Good deeds gone bad gone back good again

I rescued my first animal today. I usually let strays be strays. Feral cat colonies are a fact of Brooklyn life but last night I met a little fella that made me unable to stand by and not do something.

It all started when I went to visit Sean at Vacation Island where he was recording an EP with Love as Laughter. We met at the Food Bazaar (Bushwick grocery/dreamland) and on the walk back to the studio he pointed out a community garden that he said was full of cats. At that moment a little tuxedo kitty came strutting out of the gate and walked right up to me and starting rubbing against my legs. I was all ready to go with it until I noticed what, in the darkness, looked like a big patch of mangey hairless skin on his tail. Fearing bringing some serious cat scabies back to the three who live at the house I pulled away from him, but he was intent on hanging out with me. Upon closer inspection I noticed that the lower half of his tail was withered and bent in a few places. This little guy had something wrong with him more than just some missing hair. I put a sad face on and sighed and walked into the studio with Sean.

I started talking about the friendly kitty with the fucked up tail and the other guys said they noticed him too. Matt, the proprietor of Vacation Island told me a story about befriending one of the strays who lived in the feral cat colony. He said a cat showed up with a bleeding head. He took it in and put a hot compress on it and named him Bill. Bill would come into the studio on the regular through a hole in some window somewhere. The one day Matt came to the studio and Bill was outside dead. He told me this story as a warning not to get too attached to any of the neighborhood strays because, well, they die.

Of course this had the opposite effect on me and it made me want to help the little kitty more. I texted a vet friend asking for advice on where I could take him. Sean and I left for a dinner break and as I walked by the kitty for the second time it ran up to me, rubbing against my legs, and I got a closer look at it's tail. There was an open sore, it looked like some of the skin was just plain missing.

I debated over dinner what to do. There was nothing I could do then and there, it was too big of a risk to take an untested street cat into our home who obviously was injured. I didn't want a flea outbreak or even worse, to expose our cats to the potential of Feline AIDS. To help him meant waking up early and going to Bushwick to try and track the kitty down and try and lure it into a carrier.

When we got home I looked up the websites and opening times of the places Dr. Jenn the vet had suggested. A final text from her offering to help in the morning if BARC couldn't take the kitty solidified my decision. I set my alarm for 9 am, got up and hopped on the B48 bus armed with a cat carrier, a bag of treats, and a can of wet food.



After about 20 minutes of poking around that block and the next without a kitty in sight I got discouraged, but at Sean's suggestion I put out the can of wet food trying to lure them out of hiding. I then took a little walk down the block to make myself scarce and lo and behold, when I returned three tiny kittens emerged from a trash pile. They must have been about 5 or 6 weeks old max. There were two little black ones and one grey one. The tiniest of the three, a black one, started gorging full force on the food swatting at any of his siblings that tried to get near. Occasionally he'd lift his head and survey the scene, his face and whiskers covered in food. Cute yes, but my injured friend, no. Eventually a fourth kitten appeared, this one a teeny tiny twin to my missing tuxedo.

It was almost 11 am and I had to be at the store a noon. At that point I knew I had to give up. All wasn't totally lost, I got to hang out with cute kittens at least. I called Sean to tell him I was done and while I was on the phone with him the injured tuxedo kitty finally emerged! It marched right up to me and as soon as I hung up the phone he crawled on my lap. It was at this point I saw the full damage that had been done to his tail. The bottom half was dead and dry, there was a place in the middle where the flesh underneath the skin was bright pink and visible. However the presence of this kitty mingling with 4 kittens threw me for a loop. Was this their young mother? Fuck! I couldn't very well separate them, could I? The wound looked severe enough where if I didn't do something death would separate them anyway. Thankfully I got ahold of my vet friend and she told me that as long as the kittens were eating wet food and had teeth that they could be separated. I lured the tuxedo very easily into the cat carrier with treats, but I couldn't take the sad stares of the tiny tuxedo twin kitten. The vet said it would be okay to try and round up the kittens too if I could fit any of them in the carrier, but as soon as the injured cat started trying to escape the teeny tiny kitten ran off scared.

