bethofalltrades

I feel as though I have perhaps been drunk for several weeks.

As if the clouds that envelop my brain are just the residue of too many margaritas on one of those warm summer Sundays.

How strange, then, to wake up at 1AM in my apartment, with the cat snuggled close against the encroaching chill.

I wonder where September went.

I wonder where summer went.

I wonder where spring went.

The last I remember it was winter. I was wrapped in my long purple coat, already ill-fitting, with a gray hat that did not match. I was taking photographs. My feet went numb at the shoot outside the old synagogue. We drank coffee in the McDonalds down the street and I picked at someone else's french fries.

I miss the sun already. I want the sun and sandals. I want Texas in June, I want the relative chill of Michigan on the Fourth of July.

I want Kyle upstairs and Neil downstairs and Amanda playing her ukelele in her underwear in the middle of the night. I want cigarettes with Steven on the steps and I want wine with Becca on the steps and I want homemade beer with Noah and Chelsea on the steps. I want those steps.

I want room service on my birthday in that hotel room in Oklahoma City. I want sitting beside the bus drinking Coronas with the crew. I want the Crocodile Lounge and saying "Fuck you" to my old life. I want crying on the Chinatown bus.

I want leaving home.
I want coming home.
I want home.

I want real, hard work that leaves you bone tired and able to sleep. I want sweat. I want fresh tattoos and planes (but not at the same time). I want London. I want sunburn. I want running through Symphony Hall barefoot, feeling like some strange fairytale heroine in my fancy dress. I want the belt that broke in San Diego.

I want the pictures I didn't take because I was trying to live in the moment. I want the moments I didn't live because I was too busy taking a picture. I want dirt.

I want the new friends I can barely count and the old friends I can barely believe and all the friends I barely see. I want the economy to mend. I want new email. I want new love. I want a maid service to come clean my apartment. I want to get my nipples pierced.

I want to be held. I want reassurance that getting older isn't fatal-- even though it always is. I want beauty and love and truth and everything about it that's ugly.

I want I want I want.

And that's all.

I hate the fall.

Love,
Beth

So, some chick who writes a "feminist" blog is pissed that Margaret Cho said she wants to fuck Sarah Palin. Because obviously it would be rape and rape jokes are NEVER funny and ALWAYS sexist.

My heart fell as I read the comments. Knee-jerk, politically-correct, overly-sensitive dykes make me want to turn in my membership card to the pink mafia and start chasing cock FO REALS YO.

You swing too far in any direction you become ridiculous.

Those are not my people.

Love,
Beth

edit: sorry, folks, the "OH NOES, it's RAPE" comments are here. So it's not so much the chick who writes the blog that I can't stand-- although, having read some of her other writings, she's also not my people-- the true asshats are her commentators who are falling all over themselves to burn their copies of "I'm The One That I Want".

edit 2: I anticipated this entry would blow up into huge debate. I put it here so it would.

But it's a little nasty to toss a teeny entry up and not give myself a chance to dig a futher hole.

I think rape is a problem. I think a woman making less money than a man in the same job is a problem. I think that when they made a Barbie that said "Math is hard," it was wrong.

And I think the thought of Margaret Cho's tongue sticking to Sarah Palin's frozen vagina is FUNNY. I've seen A Christmas Story, they're going to have to call the fire department to get that unstuck. " Jesus, get the hairdryer, Margaret did it again!"