hmph

Simon and Garfunkel have announced that they've indefinitely postponed their summer tour, including their show at Tanglewood set for July 27.

The duo originally scheduled the tour for April and rescheduled for July, but it's now on hold due to Art Garfunkel's recovery from a vocal paresis is being blamed for the cancellation.

Garfunkel said in a statement, "I do feel bad about disrupting so many people's plans by, as I continue to mend, I can't yet bring my 'A Game' to a tour, and I would not perform for you with anything less."

Tickets for the Tanglewood show will be automatically refunded within the next four days if the payment was made by credit card, and a check will be sent on June 21 to people who paid by cash or check.

* * * *

dear art,

get a grip on your life.

how long do you expect me to wait around for your "paresis" to improve? let's be real; bob dylan has seemingly had this "paresis" business since 1972 and you don't see him bitching and moaning (well maybe moaning, but that's just his singing). i get it- you may be experiencing "vocal fatigue and mild to severe reduction in vocal volume." no fun, no sir. but you're practically a septuagenarian and to be perfectly frank, are not likely to have many good years left in you. i am already depressed by the sheer sight of you- your deep-seated wrinkles, your rapidly augmenting nose and ears...and now i'm pummeled with the news of your waning angel voice? with every glimpse of you i can feel the pressing weight of time and the harsh reality of my fleeting, insignificant life. this was supposed to be an enraged note to you, garfunkel, and look what you've gone and done now; i'm having an existential crisis.

with kind regards and dwindling hopes,

kiki

dedications to an ex

robert & shana parkeharrison; "architect's brother" series

this is a short story by etgar keret, taken from the girl on the fridge. it is entitled "so good." coincidentally, it is quite good. i loved it so intensely i read it repeatedly until my eyes crossed and clouded. some day, at some point, self-inflicted misery must cease. masochism and depression provide a warm, alluring cocoon; however, learning how to let go and experience happiness is really one's only hope. love can be an anchor.

* * * *

wearing nothing but pajama bottoms and cowboy boots, itzik sat on the edge of the bed and stared out the window. the sun was shining out there. he felt like a jerk. Happiness was supposed to arrive today. his sources had just informed him about it five minutes ago, and here he was, sitting on the bed like an idiot, not doing a thing about it. he thought back over the last time Happiness had come--how his father had opened the door for it, just like that, and how itzik himself, a pale-faced little boy, had sat there at the kitchen table making paper collages, not afraid of anything.

he started to tremble. "it can't get in," he whispered. "no matter what." if only he could keep it from getting inside, everything would be okay. he lunged at the dresser and started pushing it toward the door. once he'd blocked the entrance completely, he got out his hunting rifle and began shoving the cartridges into it. this time, he'd be ready. not like at his parents' house. nobody was going to turn him into a grinning zombie who loved daytime tv and garcia marquez, and kissed his mother every chance he got. "where's my flak jacket?" he yelled to no one. "where's my flak jacket, son of a bitch." he rummaged frantically through the cabinet under the sink till he found it, then put on an undershirt and the jacket. next he stuck the ice picks and stanley knives into the fireplace, with the blades pointing straight up. if they're so smart, let them try the chimney. he'd teach them a thing or two about Happiness. five years he'd done at club med. five years, damn them to hell. with the girl he loved, with sex both oral and anal, with money to spend like there was no tomorrow. he'd had it real bad. he knew it for what it was. if grandma hadn't died, he'd still be there now.

the first to arrive was Opportunity. they always sent her in first, like some goddamn bedouin scout. probably figured she was expendable. she knocked at the door, then tried the handle, which was electrified. the shock stunned her to the ground. that's when itzik broke the window with the rifle butt and stuck the barrel out. "think of something nice," he muttered through clenched teeth and pressed the trigger. "think of something nice, bitch, all the way up to heaven. i'm not giving in without a fight. i'm not my father. i won't let you drag me away in some van festooned with walt disney characters and a shit-eating grin on my face." he pumped another slug into the blank-faced Opportunity just to be on the safe side.

suddenly he remembered what greenberg had said about the fast one they pulled using cable tv. son of a bitch. here he was, sitting around like a jive rookie, with his back to the family channel, as if he'd never heard about what nbc did to the depression underground in seattle back in '87. how stupid could he be! he spun around and fired another one into the tv, a split second before cosby kissed lisa. "gotta stay cool," he muttered under his breath. "gotta stay cool, no matter what happens."

he was just beginning to focus on somalia when he heard rustling in the bushes. it was Sheer Enjoyment with the take-away pizzas and the porn magazines, inching her way along the hedge. he couldn't quite get her in his sights. but she didn't try to get any closer.

