other morning in a pond of my own drool. Bobby took it without my knowledge, so I had to beat his tiny body unto death when I came to and discovered his perfidy. I was in such a frightening state because of a little experiment I tried which I will tell you about when you write me back (unsubtle hint). Look at this foto if you ever have the urge to tell me I'm cute again. Bis später, alligator!