c o l u m b i n a

"by her keen and active wit, she [ is ] able to hold her own in every situation and emerge with ease and dignity from the most involved intrigues." ~ Duchartre

Monday, April 11, 2005

a big thank you

... to whichever kind soul(s) nominated me in the Treehouse Awards; I had no idea, really, and that was terribly sweet of you (misguided, but sweet). I haven't dabbled in any fandom for a while now, but I am rather proud of that story, if I do say so myself. ;)

Many. many thanks.


in honor of National Poetry Month, and because some meme's are just too good to resist, I give you a selection from one of the only books of modern poetry I own, after hearing the author perform them live in college: Barbara Decesare's "Dreamhouse" from her wonderfully wicked and insightful jigsaweyesore. If you're not familiar with the Mattel product this might not be as amusing.

I saw the ad, I had the cash,
I packed up my shit and I headed to the coast.
This was a once-in-a-lifetime,
a Hale-Bopp,
a twenty dollar scratch off.
She's renting out the Dream House
while she's on the moon mission!

She has left instructions on the refridgerator
for watering the horse and
checking in on Skipper,
Tuesday's trash day
and could I please not have friends over,
the mystery is what makes the Dream House
so Dreamy.

In her bedroom I find gowns, costumes, bathing suits
billions and billions of shoes
but no underwear
in her dresser.

Her refridgerator has only grapefruit in it.
The television gets only one channel- an unmoving picture
of a poodle.

After six hours of Dream Life,
besides playing in the elevator,
this is no fun at all. I was sitting on the plastic demi sofa
in a pink chiffon tea length and cowboy boots
reading the new Lisa Frank catalog
when the phone rang.

The man on the other end identified himself
as her plastic surgeon
from the Mattell Institute. "Did I miss her?" he cried,
very unprofessionally.

"She's in great danger! Her implants may explode
upon decompression when she reenters from space!
She really should have consulted me.
How can I get in touch with her?"
I have no idea, I say, except for use of telescope,
then there's a beep on the other line of the
Dream phone: Ken.

The plastic surgeon is on the other line, I tell him,
it's an emergency! It's her tits! How can we reach her?
Doesn't he understand the significance of this situation?
The fate of all prepubescent female psyches is in our hands.
She can come home a heroine
or a flat-chested invalid!

Ken is not responding.
Ken is not breathing.


"Let me tell you something..." "But the surgeon is on the oth..."
"Just listen, goddamnit! My hair doesn't move!
Do you know what that's like?
I don't have independent working fingers! All I have is her.
She's the only thing that makes this living hell worthwhile.
She's the reason I do nothing,
but smile.
From her tiny tiptoes
all the way up to her hair
that changes color when you spray it,
I've stood by her
through disco and square dancing,
I sat in the passenger's seats of Jeeps and Corvettes,
I've dated that woman for fifty years
and she's never cared that I'm anatomically incorrect!"

"Well, Ken, this is your chance to move on,"
I am trying to be optimistic,
"You can get on with your own life. Be a man!"

"I'm not a man! I'm a BOYFRIEND!
I look good in a velcro tuxedo,
I make her friend jealous, It's my job, MY LIFE!!
I've handed myself over completely to the one I love
and she will not die the humiliating death of
exploded mammaries out in the cold emptiness
of outer space all alone.
I'm coming right over and I'm going to
throw myself off of the roof of the
Dream House. Goodbye"
"But, Ken, she said I couldn't have guests!"
But he had already hung up.

I clicked back to the weeping surgeon.
He seemed not to notice I hadn't been on the line.
I hung up on him. I had to change my clothes.

I selected a jumpsuit, pink with purple stripes down the side
and light blue tennis shoes,
though I still had to walk on tiptoe.
By the time Ken got there, he was stinking drunk.
He hadn't shaved and he smelled overwhelmingly
of vomit.

I invited him for another drink. We had scotch. We went to the roof
with about a hundred outfits,
including the entire international costume collection.

Then one by one, we set them on fire and threw them
onto the sand below,
burning empty effigies
of every evening and outing Ken had to accessorize himself against.

Then he slapped me on the back and said goodbye
and flung himself down the three plastic stories
to the Malibu shoreline
clutching a fiery pre-fairy godmother Cinderella dress.
And before he landed with a thud on the beach and sent upward
the horrible stench of his burning synthetic body,
before I turned away from the tiny horror
to go water the horse and eat more grapefruit,
I'd swear I saw his hair move
just a little.

via WoT