TWENTY TWENTY HINDSIGHT

We need to talk, Empty Fridge. It’s not that I don’t trust you; it’s that I’m concerned. You obviously have not been taking care of yourself. What happened to the whole grains and the soy protein and the yeast infection-preventing acidophiles of yesteryear? You used to drink blue-green algae for fucks sake!

I’m glad to see you’re drinking filtered water, but that bowl in the back is empty isn’t it? Don’t lie. I know you put it there to make us think that you ate a salad last night. But here’s the thing, Empty Fridge: everyone knows salad doesn’t keep. And you didn’t even bother to close the bag of Easter-themed M&Ms? It’s not even Easter yet.

Hey, what’s that? NEW CASTLE??? You are way too old for that, Empty Fridge. College freshman drink New Castle because they think it’s a good beer just because it comes from some industrial shithole in the UK. Well, Empty Fridge, it’s not good beer. It’s beer with honey in it. It’s beer for people who do not drink beer. You would drink Smirnoff Ice if you could, wouldn’t you?

Is that what the orange juice is for, Empty Fridge? For your girlypuss mixed drinks? Oh god. It’s orange juice from Teeter. There’s a co-op next door to Teeter, isn’t there, Empty Fridge? The only reason to go to Teeter is for frozen pizza and Doritos on your way back from the bar at 2:30 in the morning, both of which you will eat with the Bartles & Jaymes hidden in your toilet tank, a storage place that both fools your girlfriend into thinking you don’t drink at home anymore and keeps said Bartles & Jaymes chilled.

And immediately after eating the frozen pizza—which you may or may not top with extra oregano and the aforementioned Doritos—you will take a burning shower to remove the smell of cigarettes from your hair and extremities because you quit smoking six months ago but Just Couldn’t Resist at the bar tonight. Also, you forget to use soap. This shower will last a while, Empty Fridge. It will last until you have depleted the entire building’s supply of hot water and you wake up in the tub shivering and still reeking of Pall Malls.

And then, Empty Fridge, you will pass out naked and wet on your Wal-Mart futon until you are unexpectedly woken by your 7:30 alarm, already running late for your job at the nursery. Not the plant nursery, Empty Fridge. The baby nursery. The nursery where those pygmy humans you love so much hang out while their parents are earning six figures and thinking about the secretary’s legs.

You don’t have to hide anymore, Empty Fridge. The truth is out.

I actually wrote this a long time ago, but my left shoulder’s burning from all the fanger-tapping I’ve done today and my eyes feel like that time I used my roommate’s hard contact saline solution (the one with the bright red DO NOT PUT IN YOUR EYE label) because I was stoned and wanted to clear my cloudy peepers before my college graduation dinner with my family. Lesson: don’t put other peoples’ shit in your eyes.

But, back to the subject at hand, I began pondering the under-40 obsession with Portland again after I saw this mixed tape compliments Bitch magazine. Granted, some of the songs are better than medium, but calling your own city a “mecca of greatness” is a little like telling people your GPA.

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December 17, 2007

Several recent New York Times pieces present Portland as a utopia of fashion/cycling/food/coffee/art/music/queers/etc., but it’s LIES, all LIES.

The Truth About Portland (in bullets):

