Tuesday Afternoon Elegy

I'm feeling a little cracked today; so, to spare you all from my sleep-deprived, Dr. Phil-induced rants, I'm just going to continue speaking through other people. And what better mouthpiece could a girl ask for than Project Pat?

Last Summer, in the gloaming of a doomy relationship with an all-time-low of a boyfriend, I came across this real gem, a food column by Mark Bittman, the Times' heaven-sent Minimalist, a list of 101 easy meals, each described in a sentence or two, no useless measurements or directives. The meals were meant for summer, but I say they are scrumptious all the live long day, and handy in this here nouveau-Great Depression, as we try to muster the courage to not go out to eat every night. At the time that the article was published, I spent several days copying it down into a wee grey handmade (my hands!) notebook that I called my 'cook journal'—remember friends, my love life was in shambles; I was also spending a great deal of time weeping and watching "Cops." I needed to keep busy and fill my head with lovelier thoughts of moules preparations and curried lamb chops.

Dungeon Pop

Never Forget (the article that appeared in Rolling Stone last February about our dearest Britney in her darkest hour. I read it in the Atlanta airport en route to Key West for Pillow's birthday/hotel bar vomit festivities. I was breathless, holding on to every word, listening to "Toxic" and finally understanding the libretto. If you've never read it, please do. If you already have, revisit.)

Bathroom Ham Party: Hold Onto Your Heads

Call the Police!!!

Hold the phone y'all---teenaged banshee, Taylor Momsen, she of the hackneyed haircut, invisible skirt, and moldy eye-makeup, she whose recent PageSix mentions bring out the ogre in all of us, she who is FIFTEEN YEARS OLD, appeared sans shirt (at the two minute mark--sorry it's incomplete and buried in a Nate hearts Jenny compilation) in last night's "Gossip Girl" alongside little Caitlin Cooper, and I, for one, was shocked. BOO Josh Schwartz. You, young sir, are part of the problem, not the solutuion

Love in this Club

I hate actors, but I love the British naval officers of the Napoleonic Wars (and the Frogs and the mercenary Spanish, oooh!). This afternoon's "Love in this Club" is young, brave Horatio Hornblower, not some spotty actor-fellow (though I am partial to the Horatio of the A&E miniseries based on the novels/this particular [Welsh] spotty actor-fellow).

Sculpture for Tuesday

I like to make jokes about Donald Judd being a fascist with all of his hard lines, precision, limitations, display-making, and Marfa compound building. But really, with the glitzy ones in particular, like this, Untitled (1965), he's just one of us, an utter American, a lover of the design object, Las Vegas, office towers, nice cars, mirrors, commercials, mysteries, movies, jewels, Shaker furniture, Plymouth rock, and Westward-ho. This piece deserves a critic who has a lot to say about objecthood and thingness. Theoretically dim, I am not that critic, but I do love downright handsomeness, sheen, a sense of order (and glamour?) on a dismal Tuesday, in a fast-crumbling (isn't it always?) world. Thanks Don.

Grumpy Old Men

I'm OK. You're OK.

Love in this Club

Pete Campbell, a fictional "Love in this Club," hails from AMC's deliciously jazzy and moralistic "Mad Men." Season dos came to a close last night, and we'll be missing Pete, our favorite tragic WASP-boy, all through the bitter winter.

High Times, Hard Times--the year 2003

Verses

"America"
Tony Hoagland, from What Narcissism Means to Me (2003)

Then one of the students with blue hair and a tongue stud
Says that America is for him a maximum-security prison

Whose walls are made of RadioShacks and Burger Kings, and MTV
Episodes where you can't tell the show from the commercials,

And as I consider how to express how full of shit I think he is,
He says that even when he's driving to the mall in his Isuzu

Trooper with a gang of his friends, letting rap music pour over them
Like a boiling Jacuzzi full of ballpeen hammers, even then he feels

Buried alive, captured and suffocated in the folds
Of the thick satin quilt of America

And I wonder if this is a legitimate category of pain,
or whether he is just spin doctoring a better grade,

And then I remember that when I stabbed my father in the dream
last night, it was not blood but money

That gushed out of him, bright green hundred-dollar bills
Spilling from his wounds, and--this is the wierd part--,

He gasped, "Thank god--those Ben Franklins were
Clogging up my heart--

And so I perish happily,
Freed from that which kept me from my liberty"--

Which is when I knew it was a dream, since my dad
Would never speak in rhymed couplets,

And I look at the student with his acne and cell phone and phony ghetto
clothes
And I think, "I am asleep in America too,

And I don't know how to wake myself either,"
And I remember what Marx said near the end of his life:

"I was listening to the cries of the past,
When I should have been listening to the cries of the future."

