innermonologues

Inner Monologues Feb 9th: The Social Network

2011-01-23T09:32:00.001-08:00

My Piece, "Would You Believe They Put a Cow on the Moon?

Raquel D'Apice, "The Social Network"

Julie Kraut, "The Aerobics Network"

Musical Guest! Jessica Delfino

Brea Tremblay, "COGirl2789"

Emily Epstein, "Are You There Diary? It's Me, Emily"

Pieces from "Just Say No!"

2010-08-09T19:55:00.001-07:00

Another great show! Thanks for everyone who came out on that hot muggy night.

Jessica Delfino

And, there's an awesome show called SkitsNTits on Wed Aug 11 at 10 pm, 308 Bowery. Go to JessicaDelfino.com to learn more!

Emily Epstein

EMILY EPSTEIN'S PIECE, "A Camel For Your Wife"

Samet had stopped talking to the group and simply stared at the boys. He said something to them sharply in Arabic, but the boys only looked back at him reproachfully and continued to record us with their video camera. Tamara, my traveling partner and fellow American, who was standing in front of Samet in the middle of the group pretending to be a pyramid in order to illustrate Samet’s explanation, held her pose with her arms up in the air and her fingers touching, a comical look on her face.
We were in Egypt, a stone’s throw from the Sphinx, her noseless blank face hovering behind us, and Samet was our own personal and literal Egyptologist. The sun was hot on our backs, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, which might partly explain the 107 degree April temperatures. Our tour group started to wonder if there was going to be a fight. And then, just like that, a policeman appeared, oversized gun swinging casually at his hip, and the boys were led out of our sight without another word.
“Sorry for the interruption, SamSemians,” Samet said, using the name that he had given our group, after his own nickname. Retaking his position behind Tamara, “now, as we were saying, the Sphinx—”
“Wait, what was that all about,” I asked. I imagined the boys being thrown into a dark and grimy prison similar to that in the movie Brokedown Palace, where if they ever got out of prison their own job opportunity was to become a drug mule.
“It’s nothing. Happens all the time,” he said. And then, as if reading my mind he continued, “Don’t worry. I know all the police around here. They’re not going to get in trouble, just be strongly reminded to not lurk like that.”
“But what happened? Were they making fun of us?” I implored.
“Come on, Samet,” Tamara asked. “You know we won’t let you go on until you explain.” Tamara was always full of energy and her sparkling brown eyes usually conveyed when she was up to something.
Samet sighed. He knew it was a losing battle. “Those kids weren’t Egyptian, but they were Arab. They were trying to record us. When I told them to stop, they asked me to move.”
“Why would they ask that,” Tamara said.
Samet continued reluctantly with a smile. “They thought that Tamara was ‘hot’ and just wanted to record her.”
****
“Hello beautiful ladies. Your husband is lucky man. How many camels to trade for you to become my wife?”
“Where you from? American? Welcome to Alaska, ha ha!”
“I love you!”
The storekeepers were relentless with their commentary as Tamara and I walked through the bazaar. Despite wrapping our heads in scarves and keeping our knees coverd to try and be respectful of the culture, it was no use. The men would yell just about anything to get our attention, and then beckon us into their stores filled with colorful scarves, small wood Egyptian sculptures of everything from pharaohs to hieroglyphics, or huge containers filled with saffron, indigo, or lotus flower. If they didn’t say something to us, they’d stand right in our path and drape their wares over our passing shoulders, as if our contact with the goods was the missing link to change our minds. It was as if they were expelling all the things at us they had wanted to say to the women they knew, but couldn’t because of religion and respect. But foreigners? We were fair game. While it was fun to look, the comments became tiresome.
One of our first days on our trip Tamara and I went in to a small store to get water. The shopkeeper was very friendly but respectful. As we handed him our items he asked if he could take a picture of us. “I guess so,” I said, looking uneasily at Tamara. She shrugged in agreement. The shopkeeper, a portly, older, balding Egyptian man gathered me in close first and took a picture on what seemed to be the first camera phone ever invented. He then kissed me rather aggressively on the top of my head. Tamara followed suit, trying to keep a little space between her and the man, but wanting to honor her promise. After the pictures, he gave us lollipops.
“I feel like we’ve been lured into some man’s unmarked white van,” I said.
“I just hope we don’t end up on the internet with a caption under our pictures that we’re his ‘wives,’” Tamara said in agreement. When we got back to our hotel we told Samet and the rest of the group about our encounter. Tamara and I googled “American whores” for a while just to make sure our pictures didn’t come up.
The next night, just as we were about to explore the night markets in Aswan, Samet pulled Tamara and me aside.
“I know how independent you girls are,” he started, “but…it might it be better if you walk with one of the boys.”
“Why? We can take care of ourselves,” I said.
“Oh, I know that,” Samet said, “but I think you’ll make things easier for yourselves. You’ll get less unwanted attention that way.”
“You know what—”
“Sure, Samet,” Tamara said, cutting me off, as she escorted me away.
“I’m sorry, but that’s bullshit. We’re grownups! I’m 30 for crying out loud! We’re covered up! I don’t need some MAN to take care of me. I can walk without an escort.”
“Em, why are you getting all wound up? Samet’s just being protective. We’ll be fine.”
I wasn’t sure why I was so outraged. My boyfriend jokingly likes to call these my “Independent Woman” moments, complete with Destiny’s Child accompaniment, where I assert righteous indignation, not unlike Samuel L. Jackson in Pulp Fiction, at something feminist-oriented. I wasn’t sure if I was upset that women in Egypt couldn’t just go about their business if they weren’t covered up. Or maybe I was mad because these men didn’t know me, and yet they assumed that women from outside their country were all cut from the same whore-y cloth. Maybe I was just becoming delirious from the heat.
“Maybe I’ll catcall them.”
“Good idea,” Tamara said. “Maybe you can get us kidnapped.” Before coming to Egypt, we had both been forwarded lots of information from our parents about Jewish tourists being kidnapped in Egypt.
“You think Bill Clinton will come and rescue us, like he did those journalists in North Korea? That could totally be worth it.”
Tamara just ignored me.
As we wandered through the market, I tried to calm down. We looked at knickknacks, and took pictures, and marveled at the number of feral cats wandering through the city.
And then it happened. I noticed a man staring at Tamara as we walked past his stall of spices. Without breaking his gaze he screamed at her as she passed in fast succession: “You are in my dreams! I love you! You have nice shape!”
That was the final straw.
“Seriously, dude? I like your shape? What is she a cantaloupe? Maybe more of a pear?”
He sputtered and looked at me with confusion. “What is a cantaloop?”
“It…it doesn’t matter. Would you talk to your mother that way? Your sister?”
“My mother is dead. And it is a compliment.”
“No, it’s not. So quit it, you creep.” And with that I turned on my heel and pulled Tamara with me. We walked for a while in silence.
“Do you feel better now?” Tamara asked.
“Yes,” I answered. “I feel great. Let’s go look at some more head scarves. After all, I wouldn’t want to offend anyone’s culture.”

-----------------------

MY PIECE, "In Utero"

A couple of weeks ago, I started having some dizzy spells. I was walking into walls, people, and realizing it might not be wise to get too close to the edge of the subway platform if I valued my life. I also noticed that I was feeling a little nauseous. So, I called my primary care physician. The one I could call day and night, whenever I had the dumbest medical questions, or even if my friend’s friends had questions: my dad.
My dad is a fertility specialist and gynecologist. The problem is, he tends to have a one-track mind when it comes to diagnosing problems. Say you have a gash in your leg: He probably can find a way to relate it to your being pregnant.
My dad and I are very close so I don’t hesitate asking him my most burning gynecological questions like, can you get pregnant if you forget to take the pill three days in a row? Can you really die from HPV like they say in the commercials? How can you tell if you have a yeast infection? You know…Normal father-daughter stuff.
I was about to leave for a vacation with my husband Jesse that would involve a lot of dirty martini drinking, so I called my dad and explained my symptoms, adding that I hadn’t had my period in about four months. I know. Four months is a long time to wait to freak out about not getting your period. But I was on the pill, and figured that it was just messing with my system.
“Get to my office immediately,” he said, when I called him from the conference room at work. “We’ll do some blood work.” Yes, I could have just peed on a stick and called it a day, but my dad had insisted that method wasn’t the most accurate.
I decided to get the appointment over with first, and call Jesse afterward. No point in worrying him for nothing.
Usually when I go to my dad’s office, it’s for a friendly lunch. I chat with the nurses, wait for Dad to finish up with his patients, and then look at the pictures on his desk to see if he’s updated them since I was four. Then we always head around the corner to the same cute French restaurant for moules frites.
That day I was actually in the office as a patient. This was a little weird. I walked up to the front desk and tried to look all business. It didn’t work.
“Lexi!” one of the nurses said, calling me by the nickname my dad calls me. “You and your father could be twins! Here, put on this lab coat, we want to see the comparison!”
This is a fun game I indulge the nurses in during my visits with Dad. I usually am quite agreeable, donning the white lab coat, posing with a clipboard, and then smiling awkwardly while they have their chuckle. Sometimes a camera phone is whipped out.
But that day I didn’t really feel like going through the father-daughter look-alike contest. I just wanted to get my damn blood work done as soon as possible. I could have been pregnant for god’s sakes and I really wanted to know.
Dad hadn’t come out to say hi yet, but one of the newer nurses, a Russian lady wearing two layers of makeup, said we could start without him.
“Alright,” I said, when Nurse Eltsin, put a piece of gauze over the wound left from the needle. “So I’ll just wait around for the results now, right?”
“Nyet!” she said, pursing her thickly painted lips. “Your daddy want you to do ultrasound.”
Ultrasound? This was a surprise.
She brought me to an examining room, and ordered me to strip from the waist down.
“Leave your dress on,” Nurse Eltsin instructed with a frown. Did I look like the kind of girl eager to take her dress off in her dad’s office?
“Just remove the tights, and panties, and cover your lap with this, OK?” She pointed to a thin, blue material that looked like what they make hospital gowns with. The standard nonexistent coverage between you and the world.
“I be right back,” she said, her patent leather heels clacking away on the hardwood floors.
I undressed as I was instructed, sat on the table, and waited. I was a little puzzled. In my recollections of ultrasounds from television and movies, the nurse squirted some weird jelly-like substance on the mom-to-be’s stomach, and then moved the ultrasound thingy over it. Why did my ultrasound require the removal of “panties?” Maybe this new nurse was misinformed? And why did my dad think I needed one of these tests? He must really think this is serious.
I looked around the room and noticed some odd-looking condom type things in a box. Gauze strips. Long Qtips. Things I hoped wouldn’t be having anything to do with me that day. But a knock on the door disrupted my thoughts.
“Lexi?” said Nurse Eltsin gruffly from the other side of the door. As comfortable as everyone was with calling me by my nickname, it was a little strange to have someone say it when my pants were off. I pulled the gauzy covering down tighter around my lap.
“Come in,” I said.
I tried to get comfortable on the narrow examining table its crinkly sounding tissue paper covering. But then the door opened and behind Nurse Eltsin, was someone I did not expect to see at all in my room. My one and only…. Padre.
“Um, Dad? What are you doing in here?”
I was suddenly painfully aware that my pitchach was unclothed and separated from the world and my kin by flimsy hospital gown material.
Dad walked over to my examining table and patted my head.
“I’m just going to monitor the ultrasound, honey. Nurse Eltsin is just learning how to do ultrasounds, so I’m here to supervise.”
The nurse wielded a menacing looking dildo-like contraption, and started polishing it with something wet and sticky looking. “Scoot your tush down to end of the table,” she barked.
“So…The ultrasound—that thing, that’s not going on top of my stomach, huh?”
Nurse Eltsin laughed, arching her painted on eyebrows with pleasure. “Oh, no, honey. This intra-vaginal ultrasound!”
I clamped my legs shut.
My dad started taking my pulse. “Your heart is beating very fast,” he observed in his doctor voice.
“That’s because my dad is in the room with me and my vagina,” I said under my breath.
“Hm?” he said, doing some doctor thing.
“Nothing.”
“You’ll be fine honey.
This was the moment when I really should have said something to my dad. He truly didn’t know I was uncomfortable. This is what he does like, twenty times a day. To him it is akin to looking at someone’s arm or elbow. But I was so afraid of making him uncomfortable, I didn’t want to complain.
The nurse stuck the contraption into me, and I wasn’t quite sure what the appropriate reaction should be when something is rammed into your vagina, and your father is watching. Luckily, the situation was both emotionally and physically uncomfortable, so I was able to achieve the proper look of a “virgin being penetrated for the first time”.
And so we began the wondrous process of looking on the computer screen at my womb. At this point I prayed that we would see a tiny little fetus, to at least make this embarrassing situation worth it. So that when I explained the circumstances of my first intra-vaginal ultrasound experience, the end result would be, “And that is how we found out I was pregnant, and my dad got to find out he would be a grandfather!”
“Docteurrr,” said Nurse Eltsin. “I go left, yes?”
Now, the last thing you want when someone has a foreign object roaming around your lady parts is for that person to be unsure of what he or she is doing. Well, I mean, this not so different from many women’s first sexual experiences, but with medical equipment that is possibly electrified and hooked up to computers, I prefer someone with a skilled hand.
My dad, bless him, kept his eye trained on the monitor the whole time. No checking under the gauze covering to see if she had things in the right place, thank God.
“A little to the right please, Nurse,” he said patiently. “No, your other right.”
“Here?” she asked, stabbing me somewhere near my lung.
For crying out loud I was ready to take control of the damn thing.
“Doctuerrr, eh, you should do it,” she said, less confident now, but still holding the wand. “I’m not very good with this thing.”
“Dad, um. Is there anyone else who can take over?” I pleaded, as she continued her crash course lesson with my body.
“Unfortunately, no,” my dad said. “Dr. Gleitcher isn’t here today and neither are the other nurses who do ultrasounds. You were last minute,” he shrugged by way of apology.
I sighed. Perhaps what I was about to propose was illegal in some states. But at this point I was so close to knowing if I was pink or blue, plus or minus, I didn’t see the point in just leaving the room and stopping the whole operation.
I took a deep breath.
“Just take it dad,” I said, through clenched teeth.
And just like I was any other one of his patients, he took his place in front of my legs, and held the wand. So, there was my dad. Searching around my uterus, and there was me, pretending this had nothing to do with my crotch and everything to do with the image on the computer screen.
“Look! There’s a follicle!” he pointed out as we took the grand tour.
“Oh, wow!” I said obligingly, as if he were pointing out The Big Dipper like when I was a little girl.
“And there’s another follicle!”
Nurse Eltsin nodded approvingly, like she was assessing good livestock.
“Doesn’t look like you’re pregnant honey, but if did want to get pregnant, you have a healthy environment.”
A “healthy environment”. I thought about the irony of that statement. After this experience, I might have to rethink my psychological environment, but it was good to know my body could play party host to a baby.
When we were done, I got dressed, and came out of the room. A bunch of the nurses had crowded into the kitchen, to ask me what the outcome was. I guess my dad wanted to let me to share the news—since we were such an intimate family here and all.
I settled into one of the stools by the counter.
“Negative.”

---------------------------------------------

LAURA'S PIECE, "Phone Home. Again."

Part 1. More than one

My dad has trouble with plurals. It's a translation thing. Some words that are singular in Sicilian are plural in English and vice versa.

“Laura,” he says. “I have to go change my pant before we go out.”

He's not a designer. He just thinks that when it comes to pants, you’re dealing with one object, and therefore, no S.

“Laura,” he says. “Hand me a scissor.”

Again, he's wrong. But the logic is there.

Part 2. To catch me

My dad calls on Tuesday at 8:00 am. I don't pick up. My dad calls on Tuesday at 6:00, 7:30, and 8:15 pm. He gives up at bed time. He calls Thursday at 5:00 pm and I pick up, mostly because with each missed call that tallies on the screen of my phone, I can sense his anxiety mounting from 200 miles away.

“Hello.”

“Laura. Jesus. To catch you is like trying to catch the Prince of Wales.”

Until this moment, I have never pondered what it would be like to try and catch the Prince of Wales. To me, he seems pretty stable and scheduled. This is where I get a particularly intense mental image of myself chasing Prince Charles across a Walmart parking lot. Maybe he’s even wearing a Burger King crown.

My dad calls again after another week of missed calls. Sometimes I don’t pick up because I can’t manage to answer the same three questions over and over again: Did you eat? (Yes, Papa. At some point today, I ate something.) Are you getting enough rest? (Yes. I hope 4 hours a night counts.) Are you writing? (Yes. About you. And then reading it to several dozen of my not-very-close friends. In a bar.)

This time, he's really upset.

“Laura. Jesus. Trying to catch you is like trying to catch a wild boar.”

I have never been compared to a wild boar until this moment. I have no frame of reference, but my dad, because he was raised in a rural village in Sicily, actually might. Knowing my dad, he's even chased wild boars. And then eaten them. Because what else would be the point?

3. Excuses

My sister goes to Spain on a trip. My father calls.

“Laura. Listen. I keep trying to call your sister and she doesn't pick up.”

“I know, Papa. She's busy. She's traveling.”

What I don't tell him is that I spoke to my sister less than an hour before, that I've been updated on a more-or-less moment-to-moment basis in regards to her whereabouts since she left.

“If you talk to her,” he says, “Can you ask her to get me a Spanish dictionary?”

“Sure,” I say to him. “I'll ask her about it.”

At first, I wonder if he's just making excuses to call her, because he's calling her a lot, and he's trying to find reasons to pick up the phone again and again. But then it dawns on me. He thinks the only place you can get a Spanish dictionary is Spain.

4. In the computer

The phone rings.

“Lauruzza.”

That's what he calls me. Putting “uzza” at the end of a name turns it into a pet name or a term of endearment. He's called me this since I was 2. I don't know the etymology, except that the Sicilian word for “squash” ends in “uzza” too. Maybe he's been calling me Laura Squash for 30 years and I’ve only just realized it.

“Lauruzza. Listen. Can you order me a book through the computer?”

“Yes, Papa. What book do you want?”

He wants an out-of-print, two-volume biography of Joseph Conrad. He's right. The only place you can get this thing is... through the computer.

My dad does not understand the internet, or what it does and does not do. Anything that happened, any technological advancement, that happened after his last hospitalization is a gray area, a thing that can't quite be mastered without help.

4. The Christmas present

“Listen. That thing you bought me doesn't work.”

My sister and I are visiting, sitting on his nubby couch. Stefanie goes upstairs to investigate.

“Papa, what's wrong with it? Is it broken?”

“It's broken. It doesn't go on.”

“OK, well Stef will look at it. If it's broken, we'll get you a new one.”

“I don't understand how to rewind it,” he says.

He's talking about a DVD player. He's saying that he doesn't know how to rewind the DVD.

"You don't rewind it, Papa. It's a DVD."

"Yeah, but it doesn't go on."

My sister comes down the stairs.

"You know exactly what I'm going to tell you," she says. "He didn't turn it on."

We teach him how to work the machine, a detailed lesson. When I speak to him two weeks later, I ask him if he’s watched the DVDs we got him.

“The what?” he asks.

4. Bad things happen in trees.

My dad can't pronounce the "th" sound. I mean, there's a lot of things he can't pronounce, but the "th" sound is a doozie, because while you might sit in the third row, my dad sits in the turd, and while you did lots of things this weekend, my dad did lots of tings.

5. Leave a message.

Some people's voicemail messages begin with a perky "Hi!" or a grave, "Hello, you've reached..." My dad's begins with a weirdly urgent, "Uuuhhh..."

Then, he tells you exactly what's happening, as though he's still trying to sort it out himself.

"Uuuuhhh... This is Carmelo answering, uh, the cellular phone. I can't answer, so leave a message and I'll call you back. Bye."

I like how he says, "I can't answer," like he really just can't. Like he's busy reading 8,000 pages of Conrad or chasing a wild boar.

My dad had a celular phone for three years before he figured out how to set that up, and then it suddenly appeared one day. Sometimes when he doesn't pickup, I call back twice, just to listen to the message.

6. Neutrality

My dad calls.

"Laura," he says. "After your grandmother dies, I'm thinking of moving to Switzerland."

"OK," I say, hoping that my grandmother isn't sitting right there, but knowing that she probably is. She doesn't speak English, but she understands it.

"Your sister says it's nice there. They have a nice standard of living."

My dad has forgotten that he's given up his Italian citizenship, that he lost it when he became an American citizen in the 70s. There were a few years when the Italian government let people who'd forfeited their citizenship re-apply, but he was hospitalized for most of them.

I don't want to be a downer, so I ignore this fact. He keeps talking about Switzerland.

Then he says, "Laura, do you trust your friends?"

"Yes, Papa, I trust my friends."

"It's just that you live in New York. How do you trust anybody? I don't know. I get lonely."

I tell him that he can call me any time he wants, which we obviously knows, because he does. And I mean, like, any time he wants. And I tell him that I love my friends, that they're great friends. Somehow, this comforts him.

"Alright," he says finally. "As long as you trust your friends."

7. Just making sure.

My father leaves me the exact same voice message every single day. It goes like this.

"Laura, this is your Papa. I was just calling to say hi. I hope you're having a good week at work. If you get a chance, call me back. Bye."

On weekends, it goes like this.

"Laura, this is your Papa. I was just calling to say hi. I hope you're having a restful weekend. If you get a chance, call me back. Bye."

So of course, whenever my sister calls me now, she says, "Laura, this is your sister Stefanie. I was just calling to say and to tell you who I was, in case it wasn’t totally obvious. If you get a chance, because you’re so busy ignoring my phone calls, call me back. Bye."

8. A tree falls in Manhattan

My dad calls.

"Laura. Are you all right? What happened?"

"Um, nothing happened, Papa."

"I saw on the news that there was a storm in Manhattan and there were some trees that fell. Did you get hurt?"

"No, Papa. I live 80 blocks from there."

"Good. Jesus, I was worried. I see these things, and I worry."

Part 9: Enough already

I am going away on vacation and I tell my father not to call me while I'm gone. I explain things slowly, as though he were 2 years old, or a beagle puppy:

“When you call me,” I say, “It's really expensive, even when I don't pick up the phone.”

This is a much easier way of explaining the following: When you call my American phone when my American phone is in France, it costs a fortune. Because even if I don't pick up, I get charged for the connection, and for the one-minute voicemail message.

Needless to say, my father does not listen. While I'm away, he calls no fewer than four times a day, and at hours that clearly imply that he's not paying particularly careful attention to the time difference.

I'm being charged for all of the calls, and I ignore most of them, but one time, I pick up. I'm furious.

“Well,” says my dad. “I'll pay for it. Why don't you just ask the phone company to reverse the charges.”

Here are the potential things I could say:

1. What?
2. Given that our calls are not connected by a lady named Shirley plugging in wires at a desk in Minneapolis, that could be difficult.
3. The whole thing about cell phones is that everybody pays. All the time. I can imagine ATT&T customer service listening to this story, to me trying to justify why... they should make someone else pay my phone bill.

When I ask my dad why he kept calling, he said, “Well, I worry. You're halfway around the world.”

When I insinuate that maybe they need to adjust his anxiety meds, and that now I'm worrying too, he just says, “Well, as long as you safe.”

Contractions. That's another thing he has trouble with.

This is when I realize that my Dad's concerns are more or less totally ordinary. But my Dad being my Dad, they don't come out in ordinary ways. Unless the ways are ordinary. Unless everyone's mom is always calling, always trying to bridge the distance. Maybe everyone's dad is more or less the same – the same worry and the same anxiety meds. Maybe with my dad, the only thing that's different is the accent.
------------------------------------

MARGOT LEITMAN'S PIECE, "The Second Hottest Nerd"

I have broken up with every boyfriend I have ever had, except for one, which I married. I’ve always prided myself on remaining friends with all my exes. I know how to keep the peace. I once left a guy crying alone in the SNOW, not rain, screaming that he loved me—and seriously he was on the “B” list for my wedding. My college boyfriend dropped out of school when we broke up, still has no degree to this day, and nonetheless just requested my friendship on Facebook. I once broke up with someone and used the excuse, “Sorry, but summer is over and I no longer need to have an alternate place to sleep with air conditioning.” That guy just invited me to his birthday party. So one would think my HS boyfriend would be no exception.
My Jersey shore HS was broken down into the same typical cliques that all of yours were: the jocks, skanks, skaters, pregnant girls, thugs, special ed etc. My clique would be most easily described as the group that smoked pot, played guitar, wore tee shirts with messages about saving the environment, and were having sex. But somewhere around Nov of my senior year everything changed. All the nerds had applied early decision to Ivy league school and all found out that they had been accepted way before everyone else. And the nerds went wild. Real life revenge of the nerds. These dudes had seven months to catch up on everything they had missed the past three and a half years. You’d go to use the bathroom and there would be a nerd smoking in the stall. You’d come to school and all the nerds would be gone- cutting classes and heading to the beach. They started throwing not beer parties, but ACID parties. Even I have never done acid…on purpose. And best of all, these nerds started fucking moderately hot chicks. I, having been an experienced woman by this point, having had sex with ONE person, Roberto my Puerto Rican camp counselor, was anxious to start fucking a nerd. I decided on the second hottest nerd, Paul, who also coincidentally was the second smartest nerd, and was chosen to be saluditorian of my class. The first hottest was Micheal Goldstein, who while having a wild drug and sex party at his house I noticed he was WIndexing the windows DURING the party. I watched him thinking, “I am never fucking that guy.” Instead he fucked my friend Lauren, which coincidentally involved a lot of sex in the shower. OCD!
Anyway, my boyfriend, Paul, was going to Yale for Politics and I was going to Ithaca college for theatre. We officially got together for the final semester into the summer of my last summer before college. Everything about this time in HS was like an 80’s movie, except it was set in the late nineties, so the soundtrack would have been Cumbawumba instead of Wang Chung. I was having the time of my life partying with these nerds. It was the only time of HS I actually truly enjoyed.
I worked in a bakery for most of HS, and like every other bakery, there was a creepy baker in the back. You know, like the Lyle Lovett character in Short Cuts? Creeepy. On night while I was closing up he called me to the back. “Margot, I understand you’re parents are away this week.” “Yes.” “I wanted to give you this.” And he handed me a five gallon bucket of buttercream. “Promise me you’ll tell me everything you do with it.” Now, today, if I was given a five gallon bucket of butter cream there would be butter bream blowjobs, I would make vagina cupcakes, I would figure out how to use it as a diaphragm. I would strip naked, cover myself in it and take artistic photos of myself and then post them privately, on flickr. But instead, in HS, Paul and I chose to have a butter cream fight in the backyard, and shave my legs with it.
Paul was pretty sexually adventurous for a virginal nerd. He went down on me in a playground once. Finally it came time for me to rip this nerd’s virginity from him. He was like, “Wow, this means so much to me…” I was like “Yeah yeah yeah, put it in.” I still remember that at age 18 he had this trick of going up behind my thigh, wow, I’d be lying to say I didn’t get turned on every time I see a birthday cake. He left that night, and he left his boxers in my room. My mom found them and then quickly pretended that she didn’t. which was basically her parenting approach with me in HS.
The night before I left for college we drove to the shore, had sex on the beach, which I really do not recommend. I much prefer the drink. There is still sand lodged somewhere in my cervix from that fateful night. Then he drove me home and we had sex in front of my house in his car—in the front seat, and we kept accidentally honking the horn. So of course my mom heard it, then quickly pretended she didn’t. We promised each other we would try our hardest to make it work while we were away at school. The next morning I opened the door to start my travels to Ithaca and found a hand written card on my doorstep from Paul telling me how much this summer together had meant to him. Just another reminder of how glad I am to have grown up in a different era than this lame-ass time. Today, Paul would have written on my facebook wall “Good times this summer, thanks for taking the V!” Or sent me a text ending with a kissy face icon.
One month later, I had broken up with Paul, for Pierre, an older French painter. I decided I was a dancer and was avidly studying in college and everything about my old HS life in NJ seemed stupid, and adolescent. When I broke up with Paul I said things like, “You don’t understand me, I make art with my body now, and I wear overalls over my leotard, and Pierre has a gift for art that you could never have and I’m a vegetarian now and what did you expect, for everything to stay the same forever? You’re going into politics which is the exact opposite of everything I now stand for.”
So when I returned home for the first time, over Thanksgiving break, I assumed that enough time had passed and that Paul would want to be friends. I organized a group gathering to stop by the HS homecoming dance to say hi to some old friends. We arrived in the parking lot, I had been banished to the back seat, Paul had barely acknowledged my presence. We were deciding whether or not we were going to do the nerdiest thing in the world and go to this dance after graduation, and my body was half in and half out of the car when Paul decided not to go in afterall and began to take off, thus running over my leg with the car in the process. And as that ton of car was paused over my left leg, I couldn’t help but think, “I don’t think this guy wants to be my friend!” Screaming in pain, he did what any good friend would do in this situation, and drove me not to the hospital, but to my friend’s mom’s house who was a nurse. As if in her house she had an x-ray machine and vicoden, She then drove me to the emergency room where I was released a few hours later not with a cane, not with crutches, but in a wheel chair. A fucking wheelchair! If Paul and I were going to have one last hook up it certainly wouldn’t be happening now. But if there was a shred of doubt, I was certain the next day, that he most certainly did not want to be friends .He never called to see if I was ok, he refused to help pay the massive amount of hospital bills I received for this. I limped through the rest of my semester at school. Had to sit out of ballet class, my releve has never been the same, he ruined my dance career, he cursed my relationship with my new boyfriend Pierre, who turned out to be a complete trainwreck, I now have a strong aversion to butter cream, and I never spoke to Paul again.

August 4! The next show..

2010-07-21T15:41:00.001-07:00

Come to the next show to see stories having to do with---

JUST SAY NO!

It will certainly be juicy.

7pm. Bar on A, as per usual. Avenue A and 11th street. SEE YOU THERE!

Pics of Some Monologuers

2010-03-03T12:21:00.001-08:00

Thanks to a friend of inner monologues, Michelle Dozois, we have some pics of readers in action:

Laura Motta

Brea Tremblay

David Wolkin

Me

Pieces from The Show: Bad Romance 2-22

2010-02-26T09:48:00.000-08:00

INNER MONOLOGUES XXIX: BAD ROMANCE February 22, 2010

“Sex With My Dog”
By Alexis

Ernest’s voyage into our bed didn’t happen overnight. And before you wonder how my husband and I decided to have a threesome with someone named Ernest I’ll let you know that Ernest is a very fluffy long-haired Havanese puppy. Havanese as in, Havana Cuba. I like to picture him lounging on a beach with a cigar in his mouth. He is about nine pounds in the morning, with short legs, a long body, and gray, white and black coloring. He has big black eyes, floppy ears, and somewhat resembles a dust mop. Ernest, or Ernie as we call him when he is being good, is of course, cuter than your dog. He is also, very manipulative and very smart.

