Friday, January 28, 2005

Axiom

"You make me feel guilty."

How do I make you feel guilty? I can't make you feel anything. If you feel guilty, maybe that's your CONSCIENCE telling you you're being a DICK.

I Already Miss Those Ladies That I Met At Jury Duty, But I Know That's Probably Weird Of Me

"Mr. Howard" was the defense counselor who brought up Sun Tzu. I'm changing his name here, but I'm describing a real guy. Of the four defense attorneys who fucked with us during voir dire, "Mr. Howard" was the weirdest. His peering, sideways gaze was pretty weird. His pinstriped suit looked like it had been issued him by a high school drama department. And he leaned intrusively over the jury box to talk to us.

Then he brought up Sun Tzu.
(You can read this next paragraph really fast, if you want.)

"Ladies and gentlemen, if I were to invoke the famous Chinese military strategist and philosopher Sun Tzu, who wrote that the ends justify the means, those of you who, surely, deplore and regret the devastation wrought by crack cocaine, yet who themselves may be disingenuous in their pursuit of this civic, not civil, but civic war in which our government as here represented by the prosecution? Would we?"

We stared at him.
Mr. Howard consulted a clipboard. Then he swung around at the young woman sitting two seats to the left of me.

"Am I making any sense, Miss LaTonza Washington?" he bellowed.

We all winced. All the lawyers did this--they'd semmingly ask the whole jury something kind of rhetorical, then whirl around at one specific juror and demand, "AND ISN'T THAT RIGHT, MISTER GARMONIN??" (or whoever). Very startling.

"Ooh," we were surely meant to think, "they know my name!"

Jury duty, once you get past the cattle call stage, is both scary and flattering. Even though we were all chosen completely at random with no regard to our jury-worthy qualities, and even though we knew serving on an actual jury all day every day would be a pain in the ass, and grumpily told each other so during breaks, it was weirdly gratifying to have all this formalized, sober rigmarole rolled out for our benefit. After a few days it's hard not to take it pretty seriously.

"Am I making any sense, Miss LaTonza Washington?

"No," she answered.

The whole courtroom tittered. It was the only time I saw any of the defendants smile. And even then, only one of them really did. The other three put their hands over their mouths and looked down as though choreographed.

It was a capital narcotics case.

So, during voir dire is when the judge and all of the lawyers seemingly try to trip up the potential jury members (there were 24 of us empanelled) into revealing criminal tendencies, mental illnesses, socioeconomic status, and shit like that. We were each asked what our favorite publication was, which was interesting. Here's how I think it broke down:

New York Post: 5
New York Daily News: 10
New York Times: 3
New York Sun: 1
New Yorker: 2
"What?": 3

I bet this is pretty representative as a sample of Brooklynites.

But I wonder how good a Brooklyn cross-section the ethnic breakdown was. Besides me two other white women were empanelled, and they were both Hasidic. There were way more women than men. And more than half of the would-be jurors were African-American or Carribean-American ladies aged seventy or older. If this is true of Brooklyn in general, I couldn't be happier, frankly.

Which makes me uncomfortable.

What the hell does that mean? I, like many white Southern women, feel a mystical bond with elderly black ladies. This assumption is so deep and automatic that it's only just now that I feel a little bit ashamed about it. Who do I think I am? But it's not just me. Are you a Southern white girl, reader? Do you know what I'm talking about? Who the fuck do we think we are? At JURY DUTY, yet. Is it mutated cultural guilt, or more like the residue of a willful cultural ignorance? I know if there were some unctuous ethnic group that felt all pally with *me* on sight, I'd be cranky about it. Like, what if Asian girls really dug me? Chose me to sit by on the bus? Sought my advice in the grocery store? Worried during conversations with me whether they were coming off as patronizing?

I'd probably get a kick out of it.

But the difference would be that my ancestors weren't kidnapped and enslaved by the Chinese. No Vietnamese has ever called me nigger, and I've never been refused a bank loan by a guy from Laos. The only people who discriminate against white Southerners are white Northerners.

So, to sum up, something wrong with me, but that's how it is. I feel very safe around black grandmas. Safer, frankly, than around white grandmas. My own grandma scares the crap out of me.

During a break during day two of voir dire, while the judge was admonishing all the lawyers, one of Brooklyn's older African American women asked me,

"Is that knitting, or crocheting?"
"Knitting."

