Sometimes I feel like life is the swamp of sadness.
Sometimes I feel like Atreyu. I will trudge on, muddle through, and make it to the other side, but it doesn’t mean that I won’t feel it. I just won’t let it win.
Sometimes I feel like Artax. I want to just stop, sink down and be done with it all.
It takes very little to make me become The Thinker, chin on my hand, delving deep inside myself to try to discover what I want and what I don’t want. This time, it was just a link to a story from The Guardian about writer’s rooms, authors who have made good on their talent and get to write for a living and the world in which they choose to do that. Things like this make me rethink my life, not that I haven’t been rethinking it a lot anyway lately. My life is full of mediocrity, and I have allowed myself to become mediocre. It’s not what I want to be, and I like to think that it’s not who I am.
I have to take chances. No matter how scared I am, no matter how much I risk in the process, whether I win or lose, I have to take chances. I’ve always been willing to risk, more so than just about anyone that I know, but it seems the more I take chances and the more that I fail, the more afraid I become to keep taking risks. But I have to be brave. I’ll never be content with mediocrity.
Today is a very important day. My friend Pam (aka Pammykins) is 30 years old today. This is an homage… said with a hard ‘o’ and a slightly British accent.
Oh, Pammykins, what we have been through together, my love. We’ve survived on cafeteria food, posted flyers up around a Bible-Thumping Baptist campus, absconded in the middle of the work week for a whirlwind two-day vacation, almost been arrested in a Hendersonville Park, lied to authority. We have not committed murder, dropped a dumpster on Ann Coulter, or taken part in a threesome together, but I have high hopes for our future.
I hope you have had the loveliest of birfin’ days, and I hope you don’t feel as old as you are.
You know how a celebrity will be asked how they got started in the business, and they’ll respond with “Well, I got onto an elevator with this guy and he was an agent,” or “Some chic just came up to me at a coffee shop and asked if I wanted to act (model),” which basically translates as, “Someone wanted to fuck me, but I’M the one who got lucky.”
So, anyway, for a writer, that moment comes when enough people want to drag you out by your night guard and feather and tar you. (I’m not actually sure what that means, but I’ve always pictured myself as looking like a dodo bird as the end result if it should ever happen to me.) Apparently, to a select few people, I am looking incredibly tar-able.
I’m not sure why exactly, but apparently I am a fraud, a liar, and “not the brightest crayon in the box”. Now, now people, don’t pull out your one-of-a-kind, specialty zingers just on my account. You do tickle me so. I am glad to see how concerned everyone is about the possibility of me getting sued, but what I saw (in my opinion) was what I saw, and I have a hard time being worried over saying something that isn’t even negative about someone who has everything, when a dumb cunt like Ann Coulter can go spouting off all she wants about entire sects of the population. (As a disclaimer, that dumb cunt thing isn’t just mine, it’s a lot of peoples’ opinions.)
“Mariska Hargitay the Gay” must be one hell of a popular search term, that’s all I know. I was lost, but now I’m found. It’s like Amazing Grace.
I’m not proud of it, but I have my share of prejudices. I guess we all do. I just can’t help it.
Today, I was twice hit with the story about the black woman who was held captive and tortured for a week in West Virginia. Once, it was read to me out of the newspaper at work, which is a lovely addition to a work day, which in itself is always a pleasant occurrence. I didn’t get the visuals with it until I got home and read the story online.
Why is it that psychopaths always look like psychopaths, and yet people always go on the news when they’ve discovered that these psychopaths have done something psycho and are like, “I never would have suspected he/she would do something like that.” How is that? I see these people through a computer screen and think “Bitches, you crazy.”
But there was one thought that I had when I saw these trashy-ass peeps’ photos online that seems to be a recurring stereotype with me, my repetitive prejudice that I can’t seem to shake. I read what they have done and see the images of where they live and how crazy they look, and I think about what kind of people could do something like this. And then I think… I bet they vote Republican.
Well, the primetime Emmys are once again afoot, so it’s only natural that my thoughts are concentrated on all things award show:
Where I’ll be getting my manicure…
What designer I’ll go with…
Who I will take as my beard, er, date…
Then again, I may just spare myself the agony of dealing with the Hollywood escort service known as “publicist” and take my mom. (No! I just love my mom. Never mind that I could make a date with a hot, desperate young actress, knowing that if I happen to win the Emmy, it’s an automatic and undisputed invitation straight into her elegant, on-loan formal wear.)
