weekend bookends

at the behest of my visiting sis, let's call her j., we rented bitter moon last night. it promised to be a meeting of love boat and last tango in paris.

what a great idea, we thought. last tango smokes.

bitter moon does not. instead: hilarious/ridiculous. deluge of cliches. totally unsexy. utterly inane.

this morning i was having flashbacks, like diane lane did of having gotten sweaty with olivier martinez in that flick with richard gere, but mine were not so delicious; they were like gnats flying into my eyes in spite of my attempts to stop them. and the gnats were bits of peter cayote uttering impossibly dopey dialogue and images of the french starlet (polanski real-life wife) spilling milk on her ta-tas only to have cayote (aka 'tiger') lick it off. oh brother, why art though?

want more? music by wham and lionel ritchie.

it made miami vice look like shakespeare.

here's the lesson: when a video box invokes the love boat as a selling point, one (by one i mean, j. and me) should be unsurprised by drek.

open letter to justin theroux

dear, sweet justin theroux.

why are you in miami vice? it's a funnish movie to watch, violence and tiny bits of sex and speed...ridiculous dialogue ('as trudy would say, i ain't playin'), and pretty, with a blue/green sheen that makes me wish i were a drug kinpin. and there's jamie foxx. and gong li. the actual invokation of phil collins at the end, ('i can see it comin the the air tonight...') is kind of a shame but without it, the flick would not be complete.

but, justin theroux, you had promise. remember? loads of it. in mulholland drive you were downright foxy in that 10 gallon, or stetson or whatever. in sex and the city...well, you reminded me of about half the guys i new from college, fellows who were skinny and wanted to be novelists but hated their moms or were hemmed in by fact checking jobs or dropped names way too often of half-rate singers like that long haired dude from the lemondrops or lemonheads or whatever that band was called that they got to tag along wtih at parties on saturday nights; guys who wanted to be convinced of their own talent. then you were in six feet under, i only saw about 3 episodes, but it seemed like a killer show and you seemed particularly killer in it. tres sexy. aren't you related to a famous writer? it adds to your mystique to think so. i remember there was an article about you in the ny times—was it the home section or style?—about your apartment. and it seemed like a cush pad, the kind of hipster crib you'd have, maybe with lots of books and cds of ultra cool bands. maybe you liked triphop. or the smiths. did they say or imply you are gay? i can't recall...maybe by design.

oh, justin theroux. now you're in a movie with colin farrell and you don't even get to say a word...or if you did, i missed it. instead, you seemed always to be chewing gum, and i wonder, what brand...i'd guess it's something esoteric with an acquired taste, maybe stimrol, if they still make that, but nothing as banal as juicy fruit or big red or bubblicious. you stand around the movie, in a white shirt, and provide back up or op cit or ibid or something. i think at one point you feign injury, excellent acting! a cap in the knee. did it hurt? besides that, you're a second or maybe even fifth fiddle. it's not quite clear. why? is that all there is?

justin theroux, i used to love you.

name that tune

had a good date the other night. very relaxed. that's the first bit of not so critical news. will we see each other again? hopefully. i wrote a note and said we should, that i'd like to.

but i feel like things happen upside down, by which i mean, not one week ago i was telling someone about my apartment, my lease, fearing it might not be renewed and then lo, it's not. (though i spoke to my landlady and there might be wiggle room and so limbo is where i'm at just now; it's at the intersection of panic and relief, i'll meet you there).

then, the lady at work in charge of insurance and air conditioning and getting new bookshelves (she asked me one day for advice about a friend of hers who was having an affair...and in the course of the exchange said to me, 'she tells me the sex is really good.' not the kind of thing co-workers typically drop) asked me, asked everyone, if we wanted new insurance. i said i'd stick with the old even though it's a terrible bureaucracy and that electronic operator drives me nuts, especially when i call to check on something and she says in her vaguely british, vaguely breathy accent, "i think you said....representative." i did, bitch.

anyhoo, got to a doc today for a check up and the doc is all, 'hey, you know, we're stopping doing bizness with your provider come august 1.' it's like some kind of reverse karmic psychology. so i figure, if i say, i never ever want to fall in love...then falling in love is imminent.

i think i was in love once. i'd like to be again at least once more.

at therapy (uh huh, i live in nyc after all) i was talking, as i'm supposed to, and i said, before i realized it, 'i want to be pursued forever.' and she said, 'don't you ever want to be caught?' and truth is...i do.

i do. i do. i do. i do. i do....love me or leave me, make your choice, don't deceive me...cause it's true....

name that song, and who sung it, and i make a mixed cd for you. special. my oeuvre spans time.

belly aching on account of dinner: beer, green grapes, chocolate, cheese, almonds and a plum.

you would cry too if it happened to you.

squeaky wheels

sometimes get oiled. sometimes get the boot.

got a letter yesterday from my landlord. she had my name spelled wrong—both first and last, this after four years of getting checks with my named typed on it, but no matter—and advised me new management's coming (her daughter) and i have about 4 mos to vacate. but it turns out i am the only one being asked to vacate and when i asked my neigbhor, who's tight with the landlord why me, apparently because i had various plumbing problems that required fixing and i didn't do it myself, swallow it myself. but she also said i should call the landlord and maybe she'll reconsider. so i will. but the anxiety of the situation woke me at 5:30 this morning and by 8 i was making post-run scrambled and toast. so at least i keep trim meanwhile.

