Do Yourself a Favor

If you have Netflix streaming through your PS3, or what-have-you, you know that the selection of instant movies is extraordinarily poor; however, tonight I stumbled upon a documentary film which forever changed my mind.

An illustration of "The Vivian Girls"

The documentary called "In the Realms of the Unreal" is based on the life's work a Henry Darger, a reclusive janitor from Chicago. Darger was born in 1892 and, from his early years, knew an existence of labor, loneliness, and love-lost. After all his family was gone, Darger was placed in a sort of mental asylum for boys and, after escaping, he walked for days and days back to Chicago where he set up permanent residence. Darger took menial jobs and lived a seemingly isolated life.

The belief that Darger was a loner was upheld until just before his death, when his kind neighbors transferred him to a Catholic mission home. While Darger was wasting away, his landlords found Darger's wide breadth of work, which included thousands of paintings, tons of journals, an autobiography, and what may be the longest novel in history: a tale that is over 15, 000 pages long and details the fictitious battles of the "Vivian Girls". The novel is called The Story of the Vivian Girls, in What is known as the Realms of the Unreal, of the Glandeco-Angelinnian War Storm, Caused by the Child Slave Rebellion. 

I urge you to watch this documentary because it tells the story of a unique mind that created an unfathomable amount of art and literature. I'm always intrigued by the things people do when no one is watching and being that no one ever watched Darger, he had a lot of time to express his innermost visions without critique. Darger, though denied anything he wanted, still kept his faith in God, loved children, and kept busy because there was no other option for him - it was his life. The documentary left me sobbing and pining, and wanting to know every person who surrounds me. This outsider artist is unparalleled in his devotion to the subjects in his art. I am sad that he did not receive acclaim in his lifetime, but I am comforted by the fact that his legacy will prevail. If, like Darger believed, we are judged at the end of our lives, he will be pleased with the praise he'll get from his maker. 

I am stunned.

Mel Gibson, You Really Blew It.

Once upon a time, there was a version of Mel Gibson that I liked. Let's call this the Braveheart Era. In this golden age, Mel played riveting characters like William Wallace, which left me sobbing and forced me to retreat to my computer room where I decided I would name my first born child, male or female, William Wallace. Shortly after this eponymous fit, I won the evil level of Snood for the first time ever. This was surely a sign from God that Mel and I had something real.

Then Mel started directing films like "The Passion of the Christ" and "Apocalypto". I sort of liked both movies and ignored the fact that he was an anti-semite because I didn't have PerezHilton.com to tell me how I should feel on the matter. 

Around this time, my favorite Mel Gibson of all emerged: the wasted one. First off, I loved the mugshot from the DWI incident and I really ate up the fact that he called a female police officer "sugartits". God, I thought that was just about the funniest thing to ever happen and I figured that's a pretty good drunk personality to have if you're gonna have an inebriated alter-ego. Also, this episode inspired me to call my friend Jen "Sugartits"and I think that's a sweet nickname for someone close to you to have. 

Then it went downhill and I can't recall the particulars. More drinking. Blah. Divorce. Blah. Russian fetus-of-a-girlfriend. Blah. Baby Momma. Blah. THEN...he beat her up and made scary phone calls to her and now I can barely laugh at the sugartits incident. This is not to say that Jen loses her moniker. She doesn't. 

The Sugartits Mugshot

Unexpected Delights

Since I've been so overwhelmed this year, I've had to find solace in the little things because I'm too tired for big things. Here's a few gestures and happenstances that have made recent days brighter:

• Finding a few bucks in my back pocket
• Getting the "Final Jeopardy" clue right
• Making the green light at my exit off of Sunrise Highway
• The perfect TBS movie
• Crumb cake in the faculty room
• A giant rainbow
• Getting flowers 
• A thank you note from my friend's little sister
• Finding out that an old friend got engaged 
• My dad texting me "OMG"
• Needing to wear a sweater that happens to be new and very cute
• Rita's spike collar

The Best Thing I Did for Myself in Years...

was buying Dr. Scholl's massaging gel insoles for my high heels. I must admit I was skeptical about "gellin'", but what a difference they make!

Irrational Fear Number Two

This is real and you should be scared.

Last night I watched a documentary of sorts on the Discovery Channel. It was called "The Pig Bomb" and it revealed that wild pigs are basically taking over the United States and we need to kill 7 out of every 10 creatures in order to halt their booming numbers.

As someone who loves bacon, I didn't feel very threatened UNTIL I saw that these beasts are mammoth - I'm talking swine weighing over 1,000 pounds. That is just ridiculous. Let's confound this already unbelievable detail with the fact that these pigs are aggressive and deadly. They've got sheer force and crazy tusks to go with it.

