Monday, December 19, 2005

I haven't been blogging lately because I am in Africa! South Africa, to be exact, and despite the many lovely things about this country, its main drawback (besides poverty, epidemics, etc.) is its lack of DSL! I am nothing if not impatient (and slightly lazy, and on vacation) and so unable to write much.

However, I have found a fairly fast connection at a nearby internet cafe and will do my intermittent best.

In other news, after burning my knee on a R10c piece left in the sun, the coin's tasteful foilage imprint seared into my flesh, the area has swollen into a small, dime-shaped cushion that appears to be filled with a clear fluid. Just what is going to come out? Guesses and a prize for the winner!!!!

Monday, December 05, 2005

Upon being alerted by our Mr. Creighton about the new subway restrictions going into effect today, i.e. no leg spreading, I should like to recount a particularly disturbing incident on the uptown 6 train a couple of years ago.

It wasn't crowded. I was seated. The man across from me was wearing rather abbreviated jogging shorts, but as it was warm and he looked the running type, I thought nothing of it. Nothing, until I noticed that one of his testicles was clearly visible. I went back to my paper, wondering if he'd notice. Looked up again and there was the testicle, clear as day. At this point I made eye contact with him. I realize this was foolish, but I thought that maybe ful eye contact from a stranger on the train would instill a kind of "check yourself before you wreck yourself" mentality and this, combined with the air conditioning stroking his exposed scrotal skin might make him tuck his ball in his shorts, cross his legs, and red-facedly get off at the next stop. I smiled at him helpfully. He smiled back. I went back to my paper.

I peeked again. Ball still there.

Again. 77th street! Balls! 77th Street is where you get off for the Whitney or the Vera Wang bridal salon (now a part of my world.) There should be no testicles on 77th street, unless they are dipped in gold.


This was when I realized that this man was an exhibitionist, and I was his prey. Oddly, I felt no anger, only bemusement and slight embarrassment. I got off at 86th street, went to my aunt's house, and took a shower.

I'm not sure what is the most disturbing part of the incident, the fact that I experienced what some people would call a form of sexual assault (however, in its most passive, non-invasive, almost friendly incarnation) or that fact that even today, I can recall this man's genitals more clearly than the faces of some relatives.


Saturday, December 03, 2005

Watched "Mr. & Mrs. Smith" last night, with Miss Marks, and Mr. Abramowitz. It's amazing how some work can simply exist without dialogue. "Mr. & Mrs. Smith" is one of these. I think of it not so much as a movie than a ludicrously budgeted dance theater piece produced by the N.R.A.

Angelina Jolie is ridiculously beautiful of couse, and looking more like a CGI effect then ever. Brad at least has acne scars to mar his perfection. Both of them appear to be constructed out of the sort of silky, pliant plastic that Barbie dolls are fashioned from, the kind that is almost warm to the touch and grows sticky in the sun. Throughout the movie, I expected a giant dog to descend from the heavens and scoop up one of our stars in its mouth, only to discard them later with, feet a mangled carcass of bite marks and slobber.

We amused ourselves in the dialogue-free wilderness by dubbing in what they may have said:

BRAD: (upon retrieving some weaponry from a concealed cabinet) This is where Jennifer hides her doughnuts. And her laxatives. And the coke.

ANGELINA: That's so sad. Poor soul. I pity her. No, Brad. You don't want me. You want your idea of me. I'm not going to save you.

BRAD: Jen cries. All the time.

ANGELINA: Of couse. She leads an essentially shallow existence. Where are the knives?

A BABY, UPON BEING HANDED TO ANGELINA JOLIE: Oh, pretty. Pretty lady. Infant syphillis. So cold...and then the fever comes. Hungry. Ugly. Please save me, pretty lady, pretty...mommy?

A bright spot was Vince Vaughan, playing Vince Vaughan and wearing, hilariously, a Ferrara's t-shirt emblazoned with a giant cannoli. I'm willing to bet a million, trillion dollars that this shirt is part of Vaughan's personal wardrobe.

