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  revealing the secret

i think to boys, victoria's secret seems like an okay place to work; fizzy, bubble-bathy, maybe even sophisticated.

but it ISN'T. they are an evil evil juggernaut. the arms of this scary octopus also include the limited, express, the bath and body works, and some random candle company. and i think they manufacture ALL their things in sweatshops.

when wrinkled old bag-women buy expensive lingerie, i think, this will not help you get husband number two, don't even try.

and when the nubile young PR princesses of Queens buy it, i think, you're so sexy! just go natural!! he'll want you with or without this sixty dollar push-up bra!

i guess you could say i have had enough.

so i went to the sunny, SRO fresh-mex place down the street today. it was like walking into california. and i thought: food is never evil. so the conversation went like this:

skinny white-boy manager: hey, what can i getcha?

me: baja taco with steak. and a job.

(pause.)

SW-B M: ha ha.

me: no, really. i can do it, i promise. i'm a fast learner.

SW-BM: um. okay. how old are you?

me: 22.

SW-BM: oh. i'm 18.

(ten minutes later . . .)

SW-BM: so, it seems you have some food service experience . . . .

me: i also have a philosophy degree, does that help?

SW-BM: um, i think you're a little over-qualified for this job.

me: that's okay. that's fine. i just want to quit victoria's secret.

SW-BM: well, we can't pay you very much, but you get free food whenever . . .

me: guacamole?

SW-BM: yea, sure. all day. can you come in sunday?

me: HELL YES!  ¶ 7:58 PM

  xmas in the boy's dorm

(names deleted to protect the innocent.)

two red cards in the mailbox today.

the first murmured:

May the soft, snowy white breath of CHRISTMAS whisper a new song of HOPE and LOVE in your heart and WRAP around YOUR WORLD like a warm WINTER HUG.

and on the inside:

Like a warm winter hug, guys. Like a warm winter hug. And a twisted nipple. Merry Christmas and God bless.

the second had orginally expressed this heartfelt message:

May the seven days of Kwanzaa be a special time for you, and may the joy of this celebration stay with you throughout the year.

the sender of the card had altered this text to read:

April may be the cruellest month, but in May, the seven days of death come to those who dare celebrate the travesty of Kwanzaa. If you delight in blood, it can be a special time for you; so thusly I wish you happiness and may the joy of devouring souls and destroying crops of this celebration fulfill your evilist desires!! I'll come and stay with you to save money when I come visit and we can obliterate Kwanzers throught the year!

. . . you know what? That wasn't as nearly as funny as I wanted it to be . . . also it took to long . . . but it the diagram thing was cool huh? huh? APPROVE OF ME PLEASE!!

(A note to the sender of the 2nd card: As soon as I opened the envelope and saw "happy kwanzaa" I almost died laughing. And I'll take the heat from the PC kids who are upset by this post.)   ¶ 9:29 PM

  book covers

queens:

i see an old man in a tailored coat, white haired, a smart beret perched on his head. what a distinguished old gentleman, i thought, he must be famous. then he started checking the payphones for quarters and picking through the trash for food.

brooklyn:

i see a ragged young couple squatting on the floor of the subway, skinnylimbed and scabby. poor kids, i thought. they have it so much worse than i do. i should be happy that i even HAVE a job. then one pulled out an ipod while the other checked her sidkick for instamessages.  ¶ 1:16 AM

  Fredrick Douglass

rules. his Narraritive Life of an American Slave would have been a great supplement (my roommate swears that's how you spell it) to the Lincoln Douglas debates and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn at TAC.

i'm not finished with it yet, but he has won me over with his socratic zen (claiming that slavery hurts the enslvor more than the enslaved is a pretty damn radical idea) and his lucid style.

and listen to the fugees.  ¶ 10:22 PM

  poor

here are some things that make ramen more appealing:

1. honey
2. butter
3. salt
4. pepper
5. tabasco
6. oregano
7. sage
8. brown sugar
9. hunger
10. conan obrian  ¶ 9:52 PM

  ice cold

the human body is at least 2/3 water.

New York City is the third "meanest" city in the nation.

water freezes at zero degrees C.

there are approx. 50,000 homeless people in NYC; approx. half of these are children.

it was 0 degrees today.  ¶ 7:18 PM

  here are new yorkers

it's really late (early?) and i'm alone on the street. this is kind of a cool thing when you live here, to be alone on a street for once. then i notice the two other people, BIG people, in puffy jackets, ahead of me, and sure enough, and damnit, i've forgotten my mace again. a little flower of fear blooms in my heart and i think, "okay, well, this is it, at least someone offered mass for me this weekend . . ."

one of the men turns around, and i see fear in his eyes, too.

