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

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

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

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...

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!

Some of my more recent Pieces:

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

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!

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

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