April 25, 2000

On my way to work today, I encountered a textbook example of a fashion victim. Of course, she was pretty. Thin and pretty. People who are not thin and pretty rarely have the misguided self-confidence to let themselves be victimized by fashion in such an obvious and obscene manner. This thin and pretty woman was wearing an oversized orange shirt, khaki wraparound skirt over black capri pants, and black platform thong sandals.

With.
White.
Socks.

That was pretty much what I noticed first -- the thong sandals with socks. I mean, just exactly what is that about? The thong part goes between your toes, but it can't go between your toes because you've got sock between your toes. You defeat the whole purpose of the thong, which, quite honestly, is entirely lost on me anyway, because thong sandals are just about as uncomfortable as thong underwear (note: Not. That. I'd. Know.). The thong is an alien concept to me. All thongs and thong-related memorabilia should be kept far, far away, preferably buried in a remote rural location, perhaps covered by a large and heavy boulder, where only the coyotes and buzzards may unearth them, and even then, only when they are really, really bored.

Not so for Elvis memorabilia, which I have gladly strewn about my apartment in a haphazard and celebratory fashion. My mom went to Graceland a few weeks ago, and finally got around to coming into the city (which, I have been made aware again and again, is "such an ordeal," though not quite as much of an ordeal as spending weekends alone with my father, as has happened every weekend for the past 32 years, and which I have heard about for the past ten) and bringing me the souvenirs that I so richly deserve. The souvenirs in question, in increasing order of impressiveness, are as follows:

• White t-shirt with black-and-white rendition of young Elvis in his prime. This would be nicer if the shirt were not a) larger than my bed, and b) did not have a black, white, and red facsimile of a piano keyboard running down the left side. Still, though, an Elvis t-shirt is an Elvis t-shirt, and, as such, is nothing to be scorned.

• Elvis Presley's Graceland: An Official Guidebook. This is pretty self-explanatory. An impressive momento featuring an intro ostensibly penned by Priscilla and Lisa Marie, which is accompanied by an angry picture of the former and a playful picture of the latter. Also worth noting: Section headings with names such as Elvis' Guns and Badges; Citizen Elvis; and Burning Love: Elvis in 1971-72.

• Elvis Presley Limited Edition Collector Card Magnets. These are unquestionably cool. Each magnet has a youthful, dreamy Elvis in one of his trademark poses, with a caption embossed inside the red silhouette of a guitar in the lower left- or right-hand corner: Relaxing at Rehearsals; Go, Go, Go, Elvis; Taking it Easy Between Scenes; Love Me Tender; Elvis at 17; and, my personal favorite, Soft and Mellow.

• Elvis Presley's Graceland Stationery. A small, simple tablet with watercolor renditions of precious Elvis memories. As if my mother knew that, barring her acquisition of email, this is the only thing that would get me to write to her.

• A black shot glass displaying Elvis' signature, along with "Thank you, thankyouverymuch" multicolorfully inscribed around the rim.

I love my mom.
She drives the van.

Note: Out of boredom, I have coined a new phrase to replace the admittedly overused, and downright reviled in some circles, "rocks." To wit: "drives the van." Use it when something or someone is good and pleasing. Example: "Janeane Garofalo is a highly educated, iconoclastic visionary. I might even go so far as to say she drives the van." See also: "da bomb."

I am tired. I was all settled in to watch Buffy and Angel (both new episodes), when Maura called. I wasn't going to answer the phone, because, well, Buffy, but she seemed rather distraught and also rather intent on detailing her distraughtness on my answering machine, so I hit the record button on the VCR and picked up the damn phone. She was assembling a set of IKEA shelves. Trying to assemble. And she was just not happy about it. Maura drives the van, so I did not make her feel too guilty about interrupting my oh-so-rare night of television viewing. We talked for a long time about who sucks and who doesn't, and how one day we shall rule the world, as she continued drilling and hammering her shelves in a seemingly incorrect manner. I mostly did not mind this, but, upon reflection, I wish that I had been left with a more tender memory than that of her emitting a small, startled gasp, then exclaiming, "Oh, god, I thought I was going to drill my breast."

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