I have a new favorite website… REGRETSY.com…. They basically take the most tasteless craft offerings on Etsy and rip them a new buttonhole. I laughed out loud at the above item they found for sale. I’m afraid my sadass yoga bag from a pair of pants will hit their list should I ever try to sell it.
I also appreciated their commentary on this plastic bag holder that looks eerily like a Wilt Chamberlain flaccid penis. Not that I know…
It was a half-assed Halloween. I was a doctor for Halloween (or as I like to say, “My family’s wet dream”). Seeing as that I am a living breathing year-round Halloween, I was so out of ideas on what costume to take on to the point that I contemplated doing what most adult women acting out on their unaddressed daddy issues do….stripping down to my underwear and saying it’s a costume. But even that seemed too exhausting.
It was suggested to me: “Why don’t you wear that crazy cop costume from Cuckoo’s Nest”?
(I almost puked at the thought of having to wear a costume from a show.)
It was also suggested to me: “Put a fake penis in your pants and tell people you are Kristina Wong!”
(Bleh… That’s so obvious…)
So I put on some scrubs and a lab coat. I don’t know why I own such things, but I do.
I am in super turbo mode trying to crank out massive amounts of content in a very short amount of time. I basically am getting my ass handed to me from Nov 10-15 when I’m to crank out 4 different shows in like five days in two cities. I’m still riding the adrenaline from doing five original shows in New York across five days. I feel like I can still output at that level. As exhausted as I am.
Somewhere between all of this I caught this interview with porn starlet Jesse Jane (it was feminist research… I swear…) who describes how she has branded herself and creates a demand through “exclusive” appearances.
I got it all wrong it seems. Unlike Jesse Jane, I don’t do just 6 or 7 contract films a year and then pick 6 or 7 clubs to exclusively appear at to make thousands of thousands of dollars. I’m like running around to every small and large theater across town, dropping my art pants for whoever will show up. And don’t get me started on how insane my gigs are during API Heritage Month… that’s like me trying to set some kind of gang bang record.
Nope. I’ve not been too good at the whole “aura of exclusivity” thing. It’s like, I’m an amateur porn star who makes movies with a crap home camera, then uploads them for free on xtube.
Oh Jesse Jane, the art world has so much to learn from you.
No, this is not my mother when I told her that I wanted to be an artist when I grew up. This is me at the Detroit airport two days ago.
Dear person who designed the Detroit Airport,
I am writing you this letter now from bed where I’ve been out of commission for two days. I have been hacking, blowing my nose (my laundry hamper full of wet mucus filled hankies), and sleeping in odd positions to clear my blocked nostril into the semi clear one. I am unproductive in my ailing which is not good because I am self-employed and every moment to work counts. I am very very sick and I find you somehow responsible for all this.
On February 16, I attempted to do a relatively routine flight from LaGuardia Airport in NY to my home in Los Angeles. With one stopover at your airport. ONE stopover. I was in good health, though a little underslept as I often am with the anticipation of morning flights.
My first flight was delayed by 45 minutes (weather or repairs, I don’t know, don’t care). Instantly, this becomes an issue because my connecting flight is in the next hour. The woman working the gate before my first flight assured me I had time to connect. Also, that the next flight to Los Angeles from Detroit was full. She said it was in my interest to catch my assigned flight to avoid stand-by. Why would she do this when it was so clear that I would not connect? Why didn’t she just go ahead and give me an alternate flight? Because she was one of the devil’s minons. YOUR minions.
I slept through the first flight and was groggy and so tired when I awoke when our flight landed at your foul creation– the Detroit airport. Unfortunately, my connecting flight was not at the adjacent gate. We parked at A6 and I had to get to A66. It perhaps doesn’t help that the stewardess on my first flight got our hopes up by saying to exiting passengers, “If you dash for it, you can still make it.”
And so I did. I went from deep sleep to running for my life. And during this mile-long run (and it is one mile), I began to think of you and your intentions for the wayward construction of this airport.
Was it really necessary to build such impossibly long terminals? Seriously, a terminal that stretches for over a mile? Or at that, make the tram equally as unproductive to ride (go up an escalator, wait and wait, only to take a tram that cuts the walk time down by half?) And don’t you think that most people are unable to travel at the speed of light?
