A Ramble for Donutbuzz

On Flapjam, you normally see posts where I'm bemoaning things that are seemingly minute, but which are kind of funny when you think about how pathetic they sound. That's my shtick, and I usually stick with it. I am not a fan of typing out sentimental verbiage here, just cos, that's not the Flapjam way. (It may be the H way, but Flap and H are two different peeps, k?)

But today, I feel like a doing post for my bro, Donutbuzz. Bear with me cos he's better at this type of prose than I am. I think it's because I fell under the zodiacal sign of the crab or something which means I'm all hard'n'crusty on the outside and you have to use mechanical implements to get the squooshy parts. But who knows. So forgive any temporal shifts, and just go with it.

The Donutbuzz/Flapjam Sibling Saga: The Abridged Version

Donutbuzz is like the coolest bro ever, and I'm not just saying that. Sure, there were times during our youth when he tormented me and maybe broke a toy of mine, but hey, that's the formative years, and hey, maybe I'll address some of that in another post.

Donutbuzz is 4 years older than I am, which means he had a good jump on just about everything, from sussing out the crazy English teachers in junior high to knowing which houses to avoid hitting on Halloween. And as a good brother would do, he dutifully passed down this knowledge. (Okay, some of it came out as complaints and hysteria during conversations with Mom and Dad, but the trickle-down theory still applies.)

When Donutbuzz went away on the 6th-grade patrol trip to Washington, D.C., he brought me a brown stuffed toy dog that I named "Arfy." When he went to Disneyworld years later, I got a Thumper. And when he went to Europe after graduating from college, he gave me the coolest present of all: a long-distance phone call (from Germany I think) for my birthday! No one had ever called me from another country before, and it was nice to know that even though he was dealing with major toilet issues in Heidelberg, he still remembered to give his little sister a call to say happy birthday.

It was weird when Donutbuzz left to go to college in New York. Part of me may have looked forward to having the run of the house (no fighting over the tv, video games, or parental attention), but I admit nothing. And during his freshman year, he faithfully sent me letters with little presents in them. One of them had a Columbia pencil in it, which was fun, because the envelope pooched out around it. (I think he'd have a harder time getting it through the postal system today. You just never know what you've got 'til it's gone.)

When he came back for the summer(s), I found that he was surprisingly nice to me. Like if I asked him to take me and a friend to the movies or give us a ride to the mall, he would do it. And be nice about it! Sometimes, he'd even offer without my having to ask! One day while he was driving me and Rachel somewhere, I wondered, "Where did the brother who tortured me and teased me go??" It was a fleeting thought, but it's stuck with me. It was the moment I realized that my brother would probably never hit or tease me again. (For the most part, that's been true.)

A few years later when we were both in New Orleans (I was in college, he was in law school), I got a chance to re-meet my bro and spend a lot more time with him. Sometimes it was bleah, like when he'd bemoan the whole Nadia situation (although it did give birth to a pretty cool song, "Cultured Stone") or when he'd freak out at Mardi Gras (although truth be told, I hate crowds myself), but most of the time it was nice having him there. When he wasn't studying, he'd come take us out to Taco Bell, or to the Winn Dixie, or just come over to watch tv and goof around. Sometimes we'd hit Shoney's with another of my friends, and they'd debate legal cases and stuff while I just ate my French Silk Pie or Hot Fudge Cake and wondered how my classmate knew so damned much about legal matters. If you have nothing to contribute to a conversation, you may as well be eating a delicious chocolatey dessert. But I digress.

Donutbuzz's domicile was a hot, stuffy place. I tried not to spend too much time there. But he lived not far from where I'd get my hair cut, so I would often pop by after getting shorn. I had a key and I'd go eat bologna--that's about all he had in the fridge anyway--and leave him a note so he'd know I'd been there. One particular note just read: Modern Apocalyptic Hope. I have no idea what I meant when I wrote it, and was only slightly embarrassed to learn that when he found it, a classmate of his was with him. (I didn't have a crush on this guy or anything, but do you really want people seeing the kind of stupid crap you write after eating bologna?)

The Donutbuzz/Flapjam New Orleans years lend themselves to many great stories (mostly) and a few misunderstandings. But today I was reminded of the time when I had food poisoning, and how Donutbuzz totally helped me out.

I'd been at the Five Happiness (or Five Crappiness, as it would later come to be known) the night before, and ordered shrimp fried rice. I'd never had shrimp fried rice before, but I felt like ordering it. I also didn't know that Jean-Claude Van Damme was in the restaurant, which likely caused the waitstaff and kitchen staff to be less than vigilant regarding food preparation.

After the eats, I went to see Dr. Giggles with two friends. The movie, despite its name, did not induce much giggling. Mostly I just wanted it to be over. If you've never heard of this pseudo-horror flick before, sorry I mentioned it.

I went home, ate some Chef Boyardee, and went to bed. But it was hard sleeping because I felt so sick. I yarped a lot, some more, and then a few more times. I hate yarping (barfing), it's like the worst thing ever. When my brother found out I was sick, I think he and my legal discussant friend Wendy went to the K&B to buy some cola syrup and other things for me.

I had food poisoning, and I had food poisoning BAD. It lasted about a week, no kidding, and I missed a bunch of classes.

I was feeling better one night, sort of, so Donutbuzz, Wendy and I went to Copeland's to eat. Well, they were going to eat, I was going to watch. But our server kept insisting that some vanilla ice cream would make me feel better, so he brought it. You just can't say no to these people (and believe me, we tried). So he brought a dish of ice cream and, against my better judgment, I tried a little bit.

I then ran to the bathroom (with Wendy behind me) and yarped.

Donutbuzz was pissed off.

But not at me. And not at Wendy.

He was pissed off at the waiter for bringing the ice cream.

We left immediately--I was still shaky--and we walked slowly towards Donutbuzz's car.

At some point, on the corner of Napoleon and Prytania, I threw up again.

On Donutbuzz's shoes.

He didn't get mad and he didn't seem grossed out.

It was truly a turning (of my stomach) point in our sibling relationship, I think. Because if you can barf on your brother's shoes without fear of reprisal, then you have a pretty cool bro.

So I just want to say to Donutbuzz, thank you for letting me yarp on your shoes, and for not making me replace them. I would totally let you barf on my shoes, too. (I would just hope that they weren't sandals.)

Love,
your little sis,
Flapjam