Monthly Archives: May 2011

“Suga, Suga: How You Get So Fly?”

As you can clearly see from the rant blog by yours truly (better tagged by one her readers as “a very pretty cunt”), I have never been at a lack for words.  Also, due to a significant number of years invested in my education (still happening, by the way), I have acquired the skills necessary for choosing those words precisely and, hopefully, with time, quite wisely.

But I shall confess:  My recent break-up — left me utterly speechless Because there we were:  a couple of friends who were slowly — and gracefully — becoming a couple.  The affair had a very natural flow to it.  For the first half of it, we were taking it slowly; cruising along as lovers who enjoyed each other’s company immensely.  Days at a time were spent together, without either one of us acquiring an anxiety or getting on each other’s nerves.  And the best part about this ordeal was that we “chose” to spend time with each other; and in that choice, there was a wonderful amount of freedom and dignity.  No one was making demands.  No one was feeling trapped.  We were in this — willingly.  (Or at least, so I thought.)

Sooner or later, however, there was a turning point; or as I like to call it:  “Time for an Upgrade”.  The lovers began traveling together.  They maintained a daily contact.  Friends were being met.  Questions were being answered to family members (how ever carefully, on my part).  Yet still, the affair was characterized by an certain ease:  Both lovers were still in it, seemingly willingly, and no one was asking for any assurances.  We — were cruising.

Perhaps, it was because this “very pretty cunt” has always been quite independent.  Not since a tumultuous marriage way back when have I treated a relationship as a solution to my personal lacks.  Perfectly complete and competent on my own, I treat a partner as a mere traveling companion:  I choose (here is that word again!) to spend time with him; and that’s just so much better!

Moreover, I don’t believe in making demands from a man; because for the lack of better words (of which, may I remind you, I rarely have a deficit):  Making demands — reeks of despair.  And I just don’t do despair.  Fear causes wrinkles on my face and makes my hair fall out.  Chalk it up to my vanity thing.  So.  Yeah.  I don’t do dat!  Fo’ shiz.

Which means that I’m never the broad to demand keys to my guy’s apartment, or a ring; or a notarized contract on the chronology of “where exactly all this is going” — with clearly established deadlines.  I mean, I have NEVER even asked for a relationship update on his fucking Facebook!  (And by the look of it, I will NEVER have that opportunity in the future either, because at this point, my Facebook profile — belongs to my rant blog.  I’m a working girl, you see:  Whomever I may be shagging at the time — that’s irrelevant for my networks.)

“I’ve always seen you as this…  how should I say it?… a free spirit,” one of my witnesses testified over a month ago.  Every bit of a gentle-man, this creature has learned to deal with my radical opinions with admirable tolerance and subdued judgement.  That day, he gently confronted me about my aloofness toward this now obviously significant other.

“Perhaps, you’ve never been in a normal relationship — because it’s YOU who’s avoiding it.  And if this man is important to you, you must tell him that!”

Oh, no!  Oy, nyet!  Have I become too much of a cruiser?  One of those bohemian, universal-love, everything-happens-for-a-reason, Namaste chicks?  Nothing wrong with that, of course; but regardless of my love of freedom — and my respect for my partner’s freedom (AND his choice) — I do aspire to be IN a relationship.  In a LOVE!  So, have I been disrespecting this beloved man of mine with my aloofness?  Have I kept him at bay by “taking it easy” and “just going with it” — just “cruising”?!

“I must correct that!” I thought.  “He needs to know that I love him, that I am — ‘committed’!”

And so I did!  At the very next opportunity for mutually free time, I brought it up.

Cut to:  It was over.

Yep, in that very same talk that was merely meant to communicate my feelings and clarify my intensions, my man’s response was that HE — “just wasn’t ready for a commitment”.

I was speechless. 

And because I was speechless, I turned to the other gentle-men in my life, for their capable and eloquent evaluations.  Here is one testimony:

“So I was reading an article about airline pilots, and they all agree the most comfortable and safest part of the flight is ‘the cruise’… which is the max comfortable cruising altitude.  All blue skies up there.  They can even take a nap legally, eat, and talk about their lives.

On the contrary, the most dangerous part of a flight is take-off and landing. The point: Changes in altitude are dangerous.

Your relationships was in ‘the cruise’.  And your [relationship talk] was a request for a change of altitude.  Higher.  Thinner air.  The plane (your relationship) needs more speed to stay aloft.  Makes ‘pilots’ nervous.”

Um…  Okay.  I hear that!  Trust me, there ain’t another woman I know better equipped for the cruising mode — than me.  And when it came to this particular affair (now, obviously NOT a “relationship”) — I was a fucking co-pilot!  It took other gentle-men — people of my man’s kind — to remind me to treat my partner with the respect, and the recognition, and the acknowledgement that he deserved:  To let him step into my cockpit.

And may I also say:  What is it about the mere word “relationship” that makes so many men so very, very nervous?  Why have there been so many tales of gentle-men treating a commitment like a life sentence?  Or a fucking plane crash?

I cannot speak for other women here, but this “very pretty cunt” was not asking her man for obedience or some materialistic assurances.  Due to the mere fact of my overprotectiveness of my own freedom, I wasn’t asking for the surrender of his. 

No, my gentle-creatures:  This co-pilot was not demanding to take over the control panel of that bloody aircraft.  I was not changing the course of our cruising or contacting the ground station for the coordinates of our final destination.  The very respectful conversation that ended us — in mid-flight! — was merely meant to establish the equality of our titles as “co-pilots”.  I dared to ask for a recognition, just so that to other gentle-men and -women in my life, my relationship didn’t sound like morse code.

But don’t you worry, my gentle-creatures:  This pilot — this “very pretty cunt” — shall be quite alright.  Because she’s never latched onto her man for survival or asked him to pay for her fuel, the return to flight will resume sooner rather than later.  And judging by this rant blog, even her speech is quickly coming back to her.

So, okay:  It’ll be a lil’ while before she regains any communication with the self-dismissed co-traveler (obviously NOT a co-pilot!).  And it will be an even longer while until another fearless pilot steps-up to the plate to co-navigate to higher, unknown, thrilling altitudes.  But until then, she’ll just enjoy this unexpected landing and explore the scenery of self-examination she otherwise would not have gotten a chance to witness.  Because this free spirit — was NEVER afraid of cruising!

 

Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?

“I don’t see how your outlook can be helpful,” a lovely creature was texting me last night.

And I could do nothing better than to talk to her, but I was en route home — back to my sanctuary; a tired, little girl running away from the Big Bad Wolf — because I had my weekly long-distance call to make:  to Motha Russia!

For over a year now, I’ve made this call, every weekend:  To my old man.  I say “old”, because I assume he is such, my comrades.  But truth be told, I haven’t seen my father in nearly fifteen years.  Yes:  As others’, my family has had many tragedies; but this is the one — he and I have shared.