But how could he have imagined 100 channels of 24-hour cable
Or what kind of nightmare it might be

When each day you watch rivers of bright merchandise run past you
And you are floating in your pleasure boat upon this river

Even while others are drowning underneath you
And you see their faces twisting in the surface of the waters

And yet it seems to be your own hand
Which turns the volume higher?

Froggy Went A-Courtin', But He Won't Ride Until the Wedding Night

I spent the better part of last night watching the new TLC gem "17 Kids and Counting." The program follows the Duggars, a couple from Arkansas who made the decision to "let go and let God," where their reproductive life is concerned. They have 17 children, and wife Michelle is knocked up with number 18.

Last night's shitshow centered around eldest son Josh's, 21, decision to "court" his ladyfriend Anna, 20. At first, this all seemed relatively normal. Josh called Anna's father to ask for her hand in marriage, planned a cute surprise proposal, etc. Soon it became obvious that something a little, uh, different was going on. I thought that Josh was just being a weirdo when he kept talking about "courting" his future wife, but apparently it's a thing that these kids have chosen to do. They don't have sex (not shocking), they can't be alone together, and they basically have no physical contact aside from hand-holding. "Of course the first kiss should be for the wedding day," Josh said (so matter-of-factly that he had me believing it for a minute). Naturally, I scoffed at the whole deal. For me, sex and physical contact play an extremely important role in the formation of a romantic relationship. Plus, my mother always warned me about saving yourself for marriage. You run the risk of being stuck with a man who's bad in bed, and that's just not a risk that anyone can afford to take.

I'm usually most intrigued by things that have to do with bangin' (or not bangin' in this instance), but the most compelling aspect of this whole courtship thing is that, when you court, you don't date. You are to look at every potential partner in terms of marriage and children, and once it's decided that you want to marry them, you can get engaged, and that's pretty much when you start dating. This sounds totally insane and immediately offends my modern-womanness. But when the Duggars started explaining that courtship is basically designed to eliminate the pesky problem of emotional baggage, I kind of wanted to get on the bus. Isn't this just a less orthodox (as far as our current cultural climate is concerned) form of self-protection? The idea of not having all of the issues, complexes, and anxieties that I've been collecting since the age of 15 is almost enough to make me slap on an ankle length skirt and a chastity belt. But what are these kids sacrificing? Independence? Valuable life experience? Emotional growth? Sexual gratification? Sure, but they seem pretty damn happy.

Founding Fathers: Catra, Force-Captain of Hordak's Evil Horde

"Catra displays minor sorcery abilities. She possesses a magical mask, which when slid over her face gives the ability to transform into a purple panther. She has also shown telepathic control over all cats."

A Song For You

in lighter news...

BOOMKaT. New album out now. One L.O.V.E....

The one in the next stall is dying...

She crawled (and I mean crawled) into the bathroom, slammed the door, and somehow managed to pull herself up for a minute to lock it. She was about to die, wearing an unflattering mid-calf skirt and foam-core platform sandals (which they still make?) in a seedy coke-bar-and-restaurant. "What was she thinking?," I wondered as I discussed with friends ideas about Culture Industry and the even more intriguing Black Embassy, both bizarre Factory-ish projects. This woman in the bathroom, however, was about to die, and seemed to have nothing to carry on her name, her beliefs, her terrible choice of footwear. . .

Maybe we had more than we realized. First of all, we had friends. Certainly no one would allow us to drop into a crawl position in public. Nor would they allow us to spend 10, 15, 20, 30 minutes alone in a bathroom, doing G-d knows what and praying to G-d knows who. Were we in the same position, certainly someone would save us, break open the door, call an ambulance, visit us at the hospital, all Demi Moore in St. Elmo's Fire with tubes and dramatic lighting, laughing, because now we knew that we could start over.

We didn't save her. We didn't know her. We joked about it (I mean, fuck, the foam-core platforms). That moment we cackled and strangers turned to us and joined in, because *it wasn't us*. Because someone who loved her was certainly about to save her....

