Liripipe
Thursday, April 28, 2005
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brunette on blonde
Blonde, Joyce Carol Oates, 2000.
i have a confession to make. i'm kind of a marilyn junkie. this might be residual teenage rebellion -- i can distinctly recall my esteemed father saying that miss monroe embodied everything he hated about femininity -- but i was always drawn to her. she seemed to have no trouble embodying the essence of "sexy" -- 50% vamp, 50% virgin. 150%.
ahem. anyway.
JOYCE CAROL OATES is perhaps the most prolific living female writer i know of. she's a distinguished professor of humanities at princeton. she has recieved the national book award. she's written plays, essays, articles, novels, short story collections and poetry. parts of Blonde appeared in Playboy, Conjunctions, Yale Review, Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, and TriQuarterly.
so one would THINK, one would hope, that this woman knows her shit.
i picked this book up for three reasons. first, because i want to be a prolific living female writer and thought i might learn something. second, because i am always intrigued by novels based on fact, or "radically distilled lives" (hunter thompson, truman capote.) and third, because it was two dollars (used) and i am poor.
it is an ambitious work. oates "reimagines the inner, poetic and spiritual life of norma jeane baker -- the child, the woman, the fated celebrity and idolized blonde the world came to know as marilyn monroe." every page is focused completely on marilyn. the author's descriptions of southern california (particularly hollywood) snapped off the page so fast i was caught off guard and burst into tears and was overcome with nostalgia for four hours.* we watch: norma, an orphan, norma, a foster wife, marilyn, a pin-up girl, then a starlet, then a star, and finally a full-fledged celebrity. we go through every glittery/painful moment with her so closely that halfway through the book, we don't feel we know monroe; we feel we are monroe.
but this is not a pleasant feeling. i am on page 699 and i am TIRED of reading about the blonde and the ex-athlete, the blonde and charlie chaplin jr, the blonde and the playwrite, the blonde and the president. i am tired of make-up and abortions.
ultimately, it is a flabby, lurid, obtuse, depressing book (at times entertaining and endearing) about a flabby, luring, depressing person (at times entertaining and endearing.) did you mean to do that, joyce? talk to me!
(actually, now that i think of it, when i met oates some months ago, she told me that writers have no mentors, no heroes. i'm thinking now that i can apply this directly to her: you are no mentor, joyce! not my heroine!!)
is this the best we can do?? is this what gets you a position at princeton? what happened to clean lines, clean characters, and books that did not lead one to despair? i want to sleep under a mountain of steinbeck. but that's living in the past! i need new idealists, damnit. they must be somewhere.
keep looking. cheers.
*(sneaking into the chinese theater through the fog with chim, post-it, and texanne; putting our hands in the prints left by little orphan actresses and actors, olivia dehaviland, vivian leigh, mickey rooney, marilyn; it was like a graveyard for children, so beautiful.)
Blonde, Joyce Carol Oates, 2000.
i have a confession to make. i'm kind of a marilyn junkie. this might be residual teenage rebellion -- i can distinctly recall my esteemed father saying that miss monroe embodied everything he hated about femininity -- but i was always drawn to her. she seemed to have no trouble embodying the essence of "sexy" -- 50% vamp, 50% virgin. 150%.
ahem. anyway.
JOYCE CAROL OATES is perhaps the most prolific living female writer i know of. she's a distinguished professor of humanities at princeton. she has recieved the national book award. she's written plays, essays, articles, novels, short story collections and poetry. parts of Blonde appeared in Playboy, Conjunctions, Yale Review, Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, and TriQuarterly.
so one would THINK, one would hope, that this woman knows her shit.
i picked this book up for three reasons. first, because i want to be a prolific living female writer and thought i might learn something. second, because i am always intrigued by novels based on fact, or "radically distilled lives" (hunter thompson, truman capote.) and third, because it was two dollars (used) and i am poor.
it is an ambitious work. oates "reimagines the inner, poetic and spiritual life of norma jeane baker -- the child, the woman, the fated celebrity and idolized blonde the world came to know as marilyn monroe." every page is focused completely on marilyn. the author's descriptions of southern california (particularly hollywood) snapped off the page so fast i was caught off guard and burst into tears and was overcome with nostalgia for four hours.* we watch: norma, an orphan, norma, a foster wife, marilyn, a pin-up girl, then a starlet, then a star, and finally a full-fledged celebrity. we go through every glittery/painful moment with her so closely that halfway through the book, we don't feel we know monroe; we feel we are monroe.
