Le maudit Mo D.

rick steves reconsidered

Many years ago, I came across an article in a magazine poo-pooing trendy baby names. It had a list of similar alternatives to overused favorites, like this:

If you like the name:

ASHLEY

Consider:

AINSLEY; AUBREY

If you like the name:

JASON

Consider:

JUDSON, JACKSON

Today, as I was picking up a copy of Rick Steves' Spain 2008 in anticipation of my upcoming trip to Espana, this crossed my mind:

If you have a smart-girl boner for:

IRA GLASS

Consider:

RICK STEVES

He's got his own show on PBS, he travels to Europe nine months out of the year, and is way better looking than Garrison Keillor. Plus, he's responsible for bon mots such as these:

"Like a grandpa bouncing a baby on his knee, Spain is a mix of old and new, modern and traditional."

"Rick Steves' Spain is a tour guide in your pocket, with a balanced, comfortable mix of exciting cities and cozy towns, topped off with an exotic dollop of Morocco!"

Any man who pairs "exotic" with "dollop" is a man after my heart. Can't you just see Rick cavorting around his room in a pension with nothing but a tan money belt resting comfortably on his middle-aged pudge? I own a R.S.-brand tan money belt, so I know what I'm talking about.

And what's up with his name? Two masculine nicknames common to football coaches. Richard Stevens, qu'est-ce que c'est? So soft, so smart, so goofy, a little bit naughty with all this "through the back door" trademarked business. Give Ira a run for his money, please!

victory

Check out my calendar on the right side of the screen! Thirty seamless days of posting. Some valuable, some interesting, some total cop-outs. Just like life! NaBloPoMo vanquished!

That said, I think I'm getting sick. Laying low today so I am able to participate in ass-xeroxing tomorrow night.

maudit artist #14: (by popular demand) miranda july

"Popular demand" meaning Shando. Okay, here goes:

For years, something has nibbled at my ass. It has nibbled with such sharp, deliberate teeth that I often blame it for things as minor as me being irritated by something or someone, all the way up to copping the fuck out at age 24 and getting a masters degree in something that was completely wrong for me. Like many artists, I often spend a lot of time questioning my talent and my abilities. In fact, I spend so much time questioning that I lose a lot of time DOING. And therein my conundrum lies. I know I can write, but how much time to I spend thinking about writing, or rereading stuff I already wrote. I can probably recite the first fifty pages of my novel by rote, just because I've read and rewritten them so many damn times. I have trouble moving forward. I am not a leader. I am a loner, a nitpicker, someone who was all poised to be something when she was a child and has shit to show for it. A perfectionist for perfection's sake. I've been told I have talent, and that's where it ends for me.

I chose Miranda July not because I admire her as an artist. In fact, I don't. I roundly rejected her in my mind and heart eleven years ago, when she was on tour with Calvin J., landed in the middle of my college radio station fiefdom, and spent half an hour annoying the shit out of me with her performance art. She was wearing hotpants and a wig and had the sound system rigged to play guitar distortion on a loop. She then walked through the audience reciting a monologue that I didn't get, or at least didn't want to get. I just wanted to bop around to "Shake a Puddin''" and this bitch was delaying my puddin'-shakes. I had never heard of her before. At the time she had no name cred. So when I happened to say in the car ride back to the Ladycollege that night, "who was that performance artist, omg did she suck or what?" a carload of hipsters turned on me. HOW DARE MO speak ill of this woman was countered by me with HOW DARE YOU QUESTION MY RIGHT to critique her? Blah blah fight fight. I think I was deliberately not invited to a few parties after that.

For years, my Miranda July story was used to demonstrate how indie kids are, for the most part, a pack of sheep. Whenever some band I didn't like appeared on the scene, I would use my Miranda Rights: Sheep, I tell you! She sucked! I speak for myself, bitches! and feel vindicated that indie rock fan girldom was something I was just aging out of. I didn't expect to maintain the identity I'd crafted for myself at age 18 into adulthood, and so I sat back and amused myself watching the kiddies dress and behave exactly the same as we did back in the '90s, loving the same bands and never speaking a critical word, lest they be shunned by the pack.

But in the last few years, I have had to admit to myself that something else was at work here. Something that I had to recognize in myself to grow and change, to realize that what I had learned about myself as a kid didn't apply anymore, that if I am to be the published w-r-i-t-e-r that I've been putting off becoming for years then I need to make some friends. Maybe I should have kept my opinionated trap shut eleven years ago. Maybe I should have joined the "wow, she's awesome just because she came in on Calvin's arm, and everything K Recs promotes is damn brilliant! Everything!" bandwagon. But I was a different person then, and that is probably what I would do today. Grit my teeth and join the club.

So, it's only been recently that I have learned that selling yourself and connecting yourself to others is even more important than whatever inbred talent you may have been born with. Miranda didn't get to where she is without some famous hands helping along the way and a bunch of indie rock fans in small college towns coming out and supporting her. And let me just say right now, I do think Miranda is talented, does good work, rocks it, sells it, and has figured out the mathematical equation to making the whole art thing move for her. But every girl, whether she likes it or not, has other girls she compares herself to. I find myself terribly confounded and envious of those with the gift of making connections and making people like them. I have endured a life of so many people reacting badly to me, because of my appearance or my intelligence, that I can barely fathom a life where people think I'm adorable and would be interested in the contents of my brain. It's always seemed to me that the adorable girls win the fucking prize, and I'm not even in the running.

So that's my shit.

I humbly admit that I have a lot to learn from Miranda, and hope that if she or her peeps stumble upon this essay I have written here, that she will forgive me or at least understand where I'm coming from.

So, in sum:
1) I really don't hate Miranda. She's cupcakes in my book and I really do wish her the best.
2) I resent the fact that cuteness and popularity still matter well past high school.
3) You gotta have friends.
4) You gotta just do your shit and not care about cranky, high-IQ-ed, tall, large-nosed bitches and their overblogging during the month of November.
5) Art is awesome, even when you perceive it to be sucky.
6) If you don't have anything nice to say, say it in your blog.

confession

I am too bored/lazy/uninspired by my remaining Maudit Artists. So in the interest of honoring them, here they are in a jumbled heap:

1) Rachel Griffiths, for her gripping portrayal of my all-time favorite tv series character, Brenda on Six Feet Under.
2) My spiritual guide, author, artist, and futurist Douglas Coupland.
3) Frank Warren, the PostSecret guy.
4) Anne Sexton, and how if you loved Sylvia Plath as a teenager and find her kind of so-so as an adult, her pal Anne carries her poetic themes into adulthood for ya.
5) Katha Pollitt
6) Miranda July, but only as a starting point for a discussion on how artists don't become successful on talent alone.
7) John Lennon
8) Wm. Steven Humphrey of The Stranger and the Portland Mercury fame.

