tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18674473892849649302024-02-20T08:25:15.301-08:00"stick with me, devotchka, I'll teach you how to fly"Simonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00241177776720521597noreply@blogger.comBlogger76125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1867447389284964930.post-18140293874853122312009-11-07T01:20:00.000-08:002010-06-07T16:54:46.129-07:00Unfinished IAPCI entered Gallatin with the goal of becoming the best defense anyone could ever get, and I maintain that intention. <br /><br />As a loyal member of the sect of absurdity, I, like many gallatin students, feel a slight disconnect with anyone who insists they have mastered reality. More so, I am ashamed to admit a slight scorn for positivist statements; anyone who contents that things should be, and thus are, this way or that. <br /><br />It has always been very clear to me that people's viewpoints much differ on the subject of what happened, what is happening, and even what will happen, the latter being particularly strange since one wonders how there could ever be so much conflict about events yet unknown. <br /><br />The best part is, that not only do people have massively different experiences, but they also happen to be subjective and active agents in determining their own narrative.'The mind is, at best, a thing that makes up stories about itself'.<br /><br />One thing that has always terrified me is my ability to empathize with another person's views, while at the same time understanding that the complete opposite can be true as well. <br /><br />How can I begin to get any sense of reality, when my existence permits seemingly contradicting narratives to be true? How can I judge what is real when it is all a question of perspective? And lastly- and perhaps of greatest concern- how do I know if I what I am seeing has a stable substance to it (reality, per say) or if perhaps is only my innate conception of it?<br /><br />If that isn't enough insecurity, when other relate their experience to me, can I trust it to have any relevance to my own? When I come across an unfamiliar perspective, do I dismiss it as nonsense or consider it another angle on the reality before me? Do you put more weight onto what you know, or onto an authority? Do you believe everything you hear? Do you believe a majority of it? Do you believe so much as is comfortably viewed from your place in the world, that doesn't force you to scurry constantly shifting your view? <br /><br />So, when someone tells you about an object, how do you if the information they are giving you is true? Maybe it is. How do you know if someone is lying to you? Is in inconsistency, through contradiction, can you just see it in someone's eyes? Is there a difference between presenting a different perspective, lying or simply being wrong?<br /><br />The copious amounts of doubt I feel upon the intake of any information surely stems from my own admitted ability to make things up. Er, twist the facts. Shed new light on them.<br /><br />In the same way one might understand their own ability to steal or be misunderstood or excluded, understanding one's own capacity to lie opens up a world of vulnerability. One begins to doubt even the most banal of statements, and question the motivation behind even the slightest assertion. <br /><br />Understandably, this makes human interaction incredibly difficult. Not only does one feel an incredible sense of alienation from the murky, unpredictable figures around oneself, but it becomes difficult if not impossible to enter into any extended course of action with anyone. This includes interpersonal relationships of any sort, small business, sex, study and sitting next to someone on the bus. <br /><br />At some point in my time at Gallatin, it occurred to me that I could mitigate the discomfort of this murky world, and tone down this alarming state of being simply by resolving to not question my own perception and to never mislabel my statements. <br /><br />That is, not to lie to myself. <br /><br />And since there's really no way to lie to others without lying to oneself, I suppose there is necessity to avoid that pitfall as well. <br /><br />This is more difficult than it would seem, because upon careful examination it seems as if the world is full of people who are just begging for you to confirm their contradicting claims. And even someone just asking you to explain your own perspective can be stressful. <br /><br />(launching into an explanation oftentimes requires one to pause, parse and parcel their experience and transform it into a narrative work).<br /><br />Nonetheless, I have resolved not to lie to myself. Not of whim or religious observance, but a logical conclusion supported by philosophical play and scientific research. <br /><br />In my rationale, I will be presenting two different ways of thinking, all reasonable in my book, though each field of thought often scorned by the other; philosophical and physical. <br /><br />By physical, I mean to say all that lovely scientific thinking such as physiology and by philosophical, I mean to say all that concerns itself with meaning. I understand that this is rather hazy terminology, but would you expect more accuracy from one who thinks the two disciplines may as well be merged? <br /><br />In my time at Gallatin, I spent a lot of time examining what different fields think is truth. And though what I've found seems to be grossly contradictory, there have been patterns, ways of being that are strikingly similar and praised throughout the ages. <br /><br />That ties into the theory of complexity- an approach that branches multiple disciplines, which states that seemingly complex and different systems can have underlying self-serving order, patterns that prevail. <br /><br />But before these disciplines merge into a flexible way of being, allow me to recall and consider each of the different paths I've taken academically:<br /><br />At one point of time in my Gallatin career, one summer while not actually in school and looking over some Sartre, I encountered the passage in Being and Nothingness where Sartre describes the relationship between the self and the infinite. <br /><br />A person is essentially nothing, argues Sartre, but the product of their own actions and thus their own God. If man is made in God's image than anything that man does, God becomes. And anything God does, man is divined to do as well. Thus, if you smile at someone while walking down the street, it becomes so that God would smile while walking down the street, and so that everyone would smile while walking