Wait… What?

February 20, 2013

Many in the tri-state area have probably heard the sordid tale of Rob Morrison, CBS news anchor (well, former) and resident of my hometown, that glorious bastion of WASP repression.  Apparently Morrison strangled his wife and his mother-in-law called the police and he’s saying it’s not a big deal and she (m-in-law) is saying that it is and yadda yadda yadda.

It’s all kind of boring, except for one small thing about the night, via Gothamist:

“It’s believed that Ashley Morrison hit her husband to beat him away while he was choking her, according to the Post’s sources. Another detail about the evening: The couple was watching Mystic Pizza before the alleged altercation.”

Mystic Pizza?!  How could that feel-good movie about a bunch of hard-scrabbled, dough-slinging Portuguese teenagers learning about the world and themselves lead to such violence?  How could a night that started so, so right go so, so wrong?  Tell me, Morrison!  How?!

Texts from my Dad

February 20, 2013

Dad: I forgot to tell you I saw Brigitte Nielsen in the hotel lobby in Zurich

I was scared to death

Honestly I've never had so many frightening pictures to choose from.

Honestly I’ve never had so many frightening pictures to choose from.

Job Application

February 18, 2013

Dear Karl Lagerfeld,

I wrote you some months ago to inquire as to whether or not you had a position open as personal letter delivery girl, but I haven’t heard back yet.  Perhaps there is nothing open at the moment, or maybe your HR person didn’t properly pass along my CV, or maybe you considered my stationery (embossed maroon genitalia adorned the envelope flap?) too prosaic, but I do hope you will forgive me for trying once more to seek employment with your outfit.

I would like to offer my services as a maid to your miraculous feline, Choupette.  I suppose these positions –– there are two maids, no? –– are clambered over by fashionable French maids all the time, but I must state unequivocally that I love your cat more than they do.  She is, as you say, a stunning beauty –– a face to rival Ingrid Bergman’s, locks luscious enough to put Catherine Deneuve’s to shame, and a grace so awe-inspiring it’s an insult to compare it to that of the Bolshoi ballerinas.  I want nothing more in my life than to maintain the diary of her day, which I will do in painstakingly neat handwriting, and to scrub her Goyard feeding bowls with soft-bristled toothbrushes.  I will even soothe her when she wakes up from her nightmares.  If I cannot devote my being to Choupette as a nun would sacrifice her womb to Christ, I will promptly throw myself in the Seine clutching that precious image of her as a kitten playing with the iPad.

I am an ideal employee for this situation as I have a lot of experience with cats, although admittedly none as regal as your beloved, and also in that I don’t mind at all being humiliated and dehumanized at every turn.

References available upon request.

My best, and I do hope to be hearing from you very soon,

Itinerant Daughter

Choupette, your purr is my siren song.

Choupette, your purr is my siren song.

Alice Attie

February 17, 2013

Honestly, I thought I was maybe the most interesting micrographic artist of my time, but clearly I’m totally delusional and not hip to the jive, because Alice Attie’s stuff blows me out of the water.  My roommate told me that a strange woman would sit in her philosophy seminars and do what appeared to be doodles all throughout class, and then it turned out that she was working on projects for the below exhibition, which I’m terribly sorry to have missed:
#tinywritingenvy

And here is an older piece of hers, just for posterity’s sake:

UGH I hate myself.

UGH I hate myself.

I’m working on a rather large scale piece as a gift to my professional soul mate, but I think I might just give up now that I know of Attie (bad joke.)

Apologies if I’ve Said This Before

February 16, 2013

… but the way you know you’re truly old is when you watch Intervention and don’t recognize the drug nicknames the kids have these days.  “Roxy rolls?  Like… Tootsie Rolls?  Well, they have a lot of sugar in them, but that can’t be THAT harmful!”

A Belated Happy One

February 15, 2013

Valentine by Carol Ann Duffy

Not a red rose or a satin heart.

