Saturday, March 28, 2009

Barney Frank Is My Spirit Animal

According to Native American shamanism, each and every person has a spirit animal, which corresponds to an individual's personality and essence, and can also guide a lost soul in a moment of despair. I took a quiz online to determine mine- you should totally take it, pay close attention to #6- - and it turns out that my spirit animal is this handsome specimin below, the elder statesman from the Massachusetts Fourth District, Barney Frank! Ok, philistines and ignorami, Frank was the first openly gay congressman, supports bridal registration for bottoms, and wants to legalize marijuana, crystal meth, jay walking, and wearing white after Labor Day, officially.

Now this interweb- generated conclusion probably comes as much of a surprise to you as it does to me, I was certain my ebullient spirit would manifest in something rather benign and fuzzy, like a squirrel or an Easter peep or Paul Simon, but instead I get a curmudgeonly aging queen. Well, I though about it and here are the top reasons Barney is my spirit animal.

1. I am a fag hag! Barney and me would be the most fabulous girls in pearls this side of the lanai! We would lounge around in kimonos and face masks and say things to each other like, "Well, honey if that pint of cookie dough you've been clutching to your bosom is 'lo- fat and organic' then I'm Beyoncé."

2. He talks like he has a mouth full of novacaine and bologna.

3. He's a Masshole! Sure, he's dressed it up in a sort of workaday populism to appease the voting bloc that adores him, but Barney still knows that an overturned bar stool can hospitably seat Jeter and A- Rod after they have performed fellatio on one another. In the 617, we call it TITLE TOWN! Frank does not pahk his cah in Hahvahd Yahd, he yields in a rotary, has a wicked mint summer share in Dennis Port and goes candle pin bowling after a Happy Ending sundae at Friendly's.

4. We are both polarizing figures.

5. We have the same body type. I often get confused for him, lookswise. Not only is Frank my spirit animal, he's also my celebrity lookalike.

6. Watch and learn. He is charm and grace personified...

Complimenti, You Bitch!: For My #1 Baby Daddy

When I was 18, I got a tramp stamp. It is on my lower back, a most unflattering area of anyone's body really. A place where everything wrong intersects. All out of love, love for a man, a thug life declaration written in Old English font. With O.E., you are either thug or fabulous and either way you win. And win I did with this shout out for my number one baby daddy since AP English and 4EVA: T.S. Eliot.

A natty dresser and fastidious follower of fashions, a banker turned namby pamby poetry boy, high Anglican, a misogynist, an elitist, and wrote at the end of his life what would become the musical Cats. Dream man! My kind of guy! A poncy haberdasher, a crumudgeonly diva. Mon semblable! Mon frére!

The tramp stamp tat I reference is a line from "The Lovesong a J. Alfred Prufrock," and no I won't tell you which, put down the crackpipe and pick up a book knucklehead. Despite it's romantic title, all garden variety Eliot scholars and semi- literate self- styled critics agree that it is really more of an ode to indecision and feeble inaction. Dude thinks he's like Hamlet or something when all he really wants to do is make out with chicks but can't because he'd rather wander around the docks of Boston with his thumb up his ass, not to mention he's actually in love with his BFF Ezra Pound. Whatever.

My non- traditional and optimistically literal interpretation puts forth that this is in fact a piece about the joy and sorrow of growing up, about trolling half- deserted streets at dusk, of works of hands and days, and slurping coffee from spoons, of feeling like a big weirdo and of being in love, uh hello, that's in the title. And maybe it's not about being in love with a woman or a man but being in love with the possibility that stretches out before your late adolescent eyes, or all that is in store for you, one night cheap hotels, the toast and tea, and the million allusions to conversations and all the great books you will maybe read in college. I took the Suessian approach of "Oh, the Places You'll Go" rather than the Dante read. Yeah I know, the inscription is from the Inferno, not Green Eggs and Ham but "I am no prophet- and here's no great matter."

And then there's the Waste Land which at my current rate of expansion I may be able to tattoo across my backside in its entirety someday soon. Another universal truth about Eliot is that Ezra Pound essentially wrote that shit by way of heavy- handed edit, a fact I will overlook along with the criticism paid to "Prufrock." Eliot was origirnally going to title the epic poem He do the Policemen in Different Voices until Pound was like, "Girl, hell no." In a 1921 letter to Eliot from Pound, which included like one hundred changes, Pound closed his letter by writing, "Complimenti, you bitch!" (True story! Those queens were like the first Paris and Nicole.) And today, baby daddy, I extend the same to you. You, my friend, are indeed il miglior fabbro, papi chulo numero uno.

Friday, March 20, 2009

"Why Don't You Call Me Like You Used To?" Limericks

I’ve incorporated a new hobby to my repertoire, which includes but is not limited to writing, modeling, and fucking people up. This newly minted pastime is penning impromptu limericks for friends and family when they screen my calls, which is often. If you are the recipient of a personalized limerick on your voicemail centering on the theme of your shoddy correspondence, then you know you have been naughty.

A smattering:

I once knew a girl named Zoe
Her hair was red and blonde and flowy
She doesn’t return my calls
I say, “What gall!”
Her ass is skanky and ho- ey

I once knew a girl named Dawson
She thought she was all blingy and flossin’
She shops at the Greendale Mall
Her hair is a weave, not a fall
My salad she’ll soon be tossin’.

How obscene! That is certainly my most racy limerick to date, but a limerick must be bawdy! I really need befriend someone named Nantucket.

Here’s one I wrote for my mom. She doesn’t pick up my calls either.

I once knew a mommy we called Professor
She fancied herself a lady of leisure
She adores Frederick Douglass
But for her eldest daughter she is loveless
Mom please pick up, I am a national treasure!

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

Public Enemy #1

Paloma the Giant has a posse.

Sunday, March 1, 2009

Why I Will Never Find a Boyfriend

New York City, Saturday night 10:30 pm:

Thank You For Being a Friend: The Golden Girls Musical