12.31.2006

Annual Report




We have audited the activities of Hallmarks of a Lady, Inc. as of December 31, 2006 and the related statements. These statements are the responsibility of Lady at Large and Hallmarks of a Lady management.

A comparison of the Statement of Activities for FY ended Dec 31 2006, 2005 and 2004 reflects a continued decrease in red wine consumption reflected in the chart above*.
The decrease in consumption seems to correlate directly with a decrease in lost wallets, malicious acts of vengeance, home visits by uniformed officers, and overdue library books.

There has also been a steady decline in bathroom haircuts, job and back-up dancer turnover, all numbers which are inversely proportional to memberships attained.

In our opinion, 2006 was a good year.

Happy New Year!




(*For graphic purposes, Bottles of Wine/Year are not represented to scale and should be figured with a multiplier of 10.)

12.25.2006

12.19.2006

No surrender. No escape. No mercy.


Like underwear fresh off of the radiator, the holidays are, for the most part, warm and comforting. Across the street I can see people are sitting in the windows of the Best House, snuggling together in booths, watching football, drinking beers and cutting cheese pizza into bite-sized pieces for their googley-eyed kid. On my side of the street at the coffeeshop, the walls are lined with colorful Christmas lights and there are brilliant red poinsettias on the shelves. It’s quiet except for a holiday CD and the quiet hum of the barista cleaning the espresso machine... It’s almost time to go home. I don’t have any homework. It’s not as cold as it could be. I have affordable internet, family and friends who politely ignore my hang-ups and a warm place to take a dump. If only I liked jazz, everything would be perfect.
There is nothing but tranquility, hot cocoa and valium at every turn. I have no excuse for bitterness and no reason to complain and it drives me crazy

I meditate on the important aspects of my existence as I stroll home. I realize that it isn’t important that I buy everyone great gifts or send out a holiday letter. It’s even less important that I get a used Buell or a dirt bike. And it isn’t important that my editor ever calls me again or that I have a job. Or that I vacuum or brush my teeth or learn to use a fork and knife together or whether or not I have mice in my apartment or repay my student loans or spend hundreds of dollars on disposable clothing items from H&M or ever go on a date with someone who doesn’t smell like they just rolled out of a litter box. And it’s not important whether or not I listen to the Cure or file for a tax refund or drink wine and play darts. None of that is important. What’s important is that I’m always right. There will always be underwear and radiators. And everything else is perfect.

So Happy Holidays.
(Backround Art by Thomas Kinkade. www.thomaskinkade.com)

12.16.2006

You Ate My Dollar


I want my money back. ..


12.10.2006

All I Learned in School



School is over and I am on vacation. It’s great. The last thing I want to do is go to work. The second to last thing I want to do is go home. This is freedom. And freedom feels like wanting to take a nap in the middle of the day, in a public park.

M.Y.O.B



A leggy brunette is sitting in an office chair and shoving her foot into Steve’s mouth as he lies motionless beneath her. Slavesteve is a 36 WM professional, handsome, tall and willing to please…He is also married to the brunette but looking for “open minded people who enjoy and appreciate this life style.”

Thanks to my public profile on MySpace, he’s determined that we live in the same neighborhood and has requested to be my friend. In a moment of hesitation, I consider whether he’s looking for people who appreciate his lifestyle of the lifestyle of his wife. I can see a portion of his face from around polished red toenails. Steve looks an awful lot like my previous boss from the gallery downtown.

And I realize that it is time to make my profile private. My life would be simpler if there were no social web portals and everyone just minded their own business. I would probably have my PhD by now. I might’ve been the President.

In tangible reality, minding your own business is easy. All you need is a bunch of hair. You put it over your face and then you don’t have to pretend that you’re not looking at people because you actually can’t see anyone. This will give you a little more focus to your "zone," making it that much easier to mind your own business.

