I Just Love Annie's Sexy Ways

Have I mentioned lately, or ever, how much I love Annie Lennox?

Well, I do.

This is WHY:



Oh, and this:



Oh, my, god. YES.

Dammit, Hubble!

Ohmyfuckinggod, you guys.

So, I haven't blogged in a hundred years (or, a week and a half) but that's because I've been busy. Busy feeling lots of feelings. Busy writing Groupon deals about fish pedicures and cider houses and laser hair treatments. Many of these deals happen in Canada, which means I've also been busy plotting my escape to Montreal, where I will read novels and eat biscotti in quaint cafes and I'll parle francais and be so very, very chic. I've also been busy celebrating the birth of Santa, which means I've been drinking egg nog, baking cookies, and snuggling with the cats. Basically the things I normally do, except I get to listen to more Mariah Carey than usual.

ANYWAY. The point is ... THE POINT IS, my waitressing shift was cut short today due to the fact that it's post-Jesus' birthday party, and everyone is hibernating in their homes because they're hungover and just gained 10 more pounds from all of the food they've been shoveling in their fat faces. So, I pocketed the whopping ten dollars earned from my five customers, and I took my exhausted ass home.

I had been daydreaming at work about watching an old movie in bed, cozied up with Layla and wearing my favorite sweatpants. And that is exactly what happened, Rainbow groupies!

I just watched "The Way We Were" for the first time.

Oh. Holy. Crap.

Where do I begin? Obviously I already knew all about it, because of this "Sex and the City" episode. ("Oh GAWD, Alison is talking about 'Sex and the City' AGAIN? What kind of feminist IS SHE?" SHUT UP. It's my thing. I love it. Moving on.)

Oh, Katie.

But how could I have known just how incredible Barbra Streisand was as Katie? She has big, big hair and is political and wants to save the world. She has embarrassing, loud, emotional outbursts at parties when people make stupid jokes. She has long, bright red nails and books scattered all over her apartment. And she is completely, batshit crazy in love with this dude named Hubble.



THIS guy:

Hubble!

Now, since I know you're all going to pull up Netflix to find this movie (when you're done reading this, of course, because you're not a jerk), you are in luck. Watch instantly. Observe how Barbra Streisand constantly looks at Robert Redford like she wants to take a big bite out of him. (Like right here.) I mean, of course she does. HE'S ROBERT FUCKING REDFORD. Did you see him? Let's take another look, shall we?

I love it. I love staring at Robert Redford's face and his annoyingly gorgeous blonde hair for an hour and 58 minutes. I love watching Barbra Streisand shriek, "Her husband is DEAD! DEAD! Did you tell the cripple jokes too? Is there anything that isn't a joke to you people?!" (and then throws back a martini while Hubble shuffles his newspaper, embarrassed). I love watching a movie where the couple doesn't end up happily ever after. ("Why did you bring me here? I mean, couldn't we have gone for a walk or sit on a bench somewhere?") Oh, Katie. I feel ya, girl.

Except, umm, you guys? Just cause your marriage failed because Hubble's sort of a philistine and Katie feels too many feelings, does that really mean Hubble just quits the idea of being a dad to their daughter Rachel? C'mon, you two. I think you can put the complicated feelings to the side for the kid's sake. At the end of the movie, when he's with his stupid looking new wife who can't hold a candle to Barbra Streisand's huge-ass hair and gorgeous cat eyes, he asks if Katie's new husband is a good father. Um, NOT GOOD ENOUGH, you gorgeous, shallow moron. You better be using the money from your stupid TV show for child support, cheater. Now go finish your fucking novel, Hubble. You can't ride on those good looks forevvah.

Okay! That's it! I feel better now.

Don't you?

Fine. NOW you do:




Okay, I think I have to stare at young Robert Redford some more.

I'll be sure to let you all know how it goes.

Winter Winds, Winter Tunes

This is rather darling, wouldn't you agree?



And now that we're talking about winter, and love, and feelings or something:

Monday Mix Tapes: Deck the Halls and Stuff

By this time last year, the Rainbow Chronicles were exploding with Christmakahwanza fun. And it was fun, wasn't it, my dears? WASN'T IT?

This year? Nothing. I don't even think I've watched Christmas Vacation all the way through yet! In fact, I have not watched a single holiday movie yet. I am not filled with holiday cheer. I mean, I've had Christmas ales, and those were all delightful (particularly Revolution's Fistmas Ale), but I didn't think of Santa once as I was drinking them. NOT ONCE. I didn't even think of Herbie. And all he wants to be is a dentist!

It's time. And not just time to get some eggnog and a large bottle of Captain Morgan.

I'm ready. I feel it in my fingers. I feel it in my toes.



Now, let's get ready to have a Dappy Holidays.



So, I'm off to tear up our apartment looking for my Christmas cards, and then I can finally snuggle with the cats and read Holidays on Ice to them. Layla just put in a request for a reading of "Dinah, the Christmas Whore." I can't let her down.

there’s a dinosaur in my vodka

at this time yesterday I was OK
but not, swilling my glass and feeling all my thoughts.
i had put on the little black dress,
my lacy tights kept catching
on my stupid belly ring
and there were two giant elephants
in the middle of the party.

believe it.
i did not.

we walked through that one exhibit
my hand safe on your arm
back in that time when i was drinking
white wine when all i really wanted
was a vodka.

what a time that was,
there, with the elephants and Sue
i’m like a kid at the fucking prom
wishing you’d just ask me to dance
checking out the girls’ party outfits
and the ties, oh the ties
mini cupcakes and quesadillas

we kept looking for the lions
no one got why it was so godammned important:
the lions!
i sat at a table alone while you had a smoke
feeling all my thoughts
white wine and vodka
and not enough soda.

i wanted to read everyone’s brains
cause then maybe i wouldn’t have
to feel like i was alone at the prom.
granted, a much, much hipper one
with a giant T-rex
but still, the awkwardness and the
teetering girls in heels
and just like at my prom,
white boys everywhere.

believe it.
i did not.

you are the opposite of my prom
and that is why i love you
even still, even still

if only we had found the lions,
maybe it all would have been different.

