Email me

Wednesday, August 31, 2011

239th email

From: Dom Borax
To: Stacey Marchenkova
Sent: Monday September 21st, 1999 9:51AM
Subject: RE Sorry

Dear Stacey,

I am so sorry I missed your email. It’s hard to get access here. Sometimes I can use the Hotel computer, but I don’t want to push my luck – plus the hotel folk like to play online poker and when they have that gambling look in their eye, I suspect that even if I collapsed dead on their desk, no muscle would be moved to help me.

Royal Flush – Dead Guest – easy choice for the gambler, right?

So that leaves my work computer as an only option – which wipes out weekends and

Blah, blah, blah—

Sorry that’s so boring. I think I’m just trying to evade the obvious and deal with your sad email. I am so sorry that it’s tough for you. If it helps, it’s tough for me too. I mean, why I left just when I met the love of my life. What a fool, right?

How fucking dumb is that?

It’s gotta be one of the stupidest things ever. It has no logic. The only sense I can take from this is self aware self loathing. So much so that even a glimmer of happiness needs to be snuffed out the moment the endorphins kick in.


You are right we need to be punished for being so stupid.

Maybe I’ll just come home.



PS It also doesn’t help that I met Pauly Shore today in the TV offices. He looked lost as he wandered through this ill considered warren. I approached him at one point to see if he was alright, to see if he was lost.

At first he didn’t answer. Indeed he was silent for a while. It got uncomfortable; like ‘you don’t know where to look’ uncomfortable.

So finally I settled on the most inappropriate place to rest my gaze. I glanced down at his belt buckle. It was a very large golden letter P. I guess he had it in case he loses his trousers.

PAULY SHORE: Excuse me, I’m lost.

I snapped my attention back to his face.

PAULY SHORE: That’s better – eyes on the face.

ME: Sorry. I just love your belt buckle.

PAULY SHORE: I hate it.

ME: Why’d you wear it?

PAULY SHORE: When I wear it, I feel like Pauly Shore.

ME: But you are Pauly Shore.

PAULY SHORE: No I’m not.

ME: Yes you are.

PAULY SHORE: No I’m not. I’m Paul Shore. Not Pauly Shore.

ME: So the difference is the ‘y’

PAULY SHORE: The difference is always the ‘y’

ME: Right.

At this point we lapsed into another moment of silence. Suddenly:

PAULY SHORE: So can you help me or not? I’m lost.

ME: What are you looking for?

PAULY SHORE: What are you looking for? Dude, would you stop being so fucking profound. Jesus Christ. What are you looking for? Man, I wish I knew the answer.

ME: Sorry – didn’t mean to be profound. Let me ask it a different way. Where are you trying to get to?

PAULY SHORE: More metaphysics. Fuck me. You can’t help yourself can you, Yogi?

ME: Are you looking for someone in the office.


ME: Are you looking for the bathroom?


ME: Are you looking for the commissary?


ME: I’m sorry Mr Shore – what are you looking for?


ME: Me?

PAULY SHORE: Yeah you. Why not?

ME: What do you want with me?

PAULY SHORE: I don’t know. I told you I was lost.

And with that he wandered off, deeper into the Fox lot; looking for me once more.

I think I’ve gotta get out of here.

PPS Man, my Post Script was longer than the message itself. That seems out of balance, don’t you think?

Sunday, August 28, 2011

237th and 238th email

From: Stacey Marchenkova
To: dom borax < >
Sent: Friday September 18th, 1999 10:11AM
Subject: I’m awake, huh!?

Good morning darling… I am awake before 11:00… can you believe it?

I agreed to take oftenbark for a walk…your folks wanted it happen in the morning…so morning it was…8:00 to be precise…I even went to bed early in preparation…what’s happening to me…?

It's as if your travels have made a new woman of me…

It’s as if this two time frame fiasco is forcing me to be responsible or at least make a choice and I suspect my choice will be masochistic…

It has to be…

I need to be punished, right?

