Sesame Street To Main Street
I wrote this two years ago. It bums me out that the Republicans have control of the house again and that nothing ever seems to change in this country. I don’t really know who America is anymore or if I even want to know.
Dear “Other” America,
What did we ever do to you? Where exactly are you getting this notion that certain states are more American than others? How certain people are more American. How certain places are more “real.” Is this a contest? What do we win? A Wal-Mart gift card, obesity and a Bible? Why do you keep talking about “taking back the country.” You already have most of it, you greedy jerks.
And do you honestly believe that your America is the real America. Rully? That’s funny because I’ve been to your America before and it beats up my friends, doesn’t pay very well, hates other races, hasn’t gotten off the couch in 52 years and bashes my gay brothers & sisters. Is your America what our founding fathers had in mind? The United States of Ignorant-Doughy-Hypocrites? Or should I say Hipo-crites, you high-fructose corn syrup guzzling weirdos. If it is, maybe I am anti-American. Guilty as charged, Bill O. I hate YOUR America.
Before I go off on your America some more, I’d like to tell you a little about MY America.
I was born and raised in Des Moines, Iowa. Even as a little girl, I felt a little trapped and underwhelmed by it. I’d like to say that it was because I was a child genius that could see right through the tree laden facade — but now I truly know I must have been brainwashed by the “liberal elite media” masterminds behind Sesame Street and the Electric Company.
I don’t know about Sesame Street these days — but Sesame Street in the seventies was a pretty wild ride. Set to a groovy soundtrack, these furry, radical lefties taught me the value of sharing my toys and embracing other cultures. They also showed me the alphabet and how to ask for water in Spanish. Yeah, that’s right.
Agua!
En Español!
AND these Muppets all rode the subway together!!! It ain’t easy being green.
You know what else? These pro-immigration socialists lived in New York City! That’s right, small town America. These shows took place in New York City. I know. How dare these “big city, elitist, lefty, Marxist Muppet terrorists” show your children how to master the delicate art of “cooperation.” The nerve.
Needless to say, these shows had a huge influence on me. Simply put, New York was what I wanted to be when I grew up. I was obsessed with it. Every creative writing assignment I wrote in grade school took place in New York. I remember telling all of my teachers about my New York dream. You know what those narrow minded compulsive liars said to me?
“People get stabbed on the streets there and nobody helps.”
“All New Yorkers are rude.”
“Garbage is all over the streets.”
“Drugs.”
“Poverty.”
“You’re always stepping on dead people.”
Always stepping on dead people? Really?
I wasn’t buying it. These people had never even been outside of Des Moines. What did they know about New York? Besides, I’d seen enough Electric Company episodes to realize that New York was a multi-cultural wonderland with friendly people, groovy music and a million ways to say “hello.” My teachers were all wrong.
In my wide eyes, anything could happen in New York. Like many immigrants before me, New York was MY American dream. It’s where I wanted to flee to avoid the persecution and ridicule from the other America I was living in. You know, the “real” America. Your America. The America that bullies. The America that everybody hates. The America that voted for President Bush. TWICE!
Sadly I didn’t end up in New York. I ended up someplace even more un-American. A little place called San Francisco.
To give you an idea of the horror and confusion “real” Americans feel toward San Francisco, here’s an example:
An idiot male once made a “joke” to my poor mother about how I better be careful “not to catch AIDS from a doorknob there.”
Let me get this straight. People in New York are stepping on the dead while people in San Francisco are catching AIDS from doorknobs?
???!!
Is this seriously what the sick, delusional freakazoids from other America have to say about my America. I’m sorry, but how dare these people put down any of us! How dare they use their religions to justify hate and ignorance! How dare they call themselves real Americans! How dare these racist and uneducated hicks brag about their values. What values? I don’t see the value in not opening up a book that isn’t the Bible. I don’t see the value of never leaving your small town. I don’t see the value of making crass generalizations about a world you’ve never experienced. I especially don’t see any value in judging others because they don’t share your skin tone or worship your God. By the way, it’s not your God. Just how this isn’t your America. It’s OUR America and I think it’s big enough for the both of us. If you don’t agree, maybe we need better education, a civil war and more Sesame Street episodes until you get it right.
In the meantime, I have hope that we can drum together – even though your drumming sounds like shit.
Love always,
Automne
Soul Train Wreck
The other Saturday I tried to win $100 in a dance contest. Quit laughing, people. I’m broke and I’m a fantastic dancer.
After incorporating a switch blade comb into my dance routine and dramatically collapsing on the judges’ table a la James Brown, I managed to win their hearts and was chosen unanimously for the finals. All I had to do was beat a quirky friend that had amazingly freaktastic moves, a shaggy-haired boy with loose hips , and a pretty girl in a leotard who was dry humping a wooden column. In all fairness, the pretty girl was limber — but her seduction of an architectural structure device seemed a little too bridge and tunnel for this sophisticated panel. There was no way she was going to win. I was kind of surprised that she even made it to the finals.
