Saturday, December 31, 2005

Amateur Night (Or, Is That All?)

When I was about six or seven years old, I begged my mom and stepdad to let me stay up until midnight on New Year's Eve to witness the turn of the new year and, of course, the Dick Clark Times Square ball drop on television.

Given what year it must have been (1977 or 1978), Tony Orlando and Dawn were probably headlining the telecast, with co-hosts Pamela Sue Martin and Sean Cassidy.

Somehow, I was expecting more than just a ball drop and a burst of shouts and hugs and kisses. I was expecting some kind of physical shudder to freak out the earth's rotation. I was expecting nothing less than an earthquake, given the hoopla surrounding the simple stroke of midnight on one certain night of every single year.

When the causal earthquake and/or solar eclipse and/or cavalcade of winter tornadoes didn't rock my world when the ball in Times Square it its base and the crowd roared tinnily through the tiny stereo speakers of my parents pre-cable rabbit-eared Panasonic color television, I sat entirely confused, like I had blinked and missed the dramatic moment I had waited up to see.

As per the usual tradition, my mom and stepdad hugged me and exclaimed "Happy New Year!"

"Wait, that's it?" I asked.

They looked at each other and then turned to me to again say: "Happy New Year!"

"Seriously, is that all that's going to happen?"

"Well, yes." My mother replied.

"It's pretty silly then to get so excited, since it's just another day."

Their faces fell a little, like I had just told them I knew Santa was a commercial myth or that I had just dropped the F-bomb or that I had just robbed a liquor store.

Ever since, New Year's Eve has been at the ass-end of my list of favorite holidays, written in pencil down there on the back of the second page just below Flag Day.

Thursday, December 29, 2005

Hello Again To All That Again (Or, A Quitting Holiday)

I stopped smoking for three weeks.

Quitting, I now realize, was not the operative word in play here.

I "quit" but lingering thoughts of smoking never fully left my head. I would take the same breaks in my daily work, walk down four flights of stairs and stand outside in the cold in the same place I would always stand and smoke, and I would stand outside in the cold in the same place I would always stand and think about not smoking.

Or, rather, I would stand and think about smoking.

I took deep, cleansing breaths.

I let my mind wander, as it did when I smoked.

I relaxed without the consequent tension that would jump and high-kick into the quiet of my post-cigarette world like an aerobics instructor on cocaine.

Then, of course, ye olde holiday party frenzy season arrived, in all of its boozy, bourgeois recklessness. One drink leads to three...three leads to five...five leads to fourteen...and so on. Since cigarettes go hand in hand with booze, like the gloriously dirty good-time couple they have been and will always be, naturally a cigarette popped into my right hand accidentally on purpose, where it felt like it should be.

"Oh, sure. I can be a social smoker no problem" I thought to myself. "It's really just the booze talking anyway."

Before long, I was a goner. I told myself that as long as I didn't buy a pack for myself, I was still a "quitter" - at the very least a nicotine reduction achiever.

Before long, I bought a pack.

And another.

And so on.

The weakest part of me is wont to blame my mother for my smoking tendencies. She has been a smoker most of her adult life - taking extended vacations when she was pregnant and when my brother and I were wee lads. So, can't I blame genetics or "disease" for my lack of self-control?

My mom has undergone just about every smoking cessasion treatment out there. My personal favorite was when she went on "the gum" or Nicorette, as Chicklet and Juicy Fruit, its pals in the candy aisle, like to call it. I was a teenager at the time my mom started on "the gum" - one day, I walked into the kitchen and I found her chomping wildly on something, in some sort of spastic fit.

"Are you alright?" I asked.

"It's this goddamn gum," she replied mid chew.

"How's that working out for you?"

"Well. There's one big problem. Let me show you."

She then took the piece of Nicorette gum out of her mouth, rolled it between her fingers into a tubular shape, and placed it between her lips.

The piece of chewed gum dangled from her mouth like, well, a fucked up looking, gooey cigarette.

"Got a light?" she asked.

Wednesday, December 28, 2005

Tell Me Is It Time To Get Down? (Or, When Brunches Attack)

...Right now on the decks: Low-Fidelity Allstars' Battle Flag.

I'm trying desperately to find something funny to say right now, but for some reason, humor is on vacation in Miami, playing Mahjong and sipping a too-early-in-the-day Cuba Libre saying to itself:

"Girl, Fuck that job."

Hopefully soon, maybe even this afternoon, I can coax it back into action with the promise of cash, cheap lusty affection, and maybe a gift certificate for dinner for two at the Olive Garden.

Until then, I sit trying and thinking, enduring a long pause that should become a push forward.

