Not Away

A few days ago, I got all mysterioso on you, saying I would be somewhere else until further notice. However, in all the hubbub of leaving there and returning to my beloved homeland, I neglected to give you that notice, so you probably, until now, thought I was still on that island (Prince Edward) and not on this one (Manhattan). I am sorry if you waited up, only to have me crawl in through a basement window and creep along the walls until I made my way to my private chambers, where I slithered between sateen sheets and pretended to sleep as if I’d been there all night.
I am home, and have been since Wednesday night, so you can stop fretting that my saying “until further notice” was an indication that I was on a sabbatical from New York and all the thrills, chills, and spills it affords me on a daily basis. There is indeed no place like home, and Prince Edward Island was no exception. While there I was subjected to activities that I never would have chosen on my own, which is why I had a friend to choose them for me. How he is still afforded that title after taking me to a ceidleh (pronounced “KAY-lee”) and Avonlea Village (Tip: “It’s sort of like Colonial Williamsburg” is not a selling point) is anyone’s guess.
I picked up a charming souvenir while away: a sweet little cold and accompanying melodic cough. I am not exactly feeling up to par and/or snuff and am not in the mood to upload a bunch of photos to prove that I actually had a decent time even though I was 14,000 miles from anyone with a sense of style or who knew what a Jew was without having to consult three dusty reference books and an abacus.
When I am feeling somewhat less drecky, I will delight you with photographic evidence that I managed to have fun on Prince Edward Island despite having Anne of Green Gables shoved in my face more than any fictional character should ever be allowed. For now, I will just leave you with these guys, which were one of the highlights of my excursion and can shove their faces in mine any time they want:

Irish Wolfhounds and Bonus Rough Collie from tofuju on Vimeo.
The yapping is Papillon-generated. Here you can see them for a moment, adding staccato puncutation to the Wolfhound ringleader’s sonorous greeting:

Welcome to the Doghouse from tofuju on Vimeo.
Moments after shooting these cinematic masterpieces, I went on the other side of the fence, where I continued the swooning I’d commenced immediately upon seeing these guys. To say I was in heaven is a grand understatement. All this, just days after having been surrounded by four German Shepherds and later on that same day three of the sweetest geriatric dogs on all of PEI’s good green earth.
Oh, and the human companionship was all right, too, I suppose. (But who am I kidding? I was really there for the dogs.)

0 thoughts on “Not Away

  1. Here in the wide open spaces of the midwest. where we prefer to sprawl horizontally as opposed to vertically, we aren’t prone to pedestrian bouts of egress-rage. We prefer to do most of our sniping behind closed doors at gossip parties, or if it must be public, behind a large veil of alcohol-induced inebreation splashed with a liberal dousing of bravado.
    And since all midwesterners are fat, do in no small part to our sedentary lifestyles and our penchant for deep-fried bratwurst smothered in three glorious inches of rarified cheezewhiz, we rarely take to those bizarrely extended curbs you cityfolk quaintly refer to as ‘sidewalks’. Rather, we prefer to transport our collectively behemoth posteriors hither and yon via ghastly, gas-guzzling monstrosities known en masse as ‘cars’. What this has created is a perfect venue for our animous – an armoured bully pulpit from which we can spew our vile bile out into the world.
    It is an artform in which I, as one tiny texan can attest to, all to frequently find myself engaged in. It is usually a passive process in which an ‘offender’, the person at the other end of a vitriolic serenade, inadvertantly or purposefully breaks a well-known basic law of nature, the result of which could be a cascading cataclysm of chaotic events that if left unchecked by a verbal tirade, could render the known universe asunder. Rebuking said villain often involves glares, scowls, animated mouthing of the Carlinesque seven words you can’t say on television or radio, and in extreme cases where no visible capitulation is evident, a raised middle finger salute will most often cap the festivities.

  2. This post Neil made me laugh. You are such a sweetie I could never see you saying things like this. I like this side of you, one who would defend himself in the time of need. Good for you. Miss you bunches. Miss the late night chats.
    Be well my dear friend. Know you will always be in my heart.

  3. Heee… OH MY GOD. Fuck yooooooooooooooooooooooou!! (well, not YOU, I’m just repeating.) I can’t believe men would be so rude as to start “fuck you-ing” at a woman, for something so petty as having to move their fat ass out of the way. This world, ’tis not so nice sometimes.
    PS I want you to come visit me in LA. Because people here would piss you off left and right, and they are so damned passive aggressive here. And I think it would be SO HOT to watch you go off on their passive aggressive Prius-driving-2-blocks-to-the-store asses. Yeah, baby. *Pfist pump*

  4. I always feel sorry for such rude, angry people. I always assume they were horribly abused as children or “raised” by their 12-year-old mother and 25-year-old grandmother in extreme poverty or something along those lines and they never had a chance to become a decent human being. So they don’t bother too much since I feel pity for those pathetic souls.

  5. This is so eerily similar to an encounter I had on Friday night with stupid drunk people, except that I only screamed “fuck you and the horse you rode in on!” (not that there was a horse or that I condone the fucking of said horse by humans or anything) internally. My rage was palpable, but because I had expensive photographic equipment in my hands and I was sort of desperately trying to look professional AND cute for the sake of some big Irish lug, I kept quite. Drunk, rude, and stupid people make me mad. Especially when they do things to make me almost lose my cool (and let’s face it, I’m not the Fonz, so I have to keep the little cool I have because it’s not running out my ears or oozing from every pour like it does with Fonzie).

  6. Sorry that happened to you.
    Here’s one for you: I am just recovering from knee surgery, and although am finallty without crutches, am hobbling around like an arthritic ex-rodeo clown. I have been issued a temporary handicapped tag that I hang on my rearview mirror. After shopping one day, I returned to my car, settled my packages and removed the tag because it gets in the way of my sightlines when I drive. As I was fastening my seatbelt, a scruffy young hipster approached my car and said “You stupid bitch. I hate people like you who park in handicapped spots. Can’t you see the sign? They’re for handicapped people!” I wordlessly held up my temporary tag for him to see and said “You have a nice day, too!”
    Again I ask, WTF is wrong with people?

  7. a woman on the corner of 57th and 9th hit my leg with her cane, and proceeded to scream “what is WRONG with you?” as she crossed the street (without the aid of said whipping cane).
    my care turned to disdain, almost immediately, because i usually DO care, but i turned on her as well, saying, “that’s right. i head out each day with the intention of knocking over old ladies.”
    my first insult, i think, ever.
    she told me to fuck me. i do. sometimes.
    and i thanked her for the well wishes and told her to have a nice day.
    she warned me that i’d be old one day too. i know this. i already see the gray hairs.
    fake-stick-attention-needing lady.

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