Congratulations, all. Fake plastic plaques will be mailed sometime in the distant future.

ass-xeroxing time

This Saturday night, I will be guesting with my beloved husband's beloved improv troupe Improv For Evil in an improvised office party. I will be playing Charlene, the beleaguered, embittered, recently divorced Vice President of Operations. I will be busting out my Ann Taylor suit for the first time since 2003 and pantyhose will be involved. It may come off, who knows? At any rate, if you're in Austin, you should come watch.

more crap from Behemoth

I don't know what I'm allowed to say about what I saw in Behemoth's papers. I mean, they're open to the public, he and his personal archivist didn't vet the naughty bits, so what the hell?

To add my expertise to the discussion, I happened to come across Norm's coprophagia research notes, which include an interview with an avowed shit-eater and print-outs from poop fetish chat rooms. Everything you've always wanted to know about eating poo during sex can be read in the sobering environs of Harry's reading room, bathed in fluorescent lighting, among all those grunting scholars.

the last epistolary youth

As luck would have it, I entered college in 1994, just as the whole e-mail/Internet revolution was in its infancy. As such, my earliest emissions between me and my friends were sent through the post! I just found a small cache of old first-year-of-college letters from my friends, so if you were wondering what the geist was about back in the days of Clinton, OJ Simpson, and Ace of Bace, here you go:

This first selection comes from my ex-childhood bff Valerie. Val and I broke up about seven years ago due to the fact that she never returned my calls and developed an attitude towards me. She ultimately married a Turk and moved to Turkey. Wouldn't the Turkish government love to know that one of their naturalized citizens used to speak janky Fresno-Armo with the likes of moi?

Parev my fellow mourner,
Sep 2, 1994

Prayerfully,
Valerie "Yeretzgin" Kupelian

This one comes from the mechanical pencil of Big Ray of the Guadalajaran Enema:

Dear Mo,
Sept 23, 1994

GOD BLESS AMERICA,
Ray

I guess in a way, blogging has replaced these types of funny, warm, personal letters. What I once wrote specifically for a friend is now written for everyone and no one on my blog here, mostly for myself.

Is mine really the last-ever generation to exchange thoughts and ideas on paper, with stamps? Who wants to start a letter writing club? I mean, what are we going to have to put in archives someday? Electronic records suck balls for that kind of stuff, I don't care what the PhDon'ts at Libskool say. PAPER LETTERS RULE. And so do my friends.

i hate the smell of eucalyptus

I call it "pukealyptus" sometimes. Clever, eh?

beach hair

Low tide on Solana Beach.
Beach hair.
Coarse strands of green and white
Kelpish, perhaps?
Ocean floor bikini line.
Disenfranchised bivalves
In funereal clusters
Suffering pokes from children and dog noses.
At dusk
it was very beautiful.

happy birthday mom!

Sixty years ago today, a baby girl was born to a woman who would perish of septicemia ten days later and a man who would someday make millions in commercial real estate. This little girl would grow up to marry her boss, have a profoundly gifted child, works some odd jobs, marry the human equivalent of an old rag, have another baby at age 43, pursue shamanic training, dump the rag, buy a gorgeous house near the beach, and turn sixty with her two kids and one son-in-law home to celebrate. She will be fed pasta and marched around the beach and is getting an organic cake later today. Happy 60th b-day mommy!

the family jewel

I had this revelation yesterday as we were about to meet Ex-Stepdad and his sister Toxic Waste Dump at the chain restaurant who had taken on the lucrative burden of serving thousands of T-giving dinners to encumbered and/or elderly San Diegans. Throughout my childhood (wherein I was a member of the Black Sheepy branch of the family tree) there has always been someone at a family holiday dinner who we did not like. And behind their backs, we discussed how we did not like them. I have a feeling that yesterday, the two factions (us vs. ex-step and twd) were doing double time on a family tradition. Toxic Waste Dump (so called due to the fact that being a chain smoker for 50 years has turned her gray and ravaged, but she, for some reason, isn't dead yet) has never been a fan of my mother, but now that they are separated, she couldn't wait to tell my mother how terrible she felt about that. I'm sure in their car home (filled with the scent of Virginia Slims) TWD had a field day telling Ex-Step what an unworthy piece of crap my mom was, while earlier in the day, I had issued a challenge to Bob and Little Bro over who could come up with the cleverest, meanest, but most apt moniker for TWD. Bob won with "a dented can of roofing tar."

I realized that I was raised to be a shit-talker by my mother. I guess it was a defense. If an entire table of well-heeled Armos is handed permission from The Subcunt to look their nose down at you, then the only power you have is in the car home, mixing metaphors, reminding yourself that things ain't so bad on the other side of the Gucci purse.

At any rate, I am still trying to unlearn these habits. I don't want to be that person, negative nelly the shit talker. Though at times I feel justified, in my hurt and anger, to take up the family defense mechanism. In case you hear me saying nasty things, that's why.

thanks

I am thankful for many things, but right now, I am thankful that Bob is cheerful enough at 6am to sing loudly in the shower.

I am thankful for Bob.

the 'mar

We are going to be in The 'Mar tomorrow for the T-givs, so brief, incoherent posts until we get back.

thank my fucking givin!

Hey hey hey hey
ho ho ho ho
turkey turkey turkey turkey
leg leg leg leg
FEED YO FACE, HO!
FEED YO FACE!
Stuffing stuffing stuffing stuffing
REPEAT
REPEAT
Oily napkin!
I got an OILY NAPKIN!
Be thankful motherfucker
'Cause you got an oily napkin!
Pumpkin pie!
Let me hear you say
Pumpkin pie!
Did you mama whip that cream, bitch?
SERVING SPOON!

YEAH!

Tongs tongs tongs tongs
Tongs in all the food
Don't be rude
Use the tongs
Use the motherfuckin' TONGS.

Gravy!
Gravy!
Gravy gravy gravy gravy
Made of fucking meat!

Turkey leg!
Turkey leg!
Turkey ass and
Turkey leg!
Put it in yo mouth
It'll come out from down south!

Constipation
round the nation
Cause you ate too damn much meat,
BITCH
Dulcolax
In yo cracks
Better do right by your seat

Bootylicious
Do the dishes
Green beans gotta be nutritious
Fall asleep
On the couch
Looking like a fucking slouch

TURKEY LEG!
TURKEY LEG!
Let me sit up on your lap
Gonna have a heart attack
Pumpkin Pie
Pumpkin Pie
What a fucked-up way to die!
TURKEY PIE
PUMPKIN LEG
SHIT IS MIXED UP.

REPEAT

Microwave
Misbehave
Let me crawl up in your cave
Sure beats trying to relax
Which you can't, thanks, Dulcolax!

