Okay, Bitches, Order Some Pants
February 18, 2008
You’ve been nagging me. Fine. I’ve had better things to do, like sleep, but I am now ready to manufacture the ever-slenderizing Vermarvelous Pants for the sake of your sagging butt. I am more than happy to improve the quality of your life with these miracle pants. Treat yourself, don’t cheat yourself. 
NEANDERTHAL BRAIN
February 17, 2008
There’s the man who lives a few doors down. An older man in a trench coat. He has two fat, faded cats. He puts them on leashes and walks them around the neighborhood. He carries a retractable chair. When the cats find a place that suits them, the man opens the chair, sits and lounges until the cats decide to move on. Sometimes the cats want to settle in front of this condo, so the man sets up his chair near the front door.
There he was, the man with cats on leashes, sitting in a chair in the middle of the walkway. The first time I noticed him, at dusk, I was taken aback. Opening the second floor blinds and seeing the outline of a man sitting next to the front door is surprising. When you figure out what the old man is doing, allowing his cats to roam, it makes sense, and yet, he doesn’t really have to set the chair down in the middle of the walkway, but he does, and it is a reminded to me that the front yard and the walkway and the front door are not mine. I may rent them or own them, put fences in front of them and Keep Out signs around them, but the truth is, when an old man walks his cats and needs to sit down in my front yard, he has every right, except the “legal” right, to do so.
Today, it’s windy and cold, and there he sits in the blue canvas folding chair, holding a leash attached to something hidden under the bushes. I opened the second floor window just now and told him how wonderful it was that he cared about his cats. I felt like I should make a connection, being that I was standing on the balcony and his head was directly underneath the balcony.
“Well, Hello up there!” answered the man from his chair. “How nice of you to come out and greet me!”
He was a well-spoken gentleman.
“We love our animals, don’t we?” I said.
“Oh, yes. I live in the apartment building next door and the by-laws insist that animals be kept on leashes whenever they are out of the apartment, even in the hallway. I started these two on leashes when they were tiny kittens.”
“ I’ve never seen a cat on a leash” I said.
“They don’t know the difference, and I get my fresh air. I can sit and watch them, go over my investments in my head, work out deals, very refreshing.”
He had to bend back in his chair and wrench his neck to look up at me.
“For some reason, the cats like to stop here in front of your condo best of all.”
“Well, that’s fine” I said. “I like to watch them.”
“Why, yes.” He smiled and went back to watching the cats, one of whom had dug a hole and was pissing under a rose bush.
I felt ashamed. I didn’t want the man sitting on the walkway, cats or no cats. He had the large lawn in front of the condo and a park near-by with benches so that people didn’t have to carry chairs around with them.
The man was no bother to me. I didn’t have to leer over the balcony at him. I could go inside and empty the dishwasher. Here it was: The limbic territorial reaction to an invasive “other.” I was able to comprehend, using my advanced frontal lobes, that the old man was providing a loving service for his cats and caused me no harm. This didn’t make any difference. “Get the fuck off my sidewalk” I thought.
Average = Fucked
February 15, 2008
I am average. On a good day, I am average. On a bad day, I am average and self-absorbed. I’m having bad days lately. I had a good day yesterday when I objectively reviewed everything I had ever done. The verdict? Average, at best. In a world of 50 billion blogs, 5 billion of which are excellent, why bother writing a blog that’s average? For other average people? Impossible. Average people are average in as many ways as there are average people. Average people are usually connected to a network or community of some kind. They have their own average friends to encourage them. An average person without a network, like myself, is only writing for myself, maybe the web designer, and a dozen acquaintances who visit my blog out of sympathy.
The fact that I now recognize my averageness is a blessing. I knew it, on some level, for a long time, but tried to keep the fact at bay for the sake of sanity. I also tried to be crazy in order to avoid being average, and I succeeded. In being crazy, that is. Now I am average and crazy. My averageness lacks the one positive: a consistent sanity based on average thoughts and average activities which comfort the mind as it contemplates life from a low rung of expectation, and allows the body to relinquish its fate to average food, average sex and and an average car. Average becomes better than good because there are more average jobs, people, vacations to choose from. Possibilities for average experiences are endless. So many choices! Whilst the special people have to settle for the best of everything. Nothing else will satisfy.