Which brings me back to the bed. Ernie started out sleeping on his own little puppy bed in a room adjacent to ours. Jesse and I had planned on being non-dog-in-the-bed type pet owners. Unlike the couch, the nice carpet, the chairs, and the bathtub, this was the one spot that Ernie hadn’t claimed as his. Dogs are outdoor pets. The outdoors and my nice bed with its white comforter—they just didn’t go together.

We’d kiss him goodnight and pat him on the head between the bars of his cage. Jesse and I would crawl into bed and keep the door to our room open so Ernie could see that Mama and Dada were right there.
This was the arrangement the dog and we had agreed to and it was just fine until one night, we awoke to the saddest noise on Earth. Whimpering.

“What do we do?” Jesse asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Wait it out?”

We stared at each other for five minutes, which felt like hours. Because unlike the sound of a baby crying, which to me just sounds annoying, puppy whimpering makes me think of angels dying, kittens with big round, sad eyes, and children starving in third world countries.

Finally Jesse got up and brought him to the foot of our bed.

“What are you doing?” I hissed.

“Do you want him to go on like this all night?” Jesse asked.

“Fine,” I said.

He curled up in a ball and immediately stopped crying. Now that I’m looking back on this scenario, I’m pretty sure this is when Ernie was thinking “I’ve got them now!” We thought this was a one-time thing, but of course--like the time I thought I could feed Ernie part of my tuna sandwich and expected him to never beg for food again--Ernie knew better.

We tried to fight it the next night, but when the puppy whines turned into all out barks, and our downstairs neighbor started hitting our floor with a broomstick, we had no choice but to acquiesce. In the bed Ernie went.

“He isn’t leaving the foot of the bed,” I declared.

“Absolutely,” Jesse agreed.

People say that having a kid is a total buzz kill to your sex life. Well, no one ever warned me about what getting a puppy would do to it.

One night soon after the whimpering incident, Jesse had gone to bed and fallen asleep before me. By the time I got to bed, I’d found that Ernie had decided to mosey onto my side of the bed, and lie on my pillow.

“Oh, hey Erns. Make yourself comfortable.”

Either this was his way of telling me he wanted some alone time with my husband, or that, you know, a down pillow would be nice. I moved him back to his spot but was having none of that. He wormed his way in between Jess and I and slept with his body stretched out in between us like a barrier. It was cute, and warmer than just our comforter, so I decided against my better judgment not to move him. Big mistake.

“This is romantic,” I said to Jess, putting my arm over Ernie so I could hug my husband. I leaned in to kiss Jesse and before I knew it, I was kissing something wet and cold. Never one to be left out, Ernie had stuck his nose in between our faces like,

“Oh, hi guys, is this what we’re doing? Can I play? I like this game!”

“See you in the morning,” I whispered to Jesse, who was snoring beside me.

Ernie let out a deep sigh and stared soulfully into my eyes.

“What?” I asked him.

He yawned and demanded a belly rub.

Over the next few days, Jess and I tried to attempt “relations”, but to no avail. Apparently, our dog had a sixth sense for nookie. No sooner would we reach for each other than we would feel those puppy paws making their way towards our heads. And there Ernie would be, shoving his nose into our faces kind of like “Break it off guys, break it off!” Then he’d furiously lick each of our faces individually.

“Ernie no!” became one word.

We couldn’t decide if he was a sex referee, or a voyeur.

We found ourselves trying to make out “secretly”, so that Ernie wouldn’t notice. Which is just about the dumbest thing, because dogs have a keen sense of hearing, and the slightest twitch would awaken The Beast. He’d come charging up to the top of the bed, where he would flop down next to my head. On the worst nights, he’d stick his tail in my face so I was nose to butt hole. Very sexy.

It became quite clear that there was no avoiding it. We’d just have to try to have sex despite our dog.

Well that was a major fail.

It’s really difficult to stay in the mood when every few seconds the cutest, most innocent looking thing in the world keeps literally popping his head in the middle of things. Maybe its different for men, but for women, sex is very intellectual. We have to concentrate. I’d be trying to think sexy thoughts, and then all of a sudden…heeeere’s Puppy Face!
But it probably wasn’t easy for Jesse either. Imagine you’re doing your thing, and any time you open your eyes, you see a cute little puppy with floppy ears smiling back at you. Maybe breathing in your face with doggie breath.

Like, “Hey Dad! What’s up? Whatchu doin? Wanna play catch?”

We realized that Puppy needed a distraction. Ernie loves rawhide bones, so the next time we attempted to do the deed, we gave Ernie one to chew on. Which we thought was so smart on our part, until, we were overcome by its smell of rotten fish and garbage, mixed with dead body. Otherwise known as the perfect aphrodisiac.

Sometimes, in the middle of sex, Ernie I’m quite sure purposely, would drop a toy on the floor and then go after it. We’d think we’d be in the clear for a few minutes—the whole bed to ourselves—what a thrill! And then we’d hear “Ruff! Ruff!” as Ernie’s face appeared intermittently at eye-level, as he jumped in the air, asking to be let back into the bed. This is a game I affectionately called “Canine Interruptus.”

We soon discovered to our dismay that Ernie’s favorite position is fellatio. Ours, of course. It seemed he wanted to know what exactly his owners were looking for down there.

“Hey, is there a treat there? I wanna see!”

One morning I woke up to the feeling of my boob being licked. It took me a moment to realize that it was not, in fact, Jesse doing the licking. Then it took me another moment because I was like, “Honey, get the camera! This is hilarious!” but then I came to my senses and pushed him away. “Ernie, gross! Drop it! Drop it!”

Things had gotten way out of hand.

The next night we tried to reinstate Ernie’s old sleeping arrangements. Ernie looked shocked at first, then humbled. We got into bed as stealthily as possible, thinking that if we moved really slowly, maybe Ernie wouldn’t notice this change in his routine.

Within a minute the whimpering began. And then it quickly morphed into a sharp, piercing bark. Which or course, is what you want to hear at 12:30 at night.

“Let’s just ignore it,” Jesse suggested.

We stared at the ceiling as Ernie’s barks became more insistent and desperate,

That’s when the scraping sounds started. He had started moving his cage across the living room floor by pushing against its walls. I could just imagine what the downstairs neighbors would do now. I’d once gotten a complaint from them about “moving furniture at 1 in the morning” when all I’d been doing was pulling out a kitchen chair from under the table.

When I couldn’t take it anymore, I got the stupid dog and put him in the bed. He stopped barking of course. And then he sat on my head.

We’d finally realized there was no avoiding it. Ernie was in our bed for keeps, and that was that.

The three of us have since come to an arrangement, Ernie, Jesse and I. Most nights now, he lets us do our thing, as long as he has something to chew on. He doesn’t throw the bone on the floor that often anymore. Though he does make an occasional nosedive for an inappropriate body part, we’re safe as long as one of us keeps our eyes open. The important thing is, he’s always in a better mood afterwards, too. And so are we.

Sometimes I wonder if I should offer him a cigarette. Or a Cuban.

“Ernie, was it good for you?” I asked him the other day.

He yawned, and licked his balls.
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OH YEAH, ITS JESSICA DELFINO!

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"Deal Breaker"
By Elicia Berger

I signed up with a free online dating site called OkCupid. I was recently broken up with my boyfriend of three years, at least half of which was long distance. All I really wanted to do was to go out on a date with a cute guy...and maybe have a make-out session if it went well. Everybody knows that you gotta trust in that age-old adage which says: “The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.” So there began my foray into the online dating world.

One morning I’m browsing around the site when I get my first Instant Message from a guy, let’s call him Zack. I check out his profile and he is established in the medical field, used to run an animal rescue center, and is Jewish, which wouldn’t hurt with my parents should we reach that point. “Helping people” is his number one passion and he is a classically trained musician. And finally, Zack is age appropriate, which for me means that he was born in the seventies.

We IM for a bit and then he asks if we can chat on the phone.
One of the first things he says is, “Thank god you have a normal voice.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, you never know how someone is going to sound.”
“So have you done this a lot?” I ask.
“Well, a fair bit. I’d like to be in a relationship, you know. I’m tired of dating, but I have to do it to be in a relationship!”

We make some more small talk and then he says next, “You should know, I am really affectionate.”
We haven’t even met yet, I think, how do you even know if you like me? A little closeness is okay by me; I just want to make sure that “affection” isn’t code for finger banging in the corner of the bar.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“Well, it means that when we meet I’ll give you a hug and kiss on cheek, link arms with you, put my hand on the small of your back, sit close, let my hand rest on your knee, then maybe the small of your back again...Wow, I can’t believe I’m laying out my whole game.”

I can already tell that this guy is kind of quirky but I also think it’s kind of sweet, the way he is so open. My ex and I hadn’t even seen each other during the last 10 months of our three-year relationship, so to be honest, I needed some affection.

We decide to meet up for a drink that night. I head to Zack’s neighborhood after dinner, and wait for him near the subway stop. After a few minutes, he walks up and I can see that he has a cute face, but is balding. When you get to be over thirty, you’ve got to make some concessions. He takes me to a neighborhood wine bar and we drink, then drink some more. He puts all his moves (as outlined above) on me and we are having a good time.

“I am really affectionate,” he tells me again. “It’s my number one requirement in a relationship. Do you have it in you?”
“Am I affectionate? Yes, I think I am. I mean, I am not really keen on PDA, but cuddling at home and stuff—I love that.”
“Would you make out in a bar?”
“After a few drinks, I would.”

And at that, we start kissing. He is a good kisser—a very good kisser.
I go to the bathroom and when I come out, Zack has his coat on and is grabbing mine. He does not look at me or say anything.
“Uh, are you not talking now?” is all I can think to say.
“Yes, I am,” and helps me with my coat.
“Okayyyyy,” I say, thinking that I am enjoying this date and that I would like to make out longer. We walk out silently, and I am confused.
“I’ll walk you to the train,” he says, after we’ve gone about two blocks.
“Okay. Is this the way to the subway?” It wasn’t a long walk to the bar, but I’m a little more than tipsy and unless he is taking me to another subway entrance, I don’t remember this route.
“No, it’s the way to my apartment. I’ll walk you to the subway…later.”
“Oh. Okay.” Now I see. While feeling somewhat tricked, I want to make out some more. A small voice in my head says “Craigslist killer” but I push that to the back.

“I like your place,” I say, looking around. We fall onto his couch and make out for a while. Some flesh gets exposed as we toss each other around and kiss.
“I think we have great sexual chemistry, don’t you think?”
I nod but am thinking, “Is that something that people actually say out loud?” Then I realize that this guy says a lot of things that I think are odd to say out loud.
Then he asks me, “Can I lick your tattoo?”
I knew he had a tattoo from one of his profile pictures and I’d mentioned that I had one, too. His idea is original, I guess you could say, so I tell him yes.
As it turns out, it’s much better in theory than in practice. I should mention that my tattoo is over a foot long and so it feels like a cat is cleaning me. While he’s keeping busy with that, I blurt out, “You know, I don’t normally do this. I’ve only had one one-night stand, like, ever. I just want you to know.”
He stops in his tracks. “You know, that’s not what I want, right? I’m established in my career, and I don’t want to date anymore. I want to find the person that I am going to be with. I’m looking for a wife.“

”Okayyyy. Well, a lot of people want that. I mean, I think I’m looking for a relationship, too. I don’t know if I want to get married, though. I’m still kind of on the fence about that and if I do, I’m probably not going to change my last name. You know, I’m 32 already, it’s not like I’m 18. My name is such a big part of me.”
He says, “What?! Oh no, that is a deal breaker for me.”
I’m thinking, A “deal breaker”? What is this, Thirty Rock? Okay, so, is this the end of the date?
“I think a family has to have the same last name. Having the same last name shows that you are committed. Also, there are tax benefits in getting married. How do you like to sleep?”
“How do I like to sleep? Well, falling asleep, it’s nice cuddle but then I need to have space to really sleep.”
“Oh, that’s a deal breaker. I have to be cuddling while falling asleep and I have to be held all night. And I have to wake up cuddling.”
“I like to sleep on my side of the bed,” I reiterate.
“’Your side’? What’s ‘your side’? What does that mean?”
“You know, the side I sleep on. I have a side.”
“Well, that says a lot about you as a person.” He not-so-silently judges me.
“Maybe it does,” I say.
“You want to have kids, though, right?”
“Yeah, I want to have kids.”
“How many?”
“How many kids? Well, I think it’d be cool to have two—a girl and a boy.”
That seems to quiet him for a while and we keep making out. I feel like I’m arguing about issues I’d address in a two or three-year-long relationship, and meanwhile we met less than two hours ago.

What makes me feel better about this whole thing is that he seems generally harmless and he is a damn good kisser, and I know I’m not going to call him after this date but my hormones are happy that I’m there.

“You’re a really good kisser,” I tell him.
“I just kiss the way you like.”
“I guess you’re right.” We kiss some more but he’s being kind of quiet.
“What are you thinking right now?” I ask him, thinking—as an afterthought—that this is just the kind of question someone like him likes.
“I’m thinking that you kiss like your ex-boyfriend.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“Well,” he says, “you kiss like someone. The last person you kissed was him so you’ve got to be kissing like he does.”
He has a point. A disturbing, but valid, one.

I get up to go to the bathroom.
“Wait, wait, give me a kiss.”
“I’ll be right back. I’m just going to the bathroom.”
“But what, I can’t just get a kiss?”
“I’m coming back, though.”
I give up and give him a kiss.
I guess he is hung up on the affection thing because he brings it up again when I get back from the bathroom.
“Like I said, affection is my number one requirement in a relationship. When I go home, for example, to visit my mom, when I wake up on a Saturday morning, my mom will come into my bedroom and get into bed with me and cuddle.”
I am speechless.
“I’m a momma’s boy.”
“I see that,” I say.

That pretty much seals the deal that I’m not going to contact him ever again. I am drunk and so I think, “Could he have possibly said that?” And I know the answer is yes. But I’m having fun (I think) and I can’t help but think that going home with someone is one step closer to getting over my ex.

He leads my head back to the pillow by wrapping his fingers around my neck and then smacks me three fast times on the cheek, like someone trying to wake up a football player after he’s been knocked out cold. What the...? So I smack him back, angrily, and none of this seems to faze him.
“Tell me you want me to fuck you up the ass,” he says, which is not only shocking on its own, but even more odd because we are nowhere near doing this.
“No,” I say, thinking, is it really a surprise that I’d refuse?
“Tell me.”
“No.”
“Tell me you want me to.”
“But I don’t want you to.”
“But isn’t it sexier if you say it? It doesn’t mean it has to happen.”
“So, I can tell you I want it but it’s not going to happen?”
“Right.”
“Okay.”
“Tell me.”
And so, with about as much enthusiasm as the teacher in Ferris Bueller’s day off, I say, “I want you to fuck me up the ass.”
“Tell me again.”
“I want you to fuck me up the ass.”
“Good girl,” he says, and I shudder, thinking that he is now playing the cuddly daddy role.

At this point I am sobered up and ready to get out of there, like, hours ago, so I say “I have to go.”
“Right in the middle of hooking up? That’s tacky.” Well, I think, I hadn’t been planning on still hooking up at this point. Plus, who tells a girl that they like she is “tacky”?
“Why do you need to go? Just stay the night here.”
“I really want to wake up in my bed, I have things to do in the morning.”

This isn’t flying with him. He wants to cuddle all night. He wants me hold him while he falls asleep and hold him as he wakes up. This just isn’t going to happen, and I get dressed. He looks at me, from where he is lying on his couch, with only boxers on. I realize that with his protruding belly and balding head, he looks exactly like that Seinfeld poster of George Costanza. It’s amazing how different some guys look without their clothes on.
“C’mon, just stay,” he says. “I’m really horny.”
I really need to get out of here.

It’s about 3:00 a.m. and as I am getting ready to leave I say, “Hey, you said you’d walk me to the subway.”
Silence.
“You don’t have to. I can take care of myself, it’s all good.”
He exhales loudly. “I’m damned if I do and I’m damned if I don’t! I have to wake up at 7:30 tomorrow and it’s going to take me twenty minutes round trip if I walk you to the subway.”
“It’s alright. It’s fine,” I say, and see myself out.

That night I found out why the website is called “OkCupid” and not “AwesomeCupid”.

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"Cherry Bomb"
By Rachel Khona

It started off innocently enough. I'm just going to look.  The semi-annual Stella McCartney sample sale was going on once again. In case you're unaware, this is the MOTHER of all sample sales. Shoes that retail for $1000 are being sold for $200. It's like Christmas, my birthday, and my yet-to-happen Vegas elopment all rolled into 2 glorious days. 
The only problem was ever since the economy took a nose dive, work was hardly as good as it used to be. When I first moved to New York, bonuses were a plenty, I got a fresh mani and pedi every week, I belonged to a fab yoga studio, and after shopping I still had money left over to put into my 401K.

Now our bonuses had all but disappeared and we had gotten across the board pay cuts. So I was forced to make some seriously scary changes. I started doing my own mani and pedis (and if you want to know how bad that is, imagine Helen Keller doing your nails.), I cancelled my cable, I started stealing internet from my neighbors, and the only workout I got was the yoga I streamed from my computer.

I had begrudgingly accepted this temporary setback of pauper-like living. I wasn’t thrilled, but I mean at least I had a job right? Nonetheless my lack of purchasing power had started to get to me. What was the point of working in fashion if I couldn’t even afford the lifestyle I was promoting?

I could do without buying new clothes because I could usually weasel some freebies from clients at work. But shoes were another story. Free shoes were much harder to come by. And I loathed wearing sneakers, flats or anything that did not highlight my calves. High heels made me feel like I could conquer the world, twirl guys around my finger, and be a flowing vision of gorgeousness.

Which brings me back to the Stella sale. I was just going to look.

After waiting in line to get inside for fifteen minutes, I made a beeline for the shoe section. I inhaled the sweet smell of faux-leather and plastic. There were orange fishnet kitten heels, lime platforms with acrylic, nude satin peep-toe pumps, pink and black criss-cross sandals, and gray basket weave heels.

Nothing could be better than this. I felt like a starving Ethiopian seeing food for the first time. Just because I hadn’t planned on buying anything didn’t mean I couldn’t try on a few pairs of shoes. I started grabbing at any box that was marked size 36, regardless of whether or not I even liked the shoes or knew what was in the box. In my frenzy for shoes, I accidentally knocked down an entire stack causing shoes to tumble everywhere and one shoe to knock a girl on the shoulder.  I looked over at my fellow shopper who glared at me irritably. "Oops, my bad!" I said. I picked up my 6th box of shoes and sat down.  I tried on one pair after another but none of them seemed right. Then I put THEM on. It was like magic. Like love at first sight. They were 4 inch wood t-strap platforms in a denim blue color. But what really made them was the cherry appliqué. I stared down at my feet, which were now glowing. I named the shoes Cherry Bomb.
 I walked over to the mirror to get a better look. As I stared at my reflection, my mind started to drift off. I began to imagine all the fabulous outfits that would now be complete with the purchase of the Cherry Bomb shoes. I pictured myself walking to work while rainbows beamed out of me like rays to the sun. People would stop in their tracks and ask themselves who that fabulous vision was. Men would fall at my feet. Girls would want to be me. Word of my amazing shoes would travel wide and far across the land. Even to places like New Jersey and Oklahoma. 
I snapped out of my reverie. Carrie Bradshaw didn't have shit on me. I was going to look amazing in these shoes. The only problem is they were a 7 and I was a size 6 tops (usually a 5.5 if we're going to get technical). I'm sure I could put a shoe pad inside each shoe and have ankle straps adjusted.
 "Excuse me" I said to the woman standing next to me, "Do you think these are too big for me? They don't have my size and I was hoping I could fudge it.”
 She examined then for a second before replying. "Hmmm no I think they are fine. You just have to take them to the cobbler to get fixed."  "Oh thanks, that's just what I wanted to hear."

I knew I shouldn’t buy them but they were so cute! $500 is a steal! Besides I did have a fashion week party to go to. I decided to look at the shoes as an investment. Surely these gems would only go up in value so in reality I was actually making money.

Fuck it, I’m going to buy these shoes. I scampered over to the line, eager to buy the shoes so I could put them on immediately. I banished all negative thoughts from my head.
 That's when it started. The VOICES. They were everywhere.  "Um.... you can't really afford this. Even if it is on sale."  "Don't you still owe the IRS money?"
 "It's people like you that are responsible for this shitty economy!"
 "Bitch you got a mortgage!"  "What the fuck are you thinking?"  “Ahhhh!!! SHUTUP!!!" It was no doubt the work of the devil. My palms started to sweat. I didn't want to give them up. I loved my Cherry Bomb shoes. We had bonded. Like the time in first grade when I picked out my Dressy Bessy doll from Kmart. How could I have given her back after I picked her? It would have been like giving a child up for adoption.  But then again the voices had a point. How could I get the shoes at such dire times? I watched my 401K plummet to obscenely low levels and unemployment levels skyrocket, so it hardly seemed prudent to buy designer shoes even if they are from the God that is Stella. What was I going to do??? This could be one of the hardest decisions I ever made. I wondered if this is what druggies went through when trying to decide whether or not to take that hit of crack.
 I began to feel like I was in some sort of chick lit novel. Like Confessions of a Shopholic. Next thing you know I wouldn't be able to pay my bills and I would be out on the streets. I would start tap dancing in the subway to make some extra cash. I would be too embarrassed to use food stamps, so I would only eat once a day, allowing me to lose that last 5 lbs I've always wanted to lose. I would do OK, but it would still be hard to make ends meet for myself and the pet bunny I was going to get and name Uncle Boomer.
 The line moved forward. I gulped. First there were five people in front of me. Now there were three. I took a deep breath and ducked out of the line.  "Oh I'm just getting another pair!" I would shout out in case anyone asked. I couldn't let anyone know I actually couldn't afford the shoes. I glanced around furtively and then pretended to walk confidently back to the shoe section. Were the salespeople looking at me? What about that security guard? When the coast was clear I quickly put the shoes back. I hurried out of there shamefully. I felt like a teenage mother leaving her baby at the hospital because she doesn't want her parents to know she got knocked up and accidentally gave birth at prom.  I thought I was going to feel better, but as I walked away the aching in my heart grew.  "Fuck you economy!!!!" I shouted at the heavens.

When I got home, I knew I needed to drown my sorrows ASAP. I pulled out a tub of low-carb sugar free ice cream with my zero carb caramel spread. I didn't even measure the serving size this time. I'll show that damn economy. When everything turns around I'm going to buy those shoes at full price. Or at least on half price eBay. In the meantime, I still had my ice cream.

Inner Monologues: Bad Romance!

2010-02-19T14:44:00.000-08:00

COME TO THE SHOW ON MONDAY!

Pieces from Ho Ho Ho's on Dec 16!

2009-12-11T14:19:00.000-08:00

The Dave Who Ruined Christmas

by Emily Epstein

“Man, I wish you could join me for Christmas,” Dave said.

“I know. It’s not even like I’m doing anything special—maybe a movie and some Chinese food.”

“Why don’t you come up to Syracuse? My family always makes it a really big event, and I’ve been wanting you to meet my parents anyway. And . . . I miss you. Besides, maybe then we can finally, you know, take our relationship further.”

That was all it took. I had never celebrated Christmas before, most likely because I’m Jewish. But like most Jewish people, I’d always been kind of curious as to what actually happens at Christmas. Was it as warm and fuzzy as all the Hallmark commercials? Did someone always get a diamond and happiness abounds, like Zale’s says? Would I get the hottest new toy that I had been wishing for, as Toys R’ Us predicts? I’d also never dated a guy who was so freaking . . . nice. There were no games with Dave, no mystery as to how he felt about me. And it was refreshing. I couldn’t wait to see him.

Several days later, after a long and snowy six-hour car ride, with me gripping the wheel until my knuckles turned white, I found myself at Dave’s parent’s house on Christmas Eve. He greeted me with a long hug, as did his parents, his ninety-three-year-old grandmother, his three older sisters, their spouses, and their multiple kids. I found myself quite overwhelmed. I smiled and made small talk, but I began to wonder if I had made a mistake. There were so many people. And so many Christmas decorations. And so many representations of Jesus and his various relatives.

We sat down to dinner. There was a large ham. There was turkey. There were about fifty side dishes. I picked at the sides and made small talk about my classes. Dave and I held hands under the table. I felt the pressure of his thumb stroking my inner palm, and it soothed me. Every time one of Dave’s parents would ask me a question, they would look at each other and smile after my answer. After dinner the children ran off to play games that small children play.

“Okay, guys,” Dave’s dad said, looking at all of us adults expectantly. “It’s time to take communion!”

Oh, no. Was he really serious? Is that something you do at Christmas? Was I expected to do this, too? I imagined if I actually took “communion” some Jewish child would lose his Hanukah gelt.

“Pssst, Emily. Over here.” I looked over to see John, Dave’s oldest sister’s husband, gesturing to me. “You look scared,” he whispered. “Don’t worry. I’m Jewish, too.”

“Do they know?” I asked, alarmed.

“Of course. Listen, since we’re Jews, I’ve come up with our own special ‘communion’ that only we can do. Join me.”

“Okay,” I said, looking over at Dave, who gave me an encouraging smile from across the room.

“Take this Ritz cracker. I want you to eat it, say ‘shalom’ and kiss me on the cheek on the count of three.”

We did. It seemed to make John incredibly happy. I’d forgotten how good Ritz crackers can be. Probably much more buttery than a communion wafer. I also wondered if John would just perform this ritual with himself before I came along. That must have been really weird.

“Now go back to the Christmas stuff,” he said, as Dave came over. We sat in front of the fire and looked at their Christmas tree. It was huge and leaned slightly to the right. The ornaments were plentiful, some homemade, and didn’t match.

“We add new ones every year,” he began to explain in great detail, as if I had not only never celebrated Christmas before, but as if I was also autistic.

“Nice,” I said. It was really a very good idea, those Christmas trees. Kind of like a shrub of memories.

“See this one?” Dave said, pointing to a small ornament that looked like a movie camera. “My parents gave me that one when I started college and I decided to be a film major.” Dave was now in his junior year and I was a sophomore. We had met while working on the school newspaper as Features editors. We were just like the movie Up Close and Personal without the excitement or Robert Redford.

It was getting late so we got in our pajamas. I had packed the most flannelly pajamas I owned, not wanting to alarm Dave’s parents. If I could have found footie pajamas, I probably would have brought them. I was surprised to find out that I was sleeping in the same room as Dave, him on the floor and me in the bed. That would not have been cool at my house. Of course, a Christmas tree wouldn’t have been cool either.

“Well, my sisters are so much older that my parents probably aren’t even thinking about us being in the same room. That or they’re really glad I finally have a girlfriend,” he said, smiling shyly. He seemed almost giddy. I had a feeling I knew what was coming. It felt weird doing it here, but kind of exciting, like I when I used to smoke pot in my parent’s basement.

We said our goodnights to everyone and went to bed. Spooning me from behind, he whispered in my ear, “I really am glad you came up.”

I was glad, too. I wondered why I hadn’t always made life so easy for myself by dating someone free of drama. Sure, it wasn’t always nonstop excitement, but it was comfortable. We started to kiss, when he stopped and looked deeply with his navy blue eyes right into mine. “I want this to be the night,” he said.

“Are you sure? You’re ready?”

It wasn’t me I was worried about, it was Dave. He might have been older, but I was more learned in the ways of the sex. And by more learned, I meant I’d slept with two other people.

“No. I want to do it,” he said, blushing furiously. “I’m glad I waited for you to come along.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle,” I said, laughing. And we went to it. Or at least we tried to. Dave had a little, how shall we say, performance anxiety. So after trying for a while, we gave up and fell asleep, still content to be next to each other.

The next morning we woke up to Christmas. I got a sweater from the sisters, sans Christmas tree (‘we weren’t sure you’d like that,’ said Carole, the middle sister) and I ate more cookies than all the kids combined, most likely because there was no one there willing to stop me. I headed home later that day, with a container of more cookies and ham (I couldn’t say no) in my backseat. While I was slightly irked by my lack of booty, overall, it had been a memorable experience.

Dave and I kept dating for a few months. It was nice but fizzled out. We never consummated the relationship, despite quite a few attempts. That probably didn’t help things either.

A couple years after college around Christmas I got an email from Dave. “Here's a surprise about my life,” he wrote. “I'm in medical school up here in Buffalo! I finally got in this past summer! Additionally, I am dating someone. Her name is Tracy and it is going really well. Give me a call if you get a chance, I’d love to catch up.”

So I contacted him. And he emailed back. And soon it became clear why he had really contacted me. “So I really like Tracy,” he wrote. “And I think we’re ready to sleep together. And I know that we didn’t, but we got pretty close. I don’t know how to say this, but, you didn’t have any diseases, did you? I mean, I’m sure you don’t but I just figured it would be good to know these things before I take the plunge. Okay, thanks and glad to hear you’re doing so well! Best, Dave.”

I stared at my computer. Dave thought I was whore. And Dave was in medical school, so unless he was studying some new disease, I’m not sure what diseases he thought I might have given him just by making out. (I do not have herpes. My lips are just chapped.) I responded with a terse “No, I’m clean.” So much for catching up.

THE TALE OF TOO TALL TOM TOLLEFSON

by Tanner Dahlin

I was living in Fargo, North Dakota and on December 24^th of 2004, I started my Christmas Eve bartending shift by exchanging an awkward hug with my boss, Paul. Paul was normally a positive guy with a big grin, but not this day. He was wearing a clearly homemade bright red sweater with giant white snowflakes knitted into it. He angrily pointed to it with his thumbs and said, “Huh? You know? Tis The Season!”

I started my shift and no one came in for a long time. In fact, no one was coming in at all and I started to wonder weather or not I came in on Christmas Eve just to earn the $3.45/hour the bar paid, when a regular’s car pulled in.

A small, blue, two-wheeled drive Honda Accord swiveled through the ice packed concrete parking lot and lazily came to a sliding rest across three parking spaces. After a few moments the door flew open and a giant leg bent out of the driver’s seat. The next thing I could see was a short crop of blond hair on an almost birdlike human head as a 6’7” tall, Scandinavian man unfolded out of the small vehicle. He wasn’t dressed appropriately for the weather and the wind was blowing strong and icy snow was blowing in his face. Yet, he seemed calm and undeterred as he slowly marched up to the building.

I could always see people, through the bar windows, running from their snow packed cars and I would like to announce an observation. North Dakotans have developed a very distinctive trot while they make the frozen run to and from their car. There is sort of a posture they’ve developed where they try to keep their legs as close together in an attempt to create friction heat. They do this, while simultaneously clenching their butt cheeks together to lock out any icy wind, all while moving at absolute top velocity!

