Why Do Celebrities Pose for Maxim?

The answer can't quite be money or attention. They're already rolling in both.

Then again, of course the answer is attention. It's a popular magazine. Millions of people read it. What other reason could there be?

It just makes my heart sink a little is all. Not that there's anything so incredibly grotesque in provocative pictures, but just why? Why did Michelle Branch pose for Maxim? She's a talented person. She achieved a lot of success at a very young age. I may not like her music, but the fact remains that millions of people do (or did). Why did she do it? Why did Helena Bonham Carter do it? Such an interesting and talented lady who actually turned down a good leading role because of it's sexual content. Why did Laura Prepon do it?

I sort of stop short here. I don't really want to imagine the reasons why. For one thing, the easiest explanations are these sort of animal-based theories. "Well, you see, women are genetically programmed to make themselves available to mates..." Which are pretty-well nauseating. And also cop-outs. Women aren't genetically programmed to whore it up to attract mates, though some people really seem to enjoy the idea that we are. In Maxim's case, these women are already celebrities. It's not like Maxim is going to attract more "mates" for them. The whole idea behind the magazine is that their existing fame is going to sell copies.

And maybe there's something in that. The existing success of these women is what makes Maxim successful. Maybe there's something just a little bit gratifying in knowing, in owning, the fact that your mere presence can generate millions of dollars. This is as opposed to the Playboy Bunnies, the girls that just want to get noticed. In Maxim, the women are already noticed, they've already earned millions, they already feel validated in their worth. Maybe, for them, Maxim is just a nod at what makes them so successful.

Anyway, I think that explanation could work for some of Maxim's cover models. Like, maybe it works for Bonham Carter.

It's a shaky theory at best. I mean, it is my general suspicion that posing in this way usually speaks for a lack of character. I guest not always, and definitely not to say that you or I have any more character than these women. But I can't imagine the celebrities that I respect most actually posing half-nude in a magazine. I mean, can you imagine a young Bob Dylan posing mostly nude in Maxim? Really, imagine a young naked musician trying to clothe himself with his arms in a provocative way. Not that he's the celebrity I most respect, but it is bizarre to imagine him using his body to sell magazines.

If equality is where we're headed, I would rather famous women stop posing for Maxim than famous men start.

The product of two squares equals a square

In case you're wondering, yes, x^2*y^2 will always equal c^2 where x, y, and c are all integers. I know this question was just eating you up, so let me tell you how I know:

x^2*y^2 = (x*x)*(y*y) = (x*y)*(x*y) = (x*y)^2

So, more specifically, c=x*y.

Look, I just know what the people want to know, and I feel it incumbent on me to give it to them.

Canyon Lake

Eat river rocks. That’s what they told her. Eat them or we will kill you. What was left to do? Texas river rocks are jagged, corroding chunks of limestone. Not the smooth black and grey stones she imagined would be in Oregon. The kind that slide tidily down your throat. If she had lived, her esophagus would have never recovered. But the point was that she should not. The stones filled her abdomen from the uterus to the sternum. If the internal damage were not enough, they threw her in the water. Not river water. Shallow Texas rivers which you can wade in shorts. No, they threw her in dammed water. Deep dammed water, but such a pretty green!

She did not want to die, and even knowing that she would, she gave her body the chance that she could. She gulped fragrant Texas air, calmly. Calmly. She tried to conserve energy in the middle of a damned lake. She knew that her lungs were flotation devices, and that the point of the rocks was to weigh them down, she knew, too, that her stomach was torn open. That rocks had spilled into the rest of her body. It wasn’t long before she could feel the rocks in her biceps tumbling their way down into her fingertips, but she didn’t want to die. She really didn’t want to die. So she just kept swimming, calmly, but the rocks were multiplying inside of her. She could feel them pressing around her lungs, keeping her from taking as deep of a breath as she liked. By the time she could feel the rocks in her feet, they had also made her cold. But she didn’t want to die. Her calves, her chest, even her head, were now all filled with river rocks. The bank was a long way away.

It was the rocks in her head that did it. They must have clouded her thinking. Because she didn’t want to die, and the surface of the water felt so nice. Almost warm. There, right there she could feel a little sun-warmed pocket in the water. And if she could just rest her head on the glassy surface, and take a nap in the warm water pocket, then she could rest, and she wouldn’t have to die. She only meant to rest. Her muscles were so full of rocks, and her body hurt so bad. The blood was trickling up out her throat. By the time she understood that she could not rest here, it was too late. No one would even have been able to see her struggle inside the lake. Her head was beneath water, and kick as she would, the rocks would not let her resurface. She tried to will them out of her body, she clawed at her own stomach, gouging nails into her own flesh in a desperate attempt to spill the rocks from her body. Then she gagged and sucked in a pointed stream, and her lungs spasmed in an attempt to expel water. And even with the spasming lungs, she did not want to die. Her limbs struggled violently to return to the surface, but the rocks stilled them. A wave rode over her brain from the inside, and her body went limp. She wafted to the bottom like a sheet of paper, but her eyes were open wide, and she did not sleep.

Note to Tacky-Ass Neighbors

I hate your wind chimes. They are not classy. They are not cute. They do not grace the breeze with their melodious voice. They are an out-of-tune clanging, a jarring noise on an otherwise peaceful and beautiful day.

I cannot fathom what possessed you to put them up. OUTSIDE of all places. You think you're sharing something cute with the rest of us? Have you LISTENED to those damn things? The wind, IT weaves a beautiful song on days like these. But I can't fucking HEAR it because your idea of sharing beauty with your neighbors is hanging Wal-Mart's trash in your backyard.