I wonder what she thought, before the lights went out and it was all over. Perhaps she had a realization that it had come to naught, that life was a joke she didn't understand, that it was an agreement between her body and her soul, that she had surrounded herself with the wrong people, and that maybe these lessons would follow her into reincarnation. This next round, she could become something amazing. Maybe there were visions of a strong person taking a chance and loving her, a Kennedy Compound wedding, her daughter's first birthday, growing old and wondering how she'd pay for her medicine...

Eventually, someone showed up. We didn't worry about who she was, or concern ourselves with how shitty she was for leaving this chick she knew alone for 45 minutes to die and come back, die and come back. . . her arrival, no matter what, meant that everything was going to be okay. She had saved her, even kept track of the platform sandals as our heroine stumbled her way to the car, still clearly blacking out, unaware of the spectacle she had created...

Love in this Club

Christopher "Big Black" Boykin, star of the (tragically dunzo) reality series "Rob and Big," first citizen of Wiggins, Mississippi, former bodyguard, proponent of "murdered-out" things, doing work and Kashi cereal, all-around tub of goodness--

How I learned to stop worrying and (kind of) love the bomb

Yesterday, I went to see "Live Forever: Elizabeth Peyton," the poorly titled retrospective of said painter at the dismal, cheaply outfitted New Museum. I was dreading it a little bit. I've had a (probably unfounded) low opinion of Peyton for a while, made all the worse by the announcement of this show, and a starry-eyed interview I heard in which she really seemed to be playing dumb (a not uncommon and pretty dreadful tendency of some female artists).

So, the canvases (as well as a few really lovely works on paper) are expert, lush, quintessential jewels, the brighter the better. Peyton handles paint with aplomb; the images are quiet and easy. The majority of the works are hilariously similar portarits of androgynous boys (and recently a few girls), all romantic death-pallor, floppy hair, and ruby lips. Some, particularly from the late nineties (punchy and a little rave-y), are downright stylish. Each time I was drawn to a piece, I felt an intense desire to see it in its natural habitat, the brightspot of a fine room.

I'd discovered that I liked her paintings, and the more I let go of my resentments, the better I felt. I had also discovered that the root of my distaste for Peyton was in her words, the words of her critics and admirers, the curators of the show. I do not read her the same way. For me, the work is banal, redundant, dull-making, and this is the very thing I like about it. She is no great intellectual, a poor historian and cultural anthropologist. Painting Kurt Cobain was boring and obvious in 1995, and it is boring and obvious now—not the revealing, incisive choice it might have been. She does not crown and valorize her subjects, make them "Live Forever" (whatever the hell that means); she makes them all part of a long run of small, nearly identical pictures, a sweet game of aesthetics for a Saturday afternoon.

bathroom ham party

where you at whodi??

The fact that people born in the 90's can buy cigarettes and having an ex-boyfriend, who we'll probably see on "To Catch a Predator" one day (if he ever learns to use the internet) are just two of the many things that make me feel old. But perhaps the thing that makes me most painfully aware of my advancing age is the cultural phenomenon of established musicians being dubbed as "new artists," just because there are a bunch of teenaged twits out there that someone can fool into believing this crap. I understand the allure of "discovering" a new band or artist—it makes you feel good to know about something that no one else knows about. So I guess fooling kids into thinking what's old is new is just another marketing scheme. Pretty genius, actually.

I recently saw a MySpace ad touting some kind of contest for "best rookie rapper." The first rapper that I recognized was The Game; okay sure, he's been around for a while, but never really hit (so I can rationalize that choice?). Next, I saw T.I.—Really? REALLY???? T.I. released his first album in 2001 and had his first huge commercial hit in 2003. He's been steady on the scene since then, so we can't even call this new album a comeback. After I got over the shock of T.I., I was assaulted even further when I saw Lil' Wayne was also a nominee. Lil' Wayne is even more ridiculous, as he's been around FOREVER, with his first commercial success coming in 1999 with the Hot Boys #1 album "Guerilla Warfare" and his solo debut "The Block is Hot." It wouldn't be presumputious to say that Lil' Wayne had a huge part in defining rap in the late 90's, but I guess kids who think he's a new artist probably weren't even allowed to listen to music at that point, so I can't really fault them for not knowing.

