It’s all in the perspective
This shot was taken by one jonmmmayhem who I discovered via Violet Blue (I shouldn’t even have to tell you that today’s links are NSFW). mayhem is a naughty guy with a river of titillating and whoa, doggie! images made in varying formats. I’m partial to his Polaroids—I love the retro feel (I covet my Polaroid camera), and the imperfections and grain of the film only feed the intensity and rawness of his subjects. But I thought this particular capture would help start a conversation I’ve been having in my head lately about what exactly constitutes obscene. Because that up there? To me? There’s not even a lint ball of obscenity in it. Unless, of course, your definition of “obscene” is number two in the following itemized list from dictionary.com:
ob·scene
/əbˈsin/ [uh
b-seen] –adjective
To clarify, I’m using definitions 1 and 3 as my baseline. As such, jonmmmayhem’s work—or these fantastic mouth-waterers over here—are not obscene. This, however, is obscenity times a jillion, raised to the seventh plus three exclamation points:
I was on the hunt yesterday for a wind chime for Ruby’s school when I had a massive I-have-to-have-a-Coke-right-now attack. For the record, I have a Coke about three times each year and have never driven through a drive through just to order one. But yesterday I did just that. I whipped through Burger King between stops and ordered a large Coke. That was it. No burger, no fries, just a large Coke. And look at what I got! That isn’t large. That is obscene. My reaction upon seeing it was not unlike my reaction during college when I paired up with my friend Geoff for a little laundry-room fellatio during a house party one summer afternoon. He and I had always been platonic until that day when we’d enjoyed too much tequila and when, as a result, I learned precisely why he was often referred to as “The Howitzer” by his friends. Suffice it to say, once I composed myself, I had to politely decline my services. And I’m not one to back down from a challenge. Whether I’m being honest, obscene or delicately crass is a matter of opinion.
Anyway, it’s not just the size (!) of the drink or the toxicity of the beverage itself that is disconcerting. It’s not even the giant plastic, petroleum-made cup that will end up in a landfill after my trash is collected today. But guess how much that howitzer cost me? Ready for this? $2.49. I mean, hello. Totally, absurdly, unquestionably obscene.
And speaking of petroleum, how about this for obscene:
Or this:
Or this:
Or this:
Shall I keep going?
Because there’s plenty of it:
Everyday, for the forseeable future.
Of course, “sometimes accidents happen,” right?
We know that Rand Paul thinks he’s The Greatest American Hero and you gotta admit, the likeness is uncanny:
Paul even flails like our boy in red, perhaps the only silver lining in the obscenity that is Kentucky’s latest and greatest contribution to our planet. Somehow I doubt the guy named after the Objectivist Queen even knows who John Galt is. I personally think John Galt is the undocumented worker, and I’d like to see how well the U.S. would fare if they all went on strike in lieu of their own Utopian society. Seafood certainly wouldn’t be the only outrageously expensive food in our grocery stores.
Give me a (preferrably spiked) Coke and some anti-Steve Jobs internet porn any day. What say you, reader? What is obscene to you?
It’s hard to be alone
I’m struggling. I have been on my new schedule—working for The Man two-and-a-half days each week and for myself the rest of the time—for five weeks now and I am finding it next to impossible to prioritize, to focus, to be disciplined. I have so many things on my plate that I choose, instead, to eat off the floor. Really, I have no idea what that means but it seemed like the right thing to write. And given that the right thing to write has been eluding me lately, I figured I’d write it. Wait…this is becoming an Escher painting.
That I am unfocused has less to do with a lack of inspiration than it does the many distractions I am, admittedly, allowing into my workspace. I suffer an abundance, a constant flow, of incoming noise and shutting it off is proving to be a task greater than cleaning up an oil spill. Sure, I put a containment dome on my iPhone but then there’s Facebook. I put a containment dome on Facebook and messages hurl forth from my email. I put a containment dome on my email and there are groceries to be purchased and a filthy bathroom that needs scrubbing.
Write a post? A column? A review? A book? Though Barbara DeMarco-Barrett is trying to convince me otherwise, I still indulge the I-can’t-start-now-I-only-have-15-minutes mindset. It’s a hard habit to break. After all, spin class is starting at noon and I have to prepare.
Spin seems to be the only place I go these days where I have no problem shutting out the too-many creativity-sucking distractions. But it became clear to me yesterday that my problem of being incapable of eliminating the extraneous bullshit isn’t unique.
At yesterday’s class, there were three women perched on bikes at the front, pedaling like they were on a flat country road, ho-hum, engaged in a discussion loud enough to be heard over the pounding drone-like music. Of course, if you can talk during a workout, you are not working hard enough. I picked up my effort on their behalf, hoping some of my dripping sweat would spray in their direction. During cool down, another girl made a phone call. It must have been an emergency situation—perhaps her roommate couldn’t find her beach towel, perhaps her boyfriend needed to know she’d just finished spin class—because why else would you make a phone call while in a class of any kind unless there were an urgent need? And then there was the guy at the back of the room waiting to use the punching bags, pacing this way and that in his knee-length shorts and a grey t-shirt with the sleeves cut off in such a manner as to reveal his entire rib cage and waist, alternately talking on his cell phone and listening to his iPod.