No, we need to be punished…

We are fools to love…

And one form of punishment is the Universe saying we can’t exist at the same time ...we can't exist at the same moment…

And we chose it…so we have consequences…

I don’t know what I’m saying…

I just feel a little lonely…


From: Stacey Marchenkova
To: dom borax <
Sent: Friday September 18th, 1999 10:24AM
Subject: Sorry

Sorry…bad day…not your fault…just missed you…but no need to take it out on you…you keep going there buster…build that future…and ignore me…or laugh at me…yes please laugh at me…that would make me feel so much better…really…


Wednesday, August 24, 2011

236th email

From: Dom Borax
To: Stacey Marchenkova
Sent: Thursday September 17th, 1999 4:11AM
Subject: Food

Dear Stacey, let me tell you about food here. It is very colorful (sorry colourful) and very sweet.

Kinda like a Children's Pop Band.

Which is coincidental as that’s the new show I’m working on - A cabaret sketch show with a South Californian Pop band of Mormons who recruit with anthemic ‘join us’ enlist’ ‘be part of our army’ style songs.

Kinda creepy, hey.

Kinda made me hide all the accelerants…

Kinda made me warn the F-B-I.

Kinda made me hate myself.

(See, had my first day at work today – so many dangers and warning signs. Most notably the lead singer wanted to take my to a shopping mall as he wasn’t sure we had them in Australia. I shit you not.)

Anyhows; back to the food.

Early this morning I wandered downstairs to the Breakfast Buffet. It was stocked with long life items, I suspect. Kinda like a World War Three bunker smorgasbord (And Dom - please stop saying ‘kinda like’ it’s so annoying and seemingly linguistically contagious – see Buddy, with such a weak immune system you’re only a few steps away from local phrases like ‘You know what’)

Anyway, off topic. So there I was at this buffet. I had supped on a few small glasses of syrupy Pineapple juice and watched globs of cream float on top of my bottomless brewed filtered coffee.

So with such a coating of bravery I decided to man up and try the hot food.

Canadian Bacon was first. Crisp and stripped – not bad. But I had to intervene before some eager host drowned it in sweet syrup. Now this is confusing to a salt-lover like me. Why confuse the taste? Why ruin the delight? Why make everything sweet? Why is everything so childish?

So with this thought, I protected my wizened shoelaces of sodium and ventured to the Omelette bar.

Here a nice looking helper offered me any omelette. And with this offer they waved their hands over the orchestra of ingredients like Vanna White (Sorry, trying to USA fit in - Ms White is the letter turner in The Price is Right here – a US Adrianna if you will)

Greedily I looked at the items in front of me. Could this be my salvation? Could I construct an item without intervention and with low levels of sugar?

Yes. Yes I could. I believed. Yes I damn well could!

ME: I’ll have the tomato (pronounced tomato), the mushroom, the onion and –

I hesitated; there was an ingredient in front of me. It was bright orange and grated. It glistened with water and looked crisp and fresh.

ME: Carrot. Is that grated carrot?

With this enquiry (pronounced enquiry) the Omelette maker looked at me with the expression of someone who was recently insulted because an observer had momentarily forgotten what gender they were:

HIM/HER (Not sure): It’s cheese.

I blinked. Cheese? Really? It’s so orange. Not Red Leicester. But Orange. Carrot orange.

ME: Cheese?

HIM/HER: Yes cheese. American Cheddar.

ME: But it looks so orange?

HIM/HER: That’s because it is orange.

ME: But it looks fake orange.

HIM/HER: How dare you.

ME: It’s got food colouring, right?

HIM/HER: I don’t know.

ME: So do you have orange cows in America now?

HIM/HER: Don’t be stupid.

ME: Sorry.

HIM/HER: Man, next you’ll be upset that the butter is white.

ME: The Butter is white!?

And it’s true the butter is white.

