At semi-regular intervals, she spoke to save her life, or something like it.
Monday, June 24, 2002
OK, I'm still groggy from the benedryl I took last night-- my drug of choice. Ha. Woke up to M reading the emails and pointing out a particularly rude one for me from an ebay deadbeat. It was was too early for that and now I'm just rumpled. We've been married how long, and still he doesn't remember it's got to be coffee first, then irritating news of the day? So I've lowered our shared work chair in petty revenge.
Last night I had this dream that I was in the P building courtyard at the college, the one my classroom overlooks. It was ill lit, and dark out, but the students were milling about, even though it seemed like the middle of the night. Strewn across the court was the debris from broken pinatas-- cheap little erasers shaped like boys, but, get this-- they were packaged in such a way that they were standing in line to use a urinal. I thought this was amazing and pocketed it-- likewise a rubber mouse pad shaped like a frog eating a rabbit. There was one glitter coated rosebud in the middle of the courtyard that I was going to pick up, but then I was distracted by this guy I used to work with at Borders named Mark-- he's the guy that wants to do a louge act at this cheezy gay bar up the street, the Paradise. He wants to raffle off interviews and claims the bar *needs * his act because that baby grand they have is just going to waste. What was he doing in my dream, anyway.
Last night we went to see Mary Woronov read from her novel in the gorgeous red light of the Parlour Club.The surrealist narrative she began with-- drunk narrator in a supermarket shopping was pretty brilliant. But then it devolved into this realist memoir, which was good, but just not as engaging. She took turns reading with this other woman-- don't remember her name- who read from this generic boomer memoir about being a Prof. on the East Coast, getting high and having sex with students, stealing gravestones from babies and trying to figure out why no one knows who Elaine DeKooning is. She had this ultra tired delivery which was obviously practiced, but really hard to listen to.
But the highlight of the evening had to be the performance of The Fat Sluts-- Nomy Lamm and Suicide Cola, fresh from Olympia. One girl dressed in a slip and athletic socks (one covering her prosthesis), played the acordian and sang as if her life depended on it. The other, with these amazing cat eyes all glisteny and outlined in black, "Hedonist" tatooed in Helvetica on her arm, was the soulful one. She put on this 70's aerobics tape that gradually got faster and did these aerobic dance steps in all her Rubenesque glory & unweildy platforms. It was a subversive spectacle, actually-- she was so poker faced about it. But it was the wrong crowd-- too many stylish people who look like they just got back from the gym. Too close to home! They were probably thinking "doesn't she know high impact aerobics aren't going to help her burn fat? She's clearly working outside of her target zone, etc." It was a complete indictment of our robotic relationship with our bodies, the robotic self hatred women especially are subjected to. And then she played this scathing version of the star spangled banner, over this poem of dread written by a 14 year old. Again, this too was lost on the audience, and as they played lots of gay men left to talk outside, but many rudely stayed and talked loudly during the performance. At one point M turned around and told two (in peasant tops no less) to be quiet, and they turned around and cattily replied, "And who are you?" Sorry to be bitter, but that seems to be the affronted question Los Angeles itself continues to ask. I guess LA just isn't ready for amazing fat girls and their accordians. They're playing at the Echo tonight. I hope we can catch them.