2.22.2007

What the hell is it for?




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.

2.21.2007

Pink Gold


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

2.15.2007

Plastic Monsters


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.

2.14.2007

Happy Valentines Day


2.13.2007

A Lady's Love....


A Lady loves sensible shoes.


2.08.2007

No, thank you.

I can kiss my own boo boos.




Ladies of the Dance


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?


2.01.2007

The Others


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?”