Sexy High-Waisted Jeans

A new trend has hit New York - the high-waisted jean. It's awful. Think of the jeans a 1980s mom might run around in. The foot-long zipper. The back pockets as big as paperbacks. The loose thigh tapering to a tight ankle.

I just don't get it.

I see it all the time now, and it's not flattering on anyone. But let me tell you, girls in the New York looove the sexy high-waisted jean. Can't get enough. Just go to any Saturday Brooklyn brunch and it's asymmetrical haircuts and nipple-high waistbands galore.

They say Scarlett Johansson is responsible. She's a good actress and everything? But now the streets of New York are overrun with hippy, corn-fed, transplanted Midwesterners in stomach-swelling, ass-magnifying navy. I hope she's happy.

GTD from 856***0353:
Go eagles hope your doin ok miss u

Heavy Things

I went to a Modest Mouse show in Brooklyn last night. Kyle hated Modest Mouse. There's this one single, Float On, that you've probably heard because they can't play it enough on the radio. Once, when I was home for Christmas in '05, Kyle and I were driving through Eagle Rock and it came on. I turned it up. Kyle turned it off. He was heavy into reggae by then and considered the number of white bands on my iPod to be a sign of my lack of musical maturity. I turned the radio back on. Kyle turned it off again. I screamed at him. He called me a whiny bitch. It went on like this until the song ended. After that, every time I sang along to Float On, even back in New York, I thought of Kyle and how ashamed he would be if only he knew what I was listening to.

The venue last night was outside in this massive 7000 person 1930s swimming pool. The sky was wide above and the night was thick and sticky. Towards the end of the set, the drum beat to Float On started and a breeze picked up. The crowd cheered - it had been waiting for this - the melody started, and I thought of Kyle reaching for the radio dial with his spider fingers. "You can't listen to this pop shit, Mir. This is really bad."

There's this line in Float On that I've always loved:
Don't worry
Even if things end up a bit too heavy
We'll all float on all right.

Last night, I looked up into the gray bowl of the sky and saw that it was empty. It didn't hold my brother's body or soul or the promise of seeing him again. He wasn't up there, smiling down and shaking his big ol' head as I danced in a crowd of white people. He wasn't anywhere at all. That realization was like a great weight on my neck. My brother was dead and buried and the only place he was anymore was with me. On me. Like he was suddenly sitting on my shoulders, his legs hanging to the ground, his fingers wrapped around my forehead, and he was never going to let me put him down.

I smiled then. I felt slow, and lonely, and heavy, but I smiled because even dragged down like that, I was okay. Dragged down like that, my mother was going to be okay. My father was going to be okay. Things had ended up entirely too heavy, we had to carry Kyle with us now, but somehow we were still standing. It was a shock - who knew we could hold that much weight? - but it was also encouraging. If we could still stand, we could still walk. And if we could still walk, someday we might be able to float.

Troll 2

Last night, Sunshine Cinemas on Houston had a special showing of Troll 2, complete with t-shirts and a cast member Q&A.

It was fantastic.

Troll 2, for those of you who don't know, is not the sequel to the better-known Troll 1, but a film originally entitled Goblin and made by an Italian couple with a questionable grasp of dialogue, plot, character, make up, set design, special effects, casting, mask making, and the English language. The director, Claudio Fragasso, chose his actors in a smoke-filled Utah motel room based solely on their "energy," and the film features two of the worst acting performances I've ever seen and wardrobe by Emmanuel, the porn star.

So why bother watching Troll 2? It's hard to say. J and I saw it by accident for the first time on TV. It wasn't just bad, it was fascinating. We watched it like a train wreck. Who writes dialogue like that? And with such little shame? Who would have such disregard for special effects? Or the basic laws of time and space?

Unfortunately, no synopsis can adequately convey what it's like to watch Troll 2. It's just the sort of thing you have to see to understand why 350 people would show up for a midnight showing of a 1990 film that never made it to theaters. But you should rent it. Really. Trust me on this. And, in case you need further encouragement, I have some pictures.

