American Beauty

When the anvil of unconditional love for one’s fellow man drops onto your nebbish little pinhead, the only thing to do is run, not walk, out into the unforgiving world and flit around in it for a while. Harboring a significant crush on the world, walking around town with a goofy grin on your face like a big gaylord propels us forward against the series of disappointments and ennui that is the human condition. These, my friend, are moments of grace, and they slink back to Graceland as quickly as they come.

So in a fit of unbridled stranger love, I hosed myself down, put on pants for the first times in several weeks, and flung open the door of my tenement building. I minced on over to the Metropolitan Museum (no, it's NOT the same thing as the M and M store you fucking retard, alliteration notwithstanding. The M and M store is a Times Square tourist trap, really, you should think before you speak, even in the solitude that surrounds you, after having lost all friends and acquaintances due to these fatuous outbursts) and found my love for humanity momentarily extinguished, and then dramatically rekindled by lots of purty pitchers.

Robert Frank’s book the Americans was released in 1958, after two glorious years of bourgeois bohemian ramblings sponsored only by his vagabond wits, I mean, a Guggenheim Fellowship. Frank is from Europe, Switzerland to be exact, meaning that he is neutral i.e. hates freedom. Usually, I find it loathsome when foreigners, especially smug Europeans, or worse yet Canadians, take the subject of our great Republic into their soft hands. But oh man I am forced to rescind my comments once again because I felt like this exhibit was made for me! Like Edward Weston’s photographic rendering of Leaves of Grass, Frank’s images could play roadside companion to On the Road. Truly, because they “burn, burn, burn, like fabulous roman candles,” et al. Why did the Beats say everythingng in threes threes threes?

The exhibit is about values. The photos show the pomp and circumstance of the democratic process in political rallies led by union bosses in Chicago, marching bands, boater hats and all. You’ve got the diner waitress as an exhausted beauty, the Hollywood starlet and adoring public at a premiere. Consequently, the photos also show what Americans do not value. Images from Charleston, South Carolina show a black nanny holding a white infant, and the masthead for the exhibit captures Jim Crow in a New Orleans trolley car. There are flimsy road signs compelling wanderers to repent in open stretches of western split lane highway, trucks hauling migrant workers to the fields, Puerto Rican trannies in Harlem, and hobos sleeping in public parks in Cleveland. Who knew there were public parks in Cleveland?! The only thing missing was Pentecostal snake handlers. I love that. Next time the Met brings me on board as an art consultant, I’ll be sure to mention that.

I tried so hard to restrain myself from whipping out my moleskin reporter’s pad and recording all my brilliant insights for the day.

I resisted doing so during the Welsh mining boys and indigenous Peruvians in bowler hats, another two of my favorite things. Then I came to the photo of the blind accordion player, and all bets were off.As I stood in front of the glass admiring the grotesque beauty and journaling (Yeah, I said it, so what who cares?! You judgemental judge, you should dedicate all that judgy energy into practicing the alphabet) about all the contradictory feelings it brought up in my belly, I felt the cumbersome, unmistakable gaze of an unsavory man’s eyes burning into places that should not burn. “Where did you get those shoes?” the smarmy fellow asked. I mean, I was wearing amazing shoes; I can’t condemn him for admiring, but what a homo pickup line, right? Then on to, “Why are you writing? Are you a student?” “No, I’m writing for a publication.” “Which one?” “The Paris Review.”

And then I fled the scene of the crime, lest anyone realize that I am pathological. But no matter! This buoyancy was unsinkable, not even the unscrupulous overtures from museum predator could bring me down. I've said it once and I'll say it again: God Bless America!

Let's Go to the Movies!: Nights of Cabiria

Not since Bridget Jones or the male lead in 500 Days of Summer has a protagonist resonated more profoundly with me than Cabiria in this Fellini classic. Of course, my cinematic taste hovers between the tawdry and the deplorable, faves including Joshua Jackson vehicle The Skulls, and cultural crown jewel of the Dominican Republic Sanky Panky.

I really related with Cabiria for several reasons. First, she's a prostitute, but not a very good one, just like me. Instead of slithering into pencil skirts and teetering along the cobblestones of Rome in hooker heels, she abounds in stripes and flats. I enjoy donning matching stripy outfits with unsavory characters and taking photos. The resemblance is uncanny. Between Cabiria and I, dummy, not that guy upon whose head I am posing provocatively.



















