I am car-less in the suburbs today, and the rain has thwarted my plan to ride my bike into "town" to go food shopping. So, I am attached to the Internet and this is what I have discovered:
A)my ex-boyfriend is still as cute as ever
B)the guy who I'm shooting photos for tomorrow night is allegedly shady
I responded to a craigslist ad looking for event photographers for some party tomorrow night. When I called to get the details, I ended up talking to this Dude for about half an hour. Although all I wanted to know was how much I'd be paid and where/when to show up, he just wouldn't stop talking. During the course of our conversation, he let me know that he is A) gay-friendly, B) 6'3" and in great shape, and C) rich as all hell.
He also told me that I'd be paid "a C-note and some drink tickets" and that my photos didn't really matter. They are hiring five photographers, basically for the paparazzi-buzz effect. So I'm going to look hot and fire my flash a ton for a couple hours, then get wasted and walk back to my brother's apartment.
I was curious about this gregarious, burly rich guy so of course I googled his name. The second hit that came up was from this blog called Vengeful Purpose, run by a guy who is getting sued for libel or something. A former employee of Dude, he called him one of the most cunning and mean people he'd ever met. He wrote:
"I did see him actually fight (as in fist fight) and it was something I will never forget. I watched him get punched right in the face by a huge man he was arguing with and it seemed to have no effect on him. He wiped the blood from his face and then simply beat the man senseless!
He never made a sound or raised his voice- he just simply kept beating the man until the police arrived. The cops asked HIM what happened and then his ever present lawyer showed up and took [Dude] home.
Can anyone say special treatment?
I was told later by a co worker that "as long as [Dude] is talking you have nothing to fear - when he stops is when you should be concerned"
Hilarity! I cannot wait to meet this man.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Monday, September 21, 2009
dear anonymous commenter
Thank you for your kind words on my blog this week. They really floored me--mostly because I was pretty sure of the fact that my readership was limited to a dozen people whom I know intimately on either coast, but also because it gave me the immensely satisfying and secure feeling of being appreciated by and connected to a complete stranger in this volatile world during a transitory time in my life.
Things are going as okay as they can be for someone who is a) freeloading at the suburban home of one's parents, b) dangerously sober most nights of the week, and c) steadily padding on some midwest poundage. On the bright side, I'm a) not working, b) getting a lot of sleep, and c) getting a much-needed root canal this week, hopefully. You know it's a weird situation when dental work is on your top three highlights list without the slightest bit of irony.
I haven't been doing nothing, though I don't feel like writing much lately. Without the glamorous backdrop of a boozy, sultry metropolis, engaging writing requires a lot more effort. Not that I haven't been having fun out here. Since my last post I danced myself sweaty at an amazing soul party, profiled a Wrigley Field beer vendor, took another lens in for repairs, went Girls Gone Wild in the photo booth at a dubstep show, took a walk through not one but TWO cemeteries, ate fried cheese at a Celtic festival, and trolled Hipsterfest (aka the Renegade Craft Fair) on an online date with a poet. And all this I've done in this massive Chicagoland Area without ever driving drunk a single time, thanks to the open-door policy I have at Little Brother's pad downtown. Yes, Moochfest 2009 is in full effect, now with Zero Shame Down!
Secret Plan 500c is slow-going, but I'm working on it. Thanks, to Mom and Pop, for putting me up and slowing me down (in the best possible way), and to Al Gore, for inventing the Internet.
Things are going as okay as they can be for someone who is a) freeloading at the suburban home of one's parents, b) dangerously sober most nights of the week, and c) steadily padding on some midwest poundage. On the bright side, I'm a) not working, b) getting a lot of sleep, and c) getting a much-needed root canal this week, hopefully. You know it's a weird situation when dental work is on your top three highlights list without the slightest bit of irony.
I haven't been doing nothing, though I don't feel like writing much lately. Without the glamorous backdrop of a boozy, sultry metropolis, engaging writing requires a lot more effort. Not that I haven't been having fun out here. Since my last post I danced myself sweaty at an amazing soul party, profiled a Wrigley Field beer vendor, took another lens in for repairs, went Girls Gone Wild in the photo booth at a dubstep show, took a walk through not one but TWO cemeteries, ate fried cheese at a Celtic festival, and trolled Hipsterfest (aka the Renegade Craft Fair) on an online date with a poet. And all this I've done in this massive Chicagoland Area without ever driving drunk a single time, thanks to the open-door policy I have at Little Brother's pad downtown. Yes, Moochfest 2009 is in full effect, now with Zero Shame Down!
