1. Larry Johnson made an L signal with his arms only during Knicks playoff games. 2. Baseball is only team sport where: a) manager wears uniform; b) playing fields are not the same from stadium to stadium; c) you can fail 65% of the time and be considered the best in the business; d) where the offense does not have the ball 3. Stephon Marbury, who was just traded to the Knicks, grew up in Brooklyn and went to Lincoln High School. 4. Karl Malone is the “Mailman” cause he delivers. 5. Julius Erving is “The Doctor” cause he makes howze calls. 6. Kobe Bryant is named after Kobe Beef 7. Peyton Manning is quarterback for The Colts. His father Archie was a great NFL quartback for the Saints, and Peyton’s younger brother Eli will be a first round draft pick in this year’s NFL draft. Keep it in the family boys. 8. Yao Ming, who is from China and plays for the Houston Rockets is 7’6”… his mother is 6’3”, and his father is 6’10”. 9. I love grandfather clauses, which permit old-school players, who joined the NHL prior to mandatory helmets, to now play without any protective headgear. So old school. 10. I sometimes call my dog Linus “Lebrinus” after LeBron James because the boy can catch some air. People say athletes are thugs during interviews, perhaps as well spoken as last night’s Best in Show champion Newfoundland (pictured above), but Sprewell is very articulate. Go ahead and add Dikembe Mutombo Mpolondo Mukamba Jean Jacque Wamutombo (Dikembo Mutombo for short) to that list. He can answer in English, French, Spanish, Portugese or any one of five African dialects. Well done, gentlemen. Now, if I could only say the same of their spectators. At any sporting event in Madison Square Garden, it’s no surprise to find men wearing sports jerseys and duo-toned face paint screaming about the ref’s wife. They’re the type of men who go to Irish pubs and have goatees; they have definitely mooned more than one person in their lifetime. They use toothpicks after meals. These men all played football or hockey when they were younger, but now, they play softball. Take that scene and reverse it. You now have the spectators at The Westminster Dog Show, housed in Madison Square Garden. The space is the same, but the players have changed. Security isn’t just checking bags for explosives; they’re ensuring no one is smuggling in another dog. Bouffants, powder puffs, hairspray, I’m talking about the women, not the dogs. Lots of white haired women with spackled makeup wear their fur coats; it’s becoming cliché. Fur to a dog show is like wearing red to a funeral. Bored married men wearing Hushpuppies smile a little too long at me—their heads turn, and their Chanel-pin-wearing, Manolo’s-even-in-the-rain, I-get-my-hair-blown-smooth-every-third-day wives notice. They clutch his arm and lead him. They become their husband’s handler for the night. Since when is a Dachshund a hound? Excuse me, but they’re Gray’s Papaya’s bundled in knit and should not be in the same ring as a Bloodhound whose shite is bigger than the dachshund by two. The Briand is not something you smear onto a baguette and pair with a tasty Chianti; it’s a dog. What the hell is the difference between working and sporting groups? Every time I attempt any sport, it feels like work. These poor dogs get an unfair wrap. Like the above list of interesting sports tid-bits, you’ll hear similar facts (and rumors) in Madison Square Garden… about dogs. The dog nerd beside me (yes, the kind that buys the program) drip-feeds me information throughout the evening. “Pulik” flashes on the board in lights as a mop of a dog struts his rump. “Aw, what a cute Pulik.” Dog nerd corrects me, “It’s pronounced Puli.” Her voice is nasal. “Pulik is plural, like oxen.” Dog nerd goes on, “And that dog’s owner brings terrible shame to the community.” She then leans in closer; I can smell her breath. She whispers in a voice reserved for dreaded things, “puppy mills.” She brings a new meaning to “Dog Whisperer.” (If you enjoyed this post, check out Dogs & Their Owners)
I had a project in kindergarten to make a cookbook. Everyone in the class had to bring in a typed copy of a favorite recipe. Cheese Puffs. Photocopies were made–hole punches included. We had to bind the recipe pages with yarn and create our own covers, which would later be laminated. Some kids traced their hand and made a turkey. Some drew fish or family members. Rainbows were popular. I told the teacher I wanted to sew. I sewed two pieces of construction paper together, sewing my name in thick colored yarn. The e came out backward: very Toys R Us. Construction paper, rubber cement, yarn and glitter contained behind the lamination. Cooking 101. Kindergarten is about playground carpeting–sprawling out on your stomach, sore