This man did not assume this posture, however. He marched into the snow as if every flake that burned his skin didn’t even touch him and he flung open the doors and stomped the snow off his boots. The whistling of a high wind shrilled through the hinges as the door slammed shut.

This was no ordinary bar regular. No. This was Too Tall Tom Tollefson, the famous former local weatherman. To understand the Tale of Too Tall Tom Tollefson, one must understand the people of Fargo, and to understand the people of Fargo, one must understand the weather.

In a frozen city, whose denizens proudly smile beneath their frozen facemasks, the weatherman is king. Too Tall Tom Tollefson was Fargo’s Medieval, giant turkey leg eating, goblet of mead swilling, royalty.

It gets so cold in Fargo, North Dakota, that during the colder parts of the winter, a car’s engine will inevitably freeze and the pistons won’t budge. This causes a car starter to whine and moan. Most January mornings you can hear the starter wines carry across the frozen lifeless earth.

There have been whole weeks where it never got above 20 below. Never got ABOVE 20 below for 7 days straight or longer! There are times where it is so cold that you could take a cup of warm water and take it outside and throw the contents of the cup up high into the air, and by the time the water droplets hit the ground all the water would freeze solid, and little ice pieces would lay on the ground. I wouldn’t believe that, but I saw it demonstrated several years ago, on live national television by none other than Too Tall Tom Tollefson, himself.

It was on Good Morning America. Pretty big deal, for Fargo. He proudly tossed the water as high as he could, and I could tell by his face that he was desperately hoping it would work. And I could also tell that he was drunk. And this came at no surprise. In fact, there were many clues that Tom was a drinker.

“He’s A Drinker” Clue Number One: He was way too excited. North Dakotans are very quiet and mild mannered people, and he was always speaking at a very high energy level. “Good Evening Everybody!!! IT”S GONNA BE COLD!!!” he would happily yell.

“He’s A Drinker” Clue Number Two: He was always happy that it was cold. People in Fargo are supposed to begrudgingly appreciate the uninhabitable deadly cold, not celebrate it. Too Tall Tom Tollefson celebrated the winter. He proudly and wildly waved his arms across the weather map telling of below 19 degree temps and 74 degree below wind-chill with such a pleasure that he mush have just been smashed.

“He’s A Drinker” Clue Number Three: His nickname was Too Tall Tom Tollefson, and we were all pretty sure it was a nickname that he gave himself. It’s not that it wasn’t appropriate, he was a really tall dude, it was just that he gave the nickname to himself, and that’s just weird.

The final nail in the coffin in the public opinion is “He’s A Drinker” Clue Number Four: He called blowing snow, “BS” on locally broadcast television in a way that you could just tell he meant Bull Shit. “We are going to have some flurries tonight with winds from the north! That means it is going to be coooold, and we will have a lot of BS coming in from the Grand Forks area.” It also didn’t help that he would go to the local bars, like mine, and drink, drink, drink, after every 10pm broadcast.

So, Too Tall Tom Tollefson strides into the bar, and I had his Grey Goose Martini made just the way he liked it and ready for him at his stool by the time that he sat down. Paul, eagerly smiling, plopped down right next to him like a tween plopping down next to Robert Pattinson. Paul comped his drink, as he usually did with Tom’s first one, cause “It’s good for business to have celebrities here.” The next four were always on the weatherman, though.

“Better poor one for yourself, Tanner, it’s Christmas Eve for Pete’s sake.” Tom offered kindly. I was about to give him my usual, “Thanks, but our corporate policy prohibits me from drinking on duty,” but before I could say anything, Paul said, “Go ahead, buddy, in fact pour two, you know, we’ll both have one, ok?”

This was especially odd coming from Paul, who’s strict and eager adherence to every single Corporate Policy made him probably one of the most anal retentive people I had ever met. One time Paul wouldn’t let a coworker wait tables because her shirt was 90% Cotton and 10% polyester instead of the Corporate mandated 35/65 ratio. True.

“Here’s to you two guys who have to work on Christmas Eve” Tom said and we all drank. “Aren’t you kinda pissed about having to work today?” he asked.

Paul was drinking his beer quickly, like a kid drinking milk after playing outside. He finished and loudly exclaimed, “Well, ya know, I am kinda pissed.”

I made Tom another Martini, and I quietly poured my boss another beer and slid it in front of him with the ease of an old bartending pro. He didn’t even really notice and drank from the new beer, thereby giving me full understood authority for my second drink!

Paul was really mad, and getting a little tipsy. “All managers are required to wear a dress shirt and tie, well I was supposed to get Christmas off, so I’m going to give them the middle finger, and I’m going to wear this sweater, I don’t care if it’s against regulations, because, you know, tis the season.”

I made my second drink and I made it stronger than the first, and made Tom his fourth Martini of the night. “Damn the Man, that’s what I say.” It’s true. Tom did say that. Every once and a while a stupid moron would drink up the courage to ask him why he wasn’t on the news anymore. The moron would usually ask loud enough where his friends could see that he didn’t wuss out. Tom would always graciously decline to comment except for occasionally saying, “Damn the Man.”

The truth is, towards the end of Too Tall Tom’s reign, Daryl Aarnason started to make more and more regular appearances on the weekday broadcast. Daryl was a ‘B’ team weatherman who worked the holidays and weekends, he was pudgy and short and quiet. For a while, Tom still did the nightly promos, my favorite part of the news. They would be little 10-second pieces that would run during the commercial breaks, where Tom would cram in as much info as possible. Why I loved them is that he would always start by looking away from the camera, and then shoot his head toward the camera like a falcon spotting a field mouse. “It’s gonna be cooooold with a lot of B.S. and wind chills in the negative 30s, and if you live in Bourop then you can expect some blizzard conditions.” And then commercial. Some high energy stuff.

Soon after short-and-pudgy Daryl came up from the ‘B’ team to start covering Tom’s growing absences, a new ‘B’ team weatherman was hired. He was named ‘Shad’ and I swear he looked to be a fifteen-year-old kid in the midst of some pretty fierce puberty. Then Daryl started doing the promos and introduced a wildly popular new segment called, “Daryl Aarnason’s Weather Info” where he would answer weather questions in a rich absent monotone that soothed the residents of Fargo.

Then one day, Too Tall Tom Tollefson disappeared from the airwaves for good. He never really talked about the day he got fired, or anything about the news. He was just a nice guy who loved the cold and was also really animated. A perfect North Dakotan weatherman king with a tragic flaw.

Tom paid for his martini’s, tipped really well, and then walked into the night with his coat flapping open in the below zero wind. Bypassing his car entirely, he proudly strode past the windows of the bar waving up at Paul and I. He wasn’t scurrying in an attempt to keep warm either. He was slowly walking home with the fresh, ice cold, winter air filling his lungs, as his long Norwegian legs strode easily through the B.S.

CUTLETS

by Alexis

There’s always been a formula to my family Hanukah Party, or any holiday we’ve spent with my mom’s twin sister and her family. Most family traditions are the kinds of things you look forward to. Unfortunately for me, ours seem to induce all kinds of stress.

Like all nights out, last year’s party began with getting dressed. But when I say dressed, I’m not talking Sunday best kind of dressed. My mom and aunt are a little like those stage moms in those creepy shows about five year olds in beauty pageants. I used to get yelled at if I left the house without lipstick on. And I was only six.

Next comes the Greeting. Or, if I’m being honest, the once-over. This is the moment when my aunt makes sure that her guest, after spending hours getting ready, is now hot enough to enter her house.

At last year’s Hanukah, she answered the door in a floor length, body-hugging sequin gown. She stood there in her six inch stilettos, blond hair pouffed out from a couple hours spent in curlers, and one hour under a hair dryer chair. After years of being considered “the frumpy” cousin, I had finally decided to step it up and invest in some heavy eye makeup and an outfit that would make even the cast of MTV’s the Jersey Shore blush. My aunt’s gaze moved from my knee-high boots, to my fishnet stockings, pausing at my butt-grazing skirt. I felt like a freshman under the appraising eyes of a senior boy. “Can I please come to your frat Party?” My off the shoulder top, was the clincher. “Well come in already! You’re letting in all the cold air. Don’t you love my dress?”

Cocktail hour that year had improved from years past, wherein the adults used to drink little glass cups of sherry and if we were lucky, the kids were allowed just a sip, or a schlug (as my grandma used to say, in Yiddish). This time, because now we were all legal, we had a choice of two beverages: Apple martinis or cosmos. I think my mom and my aunt saw a couple of reruns of Sex in the City, decided that it was cool to imbibe drinks with bright pretty colors in them, and declared these the signature drinks of the house. I requested a nice dirty martini before dinner. Good luck finding a jar of olives in any of our family’s houses. I had to settle for a gherkin pickle-tini. Not as bad as it sounds though.

While drinks were being served, someone set out the chopped liver. This is the caviar of the Jews.

Like vultures, my twenty-something year old cousins descended on it and started shoveling it into their mouths. It’s scary, seeing a 100-pound woman eat fistfuls of liver, and then scream at her mother that there weren’t enough gherkin pickles to put on top of her chopped liver and crackers combo. I spent those tense few minutes trying my best not to look like a pickle thief.

I like my chopped liver but I wouldn’t give away my first born for it. For some reason this is not acceptable.

“What’s wrong honey? You don’t like the liver?” my mom asked me that night. I was literally polishing off my third cracker.

“I do like it,” I said. “I just don’t want to ruin my appetite.”

“You used to love chopped liver,” she said wistfully, as if my self-control signaled some sort of loss of innocence, or a giant rift in the relationship between mother and daughter.

While people were still milling about, my aunt called my father, who is a physician, into the hallway to inspect my aunt’s latest medical mystery. This happened every year, but the questions just varied slightly.

“What do you think of this mole?”

“What should I do about the pain in my arm?”

“This rash just won’t go away.”

He was always happy to give his initial opinion, but always had to remind family members that his field is gynecology. Once, my aunt pulled my dad and my cousin, when she was about 12 into my cousin’s bedroom to ask my dad if he thought something was wrong with my cousin’s boobs.

“We think that one of them isn’t growing right,” my aunt said, pointing to the errant boob.

Luckily, this was something my dad could confidently speak about, though looking at your half naked niece is just a little awkward.

“Your daughter’s breasts are perfectly normal,” he assured them.

Of course, I thought my cousin’s lopsided boobs were hilarious and told her my dad was just being nice and that she should consider herself deformed until nature proved otherwise.

The final event of the evening, before dinner is served is always Show and Tell. This is when all the women gather in a bedroom and show each other their battle scars while they try on the latest clothes purchased at Loehmanns, Nordstrom’s or Bloomies. Lipo, tummy tucks, eye lifts, neck lifts, boob jobs, boob fixes, weight loss, weight gain, you name it.

Last year, while my cousin and I sprawled across my aunt’s comforter, we watched my aunt wiggle out of her gown to show us a giant black and blue mark along her thighs and butt.

“Wow, you can hardly see the scar,” I joked.

“Excuse me,” she said to me. “Not all of us have your mothers thighs.” “I go to the gym for two hours a day,” my mom said defensively.

“Yeah right, you don’t even break a sweat and spend the whole time flirting with Big Dave the towel guy. This is you on the treadmill,” I said, doing an imitation of my mom smiling like a beauty queen and walking at a leisurely pace. My mom just made a face.

I needed a dress to wear to an upcoming wedding, so my cousin suggested I try on one of hers. She offered up a sparkly Herve Leger number—aka the “Bandage Dress”. It was a peach colored floor length gown with a jeweled bodice. My cousin told me that when she wore it to a recent wedding, everyone couldn’t stop staring at her, rather than the bride. I was going to my husband’s aunt’s second wedding, so this was not the effect I was going for.

“Wow. It’s gorgeous,” I said, blinded by the rhinestones. “I, I couldn’t.”

“Yes! You have to! C’mon Lex! Just try it,” urged my cousin.

“Yeah, put it on!” my mom agreed.

“Don’t get lipstick on it,” my aunt cautioned.

“I don’t WEAR lipstick,” I reminded her.

After being manhandled by my cousin, mom and aunt, I finally was in the dress. I feared that if I took a breath of air, the whole thing would explode off of me. Now, I’d seen pictures of my cousin looking quite ravishing in this thing. She had the Malibu Barbie tan, the hair extensions, the body. I looked well….Like something was missing.

My aunt knew just what. She reached into her bra and pulled out a pair of two blobby things that looked like chicken cutlets.

“Try them, they’re fun.”

Fun? I wasn’t so sure. They jiggled in my hands and felt kind of warm. OK. I packed the cutlets into the dress and watched the smiles of approval form on everyone’s faces.

“Oh honey, now we’re talkin’,” my aunt said.

I officially was one of the girls. And now I actually had some ‘girls’ of my own. I had to admit, I looked pretty good.

“Wait!” said my mom. She fussed with my hair in order to give it some “height”. “Now you can show Jesse,” she said.

I did a Jessica Rabbit type walk into the living room, where my husband was sitting with the rest of the family. What would he think of Alexis 2.0? Or Alexis Boob Point 0?

Boom Chig a Boom Chig a Boom.

My dad told me I looked very nice.

“So?” I did a twirl. “What do you think of this, for your aunt’s wedding?”

The look of horror on Jesse’s face said it all. His brow furrowed in confusion as if he couldn’t register me + rhinestones + chiffon+ giant breasts.

I was pissed. “What? You don’t think I look pretty?”

“Hey, whatever you want to wear is fine with me,” he said, but I could tell it wasn’t.

No one could believe he didn’t like the dress. And even though Jesse had been worshipped earlier that evening for buying my aunt flowers and bringing a bucket of chopped liver from Zabars, dinner was a bit tense. He might as well have said he didn’t like my grandma’s chicken soup. My aunt, mom, cousin, even the cat, threw Jesse icy glares.

In the car on the way home, we talked about things. It was weird. I didn’t even really want to wear the dress. But I think for a moment, I wanted to feel connected to the women in my family. I don’t think Jesse hated the dress that much, or that he has a thing against chicken cutlets. In fact, he adores anything breaded and fried. I think he saw a glimpse of what I could have been had I stayed in New Jersey my whole life. Like he was scared of what these relatives of mine might do to me if I spent too much time alone with them.

We had our own Hanukah Party this year. First we got dressed in T-shirts and jeans. Then we greeted people at the door with shots of vodka. We had cocktails. The last part of the evening was just hanging out and chatting. Plastic surgery scars were completely optional.

Blood Stains

By Rachel Khona

I know everyone thinks Angelina Jolie was the first to make adopting third world orphans fashionable. But I started doing it way before it became super trendy and infertile couples in Park Slope started toting them around like the latest handbag.

I felt so blessed that my parents had the good sense to escape India and make new lives for themselves in New Jersey. So I decided it was time for me to give back to the Motherland. A few years earlier, I adopted an Indian orphan named Kavita through Children International. Through the years Kavita and I had exchanged letters and heartwarming stories. She told me about going to school and making friends and I told her about the latest guy I had been dating or my most recent shoe acquisition.

Kavita had become practically like a daughter to me. I had been giving Kavita money to buy things like new school uniforms and pencils but I decided to take it to the next level. Why not host a charity party? I always read about celebrities attending benefits in US Weekly, so I figured I could do it too. A Bollywood themed party would be perfect!

There was only one problem. My sex life. My libido often got me into trouble, causing me to do things like forget to go work, oversleep and miss my college midterms, and lose my contacts in some guy’s apartment resulting in temporary blindness. So when a guy asked me to go out the night before my party, I should have known it would be major bad news. But he was soooo cute! He was English, an army vet, and dirty in a way that made me think he would be a good lay.

After getting sufficiently wasted off copious amounts of champagne and Jack Daniels, we headed back to my apartment, where we began to get it on.

Then began the litany of chatter.

“Baby you’re so hot.”

“Oh yeah fuck me harder.”

I’m not into chatty Cathys during sex. I talk enough during the day so I don’t need any more chit chat while someone is poking me. To get him to shut up I started pushing his head south. It took him a second, but he finally made his way down there. I waited awhile to feel something and after what seemed like an eternity, I began to wonder if he even knew what a clitoris was. I mean it wasn't like this was a "Where's Waldo?" situation. It was pretty straightforward.

I decided I needed to do something before I started chafing. I was just about to get on top when I noticed it.

“What is that?” I said pointing towards his arm.

“It’s a smurf.” He replied.

“Oh.” Any juice I had left was slowly drying.

Here I was fucking a guy with a smurf tattoo on his arm. And not just any smurf. An evil smurf. It looked like it had been drawn on by a retarded right-handed monkey. With the amount of money he wasted on that dumb tattoo, I could have bought Kavita a mansion in India! Kavita is starving while idiots like him are getting cartoon characters tattooed on them.

I knew right then and there this session in the sack was going south quick. I got on top to finish this up before I get completely turned off. Thankfully he came soon enough so I didn’t have to continue too long. We rolled over and lay there sweaty and panting. That’s when I started feeling the pangs of guilt. I had shirked my cooking duties for Kavita’s benefit party just so I could laid by someone who couldn’t find my lady parts and had poor taste in tattoos. It was then I began to ponder what exactly I was doing with my life. Unfortunately my deep thoughts were interrupted by Tom.

“Um did get your period? Because there’s blood everywhere.”

I looked down at the sheets. Even in the dark I could see the huge blood stains all over my black and white French toile duvet cover. Fuck! That thing was not cheap.

“Um, well I thought it was done. Sorry!” The tricky about periods, for those of you who don’t know, is that sometimes it seems like its gone, when in reality there’s just a little more left. Like a tube of toothpaste you have to squeeze really hard.

“I went down on you.”

Hmmm, I had been hoping he would forget that. “Well it’s kind of hot in a fucked up way isn’t it? Like a vampire. Vampires are really hot now.”

“Yeah I guess you’re right.”

He was so blasé I began to wonder if I could get him to do it again. I wanted to test my powers of persuasion even if he wasn’t really that good.

“Baby, that was soooooo good. Can you do it again?”

“You want me to go down on you again???”

“Oh yeah. C’mon honey it was so hot.”

He went down on me to quote 50 Cent, like a fat kid loves cake.

As my friend and co-worker TK would say, that’s the power of the pussy.

Unfortunately, the ol’ puss was a little too powerful because I couldn’t get Tom to leave the next morning. I had been hoping as always for a quick exit but it was not to be. I mean hello, I still had samosas and pakoras to prepare from scratch. I had even bought the ingredients yet! Kavita was going to be so disappointed if I didn’t come through. I had meant to cook last night but that all went to shit once Tom asked me out.

“Come on baby one more time,” he said. I found myself tempted in spite of the smurf.

Omigod, what was I going to do? Poor Kavita is sitting there in a shack in India somewhere depending on me and here I am trying to decide whether I should have sex or not. I was on a downward shame spiral.

I glanced over at my clock when he wasn’t looking. Oh my God it’s already 12:30. Shit! How was I going to clean, go grocery shopping, cook, paint my nails, and look fabulous by 7? I hadn’t even had my morning coffee yet.

I knew what I had to do.

“Sorry dude. But I seriously have to get ready for Kavita’s benefit party.” I got up, much to Tom’s chagrin, and started to get ready. He begged and pleaded, but I ignored him and threw his pants at him.

“OK, honey but I’m taking you out next week.”

“OK, sure whatever.”

I slammed the door behind him. I was so proud of myself for making the right decision. Now it was onto my party. It was 1pm. How was I going to make samosas from scratch? I sat there pondering my dilemma when it hit me. OMG, how could I be so retarded??? Jackson Heights!!! The plethora of cheap frozen Indian food would impress my whitey cracker friends who don’t know any better and it would save me time.

Next I looked over at the state of my comforter. A blood soaked comforter doesn’t seem too welcoming for guests. I tried washing it but it wasn’t working. I stuffed my still wet comforter into a garbage bag and put a decorative blanket on my bed.

Now that I sorted that out I was able to finally focus on Kavita and her benefit party. I went to Little India and loaded up on all kinds of frozen goodies, pre-packaged drinks, snack mixes, chutneys and ice cream.

Back home I taped a picture of Kavita to a piece of poster board and drew a sad face underneath. I figured I should also brush up on her story in case the guests ask. I pulled out my informational pamphlet and began reading.

Wait a minute Kavita is not an orphan?? She has a family? And they’re just kind of poor. Kind of poor? What the fuck is that? I felt betrayed. I want my adopted children to have no family except for me. I want them to be dirt fucking poor. Why would I want to help someone that was kind of poor? I felt kind of poor every time I went into Barneys and saw a pair of designer shoes I couldn’t afford.

For 11 seconds I pondered getting rid of that fake orphan Kavita and adopting a child for real from Sally Struthers. But then I thought fuck it. I cut Kavita off but I got a pink cactus instead. And by the way the party was fabulous.

Wrapping the Holidays

by Elicia Berger

The winter after I turned nine, my mom took me shopping at the Macy’s department store downtown. I was a shy but curious kid, so, unlatching myself from her side, I wandered over to the cramped gift-wrapping room near the restrooms, and watched the middle-aged women who worked there bend over the slick red boxes with crisp white text. What they were doing was so interesting that the stained carpet, stuffy non-circulating air, and the spot that looked conspicuously like pee in the corner did not discourage. The women pulled swiftly on one of the rolls behind them and tugged at the metal cutter so there was just enough to wrap the box and neatly fold over a thin edge, which they’d tape in the middle and then at the ends. Upon special request, they’d create some sort of tri-fold-over design or special bow. Then they’d curl the ends of the ribbons with the blade of a scissor. I watched these women so carefully, studying their every move, and after begging my mom for extra gift boxes, I went home and practiced. I thought these women had one of the best jobs in the whole world.

I have always loved Christmas. One of the more peculiar things about this, perhaps, is that I’m Jewish. Maybe I’ve always loved Christmas especially because it would never really be mine. When I was younger (and even now, really) I always wormed my way into the households of my Christmas-celebrating friends.

When I was a kid, my older brother periodically teased me about many things, one of which was that I was adopted. Clearly a product of my Vietnamese mother and Jewish father, inheriting my dad’s smile and knees, and my mom’s eyes and coloring, I was still sensitive to my brother’s jabs. But I thought that maybe if I had been adopted, at least there might be a possibility that I could be a religion that actually celebrated Christmas.

My mom grew up Buddhist and Catholic, but neither of her parents was really religious. Maybe about ten years after she married my dad, she decided she’d convert to Judaism and that her children would be raised Jewish. Her conversion happened in time for me and my brother to attend Hebrew school, then get Bar/Bat Mitzvah’ed and finally, confirmed—which is like having another Bar Mitzvah at 15, without the party. Not only did we get confirmed but we were even Jew-y enough that both of us were actively involved in local Jewish youth groups and I happened to be President of mine. So, despite the Vietnamese bit-of-Catholic-bit-of-Buddhist blood, I grew up an uber-Jew.

And yet I liked everything about Christmas—from the nice-smelling trees to the trimmings to the twinkly lights and—of course, presents! I was an easily self-amused kid and not one that needed lots of presents (though I did get one every night for eight nights so who’s complaining?!) but what I really loved about presents was—you guessed it—their gift wrap: foily reds, glittery snowflakes, curly ribbon. I‘m the kind of person who still carefully unwraps gifts, peeling the tape free at the seams and neatly folds the paper to keep and use for later. Even before that fateful visit to the Macy’s gift wrapping counter, I’d had an interest in gift wrapping. My parents asked me to do all of their gift wrapping, and I became the “manager” of our gift-wrapping center, upstairs in the hall closet, which encompassed such activities as: organizing the paper (folded and in rolls), ribbon, bows, tissue paper, and boxes. I was so good at it—and it made me so happy—that I decided that’s what I wanted to do when I grew up; clearly this is when my aspirations to be a starving artist began.

That same day at Macy’s, after drooling not over all the department store goodies, but the paper, my mom and I walked by the big line of children waiting alongside their parents to see none other than Santa himself. I was not even sure if Santa was real (rumors flow in public school, you know) but I wanted to see him. I liked Christmas.

“Mom? Can we visit Santa?”

“No, honey, we don’t have time today. I’ve got to get a lot done.”

When she said “we don’t have time today” I knew it meant, “We’ll never have time. We don’t see Santa.”

“Pleeease?”

“No, Elicia. C’mon,” and she shooed me along to the garage, where our station wagon was parked.

I watched the kids in their best Christmas outfits, with red and green velvet, lace and gold trimming, waiting in line for a dream. A dream that would last perhaps thirty seconds, maybe involve fear, disappointment, excitement, or perhaps even be forgettable. But I wanted my chance for a dream, and I didn’t get it.

I spent Christmas Eve that year with a friend and her family, but my Christmas ended there. I never knew what happened during the middle of the night, when Santa and his reindeer were supposedly en route via sleigh. But then again, I never worried about being bad or good (for Santa at least), never feared coal in my stocking or empty space under the tree.

There were all kinds of details about Christmas, though, of which I was skeptical. On the fence about Santa’s very existence, I knew that if he did exist, he did not come in through the chimney. I was sure that my friends’ parents provided Santa Claus with a house key, and he’d come in quietly through the back door. As for reaching all those kids in one night, I thought it had something to do with different time zones, but I was not exactly sure how that worked. My parents never let me eat a lot of sweets because they insisted I’d get a stomachache, a fact which at some point I challenged them on, and lost. So if Santa ate all those cookies people left for him, he’d get a bellyache and wouldn’t be able to work. Just how Elijah would get drunk if he had accepted all that wine on Passover.

Everyone pretty much knew Hanukkah Harry and a Hanukkah bush was just made up so Jewish kids didn’t feel left out, but the more I thought about it, I was not left out. I got to celebrate Christmas Eve with my friends, and Hanukkah was not so bad. It was good, in fact. I got presents from my parents, who witnessed how I behaved on a daily basis. They did not have to report to a third party in the North Pole and I did not have to fear coal in my stocking or elves botching up my toys. My gifts came straight from Hasbro! And since I got to provide my parents with a wish list and even go shopping with them for some of my gifts, I knew I’d be happy with them. I never received underwear or socks or lip-gloss. And I even got to wrap some of my own presents, which was probably one of the best parts. These gifts were still a nice surprise every night that Hanukkah, when, after we lit the candles and said the prayers, my brother and I scurried around the house trying to figure out where my parents had hid them.

And as we sat on the floor, my brother tearing his gift open eagerly, and me carefully opening mine at the seams, I realized that however my holiday was wrapped, the gift inside was still love.

Other Pieces from Inner Monologues: Mixed Bag!

2009-10-09T19:05:00.000-07:00

Matteson Perry
Slump buster

I dated the same girl for all of college, but we broke up when we graduated. It was sad, because she was my first real girlfriend, but I was also excited because whenever a guy breaks up with a girl they think their life is about to turn into a cinemax soft core porn movie. I thought I ‘d become a private investigator who’s days are hot, but who’s nights were hotter. That did not happen. What did happen is that I went over a year without dating anyone or even having sex.

I started confidant and thought “I’m only going to get with a girl that’s hotter than my girl.” Then a couple months went by and I though, “I’ll date a girl AS hot as my ex, for sure.” A couple more months went by and I thought “I hope I don’t die alone.”

Once I hit the year mark I knew I had to do something drastic. I needed to find myself a slump buster. A slump buster is a girl that you aren’t necessarily attracted to and who you maybe wouldn’t even normally have sex with, but desperate times call for fugly measures.

So I went to a party searching for my slump buster, and when I’m on the prowl, it’s like my mind is a navy seal unit sent by the government to find and secure vagina (the government is my penis). There’s the scout who’s always checking out women – “I see one. She just touched her hair and looked away. I don’t know, it’s a code I’ve never seen.” And I have my common sense, a grizzled veteran that’s been in country for 3 years. He’s always chewing on a cigar and saying things like “careful boys, I don’t think that’s a pimple on her lip.” And then there’s my libido. He’s the muscular guy that has the big machine gun that spins, like Jesse Ventura in the movie Predator . He says “horseshit” all the time for no reason at all and he’s a shoot first, worry about unwanted pregnancies later kind of guy.

I go to a party one night and my team was locked and loaded. I’d issued a shoot to kill order. And I finally found my slump buster. Now, normally, a slump buster is ugly, but she wasn’t. However, she was big. I don’t mean fat, but literally big. She was 6’1” and proportionally sized. The kind of girl that played power forward on her high school basketball team. Basically she was like Long Duc Dong’s girlfriend in Sixteen Candles. So I started dancing with her, and it was the first time I’d ever danced with someone bigger than me, and it was a little weird, but I felt so safe in her arms.

It’s getting late and she leans in and says, “we should go back to your place.” And I, Mr. Cool say “ oh yeah? Why’s that doll?” And then she said the most forward sexual thing anyone has ever said to me: “well, we can’t have sex tonight, because I’m on my period, but I suck a mean dick.” OH MY GOD. Mr. Cool gone. I blushed like a southern belle – “Oh I do declare, you’ve given me a case of the vapors.” I wished I’d had something clever to say like, “I’ll be the judge of that, my dear, shall we,” But instead I looked at her and I said…“ that’s cool.”

So we went back to my place and she fulfilled her promise. And afterwards, she stunned me again by saying, “We should get together next week, cause I’ll fuck you so good.” All I could manage to say was, “that sounds good. I don’t have much going on next weekend…a couple errands to run, but yeah, other than that, we should definitely fuck me so good.”

We part ways and I feel bad about what happened, and I think there is no way I can meet her next week. I barely know her and I’m not attracted to her physically or emotionally. I’ll break my slump with someone I really like, I think, so when she called on Friday and asked if I wanted to hang out and I said “YES, RIGHT NOW!” It’s impossible for a guy to turn down no strings attached sex. It’s like turning down a drink at an open bar. It just doesn’t happen.

That night we’re back in my house and the Seal team is evaluating the situation. The scout says, “the target is right there and appears to be unguarded. It’s quiet.” And then my conscious chimes in “yeah, a little too quit.” And I think, “yeah, I feel weird about this. Let’s fall back”. But then Jesse Ventura yells “Horseshit!” And he runs in with his gun blazing! The conscious throws his cigar and yells “God damn it, I better make sure this idiot wears a condom!” and he rushes into the fight and the next thing I know we’re up in my room having sex.

It’s awkward first time sex. And I will admit, I was not very good. But, it had been a while. Now, some people say having sex is like riding a bicycle and you never forget how. But, I don’t know if that saying applies when you’re the bicycle.

You can tell a sexual encounter is a mistake if the instant you orgasm, and I mean a split second after you come, your first conscious thought is “Oh my god, what am I doing?” The best way I can describe what happened in my brain is, as usual, to reference a scene from Jurassic Park. There’s a scene when they have to reboot the computer system in order to get the electric fences working and the security back on line. Samuel L. Jackson says “hold on to your butts” and he throws the switch and all the systems come back on line. That’s what happens to my brain. Right after I came my brain powered back up - self-esteem back on line; good judgment, back on line; fear of women taller than me, back on line.

