Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Monday, December 14, 2009
WINTER READS
Featured artist: Chuck Palahnuik
Featured novel: "Survivor"
I went into this thinking about the popular reality TV show "Survivor" (for obvious reasons), the novel is titled "Survivor", so I was not too thrilled to pick it up. However, as Chuck always does, he engaged me with a simple, easy to read introduction.
The story not only begins at the end, but the first page is actually numbered the last page and the chapter 1 is the last chapter you read. So if you're a slow reader you can say "I just started this morning and I'm already on page 200".
This particular Palahnuik is about the last remaining member of a religious Creedish cult. Like many of his books, the story jumps around and gives you all kinds of information and teasers at random moments that keep the pages turning. He (as the main character and narrator) criticizes the world as a shallow, materialistic place with a twisted society.
"Nobody wants their problems solved. Their dramas. Their distractions resolved. Their messes cleaned up. Because what would they have left? A big, scary unknown".
The way his does dialogue is so smooth, flows so naturally, like you're listening to a conversation.
"She's saying "what?"
Kill yourself.
She's saying "what?"
Try barbiturates and alcohol with your head inside a dry cleaning bag".
But where is it all going? Everyone of Chuck's stories don't really end with a resolution. They're just a form of entertainment. Read about some absurd character's crazy story for a few pages because in the end all you get is what you make of it. Is this Creedish character a survivor of the radical religious "death cult"? Or a survivor of the "real world", the "outside world"?
This winter I would strongly recommend curling up on your couch with this serious page turner that will have you looking for more Palnuik novels.
Feel free to post your feelings about this novel under comments.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
The Co-Laboratory
Through serious time, dedication, and a hefty amount of beer, wine and cigarettes, we have successfully set up our production studio/gallery.
Check out zecolab.tumblr.com for all the cool videos of the progression.
Grand opening will be Friday, January 8, 2010!
Free food, free drinks and fun prices!
Check out zecolab.tumblr.com for all the cool videos of the progression.
Grand opening will be Friday, January 8, 2010!
Free food, free drinks and fun prices!
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Thursday, September 10, 2009
The Smoking Future
The computer screen is filled with "subscribe to this" and "prescribe to that", you'll be thinner and prettier and happier. You ignore it after years of endurance to billboards and commercials,but you still glance, even if subconsciously, your mind picked up that information and it will remain there until it resurfaces either in dreams or in reality when you find yourself in the dental isle buying that toothpaste that guarantees a whiter, fresher smile.
This is the future.
Loads of information and persuasion beamed into your head through visuals of moms in mini vans, super models, kittens and catchy phrases-
"Mom Makes $77/hr Online!"
"DON'T Pay For Whiter Teeth!"
"Smoking Can Be Healthy?
"Smoking Can Be Healthy?
The smoking future"
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Random Thoughts Thread
Savannah, GA- The all new Seed Eco Lounge opened just a few weeks ago featuring "organic" liquors. Seed is suppose to be an "eco-friendly" bar because of their pesticide-free drinks, however, since when has liquor NOT been organic? Vodka is made from potatoes, gin from berries, rum from sugar cane, etc. And if youre so worried about putting chemicals in your body... you shouldnt be drinking.
Someone did bring up a good point -organic farming isnt just for the fruit and vegetables; pesticides can also damage water. So for that, we congratulate you Eco Lounge -for making the world a potentially better place!
Someone did bring up a good point -organic farming isnt just for the fruit and vegetables; pesticides can also damage water. So for that, we congratulate you Eco Lounge -for making the world a potentially better place!
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Ode to Bukowski -The Poetry Thread
I used to drink a lot.
A glass of wine at 2pm on a Wednesday afternoon,
one at 2:30,
another at 2:45
and a few more until 6pm
when it is socially acceptable to unscrew the cap,
smell the whiskey,
and taste it in the back of your already raspy throat
because you smoked too many cigarettes while thinking
“God, I am so sophisticated”
and writing drunken nonsense that
you won’t be able to read
whenever you do become sober again
because you were too shit faced to write legibly,
does not make me a drunk.
A glass of wine at 2pm on a Wednesday afternoon,
one at 2:30,
another at 2:45
and a few more until 6pm
when it is socially acceptable to unscrew the cap,
smell the whiskey,
and taste it in the back of your already raspy throat
because you smoked too many cigarettes while thinking
“God, I am so sophisticated”
and writing drunken nonsense that
you won’t be able to read
whenever you do become sober again
because you were too shit faced to write legibly,
does not make me a drunk.
The Poetry Thread
This is a poem I wrote a few years ago.
Before I fell in love.
Before I fell in love.
What I Think About When I Think About Love
After a long pause,
I looked into his eyes
questioning this thing we've been taught to know as
'love'.
A deep, tender feeling of affection,
an intense desire,
an emotional attachment,
an ever lasting frustration to
conquer one another
through adoration and admiration.
Hoping to be faithful and loyal,
we are enamored with the consistency
of falling asleep in each others arms
and waking up a tangled mess of
sheets and legs,
satisfied with the voids no longer empty
we could not have filled alone.
Relying on our bodies to keep warm,
dependent on our skin to sooth restless concerns,
surviving everyday
through beating hearts,
steady breaths
and tenacious thoughts of one another.
Compulsively fixating on
his mouth, and my lips,
his laugh and my smile.