It can be hard to keep your eyes forward. So wear headphones if you can. Steal a hug from your friend before you walk home and avoid the toe-suckers. If you have to go out in public, sit in a coffee shop and read something interesting enough to keep you focused but innocuous enough to discourage strangers from asking about it. Make eye contact with no one. Try to stay away from being bogged down with getting caught up in being distracted. Mind your own business.

The only problem with minding your own business is that it can get awfully dull behind all that hair. Eventually you may need to sneeze. Or offer directions to someone who looks confused. Or see if your ex has updated their profile to reflect your recent break up. Or assure Mary Kate Olsen's fan-base that there are only 3 calories in a blow job.

Did you know you can get everything from crystal meth to hookers on Craig’s list?

12.06.2006

12.02.2006

Inspiration is Everywhere


What I love most about my life is how easy it is to publish something poignant and funny. I just open up the laptop and there it is, written for me. All I ever do is spell check my thoughts and send them to the publisher. With no regrets.

It’s great that I can write whatever comes to mind and I never have think about the consequences. Because people will like me no matter what I say about them. It’s fiction. Or is it extremely creative non-fiction? I can’t remember which.

Inspiration is everywhere, literally. I am inspired by the stupid things all the stupid people around me say. Publishing gives me the opportunity to exploit these people and to impose my own obscure metaphors on others as if they were universal. Everyone loves it! Because ultimately, the world revolves around me and my metaphors are the key to knowledge and wisdom.

I am especially inspired by stress, a good hangover, a bad date, trips to the dermatologist, injuries and self-detriment in general. But, for me, inspiration is everywhere.

Almost. As a serious author, I’ve got to admit I am completely uninspired by one thing:
Babies…

Unless you’re talking about having babies, in which case I’m totally inspired. Actually, that’s what all of this bull-honkey is about. If I had a baby for every time somebody asked me for a dollar, I would have so many babies. And if I had a dollar for every time a baby smiled at me, I would have at least a dollar. My point being: Babies rule. But I could really use a dollar.

Babies are like people but they can’t argue. Sure, they can complain, but they are unable to articulate themselves so it’s easy to ignore them. They are a lot like City employees in that way. But City employees smoke a lot more. I don’t really like City employees, but they are more inspiring than babies. I guess.

11.22.2006

My Confession


I told you I loved you. But I’ve been saying the same thing about pickle juice for years and I still don’t know if I mean it.







I can’t help myself.



One thing is certain though. With pickle juice, I can walk away at any time. I can come and go as I please. And I really need that kind of freedom. So, when all is said and done, I think I do love pickle juice and I’m pretty sure I never loved you.



Sorry for the confusion.

11.15.2006

Diary of an 8-Year-Old Something

October 19, 1989
My full name is Olga and my nickname is Olga. I was born in a hospital. When I was born I was ten inches long and wighted 13 pounds and 2 ounces. Today I am 5 feet and 51 inches tall.

My favorite books:
Choclate Fever
The Plant that Ate Drity Socks
Just Kermit and Me
Baby Sitter Says No
Love, Olga
September 3, 1989
Mrs. Berger is my coach. This year reading is longger. Mrs. Berger is fat. We have lunch at 11/20. I do not ride bus 19 anymore I ride bus 192. I like rideng on the bus.
I do not like to go to school school but I have to or my Mom and Dad will be put in jail.
After school I have a snack.
Laura is not home so I watch TV.

Love,
Olga

September 4, 1989
My Best subjects are
math
art
sosial studies
reading

My worst subjects are
creative writing
If I had 3 wishes....I would wish that
1. I'd wish to be a witch with a broom that would take me in the sky.
2. I wish I could fly way up in to the sky.
Love,
Olga

September 4,1989 again
"5 inches"-a story.
One mroning I woke up and found I had been sleeping in a big big big big big big big bed. I did not know what to think. Soon I knew I had shrank. I was only 5 inches tall. I fell off the bed and broke my leg. So I rode on my pet beetle to the breakfast table. Just when I was about to have breakfast... the beetle had breakfast on me.

