Time Out New York: Evidence of a Past Relationship

How you get bloody gift cards: Me and X went to a Basquiat exhibit awhile ago – and got photographed by target. Song calls me at work and I’m barely alive ‘cus I have a sore throat, what with dentist’s ramming their hands in there and caffeine pills and lack of food.  She says she was looking at Time Out and saw this “cute girl, i liked her skirt, and you know i never look at ads” and then saw it was me. (I was flattered that she said i was a cute girl. In the olden days perhaps she would not have been so forthright with compliments, because of her stressing of realness…which must preclude fluffy commendations of beauty…)

anyway…we’re in this month’s issue of Time Out New York in a Target ad.

I remember that day, we sat on a bench and I was exhausted as usual, overdressed, completely patronizing – I bitched about the exhibition and i was pleased that Cole felt the same way…and then Target started snapping away and what do you know, we get gift cards. Upon hearing the news, Mary said:

Are you going to like, kill yourself?

I’m advised to “cut him”:  He never did respond to my email about what the hell his new record label was.  On Saturday, his big night, he texted Ian to tell him to come to his release party and ian texted him back saying – knowing it was fairly evil –  ”I’m going to a party with Miso”….and X says “have fun…”  Oh yes, much fun involving a Where’s Waldo book, group puking, painkillers, screaming at inept cab drivers and my poor defenseless English roommate, a rave on a hippy boat on Gowanus Canal – and staring into the night over the gooey waters remembering his first night djing at Rififi and I bought him some carnations and the smile on his face was so huge, so ridiculous I felt embarassed.
*a good friend* said in response to his behavior:

what a bitch. i’ll cut HIM!

do this: http://www.jacksonpollock.org/

it’ll make everything better.

How to Make Pasta

a bloke wrote:

The key to the dish you made last night is you need to go get some yuppie Parmesan reggiano; mainly it calls for garlic.

Make your pasta, al dente, in advance if you like but reserve some of the salted pasta water (always add salt to your pasta water and NEVER add oil).

In a saute pan with medium heat, add some olive oil, then the garlic, make sure you don’t burn the garlic, add some crushed red pepper and the broccoli. When broccoli is good add the pasta and salt to taste to the pan, then some of the reserved pasta water.

When the pasta is good and hot, plate and then add more crushed red pepper if you desire and throw on the cheese; garnish with chopped parsley.

me wrote back:

thanks for the tips. i will follow them if i have guests. i actually did put some cayenne in there…see i’m really lazy, i wouldn’t saute broccoli separately. i steamed it with the pasta and drained it. and i wouldn’t use a chopping board. i break apart the broccoli with my hands. there would be no knife involved; hence no chopped parsley.

i am literally the laziest cook you’ve ever heard of. why? I cannot explain this. when i grew up my mum spent literally hours making breakfast – homemade bagels, donuts, and baked granola – dinner would be a similarly time-consuming affair with a Korean banquet – later it would slow down to leftovers – but still, you’d think i would’ve learned the art of careful and loving cooking…but alas, my idea of food is two pieces of bread, mayonnaise, and cheese stabbed with a plastic knife.

Holla, holla, holla, JANE

When did i EVER use the word Holla. Why is the word HOLLA all of a sudden totally representative of every utterance I use?

So I emailed Jane my latest blog post and they literally put it up in 5 minutes. What’s going on? Is it my pheromones?

But check it, ‘cus I sorta edited a video that i made with my phone and it’s really crap, ‘but it’s kind of funny.

Urban Dictionary definition of “Holla”:

holla 32 up, 25 down

1. To show a romantic interest in an individual esp. with exchanging of one’s personal information. Flirt.
2. An expression of joy or jubilation.
3. An affirmation to a question requiring “yes” or “no”, usually in a positive context.

1. Can I holla at a girl?
2. Holla! I won the game!
3. Are you going to the club tonight? Holla!

OR

holla 192 up, 86 down

1. A way for a brotha to say he wants to get in your pants
2. A pimp ass way of saying ‘what up’
3. May be used to end a conversation

1. ‘Ay, my boy right here wanna holla at cha’
2. ‘Holla, what you be doin’
3. ‘I gotta go, buh holla back.’

