For Posterity

Don't worry my darling SA, I anonymized it ... just didn't want to lose it to the Internet ether, and wanted to share so that others know how brilliant you are!

If you are reading this for the first time, imagine that it's the week before Inauguration (20th January) and you get an Evite with these charming verses:

Twas the day after the Inauguration and all through
the city
Not a liberal was sober, not even P. Diddy.
The vodka bottles were empty, thrown around
without hesitation,
In hopes that John Kerry would magically refund
our donations.

The inconsolable were nestled all snug on the tile
floor,
With visions of tequila shots making them snore.
And what-was-his-name in his underwear, and I in
a bit less,
Had just settled down amongst all of this mess.

When out of my window there arose such a clatter,
I stumbled from my Ikea bed to see what was the
matter.
Away to the window I crawled past a champagne
glass,
Pushed open the window and lit my spare hash.

The sun shined off the dumpster six floors below,
And gave me a glimpse of rats eating leftover snow.
When, what to my eyes should appear after last
nights bender,
But a lost motorcade and eight presidential
contenders.

With a little old driver, so blitzed and looking quite
sick,
I knew in a moment it must be Senator Kennedys
sidekick.
As wrecked as a California hillside they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by
name;

"Now, Clealand! Now, Dorgan! Now Harkin, and
Wyden!
On, Boxer! On Clinton On, Obama and Byden!
To the top of the building! Near the satellite dish!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away tout suite!

As I rubbed my eyes to understand this event,
I thought how this might discount my rent.
So up to the roof somehow they flew,
With a trunk full of booze, and John Kerry too.

And then, I heard their chatter up above,
And I feared that someone might give Hillary a
shove.
As I took another drag, I managed to turn around,
And through my front door, John Kerry came in
with a bound.

He was doused with French cologne, I could tell
from the start,
And his couture was all tarnished and stained by
Pizza Mart.
A handle of vodka he hid in his Dior knapsack,
Made him look like a mendicant savoring a six-
pack.

His eyes -- how frazzled! But his wrinkles were
disappearing,
Which made me want to ask if he might be
botoxing?
The cigarette hanging out of his mouth was all
aglow,
And the stubble on his chin was as dark as old,
grey snow.

He looked exhausted; I worried about his health,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of my drunk
self;
As he opened the Grey Goose with the twist of his
hand,
I knew Id soon be drunkenly returned to dreamland;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And after filling all the empty glasses; he turned
with a jerk,
And what can only be deemed quid pro quo,
John Kerry took the last of Dubya's leftover blow.

He sprang to his limo, to his posse gave a whistle,
And away they all drove as quick as an Iraqi
insurgents missile.
But I heard him exclaim, as he drove out of sight,
"Come to SA's birthday and start the next four
years right!!

(I think that "Dash Away Tout Suite!" might be our generation's rallying cry ... especially whent he draft starts).

Musing, and missing

A lovely afternoon at SA's mountain aerie -- first pb & j (& b! who knew!) and then he was so generous as to let me watch the football -- Liverpool v Southampton, at St Mary's. Then we watched some SITC, as is de rigeur for an afternoon with SA, and then I had a lovely little interlude with Mademoiselle L, and then it was up 18th St for a Tryst/DCAC rendezvous with the artistic side of my brain, and others'.

A few days ago, I was somewhere, and damn my eyes, I can't remember where, and it smelt, for the briefest of instants, like London. Now I am well acquainted with phantom scents -- downtown, in the pit of summer, melting asphalt mixing with the exhaust fumes of thousands of inadequately upkept city buses and taxis, the air lying low and heavy, pregnant with rain -- that scent is a dead ringer for Santo Domingo. I've gotten used to that one. There were even a few times in London that it smelt like Sto Dgo -- or maybe it was more that the London skyscape echoed its fellow capital to the south -- bare bright blue, strong clouds edging round. However, I had yet to encounter a phantom-London smell. Anywhere. Yet here it was, on some anonymous street corner in DC. And I'll try to describe it, but it's a bit like looking at a star -- you can't look directly at it, you have to look to the side, sniff around a bit, get a sense of the boundaries of it.