A few years ago I was below average. I was able to avoid the pain of that reality by saying I was an “artist”. Artists get away with anything because they always have excuses as to why they are considered below average in all categories: looks, style, education, financial success, healthy relationships, marketable skills, mental health. All of it. Wiped off the board. “It’s okay. You’re an artist” Why don’t they just say, “It’s okay. You’re average.” and get it over with.
I wait and whine at my fate, when all I have to do is accept the secretary job at the carpet company. (Middlebury, Vermont) My problems would be solved, tout suite. I would be a good secretary for a carpet company. I can type 60 words a minute. I have a pleasant phone manner. I can take measurements and know the difference between an Oriental rug and outdoor carpeting. I could bring donuts to work for the carpet salesmen. We could laugh about awkward installations over coffee. An hour for lunch, I could go home and walk my disabled dog. If I dressed up real pretty, I’ll bet one of the balding, paunchy salesmen would fall for me, although I am over fifty. He’d say, “Oh, that Laurel is pretty silly, but she sure can type.” He would ask me to di
nner. “Meet me at the Olive Garden after work. Let’s play!”
Why not? There’s an all-you-can-eat salad bar. It’s basically the same food as anywhere else and he is the same as men everywhere else: within the average category. A big category, with endless possibilities, so there’s always the prospect of a new restaurant and a new carpet salesman.
The mistake I’ve made: not realizing the potentialities of average. The lack of envy, the offer of support and encouragement, remedial night classes, invitations to every barbecue in the neighborhood. Where to begin?
ADHD Valentine Nightmare
February 14, 2008
This is a serger. Today, Valentine’s Day, I must learn how to use it. In lieu of chocolates, flowers or fornication, I have decided to spend the entire day and evening with the serger. It can’t be as disappointing as a man or any more difficult to figure out. A serger finishes seams so that they don’t ravel. I bought it on E-Bay so that I could make professional looking Vermarvelous Pants. I will know what I am on the right dose of Adderall because I will be able to read the instruction manual and thread the upper loop and left loop and right loop and lower loop and adjust the thread cutter and thread guide pole and the feeding of the rubber spool holders and thread tensions. Supposedly, by threading the left needle only a width of 6mm will be produced, while threading two needles will produce a width of 3.8mm. The instruction manual, English, Spanish and French, makes more sense in Spanish although I cannot read Spanish. “Con la Batea de hilos en esta posicion, cogera todos materiales gastodos.” Okay, no problem, but ou est la mother fucking lint tray?
Middlebury Landlord Squelches Word Installation
February 13, 2008
A Middlebury landlord, who owns the building and therefore the window used for my latest word installation, has complained to the renters of the window that he will not tolerate any words, especially “she knows” in said window. “What is that?” he asked the artists who are renting the space. “That looks like shit. Take it down.” The artists, afraid of losing their lease, were forced to take down the word installation before I was able to continue with my message to the community. One of the artists in the building confessed to me that the landlord was going through a nasty divorce and that he thought the words were specifically directed at him. My intent, with my installations, is to reveal to people their unconscious fears, made manifest by their reaction to the posted words. It is my guess that the landlord was having a secret affair before the divorce negotiations were final. This is speculation, of course, but it fits in nicely with reactions to my word works in other cities and towns. An overwhelming hostility, paranoia and morbid curiosity occurs in people who drive by and read the words. Any words. Simple words. “Take it now” “Don’t send it” “He wouldn’t” “Ask your car” — etc, etc. I was protected by the First Amendment in Newport, Rhode Island, because the window was in my apartment. But the protection did not include a lease renewal. It seems that I am going to have to search a multitude of locations until I find a building I can afford to buy, a building on a very busy street with a large window facing the upcoming traffic. An abandoned building is best. Keep your eyes open.
