Paul and Mary Graphic Novel
My name is Mary and I am writing this blog with my best friend and roommate Paul. We share a two-bedroom apartment in Santa Monica, with Paul’s dog Maximilian and my fish, whose name is Mo. This “Fish in a Pond” is all that remains from 8 years with my ex-boyfriend John. He left me a bunch of his dirty socks in the washing machine and his fish Mo. In memory of my love for him and out of respect for our “committed relationship,” I washed the socks and UPS’ed them to his new address. I also contacted him several times about picking up his fish. He sent me a thank you note for the socks but never mentioned Mo. I think it was his evil plan from the start. He knew I would never throw away a living creature, so he left me his fish as a constant reminder of his jealous and competitive nature. And, Oh Boy! Mo is one of a kind. We tried to buy other fishes to keep her company, but it never worked out. Big, small, beautiful or ugly, none of them survived. I believe this was due to Mo’s competitive nature.
From the moment Paul moved into John’s office, we have tried hard to create harmony in our little household. I work on my relationship with Maximilian, trying to accept his ugly looks and strange habits. Paul flatters Mo with compliments on her beautiful, intelligent features and compares her constantly with Maximilian (definitely a winning strategy). The dog is for sure ugly, but very sweet and blindly attached to Paul. I don’t use the word “love,” because in this case Maximilian’s understanding of love is much broader and more complex than my own. I believe he sees himself as a Prince Charming, because he makes sexual advances to all the most beautiful and pure-bred dogs, regardless of size or gender. It may seem that Maximilian is a gambler at heart, with a “hit or miss” strategy, but in reality he always has a plan B. If the high-profile relationship doesn’t work out, he immediately moves on to a lower-class dog, or just humps everything that he can find, including Paul’s boyfriends. Surprisingly to me, Paul has never showed any frustration with Maximilian and actually finds him amusing. He tells his dates that the dog’s behavior results from a difficult childhood, since Maximilian came from an animal rescue shelter. Paul likes to invent all kinds of horrible stories about Maximilian’s past and tells people that his dog is undergoing therapy with a famous L.A. dog psychic, for which he pays big bucks. None of this is true, but it adds an edgy touch to the conversation.
I met Paul 3 years ago at the “Golden Bridge” Yoga studio. Obviously, you don’t expect to meet a straight guy at a Belly Dancing class. He immediately declared that he had joined the class to explore his feminine side. He looked hot and sexy in his tight black leggings and white tank top slightly covering his torso, as though he just stepped out of a Gay Fitness magazine. We clicked right away, and soon I found myself dependent on his charming company. When John moved out, it happened that Paul was looking for an apartment in Santa Monica closer to his office. He works as a massage therapist two blocks away and walks to work. It has worked out well for both of us.
For the last 5 years I worked as a freelance web designer, but when the economy went sour I got a full-time job working for corporate America, joining millions of L.A. rush-hour commuters. Like all situations in life, this has its positive and negative aspects. I enjoy the financial stability and have stopped having nightmares of not being able to pay my rent on time. On the other hand, corporate politics frustrates me. I feel like a little ant among thousands of other ants just like me, jostling around in a great big pile of shit.
Since high school I have written short humorous stories, as a kind of a spoof on the reality I experience. It has always worked as therapy for me. Now, I have decided to blog about Paul’s and my real life. Paul promised to illustrate my posts, since he took a lot of art classes in college and loves to draw.
Let’s see what comes of it..
Would you like to have Pontius Pilate in your two-bedroom apartment?
For the last two weeks Paul has been following me around, trying to get me to agree to take in a parrot that one of his client wanted to give away. It’s a big parrot, the talking kind, whose name is Pontius Pilate. We have a really small apartment and already have a dog and a fish tank, so I thought it would be too much responsibility. I did some research on Google about big parrots, and apparently they are a lot of work. They are demanding and tend to be moody.
My first question, of course, was why they wanted to give away such an expensive parrot. Parrot like that may cost around 7 or 8 thousand dollars; why are they just giving him away?
And also, why did they name him Pontius Pilate? I thought there was a real mystery right there.
Paul’s client is the wife of some politician or other. From her account, they do a lot of traveling, and it is not fair to the parrot because he does not get enough attention. Mostly he is dealing with their Mexican legal immigrant servant, which is not challenging for the intellect of a Pontius Pilate. The fact that she highlighted that their servant was Mexican and not intellectual but legal made me very suspicious.
