Blind Date with a Truther

       I went on a blind date this afternoon—God knows why; my life is still pretty unsuited for any true intimacy.  The fellow was a very tall, well-dressed European.  We met at a coffee shop, but because this is NYC and lots of restaurant tables are too small to accommodate ballerinas, I suggested that we take a stroll to find a more comfortable venue. 
        He seemed charmed by my attempt to converse in his native language and graciously did not correct my bad grammar.  He shared some shrewd observations about individuals we interacted with.  He walked at a fast clip, which I appreciated (I am a fast and purposeful walker myself).  He demonstrated familiarity with economics.  I was enjoying our Village tour.
     And then we passed a public art exhibit full of home-made ceramic plates.  We paused to look at them.
     “I wonder what these are all about?” I asked, because the theme was not obvious. 
      “Probably about 9/11,” my date said.
      “Ah, probably.”
        He turned to me, his gaze suddenly intense (especially intense, I mean—he seemed like an intense personality in general, which I find attractive in men, usually to my detriment). 
         “Have you studied the 9/11 attacks?” he asked me.
          I have to admit, I was a little taken aback by the question, and not sure how to respond to it right away.  It’s like asking someone if they’d studied Africa or invertebrate zoology. 
         “Umm, I read The Looming Tower, and parts of the official 9/11 Commission Report when it came out,” I answered. 
       “Well, you won’t get much good information from them!” he huffed.
       “What do you mean?” (But, gentle reader, I immediately suspected what he meant, and a flower of despair began to bloom in my chest.) 
        “If you want to learn the truth about what really happened, the best thing to do is to watch documentaries online.  There are lots of them.  Then you will know what happened.   The truth.  The truth is not in those books you said.” 
        I almost asked him if he could recommend a few specific titles for me to look up, but then I decided against it.  Somehow I knew he was not referring to Frontline PBS specials, and I knew that if I heard the words Loose Change falling from his lips, there was no way that I could continue our company.  Indeed, it would probably induce me to run, shrieking, in the opposite direction. 
        I politely told him that I would look into it. 
         He offered me a ride back to my apartment, but I deferred, saying that my mother told me not to get into cars with strangers that offered me candy.  While this is good advice and it is true that women are vulnerable, when I refused him, I was totally bullshitting.  I’ve developed a good spider sense with dudes and I’m no naïve dummy, but let’s be honest—there’s a dangerous streak in my otherwise practical character that is not at all risk-adverse, and if I truly desired a strange man, I’d happily board his helicopter to God-knows-where.  I really would.  I’ve done it—scooped men up like they were salmon in ankle-deep waters.   That’s one of the few true, undeniable advantages of being a female, and in my opinion, you’d best take advantage of it while you can, because it’s ephemeral, and it’s never going to be as good as it is now again. 
          No, the real reason I turned down the ride home was because his (suggested) acceptance of 9/11 conspiracy theories had instantly and utterly negated his attractiveness to me.  Call me shallow or narrow-minded for it; I don’t give a shit.  But as far as I was concerned, he might as well have defended burquas or said that he golfed with Dick Cheney every Sunday.  Game over, buddy.  

       The Machinist, the Machinist.  Why did I have to fuck it up with the Machinist?  

The Plant that Ate New York

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        So, I was at the store yesterday, examining the live plants for sale (it’s the time of year when stores stop selling them).  As the 4 readers of this blog already know (special shout out to Iran and Singapore!  Iran, I see you looking at my Coconut Porn, you perv!), I enjoy plants and animals tremendously.  They are what I have (or had–I’m really working to change myself) instead of human friends.

        Anyway, there was this beautiful dark green and purple plant on the sale rack.  It was a magnificent specimen–I mean, the thing was full and leafy and symmetrical, really a beautiful plant.

      I asked the lady at the counter what sort of plant it was.  She said that it was a “Wandering Jew.”  I know that the Jews have done (and do) a hell of a lot of wandering–those cats have really gotten around, if you know what I mean–but I felt a little uncomfortable calling a plant, even a nice plant, a Jew.  Not sure why–if it was called a “Wandering Ukrainian,” I wouldn’t think twice about it.  Weird.  I will have to ask a Jewish person how they feel about it.  Perhaps I should e-mail Philip Roth.

         Anyway, the plant was $17 and she “made a special discount for me,” so I carried my new friend to my apartment for only $15.

         Houston, we have a problem.

        The plant is so big and heavy that there is no place for it.  It eats up as much space as a bird cage, and it’s so heavy that it has to be hung from a beam.  The thing is huge.  It’s like the plant that ate New York. I hanged it in front of my bedroom window and it blocked out the light and the view.  I hanged it beside my bedroom mirror, and it occluded my view.  It’s absurd.  It’s the size of a TV set.  Furthermore, I have no idea how to take care of it.  There are no Wandering Jews where I come from.  Well, maybe two or three, but they all taught at my university.

     Do I prune it?  Make it smaller?  I have no idea.  It scares me a little bit.  It looks like a badass plant, like it could kill me in my sleep.