"hey, babe, i hate my pizzas cold," he screamed. but she didn't even answer. the helicopters were overhead now, with their enormous loudspeakers booming techno hits and schmaltzy crooners at top volume. he put his hands over his ears and concentrated on holocaust memorial day, on women with a breast cut off, on homeless people shivering in the new york winter. he did have a hint of a smile on his face, but the music remained on the outside. still, there was something going on. it all seemed too easy. the helicopters. Sheer Enjoyment not making a move. it had to be a ploy. "the roof, damn it," he blurted. "it's got to be up on the roof." he took a few potshots through the shingles. something fell down the chimney straight onto the spikes. that was Success! she was holding a packet of winning lottery tickets. itzik doused her with gasoline and threw his zippo into the fireplace. the body caught fire instantly. along with the winning tickets. the flames lapped them up long before they had a chance to spread through the cabin. smoke was filling the room, mixed with another smell, the fragrance of hot corn on the cob, of old-fashioned ice cream, of mom tucking him in at night. gas. he crawled along the floor, trying to get to the gas masks. aids, he thought to himself. people abusing children all over the world at this very moment. children. so sweet, i'd love to have some of my own, and a wife. who loves me. being tortured in the security service dungeons--he tried. no way. the smile just kept spreading. threatening to swallow him up. three emotions he couldn't quite make out were taking over, removing his flak jacket, wiping the number off his arm with saliva. replacing his "why?" undershirt with a "don't worry be happy" one. don't lose hope, it'll work out, he said, trying to cheer himself up as they dragged him outside. she'll be there, waiting for you. you'll have an amazing future. you'll have an apv minivan. so intense was the anticipation that his knees were turning to mush. you'll have it so good, you lucky son of a bitch, you don't know how good.

by then the tears in his throat had dried up. the trees outside were all green. and the sky was bright blue. the weather was just right, not too warm and not too cold. a van covered with simpsons characters and mortgage ads was there already, waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs.

forza italia!

in light of the 2010 FIFA world cup which is now in full-swing, i would like to take a moment of silence to commemorate the magnificent roberto baggio in all of his jheri-curl-mullet-pony glory. bestill my heart. better known as il divin codino, or the "divine ponytail", baggio (along with the rest of the italian national team) fully consumed my 10 year old life over the course of the steamy summer of 1994. oh, to witness that glistening olive skin and mop of ratty curls flouncing upon his back of jersey blue once again would be but a dream.

i have such vivid memories of this particular summer. we were experiencing the most intense heat wave; the air was intolerably thick and moist, and the only brief relief we could find was directly in front of our solitary (and barely functioning) household air conditioner. to catch the early games i would sometimes wake up at 6am or earlier, stumble groggily into the family room, press record on our vcr, and return to bed. i would spend mornings riding my bicycle to the nearby nature center where i would sit and reflect, much in the way does a middle-aged woman in the midst of a life crisis (i've clearly been like this for the entirety of my life). and then, checking my over sized stop watch, i would hop back on my green huffy and race home to catch the afternoon games. salty fingers in gardetto's snack mix. tall perspiring glasses of lipton iced tea. sweaty bangs. hanes v-necks & umbro shorts. bare thighs sticking to leather couch cushions. and a whole lot of squealing.

italy vs. brazil in the final tournament match was agonizing, and the no scoring game + overtime was emotionally debilitating. poorpoor roberto, set to kick the final penalty shot to win it, was overcome by all sorts of stress demons and sent the shot soaring well over the goal post. i am slightly chagrined by the fact that this still makes my heart hurt and my eyes sting. and so roberto, wherever you are- i hope you have sought a route in the likes of michael bolton and/or the great pauly shore by shedding the solace of your pretty-pony-mane, that you have reclaimed your life and masculinity, and become at peace with your strange, buddhist self. i salute you, sha-wing.

old friends

oh dear, my adorable little dinosaurs. i don't care that you're so old you're practically walking decomposition; i love you so. cursed are the cruel suits&ties that have set your reunion tour ticket prices to $130 bones. do they not realize that not only pension collecting senior citizens enjoy your ditties? granted last year's joan baez concert was more of a geriatric convention than a celebration of folk, i was still in attendance with wet eyes and a swollen heart. this should be no exception. bring on the walkers and canes and give mamma a ticket to heaven, someone, anyone, bueller? there must some sort of pathetic contest out there i can win? lyrics? trivia? i think i may have even chosen an "old friends" excerpt for my senior high school quote. that has to merit something.

