Monthly Archives: December 2013


For a few decades most Europeans
had two birthdays, a byproduct of the
pre-EU ways of conducting foreign
diplomacy: do whatever the hell
you want, Russia, and we’ll clean up your mess—
chronologically speaking—later
on, when history’s forgotten how much
we all couldn’t get along. But like the
royal houses in WWI, it’s all
relative, and if the earth and sun and
stars and dust clouds and everything in
near perpetual motion stopped for a
moment we wouldn’t know it anyway,
it’s all manmade, so have your two birthdays.


must needs
always be about
excess. We must view
them from afar, twinkling,
perhaps sort of comprehending
that we’re witnessing explosions.
So why the outrage over extravagance?
They’re doing their jobs, blasting garish
luminosity from checkout stands and monitors,
ever reminding us that we are light years away.


I once had a pet, or an idea
that I wanted a pet, I’m no longer
sure exactly, a goldfish, I think, though
I wanted something better, grander, a
cat that looked like a tiger, perhaps, or
the largest god available to boys
of five or six, not this silent gawking
reality, but I took him, and I
named him George, and I found him a tank
to set the boundaries of existence
for his wet life, and I fed him, and I
fed him, and I fed him, and I fed him,
until he died, ’cause either I fed him
too much, or that’s all he was meant to do.

An Open Letter To Phil Robertson From Honey Boo Boo

Dear Phil –

My family and I were heartily sorry to hear of your troubles in regards to your clearly being taken out of context vis-à-vis “the gays” and your subsequent “temporary hiatus.”

I don’t need to tell you that reality television is a slippery slope, Phil. Some network scout finds you “charming” for living hand-to-mouth and before you know it, you’re making a quarter of a million per episode, clear. But there’s a cost. And the cost is being branded. Sure, you think you’re in control of your image. You believe that every time a production assistant takes you aside and asks you to “maybe just act a little…trashier,” you’re a willing participant in creating a CHARACTER. You’re a full partner in fuckery, if you’ll pardon my crassness.

But a line gets crossed. It always does. It’s bound to happen. And now you find yourself in the midst of a brouhaha involving the First Amendment (which Baby Kaitlyn and I find hilarious, given that this, as Baby Kaitlyn so adroitly observed, is really more about contractual liability than “free speech”). It’s all very Elia Kazan-esque, no? I keep waiting for Patricia Neal to show up and tell everyone they’ve been hornswoggled.

What happens next? Well, that’s up to you. But have your people call my people, and we might be able to squeeze you in as a replacement series on TLC.

Best of luck –

Honey Boo Boo, SAG, AEA

Chicken Fingers

Chicken toes. Chicken mani/pedi spas.
Chicken wraps. Chicken headdresses. Chicken
scarves. Chicken mittens. Chicken snow goggles.
Chicken ski poles. Chicken tridents. Chicken
shish kebabs. Chicken javelins. Chicken
hurdles. Chicken gates. Chicken sex scandals.
Chicken tabloids. Chicken celebrities.
Chicken world superstars. Chicken Beatles.
Chicken wings. Chicken football. Chicken goal
posts. Chicken nets. Chicken trawlers. Chicken
of the sea. Chicken mermaids. Chicken tails.
Chicken stories. Chicken fables. Chicken
myths. Chicken demigods. Chicken heroes.
Chicken fantasy. Chicken a la king.

The Flight

“Again, this is sweet, but insane,” Ian says as he rubs his eyes and shifts in the passenger seat. “My company pays for every cab ride I even think about taking, let alone take.”

“This is different,” I say. “Seeing you off out of New York is different.”

“You’re going to see me in eight days.”

“Please just let it be sweet, okay?”

He nods.

I start thinking about what I will miss most about Connecticut, and New York, and living here, and I wonder if what Ian will miss most are the same things. I wonder, as I drive down 95, a particularly ugly stretch of 95 where everything is very gray, where the palette is unwelcoming and dark even in July and the bark on the trees is a harsh brown, what I will fall in love with in London, and if I will even fall in love. I wonder if Ian thinks about these things, and I realize I don’t know.

“What’re you going to do with the house all to yourself for a week?”

“Dance on the tabletop. Invite the high school football team to party. Masturbate.”

“That’s my girl,” he says.

We don’t talk for a long while. Finally, he reaches in to the radio dial and turns up NPR to stave off the silence.

“Shit. This skyline,” he says as soon as we hit the Triboro Bridge. I don’t say anything back. “We’re going to have a real life over there, Rachel. Everything is going to be how it’s supposed to be.”

“This wasn’t real life?” I say, keeping my hands fixed on the wheel, not looking at him. I know he’s turned towards me.

“You and I both know this was no way to live. Any of it,” he says. “Me not being the best husband. And you…”

“And me what, Ian?”

“We’ve just been happier, is all,” he says. “We’ve both been happier without external forces chipping away at us, and we need to move on with our lives. This is us moving on with our lives. We’re doing the right thing.”

I start seeing signs for JFK as we cruise along the Van Wyck, not a speck of traffic in our way today.

“Virgin Atlantic,” he says calmly, pointing towards one of the big sign boards for the terminals. “If you didn’t agree with me in some capacity, you wouldn’t be doing this. But you are.”

Ian reaches down into his lap to adjust the buckle on his belt, even though he doesn’t really do anything with it, just sort of plays with it.

“You tossed and turned a lot last night in your sleep,” I say.

“This is all a big fucking deal, Rachel.”

I stare down into my lap for a second longer than I should.

Yelp Cento

I have never heard
of a “cake fee” in my life.
When getting shots in my mouth

I can barely feel them.
My veins are very easy to access
and almost no one

has issues getting the needle in the right spot.

There are trade-offs for this sense
of old time authenticity.
I am going to tell all my friends
that this place serves food
with feather in their food.