Yellow Bird

Darling, if I could, I would cradle your head in my lap behind the arches in my knees. I'd cup my body over you, and make a home for you here. Beneath my wishbone. A cavern of stars in my chest. There would be enough tender gestures to make you cry. If I could.

There are raisins behind my wishbone right now. Twenty year old raisins. Oh, they're sweet all right darling, and stale, and rock hard. And when you suck some juice back into them, what are they still but raisins?

Note to Too Cool Cat Watching the Superbowl in My Living Room:

Old does not equal lame.

Open-faced joy does not equal nerdy.

The Boss does not equal irrelevant has-been.

I'd thank you to keep your lameness to yourself since I do enjoy Bruce Springsteen.

Your jokes wouldn't even be funny to someone who doesn't like Bruce, so it's just an all around waste. I wish Elliott Smith was watching the Superbowl in my living room. Or Brandi Carlile. I'm pretty sure they would know the difference between Cool and Cynical. They'd understand the strength of character it takes to step on a stage like that without the pretense that they are superior to their audience. Not having that pretense doesn't make a performer vulnerable or weak, Cool Cat, so who are you playing the vulture for?

Girls

Her imagination had failed her. It was hard to say exactly when, but it was possible to draw a definite line between the glowing ambitions of the 14 year-old girl and her 24 year-old counterpart. The girl had the sense to resist the influence of her mother, for one. The girl had known that the mother was crazy, and though a loving mother, and one to be loved in return, not the type of mother who is a good example on how to live your life. Certainly not the type of mother into who's hands you put your life like so much clay to be molded and fire-hardened.

The 24 year-old version did not know these things.

She had been sidetracked. She had been hurt. She had looked for shelter, but found none. Her imagination failed her when she failed to realize that if you don't see shelter, it is always an option to make some. Instead, she had returned to live beneath the mother's wing, and all that the mother asked in return was that she hand over her un-sculpted clay-life. The 24 year-old refused to address the error in doing so. But such is weakness, and we all know it well.

And what can a sideline observer do to alter this burning course in self-destruction? Bear witness? The imperfections in the observer form gigantic crater-like blemishes on the plane of their relationship. The greatest imperfection is not knowing how to span them.

The relationship is doomed to die. The Observer and the 24 year-old with the once-beautiful imagination. When you are 24 and tell people that something inside of you has died, as if that's not news, tragic, or anything but matter-of-fact... what is left to save? You have already moved beyond even grieving for the dead thing inside of you. One can only hope that it's a winter-time death, but if you're telling them, then it's because they are not your Spring. They cannot bring it back to life. The Observer is not the 24 year-old's Spring. What is left to say?

The 24 year-old cuts glances at the Observer with such slitted little eyes. She is weary of her witness. She is irritable and weary of everything around her, and her once-beautiful imagination is shriveled inside of her, a tender bud faced with winter cold.

RE:

Friend, are you there? Can you hear me? Come in Friend. The static is running high, between my temples, between my legs... Wait, what? Between my legs? That doesn't sound right. Scrambled eggs with jellied slug for breakfast. Bagels with cream jizz. A bleak bleak sort of morning. That's the theme. Cynical, too. Oh God, what an infectious disease cynicism is. More viral than AIDS, and only slightly easier to cure. Recession occurs in 98% of the cases. But you know that. You know because you lay on your bed unwilling to get up and face the litany streaming through your head.

Never good enough, you are never good enough, you are Never Good Enough. The insecurities run cracks through your core. Slide their claws into one, apply a little pressure, and VOILA! They have split you open to be served like Maine Lobster. Are your insides cooked? I think they are raw. The cold. The snow turned grey slush by dawn, and the infernal wind threatening to overthrow your grip on self control.

High Tensile Fencing

The fear, tension, and anger are too much. I didn’t want to get up today. I should not have had coffee today.

My brain. My brain is buckling. I am balking. Like a pack mule on a trail I am balking, and the cliff’s edge is there. I am balking, stubbornly, but I have the consciousness of the passenger on my back. I feel the terror and the stubbornness. So I am human. Adult human at that, bearing witness to dichotomy. But the anger is quickening between the salted capillaries in my chest. Hardened with bad health. I do not want this. I do not want that. If I had something to say, I would be saved. Some vision to pass on to the world. But it would kill me to make a living by just stringing adjectives together.

Do I have writers block? Is this writers block? I don’t have anything to SAY!!! It makes me miserable. I do not want to bend my talent around pretty sounds. I want to be Billy Holiday, she made pretty sounds that communicated her soul. She lent her depth to the material. She was more than a crooner. More than Conor Oberst’s poet. I don’t want to be that poet either. Dickinson, yes. Plath, yes. A person who’s sensitivities only serve to heighten the pain of their own demise, NO! The joy in pain, I think that is what he fears. I will follow his example, I will fear it, too. It seduces me so. The pain that I stroke like a soft kitten in my chest. I nurture it and relish it, and it makes me ugly. In Jesse, I finally found a good mirror. I look at myself like that, and I see the warts on my face, the pink membranes sagging beneath my eyes. That is why I will follow Conor Oberst’s example and despise that poet, too.

I would have no problem bending characters to my will if I only had a message for them to deliver! Gumby dolls with a soft wire skeleton. I could manipulate, I could create, I could deliver life, if I only had a reason to. And you cannot fake it. You cannot fake a reason. In desperation, I tried. The attempt zapped part of my soul into paralysis. I will not try again. Though I cannot escape the feeling, all ugly and strangled inside of me, I do not want to communicate it with the world. How will I get it out? Like TB, it is. Constricting my chest.

