Hallmarks of a Lady

Cube Flare

2008-08-19T20:20:00.006-04:00

Our cubicles can be a reflection of who we are, who we would like to be, or simply an embarrassing mess reflecting what we eat at work. One colleague, Stacy, adorns her cube with pictures of her niece, Tiffany. There is Tiffany as a chubby-cheeked baby-Tiffany wearing an outfit that identifies her as a proud member of the marching band. -Tiffany in a purple tap costume- and finally, Tiffany, covered in sweat, wearing a hospital gown, and holding her very own baby, which she, if she has the opportunity, will undoubtedly photograph and post in her very own cubicle. The circle of life continues.

In Joe’s cube, he houses items from the offices of previous VPs. A giant cattle skull, a water thermometer, a Mr. Potato head and angry client letters fill his personal space. It’s a special – a virtual reliquary of VP’s past.

My cubicle is comparatively boring. Just a note pad for taking down messages, last month’s production report, and some books on design. There is also a listing of pertinent evacuation procedures, holidays, extension lists, and birthdays. I have no photos and no special knickknacks.

When the new VP came to see my cubicle, I suddenly realized that my space lacked character, class and personal flare. I brought her through the dregs of cube city, introducing her to my cube mates and finally showed her my space where a blinking light indicating that there was a voicemail message on my phone was the only sign of human life within a 3-foot radius.
“This is where I live. ...Uh, extension 17 if you ever need anything.”
“Okay.”

She stood there for a second and I wished I had something to show her. Maybe a photo of a child I was related to, in order to demonstrate: Just look! I’m a person with a very special life.

Instead, I blurted out exactly what I was thinking, which unfortunately was, “I don’t feel it necessary to impose my personal life on others.”
She smiled and put her hand on my shoulder “Whatever makes you comfortable.”

Since then, I’ve been thinking about what I could do with my cube to reflect my own sense of style, class, and personality, without dressing my walls with photos of family members, birthday cards that I feel too guilty to throw away, or free calendars.

I would begin by adorning the fiber core walls with a life-sized portrait of Benjamin Franklin. In his live sized half-portrait he would be wearing a monocle, holding some mineral in one hand and a tiny colonial flag in the other, presented in an ornately carved frame with ruby, pearl on oak in gold leaf -to catch the subtle lighting from the computer monitor as well as the two red candlesticks on either side of the flat screen.

On the cube shelf would be an old-fashioned phonograph, set to play records of the 50’s French singer, Edith Pilaf. La Vie en Rose would play softly in the background complimenting the hum of the printer as I printed out the monthly dashboard.

Additionally, I would keep in my desk drawer, a carved wooden box featuring whimsical islanders blowing ceremonial trumpets and M.C. Escher-esque geometric patterns. When a special guest visited like my immediate neighbor in cube-city, the office assistant, I would unearth the box from the mess of paperclips and say,
“Barb! It’s wonderful to see you. Can I offer you a pickle?”
She’d say, “Sure. I’ll take kosher dill, if you got it.”

I would still prefer to keep my friends and family out of the work environment. I don’t want to give anyone any ideas.

Motorcycle Portraiture: An Ingenious Business Pursuit

2008-07-30T19:54:00.004-04:00

There are many artists who work mundane day jobs and, in their spare time, pursue a more fulfilling craft: be it painting, photography, music or knitting. My craft, as of late, has been drinking Merlot out of a pickle jar and writing pithy anecdotes about my adventures owning, maintaining and occasionally operating a vintage motorcycle. Since my computer was ruined in 2005 after a near fatal Merlot accident, I’ve been strongly considering moving into a more lucrative hobby which would allow me to bypass the incredible frustration I have with my computer crashing and the risk of publishing work that is slanderous and/or self-incriminating.

As an undergraduate, I took on studio art as a minor to my major in art history. I was pretty good at drawing and painting and sincerely I enjoyed those classes. At this point, given that I have masters in the business of arts programming and an undergraduate degree in liberal arts, the business of Motorcycle portraiture seems like a logical career move.

The idea is simple: You pay me to paint and possibly frame, a quality portrait of yourself and your outrageously expensive Hog.

In this way, I could pursue painting in addition to my love of being around other people who are completely self-obsessed, neurotic, and irrational. This is not to suggest that all bikers are ridiculous. Just anyone who would commission an oil painting of their bike. And fear not, plenty of people would…Probably more people than anyone is prepared to recognize- would spend money on an original oil of themselves mounting a giant purple Harley.

And yes, I am the right person to handle this market at this time for several reasons:
1. Because it would be funny and 2. Because men who ride motorcycles love me, and finally 3. Because I like to paint.