Right now, Low-Fidelity's dirty funk has morphed into Crowded House's plaintive cooing of "Better Be Home Soon". Which reminds me of a long-lost story:

I once, perhaps too nakedly, extolled the beauty of the Crowded House song "Don't Dream It's Over", like I was a programming executive at VH-1 in 1987. Unfortunately for me, I sang the song's praises at a brunch full of hungover bitches even more bitter than I.

I was given the righteous queen smackdown as such:

"Lady. That song's about as sad as a Hootie and the Blowfish cover sung by the ghost of Karen Carpenter on a Dionne Warwick infomercial."

As I tried desperately to backpedal and think of some equally snappy comeback, I slunk back into my seat and let the crowd roar at my expense.

Tuesday, December 27, 2005

Rudolph the Latest Interior Decorating Decision (Or, When Trends Attack)

Ahhhh, New York.

Ahhhh, the fickle tastes of young New Yorkers.

Ahhhh, mind-fucking trends that can make your head spin.

The most recent mind-fuck: the transformation of the cluttered hunting-lodge aesthetic from quaint upstate authenticity to hipster must-have-right-nowness.

Merchants in the various Chelsea flea markets rush to up the prices on their "lodgy" items as hipsters stroll by their stands.

Of course, the whole "gay-goth" t-shirt mini-phenom could be rolled into this category as well. I kind of chuckle to myself as I watch shoppers in the Barney's Co-Op decide between a Marc Jacobs cashmere twinset and a Rogue's Gallery goth-as-fuck pirate T-shirt ensemble:

'MO A: I don't know, Michael. Is this "Stevie-Nicks-Drunk-Bitch on the back of a Harley" the right look for me?

'MO B: It depends on the shoes.

'MO A: Right.

'MO B: Do you think I can wear this to work?

('MO B holds up a dirty vintage screenprinted rugby shirt that features a Victorian illustration of a donkey humping a pirate wench)

'MO A: Hmmmm. Tucked or untucked?

'MO B: Yeah, you're right. I would have to get the right belt then.

'MO A: Omigod. Those panties with the deerhead print are, like, so cute.

'MO B: What does that say underneath Bambi's daddy's head?

'MO A: "Buck On This, Sucker"

'MO B: So cute.

Monday, December 26, 2005

Where My Cookies At? (Or, From the Front to Back)

I'm not quite sure how four days in Ohio = six of not posting.

Oh, yeah. The holidays.

Oh, yeah. XXX-Mas.

Oh, yeah. Not really wanting to be in front of a computer at all for a little while to enjoy the finer things in life, like being in front of the television for long whiles of slothy contemplation.

Oh, yeah. Saving it all up for a post that says next to nothing about the last week of my life because writing about the inhalation of cookies and meat and cookies and more meat and more cookies and more cookies and more cookies is like writing the sentence I just wrote - its cumulative effect on me is one of:

"Shit. Where are the cookies?"

Tuesday, December 20, 2005

The Agony and The Ecstacy (Of Eric Bana)

Despite early funky reviews, I'm kind of hoping that Munich showcases the talents of Eric Bana. Since seeing the film Chopper a few years ago, I will admit I have been more than my share of teenage-girly smitten with him. He stole Troy right out from under Mr. Jolie-Pitt, but hasn't quite risen to the heady call of Hollywood stardom as of yet.

There is something about him that smoulders like certain old school movie stars. He doesn't have to work at it either (not like that Irishman who works so hard at attempting inner depth, his furrowed eyebrows jump off the screen).

Donde esta la Playa?

Bitch Question Everyday

The morning newscasters on NBC4, clearly unused to this much ante meridian action now that the Today show has been swept aside for coverage of the transit strike, have been bitchy and confused all morning. There is a male and a female anchor, both bewildered and bewitched and bebitched by more on-air action than they have presumably ever seen (I have never seen them before this morning...the Female Anchor looks like she was out all night and the Male Anchor looks like he needs a stiff drink).

MALE ANCHOR: So, as you just heard, schools are open, but all afterschool programs have been cancelled.

FEMALE ANCHOR: Uh, actually, we just said all afterschool programs are going to be in session.


FEMALE ANCHOR: What I just said.

MALE ANCHOR: What did you just say?

FEMALE ANCHOR: I'm not sure. But whatever it was, it wasn't what you just said.

MALE ANCHOR: What did I just say?

FEMALE ANCHOR: I'm not sure.

MALE: OK. Well, you know, this is a really tricky situation.

FEMALE: Oh, yeah. I know, I mean I can barely keep track of it, so I'm sure the viewers at home are having trouble too.

MALE: Yes, this is a tricky situation.

FEMALE: Yes, yes, it is.

