When I was a kid I used to think the notion of "home for the holidays" was so romantic. That travelling home for the holidays would be like in the movies--Mom and Dad would cook for you and have the house decorated and it would feel special. And you'd go have a beer at the local bar and run into an old high school flame or foe and make adult amends. But my family was always close enough that the travel usually only took up an hour or so of the morning, and the indecision of whether to light the menorah or trim the tree made things unnecessarily complicated. I was jealous of movie holidays. Later, as an adult living states away from my family, holiday travel became hectic and obligatory-like traveling for work or racing to the hospital to watch Aunt Bev die. But with presents. I should know better. But after some unexpected turns this year I was hopeful for some holiday magic. Some feeling of excitement or nostalgia that would propel me into the new year with a new outlook. So my wife and I set out into the mountains, packed into a van with two cold, wet dogs--one embarrassingly overweight, the other slowly dying--to be 'home for the holidays' with her family. My in-laws. (...) (...)
They live in the house my wife's stepfather grew up in. It is full of charm and creaks and character. But as you might imagine it was built back when people took up much less space. The bathroom was not designed for lazy bathing. The kitchen not made to accommodate dust-gathering monster machinery. Maneuvering becomes a game of Jenga. Because my wife didn't grow up in this house I do not get the novelty of sleeping in her old bedroom covered in Morrissey posters. But we do get to sleep in the attic where the grandkids play-surrounded by tea sets and stuffed animals and remote control cars. This is where we will wake up at 4 a.m. to clanking dishes and a blaring television, two grown adults screaming at each other about Velveeta because one of them is legitimately deaf. Their family dogs-originally trained for hunting-will bark when air moves and let themselves in and out of the house as they please, the door banging behind them every time. (My favorite is Missy. She only has three legs and looks like Jar Jar Binks and Marilyn Monroe had a baby. My kinda girl.) And I'll climb down the steep staircase that hasn't had a working light in at least five years in anticipation of creamed tomatoes and gigantic buttermilk biscuits. And for 20 minutes it'll all be worth it...
Only that breakfast wasn't meant to be this year. After a visit to the doctor, my father-in-law has given up carbs. We would also have no hot water as the hot water tank went out after 6 p.m. on Christmas Eve. So there I stood on Christmas morning, taking a whore bath from a boiling pot, trying to make myself presentable for extended family. You may be wondering at this point if this small town family accepts me as an in-law. Yes, they do. I'm showered with gifts. My father-in-law thinks I'm the prettiest one. The youngest grandchild understands that he has two aunts who live together. HOWEVER. Not one of them knows I'm a Jew. Dyke? OK. Kyke? No.
And so I stay closeted--eating the microwaved corn on the cob that is offered to me for Christmas dinner.
(Sidenote: To be fair I am not knocking my mother-in-law's cooking here. Everyone knows that my own mother cooks meat no less than three times before it actually makes it to the table--microwaved for defrosting--boiled to kill anything that may have landed on or near it--and finally oven for the actual "cooking" part.)
And then on Christmas night two heartbreaks--the news of George Michael's passing, and having to explain to the older and more tipsy members of the family the difference between George Michael and Boy George, and learning that I would not be getting the homemade yeast rolls I love so much. What would we find in their place? That loose hussy Sister Schubert had somehow made her way to another of my holiday functions!!!!
All was finally calm when we settled in for movie night. It was there I discovered that like 112% of the female population, I would probably do anything The Rock asked me to. Though he probably wouldn't ask me for much without access to hot water.
I am most thankful this year that my holiday travels are over. That I am back to my routine. Taking hot showers in a house where the pets don't know how to open doors. Where there are no ancient black death stairs to die on. Where I can be half Jewish all the time. Where I can watch the news in peace (sort of). Though I notice Lester Holt is on holiday vacation. I wonder if even he is somewhere stomping around in his old bedroom, exasperated by his mother, trying to explain to his family what he does for a living...
Thursday, December 29, 2016
Thursday, December 22, 2016
They put in all that CGI and I just wanted to die...
Apparently I am becoming quite the Star Wars expert for someone who started studying so late in the game. For instance, I know that 93% of the men I will be sharing a theatre with at any showing will have split ends for days. And of that 93%, 85% will be goateed. And of that 85%, 37% will have fat girlfriends (probably with quirky socks). The remaining 48% will still be clinging to the commemorative popcorn tins.
I'm also learning that things would be a lot easier if they could've just released these movies in the proper fucking order. So without further ado--the latest edition of WGW's Star Wars Cliffsnotes...
Forest Whitaker clomps and wheezes all around like somebody's halfway house Gramps.
Blind Bruce Lee tries to save Aleppo.
The kid from 'The Night Of' flies everyone in to Vietnam.
Darth Vader is mean.
Pocket protectors are in full effect on all the important uniforms. Is this the case in all of them? I've never noticed them before. I guess it takes one under Jimmy Smits' chin for me to pay attention. Anyway, if I see this look start creeping up on fall runways-I'm out.
And no spoilers--but if you've seen the first one from back when Carrie Fisher and Harrison Ford were boffing (which is now technically the fifth one...again, nerd is a serious requirement here) then you pretty much know how it ends.
There. I just saved you two and half hours you could be using on holiday festivities. It's a public service, really.
I'm also learning that things would be a lot easier if they could've just released these movies in the proper fucking order. So without further ado--the latest edition of WGW's Star Wars Cliffsnotes...
Rogue One
This one basically follows the same formula as the others--strong willed woman eventually develops a soft spot for some asshole she hates. Tavern scene. Cheeky robot has all the good comebacks. Only all the creatures look a lot more like venereal disease in this one.Forest Whitaker clomps and wheezes all around like somebody's halfway house Gramps.
Blind Bruce Lee tries to save Aleppo.
The kid from 'The Night Of' flies everyone in to Vietnam.
Darth Vader is mean.
Pocket protectors are in full effect on all the important uniforms. Is this the case in all of them? I've never noticed them before. I guess it takes one under Jimmy Smits' chin for me to pay attention. Anyway, if I see this look start creeping up on fall runways-I'm out.
And no spoilers--but if you've seen the first one from back when Carrie Fisher and Harrison Ford were boffing (which is now technically the fifth one...again, nerd is a serious requirement here) then you pretty much know how it ends.
There. I just saved you two and half hours you could be using on holiday festivities. It's a public service, really.
Wednesday, December 21, 2016
I feel so broke up, I wanna go home...
Road Trip 2016. Part Six. L'aventure Finale.
It's been a while and I realize I never did share the last leg of my summer New England road trip. This only proves two of my most repeated character flaws--1. I have some surface commitment issues, and 2. I never have known when to end a story. But at the time I had so wanted to let it be known that there are no gentlemen in Connecticut.
We made it to Mystic just as the sun was going down, learning there were only three motels within town limits. None of them being diamond properties, the first one we happened upon was the winner. An old school place with what used to be a full service eat in restaurant. The lobby was brand new and beautiful, until we approached the front desk. Where we were greeted by a girl who likely looked at a lot of pictures in Mademoiselle magazine and drove a Ford Probe, but missed the prom to have a baby. With lopsided eyebrows stenciled in with greasy yellow-brown kohl pencil. BTW-one of them was smudged as if someone had run their finger tip straight down through it. She booked us into a double room, and outside and upstairs we went--into a damp, dark, outdated hallway topped with water-stained drop ceiling tiles. Some of them broken. Some of them missing altogether. It may be the first time I ever inspected for bed bugs, including the time I stayed in a NYC hostel. The only logical next step was to find some dinner and strategize ways to keep our bare feet off the carpet and bathtub, our bare butts off the toilet seat.
And so I found myself at Mystic Pizza looking at all things Julia Roberts and a dining room full of forty-something women who'd probably spent some time in the late 80s deciding if they were a Kat or a Daisy (nobody wants to be a JoJo)--and a few men who probably fancied themselves Charles Windsor types. Then the waitress asked me if I would like to keep the menu and I realized she thought I was one of them. I politely declined.
The next morning was sunny and blue. I woke up alive (lung fungus to be determined)--ready for the final leg of the trip. The one I'd looked most forward to. But my travel companion became unhinged no sooner than the bags made it to the car. And she raged. And yelled. About everything. About nothing. And raged some more. The girth of it taking up so much space there was no room for argument or reason or defense strategy. And a feeling welled up inside of me--a slow stirring mix of defeat and indifference, and an anger at having to feel it. And I knew. That all of the giving up, giving in, going along, missing out--none of it mattered. And never would. I wanted to be anywhere but where I was.
I never made it to the water that day. But I experienced Mystic Pizza. Walked through a Black Dog Boutique I could've taken a shit in. Shuffled through a gallery tended by a man too busy to answer my question. Then we left for home. With no photo evidence.
I've never been so caged. Sharing 70 cubic feet of space through rush hour Bronx traffic, and the never-ending Jersey Turnpike. With a balloon in my chest and a snake in my gut. It's the only drive I ever took that made me feel less free.
And I deserve a do over.
It's been a while and I realize I never did share the last leg of my summer New England road trip. This only proves two of my most repeated character flaws--1. I have some surface commitment issues, and 2. I never have known when to end a story. But at the time I had so wanted to let it be known that there are no gentlemen in Connecticut.