There is, as of yet, no service or product offering quite like the service I plan to offer and no quality, personalized portrait studio that specializes in motorcycles portraiture. There are studios that accept commissions for paintings of bikes and bikers, but those don’t seem to specialize in any technical quality or artistic capacity. Go ahead, google “motorcycle paintings.” Your first hit will make you laugh at out loud.

My target client base will be older men who spent way too much money on a giant Harley (or look-alike Yamaha) that they are prepared to drive about twice every summer, but are otherwise terrified of. The secondary target client is the woman who is married to someone from the first group, interested in commissioning a painting as a very special gift for a birthday, retirement or anniversary.

The money I earn from this pursuit will go directly toward refurbishing my own motorcycle seat cover, obtaining a radical helmet with a synthetic Mohawk and getting a new computer. Expect to see me peddling at First Fridays. Business plan is forthcoming.

Photo from: Motocycle paintings by James “Kingneon" (Talented Motorcycle Painter- Likely to be direct competition. )

Undiscovered Living Legend

2007-12-06T18:32:00.000-05:00

My lifestyle would lead anyone to believe that I am a genius, a prodigy; an undiscovered living legend.

It's pretty obvious. For one, I have very unruly hair, a result of late nights tossing, turning, and otherwise toiling, dreaming up grandiose schemes and/or ways to generate reports and data views and organize produce in the crisper. Also, it is a little known fact that I haven't seen a dentist in 15 years and it is a well known fact that it was unlikely that Einstein had his teeth cleaned on a semi-annual or regular basis. It is also unlikely that I would be likely to go voluntarily to a dentist anytime in the next 15 years.

More evidence: my bedroom is drafty and smells like mold, red wine, and spray butter. In sum, if I were just to bathe in a trough of luke warm water and in poop in a bucket, I would be Mozart.

Popular Mechanics

2007-11-03T22:57:00.000-04:00

I always said that I don't need anyone to ream my ass with sunshine. I'd prefer to meet someone who can clean a carburetor and/or make soup. And I did.

He isn’t too old or fat or stupid or sexist or married. He might not even be an alcoholic. He’ll probably never ask me to eat beef or shave or hold hands in public or meet his parents. He’ll probably never ask me to do anything other than to pay in cash. And I know, it’s such a cliché, but my mechanic is pretty much perfect.

He sure can talk about voltage swing… I hang around the shop, rifle though garbage , play with my hair, and try to impress this gentlemen with the breadth and scope of my self-deprecating humor. Closing time comes and goes and he continues at length about the benefits of monitoring my own tire pressure and wearing polyvinyl microfibers. I wonder if he is retarded. I also wonder if there is a panic button he's been trying to engage all afternoon that doesn't seem to work... Or if he thinks I’m too young. Or silly. Or if my fly is down...Is he trying to scare me away with this business talk?

Maybe he’s seeing someone. I wonder if I should accidentally leave my glasses so that he can have a reason to call me. Who could this other woman be? Surely, she can’t make jokes about Quantum Leap and nineties Hip-Hop like I can. Does she even have health insurance?

I can also open imported beers with a lighter. Can she do that? She’s probably totally controlling, suicidal and a coke-fiend. He’s got to take care of her. I guess… I guess I should check to make sure my fly isn’t down. Whoever she is, she's probably creepy.

Or maybe it’s not that bad. Maybe he just has a really physically, physiologically, and sexually crippling venereal disease. Like anal warts the size of brussel sprouts.

Otherwise, it could be that he thinks I’m flaky. Maybe he doesn’t like my jokes. Maybe he doesn’t like jokes.

Lately, I wonder why he hasn't returned my phone call about the battery I ordered two weeks ago. Should I take it personally? Should I stop by? Maybe he lost my number. Or maybe he’s too busy to order a battery. Or maybe he doesn't want to be my mechanic anymore. No. That’s silly. Maybe he’s dead. Or on vacation. Or getting married in France. Sheesh. Maybe he had to pass a kidney stone. Or maybe he's being held up at gun point by his girlfriend, who he finally realized has PTSD and rabies.

I should probably stop by.

Dear Lord:

2007-10-20T16:04:00.000-04:00

I haven’t prayed since I was I was six-years-old and foolish enough to believe that if I asked you for a 24 pack of crayons and a dirt bike, the next day you might deliver.

Now I know better. I know that if I am ever going to buy into you, I need to pray for more important things; things that no human being could ever deliver on – like clearing up the acne around my chin. I’ll save that for a time when I’ve been especially good. In the meantime, I think the best way for you and I to get reacquainted would me for me to start giving thanks for all that I’ve gained since we last spoke.

Thanks for that snow day. And thanks for giving me my health. I don’t take for granted that I haven’t lost both my legs, all my parts work, and that, technically, I don't have VD.
Thank you for giving me friends. Thank you for my Mom and Dad. Thank you for Stars and Stripes Fruit Mist Tangerine Lime Naturally Flavored Sparkling Water Beverage.