I'm never going anywhere without a Pit Bull and a rifle...and I hate guns.

The Trouble With Rubberneckers

If you've ever lived on Long Island, you know damn well how bad traffic can get at times. You probably also know that traffic is unavoidable at certain points of the day and/or on specific roadways. If you commute to work, you're acutely aware that you need to leave your home at a given hour, or you will be late for work;  moreover, you know that when the day is done, you will sit in traffic.

Honestly, there is nothing worse than ending a grueling day by sitting in traffic. You're tired, cranky, hungry, and just want to get to where you live, but you can't get there in a reasonable amount of time because of construction, heavy volume, or an accident. Let's be realistic - no one wants to be involved in an accident, but how about we start taking ourselves out of the accident equation by ending our rubbernecking. Really. Just stop looking.

When an accident occurs, there's usually not much to see or, if there is, you shouldn't want to see it. I always say that I would be humiliated, offended, or saddened if a bunch of strangers watched my mangled body be extracted from a collapsed automobile. Conversely, I wouldn't want anyone looking at any of my loved ones who happened to be injured or, god-forbid, killed in a car-wreck. What can you possibly derive from looking at an accident scene?

Even if you are some morbid freak (this is where I admit that I am), stop slowing down traffic! Go look at some gore on the Internet and let me get home a little faster.

These rubberneckers are the same breed of people who get up from their beach chairs when they notice someone is drowning.

For God's sake, give the drowning victim some privacy! Imagine how they're going to feel if they survive and a bunch of schmucks are standing half-naked on the shore watching them, probably hoping that it's too late for CPR.

People- keep your pedal steady and your eyes straight while driving and keep reading your trashy beach novel.

Give.Me.A.Break!

Shameless Plug for a Top-Notch Blog

Visit this great blog, which features only original photography, drawings, poems, and prose:

A Vintage Future of Pine.

Here's a glimpse:

In Honor of the Jewish New Year...

...I'd like to share a quote from my favorite Jew, Woody Allen:

You can live to be a hundred if you give up all the things that make you want to live to be a hundred.

The Brainchild

Let's not play games here. I wanted the following entry to be my first blog, but I thought I'd introduce "her" slowly. By "her" I mean the brainchild and combined effort of people that believe in her existence. She's not a unicorn; she's the word "bejus." Here's some info:


Bejus (pronounced: bee-juss) was created on or about October 1st, 2008 via AIM. What started out as a typo, has now become an omnipresent force in the lives of many.

If you're wondering what it is, you should be aware that you already know because it's a word that describes 89.4% of everything. Ever.

For example: Euthanasia is bejus because it ends the suffering of an afflicted person or animal, but leaves friends and family feeling empty and/or guilty.

Moreover, fat little kids are bejus because, for a while, they are the most adorable beings, but it's really not a good way to start your life. Let's be real, it's all downhill from there.

Do you need another?

OK.

Courtney Love is bejus because she's a fucking trainwreck, but I need to watch the unsettling developments.

Is this too abstract for you?

Here- Working is bejus because it sucks, but you get paid.

In essence...BEJUS IS NEVERYTHING!


Got the gist of it?

I love words and I'm pretty sure there isn't another word for bejus. Some people suggest that bittersweet does the job, but it doesn't. Phrases like "hurt so good" and  "Catch 22" do a decent job of describing what bejus says in one fun little word. 


I don't want to bombard you with too much information, so I'll leave you with this basic knowledge about the word of all words.

More to follow...

Today is Labor Day...

...and tomorrow begins a new school year. As I tell my students, each new year is a chance to reinvent yourself because students and teachers forgive and forget over the summer months. This year I'm going to allow myself to be more clever, more strange, and more prepared - the essential ingredients for a great teacher. Though I didn't expect to be on this road again, I plan on letting myself enjoy the scenery and perhaps settling on this road if it feels right.

So it's farewell to summer and the last of my errands will be run today. A restful sleep will be impossible this night as I second-guess everything I've created thus far. I'll have a dream about being unprepared and probably wake up far too early. I'll try to occupy the extra time in the morning by reading Perez Hilton and carefully applying my face and doing my hair. I'll make myself breakfast, which I won't eat and I'll hit the road way ahead of schedule. Nothing can prepare you for the 100+ new students you're going to meet. You've heard rumors and intimations about what the upcoming freshman class is like - but I usually don't agree with peoples' opinions about people so it's a useless barometer that's being used.

Tomorrow I will sweat in my classroom and collapse on the floor when I get home, only to do it again the next day. Good thing us "damn teachers have it made" because we have off Thursday and Friday for the Jewish holidays.

