From: StellaDate: Saturday, January 5, 2008, 8:01 PM
To nearlyfamousnovelist@sympatico.com
Subject Delirium

Yo, Sorella Maggiore!

How’s boring Dallas and crabby Daddy? And the new boyfriend? Having any fun yet? I still can’t believe you moved there, even though it’s been a year plus – such a change from Coney Island! It’s like a death camp there, so full of white bread. Bet you can’t get a decent cannelloni without getting into your Hummer and traveling along those depressing so American strips of highways occupied by used car dealers, Red Lobsters, and those awful hamburger and taco places with kiddy rides. Yech. And after all that, you can’t even get a decent cannelloni. Or an everything bagel, I bet.

Okay, bitch bitch.  I’m rapidly rising in love, Luce, like a happy guppy gulping for fancy food at the top of the bowl, and I’m so excited, I’m theoretically swallowing water. I can’t wait to tell you, on the phone like maybe? if you ever pick up. Hint. My dream man. Again. Yeah right, enough with the fish jokes. Daddy’s loves fish. You love pigs.

Anyway, Luce, you remember I told you about this world famous, eminent ichthyologist who teaches at Columbia? Turns out he lives a heartbeat’s distance from me. So I garnered all my oceanic reserves of courage and spunk and wrote to him; flirted shamelessly, actually. And there and then, he invited me to dinner at this cozy Siberian bar and restaurant in the West 90’s, so we went last night.

How can I possibly describe that evening? It was rhapsodic, with this Russian violin player weaving through the tables, strumming Rockmaninoff, and so intellectually stimulating, yet also distinctly odd, due to an event I’ll tell you about shortly. Anyway, this man, Humphrey, was waiting for me at the bar. He’s only about 5’8” tall, Luce, but he’s got a fantastic bod for an academic; he works out several times a week. It’s really an amazing bod for a man in his 50’s. He’s also got this goatee, which doesn’t exactly thrill me (you know how I feel about men’s facial hair, I mean Italian grandmas with moustaches are cool), but somehow, the goatee suits his broad Russian face and electric, teal blue eyes (it occurs to me that maybe he wears contacts -- the color’s too un-natural). He has magnificent, longish, salt and pepper hair, like a mane, really. It frames his virile face. Okay, I know I’m carrying on like crazy. If you’d just answer the phone for once, you bitch, I wouldn’t have to type my fingers off. :-) You and that novel. When are you going to finish it already?

So anyway, when I walked into the place, there he was, in suit and tie, looking so formal, yet so adorable, and he has these wonderful dimples when he smiles, and the dimples co-ordinate remarkably with the Kirk Douglas cleft in his firm chin. He stood up when I entered, moved the bar stool out like the old world gentleman he is, and those amazing eyes lit up when he met my shy glance. Yes, shy, believe it or not! You’d never imagine how awkward I felt, but the pheromones were leaping about like flying Portuguese sardines in boiling soup. I hardly knew what to say! But that didn’t matter. Hum (I call him Hum) engaged me immediately in conversation. He wanted to know all about me, where I was born, whom I’d loved and lost, how I’d come to concentrate on oceanic fish. He has a way of getting it all out of you. At least, he seemed to get a hell of a lot out of me after the fourth vodka. Yes, I was a bad girl, Luce, but I was so nervous --- at first! I immediately imagined sleeping with him, all curled up in his arms, burrowing into him, biting his elbows. And then I imagined what our progeny would look like. Okay, okay, no more.

So we were having a great time, eating with wooden spoons, Siberian style, you know, obed with okroshka, pelmeni with sturgeon, pelmini with berries. Lots of carbs, but this was a special occasion, what the hell. And the Black Sea wine was magnifioso, so much better than Pino Grigio, I must say; sorry, sis, I know how much you like the Pinos.

But then, all of a sudden, this ancient lady with a face like a boar’s and hair like Medusa's appeared in a pink and white striped cordoroy bathrobe with white and pink bunny slippers. She passed by the hostess at the door, shoving her out of the way, and walked right up to Hum. And she said, way too loudly: “HumPHREY, I can’t get my teeth out! When are you coming home? I can’t find my teeth. Is it too much for a mother to expect her son to care for her teeth?” And, Luce, she had no teeth and actually she was speaking a very strange mix of Russian and English, and without any teeth, as I said, so I didn’t catch all of the words, but that was the gist. And she stood right at our table, hovering over Hum, and everyone was looking.

Hum was very embarrassed, I could tell, though he tried to hide his discomfort by covering his mouth with his red cloth napkin (everything in the restaurant was red). He glanced at me, apologetically, shrugged his ample shoulders, and started to guide his mother toward the direction of the door. Then a vaguely elegant old geezer waltzed in. He was wearing rumpled clothes that clearly had been acquainted with a rack at Barney’s a lot of years ago. He had cheekbones like Hum’s, and he simply glided over to the mother, took her hand, winked at Hum, and led her away, out the door.

I looked at Hum, who finally removed the napkin from his mouth, and raised his eyes, somewhat obliquely, to meet mine. He sighed, as he regained his seat. “I suppose I owe you an explanation.”

“No, not at all, though I admit I’m curious as hell,” I replied. (As I told you, I’d had a few vodkas and with the wine, I was quite the loosey goosey.)

“Well, yes, my dear Stella (I loved that!), you’ve no doubt figured out that’s my mother. We live just down the street, and I do my best. Unfortunately, she suffers from a condition known as walking dementia, and when she’s in one of those states . . . well, I never know what to expect. At times, it’s nearly tragic.”

