Godammit, I’m Mad!

This photo in the Daily Mail is accompanied by the tragic story of twins who have suffered from anorexia for twenty years.  It’s a disturbing story that touches on sibling rivalry, parental enabling, and the failure of all mechanisms to heal the victims of our culture’s obsession with beauty.

If you read the story, you’ll notice images on the right-hand side of the page, mostly celebrities chosen by the Daily Mail to ridicule for their weight gain, plastic surgery or cankles.  The message is clear: There is no escape from the search for physical perfection. No escape and no winning either.

A couple of weeks ago, I went to a photography exhibit called Beauty and Culture that examines the many ways that images work to influence our concept of beauty. The exhibit featured a short documentary that was truly devastating. Five year old beauty queens, cancer survivors, ancient women still trying to look young, and a history of evolving thinness in fashion models…it leaves you sickened by the shit we go through to measure up to a stupid restrictive ideal of beauty.

The documentary points out that only 2 percent of women are built like fashion models. Why do these models have so much power over us?!

You know the “It Gets Better” campaign for gays? We also need a campaign for women that says:YOU LOOK FINE! Maybe if we were reminded 100 times a day that we are okay as we are, we could forget about the size of our butts.

When we left the exhibit, my friend and I looked for somewhere to have coffee. We found a Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, where they display calorie counts with their pastries. Naturally, I freaked out and ordered a reduced-calorie muffin, because no matter what I know intellectually, deep down in my psyche I’m an unlovable fat pig.

I would like to thank Vogue, Glamour, the fashion industry and most of all my dad, who loved to drive around shouting “Look at the fat ass on that one!” I can relate to those poor emaciated twins, even though I’m a normal size. Accepting yourself can be a lifelong project.

Does anyone remember when I was obsessed with leather shorts?

That was another me who is long gone. But check out Yoko Ono wearing leather shorts at the Canne Film Festival! What an early-adopter she was.

It’s a relief to stop caring about the latest trends. The more fashion-conscious one is, the more anxiety one must contend with, and that is what generates billions of dollars for the fashion industry. The anxiety can only be relieved by shopping, and even then it’s a momentary relief. Every fashion layout or editorial is a trigger, causing new anxiety.

I have no idea of the new trends! Is it wide trousers or narrow or bright colors or patterns or tailored or retro or ladylike or boho or menswear-influenced? Are we still wearing studs? Are shoes still more important than handbags? Do the blogger girls still go on about Celine?

I think that at a certain point, we all know what we like to wear. People who insist that they love to “experiment” with fashion are just excusing themselves for needing to shop. But that’s okay with me.

I’ve traded my fashion-driven anxiety for a more fundamental anxiety about my body.  It’s much cheaper.  And all the time I once spent looking at fashion is now squandered on tumblr, a paralyzing addiction that has turned me into a vegetable.  At least it doesn’t involve my credit card.

I think it’s safe to say that the fashion and beauty industries are based on insecurity. They must constantly appeal to and promote our insecurity in order to satisfy their shareholders.  But my depression has suppressed my insecurity.  I think this is a benefit.

I’m hoping that Michelle Bachman and Mrs. Palin will provide some joy for me in the coming months, joy that for the moment is mostly supplied by the Real Housewives and the Casey Anthony murder trial. It’s a perverse joy that springs from the sheer staggering awfulness of horrible people exhibiting their horribleness.

Max used to love watching Sean Hannity on Fox news, and it drove me nuts. Now I remember the happy smirk on his face and I understand: When the usual things in life fail to bring pleasure, the theater of human stupidity is a valuable diversion.

I-BRITE™ Eye Whitening is a new cosmetic procedure if your eyes seem kind of blah. Maybe the whites of your eyes aren’t as bright and flawless as a toddler’s. But why should you suffer this indignity?! Why not have those tiny veins and microscopic discolored spots removed with the outer  layer of your eyeball!

Some eye doctors are against this procedure on the grounds that it is risky, impermanent, and long-term affects are not known. But what the hell, looking youthful is critical in today’s competitive environment. Don’t lose that promotion or hot date because of dingy eyes!

Find out more at this website where you can watch a video of the procedure. ( I can’t but maybe you’re less squeamish.)

It’s good to know that the march toward unburdening ourselves of our original faces is moving forward at a brisk pace.

Who’s up for it?