I stood up, carrier in hand and prepared to bring the injured kitty to the shelter. I called ahead to make sure BARC could take the cat. The woman who answered the phone told me they were full. I figured since I'd already gotten the cat in the carrier that I should just bring it to the vet in the city and see what we could do shelter-wise from there. I had second thoughts though, everything was getting complicated and my workday was looming. Then, standing at the entrance to the Lorimer M train stop, I looked down into the cat carrier. The cat's tail had fallen off.

A little less than half of the cat's tail remained, and the final two inches of what remained was a bright pink bloody stump with a sickeningly white tip of bone at the end. The skin had slid off of it along with the dead remnants of the rest of the tail, now laying motionless and unattached in the carrier, a dead black thing, visibly hollow at the topmost portion.

Decision made, I climbed the stairs to the platform. While I was waiting I called Sean and told him what happened. My hands were shaking. When I got on the train a girl saw the carrier and her eyes lit up. "Ooh, kitty!" she excitedly cooed. "You don't want to look in there," I mumbled trying to shield the carrier's screen top from view. I think she caught a glimpse or maybe she was just weirded out. Either way she moved to the other end of the train.

From there the story pretty much mellows. I finally got to the vet and received some amazing help from Dr Jenn and the rest of the awesome staff at the Heart of Chelsea Animal Hospital. They wrapped up his bloody stump. Yeah, that's right, it turned out not to be anyone's mother,just a friendly little male of about 8-10 months who kept the company of an adorable tribe of kittens. His tail injury was termed a "degloving" injury where the skin get separated from the flesh. Apparently this type of injury is not uncommon in strays thanks to their unfortunately habit of hiding in the underbelly of parked cars only to be seriously injured when the owner starts the vehicle. That is what most likely happened to little guy. The vets gave him some shots and after several refusals from many full animal shelters, they finally found a spot for him at Bideawee, a place where he could be surgically treated and sheltered for adoption all in one roof. I repacked him in his carrier and took him from Chelsea to 38th and 1st.



During the shelter intake they told me most of the scratches and scabs on him weren't from fleas but from fights with other cats. They said it looked like he got beat up pretty regularly by other cats in the colony. During intake they asked me if I wanted to name him so I dubbed him Wee-Bey, one of my favorite character names from The Wire, plus a nice play on the name of the only no-kill shelter that would open it's doors to him.

Then, in true asshole form, I didn't realize that they asked for a $40 donations for strays and having just checked my bank account and balance I couldn't afford to give (mama's got her own medical bills.) But I promise that I will write these good people a check as soon as my next pay period rolls around. I owe them.

His tail is going to be amputated on Monday and he'll probably be up on Petfinder by Tuesday, that is if my friends who are in the market for a tuxedo don't get him first. That's the story of little Wee-Bey's rescue, a good deed that turned scary but ended great.

Internal Strife

Been stuck on a downer train for the past couple of weeks. It started with a pain in the lower right side of my abdomen. After two days I made an appointment with another doctor who shared my primary physicians office as my own doc was out for the day. She gave me a pelvic examination. She sent me to Beth Israel, a hospital I've dictated previous experiences at here and here. She said she had to rule out appendicitis. She called ahead, I didn't have to wait long to get a bed. I changed into a robe and waited to be seen. The doctor's smugness didn't match the cartoon whales on his tie. He took one look at me and told me I didn't have appendicitis. Yeah, I coulda told him that, but the pain in my right side was there, it was real, and it was right where my appendix was. I asked him if the scan would show another cause, be it ovarian or otherwise and he said it probably would. In the meantime I pissed in my second cup of the day and got an ultrasound on my belly. The doctor told me it pretty boring inside of my uterus. That's the word he used, not "routine" or "normal" but boring. He got gel all over my panties. It could have been prevented. They gave me a pitcher of liquid to drink over the next hour. I drank. I waited. Two hours. The IV in my arm started hurting. They kept it in just in case they needed to take more blood. They didn't. Finally my blood tests came back, my second pregnancy test of the day was negative, everything else looked normal. Time for the CAT scan. I was escorted into a room. The technician was on the phone. I sat and I waited. She finally noticed me after about four minutes. She went to find the radiologist. She couldn't find the radiologist. She tried to call the radiologist, the radiologist didn't answer. She paged the radiologist, the radiologist didn't answer. A line started to form with patients waiting for their CAT scans. Finally another radiologist came down. They told me they were going to put something in my veins that may make my mouth feel warm. It did. It also made my pelvis feel like it was on fire. It passed and I passed through the machine. Back into my bed, an elderly hypochondriac was talking about gout. Her husband was humoring her. The smug doctor was friendly with her. He was ignoring me. She started whimpering. I laid there still in pain. The doctor came back. He told me he didn't have appendicitis. I told him I figured. I asked him if anything else showed up. He said I had two small cysts on my ovaries. I asked him if that's why it hurt. He said maybe. He gave me a prescription for Percocet for my troubles and discharged me.