Maybe Someday I Will

there are about ten thousand sorrys stuck in the back of my throat/they keep getting tripped up over my tongue/this fat, fucking source of everything that is wrong/cause i cant keep it all in, except all the wrong things/they spill out at the worst possible moment/unlike my sorrys that are stuck/stuck in the back of my throat with my love and my good intentions/spillsorrysticksorrysomewhere else/i couldn't bear to break it/instead i put it in the freezer/waited/waited until it fucking exploded.

Evening, Young Ladies

Poetry Slam Tuesdays: You Fall Over My Day

you are sucha fool
By Ntozake Shange

you are sucha fool/ i haveta love you
you decide to give me a poem/ intent on it/ actually
you pull/ kiss me from 125th to 72nd street/ on
the east side/ no less
you are sucha fool/ you gonna give me/ the poet/
the poem
insistin on proletarian images/ we buy okra/
3 lbs for $1/ & a pair of 98 cent shoes
we kiss
we wrestle
you make sure at east 110 street/ we have cognac
no beer all day
you are sucha fool/ you fall over my day like
a wash of azure

you take my tongue outta my mouth/
make me say foolish things
you take my tongue outta my mouth/ lay it on yr skin
like the dew between my legs
on this the first day of silver balloons
& lil girl's braids undone
friendly savage skulls on bikes/ wish me good-day
you speak spanish like a german & ask puerto rican
market men on lexington if they are foreigners

oh you are sucha fool/ i cant help but love you
maybe it was something in the air
our memories
our first walk
our first...
yes/ alla that

where you poured wine down my throat in rooms
poets i dreamed abt seduced sound & made history/
you make me feel like a cheetah
a gazelle/ something fast & beautiful
you make me remember my animal sounds/
so while i am an antelope
ocelot & serpent speaking in tongues
my body loosens for/ you

you decide to give me the poem
you wet yr fingers/ lay it to my lips
that i might write some more abt you/
how you come into me
the way the blues jumps outta b.b.king/ how
david murray assaults a moon & takes her home/
like dyanne harvey invades the wind

oh you/ you are sucha fool/
you want me to write some more abt you
how you come into me like a rollercoaster in a
dip that swings
leaving me shattered/ glistening/ rich/ screeching
& fully clothed

you set me up to fall into yr dreams
like the sub-saharan animal i am/ in all this heat
wanting to be still
to be still with you
in the shadows
all those buildings
all those people/ celebrating/ sunlight & love/ you

you are sucha fool/ you spend all day piling up images
locations/ morsels of daydreams/ to give me a poem

just smile/ i'll get it

Poetry Slam Tuesdays: Appearing Aimless

SNOWFLAKE

By William Baer

Timing’s everything. The vapor rises
high in the sky, tossing to and fro,
then freezes, suddenly, and crystalizes
into a perfect flake of miraculous snow.
For countless miles, drifting east above
the world, whirling about in a swirling free-
for-all, appearing aimless, just like love,
but sensing, seeking out, its destiny.
Falling to where the two young skaters stand,
hand in hand, then flips and dips and whips
itself about to ever-so-gently land,
a miracle, across her unkissed lips:
as he blocks the wind raging from the south,
leaning forward to kiss her lovely mouth.

All Signs Point There, But You Won't Find It

meet me at Pont Neuf / I'll be the American with braids in her hair

La Confusion Exquise

see? it is all there.
pieces of it, if i could just see them.
but i can’t, so i feel them out,
my mother’s green blanket wrapped
around my shoulders like armor.

this is how i write best.
i hope you get that right now if you speak
it might be spanish and it might be english
but i don’t speak either because i am stuck

here in this in between of guessing
and almost knowing
but feeling it so exquisitely

like this movie (see?)
it’s better with the subtitles off
i might actually understand it more
like when you speak to your mother
and i get it but don’t know a word.
comme ça?
remember, j'ai étudié le français
(whoops)

i was supposed to habla español by this point
i had so many plans
i was supposed to go to the landmark alone
and watch that woody allen film
i was going to take the train
to do something, i forget
i was going to paint my lips red
and wear the right things
instead i wore that sweater i shrunk
to my new job with a pair of nikes
and pulled my hair in a braid

and then i came home
and it was just like this
it was just like this
it was nothing like that

oui, c'est tout

Poetry Slam Tuesdays: "Your Have to Have"

FOR MY LOVER,
RETURNING TO HIS WIFE

by Anne Sexton

She is all there.
She was melted carefully down for you
and cast up from your childhood,
cast up from your one hundred favorite aggies.

She has always been there, my darling.
She is, in fact, exquisite.
Fireworks in the dull middle of February
and as real as a cast-iron pot.

Let's face it, I have been momentary.
A luxury. A bright red sloop in the harbor.
My hair rising like smoke from the car window.
Littleneck clams out of season.

She is more than that. She is your have to have,
has grown you your practical your tropical growth.
This is not an experiment. She is all harmony.
She sees to oars and oarlocks for the dinghy,

has placed wild flowers at the window at breakfast,
sat by the potter's wheel at midday,
set forth three children under the moon,
three cherubs drawn by Michelangelo,

done this with her legs spread out
in the terrible months in the chapel.
If you glance up, the children are there
like delicate balloons resting on the ceiling.

She has also carried each one down the hall
after supper, their heads privately bent,
two legs protesting, person to person,
her face flushed with a song and their little sleep.

I give you back your heart.
I give you permission --

for the fuse inside her, throbbing
angrily in the dirt, for the bitch in her
and the burying of her wound --
for the burying of her small red wound alive --

for the pale flickering flare under her ribs,
for the drunken sailor who waits in her left pulse,
for the mother's knee, for the stocking,
for the garter belt, for the call --

the curious call
when you will burrow in arms and breasts
and tug at the orange ribbon in her hair
and answer the call, the curious call.

She is so naked and singular.
She is the sum of yourself and your dream.
Climb her like a monument, step after step.
She is solid.

As for me, I am a watercolor.
I wash off.

Monday Mix Tapes: Splitting at the Seams

Talk about a Monday morning. Sprinted up the stairs to catch the train, only to make it to the platform right in time to get the doors closed in my face. Survived the train ride, got on the bus, then was so thrown off by the teenage girls saying they would "push a bitch" who wouldn't get out of their way (who may or may not have been me) that I walked in the wrong direction when I got off. Not that I was scared of 14-year-olds or anything...

