tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18323811119307174562024-03-20T05:42:45.248-07:00Flee Flee This Sad HotelFlee Flee This Sad Hotelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151676626514029393noreply@blogger.comBlogger35125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1832381111930717456.post-64232279903167638232020-05-30T20:42:00.000-07:002020-05-30T20:43:18.594-07:00Of Mice and Men and the Burden of Ethics<br />
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My son killed a mouse today. He hit it hard with a broom. I
learned what he’d done upon returning from the supermarket. My bags were
overflowing, filled with the items on my mother’s grocery list. I’d planned on
making a quick trip to the store. Perhaps if I hadn’t mentioned to her where I
was going, the mouse would still be alive.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Going down the aisles of the supermarket — it’s the weekend,
and the store was packed with panicked, territorial shoppers — searching for my
mother’s items, I felt my face underneath my mask go ugly with impatience. I’ve
bickered with my mom about her shopping lists before. Around Easter, she gave
me a list that included digestive biscuits, Cadbury crunchies, and other items
from the foreign food aisle. The supermarket where I shop doesn’t have a
foreign food aisle. I felt like I was on a coronavirus scavenger hunt.<o:p></o:p></div>
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My mother hasn’t left the house since the beginning of March.
She’s in her seventies. She hasn’t experienced much of this firsthand, only
heard about it what it’s like outside from me, who, in the past, could be a bit
of a drama queen. I want to scream, THERE ARE NO DRAMA QUEENS IN A PANDEMIC!<o:p></o:p></div>
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The mice problem started on Wednesday. The pipe problem
started on Thursday. After watching RuPaul’s Drag Race Season 3 for the 46th
time, I went into the bathroom to wash my face, and my socks were soaked with
water. I was able to use the tape that I bought for the mouse problem to
jerry-rig the pipe problem, so there was some nice issue overlay. A real fix
for both issues will have to wait.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I suspect the mouse my son killed was half dead anyway. I
don’t think mice are supposed to come out during the day, and this one did.
I’ve placed poison in strategic locations throughout the house. I was just
surprised that my son had it in him.<o:p></o:p></div>
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An AIDS activist that I admire posted something on Facebook
this week that really resonated with me. He wrote that at the height of the
AIDS crisis, he never wished death for Ronald Reagan, but due to Trump’s
terminal, willful incompetence, he wishes Trump would get COVID-19. I used to
think wishing harm for Donald Trump undermined any argument I was trying to
make about his lack of humanity, but pandemic living has shown me that in times
of calamity, the moral high ground is especially fluid.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Which brings me to November. Joe Biden is not the ideal
candidate, but bearing some celestial deus ex machina, he’s the only candidate.
The only option for something different, no matter how incremental. To anyone
who wouldn’t vote for him based on idealism, I implore you, compromise your
ethics. You either grasp at the potential for something different or continue
to take the worst that there is.<o:p></o:p></div>
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A few years ago, my son would insist upon blessing every
animal he had regular contact with at night before he went to bed. <i>God
bless Stella, Bella, Sid, Chachi.</i> After hearing the names of the
animals for so many nights, I can still remember them. Sid was a mouse.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Flee Flee This Sad Hotelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151676626514029393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1832381111930717456.post-15751673160946945312019-06-30T09:51:00.000-07:002019-06-30T09:51:00.371-07:00Of Morals and Mulligans<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1vbL-ONo2iytKcdTJ0G81BCOArM8JC7VU1EWQ6XRVELvKbsKN5sMZtnnqpnwphifXrZHLH-8ngCPVo6P5uW3zZ6Zi2CoTYorjKALwSIxTRPEGqNTgIINiPCTswT11Ghn9KR-gl_tA4pTx/s1600/ddd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="1200" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1vbL-ONo2iytKcdTJ0G81BCOArM8JC7VU1EWQ6XRVELvKbsKN5sMZtnnqpnwphifXrZHLH-8ngCPVo6P5uW3zZ6Zi2CoTYorjKALwSIxTRPEGqNTgIINiPCTswT11Ghn9KR-gl_tA4pTx/s320/ddd.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Lately I’ve been reading the writing of novelist and AIDS
activist David B. Feinberg. I find his writing from the early 1990s to be
highly relevant to the times we are living in. AIDS activists faced challenges
similar to what the left is going through in the fight against Donald Trump.
People continued to die, yet activists had become distracted by who among them
had done a <i>very bad thing</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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For Trump and his supporters, morality and accountability
have become largely irrelevant. Sure, the right still talks a good game, you
know, all that debate prep at college, but now when they’re confronted with
their hypocrisy, they smile cheekily, a coy wink to the larger game plan.
They’ve introduced new terms to the lexicon, such as the “mulligan” — a pass on
ideological consistency in the name of the greater good. (The “greater good”
here resembles a treatise written by Ayn Rand and Jimmy Swaggart.) This pass on
ideological consistency has come to define conservatism in the Trump era.
Emboldened hypocrisy is the strategy through which their agenda is being
enacted, and so far, it’s a smashing success. While conservatives revel in
their new freedom to be blatant hypocrites (and marvel at how a lack of
accountability helps get shit done), the left eats its own.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“We have the moral high ground!” progressives say, as if the
moral high ground equals the political capital to change lives. Moral high
grounds don’t feed people. Being on the “right side of history” doesn’t save
people from deportation or poverty or protect them from abuse. The only time
morality has tangible power is when it inspires people to act, or becomes
entrenched in law, or in the case of the left, when it’s used against its own.
While conservatives party naked, the left wields its monopoly on morality like
a cudgel <i>on itself.</i> It has come to expect anticipatory precociousness: one
cannot grow into progressive values, they must emerge fully formed. The right
flaunts its hypocrisy (with a hat tip to circular logic and false
equivalencies) then piles on whoever the left is lambasting that week.
Bipartisanship is alive and well in the comments posted to the Twitter feeds of
lambasted leftists.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The left is giving the right a gift. Conservatives offer
Trump mulligan after mulligan, yet the left asks its own to account for
increasing ambiguities. Let me say what I don’t mean here: I’m not talking
about allegations of sexual abuse. Sexual abuse is not an ambiguity. I’m not
talking about people in a position of power who use it to exploit others and
cause harm. I’m addressing what compels me to add this very disclaimer:
progressives have become so quick to ascribe moral failure to each other for
being curious, for being questioning, for being benevolently ignorant.
Trump gets a pass to “grab ’em by the pussy” while progressives are asked to
lament naming “Lolita” as their favorite book in ‘98.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The following is a short list of moral failings according to
progressives who use the internet:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Being forthright that while an artist may have engaged in
awful behavior, you still feel nostalgic/make positive life associations when
looking at/reading/listening to their work.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Not severing the connection with someone you don’t know on a
social network because someone else you don’t know on a social network told you
how horrible the person was in a group message that you never read.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Using a vomit emoticon without a trigger warning.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Being intellectually inquisitive even when that curiosity is
not an endorsement and does not involve the exchange of money.<o:p></o:p></div>
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In a thread online, an attempt was made by fellow
progressives to determine the correct terminology to describe all affected by
the right’s assault on reproductive rights. The determination devolved into a
threat of suicide by a trans man who felt bullied and erased by the word
“woman.” A woman whose uterus had been removed felt bullied and erased by the
use of the phrase “reproductive rights.” Thankfully, in other pockets of the
progressive universe, a determination was made, as there are now TWO states
offering just one abortion provider, and a young woman was just arrested in
Alabama for manslaughter after she was shot and the fetus she was
carrying expired.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Some on the left feel that they must spell out their
progressive bona fides before even stating an opinion: this is done
proactively, in attempt to offset the notion that they are, in any way, acting
in bad faith. As if a CV of generic, bullet point identifiers offers a window
into the soul. At one time, people used to be commended for acknowledging their
previously held beliefs, for evolving and growing. Some on the left appear to
believe evolution and growth are dead, and instead, late bloomers should be
exiled and publicly pilloried.<o:p></o:p></div>
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In his book <i>Chronicle of a Plague: AIDS and Its
Aftermath</i>, Andrew Holleran writes that early in the epidemic, he was
accused of having a “morose delectation,” an addiction to, or fetish for,
melancholy. Holleran was just transcribing what he and so many were
experiencing; there were so many stories of human suffering — but the phrase
has stuck with me. Has the left developed a “moral delectation?” Or would a
“castigation delectation” be more appropriate?<o:p></o:p></div>
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So much of this aspect of progressive culture — the constant
internal clashing, the rush to correct, the rush to accuse of wrong doing — I
blame on the internet: we no longer have to look at each other, yet at the same
time, so many are watching. There is the progressive online, and then there is
the progressive at home. There is a difference. The progressive at home is
much more patient and understanding, much more tolerant of everyday benevolent human
messiness. What will it mean for the people progressives seek to empower and
the principles progressives claim to value if we have to endure four more years
of Donald Trump? The lack of tolerance we continue to show for each other may
be our greatest weakness and his best reelection strategy.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Originally a golf term, the conservative “mulligan” could be
interpreted in a much more generous manner: not as a pass for Trump’s
atrocious behavior, but as…<i>.forgiveness</i> for it. Not real forgiveness, mind
you, transactional forgiveness, something the left would never offer for such
profound moral failing. While I concur that some sins are unforgivable, I also
wonder, are we better off for being so unwavering? As a direct result of the
conservative “mulligan” there is now a conservative majority on the Supreme
Court. In the days and months leading up to 2020 I’m hoping progressives can
start small, with each other. In tolerance there is power. Even if that
tolerance is only transactional.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />Flee Flee This Sad Hotelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151676626514029393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1832381111930717456.post-22955866874613862752016-12-22T10:13:00.002-08:002016-12-22T10:13:57.550-08:00In the song, Coney Island Baby, my hero, Lou Reed, asks us to remember that different people have peculiar tastes.<div class="MsoNormal">
End of the year best of book lists are a funny thing; in small press communities, where monetary rewards are slim, and promotion can be hard to come by, they can seem more like popularity/ personality contests then actual meritocracies. Reading a book, no matter how enjoyable, requires energy, and investment, and while I can understand the desire to hype a friend’s work, or to potentially make a connection by hyping someone's work, it isn’t much benefit to the reader who just wants to trust your recommendation, and read something good. When a person operates from this fishy place in politics, it's called <i>cronyism</i>. Though I doubt there is any actual promise squeezed from those being listed, another word that might be applicable comes from the music industry: <i>payola</i>. I’m sure it’s all borne of the desperation that comes from trying to get one’s work out there; but let’s be real: it corrupts year-end best of lists.<o:p></o:p><br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Believe me, I wanted to find a better picture of Lou with a book.</span></div>
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The following is a list (in no particular order) of the written things (a play and a zine are also included) that came out this year that I really enjoyed.<br />
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<i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Lonely-City-Adventures-Being-Alone/dp/1250039576">The Lonely City</a>: Adventures in the Art of Being Alone</i> by Olivia Laing</div>
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<i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Conflict-Not-Abuse-Overstating-Responsibility/dp/1551526433"><br /></a></i></div>
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<i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Conflict-Not-Abuse-Overstating-Responsibility/dp/1551526433"><br /></a></i></div>
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<i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Conflict-Not-Abuse-Overstating-Responsibility/dp/1551526433">Conflict is Not Abuse: Overstating Harm, Community Responsibility, and the Duty of Repair</a></i> by Sarah Schulman</div>
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<i><a href="http://weheardyoulikebooks.com/releases/i-hate-the-internet/">I Hate the Internet</a></i> by Jarett Kobek</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimH1-rGmeAnP9P-sgydcAnwoQMxF-oI6uqFWrjfHoj5j6gDBQ51zAUCT0tR6DaGPvD8CDHad_yhWoTFyqs_f6Qm38tmUKhLilMd25xO85b43tKNzOkvCcQ1jaDyrpQor053GwgdarkSwvj/s1600/51wo3ZZP4BL._SX341_BO1%252C204%252C203%252C200_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimH1-rGmeAnP9P-sgydcAnwoQMxF-oI6uqFWrjfHoj5j6gDBQ51zAUCT0tR6DaGPvD8CDHad_yhWoTFyqs_f6Qm38tmUKhLilMd25xO85b43tKNzOkvCcQ1jaDyrpQor053GwgdarkSwvj/s320/51wo3ZZP4BL._SX341_BO1%252C204%252C203%252C200_.jpg" width="219" /></a></div>
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<i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/How-Survive-Plague-Citizens-Science/dp/0307700631"><br /></a></i></div>
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<i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/How-Survive-Plague-Citizens-Science/dp/0307700631">How to Survive a Plague: The Inside Story of How Citizens and Science Tamed AIDS</a></i> by David France</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2KgDUZ9X_b5H_I97fNwCga69e9hJFc5CWQ0e-3FTGj4wqcj8DU6wjsc1_rhJOQnYGAAKw_-jC7UlB4Aqf_o8-Yc9bI2SI0pZwAoMGDRpcc3o69HGNASWHozN8PTthxNO48f8828cd8ZHg/s1600/patty.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2KgDUZ9X_b5H_I97fNwCga69e9hJFc5CWQ0e-3FTGj4wqcj8DU6wjsc1_rhJOQnYGAAKw_-jC7UlB4Aqf_o8-Yc9bI2SI0pZwAoMGDRpcc3o69HGNASWHozN8PTthxNO48f8828cd8ZHg/s320/patty.jpg" width="210" /></a></div>
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<i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/American-Heiress-Kidnapping-Crimes-Hearst/dp/0385536712">America Heiress: The Wild Saga of The Kidnapping, Crimes and Trial of Patty Hearst </a></i>by Jeffrey Toobin</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYNU2G1zsBwTT1rblw1je9LFUToabauv4vxn7E-nQb2RBLEDuCvA234aKRvEL8gh2sehK5SiQoplEaTy8qbUCh8TULIURfQhSBSKqJqGT89b-fvsyIOw0NjZY_DRKLqcjvH4u8VDh0HQoN/s1600/Problems.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYNU2G1zsBwTT1rblw1je9LFUToabauv4vxn7E-nQb2RBLEDuCvA234aKRvEL8gh2sehK5SiQoplEaTy8qbUCh8TULIURfQhSBSKqJqGT89b-fvsyIOw0NjZY_DRKLqcjvH4u8VDh0HQoN/s320/Problems.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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<i><a href="http://coffeehousepress.org/shop/problems/">Problems</a></i> by Jade Sharma</div>
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<i><a href="http://coffeehousepress.org/shop/ill-tell-you-in-person/">I'll Tell You in Person</a></i> by Chloe Caldwell</div>
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<i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Trainwreck-Women-Love-Hate-Mock-ebook/dp/B01CBLP27Q">Trainwreck: The Women We Love to Hate, Mock, and Fear...And Why</a></i> by Sady Doyle</div>
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<i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/When-Watched-Stories-Leopoldine-Core/dp/0143128698">When Watched: Stories</a></i> by Leopoldine Core</div>
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<i><a href="http://wormhole.bigcartel.com/product/cookie-mueller-and-glenn-o-brien-drugs">Drugs</a> </i>(play): by Cookie Muller and Glenn O' Brien</div>
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<i><a href="http://copingmechanisms.net/portfolio/bruja-by-wendy-c-ortiz/">Bruja</a></i> by Wendy C. Ortiz</div>
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<i><a href="http://houseofvlad.tumblr.com/airguitar">A Series of Pained Facial Expressions Made While Shredding Air Guitar</a> </i>by Brian Alan Ellis</div>
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<i><a href="http://onthelowerfrequencies.com/">SCAM: Twenty-Fifth Anniversary Issue</a> </i>(zine)<i> </i>by<i> </i>Erick Lyle</div>
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Flee Flee This Sad Hotelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151676626514029393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1832381111930717456.post-52858876692387158092016-10-24T13:05:00.014-07:002016-10-25T06:12:32.569-07:00The Mostly Sexist Agenda of Nasty Nicknames for Female Celebrities<span style="font-size: x-small;">I'm reading Sady Doyle's amazing new book <i>Trainwreck: The Women We Love to Hate, Mock, and Fear...and Why </i>and I remembered this list I made back in 2013 (when I had a lot more time to think about about the plight of female celebrities then I do now). It was up online somewhere then, but I'm reposting it here. With the passage of time, there are a few things I would change about what I wrote-- but there are also plenty of new nicknames I could add to list.</span><br />
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It's a societal disparity as old as the hills, women are reviled for the same things men are celebrated, and the evidence is in the pop culture pudding. For every one Wacko Jacko there are ten Parasite Hiltons, but not all of these nasty nicknames for female celebrities can be traced back to the media, and an editor out to craft a catchy caption or headline. Both #1. and #3. came courtesy of on- and- off friends of the starlet, while #8. was coined by the star’s fans as a term of endearment-- she's actually embraced the moniker, and sometimes uses it to describe herself.<br />
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An especially nasty nickname can attach itself to a celebrity for time eternal-- the implication the nickname makes becomes the association the public makes with the celebrity, and that implication can become impossible to shake. The majority of these nasty nicknames just reiterate what the public has come to expect from its famous females, and the designee has been slapped with the moniker for not living up to those ideals: Fergy fug, for ascending to fame while being in some nameless, faceless, editor's very important mind, unattractive; Hanoi Jane for being so vocal and visible with her anti-establishment views during the Vietnam War; and the Portly Pepper pot, because who would ever believe that the leader of the free world would risk everything for a chubby girl?<br />
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A few of the ignoble nicknames originated with Perez Hilton, who in the early years of his popular gossip blog, seemed to create them daily for sport. Since becoming a father, he has publicly resolved to be less "mean-spirited" towards the celebrities he covers. It’s a testament to the entrenchment of some of these nicknames that they still remain in active use despite their creator's disavowal.<br />
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Below is a list of famous females who nasty nicknames may live on in infamy:<br />
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1. <b>Fire Crotch</b><br />
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This nickname for Lindsay Lohan came from the mouth and mind of brat scion Brandon Davis, who imparted it upon the world while being videotaped by the paparazzi, in the company of Paris (Parasite) Hilton. The prurient interest of the part of Lindsay's body that it purports to reference, combined with Brandon's Mr. Jeeves- style patois as repeatedly enunciates "Crotch" like "Crutch" in the TMZ video of the encounter have contributed to the moniker’s memorability.<br />
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2. <b>Sexual Napalm</b><br />
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Not a nickname <i>per se</i>, but pretty much, considering how often "Sexual Napalm" is mentioned when Jessica is. "Jessica Simpson, Weight Watcher's new spokeswoman, Sexual Napalm!" "Jessica Simpson gives birth to daughter, Sexual Napalm!" This description for Simpson’s sexual explosiveness came courtesy of musician/pro boyfriend John Mayer, who kisses and spills more often, and much more graphically than Taylor Swift, but gets light scoldings for his disclosures, not unfunny award show parodies. (Mayer also informed the world that Jennifer Love Hewitt's body was "Wonderland," and Jennifer Aniston was "clingy.")<br />
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3.<b> Bimbo Summit/ "The Animal"</b><br />
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For a short time in 2006, Britney Spears, Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton appeared to be friends; they engaged in friend -like activities, such as entering and exiting clubs together, and carpooling. Photographic lenses everywhere were kept in a constant state of contortion as paparazzos followed their every move, and clamored to get shots up their skirts as they made them. The tabloids had a field day with the threesome, concocting headlines like "The Three Horsewomen of the Apocalypse" and "Bimbo Summit." The neat & tidy celebrity package didn't last long, and after the friendships fractured, sources close to Paris leaked her private nickname for Britney: "The Animal," because according to Paris, Britney never thought before she acted. (I would like to note that I think most animals think a lot.)<br />
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4. <b>Mushy Fartone</b><br />
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Let’s do some free association with Mushy Fartone. Mushy: soft, like a bowl of potatoes, or maybe squishy, like the belly of the Pillsbury Dough Boy. It’s impossible to free associate with Fartone. It’s just “Fart one.” When you put “Mushy” and “Fartone” together, what’s the implication? “Fat Gassy Girl?” When I was in junior high, the bane of my existence was a boy named Leonard Reebe. Whenever I saw Leonard in class, or crossed paths with him in the hallway, he would intone loudly enough for everyone to hear,"Beee-Owna!” a parody he’d contrived of my own name, Fiona. The insult was in how he said the name, and in the visual it conjured. "Bee-Owna!" was slovenly, and bred parakeets in fetid cages. “Bee-Owna!” never left the house, and ate TV dinners while watching <i>The Price is Right</i> in a muumuu. “Bee-Owna” was my Mushy Fartone. If we think of Perez’s website like a movie, Mushy Fartone is the equivalent of Perez casting Mischa to play the role of a Garbage Pail Kid, when, by the nature of her being a young starlet in Hollywood, she tried out for role of the ingénue.<br />