We made it to Mystic just as the sun was going down, learning there were only three motels within town limits. None of them being diamond properties, the first one we happened upon was the winner. An old school place with what used to be a full service eat in restaurant. The lobby was brand new and beautiful, until we approached the front desk. Where we were greeted by a girl who likely looked at a lot of pictures in Mademoiselle magazine and drove a Ford Probe, but missed the prom to have a baby. With lopsided eyebrows stenciled in with greasy yellow-brown kohl pencil. BTW-one of them was smudged as if someone had run their finger tip straight down through it. She booked us into a double room, and outside and upstairs we went--into a damp, dark, outdated hallway topped with water-stained drop ceiling tiles. Some of them broken. Some of them missing altogether. It may be the first time I ever inspected for bed bugs, including the time I stayed in a NYC hostel. The only logical next step was to find some dinner and strategize ways to keep our bare feet off the carpet and bathtub, our bare butts off the toilet seat.
And so I found myself at Mystic Pizza looking at all things Julia Roberts and a dining room full of forty-something women who'd probably spent some time in the late 80s deciding if they were a Kat or a Daisy (nobody wants to be a JoJo)--and a few men who probably fancied themselves Charles Windsor types. Then the waitress asked me if I would like to keep the menu and I realized she thought I was one of them. I politely declined.
The next morning was sunny and blue. I woke up alive (lung fungus to be determined)--ready for the final leg of the trip. The one I'd looked most forward to. But my travel companion became unhinged no sooner than the bags made it to the car. And she raged. And yelled. About everything. About nothing. And raged some more. The girth of it taking up so much space there was no room for argument or reason or defense strategy. And a feeling welled up inside of me--a slow stirring mix of defeat and indifference, and an anger at having to feel it. And I knew. That all of the giving up, giving in, going along, missing out--none of it mattered. And never would. I wanted to be anywhere but where I was.
I never made it to the water that day. But I experienced Mystic Pizza. Walked through a Black Dog Boutique I could've taken a shit in. Shuffled through a gallery tended by a man too busy to answer my question. Then we left for home. With no photo evidence.
I've never been so caged. Sharing 70 cubic feet of space through rush hour Bronx traffic, and the never-ending Jersey Turnpike. With a balloon in my chest and a snake in my gut. It's the only drive I ever took that made me feel less free.
And I deserve a do over.
Monday, November 28, 2016
Fifty million Elvis fans can't be wrong...
I love the beginning of the holiday season. When the air starts to change and everyone (O.K. maybe only me) gets excited about donating coats and buying underpants for the needy. When the focus is on the Thanksgiving menu; just before the focus becomes how many gifts can we get under the tree, how big can we make the tree look, how much money can I spend, how much shit can we have, which of these things will make me look the most successful on social media.
I think Thanksgiving may actually be my favorite holiday. There really aren't any rules-no awkward gift exchanges-it's all about breaking bread and that feeling, I think, of a sense of community. At least it is for me- because I haven't spent Thanksgiving with a single blood relative since I was a teenager. (And this makes me less likely to become a holiday season suicide statistic.) I love that the house is warm and dark, and there's food in every room. I love the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade--when all those singers we've never heard of lip sync badly into microphones swaying with the movement of the float they're on, slapping their unknown little faces like unplugged electric dicks.
And I love to feed people. (I also secretly love aprons. Not kidding.) Chocolate pecan pie? I do that. From. Scratch. Dressing? From. Scratch.--including but not limited to homemade croutons--Green bean casserole? Not a can of anything in sight. OK, I don't make those little fried onions but c'mon... I will admit that it does skeeve me out to rub all over a dead turkey. And it does always make me a little sad the first time I see the carcass unwrapped and headless in the sink. But I cook on anyway. Because to feed people is to love them. (GROSS! who am I?!) I zest lemons, I toast pistachios. I caramelize sugar, I make roux. And every year I make a fancy dressing to toss into a leafy green of some kind.--This year it was pear and red pepper vinaigrette with mesclun.--And every year it never makes it to the table. Because no one is looking for the salad on Thanksgiving.
But I have a dark confession to make. All of the bread in my house is store bought. Even 'special occasion everything is homemade' dinner bread. Baking bread has always illuded me. I have only recently mastered biscuit making, after many years and countless fails. I just felt biscuits weren't quite refined enough for my elegant holiday buffet. So there I stood shoving Sister Schubert's frozen yeast rolls into the toaster oven. I think my guests doubted the talents of this enigmatic freezer section Jewish nun baking genius. But after a couple of passes of the "appetite stimulant" around the table, we were all singing the praises of Mama Eunice. Or Sister Celeste. Or whatever it is her name turned out to be.
And the next day there was just enough wine and pie left over for my 'I-don't-leave-my-pajamas-on-Black-Friday-much-less-my-house-so-I'm-gonna-snuggle-under-this-blanket-&-watch-embarrassing-chick-flicks-all-day-then-pretend-I-missed-my-wife-when-she-gets-home-from-work' movie marathon.
Thanksgiving success!! Thanks Sister Schubert!
I think Thanksgiving may actually be my favorite holiday. There really aren't any rules-no awkward gift exchanges-it's all about breaking bread and that feeling, I think, of a sense of community. At least it is for me- because I haven't spent Thanksgiving with a single blood relative since I was a teenager. (And this makes me less likely to become a holiday season suicide statistic.) I love that the house is warm and dark, and there's food in every room. I love the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade--when all those singers we've never heard of lip sync badly into microphones swaying with the movement of the float they're on, slapping their unknown little faces like unplugged electric dicks.
And I love to feed people. (I also secretly love aprons. Not kidding.) Chocolate pecan pie? I do that. From. Scratch. Dressing? From. Scratch.--including but not limited to homemade croutons--Green bean casserole? Not a can of anything in sight. OK, I don't make those little fried onions but c'mon... I will admit that it does skeeve me out to rub all over a dead turkey. And it does always make me a little sad the first time I see the carcass unwrapped and headless in the sink. But I cook on anyway. Because to feed people is to love them. (GROSS! who am I?!) I zest lemons, I toast pistachios. I caramelize sugar, I make roux. And every year I make a fancy dressing to toss into a leafy green of some kind.--This year it was pear and red pepper vinaigrette with mesclun.--And every year it never makes it to the table. Because no one is looking for the salad on Thanksgiving.
But I have a dark confession to make. All of the bread in my house is store bought. Even 'special occasion everything is homemade' dinner bread. Baking bread has always illuded me. I have only recently mastered biscuit making, after many years and countless fails. I just felt biscuits weren't quite refined enough for my elegant holiday buffet. So there I stood shoving Sister Schubert's frozen yeast rolls into the toaster oven. I think my guests doubted the talents of this enigmatic freezer section Jewish nun baking genius. But after a couple of passes of the "appetite stimulant" around the table, we were all singing the praises of Mama Eunice. Or Sister Celeste. Or whatever it is her name turned out to be.
And the next day there was just enough wine and pie left over for my 'I-don't-leave-my-pajamas-on-Black-Friday-much-less-my-house-so-I'm-gonna-snuggle-under-this-blanket-&-watch-embarrassing-chick-flicks-all-day-then-pretend-I-missed-my-wife-when-she-gets-home-from-work' movie marathon.
Thanksgiving success!! Thanks Sister Schubert!
Monday, November 21, 2016
How That Music Used to Make Me Smile...
How awkward were the American Music Awards? Who decided Jay Pharoah and Gigi Hadid (and her Knots Landing hair) made a charismatic pair? Why was everyone in the crowd 11 years old? Where did they find all those overly enthusiastic audience gays? Why does Janelle Monae suddenly think she's Lynn Whitfield? I may never know the answers to these conundrums. But I do know this:
Uptown Funk already happened, Bruno Mars. Please don't pull a Carrie Underwood and sing the same song for the rest of your jheri curled career.
Oh Twenty One Pilots--to be young and self-important again. I'm so into your edgy image--it's clear you have a lot to say. Unfortch, your lyrics don't say it. I get it--you want your fans to be cutters, but instead you got white kids with dreads. That's a tough one.
Shawn Mendes gave me Jessie's Girl era Rick Springfield realness.
It's so strange how jarring it is when actual talent shows up on an awards show. Everyone is so shiny and pretty and immobile, and then along comes some asshole who didn't have time to brush his hair because he was busy being a person--or tuning his guitar. Or how Sting was like someone's grandpa who couldn't be bothered to put a shirt on for company. Because he doesn't have time to glue his eyelashes on, he's busy being Sting. (Although I'm convinced he was the first man to pull duck lips.)
Is it me or does the Weeknd seem gayer?
John Legend, I love that you rocked one of Blanche Devereaux's old track jackets. But please don't perform without the piano again. It embarrassed me.
WTF Ariana Grande??!! Good for you for learning to move less like a retarded giraffe, but was that your fucking grandma in the audience watching you flop all around in the sand with Nicki Minaj's vagina?
My second favorite thing about the whole show was all the girls losing their shit at the Justin Bieber show. Crying, shaking, some of them looked like they were in a catatonic state. I loved every minute of it. My wife had the nerve to roll her eyes and laugh at them, but she cried at a fucking UB40 concert. And not in 1988--it was like 3 months ago.