***

"if i am a witch, then so be it, i said. and i took to eating black things- huitlacoche the corn mushroom, coffee, dark chiles, the bruised part of the fruit, the darkest, blackest things to make me hard and strong."

-sandra cisneros, eyes of zapata

* * *

so... my previous post did have a conclusive tone of contentment, yes. don't get me wrong, i'm currently blessed in a variety of ways, perhaps not yet in the realm of chest size (a girl can still hope, no?) but nevertheless, lucky indeed. on that note, i worry it is much too early to begin an ongoing rant of negative nancy-ism on the topic of the company by whom i am now currently employed. i am grateful. i receive a pay check. my co-workers are all young, good-natured, interesting and helpful. there is a sparkling glimmer of hope, albeit minute, that i may have the opportunity to move on to a better position within the company. in spite of my specific department, everything does have an air of excitement and creativity. there are many office dogs: a snorting, overweight pug, an inquisitive scottish terrier, a yippy pomeranian with a craze for chinese take-out, and the token trembling chihuahua. we listen to music, and though it is typically of the r&b and/or rap persuasion, the sporadic dashes of michael jackson keep me keeping on. sometimes we eat pizza or cupcakes and laugh a whole lot. other times the phone rings incessantly, the customers are repeatedly stoned and incoherent, and i scratch at my thighs and fight the urge to pull out my own hair, overwhelmed and vanquished.

being that the most popular brands we sell are supra, married to the mob, hellz bellz, crooks and castles, LRG and dope couture, it's not difficult to imagine the body of clientele we attract. so you don't recognize any of those brands? neither did i. perhaps if you were in the market for items such as these, you would be better familiarized...

my feminist soul weeps, weeps oceans. the brand that created this last little beauty is called TITS (evidently an acronym for "two in the shirt", but i'm still nauseous over it). so what if my inner lorena bobbit is consumed with the urge to castrate the pig that created this line of t-shirts, featuring only tits and bare asses and compromising positions. at least it's not just a clever name. i can handle it. sell sell sell. les-bi honest, i know i won't let my man wear a stitch of anything else because...pussies don't get pussy...or...err...wahhh. okay, so when he's not effortlessly visually degrading women, i let him wear "the bullet jewelz v-neck tee" as depicted in image one...you know, to class things up a bit. i wish this were all a joke, i really do.

i am, of course, harping on the negative here. this is essentially what i do. but there are certainly some diamonds-in-the-rough to be unearthed within the men's department. if you have the patience to sift through acid wash, jumpsuits, studded platform hooker shoes and neon printed spandex, there are actually some excellent women's finds as well, especially via the brands bb dakota, free people and cheap monday. i have already spent a notable portion of my earnings to purchase said finds and am pretty jazzed about it.

at my last job i had created and maintained a public google document to catalog all of the most comical customer names i came across (see: anita weiner, hester ham, schlomit tromer). i now vow to do the same with the cornucopia of noteworthy apparel i discover as time progresses, as the world of fashion becomes remarkably more despicable. scout's honor.

resurrection

i'm not even sure where to begin on this one; such an absurd amount of time has elapsed since i last had the luxury of consistent, personal internet access. at first it was irritating and i was overwhelmed with helplessness in the stinging void of technology. then all at once it was liberating; i reclaimed my bohemian roots and frowned upon all those disillusioned folks, cross-eyed and bewitched by the ever-so-alluring mac glow. and then it was irritating, again. it's somewhat embarrassing to admit that my life was so significantly lacking without a pc; i thought i could handle it, grow to enjoy that sense of detachment...much in the way i had felt relief, while standing in line at the pharmacy, realizing i had fallen so out of touch with in touch weekly. but i suppose attempting to adhere to such simplicity is as fruitless as my attempts to maintain a vegan diet. i mean really people, what is life without cheese? i ask you this.

