My husband pointed out to me that probably what I was thinking of (re: two posts down) was the song “Sympathy for the Devil” by the Rolling Stones. Um, yeah. That was it. Very hard to remember. But also he suggested it was reminiscent of a shitty late nineties horror flick called Fallen, starring Denzel Washington and John Goodman. Let’s say it was that.
Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category
Embarrassing
May 5, 2016Knew Her When
March 30, 2016Back in 2007, a friend of mine dragged me to see a play at a converted school half a block away from my East Village apartment. The play was called Matt & Ben, and was about Damon and Affleck dealing with the aftermath of a script (Good Will Hunting) falling from the sky and into their laps. It was hilarious, which isn’t terribly surprising, because it was co-written by Mindy Kaling, who also played Ben (I think. I don’t really remember which one she was.) She was a fairly recent Dartmouth grad at the time, and not at all famous. This, I suppose, is the one time in my life I caught someone before they made it big.
Or perhaps the first time of two. Recently, I attended the Goldsmith University Writing Program’s graduation reading, and heard a young writer named EJ Harris read from her short story entitled “Bitch Blood.” It was just perfect: polished, anxiety-provoking (in a good way), eerie, plausible, yet exciting. Below, an excerpt; you can read the whole thing here.
Now I am anticipating the day in which Harris reads to large crowds at Daunt Books and I awkwardly shuffle up after the event and say, “Hey, remember me? I’m that American friend of LH’s who was at the Goldsmith’s thing and I drunkenly told you your story was, like, uh-may-zing.” And she’ll smile and nod and pretend to remember, but won’t.
(Side note: my friend LH organized the event and read there, but because I know her already and have always been sure she’s going to get famous, I didn’t put her on my list of revelations.)
***
You’re not supposed to swerve a car to avoid small animals in the road. Swerving, Emily’s driving instructor had told her, is very dangerous, and can cause accidents.
“If you can, slow to a stop,” he said.
“And if you can’t?” Emily asked.
“Well, then you just have to hit it.”
“Right.”
“If you kill a small animal it’s, you know, sad.”
“But if you kill a small human it’s, you know, illegal?”
“Exactly.”
Her driving instructor used to lean across to the steering wheel and correct her positioning on the road without ever touching her. They shared a similar sense of humour, and Emily had looked forward to the hour they spent together each week. When she passed her test, Emily had texted to thank him, and had been unable to think of any feasible reason to stay in touch.
When Emily hit the dog, then, she told herself that she had done nothing wrong, that she should not feel guilty. She was wearing sensible footwear, and she had not been drinking. She just didn’t see the dog until it was too late. It was dark, and the animal came out of nowhere.
After the bump, Emily pulled the car over and sat heavily for a moment. The dark huddle of the dog on the road multiplied in her mirrors. It is true that she considered restarting the car and driving away; that the street was residential and anonymity impossible featured high on the list of reasons she did not.
In moments, two shadowy figures raced through the darkness towards her. She opened the door, shaking, and heard a man’s voice swear loudly.
“I’m so sorry,” said Emily, hurrying over.
“Fuck,” said the man, crouched over the dog which, Emily realised with horror, was alive, and whimpering pathetically.
The Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show Drinking Game
February 15, 2016Starting tonight, New York’s Madison Square Garden will host everyone’s favorite annual competitive event: the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show. Launched in 1877 by a group of “sporting gentleman,” the show is a two-night long competition in which canine entrants are judged on everything from the luster of their coats to the floppiness of their ears. Even if you happen to be more of a cat lady (like me), watching perfectly-coiffed pooches strut down the turf in hopes of being dubbed best in show is the best antidote to mid-winter blues. In honor of the WKC’s 140th birthday, we’ve written a drinking game to help you celebrate. Unless otherwise noted, take one drink for each. Those of you watching from home can enjoy a single malt and the witty banter of the USA Network-appointed panelists; those of us attending the event will get lukewarm Bud Light in jumbo cups, and the heady satisfaction that comes with a Maslow-ian peak experience.
The sequin rule: If you’ve watched the show a few times, you’ll have noticed that dog handlers, for whatever reason, are really into their sequins. Sometimes they sport a splash across their shoulders, whereas other times they’ll model an entire outfit after Michael Jackson’s famous shiny glove. Take a drink if there are any sequins at all, two for an entirely sequined outfit, and three if the handler wearing an entirely sequined outfit is male.
Shine bright like a diamond.
Owner/dog doppelgangers: The “canine mini-me” effect is real, although not universally applicable. Take two drinks if the handler, owner, and dog all look alike.
When the dog is from New York City: Everyone loves a hometown dog.
If you would have sex with the handler: Self-explanatory. If you actually have had sex with a particular handler, finish your drink.
The breed is new to Westminster: In 2015, two new breeds were admitted to Westminster: the wirehaired vizsla, a hunting dog from Hungary, and the coton du tulear, the national dog of Madagascar. This year, somewhere between five and ten new breeds will be introduced. We won’t tell you the exact number, so as to keep you on your toes. Fun fact: one of the new breeds is primarily known for hunting truffles.
When the dog has a human name: Most of the dogs at Westminster have elaborate, nonsensical names like “Roundtown Mercedes of Maryscot,” best in show 2009, or “Whisperwind on a Carousel,” the winning poodle from 1991. And then there’s Garth, a six-year-old bloodhound from New Hampshire, competing at Westminster for the fifth and final time this year. If the dog is entered under a banal human name like Jim or Stephanie, take a drink.
Handler tattoos: This is like spotting the chupacabra. Take two drinks for a full sleeve.
They do exist!
