Baggage Claimed

I’ve always believed in a clean breakup. In other words, I do the breaking up and then I insist we have no further contact.

That is why I was struck by this sentiment uttered by performance artist Marina Abramovic in the New Yorker: ”People put so much effort into starting a relationship and so little effort into ending one.”

The obvious rebuttal is “duh.” Of course. In the end, you’re over it; you’re done trying.

In many of my past relationships, I’ve walked away irritated and fed up, my frustrations building and my armor on long before the words “it’s over” were said. I believed in preliminary coping through resentment. My instinct, even when my heart was broken, was to immediately gather up whatever dignity I had left and move on. Survive. 

To have the courage to honor what you once had, in the moment that it’s over, to celebrate its existence and its ending simultaneously, both of you together, seems absurdly healthy. To also incorporate individual time and space to heal, not to mention, one last romantic gesture done in solidarity, seems downright miraculous.

For decades, Abramovic has used her body and mind in studies of willpower and endurance, and throughout the 70s and 80s, her longtime lover and collaborator, Ulay, would also perform with her—their backs to each other, their hair braided together; their mouths connected, sucking in each other’s breath until they had run out of oxygen; their naked bodies facing each other in a museum doorway, forcing those passing through to squeeze between them.

They had planned to walk along the Great Wall of China as well, but by the time the arrangements had gone through, they had broken up. 

Still, they continued with the performance. Except now she walked from the east, he from the west. On March 30, 1988, three months later, they met in the middle and said goodbye. 

(Above: Last month at her MOMA performance/retrospective, “The Artist Is Present,” where every day, Abramovic invites museum goers to sit across from her in silence. With her is Ulay. This is the first time they have seen each other since 1988.)   

I’ve been concerned about Bret Michaels all weekend. I immediately googled him when I woke up on Saturday, even foregoing my email Inbox and Facebook statuses, to monitor the condition of his health.

This isn’t because Poison was my favorite band growing up; it wasn’t even one of my favorite hair metal bands (ahem, Guns N’ Roses). But “hair metal” as a concept has had a greater effect on me than the music itself. You see, I was 10, 11, 12 when these bands got big, and therefore, their popularity coincided with several landmark events: puberty, the arrival of cable television, and realizing I could save up my allowance to buy cassette tapes. 

At this age, I was discovering both music and boys in ways I hadn’t before—through hormonal discombobulation. Hair metal was still as accessible and fun as regular pop, but it was also mischievous and dangerous in a mysterious-adult kind of way, not like sneaking-an-Oreo-before-dinner kind of way. These hair metal guys looked like girls—pretty and coiffed—yet hard and dirty, but I was less interested in them than I was in their lady friends. The video vixens with long, teased manes, red wet lips, legs for days, pointed heels and pouring cleavage were seductive and sexual and unashamed to be either. They were nothing like I, a sheltered, suburban kid, had ever seen before. Back then, if you asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would have pointed to a groupie. 

Some could make the argument that this is why society is fucked and why young girls shouldn’t watch videos like these. I would instead make the argument that there’s nothing wrong with a woman accentuating what makes her woman—curves, lips, hair—and owning it. Pre-this era, women were emasculating themselves (sharp severe suits, shoulder pads, billowy sweaters) and apres-this era, women are supposed to be 100-pound teenage boys, or 100-pound teenage boys with 20 pounds of plastic on their chests.

Granted, I was too young back then to understand that these groupies could be objectified in another way—for free blow jobs and backstage anal sex. None of these antics crossed my mind because my parents also had some influence on what I should be or be exposed to (thank god). All I saw on the screen, all I chose to see on the screen, was that these women were confident, had cool dance moves (i.e. hair swinging, heels strutting) and put guys at their mercy. 

I should also note that part of my concern for Bret comes from how he has pleasantly seeped into my life over the last few years. He is the only “personality” of this era that’s consistently in the public eye, and having once been a groupie’s groupie, ”Rock of Love” (i.e. a study in the tragic-yet-thoroughly-entertaining side of 80s slut idolization) was a compulsion of mine. Also, lately, I’ve been rooting for him on “Celebrity Apprentice,” as he surprisingly seems quite genuine and endearing. 