I give you an onion.

It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.

It promises light

like the careful undressing of love.

 

Here.

It will blind you with tears

like a lover.

It will make your reflection

a wobbling photo of grief.

 

I am trying to be truthful.

 

Not a cute card or a kissogram.

 

I give you an onion.

Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips,

possessive and faithful

as we are,

for as long as we are.

 

Take it.

Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding-ring,

if you like.

 

Lethal.

Its scent will cling to your fingers,

cling to your knife.

Speaking of Wanting to be Jewish

February 14, 2013

Who wouldn’t want this shizz?!

I'm second from left.

I’m second from left.

Again, Too Good a Memory

February 14, 2013

My boyfriend sent me a nice article on the newly renovated Jean Arps house.  Here’s a sneak peek, but you can read the whole thing here:

“Arp (1886-1966) was a pioneer of Surrealism and a member of the Dada movement, the branch of Surrealism that called for a return to childhood spirit and the destruction of all established rules. After working in Zurich and then in Paris in Montmartre, he and Taueber, another free thinker (they eventually married), bought a piece of land in Clamart and built a house at the edge of a forest. Influenced by the Bauhaus, Le Corbusier and Charlotte Perriand, Taueber designed it.

More than 80 years later, the three-story “maison-atelier” still stands, and a decade-long renovation has just been completed.”

So I’m looking at it and all of a sudden I see that the writer is one Saskia de Rothschild, who owns a famous last name, sure, but also went to the same summer camp I did growing up!  She was a few years younger than I was but I remember her as delightfully skinny and French in her little tomboyish outfits. Maybe she has a Google Alert on herself.  If so, what up, Saskia?!

Anne Sexton and Judaism

February 13, 2013

While Sexton wasn’t exactly a full-on philosemite, she did find her friend and collaborator Maxine Kumin’s chosenness fascinating.  Below is a poem that Anne wrote to Maxine in which she relates some of her envy:

My Friend, My Friend

Who will forgive me for the things I do?

With no special legend of God to refer to,

With my calm white pedigree, my yankee kin,

I think it would be better to be a Jew.

I forgive you for what you did not do.

I am impossibly quilty. Unlike you,

My Friend, I can not blame my origin

With no special legend or God to refer to.

They wear The Crucifix as they are meant to do.

Why do their little crosses trouble you?

The effigies that I have made are genuine,

(I think it would be better to be a Jew).

Watching my mother slowly die I knew

My first release. I wish some ancient bugaboo

Followed me. But my sin is always my sin.

With no special legend or God to refer to.

Who will forgive me for the things I do?

To have your reasonable hurt to belong to

Might ease my trouble like liquor or aspirin.

I think it would be better to be a Jew.

And if I lie, I lie because I love you,

Because I am bothered by the things I do,

Because your hurt invades my calm white skin:

With no special legend or God to refer to,

I think it would be better to be a Jew.

Kumin wrote a rather long response, difficult to find online (though I managed to do so) that some day I will post here.  Interesting to note that Sexton friend and depressive rival Sylvia Plath, who has gotten tons of print attention this week because of the anniversary of the publication of The Bell Jar, was also somewhat obsessed with Jewishness (references to Nazism are peppered throughout Ariel) but I would argue in a different way than Sexton was.  Sexton saw Kumin’s status as a Jew a kind of get-out-of-jail-free card in that Kumin could appeal to the special G-d that chose her when things went awry; Plath believed that by developing her own masochistic war on herself, not devoid of glory, was a type of personal appropriation of the relationship between Jews and Nazis.  In other words, she waged her own mini-Holocaust on herself, playing the role of brutal SS agent and of helpless Jewish victim.

HAPPY TUESDAYS!

Oh It Could Be Way, Way Worse

February 12, 2013

You could have watched one of those “I’m a Mormon” videos on YouTube just out of curiosity and gotten goosebumps at the end.