Marxists love first class

The Marxist flew back east for a week, and one his favorite things to do, ironically, is to get bumped up to first class. As he says, he has no specific agenda, no deadlines, nothing pressing, so he doesn't mind flying a day later and being able to do so first class and with free ticket vouchers to boot.

Although I have never actually flown with him, he says that he is a terrified mess and apparently takes great liberty with the open bar to assuage his Marxist fears about . . . crashing? I'm not sure. Being scared of flying seems patently absurd to me which would be a definition of a mental disorder. To be fair, I have a fear of traveling myself. I fear that I will lash out at other passengers who apparently have never been on a plane before, have no concept of travel or how to politely interact with others.

He was so tickled by the first class transcontinental flight he scored, he actually took the menu home and posted it on the refrigerator. The Marxist told me for days afterward what he had eaten, meat, which had disgusted me greatly.

When I ask him about how he can justify the joy of being in first-class as a Marxist, when so many others suffer in coach, he pats my head and calls me a silly girl. Elizabeth, a revolution doesn't mean everyone will live the same and equally. It means that everyone will live better. I say, so what you're saying is, there should be a minimum for everyone? (Pat, pat.) No, we should do away with minimums. Marxy, I just don't understand your ways; you are thinking outside the box in a way I cannot comprehend at this time. I will revisit you later.

I rather like this fellow's story about how the better half lives.

The Marxist's favorite color

So it comes upon us that we are at the paint store. Painting one's shared apartment is the two year anniversary of going to Ikea to furnish said shared habitat.

I had been dreaming of muted metallic paint--neutrality with spark, I thought. I had also been researching low or no VOC paint. VOC stands for volatile organic compound which off-gasses from most paint. There are many everyday products that off gas such as plastics, mattresses, press board, pretty much every thing in your house which leads many people to believe that indoor air pollution is worse than outdoor air pollution. I spent hours talking to the Marxist about these things, and though he usually does not listen to my rantings, apparently he became rather convinced that all this was a good idea.

When we go to the paint store, he is not terribly won over by the faint metallic gold paint, especially when we learn that it cannot be made into no-VOC paint. I haggle with the salesperson, an overly made up lady who seems rather unconvinced it is part of her job description to help me, ironically, her name tag reads "Angel." The Marxist amused himself by flipping through the paint cards. I go over to see what he is up to, hardly recognizing him without a book in his Marxist paw. He says, Let's paint the bedroom this color! I look down at the color swatch and see varying shades of lavender.

I can't believe I have made grown men cry and it has come down to this.

We strike a compromise, gold on the bottom and lavender on top. I just cannot stand the white walls anymore. However, Marxy finds out that I ordered paint not in low VOC and gets so upset, he walks home from the paint store in a Marxist huff, leaving me by myself to lug my gold and cream flocked upholstered chair up three flights of stairs. A feat I accomplish, because I am not my father's daughter for nothing.

I spend all weekend painting our room lavender and gold. When it is all done, it looks rather nice. The Marxist comes back from the cafe and comes into our lavender bedroom. He collapses in my chair and smiles in a way I had not seen since his post-surgery opiate induced euphoria. He giggles like a little boy, "I am so happy!" I think he burbles, he continues, "Look how happy this color is! Don't you think that everyone would love this color? Everyone should have this color in their bedroom, it would make them so happy!"

He believes the dollar will fall, the revolution will come and lavender will make everyone feel good.

Graduate student rant

You know I have really tried to make it work with these no-talent ass clowns, but I'm so through with these socially inept gossipy bastards, I need to cleanse. Here are all the characters that have been plaguing my life for the past 3 quarters plus summer:

Neurotica--I really liked you. I thought you were cool and dressed well. I was impressed that you wore make-up. We had a lot of common interests, shopping, shoes, boys. I kinda liked your rocker boyfriend, but then when I found out he didn't like me--I was a little miffed, but whatevs, right? Imagine my surprise when you actually let his scant opinion of me, influence yours! Mind control? I was amazed at your inability to do most normal things, like break up with loser boyfriends and chose advisors that will actually help you. You would obsess over every possible decision and expect my sympathy when your big breasted sister tried to give your her out-grown bras. I mean this is life. Maybe I was too hard on you about trying to break up with this loser, but I got a little worried when you told me you had to sell your clothes to buy food. That loser you live with is a waiter; if he doesn't cover rent, do you think he could at least take the dead food from the kitchen?

