Crank it up:

I went to hear my friend, the delightfully talented Suzanne Stockman, read tonight at a celebration for the literary journal, Cranky. I knew that I'd enjoy her work and that she'd rock the mike--right on both counts--but I was skeptical when I heard that twenty readers were scheduled. Lit readings are sometimes transcendent, but often they feature the kind of self-important wankery Bukowski so brilliantly skewered in "Scum Grief". (Fave line: "Fuck the salmon!") So, I was pleasantly surprised that the Cranky line-up was so strong, with nary a northwest-let's-all-hug piece to be heard. Issue #4 is on the stands now and it's definitely worth grabbing. More:

Cranky Literary Journal

Unfettered heroism:

"TEHRAN, Iran (AP) -- Nobel peace laureate Shirin Ebadi told Iran's hard-line Revolutionary Court on Saturday she won't obey a vague summons on her to appear for questioning, even if it means she will be jailed -- an open challenge to a powerful body that has tried and convicted many pro-reform intellectuals."

More:
CNN.com - Nobel?winner refuses Iranian court - Jan 15, 2005

Just when you thought things couldn't get any more fucked up--ha, ha--they do:

Someone recently told me that ancient Greeks would say, "In the face of stupidity, even the gods rail in vain." I don't know if they really said it--if you're Greek, people tell you these things all the time, as if you're pre-loaded at birth with knowledge of all things Hellenic--but the sentiment expressed is certainly true. Behold, folks are using the tsunami to get laid:

WEEK IN CRAIG: THE ENDLESS CAVALCADE OF BIG BROWN STARS.

The icing:

I keep laughing--in a dark, sardonic way--that my writing goes places that I cannot. So, after another day wherein my legs were numb as fuck, it's a kick to discover that The Slippery Fish has been linked to Cupcake ("the reading series for New York's best women writers") alongside Margaret Cho and Jeanette Winterson and several others whose work I admire. (Scroll down, bottom right):

Cupcake: Because you've had enough chick lit, and it's time for dessert.

Today has been crappy but these made me laugh:

David Ng's "It's a Lucky Thing for Stem-Cell Research that the Following Passages Aren't in the Bible:
It's a Lucky Thing for Stem-Cell Research that the Following Passages Aren't in the Bible

John Moe's "I Was Not Invited Back to That School":
McSweeney's Internet Tendency: I Was Not Invited Back to That School.

Thanks: Part 1, Pete Townshend:

Sporadically throughout 2005, I'm going to write about artists who changed my life. I'll start with Pete Townshend.

In a recent Black Table piece, I described my adolescent self thusly: "...a teenage art-geek. Frizzy haired and studious, I hadn't yet learned to work a prodigious vocabulary and ample rack to my advantage." I had close friends, and for a brief while, a boyfriend, but I felt hopelessly out of place at the uber-prep Catholic high school that my folks insisted I attend.

At various points along the way I was class president and editor of the school paper and one of the leads in the annual musical (performed at The Intiman, natch) and a member of the honor society, but I mostly remember being bored out of my fucking mind. My friends and I were smarter than the teachers and it cast an air of absurdity over the proceedings. I wanted out so badly and I couldn't leave.

Enter Pete.

I was already well-versed in all things Beatles and Stones when said boyfriend gave me a tape of The Who's "Quadrophenia" one day at lunch. When I got home, I popped it in my fake Walkman, wrapped myself in my butterfly quilt and listened to both sides all the way through. I was transfixed. Suddenly, the world was a bit more light.

If I were writing this for publication and not for fun, I'd delve into the mechanics--to the degree that I understand them--of Pete's guitar wizardry, Roger's soaring vocals, John's throbbing bass, and Moonie's frenetic drum assault. But that's not why I'm writing this. What matters to me is that Pete felt like a friend, someone wiser and more scarred who got the joke. Twenty years later, the lyrics to "Cut My Hair" still make me crumble:

Cut My Hair

Why should I care
If I have to cut my hair?
I've got to move with the fashions
Or be outcast.
I know I should fight
But my old man he's really alright,
And I'm still living at home
Even though it won't last.

Zoot suit, white jacket with side vents
Five inches long.
I'm out on the street again
And I'm leaping along.
I'm dressed right for a beach fight,
But I just can't explain
Why that uncertain feeling is still
Here in my brain.

The kids at school
Have parents that seem so cool.
And though I don't want to hurt them
Mine want me their way.
I clean my room and my shoes
But my mother found a box of blues,
And there doesn't seem much hope
They'll let me stay.

