Téa Obreht is the new darling of the literary scene and I want to knife her in the chest. She's sinfully young to have published her first novel at 26 years of age, and lauded daily for her maturity, grace, and superlative new book. Téa just published The Tiger's Wife, and the advance praise is nothing short of retardedly amazing: “[a] spectacular debut novel…[Téa] Obreht spins a tale of such marvel and magic in a literary voice so enchanting that the mesmerizing reader wants her never to stop…Obreht will make headlines as one of the most exciting new writers of her generations, a young artist with the maturity and grace that comes of knowing where one is from, and of honoring those who came before." – Entertainment Weekly, Grade: A.
Publishing a novel is one thing, and to be fresh as a daisy is impressive to boot. I'm just jealous as all hell.
At 22 years of age, I fear I'm over the hill. Let's examine the facts. Our nation's current icons are Justin Bieber, Selena Gomez, Miley Cyrus, the Jonas Brothers, Lady Gaga, Demi Lovato, and Taylor Swift. Justin Bieber was born in 1994 (gasp! babies were made that recently?) yet he's gone platinum and back for his second album My World. Bieber won Artist of the Year, Favorite Pop/ Rock Male Artist, and Best New Artist. Bieber is killing it—he's now instilling prepubescent lust in the private bits of young girls everywhere with his memoir, yes memoir, entitled Never Say Never. And let's not forget that he posed with Kim Kardashian in the Bahamas in an infamous Vanity Fair spread.
Bieber is in good company. His alleged girlfriend, Demi Lovato, at a tender 19 years of age has partnered with Disney and been to rehab, while cohort Miley Cyrus rides stripper poles, draped in the American flag as she reaps in national accolades and buckets of cash.
The point is that the game is changing. The frontier has expanded, and the cowboys and cowgirls, riding high on horses and frenzied with ambition and reckless thirst for power and fame, can now roam free into the scalding sunset. There are no rules. The wild, youthful, and beautiful are welcome to enter the scene, never too inexperienced. The oldest Jonah bro is 23, Miley Cyrus is 19, and Taylor Swift is 20, yet these young flowers form a heady garland, encircling newspapers, tabloids, and billboards on the regular.
Thanks to democratic technology like youtube and twitter, facebook and myspace, all are artists and exposure comes at no price. Bieber used home-grown means to make a youtube video and the rest is history; he has some of the highest ratings and viewings of any performer in the world. And all he had to do was sit in his living room, strumming a guitar, singing above the din of his abode.
Don't get me wrong: this new credo is kind of amazing. I'm enabled by the world-at-large to do my damn thing, to creatively inspire based on my tenacious, infantile wisdom and off-the-cuff humor.
And who knows: maybe I'll be on The New Yorker's “20 Under 40 Issue” munching on duck fat fries in Brooklyn when the paparazzi storm in.
It could happen.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Monday, March 14, 2011
3
HOME:
1. too small bubble bath and books books
2. dog's head on my knee
3. neon wise men+ leftover champagne
HELL:
1. small talk only
2. sweat, open pores
3. no pasta
PARADISO:
1. beauty
2. dreamy sleep
3. boom box in the sky
BOREDOM:
1. no parrots
2. no rain
3. no al green
INDIA:
1. bubbling limca soda
2. hair cuts under silken trees, reflected in moon shaped mirrors
3. monkeys wrestling at Gandhi's bronzed feet
THIS NOW:
1. prayer beads
2. Midnight's Children specifically
3. a goldfish named pepe
1. too small bubble bath and books books
2. dog's head on my knee
3. neon wise men+ leftover champagne
HELL:
1. small talk only
2. sweat, open pores
3. no pasta
PARADISO:
1. beauty
2. dreamy sleep
3. boom box in the sky
BOREDOM:
1. no parrots
2. no rain
3. no al green
INDIA:
1. bubbling limca soda
2. hair cuts under silken trees, reflected in moon shaped mirrors
3. monkeys wrestling at Gandhi's bronzed feet
THIS NOW:
1. prayer beads
2. Midnight's Children specifically
3. a goldfish named pepe
Thursday, February 24, 2011
The Painting You Stole From Picasso
I admire you, Lovely, wherever you may be.
You talk like Marlene Dietrich
And you dance like Zizi Jeanmaire
Your clothes are all made by Balmain
And there’s diamonds and pearls in your hair, yes there are.
You live in a fancy apartment
Off the Boulevard of St. Michel
Where you keep your Rolling Stones records
And a friend of Sacha Distel, yes you do.
You go to the embassy parties
Where you talk in Russian and Greek
And the young men who move in your circles
They hang on every word you speak, yes they do.