down the street. <br /><br />I need a far smoother transition into this paragraph, but we could just take a small conceptual leap here (just as if one was writing a mathematical proof, it is not necessary to state all the corollaries of a fact, just the relevant ones). For the past year or two of my life, I've taken up Sartre on his grand been experiment. Hypothesis: What if I'm God? If this is so, then anything I say and do reverberates infinitely and becomes an absolutely truth. Not to you, perhaps. But to me, yes. Very much so. <br /><br />Anything action I do, I can rest assured in my mind that the rest of humanity would do as well. And as I find exceptions, I mark them as such- exceptions to a grand rule of, overall, people are such. I can even dumb down exceptions as misunderstandings, and let them go as such. <br /><br />Actions are simple enough, but what about words. What to make of the harsh, simplifying covers we throw over things in order to make them more useful, convenient and commercial? If anything I say becomes an absolute truth onto myself, then there are several things I ought to watch out for. <br /><br />1. In honor of synchrony, my thoughts, which play in my head, and mix in with each perception I note, should - if not of the most pleasant sort possible- then perhaps the quietest will do just as well. <br />2. In spite of dissonance, I should avoid interference in my mind as much as possible. It is impossible in my mind to believe entirely in two contradictory things. Or rather, it is possible, but extremely uncomfortable and riddled with conflict. It sounds something like white noise, a painful din. <br />3. Mirroring the desperate struggle for peace for things outside of myself, I should, in all things and at all times, try not to lie to myself and cast a false rhythm amidst the sounds of my daily life.Simonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00241177776720521597noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1867447389284964930.post-62890603075665086152009-01-11T12:03:00.000-08:002009-01-11T12:39:13.055-08:00TantraThe whole <a href="http://www.mhmail.com/articles/masculine-feminine-energy.html">male/female energy thing</a> alienates me faster than the Pope at a Grateful Dead concert. <br /> <br /> Let’s say you’re a black girl talking with another black woman. And she’s explaining how Michelle is great because she retains some of her “black” energy when she’s up there. <br /> And you’re like, “uh, what?”<br /> And the older woman says, “You know, sweetie, your black and white energy. Everyone has some of both, and you need to keep them balanced. In this country, black people suffer because we have too much white energy. We need to balance that out with more strong black energy.”<br /> And you’re like “uh….what? black and white energy, uh, what?”<br /> So she says, <br /> “Well, black energy is like….it’s umm…nature, and being passive- sort of being one with Mother Earth, and being ok with that, you know? And white energy is more….active, it’s like….doing….and…energy, you know?<br /> And it’s ok to be a black person with lots of white energy, or a white person with lots of black energy. I'm a black person with lots of white energy, and I'm happy about that. My friend over there is a white guy with lots of black energy, that's why we make a great pair". <br /><br /> Doesn't that sound a bit... off-putting, maybe?<br /><br />Humans do use a lot of arbitrary labels. There is nothing especially tall about “high” notes in music, or commanding about a “major” chord. The Greeks called our deep, brassy notes “high” and squeaky, chirpy noises “low”. Then again, you rarely hear about “high and low” energy as two separate but equal personality traits, or “tall and short” personas.<br /><br /> Somehow, I feel that it’s not pleasant to be told its ‘ok’ to be black person with ‘a lot of white energy’. It’s just not particularly comforting. <br /> <br /> At <a href="http://www.yogatothepeople.com/new-york-yoga.shtml">yoga</a>, they are always talking about being “active” and “passive”. The key is, in fact, balance. I like how you can always relax- relax your jaw, relax your brow line. The best is how there is always something to activate- focus on the breath, stretch your toes if you have to.<br /> But they don't tell you to “female” your toes out or “male” up your core muscles. Imagine that:<br /> “Ok, everybody, male up your arms up towards the sky, and let your shoulders be female down your back”. <br /> <br /> They could totally get away with that. Most people have the cultural capital to make sense of instructions like “female your shoulders down your back”. They could use male and female. It's just more <span style="font-style:italic;">precise</span> to say “active” and “passive”. Or “relax” and “firm up”. I guess those prosaic types don't get the same kicks playing with colossal, inflated metaphor all of the time. <br /><br />For example, I could never believe there's anything male about an overblown ego.Simonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00241177776720521597noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1867447389284964930.post-60014958284078288712008-12-24T12:25:00.000-08:002008-12-24T12:27:50.475-08:00Experienced servers neededSo, I'm going out to a private party in Long Island to serve hors d'oeuvres. The woman that hired me says she'll meet me outside to pay me. She said she drives a truck with the name of her company on it. I said, "Uh, that sounds sketchy". <br /><br />eek.Simonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00241177776720521597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1867447389284964930.post-37461719856842540312008-12-24T12:09:00.000-08:002008-12-24T12:17:47.372-08:00YogaYesterday, there was this incredibly aggravated woman at yoga class. Jenny, I think it was….. not a frequent flyer, I bet, tense as hell, with a peak nose and messy bleached hair. She jumped a rant on the unfortunate instructor, right at the door after class. The girl who taught that day had a soft, dreamy voice and a pleasant disposition, and I guess it’s natural that she was mistaken for a therapist. <br /> Jenny’s angry because her friend blew her off to hang out with her boyfriend. And, like, she hangs out with her boyfriend all the time. Jenny asks her friend if she has five minutes, but she does not, because she’s hanging out with her freaking boyfriend. <br /> “Well,” says the soft instructor, “sometimes when people find each other and really like each other, it overwhelmes them a lot”. <br /> “But, like,” says Jenny, “I’m not like that with my boyfriends. Of course, the guys I’ve dated have all been assholes, but…”<br /> “Someone for you will come along…” the yoga instructor croons, in an attempt to interrupt no doubt.