It wasn't until I was approaching my building that I realized I'd forgotten my security key. Ten minutes later, feeling like that kid whose mom forgot to pick her up from school, I was finally at my desk. I looked down. My fly was undone.

LOOKS LIKE SOMEBODY'S GOT A CASE OF THE MONDAYS! Barf.

Do you think it all happened because I listened to this as I got ready for work?



"Things start splitting at the seams"/ (I'm forgetting to zip my jeans) ...

At least it wasn't as bad as this historic, awesomely awkward Monday morning commute.

FINALLY! Someone Hired Me!

So, if you follow my life via the Interwebs at all, you already know my big news. And by the Interwebs of course I mean Facebook updates, tweets and twoots, and LinkedIn. And of course, if you're following my tweets, you know by now it's all a blatant ploy to bring you back to the Rainbow chronicles. That, and to quote Seinfeld, apparently.

WHAT IN THE HELL WAS I ACTUALLY TALKING ABOUT?

Oh, right. My big news!

This Tuesday, I started a job. A job that does not require I ask: "chips, fries, or veggies?" A job that is not, in fact, really just an unpaid internship. (For more on that dreadful experience, revisit this post, I implore you.) I am officially an associate writer for Groupon, which, go figure, is apparently the fastest growing company, ever. (Forbes said it, so it's gotta be true.)

You can get a really good sense of the company from the Forbes article, so I'll just fill you in on a couple other highlights not mentioned in said article:

1. The number of computers/humans on the 6th floor is both terrifying and awesome. And that's comparing it to the editorial department, where I am, which is home to at least a couple hundred.

2. There is a never-ending supply of coffee, tea, and cocoa (fuck yeah! cocoa!) everywhere you turn. And Keurig coffee makers, which I'd never actually used, or in fact seen, in real life. Plus, today, I discovered free Diet Dr. Pepper and Gatorade. FREE. I'm going to be so fucking productive! (I might still be on a caffeine high.)

3. Everyone I've met so far is talented, smart, and friendly. And most of them are funny. No joke. It's like Wonderland for a geek like me.

I'll leave you with that. It's awesome. I've only been there three days, and I've already been writing, a lot.

When I found out I'd been hired last week, I was so overwhelmed and thrilled, I didn't know what to do with myself. It was the middle of the day, and I was alone, cause, you know, most other adults were at work. I couldn't stop grinning. I may or may not have told my cats the news.

Poetry Slam Tuesdays: The Hottest One for Years

Aren't the dream songs just ... dreamy? I don't think you need to know about Henry or Mr. Bones to pick up on the dreaminess. Or maybe that's why I like them so much. Cause I don't actually get it at all.

"What wonders is she sitting on, over there? The restaurant buzzes. She might as well be on Mars."

I guess Berryman didn't get the memo. Women are like, from Venus. "Where did it all go wrong?"

Anyway:

Dream Song 4

Filling her compact & delicious body
with chicken páprika, she glanced at me
twice.
Fainting with interest, I hungered back
and only the fact of her husband & four other people
kept me from springing on her

or falling at her little feet and crying
'You are the hottest one for years of night
Henry's dazed eyes
have enjoyed, Brilliance.' I advanced upon
(despairing) my spumoni.--Sir Bones: is stuffed,
de world, wif feeding girls.

--Black hair, complexion Latin, jewelled eyes
downcast . . . The slob beside her feasts . . . What wonders is
she sitting on, over there?
The restaurant buzzes. She might as well be on Mars.
Where did it all go wrong? There ought to be a law against Henry.
--Mr. Bones: there is.

Monday Mix Tapes: A Little Ray (LaMontagne)

This love is not over, Ray. I promise.



I'm so mad I was in Indiana when he was in Chicago with David Gray this summer!

Conversations in Dreams

Usually, I try to avoid digging into my old journals, because the content tends to scare and embarrass me. Good Lord, I used to write about boys (and booze) a lot. It is downright terrifying how often the subject matter was about a boy. What also scares me: Sometimes, looking back, I don’t quite remember what person I was even writing about. Sheesh. But, considering my love life was always kind of chaotic, it makes sense that I was constantly writing about it.

In the midst of all that boy talk, I also over the years have documented my consistent and frequent dreams about my mother. These dreams are so vivid, and so poignant, that I seriously considered—and still do—writing a book about it all. I have recounted all of these dreams by starting with the same sentence:

In my dreams my mother is still alive.

I wish that I had a written account of each time she’s visited me in my dreams, but even those I haven’t written down, I still remember rather vividly. However, until I read this one tonight (from January 2009), I had completely forgotten about it. To me, now, it is kind of hilarious and makes me happy. At the time, it was really telling, and I felt as though my mom was trying to scold me about something. I can't tell you what, exactly—that's between me and her.

This is what happened.

In my dreams my mother is still alive. Sometimes she is kind; sometimes she is harsh. Last night she was harsh.

“Alison,” she said, looking at me over her reading glasses, “I don’t approve of this place. I don’t like it one bit.”

She was sitting at a table drinking a glass of Merlot, eating a salad with enormous strips of bacon on top of it. She looked lovely.

I was waiting tables, and for some reason, there was an incredibly high rooftop where many people were sitting and drinking. My mom was sitting on the ground level below. I looked up, and my boss was leaning over the edge of the roof, yelling at me. Before I could reply, she tripped, and toppled over the edge, landing directly next to my mom’s table. Although the fall should have killed her, she simply stood back up and walked over to the bar.

My mom looked at her, looked at me, took a big bite of her salad, and said, “I don’t like this place one bit.”

I woke up that morning and immediately thought: “Did Mom drink Merlot? I hate Merlot.” Then I felt kind of evil for dreaming my boss fell off a rooftop.

But that doesn't really matter. Mostly, I like to think of my mom looking at me over her reading glasses, telling it to me like it is. It's a wonderful thought.

Poetry Slam Tuesdays: It's Funny, But It's True

All summer, I kept wishing I had my Frank O'Hara collection with me, and not locked in a storage unit. Now it's back where it belongs, on my bookshelf. Here is a poem from it.

TRAVEL

Sometimes I know I love you better
than all the others I kiss it's funny

but it's true and I wouldn't roll
from one to the next so fast if you

hadn't knocked them all down like
ninepins when you roared by my bed


I keep trying to race ahead and catch
you at the newest station or whistle

stop but you are flighty about
schedules and always soar away just

as leaning from my taxicab my breath
reaches for the back of your neck

Job Interviews

If today's job interview doesn't work out, in the future, I'm just gonna follow Loc Dogg's lead.

