Tingle Alley

Took the dog to the vet this morning and somewhere during the visit began to take obscure satisfaction when the techs (who were great) would say in a knowledgeable, off-hand way things like “she’s a bleeder” and “she always has a reaction to shots” and “wow, it’s been a few months since we saw you!” It’s like having custodianship of a 7-pound hemophiliac Russian princeling.

Hungry Like The Volf

I met my friend Lori tonight to see the new Duran Duran concert film directed by David Lynch (one night, one showing only!). She told me that she kept getting confused this week and telling people that it was directed by Werner Herzog, which is, it turns out, really easy to construct. “Here is master vocalist Simon LeBon” and “Duranies come from near and far” and “like a volf, we are hungry.” Also, at one point, Werner’d maybe track down bitter Andy Taylor at his village pub and make him listen to anecdotes about Klaus Kinski.

It was a lot of fun. There were only 20 or so people in the theater besides us, and Lori pointed out how like junior high it felt—to be slouched in a seat eating Junior Mints with one of your friends, watching Duran Duran videos, while the rest of the world’s off doing something else.

My stepdaughter had a baby on Thursday, her first. It was big, weird, and great, and I’m still (to borrow from Lauren) getting my wig back on. The hospital had tags for visitors that they used to scan you in and out of the room, and there was a point when three of us, along with her husband, went out to grab some lunch and we all had these tags on our shirts, sitting in a restaurant—and it was like wearing a badge that marks you as part of a strange cult or sect, one where you all have to eat together and don’t mix much with the outside world.

Later in the afternoon I was sitting by my stepdaughter, on a little chair next to the monitor with the baby’s heartbeat. It sounded like a washing machine filling up—if the sound of a washing machine filling up became unexpectedly moving. It was still going to be a few hours till go time so everyone in the room was just chatting about dumb stuff—like Instagram and video games—and when she’d have a contraction—every three minutes or so—she’d do a sharp intake of breath and be quiet and inward-looking for a second and then keep chatting. Someone looked at their phone and said, “Joan Rivers died.” Just then my stepdaughter had a contraction; she was quiet and then said, in a lament, “… and before awards season too.”