Admission of Friendship with Andy Warhol
February 13, 2008
For years, I’ve tried to keep my 2 week relationship with the late Andy Warhol private. Andy also did not want his friends to know of our casual meetings in Brooklyn at a time when Brooklyn was considered gauche. All my memories of that opiate period in my life are a jumble, but I do recall that that Andy found me slightly interesting because I resembled Louise Brooks and ate Campbells soup out of the can, cold. I did not hang out with his gang in public because I was in the process of having a sex change operation and didn’t want any media coverage. I was hopeful that Andy and I might become lovers if I had an appendage. When the operation failed and I remained a woman, and a real bitch of a woman at that, Andy drifted out of my life forever, but not before memorializing me in a print. He created the work of art from a headshot I was then using for Soap Opera auditions. In order to keep our liason secret I suppose that Andy told everyone that the print was of Louise Brooks. I don’t know for sure because, to tell the truth, I had completely forgotten about the print until I recently spotted it on a wall in a museum. I feel better, now that everyone knows the truth.
My Novel
February 12, 2008
I have decided to review my own novel before it is finished. I can then quote my review and put it on the cover. There is a distinct possibility that I will never finish this novel or have it published, so why wait anxiously for a review that will never be written? I am a firm believer in handling every aspect of one’s career and not placing destiny in the hands of literary professionals. They make too many mistakes and, as we know, power corrupts.
Title: You CAN survive an airplane crash. Author: Laurel Casey Non-Fiction, 453 pages.
Based on top-secret government documents discovered by the author while sifting through a dumpster behind the Pentagon, this crash-course in aviation survival is a must-read for anyone traveling through the sky, unless they’re in a hot air balloon. Thanks to first time author, Laurel Casey, we now have the information we need to not only survive a plane crash but walk away without a scratch. It is a much repeated mantra based on percentages: Air travel is safer than riding in an automobile, a train, a bus. It is almost as safe as staying in bed. However, the fear of flying continues to remain a constant source of anxiety for a large majority of Americans. This anxiety has been found to have detrimental affects on pilots in our armed forces. The Pentagon made the problem a priority after 9/11 and has spend close to 7 billion dollars researching techniques which would guarantee the safety of those assigned to the skies. This life saving information has been designated top-secret since 2001 by the Federal Aviation Authority for reasons that Ms. Casey reveals in her book.
Why was Ms. Casey able to find unshredded evidence of this top-secret research?Was the shredder out of order that day or were the documents meant to discovered? How many lives have been saved, and how many sacrificed, since 2001? These questions are answered in the first chapter of this invaluble book. The proceeding 20 chapters all explain, in lucid detail, the particulars of surviving a variety of flight disasters, of which there are many. With graphic photos and transcriptions taken from airplane black-box recordings, the reader can methodically piece together a survival plan for their family and friends. Seemingly instinctive reactions, such as praying and screaming, were found to be less effective than previously believed as was placing one’s head between one’s legs or anyone else’s legs. Ms. Casey explains in layman terms the ten steps that DO make the difference between life and an agonizing death for you and your loved ones.
Unfortunately, the first printing of this book sold out in four hours. There are only a few books available for purchase until a second printing, which is slated for January 2009. However, by contacting Ms. Casey directly, it is possible to obtain a synopsis of the documents which will certainly save your life if indeed you enjoy the time-saving convenience of airline travel.
Goin’ to Kansas City, Kansas City here I Come…
February 12, 2008
I took a spontaneous flight to Washington D C last night. I bought a cheap ticket to Orlando, Florida from Burlington with a layover in D.C. and when the plane landed in D.C. I got off and stayed. Although it was 50 degrees warmer in Florida, I realized somewhere between Burlington and D.C. that warmth is not a good enough reason to visit a vapid Republican swamp. It’s 35 degrees today in D.C. but so what? Compared to Vermont, it’s a heat wave. I have to help my daughter pack up for Kansas City anyway. How do I help her pack? We throw everything into the back of the Volvo I am giving her, and fill the tank with gas. I wave good-bye, drive to Providence, drive to Vermont, drive randomly here and there until I find a computer and google the words Kansas City. I find a map of Kansas City. There are two of them, you know. One in Kansas and another in Missouri. Then I will go on Craigs list and see about gigs and rentals. Then I will wait six months or so and see if my daughter likes it in the middle of the country. If she decides to settle there for a couple of years, I’ll drive another Volvo to Kansas City. If I don’t like Kansas City, I can continue to drive towards California until I reach the Pacific Coast and my brother’s apartment. Being that he isn’t one of my biggest fans, I will follow the ocean south to Los Angeles, visiting my TV Producer friend, Xaque, and hope that he has, by now, slept his way to the top of someplace that needs a secretary. My doctor in Vermont will be forwarding me my medications to every CVS in the country by the time I’m done traveling. Too bad that gas is 3.09 a gallon. I have exactly 2,666 dollars left and a 2,500 limit on a paid-up credit card. It’’s very exciting. A few months ago I had too much money and became severely depressed. Money destroys my art. It pacifies me. Being close to broke again, I feel a renewed sense of purpose and desperation. Not only that, but I can begin asking friends for help, and there is nothing that binds two people together like a loan.
