A Piece of that Kit Kat
Caitlin
(Touched upon previously in http://whiteytighties.blogspot.com/2004/10/lyrical-post.html. I apologize for how godawfully long my posts were back then. Still, have a look if you care to. I wrote it, so it's bound to be fairly amazing.)
01. I will write something about you. (No less than one paragraph in length.)
Cait, you are unique among my friends for a number of reasons. For one, you’re a girl.
I cannot say definitively that I have one best friend. I would probably say I have between 3 and 5. But among those special few, you’re the only female. I know a lot of liberal hacks big on being gender blind would ask me here what difference your sex makes in all of this. Maybe it is meaningless.
Not for me, though. Many people I know hold strong to a belief that boys and girls can’t be “just friends.” They might argue it's because of biology or societal constraints, but they don’t think a relationship like ours can exist.
I am happy to prove them wrong, and very lucky to be able to prove them wrong with you.
Aside from the obvious features inherent on your being of the female persuasion, you are different from my other best friends in several other ways.
For one, your tastes in entertainment are the most varied. Well, perhaps “varied” isn’t quite right. But your tastes are the most distinctive, I would have to say. There is less overlap between your favorite movies and music and any one else's than there is between any two other friends of mine. I appreciate anything that differs from the norm, and so for this reason, too, you are special.
Your tastes are a reflection of your personality, which is similarly unique. I’ve addressed this before, but I am constantly amazed and delighted by the number of seeming contradictions you contain.
You’re unimpressed by feminists, yet are a strong, independent, capable woman.
You’re an occasionally girly-girl who doesn’t feel she has to like the color pink or draw pictures of rainbows and ponies.
You can be dainty and feminine and still cheer heartily at a football game or trade dirty jokes.
Speaking of which, I feel that, out of all my friends, I can build up the best banter with you.
Since I toned down my perversions, and you toned up your tolerance, we can establish a rapport that’s stronger and funnier than any I’ve ever experienced.
Part of this is owed to the fact that you’re just so darned funny.
I’ve covered this before, too, but girls are, as a general rule, not funny. You manage to have one of the best senses of humor of anyone I know, despite this handicap. Also keep in mind that I know some pretty funny people.
You’re one of the only folks I know who can genuinely and consistently make me laugh.
You have a flair and a style all your own. A complex amalgamation of punk rock, hip-hop, European tradition, Caribbean breezes, Rockwell Americana, shiny leather and white cotton. It’s at once as flashy and bizarre as a heavy golden necklace, and as sensible and real as a crisp, clean sheet of painter’s canvas.
You’re my only best friend with any real artistic talent, which you happen to have in spades.
You are in many ways, the coolest person I know.
What don’t I like about you?
There is very little.
I will never not be enraged by your refusal to try different foods. For, gourmand though you might be, you appreciate only a small array of meals. And though you might be a skilled painter, when it comes to dining, you have the most limited palette of anyone I have ever met. (Play on words. Har-har.)
Also, you can be a little materialistic at times.
And you dwell too much on celebrity crushes for my liking. But maybe it’s just because I don’t have any celebrity crushes of my own that your dotage over Damon seems so excessive.
I call you materialistic, but I would never call you superficial. In many ways, I admire your desire for material things. For status symbols and luxury items. You’re unabashedly materialistic. Not in an overwhelming way. You know what you like and what you want, and you don’t try to hide it. You're certainly not a hypocrite. You stick to your guns and I admire you for that. And you never let yourself get carried away by material desires.
And, speaking of sticking to your guns, about your personal beliefs you are assured and unwavering. You don’t go out of your way to indoctrinate others, but you hold fast to your own beliefs and defend them courageously and competently when questioned.
I consider you to be the one person I can always turn to for help or guidance or just a pat on the back. I don’t know what I would do if I lost that openness, that thoughtful advice, or that shoulder to cry on.
Gosh.
What else can I say about you?
You’re kind and conscious, but never oppressively doting.
You’re a free-thinker and a religious human being.
You’re funny and beautiful and a joy to be around.
And your laugh reassures me that life is worth living.
I love you for all of these reasons, Cait, but they only separate into distinct categories and qualities when I stop and think hard about you. When I’m around you, they all kind of blend together into a glorious kind of kaleidoscope that is you.
I remind myself daily how lucky I am to know you.
02. I will then tell what song/movie remind me of you.
Oh, shucks.
In the very last reverse quiz, Andrew’s, I stated that Andrew—film and music connoisseur with sharper tastes than any other— would be paying rapt attention to this section in particular. I was so overwhelmed with pressure from the task of picking songs and movies that remind me of him that I forgot the one other friend who may be as, if not more, sensitive to the songs and cinema I associate with her.
That friend is you, Caitlin.
You have your pretty, dexterous fingers on the pulse of pop culture and entertainment. You have finely-tuned and singular tastes. You’re really the type of person this section was designed for.