"I see your hobbies are drinking, smoking weed, and all types of ill shit."



At least he got hired.

Modern Family Halloween

If you don't find the Halloween episode of "Modern Family" funny, we should probably not be friends.

The Grand Pumpkin's Revenge

Seeing as how Rene spent all evening carving a pretty badass pumpkin, I figured it was about time I got in the Halloween spirit as well, the only way I know how:

The Simpsons.

The Grand Pumpkin is real! (And he's a racist.)

Milhouse: "Actually, it's made FROM pumpkins."

Grand Pumpkin: "WHAAAAAAAAT? REVENGE!"

"You ROAST the unborn?!"

Coffee Shop Liberation

Felt like moving this from my journal to the interwebs. Don't be scared. Okay, be a little scared.

Coffee Shop Liberation
written October 21, 2010

They are playing Cat Power in this coffee shop. Or this cafe, whatever. The table I chose—because the sun was streaming through the window on it—is too bright for me to open my laptop. Irony, perhaps. I probably should be using my computer to apply for those jobs I don’t really want. I probably should be organizing my finances that don’t really exist.

I could probably just move to a different table.

A couple tables away there is this boy, I mean, a man, reading a book. He has been here even longer than me, and I have been here long enough. Long enough to read almost an entire New Yorker, for the sun to move across the sky (and across my table), and long enough for my tea to go from smoking hot to nothing.

When I got here, and stepped in line, I saw that man who is now sitting near me, reading. (What IS he reading?) He looked at me and blinked, harshly, like my face stung him. It was so intense, I had the crazy notion to apologize. For my face.

I have been here long enough to write three letters, and to realize maybe that’s a strange thing to do, write correspondence at a coffee shop. Everyone has computers in front of them, but what are they really doing? I am writing in a journal, and that cannot be hidden. Nor could I hide sealing, and stamping, envelopes, at this table with the sun glaring on my face, exposing my every ill-placed hair, every line, every freckle.

Earlier, a man at the table next to me was making one phone call after another, talking loudly in Spanish, completely oblivious of everyone around him. He was so oblivious, in fact, that the barista had yelled out that his hot cider was ready so many times, she was about to give it away for free to someone else. Finally, she spotted him, and brought it over to the table. He barely hesitated in his conversation, nodded at the woman, and kept talking. I found him to be completely obnoxious. But I envied him, in a way. It must be nice, being so unaware of the people around you. At least three times, he started a new phone conversation with, "Hola, mi amor." Was he calling the same woman over and over? Was he a pimp? I hoped he had unlimited daytime minutes.

WHY am I so worried about what everyone else thinks? Every day I fret about all these different things, and it is so silly and infuriating. From strangers to my family, I worry what they think. My mother never gave a damn what anyone else thought. That used to infuriate me. Now I am jealous. I worry how to order my tea. I worry about what my grandma thinks about my move back to Chicago. I worry about reading my New Yorkers in public when I should be on my computer.

I worry, I worry.

So, to get over myself, I am sitting in the sunniest fucking spot in this coffee shop, doing exactly what I want to be doing. It is liberating. Even though, quite possibly, no one else in the world, and more specifically, this coffee shop, notices or cares.

Only the Lord Knows, & He Ain't You

Mavis Staples is the shit. Jeff Tweedy produced her new album,"You Are Not Alone," which I clearly need to purchase, as soon as I can afford to buy things. Okay, fine, I'll just watch these YouTube videos.

Can you believe this woman is 71? She's so fierce: "Only the Lord knows, and he ain't you." Sing it, Mavis.



And her cover of this Creedence song is incredible. (Don't make me say fierce again.)



Obviously, I heard about her new album from my New Yorkers, my connection to the outside world. Because I read each issue at least a week late, lately, I'm a week behind on current events as well. Maybe I'll be a grownup again soon, and like, watch the news.

Poetry Slam Tuesdays: An Obnoxious Thought

I love Bukowski, but really, who would want to be such an asshole? Must have been nice.

well, that's just the way it is ...

sometimes when everything seems at
its worst
when all conspires
and gnaws
and the hours, days, weeks
years
seem wasted—
stretched there upon my bed
in the dark
looking upward at the ceiling
I get what many will consider an
obnoxious thought:
it's still nice to be
Bukowski.

Monday Mix Tapes: I've Said Too Much, I Haven't Said Enough

Around the time my prepubescent self was falling in love with Bob Marley and buying the K's Choice album at Karma, I was also really, really into R.E.M. 

Specifically, I loved Michael Stipe. I thought he was fascinating and beautiful in this strange, sad way that I couldn't quite understand or pinpoint why. (Now, keep in mind, I was about 11 or 12.) I mean, do you remember the "Losing My Religion" music video? I didn't know what the hell was going on, but boy, did I love it. Observe Michael Stipe's button down! The rolled up sleeves! His strange little dance!

And then this song came on MTV. It made me feel better about things I didn't even really know I was upset about yet, if that makes any sense at all. So, obviously I added the album, "Automatic for the People" to my small R.E.M. collection, which included Life's Rich Pageant (cause I was the coolest dork in K-hizzy, and so "goddamn young!").

I listened to it over and over again.

During all this listening to that neon yellow cd, I fell head over heels in love with the track, "Nightswimming." I thought—and still think—the piano in this song was painfully beautiful. It made me regret quitting my piano lessons (which I had recently done). It still makes me regret quitting piano. But then again, I really wasn't any good at playing anything other than songs from the "Easy Piano" Little Mermaid soundtrack, so it's probably time to quit being nostalgic about Alison, the pianist who might have been.

But back to R.E.M., and my love.

"I want to turn you on, turn you up, figure you out, I want to take you on":




 "I could be your Frankenstein":




I tell you what, I was a real woman-child, a sad tomato.

And even though my enthusiasm for R.E.M. has obviously waned over the years—I didn't even realize they were releasing a new album until I started writing this post—any time I hear some of those old songs, "I am smitten." Still, Michael Stipe. Even still.

Now I've said too much. 

Poetry Slam Thursday: Some Sort of Hippie Shit

Eeek! I missed Poetry Slam Tuesday! I'm so sorry, my darlings!