MALE: We should...cut to something there...oh, OK.

FEMALE: Are we cutting to something?

MALE: Yes, thank you so much. Let's go to the scene now.


MALE: And, now as we...hold on...just waiting for word from our producers...oh yes. We're going to a scene now.

FEMALE: Yes, that's just great. Hopefully we can get his cleared up for our viewers.

Santa Baby, Shutting Down the Transit Last Night

As December rolls on and suddenly drags due to the cold and the holiday cheer and the transit strike, I will remind myself now:

As hot, as nasty, and as lurid as summer can be, it still beats this shit hands down forever and always.

And then the deeper wondering:

Is Los Angeles really all that bad?

Monday, December 19, 2005

Camille, How Do I Heart Thee?

Why I triple-heart Ms. Paglia

(More like, "Note to self: find an excuse to post some classic, glorious skankness of Michigan's finest export since Lily Tomlin.")

Rumble in the Mall of Manhattan (Or, Objects Appear More Interesting Than They Are)

On Saturday, I made the (partially) regretful decision to go shopping in SoHo, which on any given normal Saturday is a bit like trudging through any given mall in America. Long gone are the art galleries and interesting smaller shops, dug deep are the massive chains, the massive crowds, and the massive annoyances that come with both.

My friend Torrey and I seemed ready for the rumble though and the afternoon started off mildly enough.

Since I have a MoMA membership, I thought perhaps a spin through the design store there would prove fruitful (in addition to getting some added discount off the flurry of various over-designy impulse buys and art books that usually grab my attention), but all I got was a fistfull of unintentionally hilarious attitude and an irrational bloodlust boiling up inside of me. It was like riding the subway through Midtown at rush hour while desperately trying to purchase things that no one on the planet really needs or possibly even really wants.

Moss was not much better.

While crammed in between the glass cases filled with items that only have an appeal inside of glass cases, I mistakenly took the glance of a salesperson as the hint of flirtation. Instead, for X-Mas he gave me this in response to my semi-extended, not quite cruisy look:

"Sir. We do not allow food or beverages in Moss. I will have to take your coffee from you."

I nearly forgot I was carrying a cup of coffee anyway, since its warmth had took flight somewhere earlier that afternoon. I wasn't really annoyed at giving it up, but the italic emphasis the salesperson put on the store's name spoiled my time there, as well as the intended (and forced) allure of the experience. The we-will-treat-you-like-crap-and-act-precious-about-the-meaningless- because-we-want-this-to-be-an-aspirational-brandness of it all allowed me to leave, knowing of its innate hucksterism and the brand's own insecurity.

Long ago, the masochism of this kind of consumption would have done what it is supposed to do: make me drop cash thinking I was not worthy of the trinkets, the chairs, the shit, and the $25,000 Cindy Sherman photoscreened china.

So, I left the store and my cold cup of coffee behind me.

I took comfort in a sentiment from a long beloved British sitcom:

"Sweetie. You work in a shop. Get over yourself."

Standing on the street outside the store, Torrey and I were ten shades of: "who gives a fuck about carrying around a beverage in a store's just a fucking store."

As we started to walk, Torrey was overcome with panic.

"Wait, where did I leave my coffee?"

A second later, he was flushed with the memory:

"Oh, shit. I left it at the Ralph Lauren store."

"Oh yeah?"

"Right in the middle of that table full of cashmere sweaters."

We laughed at the thought of the twenty odd $800-on-sale knappy as shit sweaters getting soiled by the remains of Torrey's coffee.

I guess the salty shopgirl at Moss has been around the block a few times.

Friday, December 16, 2005

What the Gringo Saw

When The Pawn Hits The Conflicts He Thinks Like A King

-A series of days
Leads to comfortable dispassion
A manner of ways
Rewinds a well turned motion
A selective haze
Foils the clear day's fold
Into light with its buckling
A gauze of commotion

Thursday, December 15, 2005

See Jane Says

Happy Holidays - Courtesy of 80east Design

"Ladies" First

This morning, while I was waiting in line at my corner deli for my usual guilty semi-hungover breakfast of a bacon-egg-and-cheese, I was nearly knocked to the ground by a typically uppity New Yorkity on the goity lady of leisure-ity woman. She was blabbing on her cell phone about being late for pilates and bitching about her nanny when she cut directly to the front of the line to yell:

"Hey. Look, I just want an English muffin, OK. Don't toast it or anything just give it to me, now."

Despite there being a line of, oh, more than five construction workers in line, her request was granted. She didn't excuse herself or pause to consider her environs for just one second, she even bumped into one of the Carhart-clad dudes in line and had this semi-appalled look on her face when she bumped into him, as if to say: "Don't fucking touch me."