We all gathered around for the final dance and to my absolute horror, a slower number was chosen — “because dancing isn’t just about freaking out — it’s about sex appeal.”
Yeah, yeah, yeah *yawn* duly noted and just great. GREAT. Boooooo! Sssssssss! This is exactly what an ex-goth that studied Prince and took hip hop dance classes for an entire summer needed to hear. Do they really expect us all to dance sexy? Please. I had BIG plans of doing my jump/split move. Now I can’t. Now I’m shadow dancing like a dimwit. Seriously, you guys. Slow tempos are a big deal breaker for me. Whenever the music slows down, it’s always been my cue to get the hell off the dance floor before some idiot male (they come out of nowhere) thinks he’ll be able to “complete me” by asking me to dance. I cringe whenever that happens and a gigantic stream of “I-need-some-air-I-need-a-drink-I-need-to-find-my-friends-my-leg-hurts-where’s-the-bathroom-I’m-married-my-shoe-is-untied-I’m-a-lesbian-I-don’t-slow-dance-I-need-to-find-an-atm-machine-my-husband-will-kill-you-my-period-just-started——–lies—-truth—-lies—-truth—lies” come out of my mouth. Instead of learning how to dance to this stuff, I’ve just learned how to gracefully exit.
Besides, slow songs are for couples and strippers. Everybody knows that.
Uh oh. Did someone say strippers?
Things took a turn from mildly uncomfortable to the “worst night evahhh” when two of the trashiest blondes I’ve ever seen decided to crash the dance contest. In their defense, they thought this slower number was some sort of mating call. Much like idiot males, slow songs attract idiot females trying to show off those fancy gyrating skills they mastered after months of watching “Flirty Girl Fitness” DVDs. I also believe they were suffering from “hot blonde syndrome” — a terrible condition in which hot blondes go anywhere they please and do anything they want because nobody EVER tells hot blondes that they can’t do stuff. One of these girls had such a terrible case of H.B.S. that it caused a most unfortunate wardrobe malfunction. For most of the evening, one of her floppy boobs continuously popped out of the cheap poly blend shirt desperately trying to contain it. In her boob’s defense, it was probably trying to escape this terrible girl and her poor fashion choices. Meanwhile, the other hot blonde — all barefoot and dressed like the poor man’s Stevie Nicks — attempted to grind up on anything and anyone in her path. I guess the “no shoes/no shirt” policy applies to everyone except hot blondes.
Duly noted.
So do I.
Needless to say, it went from Soul Train to train wreck and I suddenly felt ridiculously out-of-place and absolutely embarrassed to be a woman. This was exactly the kind of tomfoolery that happens when you try and “sex-up” a dance contest. For shame, people! Where are my marbles?
Feeling discouraged, I tried my best to get past the fact that dance contests, like EVERYTHING, are never really about who is better. It’s always a beauty pageant — a test of “who wore it best.” In this case, the “girl who wore it best” happened to be wearing the least. Yeah, surprise-surprise, our favorite double-jointed column humper took home the $100 prize. I even saw one of the judges making out with her later that night. Whatever. At least they didn’t give the prize to that one trashy blonde’s floppy boob. I guess I should be grateful for that small feminist victory. That said, I think the boob was a better dancer.
Okay. Perhaps I’m being too judgmental. The winner seemed like a lovely person and she was certainly flexible and gorgeous. No dispute there. It was just disappointing because as lovely as she seemed, there wasn’t anything particularly lovely about her dancing. She was just another normal hot girl bending over and the crowd wasn’t buying it. She may have won the judges’ hearts but I was the people’s choice. One after another, total strangers whispered to me, “You should have won — that contest was bullshit — I love your dress.”
It was a great dress.
Unfortunately I have not worked out a way to pay the bills with compliments and I really needed that $100. Later a friend informed me that the girl who won needed the $100 more because her purse got stolen that night. I had little sympathy. I didn’t even bring a purse because it’s not like I have anything to fill a purse with. Do you put money in those things? I don’t have that.
Rich girl problems.
Bummed out and feeling like the Al Gore of dance contests, I decided to leave.
As I said my goodbyes, various friends attempted to make me feel better with backhanded compliments — my favorite kind. One suggested that the only reason the column humper won was because she was attractive and thin.
Wow. So I’m not? Thanks, man.
Another one insinuated that I enabled the column humper to win.
Rully? And how did I do that?
While another mentioned that had I shown a little more skin, I would have won.
Fair enough but I’m a feminist. I may not have been showing an inch of skin but my dress was pretty spectacular. Does taste and style count for anything these days?
Also – not meaning to get all caps and shit – THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A DANCE CONTEST! Why is everyone talking about looks and skin? I bet nobody went up to the guy that competed and said “you would have won had you shown a little more skin” or “if you were better looking….” Please. I did hear an acquaintance go into an elaborate conspiracy theory about how these dance contests are rigged.
“I don’t mean to be sexist but…”
Oh boy — here we go…
“they HAVE to let girls win — even though guys are better dancers.”
Fascinating.