January 1990
My new years resolution was to say prayers more. I got my report card.

Februrary 1990
Though it did not snow I had lots of fun and the groundhog didnt see his shadow. And I did not tell you that my mom is working at church...just kidding!
She is going to get a real job bust she has to work on how to work in the church for three more years. I wish Jason Smith would like me but he took drugs so I'm not relliy intrested. Besides I have to think about the Iowa test.
March 1990
Nothing much happend.
Love,
Olga
Photo Credit: www.route40.net








10.27.2006

Is it the future yet?

The Internet is an amazing tool! It revolutionizes every facet of our existence, impacting important scientific developments, dating, shopping and even healthcare. You can get an online diagnosis, spy on your ex, and see pictures of your neighborhood from outer space.

I do everything on the internet. I download required texts, check the weather forecast, look up the bus schedule and talk to old friends. I even have my period on the internet. It’s just that convenient.

One day we will toss aside the old fashioned dedication to “real life” in favor a newer and more convenient myth. In the future absolutely everything that matters will be virtual (kind of like right now, but in 3D). In the future, we will realize that this life is a silly, outdated contraption- not unlike the douche bag or the rotary phone. In the future we won’t need reality because we’ll realize that the constraints and confines of its physical space, matter and laws of physics hinder the business of being human.

When we are all uploaded, ISP’s will still be essential. But instead of providing internet, they will be in the business of maintaining our unfashionably real bodies while we are online. The new reality will be great for the environment since we will no longer have to travel anywhere or do anything. Earth 8.0 is over 1800MHz and processes reality 70 times faster.

The universe will probably continue to expand and contract.

Everything in cyberspace is superior. We will be able to improve and accessorize our virtual selves’ right there. I’ll be able to get breast enhancements without going all the way to Mexico. Racism will be a thing of the past because, for the right price, anyone can be white. And they will be!

People not logged into the net will be useless. There will be some debate as to whether these idle entities should exist at all. Their vital organs will be removed to aid the functioning online community and their unsavory, smelly bodies will go to scrap.
It will be great. In the future we won’t need braces or daycare facilities. All we’ll need is enough credit on Paypal to afford the next great makeover. So get all your usernames and passwords memorized, it’s almost time to live the dream.

10.15.2006

The Jason Smith Project:

Myth intersects with life in mysterious ways. According to MySpace figures [Oct 06], there are over 6800 Jason Smiths in cyberspace. But ladies beware: Jason Smith is everywhere.

The Jason Smith Project (JSP), begun over 20 years ago in Chesapeake VA, seeks to answer persistent archetypal questsions such as: Who is Jason Smith? And what does a headless butterfish have to do with anything?

In mythology Jason Smith was great hero, favored by Hera presumably because he was to play a pivotal role in a great adventure which she carefully planned from Mount Olympus. Coincidentally, Jason was single at the time and had nice arm definition and very pretty eyes.

Nevertheless, Hera held a grudge against King Pelias, Jason’s uncle and usurper of his rightful throne and so she was inclined to aid Jason on various occasions throughout his life and times with the Argonauts.

But Hera wasn’t the only lady Jason had on speed-dial. From day one, Jason was destined to be a player. In the first grade he went out with Kelly McAllister, Tiffany Johnson and Vicki Stein - all in the same week. In the third grade he brought in a lingerie clipping from the Spiegel catalog for show and tell. Many, many women, most notably Medea, were infatuated by his good looks, his devil-may-care attitude and his overall emotional inaccessibility.

Jason was goth in high school, carried clove cigarettes and smelled like a mixture of smoke and aged leather. This drove women crazy and even the other boys had a curious respect for him. He received many favors, skipped classes without rebuke from faculty and dated very pretty girls.

Later in life, Medea fell in love with Jason and gave him magical protection that allowed him to complete various tasks. In reality, Medea did the most important work in obtaining the Golden Fleece for him and wrote a forty page paper comparing Wagner’s Ring Cycle and Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings for his summer independent study credit. In return Jason swore an oath of fidelity and promised to take her with him to Greece.