She then continued to bitch on the phone, loudly no less, about what a gross deli it was and how her pilates teacher was, in her polite manner of speaking, a real cunt.

She then yelled at the coutner person for trying to put a napkin in her bag.

"I don't fucking need that. I didn't ask for that."

I waited patiently for some kind of karma boomerang to knock her on her skinny white ass, but alas, nothing.

As she barrelled through the too-heavy keep-out-the-cold bodega vinyl barrier, the crowd inside the deli breathed a collective sigh of relief.

Upon paying for my greasy breakfast, I turned to the browbeaten coutnerperson and said, "What an asshole."

Wednesday, December 14, 2005

Check Order Before Placement

Yesterday, the topic of a certain website came up in conversation. I don't have an active account on said site, much to the dismay of the man I was talking to.

"What?!?" He exclaimed, as if I had to, had to, had to be the kind of dude to be lurking online like that.

Naturally my "Well...once upon a time..." online hook-up narrative started to unfurl.

There were downs, and there were downers.

There were downs, and there were down and outs.

There were downs, and there were never ups.

I refused to divulge any details, but the gist of it goes like this: to me personally, using such sites is like ordering in food from a menu that is undependable and shifty, like you think you order one thing, the host at the restaurant repeats a different order back to you over the phone, and then another entree shows up entirely.

You open the door, you open the bag.

Expecting a satisfying Sesame Chicken, you see a knarly BBQ rib instead.

You squint your eyes.

You dim the lights.

You have a beer.

Oh, yeah, I guess it sort of looks like Sesame Chicken now, you think to yourself. You tear through the meal as quickly and dispassionately as possible, remembering never to order in from that restaurant again.

There are better leftovers in the fridge.

Tuesday, December 13, 2005


As the holiday season deepens and deepens and my yearly sojourn to visit my parents in Northeast Ohio approaches, one thought barrels through my head: how many times will my mother play Barbra Streisand's Christmas album?

Other classic holiday collections have entered her possession over the years, yet none seem to last in the CD player longer than a song or two. Once Barbra's album finishes, and the pregnant pause of empty, un-Streisand holiday air fills the living room, my mom will get a curious look on her face, like she knows a storm is coming or she has just witnessed the cat is writhing in the corner, overdosed on catnip or she has left her pocketbook neglectfully at the Clinique counter of the local department store (where she is wont to worship the latest shade or fragrance or anything that comes with a free gift with purchase). When she realizes it is just the absence of the ironic, heated flow of Christmas music from America's most famous Jewess, she never fails to lean in to me and whisper:

"Trev, honey. Go press play on the CD player."

She knows I will obey and let the insanity of that famously hyper version of "Jingle Bells" fill up the room one more time.

She knows that if she were to ask my brother or stepdad Joe to attend to the music, Frank Sinatra or Sammy Davis Jr. or any number of the other neglected stars of yesteryear would receive holiday airtime she's not willing to give up.

Every year, another new compliation of holiday music ends up in the stack of albums.

Every year, Barbra's triumpantly kitsch white fuzzy gown and Egyptian eyeliner steal the show mercilessly, giving my mom a spring in her step as she cooks in the kitchen (a very new pasttime) and a light in her eyes echoed by the bodily giddiness she exudes in having her two sons home for the holidays.

Monday, December 12, 2005

Penis In Furs (Or, Hey Bitch. Nice Hat)

So, I bought this rabbit lined hat in Iceland. At the time, high on foreign travel overspending and the chill of an otherworldly landscape, I was eight shades of "this- will- be- the- coolest- thing- I- get- on- this- trip."

Now, everywhere I go - literally - thousands of other New Yorkers are all furred out in similar hats. Seemingly it was like everyone else was behind me in line at the same small, hipster store in the middle of Reykjavik. (More like, I was way way behind everyone else in line at an even swankier import store on the Lower East Side or NoLiTa.

Needless to say, I am so always behind the curve on such things, it's downright laughable. The first time I wore the hat, I was stopped on street by a friend of a friend. His first words:

"Oh, it's you. It's so hard to recognize anyone now that everyone is wearing the same fucking fur hat."

Leave it to another New Yorker to kick you in the crotch when you're already bleeding from the head.

Thursday, December 08, 2005

Ice, Ice Baby (Or, Not So Cold, Not So Cold)

During my trip to Iceland over Thanksgiving, I was crazy in love with and triple-hearting Icelandic street art. I got a little obsessive in taking photographs of the various tags and murals and general mayhem that were spread on most surfaces of the center of Reykjavik. During one fit of documentation, I was approached by a store owner who turned out to be producing a book on Icelandic street art - I hung out with him and his partner for a while and they showed me a galley proof of their book. Definitely one of those groovy things that only happen when you've got your away game on.