I took up knitting last winter and have just gotten comfortable enough with it to be able to do it in public without feeling self-conscious. And I'll tell you what, it attracts older ladies. I've fielded knitting chitchat from old women of every stripe and nation.

"What I do is crochet, down at the senior center," the lady told me.

She'd mentioned the senior center during questioning. Her name was Mrs. Collings. (This part is pretty straight-ahead documentary excpt for the names. Mrs. Collings lives in Bed-Stuy. She enjoys long walks in the park, is very active in her church, and disapproves of cake mix.)

"Knitting is with the two needles, crochet is with the hook!" Mrs. Box, a lady with an island accent, asserted. (Mrs. Box lives in Fort Greene with Mr. Box, a retired cop. Her son is a cop too.) In the jury box, she'd sat right behind me. "My granddaughter showed me, but I like crochet better."

"With knitting, you have to count those stitches," Mrs. Collings said.
Mrs. Box agreed.

I admitted that I wasn't very good at counting stitches, either, which is why I've only ever made scarves.
"Scarves are nice," Mrs. Box tells me.
"I don't like to see a man knit," Mrs. Collings remarked. Mrs. Box agreed with her, but a third lady scoffed. "A man at my church knits beautiful things. You should see the things he makes!"

We all went silent and reflective.

Then we were called back into the courtroom. Three names were called. All 21 of the other people were instructed that we were free to go. Neither I nor any of the ladies I'd been talking to were chosen for the final jury. The three they'd kept were one of the Hasidic women, an intense young guy whose brother was in prison for narcotics but who swore very intently that he was prepared to be an impartial juror, and a young white guy who'd answered "what?" when asked which was his favorite publication. This disappointed me. Actually, everybody who was dismissed seemed perturbed, as though we'd blown a job interview. Rejection is always hurtful.

In the elevator on our way back down to our normal lives, Mrs. Box said, "That attorney Mr. Howard was a STRANGE MAN."

The elevatorful of people laughed. We felt bad for his client, who'd looked very young and very scared.

Saturday, January 22, 2005

And What Did You Do During the Blizzard?

The following is a highly edited and annotated transcript of an IM session I enjoyed. If that’s not your thing, there’s nothing I can do about it. Fine. Reject my advances. I’m trying to let you into my life! But walk away.

Turn your chilly back on mine and my friend Gene’s remarks regarding the Lawrence Welk Show.

gene: I'm snowed in and watching The Lawrence Welk show.
me: on PBS?
gene: Yes, on WNET.
gene: No, WLIW.
me: I'm also also snowed in, and working on my blog.
me: Which channel?
gene: 21.
gene: I watch this show a lot. It's preposterous and makes me feel like I'm an old lady.

(A dancing couple takes the screen, sporting cater-waiterish tux getups and black derbies. They are dancing to a big-band instrumental of New York, New York.)

me: Oh my God.
me: New York, New York.
gene: It's been on TV for 50 years, this show.
gene: So you never know what era you're going to get when you turn it on.
gene: I love the fucked-up white-girl muzak versions of pop songs from the 80s they do occasionally.
gene: This episode’s 1980. See the Chorus Line influence?
me: Oh yes, very Fosse Lite.
gene: There is so much Chiffon and big hair on this show.
gene: I wish they played reruns of Solid Gold somewhere.

(The backdrop for this number is a line drawing of a kind of bastardized Times Square comprised mostly of tracks of small light bulbs)

me: Dig that forced-perspective set!
me: I wonder if you can get Solid Gold on DVD.
me: I love Larry's faux-hawk.
gene: I love this show. It's retarded.

(A strapping, heavily made-up, whitebread blond male, wearing a puffy hairdo and tacky three-piece suit, appears onscreen next. He sings “Mona Lisa.”)

me: This guy! He's a Sears suit ad come to life!
gene: See? And nobody will ever watch Lawrence Welk with me. Even the biggest fags who appreciate camp think this is horrible. Beyond camp.
me: That's quite a rock-block, New York, New York then Mona Lisa.
gene: Beloved American craptastic entertainment.
me: It's homegrown surrealism, is what it is.
gene: The pure products of America go crazy!
me: Larry was from North Dakota, right? Was the show broadcast from there?
gene: I have no clue.
gene: There's a North Dakota now?