elbows, your first rug burn incident. Small chairs and wooden desks. Monkey bars and glue. Concentrating, yet lost in time–your tongue curls itself outside the corner of your mouth. Finger painting. At what age do we stop getting dirty–stop digging our hands in? Brushes get introduced to keep fingernails clean, like a fork or a knife. The only time now I get my hands dirty is when I cook or have really dirty seex. Crushing tomatoes in my hands, letting the jelly and seeds seep through my fingers, pulling the pulp into strips. Viscous and lovely. I suppose they make hand blenders and food mills for this task. I know why I stopped jumping on the bed. I broke it having seex, so jumping on it wasn’t a good idea, but when did we get so clean? Freud would have so much more to get wrong these days. The sublimation of fecal fixation as displayed by artists and chefs is no longer apparent. We’re not getting in it anymore. We’ve become sterile. And now, we’re aware of every hour, minutes are accounted for. Time sheets submitted. My New Year’s Resolution was to let my tongue hang out. It’s not about panting, picking fights, or making a pass. It’s about letting hours feel like minutes. Getting dirty and involved, letting my tongue out. It’s just not living anymore with neatly arranged catalog lives, polaroids taped to shoe boxes, everything in it’s place. Manicured nails and lawns–a holder for your kitchen sponge. I miss wearing a smock. I’d be wary of anyone who can cook and keeps their hands clean. They can’t fcuk at all, and when they do have “intercourse,” it’s probably clean and orderly, like boxes of soap. Get dirty, sing with your eyes closed; let your tongue do what it wants. Get a heap full of life on your hands.
Hair in a bun, big tee shirt, sweats. Bundled beneath white down, ready to read, “Bird by Bird” resting open on my chest. My little bully comes along, decides he’d like to be my necklace. Pushes the book closed with his paw, swift as wind he’s in my face, his warm pink belly on my breasts, his tongue lodged in my nose.
Here’s what you don’t know about B&H Photo. They have food stands to keep you there. Restrooms and food stands. Free Coke, seltzer and lots of pretzel nuggets. And sugar, bowls filled with hard candies on nearly every corner. They’re not dumb, fueling you full of stimulants. Shop, shop, damn it, shop! If you know what you want, you can walk right up to a man, wait for a cue, “I’m listening,” then bark your list, he types, you’re done. A green plastic basket is then awaiting your arrival at checkout. 5 minutes flat. I went in control this time. In and out, easy. Going to B&H Photo is a little like grocery shopping when I’m hungry. Before going next time, I’ll check my Amex balance first, maybe print it out and pocket it. Today I went with a list. The list was strict and written on a folded index card in black pen. No pencils here. I brought with me every bit of camera equipment that I own, pulled over my shoulder, just incase I questioned straying from the list. The weight of it all would keep me questioning any reckless purchase. 105 Macro lens was third on my list, but definitely the most expensive item. Fujipress 800, Kodak HIE, 105 Macro lens, 500w EBW bulbs (2) with brackets, gold/silver reflector card. What I left with: 81A Amber filter for a 62mm, Fog Filter 62mm, Close-up filter kit of 3, Filter Case, 105 Macro lens, and all the film, plus two more. $570.79 bill in hand, 2 hours later. Okay, sure, I rationalized that the new digital camera that I just spent $2,000 on would save me money in the long run, right, no more film to buy or develop. Wrong. With a digital camera, you feel like you’re cheating. Photoshop it up if it’s not what you hoped for. It’s like re-writing an old story with a few strokes of a red pen. It doesn’t count; it’s not original. All week I was somehow too busy to shoot for my photography class… the one that meets on Monday nights. Assignment: to shoot 2 rolls of film in the style of your favorite movie or movie director. The problem, of course, with this assignment is that I have too many favorite movies, yet none of them seem classic. The one movie I recalled as being beautifully shot is Unfaithful. Modern crops, some grain, good aperture. The trick is not picking a movie just because it’s beautiful. I certainly can’t replicate Antarctica, Africa or Thailand. It’s about replicating style, not subject matter. Breakfast at Tiffany’s, too cliché. I came home and watched Unfaithful until it was time for “Sex and the City.” Then I cried. I want babies. So that leaves Monday afternoon for my photo shoot. Hello Grand Central Terminal. Unless any of you have any good ideas… “I’m listening.” Here’s where I ended up, an homage to Pleasantville.