See here in America they colour their cheese orange and they bleach their butter white. Not sure why but this and this alone makes me feel like an Alien.

Fuck, I really miss you and would welcome kissing your lips – for I’m sure they’d be the best thing I’ve tasted in a week.



Sunday, August 21, 2011

235th email

From: Stacey Marchenkova
To: dom borax < >
Sent: Tuesday September 15th, 1999 4:51AM
Subject: RE Wide Awake

So how’d you like the short romantic email, huh? Thought I’d tease you with just a couple of my life is really dull compared to yours...all I can share is I’m running out of money and have to get a job...

I couldn’t help myself and spoke to your mother for an hour on the telephone...we just talked about you...and I planned a walking date with Oftenbark for the end of the week...

not much else...except I read...a book called Invisible Architecture by Steven Kelly...I quite liked it...made me want to go to Paris...which is odd as the book it set in Vienna... J



PS I’ll try to not be so boring in the next email...see Brisbane is’s far more exciting in LA, I’m sure...

Wednesday, August 17, 2011

234th email

From: Stacey Marchenkova
To: dom borax < >
Sent: Tuesday September 15th, 1999 4:21AM
Subject: RE Wide Awake

Hey Dom,

I just had a thought as you’re over t, here in your time zone and I’m here in mine we are probably more closely aligned than are now a nite owl will hoot and I will hear it…we can catch mice together …and when it all gets too much we can swivel our heads and look at each other from the opposite sides of the earth…

I like that...



Sunday, August 14, 2011

233rd email

From: Dom Borax
To: Stacey Marchenkova
Sent: Monday September 14th, 1999 18:01PM
Subject: Wide awake

Dear Stacey,

I tried so hard not to fall asleep but with the combination of queen size bed and American afternoon TV I dozed in a couple of seconds.

Anyway I’m awake now and using the Hotel Computer to send you this email.

It’s odd to be here, I have to say. It all feels really familiar; like Australia except it’s a little dirtier, a little more bruised, a little disconnected.

I’ve already had my fair share of coffee and tried cherry cola. Not my thing. Also the toilet water is very weird. It’s so high that I’m worried I could accidently get too comfortable and drown.

I haven’t seen too much of the city yet. I came straight from the airport to the hotel. It’s the Holiday Inn on the corner of Pico and Beverley if you want to send me a jar of vegemite or yourself wrapped in bubble and stored in an overnight bag.

(See I must still be tired to write the above – sorry)

The hotel feels perfect for Hollywood too. The facade is strong. It has rooms, a foyer, people on the desk, lifts (or elevators) room keys and do not disturb cards. But there is something missing.

Heart maybe?

And to be honest, I’m waiting for someone to yell cut and the hotel to stop acting and revert back to what it really is; just a guy --

-- and not a very interesting guy at that!

So maybe it's not just the heart that’s missing but a good agent too.

Not that much more to tell except I miss you, darling. Lying on the bed was the worst. I thought about taking a pillow, putting glasses, a black wig and lipstick on it. But that’s just weird isn’t it? Isn’t it?

Seriously, I do miss you dearly - your email was truly touching – so much so I didn’t care that I might have dispelled the American view of us as unabashed outdoor cooking vulgarian thugs with my unabashed indoor spilling sobs in the internet cafe as I poured over your verse.



PS The only solace I can take in this cruel match is that now this day is over - there is now one less day ‘till I see you again.

PPS I did do a massive clean up of the hotel room btw - if you were wondering.

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

232nd email

From: Dom Borax
To: Stacey Marchenkova
Sent: Monday September 14th, 1999 4:11AM
Subject: Landed and safe

Dear Stacey, I have just arrived after what was the longest flight. Okay might be being dramatic here. I know there are longer flights.

Perhaps safe to say – my longest flight.

Which is also untrue, as I went to Europe with the family a few years back.

Perhaps safe to say – a pretty long flight. Not the longest and not my longest but longish.


