T-Bone, the Disco Spider

Translating Suffering

My dear E! is working on a project about which I am totally excited. Excited, honestly, to the point, that I just called her to tell her that I want to write something with her about it. Basically, it's a study of concentration camp museums, specifically Buchenwald, and how the shapes/forms/presentation of the products associated with that museum tell a story about the past.

To that end, she just received a booklet from the museum, in which the participants and artists describe their projects in light of History and Nation and Ethnicity. She, being brilliant, is translating the German into English. Pretty awesome, yes?

That is not the point of this post, though. The point of this post is relation--as I talk to dear E!, I am in the middle of bureaucratic, form-filing nightmare, tenure-track paperwork. And I am feeling sorry for myself because I HATE it.

Then, she sends me a phrase: "hautbespannte Kochenwesen":--used by one of the museum artists to describe the former prisoners of the camp. She tells me that it can be translated literally, as "skin-tightly-stretched knuckle-beings."

And my eyes water.

And I am not so sorry for myself anymore.

Best. Day. Evar.

SO... I am writing this entry for my mother:

1) because she wants me to write more
2) because, she says, although she likes the last entry, it is sad, and she wants me to write something happy.
3) because she is awesome and deserves to get things she wants.

Here you are, dear mother, my first, fiercest, and favorite audience.

Friday, my dear friend, Josh, was in town. Why was he in town?, you may ask. Well, I’ll tell ya—he is working on a public speaking book that will defy the boring odds of public speaking texts, and he was signing the contract. So Hooray for that! And Hooray for the students and teachers who will get to use a non-run-of-the-mill textbook for public speaking!

We met up for lunch, and it was good to see his face. Then, a friend of his (from grad school, I think) showed up. Naida lives in Brooklyn, teaches in Manhattan, and is delicious all around. The three of us went for a walk around the lower part of the island. Saw some crazy bobo interior decorating store, walked the High Line, ate at this AWESOME place that serves all sorts of chocolate* bits. Ahhh, desultory wandering and decadence.

As we were walking, Naida told us about some options for the night—one of which was a Goth/Industrial dance party. Yes. I was not dressed appropriately—jeans, low top white converse sneakers and a white tank top. My smart-ass cousin recommended that I stop somewhere and pick up a cardigan to complete the look. Dear cousin, your concern for my sartorial welfare is touching.**

With that plan in mind (not the cardigan, but the dancing) the three of us parted, to rest, eat some snacks, and find clothes. Then we met up again at Penn Station; they approved my shoes (patent leather peep toes, if you must know. They are my favorite). We proceeded downtown to see some of our debaters at their favorite, shady Irish pub. Then the three of us went dancing with some very serious club patrons somewhere near Canal St.

I like that music. Love and Rockets, especially. Josh, if you’re reading this, you wanna send me some recs? Because I need a departure from the Prince/Greg Laswell/Owl City over which I’ve been obsessing for days now.

Now. You may think that this is the end of the adventure, but Oh Ho! there is more.

The trains back to Bayside run fairly infrequently after midnight. With that in mind, I left Josh and Naida so I could catch the 1:19—did not want to be caught in that deathly TWO HOUR wait between the 1:19 and the 3:19. That is, like the opposite of fun, just by the way.***

As I am walking down the stairs to catch the train—another friend calls. He and some of his buddies are downtown and want to see if I will meet them. As I pause to chat with him, the doors to the train close... And I’m like, “Well, I have a couple hours to kill. So. Yes.”

And then there was dancing. And Irish car bombs. And love advice dispensed. And sauntering. And flirting. And discussion of the lameness of one of the deadbeat friends. And praise for my shoes. And a rose in the hair. And more dancing. And a stroll home in the gradually lightening dawn.

I ended up catching the 5:19 train.
That’s right, Mom. Your girl can hang.


*{I had the Red Heart—which is a warm, chocolate cake filled with raspberry and dark chocolate filling. It is served on a plate that also contains… wait for it… raspberry yogurt, vanilla ice cream with some chocolate sauce on top, and a tiny little bottle of dark chocolate sauce to pour over everything. I ate that cake like someone was gonna snatch it away from me. And, then, because I clearly enjoyed it so much, Naida ordered one for herself. And gave me a bite.}

** {I think cardigans are cool, but I am not an imbecile.}

***{Super Good for People Watching, though. You would not believe the sights, sounds, and shoes that come through that place. Well. Maybe you would. Dirty.}

Music and Parties

There are parts of our story that still make me cry.
I did not realize that there was still an
Our story,
Until I got the message last night—
The one you never sent—
The one about
Vampire cosmology.
Wedding receptions.
Rehashed apologies.
I remember when you and I were yelling at each other
In the living room of my parents' house...
It was an inopportune moment—at the very beginning
Of the slide toward all sorts of death
And irrevocability,
And we knew each other well enough to deal
The crushingest blows.
I remember wondering where you had gone—
Who this new strange angry person was,
This person with the bloodied face
And the weak hands.

You tried so hard.
I know it—I know you did try.
With your sweet bloody face
And your weak hands.
And now I still cry
For us,
Despite myself
And all the plans I make
To end our story.