Captivated by habitual routines
performed out of excessive need
to be conquered,
to be adored,
to just feel love at its purest,
pretending to be pure
but still wondering
what we could be missing.
This, love is no longer just a mere liking to another,
but a sick arrangement between two people
drawn together in order to continue their own existence.
He looked at me and said,
“I love you”,
and surely, I will reply,
“I love you, too”.
Making Myself Work -The Stuck Indoors Thread
Time: 2:30 pm
Location: Alex's computer listening to Air as my ankle thumps and thumps from the blood rushing to it's rescue, not helping but swelling the injury (which was really me just hitting the little bone on the inside of my ankle against the skateboard over a week ago, yet it's still bruised? Preventing me from continuing my "skating training"). At the computer, even though it is a beautiful August day and I should be by Kellie's pool, or the beach waiting for the tide while soaking in the sun.
Thoughts: Yesterday I saw a comedian (the name escapes me but he's a character in the show Arrested Development) talk about McDonald's. This is me paraphrasing it-
If McDonald's stopped advertising for like four months, people wouldn't forget. They're not going to be like
"Where'd McDonald's go?"
just because they aren't being force-fed Grade D meat at value meal prices. If McDonald's didn't advertise for just four months, they would save millions of dollars that could be put back in the system. Starting maybe by paying the employees a dollar extra, so when I go to McDonald's I don't have to deal with an understandably pissed off 19 year old, sweating over the 900 degree frialator thinking
"why am I not selling drugs?
Location: Alex's computer listening to Air as my ankle thumps and thumps from the blood rushing to it's rescue, not helping but swelling the injury (which was really me just hitting the little bone on the inside of my ankle against the skateboard over a week ago, yet it's still bruised? Preventing me from continuing my "skating training"). At the computer, even though it is a beautiful August day and I should be by Kellie's pool, or the beach waiting for the tide while soaking in the sun.
Thoughts: Yesterday I saw a comedian (the name escapes me but he's a character in the show Arrested Development) talk about McDonald's. This is me paraphrasing it-
If McDonald's stopped advertising for like four months, people wouldn't forget. They're not going to be like
"Where'd McDonald's go?"
just because they aren't being force-fed Grade D meat at value meal prices. If McDonald's didn't advertise for just four months, they would save millions of dollars that could be put back in the system. Starting maybe by paying the employees a dollar extra, so when I go to McDonald's I don't have to deal with an understandably pissed off 19 year old, sweating over the 900 degree frialator thinking
"why am I not selling drugs?
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Good News GA -The Current Events Thread
Good News
Oglethorpe Mall in Savannah, GA. -A new state of the art, eco-friendly library has been built. LEED certified, it comes equipped with lights on sensors that will turn off if there is no activity in that particular area. The bathrooms use low-flow water fixtures and even the carpets and paint are environmentally friendly.
The two story building offers a 200 occupancy auditorium, a classroom, a puppet stage, an area to serve the blind and physically handicapped, and --a teen room?
Or Is It?
This generous, new building cost over $15M and is still looking for funds to hire a staff. Because they don't have the sufficient funds to hire a new staff, they are closing Oglethorpe Mall a few hours or days a week, and are cutting the open hours of both The Savannah Bull St. Library and this new library from an original 70 hours a week to 30 hours.
So what will happen to the people whom you would normally see at The Savannah Bull St. Library sitting at the computers, desperately searching for jobs?
And the original staff at The Savannah Bull St. Library whose hours will be cut back?
Would it have been better to just improve on the already generous Bull St. Library?
Though the new library will cost the old library staff hourly wages, and library users hourly use; the new library will attract people from a different part of town. Now job searchers in Southside Savannah will have somewhere to go when in need of the generous resources the new library is supplying.
So congratulations, to the new Oglethorpe Mall Library!
Oglethorpe Mall in Savannah, GA. -A new state of the art, eco-friendly library has been built. LEED certified, it comes equipped with lights on sensors that will turn off if there is no activity in that particular area. The bathrooms use low-flow water fixtures and even the carpets and paint are environmentally friendly.
The two story building offers a 200 occupancy auditorium, a classroom, a puppet stage, an area to serve the blind and physically handicapped, and --a teen room?
Or Is It?
This generous, new building cost over $15M and is still looking for funds to hire a staff. Because they don't have the sufficient funds to hire a new staff, they are closing Oglethorpe Mall a few hours or days a week, and are cutting the open hours of both The Savannah Bull St. Library and this new library from an original 70 hours a week to 30 hours.
So what will happen to the people whom you would normally see at The Savannah Bull St. Library sitting at the computers, desperately searching for jobs?
And the original staff at The Savannah Bull St. Library whose hours will be cut back?
Would it have been better to just improve on the already generous Bull St. Library?
Though the new library will cost the old library staff hourly wages, and library users hourly use; the new library will attract people from a different part of town. Now job searchers in Southside Savannah will have somewhere to go when in need of the generous resources the new library is supplying.
So congratulations, to the new Oglethorpe Mall Library!
The Thoughts Thread -Took in the good out of a bad movie
Last night, under the wrath of a ruthless migraine, I was left with nothing better to do then catch up on contemporary film such as "What Happens in Vegas".
And I must say, I did shamelessly laugh out loud here and there, because after all, Ashton Kutcher and Cameron Diaz are pretty funny people.