History does that It makes peg pieces out of people, moving them all around the world or taking them off the board entirely, as if a part of some sick master plan carried out by a player smarter than the rest.  A sly genius with a brutal vision.

I often wonder about my father’s memory — of his time and the way history presented itself to him, so obviously unkindly.  Although we’ve both lost our country to a collapsed ideology, followed by chaos, then a slew of changed regimes and a massive emigration (to which I ended up belonging), my old man’s lot had to be heavier to the millionth degree:  Because besides losing a county he’d spent four decades serving, he was losing his only child.

History does that.

Back then, in a reckless way to which most young are prone, I departed from Motha Russia with a courageous commitment to never look back.  And I didn’t.  Instead, I strained my eyes at the new horizon:  I had my whole life in front of me, my comrades, based in a whole new country; and however tumultuous or exciting — it was mine!  It was all about ME:  I was building this thing!  I was the one in charge!  It would take me a decade to build that life, while becoming the person my father had wanted me to be (but would not get to witness, still).  It would take a decade of hardships typical for any adulthood to eventually begin empathizing with my father’s lot.  But not until my own consideration of motherhood would I decide to reconnect with him.

In that first phone call over a year ago, my old man was so silent, I continued to question our phone connection.  Fuckin’ Russia!

“P:  Are you there?!” I kept repeating.

“Yes, yes, yes…  Forgive me.  Forgive me.”

And then, we’d go back to silence.

I realized:  Silence — was the sound of my old man’s crying.  An Alpha to the core, he had never cried in front of me, but once:  On the day of my departure.  So, words would fail us that day.  So would the connection, several times:  Fuckin’ Russia! 

But in between the silence, and my committed redialing of the operator, my old man would continue to say:

“Forgive me.  Forgive me.”

As if it were all his fault, the way life had played us.  As if the loss of connection — throughout our lives and that evening — were his responsibility to bear; because he was the adult, after all.  But what he didn’t know was that I too had learned the burdens of adulthood, which I was by now willing to share.  As far as I could see, between us:  Forgiveness was unnecessary.  Love — was.

So, it’s not that my last night’s chat with the lovely creature was unappreciated:  I have adored her for years.  But as we had witnessed each other’s recent love affairs go to shit due to the lapses of our men’s courage, our endless pontifications on their reasons, and feelings, and intensions — blah, blah, fuckin’ blah! — were beginning to feel gratuitous.  Why were we giving these guys so much benefit of the doubt?  Why were we wasting our loves on men who didn’t even want it?

So, I wrapped it up, perhaps clumsily and rushed (because last night, I was a tired, little girl, running away from the Big Bad Wolf):

“A person in love will do everything possible to be with his beloved.  My guy — was NOT in love with me.”

To my lovely, my conclusion had to seem brutal.

“I don’t see how your outlook can be helpful,” she said.

I dared to forget that she too was suffering.  Forgive me.  Forgive me.  So, I attempted to decoy the whole thing with a self-deprecating joke:

“I’m Russian:  I’m used to tough love.”

The joke didn’t work.  I lost her.

But this morning, post the conversation with my old man, I have to reconsider the pattern of my rushed departures:  If I am not loved — I leave.  I burn bridges.  Seemingly recklessly, I impose change with my departures — onto the lives of others and myself — and cope with the consequences later.  But what I don’t do — is wait around for a man’s change of heart.  

My lovely of last night was not the first to accuse me of brutality of my choices.  I’m tough, she says;  “so strong!”  But to me, love — is a matter of black-and-white, really:  It is a privilege that cannot be wasted.

Too hard was my lesson with my old man, my comrades:  No matter the turmoil of history or life, you do NOT take your beloveds for granted.  Because there is way too much unpredictability in life.  Too much chaos and pain.  And to forsaken a love — is a choice I can no longer afford.

Thankfully, my old man was on the same page last night:

“Run:  He is not in love you,” he said.  “Run — for your life!”

And so, I did:  A tired, little girl running away from the Big Bad Wolf.

So, Hush, Little Baby… Don’t. You. Cry.

Guess who just hibernated for half a day?  Not kidding, kiddos:  Twelve hours of sleep!

And I would’ve kept going if it weren’t for my self-delusion that someone out there was waiting for my words; that my art was relevant (some days), and that this daily activity made up my life’s meaning (for now).  On such mornings, I wonder what it would be like if I had a child to feed.  Or a goat.  Would I still exercise such selfishness in my sleeping habits?

And let me tell you, my kiddos:  I’ve got sleeping habits galore.

According to my motha, I was never the child to refuse a midday nap.

“Vera?  Boom!” she would order me whenever she caught me spying on her from behind the bars of my crib.  (She’d always be saying my name in such a way as if I were perpetually in trouble.)

“Vera?!  Boom!”

That shorthand command for sleep would interrupt all of my activity, and I would collapse into slumber.  I could be gnawing on my toe, or constructing caves out of crocheted blankets; or trying to balance on my pigeon toed feet while frowning at our black-and-white telly:  If mother said “Boom!” — I was out, in seconds.

At first, it amused her to no end.  She’d wait for me to be entangled in the most awkward position, like trying to reach one leg to the top bar, or braiding myself into a pretzel.  (Apparently, I was always quite bendy.  Still am, to this day.  My lovers — are so lucky!)  On command, I’d drop everything and hit the pillow; and she would laugh and laugh — in the way that only my motha could:  violently and shockingly loud.  Then, she’d tell my father to go check on me.  (Apparently, tucking me in was his duty alone.  Still is, to this day.  My lovers — are so unlucky!)

For a while there, she swapped my name for “Boom!” altogether.  Why waste her breath, right?

“Boom?!  Boom!”  (She’d still be saying it in such a way as if I were perpetually in trouble though.)

Eventually, the joke got old; and although motha still utilized shorthand for most of her parenting, she would no longer laugh, at my expense:  violently and shockingly loud.  It must’ve made me sad then.  I don’t really remember.

These days, it is my lovers’ lot to suffer through my sleeping habits’ galore.  Many have testified to some violent shit that goes down on my side of the bed.  Some have even had bruises to prove it.  And many have wondered about all the heat and sweat I produced when in the grips of my unconscious:

“It’s like a war zone, in the tropics — sleeping with you,” one of the departed joked.

And if I get comfortable enough, I can fall asleep anywhere; which is why all of my beloveds harbor anecdotes of my naps in the strangest and most unlikely places.

“I was afraid to walk out of the room,” another, most recently departed recently testified.  “I’d come back:  and you’d be flat on you face, asleep…  I’d have to wake you up, just to make sure you were alive.”