<br /> “- Yeah, but I don’t want my boyfriend to be hanging out with me all the time you know. I’d like him to have his own friends, you know?”<br /> “Yeah, friends are good,” the instructor says with a sigh. <br /> “One day, though, I’d like to get married. But it’s just so annoying now because all my friends are hanging out with their boyfriends, and it’s like ‘where’s my guy?’, ‘why aren’t you dating anyone’, you know?”<br /> “Yeah,” the instructor says sweetly, “I’m sure that will happen for you one day, and you’ll meet someone like that. Just remember that these things take time, and relax in the meantime; it will happen.”<br /> “I guess,” says Jenny, “I’m just so mad at my friends”. <br /> “Well, they’re distracted…”<br /> “Yeah, it just pisses me off.”<br /><br /> I’m glad she didn’t ask my opinion, though I was changing nearby. Most likely, I would have blurted out the following; <br /> “Yeah, you’re probably annoyed because you’re buying into an oppressive gender binary based on sexual scarcity and competition. It weakens human connection with one another, and generally makes people feel helpless, bitter and cheated.”<br /><br /> This is why I would make a bad yoga teacher.Simonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00241177776720521597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1867447389284964930.post-72301822442441564392008-12-23T00:47:00.000-08:002008-12-23T00:48:15.895-08:00Mesmerism<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mesmerism">http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mesmerism</a>Simonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00241177776720521597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1867447389284964930.post-45690115576774806362008-12-23T00:39:00.000-08:002008-12-24T12:23:28.476-08:00Doll's HouseLife sized Polly Pocket. Polly swivels up the steps ad writes in her study. Polly makes some cheese and crackers, serves it to the guests; they make endless (un-appetizing) puns. Polly rides her horse, polly learns ballroom dancing, polly swims in her saltwater pool.Simonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00241177776720521597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1867447389284964930.post-33521573925321471822008-12-21T06:57:00.000-08:002008-12-21T07:00:38.216-08:00More on this amazing fragrance....A typical line from the press materials for CK in2u goes like this: "She likes how he blogs, her texts turn him on. It's intense. For right now." <br />Which may turn off its intended audience by the tens of thousands.<br /><br />This campaign came out March 12, 2007, but I didn't notice back then so it's going to be the new thing to mock <span style="font-style:italic;">today</span>.Simonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00241177776720521597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1867447389284964930.post-74783597292694243512008-12-21T06:35:00.001-08:002008-12-21T06:54:00.711-08:00Technosexual Turn-Ons<a href="http://www.iht.com/articles/2007/03/12/style/fcalvin.php">what are u in 2?</a><br /><br />CKin2U is a fragrance by Calvin Klein. To their credit, CK has made some extremely attractive commodities in the past. Their new campaign, however, is just....just...<br /><br /> <span style="font-style:italic;">The CK in2u bottle, designed by Stephen Burks, is made from the same materials — white plastic and glass — recognizable in an iPod. (Fabien Baron designed the original bottle.) The name is written in the shorthand of an instant message, a casual invitation to sex so immediate as to imply there was no time to spell it out: "in to you."</span><br /><br />"We have envisioned this as the first fragrance for the technosexual generation," said Murry, using a term the company made up to describe its intended audience of thumb-texting young people whose romantic lives are defined in part by the casual hookup.</span><br /><br />PrettiestBoy Blogger on this new craze: <a href="http://prettiestboy.blogspot.com/2007/03/perfume-for-hipsters-by-fat-cats.html">And what about the morning after?</a> Maybe someone should get on that potential gravy train. Why don't we have a fragrance that embodies the giddy uncertainty of what comes after the arranged-by-cell-phone-(most likely) drunken tryst? Can you bottle smudged eye-liner, bed-head, morning breath, discarded condom wrappers, stilted conversation and that glorious moment before the curtain of what-the-fuck-did-I-just-do falls? Because if you can, they probably will.Simonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00241177776720521597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1867447389284964930.post-31709387960745523492008-12-21T06:04:00.000-08:002008-12-21T06:54:56.259-08:00A logic based systemIt’s funny how eastern countries care about the meaning of their words, but western countries only care if you get it right.Simonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00241177776720521597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1867447389284964930.post-7774043413830720972008-12-21T05:47:00.000-08:002008-12-21T06:04:09.732-08:00In Defense of Hipsters<span style="font-style:italic;">The half-built condos tower above us like foreboding monoliths of our yuppie futures. I take a look at one of the girls wearing a bright pink keffiyah and carrying a Polaroid camera and think, “If only we carried rocks instead of cameras, we’d look like revolutionaries.” But instead we ignore the weapons that lie at our feet – oblivious to our own impending demise.</span><br /><br />From <a href="http://www.timeout.com/newyork/articles/features/4840/why-the-hipster-must-die">The Hipster Must Die</a> and more simply <a href="http://www.adbusters.org/magazine/79/hipster.html">Hipster</a>. <br /><br />Remember: hipsters don't hurl stones because they are lazy, vain and pretentious. The faint scent of nonviolent ideology, personal responsibility or balanced pragmatism is probably just <a href="http://www.urbanoutfitters.com/urban/catalog/productdetail.jsp?itemdescription=true&itemCount=10&startValue=1&selectedProductColor=&sortby=&id=15210073&parentid=W_ACC_COSEMETICS&sortProperties=&navCount=12&navAction=poppushpush&color=">'Ginger Lily'</a> by Urban Outfitters. <br /><br />Reading:<br /><a href="http://towardfreedom.com/home/content/view/1404/1/">In Defense of Hipsters by Dave Monaghan</a> and <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2008/sep/03/fashion?gusrc=rss&feed=music">Dan Hancox</a>,Simonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00241177776720521597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1867447389284964930.post-40014965889620352822008-12-09T06:15:00.000-08:002008-12-21T06:24:04.452-08:00Vain DivinityIf scientists construct cells so they'd be self-conscious creatures, we would simultaneously prove the existence of a God (Supreme Being/Creator) and that humans are God. <br /><br />Me:"How do you think we’d act towards creatures that we created? Do you think we would be fond of them? Or scared, and cruel?"