So, it is with mixed trepidation and joy that I list the following:
Songs:
To start things off, let’s be a little inappropriate.
Bed, by Semisonic.
See if you can follow my thinking here.
Well show me a friendship that's pure and chaste
And I'll show you and engine that's dying to race.
Well the time has come for me to find
Another way to get my soul fed.
I know we could be the sweetest friends,
But if that's where it ends
Then I'll find someone else to bed.
Well the time has come for me
To take care of myself instead.
You know if we remain
On a spiritual plane
I will go insane.
Don't make me find someone else to bed.
Bed
Find someone
Find someone else to bed
Also, continuing in the theme, but with a more serious note, you remind me of the song Gravity, by The North LaBrea All Star Conquistadors
No, no, no. I’m going about this all wrong.
You see, I think the best way to list these, Cait, would be to chop you into pieces.
Not literally, of course. That wouldn’t help at all.
What I mean is, break up the components of your personality and list songs and movies according to them.
So!
There’s bad ass, gangsta Cait:
I think of you when I hear anything by Eminem or other respectable rappers. Specifically White America and Square Dance, and Loose Yourself.
Also, if I ever see 8 Mile, I’m sure it will make me think of you.
Beyond that, if ever I see a movie that has anything to do with gangs or Dee-troit or gats or pimps or ho’s, if I think of any friend at all, it’ll be you.
But not just “ganstas.” Also, “gangsters.”
How could I not think of you while watching The Godfather? Or when listening to Italian Dinner Music?
There’s bad ass, espionage agent Cait:
You make me think of the Mission Impossible theme, and the second sequel to that movie.
Also, I think of you when I watch Alias or The Bourne films.
There’s Pirate Cait:
I think of you (thought of you tonight, actually) while watching Pirates of the Caribbean. (Just the first one, though. I don’t want to insult you by linking you to that garbage heap of a sequel.)
And the Muppet Treasure Island.
Plus, the sweeping, swashbuckling music from the former and the goofy songs, especially “Cabin Fever,” from the latter.
That moves us nicely into silly Cait:
I think of you when I see any Muppet in any form (and also when I see some of the cuter Fraggles.)
I think of you when I hear “Push it Good,” by Salt n’ Peppa, or Fat and Couch Potato by Weird Al.
Not because you are a fat couch potato. Quite the opposite. You’re a smoking hot couch potato. But Fat is arguably Weird Al’s best song, and so full of funny, silly lines that I can easily picture you laughing hysterically at it..
I think of you when I see anything Disney, especially Disney TV.
There’s a more vulnerable Cait:
The song Story of a Girl reminds me of you in a melancholy way.
There’s independent woman Cait:
I think of her when I see films like The Devil Wears Prada, or hear songs like “Gotta Be,” by Des’ree or “Suddenly I See,” by K.T. Tunstall.
I think this fits in here, too:
Though you have never seen it, I am reminded of you when I see Entourage.
Lastly, there’s Classics Cait:
The one that appreciates black and white film and looks so good in those fluffy, 50’s cardigans.
I think of this Cait when I see Cary Grant get chased by the plane in North by Northwest, or when I see Jimmy Stewart talk to an invisible rabbit in Harvey.
Mike Doughty song:
White Girl?
Either that or “Madeline and Nine,” but I don’t really feel that way any more.
Oh! Screenwriter’s Blues. Fo’ sho’.
Oh! And one last addition. How could I forget?
This song will always remind me of you:
Now he’s Phil,
Pheh-ill
Of the Future,
He’s a 22nd Century man!
03. If I were to apply a time to you, it would be...
This was a tricky one.
At first I thought early in the morning, because of your boundless, sometimes annoying, almost other-worldly energy. But then I realized you weren’t a morning person, and the rise ‘n’ shine, dewdrops, birds twittering scene wasn’t right for you.
So then I thought late-nite, because of your sense of adventure, your love of danger, espionage, and mystery, and all the midnight capers we've gone on. But, no, that wasn’t quite right, either. It takes something . . .dark and slightly unhinged to merit late-nite hours, and, as you’re never dark and only occasionally unhinged, I vetoed night time, too.
Then I thought, what does Caitlin really love? What does she know a bit about and care a good deal for? If a line had to be drawn, what would Cait refuse to be parted with?
Then it hit me.
Food!
You’re dinner-time, Cait.
But not just, like, 6 or 7, American family supper time kinda thing.
Oh, no!
You’re 5 until 11. You’re lavish banquets and candlelit dinners and European flair.
Early-to-late evening.
I can’t pick a season, though I’m thinking late Spring, when the colt that is the vernal months is almost steady on its feet enough to gallop into the fields of Summer. The trees have filled in. In the air there is the tingling, electric feel that follows a rain storm. The rain has left the grass so green it almost hums in the approaching twilight.
And the city streets—for this is indeed in a bright, beautiful city—are dampened and shimmering in the fading light.