So Bret, I’m wishing you speedy recovery. I look forward to many more years of you reminding me not to take life too seriously. Please don’t burst my bubble. 

My dad travels with pillows. Not a “travel pillow” in the shape of a puffy half-eaten donut, but an actual rectangular, goose-down accoutrement upon which to lay your entire head. He will forgo the carry-on bag in lieu of his pillow because he doesn’t trust that the hotel, even the Hilton, will have one that meets his standards, and at his age, he doesn’t have time to waste six hours of precious vacation time on uncomfortable sleep.

I’ve always thought this was a little prima donna-ish of him, especially for a man who lives in tank tops, drives a backhoe and goes to the movies just for the hot dogs. But after sleeping on a couch and lying my head on a pancake of a throw pillow recently, I’m starting to understand. 

Nothing beats your own bed. 

My bed is what motivates me to spend $25 on a cab ride to get home when I could very well sleep off my drunk for free on the couch of a friend—a point when I would, without a doubt, fall immediately into a comatose-like slumber and care less about where I rolled around in a puddle of my own drool. But even in my most drunken of states, my bed is all I can hyper-focus on, and even sounds better than a grilled cheese sandwich and side of fries at that hour. 

I’ve always been the type of friend that gave up my bed for visitors. What does it matter where I sleep, I’d say, sleep is sleep! But after being so generous recently, I’m reneging on any future offers I may make to be such a good host. (Because I will make such an offer again, because I am such a goddamn pleaser. And most likely I’ll do so when I’m drunk and brimming with empty promises.) So as written, sober evidence that I can later refer to, I’m typing now: “Screw you guys!” I’m not going to be that close—a room away, on a couch that’s a half a foot shorter than the length of my body—to the one thing that motivates to make it to the end of the day, the thing that I have faith in even when I don’t even have the strength to get off my bar stool, and not let it envelop me with its majesty. 

This past Sunday I saw shit smeared on a wall, a man going down on himself, babies being sucked back up the birth canal and a giant pink phallus. But I’ll get back to that in a moment. 

As a contemptuous private school teen in bright, sunny Hawaii, my general mission was to stand out. I wore black patent leather go-go boots, fishnets and glittery polyester shirts tied at my navel. I drove an old hooptie that I painted with flashy yellow flowers and the words “no cherries allowed” across the back. I dated a guy who was banned from all school functions because he encouraged two girls to makeout on stage during the school’s welcome program. I liked loud, gross pronouncements that made people take notice—not just because I got off on shocking others, but because during this, my first conscious effort at finding a place for myself in the world, it was easier to be one distracting thing than many complicated, twined shades of grey.

Last Sunday, when I went to the New Museum and saw the aforementioned works of art in the Jeff Koons-curated show, “Skin Fruit,” I admit, I was wearing black leather boots, ones that were about the same height as my high school pair—mid calf—and equally as cute, but much less shiny. Sure, I bought these shoes because I appreciated the sassy small heel, but I also considered their functionality—I’ve been walking around the city (an east coast city) in them all winter (a real winter that hit below 69 degrees).

These days, life dictates I travel more by foot, but when I did have a car in a different city recently, I can’t recall any features more distinguishable than a broken side mirror and an odd smell coming from my radiator. And when I think of the last truly shocking thing that my current boyfriend has done, it was to say that he actually liked that pink phallic sculpture at the exhibit. 

Of all the in-your-face fecal and fornicating gargantuanness displayed in “Skin Fruit,” one of my favorite pieces was Maurizio Cattelan’s nine white slabs of marble lying on the floor to look like body bags. Another was two child-size cavemen emerging from a white corner of the room, their eyes wide, confused, seemingly already overstimulated at what stood before them; one’s arm around the other, one foot in front of the other, both hesitant and curious to move forward. I took a long, second and third look at their humanistic posturing, my back turned against a fiberglass woman fondling herself.

Having grown up in Hawaii, I’m often asked if it’s true that Hawaiians* hate all white people. I usually tell them what my mother, a white woman from Louisana who worked with the roughest, most challenging kids on the island, told me: If you treat people with respect, they’ll respect you. 