The next day I felt guilty because I thought, well, I had sex with her, so she’s probably in love with me. I can’t just do her and never call again, so I tried to ask her out again, but she never called me back, and I ended up hearing through a friend that I was basically her slump buster.

----------------------------------------

A Girl Named Maria
by Elicia Berger

My friend Deema and I are planning on spending our last day of a friend's bachelorette weekend in Miami on the beach. We walk from 6th Street to 12th Street on the sloped sand, and finally decide on a spot that meets our requirements: no children and no hairy, overweight men.
Because we are scanning so intensely for what we don't want, we don't actually see what is right in front of us until we have set our towels down: several very buff men in ostentatious swimwear checking each other out. One has a spandex number that looks like disco meets the Muppets, another looks more bedroom than beach. (Let's just say that this amount of flesh and frill should really be restricted to the privacy of one's own home.) Then we notice the rainbow flag near the lifeguard station. Clearly. A ways behind us, lounging in rented chaise lounges, are three buxom blondes in pastel-colored bikini bottoms. And nothing else. A chiseled man with smooth chocolate skin emerges from the ocean and saunters by in a bikini bottom smaller than any other I've seen, the suit’s posterior revealing buns of steel through wet black lace. I raise my brow at Deema and we proceed to ogle the man's buttocks, because really, even if you're a frog and know you can't get it on with the pretty piggy, she's still pretty and you still want it.
We are excited to have found a great spot for people-watching. A couple of women approach and plop down about ten feet from us. One talks on the phone while she settles in. She is in her early- to mid-thirties, but has the voice of a chain-smoking 65-year-old.
“Yeah, it's Maria. You’ll never guess where I am. South Beach! It’s so nice out here. I’m just calling because I want you to be jealous...Yeah, I’m gonna go topless.”
As Maria finishes her bragging, she removes her top to reveal two nearly bursting balloons with elevator button nipples. Her friend, who has nearly identical breasts—maybe they got a two-for-one?—but slightly larger hips, does the same. Maria, bare chested, puts her dark wavy mane in a pony tail while kneeling on her towel. Looking around to make sure everyone sees her, she proceeds to rub on tanning oil.
“You know, my friends at work tell me, ‘Maria! Why don’t you wear SPF! Why do you wear tanning oil!’ I like to get dark. I want to get so dark…I want my tits to be black.”
She continues to rub the oil, the post-op scars on the edge of her breasts showing slightly. The red rawness of the scars, while only peeking out a bit, contrast strongly with her browned skin.
“God, all these cocks are making me horny. Even though they’re gay.” Her bikini bottoms are a slick black lycra with a thin gold chain draped around the waistline. They tie with strings on the side. She is in full makeup. She isn't not attractive, but let's just say that her face is not the main attraction.
The two settle in. Maria takes a brief phone call from her boyfriend, whom she calls “Sweetie.” It's not the endearing “sweetie” of one lover to another, but more like the “sweetie” the overaged waitress addresses you by at the all-night diner. You know the one. She's got the yellowed fingernails and looks like she'd rather be getting an enema than serve you.
I flip over on my stomach and unlatch my top so that my back tan will be strap-free. I am contemplating the pros and cons of going topless.
“You know, if you do it, I just might have to do it, too,” Deema tells me.
“If we did, it’s not like anyone will be looking at us. People will think we’re little boys lying on our backs. There’s a lot more to look at around us!” Though I realize we are on a primarily gay beach, I do know that gay boys still love boobies!
I do about three flips before announcing, “Alright, that’s it. I’m gonna have to do it.” I turn over onto my back, leaving my top lying on the towel. The sun feels good on my bare chest, and in this crowd of negative-SPF, huge fake jugs, cell phones, and men’s lace bikinis, I feel natural in comparison. The breeze whispers across my nipples and tickles my happy trail.
Two overtly heterosexual men with hair sweaters settle in behind us. Before even dropping his stuff, one of the guys starts scoping. He's not just looking around though, he's leering. He tells his friend to check out the girl with the “dark hair, fantastic tits.” This being South Beach, and not somewhere in New England where it'd be plausible that a girl like me could get such a comment, all eyes are on Maria. I can imagine this is the kind of thing that makes Maria's life worth living.
Deema and I have by now perfected the language of exchanging glances. Maria's head gestures towards me and Deema as she says quietly but audibly, “That’s like what size I used to be.”
Deema and my eyes pop open at the same time and we giggle silently. I can do this because I'm fine with the way I am. It's hard to tell if Maria's voice reveals pride or maybe a tinge of remorse. I do know that it is the quietest thing she says all afternoon. And while my idea of a “perfect” body is not Maria's, and perhaps Maria's idea of one is not mine, I do think her tits would make perfect flotation devices.

______________________________________________________________________

Sew What?
By Bridge H.

My mom was one of those awesome moms in the 80s – she was Charlie’s Angels-sexy, managed to control me, my older brother, and the twins, wombmates who shared a brain.

Mom cooked, baked, cleaned, read stories, and enrolled us in every possible activity, from football to cheerleading to swim team. There were cooking classes, theater camp, Spanish lessons, piano with the creepy old dude with long fingers.

But there’s one area where Mom fell short – and that was dressing us.

No, we weren’t nudists and it wasn’t one of those things where you see a child at the grocery in a tutu and cowboy boots and know that the mother just gave up. No. …my mom insisted on sewing most of our clothing, usually with a box of Fetzer chablis beside the little tomato-shaped pincushion. And so, the unspeakable happened. Repeatedly.

My older brother Terry was the first victim, and since he was born in ’77, he wore lots of thick corduroy short shorts (often as thick as they were short, little cubes of corduroy) and these paper-thin polos on which Mom drew the alligator. The shirts were so thin that his little nipples showed through.

When I was born, a hefty ten pounds and ever-growing, Mom sewed me sack-like baby clothes because, as she told me many years later, “They didn’t make clothes for obese babies in the 80s!”

I strive for excellence when it comes to not looking inbred, but I fell victim to all the bad 80s trends – reversible vests, coulottes, beaded hair wraps that seemed so right on the beach in Mazatlan but not so much sticking out of my pom-pom ski hat in Colorado in February. But Mom felt the need to let me go extra heinous. Which is why she sent me to the last day of second grade in a Coors Light hat. Or why I performed to Kokomo in a neighborhood dance recital, a neon swimsuit and moonboots the only distractions from my limp-wristed jazz hands. (Key Largo, Montego…)

Everyday looks were bad enough, but Mom would really freak out on the holidays. The week before Easter 1989, she called me into her sewing room and asked me to lay down on a bolt of fabric.

“Lay like you’re about to make a snowangel,” she instructed. Then she traced my whole body and sent me away. On Easter morning, I was presented with the outfit I would be wearing to church. It was blue floral cotton, and it was clear that she had taken two identical cutouts of the shape she traced and sewed them together like a pillowcase. Except she’d added elastic at the wrists and ankles – so it wouldn’t fall off? When I stepped into my chintz chalk outline and she zipped up the back, it was like wearing an Easter condom. And air got trapped in the suit all day, and I had to keep pushing it out like in that that Missy Elliot video. The real prize was the straw hat with a band that matched my clownsuit.

But lets be honest -- no one knows what to fuck to wear for Easter. That’s why my older brother was dressed like Freddie Kruger and younger one like a tiny ice-cream man, all in white – trousers, shirt, suspenders, and shoes. And this little genius “accidentally” fell into a big pile of manure on the freshly fertilized lawn on our way in to the church. Now, our family always got asked to carry the gifts to the alter for communion -- and I’m relatively sure it had nothing to do with our good looks and everything to do with the fact that there were six of us – but because one brother was covered in shit that year, we didn’t get to do it. Thus, I didn’t get to model my wallpaper onsie and straw hat for the entire congregation.

Question: What chubby preteen was soon the proud owner of several of these simple-to-cut and sew outfits?
This one.
Another question: Who quickly realized that these outfits had enough room to hide an entire bag of Fritos?
Oh yeeeeeah…

Mom’s do-it-yourself attitude extended beyond sewing. For example, there was the time she decided to give me a new haircut on the 4th of July “by the light of the fireworks.” There was blood involved. (Ear.)

Honestly, the only things Mom sewed well were Halloween costumes. Until I was too old to trick or treat, she measured, pinned, hemmed, and appliquéd some incredible things – if only I could dress as a princess, Minnie Mouse, or pirate bumblebee every day. Our Halloween costumes were amazing.

Until the Barney incident.

At the age of 16, my older brother Terry decided he wanted to dress as Barney the purple dinosaur for the Halloween parade. This was an odd choice for a strapping teenage boy, but my mom was game, sewing him a costume using the same “trace your body” technique she’s invented for my years of fatsuits. Mom constructed him a fairly accurate suit using purple felt, and when my 6’2 brother put it on and zipper up the back, he winced in pain. I noticed that she’d made the rise several inches too short and we were able to see, in great purply-felt detail, the outline of his penis. And…everything else. Just all of it, swathed in Barney purple.

After she finished pissing herself with laughter, my mom promised to fix the costume and a few hours later, returned, confident that it would now fit. Terry slipped on the suit with ease this time but when he turned around, what I saw was maybe worse than before. It seems that, using her sewing prowess, she’d ripped open the crotch, added a rectangle of fabric, and stitched it back up leaving a pouch between his legs. A big purple dinosaur ballsack just hung there, ready to frighten children and arouse the suspicion of the local authorities.

That was the last time my mom sewed anything. None of us would let her near our loose buttons or floor-dragging hems. Until last month, when I was home visiting and cut my finger to the bone while washing dishes. Pale-faced, I asked Mom for help and she dashed upstairs for supplies.

She returned with some gauze and tape. She began to wrap my finger carefully, but the tape wouldn’t stick to anything – not to the gauze, not to itself. As she worked frantically and as blood ran down my hand, I examined the spool of tape she was using.

“Mom,” I said calmly. “There’s a reason this isn’t working. You’re trying to wrap my finger with hemming tape. Unless you have a hot iron at the ready, this isn’t going to work.”

“Ok, I have another idea then,” she said. “Since you don’t’ have healthcare, we can’t take you to the hospital. So I’ll stitch it.” And so she produced a needle and thread.

“No thanks, Mom. I’d rather lose my finger.” (I didn’t.)

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LOST IN OXFORD
by Jennifer Coates

“Baby … I waited on the street for you, every day…"

“Darling,” said the hottest celebrity in England. “10 Downing Street is a very busy place.”

“Oh, Mr. Blair!” I cried “It’s so dirty … I’m your Monica Lewinsky!”

Something hit me in the face. Either Labour’s new Prime Minister was into some very kinky shit, or someone was waking me up. Sure enough, there was sweet Jenna Martin, in pigtails, plaid pants and a Kappa Alpha Theta sweatshirt.

“Why were you dreaming about Monica Lewinsky?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I lied. I really hoped I hadn’t screamed “Oh, Tony Blair,” or something equally embarrassing. Although, according to my dream, Tony was quite well-endowed. I wasn’t happy about the interruption.

“We’re going to Oxford today, and you’re late, girlie. So get that little tush in gear!” Jenna marched off, our Greek letters also displayed on the butt of her pants.

Sighing, I threw together my suitcase and ran downstairs.

“Ah," saluted Robin, my elderly host-dad in Westbury-on-Trym. He reclined on a tweed couch, smoked a pipe and sipped his morning tea. “Did you sleep well, Jennifer?”

“The build-up was great, but I couldn’t quite finish.”

“Right. Jolly good. I hear your fraternity has a reputation for being late.”

“My fraternity?”

“The, er, Kappa Alpha Thetas,” Robin read delicately from Jenna's upturned bottom as she rummaged through her suitcase.

“Sorority,” Jenna corrected like a schoolteacher. I winced; It was so Ugly American. Tony would be so embarrassed.

Tony. Suddenly, I remembered.

"Excuse me," I gasped. I grabbed my bag and sprinted for the bathroom, nearly knocking over Robin’s sedate wife Anne, who always looked drugged on English Breakfast tea.

Slamming shut the door of the loo and ripping off my track pants, I felt for the little string. It wasn’t the British Prime Minister I’d been feeling up there; it was a 48-hour-old tampax that I’d been too exhausted from traveling to remove.

Beyond the point of disgusted with myself, I wrapped the refuse in a mound of toilet paper and looked around for the trash. I knew enough about British plumbing than to try flushing it. I scanned the entire lavatory until I realized that Robin and Anne did not have a trashcan.

Seizing a decorative wicker basket, I shoved the tissue-wrapped tampon inside, pulled up my pants and ran out the door. I wondered when my host parents would discover this little present, and hoped they'd blame it on Jenna.

We barely made the bus for Oxford. “Late again, ladies,” declared Professor Lacey, dumping a flask into his coffee. Lacey, our trip chaperone, reeked of Wild Turkey and malt liquor. I couldn’t believe I was slower than the drunk guy. I needed an alarm clock—or a drinking problem.

I crashed in my seat and flashed back serially to the fact that I had just stashed a used, bloody tampon inside a piece of Pottery Barn furniture at the home of two senior citizens. Not that I'd really had a choice; but I knew karma was not going to be kind to me.

I buried my head in my pillow, jet lagged. What a way to start the trip I’d dreamed of for 13 years. But I was here: in England. I lifted my eyes to the calm, green countryside.

My parents are not big travelers. My mother’s too poor, and my dad works too much. But I have always been in love with England. I used to make my mom buy digestive biscuits at Save-Mart, and then sit on the toilet for hours waiting for them to work. I started listening to the Cure and the Smiths in fifth grade, and then wondered why I needed anti-depressants in seventh. I went to see the Spice Girls movie. Twice.

As the bus pulled into the streets of Oxford, my terrible morning rolled away with the mist. Rowboats practiced on the river. Inside the stone buildings, my favorite writers had tossed weighty ideas in echoing quadrangles. I started a list of places to explore, my spirits rising as we filed out of the coach.

“Now remember, love muffins,” Prof. Lacey called. “This is a guided tour. We don’t want any of you getting lost … and I’ll be here on the bus if you need anything.” I could see a bottle of something in his backpack, and I imagined him and the Scottish bus driver puking on my pillow as I traversed the halls of higher learning.

A British woman in a purple pants suit met us off the bus. “I am Marianne,” she said with perfect, military posture and no facial expression. “Your guide through Oxford University.”

Marianne looked like she could a drink out Prof. Lacey’s flask. We rolled our eyes and followed her through the city streets, praying the afternoon wouldn’t suck.

This street, where the cross is marked in the road, was where they burned the bishops in the sixteenth century,” Marianne announced. “Thomas Cranmer was executed at this very intersection.

“How cheerful,” I said.

I’m afraid that was pretty much the high point. We spent the next hour in the cloister of New College, shivering in the rain, while Marianne prattled on about the college system. As it poured harder, I tried to focus on the one interesting thing I’d learned: that my butt was sitting where Hugh Grant’s butt sat in the 80s, which meant we were kind of rubbing butts, across time.

“Well, that’s it,” Marianne said finally. “We’ll swing by Jesus College and then get you back to your coach,”

“Can I get a picture of Jesus College?” I called immediately. My classmates stared at me. But Marianne looked pleased that someone, for once, was interested in her tour.

I can assure you, that was not the case. But Jesus College was the alma mater of my biggest British crush of all: T.E. Lawrence, a.k.a. Lawrence of Arabia. If you’ve never seen the movie Lawrence of Arabia, I highly recommend it. Especially the part where Peter O’Toole gets beaten with a riding crop. Totally hot. Anyway, if I couldn’t see the places where other great minds had studied and lived, I was determined to salvage the tour with at least a picture in memory of T.E. Lawrence. We walked back toward the coach, and Marianne stopped triumphantly.

“Here we are, Jesus College! Dear, why don’t you go inside and get a picture of the quadrangle? Or”— she turned to the class. “We can all go in! How does that sound?”

A group of thirty, wet faces glared at me.

“That’s okay,” I said quickly, feeling embarrassed. “I’ll just run in and take the picture.”

“All right. Catch up when you’re done. We’ll go along the street and to the left.”

I ran as fast as I could, snapped a photo and got out. The mood was totally ruined. I hadn’t even looked at the building.

When I returned, the class was already gone. So I sprinted along to the next street and hung a left.

No one was there.

Where else could they be? I tried to remember my way to the bus, near that stupid cross on the ground. Buckets of rain increased their output on my confused American head. As I wandered from street to street, looking for that one recognizable landmark, I realized that it would soon be dark, and I would be lost in Oxford forever.

I wasn’t even on campus now. I ducked into the nearest shop, which looked like a Hallmark. The main difference was that the cards had lots of topless old grandmothers on them, or pictures of men in women’s clothing, or people with their hands stretched out, flipping each other off. I asked the teenage cashier for directions.

“Sorry, I’m a bit lost. Can you help?”

She nodded, looking with pity at my dripping tourist’s clothes.

“Oh, good,” I said. “Can you please tell me how to get back to the street where they burned the Bishops?”

“Excuse me?” she asked.

“Oh, you know,” I said, “that street with the cross in it, where they executed Thomas Cranmer in the sixteenth century. Can you tell me how to get there?”

“John!” she called nervously to the man at the next register. “Do you have any idea what she’s talking about, some cross where they burn bishops?”

John looked very confused. The two of them backed away slightly, and I realized I sounded like a violence-obsessed lunatic.

I ran out of the store, cursing Marianne for giving us a two-hour tour of Oxford without a shred of real information. I sort of ran in circles, wailing and gnashing my teeth. I think people assumed I’d actually lost my way to Bedlam, or perhaps the Tower of London.

Just as I began to really sob, a big black crow umbrella, shielding a spot of bright purple, flew at me in the wind. There was the bus, parked along the street and waiting.

“Where did you go?” I screamed at Marianne. “I went down the street, and took the first left, and you weren’t there!”

“I said go along to the end of the street and turn left!” she exclaimed.

“That’s not what you said! Since when does ‘go along the street’ mean ‘go to the end?’”

“Perhaps it’s a cultural difference,” she said kindly.

“Oh yeah? Well, perhaps you can fuck off! That’s right, and fuck your culture, too! Take your pudding and your tea and Madonna and John Major’s teeth and your … commie government health care system, and shove them right up your ass!” And flipping her the bird, I turned and boarded the bus.

“Darling,” said Professor Lacey, holding out his flask. “Have a sip of this, and for God’s sake try to be on time for once.” I sat down next to him and buried my head in my hands.

“Prof?” I confessed. “I did a bad thing to a nice old couple today.”

My Piece from Inner Monologues: Mixed Bag!

2009-08-23T19:29:00.000-07:00

The Shittiest Place On Earth
I’m not like the biggest fan of train or bus station bathrooms. I mean, I don’t think that like, everyone else is all, “Yay! Can’t wait to use the bathroom at Port Authority!” But I feel like, that if there’s even the tiniest possibility that a homeless person might have used a bathroom like once, then that’s a bathroom I don’t want to even go near.
So my husband Jesse, his friends, and I went to this huge monsoon wedding in Mumbai earlier this summer. It was hands down one of the most insanely cool weddings I’d ever been to. I got my hands done up in henna, wore a sari, and danced with a thirty piece marching band while the groom rode a white horse. A horse!
After the wedding, we took a trip to see the Taj Mahal, which required a train ride to get to. I had been against the train idea from the start after seeing some horrifying youtube videos of men overflowing out train windows and riding on roofs.
“Oh honey, that’s the commuter rail,” Jesse had assured me. “We’re riding first class. It’s totally different.”
I felt OK about it then, imagining some kind of Orient Express experience—white gloves, tea service, maybe a good looking stranger in the next car over. I mean, just to talk to.
Unfortunately I wasn’t feeling so hot the day of our departure from Mumbai. I had that rumbly tummy thing going on—the kind of thing that if the room is really quiet and your stomach makes that sound, everyone knows you have gas pains so you just go, “Man I’m starving!”
As we approached the station I started to worry. What was with all the livestock? And where were all the other first class people?
We shoved our way up the stairs and tried to read the signs to find our train platform but unfortunately my Hindi wasn’t up to snuff. Some not-so-pleasant-looking policemen with machine guns gruffly pointed us in the right direction. I looked around and noticed that in addition to there being no benches to sit on, there wasn’t one single snack stand. I mean, not like my stomach could handle a snack at that moment but you never know.
“Guys, isn’t there like, the Indian version of Acela or something, that we could take instead?”
Once we got to our platform I felt worse. I don’t know if it was the flies that I was constantly swatting away or the incessant mooing of the cow next to me, but I suddenly had to vomit.
But I hadn’t seen any sign of a bathroom anywhere so far. And I judged from the people around us lying on blankets with pails next to them for the day’s trash, that garbage cans were strictly BYO.
Just then, I glanced over to the train tracks and saw a mother dangling her half-naked son right over the tracks. Oh no! She’s going to kill him! Someone do something! Damn this train station! Look what it is doing to people! But then I realized that she was just giving him a landing spot for his poop. Just like, “Oh, don’t mind my son. He’s just defecating onto the railway. No big deal!”
“Oh God. Please don’t tell me that’s the bathroom,” I said to my friend Hana. “Because if so, I think I need to throw up there right now.”
But then something worse happened. As if in some kind of freak natural response to seeing another person shit, suddenly I was hit by the most uncontrollable desire to go like I’ve never had to go before.
I took Hana’s hand and we raced to find a real bathroom. I didn’t think anyone would be able to hold me up over the tracks for that long and that would just be like the worst travel dying story ever.
We found a place with a sign overhead that read “Lady’s Lounge”. In my past experiences (Bloomingdales, Barney’s, Sak’s), “Lady’s Lounge” meant a nice clean place with flowers, upholstered stools, and unlimited tissues. But all I really wanted at that moment was a toilet, so when we burst through the door and saw, to our disappointment, that the women in there were, simply, lounging (on the floor) and that there was no bathroom, I started to cry.
We ran until we found some official looking people not holding machine guns and I tried unsuccessfully to ask them where the bathroom was. They had no idea what “bathroom”, “washroom”, “wc”, or “take a monster dump” meant. When I clutched my stomach in pain, they finally understood and pointed back toward the direction of the Lady’s Lounge.
We booked it back to the Lounge where Hana pointed to a crevice in the wall.
“I think we need to go through here.”
We were like regular Nancy Drew’s! Well, through that crevice, on the other side of it, was in fact a bathroom. I leapt to the stall and threw open the door.
You know that moment when you’ve had to go sooooo badly and you’re just about to land on the toilet seat and it’s like HEAVEN because ohgod you didn’t think you would make it? That’s where I was, and you’d think beggars can’t be choosers but my phobia kicked in so hardcore that I could not move one leg in front of the other.
Here was the situation: The walls of the stall were covered in some kind of poop graffiti. The floor had a nice thick coating of green slime, and included in the mess for some reason was, the remnants of a juice box. And of course, there was no toilet paper—just a faucet that I guess you’re supposed to run your left hand under and wipe yourself with (which is why you only pass things with your right hand in India). And at this point I think I would have been OK with going into a giant bottomless hole—but no. My plight included this thing you step onto with cutouts for your shoes that slope downward into a tiny hole.
“I can’t do it!” I said to Hana.
“You have no choice!” she said, shaking me.
I looked at the row of sinks lining the wall, an idea hatching in my head. Maybe if no one was looking?
But then two Indian women walked into the bathroom and looked at me like, “So, American Jew from New Jersey. You gonna go or are you gonna just stand there and admire our sinks all day?”
It was a shit or get off the pot moment but I just had to get to the pot or um, footsie hole thing.
So I went in. The whole time I was in there I had Hanna hold my pocket book and hand me my things. And it went down like some kind of complicated surgery where I was the doctor and she was the nurse and I’d be like, “Charmin toilet tissue.” “Wipes.” “Hand sanitizer.”
I cried when it was over, and I was so disgusted with myself I made her flush. My whole body shook as she dabbed a refreshing peppermint wipe over my sweating forehead.
“There, there.”

On a recent trip to visit my parents I was in Port Authority. Before I boarded the bus I realized that I kinda had to pee. I walked into the bathroom there, and prepared for something bad. Like for the homeless person to jump out and go “oogabooga” and spray me with her germs. And you know what, it was no Bloomies Lady’s Lounge, but it was like, clean. It was then that I realized: Hell, as long as I don’t have to squat in a footsy hole, the bathrooms at Port Authority might as well be the freaking Taj Mahal.

Show This Wednesday: Mixed Bag!

2009-08-16T19:23:00.000-07:00

We have quite a line up for you this Wednesday, August 19th at Bar on A at 7:30. The theme is "Mixed Bag" meaning I was nice and gave my performers carte blanche to write about whatever the hell they wanted. Here are the performers:

Matteson Perry mattesonperry
Emily Epstein emilyepstein
Julie Kraut juliekraut
Sue Funke suefunke
Brea Tremblay
Bridge Huffine
David Wolkin
Elicia Berger
Gabrielle Arnay
Laura Motta
Jennifer Coates

And me! Your host!

See you then..
Alexis

Pieces from Tuesday's Show: Addicted

2009-05-03T09:26:00.000-07:00

Awesome turnout, awesome readers. People really had fun with this topic. Jessica Delfino's set about legalizing drugs was hilarious:

And here are some pieces from our readers:

FUCK THIS SHITHOLE
By Bob Powers

Part One – In which our hero discovers that his living situation is about become really stupid
There is a large, black goiter growing on the neck of Manny, the Mexican man who is making my egg sandwich. The goiter is a wild mass of nubs and ridges that measures three or four inches in diameter. It resembles a patch of mountainous terrain as represented on a raised relief world globe, except it’s pitch black. Manny’s goiter is unappetizing, but he’s the only sandwich maker at the bodega on the bottom floor of my building. The convenience of the location wins out over my disgust.
It feels like a morning like any other. I wait for my egg sandwich to cook while averting my eyes from Manny’s little friend. I take the sandwich from Manny and I give my money to Ali, the Egyptian owner and manager of the deli, who also happens to be the landlord of my three-bedroom apartment share four flights up. Ali hands me my change in silence. I don’t know it yet, but what makes this morning different is when I walk out the door of Ali’s bodega, it will be the end of our relationship as we know it. When I get upstairs to my apartment, I’m going to find out that Ali wants to move in with me.
My roommate Denni gives me the news that Ali is divorcing his wife and he needs a place to stay, so he wants to move into to our soon-to-be-vacant third bedroom. I don’t bother to fight Denni’s decision because I know my options are either go along with it or move out. But I can’t help but worry, are my landlord and I ready to take this step? Granted, he is more than just a landlord. He also runs the bodega where I buy my light bulbs and my single-serving Advil. He certainly seems nice when he’s ringing me up, and he keeps a clean store. But I’ve been warned that no matter how great you get along with your bodega owner, the minute you decide to move in together it all goes to shit.
These fears are valid, but the reality is that I live on the Upper West Side for only $625 a month, and we have washing machine in the apartment. Just as I tolerate the goiter on my sandwich chef’s neck, I decide to stick it out and hope that my 52 year-old, recently divorced landlord / bodega owner will prove to be a fun and considerate roomie. Up to this point, my most intimate and endearing moment with Ali was the Saturday night I stopped in very late and he illegally sold me some beer after the 4 AM cutoff time. We were so innocent then, completely oblivious to the fact that we would one day see each other in our underwear.

PART 2 – In which our hero learns that there is good and bad with everything, and sometimes the bad includes a large white bucket full of soiled toilet paper.
My first few weeks living with my landlord prove not to be the multi-cultural, intergenerational, light-hearted romp that I hoped for. We don’t knock on each other’s doors late at night to rap about girls, me complaining about my latest dating disaster and him complaining about the technicalities of divorce under the Muslim law of Shar’iah. But neither is it the nightmare that I feared. Ali proves to be a quiet man who gets up early and works in his bodega all day, and then cooks himself a meal and retires to his bedroom at night.
Nonetheless, it takes a few weeks before I stop constantly being shocked at the sight of Ali in my apartment. Just imagine if every time you opened your bedroom door you learned another dazzling intimate detail about the man who works behind the counter at your corner bodega. Oh look, Ali cleans his ears with Q-tips seventy five times a day. Oh look, Ali wears white cotton briefs and it’s time for him to buy some new pairs. Oh look, Ali thinks that the plumbing is delicate so he throws all of his used toilet paper into a bucket that he keeps behind the tub.
That last surprise is the cause of some consternation in the apartment, especially when Ali tries to push for a house-rule dictating that none of us ever flushes our toilet paper again. I had been acquainted in the past with the mistrust of indoor plumbing held by people who had not grown up in America, but this is the first time anyone has ever tried to force that mistrust upon me. Eventually, we reach a compromise. Denni and I will continue to flush our toilet paper, and Ali will continue to drop his filthy wads of tissue into a tall white bucket partially filed with water to stifle the smell. The bucket is kept out of sight, but its presence dominates like the monolith in 2001.
It’s not all easy street, but there are perks to having a bodega owner as a roommate. For example, when we discover we’ve run out of trash bags, Ali makes a call downstairs and quick as the wind Manny and his goiter are knocking on my front door with a fresh box of bags. For once, I am distracted from his goiter by the smirk on his face, as if he’s thinking, “I might have something growing out of my neck that terrifies children and adults alike, but you live with my boss.” The smirk upsets me, and I consider asking him whether he’d like me to report his goiter to the INS. But I forget about the smirk and focus on the fun of having an entire bodega at my disposal whenever we run out of stuff.
Ultimately, my first few weeks with Ali prove promising and by the time he leaves for two weeks overseas to finalize his divorce, I feel optimistic that I’ll be able to stay in my share for a long time.