The night came to its climatic conclusion when one of the hot blondes fell on me before puking on my Italian boots. It was the least she could do.
This was an appropriate metaphor for the entire evening. It also reminded me of something that has been bothering me for quite a while.
Normal people.
Can we talk about normal people for a second? They are everywhere and have control over the government, our cities, our neighborhoods, advertising, the airwaves, the job market, newspapers, Hollywood, music, clothing, television, social networking sites, architecture, the internet, dance contests, our evenings out, beauty standards, puke, column humping… EVERYTHING. They question nothing and ruin it all. There used to be a time when kindred spirits could look a certain way and go to certain places just to get away from this overwhelming state of norm. This didn’t last for long once the norms found out about these safe places. I mean, dress codes have been reasonably successful in scaring off a few norms that don’t own shirts with collars — but most of them just figured out clever ways to appropriate our form of dress while using our own music against us. You see, norms are greedy grabbers and they want our scene too. They go to our clubs, get drunk at our shows, write for our music weeklies, and wake up in your bedrooms.
Umm, and about that. WHY, people? WHY? You’re better than that. Why are so many of you sleeping with these fools? Why are you encouraging them? They’re not that cute. I’m not just talking to the ladies here, I’m talking to you gentlemen as well. Why do you choose the easy ones over the complicated ones? It’s always sluts over style. What gives? I thought you were supposed to be enlightened. I thought we were all on the same page about this stuff.
Clearly this is all making me cranky and I’m starting to give up on any hope of a good night out with people I can relate to. Even my own subculture has let me down. Where is the style? The wit? the substance? The charisma? The excitement? I’m hungry for fascinating conversations and decent dance partners. I want to have my mind blown for a change. I want to feel something. I want to laugh. Why is everyone so drunk and boring and conservative and humorless? Why is everyone always playing it so safe? American Apparel again? Irony again? Leggings again? Denim again? Glee AGAIN? Are you guys really watching that show? Why is Bitch magazine always blogging about it? Why is everyone watching so much TV? I went out a few months ago and some guy was sincerely trying to talk to my friends and I about “Everybody Loves Raymond.” Are you kidding me??? Is this really what’s on people’s minds?
Ugh.
More importantly, why do column humpers win $100 in dance contests while girls like me walk home alone in the rain — broke — with some idiot’s puke on their shoe?
Time.
“The only reason for time is so that everything doesn’t happen at once.”
~Albert Einstein
“I got all the time that I need to kill.”
~The Beastie Boys
My boss man recently decided that we all had to start using a time clock. Before we were on the honor system– going about the work week in a very casual, almost Scandinavian fashion. True, people may or may not have been flubbing their hours. Whatever. Who am I to judge? Everyone got their work done. Why must we be inconvenienced by the technicalities of the when’s and the how long’s it took to complete said work? What does it matter? Why must I have yet another thing to log in and out of each day? Why are Americans so obsessed with details and seconds? What does an extra ten minutes here and there really mean? Can’t we all get paid by the job and not by the hour? Clearly the introduction of the time clock is making me trip out about the heaviness of time and the bullshit of work even more than usual.
Much like capitalism, time is just one of those things I’ve never been able to get a handle on. I even briefly took a course at my liberal arts school that explored “time and space.” In this class —–inhale——-we mulled over the religious, scientific, and philosophical aspects of time——–exhale—– What is time? A number of repetitions? Counting? Periodic motions? A sequence of events? Linear intervals in space? What’s space? If space is infinite, how can there be linear anything? How can we even measure such a thing? What’s infinity, man? Existential meltdowns would ensue as great scholars and inquisitive stoners would try to come up with some sort of universal definition. Ironically enough, not one person in this class wore a watch but we all managed to show up for a “limited period of intervals in space” each week.
To make things even more troubling, this class was taught in San Francisco – a city where January feels like August feels like May feels like October. I lived there for nearly a decade and never knew what time of the year it was. Nobody did. Birthdays were missed/forgotten. Shows were never when you thought they were going to be. Holidays were a blur. I never had any idea when Christmas was coming except for the changes in window displays. When I look back, it just feels like it was 1996 forever. Nobody aged either — well at least not in the ways our friends on the East Coast aged. Was it because there was no emphasis on seasons passing? Was it our leisurely lifestyle? Was our lifestyle so leisurely because we never knew what time of the year it was? Was it just because everyone was stoned and had nowhere to be? There’s no such thing as time when you’re going nowhere and doing a whole lot of nothing.
That’s another problem I had with time. I didn’t trust the fact that it lost all meaning while under the influence of various drugs. When I was a bit younger, I remember having a terrible mushroom trip one beautiful Saturday afternoon. My boyfriend nearly went crazy because I kept checking the clock in our kitchen every second to make sure that “time was passing.” In my drug addled state, time had officially stopped and I was stuck at 4:15 forever. This lasted for approximately five hours but “what are five hours” when “4:15 lasts forever, man.”
Umm, one minute, I suppose.
Time means nothing and everything.