But where do you go to my lovely
When you're alone in your bed
Tell me the thoughts that surround you
I want to look inside your head, yes i do.
I've seen all your qualifications
You got from the Sorbonne
And the painting you stole from Picasso
Your loveliness goes on and on, yes it does.
When you go on your summer vacation
You go to Juan-les-Pines
With your carefully designed topless swimsuit
You get an even suntan, on your back and on your legs.
And when the snow falls you're found in St. Moritz
With the others of the jet-set
And you sip your Napoleon Brandy
But you never get your lips wet, no you don't.
But where do you go to my lovely
When you're alone in your bed
would you Tell me the thoughts that surround you
I want to look inside your head, yes I do.
You're in between 20 and 30
A very desirable age
Your body is firm and inviting
But you live on a glittering stage, yes you do, yes you do.
Your name is heard in high places
You know the Aga Khan
He sent you a racehorse for Christmas
And you keep it just for fun, for a laugh ha-ha-ha
They say that when you get married
It'll be to a millionaire
But they don't realize where you came from
And I wonder if they really care, or give a damn
But where do you go to my lovely
When you're alone in your bed
Tell me the thoughts that surround you
I want to look inside your head, yes i do.
I remember the back streets of Naples
Two children begging in rags
Both touched with a burning ambition
To shake off their lowly brown tags, they try
So look into my face Marie-Claire
And remember just who you are
Then go and forget me forever
But I know you still bear
the scar, deep inside, yes you do
I know where you go to my lovely
When you're alone in your bed
I know the thoughts that surround you
`Cause I can look inside your head.
"Where Do You Go To My Lovely" Peter Sarstedt
You talk like Marlene Dietrich
And you dance like Zizi Jeanmaire
Your clothes are all made by Balmain
And there’s diamonds and pearls in your hair, yes there are.
You live in a fancy apartment
Off the Boulevard of St. Michel
Where you keep your Rolling Stones records
And a friend of Sacha Distel, yes you do.
You go to the embassy parties
Where you talk in Russian and Greek
And the young men who move in your circles
They hang on every word you speak, yes they do.
But where do you go to my lovely
When you're alone in your bed
Tell me the thoughts that surround you
I want to look inside your head, yes i do.
I've seen all your qualifications
You got from the Sorbonne
And the painting you stole from Picasso
Your loveliness goes on and on, yes it does.
When you go on your summer vacation
You go to Juan-les-Pines
With your carefully designed topless swimsuit
You get an even suntan, on your back and on your legs.
And when the snow falls you're found in St. Moritz
With the others of the jet-set
And you sip your Napoleon Brandy
But you never get your lips wet, no you don't.
But where do you go to my lovely
When you're alone in your bed
would you Tell me the thoughts that surround you
I want to look inside your head, yes I do.
You're in between 20 and 30
A very desirable age
Your body is firm and inviting
But you live on a glittering stage, yes you do, yes you do.
Your name is heard in high places
You know the Aga Khan
He sent you a racehorse for Christmas
And you keep it just for fun, for a laugh ha-ha-ha
They say that when you get married
It'll be to a millionaire
But they don't realize where you came from
And I wonder if they really care, or give a damn
But where do you go to my lovely
When you're alone in your bed
Tell me the thoughts that surround you
I want to look inside your head, yes i do.
I remember the back streets of Naples
Two children begging in rags
Both touched with a burning ambition
To shake off their lowly brown tags, they try
So look into my face Marie-Claire
And remember just who you are
Then go and forget me forever
But I know you still bear
the scar, deep inside, yes you do
I know where you go to my lovely
When you're alone in your bed
I know the thoughts that surround you
`Cause I can look inside your head.
"Where Do You Go To My Lovely" Peter Sarstedt
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Desperate Love
Desperate Housewives is the worst show on TV. The characters are petulant and Botoxed to high heaven, the plot lines are preposterous, the dialogue is weak, and the acting is, well, desperate. Now let me clear the decks and tell you the truth. I'm a bottom-feeder and I love this god-awful soap with all my heart. Undoubtedly, you, dear reader, are scratching your head wondering how the hell you've wandered into the clutches of a writer with such poor taste. You put your coffee cup down and bang your head against the table, rattling the floor beneath. You cringe, you writhe.You simply don't understand.
And you know what, reader? I don't get it myself. I surreptitiously pull up Safari and salivate at the thought of spending an hour with Eva Longoria, Felicity Huffman, Teri Hatcher, and Marcia Cross via hulu.com. I probably sound like a lesbian but I'm not, I can promise you that. My love is chaste though these women are objectively fiiine for all of their middle age.