The Appropriate Amount

The cleanser I got from Missha yesterday, says to squeeze an appropriate amount for your body.

The Korean emphasis on propriety is a killer. What’s the appropriate amount? I use like, a lot for my body. Probably too much. Missha says “To give the enjoyment for the skin”. Hyperbolic yet honest. Those Koreans. Does not do much about the fact that this morning after hallucinogenically dreaming… that people were planning to cut my pet rats (I have no pet rats) apart and my boss was calling me saying : “I know you guys enjoy the pot, but that doesn’t mean you can be late!” and being woken up at 7:30 in the morn ‘cus my new roomie who looks like Lolita can’t get in the house even though she “knows doors” – a fuckin’ bummer to be alive. I was all regaling myself with : Self-Destruction is ova! over the weekend. Alas it tends to rear it’s overly serious head on a Tuesday morning after memorial day – maybe it’s all the cavorting and squeeling over meat barbecues in commemoration over the people’s death that is fucking me today.

I have two proposals due, I look like trash because it’s hot and i’m wearing little clothes, I just ate breakfast which I never do and vow never to do again, some Spring Fling guest got charged 3x accidentally by Network for Good and I just got peeled by the assistant exec – and face to face with the development department who’s already busy photocopying stuff, i suddenly feel like i have to: cover my tracks, use appropriate amounts, modify myself, soothe my surroundings, lick down my hair, get everything into HAPPY DAY order The godlike satisfaction of yesterday in which I conversed with feminist law students who pored over my “funky style”, who even said “You have a very sexual vibe” despite my protestations of bad posture, followed by grand ideas of world domination, has come crashing down to form a more than mediocre existence in which I’m just NOT PROPER. And I’m sick of it. It is quite sickening. Moreover, the blokes in the grocery store who look at me and say Momma, who stare at me as if they’ve never seen a woman before, really doesn’t do much for my self esteem – I’m realizing they are not responding to anything in me or my body – it says more about them and their unfamiliarity with other forms of women who don’t shout at them and order King Cobra’s at 10 in the morn – whom they perceive as haughty and out of reach – because i am as stern as possible to deflect them yet I try to be kind since they’re job is sorta thankless…I always say “Thanks, I don’t need a plastic bag.”

I thought the fact that I didn’t know my health insurance covered my hospital stay back in February was responsible for this nagging, worrying feeling that I’m slipping through the cracks of sanctioned citizenry, but perhaps what it is, is spending much of my life howling through the cultural clash cracks of a schizm’ed ethnic violent household…maybe that necessarily sends you into a doubtful spiral where the simplest daily tasks call into question one’s worth.

The Spelling of Wack

Wack is not “whack” according to the urban dictionary. I am ashamed to say that I didn’t know that.

What I do know is that the skinny bar last night was asianned out: involved a grinning fat white dj with a samurai headband on, paper-mache geisha dolls, videos of madonna in tokyo and a bunch of big haired japanese on the top floor. There was even a dude doing pretend karate chops (ironically enough, Gabe, the bloke we were with, had gotten kicked in the eye during his taekwondo lesson as was sporting a glistening eye-wound next to us).

Fucking wack.

What’s even more wack is that this didn’t bother anyone.

Do you need a cultural studies degree in order to even be remotely bothered by this? It’s not like PC-ness is only in the realm of the studious elite. I used to find PC-ness annoying – once being a recipient of brandished Bard student’s teeth – now i think it’s necessary, even underrated. Much like straight-leg jeans. People have strict indices for their aesthetic and moral judgments – why not PC-ness? It is informed by different sets of beliefs, sure, but I don’t think that makes it less superior.

We do want to stay away from the oppressiveness of jumping to conclusions, to calling people racist or sexist without giving them a chance to elaborate or defend – such is the joy of debate – while at the same time highlighting things that seem to be the result of a casual way of thinking that offends you, personally – much like this pulled-out-of -the-arse unnecessarily dimwitte approximation of eastern culture- i don’t think it could be harmful for wanting to and actually erecting modes of dialogue to express something that doesn’t fulfill your need for articulation – namely me grimacing at the origami “swan” -we only run into harm when we try to define somebody or something wholly by our labelling them as one thing or another.