Once, when I was driving back to you,
I felt a moment of doubt…
Should I just keep driving to the coast?
If I keep driving,
I thought,
I may just
Get around the inevitable endings promised by
Love,
Faith,
Marriage...
But I was weak.
I missed your face—
You had made spaghetti,
Opened wine and bought roses.
So I kept driving,
To where you were
Because that was the only place I knew how to be,
And I kissed your face
Because yours was the only face I recognized.

Threats and Liquid Smoke

Let me tell you a little something about liquid smoke. I do not like it; it is weird to me. Generally, I am a fan of artifice--in many of its delicious varieties and forms. I love masks and costumes, word-play and badinage, clever lies and earnest endearments--I live for that shit.

But a body must have its categories--and I admit that I do have some. Mostly they have to do with zombies, rhetorics of history/expertise, and varying degrees of friendship (performative and constructive) which I will be more than happy to tell you about (possibly honestly, possibly artificially) at some later date. Right now, though, I want to tell you a little something about my categories of flavor.

I have spent the last few days in Manhattan, meeting up with dear friends. Yesterday, I spent the afternoon at MOMA with this hot Israeli and a young Gordon Gekko. That was an intriguing combination of people in and of itself, but the main goal of this story is to set up the smoke-flavor-screen: On Friday nights, MOMA lets people in for free. And I mean aLOT of people. I am not the biggest fan of crowds, but I must say that it warmed my heart to see so many different faces leaning in to study the paint scrapes of our Abstract expressionists and the tintinnabulations of our Surrealist buddies. It was overwhelming, and I must go back when there are not so many folks leaning. Anyway, back to "Artifice: Good/Bad/Indifferent?"

On the sixth floor is a special exhibit by this crazy Belgian named James Ensor. Dude. You need to go see it. He starts out with some poxy images of ponds and rainbows, but then he gets into some really awesome stuff. Weird satires and super-unsettling masques, sharp political critiques and shady-looking skeletons leaning up against credenzas. It was luscious. And just my kind of artifice. Over the top, obvious, and critical--without being bossy or sneaky. He uses the artifical to call attention to the false--not the other way around--which leads me to LIQUID SMOKE and THURSDAY NIGHT AT DALLAS BBQ* IN TIMES SQUARE.

Talk about crowds. Sheesh. My Long Island friend and I went into the city Thursday night to drink martinis and catch up. We met at the Apartment in Grand Central--verrrrry swanky. Lawyers abounded. Then, after some conversation with a fellow Episcopalian (who went to Sewannee and Duke! Will wonders never cease?), we were hungry, so we made our way to Dallas BBQ--the 42nd St. location. And there was liquid smoke. All in the sauce. The chicken was alright (I got the dark meat because that is inevitably juicier). And the Texas-sized pina colada was, indeed, ridiculously large--so, thumbs up, there. But The Sauce! And The Gigantic Neon Sign That Kept Flashing! And The Crowds of Tourists Who Are Most Likely From the South So They Should Know Better!

I figured out that my main problems with the Dallas BBQ at Times Square center mostly on liquid smoke, and I will tell you why:

A) It's apparently pretty bad for you because it is MADE FROM SMOKE.
B) I am a good Southerner. I have never been crazy for barbecue, but I recognize good barbecue when I taste it. Because I am an East Coast girl, I prefer sauces (sorry, dear Texas), but I won't kick a good dry rub out of bed for lack of juice. :) Liquid smoke contains a false-ness, a pretense, of smoking procedures that just fits nowhere in my categories of the good. It does not taste like barbecue, it tastes like sauce disguised.
C) Neon makes food taste weird. It is the visual equivalent of liquid smoke. And it. is. everywhere. at that place.
D) If barbecue does not taste de-damn-licious after one martini and two glasses of wine, then I don't know what to tell you. That can't be a good sign.

*An addendum--I am not a hater. I have had good barbecue in New York at a place called Rub BBQ. Good title, good brisket, not-so-good-fried-green-tomatoes... but you gotta love em for trying. And I so do.

70 Degree Day

These are for you, Stringer.

Words for Monsters

The monsters that were here last night
Linger.
That’s not the only word for it—
I can think of so many other words for what it is that monsters do.
They hulk,
Breathless and Taloned
Between the panes of the window
And the screen to the porch.
They crouch,
Insidious whisperers,
In all the corners of our conversations.
They bleed,
Calling to mind the Ghosts of HeartBreaks Past
And the Shadows of Those To Come…

The monsters that were here last night
Are surprised.
I can tell.
They believe you.
When you say their names aloud,
When you gaze into their hiding spaces
Boldly.
Perhaps they are no match for you,
Because you know all the languages they speak.
Hero.
Villain.
You switch from interrogator to interlocutor
Instantly.
JustLikeThat.
You tell me that you are here for me—
That these monsters are no match for you.
And when I laugh,
And tell you that I am used to them,
And I don’t need your help
And I am unimpressed with your heroics,
You remind me
That everyone needs rescuing once in a while.

The monsters that were here last night
Are weakened
But they are not erased.
Villain.
Hero.
The monsters that were here last night
Are students of the Abyss,
They study the cracks in our façade.
They taste our strengths like acids
And test our fears like lemon drops.
They are waiting for you to slip.