Sunday, August 30, 2009

God Bless America!


Well, I'm fresh back from a few days in our nation's capital, and I feel patriotic, goddamnit! I know patriotism isn't "cool" or whatever, but nothing inspires good- natured jingoism in our national fabric than overhearing a man staring blankly at the Washington Monument and wondering aloud, "What is that torpedo looking thing?!" True story!



And as long as you stay in the white people parts of D.C. it is, like, immaculately clean. That is one thing D.C. has no shortage of: white people. They lurk around the streets after six p.m., their ties loosened and side- parted hair slightly askew, trolling for a bar with music to which they can dance offensively. If you went to a St. John's High School Dance around 1996 and dressed the revelers in Thomas Pink shirts and gave them a sense of authority on just about anything, then you would know this type of horrible white person. Oh, and the subway or "Metro" is CARPETED! I am so glad it is not this way in New York City, despite my tendency to pass out on the train and wake up in Coney Island with inexplicable contusions in ungodly places.

I visited the National Museum of the American Indian, wherein indigenous people crafted curvy bricks to build a psychedelic structure to house their arts and culture.

And they constructed a water "feature" that you can't fuck with. What the?!
And 'lil idols (Meso- American Idols?). Simultaneously frightening and adorable. What squat limbs!



Frederick Douglass, another O.G. baby daddy. He's like Frank Sinatra on D.C.'s far less glamorous Walk of Fame.


I was appointed a Goodwill Ambassador to Mexico. Here's a snapshot from the embassy. My first assignment: befriend this handsome Mexican. I extended el mano de la amistad estadounidense para una Coca. Mission accomplished.

And here I am atop the Georgetown dorms after a brief tryst with an undergraduate paramour. I was so impressed when he showed me his Congressional intern ID badge that I bought us a 30 rack of Miller Light, and well, the rest is history. I eagerly await the arrival of McConaughey Brady Bush sometime in late May 2010, and neither can his daddy, who is super stoked about the Hoyas' big comeback this year, and that they finally stopped serving faggoty turkey burgers in the dining hall. God bless America!

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

The Worst Person in the World: A Character Sketch


Jeff JK is my mortal enemy. Here he is in his natural habitat: a bar, looking smug and disinterested in me. Notice the beady eyes in imperious gaze averted above fashion glasses. From the moment we met, Jeff JK showed me nothing but indifference. INDIFFERENCE! Most people usually hate me immediately, as they have "low self- esteem," and a handful love me (often gay men). I always fancied myself a polarizing figure, but Jeff JK just ignores me, pays me no mind, looks away, shrugs his shoulders and goes back to discussing Foucault's theory of panopticism. I hate Jeff JK! Here are some reasons why:

1. He was NEVER mesmerized by me, even when I dropped knowledge about Gilded Age utopian societies.

When I first met Jeff JK, he was writing a Master's thesis examining the welding practices of the Oneida community (or something, his facial hair distracted me: ironic or earnest? You decide.), and when I was all, "Oh, you mean John Humphrey Noyes and Millennialism? That Oneida community?" He just sighed like I was exhausting him with such trifles and was like, "Whatever." My esoteric knowledge of cults and American history gets me nowhere with Jeff JK!

2. When I complimented him on his "Carl Kassel is my press secretary" button on his jacket, he did not say thank you. He just rolled his eyes at my glib practice of paying compliments.

3. He exhibits sociopathic behaviors such as atheism and vegetarianism. Atheists are heathens and Hitler was a vegetarian.

4. See that shirt Jeff JK is wearing in the first picture? He's never even BEEN to Illinois. He couldn't even find it on a map because he spends all day identifying countries like Chechnya and East Timor in case he's ever quizzed. And that tattoo on his arm is a figure eight, which is his favorite number because seven is so cliché and nine is just foolish. He just asked the artist to do it sideways because he is countercultural.

5. Once he dropped a line from a Nick Cave song into conversation (The line was "I don't believe in an interventionist God." -- Nick Cave, "Into My Arms," The Boatman's Call, Mute Records, 1997) And I was like, "Oh wow, Nick Cave is my Aussie baby daddy, we have so much in common Jeff JK!" and Jeff JK was just like, "Shut up." (But he was serious, not playful and cute.)

6. Jeff JK went on vacation (by himself) to Scandinavia (because he is racist) to try to find a girlfriend (because he ignores me).
7. Jeff JK hates the number 7! So that's where I'll conclude, just to spite my nemesis, and maybe elicit a reaction from his stone cold heart. I wonder if any of what I said will upset him? Probably not, because he'll just be like, "What blog? Paloma who?" I HATE JEFF JK!


Tuesday, August 18, 2009

A Fall From Grace....

Hello from my sick bed!

I fell off my stripper pole the other day, and threw out my back, resulting in a "collapsed disc." I'm actually a reverse stripper: I pay people to watch me get dressed.

I found this helpful pamphlet at the chiropractor's office. It's actually a reverse stress management guide: it's a how- to for breaking office supplies, depicted by Stedman Graham.