I did some research on their last name and found out that her husband was a lawyer involved in sponsoring Prop 8 (forbidding gay marriage in CA), and her name came up in association with the Tea Party movement. I of course passed the info on to Paul. It did not discourage him, but had the opposite effect. “Children are not responsible for the sins of their fathers,” he proclaimed. I had to agree with him, because I didn’t want come across as prejudiced.
I hope Paul’s lady client had the sense that Paul is gay, but maybe not, because then she would question whether Paul would be a good person to take care of Pontius Pilate. What if her conservatively-raised parrot became aware of his homosexuality? Well, I don’t even want to imagine the effect it might have on her personal life as an honest member of the Tea Party movement. She makes sure that her servant is a legal immigrant, but her parrot lives with a gay massage therapist, not to mention the sexually obsessed dog, a bitchy fish, and a single woman who is not planning to get married and produce children? After analyzing the whole situation, I decided to take in Pontius Pilate and try to turn him into a liberal, bisexual “revolutionary.” I have always believed in second chances.
Pontius Pilate is IN!
Today Pontius Pilate officially became a member of our household. Paul brought him in the morning before breakfast. I had to admit that Pontius Pilate was a very attractive parrot. He was big, with green, and red wings. At first, he was probably in shock from the new environment, so he stayed very quiet. “See?” said Paul. “He is a quiet and peaceful creature.” I had nothing to say, but I hoped that it would be the case. Pontius Pilate was studying us very carefully, and we were studying him. Mo even stopped moving in her tank, which is her way of being flattering; Maximilian sat next to Paul, trying establish his seniority.
I gave him some food which Paul had brought from the parrot’s previous owner; and everything was looking like a nice family breakfast, until I took some cheese out of the fridge and put it on the table. I was planning to make a nice cheese sandwich for myself.
As I put the cheese on a piece of bread, all of a sudden, Pontius Pilate began screaming with his squeaky, irritating voice “Sarah Palin for Presidente!”
We were in total shock. Maximilian ran to hide under the bed in Paul’s bedroom; Paul was almost hypnotized by the screaming. I also lost my orientation slightly, and the cheese fell on the floor. Pontius Pilate start screaming “Sarah Palin for Presidente” even louder. After I recovered from the initial shock, it was clear that the parrot was demanding something. But what?
Paul and I were obviously concerned about the possibility that Sarah Palin might become the next Presidente. But why “Presidente,” in Spanish? In a minute it became clear to us. It was definitely the bad influence of Pontius Pilate’s previous caretaker, who was a Mexican legal unintellectual servant.
Nevertheless, the situation in the kitchen was evolving rapidly. When Maximilian saw cheese on the floor, he quickly forgot his fears and ran back to the kitchen to grab it. To prevent a possible messy case of diarrhea, I picked it up. When I looked at Pontius Pilate, he was staring at the cheese. It hit me that the parrot wanted cheese!!!!
So I gave him the piece of cheese. He ate it in a second, and before he had the chance to start screaming again, I gave him another one. When Pontius Pilate had eaten all the cheese, he again became peaceful and quiet.
So we solved the first mystery of Pontius Pilate. The parrot simply is a cheese lover! “Sarah Palin for Presidente” was just his magic phrase. It would get him anything he wanted from a member of the Tea Party movement and supporter of Prop 8.
Last Sunday we went to the Gay Pride Parade.
We had long deliberations on whether we should take Pontius Pilate the
parrot with us. Paul wanted to show him off. Pontius Pilate would
definitely be in heat, and attending his first Gay Pride would be a step
toward sexual liberation. On second thought, however, we decided to
leave him home. It was a difficult choice. All those naked guys
running around and screaming might have confused the parrot and made him
think that he was back in Africa (or wherever he came from originally),
and he could get nostalgic and depressed, or just simply freak out.
And of course we couldn’t trust his previous political associations, and
we had to assume that not all people in the Gay Pride would have a sense
of humor; they might take his demand “Sarah Palin for Presidente” as a
real threat, and we all would have to run for safety, or be embraced by
the counter-demonstrators screaming their heads off that all homosexuals
would die in Hell.
So we put our hopes on on Maximilian. Last year we took him with us,
but his looks were not up to gay dog standards. I don’t think we will
ever be able fully expose Maximilian to high gay dog fashion. All the
pink bows and fancy ponchos and boots would just aggravate him.
I remember catching a sad glance from the beautiful white miniature
poodle standing next to us with her fanciest boots on. The poor dog
could not even move, but she was the center of attention and made her
owners very proud. We could not place our pride over Maximilian’s
beliefs or comfort, however. Maximilian was a macho dog and a
womanizer. He was as straight and dirty as they come. He was not the
type to order an apple martini in a bar and wear flip flops.