Lady Gaga once again tested my gag reflex. Affecting that country sanger drawl. Isn't she from Long Island or something? I haven't been that offended since Iggy Azalea tried to go full T.I. And besides, doesn't she know the only woman who can pull that off in country music is Keith Urban? P.S. You're guitar isn't plugged in.
My very favorite thing about the American Music Awards was Robert Downey Jr.
Thank you Nicki Minaj, Rick Ross, Future,and August Alsina for not even attempting a lip sync game. You all mostly just walked around with a mic to your mouths. And I appreciate that. No need to exhaust yourselves on my account. Oh, and DJ Khaled--shut...the...fuck...up. That is all.
And finally, the big finale. Adam Levine in a dad sweater. You really did it this time AMAs. But ain't that America?
Tuesday, November 15, 2016
And the calendar's cluttered with days that are numbered...
Every day is End of Days. I stood in the kitchen chopping vegetables a week before Prince died and said, "If something happens to Prince, put me on suicide watch." I've yet to be forgiven. And a few weeks ago when You Want It Darker was released, I sat listening to Songs From a Room and thought to myself, "What am I gonna do when Leonard Cohen dies?"... I mourned Leonard Cohen alone in a hotel bed. After dining alone in a town unknown to me, a stranger in a hotel bar. Fitting. I dare not even think the names of the songwriters still breathing that I worship every day. I've fallen radio silent. I know. The weight of the world affecting me more than I had anticipated.--Election fatigue, the 2016 deadpool, a cloud covered supermoon, Sophia Urista not even making it to the top 12 on The Voice.
When I was a kid I listened to my friends talk about kissing boys and holding hands. I always thought no one wanted to hold my hand because I gnawed on my cuticles, biting until they bled when I was nervous or bored. But there was a girl named Shannon who bit her nails down until they were gnarled up little strips. And she always had boyfriends. Even though she had a bad perm and claw bangs. So I thought maybe it wasn't about her hands at all, it was because she was skinny and blonde.--Because according to my mother, "not too many boys will be interested in a girl that looks like you, and no one is going to be perfect so you should probably just find a man who won't hit you." --Shannon had a normal name, and laughed a lot. She probably didn't spend as much time as I did sitting in a closet reading book after book. Or recording her own radio shows. Turns out not that many people are attracted to that, even as adults.
Much, much later I found myself in bed with someone I'd never expected. He was the cocktail waitress at my regular watering hole. I fucked him with my knee high combat boots on--though it was mostly missionary and with the lights out. When it was all said and done, I hinted for him to leave. But I'm a gentleman so I at least walked him to his car. There on the sidewalk as the sun came up he asked me for my phone number, said he wanted to spend real time with me, that I was a cool girl. And I, completely naked except for the boots and a pillow to cover my lady business, refused. I told him he didn't have to do that--to pretend he was interested when we'd already fucked. He protested. And I never really thought that much about it as he continued bringing me cocktails. Until I started taking stock in my thirties. And I realized that I could've given that kid a chance. And a lot of other kids really.
I'm not sure how last Wednesday's nausea and circulatory shock translates into any of this. Why I wanted to drink myself to death this weekend. (Spoiler alert: I didn't. I mean I drank until I couldn't feel my tongue, but I didn't die.) Why the only love letter I've ever written was to say goodbye. It's just train of thought maybe-word vomit. A breaking the silence.An exhale? Too Angela Bassett...
Grieving. End of Days.
"The false trumpet concealing madness will cause Byzantium to change its laws."
When I was a kid I listened to my friends talk about kissing boys and holding hands. I always thought no one wanted to hold my hand because I gnawed on my cuticles, biting until they bled when I was nervous or bored. But there was a girl named Shannon who bit her nails down until they were gnarled up little strips. And she always had boyfriends. Even though she had a bad perm and claw bangs. So I thought maybe it wasn't about her hands at all, it was because she was skinny and blonde.--Because according to my mother, "not too many boys will be interested in a girl that looks like you, and no one is going to be perfect so you should probably just find a man who won't hit you." --Shannon had a normal name, and laughed a lot. She probably didn't spend as much time as I did sitting in a closet reading book after book. Or recording her own radio shows. Turns out not that many people are attracted to that, even as adults.
Much, much later I found myself in bed with someone I'd never expected. He was the cocktail waitress at my regular watering hole. I fucked him with my knee high combat boots on--though it was mostly missionary and with the lights out. When it was all said and done, I hinted for him to leave. But I'm a gentleman so I at least walked him to his car. There on the sidewalk as the sun came up he asked me for my phone number, said he wanted to spend real time with me, that I was a cool girl. And I, completely naked except for the boots and a pillow to cover my lady business, refused. I told him he didn't have to do that--to pretend he was interested when we'd already fucked. He protested. And I never really thought that much about it as he continued bringing me cocktails. Until I started taking stock in my thirties. And I realized that I could've given that kid a chance. And a lot of other kids really.
I'm not sure how last Wednesday's nausea and circulatory shock translates into any of this. Why I wanted to drink myself to death this weekend. (Spoiler alert: I didn't. I mean I drank until I couldn't feel my tongue, but I didn't die.) Why the only love letter I've ever written was to say goodbye. It's just train of thought maybe-word vomit. A breaking the silence.
Grieving. End of Days.
"The false trumpet concealing madness will cause Byzantium to change its laws."
Wednesday, October 19, 2016
24 Things I Think About on a Regular Basis
1. Day to Night Barbie. She was amazing and well before her time--career woman who may or may not fill her brief case with trashy magazines. Likes a cocktail or two after work. Wears a pencil skirt and a sequined top at the same time, and pulls it all together with pink Candies. Every bit of yes.
2. Why would anyone wear knock off TOMS? They are hideous and not really that comfortable and the only reason to buy them is to show the world that you are a selfless saint who will compromise style to make sure less fortunate orphans or whatever have a pair of shoes. If you wear knock off TOMS, you are a horrible human being. The end.
3. Pears are the sexiest fruit.
4. Why does Just Fab think my name is Debbie? Reason 915 why I have yet to shop with them.
5. Why is all the food labeled "snack size" food you would never make an actual meal out of anyway? Is anyone really eating Baby Ruths for dinner? Full disclosure: I have, I am, and will probably continue to do so.
6. This conversation:
Joe: I don't see how you can eat that blue cheese. Blue cheese tastes like the way crayons smell.
Me days later eating blue cheese in a salad and thinking to myself "damn it! he's right!": So
now you've ruined blue cheese for me. I think it's only fair that you know I don't like brie
because it tastes like semen."
Joe: The only thing I've taken away from this conversation is that semen must be delicious.
7. Almost everyone I meet is just a different version of someone I already know.
8. And it is likely that I have imagined what you look like as a muppet and/or a Planet of the Apes character. I'm probably doing it right now.
9. But I also think it's pretty rare for someone to be truly ugly. I can usually pick out something attractive about anyone's face. Even if they are wearing knock off TOMS.
10. Beautiful women usually have the most disgusting feet.
11. Why is there always an unwrapped baguette in a grocery bag on television--as if everyone only buys and eats bread that has been laying in the open air and rubbed against every homeless person on the subway before it makes its way into the kitchen.
12. Why has every city had a Great Fire or Great Flood?
13. Running away from home.
14. Watching Anne of Green Gables in elementary school.
15. Why are contest winners always so awful?
16. If an unwanted kiss or grope is now considered sexual assault across the board, how many times have I been sexually assaulted?
17. And how many times have I been the assaulter?
18. Death and dead bodies don't bother me. I think about this on a regular basis because chances are if there is a fatal car accident, I pass by before the carnage is covered up. I've somehow been present at enough deaths for this to be a thing.
19. "Sweet Nothings" I guess I don't understand this olden times term as a concept. Every song that mentions sweet nothings is usually about people who are fucking (or holding hands since it's 1960) on a regular basis. If these whispers were "nothing" then they would be more appropriate in a song like "Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow" because obviously this guy is saying shit all willy-nilly to get into someone's pants. And therefore it truly means "nothing". Otherwise, it's just two people in love actually being nice to each other.
20. Do my pets realize when I'm naked?
21. I have to stop reading Chuck Klosterman. I can't write when I read his work for fear that I will totally rip off everything he puts on paper. He writes almost exactly the way I speak. He validates and shares almost all of my opinions. Reading Klosterman is like sitting on a friend's couch in your pajamas. He makes you feel better by not giving any advice at all, but just by letting you be disgusting and letting you know that he's been through the exact same ridiculous bullshit. He's not especially profound, just there to get stoned and help you eat a whole pizza, and probably be really uncomfortable when you cry. And he's probably heard this from all the girls, so it's really just best if Chuck and I break up.
22. Who decided what would be acceptable to eat? What asshole said 'let me break open this rock and see if something slimy is in it that I could put on a saltine'--or pulled a potato out of the dirt under a pile of buffalo turds and thought it would be a good idea to put it in their mouth? (And see, I almost said mastodon instead of buffalo because I just read this Klosterman thing about mastodons.) And to be fair--I know I am not in any way unique with this thought. It's a conversation that happens on a daily basis I'm sure.