I guess that’s about it.

Later I'll hit you up with some of the things I need forgiveness for. Until then, please keep my legs in tact. Oh, and please bless all the people that matter.

-Olga

Tiny Things

2007-10-14T21:23:00.000-04:00

Top Reasons to Carry a Tiny Dog
1. To distract others from your fat, stupid face.
2. To finally have a reason to buy tiny clothes.
3. Companionship.
4. To have something to distract yourself and others from your sick, miserable lives.
5.To study how to bite the hands off of small children and bark incessantly.

Top Reasons Why People With Tiny Dogs Make Me Sad
1. Because they suck.
2. Because both tiny dogs in handbags and their owners waste valuable natural resources, contribute to global warming and take too much time ordering very complicated beverages at Starbucks.
3. Because for the price of one tiny dog, in a tiny sweater, in a leather handbag, one could sponsor 4 Sudanese children for a year, covering the cost of food, clothing, and a mediocre Christian education.
4. One tiny dog could probably feed at least 2 hungry aforementioned children for a day.
5. Because I heard somewhere that our purchases reflect our values; hence, decadent, useless and ugly things: like Chihuahuas in tutus are generally in poor taste. Like powdered wigs.

Nightmare

2007-05-14T21:19:00.000-04:00

Scenario 1. My boss needs a hot tea. NOW. I go to the microwave to heat up the water and discover a 4-week-old kitten living inside. There is no time to think.

I place the cup of water in the microwave with the kitten and close the door.
I try heating up the water for thirty seconds. Beep Beep Beep.

The kitten is alive. But the water is luke warm.

I try sixty seconds. Beep Beep Beep

The kitten is screaming. The water is warmish.

I try ninety seconds. Beep Beep Beep

Scenario 2. Gino, a 43 year old divorcee and father of two, is driving me around on a vintage Honda. He yells in my ear, "Is this as good for you as it is for me!?" I pretend I can't hear him. He repeats, " Is this as good for you as it is for me!?" He installs a shitty clutch cable, then emails me for the next two years about getting another ride and a tune up.

Scenario 3. It's Friday night. I'm hanging out at a bar with my friends, who are a married couple, and getting relationship advice over Budwieser and calamari.

He says: If you want a man to notice you, buy him a bagel. If you want a man to date, find a foreigner who desperately wants a greencard.

She says: Stay away from men. They are stupid. You can always substitute the happiness they bring to you with fried food and trips to Burlington Coat Factory.

Scenario 4. I look in the mirror. My teeth are falling out. I'm pregnant. I have the baby and it fits in my palm. I have to keep it alive. It's shaking and crying. Before I can give it CPR, it turns into a kitten.

Vegas, Baby, Vegas

2007-05-12T19:58:00.000-04:00

Itinerary: Upcoming Trip to Vegas

Friday: Arrive in Vegas

-Get rich

-Find and marry Future X-husband

Saturday:

- Wear red sunglasses with rhinestone frames shaped like stars

- Acquire a fabulous tan

-Speak with a thick southern accent and purport to be an aspiring show girl

-Sit poolside and sip from a colorful beverage which includes, but is not limited to:

rum, sugar, orange juice, vodka, cherries/strawberries, pineapple, gin (preferably Tanqueray), a live sea creature, a plastic sword and a miniature pink and green umbrella

-Forget own name

Sunday:

-Wear a cowboy hat

- Take pictures of self wearing aforementioned cowboy hat, in front of

a monolithic flamingo

-Take The Big Lebowski tour (if one exists) or

- Hang out in a bathrobe and drink incessantly

-Attend cousin Jake's wedding *

Monday:

Return Home.

Maybe.

*remember to change out of bathrobe

Shoulda Bought a Boomerang

2007-05-06T17:38:00.000-04:00

I thought it would be fun to play in the park. Unfortunately, frisbee requires a partner.

Esteemed Former Collegue, Esq.:

2007-04-01T22:11:00.000-04:00

Out of all my colleagues, you are definitely the only one who wanted to smoke peanut shells for fun on a weekday. I could accept that. We are all somewhat artistic, jobless, and in need of haircuts. I suppose huffing glue and robo tripping are logical next steps.

However; I was disturbed when, after inbibing another psychotropic cocktail, you decided to inform me that I have a penis infatuation.

It is with deep regret that I write to inform you that your most recent epiphany is just one of many of your self-inflated delusions fueled by malnutrition, PBR and paint fumes.

It’s a shame that you won’t be joining us for lectures at the library anymore. I’ve enjoyed your company. You are a sensitive and introverted queer bumbling through life with the ego and social etiquette of a total butthead. What’s not to enjoy?

