No Spain, No Gain

Dear Becca,

Why haven’t you posted in two months? True, you had the flu, and a rather tenacious stomach virus brought on by rellenos from a Mexican restaurant with an Irish-sounding name (O’Pepe’s?), but really, if you could find the time to visit Colonel Sanders’ grave AND take your virtual band The Dinky Inchers all the way to the Desert Rock Tour Festival in Guitar Hero, you could have written something.

My God, the material! Remember when wooden baby blocks and beef were recalled the same week? You parodied nothing. Complete inaction. You let your parents’ “Best Neighborhood Landscaping” Award go unblogged, instead opting to watch Deep Space Nine episodes, out of order, with your boyfriend. (At the time you didn’t know they were out of order. To your credit you did re-name the show Deep Sleep Nine.) Instead of actually taking the initiative to write Cracker Barrel Headquarters requesting that you be made their Poet Laureate on the basis of your a) MFA b) skill at their peg game c) ability to come up with unconventional rhymes for Fancy Fixin’s, what did you do? You pretended to work for a made-up underdog firm (James C. Biscuit) at the annual New York Trial Lawyer’s Benefit. Which is all fine and dandy, if you had actually blogged about it.

Frankly, I’m angry and disappointed. Don’t fool yourself into thinking you can get off the hook so easily, with some funny comment, maybe about how you’re learning Catalan and the word for lamb (“Xai”) is pronounced like the expletive you caught yourself saying last week at Pinkberry in a line full of small children but Shi-— it was still too late. And don’t try the quick fix of a picture, say from the current J Crew catalog:

(Although it is worth adding, from experience, that it never ends well when girls sit like this at weddings, so you can only hope that her cello has been photo-shopped out.)

And it most definitely isn’t enough for you to produce Dead Sea Scroll-like fragments of a half-assed April entry entitled “Things Aren’t What They Juiced To Be”:

I bought an Odwalla AntioxiDance because I wanted to figure out exactly which dance Cherry, Orange, and Passionfruit together is — the samba? The robot? Now days, you have to blend strange fruit. And you have to have a reassuring juice mascot, something slim and fushia, like a cartoon heron, who wears a lime-green bowler and plays Easy-Listening on his sax:

bird1.jpg

I was shocked, and betrayed, to discover that my Odwalla was doing a dance of only 16% juice and 28% organic. How do you even compute those percentages?

So John McGrew who has a show Friday night May 23 10PM at Rockwood Music Hall, you were most definitely within your rights to post this:

😦

as a blog comment.

My dear Becca, let’s only hope that your upcoming two-week sojourn with Dan in Spain, during which time you’ll be transforming Trybecca into a daily travelogue complete with photos of you next to naked statues, and which will feature the sprinklings of clever phrases like “going tapas,” will restore readership to more than the chance dirty google.

Sincerely,
Becca

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3 responses to “No Spain, No Gain

  1. Damn, girl, there you are! We missed you. This tapas travelogue promise better not be a lie. The virtual world needs you.

  2. now I can delay my search for a blog to read now that you are back in action….huzzah!

  3. yes. bring it on!

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