Monthly Archive for June, 2005

destined soon to become cat food

Published
by
Alfina the Vague
on June 23, 2005
in Cheese Sandwich and Vintage Imports
. Closed

Having emerged from the pile of hungry and murderous coat hangers, I have finally moved into the new place Palatial Den of Decadence and Huge Closets.

Good riddance to the old Craphole, the tales about which were enough to make my dad fret (don’t worry Dad, new place is A-OK!). I won’t miss it.  It’s been a week of schlepping boxes of books (and CDs and movies and clothes, oh my!) all around town.  Sometimes I think it’s nice to develop a physical relationship with my books, though.  The sore shoulder I am currently nursing is a lactic-acid-filled madeleine reminding me of all the reading and writing I’ve pledged to do before Fall.

Moving has been interspersed with trips to the city, the bar, the minor league ballpark, and the houses of friends–fun abounds in Summer in Zembla, as the rain enters into a temporary détente with the hippies, allowing them a few months in which to air out their dreads.

The cat is currently cowering in fear under the bed, as she is unaccustomed to non-carpeted floors, and when she ventures out suffers the embarrassment of sliding across the floors in a quite unbecoming fashion.  I remain convinced she is waiting for me to slip and fall so she can finally feast upon my carcass.

On the other hand, the cable-and-internet faeries arrived earlier today, making my life much more comfortable.  Normal posting will resume shortly, once I get a chance to dig myself out of the landslide of cardboard boxes filled with random tchotchkes and paperwork from the 1990s.

I hate moving.  I am staying here forever.  For. Ev. Er.   They’ll have to drag me out with a team of Clydesdales. I am not joking.

it’s more fun than a barrel– oh, never mind.

Published
by
Alfina the Vague
on June 16, 2005
in Cheese Sandwich and Vintage Imports
. Closed

As a result of my gradual preparations for moving, my place has (not surprisingly) been transformed into a giant Everest of coat hangers.  Trying to pick one up from the pile is like participating in a game of “barrel of monkees” unprecedented in sheer volume.  Strangely, it’s simultaneously more dangerous yet less exciting than the original.

If y’all don’t hear much from me in the coming week, it will likely be because I will have been buried under a massive tangle of plastic hooks and triangles.  That, or I’ll have strangled to death trying to pour myself into some slinky dress that hasn’t fit since I was seventeen.  It chagrins me to admit that I still own clothes into which I’d never fit without amputating a leg.  Well, I guess it doesn’t chagrin me so much that I won’t write about it on the internet.  Fine.  FINE. I am a clothes-hoarder.  I’ve said it, and I hope you’re happy.

Let’s not even go near the subject of shoes.  I mean, surely those retro stack-heeled lace-ups that were extremely hip in 1997 are bound to come back in style soon.  BOUND TO.

the fruits of zemblan public education

Published
by
Alfina the Vague
on June 10, 2005
in Academia
. 10 Comments

In the spirit of OINY, here are a few choice tidbits overheard at various neighborhood end-of-year parties. It’s worth noting that I did not have to attend any of said festivities to overhear these. As I might have mentioned, I can hear everything that happens up and down this benighted block without even trying. These people are fucking uncouth.

Scene I: After threatening to “flash on” the hosts of the party, a disgruntled guest leaves.

HOST: Yeah, he tried to flash on me but then he fuckin’ broke ’cause he was afraid I’s gonna flash on him.
OTHER GUEST: Who is he anyway?
HOST: Dude, he’s, like, twenty-six and a fuckin’ grad student.
OTHER GUY: And he’s still at college parties?
HOST: I know. The guy is a tool.

[Ed. Note: A tool he may be, but in a year's time, he'll be the one calling the cops on your ridiculously loud parties.]

Scene II: Four shirtless guys are posing with dumbbells in some sort of photo shoot in their front yard, occasionally throwing empty spirits bottles at each other. A girl walks by.

SHIRTLESS BEAUHUNK: Wooo! We just graduated college!
GIRL: [deadpan] That’s amazing.
SHIRTLESS BEAUHUNK: Woooooooo! I know! Duuuude!
GIRL: What was your major?
SHIRTLESS BEAUHUNK: Accounting. I am going to be an accountant!
GIRL: Are you good at it?
SHIRTLESS BEAUHUNK: No! Fuck no! Don’t get me to do your taxes!

Scene III: Stompy girl who lives upstairs, talking to a mumbly guy.

STOMPY: Well, yeah, I am a virgin, as far as I know…

paedagogical news update: best served cold

Published
by
Alfina the Vague
on June 7, 2005
in Paedagogy
. 5 Comments

This guy has officially been busted, and is now, as the French say, fooked*.

The moral of the story? You best not try to play me, ’cause I will shut down your game like an NBA lockout.

*Actually, they would say il est foutu. You get the idea.

open letter to the residents of the most depressing apartment building on earth

Published
by
Alfina the Vague
on June 5, 2005
in Cheese Sandwich, Correspondence and Vintage Imports
. Closed

Dear Neighbors,

I don’t want to sound too gleeful about it, but I’ll be leaving you all very soon.  Honestly, it’s crushingly burdensome trying to contain my excitement.  For one thing, my new place across town will be bigger, with more rooms and more closets, and will be about 10% cheaper.  Fan-tastic.  That’s not nearly all, though.

The best part is, I’ll never have to see any of you schmucks again.  In the three years I’ve lived in this dismal building, the residents next door have changed three times–each time for the worse.  First, there was a quiet, unobtrusive momma’s boy who spent every weekend at home with his parents.  Then, there was the hippie couple “living in sin” with their two-year-old hippie baby.  They weren’t all bad, but they did scream at the child quite a bit, which was unnerving, as she had the same first name I do (oddly, they did not name her something like “Cloud” or “Dragonfly” or “Sativa,” but a boring old name, which is what mine also is).  No one likes to hear her own name being shouted angrily all afternoon.  The stench of pot and patchouli goes without saying.

But now, oh, now!  You current inhabitants of the Flat of Loud Clunks and Rap Music–you are simply the worst.  Not only do you harbor delusions of hip-hopular grandeur, practicing your freestyle every single afternoon at top volume with the door open, but your friends! Your friends! They never fucking stop! Every day and night they bang on the door relentlessly, sometimes peppering their knocks with very indecorous language (”Open the fucking door, bitches! I can fucking hear you in there!”).   I can only imagine why they need to knock so desperately (I once counted 150-some knocks without pause) at 3 am.

Here’s a tip for you:  If you conduct business or entertainment on the shared balcony/walkway, it sounds to the human ear as if you are actually present here in my living room with me.  With my eyes closed, I can not tell the difference between when someone is in my house talking, and when someone is standing on the walkway talking.  This means I can hear every goddamned thing you say. Every. God. Damned. Word.  All of them.  Really.

And you slutbags upstairs: Please, for the love of Mike, learn how to walk in heels.  Heel, toe, heel, toe, and repeat.  Please do not stomp your foot down all at once as if your ankles were encased in cement.  If you can’t handle Big Girl Shoes, go back to the Ugg boots.  And one more thing:  I understand that a couple of rounds of “Miseducation of Lauryn Hill” and a good, shuddering weep session can be very cathartic.  Sure I do.  But you might consider conducting this exercise indoors; it can really ruin the mood over here.

Thanks for giving some thought to this.   Even though I’ll be gone in a couple of weeks, some new stooge will be taking my place, and I’m sure he or she would appreciate it.

So long, Suckas!

Vague

P.S.  Whoever is throwing the snap ‘n’ pops down the stairs every night had better step off.  I don’t care if I am moving out soon, I will fucking cut you.