I Loathe Lazy Pit Bull Owners

Pit Bull owners who don't believe that Pit Bulls are more aggressive than most dogs, offend me. There's no way to verify this, but I suspect some GIGANTIC percentage of the Pit Bulls who attack people belong to these owners. There's nothing inherently BAD about the breed, they are simply more aggressive than most dogs. If you are unable to reconcile this fact with the image of your precious pet, I suggest a nice toy poodle.

This is for the edification of you non-believers.

These statistics are derived from the Merritt Clifton report on dog attacks. While he has his critics--and I do think you can effectively argue that he has at least some level of bias against Pit Bulls--his raw data is just fact. The data is drawn from media reports and only includes instances where the breed was definitely identified. Thus eliminating the proposed "media bias." The data also excludes cases where the dogs were trained specifically to fight. "Attacks" refers only to humans, and includes all fatalities, maimings, and other injuries requiring hospitalization.

Of the 2,209 attacks recorded 1,110 were committed by purebred Pit Bull terriers. There were 90 other species and mixes in the data. Just over 50% were committed by ONE BREED. Even if you allowed for a 10% margin of error in favor of Pit Bulls (an extremely generous margin), the data is still definitively in support of the "Pit Bulls are aggressive" theory. In fact, you'd have to argue at least a 30% margin of error to disprove it.

Those of you who love to argue will point out that Pit Bulls are large and extremely popular. Therefore, such data is skewed against them. "They attack more because there are more of them. They hurt more because they're strong." However, Pit Bulls are no larger or more popular than Retrievers (Golden and Labrador). Retrievers committed 32 attacks. A whopping 1% of the data.

Let's try to arrange the data in the Pits' favor. We include only the popular breeds on the list: Retrievers, German Shepherds, Beagles, Dachshunds, Boxers, Poodles, and Rottweilers. In which case, Pits were involved in 67.2% of the attacks, Retrievers 1.9%, German Shepherds 3.8%, Beagles 0.1%, Dachshunds 0.2%, Boxers 1.9%, Poodles, 0.1%, and Rottweilers 24.8%.

Well this data is very telling. Compared to other popular breeds, Pits are way, waaaaaayyyyyy more likely to attack a person. In fact, the data could suggest that Pit Bulls are popular BECAUSE of this. Hmmmm, maybe this all relates to how Pit Bulls are valued as effective guard dogs.

So we have a strong counter-argument to the inevitable claim that "statistics don't tell us anything" about dog attacks. Yes, they do. They tell us that otherwise comparable breeds are not involved in anything even remotely close to the number of attacks that Pit Bulls are. This is the kind of definitive empirical data that scientific theories are based on. In fact, the data is soooo conclusive that a theory shouldn't have even been required. Common sense should have sufficed.

So let's conclude. Love your Pit Bull, cherish her, hug her, and snap adorable pictures of her taking a nap with a kitten. But for fuck's sake be honest about what you've got. You've chosen to love a high-maintenance dog. That's fine with me as long as YOU take responsibility for her. She requires more supervision, work, and money than your average dog. If every Pit owner would just ADMIT that, there wouldn't be so many goddammed news articles about Pit Bull attacks, and no one would be pushing for BSL.

PS:
YES small dogs probably bite people three times more often than Pit Bulls. However, they don't make the news because no one gets seriously injured when their miniature dachshund snaps at them. Therefore, small dog aggression is a non-issue, and no one cares. And, Yes, there are many aggressive breeds that I have not mentioned: Chows, Sharpeis, Akitas, etc. Again, their behavior is not relevant to the argument that Pit Bulls are aggressive.

PPS:
My mutt is a Pit Bull mix, and he's a wonderful pet.

Interlude

Well, since the only inspired things I have to say are attacks, I may as well become a song-and-dance gal, eh? The fat bear in a bowler on a bicycle. Danny-O Pianny-O.

It would be better, is all I'm saying. Harboring bitterness is like holding a cobra by the tail. Sure, it's lithe muscley figure gives you power when it's striking outward, but what about when you're alone with it? When the muscles contract and whip backward, teeth first. And the thing is, those sessions alone with you are what give your bitterness it's bite. So now we arrive at the image of a snake eating itself. Infinity. Hopeless infinity, not wondrous infinity.

Now you see why I should be Danny-O. Because the bear is not bitter. She's a buffoon. She lacks the iron ribcage, sinks inward into drool and blubber. But really, that's a step backwards after all, isn't it? Better to be the cynic. The critic. Bitterness is a crutch. Crutches hurt. So they're a source. That's why it's so easy to depend on them.

What's a step forward? Carson McCullers. Except that she's bounds forward. Not one measley step. The step forward and the step back look so similar when you're standing right there on the path, that's the problem. Either way, the bitterness must leave before it consumes you whole. That is unquestionable. I can't name the step forward, it's so miniscule. We'll just have to say Carson McCullers. She is forward, beautiful.

I remember the first time I understood that not everyone believes that having a beautiful soul is the most important thing in the world. I don't remember the person, but the reverberations are in me still. They manifest as doubt. They have to because I don't understand. If I can't understand, I can't know. Of course, feeding yourself could be the most important thing in the world, if you're more practical. But I'm speaking of ideals, not necessities. Only it's a fact that the two intersect, no matter how much I like to imagine them as parallel. It is not so simple when your family is starving, or being slaughtered, or being fucked out of existence in a million different ways. Generous as I'd like to be, I'm insulated from all that. I cannot speak to it. And if you're insulated like me, and you don't believe in the importance of your soul, then I don't understand you.