Which brings me to the work week. The worst mushroom trip of all time can not compare to the stubbornness of time when you’re stuck at work. Wrist watches might as well be handcuffs, my friends. Time is not on your side when you are an hourly wage slave. I find that Tuesdays can feel like three and a half weeks and 5pm is always a year away. Sure, there are tricks to make the time pass more quickly. There is the Internet and there are funny animal videos on Youtube. Some may even argue that watches are obsolete and Youtube videos are probably a more accurate time taking device.
“You guys, after I watch these seven wacky cat videos and three freak beat-Italian dance show ones, it will be time for lunch.”
There are also ten-minute breaks. In theory, a “break” is supposed to indicate some sort of relief from the monotony of work but it’s actually just the gift of time — our time. It’s our boss’ way of saying, “Here-you-goooo, have your ten minutes back. Go craaaaazzzzzy.” It’s like a sip of water in the desert. It’s approximately one cigarette.
That’s another thing. I’ve never been a smoker and have always wondered if everyone decided that ten minutes is the amount of time it takes to finish one cigarette or if it’s a bit more mathematical than that. I do know that Europeans take infinitely longer breaks than Americans. Is it because they smoke way more cigarettes? Or can they just smoke more cigarettes because they have more time? Clearly I’m entering dangerous “chicken or the egg” territory. Also, now that less people are smoking, I’m starting to get mildly concerned that the ten minute break is slowly becoming obsolete.
Another thing that boggles my mind is how we’ve mathematically broken up the 24 hour day into these eight-hour intervals. It’s suggested that you sleep for 8 hours, work for 8 hours, and then have 8 hours of your “free” time. 3×8 = 24. DONE and done. You guys, this formula sucks. People always end up cutting into their sleep time to get stuff done on their “free” time. We need more sleep, all kinds of free time, and waaaaaay less work. It’s so obvious. Why fight it? Why do people roll their eyes when I propose that a 10 hour work week makes more sense than a 40-hour one? How do people get anything done when they’re working for 40 hours? And what about the people like me that work and then come home and work on other stuff? I have zero “free” time. Almost everyone I know is walking around completely miserable, hating their jobs, and making elaborate to-do lists because there’s never any “free” time — especially if you’re involved in the arts. The arts don’t pay the rent. Why is rent so expensive? Why is this the norm? Why do we require so much work to make so much income to pay for so much unnecessary bullshit?
Emma has some theories.
When I was in Junior High, I remember learning about various economic systems in my government class. The day we learned about socialism was particularly exciting for me and I couldn’t figure out why it was frowned upon. I mean, here was this system that transcended commodity production and wage labor — a system based on treating everyone fairly and distributing the wealth evenly. I raised my hand to ask Mr. Buzzkill what the deal was. Seriously, I failed to see the harm in any of those things. You know what that grumpy Republican screamed at me? How “it could never work-ism” and how “somebody always deserves to make more money-ism” and “communism” and “hipppies taking advantage of the system-ism” and “fascism” and “dream on-ism” and “OMG! the horrors of RUSSIA-ism” and “blablabla-ism.” He may have even scribbled my name down. The dude was clearly pissed that I would dare to question our capitalist ways. He found our current model of exploiting the work force to be far superior. I never raised my hand again in that class. Whatever. I was reading a lot of Thoreau in English that year and discovering punk rock. He just sounded like a bitter old man to my tiny little revolutionary ears.
Ever since that day, I hear nothing but bitter old men yelling in my “revolutionary” ears — bitter old men with time clocks and numbers. Why are they all so attached to this failure of a system? I often wonder why it is so “revolutionary” to think my way? It really isn’t. This is basic stuff, people. Why are people like me looked down on for wanting to work less and have less? For simplifying our lives? For making music and creating art just for the sake of doing it? Why are we called lazy? Do you have any idea how time consuming it is to make things? We’re not watching television and getting fat, my friends. We’re producing stuff and thinking about things. WE are the American dream. We’re not slackers expecting a handout. We’re dreamers. Movers. Shakers. Why do people frown on us because we’d rather make music than make babies? Why is one thing better than the other? Why does everything have to revolve around a conservative view of “family” and not a more liberal view of “community”. Why does it always have to be about the old ways? The money? The bottom line? What’s wrong with sharing? What’s wrong with believing in a better world? What’s wrong with believing in each other? We’re not all assholes. This isn’t utopian/hippie bullshit nor is it impossible. I just think that there are better ways to live our lives and I could care less about the money, man. Money comes and goes but there is no possession that I value more than my time.
And it’s time for a revolution.