Secret Plan 500c is slow-going, but I'm working on it. Thanks, to Mom and Pop, for putting me up and slowing me down (in the best possible way), and to Al Gore, for inventing the Internet.
Friday, September 11, 2009
soberland
I also want to share with you something pretty personal. It's a book called Going Dry that I made for Detox Doc (lord how I miss him). Although the book was printed with a dedication to him, it is for you all as well.
It's short and mostly photos that you're familiar with. If you click the image, it'll download the file, which is 1.6 MB. I hope you like it.
xo
Update: Someone asked me to post a link to purchase a bound copy of 'Going Dry,' so here it is.
It's short and mostly photos that you're familiar with. If you click the image, it'll download the file, which is 1.6 MB. I hope you like it.
xo
Update: Someone asked me to post a link to purchase a bound copy of 'Going Dry,' so here it is.
suburban mindfuck, or, life as a freelance journalist
So, last night I was lying in bed with the window open, listening to the crickets and such when I heard a man cough and do the phlegmmy EKKRRR...ECK! thing with his throat. I didn't think too much of it for a few seconds when I suddenly realized "I'm in the middle of the woods! WHO THE FUCK WAS THAT?" You know, still in the NYC mindset of being okay with sirens, beatings, drunken shenanigans and car crashes going on within earshot. But in the suburban woodlife, a man clearing his throat outside your window is BLOOD-CURDLING.
Oh I miss New York. I've figured this out, that in order for me to live in New York as a freelance writer and photographer, I need to sell about 4,000 words a month for a dollar a word. That should get me one bedroom in six-bedroom house in Flatbush, health insurance, a MetroCard, incidentals such as replacing equipment I break when I am drunk, and just enough food and beverage to stop my gradual transformation into a Fat Girl. I currently have fucked up teeth and it turns out that even if I buy dental insurance right now, I'd have to wait 18 months before having the work I need done. So fuck that, my parents are going to pay for it because I carry their genes and they know that no quality gentleman wants to reproduce with a toothless girl.
Anyhow. My first story was published yesterday, and I was paid about fifteen cents a word for about 800 words. So, in terms of survival skills, it looks like I have enough to jump into a well wearing wearing an oily lead suit.
Or I could just live here with my Mom and Dad, which means I smoke less, drink less, and experience some sort of mental deterioration that I can only liken to adult onset retardation, with tendencies toward violence.
Oh I miss New York. I've figured this out, that in order for me to live in New York as a freelance writer and photographer, I need to sell about 4,000 words a month for a dollar a word. That should get me one bedroom in six-bedroom house in Flatbush, health insurance, a MetroCard, incidentals such as replacing equipment I break when I am drunk, and just enough food and beverage to stop my gradual transformation into a Fat Girl. I currently have fucked up teeth and it turns out that even if I buy dental insurance right now, I'd have to wait 18 months before having the work I need done. So fuck that, my parents are going to pay for it because I carry their genes and they know that no quality gentleman wants to reproduce with a toothless girl.
Anyhow. My first story was published yesterday, and I was paid about fifteen cents a word for about 800 words. So, in terms of survival skills, it looks like I have enough to jump into a well wearing wearing an oily lead suit.
Or I could just live here with my Mom and Dad, which means I smoke less, drink less, and experience some sort of mental deterioration that I can only liken to adult onset retardation, with tendencies toward violence.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
regression theory pt II
The 970-mile drive from New York was surprisingly fun and fast. I was worried that I'd get bored and fall asleep and wake up dead, but with a stereo and a pack of cigarettes, I am pretty set. I think I'd be a great trucker. I drove a brand-new Ford Escape with 2 miles on it, and the second day I realized it was equipped with Sirius satellite radio. Pennsylvania seems like an absolutely beautiful state, full of rivers and green hills and little towns. Ohio and Indiana...mmm...not so much--although Ohio has some bitchin' metal stations. But I'd still love to do a photo series on the Midwest--with a larger format camera f'sho.