while i spent four months of bitching, moaning, wallowing, and spending an exceeding amount of time in the presence of a mother so blatantly in need of anti-depressants, the general consulate of portugal wiped its giant portuguese ass with my visa documents and flushed them down the terlet along with my hopes and dreams of a career as a starving metalsmith. that may be a tad dramatic as i still am blessed with mobile hands and clear vision, but you catch my drift. and so i scraped myself off the cold, hard winter floor. i ate a ton of ice cream, indulged in poorly-written vampire novels, watched a lot of chelsea handler, and ultimately found myself a new job and a new apartment and a new attitude and settled on back into the comforting embrace of the city. and to that i cheers a sam adams summer ale, and say fuck you portugal, your beer sucks.

i wish i had been capable of reliably documenting the shenanigans that were my tragic job-quests, as i'm now probing at the recesses of my brain to retrieve the memories i've so strenuously repressed. for months and months it was hours, days, weeks on job sites and no responses whatsoever. then, at my wits end (and probably somewhat delusional in hindsight) i stumbled in to an american apparel open call in downtown new haven and uncomfortably stood in line with pretentious, overly styled 20 year olds for a job which i didn't even want (sometimes i'm convinced i do things for the sake of social experimentation...as writers tend to do...like my tenured college poetry professor who on the side worked part time at a roller rink). i was asked really deep questions during this interview, such as how would you describe your personal style? along a few other mind-crushingly profound questions that allowed me to truly express my magna cum laude abilities in folding lycra uni-suits, using hand-held steamers, and showing my vagina to customers in the ways of very short shorts. i was then instructed to stand against a wall holding a clip board noting my name and telephone number (yes, like a mug-shot) and to strike a pose while being awkwardly, intrusively photographed. then again. and again. and one more time. hand on hip. without hand on hip. slight smile. sexy. smile with teeth. perfect. i was told this was purely to get a sense of how i might style myself if employed by the company. however, knowing all too well of the corporation's infamously perverted, sexist CEO, all i could visualize was a sweaty jewish businessman in knee socks and sweatbands, shuffling through a deck of polaroids and jacking off. i left the interview feeling emotionally raped and a having sacrificed a smidgen of my soul in having actually gone through with the whole shebang.

two weeks later i received an email from the store manager asking me to come in and re-photograph. apparently boots are against store policy...BOOTS...but not publicly apparent coke addictions or nipple exposing see-through lace onesies. go figure. and so i went right ahead and shoved the rest of my dignity way down to that dark place inside of me that homes my abashed affinities for reggaeton, cheese whiz, and the hills, trucked on in and let her take more shots of me, this time in heels. ouch. after a month-long shit show of nonsensical back and forths, they eventually hired me, thus reassuring me of my physical beauty and giving my life purpose once again.

to summarize (and i must because i'm giving myself an ulcer recalling this huge waste of time), i worked for the company for a single day...a whopping ten hours. this was only after i was forced to sign a stack of waivers promising to never divulge the inner-workings of the company or the CEO, that is unless i wished to be sued for a preposterous amount of money. the stock room coordinator i.e. the straight-out-of-college douchebag who was training me, triggered my up-chuck reflex in a way that not many have been able. clad in too-short seersucker shorts, chambray dress shirt and boat shoes (dear god, why boat shoes??), all 6 foot 6 inches, 130 pounds of him screamed i have no life or friends and boys beat me up in high school because i wore braces and ate my own snots and now being super serious about this hip company gives my life meaning and i'm going to grow from within and really advance so much that they'll bump my hourly wage from 9 dollars to 12 and then fire me without cause because i've gotten too old or too ugly or too fat. this gem of a human being spoke to me as if i was mentally retarded, giving me intensive lessons on how to fold t-shirts, and put trash into a dumpster, so you open up the top, you put the garbage in, and then you close it! when he told me i had to learn how to walk with purpose, i concluded that i'd rather eat my own feces than to watch the spit collect at the corners of his lips any longer. i never showed up for my second shift, issued a complaint to the store manager, and moved my ass back to the city i should have never left.

a strain of unfortunate job interviews did follow this painful retail incident; however, i at least find comic relief in those due to their twilight-zone-esque ridiculousness i.e. many how the hell did i manage to find the strangest, most unappealing jobs on all of craig's list and why am i up against 200 other applicants for them? life is strange and the economy is awful and though i'm not exactly solving world hunger at my new job working for karmaloop.com, at least i can pay my rent, eat weekly burritos, and spend a portion of my pay check at american apparel.