23. Choosing between Ryan Reynolds and Ryan Gosling. It's one of the hardest 'what if' scenarios I've ever had to ponder. Ryan G. is smoldering and sexy and sensitive and likely to just push me up against a wall and have a go. But Ryan R. would buy me a beer and make me laugh, and he doesn't seem to realize how freakishly beautiful he is, so I wouldn't be self conscious about my Michelin Man physique.
24. Exactly four months from today I will be 40.
2. Why would anyone wear knock off TOMS? They are hideous and not really that comfortable and the only reason to buy them is to show the world that you are a selfless saint who will compromise style to make sure less fortunate orphans or whatever have a pair of shoes. If you wear knock off TOMS, you are a horrible human being. The end.
3. Pears are the sexiest fruit.
4. Why does Just Fab think my name is Debbie? Reason 915 why I have yet to shop with them.
5. Why is all the food labeled "snack size" food you would never make an actual meal out of anyway? Is anyone really eating Baby Ruths for dinner? Full disclosure: I have, I am, and will probably continue to do so.
6. This conversation:
Joe: I don't see how you can eat that blue cheese. Blue cheese tastes like the way crayons smell.
Me days later eating blue cheese in a salad and thinking to myself "damn it! he's right!": So
now you've ruined blue cheese for me. I think it's only fair that you know I don't like brie
because it tastes like semen."
Joe: The only thing I've taken away from this conversation is that semen must be delicious.
7. Almost everyone I meet is just a different version of someone I already know.
8. And it is likely that I have imagined what you look like as a muppet and/or a Planet of the Apes character. I'm probably doing it right now.
9. But I also think it's pretty rare for someone to be truly ugly. I can usually pick out something attractive about anyone's face. Even if they are wearing knock off TOMS.
10. Beautiful women usually have the most disgusting feet.
11. Why is there always an unwrapped baguette in a grocery bag on television--as if everyone only buys and eats bread that has been laying in the open air and rubbed against every homeless person on the subway before it makes its way into the kitchen.
12. Why has every city had a Great Fire or Great Flood?
13. Running away from home.
14. Watching Anne of Green Gables in elementary school.
15. Why are contest winners always so awful?
16. If an unwanted kiss or grope is now considered sexual assault across the board, how many times have I been sexually assaulted?
17. And how many times have I been the assaulter?
18. Death and dead bodies don't bother me. I think about this on a regular basis because chances are if there is a fatal car accident, I pass by before the carnage is covered up. I've somehow been present at enough deaths for this to be a thing.
19. "Sweet Nothings" I guess I don't understand this olden times term as a concept. Every song that mentions sweet nothings is usually about people who are fucking (or holding hands since it's 1960) on a regular basis. If these whispers were "nothing" then they would be more appropriate in a song like "Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow" because obviously this guy is saying shit all willy-nilly to get into someone's pants. And therefore it truly means "nothing". Otherwise, it's just two people in love actually being nice to each other.
20. Do my pets realize when I'm naked?
21. I have to stop reading Chuck Klosterman. I can't write when I read his work for fear that I will totally rip off everything he puts on paper. He writes almost exactly the way I speak. He validates and shares almost all of my opinions. Reading Klosterman is like sitting on a friend's couch in your pajamas. He makes you feel better by not giving any advice at all, but just by letting you be disgusting and letting you know that he's been through the exact same ridiculous bullshit. He's not especially profound, just there to get stoned and help you eat a whole pizza, and probably be really uncomfortable when you cry. And he's probably heard this from all the girls, so it's really just best if Chuck and I break up.
22. Who decided what would be acceptable to eat? What asshole said 'let me break open this rock and see if something slimy is in it that I could put on a saltine'--or pulled a potato out of the dirt under a pile of buffalo turds and thought it would be a good idea to put it in their mouth? (And see, I almost said mastodon instead of buffalo because I just read this Klosterman thing about mastodons.) And to be fair--I know I am not in any way unique with this thought. It's a conversation that happens on a daily basis I'm sure.
23. Choosing between Ryan Reynolds and Ryan Gosling. It's one of the hardest 'what if' scenarios I've ever had to ponder. Ryan G. is smoldering and sexy and sensitive and likely to just push me up against a wall and have a go. But Ryan R. would buy me a beer and make me laugh, and he doesn't seem to realize how freakishly beautiful he is, so I wouldn't be self conscious about my Michelin Man physique.
24. Exactly four months from today I will be 40.
Tuesday, September 27, 2016
I'm a Lincoln monologue...
So
mutha
fuckin
uninspired.
I don't even have the words for dumb blondes in ill-fitting denim jumpsuits.
the pillow too cool to want out of bed-
my body too heavy-
the ground too wet.
And you
too phone addicted for conversation.
And me
all décolletage,
and blunt bangs before botox.
unfinished books
unread mail
unfiltered cigarettes
pressure points
pressure gauges
pressure cookers
I have no insults for your inadvertent normcore,
no patience for your incoherent intonation.
fabric walls
Velcro
ergonomics
flu shots and pot lucks
I can't even muster up a hard on for my side piece.
I can't even bring myself to judge.
I.
can't.
even.
bored by my own stories
bored by my own songs
bored by my own breath
so
mutha
fuckin...
mutha
fuckin
uninspired.
I don't even have the words for dumb blondes in ill-fitting denim jumpsuits.
the pillow too cool to want out of bed-
my body too heavy-
the ground too wet.
And you
too phone addicted for conversation.
And me
all décolletage,
and blunt bangs before botox.
unfinished books
unread mail
unfiltered cigarettes
pressure points
pressure gauges
pressure cookers
I have no insults for your inadvertent normcore,
no patience for your incoherent intonation.
fabric walls
Velcro
ergonomics
flu shots and pot lucks
I can't even muster up a hard on for my side piece.
I can't even bring myself to judge.
I.
can't.
even.
bored by my own stories
bored by my own songs
bored by my own breath
so
mutha
fuckin...
Friday, September 9, 2016
Motion in the ocean! Ooo Ahhh...
Road Trip 2016. Part Quatre.
We left Salem and drove toward Maine--straight into a nor'easter. OK, it probably wasn't actually a nor'easter. But the sky was black, the lightning was fierce, and the rain came hard-and then harder. So I creeped off of an exit in New Hampshire and into the parking lot of a not new 7-Eleven connected to a crappy car lot behind a chain link fence. I'm not sure what I was expecting--Jessica Fletcher tending her flowers?--I just feel like New England should be all duck shoes and chinos with sensible haircuts. But there I was eating gas station pickles looking at giant pickups and windowless Pontiacs. And the same ol' rednecks I could see at home. I guess I know now how bro-country got so popular. It's not just a regional problem.
When we finally reached Maine I wanted to tell everyone that I'd survived a "wicked pissah!!" But almost immediately upon arrival I learned that a wicked pissah is not a storm. It's a good time of sorts-and I had not had one of those. But just like I knew it would, the Pine Tree State stole my heart. Aside from a liquor war with NH, a racist Governor, and the homophobic LL Bean, it's exactly where I'd like to be someday.
I lost myself in ridiculous book stores. I wondered how there could be zero garbage in the streets when there were zero garbage cans to be found anywhere (side note: there is also no place to buy gum). I reveled in an art scene with nary a millennial hipster in sight--though a man-bun did serve me the most beautiful cup of coffee I've ever had. I touched a piece of the Berlin wall (because what Jew wants to actually go to Germany?) I fell in love with the roadside motels of Orchard Beach. Further north I wandered into local bars with neon Budweiser signs and faux wood paneled walls. Toothless lady bartenders eyed my bag and stared at my nails. Craggy old regulars offered me shots.
I went into the smallest place I could find to experience a lobster roll for the first time. I took a seat on a torn vinyl stool at the bar. A latte-skinned woman glistening with sweat called me babe and slid it to me in a plastic basket. It was the classic. No frills. A buttered English roll overflowing with hunks of lobster meat. Just a touch of dressing. I'm not usually a lobster girl but I do as the Romans do--and it was perfect. My wife on the other hand, skeptical of her surroundings, decided to hold out for something else. Somewhere along the way we ended up in a slick, trendy distillery where an unimpressed girl with an ironic 60s librarian haircut served up wifey's lunch. Fuck around in a foodie town and find yourself picking pork rinds and pickled radishes out of your 'lobster roll'.
The last day there I went full tourist. Whale watching and swimming with dolphins, their babies no bigger than my house cat-so close I could hear their little baby blow holes. I watched an adorable seal brutally mutilate and eat some poor sea creature, and let that be my consolation for not seeing any puffins. And though I was warned by highway signs to be on the lookout for them, I did not see a single moose. Maybe next time...
We left Salem and drove toward Maine--straight into a nor'easter. OK, it probably wasn't actually a nor'easter. But the sky was black, the lightning was fierce, and the rain came hard-and then harder. So I creeped off of an exit in New Hampshire and into the parking lot of a not new 7-Eleven connected to a crappy car lot behind a chain link fence. I'm not sure what I was expecting--Jessica Fletcher tending her flowers?--I just feel like New England should be all duck shoes and chinos with sensible haircuts. But there I was eating gas station pickles looking at giant pickups and windowless Pontiacs. And the same ol' rednecks I could see at home. I guess I know now how bro-country got so popular. It's not just a regional problem.
