Apartment 3-G, 5/5/07
Oh, poor Lu Ann. We all knew you were boring, but did they really have to rub your face in it with this pathetic display as your boring, boring life flashed before your eyes? For the record, here are the last faces Lu Ann will see before she casts off this mortal coil and is swept up into Albert Pinkham Ryder’s celestial art sweatshop:
- Margo, who has repeatedly failed to check up on Lu Ann when prompted due to laziness and/or self-absorption.
- Tommie, who has repeatedly failed to check up on Lu Ann when prompted due to crippling self-loathing-induced agoraphobia and/or bad cell phone reception.
- Professor Papagoras, who has repeatedly failed to check up on Lu Ann when prompted due to the fact all his time is now taken up screwing a 22-year-old.
- Lu Ann’s cousin Blaze, who hasn’t been sidetracked from checking up on Lu Ann because it never occurred to him to do so in the first place, and who also wears a stupid cowboy hat at all times.
- Lu Ann’s ex-boyfriend Alan, who had a cruel, immature freakout when he learned that Lu Ann had been engaged before he had met her, and who then gave her the keys to the evil haunted studio, and who has repeatedly failed to check up on Lu Ann when prompted due to peripatetic self-hatred. Lu Ann will miss him most of all, echoing Dorothy’s parting words to the brainless Scarecrow.
Figures not pictured in Lu Ann’s death fugue include:
- Her parents.
- Any other family members, including supposedly beloved cousin or niece or whatever Mim.
- Her beloved now deceased husband, Mr. Powers, a fighter pilot shot down over Vietnam years ago.
- Her former fiancé, what’s-his-name the billionaire janitor who went on to marry Margo’s rich client.
- FBI Pete, the boyfriend she stole from Margo, the one with the dyslexic daughter she loved so much.
In fact, Lu Ann’s dying moments have proven a remarkable ability to elide out her former relationships. I guess it will make things simpler when they all aren’t waiting for her in Dumb Girl Heaven.
Good lord, but the youth of today irritate me with their twee, retro sensibilities. As if obsessing over vinyl records weren’t bad enough, now they’re all going in for antique cell phones from the mid-1980s, each one the size of a brick and sporting an eight-inch antenna. Damn kids!
Also, note to everybody: STOP THRUSTING YOUR PELVIS AT MARK TRAIL. HE DOES NOT ENJOY SEXUAL RELATIONS. HE WILL NOT RESPOND TO YOUR ADVANCES.