Cabiria's umbrella shares about 80% screen time with the actress, and as I watched this whole psychodrama play out between the fickle rainclouds and our heroine, I thought to myself, "Oh my God, I carry an umbrella on my person at all times too!" She even checks it at a nightclub, which I have also done, after using it to lambaste the doorman and "make a scene."

The nightclub scene really struck a chord, especially when Cabiria entangles herself in a velvety curtain over the entrance to the dance floor. She then proceeds to humiliate her dance partner by clearing the floor with exaggerated mambo number. Not that I've ever done that, per se, but let's just say the members of my party and/ or security may have requested that I descend from the cocktail table while throwing my skirt over my head and doing a bastardized Charleston/ Jamaican dance hall thrash that could easily be confused with a seizure, all while demanding that a stranger pour tequila in my mouth like that time in Puerto Vallarta. Oh well.
But the crux of Cabiria's character lies in the fact that throughout the entire film she is routinely shat upon by men, but never gives up on true love. While that may sound like some hooker- with- a- heart- of- gold conceit, I assure you it's not. Cabiria is a rebel, rejecting the notion that her experiences are the rule (that members of the opposite sex only show any remote interest in you because they are motivated by malicious intent like robbing all your earthly possessions, for example) and that they are the exception instead. Two different dates make attempts on her life TWICE, bracketing the film with a lugubrious symmetry. A guy hasn't tried to kill me (yet) but one did steal my identity. Would you believe that there is a check- cashing operation in Plant City, Florida, owned and operated by an Albanian named Paloma Zenaida?

Just listen to what Fellini himself said about his film:

"The subject of loneliness and the observation of the isolated person has always interested me. Even as a child, I couldn’t help but notice those who didn’t fit in for one reason or another—myself included. In life, and for my films, I have always been interested in the out-of-step. Curiously, it’s usually those who are either too smart or those who are too stupid who are left out. The difference is, the smart ones often isolate themselves, while the less intelligent ones are usually isolated by the others. In Nights of Cabiria, I explore the pride of one of those who has been excluded."

Okay, so I definitely fall on the latter half of that elegant equation, being all but shunned by my peer group and society at large, under the charge of "unorthodox social interactions" and violent dancing. But what of it?! Like my heroine Cabiria, I refuse to accept circumstances as they are, despite every signpost and omen otherwise. To the river!

On the Waterfront

Have you ever circumnavigated the island of Manhattan? Does eating swordfish on City Island appeal to you? Would you like to ride the Staten Island ferry on a sweltering August afternoon, semi- toxic fumes from the Buttermilk Channel cooling your sweat mustache? Ok, asshole, how about drinking a Schlitz while you ogle handsome individuals in DUMBO from behind dark glasses? I knew we would meet somewhere in the middle...

Well, if any of those scenarios appeal to you even slightly, or if you've ever fetishized working class heroes like longshoreman or fish mongers, then you must visit the photo exhibit "The Edge of New York: Waterfront Photos " at the Museum of the City of New York, on display until November 29. It is an enchanting exhibit that might bring up feelings or ideas like loneliness, industry, fragmentation, tradition and change, fear of terrorism by port entry, empathy with your neighbor, and man's place in the natural world. And the entire exhibit will take you less than fifteen minutes from start to finish, and you can seamlessly resume your daily regimen of cat kicking and diet pills.

The exhibit is split between contemporary depictions of the waterfront and historical photos, many of which were shot by Works Progress Administration (WPA) workers in the 1930s. Was there ever a better government program than the WPA? Now that is what I call cultural heritage. Why can't they create a WPA for this recession? I know a few individuals who need a state guidebook to write or a mural to paint, and I'm not even taking about myself surreptitiously, then again... If you look at the photos by Berenice Abbott (WPA all the way!), you actually start hearing "Rhapsody in Blue" and smell roasted chestnuts and pickle brine wafting through the air. No, not literally, you sociopath, but maybe you will, given your proclivities to hallucinogenics. What if you, like, went to look at the pritty pitchers on, like, PCP man??? Imbeciles, all!
Here's a collage I made, inspired by the exhibit. This creative portrayal would suggest that I am a classically trained visual artist, but nope, that's just raw talent. Note the self- standing design and the unsettling slope of my desk. The Museum of the City of New York will next be showing an exhibit entitled "the Leisure Time Hobbies of Paloma Zenaida: The Demand for a New Works Progress Administration."

We All March Together!