PART 3 – In which the couch gets sawed in half for no discernible reason.
My landlord’s got a man in his room. I saw him in there. Just before he closed his door, I saw a middle-aged man dressed just like Ali, in a white hanes undershirt and very loose white briefs. Ali just got back from Egypt the other day. He brought lots of sweets and a suitcase full of knickknacks that he’s been placing around the apartment, but when he was cataloging his souvenirs he didn’t mention anything about buying us a full-grown man.
Denni is away for the weekend and I’m too filled with dread to knock on the door and find out what’s going on. Instead, I go into my room and put my ear up against the wall praying that I’ll soon hear the sounds of loud gay sex. If Ali’s gay and this man is just a lover, this could easily be just a one-night thing since it’s so hard for people in this city to truly connect. Unfortunately, I hear nothing more than light conversation and the sound of a radio. This man is no lover who’ll be sneaking down the steps before dawn. Far more likely and far more terrifying, the man in Ali’s room is a houseguest. And who knows how long a houseguest might stay?
When Denni returns, he speaks with Ali and then sets me straight. The man in Ali’s room is not Ali’s gay lover, as I hoped, but neither is he Ali’s houseguest, as I feared.
The man in Ali’s room is a tenant.
His name is Omar and he is a friend of Ali’s from Egypt. In the daytime, he will be helping Ali run the bodega downstairs, and at night he will share Ali’s 8X10 foot bedroom for what I’m promised will be no more than one or two months. Since Ali owns the building and neither of us is on a lease, we choose to focus on the rent decrease and hope for the best.
Denni starts spending the night at his girlfriend’s apartment, and I do everything I can to stay in my bedroom with the door closed. Ali and Omar interpret our quiet surrender as permission for them to start sawing all of the furniture apart.
At first I assume they’re just trying to shrink the furniture and open up more space. But when I see the state in which they leave the furniture, I conclude that they must just hate furniture. They chop off half of the kitchen island and push the remaining half against the wall, but none of the remaining cabinet doors close and all of the shelves are slanted. They saw through the middle of the couch, perhaps to turn it into a sectional. But one section is forced to balance on only two legs, and both sections are left to constantly hemorrhage foam cushioning.
Finally, they put up a makeshift divider in the living area to section off a not-private-at-all bedroom for Omar. The divider consists of a bedsheet draped from the ceiling and a mattress leaned on its side in the archway, insuring that it will constantly topple over. We are left with one small half for a TV room. The other half is where Omar will unconsciously release gas throughout the night, until he wakes up with a loud yelp anytime we pass his bunk for a late-night trip to the bathroom.
Three months after Omar has arrived, it’s clear he has no plans to leave. My apartment has been turned into a youth hostel with crappier furniture and without any youth. I can’t ignore it anymore. If the upper west side was a Mexican sandwich maker’s neck, my apartment would be the goiter. There comes a point in the life of every goiter where people stop ignoring it, and they say, “This is fucking awful. I can’t take this anymore. I have to get away from that goiter.” Within three weeks, I move into my own studio, with a new and wonderful landlord. She lives off the premises, very far away, and she prefers that I use the mail to send her my rent and any other communication, so that we can keep our physical contact to a minimum. I am home.

I'VE NEVER KILLED A GRIZZLY BEAR
By Tanner Dahlin

Five years ago, I killed a Grizzly Bear with my bare hands. When that Grizzly Bear was on top of me, I knew I was going to win. I had my legs scissor wrapped around its waist and I was about to start squeezing them together in a tight lock, scissor leg-pinch of death. That bear was screwed! God dammit! I wish that was a true story. But it’s not.
The sad truth of it all is that this whole thing should have started out with the truth, which is this: I am addicted to over exaggerated theatrical whimsy.
To even describe the refreshing taste of a delicious Coca-Cola, or imbibe an ice cold, Taste of The Rockies, Mountain-Fresh, Coors Lite without trying to spice it up a little bit is a difficult task. Actors commonly have an addiction to over exaggerated theatrical whimsy. Walk through any green-room, or backstage hallway, or college theatre department and you will see actors throwing themselves about and wildly recounting their recent Starbucks purchase with such glorious oomph. My family forgives me of this same affliction and sometimes even indulges it. This usually ends up with my family feeling concern for the well being of fragile items within reach of my wildly gesticulating arms. “The Vase, Tanner! The Vase.”
This last Christmas, I went back to Wyoming for the first time since moving to New York. I told many a fancy tale to many relatives, and naturally, while spending a quiet dinner with my Grandparents, I had to try to incorporate jazz, high kicks and various accents. My grandpa is 147 years old, and my grandma always has ice cream that tastes like a long since opened can of diet ginger ale. They sat there as I boldly and physically re-enacted my first interaction with a crack-whore on the A train.
“… so she was scratching her bare feet while she was staring right at me, and then she put her fingers in her mouth and a guy in the back of the car went, “Ohhhhh”.
My grandmother’s mouth dropped. “That doesn’t sound very nice.”
“That’s nothing Granny!” I shouted, while climbing onto the dining room table. “All winter long I slept, afraid, in my grimy studio apartment in Bed-Stuy. They were freezing lonely, winter nights. I would lay on my $12.00 air mattress and snuggle a Louisville Slugger baseball bat. Now Granny, I’m broke, so the air mattress I had out of financial necessity.”
“Oh that worries me Tanner” she said in a whispered breath.
“But the slugger was thrown into my night routine after hearing the upstairs neighbors angrily wrestling and shouting in Jamaican. “Ya dirty Bumbaclot Whore, ya gwan git your ass beat!” followed usually by, “Blood Clot man, Teeny Dick aint gwan do it!” and the wrestling would begin. Sometimes the arguing and wrestling got so intense that the woman would just loose her mind. Over the months I got to know the intricacies of their relationship through hearing them wrestle. As with many married couples there arrives a point in an argument where someone crosses the line. For instance in a more Midwestern family, you might here this:
John: Mildred I think you are becoming more and more like your mother every day.

He’s crossed the line and you can tell when she goes:

Mildred: Well, John, I am sorry to say it, but … … fuck you.

With my upstairs neighbors it would go down like this:
Teeny Dick: Yo Bloodclot gwan fuck you like a Biatch! No-ting but a slut, a bumbaclot slut!

Here is a hint that I could tell he crossed the line. She would go:

Bloodclot: WoOOOOOOOOOOOO
… and the walls would shake and the dish would rattle and my air mattress would quiver and the lights would dim in and out and my one can of Hormel Beef Chili would tumble out of the empty cupboard.

My grandpa smiled but my grandmother started to frown and drink wine quickly. “Well Grandpa, I was pretty sure that after Teeny Dick was done upstairs he was going to be looking for another ass to beat so I grabbed my little league baseball bat and curled up from that night on with protection.”
“Well, that sounds interesting, my pudding is done.” My grandmother scooted out of her chair like a spry teenager and made a lunge for the kitchen. “Pudding needs to cool,” I heard from the kitchen, muffled only by a cork popping out of the wine bottle and a glass being filled to brim with wine, then slurping sounds, then the sound of topping it off.
My Grandfather covered the sounds of my Granny’s fervent wine pouring. “So the man upstairs sounds like the abusive type.”
“Actually, I thought they were wrestling upstairs cause of all the angry talk, but, Grandpa, it turns out they were just fuckin.” This made him laugh as my grandmother scooted back to her seat. “Pudding needs to cool.”
The energy had died down a bit so I had to start with a fresh story. “The night the man was shot right outside my window, I watching Amilie on my laptop stoned out of my mind on some fancy New York City marijuana.” They both frown. I realize not all of the story needed to make it in. They are disappointed at my casual drug reference. I’ve lost my audience, and my addiction tells me that the only way to make up for this is with a big finish, possibly with fireworks or some form of pyrotechnics. I eye the candles and the drapes and make a mental note.
“Bang” I shouted as I pounded on the table, bringing both of my dear, elderly-grandparents to the verge of a heart attack. “I heard gunfire so close to my window that even though I had the headphones on tight I jolted upright. Bang! Bang! Bang! I grabbed my Louisville slugger and threw off my two jackets and one of my overpants and hid behind my fridge (no heat in the winter makes you wear a lot of clothes). Bang! Bang! Bang! I threw off another overpant, and two sweaters so I could more easily maneuver for the moment when whatever was happening outside came in. Then I heard about a billion gunshots happening at once so I took off all the rest of my clothes as fast as I could and monkey crawled to the bathtub, where I dove in and shivered in my Def Leopard thong underpants. They were a joke gift I recieved last May and were now the only remaining piece of clothing I wore.”
“Tanner, stop it!” My grandmother pleaded as she clutched her chest. “Now Lee, this is just getting good,” my grandfather said.
Taking wind from his endlessly encouraging remark, I grabbed the lit candle and jumped off the table and ran to the corner and dimmed the lights. I held the candle up to my face and continued. “I was so scared. I didn’t know what to do and I was so cold and so scared. I thought I was never going to be able to see you two again (which I always say directly to whoever I am telling this story too.) I was sure I was going to die and they would find me three months later in these ridiculous underpants.
Sometimes you have to cry in a story right before the big finish. This makes everyone feel uncomfortable, and will be invariably the part of the story they remember most, so it is important that you say wonderful things when you cry, like: “That’s when I started to think about how much I love you both.” This really sets the table for the big finish.
I ran to the window pushing aside the drapes and holding the candle out as if to see into the night. “That’s when the police helicopter started hovering right over my building with its 500,000 kilowatt searchlights pounding into my 1st floor apartment window.
“Oh my god, Oh my god, Oh my god.” I waved the lit candle in front of my face dripping wax on the floor. “It was no longer time to hide in the bath or stand frozen in the window held by police light, I needed to act. … Grandpa, hand me that knife.” He refused knowing that it could only spell disaster, but I grabbed it anyway. “I gathered as many weapons as I could find; my bat, a knife, and a frying pan. There was a murdering lunatic right outside my window, and I needed to be prepared. I stood by the door with the bat cocked in my hands ready to deal a deadly blow to whoever entered.”
The candle was my bat and I held it close to the window, which stood for my door and the flame hit the drapes. Both grandparents made an audible gasp because my storytelling was so good, but the flame went out the moment it hit the drapes. I heard a misplaced sigh of relief, but I wasn’t done yet so I shouted, “GRANNY DO YOU HAVE ANY MATCHES!! GRANNY, MATCHES!! MATCHES!!”
She could only muster up “My pudding!” She was breathing heavy and sweating and her eyes were wild. My grandpa was laughing his ass off, which made me want to go for broke and try to get some matches, but I think that might have killed her old, fragile body. I didn’t want to light the drapes on fire, but I figured if they were lit up, I could easily put them out with a glass of water, but my Granny was so scared and I think hyperventilating a bit.
I froze in concern for her, and she slowly raised out of her chair, turned on the light, and went to the kitchen. I sat down in my chair and took a big gulp of water to refresh my instrument. Grandpa’s laughing subsided enough for me to hear the uncorking, the gluging, and the slurping noises of my grandmother patiently dealing with my addiction.

Drugs and Spider Solitaire
by Emily Epstein

IDrugs and Spider Solitaire
I’m not an “addiction” kind of girl. At worst I might be a little compulsive. For instance, I have a problem closing out of Spider Solitaire without winning the game. I might attack someone if they won’t share my mom’s banana chocolate chip cake and I haven’t had my fill. I have a hard time leaving the house without checking the weather online twice. In fact, I once canceled a housewarming party the day before because it was supposed to snow for twelve hours the day of the event. After much contemplation I decided to reschedule it and congratulated myself for planning ahead. I then spent the next day glued to the window to watch the snow fall and feel good about my decision. When it only snowed for a total of an hour and barely coated the sidewalk, my boyfriend, who is black, and I decided this all happened because God hates interracial couples. See? Just a little compulsive and maybe a dash of paranoid.
While I’m a straitlaced girl these days, I do seem to attract addictive types. In high school and college, I was surrounded by potheads. Now don’t get me wrong, I’ve smoked out of everything from apples to Mordechai my glass pipe to seven-foot bongs, but I made sure my homework was done.
When I first moved to New York, I ran with a crowd that really loved to party. We’d routinely go out until the sun came up starting with a group of about ten of us and somehow ending up at some investment banker’s loft apartment in midtown with twenty people I didn’t know in tow. As with any out of control group, there were drugs around. So, of course, we had Ricky, the group’s drug dealer. I was never sure if he hung out with everyone because he was actually their friend, or they were just good customers. Ricky was a short Indian guy from the Bronx by way of Bangalore who had a deep scar that reached from just under his eye to his chin. He never explained how he had gotten it but he had been a dealer for a long time. I imagined some kind of crazy drug standoff, where Ricky the “good bad guy” was trying to get his money from someone who owed him and his assailant panicked, grabbed the closest thing he could find, obviously a beer bottle, cracked it in half and came at him like some kind of drug filled Western standoff. But that’s just a guess.
When he talked Ricky sounded like Al Pacino in Scarface with just a hint of an Indian accent (which I won’t even try to imitate). I took a liking to him, perhaps because I was the only one in the group without a trust fund and felt a little fish out of water. Or maybe it was because I respected his entrepreneurial spirit. We often talked about his family back in India and what he could do to get out of dealing. Almost every time I saw him it seemed he had had yet another interview—usually something to do with computers—but was never hired. “It’s this freaking scar, man,” he would always say. And so, he would never stray far from dealing.
At some point that fall, Ricky decided that he wanted to date me. I was not so keen on the idea. Maybe it was because I was young and didn’t want to be tied down. Maybe it was because I had no urge to visit “his palace,” as he called it, in the Bronx. OR Maybe it was because it was because he was a drug dealer. But that didn’t stop him from trying.
When I would leave at the end of the night, Ricky always insisted on getting me a cab and trying to pay for it. For some reason, the cab driver would then think that I was also Indian and would try to speak to me in his particular dialect, which is interesting because they speak 22 languages in India. I would then spend the rest of the ride trying to convince the cab driver that I wasn’t Indian, insisting that it was just the lighting, only to have him agree with me as soon as I stepped out of the car. This happened almost every time he put me in a cab.
Ricky also enjoyed courting me by sneaking up behind me, holding up one of his keys dipped in cocaine and when he’d tap me on the shoulder and I’d turn around he’d try to surprise me by sticking it right under my nose. Though I found his game of “dodge the cocaine key” surprising every time, I was also slightly flattered, as Ricky didn’t usually give his product away for free. Through it all we stayed friends.
In time, I drifted away from that group. There are only so many nights in a row where one can go to work on two hours sleep without the aid of drugs and I didn’t trust myself. Sadly, Ricky and I lost touch. A year later, I got a phone call. I look down and it was a blocked number, but I felt compelled to pick it up anyway. It was Ricky.
“You will never believe where I am calling from, baby.” He had finally been busted for selling drugs. He was at Riker’s for nine months, which sounded awfully intimidating to me, and he wanted me to come visit him. Through the bravado he sounded sad and lonely. I felt bad for him but I am no incarcerated man’s shortie, despite the fact that I find conjugal visits fascinating.
I just couldn’t do it, so I decided to write him instead. (Speaking of addictions, there are a lot women out there who really have a fetish for bad, incarcerated men, because here are a TON of prisoner pen pal websites. I really enjoyed reading writeaprisoner and prisonpenpals.com.) The letters I wrote to Ricky were some of the most difficult letters I have ever had to write. What can you possibly say that doesn’t sound like you’re bragging because you’re “on the outside?” So I chose to fill the letters with questions for him. Any new homemade tattoos? Are you getting along with the other guys? Are you seeing anyone? Is it mutual?
But after that first phone call, I never heard from him. These days I still find myself around addictive types but no more drug dealers. My boyfriend is definitely addicted to Facebook. I am pretty convinced that my old roommate is addicted to milk. She would drink a gallon in a matter of hours and walk around the apartment sounding phlemgy and looking glassy-eyed, probably jonseing for some cereal, although it’s most likely impossible for her to break a bone. As for me, whenever I have a vaguely Indian-looking cab driver who asks me where I’m from I think of Ricky. Then I go home and check the weather again.

ADDICTED THROUGH THE BOMB
By Sue Funke

Picture if you will, a comedy club on Long Island in the early twenty-first century aughts. The waitresses mulling about before the show starts, exhausted from their first job. They had no expectation of enjoying a moment of the show they were going to work through. They trudged between the tables on sticky floors setting an overall mood of despair.
Behind the main showroom there was a bar with windows where comedians, like myself, waited to get on stage. I was 22 years old, I was about to do my first “booked” show and I looked out at the crowd. There was a whopping total of six people in the audience seated as a group of four, and a group of two. They’re all front row facing the empty, grey stage.
I paced back and forth nervously going over my jokes. I played with the order, the inflection of my voice. Over and over I say the words that if put precisely in the right order, pattern, and tone should result in hilarity. I closed my eyes and pictured the reaction. I made myself laugh at the ideas I was putting forth. This is going to be fun for me, I thought, this will be my writing’s transformationin to life with spontaneous reactions of laughter... I hope.
The emcee leapt onto the stage. He was a frightening ball of energy known as “Wild Willy”. I have no idea if he still performs today, but it would not surprise me in the slightest if he was doing the same routine he went through that night.
Wild Willy talked at a ridiculously fast speed, and it became apparent just as rapidly as his words firing out of his mouth, that we were losing the audience. It’s his job as the emcee to get the crowd excited for the show. Instead, they sat with their drinks unsure as to how to react to this self-titled wild man jumping around a tiny stage.
He finally called out my name. As I walked into the showroom, I finally got the full portrait of my six audience members.
The pair that were sitting to the right of the stage were obviously on a first date. I say obviously, because people who know each other shouldn’t be as nervous and awkward as these two were. The man was doting upon the woman. The woman looked around the room as if looking for a trap door she could escape through.
The group of four was an even more desperately pathetic sight. It was a typical nuclear family: mom, dad, daughter and son. As I took control of the mic and introduced myself to the family I established that it was the daughter’s birthday…with help from her drunken mother.
“My daughter’s 21 today!” she slurred.
The daughter appeared as if she wanted to crawl into her skin. The son had long ago stopped paying attention to his family. I could almost see him in his “happy place” far away from this humiliating, but possibly familiar table scene. And the father tried to take control of his wife by grabbing her arm, and shot her a stern look.
As I labored to get their attention with my jokes, the mother succumbed to alcoholism and gravity - and fell off her chair and onto her stage.
In hind-sight this fall was rather humorous, but in the moment it was as if time had stopped. I hated this woman and her drinking problem almost as much as her daughter did, probably more. She was ruining the opportunity for people to laugh at my jokes!
The family and I tried to regain composure. We all worked to pull ourselves back towards the show. The husband resolved to try to hold up his wife, the daughter tried not to cry, and the son was most likely playing Final Fantasy in his head. I turned my attention towards the awkward couple.
“So, how are things over here?”
The girl looked up at me and replied, “Awful.”
“Alright! Let’s try some relationship jokes shall we?....”
I went on autopilot and told my jokes, the precise timing of which had been factored out after hours spent at open mics, i.e. the dregs of the comedy world.
An open mic is a place where comedians perform and are barely listened to by other comedians, but also are highly judged by said peers. All that time spent going through what I thought was hell, only to end up face to face with true hell fire in a crappy club with “real audience” on Long Island.
This is when I wondered if I’d chosen the right way to spend my night. I knew this crowd wasn’t into it. I could feel from the second I saw them being ushered to their seats. Why did I go up and subject myself to such torture? Because I needed that rush. The rush only stand up could give me.
I’m always chasing the high of a good show. The rush of performing a great stand up set is better than the most magical night of sex, drugs, and rock that you could imagine. I literally lead people to an emotional response with my words. Once you had that kind of power, would you relinquish it?
The mic stand is my cigarette, people’s laughs are my lighter.
There’s no patch for this kind of high.
This is what I reminded myself as I launched into another joke, silently praying between words that this will be the one that makes them break into uncontrollable laughter.
The silence that rebounded instead was like God’s mighty middle finger extending up, right at me.
Bombing that badly was awful enough to make me second guess the need for that rush. Like a painful hangover on a sunny Sunday morning, a bad stand up experience will lead even the greatest to think – never again.
When the set was finally over, after what I approximated to be the longest a person had ever stood on stage performing without garnering a semblance of positive response, I thanked the ungrateful audience.
I walked off the stage hating everyone in that room. I hated the daughter for being born, she probably lead the mother to drink, the father for being so distant, and the son for being a replica of the only male role model he had. I hated the couple for even trying to get so far as the comedy club when they should’ve known at first sight how much they were not going to love each other.
But most of all I hated stand up.
I drove to my college roommate’s new apartment and knocked on her door.
I had a bottle of rum in one hand and a blunt in the other.
“Let’s drink until I forget tonight,” I said as I walked in.
My friend, Nikki, a non-performing person (which comedians sometimes refer to as a “normie” short for normal person) had little to draw upon in the way of parallels to my horrific stand up experience, yet patiently listened.
“I went to school to be a writer, and this comedy bullshit is nothing like where I should be at. I work my ass off for what? So people can get drunk and judge me? Isn’t that why I avoided all those sororities and frat parties in college? I suck at this shit and I’m not doing it again.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Nikki said to me in her no-nonsense bull shit detecting voice. “You’re not gonna quit, you’re not shit, it was just a bad fucking night. Get over it.”
Nikki always wanted to be a mother. And in a way, she was the mother I always wanted. Sure, it wasn’t the sweetest way of saying don’t stop belivin’ but we can’t all have the lyrical genius of Journey.
I wish I could tell you that there and then I realized that bad nights are bound to happen as a comedian. That I walked out of her place that night with a clear head and continued on to be the best damn comedian every time, no matter what. That I never gave up on the crowd again, even if they’ve given up on themselves.
But that’s not true. I had many other nights where things didn’t work right and I felt just as shitty, sometimes worse. When you put yourself up to have others laugh at your vulnerabilities you’re basically giving someone a chance to pour lemon juice on an open wound.
That night, as I was drunkenly passing out on Nikki’s couch after, I realized that my drinking and slouching wasn’t all that different from drunk mom.
Maybe that woman won’t even remember how awful she was tonight. I thought. Maybe she got all black out drunk and won’t believe the stories of her behavior in the morning.
I’m not like her though, because I don’t get black out drunk.
No, I’m more of a rolling brown drunk…
I suddenly stopped my eyes from being heavy. There was a joke in this. I wrote it down and excitedly planned for the next open mic I could perform it.
As far as I know, no one has directly died from stand up comedy – just the substances and stressors to keep them keep doing it. It’s odd to claim stand up comedy as addiction, but I will say that if you asked me to stop I wouldn’t, because I have this one new joke I just have to try…

THE FAIRY AND THE VAMPIRE
by Elicia Berger

I grew up Jewish so my parents never had to deal with the whole Easter Bunny or Santa Claus thing. Whether or not they existed was irrelevant to me and if they did, they visited other kids (who had smaller noses) and that was that. But I did still have The Tooth Fairy and boy, was I a believer.

I lost my first tooth at the hand of a slamming door with a string tied to the knob. I was seven years old. With both hands, my brother held a gigantic black tape recorder up to my head and taunted me.
“Leeshaaaaa, Leeshaaa, does it hurt?”
“Yeeeaaaaa,” I gurgled and moaned in fear. My dad was preparing the string.
“Get that away, Jason!” my dad ordered. “I know, I know...” he cooed and smiled at me.
The recording stops, just seconds before it happened. But the door never needed to slam. Once we got the string tied around my tooth, it fell out, a little wet pink seashell in my clammy hand. What a relief.

We cleaned the tooth and found a home for it in a mini-cassette tape case. It clinked around like a bug in a jar. I decided to write The Tooth Fairy a note, as if she woke up in a Quantum Leap episode and couldn’t figure out what a tooth was. I put it and the cassette tape case under my pillow that night and tried my hardest not to fall asleep.

The next morning I awoke crushed that she had not come. I had waited up for her all night. I slid my hand under my pillow, and there I was surprised to find an envelope with a five-dollar bill and a letter from The Tooth Fairy! The five was slightly folded and worn. I couldn’t believe I didn’t know when she came.
“Dear Elicia,” the letter read. “What a lucky little girl to have lost your first tooth!” (I was not sure that luck had anything to do with that string and doorknob.) “Congratulations! This was a big day. I know that you must have been very brave.”
The letter was typewritten, dated, and signed “The Tooth Fairy, Region 6 Zone 7.”

“Dad?”
“Yes, honey?”
“How come The Tooth Fairy has the same stationery as us?”
“Because The Tooth Fairy gets your letter in the middle of the night, and then writes you back here on our stationery with our typewriter.”
“Oh, right…” I hadn’t figured that much.
“Dad?”
“Mm?”
“So, there’s more than one Tooth Fairy?”
“Well, there are lots of children who lose teeth every day, all over the world. You can’t think that one Tooth Fairy could visit them all in one night?”
“Yeah,” I agreed with great enlightenment.
Of course one Tooth Fairy couldn’t get to all those kids. That would be impossible. Each place had to have one. This Tooth Fairy business was starting to make sense.

Although my dad never mentioned, and one could not tell from The Tooth Fairy’s letters, I just knew that my Tooth Fairy was a lady. Since my dad had clued me into the finer nuances of Tooth Fairy-hood, I dropped my suspicion that the Tooth Fairy was a miniature flying woman who snuck through the cracks in my bedroom window. But I still wondered how she got in, past our various locks and chains, and didn’t trip over our piles of shoes and boots, to deliver my money and much-savored letters.

“Dad?”
“Uh-huh?”
“How does The Tooth Fairy get into our house?”
“I gave The Tooth Fairy a copy of our house key.”
“You did?”
“Yes.”

I started developing a somewhat sadistic outlook on losing teeth. You could say I was becoming quite vampire-like. I looked forward to and savored the salty taste of blood in my mouth, and didn’t sleep at night (or at least, tried not to) in case The Tooth Fairy had a slow night and decided to visit. I looked forward to wiggling teeth and the gruesome feel of jamming my tongue into a freshly vacated gum. When my second front tooth was loose enough, I flipped it around entirely backwards and called my brother over.
“Siiick!” he proclaimed, as I beamed.

After the first five-dollar score, subsequent teeth were clocking in at two-dollars apiece. But this was not about money. The Tooth Fairy and I were building a relationship. She was unlike my other pen pal because she didn’t neglect to write me if she had gotten a new puppy, or if she were rendered busy by a big book report. She had to write me, and I had control over when she did.

Once I decided that The Tooth Fairy and I were getting chummy, I wanted to get her a gift. My mom and I went to Cobbs’, the local stationers, to pick out a writing tablet for her. I chose a white paged 6”x10” clean-tear tablet with a brown cover. I was very satisfied with my choice and couldn’t wait to leave it for her.
“Dear Elicia, Thank you for the lovely gift. It is exactly what I would have picked out.” It was simply a pad of white paper, but it pleased me to no end to hear this. I added The Tooth Fairy’s letter to the cigar box in which I kept all her correspondence.

A few days later, a new writing pad mysteriously appeared in my mom’s sewing room. The cover was torn off.
“Mom, what happened to the cover of this?”
“Oh, I threw it away because I spilled something on it.”
“Oh.”
I felt uneasy. After that day, everything about my and The Tooth Fairy’s correspondence remained the same, but something inside me changed. Though I couldn’t make sense of it all, I felt there was something not kosher going on. Had my mom stolen my gift to The Tooth Fairy? All I knew was that The Tooth Fairy was not using the new paper I got her. And I was running out of teeth.

Not too long after, I saw something on my dad’s dresser that I did not want to believe. It was a letter I had written—to The Tooth Fairy. I had had my suspicions, but was still crushed. I never said anything to my dad about it, not ever. Maybe I was outgrowing The Tooth Fairy. Maybe she was outgrowing me. Her next correspondence was brief: “I have to get going, I have a lot of kids to visit tonight!”

The Tooth Fairy had driven a stake through my heart. But ask me any time, and I’ll still say, “Go ahead, tie that string around my tooth and yank the knob. Hard.”

JESUS IS MY HAPPY DRUG
By Jennifer Coates

We stood in the driveway in our pajamas: me, my brother and sister. Silhouetted in the night, the back seat of our van sat on the ground, like a lawn ornament in a trailer park.

“Go on,” said my stepdad. “See if you can fit.”

Dutifully, we climbed in the van and lay down where the seat used to be. I nosed my face up between the front seats, barely clearing the console. This had to be the stupidest idea ever: riding all night to Ohio in the back of a mini-van. At 14, I was a full-grown 5-foot-3, and I did not want to spend my summer in Jesus Town.

Jesus Town, or sometimes Jonestown, was what my friends had nicknamed my family’s summer destination: Aliquippa, Pennsylvania, a depressed steel-mill ruin outside Pittsburgh. That was where we were headed to spend a week in a religious commune: my stepfather, a non-practicing Jew; my mother, an Episcopalian; and us kids. Afterwards, we’d been promised a trip to Cape Cod, where I hoped no one would attempt to baptize me in the ocean.

I was used to Jesus. It was a kind of uncomfortable familiarity, but not one which bred contempt. I grew up in the Bible belt and considered myself a Christian, although I supported a liberal, fringe political group called the Democrats, had no wish to send my Jewish relatives to hell—okay, maybe my crazy grandmother—and also had never been “saved,” unless you count the time I cracked my head on the high dive during practice and the totally hot lifeguard had to fish me out of the pool.

As Karl Marx famously said, “Religion is the opium of the masses.” At 14, I was beginning to suspect he’d meant crack. All the adults I knew were suddenly doing hits of Jesus. My parents kept talking about the “Holy Spirit”— and my sister’s godfather, CEO of our local hospital, had actually packed up his family and moved to Jesus Town. Before leaving, he’d made us promise to visit. And that’s why I lay face down, in the middle of the night, as our family set out on our trip in the Mini-van for Christ.

Like holy bandits, we slipped onto the dark highway for our all-night drive. With his typically bad reasoning skills, my stepfather claimed we’d gain an entire day by driving while the family slept. But this brilliant plan had one flaw: although I could lie face down in the van, I could hardly sleep in this position. I remember a long, blurry night of my sister body-slamming into me, my stepdad stopping every half hour for coffee, and a violently sore neck. By the next morning, I was pretty sure I’d already been to purgatory.

My mother passed out donuts for breakfast as we sat cross-legged on the extended van floor.

I began to sing. “Won’t you take me to … Jesus Town?”

“Shut up, goddamnit!” hollered my stepdad, who hadn’t slept a wink.

I grabbed my brother’s Cabbage Patch doll and made it dance.

Late that afternoon, we rounded the crest of a hilltop, and Jesus Town came into view. Broken, beat-out windows looked blindly from crumbling buildings. Aimless people wandered the streets in the summer heat. Cramped tenement housing sported gang graffiti. Jesus Town scared the shit out of me.

“Godmamma and Day-Day live here?” asked my five-year-old sister.

“Yes,” said my mother piously. “They’re part of a spiritual community to help the poor.”

“Doesn’t look like they’ve done much,” I observed.

Godmamma and Day-Day’s commune was in a safer section of Jesus Town, known as The Rowhouses. These opened onto a vast expanse of lawn where the children frolicked and the gay, graying hippies—who comprised most of the group—plucked their guitars by night. That night, the entire commune held a barbeque for us, singing hymns and raising their hands in the air. I don’t know why they raised their hands in the air. Did they think God needed a signal to find them? Like an air-traffic controller?

I sat back and watched the scene in horrified fascination. “Who’s that?” I asked my mother, pointing to the fattest, gayest-looking hippie of them all.

“That’s Father Graham,” she said. “He’s the leader of the Community.” My mother lowered her voice. “They say, that he once calmed a rabid dog by calling on the Holy Spirit and ordering it to lie still.”

I checked her glass for Kool-Aide, and asked if Father Graham also did tricks with snakes.

The next day, my parents asked if I’d like to hang out with some girls my age. The alternative being long-haired homosexuals who did weird things to dogs with the Holy Spirit, I said yes. But secretly, I was terrified. I didn’t get along too well with the Bible Kids at school—the ones who “met you at the flagpole” to pray before school, and listened to Michael W. Smith instead of Michael Bolton and D.C. Talk instead of M.C. Hammer.