Zoot suit, etc.

Why do I have to be different to them?
Just to earn the respect of a dance hall friend,
We have the same old row, again and again.
Why do I have to move with a crowd
Of kids that hardly notice I'm around,
I have to work myself to death just to fit in.

I'm coming down
Got home on the very first train from town.
My dad just left for work
He wasn't talking.
It's all a game,
'Cos inside I'm just the same,
My fried egg makes me sick
First thing in the morning.

More:
Welcome to Petetownshend.com

The Who's Albums & Lyrics

As good a way as any to start the new year:

There's so much that I want to say about the holidays and the tsunami and the fact that my work is going to be heard on NPR later this month, but I'm exhausted and in pain. So, tonight I'll keep it short but no less heartfelt.

Like all of us, I'm praying for peace and an end to famine and disease. On a lighter note, I hope that all of us have an extraordinary year! May 2005 overflow with superb health, artistic and/or professional fulfillment, true love, dirty sex, oodles of cash, a cupboard full of Green and Black chocolate, and a letter from Marc Jacobs asking where to send the free couture. (Wait, that last one is just for me.)

My best to everyone! Good night!

Because animal-named blogs are awesome:

Perhaps hypocritically, I'm not a huge fan of blogs. There are several that I enjoy, but too many are poorly written and banal.

If you're suffering from holiday-induced delirium, though, treat yourself to a jolt of wicked good humor from Darci Ratliff and Heather Havrilesky. You'll laugh so hard you'll shoot egg nog through your nose:

Darci Ratliff's Kittenpants
kittenpants: the site for cats, pants, Keith Gordon

Heather Havrilesky's Rabbit Blog
rabbit blog

JT and Harold:

1) My Poets and Writers interview with my friend, JT LeRoy, is up. We discuss his books, films, past, the subjective nature of fiction and of autobiography, how surviving the streets is akin to war, R. Crumb, Art Spiegelman, Charles Bukowski, James Ellroy, and JT's "Sophie's Choice" moment between Dave Eggers and Billy Corgan:

Poets&Writers, Inc.

2) Read JT's new novella, "Harold's End", when you get a chance: its story wrenches like a meat hook and the language imbeds itself like a great song. Cherry Hood's watercolor illustrations stun and a well-racked smart girl gets thanked on p.95. Mr. Eggers wrote the introduction, too. What more could you want from a literary experience? :)

jt leroy - writing - harold's end

Great moments in diametric opposition:

Last time, I wrote that "An Open Letter to Keith Richards' Immune System" had been linked to a science humor site. Today I discovered it on a Lynyrd Skynyrd message board:

Frynds of Skynyrd - Off Topics

"Analysis and freaky sensitivity/We've got to live on science alone..." --"Scientist", The Dandy Warhols

The editor of the science humor site, The Abhorrent and Secret World of Deoxyribose Nucleic Acid, just emailed me and said that he linked my McSweeney's piece, "An Open Letter to Keith Richards' Immune System", to his publication. (Scroll halfway down and click on "C.F.I.D.S.".)

I read some of their other stuff and I like their smart-geek humor:

Science Humour: The Abhorrent and Secret World of Deoxyribose Nucleic Acid

Brava, L.H!:

Laura Hillenbrand's New Yorker essay on her life with CFIDS, "A Sudden Illness", has been chosen for both the prestigious "Best American Essays 2004" and "Best American Magazine Writing 2004".

"A Sudden Illness" is a masterwork and I'd say that even if I didn't have CFIDS. With eloquence and a slow-burning anger, Hillenbrand lays bare the heartbreak of having one's life--particularly one's youth--upended by incurable illness.

I know someone is going to ask, "If she's so sick how did she write such a long piece?" Answer: It took her two years and she often had to write lying down and/or with her eyes closed to quell the vertigo. Being ill doesn't diminish one's talent: it makes it more difficult to access. If one has the tenacity of a rabid dog, though, great things can happen.

Details:

CFIDS

Amazon.com: Books: The Best American Essays 2004 (Best American Essays)

Amazon.com: Books: The Best American Magazine Writing 2004 (Best American Magazine Writing)

Woo-hoo!:

My new pieces for McSweeney's and for The Black Table both went online today. (Kinda makes up for the fact that I was only able to leave the house for an hour.) Anyway, I'm happy.

