Suzy Says

Despite the many Elvis sightings at IHOPS, Denny’s, and other grease palaces across this great country, I personally have always been convinced that the King really is dead. The main evidence in support of this theory has to be that Elvis did not appear to stop his only child’s wedding to the greatest living freak on the planet. I cannot believe that the preacher saying, “Does anyone know of any just cause or impediment why Lisa Marie and Michael should not be joined in holy matrimony” did not produce a gun-wielding Elvis if he was still alive (even if he had to stop and fuel up at Dunkin’ Donuts before the ceremony).

For those of you who still think the King might walk the earth, I offer this news item, courtesy of Rufus, whose eye for the bizarre is always unerring.

I still have the mystery illness, which has the effect of making me feel stoned all the time (but not in a good way) and has removed any vestiges of energy and ambition. On the bright side, it has given me time to read, think deep thoughts, and watch all five parts of “Wives and Daughters” while barely stirring from my cat-festooned bed.

One of the books which has whiled away the hours most entertainingly is Adam Gopnik’s “Paris to the Moon”. Gopnik transplanted his wife and son from New York to Paris, and the book is a sparkling memoir of their Parisian days.

Soon after their move, the Gopniks started looking for a gym in their neighborhood. It took some looking, because Parisians prefer to take their exercise in shopping form rather than gym form, but eventually, they located one that was under construction, but nearly completed.

The proprietress had the Gopniks fill out many forms — fondness for forms and bureaucracy is as French as croissants, and the more convoluted and unnecessary, the better — and finally tells the couple the fee for coming to the gym as often as once a week. “As often as once a week.” That’s the most they have imagined anyone would ever want to go to a gym. When the Gopniks ask how much it would be to come three or four times a week, the staff is thrown into a state of confusion. After much consultation, they come up with a price and tell the Gopniks that the machines should be in place by next week.

The following week, they go to the gym only to be told that the machines aren’t yet installed, but they will be, very soon. And to make up for the inconvenience, they are given, by the gym manager…a box of chocolate truffles.

Now, that’s what’s wrong with American gyms. Too many machines, and not enough truffles. The French might be on to something, though. When Rufus and I were in Paris at Christmas, I joyfully ate croissants and pastry and drank champagne and countless other diet no-no’s (and no gym), but actually and visibly lost weight. Yet I can’t explain the Paris Paradox. How does eating French food in France make you thinner, while eating salads with diet dressing in the USA make you stay the same size (or gain weight)? I am going on a field trip to France to find out as soon as I get rid of this flu.

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Yesterday I stopped off at Real Foods market on my way home for some unnecessaries like strawberries, asparagus, and pistachios. While waiting in the interminably long check out line (I must have wanted those strawberries *really* bad) I noticed a baby sitting in one of the shopping carts. Nothing remarkable about that fact in and of itself (though said baby did have remarkably pudgy red cheeks, with little crab-like blue eyes perched on the pillowy fatness), except for one thing. His hair had Brylcreem or some other kind of styling aid in it. Noticeably. In fact, he had a Prince Charles ‘do, parted on the side and then Brylcreemed into submission.

I’m not good at guessing the age of babies, but I’d say this one was at the point where he could walk, but couldn’t hold up his end of a conversation. Surely a guy should at least be able to put together a sentence before he starts styling his hair (or having it styled for him). However, that does not explain George Bush, whose hair is definitely styled, but who still can’t compose a sentence. His walking skills are better than Gerald Ford’s, though, and possibly even better than the Brylcreem baby, I’ll give him that.

Justice at last! May those little girls finally rest in peace.

So I now have Rufus’ cold/bug/flu thing. We hardly ever catch each other’s colds, but of course I had to get *this* one, when it’s so busy at work that I can’t take the day off. I am: chilled, yet sweating; nauseated; have a sore throat and my nose is running like a tap. Ugh. I’m grossing myself out. Rufus is at home asleep and I am at work. What’s wrong with this picture?

In addition to the unlovely disease and its undelightful symptoms, I felt so shitty last night that I hardly got any sleep, so am a total zombie. Good thing I’m not driving or operating heavy machinery. If I can get home in one piece I’ll be lucky.

On my way to work this morning, I walked past our old apartment building. I was ridiculously pleased to see that our former next door neighbor is still displaying elaborately dressed mannequins in his apartment window, all lit up for the viewing pleasure of passers-by. Today’s theme was Hawaiian, with vintage sarongs, leis, umbrella drinks, the works. Nothing like a dash of humor and style to brighten up the day, even when hordes of germs are partying uninvited in your bod.

My tax dollars at work!

Rufus has a cold/flu and stayed home this morning. It was so hard to leave the house, since he and all four of the cats were all curled up, happily sleeping.

It was very early and the sky was still deep blue. I was walking East, and Venus was the diamond solitaire this morning, the only star in the sky. I passed Grace Cathedral, which I always think of as the ce-ment church (pronounced like the Beverly Hillbillies) since it’s…made of cement to look like Notre Dame and is no older than I am, and the Flood mansion, which is now a private club. At the crest of California Street, I could see the Bay Bridge, still lit up, between the tall buildings, and just a peek of Bay.

Yesterday, I walked home up Vallejo Street — and I do mean up. The sidewalk slants ever upward and finally gives up and becomes stairways for several blocks. From each turn in the stairway, you get a different view of the Bay, and most of the stairs cut through gardens, thoughtfully provided with benches so you can catch your breath. If I had had anyone to talk to, I would have sounded more breathless than Marilyn Monroe.

Etched into the pavement on Columbus Street: Mr. Fong Goes To Lunch. Now *that* would be a great blog name!

