01 april 2009: miss sarah brown

there are certain moments when you are struck by love. especially when you are just falling into said deep feeling, these moments are poignant realizations of admiration. usually they stem from small gestures that signify something greater, something important to you. maybe it's something you've knowingly searched for. maybe it's something you never knew you wanted until that moment. whatever the trigger, for me, these moments slow the pace of the world and heighten all senses.

behold, a moment at freddy's back room, roughly two years ago. this place no longer exists, having been demolished to make way for luxury condos or shopping centers or some such nonsense that none of us really have the funds to support.

sarah brown used to host a reading series there, monthly. it was possibly the best activity in all of new york (this statement biased by my own interests of course). rather than read from well written books or highly praised poetry, the readers would read from the ratty pages of their own teenage diaries. requirement: what you read must be so horrifyingly embarrassing as to make you physically cringe. hence, the title of the event. CRINGE. i cannot express in words what hilarious fun this was to watch. The comedy came from empathy, from having been there. and oh, was i there. i have 4 boxes full of faux paint-splattered, hello kitty, puffy rainbows, rhinestone-studded, behind lock-(albeit pickable by bobby pin) and-tiny-keyed tomes of cringe-worthy words to attest to this. and finally, i had something to do with them.

over the course of roughly a year, i laughed so hard i found it necessary to smack my fist on the table. on a few occasions i downed a pint of grapefruit vodka and soda to fuel the courage to stand behind the mic and cringe myself, reading ridiculous histrionics over ex-gay boyfriends and jaw-droppingly heinous 'poetry' about affairs with chefs. really bad bad stuff. but getting behind that mic and hearing others slapping the table and roaring with laughter easily constituted a year's worth of therapy. we've all been there, and we can all laugh about it together.

when sarah compiled entries from readers from freddy's into a book (Cringe: Teenage Diaries, Journals and Abandoned Rock Operas) she included a few of my 'gems' in the body of the book and a whole lot of anonymous excerpts and miscellaneous scrawlings and samples collaged into the interim pages. dreams about george michael written on garfield stationary. reports of rick springfield on hello kitty red and white. hearing that these entries had been selected for publication was at once exciting and horrifying, but having experienced the joy of laughing at myself in public (really cathartic!), i decided not to fret.

there was, unfortunately, a wet towel dampening the experience of cringe in my life, and it came in the form of a boyfriend who shall remain nameless, who was less than thrilled with my 'exhibitionist' activities. sharing these entries in public advertised the fact that in my 30+ years, i had actually shared love and lust with someone prior to him. the horror. he refused my invitations to join me even on nights i wasn't reading to see how fun and harmless it all was. he picked huge fights with me upon my return from cringe nights and gave me the silent treatment for days. he refused to accompany me to the publication party of the book and not surprisingly, awaited my return from said really fun and awesome event where i met so many great people and felt so proud to be a part of, with a fight. cringe became a bittersweet night, and so, i started to go in secret, just to avoid the fights, ridiculously sneaking around as though i was having an illicit affair or sleeping with prostitutes.

clearly this was not the man for me.

so let's return from my bitter rant (sorry!), to the moment you see pictured above. i've just fallen head over heels in love with jade townsend. freddy's backroom is so packed for cringe that we sit on the floor behind the readers, holding hands. as sarah introduces the next reader, i look at jade. he is laughing. he is there with me. and i'm so much in love.

i finally made it to nyu.

i go to the new school. it used to be called 'new school university' but a year or so ago, the powers that be met with a pr agency and decided that in addition to 'jazzing up' their logo, they also need to completely change the name of the whole place so as to encompass the many disparate parts under its orange umbrella.

see, the new school isn't really new, as the name would imply. it was founded in the 1920's by two renegade professors at columbia university who wanted to actually teach the material they were researching in their fields. columbia rejected them, insisting they stick to the usual, so they moved downtown where it's hipper (hipper? did i really say that?) and birthed the new school for social research.

and it grew.

after world war 2, the new school once again trail blazed, being the first university to offer continuing education courses for newly minted adults returning from war with a world of experience--so they didn't have to take classes with the pipsqueaks straight out of high school. now there's euguene lang--the undergraduate division, mannes school of music, and the oh-so prestigious parsons school of design.