I called my doctor on the telephone. She said that I should go see a gynecologist. I went to see the one at Beth Israel's Union Square medical building. It was on the second floor. There was a piano in the center of the open space between offices. No one was playing it when I went in. I signed in. Everyone else was pregnant. I waited. The gynecologist saw me. She was friendly until she stuck two fingers up my ass without me expecting it. She said the two cysts were small and normal and probably not the problem. With her hand inside me she pressed on two spots on my abdomen and asked me if they hurt. I said no. She said, "I just had your ovaries in my hand and you didn't have a flicker of pain. I was watching your face, nothing changed." I agreed. I asked her what now. She said, "It could be a hernia, irritable bowel syndrome, a bone fragment, a slipped disc in your back, it could be any number of things." That didn't make me feel better. She said a word I didn't understand and don't remember. I asked her what it meant, she said it meant I was essentially a mystery at this point but I should come back for a sonogram next week. That was all she told me. I waited for the woman at the desk to stop talking about cooking. She was busy convincing her co-workers that she could indeed cook. She was talking about meat. How she rinsed it before cooking it and then doused it in rum so it wouldn't taste fresh. I asked for an appointment next week. She said they were full for the next three weeks and gave me a number to call somewhere else. I walked back out to the mezzanine to make the call. A red-headed woman sat down at the piano, made eye-contact with me and started playing. I couldn't hear well enough to make the call so I walked away. The other doctor didn't have any openings for three weeks and one day. I went back to the office and scheduled my sonogram for August.

I called my doctor. She said I should come in. I'd been in pain for a few weeks and nothing had changed. I told her about the gynecologist. She felt my belly. Said something about my intestines. Told me I needed to see a gastrointestinologist. Maybe they needed to do a colonoscopy. Maybe they needed to do plenty of things, but it was beyond her medical reach. I sighed. I told her I just wanted to know, be it good or bad. I started thinking about everything I did, my posture when I sat, the position in which I slept, everything I ate and drank. All the seemingly harmless things that could be making my phantom condition worse. She asked me if I noticed any situations that seemed to make things worse. Walking, having sex, eating, and going to doctors. She said she thought it might be a hernia. Or a muscle strain. Or an injury from having sex. That's when I felt the pain for the first time, during sex. She gave me another prescription for Percocet, as I was nearly out. My mom was in town visiting. She was in the waiting room waiting for me. I had to rephrase what doctor told me. Didn't want to lay it straight out, that maybe I had hurt myself getting railed too hard by my boyfriend.

I am seeing the gastrointestinologist on Wednesday. I was told to keep my appointment for the sonogram and the follow-up appointment with the gynecologist. I keep telling people I hope it's not irritable bowel syndrome (which it's not, my bowels are working like champs) or a hernia because those two things seem embarrassing.

This voice could sell me anything

Fred Vanore Gilbert Gottfried Shoedini Blue Moon Studios
Uploaded by BlueMoonStudios1. - Classic TV and last night's shows, online.

God bless you Gilbert, it's like a rainbow in my ears.

On the subject of epiphanies

So my long lost (as in I haven't seen her since she rode through Nebraska with Kevin) buddy Elizabeth aka White Lightning posted an admission that she had a boner for Chad from Million Dollar Listing and I have to admit that as far as gross tv fantasies that's just beyond me.