"Is there anything worse than a staunch woman?" No there's not, and all bets are off when a staunch woman concocts an homage to her reclusive hero and her show biz dreams. Thus spake Little Edie Beale, whose scarf I feebly attempted to fill this Halloween. Edie wore didn't wear clothes, she wore"costumes," as she referred to her eccentric sartorial choices. This costume in particular really captured my essence. I was SO happy all night, mincing around with my flag and 'do rag, and I fucking hate Halloween (but not Halloween candy). Even when I accidentally stumbled into the Bowery Hotel, and a thousand eyes glowered over thirty dollar cocktails and prompted some very self- conscious feelings about the state of my thighs in short shorts, I still felt awesome. I wish I could wear this costume everyday, but that would probably prompt imprisonment, and even more gays following me around, like this guy for example.

Please note the soldier. He offered his services in defending my person from swarms of admirers. Hagiography is not for the faint of heart!

A Mitzvah: Joy Behar and Susie Essman at the 92nd street Y

In 1990, Susie Essman played the role of a Hasidic woman named Malka in the Hallmark TV movie "Loving Leah." Barbra Walters interviewed Essman on the View about her research of the role earlier this year, asking what the actress learned about the ultra- orthodox community. She answered, "That they're not very good dressers." Of course, this flippant and hilarious comment attracted ire from many. In order to rectify the situation, Essman suggested that the View host a Hasidic fashion show. Joy Behar said that in the lull of summer programming, the producers seriously considered it.

How did I learn such juicy showbiz gossipy bits? BECAUSE I was seated last row (literally dead last, vertigo- inducing last) at an Evening with Susie Essman and Joy Behar at the 92nd Street Y last night! I just adore these two brassy broads and purchased tickets ages ago and told my so- called "friends" to do the same. Of course, none of them did, they are all very preoccupied crafting their slutty Halloween costumes (Chris has been working on his "Downward Dog" creation all week and Brooke D's "Nancy Kerrigan Nasty" is just skating along) and experimenting with new jello shot flavors (Anna is perfecting "malt liquor and sriracha " and Brooke G will soon patent "college dorm room"). I was the sole Gentile in the audience and companionless. Needless to say, I felt like a curious aberration in a sea of peri- geriatrics and Larry David doppelgangers. Brooke D, Brooke G, Anna, and Chris: If you are reading, I hate you.

But no matter, just more Behar and Essman for me! Joy "So what, who cares?!" Behar instigated a lively conversation with Essman, so much so that you really felt like you were just having cawefee tawk with a couple of yentas. They reflected at length about hustling as female stand- up comics in the '80s, which sounded like a cross between Punchline starring the cast of Beaches taking place along the Trail of Tears. Susie Essman had so many pearls of wisdom to share, for example:

On rambling stories:
" I hate detail- laden stories. Give me 'salient point, salient point, punchline.'"

On Curb Your Enthusiasm character, Susie Green:
"She suffers from high self- esteem."

On how to know if your husband is gay:
"If you catch him blowing the neighbor or reading my book."

On aging:
"I don't give a shit what anyone thinks of me anymore."

Totally! I give, like, 15% less of a shit in my 26th year than in my 25th... by the time I hit thirty I'll be clogging traffic on the sidewalks of Park Slope with my Rascal, wearing a nightshirt emblazoned with a kitten face and emerald rhinestones as its eyes, having ballooned up to 300+ pounds, wearing my hair in two long braids. Age shmage, some of us do not have that far to fall.

You can readily define any individual who deigns to ask a question in the Q and A period of a lecture, can't you? First off, you know they are bold and brazen, I (contrary to popular belief) am debilitatingly shy when it comes to public address, way too shy to pose any questions in front of an AUDIENCE, even if they can be written on note cards and handed in anonymously. I can barely make eye contact with the bodega guy. Here are some stock personalities and their corresponding questions:

1. The Pundit:
"Joy, why didn't you really give it to Ann Coulter when she was on your show?" [Ed. note- That person is an asshole. How dare you criticize your host, about something so trite anyway? Ill- mannered cretin, have you ever turned off Air America and left your apartment prior to that moment?.]

2. The Benevolent Sycophant:
"What can we do as a community to promote women and women comics?"

3. The Rabbi:
"Susie, you say that the acting on Curb is spontaneous, but that you often will shoot up to 25 takes for a single scene. How can one act with spontaneity after 25 takes?"

4. The Comedian:
"Tell me a joke"
Essman's response: "I don't tell jokes. Go fuck yourself."

It was a wondrous night, a star- studded Spectacular of ball- busting, Judaica- referencing (mentions of brisket: 3, shout- outs to the JCC in Boca Raton: 1, discussion of various medical ailments: too many to keep track) Did I mention that I walked directly into the impressively sturdy frame of Dan Aykroyd in the bathroom? I felt so shy! He is Elwood! Also because I was in the men's bathroom... See what you missed, friends?! When the next uplifting cultural event comes around I'm sure they'll be huddled in line at the blood bank trying to sell their platelets.