People in glorious eveningwear, men strutting about in the black right-angles of their tuxedoes, women swishing and swaying in their colored gowns like walking liquid.
Forks cling and clang on plates. Crystal glasses are filled with wine and raised in toast.
The babble of sophisticated conversation brings to mind an image of a sparkling, clean brook tumbling gracefully over rocks.
Chandelier light glints off jewelry and whitened teeth.
All of this, regardless of day or year I think of when I think of you.
04. I will try to name a single word that best describes you. (Or, that failing, a half dozen words.)
Ooo. Tricky one.
(I think this is the third one I've said would be "tricky." I need a better thesaurus.)
I know you too well for settle for either “cute” or quirky.”
“Discriminating” is another choice. That one makes me smile ruefully, thinking of you agonizing over choices on a menu, and settling on your old standards.
You remind me of glass a good deal. Glass is hard and strong and, simultaneously, easily shattered. But I cannot think of one word to sum that up. Moreover, you’re not nearly as transparent as glass, as I learned the hard way.
I also really wanna say “special,” but that brings to mind images of handicap ramps, helmets, and camps in which you learn how to tie your shoes.
You also remind me of a rose, hokey as that sounds. Beautiful, idolized, but capable of giving a nasty cut if not handled with care and respect.
Truth be told, I’m at a loss here.
Resilience, imagination, talent . . . all fail to provide the whole picture.
Fierce, kinetic, independent.
I can’t do it.
. . .
I think I’m gonna settle on “jive.”
Jive as in crazy talk. Jive as in trickery and mischief. Jive as in funk and soul and drive and movement. Jive as in style. Jive, to flow, to follow, to break away. To lead.
It’s an odd choice, but an apt one, I feel.
05. I'll tell you one of the most memorable moments I've had with you.
Whew. I will do my best to keep you all abreast of the topic cupped in my hand, and try not to make a boob of myself. This might be tit.
Tough!
That is to say, it might be tough.
Okay.
Let’s do the “bad news” first.
By “bad news” I mean “bad times.”
I remember distinctly that time at Tony’s that I enraged you to such a degree that it took the combined strength of Tony, Will, and Pawel to keep you from tearing my eye-lids off and beating me to death with them.
I wasn’t always this erudite, chivalric knight you picture in your head when you think of me. There was a time not so long ago that I was quite a cad.
Moving from “all bad” to “partly bad,” the times I’ve traveled somewhere with you have been most memorable. Disney World was first. That was a memorable experience in an off itself, but the times with you were mostly splendid. The day we spent traversing the park in the rain, riding every rollercoaster we could find will always hold a special place in my heart. The dinner at the hotel restaurant and the (hopefully) gay waiter. The mono-rail rides, complete with breathtaking vistas of the park and the threat of the fearsome squentas.
I also recall our goodbye. Slightly strained. Slightly awkward. Civil, friendly enough, I suppose, but . . . off nonetheless.
And I recall my slightly surreal, though oddly comforting, introspective walk back to my hotel room. The music of the park a mere background noise as I pondered existence and gazed at the warm lights and empty streets.
. . .
Aaah. Memories.
. . .
Oh, yeah. And card games, swimming games, brownie baking and everything else that went right with Michigan.
I will also always remember our car talks. It seemed every time I’d drop you off at home we’d spend what felt like hours (in a good way) just sitting the car and talking. I would occasionally scare myself by thinking that your mom thought we were fooling around.
Our various moments at Friendly’s, and Friendly’s in particular, are dear to me.
I think the least memorable moments, oddly enough, are the regular times. Just you and me, going to the movies, having dinner, that kind of thing. I’m certain we did all that, just the two of us, that is, but I can’t clearly remember one single time. I’m inclined to think we were both funny and charming, though.
06. I will tell you what animal you remind me of.
A bird. Well, actually, many birds.
A chickadee. A sparrow. A swallow.
An osprey. An owl.
A kookaburra.
Also, an ocelot. Pretty, quirky, slinking through the jungle.
Dog:
I’d get slapped if I said Chihuahua, right?
Tempting as that is, I’ll refrain.
A collie, maybe? A playful, capable, staunch defender of friends. But also something more regal, like King Charles Spaniel. Or, though it doesn't match you the least bit physically, a Neapolitan Mastiff.
07. I'll then tell you something that I've always wondered about you.
This sounds like an unforgivable cop-out, but the only thing I’ve ever really wondered about you I found out already.
We’ve never had trouble opening up to one another, so there is little left over from our long talks that I could actually wonder about.
I mean, sure, I wonder what you look like nekkid, but I have my writer’s imagination and my thorough knowledge of anatomy, so it’s far from a daunting puzzle.
I suppose if I wondered anything, it would be about the future.
Our friendship has changed more, I think, and spanned less time, than any other of my relationships that I can think of. So, I just wonder sometimes where we’ll be in 5 years, or 10. Will we still be close? Will I have done something to annoy you to such an extent that you refuse to see me? Will we be a crime-fighting team?
