Who is this Greta Van Sustren person? And why is everyone talking about her plastic surgery? I’m starting to feel like i am really far away from the states…
I found this article, Clip-On Tie: The Diary of a New York Art Museum Security Guard, via The Morning News. It’s sort of nice, small. It reminded me of a thing i had with once with a boy the summer after i graduated college. He was a painter, and also a security guard for the Met. That was a compelling combination. Creative yet practical, and in uniform. I have a funny memory of him one morning spit shining his shiny guard shoes, and asking me if i had an iron for his shirt. I didn’t. I did lend him black socks which he was missing. It was cute.
There’s something about waking up with someone who has to put on a uniform. It’s really sweet in a sort of odd way. I used to have to do it when i was waiting tables at a fish restaurant the upper west side, creatively named, Fish Restaurant. They made us wear a white oxford shirt, black pants, black shoes, and this awful awful fish tie. But i remember leaving my then boyfriend’s place in that getup to go work the Sunday brunch shift. I could tell he thought it was cute. Regardless, i could not have hated that fish tie any more than i did.
During one of those brunch shifts one of my partners in fish tie torture leaned into my ear and whispered, “You know what?”
“What?” i said, probably chewing on my pen.
“We smell like fish all the time and we don’t even realize it.”
Oh my god. She was probably right. After that day i started sniffing myself obsessively, to make sure there weren’t whiffs of Broiled Rainbow Trout i had forgotten to scrub off. Yuk. Computer jobs certainly have their upsides.
A small plug for this month’s Story in Harper’s by Antonya Nelson. I’d never heard of her previously, but was enchanted by this little story about a break-up and really bad plumbing in her parents’ house.
On my Google search i also found a list of her top 20 favorite books. How neat.
So the grand event on the telly this AM in Paris was the Dutch royal wedding. There really isn’t a better way to nurse a hangover than amongst Dukes and Earls. And those hats, those wonderful wonderful hats. To be completely unmoved by the gathering of the bluebloods in all their finest frocks is to be truly American I think. How do people really line the streets and wait for hours to watch this nonsense. I mean, Royalty? Come On! Worshipped people should at least sing bad pop songs while falling out of their top. Since I am always culturally sensitive, when I see something in Paris that strikes me as totally ridiculous I try to think of its American counterpart. Just to be equally snarky you know. Academy Awards. How a bunch of overdressed blubbering narcissists get so much airtime is a crime. And then to make matters worse, can you just imagine how many free drinks they are all swiggin in their fancy (free) clothes. Fucking criminal, if you ask me. The Royal Wedding wasn’t nearly as tacky as the Academy Awards, but so empty of irony and self-reflection, that it might even be refreshing in a sick sort of way. There were actually four handmaidens carrying the bride’s train. Handmaidens – I kid you not. (They’re the one’s in the prudish burgundy dresses.) There are people out there who are handmaidens. I can only imagine the raging alcoholism those four are secretly harboring. It’s gotta be worse than mine.
But those hats, those wonderful wonderful hats…
Canceled plans. Feel slightly bad but my feet are happy. Now where did those ideas go?
Beautiful amazing day. Sat in sun and dozed on the steps of the Beaubourg for hours. Later walked a million miles. Became drunk drunk drunk last night. Woke up early. Apartment a mess. Being dragged (draaaaaaged) out tonight. Even though i have ideas. Ideas. Ideas. Ideas. I got big greasy ideas, and owe a bunch of people writing. I want to stay in and write. Rats.
I’ve been sitting here having the hiccups for like hours. Like hooouuuurs! Anyone who’s spent enough time with me to figure out that i’m boring (read: my family, former roommates, and a few other unlucky souls) knows that my hiccups are completely out of this world. They are insanely loud and spine-rattlingly intense. At first it’s just funny cause they are just so damn Loud. After about 20 minutes i feel like i might vomit. After 45 minutes i start praying to any deity i’ve ever heard of in passing to just please make me vomit, please. Any longer than that and i start to wonder why in the hell i was ever born; I begin to contemplate the utter emptiness of human existence. Not only does my stomach feel like a foreign body, but my head is pounding and my already low blood pressure has dropped to the point that my fingers might be little orange-winged butterflies off on ten little adventures of their own choosing.
So you can imagine in what state i’m in at the moment. My digestive system has declared war on me. I will not stand for it, i insist. I instruct the offending organ that it’s either with me or against me. I explain patiently that without me my stomach would be pretty much SOL. No food, no oxygenated blood, and certainly no ultra low rise old navy jeans to make it feel pretty. It responds only with a defiant and deafening contraction. The rest of me winces.
So i pull out my last uber weapon, the blog, in hopes that i can distract the evil menace toward capitulation. Is it working? Well that’s really anyone’s guess. I could tell the blog about my day, my week, or just my last hour of continually deciding and then deciding-not-to go out.
[Karen calls and the two of us blather on and on about being productive in our respective "art" (read: what we do to pass hours upon hours where reruns of Friends are unavailable) in Paris.]
Alright alright – somehow i’ve been convinced that a night of wine in Oberkampf will somehow further everyone’s self-worth. Jeezus! Well the hiccups have certainly retreated in the face of that argument.
Je l’ai trouve! My very favorite cheese. Tomme de Savoie. Ummmmm yummy…
Now all that’s left is the wine.
New Angeles Monthly, June 2008
Weekend America, March 30, 2008
Los Angeles Times, March 13, 2008
Los Angeles Times, March 6, 2008
Nil by Mouth is written by Neille Ilel. Neille is a writer, reporter and user interface specialist in Los Angeles. If you think that's a lot, she's also got a host of meandering sidelines including improv comedy, tennis, cooking, drawing and thinking about learning to play the guitar.
Nil is her given name. It's a long story.
E-mail her here:
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