Anyway and regardless, it is weird to be here in Los Angeles.

For some reason I though the airport would be the gateway to dreams. I thought it would be modern or classic Hollywood. But it’s actually functionary and bland. Brisbane airport is more exciting. Really. Okay the Control Tower and the large LAX sign is thrilling to see but the rest feels in desperate need of a make over or at least a Hollywood rewrite.

I have to admit the first thing I did upon touch down, was search out a StarBucks. I’d never had a coffee from Starbucks and I was little excited about sampling this hellish brew. And it was alright, I have to say; an espresso monopoly on a filter culture. It helped with Jetlag anyway.

Then I found a public computer and decided to email you.

So here I sit; with my half drained Starbucks, my bags and a desperate disappointment of the airport architecture.

But I’m not taking this as a sign. This is how it should be; an alphabet of new experiences hidden in the sealed enveloped of cheap packet envelope.

(Man, I must be tired, that’s a really lame sentence – sorry – call myself a writer; huh!?)

Anyway, just wanted to email and let you know I am safe. I still have an Australian accent. I’ve already read the Little Prince (Thank you for that – one of your items from the house, right – though I have to say reading a book about a guy who’s plane crashes in the desert while on a plane is not an experience I need to replicate)

Once I’ve checked into the hotel, I’ll email again. I’m sure there is more to tell.

Miss you


Sunday, August 7, 2011

231st email

From: Stacey Marchenkova
To: dom borax < >
Sent: Sunday September 13th, 1999 10:09AM
Subject: Not Goodbye, but see you soon, remember!

Well mister man...I’ve just got home from the airport and staring out of the window as I write...I think I know what your flight path is and I’m staring at the corridor of the sky you’ll be flying through soon...

I make this up to be true...but it does make me feel better...

...’There he is.’ I yell at any passing plane...

Actually it’s funny to write to you again...we kinda got out of the loop there for a bit...I guess we saw so much of each other there was no time to write...and don’t get me wrong If I had my choice...i’d want Dom in person...not Dom in email...but I’m clutching at small positives here...and one small positive is we will be writing once more...

Thought I’d update you on the drive home from the airport too...just so you know how royally you’re loved...see your father cried so much your mother had to’s that for starters...

...And Oftenbark didn’t take his head of my knee for the whole trip...

...And I felt completely displaced...but I’m not going to linger on it...I’m going to dance and sing your

I even suggested that we sing in the car to take our minds off your absence...

To my surprise, your mother suggested we sing Lou Reed’s Perfect Day.

It’s such a perfect day

I’m glad I spent it with you

Oh such a perfect day

You just keep me hanging on. You just keep me hanging on

We didn’t get past this verse as your father started crying again and your mother had to pull over somewhere near Hamilton to give him a supportive hug...and they hugged for the longest time...

I have to admit,,,it was odd seeing parents be affectionate to each other...Id never seen it myself...indeed I have to confess for a moment I thought it was forced; like some kind of play...or a hidden camera show that adores capturing how the detached respond to genuine affection…

(Note to self: Stress to Dom that this could be a really good TV idea...perhaps it could a pitch...and perhaps he will notice I’ve deliberately used Dom’s ‘note to self’ ramble as a sign of respect)

Anyway after what seemed like years...your mother slowly pulled away from your father...she stroked his face and offered a bottle of chilled water...”You’ll be dehydrated’ she said...

This made me smile...I then asked if I could take Oftenbark out for a small stroll...perhaps we could all get coffee the water...

You parents liked that idea and they parked the car and we ventured into the old money suburb...

Soon we found a coffee and were talking...talking about seemed the right thing to do...everyone shared a favourite memory:

Your Mum talked about the time she used to take you to morning coffee-times with the other mothers when you were about six...she said that while all the other boys where breaking things, fighting each other and trying to be the sat quietly with the mothers drinking a kid friendly version of coffee...she said this one time you even entered the was about bullying and how it was increasing in the schools...she said you told a story about a boy in class who was taking great pleasure in making others life a misery...she said that he never picked on you...but it was painful to painful that you approached the bully one lunchtime and gave him a was Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson...your favourite book at the even had your name and address written on the inside...anyway the bully looked at you as you held the book out...he was confused...but after a beat, he took it...genuinely uncertain by this act of kindness...