Anyway what’s up with these hi-falutin’ “we’s?”

the backlash against PC seems to be motivated by a need to be transcend definition – par example (i’m going downhill)on the JMZ there were these fake-hipster blokes regaled in white-trash wear calling people mongoloids. “What is Social Studies?” they asked, wielding that popular inversion of smartness, this anti-specific school of nihilism. they waved their hands emphatically with one hip cocked, their jackets a little too small, their hair newly done and skin unmarked by blemish or scratch. “Like, history, cultural studies stuff like that. It’s a bunch of stuff thrown together that doesn’t really make sense. I’m like, so bad at grammar. I like, failed English”.

i wear my acne like a proud working-class scar.

but i’m not a hero. luckily. maybe i’m a mongoloid. Two days ago i was saying i was bad at grammar. Maybe i’m just mad at being caught out.

i’m sick of sarcasm. and of backlashes. all backlashes are an attempt to be “post”–which is stupid because nobody can truly be “post”–one is necessarily caught in the flux of meaning, which means, that one can’t run away from it.

Notes from the Underground

This weekend is going to be so good, I can’t even believe it.

Song just called me: “Can I read you my horoscope really quick?” Something about a project she should forego. A project meaning a man.

I told her: “I liked you yesterday, you were vulnerable”. That was a hint. She didn’t seem to mind.

It is 12pm. I’ve done nothing.

I was so nuerotic and negative during the workday yesterday I wanted to cry. I had too much energy and wierd up-in-the-air doubts that were eventually dispelled by mailing out all those invitations. Cole is still alive and well which makes me in-alive and not well. He’s about to get a haircut from Song. Song said “don’t be mad” but i don’t know why I would be mad. I was just frantic. I am happy he is getting a haircut but I am unhappy because Lydia introduced this thought to me: he is trying to establish a platonic relationship by palling around.

But today I am not frantic. I am very good. I have already laughed a whole bunch and anticipate I will laugh even more. How can things not be good when I’ve made the whole office laugh when my recounting the dinner last night? How can things not be good with a vintage yellow Schwinn? (I am getting a bike) How can things not be good with a huge jug of vanilla soymilk (posh!)in the company fridge to replace the half and half i usually drink thereby representing a jug by jug shift into healthiness and poshness? How can things not be good when your friend calls you at work to tell you “I didn’t sleep enough, I feel sick” or “I’ll give you the weather report later?” How can things not be good.

Things are not good. Well there’s the whole state of global affairs which is a bum-out.

A healthy exercise in awkwardness: Her friend Gabe won the L magazine upstart fiction contest. I texted Song while I pretended to listen to the contestants before Gabe. Song was at school: “Freaking out. Many people”. I kept slipping in and out my phone into the handmade pockets of the short green skirt I was wearing, with the armadillo polo shirt I got from Missouri which of course made me sad. Song immediately called me, told me to sit tight, told me not to be annoying when i said that everyone hated me.

The whole situation was rowdy in the sense that the space was cramped and i was giddily attempting to be Song’s sugar daddy and was still convinced, after my phone conversations with her that afternoon, that people mostly harbored a distaste for me but little things like being casual, smoking and commenting on Jamie’s relationship in the context of his 800.00 jeans went over well.

Then did that touristy thing of trying to satisfy everyone’s needs by trawling through possible bars around the entire east village and LES. After awhile my feet hurt. Me and Song commented on Andrew’s improved hair about 5 times. Suspicious. Andrew had introduced me twice as the “girl who writes the jane blog” when in fact my state as a jane blogger is dubious and less such than the girl they know who blogs for them, Lindsay Robertson–on a high status too as “Guest Blogger”. All in a day’s failure. I took sips of his Maker’s.

After skipping many recommendations such as “The Library” and “Mars Bar” we settled on “the skinny”. Of course on the way we had to establish teams like the A-team and the B team, i suppose something that had to do with the speed in which we could cross the street.

At the dim-witted dim bar, I told Song “I realized I really like something about you”. She bent over near the huge origami bird on the table at the Skinny. her lips were smiling and red. “You have a good nature. I don’t mean you’re a good person, but you have a good nature”.