Here, to make it better (or worse), is a poem I wrote two Sundays ago.

My Mother Wore Black

when she married my father.
Black, with red roses—some
"hippie shit" as my brother
Tom would say.

I look at this picture of them,
with their wide smiles
and 70s haircuts,
and I think that
they were very much in love.

Everyone says I look like my mother,
but I see this and I'm starting
to think, no,
I look like my father.

But then I see the crinkles
around his eyes, from that
big smile that hits his cheeks,
and he looks just like Jay.

So maybe I sort of look like
both of them,
and maybe
I'm also just me.

All I really know
is that my mother wore black
when she married my father

and it is some sort of "hippie
shit" that I would most
definitely do.

And since my mother wore black
I feel O.K., knowing that
maybe I look a little
like both of them,
and that maybe I do
know my mother

as well as I hope I do.

Purveyors of Synthetic Sunshine

This week, thanks to many hours spent in local coffee shops and on my sofa, I have almost caught up on my New Yorkers (a nearly impossible feat!) and read God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater, by the late, great Kurt Vonnegut. It was one of his I'd never read but had ridiculously high expectations of, going in. And God bless you, Mr. Vonnegut! You did not let me down.

I started reading it last Saturday, and had it sitting in front of me while I was talking to my new boss. He picked it up, looked at me, and said, "So, you're in school?"

"Nope," I said. "Just reading. You know, for fun."

"Ahh, you're one of those."

Yes, yes I am. 

I will now take Mr. Vonnegut's genius completely out of context for your enjoyment, and I promise, it will still be be completely genius and wonderful. For instance (and yes, the emphasis on his glorious words is mine):

"In Milford, Eliot told the writers that he wished they would learn more about sex and economics and style ... And it occurred to him that a really good science-fiction book had never been written about money. 'Just think of the wild ways money is passed around on Earth!' he said. 'You don't have to go to the Planet Tralfamadore in Anti-Matter Galaxy 508 G to find weird creatures with unbelievable powers. Look at the powers of an Earthling millionaire! Look at me! I was born naked, just like you, but my God, friends and neighbors, I have thousands of dollars a day to spend!' He paused to make a very impressive demonstration of his magical powers, writing a smeary check for two hundred dollars for every person there. 'There's fantasy for you,' he said."

And then of course, we can't forget Eliot's father, Senator Rosewater, who says in his "fairly famous speech on the Golden Age of Rome":

"And what did the terrible, black-spirited, non-fun-loving conservatives of those happy days have to say? Well, there weren't many of them left. They were dying off in ridiculed age. And their children had been turned against them by the liberals, by the purveyors of synthetic sunshine and moonshine, by the something for nothing political strip-teasers, by the people who loved everybody, including the barbarians, by people who loved the barbarians so much they wanted to open all the gates, have all the soldiers lay down their weapons down, and let the barbarians come in!"

So, if you don't have the guts or desire to be a purveyor of synthetic sunshine and moonshine, if you don't want to put your weapons down and let the barbarians come in, at least remember Eliot Rosewater's one rule: "God damn it, you've got to be kind."

And god damn it, go read some Kurt Vonnegut. Raise your tennis rackets like magic wands, like Eliot, and tell the babies, "Welcome to Earth. It's hot in the summer and cold in the winter."

Important Introductions

The other day my main squeeze Rene and I were having a PB&J at the Boiler Room, and for whatever reason, they were about to start playing an episode of the Muppet Show featuring Linda Ronstadt. Why, I have no idea, but I kinda love it. That, and my slice of pizza.

I squealed in excitement. Rene looked at me like I'm a muppet and says, "Who's Linda Ronstadt?"

GASP.

Rene, meet Linda.

Poetry Slam Tuesdays: "Let's talk of Paris."

In Paris with You
By James Fenton

Don't talk to me of love. I've had an earful
And I get tearful when I've downed a drink or two.
I'm one of your talking wounded.
I'm a hostage. I'm maroonded.
But I'm in Paris with you.

Yes I'm angry at the way I've been bamboozled
And resentful at the mess I've been through.
I admit I'm on the rebound
And I don't care where are we bound.
I'm in Paris with you.

Do you mind if we do not go to the Louvre
If we say sod off to sodding Notre Dame,
If we skip the Champs Elysées
And remain here in this sleazy
Old hotel room
Doing this and that
To what and whom
Learning who you are,
Learning what I am.

Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris,
The little bit of Paris in our view.
There's that crack across the ceiling

And the hotel walls are peeling
And I'm in Paris with you.

Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris.
I'm in Paris with the slightest thing you do.
I'm in Paris with your eyes, your mouth,
I'm in Paris with... all points south.
Am I embarrassing you?
I'm in Paris with you.

Monday Mix Tapes: RIP Solomon Burke

Soul legend Solomon Burke died yesterday at the age of 70.

"Cry to Me" is one of my all-time favorite songs. And yes, I knew it from a young age because it's featured in Dirty Dancing. Duh. I also first heard "These Arms of Mine" by Otis in the same scene. But that's beside the point. We can talk about the greatness of the Dirty Dancing soundtrack at a later date.

Here we go, what I consider to be one of the sexiest, most soulful songs of all time (and not just cause Swayze gets busy to it):



May he rest in peace.

The Long Conversation of Friendship

Yesterday I was reading some of Phillip Lopate's essays from his collection Against Joie de Vivre. His essay about essays, "What Happened to the Personal Essay?" grated on my nerves a bit, mostly cause he's a little too critical of my man E.B., but mostly I really admire his style. He even manages to find deeper meaning in shaving off his beard. I dig it.

The excerpts below (all emphasis is mine) are from Lopate's essay, "Modern Friendships," and it's one of those essays that I keep flipping back to and reading again. Maybe because I've been thinking about friendship a lot lately, and more specifically, how to maintain friendships. I guess I used to think it would be easier as I got older. Turns out, it's not. It can be downright tricky, as a matter of fact. Like Lopate writes, "Though it is often said that with a true friend there is no need to hold anything back ... Certain words maybe be too cruel if spoken at the wrong moment ... I also find with each friend, as they must with me, that some initial resistance, restlessness, psychic weather must be overcome before that tender ideal attentiveness may be called forth."

