Monday, July 30, 2007
The impetus behind this poem was this: Dave and I had had a wonderful day. We'd been out with a bunch of his ex-classmates from Iolani for a joint birthday party. We had all driven up to Larkspur (north bay) for dinner at a place called the Melting Pot, a fondue restaurant. This was serious fondue, with a cheese course, a salad course, a dip-immense-amounts-of-meat, -veggies, -seafood, and -chicken-into-flavored-broth-to-cook-it course, and a chocolate course, which involved slathering, among other things, both cheesecake and cookie-crusted marshmallows with chocolate. (Correction: with peanut-butter-, Bailey's-, and cookies-n-cream-flavored chocolate, or dark chocolate.) Decadent doesn't begin to cover it. In my opinion, you can make most any food better by dipping it into cheese or chocolate. Anyway, we had a really nice time with friends, and with each other, as we brought along the new Nikon. We stopped to take pictures of the Golden Gate on the way to the restaurant, in the amazingly clear day, and we stopped at the same lookout on the way back, at midnight, the fog having crept in and the moon out. The idea for a poem jumped into my head because the GG was just lovely. I've felt such misplaced, immovable loyalty to New York, but in that moment I sort of "got" it about the bay area ... just the littlest bit.
All that said, I'm not a disciplined poet. So, the idea of the poem (I love New York but SF is lovely too) got stuck in the middle where I threw up NY memories for about a page. To craft better art, a real poet would realize this weakness and go fix it. But this poem is just for me and you, and it's just me trying to figure out how I feel and where I belong and what to call home, so I'm going to leave it as I wrote it in the middle of the night.
A Love Letter to San Francisco
With you there was
no headlong rush,
no flash, no fall,
not a flutter or a jitter about it.
past your vacant motels and your homeless
and be thinking of another:
sun dappling leaf shadows onto West Village pavement,
the grand Columbia gates, and the bodegas and bar lights of the UWS,
the way even in alphabet city the grit had shine.
You are slow and steady,
flannel and fog.
You are ex-GI amputees begging
and drivers of BMWs checking the locks on their doors.
In you, I saw humanity
not where it is a travesty
that some cannot buy a boat to match their waterfront home,
others can’t make rent on their luxury apartment,
and still others can’t afford even a sandwich in certain parts of town.
Not where the home owners and renters can’t even
meet the eyes of the homeless
so instead eye the missing limb, the cardboard sign, the dirt on skin.
I’ve tried to be romanced by you.
I’ve driven your curviest street.
I strolled your Japanese tea garden.
I’ve ridden your streetcars.
I’ve dined your brunch spots, frequented your museums, and shopped your boutiques.
But you did not capture my heart
all this time
because it was not mine to give,
being tucked as it was so deep
in the memory of a hazelnut mocha from an Israeli coffeeshop in SoHo,
the singular path one carves into Central Park upon entering
—different each time—
the red velvet wallpaper and mulled wine of a particular, favorite, bar.
When I lived there, it was five feet in the air on a homemade loft-bed,
in a room, seven feet by eight feet,
in a small apartment above a mediocre Italian restaurant.
When we first moved in, we ate there often, having stayed too late at work,
caught the 6 train at rush hour, been jostled and fondled, and trudged the four blocks home to smell marinara thick in the hallway and garlic by the stairs,
fresh vegetables carried up the stairs by various Mexican chefs
who would squeeze past at the mailboxes and flirt in broken English.
Next door lived a quiet gay man who always had a roommate and often a lover.
A few times these were even the same person.
Up a few floors lived a man and his old, tired, and quite large dog that had been beaten.
When I passed them in the hall, the man would stop to talk
but the dog would panic and hide.
Directly above our apartment (and my head when in the loft bed) lived
a girl I’d never met but whom I’d be able to recognize by her shoes.
I would hear her dress every morning,
boots today and heels tomorrow clickclacking about two feet from my face.
It was the best alarm, because if she was up, I should have been too,
so I’d roll over, watch my head on the nipple of the light fixture,
step onto my bookcase, and the small red footstool, then down to the ground.
I’d drink the coffee my roommate had made while I waited
for her to get out of the shower, or I’d brew it up if I was the first to wake.
After a shower I’d throw on some clothes and some attitude, grab the coffee,
and roll out the door … into what felt to me like the whole world.
