1. Things I would die without: the snare drum, Sennheiser headphones, Doom’s lyrics, stripper/librarian heels. Or I could just say “Stimulation in various forms, stimulation all day and night, and yet somehow soothing at the same time” and you’d know what I mean, you’d clearly realize how that’s a list comprised of snares and headphones plus ten thousand other things too. Stripper/librarian heels are the focus today, though. The ones above are called “Peep Show,” and I needed them so I bought them. (I would have died without them.)
Lately my life has been a whole lot of driving around town listening to Power 106 and old Kool Keith, dealing with grouchy people, and this frequent uneasiness, this strong feeling like I need more impractical footwear. As illustrated by the photos above, all those radio plays of “Throw it in the Bag” had their intended effect–THANKS, LOSO–except in my life’s version I play the role of both the kept woman and the keeper of the woman since I buy my own heels, which is obviously what Steinem had in mind for me as a postpostpostfeminist human. Sorry, Gloria. I’m I-N-D-E-P-E-N-D-E-N-T, though, do you know what that means? DO YOU? I cook, I clean, I never smell like onion rings. Somethingsomething, flat-screen TV, good credit, blah blah.
That ankle strap is what sold me, lookin like one of Saturn’s rings. Just look at that ankle strap, darling. Phillip Lim, child of immigrants, Kanye-approved designer, yet somehow still Logan-approved designer, has crafted these for the discerning stripper/librarian in your life. They are 5-inch-heeled mary janes of Italian leather, a deep red shade that Barneys calls “bordeaux,” which recalls, I don’t know, the grapes in my backyard vineyard that I lovingly tend before I go to the library in the morning and that I lovingly tend when I return from Magic City at night?
Phillip thinks he disappointed his parents, who came from Cambodia and wanted him to be a doctor. They don’t understand fashion, because, really, what’s to understand. Frivolity and sex and overspending. Grand folly. Lack of practicality (teetering around on 5-inch spindles shortens calf muscles), but good-looking and well-crafted things for the body. Kanye-approved shoes on Barbie doll label princesses who have master’s degrees and nerdy blogs. “I’m shoppin right now, my ass off/You home writin some bullshit literature,” Kool Keith said. Dude I can do both, though. I can do both, Mr. Thornton. That ankle strap represents my life’s constant duality–the Dewey Decimal System and Toomp beats, new glasses (finally) and a thousand bathing suits. Before setting my alarm to wake me up to some Waka in the morning, I read every night in bed. There are Chanel and Diane von Furstenberg ads among the poems and essays in the Paris Review. Also contained therein is a story about Brazilian jiu–jitsu, an art form that teaches that a small and weak person can suddenly turn into something like a big and strong person using proper technique and leverage. The pleasures of duality, that’s the point I’m trying to make here. Oh and have I mentioned that ANKLE STRAP. Take another look and then tell me I shouldn’t have bought em.
In daydreams my American Gangster character is Eva, Miss Puerto Rico, who loves Frank at the beginning, and she especially loves her idea of who Frank is (classic Logan), and then 2 months into their marriage she finds herself on her knees, scrubbing blood out of the alpaca rug* and he’s screaming at her and she’s thinking Fuck what did I get myself into. That’s probably my fate, given my taste for masculinity topped off with smarts and a strong commitment to hustlenomics and an adeptness at charming my pants off (or my dress off, as the case may be, or even my black-shorts-and-Boy-Scout-belt-and-stripper/librarian-heels get-up).
In life I am the good girl. Even in daydreams I am the good girl. But these make me feel like I’m Ginger in Casino. At the beginning, you know—pre-haircut, pre-tailspin. Throwing the chips in the air, moving in slow motion. She wanted to stay hustling her little heart but Ace insisted on bribing her into wifehood and momhood. Wives and moms are boring, though. Remember how Malice said I even went by the book at first/Until I realized 9 to 5 wouldn’t quench my thirst. In response, I believe Ginger would say Sounds about right.
Yeah yeah, club soda. Sorry, Frank.
4. “Oh Word” was my cutesy etymology feature that I used to do all the time on here. Bikini enthusiasts didn’t care for it, but I loved it. It’s back today, and the word is SNARE.
“noose for catching animals,” c.1100, from O.N. snara “noose, snare,” related to soenri, “twisted rope,” from P.Gmc. snarkho (cf. M.Du. snare, Du. snaar, O.H.G. snare, Ger. Schnur “noose, cord”).
“string across a drum,” 1680s, probably from Du. snaar “string,” from same source as snare, above.
What can I do at this point other than say They try to Ron Artest me/They gon have to arrest me, in Gucci’s words (I had to quote him here due to my Brick Squad and Fetti Gang affiliations). I still keep it Berkeley too, though (I feel like Ron Artest/Championship swag).