If you've never tuned in, let me break the characters down. Longoria plays Gabrielle Solis—a smokin' hot Hispanic with a penchant for retail therapy, shaming her family, and swishing her pony tail. Next up is Huffman. She plays Lynette Scavo—obnoxiously moral mother of five (or is it more?) with an idiot husband and loads of laundry to do and dishes to wash, always bemoaning the loss of a nonexistent career while flexing yoga-toned arms. Then there's Teri Hatcher, who plays Susan Delfino. Delfino is a shit-show with a heart of gold. She tries to “do the right thing” but burns down a neighbor's home, acts in yuppie-porn, shamelessly seduces an ex-con turned plumber, and just generally runs around like a chicken with her head cut off. Finally, Marcia Cross plays Bree Van de Kamp—a severely uptight woman with stifled sexual urges and a tendency towards manic baking (pastry and not marijuana).
The four live on Wisteria Lane—a manicured street that hums pleasantly with quiet scandal as the flowers inevitably twist over and under the homes. Wisteria Lane is home to the elderly, the gay, the Puerto Rican, the young, the rich, the Black, the middle-class, the once jailed, the once troubled, and the like. This veritable melange of people and circumstances seems highly improbable. On a fundamental level, how are the lavish and the destitute paying the same mortgage? How are ex-cons living next door to beauty queens and manic bakers? Wisteria Lane pushes the borders of reality until we're taken to a perverse and psychotic suburbia. The shenanigans are never-ending and the plot lines move forward, unconcerned with coherent narrative.
In the first season of Desperate Housewives, eternal narrator and distinguished housewife Mary Alice Young commits suicide and shocks the neighborhood. Mary Alice kills herself for fear of a black secret involving her husband and son coming to light. At her wake, Gabrielle, Lynette, Susan, and Bree meet and greet over cucumber sandwiches and noodle casserole, perturbed by their mutual friend's demise.
In the following seasons, I was both disgusted and delighted by the meandering story lines of the housewives. Gabrielle would seduce the beefy, if overly sensitive, high school gardener before finding that her daughter had been switched at birth; Lynette would give birth to a nation of a children before realizing that her husband had once cheated with the black diva next door; Susan would tryst with her ex-husband, marry her beloved ex-con, give birth to a child, star in domestic porn and burn down her enemy's house; and Bree would get divorced, own up to her alcoholism, seduce her AA life coach, seduce a young repair man, cope with her children's raging hatred, and bake pastry after pastry.
I'm seven seasons in and at no point were these story lines believable, and at no point was I bored.
In the show's opening credits, tinny carnival music plays as an apple falls from the tree—a callback to Eve's sinful foray into the forbidden fruit. I wish I could say that I had the willpower, the absolute lack of hunger, to close my lap top and forget the whole sinful charade once and for all. But somewhere in there, I too was seduced, and now I wait with bated breath and infernal hunger. I wait for my computer to load, and for these stupid women to appear like the snake in the mist, offering evil wisdom and glistening, red delight.
And you know what, reader? I don't get it myself. I surreptitiously pull up Safari and salivate at the thought of spending an hour with Eva Longoria, Felicity Huffman, Teri Hatcher, and Marcia Cross via hulu.com. I probably sound like a lesbian but I'm not, I can promise you that. My love is chaste though these women are objectively fiiine for all of their middle age.
If you've never tuned in, let me break the characters down. Longoria plays Gabrielle Solis—a smokin' hot Hispanic with a penchant for retail therapy, shaming her family, and swishing her pony tail. Next up is Huffman. She plays Lynette Scavo—obnoxiously moral mother of five (or is it more?) with an idiot husband and loads of laundry to do and dishes to wash, always bemoaning the loss of a nonexistent career while flexing yoga-toned arms. Then there's Teri Hatcher, who plays Susan Delfino. Delfino is a shit-show with a heart of gold. She tries to “do the right thing” but burns down a neighbor's home, acts in yuppie-porn, shamelessly seduces an ex-con turned plumber, and just generally runs around like a chicken with her head cut off. Finally, Marcia Cross plays Bree Van de Kamp—a severely uptight woman with stifled sexual urges and a tendency towards manic baking (pastry and not marijuana).
The four live on Wisteria Lane—a manicured street that hums pleasantly with quiet scandal as the flowers inevitably twist over and under the homes. Wisteria Lane is home to the elderly, the gay, the Puerto Rican, the young, the rich, the Black, the middle-class, the once jailed, the once troubled, and the like. This veritable melange of people and circumstances seems highly improbable. On a fundamental level, how are the lavish and the destitute paying the same mortgage? How are ex-cons living next door to beauty queens and manic bakers? Wisteria Lane pushes the borders of reality until we're taken to a perverse and psychotic suburbia. The shenanigans are never-ending and the plot lines move forward, unconcerned with coherent narrative.
