1. buy expensive bourbon
2. live with other rich people who buy expensive bourbon so that there is always an unending abundance of expensive bourbon in the house
3. pay someone to change the litter box every day
4. continue smoking at my present (and desirable) rate and pace
5. see all theatrical 3D releases
6. extensive cable for the television (this should really be number one)
7. build a catio for my cat
8. buy expensive jams and maple syrup
9. laundry drop-off at least once every three months
10. install one of those seats in my shower so I can sit down when I take sips of my coffee and expensive bourbon
11. buy tasty coffee
12. subscribe to the most expensive netflix account
Monday, September 20, 2010
Boy, she calls someone
The auburn fringe that was her bangs dangled in front of her eyes in a way that he found pleasing most of the time. She was aware.
The reflection of her red skirt on the water attracted the minnows swirling in the lake just below her bare feet.
She seemed off to him today. Save for her hair, everything else about her seemed different; he didn't like this.
They soon left the dock and walked down the dirt road back to town.
"How 'bout we stop by Sweeney's for a cone?" He asked hopefully.
"Ice cream sounds good." She said sedately.
Inside the malt shoppe they sat on opposite sides of a red vinyl booth.
He stared at her over the brim of his parfait glass, slurping his milkshake. He watched her take a lick of vanilla ice cream and then blinked, opening his eyes just in time to see her take that first bite of cone.
Well, at least she is eating her ice cream, he thought. That is a good sign.
She looked up from her cone and saw him observing her. He smiled. She was going to smile back, but just then a piece of her red hair got caught in her white ice cream, and when she reached to remove the strand, she dropped her cone on the floor.
What was wrong with her?
After their snack they went to the arcade. He played a game of pinball while she leaned against the side of the machine, dreamily holding her head up with the back of her dainty hand. He broke the record and she smiled at him.
Now it was her turn, and he was watching from behind, peering over her shoulder.
What was going on? She didn't even get the bonus ball. She always got the bonus ball. Hell, she usually got the multi-ball most times.
He reluctantly walked her home after a few more games, as dusk was fast approaching.
Standing on her front porch, she kissed him softly on the cheek and then paused, slightly tilting her head up so her lips were just below his ear. She whispered, "Today, my hair was just a mess."
He walked down the road again, this time alone, towards home.
The reflection of her red skirt on the water attracted the minnows swirling in the lake just below her bare feet.
She seemed off to him today. Save for her hair, everything else about her seemed different; he didn't like this.
They soon left the dock and walked down the dirt road back to town.
"How 'bout we stop by Sweeney's for a cone?" He asked hopefully.
"Ice cream sounds good." She said sedately.
Inside the malt shoppe they sat on opposite sides of a red vinyl booth.
He stared at her over the brim of his parfait glass, slurping his milkshake. He watched her take a lick of vanilla ice cream and then blinked, opening his eyes just in time to see her take that first bite of cone.
Well, at least she is eating her ice cream, he thought. That is a good sign.
She looked up from her cone and saw him observing her. He smiled. She was going to smile back, but just then a piece of her red hair got caught in her white ice cream, and when she reached to remove the strand, she dropped her cone on the floor.
What was wrong with her?
After their snack they went to the arcade. He played a game of pinball while she leaned against the side of the machine, dreamily holding her head up with the back of her dainty hand. He broke the record and she smiled at him.
Now it was her turn, and he was watching from behind, peering over her shoulder.
What was going on? She didn't even get the bonus ball. She always got the bonus ball. Hell, she usually got the multi-ball most times.
He reluctantly walked her home after a few more games, as dusk was fast approaching.
Standing on her front porch, she kissed him softly on the cheek and then paused, slightly tilting her head up so her lips were just below his ear. She whispered, "Today, my hair was just a mess."
He walked down the road again, this time alone, towards home.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
The four right chords can make me cry
"It’s amazing how she has the power to end things. He didn’t make it easy to, didn’t help but only in slightest ways, even supported her staying casually and with comments like, I adore you. To which she replied, beautifully before walking through the door, not enough." —M.M.S., in a remembrance of the past.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Crabs (not the sexy kind)
When I was fourteen my brother got a fish aquarium in his room. He received a 3.6 or something on his report card, and as a reward my parents bought him a super high-tech fish tank that he kept on his dresser near his water bed (his present from the previous semester's stellar grades. My brother snagged all the good parental rewards. All I ever got for making the honor roll, which was always the silver honor roll, never the gold like my brother, was a stupid land-line flip phone and a 98 degrees Christmas CD. But that's beside the point.)