Here's everybody filing into the theater. Look how excited we all are:
The screen went dark, a heavy drum beat started, and then little people clothed in masks and burlap began running through the forest. The movie title flashed across the screen and you should've heard the cheer:
Here's Michael Stephenson. He plays Joshua and goes with his family on vacation to Nilbog, a suspicious rural town filled with vegetarians (as we learned during the Q&A, Fragasso absolutely despises vegetarians). Joshua keeps this expression on his face the entire movie:
Here's Joshua's sister, Holly. She's a horrible dancer and wears oversized Garfield t-shirts. The actress who plays her, Connie Young, is battling to the death for the title of Worst Community Theater Actress Ever and, according to George Hardy, is a "little bitch":
This is Deborad Reed. She plays the crazy vegetarian witch Creedence Leonore Gielgud and is neck and neck with Connie for Worst Community Theater Actress Ever:
And this, of course, is a goblin...troll...goblin. Fragasso only had seven goblin masks made, so they're repeated over and over throughout the movie:
Here's where Joshua realizes that Nilbog is "goblin" spelled backwards. It's a huge revelation in the film. Joshua, needless to say, flips his shit:
This is George Hardy. He plays Joshua's dad, but in real life is the happiest dentist I've ever seen and owns a pair of what he calls "virtual reality glasses":
And here's the other cast members who came to the Q&A. Joshua, second from right, actually grew up into a normal looking human being:
So go rent Troll 2. Because you can't piss on hospitality. And look out for The Best Worst Movie Ever, a documentary about the whole horrid process coming out in 2008.

Guilty

I've begun to feel guilty. I guess this is normal - I have pamphlets that say so - but it feels weird to confirm them. It's because I haven't cried in three days. Because I'm excited about this weekend's show. Because, when I speak to my dad, his voice is different. He still sounds like my dad, but lower, slower. He sounds so sad. Because most often my grief is just a morose annoyance. Because my favorite outfit is my robe. Because my mother's blog is a memorial to my brother. Because mine is about yoga thongs. Because all I want is to watch Big Love marathons. Because I haven't gone grocery shopping. Because I don't know what I'll do come spring. Because I can even worry about spring when my brother just died. Because it's been eight weeks and I'm still not freelancing. Because I haven't called Cousin Bonnie, and I told her I would. Because the first years in my program are so happy to be here, and I'm happy to have health insurance. Because I've been biting my nails. Because my floor needs mopping. Because my phone will ring and life will seem thrilling and whole minutes will pass before I remember what it is, exactly, we're dealing with here.

Yoga Thong

Have you ever been to a yoga class? If so, have you ever witnessed yoga thong? It's not that it's common or anything. I've only seen it three and a half times in several years but man, is it memorable. These girls come to class in these low cut yoga pants with their thong pulled up all high, and then they set up in front of you and bend over and suddenly their whole ass is in your face. One minute you're breathing into the space between your shoulders, and then next you're wondering if you're gonna be charged extra for the show. It's distracting. And who exactly is the target audience? It's not like there's that many men that come to yoga.

Though one time? A guy came to yoga in a suit, went to change, and then came to the classroom in his boxers. That was it. No shirt, nothing. Just his boxers with the world's smallest button holding that flap thing closed. He did the whole hour like that, including shavasana, where you just lie on your back and relax for ten minutes at the end of class. And then? When we all stood up to leave? He stayed there on his back, eyes closed, seemingly oblivious to the thinly clad erection fighting its way out of that unnerving boxer slit.

So it's obviously not just a girl thing. Yoga, apparently, provides the steamy, spandexed environment exhibitionists thrive in.

How I Get to Work

I live at the end of a hallway on the top floor of a 1920s apartment building. Despite signage to the contrary, the door to the roof is usually open a half flight above me and I can tell what sort of day it is from the light coming in. I pick up the bag of trash sitting by my front door and carry it four flights to the ground floor. Whether walking up or down the stairs to my apartment, the trip always feels one flight too long. I open the door to the trash closet and swing the bag in. It lands with a thud too loud for the morning and I feel brave and a little rebellious.

I walk down the hall, out the double front doors, and stand at the top of my stoop for a minute untangling my iPod headphones. I confirm what sort of day it is. If I'm unprepared - if it's raining and I didn't bring an umbrella, or if I have a sweater on and it's obviously going to be hot - I do not go back upstairs. Instead, I swear and prepare myself for an uncomfortable day.

I turn on my iPod, walk down the steps and open the gate. If I'm on time, the streets are still relatively empty. If I'm late, I have to look both ways before stepping onto the sidewalk. There are suits rushing by and they stop for no one. I walk east towards Astor Place. The streets are still dirty this early, and I step around torn open trash bags and thin vomit stains. On the way, I dig in my purse for a piece of Nicorette. I struggle to open it. It usually takes me about three-quarters of a block to get the gum out of the packaging. Sometimes it gets warm and sticks to the tinfoil and I can't get it out and I curse and throw it away and try a brand new piece.

