Well, I’ll tell you, life sure is interesting, there is an Italian in my house. He is Claudio, with dark, laughing eyes. He is the boyfriend of a girl I know a little bit, but who is also the boy’s BFF. I hadn’t met him before Thursday night when he moved in, but sometimes you figure: Someone needs a bed, I have an extra bed, why not. I know this might sound familiar to some of you, but truly I think this will be different from Operation Julia.
Julia, she was a friend of a friend of a friend who arrived late one night with a large rucksack on her back. I told her to make herself at home – a phrase I never use, so I was surprised to find it coming out of my mouth – so she spent the next so many days packing herself take-away meals from my lunch provisions. Her second night in town, I came home to find her on my computer, drinking the Mariage Frères. “Hello,” she said, “want some tea?” I thought I had walked into someone else’s flat by mistake.
She was charming, though, Julia, who brought a box of wine as a thank-you gift and then drank most of it. She told us stories of the people she met in London – an aging ex-model, recently single, who wanted to move to Paris for a life-change, an exuberant Australian whom she out-drank one night. You knew that there would be a movie, you knew that Angelina Jolie would play her, or, wait, not Scarlett Johansson, but what’s the name of that girl who wears terrible terrible clothes that the fashion people love? Bloomers with heels, that sort of thing? Chloë Sevigny. “I wish I could be Julia,” Laureen said, some months after Julia had moved out. “So relaxed, so unhindered, so French, so oblivious.”
Claudio will be different, I think. For one, he brought me cheese. For two, he plays me vintage Vinicio Capossela – and sings along.
His English is sort of half-past-six, which is charming – in a different way that Julia was charming – and doesn’t seem to be a problem. Yesterday I was trying to explain to him about the berry picking this weekend. I said: “We are going? To pick?” – and here a frantic digging motion here, I tell you I was never good at charades. Where is Doug when you need him! – “Berries? Um. Berries? Fragola?” And he said: “Fragola! You are going to look for fragola!” “Ya!” I said, and he said: “Carini!!!”
“Yes,” I said, “we found a farm, and we are going to pick berries.” “You are going to pick berries,” he said, contemplating, “for a farmer?”
Where is my Under the Tuscan Sun book contract, I ask you.
Julia, she was a friend of a friend of a friend who arrived late one night with a large rucksack on her back. I told her to make herself at home – a phrase I never use, so I was surprised to find it coming out of my mouth – so she spent the next so many days packing herself take-away meals from my lunch provisions. Her second night in town, I came home to find her on my computer, drinking the Mariage Frères. “Hello,” she said, “want some tea?” I thought I had walked into someone else’s flat by mistake.
She was charming, though, Julia, who brought a box of wine as a thank-you gift and then drank most of it. She told us stories of the people she met in London – an aging ex-model, recently single, who wanted to move to Paris for a life-change, an exuberant Australian whom she out-drank one night. You knew that there would be a movie, you knew that Angelina Jolie would play her, or, wait, not Scarlett Johansson, but what’s the name of that girl who wears terrible terrible clothes that the fashion people love? Bloomers with heels, that sort of thing? Chloë Sevigny. “I wish I could be Julia,” Laureen said, some months after Julia had moved out. “So relaxed, so unhindered, so French, so oblivious.”
Claudio will be different, I think. For one, he brought me cheese. For two, he plays me vintage Vinicio Capossela – and sings along.
His English is sort of half-past-six, which is charming – in a different way that Julia was charming – and doesn’t seem to be a problem. Yesterday I was trying to explain to him about the berry picking this weekend. I said: “We are going? To pick?” – and here a frantic digging motion here, I tell you I was never good at charades. Where is Doug when you need him! – “Berries? Um. Berries? Fragola?” And he said: “Fragola! You are going to look for fragola!” “Ya!” I said, and he said: “Carini!!!”
“Yes,” I said, “we found a farm, and we are going to pick berries.” “You are going to pick berries,” he said, contemplating, “for a farmer?”
Where is my Under the Tuscan Sun book contract, I ask you.
posted by stellou at 8:30 AM
7 Comments:
VINICIO!!!! the italian tom waits! oh that's just glorious stuff. what a great housemate! he plays, he sings, does he also cook? didn't we have a little exchange about italian boys not long ago? and now look! how uncanny.
That Vinicio Capossela is quite something. Grazie molto a Claudio (e Astella)! I wonder if every country has its x Tom Waits. LeningraD seem to be the Russian Tom Waits, and I love them. Are there more Waitsian delights awaiting me, out there in the world?
And I also like "His English is sort of half-past-six"; it's clear from the context what you mean, but could you please demonstrate this expression in another sentence? I have never seen/heard it before.
And I was just looking at the collected frights of Ms. Sevigny yesterday. She is also quite something, though a different kind of something.
cecio > Yah! It is amazing, sometimes really all you have to do is say a thing and then it happens. The thing is, it is not Cannavaro in my house! ^_^
Claudio hasn't cooked yet, not really - he was in charge of the pasta water tonight, but other than that I have yet to put him to the test.
What is great, though, is that he was talking, and then he sort of trailed off, and said, "Sorry, I get distracted by this song." And then he interrupted himself to sing along with Vinicio Capossela. We LUV it.
bbrug > Thank you for the good links! Leningrad and Chloë Sevigny. You sure get around. Hahaha
"Half-past-six" means when something is sort of, I dunno, neither here nor there. It is a good ol' saying from home. Oh! I have just checked the Talking Cock dictionary, all the reference you need!, and it says:
Describing something or someone as being half-baked or incompetent, the term is actually a sexual reference to the angle of the dangle of the male organ. Half past six is weak, but quarter past three or 9:45 is very strong!
Um. I didn't know the part about the angle of the dangle.
Hmm. Doesn't the expression then assume that there are two . . . organs? As there are two hands on the clock? What if the clock reads 12:45? What does it mean then?
bbrug > So many questions! More questions, even, than organs! Um, can you see?, I am trying to distract you. It is because I know not what to say. Also, the idea of so much action in the crotch-region is making me have to look away.
eh you cannot anyhow half-past-six anyone lah. it's very not three not four. anyway:
http://www.doubletongued.org/index.php/dictionary/half_past_six/
half-past-six adj. bad; shoddy, slipshod. Related: toke cork, kiah su, English, Singapore
Citations: 1992 Jenny Lam Straits Times (Singapore) (July 18) “The shrimp people”: The fairer elite (those who are descended from Europeans) are known as “the upper 10.” At the other extreme are the Portuguese-Eurasians with Malaccan roots who belong to the “half-past six” or “lower-10” strata. 1997 The Edge (Singapore) (Sept. 29) “Anticipating corporatisation”: We can live with our competitors. If you provide good service, patients will come to you but if you do half-past-six jobs, you may not be so lucky. 1998 Malay Mail (Malaysia) (Oct. 13) “Duh…We have a national team again—Honest.”: More Malaysian soccer fans support any number of foreign teams, even a half-past six side like Manchester United, rather than a local team. 2003 Tan Shzr Ee Straits Times (Singapore) (Dec. 3) “SSO exec is moving on”: My Chinese is “half-past-six” and I must brush it up. 2005 Denyse Tessensohn Today (Singapore) (May 26) “Save our Shiok!”: Half-past-six: (Original Singapore coinage) Slipshod.
anainymous > Cheh, are you trying to tell me that the Talking Cock dictionally is not the final word?? Cheh cheh cheh. Quickly write to Colin Goh and tell him lah!
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