What non-teachers don't know is that teachers need off every day they're given. I swear to you that if you're doing a good job, you need every single day they give you to recuperate. I made no plans for this summer and didn't do much because I was still coming down from the previous year and prepping myself for the upcoming one. When school is in full swing, Friday nights are for sleeping; Saturdays and for chores; and Sundays are for planning and worrying about the upcoming week. I promise that teachers that try aren't getting away with a thing.

Wish me luck and give a teacher a hug!

Last day of last year

Should You Find Yourself Starving at the Mall...

I was sitting on the couch, waiting for take-out to arrive, and I thought about how I'd like to be getting baked ziti from Sbarro's delivered to me - that way I wouldn't feel the shame of going into Sbarro's to get baked ziti. Also, I didn't feel like moving. Let me get back to the pasta. You know you've had it. It's the best baked ziti ever, in fact. Then I got to reminiscing about all the food I probably shouldn't know about, but being an avid shopper, I do. Here goes...

Sbarro's: Baked Ziti
Bertucci's: Caramelized Onion Pizza
Tanger Outlets: Chinese Food
Ranch One: French Fries
Bloomingdales: Plain Yogurt with Strawberries and Granola
Saks Fifth Avenue: Sweet Potato Fries

The Greatest Ziti of All Time

Number One Thing NOT to Say on a First Date

"I think Lorena Bobbitt is the ultimate feminist - she really propelled women into the 21st century. Lorena is the true maverick."

I thought of this while swimming.

PT Cruiser

Yesterday I was walking to my car when I noticed a PT Cruiser headed in my direction. I slowed my pace because I always find the drivers of said vehicle to be very peculiar. The man driving this unusual car had his windows down and was basically hanging out of it, which can mean one thing - he is a pervert.

You know those kind of men, they usually drive white vans, but occasionally step out in a non-industrial ride. They don't seem to have any place to go - they just follow the wind in order to find women walking so they can yell strange things at them.

I wondered what this PT Crusin' degenerate had to say to me. I made it onto the curb. I walked with my head straight. He leaned further out of his window. Just as he was out of my view, he exclaimed, "Nice toes!"

Nice toes? Really?

I mean, they are nice and currently painted cherry red, so I get it; however, I was wearing a spandex-like dress and thought he would scream about my derriere. Nope. I got a foot-freak and I've never understood foot fetishes.

The.End.

Another Poem-A-Day from Poets.org

Renewal [Excerpt] by Chris Abani I set you free that night, father. When you came back in that yellow Volkswagen, in that dream. I made a boat of honor for you. Woven of poems and words and not words. I set it on the ocean. Father Obuna said to me, a gift is freely given and a gift is freely returned. It has taken me thirty years to understand this. Yemenya has your heart now. May she be merciful. May she love you. The wound bleeds no more. Which is to say, what I have desired is like salt left out all night and gone. This is not a lamentation, damn it. This is a love song. This is a love song. Like reggae—it all falls on the off beat. If there is a way, it is here. They say you cannot say this in a poem. That you cannot say, love, and mean anything. That you cannot say, soul, and approach heaven. But the sun is no fool, I tell you. It will rise for nothing else.

True Blood Snafu?

Mmmmmmmmmmmmm Vampire Eric

For the three seconds during True Blood that I wasn't fantasizing about Eric Northman, I picked up on something strange. An oversight, perhaps? Here goes...

How come "V" makes its users experience euphoria when they take it recreationally, but when "V" is used to heal, it speeds recovery without causing hallucinations?

Moreover, how come that cocky football player becomes a super-athlete due to "V", rather than lying in a field with a pseudo-hippie like Jason Stackhouse did?

This is all very confusing and I need an explanation before I begin feeling like the people behind True Blood are trying to pull a fast one on me. Once I feel like I'm being had, I'm out! I can only be glamoured by the hot men of True Blood for so long before I start introducing my brain to the show. It's been three seasons and I'm starting to get used to impossibly good looking guys.

Has anyone out there read the Sookie Stackhouse novels and knows the answer? Was anyone paying attention to detail rather than getting lost in Jason's eyes and Eric's chest? Not me! Give me answers.

The Real McCoy

Lauren Knaffo's Blog-Inducing Shoulder Nipple

The Persistent Shoulder Nipple

"I have the worst case of shoulder nipple right now." - Lauren Knaffo via text message 8.27.10 @ 9:15am

If you don't think you know what shoulder nipple is, you're wrong. You may even be experiencing it right now. Look down at your left shoulder. Anything? Look down at your right shoulder. How about now?

Well, you may be in the clear because you're sleeveless, but if it were winter, I'd bet a lot more of you would have it - the little protrusion in your garment caused by cheap hangers and/or a careless hanging job.

