Hell On Heels

2011-03-09T23:32:00.001-08:00

Childhood: the period of human life intermediate between the idiocy of infancy and the folly of youth - two removes from the sin of manhood and three from the remorse of age. ~Ambrose Bierce, The Devil's Dictionary, 1911

-Memory
Noun
1 a person's power to remember things: I've a great memory for faces | my grandmother is losing her memory.
• The power of the mind to remember things: the brain regions responsible for memory.
• the mind regarded as a store of things remembered: he searched his memory frantically for an answer.
• the capacity of a substance to return to a previous state or condition after having been altered or deformed. See also shape memory.
2 something remembered from the past; a recollection: one of my earliest memories is of sitting on his knee | the mind can bury all memory of traumatic abuse.

-Regression
Noun
1 a return to a former or less developed state.
• A return to an earlier stage of life or a supposed previous life, esp. through hypnosis or mental illness, or as a means of escaping present anxieties: [as adj.] regression therapy.
• a lessening of the severity of a disease or its symptoms: he seemed able to produce a regression in this disease.

Primary socialization: occurs when a child learns the attitudes, values and actions appropriate to individuals as members of a particular culture. For example if a child saw his/her mother expressing a discriminatory opinion about a minority group, then that child may think this behavior is acceptable and could continue to have this opinion about minority groups.
Secondary socialization: to the process of learning what is appropriate behavior as a member of a smaller group within the larger society. It is usually associated with teenagers and adults, and involves smaller changes than those occurring in primary socialization. Entering a new profession, relocating to a new environment or society.

Developmental socialization: the process of learning behavior in a social institution or developing your social skills.
Anticipatory socialization: refers to the processes of socialization in which a person "rehearses" for future positions, occupations, and social relationships.

Resocialization: refers to the process of discarding former behavior patterns and accepting new ones as part of a transition in one's life. This occurs throughout the human life cycle. Resocialization can be an intense experience, with the individual experiencing a sharp break with their past and needing to learn and be exposed to radically different norms and values. An example might be the experience of a young man or woman leaving home to join the military, or a religious convert internalizing the beliefs and rituals of a new faith. An extreme example would be the process by which a transsexual learns to function socially in a dramatically altered gender role.

Organizational socialization: he process whereby an employee learning the knowledge and skills necessary to assume his or her organizational role. As newcomers become socialized, they learn about the organization and its history, values, jargon, culture, and procedures. They also learn about their work group, the specific people they work with on a daily basis, their own role in the organization, the skills needed to do their job, and both formal procedures and informal norms. Socialization functions as a control system in that newcomers learn to internalize and obey organizational values and practices.

Durkheim's work revolved around the study of social facts, a term he coined to describe phenomena that have an existence in and of themselves and are not bound to the actions of individuals. Durkheim argued that social facts have, sui generis, an independent existence greater and more objective than the actions of the individuals that compose society. Being exterior to the individual person, social facts may thus also exercise coercive power on the various people composing society, as it can sometimes be observed in the case of formal laws and regulations, but also in situations implying the presence of informal rules, such as religious rituals or family norms. Unlike the facts studied in natural sciences, a "social" fact thus refers to a specific category of phenomena:
A social fact is every way of acting, fixed or not, capable of exercising on the individual an external constraint; or again, every way of acting which is general throughout a given society, while at the same time existing in its own right independent of its individual manifestations.
Such social facts are endowed with a power of coercion, by reason of which they may control individual behaviors. According to Durkheim, these phenomena cannot be reduced to biological or psychological grounds. Hence even the most "individualistic" or "subjective" phenomena, such as suicide, would be regarded by Durkheim as objective social facts. Individuals composing society do not directly cause suicide: suicide, as a social fact, exists independently in society, whether an individual person wants it or not. Whether a person "leaves”, a society does not change anything to the fact that this society will still contain suicides. Sociology's task thus consists of discovering the qualities and characteristics of such social facts, which can be discovered through a quantitative or experimental approach (Durkheim extensively relied on statistics).

DEFENSE MECHANISMS

1- Pathological: Delusional projection, Denial, Distortion, Extreme projection, Splitting
2- Immature: Acting out, Fantasy, Idealization, Passive aggression, Projection, Projective identification, Somatization.
3- Neurotic: Displacement, Dissociation, Hypochndriasis, Isolation, Intellectualization, Rationalization, Reaction Formation, Repression, Undoing
4- Mature: Altruism, Anticipation, Humor, Identification, Introjection, Sublimation, Thought suppression.

It is either this or I am talking to myself for the rest of my life.

2010-03-25T04:05:00.001-07:00

Story Tips:

Be Forewarned:

The Moth is NOT a venue for readings, it is a venue for tellings. No notes, papers, or cheat sheets are allowed on stage. Contestants are judged on sticking to the five-minute time frame, sticking to the theme and having a story that sticks—one that has a conflict and a resolution.

Start in the action:

Have a great first line that sets up the stakes or grabs attention.

Not: "So I was thinking about climbing this mountain. But then I watched a little TV and made a snack and took a nap and my mom called and vented about her psoriasis then I did a little laundry (a whites load) (I lost another sock, darn it!) and then I thought about it again and decided I'd climb the mountain the next morning."

Yes: "The mountain loomed before me. I had my hunting knife, some trail mix nd snow boots. I had to make it to the little cabin and start a fire before sundown or freeze to death for sure."

A) Steer clear of meandering endings!

B) They kill a story!

C) Your last line should be clear in your head before you start.

Know your story well enough so you can have fun! Watching you panic to think of the next memorized line is harrowing for the audience. Make an outline, memorize your bullet points and play with the details. Enjoy yourself. Imagine you are a dinner party not a deposition.