Here are more of Lopate's thoughts on friendship, what he describes as "a long conversation":

"Since we cannot be polygamists in our conjugal life, at least we can do so with friendship. As it happens, the harem of friends, so tantalizing a notion, often translates into feeling pulled in a dozen different directions, with the guilty sense of having disappointed everyone a little. It is also a risky, contrived enterprise to try to make one's friends behave in a friendly manner toward each other: if the effort fails one feels obliged to mediate; if it succeeds too well, one is jealous."

"When I think about the qualities that characterize the best friendships I've known, I can identify five: rapport, affection, need, habit, and forgiveness. Rapport and affection can only take you so far; they may leave you at the formal , outer gate of goodwill, which is still not friendship. A persistent need for the other's company, for their interest, approval, opinion, will get you inside the gates, especially when it is reciprocated. In the end, however, there are no substitutes for habit and forgiveness. A friendship may travel for years on cozy habit. But it is a melancholy fact that unless you are a saint you are bound to offend every friend deeply at least once in the course of time. The friends I have kept the longest are those who forgave me for wronging them, unintentionally, intentionally, or by the plain catastrophe of my personality, time and again. There can be no friendship without forgiveness." 

The Return of Sunday Swayze Fest!

I realized I lost a follower today. I can only assume it's because I've failed to deliver with Swayze goodness every Sunday.

Dear Ex-Rainbow Groupie,

I'm not sure what I did wrong, but I'm sorry. Does this help?

No? How about this?



Come back.

xo,
Alison (and Swayze)

Set Me Free! What Have You Done to Me?

"Don't wanna live in my father's house no more. Don't wanna fight in a holy war,
Don't want the salesmen knocking at my door, I don't wanna live in America no more. 'Cause the tide is high, and it's rising still, and I don't wanna see it at my windowsill."

African Violet On My Windowsill

You gave me an African violet.
Two years ago, you did. And I crammed it
in the front seat of my Neon, with the rest of
my life in the back. The U-Haul followed as I
drove in the 90 degree heat up to Chicago.

Mufasa & Layla kept meowing as if
I were driving them to their deaths.
But it was only to Chicago.

I wedged the flower between my seats and I
prayed it would not tumble to the floor.
Each turn, I held my hand out to protect it,
this little thing. An African violet
potted in an old record. You put our friendship,
what was left, what could remain, in that soil.
I thought. This record someone--you?--must have
molded, and worked, into the shape
of a makeshift pot.

Each time you'd send me a new mixtape I'd
put it on the stereo as I cleaned my apartment,
alone. Then, I knew our friendship was still ours,
and ours alone. We were safe.

When I arrived at my brand new old apartment
in Chicago, I placed the African violet
on my windowsill. That night I read Love is a Mixtape
and I thought of you, and your loss. How I
wanted to take your hurt and squeeze it,
soothe it, make you not feel broken by it
anymore. If you did. But I couldn't save you
from your heartbreak any more than
you could stop me from mine, could I?

Later, much later, I loaned you the book and I
sensed your hesitation. But I know and you know that
our losses are ours alone. Still, I kept hoping you'd
read it. Now the book is gone, somewhere, left hanging
between us. Like our friendship we also can't seem to
return.

My African violet stayed on my windowsill, and I
took comfort in it for that short time it was. Happy
you knew me well enough to understand:
It was the most completely perfect parting gift.
One day I walked in the kitchen. Both cats were
eating the African violet, gnawing and swatting at it.
I yelled in horror, and in their fright, they jumped
off the windowsill. Taking our African violet
with them.

The record bounced slightly, and soil spilled
over my kitchen floor.

Once, I went to Praha

Lately I've been thinking a lot about my time in Europe. Mostly, I wish I could go back to London for an extended period of time, but also, I wish I could go back to Prague. Everything seemed sort of magical there. Every other block, it seemed, there would be a random statue. It was beautiful. All of it. Every building, every tree, every bridge, held some sort of mystery to me. Even the money seemed vaguely unreal, like I was in Wonderland, and no longer in Europe. We stayed in this hostel that made me feel like I was in a movie, and I read Girl with a Pearl Earring. Why I read it in Prague that weekend, and not the weekend I was in Amsterdam, is another mystery to me.

When I was in Prague, my hair was red. I remember, when my friends and I walked all the way up to the top of this steeple, I looked out at the beautiful, old city and told myself, Remember this. Remember. 

This is what I saw:  

My hair was blowing in my eyes, but it really didn't matter. Because I was there, in Praha, and the rooftops were red and so was my hair.

Poetry Slam Tuesdays: Being Fool to Fancy

Another one from E.E. Cummings' Collected Poems, 1922-1938. (Poem No. 5, this time.)

it is at moments after i have dreamed
of the rare entertainment of your eyes,
when(being fool to fancy)i have deemed

with your peculiar mouth my heart made wise;
at moments when the glassy darkness holds

the genuine apparition of your smile
(it was through tears always)and silence moulds
such strangeness as was mine a little while;

moments when my once more illustrious arms
are filled with fascination,when my breast
wears the intolerant brightness of your charms:

one pierced moment whiter than the rest

—turning from the tremendous lie of sleep
i watch the roses of the day grow deep

Will You Ever Forgive Me?

Yikes. Apparently I've started a new trend on the Rainbow Chronicles that involves me only posting on Mondays. And only about music. I swear my brain is not totally devoid of all thoughts except this. I swear it. I know you've all been crying and screaming at your computer screens:

"Where are the poetry slams?! The awesomely awkward adventures?! The magical moments waiting tables?!

AND WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO SUNDAY SWAYZE FEST?!!!!!"

Am I right? I knew it. Don't fret, my darlings. I have not forgotten you. More poetry slams are in the works. I am still always, always, awesomely awkward. Living in Knightstown just doesn't seem to warrant the awkward adventures that being in Chicago did. Maybe that has something to do with the fact that when I'm not at work, I'm hanging out in my childhood bedroom, having long debates with my cats? I mean ... WHAT? I don't talk to my cats. That would be weird. And speaking of work, I had to sign a "social media contract," which essentially means I'm no longer allowed to document my current magical moments waiting tables. Sigh. I will say this: There have been plenty this summer. PLENTY.

As for Swayze fest ... well, it's just been too hard. Although my brother Tom and I are still planning our North and South marathon, which might actually happen one of these days.

