I’ve been noticing something strange around the apartment, on those mornings when I’m sitting in the big bedroom, posting my stories. Every so often, I hear a strange noise, overhead.
No, I don’t think that the noise was coming from the poltergeist in the little bedroom. This is more of a scurrying sound, as if something is making its way across the floorboards of the attic. What it reminds me of, more than anything else, are the sounds I used to hear at the homestead, late at night, coming from inside the drop ceiling in our living room.
It has to be a mouse, I think to myself. Or, more likely, mice.
Sunday afternoon, Corb and I finally got around to wrapping up his enormous collection of nutcrackers (no, you actually did read that last sentence correctly), from Christmas, and lugged the boxes up into the attic. The entrance to the attic is in the hallway, right by our front door, and so, it was a short walk to the drop ladder that's brought down with a crash by a tug of a string, and a short climb up to our storage area, located in the back of the attic, which at this point in the year could keep a snowman perfectly happy.
As soon as we got to our storage bin, we heard the scurry. “Did you hear that?” I asked Corb, and grabbed on to his arm.
“I think I heard something,” he said, and started to play with the lock on the screen door, the one that allegedly prevents other people from getting into the thin mesh wire that protects our valuables.
As we were moving the nutcrackers into the storage area, we heard the scurrying again, to our left. I whipped my head around, and saw a small shadowy moving quickly across one side of the attic. “Did you SEE that?” I asked, jumping out of the storage area, quickly.
“I think we’d better make a call,” said Corb, moving to lock up the space and get the hell out of there.
Yesterday afternoon, Corb called me on the phone. “I just called the main office about the animals in the attic,” he said. “I’m not sure what’s disturbing me more—what’s up there, or what they told me.”
“What’s up there?” I asked.
“They said it’s a family of squirrels,” he replied.
“Oh, great! Just great. So what you’re telling me is that we could have been surrounded up there in that attic by a rogue family of squirrels, trying to de-nut us.”
“That’s not the worst part,” said Corb. “They’ve actually known about this for a while. They’re just waiting to see who comes in with the lowest bid, so they can decide who to hire to take care of the situation!”
I can’t exactly say that I’m surprised. We've lost three ternants in our apartment thi month, and I think the landlord's getting a little nervous. Last month, when Corb locked us out of the apartment, and I spent a half an hour stuck outside our balcony, we were charged $20 as a lockout fee. Never mind that the maintenance staff lives on site. Still, the chage was fine, I guess...except that the complex has been harassing us for the $20, ever since. We finally paid it last week, but it felt as if the place was going to shut down unless we paid it.
I don't know. Maybe when we were locked out, we should have just asked the squirrels to unlock the door for us.
While scrolling through my Live Journal friend’s list tonight, I came across the video for “Grace Kelly,” by Mika, a name that I (and probably most of America) had not heard until about a week ago. But these past seven days, he’s been getting heavy rotation—at least, on Sirius.
I have to tell you, Corb and I are both absolutely addicted to this song. We turn the radio way up, when it comes on, and then repeat it a few times, after it comes to an end.
I’ve always been a big fan of pop confectionaries, and this little morsel certainly is that, with all the substance of warm cotton candy. Still, the song is damn catchy, and the guy clearly has a fantastic vocal range. Of course, what everyone’s digging is the big blast of Freddie Mercury that Mika’s clearly channeling. Not only does he vocally sound like him, but he also bears a faint resemblance to him, too, as if he were a younger cousin.
I’d be interested in hearing more. We need more Freddies in this world.
This week-end, primarily because of the Arctic weather we’re experiencing in the Northeast, Corb and I spent a lot of time in the apartment, watching movies.
Friday night we took in “The Illusionist,” a movie that was produced (along with about 30 others, it seems) by my brother’s best friend, Aaron. Saturday, we started our afternoon with the absolutely delightful “Kinky Boots,” and ended the night with “The Prairie Home Companion” (which I loved, but Corb was bored by. It was clear that director Robert Altman had reached the ‘Tempest’ phase of his career with this one.) In between, we tried to watch “One Night with The King.”
I said, tried.
It had been Corb’s idea. He had seen it a Blockbuster, and the description caught his eye. I’m not really sure what grabbed his attention, but I had been so insistent on watching “The Illusionist” that I didn’t want to be totally greedy. So, I nodded my head and we took it home.
The back of the box called it an “epic motion picture,” which I guess means that it’s something along the lines of “Moses.” Something along the lines of “Holy Moses” was more like it. The acting was overwrought (sorry, Peter O’Toole), the plot was confusing, and the character motivations made no sense whatsoever. Seriously, I really cannot tell you what this movie was supposed to be about. Something Biblical, I got that. Something involving “the jews,” a word that was repeated at least twenty times a minute, at least in the opening sequences. (Which could have made for a fun drinking game, I suppose, sort of like “Hello Bob.”) Oh, it was supposed to be the story of Esther, too. I was sort of in the mood for a more fun Esther, though, like Esther Rolle or Esther Williams.
About ten minutes into the film, I could tell that it was going to be a long, hard slog, and I braced myself for two hours of my life that I’d never be able to get back. But thankfully, I looked over at Corb, and he looked over at me.
And then he said, “This is horrible.”
“I know,” I said.
“Can we return this and ask for our money back?” he asked.
I felt all warm inside. “Oh really? Would you do that? For me?” I said, excitedly.
As we drove back to the movie store, we tried to go over what it is we would say. “I know!” said Corb, “Let’s go in there like those two theater guys from ‘In Living Color’! We could be like...” HE placed his hand over his heart, and swept back his head. “Darling! We just LOVED ‘The Illusionist,’ because there were just tons of cute guys, all over the screen. And magic! It was fabulous! And then there was ‘Kinky Boots.’ I mean, hell-o! Fashion!! Loved it!! But ‘One Night with the King’ didn’t have fashion at all. It had these rags, and, and...”
“And Jews!” I said. “I mean, maybe it’s me, but I prefer all my men to be...well, you know...” I pretended to lean over the counter. “Uncircumcised. ‘No hood, no good,’ that’s my motto! There’s just something about a little foreskin that puts a smile on this guy’s face!”
Hmmm. Well, we did get to exchange the movie, in case you were wondering. But no, we didn’t exactly tell our story that way, either.
And by the way. The foreskin thing. Absolutely untrue!