but this is not a pleasant feeling. i am on page 699 and i am TIRED of reading about the blonde and the ex-athlete, the blonde and charlie chaplin jr, the blonde and the playwrite, the blonde and the president. i am tired of make-up and abortions.
ultimately, it is a flabby, lurid, obtuse, depressing book (at times entertaining and endearing) about a flabby, luring, depressing person (at times entertaining and endearing.) did you mean to do that, joyce? talk to me!
(actually, now that i think of it, when i met oates some months ago, she told me that writers have no mentors, no heroes. i'm thinking now that i can apply this directly to her: you are no mentor, joyce! not my heroine!!)
is this the best we can do?? is this what gets you a position at princeton? what happened to clean lines, clean characters, and books that did not lead one to despair? i want to sleep under a mountain of steinbeck. but that's living in the past! i need new idealists, damnit. they must be somewhere.
keep looking. cheers.
*(sneaking into the chinese theater through the fog with chim, post-it, and texanne; putting our hands in the prints left by little orphan actresses and actors, olivia dehaviland, vivian leigh, mickey rooney, marilyn; it was like a graveyard for children, so beautiful.)
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
<
favorite one today
so no shit there i am, leaning on the job, leaning like you do when your boss is away, paging through the village voice. SW-BM is out getting stoned. when your boss is out getting stoned ("getting some extra cilantro from the store" is his code for this), you don't feel too bad catching up on your reading on the clock.
even when you're reading the want ads.
a young asian man opens the door for an old guy in a wheelchair. how sweet, i think, how decent.
the cripple drives his wheelchair to the counter and the asian angel minces up behind him. i take note of the angel's clothes. perry ellis jacket over pepto-bismol pink Abercrombie sweatshirt. (unpleasant flashback: some long-ago summer job: refusing to sell "all night co-ed wrestling" tee-shirts to thirteen year olds: working there just because john marie had once . . . ) his oh-so-tattered-slouched-hot baseball hat says GAP conspicuously. i am an american consumer, i can hear him saying proudly. and i am better at it than you are. american.
the old geezer in the wheelchair pays the bill for both of them.
i take note of the angel's jeans. they're tight. flared. they're . . . girl jeans.
i page through the village voice. SW-BM comes back, bloodshot. "what happened," he says. "what happened."
"nothing," i say. "nothing."
the angel opens the door for the old man. how . . . sweet. i think. how. indecent.
so no shit there i am, leaning on the job, leaning like you do when your boss is away, paging through the village voice. SW-BM is out getting stoned. when your boss is out getting stoned ("getting some extra cilantro from the store" is his code for this), you don't feel too bad catching up on your reading on the clock.
even when you're reading the want ads.
a young asian man opens the door for an old guy in a wheelchair. how sweet, i think, how decent.
the cripple drives his wheelchair to the counter and the asian angel minces up behind him. i take note of the angel's clothes. perry ellis jacket over pepto-bismol pink Abercrombie sweatshirt. (unpleasant flashback: some long-ago summer job: refusing to sell "all night co-ed wrestling" tee-shirts to thirteen year olds: working there just because john marie had once . . . ) his oh-so-tattered-slouched-hot baseball hat says GAP conspicuously. i am an american consumer, i can hear him saying proudly. and i am better at it than you are. american.
the old geezer in the wheelchair pays the bill for both of them.
i take note of the angel's jeans. they're tight. flared. they're . . . girl jeans.
i page through the village voice. SW-BM comes back, bloodshot. "what happened," he says. "what happened."
"nothing," i say. "nothing."
the angel opens the door for the old man. how . . . sweet. i think. how. indecent.
Monday, April 25, 2005
<
coffee at midnight
and the craigslist free section make me write emails like this:
three boys and a girl have a truck. live in queens. want your slot machines.
of course, i don't know where we'll put them. and they don't work (exactly.) but they're free. i hope we get them.
and the craigslist free section make me write emails like this:
three boys and a girl have a truck. live in queens. want your slot machines.
of course, i don't know where we'll put them. and they don't work (exactly.) but they're free. i hope we get them.