You have built many points of mockery in your airport. The people movers for example are pointless. What is the philosophy here? Why walk, when you can move at walking speed without the walking? I could have run on them, but the people who use them tend to block the whole thing between their bags and their bodies.
As I snaked in and out of bodies, I began to feel like an action hero or the star of an antiperspirant commercial (minus the antiperspirant, of course) when they must quickly assess horrible situations under the gun.
You also have fancy lighted signs of your endless Terminal A that block my run space so that people can see for themselves how hopelessly far away they are from their terminal. It’s a wonder you don’t have a neon sign that says, “You are stupid for even trying to make your next flight” that flashes every five feet.
I finally arrived, out of breath, carrying a heap of jackets and scarf that I had stripped off under one arm (I was just in NY in February mind you), a purse and backpack in the other. I was sweating through my clothing, I had no bra on (I hadn’t anticipated this strip down) so every detail of my silhouette became visible to the gatekeepers. The woman at the gate tells me she can put me on a connecting flight to Cincinatti, with a two hour layover, and then I can go to Los Angeles from there. She adds, “You are going to have to run all the way back and go to Terminal C– and you need to run.”
I’m covered in sweat, pulling my wet shirt off my body and fanning myself, holding my hands to my knees and I’m panting. My mouth is dry and I won’t get a sip of water until I get on the plane and it’s up in the air.
I say this not to arouse you, but to make a point of the sheer humiliation that the design of your airport brings someone trying to make a tight connecting flight in a hurry. You turn us into amateur athletes, refugees, and very desperate people.
Delirious, from having just been asleep 10 minutes prior, then having to break into a sweaty run. I decide to take the tram. I mean, obviously, this tram you have must hit all terminals, otherwise, it’s pretty useless right? Because other airports make trams that go to all terminals, especially when they are so far apart.
Aah, yet another piece of your design mastery… the tram, which is effectively unmarked, only seems to exist in Terminal A. I managed to take it back and forth and back and forth across the same terminal before realizing I wasn’t going further than Terminal A.
So, again, I get off, go down the escalator, and I run for it.
Your signage for finding Terminals B&C is confusing. You have a sign that points to the “terminals” but that is the baggage terminal. I had to ask a custodian where terminals B&C were only to learn they were down several sets of escalators and more corridors.
And then there was more mockery. There is the wannabe Bill Viola light tunnel thing (which a people mover goes through) that plays “oohs and aahs” as the lights change over the metal tunnel. Is this supposed to be comforting? Am I supposed to enjoy this in my sickly run against time?
Of course, this flight to Cincinatti is at the end of another mile long terminal, down the very last escalator. And when I get there, panting and out of breath, more of your minions give me attitude for being out of breath and frantic about getting on the plane like there was something wrong with me for having run for a flight.
I get on. I smell. I’m wet from my hair down with sweat. The cold Detroit air hits me, as does the petri dish temperature of the plane.
It’s a formula for a cold. This cold I have now.
I at least found kinship in the guy sitting next to me. I had spotted him with flailing arms, speeding through the airport too, having missed the same flight. On the shorter flight to Cincinatti, I was very uncomfortable. You see, all the running made my t-shirt wet and cold. We were able to bond in our misery and the lies we had been told that we had a fighting chance to catch it.
On my two hour layover in Cincinatti, I ate tremendously overpriced black bean roll-ups (oh god, I don’t know what they are, but they were gross). For some reason the screens at the gate play CNN and they keep playing the above clip of the woman in Hong Kong who missed her flight. I feel her. I really feel her.
I slept on the way to Los Angeles. Feeling sick, stomach nauseous, and very achy. The flight hit some big turbulence because of the weather. I sat next to the same guy who was on the Cincinatti flight and we kept commiserating about how sick this was making us, watching the monitors and anxiously willing the flight to land already.
Here I am. Home. Sick. Unproductive with a lot of things I want to do but can’t.
So how can you repay me for my troubles oh architect who built lame airport? Well, to start, you can add the features like a pedicab inside the airport to help transport folks who need to get from one gate to another in a pinch. I didn’t see any of these when I ran through and wonder how seniors or disabled are expected to make connecting flights that I couldn’t. You can ask your airline minions to be realistic about missed connecting flights instead of telling people to run for it, when it’s not a realistic option. And finally, you can send me a wet nurse to take care of me in my final hours.
* Submit yourself as a bride! * More faux porn layout
It still needs a lot of rewriting and work. But it’s up and that’s where we’ll start.