Smooth move
Mood improve
Check out all the shit I chewed
Turkey leg
Wrap it up
I'm a real thanksgiving slut

I give thanks
Yes I do
Fucking Pilgrims don't like you
I'm your boy
Iroquois
Small-pox blankets ain't a toy

Genocide
Pimp my ride
All the Indians who died
Don't get to eat a turkey leg
From the white man they did beg

PLASTIC TUB OF MASHED POTATOES
FUCK YOU TO ALL THE HATERS!
I am gonna eat some food
Then I'll give thanks to the dudes
and the ladies
and the ladies
and the ladies

REPEAT!

oscar fucked me up

Oh, man...what a sad, sorry state of the world when Children's Television Workshop puts a WARNING on the DVDs of "Old School Sesame Street" (the original episodes from the '70s) stating “These early ‘Sesame Street’ episodes are intended for grown-ups, and may not suit the needs of today’s preschool child.” WHAT? So it was good enough for us, but somehow, the children of today would be damaged by a show that takes place on a gritty urban street where children of every race play with colorful monsters? The CTW rep in the article in the Times states that a character like Oscar "probably wouldn't be created today."

Yes. Isn't it terrible for a child to learn that not everyone in the world is going to think you're sunshine and lollipops 24-7? That you are going to run into plenty of rude, grouchy people whom you are going to have to deal with? I don't remember thinking that Oscar's behavior was to be modeled. He was just a character! I swear, kids of today are privy to the cheapest, most watered down entertainment and have to live in a padded, sanitized world. This just makes me sad. I never tore my Toughskins or got dirty much, but I did watch Sesame Street! And I never turned to gun violence of pipe-eating or om nom noming my cookies. Although I did live in a basement room with some lesbians once, but that was something else.

I'm sure plenty of parents are saying fuck you to CTW and showing these to their kids anyway. That's what I would do, at least. I find it odd that they would make a conscientious marketing decision to sell these DVDs to adults who loved these episodes and yet would be complicit in their advice to not show them to their children.

on the bus

I usually enjoy taking the bus to and from work everyday. For one, I get to sit and just chill and let a city employee do the driving for me. I read, listen to the fine musics of fine artistes on my iPod, But today was one of those days when all that is unfortunate about public transpo reared its nasty head.

#5 BUS, APPROX 8:40AM: Every morning on my way to work there is this guy who is always sitting in the same seat. Although he is seated, he clings to the metal rails with both hands. He must be homeless or have a mental illness that results in not bathing, because he always has that rank urine-and-BO smell about him. It burns the eyes first thing in the morning. He has a beard and a distended belly and tends to cough a lot.

Mostly, this dude is harmless, other than the stank, because he doesn't talk to himself or others. But today, he violated the public trust. He was let off at the corner of Speedway and 35th St, where a lot of students get on the bus. As the bus was parked loading up with fresh-faced Longhorns making their way to school, this gentleman wandered around for a few seconds looking confused, and then released his weasel and pissed all over a car parked in an apartment building lot! I mean, come on dude, wait until the bus pulls away!

I imagine he does this several times a day, takes a public wiz and then uses both hands to cling to the railing on the bus, so remember to WASH HANDS THOROUGHLY, WITH SOAP after riding CapMetro.

Indeed, I noticed a lot of indigent folks who use the bus as a means to look busy and occupy their time. They get on, they get off, wander around a bit, and the get back on to wander around the next neighborhood. I got sent home from work early (not enough to do now that the Behemoth is dead, I guess) so I saw some of the same morning characters getting on and off the bus in different spots around 2pm today.

Some poor girl got on the #5 thinking it was the Airport Flyer and boy did she feel silly when she figured out she was headed the wrong way with a big suitcase in tow!

On the bus home, it was pretty much a partay-bus in the back, with crudely dressed Soldiers of the Street stinking up the bus with a decidedly different odor, more the smell of a rock-solid turd forced from the bowels after days of not going. They were laughing and screaming and taking secret sips of canned drinks cloaked in worn paper bags. Oh, what fun it is not to work! I manage to do it without tweaking in the park and begging for food "for my dog." The poor, beleaguered driver (I salute drivers, by the way) overshot these dude's stop and one of the most scruffy Soldiers of the Street raised his voice at him in an uncool fashion, but it fell short of a threat.

Did you know that assaulting a bus driver is a federal offense? Probably hugging one while the bus is moving is a federal offense too, so show your love in a non-touchy way.

maudit related art issue #13: criticism

Today I am thinking of criticism. About my work and about the work of others. Criticism makes me uncomfortable. I think art should be for everyone and that everyone deserves a chance to try, to fail, and to suck. I have done all of those things. The first draft of my second novel is an exercise in sucking. It is very much a first draft, mostly dialogue, with a lot of loose ends hanging. I've been writing the first scene in which we learn that Philip not the most popular guy in town for what seems like weeks and I am so tired of it and I know it is kind of crappy at this stage, but I must keep going.

People often ask me what I think of their improv shows and their writing and answering truthfully is always hard for me. I am just one person with pretty narrow tastes, so how the hell do I know? I like what I like, but what I don't like isn't necessarily bad.

There's a lot of worthless criticism out there, too. Criticism is an art itself. Who the hell are these effete New York people who get to say what books, films, and works of art are deserving of the world's praise?

The worst, though, is when someone is patently untalented and you are compelled to lie about their skill level so as to not hurt their feelings. I would make a lousy hockey player, so I know not to insist on joining anyone's hockey team, but what if I was that kind of person? How do you deal with a hockey player who can't skate? I don't know. Female children are raised to believe that hurting another person's feelings is so wrong, but I want to have a thick, tough skin. It's the only way I'll ever get my novels published. And it's the only way to be a successful, constantly-learning artist, really.

surly

Shando took this photo yesterday:

1) HELLO GRANDPA JOHN'S GENETIC MATERIAL! I am getting the Old Boy's fat Armo head. Maybe I will get that nose job to offset ARMENIAN FAT-HEADEDNESS, because after the head comes the gut.
2) I don't remember this photo being taken at all! I was not drunk.
3) Joolz, maybe you and I need to start being a little less like Parker and Benchley and more like, I don't know, Samantha and Charlotte at AIC functions.
3a) I guess I'm Charlotte.

also...

I get so flustered by the whole "Love Envelope" thing. I didn't sign any of mine and most were in crap handwriting and badly written with poor grammar. I also just went up to a few people and told them nice things because writing it down was getting in the way of the process for me. I skipped over all the GGGirls because they can read about how much I adore them on this here website and couldn't think of much else than "you're awesome! you good improv love you! Smart that scene great!"

I know I skipped a few people and will e-mail them this week. ARGH!

But thank you to the nice people who wrote nice things to me.

the social world

So yesterday, as I was purchasing the ingredients of today's green bean casserole (thanks to the two people who noticed that I used fresh ground pepper instead of commercially-sold ground pepper--that was a real boon to my food esteem) I was chatting up my friendly HEB cashier. She noted that I had brought a canvas bag. I left my previous reusable grocery bag at the Moonbase (R & K, I hope you are using it!) so I bought the HEB canvas one with Texas and a leaf printed on it. Apparently HEB recently gave away 500 reusable bags in the great spirit of environmentalism.