All of the tagging sort of made me long for the days when New York was a little scarier and dirtier - back when if you saw street art, you wouldn't have to wonder what advertiser was footing the bill.

Wednesday, December 07, 2005

Yeah, Yeah, Yeah (Or, Silence Is, Like, So Golden)

So, for no good reason, I've been on an extended blogging holiday. I went to Iceland, had a birthday and drank more than an Irish grandmother. Despite having so many things to say, I let the hard, silent rush of intoxication keep me, um, silent.

But, keep the faith, Faith Evans.

Your baby's, uh, virtual daddy in drag is about to get sprung from his self-imposed white collar prison cell.

So, in the words of the prophetess, Miss Paris Hilton:

"Check back soon, bitch."

3XHearts, The Editorial Staff of BV

Thursday, November 17, 2005

Wednesday, November 16, 2005

Let Me Steal This Moment From You Now

Remarkably, Kate Bush just released a new album. I am fast to admit, I have been a fan since I was 16. The first time I ever smoked pot, on a random mid-winter night, her Hounds of Love album was playing on the tape deck in my girlfriend's car. In keeping with the FM DJ stylings I have been tied to here of late, here is "Running Up That Hill":

It doesn't hurt me.
Do you want to feel how it feels?
Do you want to know that it doesn't hurt me?
Do you want to hear about the deal that I'm making?
You, it's you and me.

And if I only could,
I'd make a deal with God,
And I'd get him to swap our places,
Be running up that road,
Be running up that hill,
Be running up that building.
If I only could, oh...

You don't want to hurt me,
But see how deep the bullet lies.
Unaware I'm tearing you asunder.
Ooh, there is thunder in our hearts.

Is there so much hate for the ones we love?
Tell me, we both matter, don't we?
You, it's you and me.
It's you and me won't be unhappy.

And if I only could,
I'd make a deal with God,
And I'd get him to swap our places,
Be running up that road,
Be running up that hill,
Be running up that building,
Say, if I only could, oh...

It's you and me,
It's you and me won't be unhappy.

"C'mon, baby, c'mon darling,
Let me steal this moment from you now.
C'mon, angel, c'mon, c'mon, darling,
Let's exchange the experience, oh..."

And if I only could,
I'd make a deal with God,
And I'd get him to swap our places,
Be running up that road,
Be running up that hill,
With no problems.

Saturday, November 12, 2005

Friday, November 11, 2005


From, you know where, too long ago:

I am the son
And the heir
Of a shyness that is criminally vulgar
I am the son and heir
Of nothing in particular

Thursday, November 10, 2005

I Say Nothing

From The Voice of the Beehive's "Let It Bee":
I heard a girl one day -
She had these long tight legs
She said "i get it every night,
He calls me everyday"
He'll leave you back and blue -
He'll rip you right in two
Then wake up in the morning and say,
"Who the hell are you?"

And then she turned to me and said
"We know you,
Tell us some secrets honey
We won't say a word"

But I say nothing, I talk to no-one
I know what i believe,
Don't need to wear it on my sleeve
I talk to no-one, I will say nothing
If we come and go alone
Why do they need to know ?

The boy who's always mad
Just alone and sad
He holds my hand so tightly he says "go away I'm bad
I'll leave you black and blue
I'll rip you right in two,
But it is just because I do not know
How to be true.
That's why I sometimes stand alone at parties
That's why I drink so I'll be who they think I am"

But don't say nothing,
Don't talk to no-one
I'm not what they believe
And if they find out they will leave
Don't talk to no-one just don't say nothing
If we come and go alone why to they need to know

Arcades - all those endless days
Of all those sci-fi slaves
The noise was just a drag until you said
"Close your eyes and listen."
'Cause it's singing for you
It's swinging just for you
It's screaming just for you

There is a place somewhere
Sometimes you'll find me there
If i am alone I will be sitting on the stairs
I'll be good as new, of one of the lonely few
Who's laughing at the joke
And as I leave i laugh for you

And I will say nothing...