But despite his good fortune, Jason Smith was, at heart, a self-centered fool. The most tragic thing about his life was that he was never really challenged. Most of his victories were staged in order to inflate his ego and win his affections. Perhaps realizing this sub-consciously, Jason developed a drinking problem and started masturbating compulsively.

His heavy drinking, bed-wetting, and emotional distance did not discourage Medea's love. Jason tried to divorce her. He imagined a happier life with Creusa, daughter of King Creon. Understandably hurt, Medea filled Creusa’s car with headless butterfish and burned both Creon and Creusa to death.

The gods noticed that Jason had broken his promise of fidelity, and so they forced him to wander homeless for many years before he moved back to his mom’s trailer and then joined the army. As an old man he returned to Corinth, where, resting in the shadow of the Argo, he was killed when the prow toppled over on him. Jason’s story appears frequently in literature in blogs, weekly I Love I Hate You's and in Euripides.

9.16.2006

Is It Lonely at the Bottom of the Sea?


SpongeBob: A Contemporary American Icon

SpongeBob lives in a pineapple under the sea.

In his world, underwater worms bark like dogs and are kept on chains. Jellyfish act like bees; buzzing, stinging, and producing jelly. Aside from the many undersea puns, some common products from the surface world have somehow found their way into Bikini Bottom, such as "canned bread", roast beef, and even pizza. SpongeBob works at the Krusty Krab, a fast-food restaurant and he happens to be the only cartoon to consistently make the Top 10 list in the Nielsen ratings. His cartoon is apparently the first low budget Nickelodeon cartoon to become extremely popular. [1]

What is going on here?

We don’t really think of him as a Sponge, despite that this is clearly expressed in his name. He lives at the bottom of the ocean. Is he supposed to be oppressed or something? The latter half of his name, “Square Pants” reflects that his pants are square. It also allows his name to have a nice melody to it.“SpongeBob Square Pants!”

But it’s hard to ascertain much else about the guy.

Unlike other great American cartoon heroes, SpongeBob does not purport to teach us anything. Now that even 5 year olds are becoming scathing cynics, SpongeBob fills an entertainment void without being veiled in morals and meaning. He teaches us nothing and we breathe a sigh of relief because that’s about all we can commit to.

From an educational standpoint he enriches children as much as any other 99 cent bag of Funions and Kool-Aid. It is one example of how we can acclimate youth into a culture of the absurd-a reality wherein people inject plastic into their bodies, vacation in outer space, live on the internet and build nuclear weapons in order to take over the world.


We can’t argue with SpongeBob because he’s not making any arguments. He symbolizes nothing for just about everyone. From a marketing standpoint, this puts SpongeBob at a strategic advantage. He was born from a cleverly designed logic model conceived to create a being that could be mass produced to the widest audience at the lowest possible cost for the longest time. Congratulations Nickelodeon.

Weird but palatable, SpongeBob is easily pimped across ethic and socio-economic segments. Our adoption of him is safe, because everything about him, from his status as a sponge- to cheap digital watches and backpacks-is completely disposable. He is the king of Post-post modernity.
His profoundly meaningless world might even make him “timeless.” No 70’s mustache. No skinny tie. No bulky palm-pilot to laugh at in 2 years. Unfortunately, you can’t kill him either. He’s a sponge.

In an interview with Oprah last week, Oprah asked, “How has it been living at the bottom of the ocean? Do you feel you’ve been oppressed?” After a long pause, SpongeBob blinked and made a squeaky noise.


And what of our old cartoon favorites? Captain Planet? The Ninja Turtles? Looney Tunes?

I’m afraid that Captain Planet and the Planeteers; Heart, Fire, Wind, Water, and Earth, have been ousted from the entertainment business for good. They can be spotted on any weekday afternoon around 17th and Walnut in their bright “Save the Children” shirts and three-ring binders, hustling strangers for contributions. “Hey! Hi There! Excuse me! How are you today, Sir?”

