Monday, February 22, 2010

jeepers, creepers

where'd ya get those peepers?

so today is going to be one of those saccharine sweet recollection moments. as i reached for several feet of toilet paper to accommodate the technicolor flood that was to pour out of my nose any second (because mere tissues just don't cut it) i noticed an unopened roll sitting nearby, a testament to a certain roommate's regimented thinking ahead and frequent trips to the costco, the label of which contained the word "embossed!" written in pink.  at first, i thought how silly to make note of the pattern pressed into the very paper used for post-defecation clean-up, but had that small accent not been presented to me in such a vivid hue, and in such an incidental moment, i never would have taken notice of not only this diminutive detail, but so many others casually thrown into life that, when their very collective magnitude is considered, contribute a great deal of beauty into this world. for reals.
so today is dedicated to the small things that make us smile without even realizing it, like those moments in movies or during sitcoms where you find yourself smiling but don't remember actually employing the muscles to arch your mouth into a display of happiness. monday, february 22nd is for the gold strip nailed to the bottom of the doorway threshold with the woodgrain pattern molded into it. it's for the watercolor patterns stamped onto the bounty big roll. it's for the school bus yellow enamel on #2 pencils that, had it not been for some executive decision to make them sunny, could very well have been boring bare wood or industrial black matte.  it's for scented erasers that, even though their intrinsic function is to disappear, please even the most crotchety of noses.  it's for the decorative pattern etched into the stainless steel panels that line elevator cars, giving the idle eye something more amusing to fall upon.  it's for the yellow and blue plastic strips on zip lock bags that combine to make green without fail, each and every time the bag is zipped. pure magic. it's for whomever decided to make salt and pepper dispensers whimsical, giving the person asked to pass them double duty, both enhancing the taste of food and delivering a smile.  it's for the comments that are about to follow...


Saturday, February 20, 2010

slender shut-ins


so lately my meager commentage has been primarily comprised of spam messages, most of which are unintelligible ads for male enhancement drugs and penis enlargement devices, but this particular one caught my eye, as it sounds like something gertrude stein might have written had she a) lived past 1946 and b) blogged.
the beginning is both colorful and direct, "design the animalistic with two backs casinos?" but i ADORE "cloth this pacific liquid behind the ears." that is SO a page out of tender buttons and, had it been written today, would probably have been called something like, "sinister ice."
thanks, gertie. ol' girl is talking from the grave.


the whore of decor

because i do think one ought to go to the man's place, if one is able...


so today i was thinking about home decor, a concept i rarely find myself exploring. aside from being the broker joker out of virtually everyone i know, the consequential lack of funding preventing my living space from resembling the andy warhol museum which, if left to my own devices and wads of cash, it inevitably would, i never thought i possessed the correct aesthetic to properly convey my personal likings to furnishings, accents and wallcolors.
then i thought, fuck it, it's my space.
and that's when i realized balloons don't serve nearly enough purposes in the world. filled with helium gas to make them buoyant, the fun, often brightly-colored inflatable misshaped orbs float around all sorts of special ceremonies, providing colorful bursts, quite literally if you take a pin to one, for birthdays, bar mitzvahs, even displaying strict color themes and logos for graduations and weddings (and whomever thought of color schemes for weddings is a whole other issue) but they rarely find a permanent place in the home as part of the interior decor. i suppose this is due to their short lifespan, as the average helium balloon wanes to a sad shrivel after several hours of innocent floating, but on the same ephemeral token, so do flowers. i mean, flowers last significantly longer with proper upkeep, adding special chemicals to the water to prolong both rigidity and color, so maybe a special type of helium gas blend and impermeable coating could be applied to a balloon to increase its life?  just think of how chic a few bronze orbs would look silently hovering amidst sleek, black leather couches, shiny brass light fixtures, a brown cowhide rug and a stack of art books on an industrial metal coffee table. chic isn't even the word--more mysterious, perhaps. such an unexpected presence of color and presence itself mid-level in the room, an area past the backs of couches and chairs but not quite high enough for pictures and mirrors and various wall hangings, is both intriguing and curious.  and due to their usual appearances at gleeful parties, balloons, regardless of their color, always seem to inspire pleasant memories--birthdays, communion parties, anniversaries, promotions.  you never see balloons at funerals or affixed to tombstones, which is my grievance with flowers--an abundance of flowers in any house turns even the most opulent rooms into a somber post-funeral space, the air heavy and eyes averted downward.

so let's keep the latex companies in business and start decorating our houses with balloons.


Monday, February 08, 2010

it's getting hot in here

so take off all your clothes...