Just to drive the point home even further. . . remember a few years ago when Liz Phair came out with that new album and got nominated for "best new artist" at some crackpot MTV/VH1 awards show? Yeah. And last season on "The Hills," Audrina invited L.C. and Lo to come "check out a new band." When they walked in on Alkaline Trio recording their 6th studio album (not even counting 3 compilations, 8 EP's, and countless exclusive releases), I threw up a little bit in my mouth. But truthfully, I can only feel sorry for these babies who'll never know what it REALLY means to drop it like it's hot.

Founding Fathers: Christina Ricci as Wednesday Addams, sullen camper

Psychedelia's first bloom?—the transgressive 50's deserve another look, PART I

Psychedelia's first bloom?—the transgressive 50's deserve another look, PART II

Ode on a Grecian Urn, PART I

Ode on a Grecian Urn, PART II

Verses

"For Grace, After a Party"

Frank O'Hara, 1954

You do not always know what I am feeling

Last night in the warm spring air while I was

blazing my tirade against someone who doesn't

interest

me, it was love for you that set me

afire,

and isn't it odd? for in rooms full of

strangers my most tender feelings

writhe and

bear the fruit of screaming. Put out your hand,

isn't there

an ashtray, suddenly, there? beside

the bed? And someone you love enters the room

and says wouldn't

you like eggs a little

different today?

And when they arrive they are

just plain scrambled eggs and the warm weather

is holding.

pitbulls in lipstick

Twee on me

An oft repeated Apple commercial is enough to make a song that I really like icky and cloying (Feist's "1234," por ejemplo). In the case of this new ad for the fourth generation ipod nano, featuring a snippet of the song "Bruises" by Brooklyn outfit, Chairlift, I am driven to despair, sometimes blind rage. The song or partial song is rash-inducing and post-apocalyptically twee. It's danceable and that melodic line sung toward the end and the singer's voice are rather fine, but the lyrics . . . "I tried to do handstands for you. Every time I fell on you. Yeah, every time I fell for you."—these are the pathetic, tinny, retrograde spasms of the tired old slag that is the marketable hipster of 2008.

This girl sentimentally recalls the time that she tried to impress a lost love with her less than stellar gymnastics skills, no doubt while wearing a pastel striped leotard, because what could possibly be more attractive to a bitter, fey, nervous, self-loathing hipster dude than a woman who acts like she's seven? I know that the word "hipster" has become meaningless. The hipster is nothing new; Liberally defined, he might be John Keats, one of the flashy, slang-dropping kids of the 1920s, certainly any of a line of youth-culture saveurs after the Beats. "Hipster" has only become a dirty word as the market has taken a sick hold over it (obviously not for the first time), and since callow youths seem only to care for sneakers, haircuts, and a sick compulsion to behave like elementary schoolers (kickball tournaments?!). This must pass. It's dull and unsexy and driven by clueless Middle American transplants to the Big City who seem to think David Byrne and the color lavender are fresh. Recession times call for dark, sharp, strong archetypes, an actual stab at Avant-garde maybe?

Sorry if I offended, dear readers (as I said, blind rage).

Thug of the Week: Ashley Todd

I first saw this story break Friday night in a bar full of loud and proud queens, who were glued to it like it was a director's cut of "Noah's Arc", so I (quite naively, as it seems) assumed everyone knew the story... Ashley Todd, 20 years young and so full of daddy issues that Lindsay Lohan has started making frequent visits to mediums to commune with Sylvia Plath and figure out what the fuck's up, filed a police report with a shiner and a "B" carved into her face, claiming the local black man mugged her, beat her up, and taught her a lesson about being a McCain supporter.

She made the whole thing up, we now know, and apparently punched herself in the eye and scratched a backwards "B" into her face just to prove how disgusting Obama supporters are (as black people and democrats alike never learned their letters because they didn't have a strong stay-at-home-hockey-mom to teach them their alphabet during moose huntin' excursions)... My only hope is that Jesus came to her in a twinkie-induced moment of rapture and told her it was the right thing to do.

God bless you, Ashley Todd. Not only did you make self-mutilation and "not insignificant" mental problems sexy again, you also reminded the world of Kelly Osbourne, as we all initially wondered what the fuck she was doing on CNN. Let's make babies some day. A&P's very first Thug of the Week goes to Ashley "Excuse My Beauty and Ruthless Determination" Todd...