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Goodbye Pollyanna and Big Bash Revisited
Jul. 26th, 2014 10:04 amThey had a goodbye party for me at Pollyanna.
I was shocked.
I figured I’d just clean the porn off my hard drive and slink off, but it appears that Seraphina is genuinely fond of me, and sprang for $30 worth of pizza and Mountain Dew, and gave me a high denomination gift card for your favorite Arkansas-headquartered-exploiter-of-the-masses-whose-board-Hillary-Clinton-used-to-sit-on. And Charlotte gave me an extremely beautiful leopard-print scarf.
I really need to think of a way to get Stephanie to run for public office. Not in Poughkeepsie. She lives in Kingston – another historic, once-upon-a-time pretty town fallen on hard times. Possibly at the state level – of the 7,382 individuals currently serving in state legislatures throughout the nation, only 241 are African American women. Only 1,789 are women, in fact. An astonishing statistic.
Seraphina would just be so fucking perfect in politics. She’s smart, she’s idealistic but shrewd, realistic about the ways that things actually get done. I’ll be seeing her at her annual Breaking Barriers event in a week. I am half inclined to write up a two page memo, whisper, “This is why you need to run for political office,” and shove it into her hands while I’m there. Except I’m not entirely sure she would read it.
Else?
The sculptor hasn’t contacted me since our date. This is an affront to my vanity since I was absolutely sure I’d dazzled him, but a relief in most ways since as I say, he doesn’t read and I could never have anything but the most casual relationship with someone that doesn’t read. I mean – they don’t have to be as obsessive about reading as I am, but they do have to know how to turn pages.
Max is at Big Bash this weekend.
I felt very weird when he told me he was going.
Big Bash is Susan and Jeff’s annual retreat in the Mendocino forest where for three days and three nights, a group of people – many of whom have known each other for a very, very long time – throw a huge party, get wasted, play volleyball, nude sunbathe, do parlor theatrics and generally catch up on one another’s lives. This year is the 30th annual Bash.
I can remember going to Big Bash with Breece and Bill years before Max was born. Bill actually rode his bicycle up from Berkeley – an activity that filled Susan, Jeff et al with something akin to horror: Of course, Bill who is blunt to the point of what many would call tactlessness and loves climbing, and mountaineering, and hunting animals with bows and arrow – Mr. Extreme, you might say, in everything he does – is the very antithesis of the Big Bash crowd in most ways.
I can remember taking Max to Bash several times when he was a kid. When he was about four, he went feral and spent the entire three days in the forest deeply engrossed in some game he’d invented that he played with sticks and rocks.
“There’s something wrong with your kid,” said Nancy. She had originally started out as one of the Marks’ girlfriend, got dumped, set her predatory spider strands for a real live judge. Married the judge. Still came to Big Bash, but nobody could quite figure out why.
“What are you talking about?” I said.
Nancy put her hand on my arm. “This is hard to hear, I know,” she said. “But I work with a lot of kids –“ She was some kind of bureaucrat with Child Protective Services – “and his behavior is definitely abnormal. You need to get him to a professional. Fast.”
“There is nothing wrong with my kid,” I said. “He likes playing with sticks and rocks. So fucking what? And get your hand off me.”
I wonder if Max remembers that?
Or if he remembers the time, a few years later, when I took him and Beau so he’d have someone to play sticks and rocks with?
Of course, Susan is Max’s godmother, and they have a bond that’s entirely independent of the bond either one has with me.
Still, when Max told me he was going to Big Bash this year, I wanted to scream, “Promise me you won’t talk about me!”
Because I could just imagine the conversation.
How’s your Mom?
She’s doing well. She just finished a year doing VISTA.
Is she coming back to California?
I think eventually. Or at least that’s what she says.
She’s not still with Ben, is she?
I don’t think so. At least – I know they’re friends. But I don’t think they’ve gotten back together. If they did, though, she probably wouldn’t tell me –
You know, Ben absolutely ruined your mother’s life. And I could never understand what she saw in him. I mean, he’s so pathologically depressed –
I know. I never understood it either.
More likely, though, they won’t talk about me. I’m just one more drop of water, after all, gurgling under one of the bridges along Jughandle Creek.
Max also exasperated me during this phone conversation by referring to one of his clients as a “sex worker.”
“Oh for God’s sake, Max,” I said. “She’s a hooker.”
“That’s a really insensitive, intolerant term, Mom,” Max said mildly.
“Does she maintain an office next to Berkeley Bowl where she sees mild-mannered professional men suffering from erectile dysfunction?” I asked.
“No, of course not –“
“Does she work the streets and give most of her money to a pimp? Is she strung out on crack or heroin?”
“Well, yes, but –“
“Then she’s a hooker,” I said. “There’s no judgment in the word. It’s descriptive.”
“You're being disingenuous. Of course there’s judgment in the word –“
“Oh, and you think by camouflaging it behind these bureaucratic euphemisms that the taint will somehow come out? ‘Launder your thoughts with Newspeak! The new all-purpose language detergent from Big Brother!’”
Max sighed. “I think you’re overreacting.”
“I’m not overreacting. Word choices are very important. Do you ever read George Orwell? Speaking and writing in plain, unvarnished, vigorous language is a prerequisite for keeping your mind free –“
But what I was really wondering was what would mortify me more: to be talked about at Big Bash or not to be talked about at Big Bash?