"An Open Letter to Keith Richards' Immune System":
McSweeney's Internet Tendency: An Open Letter to Keith Richards' Immune System.

"Who Would I Kill: A Partial List":
DIE! DIE! DIE! MY DARLING... PEOPLE WHO THEY'D LOVE TO KILL.

If the speculation about Ann Coultier turns out to be true, I'll never stop laughing:

One of my favorite authors, Jerry Stahl ("Permanent Midnight", "I, Fatty"), gives a new interview to Salon:

Salon.com Books | "All my heroes were dope fiends"

An excerpt:

"On a more serious note, you have to give Rush [Limbaugh] credit -- he's probably done more to curb the spread of opiate use in this country than anybody. When I was coming up, you had this hipster dope-fiend legacy: Lenny Bruce, Miles Davis, Burroughs, Richards and Nick Cave. Now you've got ... Rush Limbaugh. I mean, who wants to do the same drug as some overfed, unlaid right-wing toady? I can just picture Rush scratching his nose and explaining his anti-immigration policy to the maid he bought his shit from. Buying Dilaudid from your maid -- does it get any more Republican?"

Have yourself a sticky little Christmas:

The Black Table recently ran my piece, "Ivory Christmas", in its monthly "Waxing Off" section. I've posted the link here, as well as the original version, which I prefer. (Two of my favorite lines were cut! Who dares to alter my story of adolescent fake masturbation?)

Anyway, enjoy!

IT'S A FAMILY AFFAIR! THIS ONE GOES OUT TO THE ONES THEY LOVE.

I was a teenage art-geek. Frizzy haired and studious, I hadn't yet learned to work a prodigious vocabulary and ample rack to my advantage. But I had my first real boyfriend, Pete. We discussed Dylan Thomas at lunch and he played King Crimson riffs for me over the phone. I was in love.

My parents, both Greek, both prosecutors, insisted on meeting him. I balked, but relented when my dad threatened to run Pete's license plates. "This house is like a cop show!" I yelled and stormed from the room.

The next day after school, Pete loaded his books into my used Mustang and we drove home. It was two weeks before Christmas and I'd told him my folks wanted to include him in a traditional Greek holiday meal. Once inside, we sat on the living room couch by the Christmas tree. Mom and Dad wouldn't be home for a couple of hours and I thought my brother was at soccer practice.

"You're my other half," Pete said and put his hand on my knee. As we kissed, a moaning sound wafted down the hall. Barely audible at first, it grew louder. I realized it was my brother. "It sounds like someone's jacking off," Pete said, alarmed.

The bathroom door flung open and my brother raced into the room. "Aaaahhhhh!" he yelled and ran toward Pete. His hands were coated in viscous white liquid and he waved them around maniacally. "Pete! I love you, Pete!"

"Is he retarded?" Pete asked frantically, tripping over the hassock in an effort to get away. "I want to give you my baby juice!" my brother continued and chased Pete into the kitchen. I heard my mom's planter knock into a wall.

By now, I knew what was going on. My brother, a smart-ass and more than slightly nuts, was hazing my boyfriend. My boyfriend, however, had no clue.

"Goddamn it, George! Leave him alone!" I called after them. I sprinted into the kitchen, caught George by the shirt and yanked. He stopped and burst out laughing.

"Oh my God! Dude, you should have seen the look on your face!" he told Pete. "Lighten up there, pal. It's just Ivory Liquid. I would have had to crank it eight or nine times to get that much jizz."

"What the hell's wrong with you?" Pete cried, visibly shaken.

Later at dinner, Pete endured my parents' inquisition with aplomb. He made polite conversation with my brother as if nothing had happened. And he left me the next week for a cheerleader.

He said it was because she would blow him. Though perhaps Pete liked his Christmases white, not Ivory.

NYC odds and sods, part 2:

--My first night in town I went to the much-touted Cupcake Reading Series at Lolita on the LES with my friend, Caryn. Martha Witt read from her new novel, "Broken As Things Are" and Chimamanda Ngozi Adiche read from her new novel, "Purple Hibiscus". Katherine Lanpher, co-host of "The Al Franken Show" on Air America, moderated. Witt is undeniably talented, but Adiche blew the room away. After the Q and A, Witt and Adiche went upstairs to sell and sign books. I felt bad that I only purchased Adiche's "Hibiscus"--the authors were seated next to each other--but we're all big girls, and I couldn't see the point of buying a book I knew I wouldn't read. I'm finishing Arthur Bradford's "Dogwalker" now (more on him in a sec) but I can't wait to begin "Hibiscus" when I'm done.