However, in the sake of fairness (and since this blog used to deal with my obsession with bad reality tv pretty regularly) I will use her valour as a jump-off and just say that I had a much much much more embarassing tv-related incident than even a gross crush. Wanna know it? Here goes:

I had a romantic dream about one of the guys from the most current season of Tool Academy.

Yes, that's right. It wasn't an icky sticky sex dream mind you, but a we're dating and the world's against us scenario. Which tool was it you may wonder?


Big John aka Giant Tool

I know...I know...when I told Sean he said, "Well, at least he's from around Boston." Thanks for being understanding baby. I have to admit I was sad when that dude went home. The show was lacking when I no longer got to see his muscle tanks.


Oy vey.

The thing is, I didn't have a crush on the guy. I was just rooting for him and somehow that translated into a dream. Last night I had a dream I was tagging along with an acquaintence who was personal shopping with Little Wayne. He was super bummed because she kept insisting he try on girls clothes so I helped him sneak a bunch of skirts and dresses she'd pulled out of his dressing room when she wasn't looking. Yeah, who knows.

I Lost My Time in a Magic Vortex

Facebook is going to be the death of me. Now that I've expanded beyond simple social networking and begun playing Dungeon & Dragons: Tiny Adventures. It's been going non-stop for a few days now. I got my boyfriend hooked too. Now we're spending our evening's buffing each other's characters from different computers in the same house. It's bad. I mean, don't get me wrong, it's an awesome application. And since it makes you wait between rounds it's not that encompassing. So it's not like I'm spending 14 hours a day playing World of Warcraft (I would never dare set foot in that realm, I'm obsessive when it comes to that shit, a prime candidate for life-wasting.) But still, it's getting a little out of hand.

Between Tiny Adventures (my Eldarin Wizard is a level 8, only three more levels til retirement and then I start again as a generation 2!) and...gulp...I hate to admit this to you guys...Sorority Life I really think I'm ruining my life. Seriously, I have a sorority girl whose body I inhabit and I befriend other girls I don't know via this game and team up to fight other girls. And to become friends with these girls in the game you have to be their friend in the real realm of Facebook which means I've actually added thirty or so strangers from around the world to my friends list just so I can grow my sorority and fight other girls more effectively and get better prizes...I know, I can't believe I'm explaining it or admitting it or even worse, PLAYING IT.

Bringing the embarassment of Sorority Life into it makes the Tiny Adventures thing much more acceptable. First of all, wizards and dragons and castles and orbs of mental dominion are awesome, sorority girls are not. Second aside from outfitting your character to maximize bonuses for specific adventures and the social act of healing and buffing your friend's characters, the game is pretty passive. So why am I dreaming about it? Seriously, I had a dream the other night where my actions were dependent on scores and a countdown timer and my adventures were hindered by an unknown force (aka the dungeon master!) deciding my fate. Really Bev? This is the stuff your dreams are made of? I couldn't even dream about orcs or any of the cool shit in the game, just the scoring tactical portion of it. LAME. You'd think a D&D-related dream would be much more epic than that.

FUCK! My character just failed a Constitution check and gets -5 Charisma for five adventures. I'm getting concerned about Grenabaul the Eldarin Wizard, she's not doing so well in her adventure, "The Song of the Dark Druid". She failed it once already last night but I really thought I had it this time. That's the problem with wizards, they are high on intelligence but low on constitution, strength, and wisdom and my inventory of weapons isn't doing enough to help it. See? These are issues of serious concern!



For a relative virgin to this sort of gaming I feel like I'm doing okay. I have to admit that a big part of the reason I was so willing to mock my friend's boyfriend when I saw him at his computer with a headset on playing World of Warcraft was fear that there but for the grace of elves there go I. An appropriate addendum to this example is that when my friend found a scorpion in her closet (they live in a wooded area just outside of Austin, TX) she had to beg him to tear himself away from the game to kill it. He entered the bedroom, sword in hand, and vanquished the tiny poisonous foe. Aforementioned boyfriend just happens to be the singer in fantasy metal band The Sword, so despite what you all may think of their music (they have a lot of haters out there,) their name is truly their weapon of choice and the singer, JD, truly knows his wizardly shit. Regardless, it is a good escape for the distraction from the annoyances and stresses of the real world, but seeing him made me realize that could easily be me in the headset missing dinner due to a prearranged online gaming meeting with a bunch of buddies.