One line that struck me, however, was when the judge played by Dennis Miller said
"Gay people aren't ruining marriage -YOU people are"
We people, the straight people, the 19 year old Baby Mamas and and 21 year old Fathers of 3.
Our society is battling with the issue of gay couples to be legally married because it goes against the sanction of marriage -yet we forget that just a few years ago, divorce was not an option, now, divorce is a back-up plan.
"If it doesn't work out, we'll just a get a divorce. fuck it"
What's going to happen to the cute 85 year old couples that have been married for 50+ year?
Will there only be a bunch of 79 year old bachelors and slutty women, wrinkled up but still in stilettos at clubs and bars waiting, hoping for their "true love", the one they can die with (in 5 to 10 years tops)?
What ever happened to "'Til death due us part", "Through sickness and in health"?
Have we become far too comfortable with the easy way out?
And I must say, I did shamelessly laugh out loud here and there, because after all, Ashton Kutcher and Cameron Diaz are pretty funny people.
One line that struck me, however, was when the judge played by Dennis Miller said
"Gay people aren't ruining marriage -YOU people are"
We people, the straight people, the 19 year old Baby Mamas and and 21 year old Fathers of 3.
Our society is battling with the issue of gay couples to be legally married because it goes against the sanction of marriage -yet we forget that just a few years ago, divorce was not an option, now, divorce is a back-up plan.
"If it doesn't work out, we'll just a get a divorce. fuck it"
What's going to happen to the cute 85 year old couples that have been married for 50+ year?
Will there only be a bunch of 79 year old bachelors and slutty women, wrinkled up but still in stilettos at clubs and bars waiting, hoping for their "true love", the one they can die with (in 5 to 10 years tops)?
What ever happened to "'Til death due us part", "Through sickness and in health"?
Have we become far too comfortable with the easy way out?
Monday, July 20, 2009
Marilu -A Personal Essay
Memory 1
Marilu was our live-in nanny. She lived in the maid’s room downstairs for a while, until my sister was born, then she lived upstairs in the baby’s room. She was a frog of a woman. I’ve read that description many times, but it wasn’t until I remembered Marilu that I could put an image to the phrase. She wore tacky floral-print dresses that slid right over her head and clung lightly over her marshmellow-like body. Out of the short sleeves hung the fatty, flabby skin of her under arms, I made my personal silly putty on long car rides –she didn’t seem to mind. Her hair was cut short, masculine and black –she was by no means an attractive woman. She always favored my older brother and was later referred to as 'grandma' by my younger sister. We used to tease my sister and the nanny because somehow, my sister looked more like Marilu than she did us.
They all loved her; my brother because she played Super Nintendo with us (and always beat me); my sister who fell asleep each night and awoke every morning in her crib that would eventually become a full mattress matching her nanny’s; and my parents because now they could go out to dinner occasionally without a worry. But I never did like her. She used to chew on a single uncooked grain of rice, making the most disgusting smacking sound. Smack -as her tongue tried to force out the grain from between her teeth to suck on its disgusting shell again, and again –for hours.
She never took me seriously, constantly mocking my eight-year-old intelligence. Sometimes before she left to run errands I’d innocently ask her,
“Where are you going?”
And sure enough, every time she’d reply,
“I’m going to get old”.
Every time, no matter how many times I asked, no matter how frustrated I became –I might even have cried once.
One night I woke up to the sound of her screaming “Mickey! Mickey!” and thought that because her voice was naturally loud and obnoxious, she was just having a laugh with my brother Mike. She yelled my name twice and I too got up to see what was so funny. I find Marilu hysterical in the hall way and she orders Mike and I to get in her room immediately. Frantically she phones the police, then my parents. No sooner, the cops arrive, and my parents just behind them. A few weeks later, I was still hearing the story.
Apparently, Marilu was going downstairs with the baby for a warm bottle of milk, to find a man using the round end of a broom to try and unhook the keys from the wall, through the opened sliding glass window above the kitchen counter –to climb in would have made too much noise on account of all the appliances. He dropped the broom and raised his gun, demanding Marilu give him the keys. She begged him to let her put the baby in the other room first –because that's where the corresponding keys are anyway, she told him. Somehow she managed to sneak away with the keys on the wall in the kitchen and upstairs to call for help –they never caught the guy.
Marilu was our live-in for almost seven years. When we moved to the States she continued to share a room with my sister, and I shared the bathroom in their room with them –I didn’t like this. The older I got, the less I liked her, and the more I avoided her. One day while we were at school, she packed up all her tablecloth dresses, cheap toothpaste and worn out brush, and left. A few days later she returned to embrace my sister, begging my father for her job back. I did not care for her presence any longer, but they all loved her and she stayed, until the second time –that time, she never came back.
Marilu was our live-in nanny. She lived in the maid’s room downstairs for a while, until my sister was born, then she lived upstairs in the baby’s room. She was a frog of a woman. I’ve read that description many times, but it wasn’t until I remembered Marilu that I could put an image to the phrase. She wore tacky floral-print dresses that slid right over her head and clung lightly over her marshmellow-like body. Out of the short sleeves hung the fatty, flabby skin of her under arms, I made my personal silly putty on long car rides –she didn’t seem to mind. Her hair was cut short, masculine and black –she was by no means an attractive woman. She always favored my older brother and was later referred to as 'grandma' by my younger sister. We used to tease my sister and the nanny because somehow, my sister looked more like Marilu than she did us.
