World Wide Love

Tony has an easy tell

October 22, 2005

Onemana, New Zealand

9:23pm.

The bookend post. With beverages in between. Giddy up liquor pony.

Liquor? You liquor, you brought her.

That last sentence was brought to you by my excellent friend Tony, who, with all the gumption and moxy in the world, has decided to fly halfway across the world to visit us in fairyland. December 28th. The posts will be drunker for that blurry week. What a stud. What a dude and friend. Thank god for frequent flyer miles. Thank god for an Italian with a huge heart and nothing better to do with his vacation time.

Where does one plaid shirt wannabe writer start? Is it the quilt and craft show? Is it the massive birthday party for a three-year-old whose family Steph met at the religiously based twice-monthly MOPS meetings? Or is the dinner at Carol and John’s, with closet fan Anthony dedicating his entire visit to spending time with Hudson?

I will go linear, because I am organized, and I crossed the 200-page barrier earlier today. 201 baybee. It’s balls and nuts gravy now. The story is written; the rest is just sunshine and applesauce and feathered hair and ice cubes that go chink. Here’s to you Dex and Owen and Tommy. Your episodic life is making my life better.

This is the point where my mother thinks to herself….oh Charlie…is Jason high for this or what…

I used Charlie in my novel today. A sad time in his life, and well respected by my words. He will understand why I included it. Write what you know, sage advice I have read and heard everywhere. It’s amazing how much I love him. Not amazing then, during the bulging bullet head phase, but certainly amazing now. Chuck, Christine… we are all lucky.

Enough of the reaching out. Enough of the pounding fingers just to see what it looks like on white screen. Just enough of the mandatory preamble before I groove into what actually happened on this Saturday in Whangamata on the North Island of New Zealand.

I wrote this morning. I needed to fill the week as Friday was mixed with silent pleading of accompaniment from Steph and lack of motivation from me. So, after my waking up with Hud, after my green hill walk, I disappeared into the bedroom, put the headphones on and transitioned into my novel. Two hours later I emerged with my chapter finished, my weekly goal exceeded by 1400 words and my eight-week goal of 200 pages passed, looking over my shoulder like Ben Johnson at Carl Lewis in Seoul. I did it. 170 pages in eight weeks.

I am a two thirds done my novel and the end seems easy to me now. Is it good? Oh god no…it’s pure emotional tripe, its cloying and histrionic and preys upon every frayed nerve you may have. Will it be better? Of course. I could write 100 pages and whittle it down to one. The key is if the one page is good. Or good enough really. I still think no matter how crap my novel will be, with the minds I know, we could market this into best selling territory. Let my motely crue of fuckers exhaust all their misguided energies to making me famous. I promise I will pay you all back with dedications. Dedications and fat glasses of rye. You think I am lying? Let me prove it to you.

First up? Quilt show. Yes. I traveled ninety hundred thousand miles to attend craft and quilt shows.



Here I thought it was tandem skydiving and plummeting off of bridges with a giant rubber band attached to my prostate. Nope. I am walking along walls and walls of various quilts with a small piece of paper in my hand, ready to plop the number assigned to the quilt I think is the best, so they can win…win what?...yes…the most liked quilt prize. I am the academy. This is the quilt Oscars. If only there were acceptance speeches….

I would like to thank my quilting group…who, without their constant sniping and support I would never been able to add that last stitch, that last cut out moon, that last letter of the alphabet…I thank you needle one, I thank you boring Edna next to me…without you…I am a limp needle.…

I voted for the quilt least likely to get stained during really wet sex. What can you do? I am an enigma. I am a perv ensconced in quilts. Combine a quilt and sex show and I could headline. I would wear a quilted thong. And the blue hairs would cheer until their teeth fell out. Believe it.

Next up? Birthday party. This is where it could get weepy. Not a surprise for all those following the week kneed faggot that is myself.

My son. What a boy. It is hard, even for someone like me, who thinks absolutely in words now, to describe the difference in Hudson from the time we arrived here in Onemana eight weeks ago, to now, four days before we leave. This is a boy, upon arriving in the driveway, was greeted by Carol, our talkative neighbour, and preceded to hide his face behind his tiny palms and sit behind my calves until she left. Now, at this party of over 40 kids, ranging in age from 2 months to 8 years, he got up and danced with the other select brave few, and smiled a thousand watts like his name was being engraved in a star on the Hollywood walk of fame. His shyness is gone. His oppressive timid, submissive, flighty. flaky waves of torment have dissipated like smoke in a windstorm. He is a shiny, talkative, polite, beautiful blonde boy of three, who looks and acts like he is five.

He stands up in a group and the clouds break to let the sun shine down on him.





It has so much to do with the mother he has been blessed with.




If he were a rock in a rock bed he would be spackled in gold.

If he were a convict, the warden would lock him solitary out of instinct, fearing his glow would instill too much hope in the rest of prisoners.

He is the fifty-cent piece in the chocolate money cake.

He is sweet, and friendly, and polite and giving and pushes back sometimes when he gets pushed, and bounces around like a omnipotent super ball and then hugs my leg just for being the dad that watches instead of eating chips. And I love chips.

We left at five. All of us sighing when we pulled away from the little community centre where the party was held.

Last stop…Carol and John’s for dinner. Anthony was there and he specifically wanted his mother to return the dinner party favour and have us over. We agreed and went over around six, about fifteen minutes after arriving home from the birthday party. Carol greeted us at the door with a dramatic hello, like we just got back from the jungles of Africa, when we really we just crossed the street. She led us into the nicely decorated living room and sat us down. Anthony was in the kitchen, pulling the apps together with his flimsy wrists. John, if I am not mistaken, was taking a shit.

Within seconds Anthony was suckered in to building a tall tall tower with Hud and the Lego we brought over, Stephanie was milling about in the kitchen with Carol and I was left to talk to John, who was wearing Ugs and now sitting across from me in a lazy boy, nice and relaxed after his poorly timed bowel movement.

Now I like John. He is big and burly and simple and so fucking deaf I am pretty sure a train could pile through his house when his back is turned and he would just wonder how the tracks got there. I conceded to listen to John early on in our relationship because I have heard Carol talk and I am sure this grey crew cut man never gets the chance to talk for longer than ten seconds. So I did the right thing and let him roll his tongue like a telemarketer until he was done and was ready to listen to a couple of cents of myself. It was great for about five minutes, before the dominator Carol sat down and infiltrated John and I’s interaction with her salty crestfallen tale of her father’s eerie demise. It seems he was able to predict his own death, telling his son, phoning his neighbour mere moments before his cheque was cashed. Good story sure….for a campfire….At a dinner party it left us all with the uncomfortable pause of trying to share our own tales of incredible depression. I almost burst in with the time I slept in the back room of laundry mat before deciding that was just too damn cheery. Suck it up Carol…you are almost sixty…Parents die….get over it….

No offense Scott, Lorraine..Et al.

8:30pm we left. They gave us a nice helicopter photo of Onemana and we gave Carol a $20 gift certificate for the craft store. I drank pretty much a bottle and a half of wine. The half bottle a really good Chardonnay from Hawke’s Bay where we are headed. The full bottle a Pinot Noir from the same vineyard coincidentally.

Anthony was great with Hud the entire night. He is gay. We are so sure.

We will talk about it tomorrow night at Sandy and Ross’ I am also sure.

Then it’s Tuesday at Sheridan and Brendan’s and then Wednesday at the Germans.

I can’t wait to see her leaky boobies.

Love to all,

J.

posted by Jason @ 3:27 AM