Though it was to be my brother's aquarium, and it was going to go in his room, I was allowed to buy one fish to keep in the tank. Of course, my brother was vehemently opposed to this, but I think my mother felt guilty that her daughter wasn't as bright as her son, and was trying to encourage me.
One afternoon, the three of us drove down the street to Earl May (an Iowan, perhaps Midwestern, pet / landscape design store that always smelled like damp concrete and stale seeds). As soon as we walked in, I immediately sprinted over to the ferret jungle gym and begged for one of the $300 ferrets. I was refused. One tropical fish was all I was allowed.
I scanned the many tanks packed with mostly ugly fish. I, being the aesthetic child that I was, wanted the beta fish. The fish that was kept in its own cubicle of sorts that was suctioned to the side of a larger tank, separated from the other, normal fish. The beta fish was sophisticated and detailed, its tiny scales were blue, purple, and red; all perfectly blending together in such subtlety it made me think it was all one color—some brilliant color I'd never seen before. I announced that that was the fish I wanted, but the salesman quickly informed my mother that this fish was 'volatile', and not the type that could peacefully coexist with other fish. Upon hearing this my brother whined, and my mother refused to buy me a beta fish. (Why I couldn't have had my own tiny bowl of water with my own fish in my own room was beyond me. But perhaps it had to do with my puny, less than desirable 2.5 G.P.A.)
So, instead, I got some stupid kind-of chubby white fish. I can't even remember what type of fish it was, but initially, I hated it. My brother was allowed to buy like five fish, and also, a fucking crab. At first my Mom was hesitant, especially when I let out a tiny shriek at the thought of having a crab in the tank with my fish (suddenly the chubby fish I'd chosen was beloved and needed to be protected by its only defender), but in the end the salesperson told her that a crab could be useful in lieu of a bottom feeder, helping to keep the tank clean of feces and discarded food bits. So, the three of us got back in my mom's mini van with six fish, a tank, some kitschy fake scuba diver and treasure chest set, and a fucking scary iridescent albino crab.
As it turns out, the fish I'd chosen was pregnant. And after a few days, her belly swelled to double its original size. She was huge. I suddenly became infatuated with her in this new state. My fourteen-year-old self identified with her, woman-to-woman. We struggled in all the same ways. She alone in a tank with a fucking crab roaming around on the bottom, and I with a stupid brother bouncing around in his fucking water bed in the room next to my normal boring bed.
I watched dutifully as my fish grew bigger and bigger. I was so excited that she was pregnant. Though, most of my excitement could probably be attributed to my deep hope that the fish would have at least five babies and then, by sheer ownership, I'd suddenly have more fish in my brother's tank than my brother.
About a week later, I went into my brother's room one morning before school to check on my mommy-to-be. She wasn't swimming near the top like she normally was, nor was she idly floating near the wall of the tank, she wasn't stuck in the filter (as I'd heard from someone at school could happen), nor was she inside the fake coral reef playground. I couldn't see her anywhere. I looked down at the tank's lime-green pebble-covered floor (my brother's decision), and saw that fucking crab, sidestepping with its gross claws proudly erect in the air like it was performing for me, mocking me even. Then I saw a glint of white scale slowly fall through the water in front of the crab, followed by another. And, looking more closely at those fucking crab claws, I saw one more piece of white scale clinging to the inside of one of its pinchers. Then I looked to the right and saw my fish, ponderous, floating in the water as lifeless as a discarded candy wrapper. Its abdomen was half-dismembered, its womb ripped open, its insides dangling out of its stomach like the underside of a starfish. I screamed. I'm sure I started crying too. I immediately ran into my mother's room, screaming at her to wake up. My fish was dead, and worse, her children were dead too. It was like my fish was Lacey and the crab was Scott Peterson. "Who kills a pregnant woman?!?!" I screamed to my mom.
Anyways, that was a traumatic experience. And the point of the story is that that one particular instance created in me a deep-rooted fear of crabs. Any size of crab. A great fear that they have the capability of disemboweling my womanhood. Stealing it away, and making me sterile. I hate all crabs.
Though it was to be my brother's aquarium, and it was going to go in his room, I was allowed to buy one fish to keep in the tank. Of course, my brother was vehemently opposed to this, but I think my mother felt guilty that her daughter wasn't as bright as her son, and was trying to encourage me.