When his friend showed me his watch, which said “Fucking Time” on it with two people in the throes of cartoon fucking, I admitted I didn’t like it. Gabe gave me the finger. I was not used to such things. He wore a denim jacket and looked angry. Angsty. His friend said “It’s ironic!” and i said “Irony is so over”. Which wasn’t clever at all, but rather, sincere.

I’m getting a bike this weekend.

Waking up: Another thing that rounded out this morning nicely was waking up and being able to tell Karl, who is actually interested, about the sequence of events of the night before. I think we are codependently obsessive about the details of my life. I’d be obsessive about his life except he reveals nothing.

In the background a sleepy french girl was waking up without her glasses on.

The Accompanies Library…reviewed

Like anyone cares? Fader does. Although you probably don’t; there goes that goshdarned self-deprecating humor. But since I’m doing this new time management “working” thing, I gotta do something on my breaks. I figured out how to modify my internet usage: on my breaks from “working”, I do my usual shit. Instead of working during my breaks…let’s have a party for expandable posts! Sometimes I really hate myself.Walgreens, Union Square: Famous dude behind me looking at men’s haircolor while I looked for an absurdly long time at longlasting lipgloss. People came up behind me and were like “Are you on MTV? I love you!” and he looked disgusted.

You look more asian than usual: “You look really good,  kind of€¦Asian. Like more so than usual.”

“Really?!” I shriek. I give Alex and John marshmallow eggs I bought from Walgreens. John immediately wolfs it down “Oh good, I haven’t had dinner”.

National Arts Club: “I love sitting here”, I say, as I sit down on the bench in elevator to the National Arts Club. The elevator girl wears pearls and I’m hideously gaudy under the medieval lights. John and Alex laugh. I hold onto John for support because I’m nervous.

Saving Face: “What is that”? John asks.

“Antibiotics” I lie.

“OH, that reminds me I have to take mine”. Takes out anti-biotic from his pocket. “What’s that for?”

“My face” he says.

“I need to take something for my face.” I say.Sharing food: I pop some of the Vicodin from my mouth into John’s mouth, because he says “that wasn’t that much”, and he’s so shocked that I start spitting from laughter, spraying the Vicodin that’s in my mouth all over the place. Alex said it was kind of sweet.

I’m struck by an image:  “like€¦those€¦animals, feeding each other from their own mouths, bear cubs€¦”

“It’s birds, I think it’s birds you’re thinking of”, Alex says.

Conquer:  “You’re over me now, that you’ve infiltrated and known my social circles”.

“I’m the opposite of over you” Alex says.

“We’ll always be a step behind you, Suzie”.

B’s butt goes by. It is encased in black stretch lycra.

Alex day: “It’s Alex day! It’s Alex day. This guy, has just had his script approved, by NYU, and he just got an advertising job! This is Alex!” (to some foreign dude with blond hair and white pants snapping pics of us)

Real friends: “I don’t want this to be a 6 month thing.

Years from now, when we’re 50€”“

“We’ll be on a porch, farting together€”“

Me and Song collapse at the image.

But seriously.

“I want to be friends with you, a real friend; and I’m afraid I’m going to scare you away”.

“You’re talking about me–the original stalker.”

Nominalism: relating to or consisting of a name or names

“Do you love your parents?” we ask the bartender.

“Well, it’s a nominal thing”

“What does nominal mean?”

I mean, it’s a formality–nominal wasn’t the right word”.

“I think you meant to say formality but nominal is also the right word”.

“Nominal means number”

“No, nominal can also mean name”.

“Oh, ok, nominal then”.

“Where did you get your hair done?”

Sodomy: “Did you say porking?”

“I didn’t say porking, I said poking”

“He said porking”

“What’s the fuck? Why would you say porking?  There’s nothing wrong with sodomy.”

“Believe me, you don’t want to go through that. It’s so painful”.

“Uh, look who you’re talking to. I’ve done it like so many times!”

“So many times?!”

I catch myself. “Well, meaning, more than once”.

“Oh.”

“Well like maybe more than ten times”.

“Oh”.

“Ass-fucking is the new French Kiss.”

Fat: “Fat is back”

“Fat back”

“Fat is the new black” I say.

I hate that phrase, the new black. I was saying “the new orange” for awhile but that got old.

Mammary Manners: “I think about breasts all the time”

“Me too.”