Many years ago, when I was certainly destitute but doing some of my best writing, an old dear friend in Vermont began sending me money whenever I mailed her a story. In other words, she rewarded me. It wasn’t the amount of money. That didn’t make a difference to me. Forty dollars, to an artist, is a fortune when we’re in a grocery store or at the gas station.
This friend kept me writing and not necessarily for the purpose of publishing, which often waters down the work. I was able to just write and not worry about the outcome. I could mail her anything I wrote. The important thing to her was that I write. The little carrot of generosity instilled in me a sense of responsibility and that most precious commodity: hope.
Travel also inspires a writer, even if it’s just to Kansas City. And Kansas City is just a place where my daughter will be and I want to be near her and she wants to be near me. Isn’t that a wonderful gift?
Last night, here in D.C. at the condo, I downloaded Fats Domino’s version of Kansas City and a few other versions, and the four of us (my daughter and two roommates, Liz and Jarod) danced interpretively for over an hour. I was able to show them some moves I learned at Studio 54 thirty years ago because I can still do them. Why? Because I have to be younger than 55 in order to survive my lifestyle. Living on the edge keeps you young as long as you don’t worry yourself to death. I would think I was crazy, but I have read too many biographies and autobiographies of artists who felt the same way. The term “starving artist” does not elude to an artist not being rewarded for their work, it is instead an artist’s birthright; to live freely in ways that others find unconscionable. (can’t find a dictionary)
I’ll admit that I still feel like a misfit, a failure, a lazy slovenly bum. I feel guilt and regret and hunger for the goodies, including money in the bank. I’m probably rationalizing my inability to live properly, responsibly, like an adult, but it just doesn’t come naturally to me. I feel no ill will against those who think poorly of me and other’s like me. I don’t blame the suckers. Meanwhile, I think I’ll spend the summer in Newport, Rhode Island at a friend’s house, take long walks on the beach and sing a few nights in the bistros. In the fall? Who knows….. Kansas City?
There is somebody in my house in Vermont. A nice man is renting my house and I am thrilled because that man is renting my house and sending me money so that I can rent an apartment in Providence. Now, wait a minute. Does this make sense? I thought so, a few weeks ago, when I was working here, singing, planning, organizing, hob-knobbing, but as of today, as I lugged a bunch of my crap up two flights of stairs on the East Side, all the while knowing I would have to lug the crap back down the two flights of stairs a few months from now— as of today, I thought to myself, “Gee, I don’t feel very good in my head” I sat on the stairs, dirty stairs, very dirty, and considered my situation. I blamed the town of Bridport , Vermont, for not having a Dunkin Donut’s or a Cafe, a bar or a nightclub, a college, tennis courts, health club, movie theater. Then I blamed myself for wanting those things. Then I blamed myself for having those things here in Providence and not taking advantage of them because I like staying home and reading in bed. Now, if I like staying home and reading in bed, why don’t I just move back to my own home, in Bridport, and wait out the winter with Charles Dickens and Mark Twain? Now that I have rented my house, I miss it. It is not available. That is why I was so sad today, moving into what I thought was a nice apartment on the East Side. It is somebody elses house and always will be, no matter how many knick knacks, rugs, paintings, books, personal items I stuff into it. Renting makes me feel insecure, more insecure than worrying about how to pay my property tax. It’s silly, because none of us own anything fully. Still, sombody is in MY house and i am in somebody else’s house, and it’s ridiculous in a way that I can’t quite comprehend and it is making me very very sad.