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5. <b>Hanoi Jane</b><br />
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This is a real patch. Snoopy won't forget. A Google search will bring up pages and pages of these Anti-Fonda images, some calling for her execution as a traitor, and many of them handcrafted. (It’s interesting to think of dudes getting the craft bug inspired solely by their hatred of Jane Fonda.) Though Jane stands by her opposition to the Vietnam War, she's apologized numerous times for the infamous photograph of her sitting on an anti-aircraft battery and has since said she feels that the picture was staged as a photo op by the Vietcong.<br />
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6. <b>Waity Katy</b><br />
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Kate Middleton earned this disparaging moniker for the eight years she dated Prince William before he proposed, the implication being that:<br />
1.she withstood the wait because of her want for the crown.<br />
2. she withstood the wait because as a smart, attractive young woman from a wealthy family with a Master of Arts degree from the University of Saint Andrews she had nothing better do.<br />
3. she withstood the wait because she's a pathetic doormat. <br />
After she and William became engaged in 2010, the nickname changed to <b>Lazy Katy</b> because Middleton left her job to prepare for the round the clock job of being a monarch.<br />
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7. <b>Wino</b><br />
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In the same way that identifiable, one- word celebrity names like Prince, or Madonna, are often considered to be the height of fame, nasty, one- word celebrity nicknames could be considered the depths of cruelty. In the excellent 1962 film,<i> Lilith, </i>Kim Hunter’s character says to Warren Beatty’s, "Insanity seems a lot less sinister to watch in a man than a woman." If the sentiment‘s true, it's a sinister inequality that the media relishes chronicling.<br />
<br />
<br />
8. <b>Glammy Skank</b><br />
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In the late nineties, Courtney Love started a website called kittyradio.com. It became one of the most popular websites on the net, and for a blink and you missed it moment, Courtney was heralded by the media as an e-entrepreneur. By the early aughties, Courtney had fallen out with the administrators of the site, but during that brief window when everyone was getting along swimmingly, her fans at kittyradio gifted their queen with this honestly affectionate nickname. "Glammy skank," for glamorous skank.<br />
<br />
9. <b>Horse Face</b><br />
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Women love Sarah Jessica Parker for her sartorial flair and film and television roles, while men despise her, possibly because they felt ignored all those Sunday nights during <i>Sex and the City</i>'s six season run. Routinely ranking in the top three in those vile online "Ugliest Women in the World" lists (as did Amy Winehouse, before her death), there is even a web site called sarahjessicaparkerlookslikeahorse.com, which bills itself as "a loving tribute to the aging style icon," and whose webmaster refers to themselves as "the stable master" and asks for donations to the site to "protect aging NYC carriage horses."<br />
<br />
10. <b>Fergy Fug</b><br />
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Sometimes I wonder, if, at a tender age, young boys are taken aside, and told a secret by older men. Actually, what they are told isn't the secret; it’s that this multi-generational information-sharing actually occurs. "Quickest way to wound a woman, young man? Tell her she's ugly." Hurt people, hurt people, blah, blah, I get it, but why the special relish when it comes to lobbing looks-related insults at famous women? Does it feel like some kind of power equalizer? <i>Maybe you'd never give me the time of day, but I can still tear you down physically.</i> How come women don't come up with nicknames like this for famous men we find to be unattractive? Or annual "Ugliest Men" lists?<br />
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11. <b>Miseralba</b><br />
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At one time, Jessica Alba, was considered to be one of the most beautiful women in the world, she starred in films like <i>Honey</i> and <i>Sin City</i> that showcased her sexiness, and was voted number one on AskMen.com's list of the "99 Most Desirable Women." Then she got married, had two children in quick succession, and the media decided she was miserable. Why the sudden change in good feeling? Subtle indictment on the fuckability factor of married moms? Are the kids and the ring a wrench in the wet dream?<br />
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12. <b>Super Head</b><br />
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Actress and model Karrine Stevens received this nickname for her purported superior oral sex skills from the rappers she worked with and dated while appearing as an extra in music videos for the likes of Jay-Z, L.L Cool J and R. Kelly. Segueing her industry experience into a successful writing career, Stevens has written three New York Times bestsellers and owns her own publishing company. Still, websites like Bossip.com default to adjectives like “slorebag” and “Hollywood jizz-bucket,” over “resourceful” and “industrious” when describing her accomplishments.<br />
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13. <b>The Portly Pepper Pot</b><br />
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In 1999, Monica Lewinsky was the most famous twenty-two year old woman in the world. President Clinton would infamously go on television and lie about her, saying, “I did not have sexual relations with that woman, Miss Lewinsky,” and the populace would come to learn in John Mayer- worthy detail just what the commander in chief considered to be a sex act. Feminist leaders were hesitant to publicly lend their support to Lewinsky, because of the risk to the liberal- leaning Clinton administration. There was a locker-room undercurrent to much of the scandal, and the flat-out disbelief from bros in the media that the most powerful man in the world would risk the presidency for a chubby girl in a beret. (Paula Jones had received much of the same ribbing about her looks, and would go on to have plastic surgery, paid for by right-wing donors.) The New York Post came up with "pepper pot" moniker, and used it interchangeably with Monica’s name in its coverage of the debacle. Interestingly, Urban Dictionary defines a “pepper pot” as <i>1. (noun) -</i> <i>An assertive person who shares opinions or acts in ways that are stronger than the extant social power structure might predict. Especially women, since men often wrongly expect women to be weak, acquiescent, or void of certain types of knowledge.</i> Monica has said that she dealt with the stress of the media onslaught by knitting, and in 2000, became a paid spokeswoman for Jenny Craig.<br />
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14. <b>Nauseating Nancy</b><br />
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Usually, in a last act of crass politesse, a nasty media nickname is retired after the designee's death, especially when the death is a tragic one, as was the case with Amy Winehouse and the vile "Wino." Not so after the death of Nancy Spungen, the drug addicted, and mentally- ill girlfriend of Sex Pistols bassist Sid Vicious. Even after her gory murder in Room 100 of the Chelsea Hotel, the press kept it open season on her character. The ante was upped even further when Malcolm McLauren and Vivenne Westwood began selling t-shirts poking fun at her murder that read "She's dead, I'm alive, I'm yours," above a picture of Sid.<br />
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15. <b>The Dragon Lady/ "Yoko Ono" as insult</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
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Asked how she felt about the racist nickname bestowed upon her by the British media, Yoko Ono turned "The Dragon Lady" on it's head, saying, ""I'm kind of honored to be a dragon lady. The dragon is a very powerful, mythical animal . . . well, probably they think I'm powerful, thank you very much." Blamed for the break-up of a band "more popular than Jesus," Yoko Ono is that rare breed of maligned celebrity whose own name has become institutionalized as an insult. From Courtney Love, to Kate Moss, to Demi Lovato when she dated a Joe Bro, any woman who gets up close and personal with a guy in a band is at risk for the moniker. About Ono, feminist writer Germaine Greer once said, "Her enormous wealth can be no consolation for the knee jerk assumption she encounters a hundred times a day that she destroyed Lennon's gift and broke up the best band there ever was." Her name may have become an insult, but I doubt with her music, film making, and activism, Yoko Ono has ever let the insults define her. I agree with Greer that money is of no consolation to Ono. I think her art is.<br />
<br />Flee Flee This Sad Hotelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151676626514029393noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1832381111930717456.post-5161630373017775992016-02-14T09:08:00.000-08:002016-02-16T06:09:25.442-08:00I HATE THE INTERNET: THE REMIX REVIEW<h3>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Recently I wrote a review of Jarett Kobek's fantastic new book, <i>I HATE THE INTERNET</i> for <a href="http://www.vol1brooklyn.com/2016/02/09/the-masterful-tangents-of-jarett-kobek-a-review-of-i-hate-the-internet/">Vol. 1 Brooklyn. </a>Initially, the book inspired me to write something that focused much more on internet outrage, the wrath of which a main character in the book experiences. I ended up scaling back on that focus for the published review, and wrote about the book's other plotlines and themes instead. I think what the book initially<i> </i>inspired me to write is still valid, so I've decided to post it here. (The line of red stars denotes where the personal-style commentary on online outrage starts.) If you haven't read this book yet, you need to. If it isn't obvious from the opening, I'm a huge, huge fan of the book, and Jarett's writing in general.</span></h3>
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<i><span lang="EN">JARETT KOBEK'S I
HATE THE INTERNET (THE REMIX)</span></i><span lang="EN"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">No writer’s
work in the last year has inspired in me in so much post-reading activity as
California author Jarett Kobek. His fictionalized, “psychedelic biography,”<i>
ATTA</i>, the first of its kind to attempt to humanize 9/11 hijacker Mohamed
Atta, led me to order the salacious biography, <i>Walt Disney: Hollywood’s Dark
Prince </i>that Kobek puts in the
terrorist’s hands as he attempts to learn more about U.S infidel culture; his <i>If
You Don’t Read, Why Should I Write?</i> led me to sit down with a cute reference
librarian in search of English-language translations of Saddam Hussein’s
execution (Kobek’s book features an excerpt, along with dialogue from celebrity
sex tapes, juxtaposed with the celebrity’s arrest record); and his excellent
novel, <i>BTW,</i> inspired me to binge watch the 1994 BBC production of <i>Middlemarch</i>,
then read the CliffsNotes to the classic George Eliot book. (I craved a deeper
understanding of <i>Middlemarch</i> <i>in
the moment</i>, in relation to a recurring tangent in <i>BTW</i>. I hope to
read Eliot’s 700+ page opus soon.) The writings of Jarett Kobek, though broad
in their scope, all have one thing in common—the masterful tangent, the tangent
risen to art form. Often, it was the tangents in Kobek’s work that were inspiring
so much of my activity.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because Kobek makes
so many references to art, culture, language, and philosophy, in some ways, his
writing reminds me of a <i>Re/Search</i>
anthology from the 90s, but one with an underlining storyline that is rooted in
the present day, and covers matters much more pressing to the moment.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">Kobek’s
writing does something else that deserves to be lauded, and is on display in
his eviscerating new novel, <i><a href="http://weheardyoulikebooks.com/releases/i-hate-the-internet/">I HATE THE INTERNET</a> </i> (We Heard You Like Books): he breaks down the
disconnect inherent to our outrage-impulsive age. The way he does this makes me
think of the weekend after Sept. 11th, when Lorne Michaels famously asked Rudy
Giuliani on <i>Saturday Night Live</i> if it
was OK to be funny again. Thankfully, Kobek doesn’t ask anyone’s permission. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">Kobek takes
the saga of the internet—the people displaced from their homes to make room for
it, the user on user crime that is so multi-faced and endemic, and the
vengeance-loving masses waiting for the next e-wrong to right —and gently,
considering the heady ground he’s covering, makes the sordid tale very funny.<u><o:p></o:p></u></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">It’s a brave
thing to do, considering how emphatic some internet users can be in their
belief that there is no grey area. <i> I
HATE THE INTERNET</i> asks, “Why is activism in the 21<sup>st</sup> century
nothing more than morality lectures typed into devices built by slaves?” Kobek
also gives the time in which we live a new name: <i>“terrofucked."</i></span><br />
<span lang="EN"><i><br /></i></span>
<span lang="EN"><i>***</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">One of the
primary plotlines of <i>I HATE THE INTERNET</i>
involves a successful comic book illustrator, a woman in her 40s, named
Adeline. Adeline finds herself in the middle of online controversy after giving
a talk to the students of poet Kevin Killian (Kobek often weaves real people
into his storylines, and real storylines onto his people). During the talk,
Adeline is asked by a student if she thinks Facebook and Twitter can serve a
role in the pursuit of social progress. It’s her response to the question that
causes her so much trouble:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN">“Social
progress might have had meaning twenty years ago when I was but a young thing,
but these days it's become the product of corporations. But what do you people
know anyway? You’re a lost generation. Even your drugs are corporate. You spend
your lives pretending as if Beyoncé and Rihanna possess some inherent meaning
and act as if their every professional success which only occur because of your
money and your attention is a strike forward for women everywhere."</span></i><span lang="EN"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">What she says
is videotaped by a student, and uploaded to the internet. The internet in turn
metes out its most finely tuned
form of social progress.<u><o:p></o:p></u></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">As Kobek
writes:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN">“A wide range
of humanity believed that Beyoncé and Rihanna were inspirations rather than
vultures. Adeline had spit on their gods.</span></i><span lang="EN"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN">This wide
range of humanity responded by teaching Adeline about one of America’s favored
pastimes, a tradition as time-honored as police brutality, baseball, race riots
and genocide.</span></i><span lang="EN"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN">They were
teaching Adeline about how powerless people demonstrated their supplication
before their masters.</span></i><span lang="EN"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN">They were
tweeting about Adeline.”</span></i><span lang="EN"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
***</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">What Kobek
highlights in <i>I HATE THE INTERNET </i>is<i> </i>what is so often lost, or conveniently
overlooked, in our present day, need- for- high- speed internet rage:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">The internet
and it’s platforms are often the products of the baddest of bad guys<i>.</i>
Twitter and Google, the platforms that Kobek focuses on most heavily because of
their effects on the inhabitants of San Francisco, the novel’s setting— were
built by displacing poor and middle income people from their homes in order to
move tech execs<i> </i>in. They are platforms
that profit from upset, and thrive on human suffering. They in turn market that
human suffering, using it to sell products for corporations who enable other forms of human suffering
across the globe. Twitter, Google, and their ilk profiteer off the suffering so endemic to our times— where
police officers are routinely acquitted of killing unarmed Black men, and wars
are fought based on lies—as well as the much less significant human trespasses,
like a 40 year old female comic book illustrator calling Beyoncé and Rihanna
frauds.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">It’s a tough
thing to think about when meting out our responses online: who are our strong
emotions most benefiting? Who are they most hurting? And who are the ones most
deserving of our anger? Using whose corrupt tools are we fighting for social
change? And what does that say about us, knowing that these tools are corrupt, that
we continue to use them? Considering their vested interests—would these
platforms really <i>want</i> the social change
that we think we are using them for?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN"><span style="background-color: red;">******************************</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN"> While reading<i> I HATE THE INTERNET</i>, I
found myself thinking about the people I know in online publishing circles,
myself included, who have sometimes found themselves hesitant when publishing
their stories, especially if those stories touch in some way on matters related
to gender, class, sexuality, or race. <i>Well if you’ve nothing to hide, then
what would you have to be hesitant about?</i> a voice—the ghost of internalized
internet dramas past— asks. <i>Well, it’s not always so cut and dry</i>, a voice
sounding like my own replies. <i>There are grey areas to things, there are the
experiences that exist on the peripherals of our being</i>—<i>there are the
tangents: things we’ve seen, places we’ve been, people we’ve known, people
we’ve sometimes been ourselves.</i> In
online publishing today, if you are writing anything touching on those
subjects, you might feel like it would be beneficial to you to mark your side
—establish your stance. Qualify. And experiences don’t happen that way, if you
are to write about them honestly. Our lives happen in experiences. When experiences
are fine-tuned to fit agenda<i> </i>they
become politics.<u><o:p></o:p></u></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">If we were to
get very kindergarten about it, inherent to the most common occasions of
internet upset is the idea that the person at its center has done something
offensive, and that offensive thing in turn reveals something about the
offender’s moral center —their inner core as a person. Things in this way
easily become very black and white. Once one has incited internet upset, that
person has become marked, branded: they are <i>bad</i>. I've never seen a person's reputation
completely recover from this. (And would concur that some people have done
things so egregious, a tainted reputation is far less than they deserve.) The
implication to this might be if one wants to avoid finding themselves in the
center of internet upset, if one wants to try to remain "good,” one should
try to stay attuned to what constitutes offense—but keeping track can be
difficult, because the definition is always in flux. A recent example of this
would be the death of music icon David Bowie. By mourning David Bowie online,
the week of his death, Jan 10, 2016, a person could find themselves
unexpectedly considered "bad,” a person could find themselves unexpectedly
considered <i>horrible</i>: a person could
find themselves considered by some to be a rape sympathizer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">On Jan 10, I
posted this on Facebook in response to Bowie's passing:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN"> <i>There
are some people you don't think of as being mortal. David Bowie made the world
a much more interesting place. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">Soon
afterward, I started seeing posts conflating people's grief with rape sympathy,
because of a sexual encounter Bowie had had with an underage fan in the 1970s.
As I read the posts and comments, more posts began to appear. Some posts
posited it was OK to mourn David Bowie as long as one also acknowledged their
support for victims, their disdain for perpetrators of sexual assault.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">I had a strong
reaction to this. In order to avoid causing offense, I had to qualify my post
about David Bowie’s death to <i>explicitly</i>
state that I was against<i> </i>sexual
assault?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">If I had amended
my post to reflect this—immediately after reading the other posts— it might
have looked something like this:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN"> That my
feelings of sadness at David Bowie’s death might be somehow misconstrued as an
endorsement of sexual assault… Frankly, I’m offended by your offense.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">I didn't amend
my post, though I did put up a <i>new</i>
post saying that I found the conflation to be madness. While I stand by that, I
wish now that I hadn't responded at all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">Later, I found
myself wondering: noting my interest in the posts that had made the conflation,
had Facebook tailored my feed to specifically highlight the posts that had made
that claim? The more posts I read reflecting that view, the stronger my need to
react felt. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Noting my interest, had
Facebook <i>tried</i> to inflame me?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">Reading the
posts had kept me from logging out. They had led me to post again, and to
comment, which I hadn’t planned to do. And there were things related to the
posts that Facebook could try to sell me. As I stayed online reading and
clicking, these books popped up as ads on my computer screen: <span style="color: #0070c0;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Groupies-Other-Electric-Ladies-Photographs/dp/1851497943/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1455469145&sr=1-2">http://www.amazon.com/Groupies-Other-Electric-Ladies-Photographs/dp/1851497943/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1455469145&sr=1-2</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #0070c0; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">and<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Hammer-Gods-Stephen-Davis/dp/0425182134">http://www.amazon.com/Hammer-Gods-Stephen-Davis/dp/0425182134</a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
***</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">While reading <i>I
HATE THE INTERNET,</i> I also found myself reflecting on other incidents of big
internet response.<i> </i></span>When
websites use elements of sensationalism and scandal-mongering in their stories,
it’s called <i>clickbait</i>: the sites are purposely
focusing on the more<i> </i>provocative<i> </i>aspects of a story in order to up web
traffic; often, at the expense of the story’s accuracy. A semi-recent, yet
unique example of this would be when the online site<i> Jezebel </i>published the unretouched photos from a photoshoot Lena
Dunham had done for <i>Vogue </i>magazine.
What was unique about the situation was that<i>
Jezebel</i> was called out by their readership for the reason they claimed to
have run the photos:<i> Jezebel</i> claimed
they published them to expose <i>Vogue </i>for
body-shaming Dunham. Their readers said they didn’t believe <i>Jezebel’s </i>motives were nearly so
righteous.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If we acknowledge that websites do this, manufacture upset
in the hopes of garnering reaction, can we not acknowledge that individual people
might exaggerate their upset online, too? When our supposed altruism and
goodwill towards others becomes “shareable,” “likeable,” commendable in the
moment, a commodity that can be used to increase online Klout scores, might the
integrity of that altruism find itself in danger? Might we invent occasions by
which to show off our supposed altruism—might our good deeds become performative<i>?</i> And what if those good deeds were best
showcased when juxtaposed against the supposed misdeeds of others? Might we go
out of our way to look for, and create villians?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dunham, took to Twitter (of course), to share her thoughts about
<i>Jezebel</i> running the unedited photos:
“It’s way cooler when people do things out of pure blind spite than phony
altruism,” she wrote.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
***<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So what post-reading activity did Jarett Kobek’s <i>I HATE
THE INTERNET </i>inspire in me?<i> </i>I’m
proud to say I deleted the Facebook app on my phone. I still have an account,
and can access the site from my browser, but it’s baby steps—my goal is to get
down to a maximum of an hour and a half of online time a day. In the weeks before reading
the book, I’d been considering setting up an account on Twitter: I thought I <i>liked</i> the idea
of downsizing my thoughts to 140 characters or less. Ultimately, I decided
against it. I deleted my secret Instagram account, too. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because the truth of the matter is, <i>I really hate the internet.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And if you stop to think about it, after reading Kobek’s
great new book, you’ll probably realize you <i>really
hate the internet,</i> too.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’d like my actions to reflect that.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For now, real social progress for me happens in baby steps.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Flee Flee This Sad Hotelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151676626514029393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1832381111930717456.post-61158991602181587492015-08-19T10:36:00.001-07:002015-11-09T12:40:38.888-08:00I Fuck for Good Art: On Book Reviews<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="background: black; color: white; mso-highlight: black; mso-themecolor: background1;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Because I have a new book out, I’ve been
thinking a sadistically unhealthy amount about book reviews, because I want
them. I’ve spent way too much time on sites like Goodreads and Amazon, and
ended up reacquainting myself with book reviews that I myself wrote in the
past. With time gone by, I thought I’d revisit some of those old reviews and examine
what I think about them now, and what, in hindsight, I might change about them, if anything.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="background: black; color: white; mso-highlight: black; mso-themecolor: background1;"><o:p><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span></o:p></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="background: black; color: white; mso-highlight: black; mso-themecolor: background1;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> “I FUCK FOR GOOD ART.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="background: black; color: white; mso-highlight: black; mso-themecolor: background1;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">I’ve spent way too much time writing
about jailbird provocateur Gene Gregorits. There is an essay in my new book
that attempts to examine all the reasons why. (The spell is still not
broken when it comes to my weakness for shit-fit creative types. Look
what I’m reading now. Trust if I’d been more aware of Kinski when I was writing
so much about Gene I probably would have made the comparison. Kinski’s book is hilarious.
He admitted that a lot of it was made up. (I know what Pola has said about her
father, so no one needs to drop down and gleefully/smugly attempt to school me.)<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5hRcxSOxmrWm_zLH35nvTgXLBKEA9AT9yI53JX4NDBO0II0vbBJAN1M35Mn3vs7_Y1bi7KGftsE5M8rs1K_0EWmFgQ1u7GHrNC3p68Pvgd0gWaD7ZtlGRl6ieSyKPtgv8NAvKg709qD9C/s1600/All_I_Need_Is_Love.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5hRcxSOxmrWm_zLH35nvTgXLBKEA9AT9yI53JX4NDBO0II0vbBJAN1M35Mn3vs7_Y1bi7KGftsE5M8rs1K_0EWmFgQ1u7GHrNC3p68Pvgd0gWaD7ZtlGRl6ieSyKPtgv8NAvKg709qD9C/s1600/All_I_Need_Is_Love.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
</div>
<span style="background: black; color: white; mso-highlight: black; mso-themecolor: background1;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><strong>From the review I did of Gene
Gregorits’ Dog Days in 2012:</strong></span></span><br />
<span style="background: black; color: white; mso-highlight: black; mso-themecolor: background1;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">“I fuck for good art—at least I have in
the past. A staid “thank you for your work” has never been enough for me.
If it touched me, I wanted a piece of it, and if it was made by living,
breathing hands, if possible, I wanted those living, breathing hands on me…I
haven’t engaged in this kind of behavior in many years. I don’t live in New
York anymore, and I’m no longer surrounded by great, accessible artists. I’m
also much more secure in my own work. But if I wasn’t, and a few logistic
variables were different—I’d want to be assfucked by Gregorits at the bottom of
an embankment, just like Izabela, the lead female character in Dog Days. “</span></span><br />
<span style="background: black; color: white; mso-highlight: black; mso-themecolor: background1;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="background: black; color: white; mso-highlight: black; mso-themecolor: background1;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">At the time that I wrote that last line, I
thought the review was just going to remain a post on Gregorits’ webpage, but
then I got the email where he mass forwarded it to all of his contacts,
including quite a few writers I love and admire, and was mortified. I also got
like fifty friend requests from dudes on Gene’s Facebook page in quick
secession, some with messages that said things like, “You know, I write too..”</span></span><br />
<span style="background: black; color: white; mso-highlight: black; mso-themecolor: background1;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="background: black; color: white; mso-highlight: black; mso-themecolor: background1;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><strong>Nicole Brown Simpson, The Private Diary
of a Life Interrupted</strong> review written in 2012, on Amazon.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrouAGbNFmITSqu8EVTEGWC9xJ_hTNJxuat_9ieQZbeJ319YnDjDIUHuqNFKLKEgO0c28ORr1hiDePOwV1uG7OVgH52pmBE0U3q_64FcpFaWctPwJ1it0MlyM1uYm6IxMo9gcq6235LaSM/s1600/nic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrouAGbNFmITSqu8EVTEGWC9xJ_hTNJxuat_9ieQZbeJ319YnDjDIUHuqNFKLKEgO0c28ORr1hiDePOwV1uG7OVgH52pmBE0U3q_64FcpFaWctPwJ1it0MlyM1uYm6IxMo9gcq6235LaSM/s1600/nic.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
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<span style="background: black; color: white; mso-highlight: black; mso-themecolor: background1;"><o:p><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></o:p></span><span style="background: black; color: white; mso-highlight: black; mso-themecolor: background1;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">I mostly still like this book review,
though I have zero memory of writing it. 1994, the year the Simpson murders
happened, was really my lost year, and I had very little access to media,
so I was kind of excited when I stumbled across this book in the true crime
section of the library. I rather cynically subtitled the
review “Twenty Years Tardy to the Party.” (I had also just seen Resnick on that
infamous episode of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, where she gets
into a heated exchange with Kelsey Grammer’s wife, while a creepy psychic puffs
on an E cigarette.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="background: black; color: white; mso-highlight: black; mso-themecolor: background1;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">“While Resnick does spend considerable
time on the brume of abuse and terror Nicole lived under as the wife of OJ
Simpson, she spends just as much time sharing with us her insider's knowledge
of the minutia of Nicole's sex life. She does this under the guise of her first
mission, correcting the media's portrayal of her friend. In this way, the
definition of what constituted sex to Nicole becomes very important, and
Resnick goes on to differentiate between which relationships of Nicole's were
just "play" (Nicole's word, Resnick's tells us, for any
non-penetrative sexual act) and which relationships qualified as actual
intercourse in glorious detail. How Resnick is able to recall with such
accuracy her friend's sex (or "play") life one is left to wonder. She
claims to have kept a diary (of her friend's sex life?) but that it was stolen
after the murders. She frames this sexual straw- splitting and the gratutious
revelations it allows for as protection of her friend's dignity. ("See,
she wasn't really a slut! Most of her relationships were just b.j's!")<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="background: black; color: white; mso-highlight: black; mso-themecolor: background1;"><o:p><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></o:p></span><span style="background: black; color: white; mso-highlight: black; mso-themecolor: background1;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><strong>What I still like about the review</strong>: my
colorful language. “Sexual straw-splitting.” “Brume of abuse and terror.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="background: black; color: white; mso-highlight: black; mso-themecolor: background1;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><strong>What I don’t like</strong>: this last
paragraph, about the Kardashian clan, which reads like a judgment call:<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="background: black; color: white; mso-highlight: black; mso-themecolor: background1;"><o:p><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></o:p></span><span style="background: black; color: white; mso-highlight: black; mso-themecolor: background1;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Their mother was one of Nicole Brown
Simpson's closest friends and their father, Robert, returned to law after years
of working in the recording industry just so he could help in the defense of
their mother's close friend's murderer. What a world to grow up in. I'd love to
know what it was like, but I imagine those girls may not know a world free of
spin. If I'm right, it may not be their faults if they don't know how to tell
the truth.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="background: black; color: white; mso-highlight: black; mso-themecolor: background1;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">What the fuck did I know about what the
Kardashians' knew about truth? My own truth be told, when I wrote this review
in early 2012, I had never even watched a full episode of their show. I was
defaulting to the popular opinion that they were just a family of attention
whores. Which may or may not be true, but still. I should have done my own
investigation and decided for myself first. I hate situations like that, be it in pop culture or otherwise, where I
have to confront that I've done this. I want my opinions to be my own.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<strong><span style="background: black; color: white; mso-highlight: black; mso-themecolor: background1;"><o:p><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></o:p></span><span style="background: black; color: white; mso-highlight: black; mso-themecolor: background1;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Elf Girl/ Rev. Jen Miller</span></span></strong><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKpmCifopOFHV3mWmOEKQ7NaypEUr85JbuI9G3BFFby_dfUo9ej2eg9mjRkZWtUJTeAoac2H2NInx7L2_u1dAR5BaPyUbKWxkBJpith2V3Zt9TaO-nA_zAKGtXv5Eqz67GzmiWopWUPVhG/s1600/jen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKpmCifopOFHV3mWmOEKQ7NaypEUr85JbuI9G3BFFby_dfUo9ej2eg9mjRkZWtUJTeAoac2H2NInx7L2_u1dAR5BaPyUbKWxkBJpith2V3Zt9TaO-nA_zAKGtXv5Eqz67GzmiWopWUPVhG/s320/jen.jpg" width="207" /></a></div>
</div>
<span style="background: black; color: white; mso-highlight: black; mso-themecolor: background1;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">I’ve written about Rev. Jen Miller many
times. Rev. Jen and Gene Gregorits are the prom king and queen of my reviewing scene. This
was Jen’s first book by a big publisher, and though I liked the self-published
version of the book that it was based on better, this book is still very
good. I like this review but wish I would have sent it somewhere instead of
just leaving it to languish at Amazon. It reads more like an essay, and I wish
I would have tightened it up and submitted somewhere as one.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="background: black; color: white; mso-highlight: black; mso-themecolor: background1;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">“My whole life I've made a practice of
hitting interpersonal relationship benchmarks out of order. Many a time
intimate activity has preceded introduction formalities. In keeping with this
behavior, I was photographed au naturel with Rev. Jen Miller before I
had ever laid eyes on her work. Now that I have, I can say without a doubt
there is a world of brains, wit, and brawny vision behind her rockin' bod. Since
then she has become one of my favorite writers and artists</span></span><span style="background: black; color: white; mso-highlight: black; mso-themecolor: background1;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">…</span></span><br />
<span style="background: black; color: white; mso-highlight: black; mso-themecolor: background1;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span></span><br />
<span style="background: black; color: white; mso-highlight: black; mso-themecolor: background1;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">When I was kid growing up in small town
CT, I loved watching Geraldo in the morning when I could somehow finagle
staying home from school. As much as I enjoyed the episodes that showcased brawling
skinheads and bald headed Satanists, my favorites were always the panel
discussions with Club Kids like Michael Alig and James St. James. What I
enjoyed so much about the Club Kids was that they spoke to me of a world
outside my window where people really were free to be you and me and
individuality was celebrated as a fabulous, blessed trait. It made me want to
move New York and be a part of what I was seeing on the television screen. More
importantly, it made feel that I could be a part of it. I believe Rev. Jen and
the stories in her book will inspire the same feelings in others.."<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="background: black; color: white; mso-highlight: black; mso-themecolor: background1;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><strong>LESSON LEARNED</strong>: Though Amazon and GoodReads reviews are a huge help to
authors, there are a world of literary sites out there looking for more detailed (well-written) book reviews.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="background: black; color: white; mso-highlight: black; mso-themecolor: background1;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></span><span style="background: black; color: white; mso-highlight: black; mso-themecolor: background1;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><strong>Happy Ending, David Rat</strong></span></span><br />
<br />
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</div>
<span style="background: black; color: white; mso-highlight: black; mso-themecolor: background1;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Last but not least: my most popular book
review, ever, well, according to my blog analytics-- with over 2,000
views, David Rat’s <em>Happy Ending</em>, which ended up being the intro to
the book. So why don’t we just reprint the whole thing here:</span></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="background: black; color: white; mso-highlight: black; mso-themecolor: background1;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Most people have a dream epoch, a bygone
era that they venerate and romanticize, thinking <em>if only</em> <em>I’d been around
for that</em>. My pedestalled period on the space/time continuum is New York City in
the mid 1970’s and early 80’s, my favorite city’s last gasp for vibrant,
inspired living on the cheap. One could still move to New York just to be an
artist, not to just look like an artist while spending all of ones
time working a shitty job just to make the rent.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="background: black; color: white; mso-highlight: black; mso-themecolor: background1;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Engendered by the cheap rents and lowered
cost of living, New York City experienced a gritty, creative renaissance led by
an underclass of young throwaways cut from the same angelic/ demonic mold as
Jean Genet and Arthur Rimbaud. Archetype artists like Richard Hell and Lydia
Lunch sought reprieve from their damages onstage at clubs like CBGB’s, Max’s
Kansas City and the Pyramid. Both were runaways to the city from screwed up
homes.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="background: black; color: white; mso-highlight: black; mso-themecolor: background1;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span></span><br />
<span style="background: black; color: white; mso-highlight: black; mso-themecolor: background1;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Oscar Wilde famously wrote, “We are all in
the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.” In 1970’s/80’s New York,
a generation of impassioned street kids used artistic expression to lift their
heads from the gutter and towards heaven.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="background: black; color: white; mso-highlight: black; mso-themecolor: background1;"><o:p><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></o:p></span><span style="background: black; color: white; mso-highlight: black; mso-themecolor: background1;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Enter David Rat, a small town boy with
the face of an Adonis and big city rock n’ roll dreams. <em>Happy Ending,</em> David’s
new book, recounts his
early adulthood in late 1970’s/ 80’s New York. The drummer for seminal art
noise band Rat At Rat R, David works the door at the infamous downtown Pyramid
Club, juggles clingy girlfriends and looks forward to finally garnering his
father’s approval as mainstream success with his band beckons. The
story-telling quality of David’s poetry recounts the lyrical elegies of Lou Reed’s
“Walk on the Wild Side” and Iggy Pop’s “Look Away.” Doomed, tragic luminaries
of the period like Greer Lankton and Ethyl Eichelberger provide the inspiration
for some of David’s best work. Once David becomes addicted to heroin, the names
and wide-eyed descriptions of the era drop off, with testimonies to painful
longing and the ritual redundancies of addiction taking their place.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="background: black; color: white; mso-highlight: black; mso-themecolor: background1;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">I’ve always liked Angela Bowie, but I
found her note to David that opens <em>Happy Ending</em> to be completely off
the mark. In it, Angela flatters David but then asks when his “fixation” with
writing about drugs will end. Writing about addiction when one has spent time
counting lifelines from the inside of its clenched fist is not “fixation,”
it's transcription. Reducing the impact David's addiction to
some kind of fetish subject matter is not only smug, it completely nullifies
the power of the book. It’s the optimism despite the ugliness that
makes <em>Happy Ending</em> so potent. Heroin robs David of his family and his
rock n’roll dreams, but he still eagerly reaches out for love, sees the beauty
in the graying faces all around him and fights passionately for a better world
for his beloved son. <em>Happy</em> <em>Ending</em> is about the resistance of the
spirit to cynicism. It’s also about the hopeful exorcism of ones demons with
the pen.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="background: black; color: white; mso-highlight: black; mso-themecolor: background1;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">David Rat came to New York City in the
late 1970’s to be an artist and as <em>Happy Ending</em> attests, David still
believes that art can set him free.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="background: black; color: white; mso-highlight: black; mso-themecolor: background1;"><o:p><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></o:p></span><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="background: black; color: white; mso-highlight: black; mso-themecolor: background1;"><strong>LESSON LEARNED</strong>: I love <em>Happy Ending,</em> and still really like this review, but I might take out the Oscar Wilde quote. As much as I love Wilde and his
work and think the quote fits, at this point, unfortunately, I think the quote's become a little bit played. And I might change that line about "counting lifelines." While I stand by the sentiment, the imagery is a little over the top.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Oh, and here's my new book. Do you fuck for good art? If you think you might be interested in reviewing <i>My Body Would be the Kindest of Strangers</i>, "something" can probably be arranged.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
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<span style="color: white; mso-themecolor: background1;"><o:p><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span></o:p></span><br />
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Flee Flee This Sad Hotelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151676626514029393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1832381111930717456.post-1972695449201463712015-08-12T08:37:00.004-07:002015-08-12T11:20:40.365-07:00Just Kids<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In early 2014, underground writer Gene Gregorits asked
friends and enemies alike to send him old emails and correspondence they’d had
with him for his new book, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Do You Love
Me? The Gene Gregorits File</i>. Since I hardly ever delete anything, I was
able to piece together parts of an old email exchange of ours that took place over a few
months in 2003. He never used it for the book. I think he thought it was boring
and not useful enough to the wild man persona he was cultivating at the time. I’ve
decided to post it here—just the fact that it’s 13 years old makes it
interesting to me. We were both in our twenties, and I don’t care what the law
says. To rip off Patti Smith, I think that makes us <em>just kids</em>. There are two essays about Gene, who is now in jail in
Florida, in my new book <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My Body Would be
the Kindest of Strangers.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Just Kids<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
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<br />
----------- Original Message -----------<br />
From: ******<br />
Sent To: *******<br />
Subject: Re: Hello again...now honestly, does this suck?<br />
Date Sent: 19 Mar 2003 03:19 PM<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p><br /></div>
i don't know if you
will get my first email. when i tried to send it, there was a problem, but it seemed like it went through. in case it didn't, my other
email address is not working, because it is lame. my sister told me she talked
to you. you can write back at this address. oh ya, and how are you? i’m crappy happy.
bored and happy, but still crappy, maybe comparable to a pig in shit? i would
appreciate knowing if you think this sucks:<o:p></o:p><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">He looked like Jim
Morrison birthed by way of Nick Cave. He wore ties and rat pack hats. When he
talked, I rarely understood where the conversation was heading, or what the
inspiration was, though I knew it was intelligent and was transfixed anyway.</i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br />
I'd go see him at his work or at the record store his band’s manager ran. He
was nervous around girls, that was obvious. He kept a transvestite on the side,
a hot transvestite, who he constantly dismissed by saying she was obsessed with
him, if he broke up with her, she'd kill herself, she was just his meal ticket,
they didn't fuck, he wasn't "A FAG." He liked to harp on this. HE WAS
NOT "A FAG." I think he said he threw up on her once.<o:p></o:p></i><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A lot of his friends were weary of me, though not to my face. They were right
to be. I was on drugs. He was always saying he wanted drugs and made illusions
to a drug problem in the past. I remember once I handed him a bag of dope over
the counter at his work and he stared at it in shock. I think he wanted to throw
it out. He might have later. I remember thinking I should have asked for it
back. I remember giving him pills. I’ve always bonded with guys over drugs. He
had too much ambition, I guess. My charms weren't really working. He’ll make a
great rock star. Sex and drugs don't distract him. He thinks he wants them, but
he’s really scared of them.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We kissed once. That was another problem, we were never alone, or we were always
hiding from the transvestite. I hadn't "just kissed" anyone since
high school. We went into the back of the place where he worked and he leaned
over and kissed me. We broke away. I leaned back in for another kiss, to keep
the mojo risin' and he suddenly looked very scared and screeched, “WHAT DO YOU
THINK WE’RE GOING TO HAVE SEX BACK HERE? WE CANNOT HAVE SEX BACK HERE!" <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br />
Subject: Re: Hello again...Now honestly, does this suck?<br />
Date Sent: 19 Mar 2003 03:50 PM<br />
<br />
That DOES suck. I am certainly a pig in shit at the moment. Happy crappy. Happy crappy, busy and worried about $$$. What have you been up to? My book just
came out....I am left strangely...indifferent. Send a recent pic of you. Very
strange about bumping into your sister like that. Small world indeed. Liked your
poem and story, send more! I've been obsessed with Shane MacGowan too. Very
much into "The Snake,” with the Popes. Anyway, I have a new book out and
am struggling to make rent, the usual, etc. Trying to avoid those naughty
chemicals, reading a lot these days. Living on the outskirts of a small pappy
town. I met a few interesting people here, one of them is a Hollywood refugee
who used to drink with Bukowski. Very strange running into him. Going back to
NYC anytime soon?<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
Friday, March 21, 2003 3:26 PM<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
the popes album is incredible. i love the snake with eyes of garnet and the donnegal
express—<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">“ka-ha-yah! you fuck! come hell or high water, i
may have fucked your missus, but i never fucked your daughter!” </span>i've been back and forth to new york three times in the past month. i'm sort of
procrastinating when it comes to moving back. i can live with my sister in
queens any time but here i have the creature comforts, i.e my mom buys my
cigarettes. the environment is also the calmest i've been in in about a decade.
well, with some qualifications. are you ever coming back to new york? nick
hates me now, but that’s okay. i'll send you some pictures to prove i'm not beastly.
what did you think of the poem i sent?<o:p></o:p></div>
Saturday, March 22, 2003 4:30 PM<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Nick and I have not spoken in 6
years. Your poem was really good, I thought I already said so. Can you send some
more stuff for me to read? Indeed, SNAKE WITH EYES and DONNEGAL EXPRESS are
both classics. My favorite is "Haunted.” Yeah, send pics. I have a bunch
of me, too, to prove I am not (too) beastly.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
Sunday, March 23, 2003 4:45 PM<o:p></o:p></div>
actually, i wrote a short story
the other day about a jack kerouac poster coming alive and saving a girl from
rape. i'll send you that.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
Sunday, March 23, 2003 5:40 PM<o:p></o:p></div>
Great story! Are you still
doing video work?<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
Sunday, March 23, 2003 5:55PM<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
you liked it? all of my “critics”
here sort of have a bias in my direction, or read very little, so i can never
tell if their sentiments are genuine. i've written a few things but haven't
filmed anything. i don't have a video camera. how was your weekend? we should
telephone talk.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
Monday, March 24, 2003 6:30PM<o:p></o:p></div>
My weekend was depressing but
turbulent, at least I stayed out of jail. That's something. Call me!<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
Tuesday, March 25, 2003 7:00PM<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
it was good to talk to you. inspiring.
i'll call you again tonight. what time do you get up anyway? i wrote this
morning. i think it’s kind of clever.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Have
you ever noticed that almost any item of beautification-- be it drug (the world
beautified), or cosmetic (your face and/or body beautified)-- can be turned into
a militaristic implement with relative ease?<br />
<br />
dye---happens in the trenches all the time, falls from the sky.<br />
<br />
heroin(e)---your female savior, in battlefield death visions, most likely your mom.<br />
<br />
lipstick---shaped like canisters, maybe the UN should check it out.<br />
<br />
mascara wands look like rifle cleaners.<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
</i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hot
chicks are “the bomb.”<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
</i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“xanax”
sounds like “annex.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">eyeshadow
is camouflage.<br />
<br />
cover up--- hide those atrocities!<br />
<br />
alcohol can clean wounds, make a solider more vulnerable, and an ice princess more likely to spread her legs.<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
</i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“shock and awe”---a color
scheme worthy of Revlon.<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
</i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">baubles and beads, how
bout bombs and lead? perfumed poison gas, and necklaces of shrunken heads.</i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br />
“methadone” comes from “dolophine” and “doloph” comes from “adolph” and that’s all swell and hitler.<br />
<br />
"armistice," well that means to "make-up."</i><br />
<br />
Tuesday, March 26 2003<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>I like it....can i use it on the website?<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Tuesday, March 26, 2003<br />
<br />
yes, totally, put it up.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
Tuesday March 26, 2003<o:p></o:p><br />
What time should I call you? I
got really busy with video stuff and didn't have time to gather info for our
Interview Rampage...will start examining tonight<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Wednesday, March 27, 2003<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
i just ruined a perfectly good
bottle of jack daniels by pouring too much diet coke into it. i will call you
later, maybe in like 5 minutes? i tried--it’s busy. i am going out for dinner w/
my psychotic penis appendage person (french fries, i'm sure). i deserve better,
but always settle for less. the jack daniels is not so bad. i might consider
becoming an alcoholic housewife, if i had a house. i will try to call you
again. if it’s busy, i’ll call you tomorrow.<o:p></o:p></div>
Sunday, March 30, 2003<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Sorry I haven't written! We
still gotta do this thing....but it may have to be delayed a while...I am
falling behind in bills miserably and need a few weeks to re-stabilize
financially. I'm out of long distance, can call you on Tuesday. How's
everything in CT?<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
Sunday, March 30, 2003<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
keep in touch when you can.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
Tuesday, April 1, 2003<o:p></o:p></div>
oh my god, your book is great!
thank you for sending it. some of the interviews are so funny. john waters and
his comments about pedophiles and plo camps for fat chicks. your comments in
the ron athey interviews had me dying. “IT IS MY CURSE TO BEAR THE INTIALS G.G"
and "BRITNEY HAS HAD MORE PRICKS THEN A HEDGEHOG." ha ha, it’s so
good. i did feel a little desire to shake lydia a bit. her rhetoric is
getting a little old and seems somewhat rehearsed. the book is great though. the
picture of you in the ad with the bandage on your head---that’s an ode to lenny
bruce, right? <br />
<br />
Tuesday, April 1, 2003<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
Why don't you get a train down
here and hang out with me for a few days? I really can't afford to come to NYC,
but I'm only a few hours away, if you want to skip CT for a bit.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
Tuesday, April 1, 2003<o:p></o:p></div>
that would be great and sounds
like fun though i don't know how likely it would be anytime soon being that i've
decided to move back to new york. honestly, i am sort of scared out of mind to
go back but i'm not doing anything here. you’re only a few hours away? you’re
still going to be NYC for the book party, right???<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
4/3/2003 8:36:12 PM Eastern<o:p></o:p></div>
<span class="yshortcutscs4-visible">Hell yeah</span>! The book party is at 8 PM on the
27th. Didn't mean to fuck off all of a sudden, a lot of shit just fell into my
lap and I'm swamped as hell. I still wanna do this interview thing. Will you be
around today if I call?<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
Thursday, April 3, 2003<o:p></o:p></div>
i've been really distracted too.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>i'm moving this weekend. i definitely wanna
see you when you come down for the book party or before, so let me know. i'm
going to be staying in queens, living like an immigrant in a sardine apartment.
<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
Thursday, April 3, 2003<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
I'll let you know exactly what
days I'll be in NY. If you're going to be around, I'll try to come a day early
so we can do an interview. I'll e-mail Richard Hell and we can interview him
together.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
Thursday, April 3, 2003<o:p></o:p></div>
do you think will lydia hate me????? <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Thursday, April 3, 2003<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
She'll be at CBs that night and
I'll be introducing the two of you.<br />
<br />
Thursday, April 10, 2003<o:p></o:p></div>
could you email me your phone number again? i can't find it.
being back in new york is cool and queens is surprisingly cool. i always
dismissed it. i should be punished. can't wait to see you. here’s the phone
number here:<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>Monday, April 14, 2003<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
Looks like I'll be up there this week. Really excited to see you too. Yeah I'd
love to talk to Ty Stixx...especially for the Sid and Nancy stories. More later.<o:p></o:p></div>
Tuesday, April 15, 2003<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
you'll be here this week?<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>Wednesday, April 16, 2003<br />
<br />
I was considering coming today, but most likely I'll be getting in tomorrow. Do
you have plans?<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
Wednesday, April 16, 2003<o:p></o:p></div>
tonight we are going to ct for easter and will be back sunday
afternoon. then on monday night for a few hours (til 7) i have to
bartend train at this really crappy joint that it looks like i'll be working
at. besides that no. should i beat up your girlfriend?<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>Sunday, April 20, 2003<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>I don't really have a
girlfriend, but we have been seeing a lot of each other. Anyway, will you be
around tonight? I'll give you a ring. When should I call you?<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
Sunday, April 27, 2003<o:p></o:p></div>
hey-- i don't know how this instant messenger thing works,
but i've been using my brother in law's handle thingy to communicate with my
sister while she is at work. his name on it is ******. i'm going to get my own,
but why don't you try using his to communicate with me? he never uses it, but
just in case, just make sure it’s me who's on. i called you earlier but you
didn’t answer. love and other indoor sports.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>Thursday, May 8, 2003<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>Hey. Tried calling yesterday.
I've been nearly comatose these past few weeks, drinking like a fish...that's
why I haven't been in touch. Lemme know what you're doing next weekend, and if
you want to hang out. I had fun with you at the book party. I'm trying to save
some cash to get up there for a few days, this bullshit town is driving me out
of my mind.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p><br /></div>
Friday, May 9, 2003<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
i went to see gram norton last
night and didn't get home til late. when i got up to use the bathroom he called
out to me from the stage “look at her sashaying like a model! she has to pee!” and
the whole audience turned around and looked at me. i'm going to be in ct til tuesday,
i have to get dental work done and i still have poor persons insurance there.
we should try to hang out. i'll be back in nyc tuesday night.<o:p></o:p></div>
Friday, May 9, 2003<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
I'll try you later this
afternoon...sorry I haven't called. Been on a sleep binge, depressed to the
point of rigor mortis...sure you've been there. Miss you.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
Saturday, May 10, 2003<o:p></o:p></div>
i saw joey zero yesterday- he said he’s emailed you a bunch
of times but you don't respond.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>In a message dated 5/17/2003 2:24:28 PM Eastern Daylight
Time<br />
<br />
it would be very cool to see you as soon as possible. what was i doing in the
dream you had? graphic things or g-rated.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>Saturday, May 17, 2003<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
Oh yeah, the dream was graphic but highly tasteful I can assure you.<o:p></o:p></div>
Saturday, May 17, 2003<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
i think i'm going to call you in a second.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
Tuesday, May 20, 2003<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>Hey. Doing slightly okay with
money so I should be in NYC the first week of June as planned. We should get
slightly tipsy at the Sidewalk Cafe, and walk around making fun of people. I
don't know, maybe get high. You had GREAT hair in my dream. I'm sorry. Joey's
great. Anyway...I really AM going to be in NYC the first week of June. Miss
you....pissed me off we couldn't hang out more at the book party, and etc.
There's something about you....I don't know, you really cheer me up. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>Thursday, May 22, 2003 9:05 PM<o:p></o:p></div>
i look forward to getting to know you better too. like i've
said, when i first met you, i was attracted to you. i feel like we’ve had some
weird mutual experiences, like we've both been kind of warped by people we
looked up to. i liked kissing you. think we will fuck?<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>Sunday, June 8, 2003<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>hey, my sister just told me you called. i'm at work.
bartending didn’t work out, so i'm doing phone sex. i need a job that provides
me with money everyday. i have to work tomorrow night too. how
long are you going to be in town for? sorry i didn't call you back. i've been
running around all over the place like a maniac. i will be home tomorrow
morning if you want to call again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
Sunday, June 8, 2003<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>Hey. Do you still wanna try to make plans for when I'm in
town? If you're busy, I understand....just let me know one way or the other. As
long as I hear back from AWK between now and midnight, I'll be on a train to NY
tomorrow. Any chance I'd be able to crash at your place? I'll buy you dinner. Hope
you're well<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>Monday, June 9, 2003<o:p></o:p></div>
we could hang out thursday morning or friday. i don't know
yet if i have to work thursday night, i'm here til 4am. i’ll be here tomorrow
night too. <br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
Monday, June 9, 2003<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>Wow, I didn't know you did phone sex. I'll be in
town tomorrow no later than 5PM. Leaving Friday morning at the very latest. Any
possibility of crashing at your place? Try to let me know tonight....I know how
these things work, plans fall apart etc, but I really wanna see you, so let's
try to work something out. Don't you get a break or something tonight? I'll
call you if so. Give me the number.. Phone sex...hmmm...sounds tasty. You
should come along with me for my AWK interview. Interested?<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>Monday, June 9, 2003<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
when and where? does he have publicists and stuff or are you
guys going to be one on one? i don’t know much about him but he seems
interesting. i will see if I can get out of work tomorrow. i don't know if i
can though. i’m new here, and the manager is tough and no nonsense. are you
interviewing him tomorrow?<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Monday, June 9, 2003<br />
<br />
I won't know when and where until tomorrow. What is of EXTREME IMPORTANCE is
that I know you will be free and off work tomorrow so we can drink, goof off,
have fun, and do nasty things to each other. Let me know what time I should
call you tomorrow morning so we can arrange our debaucherous festivities. There
will be no publicist, it will be me and AWK solo, with YOU, if you are able to
attend this meeting. I will give you co-credit in the article and it will be
well worth your time. I just talked to an agent. This piece may well be
published in SPIN. Get back to me! We can't fuck this up!<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>Monday, June 9, 2003<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
i hit the reply too soon. the timing really sucks. i just
got this job and i have no money. let me talk to my boss. i am more than a little stressed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>Wednesday, June 11, 2003 2:10 AM<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>i don’t want to talk to horny lonely people anymore. all the
woman that i work with say they’ve put on at least 10lbs while working here. are
you in town yet? i am exhausted. i want to go home. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
Wednesday, June 11, 2003<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Send me a NUMBER so I can call, and do it now. I will be in
NYC tomorrow by 3 PM and we need to get together, no? We'll work it out on the
phone...but please get back to me within a few minutes, I need to sleep so I am
up in time for my train. I am sorry about the stress, I know it must suck. I'll
buy you drinks and we'll get away from all the bullshit for a while.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>Wednesday, June 11, 2003<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
call me tomorrow morning.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>Friday, June 13, 2003 11:55 PM<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>What makes people disgusting and worthless is the fact that
they are not honest, and honestly speaking, would you mind explaining why
you have been avoiding me? It's not that I really care, but at the same
time...when a girl openly invites me to have sex with her, and makes references
to our alleged similarities, I have to be curious when she decides to blow me
off.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>Sunday, June 15, 2003 2:12 AM<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>Just got back...it really sucks I couldn't see you. I know
you're stressed, hang in there. Phone sex must be a real fuckin drag. I was
really drunk that night we were e-mailing each other back and forth. Hope I
didn't piss you off...I think I was kinda rude. Interview with AWK went well,
got a few pictures. It was very exciting. Unfortunately, my excessive drinking
this past week left me terribly ill for the duration of my trip. And yeah, I
was bummed out we couldn't at least get a drink or something. I left mean
spirited and ominous graffiti in the Mars Bar toilet and sweated a lot. My
friend John videotaped me acting like a belligerant swine, but it's kinda
funny. Needless to say, I had to destroy the tape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hope you're doing better...let me know if you
wanna plan something again, I want to come back to town again next month. I
gotta get out of this hideous town, for good...take care<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>Sunday, June 15, 2003<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
i’m not avoiding you. i have a lot going on right now, that’s
all. i tried to explain that to you before you left. it hardly makes me
disgusting or worthless to have things i have to deal with. it makes me fucking
human.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
Sunday, June 15, 2003<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>I didn't call you disgusting. You're actually very pretty and
besides, I was drunk. My apologies. Regardless, I was there for two whole days.
If you'd wanted to get together, it could have been worked out. I just wish
people would be straight with me<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>Sunday, June 15, 2003<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>being drunk is no excuse. you’re acting like a baby. i owe
you nothing. i wanted to hang out with you, but i'm sorry i just can't drop
everything when you end up rolling into town.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>Sunday, June 15, 2003<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>Sorry. I don't expect you to drop everything. It should have
been better planned or something. it's just that my circumstances out here
are so fucked. I'm stranded in the middle of nowhere....I haven't seen anyone
except for redneck strangers and bartenders since that CBGBs party. It's
making me stir crazy, desperate to see a familiar face. Anybody in my position
would start to fuckin lose it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That's
got nothing to do with you though and I'm sure you'd rather not hear about it. Anyway,
best of luck, hope things straighten out for you.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Monday, June 16, 2003<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
Again, I want to apologize for being such a dick. You're
right, you don't owe me anything...I'm sorry for giving you the impression that
i thought you did. I'm just a lonely bastard, staring at the walls waiting for
something to happen all year has made me a bit infantile, and I ought
not to drink so damn much. I really do like you though, still looking forward
to seeing you again sometime. Maybe next time then. Hope you're doing good.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>Saturday, June 21, 2003<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>i don't know if you know, but nick bohn died yesterday. there
is a memorial next week.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>Sunday, June 22, 2003<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>Okay, you're not replying. Guess you're mad at me. That's
okay, but I was curious how Nick Bohn died...can't believe I didn't ask you in
the first e-mail. I just assumed it was drugs. <br />
<br />
Monday, June 23, 2003<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>i'm not mad. i never
got the other email. you’re right though, he overdosed. he'd been clean for a
while though. so sad.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>Thursday June 26, 2003<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>Dear friends,<o:p></o:p></div>
I am moving to Detroit on Monday
and will be cancelling this e-mail account in 24 hours. My new e-address
is: *****@****** Hope everyone's well.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>Friday, June 27, 2003<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>what’s in detroit? so no new york? good luck.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
Wednesday, July 2, 2003<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>Hi. I wanted to come to NYC but you never got back
to me! Remember I asked you about your schedule? I was looking
forward to seeing you. There aren't any friendly or familiar faces around here,
except for my family, which is why I have to move. Detroit is cheap and
nasty and full of crazies, so at least I won't be broke and bored. They have
some great clubs and a ton of even greater bars. I'll be getting some
warehouse work within a few weeks and moving into my own apt. in the
downtown area. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How are you doing? What's
been going down with you in NYC? Maybe we can have a chat on the phone before
I leave. Lemme know if you wanna...I'll call you...<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>Thursday, September 18, 2003 1:47 AM<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>i don't think you sent the email. i never got it, the last
email i got from you was about the shane pictures. things here are
good, more or less, i'm working at barnes and noble and learning how to play the
banjo. or more like making rock star faces in the mirror while holding the
banjo. either way i'm trying to do things with a banjo. not writing as much as
i'd like to be though, the quiet of ct was more conducive to that. what’s up
with you? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>as for getting together,
do we really want to start that up again?<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
Flee Flee This Sad Hotelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151676626514029393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1832381111930717456.post-55217046552515245112015-07-10T07:55:00.000-07:002015-08-20T06:11:26.402-07:00Delmore's at The Dixie<span lang=""></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span lang=""><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvwwP-2XgQdbmuKvl_JjJGnvD9RtzRllqt4ryNUWzj4kD7gCxJxxuxM2hxiLVX7IindzhLXchuagfABSX0pIsHYeuf-xpO3tDd_dnJc_7OEro2bBtDZWclEnS4dku8zRJshOWdUIXpKYq7/s1600/schwartz_delmore-19710520019R_2_png_300x319_q85.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvwwP-2XgQdbmuKvl_JjJGnvD9RtzRllqt4ryNUWzj4kD7gCxJxxuxM2hxiLVX7IindzhLXchuagfABSX0pIsHYeuf-xpO3tDd_dnJc_7OEro2bBtDZWclEnS4dku8zRJshOWdUIXpKYq7/s1600/schwartz_delmore-19710520019R_2_png_300x319_q85.png" /></a></span></div>
<span lang="">
<br />
<br />
Delmore’s at The Dixie.<br />
</span><span style="font-size: small;">He drinks a fizzy Coca-Cola breakfast<br />
Surrounded by magicians<br />
In The Terrace Room.<br />
<br />
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKslRd2rD8YP5QYUmovaDjQhI6nVMq4XA4Cew0AMJcJpu4M8tr4WbTh9S79M0gDvztWMRHBeMHn3qYPxwtfaY3-8WJu4Ax_gYtsMjNDkZOwOE3plw1AK6doZuagqzTFBaqUMHhOcdSiQiC/s1600/dixie+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKslRd2rD8YP5QYUmovaDjQhI6nVMq4XA4Cew0AMJcJpu4M8tr4WbTh9S79M0gDvztWMRHBeMHn3qYPxwtfaY3-8WJu4Ax_gYtsMjNDkZOwOE3plw1AK6doZuagqzTFBaqUMHhOcdSiQiC/s320/dixie+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
<br />
<br />
Delmore’s at The Dixie.<br />
It seems he’s in a hurry<br />
He’s writing angry letters to the editor<br />
Of <i>The Partisan Review.</i><br />
<em></em><br />
<i>
</i><br />
Delmore’s at The Dixie.<br />
Like Dylan's at The Chelsea<br />
And Sylvia's at The Barbizon<br />
Throwing her clothes from the roof.<br />
<br />
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFddDO1Bkaur2FttM9GP8LiLx3HRF6aNKEiwFjmfh9mJJzmeHdB5XOTL3Sc7yW7nzgOUuEyMcyJRzYGCfU_fi5v2WGdGsiBzOFc_ySEwUnFz0Gnyom4zbJ3_zLst1s5B12VJ3gzytQnazk/s1600/partisan+review.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFddDO1Bkaur2FttM9GP8LiLx3HRF6aNKEiwFjmfh9mJJzmeHdB5XOTL3Sc7yW7nzgOUuEyMcyJRzYGCfU_fi5v2WGdGsiBzOFc_ySEwUnFz0Gnyom4zbJ3_zLst1s5B12VJ3gzytQnazk/s320/partisan+review.jpg" width="214" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
<br />
<br />
Delmore’s at The Dixie.<br />
He stumbles to The Strand on Sunday<br />
Looking for a book by Sigmund Marx<br />
Called <i>Das Oedipal.</i><br />
<em></em><br />
<i>
</i>
<br />
Delmore’s at The Dixie.<br />
He finds it hard to ignore the festive season<br />
With an explosive- laden Christmas tree<br />
In the bathtub where he bathes.<br />
<br />
</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">
<br />
<br />
Delmore's at The Dixie.<br />
Rockefeller is the reason<br />
This broken bard wears grass- stained suits<br />
Afraid to read his mail.<br />
<br />
<br />
Delmore’s at The Dixie.<br />
He tells Lou Reed, <i>I won't meet Andy.</i><br />
<i>
</i>Then adds, <i>And who the hell are you?</i><br />
<i>Don't sell out just the same.<br />
<br />
</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i>
<br />
</i>Delmore's at The Dixie.<br />
The bellboy says he's been talking about Trotsky.<br />
Ginsberg thinks, <i>This sounds just like Naomi.</i><br />
<em>
Could this be fate that awaits all Dreamer Jews?</em><br />
<br />
<br />
Delmore's at The Dixie.<br />
Soon it will be over<br />
He'll check out and graduate to God<br />
From an Ivy-league hotel.<br />
<br />
</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">
<br />
<br />
<br />
Delmore's at The Dixie.<br />
He says in his best James Cagney:<br />
<em>To the destructive element</em><br />
<em>
C'est vrai! C'est vrai! C'est vrai!</em><br />
<br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">©Fiona Helmsley</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">This poem was published on Radius: Poetry From the Center to the Edge in May, 2015.</span></span></div>
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<br />
</span>Flee Flee This Sad Hotelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151676626514029393noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1832381111930717456.post-8051540537389788952015-02-15T06:33:00.001-08:002015-02-15T08:07:38.223-08:00The Quickest Way to Attain Village Weirdo Status<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The
quickest way to attain village weirdo status in a small town is to walk
everywhere. Try it out. As you’re transitioning, people will stop and ask you
if you want a ride. Say "no" and tell them you<i> </i>like walking. Watch their eyes get wide, as if you’ve just said
you like the burning feeling that comes from having chlamydia. The most random
people will stop and offer, and saying “no” is often awkward. Once, an obese
woman in a beat-up station wagon followed me down a main thoroughfare
screaming, "Ralphie's mom!" "Ralphie's mom! "Ralphie's
mom!" It turned out she’d been my son’s bus driver, at a preschool he'd
attended, more than three years ago, although my son's first name isn't
"Ralphie." If they go through the inconvenience of stopping, you will
learn that they expect you to say “yes,” and get in the car.</div>
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<span lang="EN">In
the early days of your identity switch, you will meet all the people who make
Nancy Grace so popular: the 40+ crowd who sees only killers and rapists in the
joggers, dog walkers, and stroll takers you share the sidewalks with. Some of
them will tell you that they see what you’re doing as
"inspirational," make a comment about your "tight buns,"
then stick a pastry in their mouths as they dismiss hoofing it as too assault-risky.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Once
you’ve ascended to village weirdo status, you will be mentioned in the same
breath as the woman who hangs out outside Stop ’n’ Shop, wears multiple, heavy
coats in summer, and supposedly lost her children in a fire. You will become
community property. People will comment on your clothes, your pace, and scold
you out their car windows as they pass, "Don’t text and walk!" Some will
find that they have developed a quiet affection for you. On the days that they don't see you out there walking, they will wonder where you are, and how you are traveling. They will
have come to count on seeing you as a regular thing. They will hope that you
are ok. They will find that they miss you, even though they think you are weird.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />Flee Flee This Sad Hotelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151676626514029393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1832381111930717456.post-4086033216135726022015-02-08T08:01:00.000-08:002015-02-08T08:03:04.214-08:00Oona Poem<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7bIQ9bgS5ywGTZXgaLjgvKpb_T77JizofCvctSKQGDcf1CmIXWn9hdcxu1h3LL7UAwdTj9IMLBgVF42Ck3XPMS8cplkVAU0DTM6MY69nI4nglxO3j7xe-2m6sCH2xtZcJHzVQXI0OM3wO/s1600/oona.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7bIQ9bgS5ywGTZXgaLjgvKpb_T77JizofCvctSKQGDcf1CmIXWn9hdcxu1h3LL7UAwdTj9IMLBgVF42Ck3XPMS8cplkVAU0DTM6MY69nI4nglxO3j7xe-2m6sCH2xtZcJHzVQXI0OM3wO/s1600/oona.jpg" height="222" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
I wish I was an Oona<br />
but I am a Fiona.<br />
I would make a good 4th wife.<br />
I could heat the milk just right.<br />
I wish I was an Oona<br />
but I am a Fiona.<br />
I would make a good teen bride.<br />
I know how to roll my eyes.<br />
I wish I was an Oona<br />
but I am a Fiona.<br />
I'd give up all my lofty plans<br />
just to be his unseen hands.<br />
I wish I was an Oona<br />
but I am a Fiona.Flee Flee This Sad Hotelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151676626514029393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1832381111930717456.post-1042435005910432502015-02-07T08:07:00.000-08:002015-02-07T08:39:59.771-08:00The Life Cycle of a Resentment<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
I’m not one to hold on to resentments. Thanks to Ebola, I've learned that my resentment cycle is similar to what the human body goes through when infected with a virus. I get actively angry for a few days (entry), storyboard elaborate revenge fantasies in my head involving the shaming and embarrassment of my resentee (replication/shredding), then let it all go, usually having done nothing (latency, "proliferation of the virus particles has ceased, however, the viral genome is not fully eradicated"). Probably the last real resentment I had was towards a friend’s wife, and while I’ve done things to her in my head, and to her image, via Photoshop, that I'm not proud of, I’m to that stage in my resentment cycle where she rents no space in my head, if I don’t go out of my way to think about her existing.<br />
<br />
A few weeks ago I sent out a book review to a website. I’d originally sent it to another website, one that I read all the time, and have erotic fantasies about its editor- in- chief, but they messaged me back that they had commissioned a review of the same book to someone else, the week before. I didn’t really care either way about the website I send the review to next. I liked it well-enough, but really, I'd spent a bit of time on the review, and just wanted to see it up somewhere.<br />
<br />
Let’s say the editor of the second website was named Jessa. Let's say that even though I got her name right in her email address, I didn’t get it right in the note I sent along with the review. Let's say I addressed my email message to Jessica not Jessa.<br />
<br />
If you didn't know, my name is Fiona. My whole life people have gotten my name wrong. I've been called Frances. Something about a first name starting with the letter F that's not Frank or Fred throws people. I'd be an idiot if all these years into my life I still let it bother me. If the definition of "insanity" is doing the same thing over and over, and expecting different results, the sub- definition is still getting mad about something that you've had years to develop a thick skin about. (Obviously, this doesn't apply to violent assault, and the like.)<br />
<br />
Five minutes after hitting send, an email appeared in my inbox. This was good, because usually if an editor replies fast, it means they like your work.<br />
<br />
“Dear Fiona,” it began.<br />
<br />
“Word of advice: if you don't want your writing to end up in an editor’s trash unread get their name right.”<br />
<br />
No signature.<br />
<br />
My first inclination was that she was right. Her response was very effective, because I was instantly in a state of deep mortification, and got on the phone to go and cry to a friend. But soon afterward, I started to get angry. From one often screwed up first named person to another, words (because more than one word is plural) of advice: Chill sister. Then it occurred to me, this person is making a lot of assumptions. This person doesn't know me. She doesn't know my circumstances. For all this person knows, I could have composed that email on shitty voice activated software after losing my arms in a fire. Maybe my hard of hearing home health care worker composed that email for me, absolving me of any responsibility and making me the improper beneficiary of her snooty words of advice. What did she know, maybe ableist.<br />
<br />
So I composed this response:<br />
<br />
Dear J,<br />
<br />
Thank you so much for your timely response. F. who is lying here besides me, shivering in her bed sheets, yet somehow managing to look angelic, would want me to stress to you how grateful she is for this. Being that she is so vulnerable to infection, timely responses to her email inquiries, especially ones in regard to her writing, have taken on a great and dark importance. We are, after all, talking about her legacy. Death portends.<br />
<br />
I have to make this fast. Because of the state war machine, budget cuts are again victimizing the most vulnerable among us, and my hours helping F. as her eyes, her ears, and-- I am woe to admit-- as her editor have been greatly reduced.<br />
<br />
Your response shook me, J. If it can be any consolation to your delicate sensibilities, I want to come clean to you about something.<br />
<br />
I see Jessicas.<br />
<br />
That infamous Missouri outlaw shot down by a treacherous friend? Jessica James. That wrestler who held public office in Minnesota? Jessica Ventura. It's like tunnel vision. I can't explain it. Any name that begins with Je: Jessica Lopez. Jessica Aniston. I even hear names this way. Rick Springfield's song is an anthem of equality with gender neutral pronouns as he wishes he had Jessica's girl.<br />
<br />
Do you remember that movie, with Bruce Willis, and that darling, cone headed boy, Haley Joel Osment? The name of the film escapes me, but there was that famous line of dialogue from the film that was everywhere for a moment: "I see dead people."<br />
<br />
I see Jessicas.<br />
<br />
I thought I had it under control; I reinvented myself as one of the people who refer to others by their last names. People assumed I was a gym teacher.<br />
<br />
Do what you must J. Empty the email from the trash. Rid yourself of it for good; but please, do not hold my affliction against the poor, wounded girl who lies besides me.<br />
<br />
I have told her and will tell her nothing of this exchange.<br />
<br />
Love and other indoor sports,<br />
<br />
X<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
It’s a few weeks later, and while I've yet to hear a response, I’m happy to report I am 100% resentment-free.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Flee Flee This Sad Hotelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151676626514029393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1832381111930717456.post-18946371307361076492014-12-17T06:09:00.000-08:002014-12-17T13:08:44.024-08:00On being lumpen sexy<br />
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The lumpen proletariat and lumpen bourgeoisie exist outside
the mainstream class system; they are the criminal element who make their
capital gains outside of the law, but they exist there for different
reasons. The lumpen proletariat is forced
there, because of a lack of options, while the lumpen bourgeoisie embraces criminal enterprise because there is no oversight, therefore, more profits to
be made. The lumpen proletariat might be a drug dealer, a person who grew up
poor, without access to education, while the lumpen bourgeoisie might be a Al
Capone- style mafia don. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I am lumpen sexy predicated on a similar idea: if we think
of desirability as a coveted capital, my earning potential has always been,
and continues to be, significantly diminished. At 38 years of age, I'm no
longer youthful, nor was I ever considered to be classically pretty. Still, I manage to continue to accumulate capital from the fringes by staying in shape through restrictive diet and exercise,
doing my make- up in a way best suited to my features, and familiarizing
myself with lighting tricks, and flattering angles, when taking sexy selfies.</div>
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<o:p></o:p>Flee Flee This Sad Hotelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151676626514029393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1832381111930717456.post-19432683666318448382014-12-04T07:32:00.000-08:002014-12-04T08:04:14.561-08:00My Best Books 2014: a Sort of Response to the New York Times Notable Books List<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>1. <i>Edgewise: A Picture of
Cookie Mueller</i></b> (Chloe Griffin): I was dismayed to see that the New York
Times didn't even give lip service to this book, considering Mueller played such a large part in making New York City culture the vibrant cesspool that it was in the 1970’s and 80’s (in my world ”vibrant” and “cesspool” are not disparate terms). Griffin has pieced together a touching and illuminating oral history of the
underground icon, told by the people who knew her best (with the glaring
exception of Nan Goldin, giving credence to the rumors that bad blood exists
between her and Mueller’s estate. It's high irony to think of the visual Cookie and the oral Cookie as being at odds with each other, Goldin's photographs captured Mueller in so many important points in her life.) I've waited years for this book, and even harbored deluded late night fantasies of writing it myself. Griffin
delivers ten fold. <i>Edgewise</i> is a book
I will revisit again, and again, until I meet my maker.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>2. <i>The Road to Emmaus: Poems </i></b>(Spencer Reece): Nominated for the National Book Award for Poetry, then cut from
the list, in favor of dry, more clinical poets like Louise Glück, Reece’s book doesn't
make my list because he’s my imaginary baby daddy. He’s my imaginary baby daddy
because of this book.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>3. <i>Money’s Nothing</i></b><i> ( </i>Lisa
Carver<i>)</i>: Filled with small epiphanies,
Carver’s forte is making you reconsider
your tightly held opinions about
everything. If you're open to it, this book could change you.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>4<i>. Black Cloud</i></b>
(Juliet Escoria): One of the most interesting first books in a while, Escoria’s
been described as “a punk rock Grace Paley,” but as of late, some might find “a goth Ann Coulter” to be more appropriate. In 1994, I put a classified ad in <i>MaximumRocknRoll</i> looking for pen pals, and wrote that I was “looking for more bitchy girls with guts, not this
overabundance of <i>duh</i> that’s been on
the rise.” Escoria can be brusque in her online opinions, but she makes you
think, if only to reaffirm what you already believed. My first choice is sedation,
but baring that, I'll take provocation. A great
book and a really, really strong literary debut. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>5.<i> Can We Talk About
Something More Pleasant</i> ?</b>(Roz Chast): The only book on the Times list that I agree with. Made me laugh, made me
cry, made me hide my face behind my hands, so no one could see. Oh how I loved this book.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>6<i>. The Cruising Diaries</i></b>
(Brontez Purnell and Janelle Hessig): Hilarious. Crass. Sordid. An overdose of TM TMI. And probably not in the forefront of Purnell's mind when it came to the books creation, but to be so absolutely warts and all (literally) candid with one's sexual history is hugely brave.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>7. <i>My Apologies Accepted</i></b>:
I bought this book as a consolation. I wanted Roger’s art book, <i>Cunny Poems, Vol 1</i>, but it was sold out.
Rogers writes short, fast verse, littered with misspellings and curious word choices, but what may seem random at first, reveals itself to be something much more profound-- and sinister-- upon closer examination. I haven't been affected by writing this sparse, outside of sexting, in a long time.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Flee Flee This Sad Hotelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151676626514029393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1832381111930717456.post-59912216003776366742014-04-16T07:43:00.000-07:002014-04-18T18:49:42.965-07:00After-Thought Roses<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
<span lang=""> <br />
</span>Your son, a young man now, then, a child wise beyond his years.<br />
<br />
Once, I brought milk to your house, opened the carton to make Spanish coffee, and it slipped from my hands, a white puddle of slop on the floor.<br />
<br />
I looked around for something absorbent, no paper towels, nothing of the sort, and you refused to part with any facsimile materials.<br />
<br />
"Leave it," you said. "Aaron will be here later in the week, he'll know what to do..."<br />
<br />
As if it took a magical, 7- year- old shaman to clean up a spill.<br />
<br />
I wasn’t having it, but you were adamant; the spill was only to be touched by the skilled, craftsman hands of your second grader.<br />
<br />
Your apartment was a maelstrom of slop, psychological filth, a storage space for your own mental disarray. Your son was beautiful, dark Spanish features, his eyelashes thick as guitar strings. At first, he stayed with his father only on the weekends, then it was more, then the reverse. He knew you were disintegrating, riding his bike in circles in the courtyard of your Bronx apartment building. Anything he left at your apartment when he went to his dad’s was lost; there was no safekeeping, just as there was no housekeeping.<br />
<br />
One day, I took him to the bodega down the block to get ice cream.<br />
<br />
He went to the cooler, chose a dollar Strawberry Shortcake, and laid it down on the counter. <br />
<br />
To his right, on the countertop, next to the cash register, was a sales display of small artificial roses inside glass tubes.<br />
<br />
"Do you smoke roses like my mom?" he asked.<br />
<br />
"No, honey," I answered. I had my own problems, but none that involved these after-thought roses.<i> </i>The rose is an after-thought because what's for sale is the glass tube. It's a crackpipe.<br />
<br />
"I can always tell when my mom’s been smoking roses," he said. "I open the windows to let the smoke out, but she makes me close them. She thinks someone’s going to come inside and get us. She makes me lock all the windows, and the door."<br />
<br />
What is like to be seven years old and to see your mother in such a paranoid, irrational state?<br />
<br />
"I'm not around here that much anymore," he said, taking a bite of ice cream, a crumb of Strawberry Shortcake sticking to his lip. "Do you think it makes my mom sad?"<br />
<br />
"I think it makes your mom very sad, but I think it's good that you stay with your dad right now. You can always come and visit her whenever you like."<br />
<br />
Years later, while working at a women's halfway house with mothers who had lost their children due to drug addiction issues, I would come to this conclusion: if the loss of a child didn't get a person clean, it would become their reason for staying high.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
I had a boyfriend who used to say that I was <i>vomited</i> out of New York, but it was really more of retch. You and I had fallen out of touch before that. You started running more with a crowd that could help to supply you with what you liked; I started running more with a crowd that could help to supply me with what I liked. At first united by our love of illicit substances, we were later divided by our own individual preferences.<br />
<br />
<i>Retched</i> out of New York, I landed, a bilious pile of a person, on my family's doorstep. Away from the Bronx, away from Brooklyn, I eventually rebuilt my life free of chemical crutches. I had to hide in order to do this; I'm still hiding now. I know I can never live in New York City if I want to stay away from drugs.<br />
<br />
Then came the advent of the social network. I would search your name, first on Friendster, then on MySpace, Facebook. Nothing. I couldn't really see you as much of a computer person anyway. But I was thinking about you. I dedicated stories I wrote to you, because I assumed you were probably dead. So waifish and small, you couldn't have lasted very long.<br />
<br />
Then, one day, I searched again, and you appeared.<br />
<br />
In Guyana.<br />
<br />
That's where your family was from. It appears that sometime over the many years since we were last in contact, you went home to them. In your profile picture, you look to be in some kind of ceremonial garb. I haven't sent you a friend request, and don't know if I ever will. But because I have a child now, I found myself thinking about yours. One of the small things your profile settings allows me to see is your friends, so I searched your son's very common Spanish last name, and I found him, just as gorgeous as I'd remembered, in a white baseball cap and polyester sports shirt, looking as urban/metropolitan as his location: Bronx, NY. What does it mean, him, in New York City, you in Guyana? At his age, close to 25 years old now, he wouldn't need you like he did then, but did he ever get you back?<br />
<br />
When I was a child, I used to break my mom's cigarettes. Sneak into the living room as she watched television, in and out, in and out, snapping her Virginia Slims in half, burying them in the yard, or deep in the garbage, flushing them down the toilet when she wasn't looking.<br />
<br />
You never talked to me about what was happening with Aaron. I knew, could tell, that you were deeply ashamed, smoking crack and having a child. I didn't have children, and was younger than you, so maybe you thought this made me less inclined in to judge. You were right. I thought Aaron was so smart, so mature, something had been done right in raising him, though of course, those qualities could have developed in him as a child expected to parent a parent.<br />
<br />
But there was one story that you told me, and it resonated with me because it reminded me of me and my mom's cigarettes. You and your boyfriend, a drug dealer named Juan, were smoking crack in your bedroom. It was the end of the weekend, and Aaron had just left to go back to his dad's. Juan put down the pipe to go to the bathroom.<br />
<br />
"Oh my god baby, you gotta see this!" he cried out from the other room.<br />
<br />
Not the kind of words one wants to hear with their brain on fire.<br />
<br />
You walked into the bathroom and your eyes were drawn to the toilet, the water level raised to the top of the bowl, and about to spill over.<br />
<br />
There, floating in the water, flower- shaped barrels about to go over Niagara Falls, half a dozen or so after-thought roses. <br />
<br />
Somewhere in time, there is a little boy about to go to his dad's for the week, furtively running around his mother's apartment looking for them, adding the ones he's found to the ones he's already secretly collected, gathering them up, he drops them into the toilet, flush and run, backpack over his shoulder, all his prized possessions inside so he won’t lose them-- but she, she has to stay. He thinks by doing this he's helping to keep her safe, but he's so young, so naïve and so sadly off-track.<br />
<br />
I hope that sometime, over the many years since you and I last spoke, he got you back.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">©Fiona Helmsley<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<br />Flee Flee This Sad Hotelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151676626514029393noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1832381111930717456.post-57508450186438970562014-04-12T10:32:00.000-07:002014-10-18T05:21:11.315-07:00Living Through This: Twenty Years in Love with Courtney Love<br />
I can’t say this about many things in this world, but I can say with a degree of certainty that I remember the <i>exact</i> moment when I became aware of Courtney Love’s existence: I was at my friend Chelsea’s house.<br />
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Chelsea was a year younger than me, and her parents had allowed her to drop out of high school to take correspondence classes. My friends and I would skip class to go hang out at her family's cavernous house, where her parents were never home, and the refrigerator was always stocked with expensive organic foods. Chelsea would spend the school day there, all alone, dying her hair with different colors of Manic Panic, and sometimes doing her schoolwork, always with the TV set to MTV in the background. My friends and I had a snobbish air about the music we listened to. We subscribed to the adolescent idea of "the sell-out," a concept often espoused by those who don't know much about the real struggles of the world. We thought of ourselves as 16 and 17 year old punk rock purists, who listened to only the real deal, punk bands from Washington, D.C, or the Bay Area of California, bands that we told ourselves would never affiliate with major labels or “go mainstream” in order to promote their music. Chelsea was the only one in our group of friends who had no time for such posturing. She liked what she liked when she liked it, and this included bands like Soundgarden, Pearl Jam, and Nirvana--all getting heavy rotation on MTV at the time. One day, my boyfriend Thomas and I left school early to hang out with Chelsea at her house. Her dog started to bark as we came through the door.<br />
<br />
“Shut up!” Chelsea yelled in our direction. Her eyes were glued to the TV screen.<br />
<br />
“Today, Nirvana frontman Kurt Cobain married Hole singer Courtney Love in Hawaii,” announced MTV VJ Kurt Loder on the screen, followed by a montage of Kurt and Courtney, and then snippets of Courtney playing with her band Hole.<br />
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With her ripped dress, bleached blonde hair, and candy-apple red lipstick, Courtney looked like a 1920’s movie star who’d gotten dressed for a fancy event, then neglected to change her clothes or wash off her make-up for the rest of the week. Her look said something about beauty in ruin, but with a little girl innocence, conveyed by the Mary Jane’s on her feet and the pink plastic barrettes in her hair. A journalist would later refer to Courtney and Babes in Toyland singer Kat Bjelland’s war of accreditation for this look as "The War of the Schmatta," <i>schmatta</i> being the Yiddish word for rags. Just the quick visual of Courtney relayed so much; playing with tropes of sexuality and innocence, she looked like the Little Match Girl with a guitar. I thought she was one of the most glamorous looking women I’d ever seen. For all my screams of "sell-out" along with my friends, I’d always loved Hollywood, especially old Hollywood, and treasured the battered copy of Kenneth Anger’s <i>Hollywood Babylon</i> that I'd stolen from a used bookstore. Visually, Courtney was the physical hybrid of two worlds I worshiped at; one of them secretly, the other much more openly.<br />
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“Fucking bitch!” Chelsea said, throwing the TV remote at the screen. Though Chris Cornell from Soundgarden was Chelsea’s primary Northwest corridor crush, she still had a soft spot for Kurt.<br />
<br />
“Who fucking cares,” my boyfriend Thomas said. Thomas' parents had recently moved to New York, but his father had done well enough in his job at a large corporation to afford to keep a house in the area so Thomas would be able to finish out high school with his friends. “They’re fucking sell-outs."<br />
<br />
He took the remote from where it had fallen on the floor, and attempted to turn the TV off, but Chelsea yanked it back from his hands.<br />
<br />
"Don't you ever try to turn off the TV in my house," Chelsea said, holding the remote close to Thomas' head in a menacing pose. "Asshole."<br />
<br />
Thomas may have been my first real boyfriend, but Chelsea was my first real love.<br />
<br />
***<br />
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<br />
<br />
Because of our instant prejudice towards Kurt and Courtney, it would be a little while before I would hear the music of Hole. Nirvana was much more accessible. They seemed to be everywhere, but I purposely didn't pay much attention. Learning that Kurt and Courtney were fans of one of my favorite writers, William S. Burroughs, and that Kurt had even gone to Kansas to hang out with him, did nothing to change my opinion. So what if both Kurt and Courtney were making music with Pat Smear of the Germs, one of our favorite bands? We had started doing heroin, and it was pretty obvious that Kurt and Courtney also did heroin, but still we told ourselves we could not relate. Was it just the times? Coincidence? Were we influenced by what was going on in Seattle, or was the scene playing out there just a microcosm of what it meant to be a young person at the time?<br />
<br />
My mother forced me into rehab for the first time during my senior of high school. While I was there, Kurt left the rehab center he'd been forced into in California, went to the beautiful home he and Courtney had bought in Lake Washington, closed himself up in the greenhouse above the garage, and killed himself. I can remember Chelsea, in tears, telling me this over the rehab payphone, and being shocked for a moment, then circling back to the familiar attitude I espoused in all things Nirvana-related: cold, calculated dismissal. All the empathy I'd feel for Kurt in life, and in death, would come later. My lack of empathy and my cold response to the news of his death would come to rate high on my list of regrets related to the precocious cynicism I felt when I was young. It seems like it should be an oxymoron: how can someone be so young, yet already so world-weary? In 1998, Courtney wrote a song called <i>Awful</i> for the Hole album <i>Celebrity Skin</i> containing a lyric that, when I think back to this time in my life, I want to scream at myself:<br />
<br />
<i>Oh just shut up you're only sixteen.</i><br />
<br />
In the same payphone conversation with Chelsea, I remember changing the subject of Kurt's death to complain about the rehab staff taking away my Re/Search William S. Burroughs t-shirt.<br />
<br />
"Fucking assholes!" I said. "They're trying to rob me of my identity! They're trying to turn me into a clone!"<br />
<br />
I want to smack myself.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
A few days later, I was kicked out of rehab for refusing to leave my room. Subscribing to the same tough love philosophy that Courtney would later say she regretted using on Kurt during the final month of his life, my mother refused to let me come home, and I became homeless.<br />
<br />
My friend Jeff worked at Record Town, and was a prisoner behind the counter as my friends and I came into the store and pillaged it of everything that even vaguely held our auditory interests. We were greedy and non-discriminating. I had Ozzy Osbourne box sets, Woodstock anniversary commemorative CDs, piles and piles of tapes and CDs that I never opened, and never planned on opening. They would come in handy later, when I started selling my possessions for money for heroin. Homeless, I tried to spend as much time as possible with my friends, but there were many hours I had no choice but to spend alone. One day I went to Record Town by myself, spent a few cursory minutes talking with Jeff, and then went over to the new music display to see what I could take. Immediately I spotted Hole's new album,<i> Live Through This</i>. The album seemed cursed, released only a week after Kurt's death, and with that eerily prescient title. It was for there for the taking. With none of my friends there to judge me, I slipped it into my bag.<br />
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<br />
Later that night, I went to a show in a far-off corner of Connecticut. The band was rather infamous in the area, and it was my first time seeing them play. I took an interest in their singer, Clem, a skinny, pale boy with a twitchy right eye. I thought his resemblance to Sid Vicious was uncanny. I approached him, and over the course of an awkward conversation, I mentioned to him that I was homeless.<br />
<br />
"Where do you sleep?" Clem asked, sounding intrigued.<br />
<br />
"I don't know," I answered. "Wherever."<br />
<br />
"Where are you sleeping tonight?"<br />
<br />
I told him that my friend and I had driven some distance for the show, and that after we returned, I'd probably sleep near her house on the beach.<br />
<br />
"I'll come with you," he offered.<br />
<br />
In my friend's truck, Clem was being flirtatious, and starting rummaging through my bag, exposing the Hole tape. I immediately became defensive, expecting the same dismissive attitude towards the band that I was so used to. "I don't know why I took it," I began, "I don’t even like them. I’ve never even heard them.” "You've never heard Hole?" Clem asked, either not noticing, or choosing not to call me out on the skewed logic of not liking a band that you’ve never heard. He handed the tape to my friend, who had a stereo in her truck. We listened to the tape on the drive back to town, where she dropped us off by the beach. I had heroin, and it turned out Clem was not at all comfortable with this. I'd completely misjudged him based on his appearance. Later that night, while I was nodding off, Clem attempted to run to the water and throw my bags of heroin in, but I came to and tackled him to the ground before he could. Clearly, Clem and I were not going to work out. But on the car ride, he'd introduced me to a Hole song that I couldn't get out of my head. It was called <i>Rock Star</i>. Courtney had put it on Live <i>Through This</i> as an afterthought. <i>Rock Star</i> wasn't even the real name of the song, but the track listing for the album had already been printed that way; it was what the song would become known as:<br />
<br />
<i>"When I went to school, in Olympia, and everyone's the same. We look the same, we talk the same, we even fuck the same."</i><br />
<br />
Before Clem would go his way, and me mine, he would tell me about going to see Nirvana play in 1991, at a club in New Haven called The Moon. "It was one of the best shows I've ever been to," he said. "It made me want to start a band."<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
Once Clem had opened my copy of <i>Live Through This</i>, I was exposed to the liner notes and the pictures inside.<br />
<br />
Courtney in a tiara, short white dress, little girl tights and a fuzzy coat, smoking a cigarette.<br />
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<br />
When I'd left the rehab center after getting kicked out, I'd looked very much like this, minus the tiara. After seeing Courtney on television at Chelsea's house, I'd subtly adopted her look, though I would have denied that she was the inspiration for it at the time. When I left Conifer Park Rehabilitation Center, marketed as “a facility for the treatment of alcohol and drug dependency, located in the pines of Schenectady, New York," I was wearing a 60's style shift dress, fishnet stockings, and my own fuzzy winter coat. I was almost three hours away from home. My mother had purposely sent me somewhere far away, thinking my friends would not travel the distance to pick me up should I try to leave. The rehab staff forced me to vacate the premises immediately. All I had with me was the clothing on my back, and a small bag that functioned as my purse. I later learned that the staff had called my mother. Assuming that I would not be able to make it very far, they thought I would be forced to humble myself, and come back.<br />
<br />
As I walked in the direction of what I hoped was downtown Schenectady, it began to snow. It was April, but it felt like mid February, and I only had about two dollar's worth of change in my purse. I had no idea what I was going do. I thought my friend Renee would probably come and get me, but I had no way to communicate with her. Even if I could get to a payphone, I would have to call her collect, and she was at school. For now, all I could do was walk. Eventually I came to a small supermarket. There was a bench outside, and I sat down. Cold, hungry, and feeling completely hopeless, I began to cry. People came in and out of the store, eyeing me suspiciously. Back home, I'd gotten used to being called a "freak" because of my appearance; I'd even fed off of it a little bit, me and what I told myself was my preternatural uniqueness. But on a cold bench, in a strange town, under falling snow, my uniqueness didn't carry any currency at all. It was only detriment. A little old man with a cane approached the store with a woman. Instead of going inside, he whispered to her, then sat down on the bench next to me. The woman hadn't tried to dissuade him, despite the cold, the snow, or me on the other end of the bench.<br />
<br />
"What's the matter, young lady?" the man asked.<br />
<br />
I had never felt more utterly alone. I had come to the point of crying where my whole body was shaking with every breath. What could I possibly say to this little old man that wouldn't make him grab his cane and hobble away from me?<br />
<br />
"I'm far from home, and I can't get in touch with my friends," I stammered.<br />
<br />
He seemed to think about this.<br />
<br />
Feeling like I had nothing to lose, I took a chance, and told the man an amended version of the truth. I told him that I had left rehab, but changed the drug that had put me there from heroin to pot, thinking it would sound less severe. I made my mother out to be the villain of the story, portraying her as strict, unreasonable, and out of touch.<br />
<br />
"Well," the old man said. "It's too cold for you to stay out here in what you have on. Let's go talk to my wife. I think she'll agree, we should take you back to our house until we can figure things out for you."<br />
<br />
For all the things I didn't understand about the world, for all the things I dismissed, or viewed with a precocious sense of cynicism, I could see- even then-- the gesture of this little old man as a profound act of kindness; of caring. This little old man, who walked with a cane, so fragile and vulnerable, offering his home to this weird looking girl in overdone make- up and provocative clothing-- this girl who had just told him that she’d left rehab.<br />
<br />
As we walked the aisles of the supermarket looking for his wife, the man turned to me.<br />
<br />
"You like loud music, don't you?" he said. "I bet you were a fan of that young man who just died in Seattle. It's so sad, you kids today. Killing yourselves as a form of expression."<br />
<br />
I have to stop.<br />
<br />
If I was an actor, and had to cry for a scene, all I would have to do is think of that little old man. It kills me every time.<br />
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-align: center;">***</span><br />
<br />
In a 1995 <i>Spin</i> magazine interview, Courtney Love said, "I may lie a lot, but never in my lyrics."<br />
<br />
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<br />
It was the visual of Courtney Love that attracted me to her at first, then it was the sound of her band, Hole, (a sound that Billy Corgan once described as "someone screaming their head off, but in a very intelligent way") but what has kept me a fan of hers for the last twenty years is her lyrics. Her poetry. Some of the more famous lyrics from <i>Live Through This</i> have become so familiar, have been so oft- repeated, that to list them here almost feels redundant:<br />
<br />
<i> I don't really miss God, but I sure miss Santa Claus</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i> I don’t do the dishes. I throw them in the crib</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i> I'm Miss World, somebody kill me</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i> I want to be the girl with the most cake</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i> Was she asking for it? Was she asking nice? If she was asking for it, did she ask you twice?</i><br />
<br />
