Greetings, fans and phantoms, you meandering minstrels of word and lurk and thought and image… you sacred bloggers of the digital space-time continuum…
“Will ya shut up,” shouts Laz.
(“I did not shout ‘shut up,'” Laz says, looking wounded, from the other end of the couch. It’s March Madness. This means 1) couchal occupation of an extended nature, 2) spinach dip consumption in vast amounts, and 3) fresh bags of salt and pepper potato chips from Trader Joes brought to him on the hour. He also doesn’t want to be interrupted.)
“Okay, now I’m going to start shouting,” says Laszlo, reading this as it is written.
But he is telling the truth: There has (heretofore at least) been no shouting. The truth of the matter is that Lala has been watching The Sopranos at her apartment. Frequently. Her enthusiasm often leads her to act out what she’s watching when she visits with Laszlo.
“Does not,” says Lala.
“Do you remember the last time we watched Pulp Fiction? For weeks after you couldn’t stop whispering ‘Yay, though I walk through the shadow of the valley of death’ to your breakfast cereal.”
Lala: “Whatever. Will you let me work? I have a novel to write. A shitty novel.”
For a time the drone of basketball commentators and cheering fans is the only thing to be heard.
“Okay… maybe I do get a little excited,” she admits.
“A little? Just today you offered me gabagool,'” says Laszlo.
“So what?” says Lala.
“You were serving me carrot cake,” says Laszlo.
“I got confused,’ says Lala.
Laszlo: “Also, I think you better stop introducing yourself as my Goomah.”
Lala: “Really? Why? It means sweetie pie, right?”