Glorious Nonsense

A pal of mine (and a smart cookie) once used the phrase "return to glorious nonsense." He used it abstractly, perhaps before flinging his shirt off the rails in ecstasy, but the words stayed close. Lately, I can't help but think of that night on the balcony and of college--that messily constructed clapboard house filled to the gills with beer cans, books, basements, and debasements. College, the all consuming fire, the bullshit mess, the utter bliss of giving into our worst selves.

I know, I know: our futures are burning bright with success, discovery, piety. And college had to end. The luster of youthful splendor, idiocy, and Andre champagne had to come to a close and we're all growing up. And yet, I'd give my firstborn for one more night in a state of "glorious nonsense," for the peculiar paradise I called home.

I miss the shit out of college and I dare any of my college professors to challenge my grammar, the content of my prose.

Made in America

"Sweet baby Jesus, we made it in America." When it smells like piss on the 22 and my shoes won't keep me upright, I think of that. Am I making it? Everyday is a land mine, a discovery of Spanish streets and the realization that life is the time between Caltrains. Am I making it really? I think yes, if only by trying.

The 43

I rode the bus for two hours yesterday, the 28, the 43--jumping on at 19th and Taravale, off at Lombard and Filmore, on at Lombard and Divisadero, off at Masonic and Hayes in the hopes of a mirrored plateau for an upcoming nuptual.

I see everything on the bus, or everything I want anyway: the fog sweeping across the bay, little Chinese women with tasseled loafers and grocery carts, Parisian teenagers, surfers, Berkeley intellectuals, a sweet British couple, homeless men with shaggy hair who hound you for the empty water bottle at your feet.

The 43 is The Great Equalizer--a moment of agitated entropy when vegan and meat eater, rag doll and vagrant brush each other with every twist of the Presidio.

And even if you're afraid for your safety, for your belongings, for the preservation of your personal space, the 43 is throwing you into chaos, begging you to surrender as you roll up the hill. And sometimes, that's just what you need in the afternoon--a native surprise for two dollars flat.

Cloud Diary

"We wanted 24-hour room service. We wanted direct-dial telephones. We wanted to stay on the road forever."

I finished "The White Album" somewhere over America, dusty plains wrinkled like leather 200 feet below, with the curious feeling that Didion had intuited my need for her tale. This cloud diary about California, the mystical West, crab salad, and asparagus vinaigrette--wasn't this the life I would soon be living? Air crackling mysteriously in foreign locals, rotary telephones, dollar store rosaries hung from San Francisco windows?

I tore through my airplane cookies and airplane tea, savoring the American stills below our aircraft, drumming my fingers on the tray table, not sure of anything.

When we touched down in San Francisco, I closed my $2.89 volume and stowed it safely in my bag. "Good luck," the blonde next to me said. "I've never been to California."

I smiled, 24-hour room service waiting on my doorstep.

Step Ladder

Apologies!

I haven't written on my perfumed pig's sweet, earthy flesh because I've been on a roof. Yes, for a month I've been sitting on a roof, letting the San Francisco air whip right through me, so much so that I fell into protective netting and broke my hip and lay cradled there for more than a hot minute but less than an eternity.

Okay, this isn't exactly true.

But, for five minutes, sitting high among the spirals and California lights, I got the message and the code, the one augured for me by a woman with gold pendants and an office in the Catacombs. Because you see: the roof is the start of Joan Didion and slouching towards my own Bethlehem, engaging a new mysterious existence, eating fruit, swearing like a sailor, reading/knowing/writing all that has been unimaginable.

I was not on the roof for long but I know now that the roof is where it Begins.

Lacquered Love

"No, no, no, don't go away, oh you got my heart beat running away.."

While Nicki Minaj was shakin' her badonkadonk on the diamond mountain ranges of Mars (her native planet or so her catsuit would suggest), I was busy dancing to "Super Bass" in my mom's car. Yes, there I was, pounding the steering wheel and working it out like the yuppy cheesehead I am.

What can I say? I love Nicki Minaj. I love everything about her: the Barbie wigs, the thuggy voice, the two mile booty, the glitzy "schtickala" of Wonder Woman Gone Bad.

I'm a pop junkie and I can't get enough of Nicki or her superhero counterparts: Lady GaGa, Rihanna, and Robyn. These artists keep it real (to use the colloquial term) by tweaking the boundaries of the female form and pushing it to its sexiest limits, mp3 included. Their decadence--sartorial and psychological--is contagious, inspiring, a force of nature. GaGa's moods conduct the weather (I'm guessing Irene was an aftermath of her belch) and Rihanna's visage is glued onto the walls of shanty houses and trees in Africa--an icon of of the new revolution.

And let's not forget the music, the root of my obsession: fierce, transcendent, and reckless. The music-- a siren call of sex and lacquered love undercut by hot beats. I just can't get enough. I apologize if I sound like a lesbian/ amateur anthropologist/ or drug addict but the music, the women, the love! It's changed me. As Robyn says, "I keep dancing on my ownnnnnnnnn."

Now where is that leopard pill box hat?

Snip Snip

"It's good, it's noble, this whole business of trying to evolve your look. Here's what you do. You wash your hair, nothing too frantic, just work the suds until the grease is gone. Reminds me of washing the dishes sometimes. Okay, now blow dry the roots. Pull from the roots and lift upwards. Your hair is really curly so you've got to get the little fuckers at the roots otherwise you're toast. Use thickening balm, and don't be afraid of that word "thickening." Where was I? Okay, so the hair is damp but the roots are smooth. Take a break, maybe drink a cup of coffee or watch the morning news. Go back to the mirror and don't be afraid of your reflection. You look like shit but it's all uphill. You're a warrior, riding into the battle that is Hair Care. You're prepped and ready with a majestic victory in sight. Finish blow drying your hair. Then reach for your curlers and gently bend your hair around them. Did I mention my mom can do all of this in six minutes? Unbelievable, right? She hates my boyfriend because he rides a motorcycle and gives me leather jackets. He has a Napoleon complex but I kinda like it. He just tattooed my name on his breast. Okay, so take the curlers out and brush hair downward. You should be getting a sort of Botticelli wave. Believe me. You are going to look like the fucking mermaid emerging from the shell if you stick this. Okay! We're all done. How do you feel?"

I promptly threw up and then bought a curling brush. (FYI my hair looked damn good).

#Botticelli, blow drying, battle, feminine incompetence