Tattoo Jane--I really liked you too. I know you were cool and had a hot, let me say it again, hot, boyfriend. He is Armenian and he is a sexy sexy beast. We went drinking a few times and always to your side of town. You never came to ours. I mean we like your side, but our side has stuff going on too. My bf thought your tattoos were cool, but you told him you always kept them covered because you didn't want people in the academic community to judge you. Um, what? You had two full sleeves. Who were you kidding? If you didn't want people to judge you for not having tattoos, then why did you get them? And also, if you plan on having a career in academia, do you really think it is realistic to cover your arms for the rest of your life? But even this didn't bother me. It was the fact that you never came to my side of town always on the excuse of needing to see "Jimmy." I think I called you up and said I haven't seen you in months, come to this art show and your response was "I'm hanging out with Jimmy . . . I haven't seen him in like a week." I've never met him. If "Jimmy" was code for your boyfriend's penis, I would have been more understanding. I would definitely want to hang out with Jimmy. There was no reason we could not all hang out with Jimmy together. I would even buy him a drink.

Jersey--Being from Jersey also, I thought we would understand each other and we did, but something about you was really off. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but felt I was vindicated after you broke up with your girlfriend in Russia (everyone raise your hand who didn't see that coming) and started nailing undergrads. Not that I wouldn't want to nail undergrads. Actually, I wouldn't, they're slightly more stupid and more insidious than grad students.

X--You were so well connected and depressed it was like hanging out with any of my ex-boyfriends. You were also an ex-graduate student, or not really on the attendance list as it were. I tried to help you out of your depression by calling you to come out or over for dinner made to your dietary specifications. I even offered to put you on my health insurance so you could get your meds and then maybe you would stop being so depressed and finish your paper for that class you took like three years ago. It all came crumbling down when I told you that you had no chance with my best friend. And what you were surprised by this information? Dude, you have no job, you are overweight, you are generally cranky, you dropped out of school, you live alone in an apt. with no furniture, your parents support you and you are bald. The latter is not so much a deal breaker, it's just another obvious reason why you have no chance. Also you are 37 and you have nothing to show for it.



Tee-toller--I never had any specific problems with you, not that I ever really want to hang out with you, but you always seem to be around. It's just that you can't hold your liquor for shit and it's not that I have to drink to go out, but you seem to have to, but you can't. I'm really in awe at your inability to hold your liquor. You take one drink and you're three sheets to the wind. If you wanna drink, do it home alone where I don't have to spend my evening making sure some assmunch doesn't date rape you; if you wanna come out with me, don't drink.

Mr. Boring--You were pretty nice to me, but I was also pretty amazed that you managed to tell me a 20 minute long story about your bike skidding to a stop. I was so amazed at your boringness and the fact that you would stare at my chest the whole time. I think my breasts are pretty cute, but let's face it, when I wear a low cut shirt, I'm revealing more of a flat expanse of chest and not cleavage. Maybe you think my flat expanse is sexy. I just wish you would touch my boobs then, or not look at them. At least coping a feel would have been interesting. I was also amazed at how boring your friends were. They were actually watching Howard Zinn read on C-SPAN 2. Then they talked about the other night when they all got reaaaaaaaaaaalllllllllllyyyyyyyyyy wasted. Really? Like didn't anything cool happen? No? Nothing funny? Did someone piss on your couch? Did you all have an orgy? Did you play Truth or Dare? Did you do anything other than drink?!?!?! Then who the fuck cares and why are you still talking about it three days later.

The Dreamer--I get it, you are so not together and can be funny and cute and you're really working that well. It's like, Hmm, I don't know , should I go to class or pick flowers? You are such a free spirit. It's not like you haven't planned out your life from jr. high or talk to your mother every night. Oh look your mom is calling you now. She wants to know how the towels she bought you are working out. Your bathroom was delish, so very zen like.

Anyway, I could go on, but these are the main culprits that annoyed me. Fuck grad students, I'm hanging out with Dommes instead.

Stages of Graduate School Parties

Stage One:
Get awesomely dressed up, listen to Blondie on the way, make a stunning entrance--everyone turns, stares and ignores you. You spend the rest of the evening next to the vegetable dip not speaking to the 40something first year student. You get moderately drunk and notice with moderate awe that you are the only female to be wearing make-up. At the end, you severely judge everyone left as they launch into play by plays of apparently every show of the Fall season including Next Top Model and Project Runway. You haven't had cable in five years.

Stage Two:
Get somewhat dressed up, listen to the radio on the way, make an entrance and proceed to get as drunk as possible. Attempt conversation. You get stuck by the chips and talk to a stiff girl from the Midwest and talk about beer. You run away and find no one else to talk to and try to coax the cat out from under a bed or out from a closet. You're not exactly sure of its location.

Stage Three:
Get really drunk before you go, complain on the way there how much you hate these parties, enter and promptly find the guacamole where you proceed to drink even more. Still finding no one to talk to you, you wander the fruit garden and admire the lemon, guava and avocado trees and long for a garden of your own. You are shit faced. You are a 12 on the Richter scale of drunk, light and lines cease to make sense. Nothing is blurry, but everything is tilted. You find out that some graduate students are engaged in a marriage secret to the female's parents. You drunkenly bellow, C'mere! I want to have a talking to you and straighten this thing out. Now, what in tarnation is going on here? Are you getting any money out of this? Isn't she going to have to tell her parents eventually? Are you in a functionally gay relationship? Every few seconds mutter, that is some bullshit. Punch the Marxist in the arm and say, you better never do that to me even if I am a shiksa! In some small, not yet drunk part of your mind, you realize, you must leave before causing a serious problem.

Stage Four
Get dressed in a skirt because you got killer legs anyway, listen to M.I.A. on the way there because she's really rad, enter, and do blow in the bathroom on someone's iPhone. Attempt to engage in conversation. Again. Again. Nustle up by the Marxist as he is surrounded by The Intellectual, and The Older Poet. Frown. Crinkle brow. Leave to find The Younger Poet who ignores you, trying to pick up a fairly attractive blonde who is not receptive to his no skills mac. Decide to leave because its all boring and wander around the neighborhood until the Marxist finds you and coaxes you back inside telling you what he always tells you, the conversation he was having could have only been had by a select few people in the world and he was it, and if other people are having a conversation, just jump in and ask them to explain what the hell they are talking about, and usually they don't know. Decide you are fucked up enough to call up the girl who annoyed you at the last party, tell her she's an asshole, do more blow, then fall asleep on the couch until its time to leave.


Stage Five:
Get really pissed that you are no longer allowed at graduate school parties and the Marxist is going without you.

Defending Dirty Dancing to a Dirty Marxist

We were in a cafe of course and somehow got onto the topic of John Swayze. Look, I don't care what you think, Marxy, but Dirty Dancing was a great movie. A. laments, why does every girl I date love that movie and want to watch it with me?

And so I began into a rather long rant of why Dirty Dancing is an outstanding movie and why a Marxist like him should take note of the class struggle in a Catskill mountain resort in the 60s.

Before I begin, I should note that having watched this movie almost every week when I was a child, I could recite it line by line and once even owned the soundtrack--both soundtracks.

The movie couldn't be set up more perfectly than it's opening line, a line that should be remembered like Tolstoy's: "That was the summer of 1963 - when everybody called me Baby, and it didn't occur to me to mind. That was before President Kennedy was shot, before the Beatles came, when I couldn't wait to join the Peace Corps, and I thought I'd never find a guy as great as my dad. That was the summer we went to Kellerman's."

It was the summer before rebellion, before a modern age that presidents could be shot on television, before rock'n'roll, before a nice upper-middle class girl could think of anything better to help the world than joining the Peace Corps and when she is still in love with her father.

Enter an upper-middle class family; dad is a doctor, mom is a housewife; older sister is smart and younger sister is pretty. Frances or "Baby" is concerned with underdeveloped nations and wants to help the world by going into the Peace Corps. Lisa is concerned with finding her beige iridescent lipstick. Both fall prey to various matchmaking schemes by both family and owner of resort; Baby to the grandson of the owner, Neil, a pompous, ineffectual nerd and Robby a waiter saving money to go to med school. Both recognized as stellar choices; both total boneheads, but Robby proves to be a real bastard, impregnating the star dancer and leaving her high and dry.


Enter "bad boy" Johnny, who doesn't seem to really have any vices other than wearing tank tops and pants, perpetually in black throughout the film. There is some hint that he was involved with the "bungalow bunnies" in past seasons and the owner tells him to keep his hands off. Penny, the star dancer gets preggers by Robby and ends up tragically not being in the big show.

I think this movie appeals to women for a few different reasons. First, good ole sibling rivalry. Baby and Lisa enter their summer as virgins and sisters who don't particularly like each other. They constantly bicker is safe, 60s appropriate banter: "Butt out, Baby" "Oh Lisa's going to decorate [the world]."

But the main reason, is that the quintessential smart girl gets the bad boy. However, it is also a movie about deceiving appearances. Baby turns out to be a very sexy, rebellious woman and Johnny isn't the bad ass that everyone wants him to be--he tries to help Penny when she becomes pregnant and offers what little is left of his salary to cover her illegal abortion. Later he tries to thank Baby's father for what he did for Penny and tell him that Baby is a wonderful woman who turned out just the way he wanted. It should also be noted that he does not tell him that Robbie is the one who actually got Penny pregnant. You get the feeling that Baby doesn't lead a particularly rebellious life--she never lies to her parents, she's going to college etc. Baby sees no other way to save this young girl's life other than ask her father for money for an illegal abortion, then when it becomes botched she goes to her father in the middle of night for his assistance to save Penny's life and knowing he would not alert the authorities. All the dance kids stand around while Penny is bleeding not being able to call for a doctor. They all have slightly numb expressions, like this is just the way it is. Johnny attempts a whole-hearted thanks to the doctor, who brushes him off, wrongly thinking that he was the one who impregnated this poor butchered girl. The father forbids Baby to have anything to so with those people again.

But Baby isn't in the corner yet. She goes to Johnny's studio to unpack the night's events. First Johnny is distinctly embarrassed by the small, dirty space he inhabits and tries to clean it up saying, sorry, I'm sure you have a better room. Baby replies, louder than she has to, "No, it's a great room." Then, they have a discussion about what each one thinks about the other. She attempts to apologize for her father's behavior. Johnny knows what she is talking about, but is a gentlemen, and says, No, the way he was with Penny was great. (For all his inconsistencies, he does have a great bedside manner.) But Baby insists, "No, the way he was with you." Again, Johnny brushes it off saying, "No, I mean the way he saved her. I mean, I... I could never do anything like that. That was somethin'. The reason people treat me like I'm nothin' is 'cause I'm nothin'.
Baby reacts: "You, you're everything!"
"I never met someone like you, someone's lost, you find them, someone's bleeding--" "Yeah I go get my Daddy, that's really brave. Like you said."
"That took a lot of guts to go to him. You are not scared of anything."
"Me? I'm scared of everything. I'm scared of what I saw, I'm scared of what I did, of who I am, and most of all I'm scared of walking out of this room and never feeling the rest of my whole life the way I feel when I'm with you."

Both these underdog characters fall in love with each other not because of they mythologized personalities but because of who they really are; Johnny is not the rebellious bad ass nor is Baby the scared little girl who listens to Mommy and Daddy. They both have a hard time coming to terms about who they really are; Johnny thinks that he is pathetic because he couldn't do anything to help Penny and was helpless until Baby came on vacation. Baby thinks she's still Daddy's girl because she repeatedly went to him for help.

Why the Marxist should like this movie is because of the obvious class struggle in this often made fun of chronicle of Catskills resort life. It is the family's first real vacation in years pointing to the doctor's hard work building his practice and clientèle. The owner greets the family, "If it weren't for this man, I would be standing here dead." The family looks somewhat proud and used to hearing such comments.

Johnny challenges Robbie, "just lay your pickle on everybody's plate college boy and leave the hard stuff to me." He says this already knowing that Robbie got Penny pregnant, however, the audience does not. We are led to think that he implies Robbie is just a pretty play boy who dicks around, but Johnny is the real panther in the sack. Later, this would mean that Robbie sleeps around, but the "hard stuff" is helping a woman fixing the problem of an unwanted pregnancy in 1960s. It is also a pretty witty line, and all Robbie can talk about is lame ass novels like Fountainhead.

While it is pretty obvious that most of the dancers come to their profession by lack of other options we only find out about Penny and Johnny. When Baby compliments Penny on her dancing, she brushes her aside, "Well, my mother kicked me out when I was sixteen and I've been dancing every since. It's all I ever wanted to do anyway." No, there was no college for Penny, it doesn't even appear she graduated from high school. This was the only thing she ever wanted to do because no other options presented themselves. Johnny tells a story of sitting in a cafe and someone comes in and offers a chance to become a dance instructor. He says "we were all sittin' around doing nothing" meaning they were all unemployed with no other options.

Johnny talks about his desire to do something else, but he wants to get into a union. He tells Baby his father called and Uncle Paulie can finally get him into a union. Baby is hopeful, "Well, what Union?"
"House painters Union 115 at your service," Johnny says with disgust. He has no real clear objective of what he wants to do with his life; he knows he does not want to be a dancer, but he also years for something more than being a house painter. Both jobs are for uneducated labor; the waitering jobs are for guys like Robbie. The owner goes to Harvard and Yale to find them; the dancers come from broken homes in lower socioeconomic divisions.

Finally, Baby has a showdown with her father, calling him on all his hypocritical bullshit. When Johnny gets accused of stealing, Baby knows it wasn't him because she spent the night with him. Unable to bear the thought of her lover being charged with a crime he didn't commit and getting fired, she tells the resort owner and her family over breakfast that she was sleeping with Johnny that night. That took some balls in 1963. Later Baby's father refuses to talk to her because she went against his wishes; she continued to see Johnny after her father forbade it and confessed to having premarital sex. Baby confronts him, telling him, "You told me you wanted me to help people, but you meant by being like you. I'm not proud of myself, but I'm part of this family and you can't keep shutting me out." She finally realizes her father's hypocrisy; that it wasn't enough that she helped a young girl's life from being over by obtaining her an illegal, albeit almost completely botched abortion, but also saved Johnny from being criminalized. (Incidentally her mentioning of seeing the Schumachers with several wallets alerts the staff to the real culprits; another deceiving appearance: Silvia and Sydney a nice little old couple who made a fortune stealing wallets in several states.) Baby also acknowledges that blood is thicker than water; she is not proud on herself that she lied to her family and embarrassed them over some bagels, but she never regrets her actions. She tells her father, "I'm sorry I let you down, Daddy, but you let me down too."

And now, as per usual, it's time for the Jew card. Baby Houseman, Robbie Gould, Max Kellerman, Silvia and Sydney Schumacher, Vivian and Moe Pressman, all the guests and owners are Jewish. This goes totally unmentioned in the film, accept for the mention of their last names. Now, let's go back to what should be the most quoted line of the movie: "You just lay your pickle on every body's plate college boy and leave the hard stuff to me."

The stocks are falling! The stocks are falling!

Ever since we got together, he's been telling me that the US economy is screwed, we'll all be in the toilet in a matter of years and this economic turmoil is the perfect breeding ground for revolution. To such musings, I usually reply, "You know, that new skirt I bought will go really well with my hot pink shirt."

However, more than usual, he has been giving me evidence of his musings. The housing bubble popped, rents are coming down, the dollar is falling, all his friends in the financial world pulled their money out of the US markets and continue sending their sons to Princeton for free, his cronies are flapping their arms all about, watching markets in China expand and likely kick our ass in more than just the near future 2008 Olympics, it seems like yesterday I was in Beijing fending off cheaply made hats with insignia stiched in colorful, albeit misshapen rings--but I digress.

I am no ostrich, but when he goes on these rants, I ask him to translate it into terms of student loans, i.e. will I have to pay those fuckers? Luckily he tells me no, the dollar will drop so low that it will make the actual amount of my loans low as well. He said that it is better to be a debtor when the economy falls, which incidentally is also good news for my father and every other person I know.

Point being, every time he logs into Facebook, therein lies more information about the failing economy, descending line graphs give him wood, he practically jacks off the Economist. Oh my Marxist Little, running around university, squacking, the stocks are falling! the stocks are falling!

Style Guide: Do I look like a Marxist?

In the last two weeks, two totally unrelated people have said that the Marxist and I look alike--so much alike that we could be related. The first was a slightly drunk girl at an art gallery opening, and the second a psychic guide type on Abbot Kinney on Venice. The latter revised his statement saying that we were old souls and had we have been together for a long time, that is, in the eternal plane. I certainly do not feel this way about the Marxist.

We begin deciphering our looks. We are both tall, slender, dark haired bespectacled bookish types. However, the Marxist, a gypsy Jew is much hairier than I am with much darker hair. I certainly can't stand when he wears blazers at the same time I wear blazers and he has been known to borrow my t-shirts.

In a parking lot, he concludes that he clearly hails from an upper-class Jewish society in Westchester, New York while I come from white trash in South Jersey. I then remind him he was born in Jersey.

Girls have boyfriends, academics have partners

Back in the day, even though I was only seeing the Marxist and liking him dearly, I refused to call him my boyfriend, much to his distress. He demanded to know a reason and I could not give him one. I simply just did not want to call him as such. But then I decided to move with him to LA so I decided I should start calling him something and chose "boyfriend" so I was his "girlfriend," but then when we got here, we became "partners," the update to the totally gay, stiff and mouthy: "significant other".

At first I liked to think that it really was because we were partners; we split expenses, supported each other in our endeavors and formed a small union in the world. Then I realized, I was childish as the boyfriend/girlfriend translation. Technically, a girl or a boy is someone who is not yet a woman or a man suggesting immaturity whether in body or mind. Of course, in conversation, we often say, You should meet this girl, meaning woman and not a child.

A partner is gender neutral allowing it to be used as a euphemism for gays and lesbians. The Marxist and I are not gay, but at times I often wonder if we are. We both pursue same sex relationships, but have yet to be in a sustainable one. Once in awhile I joke if we are in a functionally gay relationship and we just do not know it. I think there is something sexy and mysterious for the first few seconds you mention "partner" since it is immediately unknown if your partner is opposite sex or same sex, making the person you are speaking to wonder if you are heterosexual or homosexual.

According to the Urban Dictionary, we fit most of the criteria for being partners. Although we most certainly inhabit an apartment, we often call it our "space" as in his and hers. We sleep on a very new Sealy mattress with an antique wood frame. However, I do confess to our "ethical' or sustainable diets of organic vegetables, Free-range meat and fair-trade coffee." It's true: we buy local. We heart organic. We grind organic, fair-trade, shade grown coffee. Once, the Marxist bought chicken, I was thoroughly disgusted until I saw it was responsibly purchased from the overpriced Whole Foods, thus was organic, free-range, no hormone and no antibiotic meat. What really flipped my cookies was this near exact description of a male partner: "Often, a male 'partner' can be recognized by the presence of frappichino glasses, fashionably-unfashionable clothes, 'old-man' or 'quasi-military' hats, a deliberately messy hair-do odd facial hair patterns and a generally wimpish and elitist attitude." Let me unpack that. The Marxist has spent considerable time trying to turn our space into a salon, stocking good tea and coffee, good books, buying a glass water pitcher, and an immersion frother. He made the best almond milk lattes and also learned how to make chai from scratch. Most of his clothes were from cheap thrift stores in Chicago which mean dozens of threadbare polo shirts and corduroys. I took him shopping at Wasteland because I couldn't stand the way he looked anymore. While watching Blame it on Fidel, there is a scene where the main character, a little girl, faces a bunch of "revolutionaries." They could have all been the Marxist's friends or close relatives marked by the unkempt hair. The following also rang quite true: "A 'partner' is generally chosen on their potential to advance one's own status in a given scene. A leader of an activist group, a drummer of a post-rock band or the focus of a peer group is generally considered prime 'partner' material. Having a good 'partner' increases your ability to name-drop, facilitates ladder climbing and makes for a fashionable conversation piece." I am very proud of the Marxist for his early success and how important he already is in his chosen field, not that I have the opportunity to name drop yet, but perhaps some day I will be able to say, Oh him? Yes, we used to co-habit a space. The Marxist, on the other hand, loves to mention that I am a dominatrix even though he has no real interest in the scene.

I remember very distinctly being introduced at a party as the Marxist's partner and somehow that made me feel simultaneously proud to be considered an equal, yet also sad that this intellectual equality negated romance and screw-me-to-the-wall sex.

Sigh.

Art & Topology

One steamy Saturday, the Marxist and I walk over to the Robert Berman Gallery where one there is an exhibit on display about topology.

We enter a pitch black room and are given instructions by a helpful bespectacled gallery assistant to stay along the wall. I'm scared. We enter and see an elaborate tangle (or is it knot?) of common white buckets stacked together, illuminated from within.

The piece is called Paileontology by Jason Peters.

Topology and Bondage

It began with a Möbius strip , an object with only one surface and one edge; such shapes are an object of study in topology. I'm sure you made a creation like this is in some class in public school that made an attempt at creativity. You take a strip of paper and twist it once and then tape the ends together. If you cut the strip along the middle, you are left with two interlocking strips of paper.

I would come home to dozens of Möbius strips littering the coffee table and couch. They got complicated with several strips and colored paper. The Marxist was leaving little pieces of paper on my pillow. Instead of flowers, he gave me Möbius strips--which I crumpled cruelly in my fist.

Then he discovered string. Books started showing up from Amazon solely devoted to knot theory. He became a kitten and the cats became men. All three played with strings. Once, before heading to the dungeon, I admittedly played cat's cradle with him, but only once!

Later, he needed Play-Doh to create more complicated knots, making doughnuts with hot pink Play-Doh and wrapping string around them. He would record these in his notebook with specially bought colored pens.

I told him that I needed to practice bondage on him for work. His eyes flash with excitement and says, "Awesome! I can't wait to study the knots you make." Honestly, I do not deserve such a partner.

When he gets back from vacation from NYC, he tells me that he has slept with his friend Anat (pronounced AH-nat). I told him he wouldn't have slept with her if her name was Julie.

The Marxist and me go to a fetish store

Alright, so I work in a BDSM dungeon.

I had a certificate to Syren , so I decide it's time to buy my first piece of latex. Although Syren is kinda known as the "K-mart of latex" it was where I had the certificate, so I drag the Marxist with me.

A lot of men have serious latex fetishes and since I didn't have any, I figured it was a good idea to get some. So I try on some skirts and admittedly, it smelled and felt a little like being in a balloon, which is really another fetish . But, it was very slick and promising and like totally transformed my ass. Meanwhile, A. wanders around and is very quiet.

After I place my order for a custom made micro mini with a zipper, I ask him what's wrong and he goes into this huge rant that BDSM is just a hobby for rich people. Dude, so is skiing. I pointed out that no one in my family has ever been skiing, whereas his family has, as well as other close friends of his. (Note: he's been upset lately because he just found out he can't go to Miss Kitty's since he lacks fetish wear. For those of you who do not know, fetish wear is generally expensive, but no more expensive than low end designers.) He tells me that you would have to have a certain amount of money to play and participate in BDSM. I told him that many people do play for free and I certainly don't pay to play. He said, Well, you're a girl.

Oh give me a break Marxo! Women are still getting, what $0.75 to the dollar vs. men's salary. Of course there are certain reasons for this that have little to do with my inferior female parts. I was told in a college philosophy class that there are three jobs that women make more money than men; not a small percentage, but a meaningful sum; they are 1) actress, 2) prostitute and 3) I can't remember the third one; but my point is that as a sex worker, I am always going to make more money busting balls rather than having them. Here are some mainstream jobs where women make more than men. But, in general, I'm not really sure why men earn more.