And that segue, of course, leads to only one destination: Mariska Hargitay, world title holder in the full-scale beard lifestyle, bantamweight division. (This is only a symbolic title, based heavily on my opinion.)
“But she’s married and has a baby” sound the cries of the straight and oblivious fans of L&O: SVU. And yes! You are correct. She is married and has a baby, but before she was married with child she was as gay as a PSA co-starring Harvey Fierstein and Mary Cheney. (in my opinion)
It doesn’t matter if she recited some vows and got spermented™. She delivers lines from scripts everyday, and this time she didn’t even have to memorize them. And as for the penile injections, plenty of Hollywood starlets have taken it in worse orifices for a good part.
And P.S. people… her husband owns a purse boutique and the pick-up line that kick-started their relationship was (I am paraphrasing here) “Let’s go into my dressing room and read scripture together.” They also named their son August! People are convicted of manslaughter on less circumstantial evidence.
And for those willing believers, please know that I personally witnessed Mariska do a beard-switcheroo on a nighttime jaunt in Manhattan.
Here’s how it went down –
We went to see Mariska in The Exonerated, an excellent off-Broadway offering about people wrongly convicted of murder and damned to Death Row. It just so happened that we were there the same night that Mariska’s sexy lesbian lover (in my opinion), Kelly Miller, was there to catch the show. Excellent. See, we knew before that night who Kelly Miller was, to Mariska that is, so when we saw them walk in together, we were giddy with excitement. Was Mariska going to do it? Was she finally going to tell the world she liked pussy instead of acting like one???
No. We figured that out when they separated from each other the moment they breached the threshold into the theater. Mariska went one way. Lovergirl went the other. That was all there was to it until show’s end when Mariska looked up and found Kelly in the audience. We knew just where Mariska was looking, because we had already located Kelly ourselves. We always try to keep tabs on all lesbians in a room (and we always know who you are). What Mariska mouthed to Kelly looked suspiciously like “That was for you,” in my opinion. I know I say that to all of my friends.
After the show is when the real performance began though. Two men, so flaming they singed the door frame when they walked in, showed up at show’s end to escort Mariska and Kelly. Mariska took one gay boy’s hand. Kelly took the other homo hand. Then, they all left together, just the four of them. Or so they thought.
Two young women, one of whom may have been myself, decided to accompany them as well, for their safety, from about twenty yards behind. How close these two hetero couples must have been, because it seems like an unnecessary hazard to attempt to walk hand-in-hand with your boyfriends, while also putting your arm around your bestest girlfriend at the same time, but that’s how they did it at first. Then, a dozen or so twists and turns after leaving the Minetta Lane Theater, it happened. Mid-step, like a well-choreographed dance, the foursome just switched partners. It was such a smooth transition, in my opinion, I can only imagine how many times it must have been practiced by the quartet. When the dry ice fog cleared before us, as it appeared to me, Mariska and Kelly were walking holding hands, and the boys were holding hands as well. Isn’t it wonderful when two straight men have the courage to show their intimacy that way?
Yes, we were following them without their knowledge, and, yes, it was probably wrong, but, as I witnessed it with my very own eyes, therefore in my opinion, that’s how it happened. And my point has been made.
Now fast forward into the future, and let’s try to figure out the motive for why our little dykiekins is, in my opinion, playing house with Creepy Petey.
Prior to her big, public, hetero hook-up in 2004, Mariska dabbled in award nominations, but didn’t receive any attention when it came to the biggies. In my most apologetic of opinions, she was destined for TV Guide, fan-voted, fame. But then she meets Mr. Hermann; handsome, Christian, age-appropriate, and they make a pact… uh, connection. So, they get engaged, and, voila, 2004 is a banner year for our Mariska. She gets nods from both the Screen Actors Guild Awards and the Emmys. In January 2005, she takes home a Golden Globe for Lead Actress in a Drama Series, just five months after her storybook wedding, and later that year, she is named one of that classy literary publication, People magazine’s Fifty most beautiful people.
You know, I shouldn’t be making assumptions as to why Mariska received these accolades. I’m sure she was deserving. However, SVU came on the air in 1999, making Mariska eligible for three years worth of awards and beauty pageants where she didn’t make the cut. Then she gets married, sells the glossy black-and-whites of herself in her designer wedding gown, and, suddenly, she’s a staple on the major best actress nominee lists. Amazing!
HEADLINE - 2006: Mariska gives birth, wins Emmy.