Monday, August 10, 2009

Let's Go To The Movies!: Julie and Julia


Self- described “foodies” are perhaps the most loathsome group of individuals, save imperious bloggers (I should know, I have to live with myself everyday). These precious bourgeoisie fetishize eating parts of animals that my parents transcended poverty to ensure we would never have to consume, like cow balls and bone marrow, for example. And at long last, thanks to Nora “I feel bad about my FUPA” Ephron, both constituencies- fancy food- philes and web writers in house dresses (I'm partial to the muumuu)- have found their place on the silver screen. Julie and Julia is a tale of butter and lesbian haircuts, of looking into the deep dark mirror of midlife discontent seeing it reflected in polysaturated fats.

Like my last dispatch from the cinema, the most exciting part of this outing was the events that transpired at theater. I saw this film with my mother on a typically gray Sunday afternoon in southern New England. Our showing must have coincided with a Red Hat Ladies’ trip, because the audience was dying, I mean completely freaking out, every time Amy Adams raised her voice to an exaggerated shrill (which was often) and each time Meryl Streep shrieked “Bonjour!” They were howling! Some people were even stamping their feet when our hero Julia Child flips that stupid egg. I thought we were going to have to call security. These people were LOSING THEIR SHIT. This may have been a kind of guerrilla marketing technique from Columbia Pictures to supplant positive messages in the minds of non- middle aged/ brie obsessed audience members, I’m not sure. If this had been a midnight screening of any Tyler Perry movie with the audience exhibiting the exact same behavior, they would have left in a paddy wagon. If I were evaluating this film on an applause- o- meter, rather than my own arbitrary scale based on my personal distaste for older Caucasians, it would receive four stars. But you’re in Zenaida country now, foodies.

Ok, so in the interest of full disclosure I admit that this movie gave me major blog envy. It’s set in 2002, when blogs still carry some element of hip and instead of pathos like this one. Julie Powell (Amy Adams) decides to write a wicked boring foodie blog blah blah, but she has, like, readers! What are those?!

Secondly, why the heck does she get to have this hotmaster husband who allows her to fuss about with her duck and lobsters and glycerides AND sport a lesbian haircut, and he still sticks around, and is even doting?! I can’t even find a guy to ignore me. You do not get to marry Claire’s sexy lawyer bf on Six Feet Under Season 5 and publish your blog into a book all while styling your hair into something that makes you look like Lindsey Graham in lip gloss. NO!My suspension of disbelief does not extend that far.

For those of you who enjoy tall tales and sweetbreads (SO not what it sounds like!), enjoy. Meryl Streep is hilarious, a true professional, and if you find yourself in a Sperry wearing audience in Providence, Rhode Island you will be in for a riotous good time. I am and will continue to be partially submerged in an Entenmann’s coffee cake until the premier of 2012. This is a film about apocalypse, which is a theme close to my heart, closer than beef bourguignon, unless anyone would like to feed it to me, in which case I would be very pleased and grateful.

Wednesday, August 5, 2009

So Sorry, Cullman Center...















... that you will lose all significant funding after the world knows that you let me in for a week- long creative writing fellowship! I know, and in an economic crisis and when the whole wide world turns their rheumy, beady eyes away from books and toward the unraveling of Jon and Kate.

Ok, boorish churls, try to follow: The New York Public Library houses many books. I know you're thinking, "Oh wow, the Liberry, I've heard of that place. Isn't that where Big stood up Carrie on her wedding day?" Indeed it is, blockhead, but the NYPL also supports the pursuits of writers at the Cullman Center through the generous donations of the opulent. Past fellows include Philip Lopate, A.M. Homes, Jennifer Egan, and most prominently Edmund White, from whom I learned many things about writing and being hilarious and fabulous. During this most magical week I worked on a forthcoming polemic on the polyandryous subtext in the lyrics of the Peter, Paul, and Mary songbook. So many exciting things came to pass, here are some highlights:

Did you know that there are seven miles of books stored beneath Byrant Park? Here I am in the bowels of the stacks. Don't worry, no indigestion!


A lion! Vewwy scewwy!



AND did you know that the books are transported within the library through an intricate system of conveyor belts and dumbwaiters (a weird word)? Betcha didn't.


They screwed up the name on my office door. Elizabeth Greenwood? Who the heck is that?! This is the esteemed office of Paloma Zenaida, thankyouverymuch!



Here I am with my redheaded research assistant. She was quite adroit in the areas of coffee retrieval and foot massage.



AND I enjoyed a private audience with my celeb crush!

(See http://myinterestingandexcitinglife.blogspot.com/2008/09/celebrity-crush-paul-holdengraber.html
Yes, I just cited myself.)

We're the Brad and Angelina of the NYPL and literary things.

Thanks again, library, and again, sorry about the retrieval of funding. Totally my bad. Just wait until Peter, Paul, and Polyandry tops the bestsellers list...