I want a breakthrough. I want a lot of things. But right now, what I really want is another Pop Tart.
I just took my third bath of the week. I hadn’t bathed in six or so years, either a stand-up shower stall was all that was available, or time wouldn’t allow (and since when is it acceptable to invest so much authority in something as fleeting and invisible as time?) but recently I found myself with both a tub amply-sized for even semi-luxurious bathing and periods of time I feel would have disappeared had I not spent them submerged in sweet smelling, bubbly water. I think taking a bath is one solid way we can truly exercise our authority in this world. There’s something empowering about creating one’s own body of water, giving rise to one’s own island with one’s own rules and policies and statutes. It’s God-like to create, to sustain, and, with one quick maneuver that may involve lifting a lever or dislodging a C-town bag from one’s drain, to destroy. Bathing can also be therapeutic, giving one the opportunity to figuratively unload superfluous cares and stresses into the same water that will soon join millions of gallons like it in an amorphous mass of discard. Water is never really thrown away, but I don’t think about the repurification process. I don’t care what happens to my water after I’ve used and released it.
Bathing is intimate. All sorts of unloading, unleashing, disencumbering can be excised and released into one’s protective moat of bathwater. Aforementioned anxieties, primal urges, the contents of one’s bladder, even, and because the only judicial presence is created and upheld by you, the bather, no preordained judgment can exist. Of course the masochistic society that governs our sadistic world sticks its adulterated finger into our steamy broth no matter how opaque the shower curtain, but after a few shy attempts, you’ll soon find yourself bathing and in the singularity with which you were born.
Bathing is amniotic. Nothing else matters, nothing else has to exist. It certainly could, if one allows it to, but as the first time spent in the amniotic sac didn’t really extend much choice in the matter, why not resolve to the primal for a while? If “what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him,” since when are you so affected?
Sometimes I wish I could hold my breath for days. With few exceptions, mostly involving instances in the entertainment industry, very little activity ensues when one holds one’s breath, rendering them virtually dormant. I wish I could be dormant for days on end. I’d come up for air every three days or so, but aren’t we entitled to some time off? There’s something so peaceful about catatonia; I often wonder if the medical conclusions affirming the environmental awareness of comatose patients don’t simply exist for the well-being of their loved ones, to revise their purpose in life to acclimate to the new conditions. Reading to deaf ears is more reassuring than reading to dead ones. Regardless, those ‘trapped’ in comas never wear expressions of pain or agony, rather, they exude peace. They’ve peaced out and they want everyone to be aware of it, but instead of announcing their departure with a sign or party, they simply lie still until their lack of response garners them more attention than an outward shout. And yet a coma wouldn’t be for me—I’d rather the warm feeling of suspension, slight movement predicated only by the natural movement of all with which I exist.
It’s a shame we can’t eat Pop Tarts under water.


Monday, February 01, 2010

we don't need another hero

sing it, tina...

i've situated my usual writing spot in front of a dimly-lit mirror today, round and tarnished, as my expression is nothing but mournful, pulled down not from the gravity centered magnetically deep inside the earth, but the closer one, sourced within my own heart. i'm in what could be the last six, pitiful weeks of my most successful bout with botox yet, and the clean, evenly-spaced ridges on my forehead that made their first appearance in months splashed mud on what would have been a pristine pair of white pants of a morning.

ok, i'm over it, but the real dramedy begins when, upon checking CNN for my daily dose of what's up, i stumble across the video of heidi montag's plastic surgeon, dr. frank ryan, heralding his latest frankensperiment as as hero. the girl with too-big titties and tranny eyes is a hero. nevermind the fact that 50 years ago today four black men took a radical stance against the racism that made their lives unbearable, and mobilized something along the lines of the civil rights movement. they weren't nearly as important as heidi's surgery and the profound effect it has had, and will exponentially continue to have, upon the well-being of this planet. those men and their so-called brazen efforts should pale in comparison. why, they probably had evenly-spaced eyes and cottage cheese thighs and nipples that lined up and--because they were students--most certainly were gifted with brains, deeming them out of miss montag's league and serving as a rich text box bordering what's sure to be several chapters in revised american history textbooks. imperfection is so passé.

heidi's plan to be the flashbulbs' biggest beauty yet severely backfired, sending obscene vibrations through her jigglies, no doubt. she just removed herself from the very spotlight she craved. nobody's taking pictures of heidi montag, anymore--they're capturing a modern day frankenstein. they don't want her story, they want her man-made curves. they want their million dollar close-up of the crowned queen of body dismorphic disorder, now that michael jackson is gone, for at least his vocation was showing people the real beauty of life through art.

i think montag's only act of heroism is the resulting gaggle of people being driven--most likely against their will, as psychological disorders can prove more crippling than physical handicaps--to therapists by friends and spouses for exhibiting similar heidious behavior. psychoanalysts and psychiatrists alike around the world are probably planning their lushest vacations in years, as they've got their work cut out, cropping what's certain to be an emulation trend of madonna proportions. parents, there's no easy way to tell your six year-old that a blepharoplasty is not for them, and heaven help those dealing with the incendiary resolve of teenagers seeking the knife as adamantly as they once vied for manic panic as a way of being 'different.' and as much diy fun as we had piercing our own belly buttons and scraping pen-ink tattoos on our ankles, plastic surgery requires anesthesia, so don't.

the quest for perfection must be a lucrative business for whom or whatever perfection is, because it's been able to finance one hell of a botched surgery job of its own, becoming both unrecognizable and elusive to all its hopeless seekers. at least when the epidermal dust dies down we'll have plenty of hoarders to watch. imperfection can be so empowering.