<br /><a href="myspace.com/seafoamband">Jeremy</a>: "We’d probably abandon them…just like our god."Simonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00241177776720521597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1867447389284964930.post-30806297564059185522008-12-08T06:25:00.000-08:002008-12-21T06:25:58.517-08:00The Von SkankwhoresGuther VonSkankwhore lived in the tallest mansion up on West 87th street, in the Red `zone (one family per city block). <br /><br />And his three daughters, Slutessa, Whoretta, and Falopia Von Skankwhore. <br /><br />They with their cats, Floozy and Trollop.<br /><br />One day, Guther was having gin and tonics with his business partner, Diego. , the black sheep of the family.Simonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00241177776720521597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1867447389284964930.post-83468604620355396082008-12-06T06:06:00.000-08:002008-12-21T06:07:27.552-08:00Imps“Can they breathe in there?” I asked, as Caleb and I stared at the jars on the table. Caleb shrugged. <br /> “Unfortunately,” he sighed, picking up a stray which had just hit the floor. <br /><br /> “Who’s that?”<br /> “Beezlebum” said Caleb. <br /> “Hmm?” I asked. I racked my head for some connection, anything familiar with “be” “ezle” or “bum” but all that came up was “beetlejuice” “basil” and “that bum on the sidewalk”. <br /> One of the most surprising things about the imp is that they are rather thin, despite their gluttony. She’s got this impish quality about her. Fangs- of course, <br />She’s skinny, but not in the nice, graceful way. Lump for a stomach.Simonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00241177776720521597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1867447389284964930.post-86942991081027159262008-11-23T06:10:00.000-08:002008-12-21T06:11:07.389-08:00Anton Owns a Pet Parrot“Yo, Hitler, want a cracker?” I asked Anton, who threw me a dirty look. <br />Tenderly, he turned to the bird on his shoulder, “Would he?” he asked. <br /> Hitler nodded.Simonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00241177776720521597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1867447389284964930.post-45869097026965892852008-11-07T06:12:00.000-08:002010-03-09T22:38:41.217-08:00Better to Ask for ForgivenessDear Mr. Rubino,<br /><br /> Thank you very much for your hospitality last Friday. It was most kind of you to host our event on such short notice, and all of us have agreed to express, emphatically, our appreciation.<br /><br /> I’m sure you’ll agree that the night was a tremendous success, despite our rather unconventional entrance by rooftop. I assure you our agency will be reimburse you for the damages done to your fire escape, which was quite rusty and - to the best of my recollection- might now be missing a few rungs. Our lead drummer is still pleasantly surprised by such a warm welcome, which, he adds, was quite a relief after the bouncer’s coolness and the icy stares of the cops nearby!<br /><br /> Our band would also like to extend their gratitude towards all your staff; particularly two tall brunette waitresses; Beth, I think, and Carrie. We were all impressed how efficiently they escorted us to the back room, and a few of us insist that they merit some recognition for these efforts. <br /><br /> Additionally, we are all appreciative of the delicious drinks Carrie mixed at the bar, and the complimentary liquor Beth brought from the cellar. Amy thought the pineapple rum, vodka tonic and gin julep were all fantastic, and adds that while she didn’t know that charming young man was your son, she hopes he’ll still join her at Chelsea’s Whip Festival tomorrow. <br /><br /> I hope that we haven’t understated our gratitude, but just in case, we also left a few stacks of flyers from our band in your bathroom, and spruced up the left wall, whose paint was peeling. My friend Miles Cores, who hosts the popular liberal talk show The No Judge Zone’, would like to add that he found your patrons extremely interesting, fascinating and beautiful. He strongly encourages them all to appear on his show, which is highly selective and accepts only 10% of all applicants. He’s gone through the trouble of replacing your coasters with mail-in reply cards, and I hope you don’t mind. <br /><br /> He tried to ask beforehand, of course, but you were too busy consoling the righteous anger of our friend Bevan.<br /> Once again, I thank you for your service, attention and understanding, and I look forward to doing business with you in the future. <br /><br /> Eternally yours, and indebted, <br /><br /> Simona Marie Asinovski<br /><br /> agent & compère<br /> 89-91 E 2nd St, #11<br /> New York, NY 10009<br /> (cell) 508.963.1483Simonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00241177776720521597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1867447389284964930.post-26380057100967099592008-10-18T06:28:00.001-07:002008-12-21T06:30:27.840-08:00The Knitting FactoryIt was the hoodie that got to me, gave me the blues. I was here, ahem, to see my friend’s show, but after racing up pretty to see the place, I tripped my card at the doorway. Hunched-up bouncer hooked up to the wall, average & unimpressive, slouched in Aididas from head to toe. Looked like he fucked the store clerk. One of those girls who would call herself a “store representative”, ya know? <br /><br />He’s covering up his stupid bald head, and either so stoned or spineless that he won’t look me in the eye at all. <br /><br />I’m bubbling down heaven, just got off a five minute pitch of pure confidence. Joking around with Mick about Everything-and-Then-Some; I guess I’m ‘pretty cool’, if he thinks so. The street suddenly thinks so, too, when he says that. I brush up directions from some Italian hosts, call up a few friends and flick up a cigarette. I’m hilarious. <br /><br />“Show ID?” asks Aididas.<br />“Uh, ok. Thought it was an all-ages show.”<br />I pass him the card, he glances at it. <br /> “That’s a fake”. <br /> “Why? It’s not. But isn’t it an all-ages show?”