Sunday, November 23, 2008

Celebrity Look Alike

Locked Inside the Guggenheim.... Inside the Bathroom, That Is

The Guggenheim Museum is, for any person who enjoys the austere elegance of the color white or the sensation of one's inner ear being knocked further off kilter and experiencing a pleasant, loopy headedness, a place where one can feel very free. Even if the current exhibit is

too freaky for your gauche tastes (like the Catherine Opie photography exhibit that features fat naked L- Masters, for example. The photo they used to market the exhibit is of this cherubic little blond boy wearing a tutu. Gorgeous photos, right? WRONG! Get ready to see some tattooed, unconventionally attractive ladies. Horrifying.) the airy breezy 'I feel free-zy" stroll up through the layers and contours is enough to fill one's heart.

Aside from the warm dizzy feeling of walking in the building's caracole swirl, that place is teeming with possibility, pregnant with the sense of the fantastic, like something awesome might happen to you that day. Like you might meet some dashing Nordic tourist wearing funny shoes and a bone structure that would launch a thousand ships. Like your eyes might meet from across the great divide of the Frank Lloyd Wright crustacean and he would come over and say, "Hallo. Might I interest you in a cappuccino and some lively conversation about the customs and culture of your country? Wherever did you find that darling shirt? It brings out the slight green and gold flecks in your profoundly brown eyes." Like maybe that could happen, or you could just pretend to accidentally trip and brush up against him in a crowd like a pervert, my patented move. Mystery (The Pickup Artist of VH1 fame) could learn a thing or two from me.

So much possibility. Or you could just end up locking yourself into one of the ancient single unisex prison shower- style stalls that are on each swirly floor, in which you must pound and kick the lead door until a security guard has to come rescue you fifteen minutes later. But in that time you've already mentally handed your coat to the eternal footman, heard him snicker, and envisioned yourself living out the rest of your days in this three foot space, bathing in the toilet and making hash marks on the wall with a filed down toilet paper hangy thing. So when the security guard comes to rescue you are crying and sweating and out of breath heaving, so you have to leave the premises and treat yourself a frappuccino to feel better and Sven has found a girl who likes velcro pleather footwear and doesn't brush up against hot guys in a crowd on purpose. Or something to that effect. That could happen too.

These photos are from the "anyspacewhatver," a remarkably obnoxious name for an exhibit that only delights and inspires. Charming, funny little phrases in typewriter script can be art! Who knew!

Here I am with my mom at the MOMA... oh don't pretend to be offended that I put two different museums in the same post, just because they are both museums! Isn't she adorable?! Do you see the family resemblance?

Monday, November 17, 2008

A Text Message That Was Actually Sent, and I That Actually Received


(That wasn't the text, silly, I was creating "dramatic tension.")

Also an excuse for every jackass to become more of a jackass as they don a costume. I met a perfect jackass this Halloween, who made for a perfectly scary technological exchange. I was dressed up as that mid 20th century zeitgeist Valley of the Dolls. Not as a three-dimensional cardboard box book, duh, but a sexy Valley of the Dolls. None of my friends even realized I was dressed in costume and not a single stranger could place the allusion within their limited frame of reference.

Such are the facts of life when you frequent the Maritime Hotel. Oh, there were sexy referees, sexy corrections officers, sexy sanitation workers etc etc, even an Indian fellow dressed up in a lazy man’s costume of Phantom of the Opera. When he asked me to guess what he was, and I guessed correctly because I live in the world, he gasped, dumbfounded with a “WOW you’re cultured!” He got almost as much satisfaction out of correct answer as I did telling philistines (or individuals who do not romanticize prescription pill addiction) what my costume was, condescendingly and patronizingly- “It’s a book.” Anyway, one of these philistines was an appropriately foreign or bridge and tunnel guy dressed up as a cop. A sexy cop. Like a stripper cop. We chatted for a few minutes, in which he managed to do the following:

1. Tell me that he would have to arrest me with his “naughty” handcuffs
2. Send me into an existential crisis forcing me to reconsider my sexuality and my station in life.

A few days later, this persistent faux law enforcement official found me on Facebook. I am going to start a Facebook group called “Facebook Makes Me Lonely.” Anyway, he suggested drinks, I’m broke and miserable, so I sent him my number per his request, in the blind hope that maybe there was a kind, caring, emotionally and financially stable man behind the badge. The next day, this is the text message I received… direct quotes ensue:

“Hey girl ; ). Going to be representing at any more beauty pageants this weekend?

Far from it, my optimistic friend, far from it. I responded:
“Perhaps…. Will you be making more arrests?”

“I have no choice but to take u into custody. The charge: under arrest for dressing too scandalously. ; )”

And now I wish I was dead. Or like Susie Essman said in her standup routine, “There was a long period in my life where I prayed for lesbianism to hit me.” I am turning into a fucked up urban Cathy cartoon where prescription sleeping pills replace chocolate, the Hills- as- companion replaces cats- as- companion, and “Make Me Gay” replaces “Thank God It’s Friday.”