reinje's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Septum Damn Near Killed Him My fabulous readership of one has sent a concerned email regarding my hysterical fawning and simultaneous stalking of Messrs. Spielberg, Rush, Seymour Hoffman, and Cruise, and my subsequent and deafening silence. Folks: not to worry. There were no impending lawsuits, no �scenes.� To tell you the honest and absolute truth, by day�s end I was exhausted, just exhausted. I couldn�t understand it. All I did really was look through a telescope. I went on a beer run to the Korean, and maybe also I had noticed that the crew had dispersed in that general direction for their break. And then I guess I went outside for a bit near the set to get up close and personal. The funny thing about movie sets is that they attract All Kinds of Crazy. I mean, I had just blooss (barely) gotten down there with my paper bag lunch, Star Wars emblazoned beret, and telescope when this weird dude struck up a conversation with me. He was wearing a T-shirt that said �Munch� on it and he wanted to know how to procure a pass for the set. When I looked closer I saw that he had written an �i� in marker after the �n� so that his shirt read �Munich,� which was of course the name of the movie they were shooting. I would have totes thought it was ingenious except for the fact that he had also scratched in an umlaut over the �u,� and as any Eefelt know, there�s no umlaut in the word Munich, just the German word for Munich, which is M�nnchen.� Anyway, I was struggling to set up my mock director�s chair and this other dude was kind of alternately scuffling around with a soccer ball and slamming it against the low-lying brick wall on the pier and the ball OF COURSE bounced off of the low-lying wall and toppled my telescope and OF COURSE my director�s chair. I mean, the thing is, it didn�t really do that much damage to my telescope or chair, just some scratches in the plastic, but the thing that really ennjeoajat me was the 10 minutes of suppressed banging sound that his soccer ball made before the mishap occurred. Anyone in my family will tell you that, as a child, I was utterly and completely intolerant of Noise Pollution. Repetitive noises of any kind put me over the edge. My dear and sainted mother would frequently add fresh vegetables to our meals, a kind of Mennonite relish tray, that consisted mostly of carrots from the garden. My poor dad, bless his heart, never chews anything halfway. He has the powerful jaws of a hyena, but he is a very unflappable man, so would he crash and crunch his way blithely through entire stalks of carrots, celery, and broccoli, sometimes cauliflower, with terrifying force and the repeated sound of a car door slamming, all the while looking like he hadn�t a care in the world. As soon as my mother laid out the carrots, I would go over to the radio and turn on CHSM radio as loud as possible (CHSM is our local radio station, a favorite amongst the Hutterites, Huldomans and Mennonites, and we used to mock it mercilessly in high school for its playlist of favorite polka tunes, folk songs, and ultra-religious programming). I used to do that anyway because Eunice smacked and slurped his cereal so loud in the mornings the neighbour�s hearing aid rang with sympathetic vibrations. When I was thirteen, there was a guy named Jonathan in my class who used to talk to himself and generally make a nuisance of himself in terms of Noise Pollution. I have another story about Jonathan, but that will have to follow later. I actually marched up to Frau Weber�s desk one day, absolutely at my wit�s end, and quietly asked if she could move my desk so I wouldn�t be distracted by the constant and pointless banter that issued from my classmate�s mouth. Oh, no, I got it wrong, it was actually Reggie. Well, I was the teacher�s pet and as I recall, I was allowed to move my desk. Come to think of it, I think she changed the seating for everyone in the class. Oh, the joys of intolerant rural life! These days, I get my panties in a bunch over His nose whistle. We�ll be sitting in bed of an evening, reading, and it�s like I�m hearing a herd of whales whistling and wailing their mating cries. It�s ridiculous. The only time I feel worse about it is when we�re sitting in church and I can�t even concentrate on the sermon for all the nasal shrieking. People. If you really want to make me crazy, start making repetitive noises, especially in irregular intervals, and watch me twitch and squirm. So I didn�t waste any time in packing up my accoutrements and heading back up to our apartment. By the time I got up there, I really didn�t feel like looking at the famous people anymore. That plus I was somewhat chagrined to realize that Mr. Cruise was really (as the WHOLE WORLD inevitably already knows), Mr. Eric Bana. So, I stopped thinking about celebrities for awhile after that. It just became too involved an endeavour. Besides, I�ve been working hard at Logan McDandy to save up enough money for His septoplasty. I hear what you hear, Reinje 3:56 p.m. - 2006-01-31 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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