a pretty cool place, it turns out.

yet still. still. when people ask me, where do you go to school? they reply, "oh, you mean nyu?" no, not nyu. nyu is our neighbor. nyu is the second largest landowner in new york city (after the catholic church). nyu is where the well to do kids supported by their parents go to school. i do not go to nyu. and i do not feel inferior. i go to the new school. or the new school university.

but things are changing around here (you're lucky i didn't have a blog three years ago--you would have heard some ranting...) and apparently the new school wants to be more like nyu. hence, the rainforest-scale slashing of the art department to accomodate more liberal arts curriculum. hence the re-design of the logo. but a logo wasn't enough--so ultra hip and urban that it is (um)--the powers that be didn't stop there. now, as i may or may not have conceded, i understand the need to update the name, i guess. it's not like i'm conducting social research. but really? this is the best they could do? a university? A UNIVERSITY?! they probably paid the million dollars i've given them toward my degree to come up with this doozy.

nyu, be very afraid. A UNIVERSITY is knocking on your door. i won't say which one. it should just be enough to say A UNIVERSITY. if we had a mascot, it's tail would be between its legs.

okay, but it turns out i had absolutely no intention of reading my school for filth. just got a little sidetracked. what i was going to say was, i finally made it to nyu. (their local, online newspaper, that is).

primping, brooklyn style

ever had somewhere you really cared about going—like, say—a book launch where you’d first see your name published? say that you’ve even chosen just the right dress to wear--and not merely because it’s the only clean thing in your closet. okay, so maybe it is, but nevertheless, can we just drop the laundry issue already?
and then a few days prior to said exciting event, the landlord leaves this note taped to every surface in the building resembling a wall.

you recognize the date as an important one, a day you could probably benefit from the use of some hot water, but shrug. so what. you’ve been taking cold showers all summer anyway.
and then the day comes and you're all discombobulated anyway. instead of being pedicures and peace you're all hot, schleppy, sweaty and running late. that cold shower starts sounding pretty good.
except when you turn on the tub to full blast cold, this is the amount of water coming out.

again, don't hassle me about my dirty tub.

you wait for the pipe to bring forth your fountain of youth but the only thing coming is a hollow gurgling sound, kind of like a hoarse donkey (not like a horse-donkey, which, i guess, would be a mule...)

so you wash your hair under this trickle because you still smell like woodsmoke and marshmallows from the weekend camping trip. as you employ your yoga practice to maneuver yourself under the spitting faucet, all the while adding interesting bruises to your collection, your frazzled mind busies itself crossing errands off your list to compensate for the time-sucking shower olympics.

but you may as well have left the hair dirty because once you're done haphazardly loading it up with bizarre products you don't really know how to use in an attempt to 'style' your newly cropped red mane you just come out looking like sharon osbourne. more shrugs. what are you gonna do?

as you initially expected, none of it matters anyway, because at above mentioned party, you're far too busy meeting nice people and laughing at the awesome and beautifully put together book you're so proud to be a part of.
the end.

come clean, come clean, i know that you dream...

the above title, appropriately, refers to a culture club lyric. we're talking after the fall from grace, post heroin boy george. but boy did i love that song--blasted it in the car till the cows in the pastures paused mid fly-swat to glare as i drove by. oh, but wait. it was 1987 (?) so it was my mom doing the driving. and the blasting of boy george.

but nevertheless, there's something i've been hiding from you. something that is so simultaneously jump up and down exciting but then bury your head under a pillow humiliating that i've totally clammed up. see i grew up 100% positive that every single member of my family was reading my journal--my diary, if you will.

certain events tipped me off to this fact, like its constant movement from the place i would meticulously hide it. but of course then paranoia spun out of control and who knows anymore. i am completely open to the suggestion that no one actually ever tampered with my secret tomes, covered as they were in pathetic locks you could pick with a bobby pin (i know, because i could never keep track of those keys!) and dried pools of red candle wax, but still this paranoia completely affected me. i mean, the story about the doll that was supposed to urinate but because of some mysterious, ahem, blockage, refused to perform, thus brought me to tears was totally riveting--just what an evil family member would be desperate to come across on the sly. because surely they didn't have to already hear me crying about it all day.

