I can’t truly explain why some bloggers just capture your imagination.Â It’s a little bit like dating, where you are both testing each other, sensing if there is any chemistry.Â Â Ingrid writes “Ice Cream is Nice Cream,” and I think we both are… a little eccentric, so I am intrigued by her.Â Â Her post today was typically oddball:
Post a fictional memory of you and me. Anything you like, but it has to be fake.
I think I have found a soulmate.
My Fake Memory of Ingrid
Ingrid, even though you told me never to tell our story, I’m going to assume that your latest blog post was directed at me — that you finally want me to openly talk about our prior relationship. Surely, you realize that I am referring to that summer in 1987 when we were both talking film classes at the University of London. Those were special days,Â happy days.Â Unlike today, our friendship wasn’t based on superficial twitters or blog comments, but from the real intimacy and physical passion that only comes from young love.
At the time, I thought we could make a “go” of our relationship, and that we would both follow our dream of opening the first “authentic” falafel cafe in Lima, Peru, but alas, it wasn’t to be.
I remember “that night” so clearly; it is as if I can almost touch it with my fingers — August 21, 1987. You went out to buy some chips at the local pub while I relaxed in your flat, watching cricket on the BBC. Little did I know that the pub was burned down that previous night by an angry Irish dentist who lost his lease to his Indian-born landlord, and that you were returning back to your flat earlier than expected.Â And then you walked in, that gorgeous smile leading the way, and I saw the shock and dismay on your face.Â With Culture Club blasting from the speakers, you stood there, staring at me parading around your flat,Â Â wearing your bra, panties, and those red pumps that you loved so much, the ones that we bought at Harrod’s together during that rainy night, after the Kubrick film festival.
After I returned your underwear and shoes, and dressed into my clothes, you took me aside and said that our relationship could never work. You said that you loved me, but that you wanted a man to care for you, one that you could feel proud to call “your one and only.” And that you could never bring a cross-dresser back to your conservative parents in Ottawa.
That night, I didn’t sleep a wink. The next day, I rushed to class, my eyes bloodshot, my face unshaven, hoping to apologize to you, to fall to my knees and beg you to reconsider.Â I even thought up a creative, if desperate,Â excuse to win you back — I would tell you that my wearing your underwear and f**k me pumps was all an elaborate “art project” for my “performance art” class.
I hoped, I prayed to God, despite my atheism, that you would believe my lie, and that we could one day live one of those Hollywood ending that we loved so much on the silver screen.Â But you were nowhere to be found. You had packed and left London. You did not leave an address.
For years, I searched for you. I had no idea that you had moved to Amsterdam, changed you name, and became a stripper in the city’s infamous red light district, even though once, when I was in the city on business in 2001, I received a sleazy flier handed to me at Centraal Station which showed a buxom woman in a bikini, her legs seductively open, who looked very much like you — but I could not believe for a second that you, a product of St. Mary’s Catholic School for Women would ever choose this type of demeaning lifestyle.
I lost touch with you — until last year, when I saw your familiar face on Facebook. I “poked” you. You “poked” me back, poking me in that special way that only you could, and I knew it was you. I looked at your profile photo. The face had aged a little. There were a few wrinkles around the eyes. There was a sadness to your expression, as if you had seen it all, and you probably had, jumping from one lover’s bedÂ to another, sleeping with horny German men just to pay the bills, each one leaving you behind in the same way, your naked body stretched out on the bed, the rumpled, dirty sheets hanging to the dusty floor, like a surrender flag during World War One. But even though you had become a broken woman,Â a whore for an American cigarette, the eyes were the same.Â The eyes that I had gazed into a long long time ago.Â The eyes of the girl from the summer cinema class at the University of London.
You are, indeed, quirky. I think that’s why I like you. I seem drawn to quirky people, too.
LOVE this post. very creative, love all the special words sprinkled in that gives the story that special feeling one gets from eating chocolate cake.
Asked about that sad expression, Ingrid shrugged it off, saying “My people are Nordic.”
Very, very cute Neil. I’mm not awake yet but mysides already hurt !
My friend, YOU need to get laid. Like, NOW.
Laughing my head off…
By far the most involved and fabulous answer. 😛
Just read through again. You rock.
I still have the red shoes. 😉
BTW: do you want the shoes back? Didn’t you just get a dress that will go with them perfectly?
screw this blog, write this into a song, look what kid rock is doing with his memories!
love this so much. Yr brilliant and now must read her!
SO, when does the movie come out? I’d love to see that one, Neil!!
when do we get to read the real ‘heart’ stories? the memories that are love and cloud 9 and not filthed by ‘the lusty”?
Stop the hiding and share the heart!
Poor Ingrid. Look what you did to her Neil!
That was fabulous! Who of us has not been a “whore for an American cigarette”?
Clapping – trying not to spill coffee…
I thought you wearing MY red f*#k me pumps and underwear was you Art Performance piece. Now I just feel used!
rad. for some reason the kubrick film festival just really topped it off 🙂
i think at least 1/4 of my childhood memories may possibly be fake…so, obviously, i LOVE THIS 😉
How does one watch cricket with Culture Club playing in the background? You are totally off the wall but I so enjoy your style!!! 🙂
What the hell?! That wasn’t Ingrid – that was me!!
fabulous. i almost felt like i was there. in a non-voyeur kind of way.
That’s awesome… I like that kinda post
(still safe on the >30 comments…)
I don’t want to even read any of the other ‘creative’ memories- sorry Ingrid. I feel like you topped them all!
That was wonderful :-). Wow. I so loved the line, I prayed to God, despite my atheism…Made me laugh out loud.
i don’t think this is a movie, i still see this as a song, send it to weird al, can’t you just picture the video!
All your femme fatales are tragic. Hum. Wonder why that is?
Brilliant, as usual, Neil. You are hilarious. But I agree with Wendy that your femme fatales have tragic fates. And that IS curious.
I love the way you write. 🙂
Paris Parfait — Big fan of nineteenth century novels where women throw themselves in front of trains.
The burned down pub. Did not see that coming. I hate when that happens. Damn angry, Irish dentists–always gotta ruin it for the rest of us. Thanks for the trip down memory lane…esp the “dirty sheets like a surrender flag during WWI.” Guess the 1940’s and WWII was just too recent for your student mind back at the U of L ?? :>)
This story would really rock with some visuals. Maybe Mom Kramer has something in her closet you could dress up in and Flickr.
Well, that was definitely odd in a cool way.
I was initially going to demand a fake memory about myself, but then I realized after this example, it would be like asking you to fake-do-me. And that’s just… weird.
hey Neil, something up your line: http://www.realadultsex.com/archives/2008/08/cool_idea_hot_blogger_contest.html
You didn’t mention anything about your film career making documentaries about whales falling inappropriately in love with Greenpeace activists.
i liked that quite a lot.
omg i have to subscribe to another blog. the madness never ends!