One afternoon, the three of us drove down the street to Earl May (an Iowan, perhaps Midwestern, pet / landscape design store that always smelled like damp concrete and stale seeds). As soon as we walked in, I immediately sprinted over to the ferret jungle gym and begged for one of the $300 ferrets. I was refused. One tropical fish was all I was allowed.
I scanned the many tanks packed with mostly ugly fish. I, being the aesthetic child that I was, wanted the beta fish. The fish that was kept in its own cubicle of sorts that was suctioned to the side of a larger tank, separated from the other, normal fish. The beta fish was sophisticated and detailed, its tiny scales were blue, purple, and red; all perfectly blending together in such subtlety it made me think it was all one color—some brilliant color I'd never seen before. I announced that that was the fish I wanted, but the salesman quickly informed my mother that this fish was 'volatile', and not the type that could peacefully coexist with other fish. Upon hearing this my brother whined, and my mother refused to buy me a beta fish. (Why I couldn't have had my own tiny bowl of water with my own fish in my own room was beyond me. But perhaps it had to do with my puny, less than desirable 2.5 G.P.A.)
So, instead, I got some stupid kind-of chubby white fish. I can't even remember what type of fish it was, but initially, I hated it. My brother was allowed to buy like five fish, and also, a fucking crab. At first my Mom was hesitant, especially when I let out a tiny shriek at the thought of having a crab in the tank with my fish (suddenly the chubby fish I'd chosen was beloved and needed to be protected by its only defender), but in the end the salesperson told her that a crab could be useful in lieu of a bottom feeder, helping to keep the tank clean of feces and discarded food bits. So, the three of us got back in my mom's mini van with six fish, a tank, some kitschy fake scuba diver and treasure chest set, and a fucking scary iridescent albino crab.
As it turns out, the fish I'd chosen was pregnant. And after a few days, her belly swelled to double its original size. She was huge. I suddenly became infatuated with her in this new state. My fourteen-year-old self identified with her, woman-to-woman. We struggled in all the same ways. She alone in a tank with a fucking crab roaming around on the bottom, and I with a stupid brother bouncing around in his fucking water bed in the room next to my normal boring bed.
I watched dutifully as my fish grew bigger and bigger. I was so excited that she was pregnant. Though, most of my excitement could probably be attributed to my deep hope that the fish would have at least five babies and then, by sheer ownership, I'd suddenly have more fish in my brother's tank than my brother.
About a week later, I went into my brother's room one morning before school to check on my mommy-to-be. She wasn't swimming near the top like she normally was, nor was she idly floating near the wall of the tank, she wasn't stuck in the filter (as I'd heard from someone at school could happen), nor was she inside the fake coral reef playground. I couldn't see her anywhere. I looked down at the tank's lime-green pebble-covered floor (my brother's decision), and saw that fucking crab, sidestepping with its gross claws proudly erect in the air like it was performing for me, mocking me even. Then I saw a glint of white scale slowly fall through the water in front of the crab, followed by another. And, looking more closely at those fucking crab claws, I saw one more piece of white scale clinging to the inside of one of its pinchers. Then I looked to the right and saw my fish, ponderous, floating in the water as lifeless as a discarded candy wrapper. Its abdomen was half-dismembered, its womb ripped open, its insides dangling out of its stomach like the underside of a starfish. I screamed. I'm sure I started crying too. I immediately ran into my mother's room, screaming at her to wake up. My fish was dead, and worse, her children were dead too. It was like my fish was Lacey and the crab was Scott Peterson. "Who kills a pregnant woman?!?!" I screamed to my mom.
Anyways, that was a traumatic experience. And the point of the story is that that one particular instance created in me a deep-rooted fear of crabs. Any size of crab. A great fear that they have the capability of disemboweling my womanhood. Stealing it away, and making me sterile. I hate all crabs.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Another Way to Watch the Sun Set
First you'll need to lie on your bed, or on a couch, or on a pillow-padded floor. You could lie anywhere really, just as long as it's indoors. Also make sure whatever room you are in has at least one window. It's best if the window(s) opens to the West, but honestly, any or all directions are fine. Make sure the curtains that normally cover the window are drawn back, and/or the blinds are tilted appropriately. Natural sunlight needs to permeate the room. No electric light of any sort should be on, nor should a candle be lit. It is also important that you be reading something. This is a key step. A book is a good choice. I suppose a newspaper would also work. Just as long as it's not a magazine article. (Magazine pages, usually, are too shiny.)