The trouble with shoulder nipple is that it's hard to remove. If you have enough time to re-wash the item, you're in the clear for sure; if you have some time, steaming or ironing might lessen the bulge; but if you leave the house without realizing the bump, you're in trouble - no amount of smoothing will help you. Shoulder nipples are resilient.

I beseech all of you to scan your closets for delicate fabrics on chintzy hangers at your earliest convenience.

No one is going to mistake your shoulder nipple for Jiminy Cricket.

An Actual Shoulder Nipple

Lots of Shoulder Nipples on Me

Or You Could Buy This

An Open Letter to J. Crew

Dear J. Crew,

Seeing Adam Brody and Josh Duhamel in the September issue made my year.  

Love,

Helen

The Day-Dreamer's Only Enemy

I come from a long line of day-dreamers. The kind of people who stare hard and long at just about anything, their eyes widening and narrowing, but never blinking. I've heard tell of the type of day-dreamers my ancestors were. Some known to hold an object with their eyes for days or weeks, but never months - not even my people are capable of that kind of asceticism. It is rumored that my great-grandfather once sat on a bench in a train station and fixated on a sign until it fell apart.

Our only known enemies are those-who-snap-their-fingers-at-us. Those people who like disturbing our stares and get pleasure out of breaking our commune with stillness. Those people whose snaps sound like horses' shoes on pavement - a once beautiful, rhythmic noise that now bodes for my people and me a distress unlike any other.

Who are you who joyfully kill my daydream and why do you do it and would you stop?

Hunny

“If the person you are talking to doesn't appear to be listening, be patient. It may simply be that he has a small piece of fluff in his ear.” - from Winnie the Pooh

Dad, Me, & Winnie @ Disney World in what looks like the late 80's

As a kid, I loved Winnie the Pooh. I have many keepsakes that bear (bear, get it?) his likeness and many memories of the cartoon itself. Even after Pooh got the OK in the adult world via books like The Tao of Pooh and The Te of Piglet, I never aimed to figure out what is was I loved about it all. Life is like that, you go on the feeling you get, not the explanation you later create. 


Today is a day for explanations. 


When it comes down to it, Winnie the Pooh is a simple story about the wilderness and the creatures which inhabit it. Though the animals are of different species, they seem more civilized and good than the unknown beings in the woods. I guess it's like humans, still animals, but conditioned. Now these animals, Pooh, Piglet, Tigger, Rabbit, Owl, Eeyore, etc. are all exactly who they are...all the time. Pooh will be hungry for "hunny" and do any hapless thing to get it; Piglet will be scared and timid; Rabbit will be busy and bossy and slightly mean, etc. I think the key is predictability. None of the characters do anything out of their ordinary. How comforting that must be to know that the people in your life won't go and shock you? Or is it? I guess if your friends, family, and loved ones are all evolved and you like them, you would cherish their static personalities, but if they needed to do a little growing-up, these unchanging temperaments might but a hamper on your day or world. I think it's the principle of knowing what you're getting. We all know someone who constantly puts his foot in his mouth, but you knew that, so it's acceptable. You were prepared. 


When you know what your getting, what you get isn't so unsettling. 

The Best Kind of Daily E-Mail

Poets.org e-mails me a Poem-a-Day. You should register because you never know what you'll get. I thought today's poem, which follows here, was pretty spectacular. Such a simple notion twisted upon itself... Sawdust by Sharon Bryan Why not lindendust, hackberry, hemlock, live oak, maple, why name the remains after the blade, not what it cut— only now do I see that the air is full of small sharp stars pinwheeling through every living thing that gets in their way. Here's a link to Poets.org

Photographs That Kill

Wandering around might lead you nowhere, or to this photograph.

Sparky and Cowboy, Shereville, Indiana, 1965-66 from the portfolio Danny Lyon (1979)

A Rant is a Rant is a Rant

"The things we admire in men, kindness and generosity, openness, honesty, understanding and feeling are the concomitants of failure in our system. And those traits we detest, sharpness, greed, acquisitiveness, meanness, egotism and self-interest are the traits of success. And while men admire the quality of the first they love the produce of the second." - from John Steinbeck's Cannery Row


If Netflix makes good on their promise, I should receive season two of "Mad Men" today and that's not what I want.

You see, I hate Mad Men. The men, not the show. It's hard to watch their philandering and pompousness and then respect any male creature. It's actually nauseating to see the double-lives lead by these ad executives -  to see them conduct affairs with so many women and then go home to their sad, pretty wives.