No standup routines please.
The Moth LOVES funny people but requires that all funny people tell funny STORIES.

^{NO RANTS:}
Take up this anger issue with your therapist, or skip therapy and shape your anger into a story with some sort of resolution. (Stories = therapy!)

^{No essays:}
Your eloquent musings are beautiful and look pretty on the page but unless you can make them gripping and set up stakes, they won’t work on stage.

2009-04-21T17:13:00.001-07:00

brunettes have more fun!

2009-04-14T18:14:00.001-07:00

steak, steak, steak...

EVERY WARP ZONE DROPS INTO THE PAST

2009-01-06T20:20:00.001-08:00

Personal Rules, Caveats and Mores I Have Shattered Like Brittle Bones In an Ancient Mausoleum; November – December 2008

First dear reader let it be known that I accept little to no blame for some of these actions, as they have been set in motion by the machinations of fate. Fate and FM radio who began an unprecedented early coup this year at Halloween (perhaps in the employ of a not so Jolly Santa). Taking over the airwaves like a hive of Africanized honey bees, hell-bent on blocking any song from the airwaves that did not reek of holiday cheer. By November 1st there red and green striped abdomens swollen with the blood of classic rock DJ’s this blood hungry swarm had many stations playing Christmas music 24/7. By December 1st the whole town was half papered and ribboned like the awkward gift given by a child and in case you for some reason hadn’t left your house in month, more Yule tide cheer was being pumped through hidden speakers should anyone being driven to madness try to destroy them.

{DISCLAIMER: these are not the ranting's of a bitter Jewish girl who has been overwhelmed by Noel. I find many of the Carols and lights quite beautiful. Rather the recounting of how a girl with a presently sensitive constitution can be pushed to what feels like the precipice of her sanity when such immersion takes place. On I would imagine the early deluge of music and ‘cheer,’ is retailers reaction to the downward spiral in the economy and there deep seated fear that the true meaning of the holidays BUYING will be neglected. They may, however have put the cart before the horse, due to the fact that the jolliest of carolers have their tipping point. When the time comes round to throw the Yule log on the fire the sound of one more jingle bell may prompt an incendiary toss in another direction.}

In recent years I have developed a hypersensitivity to many things, I believe it to be a physical manifestation of the way I feel about present life situations and stressors. Except for certain ones; house remixes of house remixes of house songs (can actually cause hives), drunks who can’t have a yearly income over 20K who bitch about Obama’s tax raises (they aren’t going to affect you, just man up and call him a nigger like you want. Say it you only like niggers who sell you drugs which is how you squander your 20K) being a racist will make you an ass but at least you sound like a minor informed ass, people who play the same two Allmans Brothers songs on juke boxes in bars (Whipping Post and), girls who are so desperate for a boyfriend because their masters degrees or doctorates don’t validate them as humans beings that they will date any old chump with no regard for personality, attraction, intellect or how they are treated, girls (women?) who worship “Sex in the City,” but turn there noses up in judgment at those who engage in coitus outside of a relationship.
“Slut, harlot,” declared in their disapproving glances at each other while sipping their cosmos, a new exciting drink which renders them classier then the sex on the beaches and long island ice teas they imbibed formerly, (wouldn’t they be shocked if they knew the Cosmo had existed since the early 1900’s). Judgment declared by these former cheerleaders girls and upper east side princess’s shoved into BCBG dresses that are shoddy knock offs of the designer clothes on the show that has taught them class as they stuff their faces at wing night.

The gradual disintegration of my sense of order (which was despite what may have been apparent to the world, existed at the core of my chaos like the nucleus of a cell) required the penetration of my safety chaos. This layer surrounded my order and was understood and fixed in place by me. It is a swirling nebula that could be interpreted by no one but myself. I have no idea how it appears to others. Perhaps all who have had a glimpse, just a peek, at it have seen something entirely different: a desert, a bunny, a post-apocalyptic wasteland, and a garden. Like those films where with every death, those who have passed on walk into a bright light to emerge into their own personalized heaven (a particular Robin Williams and Annabella Sciorra vehicle comes to mind, alas the name escapes me). Yes, if a comparison were being made, I would say we are dealing with a chaotic candy coating over an atomic center of creative calm chewy heaven. I suppose that was not so much a comparison as an explanation, or an analogy, which is as cryptic as the theory of a nuclear candy truffle of calm and chaos swirling about storing my soul.

The dense pile from which I pull my happy items as well as thoughts (sad, happy, bizarre, nonsensical you name it) looks like rubbish to the naked eye. Well, looks like rubbish to pretty much anyone’s else’s eyes, under my discerning gaze however it is a sparkling pile of precious items both tangible and with out corporeal nature. I can identify every layer.

I may have digressed from my point, although I think my point may have not understood why things must be so linear. If so then digression in this case was proving my point. Let me ponder, if I cannot pick the point back up post-digression then I have effectively disproved myself, which would be very upsetting. The nuclear chaos truffle would burst open like the Death Star, and I am afraid I would not find my way back.

November, December, Christmas music and a coup of the radio channels, chaos candy coating, nucleic shell of calm… calm shell, ah yes.

The rampant chaos outside the candy chaos: Nature .V. Nurture .V. Government.

My increasingly disorganized mind having slowly grown at times to distinguish what year it is since being displaced back to child hood bedroom. This undignified uprooting coincided nicely with the apex of my 20’s and 30 approaching faster than any other year (something about it reminding me of the Lone Biker of the Apocalypse from ‘Raising Arizona’), I blame my hippie beatnik parents. While aging and becoming uptight now, I for some reason knew from an early age, “don’t trust anyone over 30,” because, this is the zinger,” they are narcs.”

