Tag Archives: Dollhouse fevers

Woman Of Her Word, Brassiere Intact

woman-word
Woman Of Her Word
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Date: Sun, 30 Mar 1997 17:16:27 -0500

Hey Gabriel, I'm glad you got the package, ahem, brassiere intact. I was a bit concerned which prompted the double-envelope. Yes, I am ready to walk the line, make the call, or whatever other analogy we could think up to read the Dollhouse Fevers and the Six Day War I've heard so much about. So send it on. I'm not regularly on my email here at home as I spend way too much time on the computer at work and I don't like the idea of my personal email being the property of a corporate thug. So it may take me some time to answer and read emails.

I had a bit of an indulgence this weekend which I must say I still suffer the malaise from. I'm not supposed to drink because of my illness, however, Friday I went out to play a few games of pool, which turned into four drinks, which later graced the platforms of two noble subway stations on my way home. Pink the color of choice. Cape Cods will do it every time. I renew my yearly vow of never again.

Please give me Tim's address and /or phone number when it becomes available and encourage him to drop me a line. I better run. The computer screen is making me queasy (two days later). Love to Sue. Take care, Kari

Sure Kari, here they fly girl! It's been about a month now since I completed the last one (day 3), busy as I've been on my web site. I don't expect the next installment will get written within the next week, but chances are I may very well do so just to spite myself.

Sue's down in Georgia visiting the folks. Things are really quiet at night, and I'm just today beginning to truly miss her, so that's a five day pseudo bachelor brawl I'm talking about. Yeah right...five days of routine without baby does not a wild weekend make. Swatted a few at the batting cage last Saturday night with Steve, guzzled more than a few beers before and afterwards, but woke Sunday feeling decent enough to stay sober that day, so I've only had one slip since Sue tore out of here last Friday, but that's about par. Relaxing in the Sunday sun the day before packs of plucky April fools hit the bars around this painful city is a rare but welcomed challenge to this fully opinionated workaholic.

Your bra's on the wall facing the sun...

GT

Ping Ping Ping

death-cult
Death Cult by Gabriel Thy
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Orginally published on February 26, 1997

Yes, it's official! Actually sometime early last week I got my rejection notice from City Paper stating both the editing and design jobs had been filled but please try again in the future. By the way, I really appreciated your comments the other day about the Dollhouse Fevers serial. That rather dry response I muscled out did not really indicate the true boost to my spirits your encouraging words sparked. To the point, I've noticed an ample loss in energy that obviously relates to your comments...

"Boy, I am really enjoying this. I know it is the telling of a true trauma tale of friendship gained and lost, but as a piece of writing it is absolutely wonderful. I await Day 3."

...in that after writing on the topic I collapse, physically drained, numb in body and spirit. Surely a strong indication of the intensely personal nature of the writing, knowing that those persons being profiled no doubt will read the very words which could only drive the wedge between us even deeper than the events discussed.

Trust things are have gelled on the homefront. While visiting with Steve this weekend at his local watering hole in Philadelphia, he blurted out that he had been carrying on this secret E-mail campaign with you. I suspected as much, Landry. That was as far as the revelation went, but it followed on the heels of his patented rata-tat-tat speedwhiz monologue which on this occasion was employed to explain that he wasn't addicted to alcohol, oh no, but that he was addicted to irresponsibility.

Ping ping ping—the roll call of topics zing past faster than even a sober mind can retain—without rhyme or reason—ping ping ping—life has a way of explaining itself under the influences of irresponsibility. But enough of all that. While writing this I've been watching Ricki Lake gushing at the surprise baby shower thrown in her honor, hosted by Joan Lunden. John Waters was there, gifts and videoconferenced goo goo, all near and dear to you, I'd presume...

GT

Where Are You Sleeping?

bird-collector
The Bird Collector
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Orginally published on February 22, 1997

I sent this to Steve earlier this morning. Just to tide you over until I can focus on DAY 2 of the Fevers...