Too many of us are too weak to live up to our ideals, though. How did that happen to us? Nature or nurture? I'm learning that questions and writing are useless if you can't live it.

Newsflash Luke Wilson: Your Acting is Mind-Numbing

Idiocracy. The Wendell Baker Story. Whatever-the-fuck movie it was that I saw you in last night. You play one role: Luke Wilson. And you know what else? I don't mind if you insult me in a comedy, so long as you make me laugh, too. Let's just say that I'm not going to be developing a six-pack by watching your boring dead pan.

Hey, you know, I'm boring, too. Dead pan is my first choice if I'm telling a joke. The difference between us is that, I don't have jowls of steel, and I'm not trying to pass myself off as a comedian. You know when you're good? When Wes Andersen has the good sense to cast you in roles where your characterless silence can be interpreted as depth. We all want to believe that your true-blues harbor a deep and generous soul. You just gotta know your strengths, Luke. And you should know this right now: comedy is not it. Heart-throb could be, but you clearly aspire to more. Create yourself as you will, but please stop releasing these gawd-awful humorless "comedies." I can't even imagine that you laughed when you were making them.

Insecure Status -- The Lodestone of Racism

Someone posted this on a forum. I get about 2 or 3 emails like these a year, and I'm just fucking sick of it. Newsflash to author: The fear of losing your place in society is THE ULTIMATE PILLAR of racism. Hence, there is EVERYTHING "improper" about your little racist diatribe.

Enjoy reading:

Proud To Be White.

Someone finally said it. How many are actually paying attention to this? There are African Americans, Mexican Americans, Asian Americans, Arab Americans, etc. And then there are just Americans. You pass me on the street and sneer in my direction. You Call me 'White boy,' 'Cracker,' 'Honkey,' 'WhiteTrash,' 'White Shit,' 'Whitey,' Caveman' ... And that's OK. But when I call you, Spook, Nigger, Eggplant...You call me a racist. You say that whites commit a lot of violence against you, So why are the ghettos the most dangerous places to live? You have the United Negro College Fund. You have Martin Luther King Day. You have Black History Month. You have Caesar Chavez Day. You have Yom Hashoah. You have Ma'uled Al-Nabi. You have the NAACP. You have BET. If we had WET (White Entertainment Television) we'd be Racists. If we had a White Pride Day, you would call us racists. If we had White History Month, we'd be racists. If we had any organization for only whites to 'advance' OUR lives we'd be racists. We have a Hispanic Chamber of Commerce, a Black Chamber of Commerce, and then we just have the plain Chamber of Commerce. Wonder who pays for that? A white woman could not be in the Miss Black American pageant, but any colour can be in the Miss America pageant. If we had a college fund that only gave white students scholarships you know we'd be racists. There are over 60 openly proclaimed Black Colleges in the US. Yet if there were 'White colleges' THAT would be a racist college. In the Million Man March, you believed that you were marching for your race and Rights. If we marched for our race and rights, you would call us racists. You are proud to be black, brown, yellow and orange, and you're not afraid to announce it. But when we announce our white pride, you call us racists. You rob us, carjack us, and shoot at us. But, when a white police officer shoots a black gang member or beats up a black drug-dealer running from the law and posing a threat to society, you call him a racist. I am proud. But you call me a racist. Why is it that only whites can be racists? There is nothing improper about this e-mail. Let's see which of you are proud enough to send it on."

SycamoreBreeze in:

Seriously? How about you take the energy you spent writing this Piece-Of-Shit article, and use it to research the course of racism in this country? If you did that, you might be interested to learn that "White Pride" was the unofficial slogan of the KKK, that it is synonymous with "White Supremacy," and therefore suggesting we have a "White Pride" parade is either extraordinarily racist, or, what's more likely--extraordinarily ignorant. Surely, you are ignorant, because anyone with a 3rd grade education could tell you that the point of celebrating MLK Day is to commemorate a major national milestone in living up to the ideal of equality. That's sort of a founding principal of this country, so you actually spit in the face of what it means to be American when you imply that MLK Day is a "Black holiday." You are clearly discussing an issue too delicate and complex for your reptilian brain to grasp, and you should probably stop before you hurt yourself. For real.

Oh, and ummmm: St. Patrick's Day, Washington's B-Day, Lincolns B-Day, Columbus Day, Valentine's Day. All decidedly "White" holidays (by your somewhat remedial standards). My question to you is: Did you forget about these holidays while you were whining about the gross injustice of Cesar Chavez Day? Or do you think a holiday is only racist if it's named after a non-white person?

I just know that you're 40 years old, and have some form of higher education, which kind of makes all of this inexcusable. So I've got some bad news for you and your little insecurities: We have reached a point in the progress of our culture where we can finally start treating people like you as the pariahs that you are. You should be called out on your BS, and made to feel ashamed. You should do some soul-searching, see a psychologist, go to AA, whatever it takes. Just stop shitting your bigotry on my country.

Souled Out!!!

Connor Oberst, if you happen to read my little blog (and statistically speaking, you almost certainly will), could you please tell me who you're talking to in "Souled Out!!!"?

I can't tell.

An appropriately piqued imagination creates things which are divine. Or as close as is humanly possible.

A flow that is riveted in place is... toxic. Little blue jean rivets damming up battery acid.