Girls Just Want To Have Fun
The other day a friend and I were talking about how we’ll never have as much fun as The Black Lips. It’s not that we don’t know how to tear shit up (we do) or that we’re not versed in the art of rock ‘n’ roll shenanigans (we’re masters.) It’s just that shit is different when you’re a girl. As much as we want to jump off our amp, break a bottle over your head, spit beer out of our mouths, punch you in the face, and have meaningless one-night-stands with faceless hair-dos — it’s just not a reality for most of us. We have to constantly be on our game and watch out for each other. When a girl is walking home alone, it’s a requirement for her to text the friends that she was just out with. We don’t do this because “OMG, we just looooove to text.” No, man. We do it to let each other know that we made it home safely. There is no “casual stroll from the bar” when you’re a girl. There is no “black-out drunk” when you’re a woman on tour. You know how friggen dangerous that is? There is no “do-so-many-drugs-I-can’t-play-my-instrument” when you’re a chick in a band. I’m not saying that it doesn’t happen – but most of us don’t have the luxury to screw up like that. It’s hard enough to be taken seriously when you have tits.
The Vivian Girls not having nearly as much fun.
And why is it so hard to be taken seriously when you have tits? I’m not even talking about big tits (that’s a whole other blog.) I’m just talking about regular tits. Can we talk about our tits for one second? I mean, have you seen how ridiculous your penis looks? How can you have something that ridiculous attached to you 24/7 and still be taken seriously? What can myself, my friends, our tits, and our complicated vaginas possibly learn from you? What is there to relate to? Where is the substance? What is a straight, white man going to tell me about me? Are you guys really in control of the whole fucking world – with that thing dangling there like an after-thought? I don’t get it. We’re supposed to take YOU seriously with that but you don’t take us seriously with these?
We take Dolly and the girls VERY seriously.
Speaking of big boobs, can I talk about Radiohead for a second? Dude, everyone looooooves Radiohead. They’re considered “one of the world’s most important bands EVER .” What does that even mean? “One of the world’s most important bands.” It’s five white guys that take themselves way too seriously. Five white penises, man. F-I-V-E. Why is that so important? Why are we throwing the word “important” around like that? Unless Thom Yorke’s dick figured out a strategic plan for achieving peace in the middle east, I fail to see the importance. I know I’m probably pissing off every single person in the world with ears but I just don’t get the hype. I’m not a fan. Electrelane were better. Subtle yet complicated. I get them.
Four girls. No dicks.
That’s another thing. Who decides this shit? Who decides that Radiohead is more important than Electrelane? Is this what you guys do at Bohemian Grove? Do you sit around figuring out what countries to invade and who “the most important bands EVER” are? Are you guys just making lists? You checking them twice? Is this what dudes do? Are we really STILL talking about The Beatles? STILL?!!!! Fuck you, guys. Quit inviting the editors of “Rolling Stone” magazine and pitchforkmedia.com to Bohemian Grove. As for the rest of the world, quit getting on my case because I hate Coldplay, didn’t shed a tear when Michael Jackson died, and have always thought Nirvana sounded like watered down Black Sabbath. Honestly, the “most important band” is always the one I’m listening to at the moment. Period.
At the moment, I’m listening to dozens of rare soul 45′s because it’s part of my job description. Don’t hate. I also have to answer obnoxious customer emails from record collectors so it’s a big ol’ mixed bag. Speaking of which, are record collectors invited to Bohemian Grove now? Seriously, who decides the value of this stuff? I was working on a soul auction the other day and had to sound clip some record that sounded like 80′s movie-ski-scene-save-the-rec-center-get-the-girl montage music. It sounded so much like that shit that when the record ended, it was actually the next day and the entire rec center had two coats of paint on it. You guys, that record was worth, like, $500 or something. Who buys that? People that need to paint rec centers quickly? Do they have that much money? I thought rec centers had financial problems and that’s why people were always trying to save them. Maybe they wouldn’t have so many financial problems if they didn’t spend $500 on shitty records.
Clearly my friends, myself, our tits, and our complicated vaginas have a lot to mull over. No wonder we’re not having as much fun as The Black Lips. No wonder I’m not a guitar virtuoso…. yet.
The San Francisco Art Asylum
art fag mag cover courtesy of the amazing aix jager.
The film department seduced me. There was something about the math involved in animation that spoke to my inner nerd. I enjoyed the counting. The sleepless nights. Lighting a scene. Making up characters. Creating a world. Having an outlet for my OCD. Most of all, I enjoyed the magic behind it. Okay, I know magic is a cheesy, overused word – but how else can I describe it? It IS magic. There’s nothing like getting a reel back from the lab, locking yourself in the viewing room, and watching it for the first time on the big screen. You can spend an entire semester on three minutes of film but it’s always worth it in the end.
As magical as animation made me feel, there was a dark side to being a film major.
Film students.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I was inspired and amused by a few creative geniuses in the department. They made the critiquing experience bearable. They were also not the majority. The majority talked too much, took themselves way too seriously, and bored me to death with their silent experimental films. Popular themes involved eggs and the breaking of eggs. Trees and the breaking of branches. Feet running. Girls swinging. Time-lapse odes to China Town. Girls putting lipstick on. Shattered glass. Water. Bath tubs. Boyfriends. Pills.
After two years, I got pretty sick of watching seventeen-minute experimental films about eggs. I was also sick of spending valuable class time discussing eggs. During the darker hours (ahem. critique week) I would indulge myself in complex math problems about how each minute was costing me $27. This was a rough estimate. I had a scholarship — but it’s the principle of the matter.
