house. He is thrilled, and promises to bring wine, knowing that as delicious as almost everything is at my folks’ house, they drink wine so awful that it is impossible to choke down. They buy it in large unlabeled gallon jugs. I believe it is Polish in origin, those famous wine-making people, and the grape varietal seems to be a blend of concord and petrol. It is simultaneously horrifically sweet and yet has an astringency that sucks all the saliva out of your mouth.He arrives with an excited Dumpling, a bottle of Bordeaux, and an endless series of charming stories about his recent stay in Philadelphia.
“So the young man playing Bosie, Oscar’s lover, comes onstage dressed in Victorian underwear and in the back of the house one of the women in the audience says, ‘Damn, baby!’ as loud as anything.”
My mother laughs, and my dad slips pieces of meat filling from his pelmeni to Dumpling, who rests at his feet under the table.
“Right out loud?” my dad says. “So rute.”
“It was pretty funny actually. And better than the night before.” Barry is in his element, telling funny stories to people who think his life is endlessly glamorous.
“Vat happent night before?” my mom asks, rapt.
“Well, there is a very quiet scene when Oscar knows that he is going to jail. Very poignant, very sad. And a gentleman in the front row, well, he just …” Barry looks at me for approval to continue, having already shared the event with me the evening it occurred. I nod.
Barry pauses dramatically. “He passed wind. Very loudly. Twice.”
Both of my parents convulse in laughter, wiping tears. Fart jokes transcend all cultural differences and language barriers. But Barry is not done.
“And a minute later, up on stage, we could
smell
it. And it was
awful
. You could practically
taste
it. And you could just see everyone onstage as the smell would get to them, I mean it was
so obvious
, they would start to walk away, like it was
chasing
them, and then we all started trying not to laugh.”
My dad is smacking the table with his hand, and mymother is wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron. Barry is leaning back in his chair, puffed and proud. Dumpling wanders over to lick my ankle, and I think that whatever else goes on in this crazy life of mine, it is a good life. A very good life indeed.
5
Dear Alana—
So let’s get the excuses out of the way in terms of my waiting so long to answer your questions—consumed by work, lost track of time, loathe to actually subscribe, inside knowledge of the freebie-weekends schedule, fill in the blank. What’s wrong with being a remora on the great white EDestiny shark, I ask you? By the way, nothing like having someone who is obviously a very good writer compliment one’s writing to brighten the day. Considering that I was born and educated in Tennessee, I exponentially thank you. Oscar Wilde, gougères, and Burgundy—what are the odds? Obviously you are some sort of goddess … or siren. Once you work through that Bears problem, you might want to sell shares in you. Let’s not overlook that, being from the South, I know a little bit about hoops and piecrust. I think I just wrote a Nashville hit. And you had me at
pamplemousse
. What do you say we consider being grown-ups and cut the EDestiny apron strings? You can reach me at [email protected] .
Hope to hear from you again soon.
RJ
I’m glad he acknowledged the near month that had passed between my reaching out and his reaching back, and evengladder to know that he too was not paying EDestiny any money. And he continues to be witty and smart. Baffling. Now I am quite certain that he must be covered in warts and smell of old cabbages. Or is entrenched in a marriage he will never be free of. Probably both.
But that doesn’t prevent me from replying.
RJ—
I too tend to only pay attention to the freebie weekends at ED, and have been pretty busy myself, so your radio silence is understandable. And I’m a fan of
“So the young man playing Bosie, Oscar’s lover, comes onstage dressed in Victorian underwear and in the back of the house one of the women in the audience says, ‘Damn, baby!’ as loud as anything.”
My mother laughs, and my dad slips pieces of meat filling from his pelmeni to Dumpling, who rests at his feet under the table.
“Right out loud?” my dad says. “So rute.”
“It was pretty funny actually. And better than the night before.” Barry is in his element, telling funny stories to people who think his life is endlessly glamorous.
“Vat happent night before?” my mom asks, rapt.
“Well, there is a very quiet scene when Oscar knows that he is going to jail. Very poignant, very sad. And a gentleman in the front row, well, he just …” Barry looks at me for approval to continue, having already shared the event with me the evening it occurred. I nod.
Barry pauses dramatically. “He passed wind. Very loudly. Twice.”
Both of my parents convulse in laughter, wiping tears. Fart jokes transcend all cultural differences and language barriers. But Barry is not done.
“And a minute later, up on stage, we could
smell
it. And it was
awful
. You could practically
taste
it. And you could just see everyone onstage as the smell would get to them, I mean it was
so obvious
, they would start to walk away, like it was
chasing
them, and then we all started trying not to laugh.”
My dad is smacking the table with his hand, and mymother is wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron. Barry is leaning back in his chair, puffed and proud. Dumpling wanders over to lick my ankle, and I think that whatever else goes on in this crazy life of mine, it is a good life. A very good life indeed.
5
Dear Alana—
So let’s get the excuses out of the way in terms of my waiting so long to answer your questions—consumed by work, lost track of time, loathe to actually subscribe, inside knowledge of the freebie-weekends schedule, fill in the blank. What’s wrong with being a remora on the great white EDestiny shark, I ask you? By the way, nothing like having someone who is obviously a very good writer compliment one’s writing to brighten the day. Considering that I was born and educated in Tennessee, I exponentially thank you. Oscar Wilde, gougères, and Burgundy—what are the odds? Obviously you are some sort of goddess … or siren. Once you work through that Bears problem, you might want to sell shares in you. Let’s not overlook that, being from the South, I know a little bit about hoops and piecrust. I think I just wrote a Nashville hit. And you had me at
pamplemousse
. What do you say we consider being grown-ups and cut the EDestiny apron strings? You can reach me at [email protected] .
Hope to hear from you again soon.
RJ
I’m glad he acknowledged the near month that had passed between my reaching out and his reaching back, and evengladder to know that he too was not paying EDestiny any money. And he continues to be witty and smart. Baffling. Now I am quite certain that he must be covered in warts and smell of old cabbages. Or is entrenched in a marriage he will never be free of. Probably both.
But that doesn’t prevent me from replying.
RJ—
I too tend to only pay attention to the freebie weekends at ED, and have been pretty busy myself, so your radio silence is understandable. And I’m a fan of
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