"You're the first person I've seen who actually uses a canvas bag," Cashier remarked. She then told me of the out-and-out RIOT that ensued on Free Bag Day. If a shopper brought in five plastic bags for recycling, they received a reusable bag. News of this got around to area retirement homes and busloads of elderly appeared with bundles of plastic bags. Some old people were seen helping themselves to two or three bags. Soon, supplies ran out and then the seriously bad behavior started up. Customers denied bags screamed, kicked, used rude and/or inappropriate language, and one reportedly kicked over a display of plastic juice bottles. All of this because they were denied a free bag!

"And after all that, I've only seen one person come in with one of those bags," the Cashier said as she issued my receipt.

I happen to know that most HEB cashiers make around $9/hr, which is not enough money to take that level of customer abuse, especially over PROMOTIONAL FREE BAGS. These folks sure take the "friendly" out of "environmentally-friendly!"

I hope everyone had fun at the AIC food folks and fun fest. I lerv me some Austin improv folks. I especially loved Ceejay Allen's Sacheen Littlefeather moment, and Joolz's 4-year-old son going up to him afterwards saying, "I learned about you in school!" Best of the night, I say. There are several people in our community that I just adore and get so excited to see them. Maybe you are one of them?

sometimes I suck

Today I am completely uninspired by my remaining list of preselected artists. Not that they don't inspire me. I just want Bob to come home. He's been out of town for a week and I'm itchin' for some hugs and smooches from my cuddly meat man. Argh.

age post

I found out that one of our improv number thought that I was 24! TWENTY-FOUR?!?! I must scan my 24th birthday photo. I am standing on the Brooklyn Bridge. The Twin Towers are in the background. It's a great picture.

If I weren't so attached to "coming of age in the '90s, the best time to come of age, Kurt Cobain bla bla bla," I'd have kept my yap shut and enjoyed being twenty-four again.

C'est la vie.

obligapost

Not much to say, not much I feel like writing. Spent the afternoon with Flopping Flaggerty, who is (ssshhhh) in town from Nueva York for a brief, furtive vay-cay. She may ooze onto the scene later tonight; she wasn't sure.

Anyway, I am yogafied, with neck hurt. Onward to the waffles...

maudit artist #12: elinor lipman

Timing is on my side! My report on the Tourco Thread Fracas has earned me rave reviews from my friends/readership, which leads straight into today's Maudit Artist and the overarching theme of The Importance of Having Someone Believe in You.

First, if you haven't picked up one of Elinor's novels, you really should. Her appeal is broad. She is smart, witty, cross-generational, and probably the finest character-driven fiction writer I can think of. If you want intelligent, quirky, multi-layered female protagonists forced to change their line of thinking when a new (or old) person appears to shake things up, she's your gal. And if reading ain't your thing, her first novel, Then She Found Me, has been made into a movie starring Helen Hunt and Bette Midler and will be premiering in the spring!

Elinor taught the class "Writing Short Stories" in the Spring 1997 semester at the Ladycollege. There was an admissions process and I submitted my short story about a Smithie from 1928 who uses all her money to take a cab to Amherst to ask a boy on a date only to get laughed at. I was admitted along with about nine other students of varying age and ability. Some of the students wrote really well, I thought, but for the past ten years, ask Elinor who her finest student in that class was and she will answer sweetly, "Oh! Monique, of course!"

Sometimes I just want to sit down and cry when I think about how lovely and supportive Elinor has been to me over the years. Writing is a tough thing, even though I love it and would never dream of doing anything but finishing my novels. I get discouraged, I question myself, I wonder if I have the talent and the hustle to get this published. Whenever things in my head start to get really dark, I remind myself, "Mo, if you sucked, would Elinor still be after you? She would have dropped your sorry ass if it were sorry, but in a very kind and sweet way, because Elinor is the kindest and sweetest woman ever." I have to sing it to myself, like a Gregorian chant: "ELLLLIIINNNOOOOOR....BEEELEEEEVES...IN...YOOOOOOOOO..."

And I believe in Elinor. Faithfully I have run, not walked, to my local independent bookstore to purchase her newest books the minute they drop, hardcover. I used to pass them along to my mother, but now I keep them for myself and wait patiently until the next time I go to Northampton and see her, so I can ask her to sign them. She always writes the most wonderful and encouraging things. Even if I didn't know her personally, Elinor Lipman would still be one of my favorite authors, so you can imagine how blessed I feel to know her, and to know that she's cheering for me and my novel. I love you, Elinor!

a short history of the tourco thread fracas

Instead of honoring today's rightful Maudit Artist, I can't help but use this space to do a poor job honoring the life and work of Behemoth. What can I say about it other than, "See, Gloria Steinem said he's not the biggest enemy to feminism, neener neener?" Not a whole lot. Instead, I am going to continue my belated mission to conduct myself in a more Maileresque fashion, and that means picking fights and/or issuing sage observations on the conflicts of others, whether or not they were asked for.

The Austin Improv Cabal caught wind of Mailer's tempest exiting the mortal coil this week when issues of manners, propriety, knowing one's place, and who gets to be a critic all came to an ugly head on the Rollicking Improv Commentary boards, which run off a server located in our modest north Austin home. Offense, umbrage, parsing, and comparisons to the last century's top men of letters splattered forth like a teenage pimple, and the whole community remains coated in its pus. Future anthropologists might track these events thusly:

1) Alamo Drafthorse announces that UCB Tourco will perform two respectable shows on a Wednesday evening at their new Ritz location.
2) AIC-ers rejoice; champagne bottles pop. Soldiers sound off, one two; purchase tickets online with credit cards, paying a $1 surcharge to do so.
3) Ticketholders/seasoned improvisers use their imaginations to envision superlative, orgasmic improv originating from the loins of the Upstart Denizens who will be gracing our burg with wit and skill foreign to zip codes starting with 787.
4) En masse, the Cabal enters the theater, quaffs brews, cheers for Cody and his CT deluxe promotional video, and watches respectfully as the New Yorkers take the stage, issue comedy, fear for their lives on the precarious stage.
5) After an enjoyable evening out, people report to the forums, issue opinions of varying degrees, none of which utilize words like "suck," "balls," "waste," "full refund," or "expurgate."
6) Dual citizen Jill, an Upstart Denizen herself and fine Austin comedy export to the Apple, reports that some of her new UCB friends might see these comments and be hurt by them.
7) The Army of Being Nice, led by chieftain R. Janik, charges hither with swords of deletion.
8) Naysayers, the likes of which have lost a few teeth at McSorley's over the years, remove their penknives from their breast pockets and plunder.
9) Because we are in the south and Texas hospitality is ingrained in each and every one of us, blame is focused inward. We become the assholes. Members of an organization cofounded by a jackhole who used to call my roommate at all hours to drunkenly insult her abilities are assumed to have hides thinner than soup while so-called southern gentleman take potshots at each other, but politely. I shit you not.
10) Gentlemen recently awarded Maudit Artist status smack each other upside the head. One later issues a red telephone.
11) We are reminded that all the internet's the stage; men and women merely complainers.
12) Mistrust for those getting paid a living wage for performing improv shows conveyed. A hummerlimo disco party was kicked off on an adjacent thread. Marzipan universities; '80s nightmares rendered in leather.
13) "Mommy Daddy Don't Fight!"
14) The popularity of the name Justin in the late 1970s provokes a quest for identity.
15) Literary merit of entries questioned. It was established at some point in all this that I was doubling for Mailer, but after careful consideration, I passed that honor off to an associate who is more acerbic and quick-to-pounce than me, and took up the mantle of George Plimpton for myself. Other comparisons were made to RFK, Vidal, Torn.
16) Kaci reveals that she is a test tube baby! WHY DIDN'T ANYONE PICK UP ON THIS!?!?!? I think this is the major tragedy of the entire sordid mess.
17) Video clip of Mailer shit-talking Vidal.
18) Sara ranks frequency of responses. I place at #5. although I never issued my opinion on the UCB show!!
19) Another invite to the Hummerlimo Disco Party
20) Sense is injected like cream into a Twinkie. It falls out, smears.
21) Bluff. Called.
22) Melvin Van Peebles, vague reference to Sweet Sweetback.
23) Invitations to play Scrabulous on Facebook.
24) misuse of the term "crunk"
25) Begging, pleading to let the thread die.

