Godammit, I’m Mad!

A recent piece here about “The influence of fashion bloggers on retail” only states the obvious: Products that are flaunted by an online style arbiter are the new It thing to want and imitate.

This point was driven home to me by a look at Sea’s latest “find” from eBay, a stupid vintage band jacket. I went to eBay and typed in “vintage band jacket” and then clicked on “completed auctions.” Voila!

Seeing that the jacket sold for $426, I thought, OMG, what a sucker! But then I realized that this auction had JUST ENDED. This made no sense. Looking down the list of completed auctions, I saw an identical jacket that sold 5 days earlier for $90.

I think this means two things: 1) Sea’s fans are so desperate to imitate her that they will pay an inflated price to own a stupid band jacket. 2) Sea must be mortified that her kooky jacket isn’t one of a kind.

(Just kidding about number two!)

2) I have “too much time on my hands” or I am just nuts. Why else would I instinctively go straight to eBay to look for that jacket?

I am happy to have an answer to my own question, and I think it is hugely momentous. Humans have a drive that some scientists now call seeking. When you find yourself glued to your computer, clicking on link after link, googling shit that you didn’t know you cared about, looking desperately for something to engage your interest, you are displaying behavior that is hard-wired into your brain, behavior that would mean the end of your species if it were somehow extinguished.

Our brains are excited by the act of seeking, and the little bits of information we feed it serve to reinforce the activity. The internet provides the perfect tool for endless seeking, even though the search will never end in satiation. Unlike sex or ice cream, the internet  search triggers our dopamine system without furnishing the opiate-like bliss that comes with satisfying a desire. It’s an endless loop. One that’s very, very hard to walk away from.

I’m going to get up off my asymmetrical ass and do something else. Maybe in time I can turn my seeking drive to curing cancer. Right now, I would be happy if I could direct it toward finding a job or even my watch.

Later, I know I’ll be clicking on all the links in that Slate article and my brain circuits will be ablaze with futile excitement.

As McCain aid Steve Schmidt revealed on 60 Minutes, Mrs. Palin struggled to get Senator Biden’s name right, so she was advised to just call him Joe. Watch her screw up and call him “O’Biden” during this clip from their debate.

Haha Sarah, you ignorant slut! Never change; you are perfect just the way you are.

In keeping with the Plague Upon My House, I have now lost my watch. It is a small, delicate antique watch with a rose gold case and some tiny rubies. There are only three places that I keep that watch, and it isn’t in any of them.

I keep going back to each of the three places, obsessively looking for the watch that isn’t there. I feel a pervasive longing for the watch even though I didn’t wear it every day. I’ve tried calling out to it, like a mother calling her child in from outdoors, but it doesn’t appear. I would say I’m heartbroken, but I hate to sound materialistic. Let’s say I’m “annoyed.”

When I complained to my sister last night about the watch, I attributed it to the Ongoing Plague. She stunned me by suggesting a root cause: I don’t have a Mezuzah.

If you don’t know what a Mezuzah is, it’s a metal thing that observant Jews are supposed to put by their front door, I think to ward off bad luck. I really don’t want to know more than that, because that’s stupid enough. The very notion that somehow I could have prevented bad things from happening by performing some ritual is just infuriating.  It’s worse that The Secret! It’s superstition packaged in guilt. Maybe I’ve just stumbled upon a definition for religion; In any case, a god that would put a curse on me for not having a Mezuzah is just a total fucker who I want no part of.

Thinking about superstition, I asked my BFF if she would have any problem in reciting the words: “I will probably lose all my teeth and get pancreatic cancer in the next year.”  I think most people would hesitate, fearful of tempting fate through some system of cosmic wrath. She dazzled me by reciting the words in a strong, godless voice, and I fell in love with her for the millionth time.

But back to the watch. The missing watch will continue to bother me, probably for eternity, but it reminds me of my favorite line from Pulp Fiction, when Christopher Walkin tells the young Butch the story of his grandfather’s watch. It’s a long, sentimental story that takes a wild turn with the revelation:  “Five long years, he wore that watch up his ass.”

The word “wore” in that sentence is the difference between writing and poetry.  It’s the best choice of word, one that I could never come up with, one that gives me a fresh thrill of pleasure each time I think of it.

So the moral of this post is as follows:  Art is consolation in the face of chaos. (Wear that up your ass!)

Sea of  Shoes continues her reign of terror by designing a coat for Gryphon, a perfectly nice fashion line until now. Without ever meeting in person, Sea was able to transmit her design for the hideous coat she is modeling in this photo. Note the awkward bell sleeves and icky attached pouch.  If that’s not enough for you, Sea and Mom have SIGNED A BOOK DEAL!  Isn’t that fabulous?!?

