“I don’t need to be sitting around all day thinking about Burt Reynolds.”
If my boss’ boss and the head of the department don’t stop calling Bram Stoker’s Dracula, Bram Stroker’s Dracula, I might scream. It makes me think of Stroker Ace and I don’t need to be sitting around all day thinking about Burt Reynolds. Normally, I would pipe up in my nerdy, anal-retentive way, but the head of the department has been super stressed recently and I also don’t need to sit around all day with my head chewed off.
“See? I’ve got jokes. We could sit around being funny together. Then he could leave me for a 22 year-old model/actress named Stacey.”
Uh, so yeah. Bill Hader is married. And you know how I feel about poaching someone else’s man. Maybe I should shift my affections to fellow SNL-er, Will Forte, because he is funny, but far more importantly, his given name is Orville Willis Forte IV.
If we had a baby, it could be Orville Willis Forte V. Even if it’s a girl.
See? I’ve got jokes. We could sit around being funny together. Then he could leave me for a 22 year-old model/actress named Stacey.
[I have yet to meet anyone of worth named "Stacy" so "Stacey" is the ultimate insult. It's a total stripper name, along with Brandy/Brandi, Ashley, Ginger, Tracy, Jessica, Britney/Brittany, Jasmine, Amber, Courtney, Lola, Tia, Summer, Shannon, Alicia/Alisha, Sienna, Nicky
and Vicky.
Boy names I just plain don't like include: Bill, Bob, Herb, Carl, Rick (fat car salesmen), Chet, Chip, Chad, Brad (frat guys who start every sentence with "Bro"), Abraham/Abe, Alvin, Archie, Frank, Lou, Gabe, (lecherous grandfather), Tony, Bobby, Freddy, Willy, Mikey, Barney (plumbers), Cody, Troy, Carter, Clay, Garth (douche bags extraordinaire).]
I’ve decided that I should just have unrequited and cliche crushes on unattainable celebrities like normal people do, I mean, in addition to Jim Jarmusch. My first one is currently Bill Hader:
[volume alert: it's quieter]
[volume alert: it's louder]
No, no, let me guess, People Who’ve Met Bill Hader, he’s an asshole, right? You hate his guts, right? He ripped your kitten’s paw off and ate it, right? Well, I don’t care. All the real guys I’ve had crushes on are the same if not worse. Plus they aren’t as cute as Bill. Or as funny. Or as Vincent Price-y.Please note, I do realize he’s married as well. Again, this does not seem to stop any of the other married/involved men who have approached me.
I have just been catching up with my friend Laura’s life by reading her LiveJournal. It used to be that when she and I were (frequently) mutually unsociable, I would keep up with her doings and happenings online. It saved a lot of time when we finally did meet up for cupcakes and knitting. I’ve been remiss for the past year or so, really I had not read her LJ since before she moved to Chicago, before she married Josh (who seems amazingly good for and to her, and is nice to boot).
Laura was the one I spent my summers with barhopping on the Lower East Side when I was 25 or so. Then we barhopped year round when she moved here after graduating from Northwestern. Because I’ve lost all my pictures I have to ask her if she still has those Polaroid scans of The Glitter Van, which was this van covered entirely with gold sequins that we kept seeing parked on Avenue A. Laura is the one with supreme taste in fashion and music. The one who knew where the cool shit was happening and could get us in or knew someone who knew someone.
There was also a time when this guy with a huge white and orange boa chased us from Thompkins Square Park into a bodega and back out again. I am pretty sure that Laura was running first from the snake and then the guy, while I was running from a guy who would chase girls because I don’t mind snakes. I would gladly take the snake over the guy. The lesson we took from that adventure was never run into a bodega expecting people to help you because they could care less who or what is chasing you down an aisle. Even though snakes and other animals really shouldn’t be allowed in establishments where food is being prepared and sold.
Then we briefly lived together when I broke up with Aaron; I was subletting her room while she went on tour with some band friends. Wow, that was lifetimes ago. Zenas, Lief(?), Alec, John, (my current roommate) Erica. In my mind I think of that as The Supercore Years, when Supercore was still a cafe and not a restaurant. A few months later I met Shawn and we dated for the next two years. I moved in with the dying lady and her cat Natasha, then moved in with Shawn, then moved to where I live now…with Erica.
Laura is kind of my “mental health” friend, in that I never had to explain to her my bouts of depression or my unsociable phases. She completely understood it. Things like that are hard to understand if you have no personal sense of it. So when she said she plans to move back to New York City in a year or so, I felt so happy. I’ve never been to Chicago, and I’m sure it would be fun to visit (I plan to go to her wedding) but it feels a million miles away. I mean, I never even made it to Boston to see Anna and Ira, who are busy being parents and homeowners.