They all loved her; my brother because she played Super Nintendo with us (and always beat me); my sister who fell asleep each night and awoke every morning in her crib that would eventually become a full mattress matching her nanny’s; and my parents because now they could go out to dinner occasionally without a worry. But I never did like her. She used to chew on a single uncooked grain of rice, making the most disgusting smacking sound. Smack -as her tongue tried to force out the grain from between her teeth to suck on its disgusting shell again, and again –for hours.
She never took me seriously, constantly mocking my eight-year-old intelligence. Sometimes before she left to run errands I’d innocently ask her,
“Where are you going?”
And sure enough, every time she’d reply,
“I’m going to get old”.
Every time, no matter how many times I asked, no matter how frustrated I became –I might even have cried once.
One night I woke up to the sound of her screaming “Mickey! Mickey!” and thought that because her voice was naturally loud and obnoxious, she was just having a laugh with my brother Mike. She yelled my name twice and I too got up to see what was so funny. I find Marilu hysterical in the hall way and she orders Mike and I to get in her room immediately. Frantically she phones the police, then my parents. No sooner, the cops arrive, and my parents just behind them. A few weeks later, I was still hearing the story.
Apparently, Marilu was going downstairs with the baby for a warm bottle of milk, to find a man using the round end of a broom to try and unhook the keys from the wall, through the opened sliding glass window above the kitchen counter –to climb in would have made too much noise on account of all the appliances. He dropped the broom and raised his gun, demanding Marilu give him the keys. She begged him to let her put the baby in the other room first –because that's where the corresponding keys are anyway, she told him. Somehow she managed to sneak away with the keys on the wall in the kitchen and upstairs to call for help –they never caught the guy.
Marilu was our live-in for almost seven years. When we moved to the States she continued to share a room with my sister, and I shared the bathroom in their room with them –I didn’t like this. The older I got, the less I liked her, and the more I avoided her. One day while we were at school, she packed up all her tablecloth dresses, cheap toothpaste and worn out brush, and left. A few days later she returned to embrace my sister, begging my father for her job back. I did not care for her presence any longer, but they all loved her and she stayed, until the second time –that time, she never came back.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Current Events -Are beginning to bore me
A Highlight of CNN's Latest News Tuesday, July 7, 2009
- Jackson memorial draws crowds online
- Fans proved 'I'll be there' for memorial
- L.A. wants help paying for Jackson memorial
- Time: A strange, gaudy and moving farewell
- iReport.com: How are you honoring MJ today?
- AC360°: Jackson kids' lives get more complex
- CNNMoney: Recession fears slam stocks
- Police find more to link suspect to S.C. killings 15 min
- Spy chief's wife blows cover on Facebook
- Former comedian takes oath in U.S. Senate
- Ticker: 7 in 10 Republicans would vote for Palin
- Feehery: Time to move past Palin distraction
- Begala: Palin an impediment to rebuilding GOP
- Figure skating ex-champ charged in drug probe
- Deploying dad begs to see missing girl
- Senate tackles college football's BCS 12 min
- SI: American signs for superpower AC Milan
- Teddy bears conceal millions in heroin
Can Anything really be said here?
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Current Events -What Really Matters
Breaking News -Important News?
CNN's top story today is "Jackson's will answers questions, raises more". Fox news wasn't far behind, with two articles on Afghan villages and the North Korean missiles, and third -"Jacko hid drugs, secret love". That's much more interesting and not nearly as hard to understand!
Yes, we all agree Michael Jackson was an untimely icon world wide. He was a musical pioneer, one of a kind, and kept audience interested well after Thriller with scandal after scandal -fading skin color, child molestation and the Neverland Ranch. Michael Jackson, you will certainly never be forgotten.
But in a time when the state of California alone is sinking faster than the rest of the country -a country that even President Obama himself will admit is "out of money". In a time when we are still at war, when thousands of people are being killed every day; when we have missiles being tested and fired, and nuclear weapons parked but ready. In a time when people should be reading and educating themselves on what is really going on with not just our economic failure, but the rest of the world, instead the media puts out complete coverage on the death of a celebrity.
There is an entire page with links to questions about his life, his death, his will, the legacy, and reaction of others on CNN's home page. Why isn't there a page with answers to REAL questions?
How can we fix our financial debt? What are we doing to end the war?
But then again, the media will probably do a "complete coverage" of Farrah Fawcett's death (that no one seems to care about because Michael Jackson's sudden death was far more exciting and scandalous than a Charlie's Angel slowly dying of cancer) before they bore readers with the important stuff.
CNN's top story today is "Jackson's will answers questions, raises more". Fox news wasn't far behind, with two articles on Afghan villages and the North Korean missiles, and third -"Jacko hid drugs, secret love". That's much more interesting and not nearly as hard to understand!
Yes, we all agree Michael Jackson was an untimely icon world wide. He was a musical pioneer, one of a kind, and kept audience interested well after Thriller with scandal after scandal -fading skin color, child molestation and the Neverland Ranch. Michael Jackson, you will certainly never be forgotten.
But in a time when the state of California alone is sinking faster than the rest of the country -a country that even President Obama himself will admit is "out of money". In a time when we are still at war, when thousands of people are being killed every day; when we have missiles being tested and fired, and nuclear weapons parked but ready. In a time when people should be reading and educating themselves on what is really going on with not just our economic failure, but the rest of the world, instead the media puts out complete coverage on the death of a celebrity.
There is an entire page with links to questions about his life, his death, his will, the legacy, and reaction of others on CNN's home page. Why isn't there a page with answers to REAL questions?
How can we fix our financial debt? What are we doing to end the war?
But then again, the media will probably do a "complete coverage" of Farrah Fawcett's death (that no one seems to care about because Michael Jackson's sudden death was far more exciting and scandalous than a Charlie's Angel slowly dying of cancer) before they bore readers with the important stuff.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
The Current Events Thread (prototype)
I've never really written periodicals.
An attemp.
"Don't Ask and Don't Tell, Because Who Cares?"
If you're gay -just be gay.
When asked to fill standard application forms for a job, one fills out the prevalent information -name, DOB, gender, ethnicity, etc.
It is unusual to question sexual preference.
So why do gay rights activist insist on homosexuals be granted their right to be open about their sexuality?
Like any other company, the United States military is a job -a duty, where sexuality is not relevant to the soldier. Heterosexuals do not go around parading their sexual preference, why must the gay community be so persistent to be known as "different" in trying to not be different at all?
The article on the FOX news site regarding this "Don't ask, don't tell law" originally instated during the Clinton years (1993)states that the law "was intended as a compromise to get around a full ban on gay military service. Gay right leaders, however, have said it is an insult."
Is it? Or is it fair?
Homosexuals are not being discriminated against nor persecuted. They are just limited to the kind of information they can disclose.
Like an employee of Area 51 -they are not allowed to release any information about what goes on at work, homosexuals are not allowed to discuss what goes on out of work.
But more importantly, why is this one of CNN's top stories? Why are we dealing with "can homosexuals be open about their sexuality in the military" over "what the $^@% is going on with our military"?
An attemp.
"Don't Ask and Don't Tell, Because Who Cares?"
If you're gay -just be gay.
When asked to fill standard application forms for a job, one fills out the prevalent information -name, DOB, gender, ethnicity, etc.
It is unusual to question sexual preference.
So why do gay rights activist insist on homosexuals be granted their right to be open about their sexuality?
Like any other company, the United States military is a job -a duty, where sexuality is not relevant to the soldier. Heterosexuals do not go around parading their sexual preference, why must the gay community be so persistent to be known as "different" in trying to not be different at all?
The article on the FOX news site regarding this "Don't ask, don't tell law" originally instated during the Clinton years (1993)states that the law "was intended as a compromise to get around a full ban on gay military service. Gay right leaders, however, have said it is an insult."
Is it? Or is it fair?
Homosexuals are not being discriminated against nor persecuted. They are just limited to the kind of information they can disclose.
Like an employee of Area 51 -they are not allowed to release any information about what goes on at work, homosexuals are not allowed to discuss what goes on out of work.
But more importantly, why is this one of CNN's top stories? Why are we dealing with "can homosexuals be open about their sexuality in the military" over "what the $^@% is going on with our military"?
Monday, June 29, 2009
To California
In pursue of a Malibu Dream House.
A tribute.
Still Plastic and Perfect
It was a perfect society built out of plastic houses and hot pink convertibles you stubbed your toe on countless of times while creeping back from the bathroom late at night. I sat pleasantly alone for hours most days, manipulating their fictional world. Laying in bed every night staring at the dark shadow that was their Malibu dream house.
They were perfect.
Barbie’s long blonde hair falling gracefully on her curving back, big, blue sparkling eyes, pouty lips, perfectly constructed, ideally sculpted –a body only Pam Anderson would ever replicate in Baywatch. And no matter the similarity between each doll, they were always unique in their own way.
The ones my grandmother brought me from Europe and Asia were foreign and exotic. They spoke with an accent and had a pompous glamour. Outdoor Barbie was tough and cool in her red flannel and rubber boots. Teacher Barbie was smart and soft-spoken (but the kids that came in her set were spoiled rotten).
I walked exclusively down the doll isle at toy stores. First admiring the collectables – Lucille Ball Barbie, Marilyn Monroe Barbie. I paced back and forth obsessing over their tiny pleather jackets, frilly fabric and Velcro everything. Their mini rubber boots and plastic shoes that slid right on but never seemed to actually stay on.
Though I was mainly interested in dressing, undressing and redressing the dolls, they often interacted. Barbie with Ken, Barbie with another Barbie –whose name would clearly have to be different because there could only be one Barbie. Ken always perfectly groomed and Barbie never under-dressed, they laid in their plastic bed with a plastic hump at the head for a pillow. Fully dressed in their bed with their feet hanging off the end because somehow they never got the measurements right; laying still, plastic and perfect staring at the dark shadow that was my bed.
A tribute.
Still Plastic and Perfect
It was a perfect society built out of plastic houses and hot pink convertibles you stubbed your toe on countless of times while creeping back from the bathroom late at night. I sat pleasantly alone for hours most days, manipulating their fictional world. Laying in bed every night staring at the dark shadow that was their Malibu dream house.
They were perfect.
Barbie’s long blonde hair falling gracefully on her curving back, big, blue sparkling eyes, pouty lips, perfectly constructed, ideally sculpted –a body only Pam Anderson would ever replicate in Baywatch. And no matter the similarity between each doll, they were always unique in their own way.
The ones my grandmother brought me from Europe and Asia were foreign and exotic. They spoke with an accent and had a pompous glamour. Outdoor Barbie was tough and cool in her red flannel and rubber boots. Teacher Barbie was smart and soft-spoken (but the kids that came in her set were spoiled rotten).
I walked exclusively down the doll isle at toy stores. First admiring the collectables – Lucille Ball Barbie, Marilyn Monroe Barbie. I paced back and forth obsessing over their tiny pleather jackets, frilly fabric and Velcro everything. Their mini rubber boots and plastic shoes that slid right on but never seemed to actually stay on.
Though I was mainly interested in dressing, undressing and redressing the dolls, they often interacted. Barbie with Ken, Barbie with another Barbie –whose name would clearly have to be different because there could only be one Barbie. Ken always perfectly groomed and Barbie never under-dressed, they laid in their plastic bed with a plastic hump at the head for a pillow. Fully dressed in their bed with their feet hanging off the end because somehow they never got the measurements right; laying still, plastic and perfect staring at the dark shadow that was my bed.
Field Trips to Road Trips
I'm moving to California soon. August/September-ish.
I'm scared and nervous, but I sure do love adventures with you.This is a poem I wrote about our first expedition.
Field Trips
Welcomed by the smell
of death and
rotting deer,
flies and ants and
whatever has been feeding on its
decomposing body since
last
we found ourselves here.
The sun is warm.
There's the factory and
the tractor, its
all there,
still there-
as I imagine it will be for quite some time.
The mammal smells worse than before,
the tail more decomposed,
and the bones more exposed.
I had to say
"No, Lucy!"
Or she'd might have played
with them.
Must’a been a mile or two of blues and whites in the sky,
the reds and yellows,
greens and oranges of the trees,
the flying grasshoppers and
busy butterflies on a purple hunt,
then finally,
cheese and wine,
crackers and apples and
cheesy remarks and fruity attempts at something there,
too timid to express.
And then arm in arm.
She hopped along, splashed around.
He filmed, I laughed,
she's cute, I'm happy,
he's intriguing.
And then over the bridge back to reality.
of death and
rotting deer,
flies and ants and
whatever has been feeding on its
decomposing body since
last
we found ourselves here.
The sun is warm.
There's the factory and
the tractor, its
all there,
still there-
as I imagine it will be for quite some time.
The mammal smells worse than before,
the tail more decomposed,
and the bones more exposed.
I had to say
"No, Lucy!"
Or she'd might have played
with them.
Must’a been a mile or two of blues and whites in the sky,
the reds and yellows,
greens and oranges of the trees,
the flying grasshoppers and
busy butterflies on a purple hunt,
then finally,
cheese and wine,
crackers and apples and
cheesy remarks and fruity attempts at something there,
too timid to express.
And then arm in arm.
She hopped along, splashed around.
He filmed, I laughed,
she's cute, I'm happy,
he's intriguing.
And then over the bridge back to reality.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Trip Down Memory Lane
A few years ago, I was very emotional(crazy).
A poem from 2006ish:
Down the toilet:
literally
Upon inspecting what I'd thrown up
last night
I found,
along with the piece of tilapia I had for dinner,
my bloody,
shattered heart,
what was left of my tear ducts,
and the remains of my very first love
I'd ever known.
I paused for a moment contemplating
the contents in the water,
and then I flushed.
TWICE.
Ha.
A poem from 2006ish:
Down the toilet:
literally
Upon inspecting what I'd thrown up
last night
I found,
along with the piece of tilapia I had for dinner,
my bloody,
shattered heart,
what was left of my tear ducts,
and the remains of my very first love
I'd ever known.
I paused for a moment contemplating
the contents in the water,
and then I flushed.
TWICE.
Ha.
Hello. My name is Minna Betancourt and this is a Memoir
Roses Are Red and My Parents Are Blue
I am like a red, red rose and the thorns hide beautifully beneath my petals. Though I bruise easily due to my borderline anemia, I do not bleed. I cry only because it feels good to drain sadness from my eyes, but the pain remains in my fingertips –it makes for good writing. I am a "bitch" they say, heartless and cold. But this arctic soul has one weakness, one beautifully drawn out insecurity forever engraved on my right wrist.
It began sophomore year of high school. I am part of a typical, traditional Hispanic family. My father (stern about table manners and clean presentation) wore Louis Vouitton, my football playing, baseball batting, wrestling jock of a brother liked Lacoste, and my patient, passive, PTA-involved mother settled for Liz Claiborne.
I am in a pair of paint splattered Converse, faded ripped jeans, and a t-shirt that smells of the Goodwill at Flamingo Plaza- the preferred shopping center of "hipsters" and "scenesters" of my kind. Occasionally, and reluctantly, I was in my cheerleading uniform promoting the game of the week. The navy blue polyester skirt and matching shirt stuck itchy and stiff on my body. Big white letters spelling PHS and corresponding white stripes strategically printed on selective parts of the uniform made me feel uncomfortable and out of place. I did not belong in such a thing, but how proud my mother stood when I was out on that field pretending to cheer for the football team I couldn’t have cared any less about, while thinking “get me the fuck out of here!” It was late September of my sophomore year in high school –the end of my cheerleading career, and the start of my decay.