I find this to be true and is often the way I try to live my life. I go into situations with an open mind, greet people with a smile, and when all else fails, put others at ease by making a joke at my own expense. Usually I get the same in return.

However, fuck with me, and I’ll fuck back.

Having lived in passive-agressive Portland for the last three years, I hadn’t seen this no-nonsense side of myself in some time. But now I’m in New York, where passiveness ceases to exist, and Miss No-Nonsense has returned. 

Within the last few days I: (a) waved a five dollar bill in the face of a cashier at Tasti D-Lite, screaming, “I’m gonna stand here until you let me taste the Peachy Keen!” after she’d denied me a third sample of frozen yogurt; and (b) banged on the door of a uni-stall, unisex bathroom after watching a dude go in there on a cell phone and waiting five minutes. Both times, a kind, strange man came up behind me and asked what was wrong. Once I’d explained the situation(s), the man in scenario (a) asked the cashier for a Peachy sample and handed it to me; and the one in (b) pounded his fist on the door with command and concision.

Some may see this as furthering the cycle of negativity and disrespect. For me, anger ends where chivalry begins. Call me old fashioned, but I feel honored, charmed even, by someone standing up for the respect of a fellow human being. And New Yorkers do with a sense of efficiency. Double swoon.

* This is what white people think local people are called.

I’m a writer, but I’m probably best known for being a talker. A very loud talker at that. 

Sure, I’ve destroyed my computer’s hard drive from too much wear and tare, but this weekend, I actually annihilated my vocal chords from excessive laughing and shrieking with my gay BFF in town.

After fours hours of cocktails, followed by three hours of drunken discussion on Thursday night, I woke up Friday morning sounding like a pubescent boy. By Saturday, my throat was so sore, I could only speak in a whisper. Now, all I can do is shrug and smile. 

Losing my voice has taught me a valuable lesson: Most of what I have to say is unimportant. As I struggle to get the words out, each verbalized thought seems inconsequential to the betterment or the entertainment of others, and isn’t worth the effort of repeating. Also, I tend to laugh at my own jokes, which is painfully appalling, especially when it comes out in a hoarse cackle. 

When I write, however, I’d like to think I attempt to choose my words more carefully, (this can be argued, I suppose, by readers of this blog), so spewing garble from my mouth is a sort of release from sitting in my head all day, crafting what it is I’m really trying to get across. 

I’m not sure how long my speechlessness will last, but I’m the meantime, I’m forced to listen and think more before I talk. This is pretty draining, and makes me want to zone out or write instead, which is what I guess I’ll do until I can be soothed by the sound of my own babble again. 

Here’s how I eat cereal: I pour a serving size of cereal into a small bowl and barely submerge it in milk. With the cereal eaten and a little milk leftover, I pour a little more cereal. When I get down to the last two spoonfuls, I notice I don’t have enough milk. I pour more milk. I repeat the last three steps two more times. Then I wait ten minutes, grab the box and stick my hand in.

My intentions always start off good. Sometimes I even use a wee little teaspoon. But the end result is the always same. 

Eating an entire box of cereal (ahem, 11 servings) in two sittings would be fine if the guilt didn’t nag at me afterward; I overindulged, and like a hangover, I should be punished. But unlike a hangover, the results of a cereal binge aren’t immediate (unless the type in question contains a lot of bran), and my self judgement for my lack of self control and the potential to gain an extra three pounds lingers throughout the day, and honestly, I just don’t need another neurosis to add to my ever-growing pile.

So now I buy prepackaged servings of oatmeal (microwaving a second bowl of mush has less appeal than the immediate satisfaction in a handful of crunch) and look forward to the mornings when I wake up in someone else’s house and can pillage through their cereal boxes. Otherwise, I will not be enabled. 