So I left the film department, loaded my pipe, and decided to start painting again. I found sanctuary in its fetid bosom. Painters don’t talk about painting. They listen to their headphones and keep to themselves. This is what I like to believe, anyway. I decided to take my favorite professor’s class. He sounded like molasses, wore scarves, played jazz, and gave the students plenty of creative freedom to do their own thing. This backfired, of course.
Ladies and gentlemen, meet my painting class.
There was Creepy Fetus Girl. I didn’t like her. Not one bit. She would only paint on those crappy little canvases you buy at cheap art stores. I don’t think she ever made a piece larger than 11×15. This didn’t bother me so much. I couldn’t imagine her shitty little paintings taking up a whole wall. They looked like abortions – and by abortions, I MEAN abortions.
Like actual abortions.
Each piece had a poorly drawn fetus in the middle of the canvas. It would be crudely outlined in black and grotesquely out of proportion. These fetuses had tremendous hands and Popeye arms. As if all of this wasn’t unsettling enough, she covered the rest of the canvas with a bubbly text that read, “I am not here. I am not here” over and over again. Under different circumstances, these “paintings” would have been a tremendous asset to the Right-to-Life community.
During critiques, Creepy Fetus Girl was prone to crying fits if somebody gave her helpful suggestions.
“How about using a ruler to make the text more even.”
“Maybe you should cut out some pictures of fetuses and bring them to class to look at. I’m pretty sure fetus hands are smaller than that.”
“Are you a New Genres major?”
“This is the Advanced Painting class, right?”
Not everyone hated her work. She had an ally that would almost always jump to her defense.
“Guys! Leave her alone! You have no idea what the deeper meaning is!”
Deeper meaning? I’m sorry. I thought her “deeper meaning” was not to abort freakish babies with Popeye arms and enormous hands. Do you mean to tell me that Creepy Fetus Girl is trying to address larger political issues with these poorly executed eyesores? Is Creepy Fetus Girl trying to blow our minds with her own story of love and loss? Does she need a hug? Should we start the revolution? Pro Life? Pro Choice? I’m confused. Is she telling us to eat more spinach?
The usual debate between the sexes would ensue.
Cunt vs. cock.
Ad nauseam.
If Creepy Fetus Girl was kidding with all of this, if she really could draw, than she was a GENIUS. A FUCKING GENIUS. Unfortunately, I don’t think this was the case. She was crying for help.
It was difficult to hear Creepy Fetus Girl’s cries for help over her archenemy’s racket. We’ll just call him Sir Dickhead McDickencocker. While Creepy Fetus Girl quietly begged for our attention, Sir Dickhead McDickencocker grabbed a megaphone and told us how it was. She cried. He pounded. I found myself torn as to whom I disliked more. In hindsight, I think I have to go with Sir Dickencocker. At least Creepy Fetus Girl was quiet. Dick sounded like he had microphones attached to all of his limbs – giving one the impression that the chains dangling from his pants were in Dolby Stereo. Don’t guys know that chains are vagina repellent? Lose the fussy chains, my friend. You sound like a fucking Yorkie running in the park. Anyway, Dick did gun collages. Of course. What else could he possibly do?
These collages were done on wood. He hammered nails in them, too. Dick just had to penetrate something.
Pound. Pound. Pound. Pound away, Dick. Pound away. Go listen to some :Wumpscut: and think about more phallic imagery you can use in your work. Pound the wood because there is no pussy to pound. Pound away, you angry.white.male! Pound. Pound. Pound. Why so angry, Angry.White.Male?
The usual debate between the sexes would ensue.
Cunt vs. cock.
Ad nauseam.
With all this pounding going on, it was hard for me to focus on the lady that would just paint canvasses pea green, the obligatory dumb girl that painted with her menstrual blood, or the New Genres major that didn’t paint at all. I did occasionally marvel at that one guy that painted exact replicas of Michelangelo’s subjects (if his subjects had Popeye arms).
Again, with the Popeye arms. I can only presume he was making a statement about the Fetus Girl.
The crème de la crop, however, had to be Little Goth Boy. I liked this kid because he took his crippling social anxieties to the next level. Instead of developing a boring speech impediment or writing bad poetry, he utilized a stuffed monkey to handle the daunting task of communication. The monkey’s name was Oliver and it’s uncertain how many years this monkey-middle-man was used as a communication device. All that is known is that Oliver had seen better days. Little Goth Boy dressed him up in black, gave him a Mohawk, some facial piercings, and decided that Oliver should sound like a pre-pubescent Muppet with a head cold. Everything was done through Oliver, even the most boring of small talk.
“Um, Can you pass me the turpentine?”
Oliver uses its mud-caked monkey arm to slide the turpentine over. “Thereeeeeeeyougo!”
“How was your weekend?”
Oliver thoughtfully discusses poignant events that happened. “I almost fell out of a second story window. Uh-ohhhhh! Spaghetti-O’s!”