On the bright side, your brilliant conclusion has taught me more about how other men might interpret my brand of humor and what seven drinks can do to a six foot painting student in two hours.

And I realize that you have a penis infatuation.

Thank you for everything. It was nice knowing you.

Stop the Funny Train

2007-03-29T21:28:00.000-04:00

I would like to get off.

Dance Master

2007-03-16T18:43:00.000-04:00

I really enjoyed taking Intro to Ballroom Dance at my neighborhood arts center. It was challenging but I was glad to meet some friendly people in my neighborhood while learning a little bit about Cha Cha, Waltz, Tango, Swing and even a few new things about myself.

For one thing, I have an aversion to being held by strangers, which I didn’t realize was “unnatural “until I took the class. I am apparently an anomaly in a group-Waltz setting because unlike 98% of women under the age of 70, I really dislike being engulfed by old men with big feet who smell like ham. I’ve also determined that I am not comfortable being steered around in circles, in a mirrored room, with spotlights shining in my face. I guess I’m more of a visual person. I had a hard time with those particular facets of kinetic learning.

Followers (i.e. ladies, me) are not encouraged to tell leaders (i.e. old men who smell like ham) that they are doing everything wrong. It is also not okay to laugh at or infer that anyone in the class “looks really stupid” doing anything, not even yourself.

What I liked most about ballroom dancing is that you don’t have to look your partner in eye. I think. In any case, I’ve been meditating on an awful lot of shirt collars over the past nine weeks. Ballroom principles do not adhere to the tried and true empirical laws of survival such as “every man for himself” and although some of the footwork translates, ballroom dancing is actually not a martial art.

To that end, it is not acceptable “psyche out” your dance partner when they want to go in a new direction, nor is it common to hunch over in an effort to keep your body as far as possible from your partner’s. I would enjoy partner dancing that much more if my partner would mind their own business, read a book or something, let me listen to my IPod, and stop breathing in my ear.

No Complaints

2007-03-04T18:36:00.000-05:00

I’ve had my whole life handed to me on a silver platter. I guess I’m pretty lucky. Some people have their whole lives handed to them on a stick.

A lady always has an unused purple loofa.

2007-02-26T21:42:00.000-05:00

What the hell is it for?

2007-02-22T15:37:00.000-05:00

Excuse me, Mam! Mam! Before you get on that bus, I gotta show you this great thing!

What?
This thing, right here. Take a look for yourself.

God. That’s so weird. What’s it for?
Well… It’s magical and for just 2 dollars, it’s yours.

But why do I need it?
It makes lewd sucking noises.

That’s great. But can it solve my problems?…
Of course. It’s very creative.

Is it art?
No. But it can drink red wine and look completely un-amused at hockey games.

I see. So is it ,like, a paperweight or something?
It can do that.

Sorry. I don’t think I need it, whatever it is.
No. Wait!... It…it can open jars too… And it’s yours for just one dollar.

It’s a jar opener?
Not exactly. But it has a lot of related experience.

Look, whatever it is, I don’t need one of those.
In that case, can I get two bucks? I really need to get on this bus.

Pink Gold

2007-02-21T09:55:00.000-05:00

Kind Sir,

Occasionally I suffer from pressure and discomfort associated with gas.
Of that, I am not ashamed.

As you are now aware, I ensure that no one else is affected by my gastro-intestinal distress by taking ant-acid tablets, which I think I accidentally dropped on the floor at your house.

What you may not realize is that Extra Strength Cherry-Crème Chewable Gas-X does not grow on trees.

I know you are apprehensive about confronting me regarding this loss because you are probably very stoned and have discovered that Cherry Gas-X is extremely delicious. Nevertheless, it would mean a lot to me if you would return my 18 tablet solution to mild discomfort so that I can continue my pursuit of gas-free lifestyle.

Yours,

Lady at Large

Plastic Monsters

2007-02-15T10:06:00.000-05:00

It was a brief and painless flight. After 7 hours, we landed in Rome. The sun was setting over the mountains and it was the perfect time for a holiday. My sister got up from seat B59 and we re-united in the arrival gate. Both of us needed a vacation and I was glad she decided to come with me to the Eternal City.
“How long do you think you are staying?” I finally asked.
She looked at the ground. “My return flight leaves in an hour.”

“An hour!?” I thought we were going to span time together…

“I’m sorry. It was the cheapest trip I could get.”
“I guess so.”
“Well… I better find a souvenir.” She said.
I stood there, stunned. This was just like her, with her false commitments and bogus attempts to connect with me. She was always finding some way to escape. I fell back into a chair at the gate.

“Could you watch this for me?” She took off her face, set it in the seat next to me and wandered to some other part of the airport terminal.