My bedroom looks like a carnival had set up camp there, then after breaking down and moving on accidentally left behind the contents of one or two wagons. The old and the new are twisted about each other like ivy; some of the boxes are so precariously placed on top of each other they appear in semi-darkness to be the ruins of a city. The walls are covered with the same posters that were placed there over a decade ago, Einstein riding a bike, ‘Faster Pussy-Cat, Kill Kill,” an unfinished painting that I will finish one day. Same damn Formica furniture, including a giant desk, which is currently the bane of my personal nesting experience. Despite my intense spite for this white behemoth of a waste of space I am forbidden to remove it (ever) as I apparently begged for it when I was eleven years old. If I could I would go back in time and slap myself silly outside of ‘Bed Bath and Beyond,’ wherever this Formica albatross came from.

Oh, then the boxes, like cardboard coffins holding various pieces of my life dating from the late 1990’s to the recent present. Towering about the small room giving at times giving it the ambiance of the garbage room where Han, Princess Leia and Luke were very nearly crushed on an Imperial Cruiser, or was it on the Death Star? Heavy smaller boxes filled with books have staged a coup of the entire house like literary foot soldiers dressed in the brown camouflage of chaos despite their contents of precious words and information.

The confusion doesn’t end in my room; it has spilled out of my corner of the universe and into the rest of the house. My couch, an extremely generous gift from my mother via ‘Jennifer Convertibles,’ which I had asked for and upon receipt did not have the heart to inform her was back breaking painful to sit on for any extended amount of time. Has been temporarily placed in our dining room/living room and covered with a salmon colored blanket of sorts. Bosco (large poodle) has annexed it and for all intents and purposes he now owns it. I think salvage laws are applicable here.

PART II

Bosco the poodle, epileptic with touches of attachment disorder stemming from his early childhood. Previous to my noble family being alerted to his plight by the ‘Poodle Crisis Hotline,’ (yes it’s real) he was kept in a cage and drugged by his first owner. The douche bag had gotten a puppy but then been very turned off by the young pup’s need for attention and even more put off by the pup’s proclivity to bark, ever. Leaving the young still growing dog locked up and doped up on human tranquilizers solved his problems until his scrip’s ran out, long story short Bosco is now a Nack. His epilepsy aside the condition being common ailment in purebred male standard poodles, and his ‘attachment,’ disorder diagnosed by mother a certified LCSW, he has also recently been dubbed mildly autistic (also by my mother). I didn’t have health insurance for two years, Bosco has fantastic health insurance. I would never deprive him of this, as he is my furry boo, however sometimes I look at his medical care versus the level of my own over the recent past and contextually it is frustrating. Bosco takes Zonisamide for his epilepsy, Zonisamide is a drug used for mood stabilization in bi-polar humans as well as for seizure disorders. He takes this because Phenobarbital (which our last epileptic poodle Texas was on) has a high risk of cancer of liver. Even on the Zonisamide Bosco must have blood drawn every three months to check his liver function. This blood must be sent to a laboratory at the medical school in Auburn Alabama, as it is the only lab in the entire United States equipped to test for the specific levels that give a clear picture of the drugs effect on the liver and other organs. Bosco has also had an ear infection for almost two months now, the poor dog has been miserable. His regular veterinarian, a Cornell educated vet may I add, has had him on three different antibiotics, four different eardrops as well as had to sedate him twice for some serious plucking and cleaning. When these tactics failed, Bosco was referred to a large dog dermatologist, which is the canine equivalent of an ENT. After careful examination of his records and many ear swabs it was decided he had and yeast infection in his ears as the result of some allergy. Since there is no way to determine what his allergy is a special diet was implemented.
- Kibble made of rabbit and organic greens (no wheat); very similar to a meal I had in a fancy French restaurant on my 23rd birthday.
-No rawhide or any chews, sweet potatoes and white potatoes are the only acceptable snacks (god bless the Kong).
-Organic gluten free, sugar free, every thing free tiny, tiny, tiny biscuits, not at all satisfying.

PART III

The ‘Warp Zone Effect,’ this is my theory: Upon moving home as and adult,’ there will always be an element of regression that occurs. How intense this regression is depends on the various factors surrounding the situation surrounding the factors involved in the move, as well as how strong the loss of autonomy is felt and or imposed upon the ‘adult,’ child. For some, those who experience a larger loss of their autonomy whether real or imagined, there is a reaction directly proportionally to this perceived loss.

As a direct reaction to this the confused chicklet (as we shall refer to the adult child displaced back to the nest), ventures out on small and unnecessary in an effort to reassure themselves that they indeed still have control over their actions. Despite having to tell the mamma bird where they are going, who they are going with and an estimated time of return which if not accurate leads to a series of hysterical/scolding phone calls.

The chicklet ventures out to the old stomping grounds uneasily, despite the familiarity of these roads and the structures that sprout from them, the chicklet feels ill at ease. The asphalt curves the same way, the beaches smell the same, the buildings look the same, but something isn’t right. It doesn’t ring true; there is hollowness to this landscape. The familiar landscape is haunted with whispers and imprints of the past, buildings seem flat like an abandoned movie set. The places where best friendships were formed, first kisses were had, fights were fought, peace was made, 40’s were drank, joints were smoked, the places where the chicklet was made into who she is seem hollow and barren. Hidden coves, parking lots, deli steps, basements where social stereotypes were put on hold and an elks head became an icon, a bar where a high school ID and a little sass was the price of entry, the pier adjacent to the boat house of an old mansion where kegs hid in the reeds, the sidewalk outside a bookstore and across the street from a record store, the parking lot of the YMCA where hardcore shows were scheduled between senior activities; the places where first crushes were formed, first hearts broken and alliances formed that haven’t wavered in over a decade. All barren and silent except for the whispers of memory. The occasional person wandering past feeling more like and extra on a movie set than an actual human being.

