The Boys of Poetry: Nathan the Jackhammer
January 9, 2006 at 11:03 am | In dudes suck, nostalgia, sex, storytelling | 13 CommentsNathan started one of the first truly monolithic sites devoted to poetry—local event calendar, books, contests, you name it. That’s how I found out about him. He hosted a well-attended reading in the Valley that I’d never been to, but heard of. I especially liked the picture of him standing in the rec room of the school where he worked as a music instructor. And his list of likes included a number of things that seemed like a crazy coincidence…or FATE! I sent him an email. Which I still have. It should be noted that I had turned twenty less than two months prior to the incident I am about to relate. I was practically a teenager! And that I continually humiliate myself so that you may be amused, dear reader.
The Boys of Poetry: Isaac the Amnesiac
January 5, 2006 at 12:18 pm | In dudes suck, nostalgia, sex, storytelling | 6 CommentsI was remembering this open mic I went to about a year ago, to watch an old friend who was visiting from out of town do a feature. Once upon a time, he was an important figure in the LA and OC poetry communities, and his return always seems to bring folks out of the woodwork.
The reading was at a small coffee shop (you know, the kind that was a dime a dozen in 1994, but is now part of a dying breed). It had been years since I went to a reading, I was nervous just being there. But as I saw some familiar figures, I relaxed. I sat at the table with my chum and enjoyed catching up before the performances began.
During the host’s warmup, someone entered through the back door. I looked to see the latecomer and was met by another face from the past. The curly-haired boy ambled over to a table just in front of me, sat down, and plugged his laptop into the wall. He turned around and asked if I could see ok. I recognized him, but clearly he didn’t remember me. Granted, I had lost a bit of weight, changed my hair, my clothes—I did look different. But he really had no idea.
As the reading wore on, I found myself distracted by his presence. The performer’s words became background noise, as I lost myself in a memory I had long-forgotten.1
Halloweenie
October 12, 2005 at 3:42 pm | In familia, nostalgia, storytelling | 26 CommentsWade�s comment and the pic of that costume yesterday got me all nostalgic for Halloweens gone by.
Halloween was always such a great time to look forward to. Despite the tales of razor-blades embedded in treats, that famous serial killer who was supposedly loose and possibly in my neighborhood, and the fact that most of our costumes were just collections of safety hazards, we had a great time. My hood had one of the old dudes who gave out full-size candy bars, a guy that wore like a fake hanging eyeball and acted really creepy when you reached into his bowl of candy, and one house where every year there was a fat scarecrow on the porch swing that was actually a man who would JUMP UP AT YOU when you walked past him. I think the first year he did it to me I cried and was scared, and he gave me extra candy.
Then I became too old to go asking for candy with my mom, and instead got to wear sexy costumes to foggy, dark Halloween Parties where Thriller played. Or Bauhaus.
That got me thinking about all the great (and not-so-great) costumes I�ve had throughout the years. I�ll skip the not-so great ones (like that time I was four and insisted that I was dressed as Wonder Woman even though I was just in my underwear with some stickers on it) and tell you about my top five:
Secret Stuff
August 26, 2005 at 12:05 pm | In desires, dudes suck, nostalgia, ranting, sex, storytelling | 15 CommentsI thought this would be a good opportunity to post something from last year.
I acknowledge that “recycling” an entry is a shitty thing to do. And the truth is that I do have a new piece of writing that I would love to post, but it’s a little too obscene and personal for me to feel comfortable putting it up here. It is the story of a teacher I looked up to, and how that ended. Fill in the blanks.
So here is the deal. If you want the story, leave a comment saying so, or email me. Then you will receive the secret link! And now, enjoy the brutal self-loathing of…
“Helena’s Man Quiz” or “The Emotionally Retarded Woman’s Quiz for Potential Suitors”
Old Poem
August 24, 2005 at 10:40 pm | In nostalgia, poetry, why i need therapy | 7 CommentsSo I finally got rid of my old computer tonight. In transferring the files I got to reading some of the (very little) poetry I wrote in 2002-2003, and found this one.
Denial
Katina K.
was my girlhood friend.
Well, I was more her friend
than she was mine.
When she condescended to see me
we played with Barbie dolls,
her collection of purses,
and the lipstick she’d stolen
from her mother.
Katina moved to Texas
when I was eleven
and she was thirteen.
By that time,
she wasn’t speaking to me much.
She kept insisting
that Ken and Barbie
French kiss.
It made me uncomfortable,
I preferred the Slip ‘n’ Slide.
But Katina said it hurt her boobs
when she fell on it,
and flaunted the little white strap
of her training bra.
Her big brother was a real jerk.
He used to pinch her chest
and shout, “Mosquito bites!”
Katina acted as if
she didn’t mind
but when we were alone
would cry like always.
Although she’d deny it later,
if you asked her.
The day her family left,
she sat in the station wagon
and played with the manuals
in the glove box.