You see, it was hard to hold the line as a Christian but not that type of Christian. And lately, with my parents becoming Jesus junkies, it was getting even harder. The right wing of the church was pulling everyone in. Come on, get Evangelical … everybody’s doing it.

After church at Jesus Town on Sunday, which involved dancing, babbling in tongues—and an elderly lady convulsing in the aisle while everyone stood around her and cheered instead of calling 911—my parents walked me across the street from the Rowhouses to hang out with Kate and Christy. I steeled myself for Bible verses and an angry debate on abortion, but instead I found them sitting on their couch, doors and windows wide open to the filthy street below, watching MTV.

“This show is creepy,” I said after an awkward silence. “I can’t believe they just follow people around a house with a camera.”

“Yeah,” said Kate.

We watched as another episode of The Real World cued up on the screen, and I wondered what television had come to.

“So, I’m pregnant,” said Kate.

“Oh? Really,” I said. I didn’t know how to address this; none of my friends had ever been past second base. We were, after all, 14.

“Yeah,” Kate said. “The father’s black. He eats a lot of chicken.”

“Why?” I asked. I looked to Christy, but she continued to stare at the television.

“I don’t know,” Kate said. “Black people like chicken.”

“Oh. I didn’t know that,” I said.

At that moment, a horrible thought occurred to me: something unspeakable, that I’d dreaded having to confront in my maturing, adolescent years.

“Are you guys … um, high?” I asked.

“No way,” Christy said, keeping her eyes on the tube. “Jesus is my happy drug.”

At that point, I made an excuse about needing to find my parents, and ran across the dilapidated street on my own. I spent the rest of my vacation playing with my brother and sister, and keeping them away from the ravine where a prostitute was found strangled the night before. When we left, I had a huge, red, peeling rash around my mouth from having drunk the tap water.

“I’ll pray for you,” said my mother as we pulled away.

“Just keep driving,” I said. “I want to be in Massachusetts by sunset.”

Within a year of our visit, Father Graham was defrocked as a pervert, for having sex with his married male parishioners. Godmamma and Day-Day returned home and opened up a Domino’s pizza. My parents found a normal Episcopal Church with incense and choirs and funny language from an old prayer book. But as for me, I gave up religion altogether after that terrifying run-in with Jesus Town. If anyone ever tells me that Jesus is their happy drug … well, I just say no.

MY PIECE:
Horses

I’m a little worried about myself. I’ve always been the girl in the group who’s been one of the more sexually outspoken ones. You know, the “Samantha”. I’m the friend who first showed you how to “really” play with Barbies. And probably made you take your first trip to Toys in Babeland.

But you could also say that I’m quite comfortable with myself. I can say “vagina” without flinching, though I think it’s a really unsexy word. Maybe its because my dad’s a gynecologist and fertility specialist and we talked about his work day at the dinner table growing up. So a typical conversation would be like:

“Hey dad, what’d you do today?”

“Well kiddo, I’m glad you asked. One of my patients today was a very religious Baptist woman who thought something was wrong with her hymen, when actually; she was a virgin with an impotent husband! Nothing a vaginal dilator can’t fix!”

You know. Just your average Shabbat dinner with the fam.

Or maybe I’m this way because of my friends. One night in high school, a group of us went to a friend’s house to watch a “very scary movie” my boyfriend was bringing over. I love scary movies so I was psyched. Once the popcorn was popped, my boyfriend put the tape in the VCR (you know, because this was olden times). The opening scene showed a good-looking young couple lost on a farm road. They decided to pull over to what looked like a welcoming farmhouse. I had to run to the bathroom for a second thinking I wouldn’t miss much. But by the time I got back, the entire farmhouse family was having sex with the girl while her boyfriend and the goat watched.

“See, I told you it was scary!” said my boyfriend, laughing hysterically.

All my girlfriends were horrified, so they ran to the basement to practice a choreographed dance. I stayed upstairs with the guys to uh…see if the young couple ever made it back home.

In college my guy friends showed me that you could download porn for free on the Internet. Well, you know how in college, there’s like that free food mentality? How even if you’re not hungry you still eat the nasty cold pizza in the dorm lobby because it’s free? So, I started downloading the free porn, because IT WAS THERE. I told all my friends about it. It was all very “Red Shoe Diaries” kind of stuff: Women getting seduced on trains by sexy conductors, mailmen delivering “big packages”. Instead of comparing last night’s episode of Sex and the City we’d be like, “Did you watch “Stunning Sylvia Gets A Good Spanking?” or “Sexy Masseuse Receives Extra Service?”

Of course, my guy friends at the time were into things like “Woman Getting Nailed by Donkey in Istanbul” and happily showed us such videos at our dorm parties. I couldn’t imagine how on Earth this could be a turn-on. I mean, look! We could be watching Woman Getting Hosed Down by Sexy Fireman! Or if we were feeling really frisky, Schoolgirl Seduced by Naughty Teacher. C’mon guys, a donkey?

But after a while…The naughty conductor, the mailman, Stunning Sylvia—they started becoming kind of old hat. I’d be watching it and be like, “meh”. With voyeuristic sex stuff I feel like there’s this novelty factor. So before I knew it I was like, suddenly all about the girl on girl porn. And then the locker room orgy became my thing. Until that got old too. And now, here I am in a place that I’m a little concerned about. I have a serious addiction. To gay porn. Guy on guy.

Do you know how hard it is to find guy on guy porn that doesn’t look "gay gay”? It’s really hard. It requires a commitment. Next to Facebook, this is one of life’s major timesucks. Non-gay-gay gay man porn is a specific area within the porn genre that does not include leather, skinny little boys, pretty faces, or quiet moaning. You have to find manly men that look like the kind of men that might want to gangbang a woman, but actually decide against it, and go for one another. Aggressively.

Oh, just so you know? I’m watching all this shit BY MYSELF. Not because I’m embarrassed, but because this is like, a me-time kind of thing. And also because that’s what you do when you’re unemployed and bored and it’s 10 in the morning. Also, I think this is the first time my husband is learning about my little hobby. Sorry honey. But if you’re into that kind of thing? Totally cool.

And sometimes I’m wondering, can the neighbors hear? What do they think about the sounds of groaning men coming from my apartment when my husband is away at work? Do they think I’m being unfaithful? Or attacked? And if so, why haven’t they called the police?

Occasionally I fear that my Super might walk in mid-video. You know, like, “Hello, I’ve come to uh, fix your plumbing.” Which wouldn’t be SO bad…And there I go again.

But here’s why I’m really worried. I’ve tried to broach the topic with friends of mine, and explain my fascination and no one gets it. I understand that its more acceptable for women to like lesbian porn and that women are supposed to like watching other women get it on. But if you like penises, why wouldn’t you want to see two of them at the same time?
Even when I put it this way, the look I get, is one of disbelief and general ick. Like WTF Alexis, seriously, get more therapy. And I agree! What is wrong with me? How did a nice straight A Jewish girl from New Jersey find herself typing in the words “male, gay, cumshots” into porn search engines as an adult? I mean, I’d like to think I’m a good person. I give money to the homeless on subways—especially the people who don’t have shoes. I call my mom twice a day—even if it’s just to tell her what I had for lunch.

I guess everyone is allowed a vice. I just would have been content with mine being like, an addiction to Project Runway, or Cadbury Eggs. But no, my lot is two cocks at once, battling each other out. At least for now. But what’s next?
Now I understand why my guy friends in college were watching that woman get mauled by the donkey: They had already exhausted themselves on every other type of porn, and it had become yesterday’s news. They had to keep upping the ante. So after the girl guy, the girl girl, and the gangbangs, they had to go to the animal porn. I don’t know what follows animal porn. Snuff? Or...Don’t even get me started on the Two Girls One Cup madness. That’s just gross. That’s just a big old heap of No.

So get this: Recently, I saw this link on Perez Hilton, to a video about a guy named “Mr. Hands”. His goal in life was to have sex with a horse. So he like, set up a night to have his friends videotape the event. And they actually did. I nearly vomited the first time I watched it, because in the fuzziness of the tape, I kind of saw the horse’s wang violate “Mr. Hands”. I know, I know. And then, afterward, I found out that “Mr. Hands” got internal bleeding and died. Ok, full disclosure: I watched this video five times.

Seriously men in the audience, maybe you can help me. I think I’m probably at your level now. Is there some extreme porn website I don’t know about—something that can save me from getting to the donkey and horse level once I’ve exhausted my gay porn fascination?

I’m a big believer in mantras helping me get over my problems. I like to write them on post-its and tape them to my computer: Some of my favorites include: “No Hurry, No Worry” and “Peace is in Every Step”. These help me with my anxiety issues. I just found a new one on the Internet that might help me with this: “Every Time You Masturbate God Kills a Kitten”.

So I just got a puppy. The cutest, snuggliest, giant muffin headed puppy in the world. Strangely enough, it seems that the maternal instinct trumps the desire to watch non-gay-gay, gay man porn. For example, I was “researching” this piece for you all, and what do you know? Youporn had some new videos. Some pretty nice sounding ones that I hadn’t seen before. For example: “Asses Pounded in the Grasses,” and “Two Gay Gladiators Working Out”. But then my puppy whimpered. And I looked at his cute little puppy eyes saying, “Mommy, you’re a nasty nasty whore.” So I X’d out of youporn with a sigh, closed down my computer, and hopefully, HOPEFULLY, also closed a chapter in my disturbed sexual life.

This Tuesday: Come to the show!

2009-04-24T09:59:00.001-07:00

This Tuesday we will be revealing all our deepest and darkest to you...in a funny way of course. Come watch and listen!

Pieces from Last Night's Show: Mixed Blissings

2009-02-25T07:20:00.000-08:00

My Piece:

NASTY, BRUSTISH, AND...

On my recent honeymoon in South Africa, I learned about this horrible creature called the “spider-hunting wasp.” I’m not a big fan of wasps or spiders to begin with, but this one is a doozy. So here’s what happens to Mr. Spider when a spider-hunting wasp catches it: First, the wasp immobilizes the spider with a paralyzing sting. Then, it drags the poor shmo to a crevice in a tree or something. Then, while the spider is saying, “God no, oh please”, the wasp deposits her egg on the still living, possibly conscious but immobile corpse and seals the spider into that crevice. When the wasp egg finally hatches the larva then feeds on the still not quite dead spider.

When I heard this story as we drove along the South African bush, staring at giraffes and pretending to not be afraid of the lions, I started to think about how life sometimes can be just so senselessly cruel. Nasty, brutish and short and such. Little did I know how deeply I would feel that sentiment upon returning back to New York.

Well for starters, as soon as I got off the plane, I had to attend my dear grandfather’s funeral. That was no picnic. Dealing with Jewish relatives eating copious amounts of lox on any occasion is bad enough, but doing so while still reeling from a loved one’s slow and agonizing death is a whole ‘nother story. So I was really looking forward to going back to work and getting back to my routine.

Monday at work was all welcome back and how was the honeymoon? Tell us about the lions! Did you catch any weird diseases? Is there food in Africa? Stuff like that. The jet lag was great because I got to work early and was feeling that fresh start and beginning of new ideas thing that happens when you return to work after a real long vacation.

Tuesday morning on the subway on the way to work I ran into a coworker. We shot the shit and she asked me if I’d ever considered leaving my job. I told her yes, sometimes, but not actively. I told her that in a way, I was waiting for a sign.

When I got to work, all morning meetings were canceled. OK, not that out of the ordinary. The big boss probably had a late breakfast, or a root canal. Whatevs. But lo, what’s this? A memo from the CEO of the company appeared on my screen, the gist of which said that we should expect lots of layoffs that day. Seconds later my coworkers were freaking out because my supervisor was called into HR and that could only mean doomsday for us. “Oh come on guys, I’m sure its not that extreme. We can’t speculate. Let’s just read US Weekly and wait for her to come back.” I decided to sit at my desk just in case I got a call—because the last time there was a major shakedown like this, I got a promotion.

My phone rang, and the spyphone said it was HR. I didn’t even say hello. “You want me to come up?” I asked, numbly. HR lady said in a chipper voice, “Yes please!” like I’d just asked if she’d like some sugar and cream in her coffee.

The head of my department was sitting in a chair next to the HR lady, and they both had the “sad face 4 u” on. I was strangely calm. The big boss read me the riot act: “Due to the state of the economy, blah buh dee blah, and also since you’re a big fat loser, your position has been eliminated.” Then she got up and left, and I started crying. First Grandpappy, now this? The HR lady handed me a tissue and explained to me in a soothing voice that when I returned to my desk, my computer would be shut down and inaccessible to me, and that I would have to leave the building within the next two hours.

‘Twas a sad day of goodbyes and tears, and I’m proud that they didn’t have to get security to pry my bleeding knuckles from the door of my nice quiet office screaming, “No! The humanity!” Because man, I had some major real estate in that office. I must have had a dozen pairs of shoes under my desk, and a whole bookcase of books that won’t fit in my apartment.

And immediately people were like, “But this is great! You’ve been saying that you weren’t sure you wanted to stay in publishing forever. Think of this as a mixed blessing!” And then they’d started offering me ideas about all the things I could do now that I’m jobless:

“You can become a cheese connoisseur!”

“You can open your own pole dancing business!”

“How about that novel you’re always talking about?”

“What about shoving it up your pie hole?” (that one was special, I just made that up).

At 5am the next morning I was jolted awake by anxiety nightmares mostly involving me walking around naked in highschool but instead of my classmates, all I saw were my coworkers. I couldn’t fall back asleep so I started googling the layoffs at my company and then on a whim, I googled my name to make sure no one mentioned me specifically. I even googled the phrase, “I got laid off by HarperCollins” to see if anyone had a story that I could sympathize with. At which point my husband rolled over, tore my blackberry out of my hands and threw it across the room.

I managed to fall asleep again and woke up at 9, and then I realized that much like the poor African spider, I too was paralyzed. I couldn’t imagine getting out of bed, like ever. There was just so much one could do with the day, it was overwhelming. I could change my name to my new married name at Social Security. I could pick up the dry cleaning. I could practice my headstands.

Instead I decided to troll youporn.com. But then I thought of my grandpa in heaven and felt guilty, and decided to look at jobs.

At around 10:30 a really weird chemical smell wafted into my bedroom and at first I thought maybe I was hallucinating. Like, here goes! The crazy is kicking in! Then I realized with a little relief that the building must be spraying for bugs. And I was like, “Hello? I’m in here! Is there no decency? I’m inhaling chemicals for Gods sake.” Don’t they have respect for the elderly and the unemployed?

The noxious gasses got my ass moving and out of the house so I met a friend for lunch. For the first time in my life I actually sent back salad. When you realize that every dollar counts, and someone’s charging you fourteen buckaroos for some romaine with a chickpea on top, you start to get picky. I called the waiter to us and was like, “Excuse me Sir? Yeah. This salad is not good.” He was like, “What part of the chickpea, cucumber, cheese and lettuce is not good?” and the best I could say was “just, just, the whole thing tastes off.” Because this could be my only meal of the day—for fourteen dollars, I had to make it count you know? As I walked out of the restaurant I realized, oh crap. Getting laid off has turned me into my mother.

Later I wandered into the Container Store. I had hoped that by organizing myself, maybe I’d be organizing my life too. But as I walked up and down the aisles of shoe racks, over the door hooks and filing cabinets I realized, “None of this is going to solve my problems.” However, there was a woman by the hangers who was smiling and doing a little dance and saying “Oooweee I love this store!” and I thought maybe I was in a commercial or something and perhaps I’d get discovered and be like, the next Chloe Sevigny like in Kids. But no, the lady was just some crazy old hag.

That night on the subway, I saw the cutest dog ever. Not like a mangy “ooh don’t touch that” street dog, but a real show dog. “Maybe I’ll finally get a dog,” I thought. But then its owner cleared his throat and announced to my fellow passengers and I that he and his best friend Gizmo (pointing to the dog) just found out that he is HIV positive and that’s why his dad just kicked him out of the house and they’re trying to get enough money to be able to stay in a cheap hostel on 103rd street.

I rummaged in my bag for a dollar. The dog was just soooo cute.

And then I had an idea. Panhandling. That would be the easiest solution to my problems. I quickly envisioned my speech:

“Excuse me ladies and gentleman I am sorry to bother you I was recently laid off at my job at a really great publishing company otherwise I wouldn’t be doing this. Now I can no longer afford to eat at Hale & Hearty or Chop’t for lunch or get weekly manicures. If you can spare a nickel, a dollar, a salad, some vintage jewelry, or really cute clothes from Urban Outfitters I would be greatly appreciated of you.”

And that’s when I realized, who was I, an unemployed person, to be giving away money to random men on the subway who had cute dogs? I didn’t have a dog. I wanted to chase after Gizmo and his owner and be like, “Hey. Sorry, but um...Can I have my dollar back?”

But then I thought of my grandpa in heaven, and felt guilty, and kept my mouth shut.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Calling Masseur Feelgood
by Emily Epstein

“I bet they have the best pad thai!”
“Is it like the movie The Beach!”
“We should go! No! I love you, man!”
“Oh my god, but did you see Brokedown Palace? Claire Danes was badass.”
“Did you just throw up on my shoe?”

It was during this drunken conversation at a bar in Australia that Jason and Sejul—two friends I had become close with while studying abroad—and I decided we should go to Thailand. So the next day, perhaps still tipsy, we bought our tickets and two days later we were on our way.

What exactly am I going to do in Thailand, I thought to myself, sitting on the plane shortly after takeoff. I realized, sitting there, flipping through a Bangkok tour book, that our drunken conversation was the extent of my knowledge about the country. For a planner like myself, it felt completely alien, but I figured, no, for first time in my life I am going to be spontaneous, even if it kills me. And I hear it can be a dangerous country, so it just may.

Two hours later, we got off the plane and were accosted with the most humid, sweltering heat I had ever felt in my life. I imagined that this is what heart of darkness felt like. We headed into the airport and groaned when the air conditioning hit us as we went through customs. After a quick taxi ride, we were in Bangkok. It was only a matter of time before the exhaustion set in, so we decided to start exploring.

Within five minutes we realized that not only was the city oppressively humid and smelly—many people wore paper hospital masks, which was not reassuring—but it was so incredibly crowded, Times Square on New Year’s Eve seemed spacious by comparison. Within seconds several rickshaw drivers approached us smelling fresh, tourist meat. We decided to go for it—if things got wacky, we could always jump out of the rickshaw Chinese fire drill-style at a stoplight.

“Where you want to go?” the rickshaw driver asked.

“Wat Po, please” I said, pointing to a picture in my guidebook of the largest reclining Buddha in Bangkok. I had tried to cram in a little research on the plane ride, but quickly got overwhelmed with the sheer number of buddhas in the city, which seemed to cover the area like Starbucks stores in the States.

“Okay dokay,” he shouted, taking off before we could negotiate a price.

“But wait! How much?” Sejul yelled, as we all gripped each other and the sides of the rickshaw as he sped off. Sejul was beautiful and petite and exotic with her Indian background, so she often managed to get things done her way.

“I give you special visitor tour!” he said, smiling.

This did not sound promising, but we figured, what the hell. First the driver stopped at a market, replete with every cheap knickknack and piece of crap imaginable. Apparently before everything made in China was dropped off at our ninety-nine cent stores, they made a quick stop here. While there was a Buddha there—a fact that we would soon learn was not surprising—he was not very big and he definitely wasn’t reclining.

“I’m so not paying, and I’m not getting out of this rickshaw,” Jason said, looking frustrated and angry, which was difficult as he was stick thin and wearing a very tight Care Bears T-shirt.

“We want to go to Wat Po,” I said to the driver, the tension apparent in my voice. “Come on guys, let’s just go,” as we started to collect our things.

“Yes! Yes! Wat Po. I take you! You calm down! So many buddhas here. I sorry!”

We settled back into the rickshaw, feeling like we had taken charge but also already exhausted from the 112 degree temperature. We sat back, enjoyed the limited breeze and soon were at our destination.
Except, once again, it wasn’t our destination.

“Ah, this isn’t our buddha. It’s a diamond center, whatever that means,” Sejul exclaimed. “Listen! We don’t have money, okay? We’re poor college students!”

The rickshaw driver's head drooped sadly and the dollar signs in his eyes receded. “Okay dokay, I take you to Wat Po.”

“No, that’s okay,” I said getting out of the rickshaw. “This is bullshit. I’m not being taken advantage of. I’ve only been here for three hours.” I handed the rickshaw driver 100 Baht which equals about $2.88. “Don’t even think of giving me a hard time.” As he was a small man and I was feeling feisty, I was ready for a battle, and arranged myself in my best crouching tiger, hidden monkey pose.

The rickshaw driver screamed something at us I was glad not to understand. Jason glared at him, which strangely did the trick, as he drove away.

“Well, what do you want to do now?” Jason asked.

“How about a massage? Aren't they known for that here?” Sejul said.

“I could use one,” I said, feeling guilty as I had no other ideas as to what we should do. We sat on a curb, clutching our belongings to our chests as I checked in the guidebook. “It says to watch out because a lot of them are brothels.”

“Great” Jason remarked. “Let’s just end up as sex slaves and”—

“It just says we have to be careful, not to be worried that we’ll be sold and bartered. I just don’t want to end up with an STD.”
Sejul checked the map and it turned out that there was a massage place within walking distance. We started along as our spirits lifted with the idea of our awaited bliss. But the parlor was sketchy at best. A woman not only rushed out of the storefront to greet us as we looked in the door, but started to lead us down a back alley. I figure massages, much like abortions, should never be started by leading you to a “special entrance.”

Our search stretched into hours, as parlor after parlor gave us a not-so-fresh feeling.

“This humidity is killing me. It’s like walking through soup,” I said. My hair, which had once been straight was now so curly I couldn't even run my fingers through it. We noticed the outdoor vendors around us covering their wares with plastic, which we found odd as there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

Two minutes later it started to pour. Not rain so much, as it felt like the world was ending and frogs would soon be falling from the sky. We ran for cover but were already drenched. Five minutes later the rain stopped and the vendors pulled away their plastic as if this was a common occurrence. Apparently we were here during the rainy/typhoon season. The planner side of me cursed the new spontaneous side.

“Well, I’m not hot anymore, but Sej, I think I can see your nipples,” Jason said.

“You’re lucky you’re gay,” she replied. “Where is a freaking legitimate massage parlor in this town?”

We started walking and then we saw it. It looked clean, inviting, and non-brothelly. The Mecca of the non-red light district. When we walked in the front door, they simply welcomed us in. We were ecstatic. A plainly dressed, non-slutty looking Thai woman led us to a clean, good-sized room and told us to strip down and put on our robes, not seeming to care that Jason was a boy. We did so willingly, peeling off our wet layers.

We lay facedown on our strawlike mats and three miniature Thai women entered, chatting away with each other. With little more then a smile in our direction, they got to work molding our backs to their whim, never stopping their discussion. And it was a good thing they kept talking because they drowned out our yodels of happiness.

When I was turned over on my back and the woman started walking to the very top of my inner thigh, I learned I was tense in places I hadn’t even considered. I felt like we should share an after-massage cigarette and maybe spoon. By the time the women were done, the three of us were puddles of relaxation. It literally took everything we had to get back into our soggy clothes.

It had been a strange day but we were finally relaxed. That night we decided to go out and asked the concierge at our rather nice hotel—thanks to the exchange rate—where was a good place to go. We knew the red-light district was questionable, but asked if it would be fun.

“Oh yes, very exciting,” the concierge said.

“Is that good or bad,” Sejul asked.

“Oh, you must see,” he said, winking at Jason.

We decided to take a look anyway. As we walked around the area, we noticed every bar had scantily clad women dancing with what looked like forced abandon. Every time we looked in one of the bars some man would run out and beckon us in.

“I’m not sure if they want us to work there or buy a dance,” Sejul said.

“This feels like the massage experience all over again. Let’s find somewhere to get a drink without the boobies,” Jason said. “I mean, they’re fine to look at if you’re into that, but I’m not paying for them.”
So we continued wandering. We walked out to the open air bars where things were rowdy but the clientele was mixed. We continued to stroll along and take it all in. And then, as we learned was apt to happen on our trip, it started to unexpectedly pour.

We ducked into the first bar with some cover and shook ourselves off. The bar staff was completely mind-numbingly beautiful Thai woman and every single patron was an overweight middle-aged balding white guy.

“Ah, this is weird,” Sejul whispered.

“Yeah, but it’s pouring and I could really use a drink,” I said. I looked over at one of the women behind the bar. “Singha beer?” She nodded and brought it over. The woman and the three of us stared at each other for a while.

“You not from here?” the closest bartender asked, a very pretty, dark haired woman whose clothing looked like it was borrowed from Britney Spear’s tour closet.

“No,” Jason answered. “Vodka tonic, please?”

“Vodka who?”

He opted for a Singha. We stared at each other some more realizing that a conversation would be difficult. And then one of the women leaned down behind the bar and pulled something out, laying it in front of us.

“Jenga?” We looked at each other. The women behind the bar smiled and began to set up the blocks in a tower of the popular Hasbro game and gestured for us to pull out the first piece. It felt like I was reliving my childhood but on acid.
And so, that night we played Jenga. As the game progressed we became friendlier. By the end of the night, we were drunk, the bartender had given us free reign of the music, and the male patrons of the bar left us alone and concentrated on their respective imported lady friends. Outside the rain had stopped but we weren’t ready to leave.

“Weird night, huh?” Jason said.

“Definitely. I like this beer though. Oh, sorry!” Sejul said, trying to steady herself by accidently placing her hand on one of the male patron’s bald heads.

“And unexpected. I had no idea that we spoke the international language of Jenga,” I said. And with that we turned to do a shot of something we hoped wasn’t a date rape drug and began to play another game.

Come to the Show on Feb 24!

2009-02-22T11:06:00.000-08:00

So I originally was going to give this month's show the theme of "Bliss." That's how I was feeling. I had just come back from honeymoon numero uno and was about to embark on honeymoon part two. I could not complain. But as soon as we touched down on the runway, life became an absolute shit show. So there's a new theme: MIXED BLISSINGS. And I think my writers are happier when they get to write about the crap in their lives anyway. Come enjoy our misery!

Tuesday, Feb 24th at Bar on A at 7:30pm.
Featuring performances by:
Jessica Delfino
Emily Epstein
Raquel D'Apice
Brea Tremblay
Bob Powers
Laura Motta
and more!

Tanner's and Jenn's Pieces from Inner Monologues: Haters (Dec 3rd 2008)

2008-12-20T11:15:00.001-08:00

THREE DAYS IN THE SEVENTH GRADE
by Tanner Dahlin

Part One: Fight Day
The second day of seventh grade I fell in love with a girl named Sissy Larson. I could tell I was in love with her because I couldn’t stop staring at her. She had beautiful hair and her laugh was the most wonderful thing ever invented.
One day, that first week of school, I was walking down the crowded hallway when she just popped out of the girl’s locker room making her hair swoosh by my face and I couldn’t help but stare as she walked away. I stared hard. I kept on walking, but I also kept on staring. This is probably why I ran smack dab into Herb Olafson. Herb Olafson was six feet three inches tall and weighed 230 pounds the day he barely graduated the sixth grade. And he grew all summer.
I ran into his giant ‘man-chest’ and bounced off hard. My books went flying. I got up and tried to evaluate the situation when out of nowhere, little Susie Storts yells, “Kick his ass Herb!” First of all, Little Susie Storts was, and probably still is, 3 feet tall. I never got to sit at their table at lunch and never said three words to her in my life, yet for some reason, she was calling for my ass to be kicked.
I had never been in a fight in my life before, so I just stared at him, frozen in horror. Then I heard, “Yeah kick his ass Herb!” and people were like, “yeah!” I was like, “Oh my God!” Then my best friend, Dan Wey, shouts, “Tanner would kick your ass Herb. Kick his ass Tanner!” I was like, “shut the fuck up, dude!”
At this point, thirty people are gathered around, including Sissy Larson, and they all are just waiting for me to get pounded, when out of nowhere, Sissy shouted, “Kick his ass Herb!” I was like, Holy Shit! My dream girl just yelled for me to get my ass kicked!
And something flipped in me and I looked at Herb and said, ‘bring it on fat ass!’
It was arranged that it would all go down the next day after eighth period, behind Laffeens Gas Station. That is where all the fights went down. I remember standing behind Lafeen’s once where I saw Herb Olafson throw a guy through a garbage can then pick him up and throw him through another one, then take another garbage can and bash him on the back with it.
As soon as I got home, I told my dad about the impending fight. Now, my Dad retired from bull riding at the age of 19 and then went on to fight half of northeastern Wyoming in these crazy street fights. I guess Wyoming in the seventies was a crazy place. So my dad grabbed two beers, and gave me one. My first beer with the old man, which is kind of like a big coming of age moment for Rednecks, then he got out his old boxing gloves and took me to the basement and began teaching.
“A crowd of people is going to gather around, Tanner, trust me, it always happens. Next thing that’s going to happen is he’s going to call you faggot. Trust me. Always happens that way” My dad role played, “So imagine there’s a circle of people, here let me put down my beer, there is a circle of people and this Herb nerd comes strutting in and yells You gonna die pussy! Now, Tanner, what do you do?”
“I would say … no, you’re the pussy, Herb!” My dad hung his head. “No, Tanner, you do not call him a pussy. You do not call him anything. You run up to him and punch him in the nose as hard as you can, boy.”
At some point, my mother came down stairs and said, “For god sake’s Bill, it’s 2:00am” and my dad and I made an agreement that he would be parked at Laffeens, and if the cops came, I could jump in the back of his pickup and he would drive away.
The next morning in second period, I was called to the office. Herb was already there. The principal told us that he found out about our fight, and would expel us if we went through with it. He wouldn’t just suspend us, but actually expel us, forever. Herb and I actually talked for the first time ever in the office and realized that not only did neither of us want to get expelled, but neither of us knew why we were even going to fight in the first place. We actually talked about baseball for ten minutes, and we are still friends today.
As I went back to my seat in class, I exchanged glances with the young pretty witch who stole my heart and yelled for my ass to be kicked. She was as beautiful as ever and she looked up and she gave me the biggest smile you could ever imagine.
Part Two: Running Day
I never mustered the courage to ask her why she yelled for me to get my ass kicked, because, well, I hadn’t mustered up the courage to even say hello to her in the hallway. The only time she ever said anything to me was once in gym class.
On ‘running day’ we would go outside and run around the parking lot, clockwise, for 55 minutes. I had decided to actually talk to her, so I tried very hard to catch up to her. She was fast. When I finally got right beside her, I was running at top speed, and was kind of wondering if she wasn’t trying to get away from me. That’s when she turned to me and said: “You smell bad. You should wear deodorant.” Then she just took off faster.
Part Three: Chainsaw Joke Day
Mrs. Jones seated me next to Sissy Larson for the whole last month of seventh grade English. I was working on a new strategy for winning her heart that was sure to succeed. I would wait until the last day of class and then write my feelings for her in her yearbook, as well as my phone number. Couldn’t fail.
My plan changed on Chainsaw Joke day, however. Mrs. Jones was showing us a little film about a man who was lost in a vast wintry forest somewhere and was freezing to death. During the film, I started getting a really grumbly tummy. There are two kinds of Grumbly Tummy’s. One means you are hungry and it is felt in the upper stomach and lower esophagus. The other Grumbly Tummy is felt in the lower stomach, and large intestine. The first means you have to eat, the second means something else totally different from eating. As the arctic man froze to death in the film it became clear to me that my Grumbly Tummy was the second, lower one. I winced and flinched in my chair, and shifted endlessly. When the film was over and the lights were flipped back on, just about the time I was planning to ask for a hall pass, Mrs. Jones asked a simple question.
“What could have saved this man’s life?”
“Matches.” Sissy said. So perfect.
“Good answer, what else.”
Then a doofy kid in the back shouted, “A chainsaw! A chainsaw!”
This was the funniest thing I had ever heard, but apparently, no one else thought so, because it was dead silent. I was trying to stifle my laugh cause it would be embarrassing to be the only one to laugh at a stupid joke. But as this bad joke hung in the air like a cloud, the absurdity of yelling “Chainsaw” became too hilarious, and out of my mouth came “Ha!” immediately followed by what can only be described as an earthquake fart. It was my ill timed, goofy laugh that brought the class’ attention to me, but it was the subsequent, frightening, desk-rattling, stink bomb that caused Mrs. Jones’s hand to involuntarily shoot up to her mouth as she gasped in horror.
It wasn’t like a little squeaker, where you can play it off and pretend like it was someone behind you. She was staring right at me and said, “Tanner Dahlin, that was not funny in the least bit.” The class was silent. Then Mark Carlson said, “oh my god, dude”. My face was bright red and I was so embarrassed I really honestly thought I was going to puke and go down as the only guy in Agazzi Middle School history to laugh, fart, and then puke, in 30 seconds, in class, next to the woman he loved.
Mrs. Jones screamed, “Out into the hallway funny man!” But no punishment she could inflict could have been worse than the look I got from Sissy Larson, as I scootched past her with my head hung low on my way out to the hall. She crinkled her forehead, held her nose and fanned her face and said, “Gross.”
After class was over, I went back in to collect my things, and there on my desk was a little note. It said, “To Tanner” on the front. It read:
Tanner,
“Your fart was the grossest thing ever. It smelled forever in here after you left.” – From Anonymous.
Sissy Larson had no way to know I could recognize not only her handwriting, but also the purple glitter pen she always wrote with and chewed on with her perfect teeth. She had such great handwriting.