“Not they themselves, but the way the are, under clothes. There’s something about cloth, over breasts€¦”

“But you have them” Alex says.

“Not really”. I think about a particular director of the Accompanied Library’s breasts, which are flabbergasting, tan and lithe underneath an opened black blouse. That cinched waist, and that perfectly displayed, worked-out arse. I blatantly check out “the butt”.

John says “Which butt? What butt are you talking about?” I don’t think he understands.

I can picture myself being with a woman like that, a world-dominator with sharp cheekbones and blond hair curling around her neck.

Where is love: When Song comes in during the reading , Alex gets up to greet her. I don’t listen at all during the reading although I am adoring the author’s voice and personality.  I have a feeling the book is good but I will never read it. I am totally charmed by the Q & A, there are some nice questions in some patented British voices although some girl actually says Huit Close to reference Sartre. Fuck that. Song looks back at me and winks. I think to myself that winking is something I should do. I keep catching myself with my mouth hanging open. It’s the Vicodin.

A Way to Greet: When me and Song go up to each other to meet and greet we open our mouths and fake enthusiasm, with our arms outstretched.

“This is how we should always greet each other,”  I say and we laugh and hug each other enthusiastically, which feels deliciously antithetical to the stiff, super-clothed, heavily-accessorized folks in the brown room and the Naomi-Campbell messy hair faux-boho-Greek-tragedy look that’s wafting behind us.

I touch Song’s creamy black dress and gold belt: “Gorgues, gorgues”.

She tells me “You look really good too!”

I realize she’s never said this before.  John keeps saying that I look particularly Asian, in the the ultra-flowery suitjacket my mother got me and the bright red lipstick on, with my hair pinned up in the back so all the rogue bits flared out on the sides–kinda geisha-like I suppose. Polka-dot bra and white shirt with black tasseled belt and black booties.

Brooke said “I didn’t recognize you, the suitjacket, the hair–(she motions all over)–different! I changed my hair too!” She motions at her own hair.

“Really?” I say, quizzical.

“Yeah, it was down to here”. I have no remembrance of this.

Mammary Manners !!: I ask Song, by the bar, after me and Alex talk about mammaries (he said he used to not like it when they hang a lot, but now he does) whether I have a chance at all to be considered a woman, without having big boobs.  She says of course I do, that in this day and age we’re pansexual, and everything is attractive.

I say “But you’re like, proto-woman. And I’m proto-andro”

She says “No, you’re beautiful.”

John tries to burn a 100 dollar bill: Brooke looks at him. He says “Hi Brooke!”

Attractive bartender kisses Song on the mouth when we go back up to get my forgotten phone. I say “you’re so lucky” and she says “shut up”. He texts her all weekend. She doesn’t respond, she has three boys to tend to, like small delicate flowers. During out 5 hour phone call she tells me that the teeth are just a preview of the dick.  This has nothing to do with the bartender though, but more to do with delicate flowers.

Bringing back the cameltoe after I saw Back to the Future: In the elevator, on the way out of the library, me and Song check out the cameltoe that’s occurring in my stretch pants.  “That’s disgusting” she says. We laugh and try to fix it, but secretly I become very depressed at the state of my thighs. So depressed I almost leave cakeshop later on when we get out of a cab and nobody wants to pay 6$ to get in. As usual, I go downstairs, just to see if we can, and we do, and the Vesties are playing, and they’re silly.

Sore eyes: Rachel pops up out of Cakeshops downstairs. “You’re a sight for sore eyes!” she says.

Where is Love !!:  “I’m interested in Love”, Song slurs. “That’s the only thing I’m interested in.”

“I don’t know what love is” I say. I’m too drunk to stop my cliché’s.

“I love you”. She says. Or something like that. It was innocuous in the bathroom as we talked.

The Crew: “I love you man” Alex said. “Me, John, and you. I feel like we could be a crew. I’m not interested in superficial friendships. We have something deeper. I feel like I could really talk to you.  Or at least, on the verge. Not quite there yet, but we will be.”

The reason why I like you:

I can see the DJ coming up behind us, smiling awkwardly.

“The reason why I like you is because of your looks.” I tell Alex.

“The reason why I like you is because you’re smart.” Alex tells me.