Yesterday, I fell asleep on the beach, my kiddos, waiting for a brown honey to join me.  She was running late:  My love.  But while I was dreaming of her hips and soul (both quite generous); while I was listening to my own heart moan with gratitude for this love (one and many); while I suddenly discovered myself no longer alone in this lonely city; someone must’ve said, “Boom!” — and I was out, in seconds. 

Or may be it was the hissing of the Pacific that knocked me out.  It was so violent and purposeful, kind of like my motha’s laughter.  Fucking lullaby.

Or perhaps it was the background murmur by a group of young French boys who insisted on dropping their towels two meters down from my brown ass.

“San-tah…  Moni-kah?” they took turns pronouncing.

“Shhh,” the Ocean joined in; and I was out, in seconds.

Occasionally, I’d wake up, look back over my shoulder and catch one of the boys grinning his silly smile, at my ass, then my face.

“Yourr velkom,” I’d think.  My brown love was still running late; so I waited to go back to sleep while watching the planet do its thing from underneath my Lorrie Moore novel, with which I’d covered my eyes.

At a mat nearby, an aging, balding athlete was fixing a bulge underneath his navy blue speedo.  He would seem ridiculous, but his bulge was no laughing matter.  And he was oh so serious!

“Mazel tov,” I half-thought, half-dreamt, and turned my face the other way.

I watched young, limber women get dressed.  The way they got up, caressed themselves from dust and sand; the way their hair flapped in the wind, like the Golden Fleeces — it made me wonder if they were already in my dreams.  Their curvatures blocked the sun.  (Or was it Lorrie Moore, on my face?)  I watched the intricate workings of their zippers, and buttons, a ties; and they would be so focused and calm, I had to have thought them up.

A handful of young kids walked by my head — each a mixture of several countries — talking their eco-politics.  Oh, they were so of the now!  Bits of sand got separated from their feet, landed in my hair and woke me up — to their now.

I rolled over.

At the other end of the beach, half a dozen of boys were playing volleyball.  I watched them move, so unlike me.  So unlikely.  One young one was standing to the side, with his hands on his locked hips.  He reminded me of a three-year old I’ve never had; and of a man-child I’ve just finished having.  I started to weep, into the open pages of Lorrie Moore.

But:

“Shhh,” went the Ocean.

And I was out, in seconds.

You Oughta Know, No?

Trying something new this morn’, my kittens:  Naked rant blogging — IN BED.  Knowing me (and some of you are getting to know me quite a bit these days, thank you very much), I am shocked I haven’t done this one before.

The thing is, this week:  Besides working really hard on my dreams (The Perpetual Dreamer is my life’s finally declared major), I’ve also invested a few hours on the most significant relationships of my life (which although do not currently include a romantic interest, but plenty of loves).

I’ve received my girlfriends’ strife and got updates from my comrades on the state of their own nostalgia for our no longer existent motherland:  Bohemia, alas.

“Hear me out!” — a gypsy man ordered me the other day while he endlessly wondered about his next wandering.  And I did.  I did:  I heard him out.

Compassion.

I’ve held my breath in silence yesterday afternoon while listening to my goddaughter far away from me, on the other coast, who hasn’t learned to talk yet but speaks volumes with her silence and her tiny furrowed brows inherited from India.  Breathlessly, I held back my tears to the noise of her twirling her mother’s cell phone, in her little brown hands; and when she finally produced a noise that’s impossible to spell or imitate — (was that Malayalam, my love?) — oh how I wept!  But then, again:  I’ve claimed my breath back:

Compassion!

Now, I’m sittin’ here, in my canopy bed, with the most gorgeous skies tempting me from outside.  My body — albeit its looking delicious this summer already, thank you very much — is feeling as if someone has ran it over with a truck.  Better yet:  a tank.  Exhausted:  That’s what I am, my kittens.

But regardless the state of being, I always come back to the blank page, every single morn’, as I’ve done for years, on my own.  Alone.  But now:  You’re here.  And these every day reunions beat every other desire I may harbor.  It’s permanent — this wanting to be read.  And even though I never allow myself the hubris of assuming that I may change a life — with my words — I hope I at least reveal enough compassion.

Compassion…

“How do you find what to write about?”

I hear a voice from another day — a voice of one of my broken-hearted.  She’s always thought so highly of me!  She wishes for my strength and esteem and discipline; while little does she know that all I wish for — is her time.  She’s still got time on her side — time and youth, you see? — while I’m perpetually running out.  Too young to know what chronic nights of loneliness feel like, she thinks I don’t cry behind my closed doors and curtains; that I’m immune to doubt.  She thinks my compassion comes freely, at no cost.

How DO I find what to write about?

Compassion.  That’s it.  It never runs out.  That’s my privilege, in life — and my burden:  I’m never immune to humanity.  No matter the stupidity or the disappointment, I always come back to it.  And now:  You’re here.  And even though I never allow myself the hubris of earning your understanding, your misunderstanding — I just cannot afford!  Because these tales come from my compassion:  FOR YOU.  For the sake of you.  For the sake of my own kindness.

Kind-ness.

The hero of today’s rant blog shall be named Stan.

Stan was a simple man, my kittens; not really artistic or fearless.  He just wanted to live his life, to live it out in calm — in some blah-ness of a simple survival.

No, he didn’t want much.  Aspiring — wasn’t his thing.  Ambition was somebody else’s spiel.  Because to live — wasn’t even his choice in the first place.  He was sort of born one day, to a pair of unartistic, fearful parents, somewhere in the middle of the country.  They taught him how to walk and to use the toilet; then, sent him off to school.  Then — college.

Stan got by.  Started losing his hair early.  Met a girl.  Learned to wank himself off.  Married the girl — knocked her up, clumsily, in the dark; then, returned to wanking himself off, alone.  Pleasures were always simple for Stan.  So were the solutions to his problems.  (I wish he didn’t have any, to tell you the truth.  But then, we are never granted more than we can handle.  So, Stan’s lot had to be lighter than mosts’.)

“I hear California is nice,” he said to his wife one day.  She was in the midst of matching his tube socks after doing laundry.

That was the day of Stan’s midlife crisis.

So, they moved.

And that’s where Stan and I met:  At some random gas station on Western Boulevard.  I was running low, in the midst of my Perpetual Dreaming.  (Otherwise, I’d avoid that street at all costs:  It’s got a special talent for inspiring depression.)  And Stan?  Stan was on his way back to Glendale.  This — was his regular stop.

At first, he was the jerk answering his cell phone at the gas pump next to mine.

“Is this fucker suicidal?!”  I thought and looked at him with the disgust I learned on New York subways.  Don’t know about his simple life, but I still had plenty of aspiring to do!  Ambition — was my spiel!