In the first season of Desperate Housewives, eternal narrator and distinguished housewife Mary Alice Young commits suicide and shocks the neighborhood. Mary Alice kills herself for fear of a black secret involving her husband and son coming to light. At her wake, Gabrielle, Lynette, Susan, and Bree meet and greet over cucumber sandwiches and noodle casserole, perturbed by their mutual friend's demise.
In the following seasons, I was both disgusted and delighted by the meandering story lines of the housewives. Gabrielle would seduce the beefy, if overly sensitive, high school gardener before finding that her daughter had been switched at birth; Lynette would give birth to a nation of a children before realizing that her husband had once cheated with the black diva next door; Susan would tryst with her ex-husband, marry her beloved ex-con, give birth to a child, star in domestic porn and burn down her enemy's house; and Bree would get divorced, own up to her alcoholism, seduce her AA life coach, seduce a young repair man, cope with her children's raging hatred, and bake pastry after pastry.
I'm seven seasons in and at no point were these story lines believable, and at no point was I bored.
In the show's opening credits, tinny carnival music plays as an apple falls from the tree—a callback to Eve's sinful foray into the forbidden fruit. I wish I could say that I had the willpower, the absolute lack of hunger, to close my lap top and forget the whole sinful charade once and for all. But somewhere in there, I too was seduced, and now I wait with bated breath and infernal hunger. I wait for my computer to load, and for these stupid women to appear like the snake in the mist, offering evil wisdom and glistening, red delight.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Un-plugged
I just deactivated my facebook account and breathed a sincere sigh of relief. I'm sick of insincere affections, blurred connections, pictures upon pictures, smiles and inside jokes. I'm trying to unplug, detach, scissor, split, writhe, pull away from all that is untrue. "Real recognize real" so it's pen to paper, cheek to cheek. India on Friday!
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
The Burning Lampshade
During a certain family brunch (see: bagels and lox, pinky rings, and mimosas), our beloved lamp caught fire. We were sitting contentedly around the rickety dining room table when Dad rose up feverishly. "FIRE! FIRE!" he cried. I turned and the lampshade was up in flames, tassels swinging, singed in the New Year's air. Dad sprang into action, dragging the lamp towards the front door, never unplugging it from the wall. The fire was blossoming and blooming, spreading up towards an oil painting, before the flaming lampshade was finally tossed into a nearby snow pile just outside of the front door. Why do I mention this? To cast some ash on my family name? To make a mockery of family traditions? Maybe. The burning lampshade signified fiery portents for 2011. Apparently, this isn't year of the frog, leopard, or mule. Instead, it's year of the singed silk. It's appropriate for me now: college is ending, the future looms, the typewriter needs a new ribbon, the coffee must be refilled. The air is static, electric, buzzing in wait of future thrills. Billie Holiday, in her classic track "Embraceable You" yearns for a "thrill I can press my cheek to." And while it wouldn't be wise to put my smooth cheek to the lampshade's burning skin, I'm also looking for a little heat, some raucous adventures. Sorry, grandma, but I may just take up pyrotechnics to appease my appetites.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
The Cleaning Chorus
At present, I'm hiding from my cleaning lady, Lulu, and her children. I hate to say it but I can recognize the deliciousness of this predicament even as I shrink into my blankets. Lulu and her children are to be known as The Clean Family- they are a package set, three for the price of one. They come every Tuesday and Friday (how much mess can we make in three days?) and proceed to bang about, scuffing up each wooden plank and ceramic tile. Don't get me wrong- Lulu gets down. She mops, she soaks, she soaps, she twirls, she polishes, she sharpens. But her kids stomp and storm and hurricane and whirling dervish like they've waited the entirety of their lives for this new yuppie playground and by god, they will enjoy every minute of it. While they thrash around like dancing torpedos, I hide under my feather comforter, Patty snoring across from me. In my fantasies, I man up. I stroll into the kitchen in a fur coat, cigarello dangling from my lips, and blueprint of the property in my back pocket. I sip my coffee confidently and stride about, careless of their presence in my somewhat limited space. And yet, I never do this. Instead, I slip into the snow with Patty at my heels, and slip even more quietly back into the front door. I give the dog her requisite chicken treat and pad upstairs to my room, cursing the vacuum's raspy hum and the sky's colorless color. I hear everything just outside: the telephone poles crackling, the washer cycling, the little boy hastily pounding his nintendo upstairs. I could enter The Cleaning Chorus and make some rumblings of my own but I'm not there yet. For now, I remain yuppified, the polite white girl who reaches delicately for a piece of fruit before retreating to a cave of her own design- a cavewoman without fire or fight.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