On Saturday, I met my Living Idol,  Patti Smith, and I was crushed that she didn’t ask to be my best friend.  She was actually perfectly nice, and autographed an old book of her poetry for me, but the distance between my fantasy and reality was intolerable for the rest of the day. I was overwhelmed by a feeling that  my life was totally pointless. I wished someone would shoot me in the head.  I felt a little like Mark David Chapman.

Today, I described the experience to my psychiatrist, who said, “Who’s Patti Smith?”

But he understood my feeling, because he is a good psychiatrist. My disappointment at not being recognized as the Chosen One had already settled down; I am grateful to Patti for all the joy and inspiration she’s given me for 35 years. When I replay the encounter in my head, it is pleasant and fulfilling.

Your whole life is a narrative that you create in your head, and it is subject to emotional states, varying needs, perspective and the passage of time.

Some people need drugs to shift the narrative from unendurable darkness to something more moderate.  Other people seem to operate from a narrative that has little to do with reality but casts everything in a favorable light.

At my grief group tonight, I cried at every single story of loss, and wondered how all of us parents can create a narrative that will allow us to find meaning in our lives, not to mention acceptance of finality. I think the idea is to trudge through every day and month and year until you believe you’re something more than a grieving mother.

I think I use this blog as a way to shape my ongoing narrative.  It helps to structure my thoughts and feelings. I’m gradually learning not to be rattled when someone doesn’t like what I write. I’m even going to ignore a new outburst from that Crazy Russian Lady. I think this proves that I’m mellowing with old age. Or maybe I’m just exhausted.

Isn’t is weird to see people going on about their business while a disaster devastates one part of the world and a ruthless massacre takes place somewhere else? If you follow twitter, the incongruous tweets illustrate how most people go right on advancing their agendas and talking about what they’re wearing or what they ate, NO MATTER WHAT.

I know that humans are wired like this, wired for adaptation to nearly any circumstances. Instead of celebrating this feature of humanity, I’ve always found it incredibly sad. People survive wars, torture, earthquakes, amputations, every kind of loss. They learn to absorb these tragedies and and for the most past, we expect them to return to “normal.”

Even if we can’t go to Japan to help out, should we shrug it off and go right back to slobbering over shoes or worrying about our Klout scores?

I feel guilty, sad, angry, confused, and conflicted.

In my own life, I can’t move on and get back to business. It feels like a sin to even consider it. Resilience seems like a cruel joke.  But that’s what survival is about.

I wish resilience for the people of of Japan, but less resilience for the people of twitter and elsewhere, who haven’t even missed a beat in the rhythm of their daily bullshit.

Thoughts or advice?

Even though we’re sick of him, admit it, we’re not through with him.  There’s already an app to block out Sheen and Sheenisms, so you’ll never have to see his name or face again online.

At the same time, there is a craving for more, for some escalation of his madness and for a resolution that one hopes will be somehow shocking but not involve him blowing his head off on TV.

What does Charlie Sheen do for us, do you think? Is it a simple distraction from our own problems or the problems of the world? Is it some primitive need for human sacrifice? Is it the perverse satisfaction of watching a privileged Prince turn his own life into tatters? Is it his need for attention that repels us, even as we give in to him?

I never gave a shit about him before. None of my family has watched his TV show until this week, just to confirm that it’s truly, inexcusably awful.

But now I need something from him and I’m not sure what.  I feel like a Roman waiting for the lions or something. It isn’t going to be anything good, that seems clear.  Maybe he represents human nature at it most base and out of control.  Maybe he needs to act out our secret fantasies of going insane.

If you have any insights, lets hear them!  I’ll say one thing:  I have no interest in a Sheen-blocking app, but make one for Lady Gaga and I’m there!

Once upon a time, a belligerent German who I will call “Herr Mengele” decided to send out threatening letters to a large group of bloggers around the word, demanding money for infringing on his ‘copyright’. The bloggers, along with a British online newspaper, had posted an image of some Victorian taxidermy art.

Herr Mengele insisted that while it wasn’t his taxidermy art, he has the copyright to the widely seen images. He included with his overwrought letters a cheap postcard of the image. He also included invoices of up to several thousand EU. He demanded that money be wired directly to his German bank account by an arbitrary date, after which he would sue for damages.

The bloggers were stunned. WTF? Herr Mengele replied to questions with nefarious threats like this one:

With great pleasure will I take you to the Courts, and will just wait a bit longer to eventually get over EUR 56.000 from you.