The social implications of Sponge Bob’s rise to prominence are simple. We love SpongeBob. His rise to fame reminds of our own Godless existence, devoid of logic and safety, celebrating the unpredictable and absurd.
[1] From Wikipedia. Sept 16th 2006. See Title Link.

8.22.2006

It's Beautiful



Birds chirp and squirrels rummage through garbage but more importantly, people are having sexual intercourse. Everywhere!


In homes, cheap hotels, and abandoned vehicles, as well as in the park and in the alleyway by my front door.

I love warm weather. And all of this makes me extremely happy-that my alley is “a safe place” where two people can come together in the physical manifestation of what is, no doubt, a meaningful relationship. My alleyway is the perfect, tucked away locale for such a sublime outdoor experience on a peaceful summer's eve. It also makes me happy that these people are, apparently, using protection. My alley is littered with condoms and condom wrappers. Mostly Lifestyles.

This knowledge, a negligible PGW bill, and the opportunity to wear shorts, all make me happy. I realize how much I love Philadelphia and the fact that I live in such a loving community, even if the unions at my front door are often between two males and usually anal in nature.

It makes me “less happy” that, more often than not, one of the people having sex in my alley is a crack whore. Making me unhappier still, is the pile of human shit left on my sidewalk in the morning.

But I don’t complain. It’s beautiful outside.

8.17.2006

Hey!


You and I don't get along that well.

In fact, I have trouble looking at you out of fear that I might be tempted to relate to you or otherwise engage in your world of deception, evil and catty bullshit. On occasion I have forced myself to make small talk with you-out of some silly, self-imposed obligation to seem professional. These conversations were extremely difficult for a number of reasons, the most significant of which is the fact that you probably you don’t understand anything about me.

And I why should I expect you to understand me?
You suck and I do not; therefore, we have nothing in common.

For your clarification, here are a few important things about me that may aid you in understanding where I stand in relation to you. Use them as a roadmap; not for further conversation, but rather, to help you to not suck so much.

-I can, and sometimes do, read.

-That sound that follows me wherever I go: It’s the sound of most other people laughing at the joke that you don’t think is funny.

-I don’t know anything about horse racing.

-My laughter is sincere. My smile is not.

- Its okay for me to make fun of myself. It is not okay for you to make fun of me.

-The only time I ever went to a country club, I was wearing a tux and handing out meat cubes.

-I believe in the value of the work I do- even if I get paid in jellybeans and have to wear a foam octopus on my head.

On a positive note, I want to thank you for sucking so deeply and truly. Your fervent sucking underscores how awesome I am in comparison and makes the boring, yet inoffensive individuals in my life seem that much more agreeable.

Best,

Olga

8.14.2006

Rocky

The August 3rd Inquirer article concerning the relocation of Rocky to art museum steps suggested that the Art Commission was staunchly opposed to the idea of moving the statue so close to the art museum for a number of reasons. Penny Balkin Bach, director of the Fairmount Park Art Association was quoted saying, "There's not a public swell to have it there" and local artist, Moe Brooker, even indicated that the Rocky statue isn't art.

Nevertheless, the interest in the debate, on the streets, in print and online reflects that the public is paying attention. So far, Philadelphians are in overwhemlingly in favor of moving the statue to the museum, regardless of bluenose critics who point to a deficit in the artistic integrity of the whole affair.

To argue as to whether or not Rocky is art, is to delve back into the outdated postulations from early 20 th Century art criticism. Ironically, Duchamp's "Fountain," a porcelain urinal signed "R.Mutt" sits in a gallery just on the other side of the art museum walls as a testament to how the opinions of art critics are less than enduring.

Rocky, whether we like it or not, is an icon from popular urban mythology in Philadelphia . If the she-wolf and her cubs deserve a place in Rome, Rocky deserves a place close to this city's heart. It's from a movie. But I'd point out that Philadelphia is still a young city compared to its European counterparts. Hence, our urban myths and heritage are derived from stories ingrained in the consciousness of the 21st Century public audience, stories from popular culture, from various fictional accounts, and even from movies...