“But the man?” I queried, sipping my apres diner petit huskey rather clumsily, letting a few sticky drops fall on my satin green blouse with the blue minnow buttons.

“Oh that,” Hum shrugged. “That’s my estranged father, so to speak. He decided to separate from my mother several years ago because she talks incessantly in her sleep, but he lives across the street, keeps an eye on her. This is something I cannot comprehend, but I am no good at understanding people.” He looked helpless and stunning. “I am no good at understanding love,” he added, in a beseeching manner that implied I'd supply the answer.

So that was that. I asked no more, because after all, it was only our first date. And the event was soon forgotten after we'd left the restaurant and walked the eight blocks to my apartment, commenting on the perfect crescent of a moon and the affects of that sort of moon on the Mediterranean Ariafish. But I’ll tell you no more now. You don’t deserve it. :-)

Love,

S

The Sex Lives of Starfish: An Epistolary Tale in Progress

The Sex Lives of Starfish
Copyright 2007 Carol Novack


From: Stella
Date: Tuesday, January 1, 2008, 8:06 AM
To drhi@columbia.edu
Subject The Sex Lives of Starfish

Dear Dr. Ichovitzsky:

I recently read your article, "The Sex Lives of Starfish," and viewed the accompanying video with your photograph on its cover. I found it all most elucidating. I perfected my PHD thesis, "The Sex Life of Octopuses" (due to be published in the March edition of "Sealegs") last night, and I must tell you that there are striking similarities between starfish and octopuses when it comes to the mating ritual; the only striking difference is (of course) the role reversal. As you discovered, it is the male starfish that gives birth, a breathtaking phenomenon, rare in nature.

When a male octopus is in heat, he wriggles his legs, just as a female starfish wriggles her points. By employing a marine audio laser, I was able to hear the subtle song of the male octopus in heat, as he wriggles his feet. Oddly enough, it sounds like a cross between Frank Sinatra's "New York, New York" and an obscure folk song by Bela Bartok that has never been published or performed. You can imagine: the song is riveting. It attracts all female octopuses within a radius of 31 miles. What happens next is truly esoteric. The female octopuses vie ferociously for first place with the male, forming a totally out of control football huddle. It's exceedingly difficult to tell what's actually going on without employing sea opera binoculars, which, as I'm sure you know, are very hard to find. I procured a pair and was thus able to discern a rhythmic flapping of a plenitude of legs all entwined. My audio laser registered a hissing whisper.

Eventually, the legs of the female octopuses form a tight sailors' milleoctocross knot and when that occurs, the male octopus jumps onto the knot as if it were a trampoline. During the ensuing mating ritual, the male bounces on this knot at a rate of 53 bounces per second and the voices of the male octopus and the female octopuses crescendo to attain an almost inaudible high-pitched screech, similar in tonality to the death song of the Samoan conch (with which I am sure you're familiar) but also reminiscent of the screech uttered by the male starfish.

This bouncing and screeching activity lasts for 3 to 346 seconds, depending on the age and physical endurance of the male octopus, who collapses and dies when he can no longer keep it up. At that point, the female octopuses sing a dirge remarkably similar to the 17th mournful aria sung by Isolde in that opera by Wagner.

At least half of the female octopuses give birth to baby octopuses (affectionately termed "little leggies") within the following three days. This gestation period, is of course, identical to that of the male starfish.

I propose that we get together to discuss the ramifications of our research. Just let me know when and where and I will make myself entirely disposable. I understand that you have been studying the mating habits of the Fijian seaworm. What a fascinating project! You must tell me all about it. Incidentally, I'm 6'1," with long red hair, green eyes, and well-developed mammary glands. Seriously, I’m kidding about the mammary glands.

Sincerely,
Stella Marinaro
(soon to be Dr. Stella Marinaro)

_______________


From: drhi@columbia.edu
Date: Tues, January 1, 2008 4:07 PM
To Stella
Subject Re The Sex Lives of Starfish


Dear Almost Dr. Marinaro May I Call You Stella:

First, let me congratulate you heartily on your innovative research techniques, your persistence in the face of adversaries, and your forthcoming article in “Sealegs.” I look forward to viewing your dissertation. Rush it over, please, and I shall give it my undivided attention, just as soon as I have completed my article on the Mediterranean Ariafish, and my research project on oceanic zoology off the southern coast of New Zealand.

Now, to get to the heart of the matter, I am frequently a man of few words, and I am still somewhat uncomfortable on my feat with English, but yet I have with humility I am told great vision. I am most intrigued by the self-description you granted me. You undoubtedly realize I am somewhat short to average in stature for a man of my gender. Yet, your proportions attract me, which should come as no surprise to you, if you’ve read my article on the Amazonian Tetra. But of course, you have and you know that! Forgive me. Perhaps I am being presumptuous.

Yes, I should like very much to make your acquaintance. The only problem is that I don’t know where you are, my dear. I am not presently in the position to take off in a jet plane to meet you for dinner, as my mother has not been feeling too well of late; her mind has been wandering in the company of her body. If, however, you are in the New York City vicinity, I know a delightful Siberian restaurant on the upper west side. If you are close by and free this Friday evening, perhaps we could meet at the bar there at 7:00 p.m. They serve the finest vodka one can get in New York. Just hit the reply key and say “yes!” You know what I look like!

Oh, perhaps you could wear green? It’s my favorite color!

Sincerely,
Humphrey Ichovitsky