<br />“You can’t come in if you show me a fake.”<br />“Why do you think I showed you a fake? And..”. <br />“Because it’s a fake. So please step aside; this is non-negotiable”. <br /> “Wait, ….friend. I’m here to see an all-ages show”.<br />“If it’s an all-ages show, you don’t present ID and you don’t drink. But since you showed me a fake, you can’t come in. Not tonight”. <br /> “Why not?”<br />“That’s the policy.”<br /> “Is it written down?”<br />“It’s written down.”<br /> “Can I see it?”<br />“Do you want me to call the cops?”<br />“ …I’m just trying to understand what’s going on.”<br /> “You can’t come in tonight. You could come in tomorrow night, or next week, but not tonight, even for an all-ages show”<br /> “Well…I appreciate that, but my friend’s show is tonight”.<br />“It’s not negotiable.” “Why not?”<br />“Because you showed me a fake”<br /> “I’m sorry- please, I’m just trying to make sense of things. Couldn’t I just not drink?”<br />“Not with a fake”<br />“What makes you say it’s a fake?”<br />“Do you have a passport on you?”<br />“I can’t carry that around….” <br /><br />I sighed. <br /> “Look. If it was a fake ID, which I am not saying it is, then I understand that you would be upset if I lied to you. Is that what’s going on?”<br />“I can’t talk to you about this”.<br /> “Why not?”<br />“Can you stand over there?”<br /> “Over here? By the way, my name’s Mona.”<br />“Ok…I still don’t care.”<br /> “That’s not very reasonable. I’m just trying to be nice.”<br />“….”<br /> <br />Fuckers, ridiculous! Insane! Watch, babe, how dutifully the dick ignores me! Impressive, asshole,.....so hardcore…<br />“Ok. I just still don’t understand why. It’s really in your best interests to let me in or at least talk to me. …..<br />“Or, I guess I'll have to keep you<br />company until my friend comes out”. <br /><br /><br />So I wasn’t being helpful anymore. It was just so terribly amusing and since I was here already….. a nice way to pass time. I figured I had five minutes. So I call up Dan and tell him my situation, all while smoking a cigarette, right below the bouncer’s ear. <br /><br />I tell new arrivers not to associate with me, or risk their chances of getting in. I ask Mr. Hoodie-Bouncer about his job, the hours, what he likes to do…he walks inside. <br /><br />He’s powerless to call the cops, or to do anything at all resembling ‘action’. The Hoodie-B can do is try to be the least interesting/engaging thing in the area, in the hope of scaring me away or boring me to death. Hah, poor choice. <br /><br /> I get worse as he comes back out. I stay on the phone, call Nellie, repeat. Talk about how ridiculous it is. Discuss how this man is listening into my entire conversation and still ignoring me. Offer new patrons cigarettes, debate current affairs with smokers in the vicinity. <br /><br /> One of Hoodie-B’s friends takes a liking to me; I tell him I’m a polyamorous lesbian with three girlfriends; one in Williamsburg, Chelsea, and Midtown. I create personalities for them, whole background stories. I get Teo on the phone and try to communicate my desire for him to pretend to be a lesbian. My subtlety may have given away the joke. <br />I’m still ripe for amusement. I ask the bouncer’s friend if I’m dressed allright, and when he shrugs I reply that I think I’m rather pretty; aesthetically appealing even!<br /><br />“And modest,” says Hoodie-B’s jaded companion*<br />I curtsy. <br /><br />I keep at this for forty minutes before I start to get cold. I keep thinking Jeremy’s going to walk out at any second, and we’ll all laugh this off. Another bouncer turns towards me, but glances over my head. I wish I wasn’t so short. <br /><br />Jeremy’s bandmates come out, and we chat all friendly. Some of them head off to Brooklyn, others stay and discuss the show. One of those guys recalls that he owes me a favor, as I’d once let him run off with a bowl of shredded cheese. He was tripping on acid, and I was hosting a spontaneous late-night gathering, where I fed everyone home-cooked vegetarian black-bean dip, chips and burritos. He asked to keep a bowl of shredded cheese. I said ‘sure’- and I guess you never know how these things play out. <br /><br />I acknowledge the debt, and I beg him to pay me back by asking Hoodie-B for his phone number. Please mention, I add, that I find him very attractive, excellent company, and a good listener. <br /><br />Hoodie-B hadn’t smiled so far, but I figured if anything would do it, that would. <br /><br />It’s getting cold, and I’m running out of incendiary commentary. A guy exits the club with the trash; I ask the bouncers if they recycle. <br /><br />“I’m getting tired, can I sit over there?” I ask, pointing to the doorstep. <br />“That’s a fire hazard. You can sit all the way over there” Hoodie-B’s friend points to the end of the block, relaying this information in a lightly belittling tone, graced with sincerity so that I know he’s not joking. <br />I tilt my head to the side to feign disclosure, “Oh, you know that wouldn’t help me, sir”. <br /><br />Hoodie-B’s friend related a t.v. joke to another bouncer. Restlessly, I asked what show it was from. No response.<br /><br />The scene began to bore me. I pulled out my phone to send someone a text. Another bouncer swiveled his head towards me, but glanced over my head. I wished I wasn’t so short. <br /><br />People exit the club in a single-file stream, the place is nearly empty. I ask the rest of the band where Jeremy is, but no one’s sure. <br /><br />Finally, I catch a face flashing glitter, and Jeremy appears, surprised by my presence. I smile. <br /><br />I rung my arms around him, quickly, then blush. “Don’t kiss me,” I teased, “I need to shower- I’m sweaty after yoga.”<br />“Oh.” he says. <br />I laugh, reaching up to peck his cheek. “I didn’t have time. I ran round circles before I found this place. Took some useless directions from helpful Italians. Lucky’s supposed to be meeting me now”.<br />“Heading out?” Jeremy asks. <br />“No, I’m rejected,” I giggle, “They didn’t like my ID”.<br />“You know it’s an all ages show, right?” <br />“Trust me,” I laugh, “I know. It’s an entirely nonsensical situation. I’ve been out here amusing myself, though, mostly by keeping these guys company.” I raise my voice, “They’ve been wonderful listeners, and it’s just nice to talk to someone, you know?”<br />Grinning, I hugged Jeremy, “I just want them to smile, or say something,” I whispered. “I’ve been giving them a hard time.”