I watched all the people in the airport. Families and lovers were constantly separating and uniting, exploding with tears of pain and joy, dropping things and looking very much unlike anyone on television. I flipped through my travel magazine, thinking about all the places I’d like to visit again, and places I wished I was visiting with my sister. She really needs a vacation. Out of the corner of my eye I could still see her face. I tried to pretend it wasn’t there.

She never liked her face and, since childhood, she had always denied its existence. Out of politeness, all of us ignored it too. But I did find it strange that she would just leave it there with me and expect me not to look at it. Did she want me to say something to it? Seeing as I’d never done so before, I used this opportunity to examine her facial features carefully.

First, I noticed her chin was completely plastic and there was rubber padding underneath to connect jaw-type things to her neck. That must be new. We’ve known each other for years. How did I miss that?

Then, I realized that her forehead was plastic too. I could see that someone had doodled in silver pen along where she used to have dimples. There was other graffiti in sharpee marker and blue pencil everywhere. Some teenager had inscribed “Kiki-N-Dwane 4 Eva” above her left temple. In fact, her cheeks, lips, and nose were also made up of hard plastic which bore signs of abuse far more serious than those I remembered her with. She’d been completely defaced.

To her, this prosthetic face was the ideal alternative to the natural indentations, acne scars, bumps and soft hair on her human skin. She’d invested thousands in her plastic face only to have people treat it as if it were an abandoned stall in the Fresh Grocer bathroom. It broke my heart.

I sighed and set her face back down just as she returned. I finally looked at her. I could see the under-face where her new plastic mask sat and I tried not to acknowledge it. It was like a bumpy pink hockey mask with two charcoal scribbles where her eyes would be: those eyes without a face.

She held up her purchase. “I got some really great lip gloss. Wanna try it?”
“Sure. But only if it will change my life.”
“It better. It was 16 Euro.”
“It will really compliment your face.”
“Are you sure? I mean. Would you wear it if you were me?”
“I could never be you. But I guess I would.”

And so there we were, two people looking something like people wearing lip gloss, spanning what was left of our time together.

Happy Valentines Day

2007-02-14T08:15:00.000-05:00

A Lady's Love....

2007-02-13T18:27:00.000-05:00

A Lady loves sensible shoes.

No, thank you.

2007-02-08T22:51:00.000-05:00

I can kiss my own boo boos.

Ladies of the Dance

2007-02-08T13:16:00.000-05:00

No one with any common sense would allow this to go on for more than two minutes.

In black unitards and cropped shirts, former cheerleading rejects smack their thighs and stomachs with colorful foam tubes, awkwardly struggling to stay on beat with the percussion ensemble. If not previously ruined, these precious young lives are certainly doomed now. Flying about the stage in an apocalyptic haze, members of the dance team wave their arms emphatically to signal the End. Then they regroup into undulating puddles, piles of young women writhing on the floor. In a single dance number, something intended to be creative has spiraled into something tragic, embarrassing and perverse. I cover my face with the program. I’m not sure I can endure much more. This feels like watching someone make out with their uncle for an hour and a half.

The theater is filled with the sound of stomping and bagpipes.

The only thing that could save this performance would be to set one of the girls on fire. Is the meteor ever going to hit the earth and save us from the rest of this? Perhaps I missed part of the narrative. I spent the first half of the performance laughing hysterically to myself. During the latter half I was furiously taking notes.

What this routine needs is some unifying gesture or prop, an element to tie the choreography together.

One of my friends has the perfect solution: This performance needs stray cats. Three dozen stray cats milling about the stage, licking themselves and looking confused would provide a profoundly symbolic cue for the audience to breathe a sigh of relief. It has come to this. Thank goodness the Mayan apocalypse is upon us. In the meantime, what is up with the cropped shirt? No one looks good in that.

What Kind of Motorcycle are You?

2007-02-08T10:22:00.000-05:00

FIND OUT NOW!

The Others

2007-02-01T20:32:00.000-05:00

New York City is overwhelming. All the others pulse through the streets, in and out of bars and restaurants, spilling from the front doors of tall glass buildings into taxis, on their way to the rest of their lives.

The Buddha and I stroll through Manhattan late on Tuesday night. People are everywhere. I think about how strange it is- all of them on one side of the thin membrane of my skin and just me on the other.
“I hate this. It’s like Tokyo or something, but in English.”
“Get over yourself. You could’ve been anybody." he says.
And he’s right. Just a few measly skin fibers separate me from them. I am bothered by the fact that I can see them but they don’t see me. “I know how you feel.” says Buddha.
“How come they don’t realize how important I am? Don’t they read my blog?”
“There is no They, silly. Only We. “

This is a hard pill to swallow in New York City but it opens up a whole new world of possibilities.
“So, if there is no They, that means we are intimidated by our own haircuts?”
“Exactly. And twenty minutes from now, we’ll be holding ourselves up at knife-point in the snow, breathing down our necks and whispering racial slurs.”
“You mean we are angry, racist pedophiles?”
He nods.
“And later on, we’ll be half-naked in chaps, lying on a bed of machetes in a literary freak show on Avenue A. “
“Wow.” That I can believe.

