Godammit, I’m Mad!

Today we went to the Museum of Contemporary Art to see an exhibit of graffiti and street art. Little did I know it was The Place to Be, with a long line of hipsters waiting to get inside the museum.  My husband and I thought “Fuck this” and decided to leave , just as we saw my adopted son Chris and his girlfriend Ada walking toward us.

It was wonderful to realize that we crypto-hipsters all gravitate to the same places. Ada became a museum member to help us avoid the long line for non-members.  The guy who helped her had 14 piercings in his face.

The exhibit was crawling with people who could each qualify as a piece of graffiti art. The was no air inside, where the temperature hovered near boiling point. Everyone was madly taking pictures of the art and each other. You had to dodge the iPhone flashes as you tried to avoid screwing up someone’s photo op.

I complained to my husband in a non-stop whine, but he’s learned to live with this. I objected aloud to a wall of Shepard Fairy crap, noting “Shepard Fairey is a fucking punk!” and thereby quoting my own self. I loved the cars and some black and white photos of Chicano homies. But most of it seemed boring and outdated, like break-dancing only less dimensional. Shuffling along the narrow passages between makeshift rooms, I felt like a character in “Hi, Mom.”

I wondered what would happen if someone broke out a can of spray pain and graffiti’d the graffiti.

Out in the street, an even longer line of hipters stood sweltering. I said to my husband: Haha, look at them. We walked to a Yogurtland, where a pretty girl sitting next to me blabbed about her reality show and insisted to her morbidly obese friend that what she really wanted to do was “make art.”

Yesterday, I made the stupid decision to google “Sister Wolf.”

It’s weird to see yourself as others see you. I’m used to interacting with strangers on my own territory but finding yourself being discussed elsewhere is the equivalent of hearing what people say behind your back. And naturally, they want to talk shit about you.

I was so pleased to find several people who loved my blog! But the pleasure gave way to annoyance when I came across a website devoted to criticizing bloggers. There was even a forum for the critics to chat among themselves, but I didn’t read it. It was enough to find some people dismissing me as crazy, with one commenter even noting disgustedly that I should be getting grief therapy instead of blogging.

It has never even occurred to me that people might disapprove of my grief.  And I never think of myself as crazy, or even weird. I think the critics were upset that I outed a troll, and that’s something I’ve thought about a lot. Upon reflection, I’d do it again, because that’s the only way to effect a consequence for cowards who want to hide behind anonymity.

Well, you can’t please everyone, right?  It’s better to not google yourself. It’s the one instance where ignorance actually is bliss.

But then, I was buying my kid a wallet at Ross Dress for Less, when a sales assistant asked me if I was aware of their Every Tuesday Discount for seniors. Sure enough, my reflexes are so slow that I didn’t slap her in the face for suggesting that I am a senior. She went on to explain that it’s for people “55 and older.”

I glared at her and said something like, Okay, I’ll take the discount but you’re not supposed to think I’m 55 or older. She smiled back, sweetly and blankly. What a fucking cunt!™

God, it’s so awful how you can’t control people. I’ll never get used to it. But I can write to Ross Dress for Less and complain about this assault on my self-esteem. It might be fun to try to get them to apologize. I could even call it grief therapy!

Good idea or not?

Anthony Weiner is a gift from god for people like me who are struggling with depression.  His predicament (no pun intended) is so bizarre and tawdry, and yet Shakespearean. If character is destiny, Weiner is screwed, or as he would put it, “First I’ll make you gag on my cock before I make you cum.”

Let me say first that I was on his side, in terms of refusing to resign, until I read the text of his online chats with women he’d never met and had no intention of meeting.

It wasn’t the fact that he was a reckless horndog that provoked my disapproval. I was ready to accept the fact that the internet is an irresistible siren song to anyone with a “weakness.” Whether it’s a weakness for shopping, for social networking, for gambling or for porn, the internet makes it perilously convenient to indulge.

According to friends I discussed this with, “sexting” is now common among fifty percent of teenagers. It’s a Brave New World out there, where not much is considered too personal, not to mention sacred.

I will admit to chatting online in a flirtatious manner.  Years ago I was chatting with someone who suddenly suggested “Send me a picture of your C**T” and the word was not cunt. I was so stunned and horrified, I shut the chat window and felt deeply shaken. I had no idea that people spoke to strangers like this. I learned that it’s the wild west out there online.

With Weiner, I imagined his sexy chat was something along the lines of “Baby, You’re so pretty, What are you wearing?” Big deal. Maybe he’s bored when his wife is busy and he’s just having a little tame sexy banter…. I don’t feel that calls for his resigntion, since it’s his personal business and he didn’t run for the Priesthood. Better to have a politition with a sex drive than Bush or Nixon, who seemed more interested in abusing the constitution than in getting laid.

But no matter what liberal  principles you think you have, it all goes to hell once you read Weiner’s raunchy efforts at seduction.  The deal breaker for me was “Pussy Juice.” It’s just a big NO in my world.  You can’t listen to a congressman talking about jobs or taxes or healthcare once he’s said Pussy Juice.  It’s over. He is toast.

