fool for that

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

this is just to say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

...william carlos williams

This is my favorite love poem. It might even be my favorite poem full stop. It's disappointing when people don't have a favorite poem. Who are these people? I understand. Not everyone reads poetry and really, that's okay, but maybe that's just my west coast self talking. It actually isn't really okay. But if I remove all the non-poetry lovers from the pool of potential friends, that's probably more than, what do you think - like, 65-70 percent of all the people in the world? And then maybe 50 percent of the people I know? Maybe that's my inner pessimist talking. Wouldn't it be nice if that criteria only removed, say five percent of all the people in the world and almost everyone was up for inclusion?

William Carlos Williams is definitely not my favorite poet. That's ee cummings. Oh, I know it's vaguely predictable and sort of obvious. I've let it go. When I was 15, the boy I lost my virginity to stole a hardback copy of the ee cummings anthology for me for - maybe my birthday. I know for a fact he had no idea. He just knew I wanted the book.

I mean, this young question mark man? she being brand new? The best. That poem about the moon reaching into his window with its little hands? Unbearable. I gave Kimberly Lymberis a copy of 'she being brand new' to leave in John Egger's locker when we were juniors in high school. It was very Roxanne/Cyrano. It so worked. Not that she needed to do it.

along the brittle treacherous bright streets
of memory comes my heart, singing like
an idiot, whispering like a drunken man

Friday, February 03, 2006

a little sleepytime tea spiked with another heartache

Lately I've been rebuilding my old music collection like a collage - a CD, a dowload, a record. I'm trying to remember all the songs that I loved, that I listened to 400 times in a row and then one more when I was 15, 16, 21. I can't remember the last time that happened.

When I listen to some of those songs now, I love them just as much, but I love them because they remind me of myself then. They remind me of my high school boyfriends and the ones I crushed on in college. They remind me of playing hookie in the King Edward hotel -- finding someone's scribbled note on the rotten floors and looking down on the empty pool, filled with rusty rainwater. Remind me of sneaking into the empty space above Lemuria and having dinner on the floor. Of a million missions to the POW camp, walking so far through the high grass and thinking that we must be lost until we found it. And then, once we got there, feeling ghosts and making fun of the cut-rate goth graffiti on the walls. All my favorite places during the day - the Farish Street cemetary; Shirley's; the flea market; downtown abandoned on a Saturday afternoon; Laurel Park, and at night - the fountains in Highland Village; the sprinklers at Colonial Countryclub; Kolb's Cleaners; behind the movie screen at Rocky Horror (what was the name of that theater?); Krystal's.

Jackson was (and maybe still is) a town with a lot of hidden, forgotten, and left-for-dead spaces. I never had a fake id, so we had to seek out places to get into trouble that didn't have bouncers. Now that I'm older and live in a great City, there are a million things to do that don't require any effort at all. Listening to those old songs reminds me of a time when entertainment wasn't nearly so passive and maybe more interesting.

Thursday, January 19, 2006

a steersman must abide by the arbitrary law of the compass

Dear Negroni -
Your are so bitter, and yet I stumble through a sober wilderness without you.
Your Campari is like a grimy, grumpy Walter Matthau, and yet,
paired with the saucy Gin of Jack Lemmon, who can resist your prickly charms?
love,
Little Miss Marker

Dear Bo Bice -
Two ribbons of shame on your dojo, sir. Screw you for encouraging any asshole who ever liked the Allman Brothers to audition for American Idol. I thought we put that isht to bed after Mask - wait, nevermind, that was Sam Elliot. You're like that one soggy, slimy piece of undercooked fried okra that casts a pall on the rest of the bowl.
there is no try, only do -
Roll Dog

Dear Allan Hollinghurst,
I am sure you are going somewhere with this. I am just sure of it, but I have to say, I feel ambushed by a novel that seems like gay soft porn thinly masquerading as satire. I am hanging in there, but only for another, say, hundred pages. Make it happen.
love,
Anulus Roundhole

p.s. I think you should know that when I click your very smug-but-sassy author picture on amazon, I get this - is that what you want? I mean, really.

