Ok, I meet JP at Starbucks (his office) with the kids this morning.
JP: So I put your name in for the lottery to win tickets to the Micheal Jackson Memorial Service this Tuesday at the Staples Center.
Me: Actually, I looked at him in totally silence with my jaw dropped open, as in “Are you fucking kidding me, you moron? (Not that I would actually call him that since we have a rule that we don’t call each other names. But…I can THINK it.) You know EXACTLY how I feel about the uh, man, uh, thing? that was Michael Jackson, so…are you fucking kidding me?” But since I had the kids with me and other people were around me and couldn’t say those things, I just gave him The Look–you know, the we’ve been married 17 years are you fucking kidding me? look.
JP: Yes, I’m totally serious. Brett (his brother who lives in L.A. and writes screenplays, etc.) wants to go.
Me: And this has to do with me, how?
JP: Well, he thought you’d be all over this! So if all of us sign up, maybe one of us is bound to get tickets and then he can go.
Me: Wait wait wait. So, let me get this straight. You compromised my principles so Brett can go to this clusterfuck spectacle? All of my history goes out the window?
JP: Oh come on. He says all the stars will be there. It’s bigger than the Oscars. It’s bigger than when Elvis died.
Me: Exactly. Everyone is comprising their principles for this whole weirdo sicko mess. Don’t include me.
JP: Too late.
Me: Sorry, I’m just not that shallow. The whole thing sickens me. I’m on my high horse and I’m not coming down anytime soon. Even if I GET the tickets, I’m not giving them to Brett. So there. Ha. (Call me Brett, we’ll talk.)
JP: Feel better?
Me: Kinda, not really, yes. It really has nothing to do with me. That’s what it comes down to. He was one man, who accomplished great and terrible things–like Voldemort. But without the wand. (Insert glove joke here.)