...but that's the fate of great poetry. Everybody owns it. It gets repeated ad infinitum, scrawled on backpacks, scribbled on the sides of buildings, recycled in ad campaigns, tattooed on body parts--why? Because it resonates. The lexicon of Courtney’s poetry is made up of girls (pee girl, retard girl, gutter girl, girl with the most cake), drugs, death, rebirth, boys, feminism, prostitution, California, dresses, (both ripped, and on fire) Anne Boleyn, Hester Prynne, Yoko Ono, the internet, self-loathing, suicide, glamour, and children. It isn't surprising that Courtney chose to read from Sylvia Plath's <i>Daddy</i> in her tryout for a 1970's version of the Mickey Mouse Club. There's a lineage.<br />
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<br />
<br />
Courtney's lyrical composition is jarring. Despite Hole's embrace by mainstream audiences in the mid 1990's, Courtney's writing speaks of a very<i> specific</i> female perspective and experience. It's one that has never been represented in depth in mainstream music. The drugged and despairing, exploited yet optimistic, super-sexual, whip-smart, body dysmorphic feminist. The voice in her lyrics is fucked beyond what we’ve been taught should ever be redeemable. The perspective is contradictory, and inconsistent. It is messy. It says,<i> in spite of my ambition, I won't clean myself up</i>. It says, literally, <i>don’t you try to shut me up;</i> in spite of my mess, you will not dismiss me.<br />
<br />
There are other lyrics of Courtney's, both pre and post <i>Live Through Thi</i>s, that aren't as well known, but carry the same kind of weight, and power:<br />
<br />
<i>There is no power like my pretty power/There is no power like my ugly power</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i> An eightball isn't love/A hooker's never gonna cum</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i> They royalty rate all the girls like you/ And they sell it out to the girls like you</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i> Watch her wrap her legs around this world/ You can't take the gutter from the girl</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i> All my loves in vain/ Can't find a vein</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>She spent twenty years in the Dakota/She spent twenty years like a virus/ They want to burn the witches inside us</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I don't believe in anything/ I know that Mary lied</i><br />
<br />
Does widespread, mainstream appeal detract from the emotional resonance of the sentiment conveyed?<br />
<br />
I think of the closing line of one of the most famous poems in the world, Sylvia Plath's<i> Lady Lazarus:</i><br />
<br />
<i>Out of the ash/I rise with my red hair/And I eat men like air. </i><br />
<br />
The answer is no. What is it, then, that makes us back off once something passes through the pearly gates and gets embraced by mainstream society?<br />
<br />
It's that desire to think of ourselves as unique, to rebel against that which is actually comforting: the idea of the universal experience. It has nothing to do with the validity of the music, or the poetry, or the sentiment conveyed. It's our want to think that we’re the only one. That we are somehow... special. It's snobbery, and it's cynicism.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
Whatever Courtney has experienced through the years, whatever she has really lived through, free from what we might think we know about her, free from any inside source exclusive reported on television or in the tabloids, I can see my life in her lyrics. We have had the same experiences. We have both lived our lives in the same almost constant state of contradiction. <i>Hooker waitress model actress oh just go nameless</i>. The lyrics of Courtney Love are my cultural zeitgeist. I read her lyrics-- her poetry-- and I can see the story of my life.<br />
<br />
***<br />
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I have never met Courtney, nor do I want to. I've come close; with the advent of the internet, and her affection for the medium, I've talked with her a bit online. She gave me advice on how to get off Xanax once; another time, she messaged me to say that she was taking one of my Facebook statuses about how thunderstorms made me horny and texting it to a male friend. I don't want to meet Courtney, because really, in my mind anyway, she exists free of herself. She is a person of flesh and blood, yes-- but she is also an idea. When I finally stopped hiding the fact that she intrigued me, and started reading more about her and her life, I became fixated on something. Something probably totally insignificant to most people: that she was 25 when she started Hole. I fixated on this small detail because it gave me hope. I may have been 18, drug-addicted, and homeless, but knowing that Courtney was 25 when she started her band told me that I still had time. It wasn't over for me yet. You’ll hear little kids talking about their role models, those people who give them something to aspire to beyond their circumstances. Courtney Love did that for me. When I was a fucked up kid, she gave me hope. Hope that I still had time. Time to take my mess, and make something out of it. Hopefully something beautiful.<br />
<br />
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©Fiona Helmsley 4/12/14 (a version of this essay appears on the thefix.com.)<br />
<br />Flee Flee This Sad Hotelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151676626514029393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1832381111930717456.post-59103556215539434952014-04-12T07:38:00.000-07:002014-07-23T14:24:25.922-07:00Joan Vollmer Burroughs Died For Somebody Else's Sins Not Mine<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCrT8eSAtzsxDQTK6S3UTyMptmhWCuuW4tu6yWaIFzP8hr6hiv8LJ2vhrXC3wj1EIBCjeX7FibQSF4c2NYII7bB9FJY5NUgQ7mBTbUijbkriMkffrJjnSZ5OTVOrlMfRu6zh3za7XgiFM_/s1600/thumbnailCAL0VNIE.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCrT8eSAtzsxDQTK6S3UTyMptmhWCuuW4tu6yWaIFzP8hr6hiv8LJ2vhrXC3wj1EIBCjeX7FibQSF4c2NYII7bB9FJY5NUgQ7mBTbUijbkriMkffrJjnSZ5OTVOrlMfRu6zh3za7XgiFM_/s400/thumbnailCAL0VNIE.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5688613438412836098" style="display: block; height: 264px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 196px;" /></a> <em>For legal reasons I am required to acknowledge the obvious, that this is a work of fiction. That being said, it is well-researched fiction and I have sprinkled real quotes throughout the dialogue between Joan and Patti. Patti's comment about "Burroughs being like another bible" is one, as is Joan's comment about "Bill fucking like a pimp." The <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Laughhead</span> interview Joan mentions can be found easily online, as can "The Death of Joan <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Vollmer</span> Burroughs- What Really Happened?" by James <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Grauerholz</span>, an incredible resource I utilized when writing this story. Everything Joan says to Patti about events in her life at the time of her death can be found in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Grauerholz's</span> extensive document. The only liberties I have taken with Joan's story is her interpretation of those events.- <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">FH</span></em><br />
<br />
Here’s the thing. I am very distrustful. I have been burned many times. One time in particular that was quite painful was by Patti Smith. She was with her then boyfriend, the young man who would go on to become the photographer, who would be wearing monogrammed slippers in fifteen years time, shooting flowers and whips up his asshole. A good looking fellow with unkempt curls. Bill would not have cruised him as he liked Spaniards.<br />
<br />
They were at the Chelsea Hotel, what we used to call the <em>Literary Leper Colony</em> as a kick. Not out of disrespect for the address but because so many of the greats had gone there to die. Patti was very aware of the anniversary, she’d even found out approximate times from somewhere, though she and the boy did travel in the same loose circles as Bill when he was in town. They had dressed for their parts, the boy in a handsome Salvation Army suit coat and matching pants and Patti in a diaphanous slip dress and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">pearlescent</span> shawl. There’s not much written as to my sartorial flair. Despite having such a prolific circle of writers for friends, it’s amazing how invisible I have remained. It was because of this that when dressing as me Patti defaulted her look to that of Ophelia before hitting the brook.<br />
<br />
At 7:15 PM, Patti and the boy exchanged words like they imagined Bill and I might have before I was shot. So much pageantry was involved in the reenactment it’s a wonder they <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">didn</span>’t sell tickets. It was like a warped wedding ceremony, the groom being artistic sensibility. <em>We now pronounce ourselves outlaw artistes!</em><br />
“I think it’s time for our William Tell Act,” the young man said without emotion. “I don’t think I can look, you know how I can’t stand the site of blood,” Patti replied. The only aspect of the recreation they’d neglected was the weaponry. Instead of a .38 the boy had a small plastic water gun, painted brown and filled with red food coloring. He put a tumbler glass onto her head and backed up not too far. I saw something in his face, it read like hesitancy. A squirt of red food coloring hit her squarely between the eyes. She twitched and the glass fell without breaking. As the pinkish- red trail ran down her forehead she collapsed to the floor.<br />
<br />
<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Finé</span>.<br />
<br />
The whole thing was really a rather crass affair, but who’s to say, I might be biased. My husband and I have become one of the most popular his and hers Halloween costumes in certain corners of New York. More popular then Zelda and Scott, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">atleast</span> as popular as June and Henry. I’d seen my share of these <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">farbs</span> but Patti’s was the first by a person in circumstances similar to my own and with a connection. I suppose it was the reason I was drawn out. That and it was obvious she was outre enough not to be completely spooked by the idea of talking to a ghost.<br />
<br />
She dropped to the floor, feigning the last wheezy breaths of my death’s rattle. The boy waited a few seconds before leaning down and helping her to her feet. She moved her hand to his face as he lifted her, to caress his smooth skin and invite him to kiss her. Instead he moved her hand away.<br />
<br />
“I have to go,” he said. This going of his had become a reoccurring motif. Though he was rejecting her advances it was not with cruelty.<br />
<br />
“Where?” she asked. The food coloring had streaked down her forehead and pooled at the bridge of her nose. Her costuming was in such stark contrast to the boy’s. He looked debonair, brashly handsome; with the blood, she looked like a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Bellevue</span> escapee.<br />
<br />
“To Terry’s loft…”<br />
<br />
“You spend more time with Terry than you do with me, Robert. Not a small feat considering we live together.”<br />
<br />
“I said I’d do this with you...” He moved his hands in the air, though the fleeting traces of their reenactment. “I don’t want to argue. He’s waiting for me. I’ll be back late tonight, I promise.”<br />
<br />
Once the boy had gone, she went over to the bookcase and took out a small, elegantly constructed handmade diary. She poured herself a glass of wine from the bottle she had planned to use as an aid in the seduction of the boy, if only she had made it that far.<br />
<br />
She picked up a pen, sat down at a small table and began to write: <em>Rimbaud, Whitman, Blake, Burroughs: Robert and I are similar in the way we express our idolatry. We commune with our influences; covet their experiences like cicerones to luminosity. But it appears for Robert having one such experience <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Rimbaudesque</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">hasn</span>’t been enough. Jim Carroll said he knew he <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">wasn</span>’t gay because he only did it with men for money. I’m fairly certain that Robert is now doing it with them for free.</em><br />
Without confirmation from the boy she was in purgatory. Without confirmation as to the circumstances of my death, I was too. You could say I thought we could help each other out of a jam.<br />
<br />
Not wanting to scare her but conceding that some fright was inevitable, I waited till she had finished her first glass of wine and had the beginnings of a glow on. When she got up to use the bathroom in the hallway, engaging all three door locks behind her, I even refilled her glass to encourage more consumption.<br />
<br />
There was so much riff-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">raff</span> in the halls of the Chelsea that when I did manifest, in the second chair at the table, the boy’s chair- she did not even seem that startled. I wore a knitted cloche low on my forehead to cover the bullet hole and moved my chair in a way advantageous to the dim lighting of the room.<br />
<br />
“How did you get in here?” she demanded catching sight of me when she looked up from her journal. She clenched the pen in her hand like a javelin.<br />
<br />
“Joan <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Vollmer</span>, Patti. I was watching your interpretation of my death.”<br />
<br />
As could be expected, the revelation came as quite a jolt. She jumped up from her seat and bolted towards the door. “You old freak! You were spying on us! Get out now or I’ll get the police!”<br />
<br />
“Touch me Patti,” I said following her as quickly as I could with my gimpy leg. She was frantically trying to undo all the locks on the door. “I can prove it if you touch me...”<br />
<br />
She <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">wouldn</span>’t acknowledge my request, so to offer up irrefutable evidence of my nature, I walked through her, through the door, out into the hallway, then back into the room and beside her.<br />
<br />
“I’m a ghost, Patti. An <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">eidolon</span>.”<br />
<br />
She frantically continued with the locks. As she was both tipsy and unnerved, all she could do was fumble them. “I’m asleep,” she whispered, closing her eyes and shaking her head side to side as if she could wake herself up. “I passed out in the chair, this is a dream...”<br />
<br />
“You’re awake,” I interjected. “Robert left a little while ago. You’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">ve</span> been drinking wine, writing in your journal.”<br />
<br />
An uncomfortable silence rested between us. A sort of stalemate. She could either resist believing what I was or she could accept it.<br />
<br />
When she finally spoke it was with such a release of emotion I thought she might cry.<br />
<br />
“Did…. I <em>conjure</em> you?”<br />
<br />
“I don’t know exactly what you did, but everything lined up. I don’t have long though. I’m like Cinderella at the ball and can’t dance all night. Can we sit down?”<br />
<br />
She <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">didn</span>’t respond but followed me back to the table, keeping as much of the small room between us as she could.<br />
<br />
She stared at me for a good moment, then leaned across the table to touch me skittishly, like someone might if trying to gauge the heat of a hot stove.<br />
<br />
When her hand cut clear through the air, clear through <em>me</em>, she threw back her head and began reciting verses from Whitman, “And thee my soul, thy yearning amply fed at last, prepared to meet thy mates the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">eidolons</span>!” She assailed her hands upon the tabletop and cried out, “Old Bull Lee’s wife!” referring to my husband by his character’s name in Jack’s book. Talking a mile a minute and with much animation, she began speaking of her and the boy’s reenactment of my death.<br />
<br />
“It, it was meant as a tribute, a <em>paean</em> to you and your relationship with Old Bull Lee… You are such an inspiration to me, Joan. You were the hippest, smartest, girl on the scene, a real firecracker. Robert has said I’m so obsessed by my icons their like my imaginary friends. I’ll be writing in my journal and he’ll say, “What are you doing over there Patti Lee, communing with your dead pals?” I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">ve</span> always been known as this sort of 'little girl who cried wolf'… “Oh Patti and her imagination,” they always say. That’s probably why you came to me Joan, you knew from my mouth no one would ever believe it! A visit from you is just the sort of thing they would expect me to claim!”<br />
<br />
She was so excitable and schizophrenic it dawned on me we might go on like this forever unless I got stern.<br />
<br />
“Robert is homosexual Patti,” I said. “His sexual encounters with men are not just some artistic experiment. I know all about the denials and justifications. I went through it all with Bill. I had as hard a time accepting it as you are.”<br />
<br />
“Joan <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">Vollmer</span> Burroughs in my room at the Chelsea! Commiserating with me about man troubles! I needed this so badly, Joan. I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">ve</span> felt so jaded lately. My belief in the magic of the world has really been on the wane.” She inhaled deeply and fidgeted with a loose gold band on her ring finger, twisting it in circles it as she spoke.<br />
<br />
“At one time, Robert and I were like one person, Joan. <em>Psychic twins</em> I used to say. Telepathic, like you and Old Bull Lee. I’d always dreamed of meeting another artist to love and create with. Robert’s my muse and my maker. I’m resistant to give that up no matter who he shares his bed with.”<br />
<br />
She must have forgotten I was untouchable because she reached across the table, then caught herself. “I am so blessed to have this time with you, Joan.”<br />
<br />
“You’re blessed you have someone to have this conversation with,” I replied. “I had no one. At least no one who <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">wasn</span>’t in someway caught up in our madness. You can’t just talk to anyone about your lover, your husband, being fey. They don’t understand why you just don’t leave, that you can’t just turn your feelings on and off like that. Then there’s the denial. I used to say to Bill, “How can you be a faggot when you fuck like a pimp?”<br />
<br />
A sly smile spread across her face that led me to believe she could relate.<br />
<br />
“I need to ask you a favor, Patti,” I said. “I want to know if my husband shot me on purpose. I want to know once and for all if my death really was just an accident.”<br />
<br />
“Oh Joan, I can assure you right now that it was! Lee was devastated by your death. It ruined him. It took him to depths so low, he had to write to find his way out. Your death is what inspired him to become a writer. It’s the reason he writes now!”<br />
<br />
“Bill had been writing for years before my death, Patti. He was starting to become more ambitious about it with encouragement from Allen and Jack. He was writing two books at the time of my shooting. I had read parts of them. One was about boys, the other was about junk.”<br />
<br />
“I’m staggered you would even question this, Joan. Lee had no reason to do you in. You were the mother of his child. You had a partnership, a numinous understanding...”<br />
<br />
“He’d been home for three days from a trip to South America with his boyfriend when I was shot. They were in South America for over two months, Patti. Two months! I don’t know what happened over the course of that trip. Maybe the thought that once he came home- the looming threat of returning to <em>that</em> existence… I suspect he was done with us. Billy could go and live with his parents- and me, I don’t think he really cared where I went as long as it was a way from him.”<br />
<br />
“Oh Joan, I don’t believe that. You had tolerated all of his lovers in the past. What ever would have been his complaint?”<br />
<br />
“I think he wanted to be free of the trappings and responsibility of a family, Patti. Free to be an artist, to bugger boys where and when he wanted to, with impunity. Free of my loud mouth, my ugly face. I moved my chair over here because the lighting is better and you won’t get a good look at me, Patti. At my teeth. They’re like rotting tombstones from all my years on Benzedrine. What you would see <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">isn</span>’t damage done by any bullet. I was off the speed by then, but I was foul- mouthed lush with a gimpy leg from polio. Twenty-eight years old, but looking closer to fifty. I was only a few years older than you and you made me for an old freak when you first caught sight of me! And I can’t be positive because I'd been drinking, but I think I saw something in his eyes when he pointed the gun…”<br />
<br />
“You were both drunk, Joan. That’s probably why your recollection’s so hazy. You were blitzed. You and Bill were at a party, at friend’s house when you were shot. You were performing your William Tell Act, something you’d done many times before…”<br />
<br />
“No Patti, I remember what happened. I remember clearly. Bill and I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">hadn</span>’t even come to the apartment I was shot at together. I hardly saw him over those three days after he returned from his trip. We met up at the apartment where I died coincidentally. His lover, the boy he went to South America with, was one of five or so people that lived there. And I think it bothered Bill. He wanted me out of his life and there I was, a guest at his lover’s apartment, and it made him feel like he’d never be free of me, he’d always have to tolerate my presence in some unbearable way. He’d come to the apartment to sell a gun. And I was at my wit’s end with him, Patti. I had to call his parents for money to feed the children while he was off in South America gallivanting with his <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">catamite</span>. We bantered there. I knew him so well, I knew just what to say to get him good and make it sting. He hated to be embarrassed. He was such a show off, with a machismo streak a mile long. I made a comment, not even a clever one… I said, in front of his <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">catamite</span>, in front of his claque, I said, “The big man with the big gun who can’t shoot straight.” You see, Bill was a great shot, it was one of on the things he prided himself on, his marksmanship. I was being cheeky; I just wanted a response. And he said, “Oh yeah?” And then to prove it, to prove me wrong, I let him put the glass on my head. It was the most interaction we’d had in months, Patti… It <em>was</em> something I’d let him to before, but it <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">wasn</span>’t any party trick. I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">wasn</span>’t suicidal; I would have never let him put that glass on my head if I thought for a second he would miss…”<br />
<br />
“Joan, are you sure this isn't just sour grapes?”<br />
<br />
<em>“</em>Sour grapes? I saw something in is <em>eyes</em>, Patti. I’m not saying it was a total set-up, but I think in that moment, he saw a way to get what he wanted, he saw a way out. What I’d like for you to do is, I’d like you to put it out there for me. To say that you suspect I was murdered.”<br />
<br />
“Oh, Joan, I’m a fairly new face on the scene. I don’t want to alienate anybody. I’m a poet, Joan. I’m not any kind of investigative reporter...”<br />
<br />
“You could write a poem. Nothing will happen to Bill, Patti. It was eighteen years ago. I don’t want him arrested again. He already got his sentence, which he ran from, by the way. I just want some acknowledgement of what really happened that night...It's so obvious! Why <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">doesn</span>’t anyone have the guts to say it aloud? Is it because all of you who venerate him so would have to confront something ugly about yourselves?”<br />
<br />
“Look at my bookcase Joan; I’m a scholar of your lives...”<br />
<br />
