The Conformist, The Leopard, The Edukators, The Asphalt Jungle, and La Notte have sat on the DVD player, unopened, for the entire month of December.
Someone has flipped absentmindedly through the first 20-or-so pages each of Stanley Cavell, Pauline Kael, Virginia Satir, Michael Chabon, James Baldwin, and Peter Singer—and have abandoned them, one by one, in a pile by the foot of the bed. Peter Singer has since been chewed on by a bored biit.
An Epoisse and a piece of Grès de Vosges ooze next to the moldering table grapes in the fridge. The glorious washed-rind stink has been replaced by reek and putrefaction.
Rolls of film, which contain shots of autumn foliage and family snapshots at Thanksgiving, remain in their canisters undeveloped.
The voicemail mailbox is full: “Hey, I think it might be easier to get a hold of the pope at Christmas. I give up! Call me back!!!”
But the biits know a fake when they see one. Because their real mommy wouldn’t come home at 3 or 4 a.m., pass out on the floor and forget to feed them. Their real mommy wouldn’t come home with vegetables from Food Emporium.
Whoever this feebleminded imposter is—the one lolling around in bed all day obsessing over some guy—better snap out of it or she’s going to get her ass kicked.
As for the real Chiik? Let’s hope we’ll find her (and some perspective) in an impromptu trip to Barcelona next weekend.
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