<br /> It’s insane, they’ve ignored me for an hour, so I pulled out my phone and called Dan, and Teo about it. I had Teo pretend to be my girlfriend at one point”. <br />“You’re ridiculous”. <br /><br />Scene change. I drifted, unsure of myself. Jeremy smiled, shyly distracted. I stole a quick kiss and he took my hand but straightened his posture. As if to keep me at bay. I faltered, repentant and dampened my gaze. <br />“I’m just, you know, with my band”, he says, aiming his glance at the long-haired assembly. <br />“Ok.” I replied. Respectably, I recited ‘all relevant information’; “I was thinking of heading off to Brooklyn. To meet up with Brendan- he’d like to see you, though it is getting late”. Shrug. <br />“Teo wants to go to a party uptown…. with strippers”, I add on. <br />“I’m not going out,” Jeremy shakes his head, “I need to go to sleep…I’m tired, and I’ve got to get up really early tomorrow-<br />“-of course,” I cut him off. <br />“-because I’ve got a ton of stuff to do for the show tomorrow”. <br />“Yeah, I understand” I say, apologetic, “I might head off to Brooklyn. Probably not though, because I’ve got so much stuff to study.”<br />“Come to my place. It’s only a block away from here.”<br />“Oh, yeah. Are you going with your band?”<br />“No, I just need to say goodbye to them. Then I’m just going to sleep”. <br />I stumble, “I need a shower- <br />“You can shower at my place. I can’t go to Brooklyn, but just come back with me”.<br />I mumble, “I’ve got to study, though.”<br />“Oh, yeah”. <br />“I should get going then,” I shake myself off, and smile, “I’ll get some work done”. <br />“I’ll see you later then...” says Jeremy. <br />“Yeah,” I reply, “see you soon”. <br /><br />I walk away. Shoulders relaxed, mock saunter of someone who is so not-running-away-right-now! <br />Hands in my pockets, protection by obsidian coat. My mommy got it for me, actually (I’ve been telling this joke to admirers all night). She’s good at it. In Russia, I guess they judge you by your coat. <br /><br />I wasn’t invincible anymore… I imagine someone to talk to, how I would shake my head.<br />I was just being stupid. Don’t make a big deal of it. I took it too far. Why did I think I was funny? I could have made the whole band look bad. Shamed, I felt like a creep. <br />This situation was inherently ridiculous….right? I didn’t ‘fail to understand’ that they didn’t want me there…I just thought it was ‘funny’ to stay…..did everyone get the joke? Hello? <br /><br />If it wasn’t funny, why didn’t some kind fellow tell me to stop?<br /><br />As I walk by Lafayette, it’s so damn cold! I don’t even know why I’m rushing home, moving with such momentous tragedy. I had Jack Kerouc lamenting Billie Holiday, nostalgic weather stuck in my head. Holiday’s hand through her lovers hair; Kerouc hiding behind the bushes. Meanwhile, it’s freezing cold outside.<br />Pause. Ask, asking: ….actually, why am I going to walk home half an hour when it’s this late? I could study there. There’s the internet. <br /><br />I couldn’t pause. Not to check for my keys, sneak a peek at my phone. <br />I just…..left. Just like that. Three bastard bouncers scorning my presence for an hour…but then, so easily- no effort required at all. No asking, at the drop of a hat…..Simonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00241177776720521597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1867447389284964930.post-41187346625952955932008-10-01T06:00:00.001-07:002008-10-01T06:00:56.222-07:00Tricky day it’s turning out to be…......walking down 4th street, guy shuffles right behind me and whispers, ‘money’, I jump up, “Ay!”; he laughs, “I said ‘morning’”. <br /><br />Ten minutes later, a man on crutches picks up his left one and points it at me; “Watch your step!” <br />I stop, check my footing; nothing. “Just messing with you,” he laughs, “Good morning”. <br /><br />Huh. Yeah, good morning...Simonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00241177776720521597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1867447389284964930.post-28660407089113988502008-08-29T23:06:00.000-07:002008-09-09T11:26:52.122-07:00Feels like it.Lucky laughs at me. Want to know why?<br /><br />I compliment him, on his tastes, or his outfit, but he shakes his head: It was random.<br />At a thrift store, bottom of my closet, just threw it on, thought it would look good. And I think he makes decisions, how funny.<br /><br />He's not comfortable, so he's laughing, it's because he's a Liar.<br /><br /> Whore, liar- don't laugh, Lucky, you're no coward.<br /><br />It's a sad kind of laughter; he thinks I'm impressed with the feat. I'm not.<br /><br />I still see it, I'm simply bringing my notice attention, that's all.<br /> Stating my case; 'you did that on purpose'. Didn't you?<br /><br /><br />I don't expect he'll answer, I just hope he agrees. If he's laughing, perhaps it will stick to him. Two teaspoon of pride, add tonic, stir, and garnish: medicine.<br /><br />Remember my faith, kid, and find strength in it. This little girl thinks you're great. Think for yourself. 'Lil girl thinks you're smart. Don't worry, she's got your back. Go for it, whatever it is.<br /><br />He just laughs, though. It is kinda an awful lot to handle.Simonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00241177776720521597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1867447389284964930.post-49169541850397587472008-08-29T14:36:00.000-07:002008-08-29T14:58:30.656-07:00Ovaries + Hatchet + NRA Cocksucking = Sarah PalinLadies and gentlemen, the religious wreck presents you the pretty-in-pink equivalent of Michael Steele.<br /><br />Man, McCain sure found "the right partner to help me stand up to those who value their privileges over their responsibilities". I'm just amazed he found the guts to <a href="http://www.swamppolitics.com/news/politics/blog/2008/08/john_mccain_sarah_palin_vice_p.html">say it out loud. </a><br /><br />Anti-choice, gender binger that has less to offer women than Playtex. <br /><br />"She knows where she comes from, and she knows who she works for," McCain said in introducing her to an Ohio rally.<br /><br />"She's exactly who I need, she's exactly who this country needs, to help me fight...<span style="font-weight:bold;">the same old Washington politics of me first and country second,</span>" McCain said.<br /><br />She endured labor pains for a child with down syndrome. God bless her bright, white soul. Seriously, Olympe Snowe might have been bearable, but....<br /><br />Yuck. She can roar in fucking Alaska, please. <br /> Double up the Obama efforts (note to self). Hey, it's good for that...Simonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00241177776720521597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1867447389284964930.post-13191301968891068922008-08-29T12:33:00.000-07:002008-08-29T14:00:57.577-07:00creative prowessI've got my kicks back, babe, I'm drunk.