With other friends, I don’t see much change happening. But with you, the possibilities are numerous.
08. I'll tell you which hanky signal you'd probably go by.
Navy, dark blue
Medium blue
Khaki/olive drab
Lime green
Pale yellow
Beige
Plastic fork
09. I will describe my ideal day with you.
The sun rises over L.A., painting the smog-choked sky in rich hues of scarlet and gold.
Exterior shot of our apartment—a lovely place we co-habit which lies above an old cinema.
The alarm clock by the bed begins to chime shrilly.
You'd nudge me in the ribs and whisper in my ear, almost nibbling, "Honey, shut that thing off. I'm still sleepy."
I grudgingly comply and reach to silence the siren. Unfortunately, the pesky mechanical devil is out of reach, and we have to get up. We stagger about a bit, naked and stretching, and finally fall back upon the bed, ravenously ravaging each other, too overcome by passion to turn the alarm off.
Over in your room, you lie in bed listening to the muffled, but still annoying, bleat of the alarm.
After fifteen minutes of waiting for me to turn it off, you get up and enter my room. I am apparently still asleep and in the middle of some weird dream. Based on my movements and roving tongue, you'd guess I was dreaming about wrestling a giant ice cream cone. You try not to think about about what else it could be.
You sigh and shut the alarm clock off for me. As soon as the ringing stops, my eyelids pop open.
I tumble out of bed, landing at your slipper-clad feet.
“Long day ahead of us,” you remark, amused. “And we won’t get very much done with you lying there on the floor.”
“A valid point,” I admit, hoisting myself up and looking you squarely in the eye. I slam a fist into my open palm decisively, managing a degree of austerity despite the fact that I’m naked as a jay bird. “Now! What’s for breakfast?”
I whip us up some steak and eggs for, and we discuss what lies in store for us that day.
“We’ve got to be on the set for ten,” you tell me, checking an itinerary. The set you refer to is, of course, for the film Crossing Swords, a comedy adventure about pirates, which I co-wrote and have a small part in, and for which you are handling the set design.
“Hopefully the director will be able to speed us out of there before ten p.m. today,” I say, glancing at another, much different itinerary, “because it seems the Chinese consulate is the target of a Triad assassination plot. The boss wants us to intercede on his behalf and shut down the Triad’s South Central operations while we’re at it.
You sip you orange juice and say, “Ah, the busy lives of secret agents.”
So there you have it: We’re minor but successful cogs in the film industry by day, purveyors of justice and gatherers of volatile information by night.
I won’t bore you with details of the day’s routine events. An overview, though, might be nice.
At the studio, you help me to save a particularly hilarious part of the script by winning over the director. You also manage to finally finish the set for the Spanish outpost, and relax afterwards with a Coke, trying not to think that it’s scheduled to be blown up during shooting the following day.
In one of my scenes I am trampled on repeatedly by a barefoot Rachel McAdams. Stirred to fits of giggles by my jokes, she continuously messes up and we have to shoot the scene at least a dozen times. What a shame.
That night, after a quiet dinner at a small steakhouse (yes, steak twice in one day!—for you at least. I stick with the broiled salmon), we take to the streets and do battle with a gang of vicious Chinese criminals. After the fight, as we stand, panting with exertion and taking account of our various injuries, I remark that we should really have costumes.
You look at your figure in one of the few un-broken mirrors in the brothel we raided, admiring the way the sleek, black catsuit makes you look, and then say our uniforms are good enough for your liking.
I, however, do not look as fetching in a black catsuit, and demand a mask and cape.
The argument continues on the ride back to the apartment in our shiny, black, costumized Escalade.
Back at the pad, we shower, dress our wounds, and unwind with a bowl of popcorn and a Hitchcock movie.
We bid each other goodnight, happy that tomorrow is our day off, and supposed to be free of espionage and Hollywood politics. We plan to sleep in. As we enter our separate bedrooms, you warn me not to leave my porn lying around the house and I say to stop denying how much the smut excites you.
We share a laugh and hit the hay.
10. I will tell you which villainous character actor you remind me of.
Sarah Michelle Gellar.
I know she seems vapid and untalented much of the time, but hear me out.
You’re both petite and pretty. Yet both of you convey a kind of no-nonsense inner strength. Also, I would call to attention your comparable butt-kicking abilities.
Plus, Gellar often plays characters who are fond of luxury, which is something you’re not opposed to yourself.
And, with that, I leave you for now.
*dusts hands*
*shoots cuffs*
*clears throat*
My work is done here. I’m off to wallow in self pity and ball myself into a nervous wreck. (Not about this blog, dear reader. I sadly have more things to concern myself with than just this old thing.)
Ta.
Current Mood: Pleased, but jittery, restless, and devoid of all but the faintest scraps of hope.
Current Music: Tim Curry, Toxic Love.