The public loves Rocky because he embodies the spirit of the Philadelphia . He is an underdog who made it to the top, or at least to the top of the art museum steps. In the year 2006, Rocky is our Romulus. 100 years from now, when movies are obsolete, maybe those critical members of the arts community will come down from their pedestal of pretension and snobbery to join Rocky and the rest of Philadelphia at the base of the art museum steps. Until then, we can be grateful to live in a city where the public engages in a debate that affects the urban landscape for future generations.

8.12.2006

All the Bitches Wanna Get With Me

The Rap Video

4 out of 5 construction workers, men in unhappy marriages and my former therapist agree: I have sex appeal.

In my rap video, I proclaim that “all the bitches wanna get with me” as I am surrounded by a team of muscular and horny backup dancers who nod in sync with the base beat so as to confirm this obvious truth. Men rush to my aid as I approach an intersection, throwing their expensively hand-tailored blazers into rancid street-side puddles to prevent me from soiling my sneakers. My sex appeal means I never open a door for myself, I’ve never spent a dime of my own money and I am never subjected to the smell of raw sewage. As I traverse the subway vent on a beautiful afternoon, a cool breeze blows my white dress up from around my calves and every man in a three mile radius whistles in synchronous melody.



Or not.

Regardless of all the wife-beaters, forty ounces and cheap jewelry in my life, my rap video is suspiciously devoid of bitches.

The rap video, being the definitive indicator of both sex appeal and social health, is a facet of everyday life I take pretty seriously. I don’t allow just any bitch to make an appearance on the back of my Ducati- only to be spotted next week in Lil Kim’s video, licking Courvoisier off her fat toes.

There is a relatively simple formula I recommend using to determine which bitches to be in your rap video. I divide my bitches into two basic camps.

1. Bitches who want to play motorcycles
2. Bitches who do not want to play motorcycles


Bitches who want to play motorcycles will call whether or not you’ve made plans. They will do anything to play motorcycles, including, but not limited to, plowing you with alcohol and making bogus claims to clean your carburetor.

On the other hand, bitches who do not want to play motorcycles can be more difficult to identify. They do not make requests to play motorcycles. They may not notice you, they avoid eye contact and are not prompt to return phone calls. They may even seem blatantly uninterested in motorcycles and red-heads. Bitches who do not want to play motorcycles are basically self-obsessed, narcissistic homosexuals.

Nevertheless, either type of bitch qualifies to at least audidion for the video. I find that bitches who want to play motorcycles are more likely to provide consistent, dependable back-up footage. Meanwhile, those in the latter group, uninterested in playing motorcylces, are probably already cast as lead bitch in someone else’s rap video or are otherwise too busy jerking off in the mirror to be bothered.

More on bitches and rap videos to come...

7.23.2006

What Makes Pirates So Great?

Before leaving the house this morning I announced to the family that I would be spending the day “looking for pirate shit.” My Dad inquired, “What do you need pirate shit for?”
“Because Pirates are great.”
Confused, he asked. “What makes Pirates so great?”
I sighed. “Nevermind. I’m just going through a Pirate phase I guess.”

I am 30 years old. I have a background in art history and have written volumes on popular symbolism and semiotics. I also have three hours to kill at the airport, so I will take this opportunity to try explain exactly why pirates are great, aside from the obvious reasons: hidden treasure, bandannas and overseas travel. (As if anyone needed more reasons.)

First of all, Pirates stick together. They love to drink. They carry very cool pistols with ivory and shit on the handle, but they also know how to use swords. Pirates always have an awesome tan and don’t have to apply sunscreen.


Pirates are all about being Pirates. Pirates do not coerce their boyfriends into moving in with them and getting a fucking dog together. Pirates say very little, including “Arrr,” “Aye Aye” and “Shiver me timbers” but you can rest assured that they are always saying what they mean.
Pirates do not watch TV. Pirates often have mustaches.