<br />My second-command-boss (SCB) grabbed me a beer from the communal kitchen. For our office, secretly, cos' we're better than everyone else and deserve it, <br /><br />which is true, but them all been gone 'long the young weekend. Ghost town, tenth floor Friday. Maybe they met up at Ulysses? Grab an oyster and a beer, the day is DONE. <br /><br />"I'm finished! It's OVER," says Dan, "Let's get some alcohol, some drugs, some hookers...what else can we get? Some e? Some ecstacy?" <br /><br />Hah! I realize: I love the guy. The understanding sense, in the extraordinary all-encompassing lavish-in-the-glow-of-someone's-existence that makes me want to yell, <br /><br />"WAIT! STOP THE SHOW! Dan...you're amazing. Thank you. Ok: resume!" <br /><br />Also, I'm lightly drunk and taken (two)vivanse(registeredT). <br /><br />I wanted to do the same thing with SCB; I hugged him when he passed me a beer. We've all got a couple rounds.<br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />Instead, I say. Listen to "Oxford Comma", Dan. <br />Is it on the same album?<br />Yeah, I'll bring it in Monday. <br />Hear of a group called The Von Bondies?<br /></span><br />I'm editing the resume of a kind (convivial) co-worker on wall street. <br />I haven't been here since last week. <br /><br /><br />Why? I don't know....I couldn't. Couldn't find the courage. I've got a hint: I haven't worked since the housing appeal on Monday. I haven't written since, either. I haven't collapsed, dramatic, but I have been fairly miserable (in the short run), hrown up three times yesterday, once while running, and the energy/god has gone, darlin. <br /><br />I wrote my second-command-boss yesterday: I show it to Danny for amusement: <br /><br />Dear Dion,<br /><br />You know a really interesting social phenomena? It's called the paradigm of increasing awkwardness (PIA). In other words, when one is awkwardly absent for any period of time in a group setting (school, or work, for example), they experience increased awkwardness upon return. I believe the actual formula goes: ([time of arrival] + [number of days missing])^2 x [the number of square inches covered in scary tattoos that hint at recent cult membership].<br /><br />Anyway, so this PIA is creating a strong reluctance to attend work, which is rather sad if you think about it. I think PIA has also become exacerbated by my confusion on what would be the best task to focus on. I was wondering if I could be trained to take calls, like Jen, or if there were any other such specific writing tasks. If I could start brainstorming on how to set up the blog in relation to the new website, that would be good, too. I'm asking this because I'm kind of stuck on those financial articles, so to avoid looking angrily at a blank screen, I often find myself working on personal projects and short stories. If no one minds, that's beyond fantastic, but I needed to bring that to your attention, silly as I might sound. I really respect and like Frontier, and I wouldn't want you to disappoint you, and Michael, by not meeting expectations.<br /><br />Sincerely,<br />Marie<br /><br /><br />"Were you on something when you wrote that?" asks Dan. <br />"Um. No. That was just my personality," (I-kid!I kid!I-joke-with-you!), "I think my personality can be more harmful than anything else I know,"<br />"More harmful than bullets?"<br />"No. Definitely not. My personality is significantly less harmful than bullets. Much less harmful.". <br />"That's good then."<br /><br />I need to relax. I know that, I know. I just...I need to get it out there, you know?<br /><br />"It's been such a weird week" <br />"Why?"<br />"I don't know. I...I...I'm sorry, I sound like an idiot. I really don't know. I mean...it's like this stage..this NOT ME...phase...or not not me, just...ugh. Um...like, I ran to 96 pier yesterday. 54 street and 10 avenues, and the whole way- everything I saw- everything, it reminded me of something I couldn't do, or failed to do, or wasn't good enough...I dunno". <br />"You're too young to be jaded". <br />"Yeah, jaded, exactly"<br />"It's also..like, there's a week of school left. And I feel like I should have done fucking something with the summer. Written about...life, the universe, everything- catch the Douglass Adams reference?"<br />"Who?"<br />"The Hitchhiker's Guide? You need to read it"<br />"Hmm...the meaning of life, I came up with that once".<br />"...really?," I asked, raising my eyebrows. <br />"Yeah, it was when I had an apartment, right nearby here. It was on on 45 wall street, me and my buddy craig cohen were up to three hours of the morning. We were doing some bad things. And we were postulating to 'what is god?' You know? And i came up with this sick sick sick conclusion, I loved it. I started thinking that God was energy and all energy was god. We still talk about that sometimes."<br /><br />He grins. <br /><br />So. <br /><br />Dear friends, how to harvest energy? Teach me. Someone. Please. <br /><br />Fuck it, I'll listen to Dan describe a candidate with 5 children and a life long membership to the NRA. Play the white stripes, Dan. Seven nation army. Thanks. <br /><br />Manfred brings his siege back tonight. Cheers, babe.Simonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00241177776720521597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1867447389284964930.post-11700494219071005502008-08-08T08:34:00.000-07:002008-08-08T08:43:09.447-07:00Hearts, Diamonds, Spades and Four Leaf CloversOne sure sign that poker is a skill, she says, is that unlike roulette or the lottery or betting on football, <span style="font-weight:bold;">"you can purposely lose at poker if you choose." To lose requires skill, she says -- or at least an ability to affect the outcome".</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Woah. <br />Just woah.<br />I know that wasn't meant to be deep, but woah. <br /><br />Did that hit anyone as hard as it hit me?