1. I wet the bed until I was in 6th grade. 2. I ate dinner with Jack Nicholson. There were 5 of us. I don’t recall if he actually ate, but he didn’t talk. 3. I get diarrhea more than a normal person and have no qualms about sharing it with everyone in the shorthand version ‘rea.’ 4. Chris Noth (Mr. Big from Sex in the City) asked me out on a date, while his friend (my date) was in the bathroom. 5. Anyone who can play acoustic guitar rocks my world… as long as they sing, too. 6. I don’t like vibrators, but I love dirty talk in bed. 7. I’ve been known to dress up as “the other woman” complete with wig, contacts, and fake name all in the name of “keeping things exciting.” (see image above) 8. Julie Tesser accidentally broke my nose in the 4th grade. I never got it fixed. 9. I had a pet bird that committed suicide by sticking his head between the cage bars. 10. My sister forgot to feed her pet gerbils, so one died. Then, the one that was alive ate its dead friend. 11. I have never tried a cigarette or done any drugs, including marijuana. 12. I don’t know where Wyoming or Montana are on the U.S. Map. Oklahoma, neither. Okay, now I know where Montana is because my sister moved there. 13. I was always afraid of ducks when I was little. Their feet scare me. 14. The second toe on both my feet is longer than my big toes. It’s called the Royalty Toe. 15. I once weighed 168.5 lbs. And wore a size 16 pants, a men’s size 36. 16. When I drink alcohol the bridge of my nose turns bright red. 17. I still worry about my weight but I somehow manage not to puke up my food after every meal like most of Manhattan. 18. I was a vegetarian for 9 years until I was tempted to eat a chicken nugget. 19. I lost my virginity when I was 15 to a boy named Eric Fink. 20. I hate tuna fish or salmon out of a can, but I will eat both as fillets or sushi. 21. I won’t date anyone who can fit into my jeans. 22. I hate the gynecologist. Nearly every time I’m there, I faint out of fear. 23. Receiving oral sex does nothing for me. 24. I got alcohol poisoning when I was 14, and I didn’t drink after that until sophomore year of college. 25. I can touch my tongue to the tip of my nose 26. I hate barbecue chips and sauce, but I like dry rub ribs from Memphis. 27. I hate learning history. 28. I have always excelled in math, even though I was an English major. 29. I love karaoke. 30. I have never shoplifted. 31. I have never lost money gambling. I always win at Roulette. 32. I am ¼ Greek, ¼ Puerto Rican, ¼ Russian, and ¼ Austrian 33. I was raised Jewish, had a bat mitzvah, went to Hebrew school, yet my mother is Greek Orthodox. 34. I once worked cold-calling people at home to sell Chimney Cleaning Services. 35. I am a distant cousin to the person who sings the theme song in the movie Manequin (Nothing’s gonna stop us now—Starship) 36. I know all the lines in the movie “When Harry Met Sally.” 37. I have seen every single episode of Three’s Company. 38. A photograph of me appeared in Newsday when I was protesting power lines 39. When I’m sick, I stay home and watch the entire Anne of Green Gables series. 40. Yes, my hair is naturally red, and no you can’t make me prove it. 41. The same day I had all 4 wisdom teeth pulled, I ate eggplant parmigano. No swelling. 42. While ordinarily I am not a pious person, sleep away camp was a religious experience. 43. I had an abortion, and it’s more than just some item on a list. 44. On a stormy night, when I was 9 years old, I said aloud that I wanted a sign there was a god. I turned over a deck of well-shuffled cards, and I pulled out 2 aces in a row, then I put the cards away. 45. My dad is my best friend. 46. I wear a 34C. 47. I detest any type of beer, including Apple Jack. 48. I had the opportunity to cheat on my SATs. I didn’t. 49. I called in sick to work one day because I was up all night playing Final Fantasy. 50. I have tweezed my entire pubic area because I was bored. 51. “Woman on Top” was the worst movie I’ve ever seen next…