Thompson street was couscous then vacant and then fried chicken,
falafel joints, a Cuban restaurant with excellent mojitos and a cigar-roller,
and a Thai restaurant that kept changing its name and décor.
It was the best damn Laundromat with one dollar Coca Colas,
a nail salon upstairs and the shady “Man spa” downstairs.
When the Laudromat/salon closed, we mourned by having our laundry
sent out and delivered back.
Thompson street was a vintage store with lady gloves and fabulous tutu skirts,
a boutique of party dresses and large, flashy, fake baubles,
and the 2am stumbling of NYU frat boys and drunken girls trying to find their dorm,
having liquidized their wallets all over Bleeker Street.
Around this street was every subway line one could possibly want,
two hole-in-the-wall bars that often had Brazilian bands playing,
a lot of brunch, a good cheeseburger, and the best damn 3am pizza of my life.
Around this street was Washington Square to the north,
the East Village to … well, the east, SoHo to the south,
and both the sun dappled streets and whips, chains, and leather of the West Village.
While I called it home, though I was but one in eight million,
I belonged to New York and felt it belonged to me.
In the way of many New Yorkers I was from everywhere but New York
but felt at home there the way I’d never felt before.
And there were all of my friends and my charming roommates,
not to mention the very darling of my heart, my Laura,
and other writers and artists and amazing women and
everyone dreaming passionately some impossible dream.
How could I leave all of this and replace it with you?
I didn’t dislike you, I just felt tepidly undecided about you,
even with your intricate spiderweb of MUNI lines and
the graceful and angry swans at the Palace of Fine Arts.
But I had to continue to try because New York has forgotten me.
It holds my heart, but I neither belong there nor does it belong anymore to me.
I haven’t forgotten its streets or its subways but I wander, lost, just as surely for
the places I have known and loved have closed their doors and others have opened;
places that stood vacant for years are now so fully established in the neighborhood
I question myself that they weren’t always there.
I don’t know my way and I don’t belong and my New York years are over,
but my heart is still so stubbornly rooted in pieces all over, deep in the Village.
It wasn’t until tonight
driving the Golden Gate Bridge at midnight
the moon full
the fog swirling and swallowing entire spans of cable
and disembodied towers and the traffic far below gleaming strangely
that I melted toward you the slightest bit.
It was the first time in two years of residence and a handful of visits
that your Golden Gate was actually golden.
Perhaps it was something about the lighting,
likely something to do with the clouding of the fog,
but my heart warmed and this moment and this vision of you
belonged to me as surely as I’ve begun to belong to you.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Stupidly, the other night, I watched the last two episodes of Sex and the City. Alone. With wedding thank you notes to write and a couple glasses of wine. Naturally, the night began fine, but middled and ended with me feeling quite sorry for myself. I don't know why I would do this to myself. I know what Sex and the City--especially those last two episodes--does to me, so why go there?
But it is *CRAZY!* I've lived here now, what, a year and a half and I still feel like an American in Paris--a New Yorker in San Fran. Sure, we hang out with lots of people, even made some coupled off friends, but it's not quite the same as what I had in New York. It just makes me kick myself, so hard, for taking it for granted.
The scene that always gest me is when Carrie, usually so confident and gay, nearly presses her face to the dusty window of a French cafe, wherein four French girlfriends dine and drink, talk and laugh. That one just does me in. Not that back then there were four of us steady. It was always Laura and me. It was almost always also Luke. There was sometimes Delia, Khaliah, Andrew, Kate, or others. But the feeling was the same. That toasting of "the good life," of having friends and a job that pays at least enough to make your rent and bills and pay for brunch. (Or, as was sometimes the case, the toasting of the good luck of having a benevolent roommate who loved you more than you deserved to be loved and bought you brunch when you were broke.) This celebration of being in New York on a Sunday having a fabulous time. Drunken brunch with dear friends: quite a self-congratulatory exercise but absolutely unreproachable.
Will I never have that again?
My feet are positively itchy with the need to go somewhere or change something about my life, but I can't foresee what is possible, what is probable, and what to do to make it happen.