In other news, I am going to be a bridesmaid this winter in my friend Chay’s wedding. Yay! A chance to participate in the world of hetero normativity within close proximity! I was a bridesmaid before for my friend’s Mormon wedding, but because I was not Mormon could only show up at the reception with a wine colored skirt on and my offensive arms showing.
I was also asked to MC my friends, Mike and Nancy’s wedding. That was cool. I wrote jokes and stuff for them that were too brilliant for the masses to understand. This time, I get to actually walk in the ceremony. I will forever be part of Chay’s wedding memories! GASP!
Chay brought me a brochure of different bridesmaid dresses to choose from. I was a bit disappointed that there were no pop-up collars, sequins, gorgeously tacky bell sleeves, rip-away pants, or hoop skirts in any of the selections. But I will make due. I’m supposed to walk with her future brother-in-law (who’s single and hot with a JOB, btw) down the aisle or something hetero-normative, pseudo marriage-ish like that.
I already told Chay I’m not going to be able to do this wedding stuff with a straight face or without mugging for the camera the whole time. And that if her future bro-in-law is as hot as he is in his pics, I’ll probably just park my ass at the altar when we get there and scream, “My turn! My turn!” She said I can work my antics out during the rehearsal. I told her the rehearsal will only make my behavior at her wedding worse. I also volunteered to be the entertainment and introduce the families. Do a table dance, drinking contest…. you know, whatever it is these normal straight people do at these wedding things…
argh! I was so excited because it looked like my f key (i had to cut and paste that “f”) was as easy to ix as a squirt o air rom these computer guys in Sarasota who ixed it ree o charge by just cleaning under the key. But screwed again because I was here typing and it went out again.
Anyway. I think the ghost is back. The fan is shaking in a creepy way. And weird things tend to turn on when they shouldn’t. But I don’t care anymore about being spooked in the house alone. I just want my f back. I also bought a can o RAID which makes me eel saer to walk around with.
Looks like I may have to pay $80-$150 to get a new keyboard and scream “UCK YOU!” to all my bloggers in ull orce. Man oh man.
In other news, I just did an interview with the LA Times today about my new show “Cat Lady” which I premiere as a work in progress at the REDCAT when I get back to LA. It’s a departure rom my other work that tries to save the world all the time. It’s about… being a cat lady and cats. This is perhaps a bad sign when an artist starts doing work on their pets. But also it’s about pick up artists, cat psychics and loneliness.
“You mean this show will be all about your conquests and non-conquests Kristina Wong?”
No dummies. I am much more creative and interesting than that. Though it would be another great way I could cockblock mysel on stage. It’s about loneliness and human communication. But the great news is that one o my avorite reality tv stars is going to help me with part o the show. I just conirmed yesterday. I can’t wait. Let’s hope it goes well. I’ve never collaborated with a reality show star beore. I am not sure i he was reaked out at irst, but a little coaxing and I got him on my side.
Today I was doing some research on Pick Up Artists. And I was reading about this “Bait Reel Release” methodology they use. This idea that women are these ish and they chase the lure i it moves around. And I got excited because not only does it tie into some o the Animal Kingdom metaphors I’m trying to use, but it also gives me an excuse to learn to use a ishing rod and see i that will be a good analogy or using in the show.
So I went into the garage here and got out the ishing rod and started to pretend to ish in the Gul o Mexico. It was awul. The hook was going all o one oot rom the rod. I asked an older man to help me and the line got all tangled. So I am trying to learn how to ish online. These youtube videos are not very helpul.
I’m thinking maybe asking other ishermen on the island to help me ish will help me meet some ellas my age. There are quite a lot o guys here who ish. It’s so deceiving though because I’ll be in the cottage and see what looks like a hot guy ishing (because I can only see him rom behind) and then I’ll go down to the beach to take a closer look and the guy ends up actually being 12 or 80 rom the ront. Which just makes me eel ilthy. UCK!!!
Anyway, I can’t blog without use o all 26 letters o the alphabet. So it’s time to go. Why did that key have to go out? Why couldn’t it have been a Q or Z? I have no use or those.
Anyway, enjoy these pics o my handicrats.
I made a giant roach to leave behind here. It’s pretty cute. On the back side it looks like scales but it really spells out “Hermitage” in wide letters.