I just don't know that I believe that my consciousness will follow me into the next stage. The one after life. I am irrevocably a part of this system of galaxies, at least for the next several million years. The energies that are concentrated in me, though, they can disperse. Even if there's a God, I don't know that I can take my consciousness with me. But let's not ponder the possibility of God. Enough is said about that.

Dear Capitalist Pig

Dear Capitalist Pig,

You hopeless fucking moron, when you were exulting in Ayn Rand’s philosophical exoneration of your greed you forgot the code of morality implicit in her portrayal of capitalism. You deserve a swift shotgun explosion in the face for your ignorance.

Ayn Rand did not imagine that you would stoop so low as to be the Big Guy preying on the Little Guy. When she encouraged deregulation, it was with the idea that it would allow the Capable to create Capital. She did not imagine that you, Capitalist Pig, would fancy yourself a magician, and invent money that didn’t exist in the pockets of the Little Guy. Now, the whole [American] system is contemplating what it will be like to go to hell in a hand basket. And it’s thanks to you. Way to fuck it up Capitalist Pig. Incidentally, I do hate insulting pigs by calling you one, but I’m only drawing on the image, after all: Fat and wallowing in filth, isn’t that right, Piggy?

I do believe Rand explained her idea of morality in some great detail. But what did that have to do with you? You were out to make money, not to earn a seat among the righteous.

And Mrs. Rand, if you happen to be listening: I told you so. That world that you believed in? The only one you believed existed? That’s not OUR world. If you had pulled your head out of your clitoris, you’d have known that. You were a novelist Mrs. Rand. A group of people notorious for inventing their own reality. To tell the rest of us that your reality was The One True Light, was sheer folly. I know, I know, you spent a lot of time developing your philosophy. But your true love was fleshing out reality as you wanted to see it, not pinning down reality as it exists. The current events in our world firmly set you in your place as a novelist. I know that your Narcissism doesn’t appreciate this posthumous wing-clipping, but you’ll just have to deal.

With All the Best Wishes (that you both deserve),
An Observer

Liar, Liar

Dear Democracy,


Someone once put it succinctly for me: You, Democracy, are based on the premise that the average person can tell right from wrong.


That rang true. True and simple. Still, Americans are managing to fail you Democracy. And I know part of the reason. Obviously, you can Only work if we have honest leaders. How can I tell right from wrong if my leaders are lying to me?


I really think that many honest people are terrified of becoming involved in politics because they fear for their souls. Isn't that sad? I'm not making an argument that you should take Religion to bed with you Democracy, but shouldn't the politicians who champion you have healthy souls? Shouldn't any leader of a people? I get a mental picture of Cheney's soul: Its eyes are the largest, roundest curves on its whole torture-wracked metaphysical body.



People complain that you are falling apart because of voter apathy. Well, I know why I'm apathetic: I don't like being lied to. It insults me. My apathy springs from a lack of desire to dedicate my every free second to sorting through all the lies, half-truths, and misrepresentations this country's leaders throw on my lap daily. I don't even think it's possible. I feel that it's pointless to participate as I am effectively blind. Perhaps this is working to George Bush's advantage, though? This is my new idea, and since I'm at a loss, I'll connect it to a ray of hope.


Becuase I have to admit: I haven't given political participation a try. I haven't had the stomach to so far (not that I would find it terribly appealing at the best of times). But since we do have you, Democracy, and you do depend on my participation, then I am only adding to the problem by not participating at all, aren't I? I believe in you still, Democracy. So I'll give you this much of a try: I'll vote. And not just in November. But it's hard. Because I don't trust any of the candidates.


That's what I can do. With my background and generally mild interest in politics, all that should be expected of me is to tell right from wrong. I can do that. So we'll see if my ability can even be applied to American democracy today.

Your Pal,
Non-Enthused Voter

Theism

Someone upstairs controls the trajectory of our lives. They like car crashes.

Schooling

They trained me to go straight and true. Tread a soft path, light footprints, into the market. I yielded with all the willingness of a person who asks. Straight and true and proud, tender shining flesh, treading into the market.



But now nostalgia is a heavy metal patina coating my tongue. Sealing my throat. And my daydreams are heavy. The kind of thick enveloping cloud that accompanies a hurricane. I can only hope that the metaphor is apt. Things are certainly quiet.


What do I do with that? Mediochre material success is beckoning me while I cower in fear of creative castigation.

Hallmark Holiday

So, you think you're clever because you see through Valentine's Day? "The greeting card holiday," you call it, like a punchline. Let me clear this up for you: That line was clever the first time someone said it, and never again. Repeating hearsay doesn't make you clever, my dear, it makes you a parrot.

And let's further deconstruct your puffed out chest: I like holidays. Because I like a reason to celebrate. I like having something pleasant to anticipate. I like cultivating my joy, protracting my joy, and spreading my joy. So what, pray tell, is your point? That my joy is not sincere because, just maybe, Valentine's day was given a little push by Hallmark? I'd say the public welcomed the holiday with open arms. And that's why it is popular. You give Hallmark too much credit.

Instead of your boring cynicism, why not try calling it "The-Evidence-of-the-Good-in-Humanity Holiday"? "The-Proof-that-People-Like-Making-Each-Other-Happy Holiday"? I'm sure with your razor sharp wit, you can come up with something more catchy.