“What are you saying? Because you’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">ve</span> read all my husband’s books you are somehow better <em>qualified</em> than I am to judge what happened to me that night?”<br />
<br />
"William <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">Burrough's</span> is like another bible to me, Joan. He's one of the reasons I became an artist, he's one of the reasons I moved to New York..."<br />
<br />
“Do you like science fiction, Patti?”<br />
<br />
“Do I like science fiction? I mean, I suppose. It’s not my favorite...”<br />
<br />
“What about pornography? Do you like pornography, Patti? Gay, male-to-male pornography?<br />
<br />
“I’m not against any kind of sexual expression, Joan. It’s not what gets me off, if that’s what you mean…”<br />
<br />
“What about pederasty? <em>Child fucking.</em> How do you feel about child fucking, Patti? Because if you don’t worship any of those things, I’m surprised my husband is your favorite writer. That’s what he writes about. That’s your <em>bible.</em> Or is my husband your favorite writer because of what you think he represents? Some kind of gentleman- degeneracy with a Harvard degree and a handsome hat? Or is it the <em>kitsch</em> value of his lawlessness that you venerate? Is my husband your favorite writer because you’re so frantic to viewed as <em>outsider</em> you’ll pardon him his transgressions just so you can be associated with them?"<br />
<br />
"I’m sorry I came here tonight, but I have no choice who I come to. Because of that, if you keep with your crass reenactments, I may be back.” I was so angry now that I stood up and removed my cloche. “Yours will wash away, Patti,” I picked up her pen from the table, the one she’d been using to write in her journal and jammed it into the hole in my forehead. “Mine won’t.”<br />
<br />
Then I left her there, at her table, in her room at that hollowed hotel.<br />
<br />
Left her with her lepers.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
Bill is dead now, so what does any of this matter?<br />
<br />
I have not seen him since his passing but I came across something the other day, something interesting. It was a transcript of an interview George <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">Laughhead</span> did with my husband right before he died. I can’t get into the logistics of how or where I saw it, but in it Mr. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36">Laughhead</span> concedes to something I waited over sixty years to hear someone admit.<br />
<br />
He says, “I don’t really care if William Burroughs murdered his wife.”<br />
<br />
My husband was <em>allowed </em>my death.<br />
<br />
His status as an icon allowed for him to transcend my killing to such a degree it was no longer considered a criminal act, but a <em>celebrated</em> one.<br />
<br />
In his old age, it appears Bill himself felt a little more emboldened to speak closer to the truth. In the same interview, he yells out, “SHOOT THE BITCH AND WRITE A BOOK….THAT'S WHAT I DID.”<br />
<br />
It has been said that the pen is mightier than the sword.<br />
<br />
And sometimes it is the sword.<br />
<br />
<br />
JVB<br />
<br />
<em></em><br />
<em>©</em> Fiona HelmsleyFlee Flee This Sad Hotelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151676626514029393noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1832381111930717456.post-21115097148428082132014-04-01T11:04:00.000-07:002017-10-04T08:39:28.389-07:00Contempt<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAVc7oyE2xqK2XV1OwdX-oXLG-DhpBeDfWF1SmFO6R0YHa3weQ5IOWrpl3IvgtF8YFAP3UGANLDoUrAkNGsMhMDz31QW_bW2_7FIYL_QYCwEBRaw4sIuV8wmpWOolLuTC6JKg85pm2eiKF/s1600/boootts.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAVc7oyE2xqK2XV1OwdX-oXLG-DhpBeDfWF1SmFO6R0YHa3weQ5IOWrpl3IvgtF8YFAP3UGANLDoUrAkNGsMhMDz31QW_bW2_7FIYL_QYCwEBRaw4sIuV8wmpWOolLuTC6JKg85pm2eiKF/s320/boootts.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span lang=""><br />
<br />
She told me,<br />
That while she was sitting out in her car<br />
With her groceries, Before she realized<br />
It was me, And not some stranger-woman<br />
Coming out of the supermarket,<br />
She had thought to herself,<br />
<br />
"Skinny bitch, with your black leggings<br />
And motorcycle boots, I fucking hate you."<br />
<br />
She told me this, Like she was giving me some kind<br />
Of funny compliment;<br />
Like the old adage wasn't true,<br />
Familiarity didn't breed contempt,<br />
No, no, no,<br />
It <i>negated</i> it.<br /></span><br />
<span lang=""> I didn't believe her.<br />
<br />
<br />
©Fiona Helmsley</span>Flee Flee This Sad Hotelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151676626514029393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1832381111930717456.post-69758941979001741382014-01-09T10:07:00.000-08:002014-01-09T10:07:27.986-08:00The Quotable Delmore Schwartz<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span id="goog_1446778273"></span><span id="goog_1446778274"></span><br />
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<br />Flee Flee This Sad Hotelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151676626514029393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1832381111930717456.post-11619681838944454272014-01-03T07:43:00.000-08:002014-01-03T07:43:18.240-08:00The Story of Jean<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Flee Flee This Sad Hotelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151676626514029393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1832381111930717456.post-51561052556892686382014-01-01T11:25:00.000-08:002014-01-08T11:03:14.389-08:00Big Pimpin<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New";"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New";"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">We pick up his coat from a
Korean drycleaner who is well-known for menacing anyone who’s come on hard times
with a broom.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><br />
Down the block, he sheds the plastic, and<br />
drapes the coat across an imaginary puddle in our path.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">The crowd parts;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">extending a wrinkled hand, <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">he awaits my arrival on the other
side. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">“After you, m'lady,” he says, <br />
“Know that what I can't give to you in love, <br />
I plan on making up to you in grand financial gestures.”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Only two decades around the sun, </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">and I'm already hardened. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">His daughter says she sees only madness
in his wild spending,</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">while I see </span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">the dreams </span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">o</span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">f which </span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">rappers often r</span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">hyme.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">©Fiona
Helmsley</span>Flee Flee This Sad Hotelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151676626514029393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1832381111930717456.post-56856622050940494842013-12-29T06:38:00.000-08:002015-07-30T09:09:51.927-07:00Poem: Christmas Downtown<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span lang=""><br />
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">The parking lot at the liquor store was packed,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">and the clerk at Staples badly needed a belt.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">We could have hidden the presents in his butt crack.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">At the A&P, a little old man held up the express lane,<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">buying a Santa hat, and two boxes of Milkbone dog biscuits with an expired
coupon. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">It's revenge of the people I went to high school with downtown.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">My friends and I always held a special disdain for anyone who left town,<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">only to come back.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Holding my 93 year old grandmother's hand,<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">I push our shopping cart out to my mother's car,<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">and hear the muffled sounds of dogs barking behind glass.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">I turn and see the little old man from the express lane,<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">he's wearing the Santa hat on his
head.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">“Ho ho ho!” he says to the two Rottweilers in the car parked next to ours,<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">and drops two dog biscuits through the cracked window into the backseat.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">There are a lot of dogs in this parking lot,<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">and the little old man moves on.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">"Ho ho ho!" he says to a poodle in a Mercedes,<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">but the car's windows are rolled up tight,<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">so he leaves the biscuit for the dog under a windshield wiper.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Watching the little old man as he goes, <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">my grandmother says to me,<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">"Fiona, I always enjoyed feeding the ducks so."<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
©Fiona Helmsley</span>Flee Flee This Sad Hotelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151676626514029393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1832381111930717456.post-4269596065340929102013-12-22T05:19:00.000-08:002014-05-28T07:23:49.758-07:00Poem for Sylvia Plath on the 50th Anniversary of her Death, February 11, 2013<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigUVtG3E3-r2IqaoIORzC6JdLmozygOXTXV5papbdHoBEj6Gp2TfWJLteDuWfn-n2SGduUtQz0K5bVv0jsh1kwncfd0IydrQK8Y0tI5R9WZAsBpXOHJ_JaHqIlOYSmbtoKL7_xbkgFULzC/s1600/tedslyvia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigUVtG3E3-r2IqaoIORzC6JdLmozygOXTXV5papbdHoBEj6Gp2TfWJLteDuWfn-n2SGduUtQz0K5bVv0jsh1kwncfd0IydrQK8Y0tI5R9WZAsBpXOHJ_JaHqIlOYSmbtoKL7_xbkgFULzC/s320/tedslyvia.jpg" height="200" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span lang=""><br />
Fifty years ago today,<br />
You made your name,<br />
Made your grave.<br />
Marble- heavy,<br />
A bag full of God.<br />
<br />
So many chemicals:<br />
One for love,<br />
One for sadness;<br />
One for baggage,<br />
One for madness.<br />
<br />
I think of you,<br />
Anti-Semitic with rage,<br />
Denying her a name,<br />
<i>She's just a barren womb.</i></span><br />
<span lang="">Not for long, Mrs. Hughes.<br />
<br />
I won't accuse a Thought-Fox<br />
Of locking you in a lock- box,<br />
Of making you look back, <br />
Look back.<br />
Marble-heavy, <br />
A stone in the pocket of Virginia Woolf.<br />
<br />
A cruel truth<br />
All artists face<br />
Is despair can wear Calliope's face;<br />
The same muse that moves the pen, turns on the gas,<br />
And our best work may be our last.<br />
<br />
©Fiona Helmsley</span>Flee Flee This Sad Hotelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151676626514029393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1832381111930717456.post-32556349649441115492013-07-23T07:33:00.000-07:002014-04-18T18:52:37.615-07:00Shoes<span lang=""> </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span lang=""> <br />
<i><br />
</i>She told him everything, so she decided to tell him this, regardless of consequence (she hoped there would be no consequence).<br />
<br />
"So, after I left the dentist, I was walking home, and I passed that shoe store downtown. I figured I’d go in and look for a pair of black kitten heels for work. You know how I hate flats, and you threw out my old pair of black kitten heels because I was always complaining about how they hurt my feet, but never would've had the heart to throw them out myself…."<br />
<br />
He was listening intently; where was she going? She figured for now he was focused on what he viewed to be her extravagant spending habits.<br />
<br />
"All the black kitten heels that interested me, or would have been appropriate for work were too expensive, so I decided to peruse the sale rack. A red patent leather fetish looking pair with a five inch heel caught my eye…."<br />
<br />
"For work?" His eyes bulged.<br />
<br />
"No, I was off the work track by then. But the shoes were so cute and inexpensive! Seventy dollars, regularly, on sale for fifteen! I mean, I spend that a day on cigarettes."<br />
<br />
They were sitting at the kitchen table, and she got up and went down the hallway towards her sleep chamber. She returned carrying a pair of shiny, candy- apple red heels that screamed <em>sex, sex, sex</em>!<br />
<br />
"Wow," he said. His "wow" was that of a jaded parent, not a suddenly insatiable lover.<br />
<br />
She didn't put the shoes on, instead, she held them by their heels as she spoke.<br />
<br />
"Fifteen dollars! That’s nothing, even if I never have an opportunity to wear them. I’d gladly spend fifteen dollars just to see them in my closet and smile."<br />
<br />
He blinked hard at her logic. <br />
<br />
She continued. "By the time I left the shoe store, it had started to rain. Not heavy, but enough to fog up my glasses. I’m carrying the shoebox, another bag with a sandwich for later, and a newspaper, and I’m holding a coffee. I thought about calling you for a ride, but it really wasn’t that bad; the worst thing about it was my glasses. I’m walking on the grass, because once you pass the shopping center, the sidewalk ends, and I’m about to go under the railroad bridge, when out of the corner of my eye, I see a car stop in the middle of the road. I turn my head, and see a brown- haired man that I recognize from my work and he asks me if want a ride."<br />
<br />
She left out how good looking the brown- haired man was. It was a detail she wouldn't have excluded if talking with anybody else.<br />
<br />
"I’m going to be honest with you, and I hope you don’t get mad. Before meeting you, the man in the car was the only man to ever come into my work that I had even a remote passing interest in. But I found out pretty quickly that he was married, and gave up on it."<br />
<br />
He took a sip of his coffee.<br />
<br />
"But we still talk whenever he comes in, and there’s always been this sort of flirtatious vibe on his end. I did wonder if he was just really friendly, but I always ended up siding more with flirtatious. He has a daughter whose super smart, maybe even autistic smart, and a wife who is pretty, but heavy. He comes into my work with both of them, so it’s not like he's tried to hide his commitments. I didn't really think. I saw a familiar face, it was raining, so I figured, ok, I’ll get in the car."<br />
<br />
He lit one of her cigarettes, and pulled the ashtray across the table.<br />
<br />
"It was some kind of four- door Ford jobber, and I was surprised to see that the inside was a mess. There was stuff everywhere, garbage, and books, and he was listening to the Rolling Stones. I didn’t expect that. The mess, not the Stones. His daughter is so smart... They are always at the book store looking for books, so I guess I made the unconscious assumption that a person as scholarly as he appeared to be would have a neater car. Not that I ever thought about him, and his car, specifically, and not that I don't know that genius and disorder tend to go hand and hand. As soon as I sat down, I was aware of this tension. He asked me where I lived, and then mentioned that if it was far, we should go back into town and get gas. I wasn't sure how to respond to that, because the way that he said it, it sounded like an invitation. <i>Let's go back into town and get gas.</i>The tension was overwhelming to me, so I started babbling away, thinking I could talk over it, talk as a way of covering it up. I told him about going to the dentist, going to the shoe store, and then... and I realized that I had screwed up right away. I took the shoes out of the shoebox, and the whole undercurrent that I had been trying to hide from, I put it right out there in the open. And he said, just like you, he said, "Those shoes, for work?" And I tried to rescue myself. I said, "Nooo, they would be far too distracting for work." I was stepping in landmines of my own creation all over the place! And out of the corner of my eye, I could see that he had this weird smile on his face, like it was all out there now, the shoes proving that I was a sexual person, that I probably liked sex, and kinky sex too…."<br />
<br />
She paused and put the shoes on the table.<br />
<br />
"...And now that all that was confirmed, all he would have to do was create some other kind of opportunity. So of course he did. When we finally got to the house, he turns to me, and he says, "You know, we actually live pretty close together, and you like to walk, don't you? It would be nice to have a walking partner. Maybe you and I could go walking together, and you could bring those shoes..."<br />
</span>Flee Flee This Sad Hotelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151676626514029393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1832381111930717456.post-30447834370430654922013-07-15T06:44:00.000-07:002015-07-30T10:23:10.999-07:00Houdini<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">When I was in junior high, as an English assignment, the teacher had us write a paper about a fantasy dinner party, <em>The Great Dinner Party of the Mind</em>. Anybody could come to the party, living or dead. She wanted old monarchs mingling with modern day celebrities, assassinated presidents sitting next to grandparents. I didn't take the assignment all that seriously, and remember two of my guests: Sid Vicious and Sharon Tate. I had known very little loss at that point in my life.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She was beautiful,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
really she was.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But you’ll have to take my word for that now.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Harry Houdini promised his wife and friends <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
that after his death <br />
they would hear from him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But they never heard a sound.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I imagine her there with Houdini,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
near the head of the table,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
at the Great Dinner Party of My Mind.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A slightly different version from the one we wrote about for
8<sup>th</sup> grade English class,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the guest list amended by tragedy and time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Whatever Houdini found once he got there,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’d like to believe it was so great<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
he didn’t want to ruin the surprise.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But death may be one dinner party<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
where no guest dares to interrupt the host.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> </o:p>© Fiona Helmsley</div>
Flee Flee This Sad Hotelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151676626514029393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1832381111930717456.post-51969207536666777592013-06-02T08:49:00.000-07:002013-07-31T06:34:41.240-07:00Swifty<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
He spotted her over the head of a life- sized Taylor Swift promotional cut- out for jeans.<br />
<br />
Taylor Swift, a young country singer, who, at least in this ad campaign, appeared to only smile with one side of her mouth.<br />
<br />
But this girl, she was not smiling with <em>any</em> part of her mouth. She was doing her job like a bitter automaton. Bitter was an assumption, but she did not look at all happy.<br />
<br />
But how many Saturday night Wal-Mart cashiers were?<br />
<br />
He wheeled his cart, filled only with two XXL children’s button down shirts, over to her check- out line. He cupped his breath and smelled it. He was thankful for the check-out conveyor belt; it would ensure a marked distance between her and what he had just smelled in his hand.<br />
<br />
He was on the spot, so his woo- lines would have to be old standards.<br />
<br />
Perhaps something along the lines of, “Give me your phone number or a tissue, because if you don’t give me those digits, I’m going to cry.”<br />
<br />
Her name tag read Bonnie. Bonnie in Scots- Gaelic meant <em>beautiful</em>. <br />
<br />
Beautiful was a bit generous, but, if, on any slow night, light on the customers, her co-workers were to throw together a hastily organized Employee Beauty Competition (as the blue collars liked to say, “for shits and giggles”), competing against all the old folks and tax deductibles on staff, she just might win. Her looks were the stuff of big fish in small ponds. As the prize announcing her victory, he envisioned a plastic tiara ganked from the toy aisle.<br />
<br />
Tuesday would be the 2008 presidential election. Obama/Biden vs. McCain/Palin. He decided to use this in his opening.<br />
<br />
“Is it true that Wal-Mart has been pressuring its employees to vote Republican?”<br />
<br />
He had heard this on the news. Undercover of hastily arranged morale pep talks, Wal-Mart honchos stood accused of haranguing their employees to vote pachyderm.<br />
<br />
“Huh?” she replied. She had a red state drawl.<br />
<br />
He repeated the question.<br />
<br />
“Is it true that Wal-Mart has been pressuring its employees to vote McCain/Palin?”<br />
<br />
“You’re looking for a can for paintin’?”<br />
<br />
“Nothing, forget it.”<br />
<br />
He felt stupid, though she deserved the honor more. His shame only made her that much more attractive. Light brown hair to her shoulders, real, honest- to- goodness cerulean eyes, freckles across the bridge of a button nose. Twentyish, thin, shapely in the legs. She was clearly wearing stretchy jeans similar to the ones that Taylor Swift had been promoting in the life- sized promotional cut-out. He couldn’t decipher her breasts with the loose cashiers smock covering them, but her legs became discernible as she leaned away from the conveyor belt to turn off her register’s glowing light.<br />
<br />
Never one to quit while ahead, he decided to try again.<br />
<br />
“Do you get an employee discount?”<br />
<br />
“I get a discount on everything,” she bragged. “Twenty percent. But if you’re askin’ me to discount these shirts for you, the answer’s no.”<br />
<br />
Her southern twang would be fun to imitate.<br />
<br />
“If I was your friend, would you let me use your discount?”<br />
<br />
“Maybe. But you’re not my friend. I’ve never seen you before in my life.”<br />
<br />
He picked up the pen available to customers for filling out checks and signing credit card slips and scribbled on the back of his receipt.<br />
<br />
“Here’s my phone number. Call me. Maybe we can be friends. And someday, you’ll let me use your discount.”<br />
<br />
It was all so perfectly trashy. Wal-Mart, discounts, political ignorance, the scruff on his chin, the way his breath smelled. Her snotty disdain for no reason and tight- fitting Taylor Swift jeans.<br />
<br />
When he had sex with her later that night, he didn’t use a condom. It was the perfect trailer park coda and he liked good endings. She, the Wal-Mart cashier with two kids at home, babysat by her mother, with absolutely no fear of getting pregnant by him, the smelly stranger, who bought his clothes 20 years too small.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">©Fiona Helmsley</span><br />
<br />Flee Flee This Sad Hotelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151676626514029393noreply@blogger.com0