Stan noticed the look, realized his wrongdoing.  He brushed his thin hairs over the bald spot, lowered the phone and said:

“I’m so sorry, M’am.  I have to get this!  My wife…”

Stan started weeping, my kittens.  Subduedly at first, just so he could finish the phone call.  But once the flip phone slid into the pocket of his un-ironed khakis, Stan became all about his “ohs” and “goshes”.  Repeatedly, he tried to double over the hood of his car, then the trash bin with pockmarks of gum all over it.  He tried so hard to face away from me.

“Sir?  Sir, let me…”

With my hand on his hunched over back, I tried to guide him to his driver’s seat. But Stan was all about his “ohs” and “goshes”, clutching onto that filthy trash bin:

I was running low that day; but when compassion flooded — it took me with it, good riddance.

“Have You No Sense of Decency?”

Sirens.  They are so much louder in this city, it seems; louder than anywhere else. (And I’ve heard my share, trust me.  I hate it.)

They are louder than in that other place I keep procrastinating returning to, regardless of its coordinates as the Center of the Universe (because I haven’t paid my dues here yet, you see).  But then, these police hollers are not as as loud as those other things, up in my neighborhood’s sky every bloody night, shooting down searchlights into a zip code that shoots searchlights back up at it, from every douchy new joint that won’t last.

Nothing really lasts, it’s true.  But LA-LA has a special talent for transience.

Everybody despises it here, at least at one point or another.  It’s what this city is here for, don’t cha know?  This poor, used-up girl!

When I think of LA-LA’s face, I think of a woman, of course; of someone who is moderately pretty and lovable, but with time.  She is the girl one settles for, not the heartbreaker perfectly dressed at all times who ruins a man’s heart with her impossibility and expensive, addictive perfumes.  No, LA-LA is much simpler than that:  She is there, for the taking — if one is kind enough and patient.  But if ever you decide to break-up with her, she’ll let you go so freely you’ll wonder if she ever even loved you at all.  So, the joke’s on you, really.  And no matter where the departed go from here — from her — don’t you worry:  She’ll be fine.  She’ll still be here, for the next guy.

The natives (who are in the minority here, because the minorities — are not):  They despise the newcomers.  And there are plenty of those, every day climbing off their Greyhounds and shuttles; interrogating their cabbies as if they were tour guides.  (I would hate to be a cabdriver in this city:  too many flights.)  It’s endless, this influx of dreamers.  Perpetual.  THANK GOD.

And then, the newcomers despise not being important enough, not quickly enough.  Back in the pond where they’ve come from, they used to be so beloved:  How dare you not know their name?!  Or maybe, they weren’t loved enough, and they’ve come here to avenge themselves.  Regardless:  They have yet to learn that LA-LA doesn’t give a damn about their personal agendas.  Here, time is made of liquid rubber (and it stinks equally).  It takes time to make a name for yourself (even if you’ve come here with a name).  But first, you have to make a living — and a life.

The beautiful girls, of which LA-LA has plenty:  The beautiful girls who lose their beauty here — that’s what they hate this city for.  They would’ve wasted their youth elsewhere, it’s true; but then, it least, it would’ve gained them something.

I bumped into one of them the other day:  She’s been paying her dues for six years now, just like me; and after endless auditions and plenty of cocktail waitressing, she’s finally earned herself an Under-Five on a some show about Hollywood douche bags.

“Congratulations, love,” I said.  “Where to next?”

“HOME.  I’m going home.”

The young, heartbreaking boys with low expectations and a high tolerance for deprivation; who sleep in cars in between apartments (because it makes for a great story, once they’re famous) — they think they don’t need love around here.  They can do without it, for now:  They’ve got time.  But when they learn that time is made of liquid rubber, randomly, they start poking around.  Poking themselves into any moderately pretty girl who’ll pay attention after enough drinks — and attention.  All this random poking into loveless girls — that’s their beef with this city.

“No offense,” one of them shot me a stare the other day as if I were the one offending him.  “But there are no decent women here.”

I rebutted quickly and well (I’ve had practice, you see).  He laughed, changed his mind (was I worthy of a poke?), and asked me if I had “anything on me”.

“Anything on me?”

“Don’t cha like to have some fun?” he said; then, shot me another spiteful stare.  I was just another dumb bitch, who, at least, had the decency to be decent.  But he wasn’t after decency, really.

Oh, we’ve all had a share of mistakes here; have fallen prey to douches and scams.  But that’s okay.  Silly mistakes are okay.  Just don’t be stupid.  LA-LA is too small of a town for stupidity, because somebody knows somebody else.  The word gets around.

Here, you’re always supposed to know a Somebody:  Knowing a Somebody gets you closer to your own Somebody-ness. So, you hang on to the few famed ones, drink up from their expensive pool, up in the hills.  You memorize the names of their siblings and pretend liking their dogs, just so one day you may say to somebody, over pizza:

“That’s my friend:  Somebody!”  And you all stare at the face blown up on the screen and feel like you’re ever so closer to having paid your own dues.

And every once in a while, an actual friend of yours — not just a Somebody but a comrade-in-arms — books something big.  (This must be the reason why I myself love pilot seasons in LA-LA.)  And it’s wonderful.  Oh, how wonderful!  THANK GOD.  And if you haven’t lost the ability for compassion to your own sense of despair, you feel thrilled for her.  Because it also means there is still hope; that dreams are not forsaken, in LA-LA.

But then, your friend leaves.  If she doesn’t leave for another city, she leaves for a different demographic.  You may still have a chance to hang out at her expensive pool, up in the hills; sitting next to the next transient guy, despising this city:

LA-LA has a special talent for transience.  But at least, you have a chance to cash in your own big check (after enough time and patience; dues and poking around).  And if you’re still with it — at your turn for Somebody-ness — it’ll get you closer to your next dream.  Or the next city.

“Love Dries Up, I Thought — Even Faster Than Sperm”

Settle down, lovelies!  Settle down!  I didn’t write that line above (although I wish I did).

Behold:  The genius of C. Bukowksi exactly the man to keep me company last night, in bed. 

Which, by the sound of him, is where he best belonged in life:  Under the sweat-soaked sheets, with some well-lived-in broad (behold:  me) who had the potential to be brilliant; and who every once in a her saddest while, lived up to that potential.  But all other times, she bounced between being brutal and angelic, and maybe a lil’ bit childlike.

Yeah.  C. and I could’ve had some fun!  That poignant alcoholic who on paper insisted sounding like a bastard!  Was he, indeed?  Or was he, like me, bouncing between being brutal and… well, something else.

“R u home?” I got interrupted by a text from an ex, at around midnight.  A text from an ex — seeking sex?  But I already had a man in bed:  C.  Period.

But why be rude, I thought, and I responded:  “Yep.”

“Want me 2 come over?”  (I pondered:  Could I be in the mood for some sex with an ex?)