Wednesday, November 09, 2005


From Roxy Music's "Avalon":
I could feel at the time
There was no way of knowing
Fallen leaves in the night
Who can say where they´re blowing
As free as the wind
And hopefully learning
Why the sea on the tide
Has no way of turning
More than this - there is nothing
More than this - tell me one thing
More than this - there is nothing
It was fun for a while
There was no way of knowing
Like dream in the night
Who can say where we´re going
No care in the world
Maybe i´m learning
Why the sea on the tide
Has no way of turning
More than this - there is nothing
More than this - tell me one thing
More than this - there is nothing

Tuesday, November 08, 2005

The Public Gets What the Public Wants (Or, Easy Song Lyric Week Entry 2)

So, this is the second of seven easy song lyric entries. Here are the lyrics to The Jam's always-good-to-hear "Going Underground":

Some people might say my life is in a rut,
But I’m quite happy with what I got
People might say that I should strive for more,
But I’m so happy I can’t see the point.
Something's happening here today
A show of strength with your boy’s brigade and,
I’m so happy and you’re so kind
You want more money - of course I don’t mind
To buy nuclear textbooks for atomic crimes

And the public gets what the public wants
But I want nothing this society’s got -
I’m going underground, (going underground)
Well the brass bands play and feet start to pound
Going underground, (going underground)
Well let the boys all sing and the boys all shout for tomorrow

Some people might get some pleasure out of hate
Me, I’ve enough already on my plate
People might need some tension to relax
[me? ] I’m too busy dodging between the flak

What you see is what you get
You’ve made your bed, you better lie in it
You choose your leaders and place your trust
As their lies wash you down and their promises rust
You’ll see kidney machines replaced by rockets and guns

And the public wants what the public gets
But I don’t get what this society wants
I’m going underground, (going underground)
Well the brass bands play and feet start to pound
Going underground, (going underground)
[so] let the boys all sing and the boys all shout for tomorrow

We talk and talk until my head explodes
I turn on the news and my body froze
The braying sheep on my tv screen
Make this boy shout, make this boy scream

Going underground, I’m going underground

Monday, November 07, 2005

Then Your Life Becomes a Travelogue

Today is Joni Mitchell's 62nd birthday. In her honor, here are the lyrics to one of her best songs, from the album Hejira, "Ameila":

I was driving across the burning desert
When I spotted six jet planes
Leaving six white vapor trails across the bleak terrain
It was the hexagram of the heavens
it was the strings of my guitar
Amelia, it was just a false alarm

The drone of flying engines
Is a song so wild and blue
It scrambles time and seasons if it gets through to you
Then your life becomes a travelogue
Of picture-post-card-charms
Amelia, it was just a false alarm

People will tell you where they've gone
They'll tell you where to go
But till you get there yourself you never really know
Where some have found their paradise
Others just come to harm
Oh Amelia, it was just a false alarm

I wish that he was here tonight
It's so hard to obey
His sad request of me to kindly stay away
So this is how I hide the hurt
As the road leads cursed and charmed
I tell Amelia, it was just a false alarm

A ghost of aviation
She was swallowed by the sky
Or by the sea, like me she had a dream to fly
Like Icarus ascending
On beautiful foolish arms
Amelia, it was just a false alarm

Maybe I've never really loved
I guess that is the truth
I've spent my whole life in clouds at icy altitude
And looking down on everything
I crashed into his arms
Amelia, it was just a false alarm

I pulled into the Cactus Tree Motel
To shower off the dust
And I slept on the strange pillows of my wanderlust
I dreamed of 747s
Over geometric farms
Dreams, Amelia, dreams and false alarms

©1976, Joni Mitchell

Sunday, November 06, 2005

Palace Walls

His face is dominated by his lips.
Well-formed and supple, softer than his skin,
They tease me–drawing me into his house–
His palace buried deep in heavy snow.
His hair, soft-golden, falls around in curls.
I call him “C.”; he says that he is bored.

We sit and chatter at ourselves, still bored
Was our verdict (my only thought–his lips).
He shakes his head and throws around those curls
Of darkened light (I seek to feel his skin).
He laughs at me and turns instead to snow
Falling outside his window. Now the house

Is vacant while he sighs because the house
Is all he yearns to be (so now, I’m bored).
He reaches toward me, throwing his hand through snow
That is now there. He turns to me–(his lips
Are quivering) and falls roughly on my skin.
Suddenly, I’m caught within his curls.

Still sighing, he throws back his mass of curls.
And says too softly how he loves his house.
My fevered hand rests damply on his skin;
His mouth to me, he whispers, “I am bored.”
I raise his head to mine and skim those lips–
Responding to my touch, he mouths, “The snow....”

Caught up in him, I was wet as if in snow.
He covers me so deftly with his curls.
Now on the floor, we roll (he seeks my lips).
We tumble fast and slow throughout his house
We dare not stop for fear of being bored.
The lust between us lava through our skin.

We stop for breath and cannot escape our skin.
The world outside swims deep within damp snow.
We laugh and wonder how we were once bored.
We hold each other well–his fragrant curls
Envelop me as we lie here. His house
Will never be a home. (I seek his lips.)