As strange as this all might sound, we never questioned this behavior. Oliver became a beloved addition to the art community. It’s even rumored that the monkey may have had a hand in getting Little Goth Boy a girlfriend – a noble act that cost Oliver dearly. Once Little Goth Boy finally got laid, he was no longer in need of Oliver’s services. On one fateful evening, poor little Oliver was accidentally left in a cab and Little Goth Boy discovered his own voice – an incoherent whisper. Everyone was pretty bummed to hear about Oliver’s misfortune, but he had served his purpose well. I can only hope that he’s living the high life in stuffed monkey heaven. If anything, he must be so relieved to be out of the San Francisco Art Aslyum. I know I am.
Perhaps I’m being too judgmental. What about my own artistic endeavors, you ask? Why am I any better than those that I mock? I’m not. Honestly, I don’t know what I was doing in art school either. I should have been a lawyer. I should have been a journalist. I have many regrets. To furthur prove that I was just as big of a joke as everyone else, here is a list of every piece of shit I tried to get away with “in the name of art”. I was praised as a genius. I cringe at the memories.
- Doll porn. Got an A+.
- Whipped up a last-minute fluorescent chastity belt sculpture. It was a tacky monstrosity. I even glued an email from a douche bag that owed me money on it. The piece was desperate and I knew it. I might as well have been drawing Popeye armed fetuses. It was so bad that my antagonist (a douche bag that made 200-page books filled with drawings of his penis) had the audacity to call “bullshit” on my bullshit. It was another war of the sexes. Cunts vs. cocks. Ad nauseam.
- Orchestrated and filmed a spin-the-bottle game to capture “awkward first kisses”. Oliver was in it. Sadly, nobody wanted to kiss a dirty monkey but they had to. The bottle is law.
- Created a fake teen website. Suggested that Claire Danes had herpes. Gave tips for anorexia.
- Put bows, flowers, and plastic birds in my hair for a year straight. Had many situations on the Muni.
- Made a 10-minute fashion video about what the Goth kids were wearing while I was in Tokyo. Bunny ears and eye patches were RED HOT that year.
- Filmed and hung out with the fanatics waiting to see the new Star Wars movie.
- Made a three-foot ice cream cone sculpture from stolen traffic cones.
- Made a “sexy” music video about all the dirty things my friend and I wanted to do to Jarvis Cocker and Ian Astbury.
- Troll porn.
- Followed the Cure for the summer. Went to Australia. Documented every detail. Nobody in my class cared that Robert Smith’s aunt told Sasha and I “You can sleep when you’re dead.”
- Turned a tree into a tree. Blew their fucking minds.
- Grief porn.
- Tried to start a “make-out-not-war” demonstration with a 10-foot bottle to spin. Met the love of my life that week and got too distracted ‘making out with him’ to finish it. Was late for the demonstration but ended up on page 5 in the Chronicle anyway.
- Moved to London. Lost the plot.
- This shit.
What about you guys?
Get Fancy Get’s Job
“You work three jobs? Uniquely American, isn’t it? I mean, that is fantastic that you’re doing that.” -George “f*cking” Bush
Okay, it’s been a while since I’ve had a proper job. The last one I had consisted of getting paid a lot of money for simply listening to music, writing about it, dicking around on the internet, hanging out with my friends, participating in three hour business meetings about the artistic merits of doom metal, and taking naps in the company bathroom. Shortly after, I did the same thing (more or less) from home. This went on for many years until the recession happened and a big round of bummers were delivered to inboxes everywhere. Since then, I’ve been living on a strict diet of unemployment checks to get by. Before you guys start cursing at me and saying how you’ve had things much worse, know that I’ve wasted the best years of my life in shitty job land. The only person that rivals my extensive list of “dumbest jobs ever” is my good pal, Sasha. I only say this because home-girl worked fast food. She also did her time at an ice cream parlor where a loud fire alarm would go off anytime there was a fire in Boston. Sa, am I even remembering that correctly? I swear it seems made up. You worked in a firehouse/ice cream joint, right? Was there ever really a time when that was okay? Even by Boston’s low standards? The only job I’ve had that comes close to the hell associated with bloody, frozen knuckles and a fire alarm going off all the time would have to be when I worked at a coffeehouse in Omaha, Nebraska. On my first day, the fat boss man threw an ice cream scooper at my head and called me a “dumb whore” when I politely inquired about our ice cream selection. In my defense, nobody even told me that we served ice cream. They were all too busy warning me about the cranky fat man with the dirty mouth. I’m embarrassed to admit that he did that kind of stuff all the time and I stayed at that job for like 5 months longer than I should have. I even stayed there when his son’s wife took over the kitchen and started serving dishes called “hamloaf.” Whatever. That job gave me zine material for an entire summer.
The future's so bright I gotta wear shades. Me on my porch circa 1994. Just another day of low wages and verbal abuse from the fat man.