“I’m in bed, with my lites off.”  I half-lied.  Apparently:  I wasn’t in the mood.

“Well get dressed and turn your lites ON!”

Oh.  So it wasn’t about sex!  The ex was concerned.  Earlier in the day, I remembered he asked me about my head:  He knew how that fucking thing got, all messy ‘n’ shit, post break-up.  After all, he’d seen me handle his own departure, three years ago.

This ex-player always had a talent to be rougher than most.  Not mean, just stronger.  The most assertive I’ve ever had.  On the phone and in bed, he always he treated me like a handful, but never a pain in the ass, acting as if he would rather do nothing else but figure me out.  He left though — surprise, surprise! — after a couple of months of such riddle solving.

“Timing,” he said at the time.  (Funny:  That’s the same explanation I got from this latest guy.)

So, I thought of all the voices in my head that get set off by a man’s departure.  Between brutal and angelic I usually bounce, grappling with the worst, darkest thoughts — just so I could come out on top, illuminated by grace:  On top, just the way I like it.  The departed are rarely made privy to the brutality of my head, because I never want to be “that girl”:  Name-calling her formerly beloved — or her beloved still! — and destroying whatever bits of beauty remained in the post-break-up’s ground zero; only to find herself not living up to HER better self.  I exorcise my own head, in private.  That way, years down the road, after other women, my players will always think:

“But Vera was kinder than most.”  (Settle down, lovelies:  I didn’t write this line either.  C. Bukowski did.  Period.)

These voices:  Every woman gets them.  And because of the privilege I’ve earned via kindness and empathy, I’ve listened to other broads’ voices before:  Name-calling their exes, damning them to never be loved again, suddenly taking for granted the reasons for which they loved those poor bastards in the first place.  Sometimes, they wonder about where they themselves have gone wrong.  But that’s too brutal, you see, so they lash out at the guy again.

Here are just a couple of these gems, for your viewing, my lovelies:  A couple of those brutal voices — and, in return, my now habitual responses to them.  Because I’ve spent the night with C. Bukowski, you see.  That poignant alcoholic knows no lullabies.  So, I ain’t really in the mood for angelic right now:

—  “What an asshole!”  

That’s the most reoccurring voice from my girls, when they lash out at the man they’ve just finished adoring five minutes ago.  Sometimes, the name varies, depending on my girls’ demographics.  And oh how they expect me to echo that name of choice — but I don’t!  I SHALL NOT.

Instead, my rebuttal is — always:  He may be that, my ladies.  He may be that (insert a name according to the girl’s demographic). But chances are that, like you, he is just one hurtin’ mother fucker, trying to get through the chaos of life the best way he can.

—  “He doesn’t deserve me!”  

I’ve made it quite obvious that I am a fan of my own gender.  But regardless the accusations by a slew of haters this year, I don’t always side with it.  I do try my very, very best to see both points of view.  I’m brutal and angelic that way, ‘member?

But “deserve” is a funny word.  Not “funny” funny, but reeking of hubris — of taking the place of divinity.  And it is my personal belief that one’s divinity should only be applied when striving for one’s own best potential.  It CANNOT be practiced on others. It is too brutal that way.

So, what I tell my girls (and myself, in this state of lapsed graces) is this:  May be.  He may be an undeserving man.  But instead of waiting for someone else to step-up, why not give YOURSELF what you think you deserve?

(Most of the time, my girls’ response to that is, “I don’t know how to do that…”  Sad, ain’t it?  But that’s a discussion for another day.)

No one will ever love him the way I did!”  (SHIT:  Speaking of brutal.)

May I just say, ladies:  I hate this one!  As someone who’s been on the receiving end of that line, I cannot think of the most absolute way of erasing the love that preceded the break-up.  Because a thought like that betrays your own twisted intensions.  During the love affair, you may not have loved unconditionally — but for the sake of your own validation; and just how fucked up is that?  Not fucked up, but perfectly human.  But I do know — but you can do better than that.  YOU CAN BE — BETTER THAN THAT.

“And who the fuck do you think you are — to predict another person’s life?”  (Oops.  I think I just spoke directly to the ex who damned me with that same line.  “What an asshole!”)

All said and done, my lovelies:  Lovers come and go.  That’s their very purpose, you see.  During an affair, whatever your trip may be — that’s the trip they take with you.  That’s the trip they teach you.  But there are no better lessons — no better tests of your own character — when these lovers depart.  For in that seemingly most brutal stretch of days, they teach you your own worth.  Your grace.  Your personal divinity.

That way, years down the road, after other women, your players will think:

“she has hurt fewer people than

anybody I know, 

and if you look at it like that,

well, 

she has created a better world.

she won.”

(Settle down, my lovelies.  I didn’t write that line either.  That’s my C.  Period.)

And Here’s to Me — Mrs. Robinson

Boys, boys, boys:  Mmm-hmm.

This early morn’, I took a drive through LA-LA.  Did you know it can be a pretty mofo — if you go against its traffic?  Oh, yes, it can, my kittens!

And this kitten — yours truly — somehow ended up in someone else’s cot last night.  It wasn’t planned, I swear; because in my feline fashion, no matter where my paws wander off during sunlight, they always lead me back home at the end of each day.  But when I saw the one from last night — in a tight T, which was barely holding onto its seams at his Apollonian pecs and drenched in sweat from a late night jog — I think I suffered a temporary amnesia.

Now, don’t be “yelous”, papis!  ‘Cause no matter where I rest my paws, I always report back to you, via this here rant blog.

“Last night didn’t mean anything, I swear!  You — are the only ones I truly love!”

So, here I am:  Scratching at your door.  Hellow.

I did leave him sleeping in his bed looking very pretty though, slightly disheveled and tired.  (What?!  We just played a coupla rounds of patty cake, that’s all — and I won!)  But before I left, I got sidetracked by his sleepy face:  He was frowning a little.  He must’ve been slaying dragons in his dreams.  From where I stood, his ripped back looked like that of a man.  But underneath the stubbly morning whiskers, I somehow managed to notice a little boy.

Damn my ovaries!  I swear:  Every single time I’ve fallen for a boy, they are at fault They forget, you see, the boundaries between my lovers and sons; and as if to make-up for the fact that I’ve never put ‘em to work for the sake of my own procreation, they confuse the hell outta me — and I adopt the men I love.  (Just last night, when rubbing his head on my naked breasts, I didn’t even think to remember that man’s function in my life:  He was it all, in that moment, across every category.  My son.  My baby.  My little boy — and man.  My love and my lovely.)