Sunday, April 24, 2005
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Saturday, April 23, 2005
<
Friday, April 22, 2005
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cat's in the bag, bag's in the river
big glass box! so many girl arms and so many faces/shoes. new york new york new york new york new york new york.
(woman at the social security office said, i don't care for california. can't get a good steak in california. too slow. it's not what you think, california. can't get a good steak there.
they have sushi, i offered.
but she was not impressed. you like it better here, she said. yes, i said. yes.)
yes! o, MoMA. yes. andy warhol*, dorthea lange, irving penn, andrew wyeth, and others, so many others. i'm in the presence of the divine.
small bites, small steps. chew. peek. step. think.
(faint dead away!)
i can't handle this much; i need a cigarette. and the long loud train home to queens: where none of the glass is clean.
*like walt whitman, i've hated him long enough.
big glass box! so many girl arms and so many faces/shoes. new york new york new york new york new york new york.
(woman at the social security office said, i don't care for california. can't get a good steak in california. too slow. it's not what you think, california. can't get a good steak there.
they have sushi, i offered.
but she was not impressed. you like it better here, she said. yes, i said. yes.)
yes! o, MoMA. yes. andy warhol*, dorthea lange, irving penn, andrew wyeth, and others, so many others. i'm in the presence of the divine.
small bites, small steps. chew. peek. step. think.
(faint dead away!)
i can't handle this much; i need a cigarette. and the long loud train home to queens: where none of the glass is clean.
*like walt whitman, i've hated him long enough.
Monday, April 18, 2005
<
i should cut back
party in the east village 10:30 pm (good christian buzz):
the voluptuous girl with the fake tan and the "no boys allowed" tee shirt says she has two books about to be published: confessions of a dirty martini and the femme girls guide to coming out.
"bad girls are in right now," she informs me. "i'll help you out with your manuscripts and introduce you to my agent. i know what it's like to be an artist in this city. oh this is my PHOTOGRAPHER . . . "
if this is what it takes, i think, kill me now.
corner pizza place 2:34 AM (decidedly drunk):
me: do you have any honey?
pizza guy: for WHAT?
me: the pizza. obviously.
patrick: i gotta go find an ATM.
pizza guy: HONEY? on PIZZA?
me: i ALWAYS eat honey on my pizza. how can you not have any honey?
pizza guy: i'm "honey" enough, right? waddaya want?
me: i hate this town. i don unnerstand you people. terrible.
patrick (slapping an almost empty honey bear on the table:) look what i found!
me: oh my gosh. patrick. that girl should NEVER have broken up with you.
subway station 4:25 AM (belligerently smashed):
me: well how MUCH is it going to be??
good cop: sixty dollars.
patrick: sorry about that officer.
me: i don't HAVE sixty dollars!!
bad cop: we can do this the easy way or the hard way.
patrick: be quiet, marian.
the street outside the apartment (bLiNdDrUnK):
austin: marian, come ON! we're getting BAGELS!
me: no, i think i'll go to sleep.
austin: oh, come ON. get UP. you're so LARGE.
me: WHAT??
austin: oh come on. bagels.
me: not for me. i'm too . . . LARGE.
party in the east village 10:30 pm (good christian buzz):
the voluptuous girl with the fake tan and the "no boys allowed" tee shirt says she has two books about to be published: confessions of a dirty martini and the femme girls guide to coming out.
"bad girls are in right now," she informs me. "i'll help you out with your manuscripts and introduce you to my agent. i know what it's like to be an artist in this city. oh this is my PHOTOGRAPHER . . . "
if this is what it takes, i think, kill me now.
corner pizza place 2:34 AM (decidedly drunk):
me: do you have any honey?
pizza guy: for WHAT?
me: the pizza. obviously.
patrick: i gotta go find an ATM.
pizza guy: HONEY? on PIZZA?
me: i ALWAYS eat honey on my pizza. how can you not have any honey?
pizza guy: i'm "honey" enough, right? waddaya want?
me: i hate this town. i don unnerstand you people. terrible.
patrick (slapping an almost empty honey bear on the table:) look what i found!
me: oh my gosh. patrick. that girl should NEVER have broken up with you.
subway station 4:25 AM (belligerently smashed):
me: well how MUCH is it going to be??
good cop: sixty dollars.
patrick: sorry about that officer.
me: i don't HAVE sixty dollars!!
bad cop: we can do this the easy way or the hard way.
patrick: be quiet, marian.
the street outside the apartment (bLiNdDrUnK):
austin: marian, come ON! we're getting BAGELS!
me: no, i think i'll go to sleep.
austin: oh, come ON. get UP. you're so LARGE.
me: WHAT??
austin: oh come on. bagels.
me: not for me. i'm too . . . LARGE.