Pirates DO NOT GET MARRIED AND MOVE TO HOUSES IN THE NORTHEAST.

Pirates love their moms. Pirates love hockey and motorcycles, golf carts, darts and ping pong. Pirates know about technology. Pirates are no bullshit. They are responsible for several important innovations including pirate flags, the poison symbol, eye-patches, PIRACY and probably beef jerky.

Pirates do not have to lie about where they live or work or go to school because they are obviously Pirates and everyone should take comfort in that kind of transparency. It’s unusual.

Contrary to popular belief, Pirates did not just go around “raping and pillaging” villages of innocent peasants. It is a known fact that those villages were frequently inhabited by used car salesmen, accountants, racists and pedophiles.

Pirates do not give blow jobs but they also don’t take themselves too seriously. Pirates love to fart! On a Friday night they can go out with mates, or hang out with old high school buddies. They can discuss local politics, play darts and not talk about being Pirates. Finally, Pirates understand exactly what kind of hassles they will encounter in airport security and are sure to pack all scissors, fingernail clippers in their luggage beforehand. They usually prefer a window seat and can endure long flights and car trips without peeing.

I think as a society, we all have something to gain from learning a little more about Pirates and the Pirate lifestyle.

Here are a few Pirate Resources :


How to Talk Like a Pirate

The Life of Blackbeard

6.21.2006

5.20.2006

No Regrets

I recommending burying everything before it has a chance to do something stupid.

I started my first cemetery when I was four. My parents bought my brother and I several tropical fish. They were in a fish tank in my room and it was my responsibility to clean the love, feed and otherwise care for our new pets. Apparently the responsibility was more stress than I was prepared to handle. Two weeks after acquiring the fish, I set the thermostat too high and went out to play. When I came home, my room was stinky and humid. A molten kaleidoscope of dead things bobbed along the top of the water. It made my brother cry, my parents seemed dissapointed. I buried thier stinky, mushy bodies by the chimney.

Over the next few years, I secretly rehabilitated insects, wounded animals and roadkill at various homemade clinics situated around the house. I tried in vain to nurse flattened frog carcasses back to health in the garage. I made a nest of dirty laundry for pigeons who flew into the patio door and I fed them Advil and cherry Slurpees until, they too, eventually died. I put them all that shallow grave by the chimney where I would play tennis by myself. It was no use. Things kept dying under my care. Eventually I buried my racquet.

Perhaps spending the majority of my childhood playing alone and rehabilitating dead things retarded the development of some vital social skills. On the second day of kindergarden, I was so anxious about whether Carrie Stootz would be my friend that, to alleviate the anxiety, I pushed her off the top of the big slide. She broke her arm, but at least I never actually had to bury her.

Since then, Ive been mindlessly burying possibilities, paying respects to carcasses Ive made no connections with and developing a rich default depository for all life opportunities that may end in regret.

I dont take road trips. I avoid people I might be attracted to. I havent had a haircut in six years.

Despite my diligent avoidance, I am regretful more consistently than anyone I know. My experiences end in regret way more often than my trips to the bathroom end in hand-washing.

I regret missing the Super bowl. I regret drinking from the pump-chili dispenser at 7-11. I regret buying a book of short stories by Steve Martin. I regret ever dating anyone. I regret telling you about not washing my hands. I regret being proud of all my regret and I regret not joining the circus.

But thats not all I do with regret. It is also a useful compound in which you can soak and sanitize accomplishments, in order to ward off pride.

There are few things that I do not regret. I do not really regret driving the car through the backyard fence when I was 15 and I do not regret gluing my pubic hair to Amanda Johnson's doorknob in college.

But I guess that's about it.

5.19.2006

Dear Asian Lady

Thank you for teaching me about your culture.
The other day you posed the question, "Why you do that to your face?"

