points and the bitches that have them

Last night I went to a poprally at MOMA in drag and worked the free absinthe like it was going out of style. When the woman behind the drink table says, “oh, you! You want another one?” when you walk by, well, you know….. hmph. Exactly.

The funny thing is that I didn’t really drink that much at all, my tolerance is back to being a bit lower than it was and it was never that high, but I’m still absurdly sensitive about it – obviously. And this colors my perception - undoubtably. The truth of the matter is the woman recognized me because I was dressed somewhat ridiculously in a pink and chartreuse bow tie (among other things) and because I was super-friendly – I like to chat up the help at big events. (I mean, shit, all they ever hear is “give me that now” and “I want a drink” and “hurry up!”)

I think I am sensitive about drinking because I obviously am quite personally concerned with notions of presence and control (I’m a bloody Foucauldian, for god’s sake). drinking enables me to flirt with both notions in a strange, convoluted way. And this makes me excited and once I get excited about something I usually get suspicious.

I did get an “I (heart) absinthe” button out of the whole shenanigans, so you know, that’s worth something. And what is interesting to me, what I think of now as I hold it in my hand and giggle at its affable stupidity, is that I only got it because I asked for it. I wanted it, and I said I did, and I got it. (there weren't any to be had, so the girl gave me hers.) And here it is, on my decrepit antique end table, a tangible evidence of a desire fulfilled. I like this.

I met friends of friends and chatted politely, but what I really enjoyed was being free to get into my own trouble and knowing my entourage was around somewhere to back me up if the need arose. Don’t get too excited - you know that for me “getting into my own trouble” meant wandering around the kirchners agog, giggling at whatever pleased me, frowning at all that didn’t, and making security guards nervous by getting THIS CLOSE to everything.

Upon my expressing a desire to take another turn through the exhibit, now that I was a little drunk, friend-of-a-friend laughed and said, “ah, I can tell you’re a real artist!” I didn’t bother to correct him; was correction even necessary?

I don’t know what I am sometimes. I am better now at reminding myself , feeling even, that the confusion is delicious, that the untangling and working-it-all-out-ishness is the magic of life, the meaning of life. Perhaps one could say I am an artiphilosoflaneurlinguistisist. (the extra “ist” is very, very important, it’s what makes it post-postmodern.) hmmm. I almost like this. I’ll keep trying. (Ha, of course I will.)

I think I’ve worked out the problem of foucauldian agency. Now, I’m not stating this to be egotistical; if anything, at times my thesis confuses me because I’m like, “can’t you just read the book? It’s all right there, you know?” so I feel as if I’ve just deciphered a bunch of dusty, obscured, enigmatic, crabbed and cranky hieroglyphs (and, trust, Foucault on agency is all of those fucking things). But at any rate, it speaks to this notion, this notion of constantly working out and creating the self anew, and you know, bitch has a point. A real fucking point.

[how fantastic would it be if, for my defense, I could just walk in the room and throw two books on the table (zettel and Foucault live) and be like, “bitches got POINTS, yo! WestSIIIIIIDE. Peace! I’m out.”]


I like this. I like this.