This has something to do with the fight. The other fighters have complained of the same thing. I feel slow and heavy-footed when I spar and keep getting hurt. I also keep breaking down. Too emotional. This has got to stop. My head is still in the wrong place. Up my ass. Which might explain why my neck injury keeps on coming back to haunt me.
I was feeling so good, ready to fight and now I can't turn my head again.
I really need to get this injury OUT of me. I've been getting weekly massages, but apparently that wasn't enough. My chiro is on permanent vacation so it's back to accupuncture until I can find a back cracker I can trust.
Sigh.
Tonight is Bikram class, I'm hoping that'll fix me up until I can make it to the needle lady. I haven't done hot yoga in ages. Should be good.
Yes, I think it's apparent -I'm sleepy-brain-dead.
No, the title has nothing to do with the Hilton girl; I couldn’t care less about her antics.
It’s a classic quotable from the model in these pics. She’s one of the most powerful moving models we’ve ever worked with. She had to move back to Paris for visa reasons. She called us when she was there, and we said, “Cool, you’re in Paris, that’s great”. To which she responded in a heavy lisp-y wispy French accent, “No, eet’s not great, eet’s tewible, I het Pawis”.
I think we’re going to have to make T-shirts with that on it.
Anyway, she’s coming back to the US, which makes us happy.
Saw Jaslene at the Union Square station this morning, she looked yucky skinny and greasy, what’s up with that, she’s America’s Next Top Model?
I’m tired; I have to get up at 5:30 to go to the Cooper Hewitt. I should probably go to bed right about now.
I remember at somewhere around age 11 going to the Saatchi Gallery for the first time. I waddled around the gargantuan cement space, not that interested, but also quite aware that I had never seen anything like it before.
Even then I was a bit of a speedy gallery go-er, not one to sit and ponder a work for too long.
But when I saw the Cindy Sherman piece –untitled #122, I was dumbstruck, awestruck. I had never seen a photo that big, or at those proportions, and the woman mystified me. Or was it a man, something about her seemed muscular, and the anger, was it feminine?
The wig, the clenched fists, the red, watery eye, the Tippi Hedren-esque suit, all fascinated me. I was quite disturbed but utterly engaged, it stood out, it stared out.
I loved it because I didn’t understand it, why was he/she so angry, why was he/she in a wig, why was the picture so grainy. Colour photography as art was new to me, photography like this was like nothing I'd ever before seen.
That Christmas I asked for a camera, I didn’t know how to use it, so I barely did.
So I finally took a photo class, did really shit in it, the quote on my report card was that my work was, “Random and irregular.” I was 12 for cripe’s sake.
It wasn’t until college that I saw Sherman’s work again -The Film stills. I became infatuated with them, as so many have.
I didn’t realize until later that she had also been responsible for Untitled #122. Funny too that it was for her Fashion series.
That's Milla and my beautiful wife Lisa (for those of you who don't know) Aren't they lovely? Both of them. Lovely in every way. We often have family dinner on Friday nights. After our cookout last week Milla and Lisa jumped around. Back and forth. Up and down. They like jumping and I like to watch.
My armpits are crying. The space between my tits is crying. Funny little girl filled too full with liquid. Like a balloon stuck all over with pin pricks. Bouncy bouncy, colourful and fun, but secretly, or not so secretly, leaking.
It’s high noon in Union Square and there’s no shade where I sit. The heat is blazing. I can hear birds cawing –cawing cawing cawing. I can’t see a single bird except for the greasy little pigeon that’s being snuggled and overpowered by the homeless woman with the huge pendulous tits.
She holds the pigeon to her chest, her grey sweat stained tank sticking to her skin, and where the boobs should be, or where the boobs usually are, it’s flat and where her belly is, is where her tits lay.
She squeezes the pigeon to her, scoops up water from the fountain into her cupped hand and puts the pigeon's head in it. Then she goes back to the shady park bench and snuggles the bird tightly to her chest again.
Contact. The need for it.
It’s like Petra von Kant. Or Elmyra Duff, unwittingly killing her cat as she says, "I'm gonna hug ya and kiss ya and love ya and squeeze ya forever and ever."
I watched The Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant recently. I liked the two headed monster imagery. And, of course, the histrionics. Oh, and the wigs.