So: this brings me back to tha 'nois. All of my worldly possessions are, for the first time in 11 years, under one roof. The fact that the roof belongs to my parents is somewhat disturbing, but for some reason this isn't as alarming as it was, say, last year. Moving back home? Swell! I am the dog's nanny. It's hard to be upset when you are surrounded by pie and dinner in a rent-free environment where the landlords can be stressful and moody but in the end think that you're just the best, even though you don't do a damn thing.
The hardest thing for me is to restrain myself from telling my parents how to do things. Obviously, they've made it this far in life without melling them what to do, and of course I can appreciate that if they try to tell me what to do, I'd probably throw a 10th-grade-style tantrum. 10th grade was the last bastion of insanity, because you didn't have a driver's license, so there was never a good suburban escape plan; all you could do was scream. But sometimes I listen to my parents complain about things, or see the things they put up with, or the things that I feel like will destroy them, and I want to say something. It takes a lot of reserve to respect their lifestyles sometimes, or to understand the seeming contradictions in their lives. And then I kind of know how they feel when they see me doing stupid shit as well, things they don't understand, and I see why they are totally unable to restrain themselves from saying anything. They don't have to--they're my mom and dad.
And instead of changing things, you're just more likely to hide the things that other people find contentious, because you're sick of the same discussions. For me, it all comes back to smoking. This is something we will never be okay with; it is beyond discussion. And particularly as long as I'm living at home...nope. It does, however, mean that I am moving back into my early childhood bedroom, the one with a bathroom that has a window.
But seriously, what am I thinking? I'm not moving home. This is temporary. I gotta get myself on a boat right quick.
I miss New York. I always do.
So: this brings me back to tha 'nois. All of my worldly possessions are, for the first time in 11 years, under one roof. The fact that the roof belongs to my parents is somewhat disturbing, but for some reason this isn't as alarming as it was, say, last year. Moving back home? Swell! I am the dog's nanny. It's hard to be upset when you are surrounded by pie and dinner in a rent-free environment where the landlords can be stressful and moody but in the end think that you're just the best, even though you don't do a damn thing.
The hardest thing for me is to restrain myself from telling my parents how to do things. Obviously, they've made it this far in life without melling them what to do, and of course I can appreciate that if they try to tell me what to do, I'd probably throw a 10th-grade-style tantrum. 10th grade was the last bastion of insanity, because you didn't have a driver's license, so there was never a good suburban escape plan; all you could do was scream. But sometimes I listen to my parents complain about things, or see the things they put up with, or the things that I feel like will destroy them, and I want to say something. It takes a lot of reserve to respect their lifestyles sometimes, or to understand the seeming contradictions in their lives. And then I kind of know how they feel when they see me doing stupid shit as well, things they don't understand, and I see why they are totally unable to restrain themselves from saying anything. They don't have to--they're my mom and dad.
And instead of changing things, you're just more likely to hide the things that other people find contentious, because you're sick of the same discussions. For me, it all comes back to smoking. This is something we will never be okay with; it is beyond discussion. And particularly as long as I'm living at home...nope. It does, however, mean that I am moving back into my early childhood bedroom, the one with a bathroom that has a window.
But seriously, what am I thinking? I'm not moving home. This is temporary. I gotta get myself on a boat right quick.
I miss New York. I always do.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
last-minute love affair
Taking a break from packing, cleaning, packing, cleaning.
Listening to this song nonstop:
It's pretty awesome.
So, because moving is stressful, I've been in an extreme form of pleasure-seeking as distraction. True to form, I've spent my final days in The NY being extremely lazy, boozing hard, and shacking up with a soon-to-be-24-year-old boy. My extreme-dating for a last-call love affair turned up 'meh's, so I gave up on it and then met this attractive Kid. I always said that 25 was my lower limit, but this isn't exactly dating, just fucking and talking about motorcycles.
It's exactly what I needed.
I'll be the first to admit that I have a somewhat tenuous relationship with sex and intimacy, and yes, I know the two are related. I always thought that I needed to be emotionally intimate with someone to really have good sex, but my experiences this past year have shown me two things: 1) intoxication is a pretty good substitute for emotional intimacy and 2) sex can often lead to intimacy. This second lesson I found somewhat surprising. I think I'm extremely dude-like in this respect, because I can totally identify with that postcoital period of feeling extremely open and being able to chat freely without the thought of sex looming overhead.