Now begin reading. Don't stop reading. Just read and read. Don't stop to look out the window, stare at the wall, write something down, watch your fingers scratch your ankle, or consult a watch for the time. (Which reminds me, this process should begin around 7pm in the summertime, and 4pm in the winter season. Or, if you want to read for longer, start sooner. But other than checking the time before you begin to read, do not glance away from the text in front of you.)
Continue reading. As you read, the sun will begin to set. You will know this because reading will become increasingly difficult. But do not turn on any lights! Just keep reading. About every ten minutes or so, your eyes will lose focus and they will have to take a moment to readjust. This is due to the diminishing natural light, a direct effect of the Earth's slow roll away from the sun. The light will continue to fade for about an hour, with it becoming more difficult to read every ten minutes. As you keep reading, your pace will slow, and your eyes may feel strained. Keep going.
Eventually the light will disappear altogether. Sometimes this will happen when you are in the middle of a sentence, or even worse, during a really suspenseful, climactic part of the story. These things happen. Or perhaps it will be that just as the sun extinguishes, you complete a sentence! Or, in the most fortuitous of circumstances, you just read the last word of an entire paragraph, or even better, just finished a section, or a chapter, or (gasp!) your mind just uttered the very last word at the end of a book!
Take a moment, now, before you turn on a light, to lie in the darkness. Lay the book on your stomach and feel the weight of your accomplishment. Then you may either turn on the light to continue reading (if necessary), or leave the lights off for the rest of the evening (preferable) and either fall asleep and dream or lie awake and think.
Repeat.
Now begin reading. Don't stop reading. Just read and read. Don't stop to look out the window, stare at the wall, write something down, watch your fingers scratch your ankle, or consult a watch for the time. (Which reminds me, this process should begin around 7pm in the summertime, and 4pm in the winter season. Or, if you want to read for longer, start sooner. But other than checking the time before you begin to read, do not glance away from the text in front of you.)
Continue reading. As you read, the sun will begin to set. You will know this because reading will become increasingly difficult. But do not turn on any lights! Just keep reading. About every ten minutes or so, your eyes will lose focus and they will have to take a moment to readjust. This is due to the diminishing natural light, a direct effect of the Earth's slow roll away from the sun. The light will continue to fade for about an hour, with it becoming more difficult to read every ten minutes. As you keep reading, your pace will slow, and your eyes may feel strained. Keep going.
Eventually the light will disappear altogether. Sometimes this will happen when you are in the middle of a sentence, or even worse, during a really suspenseful, climactic part of the story. These things happen. Or perhaps it will be that just as the sun extinguishes, you complete a sentence! Or, in the most fortuitous of circumstances, you just read the last word of an entire paragraph, or even better, just finished a section, or a chapter, or (gasp!) your mind just uttered the very last word at the end of a book!
Take a moment, now, before you turn on a light, to lie in the darkness. Lay the book on your stomach and feel the weight of your accomplishment. Then you may either turn on the light to continue reading (if necessary), or leave the lights off for the rest of the evening (preferable) and either fall asleep and dream or lie awake and think.
Repeat.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Obvious Child on Brooklyn Vegan
Our film screened at IFC Rooftop Summer Film Festival last Friday. Thanks to all who came!
Read Brooklyn Vegan's coverage of the night here.
Read Brooklyn Vegan's coverage of the night here.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
What Am I? A Bologna Sandwich?
As I've mentioned before, I live in Bushwick. I've resided here for almost three of the five years I've lived in New York City. I remember the day after I moved in, setting out on my own in hot pursuit of a new local laundry mat. Upon rounding the corner, leaving the nearly empty side-street of Grove for the more bustling sidewalks of Broadway, I immediately found myself the recipient of several nicknames: "Hey Princess"; "Snow bunny"; "Sugar cookie"; "Peach", which all were thrown in my direction before I had even walked an entire block.
That was 2007.
Today is different. I still walk down Broadway all the time by myself, but now with nary a call or effusive shout. At first, I thought my hair played a factor. As in early 2007 I was a shoulder-length blond, and since then my hair has been brown, red, and boy-short bleach blond. But my hair is now back to the early 2007 style, and yet the cat calls still don't compare to what I used to get.
So now I am left to wonder, since it's not the hair, what about me, or my neighborhood, has changed in the last three years?