Then I realize that this is television and not all successful men are abominable - although I can't really think of any at the present. How does this happen? I need a bulleted list:

• Men who crave money and power are, by nature, assholes. 
• Men who are good at smooth-talking their clients are also good at lying to their families.
• Once a man gets a taste of money and power, there is no saving his goodness.
• A man's work becomes him.
• Wealthy and powerful men feel they deserve to see their whims fulfilled. 
• Wait, wait, wait

...I know plenty of unemployed or underemployed guys who act this way too. Were they once successful? Are they the offspring of the aforementioned douche?

I guess what I want to know is, can a man be successful in the eyes of the States and be highly regarded by the citizens of it? Can one be a powerhouse in the boardroom without being egomaniacal?

Do nice guys really finish last if they don't put the nice-guy-schtick on the shelf from 9 - 5? That's not fair. We're cultivating shit.

Mind-Freak Daydream of Sorts

After Danny left for work this morning, Rita and I fell back asleep. I woke up suddenly, feeling slightly confused and panicked and, out of instinct, I reached down towards my feet to make sure lovely Rita was with me. After I located the fur-ball, I started searching the bed for my son.

I.do.not.have.a.son.

I remember thinking that my son should be in the bed and if he wasn't, where was he? I sat up and thought perhaps he was in the living room watching TV. My next contemplation was that he was too young to operate the television on his own and it was not safe for him to be unattended. Then I directed my anger at Danny for allowing our child to go it alone.

Then I realized this was a mind-freak daydream of sorts.

What does it all mean?

Poem

Electric Stairs

Ascending the escalator,

In search of a replacement

Blender, or food processor, or some combination

Of the two, 

You said how much you enjoy buying things

For our home. 

Never satisfied, I asked why

When I should have expressed gratitude;

However, my probing tongue summoned

A more quenching response than

Your original love proclamation. 

“We can tell our kids we’ve had

This or that for 20 years.”

To hear such stunning promises

On stairs that move for you. 

Platonic Beer Goggles

(The picture at left was taken by yours truly on a fine day in Fort Greene Park when I was dangerously hungover and waiting for a friend, who shall remain nameless, to emerge from the nearby hospital where he/she was being treated for hitting a cab.)

It's before 9AM and already I've accomplished more than I usually do in an entire day. I've changed the sheets, made the bed, done laundry, vacuumed, wiped down all countertops, and organized the work stuff that has been in the trunk of my car since the last day of school.

Now I blog, but about what?

I know! Let me ruminate on how weird I am when I drink.

In the dark (or light?) days of going drinking five to seven nights a week, I sought to accumulate friends. Mornings after a "good night out" I heard echoes of myself saying things not at all unlike, "I'm not just saying this because I'm drunk, but you're such an ahhhhhhhmahhhhhhzing person and tomorrow we should really do something fun, like go pumpkin picking." Oh. Yeah. First of all, if not for facebook, I would not know ANYTHING about the aforementioned schmuck and the only way I'd be able to locate said person's number would be to do an alphabetical search by bar name in my phone. Moreover, I'm going to be hungover tomorrow, so the only thing I'm going to want to do is watch TBS and eat a Kimchi noodle bowl at around 7PM. Puhlease.

Drinking makes me like crappy people, which is why I should drink when I'm in a large crowd.

A Poem I Wrote Today

BRUISES

The Chinese craftsman who makes a vase in what they call eggshell porcelain can give it a lovely shape, ornament it with a beautiful design, stain it a ravishing colour, and give it a perfect glaze, but from its very nature he can't make it anything but fragile.

- W.S. MAUGHAM

I don't know why I did it.

I actually took the time to paint that peach into an apple.

I know exactly why I did it,

But you wound up taking the false fruit to work with you in your lunchbox.

If you knew your apple for what it was,

A peach and not an apple,

You'd have been more careful with its placement, I'm sure.

At lunchtime your apple was all bruised and all wrong,

But you enjoyed the unexpected taste.

You came home with flowers for me,

And you and I talked about how much we love surprises.

The Epigraph

There are many ways to choose the next book you're going to read. Some people reread cherished books; others take recommendations from friends, family, The New York Times, or Oprah; people pick books based on authors, titles, covers, but I make my selection based on the epigraph.

Now I can't be sure if the epigraph is upon what the book is based, or if it's what the book becomes in the end. Either way, it is how the author feels about what they've written and how they seek to partner it up with something - a quote, a verse, a refrain - that already exists.

I'm a quote hunter, so I thrive on interrelation. I like hearing something and being able to connect it to something else I've heard. This may, in the end, be a useless skill or past-time, but it creates symmetry in my world and symmetry, like balance, is best.