I stood on the curb sobbing,
wishing
that she would look at me
just for a second
to let me see
that she felt something.
But she didn’t.
There have been men like her.
If I could find her now,
I’d ask Katina
if she ever loved me.
I’d would ask,
If I had done
all the things you asked me to,
would you love me then?
And I know
she would say,
I don’t think
we were even
really friends.
Sort of Judy-Blume-Meets-Girls-Gone-Wild
August 17, 2005 at 11:48 pm | In dudes suck, nostalgia, sex, storytelling | 8 CommentsI know it’s like uh summer, but just now there was this sound out my window that was like rain. And it made me think how nice it would be to be somewhere with a fireplace, sitting inside on a stormy night.
But we are about as far from that as we can be, I think. It’s the part of summer where things get stale. By this time, Vintage Helena would be almost eager to go back to school. Ready to meet all the new boys, feel the new books, and wear the new (old) clothes she’d spent months culling from the Salvation Army.
It was about this part of the summer, between 7th and 8th grade, that I was drunk for the first time.
Johnny Rockstar: II of II
August 16, 2005 at 9:04 pm | In dudes suck, nostalgia, sex, storytelling, why i need therapy | 8 CommentsI don’t know how I let things get so bad. I’m actually drinking cheap merlot for dinner. Out of a coffee mug. Yes, I have food. Frozen dinners and soup-in-a-can. But it’s not condensed soup. It’s Progresso. So I could be worse off.
Don’t judge me!
Below is the second part to my salacious tale of teen lust. Read if you dare. Unless you’re Mom. Then you can check this out! Actually, it’s more funny than it is salacious, and I have to admit it’s on the sad side as well. And long. Fuck it. Read it or don’t; it’s just good exercise for me. Maybe you’ll think of some long-lost memory? You should write to me about that, I’d like to hear yours, too.
Jailbait Helena
August 16, 2005 at 2:02 am | In nostalgia, why i need therapy | 12 CommentsI loaded up Flickr with the photos that make me never want to have daughters.
You can click MORE to see them here, right now. I apologize for the low-tech/ghetto style and stuff, but I don’t have a scanner here, and I will forget to do this if I wait until tomorrow. Beause I’m a dingbat like that.
Anyway, Click More… already!
Johnny Rockstar: I of II
August 15, 2005 at 6:14 pm | In dudes suck, nostalgia, sex, storytelling, why i need therapy | 8 CommentsA DISCLAIMER: This entry is NOT family- or people-who-get-freaked-out-by-too-much-information- friendly. Proceed at your own risk. And if you are related to me please do not ever let me know you read it, because that will give me the creeps.
Last Friday night when I was at Rina’s, there was like an 80’s/90’s thing happening on the radio, I’m not sure what station it was. But one of the songs that came on was Friday I’m in Love, by (The) Cure. The song was on an album I listened to a lot with my best friend in 7th and 8th grade (I will call her Stacy), when we used to hang out at Knott’s Berry Farm and I was just learning how to cause trouble.
Listening to that song that night after a couple of (ok, a few) drinks, sitting in the backyard, I drifted off into a nostalgic haze.
I thought about that time Stacy and I took our passes and headed to Knott’s to find a certain boy. His name was Johnny Gonzales. I won’t change his name, because he was an asshole. He was tall and skinny, he wore a leather jacket, he had cool sideburns, and he claimed to be a reincarnation of a vampire. Also, he knew magic. I think he was about 17 at the time. I was 13 when he made my virginity disappear.*
Sunday Evening Guilt
August 15, 2005 at 1:30 am | In desires, dudes rule, nostalgia, why i need therapy | 7 Comments
Tonight I ate some buttery-soft O-Toro and watched Young Sherlock Holmes. I’ve said before that Nicholas Rowe, in this part, was one of my first crushes. I’m not sure exactly what did it for me–his precocious manner…his studly brain…his tall, lanky build…or that sensitive side of him we just catch a glimpse of here and there. I mused over all of this as I popped in the DVD, and knew I was in for a little nostalgic trip.
But MY GOD I didn’t realize how attracted I’d still feel to him.
I am so disgusting! I mean, look at this kid…he’s like 17 years old! He’s jailbait! And I still get butterflies in my tummy when he professes his devotion to his little girlfriend before she dies in his arms.
It worries me a bit. Fortunately, I’m not partial to the young fellows (not for long, at any rate). And I feel better because the real Nick Rowe (it’s just Nick now, not Nicholas, ok?) is also a grown-up. This is a character. I’m not a pedophile if I’m enamored of an underage character, right? Does it mean something that “Boy Toy,” who I dated last summer, bears a striking resemblance to Rowe? These are the burning questions.
All-boy prep schools. My goodness, now I understand that obsession with the Catholic Schoolgirl Skirt. Pardon me while I try to hunt down the Lawrenceville Stories…you know, for use in aversion therapy.
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