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MATING RITUALS IN THE RED STATES
by Jennifer Coates

Okay. I’m just going to say it. And you’re all going to think I’m a frigid bitch, or really in need of a Midol. But you know what I kind of hate? Dudes.
I’m not a lesbian—not that there’s anything wrong with that. Actually, I don’t get that whole lesbian/man-hater stereotype. I mean, if I was a lesbian, why would I hate men? I’d hate women. I’d be like, fuck women, the goddamn bitches. They break your heart, they’re always crying for no reason—they never let you hang with your buddies; they start hinting at marriage when they’ve known you a month—and whenever you’re in the mood, they’re all like, “Honey, I’m PMSing.” If I was a dyke, I’d freaking hate chicks. But I’m straight … so I hate on men.
See, in New York City, guys can be divided into three categories: Douchebags, Dull … and taken. And that’s not including the elusive fourth category that sometimes encompasses all of the above: Gay.
Yeah, all right. Maybe I’m a little bitter. Maybe there’s a reason for this y-chromosome-directed vitriol. This burnt-out cynicism with which I cast my withering gaze on every Tom, Dick, and Harry—or at least, every Dick—I come in contact with. Is it because I recently got dumped by a man who said things like, “I have 435 friends on Facebook; people like me”? Or perhaps it was the guy who wanted me to host live sex shows for money in his co-op? Or does my hating go back even further than the Sex and the City bullshit of dating in New York? Maybe so.
Study Hall. 1991. Me: a shy freshman in the back of the room with acid-washed granny-waisted jeans. Permed hair. Because everywhere else in the country, kids were dressing grunge. But in Lee’s Summit, Missouri, it was still the 80s. Still is, last time I was there.
You: Derek Bennett. A cute sophomore with a Tom Cruise smile. One day, you turned around and crinkled those blue eyes at me. And then, you did the unimaginable. You took a page from your notebook, as if to write me a letter, tore off a few sections, crumpled them up and—grinning—began to throw paper-wads at me. I gathered in later years that you were sweet on me, and that you probably had an enormous erection. But at the time, I sat in panic, cursing my own lack of social skills, because I didn’t know how to flirt back with a boy throwing paper at my head.
This, my friends, was high school. Mating rituals in the Red States. This was where the hating began. Luckily with Derek Bennett, I dodged more than a speeding college-ruled missile of love. Turns out, he became a born-again Christian pastor with a Sarah Palin fan page on Facebook. But I spent most of high school wondering what was wrong with me that I didn’t have replies to such pick-up lines as “Hey bitch, get in the car” and “I love the way you do algebra.”
By junior year, I’d just about given up. I refused to date any of my classmates, and only flirted with hot teachers and people’s hot dads. I was a very popular fixture at sleepovers. I wore baggy pants and flannel—unbeknownst to me, like the rest the world—and spoke to boys like they were human, not expecting a reply. And then, one day, I got asked on a date—by the eligible, intelligent, popular, talented, total hottie Weston Moore. And no, that wasn’t his real name. It was Jim Moore. He’d made it up. See, his name was Jim Wesley Moore, and he’d always gone by Wes, but in high school he’d asked us to call him Weston because it sounded more “artistic.”
The night of my first date, I wore a Wonderbra and my tightest T-shirt. My mother burst in and took pictures, crying, “I’m so proud!” I don’t know if she meant of my cleavage or the date. But I sat on my bed, sweet-sixteen and nervous as hell. When the bell rang, I dashed for the door.
“Um … Weston?” Was that him?
His skater-length blond hair had been arranged in multiple braids, complete with beads on the end. He looked like Bo Derek, and the look was not a “10.”
I turned to see my parents and my little siblings standing on the stairs behind us. My mother slowly lowered the Polaroid she’d raised to capture my first encounter with the male sex—now that she was no longer certain which sex this thing with the pigtails was.
“Guys—meet Weston.” I shoved him out the door and into his car, which he fired up with a screech.
“Oops.” He grinned at me. “Was that too loud?”
You asshole, I thought. My parents are going to think you’re an irresponsible maniac.
“No way, I love your car!”
“Yeah?” Weston asked, pleased with himself. “It’s brand new. Got it for my birthday. Watch how fast it goes.”
I’d really rather not, I said silently. Are you compensating for something? This is not a good sign. He’s compensating for something. He has a small dick. Oh my God, I totally just looked at his dick!
“Weston—watch out—!”
My face hit the dashboard, as I felt a very trippy moment of vertigo, followed by a second impact. It took me a while to realize what had happened. I’d never been in a car wreck before. And what better timing than on my first date! When I finally sat up, I saw we were the pastrami in a three-car-collision sandwich. Luckily, Weston exited the car as if he’d done this a million times before. After the cops came, I felt better. Wes apologized all the way to Kansas City. By the time we made it to the symphony concert, I was ready to start fresh.
We spread out our picnic blanket in the park, its bandshell a softly-lit silhouette in the April dusk. Soon, I was lost in “Eine Kleine Nachtmusic”—which would have been the perfect date. Except, when Weston put his arm around me, all I could think of was how ridiculous he looked in those stupid “dreds”—like my grandmother in the 70s when she would braid her hair wet to make it curl.
After the orchestra’s last, rousing chorus of the 1812 Overture, Weston Moore awkwardly released his grip and we followed the crowds to his car. I carried the rolled-up blanket in uncomfortable silence. Suddenly, a man about our parents’ age jumped out and knocked Wes to the ground, pointing a long umbrella at his throat.
“Hey, is that thing loaded?” I joked.
You see, I assumed this was someone Weston knew—because I was a logical girl who had never been to New York City. I was wrong. The dude turned on me and growled: “It’s been 25 years since I killed a man, and tonight was the closest I’ve come.”
As Weston stumbled to his feet, his assailant’s suburban wife joined us.
“He was in the war. He doesn’t like hippies,” she explained; as if attacking people with pointed objects at the symphony was perfectly normal behavior.
We drove home in silence. I was sure Wes would never ask me out again—and it wasn’t even my fault. I felt like a failure for my own bad date—I was hating on my luck, and hating on myself. As I sadly said goodbye, I forgot to check for the last, crucial element: whether or not Weston Moore had an enormous erection. Apparently, he did. I felt his mouth on mine, and was so taken aback by the entire night that I hesitated a second too long before realizing: this is the part where he kisses me. Because, after all, that’s what would happen on a normal date, not one with car wrecks and police reports, Bo Derek impersonators, and umbrella avengers from Nam whose wives look like they robbed the LL Bean catalog.
Misconstruing my delayed reaction as either rejection or ignorance, Weston backed away.
“I’ll call you,” he said, in that voice that means the opposite.
On Monday, it was all over the school that I was a “terrible kisser.” I was so mortified that I didn’t date again until college—and then I spent my freshman year kissing everyone I met just to prove it wasn’t true. And not just people I was on a date with, either.
And that, if my armchair psychology does not deceive me, is how I became a dater-hater. Oh, and as for Jim “Weston” Moore? He dropped out of Boston University, knocked up some teenager, and the last I heard was cooking at the cracker barrel off Missouri Highway 291. My verdict? Douchebag, Dull, and—thankfully—Taken.

Laura's Piece from Inner Monologues: Haters

2008-12-20T06:56:00.000-08:00

The Real Threat
by Laura Motta

No one ever threatened to kill me until I moved to New York. I don't want to be braggy here, but I'm just not the sort of girl whom one threatens to kill. I am relatively mild-mannered. I have nice friends. I am, to quote a saying on one of Donnie Wahlberg's old t-shirts, a drug-free body. I pay my credit cards on time. But on 9th avenue in gridlock on a rainy Tuesday night, none of that mattered.

See, I was in a van. And before you ask, I wasn't tied up in the back. I was riding in it.

This van takes me to and from work every day and is paid for by my company. The former point makes it the grimmest and most embarrassing form of transportation known to mankind—worse than any panel-sided station wagon you could imagine. The latter makes it the greatest.

I had an appointment after work to see my shrink—honestly, the timing here, as you'll see, was impeccable. The van was caught in traffic and running late, so I decided to jump out and grab the subway. We were stopped at a red light and I communicated my desire to de-van to the driver, who grunted without moving any part of his face, signaling that I could open the door and dive into oncoming traffic for all he cared. So I gathered up my stuff and opened the door. That's when I hit the guy.

He was riding a bike between the lanes of stopped traffic and the van door hit him square in the side in a spectacularly precise sort of way, like hitting the bullseye on a dunk tank. Like, somewhere in my mind, a congratulatory bell sounded.

He groaned and toppled over, and my first thought wasn't, "Wow, I just killed someone." Or, "How unfortunate." Or even, "Fuck." My first thought was, "I'm going to jail. I will need to surrender my mascara and wear nothing but jumpsuits."

Let me also say that I hate people who ride bikes. I blame either some youthful association with Puck on The Real World or the fact that my ex boyfriend liked his bike better than me. But if you ride a bike, let me tell you that you're doing a beautiful thing for the planet and an ugly thing to my disposition. Also, pull down your fucking pant leg and walk like the rest of us. You're not in Brooklyn anymore, Benji. And I bet that's really your name, too. The one you gave yourself. When you joined the band.

But I knocked the guy over and he sort of wailed and harrumphed, and as he lurched to the right, I saw it happen. The palm of his right hand touched the fender of the car on the other side. That palm is probably what stopped him from getting seriously hurt, because he stood up immediately, steadied himself, and aimed the best WTF expression in the general direction of the van. And then the guy in the other car—the one the biker had used to catch himself—started threatening to kill everyone.

But before he did that, he rolled down his window. Because that's always what you do before you start threatening to kill people. The window was tinted and from behind its shiny sheet of dark emerged the smooth, gleaming expanse of bald head and I knew immediately that this was going to be awesome.

He leaned on the horn for a minute. And then it began.

"Did you touch my car? Did you touch my fucking car? Did you touch my fucking car? Did you touch my fucking car?"

Because, you know, all of those questions could have different answers, depending. He's shouting in the direction of the guy on the bike, who, at this point, was standing there all lopsided and mouth-breathing. When the bald guy doesn't get an answer, he switches tactics. He gets out of the car.

The first thing I notice is his sweater because it's cashmere and his ears because they're enormous and his height because he has none.

"I want your ID," he screamed at the guy on the bike. "I want your fucking ID."

The guy on the bike continued to mouth breathe and stare and not hand over his ID, which I’m sure he forgot that he had on him. In fact, I’m sure he forgot he had a name, a place of birth, that today was a real date (anchored in real time), and that George Bush is no longer President. I’m sure, at that moment, the only thing he “had on him” was four broken bones, paralyzing fear, and soiled undergarments. Watching him, I forgot for a moment that he was riding a bike and remembered that this man also rides the grand roiling tidal wave of this thing, as Prince once said, we call life. And that I ride it too and am totally willing to hold other people’s heads under for a while if it means I’ll make it to shore safely.

But the bald guy loved the biker’s nonreaction so much that he turned away and started looking for someone else to yell at.

Now, while this was happening, I surely qualified for some sort of good citizenship award by doing the only thing that came to mind. I closed the van door. Thinking that it would, you know, make the van less conspicuous.

But then the bald guy, in what must have been his most intuitive moment of the week or maybe even the last two weeks, figured out where all this mess had started.

He marched over and pulled open the van door and, as the kids say, got all up in my face. He hesitated for a moment when he saw me with this look, like, “Oh. You’re clearly useless.” Which I am. And I know already, thanks.

"You motherfucking fuck. You scratched my motherfucking car." (This is clearly the version he uses for women.) "You scratched my motherfucking car. I'm going to motherfucking kill you."

How does a girl respond, really?

I could have really stooped. I could have said, "I almost killed the guy on the bike. I didn't touch your car. Keep the chain of blame straight, at least." I also could have said, “Wow, small penis, right?” but then he would have gotten the Baretta out of the glove box. I also, possibly, could have commented on the surreality of the whole thing, but he doesn’t know what that means. So I did nothing.

Actually, I think I made like a tweeting noise in the back of my throat.

That's when he slammed the door closed in my face, and that time, I made sure to lock it. Crafty, I know.

And then the light turned green. And the only reason why I knew this is because I was thrown to the floor because the van driver accelerated so quickly. We rode in silence until we approached my stop—the one I'd originally planned to use—and the van driver spoke for the first time.

"Did I touch that guy's car?" he said. He didn't look back, but he sounded scared.

"No," I said. "The guy on the bike touched that guy's car."

Because it was his fault. It was. Even though I shook and sobbed for the next four hours, it was. Even though I flinch every single time I see a guy on a bike now. Even though I still look for that guy, racing up between the lanes on 9th Avenue, simultaneously hoping that I do and don’t see him.

It was his fault. You know. Just so we all have the story straight.

My Piece from Inner Monologues: Haters

2008-12-18T10:40:00.000-08:00

Here is the piece I read at the show on December 3rd...

MIAMI VICES

I strongly believe that there should be a sign upon a arriving at the Miami International Airport that reads, “Welcome to Miami. Now Go Fuck Yourself.” As a New Yorker, you would think that it would be difficult to offend me. I do not come from the Land of How Can I Help You. But in a recent trip to Miami for a bachelorette party, wherever my friends and I went, we were treated as if we had stepped on a pile of dog shit and were dragging it around our 4-inch heels wherever we walked.

The war of the bachelorettes versus Miami began at the check in desk at our hotel. The maid of honor, who I will call the “MOH” for short, had been assured five separate times in advance that we would have adjacent rooms with ocean views. The check in girl looked us up and down and pointed her plastic D cups at us as she handed us our room keys to rooms on floors five and twelve located with a pleasant view of the power generators. As if anticipating our complaint, the girl immediately stated, “There’s absolutely nothing we can do to change your rooms. Nothing. We’re totally booked.” She gave us two keys to share amongst the eight of us. Hotel policy. And we wouldn’t be allowed inside the hotel lobby, the pool, the restaurant, the sidewalk or be allowed to breathe the hotel air without them, so we’d better stay together. They felt more like hall passes in elementary school than VIP key cards. What kind of 4 star hotel was this anyway? Since I was paying a month’s rent per night I expected the absence of snark and maybe a sexual favor or two. Definitely not attitude.

Our room was right outside the elevators. Worse, we heard people having sex right as we were putting our coveted key card in our door. I don’t know if I can blame that on the hotel itself, but I just needed to throw that in as an added insult to injury. Luckily they weren’t having sex in our room, but at that point I wouldn’t have been surprised.

Later that night we scored a reservation at Nobu on what the hostess called the “patio”. I like to call it the wind tunnel behind the hotel next to the parking lot where all the air conditioners blow their excess air. We tried to convince ourselves we were in a sexy perfume commercial complete with wind blowers but by the time the meal ended we looked like we each had a bad case of bed head.

But we were not ready to surrender to Miami quite yet. The next morning we got up early to ask for seats by the pool. Sunny seats. I don’t know if it was the fact that we were so obviously from out of town that made everyone want to seat us away from the fun. But I was starting to see a pattern. I guess perhaps it was kind of obvious. There we were, a pack of brunette girls pale as ghosts, each in black bikinis and black handbags and black sandals. Everyone else was blonde, in hot pink or gold bikinis, Pucci headwraps, and stiletto heels. It reminded me of that Sesame Street song, “Which of these things is not like the other?’

At around 12:30 we were huddling together for warmth in our towels while the other side of the pool oiled themselves up, clinked champagne glasses and danced with the cute DJ. It was like our side of the pool was Fargo and the other half was 90210. We asked one of the pool servers when our side would get sunny and she nearly burst into laughter. One of the house keeping women came up to me and said, “Chile. That side of the pool don’t never see the sun.” Great. So we’d been shunned to the cursed side of the pool. Like, “Never go to THAT side of the pool. No one goes THERE.”

The MOH was super pissed that we’d been promised sunny chairs and had gotten The Polar Express instead, so when she complained to the Pool Manager he promised us that tomorrow he’d give us the epitome in pool coolness: A swanky poolside bed—the kind that usually requires thousands of dollars of bottle service—free of charge.

After a night of drinking and dancing at a club, we went back to the hotel for some more dancing at the hotel’s bar. Or, if I’m being more honest, spilled drinks everywhere and fell on the floor. Same diff. When the music was cut off I went over to the DJ. “What’s going on? Why are you closing down already?” It was only 3am. In New York, we’d just be getting started. “It’s the law,” he told me. “We always close at 3.” Convinced that this was all part of the Miami conspiracy against us I was determined to find a loophole. “Where can I find a pole around here?” I asked him. “A pole?” He smirked. He told me to go to someplace that sounded to me like “Sweet and Lo” and somehow I convinced one of the other girls to come with me.

We ended up in a seedy bar in the outskirts of Miami where no one spoke English. We took some shots and I decided it would be a great idea to pole dance in my dress with my thong underwear on display for all to see. I also didn’t think about the fact that maybe rubbing my crotch and bare legs over a nasty pole in a seedy Miami bar might not be the best idea—but more on that later.

So the next day we were lounging on our wonderful expansive bed, completely hungover. We looked for one of the pool servers to come by so we could ask for water. She seemed to be ignoring us for about forty minutes so we got one of the pool guys’ attention. He came up to us in his little white shorts and white sweatshirt, tan legs, and greasy hair. ‘If you see our pool server could you ask her to please come over to us?” we asked. “Oh, you know women.” He said. “She’s probably like, doing her hair or something. Who knows what she’s up to?” We were like, “Really dude? You know you’re talking to a
group of women here. We actually take offense to the bullshit that just came out of your mouth right there.” Because even though our behavior may have been less than classy the night before, we were sitting on The Bed and you know what? The bed demanded respect. And you know what else? You’re wearing tiny white shorts.

“Well when she’s done doing or hair or something could you stop scratching your ass and get her?” I wanted to say. But he walked away too quickly. I swear.

When our server, a blonde in an all white jumpsuit came over, we ordered the waters. She sighed and rolled her eyes when we asked. In the fifteen minutes that passed between our ordering the waters and receiving the waters, multiple servers pretended to look at something in the trees behind us. Soon after, a piece of something that looked like human feces dropped from the tree and right onto our bed, and to this day we still don’t know if our server planted it there. Women. Who knows what they’re up to?

When she came back with our waters she had an announcement to make:

“I just want to let you know guys, that I can’t be doing this all day.”

“Doing what all day?” the MOH asked.

“Like, I mean, when I get slammed? I can’t be like, bringing you waters.”

“Huh. So does that mean you can’t bring us alcohol either?” the MOH asked.

“I mean, yeah. I can bring you alcohol. But like, I can’t keep on bringing you…Like, never mind.”

So basically she wanted to tell us to go fuck ourselves if we wanted water. She was only here by the pool to serve alcoholic drinks, and if we wanted H20 we’d be shit out of luck, or we could lap up the pool water if we were so inclined.

It was ok though. We had the bed, the holy grail of coolness, of comfort. The entire bachelorette party agreed we could spend a week on this bed and be happy. I felt like Joe from “Joe Versus the Volcano” in the scene where he’s living off of his Louis Vuitton trunks. Here on this luxurious bed, I could float out to sea with my bikini, some friends, some magazines, and I’d survive.

A little while later, the pool manager came by. “Hey girls,” he said, running his hand through his hair. “You look like you’re enjoying yourselves.” He wore a fanny pack and had a clip board. He also smelled like Cool Waters. This guy was not to be trusted. We looked at him warily. “I uh, have a favor to ask you.” He assumed the asshole stance: Hands in pockets, furrowed brow, groin jutting in our direction. A look that said, “I’m going to make you suck my dick, but I’ll ask in a very nice way.”

We looked at one another knowingly. Alright, give it to us. And meanwhile, everyone else at the pool was looking in our direction at well. What curious fate had befallen the girls of the non-sunkissed flesh from New York?

“So I was wondering. I have this group of guys over there.” He gestured to a group of bored looking thirty something European men with chiseled abs, already sharing a bottle of Dom Perignon.

“I didn’t know it was going to be such a big party but now it is. And we were hoping maybe you would give up the bed. It would be a huge favor to me.”

He looked at us with hope, the promise of thousands of dollars spent on vodka and chasers, and Eurotrash men with bulging biceps and their botoxed girlfriends, dancing in his eyes.

“Are you serious?” we asked him.

He looked behind him as if he were about to divulge a big secret then leaned in close. “Listen. I got some nice chairs by the pool. Very comfortable. And I tell ya what. We’ll throw in a bottle of tequila. And mixers. How’s that sound?”

To me, it sounded like the opposite of a great idea.

I tried to picture this situation happening if we were a group of dudes on the bed. I pictured for example, my husband and his friends in our place. Would Pool Manager have walked up to them and said, “I have a favor to ask you. You don’t look like you’ll be spending much money on alcohol today. Would you guys mind letting these more muscular assholes over there have this nice bed I originally promised you? I swear you won’t look like pussies when you make the switch.” Yeah. I couldn’t picture it either.

Some of us were close to tears. We looked at each other in solidarity and our eyes said it all. WE SHALL NOT BE MOVED. “No.” We told him. “We are not going anywhere. And you know what? There was shit on this bed a couple of minutes ago, but we don’t care. We are staying right here. You gave us this shitty bed. We’re keeping it.”

We turned over and gave him our behinds as the unanimous response. “Kiss our asses.”

He walked away, defeated. Yeah. Take that, Miami. We won: We kept the bed, we got a bottle of wine because the MOH complained to the hotel about the asshole Pool Manager, we got our water-hating pool server in trouble, and we got an apology from the hotel for all of the “misunderstandings.”

Two days later I was getting dressed and I noticed I had an itch on my upper thigh. I turned to the mirror to get a close look—and that’s when I saw a very scary looking red splotch. And that’s when I remembered 5 in the morning at that gross bar with my bare legs wrapped around a pole. The nasty, dirty, germ infected pole that I decided to do swan dives on, and hang upside down from without a care in the world. I have pictures to prove it. Lovely words like INFECTIOUS DISEASE, ringworm and staph infection suddenly came to mind.

Oh Miami. You got me. You definitely did. Just when I thought I’d won. But I’ll be back. I’ll definitely be back.

The Last Piece I Read...

2008-11-28T15:29:00.000-08:00

From the 23rd Show: INTERNATIONAL FLAIR

"The Village"

I’ve come to realize as of late that I rely on heavy artillery of folks to just maintain this vision of beauty and calm that stands before you. But not just any folks. You know how white people like British accents in their car commercials because it makes the car seem more “civilized”? Well, when it comes to my health and beauty, only the best of the best will do for me. So that means I go to the experts—the international experts.

There’s something just so…John McCain white bread about seeing a run o’ the mill Caucasian for my very specific and unique needs. Because here’s the thing. While most people have “things that bother them”, I have “huge issues”. Like, if you have a back ache, I need physical therapy. If you are in a bad mood, I have severe depression. And if you may have a slight headache, I have a mind-blowing migraine. It’s physics, really. So for my migraines, I didn’t see Dr. Shaw or Kaplan. No. I saw a neurologist named Dr. Guthikanda. I could tell you I chose him because his research on migraines and depression at NYU was truly insightful and groundbreaking. But that would be lying. I specifically chose him because his last name was hard to pronounce, and my cell phone couldn’t fit in all the letters.

Walking into his office, and seeing the shrine to Shiva and the stoic faces of his children, I knew I wasn’t seeing an ordinary doctor. No, I was seeing a healer. He tried to heal me with all kinds of special things: Celabrex, topamax, depakote, celexa. None of them worked, but at least Dr. Guthikonda had some insight into why my headaches wouldn’t go away. He told me I had a “special” type of migraine. The type that is practically incurable. Well I’d always known I was…Special. Dr. Guthikonda just confirmed it. He did wonders to my self-esteem so I don’t entirely regret my choice.

A friend of mine suggested I look into acupuncture. Man I loved me some acupuncture. A few times a week, I went to this tiny herbal-smelling office on 57th street to see a lovely woman named Dr. Heng who specialized in women’s reproductive health. And for some reason, headaches too. So there I’d be in the waiting room with all these couples, and I’d be sneaking glances at the “Book of Miracles” filled with acupuncture miracle babies. The other women would look at me with pity like “poor her, and her crap husband who won’t accompany her to the miracle of acupuncture baby making”. And I’d be all “Oh, no, I’m not here for THAT. Me? Want a baby? Bitch, PLEASE.”

Then I’d go into Dr. Heng’s office and she’d ask me to stick out my tongue and she’d mumble about it either being too pink, or not pink enough. Who can remember? Then I would lay down while Dr. Heng would tug the neck of my shirt down and roll my jeans up so she could put needles on my pressure points. I was usually so exhausted I took that precious hour with needles in my head to take naps. One day Dr. Heng got an assistant—a creepy middle-aged dude whose hands smelled like Kim chi and who always poked his head in while I was undressing and then would pretend it was an accident. He’d also accidentally leave needles in my big toe, which I wouldn’t find until I was putting my socks on. Ow? The last straw was when I was on my belly for some back and neck acupuncture, when Rico Suave yanked down my pants so that half my ass was exposed. For no reason. Because last I checked there is no ass pressure point that I know of. Or at least one related to my head. And he put the needles in my neck and back, then took a few steps back and just stared for a while. Then he left.

I was too shocked to say anything at that visit, but I tried to call the office a few days later to complain. But when I heard Dr. Heng’s sweet voice on the phone, “I am sorry. We are not awailable to answer your phone right now”, I couldn’t tell her about her assistant with the wandering eye. I just never went back.

Well all this was extremely stressful and did little to help the cause of my headaches. So of course matters called for a facial at a little spa in Soho with my favorite Russian lady Mariela! You have to shout it like she does. Mariela! She’s ruthless when it comes to dirty pores and unwanted body hair. I had sent a friend of mine to her for a bikini wax, and during the wax she had kept telling my friend that she was a “good girl. You good girl.” And when it was over she had declared; “Now you are ready for hugs and kisses.” Mariela doesn’t say very much but when she does talk she is encouraging. I needed some encouragement. When I was done being poked and prodded, she held a mirror up to my face—and said, “Freakin’ amazing. You look freakin’ amazing. God I love my job.” I love being told I look amazing. And by a woman who was staring into my pores with a magnifying glass no less. I felt like Giselle. Until the moment, when on my way out she suggested I look into an eyebrow waxing.

Not one to poo poo good beauty advice I ran straight to the local eyebrow threader. I hadn’t touched my brows since 9th grade, when my mom’s friend, a perky Midwestern blonde named Dana who was training for beauty school—asked to train on my eyebrows. She had taken a cigarette break while the wax was drying and when she came back it was too late—and off came half of my brows. I’d worn a permanent question mark expression all through high school. It had taken ten years to grow them back. I wasn’t going near wax on my face ever again. Luckily, the eyebrow threaders were Indian—renowned experts in the world of hair removal, second to Persians (who usually just keep to themselves. They don’t make a profit out of it). I was happy to see that it took not just one but two threaders to perfect my arches and I relaxed under their expert touches, and quick flits of their wrists. I was on my way to having fresh skin and a perfect arch…And then one of the women had to ruin it by asking, “Have you ever thought about your upper lip?”

I’d felt like I’d done enough physical damage to myself lately. I needed emotional help. Too much emphasis on the superficial. And the migraines were still coming faster and faster. Luckily I’d been recommended to a biofeedback expert named Kevin. For those of you not in the know, a biofeedback expert helps raise the patient's awareness and conscious control of their unconscious physiological activities (thanks Wikepedia!). Even though he is of Jewish origin, here is how I knew that Kevin was qualified: 1) He studied with the Dalai Lama. Multiple times. 2) He has a perpetual tan and a ponytail. 3) He lights incense.

He suggested a couple things to help my migraines. One of the things he suggested was that I buy a bowl. Not a fruit bowl, or a recreational one for drug use, but one that you can play that makes soothing sounds, for meditation. So I walked to this little store on MacDougal called “Land of Buddha” and tried out a few of the different bowls. I got really into it, but before I could fork over the hundreds of dollars for a bowl, I explained to the shop guy that I’d need to try it out the way I’d be using it at home. Which meant lying down on the floor with it and balancing it on my stomach like my Kevin had taught me. The shop guy closed the door and played some soft muscic and laid me down on the floor. He placed one bowl at my head and the other at my feet. “Just relax,” he said. “Just relax”.