• Bike lanes are great, yes, but apparently the Times hasn’t seen the scars on my knees or been to any of the quite touching funerals I’ve held to honor the lives and deaths of every single one of my favorite pairs of jeans. Did the Times feel the costs (financial and mental) of repeat visits to the Community Cycling Center, where the mechanic with a pink cycling cap and full-sleeve aquatic tattoos told me to get a one-speed with fat tires or stop riding home from the bars? Did the Times get scrapped off Alberta Street by a bum after running into a stop sign at three in the morning? I didn’t think so.
• I think the Times might also have missed out on the four months of unemployment I collected between jobs six and seven of 2006. And while the Times and I probably agree that there’s absolutely nothing wrong and there may even be a little right with collecting unemployment, $416 a month doesn’t go very far when your rent is $400 a month. That’s right—a twelver of PBR and a pack of Camel Lights for an entire month’s work trolling Craigslist.
• And I wonder what the Times would think of the Portland art scene after getting stuck in the Portland Art Museum when a caterer burnt a piece of toast in the basement and fire alarms went off and huge metal doors lowered from the ceiling to protect the art but also trapped you and your girlfriend and some tourists on the top floor with nothing to look at beyond each others’ increasingly panicked faces?
• Speaking of art, what kind of strip clubs don’t take passports? The kind in Portland.
• Gays are great if you are single, but moving to a city populated almost entirely by hot, progressive, poly-whatever queer folk with your beautiful but preoccupied girlfriend is the last thing a monogamous relationship needs. Maybe the Times has self-control, but for some of us, PDX is a 24 hour Eden of cute, tattooed apples. NOT COOL.
• And who the fuck decided that it’s acceptable for an entire city to start drinking at three o’clock in the afternoon Monday through Thursday and before noon on the inevitable three day weekend? (Seriously, try to get brunch on Friday and you’ll be standing in line for your Bloody Mary with half the city because nobody in Portland works on Fridays.) Where was I? Oh, right, happy hour. I forgot what I was talking due to happy hour-induced brain damage.
• Is NYT aware of what constant rain does to people? Let’s hear how much you love the city after you’ve walked under an umbrella for 120 days in a row. Actually, you would be under an umbrella, but Portlanders are too tough for that shit so you’re just wet.
• According to some “reputable” news sources, Portland is full up with celebrities, or at least quasi-famous artist types. But when was the last time Carrie Brownstein came caroling at your door? And Beth Ditto? Way too busy being an actual celebrity on that little island Madonna owns to hang with you at the Nest. Same goes for Chuck Palahniuk—doesn’t leave the West Hills, despite repeated invites to what ended up being some very good dinner parties. In fact, the only famous person I saw was Mirah and her ass crack as she bent down to pick up some produce at the farmers market. Sure, maybe Tegan and Sara recorded their album in the neighborhood but how many times did you actually see them, despite casually dropping by the coffee shop/grocery store/tattoo studio you heard they patronized? That’s right—NONE. And who did you see a mere six months later walking down the street your new neighborhood after your beautiful but preoccupied girlfriend became less preoccupied and noticed that you weren’t really resisting the hot, progressive, tattooed queer girls at all, and, upon noticing, followed you to work (job number seven) and punched you in the face and then threw all of your shit (including the teddy bear you’ve had like forever and the art project you’d been working on for six months) out of the house and into the endless rain? SARA FUCKING QUIN, that’s who. A famous person. Not in beloved Portland, Oregon—in North Goddamned Carolina.
• So, New York Times, why don’t you go to Portland for longer than an afternoon in August when everyone is hot and naked and slightly buzzed? If you still like it after seven jobs and constant rain and having to find a new place after the bathtub in your apartment filled up with the entire building’s raw sewage (true story), you’ll at least have earned it. In the meantime, please find somewhere else to write about every once in a while. I hear Madison has a great arts scene.

Dear Friends and Lovers,

I want to apologize for not calling.  I know, I know, it’s been a while.  And, yes, I got your text messages and your emails and that one mixed tape that I keep meaning to listen to.  I  meant to call, really, but my sister’s kid stayed with me for a weekend and then I had to do my taxes and there was the Peaches show and my driver’s license expired.  What can I say—life’s been crazy.

But, as all of you know, I always take the time to care for my Earthly temple.  I mean, what are we if not hot bodies?  That’s right.  Lonely.  And this maintenance doesn’t just mean limiting carbs and going to Body Pump twice a week and drinking laxative tea every night.  It also means caring for my immunities and making sure my STD count stays at a respectable zero.

And the results are in, my friends!  The results are in.  But before we get to that, I want to pause a moment and acknowledge the world we are living in today, right now, and probably even tomorrow.  Tough times out there, right?  You can’t enjoy your morning latte without hearing poor people bitch and moan about this so-called recession on the news.  And just this morning my friend Jen Anniston called to say she’s marrying that girly fuck with the floral tattoos.  What’s his name again?  Right.  John Mayer.  Tough times all around.

Even I–seemingly spat from the womb covered in gold dust—am going through a rough patch.  Don’t worry, I’m not losing the condo or anything, but my dealer just jacked up the price of an eight ball by 11%.   Eleven percent!  For a second I thought I was going to have to get a job, but then I realized that I have valuable information, information that you want.  And I’m going to give it to you, friends and lovers, for a small fee.

That’s right—I’m offering you the results of my STD tests in exchange for a small amount of legal tender.  I’m not going to spoil if for you, but I will say that there’s some very interesting data on those print-outs.

I know I can’t prevent you from sharing these results with each other, but in an effort to discourage any potential file-sharing, I’m saving the last, most special result until all the others have been disseminated.  If I learn that there’s been some open source shit going on, no one’s getting it.  And, yes, you could just get tested yourself, but you’re phobic of needles, Amy.  And, Dora, don’t even pretend any nurse could find a vain in your body that hasn’t collapsed.  Even your toes have tracks marks.  Isn’t it easier just to come to me?  Besides, I’m offering this information for 5% less than your standard clinic.