gripped with this fear of exposure (i know, i know, so now i post my journal online. totally makes sense), with no faith in the privacy of my journal, i went to work cataloging the boring details of my days, leaving cryptic hints that only i could pick up on regarding anything that i secretly felt and couldn't share. this is something i still have a hard time with, especially now that my diary of sorts is posted for all to see. that brings its own issues of censorship and family calling you up to say that you got it all wrong. people threatening that i'll never get a job because google will bring up all this stupid drivel. but still i continued writing then, just as i continue now. because i'm compelled to. because it's my therapy. because i have to.

so the ridiculous journals pile up until there's tubs of them. and what is to be done with them? readings over a bowl of cereal? shabby chic end tables? i've employed both of these habits. but mostly they just sit and ferment like old forgotten wine--awash in denial, boredom, excitement, anger, and the occasional true secret.

enter sarah brown. sarah had this genius idea that it could be funny to sit around at a bar (the alchohol helps with the courage!) listening to other people read from their old diaries. but in order not to be super boring, the entries read must induce the reader to cringe. hence the name of the series. it happens in brooklyn on the first wednesday of every month and my god! it's hilarious.

and cathartic.
and addictive.

when sarah decided to publish a book of such embarrassing entries i was all about it, flooding her inbox with scanned submissions. because if there's something i have a lot of, it's embarrassing journal entries. why not put them to work? make people laugh. be able to laugh at myself.

i didn't figure i even had to worry about being selected, considering heather of the 2 million readers a month dooce fame put out a call for submissions. when i heard back from sarah that she wanted to use THREE of my entries, i panicked a little bit, but didn't back out. doubted my sanity, yes. i know, it makes a lot of sense. girl, terrified that people will read her journal, "grows up" (had to put that in quotes because, um...) and publishes them in a book sold in all barnes and nobles across the country. brilliant. so i thought, i just won't tell my blog. then no one will notice. and perhaps they won't. but come on--what is the point of this damn blog if i can't scream at the top of my lungs into it: SOMETHING I WROTE IS PUBLISHED! IN A BOOK. A REAL BOOK! nevermind that it's been selected because it's really, really bad. just nevermind that.

the bottom line is, the only people i don't want reading this book is my parents. and maybe my uncle because he's my dad's twin. i may be making light of this book and all, but it ain't g rated. it took me a long time to really free myself to write with a bit of abandon, and since those are the entries selected, i was a bit older than most of the other folks in the book i think. and that's just too much for me or my parents to handle. nor should they have to. can you guys appreciate that and help me out with this? no mom, no dad, no uncle allan. aunts--don't go out of your way, but not forbidden. rule of thumb--family members, don't talk about this. practice all that denial we're all so good at. cheers.

oh, and additionally, don't bother asking my polite, foreign boyfriend how he feels about this blatant show of exhibitionism--he's far from impressed or amused.

okay, i'm officially extremely uncomfortable. but i totally believe in the pure humor of this book and i'm proud to be a part of it. i'm still waiting impatiently for my copy to arrive in the mail. in the meantime, there's this handy little widget at the top of my blog that looks like the cringe book. if you click on it, it gives a sneak peak into the layout, intro, design of the book. minus the entries. the reason i gave in and posted about this is yesterday (the day the book was released) when i saw a piece of my writing that had been used in the opening pages (page9!), i actually got choked up and held back tears of excitement. thank you, sarah, for including me in this silly bit of fun. and huge congrats.

and for the locals...
next wednesday, yes, a week from this very day, there will be a book release party/reading. friends are welcome. oh, and sarah's blog is here
not only is she a great idea maker. she's a gifted writer too. yay for sarah!
(cringe photos by sarah brown too!)

porn for women

the cringe book is out today. you have no idea what that is because i've been too chicken to share my future humiliation. maybe tomorrow. but for today i leave you with giovanni ironing my priestess dress for mieke's wedding (more on the wedding soon, I PROMISE!). don't they make books of this stuff? never mind that he's gay. i bet all those models were too. and it doesn't detract from the thrill of somebody else ironing my dress.