Then again that dude goes on tour with Metallica so I think we can let a little gaming slide. But while it's not ruining his life I have a very real fear of it ruining mine. Tiny Adventures seemed like the perfect compromise for my desire to engage in epic adventures with little concentration or time commitment but somehow I've managed to turn what is essentially D&D lite into a time-killer. Is it wrong that I'd rather sit at home and half-watch episodes of Ranma 1/2 while making sure my character makes it through a level 8 adventure than go to all these Fashion Week parties I've been made aware of? Actually, maybe I'm doing okay.

Paging Val Kilmer

Wow, Donatella, who knew...

More than just a couple of dicks

Two days after reading this article about residents' frustrations about the recent rash of filming in Greenpoint the new Kevin Smith movie, A Couple of Dicks started shooting on my boyfriend's block. After walking 8 miles to and from the Lower East Side the last thing I wanted to deal with was the cameras and the lights right outside the window, so I was relieved to see they were shooting around the corner a couple of blocks away down Nassau. Unfortunately even though the shots were being done with stunt doubles enclosed in cars, it prompted a crowd that extended all the up to our quiet street. Maybe they are hoping to catch a glimpse of Bruce Willis or Tracy Morgan (I thought I saw him from the window last night but from my aerial view it could have just been a black guy in a baseball cap) but honestly I don't think they are even on set tonight.

Maybe I am wrong, maybe Tracy Morgan will do come out in a star-spangled unitard and start doing backflips, but have you ever been a bystander on a film set? It's the most boring of boring. I remember being in D.C. when I was 12 where they were filming the Pelican Brief. Basically we spent 30 minutes watching Julia Roberts running in and out of a building over and over again until she finally rewarded us with a brief turn and wave. This case is far more hopeless. They are filming two blocks down yet for some reason there is a crowd assembled on Sean's roof (he lives on the top floor of a three family building and I can guarantee you none of the people on the roof live in the building, unfortunately all the roofs on the block are attached.) They've been up there for the past hour gazing at a whole lot of nothing, unless you count floodlights. Holy hell.

This is a mourning song

I've been keeping my mouth shut for some time about my current television devotions and it's time for me to spill my guts. Dear Rock of Love producers...HOW COULD YOU?!?!?! In two weeks time you allowed the greatest show on earth become a boring clusterfuck of bitchy brunettes. Come on, everyone knows you show is fake, why did you have to let Ashley leave? Seriously! I know, I know, she's happily making a bundle off of public appearances and stripping gigs with Farrah (the other love of my televion life) and she's back where she belongs, in the arms of her Biohazard-looking baby daddy, James, but now what? Am I going to have to go to Vegas to see discount Juliette Lewis in her full Hello Kitty tattooed glory? She of memorable quotes such as "People who eat basil are lame."



VH1 you made me miss her so much I had to request her friendship on MySpace (who has a private profile when they have 13,000 friends?) And no, Daisy of Love won't fill the void.

I can only hope she has something in the works along with Shaun from Tool Academy.

Barbados!!!

So, you may be wondering why I haven't posted about my vacation yet, or you may just not care. But, here is a vacation rundown I did for Vice, Barbados - You Should Go on a Tropical Budget Vacation. It's a vacation Top Ten. Again show your love and leave me comments...I'm the new kid on the blog, totally fagged and slightly insecure.



I wish it were always bikini time. I like being as naked as possible but only when contextually appropriate and not actually around real naked people. I guess I'll test that when we go to Burning Man...wait, I didn't tell you about that? Oh, that's another story...just you wait.

Blogging out of bounds

Murder One

Liz from Vice found my blog when I linked their blog to my blog when their blog where she blogged about me and Sean. Phew...so now I am blogging for their blog and letting you know about it on my blog. Got it? Good. Leave me comments to show the world how much you care!

You made it to the big time bro!

Congratulations to my friend Zak for becoming tabloid fodder! Hopefully everything is okay, I mean who the hell throws a cat?! This is even more retarded than when my friend Will ended up on TMZ.

