Politics of New Year's Eve

Yo, check it. This is some thought-provoking stuff.

"Oil/Blood Spill

At Rockefeller Center

or

White Man's Unburdening



I see oppressive Power as a monstrous beast, fostered by a consumerist
economy, devouring the resources of the world through it's obscenely
abusive consumption.

Since last fall, I have had a vision of a black mass of crude oil
tainted with blood clots.

It is being spilled in a big splash right in front of the "Atlas"
statue at Rockefeller Center.

Ideally I would do a live performance at Rockefeller Center, using my
manufactured fake oil and blood. But in the current political climate,
it may be a problem to get the permit for this from NYPD.

On May 15, 2004 I staged a live performance (see title above) in my
studio in Red Hook, Brooklyn: An oil barrel was lowered from the
ceiling by roper on a pulley system, to coincide with the "burden" of
the Atlas, which was projected from a beamer. A mime performer was also
coinciding with the body of the Atlas statue. I executed the spill
myself by ripping open the lid of the barrel.

This was accompanied by music performed by 3 rock musicians on a
podium, and strobe lights flickering over the "studio stage", The whole
thing took about 10 minutes. On the studio wall, I had pasted a long
list of corporate war profiteers.

Madeleine Hatz"

Riddle me this: what's the point of going to parties if you're not single? I usually spend half of them saying stuff like, 'Look, I'm not going to waste your time. There are a lot of good-looking women here, and I have a boyfriend." It's like swimming: once you're in, there's absolutely nothing to do.

As re: Slim, he's working until midnight or so.

Said someone to me today, in an undertone, "Not to break the fourth wall of blogging, but I read your 'Amazing Girls' rant, and I fucking hate those ethereal bitches."

So the streets of Greenpoint are filled with the smell of fish. I don't know much about Polish Christmas customs, but apparently it involves some kind of feast-of-seven-fishes deal, because all these vacant lots have turned into impromptu fish markets, and every deli's doorway holds a paint bucket containing a sad-looking live carp looking up balefully.

I came home yesterday to find the building festively decked out - garlands, bows, a lone trumpet, even a pair of bells stuck above the door. To say nothing of the wreath, which is magnificent.

My friend Tammy is in town. We met for brunch at a spot she described as "hip, but not oppressively so." She told me about her new crush. "He's like a cross between George Harrison, Big Bird, and Maude," she said dreamily. (Maude is of course Ruth Gordon. Tammy often describes people in terms of Maude - as do I. Useful shorthand for many awesome and not-awesome things.)

She produced a lurid-looking paperback copy of The Golden Notebook which I hadn't read.

"Have you read Long Day's Journey Into Night? she asked. "Well, you know how they're always kind of declaiming and talking abruptly? It's kind of like that, but they're Communists, and they really like strawberries."

Holiday (It Would Be So Nice)

I feel very blue about life. What shall I do? All ideas welcomed.


May have to go back to plan A; international courtesan. Or A1, novelty rapper and brief Youtube sensation.

A few notes on the psychiatric profession

I saw my feelings doctor today, and discoursed on modern love (see below.) As is often the case, he seemed bemused and somewhat baffled. It wasn't one of my better sessions, although I sort of pulled it out in the last fifteen by telling him about my parents attending the Zionist DDiary of Anne Frank which was dominated by mentally-handicapped Jewish adults, one of whom snored loudly throughout, mere inches from the actors' faces.

There was a very furtive girl in the waiting room. I felt bad for her, having to follow that anecdote. Let's hope she had some real issues to discuss.

So, back in the day, I saw a therapist for about five minutes before I graduated to the hard stuff. She was kind of Joy of Sex-y, and I had the distinct impression that she thought I was sexually repressed. In any event, she didn't really like me, which I instinctively respected, but wasn't particularly conducive to breakthroughs.

Then I started to see a psychiatrist on grounds of what my family refers to as "garden-variety madness" or, alternatively, "going strange."

After my first meeting with the feelings doctor (a title reserved for MD's), my dad said,

"Did you make him laugh?"

I said I had.

"I always used to do that too, until he made me turn away so I wasn't facing him and couldn't play to him for reaction. So then I sang "Dogfood is the king," to the tune of the Love Story theme. Ours is not a family that is easily understood."

Modern Love

Since, for the bulk of my adult life, I was securely ensconced in a serious relationship with a young man of similarly unblemished record, I have never before this year been placed in the role of ex-girlfriend, or new girlfriend, or, by extension, poisoner or usurper. It is very uncomfortable. It rankles that I, the most mild-mannered and open-bookish of women, am by my very existence now the potential target of cattiness and Googling and e-stalking. (Not to say this has happened; I'm just aware that now it's a possibility. And it doesn't help to know that, at the click of a mouse (?) there are available at least a score of photos in which I'm hideous enough to reassure even the most insecure old/new girlfriend.)

I hope anyone who harbors such resentments will be comforted by this blog, which shows me to be a non-threatening idiot, albeit an adorable one.

The thing is, I always feel a kinship with anyone who's cared for a man peculiar enough to have won my affection. But I guess not everyone feels that way. Gosh! A hundred years ago, none of this was an issue; folks didn't have artificially intertwined lives and unofficial marriages or any of these things which give other people access to pieces of your souls. Maybe it is still this way amongst the Amish?

Obviously

Check out this, from twister sister's review of Original Pancake House:

"The food takes awhile which gave us time to watch a waitress deliver a Dutch Baby and envelop us with its fragrant, perhaps sacred, steam. A tray of ruby grapefuit juice in large glasses made me think of luxurious jewels. Obviously we had travelled back to a past time."

A few words on actors

Maeve, scientist, bombshell, milliner, brother's girlfriend, sometime shopgirl, had the following to say about actors:

"They don't know any more about politics than any good-looking person with an easy job. In fact, less, because they just hang out with other actors all the time. And hanging out with other actors must be like being at Hampshire YOUR ENTIRE LIFE. Everyone's an idiot; everyone's "special"; everyone thinks their opinion is valuable."


(I think we got started re: Jake Gyllenhaal; "America's most eligible bachelor talks about the CIA.")