Nevertheless, we did give him a flea shampoo and put a rainbow flower
bowl around his neck.
It took us a 45 minutes to find parking, and when we had found a
comfortable spot to watch, it was clear that we missed almost half of
the parade. Corporations, banks, non-profits, gay clubs, and religious
organizations were passing by, and we were cheering and screaming our
heads off with the rest of the crowd. The group of Episcopalians caught
my attention, as they were led by a new lesbian Bishop, waving from her
convertible. All these crazy-looking and colorful people made me feel
proud and happy.
All of a sudden Maximilian started barking and pulling his leash. I
turned my head and saw a huge great dane with a rainbow bowl coming
towards us. I wasn’t sure if the dog was friendly or not; judging by
her appearance, she could eat Maximilian in one gulp, but the dog turned
out to be as friendly and charming as her owner. He was a blond, very
good-looking guy with a heavy Russian accent who introduced himself as
Ivan and explained that his dog was named after the powerful Russian
queen, Ekaterina the Great. I looked at Maximilian and Paul; they both
were staring at our new neighbors. Maximilian was not discourage by the
difference in size or by the other dog’s famous name and lay down next
to her, claiming the place of her potential partner. Ekaterina the
Great did not mind and looked calm and happy. Ivan told us that he
lived close by on Santa Monica, and Paul gave Ivan his phone number, so
that he could call us when he went to take Ekaterina the Great for a
walk. It was clear that love was in the air, and looked like the start
of something new for Maximilian and Paul.
Fear of life, or easygoing?
On Wednesday Paul got a call from Ivan, inviting us to take the dogs for a walk. I wanted to give Paul some privacy with Igor and move the romance forward, since the attraction was there; also, Maximilian could show his charming, loving, and sexually dynamic personality with Catherine the Great. But Paul insisted that I join them. I asked him why, but his response was that it was something intuitive, he just wanted me around. Is this your insecurity, or do you actually like him? Maybe both, responded Paul.
We met on the corner of Santa Monica and La Cienega and decided to walk toward Melrose. It took us a while because Maximilian had to stop and pee on every corner, he was so overwhelmed with excitement. Catherine the Great was walking like a model on a runway, fully enjoying the attention she received; one car even stopped, and a hot blond chick waved to her; the boys were screaming that we were really a hot group. Maxmilian and I were a bit left out, but after taking a deep breath as my guru taught me, I controlled my ego and tried to be a good sport.
Ivan was easygoing and incredibly funny. He told us stories about his family and love life.
"I was born in Moscow, and at the age of 6 my family emigrated to France. My father was a violinist and had been invited to play for the Paris Philharmonic. I never understood the violin, but I liked the noise it made. My mother was a total stranger; she was mostly preoccupied with losing weight or rearranging it. When I got into trouble at school or brought home a D or C-, my father made me listen to him play violin for at least an hour, insisting that it was not punishment, just a matter of principle.
"I met my first lover in a Paris hospital. I was visiting my mother, who was sick with pneumonia at the time.
"In bad hospitals they let you die; in good hospitals they kill you. The only person I trusted in that place was a hot-looking male nurse, my mother's caretaker. Every two hours he came by to inject her in the buttocks with different antibiotics; in between we were making love in an empty room near the morgue. That is where I was first introduced to darkness and learned the light of love and sexual interaction.
"His name was Olivier. He showed me his lovely young form, and his impossibly white teeth were seared into my memory. He bit through to the core of my being. I will never forget the experience we shared.
"We broke up a week after my mom's rehabilitation.
"Oliver was a member of the French communist party, but that was not enough to keep me. Even though I was very young when we left Moscow, in our house hold one thing was absolutely clear: I had no interest in communism or didn't want any connections to members of any communist party. As a result, my passion for Oliver faded, and common sense took over. I was learning about life through revolution and pneumonia.
"Two years ago I moved to Los Angeles. I decided to completely disappoint my parents: since I had no interest in music, I was accepted as a grad student in the UCLA Math Department. That is what I am currently doing...."
We were really having a good time. Ivan definitely made a great impression on Paul; I saw sparkles in Paul's eyes. The only person who was slightly disappointed was Maximilian. He was too shy and too impressed by Catherine the Great, which was not in his character and in my view overly picky.
We all decided to meet again on Saturday night at the gay club on the corner of Santa Monica and Robertson.
It’s about time, baby.