Dear Wednesday Night Teevee -
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
You're my new favorite turd,
I'd never shit you.
love,
s-boogie brown

Dear TC Boyle,
It took me a long time to get over the fact that the cover of Drop City sucks. The book was great: Alaska! Acid! Heartbreak! Dead Dogs! Really. Great. But please reconsider your choice of graphic artist. I can't take that on the bus.
love,
Priscilla Pantywaist

Thursday, January 12, 2006

i'd rather be a hammer than a nail

He didn't turn really bad until 40? I thought life begins at 50?

sidenote: way too many hits on "life begins at 50" search.

Friday, January 06, 2006

if I told you I loved you, I lied

When I was but a wee slo (well, maybe not that wee - like 13 - but I've been dying to write that.), I had four posters up in my room. Poster number one was in the back of my closet behind all my clothes.

It was of Ratt, circa Lay it Down. They were just so...nasty. And if you've seen Stephen Pearcy lately, you know that isht wasn't just for show, judging by how cruel the years have been to Waycool Junior. One of them was squirting mustard on the other ones? Poster number two wasn't really a poster; it was a clipping from some heavy metal magazine of GNR and it was scotch-taped to the inside of my underwear drawer. I know. Gross, right?

Posters numbers three and four were affixed to my cork board with a thumbtack. One was of Sean Ono, and the other was Marc Jacobs. Sean Ono was in black and white, which softened his features so that all you could really make out was a mess of dark hair and large, wide-set brown eyes. The one of Marc Jacobs was in color. I ripped it out of a magazine. He was slumped against a wall, no glasses - long curly brown hair and a white polo shirt.

Considering the posters more closely, I wasn't spending my 13-year old daydreams on GNR and Ratt. While I wanted to be the type of outlandishly naughty girl who snuck out to see Lillian Axe on a Wednesday night and dated the drummer, I was actually the plainly cautious one, crushing on some undercover nerds.

Wednesday, January 04, 2006

a big fat cop out

Santino: I'll never apologize for anything that I design. Me: Really? Well, could you consider apologizing for that stringy glorified combover masquerading as a ponytail?
vat doss zee model sound like ven shee loses? she sounds like ten thousand puppies orphaned in zee vilderness.
Nicky Hilton - I'm sorry, your taste is "exquisite"? you're a dirty liar! you dress alternately like an 80-year old former showgirl living in Palm Beach and a 12-year old who shops exclusively at Forever 21. It is a total sin that you have that much money and choose to wear Miss Teen USA cast-offs, but I guess that, in the immortal words of Dolly Parton, "People don't realize how much it costs to look cheap."
Me: Okay, Santino. I'm sorry. I apologize for my earlier remarks. No no, for real. I see that you just took the ridiculous up to Level Radical with those patent leather shoes. I didn't even see that coming - not at all!
You have reignited my love for the fauxhawk, Nick. I don't know whether I love you or hate you for that.
Nicky Hilton has an adam's apple.

Tuesday, January 03, 2006

cliche battle

Power Corrupts v. Power Attracts the Corruptible

Maybe it's not actually a very good point/counterpoint - more like a statement and then a clarification. I used to ponder it when I worked for the City of Oakland, where Jerry Brown was (and is) the mayor. Not because of JB, but because of this guy. I guess that Catholic+Buddhist=Situationist/Sexual Harrasser? Or maybe he's just French. Favorite quote derived from two minutes of web research: "The notion of situationism is obviously devised by antisituationists." Obviously.

p.s. speaking of D.C. - seriously, Clinton Portis, you have a job. Could you maybe stop auditioning for King of Awesome?

p.p.s. sidenote...is that a hair icon? magical!

left brain/right brain

Here is what I love about this: the people on the right had a totally different photo in mind than the people on the left. In fact, if you cover up the ridiculous on the left, you can see that the people on the right thought, 'What a lovely day this is. I'm so happy to be out here in the snow. Look at my teeth.' While the people on the left thought, 'I've got the keys to f***ed up city! In fact, check my card! I'm the mayor!'