Sort of related: what's up with strangulation in sex? I guess I get it and I don't. It used to really freak me out, and I would put a stop to it if any guy tried to put his hands around my neck when we're fucking. It's kind of a weird situation that I don't really get--I mean, sort of, if there's nothing else to hold onto. But I totally let Kid choke me the other night, which was highly uncomfortable (as you can imagine) but I was comfortable enough with him to not freak out. I don't know, maybe my sexual tastes are changing. I can understand other forms of violence during sex, but the choking thing is mysterious to me, because there is a chance you could kill someone or pass out, and who wants to be fucking a dead girl? (Is necrophilia the attraction here? Shudder.)
In any case. The transition from intimacy-before-sex (and I'm not talking about high levels of intimacy here) to sex-leading-to-intimacy is a strange shift for me. It makes me feel like I've gotten extremely cynical to the point where I am past being protective of my body, but on the other hand it's very liberating. It leads to unexpected attachments. I guess if I think about it, if sex is something with which I have so many internal hangups, then getting those out of the way immediately helps to bridge the intimacy gap right quick. I know it's somewhat counterproductive for someone who fears being seen solely as a sex object, but sometimes I think that having sex right away will cure that. It's like, "Oh, I already had sex with her. Now do I want to keep doing it? Is she actually worth it?" And that's where the getting-to-know-you part comes in. Otherwise, if I postpone sex in the thought that we'll get to know each other first, I always find myself thinking that he's feigning interest just to get in my pants.
Is this a totally fucked up line of thinking?
Listening to this song nonstop:
It's pretty awesome.
So, because moving is stressful, I've been in an extreme form of pleasure-seeking as distraction. True to form, I've spent my final days in The NY being extremely lazy, boozing hard, and shacking up with a soon-to-be-24-year-old boy. My extreme-dating for a last-call love affair turned up 'meh's, so I gave up on it and then met this attractive Kid. I always said that 25 was my lower limit, but this isn't exactly dating, just fucking and talking about motorcycles.
It's exactly what I needed.
I'll be the first to admit that I have a somewhat tenuous relationship with sex and intimacy, and yes, I know the two are related. I always thought that I needed to be emotionally intimate with someone to really have good sex, but my experiences this past year have shown me two things: 1) intoxication is a pretty good substitute for emotional intimacy and 2) sex can often lead to intimacy. This second lesson I found somewhat surprising. I think I'm extremely dude-like in this respect, because I can totally identify with that postcoital period of feeling extremely open and being able to chat freely without the thought of sex looming overhead.
Sort of related: what's up with strangulation in sex? I guess I get it and I don't. It used to really freak me out, and I would put a stop to it if any guy tried to put his hands around my neck when we're fucking. It's kind of a weird situation that I don't really get--I mean, sort of, if there's nothing else to hold onto. But I totally let Kid choke me the other night, which was highly uncomfortable (as you can imagine) but I was comfortable enough with him to not freak out. I don't know, maybe my sexual tastes are changing. I can understand other forms of violence during sex, but the choking thing is mysterious to me, because there is a chance you could kill someone or pass out, and who wants to be fucking a dead girl? (Is necrophilia the attraction here? Shudder.)
In any case. The transition from intimacy-before-sex (and I'm not talking about high levels of intimacy here) to sex-leading-to-intimacy is a strange shift for me. It makes me feel like I've gotten extremely cynical to the point where I am past being protective of my body, but on the other hand it's very liberating. It leads to unexpected attachments. I guess if I think about it, if sex is something with which I have so many internal hangups, then getting those out of the way immediately helps to bridge the intimacy gap right quick. I know it's somewhat counterproductive for someone who fears being seen solely as a sex object, but sometimes I think that having sex right away will cure that. It's like, "Oh, I already had sex with her. Now do I want to keep doing it? Is she actually worth it?" And that's where the getting-to-know-you part comes in. Otherwise, if I postpone sex in the thought that we'll get to know each other first, I always find myself thinking that he's feigning interest just to get in my pants.
Is this a totally fucked up line of thinking?
Saturday, August 15, 2009
recipe for a smackdown
I almost punched a bitch last night. We were standing in line outside of Artichoke Pizza in the East Village, and I was in a sparkling good mood. I'd consumed 5 glasses of tequila and a beautiful, chocolate-and-ricotta-filled pastry topped with strawberries, hand-delivered and unrequested from a man who works around the corner who apparently has a crush on me and has been trying to seduce me with food. (I should probably marry him.)