It's a wet scent, but not the wet of Rock Creek after torrential rainfall, not the wet of bark and leaves soaked through and through. It's the wetness of granite that's been rained upon for centuries mixed with the wetness of the river, the salty riparian waves and the fresh raindrops mixing together. Throw into the alchemy the exhaust of all those bloody cabs, Black and mini, the buses, the cars -- congestion charging be damned -- and the refridgerated mayonnaise air coming from the Tube vents, and don't forget about the cigarette smoke that hangs around all the time, just over our heads. The London smell has a bit of a bite to it as well, it's not chewy, it's not tangy -- it's a clean snap of the jaws, in your nose. Pavement's got a bit to do in there, as well, and grass, and tile -- those gorgeous centenarian dark green tiles in Regents Park Tube and the bright white tiles and futuristic steel of Canary Wharf. A quintessential urban smell -- not the smoky chemical deepness of an industrial scent, not the warm ripe fecundity of a rural scent, and not like New York City, where you smell the people more than the place. London.

I wonder if it will come again and visit me. I made the mistake of looking at TimeOut online -- oops. I lost about two hours in melancholy. I've been reading this lovely site all week and been fine -- even fantasizing about writing for their football page -- but clearly I'm going to have to make TimeOut off-limits. I don't miss it as much as I used to, or something -- scar tissue over the gaping wound of my heart, etc -- but then I'll get a little glimpse and I'm back in the maelstrom, missing Brixton Brixton Brixton, missing the bridges, the Oxo Tower, the pelicans in St James Park, walking in the hordes on Oxford Street ... I 'll stop.

The Reds lost to the Saints, two-nil. We're still fifth, but barely. Apart from the total crap of losing to Soton, even if they started Jamie Redknapp, cheeky popstar-marry-er that he is -- apart from that is the awful fact that Everton is on top of us in the table, in fourth. Everton. The irony of this -- the sheer bloody bollixsieness of it -- is lost on nearly everyone reading this page, so I won't harp on.

EVERTON?!?!?!

In other news, G downstairs has safely returned from his long weekend in Paris with his amour -- and he even brought me a choccie from Heathrow! A Yorkie -- It's Not For Girls. Brilliant.

Curioser and curioser

Another similarity between work and footy: the utter specificity of the moment and the consequent blurring together in memory. I can no better remember an amazing game in its entirety than I can remember everything that happens during a shift, even if it is exceptionally good (=lovely tables, not too busy, good tips) or exceptionally bad (=everyone in a foul mood, unhappy with their food even though it's gorgeous, no respite, and crap money). Sure, moments stick out: Rooney's brilliant backpass to Beckham in the England v Turkey game, Spring of 2003, or Pat Carroll's woeful mishandling of the ball in last weeks Man Utd v Spurs match (Spurs were ROBBED!); the guy that was all pissy we wouldn't let him stick tables together, or the couple that waited for an hour and never complained once, etc etc. And when you are in it -- in the work or in the experience of watching the game, you are completely absorbed, all of your sensory and intellectual needs are being challenged. Then, the minute you leave it, it vanishes except for the extraordinary bits.

I don't imagine everyone is like this -- I frequently had the experience of watching a match with Dan in the Hobgoblin (sweet sweet Brixton!) and then listening to him on the phone with his mates shortly afterwards, describing the game, and having the odd sensation that we had watched two completely different matches, so complex was his analysis. See also Fever Pitch, in which Mr Hornby manages to re-live (and intelligently comment on) matches from thrity-odd years ago as if they had been permanently seared into his brain.

It's still like watching Shakespeare, for me, football is: it takes me a long time to get inside, past the passive shell, and even when I sense I'm in it, flowing along, there are still universes unfolding, entire subplots and passes and fields of play evolving of which I am not even slightly aware, so wrapped up am I in what's immediately before me. A bit like the forest for the trees, I suppose: and I just haven't yet learned how to see both. I can see the forest, or I can see the trees, but it'll be some time before I can intelligently comment on tactics and strategy, how different substitutions will affect the flow of play, or even note (eeep!) who is playing on which side. Yay for wanting to learn things. Oh heavens, somebody get me a job and stop me spouting this crap.