“Fuck you, ok, we’re even.” I hug Alex.

Me and the DJ talk and I discover he’s a swimming instructor.

“That means he has a great body!”: Song says, and I say “I don’t care.

If I had your beauty: “I don’t know why you’re always saying how beautiful I am. I feel like I’m mediocre” Song says. We’re squashed on the couch in the basement of cakeshop.

“We’re like Beauty and the Beast”, I say.

“But Beauty is so easy”, Song says. “If I had your intellect.”

“I don’t have intellect. I have a few definitions I got from doing a couple years of philosophy. “

Alex comes along and smothers Song. He doesn’t argue with us, although he listens.

Leaning on John’s arm in a cab ‘cus I can’t sit up: I’m in the cab with John and then my body remembers nausea, which echoes my instant memory of the dentist telling me not to drink for ten days. After puking, I looked in the mirror to see a terrible sight. My eyeliner had away from my eyes and my face revealed trauma€”animallike war, although with a pathetic history of bourgeois patois.

The Kuzio Residence: hi-end

let’s start with something informational & not useless (listen to this while you read (the Hi-End song).  Matt kohn emailed me this shit, it’s pretty cool although I haven’t watched the whole thing. it’s about global dimming. my boss is out sick today slash i’m eating a chocolate bar, drinking lots of coffee, as per usual. I would force myself to work but I think I got my boss’s illness–feverish, sore throat-ish. I get the point across by excitedly swallowing the Thera-flu that Otelia the exec.asst gives me.  She’s sweet, looks on ebay for jewelery. Everyone is sympathetic to my plight of being ill on birthday weekend. In a sense I am glad of it because it furthers me in my goal of being unaware of it as possible.

here’s the useless bit:

THE KUZIO RESIDENCE

Somehow I morph into a posh slumming it hipster as I walk into the galactic, glossy world of Central Park West, instead of a real slumming it misguided aging hipster. I was sick, hardly able to move, since I didn’t sleep much, & called John to tell him so, but he plaintively said “you have to come, suzie. I have a birthday present for you”. So I went, red & woozy from a glass of wine. I’d been laying down reading that free JANE I got, kind of impressed with the issue actually. Before I went out, I saw Geoff, and quickly explained, lest their be wierdness or misunderstanding, that I’d acted miffed the last time I saw him cus I had to explain about being late with the rent in front of Jasmine. i’d been nervous about being on less than brilliant terms with my roommates, who are the best thing that’s ever happened to me besides the Sumo Wax Ian gave me for my birthday.

Armadillo polo

I meet John at 14th St.  I’m wearing a black polo with an armadillo on it, my JLO jeans which have shrunk, or my legs have gotten bigger, and they’re really tight and tapered. vintage silver dangly earrings and my hair is up in a french twist in an effort to slightly match my surroundings. Geoff noticed this, he says “trying to look posh?” and I was like fuck, this is the way I always am. But then I said “well you know, it’s alex, I want to look nice…”  which is strange because I have no interest in him, it was just that perhaps he is motivates me to put a little effort into what is effectively a cas situation. I’m sure that he hates my referring to his class and wealth all the time. But it’s just like how I modify my appearance for whatever social group–just in slight ways, but I believe everyone does this.

The martha’s vineyard look: do you think john’s part of the homogeneous power structure?

Approach the elevator man, utter “Kuzio Residence please” and we’re led there as Alex said would happen.  Knock with silver knocker. Alex unceremoniously said “come in”, sauntering up easily in his as he said it “martha’s vineyard” look, old man’s shoes and a pink button-up, looking almost red against the off-white, pale surroundings of his translucently, clunkily furnished parents house. Let me say that we’d been led up the elevator, an elevator which had a little stool in it, a tv, and made me feel like I was in the 70’s. Apparently the parents couldn’t get Woody Allen’s house.

The décor

Salmon marinating on the marble counter. brownie mix to top it off. I bitched “Can you make ‘em small, or make different shapes or something?” I had brownie boxes all over my house, & made ‘em to excuse my lack of class and effort–I wanted none of that here, I wanted to be transported into the surroundings of scottie dog needlepoint and fake-from-other country artifacts and the salient wooden wine rack. The house was a mishmash of Target, MCKB, Buddhism.

