December 29, 2005


Can you teach me how to say, phoenetically, "Thank You" and "Excuse me" in Polish? If you can, holler, because people at my local market think I am rudezilla when i am in there buying up blueberry peirogis and grapefruit tea and enourmous jars of the (vegetable) love of my life PICKLED BEETS. They do not speak anything but hella Polish and the place is so utterly my supermarket fantasy, just like the Screeching Weasel song, except I am not hot for the cashier, I am FASCINATED by the whole dried mackeral in tubs of brine sitting in the middle of the joint.

Fifteenthly, DID I MENTION THAT NEW YEARS EVE I AM DJING AT THE EMPTY BOTTLE? I am. In between and before Juan Mccclean (member that story in Vice about the time he shot crack? Rill naztay junkie biz, ew) and ye olde Spankrock. Come out.

PPS-thousand: Jonathan Goldstein's book Lenny Bruce Is Dead is not so much a story as it is 150+ pages of half paragraphs of cleverness and wit, with a mite of storyline in it. I skipped from page 7 to page 56 and it made nary a lick of difference. It was still jokes about the rabbi and him bored, but still screwing some chick named Mimi in the ass. Is that what transgressive fiction has come to? Injokes about temple culture and anal? I love Goldstein's other work, but this book is not something I am loving. Also, related sidenote: Has anyone else noticed that 80% (informal numbers here, of course) of the fiction in the New Yorker in the last three years, when written by Americans, is about divorcing couples, young women fucking and having affairs with older men, women sexually swindling, older married women as raggish, and men married and single having all manner of sexual daliance or at the least--bent with grave longing-- as the story's denoument? I have no truck with this, it just makes me wonder about the homelife of the fiction editor. (Perhaps it's just a Cheever scrim? Or is marriage so universally understood as a soul wasting function, a killer of spirit, that that's just like... the rule of it? The men get crushed in the permanance and spend years resenting their wives ever-sagging parts and spend years ruing, until their moral center collapses and they find some pert young thing to cut with? Is it that bitter? That bereft? I am someone who beleived in romance, for real, for the first time at 28, and now all the sudden take issue with how joyless a presentation of marriage exists in TNY's fiction section, but whatevs, topic for another time)

Posted by Jessica at December 29, 2005 01:35 AM | TrackBack