The chicklet’s heart breaks a little every time she desperately looks for a glimmer of her home. She goes and sits down on pilings by the picnic table at the marina like she used to, only now she is alone. Staring at the water so hard it blurs in front of her like an Impressionist painting. A deep sadness grips her so hard she feels as if she can’t even breathe at times. The madness that has seeped into her life for the past year has driven a wedge in between her and the corporeal actual people whose ghosts she was mourning for. She only goes to the beach and the pilings at night after this.

She gets Wi-Fi at the weathered picnic table, she writes there. Summer passes swiftly and the air grows chilly faster then she remembers. Some sort of deeply buried programming kicks in and she heads to the ‘Shamrock,’ in the cold, like a moth drawn to bright lights. The bright lights hide a warp zone, whoosh, slipping through a crack in time or perhaps in her mind everything rewinds.

“Oh, look the little chick let smoking grass at the marina. Wait is she, why yes, look at the little chicklet making out in the front seat of a tiny sports car with a man from her past.”

Cheep, cheep, cheep.

“ Chicklet must not be so little anymore, setting off the hazards, windshield wipers, honking the horn, turning the headlights on and off all with her ass.”

Chicklet doesn’t recall he booty being such a hazard in the past, you can put the chicklet through the looking glass but her ass holds tight to the present. Chicklet is mildly disheartened at this. Shaking off her confusion at what seems to be the reversal of time and wondering why if she is going to be trapped in a familiar past all alone why couldn’t she be trapped with a better ass. Tip-toeing into her house like a teenager taking advantage of her lack of curfew she becomes very aware of how her jacket smells like smoke. Fumbling for the Febreeze in the laundry room she knock drying racks over, waking the dog, waking her mother who not really awake sleep scolds, “ what you doing, irresponsible, 29, sister.” Chicklet claims the next morning that she arrived much earlier and was awakened by the dog as well.

One perk of faux 1997: Current screwy poodle not a barker. I am sitting in the bedroom going through the strata of my belongings. Thus far I have found the following: I have been working my way with a pick ax through shoes and clothing for weeks. I have already found 45 golf balls, a cat skull, a 7 inch of 'We are the World,' a mummified human foot, a broken loom, a New York Herald dated 1795, one creepy china doll, a box of lead bullets (them round ones), what appears to be a broken wood hand, some large molars, crushed shells in some leathery thing, scrim shaw, a partial human pelvis, a weird silver ball that is hovering around the room, the shroud of Turin, the REAL hope diamond, Elvis (he is indeed dead) and I think I see Keith Richards but he just waved, so think he is just taking a nap.

“Chirp-chirp, tweet-tweet,” little chicklet, little nestling, suffering from a crisis of self, a crisis of time and it’s suddenly non-linear progression. Wandering about forlornly, the chicklet's thoughts wander slowly through her head questioning this amazingly accurate representation of her world, her home, and her memories. Is this some tear in the universe she has fallen through, is she consigned to oblivion, had she really become that defunct that an unprecedented theoretical opening in the thin membrane that quantum mechanical physicist have been trying to prove existed for decades had stretched gossamer thin for a nanosecond and let her fall. Was she in one of the many muliverse's that supposedly pressed up against each other like Greek pastry where the same worlds existed, the same time yet with minute variances? Vienna, in Vienna men is spending their entire lives trying to prove this, specifically that these mulitverses could never cross into each other. Chicklet did you just make the most important scientific discovery since mankind harness the atom? Or are you just distracting yourself from the two dimensional houses and doppelgangers.

Sometimes it helps the chicklet to think about the whole warp zone issue in third person (third bird?)

“Alas, cheep-cheep dear reader the chicklet feels that communication of the warp zone thermo to you trumps her personal comfort, so I the chicklet shall just continue on. You have heard my last cheeeeeeeeeeeeep!”

PART IV

This is the ‘warp zone theory,’ which has been alluded to in all the jibber-jabber of flat houses, extras, and gossamer threads between multiverses and such: The previously discussed lack of autonomy that a grown woman (chicklet,) naturally occurs upon moving back to the ‘nest,’ is of course a natural reaction. Certain grown offspring specifically those who have already been experiencing intense feelings of failure in other facets of their life react to this perceived lack of freedom far more intensely than others. When this happens there seems to be a severe regression when it comes to communication, which the adult child outwardly blames the parents and the environment on. Despite this deep down they are blaming themselves and pummeling there own ego to the point that they no longer feel they can admit wrongdoing or ask for assistance after the way they have behaved in order to cover up their insecurities. Reacting to this the chicklet/adult child/me ventures out to their old stomping grounds, unawares of the warp zone, or any possible tears in the universe. The purpose of this is to reassure them that they indeed are still have control over themselves and their actions (no matter how ill advised these actions may be), despite once again having to let the boss (Mother), where they are going, with whom and an estimated time of return. Which incidentally they did not have to do all the time in High School!