the whole thing instantly whips up such a tremendous feeling of precariousness and unsettledness. it's a stunner how fast that comes on. add to that mix the utter feeling of being unwanted, of being identified as someone who doesn't just get along but actually requests things of the landlord (i guess, in other words, a pain in the ass complainer) and it makes me feel like i'm a step away from homeless cause this town, nyc, is pricey and i have a good job but i'm no corporate earner and i just skate by. always goddamn skating. and all alone too. it feels that way today.

how does this relate to courting? gotta court the landlord now. be totally guileless and apologetic and try oh try to convince her to give me another year (take me back my dear darling) and in that time try oh try to find a measure of stability in my life (it'll be different next time, love, i won't hurt you—i promise with all my heart).

it occured to me this might be my opp to move to east nashville, which i love, or new orleans, which i love, or somewhere overseas...but that won't solve the puzzle of unsettled. to make a committment to buy a place, that would be the swellest of all, if i could raise the spinach.

in times like these i vaguely crave a deus ex machina, and not necessarily in a positive way.

tattoo you (two)

but not me. this is a part deux to yesterday's uno insofar as i saw a pal tonight who has a tattoo around his leg. he's not enough of a friend that i would have known that already, that he has a tattoo. after i saw him, on the subway ride home a bloke got on, lots of ink all over this arms. and a woman with a tiny red star on the back of her lower calf, that part of the leg which i used to fear would get slashed by the the evil man under the bed (as opposed to the lady in the water who apparently sings nursery rhymes in a whispery but still quite articulate voice). the foot would then dangle by the front. now you know why for years i stood on my bed and then leapt off at a sufficient distance that i'd escape his thrashing blade.

anyhoo, tattoo season is not more upon us than usual, it's simply summer. they're on view in their glory and otherwise. i've thought of getting one from time to time. something small, funny, colorful (no japanese words meaning truth or love or mommy or a portrait of the grim reaper with the words underneath 'death before dishonor' like a woman i saw had at a drug store). i'd veer discreet. but, like the skirt and the shampoo before it, the noncommittalness of me here acts like an iron curtain. does that metaphor even work? i don't know. don't care either, which is funny cause a guy i used to know once called me the 'metaphor police.' he was the same fellow who told of a girlfriend who 'serviced' him and i had to object but not before laughing. at him, not with.

back to ink. what if i got one and in a week regret it? hey you, with the tattoo, are you immune to the plague of indecision?

i imagine you are, you lucky striker.

the—or at least, a—plague

indecision cripples me. today in the drugstore i spent many minutes (long enough for the butter in my grocery bag to melt) in search of the perfect shampooing. i didn't find it. settled for a less than perfect product. confounded by choices i'm chronically dissatisfied. i know i'm not the only one.

got my usual email from jcrew about a big big big final final sale. and i've been feeling a little poorly so should not shop at all but if i do it should be only in sales bins. but do i need a skirt that's exactly like one i already own but a different color? no, but uncommitted to my decision, returned to the site to reconsider. a silly torture; a time-sucker. it applies in all walks.

do i like him? is there someone better? smarter? cuter? if i open this door, do i lose the others for good? what about my job? how long to stay, though i dig the gig. should i get knocked up? could i go it alone? how long to decide? should i set deadlines? if i go forward, by what method? will i spend so much time wondering, the window will meantime close?

skirtbuying and babymaking are not comparable but there's a parallel gist. today i held a friend's baby, about 12 days old. the tiniest nail beds. and this little one leaked on me while i was holding her. i'm taking it as a good sign. but outside everything seems pitched on a calamitous precipice. i heard a car or a plane or something about an hour ago and it was so loud, the rumble, i thought maybe a bomb went off in my quaint, relatively insulated neighborhood. this post embarrasses me. this blog sometimes embarrasses me. the narcissism of it all. and writing that sentence, like some kind of mea culpa, worsens it with a whiff of irksome sanctimony. not that i'll stop, necessarily, it's a fun escape from shit.

ode to mick

walking to the subway yesterday after a most relaxing beach weekend (perfectly refreshing water; grilled beef for dinner; juicy, fat peaches in the morning—is u jealous?) the old man who lives up the block, the one with the cane who sometimes squats next to a wall on another block with his hat extended for change, said to me:

hi darlin'. you look good today. you make a blind man see. i'm blind in one eye, but you make me see.

now that's what i'm talking about.

if i can do that to a blind man, imagine what i can do for the dead.

les bleus

so, 'cheesy is as cheesy does' to quote aristotle.

which is to say i got this hankering for a french manicure. i've had the itch for a few days now and, unsatisfied it gained potency, until finally at lunch today instead of eating (cause i just couldn't decide what exactly to eat anyway) i walked into a salon and got myself one. and it did not thrill me or give me a momentary satisfaction in the manner i expected from past, infrequent french manicures, where i am filled up with a sudden delight at the polish and soap opera glitz of it all and swiftly propelled into reveries of being a scarsdale lady or an around-the-way-gal. you know, like jenny on the block.

too old for such indulgence?

at the italy-german match the other day, which i watched at a czech beer hall out in qns, some around-the-way boys rooting for germany got weepy at the loss, hugging each other, administering loving kisses on each others' foreheads, and then started in full sopranos-style crescendo to yell at the italian fans (who, unlike the german fans were actually from europe and speaking in languages other than english—that is, italian) to 'show some respect' since the italians could not stop cheering and singing at the win. and the deutchland crue embellished their demand with the ever respectful flip of twin birds. and their molls (how do you say that in german? ich bin ein moll!) had, that's right mes cheries, french manicures.

it interlaces, see. and ergo ciao for now.