Notes From A Walkman Junkie: I Don’t Know What To Call This One
I spoke with both of my parents on the phone yesterday, which is incredibly rare as I have a mild to moderate telephone phobia (I freeze and stare at the phone until it stops ringing or, in the case of a land line, break into a trot and flee the premises immediately) that often prevents me from answering when called upon. The first call was with my mother who unfortunately, due to illness, had to cancel our Mother’s Day lunch plans (which completely blows the whole psychic prediction angle that I was going for when I signed the inside of her card — that is unless she just happens to be enjoying a tasty bowl of egg rolls and pork over vermicelli in a Vietnamese restaurant when she eventually receives it.)
The next call was placed to my father in which birthday greetings were given and songs were sung. We also discussed my upcoming trip to Colorado that entails myself and five other friends renting a van for the long drive then staying in a relatively secluded cabin for a week. My dad’s immediate response was to start giving me directions to this location despite the fact that he has never been there, not to mention that my family (I am admittedly the worst) is not the keenest with directions. I was recently searching for my local municipal courthouse so I could pay a parking ticket and found myself desperately lost in the process.
Eventually, after an hour and a half of driving around furiously mumbling curses to myself (and imaginary people who had clearly plotted this whole scenario of “let’s hide the fucking courthouse. It will be fun” for years just to prevent me from paying my ticket, hence landing me in jail and/or naked in a ditch), I broke down and decided to call my friend for directions. The conversation went something like this: Me: “Hi, did you know we have one million different courthouses here and they are all the wrong goddamn ones!?” My friend: ”Hi, yes, you want to go to the small one on the corner of Chestnut and Boonville.” Me: ”It does not exist.” My friend: ”Just come by my place and I will give you exact directions.” Me: “OK, but they have to be really, really good… with pointing.” My friend: “I will draw you a map.” Me: ”I don’t read maps.” Finally (after a ridiculously long discussion of me refusing to accept his help — something about “I will just take you there. I was going out to get something to eat anyway.” “There is no place to eat around there, it is out of your way.” “How do you know? You don’t even know where it is”), I agreed to just follow him there and all was well.
So yes, directions (following or giving) are not my strong suit, but I listened patiently as my father mentioned various highways and calculated the driving time for my journey. After the navigation portion of our Colorado vacation conversation, the topic turned to the nature of the trip and its obvious comparison (six friends bunking in an isolated cabin in the woods) to the setup of many classic horror flicks . I told him that I was considering picking up a seventh party along the way in order to fill the obligatory role of “the least interesting character that gets knocked off first”. My father then offered up some other sage advice like, “Any signs of aliens, stay away” and ”If you see any diseased animals, just leave them be.” This naturally led to him telling me about the dead porpoise and seal that he saw on the beach while he was out collecting washed up glass smoking pipes the other day. I asked if he put the dead mammals in his backpack and he said, “No, they would not fit, plus I would have to dump out all the pipes.” He then recommended that I carry a very tiny backpack on the trip as to avoid the inevitable temptation of collecting large, dead and most likely diseased animals in it.
I am attaching a great live version of “Psycho Killer” by The Talking Heads in the hopes that I do not run across any killers of any kind… and/or aliens and diseased animals this week.