I think it’s official. We, as a society, have not only perfected the art of ruining the planet, but we have a fairly complete inability to be alone with our thoughts. Generally speaking, this is bad. Very bad. And for me, in particular, as it pertains to my writing, it is exceedingly dangerous. I have been given the incredible and lucky opportunity of time, of extra daylight hours, and I have to figure out how to use it efficiently. I must become more adept at compartmentalizing the noise necessary for my work, and tuning out everything else. Like, yesterday. I’d ask for tips on how best to do this but I think the only way is to just do it. There is no other route. Is there?
Seth Marko deserves a Pulitzer, too
I love reading. I wish I had more time for it but I don’t. And so it is that I pick and choose as carefully as I can when it comes to what’s on my nightstand. From time to time, I have to settle for the mediocre. Case in point: I’m currently reading an okay-ish book called “The Madonnas of Leningrad.” It was chosen by my book club and I’m sticking with it since I don’t want to get the forthcoming boot should I not show up for a third meeting in a row. After I finish it tomorrow, I’ll be moving on to the Pulizer-winning “Tinkers,” by Paul Harding.
I’m especially looking forward to it knowing about the too-many rejections Harding received prior to finally getting it published. I can’t help but cheer for the survival of the underdog. Plus, his book is atypical in size, a sweet and enticing package. “Tinkers” comes in at 191 pages, the last word of which is “good-bye” (data I need to know before I can begin any book, don’t ask me why, it’s a ritual).
And because I hate to miss out on what’s popular, I rely on the generosity and suffering of others. Angela Carone of Culture Lust clued me into a man braver than most. Seth Marko over at The Book Catapult is currently reading “The 9th Judgment,” by James Patterson so I don’t have to! He’s reading one chapter a day and recapping each in a manner more compelling than all of Patterson’s previous books and movies combined. Um…okay, I’m not sure if that’s the best selling point. Let me put it this way: Marko is killing JP slowly. Filleting him day by day, chapter by short, clichéd chapter. It could be said Patterson’s done it to himself by including 117 truncated chapters.
Or it could be said that Seth Marko is a genius. His 117 Days of James Patterson begins here. Get to it. It’s painful. It’s owie. It’s a carbuncle of literary awesomeness attached to the coattails of complete yuck. It’s a total page turner.
The art of motherhood
If you happen to be free tonight (Tuesday, May 4), come by The Loft for the opening reception for “Exploring the ‘M’ Word,” a student produced art exhibition highlighting the complexities of motherhood. The show, curated by Aimee Harlib and co-sponsored by the UCSD Women’s Center, runs through May 21st. I will be reading a little something during the reception and am honored to be included among the many talented women who will be performing and exhibiting their work.
The party starts at 7:00 p.m. and is free to the public. Either come play or offer to babysit so someone else can.
Sometimes reality is glaring
Today was the first day of the year that felt like summer. It was warm out—not hot—with a mostly cloudless sky as blue as a Popsicle®. It was quintessential Southern California, the kind of day that begs you to toss your obligations out the window and head directly for the beach with your Coppertone, a double-wide towel and your latest copy of The New Yorker. Or any of the previous four backed up on your nightstand.
I didn’t do that, though, because on Friday, I had a 2mm hunk of skin removed from my chest by a dermatologist who doesn’t think it’s “b.c.c” but wanted to be safe. If it is basal cell carcinoma, of which I have a history, it’s better to remove it now to minimize scarring. Good thing I don’t fancy v-neck tees, or anything. (Which, of course, is part of what got me into the situation in the first place, but save me the lectures. I’m a child of the 70s, a.k.a the Bain de Soleil Era.) After the doctor put the Band-Aid on, she counseled me on caring for the would and said the best thing to prevent it from scarring is to “stay out of the sun.” By which I think she meant, move to Seattle.
I’m not moving. I did, however, pair my 30 SPF lotion with white jeans, a lavender scoop neck t-shirt and a super cute, 3/4 sleeve fuchsia cardigan I picked up at Target last weekend, for a May Day party this afternoon.
Ruby had a great time getting tossed around in the pool by the other grown-ups who weren’t hiding from the sun. I settled for getting splashed on and taking pictures with my phone, mulling the familiar awareness that my child, as usual, was the only brown person in attendance. And I wondered, as usual, how long before she will begin to notice this, too.
Later, when it was time to go home, Ruby wrapped a towel around her body, stuck one corner between her teeth and began to shimmy out of her swim suit, the towel like a tent around her. I knew exactly what she was doing, but asked her anyway needing verbal affirmation as to why my heart was seizing up.
“Here, let me hold the towel for you,” I said.
“No, mom. I can do it myself.” The end of the towel not in her mouth slipped from her bare shoulder. She caught it in with her harm and pulled it around her.
“Well, you don’t need to hide behind a towel, honey. If you want privacy, we can go to the bathroom and change there.” I was starting to panic and trying not to sound like I was starting to panic.
“No, Mom,” she said, beads of water stuck to her eyelashes and glittering on her nose. The towel was still in her mouth and she was speaking through clenched teeth. “I’m trying to do it like the girls at the pool.”
I mean, really: Can the future be any more daunting?