And this year, there are, once again, six nominees in Mariska’s category, instead of the customary five, as if they wanted to honor those more deserving, but couldn’t leave her out and had to add an extra slot. (”But Mariska went het for this.”… “Oh yeah.”) This is, of course, all in my opinion.
I admit it, I was a fan once upon a time. I was a baby dyke and she was hot the first season, before she let a butch ex-girlfriend start cutting her hair for her. If SVU hadn’t become such a burden to watch, I might still enjoy her on occasion. In the beginning, it was hard to find anything to read about her. Now, I can’t seem to pass a newsstand without seeing her on the cover of a magazine. My how her star has risen.
In a week, I will be closely watching the Emmys to see if Mariska, once again, brings both her socially-accepted husband and her Kelly Miller. Only time will tell.
Of course, these Hollywood types could have a moment of sense, just order a very nice display case to hold all of the Emmys for Kyra Sedgwick and the writers of The Closer, and skip the whole silly on-air Broadcast.
Because if Mariska Hargitay beats out Kyra Sedgwick for best actress again, I am pretty sure the world is going to explode.
Something.
Holy Crap, I hurt… like a ninety-year-old woman who just danced the groundhog day polka without her walker. Never again will I allow my sister to talk me into rollin’ around on a hard ass floor while Proud Mary keeps on turning. No I won’t, no I won’t. See, they may not be in pain today. They may be feeling fine. But everyone except for Kelly and I were either a) drinking OR b) a young resilient child. Alcohol is as good as anesthesia and children are, of course, made out of rubber. I, however, am neither bouncy nor was I numb. I am just sore and cranky.
So I randomly sold a book this week on Amazon, which prompted them to order two more books. I love when that happens. The rush of adrenaline. The genuine pleasure of feeling discovered. The financial joy of making almost seven bucks. Ah, the ecstasy. And most of all, the complete and utter shock and confusion over how it happened. After every book sale, I spend at least an hour internally and externally debating how someone found out about the book when I have been a lazy ass clown and haven’t completed my Dismantle My Bed site or done any kind of press release. Here are some theories about how it happens…
1. You know those dreams where you are with people that you have never seen before, but yet, in the dream world, you know you know them. And sometimes, they will actually have names, like you will hear someone say “Come on Matt,” and you think “So, you are Matt. How do I know you Matt? I know I know you. Hm.” Well, maybe I was in someone’s dream like that, and they said “Hey Riley, what’s going to happen to Cinderella in the sequel?” And the next morning, they got up and googled “Cinderella + Riley”, got this, and thought “Crickets and Croquet, she does exist,” and then curiosity just got the best of them and cost them $14.95 plus shipping.
2. They ran into a feminist book buyer from Oakland. I do have quite the fan base there. It’s my proudest zip code, the only five digits where I am not an unknown loser-cakes. I am liked by those who use hemp tampons and spell women with a ‘y’. They are my people in Oakland, and I hear they can be mighty persuasive.
3. One of my co-workers realized what a dumb kid I really am, and how much debt hangs over me like. It’s kind of like when you are walking in NYC during a rainstorm and someone with a big golf umbrella is keeping pace right beside, so all of the rain runs off of the edge of their umbrella and right onto the top of your head. This is an even greater risk when you are five-three and apparently invisible. Anyway, maybe one of my older, wiser co-workers realized I’m in the shit, and took pity on my poor shit-living soul.
4. Someone desperate for good karma asked a fortune teller what to do, and the fortune teller said “Buy this girl’s book. When the pathetic help the pathetic, miracles happen.” For them, not for me.
5. I somehow created my own good karma by putting positive energy out into the world. In my sleep.
6. Someone has slight-rhyme dyslexia. They were really searching for a “grimy ashtray.”
7. A member of the Disney inquisitorial squad who is looking over my application for the coming fellowship year got curious, looked me up, and decided to buy my book for one of the following reasons:
a) I am so close to securing a fellowship that they wanted to know more about me and my fabulously talented self.
b) I am so far from securing a fellowship that they wanted to read something else I had written so they could continue their out-of-context laughter at my expense.
c) They noticed that we have used some of the same characters in our works and my book is intended to be ‘Exhibit C’ at my coming trial when they sue me.
d) They were thinking about a direct-to-video hybrid movie where Belle and Jasmine are stranded on a desert island, sing sweeping torch songs by Phil Collins, and finally discover the meaning of life, love, friendship, and what lies beneath each other’s clothes.
Mm, that does tempt. I call upon the fan fiction writers whose works I have enjoyed to please take this idea and run with it.
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