Yes, perhaps the streets of Southern Bushwick are now more used to the sight of a fair-skinned, blond woman walking solo down the street. But also, maybe it's me. Perhaps my expression has grown more smug, and I now appear less innocent-looking. While I gleefully hope that the subtle change in my facial facade is capable of shutting the mouths of horny men, I must admit, though, that I miss them. The cat calls. A girl needs a certain amount of compliments to confirm her outfit decisions or hair style choices. I mean, if people don't say anything, how am I supposed to know if I look good? If a day passes where I'm not randomly shouted at on the street, I'll assume the worst.
Thankfully, there is still the rare and sporadic comment or remark. One weekend last summer, after I'd just switched two loads of clothing from the washer to the dryer, I stepped outside for relief from the stuffy, non air-conditioned confines of the laundry mat. I decided to head north, in search of a cool treat. I purchased a frozen strawberry popsicle from the corner deli and began consuming it on the street as I headed back toward my spinning clothing. On my way, I passed two young gentlemen, clad in baggy denim and wife beaters. They intently stared as I walked by, and somewhere deep inside I hoped that they would say something to me, make me feel like I existed. After all, despite it being laundry day, I had on my tightest pants. But they passed by, and my heart sank. But then, after they were already behind me, one of them said, "I would give anything to be that popsicle, baby."
Finally! After months of silence I at last had the confirmation I'd been waiting for. And I lived off this one simple comment for at least a week, able to again feel confident and secure in my appearance.
And then, a week later, just when the remnant feelings from the former comment were beginning to wear off, I passed two other gentlemen on the street, Bushwick Avenue this time, less than a block from my home, with my apartment building in sight. As I walked by them I began hoping. And again, once my back was to them (this apparently being an opportune moment for them), one of the men shouted, "Suck my dick!"
They couldn't see it, but I was smiling. And their simple comment, which I'm sure they forgot about almost instantly, affirmed my existence in this world for another entire month.
And it is because of these instances that I have to send out a whole-hearted thank you to the men of Bushwick. You make my life worth living.
That was 2007.
Today is different. I still walk down Broadway all the time by myself, but now with nary a call or effusive shout. At first, I thought my hair played a factor. As in early 2007 I was a shoulder-length blond, and since then my hair has been brown, red, and boy-short bleach blond. But my hair is now back to the early 2007 style, and yet the cat calls still don't compare to what I used to get.
So now I am left to wonder, since it's not the hair, what about me, or my neighborhood, has changed in the last three years?
Yes, perhaps the streets of Southern Bushwick are now more used to the sight of a fair-skinned, blond woman walking solo down the street. But also, maybe it's me. Perhaps my expression has grown more smug, and I now appear less innocent-looking. While I gleefully hope that the subtle change in my facial facade is capable of shutting the mouths of horny men, I must admit, though, that I miss them. The cat calls. A girl needs a certain amount of compliments to confirm her outfit decisions or hair style choices. I mean, if people don't say anything, how am I supposed to know if I look good? If a day passes where I'm not randomly shouted at on the street, I'll assume the worst.
Thankfully, there is still the rare and sporadic comment or remark. One weekend last summer, after I'd just switched two loads of clothing from the washer to the dryer, I stepped outside for relief from the stuffy, non air-conditioned confines of the laundry mat. I decided to head north, in search of a cool treat. I purchased a frozen strawberry popsicle from the corner deli and began consuming it on the street as I headed back toward my spinning clothing. On my way, I passed two young gentlemen, clad in baggy denim and wife beaters. They intently stared as I walked by, and somewhere deep inside I hoped that they would say something to me, make me feel like I existed. After all, despite it being laundry day, I had on my tightest pants. But they passed by, and my heart sank. But then, after they were already behind me, one of them said, "I would give anything to be that popsicle, baby."
Finally! After months of silence I at last had the confirmation I'd been waiting for. And I lived off this one simple comment for at least a week, able to again feel confident and secure in my appearance.
And then, a week later, just when the remnant feelings from the former comment were beginning to wear off, I passed two other gentlemen on the street, Bushwick Avenue this time, less than a block from my home, with my apartment building in sight. As I walked by them I began hoping. And again, once my back was to them (this apparently being an opportune moment for them), one of the men shouted, "Suck my dick!"
They couldn't see it, but I was smiling. And their simple comment, which I'm sure they forgot about almost instantly, affirmed my existence in this world for another entire month.
And it is because of these instances that I have to send out a whole-hearted thank you to the men of Bushwick. You make my life worth living.
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