The other morning on my way to work my sense of smell was so strong, I could smell every passenger on the train's breath. I could even smell what they'd had for breakfast. One guy had apparently had booze for breakfast. I looked at him disapprovingly. "Before work??" my look said...tsk tsk. He looked ashamed. Anyway, it was absolutely disgusting.
On the way home, there were these teenagers (who tend to scream a lot, I've forgotten it seems). One girl kept yelling out to another very pretty girl, "Where is my girlfriend!! Come here girlfriend!". Finally, the two joined each other in the midst of the other teenagers, holding hands. The other kids asked the girls, "So, you're not lesbians or bisexual, right?". To this the more vocal girl of the couple said, "No, not. We just have this thing with each other". This answer apparently made total sense to the other teenagers and they were on to the next subject just like that.
I found this totally fascinating. Sexuality amongst urban teenagers nowadays is about as important a decision as what type of music you like. It was the first time I'd ever felt like I'd really experienced a generation gap. This would never have gone down so easily when I was in high school.
It made me feel happy that with age comes the newness of seeing things for the first time...Also, as smelly and gross as the subway is, I do learn more than I ever could driving in a car. So, there you go. Eat it middle America. You're sheltered.
Heartbreak
When I was in the seventh grade I had this boyfriend named Brendan. Brendan was a loner. He looked like River Pheonix and instead of listening to Megadeath and Metallica on his walkman like all the other boys, Brendan listented The Beatles. For these reasons, the other boys called him a faggot and he was ostracized. The thing is, I don’t think Brendan would have hung out with these guys even if they had wanted to be his friend. He seemed to live in his own world. Brendan and I would get into deep, philosophical discussions about religion and music.
Although the popular girls had decided they wanted me in their clique the year before, by seventh grade this was becoming a very time-consuming position, and I found less and less time to just sit and ponder life with Brendan. The stuff that was going on with this group of girls was insanely dramatic and unhealthy and I’m not sure why being their friend was something to be coveted when really, I should have ran as far away as I could. Attempting suicide became very en vogue with them that year, or at least attempting to make some small enough incision on your wrist that you could wear a bandage to school. The truly beautiful, cunning girls, wore long sleeves which they conveniently allowed to pull back with a long stretch at the most public of moments. They were thrilled at the look of the teacher who would look away and then ask to speak to them after class. After class, they could relish in the teacher’s questions and cry telling them about their parent’s divorce, or their older sister getting all the love and attention at home or, whatever horror it was that drove them to the butter knife.
Anyway, there were very intense meetings to be had after school with these girls, because one was always in a massive crisis. Then there were the boys. Who was going out with who changed routinely and the interchanging of one another’s boyfriends was completely normal fare with this crowd. They all agreed my boyfriend was gorgeous but none would dare date him as doing so was socially a terrible move. And, besides he was weird.
Most of the talk was about how far we should go with these guys. Everyone had been to first base, and now some were preparing for second. The popular girls were all in the dance program and studied ballet. Some already belonged to professional ballet companies. For this group of impossibly skinny, flat-chested girls, myself included, second base was really a moot point. But still, it was the principal.
Then there were the parties, roller-skating and movie outings, etc. All which were aimed at making out endlessly with “the boys”. I guess that in all of this, I really wasn’t paying very much attention to Brendan anymore. We talked on the phone everyday, but eventually at school and even after school I'd become far too consumed with my activities with these freakishly manipulative adolescents.
Then one day Brendan broke up with me. He told me it was because he’d thought I was different, and that it turned out I was pretty shallow. He’d thought I had more depth and a firmer character (he didn't use these words exactly). He’d watched me with these girls and thought I was a total sell-out. Gone was the girl who would sit with him to talk about “Yellow Submarine” endlessly.
But, I wasn’t prepared to be a loner like him. I didn’t have that sort of self-knowledge and I absolutely needed others to dictate my self worth. So, when he ended it, it hurt for two reasons, one because he was gone from my life as I’d known him, and two, more importantly, he reminded me what a shallow, frivolous girl I had become, and I was ashamed.
