Oh my god will I ever do anything quite this awesome? Doubtful. Everyone? The Mario Scarf. Natalia love, this one’s clearly for you.
Mothers of America
let your kids go to the movies!
get them out of the house so they won’t know what you’re up to
it’s true that fresh air is good for the body
but what about the soul
that grows in darkness, embossed by silvery images
and when you grow old as grow old you must
they won’t hate you
they won’t criticize you they won’t know
they’ll be in some glamorous country
they first saw on a Saturday afternoon or playing hookey
they may even be grateful to you
for their first sexual experience
which only cost you a quarter
and didn’t upset the peaceful home
they will know where candy bars come from
and gratuitous bags of popcorn
as gratuitous as leaving the movie before it’s over
with a pleasant stranger whose apartment is in the Heaven on Earth Bldg
near the Williamsburg Bridge
oh mothers you will have made the little tykes
so happy because if nobody does pick them up in the movies
they won’t know the difference
and if somebody does it’ll be sheer gravy
and they’ll have been truly entertained either way
instead of hanging around the yard
or up in their room
prematurely since you won’t have done anything horribly mean yet
except keeping them from the darker joys
it’s unforgivable the latter
so don’t blame me if you won’t take this advice
and the family breaks up
and your children grow old and blind in front of a TV set
movies you wouldn’t let them see when they were young
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: awesome people, feminism, politics, the new york times
A lot of the time I rely on other people to write eloquently on subjects which I care about and interest me. I feel like I’ve always got this tangled mush of thoughts in my head that I’m totally unable to express in the way that I want. I can start to tell people what I believe, but so rarely is what I’m saying the same as what I’m thinking. There’s a horrible disconnect that I can’t overcome. I’m hoping that it’s the sort of gap that closes with maturity and practice.
Thankfully, I’ve got Frank Rich to say exactly what I think, in the sort of stunningly elegant language that I’m incapable of producing. Thanks for the help, Frankie.
On days when the weather’s bad, when the only time I leave the house is to go to the gym, and when my hair does weird stuff all day, at least I have you.
I was going to write something today about this article in The New Yorker. It’s about how no real cure for a hangover yet exists, and proceeded to detail the various cultural variations on the hangover cure. But the first paragraph of the article was what really intrigued me.
If scientists do not have a cure for cancer, that makes sense. But the common cold, the menstrual cramp? The hangover is another condition of this kind.
Okay, I think. I really hate being hungover. Waking up and walking around for five hours wondering aloud if I should really eat something is both annoying to my roommates and sad for my stomach. But seriously. Why is there no cure for menstrual cramps? For that matter, why has science lagged so far behind when it comes to medicine related to female reproductive health? Questions to ponder for the future. For now, I post a poem.
Sometimes I Wish I were Frank O’Hara
or rather that I could see my city in the same way
that he saw it when it was dirty and grimy with excitement
flowing right down Broadway in plain daylight.
It would be nice to have someone like Frank O’Hara show you
around all the things in New York that you would never see
for yourself because it’s hard to find the time to see something
that you’ve seen a million times in a new way.
Once I walked through Central Park past the statue of
the Polish King and noticed how he looked truly medieval
with features hewn from stone one block of granite bashing up
against another until a human face emerged that knew all
of history and I realized that there were balloons all around me.
Someone was having a picnic and she or he or perhaps another friend
had put balloons and photocopies of Renaissance paintings on all the
signposts between Fifth Avenue and here in order to lead the guests
like birds following breadcrumbs to the right location
and I turned to you and even though you weren’t wearing an
orange shirt it seemed that this was the sort of scene we’d
come up with when we’re sitting in Columbus Circle at four in the morning
and looking at the bums and insomniacs and couples drift in
and out of the twenty-four hour Starbucks.
Having a coke with you in the confusing hours of night we’d
Stare at the fountain lights and imagine how far
a balloon might get if it started in Central Park and headed for the stars.