So in my little sisters car (she is in Law School) where smoking is not allowed (and I at age 29 lie about it), I light a Marlboro Medium. I drive through the two dimensional streets hoping that the lights in the windows will give them life, like the first time a jack-o-lantern glows and becomes vividly alive despite having had his guts scooped out brutally by a child who doesn’t know any better. The houses are still flat and dead, the streets still dead. Both still haunted, I am not sure who is haunting them. It could be me, my memories so vivid that my own emotions are spilling over and rising from the streets like a fog. Everything is blearier at certain points. Where first kisses were had, first hearts broken, best friends made, the foundations of which we are built brick by brick. From time to time a person or two are wandering these streets, wandering to me these extras. They are just living their lives, not in my memory.

PART V

Back to the pilings, no one wanders there; the tide comes and goes, the ducks with it. A tear comes down my cheek and I think about the wedge that is blocking me from some of the people I love right now. I thought I was protecting them from things. I go back to my pilings night after night until it gets too cold, the grass has frosty tips and the ducks are gone. My small hands are too stiff to type or write.

Leaving my cold safe place, I drive directly into WHOOSH bloody fucking warp zone. Mind crack, whatever it sounds like to you, I was always a big Mario brothers fan, where am I now. The ‘Shamrock,’ has very bright lights, I get Wi-Fi there as well. Shaking it off like a trooper, I sneak once again quietly into my house at 5AM? 6AM? 7Am? Once more playing a Puckish role declaring to my mother that, “if these visions have offended, think but this and all is mended, you have but slumbered here, while these visions did appear, and all that you have seen is no more fleeting than a dream.”

Night falls once again and I grow restless and indignant. Pacing fruitlessly back and forth in her tiny room, her small memory box, and her mountains of memories. Blue Christmas lights and Liz Phair, pink hair and River Phoneix, I stomp through the decades like they are quicksand.

“I am going out! I don’t know where, I don’t know for how long! I am 29 goddammnit!!!!!!!! That wasn’t CURSING THEY CAN SAY IT ON COMMERCIAL BEFORE 8PM!”

“Fine, I am going to watch a movie with Brian (lies, all lies.)”

At least I got laid...

2008-10-28T21:50:00.000-07:00

I was inside for 15 minutes.
Somebody (le douchebag) took my tire and rim!
Left the mother fucking car up on a jack and just made
off with them.

Now this brings three things to my attention:
WHY JUST TAKE ONE? IF YOU ARE GONNA BE A THIEF DON'T
UNDER ACHIEVE.
Any jack-ass paying really high rent to live in "east"
Williamsburg can get off their hip high horse and eat
me because the shit is still Bush (what do tampons and Brooklyn have in common)wick is still the ghetto bitches. Nice to let the real estate agent sucka you.
Why take the cheap aluminum rim of a VW when there are all the fun spinners and shiny rims all up and down
the street.
Surely these must be worth more crack/cocaine/baby powder in street trade and make a lovely ashtray for mom.
Well at least they left three out of four lug bolts so I could put the spare on.
It went flat and the rim of it was destroyed of course, so i just got really drunk and got to ride around on a
motorcycle (B-O-O-T-A-Y).
Felt like i was in breakin 2, but white, not saving anything and really bad at break-dancing.
Well if any one sees a 12 yr old wearing a VW rim as a necklace, props to him for styling.
If you see an 'artist,' wearing the same accessory on the way to buy heroin for inspiration, after stopping an buying 300$ jeans with his dad's AMEX, tackle him for me we need to talk.
mother fucker

The Life and Times of A Fit Model or The Rise and Fall of Linda Price

2008-10-28T21:30:00.000-07:00

Linda never thought she was perfect.
She never thought she was even close to perfect.
In fact she spent most of her life thinking she was just all right, average at best.
Her friends thought she was nuts to have any gripes about her apperance, particularly her figure. She was almost six feet tall with a perfect size “27 waist.
Which is why the whole thing seemed so much like crazy dream to Linda. A good friend worked as a buyer for a popular denim company and recommended her to do a couple of fit model jobs. Her friend, Angela had always given her the samples (who else with a waist that small had legs that long).
Linda said yes, of course, she loved fashion and it seemed like so much fun. Try on great clothes, possible freebies, not to mention the money. She would be making almost half her current weekly salary for 6 hours work.
When Linda arrived at the shoot the photographer was enchanted with her.
She moved naturally in front of the camera, with very little coaching. The insecurity and self doubt that plauged her was invisible to the camera, a rare thing.

“You are perfection,” he told her.

Perfection, she laughed to herself he’s nuts.

For hours though, he and everyone around her kept saying just that, as well as a barrage of other compliments and encouragements. Then they asked her back again, for a higher rate! They wanted to use some of her shots for buyers catalogue, not just for fit anymore.
She felt high as she left.

When she got home her back ached from sticking her ass out for butt shots and her feet hurt from wearing shoes that were too small. One small word echoed repeatedly in her head though “perfection”. The next day she woke up and went to her stressful job, the job she hated. The job that consumed her life where nothing ever went right and she broke out in rashes her doctor attributed to the stress. All day long that one word rang in her head “ perfection”.

The next Saturday she went back again, this time for a longer shoot with make-up and hair. They included her face in some full body shoots. This was all but unheard of for a fit model, so the photo assistant told her.
She should get and agent they said.

This could be a crossover career.
The designer came in and was, like all the others, beguiled. She wasn’t a “model” but there was something about the way the clothes fit her.
The make-up girl and the photographer asked her if she would like to go out that night. Linda was reluctant to go, but she accepted seeing the editorial models do the same. 'Crossover,' she thought, this is what models do.
Her back ached, one of the “real” models noticed and gave her some pills.
At the bar she had a couple of drinks and felt like she was floating. It must be the pills she thought. Nothing hurt at all anymore. Linda was hungry but she noticed none of the models ate. She asked them weren’t they hungry they hadn’t eaten all day. The one other fit model Carol took her to the bathroom. She handed her a bunch of brown pills. Diet pills.