When we finally reached Maine I wanted to tell everyone that I'd survived a "wicked pissah!!" But almost immediately upon arrival I learned that a wicked pissah is not a storm. It's a good time of sorts-and I had not had one of those. But just like I knew it would, the Pine Tree State stole my heart. Aside from a liquor war with NH, a racist Governor, and the homophobic LL Bean, it's exactly where I'd like to be someday.
I lost myself in ridiculous book stores. I wondered how there could be zero garbage in the streets when there were zero garbage cans to be found anywhere (side note: there is also no place to buy gum). I reveled in an art scene with nary a millennial hipster in sight--though a man-bun did serve me the most beautiful cup of coffee I've ever had. I touched a piece of the Berlin wall (because what Jew wants to actually go to Germany?) I fell in love with the roadside motels of Orchard Beach. Further north I wandered into local bars with neon Budweiser signs and faux wood paneled walls. Toothless lady bartenders eyed my bag and stared at my nails. Craggy old regulars offered me shots.
I went into the smallest place I could find to experience a lobster roll for the first time. I took a seat on a torn vinyl stool at the bar. A latte-skinned woman glistening with sweat called me babe and slid it to me in a plastic basket. It was the classic. No frills. A buttered English roll overflowing with hunks of lobster meat. Just a touch of dressing. I'm not usually a lobster girl but I do as the Romans do--and it was perfect. My wife on the other hand, skeptical of her surroundings, decided to hold out for something else. Somewhere along the way we ended up in a slick, trendy distillery where an unimpressed girl with an ironic 60s librarian haircut served up wifey's lunch. Fuck around in a foodie town and find yourself picking pork rinds and pickled radishes out of your 'lobster roll'.
The last day there I went full tourist. Whale watching and swimming with dolphins, their babies no bigger than my house cat-so close I could hear their little baby blow holes. I watched an adorable seal brutally mutilate and eat some poor sea creature, and let that be my consolation for not seeing any puffins. And though I was warned by highway signs to be on the lookout for them, I did not see a single moose. Maybe next time...
Friday, September 2, 2016
#FBF
I first noticed my imminent adulthood in an abandoned hospital bathroom. I had a cousin who contracted spinal meningitis as a toddler and my parents funded the majority of his recovery. During this time I spent most of my weekends with my grandmother at the children's hospital while my parents were away. I stayed bored and often found myself exploring places I probably shouldn't have been. One day I took what was left of my amputated kin along for the ride. I pushed his wheelchair into a wing of the hospital that had been closed for years. The walls were a sickly green, decorated with mosaics haphazardly glued by special needs children years ago. The halls smelled of stale sickness, and every step I took brought a tinny echo back to me. Our voices seemed like screams in the vacant halls. And even though it would be a while before I saw a place like this in the movies, I still felt a fear that something wicked could jump from any shadow. I realized I had to use the bathroom and just left him and his wheelchair outside of the avocado green bathroom door. It was there that I looked down and saw the most vile thing that could've ever happened in that wing. There they were, two, maybe three of them--course and black against the pale baby skin of my pubic bone. I couldn't stop looking at them. I knew what it meant but didn't know what it meant next. I didn't want to touch them for fear they would fall out, and I couldn't tell anyone because--well, because. I know I stood in that old bathroom for 20 minutes while my invalid cousin sat outside the door--legless, probably terrified or in excruciating pain. When I finally got myself together and came out, I told him I was shitting. He giggled all the way back to his room. When we were asked what we were doing for so long, he looked at me and said we had gone to the fountain outside. He thought he was keeping a grown up secret--that I had cursed, or maybe that I had shit. But what he didn't know is that he was helping me hold on to my childhood.
Friday, August 26, 2016
40 Things About Adam
1. he smoked Marlboro Lights
2. he drank Coors Light and Wild Turkey
3. he was a winker
4. and a biter
5. he kissed me every single time someone pointed a camera at us
6. he had the blackest hair
7. and the bluest eyes
8. he has a 17 year old son
9. he had no shame in living at home with this mother
10. sometimes he shaved letters into his body hair just to get a reaction
11. he was rarely ever angry
12. he had one tattoo
13. he was an inventor
14. he had horrible taste in music
15. and sang badly at karaoke
16. but loved good books
17. he had a lifeguard's body, and sometimes wore those orange shorts in public
18. he wore a watch every day--even when the battery died and it took him weeks to replace it
19. he grew up in a house full of women
20. he would do a line and want to mow the lawn at four in the morning
21. he'd make fun of me for the way I could do a line, eat a sandwich, and go to sleep
22. but he'd always bring me hangover food in bed
23. I gave a woman a permanent scar over him
24. he was much smarter than almost everyone gave him credit for
25. he once took me out in sweats after I'd gotten home from sleeping in a van for two weeks and hadn't showered in as many days
26. and then he called me the most beautiful girl in the room in front of everyone there
27. he'd say "let's go make dumb girls jealous" and take me dancing
28. he wore vintage jackets and leopard print flip flops because he gave no fucks
29. he had blonde fuzz on his earlobes
30. he thought hpnotiq was ridiculous, but would eat cherry bombs till he couldn't see
31. women (and a lot of men) practically dropped their pants at the sight of him
32. he always pretended not to notice the attention
33. he never judged. anyone. ever.
34. he loved kids, and taught them to swim
35. he talked to everyone, whether they wanted him to or not
36. he was just a little bit aimless
37. he was a gentleman
38. he was a jackass
39. one night in July 2003 he was out with a crowd I didn't want to be with. and I told him so. but he wanted to hug and kiss and nuzzle my neck. I looked him in the eye and said "fuck you Adam". And turned. And walked away. And left him where he stood.
40. he died five hours later.
2. he drank Coors Light and Wild Turkey
3. he was a winker
4. and a biter
5. he kissed me every single time someone pointed a camera at us
6. he had the blackest hair
7. and the bluest eyes
8. he has a 17 year old son
9. he had no shame in living at home with this mother
10. sometimes he shaved letters into his body hair just to get a reaction
11. he was rarely ever angry
12. he had one tattoo
13. he was an inventor
14. he had horrible taste in music
15. and sang badly at karaoke
16. but loved good books
17. he had a lifeguard's body, and sometimes wore those orange shorts in public
18. he wore a watch every day--even when the battery died and it took him weeks to replace it
19. he grew up in a house full of women
20. he would do a line and want to mow the lawn at four in the morning
21. he'd make fun of me for the way I could do a line, eat a sandwich, and go to sleep
22. but he'd always bring me hangover food in bed
23. I gave a woman a permanent scar over him
24. he was much smarter than almost everyone gave him credit for
25. he once took me out in sweats after I'd gotten home from sleeping in a van for two weeks and hadn't showered in as many days
26. and then he called me the most beautiful girl in the room in front of everyone there
27. he'd say "let's go make dumb girls jealous" and take me dancing
28. he wore vintage jackets and leopard print flip flops because he gave no fucks
29. he had blonde fuzz on his earlobes
30. he thought hpnotiq was ridiculous, but would eat cherry bombs till he couldn't see
31. women (and a lot of men) practically dropped their pants at the sight of him
32. he always pretended not to notice the attention
33. he never judged. anyone. ever.
34. he loved kids, and taught them to swim
35. he talked to everyone, whether they wanted him to or not
36. he was just a little bit aimless
37. he was a gentleman
38. he was a jackass
39. one night in July 2003 he was out with a crowd I didn't want to be with. and I told him so. but he wanted to hug and kiss and nuzzle my neck. I looked him in the eye and said "fuck you Adam". And turned. And walked away. And left him where he stood.
40. he died five hours later.
Tuesday, August 23, 2016
I've been told it's beautiful to see this time of year...
2016 Road Trip. Part Trois.
I woke up alone in Brooklyn on a twin bed under Minions sheets. I took a sticky, unairconditioned shower in a window facing the street. I drank strong coffee and ate a gigantic egg bagel--which I never forgo up north, no matter in whose company I find myself or the amount of lye involved. And then it was time to crawl over the bridge and out of the city into New England.
Some highway construction and GPS confusion sent me into New Haven, so I took the opportunity to explore Yale's campus and the people milling about it. Floppy-haired boys with belts, blonde girls in day dresses. Lining up outside of popular pizza places on tree lined streets. I wondered what my life would've been like if I'd gone to the Ivy League school I was meant for-or even finished school on time-and met a nice boy there who wanted to take care of me. I almost wondered it out loud but remembered my wife was there too. Scrolling through facebook in the passenger seat. So I found my way back to the highway. Through redirected lanes and construction zones, Rhode Island, Boston, some slum--it was on to the next destination, Salem, MA.
Which at night was everything I wanted it to be. Foggy, too quiet, leering statues at unexpected turns, a proper Irish pub-but by day a little less romantic. Vaccination clinics and law offices sprinkled among the tourist shops, each one the same as the next and all manned by bookish emo fatties. And in the light of day a little disappointing that the whole witch hunt affair was just the out of control cattiness of a gaggle of Mean Girls. Though I of course found the one place I could buy a coyote jaw (and maybe even a Mogwai or something) and was given a tarot card, which I would later learn was because I have practically the same face as a young woman put on trial for witchcraft.