Now, you may have noticed that there are a few familiar names on this list.  I just want to say, Mike, that  a little oral does not mean you’re gay.  Don’t stress it, bro.  And Carly, you’re a great kid, but you and Mike are obviously way more compatible than the two of us.  And because you two are such a terrific couple and I feel a little bad about doing both of you so soon after the wedding, I’m going to give you a package deal.  Two results for the price of one!

Alright, people, I’d update you on my new life-happenings (those hydbrid SUVS truly are lady-killers, let me tell you!), but all this finger-tapping is giving me callouses.

Love you, mean it!  Call me!

Let me guess: you moved to Portland six months ago after graduating from Smith with a degree in queer studies. You haven’t found a job yet, but you’re not sweating it because volunteering at Reading Frenzy for three hours a week totally counts. Your rental is down the street from Carrie Brownstein but you never even bother her when you’re walking your dog Milk. I mean, fame’s just a construct, right?

You plan on using those rotten bananas in the freezer to make banana bread at the next potluck. Last year it would have been vegan, but now you’ll probably throw some bacon in. You’re on the microbrew train even though sometimes you just want a fucking Corona Light. You’ve recently switched from Camel Lights to American Spirit Yellows to Bali Shag, but you totally support smoking bans. You don’t really know too many dudes, but you kind of wish you were one cause the Willy Nelson/Stonewall Jackson/Devendra Banhart look is so hot right now and it’s just not fucking fair that facial hair just isn’t part of your DNA.  Part of you regrets your Banksy tatt, but it’s cool because it marks a time in your life, you know?

You really, really want to be in Do & Don’ts, which is a secret, but not as bad as you want to move to Montreal, which is not a secret. You bought a keffiyeh seven months ago but haven’t put it on it since Rachel Ray wore one in a Dunkin Doughnuts commercial.  SXSW was way more manageable this year since you finally got an iPhone.

You totally cried on election night.

Hey peeps! Tons of stupes goody presentations at Queer Art/Queer Action in Asheville this weekend. There’s a screening of Hedwig and the Angry Inch with the fag himself, John Cameron Mitchell, there to answer your questions! Seven o’clock in the Humanities Lecture Hall at UNCA.

Come hear me read a treatise on the nature of genderistic sexualism and computer mediated communications. Or maybe a short story about gay shit. My thing’s at 1:45 on Friday. C’mon!

Wait. Is that a freezer? There, on the bottom. No. Lower. See it? On the floor WHERE FREEZERS DO NOT BELONG??? You think just because you’re fucking SILVER you can rearrange the very nature of the top/bottom/freezer/fridge dynamic?

Oh, wait. You’re saying it’s the freezer’s fault? That there you were, enjoying your sweet frigid life as a submissive, perfectly content to have the freezer sitting on your face all day, when all of a sudden the freezer’s like, Hey, I’m sick of this. How about letting me bottom for a change?

And you fucking allowed it, Silver Fridge? I thought you were made of stainless steel.

Now the person who pays your bills, who keeps your hinges oiled and your crisper stocked has to REACH DOWN for her fucking Grey Goose. There are no words, Silver Fridge. No words.

And I hate to tell you, but your owner is either anorexic or she eats out a lot. I’m guessing it’s the latter, because any creeper with a silver fridge is obviously rich like Oprah’s rich. She’s probably the kind of girl who keeps nail polish in the egg drawer and tea bags in the freezer because the au pair was from Eastern Europe, where that shit is okay.

I want to thank everyone for participating in my Very Scientistic Study Of Your Fridge (VSSOYF). The team and I are analyzing around-the-cock to bring you the results. I think you’re really gonna learn a lot about yourselves, people. I certainly am.

Who keeps nail polish in the fridge? That’s right. You weirdos.

I posted the following completely serious ad on Craigslist exactly one year ago today. Circumstances: I had been (unhappily) employed at Whole Foods for a good ten months, which is roughly four months longer then my usual forays into employment, so I was trying to spice shit up. Also, KD Lang had been in the store a few days prior and she completely ignored the Missed Connection I posted. Dyke.

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Crushtomer Wanted – 26 (Chapel Hill)
Reply to: pers-611691233@craigslist.org
Date: 2008-03-19, 4:29PM EDT

My fellow employees at Whole Foods Chapel Hill have been discussing ways to make our jobs more enjoyable and, after much deliberation, we’re in agreement–we need a crushtomer. Actually, it’d be great if there were plenty of crushtomers to go around and the straight boys and gay girls wouldn’t have to share, but we need to be realistic here. One will do.