I was shocked.
I figured I’d just clean the porn off my hard drive and slink off, but it appears that Seraphina is genuinely fond of me, and sprang for $30 worth of pizza and Mountain Dew, and gave me a high denomination gift card for your favorite Arkansas-headquartered-exploiter-of-the-masses-whose-board-Hillary-Clinton-used-to-sit-on. And Charlotte gave me an extremely beautiful leopard-print scarf.
I really need to think of a way to get Stephanie to run for public office. Not in Poughkeepsie. She lives in Kingston – another historic, once-upon-a-time pretty town fallen on hard times. Possibly at the state level – of the 7,382 individuals currently serving in state legislatures throughout the nation, only 241 are African American women. Only 1,789 are women, in fact. An astonishing statistic.
Seraphina would just be so fucking perfect in politics. She’s smart, she’s idealistic but shrewd, realistic about the ways that things actually get done. I’ll be seeing her at her annual Breaking Barriers event in a week. I am half inclined to write up a two page memo, whisper, “This is why you need to run for political office,” and shove it into her hands while I’m there. Except I’m not entirely sure she would read it.
Else?
The sculptor hasn’t contacted me since our date. This is an affront to my vanity since I was absolutely sure I’d dazzled him, but a relief in most ways since as I say, he doesn’t read and I could never have anything but the most casual relationship with someone that doesn’t read. I mean – they don’t have to be as obsessive about reading as I am, but they do have to know how to turn pages.
Max is at Big Bash this weekend.
I felt very weird when he told me he was going.
Big Bash is Susan and Jeff’s annual retreat in the Mendocino forest where for three days and three nights, a group of people – many of whom have known each other for a very, very long time – throw a huge party, get wasted, play volleyball, nude sunbathe, do parlor theatrics and generally catch up on one another’s lives. This year is the 30th annual Bash.
I can remember going to Big Bash with Breece and Bill years before Max was born. Bill actually rode his bicycle up from Berkeley – an activity that filled Susan, Jeff et al with something akin to horror: Of course, Bill who is blunt to the point of what many would call tactlessness and loves climbing, and mountaineering, and hunting animals with bows and arrow – Mr. Extreme, you might say, in everything he does – is the very antithesis of the Big Bash crowd in most ways.
I can remember taking Max to Bash several times when he was a kid. When he was about four, he went feral and spent the entire three days in the forest deeply engrossed in some game he’d invented that he played with sticks and rocks.
“There’s something wrong with your kid,” said Nancy. She had originally started out as one of the Marks’ girlfriend, got dumped, set her predatory spider strands for a real live judge. Married the judge. Still came to Big Bash, but nobody could quite figure out why.
“What are you talking about?” I said.
Nancy put her hand on my arm. “This is hard to hear, I know,” she said. “But I work with a lot of kids –“ She was some kind of bureaucrat with Child Protective Services – “and his behavior is definitely abnormal. You need to get him to a professional. Fast.”
“There is nothing wrong with my kid,” I said. “He likes playing with sticks and rocks. So fucking what? And get your hand off me.”
I wonder if Max remembers that?
Or if he remembers the time, a few years later, when I took him and Beau so he’d have someone to play sticks and rocks with?
Of course, Susan is Max’s godmother, and they have a bond that’s entirely independent of the bond either one has with me.
Still, when Max told me he was going to Big Bash this year, I wanted to scream, “Promise me you won’t talk about me!”
Because I could just imagine the conversation.
How’s your Mom?
She’s doing well. She just finished a year doing VISTA.
Is she coming back to California?
I think eventually. Or at least that’s what she says.
She’s not still with Ben, is she?
I don’t think so. At least – I know they’re friends. But I don’t think they’ve gotten back together. If they did, though, she probably wouldn’t tell me –
You know, Ben absolutely ruined your mother’s life. And I could never understand what she saw in him. I mean, he’s so pathologically depressed –
I know. I never understood it either.
More likely, though, they won’t talk about me. I’m just one more drop of water, after all, gurgling under one of the bridges along Jughandle Creek.
Max also exasperated me during this phone conversation by referring to one of his clients as a “sex worker.”
“Oh for God’s sake, Max,” I said. “She’s a hooker.”
“That’s a really insensitive, intolerant term, Mom,” Max said mildly.
“Does she maintain an office next to Berkeley Bowl where she sees mild-mannered professional men suffering from erectile dysfunction?” I asked.
“No, of course not –“
“Does she work the streets and give most of her money to a pimp? Is she strung out on crack or heroin?”
“Well, yes, but –“
“Then she’s a hooker,” I said. “There’s no judgment in the word. It’s descriptive.”
“You're being disingenuous. Of course there’s judgment in the word –“
“Oh, and you think by camouflaging it behind these bureaucratic euphemisms that the taint will somehow come out? ‘Launder your thoughts with Newspeak! The new all-purpose language detergent from Big Brother!’”
Max sighed. “I think you’re overreacting.”
“I’m not overreacting. Word choices are very important. Do you ever read George Orwell? Speaking and writing in plain, unvarnished, vigorous language is a prerequisite for keeping your mind free –“
But what I was really wondering was what would mortify me more: to be talked about at Big Bash or not to be talked about at Big Bash?