But there is obviously some real history here, and plenty of kitsch. Jon Bon Jovi served me breakfast. There's a healthy appreciation for Bewitched. And the wax museums give every bit of 1989 low budget realness-and thankfully, air conditioning. All that said, Samantha and those Mean Girls aside--I still believe in witches.
I woke up alone in Brooklyn on a twin bed under Minions sheets. I took a sticky, unairconditioned shower in a window facing the street. I drank strong coffee and ate a gigantic egg bagel--which I never forgo up north, no matter in whose company I find myself or the amount of lye involved. And then it was time to crawl over the bridge and out of the city into New England.
Some highway construction and GPS confusion sent me into New Haven, so I took the opportunity to explore Yale's campus and the people milling about it. Floppy-haired boys with belts, blonde girls in day dresses. Lining up outside of popular pizza places on tree lined streets. I wondered what my life would've been like if I'd gone to the Ivy League school I was meant for-or even finished school on time-and met a nice boy there who wanted to take care of me. I almost wondered it out loud but remembered my wife was there too. Scrolling through facebook in the passenger seat. So I found my way back to the highway. Through redirected lanes and construction zones, Rhode Island, Boston, some slum--it was on to the next destination, Salem, MA.
Which at night was everything I wanted it to be. Foggy, too quiet, leering statues at unexpected turns, a proper Irish pub-but by day a little less romantic. Vaccination clinics and law offices sprinkled among the tourist shops, each one the same as the next and all manned by bookish emo fatties. And in the light of day a little disappointing that the whole witch hunt affair was just the out of control cattiness of a gaggle of Mean Girls. Though I of course found the one place I could buy a coyote jaw (and maybe even a Mogwai or something) and was given a tarot card, which I would later learn was because I have practically the same face as a young woman put on trial for witchcraft.
But there is obviously some real history here, and plenty of kitsch. Jon Bon Jovi served me breakfast. There's a healthy appreciation for Bewitched. And the wax museums give every bit of 1989 low budget realness-and thankfully, air conditioning. All that said, Samantha and those Mean Girls aside--I still believe in witches.
 |
| Patrick Dougherty-StickWork |
 |
| Thompkins H. Matteson, 1853 |
Tuesday, August 9, 2016
We'll go to Coney and eat bologna on a roll...
2016 Road Trip. Part Deux.
Having survived Lexington Market it was time to make my way to the always ass-numbing Jersey Turnpike. Smooth sailing other than Mickey and Mallory Knox from North Carolina in the car ahead at the toll booth heading out of Baltimore. Mickey drove shirtless and clearly unshowered, giving the finger to every northbound horn honker who refused to let him into the cash only lane--Mallory beside him, alternately leaning into the shattered windshield and out of the passenger window to take pictures of anything and everything. Including the toll both worker. The old Celica held together with bungee cords. I'm sure neither of them were wearing shoes, but they probably got some slippers at whatever county jail they ended up in.
But $6200 in tolls and four hours later, I made it to Surf Ave.-Brooklyn. My intent was to spend a couple hours at Coney Island then surprise some friends in Greenpoint--but what have we learned about what really happens when WGW wants to do something? Of course when I suggested this I may as well have been swallowing a sword. So instead I sat drinking Kentucky moonshine in New York while my wife and her friend talked about all the people in West Virginia that I don't know. Then the rain set in.
This is how I like my amusement parks. A little ominous--like an eighties child's cartoon with the villain drawn to appeal to the parents. With a staff whose very last priority is you having a good time. I want to give a pretty Middle Eastern boy in an alley $30.00 to park my car--and watch the nausea come over my travel companions as they debate whether or not we'll ever see him again. I want to watch people take wedding photos, then see them berated by knock-off Hello Kitty for not tipping her. I want to drink beer and eat knish at a boardwalk Go Go dance party (and you all know how I feel about Go Go).
I want to know there's still a good kind of wrong place in the world. Where the word freak isn't dirty. Where family friendly clashes with burlesque--cotton candy with dumpster dust. Where I can see the ocean from a cage in the sky.
Having survived Lexington Market it was time to make my way to the always ass-numbing Jersey Turnpike. Smooth sailing other than Mickey and Mallory Knox from North Carolina in the car ahead at the toll booth heading out of Baltimore. Mickey drove shirtless and clearly unshowered, giving the finger to every northbound horn honker who refused to let him into the cash only lane--Mallory beside him, alternately leaning into the shattered windshield and out of the passenger window to take pictures of anything and everything. Including the toll both worker. The old Celica held together with bungee cords. I'm sure neither of them were wearing shoes, but they probably got some slippers at whatever county jail they ended up in.
But $6200 in tolls and four hours later, I made it to Surf Ave.-Brooklyn. My intent was to spend a couple hours at Coney Island then surprise some friends in Greenpoint--but what have we learned about what really happens when WGW wants to do something? Of course when I suggested this I may as well have been swallowing a sword. So instead I sat drinking Kentucky moonshine in New York while my wife and her friend talked about all the people in West Virginia that I don't know. Then the rain set in.
This is how I like my amusement parks. A little ominous--like an eighties child's cartoon with the villain drawn to appeal to the parents. With a staff whose very last priority is you having a good time. I want to give a pretty Middle Eastern boy in an alley $30.00 to park my car--and watch the nausea come over my travel companions as they debate whether or not we'll ever see him again. I want to watch people take wedding photos, then see them berated by knock-off Hello Kitty for not tipping her. I want to drink beer and eat knish at a boardwalk Go Go dance party (and you all know how I feel about Go Go).
I want to know there's still a good kind of wrong place in the world. Where the word freak isn't dirty. Where family friendly clashes with burlesque--cotton candy with dumpster dust. Where I can see the ocean from a cage in the sky.
Wednesday, August 3, 2016
What is my fate, am I supposed to pray...
2016 Road Trip. Part Un.
How long should it take to get it together after what is supposed to be the rest and relaxation of vacation? Being that I don't really rest on vacation, I'm still having some struggles. I always have these visions of myself looking flowy and relaxed and breeze blown on a boardwalk somewhere-a stuffed animal some romantic show off won for me under my arm. But that never happens. I always somehow end up in the places travel brochures like to pretend don't exist.
I started this journey with my mind set on Captain Crunch french toast and bloody marys in Baltimore, but due to a late in the game suggestion and no real plan I ended up at Lexington Market. Just like any other "major" city, navigating Baltimore takes some savvy and charm. One minute you're at Camden Yards, the next you're in a scene from The Wire. To be fair Lexington Market isn't some hole in the wall--it's definitely on the radar. Though touted as a historic farmers' market, this place is obviously not for tourists. And the locals will know you are one.
Bustling but not vibrant, at 9 a.m. on a Saturday this is where the elderly and mentally ill go to shuffle along and buy their weekly supply of rabbit parts and block cheese and grey pickles. Maybe a lottery ticket and counterfeit cell phone cover. (And if planning a party, one baker even offers Hannah Montana cakes for all those 2008 pre-teens.) This is the kind of farmers' market where the merchants are suspicious of cameras and nothing for sale actually comes from a local farm--I mean there is produce, but you just have to trust me on this. You won't find anything artisanal here. But what you will find is Chinese food and carnival style sausage and peppers for breakfast. And the people watching doesn't get better. In fact I watched one of those people leave the restroom without washing her hands and go back to serving up turkey sandwiches.
But all in all, breakfast in Baltimore was a success-- I only had to say "what motherfucker!" once (which terrified my wife because she has 0 sense of adventure and -4 street smarts) and I ended up going with the chicken and waffles. With powdered sugar-because, duh.
How long should it take to get it together after what is supposed to be the rest and relaxation of vacation? Being that I don't really rest on vacation, I'm still having some struggles. I always have these visions of myself looking flowy and relaxed and breeze blown on a boardwalk somewhere-a stuffed animal some romantic show off won for me under my arm. But that never happens. I always somehow end up in the places travel brochures like to pretend don't exist.
I started this journey with my mind set on Captain Crunch french toast and bloody marys in Baltimore, but due to a late in the game suggestion and no real plan I ended up at Lexington Market. Just like any other "major" city, navigating Baltimore takes some savvy and charm. One minute you're at Camden Yards, the next you're in a scene from The Wire. To be fair Lexington Market isn't some hole in the wall--it's definitely on the radar. Though touted as a historic farmers' market, this place is obviously not for tourists. And the locals will know you are one.
Bustling but not vibrant, at 9 a.m. on a Saturday this is where the elderly and mentally ill go to shuffle along and buy their weekly supply of rabbit parts and block cheese and grey pickles. Maybe a lottery ticket and counterfeit cell phone cover. (And if planning a party, one baker even offers Hannah Montana cakes for all those 2008 pre-teens.) This is the kind of farmers' market where the merchants are suspicious of cameras and nothing for sale actually comes from a local farm--I mean there is produce, but you just have to trust me on this. You won't find anything artisanal here. But what you will find is Chinese food and carnival style sausage and peppers for breakfast. And the people watching doesn't get better. In fact I watched one of those people leave the restroom without washing her hands and go back to serving up turkey sandwiches.