Seriously, this is my news. And yes, I sit around and read DListed every day.

This shit is everywhere, and of course the posts are pretty much the same. This is completely ridiculous and sounds kind of run of the mill for a lot of the crazier couples I know out there. Seriously, what would you do if your drunken fight ended up on Page 6? Poor kitty though. The commentary is hilarious on all the sites.

TMZ
Gothamist
Extra
People
US Magazine
Best Week Ever

And of course the holy grail, the New York Post's post is the best:
Page Six

Best Juxtaposition of all time

Before our fancy Del Posto date we went to Best Buy



Steve Irwin, Hitler, and Criss Angel all in a row.

Someone write a joke. Thanks.

Choices

A representation of my cinematic maturity

I have four Netflix at my house:

Stalker
This science fiction milestone from directory Andrei Tarkovsky takes you into the SZone, a mysterious guarded realm containng a mystical room in which occupants' secret dreams come true. Stalker, a man able to lead others to this holy grail, escorts a writer and a scientist through this foreboding territory and confronts several unexpected challenges along the way. Bassed on the Russian sci-fi novel Roadside Picnic.
Rated NR 2 hrs. 43 min. 1979

Baise Moi
Please note that this film contains explicit sex scene and scenes of intense graphic violence, which some viewers may find shocking and disturbing. This film is not recommended for viewers under the age of 18. Manu, a hardened young waif is violently raped by a group of savage young thugs. Nadine, a tough-skinned prostitute, sells her body but refuses to give up her soul to the world's oldest profession. Sex plays a pivotal and often destructive role in both their lives. Angry at the world, they embark on a twisted rage-filled road trip. Their bloodlust leaves a trail of dead bodies and mischief behind them. They become deadly harbingers of death and destruction. Anyone who has the misfortune of crossing their path, is suddenly a potential victim.
Rated UR 1 hr. 17 min. 2000

L'Age D'Or
Iconoclastic direction Luis Bunuel trumpets his trademark critiques of relgion and bourgeoisie society ini this surrealistic, 1930 film -- which retains the power to shock its audience. As a nameless man and woman (portrayed by Gaston Modot and Lya Lys, respectively) attempt to consummate their sexual desire, the forces of righteousness continually thwart their passion. Artist Salvador Dali penned the provocative script.
Rated NR 1 hr. 1930

My Name Is Nobody
Spaghetti Western regular Terence Hill stars as Nobody, a man who's been chosen to take out established bandit Jack Beauregard (Henry Fonda) but who strikes up a friendship with the seasoned outlaw instead. After Beauregard decides to retire, his new buddy Nobody suggest that he go down in one last blaze of glory, and does his best to have him face off against the dodgy Wild Bunch. Will the aging gunfighter change his mind?
Rated PG 1 hr. 51 min. 1974

With these illustrious choices, what do we decide to watch?

A VHS bootleg of Next Friday.

I really need to have less ambitious movies in my queue and have at least one or two retard movies available at all times (ps I usually only get 3 movies at a time but due to some glitch they sent me 4.)

I guess it's time for Soul Plane and Spies Like Us to make their way to the top of my Queue.

I think I need an Intervention for posting this

Here, in full, is the greatest episode of Intervention I have ever seen. It even beats the crazy duster huffer.

Awkward

My dad requested my friendship on Facebook tonight. This is my current profile picture:



It could be worse. At least I had already changed my status which earlier read:




Foiled by posting on accessible public forums once again. I'm sure my cousins are already horrified. And of course he can see my previous status posting unless I delete it but I am sure I'll make some other slip soon enough so why even bother. I just hope he doesn't ask me about battletits...or battle ass for that matter.

Just sayin'

Thanks Teen Witch!

Hey there lover man

I always had such a crush on Anthony Bourdain, especially after reading his book. Sure he boasts about being hardcore in an embarrassingly old man fashion (kind of like a drunk uncle) but still, there is something undeniably badass about him...even if he is sort of hokey.

That was until I decided that his breath must smell terrible. Like sour coffee, stale cigarettes, and whiskey -- I can't imagine it any other way. That completely ruined him for me.