(The Sears Ad Man, only Nowadays, i.e. not in 1980, but Now, about sixty years old and on a porch somewhere, appears in a “weren’t the good-old-days great” commentary segue bit. He’s Larry Welk’s successor for the re-runs, I guess?)

gene: This guy is a major cheesy egomaniac.
me: Holy shit, is that the same dude, only now?
gene: Yes.
me: Still heavy on the Great Lash, he is.
me: And light in his loafers.

(Nowadays Sears Ad Man rambles on about Great Music, and how his mother had a wonderful record collection.)

gene: He keeps talking about himself.
me: And his mom.
gene: Probably a heroin addict.
me: And has Crohn's.
me: what's this asshole's name?
gene: Dirk McBoring.
gene: This is on TV EVERY SATURDAY. For 50 years!

(Back in 1980, a lounge singer with a bad piece croons “My Way.”)

me: What, this is a Sinatra-themed show?
gene: It's supposed to be a “celebration of male singers,” and that always means Sinatra.
gene: I love this song, actually.
me: Oh me too.
gene: Regrets, I've had a few . . . . that gets stuck in my head always.
me: Do you like the Sex Pistols version?
gene: THERE'S A SEX PISTOLS VERSION????
me: Yes, and oddly, it's somehow cheesier and more dated than this dude is.
me: By the way-- this man's toupee is in 2 pieces, it looks like.
gene: It's a dead rat.
me: Perhaps it's only sleeping.
me: He'd better keep it quiet.
gene: LOL

(A new number, and a new set of performers; two matching dudes in matching tuxes and two semi-matching ladies in matching taffeta ballgowns.)

me: Now there's a wedding party singing.
me: They escaped from a Knights of Columbus hall.
gene: Oh, those women. I love them. I seem to be the only person our age who even knows this exists. Or cares.
me: Hang on a second, are those dudes twins? me: Does the alpha twin get the bigger hair?
gene: Just brothers, I think.
gene: I've seen them in a dude ranch-themed skit once.
gene: How did Lawrence Welk ever get this job???? He's awesome. OH.... candyman. I sang this as a solo onstage in my second grade play.
gene: Now what song is this?
me: May to December, I believe it's called.
me: Have you ever heard Marianne Faithfull's version of this one?
gene: NO.
me: I love Marianne. Even especially since her voice got "ruined."

(Note to readers: if anybody would like to buy me a recording of Marianne Faithfull doing Kurt Weill songs, I would like that.)

(During the next number, a female-choral bit, a fuzzy image of one chorine’s face is superimposed photographically onto the piano)

me: Hey, there's a lady trapped in that piano!

(Okay, so that wasn’t really worth the explanation, but I still think it’s funny.)

gene: Stepfords.
me: Where are those gals now?
genee: Doing this on cruise ships and family resorts.
me: Thank God for Branson!

(the next number is Hank Williams’s “Jambalaya” sung by a mincing male vocalist in pastel-colored western wear)

gene: This is the place where the heartland crosses paths with drag queens.
me: A holy alliance!!
me: This dude's pink kerchief signifies his country-music cred.
gene: Or his fetish for sucking assholes.
gene: I only know this song from Steel Magnolias, at the wedding party.
me: Really?
me: You New Yorkers.
gene: I don't know country at all.
gene: Loretta Lynn and Kenny Rodgers and that's it.
me: Well, you're halfway there.
gene: Well, Dolly too.
gene: Dolly goes everywhere.
me: Dolly transcends genre;
me: If a person doesn't know a good portion of the lyrics to 9 to 5, they aren't worth knowing.
gene: That’s right.

(The next performer is a luscious woman with enormous beauty-pageant hair, fuchsia lipstick, and a one-sleeved black flamenco dress printed with large hot pink roses. She has a beautiful mezzo-soprano voice.)

gene: She's so pretty.
me: She is!!!
gene: In the most fake way I've ever seen.
gene: But still pretty.
me: I swear to God somebody in Williamsburg is wearing that dress right now, with Ugg boots.
gene: You're right -- from a thrift store.
gene: It's so weird that these people can actually sing.
me: She gives good mic, kinda like Crystal Gayle.

(The singer switches from English to Spanish, mid mega-ballad!)

me: Ooh!!! Espanol!!
gene: Ohhh... that's so great.
me: Suddenly I just love her.
gene: The switch to spanish was so beautiful.
me: Truly!
gene: Plus a zylophone.
gene: I'm just cracking up uncontrollably right now.
me: I bet that now this lady lives in Del Rio and can occasionally be coaxed to sing at weddings when she’s had a few, and still looks and sings great.
gene: I've got the giggles hard.

