1. If you could style yourself what would you choose as the accoutrements?
2. If you had to choose, Bob or Margaret?
Bob, no doubt. Together his nipples and belly button make an “uh oh” face, for God’s sake.
3. Is there an instrumental song that you like so much you wish it had lyrics?
“Take Five” by the Dave Brubeck Quartet.
4. Do you have a favorite poem?
It Dropped So Low In My Regard
– Emily Dickinson
It dropped so low in my regard
I heard it hit the ground
And go to pieces on the stones
At the bottom of my mind;
Yet blamed the fate that fractured, less
Then I reviled myself
For entertaining plated wares
Upon my silver shelf
5. What is the most uncomfortable position a person can find themselves in?
At a party where the only person you know is the person who brought you. Somehow while deciding upon which cupcake to devour –red velvet or blue (Yes, they’re making blue now and I’m not mad.) — your friend decides to disappear leaving you to hover in the middle of the kitchen unable to make a smooth transition into any of the many conversation pockets happening simultaneously. You know this because when you try to stealthily meld into a 7-top about lactose intolerance everyone looks to you as if you’ve just announced that you’ve been corresponding with the Night Stalker and the two of you are set to marry next Wednesday, “Nothing too lavish. Mainly because he’s in prison for a Beelzebub themed serial killing spree. I’m thinking I’ll wear purple. Too much?” If you had balls — and your car parked outside– you’d be smart to quote Fran Lebowitz to the entire room and storm out.
6. What would one quote of Ms. Lebowitz’s?
“Spilling your guts in conversation is just as charming as it sounds.” But I digress. Onto the next pocket. Oh, well this one’s splendid. I’m suddenly blinded by shearling collars, plaid flannels, Wayfarer sunglasses at night and apathetic monosyllabic sentences. Don’t get me started. Too late. It’s like some sign of the “Williamsburg done did the deed with Silver Lake” apocalypse. We all know these types. They feed off of making you feel like an idiot who has no right hobnobbing amongst the hipster elite if you haven’t heard the first and last xylophone-laden, indie hit belonging to 12-year-old, half Dutch, half Sri Lankan, sharecropping, fraternal twins hiding away in a bomb shelter somewhere in Red Hook. Do you even dare? Yeah, skip it. Who can honestly afford to visit the therapist twice in one week? And here you are back in the middle. And there’s always that one person, just yucking it up, the life of the party, the mayor as it were. How do they do it? Always with the right thing to say, saying it the right way one should say it — feel free to sub in “most insufferable” in the place of “right.” And since the kitchen is always the epicenter of a party, you find that you’re not just hovering but you’re hovering in the middle of the epicenter which is just a bad position to be in at any time during life. Hovering in the middle of the epicenter. Yes, it’s as scary as it sounds.
7. If you could be remiagnine by another artist whom would it be?
8. If you could be carried by anyone whom would it be?
That woman daydreaming about being that woman who sends out tweets like “Snowing in Shanghai! Live life!” or “Morning! MUAH! ; -)” or “Miffed by the fact I just nicked my clog in the souk. Sadsy face. Still love you Marrakesh! Ur not the Ochre city 4 nuthin!” or “At @thesmilenyc sitting between Jay-Z and Noam Chomsky discussing the Pythagorean Theorem. Jay calling Pythagoras’ bluff! HA! Silly Hova!”
9. What is that woman doing instead of the glorious things she daydreams of tweeting about?
Instead, she’s running calls and getting coffee in Muncie for a man with rosacea, a penile implant, eyes that think her breasts are her eyes and a dirty gold tupee so jutting and crisp it doubles as a visor. No pictures needed for any of the aforementioned realities; they’re brutal enough in one’s own mind.