Two other major excuses for not blogging: I've been working on a submission for an essay contest, and my brother Jay got married this past weekend. In other words, I am unable to concentrate on more than two things at once.

I'm not quite yet ready to work on my entry for the Writer's Digest Short Short Story competition this year, so maybe I'll actually blog consistently for a bit.

Maybe. I'm not making any promises.

Monday Mix Tapes: I Heart NPR Music

If you're not hip to NPR's "First Listen" feature, you're missing out. I am 100 percent obsessed with it.

Just a sample of the awesomeness it's allowed me to hear, prior to the album release: The Black Keys' Brothers, Jenny and Johnny's I'm Having Fun Now, The Swell Season's Strict Joy, and Joanna Newsom's Have One on Me.

And that's only a sample of the awesomeness! (Yes, I have now used the made-up word, awesomeness, twice in one post. Three times.)

So far today, while attempting to be a grownup and organize my finances (ha!), I have already listened to the new Deerhunter album and am currently falling in love with "a young man Aloe Blacc" (to borrow NPR's turn of phrase). Seriously. Click on that bizness. He's incredible.

After that, my heart is about to go pitter pat for my first full listen of the new John Legend and The Roots collaboration. (I've already pre-ordered it, duh.)

How can I complain about being flat broke when I'm listening to all this awesomeness, sitting on our back porch eating my pop's leftover chicken pot pie?

I can't. Now go brighten your Monday and listen to some music. If you've got any homemade chicken pot pie, all the better.

Monday Mix Tapes: Darling, I'm Drunk

Broad Ripple better not be fucking burning this Wednesday, that's all I can say.



I'm anxious to see if my love will still hold strong, minus some of my favorite Margot members of yore. Also, Mr. Bryan Johnson, in the future, could you not reference this lineup change as Margot having "trimmed the fat a bit," please? That hurts my heart.

Still, cannot wait to own Buzzard!



"I'm never gonna break your heart/not unless I have to ..."

Brainy, Brainy, Brainy

It's getting to the point where I'm starting to think in The National lyrics. I need to calm down. And listen to something else. Wait, no, I can't.

The best I could do was take a break from High Violet and fall back in love with Boxer. What can I say? "My leg is sparkles, my leg is pins ..."

Right Foot Blue

Ahh, I miss college. Almost as much as I miss this shirt.

Oh, to be underage and playing Twister in a paisley shirt! It was a different time ... an era when my walls were covered with Bob Marley posters, I adamantly and loudly protested the presence of marijuana at my apartment, and I refused to accept the irony.

so this was what it was like being 19.

nope, wait. THIS is more accurate.

Now, what in the SHIT did I do with that shirt?

One Last Song ("I'm Too Young to Feel This Old")

A friend of mine has died.

When I got the news yesterday, I was getting ready for The Black Keys/Kings of Leon concert, running a little behind because I was looking up Black Keys’ videos on YouTube. Right as I found the ideal one to post on my Facebook profile, my friend Natalie messaged me on Facebook, asking if I’d heard the news about Nicole.

I had not. Of course, this now meant she was forced to tell me the news, whatever it was, via Facebook chat.

All I could do was stare at my computer screen and think how absurd the whole thing was. Here I was, about to post a video and some stupid comment about wearing a Goonies shirt and going to the show, and this girl, Nikki, my friend, my former co-worker, was dead.

I couldn’t believe it.

I had to leave for Indianapolis. I had to fix my hair. What was there to do? Believe it or not, I couldn’t cry. So I walked away from my MacBook and tried to get ready, but I couldn’t do that, either. I wrapped a scarf around my head, and that made me feel better for a second. I texted my friend Lauren. I talked to my friend Rachel. Suddenly it all seemed real.

On the drive to Indianapolis, I blared The Black Keys and wondered why I didn’t feel like crying. But my arms were covered in goose bumps and I kept alternating between sweating and having cold chills. I rolled the windows down. I rolled the windows up. I turned up the volume.

I thought about Nikki. I hadn’t seen her in months, not since before I moved back home. We weren’t close friends. We weren’t even the kind of friends who texted or met up for coffee or anything like that. The last time I had actually hung out with her was months and months ago, when a group of girls from work all went out together.

I remember that night, a few of us stayed out later and went to another bar. We’d had too much to drink, but it was one of those nights when you don’t want the fun to end. So you stay out, even when you probably shouldn’t.

Nikki sat next to me at the bar. Out of nowhere, she kind of spilled her guts to me about something. I remember feeling a little shocked that she was telling me all this—these things, these feelings that were clearly weighing heavy on her at the time. Because, like I said, we weren’t particularly close. Mostly, we just chatted while at work together, and when I’d get off of work and ask for a beer, she’d always wink at me and say, “Stella, right?”

Just Like Me

Peacock Feathers

Because I've missed too many poetry slams this summer, and Jenny Lewis has a new album coming out, and I'm surrounded by bills on my bed, and right now, "Plane Crash in C" seems to have been written for me and about me, the only thing to do, really, is post another silly poem I wrote.

PEACOCK FEATHERS

I have a bouquet of peacock feathers
in my room that's again my room,
just not quite the way
it was before. You see?

The ceiling fan keeps knocking
the feathers around, but one
stands, defiant, in the same place
as always.

And the green of the walls blends
into the green of my yoga mat
and the green of the towel
stacked clumsily next to my clothes
tossed carelessly but
purposely

on the floor of the room
that is my room that was
my room that holds the bouquet
of peacock feathers

that are so goddammed beautiful
to me
and for the life of me
I can't explain why.

Poetry Slam Tuesdays: This Stupid Tattoo

THIS STUPID TATTOO


I hadn’t written anything in two weeks
and my journal was mocking me with its empty pages
and all of my pens kept drying out in my waitress apron
and my elbows and wrists and knees and shins all hurt
from carrying trays and hot plates and tripping over kitchen mats.

I still hadn’t figured out why
I wished to be in two places at once
and why no one quite seems to get THAT,
and no one here quite seems to get ME.

Because of all these THINGS,
because of all these THOUGHTS,

Where once there had only been pale blue veins,
now there is this: an open book with blank pages.

This thing on my wrist.