I can taste him sometimes, mineral, a hint that disappears like a whisper, I’m not sure I heard, a fine bead of sugary pear inside my cheek, a hum of memories like rain, he is familiar, yet unexpected, like the taste of your own blood. His voice reassuring, like a shoreline, puddles of speech, linger in me, permanent, water stains on paper. Tender and calming, engulfing me with rapture and envy, a suffocated ship without aid. I can smell him sometimes, warm with soap, mingled in his chest, hair like broken stitches, curled like seashells. Scalp, saliva, and sandalwood. Deer eyes reveal a man who had settled for less, hands as tender and strong as his voice, tanned skin with a sheen like pressed Egyptian sheets, a brownie mole that escaped my eyes in the dark. I can feel him sometimes, beneath the cup of my hand, filling me like dough when it’s pushing into cold stone, warm and buzzing with yeast and elasticity, melted wax, soft as sifted flour, rhythm, kneading, needing.
It’s a crock. We all agree. It’s like the Easter bunny but without the dye, Cadbury eggs, or plastic grass-filled baskets. Some underground creature with the ability to prognosticate, yup, right up there with Claus. However, it is a holiday, and as such, a celebration, or at least an acknowledgement must follow. Bring in the films. I tip my hat to this holiday by loading my DVD player with a double feature film viewing of Groundhog Day followed by Caddyshack. I challenge you to come up with a better afternoon duo. I can just see Punxsutawney Phil, peeking out, shaking like a Chihuahua to shed his slumber, then a sunlight flinch. Interpreted: Phil has seen his shadow: six more weeks of winter. Newsflash: He has seen his shadow 94 times since the tradition began. It’s rooted in a German superstition that if a hibernating animal cast a shadow Feb. 2, winter will last another six weeks. I think the Germans should stick to bratwurst.
Like men with hot cars, I am compensating. I have no seex life. Assignment #1 photography class: shoot a pepper. Boy did I ever. View the results in the album.
I am home sick, with a moderate temperature. Beneath my bathroom sink, I’ve big round brushes, feet moisturizing socks, a pumice stone, even an enema. What I don’t have is a lot of what one needs when a cold arrives unexpectedly. Let’s begin here. I’m the type of girl who doesn’t skimp… so my toilet paper is Charmin Ultra (the blue one, not the red… big difference). I trekked over to Duane Reade with Linus. I bring Linus because he’s been stored inside for a few days in a puff of a sweater to keep his pink naked body warm. Of course my Duane Reade has an escalator. As Linus approaches the collapsible stairs, he gets down low, leans on his forearms and growls. My dog is now barking at the escalator, in a store, which has a prominent NO PETS ALLOWED sign on its door. Although I can’t breathe and my throat actually has some new type of razor lodged in it, I begin to laugh. Swoop up Linus. We finally make it home, and we unpack. I place bags down; he pulls out items with his mouth. I begin to sneeze. Along with the Gatorade and chicken noodle soup, Michael brought me white roses to put by my bed. Jennifer sent me beautiful lilies. Amazing friends, yes. Beautiful flowers, yes, fragrant, oh yes. Sneezes—yes and yes. The moral of this story is: Don’t even bother buying tissues if you have a cold. No tissue is as soft as Charmin Ultra toilet paper. Damn, I should have known not to buy tissues from Scott’s Brand. Oh my lord, what was I thinking? There is another lesson in this; it’s akin to never going grocery shopping when you’re hungry. If you’re sick, let someone else do this for you (insert boyfriend here). You are clearly not thinking straight. You’re the crazy one laughing at the escalator; you should be in bed watching something with Meg Ryan.
It’s as exciting as Ben & Jerry’s new 2004 flavors, my new photography class offered at ICP. This weekend I’m shooting an album cover for a new artist’s cd. Look at the pictures. Tomorrow I’m finally treating myself to the D100. I currently shoot using Nikon’s N80, and the D100 is the digital version. This week’s assignment is to photograph a green pepper. Oh no, you read right. A nod to Edward Weston’s famous shot. So I was thinking of getting Jennifer naked for an erotic (the key word is tasteful) shot with the lovely veggie. Okay, or, shooting it with a micro lens—abstract. Be a pepper pics to follow can be seen in the seexual veggies photo album. I really aspire to shoot like Karen Beard. Her images are gorgeous. If anyone knows how to acheive this style, post a comment or email me.
Super bowl Sunday–who really cares anyway? We all know it’s just about the food. For me, it’s about Lifetime Television for Women. I’ll tivo the bowl and fast forward to the commercials. Pass the artichoke dip and tissues. Super bowl Sunday is about the good channels who air the chick movies for all the football widows. Now before I even go there, and believe me, I’ll go there, baby, I’d like to address book nerds. I once heard that books to some people become their home. The typed letters, stanzas, and paragraphs don’t evaporate off the page and get heavier somehow, like bricks or stones, but suddenly an unreturned favorite lent out book becomes a loss. Not a lost sock or the keys you can’t find, but almost something to mourn. Like a child who cries at his first haircut, the books become an instrumental part of the person’s identity. You are what you read. I am not one of these people. I know people who pack up their favorite books with them as they travel. Unpacked, after slipping underwear into new drawers, the books are revealed and placed on the hotel bedside table. Comfort. I travel with paperbacks, but they’re always new—and if I finish it on the plane, I offer it to the passenger beside me—or I’ll leave it in the netted bag with the barf bag and stoic crash instructions. I do understand that feeling of home, but it’s intangible. What makes “home” yours? Is it the smell, the people, your bed, your dog, the rent check you pay? Like the book junkies, I hold onto that sense of comfort and shelter through movies. Maybe it’s the familiar comfort of a bedtime story that allows my nerves to unfold. Certain movies enable me to feel at home no matter where I am. The movies are ones I’ve seen so many times, that with my eyes closed I know the gesture, the facial expression, the changes of scene that are happening. The voices and stories come to life, and the characters become as dear to me as the people in my life. I can finally stop thinking and rest peacefully. When traveling, I pack the paperback, but I always leave room for a few sleeves of DVD favorites. Okay, relax; I’m getting to that. Before I reveal my list of favorite bedtime story movies (which any guy who ever wants to date me must be able to stomach), I will start with the more palatable films to the masses. You need to trust me with your time and Blockbuster late fees. I’ll earn it. I don’t know what’s up with the male obsession with The Godfather, Star Wars, and Lord of The Rings series. Yawn. I’ve seen them all, and of these, I’d stick with the Lord of The Rings. Then there’s Red Dawn, Breaking Away, Fight Club, and (oh dear lord) Clint Eastwood. Obviously, I’m a chick. Then we reach the area where men and women usually agree… the Shawshank, American Beauty, Rain Man, Good Will Hunting, It’s a Wonderful Life arena. Those are just basics. Scoop of vanilla, scoop of chocolate, don’t waste my time. Obvious. If you’re a little artsy, add a Neil Simon to the list—Brighton Beach Memoirs or Lost in Yonkers… Yes and yes. Something about Mary, Groundhog Day, Trading Places, Meet the Parents, Coming to America, Defending your Life (anything actually with Albert Brookes is hysterical), Big, A Night at the Roxbury, Funny Farm, and Nine Months ring as favorite comedies for many. Okay, I’m diving in now, my sleeves have been pushed up. Bedtime movies masquerading as chick flicks to follow: 1. “Love in the Afternoon” because older men are seexy as hell. 2. “Philadelphia Story” with Katherine Hepburn because women like endearing nicknames like Red, ahem. And because women want a real man, who is whole, and who knows how to be a man. 3. “Sense & Sensibility” men just don’t get this movie, and every woman I know who has seen this film is suddenly sobbing and hoping for a better life. 4. “When Harry Met Sally” because I’m going to be forty, too… someday. 