When I came home that day my father asked me how school was and I started to cry and told him that Brendan had broken up with me. I cried because I thought that was what I was supposed to do, but the truth is I was relieved. I couldn’t be held up to Brendan’s expectations of me and now I was free to be a vapid little monster. My dad thought it was very funny that at twelve I should be sad about a silly break up and he just laughed it off. But, dad didn’t understand this wasn’t so much about a boy as it was about an identity crisis. Eventually dad had me laughing about it too, but then I had to get serious. There were calls to be made to my friends, and I wanted to make sure I was sufficiently upset. I somberly went to my room, closed the door, dialed the first number and began to cry. As I did this a few times, the experience of the break up did indeed become more painful. I found myself inconsolable by dinner time.
Who knows who I dated next. Probably some douche-bag with a tail. But, I have always relived my breakups through telling each and every friend every grueling detail until its absolutely unbearable. I am starting to think the best thing might be to keep the next one to myself...
Although the popular girls had decided they wanted me in their clique the year before, by seventh grade this was becoming a very time-consuming position, and I found less and less time to just sit and ponder life with Brendan. The stuff that was going on with this group of girls was insanely dramatic and unhealthy and I’m not sure why being their friend was something to be coveted when really, I should have ran as far away as I could. Attempting suicide became very en vogue with them that year, or at least attempting to make some small enough incision on your wrist that you could wear a bandage to school. The truly beautiful, cunning girls, wore long sleeves which they conveniently allowed to pull back with a long stretch at the most public of moments. They were thrilled at the look of the teacher who would look away and then ask to speak to them after class. After class, they could relish in the teacher’s questions and cry telling them about their parent’s divorce, or their older sister getting all the love and attention at home or, whatever horror it was that drove them to the butter knife.
Anyway, there were very intense meetings to be had after school with these girls, because one was always in a massive crisis. Then there were the boys. Who was going out with who changed routinely and the interchanging of one another’s boyfriends was completely normal fare with this crowd. They all agreed my boyfriend was gorgeous but none would dare date him as doing so was socially a terrible move. And, besides he was weird.
Most of the talk was about how far we should go with these guys. Everyone had been to first base, and now some were preparing for second. The popular girls were all in the dance program and studied ballet. Some already belonged to professional ballet companies. For this group of impossibly skinny, flat-chested girls, myself included, second base was really a moot point. But still, it was the principal.
Then there were the parties, roller-skating and movie outings, etc. All which were aimed at making out endlessly with “the boys”. I guess that in all of this, I really wasn’t paying very much attention to Brendan anymore. We talked on the phone everyday, but eventually at school and even after school I'd become far too consumed with my activities with these freakishly manipulative adolescents.
Then one day Brendan broke up with me. He told me it was because he’d thought I was different, and that it turned out I was pretty shallow. He’d thought I had more depth and a firmer character (he didn't use these words exactly). He’d watched me with these girls and thought I was a total sell-out. Gone was the girl who would sit with him to talk about “Yellow Submarine” endlessly.
But, I wasn’t prepared to be a loner like him. I didn’t have that sort of self-knowledge and I absolutely needed others to dictate my self worth. So, when he ended it, it hurt for two reasons, one because he was gone from my life as I’d known him, and two, more importantly, he reminded me what a shallow, frivolous girl I had become, and I was ashamed.
When I came home that day my father asked me how school was and I started to cry and told him that Brendan had broken up with me. I cried because I thought that was what I was supposed to do, but the truth is I was relieved. I couldn’t be held up to Brendan’s expectations of me and now I was free to be a vapid little monster. My dad thought it was very funny that at twelve I should be sad about a silly break up and he just laughed it off. But, dad didn’t understand this wasn’t so much about a boy as it was about an identity crisis. Eventually dad had me laughing about it too, but then I had to get serious. There were calls to be made to my friends, and I wanted to make sure I was sufficiently upset. I somberly went to my room, closed the door, dialed the first number and began to cry. As I did this a few times, the experience of the break up did indeed become more painful. I found myself inconsolable by dinner time.
Who knows who I dated next. Probably some douche-bag with a tail. But, I have always relived my breakups through telling each and every friend every grueling detail until its absolutely unbearable. I am starting to think the best thing might be to keep the next one to myself...
Father's Day
I slog off to meet dad with a hangover, its father's day and I've asked him to lunch. Dad. I spot him immediately in Union Square in his white jacket, navy polka dot tie, talking away on his celly. For a while his phone continues to ring nonstop and he tells people he must get off because he's with his daughter. All the calls are social, mind you, and require back stories which he gladly goes into explaining in between calls. Finally, he turns his phone off so they will all leave him alone. Some of the calls are from silly women who love to get caught up in dad's drama. Its amazing how easily one can piss my dad off, but then of course, he always wants to talk to them about it endlessly and apparently, so do they. What they did wrong and why he was upset, etc. One of his latest arguments involved a female friend who was livid that my father wouldn't even try to read her future because she's heard he's clairvoyant and has done this for other women. He insisted this wasn't true, but she didn't believe him and they got in a terrible row about it.
We sit down at a restaurant to eat. We have to move at least three times because dad doesn't like it when people sit too close to him. If someone's chair accidentally touches his when they move I really believe he dies a bit inside. He also believes this always happens to him because people are so drawn to him, that even when the restaurant is empty everyone wants to sit near him.
Dad always gives me some sort of semi-precious stone to attract all kinds of fortune whenever I see him. This time he tells me to pick a hand. In one hand he holds the stone meant for luck, and in the other hand he holds the stone that brings love. I choose luck so dad gives me both. A malachite owl for luck and a rose quartz heart for love.
The clouds look very dark and we're sitting outside but dad says it won't rain for a while because he doesn't want it to. This man has a great deal of faith in the power of his thoughts. His, not anyone else's mind you. He's tried to teach me this mastery of mind-control, but so far, nobody he's tried to teach has been able to reach his level of god-like powers. He feels sorry for everyone for lacking his powers.
Its because of these powers that most people who call him want advice on everything from their marriages to legal matters. He sighs and tells me how hard it is for the entire community of Astoria, Queens to count on him for everything. They all wanted him to run for local councilman for a while but he declined. Instead, he has meetings at the local cafes where he gives his advice for free. A formal position would taint it all and possibly interfere with his powers. His latest meeting with some of the locals involved sending letters to a man they've decided they collectively hate. A feud between the man and my father that he has now involved all of Astoria in. Dad has convinced them all to tell this man what a despicable character he is in writing. The man moved to Colombia three months ago, but that doesn't stop dad, because he feels the man should know how many angry Astorians he's left behind. One woman says this man lifted her skirt once in the street for kicks. This is not funny stuff, and dad wants each person to tell him so in writing.
Then dad tells me if he wanted to he could make our waitress fall in love with him, but he's not going to bother because he doesn't have the energy for women that young anymore. Most of lunch is spent with each one of us not really listening to the other because we are too focused on what we will be saying next. Its a game of who gets the attention and in the end I always win by getting teary-eyed and dramatic about something going on in my life. He gets very sympathetic here, dad hates to see me upset. I think it hurts him more than it does me. Sometimes this tactic really backfires because I then have to console him about it endlessly. I say, "See this is why I don't tell you when I'm upset anymore, because it just makes you too upset!" This undermines dad's powers so he pulls himself together quickly and insists that those were the old day-ways, and he's just fine and knows I will be too.
Then we go to the Buddhist center where I practice at dad's suggestion. I chant for a while. Dad claims to be meditating, but really I think he's just napping. Outside the center he charms everyone with his stories about all the various guru's he's followed since the sixties. They seem to think he's great and one woman even compliments his white jacket. He looks at me with a smile as if to say, "didn't I tell you this jacket was great?" It is. And so is dad.
We sit down at a restaurant to eat. We have to move at least three times because dad doesn't like it when people sit too close to him. If someone's chair accidentally touches his when they move I really believe he dies a bit inside. He also believes this always happens to him because people are so drawn to him, that even when the restaurant is empty everyone wants to sit near him.
Dad always gives me some sort of semi-precious stone to attract all kinds of fortune whenever I see him. This time he tells me to pick a hand. In one hand he holds the stone meant for luck, and in the other hand he holds the stone that brings love. I choose luck so dad gives me both. A malachite owl for luck and a rose quartz heart for love.
The clouds look very dark and we're sitting outside but dad says it won't rain for a while because he doesn't want it to. This man has a great deal of faith in the power of his thoughts. His, not anyone else's mind you. He's tried to teach me this mastery of mind-control, but so far, nobody he's tried to teach has been able to reach his level of god-like powers. He feels sorry for everyone for lacking his powers.
Its because of these powers that most people who call him want advice on everything from their marriages to legal matters. He sighs and tells me how hard it is for the entire community of Astoria, Queens to count on him for everything. They all wanted him to run for local councilman for a while but he declined. Instead, he has meetings at the local cafes where he gives his advice for free. A formal position would taint it all and possibly interfere with his powers. His latest meeting with some of the locals involved sending letters to a man they've decided they collectively hate. A feud between the man and my father that he has now involved all of Astoria in. Dad has convinced them all to tell this man what a despicable character he is in writing. The man moved to Colombia three months ago, but that doesn't stop dad, because he feels the man should know how many angry Astorians he's left behind. One woman says this man lifted her skirt once in the street for kicks. This is not funny stuff, and dad wants each person to tell him so in writing.
Then dad tells me if he wanted to he could make our waitress fall in love with him, but he's not going to bother because he doesn't have the energy for women that young anymore. Most of lunch is spent with each one of us not really listening to the other because we are too focused on what we will be saying next. Its a game of who gets the attention and in the end I always win by getting teary-eyed and dramatic about something going on in my life. He gets very sympathetic here, dad hates to see me upset. I think it hurts him more than it does me. Sometimes this tactic really backfires because I then have to console him about it endlessly. I say, "See this is why I don't tell you when I'm upset anymore, because it just makes you too upset!" This undermines dad's powers so he pulls himself together quickly and insists that those were the old day-ways, and he's just fine and knows I will be too.
Then we go to the Buddhist center where I practice at dad's suggestion. I chant for a while. Dad claims to be meditating, but really I think he's just napping. Outside the center he charms everyone with his stories about all the various guru's he's followed since the sixties. They seem to think he's great and one woman even compliments his white jacket. He looks at me with a smile as if to say, "didn't I tell you this jacket was great?" It is. And so is dad.
Ode to Pebbles
My dog laps up the water that leaks from the fridge and as I watch him I think its absolutely brilliant. He's not ashamed, he's just thirsty and that's as good a water as any. I think that's what I love most about dogs. They do things that would be considered degrading if they weren't dogs, and make us grapple with the how insecure we are about our basic needs to eat, sleep, fuck, and be loved. Its unabashed and so endearing because there is no inner monologue or social rules to stop them from being exactly who they are and acting exactly how they feel. Even a well-trained dog is only doing so to get your love and treats, and they're not trying to hide this fact in any way. Isn't this why we have pets, so we can live vicariously through them?
Then, there are cat people. Cat people are strange, because cats play all sorts of mind games and withhold love and affection and that sort of thing. I never understood the joy in owning one when life is already filled with dealings of this kind, and I really feel we could use a break from it all. I think that if you derive a great deal of satisfaction from having to work hard to win the love and approval of your pet, you're so fucked. I really do. I apologize in advance because I realize this is judgmental, but I don't see the fun in coming home to a hard day of work and trying to coax your cat into affection. A dog is always happy to see you and that's true love as far as I am concerned. Cat people be damned, you're weird.
I'll end by saying that I do love one cat. She lives in LA. She's a chub and she has google-eyes and she's quite the diva. She's not into games and she tells you like it is. Her name is Pebbles. I do love me some Pebbles...
Then, there are cat people. Cat people are strange, because cats play all sorts of mind games and withhold love and affection and that sort of thing. I never understood the joy in owning one when life is already filled with dealings of this kind, and I really feel we could use a break from it all. I think that if you derive a great deal of satisfaction from having to work hard to win the love and approval of your pet, you're so fucked. I really do. I apologize in advance because I realize this is judgmental, but I don't see the fun in coming home to a hard day of work and trying to coax your cat into affection. A dog is always happy to see you and that's true love as far as I am concerned. Cat people be damned, you're weird.
I'll end by saying that I do love one cat. She lives in LA. She's a chub and she has google-eyes and she's quite the diva. She's not into games and she tells you like it is. Her name is Pebbles. I do love me some Pebbles...
Always a Lady
A friend's mother in Colombia once pulled my friend and I aside to give us an important life lesson on how to behave like a lady. Forget that this woman looked nothing like a "lady" to me because what she told us made a great deal of sense. Anyway, she said "Girls, when you go out to a party or anywhere you will be consuming alcohol, make sure to stay away from any mixed drinks or sugary cocktails. If you drink those you will drink too much too fast, and before you know it, you will be acting foolish. What you must do is get something really strong, like scotch on the rocks, which you will sip slowly. Just nurse one of those all night long, and you will always behave like a lady."
Well after years of foolish behavior, I decided to take her up on this advice. So, the other night while I was out- where was I? Oh yes, Chinatown, I ordered myself a scotch. Neat, fuck the ice, I am a goddamned princess. The Asian bartender looked at me kind of funny, served my drink and asked if I was a lesbian. I just laughed and said, "No silly. I'm a lady." And boy, did that work out well! I swear, everything that came out of my mouth that night was pure, lady-like talk. I mean, I didn't completely follow the advice, because I didn't stop at just one. I snuck some sugar packets into it and it really improved the taste, but a lady is always resourceful. So, thank you Mrs. Bustamante, you have changed my life. I'm pretty sure if I could remember that night well enough to tell you about it, you would be very proud of me.
Well after years of foolish behavior, I decided to take her up on this advice. So, the other night while I was out- where was I? Oh yes, Chinatown, I ordered myself a scotch. Neat, fuck the ice, I am a goddamned princess. The Asian bartender looked at me kind of funny, served my drink and asked if I was a lesbian. I just laughed and said, "No silly. I'm a lady." And boy, did that work out well! I swear, everything that came out of my mouth that night was pure, lady-like talk. I mean, I didn't completely follow the advice, because I didn't stop at just one. I snuck some sugar packets into it and it really improved the taste, but a lady is always resourceful. So, thank you Mrs. Bustamante, you have changed my life. I'm pretty sure if I could remember that night well enough to tell you about it, you would be very proud of me.
You could sponsor this woman-child
My friend told me you can get an advertising sponsor through these things. So, here it goes:
I love Jaguars. They make me hot. I wish I could have sex in a Jaguar. Then again, BMW's are good too. So are Ford's, domestic is hot.
This isn't going very well.
Did I mention how much I love Diet Coke? This one's for real. Seriously, I don't even care about cars, but Diet Coke is my shit. Ask anyone.
Uh... yeah... so Jaguars...
I love Jaguars. They make me hot. I wish I could have sex in a Jaguar. Then again, BMW's are good too. So are Ford's, domestic is hot.
This isn't going very well.
Did I mention how much I love Diet Coke? This one's for real. Seriously, I don't even care about cars, but Diet Coke is my shit. Ask anyone.
Uh... yeah... so Jaguars...
Open letter to mom
Dear Mom,
I often go on and on about how terrible a mother you were because you were so not the stay-at-home-baking-cookies kind of mom. I made a list of pros and cons about some of some of your parental choices:
Cons:
1. We were vegetarian and all the kids at school made fun of my weird sprout and seitan sandwiches
2. You would take me to see experimental dance troupes in which the performer would walk across the stage toward an egg very slowly for an hour straight. Score? Who loves Philip Glass?!!
3. You also took me to see a Kabuki version of Hamlet. I could barely grasp Hamlet at 12, never mind having to wear headphones to hear the Japanese translation.
4. You took me to all your parties even though I had school the next day and I was exhausted.
5. You would take me to your gay friend's apartment to listen to classical music records for hours upon hours when I was five. This friend also hated children.
6. You missed parent/teacher night because you were going to Studio 54 instead.
7. You took me to the Pyramid Club even though I was a minor to see your friend's awful band play.
8. You took me all over the country to follow your Guru. We also spent time handing out flyers for Guru Maharaji in Central Park.
9. You gave out as party favors those crazy Velcro and plastic belts you were designing at my seven year old birthday party. The other kids gave out things like stickers and candy.
10. The neighbors saw you smoking pot and wouldn't let their kids hang out with me anymore.
11. When I was in High School, after I would come home from partying and pass out, you would sneak into my room to take my make-up off for me so I wouldn't break out. Hi, not your skin.
Pros:
1. We were the only vegetarians in the ghetto
2. I can now deeply appreciate experimental dance troupes in which the performer will walk across the stage toward an egg very slowly for an hour straight. I also enjoy a little Philip Glass every now and then.
3. Five years later when we finally did study Hamlet at school, I knew that shit inside out.
4. I love going to bed early now. If needed, I can also cover up under-eye circles with make-up better than anyone I know.
5. I had opinions on classical music at five. For instance, I thought Stravinsky was scary and I still do. I can also charm gay men who initially dislike me.
6. You missed parent/teacher night because you were going to Studio 54 instead.
7. I can say I went to the Pyramid Club in the 80's.
8. I understand the importance of having a deep spiritual practice and am immune to others criticism of it.
9. All the kids loved those crazy Velcro and plastic belts. Everyone said I had the best party favors ever.
10. You kept me from having close-minded, square friends.
11. For a teenager I had pretty damn clear skin.
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