Case in point: When I moved in with a former boyfriend a few years ago, I told him that he couldn’t bring any cereal into our new apartment. It was like leaving a bottle of Boone’s Farm in the cabinet with an alcoholic in the house—no matter how unappealing the brand, I wouldn’t be able to help myself. In a move to claim some ground in our new mutual living space (i.e. not be told what to do upon immediately moving in together), he bought some anyway. Two boxes in fact. I told him this was not a frivolous matter. He had to hide them or I would eat them all, even if Honey Smacks were a pretty lame choice. Sick of listening to me, he accepted the compromise.

With the boxes out of sight, I actually forgot about them for a day. That is, until I set the oven that evening to cook a frozen Trader Joe’s meal. Within ten minutes, the kitchen was filled with smoke. I opened up the drawer under the oven to find that goofy frog’s face ablaze in a mass of charred cardboard. That showed him.

(Above: Nice try but I can still stick my hand in there.)

Music was the easiest way to categorize people in high school: us (the alternative kids) and them (everyone else who caved to Top 40). In college, “us” would be broken down further: ravers, goths, rockabillies, punks, skankers, swingers, dark wavers, straight edgers, metalheads, skinheads, hardcores, rude boys, b-boys, disco nuts, etc.

By the time I was in my 20s, I’d forgo all the specificity and come to generally define myself as Someone Who Actively Cared About Music as opposed to someone who listened to what they were fed in their given surroundings, like the car, the gym or the bar. I reviewed unheard of bands for free tickets; I had a subscription to Spin; I flipped through the used CD bins at the local record stores; I combed through the alternative weeklies plotting shows I wanted to see months in advance. 

But then a couple of years ago, it became painfully obvious that music was no longer the end all to my being. Since the invention of iTunes and the Web, I stopped frequenting record stores and rarely read music magazines. I moved on to getting paid for my writing and preferred sitting in bars and hearing my friends’ conversations to jumping up and down and screaming over PAs and amplifiers. I began to wonder, browsing my iPage of X and Jesus and Mary Chain, “Is this how people get stuck in a certain era of music?” 

These days, I learn about new bands through mixed CDs made by friends. These also-aging pals who forge on with their insatiable quest for musical knowledge, in spite of the dawn of the Internet, (which actually makes following, researching and discovering music much easier) are the real Someones Who Give A Shit About Music, whereas I have been relegated to Someone Who Appreciates A Good Or An Interesting Sound, and more importantly, them for being in my life.

This past weekend, one such friend introduced me to the band above. Watching them play, I was reminded that mariachi isn’t just the label I attached to the loop of horns I often heard coming from my neighbor’s backyard in LA, but about the type of passion and romance that’s from your gut, that you can see in the singer’s face and hear in the frantic, melodic bowing of the violin. The stuff that makes you close your eyes, sway your hips and want to get laid. A transformative feeling. Simply, the best escape in the world. 

Four years ago I was a celebrity gossip junkie. I had TMZ, Perez Hilton and Go Fug Yourself bookmarked on my dashboard, not The New York Times. It has only been in the last few years that I waste valuable Internet minutes reading the news (i.e. stories with more words than pictures). Odd, yes, considering I’ve been a journalist in some shape or form for the last decade. 

While I can’t recall when I lost interest in knowing the exact whereabouts of LiLo on any given 4 a.m., if I did have to pinpoint when my fascination with the Young Hollywood Elite Crowd waned, I think back to a picture of Britney, circa 2007, pulled over on the side of the road, legitimately confused as to how to get home. It was the Paparazzi who had to show her, literally, lead her, to where she had left her life. 

However, I admit I’m not completely on the celeb-gossip wagon, nor do I plan to be. I ritually pick up an US Weekly and an InTouch before I get on a plane. And I’m not above dissecting outfits with a pal while watching the Oscars, nor am I against having a lengthy conversation about why Lady Gaga is important. As you can tell by half these posts, pop culture is imbedded in my being and so is general nosiness. But you can only watch people disgrace themselves so many times before it becomes not only predictable but simply sad.  

(Afterword: Writing this post made me curious to find out if Paris Hilton still makes the news. Apparently LiLo does. I saw the above photo on the cover of the New York Post the other day. Yes, that’s a cloud of cocaine flying off her feet. Cocaine flying off her feet. Maybe they can keep coming up with new tricks after all.)