(Touched upon previously in http://whiteytighties.blogspot.com/2004/10/lyrical-post.html. I apologize for how godawfully long my posts were back then. Still, have a look if you care to. I wrote it, so it's bound to be fairly amazing.)
01. I will write something about you. (No less than one paragraph in length.)
Cait, you are unique among my friends for a number of reasons. For one, you’re a girl.
I cannot say definitively that I have one best friend. I would probably say I have between 3 and 5. But among those special few, you’re the only female. I know a lot of liberal hacks big on being gender blind would ask me here what difference your sex makes in all of this. Maybe it is meaningless.
Not for me, though. Many people I know hold strong to a belief that boys and girls can’t be “just friends.” They might argue it's because of biology or societal constraints, but they don’t think a relationship like ours can exist.
I am happy to prove them wrong, and very lucky to be able to prove them wrong with you.
Aside from the obvious features inherent on your being of the female persuasion, you are different from my other best friends in several other ways.
For one, your tastes in entertainment are the most varied. Well, perhaps “varied” isn’t quite right. But your tastes are the most distinctive, I would have to say. There is less overlap between your favorite movies and music and any one else's than there is between any two other friends of mine. I appreciate anything that differs from the norm, and so for this reason, too, you are special.
Your tastes are a reflection of your personality, which is similarly unique. I’ve addressed this before, but I am constantly amazed and delighted by the number of seeming contradictions you contain.
You’re unimpressed by feminists, yet are a strong, independent, capable woman.
You’re an occasionally girly-girl who doesn’t feel she has to like the color pink or draw pictures of rainbows and ponies.
You can be dainty and feminine and still cheer heartily at a football game or trade dirty jokes.
Speaking of which, I feel that, out of all my friends, I can build up the best banter with you.
Since I toned down my perversions, and you toned up your tolerance, we can establish a rapport that’s stronger and funnier than any I’ve ever experienced.
Part of this is owed to the fact that you’re just so darned funny.
I’ve covered this before, too, but girls are, as a general rule, not funny. You manage to have one of the best senses of humor of anyone I know, despite this handicap. Also keep in mind that I know some pretty funny people.
You’re one of the only folks I know who can genuinely and consistently make me laugh.
You have a flair and a style all your own. A complex amalgamation of punk rock, hip-hop, European tradition, Caribbean breezes, Rockwell Americana, shiny leather and white cotton. It’s at once as flashy and bizarre as a heavy golden necklace, and as sensible and real as a crisp, clean sheet of painter’s canvas.
You’re my only best friend with any real artistic talent, which you happen to have in spades.
You are in many ways, the coolest person I know.
What don’t I like about you?
There is very little.
I will never not be enraged by your refusal to try different foods. For, gourmand though you might be, you appreciate only a small array of meals. And though you might be a skilled painter, when it comes to dining, you have the most limited palette of anyone I have ever met. (Play on words. Har-har.)
Also, you can be a little materialistic at times.
And you dwell too much on celebrity crushes for my liking. But maybe it’s just because I don’t have any celebrity crushes of my own that your dotage over Damon seems so excessive.
I call you materialistic, but I would never call you superficial. In many ways, I admire your desire for material things. For status symbols and luxury items. You’re unabashedly materialistic. Not in an overwhelming way. You know what you like and what you want, and you don’t try to hide it. You're certainly not a hypocrite. You stick to your guns and I admire you for that. And you never let yourself get carried away by material desires.
And, speaking of sticking to your guns, about your personal beliefs you are assured and unwavering. You don’t go out of your way to indoctrinate others, but you hold fast to your own beliefs and defend them courageously and competently when questioned.
I consider you to be the one person I can always turn to for help or guidance or just a pat on the back. I don’t know what I would do if I lost that openness, that thoughtful advice, or that shoulder to cry on.
Gosh.
What else can I say about you?
You’re kind and conscious, but never oppressively doting.
You’re a free-thinker and a religious human being.
You’re funny and beautiful and a joy to be around.
And your laugh reassures me that life is worth living.
I love you for all of these reasons, Cait, but they only separate into distinct categories and qualities when I stop and think hard about you. When I’m around you, they all kind of blend together into a glorious kind of kaleidoscope that is you.
I remind myself daily how lucky I am to know you.
02. I will then tell what song/movie remind me of you.
Oh, shucks.
In the very last reverse quiz, Andrew’s, I stated that Andrew—film and music connoisseur with sharper tastes than any other— would be paying rapt attention to this section in particular. I was so overwhelmed with pressure from the task of picking songs and movies that remind me of him that I forgot the one other friend who may be as, if not more, sensitive to the songs and cinema I associate with her.
That friend is you, Caitlin.
You have your pretty, dexterous fingers on the pulse of pop culture and entertainment. You have finely-tuned and singular tastes. You’re really the type of person this section was designed for.