And protest in your own way. Refuse to celebrate by buying love. Refuse to limit your idea of "love" to the person that you want to have sex with. I encourage those things. Just don't shit on my parade. "I don't buy into corporate holidays," is nothing more than the false pretense that people's love for celebration is phony.

orthopedy

My teeth are afloat on a sea of pink. Drifting into tight clusters of throbbing discomfort. You are mistaken in the image of my smile that comes to mind based on that description. If you are trying. The visual record of the drift is miniscule, closely knit as my teeth are. But they are like Musketeers, the little pearls, All for One and One for All.

The current discomfort began on the sparkling shores of a cerulean swimming pool. It was either cerulean or suburban, I can't remember which. But it was a shore, because my older brothers were creating monstrous waves that towered and curled over the screaming egg of my four-year-old body. My sharp little milk teeth were a shining crescent of my delight. So they were fully exposed when I slipped and fell. Shrieking the way I was, you'd think I wouldn't have even been able to hear the crack of my teeth hitting the flagstones. You'd be wrong. The crack embedded itself in my brain. An overtight violin string. The magnifying effect of all the ripping, snapping, and bursting of semi-rigid flesh turning into bloody mush.

Pssst, Hypochondriac

Your handwash kills 99.9% of bacteria on contact. But did you know that that hundredth of a percent amounts to millions of still living bacteria?! That's right, you're not getting as clean as you thought.

Lucky for you, I have this little solution right here. Yep, 15M HCl, Cucumber Melon scent. It's the perfect handwash for yooouuuu.

Every Grain of Sand (Bob Dylan)

In the time of my confession, in the hour of my deepest need
When the pool of tears beneath my feet flood every newborn seed
There's a dyin' voice within me reaching out somewhere,
Toiling in the danger and in the morals of despair.

Don't have the inclination to look back on any mistake,
Like Cain, I now behold this chain of events that I must break.
In the fury of the moment I can see the Master's hand
In every leaf that trembles, in every grain of sand.

Oh, the flowers of indulgence and the weeds of yesteryear,
Like criminals, they have choked the breath of conscience and good cheer.
The sun beat down upon the steps of time to light the way
To ease the pain of idleness and the memory of decay.

I gaze into the doorway of temptation's angry flame
And every time I pass that way I always hear my name.
Then onward in my journey I come to understand
That every hair is numbered like every grain of sand.

I have gone from rags to riches in the sorrow of the night
In the violence of a summer's dream, in the chill of a wintry light,
In the bitter dance of loneliness fading into space,
In the broken mirror of innocence on each forgotten face.

I hear the ancient footsteps like the motion of the sea
Sometimes I turn, there's someone there, other times it's only me.
I am hanging in the balance of the reality of man
Like every sparrow falling, like every grain of sand.

Between the Bars (Elliott Smith)

Drink up baby, stay up all night
With the things you could do
You won't but you might
The potential you'll be that you'll never see
The promises you'll only make
Drink up with me now
And forget all about the pressure of days
Do what I say and I'll make you okay
And drive them away
The images stuck in your head
...

"I'd rather swallow razor blades than drink with you."

Twenty

No rules made, No imposition, No summer lost, No expedition,
No canary cage No flowering rage,

Just the heavy shock of demolition.

Addict

There is a man up the street. He is lanky, and rugged, and his dark eyes flicker between intelligence and ignorance. He prefers the latter. He has a funny sideways way of looking at me when I play with my brother in our driveway, he wants my reassurance. But I cannot give it to him. I see that he is a man who likes to laugh. When his friends come to visit they stand in his driveway smoking cigarettes and laughing. His gestures become very dramatic, a caricature of his lanky scarecrow outline, and his eyes try to cling to the intelligence. They can’t. Because he spends so much time trying to blink it out when his friends aren’t around.

I don’t see much of his wife. She would not attract my attention at all—and I think she tries to make herself that way—if it weren’t for the night my brother and I saw her pass out on her front walk. We were supposed to be in bed, but we were sitting on the roof sharing ghost stories instead. A white car drove up to our neighbor’s house, and she wobbled out. She stood in her driveway smoking a cigarette before she tried to go in, she didn’t look well. The cigarette kept missing her mouth, and once or twice I saw her burn a hole in her long skirt. The moon was bright, but it was hard to see her standing there on the driveway. Her pale glowing face was there, the orange ember on the cigarette kept floating up to it, her body and cigarette were very solid images, but her gestures weren’t. It was very hard to focus on her because the garage door behind her gave off more of an aura. She is a woman who does not try to be anything but her circumstances, and it is hard to see her. 

She fell when she turned to go in. Something went wrong with the way she turned, she forgot to move this foot or that foot, and she landed on her side without letting out a single sound. 

...

Translator

"Las fresas son deliciosas. Deslizan hacia abajo su esófago. Parecen a pequeñas piernas de cangrejo."

"Strawberries are delicious. They slide down your esophagus. They look like little crab legs."

Strawberries are hideous. Their brown little seeds like insect eggs dimpling their ripe skin. Their guts look like the pink stratified flesh of some foreign sea urchin. Alien flesh. Organic vegetable flesh dressed as carne de cangrejo. When you twist the large ones, the dimpled seeds do a lewd little dance while the strawberry throbs like a bug infested heart.

NPR

One can't help but be discouraged when they wake up to hear about the Food Crisis. It's like part of a dream for one who doesn't keep up with the news.

Food crisis?

It's the beginning of a new era in America. The news tingled through her ears, through the last shreds of unconsciousness, and woke her up.

There will be shortage, hunger, miserable pinched faces waiting at soup kitchens. And yours among them. The country may or may not ever recover. This is the beginning of the history books' description of the Depression. Black and white photos that well-fed 10 year-olds simply cannot believe are real.

