Angela Bocage


Tearful a.m., blessed p.m., and–CORGIS. And a new cartooning possibility…!

I’ve been neglecting this more serious blog to have my silly fun over at my MySpace blog, but enough of that…today was enough of both, really. And anyway, when my much-admired blogger, serious, scholarly, politically aware, ethical, cool, Witch and polyamourist pal tells me she’s gonna make a t-shirt that says “I’m not Prince Charming but I’ll F*** You ‘Til He Gets Here,” all the categories blur…we might do a comic strip together, though, about her adventures dating straight girls! They are SO into her, which I can totally understand anyone being, and it’s certainly about time for me to draw some more.

Anyway, this morning we had to go in early, because my resked’d driving test was at 2 and my spouse had to drive into the city from her suburban office and had to get work done first, of all things. So maybe i was somewhat sleepless. But when this nice young guy at work, who’d also used to frequent the late lamented Blackout Books in NYC, brought in the Rolling Stone article about Brad Will, I couldn’t read much before I flat-out lost it. I couldn’t stop crying. I clenched my teeth, told myself it was better to just cry as quietly as possible and get some work done than go to the ladies’ room because I’d probably just break down worse there, and sloggy kleenex after sloggy kleenex plopped into my plastic-lined cheapo office wastebasket….

Everybody knows who Brad Will is, right? Ha! The corporate media sure had the disappearance of some pretty teenager partying with her senior class in Grenada all over every front page in America, but the cold blooded political murder, in Oaxaca, of a scruffy guy who was there to report the truth? Not so much. The “truth,” unwieldy and blobbularly nebulous concept that it is on its best day, was so bizarrely corsetized into homogenized yuppiethink in the Rolling Stone article that I wasn’t just crying for Brad, and for the loss of Brad, and for a world that’s lost him, but for the smarmy monkeyshit in which his memory is buried, if articles like this are all anyone sees. Apparently there are other written and filmic accounts in the works, and i will definitely, definitely write about what i find.

In the meantime, I stuck my earphones in and blasted myself deaf in the left ear between the False Prophets’ Overkill and Blind Obedience again and again and more personally-cheering pieces like Plastic Bertrand’s Ca Plan Pour Moi, Loreena McKennitt’s Dante’s Dream, and Current 93’s Tam Lin, playing drums and bass somewhere on the astral plane, and, strangely, getting a prodigious amount of work done before time to leave for my driver’s test.

The taxi ride over to Columbus Boulevard and Tasker, where the Driver’s License Center sits most harmoniously with its surroundings on the corner, certainly corroborated my lovely coworker Mahesha’s information that that neighborhood’s drivers are libertarian absolutists regarding which lane one can turn left out of. We almost, but did not, get killed on one such occasion, so I busied myself reading interesting facts in the Rights and Responsibilities sections, for both passengers and drivers, posted on the back of the front seat. I fantasized that since the driver was a total slob, and yakked departure-to-arrival on his cell phone, thereby abdicating two of his responsibilities, perhaps I could have been forgiven for schlepping a muddy baby goat or incontinent miniature horse, as two of my responsibilities were not to tote “unrestrained” animals and not to dirty the interior.

Though Coach was a lot more worked up about the test than I was, the Powers smiled lovingly and I got the sweetest, nicest, most gallant–I’d venture to say courtliest!–driving tester one could imagine! What a sweetheart! And slipped as effortlessly between the now-daylit parking cones [I’d practiced there the night before, along with some other enterprising women–cf. my MySpace] as a muddy baby goat into a taxi! No, wait, MUCH more so!!! And this is after a calm, cool, collected cruise ’round the area–so the sweetie-pie tester turns to me after I’ve reparked Coach’s vehicle (Pallas Athena aka “Speedy”) and says “As we say in South Philly, ‘Bingole!'” (And Coach’s sun-visor St. Christopher medal, which had survived WWII on a submarine, probably came out of the duck-and-cover position he’d assumed when her Hebrew honey got behind the wheel…)

So watch out, cz i’z licensed to pilot carz in todos los Estados Unidos, y Guam, France, Germany, and Puerto Rico tambien!!! And so we came home and this evening watched The Queen, which is brilliant, and whose Corgis won the coveted Fido award, Britain’s canine answer to the Oscars, and deserved it richly every one. The cuteness ALONE woulda aced it, but their dance of synchronized obedience to queenly directives was too prosh!!! and any dog lover should seriously see this flick…even if it was a tad inaccurate in the conformation of the Labradors.



%d bloggers like this: