Hannah Miet Guest Blogs, or, Hoes Before Prose

It's a Hitch List first: A GUEST BLOG. (**Ooohs and Ahhhhs.**) Hannah Miet, of My Soul is a Butterfly, is below. I am on Hannah's blog, slinging prose.

Explanation: I am a literary nymphomaniac, untreatable and unashamed. My toes curl in paper shops. My bookshelves are promiscuity on display. I shirk social responsibilities to sequester in and read. Sometimes a passage goes by that plunges two fingers into my brain, making me squirm with jealous delight while releasing audible moans of approval. I will read almost anything. (Except artistic statements which use the word "dystopian" in the opening...sorry, just can't.)  

Poetry is no exception. In fact it's more inception, some seed planted in my subconscious years ago which has since grown into a verbose piece of virulent foliage, one that needs to be watered regularly or it will whither and turn grey. Not just any verse will do...I need a powerful image. Word combinations which speak monologues. Narratives that lead me to a gingerbread house where the edible doorknob's laced with dopamine and cyanide. Shit that isn't ABAB rhyme scheme.

I've been lucky enough to meet with some poets and writers whose work is so good it simultaneously thrills me and makes me feel I should return to that Hooters in New Jersey and give up this attempt at writing altogether. Hannah Miet, of My Soul Is a Butterfly, is one of those people. Hannah creates vibrant verbal mandalas with the crumbing sand of memories, then does us the solid of preserving them on the internet rather than destroying them as monks do. She's also a fucking badass. 

So a recent exchange about guest blogging for one another put us at a crossroads. The Hitch List is mostly prose, an archive of occasionally vapid and debauched experiences punctuated with general relationship musings and the occasional nervous breakdown. Hannah's blog shanks you in the ribs with a screwdriver, then hands you a poem to read during recovery. Guest blogging for one another would mean attempting to work in the other's medium, which terrified...uh, both of us.

So, instead: She's built a narrative poem tailor made for a space more familiar with paragraph-long sentences and strip club jokes. I've passed on a piece of fictional prose to her space in return and hope it doesn't collapse on its self. The piece she wrote it fantastic and I'm happy to have it here.

But, less ramble, more read. Hannah Miet's words:

Whiskey and Waldorf Salad, by Hannah Miet 

My mother met my father through a personal ad

in The Village Voice.

It said, “I like jazz and Indian food.

I would like to start a family.”

They were both in their 40s and my mother says

they instantly became best friends.

My father says that it was love at first sight

without all the bullshit “romance.”

3 months before the wedding they fornicated on an island

off the coast of the former Yugoslavia.

My mother made the announcement of my birth

at the reception in a Chinese Restaurant in the West 70s

that is now a wine bar. She was wearing a blue dress and looked thin

but not skinny, 

mostly, she looked happy.

My mother called me yesterday while I was forking

through a puddle of vegetables in mayonnaise

surrounded by two grapes and two walnuts.

I told her that the Waldorf isn’t all it’s cracked up to be

though it’s good for people watching

and you have to people watch very carefully

when you’re scanning the crowds of suits and tourists

for your date, who never shows, most likely due to work

or marital strife

or something equally

boring.

I tell her that if I had a personal

in the Voice, it would only say

“Please use correct grammar in text messages”

because that’s all I knew about wanting

or being wanted

and my mother said that I’ve always been too picky about the wrong things

and not picky enough about the right things and that my problem is that

I’m uninterested

in the calm after the storm.

I wanted to remind her that she ran away to France for six years

and lived on a hippie commune in San Francisco where clothes were forbidden 

and communicated through letters across borders, sealed with kisses and written

in full sentences with correct punctuation, no ebonics or emoticons, or lols

but my mouth was full of Waldorf salad and my date was calling on the other line

with a proper plea for mercy so I held my tongue and washed it down with the burn

that never hurts.

I won't say what I love about this piece because people should chew things uninfluenced, but yeah, she is very good. So good, in fact, she's got a book coming out. Miet's met the Kickstarter base goal needed to get one of her debut projects off the ground and into book form, and I encourage all to pass even a $1 to the cause. The book may be funded already...but just a few extra dollars could be the difference between something nice and something so fucking epic you have to hike it across Middle Earth and drop it in the fires of Mordor just to destroy it, that's how badass it is. THE FIRES OF FUCKING MORDOR PEOPLE.

Book burning was taken particularly seriously at Mordor State University.

See? That's SERIOUS. So please. Support Hannah by going to her blog and reading EVERYTHING, then click here: http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/Hannahmiet/hello-absurd-world-a-book-of-5-minute-poems/comments

Many thanks to Hannah for sharing her world in this humble blog. 

#19: The Wingman Chronicles Part 1: Taking Home the Rock-Star

I start the Chronicles with a rule for wingmen to remember: If you force things, the condom breaks.


Wait, wait, that’s not right. Well, technically it is right, but it’s not the point I want to make.



Ah, I remember now...ahem: Always go with the flow. Chose good copilots, and go with the flow.



For night one of wingmanning, I chose my copilot carefully. Back on the singles scene after five years with an emo crybaby (one with bangs and a bizarre germ issue that meant he didn’t perform oral), Red is 5’9” of lithe, ginger-maned lioness. She’s got an encyclopedic knowledge of music, unfairly perfect porcelain skin and feminine ease with a pint glass. She is, in flirting style and visual “type,” pretty much my opposite, making her an excellent yin to my yang--and we’re different enough that we rarely aim for the same target. Except hot targets with full sleeves of well-drawn tattoos and/or accents, in which case it’s every goddamned woman for herself and Red’ll tell you that herself.



Red and I spent Night One in a downtown music hole with only one purpose: go with the flow. Hear music, have good time. We grabbed a drink and did some catching up. Then, fifteen minutes in, he took the stage.



Young, wild-haired and working angular, fox-like eyes, The Vagabond (the name of the song he was singing, of course) opened his mouth from behind the mic and let out a soulful riff, riding the back end of a blues growl until every vagina in the room was pissing cerulean. Red’s pheromones blew out the front of her dress and knocked my drink out of my hand en route to the stage.



“Dibs on--,” she started moaning.
“Yours. Got it,” I concurred.


I know, it’s an obnoxious cliche: Brooklynite she-bitches, gunning for the dirty-cute-hipster-rockstar. Whatever. I’m not ashamed.



Anyway, flash forward to midnight. Through a set of mutual friends, we ended up at the same Lower East Side (ugh, of course it was the LES. Maybe I am ashamed...) watering hole as The Vagabond and his band-mates. We weren’t there solely for the boy. The company was laid back and warm, the Guinness pints only $5 and the flowing spirit of the weekend Gods had delivered us there. 


But the boy didn’t hurt.



The ensuing mission was smooth and organic--no planning, just an on-the-fly series of non-verbal cues and tactical maneuvering.



At some point, The Vagabond separated from his pack of buddies and headed to the corner of a deserted smoking patio outside the bar’s open windows. Red saw, wordlessly pulling out her cigarettes and following outside to a position near, but not facing, her target. I stayed seated inside, watching for his reaction. He checked her out once from behind the cigarette, then again on the exhale. Roger, we have confirmation of interest. 



Behind me, three busty blondes noticed The Vagabond’s vulnerable position and furtively began plotting their own move. (He's the lead singer. Tough life.) Outside, Red was striking up conversation like a seasoned pro, and he was going for it...but she’d be out-gunned against three. Having confirmed mutual interest, I immediately commenced defensive activity.



I bolted (casually) to the patio, smiling and bumming a cigarette off Red before faking the death of her lighter. I turned to Vagabond for a light, introducing myself while cutting off his line of sight with the incoming trio of big-breasted bogies, now on the patio and closing in quick. Red, sensing the threat, turned her body perpendicular while I stepped toward her, effectively penning the Vagabond in his corner while still giving him ample personal space. Shut out, the bogies eventually finished their Newports and left.



With the patio cleared, Red eyed Vagabond’s almost empty pint glass, gave me the look and exited. Vagabond pulled out another cigarette (chain-smoking blues singers. It’s a veritable storm of cliches today, folks), and I bummed from him (and smoked the damned thing. Right after the one I’d just had. The things we do for friends....), playing the mutual acquaintance card to keep him in position for a few minutes longer. (“No way, you know Mike too?)



Red returned with two icy beers, one for her, one for him, and we all toasted his stellar performance. I then excused myself back to the bar, watching through the windows again while Red skillfully wrapped their chat, gave him a solid piece of body contact (the classic “I’m-laughing-and-touching-your-arm”) and rolled off to come “find” me. The seed has been planted.



An hour of random socializing later, I spotted one of the blonde bogies from earlier making her move. Houston, we have a problem. Vagabond look uncomfortable, eyes all over the bar, looking for something. With Red MIA I did a slow fly-by in, listening for the opportunity to cock block. (Is it still cock blocking if you do it to a girl?) Vagabond and Bogey were playfully arguing over which of two bands I don’t give a shit about were better. Bingo.



“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to eavesdrop.” Except of course I do. “But I couldn’t help hearing your argument and I totally have to take her side,” I told Vagabond.


“SEE, I TOLD you,” she crowed. Targeting Bogey...


“What is it with guys? They never appreciate the genius that is...um...that band,” I tried. Really lamely tried. That's right--come to Mama...



“Omigod, riyyyyght?” she said, shifting her body toward mine. “I saw them at the Bowery Ballroom last summer, and they were soooooo f-ing amazing, they came out and were....”


And then Red appeared. Vagabond grinned at her immediately, locked in. He'd clearly been looking around the bar for her. KABLOOEY, bitches. 


Vagabond ended up following us home to my place, where one roommate was conveniently out of town for the weekend. He stayed for a 3am night cap, a 4am discussion of music and a 5am anatomical study of Red.


My co-pilot had to scoot out to a modeling shoot the following morning. (Of course. I should rename this post “Of-Fucking-Course.”)


I cooked The Vagabond breakfast from scratch (because he was genuinely cool) and listened for half an hour while he told me how amazing Red is (duh, I know dude). Then, I tossed him out into the bright world and stripped the sex sheets off roomie’s bed before he got back, informing him (as was right to do) that his room had been used for wingmanning purposes upon his return. He was proud of us both. 


Red's not looking for anything serious, but she and the Vagabond have had several casual dates since that night.   


Mission accomplished.

Quarter-Life Crisis Management: Revisions, Analysis and Sufjan Stevens

So I’ve admittedly been delinquent in writing, posting, listing, etc. This is because of a sudden (but not entirely unexpected) surge in quarter-life-crisis-related panic that essentially frapped me in the face. And yes, I feel “frap” is the only adequate verb that can be used in instances of assault by your quarter-life crisis, especially given the vulgar nature of quarter life crises in general.

The only solution was some “Walden”-esque (minus the pond, minus the cabin, minus the musings on colonial sociology, plus one box of incense and entirely too much Sufjan Stevens) sequestering of myself and abstaining from outside influences, which included blogs, Facebook and any printed or digital periodicals save for the food section of New York magazine.

Reality is that after the dizzying, wide-eyed declaration of independence that was the original moving out on my own, I eventually had to, and will continue to have to, take stock of the aftermath, and no one should have to read through those details (they’re far less interesting than breaking world records).

I also had to admit that the latest revision of The Hitch List, though jam-packed with items ripe with episodic entertainment potential, were straying from the original purpose of reclaiming personal identity, learning to stand in solidarity and practicing to be the best lover/mate possible. Like tribal lower-back tattoos, the last shot of Jager or drunk-texting that dude who disappeared into the Bermuda Triangle after you finally went down on him, some things sound like a good idea when you’re being drunkenly egged on by a collection of intoxicated female wingmen and gay male roommates…until you wake up two days later.

So a little revising was in order. Yes, the hotly debated #25 will be adjusted (Ethnic Sexcapades Bingo will not, despite the fact that I am already losing miserably to two far-more competitive and apparently worldly friends).

The coming week will also bring adventures in wingmanning, interesting developments from pseudo-lover-almost-fiance-not-quite-sure-what-the-status-is-now Alex’s Hitch List and a careful evaluation of some action over at 20-Nothings, where friend and uber-observant blogger Jessie Rosen is examining a subject which is the very basis of this blog (I agree with most, but not all of, her analysis, for very obvious reasons).

In the meantime, as Sufjan says, all things go.

Sugar Daddy: Sweet, or Just Sticky?

“Gurrrl, you on your own? You gotta try a Sugar Daddy on for size, for rrreal.” Then he dragged extra hard on a Marlboro Light...you know, for emphasis.

The Sugar Daddy Advocate was one of my new favorite archetypes, the Gay-Ghetto-Hipster, a mix of ‘hood attitude, BBW comedic line deliveries, neon American Apparel accessories and Alize. (No, I’m not being racist, he was really drinking Alize. The yellow kind.)

We were on the outdoor porch of a Bushburg (translation: the grundle of Brooklyn, a no-man's-land between the cock of Williamsburg and the anus of Bushwick) bar when he overheard a discussion I was having with one of my wingmen about leaving Alex, the desire to shake up my routine with some wild shit and the need for experiences which fall outside the boundaries of traditional monogamy. I was also bitching about how I couldn't afford shoes and was spending my days in seasonally-retarded suede boots as a result, which may be why Sugar Daddy Advocate (henceforth known as “Sugar”) bailed on the bizarrely mustachioed hipster hitting on him (seriously, what is with the mustaches? Has the Magnum PI look really worked for anyone besides Tom Selleck? I’m asking this seriously, responses welcome) and proceeded to give a drunk dissertation on:

• why my fleeing to the ‘hoods of Brooklyn made me a “fierce bitch” and not just a bitch
• why my need to leave was the result of a codependency overdose (totally accurate…more on that later)
• why I needed a Sugar Daddy

One hundred years of women's rights activism and 25 years of self-respect aside, the idea of a Sugar Daddy isn't awful. In fact, it's kind of awesome: You get worshipped as a sex goddess and showered with gifts, including body treatments which keep you looking like a sex goddess (waxing, mani/pedi), meals, seasonally appropriate footwear and the occasional coverage of rent, utilities, etc. The downside is sexual acts with someone who might repulse you (but if you get, say, a Richard Gere or Andy Garcia type, then burn your Hitch List and marry him) and the occasional feeling you're a whore for money (because, well, you are).

According to Sugar, there's real life lessons to be learned by "Daddying." His theory suggests that being the "baby" enrolls you in a crash course on how to separate sex from love-making, while giving you an open forum to play any sexual role you've ever wanted but haven’t for fear of opening Pandora’s Box (ha, box) with a real potential mate. Aggressive power-bitch by day? Find a dominating daddy and go submissive. Total pushover? Strap on those PBC stilettos and track down a Wall Street blowhard looking to get walked over.

Sugar, an experienced Baby, also stressed (he was slurring his words, but lets not allow that to discredit his thesis entirely) that the arrangement puts you in a position of power, one where you can learn hands-on how to manipulate and not be manipulated--a valuable life skill, especially for cynics.

I'm not sure how appealing or true any of that is outside of drunken conversation on a Bushburg porch, but I'm intrigued.

Also, this is depression-era New York and I'm strangely (read: alarmingly) comfortable with the idea of being a whore for money from time to time.

The Hitch List was created to foster independence and kill codependency; relying on a Poppa to pay your way is probably the antithesis of standing on your own two feet.

At any rate, sugar-babying is now up for debate as a Hitch List item, because who am I to doubt the advice of a Gay Ghetto Hipster without a little analysis first?

PS: Has anyone out there ever BEEN a "Sugar Baby?" Or a Daddy for that matter? And how do these pairings even meet? Match.com doesn't have a "I'll Fuck You If You Buy Me Those Dior Shoes" section, does it?

Going off with a Hitch (intentionally)

Okay, finally jumping into "the list." A brief disclaimer:

*Life is not a well-edited television series. As such, adventures in the list will not be delivered a la slick montages with a "Billboard's Top 100 Songs for Humans With Vaginas" soundtrack. The list is subject to a learning curve, is revised whenever needed and does not assume to be the most profound itemization of shit since the ten commandments (really, it's just a list). The list caters to MY particular brand of crazy (your particular brand of crazy sold separately).*

Another thing: the list was created to minimize my brand of crazy while raising the value of my Life Experiences 401K, and thus almost every item has a specific reason applicable to my life for going down on paper; anyone else's list would/could/should look totally different.

And always remember: What is insipid, boring or slutty to some is cathartic to others.

Good. Glad we're all clear on that. Honestly, I feel so close to you right now...

Since no one wants to read a 100-item+ post I'll put the list, as it stands, up in sections. The checking off of items goes up in individual posts.