Paul had already taken Pontius Pilate to work a couple of times. He did a lot of research on Google about how to handle parrots. It was easy to teach Pontius Pilate to talk; it was harder to train him to sit on Paul’s shoulder while heworked. But slowly we began to feel more confident that the parrot was not going to fly away, and on Friday we took him and Maximilian for a quick bite to Urth Cafe on Melrose. We took Pontius Pilate’s cage with us, but when we had ordered and gone outside to sit we let him out and he immediately jumped on Paul’s shoulder. Maximilian lay down under the table, looking for potential victims.
In one minute Pontius Pilate became the center of attention. People were coming up to our table and paying him compliments. The parrot was sitting on Paul’s shoulder and basking in the glow of comments on his beauty and grace, like the Lion King in the middle of the jungle. Maximilian immediately took advantage of the situation and started humping a blond chick with duckling lips and huge breasts . She was definitely Maximilian’s type. She drove him crazy with her deep sexy voice as she told us the story of her ex-boyfriend’s parrot, who used to spit on her each time she entered the house. I apologized to the blonde, picked up Maximilian and forced him to sit on my lap. “The last time I put someone on my lap, I got a yeast infection,” joked the blonde. “I hope you are OK now, Ma’am,” responded Paul. “Never better,” answered the blonde in a flirty voice. She was clearly more interested in Paul than in Pontius Pilate and started moving her breasts and all of her slightly more than 100 pounds of seductive flash in Paul’s direction. Paul was terrified and sat back his chair; Maximilian got jealous and start barking, and then, in the middle of this erotic drama, Pontius Pilates started screaming his head off, “Sarah Palin for Presidente.” I looked around and saw that on the table next to us the waiter had just put a cheese plate. The crowd around us froze for a moment, not knowing how to react. I had to act quickly. I let Maximilian jump down, and ran to the neighboring table, asking the owner to give me his cheese plate. “I’m really sorry, but can I have your cheese for my parrot? He won’t shut up until he gets the cheese. I will pay for your dinner.” The stranger showed his white teeth in a charming smile and gave me the cheese plate. Even though I was still frantic, I couldn’t help noticing his good looks and striking resemblance to Che Guevara. He had that bad boy look I have always liked.
Paul stood up and announced, “Don’t be afraid, guys, my parrot is just joking…” The silence changed to general laughter. “O man,” I thought. “Your Parrot is Sarah Palin’s new spokesman,” the cheese plate guy commented. “My parrot’s name is Pontius Pilate; his specialty used to be Jesus, but now he is into Sarah Palin.”
After Pontius Pilate ate the cheese, he closed his eyes and said three times in a lovely soft voice, “I support free love, my friends” (this was the new phrase Paul was teaching him), went back peacefully to his cage, and fell asleep.
The blonde looked more closely at Paul and realized that it was nothing personal, then silently left.
The cheese guy came over to our table and introduced himself. His name was Ben. Paul invited him to join us. We ordered another entrée for Ben to replace the cheese plate.i Ben did not want us to pay, but Paul insisted. He then offered to buy us a famous Urth Caffee apple cake for desert.
Ben definitely was very witty. He introduced himself as a philosopher of love, reality show writer, and street artist. I asked if anyone had ever mentioned his resemblance to Che Guevara. “Sure,” smiled Ben. “I make extra money on weekends as a Che Guevara impersonator at birthday parties and Quinceaneras.”
“You’re joking,” asks Paul. “OK, yes, but it would be a good idea.” I mentioned that it might be hard to market.
Paul had to go to the bathroom, and for a moment we were left alone.
“I also tried to write a reality show taking place in a retirement community, but nobody was interested.” “If I had known,” I said, “I would be your star.”
“It is not too late,” said Ben. “I can audition you on Saturday if are you interested.” I had plans for Saturday, but I decided to change them. Ben wrote his number on a napkin and asked me to call. Then he apologized that he had a dentist’s appointment in 15 minutes.
When Paul returned, Ben was already gone. It was time for us to leave as well. “You like the guy! Finally you are coming back to life. Alleluia!” said Paul.
We have to love shoppers.
We have to love shoppers.
Shopping is the core of human existence. Shoppers create culture, set trends, and drive progress. Think about it.
Everything mankind has created sooner or later becomes available for sale. You can shop for it, and maybe even get it for wholesale if you’re lucky. For example, every new development in the L.A. area begins with a mall. After that, we build houses, schools, corporate buildings, museums, restaurants, restrooms, wedding chapels, and hospitals.
It’s what I call the circle of life.
You are born in a hospital, and what does your happy grandmother do but go straight to the hospital’s gift shop and buy a present for you and your mother. In every airport, whether you are departing or arriving, you go through the shopping experience. At the end of every museum exhibit you pass through the gift shop. I could go on.