So basically, for me at least, it comes down to literary aesthetics rather than any moral judgement. Sexting online isn’t a crime that would make someone unfit to serve as a congressman or mayor. Sending pictures is pretty lame but again, no real harm. Lying about it is only natural: You would want to avoid embarrassing your family. But a man’s game does reflect his sensibility. And “Pussy Juice” cannot be condoned. If only he could have said “Are you wet?” instead.

I cannot emphasize this enough but it must be repeated: Words matter! Choose them like everyone’s looking.

Opinions or objections?

Jane Pratt has finally launched her new online magazine and I want to know why something so awful and pointless can even get off the ground. Everything about it is stupid and bad.

And where’s Tavi?? Remember when this was going to be a joint project? Who is our Blogging Business Deal specialist? Please report back on this intriguing mystery.

Meanwhile, this awful Jane crap got me thinking about how there is really nowhereto go online if you want some entertainment for smart people. The Huffingting Post is just populist garbage, Jezebel is too full of itself and has too much attitude, The New Yorker isn’t visually appealing, Arts & Literature Daily has too many choices to sift through, pop culture websites are too geared toward the bourgeois hipster, etc etc.

Why can’t we have something good, with lots of thoughtful, funny, sophisticated, and provocative essays and photos?

I started talking about this to a friend, and tried to explain the target audience for this imaginary project. All I could think of was “you know, people like us: bitter intellectuals.”

He liked the sound of this overlooked market and so do I. I want to start an online magazine for Bitter Intellectuals. We’ll have a daily column about annoying words or phrases, obviously. We’ll have reviews of movies and music, critiques of other blogs, advice on stuff that grown ups care about, debates about politically incorrect subjects, merciless satire, personal stories of defeat and humiliation, and so much more. With good art.

Who would like to get in on something like this? Who has any experience in starting a no-budget venture? Who wishes there was a place to go online where they would never see words like “social-networking” or “game-changing” or terms like “tresses” or “locks” instead of “hair?” Most important, who has the enthusiasm to make me follow through on this?

Reading the New York Times online, I just got sidetracked by a link that said: “Worried about your memory? 5 Signs  it’s Serious.”

As it happens, I have no short-term memory and little of the other kind either. People are constantly mad at me for forgetting things I’m supposed to remember.  They point out that I’ve told the same story twice, and that I’ve already seen a movie I have no recollection of. The signs are all there.

But memory problems are also common in people with PTSD, fibromyalgia, and a couple of other conditions that apply to me but I forgot what they are. I’m not joking here, either.

So, I’m reading this list of warning signs and going Yep, yep, I have Alzheimer’s, I’m screwed, when I get to number 5, Having Trouble With Choices, and I come upon this quote:

“If you used to be a definitive person and now you can’t work your way through choices, that’s a red flag,” psychiatrist Ken Robbins says. “Choosing involves enough cognitive powers — remembering what you like, thinking about how the options differ, and thinking about what you want now — that it’s a problem that shows up early on.”

DEFINITIVE?!?!? What the fuck?! That bastard means “decisive” and he used the wrong word! They’re not interchangeable, Dr. Ken Robbins, Moron Esq.! English, motherfucker! Do you speak it? Where is the fucking editor??

I’m trying to calm down. But it’s hard. And now I can see my future: I will be hopelessly bereft of all memory, including my own name, rank and serial number, but I’ll be flipping out about word usage with my last dying breath.

Godammit, I told you so!.

I can’t stand Arnold and I have never figured out why people believe he is anything other than a big stupid moron. The myth that Arnold is “actually very smart” is just preposterous! Fuck!

Way back in another lifetime, I lifted weights in the gym where Arnold worked out every morning. He was a loudmouthed bully who had a coterie of middle aged halfwits that followed him around and laughed at his stupid jokes. Arnold was an arrogant cunt who bothered women with comments like “I’d like to see you with your panties off!”

He’s what my mom would call a “lowlife.” We’ll never know why Maria Shriver married him and thus gave him a legitimacy that led to his political career, which in turn has left California in fiscal shambles.

Maybe the Kennedy women have a deep-seated need to be humiliated by powerful men. Whatever. I feel bad for Maria and her children, but WHAT THE FUCK WAS SHE THINKING?!?

Thoughts, rants, crap about how “personal lives are nobody’s business?”

Today I went out to a mall and ordered a cup of normal coffee. As I walked away with my small black coffee, I heard a woman order a no-foam non-fat decaf extra-hot latte. I think there might have been one more requirement but I can’t remember it. This underscores the fact that I’m way too stupid to get work as a barrista.

Why the fuck do people have such perfectionist needs when it comes to coffee?! What the hell is wrong with these people?? Why do they feel so entitled to reel off a string of  detailed instructions for a cup of coffee, that another human being has to then prepare TO THE LETTER?!?

I would be mortified to appear this fussy about anything. Why aren’t these coffee prima donnas embarrassed?