16 full-screen pages of scathing, ridiculous discourse! Viva!

**UPDATE** The fat lady is gargling with salt water! It ain't over, folks. Since this afternoon, three more pages of startling, inflammatory, bizarre-ass contributions to what is proving to become an AIC legend have appeared and must get the Maudit treatment:

26) The wildfire has spread to Chicago, where DollarBill pronounces "EFF YOU IT'S NOT A CONTEST" and brags that his method of breathing sense into the melee is funnier than a previous pronouncement.
27) BURN!
28) BURN AGAIN! This is turning into the burn unit of the mental hospital.
29) Andy C. offers a photo of a robot with a bowl haircut.
30) Chris A. restrains himself from writing out the full lyrics of "Carry on My Wayward Son." There will be peace when we are done, but I'm starting to think that whatever motivation lies within the black hearts of warmongers and agitators has crept into our food supply. Lay your weary head to rest.
30a) Or perhaps he meant "Dust in the Wind?"
31) Distinct factions of "I love this thread, MORE MORE" and "Please kill this thread" turn crystal clear.
32) Ted takes this golden opportunity to plug his own show!
33) Robin Goodfellow will bite your toes.
34)
35) Jill will accept her award via satellite.
36) Repeated modifications on passive-aggressive treatise posted by Mr. McC, using the bold function to increase or decrease passive-aggression at will, sort of like how a DJ might remix a song.
37) Aden reaches out to the UCB players, let's them know that she's still thinking about them.
38) Chris T. reminds everyone he is available for coaching.
39) Scandinavian crotch-grabber appears only to show off his UCB training.
40) Hummerlimo still taking laps around the block!
41) McN must have a seriously bitching home collection of meaningful jpgs because we got fucking TOLD with his image of a passed out dude receiving the paddles. Meaning KILL THE THREAD! KILL IT! Or maybe USE TECHNOLOGY TO RESUSCITATE IT! Yeah!

I will defer to Bruce Springsteen:
"Everything dies, baby, that's a fact
And maybe everything that dies, someday comes back."

I'm itchin' to write a coda, so if we want to wrap this shit up, let's.

well, crap, i can totally breathe free now

Gloria Steinem '56, arbiter of all things Ladycollege-holy, has offered a pronouncement on the death of Behemoth. I've been sitting here for the last few days wondering if I'm an enemy of all things related to the Ladycollege paradigm. But since Glo said it, it is sacrosanct. From New York Magazine:

In an interview a few minutes after her address, Steinem made it plain that she didn't regard Mailer as a total enemy of feminism. "He wasn't hostile like the ultra-right-wing anti-feminists — he just didn't get it," said the svelte black-clad liberation leader who knew Mailer personally, having run for city comptroller on his secessionist ticket along with columnist Jimmy Breslin, a candidate for president of the city council. "And he will leave an absence because he was an original. He was a wonderful writer, and I always thought The Prisoner of Sex was a good title," explained Steinem, referring to an essay Mailer wrote for Harper's that provoked an acrimonious 1971 Town Hall debate between Mailer and feminists like Village Voice writer Jill Johnson and Australian author Germaine Greer. "He was a prisoner of sex."

If I can't think on my own terms, occasionally be charmed by an asshole man, hold my own in embittered online improv arguments, make fun of bitches who once said out loud, in response to a hip-hop lyric about "nasty salad" that said lyric was sexist because "everyone knows that the vagina looks like high quality lettuce," and accept the fact that the only woman who gets to be Gloria is Gloria herself, then fuck it, I ain't coming to the party.

i had a good day

I showed some love to the Geegsters. I got some love back.
I got to know the homeboys down at Southwest Cargo.
I ate me some kufta AND some salmon.
I got to be counted among the first to take a gander at Behemoth's secret, dirty stash.
I matched up Justin York and Gore Vidal. They will be very happy together. I love how a semi-acrimonious forum exchange turned into a discussion of Behemoth's friends and adversaries. I love those intense midcentury men of letters and I love my early-21st century men of improv. And women of improv. I am full of love.
I am going to take a shower and watch some teevee and then sleep and have a pretty day tomorrow, too.

maudit artist #11: girls girls girls

AIC award nominations came out this week. I have mixed feelings about the peer-given awards: on one hand, yes, we are lucky to work with such amazing, talented and fun people and props should be given, but at the same time there is an icky junior high popularity contest feel to them that is unavoidable. Oddly, I managed to score two nominations. I was not expecting to get any. I am very pleased that I impressed at least a couple of people with my musical improv skills. It feels good to hear that.

But still, most of the ladies I call Geegsters got overlooked this year, (as well as GGG not getting a nod for "Best Troupe" what???) so although this is cloying and meaningless, I am laying some loving spoonfuls on my friends and colleagues, La Geegsters:

ANDREA: FEISTIEST IMPROVISER. Andrea's our little tuffy with the big opera voice. She's like having a Mack truck in the troupe. She is awesome and I am lucky I have gotten to work with her all these many years.

ADEN: MOST ADORABLE/HAIR LIKE SALAD DRESSING AWARD. Aden brings a touch of cuteness and mischief to the GGG palette. She also changed her hair to a pleasing sesame-ginger-miso color a few weeks ago.

BROCK-TUNE: GOOD SPORT/MAD KEYS AWARD. Michael, our latest in a series of manly musicians, has taken to the Girls like soy sauce on salmon rolls. He brings an awesome amount of experience and talent to the job of making us sound pretty and I salute him for all his dedication and hard work.

