Blah Blah Vaginas (xxxvii)

Reindeer went on standby with a local recording studio. They expected they would have an opening within a few days. Starting at that moment they could call at any time. They, we, whatever, would have to be ready to go at a moment’s notice.

Hrothie put on coffee.

Sixty bucks an hour it would cost us to record. And by us I meant them. And by them I seemed to mean us. And by us I meant Minerva’s grandparents.

It was beautiful. She took out her phone. She pressed a button. Then another button. Then she made polite small-talk for about ten minutes while we all watched her and she totally ate it up. Then she hung up the phone, and we had two thousand dollars to cover recording expenses.

I think Amanita said it best when she said, “WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT SHIT?”

“I owed them a phone call,” Minnie said.

I raised my glass to her. “I think I love you.”

She glowered. “Don’t joke about that.”

“I think I love your grandparents.”

“That is arguably worse to joke about.”

“Not fun people?”

“They are the kind of psychotic evil whoreson-whelps who got their wealth the old-fashioned way.”

“Slavery and exploitation?”

She shook her head. “Hard work and conformity.”

“Dude: Ew.”

“Yeah. They play golf and attend charity balls and bitch about how the loud parties that the kids have on Nantucket.”

“Huh.”

“A kid on Nantucket is someone who doesn’t remember the days of sail.”

“Sounds like Hades.”

“Yeah. We should dedicate our album to them.”

“Dude: we really should.”

Reindeer put it to a vote. A combination of poetic justice, savage irony, and two thousand dollars won our acquiescence.

“So why are you here?” I asked her. “Why aren’t you on a jacht somewhere listening to muzak and the sound of the sea?”

“All this sudden curiosity about the girl you’re dating.”

“Yeah, well, now that I realize that it might get me invited to one of those rip-roarin’ Nantucket parties-”

“You should come out to Colorado sometime. My parents will get you high on top of a mountain and make you listen to bootleg Dead tapes.”

“Where were you when I was, y’know, at any point in my life?”

“I was trying to get the fuck out of Colorado.”

“See? This is what I’m on about. Good things to know.” A thought burped in my brain. “So we’ve got this album we need to make-”

“We?”

“Die in a pronoun explosion.”

“Dude: this is getting, like, out of hand.”

Reindeer nodded his head. “An album is more than the sum of its rock. We need liner notes, and cover art, and whatever. Actually what we should do is look at some CDs and see what we need. Like that.”

Amanita put her feet up on Barbarossa. “I sense a field trip to the Exchange in our future.”

“Yes. Always. All the futures, without any of the doubts. Also it would probably be good to have some basic info for the website. And, like, a website.”

The Betty Kawaii blinked.

“Dude: we now own blahblahvaginas.com. I’ll host through nfsn. Probably not, like, a good idea to set up a vps on unsecure wifi.”

Amanita shuddered. “Fuck the democrats. I want English as the national language.”

“Dude: setting a canonical name… reticulating splines…”

Reindeer stood in the middle of the room and lifted his skinny fists like… you know. “I have missions for us all.”

He pointed at Barb. “Acquire CDs for us to study.”

“One will go to the store. And buy Deftones. Like one did in middle school.”

He pointed at Amanita. “You are a graphic designer. Design us an album cover.”

“Hah. I just doubled my clientèle. Woot.”

He pointed at Minerva. “You are an artist. Design us the inside of an album.”

“I am not, and I will do so just to prove it.”

He pointed at Hrothie. “Do whatever it is that you are doing.”

“Dude: I will cross the Ts and dot the quads.”

He pointed to me. “You are a writer. Do everything else.”

“I knew that was coming.”

“Gentlemen!” Reindeer said. “Ladies! And children of all ages!”

“We are most certainly that,” Amanita said.

“I say thee: go do stuff!”

Truly the battle-cry for the modern world.

Barb went to the drug store to buy angsty metal. Amanita and Minerva went out to get their cameras and their laptops and some pastry, probably not in that order. Hrothie went intertubing. Reindeer-

“So what are you doing?” I asked him.

“Sitting nervously by the Phone, in case the recording studio calls.”

“Right. Sorry.” He really did look kind of wound up. But I thought I had a way around that.

I borrowed Hrothie’s cell, went into the hall, called Amanita, and made a request.

They came back about half an hour later. I’m fairly sure they had kept most of the two thousand dollars. But at least some of it had been converted into pie.

When they put a slice in front of Reindeer, he relaxed like a balloon with a very fast leak.

He took a bite. Happiness that extreme ought to be illegal.

“Man,” said Reindeer, “this pie is not a lie.”

I think that’s when Minerva took a slice of banana crème and threw it in his face.

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~ by davekov on 26 October 2010.

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