This maternal overcompensation must be the very reason for my recent basking in the attention of significantly younger men.  No matter where their phone numbers are collected — at some artificially manufactured playground of LA-LA or a late night dance floor packed with plenty of other specimen — when they reveal their age (24 to 26!), I have to summon the best nonchalant face I can, to not scare them off right away with my skeptical chuckle.  And considering they are always a lil’ bit defensive about those numbers, I suspect they are aware of the possible age difference.  Yet, still, they proceed.

(I am actually quite fascinated by this generation of younger American men:  They aren’t easily intimidated by older women.  

“A woman — is not a girl,” one them was trying to break it down for me the other day while nearly drooling.  (No shit, kitten!)  “She knows what she wants and how to get it.”  (Hmm.  Papi, may I?)

More over, these youngsters seem at ease when it comes to gender roles.  All of the ones to enter my own speed dial this last month make no fuss about picking up the tab or opening my doors; but are still quite comfortable when a woman turns out to be more sexually aggressive.  They all kinda smile a lil’, boyishly, while quietly answering my questions; until the tables are turned — and it’s their time to step up and be the men they so painfully desire to be.  Hmm.  A coinkydink?  Perhaps.)

This morn’, somewhere in West LA-LA, I passed a young couple hugging at a car.  I couldn’t see the boy’s face, just the back of his UCLA-gold hoody.  But I did see his girl’s face:  quite pretty and seemingly still asleep, she had her eyes closed as she rested her cheekbone against his ear.  Her strawberry blonde hair swooped down, until the boy reached over to gather it into a messy ponytail by which he gently but knowingly guided her face to his lips.  Got skills, mister?  Mmm.  Mazel tov!

And then there was the pretty creature jogging sleepily through the cozy streets of the Melrose District.  The way his joints moved was the exact reason I never mind a packed beach:  For there is something so calculated, strong and graceful in the way a man can throw a ball, or carry a surfboard (or a girl) over his shoulder.  Despite the slightly baggy clothes on the young athlete, I could see the fit body underneath.  But it was really his face — the face that reminded me of the sleeping son I left behind — that nearly brought me to tears:  There was determination in it.  Determination and clarity that hasn’t overcrowded his innocence yet.  I could tell he still knew how to dream, and his world was oh so full of possibilities.  This boy was not running from or to yet:  He was still taking his life, a sleepy leap at a time.

Somewhere closer to home, in Hollyweird’s zip code, a young hippie caught my attention.  His dirty blond hair was unbrushed, spilling out from a small ponytail in the back of his head.  Looking very Johnny Depp in Chocolat (or pre-Jolie Brad Pitt), with no bag to burden his strut, he walked along a perpetually depressing, long white wall of a local studio set.  I bet he worked in production, in a clan of gypsies — stagehands and craftsmen — who are always ever so cooler than any celebrity actor on set.  I bet my hippie had a few stories to tell:  about his personal Milky Way that led him to this Weird Land of Holly; and about the way life fell into its place, as it does in this town — but only for those with courage and discipline enough to chase it.

With his and my own reflections in my rearview mirror, I thought:  What am I to do with this new collection of young dreamers?  with all my sons?

Then, I realized there was nothing to do — but to be kind:  To cause them the least amount of disappointment and heartache.  Some would eventually act their age, get scared and return to the sandboxes better suitable for their courage.  Others would continue to demand my company as they grew into their manhood.  But I should never be the source of their suffering; because their lives — and other women, other mothers — would have enough of that in store. 

Instead, I should remain a fan of their yet unmarred beauty and youth; let them rest and leave them dreaming their morning dreams of slain dragons and new Milky Ways.  And the ones that would insist on following — well, then:  We should play another round:

I Pack and Deliver — Like UPS Trucks

“Ring-a-ding, ding.”

“Allo?”

“Hello?  Hi, gorgeous.”

“Who —  eez theze?

“Motha?  It’s me!”

“Oh!  Wha-ha-ha, ha-ha!” she laughs in that way that only my motha can; and when she does, I am willing to lose my own composure and start echoing that roaring, tear-jerking laughter of hers.  (I swear, sometimes I can hear the voices of all the women that came before her, chiming-in from the previous century, and from beyond… wherever they’ve gone.)

“Who else calls you ‘gorgeous’, silly?” — I confront.

“Eh.  People.”

Okay.  I do lose my shit here.

I’ve called the woman last night after a very valid question posed to me by one of my girls:  Why are we so horny?  My girl is one of those fearless broads who is constantly decked out in designer clothes, killer heels; who drives big, expensive cars and motorcycles while channeling her own version of Danika Patrick; and who has a few dangerous hobbies and worldly curiosities in tow — all of which she accomplishes with her own money, by the way.  (Sure, there are times when she allows her power player to pick-up the tab; but it is never out of need or manipulation, but a mere humoring of his gender.  It’s just a lil’ dance she does.)  And to wrap up that phenomenal package is the woman’s wild sexuality and the body equipped to keep up with it.

Terms “fearful” or “unsure” would never be applied to either one of us; but when together, out on the town:  Watch out!  Trouble — in heels.  She and I try not to go out hunting together too much unless in the company of other, slightly more co-dependent women who can distract us from baiting the men of our interest.  But even if we don’t step out for the purpose of bringing men home, no doubt there are plenty of phone numbers collected.  (What happens when we do need a man?  Hmm.  I can’t tell you, kittens ‘n’ babies; because we both prefer to hunt alone.  Besides:  We don’t kiss ‘n’ tell.)

These days, with plenty of aspirations and self-employment gigs to juggle, I tend to have very little time for entertainment by any man’s company.  Because you see, recently, I’ve had to embrace the fact that most employers and I — just don’t jive well.  (True, quite a few of my bosses have been distant relatives of the very Devil; but most people I know have the ability to suck it up somehow.  Apparently:  I don’t suck up.)  So, here I am:  hustling a career of a freelancer with few more stable independent contractor agreements on the side (as “stable” as those get).  Add to that not one, but three careers in the making — and I myself am starting to feel like a distant relative of the very Shiva.

A busy broad I am, that’s true, with very little leftover time for a single girl’s dating life.  Very little time — or patience.  The way I see it, nowadays, my man — better be fun.  I have to be stoked about dating him; because if it’s a drag at all — “Do svidanya, darling!”  I’m earning plenty of wrinkles due to my lack of sleep and perfecting my hustler image already.  So, to have any additional worries caused by the man I’m seeing seems utterly unnecessary, wasteful — and, forgive me, just outright wrong.

However, my vagina — begs to differ.  By the feel of it, I am thinking I’m reaching the very peak of my sexuality; because unlike most women I know (except for my personal Danika Patrick), sex crosses my mind on a daily basis.

So, what IS a single girl to do?  I’ve tried sleeping with friends:  Always a loaded idea.  I’ve entertained requesting a regular service from an ex:  A horrendous, never-again idea!  And yes, of course, I’ve attempted the whole casual sex experiment.  That’s the better idea of ‘em all; but then, someone’s ego gets involved — and we’re back to the bad idea.