But he seems bored. I touch his waxen skin.
His lips are cold–his hair has lost its curls.
He feels like snow. I know. He is his house.

Thursday, November 03, 2005

Paging Doctor Violet Newstead

Today is my best friend/ex-boyfriend/ex-wife/most trusted confidant/partner in crime Robert's birthday. I have known Rob for the past fifteen years of my life; seven of which we spent as lovers. it is hard to say what my life would be like without him. What he has added to my life, what he has given me, how he has challenged me are all invaluable and inseparable parts of the person I am today.

Rob is the most intelligent man I have ever known - and will ever know. He is also compassionate, bitchy-in-the-best-way, better read than anyone and downright hilarious. There is always something madcap brewing beneath the surface with Rob. I always liken him to Lily Tomlin in 9 to 5, trying to stay cool while attempting to steal a corpse from a hospital, impersonating a Doctor.

Unlike Ms. Violet Newstead, the character Lily Tomlin plays, Rob is a bonafide doctor, which I have been known to make many a joke about at his expense. Rob's career tends to throw the unknowing a loop something like this:

CONTESTANT: What does Rob do again?
ME: He is an Epidemiologist.
CONTESTANT: He's a skin doctor?
ME: No.
CONTESTANT (growing weary): Oh...

See, Rob is so styley, he is often mistaken for a fashion stylist.

Or, as I once put it, he is:

"Corporate Scientist By Day. East Village Slut Trash By Night."

I have said it before and I will say it forever and ever again: You will always be my Diane Keaton.

Happy Birthday! - T

Wednesday, November 02, 2005

It's (T)Ricky To Rock a Rhyme

I keep forgetting to plug my last future ex-boyfriend's album. Well, maybe forget is kind of an overstatement. I don't really even know what the album is titled, so it's hard to pretend to not want to plug something you don't really know about. I do know that this new "urban" single is sort of blandly whatever. Not as bland as that new Gwen Stefani song, which makes my stomach churn like a faulty carborator when I hear it. She really needs to keep Eve in the mix when she does "urban". Remember when we used to get confused for each other in public and highlight each other's bangs? Oh, the times-or-needs-of-the-public have changed, haven't they? The new tats are cute, I suppose, Darling-Rhymes-With-Nikki.

Since he stopped singing in Spanish and stopped returning my calls and stopped being a non-threatening sexy Buddhist, I haven't been able to pay his work any kind of attention. I suppose I should be more supportive of the careers of fictional future ex-boyfriends and all. I guess I am just as poor of a fictional future ex-boyfriend as he is. I am indeed sorry, Mr. Our-Fake-Palimony-Agreement-Prevents-Me-From-Stating-Your-Name. I will try to do better, livin' la vida whatevera.

Simple Pleasures

Is it better to be
Sky high in a tree
Or down on the ground
In an anthill?

Is it easy to see
Alone - up in that tree
How the ants carry on
Making mountains?

Moving backwards and forth
Dragging dirt to the north
As something now large
Looms out of nothing.

A group now has formed
Small army - large swarm
From the hill they have made
Of this nothing.

Put forth with purpose
Together, but useless,
As they scurry for crumbs
And some meaning.

Saturday, October 29, 2005

Every Little Thing That You Say Or Do (Or, My Early Days as Celebrity Stylist)

So, the Madonna Machine is rolling keeping with the spirit of my last entry (a lá thirteen year old girl), here I go again on my own. Going down the only road I've ever known. Like a drifter I was born to walk...hopefully, you get the picture.

I just saw the video for Madonna's new video "Hung Up". After the PowerPoint presentation that was the released version of "American Life", the silly junkshow that was "Hollywood" and the nausea-inducing L'Oreal commerical that was "Love Profusion", she finally got her game back with the new video. Sure it's a big riff on David LaChappelle's brilliant-at-times Rize, but still. Homegirl is thrashing and semi-krumpin' pretty damn hard on the dancefloor. The opening sequence, featuring some hilariously, intentionally semi-bad dancer-let-me-dance-for-you moves, is brilliance. Camped-up-faux-disco never looked so good.

It sort of reminded me of times in the very late 1970s when, as a child, I would beg my mother to wear these kind of junked up, over-the-top outfits to the grocery store or the shopping mall. My mother is about a size 0 when wet and I always thought of her as a movie star.

I also probably saw The Eyes of Laura Mars at too young of an age.

"Please, please, please wear this tube top!" I would exclaim, a mini demanding fashion stylist in the making. "It is so cooooooool!"

"And clogs. You need to wear clogs."

"Is that all the make-up you are going to wear. More lipstick. Now."

"How about some decorative combs for your hair?"