</span><br /><br />Her brother offers another proposal, which he suggests might impress a future judge. The "vast majority" of high-betting poker hands, he says, are decided after all players except the winner have folded. So if no one shows his cards, Mr. Lederer says, "can you legally argue that the outcome was determined by luck?"Simonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00241177776720521597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1867447389284964930.post-71131490281259405672008-08-06T12:10:00.000-07:002008-08-06T13:02:41.038-07:00More Sightings On Wall StreetThere was this girl outside some big building, and she's blonde, beautiful and incredibly well dressed. Real professional like. She's got this gorgeous watch, and this neat-looking sweater, and a great smile, and she pulls out a blackberry with a pink poly cover. <br /><br />I really appreciate that. <br /><br />I really, really do. I like to see that. It makes me happy, it's simple, but I notice. And I want to go up to her, and say, "Hey. My name's Marie Asinovski, I work over here. Look, thanks for doing that. I know you probably spend a lot of time buying your clothes, and doing your hair, and getting shit for having a pink blackberry. But please, never let that get to you, because it's so cool to walk down wall street and see someone like you. It's inspiring- you make business look fun, and it's making a huge difference, trust me". <br /><br />But that would be awkward. <br /><br />Instead, I say, "Hey. This is really random...sorry..but I like your outfit. You look fantastic. I just wanted to tell you that."<br /><br />It's a start. She definitely smiled.Simonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00241177776720521597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1867447389284964930.post-36822167304463091882008-08-04T14:50:00.000-07:002013-05-20T01:04:36.127-07:00Egress (1)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I’m the hero. <br />
I’m going to be the hero in this story,<br />
<br />
This here’s a quaint and masterful tale, involving a nice group of indie kids who live in New York City, and pretend to have magic when they know of course they really don’t. Except they really do, or they might, but they can’t know that because it would spoil them rotten, and no one could ever tell them anyway. <br />
<br />
A few of them live in a red brick building above a hookah bar, lounge, and café located on 2nd st and 1st ave in the Lower East Side. It’s listed in guidebooks and directories as Hadi Badi, serving 32 varieties of apple-mint hookah, and pineapple-and-vodka drinks with names like “The Sphynx” or “King Pharoah”. This situation is most convivial , which is an SAT word meaning warm, pleasant, gracious, friendly or affable. It’s also rather funny and marvelously convenient- particularly in the wintertime when we’re all much too frozen, and lazy, to walk outside. <br />
<br />
Hadi Badi is owned and run by our half-stoned landlord, Mohammed Ramadan, whose knowledge of libido is a sure sign of entrepreneurial genius or pent-up pedophilia. The entire place is shaded in a hazy pink glow, and cushioned with blankets, pillows, nostalgic posters and seedy photographs. It takes up half the block with three rooms, and in one of them is a little loft with a second floor three feet from the ceiling. <br />
Please note that you can’t actually have hookah there because of state fire codes, and that it’s also impossible to see anyone who goes up to the loft from eye level. <br />
At some point in this story, I’m going to discover a way to sneak up there after the place closes, thus earning the badge of debauchery endearing to a modern day hero. <br />
We haven’t an elevator, but the place boasts a roof and a fire escape that usually accommodate such strange and similar occurrences. <br />
<br />
I live on the third floor in apartment eleven, which neighbors the illustrious charm of my friends Kate and Lauren. They’d probably make for better heroes, but they’re already engaged in activities infinitely cooler than telling you just how their lives work. If they had a spare moment to do so, however, they would start screening a film themed brilliantly vaudeville, with color, light, music and spectacular animation; altogether clever and terribly entertaining. But like I said, I seem to be the only one to find this essential, so I suggest identifying with me as soon as possible if you’d like to learn anything at all. <br />
<br />
You’re probably in here, you know, or you’ll show up at some point soon. Mostly, because I’m too insecure to show this to anyone but my friends just yet. <br />
<br />
Also, I would like to invite you at any time to text me with tips to improve the content of this debacle, at 508-963-1483 or masinov@gmail.com. </div>
Simonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00241177776720521597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1867447389284964930.post-11394400714250047682008-08-04T14:49:00.000-07:002008-08-04T14:50:11.102-07:00Chivas RegaleI’m waking out of a total haze, racking my brain in an attempt to regain a plausible sense of surrounding. All mornings are strange like this. <br />Vaguely, I can tell that I’m comfortable, and in the presence of someone I like very much. My uncle? His place in California, with my mom, her best friend’s house, maybe? We took this vacation in Colorado, once- like this, sort of. I could be six, sixteen or sixty, how would I know, anyway? <br /> I heard glasses clink. Click. <br /> “Amy,” I said, meant less in address but more in acknowledgement…I might have just said, “good” in a matter-of-fact-ly way. <br />“Hey, I’m going to work. Keep sleeping, ok? The door will lock behind you, don’t worry about it”. <br />“Ok”<br />“I made some espresso, it’s on the stove. There’s fruit in the fridge, too”. <br />“Thanks,” I murmured, not wanting to leave my dreamy state, “I love you,” <br />“I love you, too”<br />I sighed, happy, provincial. I heard more glasses clink. Or plates. <br />“Don’t do those,” I told my pillow, hoping Nellie heard. “I’ll do them, really”.<br />Also, that will wake me up. She turned the faucet off. <br />“Bye, Chivas” I heard her say. Door closed. Damn. <br /><br />“Chivaas”, I whined, “Go away”. Amy owns a slightly bowed bulldog named<br />Chivas, that she loves for reasons beyond my reach and ability. Chivas has huge eyes (very watery) that make ignoring him that much more difficult. <br />He licked my face. <br />“Go away!” I opened my eyes; Chivas stared at them. <br />“Fine,” I muttered, “We’ll share”. I tried to fall back asleep, but Chivas then crawled to my right, stealing some pillow space. I sighed; the spell broke.Simonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00241177776720521597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1867447389284964930.post-75442849464029767232008-07-25T10:40:00.000-07:002008-07-25T10:43:07.848-07:00n+1"I was totally into democracy- before they extended the franchise. I was so into socialism- before it became so working class".Simonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00241177776720521597noreply@blogger.com0