“ We are fit models we have to stay perfect, we are anonymous bodies, stay friends with the designers and keep your waist tiny. You don't have a face, no recognition... well maybe you have a chance after today. If you do though then you need to be smaller then 'fit,' you need to be runway. They also keep you awake during the day. I have a friend who will write you a prescription he will also give you something for your back.”

“Thank you,” Linda said.

“Oh and Linda get and agent if you aren’t always around they will forget who you are.”

Linda stumbled back to the table, but they said I am perfection she thought petulantly. I need to be perfection.
The next day she called an agent.
The day after that she quit her job.
The money started rolling in. Linda was the most popular fit model out there.

After a week of taking the diet pills she was a size 24” and fit in even couture sample. This meant event the highest end designers could use her when their famous super-model muses were out of town on runway shows and high fashion shoots. She was going out every night. Carol became her partner in crime. Carol had been a fashion model but was now in her late thirties and although she still had the body her face spoke of the late nights and hard living.
Linda was exhausted.
Carol introduced her to cocaine. When Linda was high all her shyness disappeared all her exhaustion. She could smooze with the designers and book jobs. Her agent loved her because she did so little of the work herself.
Linda began to stay out drinking later and later.
It didn’t seem to matter every day they would yell.

“YOU ARE PERFECTION”

This life style hit fast and hard, like an asteroid slamming into the moon. Unlike the young teenage fashion models behaving this way, Linda had to book jobs twice weekly to support new life style. It soon began to take its toll. She was late for one job. Then another.
Her body began to bloat slightly, much like her ego from the excessive drinking. Soon she was a “29, no longer able to do couture.

In the high fashion world you are only as good as your last job. She soon found that she was not invited to the exclusive parties anymore. Linda took her drinking and drug use elsewhere, Carol was still her friend. Linda didn’t recognize Carol, as a wash up has been who was too wrecked to realized or care about taking someone else down with her.
Linda drank more and worked less.
She neglected her appearance; her fingernails once tidy were stained blue from deep pocket denim shots. She seemed distorted as her tight waistline expanded to a “32, a 36”. Soon her agent could hardly get her work. Even with the name she had made for her self in the business. Everyone knew she had become poison.
Her “friends” wouldn’t call her. Not even Angela who originally got her first job. No one wants to be associated with poison.

Her agent finally booked her a job.
Plus size separates for a catalogue. The kind mid-western housewives browse in dental offices. Linda didn’t answer her phone.
After twelve hours of trying her agent went over to her apartment. Large and luxurious, rented just one year ago. No answer.

The super unlocked the door for her.
Dead plants, bottles and a hungry cat.
Hanging in the middle was Linda. Her noose a pair of size “27 straight leg designer jeans.

Stop talking to me like I am a dog. You are my headache.

2008-10-28T21:20:00.000-07:00

Talk to me like you talk to the dog, I have a headache...

While trying to figure out why seemingly the comparable incompetence of every cab driver I have ever had seems to directly correlate to how drunk I am. I decided to do some mathematical exploration to see if perhaps there was an unknown equation, one I was not familiar with, an algorithim that held the explanation. Or even better an unfinished one which I could solve earning my place in the scientific hierarchy ( or at least bestowing on me the wisdom to choose a cab that could circumnavigate the five Boro's, with a map and specific turn by turn directions).

Never being particularly mathematically minded in the past I realized that I saw potential life changing equations all around me in my life that just needed to be explored. My life whisked into an egghead omelette could solve the world's (or at very least some of my own problems).

If you use more than one variable, go back and substitute known relationships for the additional variables. When it comes to solving the equation, you want to solve for just one variable. You can often rewrite all the variables in terms of just one. For example, if you let (A) represent the number of Sarah’s whiskeys and (B) represent a given cabby’s brains cells, but you know that Sarah has had four more whiskeys than cabbie has brain cells, then (A) can be replaced with (B)+4.

In conclusion no matter how deep into the Jameson I am, my cab driver is a douche bag and I am a fucking genius! Apparently for being able to read signs. like 44 Astoria blvd west looks very different than 41 GCP east and is also the difference between 15$ and 28$.

Obviously I shouldn't have to pay for his gross algebraic negligence. Unfortunately Achmed doesn't quite see this and I (A)+high heels= slip and fall squared.
After being called, what sounds something like a humpless camel (please Achmed it's a push up lets not exaggerate)? Tip is refused (B+4) >B=B-T.

All in all we have learned that
(a+w)<(s-$)= FUCK I was never any good at math

Something to think about

2008-10-27T03:48:00.000-07:00

I'm watching a film staring Heath Ledger and I think about two weeks before he died. He bummed a ciggy off of me outside of my apartment and was humble and kind. As I walked away shivering with delight at his beauty, I thought ...man it would be really amazing to wake up beside that man every day. Maybe someday I can sit down with him and at least have small talk. I wish I would have done what I wanted to. Kidnap him and cuff him to my bed....what if I followed through with that plan?

