Saturday, November 29, 2008

More on Thanksgiving

So when I left off yesterday we hadn't even eaten yet and the hookers hadn't shown up. Hookers are usually late like that anyway.

Abe Kirchner came. Ive been talking about him for years. He always has a lot for me to write about, being perpetually involved in situations he shouldn't. He's in his sixties. His ex-wife the whore Brazilian Gabriella also came, but they weren't together. Before I continue, I need to give a little recent backstory on each of them.

Since the summer Abe has had the hots for my sister who is 26. He hangs out at her bar. He asks her to dinner, texts her. This will be important to the story later.

Gabriella on the other hand, is newly single, having broken up with her divorce lawyer Andre Lefkowitz whom she lived with for three years following her divorce to Abe. She is currently working as an escort but won't admit it, though it's pretty damned obvious. Gabby doesn't bother me that much. She's extremely cheerful and stupid and entertaining. My sister though, hates the ground Gabby walks on. This situation is made worse by the fact that Gabby can't remember my sister's name and inexplicably calls her Melanie instead. This enrages my sister. I think it's funny.

Abe brought his daughter Tiffani with him. She lives in California, is 23 and looks exactly like a young Pamela Anderson, complete with the boobs and all. She's the sweetest girl in the most tragic way. When you look at her you can just see how her only role models were the whores her dad brought home and how she turned herself into one of them because she knew that's what her dad admired. Perhaps though, I am the only person who sees these things. Tiffani is a wild, partying maniac and Abe, a wild partying maniac in his own right, can't stand to see all the traits he loves in other women, reflected back at him in his own daughter. This makes for disasters whenever the two of them are together.

Tiffani and my sister had been doing shots all night and were approaching Dutch Pickens levels of tore-upness.

At one point my dad, who had been grilling lamb (I know on Thanksgiving, right?) felt like he needed a quick shower to get the smoke off. He announced that he would be back in ten minutes, that he was going to take a shower. Tiffani heard him wrong and thought he said "take a shot" to which she replied that she'd take one too. Abe just about near came unglued, because he had heard my dad right and thought that his daughter was going to take a shower with my father. As if my mother wouldn't have knocked the shit out of her before the water even got hot.

A scene followed. Abe threw a fit and dragged his daughter out the door (not exactly literally) and said the night was officially over and that he wasn't going to have his daughter taking a shower with his friend. The absurd irony was utterly lost on him. Recall that he has been hitting on my sister, a mere three years older than Tiffani, and the daughter of his friend too. So what the hell? Perhaps he holds his own daughter to a different standard. My best explanation is that people I know are fucking crazy and that's all there is to it.

By then the hookers were finally here and we could dig in to the buffet.

Readers, I am pleased to introduce you once again to the lovely Velva Haux. Go read about her, and then come back.

Velva Haux lives across the canal from my parents in a grand, Key West style mansion. She runs an escort service and claims to be a former Playboy bunny from the early 80s. When we first met her last year she was married to a violent, abusive juice head named Tony, but now they are in the middle of a nasty divorce. In the past year Velva and my parents have become better friends because when Velva left Tony she ran to LA and entrenched herself in Kabbalah, like Madonna. She called my parents and started hanging out with them in LA when she wasn't studying Torah and keeping kosher. To show her devotion she got some Hebrew tattoos on her neck and always wears a red string.

Now I'm not going to dis Velva Haux too much here, because she's grown on me and I, surprisingly, don't usually judge sex workers as much as I judge everyone else (there are exceptions though). Velva doesn't get on my nerves as much as she used to because she's calmed down a lot since she's gotten rid of Tony. She also has a new boyfriend named Thor who looks exactly like a Viking superhero. We are all (male and female, gay and straight alike) totally in love with this man. Thor may well be the nicest guy in the world. He is a social worker who deals with addicts and he doesn't drink or smoke or anything. Plus, he rescues pit bulls from dog fighting rings. My parents have been helping him socialize a severely abused dog, but that's its own post. It also doesn't hurt that he looks like a better looking Matthew McConaughey. I don't care about that though. Thor is just a damned good person and you can tell it as soon as you meet him.

Thor and Velva brought a battalion of hookers and their boyfriends with them. There was a lot of lips and tits, collagen and silicone bouncing and jiggling around our Thanksgiving table. All the straight guys got excited and all the gay guys didn't notice because they were too busy drooling over Thor. It was hysterical.

In addition to all this, we had my orthodox cousins and grandparents here and my grandparents brought a Morroccan caterer with them who made lamb tagine and a dump truck's worth of baba ghanoush. It was her fault I got that freaking green, stench assed hilba all over my hands. I didn't mind the woman. She was really nice and so was her smoked eggplant spread, but hilba is this horrible green shit they eat in the Middle East that stinks so bad that I really can't describe the odor. I googled it and the only description I could find was that it was a pungent herb. Pungent my ass. A broken down subway car, packed with construction workers at the end of a long day, in hundred degree heat, smells a lot better than hilba. And I got it on my hands. I nearly washed my epidermis off trying to get rid of the smell, but I still reek.

The best part of our Thanksgiving though was the banjo player. Thor's dad is a very famous banjo player and he was down, so he brought his banjo and gave us our own private show, complete with folktales in between and stories about the history of the instrument and the music he plays. It was beautiful. It sounded like the "O Brother Where Art Thou" soundtrack. I have to admit that I have a deep, deep love of Appalachian folk music. It reminds me of the grandfather I'm named for. It reminds me of driving through the mountains in his truck, so when I heard the music it was like he was visiting from the afterlife for a little while, like his spirit was coming out of the banjo.

7 comments:

Me. said...

You have the most fabulous friends! And crazy family... Fantastic. Try stainless steel soap on your hands (yes, its a chunk of steel that looks like a cake of soap... but it WORKS!)...

And to you, I doff my cap for providing a thoroughly entertaining diatribe on a bunch of clinically insane people.

Cassandra said...

A stainless steel spoon may also work and you probably already have one handy ... gets onion smell off and we all know how tough that can be!

FreeDragon said...

Try lemon juice on your hands. That works on most everything and you probably already have it at your house.

Gayle said...

For all the craziness of Appalachia, I really do love me some Appalachian folk music.

Anonymous said...

Pour hydrogen peroxide over your hands and let it sit for a few seconds... that will kill the smell.

Wide Lawns said...

Don't worry. I finally got the smell out.

Chiada said...

You've got my curiosity up over who this famous banjo player is. I've seen quite a few banjo players and some names come to mind: Sammy Shelor, Bela Fleck, Earl Scruggs. Of course, there's also Kermit The Frog and Steve Martin. ;)

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