January 8th, 2004

ledbetter tat

There's no place like...

Last night when I opened my apartment door, I was reminded of a story that circled around Hollywood years ago. Little Max Spielberg, all of six years old, was boarding the MGM Grand, a short-lived airline that was loaded with creature comforts and priced at a premium. When they boarded, Max turned to his mother, Amy Irving, and loudly said, "Mommy, there's other people on here!” The clear implication was Max had never ridden commercial.

So, when I opened the door and was smacked across the face with some nasty, oniony, curried godknowswhat kind of stink, I felt like Max. My place smelled like I just tricked with Mahatma Gandhi. I haven’t lived in an apartment building in quite some time, not since New York in the mid-90s, and sharing air space is a slow and begrudging adjustment.

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Last night, I lit a bunch of scented candles I received for Christmas gifts and bundled up to take him for a walk. By the time I got back, not even the flickering garden of earthly delights could mask that stench. I made four oliveloaf and American cheese sandwiches, grabbed my bag of Wavy Lays, and sat in front of the TV with a scowl. That is, until Bob climbed up on the couch with me and cuddled.