To The Lighthouse!

In Virginia Woolf's day, when ladies got the post- partum or wanted to do something crazy like work outside the home, they were sent to the nervous hospital. Or they went to the lighthouse, or to the waves as a final act of defiance: "Against you I will fling myself, unvanquished and unyielding, O Death!" Today, when ladies are teetering upon the edge of losing their shit, they take a long weekend to Block Island, Rhode Island. Not that I would know, I just wanted a holiday in the country... Here's what I did:

I spied behind rocks.


I served as a mercenary against the white man for the Pequots. Oh right.... sad.
... the elusive Riis Beach monster of summer 2008 surfaced on the sands of New Shoreham, RI.
... as did the oft- mythologized Block Island boulder humper.
I destroyed.
The town historian gave a provocative lecture at the Indian Cemetery, entited "Totem or Totemic?: King Philip's War and the Southern New England Tourism Industry."
I found boyfriends.
I stumbled upon this perverse mascot of small town inter- species breeding: the Rhode Island cow horse.

Have you ever stopped toponder the significance of the Rhode Island state flag? I thought so! Roger Williams, upon the founding of 'Lil Rhody in 1636, quoted Hebrews 6:19- "Hope we have as an anchor of the soul." Indeed! pRIde!

Ze Post- Eet ees in ze microfeelm...

... OR the Post- It Note reading series comes to KGB Bar!
While you are probably just itching to learn what exactly a "reading series" entails, great unwashed illiterates, even YOU know what Post- Its are. There you are, alone in your cubicle or home office [the floor], affixing the colorful squares to your face when you think no one is watching, creating a prismatic rainbow trout effect, as you contemplate your sorry state of existence in the reflection of your computer screen, sullied Post- It fool! Or, like Romy and Michelle, you try to pull a fast one on your peer cohort at a high school reunion, claiming to have invented Post- Its and you humiliate yourself in front of the same doughy French Canadian townie whores of yore, and they're all, "Shut up, idiot, that movie is on TBS, like, thrice weekly."

In The Elegance of the Hedgehog (which has apparently been a hot shit book for like six months now, and that I was enchanted to learn of just the other day, as I write this from a dungeon in Tikrit) Mauriel Bauby writes, "With the exception of love, friendship, and the beauty of Art, I don't see much else that can nurture human life [. . .] I'm not talking about great works of art by great masters. No, I'm referring to the beauty that is there in the world, things that, being part of the movement of life, elevate us." Yes! The high, the low, the joy, the sorr-ow! The Post- It Note series is another one of those slices of sweet grace in the grind of unyielding ordinariness.

So here's how it works: Illustrator/ bearded heartbreaker Arthur Jones sets readers' stories to a backdrop of silly drawings, creating delightful comedic punctuation. Last week, they brought the show to KGB Bar's Every Tuesday True Story Non- Fiction Event.

I had the DISTINCT pleasure of catching three outstanding and achingly funny readers, not a dud among them. First, downtown darling Mike Albo described a renewing vacation to Hawaii under eat- pray- love auspices, illustrations of the author frolicking with dolphins and hilarity ensued. The disembodied voice of This Americn Life contributor Starlee Kine bellowed with tales of a childhood trip to the Nixon Library and young love, and Andrew "NOONDAY DEMON" Solomon headlined the evening with a story of his participating in a traditional Senegalese depression- ridding ritual. It involves entering a marriage bed with a goat, ladies washing away the animal blood that covered Solomon's body by spitting, and being hog tied in intestines. Who says anthropology has to be paternalistic?! I was so impressed not only by Solomon's epic storytelling and the good natured benevolence he brings to the room, but also by the velvety coat he wore that looked as if it had been robbed off the back of Raffi. Solomon is truly a god of a man, the kind of guy with whom you'd just like to throw on a schmatte and watch Golden Girls. His winning the Pulitzer really hasn't garnered the author enough media accolades, so I figured I'd step in.

So, philistines, if baby wants to get literate, this is the place to start. It has PICTURES, for chrissakes, and they read the stories TO YOU! And it's free! That's right, more money in your tattery pockets for Yu- Gi- Oh cards and grape drink. Here's the Post- It Note series blog, although it looks as if it hasn't been updated in some time... they must not have a staff of models and interns like this publication.

http://www.postitnotestories.com/