It’s ridiculous and it’s perfect
and I’m not sure if anyone really gets it
or if I even do,
but it’s there now,
and you can’t make me take it off.
So stop staring at it like that, ok?
I'm still me. I promise.

Right now, all I can really do is wait,

and wear Rene’s t-shirt
and stare at my cat
and wonder what this stupid tattoo
EVEN MEANS
and listen to Neil Young

and decide how to live with myself
when I disappoint all of you again
by going back to Chicago
where things make sense,
where I actually fit in,
where I belong.

It’s just like this stupid tattoo.
You don’t have to get it.
You don’t have to approve.

It’s just that it’s here,
and I can’t change it,
and I can’t change me,
no matter how much I’d like to,
no matter how much I wish
I could just stay here
and make all of you happy.

These pale blue veins now pop out
on the pages of my book
that’s open and blank
and waiting.

I have to go.

July 6, 2010

Monday Mix Tapes: Lost Where I Belong

Love. (hat tip to my friend Brad! You know my music taste too well.)

London, From the Top of a Bus

you must be somewhere in London / you must be loving your life in the rain

(Ain't that some shit?)

Today is a lovely day for new music. First, I discovered I could stream Sufjan Stevens' new "All Delighted People" EP and then THIS happened.

Via Pitchfork:



Never has telling someone to fuck off sounded so delightful! God bless you, Cee Lo Green.

"And I'm like, FUCK YOU, OOO, OOO, OOO!"

Clear as Pictures in Our Heads

E.B. White once wrote, “Sometimes we regret our failure to write about things that really interest us. The reason we fail is probably that to write about them would prove embarrassing.” He then proceeded to list a few of these things. And, of course, they weren’t really embarrassing at all. In fact, these things that had interested him that particular week were pretty brilliant and rather poetic observations, such as: “the head and shoulders of a woman in a lighted window, combing her hair with infinite care, making it smooth and neat so that it would attract someone who would want to muss it up,” and so on.

If I could write about the things that really interested me in the past week, the things that “stand out clear as pictures in our head,” as my man E.B. put it, I’d probably write about things such as: the way my cat Layla curls up and sleeps on my New Yorkers and journal, instead of any other part of the bed; my aunt Deborah’s homemade “English cake”; Ray LaMontagne’s voice; how sometimes, when I drive home from a particularly tedious night at work, I listen to the “Vicky Cristina Barcelona” soundtrack and pretend I’m riding a bike in the Spanish countryside instead of driving across central Indiana; and finally, but most importantly, I’d write about how utterly satisfying it can sometimes be to write one really long, winding sentence full of semicolons and know that absolutely no one can tell me to edit it.

From the land of sky blue waters ...

HAMM'S BEER!



Do you think by "the land of sky blue waters" they meant Knightstown? Hmmm ...

Correction, Boy Wonder!

Oh, YES. Thank you, Bitch magazine, for making my Sunday evening complete.

"Correction, boy wonder: It's my electronic BatGirl compact with a laser beam. Which will destroy ANYTHING!"



HA! Hell yeah, BatGirl!

Via Bitch.

Girl Talk

Let me preface this by saying I watched far too many Def Poetry clips on YouTube the other night after bumping into someone from high school. Not to mention I work with quite a few teenaged girls—sweet, cute, then out of nowhere catty as all hell—that remind me just why high school can so quickly turn from carefree to traumatic.

So, if you're feeling brave enough to jump into the high school version of my brain, read my poem after the jump. It's called Girl Talk.

Baby, Baby, You're a Liar

My song obsession of the week. Perfect ending track to an incredible movie ("An Education").

Monday Mix Tapes: Give It Up

As long as you're groovin', there's always a chance somebody watching might wanna make romance.

I'm just saying.

The Art of Timing

The other day, for what might have been the first time in my life, I ran out of shampoo and conditioner at the exact same time. After I used the last of my shampoo, I grabbed the bottle of conditioner, expecting that, like usual, I would still have at least a fourth of the bottle left.

I held out my hand and squeezed the bottle. As the dollop of conditioner shot onto my palm, it made the kind of squirting noise that only happens when you’re squeezing something that’s almost empty—you know, that squirt! that tends to make people uncomfortable for some reason when you’re out to eat and the ketchup bottle does it. (I mean, is it really necessary to always make fart jokes when this happens? It makes me feel like I’m permanently in a high school cafeteria.)

I couldn’t believe it. I had used the last of my shampoo and conditioner at the exact same time. Do other people run out of these things at the same time, I wonder? Am I some kind of freak that this is an event? For me, it’s even more unlikely than it was to find a parking spot directly in front of my old apartment building in Chicago. Think about it: does anyone actually use the same amount of shampoo and conditioner each shower? I, for one, don’t keep measuring spoons in my shower. Because that would be weird.

Plus, sometimes maybe I don’t feel like conditioning. Or shampooing. Or maybe I want to use my deep conditioner that day. I don’t know. It just never happens. I stood in my shower and felt like something monumental had just occurred in my life.

After my shower, as I threw my empty Pantene bottles in the recycling bin, I felt so damn pleased with myself I wanted to celebrate. I had accomplished something. For once, I wouldn’t end up with two half-empty bottles of the same conditioner in my shower! When I normally run out of only shampoo, I still buy a bottle of shampoo and conditioner. I can’t stand to buy only the shampoo. They are a pair. A couple. Shampoo plus conditioner. You can’t just buy shampoo! It would be wrong. Who does that?

It’s amazing how rare it is to time anything perfectly in life. Even when it’s something ridiculous, like using the last of your shampoo and conditioner at the same time. I tend to find that my timing in life never makes any sense. Like right now, for example. I’m 26, and I recently moved back in with my dad. Most of my friends from college moved back in with their parents right after graduation. Now, they’re out on their own, making money and being grownups. I, on the other hand, landed a job right after college and didn’t have to do that. My timing was great right then, I had thought. I remember thinking how lucky I was that I didn’t have to move back home. I never imagined that only two years after landing the job I had agonized over for months, I would quit, move to Chicago and, slowly but surely, run completely out of money as I waited tables, interned, and hoped and waited for the full-time job that never came.

The timing of my move to Chicago was ridiculous. It was July 2008, and there really weren’t any jobs to be had. So why, why, would any reasonable adult in her right mind quit a good job with fantastic benefits? WHY? Why not at least wait until she found a job in said city before quitting the good job?