But then the Marxist would say, well, what is a wage? I think I will talk more about pathetic women low earners later.

My Argument with A.

A. and I have a huge argument when I come home and tell him about my "experiment." He thinks calling it an "experiment" is really stupid and small-minded to think about myself individually, I need to think about all the social problems that cause Americans to be ridden with debt.

He says that Americans are saving -1% every year, which means they are all spending more than they make. Virtually no one is saving money. He says we should look into housing co-ops; however there aren't any in LA, unless you are a student at UCLA. There is a food co-op, but it actually doesn't seem to be worth it.

He says that it's not really your fault that you have all this credit card debt; you
just graduated and spent four months being unemployed with another five being underemployed. Yes, my student loans are high (about $90k)but that wouldn't even be as much as what we spend a day on the war in Iraq. For the approximate $20 billion lost/mismanaged in Iraq, we could have paid off everyone's student loans. But even that is not good enough. He said, Elizabeth, the reason why you have to think about not buying things is because someone down the street has millions of dollars more than you.

I decide he's right. However, I point out this is an involving project and really I'm a poet at heart. Also, part of my reason for doing this is because I am an environmentalist; buying or scavenging used goods is helpful to the environment.

I rethink my project. For some reason he likes the word project better than experiment. I think that is because I have a degree in psychology and he's working on a project.

Part I.
Assessing the things that I buy. What is necessary?
Noting all the really cool shit there is to do in LA, for very little money or nothing.

Part II.
Embarking on freeganism; dumpster diving!

Part III.
Start a revolution, i.e. Why are there so many people living on the
streets in LA when there are so many empty buildings in the downtown?

etc.

Menstruation Activation Across the Nation

A few days later, my period arrives!!! YAY!!! PARTY!!!! I got a red balloon at Trader Joe's for my nonexistent child that I told the manager was too shy to come to the counter. JK. LOL.

Unlike Judith, I did not believe organic tampons were necessary. While I believe if faced with the choice between regular tampons and organic tampons, the latter is necessary. However, I do not believe tampons are necessary. I believe that spending money on a product destined to be used once and then thrown away, should be reexamined for an alternative use--except for toilet paper.

A few years ago, I was hugely disappointed with supermarket tampons and pads. I began to look for alternatives; I began using organic pads and tampons which felt a lot better, but were much more expensive and I was still spending money that I was literally throwing a way every month. This really bothered me. I didn't find tampon very comfortable, effective; they were instead costly and contributed to environmental waste. Here's the trouble with non-organic tampons.

So I found alternative menstrual care products like The Keeper and The Diva Cup as well as cloth pads. Menstrual cups cost about $35 so they pay for themselves in a few months and you can use them for up to 10 years. I used my Keeper for 1.5 years, but decided to switch the the Diva Cup because it is made of medical grade silicon which can be sterilized. The Keeper is made out of latex and it cannot be sterilized. I was having recurrent yeast infections that may have been partially caused by me not properly cleaning the Keeper; I decided to get rid of the x factor by switching. I haven't had any problems since switching, but I am also not as stressed as I was when I was having those problems.

The cloth pads last a few years as well, but I am not sure how long, since I had to recently purchase new ones as the ones I purchased a few years ago went MIA. (I don't blame the Marxist.)

There are also other alternatives such as sea sponges, making your own cloth pads, using nothing or staying on birth control (no placebo). I do not want to get into a rant about menstruation activation, but I want my ladies to do some thinking. How much do you spend on sanitary napkins every month, every year since you began and
when you will stop?

Let's calculate averages:
The average American woman starts her period at 12 and ends at 50; that accounts for 38 years of menstruation or 456 periods; not accounting for irregularities or children.

How much do you spend each month on tampons or pads? Using prices
from drugstore.com, I average the popular brands of tampons and pads to be about $6 and the price is closer to $10 for the organic. Let's say you go through one box a month. That means over the course of a lifetime you will spend $2736 on tampons or pads, not accounting for inflation, or a cessation of your period; for organic it's $4560.

Or, say you use a menstrual cup for the average of lifespan of 10 years;
you buy 3 over your menstruating lifetime=about $100.

These are wildly calculated averages, I really recommend you calculate how much you have spent so far on tampons or pads.

This site is my personal fave: Lunapads

Menstruation Activation sites:
Bloodsisters

SEAC (Student Environmental Action Coalition) used to have a rad Tampaction page, but it's been taken down :(

But you can enjoy this article here.

white collar by day/white collar by night

My day is pretty basic. I work in a small office very close to home. I can dress casual; it costs very little in terms of commuting, etc. I bring this up because of a book I read called Your Money or Your Life. They want you to calculate everything in life hours. For example if you are making $20/hr at your job, but it requires a long commute and fancy clothes, your wages may actually drop to $10. Thus if you make $10, but don't have to put a lot of life energy into your job, than all that money you make reflects your actual wages.