Right now, my epigraph would be this:

Five Roses in the Morning
MARCH 16, 2003

On TV the showbiz of war,
so I turn it off
wishing I could turn it off,
and glance at the five white roses
in front of the mirror on the mantel,
looking like ten.
That they were purchased out of love
and are not bloody red
won't change a goddammned thing ---
goddamned things, it seems, multiplying
everyday. Last night
the roses numbered six, but she chose
to wear one in her hair
and she was more beautiful
because she believed she was.
It changed the night, a little.
For us, I mean.

-Stephen Dunn

The Abysmal Fitted Bed Sheet

Yesterday I set out to do the impossible: perfectly fold a fitted bed sheet. Doing so required more concentration than peeing in a rough ocean, but I was met with success. Here's documentation for all you non-believers:

The ChallengeThe PinchWowie!Success!

A Piece of My Mind

In a world where Aerosmith fans exist and Whoppi Goldberg has been a wife, how do I stand a chance at anything?

That.Is.All.

Arcade Fire & Anxiety Attacks

At twenty-five, I have a bevy of neuroses and maladies that are commonly reserved for the elderly or criminally insane. Going into Manhattan exacerbates all these charming characteristics and though I can get to the city with ease, navigate its streets, and nimbly pass through crowds, I hate it. The smells make me sick, the people make me nervous, and the heat rising from the streets cause me dizziness; however, going to eat at Le Pain Quotidian, shaking Matt Pinfield's hand, and witnessing musical greats, Arcade Fire, was worth the exhaustion.

The opening band for Spoon was interesting. I say this because I have no idea who they were - I was trying to figure out how to insert earplugs because the Jay-Z show at MSG gave me vertigo, or so my boyfriend says. Nonetheless, I was dizzy for weeks after that show and I just couldn't risk it.

Spoon was interesting too. They were interesting because the pseudo-hippie-chick next to me was talking about her psychic and moving in that trite way hippies did in earlier decades. Get some new moves, girl. I was still trying to figure out my earplugs, too. I also kept taking "bathroom breaks" to get away from the noise and crowd when Danny's absolutely lovely best friend, whom I'd met minutes earlier, found me clutching the wall of the corridor near the food court. No joke. I tried to play it cool, but there's no way you can at that point.

Then I had a beer and I was feeling better because it was a Heineken Light. We all went back to our seats and Arcade Fire came on. There were 17,000 band members and each one was equally awesome. They were freaking electric and before I knew it, I was singing and dancing and having the time of my life with my fantastic boyfriend at his first MSG concert!

From Arcade Fire I got the feeling that they loved their music, their art, each other, and performing. Their energy was so contagious and, paired with their talent, they put on one of the best shows I've ever seen - not to toot my own horn, but I've seen a lot of good shows from legendary artists and they trumped nearly all of them.

Thanks you Canada for Arcade Fire and Ryan Reynolds. For reals.

Click here to watch a video of Arcade Fire playing with David Bowie!

Bejtiques: Our New Business Venture

(Above: sanded, painted, and reupholstered gossip bench)

I've been buying antique furniture and vintage clothing at the rate of a hoarder lately so I decided to invite a trusty, creative friend to help refinish a gossip bench I recently purchased. It was so fun working with Lauren Knaffo and the result, especially because it was our first shot, was so fantastic that Lauren put her graphic design expertise to good use and created business cards for our budding antique refurbishing venture: Bejtiques.

Got any old nightstands, dressers, coffee tables that need a new look? We'll do it up for you!

E-mail us @ Bejtiques@gmail.com.

Surely

The following quote was in Danny's fortune cookie: "You cannot discover new oceans unless you are willing to lose sight of the shore."

That tiny scrap of paper made its way onto our refrigerator and so I read it with great frequency and I think about its implications in my life. Here I will substitute "shore" with its homonym "sure" because I am sure they mean one and the same thing.

How many times have I given up on a sure thing and what has been the result? It would make me dizzy to calculate all the times I've just jumped without looking. All the times I just quit. All the times I infuriated my dad because I should have seen it through until the end and fulfilled my obligation. You see, I don't have much allegiance to things that bother me. Unless my withdrawal will hurt someone, it doesn't take much for me to walk on out.

I've walked out on multiple jobs - once because this girl was a stupid bitch and I wanted to prove a point, another time was two weeks ago, when I didn't return from lunch...ever. I just can't stand wasting my time with stupid ideas or mean people even if it brings me financial security.

I've walked out of many budding and some bloomed relationships because the security I felt made me feel sick, not safe. I couldn't live on the beach with Nice Guy because what lay beyond my field of view had a stronger magnetic force than the sand upon which I stood.