Everyone goes through this, I know. And I also know that the party had to end sometime, and at least I was not the last one out the door. I even understand that were I to move back tomorrow, things would not be the same. Laura would be out with Erin till 5am and I'd never be able to keep up, not to mention putting a hex on their mojo. Other friends have moved away. I wouldn't fit back into the puzzle of each individual friend's life the way I did a couple years ago. And I'd still be Suburban Me, married me, with David me, who'd never admit it in the moment but would kind of rather be at home, drinking wine and watching a Blockbuster movie. Maybe cooking a nice meal. In my apron or jeans and a tank top, and positively no makeup. My now usual self. It just wouldn't mesh.
It is as Dito, the main character in the film A Guide to Recognizing Your Saints, says: You don't miss a place, you miss a time.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
I refuse to vote for this just because it may be the only contest SLC will ever win. You who voted, is this really what you think of SLC? That it's "annoying"?
I did, however, enjoy one voter's comment:
"Wealthy families typically have a child who is sent to an elite private school, receives a good education, and by dint of his/her natural intelligence, work ethic instilled by his parents, good grades, benefits that come with wealth, and the university preferences for legacies, goes to Harvard or Yale. That child also has a younger sibling who, with the same education and benefits, spends most of his/her time drinking, doesn't really like learning, and is known for having access to good drugs. That child goes to Sarah Lawrence, and that's why it's my pick."
Saturday, July 14, 2007
This is no time to write, but when is there ever a "good" time to write? And, for a writer, when is there a good time not to write--or, alternately, a bad time to write?
Still this is no time to write with deadlines all around me, and piles of paper, and disorganization and chaos reigning, and nights of little sleep, and afternoons that stretch into the wee hours of the morning to witness my exhausted surrender to bed. Days bleed together, and I never know what time it is, except that my authors in other time zones wake me like roosters at 8am, the FedEx man comes around lunch, and the trains roar by on the hour till midnight, then are still. They start up again, charging loudly into the next new day just around the time, often, that I've just turned in for the night. I listen to their approach instead of counting sheep or hours of sleep, but I can't tell the northbound approach from the southbound by clamor alone.
This is no time to write but the end of deadlines is so near I can touch its sharp edge. So near I can taste it like one savors the honeysuckle smell of summer or bites into the crispness of fall.
I have plans (capital P) for the rest of summer, and the life to follow it. For the last two years, even my down time had a "to do" list, most of which involved the wedding. Now approaching, so close, is this brief expanse of time before the next set of deadlines where I will have minimal work at AA, and I can wildly devote myself to frolicking through the field of my own dreams. Dreams that have zero to do with finding a caterer for less than twenty bucks a head, or the intricacies of seating charts, or even the dreamy image of myself as a bride. Because I have dreams (capital D), and my number one amongst them is that the well wishes of so many NEVER come true: that my wedding be the happiest day of my life. Good grief, I hope not. Sure, sure, it was an absolutely perfect day, with all its quirks and human fallicies and rain "blessings" making it all the more so. I was super pretty, my groom was so handsome, the wedding party was sexy, and hot damn were we in love. But I would shoot myself right now if I thought that was the zenith of my life and it was all downhill from there.
Dreams, people, capital D, I am telling you, I got 'em. To travel, to adventure!!, to live abroad. To change careers, to get my MFA, to publish. To write another libretto, to help my hanai grandma edit and bind her family's cherished stories; to write my novel and finish it in a way that gives it the dignity of having been worked on now for almost ten years. To help promote the beloved choir of my youth; to find ways to share what I know and help others; to educate myself (and perhaps later others) by listening well first, reading voraciously second, and speaking with care last. To learn to Hawaiian quilt; to learn to sew at all, like more than a button; to find re-entry into the creative life (painting, poetry, all the other things I've forgotten how to do). In that regard, to learn to use the fancy new Nikon Dave and I bought today. To live well, laugh often, and love deeply. To be someone who tells the truth, kindly. To have dogs and babies and houses. To make friends; to make chocolate lava souffles; and to make sweet sweet love with you know who (stop it!! Not Angelina Jolie. I'm married now.) To be brave, to be spontaneous, and dare I say it to TRY TO sometimes throw my to-do lists and careful plans to the wind and see where the hell I end up. To finish this ridiculous name-changing bullshit*; to send out thank yous and photos to our guests and would've-been guests; and to finish up our little "nesting" period of making house. To move on with the rest of life, no longer a bride. To instead be a wife, and a damned good one, but also so very much more.