So, it is with mixed trepidation and joy that I list the following:
Songs:
To start things off, let’s be a little inappropriate.
Bed, by Semisonic.
See if you can follow my thinking here.
Well show me a friendship that's pure and chaste
And I'll show you and engine that's dying to race.
Well the time has come for me to find
Another way to get my soul fed.
I know we could be the sweetest friends,
But if that's where it ends
Then I'll find someone else to bed.
Well the time has come for me
To take care of myself instead.
You know if we remain
On a spiritual plane
I will go insane.
Don't make me find someone else to bed.
Bed
Find someone
Find someone else to bed
Also, continuing in the theme, but with a more serious note, you remind me of the song Gravity, by The North LaBrea All Star Conquistadors
No, no, no. I’m going about this all wrong.
You see, I think the best way to list these, Cait, would be to chop you into pieces.
Not literally, of course. That wouldn’t help at all.
What I mean is, break up the components of your personality and list songs and movies according to them.
So!
There’s bad ass, gangsta Cait:
I think of you when I hear anything by Eminem or other respectable rappers. Specifically White America and Square Dance, and Loose Yourself.
Also, if I ever see 8 Mile, I’m sure it will make me think of you.
Beyond that, if ever I see a movie that has anything to do with gangs or Dee-troit or gats or pimps or ho’s, if I think of any friend at all, it’ll be you.
But not just “ganstas.” Also, “gangsters.”
How could I not think of you while watching The Godfather? Or when listening to Italian Dinner Music?
There’s bad ass, espionage agent Cait:
You make me think of the Mission Impossible theme, and the second sequel to that movie.
Also, I think of you when I watch Alias or The Bourne films.
There’s Pirate Cait:
I think of you (thought of you tonight, actually) while watching Pirates of the Caribbean. (Just the first one, though. I don’t want to insult you by linking you to that garbage heap of a sequel.)
And the Muppet Treasure Island.
Plus, the sweeping, swashbuckling music from the former and the goofy songs, especially “Cabin Fever,” from the latter.
That moves us nicely into silly Cait:
I think of you when I see any Muppet in any form (and also when I see some of the cuter Fraggles.)
I think of you when I hear “Push it Good,” by Salt n’ Peppa, or Fat and Couch Potato by Weird Al.
Not because you are a fat couch potato. Quite the opposite. You’re a smoking hot couch potato. But Fat is arguably Weird Al’s best song, and so full of funny, silly lines that I can easily picture you laughing hysterically at it..
I think of you when I see anything Disney, especially Disney TV.
There’s a more vulnerable Cait:
The song Story of a Girl reminds me of you in a melancholy way.
There’s independent woman Cait:
I think of her when I see films like The Devil Wears Prada, or hear songs like “Gotta Be,” by Des’ree or “Suddenly I See,” by K.T. Tunstall.
I think this fits in here, too:
Though you have never seen it, I am reminded of you when I see Entourage.
Lastly, there’s Classics Cait:
The one that appreciates black and white film and looks so good in those fluffy, 50’s cardigans.
I think of this Cait when I see Cary Grant get chased by the plane in North by Northwest, or when I see Jimmy Stewart talk to an invisible rabbit in Harvey.
Mike Doughty song:
White Girl?
Either that or “Madeline and Nine,” but I don’t really feel that way any more.
Oh! Screenwriter’s Blues. Fo’ sho’.
Oh! And one last addition. How could I forget?
This song will always remind me of you:
Now he’s Phil,
Pheh-ill
Of the Future,
He’s a 22nd Century man!
03. If I were to apply a time to you, it would be...
This was a tricky one.
At first I thought early in the morning, because of your boundless, sometimes annoying, almost other-worldly energy. But then I realized you weren’t a morning person, and the rise ‘n’ shine, dewdrops, birds twittering scene wasn’t right for you.
So then I thought late-nite, because of your sense of adventure, your love of danger, espionage, and mystery, and all the midnight capers we've gone on. But, no, that wasn’t quite right, either. It takes something . . .dark and slightly unhinged to merit late-nite hours, and, as you’re never dark and only occasionally unhinged, I vetoed night time, too.
Then I thought, what does Caitlin really love? What does she know a bit about and care a good deal for? If a line had to be drawn, what would Cait refuse to be parted with?
Then it hit me.
Food!
You’re dinner-time, Cait.
But not just, like, 6 or 7, American family supper time kinda thing.
Oh, no!
You’re 5 until 11. You’re lavish banquets and candlelit dinners and European flair.
Early-to-late evening.
I can’t pick a season, though I’m thinking late Spring, when the colt that is the vernal months is almost steady on its feet enough to gallop into the fields of Summer. The trees have filled in. In the air there is the tingling, electric feel that follows a rain storm. The rain has left the grass so green it almost hums in the approaching twilight.
And the city streets—for this is indeed in a bright, beautiful city—are dampened and shimmering in the fading light.