JULIE: THE MOTHER OF ALL GEEGSTERS/SEXPOT AWARD. We jokingly refer to Julie as the MILF, as she has borne two male children from her womb and is the eldest of the troupe. She works very hard to get shit done, brings a giddy sexuality to her performances, and is constantly growing and impressing me as an improviser.

KACEY: SOLDIER OF GIRLDOM AWARD. Kacey is always fighting for GGG. Really. She's also brings visually appealing dance moves and the ability to send the audience into paroxysms when she pulls a harmonica out of her shirt.

MADS: THE SECRET WEAPON!!! We all know that Madeline is a bundle of talent, wicked smart, and a sassy chick to be around, but she also adds this curious spice to our shows. Like cardamom in your Indian food. You can taste it, but you can't always name it. That's Mads. SNEAKY.

SHANA: BOMB-ASS SWISS ARMY KNIFE. Shana's the master. Deservedly nominated for a buttload of "real" awards, Shana brings professionalism and diamond facets to every one of her characters. I continue to learn from her.

SHEL: ELEANOR ROOSEVELT AWARD FOR DEDICATION IN THE FACE OF ADVERSITY. Shel is by far the most dedicated Geegster there is. At a great personal expense, she hauls up here from San Anfuckingtonio every weekend just to bring her warmth and goodness to the troupe.

I love you crazy girls and am so lucky to have been a part of the beauty and splendor of our troupe for over four years now. Got yr boobz!

UNRELATED PROFESSIONAL NOTE: Behemoth's restricted materials became unrestricted today. Teedleydeedlydoo work is fun!

youth is truth

Mo: Don't ever join PETA. I hate those bossy, pretentious fucks.
Little Bro: (sincerely astonished) You know about PETA?

maudit artist #10: biomedical art

Being a member of the skeletal deformity community, I have spent many an hour musing over the ribcage. Why is the way it is, and why is mine busted? Why is mine busted, but why do I continue to swallow, breathe, and function? For those of us constantly searching for answers to the question, "why am I fucked up, and does medical science know about me and my shit?", there exists an entire field of art dedicated to illustrating medical textbooks and brochures. They exist mostly as agencies, but what they do is beyond beautiful and impressive, even if it is pictures of a diseased colon or whatever. And it also helps to educate our physicians and researchers. This is art with a purpose, and in many cases, it is also very beautiful from an aesthetic point of view, too.

I can't exactly pick one biomedical artist whose work I admire, so I am giving it up for the entire field. Thank you, biomedical art, for everything you do for the medical and lay communities! You rock!

perspective

From where I sit in, next to the big windows at Thunderbutt Coffee, I can see the corner where I wait for the bus every morning to go to work. It seems like every time I look from my writing, the bus has arrived, ready to suck up waiting passengers. But when I am out there waiting for the bus, it feels like it takes FOREVER for the bus to come.

That, my friends, is perspective.

I really need to get my hands on a copy of Town Bloody Hall, the documentary in which Mailer and Germaine Greer famously go mano-a-mano over feminism. I am starting to find that the second-wavers who were presented to me at the Ladycollege as heroes look kooky and untrustworthy. Could they be just as unreliable as the menfolk that hold us down? I am confused. I am also white, upper-middle-class, and have a soft spot for the recently departed, so maybe I'm unreliable, too.

Goodbye, Behemoth

It was nice knowing you and going through your stuff.

maudit artists #9: get up & mcnichol and may

Last Wednesday night, UCB tourco did a show here in Austin on the high and narrow stage of the new Alamo. It was well-attended by all corners of the Austin improv community--at least three solid rows were packed with people I knew or knew by sight. If I hadn't spent the last five years of my life watching, learning, and performing improv, I would have loved their show. UCB's style is quick and witty and pretty solid. Before buying my ticket I asked Dyna if she felt that they'd be worth the $16 ticket and she told me yes, but not to study it, just to go and enjoy it, so that's what I tried to do. And of course, I studied it. And I came to the conclusion that the reason I didn't enjoy it as much as I could have or should have was that their gamey-style really lacked emotional resonance. They were just being cute and clever. And though I am guilty of performing cute-and-clever over getting to the meat of the relationship, I find myself really wanting to see some relationship in an improv performance.

Austin is an improv town, damnit, and a good one at that. And if you were from Schenectady or somewhere and asked me who the superlatively awesome, dependably awe-inspiring, shit-your-pants-laughing acts in this town were, I would direct you to our elder statespersons, who in my opinion are Get Up and McNichol & May. I reliably leave the theater after their shows wondering if I'll ever be anywhere as tight and brilliant as they are. I'm sure they think they've had bad shows, but even an embittered, seen-it-all hag such as myself is still seized with pangs of envy and awe when these guys take the stage.

Get Up consistently amazes me with their ability to create very realistic setting and space. Most of the shows I've seen of theirs have consisted of some sort of adventure. Shannon and Shana play multiple characters and keep them very distinct. Their shows are fast-paced and often take place at some historical point (Shannon also does a one-man 17th Century Dutch East India trader show called Spices). Even when tossed with difficult zingers (15th Century England??) they manage to pull of historical accuracy and put on one fucking hell of an admirable performance.

Bob and Erika are the masters of character and subtlety. I was pasted to the floor after the last show of theirs I saw, when Bob was a little boy going to a gross old lady's house for piano lessons. Erika brought amazing detail to the gross old lady--you better believe that I saw cat hair flying around her, could feel the stickiness of her piano, and knew that the place smelled like violet perfume and dump. Their scenework was not about the gross old lady teaching piano to a little boy who was grossed out about her--that would be too easy. It was instead about the characters. Gross Old Lady was revealed to be a big Ronnie James Dio fan. Little Boy didn't want to hug her goodbye, which hurt her feelings, but she sort of understood.

If you're going to "study" a show, I pick these contributors to improv's canon. And then you'll feel flummoxed, because damnit, what does it take to be that good????

Coldtowne, I take umbrage...

To promote this week's Stool Pigeon, starring "NaNoWriMo Writers":
"This is pretty much as close as novelists get to doing improv..."

UH, HELLO?!?!?!??!

Of course, I've been doing less improv to write a novel and would be very happy to be thought of as a novelist first and an improviser second.

maudit artist #8: hal hartley

In January of 1992, I was an unhappy 15-year-old with a small television in her bedroom. It didn't have cable on it because cable in one's teenage bedroom was too rich for my stepdad's blood, so I watched a lot of PBS. One night I tuned into American Masters, which was showing a film called Surviving Desire, about a college professor who lusts after one of his students, gets her, and then loses her all in a span of an hour.

That was when I knew what I wanted my young life to look like: a Hartley movie. For those among the unfamiliar, Hal Hartley is a director and writer of, well, Hal Hartley Movies. They were popular on the indie circuit in the early '90s, and had a very specific look and feel to them, one that I found appealing in my teens. Trouble and Desire, rough-hewn dark colors, deliberate, even melodramatic displays of emotion, and an occasional appearance by Yo La Tengo. Hopefully, there would be a moody, troubled hottie like Martin Donovan who would show up and cause problems, but at the very least, there would be brick buildings and cloudy skies and a pall of uneasiness blanketing my days.