In order to understand my evolution, I must confess the failures and disappointments that came before the final catastrophe. I was suspended from school that infamous sophomore year and kicked off the cheerleading team for smoking pot on a trip to competition –disappointment number one. My mother was devastated, my father (a former hippie turned conservative father) understood, but I was still grounded for what felt like eternity.
No longer having the responsibility of cheerleading practice after school, I was left with too much free time on my hands, and those hands quickly found new hobbies and new friends. I attended local bands' shows more often, along with every other Converse-wearing kid; kids with tattoos to their ears, piercings on their arms and necks and every strange place one can find to penetrate with jewelry; kids with squinty, blood red eyes from smoking too much weed and drug addicted high school drop outs. Slowly, I adapted.
It was around my 17th birthday early April when I decided I needed a piercing –an eyebrow ring –disappointment number two. I thought I was the badest, coolest looking girl around –my parents disagreed and if I didn't take it out before my birthday, I wouldn't be celebrating one. "What's next? Tattoos? Are you going to come home pregnant tomorrow?" they asked. What does sex have anything to do with it? I thought. Sex, drugs and rock and roll right? I mocked them. They forbade me from going anywhere until I took the ring out; they wouldn't even let me go to school. Two days after getting pierced, I took it out. We didn't celebrate my birthday that year.
I let some time pass before my next surprise. It was early June when I became friends with Lauren after landing my first real job at Hollister (a "hip" clothing store). She was three years older, cool and confident. I looked up to her. She new about music and art and fashion, and anyone who was someone in the city.
We spent most afternoons at Tattoo Circus getting high with the artists, admiring their fully painted bodies, wishing for some of our own. Vinny and Eric Thrice were there almost every day working, and every day that I spent with them at the shop, the itch for ink grew stronger. They each had a different version of the logo for Turbonegro (a popular hardcore band, and their favorite). Vinny’s was on his shin. Gordy’s (a common regular who loitered around the shop as much as we did) had it on his calf. And Eric Thrice, having no room left for new work, had it on his left hand. Though Vinny wasn't as experienced as Eric Thrice, I let him design my tattoo.
"I don't know what I want. I want stars, or flowers; something pretty on my wrist. Something that can easily be covered by bracelets" I told him. I knew I wanted it on my wrist. I figure, what is the point of art on your body if you can't even see it? My parents don't have to find out, I'll wear a bracelet around them for the rest of my life I reasoned.
Foolish girl.
It was mid June when Vinny showed me what he had drawn. A simple traditional rose the size of an egg; I couldn't resist. "How much?" I asked him, assuming I would have to come back another time with more money. "Thirty bucks" he said.
Thirty little dollars. I paid thirty dollars to stab my parents in the back.
I don't really remember how I felt after the two and a half hours of painful needles drilling color through thick layers of my skin; I must admit, I was stoned numb and kind of drunk. I slept at Lauren's house that night after making an appearance at a local show to parade around the new addition.
The next morning I went home with an awkwardly big piece of fabric I cut from an old band t-shirt loosely wrapped around my wrist -loosely because it hurt like hell. My brother asked me why I was wearing such a thing and I could not come up with a good enough excuse. When he reached for my arm, I screeched and pulled away. He dragged me outside, and as we stood on the front lawn of my one-story, brick red house I peeled back the blue fabric to reveal the bloody swollen rose that broke my father's heart.
"Tell me it's not real" he prayed.
"It is very real Mike". I got in my car and drove away.
Within fifteen minutes, my mother let out three angry monotone words through her clenched teeth and into my cell phone.
"Come home now".
When I got home she made me undress down to my skin. I stood completely naked, utterly humiliated as she checked for more tattoos. There weren't any more. There would never be anymore. I pulled up my pants, buttoned my shirt, and my parents sat their three children down for a "family conference" in the living room. My dad cried, my mom smoked, my sister stared blankly at the walls too young to understand the damage I had caused, and my brother hung his head low in utter disappointment -he didn't look at me once. My mother cried, my father smoked and I have never been more ashamed in my life.
It's been four years since that miserable day in June and this wilted rose has slowly recovered.
"At least it's pretty", my mom tried to convince herself a few years ago, and just recently she began to justify my untraditional appearance with my enrollment at a prestigious art university. "You look like the ideal artist Minna –ripped jeans, paint stained t-shirt, dirty sneakers and tattooed," she laughs.
Though I bruise easily due to my borderline anemia, I do not bleed, but that day in June I did; and the blood came as tears and those tears I shared with my parents. I am still a red, red rose because the thorns that hide beautifully beneath my petals, will forever prick my parent's hearts.
Roses are red, my parents were blue, now they're indifferent and I still love my tattoo.
I am like a red, red rose and the thorns hide beautifully beneath my petals. Though I bruise easily due to my borderline anemia, I do not bleed. I cry only because it feels good to drain sadness from my eyes, but the pain remains in my fingertips –it makes for good writing. I am a "bitch" they say, heartless and cold. But this arctic soul has one weakness, one beautifully drawn out insecurity forever engraved on my right wrist.
It began sophomore year of high school. I am part of a typical, traditional Hispanic family. My father (stern about table manners and clean presentation) wore Louis Vouitton, my football playing, baseball batting, wrestling jock of a brother liked Lacoste, and my patient, passive, PTA-involved mother settled for Liz Claiborne.