People in glorious eveningwear, men strutting about in the black right-angles of their tuxedoes, women swishing and swaying in their colored gowns like walking liquid.
Forks cling and clang on plates. Crystal glasses are filled with wine and raised in toast.
The babble of sophisticated conversation brings to mind an image of a sparkling, clean brook tumbling gracefully over rocks.
Chandelier light glints off jewelry and whitened teeth.
All of this, regardless of day or year I think of when I think of you.
04. I will try to name a single word that best describes you. (Or, that failing, a half dozen words.)
Ooo. Tricky one.
(I think this is the third one I've said would be "tricky." I need a better thesaurus.)
I know you too well for settle for either “cute” or quirky.”
“Discriminating” is another choice. That one makes me smile ruefully, thinking of you agonizing over choices on a menu, and settling on your old standards.
You remind me of glass a good deal. Glass is hard and strong and, simultaneously, easily shattered. But I cannot think of one word to sum that up. Moreover, you’re not nearly as transparent as glass, as I learned the hard way.
I also really wanna say “special,” but that brings to mind images of handicap ramps, helmets, and camps in which you learn how to tie your shoes.
You also remind me of a rose, hokey as that sounds. Beautiful, idolized, but capable of giving a nasty cut if not handled with care and respect.
Truth be told, I’m at a loss here.
Resilience, imagination, talent . . . all fail to provide the whole picture.
Fierce, kinetic, independent.
I can’t do it.
. . .
I think I’m gonna settle on “jive.”
Jive as in crazy talk. Jive as in trickery and mischief. Jive as in funk and soul and drive and movement. Jive as in style. Jive, to flow, to follow, to break away. To lead.
It’s an odd choice, but an apt one, I feel.
05. I'll tell you one of the most memorable moments I've had with you.
Whew. I will do my best to keep you all abreast of the topic cupped in my hand, and try not to make a boob of myself. This might be tit.
Tough!
That is to say, it might be tough.
Okay.
Let’s do the “bad news” first.
By “bad news” I mean “bad times.”
I remember distinctly that time at Tony’s that I enraged you to such a degree that it took the combined strength of Tony, Will, and Pawel to keep you from tearing my eye-lids off and beating me to death with them.
I wasn’t always this erudite, chivalric knight you picture in your head when you think of me. There was a time not so long ago that I was quite a cad.
Moving from “all bad” to “partly bad,” the times I’ve traveled somewhere with you have been most memorable. Disney World was first. That was a memorable experience in an off itself, but the times with you were mostly splendid. The day we spent traversing the park in the rain, riding every rollercoaster we could find will always hold a special place in my heart. The dinner at the hotel restaurant and the (hopefully) gay waiter. The mono-rail rides, complete with breathtaking vistas of the park and the threat of the fearsome squentas.
I also recall our goodbye. Slightly strained. Slightly awkward. Civil, friendly enough, I suppose, but . . . off nonetheless.
And I recall my slightly surreal, though oddly comforting, introspective walk back to my hotel room. The music of the park a mere background noise as I pondered existence and gazed at the warm lights and empty streets.
. . .
Aaah. Memories.
. . .
Oh, yeah. And card games, swimming games, brownie baking and everything else that went right with Michigan.
I will also always remember our car talks. It seemed every time I’d drop you off at home we’d spend what felt like hours (in a good way) just sitting the car and talking. I would occasionally scare myself by thinking that your mom thought we were fooling around.
Our various moments at Friendly’s, and Friendly’s in particular, are dear to me.
I think the least memorable moments, oddly enough, are the regular times. Just you and me, going to the movies, having dinner, that kind of thing. I’m certain we did all that, just the two of us, that is, but I can’t clearly remember one single time. I’m inclined to think we were both funny and charming, though.
06. I will tell you what animal you remind me of.
A bird. Well, actually, many birds.
A chickadee. A sparrow. A swallow.
An osprey. An owl.
A kookaburra.
Also, an ocelot. Pretty, quirky, slinking through the jungle.
Dog:
I’d get slapped if I said Chihuahua, right?
Tempting as that is, I’ll refrain.
A collie, maybe? A playful, capable, staunch defender of friends. But also something more regal, like King Charles Spaniel. Or, though it doesn't match you the least bit physically, a Neapolitan Mastiff.
07. I'll then tell you something that I've always wondered about you.
This sounds like an unforgivable cop-out, but the only thing I’ve ever really wondered about you I found out already.
We’ve never had trouble opening up to one another, so there is little left over from our long talks that I could actually wonder about.
I mean, sure, I wonder what you look like nekkid, but I have my writer’s imagination and my thorough knowledge of anatomy, so it’s far from a daunting puzzle.
I suppose if I wondered anything, it would be about the future.
Our friendship has changed more, I think, and spanned less time, than any other of my relationships that I can think of. So, I just wonder sometimes where we’ll be in 5 years, or 10. Will we still be close? Will I have done something to annoy you to such an extent that you refuse to see me? Will we be a crime-fighting team?