Someone Else is Going to Get It

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TyRANTosaurus Margo!
          Woke up pissed this morning (I suppose that’s better than waking up in terror, which used to be par for the course).  I was going to go to the gym to burn off some of the tension, but first (as always), I got on the scale.  Just keepin’ it real, folks: 

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            I’m physically healthy.  My hair’s not falling out.  My teeth are fine (and try those Crest Whitestrips—they really work!).  Control freak that I am, I bought an expensive fertility monitor, and it indicates that I am ovulating (today, in fact).  I still menstruate.  I’m still sub-clinical, in other words. 
        And let me tell you something: I have never, ever received as much appreciative attention from males as I have recently.  That’s a fact, and I’m not bragging about it; I think it’s fucked up.  I know you’re thinking, “Miss Margo, they’re staring at you because they’re appalled and you look like a hockey stick with hair.”  But no, I’ve been hit on since I was 14 years old, and I’m telling you, I get stopped on the street, I get passed business cards, I get invited to dinner (hardy-har-har),  I get modeling jobs even though I’m past the modeling expiration date, and The Biz—should I take it up again this weekend—is booming.  I found photos of myself that my (good) boyfriend took of me when I was 20 years old.  There is no comparison.  Today, it makes me full of hatred.  But it’s okay.  I think it’s healthy. The hatred, I mean.  In the proper context, hatred can be therapeutic.
           I have learned, from my neo-Freudian analyst, that in a sense, opposites are the same thing.  Instead of a spectrum, from right to left, they are more like a circle that unites underneath. The desire to murder and the urge towards suicide are the same thing, the same energy.  For the first time in a long time—maybe one of the first times in my life—I feel full of rage.  And I feel very, very dangerous.  Power, directed outward. 

         I am preparing to go to war with an institution whose organizational structure and political culture is not unlike that of, say, Bulgaria.  I will get what I want—I will earn what I want—and I will not stop.

More Photos (Oct Trip)

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Beautiful view, but oceans smell weird, and I don’t trust them.   They are important for  the ecosystem, however. 

The hotel has honest-to-God functioning telephone booths.  With doors, as you see.  I remember them vaguely from my early childhood, but none had wooded paneling or oil artwork hanging inside. I thought this was funny, like gold-plating a tissue box.
Fountains are universally beloved.  There must be a psychological  explanation for this.  
If I were a plant, I would be a cactus.  But not one from Mexico.  Definitely  not.
Home again, Home again!  Landing at the airport.
Look how overjoyed Parrot is to get veggies when I returned home!  Parrot is so beautiful.  I wish I was as  beautiful as Parrot.  

Miss Margo is a Practical Girl

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   Bathrobe belts make excellent ligatures (as well as other things).  Especially if the fabric is soft, not terrycloth.  Terrycloth can leave carpet burns.  Though I am typically indifferent to the condition of my hide (the marks, as I see it, are simply the cost of doing business), I prefer to keep any abrasions off of my neck.  They attract too much attention.

Can I move in?

Pics, or It Didn’t Happen

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    I have a ton of them I’ll be editing once I get home and it’s safe (re: private).   In the meantime, here are a few.

    Being used by a narcissist with sociopathic tendencies has its benefits (I realize that does not exactly flatter me).  Will have to run that one by my analyst.

     This hotel is GORGEOUS.  And I saw a real live macaw!  She was magnificent.  That was probably my favorite part.  I got to scratch her head.  If I was rich, I’d get a macaw for sure.  Well, maybe not–they are awfully loud and it’s cruel to cage them (I do not believe large parrots should be kept as pets unless they are licensed,  registered, and housed in an aviary, like kestrels).  But I would get an eclectus.  A pair of them!  I will name the boy KERMIT.
     Anyway, enough about parrots.  You know how I am, gentle reader.  I could talk about parrots all day.  Moving on:

Dressing for Dinner

The same

I got to observe The Rich in their natural habitat. 

Think About What I Mean to You

     The hotel is sumptuous.  The most luxurious I have ever stayed at is the Dorchester in London, but this one is pretty damn impressive.

     I had a little trouble checking in, even though my reservation was pre-paid.  I regarded the clerk from across the marble countertop.  She was my age, pretty, with (presumably) fake diamond studs in her ears.  You don’t belong here, either.

     In the Surgeon’s suite.  You are so skinny, I can’t believe how good you look, your face looks so beautiful…whatever you’re doing, keep doing it!

    “I don’t look sick, do I?”  I ask.  The Surgeon sees a lot of naked people.

     “No!  No!  Beautiful!  And your hair!  More red!”

      My BMI this morning was 16.7.

      I straddle his torso as he lays on his bed, his arms tightly restrained at the wrists.  I slap the palms on my hands down onto his chest.  It makes a loud noise, like a gunshot, in the room.

       He grimaces; turns his face to the side.

       “Do not turn your countenance from me,” I say, I command.  I am serious.  Serious as a heart attack.  I like to see their faces.  It is one of my favorite parts.