I am in a pair of paint splattered Converse, faded ripped jeans, and a t-shirt that smells of the Goodwill at Flamingo Plaza- the preferred shopping center of "hipsters" and "scenesters" of my kind. Occasionally, and reluctantly, I was in my cheerleading uniform promoting the game of the week. The navy blue polyester skirt and matching shirt stuck itchy and stiff on my body. Big white letters spelling PHS and corresponding white stripes strategically printed on selective parts of the uniform made me feel uncomfortable and out of place. I did not belong in such a thing, but how proud my mother stood when I was out on that field pretending to cheer for the football team I couldn’t have cared any less about, while thinking “get me the fuck out of here!” It was late September of my sophomore year in high school –the end of my cheerleading career, and the start of my decay.
In order to understand my evolution, I must confess the failures and disappointments that came before the final catastrophe. I was suspended from school that infamous sophomore year and kicked off the cheerleading team for smoking pot on a trip to competition –disappointment number one. My mother was devastated, my father (a former hippie turned conservative father) understood, but I was still grounded for what felt like eternity.
No longer having the responsibility of cheerleading practice after school, I was left with too much free time on my hands, and those hands quickly found new hobbies and new friends. I attended local bands' shows more often, along with every other Converse-wearing kid; kids with tattoos to their ears, piercings on their arms and necks and every strange place one can find to penetrate with jewelry; kids with squinty, blood red eyes from smoking too much weed and drug addicted high school drop outs. Slowly, I adapted.
It was around my 17th birthday early April when I decided I needed a piercing –an eyebrow ring –disappointment number two. I thought I was the badest, coolest looking girl around –my parents disagreed and if I didn't take it out before my birthday, I wouldn't be celebrating one. "What's next? Tattoos? Are you going to come home pregnant tomorrow?" they asked. What does sex have anything to do with it? I thought. Sex, drugs and rock and roll right? I mocked them. They forbade me from going anywhere until I took the ring out; they wouldn't even let me go to school. Two days after getting pierced, I took it out. We didn't celebrate my birthday that year.
I let some time pass before my next surprise. It was early June when I became friends with Lauren after landing my first real job at Hollister (a "hip" clothing store). She was three years older, cool and confident. I looked up to her. She new about music and art and fashion, and anyone who was someone in the city.
We spent most afternoons at Tattoo Circus getting high with the artists, admiring their fully painted bodies, wishing for some of our own. Vinny and Eric Thrice were there almost every day working, and every day that I spent with them at the shop, the itch for ink grew stronger. They each had a different version of the logo for Turbonegro (a popular hardcore band, and their favorite). Vinny’s was on his shin. Gordy’s (a common regular who loitered around the shop as much as we did) had it on his calf. And Eric Thrice, having no room left for new work, had it on his left hand. Though Vinny wasn't as experienced as Eric Thrice, I let him design my tattoo.
"I don't know what I want. I want stars, or flowers; something pretty on my wrist. Something that can easily be covered by bracelets" I told him. I knew I wanted it on my wrist. I figure, what is the point of art on your body if you can't even see it? My parents don't have to find out, I'll wear a bracelet around them for the rest of my life I reasoned.
Foolish girl.
It was mid June when Vinny showed me what he had drawn. A simple traditional rose the size of an egg; I couldn't resist. "How much?" I asked him, assuming I would have to come back another time with more money. "Thirty bucks" he said.
Thirty little dollars. I paid thirty dollars to stab my parents in the back.
I don't really remember how I felt after the two and a half hours of painful needles drilling color through thick layers of my skin; I must admit, I was stoned numb and kind of drunk. I slept at Lauren's house that night after making an appearance at a local show to parade around the new addition.
The next morning I went home with an awkwardly big piece of fabric I cut from an old band t-shirt loosely wrapped around my wrist -loosely because it hurt like hell. My brother asked me why I was wearing such a thing and I could not come up with a good enough excuse. When he reached for my arm, I screeched and pulled away. He dragged me outside, and as we stood on the front lawn of my one-story, brick red house I peeled back the blue fabric to reveal the bloody swollen rose that broke my father's heart.
"Tell me it's not real" he prayed.
"It is very real Mike". I got in my car and drove away.
Within fifteen minutes, my mother let out three angry monotone words through her clenched teeth and into my cell phone.
"Come home now".
When I got home she made me undress down to my skin. I stood completely naked, utterly humiliated as she checked for more tattoos. There weren't any more. There would never be anymore. I pulled up my pants, buttoned my shirt, and my parents sat their three children down for a "family conference" in the living room. My dad cried, my mom smoked, my sister stared blankly at the walls too young to understand the damage I had caused, and my brother hung his head low in utter disappointment -he didn't look at me once. My mother cried, my father smoked and I have never been more ashamed in my life.
It's been four years since that miserable day in June and this wilted rose has slowly recovered.
"At least it's pretty", my mom tried to convince herself a few years ago, and just recently she began to justify my untraditional appearance with my enrollment at a prestigious art university. "You look like the ideal artist Minna –ripped jeans, paint stained t-shirt, dirty sneakers and tattooed," she laughs.
Though I bruise easily due to my borderline anemia, I do not bleed, but that day in June I did; and the blood came as tears and those tears I shared with my parents. I am still a red, red rose because the thorns that hide beautifully beneath my petals, will forever prick my parent's hearts.
Roses are red, my parents were blue, now they're indifferent and I still love my tattoo.
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