5. “French Kiss” because I want to plant some seeds and watch them grow. (Any green thumb thoughts should be extinguished.) I can quote this movie all day. And the soundtrack is like a rainy day with cashmere socks. 6. “Beautiful Girls” for lines like, “You’ve been eatin’ retard sandwiches again.” 7. “Meet Joe Black” because I believe that lightening can strike more than a woman walking her dog. 8. “Sabrina” because I named my dog after Linus Larabee. 9. “Little Women” because I am Josephine March. And because it teaches women to value themselves beyond how they look. This movie should charge you…
Over a year ago, I thought I was ready to date again; actually there was no thought about it. I had to date again. Any time I spent without concrete plans was wasted. Tick tock. I had to move on, and that meant meeting someone new. (I wish I had the strength then that I do now to just be alone) I sorted through match.com profiles with a very open mind. So he looked like Al Borland from Tool Time… so that could be cute in a “lets cuddle in matching flannel” kind of way. I was done with hot. I was married to hot. Hot was 28-years-old and lied to me, running around town without his wedding band, pretending to be single, with a much older women while I was pregnant. I had hot, and it didn’t take. I was looking for the perfect man for me, someone just good looking enough to get me aroused. Excess leads to torment. The date was set. We talked on the phone for hours, and I of course conjured up the wrong image of this cuddly man. He would “fix” things. I wasn’t shy about my recent past. Details were shared with a stranger; a stranger who I hoped would be a replacement. He was emotionally available, compassionate; he seemed evolved and to possess excellent communication skills. He had feelings beyond anger because the ref made a bad call. I was beautiful in my new cream coat and cashmere wrap. I waited in the cold with anticipation. As he approached, all I could think was “uncle.” He was not my uncle, but he was asexual in an uncle sort of way. My shoulders fell, I smiled harder to conceal my disappointment. This guy was cold milk. We exchanged an awkward kiss on the cheek and walked to High Life Bar & Grille. I downed two glasses of wine in a hurry. That’s better. Okay, let me make the most of this. He did go to Columbia, was a banker and a film critic writer. There were things to say. I hadn’t anticipated what happened next. “So Stephanie, thanks for meeting me. I’ve been sad lately… tomorrow is my birthday and I have no one to go out with. Will you please have dinner with me.” Okay, so freeze frame there for a sec. I’m on a pseudo-date with him right then, and I’m not feeling him. And now, in my emotionally tender state, I have to commit to another date? No way, right, I have plans, would love to, sorry. Wrong. “Of course I will.” Oh dear lord. Okay, so the man knows I’m into sushi, so he promises a spectacular sushi dinner. He says he’s going to pick me up in his car and take us there. I keep a car in Manhattan, too, but what a hassle to drive to dinner. What’s the point–parking, drinking. Maybe he just wants to show off his car. Yup. So he picks me up on the Upper East Side, then we’re buzzing over to the West Side of Manhattan in his Ferrari. Where can he be taking me, Fujiyama-Mama? My mind is reeling through Zagat pages, Haru? There’s a Haru on the East Side. Then it becomes clear. We’re approaching the West side highway. “Are we going to New Jersey?” Okay, so if he were cute, the gesture of bad sushi with a great Manhattan view would have been romantic, “How creative is he? He put so much thought into our date. What effort.” Friends would have swooned. When you’re not into the guy it’s “can you even believe he took me to NEW JERSEY for sushi?!?” Friends shake their heads. AND TO READ WHAT HAPPENS NEXT, please buy my memoir, Straight Up & Dirty >>