This is incredible.

I am somewhat comforted by the idea that we are all real writers who still feel the need to compensate for everything.
“See over there? We are stoned out of our minds, eating nachos in the bushes.”
“And we have a cheap tracheotomy and a personality disorder that is often mistaken for crack addiction?” I ask.
“Yes. We were molested by everyone. No one understands us.”
For a moment I get it. It all makes sense now. I realize exactly why we need pink patten-leather boots:

To complement our prosthetic elf ears.

I also understand now why we don’t have any personal time. We are completely unconscious. I get nervous, realizing that we are fractured at every joint. We are thankful. But we must have more...now. We are tired and we always have to pee. We are having plastic surgery. We are living underground with rats. We can’t stop talking about how important our work is. We can’t sleep. We don’t make sense to us. We are locked in fetal position, praying that we don’t burst in at any moment ready to mow us down with semi-automatics-hoping that we will listen to reason and begging ourselves for mercy.

I grab his golden coat. “Holy shit. Will we have mercy?”
Buddha scowls. “What do I look like, a Catholic saint?”

Easy Rider

2007-01-28T23:34:00.000-05:00

There was a reason the Buddha wandered for years --and it wasn’t because he was busy touring the Midwest with Peter Fonda. He probably spent too much time sitting in cafés, drinking lattes, getting a little belly and thinking about his mom. In essence, he was sort of a buzz-kill.

I’m just like the Buddha but more popular. Most people like me. They say things like “You have such pretty hair.” “You are so funny.” “Be my maid of honor!” “I’m going to name my first child after to you.”

Nevertheless, I relate to Buddha and his self-imposed isolation and it’s not that I have a fear of commitment. Because I don’t.

I have a fear of other people's commitments. To get out of the last relationship I was ensared in, I actually had to chew through my own femur. Now I hobble around with a fifth of gin, shaking my nub at people and offering sage advice. “Always wear a helmet. Moisturize after showers. Don’t date men who wear fishnet…”

It can be so stressful sometimes, knowing everything at such a tender age. I suppose it has its rewards. I am always either content in my omnipotence, or in some cases, pleasantly surprised when my garbage can hasn’t been stolen.

I’m doing pretty well. It's special. I’ve always wanted to be with someone who would leave me alone and I am not particularly good at, nor am I fond of, intimate relationships.

Unfortunately, I am fond of gin and intimacy seems to go really well with gin; as do cigarettes and more gin. The Buddha and I do not have these particular vices in common, which is why he is not touring the countryside with Peter Fonda-and why he will probably never have his head blown off by a homicidal, mustache-fearing redneck.

Race you to the Bodi tree. Fool.

Market Principle

2007-01-19T10:10:00.001-05:00

Statistically speaking, I am likely to land a job eventually. The more interviews I go on, the more likely I am to get one right. By some act of God or administrative desperation, some organization will hire me whether or not my fly is down or if I have toilet paper stuck to my shoe. Otherwise, I don’t know…I’m too old to do anything sexy and get paid for it but maybe I could get paid doing things for people who can get paid for being sexy. For example, I could “bathe the maidens” at the XXX Forum on 23rd & Market Street.

I’ve also looked into selling the contents of my ovaries locally, but I’m too old to do that too. My brother gave me a tip that In NYC they’ll take eggs up through age 34 but the clinic wants to monitor you every day for 2 weeks while they pump you full of hormones.

I’m not sure what my problem is. It could be that, even in an interview setting, I absolutely cannot pass up a chance to make a good joke. I also have trouble asserting anything about myself without negating it in the very next sentence. And as it turns out, I really, really enjoy not working.

I can justify my unemployment with a little economic model called “The Law of Supply and Demand.” I do not work because no one is paying me to work.

It’s the founding principle of a free market, dude. The lack of demand for my services is justly reflected by the absence of my services. I’m only being responsible to the market.

In fact, no one is paying me to do anything. And until I do find a job, I am more than happy to pass the time drinking free trade coffee for hours until I can actually feel the sweat droplets forming in my balmy armpits and cascading down my sides. By night, I play darts, take Cha Cha lessons and most recently, bowl. It’s probably un-American of me, but for the time being, this totally feels worth whatever I’m not making.

The Value of Cultural Experience

2007-01-15T12:51:00.000-05:00

I know everything about West Philadelphia, the land of promise, diversity, strong artistic communities, cultural connections, economic empowerment and opportunity for all.

