Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Pet a puppy.
March with the soldiers. They're kind of hotties, in a ghoulish Slavic way.
Overcome our fear of marionettes.
Play the washboard.
Use a toilet on the precipice of an abyss.
Send in the clowns.
And then we got her back.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Monday, October 4, 2010
Our brains ache, in the salmonella corridors that confines us
Wearied we wait because the train isn’t coming…
An incident, the robot voice booms, vague and mysterious…
Exasperated by waiting, people groan, encumbered, frustrated,
But nothing happens.
Watching, we look for the dim light from far away,
Like reaching for the summer sun in January.
Across the platform, incessantly, uptown trains arrive and depart
Far away, like a lottery ticket one number off.
What are we doing here?
The quiet torment is broken…
We only know the light means train, train goes, and people go home.
The light of the train blurs past her melancholy army without stopping
Cars crowded full with limbs and faces pressed against the glass,
But nothing happens.
Sudden bursts of tinny noise break the grumbling din
More oppressive than the man playing xylophone, with whose hammers I want to hit him,
Mr. Brighton Beach is testing out his ringtones;
We listen as he scrolls through his choices: Camptown Races,
Phantom of the Opera, Greensleeves,
But nothing happens.
Phantom water smelling of wet asbestos drips from the ceiling—
We wince as we jump over a wet crack, as it gathers to a puddle of sludge,
Deep in the trench among soda cans and rats. Where does that water come from,
It hasn’t rained in weeks. Someone should call 311.
Is it that we are dying?
Slowly the train pushes forward, glimpsing the sunk faces,
With streaks of mascara; tears gather;
For seconds the doors stay closed, the train is theirs;
Windows and doors, all closed: even once in the station the doors stay closed,-
We turn our back to our dying.
Since we believe not otherwise in the goodness of man;
Nor in the industry of youth, or teen, or child.
When the boy peddles his snacks not for a basketball team, but for himself;
You think “I should do that, and I’ll probably make more money if I don’t claim taxes,”
For love of God seems dying.
To- night, or some night, the R will open its doors to me
Ferrying passengers, reinforcing misanthropy anew
The hungry ghosts, briefcases and thermoses in their hands,
Stampede over unknown faces. All their eyes hungry.
But nothing happens.
Ego Mos Intereo Unus
Hunched over, fingers scroll the categories,
Dark- shamed, yet hopeful still, I fill out the survey,
“We have the perfect match for you,” the commercial told the stories,
E-Harmony promised to unite our souls, but how could I convey,
The riddle of me to blithe mentions of NPR and ethnic cuisine,
“Would you consider yourself independent, content to be alone?”
My stature tall and Rubenesque, but no box I can check to preen,
Three hours to finish, and not a match in the tri- state zone.
Try! Try! Quick, girls! Love is a science to conspire,
At least check J- Date, find a doctor or a broker,
Even if you’re not Jewish, you could be his shiksa for hire,
When the dinner check arrives, his generosity is less than mediocre…
Ennui, it cloaks you in its thin sheet before you’ve shook hands,
Him in pleated pants and boring, you feel your insides crying,
Call with a sudden emergency, to your friend you do demand
So I can feign alarm and hail a cab, running, fleeing, crying.
But one fellow from the World Wide Web, we met through a site called Match
Brown hair and eyes with gainful employ, a mimic of heterosexual sanity,
We went to his apartment one night, he undid the latch,
But he locked and unlocked, O! The humanity!
What a security system, and for only Fort Greene,
And when he tapped his table and paced the halls,
I realized he suffers from obsessive- compulsivity,
To a car service at once! Yet another desperate call-
Homegirl, disregard your gay friends’ Grinder and Manhunt success,
Or the veracity of your friend’s friends’ story,
To the old Lie: I met my husband on the Internet
Ego mos intereo unus mori
Monday, September 20, 2010
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
The day finally arrived. After going to Sex and the City 2 for the fortieth time ("Lawrence of My Labia!") and even settling for some artsy fartsy I Am Love bullshit (NOT a romantic comedy! Do not be fooled by the title), my visualization prayers have been answered. Eat, Pray, Love hit theaters. Ladies, we have lift off.