Little wine glasses full of red rocks decorated the wall. Smoky purple vases lit by off-yellow lights. China cabinets full of crystal “What iscrystal?”I asked. John asked sincerely “I don’t know, Alex, what are the chemical components of crystal?” The bathroom had towels one could not use, because they were hard and small. The framed photos of the family revealed the Ideal White Family.

Happily smiling, awkward, proud people with pressed clothes. It was heartbreakingly beautiful. Little Alex had straighter hair, a more toothy smile. His brothers were gangly, slightly idiotic looking. it was obvious good, charismatic genes had amalgamated in him in the family.

Technicolor

I’d been videotaping everything, which caused Alex to be nervous/brusque–”What’s brusque?” he asked.  “It’s like curt” John responded. The camera caused self-consciousness but Alex and John lived up to it, horsing around in their witty, adolescent way that I’m sure they were used to, except weathered slightly by time, and the imperative to impress since they were around other people besides themselves. After Alex did host duties, we lay around on the stripe-y living room couch, awkwardly comfortable indeed, eating hummus dumped in a wine glass and triangle-cut pitas that had been toasted in the oven–the carefulness of the presentation depressed me, especially in relation to my experience of a usually soused Alex. (This was too much the opposite of our usual, and I’d wanted a slow easing into the whole classy sober tea party thing).  Luckily we had sex to talk about. John was on a interrogative tip, forcing me to unwrap my damning experiences.  “….man-nipples?” “You can’t even talk to me now, can you?” “No, I like it. I think people should do more crazy stuff like that”. A flat-screen tv on the wall provided a running backdrop of a silenced Cary Grant. Alex likes this, but says “I find black & white more pleasing”. We joked about John having the strange ability to discern what time period the garish Technicolor comes from.

Then Ian & Mary show up

Mary came in tipsy wearing those skinny jeans, later marvelling about how tiny her feet looked, but only after she sat down & bragged about the Jane dinner, while filmed by me. I truly enjoy how she likes the camera, and is herself but only more so. She looked like a china doll against the wall where she called attention to how tiny her feet looked.  I thought about how her body commands power, with its extreme shapes and bulbous feminine extremities.  It seemed a bit unfair to those who have less extreme, boring bodies that command nothing but a defensive functionality.  she noticed me checking out the jeans–You love this crotch she said. Ian came in after acting class looking like Nureyev. “I’m so over Nureyev–can I have a glass of wine?”

Good friend

John said “I’ve been realizing lately how much I like you–not like you like you, but realizing that you’re actually a good friend, a real friend.” I asked “Do you think I’m a bitch” and Alex said “I think you want to be a bitch” and I said “That’s boring” trying to cover my tracks.

PoemPresent

Walking up CPW he’d given me that poem he’s been saying he’s working on for me which I thought was an ironic joke but was true. At first the slim envelope created a knee jerk reaction of Parent’s cashMoney in my mind, since I’ve only ever gotten long slim envelopes containing such, but in half a second I knew it was the poem, and how that was beautiful but kind of destroying the equilibrium of our anticipatory shallow mood, so I read it later on the train, feeling kind of empty as after everybody said “bye” and stayed in the formidable dining room while I walked out and pressed the elevator button waiting for those few minutes by myself and had only the shy abashed smile of the elevator man, decked out in his elevator man gear, to greet me and goodbye me. The poshness of the house had not punctured me, on the contrary the mood was all terminally normal, all the more dearth-like because it wasn’t normal.

I was afraid that still besides all this I was uncouth.

The placemats were all metaphysically designated. “I just see blocks of color” I said, confused as to where I was supposed to be.  John found this funny. “Wait” John admonished as I began to dig in.  Ate with elbows on the table. Was Tired. Posh people don’t get tired, they wither.

“We won’t laugh here” Mary said. “We won’t talk about paper, either”.

Alex brought out paper towels ‘cus he couldn’t find the napkins or something. I asked for more salad & promptly drowned everything in Annie’s Balsamic Vinagrette. I brought out the Chinatown banana cake, as I’d obstructed Alex’s desire to make brownies, which I shouldn’t have. I tell Mary, in all our profuse proclamations of low-class dining, that she’s more high class than any of us. I don’t try to justify this. In response to Ian saying he’d been telling his grandma he was psychotically depressed (and a bit of recognition flowed through me).