The worst part of that third option (and this, I suspect, is the part that most of you, kittens ‘n’ babies, won’t like hearing) — is that being a sexually liberated woman often results in confronting a gender-related double standard.  I don’t think you need me to break this one down for you, but if I openly admit to a man that I am mostly interested in (and have time for) sex, he won’t say, “Nyet!” — but his opinion of me will drop a coupla notches.  So, what I’m confronted with these days is a concept of Casual Dating:  I do this whole dating dance for a lil’ bit (just like my Danika) until jumping under the sheets no longer seems rushed or slutty.  And when someone can’t handle it any longer — I go.

 

“Um.  Mom?”

“Da?”

“So, why AM I so horny?”

“Sank yourr grrand-mozer!”

I think what she said had somethin’ to do with her own motha — a descendent of a Belorussian gypsy.  Apparently, this lack of sexual hang-ups is a genetic thing with us (which, according to motha — is also the reason for the troubled marriages and relationships in our fam).

“Well…  Does it get easier with time?”

“Hmm.  Nyet.”  (Thanks for the honesty, motha.)  “But you won’t care as much.” 

One of the better qualities I’ve inherited from the women in our fam (from the previous century and from beyond… wherever they’ve gone) — is the responsibility we take for our own self-esteem.  No man is ever burdened with caring for us, gypsies.  But to find lovers who can accept such independence — along with our wild sexuality — has been tremendously hard, for centuries.  So, we agree to dance with them, for a lil‘ while, until someone can’t keep up.  And when the going gets hard — the gypsies go.  Yet, according to motha, instead of inheriting grudges and carrying them into the next relationship — a dance or a casual date alike — we eventually learn to shrug off our losses and to forgive.

Well then.  That sounds like a plan, gorgeous.

“Cali’s Where They Put the Mack Down.” DO They?

Okay, my New Yorkers:  Avert your eyes here.  I’m gonna bitch a lil’:

Where the fuck is my sun, LA-LA?

This tan-o-rexic is seriously freaking out here!  How in the world am I going to carry on with my image of an ethnically ambiguous honey who attracts the gazes of dem white boys and brothers alike, if I let my skin lose the shade I’ve been working on so hard this summer?  Besides, everyone gets a much more mellow version of me after I’ve seared my skin under the cancerous rays.  So, really, my tan — is good for everyone.

(Hmm.  Where is my Not Like button ‘round here?!  Not Like.  Not Like at all, LA-LA!)

As if the life of a single girl in this city wasn’t hard enough!  First of all, everyone in LA-LA, regardless of their occupation, acts as if the entertainment industry is their money-maker.  In order to afford a life in this expensive city, we all work insanely long hours (even and especially those of us who choose to be self-employed); and it takes an equal amount of dedication to we wedge in some sort of a social life in between those 16-hour days that reek of production jobs. 

(For the single ladies on the hunt:  The men who work those bloody production jobs are quite easy to pick-out.  Beware:  They’re overstressed workaholics with quickly graying hair, chronic jitters acquired from serious dozes of caffeine, with a special talent of juggling several mobile devices and alcohol drinks with Red Bull.  They also tend to be overly dramatic when they don’t get the answer they want; because unlike for the rest of us:  Their time.  IS.  Money.)

But when we do get out for the sake of recreational — or procreational — activities, we are confronted with further challenges of this vast city.  No matter who you are or where you come from, everyone’s immediate beef with LA-LA is:  The distance.  Because this city spans for over 500 square miles that include mounts and valleys, ghettoes and beaches.  It can be a pretty mother fucker though; but we all would enjoy the ride a bit more, if it weren’t for the world-famous Los Angeles traffic.  (This traffic, by the way, is the very reason I’ve chosen to be self-employed; because when trying to get to my receptionist gig with its 8:30 in-time a few years back nearly gave me a heart attack and forever ruined my profanity censor.  Oh yes, sire:  Driving in my passenger seat — is not for the weak of heart, or for the tender of ears.)

It takes a special amount of expertise and temper to get to places on time.  But when in pursuit of a social life, one does have a choice to evaluate whether or not the event — or the person — is worth going the distance.  Brutal, ain’t it?  Yep.  I would never say it to a player’s face, but if he resides in the Valley, he and I — are just not meant to be.  Especially with these current gas prices!  Yeah.  Nyet:  I don’t do the Valley.  (I barely do Burbank, yet even then I cringe.)

And don’t even get me started on our City’s parking regulations:  It’s an exercise in deductive reasoning!  I’ve been known to deconstruct those poles with three-to-four plaques about permits and street cleaning and towing zones — for ten mins, easily!  Nowadays, if I’m ever late to a date, I don’t blame it on traffic.  I just roll my eyes and wipe my forehead:

“Phew.  Those parking signs!”

Anyway.  So, say you’ve arrived to your date safely and somewhat on time.  You’ve shared a meal.  The player has walked you to your car (which hopefully has NOT been towed by then).  What do you next?  Ahem (insert an cringe):  Not taking a walk, that’s for sure!  We don’t walk ’round here.  Because there is no better way to attract trouble than taking a stroll in pretty much any neighborhood.  Sure, you could drive yourselves to a park, but there aren’t many of those here either.  Besides, in the eve, most of them become a camping ground for this city’s homeless; and something tells me, you don’t wanna disturb their sleep.  So, why don’t you just grope each other against that safely parked car of yours; then, say, “Night-night,” and drive off while texting sexy messages to each other?  Fun.

With all of these factors considered, dating becomes a tricky and quite a stressful thing in this City of Angels.  But the one thing you cannot do — is leave your plans up in the air.  Because there are way too many factors that can distract both of you and detour your coffee date so far off, you’ll never get to it.

Last night, for instance, a cutie was making plans with me via texting; and oh, how intense he sounded!  (Call me old-fashioned, it would be my personal preference for him to pick-up that same phone and call me.  But then, I’ve lived through so many failed date plans and flaky arrangements, that I wasn’t getting my hopes up in the first place.)  But the player was very persistent — and quite specific:  He established the time, the date, the place AND the duration of our coffee date.  When I cracked a joke at his expense, this LA-LA native texted:

“I may be young, but I’m still a man.  I am very specific about what I like.”

Mkay then!  Sounds like someone’s been thrown for a loop a coupla times in his dating life; but yes, sir!  I’ll see you on Friday, at 17:36 Pacific time, on the South-East corner of Doheny and Sunset.

Now, I don’t want to ruin your party any further, my kittens, but this is not just a matter of my cunty-ranty opinion.  Apparently, official studies have been conducted on the topic of our strife and their conclusion is:  Dating in LA-LA — sucks!