I left the first college I attended and dropped courses at other schools on a whim. Since graduation I've pretended not the notice education positions in the New York Times. All along I've let friendships die, too.

For none of this do I feel any guilt or remorse. I abandoned the shore a million times so that I could finally become sure and trusting of myself.

Irrational Fear Number One

“I have six locks on my door all in a row. When I go out, I lock every other one. I figure no matter how long somebody stands there picking the locks, they are always locking three.” -Elayne Boosler

Have you ever found yourself in an unknown bathroom trying to figure out the lock, hoping that you would solve the puzzle before you peed your pants?

I have and I will again.

It seems to me that architects, homeowners, whomever, are not crippled, like I am, by the fear of someone walking in on them mid-stream. I'm not exaggerating when I tell you that 50% of my urinations are done with one arm outstretched towards the door and the other ready to pull up my pants. This even happens in my own condo. It's horrible.

Let me tell you about a few places where the locks are particularly bothersome:

1- MY CONDO: What appears to be a simple lock on the doorknob is actually a trap - the door opens whenever it wants. You may say, "Helen, you live with your boyfriend, what's the big deal?" To that I say, "My mom told me that I should never pee in front of my boyfriend because she never peed in front of my dad and they have been married for over thirty-five years."

If keeping the door closed is a recipe for a successful relationship, the door stays shut!

2- DANNY'S PARENTS' HOUSE: Would you believe the doorknob is on backwards? Not only am I afraid of being bombarded, I'm afraid of being locked in. Double-whammy.

3- JEN HUGHES' CHILDHOOD HOME: In this case, the bathroom also houses the washer/dryer, which means high traffic and trouble since the lock is like nothing I've ever seen. I figured it out after fifteen or so years, but the former years were trying.

4- BEACH/MOVIE THEATERS: We've got shiny floors and a population of women that cannot aim nor flush. Once you find a suitable stall, you know it's not going to lock therefore you do the arm-extend.

5- MY NIGHTMARE: In this recurring nightmare, I have to pee and I can only go in a unisex bathroom without doors. To make matters worse, the bathroom I have to use is raised like a real throne. Do I go for it? I can't remember...

A Poem of Mine

Scared as I am, I'm going to share a poem I wrote at the beginning of last summer. The germ of "Behind the Plots" began years back when driving on Pinelawn Road -- a strip comprised of cemeteries, florists, monument stores, and vacant grassy lots.

Behind the Plots

This land is prime land,

For condominiums.

So many hopefuls could start here -

Behind the plots.

If you could just tell people to stop dying,

To stop doing what you’re doing,

A developer could take that healthy,

Fertilized, treated lawn and

Cut it up, lay the foundation and

Build some real nice starter homes.

They’d have to face the wrong direction,

Of course,

If you didn’t want to see the headstones

While you graciously acquired dish-pan hands.

For a small price reduction it might be worth it.

So what if your backyard

Was supposed to be a graveyard

And your child plays where others should rest?

This is your start

And you worked so hard to have him

And space is so limited

On this beautiful island.

That open-armed statue was something.

Virgin Mary waiting to receive those

Victims of carcinogens,

Who thought the green grass would make

A suitable resting place.

They’d feel at home under the fake green grass that brought them there.

Inception: Am I Dreaming Right Now?

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly, for you tread on my dreams.

-W.B. Yeats, The Cloths of Heaven

Without divulging anything about the movie Inception, other than the fact that it deals with the slippage between dreams and reality, I need to tell you how my life, in one instance, became curiously akin to the film.

On Monday morning, after I pressed the snooze button for the second time, I fell into a deep, lucid dream, which is not at all unusual for me. In this dream, I was in my parents' basement digging through a box for a stuffed animal my grandfather bought me over twenty years ago. In reality, I'd been thinking about my grandfather a lot lately, and I'd been meaning to search for the stuffed animal I was seeking in this dream. As I got deeper into the box, memories and keepsakes were flying over my head until I reached the bottom and pulled out the bear as though it was victim to a rip-tide. Then I woke up.

I was sad to be awake and far from this childhood treasure again, but the moment of contact filled my heart with light.

Last night, after dinner with my parents, I asked my mom if she knew of a box of my belongings in the basement. She said no, but I went to look for it anyway. I felt a pull towards a corner of the basement I'd been in plenty of times, then I lifted a cushion, and found a box that said "Helen" on it. I don't remember filling, moving, or seeing this box before, but I knew it was mine due to the dots I'd drawn on the serifs in my name.

Furiously, I dug through the mystery box, handing this to my mom and that to Danny and, at the bottom, I found the bear I touched in my dreams. A miracle of the subconscious kind.

Now I know how Heidi Montag's mother feels...

