In the entirety of my life in which I began considering myself an adult — a grown woman, with realized desires and choices to pursue those desires — I proudly admit to being a student of humanity. It must be why, I think, my sex life has been so adventurous and, for the lack of a better word, democratic. No, I haven’t tried everything, my curious comrades, but I have tried plenty; and as for the nationalities of my lovers — well, my vagina is like the United Nations symposium.
But besides my studious pursuits in the bedroom, I’ve investigated both genders by delving into Esquire Magazine, for at least a decade. First of, it worships women. (Yes, please!) Then, it deconstructs men while lovingly teasing them for their unmanly behaviors. (Mmm-hmm. I always love me some of that!) As for the staff writers at this nearly a century-old mag — some of them are geniuses, fo’ sho’! So, say, if for whatever lucky circumstance, my choices one night would be between the penises of Johnny Depp and Tom Chiarella — I’d rather end up moaning Tom’s name between the sheet.
Over a decade ago (Jesus, I am old! Jesus’s age, to be precise!), my fav mag had a piece on the Advancement Theory:
As far as theories go, it is so new, it may as well be considered an embryo. However, what makes it so brilliant — or may I dare say, “advanced” — is that, in a typically ballsy, unpredictable American way, it was thought up by two buds (Jason Hartley and Britt Bergman) shooting the shit at a Pizza Hut somewhere in South Carolina. Love it! ‘Cause you see, my lovelies, my shit-shooting brilliant comrades have invented a gazillion of theories at my hood’s famed spot, The Birds; but I don’t think we are even a millimeter “advanced” enough to change this nation’s academic curricula with our pontifications.
So, what about this Advancement Theory? It particularly delves into music and the artists who birth it into being. From what I understand with my intelligent but far from “advanced” pia mater, is that musicians break into two categories: they are either “advanced” or not at all; and what makes them advanced — is their utter unpredictability. In other words, neither do their cater to their audiences’ expectation, nor do they devote their egos to going against them. They do whatever comes to their non-convoluted, genius minds; and for that very reason, they are often misunderstood. Of course, it is a tale as old as humanity itself, but sooner or later — and often, postmortem — a true genius gets the recognition he or she deserves. But at the very moment of their art’s creation and birth, they leave us scratching our un-“advanced” domes.
Examples? Liz Phair and (Lord, help me!) Sting can apparently do this “advanced” shit in their sleep. M.I.A. and Gnarls Barkley? Definitely cool but not even getting warmer. Bob Dylan? Apparently, Bob is still tinkering with his “advancement”… Oh, I know, I know: How dare I fuck with Dylan?! But according to my Bible — Esquire — “If something is done ironically, it cannot be advanced”; and ain’t Dylan the god of irony? this country’s musical Charles Baudelaire himself? But he did earn himself some extra points by struttin’ around Venice with Adriana Lima.
Lou Reed: Invented this shit! (“Shaved her legs and then he was a she”?! “And the colored girls say, ‘Doo do doo, doo do doo’”? Honey: Pah-leeze!) The Biebs and the Britney: Will never get there. Kanyeezy: C’mon, baby! I’m rootin’ for ya’! Tom Waits: The Advancement Theory’s personal Jesus, especially post his collaboration with Miss Scarlett Johansson (who, by the way, after recently shagging Sean Penn has shot through the roof of V’s personal meter of brilliancy).
So, why this spiel? And why this morning? Well, comrades, in my lifetime, I may not enter into the category of a literary genius; but I can certainly aspire to it. But the one thing I do NOT intend to do in my art — even though I have regretfully committed it in my life — is to allow for my despair to be liked or for my bloody fear to determine my choices. I am looking to grow, to expand — to explode! — to serve my personal calling while worshiping the Shiva that guides me. And if I happen to blow anyone’s mind on the way, well then, mazel tov!
So you see, my magnificent learners and badass comrades, I am not trying to be the Big Fish who used to be the Small Fish. I am not even trying to become famous by jumping the ponds. According to David Lynch’s book on Transcendental Meditation — I’m just tryin’ to do me some fishin’:
“Little fish swim on the surface, but the big ones swim down below. If you can expand the container you’re fishing in — your consciousness — you can catch bigger fish.”
Now, THAT — is some “advanced” shit right there!