But all in all, breakfast in Baltimore was a success-- I only had to say "what motherfucker!" once (which terrified my wife because she has 0 sense of adventure and -4 street smarts) and I ended up going with the chicken and waffles. With powdered sugar-because, duh.
Thursday, July 14, 2016
Joseph Stalin Malenkov Nasser and Prokofiev...
What a terrifying time to be alive. The term "in light of recent events" comes to mind. It's one I've never liked. If ever I find myself saying those words out loud, they are usually accompanied by sarcastic air quotes. And adding to the insanity is a heavy funk that settled over me shortly before the media started brainstorming headlines for America's latest bloodbath. I blame the stifling summer heat and the process of recovery. But I'm (mostly) over it now.
And today I talked with a friend I've been getting to know over the past couple of months. If you don't already have one, do yourself a favor and get an elderly friend who is not related to you.-- I can call him whenever I like, because his phone rings right to the watch on his wrist. He is a Croatian Jew-like my grandfather, but younger than he would've been. He introduced himself to me as a world famous artist, which could technically be true--one of his paintings was part of a movie set once. But now he paints on scraps of tin and sells them at the farmer's market on weekends.
He came to the U.S. to escape communism. He already had an aunt here, a doctor either in or for the CIA. I can't quite remember how that story goes. He tells me that because we are Jewish we are good with money, and so he studied economy. He invests in the stock market, and nearly all of our conversations start with how much he has lost or gained that day. He tells me never to buy a house--that as soon as I finish paying for it, I will have to replace the roof. But aside from that vicious cycle of capitalism, he loves America--and even believes the IRS is honest. In 2011 he somehow managed to overpay them without knowing. So they sent him a check for $68.00. Just like that...
I tell him I worry that Americans will ruin Cuba. He tells me he would never live there due to the socialism. He has never come right out and said so, but I get the idea he hates Russians. He often says to me, "Chairman Mao must be very happy with you." He always says this with a chuckle, and I never know what he actually means by it. But it wouldn't be as amusing to either of us if I asked him to explain it.
He jokingly (I think) says he is a proponent of men's rights and laughs at Andrew Jackson for being fired from the $20 bill so they could put a lady there. He says I should listen to what my husband says. He tells me that he knows I will make beautiful babies and wants to know when I will have them and fulfill my American duty to make more tax payers. He says all of this because he currently has to do all of the cooking and cleaning, and laundry and bill paying. And wheel his wife to the toilet when she's not in the hospital.
And knowing that I am sick sometimes he tells me the old Japanese cure for stomach ailments is Mountain Dew. I should drink one glass a week. Scientists actually figured out how to make Mountain Dew in pill form, but the soda company wouldn't allow it for obvious monetary reasons. He also tells me to take acetaminophen while I am young--though he says 'seeveetimen'--otherwise, when I am old my body will pay full price.
Talking with him always puts things in perspective for me. I'm glad I got to chat today. Because this weekend I leave the heavy behind and hit the road for a trip up the coast. And among my stops will be dinner with a NYC police officer and a black man--very likely at the same table.
Maybe all we really need right now is a good Jew and road trip.
And today I talked with a friend I've been getting to know over the past couple of months. If you don't already have one, do yourself a favor and get an elderly friend who is not related to you.-- I can call him whenever I like, because his phone rings right to the watch on his wrist. He is a Croatian Jew-like my grandfather, but younger than he would've been. He introduced himself to me as a world famous artist, which could technically be true--one of his paintings was part of a movie set once. But now he paints on scraps of tin and sells them at the farmer's market on weekends.
He came to the U.S. to escape communism. He already had an aunt here, a doctor either in or for the CIA. I can't quite remember how that story goes. He tells me that because we are Jewish we are good with money, and so he studied economy. He invests in the stock market, and nearly all of our conversations start with how much he has lost or gained that day. He tells me never to buy a house--that as soon as I finish paying for it, I will have to replace the roof. But aside from that vicious cycle of capitalism, he loves America--and even believes the IRS is honest. In 2011 he somehow managed to overpay them without knowing. So they sent him a check for $68.00. Just like that...
I tell him I worry that Americans will ruin Cuba. He tells me he would never live there due to the socialism. He has never come right out and said so, but I get the idea he hates Russians. He often says to me, "Chairman Mao must be very happy with you." He always says this with a chuckle, and I never know what he actually means by it. But it wouldn't be as amusing to either of us if I asked him to explain it.
He jokingly (I think) says he is a proponent of men's rights and laughs at Andrew Jackson for being fired from the $20 bill so they could put a lady there. He says I should listen to what my husband says. He tells me that he knows I will make beautiful babies and wants to know when I will have them and fulfill my American duty to make more tax payers. He says all of this because he currently has to do all of the cooking and cleaning, and laundry and bill paying. And wheel his wife to the toilet when she's not in the hospital.
And knowing that I am sick sometimes he tells me the old Japanese cure for stomach ailments is Mountain Dew. I should drink one glass a week. Scientists actually figured out how to make Mountain Dew in pill form, but the soda company wouldn't allow it for obvious monetary reasons. He also tells me to take acetaminophen while I am young--though he says 'seeveetimen'--otherwise, when I am old my body will pay full price.
Talking with him always puts things in perspective for me. I'm glad I got to chat today. Because this weekend I leave the heavy behind and hit the road for a trip up the coast. And among my stops will be dinner with a NYC police officer and a black man--very likely at the same table.
Maybe all we really need right now is a good Jew and road trip.
Friday, July 1, 2016
40 Acts I Should Be Ashamed Of Myself For Loving
And I Don't Even Care If We Can't be Friends
In no particular order...
1. Matisyahu
2. Anne Murray
3. Diana Ross--the disco records
4. Miley Cyrus
5. Teena Marie
6. They Might Be Giants
7. Marc Anthony
8. Fantasia
9. Kim Wilde
10. DeBarge
11. Something Corporate
12. Ricky Martin
13. T-Rex
14. Suzi Quatro
15. Divinyls
16. Hot Hot Heat
17. Cher Lloyd
18. Sylvia--the singer, not the band
19. The Struts
20. Richard Marx
21. Pantera
22. Plastic Ono Band
23. Muse--This seems like a weird choice for this list, but a lot of self-important music snobs turn their noses up at these guys.
24. Kings of Leon--see above
25. Gerry Rafferty
26. Tyler the Creator
27. Don Johnson--No word of a lie, Don Johnson released a record in 1986. It was called Heartbeat. I was 9, so clearly I had to have it. My Dad (who years later bought me a 2 Live Crew cassette) refused to get it for me out of principle, because it was just too ridiculous. So my grandmother did--she never could say no to a man on a record. Some pretty serious musicians contributed to it, so I stand by my 9 year old music choices.
28. Lady Antebellum
29. The Alan Parsons Project
30. Marilyn Manson
31. Fall Out Boy
32. Poison--'Look What the Cat Dragged In' era. I would make out with every one of those 80s ladies.
33. Rick Astley
34. Charlie XCX
35. Ke$ha--specifically the trashy mess dollar sign version. I can't get behind the grown up.
36. Bob Seger
37. One Direction
38. Glass Animals--This band is actually on the cool kid list, but if you listen closely, they're really just White Town. And that is quite embarrassing.
39. Carly Rae Jepsen
40. KISS
Tuesday, June 28, 2016
These Stones That Are Thrown Against My Bones...
I am not OK. Maybe it’s because
I kicked off the week listening to Loretta Lynn sing “Wine into Water” on a
Monday morning. Maybe it’s the
recovery. I find myself obsessing over
every pull and pinch in my gut. I watch
the glue on my skin soften and pill.
When I lie flat my muscles flutter. When I close my eyes I see the
inches of tube being pulled out of my body, and I feel it happen all over
again. I inspect the hole it came out of
every day to make sure it’s still closing.
To see if it has gotten blacker.
I once knew a woman with Body Dysmorphic Disorder. -- This is not
anorexia, and beyond counting celery sticks. When she looked in the mirror she
saw holes in her face. Some days it was horror movie terrifying. Other days she
just stood quietly caking makeup on her cheeks as if she were filling in a
fender with bondo. And it all started
for her after having her wisdom teeth taken out.
Maybe this is happening to me.
Or maybe it’s something else altogether. Maybe it’s this 250 pound boulder sitting on
my chest, pushing me down, taking my breath, stealing my joy. Reminding me I will never be settled. That
there will always be unease, and uncertainty, and the burden of digging out
into the light-in an endless cycle of anxieties and release. A new crisis strapped to my back, a new
neurosis, another hole to close.
I cried myself to sleep last night.
And then I didn’t sleep at all. I am not OK.
Friday, June 17, 2016
40 Things I Learned From Abdominal Surgery
1. Showering is the single most exhausting thing a person will ever do.
2. I hate sports bras.
3. A grown adult woman can in fact live on animal crackers alone. (I may or may not have gone through a pound of them in three days.)