My mother was always the good sport. She would don the looks I came up with to satisfy my creative whims. She would even venture out in public sporting the brazen outfits I came up with. I was so entralled, I can not even remember now how she was received in the sleepy college town I grew up in.

Given that my locus for glamour at the time was The Love Boat and Fantasy Island, I'm sure my mother always looked like, well, a slut.

Friday, October 28, 2005

Thursday, October 27, 2005

My Future Ex-Boyfriend

My dear friend Ch'ien just worked with Freddie Ljungberg on a photoshoot. On this occasion, I feel compelled to announce - a lá the 8th grade girl's diary that this blog can be more often than not - that Freddie is indeed my future ex-boyfriend.

Sure, he doesn't know it yet.

And, sure, we haven't even met.

But, we really did have a connection once. I was nearly crushed in oncoming traffic as I stared at your mile-high naked torso crossing Houston sometime last year....

Wednesday, October 26, 2005

Spit It Out

Some liken the creative process to childbirth.

For me, it's more like constipation.

On that note, my all-of-a-sudden-ancient home computer is massively constipated...and I'm fantasizing about a new tower like the inner A/V dork that I am.

Maybe not so inner?


Tuesday, October 25, 2005

Not So Poor Theater

Hands down, The Wooster Group is one of the best things about New York.

Sure, they are a "performance" group - which leads to many blunt assumptions about the sort of high-flying esoteric happenings associated with such a label. Thing is, they always build in a tongue-in-cheekiness into their performances that prevents this. As if to say: "Yeah, we know. This is some out there shit. We're not even sure what's going on here."

It's all intentional though...and the fact that they feature pre-recorded videos as live characters to interact with onstage sets me over the edge.

I saw Poor Theater a few weeks ago...conceptually, pure brilliance. House/Lights is an amazing show too. I might even cough up $250 for the DVD version.

Yes, it's that fucking good.

Where The Teets All Have Names

...I know I am desperately behind on posting, for those of you out there who still check in to dear old BV. Not to fret, I may make up for it today by posting 7 entries.

So, I made it back from Argentina in one piece and got banged up with a nasty head cold on the way back.

In the most recent of news, I went to see Sock Puppet Showgirls on Sunday night at Ace of Clubs. It is also playing this coming weekend for those interested. Here is my review:

Oh. My. God.

Seeing a sock puppet with nice tits was alone worth the $15 ticket.

Seeing the sock puppet version of "it-doesn't-suck" Nomi Malone thrash herself around onstage in a continual "emotionally unstable" shake of her moneymaker was worth ten times that.

I think Showgirls is a brilliant film all by itself. Paul Verhoeven used to be a very arty, very sophisticated director before he emigrated to La-La Land and went apeshit making the some of the worst/best American films of all times. Showgirls could very well be his masterpiece in this second phase of his career. It is a film entirely aware of it's atrociousness. It will live on and on, as only bad films tend to do, in our collective imaginations. It is a sexploitation film that is decidedly un-erotic; it is a throwback to Russ Meyers and Pam Grier and lifts the bulk of its skeletal plot from All About Eve.

How could I not love it?

See the trailer here.

Friday, October 14, 2005

Como Nueva, Papi?

...I am so far down under, that I can't get up from under.

So much to say, so nohwere in sight to start.

I feel like a semi-retarded yet spoiled bourgeois infant most of the time here in Buenos Aires. I can say:

Good Morning.

Thank You.

How much?

And, most importantly:

I am going to the Sheraton, San Martín.

The only Spanish I know is incredibly nasty and should only be spoken in dark alleys and backrooms.

For instance:

No venga in mi boca.


Cupa mi cuolo, papi.

"Don't come in my mouth" and "Eat my hole, daddy" respectively. I was taught these phrases by a friend before I went to Puerto Rico in desperate search of the then little-known-to-America Ricky Martin.

Tuesday, October 11, 2005

Idle Idling Idly (Or, The Dogs of Post-Summer)

...I am at the airport facing down a delayed flight and I am so bored, bored, bored.

I am also pissed, pissed, pissed, since I didn't grab any DVDs on the way out the door, thinking that I would be just sleeping through the lengthy flight I have ahead of me.

Now, I am digging through the bowels of my powerbook's hard drive, finding anything of interest to read or futz with or otherwise occupy my time.

At least the terminal, sad and scary as it is, has a wi-fi connection.

I might write a book in the time I have to sit here and wait.

Monday, October 10, 2005

La Boca Se Moja Y Grande

...A drag alter ego as yet to be claimed: Choriza Sausalita, slutty star of Mexican stage and screen. Scorned star of the hit Blue Demon Y Las Seductoras.

Long story short, I'm going to Argentina tomorrow.