At 3rd Avenue, I wait in front of Ray's Pizza for the light to change. The trash cans haven't been emptied yet and they overflow onto the sidewalk. The water in the gutter is green and opaque and a smell rises from it that I don't really notice anymore. People around me edge nervously into the street, hoping a break in the cars will allow them to cross the four lanes, but I know that this is one of those rare New York City blocks you can't jaywalk. The traffic's too heavy. You just have to wait.

When the light changes, I cross 3rd, pass Cooper Union, and then step into the Bowery without checking for traffic. The Bowery at Astor Place is one of those blocks you can always jaywalk. I pass the fruit man and the ugly reflective Chase building. The Astor cube is to my right and I see if there's new graffiti on it, or if they've painted over the old graffiti.

At Lafayette, I can usually cross against the light. I pass the coffee cart on the corner with its hand chalked sign. L.A. CAFE HOT BREAKFAST. I pass the big storefront under construction that used to be Astor Wines and is soon to be a Walmart. I think about how disappointing it is that a Walmart's opening up. And right across the street from a Kmart. How many places does one need to buy cheap paper towels?

I hang a left on Broadway. It's dirty, too, usually with McDonald's wrappers and discount tanning fliers. I go down the steps to the N/R train entrance and swipe my metrocard. It's not the main entrance and doesn't have a service booth or a way to buy a new fare, so if my card is out I have to climb back up to the street and walk a block and a half to the main entrance.

Underground, I wait by the pole that has the empty frame sometimes used for service notices. I turn off my iPod and pull out my New Yorker. When the train comes, it's still empty enough for me to get a seat. I ride three stops, which is just long enough to get interested in an article but not long enough to read more than half a page. At 28th street, I turn my iPod back on, put my magazine away and wish, against reason, that my commute was longer.

A lot of people get off at 28th, so even though the doors to my car open up right in front of the exit, I have to wait to go through the turnstile. Once above ground again, it's usually still early enough to cross Broadway against the light. I walk east along 28th to 6th Ave. There, I stop on the northwest corner to get a coffee at the cart. They just opened up a Starbux right next to my work, but I still stop to get my cart coffee, because I like how it isn't too strong and the guy recognizes me, knows that I want a small with milk, no sugar, no bag, and doesn't talk too much. I give him sixty cents, exact change, then cross 6th and head towards 7th.

28th between 6th and 7th is the garden district, so both sides of the sidewalk are lined with ivies, flowers, palms, and grasses. I know nothing about gardens, but the plants are wet and beautiful in the morning and they smell like the earth. The leaves brush my arms and I would slow down if the short Spanish men standing in the doorways didn't hiss like cicadas when I passed.

I talk a left on 7th. The same guy offers me the New York Metro every morning. I refuse. Starbux has a line out the door. The Fashion Institute of Technology is across the street and girls with unusual jeans walk in slow pairs towards the end of the line, where they will wait on their cell phones for lattes. Scaffolding is up in front of my work, so first it feels like I enter a cave, then my building with its blue and gold scrolls and art deco molding.

I say hello to the Barbadosian who mans the desk. I've asked his name four times, but I never understand what he says and now we're past the point I can ask again. I press the button for the elevator. Usually, one of the three isn't working. I watch the numbers on the panels and guess which one will arrive first. I take out my iPod and lower the volume.

My commute is over. It took 20 minutes. The elevator will arrive and I'll get on and pull my keys out of my purse. I will get off on my floor, turn left, and take my headphones out of my ears while I unlock the door. I will spit out my gum and drink my coffee. I will look at the Empire State Building out my window. I will sit in my chair for four hours and, even if it's a bad day, I will feel lucky that I have this job.

Things I'm Sick Of

Fiction
Justin Timberlake
Overpriced razorblades
People who shit talk pigeons
Brushing my hair
Men in tight pants
Really difficult to open Nicorette packaging
Wide walkers
Blond Asians
Debt
Violent, cane-wielding drunks
Dirty bathrooms
Being blessed by strangers
Small dogs
People who are proud of living in New York
Ticketmaster surcharges
Losing at Scrabble
Burning my tongue
Cat litter
High fives
Telling people my brother's dead