So you know with whom you are dealing: my ex-publisher NaimAttallah/Quartet can tell you a story or two about me, kicking my shoe ALL UP YOUR ASS if you step on my toes. My friend Jos Smit from Art Unlimited, who prints all my postcards, normally tells people who don’t know me (yet) Fear him !  Or/and interview Henk Schiffmacher aka Hanky Panky (c/o Hells Angels Amsterdam) etc .

Herr Mengele continues to send threats to this very day, and alas, some bloggers were so upset that they actually gave in to his demands and paid him! No one wants a German boot up their ass (despite Sylvia Plath’s observation to the contrary) and who among us wants to incur the wrath of a Hells Angel who is named after a fancy lace thong?!

Herr Mengele also claims copyright to some explicit photos of people with tattooed penises, putting them where they don’t belong (according to Judeo-Christian tenets and my own finicky digestive system.)

The photo above is a portion of one of Herr Mengele’s more interesting pictures, which I have modified for the purposes of discussion, education and satire (as per fair use.) Can you guess what it is?

Gazing upon the most recent communique from Herr Mengele’s “Lawyers,” I must ask myself what David Bowie would do. I think he would say:

Wir sind dann Helden!

Questions, comments, threats?

Just quickly:

Rhianna needs to take up prostitution and get it over with. Lady Gaga needs to get the fuck over herself. J Lo needs to lose the hair extensions and her creepy husband. Mick Jagger needs to eat and Bob Dylan needs to give up smoking.

Cee Lo Green was a one-man mardis gra and Gwyneth should be killed for ruining his performance. Lady Antebellum needs to die but not until they apologize for everything. John Mayer channeled Johnny Depp but fucked up the ever-haunting “Jolene.” Babs Streisand was a waxy looking monolith but proved that a diva can hold a mic without all that crazy finger action.

Bruno Mars was a worthless punk as usual but Janelle Monae saved the day with her adorable androgynous rockabilly presence.  Justin Bieber fought back tears as he lost to the regal Esperanza Spalding, who will singlehandedly bring back the Afro according to me, god bless her.

Eminem confirmed his status as the rapper we’d most like to have sex with. An angry ball of rage,  Eminem is on fire! He is the Ryan Gosling of rap. Talent plus intensity plus physical charisma = YES.

Muse sang a song that sounded like all their songs and Arcade Fire demonstrated that committed, liberating rock lives on, even in the age of horrible American Idolesque canned pop and the dreadful scourge of Taylor Swiftian confessional bleating.

Does that cover it?

What’s the point of being Calvin Klein if all it gets you is this 21 year old porn model??

A long time ago, I wrote a story about my dad called “Smell the Leather.”  My parents divorced when I was 3, and my dad fulfilled his fatherly obligations by taking me and my sister out on Saturday afternoons. He bought a new car every year, and on these occasions, he would drive us around, commanding in a loud voice: “Smell the leather!” He was a happy, narcissistic man who fancied himself a Rat Pack kind of guy. It was a poignant story, as I recall.

Now, I have a different story but it’s still kind of the same.

My dad became seriously ill in June, and in my state of traumatized shock, I went to the city where he lives and helped out. In fact, I got the hospital to admit him after they refused all appeals to do so. Anyway, I joined my 6 siblings, from three marriages, in caring for our dad, who was shockingly frail and had to have a permanent feeding tube in his stomach.

Even though he’d been a terrible father, I wanted to help take care of him and make him feel surrounded by love. The doctors seemed to think he was close to dying. I slept on his couch a few times, listening to him cough all night through a baby monitor. He finally met my 17 year old son.

Now, miraculously, he has improved so much that his feeding tube was removed and he can eat again. He still needs care though, so I made plans to stay with him for a few days, thinking it would be nice to escape my life at home.

Then he called me. He started out complaining about this and that and then got to the point. He didn’t want me to stay with him because I “have too many problems.” He explained that it upsets him, as a father, to see one of his children so unhappy. It especially upset him to see me cry.

It was a surreal conversation but there was no way out. I said, “I can try not to cry, then.” He was skeptical. I reminded him that I had experienced the worst thing that can happen to anyone. He said he understood but asked pointedly, “How long are you going to be like this? Twenty years?!” I thought about it and said, “Yes.”

Trying to keep my voice even, I asked, “Well, how about if I just come visit for a few hours?” He replied: “We’ll talk.” and hung up.

Hahahahahaha! People don’t change! My father was always a fucker and he still is! The fantasy of a loving father was nice for a while, but I’m over it.

A rejecting father is forever, like a diamond.