In other words, what is your current address? All I've got is those Taft Street digits. This morning early, after waking up in a fit of harrumph from an intrusive dream starring the "bar none kidz" Tim & Jennifer, yes, after listening to them prattle on about how much they didn't appreciate this and that about how badly I treated them last month...of course Jennifer was doing most of the squawking while bringing out the PERQUACKY gameboard she wanted to engage with Tim, while strong silent type Tim was in the kitchen elbowing Sue in helping himself to the coffeemaker, and suddenly I realized I had a hard-on, typical morning wakeup dream, and my nemesis because all the women I had ever known were slow risers or late sleepers who had to rush off to the office and preferred late night delights when I was too tired to make the effort...

I've been busy since early in the wee scratching out postcards, lovely postcards I threw together a couple of years ago on heavy stock with various old and contemporary photos of me, and of me and the Suzy, all embossed with typical GT crytic title. Sent my dad a batch back then but I was told he never received them. Thought I'd send you one since I'd already addressed and stamped a batch, knowing you'd probably appreciate the younger Mohican Gabriel. It would be a shame that you've never had a sleeping chance to get a good laugh of me in the Eighties.

Reality is indeed a wicked business, full of overloads, overlords, and understudies. Marsh grasses, foggy bottoms, and tricks of the trade. But even in the beer leagues one plays to win.
Back to the dream. The "bar none kidz" had arrived at the back door together wanting to make amends, which in their vernacular, was to point out my unprovoked rudeness. At one point Jennifer blurted out that she wanted the money she had spent on me returned, uh, she bought me a hamburger at Ruby Tuesday's on Monday's field trip to the shopping Mall (oops, that part of the story hasn't been written in blood yet!), and she came bearing a bottle of champagne the Saturday she arrived, but that pretty much sums up to the penny (well, gasoline to drive down) the whole of Jennifer's financial support in 12 years of Dollhouse maneuvers. I told her to forget it, no way, no mula. How about her share in the $500 bucks we plunked down for limo, booze, and food when she was here?

She backed off with the wince of an Ellis Island immigrant. Uh, geez, and I thought she knew how to make an argument. At one point I grabbed her in a bear hug, and walked her upright to the backdoor, but as soon as she was free she rocketed off on how she didn't appreciate being manhandled that way, and besides she hadn't played her game yet. In my drippiest sarcasm I mock the easily offended sensibilities of a woman scouring the AOL gutters as a submissive painseeking thrill artist while shoving this big fat lie of forever love up the nose of somebody she has known way too long to shaft like this. Meanwhile Tim is grumbling in the kitchen in his best Rodney King, "Can't we just get along" reasoning. I had finally had enough. I go beserk, trumpeting all arms akimbo:

"Wait a damn minute. I tossed both of you out of here, and I haven't invited either of you back and from the general sniff of things nor do I intend to, and yet here you are, making yourselves quite at home. Tim, get OUT of my kitchen! Jennifer, PUT that board down. It's not even mine. It's Steve's..."

That's about the gist of it. I grabbed her up again and was making my way to the backdoor since she had once again adopted the diningroom table as her podium, before I woke from the sofa, and noticed my hard-on was gone. Sharing this whole cinematic reel du force with Sue just a few minutes ago, with the summation that as boring as the dream sequence was, unfortunately, there's not much distortion in that version from what we both imagine, knowing them as symptomatically as we do, in how Tim and Jennifer could waltz in proud as peacocks to the beat of their own hummer humming six weeks, six months, six years from now...

I allow myself to feel a slight remorse that I pushed the envelope of no return by taking a stick to old friends, but like your own proverbial red-face, it flushes and soon passes. Reality is indeed a wicked business, full of overloads, overlords, and understudies. Marsh grasses, foggy bottoms, and tricks of the trade. But even in the beer leagues one plays to win.

Guess Day 2 of the Six Day fever is overdue, but to borrow a phrase, I'm playing it by ear, having too much fun tweaking the nipple on my Macintosh laptop, my Destouches dream dancer...

GT