As of today, numbers 1 through 25, in no specific order:

Things To Do Before You Marry, or The Hitch List:

(last updated on September 18, 2009)

1. Learn to comfortably fly solo.

2. Conquer lingering, irrational childhood fears (dark, fucking scary spiders, etc.).

3. Go on week long "Help Me" Detox--no asking for help from anyone, for anything. (This pertains to help carrying laundry from the laundromat, reaching items at the grocery store, holding subway doors, killing fucking scary spiders, etc., as well as to the obvious areas of financial, emotional and social assistance.)

4. Get lost in a major city alone. Find your way home.

5. Do something that scares the shit out of you.

6. Do something that scares the shit out of someone else.

7. Sleep in the WHOLE bed.

8. Go on an epic road trip. Must visit minimum of three places you've never heard of before Google mapping.

9. Start selfish, indulgent lifelong habit.

10. Get involved in doing ongoing good deeds for others.

11. Have wild night at the strip club.

12. Break one personal beauty law (i.e. no short hair, no red lipstick, no Lindsay Lohan leggings, etc).

13. Break up with the television, phone, Facebook and g-chat and live like an urban Emerson...temporarily.

14. Do post-mortem on past relationships for evidence of YOUR insanity at work (no blaming the ex).

15. Go on a date with someone who is not your "type."

16. Tattoo.

17. Restock your entire underwear drawer with new inventory.

18. Revisit an old fling.

19. Wingman your BFF a piece of ass.  

20. Have your BFF wingman you a piece of ass.  

21. Go on a 100% lesbian date.

22. Skydive.

23. Get in a fight.

24. Learn a new language. Must be able to order food, ask for directions, give a compliment and give instructions on how to make you orgasm in chosen language within 6 weeks of starting.

25. Learn from the "other woman."

26. Relocate somewhere you've never lived and don't know anyone.

27. Create "Ethnic Sexcapades" Bingo Card (Italian, Irish, Puerto Rican, African American, Japanese, etc.). Compete with friends for first "Bingo." (Winner gets bragging rights and a free trip to the STD clinic.)

28. Take a midnight train going anywhere.

29. Someone older.

30. Someone younger.

31. Break a Guinness World Record.

32. Get wasted and party with someone famous.

33. Smash out with someone famous (see 32 for assistance).

34. Play a player.

35. Threesum?

36. Visit the birthplace of your personal hero.

37. Read/view/listen to at least three of the books/films/albums your obnoxious ex recommended but you never touched (who knows, they may have been right aboutsomething).

38. Spend a day in someone elses' shoes...literally, swap locations, jobs, friends and lifestyles for a day and see what you learn.

39. Build something from scratch utilizing three tools you have no idea how to use.

40. Try something you would "never" do in bed.

41. Be the star of your own nude photo shoot and learn to love your naked self. (Pictures are for your eyes only.)

42. Start mixed martial arts and/or self defense classes.

43. Go on a vision quest with an experienced guide.

44. Travel somewhere exclusively for a famous local food item (must cross state lines). Philly cheese steaks, media noches in Cuba, Pad Thai in Thailand, etc.

45. Get arrested.

46. Experience a torrid, infatuated, complete relationship in one weekend (meet, flirt, fall in lust, screw, spend too much time together and breakup all over the course of a single weekend. Hard to do in small towns; happens all the time in NYC).

47. Read at least two books on the world history of marriage (better the devil that you know).

48. Experience parenthood temporarily with the assistance of friends/siblings/relatives who have small children.

49. Have a raucous ladies'/guys' night in a famous non-native party city.

50. Write own eulogy.

That's all for now. I'm pretty sure people some reading this (all three of you) will bristle at a few. But then again, if you're really looking for a guide to morality, perhaps you should try spending time with the upstanding compasses at Protectmarriage.com instead of on my blog of sin. Oh, and while you're there, be sure to visit their "Have You Thought About It" section for some of the best filmmaking judgementalism has to offer. Big laughs.

For the rest of you: what would go on your Hitch List? Over time, I'll be posting interesting list items from friends, lovers, strangers and readers, as well as their accompanying stories, so send all adventures and/or epic fails my way. If you're not quite ready to share with the world, please feel free to email me personally. I solemnly swear your experiences won't become public blog-fodder.