I personally still have some hope, but according to this bit (forwarded to me by a bicoastal comrade), our city is actually the worst for any romantically recreational — or procreational — activities.  Why?  Learn about it:

“Anthropologists have noticed a statistic that correlates nicely with the social and sexual permissiveness of a population.  It’s called the sex ratio — the number of men for every 100 women.  In places where the sex ratio is low (i.e. excess of women over men), social morals are relaxed, women go out a lot, and everyone has a ball.  Where the sex ratio is high (i.e. excess of men), people go out less and attitudes are more conservative.”  

According to this blog — not written by yours cunty-truly, but by a man (!) — LA-LA’s excess of men makes our dating life quite hard to navigate.  (And you’d think that for a single girl this imbalance in sex ratio would be a good thing.  Damn.  Can’t a kitten get a break?)

So, instead of waiting for our now officially sucky dating scene to improve, I personally choose to entertain myself.  Hence:  Where the fuck is my sun, LA-LA?  Seriously.

A Woman Under the Influence

“I’ve always wanted to be an adjective.” — Lady Gaga

In all my blunt Russian honesty, I cannot claim that I seek inspiration from the most popular cultural events.  I don’t have E! looping in the background (I don’t even own a fuckin’ TV, the nerd that I am!); and never have I laid my eyes on the crafty work by Perez Hilton and the likes.

This year, however, since my pursuit of a self-publishing career as a blogger, I did have to get with the times a lil’ bit.  But even when I tweet (and I do so with discipline, on the hour — the nerd that I am!), I don’t stick around that social medium for the latest gossip.  A handful of fellow bloggers feed me their daily bits directly into my email; and when I do read, I’d rather get my fill via the New York Times’ op-ed pages or a quick bathtub read of Entertainment Weekly (I call it Entertainment —  Quickly!).  Because at least by then, the recent pop-cultural events and persons have been digested by someone else’s intellect and their validity has been established; at which point, I can decide whether or not to invest my own braincells in pursuit of self-education on that topic.  Some may call it snobbism.  I call it:  selective know-how.

Actually, scratch that.  “In all my blunt Russian honesty”, I should call it Being Ancient.

Just the other day, a honey — a total cutie, a lovely, a boo — offered to fix me up with one of his friends.  I chuckled, of course; but when he interviewed me on my preferred age group, I reluctantly spat out a demographic I’ve established for myself back in my 20s:

“A four-year difference, both ways.”

The cutie’s wheels began spinning:  “That makes it… 28 to 36?…”  (He gave me an elevator gaze, head to toe.)  “Nah!  28 is too young for you!” he concluded.  “I mean:  I — AM 28!  NO WAY!”

Casually, I had to lean myself against the exposed brick wall behind me in order to not double over from his brutal evaluation.  Truth be told though:  The cutie was right.  I AM starting to feel if not ancient — or well-lived in — then decidedly moving toward the middle-aged chapter of my life.  Perhaps, it is time to stop playing with boys in sandboxes — and get myself “a real man”, whatever the Dickens that means.

But when the cutie began interviewing me on the topic of my occupation (on behalf of my future husband — a.k.a. “the real man”), I found myself struggling with a temptation to give him a mellower version of myself.

“Oh yeah?  You’re a blogger?  What do you blog about?” the cutie was on a mission.

“Um…  Relationships…  ALL kinds of relationships.”

“Sex?”

“Um…”  (I had to grasp for my courage for a sec.)  “Sure.  Sometimes.”

The matchmaking never really took place, my comrades.  (Hmm.  Shocker.)  But the slightly brutal chat with the cutie made me wonder about my chances of getting paired-up during this era of pursuing my professional aspirations.  I mean, I myself don’t know many “real men” who could introduce a sex-blogger to their mother.  So, I’m thinking:  Until the money starts rolling-in and I single-handedly yank myself up to a higher financial demographic, I’m just gonna have to remain un-paired-up.  Un-matched.  Un-figured-out.  But thank you for your consideration.

But “in all my blunt Russian honesty” (phew:  quoting myself gives me a hard-on!), I must accept the fact that while chasing a dream, I am in a dire need of manufacturing a whole other persona.  And I’m not just talking about a stage name here, my comrades; or a pen-name, in my writerly case.  I’m talking about pimping myself out as someone a lot more fierce than the private person adored by her friends and lovers.

Because in this day and age of self-producing and self-promoting opportunities, one must LIVE a dream — BE a reincarnation of that very dream — not just CHASE it.  Chasing it, I’m afraid, just no longer cuts it.  And here, from my very conservative, old-fashioned research of the current pop-culture, I must bring up a very recent phenomenon common among female artists, specifically.

This is an era quickly overwhelmed by the emergence of perpetually self-reinventing women who are bold and fearless — via their fictional personas: 

–  Let’s start with my personal muse Rihanna, whose hair-color change inspires the women of the entire nation.  (Just yesterday, I’ve encountered half a dozen hairstyles of that RiRi-Red shade.)  But every time I bring her up in my female circles, it is guaranteed that someone will object to her obnoxious devotion to the topic of sex (an objection I rarely hear applied to the lyrics of Kanye West or 50 Cent.)  Hmm.

–  Then, there is the dual split of an artist formerly known as Beyonce.  In ’08, this fully-established, already commercially successful singer emerged as yet another persona when she released an album titled I Am… Sasha Fierce.  To most, that album was know for the anthem of All the Single Ladies.  I, however, was immediately fascinated by the dot-dot-dot portion of its title.  In that ellipsis, I hear a woman not only looking for her new identity, but the courage she must summon in order to deliver her message — via that identity.

–  Finally, there is the magnificently insane, ultra vain (or is she vain-less?), brilliant, ever-so-changing force of nature — and art! — Lady Gaga.  There is really nothing tamed about this one, is there?  There is no room for any ellipses.  In the case of Lady Gaga, there is no private persona.  She IS…  She is more than “IS”, actually:  Lady Gaga — is “IS”-ness herself.

So, is that what it takes?

In all my blunt Russian honesty, I don’t want a career of an anonymous artist:  I’m too vain for that.  Neither do I desire being tamed into a more easily digestible artist with a pseudonym who can than be described as the “Next-So-and-So”. I want to be… FIERCE.  SUCCESSFUL — and fierce.  And in order to accomplish that, I’m starting to learn that not only must I develop a thicker skin — I must get myself a whole new one.  As for the old skin, it’s just gonna have to be shed and left behind (for now), with all of its attached desires to be completely understood, embraced, liked and loved by a “real man” — and all kinds of others.

“What’s point?” you may wonder, my cuties.

Take it away, Gaga:

“The true luxury of my success is that I can do it all on my own terms now, even though the roller-coaster ride is still going.  [But now I own the roller coaster.]  I own the whole theme park, actually.”