That’s the craziest shit I have ever seen.
Related: Cade Smith should seriously consider moving to Maine. Tonight.
I like sexy. I like sexy a lot. Here’s the thing: sexy is subjective. I think one of the sexiest things in the world is a woman in calf-high boots, jeans, a sweater and a scarf. With her glasses on. With her hair up. Or down. Or twisted and pinned back. Or braided and pinned back. Or…
Sorry. Where was I? Oh, yeah.
Sexy doesn’t just mean “enough cleavage/side boob and thigh/ass cleavage that suburban cops are contemplating an indecency citation.” Don’t get me wrong. I think borderline indecency can be sexy, too. Hell, actual indecency is usually sexy.
There’s a lot of sexy out there, and it rarely has anything to do with the amount of clothing or lack thereof. That’s why the word “sexy” in Halloween costumes is lazy and basically means one thing: this is a costume that shows off your tits.
I realized this when someone referenced a friend’s costume as “Sexy Zebra.” When I heard this, my brain asked one question: “What in the everliving fuck is a ‘Sexy Zebra’?” And because it’s my brain, it answered itself: “It’s a zebra with tits.”
And you know what? A zebra with tits is fine. Depending on the woman, I might even find it sexy. But other men might not. Other men may have been scarred by a Kindergarten zoo visit where they saw two zebras doing something that their teacher described as “playing leapfrog.” The “Sexy Zebra” costume is either going to be the sexiest possible costume for that guy, or it’s a costume that’s going to require a couple of months of therapy and an orthodontist to fix a fresh overbite from all of the thumbsucking that occured while he was in a corner in the fetal position during that particular Halloween party.
So I’m asking all of you to forgo the word “sexy” during Halloween and just use the description “<thing> with tits.” To get you started, here are this year’s top costumes with tits from SpiritHalloween.com:
the church bells
disagree on the time—by only
a half-dozen heartbeats, but it is enough
to shake my faith. Of course,
I have been balancing
on the tip
of my nose
clowning for the children.
for Cliff Watson
I’m back, baby! It’s been almost a year since I’ve posted over here.
Just a quick little poem, but absolutely propelled by the great Cliff.
One more poem out of my head and onto the “paper.”
Sometime yesterday, I read this interesting take on the things that connect us to the human experience. It was a blog post by someone who had seen The National at Red Rocks earlier this summer. You know what? Hang on. That has to be easily googled or found in my history. Okay, so here’s the post: http://bit.ly/GG5ZUY
It seems the woman’s name is Heather Browne. She has pretty great taste and gets to live a life that’s close to her favorite music, which includes The National. In her post on that Red Rocks concert, she talks about how The National provided a soundtrack for her life at a particularly vulnerable time, how she was connected to the band in a visceral and inexplicable way from the first time she heard them.
She went on to say that a friend of hers had once explained this “straightforward chemical connection” like this: “I think we have sockets in our backs, really complicated, like, 35-pin sockets, and sometimes something or somebody plugs right in and there’s no real explanation. Or rather, there is, but it would be memoir-length.”
I understood that metaphor. I understood it when it came to The National. I understood it when it came to writers and artists and athletes and people and other bands. There are some things and some art and some people that have been there your entire life from the moment you’re introduced. They plug into that complicated socket with ease and no resistance, where each pin and its vacant partner greet one another as if they were made for one another. Because they were.
I’ve never met Erica. I don’t even remember how we became familiar. I have to assume it was through Favrd. It doesn’t matter. Over the years, I’ve read her tweets and reflections. I’ve listened to her and Ben on their very funny (and no longer produced) podcast, “Arrive Having Eaten.” I’ve watched as she’s developed a relationship with a wonderful guy and landed a sweet job that she loves.
And I’ve read her poetry. All of it. Multiple times.
I don’t like poetry. At all. I was a fiction writing major in college. It took me a carton of cigarettes and a couple of gallons of Guinness to get one decent paragraph. I was fueled by tobacco and booze and drugs and angst and anxiety and all of the shitty things you do to people and yourself when those things are in your personal gas tank. They seemed to be as much a prerequisite for being a fiction writing major as reading Raymond Carver and Don Delillo and faking an understanding of Ulysses.
Then there were the poetry majors. They didn’t make eye contact. They never saw the sun. Their work was rarely more than a single page and required a kind of mental cryptography to have even a cursory understanding. I was simultaneously jealous and full of loathing when it came to everything about them. I didn’t “get” them or their craft.
I don’t remember the first poem of Erica’s that I read, but I do remember the feeling it gave me. It was like no poet or poem I’d ever met on the page. I loved it, but I had no words that described their resonance. “Warmth” and “knowledge” and “comfort” were the closest I could come until last night. Today, I’ll say that I have a 35-pin socket that Erica’s voice fills. And I’m a better person for it. Thank you, Ms. Minton.