"PAINT A VULGAR PICTURE"

It was twelve degrees last night. That is bitch-ass cold. I was standing on a el platform waiting forever for a brown line train huddled into one of those heat stands with a ton of people. My Chicago and Chicago-expat readers know, but for those of you who do not, you go into one of the stands and press a button and overheat heating elements kick on for a few minutes, then they automatically switch off. So, last night, I found myself the closest to the button to restart the heat when it switched off. So, I pressed. Nothing happened. Everyone turned around and looked. Press the button, okay? one man said. JUST PRESS IT a woman said loudly and slowly, as if I don't speak English. I pressed again. Nothing. A woman pushes in front of me, knocks the shit out of the button, causing the heat to resume and says, You can't even press it with your weak little fingers! I laugh and said loudly that my fingers must be frozen, standing out here for so long, but nobody finds this terribly funny. Screw it, the heat was back on. When the train came, I moved back a car to not look at anyone from the heat hub. Eh.

Today, more working. I am so close to being Caught Up. I don't know if I have ever been this behind in my entire life. Like I always say, though, I'd much rather be overwhelmed than bored. Especially in my line of work. But a return to my moderate work schedule would be nice, I have to admit.

Going to go to the store in a bit and pick up stuff for Shabbes dinner. It might be a busy weekend, but tonight I'm going to relax, damnit!

"SISTER YOU'RE A POET"

Hey gang! I have an offering for you. I have been getting a few, okay, many, many requests for a reading guide for my book, Three Fallen Women, for book clubs to use.

Okay, okay, I heard you! So, may I present the latest from the Guth-a-Go-Go masterminds (I hear they are lately demanding to be called "Guth-a-Go-Go Dancers"), a book club resource guide, which can be accessed from my website, or by clicking right here.

Spiffy, eh?

Good Shabbes, if that's your thing. Happy Weekend, to all.

"ASK ME, ASK ME, ASK ME"

How is anyone expected to listen to Balkan Beat Box and not dance? And, while we’re on the subject of Bands I Enjoy, I’ve been rockin’ out to Gogol Bordello a bit lately, too. Now, the super-duper thing that I realized is that Balkan Beat Box links to Gogol Bordello on their website, yes, yes, but also to Big Lazy, a band I first heard at Black Betty in Brooklyn about five years ago when I still lived in New York. I loved them then and I love them now. The nicotine song from the 1999 self-titled album is my favorite.

Pssh, you’d think these dudes are paying me to plug, them, but they are not. I don’t know any of them. Just a fan.

Shabbes could not have been better. I shook things up and did things a little differently this week and enjoyed it immensely. Actually, my birthday was fantastic, too. I think this year of my life is off to an excellent start.

"THE EDGE OF THE DEEP GREEN SEA"

I was given an aliyah on Shabbes, which was a surprise and an honor. I also saw gay, Orthodox Santa, which is always superb.

Earlier this week, I found a well-loved used copy of Erotica Judaica: a sexual history of the Jews by Allen Edwardes and began reading as soon as I could. The problem was that "as soon as I could" was late last night, after an exhausting day, as the rain pounded on my windows. With all due respect to this fine and compelling book, I was out like a fucking light. Details to follow, though, as I know them.

Last night I was a bellydancer, a perky anchorwoman and a gothy contestant in the Miss Persia pageant for a deliciously wrong Purim play. Good, (mostly) clean fun. This afternoon, I'm off on a Hammentaschen score. A little trip to the Jewish 'hood will be very welcome...

This town has been taken over (for the time being) by the drunken Irish. I'm not kidding you. The streets have been jammed all weekend with vomiting, drunken jubilation. I walked past an Irish pub, over-run with fratboys and blonde girls with fake IDs and was whistled at. Barf. On the inside, I said, "I've heard about Irish cocks, you filthy potato sucker, and I'm not interested!" However, what actually came out was, "Pssh. No fucking way." After all, if someone called me a latke-licker or a Manischewitz-swilling Horah dancer, well, first I'd laugh, then I'd probably not appreciate it very much. Nah. On second thought, I'd just laugh. Anyway, I managed to only walk another ten feet before vomit nearly splattered on my shoes. Not my vomit. A woman near me shook her head and said, "What that fuck is wrong with goyim?" and I laughed, thinking it would be a swell t-shirt. Nice, no. Funny, yes.