As she gets dressed, the Depression is already settled, Black, on her stomach.

...

Greatest Fear

In the search of the thing that separates me from you.

"Every snowflake is unique.
"But who ever notices the difference?"
"Blizzard's coming."

Lines from a play written for an audience. But it's true. In the blizzard I constructed the thing that separates you from me. That's not what I wanted. It's the pride in distinction/ignorance of the lack, that prevents me from tearing it down.

A plumed hat exclaims, "How deep!"
"My, yes," costume jewelry sparkles out of melting cleavage, "This child appears to know all the proper footfalls."
"It can pontificate!" The senile old heiress knows. The scent of mothballs is ripe on her paper gown, but her decayed brain still holds a sharp intellect. The one she tried to blunt. Grey glue stiffening around a glittering blade. Anyway, what good is a blade without a hand to wield it? And what good is a sword stuck in stone? And what good does it do to be a unique snowflake in a blizzard, and especially when snowflakes don't have eyes?

Such a question is enough to make the glue around her sword quiver and crack. Meaningless, two-dimensional question presented on an ocean platform. Any diver off this platform will break their neck in the chlorinated wading pool below. A legion of paraplegic recruits to follow me into the underworld. The plumed hat dives. The melted cleavage dives. The heiress frowns. She knows she has to dive with me. Because her blade is encased in polymer glue, because she used it to chop off her right hand, because she chose to do these things. The quivering polymer irritates her brain, makes it feel unwieldy and unreasonably heavy. The scowl on her face as she poises, arms raised, is the last sincere expression she will have access to. She is irate over her descent.

There is some twitching of limbs, some spasmodic nerves resisting sway. Then my disfigured legion rises, drooling, and zombie-like.

You beckon to me with wide open gestures. "Help yourself darling," you have abandoned your paper gown. I wish I had not done this.

Snapped Spine

I killed myself because of the scissored lips that sliced on me and the crippled mass rotting inside of me. When I gave up on those things, that those lips would be splitting plums and the cripple an Olympist, I gave up on everything.

When I blinked and realized the erotic strangle hold that he had on sexism, I gave up. Because of the writhing climax he attains by using his mother as the lightning rod that grounds him. Because he'd rather have that climax than me.

The sluicing eyes look like instinct, they cut away so deftly. There's no twinkle. There's no recognition. They will cleave a channel through you under the guise of a joke. I will let them and laugh. Everyone needs to laugh.

There is a corpse in this room, floating sideways. Tied by the ankle to cement blocks. X-ed eyes and yarn for hair. It's as if he stood up one morning, one perfectly normal morning, blueberries ripe on the bush, but this body stayed weighted behind. Purple stains swelling around these turgid veins.

Veins. That web through. Because of the sluicing, slicing, splitting purple in the plums.

And every open hand clenches into a fist, the taut bonnet of a venomous snake.

New Friend

I could Talk.

I could ... Let open the cracks,

golden, glowing,

running up the tree trunk.

The creaking, springing, flexing,

And crumbling

Widening of tree cracks.

I could Spring

forth. Into bloom.

Like some daily quivering bud

tickling out of fingertips.

I could be watered and shade

All at once.

Fagots*

The anger that nourishes, more than hot milk or breath,
Resides in a hollow
Scooped from the chest.

The substanceless fire lends tongues for a spine,
Wraps,
Licking up your breasts.

The red fang that flourishes, inside fodder so lithe,
Pauses,
lovingly,
To dance in ox-bow pools
Cupped at the crest.



*Fagot (noun): a bundle of twigs bound together and used as fuel.

Letter to Charles Bukowski

Women. How could you do that to me?
Pull me in, speak in promising and beatiful simplicity, and then
dehumanize me.
A dead man stomping on my skull.
"Big Pussy, woman's greatest sin." Becuase, of course, I am reduced to the sexual pleasure I can offer you. But
, Of Course,
the sexual pleasure is not enough,
and I must also stroke your ego by submitting, by degrading, or by demonstrating some monstrous appetite for semen.

Big Pussy, Bukowski? There are about 3.25 billion cunts in the world right now, and they aren't made Big. The insides of a cunt, they close in and kiss each other all day long. There are no cunts out there whistling wide open, presenting a gap bigger than even the smallest of penii. There are no cunts out there with tissue limp and all give like some half-inflated flotation device. No, no, no.

But there are cunts out there with integrity. Not frigid. Not virginal. But women who want to experiment with their sexuality and who wish to maintain their integrity. Or not even so much wish, as are utterly incapable of yielding their integrity for the sake of an orgasm. Not yielding their integrity, of course, is defined as not being able to orgasm for a hung-over fat man flopping around inside their cunt the first time they have sex with him. For the same reason they don't orgasm while watching a mechanic cursing and flailing around on the underside of a car: It's not stimulating.

Big Pussy? No, no, no, Bukowski, let's name it properly: You had inadequate substance. You were swallowed whole in that girl's sexual desire, and your floundering around was the result of you being entirely too small as a man--not a penis--to support the simple demands of her sexuality. But you knew that already, and so had to name it, cast the blame outward, and accuse her of having a Big Pussy. No doubt, you meant for the accusation to cut deeper than an insult to her anatomy.

This makes you the scum floating around the rim of my toilet bowl.

I could have loved you, thought you immortal, absorbed you whole. But you threw that away, having never even met me, and presumed the right to stomp around on my skull.

Battered Woman

The intimate connection of pain,
To a thing.

In some houses, human flesh
Is a delicacy.
The finest of translucent pink oysters
To whet the palate.