* QUICK QUIZ FOR BROWNIE POINTS AND GOLD STARS: What combination of the following is my new, real, legal name? Clarissa Mayumi Kaleilikokalehua Alohilani Shimose Avery Poe? HAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHA.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Umm, I’m from Hawaii, so I have changed clothes in a vehicle, next to a vehicle, hiding behind the door of a vehicle. Two words for you: THE BEACH. Or a choice few others: “Making out” with high school boys when you’re not supposed to.
2. Who was your last received call?
My friend Maka, visiting from WA.
3. What's your relationship status?
4. What's one thing you will not eat?
Conch. My friend’s Chinese mother made me eat it and I never fully recovered.
5. What color is your underwear?
Right now? Blue and white in the style of an old nostalgic map. (Love the nautical theme that happens annually at summer.)
6. When is the last time you went out of state?
End of June, to Hawaii to watch the opera on which I collaborated premiere.
7. What's something you MUST do before you die?
(a) have an amazing bikini calendar model body, (b) live abroad, and (c) publish my fiction.
8. Have you ever drank milk straight out of the carton?
No way, jose.
9. Can you hula hoop?
no way again.
10. Have you ever crawled through a window?
yes. Totally know how to break into most of the houses I’ve lived in.
11. Was today better than yesterday?
No day is going to be better till July 20 when all my deadlines are done.
12. Is anybody getting on your nerves?
Yes. Quite a few. It turns out I’m kind of a bitch and I sort of hate people in general. Right now I’m mad at the author of a really badly written paper, whoever is holding onto my paycheck, and a friend who just had text sex with an ex (poor form!)
13. Do you talk to yourself?
I mutter and curse to myself, often regarding the editing of the American Anthropologist.
14. Would you kiss the last person you kissed again?
The last person was my hubby, so yes… otherwise that would be a very long life ahead of us.
15. Do you collect anything?
Books, earrings, and business cards or matchbooks from restaurants.
16. Earrings or necklaces?
17. Are you mad at anybody?
18. What is your favorite color(s)?
19. What are you doing?
Pretending to edit an article; feeling guilty.
20. Do you use smiley faces on the computer a lot?
21. What are you doing tonight?
Editing, watching The Closer, watching hubby sweet in sleep, and clearly goofing off.
22. What time is it?
23. Are you loud?
I don’t think so. Unless I get mad, then watch out.
24. What are your plans?
To publish my writing. To get my MFA in Creative Writing. To have a deep and long-lasting companionship with Dave. To make pretty babies. To get a dog. To travel. To live abroad. To enjoy family and friendships. To make memories every day. To make some sweet love. To buy a house someday. To take more trips with friends.
25. Do you watch Family Guy regularly?
26. Have you ever watched a little kids show?
Not since I used to babysit.
27. What does your last inbox text say?
"No HERP!” I will protect the identity of that person here.
28. What's your zodiac sign?
Taurus. And yes, I’m as stubborn as a …
29. Are you wearing socks?
30. What's your favorite smell?
Graduation in Hawaii … all those maile and flower leis! That or the ocean at home. Tie.
31. Have you ever been on a rollercoaster?
32. Do you care what others think about you?
33. What do you do all the time in a car?
Sing along to the radio like I’m the next big thing. Poor Dave.
34. Do you trust people easily?
Yes, but once you’ve broken my trust, it is hell to get it back.
35. How old will you be in 10 months?
36. Do you think you'll be married by then?
Ummm, been there, done that, never want to do it again.
37. What do you look forward to in the next 3 months?
Not planning a wedding, and a lot of traveling.
38. Who was the last person you called?
Dave to tell him to hurry up and come home before he missed “The Closer.”
39. Who was the last person to call you?
Wife, a few days ago.
40. What's your ringtone?
I don’t know, something that vaguely sounds like the “sex and the city” intro but isn’t.
41. Do you have any pets?:
Yes, an adorable bunny boy named Lapa, but don’t tell my landlord that. Actually I want to get him a girl- or boyfriend, but I’d have to get him neutered first. Do you think it is more traumatizing to go through life without balls or without companionship?
42. What were you doing at 2am last night?:
Editing. Ahhh, deadlines.
43. Are your parents married/divorced/seperated?:
44. What happened at 10:00 am today?:
I was editing.
There is a recurrent theme here.
