as of late, unfortunately

isn’t she just the greatest? can i wear that octopus hat skiing? potentially watching this repeatedly, as i’m doing, will provide freak catharsis and cure my insomnia. was anyone else jealous of dan lee in his ny mag article, “i just want to feel everything” article (rendezvous) with fiona apple last week?  i too have a crush on the small fiona apple, dan. and so does everyone. so let me tell you something. it is a  freak crush. [freeck krush: n. 1. an obsession with a moppet; 2. loving an enigma, not a person, because that is easier in the end 3. paleolithic marijuana]. freak crushes are not real. to love a person, the person must love you back. fiona will never love us back, dan!

fiona, here’s a poem i wrote for you. hope you like it!!! step aside dan.

43 vine canopies later,
you and jane emerge. six legs,
heavy with wander
excited to see your blow up mattress
right where you left it
under the vines.

jane goes first,
puts paw to button, “inflate,”
and looks you in the eye.
see, it will inflate,
he says,
we have nothing to fear.

paw in hand
fur ear to flesh
you’ll syphon dreams
of beekeeping shrimp
in seas of gazpacho.


missus worldwide

it’s been called to my attention by a certain salted reader that perhaps i should blog more genuinely. alphabet theory was good to me at kenyon, but let’s face it. who the hell cares. #liberalarts #jobless. the story of nina’s burial pomegranate (which i just deleted, so hopefully you’re confused) – will not belong on my blog until i’m 47. so right now… how to express topics of genuine interest. well. guantanamera, a deliberately rare (and bullish!) pitbull tune, just injected itself into soap-soft calm of my apartment. (sorry roommie). also, my circadian rhythms are set to tonight’s kardashian episode (after a week hiatus! @sarahdough6 9 EST for thoughts&reflections). and last, this obama vs carly rae jepsen “piece” has my heartstrings taught with hope for 2012! that diction! the swift cuts! the integrity!

so, with heavy heart, i eschew the afore mentioned blog topics of herbert temple and the rhondel (GRASSYASS A DIOS), and sail toward safer topical (tropical) waters of pitbull and his raucous cohorts (i.e., i will now focus this blogs on celebs and stupid ((yet s.d. genuine!)) shit). don’t worry, suffocating syntax won’t ever vanish, nor will the occasional hamburger meat alphabet. truly though, the best job interview i’ve had this year was a conversation justifying levity, balancing your syria news with kris jenner’s jumpsuits, and feeling comfortable indulging in the culture that’s been handed to us. because that’s the thing about pop culture, it feels good. like bojanles and terry cloth slippers. i mean, pitbull is MISTER WORLDWIDE, whether or not you identify with lyrics like:

I’ve been to countries and cities I can’t pronounce

And places on the globe I didn’t know existed 

In Romania, she pulled me to the side and said 

Pit you can have me and my sister. 

…you (and your romanian sister) will be forced to succumb! to the mas suave-est man on earth! always with delicate facial hair, a bald head, a fortune 500 suit, and sipping something clear.

now if you’ll excuse me… #notapitbull.

pda, my thoughts

heh heh, gotchya. admittedly, this enticing (ricing, icing, cake cake cake) title, and post idea, came from this chick’s blog which i found whilst reading how her liquid eyeliner defines her on reading this makes me cringe but i like it still, ugh.

I am disturbed however by the single American cheek-kiss that has gained popularity in recent years. Americans seem to fumble the meaning of the gesture (as we so often do) and it sometimes ends up as a lingering saliva mark on one’s cheek. The French kiss is not a real kiss; just a brush of the cheek on lips on the corresponding cheeks of your partner. It should never be wet, and, if done correctly, it should never be awkward. The American cheek kiss is awkward, because it is not customary, it’s forced or even, trendy, as we all strive to caricature some idea of wealth that is probably just European. So while imitated, it is not well duplicated.

oh. one second while i too deconstruct the cultural contexts hindering american pda. socio-political-cultural. i’ll just have to hop in a fanny pack and go to japan and take better notes next time. gap yah.

clearly my base-level anxiety – worthy of a surge protector –  has something to do with my lack of back-pocket- butt-squeeze gusto. but i’ll never believe that pda is truly a good thing, and it has to do with the laws of thermodynamics. high public affection inputs yield low private affection outputs. that is an unbalanced equation. this is a theory supported by college roommates et al., lily pulitzer, and jesus. nah juss playin’. but really, repression:sexy is encoded in my dna, and whether i attribute that to the cultural context of a prudish irish-catholic pedigree or predominating social pressures i do not know. anyways, i’d just rather watch skins.


my milk is expired and there have been more trashcan evicted sandwich crusts in the upper east side than ever this week. my hamburger turned green under the saran in three days and and there is a plastic sushi grass sprig magically growing within my wooden floor! gilligan’s island really is my favorite tv show and i wish i could watch it in my bed while eating coconut almond “soy delicious” ice (not)cream every night! and every day! i am comforted by the fact that, the past 3 times i’ve run the big loop in central park, i’ve approached a man with signature cylindrical (read: fat, but in perfect tubes) legs walking it out with his bichon-colored toupee. what an icky thing to say.

to end.. been having a lot of thoughts for the old blog lately but i am a bad lover to it and not following through. also, the more i read, the less i want to blog. people are good at writing. it’s intimidating, i am crestfallen, and i can offer no monetary compensation for those who want to defer briefly to this page before alt-tabbing back to netflix. i feel most tested these days anyway by twitter. i love it, i’m trying to be good. but then i follow lena dunham and delete 67% of the tweets i twit in shame. and my worry of the week is that my brain is getting minced into bite-sized chiclets in this year of new york freneticism, so i’m going to start carrying middlesex in the crook of my arm at all times, to be haughty and allude falsely to the fact that i’m reading it.