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June 11, 1998
Volume 13: The Siren Call of the Terminally Perverse
It occurred to me why I'm so cantankerous. I sleep with Boba Fett every night. Well, on my comforter. Everyone should be comforted nightly by Boba Fett. I acquired such bedding when I moved to this foul country back in 1994, from a man who shall remain nameless because otherwise I might have to prove in a court of law that he's an evil scum bastard with bent erectile tissue. But I digress.
We also won't get into the times when I was a girl and wanted to be Darth Vader, but everybody made me be Princess Leia. God's own truth, I swear it. The one time they let me be Darth Vader was a total disaster on all accounts.
When I broke from the man who shall remain nameless, I kept his comforter. He can try to get it back whenever he wants. I've got lots of empty Snapple bottles in my bedroom and will not hesitate to dent his bald head.
Boba Fett would not be a bad sort to hook up with on a permanent basis. He's reliable and honest, and that itchy disintegrator finger is sexy to perverse women like myself. Unfortunately, being terminally indisposed and fictional, he has a double handicap. In previous columns, I've touched on others that are my idea of a good time, like ex-life form Richard Nixon, but let's posit a perfection, whom we shall refer to as Uncle Demon.
Uncle Demon has a grip on the basic essentials of life: love, justice, fate, truth, honor, time and thought.
He wants kids, but not in these degenerate 1990s where everything is grim, serious, and willfully dull. Post-millennial baby Demon Dynamites are what he wants.
Uncle Demon has the same schizoid awareness I have: that we are in a hideous place right now, yet still there are things worth having, places worth seeing, and people worth knowing.
He can tell gold from brass, dung from compost.
Uncle Demon is aggressively disinterested in the games couples play. He knows the only appropriate response to "Why did you do that?" is "It seemed like a good idea at the time" followed by "It wasn't, and I'm sorry", or "It was, and I'd do it again." He is more interested in being honest than in sustaining domestic harmony; knowing that one begets the other in our household. He knows that when I forgive him I mean it. He is equally willing to get on with life and let the dead bury the dead. He won't shy from a good fight about whose turn it was to clean the bathroom, whether Java is a real programming language, or whether Pitt the Elder was in fact a superior leader to Lord Palmerston.
Money is important to Uncle Demon only inasmuch as it lets him get things and go places that you can't get or go to without it. Love is more important. Not just love of me, but love of anything that he spends a lot of time with. He believes anything worth doing is worth doing well or not at all, unless it can't possibly be avoided.
Naturally he reads, or is willing to read, and has musical tastes ranging from Stravinsky to Zappa. He understands why I keep butter in the fridge, but not margarine, and knows why ice wine is so deservedly expensive but that sometimes you need a really cold beer instead. He knows a steak is only good if a steak is what you wanted; sometimes you need peanut butter.
If he's not a smoker, he's willing to skip giving me grief about the fact that I am. In turn I agree not to puff in his face.
Outdoors are important to Uncle Demon. He has a strong sense of place and a need to go into green hills that are less spectacular than simple, less dramatic than necessary. He seeks quiet places to be alone and talk, think, or just walk about for no reason but that it's lovely and good.
Uncle Demon, I will take you up into night air with the stars, to tiny lakes full of luminescent insects and moss, to mountaintops and hidden places no one else knows they should visit, to great glass buildings full of cold and tiny shops so crowded one can barely move between the shelves, to tourist traps with an odd aura of class, and to beaches that rattle like bones when the tides sweep over them.
Uncle Demon's mental powers just barely supercede his ability and willingness to fuck me until my eyes change color. How else are we going to produce a couple of bouncing baby Demon Dynamites?
He does not want oodles of children, preferring to have a couple and raise them properly. We will instill them with a sense of their place in the world. We will give them the knowledge that with such intelligent, savvy, and vicious bastard parents they can become whatever the hell they want to become so long as they do it with feeling. Unless they want to become someone who'll waste their life on trivia. Uncle Demon and I have no time for those who can't see beyond next week.
Uncle Demon, name your terms. If you respect me, want me, love me, need me, trust me, as much as I must be respected, wanted, loved, needed and trusted, everything else is details.
Posted by cd at June 11, 1998 12:44 AM
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