I also know all about the deranged crackhead who stands outside of the video library demanding high-fives. The police are glad to have my story as they shove my favorite crack addict into the back of a cruiser with his paper cup and imaginary machete.

After giving my name and ID, I am told I need to give an official report at the Southwest Police station. Regardless of the cultural revitalization in my neighborhood, I indicate that I will not be visiting that particular area unless escorted in a police vehicle. The cop opens the back door of the cruiser for me and says, “Uh. Sorry about the smell. I had a whole bunch of guys in there earlier. I’m not sure what they ate…”

I’m lucky. I am unharmed. I’ve lived in West Philly for about 5 years and I’ve never been to the police station or in a cop car. But I highly recommend this form of transport. Police cruisers are exactly like taxis but cheaper, the cops have to open the doors for you (so it’s kind of like a limo service) and the back seat is made entirely of hard plastic. I press my face close to the window and laugh, thinking about how great it would be if I stuffed my scarf into my own mouth and started pounding on the windows with my feet.
“You okay back there?”
“Yeah. I’m fine. It smells like cherries.”

I make a note of the all the signage in the waiting room. No firearms permitted beyond this point. If you are armed please notify desk supervisor. To the left of that sign is color print-out with some writing taped to the glass. It’s a photo of one of the Philly detectives. Hi. My name is Todd. I really need a date.

About 32 “detectives” come out of the office to visit the vending machine throughout my stay. They all want to know what happened, am I alright and could I describe the suspect, to which I reply, “Yeah. It’s guy you arrested.”
“We arrested him?”

The couple who initially reported the crime and I wait on that bench for over an hour. The woman is a Ph.D. cantidate from UCLA. They’ve only been living in West Philly for 6 months they've already been mugged once and had to deal with a gun battle on their block. The husband apologizes profusely about “dragging” me into this. The wife looks like she is about to cry. “I can’t wait to move back to L.A. This is crazy. Do you think they’ll deliver a pizza here?”

I feel better about the ordeal after meeting a nice girl who’d just been robbed at gunpoint with her 2 year-old. The robber got a bag of sippie cups and her student ID.

Finally, I am escorted into the central office, which, not surprisingly, turns out to be 32 fat white guys watching “The OC.” Joe, the detective who interviews me, laments, “It makes no sense at all. The City can pay millions of dollars for a new sports stadium but we can’t get enough together for another prison. What do you think about that?”
“Um. I think the stadium generates a little more revenue for the city than another jail. Besides, I’m not sure Wachovia would want their name on a brand new prison.”
He nods his head and says, “But think of all the license plates…”

We begin the interview. As an explanation for spelling of the crime scene “video libery,” Joe points out that, unlike me, he did not go to “some fancy college.” To expedite the process, I offer to type the report for him and he accepts.

The head detective looks over my shoulder at the computer screen and puts his hand on my shoulder. “46th street? Oh my goodness sweetie. How long have you lived there? When is your lease up?”
“Oh, not until next September. It’s actually not a bad neighborhood. It's really multi-cultural. You know, ‘up and coming’.”

False Impressions, False Pride

2007-01-12T09:42:00.000-05:00

Somebody put calories in my salad dressing...

2007-01-11T10:02:00.000-05:00

I like you too!

2007-01-08T11:40:00.000-05:00

Whether you found Hallmarks of a Lady through associated content, word of mouth, a search engine, or a friendly link, I am elated at having your page load. I also would like to give a special thanks to anyone who has taken the time to leave a comment. Be it on the road or on the run from law enforcement, it is the mission of Hallmarks of a Lady and the Lady at Large to entertain, inspire and otherwise distract all readership from the unbearable, sad, or mundane facets of everyday life.

Any way that readership acknowledges content on Hallmarks of a Lady is much appreciated with one exception.

You probably know where we're going with this...

It is definitely not okay to republish stories or lift images directly from the site. Because Hallmarks of a Lady intends to inspire, the re-interpretation or re-invention of Hallmarks content is still a grey area...but please, respect the (c).

If you borrow content, whether or not you intend to profit monetarily, you are stealing from me. And it's wrong. Ask anyone. I have nothing.

If there is any question in your mind as to whether you are liable for copyright infringement please visit http://www.whatiscopyright.org/.

Thanks again for your patronage. We hope you continue to follow Hallmarks of Lady in its blogspot incarnation and will be very excited, pleased and honored to have your readership when we are released in print.

I Can't Take it Anymore

2007-01-07T22:31:00.000-05:00

I plead with you to make it stop. I hold my breath until my face turns blue to no avail. Without looking back I run to the window, gasping, and I tearfully hoist myself onto the edge of the windowsill. The reverberations of my final shriek of terror echo through the streets of West Philadelphia as I plunge to my death.

I don't like your feet.