Anyone who has sat through a Film Studies 101 class can tear apart Hartley's auteurism, call it amateurish and simple, but hey, asshole, that's the beauty of it! I've been on the defensive about my love for Hal ever since the recently dug-up Mad Beautiful (a film major at the U of the T, of course) rolled his eyes at my choice of favorite director. "I might as well go watch a bad play," he told me, denying me his caress that night, I guess as punishment for having craptastic taste to a 19-year-old. "You had to be there!" I shouted after him, but he didn't care. Nor could I actually pinpoint where this mythical "there" was.

Recent Hartley offerings haven't exactly rocked my world, though the Henry Fool sequel wasn't bad. A little over the top, but I dig that Bert-like James Urbaniak.

Arty and cool and totally '90s, Hartley's films were an entree into the world of youthful hipsterism. And if that makes me an asshole, then I'm an asshole!!!

Hal Hartley's Blue Dress

Hal is M.A. #8, but right now, I am thinking about the blue dress that appears in all of his earlier films. T-square will know what I am talking about. Adrienne Shelly wears it in Trust, the street lady who asks everyone to marry her wears it in Surviving Desire, and in Amateur, Isabelle Huppert puts it on either before or after she has sex with Martin Donovan. (T will agree with me here that the last thing one should do post-coital with MD would be to put on a blue dress. Pshaw.) I think it is also worn somewhere in Simple Men, but its been years since I got down with the Hot Fucking Tuna, so I can't say for sure.

Anyway, I'm thinking I should acquire a shitload of dresses in that vein and just wear them everyday like it's 1949. I will even wear control top pantyhose and correct shoes and just uniform it up post-war style. I'm tired of being nonstylish yet am too lazy to correct that under my own steam. They have to be made of top-quality material and have a nice zipper somewhere. Metal teeth. I will even invest in slips.

unscheduled maudit artist #7: zach condon/beirut

I mapped out my Maudit Artists in October, but this one just shot up my skirt. Holy crap, I love this kid and his quick-rise-to-indie-stardom gypsy Neutral Milkish music! I do hope that he comes back to Austin to perform sooner rather than later. If you haven't checked out Beirut by now, then you're even more behind than me. Google it, embrace it, shake a tambourine to it.

Photos of Zach remind me a bit of ol' Mad Beautiful, my last-semester-of-libskool lovah. Mad B was 19 to my 26 and had a dark weepy sensitive skinny boy thing going on.

I haven't been this obsessed with an album since Aislers Set's first album, and that was years ago. Obsessed!

the running of the iced tea

Best customer service experience ever!
They ran out of sweet tea at the sandwich shop where I partook of my luncheon today. The guy who was making it kept apologizing for the fact that it did not yet exist, so I took some soda and headed out. I was several yards up the Drag when I heard this guy yelling "MA'AM!" He brought me a cup of freshly made sweet tea! I mean, he ran after me on the street to give it to me! How sweet! Both the tea and the sentiment! Wow!

maudit artist #6: shirley braha, '04

If I had gone to the Ladycollege at the same time as Shirley, I would have hated her guts. Fortunately, I'm six years older than her, so with age comes wisdom and I will state here unequivocally that I admire the pants off Shirley. Shirley has parlayed indie rock fan girldom into a viable, visible, and respectable career. As host of her own indie rock TV show, New York Noise, she interviews all the hotties of the guitar, hoodie, and flugelhorn set, produces her own shows, manages bands, and throws major parties. A distaff Warhol for the '00s, but with more technology and sugar.

Truth be told, I'm way out of the indie rock loop these days and I don't care. I am apparently the last person to hear about Beirut, having heard them in a coffeehouse, I asked the barista who the hell he was playing. I mentioned his to, of all people, my 16-year-old brother, and he was like "you are so behind, Mo," so there you have it. I am behind.

But back to Shirley: it's not about the indie rock, it's about the tenacity. She's got it in spades. You can have talent and intelligence, but if you don't have the drive and hustle to back it up, you may as well have a handful of shit and nowhere to put it. I have a hard time walking up to famous-ish people I admire and chatting them up, but she clearly doesn't. (I take it she never pissed off J. Toomey, who yelled at me once, forever making me shy around people with bands.) She's built an entire cottage industry for herself, is probably never bored, and all because she just does what she loves. Had I figured that shit out for myself a decade ago, I'd be a much happier person today. So kudos to Shirley for kicking ass and interviewing bands.

Phelim Donlon: Drama Officer

Actual person, actual job title at the Arts Council of Ireland.

Sounds like the makings of a great TV show:

It's Friday morning, and I've just spilled coffee on my harlequin costume. The lady next door keeps hitting sour D flats, over and over, and my head is spinning. I get a call at 9:45. It appears that the guy they've got playing Cates in Inherit the Wind ate some bad oysters or something. Gotta memorize these lines something fierce. Then, a knock at the door.

Would our two-bit town premiere this new master work? What were the royalties, anyway? This was a job for: PHELIM DONLON: DRAMA OFFICER.

maudit artist #5: David & Sun Min/Uglydolls

To me at least, Uglydolls are not ugly. Though I admit to having a hard time warming up to the cyclops and three-eyed versions. CdR once told me that there is an evolutionary reason why human dislike creatures who don't have two eyes and I believe her. Bob and I are undeniably attached to our Wages. Wage is one of the original Uglydolls. I impulse bought our first Wage back in 2004 and since then, Bob and I have acquired about five more Wages. We have all the limited edition Wages, Minimum Wage and Keychain Wage. Wage is very special to us.

Here is Orange Wage (our first Wage) after being issued a ticket for mishandling his jet car. Bob likes to make tableaus involving these guys. Wage possesses an infinite wisdom. Even as he is reprimanded by a recently deputized stuffed crocodile, his zest for life remains intact.

Certainly you have stumbled upon Wage and his Uglydoll pals at finer toy and gift shops nationwide. David and Sun Min apparently met in art school, and while David was in the US and Sun Min was in Korea, David doodled Wage on a letter he sent her, and Sun Min responded by making a plush version of the character. So adorable it was that their pals at Giant Robot asked her to make more Wage dolls, and they sold like hotcakes. They have won mad toy design awards and are probably rolling in dough, all because of these strange little creatures.