Mary said ” I never get depressed” I said “how am I friend’s with you?” & she said “I”m sorry, I just don’t–It’s not like I haven’t been sad or anything (I remind her of the suicide note she wrote one time) It’s just chemicals, I’m just not chemically depressed” and I begin to be suspicious that this is true, and I say “It’s not chemicals–I’m not chemically depressed, I’m just depressed, ‘cus of my life–It’s a way of life”

Alex laughed.

She asked him “do you get depressed?” and he laughed again “uh, yeah!”looking uncomfortable, and I said “I just never thought i’d be in the same circle as people who aren’t depressed, or rich”.

Pointing at Alex. He looked dismayed. He liked the middle class. Get over it. He made a reference to how everyone at the table was Hot and that’s what mattered. “Personality is overrated”,somebody said, probably him.

John asked me “what happened to your arm?” “Nothing” I snapped.

What Bumble & Bumble means

Ian gave me the best birthday present, besides that poem which is etching itself slowly into the stone of my heart.  He gave me Sumo wax from bumble & bumble—I had explained to him, in my fetishization of the rich, that psych ward Claudia, had a tube of Bumble & Bumble on her nightstand, and how that represented to me, the easy freeness of the posh, that unthinking picking up of expensive gear in expensive places which you wouldn’t find me–a different metaphysical level altogether, and if I were to acquire such prettily, elaborately packaged, culturally sought out stuff, it would have been a labored effort on my part–disgusting.

What better way to acquire Bumblle & Bumble except through a blond boy that works in a cafe, and gives it to me in a plastic bag with other items like the New York Mag’s issue on sexuality, a 3D card of a big penis (Alex & John: “It’s not that big!” Mary: “But it’s thick!” and I say “Why do you think I stayed with Cole?” and she said “You’re lying, I don’t believe you” and I thought to myself “Why would it be so hard to believe that I could have a big cock in my life?”–how I hate the word cock, although I must inure myself to it as I am 26) and a huge plastic red bracelet.

Ian reads about me, sometimes

“I put your photo in my blog” I told Alex, and Ian said “We know, we already saw it in your blog”–Ian has been reading. which further shocked me beyond JANE’s reading it–’cus they read it in some fun prep, poking at this freak who touts S&M, that kitsch kooky factor, or that which JANE aspires to, I guess, ruffle some feather’s–but Ian knows me and I had no idea that somebody who knew me followed a thought of mine, or would care beyond a scanning for one’s name, although he did say “well, I am mentioned in there occasionally”.

Trophy wife = my goal

The highlight of the evening was when we were sitting in Alex’s living room in cushy chairs, sort of staring at Mary squealing on the phone with Dave, and John said “You’d make a great trophy wife, Suzie” and I squealed “Really? really??”

“Yeah, you should just stand on the corner…”

‘cus earlier I’d said that I should just walk around on CPW and bag a rich bloke and so I said ” Fuck you” and he said “No, I’m serious, you could be a trophy wife”.

“You’re just saying that! Shut up…being a trophy wife is like my goal” I said. “What if JANE magazine heard you say that?”

“It’d never happen anyway, look at me–opposite of trophy wife.”

“No, you could be my trophy wife” and Alex said “Someday when I’m rich you could be my trophy wife” as he messed around with pumpkin ravioli and I said “No you won’t, you’re gonna marry someone…white”.

Somehow everything “other” about the world has been encapsulated, in my politicized mind, in the word White.

During the Jane dinner, I said “white upper middle class” in reference to the drug discussion (the increasing legitmacy of prescription drugging, the increase of coke which caused me & Mary to eye each other knowingly). And I said it truly disgusted. I don’t know how I became as such–from wanting White to despising it—but surely this is the same thing.

At the dinner table Mary said “You’re asian, automatically that (qualifies you as being a trophy wife) and I said

“No, I’m a peasant, I’m one of those peasant asians, haven’t you ever been to Chinatown?” & she said “you’re not one of those”.

Only slightly removed.

P.S.
For Mary’s more brief & charming version of events:go to the entry that says woke up to the tiny beep of alex’s alarm clock…