Later that day as you were leaving the school you passed one of the many rubbish bins near the edge of the it you saw the copy of the book; Treasure Island...the cover had been vandalised and the title now read Ass picked the book out of the bin and opened it...inside your name and address had been scribbled out the Bully’s placed inside and for a split second you many would... that the Bully had done it himself...but moments later you heard some other boys running from the port racks...they were being chased by the bully...he was demanding to know where it was...where his book was...the other boys were laughing and refusing to tell him...and soon they were gone...leaving the bully alone...he then spotted the bin...holding his book...he stormed over demanding to know what you’d done to his’d done then handed the book back to the Bully...he looked at you...looked at the book...looked at the cover...looked back at you...and punched you hard in the stomach...winded, you dropped to the ground and he stormed away with Ass Land under his arm...

But, your mother you told this story at this coffee time to the other didn’t offer any didn’t state any anger...indeed you had empathy...if anything you felt for the bully...he was the hero of your story...the other mothers however were outraged...crying claims of injustice...but you...only six...and having finished your story...went back to sipping your drink and listening...with a wisdom that was a little frightening for one so young...

Your father then told a story as we looked out to the Brisbane was shorter...a moment even...a sentence about a family trip to London...and a hunt for Wombles in Wimbledon Common... he didn’t go into much detail... as he wasn’t capable of telling a lengthy anecdote without breaking into tears...your mother’s story hadn’t helped in the meantime causing him to breath in shallow gulps and wipe his wet eyes until they glistened red and all we got was this delightful image of a father and son...trekking across the windy mounds of the grassy Common looking for fictional children’s television characters that for that one afternoon actually existed...

Then both your parents turned to me...they wondered what story I had to tell about you...something they didn’t know...something that defined you to me...

I thought for a bit...took a breath and finally told the story of our email you emailed me after that fuckwit Crisps’ you you seduced your words made me fall in it’s being going on for months...and how in one simple sentence you won me over for life...

And please – don’t feel any pressure about turning up tonight. What if I don’t turn up either? That’d make it easier, wouldn’t it?

And how this sentence is now pinned to my wall...just below my only I can see it...and how in a moment when I press this send button...I will go and look at again and again and again...



Wednesday, August 3, 2011

230th email

From: Dom Borax
To: Stacey Marchenkova
Sent: Tuesday September 8th, 1999 5:32 PM
Subject: RE RE I don’t want to leave you.

Okay I’m withdrawing from you already.

But I’ve finally got my books sorted:

1: Housekeeping – Marylyn Robinson

2: Day of the Triffids – John Wyndham

3: Bliss – Peter Carey

Three CDs:

1: Third/Sisters/lovers – Big Star

2: Berlin – Lou Reed

3: Sail Away – Randy Newman

I’m still struggling with my three sentimental items. But I’ve narrowed it down to:

1: Small bear with the ripped crotch I’ve had since I was wee. His name is Kangi by the way.

2: Paint faded Rubber duck given to me by my Godmother in England.

3: My Father’s watch.

4: A photo copy of my Mother’s breakfast recipes.

5: Those little Japanese goodluck bird charms you got me last week.

So can I take all five? I mean I can wear my dad’s watch and claim my mother’s recipes as a means of surviving Californian cooking.

And I’m really looking forward to see what you’ve gotten me from your house as three items. Thanks for making the choice for me.

God, get back here soon before I start thinking you’re here when you’re not.

I swear I just saw you looking through my paltry tinting collection.



PS Plus I hate to admit it but I just had a five minute pretend conversation with you and got caught my mother. She found it most amusing.
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