Wednesday, October 10, 2007

They're changing guards at Buckingham Palace. Please someone snag this beefeater frock, it's a lovely medium type size. One that would even fit a stuffed Samsara. But it's gone in a mere 5 hours, so hurry.
I love the colors on this one. I love that it utterly avoids the Union Jack color scheme that most Britaniana wallows in. I like the tongue sticking out of the lion's mouth, the borders between the guards and the castle and the royal crested silver buttons.
Wear it to watch The Queen. Now normally I don't go in for monarchist stuff, being somewhat of a commie pinko and all, but oh how I love Helen Mirren. And oh how she deserves all the accolades for this one.
Have you seen the Istanbul novelty print of my dreams?
I am desperate to go to Istanbul. I want to visit the Blue Mosque, haggle over a carpet and maybe even an oud that I could tune like a ukulele. Maybe I could even take oud lessons. I want to stare wistfully out at the Bosphorus while sipping tea, puffing a nargileh and discover the language of Turkish moustaches. (That might sound racy, but it isn't. I have it on great authority that Turkish moustaches are a serious business: certain moustache stylings are worn only by communists, others by musicians. Really, a whole semiotics of moustaches.) I want to hear the calls to prayer from the minarets of all the different neighborhoods. Backgammon and coffee and arabesk. And of course, any rallies I can attend in support of Leyla Zana, Kurdish rights activist, political prisoner and former member of parliament.
Then in the evening, after a lovely shvitz at the hamam, I want to traipse out to tango clubs. Yes, Virginia, there is a huge tango scene in Istanbul. I'd love to go for the tango festival in November. Then, once I've gotten my fill of city living, I want to head off to a little village by the Aegean, study belly dance and shake it-shake it-shake it to live music. 10 days total. Maybe 12. Is that too much to ask?
I've always thought that there should be a special rescue league for the brokenhearted. A helicopter would come roaring up above you and a ladder would drop down. You'd climb up the ladder and be whisked away somewhere. It almost doesn't matter where. A suitcase with all necessities provided. And somewhere out of my rut I could sit by the sea and listen to the cadence of a language I don't know.
I've got the wander lust real bad and there's not a goddamn thing I can do about it. No goslings, really, there isn't. I am flat broke. Poorer than I've been for ages. Poor like I haven't paid rent yet this month. Poorer than I've been since, well, this time last year.
Have I gone on a vacation of any sort? Alas, no.
Have I run amok at Barney's? I've never done that, retail isn't one of my vices.
I haven't even had a lavish meal, or gotten a little greedy at the Salvation Army. I even worked my ass off at a second job all winter. So what happened? I got sick, that's what. And I even have health insurance.
The U.S. is a crap country.
Won't someone with an E.U. passport marry me? I would also cheerfully emigrate to Cuba. Do you live somewhere with universal health care? Drop me a line. I'll start packing now. I'll reduce it all to 2 suitcases filled with one the best novelty prints and sit out on my front stoop and wait. And wait. And wait.

Maybe by then Turkey will have improved its Human Rights record and gotten into the E.U.


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