Sea won’t publish your comments, you stupid peons, but you can leave them here.  I’ll go first.

Wow, awful coat, way to go! OMG, I heard about your book deal and asked myself, Where’s my book deal??  I wish I had an angle, like millions of shoes or a weird thing with my mom! Love, SW

Just when you forget to worry about the size of your butt, photos of famous butts rise up to remind you. Kate Moss and Naomi Campbell are both enjoying their holiday in Thailand, but only one of them has a butt worth showing off.

Kate Moss is a goddess as far as I’m concerned, but her butt speaks of long dormant months on a couch snorting coke. She has no muscle tone but plenty of cellulite.  Naomi may be a psychotic cunt, but try telling her butt that! It is perfection.

Today, I went for my first session of physical therapy post-hip injury, and I learned that my right gluteus medius muscle is now significantly weaker than my left one. If I don’t build it up through exercise, I WILL WALK FUNNY FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE! In fact I will have the Trendelenburg gait! As god is my witness, I don’t want the Trendelenburg gait, even more than I don’t want a sagging ass.

It’s unfair that women have to care about their asses when men get to walk around with any kind of ass. Even J Lo is being criticized for exhibiting a loss of ass-volume, as per this image from New Year’s Eve:

I would like to think that modern women are free of insecurity about their asses. I know there’s more to me than my butt. And yet…. As long as there are paparazzi around to document the fall of famous asses, I will be haunted by the worry of “How does my butt look in this?” I will feel judged by the state of my butt. It won’t matter what kind of person I am if my butt lacks merit.

First, I need to learn how to walk normally. Then, if I’m lucky, it’s back to being vain and superficial. I can’t wait!

Look what my brilliant friend Hammie developed to help non-verbal kids communicate, starring her daughter Grace. If only we could all have mothers like Hammie (and daughters like Grace!)

Today I came across this bewitching long-haired girl and recognized her at once as another girl I want to be.

I don’t see many of them but when I do see one, it’s like an ache of remorse and disappointment. It’s like, I should have been her! What happened?  Here is another one. Her name is Pandora, apparently, which spells trouble, but I’d like to wake up and be her anyway. Click on her to see the full glory.

It seems to be all about hair, doesn’t it? It’s not just the hair, but hair is a big deal for me. I used to have a recurring nightmare that someone had cut off my hair. It’s a little like the one where you’re spitting out your teeth. The other night I dreamed there were bugs in my bathtub, and when I tried to squash them, they got bigger.  I would say that’s a Sisyphus dream….or maybe it’s just about anxiety.

Here’s another girl, I can’t remember where I found her but I see I have saved the picture as: “I will be her!”

Here’s a young model named Zippora Seven. Eerily reminiscent of Pandora, name-wise.

Why didn’t I get to be any of these girls? It’s a mystery I will never understand. Of course, I would much rather be Patti Smith or Amanda Palmer, but at this point I’ve learned to settle for worshiping them.

Looking through my file of photos, I came across this artist whose name is poetry itself: Marion Tampon-Lajarriette.

I don’t want to be her but I like the idea of putting “tampon” in my name like that. I guess that’s what Art is all about.

Has everybody already discovered the Askinator game? The Wolf household can’t stop playing it. Think of any character, real or fictive, and the Askinator Genie will guess the answer. So far, it has correctly guessed Ignatious P. Reilly, the Gimp from Pulp Fiction, god, Madame Bovary, Borat, Marianne Faithfull, my mother-in-law and our dog.

In my youth, Max Blagg played a key role, which included my introduction to Astral Weeks.  He was my first “boyfriend” when I moved to London. To a 15 year old juvenile delinquent from L.A., Max was the essence of English allure.

Max was always larger than life, one of those people who emote at high volume and always teeter on the edge of elation or dark despair. He seemed always to be yearning for another environment, another notebook or another woman. He once spent several weeks bitching about his futile search for a Victorian nightshirt. And I once risked his wrath by secretly borrowing his pink corduroy Levi’s, even though I could barely stuff my fat ass into them.

Max lives in NYC now, where he is a poet and man-about-town. I’ve only seen him once in the intervening years. But every time I hear certain records from 1969, I recall the indescribable joy of being free to do everything and everyone, and those memories usually contain an element of Max Blagg.

I missed out on high school but I racked up an education. Some of it was rough but mostly it was thrilling. It’s the kind of shit you can take pride in once you’re a boring housewife with costochondritis.

Happy New Year, Max! I’m glad you’re still around. In my heart you’ll always be 20 years old and the hottest thing on wheels.

It goes with everything, and it’s only $24 at Urban Outfitters.