Now that I’m focused on creative projects and bettering my life, I have also resolved to be a better friend and to socialize more. I’ve already re-established my friendship with Richard, and plan to see much more of Lynne and maybe even throw some cocktail/dinner/Gatsby tea parties. So, it’s good to know I will have a chance to spend more time with Laura and Josh. It seems like great things are coming and I am excited to be able to share them with people I’ve known for years and years. I also need to reconnect with Todd and Genevie and their son Sebastian.
All of these thoughts came while reading Laura’s LJ entry about her and Josh getting the words “be better” tattooed on their wrists after a really amazing and sweet person Laura knew when she lived here died. He was one of those people who made the world a better place just by being his caring and involved self, and reading the entry gave me some perspective on the crazy and stupid minutiae with which I’ve entangled myself.
The person I have a crush on is taken and overly complicated. The person who has a crush on me will get over it. This is a time for revelations and enjoyment, not for drama and distractions. So, thank you Laura, for your thoughtful insights. Context is everything. Lastly, thank you for the genius phrase, “an Alzheimer’s medication made from daffodils”. This will be part of the first line of my first novel.
I only note this because I am currently working on the credits for Leave It
To Beaver and one of the characters is named Whitey. He was played by
Stanley “Tiger” Fafara.
A few weeks ago, I was tempted to physically assault someone. Not a long, over-involved pummeling kind of impulse, but more of a “punch person’s face a few times” impulse. Specifically, I was struck with the powerful urge to accidentally lose my grip on my bowling bowl so that it tragically intersected with this one girl’s face (uh, interfaced with her face?).
In my defense, it had just not been a good day for me. I’d gotten very little sleep the night before and a good friend at work had decided he wasn’t speaking to me anymore. I am exhausted and upset and yes, a little on edge.
I’ve only been in one “fight” in my life and that was a sort of kicking skirmish with Sabine Stahl in the fifth grade. But in this instance, for a nanosecond, I had the thought that this was going to be the night. My first fight was going to be with a 21 year-old wanna-be fashion model from Utica, NY. She was taller than me, but I have a good 40-50 pounds on her and I was uber-pissed.
On the night in question, I go over to Chris’ and Marko is there. We watch an episode of Knight Rider on NetFlix, after which they are heading over to meet James at the bowling alley in Brooklyn. I tell Chris I’m too tired and unhappy and I am just going to go home, but he won’t hear of it. “It will cheer you up!”, he says, “We’ll bowl and drink beer.” How could I refuse in the face of such unassailable logic?
The first game is a lot of fun. Marko and Chris are a thousand times better at bowling than I am, but I am improving thanks to bowling on my mom’s Wii over Christmas. Then James and his lady friend show up. Yes, sirree. Her name is…let’s call her Sassy Pants. We first become aware of James and Sassy Pants when she begins shrilly yelling at Chris to bowl it into the gutter and what a piece of shit bowler he is.
Chris and Marko had on a previous occasion played pool with Sassy Pants. Chris and Marko are photographers, used to dealing with models, and are happy that their (photographer) friend, James, is getting laid. Chris and Marko don’t mind spending time with a pretty girl, i.e. they are males.
I am not a photographer. James and I aren’t that close. I am not male and I am socially finicky. On top of this, I’m tired and not in great spirits. The last thing I need is a shrieking, obnoxious, hyperactive stranger telling me how much I suck and how she is going to kick everyone’s asses. Then the hitting begins.
Not at me, thank god, because there really would have been a fight that night. No, the object of Sassy Pant’s love taps is Chris, who bears it surprisingly well. To be clear, these are not playful jabs or chummy nudges. These are slaps to the face or punches to the stomach. Right. Chris retaliates by spanking her ass every time she hits him, which of course she likes, though in true guy-cave-man fashion, he asks James if it is okay first. James thinks it is fair retribution. Actually, I think James is a tad chagrined at that point.
Honestly, I can joke or trash talk with the best of them. The guys trash talk like you wouldn’t believe though I’m usually excluded because I’m not a good enough bowler to be a true contender and non-threatening types tend to fly under the trash talking radar. To reiterate: I’m tired, I’m sad, a very loud, screechy woman is yelling at me every time I bowl. I am no longer having any fun. After the fifth, “You fucking suck!” from Sassy Pants, was about when I was visualizing the bowling ball meeting her face mishap. James
half-smiles and says, “You can hit her, too.” to which I reply, “Not even fucking worth it!” to which I overhear her say to James, “Ohhhhh, someone is not amused.”