Direct fingering of the anus: As aforementioned, the dogs are judged based on different aspects of their physicality: width of shoulders, shape of head, pertness of tail, and certain rectal features, or so it would seem from watching some judges.
When the announcer says something vaguely sexual or racist: For the twenty-sixth year in a row, the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show will be narrated by David Frei, a former public relations guy with a voice like toasted and buttered heaven. We’d never suggest the lovely Frei would say anything actually offensive; this is more of a “that’s what she said” interpretive situation.
Breeder/Owner/Handler: More often than not, a show dog is shepherded through life by three important people: its breeder, owner and handler. But some uber-passionate people take it upon themselves to do it all. Breeder-owner-handlers are rare, and have only been part of a winning human-dog duo eight times in the show’s history. If a breeder-owner-handler takes the cup this year, finish your drink.
When you can’t see the dog’s eyes: Certain breeds, like all varieties of poodles, are made to wear elaborate fur-styles, whilst others, like the shaggy, huggable English sheepdogs, go au naturel, sometimes to the point where you have to wonder how it is they know where they’re going when they’re not being led on a leash by a bedazzled dog choreographer.
The winning dog is deemed an “underdog” by the announcers: When this is said, it is almost always unironically.
Intern Life
January 23, 2016A few months ago (or so) I went to the Cosmopolitan Magazine ULTIMATE WOMEN Awards, which I just love to say because it’s hilarious to be called an ULTIMATE WOMAN. Anyway, long story short, I was enjoying my free Bailey’s cocktails when I noticed a young hipster crouching down behind the table next to me frantically Tweeting fluff with the appropriate hashtag attached (wording?) and I thought, “Man, it’s good to not be an intern anymore.”
THE FIRST STEP IS ADMITTING YOU HAVE A PROBLEM
January 13, 2016I have found Petite Meller’s publicist’s email, and am thinking of writing him to ask if he could let me know when her album comes out so I can write a profile piece on her I plan to title “Weird for the Jews.” Because apparently her real name is Sivan, and she spent much of her teen years in Tel Aviv, although she likes to play up the French aspect of her persona (in the very Greek sense of the word) and basically ignore the Jewish part. Self-hating? Another connection to Freud? WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING TO ME?
I would just bypass the publicist and sign up for her mailing list, but that would mean being part of her self-titled “little empire” (echoes of Lady Gaga here?) Maybe for the profile, she and I can go hat-shopping together in London and she can tell me whether her hair at the end of the video for Barbaric was supposed to resemble payot or if that was just coincidental?
Change of Heart
December 16, 2015LB: i’m so sleepy and i have to stay at work an extra hour for a holiday party. not excited.
ID: are you working the party or partying the party?
LB: i’m bailing after 20 mins
partying
ID: so that’s slightly better
LB: yeah
but i’m with work people all day, i don’t really want to hang out with them on a social level
at least not most of them
ID: yeah totally
i remember that
LB: and now i’m bored. 2 more hours with nothing to do
ID: i was going to shower but
meh
LB: so in an interesting turn of events, my co-worker just brought in a flame thrower
ID: okay well now you have to stay
LB: i know, right?
Is Tennessee Williams a Good Poet?
December 9, 2015“Morgenlied”
I saw a white dove in a tree.
The tree was white, the leaves were three.
These leaves, I noticed as I passed,
were shaped as bells of crimson glass
And azure glass and emerald glass:
I felt them tremble as I passed.
The dove stood in the tree alone
and in her beak she clutched a bone.
This was my love, I heard her cry,
I drank his blood and watched him die.
I drank his blood, the dove confessed,
because I loved him to excess.
Then as I passed my body thinned,
it lifted on a gust of wind,
And I was high above the hill,
the universe was white and still
And there was neither tree nor bird
and no bell struck and no leaf stirred.
Please check one: Yes Δ
No Δ
(Okay so that’s a Delta, not a box, but you can make it work.)
Resolved
December 1, 2015Electromagnetic hypersensitivity is the new Morgellon’s Disease. Go!
A Visit to the Foundling Museum
November 26, 2015Some of you know that I am obsessed with handwriting. I am the acting President of the Graphophiles’ Association of Her Majesty’s Kingdom and Current and Former Colonies (my friend and erstwhile editor HS-D is the VP; we’re currently accepting applications for membership) and also the first writer to be represented by Handwriting for Hire, an agency service that provides distinctive handwriting for use in films, for cards, etc. In addition to liking my own handwriting, I very much enjoy deciphering the writing of others. Remember this book I have? Well, the woman who edited it had to figure out how to read each letter writer’s strange scrawl. I don’t remember where I learned that, but after I did, I immediately her and asked her how she got such a plum gig. Sadly, no response.
Well, two weeks ago or so, my friend LH and I decided to visit the Foundling Museum, which is housed in the old Foundling Hospital in Bloomsbury. We were interested in seeing the museum itself (did you know that on Sundays, average London residents could observe the orphans eating their lunch in silence?!) but mostly in checking out an exhibit called “The Fallen Woman,” on unwed Victorian mothers who applied to have their babies sent to the Hospital. The exhibition included, along with a number of fantastic prints of women throwing themselves off bridges, a few of the original applications made by said women, and it occurred to me that someone probably would have had to do that same job for this project. Why am I never around when these little jobs are being offered?! If you need your great-great-grandmother’s love letters to her lesbian mistress transcribed, by all means, reach out.
Wait
November 23, 2015I was looking around Etsy (fucking sue me) for a gift the other day, and on the page that details the art categories, I noticed…
That’s a bowl, right? For weed? Is Etsy based in Portland, or is this the world we live in now? To be clear, I’m not upset about that, I just want to know so I am aware of what’s acceptable.
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