45. How many cities/towns have you lived in?
46. Are you a social person?
47. What was the last thing you ate?
A mint chocolate chip ice cream sandwich.
48. What is your favorite ice cream?
Mint chocolate chip with Kahlua drizzled liberally all over.
49. What is your favorite dessert?
50. What kind of jelly do you like on your PB & J sandwiches?
Passionfruit butter, or guava jam.
51. Do you like coffee?
A pot at a time, baby, keep it coming.
52. How many glasses of water a day do you drink on average?
53. What do you drink in the morning?
54. Do you sleep on a certain side of the bed?
I must sleep in the middle of the bed like a hog, OR to the left side of Dave. When I’ve tried anything different, I rolled over Dave OR bodily threw him out of bed. Therefore, change = bad.
55. Do you know how to play poker?
I used to.
56. Do you like to cuddle?
Kinda. But what I like better is to tenderly WRESTLE. GRRRR, ROAR!
57. Do you eat out or at home more often?
I’m a Wife now, so of course I cook 7-course gourmet meals every night, duh.
58. Do you know anyone with the same birthday as you?
59. Do you know any other languages?
Used to know Latin, which helped with SAT scores and nothing else. I know some vocabulary but not the grammatical structure of Hawaiian. I used to speak pidgin. Finally, I can say cat, dog, hello, goodbye, thank you, I don’t understand, and I’m so sorry in Japanese. I find that the latter three work remarkably well strung together.
60. Have you ever been in an ambulance?
I once went partially through the windshield of my mother’s car. No, I wasn’t wearing my seatbelt (though in my defense I was actually PUTTING IT ON when the accident happened), and yes I now wear my seatbelt all the time. The ambulance showed up at the scene, and I sat in back while they used what looked like scotch tape to get bits of glass out of my forehead. GNARLY! But then they sent me home, so I didn’t get to ride in it, per se.
Monday, July 9, 2007
8 Mission Street, San Francisco, CA 94105.
Located as it is along the Embaracadero, kitty-corner to the Ferry Building and within Hotel Vitale, Americano takes advantage of its placement amongst a refashioned neighborhood. Where much of the rest of SF is often fog, this stretch of SoMa is "Shangri-La"* and "Camelot, where it never rains."** From the Ferry Building down to SBC Park and the 280 on-ramp, where bums once lolled in the sunshine and stolled the gritty streets, there has been a recent "Manhattanizing" of the skyline, where luxury buildings sprout like it is annually spring and architects have even thought to place small, tasteful, bourgeoisie doggie parks. Just so we're clear, I am really jealous of anyone who can afford to live there.
But this is ostensibly a restaurant review.
Americano has that "zen ne se quois"***, that modern design of clean lines, velvet lime chairs, natural wood floors, and strategically placed mini-bamboo groves. There is a well-appointed circular cocktail lounge; some rather curious decoration involving a series of lamp shades in the kithen and an entire table lamp hanging from the ceiling behind an opaque screen; and a dining room that is laid-out like a railway apartment, so that well-dressed diners can strut the runway from their table all the way to the bathrooms, which are located in Hotel Vitale's lobby, assured that everyone is looking at them. For the more shy, a combination of sticking your hands in your pockets and taking them out, looking at the ground and then at the other diners, and a constant maintenance of a shy smile and a definitive swish to the hips is the optimum choice. See Hilton, Paris, out-of-jail walk-of-shame (?).
My dining companions and I started out with a round of "organic coffee." This peaked my interest but ultimately my caffeine palate is not refined enough for me to discern all that naturally grown goodness. We then moved on to the good stuff--a mimosa, two lemon mojitos, and some kind of caipirinha--all of which were appropriately fresh and summery, and I know this because we passed all the drinks around. We also had the Americano doughnuts, which I will describe below in earnest.
The Americano Benedict was a delicious and inventive twist on the original. (In fact, in these years of questing, I have somewhat lost my taste for the original.) Their version features a Portuguese muffin (basically like a bagel without a hole), quite delicate prosciutto, "tomato conserva" (similar to stewed tomatoes in that Venn diagram between shape and sauce), and of course Hollandaise on top. It is a much more successful innovation than just putting a simple raw tomato in a benedict, as benedicts often tend to be either too dry or too drowned in sauce. At $15 a pop, it's a good thing I liked it, because I had also been eyeing the summer omelette of basil and heirloom tomatoes ($13) as well as the flatiron steak and eggs ($19). The sacrifices you must make while on a quest! Oh, alas and shit.