"are you safe?" he asks.

well, apparently, i think, but say, "yea, i'm not a cop or anything," so he can continue his transaction without a worry.

for having so many people, cramped together and on top of each one another, new yorkers do behave awfully well. i think the tough ones know there's always going to be a tougher one, and this helps. i wish i could give everyone in the city a cookie for behaving so well. hot dog vendors, holidays shoppers, cops, drug dealers, homeless people. good job guys.

in other news: there are about 15 messages on my phone from a young thug looking for a girl named candice. hey, i jus won wish you happy birday, baby, dis yo boi, call me baby . . . his persistance was charming yesterday, but at by five this morning i wanted to rip his head off: listen, dude, you are not going to get her by calling this number, it's just not in the stars, and i have to work in the morning and unless you want a *&%$##&! restraining order . . .

but i know what it's like, staring out a window, maybe drunk and trying not to call, watching the hands on the clock, thinking, if he doesn't call back in fifteen minutes, no, ten, if he hasn't called in ten minutes, i'll try again . . . and so i let it go.

who are all these people? maybe i could get all the persistant boys who were given wrong phone numbers in bars or at parties to make valentines for the bent old women of the Upper West Side, who shuffle around in proper heels and leather gloves, the women who shouldn't be crossing the streets by themselves because they're all deaf as posts, those old society gals always embraced by dead furs, pinned together with diamond broaches. i could get all the thugs together in verdi square and hand them construction paper and glue sticks and glitter and we could work together to woo these little child-like old ladies. that would be sweet.

peter orlovsky said once this was a city of shoes. it's that, i think, but also, and very much, a city of faces.

  ¶ 9:20 AM

  tom wolfe has 22 white suits

tom wolfe spoke for three hours on the evilbox tonight. it was a treat to hear him. he brought up Emerson's idea that everyone has a great novel inside them, if only they would identify what was unique about their lifestory, and if only they would write it down. mr. wolfe noted that everyone does not have two great novels inside them. he said that after many young writer's first coming-of-age story in which they more or less rape the first twenty five years of their lives for ideas, they write a second novel . . . about a writer . . . who has hit on hard times . . . and lives in a fifth floor walk-up . . . .

these novels, according to mr. wolfe, are not very interesting.

in order to avoid this scenario, mr. wolfe recommends following john steinbeck's moxie example: buy a truck, go out in the world, and learn something inside and out, then write about it. so: write what you know, but know something more than your own angst.

mr. wolfe also is not ashamed to say that he likes coffee from starbucks. he came to new york in the early sixties and still wears the white suits that were popular then and there.




  ¶ 8:02 PM

  word to your mother

i get off work an hour early. scared about money, i head to the nearest bar. outside i encounter a weathered, mustached, blue-eyed man. he wants to buy me a drink.

he's very persistant.

great.

but i say, sure, okay. one drink.

he's not from around here, he says. he's from the country. he likes horses. shows me his cowboy boots.

so, are you a church going man? i ask.

i am, he says. i'm roman catholic. grew up with the rosary. he tells me to stay close to the blessed mother, tells me to pray for my boyfriend. if you pray for him, he says, you will see what happens. mary loves you, she loves you, he says. and your man, he'll convert. if you pray.

we leave the bar and lo and behold, in the middle of queens stands a horse. an honest to god cop horse. the man, whose name turns out to be michael (is this a mistake?) shows me how to pet the horse, tells me that a horse is worth fifteen cops in crowd controll. they can't drive cars into a crowd, he says, but they can drive horses. we say goodnight. he swears he'll pray for me.

two martinis, no dinner, and i'm lurching home. on the corner i see the young black men of queens, embellished, intimidating, waiting. i know it's dumb, i know they're scary, but i skip up to them and point-blank ask them the question that's been on my mind for weeks:

are you guys dealing DRUGS??

is you the cops? they ask. dark eyes sizing me up. bling. big pants. cell phones. i realize, too late, they're all wearing the same colors. they don't wanna trust this white girl. they don't know who i am. they reach in their back pockets, maybe for weapons, i don't know.

a car pulls up. it's not the cops. it's worse. an old lady gets out of the front seat. she's maybe five feet tall. she berates the leader in a foreign tongue, and he bows his tall head in shame. i turn to one of the gang. wassup?

dat's his momma, he says. his momma don' like him hangin' here wid us.

oh, i say. i know how that is. we nod together, me and the dealer, each thinking of our own mothers.

we part ways, shy.

pray for us, oh holy mother of god . . . that we may be made worthy of the promises of christ.  ¶ 5:40 PM

  tattoo

someday i'll probably find myself back in the parlour. and when i do, i want to get a big heart on my shoulder with a billowy, scrolling ribbon that reads MOM.

because:

1. she sent me a big box of nuts. and a nutcracker. randomly.

2. she sent me an advent calender. with little squirrels on it.

3. she'll buy me plane tickets home if i ever get "in that spot."

4. she's offered numerous times to buy all manner of nicotine gum, patches, etc.

5. i love her more than anyone in the world.  ¶ 10:43 AM