YEAH? DO YOU THINK, BITCH? What gave you the first inkling? Was it my pained expression or everyone else rolling their eyes? I tell Chris I’m too exhausted and I’m going to cut out early. He argues me out of it because there’s only one more game left. He says, “She’s only 21 and really insecure.” and “She’s from Utica.” and some other flimsy reasons to explain why she is a freakish douche bag. So, while I am in the ladies’ room, reportedly Sassy Pants runs up behind Chris and when he turns around she
slaps him in the face as hard as she can. Okay, this was kind of the last straw. Chris bides his time and when she least expects it, he walks over and fully slaps her in the face. Oh man, is she pissed! Normally, no way would I advocate violence of any kind, especially not against a woman, but this time I’m just sorry I missed it.
The rest of the game was uneventful and a bit quieter. We all parted ways at the train station and Sassy Pants went back to Utica. A few days later, Chris informs me that he and Sassy Pants are friends now and even did a shoot together. 100% coincidentally, one of Chris’ heroes, Terry Richardson, is planning a shoot with Sassy Pants, on the basis of a photo that Chris took. If she ever works with Juergen Teller or Nobuyoshi Araki, Chris might marry her.
****
Moral 1: I need to stop hanging out with photographers.
Moral 2: I need more not-too-frilly female friends.
Moral 3: I need to avoid models at all costs (except for Julia or Raleesha
because I liked them a lot).
Okay, my friend (Betty’s friend) is in a bit of a quandary. He wrote a musical and his good friend of three years wrote a play. There is a striking similarity between a situation in the musical and one in the play. The style and tone are quite different, but this striking similarity is of the far-too-coincidental variety. That issue has become secondary to the lack of empathy and receptivity displayed by my friend’s playwright friend. It’s upsetting enough to be betrayed by someone you trust and care about. On top of that, to have your concerns and hurt feelings be basically dismissed is inexcusable.
Creative people are essentially collectors. We constantly take note of little stories, vignettes, news items, characters that come our way. We frequently, inadvertently, use these tidbits without always remembering the source. It’s the nature of how we process the world around us.
In the end, the people we care about are all we have, and to disrespect that is a true sin. To behave as honorably as we can and to listen to one another is what redeems us at the end of the day.
Needless to say, I am beyond disgusted with my friend’s “friend”.
One night last year, my friend and his friend (let’s call her…Betty) go
out to see a movie, throughout which a group of people talk incessantly and
kick the back of their seats. Though dirty looks are leveled at the
offending group, the hint is not taken. When the credits roll, Betty turns
around in her seat and unleashes some serious sarcasm. She thanks the group
for ruining the entire movie and suggests they all exchange e-mail addresses
so Betty can go to their place and talk and kick the back of their couch
while they’re trying to watch a movie. The offenders fire back with some
sarcasm of their own; Oh yes, they should all be MySpace friends and go over
to one another’s apartments.
As it happens, this was simply the wrong thing to say to Betty, who has some
anger management issues for which she is currently seeking professional
help.
My friend goes to the men’s room, and when he comes out, Betty is nowhere to
be seen. He assumes she has gone home, but she catches up with him later
outside of the movie theater. It seems Betty noticed their new “MySpace
friends” leaving and decided to follow them. For ten blocks. She cheerily
walked behind them saying because they had ruined the last two hours of her
life, she was going to ruin the next two of theirs. The way Betty tells it,
the offenders, smartass pricks to the core, play along for the first four
blocks. Around block six they start to get a little nervous. By block ten
they are shitting their pants. That’s when she decides they have learnt
their lesson and she turns back.
Okay, so Betty’s behavior was a tad extreme and events needn’t have played
out quite that way. In addition, during the movie my friend and Betty could
have asked the people to be quiet. However, I sympathized with their
plight. I, too, tend to shy away from confrontation, and at times that’s a
real disadvantage. I’ve also experienced situations where a request for
silence incites more and louder talking, because if you’re yapping and
kicking seats in the first place, you’ve pretty much already established
yourself as a raging prick and chances are you are spoiling for a fight.
Because I wasn’t there, I have the luxury of hearing the story as a far
fetched revenge fantasy for all the movie theater cretins with whom I’ve
ever had to contend, unlike my friend who had that unsettling moment of
trying to figure out what the hell happened to Betty, who is a tiny, elfin
looking girl. A thin, dancer, vegetarian type who wears her brunette hair in
a cute bob.
But truly, there are so many lessons to be gleaned from this anecdote. You
never know when or where someone is going to snap a little. It pays to not
be a sarcastic prick.
But the true moral of this story is, don’t fucking talk during movies.
Due to a rather tragic misunderstanding between me, my laptop and my backup
hard drive, I’ve lost all my digital photographs. Gone are my pictures of
friends and exes and streets and whatever funny little things I saw while
walking around the city. Things that were striking, or beautiful or reminded
me of something else.
It’s like there was a fire in my apartment and all my photos were destroyed.
With a fire you are left with ashes. But digital? You have nothing. It’s as
though they never existed.
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