This rule of the broken heart

2008-10-26T19:27:00.001-07:00

My life is succumbed to this: born, work, get fucked up and die. Though, I found this life through trivial means, it still makes me wonder how to get excited about any future endeavors. I finished a great high concept comedy with a writing partner that I don't know and I'm content with the effort. Normally, I would revel in this wonderful small feat that most of us only dream of but I'm stopped short. Stuck by the mundane details of mediocrity and still scared of the what the fuck happened syndrome. What the fuck happened syndrome? What is that do you wonder? Well, it's the eternal dream that encompasses what your heart felt as you took a journey to better yourself and ended up finding something less then stellar. In my pursuits for eternal greatness, I 'm not seeking anything less then redemption. I'm seeking something everyone wants to know, themselves. Through each re write that rears his ugly head, it's like an ex looking for a quick lay to forget the ex he never loved to begin with, I struggle. I gallivant with the masses. I drink for the ones that died, I drink for the ones that are better off then I'll ever be and I'm stuck. I am trapped in a mediocre job that doesn't know my talents or care to, an environment that I feel I'm maneuvering my way to the middle is unsettling at best. Yet, I have an eternal hope that one day, when I wake up in a house I own, that I can make a breakfast with comfort. I wake up today as I do every day, I stand on my gorgeous view of Los Angeles and thank who ever is out there that I am alive. That I have my faculties and a family missing me only too far away and I have the ability to change my course. It's coming, I feel the heat on my back. It's unlike monkey. I have enough of those burdens that I am trying to hinder. I am feeding the good dog. Who is the good dog you ask? Ask me when you're ready. I'd love to let you know.

This thing called you and I

2008-08-23T13:51:00.000-07:00

I am a fraud. I am a fake, a charlatan, imposter, phony and please don't make me pull out my thesaurus and start finding more words about who I am.

I’m the person who is sick to death with life but is making strides in improving it, in her own way. I’m intolerant and lackluster. I would rather watch a quality film then go out on a date, have coffee with a friend or go to any kind of sporting event. I usually find solace in booze but even that is getting boring. So the booze kick is now on hold indefinitely. See, that's the thing with me; when things become uninteresting or unappealing to me, I throw them away. I get them out of my life because they stopped serving a purpose. Will I go back? It's possible. Things have started organizing themselves. The universe usually takes care of that for me. The change has begun.

Seeing you on the elevator, I tried to ask you a question. It didn't work and it was because I had a massive crush on you. Seeing you made my heart skip a beat and my stomach sick. I tried to gain composure and I accomplished that, almost with ease and precision because that’s why I do when I have a crush. I go to great lengths to conceal how I feel and I do it. I don't think you noticed. I don't think you ever did or will. Actually, that's a relief to me. I wouldn't know how to act with you if I had you. Even being in the same room with you I feel your presence at 30 feet away from me. It's humbling and maddening and I don't enjoy it. It's that loss of control that maddens me. I am with the guys that are mediocre; they don't bring that out, my extreme vulnerability. They don't make my heart get excited, they are not very interesting or fun but they are safe. Safe. It's a sad world that I can't talk to you about how I feel and when I have spoken to you about anything through various lines of communication, I come off as commonplace, decrepit, and bonkers and that makes me scared and frustrated. What would happen if I got you alone? What if you enjoyed it? What if I did too? What if we were so happy it finally was there and so scared it was going to go away. I miss those feelings. Those feelings I don't think I ever really had anyway.

God I sound like a fucking psycho.

Treachery is the greatest sin

2008-08-11T10:26:00.000-07:00

I have a real problem with Sienna Miller and the entire fiasco is that it seems that we as a public are reveling in other peoples heartbreak. I trusted John Edwards and really liked him. His mistress is not even attractive. His wife is riddled with cancer and he's fucking some low level troll on his campaign. Don't get me started on the Olympics and George Bush. I might as well put a gun in my mouth.

I'm at work and I'm at my wits end with my mediocre position in the company. I'm biting my lip to the point where I taste the blood and I can't hide my frustration but I am so desperate to do so.

So I seek refuge in you. I might go smoke and contemplate a future where stupid people are shipped off to an island to neve be heard from again. I find solace in that thought.

oh how true

2008-07-30T12:17:00.000-07:00

"It isn't enough for your heart to break because everybody's heart is broken now."
Ginsberg, Allen

what if it shatters in your chest and all the little pieces absorb into your body causing waves of sharp pain that wash over you followed by troughs of numbing calm which are almost in there own way more disturbing.

short list of people in tv commercials i want to strangle

2008-07-24T23:54:00.000-07:00

I have always had an adverse reaction to the 'commercial family,' cheery mom (clearly taking the kids ritalin) who despite 4 children appears to be in her early 20's and a size 2, stocky, burly (aka fat) husband shocked by the high tech duster his wife has, 3 children who if examined closely seem to be of different racial backgrounds but whose sole purpose is to get either freakishly excited about the 'product,' or are sullen and angst only to be foiled by the housewife mother and strong paper towels.
ah, and the tween daughter appears to be older than her bouncy blonde mother, who in turn is freakishly attached to her blue collar fat men.

regardless of this specific, insane analytical breakdown of how this family prototype reflects nothing resembling reality despite the fact that they are all, say for instance, pummeling a neighbor over whose hotdog is plumper.

the people who irk me the most is not these mock degenerate families ( oh my god that is just like us, i watch because i identify), but the precipice of irk, the zenith of vexation is the the faux rock commercial, and the girl really excited about an inane object or product.

for example the time warner "i got cable" pseudo hip rocking jingle, which has such hubris that it seems to truly believe that i think that a real band did this or that douche-bags jingling will drive my ambition to animatedly talk on the phone in an apt. that clearly is 10,000$ a month.
digital phone will not do this for you.
cable will not either.