The dress isn't too small

...you're just too big.

Ahh...cable has exposed me to a slew of adverts for new movies coming out and none have been shoved down my throat (I blame me watching too much TLC and Bravo) more than Bride Wars, yet another evil cinematic installment in the cultural pantheon of women as soulless harpies.

The media's architecture of New York womanhood is killing me. First Sex in the City normalized Botox-laden, chain smoking, hideous shoe fetishizing, money and man obsessed hags. That series ruined a piece of this city's soul. And now we have to endure two spoiled rich brats obsessing over wedding dates at the Plaza (which by the way, the Grand Ballroom is available for $80-100,000 plus catering which runs up to $400/person) and Vera Wang dresses. Hearing the words, "You don't alter Vera, you alter yourself to fit into Vera" (not an exact quote, spare me) on television kills me. These are the models of glamorous womanhood we get to look up to. Spare me.

My relationship with my body is complex enough as it is, thank you. And I can't blame the media for it entirely although that would be convenient. It is an issue I am particularly sensitive to (having written about it on this blog before.) Frankly I find movies like Bride Wars and Sex in the City far more offensive than anything that has ever come out of Howard Stern's mouth. Why? These entirely unlikable models for femininity are marketed directly towards women. Even though they are directed and produced (to an extent) by men, they are presented as about women, by women, and for women.

I will admit that my outrage may be somewhat of a folly since I haven't seen either movie (although I have seen almost every episode of Sex in the City thanks to dorm life) however, I do think I have a right to respond to the way these films are marketed and I bet my guess that their content can be garnered from their trailers and promotional television specials is correct.

I know I am bouncing back and forth, at one point embracing certain aspects of traditional concepts of womanhood and at another freaking out about cinematic representations of women I just feel seem awful. And lordy lordy, I have no idea what to make of He's Just Not That Into You which comes from the writers of Sex in the City (a collaboration of writers who are both male and female, just like the other two movies I mentioned interestingly enough.) All I know is that I won't see it in the theaters and for some reason according to it's IMDB page Kris Kristofferson is in it...AND it's set in Baltimore at least, instead of NYC.

New years, old jeers

So 2009 is over. I feel like I mark my years by age not by the calendar. I don't remember things as having happened in 2006, I remember them as having happened when I was 24. So the calendar changing over doesn't impact me that much. But suffice to say, 2008/26 was a rough year. 27 is so far more hopefully and with it, so is 2009.

My blog has been quite ruminative lately. It's been a big year, slowly letting go of girlhood and replacing it with an unfamiliar idea of womanhood I am still learning how to embrace. Yet I get more confident residing in this skin every day. Part of this slow, but necessary embrace started this summer when a lot of my walls started breaking down. I've always been one to keep my struggles secret, preferring to be stoic. For someone who professes to be such an open individual, I am really fiercely private about certain things. Anyone can know the mundane or tacky detail about my life, but in many ways I am quite guarded. My major struggle this past year was learning to let go of a persona I depended on to guard myself against the threat of intimacies and focus on developing and opening up my personality.

The difference between persona and personality is something that has always fascinated me. In fact it was a major topic of my senior thesis, Raging Against Intimacy in which I explored concepts of persona development in the club scene. I spent a good number of years dwelling in the confines of what I wrote, a persona complete with nickname, full of reference points that only referred to my interests not to me as an actual person.

While rave culture made some claims about the parties being about unity and transcendence through dancing bodies further enabled by drug usage, downtown makes no such claims. Instead, it is about annihilation and mayhem. Not that the scene is always tinged with dark undertones—it manages to be both nihilistic and naïve. Deep down there is the recognition amongst many participants that while punk rock may not have saved their lives, it definitely made them bearable. Friendships are formed quickly within this commonality of history, some are surface and some much deeper, but when recreation turns into required maintenance, these associations become fractured. The bonds that are formed are formed between the “out” personas of the nightlife participants. One person can refer to another as one of their closest friends and not know their last name and possibly seen them sober only on a few occasions. There is a staggering lack of intimacy within this scene whose anthems speak of loyalty and living and dying for one’s friends.