Sunday, April 10, 2005
<
we're none of us sober
"What's all this irony and pity?"
"What? Don't you know about irony and pity?"
"No. Who got it up?"
"Everybody. They're mad about it in New York."
The Sun Also Rises. if F. Scott Fitzgerald and Gertrude Stein had a little baby, then let Steinbeck adopt it, who sent it to college where it roomed with Hunter S. Thompson, that child might be Ernest Hemingway.
hemingway loves women, and loves a drink.* in the sun, he paints a clear, unyeilding picture of the expats who lived in Paris during and after prohibition. at the center of his work is a brilliant portrait of lady brett ashley -- a smartly dressed, sharp-witted alcoholic who breaks heart after heart during an ill-advised but well-intentioned (and alcohol drenched) "fiesta" in Spain. the narrator is in love with her, but from a distance, giving their relationship a decidedly dante-and-beatrice tint. but this is no jane austen: bull-fights, bar brawls, and the best drunken dailogues i have ever read remind you who you're reading: a hard-boiled, suicidal midwesterner.
highly highly highly highly recommended.
*and hates both also, i have a feeling.
"What's all this irony and pity?"
"What? Don't you know about irony and pity?"
"No. Who got it up?"
"Everybody. They're mad about it in New York."
The Sun Also Rises. if F. Scott Fitzgerald and Gertrude Stein had a little baby, then let Steinbeck adopt it, who sent it to college where it roomed with Hunter S. Thompson, that child might be Ernest Hemingway.
hemingway loves women, and loves a drink.* in the sun, he paints a clear, unyeilding picture of the expats who lived in Paris during and after prohibition. at the center of his work is a brilliant portrait of lady brett ashley -- a smartly dressed, sharp-witted alcoholic who breaks heart after heart during an ill-advised but well-intentioned (and alcohol drenched) "fiesta" in Spain. the narrator is in love with her, but from a distance, giving their relationship a decidedly dante-and-beatrice tint. but this is no jane austen: bull-fights, bar brawls, and the best drunken dailogues i have ever read remind you who you're reading: a hard-boiled, suicidal midwesterner.
highly highly highly highly recommended.
*and hates both also, i have a feeling.
Friday, April 08, 2005
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Tuesday, April 05, 2005
<
sexy nomikkh, you at least
should see this movie.
ps. when i say the movie, i mean the recent movie, with benicio del torro and bruce willis, not the porn site, which you can get to by accident by searching for "sin city."
oops.
should see this movie.
ps. when i say the movie, i mean the recent movie, with benicio del torro and bruce willis, not the porn site, which you can get to by accident by searching for "sin city."
oops.
Friday, April 01, 2005
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catholic or no
the most important thing we can do is pray that Karol Wojtyla, our Papa, has a good death.
the most important thing we can do is pray that Karol Wojtyla, our Papa, has a good death.
juvenile, but satan-resistant. pack your other moustache, we're going to kansas city.
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california (gorgeous):
face
nomikkh
pretty powers
surfer boy
burn cells brained out
not of this world
5ives
donzilla
dialog blog
matthew lickona
lisa tucker
wasted mind
maxwell murders blog of DOOM
texas (don't mess with):
HANSEL (he's so hot right now)
texanne
little sister
weird weeds
slow to wrath
czech republic (other side):
wanton and forlorn
jedno pivo porism
kansas city (prairie punx):
kansas city baby #1
a damn shame
kansas city babies #2 and #4
kansas city baby #3
kansas city baby #5 (krystle)
kansas city baby #6
unknown (but famous):
the prophet (has flowers and special-ness)
foxy
dan
un sitio cualquiera
wife
don't ask, don't tell
running/not running
new york city (hell yes):
the galloping consumption
seldom sober
brooklyn girl
the subway chronicles
joey
some are good most are trash
project museum