the next advertising induced homicidal impulse strikes like a cobra.
biting at the ankles of the dannon yogurt ladies. more insipid and misogynistic then any skin magazine, this duo of assholes, find that anything is merely a distraction from their yogurt.
their yogurt that they bring everywhere, like to weddings (open bar and 4 course meal abandoned and it's dazzling presence only a back drop for the yogurt.
a product which stayed cold in their bra or down their pants.
"better than never wearing a bridesmaid dress again good,"
not better than drowning you in your beloved yogurt.
compounded by my irrational anger directed at two commercial actresses who struck the holy tav advertising trinity.
i reoccurring role in a commercial.
making bank for being less appealing than a nude teddy ruxpin doll.

on to arm-pits, i watch network tv rarely, yet this image permeates every commercial break and like a parasite has imbued itself to all stations, local, network etc.
the most annoying person ever is freakishly excited about her deodorant.
so pumped in fact that she accosts strangers with hi-fives, salutes and any number of pit exposing actions.
i have seen out patients from psych wards behave like this,
when they goes off the meds.

any number of people in mentos commercials.

people who rinse out a sheet of paper towel for reuse.

assholes

and then the 1990's bit me in the ass...

2008-07-24T14:26:00.000-07:00

1) back in school: check
2) moved back home: check
3) uncontrollable urge to dye hair with manic panic found in closet: check
4) offered 'e' pill by friend while drinking in basement on long island: check

yep it's 1999...
the pill is in the bottom of my purse, I am not quite sure what to do with it.
a friend who I have known for over a decade was musing about throwing a 1993 bbq to celebrate his moving to ny ( I think it's actually to celebrate his platonic man love for another mutual friend, who doesn't know his anniversary date with his girlfriend of 5 years, just his straight male bf, this is just conjecture.)
in 1993 I transfered in to public school (HHS go devils... this may be the first time I have uttered this) from a jewish parochial school on long island. clearly wanting to dress to impress this new brood of economically and racially diverse cohorts I carefully planned my first day of school outfit.
white denim GAP short shorts, a flannel sleeveless green plaid shirt tied at the waist and a choker made of fabric daisies.
hey weirdo, why do you remember that???
well deprecatory inner-monologue, because this was a new chapter of my life, rife with catholics and new friends, some of who are still my best gals to this very day. this was the first chapter in my personal new testament a gospel of teen angst, oddly dyed hair, blue christmas lights, smoking pot out of empty coke cans at carnivals, exile to guyville on repeat, half-assed vegetarianism, first kisses and heart breaking crushes.
and river phoenix, who my 10th grade year book is dedicated to (not formally) where on the first page the school has been x'd out with a sharpie and glue on top is headshot of river followed by an epitaph also in sharpie.

in his picture river is also wearing a sleeveless flannel.
maybe I was more on point then I knew?

This isn't real. You know what it is? It's St. Elmo's Fire. Electric flashes of light that appear in dark skies out of nowhere

2008-07-18T07:28:00.000-07:00

My dreams involve me combing my hair

2008-07-01T18:38:00.000-07:00

The funny thing about George Michael is that I loved him when I was a girl and I also had a thing for Boy George. I’ll Tumble For Ya, not written with a woman in mind. Father Figure, not for a girl either. I have finally left the days where I found gay men attractive in a sexual way. Quite honestly, I have not fancied a man without some sort of 5-o'clock shadow and a chip on his shoulder in almost long as I can remember. I take that back. David had a boulder on his shoulder and sounded a bit femme on the telephone. I still don't regret leaving him.

I am watching the World Trade Center episode of the Simpsons. It chills me for the bone. I really wish I had a pipe to smoke to relax me. Sarah, I told you today I will start smoking a pipe. I had one a long time ago and enjoyed it. I will purchase a wonderful Stanwell pipe filled with delicious cherry tobacco that reminds me of boarding school. That will be my next investment. I have to decide if I want to buy an Estate pipe or a New pipe. The idea of a stranger breaking in my pipe kind of scares me, but breaking in a new pipe is a pain in the ass. These are things I will contemplate throughout the evening. I will buy the pipe tomorrow along with some teeth whitener.

I wrote a 6-word story for a co-worker and new friend. Revenge is on the phone again. Hemingway always inspires me. His was as follows; for Sale: Baby Shoes. Never worn. I know, mine was better.

Rolling...

2008-06-28T09:47:00.000-07:00

I haven't heard someone say that in quite a while. It is a term I never really understood, supposedly it refers to the waves of sensation the drug MDMA gives you (thats E for all you street kids out there) is where the term comes from. I know the spazzy, pale, skinny kids who lived in their momma's basement I used to buy E from at parties though. I don't think any of them ever sat down long enough to really analyze the empirical data of their sensory experience.
" Oh man, this is like a beta wave of... fuck got a hair brush I can feel my teeth, I love my teeth, yo dude touch my teeth... yeah that's it...feel it."
In 1993 George Michael released a single that was a cover of "Papa was a Rolling Stone," it was 'fused' (heat source?) with the Seal song "Killer," I have not heard this. I may not even try to, some things are always better in your mind. For instance in my mind George Michael is wearing his "Choose Life," WHAM t-shirt 24-7, if he is cold he has on his leather motor-cycle jacket. Now I mean he is watering plants in that shirt, making eggs, on the can, painting, you name it. That is what George Michael wears and I will argue the point to the death with you.

The agony and the irony

2008-06-28T02:15:00.000-07:00

I have been up dealing with druggies. One of my best friends is on the phone from Miami rolling and I have another one on my couch as I write thinking he will have a heart attack due to the consumption of cocaine and pills he injested this evening. I aspired to a quiet evening of cheap wine, The Smiths and writing. What went wrong? Oh, I think I know what went wrong, compassion.

Please allow me to excuse myself while I pretend to call 911.