On top of everything already mentioned, shopping is part of psychological healing. It manages your mood and increases your productivity. If I am bored or unhappy, before I go to the doctor to pick up my Prozac prescription without tests or counselling, I will go to the mall.
When you hear an announcement or read an ad in the paper, “Dear Neiman Marcus shoppers! Today only we have 50% off on men’s underwear, women’s jewelry and (the most magical of all) women’s shoes.” All of a sudden, our life becomes filled with hope and possibility.
But wait, with time it gets even better.
I believe that the Cultural Revolution of the 21st Century is Internet shopping. You can shop straight from your home or, more importantly, from your office. This has made corporate America happier and more productive. It adds excitement to your work experience, regardless of your profession or status. Every day, corporate America starts its workday with Guilt.com or one of the many other sample sale websites. You can even receive a $25.00 gift certificate by inviting a friend.
For some negatively-minded people, this may seem like a conspiracy. Some would say that the conspirators are famous designers such as Donna Karan, Prada, or Chanel. For me, however, it’s the ones like Yohji Yamamoto, Comme Des Garcons, Issey Miyake, Martin Magella, and Marni who run our lives. Even if it is a conspiracy, better them than the politicians. At least we are looking and feeling good as a nation.
Revolution is not going to look good on my resume
There are two types of women you meet in the Corporate America. One who will help other women to move ahead, and one who will try to block you at every step. I had to learn to work with both of them.
Recently I was bullied out of a creative project I had been waiting for a long time. I am not going to name the person responsible, because she is still alive and may be among my readers. Let’s call her the Triple-X lady. I’m sure every office has one like her.
Triple-X is a classic case of the competitive corporate bitch. She picked me out from day one. I don’t know what actually turned her divine attention to me: maybe my designer portfolio or the cool French outfit with matching Prada boots that I was wearing when I met her, but I remember how her thin lips came together in a jealous, friendly smile.
Whatever it was, she could not get over it, and tried to put me down every chance she got, until finally she found a real opportunity. In a conversation with our Creative Director she mention, that I was not always politically correct in the high profile Brand Team meetings she and I were attending, and so I was not a good person to represent the Graphics Department. Triple-X never provided evidence, and nobody from the Brand Team had ever complained about me. Because she had a higher position and had worked longer for the company, however, the Creative Director decided to remove me from the project, without even listening to my side of the story.
I was crushed, as you can imagine. In my mind I fantasized a million ways I could get revenge. But, in reality, what choices did I have? Go to HR and fight until I was at my wits’ end trying to prove that I am not a political assassin in high profile company meetings? I know for a fact that in 99% of the cases HR people take the side of the senior manager, and in the end I would be labeled as a conflict-prone individual and a good candidate for the next round of layoffs.
When I got home I told my roommate Paul what had happened. He thought for a moment and then, as usual, came up with a great idea.
Don’t take it seriously, baby; just treat it as a game. Let’s name our operation, “Kill the Corporate Bully with LOVE.” All evening we were laughing and plotting an intimate LOVE revenge.
The next day I met Triple-X in the restroom. I gave her a loving doggy look and asked with a soft friendly voice how she was doing today. She turned to me with her mean face and fake smile and replied that, at the moment, she was dying from happiness. I have to say that her wittiness took me by surprise, but I did not lose sight of my plan. Happiness is a great thing, I immediately replied, and I was really Happy to see her Happy. I then went on and on about her outfit, which made her look thinner then she really is.
As I recited all that flattering bullshit I noticed that her eyes were starting to twitch and that she was trying to inch closer to the door, but there was no way since I was standing between her and the exit. Then something unexpected happened. I moved slightly forward and for a moment it was like we almost kissed. We were both stunned for a second, and then she finally exited the restroom. For the rest of the day she tried to avoid me.
Every day I made it my business to visit her office with compliments and different offerings. Luckily, in the previous week Triple-X had had a birthday, and I presented her with a wonderful gift. By way of background, Paul and I had been keeping two bottles of Czech whiskey that Paul had gotten from his father. Paul’s father gave them to us with the secret wish that, after drinking this substance, Paul would never touch alcohol again. Actually, it worked. We had one bottle open that we kept for special occasions and as a defense against unexpected guests. The second bottle found a home in the office of Triple-X. God help her.
In the meantime I am focusing on doing good work and on my relations with the Creative Director. I hope to get my project back some time soon.I think Triple-X will not be plotting against me in the near future, because if she does, I will finally catch her somewhere among the cubicles and for sure give her my Kiss .
Thursday, 8. July 2010 11:05
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Monday, 16. August 2010 16:09
outstanding post! great advice, will take on board!