With other friends, I don’t see much change happening. But with you, the possibilities are numerous.
08. I'll tell you which hanky signal you'd probably go by.
Navy, dark blue
Medium blue
Khaki/olive drab
Lime green
Pale yellow
Beige
Plastic fork
09. I will describe my ideal day with you.
The sun rises over L.A., painting the smog-choked sky in rich hues of scarlet and gold.
Exterior shot of our apartment—a lovely place we co-habit which lies above an old cinema.
The alarm clock by the bed begins to chime shrilly.
You'd nudge me in the ribs and whisper in my ear, almost nibbling, "Honey, shut that thing off. I'm still sleepy."
I grudgingly comply and reach to silence the siren. Unfortunately, the pesky mechanical devil is out of reach, and we have to get up. We stagger about a bit, naked and stretching, and finally fall back upon the bed, ravenously ravaging each other, too overcome by passion to turn the alarm off.
Over in your room, you lie in bed listening to the muffled, but still annoying, bleat of the alarm.
After fifteen minutes of waiting for me to turn it off, you get up and enter my room. I am apparently still asleep and in the middle of some weird dream. Based on my movements and roving tongue, you'd guess I was dreaming about wrestling a giant ice cream cone. You try not to think about about what else it could be.
You sigh and shut the alarm clock off for me. As soon as the ringing stops, my eyelids pop open.
I tumble out of bed, landing at your slipper-clad feet.
“Long day ahead of us,” you remark, amused. “And we won’t get very much done with you lying there on the floor.”
“A valid point,” I admit, hoisting myself up and looking you squarely in the eye. I slam a fist into my open palm decisively, managing a degree of austerity despite the fact that I’m naked as a jay bird. “Now! What’s for breakfast?”
I whip us up some steak and eggs for, and we discuss what lies in store for us that day.
“We’ve got to be on the set for ten,” you tell me, checking an itinerary. The set you refer to is, of course, for the film Crossing Swords, a comedy adventure about pirates, which I co-wrote and have a small part in, and for which you are handling the set design.
“Hopefully the director will be able to speed us out of there before ten p.m. today,” I say, glancing at another, much different itinerary, “because it seems the Chinese consulate is the target of a Triad assassination plot. The boss wants us to intercede on his behalf and shut down the Triad’s South Central operations while we’re at it.
You sip you orange juice and say, “Ah, the busy lives of secret agents.”
So there you have it: We’re minor but successful cogs in the film industry by day, purveyors of justice and gatherers of volatile information by night.
I won’t bore you with details of the day’s routine events. An overview, though, might be nice.
At the studio, you help me to save a particularly hilarious part of the script by winning over the director. You also manage to finally finish the set for the Spanish outpost, and relax afterwards with a Coke, trying not to think that it’s scheduled to be blown up during shooting the following day.
In one of my scenes I am trampled on repeatedly by a barefoot Rachel McAdams. Stirred to fits of giggles by my jokes, she continuously messes up and we have to shoot the scene at least a dozen times. What a shame.
That night, after a quiet dinner at a small steakhouse (yes, steak twice in one day!—for you at least. I stick with the broiled salmon), we take to the streets and do battle with a gang of vicious Chinese criminals. After the fight, as we stand, panting with exertion and taking account of our various injuries, I remark that we should really have costumes.
You look at your figure in one of the few un-broken mirrors in the brothel we raided, admiring the way the sleek, black catsuit makes you look, and then say our uniforms are good enough for your liking.
I, however, do not look as fetching in a black catsuit, and demand a mask and cape.
The argument continues on the ride back to the apartment in our shiny, black, costumized Escalade.
Back at the pad, we shower, dress our wounds, and unwind with a bowl of popcorn and a Hitchcock movie.
We bid each other goodnight, happy that tomorrow is our day off, and supposed to be free of espionage and Hollywood politics. We plan to sleep in. As we enter our separate bedrooms, you warn me not to leave my porn lying around the house and I say to stop denying how much the smut excites you.
We share a laugh and hit the hay.
10. I will tell you which villainous character actor you remind me of.
Sarah Michelle Gellar.
I know she seems vapid and untalented much of the time, but hear me out.
You’re both petite and pretty. Yet both of you convey a kind of no-nonsense inner strength. Also, I would call to attention your comparable butt-kicking abilities.
Plus, Gellar often plays characters who are fond of luxury, which is something you’re not opposed to yourself.
And, with that, I leave you for now.
*dusts hands*
*shoots cuffs*
*clears throat*
My work is done here. I’m off to wallow in self pity and ball myself into a nervous wreck. (Not about this blog, dear reader. I sadly have more things to concern myself with than just this old thing.)
Ta.
Current Mood: Pleased, but jittery, restless, and devoid of all but the faintest scraps of hope.
Current Music: Tim Curry, Toxic Love.
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