However, by far the highlight of Americano was the doughnuts. On the menu, they are described as "warm housemade jam-filled doughnuts, fried to order." They were all these things: warm, housemade, jam-filled, and fried, but somehow better than any other doughnut ever in my life. They weren't oily or greasy or sticky. They weren't covered with weird glaze. They were closer to a beignet than a doughnut, really, being less oily and dusted with powdered sugar. They were petite doughnut holes, really, so as to make you feel less guilty for consuming them. Then there was the jam, and what jam it was: of an indiscriminate berry-type, not sure which, but damn delicious. Then, to just make the whole experience more transcendent, Americano served the doughnuts with a side of creme fraiche. Holy damn, those were some good doughnuts.
~MORE BENEDICT UPDATES TO COME SOON~
* according to one real estate agent, who was trying to make a hard sell despite the fact I couldn't even afford to window shop.
** actually, I think it rained quite often in Camelot, it being mystically located somewhere in the U.K. but I wasn't going to interrupt her soapboxing.
*** This word is mine, I coined it, so NO STEAL. It denotes a space that looks like it fell out of a West Elm catalogue.
Saturday, July 7, 2007
I am, however, completely paranoid and overly cautious about it. I put up pretty pictures but I don't want to get too "into" my profile, because I suspect the moment I do there will be some *other* social networking site that will turn out to be "cooler" than MySpace and everyone will start cancelling their MySpace accounts just like they did Friendster.
Poor Friendster. It's like the red-headed stepchild who is also ugly. Facebook (which I dig my toes in and refuse to join ... for now) is like the girl who was most popular in high school but never amounted to anything in real life. And MySpace is ... well, I don't know. MySpace is probably too cool for me. It's that boy who was tall and slender and kind of quiet, and whose hair was a little long in his eyes and at the collar, and who was standoffish and impossibly cool in some way you couldn't put a finger on . . . until the day you could put a finger on it because his band (he had a band! in high school!) performed Tom Petty's "Free-Fallin'" in your high-school gymnasium and the way he hit those high notes made you feel like you were alone with him, and he was singing to YOU, and he was doing it in the most acoustically engineered, coolest stadium in the world!
. . . whoa, talk about a TANGENT! . . .
Anyway, whatever, I'm on MySpace. Be my friend. It's lonely... my only friend is that dude "Tom" who started up MySpace and sends you e-mails about how to use it. Don't let me be so lonely!
Friday, July 6, 2007
Classnotes are once again due! I want to know everything, anything! Graduate degrees acheived, awards won, articles and poems and stories appearing, books published, babies had, marriages, divorces, houses and apartments bought, new jobs, old jobs, raises and promotions--everything!
Your deadline: Now.
My deadline: Quite shortly thereafter.
Anything I receive after my deadline I will keep for the next issue (Winter 2007-08).
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Because she’s smoking HOT.
Because of HER LAUGH.
And, finally, because she is the kind of friend people go through life looking for. She is my most uncomplicated love story. I met her on my first day at Sarah Lawrence campus, having been brought together by a somewhat skeevy senior who was trying to mack on the fresh meat. Nevertheless, Skeevy took one look at the dead leis around my neck, insisted there was someone I had to meet, and dragged me to the other girl with dead leis around her neck. Since that day, I’ve been *toast* when it comes to her. I head-over-heels adore her—always have, always will. I have had and continue to have friends that I know so thoroughly that they have become more like sisters, like family . . . but it is different with La. I’d never fallen in love with someone without having to deal with the complications of wanting to also jump their bones until I met her. She really is the one and only wife I will ever have and will always be the sunshine of my life.
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
"I remember a day about 2 years ago when Mayumi still lived in New York. Mayumi & I were sitting on the couch, on our computers, and IMing with Luke, who was painting or something. Mayumi sighed and said 'I'm so jealous. You and Luke are always working on something creative. Why don't I ever do anything creative?' And I said to her, 'Um, I believe you are at this moment writing the lyrics to your OPERA.' How did we get to be so famous? Luke has all his art in a gallery, I had GIANTS, and now Mayumi has her OPERATIC DEBUT. We are soooooooooo famous. and soooooooooo cool."
Everyone should have such a wife!