The flesh of another watering the mouth,
rolling down the throat,
pumping through the blood
Marries their bodies.
In some houses

Blue Bruises live inside the skin,
Snapshot of a fist.
Hits the base of the skull
Recalls pink ripping cries
Stakes a claim on the heart

With a thick

Black

Chain.

Ocean Liner

Wordless flotation devices are strewn about.
One hisses its deflation into your face. The smell of sweet new rubber makes your mouth water. You grab another and another, but they are all flatulant, empty. The pile of limp polyurethane is growing high behind you, but you can't stop grabbing one, and then another, mute white floatie.

Revolution

He says, "I don't do things," with a wan little grin. With the smug almost-satisfaction of a man who can almost-function. Man? Man? There is no man here. Certainly no boy. What is this thing, limp wet rag. He wipes his superior's ass and later insults the man to rinse it out. Even trying to capture him in words is gross. I can feel him sliding slimy beneath the surface, the node of him avoiding the pressure of my finger. This way and that. I don't understand him. "I don't do things"? And he's proud of this?

We should be specific. Though it's impossible, we should try. "What does not doing things mean to you?" Because while not doing you can work, function, graduate, marry, give birth, start a career, get promoted etc, etc, etc. These seem like actions. They are not. Not for the person who never once dared to want any of these things with a reckless passion that felt like it would destroy them if they didn't get what they pursued.

My pain is being connected to this limp rag. That I have to establish him as Other at all. But it's because I have never dared to want anything with that reckless passion either. It's because I still call a consuming passion for something "reckless" when it is not. It's because I share more experiences with The Rag than the Other. But not for long.

Atheist

Do you heeeaaarrrr the thundah?
I said, Do you heeeearrr the rumbuhle?
Prraaayyyzze be to God on Highah,
Because He hath shined the light on mine own eye-ah.

Rolling iris lands on fat fat rafters,
lands on sagging spread eagle,
lands on sweeping spring alb.

Communion wafers that dissolve on the tongue
Made your mouth water when you were youngue.
Left it all behind when you lifted your head
What will you put in Paradise' stead?

Spring (in the tradition of Shel Silverstein)

Plath was the Breath

Rand was the Fire

Morisson the Joy

Marquez the Desire.

Rilke lent his Hindsight

I had the Pot.

They came and brewed together

I am a blooming forget-me-not!

Soft Proofs

Heathen breath on foreign shores...

No, no, more like the McGraw McGrain McDraw McDrain. Do you see? Do you see?

Don't be stupid.

More like the fall of leaves, dying, on graves.

But have it you're way, cuz I'm lovin' it. Me encanta.

Maybe you could manufacture me?

Assorted stitched limbs from the dying trees

Barbie doll hair strangling out of a perforated head.

You could

Take a survey that tells me how to be

Or enjoy the shade of a sycamore breeze.

Letter

I would say to her, "I tried to write you a letter once about how much I love you. But I was on aderrall, and the words vibrated right off the page." I tried, though, I tried.


I would say, "You think that I don't want your affection, that I am disgusted by human emotion, sadness, 'the funk of life.' That was true. But only of my own funk. If funk comes oozing out of us like molten lava from cracks in the crust, I thought that my flow was toxic, virulent, shameful. Like a veneral disease. I didn't know that it was burned clean and utterly desirable, just like yours. I really didn't know that. So while I was embracing your funk, bathing in it, wallowing in it to show you just how much I loved you, I didn't see the insult implicit in refusing to share. Share my funky disease? My cluster of erupting blisters, oozing putrid puss?"

Shepherd

She is

Smoldering embers in autumn.

The fire inside a chill, the smile that binds,

The muscle that pumps

Life to us all

In her harem.

But in her chest are flayed roots, septic and exposed. And I cannot treat them.

Easter

For the swan legs beaking to the ground. Swollen hipped tables. Egg toes swaying across the sitting room floor. For the golden threaded clock swaying the time of day. You must stay here. Write. Wait.

Sway, sway, sway. This is the word to capture the undulating of the brain in the moments of shyness. When the voices are clear and happy, and you are uncertain that you can contribute to that. Before the first shining light strolls into your room. With your stuffed chair, and you writing. Waiting.

So much Patience!

Sarcasm? Exasperation? What is this exclamation?

Introductions

What you need to know about me.

From my bedroom window, I can see all of Austin. All of Austin that matters.

From my bathroom, too, I can see all of Austin, and nothing is so disturbing as to be a middle class American, sitting on your toilet, and looking out at the world while thinking, "I shit upon you World." This hits a little too close to the truth, and being in that vulnerable position does nothing to shield you from the deep genital shame this induces. The source of all shame--our genitalia. I kid, that is far from being true, but it's easy to believe.

I have an ever-growing list of fatal ailments which "I know I don't have." I don't have a weakened blood vessel running near the base of my skull that will eventually betray me to aneurysm, I tell myself with conviction. No possible way will I learn of the tumor in my spine only after it has metastasized beyond hope. No way because I don't have a spinal tumor. Yes, I pretend to be very much in control of my hypochondria until those brief sweet moments when I imagine what life would be like if I weren't dying of uterine cancer. At such moments, my dimentia has obviously exceeded the bounds of rationalization, and I have the good sense to enjoy the respite my imagination affords me. "Ahhhhh, what if..."




Anyway, the last thing you should know about me is that my dog is at her element when playing the martyr. As is evidenced by this picture of her receiving a bath. She has never looked more in character or displayed a more fully developed personality.