(Another segue appearance by Nowadays Sears Ad Man)

me: LOOK AT HIM!!
gene: I can't.
me: Mock Turtlenecks; so aptly named.

(Nowadays Sears Ad Man regales us about “Katie,” the early-teenaged daughter of …somebody…for some reason. His kid maybe? Have any Welk-watchers evinced a curiosity about his offspring, I wonder? A photo of Katie—blond, brace-toothed, bedecked in butterfly-motif-ed clothing—graces the screen.)

me: Katie is the devil.
gene: It's like local news meets Branson.

(In 1980, Larry W. introduces an “Irish tenor,” a florid dude in a green tux. This tenor exhibits a facial morphology phenomenon that the great monologuist Suzanne O’Neill has described as “Irish Boiled Chicken Head.”)

Gene: I love you Larry!
me: uh oh
me: Irish kitsch.
gene: aw shit
me: This is why my gran enjoys this program.
me: I ACTUALLY KNOW THIS SONG.
gene: Me too.
gene: He's gonna have a big barrel-deep finish.
me: Oh I hope so!!
gene: tu ra lura laiiii….
me: The glockenspiel's a creepy touch.
gene: As it always is.
me: Or "glock," as they say in the biz.
me: He got his glock and he ready to roll!
me: Plus he's got hair like the Brown Cliffs of Dover.
gene: Brylcream.
me: Such a good product name…
me: ew look, it isn't even a real glockenspiel, it’s a man playing a synthesizer.
gene: I didn't expect him to go falsetto like that.
gene: I'm disappointed with him.
gene: I wanted deep power.
gene: Now his voice sounds like somebody playing a saw!
me: That's the thing with Irish tenors, dude, sometimes they go all fruity on you.

(A nifty red-tuxedoed bandleader leads a big red-tuxedoed band in a swinging rendition of “Mac the Knife.”

gene: Yay!
gene: Snap along!
me: OK!
gene: I guess the bandleader as celebrity got replaced by the dj.
gene: He looks a little like Joel Gray--
gene: just a little.
me: The oldest son of Joel Grey and Chief Dan George.
me: You'd look awesome in a red tux!
gene: I'd look like a Chinese waiter.

(The next performer is a tapdancing man, and the dialogue here is pretty self-explanatory I think.)

gene: See through shirt alert!
gene: Go cat go!
me: No, *you* are lighter on your feet all the time, announcer man.
me: Whoa, a pyramid of green-clad Mormons.
gene: Pistachio.

(Return of hated Nowadays S.A.D, who, after gazing wistfully at an American flag, starts declaiming…)

me: OH.NO.
me: Not a 9-11 reference!
gene: Jingoistic horror!
me: What is this a segue to? Why’s he going on and on about this?
gene: “as a vet and a xtian!”
me: AAAAAGH! “AS A CHRISTIAN???”
me: Larry never woulda editorialized so terribly. me: Gah, no, mister, please don’t tell us about your first trip down to ground zero.
me: What the hell business did he have down there?
gene: Giving blow jobs to rescue workers.
me: Heeheehee!
gene: Such a red state ending.
gene: Give me tiny bubbles!
me: “God bless you” indeed. May God forgive you for the speechifying and mock turtleneck, mister.
gene: And wasted existence!

(And on that note:)

**FIN**

Thank God My "Booze-Fueled Sex Romps" Never Make the Paper

Perusing today's Daily News at Kellogg's Diner, it occured to me that large portions of my life go unnoticed by the media.
And really, I should be glad. Because if my true exploits ever got out, my mom would be pissed.

Friday, January 21, 2005

Please Do Not Arrest Me

I was really only kidding. It's not possible to kill anyone that way, and even if it was (were?), I wouldn't.
(see below.)

This Is Not A Joke About Killing the President.

Dear Friends,

I don't believe in assassinating the President, even if he is George W. Bush. I disapprove of shooting him, stabbing him, I do not condone throwing him out of Air Force One with a bum parachute. I am not for setting jaguars upon him, or inciting anybody to do so. Don't any of y'all lower him into a shark tank, either.

Instead I think we must fight him with our humor. And by that, I don't even mean making fun of him by calling attention to his simian face or barely-concealed hostility towards the majority of the world's peoples.

What I think we should do is, we should make the President laugh!