My point to all of this is that I have more than done my time when it comes to working hard, getting paid nothing, and being treated like scum of the earth. For over a decade, I’ve been writing “tool-for-the-man” on my taxes when asked about my occupation. I’ve been a telemarketer, a cigarette girl, a barista, a bartender, a grumpy waitress, a retail slave, and an office monkey. I’ve shucked corn, cleaned toilets, cleaned popcorn machines, worked in warehouses, kitchens, the ghetto, cubicles, elevators, windowless corners, my art school’s graduation, and weekends on both Haight St. (gasp) and Union Square (double gasp!!). I’ve worn stupid uniforms and wigs – name tags and hair nets – and a big bow on my ass. A video store once fired me for my dark eyeliner and refusal to line dance (not even kidding) in the aisles while a telemarketing place just gave me a polite warning when they discovered that I spent the entire work day making up fake phone interviews while doodling cartoons of my co-workers on the table.
I have also (hangs head in shame) worked at Tower Records (twice in two different countries) and (hangs head even lower) worked for Ken Sarachan of Rasputin Records. If you thought the boss that called me a “dumb whore” was bad, I challenge you to spend two minutes in the company of Ken. He’s practically a villain in a twisted comic book and I’m almost positive that there are entire websites devoted to what a dickhead he is. If there aren’t any, I may just change this blog to “Seriously, Ken?!!! Why are you such a dickhead?!!!” I actually have enough stories to keep that blog going for at least two years. You guys have no idea. Entire friendships have blossomed over what a jerk that guy is. Don’t get me started.
Ahem. Where was I? Work, of course. As some of you know, I finally got a job. I know. Whoopee! The recession is officially over! A college educated female with an impressive resume finally landed a job in Portland, Oregon after only looking for an entire year. Before you financial analysts get too excited, I actually make half of what I made at my last job and I work twice as many hours. Truth is, I make less than what I made in the nineties. Do you know how long ago the nineties were? Umm, it was a long dang time ago. Clinton was president and I’m pretty sure people only used the internet for porn back then. I refuse to complain, though. Given that most people in Poortland can’t even get a job as a barista, I’m lucky I found a job, especially a “cool” one. Whatever that means.
My job. Sort of.
Even though it’s all guys that work here, I like everyone (including the boss) and it never feels like work. Basically I’m getting paid to listen to rare 45′s. It’s an audiophile’s dream, people. The only part I don’t like is the staying awake and staying put in one place for longer than 7 hours. That part sucks. Man, why is it so hard to do that? I don’t care how great your job is, it’s hard work to physically be at work. Even more exhausting is the amount of caffeine required to do so. I’m not exaggerating when I compare it to going on a cross country road trip.
Cross country road trip or going to work?
Clearly the piles of energy drinks and coffee cups littering the office are an indication that my co-workers seem to agree with me on that one. I even hear them talking about where to get the most potent forms of energy drinks. Seriously, people. You would think that we were a team of computer techs working the night shift or something. Do we all really need extra doses of taurine just to get through an 8 hour day of listening to music? Have I really had two soy cappuccinos before noon? Am I really considering getting a third one?
Uh-huh.
Friends assure me that this too shall pass. They claim numbness will replace my longing for caffeine as I slowly succumb to the dull, treacherous monotony of work. Foodstuff will no longer have flavor while I spend meaningless lunch breaks yawning over Facebook quizzes and Googling ergomatic posture tips.
In the meantime, I will enjoy yet another cup-a-energeeeeeeeeeeeyyyyy and the familiar burning in my stomach from another honest day of work. You know, I should really get that burning checked out. Too bad I don’t have health insurance.
How uniquely American of I.
35.
The only thing I hated more than that part in the “Breakfast Club” where Allison gets a makeover is that part in “Pretty In Pink” where Iona goes from this…
to this…
A pearl necklace pretending to be a bolo-tie?!!! Are you friggen kidding me?!!
Perhaps I’m being melodramatic but that scene ruined the entire movie for me. I was an impressionable preteen when I watched “Pretty In Pink” and it was important for me to believe that there were “cool” grownups in the world with awesome record collections and funky hair. I needed to know that you don’t get boring with age — that you don’t have to blend in to make it — that you could trust people over the age of 35. Looking back now, Iona’s character was probably closer to 27 but you guys get my point.
Anyway, I’ve been thinking about that scene a lot this week. Turning 35 can really make a girl feel old. While you’ll never find me wearing a pearl necklace disguised as a bolo-tie to fit in, I have become mildly obsessed with owning an impossibly chic, “age appropriate” wardrobe. Am I officially becoming a “put-together” lady?
Tina Chow
Siouxsie Sioux
Maya Deren
Renee Perle
Anais Nin
Francoise Hardy
Katherine Hepburn
Linda Evangelista
Tilda Swinton
Nancy Cunrad
PJ Harvey
Holly Golightly
You know, as long as I get to keep my awesome record collection, I think I’m pretty cool with that.
Don’t Judge.
Uh, oh. You guys, we just got digital cable with HBO.
Umm, we’re going to get sooooo, so FAT.
As my wise friend Chris would say.
Fuck it.