        “It hurts,” he says.

         I slap him across the face–not hard enough to leave a mark; he has to lecture–and grab his hair, shaking his head like a terrier shaking a rat.  His eyes are closed tightly.

       “Open your eyes.  Look at me.”

       He does.  And even though I know I don’t love him anymore, even though I know that a big part of him hates me, there is still an electric moment of connection.  This vulnerability from him.  I feel so protective and so loving.  I wish that he could feel that way toward me for more than a minute or two, or an hour at most.  I could have loved him so much.

     I tell him something I’ve never told him before:  “Nobody else in your adult life has ever seen you this way, as you are for me now.”

      He whispers No.

      “Tell me how much you need it.”

      “I need it,” he whispers.  His voice is hoarse with pain and desire.

      “Say it again.”

      He does.  I know how difficult it is for him to have to admit anything.

       “Open your mouth for me,” I say, and put my fingers into his mouth, running them across his teeth, his gums, the bumpy surface of his molars.  I like to penetrate his mouth with my fingers.  It feels intimate; invasive.  I know he likes it. He tries to suck on my fingers.

      “In ten years, you will remember this.  This very moment,” I say.

      “So will you,” he says.

     I smile, shake my head, no.  “Look at me.  I accept you.  I know exactly what you are, and I loved you anyway.  The good and the bad; from the first to the last.”

      I take myself off his body.  I put my dress back on and pick up  my handbag.  In only takes ten, fifteen seconds.

     “I knew you would leave me,” he says from the bed.

     “Oh, Surgeon,” I sigh, putting on my leather jacket.  “How it becomes you to speak the truth.   You should  do it more often.  I’m here through (date).  Think about what I mean to you.”  

      I’m sitting in my hotel room right now, crying.  I don’t sob, really.  My face doesn’t move much.  I cry like a dude.  I just leak tears.  Leak leak leak.

      I remind myself that I could never had done better by him.  I could not have given him more.  It’s not my fault that he didn’t love me.

Cheering Myself Up with Coconut Porn

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          The weather outside is absolutely wretched and I’m feeling tense and sad about traveling to see the Surgeon tomorrow.  I’m trying to adjust my mindset in order to protect myself—I have a lot of practice being emotionally impenetrable, for better or worse—but my relationship with him is very complex.
         I’d like to suck down a bottle red wine, but since that isn’t on Margo’s Menu of Life Choices these days, I guess I’ll rely on something else that usually raises my spirits: porn made out of coconuts! 
           Dolce & Gabbana ad campaigns are a pretty reliable source of coconut porn.  Most of them are pretty gay—so gay, in fact, that I’d wager lots of gay people find them embarrassing or offensive—but as I’ve said before, I have to work with what I’ve got.
         Take this ad, for example.  Like most D&G ads, this one is exceedingly weird.  I have no idea what the hell is going on here, and it certainly doesn’t make me think that I’d like to buy any of the clothes.  But I can tell you one thing—that guy with the eye patch can knock on my door any time he wants (the statue of the black dog is also a very nice touch):
Hellooo, Mr. Eyepatch! Nice hands, btw.  Would I were that black dog…
       This image is so beautiful that if I could get it reproduced as an oil painting, I’d hang it on my wall.  It looks like a painting, actually, instead of a photograph—note the formal, un-lifelike poses of the models, and the symbolic value of the props.  The scene shows a ceremony. The woman is the one is a position of power: she sits in a throne elevated off the floor, and hers is the only face turned outward towards the viewer.  See her tall leather boots—possibly the most fetishized item of apparel in the wardrobe.  The open chest by her throne is full of honors, and she bestows a golden laurel wreath upon the head of the man kneeling at her feet.  Notice that he doesn’t look her in the face.  None of them do.

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        I love this one.  It pretty much speaks for itself.  I love the way that well-dressed young mutt carries the bags and looks at her with that star-struck, dumb look on his face, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.  Adorable. Boys look so lovable when they’re dying to please. The woman has all the power here.  She knows it. 

     Last one for the day—hot men in discomfort, rowing!  I wish they made videos of shit like this; I’d watch them all day!  Sweating, straining, unhappy men rowing heavy oars!  Or, even better, digging pointless holes with shovels, and then being made to fill them back up—and then dig them again!   Woo-hoo!  Puts a big smile on my face just thinking about it.  And boy, did I ever need one.

Visualize the Possibilities

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      I picked up this rolling pin at the Dollar Store the other day.  What a great deal!  It’s pine, but it’s got a surprising amount of heft to it, and the handles are perfectly sized.  The wood is very smoothly sanded, as well.  After I took it home and unwrapped it, I immediately hustled back to the store to buy several more (all of them, perhaps), but they were (alas) sold out.  Can’t say I’m surprised.

      In this photo you can see the holes I drilled into it for the poorly-conceived parrot playstand project (more on that debacle tomorrow), but you still get the basic idea…too bad I ruined it.

      This baby has more entertainment potential than an iPad.  Just think of all the awesome things you could use it for!