I was taken by surprise. In my country, acne is a fact of life that we grudging put up with, but are otherwise happy to politely ignore.

I can only wonder about the protocol in your country. Is there a game show for people unlucky enough to have pimples? Or do you just throw rocks at them?


Our interaction provided me with a great deal of insight into the hypocrisy of our ideals and other such bullshit and I think we have much to learn from a culture so comfortable with public indictments of poor skin care.

To answer your question:
I "do this to my face" because I hate compliments.
I wear my clothing inside out and deliberately apply lipstick to my teeth for the same reason.

Please ask me something else. I am eager to engage is this exciting cultural dialogue.

3.19.2006

Romance

I met a gentleman the other day while waiting at 51st and Spruce for the bus.

He said, “Hello Miss. How are you?”
“Fine. How are you?” I replied.
He said, “I’m good….Now why don’t you get acquainted with my dick.”


I think he liked me.




I wonder if he got nervous and ran out of things to talk
about.

1.31.2006

Johnny's Work






1.26.2006

Afternoon Hike

By: T.W. Bonner
January, 2006

Abraham Yaples stays just out across that frozen plane, the one blinding you, being that you are neither native nor familiar to these elevations. Before going, be sure to put on good thick shoes and bring extra socks. Thick ones, too. Once you go, the walk across the open will only take a few minutes. No need to rush, because the ground will sink beneath your feet at unexpected times, and Abe has been waiting for long enough to wait for a few minutes more.
On the other side you will face a mass of sharpened thickets and stoic saplings. You may proceed, but you will be colder now beneath the trees and out of the light behind you, and the sensation of a pair of eyes boiling on your neck is ordinary. They are only the type that is aged brown and knowing, and in places, chopped down to a crystal gray.
If you have followed these directions as they have been transcribed, then you now stand before a broken down stone wall. The wall is very old, and may be older than anything you have ever seen, and it will be taking cover from the elements beneath a thick shag carpet of moss, rising and falling with the contours of the earth. Turn left here, and if you haven’t already done so, pick up your pace and awareness. From now on the snow will be working against you, as it will always do in this time and place. To continue, you must cling to the soggy curtain next to you. The stones beneath, ancient and content, may be reluctant to assist, and may resist by protruding angles and jagged edges—beware of the numerous hazards.
Now, trudging faster, your heart has begun to beat into your ears, and despite the cold, your cheeks and lobes are burning. Your salvation awaits, and you will not divert. Abraham Yaples is close. And waiting.
I know, I know, the screaming. The screaming and the fire have become more than annoyances. You’re hurting a lot now. I know, but move. You’re blind, but move. Before you, and jump. Jump.
Your suspension is indefinite but, and I tell you this now to express my regret for not being forthcoming—as forthcoming as I could have, or perhaps, I should have been with you in the beginning, but Abraham Yaples is only a little further. Relax your extremities. The ice will only take a few minutes. In fact, you may already have realized a sensation of cracking. The shimmering crystals in your plasma, beautiful as they are, each distinct and sparkling crimson will continue to grow with each ragged breath from here on. Do not reflect. Do not wish. Do not pray—these waste the power remaining. It is coming now, and you go.
Your impact has not broken you despite this feeling, and the most impossible course now is retreat. No, attack. Run. Your heart beat is deafening, but this is for the best. Scream. Scream for salvation just a little further on. Your legs are blazing from your ankles up, but this must only push you harder. There is a river now, shallow but swift. It will try to take you. Do not give it time. Fight for the life turning stone under the skin. Howl. Do not release.
There. There. Do you see him? His children lay beneath him, each curled into heavy blocks, their names turned etchings under moistened patchwork quilts of green and brown. Here you fall before his monolithic granite trunk and wrap your arms about his cold. The crucifix at his highest point is sentient and will be always. Rest your worn eyes and let your bluish tendrils fall back to Earth. Sleep, and warm blankets will shelter you. The thickest ones. Abraham Yaples will stay with you always, at last.

A. Yaples, 1758 - 1810