Tucked inside dirty socks with the absorption capacity of the average sandwich baggie, they simmer in your sweat for the entire day and most of the night. That you dare unleash them ever, much less in my company, should be outlawed under the terms of the Geneva Convention.

I hate your feet more than I hate "A Prairie Home Companion." I would rather shove my right arm into an active garbage disposal than be subjected to crimes against humanity like “Guy Noir” but I would relocate to Lake Woebegone to escape the ineffable tyranny of your feet. Their stink, so foul and pungent, seems to carry its own primal scream. They are purple and weird and hairy and bony in ways that no part of any living human should be.

They are the children of Satan.

Annual Report

2006-12-31T10:02:00.000-05:00

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.)

Pilgrimage to the Chick'n Mecca

2006-12-25T17:12:00.000-05:00

No surrender. No escape. No mercy.

2006-12-19T14:56:00.000-05:00

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)

You Ate My Dollar

2006-12-16T19:25:00.000-05:00

I want my money back. ..

All I Learned in School

2006-12-10T22:26:00.000-05:00

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

2006-12-10T22:15:00.000-05:00

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?

The Splenda Fairy

2006-12-06T21:46:00.000-05:00

Inspiration is Everywhere

2006-12-02T11:30:00.000-05:00

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.

My Confession

2006-11-22T15:46:00.000-05:00

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.

Diary of an 8-Year-Old Something

2006-11-15T19:49:00.000-05:00

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

Is it the future yet?

2006-10-27T22:49:00.000-04:00

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.

The Jason Smith Project:

2006-10-15T11:45:00.000-04:00

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.

Is It Lonely at the Bottom of the Sea?

2006-09-16T13:04:00.000-04:00

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.

It's Beautiful

2006-08-22T22:48:00.000-04:00

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.

Hey!

2006-08-17T20:12:00.000-04:00

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

Rocky

2006-08-14T19:41:00.000-04:00

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.

All the Bitches Wanna Get With Me

2006-08-12T22:18:00.000-04:00

The Rap Video

2006-08-12T21:33:00.000-04:00

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...

What We Stand to Learn from Pirates

2006-07-29T15:43:00.000-04:00

What Makes Pirates So Great?

2006-07-23T10:41:00.001-04:00

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

Dear Hanover Beans

2006-06-21T12:53:00.000-04:00

No Regrets

2006-05-20T23:34:00.000-04:00

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.

Dear Asian Lady

2006-05-19T10:23:00.000-04:00

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.

Romance

2006-03-19T22:38:00.000-05:00

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.

Johnny's Work

2006-01-31T01:47:00.000-05:00

Afternoon Hike

2006-01-26T11:05:00.000-05:00

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

No Bullshit, Please

2005-11-02T01:04:00.003-05:00

I don't need anyone to ream my ass with sunshine.

What I need is someone to make me soup and pick me up from the bus station. Pending those benefits, just shut up and bring me the drink slip. I'm working on a story here and I don't care to be interrupted by empty compliments.

Despite myself, I am probably not a bad person. I live in a crackhouse with six crazy girls(give or take a few loser boyfriends) and three or four cats. They all have very loud sex.

I ride a bike to work in the rain at 7am. My jeans feel like a big, wet diaper while I make lattes for people who have nothing better to do but sit in a coffee shop and cruise profiles on match.com. I am subjected to people, a.k.a. customers, a.k.a. a young woman who drinks mochas daily and carries a dog in her purse. I am often forced to engage in conversations, which I can usually fake. I retreat to an espresso machine, take drink slips, and make white-chocolate mochas with whipped cream for six hours until my scalded fingers start to crack and bleed.

I come home. One roommate is sitting on the couch, stoned, watching a snowy version of public television and waiting for her boyfriend. There is cat poop in the corner. I guess someone was waiting for it to dry so that they could flick it underneath the couch. It is apparent that, since 6:30 this morning, the dishes have been eagerly awaiting my return along the banks of our shit-filled sink. Terrified of the sewage, cigarette butts and old tea bags await rescue atop empty cans of PBR and old oatmeal and rice encrusted with mustard seeds is saving chickpeas on a boyant patch of human hair. I think a small child is stuck in the drain.

I find my room, chilly and wet. I lie on my down comforter that is, more often than not, reeking of cat pee. I do not own a cat.
The power goes off on the third floor.
I put a note on the frigde, requesting reimbursement from housemates for the bills I have paid on behalf of the house. I can expect thier shares no sooner than 4 weeks after the 3rd time I've had to ask them in person and 2 days after I've started to break dishes, steal food, and put the cats outside. At heart, I am really not a bad person.

But I might deserve this. I teased the reatarded kid. More than one retarded kid. I owe it to the universe to live like this and it must be true. I live in this house because I havent moved out yet.