(Pre-Ethan)


"We all have red hair on the inside." - Sherman Alexie @ a reading of his latest work War Dances

Last night I was sprawled out on the couch with my boyfriend and our dog Rita, who got a haircut last Friday. A bad haircut. Maybe I wasn't clear with Ethan the groomer, or maybe he just did whatever he wanted. Hair dressers are funny like that - sometimes they listen, sometimes they black out when you say you only want a trim. It's possible that hair dressers of canines and felines are also wired for selective hearing.

Nonetheless, when we picked Rita up, I almost cried. I certainly cringed, but I almost wept when I saw her shaved butt-cheeks and face. The mohawk we requested looked shitty too. Rita had been transformed into a Poodle-Bat hybrid. A Batoodle.

I felt differently about Rita and I was ashamed. As the weekend progressed, Rita seemed a little withdrawn and I wondered if my unfavorable reaction to her had something to do with it. Then, last night, something came to me when I was petting her and I yelled, "Now I know how Heidi Montag's mother feels!"

When your human or fur-child goes through a dramatic physical change, it feels like part of them is lost - it's not the same thing you've been loving for however long. Conversely, the changed party acts strangely. Think about it. Our personalities form in tow with our physical appearance and must change if we go through some outward transformation. I'd certainly be more bitchy tomorrow if I grew some D's tonight.

Even though Heidi's mom smells like a famewhore, I feel her pain - though mine will be gone in about two weeks.

(Post-Ethan)

A Baker's Dozen...

"Larry has been absorbed, as he wished, into that tumultuous conglomeration of humanity, distracted by so many conflicting interests, so lost in the world's confusion, so wishful of good, so cocksure on the outside, so diffident within, so kind, so hard, so trustful, and so cagey, so mean and so generous, which is the people of the United States." - from The Razor's Edge by W. Somerset Maugham *

In number there were a baker's dozen of us. We were all women, but that's pretty much the only commonality. Some had just obtained their high school diplomas, while others were worldly businesswomen in their mid-50's. Some of their bellies hung out, some of their tits hung out, some were so covered-up that they looked like schoolmarms.

One came in late and made me cry.

Sue-Ellen** was escorted into the conference room thirty minutes late, claiming she had gotten lost on the way - valid, considering this was the first day on the job. When it was Sue-Ellen's turn to introduce herself, she burst out in tears - her partner died a little while back and she could not run the business alone. Confounding all this was her mother's passing a few months ago. Sue-Ellen's tears became my tears and I took the pooled water away from my eyes with bare hands. Telepathy, or some sort of connection, if you will. Another woman, one of the schoolmarm variety, said, "We all have mothers and we understand why you're crying." I loved that. That was cool.

Sue-Ellen could not read the script we were given and I attributed her poor performance to sadness and I wanted her to make it to day two. I would give her a chance.

I read this way and that way for this person and that person, knowing that I'd have to sound like I could turn a profit. I passed. I made it to day two.

Sue-Ellen did not; she got the boot for causing the women on either side of her to become dizzy from inhaling the alcohol which seeped from her mouth and pores.

*Thanks to Maeve for recommending the past two novels I have written about :)

**Names have been changed to protect the identity of persons depicted in this narrative. It's so widely-read that I fear for her well-being.

The Beginning...

"That's the trouble with telepathy, you know. Most of the time the lines are down." -Jane Smiley

When I read this line in Jane Smiley's A Thousand Acres, a modern retelling of Shakespeare's King Lear, I thought that somewhere out there, a telepathic line might be connecting me to the author. The line ricocheted from the back of my throat to the top of my head and from ear to ear. I was prompted, then, to reach into my nightstand and extract a notebook that holds scores of quotations from the pens of best-selling authors, folk musicians, canonical writers, and even me. This notebook is like a jewelry box containing precious heirlooms and I revisit it sporadically, especially in moments of inspiration, weakness, or transition.

Today is one of the latter days.

Tomorrow, at 9a.m., I will begin what may be a new chapter in my life - I am going to try my hand at publishing - a seemingly related field. For now, it looks like a sales position, but, as I understand it, there is room for growth and right now I'd like nothing more than to grow.

Skepticism is always the result, and sometimes the cause, of these moments of flux. Have I not been receptive to those around me? Has my telepathic line been out of order because of my self-doubt and fear-of-the-future? Is this all a mistake? I wish people talked about this telepathy thing and said things like, "Are you ready to connect with me now?" and you'd sit or stand face to face and tune into one another. Then again, telepathy might just be another way of saying "truth" and losing your fear of telling it. It seems like decorum and protocol stand in between us.

Tomorrow, my lines won't be crossed and I'll see where they take me.