I started feeling a bit uncomfortable. I didn’t think this trial required dim lighting or a closed door with the curtains drawn. So I asked to try it a different way. He suggested I put the bowl on my head. I sat there like a ninny with this giant bowl on my head and the shop guy started hitting it with this gong-like thing. Just then, three hot guys walked in. I didn’t know they were hot until a few minutes later when I removed the bowl from my head. “Dude, is that like some sort of Buddhist ritual she’s doing?” the cutest one asked. I threw the bowl on his head and booked it out of the store. Enough torture for one day.

Feeling light (in my wallet), clean in my pores, and headache free—for the time being, I realized something. One of the great things about being in Manhattan is that you can practically travel the globe for your every whim without ever flashing your passport. And I would shudder to think—what kind of disaster I would be without my exotic doctors, therapists, and meditative home goods. They say it takes a village…For me, it takes a global community.

Come to the show on Dec 3rd!

2008-11-28T15:28:00.000-08:00

Some of my more recent Pieces:

2008-09-04T21:22:00.000-07:00

Here's a smattering of recent pieces that I performed...And hopefully some of the other performers will allow me to post their pieces as well in the near future! The format of the titles is, title of my piece, the number of the show (so far we've done 22 shows), and the name of the theme of the show. Enjoy!

APOLOGY TO MY BELLY BUTTON (Inner Monologues XXII: Apologies)

I had a few things on my agenda for the Friday of Memorial Day Weekend after work got out at noon. Number one: Eat lunch. Two: Go to Tiffany’s to get the battery in my watch fixed. And three: Get my belly-button re-pierced. Unfortunately my decision to kick back a couple glasses of Pinot with coworkers instead of eating lunch set my plan slightly of course.

Have you ever been drunk in Tiffany’s? Those diamonds really do sparkle. And some actually speak to you if you listen hard enough. What’s that? You want me to come closer? Yes, you ARE gorgeous you little bracelet you. I want you. I want you so bad. Stop it. Stop! Now you’re being dirty. Gotta run. (Wink). See you later bad boy.

“Excuse me, can I help you?” asked the concierge at the repairs check-in desk. I smiled dreamily as I traced my name into the cold blue granite of desk. “Excuse me, miss?” he asked again. “Oh, hi. Yes. I have a need this repaired battery. I mean my watch needed this replaced bat? I mean…” The concierge looked at me like the imbecile I was and pointed me over to the waiting area.

I passed the time apologizing every few minutes to the old lady next to me who I kept kicking accidentally. When my name was finally called, I was ushered over to Carol. Literally, ushered by someone in Security. Carol waited patiently at her desk, with her neat little Tiffany’s name tag, coral lipstick and her pamphlets of outrageously expensive Tiffany engagement rings that would have tormented me this time last year. I admired my own ring, quite satisfied with my lot, and made sure Carol could see that I was a legitimate diamond-wearer.

Undermining my legitimacy was the drool that pooled out of the side of my mouth due to my slow reflexes. Carol was kind enough not to offer me a tissue, and instead got up to take care of my watch. Luckily, she took her sweet time inventing electricity and creating the battery for my watch. While that happened, I tried to pull myself together. I took some yogic breaths and when I realized I sounded like I was hyperventilating, took a few good sips of water. When Carol returned, she actually smiled at me, like “Nice. Thanks for trying to not behave like an asshole.” And when I turned to leave, she told me I would make a beautiful bride. Oh the SHAME. I didn’t deserve her kind words.

Concierge. Carol. The old lady with bruises that bear a resemblance to the Tori Burch shoes I wore that day. I am sorry for how I behaved.

On my way out of Tiffany’s, my blackberry buzzed with a new message. Oooh. Text from college ex-boyfriend of five years. “I’m in town. Let’s get a drink!” You know. Super cas. College ex boyfriend and I had the kind of relationship where he would wander the streets at midnight all tormented with Chaucer in hand, and I would have to go looking for him (this was before everyone had cell phones). And then when I’d find him I’d have to assure him that the time I kissed my friends Stella
and Marissa at the beach house was just for giggles and no, I did not like that guy at Sigma Nu I was just trying to make him jealous, and yes I really really was only in love with HIM.

Luckily that was many moons ago, and now we had the type of friendship that worked just fine as long as a wee bit of alcohol was involved. Drinks. Fun! That would be hilarious!

As I made my way towards the F train I was doing better, but not good enough for the upright citizens of New York City. I was swerving on the sidewalk, and a woman behind me yelled, “Lady, WHAT are you doing?” It was like the equivalent of “Fucking learn to drive!” only…I was walking.

I met the ex at Spitzer’s on Ludlow. I squeezed into a tiny chair at a tiny table in between a waify girl rocking the Boho look and two frat boys and their bulldog. Feeling anxious and claustrophobic, I knew it was time for another refreshment.

All the waiters at Spitzer’s wear grey t’s and jeans, so of course I asked the random guy on the street having a cigarette, for a Pinot Griggio. “I don’t work here, actually.” He said to me with disgust. Guy on the street just trying to relax and be casual, I am very sorry for treating you like “the help”.

A couple more drinks later, I realized I still hadn’t gotten my navel pierced. Ok, back-story. Long ago, when dinosaurs roamed the Earth, I asked my parents if I could get a navel piercing. My dad said no way was I going to one of those dirty piercing places. He was a physician—a gynecologist in fact. He knew how to poke holes in people, so he would do the job. Anyway, my favorite jewelry fell out recently and I decided to splurge and get a custom made piece. By the time I finally bought and put the piercing in, the hole had closed. Normal people would say, “C’est la vie. I’m 28. Good riddance to naval piercings and those earrings in your upper ear.”

Not me. I like to see things through to the end. I was going to get the damn thing repierced. And the ex, sadist that he is, asked to come along as a spectator.

At the piercing place, I checked off the question that asked, “Have you consumed alcoholic beverages?”

“I’ve only had like, two.” I told the Piercing Guy—with his 20 facial piercings and obscure metal band tee. “And it has been um, over a period of four hours.”

Piercing Guy looked at me like, “hell its your body”, and motioned me over to the big purple chair.

I asked Piercing Guy if it was going to hurt, and told him for what it was worth, that when my dad did this, he used local anesthesia. Piercing Guy advised that I keep my eyes closed and take a deep breath. I took a deep breath and looked at the needle.

The room was spinning, my exe’s face—smirking! I believe-- was looming over me, and a giant needle was about to pierce my stomach. Was I living the life or what?

Well, piercing one’s navel is quite a rush but damn it hurts so that of course required a shot—an alcoholic one. At Lucy’s on A, with Dylan playing on the jukebox, the ex told me that for the first time in his life, he can spend an entire night in the same bed as his girlfriend. Ahem. Memories of waking up lonely in those extra long dorm room beds wondering where my boyfriend was came flooding back to me. High five, Sense of Self Worth! No really. Sense of Self Worth, I am very sorry that I put you in the position to hear that. I know you are getting married to the best man in the world, but Self Worth is Self Worth, and you are fragile and also a little vain. Apologies.

When the sour taste of Tequila finally went away, I noticed an acute pain in my stomach. “This might be a good time to check out your new wound!” I thought to myself. I lifted my shirt to take a peek and noticed that my tank top was soaked in blood. I looked like I had been shot in the bellybutton. Now I’m sure the old lady who works behind the bar at Lucy’s has seen it all but even she looked a little faint.

I asked her for extra napkins and clutched them to my stomach. “That looks pretty bad,” said the ex, helpfully.

“It is, thanks” I replied.

The guy on the stool next to me looked at me curiously. Like, why is this girl doing shots and bleeding from her belly button in the middle of the day?

When my fiancee Jesse called about dinner, instead of saying you know, I think we should skip dinner and go to the hospital instead, I asked him where I should meet him. Its kind of scary, actually to think that I’m like, hemorrhaging from my stomach and the gourmand in me is like, “Mmm. A lobster roll would be great right about now.”

Blood still pouring out my navel, I said bye to the college ex and cabbed it to the West Village. I noticed, regretfully as the cab pulled away, that I left a few bloodstained napkins on the seat. Oops. Cabbie, I am very sorry. Luckily, I don’t have any infectious diseases. That I know of.

I waited for Jesse, who was late, so I stood on the corner of West 4th and diligently changed my bloodied napkins every few minutes. I slowly began to adopt a Devil May Care attitude about the whole thing. Yeah. I’m bleeding. So what. People bleed. Well who cares if I did this to myself, who asked you?

And then people looked at me funny because I was making the faces you make when you have an imaginary fight with people in your head like (make faces).

At dinner I ate lots of fried and alcohol absorbent foods and drank only water. By the end of dinner the bleeding had pretty much stopped. Some antibacterial stuff and a Band-Aid finished the job and I was finally on my way to the end of this crazy, alcohol-fueled day of bad decisions and mishaps.

All in all, I offended quite a few people in just half a day, really. But there’s one apology I haven’t made yet and I think it is quite deserving:

My belly button.

Belly button, I found out the next day why you bled so much. That question about alcohol consumption was actually quite important. You see, alcohol thins the blood, and my blood was basically swimming in it at the time you were pierced. And so, belly button, I am sorry for what I put you through in my ignorance and for the sake of having shiny sparkly bling hang off of you.

Deepest apologies,
Your reckless---but with a great fashion sense! --Owner,

Me

A LOTTA CLASS (Inner Monologues XXI: Barely Legal)

It all started when I rejoined the gym. Being an anxious person, one who was going through some…tough times, I was trying to find a way to burn off some anxiety. After my first spin class at Crunch when I heard Massive Attack coming from the dance studio behind me, I was curious.

I peered inside the studio, and to my surprise, I saw about a dozen girls performing feats of strength up and down a number of poles that were set up throughout the room. I’d heard about these pole dancing classes—but for some reason hadn’t really expected them to be more than glorified strip tease sessions.

But no. Here were these girls doing splits upside down, wearing next to nothing and six-inch stripper heels—you know, the ones with the clear plastic bottoms? Running to the poles and twirling up them into a climb. Sliding down the poles using only their ankles as support.

I was amazed. How liberating! How beautiful! They were artists. Like cirque de soleil. Like ballerinas in booty shorts. And I decided you know what? Hey. I’m gonna join them.

That night I scoured my closet for the shortest shorts I could find. The best I could do were a pair of shorts my fiancé had bought me at the Jersey Shore years ago as a joke that had the words “Jesse’s Ass” written across the butt. I was sure that the right outfit and a good attitude were all I’d need to become an A plus pole dancer in record time.

My first class was pretty humbling. Like oil and water, me and the pole did not get along. Here’s a word to the wise—do not wear any body or hand lotion before pole dancing. I spent my whole first class sliding down the pole—but not in a sexy way. In the locker room after class I met some of the other girls: Charity, Destiny, and Brookelyn (B-R-O-O-K-E-L-Y-N). I told them that maybe I wasn’t cut out for this type of thing. No they said. NO. Don’t be that way. They encouraged me to keep coming to class and promised I would only get better. They told me they could tell I had it in me.

I started to wonder if I too should have a pole-dancing name. I decided that in my novice state, it would be Slipper-ee. (S-L-I-P-P-E-R-E-E).

The next morning I marveled at my new bruises. Up and down my legs were huge black and blue welts. Sitting in the conference room at work I thought back to class the way one fondly recalls a night of passion with a new lover. I smiled, remembering the feeling of the pole between my hands—how it was cold to the touch at first but warmed up after I rubbed against it. I remembered the pain of clutching it between my thighs but the pleasure of weightlessness when I slid down to the floor.

At that moment, I realized…I was hooked.

I decided to go to every class available to get my fix. Throughout the week I’d travel from midtown to Park Slope or to 59th street, or Union Square. I even joined a pole group meetup online for other pole dance lovers or “polecats” as we sometimes call ourselves. Our motto is, “Let’s get our sexy on together.”

Over the next dozen or so classes, our instructors encouraged us to bring on the sass. To work it like you want to make money. Don’t be afraid to touch yourself. When getting up from the floor, always remember, titties first. And if you’re having trouble with inversions, think “vagina to the sky.” But always, ALWAYS, do it with class. Pole dancing if about nothing else, is all about respect.

On the subway, I couldn’t read my New Yorker anymore. I’d stare at the poles and envision myself on them, figuring out where I’d need to position my hands to execute a perfect Butterfly or where my legs would have to be for a flawless Chopper.

Even at home I started to look at furniture in a different light. The edge of a closet door could easily be shimmied against. The back of a chair would be perfect for practicing my headstands. Still, you know, almost EXACTLY like Virgina Woolf, I longed for a pole of my own.

Now you might think that my fiancée would jump at the opportunity to have a pole in his home. Not so. I don’t really blame him since we live in a studio the size of my foot. He’s actually not all that impressed with my new love. The other night I was practicing some floor work when he came home—a variety of back arches and kicks and general sexy writhing about—and I might as well have been picking my nose while watching “The Hills”.

“Oh. Hey babe.” He said, as he went into the kitchen for a beer.

Minutes later I had mastered the perfect headstand without leaning against anything for support. “Honey! Look!” I was so proud of myself. No hands! I’d been practicing for the past hour.

Jesse poked his head in from the kitchen for a brief:

“Cool.”

“You weren’t looking!” I shouted, still upside down.

“Yes, I saw, and I am VERY proud of you.”

I came out of my headstand in a humph.

“Whatever.”

I eased my bruised ego by seeking out other pole enthusiasts like me on youtube. There are hundreds of them. They videotape themselves dancing to songs like “Doin’ It” and “Big Poppa” or even songs by Enya. They fill the comments sections saying “U R so graceful where did U learn 2 dance?!”, or “Awesome routine, nice spins.” And if some pervy guy dares leave a comment that undermines the art of the pole dance such as “Yo booty look so fine in dem panties I could hit that all night long”,or “Got to give it to her: She definitely do it to it,” these girls leave a tirade of female empowered comments in his wake such as: “Shut up male chauvinist pig!” and “Pole dancing is beautiful, not slutty!”

I have to admit that I even started stalking one of the girls from my class on youtube. I must watch her at-home practice videos—oh—three times a day. She has a figure that’s made for pole dancing and she knows it. She wears the shortest shorts in class—well, let’s face it, they’re not shorts, they’re underwear—and she’s not happy unless ass cheek is showing. While most girls take short turns practicing their moves on the pole, she somehow makes one spin around the pole into a ten-minute routine. But it is OK. She’s like the best car wreck ever. And she’s my idol.

Unfortunately, in the more advanced classes, I am a little bit of a loner. The advanced gals have been taking the class together for years, and they even have pole dancing girl’s nights. They go to clubs together “for research”; and they go to each other’s houses and tape each other doing routines. I can’t say I’m not jealous.

I kind of like, weasled my way in to those advanced classes because I found out after the fact that beginners aren’t really allowed in because we might KILL ourselves. But now I’m bringing all these advanced tricks into the beginner class and making the beginners all jealous, which is pretty cool. I’m getting better every day but I’m not A-Team yet. Until I advance enough to put on my own six-inch stripper heels I won’t even attempt to join them. I know my place. In pole dancing, as in life, there are hierarchies and ladders.

I made the mistake of telling my mom about my new “dance class.” She’s always been a fan of heavy lip liner and big hair, so I thought that she’d kind of understand.

“So, is there going to be a recital?” she asked.

“No, mom. This isn’t like, piano lessons.”

My friends think I’m going through a phase. The only people who really support my love of pole dancing are my therapist and my biofeedback guy. For those of you who have never heard of biofeedback, basically it’s a way of regulating your own breathing and decreasing your anxiety. So this biofeedback guy I’m seeing is a total hippie and he is all about me and pole dancing because he thinks it has something to do with my inner child wanting to go out and be free. During our breathing exercises he encourages me to “go to my pole” because I told him that the pole is where I feel calm and focused. So during our sessions together we close our eyes and breathe in and out and envision me on the pole hanging upside down. “Breathe. Yes. Go to your pole. Hmmmmm. Say, breathing in, I know I am breathing in. Breathing out, I know I am breathing out.”

And there I am, my ankles wrapped around the pole, hanging upside down, the blood rushing to my head. That “Peaches” song—the one that goes “Sucking on my titties like you wanted me”—that song is playing in the background. And Charity and Destiny and Brookelyn with an ‘e’ are cheering me on. The world falls away. And you know what, I slowly feel myself calm down.

POTTY TRAINING OR, AND THEN I TRIPPED AND FELL IN PEE (Inner Monologues XVIII: Face Your Fears)

You really would not have wanted to be my friend when you were little. The first thing you would have had to do when you came over my house for a play date was wash your hands.

“There’s germs all over them.” I’d insist.

After the hand washing, my friend would ask:

“So what are we gonna play?”

“Oh. Play? We can’t play yet. Now you have to wash your face.”

“My FACE?” she’d ask, incredulously.

“Yeah. And…I hope you brought your toothbrush too. You did, right?”

You see I had my reasons for being this way. I didn’t know what people had touched during the day in the cesspool they called public school. If I had my druthers I would have made them take an antiseptic shower, but that would probably have made some parents a little upset.

If this is how I felt about germs in schools, you can imagine how I felt and still feel about public rest rooms. And if this is how I feel about rest rooms, you might guess my feelings toward the port o potty: They are not to be used.

But two summers ago, I agree to go to a Red Hot Chili Pepper’s concert at Randall’s Island. It’s one of those rare occasions where I decide to be the opposite of what I normally am—which is ever so slightly high maintenance.

The concert-goers around me are literally sweating Heineken. As the band Garbage performs their classic, "Stupid Girl", lots of stupid girls are parading around with their shirts rolled up under their bras exposing their beer bellies. Guys are wearing T-shirts that say things like, "Future Ex Husband" or simply, "College."

And while I would have liked to have called it a day after that one song, unfortunately, Randall’s island has no public transportation. And then there was the fact that I had to pee. Like, really had to pee. So I try to sneak into the VIP section where I heard the facilities are pretty nice. I go up to the tent, and do the whole urgent “looking for my friend” face. The security guy doesn’t buy it.

“Excuse me, Miss? Your badge?”

“My badge? Oh. I’m just. My friend’s in there. I’m uh…she uh…”

He gives me a weary look so I just laugh awkwardly and run away, ashamed.

When I return to our group, my boyfriend Jesse asks me where I’ve been.

“Oh. You know.…Checking out some of the other bands.” My legs are twisting at awkward angles like a kindergartener. I’m about to burst.

“Lex, do you need me to go with you?”

“Yes.” I answer quickly.

He takes me to where he says not many people have been using the bathrooms.

“On a scale of 1 to 10 how bad is it?”

He tells me it’s about a 5. So I agree to wait on line and just see how I feel. No pressure.

The line moves faster than I expected. When it is my turn to go, I feel like the kid on the really high dive at the town pool. You’re up, and everyone behind you is watching. There’s no turning back because if you do then they’ll all make fun of you and throw Popsicle sticks at you by the snack bar for the rest of the summer. Shit or get off the pot, if you will.

I know Jesse is watching expectantly. My brain wills my legs to move toward the menacing box of doom. It is do or die time. What happens next is a blur of sanitizer smells, darkness, muffled outdoor sounds and yes, a great feeling of relief. I let out a huge gasp of air once outside, and wipe my hands on my jeans over and over. Thank god I brought my own hand sanitizer.

Jesse gives me a huge pat on the back. “You did it! You went to the potty!” I’m grinning ear to ear. This is big. This is HUGE. I’m free. I’m totally over my fear. I can DO this. I can DOO do this. Take that port-o-potty. I ain’t afraid o no public toilet seat! I think of the world of opportunity before me. More outdoor concerts, the Aids Walk, maybe even camping!

I look now though at the line I’ve just left behind. It’s gotten MUCH longer. In fact, all of the Port-o-Potty lines seem to have quadrupled in size. It’s like everyone decided they had to pee at the same time.

Oh my god. Oh my god. I can’t. I just can’t. I won’t be able to do it again. That time was OK. But if it gets any worse on the 1 to 10 scale there is NO WAY.

I vow to not drink any more liquids for the next few hours.

Three hours later, despite my Gandhi-like refusal of water, I have to pee again. We are still not going home. The Chili Peppers have still not taken the stage. I reluctantly venture on line again.

A couple girls and I discuss the different potty choices in front of us and debate which have the lesser evils—yes, that one may have no toilet paper, but at least there is not crap on the seat. Or, that one has crap on the seat, but at least the floor isn’t covered in vomit. This was like, POW camp.

I’m finally up. And I can’t do it. I turn to the girl behind me. “You go first.” She shakes her head solemnly and stands stock still. “No. YOU.” I look at her pleadingly. She holds both my wrists and smiles. “Go. Now.”

I venture inside a seemingly benign booth. The smell of the men’s room at Port Authority hits me hard making my throat burn. I reach to close the door but just as I do, I trip over a discarded beer can. What happens next is like Port-O-Potty theatre since the door is wide open to everyone waiting on line: I am falling. I am falling in a port-o-potty that smells like someone ate a Supersize bag of Fritos, washed it down with some jumbo chili dogs, vomited, ate the vomit, then took a dump the size of Texas. My shoe goes flying in the air, and my foot lands in something I’d really rather not talk about. I think my foot should be enough to steady me from falling any further but lo—I continue to slip n’ slide.

Well, this is it. This is how it is going to end. I am going to fall into the port-o-potty toilet and drown in muck and filth just as I have always feared. My life starts to flash before my eyes. But somewhere between my phys-ed teacher showing us how to put a condom on a banana and prom I realize that I am no longer falling: I have landed arm deep in a nice, warm antiseptic-blue and neon-yellow puddle of pee.

Of course, there is no toilet paper.

I hobble like a wounded soldier and find Jesse. He buys me a dozen bottles of water so I can "rinse off".

So I don’t know. I did this whole face your fear thing. I tried to conquer my demon. I know I’m a little nuts in germs department. But in some cases, in MY case:

I think facing your fears is just a big load o’crap.

Inner Monologues Publicity

2008-09-04T21:18:00.001-07:00

This is a blast from the past...But gives a nice overview of the genesis of Inner Monologues. In other words, the long story. Sorry I bleeped out my last name. I just hate popping up on google--and happened with the last blog. Somehow.

From an online magazine article in September '05 by Marissa Kristal for Boheme Verite:

Getting Personal with Inner Monologues – Alexis Bxxxx Discusses her Spoken Word Show

After participating in Stand Up New York, a 2004 spoken word event where readers spoke on the theme, “Blogs Gone Wild – Live Readings About REAL Sex in the City,” New York City blogger, Alexis Bxxxx, was inspired to start her own story-telling soiree. “I found reading personal things about my life to a crowd of strangers and friends quite cathartic and thought, hey, this is pretty neat. I could totally pull this off myself.”

Bxxxx’s spoken word show, Inner Monologues, debuted in November of 2004. “The first show didn’t have a theme. I simply called it Inner Monologues. I invited some of the writers I’d met at Stand Up New York to write, as well as friends of mine who had expressed interest,” says Bxxxx.

It’s now two years later and Bxxxx’s basking in her show’s continued success. “This past March marked the 10th anniversary – as in the 10th show – of Inner Monologues. At this point I have a reliable group of seasoned performers as well as a faithful audience.”

Advertised on the Mo Pitkins House of Satisfaction website (Mo Pitkins is the venue that hosts Inner Monologues) (http://www.mopitkins.com/calendar/ShowPages/InnerMonologues1.html as “A spoken word show in which a group of writers respond in personal ways to an assigned theme. Each writer then performs his or her story on stage to the delight of an audience and often, to his or her own embarrassment”, Inner Monologues offers its participants – mostly bloggers, like Bxxxx – the unique opportunity to share their innermost thoughts and intimate stories with a live audience.

“The stories have to have happened to the reader and they are meant to be told in an informal way, as if you were telling it to a friend,” explains Bxxxx, “I don’t require that the stories be funny, but the writers tend to veer on the comedic side of things. I also like to give amateur performers a chance to take the stage, and throw them into the fire by making them go first in the line-up. I think it is important that this be a show for people who have good stories to tell, to have a place to tell their stories and an audience with whom they can share them with.”

Bxxxx’s worked hard to transform her creative vision into a reality, and as she’s discovered, from scouting out performance spaces to meticulously editing her readers’ drafts, bringing Inner Monologues to life takes a lot of work, commitment and enthusiasm.

“In the beginning, a friend of mine had a weekly gig at Apocalypse Lounge, a bar/performance space in the East Village. He spoke to the owner of Apocalypse on my behalf and they agreed to give me a trial run on a Monday night at 8 p.m. I loved that venue because it was intimate and quirky, and the art on the walls – from local artists –changed from show to show. The beer was also really cheap. Unfortunately, that venue closed this past winter, and we have since moved the show to Mo Pitkin’s House of Satisfaction,” says Bxxxx.

Bxxxx also takes a leading role in helping her performers revise their pieces. “Since I am an editor by trade, I stress the importance of writing first drafts, work-shopping those drafts as a group and encouraging each writer to edit his or her piece. I require first drafts be sent to me by a specific date, and urge each person to attend the workshop or work one-on-one with me. I also like to have a rehearsal a day or two before the show. I try to put my personal stamp of approval on each piece and add my own editorial input so there aren’t any major surprises come show time.”

According to Bxxxx, producing each individual show is a very involved and intricate process. “Before every show I sit with everyone’s pieces and figure out which go together best. I try to link two pieces together by a common theme. For example, if one person has a story about being a magnet for gay men who don’t know they’re gay when they date her, the next reader might be a gay man reading about his first gay experience. I tend to put one musical act somewhere in the middle, and close with another musical act after I perform my own piece – I always do the last reading of the night. Of course, things don’t always go as planned. Sometimes there’s a last minute drop-out, and I have to rearrange things right before the show starts,” explains Bxxxx. “In terms of technical things, I have to check the microphones and the lighting to make sure everything is working and that the mood is right. My friend Dan Cohen (http://www.cohdesigninc.com) is a graphic designer and designs each of the invites. I send those out electronically and place hardcopies on the tables at every show. The invites have links to the performers’ blogs so audience members can take them home and read up on their favorite writers.”

And as with the trial and error of any new endeavor, Bxxxx’s learning as she goes. “Each show has been an opportunity to see what needs to be refined in the subsequent show,” she explains. “When I introduced the show on stage for the first time, I said to the audience, ‘The assignment I have given each of these writers tonight was to write something personal – it could be a story, a collection of thoughts, a rant, a reflection, anything, as long as it entertains.’ I didn’t put a time limit on the writers and the show ended up being really long. The next show did have a theme: “Bedtime Stories.” I usually pick themes based on the story I feel like telling at the time or stories that seem to fit whatever season of the year we are in. For the “Bedtime Stories” show, I took the opportunity to finally write about my college boyfriend and all the angst of being in an unfulfilling relationship – a relationship that took part mainly under the cloak of night. This was a really fun theme because nothing entertains more than sex/relationship stories. This time around I gave people time limits for their pieces and introduced an intermission so people would have a chance to mingle and get a drink from the bar.”

By her third show, Bxxxx had established a core group of writers. “I’d met some performers through my blog and others came up to me from the audience after shows and told me they wanted to write.”

Bxxxx requires aspirant readers to first send her writing samples so she can determine if they’re a good fit for her show. “Now that I’ve met so many writers, I am a little more discerning when it comes to choosing performers. I tend to look for people who can not only write but are comfortable on stage. A lot of my performers are comedians too, so the task of telling a story, for them, is like performing one long joke.”

As for her hope for future shows, Bxxxx wants to attract bigger and more diverse audiences. “I’ve also toyed with the idea of putting together an anthology of all the writings from the performances, but I know I’d need a good hook to hold it all together.”

In the meantime, if you want to hear strangers spill their secrets, the next Inner Monologues will take place on Tuesday, July 11th at 7:30 p.m. at Mo Pitkin’s House of Satisfaction (34 Avenue A New York, NY 10009). The performance will be held upstairs, in the Cabaret Room. For show details and to view the invite, check out www.mopitkins.com about a week before the performance date.

“The theme of the next show is “Prom!” – I can’t wait,” says Bxxxx, “I hope my performers show up with prom pictures or are wearing tuxes or corsages!”

Inner Monologues: Sept 24th!

2008-09-04T20:56:00.000-07:00

Finally! An Inner Monologues website! How exciting....

Come to the next Inner Monologues

at Bar on A

Located at: Avenue A between 10th and 11th street.

Show starts at 7pm

Free admission!

The theme: International Flair

Come see me at my last show as a single woman.

About Inner Monologues

2008-09-04T20:16:00.000-07:00

I guess I should tell you a little about what we do here at lil ol' Inner Monologues. Basically, here is how it all started. A couple of years ago, a fellow blogger found my blog and asked me if I would participate in her spoken word show at Stand Up New York. The theme was dating and sex in NYC. I had done a smattering of both, and wrote about it, so I guess that made me a candidate. After the show, I had a revelation. What if I got a group of my friends together, and we got hold of a mike, and put on a show of our own. What if we changed the themes every time? And then the Editor in me cried: Let's do workshops! Let's edit each other's pieces! And practice them! Thus...Inner Monologues was born.

I hosted the first show at a tiny bar on East 3rd street called Apocalypse Lounge. They only served PBR and some cheap wine ("red" or "white"). It had blue lighting, broken chairs, bathrooms you wouldn't want to touch without a Hazmat suit...In short, it had character. Which of course meant that before long it had to be shut down and replaced by a chic hookah lounge that sold expensive drinks. Sad times.

Inner Monologues had gained quite a following by then--we'd been going one year strong. My group of writer friends expanded. I met other bloggers, comedians, a folk singer or two. Word got around. So luckily, we landed a sweet gig at Mo Pitkin's House of Satisfaction. Those were the days. Everyone loved Mo's. They could eat dinner, laugh at our embarassing stories, and our singer Jessica Delfino had a huge stage to prance on when she sang her showstopper, "My Pu--y is Magic."
They even let her throw glitter on the audience without protest! By the end of our first year at Mo's I had some regular performers. Hilarious people including comedians Raquel D'Apice (theuglyvolvo) and Emily Epstein (emilyepstein.blogspot.com), as well as author Julie Kraut (of the book Hot Mess). And my designer friend Dan Cohen creates all the awesome invites to my shows (see image top of page from show IX).

Well. Mo's shut down (sniff), and we had a brief stint at a gay book cafe called "The Rapture". I loved the black Santa Claus they had on stage at Christmas time. Ah well. Rapture closed, too. Its true what they say about struggling artists. We struggle!

Now we are at Bar on A. And we're going to rawk out on Sept 23rd because some performers that have been away for a while (studying abroad, writing for the NYTimes abroad, damn them all) are coming BACK! We even have some new blood.

Maybe well see you? 7pm. Be there.

Your hostess,

Lex