I wrote the above as part of my thesis in the spring of 2005. Three and a half years later not enough has changed. But my life isn't a dependent on that downtown rush as it once was. A few faces from the old days have faded away, left town, or passed onto their own oblivions. The rest of us awoke startled and confused in the aftermath. Realizing that while still quite young, we were becoming too old for relevance, the real world started interfering with our highs and the personas began to crumble. Jobs and the potential for success beckoned. Our art or our careers became priorities and punk rock a distant memory. We sobered up, looked around, and realized we didn't know a thing about those who we'd partied with for years. It was a sad state of affairs. Yet for some of us, the persona persisted.

Such as with myself, Beverly Battletits...former Battletorn-er, that chick who knows more about metal than most other chicks. Sobriety may have mellowed out perceptions of who I am, but a lot of the associations remained intact. Instead of relying on actually getting to know people I'd simply protest dumbly to the running commentaries as to who people thought I was. Until finally, one day, I learned not to worry. Anyone who thinks all I am is a metal record collection and a pair of expensive heels doesn't know me. And either they are or aren't worth getting to know. I shouldn't have to prove that I am a whole person, it should be obvious upon meeting me. I can't complain about people latching onto conceptions of who I am if I have done nothing but encourage them for years. And in turn if I have not showed them anything but that persona in the meantime.

This is all coming straight from my brain through my fingers onto this blog so pardon if its a little muddled. I have been in serious rant mode for a while lately and since this is my blog I'll use it as I please, and presently it has become a place for catharsis. However I hope my personal rumination also has somewhat of a world view and you can find my musing relevant or at least somewhat relatable. If not, then who knows, maybe I am alone here and the rest of you are a little more together and balanced naturally. But I for one have had to work on it, and thankfully I can proudly say I am just about there.

The new recreation

Yesterday was like a bad New York girl's day chick flick and then it turned into heavy metal Party Monster (Chloe Sevigny was even there.) This btw, was all a good thing.

Nikki and I met to get neighborhood coffee and somehow ended up at Sephora buying her lady face things. Despite my recent gender rant about my newfound ladyness, I'd never set foot in that place before. Make-up counters in general scare the crap out of me. Who wants to face a stranger skilled in the art of analyzing your facial flaws? I braved it on Nikki's behalf and slowly but surely was seduced into turning over my face to the skilled tiny pixie pretty gay man manning the Lorak aisle. After looking at myself in the harsh lights in a 5x magnifying mirror I was defeated and helpless. I bought a $25 concealer/highlighter/blender ball combo that I'm still not sure how to use.

Next stop was Bloomingdales, Nikki was on the hunt for blush and I decided I needed red lipstick. After trolling counter after counter I found it. How well I was adjusting...former makeup counter virgin on a mission for that perfect $25 tube of red. 999, Celebrity Red, Dior. It took me about 20 tests to find the perfect shade, my hand was looking like that of a cutter. Severely neglected by the gay behind the counter we waited pleadingly to find out if they had two tubes, one for each of us to look like perfect floozies for New Years. The crushing response, NO!

Back to Sephora, they didn't have that color at all. Uptown to the other Bloomingdales...SOLD OUT! Where else? Barneys - No Dior. Bergdorf - No Dior. Uptown Sephora - Didn't carry that shade. Bendel - Nope. Saks Fifth Avenue, our last hope...found the Dior counter. Begging breathless we ask, do you have 999 Celebrity Red in stock pointing at our lips still stained with the Bloomingdales tester. YES! We got the last two tubes in Manhattan. And what do two ladies do after scoring the last two tubes of the perfect red Dior lipstick? Why, they go to Red Lobster to celebrate of course!

Nearly comatose after far too many cheddar bay biscuits we did what any ladies would do post Red Lobster post lipstick frenzy...we went to a thrash show and ate some magic psychedlic chocolate truffles and went wild. It was a sea of head-banging, dirty dancing, fist pumps, and grapes of wrath in the basement of Lit. Somehow I made it home without a red pentagram tattooed on my palm even though I was begging for a homemade one. However when I did make it home with my McDonalds breakfast takeout at 7:30 am, the Dior lipstick was smeared above my top lip. Glorious mess.