--Purchased some gunmetal silver kitten heels at Bounce in Soho that I like more than most people. At the Punk Silver boutique within Bounce, I did some early Christmas shopping for my cousins, Ellie and Helena. The 25 year old jewelry maker asked me out, and while he wasn't my type, I enjoyed it when he told me, "You have the best smile in the city".

--Met Arthur Bradford at JT's after party at the Tribeca Grand Hotel. I'd heard of him, but hadn't yet read his work. Knew he'd be brilliant, though, after hearing him sing to JT earlier that evening at Deitch: his lyrics were hilarious, warm, and spot-on. (I'll post them here after JT's webmaster gets them online.)

--The squirrels at Tompkins Square Park are quintessential New Yorkers: they literally sit on your lap and get in your face. Split a chocolate croissant with two of them--my friend, Christy, took some fun pics--and C and I enjoyed unwinding on this cold, sunny afternoon, our last day in town.

For further info:

Guardian Unlimited Books | Special Reports | A4 challenge: Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Martha Witt > Broken As Things Are

Cupcake

identity theory | the narrative thread - arthur bradford

From Ye Olde Laugh Shoppe:

The Onion | The Onion In History

McSweeney's Internet Tendency: Lists: Deflation/Inflation.

NYC odds and sods:

I've been swamped since I returned from New York. I've written about the trip in my journal but I haven't recapped it here. So, a few desultory thoughts before I turn in uncharacteristically early:

--The roasted potatoes at Babbo are quite possibly the world's most perfect food. They're fingerling potatoes split lengthwise and roasted w/ olive oil, rosemary, sea salt, and garlic so tender you can eat the skin. I've read that Elizabeth Taylor used to have tubs of Chasen's chili flown to the set of "Cleopatra" and I always thought this was an incredibly wasteful and indulgent act. However, if I had the resources, I can't guarantee that I wouldn't do the same with Babbo's potatoes.

Runners up: the cupcakes at Magnolia Bakery and the matzoh ball soup at Katz's Deli. At the former, I asked the guys behind the counter if anyone had ever offered sex in exchange for cupcakes. Strangely, they said no. Both of them--one straight, the other gay--thought it was a fantastic idea, though, and said they might post a sign with rates.

--The plastic molded green and orange subway seats remind me of the chairs we used during first grade art hour. On one mid-afternoon ride with my friend, Christy, a man in his sixties--who otherwise appeared stately, like a professor in a '50s movie--got way too into watching me reapply my lipstick. Seriously, I could (should?) have charged him.

--I want to live in the indoor garden at the Frick Museum. I could prop my laptop on one of the stone benches and the bunnies could frolic among the orchids. I'd be happy to live in any of the rooms at the Frick, actually: their beauty is surreal.

--St. Patrick's Cathedral remains my favorite place on earth.

--The showing/reading/performance at Deitch Projects and the afterparty at the Tribeca Grand Hotel were frenetic, phenomenal. If you're interested, check out pages 128-129 in the November 29 issue of New York Magazine for details. I'm so glad my friends, Christy and Caryn, could make it! Much thanks to my lad, JT!

More next time. G'night!

From today's New York Times:

If inclined, please read and forward:

The New York Times > Washington > Negotiators Add Abortion Clause to Spending Bill

Excerpt: "The abortion language would bar federal, state and local agencies from withholding taxpayer money from health care providers that refuse to provide or pay for abortions or refuse to offer abortion counseling or referrals. Current federal law, aimed at protecting Roman Catholic doctors, provides such "conscience protection'' to doctors who do not want to undergo abortion training. The new language would expand that protection to all health care providers, including hospitals, doctors, clinics and insurers."

"I'm going back to New York City/I do believe I've had enough..."--Bob Dylan

I leave for New York in twenty-two hours and not a moment too soon. This past week has been surreal for everyone, though it contained some bright spots, too. A number of my friends and I are even more committed to change and are focusing on the 2006 mid-term elections. I've donated time, money, and/or letter writing skills to progressive causes since I was sixteen and it would be pathetic to succumb to defeatism now. Also, I found out yesterday that McSweeney's has accepted another one of my pieces and that it will run in December. I don't understand why that cocksucker, Karl Rove, should detract from a moment of my joy.

To those who have lost their hearts and heads, I offer the immortal words of Dorothy Parker:

"Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
and drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live."

More when I return.