The great X-Generation migration to the subterranean embrace of Boomer basements was one on which I looked with longing. By the time so many of my near-peers seized the means of production by dragging twin beds down split-level stairs, I was already engaged in the solo flight through académe that was the eight-year path to my Master’s (or, technically, “Associate’s”) degree.
I had no chance to move into the guest room and pump up my Rush cassettes, but I envied those who did.
It was thus with an exquisite sense of pseudonostalgia that I paid my first visit to my comrade in ink, the notable Toddmore S. Lemon. The evening began strongly, as his ingenious use of a sliding garage door for ingress allowed me to easily maneuver in my heavy luggage. I didn’t even mind having to open it myself. The hearty scent of vigorous discourse between man and bacterium told me immediately that I’d come to the right place.
Todd leapt to his feet with excitement at my entrance, color high in his cheeks as he rapidly closed a number of Internet Explorer instances. He greeted me with a warm string of expletives and inquired as to my reasons for arriving early. Since my cross-border travails had in fact caused me to leave the airport late, I responded to his jape with what I felt was a chuckle of appropriate gusto.
Todd looked nervously upward at this, and warned me not to “wake his mother.” Such quickness! I’m glad to say that Mr. Lemon’s improvisational skill has not waned.
I feel bound to report, however, that at this point the quality of my visit descended like a cliff-diving submarine.
One the suggestion that I “throw” my bags “anywhere,” I endeavored to strengthen the room’s natural feng shui by tucking them under Todd’s rumpled fu ton. They were blocked, however, by what appeared to be a sort of giant stuffed animal, sans stuffing — no doubt a souvenir of some trip to Coney (literally, “King’s”) Island.
Todd became oddly agitated at this, and proceeded to relocate my luggage to a corner. Naturally, I queried as to the nature of his perturbitation. Todd squinted at me for some time before responding; when he did, it was to ask if I would care to take in some recorded television. I boldly set aside my distaste for the medium and accepted.
The next two hours were regrettable.
We watched a number of low-grade animated car-toons, largely featuring humanoid animals, from such vendors as Hanna-Barbera and the Warner Brothers. The homemade collection concluded with a series of clips from the work of Don Bluth. As I politely sipped the mineral water that had given me such trouble in Customs, Todd examined me intently, as if searching for a reaction.
When the homemade disc was done, Todd handed me a fine example of high-noise Xerography — a “flier” for what appeared to be a local “MegaKawaii Anthro Meetup.” As always, I had my personal miniature tape recorder primed; the following exchange, which I recorded upon it, was so extraordinary that I feel the need to transcribe it verbatim.
Todd: So you’re into the scene, right? You’re into it.Soon after, a woman to whom Todd referred as “Mom” entered, groggy and highly upset. More voices were raised, more objects made projectile. The malaise à trois that followed included a meeting with the gentlemen of Portland’s Finest, after which I retrieved my bags and obtained lodging at a nearby Howard Johnson.Myself: My fondness for all culture notwithstanding, Todd, I’m afraid Nipponese anthropology is not my forte suit.
Todd: What?
(A pause.)
Myself:You know, I think your versing in “pulp” animation is an interesting –
Todd: Aww, [redacted].
Myself: Are you familiar with the collo-montage that’s coming out of Brazil right now? It’s almost Tarantinoid, I think it’d intrigue you. Jean Sant’Anna takes original cels and develops them in his own urine, whereas–
Todd: You stupid mother-[redacted]. [Redacted]. Are you like some kind of — sting operation? It’s not illegal, you — [redacted]. You have to tell me if you’re a cop. You know you have to tell me?
Myself: I’m afraid I miscomprehend you.
Todd: You’re going to tell my mom, aren’t you! [Redacted]. [Redacted]!
Myself: Let’s try to engage in a more productive dialogue. I’ll get a mirror, and –
Todd: [Redacted]!
Myself: I don’t actually understand that one.
Todd: Get out of my house, you [redacted]-guzzling savant-[redacted]!
(It is at this point that Todd hurls a ceramic bank at my person, and the conversation breaks down.)
I filled the remainder of my trip with visits to the Portland Maritime Museum and quasilegal penny slots. I received only one further communiqué from my would-be host — a single sheet of computer paper. On it had been printed “[Redacted] you,” over and over, in a pattern that suggested an abstract male penis. I’m afraid I have not yet plumbed the full symbolism of this document; expect a more thorough exploration in the next week or so.
Todd Lemon receives two stars, with a qualified negative half-crescent for a weak denouement.