If ever there were a movie to view alone, Eat, Pray, Love is it. The haute bourgeois- Caucasian- middle- age- foodie- porno implores women to do things like abandon responsibility and guilt and treat yourself to the decadence of a matinee. Because girlfriend, you are worth it! So of course I went with Brooke D. We went equipped with all the requisite Eat, Pray, Love gear: vision boards, crystals, journals, yoga mats, and my color prescription from my chromotherapist. Burnt sienna brings good tidings.
Needless to say, there were so many women in the audience that our cycles synced up by the end of the film. I'm surprised we didn't all go Sapphic. Save, of course, the two eunuch boyfriends dragged along by their girlfriends. I have such a problem with this sort of thing for a few reasons.
1. Why do you want your boyfriend there? There's always the one weird girl in the group who insists on dragging her boyfriend along to all the birthday dinners where he's the only guy at a table of gays and girls and you're like, "Really? Must we force this guy to endure a three- hours discussion on whether it is ok to get a Brazilian while you have your period?" Seeing how your friends actually are will not make him like you more, it will make him like you less. Leave him at home for an evening. More cake for me!
2. Doing girl things with straight guys is a major turn- off. You may as well hand a guy his balls on a silver platter if you want to go shopping or see chick flicks together. Not hot. That's what gays are for. And they will tell you that yes, you do look fat in the dress.
3. What kind of horrible life/ relationship talk will you have to have after the themes of the movie that include but are not limited to: divorce, self- discovery, getting fat, marriage, and God? Gross.
But apparently like most things in love, I am wrong. I guess one woman's self- obsessed indulgence is another woman's aphrodisiac, because one couple sucked some serious face before the lights dimmed, throwing Brooke D into a blitzkrieg of unadulterated rage and jealousy. She threw popcorn and yelled "Stop! Stop!" until they came up for air. She then proceeded to chew a cup of ice through the entirety of the movie, forcing myself and those surrounding to change seats.
There's so much to say about what's wrong with Eat, Pray, Love: the white person- ness of the whole endeavor, like the fact that Julia Roberts and James Franco are the most unbelievable couple of all time. She look like his mama.Or the floppy straw hat our heroine wears in Italy, which is not a small tragedy. But that's like totally redundant and you can read that in any other review. There are a lot of good things about this movie too. Like how Julia spends a good portion of screen time sitting on a eating gelato by herself like a big time creep. I can relate with that. Or the part when she says, "I'm having a relationship with my pizza." Isn't that sweet to resurrect the punchline of every Cathy comic strip ever, just in time for the cartoon's final run after 34 years? Or finding Signor Right in the jungle where he cooks for you and says stuff like "You don't need a man, you need a champion"? I don't really know what that means, but I think it's about empowerment. Because shouldn't everything be about personal empowerment? I think I'll do some journaling around that quote after I have a good cry. I love being a girl.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Riding the D train uptown, my gazelle- like limbs encased in the poly- blend fabric earned the affections of a few homeless fellows, child break dancers, and commuters who mistook me for a tranny. That's what they call your "core demographic" in the modeling business. I begin to worry when I'm not propositioned for a half- and- half on my way to work. But as I approached the marble staircase on 42nd street, the precarious proportion of hem length/ slit height became all too clear. As I met my plus- one Brooke, I did my customary bend- and- snap to accentuate my rotund curves and to incite envy at God's generous hand in creating my butt. I wish my friends were jealous of me for anything, and they've told me time and again that it isn't writing. But instead of the typical sex riot that ensues after dropping it like it's hot, her jaw dropped in horror. Did I get dressed in the dark? Did I look in the mirror before leaving the house? Did I try to smear my family name? Did I aim to bring shame and ill- repute to the venerable institution of the New York Public Library?