Tag Archives: existential crisis

Let the Spirits Flow

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From the Desk of Kitty Winn

Dear Kitty Winn,

I have a lame problem, and I’m trying to wrack my brain to make it seem less lame and more earth shattering, but in the end, it’s pretty lame. Maybe I am lame. You tell me.

I am working on a book. I think what I have so far is really good, and other people have told me so, but I can’t seem to make any progress on it. My therapist says I have a fear of success, but what I could really use in my stagnant life right now is a little success. I thought about hiring someone to crack the whip and make me write, but I can’t really afford it. As it is, I use every diversion at my command to keep from sitting down in front of the computer, and when I finally do, nothing comes to me.

I don’t expect you to have any miracle psychological or logistical solution, but perhaps you can recommend a drug that’ll help me loosen up a bit and get my fingers flying across the keyboard.

Yours,

The Procrastinating Pen

Dear Pen,

What is the writer’s best friend, if not alcohol? Does the name James Joyce ring any bells in your dainty post-everything skull? Where would literature be without booze- you could fill the Library of Alexandria with all the great pages that have been sodden by drink. And then you could burn it down. Perhaps you are not the whiskey guzzling type. Then I suggest you toughen up! Writing isn’t for wusses.

By the way, I would like the name of your therapist. I could stand to have someone pandering to me right now. But maybe thats just my hangover talking.

-Kitty Winn

Farewell and Adieu, ye Fair Spanish Ladies

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lambchop

I feel like a Frenchman has moved into my bronchial passages- he is playing his squeezebox, kicking up his heels with some whores, and having a nip at the pipe in there. Well, thats what I get for being an American living abroad in these troubled times. That’s right, Frenchmen. Hanging out in the lungs.

So I awoke from a bad night’s sleep searching my bag desperately for a clementine I thought I had left in there. I didn’t find a clementine, but I found that the wonderful letter that I carry folded up with me, had gotten wet and the words all been washed away. I can still make out the impressions in the paper, and I know the words by heart, but it was a habit of mine to take it out and read it in a blue moment- like when trawling home drunk on the subway. Perhaps it is somehow fitting that I am now in possession of the world’s only Blank Love Letter.

But the human spirit will rebound! Though I choke on my own slime, I am hard at work. The show must go on!

smooch

Road Trip Wreckage

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This is what you people love to see in a Blog- sleep patterns minutely charted! It was a twelve hour round trip to an opening in a mental hospital, troche and two days later i am still TIRED. Anyhoo, no rx I sold a painting and who knows what else can happen? In the van we drank champagne and there was general rowdiness. After all the jokes about the opening being crawling with lunatics, ailment there were in fact several patients present. They were easy to spot because they were INSANE. One of them cornered me to congratulate me on maintaining a semblance of a productive existence, since it was “obvious” looking at my work that I, too, am a “deeply disturbed person”. I kid you not boys and girls.

Well, even though I am TIRED, I suppose I ought to get back to work in the studio today. After all, there is that facade of living to promote! I must maintain the porous barrier between my present state of being and a shuffling lithium induced stupor (staves off the ranting and construction of tinfoil armies of tiny soldiers). My routine is an eggshell-like veneer concealing emptiness which requires but the slightest pressure to be crushed into gritty shards.

smooch

A broth of a different color!

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One of the best parts of my day as an underling for an international soup concern has got to be dealing with the foreign language stuff. Today I had to swap out a picture of a can of soup for…a new can of soup. All the writing is Japanese, and it’s a brimming bowl of yellow liquid. I started tittering at the possibilities. Let’s play “What’s! In! The Can!” shall we? Could it be…Cream of Dog? Tincture of Eel? Extract of Cock? Or, as my office pal suggested, that old standby, Rat Oil. Mmmm!

You’d think there would be exotic products like that, but actually it’s just boring shit like clam chowder and chicken noodle. Ho hum. So much for diversity. I guess I could link to the humorous foreign soup pages, but I’d probably get “canned.” Ahahahahaha. Then how would I pay for my drugs?

Yes, Lambchop, work is a funny thing. You used to make fun of me for wearing sneakers with my suit, but once you tried it you admitted there was no going back. The world of banking was not for me….I could write a novella out of my failed careers. Soda Jerk, Grease Monkey, Exotic Dancer, Roustabout. I really lost the love for the hot $9/hr world of bank tellering when I realized you are behind glass not so much because of the threat of robbery, but because people spit at you!

Sample Workaday Dialogue:

Me: How may I help you today?

Disgruntled Vagrant: I wanna take out all my money

Me: Account number please, and I’ll need 2 forms of ID.

DV: ARGHRRRPHHMMMPHPHHH! Cunt! Whore!

I can’t tell you what was in the briefcase. But just the other day I saw a guy handcuffed to a Louis Vuitton monogrammed case. In the checkout line at Stop n’ Shop. I wouldn’t fool about something that weird.

xxoo

rocks and hard places

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Today I have to go to the bank and the dentist. I can’t decide which is worse. Having teeth drilled can actually be less painful than sitting in a cloud of imitation Givenchy and watching those horrible french manicure press-on nails clacking over the keyboard, and tapping on the desk and that becoiffed gold braceleted nightmare still has no idea how to do electronic transfers to the united states. My stomach acid increases just thinking about it. Anyway, I was just at the dentist 10 days ago- she only wants to see me again because she likes me. We sit around and talk about how fine it is to be great looking, we talk about the scene in Marathon Man, she looks at my mouth, admires her handiwork and lets me take a bunch of the shiny metal gumball machine rings that she gives to the kiddies.

Licketysplit used to be a bank teller! I remember well the days when she was darting off to copley in a peach colored suit and gold earrings. She would pass me by as i spent my filthy unemployed hours on the slab on newbury street, sipping iced coffee and waiting for something to happen. She would pop by afterwards and regale us with tales of incompetence that made stuffing the mattress with cash seem like sensible financial planning. Say, Lickety, what was in that suitcase anyway?!

smooch

drop a boulder on me, lord, or whatever method your might prefer

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Ok, this is not a typical rant, but I need to vent. I’m planning a motherfucking wedding, and I’m awash in a bilious sea of taffeta and shrimp puffs. $120 per person to feed Uncle Burt, Aunt Henrietta, and Big Fat Cousin Susie and her own unruly brood? I haven’t seen these people since New Year’s Eve 1986 (I’m not even kidding). I really see why women freak out (who watched Bridezillas last night on FOX? Admit it!) when confronted with all of these horrendous options for commemorating your nuptials. Today I’m at the point where I realized I just don’t care anymore, I want to hire a wedding coordinator, give them a budget, and we’ll just show up on the right day, stinking drunk. So I go Googling for Boston wedding coordinators, and I find…drumroll please….Klasi Events of Attleboro, MA….Dorna Love’s Wedding Daze of Lynn, and most notably Phat Katt Productions. Holy Fucking Shit. Not only do they cater to the big fat bride, they remind you that a basket of ladies toiletries in the restroom is a must for one’s guests!

Yes, you can’t throw a wedding without handiwipes. Now I don’t think I’m asking for much…an outdoor location in September for 75 people that will allow us to bring our own booze and have bar-b-q catered by Redbones. So if anyone out there has a palatial backyard they feel like renting out, let me know! Believe me, I’ve already lobbied for Vegas. Shot down. We are destined to have some unholy jamboree. Stay tuned as I unravel mentally over the next few months.

Oh, and yes, I’ve been to Indie Bride. Didn’t help! Feh. A pox on wedding bullshit.