I am still debating whether to go full frontal about my night job. I decided to wait, until I craft something more interesting to put into this space.

Not Buying It--My Criticisms of Judith Levine

I decided to give this whole anti-consumerism thing a roll. My live-in partner who is a Marxist thought it was pretty stupid, but I really thought I could do better than Judith Levine, the author of Not Buying It.

Criticisms for her book were many, but here are mine:
I had been excited about reading this book since Judith Levine was interviewed in Bitch magazine, but like other readers, I was disappointed. While I could not fault her and her partner for each owning a property before they became a couple, I really couldn't understand how two college educated people couldn't figure out how to get rid of a car. While you may need a car with four wheel drive in VT and even a truck, you don't really need a car for NYC. So they were holding on to one vehicle solely for the purpose of commuting from VT to NYC a few times a year? What about a train? To her credit, she does sublet her apartment in NYC when she is not there, but they do not use their property for alternate uses in VT. I similarly found her rants about the cell phone tower and SmartWool socks annoying. And while trying to not buy anything for a year was exemplary, it was pretty clear that she lived beyond her means anyway, but then again most of us do that too. However, purporting to be a vegetarian and then eating meat was obnoxious. So was the fact that she couldn't seem to find anything entertaining to do in NYC for free.

I have lived in NYC, and of course, you can go for broke, it's a great, expensive city, but it also has more free culture than other cites I have lived in. Any number of websites list free things to do in the City as well as Time Out magazine. She scoffed at becoming an usher to see free theater shows and yet she didn't explore the possibility of becoming an usher at a film center, but complained endlessly of all the movies she was missing.

Judith just semi-gave up on her consumerism culture without living like a ascetic, but yet she also didn't find alternatives for her year not buying it. You can get free professional hair cuts by either enlisting a talented friend or being a hair odel for students. You can not pay for organic tampons by using an alternative device such as the Keeper or Diva Cup, which pays for itself in a few months and lasts for years. You can find refurbished/vintage frames for much cheaper than $300. (I have been wearing glasses for over 10 years and never paid that much for any pair, even when they included add-ons like no-glare coating.) She didn't want to join the Park Slope co-op because of what she called it's notoriously complicated and long working hours. I don't know what she's talking about, you work less than 3 hours a month and pay about $125 a year.

I also found it hilarious that she struggled for a gift to buy her niece by giving her a refurbished necklace (props!) but then bought herself clothes on the trip. My advice to readers is to try your own year of not buying it, or if that sounds too crazy, try a month and see if you can do better.

Objectified and Ignored: Being Female in the Company of Marxists

For several weeks now, I had been upset that I had problems participating in the conversations of the Marxist and his friends. He assured me that of two things: first, what they were talking about was so specific that only a few in their field would be able to discuss it and second, most people do not know what they are talking about, if I stopped to ask them, they would be flustered, but have to say something. Thus, when he told me we would be meeting a couple of his friends that were more artistic, I became very excited. A poet and an artist! Finally, something I could talk about!

However, at dinner, I discovered, a cruel joke had been played on me. The Poet and the Artist both took in my body and face, which for sake of argument are more than fair, then proceeded to ignore me for the rest of dinner. They actually had the nerve to check out my ass as my partner and I walked in front of them. This is when I began to distrust the movement. I didn’t understand, I didn’t understand what they were talking about. I had never spent so much time feeling stupid—what are you talking about?

Part of the discussion was on the documentry they were working on, about labor in Los Angeles. If I wasn’t so anxious to find a breaking point to enter into conversation, I could have spent more time in my mind making fun of them. Making a documentry? Could you be any further from the trenches? Of course, my devil’s advocate immediately responds, but more people are willing to watch a documentry and become aware of the situation, then respond, react, become involved, perhaps even the film makers themselves!

Off the top of my head, the most famous male revolutionaries were famous for revolutionizing on a grand scale. Women? Well, they were interested in women’s rights.

One of our favorite movies is by director Bruce LaBruce, Raspberry Reich, about a woman who tries to lead a revolution, but her plans get foiled by a pesky pregnancy. Of course. Mental note to self.

My friend J. can’t stand “cool.” The entire idea. He thinks people are too concerned about being “cool” and are rendered completely uninteresting; they don’t do anything, they are just “cool.” Sometimes I feel this way about the Marxist and his friends because they write papers, write books, give talks, make documentries—they will never come close to reddish work, pointy things, and dirty hands.

Look, I think we all just want to do something important, but I just have a hard time understanding how they expect to help the labor movement if none of them have ever laboured. And bottom line, my friends would never create a conversation that only a select number could participate.