VINCE: What? It's a cannoli. It's a pastry, it's a sweet treat. It's decadent. I'm a decadent guy. You got to live on the edge sometimes--sometime you're looking for a little pure pleasure. I like them, they make me happy. Jennifer likes them, I buy them for Jennifer. She likes them. She doesn't eat them very often, you know, she thinks she's fat. To me, she's beautiful. I don't have a problem with her weight. She's a beautiful, beautiful, girl, but she's a worrier, that one. I tell her, sweetheart, don't worry so much. You're a beautiful girl. I tell her she could even be bigger. Ten, twenty, maybe thirty pounds even, I mean, come on, give a man something to grab on to, she'd still be a beautiful girl. You been to Veneiro's? It's shit, it's dreck, they produce facile pastries for provincial palates. Ferrara's is where it's at my brother, you with me?

(The above should be spoken in 17.3 seconds.)

My favorite part of the movie is when Brad sings along to "Making Love Out of Nothing At All" by Air Supply in the car, and a panoply of emotions play across the enormous face of Angelina Jolie. Disgust. Fear. Confusion. The realization that Brad will probably not make deep cuts in her legs, suck out the blood, and then fuck the laceration. Relief? And, well, with his shiny lips, he's kind of cute.

I love Air Supply.

Friday, December 02, 2005

It came to me last night in a dream, but since I've been alerted to the fairy tale transcendence of "Trading Spouses" by my colleague Mr. Creighton, I've had it on my mind.

What we really need is "Trading Spouses: Africa" in which a horrible American woman who votes Republican, is a rabid bigot, etc, etc, (actually someone like Lynne Cheney, okay so let's just say Lynne Cheney) trades places with an African woman with several children in an impoverished village in Zambia/Uganda/Congo/Malawi/Liberia etc. There she can be infected with HIV by her migrant worker husband, haul sticks, and watch her children die of malaria while receiving intermittant radio broadcasts about tax cuts for the wealthy and the importance of abstienence only education in the War on AIDS.

Lynne Cheney is good, but maybe the indomitable Marguerite Perrin is better. It's certainly an effective, non-invasive weight loss method. Why spend all that money for a gastric bypass when you can raise your Q factor and lose the body mass of four teenagers at the same time?

In my dream, alas, it was I who had traded spouses. My favorite part was when I went by donkey to a neighboring town to hock my engagement ring for the equivalent of thirty american dollars, that we might purchase antibiotics and dressing to threat the flesh-eating bacteria that had infested the tiny, malnourished body of my young son.

And after a dream like that, it takes a very special person to figure a new slant for a popular reality series. Simon Fuller, watch your back!!!!

Thursday, December 01, 2005

It's been a long time since I blogged. I'm sorry. I'm lazy, and it seems somehow that the more you actually have to do, the less inclination you have to write about it. It's like when you cook all day and then mysteriously lose your appetite.

That's a favorite anorexic hobby, by the way, cooking up a storm to fatten others, then as they chow down on the deliciousness, looking faraway and virtuous, like a Pilgrim woman on the deck of the Mayflower, surveying the sea with the faith of a thousand martyrs.

I once wanted to write a book that I was going to call---wait, I still want to write it. I'll tell you about it once it's been COPYRIGHTED. THIEVES. EVERYWHERE. THIEVES, RUFFIANS AND CRIMINALS.

My darling husband-to-be just flicked water on my neck. It felt oddly urine. I reallly hope it was water, or I may have gotten myself into more than I bargained for.

Here are some things I learned from the movie RENT, which I saw with my good friend Mr. Creighton a week or two ago.

1. Trannies are kind to homeless people.
2. Trannies are kind in general.
3. Jewish boys with nice families in Scarsdale who care about them desperately want to live in poverty with no heat, even though their parents would totally help them out.
4. Just because your girlfriend killed herself and you have AIDS and so do all your friends, doesn't mean you have anything to write a song about. The Muse is a fickle mistress.
5. When you're trying to stay off smack, the best way is to sleep with the junkie stripper that broke into your house.
6. There were tons of black, female, out lesbians lawyers working in high powered corporate law firms in the 1980's. Tons. Nothing to comment on.
7. If you are remotely creative, it is completely out of the question to pay rent for your apartment.
8. Or any bills of any other kind.
9. Or to attempt to make even the slightest amount of money, even if someone offers it to your for WHAT YOU LIKE TO DO!
10. "Will I lose my dignity, will someone care?" is musical theater code for "Will I lose control of my bowel movements? Will someone wipe?"

The problem is that all of the above statements are FALSE. Except the last one.