It came through after a tumultuous week of food poisoining from this Soho Mexican restaurant where Haifa-born waiters serve tacos to pay for their Baruch College undergraduate degrees. I didn't anticipate that upon inhaling my salad, in an aesthetically pleasing dining space, with genuinely divine conversation with Freunde, that my stomach and the ingredients being consumed, would choose to have a nuclear war. Or perhaps the ingredients, like North Korea, began the war. And then me, poor Ellie Mae, entered Methodist Hospital ER, where this unkind doctor said I could only spend a few hours in her hospital hotel. I like hospitals, particularly when I'm not well. They put me on IV, gave me anti-nausea meds, and a few days later, I'm returning to a semi-conscious state. I am sad cause I wanted to dress up as Snooki Levine for Halloween--bought the wig, makeup, nail polish--everything to be this big-breasted Jersey icon. But alas, my canine, Virginia Woolf, did the deed. She looked divine. Many friends think I mistreat the canine by making her wear a Snooki wig, but alas, she is Snooki Levine.
the Jersey bore: a review
it's sad that this big-breasted chick below is the first image you come across when you type "Jersey Shore" on Google Images. "Holy tank top" and "fat ass" and "boobs" and "she's one of the guys" and MTV digressing to a black and white morning shot--blow dryers not working. vulgar clubs and chicks and boys and it's like a popcorn shaker on acid. that's what it is--the nonstop distillation of images all hooked up on acid. the sad result is that when this acid hits the brain, the brain will not terminate. in the morning the brain will take more acid and budweiser and continue to hang out in vulgar land whether it is blow dried shampoo or free drinks or the repetition of cologne or humping. it's like bumble bees speaking grammatically incorrect English while sipping Margaritas. No this was not the New Jersey that I grew up in. Of course, I was busy reading Jane Eyre and eating frozen pizza, but most of the people who I grew with, it seems, were also not imbecilic bumble bees taking exponential hits of acid.
hello again
I am contemplating doing a blog connection to Twitter. Twitter, btw, is great for news happenings. And there are many good bloggers who are also connected to it.
Well, ya'll, I have to admit--I finally succumbed to the iPhone. It's wonderful. It's like having George Orwell's nightmare in your hand 24/7. But the other hand enjoys access to information. I am still reading Joyce Carol Oates in a real book as I glance at the world through a small window.
BTW: Joyce's newest collection of short stories, Sourland, is friggen amazing. Poignant, as they say. And I just received her memoir about her husband Ray Smith dying. In the below photo that I took, she is reading from this book, A Widow's Story:
Of Possums and Philip Roth
I had a dream last night that I worked in a library and that Philip Roth and his girlfriend hung out there with me and took pills and drank wine. I'm sober now for more than 17 years so while I'd like to party with my favorite author, I would not risk this. I also dreamed that while I worked in this weird library, a kid kept insisting on touching a possum. I said, "If you touch that possum, you will be banished." Now while possums might be cute and cuddly, they are apparently, according to my friend Donna, nasty beings. See below blog for my recent experience with possums. Indeed, I didn't want to risk the library insurance with having this possum bite a kid. But I enjoyed seeing Philip and peripherally partying with him and not particularly did I partake of petting the possum. If you look at Philip's below photo, he kinda resembles a possum. Possum, I believe, was T. S. Eliot's nickname. My friend Brandon says that possums are quiet creatures who can make abrasively loud noises when touched. Another friend says that they sneak into his porch and eat his cat's food. Scary fucks if you ask me. See below for Newark breed of Possums.
Have not been here
But last night there was a large rat-animal on my stairs and I had to prevent my dog from eating it because it jumped onto the tree. I think you call it a possum--it was freakin huge and had a Rudolph nose. I prayed that it would survive because if not, it or my dog would be dead today.So what happened, thankfully, this morning, it had left the tree and the stairs and must have wandered into the woods. This possum had fear in its eyes. You could hear trepidation from its bloodstream. I felt the flow of its insufferable imagination in my backyard. This is a significant difference between the rats in my backyard in the Upper East Side in 2005. I did not have feelings for the rats but have emotional connections to the possum, sort of. Not as scared of any way.
Norman Misogynist is Dead
Norman prick brilliant wants to sleep with Marilyn Monroe is dead. Was good to his kids--wrote novels and history brilliantly. Did you ever read Armies of the Night? It's magnificent literary history and gossip. Norm was a good writer of fiction and nonfiction that merged together. He also stabbed one of his wives with a pen knife. He drank a lot with Jimmy Breslin, with whom he ran for Mayor of New York City and lost. He helped found the illustrious and politically asphyxiated Village Voice.
My friend Tim T says that he once peed in a New Jersey bathroom next to Norman. Can you imagine eyeing the penis of a great literary fixation like Norman? Some penises should have been photographed and on world display--Norman's was one of them. Good for Tim--I'm a pee bit jealous. But then Tim slept once with Sharon Stone for a week--she has an iq of 160. Which would you have preferred in life--to spend a week with Sharon or to have peed next to Norman?
Well, truthfully, I drunkenly yelled at Norman once and even published a short story about him being my fictitious father. We've had a great life together, me and Mr. Mailer, and I will miss his irreverence. Au revoir Norm.