Hey, J-P, Mind your own business! Can’t believe the Pope feels he has the right to interfere in our business. Also, couldn’t he have chosen a more worthy cause than Timothy “No Regrets” McVeigh? His Holiness also appears to be unaware of the fact that Dictator Bush used to run the killingest state in the Union, where he failed to commute even one death sentence. And even if our appointed leader wanted to commute the sentence, he couldn’t, since Timmy failed to file an appeal. Maybe the pontificating Pontiff should check his facts before putting his two liras’ worth in. What’s that, Lassie? Timmy’s going to Hell?

Now I keep hearing that Velvet Underground song in my head. Had my ritual morning coffee up on the roof deck this morning. I only have one cup a day, but I am no less addicted for that!

I trace my coffee addiction to a summer I spent in Nice at the impressionable age of 17, when my hosts taught me to drink black coffee and pick dewy strawberries from their garden for breakfast. I didn’t pick the strawberries myself today, but just as I did on those long-ago summer mornings, I had black coffee and strawberries. But instead of sitting on a patio with the ancient city of Nice spread out below me, I was on our roof deck, bare feet on sun-warmed wood, watching the white sails that dot San Francisco Bay and seeing the twinkle of traffic crossing the Golden Gate Bridge.

It’s surprisingly tranquil up there on a Sunday morning, even though my apartment building is surrounded by other buildings. But there is the blue water of the Bay and the hidden gardens that can’t be seen from the street. Hummingbirds dart around the flowers and butterflies flutter past. And one of the great joys of the city: the wild parrots fly over, making their raucous noises and clattering their green and red wings. These parrots are supposed to be descendants of a pair that escaped their cages many years ago. I don’t know if that’s true, but their call is as much the sound of home to me as the deep voiced fog horns or the bright ring of the cable cars.

Daydreaming about going to cooking school somewhere really fun, like Europe. And not stuffy Cordon Bleu in Paris, either. I’d love to go La Combe en Perigord, where the cooking school is in an 18th century French chateau. (Sorry, but I don’t know how to put French accents in here!) Or spend a week with Lorenza de’Medici at her family’s ancient estate in Tuscany, dating from the 11th century, hoping that the family predilection for poison and mayhem has disappeared over the years. Maybe I’ll just call up Tante Marie’s and see what classes there are here this summer. But I’ll still daydream.

Remember those cops who shot unarmed African immigrant Amadou Diallo 41 times and became the subject of an infamous Springsteen song a couple of years ago? Well, they are just getting a slap on the wrist. Basically, the New York Police Department has decided to send them to charm school rather than charging them with anything (like, I don’t know…killing the guy?) or disciplining them another way. Let’s hope they learn to actually take suspects into custody and question them instead of killing them at their homes, no questions asked.

Even with the current economic bust, this is still an absurdly expensive place to live. But I can’t imagine living anywhere else…which is probably why it’s still so expensive, since most San Franciscans presumably feel the same way. Glad I’m not moving here now! Yikes!

Every day gets to be a long time ago, even today.

Thank God.

As Rufus and I were walking past the funeral home on our way to work early this morning, a guy came out dressed in a surgeon-type smock and pants, removing his rubber gloves. Taking a smoke break after an embalming, I guess…

Came across this gem in Jan Bondeson’s “Buied Alive”, a work of horror and elegance (slightly paraphrased from the original):

Francois de Civille, said to be thrice declared dead and as many times rescued from the tomb, was born by a Caesarean section to a dead mother exhumed from her coffin. He became an army captain, and was severely wounded at the siege of Rouen in 1563. He was buried alive in a common grave on the battlefield. His servant, who wanted to dig his master a more fitting grave, discovered that he was not dead. While de Civille was recovering, a troop of enemy soldiers burst into the house where he was staying and threw him into a dung heap (!), where he remained buried for three days until he was dug out and nursed back to health. According to a gravestone in Milan, Francois de Civille was finally buried in that city. He had died at the age of 105, from a chill contracted “while serenading the lady of his heart all night long.”

So I had a talk with the new Big Boss. BB is the boss my boss reports to — the boss de la boss. He’s a new guy and supposedly the point of the talk was for him to get to know me. I bet the only thing he can tell you about me is my name, because he did all the talking, and it was all about him. For some reason, he was trying to impress me with his personal wealth, as if he were trying to pick me up in a bar, not that he was flirting in the slightest. Too busy chomping Nicorette in a vain attempt to quit smoking. It’s disturbing to see your new boss furtively spitting little wads of gum into their original plastic capsules while telling you about the vacation home he’s buying in Scottsdale.

I love this cartoon !

And you thought the Prince and Princess were the worst bickering to come out of Wales. According to salon.com,Donny Osmond recently told a Welsh newspaper that his family has traced its roots to Wales. “I don’t know a lot about Wales,” he said. “But from what I hear the Welsh are pretty good singers and everybody says that’s where we get it from.” But one local griped to the U.K. Sun, “The Welsh have had enough bad publicity … without being blamed for the Osmonds too.”

Here’s my horoscope for today:

Let others make the demands and draw the attention. Just keep track of the money trail and the bottom line.

Here’s my mother’s:

Your social life may be curtailed due to financial constraints. It’ll be good for you to practice deferring gratification. You’ll grow up to be wealthier.

Jerk Boy called ma yesterday and confirmed that he is in Canada and he isn’t coming back. It seems that our earlier hypothesis was correct: the thought of having to pay my mother half his pitiful salary for the rest of her life just blew a circuit in his pea-sized brain. He said, “I’m not paying you that blood money.” Ma pointed out the dire consequences of his actions, but it just didn’t seem to get through to him. Maybe he’ll figure it out when the military police show up on his doorstep. Or when he becomes his cellmate’s girlfriend. Or when he goes to apply for a job and has to explain what he’s been doing for the past 10 years. Or how he got that prison record.