I think the appeal of the Uglydolls is that they look needy, like they need your love. Wage has a sort of earnest, confident, yet completely unfazed look about him. You can tell him anything and he loves and accepts you for it. There is a hunger in each of us to be loved just for being ourselves and Uglydolls have that, too. They are imperfect, like we are. And they don't judge.

maudit artist #4: mark robinson

The year is 1997.
The place is Arlington, Virginia.
I am a woman with a mission. I am 21 years old, and it is spring break. I took the Metro to Ballston and turned left at the Office Max, in search of a tiny, ramshackle green house marked 715. There is an orange van in the driveway. I am a spy in the house of indie rock (literally). I knock on the door. This man answers:

Mark Robinson is the impresario of Teenbeat Records. If you are the sort of person who thinks "cheesecake photos of N'Sync" when you hear "teenbeat," then stop reading now, this ain't for you. Teenbeat was part of the triumvirate of prominent indie labels from DC in the early '90s. MR was the head dude in the oft-mentioned band Unrest, which provided east coasty indie kids with their daily requirement of spare chord arrangements set to poppy beats. They were a Cute Band Alert in Sassy way way BITD and enjoyed much airplay on WOZQ thanks to me.

I had a pretty serious Teenbeat obsession back in '97, which lead me to the REALLY EASY TO FIND Teenbeat house. Mark was nice enough to let me in and have a look around and talk to me and sell me a few CDs and 7"s. Mark dedicated quite a bit of creative energy to his obsession with Factory Records star Cath Carroll, so with that knowledge, I ventured forth.

For years I was horrified that I did that. I was never comfortable with my role as loopy fan girl, and I still have a hard time mustering that energy, although these days its all authors and the dudes from 3 For All.

In general, though, the Robinson opus has many enduring qualities and still provides me with occasional, nostalgic listening enjoyment. Six Layer Cake is still one of my most favorite songs ever, and even though these days Teenbeat has sort of simmered down in terms of output (Mark's a dad and has a day job, from what I've heard), they're still knocking out the (Teen)beats.

more quatrains

Texas Book Festival
Early morning
An excuse for breakfast tacos
Like I need one

Owen!
I got up early for you, dude!
Character-driven fiction
Apt as fuck

Got shut out of second panel discush
The work of angels
Ran into Jodi T. instead
Broken-elbowed Texas romance writer

(Jodi was my teacher at West Tejas Writey Camp in July and she's really lovely and warm, so I was glad of this turn of events.)

Jodi really sells herself
"I write Western romances! I've won many awards!"
She cries, unafraid, yet tempered with ladylike aplomb
Take heed, O Modest Maudit!

Advertisements For Myself!!
Can't do it
I shan't be a Behemoth
Without growing some goddamn balls

Speaking of:
totally bailed on Mrs. Behemoth
Tired, sleepy, hungry
The woman whose bid-ness I know shall remain a mystery

Marion! I followed you around
She offered to blurb my novel!
I have a blurb before I even have an agent!
Lucky lucky writer girl am I!!

maudit artist #3: Judy Blume

I am posting this at midnight, because like a good lit geek, I am getting up early to go to the Texas Book Festival and plan to be there until I get to catch a glimpse of Behemoth's wife, who is on a panel tomorrow afternoon.

Judy Blume: universally loved, daring, banned warrior of menstruating preteens everywhere. It was Judy Blume who put this whole novel-writing business into my head when I was eight years old. Thanks, Judy. I wrote you a letter about being tall and having to play boys parts in school plays and suggested that as a topic for a novel. That was probably the last author fan letter I wrote, but YOU WROTE BACK! How very nice! My mom kept the letter in her safe deposit box for years and years. Judy, I still play boys parts in plays, only this time it's under the auspices of an all-female improvised musical troupe. Sort of like Shakespeare in reverse, with singing.

Last week at work, my fellow female coworkers in their 30s had a huge talk about Judy B., especially the racy virginity-loss novel Forever. OMG. Heroine Katherine loses her virginity on the bathroom floor to her boyfriend Michael and there's a condom talk and a few spots of blood. And then she goes to summer camp and meets another boy and questions her commitment to Michael. Teen sex! I read that book when I was, like, eleven. I attribute much of my early sex ed to Forever.

Who could forget:
Margaret and her religious struggles and desire to use her Teenage Softies?
Deenie and her horrible scoliosis brace?
Peter playing the straight man to his clowny little brother Fudge?
Jill's flenser Halloween costume in Blubber?
Davey's freak-out when her aunt puts down her dead father's convenience store vocation in Tiger Eyes?

All of these books were written 40-ish years ago and they still ring true today. Judy Blume is the patron saint of young American girls and I salute her like crazy.

GEEGSTERS ROCK SVT
saturday 11.3
10:30
salvagevanguardtheater
manor rd
be there or regret it later!

maudit artist #2: dyna moe

Dyna Moe is the most talented person I have ever met. Period. I don't come close to what she's got, and neither do you. She is an amazing portrait artist, graphic designer, improviser, writer, actor, comedian, and social observer. I love Dyna as a friend and I'm also afraid of Dyna because she's SO. TALENTED. And she has no filter, so if you're pissing her off or she doesn't like something, she tells you.

I met Dyna when she was 18 and I was 20. During my semester program at Wesleyan, I managed to score a double room with no roommate. Having had the evilest she-Guido Jersey stool sample from hell as a roommate at Smith, I was none too thrilled to get saddled with a roommate again. But when the blond mohawked girl clad in a leopard coat with matching pillbox hat arrived at my door and said, "uh, hi, we just met, can I be your roommate?" and I halfheartedly said yes, I was actually getting one of the greatest blessings of my whole fucking life.

Dyna is responsible for this coolness:

Which you should totally buy, because the detail is hilarious. The Easter Bunny next to Jesus on the cross.

As well as this one:

The best wedding invitation ever.

She is also available for hire for all your illustration and/or web design needs at nobodyssweetheart.com. Plug plug.

maudit artist #1: elliott smith

I have selected twenty artists and do-gooders that I admire and will be writing about them in November as part of my covenant with NaBloPoMo, which I intend to take very seriously.

Most of my favorite musical artists evoke a specific time and place in my life, and hearing their music takes me back to those days. Cat Stevens takes me back to the late '70s, when my parents were still married, I wore thick-soled orthopedic shoes, and the family TV had a chunky knob on it. Nirvana is high school, mostly the night of April 8, 1994, sitting shivah in the C-Juana High parking lot. The New Pornographers is last summer, my pre-nup freak-out, crying in my car. Elliott Smith, along with a bunch of others, is my twenties, long nights alone with my headphones, letting the sweetest boy in the world sing me to sleep.

Either/Or remains, in my mind, probably the greatest album of the 1990s (Elliott and Neutral Milk Hotel can fight over that honor as far as I'm concerned). Freakin' exquisite. Elliott was one of few singer-songwriter boys who could pull of sensitive in a sincere way. He looked like he had gotten into a few too many bar fights, but that there was always some girl in a cardigan and Mary Janes lingering nearby with an ice pack. Elliott said nice things about Celine Dion even as those of us in the indie snob community spoke ill of her receiving the Oscar for Best Original Song over our beloved. Somewhere I have a cassette tape of me being a total Celine-hating snarkosaurus on the airwaves of Northampton on the night of the 1998 Oscars. I am not proud.

And so, in 2003, he died. And a few posthumous albums came out. And now, he's like Kurt and Jimi and Janis to those of us who came of age in the '90s. Oh, Elliott!