4. No one means it when they say, "no judgment here."
5. Nurses are mean, and 2 out of 3 of them are trashy.
6. The good, the bad, the ugly of opioids.
7. Walking is weird.
8. Yawning hurts
9. Coughing is terrifying.
10. Sneezing is certain death.
11. People who choose elective surgery are retarded.
12. The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air is actually kind of horrible.
13. So is Law & Order.
14. It is possible to be starving to death and blindingly nauseous at the same time.
15. I'm not very good at extended down time.
16. Hospital vegetable broth tastes like ramen.
17. Animals really do know when something is wrong.
18. My wife thinks matzo is just salty communion.
19. To be grateful my midsection is made of cotton candy, actual muscle tone would've made this a lot worse.
20. Two weeks alone on a sofa is the saddest thing ever.
21. Grey t-shirts are essential to healing.
22. Elastic is the devil.
23. Having a drain removed from your body is rather unpleasant.
24. Records aren't as fun when you can't lie in the floor to listen to them.
25. Every noon news program has an awkward gardening Q & A segment.
26. My mailman is a dick.
27. Co-workers are gruesomely nosy.
28. I will not be acknowledging my navel ever again.
29. Antonio Sabato, Jr. is renovating houses now. And he's not that good at it.
30. Medical professionals are obsessed with bowel movements.
31. Fingerhut catalogs are wildly entertaining.
32. Missing out on all the fun stuff sucks--FOMO is real.
33. The human body is not a miracle masterpiece, it is vile and disgusting.
34. I hate Kelly Ripa.
35. There is an end to Netflix.
36. There is also an end of the internet.
37. And Twitter.
38. I am one window peek away from becoming Gladys Kravitz.
39. People really can be glued back together.
40. I am an excellent armchair detective.
2. I hate sports bras.
3. A grown adult woman can in fact live on animal crackers alone. (I may or may not have gone through a pound of them in three days.)
4. No one means it when they say, "no judgment here."
6. The good, the bad, the ugly of opioids.
7. Walking is weird.
8. Yawning hurts
9. Coughing is terrifying.
10. Sneezing is certain death.
11. People who choose elective surgery are retarded.
12. The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air is actually kind of horrible.
13. So is Law & Order.
14. It is possible to be starving to death and blindingly nauseous at the same time.
15. I'm not very good at extended down time.
16. Hospital vegetable broth tastes like ramen.
17. Animals really do know when something is wrong.
18. My wife thinks matzo is just salty communion.
19. To be grateful my midsection is made of cotton candy, actual muscle tone would've made this a lot worse.
20. Two weeks alone on a sofa is the saddest thing ever.
21. Grey t-shirts are essential to healing.
23. Having a drain removed from your body is rather unpleasant.
24. Records aren't as fun when you can't lie in the floor to listen to them.
25. Every noon news program has an awkward gardening Q & A segment.
26. My mailman is a dick.
27. Co-workers are gruesomely nosy.
28. I will not be acknowledging my navel ever again.
29. Antonio Sabato, Jr. is renovating houses now. And he's not that good at it.
30. Medical professionals are obsessed with bowel movements.
31. Fingerhut catalogs are wildly entertaining.
32. Missing out on all the fun stuff sucks--FOMO is real.
33. The human body is not a miracle masterpiece, it is vile and disgusting.
34. I hate Kelly Ripa.
35. There is an end to Netflix.
36. There is also an end of the internet.
37. And Twitter.
38. I am one window peek away from becoming Gladys Kravitz.
39. People really can be glued back together.
40. I am an excellent armchair detective.
Wednesday, June 15, 2016
And He Cut My Lip, And He Cut My Heart...
I have never had a perfect body. I can say now at almost 40 that I have never wanted one, though I don't quite remember if my 20 year old self would call bullshit on that. But long before this trendy "body positive" movement, I owned my body. No matter too fat or too thin, I stood naked in front of camera lenses in the name of art. I tattooed my body. I pierced my body. I suspended it from hooks. I used my thighs to keep rhythm when I learned to play music. I scrawled Sharpie messages on my skin for my own sanity. I endangered my body on carnival rides, with drugs and drink, walking home alone at night, in bed with strangers. And now I'm learning I endangered my body just by living queer. But those were all my choices, I controlled the uncontrollable. And I show off every scar those choices left me.
But now my body swells and shrinks with sickness. Something happens when you hand over control. When you know your body has been violated, and you've consented to it, but you can't quite put your finger on what has happened to you. Running your fingertips over black incisions, not knowing how eager you'll be to share them when they turn soft and pink. Finding mystery bruises and random bits of tape and missed electrodes. And just yesterday the horrifying discovery that something nefarious has happened to my belly button. You give yourself over. Forced to ask for help and company. Watching the blood flow from the inside out, collecting in plastic. Thinking about "in sickness and in health" and wondering how'd they know.
But now my body swells and shrinks with sickness. Something happens when you hand over control. When you know your body has been violated, and you've consented to it, but you can't quite put your finger on what has happened to you. Running your fingertips over black incisions, not knowing how eager you'll be to share them when they turn soft and pink. Finding mystery bruises and random bits of tape and missed electrodes. And just yesterday the horrifying discovery that something nefarious has happened to my belly button. You give yourself over. Forced to ask for help and company. Watching the blood flow from the inside out, collecting in plastic. Thinking about "in sickness and in health" and wondering how'd they know.
Monday, June 6, 2016
40 Things That Bum Me Out
In no particular order...
1. mosquito “mouth parts”
2. road kill
3. not being able to open a banana
4. people who can’t walk in heels and choose to wear them anyway
5. Marc Jacobs lipstick
6. strangers who want to chat in public restrooms—actually this is not
limited to strangers. I don’t want to
chat in the bathroom.
7. This infuriating bullshit:
8. death before 40
9. sneezing right after applying mascara
10. people who don’t vote
11. morning TV and/or radio “personalities”
12. the Yulin Dog Meat Festival
13. flip flops worn in public (in the absence of a dorm shower or body
of water) as if they were a proper pair of shoes—which leads me to:
14. looking at your chipped toenail polish
15. facebook
16. crust on condiment lids
17. mumbling
18. paper cuts on my face—yes, this happens to me often enough that it
made the list.
19. being the only party in a restaurant
20. reality television
21. that no one remembers there was a chick in Black Flag
22. spray tan
23. dudes who don’t wear undershirts with button-ups
24. gum smacking
25. thigh gaps
26. jealousy—usually my own, I tend to ignore everyone else’s
27. IPAs
28. excess saliva
29. sleeveless anything
30. people who walk without picking up their feet
31. non-stop yammering
32. existential loneliness
33. fleece
34. bad table manners
35. my mother
36. motherfuckers who have no interest in yielding and/or merging
37. that I never know when to use were vs. was
38. solo careers
39. long, flat butts
40. that thing when someone is just a smidge too far away for you to
hold the door/elevator but you know they see you and you don’t want to be an
asshole, so you have to make a split second choice between standing there for too
long like a ding dong or being an asshole
Tuesday, May 31, 2016
Feelin' Like a Freight Train...
I hope everyone enjoyed their Memorial Day weekend! Because now it's time to memorialize my dignity.
I think I know now why old people are so quick to share their gross ailments with anyone within earshot. I don't really think it's the only thing they have to talk about, or that they've lost a sense of shame or pride. I think it's because they've probably been dealing with some seriously disgusting bullshit and they just want someone to cut them a fucking. break. It's like, "Are you fucking kidding me with this whining about your parking space?! I've been scraping my pennies together for fucking bologna for two thirds of my life and now I have the muthafuckin gout!!!" Yeah, I think it's like that.
Due to the current state of my internal organs (not gout), one week from today I get to have this happen to me:
Which wouldn't be so bad--I mean I guess compared to other stuff that could happen. But. Just a few days ago I went in for another round of tattoo removal, which is self-inflicted and not at all medically necessary-I know. And usually only moderately uncomfortable and road rashy for about a week, and then insanely itchy (like the kind that makes your eyes water) for another two weeks after that. One guess though as to where this tattoo is gettin' gamma rayed. Yep.
So over Memorial Day weekend I decided to let off some steam. Only I had to do so stone-cold sober because, "elevated liver enzymes". There I was practically in the wilderness watching alleged domesticated dogs murder perfectly good baby bunnies with a virgin margarita and plate full of black bean hummus--desperately inhaling second hand smoke and ballcap sweat at a cornhole board on purpose, just to feel alive. And this happened. All over.
Sexy right? I'm pretty sure there's Zika in at least half of them.
And then on Sunday someone fed the gremlins that live in my ovaries after midnight. And complete. fucking. chaos. ensued.
I let my mother know all this yesterday morning when she asked why I didn't sound up to chatting. Then in her usual way she told me not to "let myself go"--there's no reason I shouldn't still look nice through all this. And then she nonchalantly mentioned that she now has cataracts.
I think I know now why old people are so quick to share their gross ailments with anyone within earshot. I don't really think it's the only thing they have to talk about, or that they've lost a sense of shame or pride. I think it's because they've probably been dealing with some seriously disgusting bullshit and they just want someone to cut them a fucking. break. It's like, "Are you fucking kidding me with this whining about your parking space?! I've been scraping my pennies together for fucking bologna for two thirds of my life and now I have the muthafuckin gout!!!" Yeah, I think it's like that.
Due to the current state of my internal organs (not gout), one week from today I get to have this happen to me:
And then on Sunday someone fed the gremlins that live in my ovaries after midnight. And complete. fucking. chaos. ensued.
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