It is unfortunate that my favorite color is green and that I wear it constantly. I have taken to donning black only this week, lest the Irish-Catholics mistake me for one of their own and spit booze all over me. Not bloody likely, but why take such chances? I'm just saying--- you really don't hear about a lot of drunken-disorderlies being issued on Purim and that's a day we're commanded to guzzle. Commanded! Again, I'm not sayin', I'm just sayin'.

Then, just as I was nearly home-Shalom Bayit-home, I stopped off for Thai take-out. I sat at an empty table waiting for my order and overheard the most inane chatter coming from a date table. You know, I am all for passionate discussion and playing devil's advocate and all that shit, but these two were so committed to buzzwords and soundbites that I wanted to yak. This is the kind of I-only-read-the-headlines intellectualism that makes me nuts. Read, really read. Try, really try. I'm plenty Left (obviously), but I hate seeing people being swept into a movement just for the sake of being part of a moment. I wish people took issues individually. I wish people took the time to read different opinions. I wish people took the time to sit and consider.

I listened to her speaking, and her Republican-in-hippie's-clothing boyfriend, while facing the windows, watching the rain. I thought about how annoying it is when men and women are discussing something interesting and men raise their voices slightly, probably subconsciously, to be intimidating. Sure as blood, she softened her voice. I stared and listened to cliche after cliche until I heard her fling "Zionist" across the table with venom and contempt as she labeled a coworker. I faced them, but stared plainly. On the inside I said, "You seem like nice enough people. Try to think of more needs than just your own. Try to understand an issue before you dismiss it." However, what actually came was a look of sadness and pity and worry.

The sad part is that she was talking Zionism, and didn't realize it. Had she bothered to ever read up on the subject, she would know.

Potato sucker.

"PAINT A VULGAR PICTURE"

I felt like shit for Shabbes, so I stayed in and did nothing.

I went to Der Rosenkavalier last night at the opera, though, as I had gotten the tickets as a Chanukah gift. It was lovely in every sense of the word. My only real complaint, though, was that Der Rosenkavalier is looooooooong. If a person, such as myself, who really likes going to operas complains that an opera is too long, it's fucking long. Maybe it just felt long. Maybe I wore uncomfortable shoes. Whatever. I saw a beautiful woman in the restroom-- maybe she was polynesian?-- with caramel stripes in her hair, two bras-- a white one and a black and red one, a sleeveless sheer black shirt, knee-boots over fishnets and a freaky orange geometric miniskirt. I stood in line to pee and watched her put on chapstick and readjust her wrist cuffs. In the sea of sensible, understated evening wear, I felt like we should have joined forces.

Beforehand, I made a stop for a glass of pinot grigio and vegetarian tapas, which is good living, if you ask me. At the restaurant, I fell in love with this painting, which hung over my table. What do I have to do to have it? It was a melancholy child with wild black hair, standing inside of an old gothic iron fence with freaky greenish-blueish fog all around. In the background, there was a tree with a pink dress and a yellow dress hanging off of coat hangers hung on brances. It reminded me of the Penny Dreadful drawings a bit and I can't stop thinking about it.

Walking home after my lovely evening, I saw head-in-progress in a parked car. Oh little blonde head, bob like the wind! Stay gold pony girl, you'll get your meaningless diamond ring from your unappreciative fratboy! (splat.)

Am I the only one, right now, that could give a rat's ass about the upcoming David Mamet Festival? Everyone I know, more or less, is weak in the knees and making arrangements and blah, blah, blah. "Didja get the fuckin' thing? What thing? You know, the fucking thing, I-- C'mon, this thing's important." Bluh. Don't care. David Mamet is one of those people who isn't to blame for having the fans that he does. He's simply just famous enough that annoying faux-intelligent people attach themselves to his work like leeches and think they are underground, indie sub-genre slickdicks for knowing who he is. Some people do it with Mamet, some people own one Bach CD and call themselves classical music fans. Whatever. There's nothing wrong or unintelligent about enjoying Mamet, or Bach or any of the others, but just keep digging in the genre. Or other genres. It's the resting on false laurels that bugs me.

Today, I'm feeling a cleaning spree. I'm still in the weird nesting mode. I can't shake the feeling that I need to mix everything up, clean every object, reexamine very thought, every idea and reorganize everything, tossing out the mental/spiritual/physical clutter that I don't feel connected to anymore. But first, breakfast. A woman cannot conquer anything on an empty stomach.

Before I dash away, here's a fun little activity that I can't seem to stop doing. Recite Smith's lyrics while doing the voice of George W. Bush. This is especially hilarious if talking through the lyrics to Shoplifters...