In order to satisfy everyone’s needs, we will, unfortunately, have to dismiss potential crushtomers who are too outside conventional standards of beauty. That said, even though our ideal group crushtomer probably shouldn’t be covered in tattoos or have sick rattails, it’s ok with me if you do. Also, someone in Specialty is really into extra digits. In general, however, we want our crushtomer to resemble the love child of Brooke Shields and Iman with a dash of young Elvis thrown in. That’s not too much to ask, is it? I didn’t think so.

Also, please be nice. It’s hard to love a crushtomer who’s overly-demanding. Not that our customers are ever overly-demanding, of course.

Serious inquiries only.

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I didn’t get many replies to this—unlike my ISO Myspace Girlfriend post, which garnered many, many replies and was deleted in various cities across this great nation—but I did get the following:

hi! CRUSH THIS!! : )
i just happened to look at this part of craig’s list, and came accross your ad. it really got my attention.
i’m married and don’t want my husband to take part in this part of myself (he supports me and knows i’m doing this, but will not take part).
i’ve been w/ only a couple of women b/f, maybe b/c i’m very picky. but your ad caught my eye..:)
i love whole foods…which one are you….got any photos?
i’m pretty busy now, as i’m at med school at UNC, but i do have down time to explore.
i’ll attach a photo, hope you like. i would like to see more of you…
much love,
[redacted]

And the photos? Ima link this so you don’t get fired if your boss happens to be looking over your shoulder.

Ready? This one’s pretty innocuous. This one, less so.

———-

So, natch, I forwarded this to those friends and family I thought would appreciate such beauty (and from a doctor no less! Sexy and smart!) and this was my favorite response, compliments Lil Skillet:

That is totally a mailorder bride. She’s got a thirteen-year-old body with a forty-year-old face. And her boobs look like rocket ships. BLAST OFF!!! What the fuck are those shoes anyway? Do they even make shoes like that?

No, my friend, they don’t make shoes like that.

of your refrigerator, inside and out. No joke. This is for a very scientific study regarding gender, sexuality, eye color, and cooling-mechanisms. C’mon. Do it for Science.

krherzog@gmail.com

This is too long for Nicole Georges to answer, so I’m gonna post it here instead.  No point in wasting all those precious words.  Feel free to give your own advice.

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Dear Nicole,

I am not America’s Smartest Girl.  In fact, I’m not even in the top five!  Sucks, I know.  I am, however, pretty good at broadcasting my deficient smarts/morality/adult priorities across the Internet via blog.  In fact, I’m so good at it that people I don’t even know send me messausages like, “U R FUCT UP!!1!, and recently a “42-year-old professional business woman” wrote to tell me that she “likes my boldness” and would be willing to discuss a possible patron/benefactor arrangement.  I think she wants to give me an allowance in exchange for companionship, conversation, and dusting in my underwear—possibly because I told her that I’m for sale.

Anyway, things are going swimmingly.  Blogging gives me an audience for my creative pursuits (i.e. pathological lies), which fulfills my desire (NEED) for attention.  It’s also a terrific distraction from the more mundane/noble pursuits in life, like higher education: I use my time in the classroom to blog, pausing only to glance at my professor approximately every 47.9 seconds to maintain the illusion of note-taking.  It’s also a perfect excuse to drink, as the correlation betwixt creativity and drunkitivity is well-documented (see: Hemingway, Amis, Lohan).

I know what you’re thinking: what could this young gayelle possibly want with my help?  She was obviously spit out with a sheen of luck, what, with the blogging and the drinking and the allowance. But the thing is, Nicole Georges, I’m afraid my blog has given people the wrong impression of my true character.  Unaware readers may think that I’m a herpied womanizer who keeps hairnets on my bedside table because I don’t want anyone’s DNA on my pillowcase even though I’m perfectly willing to have it in my mouth.  And the thing is, I don’t even have herpes!  Or one might get the impression that I menstruate because I wrote an incredibly long and detailed blog about bleeding on the mattress that my ex-girlfriend and I might have borrowed from our friend Mary Ann, when everyone knows gays don’t menstruate!

And I wouldn’t really care, Nicole Georges, about some anonymous Internet peoples’ (false) impressions of my character/reproductive organs, but I’m currently in the market for a Real Live Girlfriend and I’m afraid my blog will scare any potential lifers away.  And, yes, I could neglect to tell Imaginary Future Life Partner about my blog, but I want her to know that all this finger-tapping I’m doing while she folds laundry isn’t poetry or some shit.

See my problem?  How do I continue the blog but convince people it’s all just a persona and that I don’t really kick poor people, but actually give them money, sometimes, in exchange for mowing my lawn?

Love,

Over-Sharer in Carolina