There was a chick in the pizza line offering a running whine-a-lot on the line and all the people silly enough to queue, when I made some totally innocuous remark. Pride wounded, she retreated into the safety of her all-Asian-male entourage and called me a fat and ugly bitch. Apparently, this was the wittiest thing she'd ever thought of and she liked the sound of it, because then she started "rapping" this line over and over again: "That bitch is fat and ugly!" and then squealing with laughter.
I was not amused.
I let this go on while we made our way into the restaurant, then decided to try and combat it with love. I went up to her and tried to make nice, but she was terrified of me (rightfully so--don't fuck with a girl who is being wooed by a tattooed man with pastries) and she retreated again. I told her buddies that she needed to shut the fuck up or I'd beat the crap out of her. Her boys apologized profusely and two of them actually stepped out of my way and said "Go for it--she's drunk and annoying." I think they were afraid of me, too.
It was Neighbor's last night in the city, and I didn't want it to be brawl-filled, so I told them to get her out of my face, and they pulled her outside. Then we were rewarded with delicious crab-topped, artichoke-filled, and arrabiata pizza. As we were making our way down the sidewalk, stupid bitch somehow made it within five yards of me and I gave her an extreme verbal punishing that was about to escalate into her face being rubbed in the sidewalk before Neighbor's Boyfriend rightfully talked me down, telling me that annihilating her would be as satisfactory as kicking a seven-year-old's ass. The confrontation was proof of this. When I stepped up to her she cowered again and was like, "I don't know what you're talking about!" How can you possible have a good fight with someone who won't even own their shit-talking? Weak sauce.
It's been a long time since I've been so close to throwing down. Rage is a poisonous thing that I don't enjoy (although everyone tells me I'm great fun when I'm filled with it--go figure). I hate anyone who is provokes me enough to send me into a rage, because it takes a lot. I think the magical combination here is pastry-fueled confidence, tequila-enhanced recklessness, and a pathetic cunt chanting the refrain: That bitch is fat and ugly.
I hate going out on the weekends. If anyone gets in my face tonight, they're going to have to deal with leftover rage: YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.
There was a chick in the pizza line offering a running whine-a-lot on the line and all the people silly enough to queue, when I made some totally innocuous remark. Pride wounded, she retreated into the safety of her all-Asian-male entourage and called me a fat and ugly bitch. Apparently, this was the wittiest thing she'd ever thought of and she liked the sound of it, because then she started "rapping" this line over and over again: "That bitch is fat and ugly!" and then squealing with laughter.
I was not amused.
I let this go on while we made our way into the restaurant, then decided to try and combat it with love. I went up to her and tried to make nice, but she was terrified of me (rightfully so--don't fuck with a girl who is being wooed by a tattooed man with pastries) and she retreated again. I told her buddies that she needed to shut the fuck up or I'd beat the crap out of her. Her boys apologized profusely and two of them actually stepped out of my way and said "Go for it--she's drunk and annoying." I think they were afraid of me, too.
It was Neighbor's last night in the city, and I didn't want it to be brawl-filled, so I told them to get her out of my face, and they pulled her outside. Then we were rewarded with delicious crab-topped, artichoke-filled, and arrabiata pizza. As we were making our way down the sidewalk, stupid bitch somehow made it within five yards of me and I gave her an extreme verbal punishing that was about to escalate into her face being rubbed in the sidewalk before Neighbor's Boyfriend rightfully talked me down, telling me that annihilating her would be as satisfactory as kicking a seven-year-old's ass. The confrontation was proof of this. When I stepped up to her she cowered again and was like, "I don't know what you're talking about!" How can you possible have a good fight with someone who won't even own their shit-talking? Weak sauce.
It's been a long time since I've been so close to throwing down. Rage is a poisonous thing that I don't enjoy (although everyone tells me I'm great fun when I'm filled with it--go figure). I hate anyone who is provokes me enough to send me into a rage, because it takes a lot. I think the magical combination here is pastry-fueled confidence, tequila-enhanced recklessness, and a pathetic cunt chanting the refrain: That bitch is fat and ugly.
I hate going out on the weekends. If anyone gets in my face tonight, they're going to have to deal with leftover rage: YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.
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