It won't be easy for us, I know. I don't think he finds us funny. I don't think he'd laugh at the same things we'd laugh at. He probably thinks it's funny when people fall down--I do too, but he probably thinks falling down is the only really funny type thing, as opposed to, say, words.

I don't think it would be a good idea for lots of people to fall down just to keep him amused, though. There are enough people falling down in this world as it is.

Instead, somebody should tickle him. I'll do it-- I'll tickle George W. Bush. I will tickle him for social change. I am willing to call up the White House, set up an appointment, submit to all the security checks, take the train to Washington, D.C., sit in a waiting room for hours, make small talk with all the other folks sitting and waiting for him, tell Condoleeza Rice her eye makeup looks good, etc. And then, with the President's permission, I will smilingly and politely tickle him. I'll tickle him under his chin, and his tummy, and I'll tickle his underarms, and he'll laugh and he'll laugh. He'll giggle and chortle and titter and chuckle. And I'll tickle and tickle him until his bowels explode.

Just kidding!!
J/K!
:D
ha ha ha!

Monday, January 17, 2005

Semi-Precious

Is there already a rapper named Semi-Precious? If there isn't, there should be. But it shouldn't be me, because I don't rap. It's an art form that shouldn't be besmirched by my having a crack at it.

One time, my sister Annie, her friends Amanda and Ricardo, and I* tried to come up with our Spice Girl names.

Mine was "Thalidomide."

*If you can think of a better way to word this, tell me.

Thursday, January 13, 2005

Why is my photo way down there?

If any of y'all can figure out why it is that my photo appeared as a post instead of as part of my profile, leave me a comment, please.
I thank you.

Wednesday, January 12, 2005

Descriptions of movies found on the digital cable onscreen guide.

Three digital cable onscreen guide descriptions of movies.

Movie #1. Some movie with Timothy Bottoms in it.
I don't remember the title.
Description: Street kids are kidnapped and forced to fight cyborgs.

So...who's actually kidnapping the street kids to fight these cyborgs? The army? Pimps? Very persuasive cyborgs who hold a grudge against some other cyborgs and decide to let some street kids loose on them? How old are these kids, I wonder?

Actually I bet the movie had some lame battle royale premise with a fight-to-the-death climactic scene. That old chestnut. And even though I bet that final scene had some crazy costuming and all, I still didn't want to actually watch the movie.

#2. A Pinhead movie. I didn't watch this movie either.
Description: Man in space station battles Pinhead, as did ancestors.

"Hello, I'm Randy Van de Walle. I live here in this space station, because it is the future! And you know what? I am always and forever trying to kick Pinhead's ass. And sometimes I do kick Pinhead's ass, and, well, sometimes Pinhead kicks my ass.

Fighting with Pinhead preoccupies me. I hardly have time for anything else. But what can I do? The Van de Walles of Lufkin, Texas have always had this conflict dynamic with Pinhead. See my family photo album? Here's my grandma braining Pinhead with one of those old-fashioned gumball machines. Oh, and here's one of Pinhead stabbing my uncles' next-door neighbor by mistake. Nice talking to you--I think I just heard Pinhead's car door and I gotta go find something to beat him with."

#3. The movie is Swallows, a 1926 silent picture.
Description: A young woman rescues waifs from a baby farm owned by a swamp tyrant.

I watched this movie. How could I not? Bad enough there should be a baby farm. And the swamp is no picnic. Add to that a cranky, waif-hoarding swamp tyrant, and, well, I'm just glad Mary Pickford had the cojones to get involved.

Tuesday, January 11, 2005


fisch head Posted by Hello

El Numero Uno

WHO IS EL NUMERO UNO?

It's me.
I am the alpha and the oh, mega.
That's me.

I am El Numero Uno for the following reasons:

1. I am kind to old people.
2. One time, I found this small dog in an Albertson's parking lot, and I found a home for her.
3. I am teaching myself how to play piano AND harmonica.
4. I can knit a scarf in less than one week.
5. I am unhindered by any undue attachment to worldly possessions.
6. I have an awesome rack.
7. I am the killer of 7 scorpions in the last year.
8. I have two unfinished novels, and am bound to finish one. Or maybe I'll start another one.
9. I seem to have attracted you there, reading this. This, I feel, reflects well on me.
10. This last one is a secret.

Do not dispute me, sexy readers.
Or if you must, try at the same time to retain an open mind.
I shall win you over.
You and the horse you rode in on.

Because I love you.