leroBlog

i hate blogging now because whenever i log in there are always 50,000 russian spam comments waiting to be approved or denied.

but i will blog this, this video of my friend chris, who is marvellous. i just typed marvellous four times — apparently it has two Ls. who knew? (not me, then.)

I wrote this thing called Cracker Game for my next book.

Three years ago, I walked into my parents’ living room and found them in a strange position. Huddled together on the soft couch in front of the fireplace, my mother’s left leg was pressed into my father’s right one; my father’s arm was wrapped around her shoulders, his hand in a sort of relaxed claw that held her at the base of the neck. They were staring at each other with an expression that said, We’ve been told the world is about to explode and we’re fine with it because we’re here together on this soft couch.

In my father’s free hand he was holding a small white thing carefully between his fingertips. It was shaped like a half-moon. Pressing the thing to his lips, he carefully bit down on it, then passed to my mother, who mimicked what my father had done and passed the thing, now a quarter-circle, back to him. Their bodies were turned inward, making their torsos look like a little wigwam. It was as intimate as I’d seen them since I had accidentally walked in on my father squished horizontal on my mother in their bed when I was 13.

Silently, I stood there, half-obscured by the base of the chimney, trying to figure out what they were doing so I wouldn’t have to shout, What the hell are you guys doing, you gross ones? In a ramekin on the round coffee table in front of them were a bunch of lightweight white discs.

The object they seemed to be eating disappeared and my sweet Welsh mother shook her fist up and down like she was rolling dice and said, Darnit! My father cackled and asked if she wanted to play another around.

“What the hell are you guys doing, gross ones?” I stepped out from behind the chimney and put my hands high on my ribs in mock accusation.

Pointing to the white discs my father said they were doing their pre-apéro ¬ritual. They were playing the cracker game. He said this with a tone of voice that suggested that I had been asleep for many years and during that time everyone on Earth had set their watches to the cracker game.

“So you eat some crackers and it’s a game.” I said.

“No, it’s the way we eat the crackers that is a game.” He said.

I walked over and forced my rump between their rumps. My mother picked up a glossy rice cracker – a kind of fattened-up church host wafer – and bit it in half. Delicately, she wiped off the moisture from the edge of her bite and passed it to me.

“See, the idea is for you to now bite the half into another half, and we keep passing it back and forth until there is just a speck. The person with the speck that cannot be bitten in half is the loser.” She said.

I bit the cracker and passed it back.

“Your father usually wins.” She added, taking a cautious bite.

“I’m on a big winning streak.” My father smiled broadly, stuffing handfuls of whole crackers into his mouth.

“Why do you use these cruddy crackers?” I asked. The piece in play was very small now. It tasted like dust and the sea.

“They give the cleanest snap. Ritz crackers become very crumbly.” My mother said, wiping an impossibly tiny piece on my outstretched thumb.

“I lose, I guess.”

“I’m watching my weight because your mother told me to! And because I am vain” My father said happily, patting his only slightly-protruding stomach. They both used to run marathons in the 80s.

My mother got up to fix the rest of the dinner my father had prepped. Before she made it to the kitchen he shouted, “Kissum, kissum.” Turning around, she walked back and gave her husband a kiss on his slightly protruding tongue.

It’s a cliché to say that I want what my parents have, but what my parents have is not a cliché.

i was angry about 1,000 things today, so i read some george saunders.

“Welcome home!” she said, and bowed at the waist, and a sock fell off her shoulder, and as she bent to pick it up she banged her head against the storm window, the poor dorky thing.

“Neil-Neil,” she said. “Is something wrong?”

And he wanted to smack her, insult her, say something to wake her up, but only kept moving toward his room, calling her terrible names under his breath.

i am using this post to make a to do list:

1. go to Sammy’s (he’s a hotdog man)
2. get safety certificate and emissions test (know what i mean??)
3. meet with man at Cloud 9 at 10 a.m. (need i say more??)
4. go to the kiosk with the information from the folder (the folder contains PAPERS!)
5. get the plates (not the eating kind, people)
6. go back to Sammy’s with the plates (for eating the hotdogs, winkers)
7. obtain Saab (maybe through stealing?)
8. drive Saab (with feet)
9. take notes under consideration (these will make me a millionaire)
10. go to book launch for young lady (her father’s name is david)

i received my book today from ze germans.