My own theory is that they didn’t get enough of Mommy’s attentive pampering so now they’re going to take it out on some helpless coffee server who can’t spank them or send them to their room.

Let’s hear your theory.

reading the little profiles of people om tumblr, I noticed that a few people decribed themselves as eccentric. Like, ‘eccentric 19 year old art student loves cats, drawing, photography cupcakes and random cartoons.’

My feeling is, you don’t describe yourself as eccentric. That’s a conclusion made  about you by someone else.  It just seems unseemly. Like calling yourself ‘classy,’ it’s  kind of a self-negating word.

Naturally my husband failed to see the problem. I explained that actual eccentrics would not describe themselves as such. They tend to take no notice of how odd they are, but rather to find others baffling. The most eccentric people I’ve ever known would never describe themselves that way.

Therefore, almost by definition, these self-described eccentrics are just being pretentious. My husband then asked me  what other words I would categorize as unseemly. I came up with “complex” and “complicated’ as well as ‘lanky”. I don’t know where the lanky came from, but it’s certainly not a word to use about oneself unless you want to be sickening.

It was frustrating to try to make my point when to another wordist, I’m sure it’s all a given. It’s pretentious to use certain words about yourself, even if those words are fairly accurate.  Maybe you’re quirky, but don’t bill yourself as quirky. It’s  an evaluation for others to make.

I was excited about getting into this conversation with someone as sensitive and prohibitive about words and word-usage as I am. I though of calling Cousin Russell, who’s always up for a word discussion.  But what I really wanted was Max, because he would know exactly what I meant and he would be eager to throw in some other words that he found unacceptable in the same way.

I need someone to be Max . When it hit me, I started to cry, even though we were on our first weekend vacation in a year and a half.  Maybe my other nephew can help. I need someone who cringes when they hear a room or building called a ’space.’

anyone care to help out? Agree or disagree, as long as you have strong opinions about words.

I have PTSD and the world is going to hell, but for the moment I’m choosing to focus on other matters. For example, here is a challenging dilemma:

Who is more annoying. Gwyneth or Chloe?

On the one hand, Gwyneth has that awful website and now she has a recording contract as a country-western singer.

On the other hand, Chloe has her stupid fashion line for Opening Ceremony and that hipster lifestyle.

Gwyneth has the rock-star husband and the unforgivable names of her children. But Chloe has no talent and she looks like she needs a good hot bath. Each of them is a grating irritant in the oyster of my psyche, neither producing a pearl.  I would say it’s closer to a blister. I hate them both.

Don’t get caught up on the word “hate,” if that bother you.  Just tell me who you find more annoying, and why.

Ready, set, go.

Three months ago, I wrote about how hard it is to accept being powerless. Now, I am a malignant mass of seething hatred for my ex-husband. If only I could kill him. It would be an act of mariticide, although I don’t know if this applies to exes.

I hate that miserable fucker. I called and tried hard to be nice, to project friendliness. I asked when I could come over to see Max’s things, hoping I could borrow some of his books. We always loved the same books and asked each other for recommendations.

But no! Still no. That bastard is like a character from a Dickens novel, a mean old man who lives to say the word No. His exact words were: “If and when I’m ready, I’ll let you know.” When I began to argue my case, he announced triumphantly: “I won’t be bullied by you.” (Repeat this in your head with an English accent, to get the full effect.) Nothing would change his mind. I lost my temper and he intoned darkly:  ”Don’t call me again.”

Last night I cried hysterically until I couldn’t breath, not because of the books but because of the situation of marrying a man who won’t let you see your son’s belongings, who has to try to control things even after death.

A reader named Marygrace sent me a link to a poem by Julie Sheehan that expresses the scope of my hatred with stunning accuracy. It is a singular gem that everyone should read and pass on, until the whole world can find solace in its perfection.
~

Hate Poem

I hate you truly. Truly I do.
Everything about me hates everything about you.
The flick of my wrist hates you.
The way I hold my pencil hates you.
The sound made by my tiniest bones were they trapped
in the jaws of a moray eel hates you.
Each corpuscle singing in its capillary hates you.

Look out! Fore! I hate you.

The blue-green jewel of sock lint I’m digging
from under my third toenail, left foot, hates you.
The history of this keychain hates you.
My sigh in the background as you explain relational databases
hates you.
The goldfish of my genius hates you.
My aorta hates you. Also my ancestors.

A closed window is both a closed window and an obvious
symbol of how I hate you.

My voice curt as a hairshirt: hate.
My hesitation when you invite me for a drive: hate.
My pleasant “good morning”: hate.

You know how when I’m sleepy I nuzzle my head
under your arm? Hate.
The whites of my target-eyes articulate hate. My wit
practices it.
My breasts relaxing in their holster from morning
to night hate you.
Layers of hate, a parfait.
Hours after our latest row, brandishing the sharp glee of hate,
I dissect you cell by cell, so that I might hate each one
individually and at leisure.
My lungs, duplicitous twins, expand with the utter validity
of my hate, which can never have enough of you,
Breathlessly, like two idealists in a broken submarine.