My Expert Findings on Face Book Narcissism

As two-bit philosopher, psychologist, herbologist, pharmacologist, and proctologist, I find narcissism on facebook, riveting, repellent, nauseating.  Fascinating.  I’m self absorbed too, and if I had a camera I’d take pictures of my half ass looking ass every 58 minutes.  Wait ‘til they see this picture of me in front of the bathroom mirror with smoky eyes!  No!  I would NOT do this to y’all, so why are you doing it to meeee?!  I do enjoy looking at photos of you from time to time.  I just don’t need to be saturated with pictures of you in 27 different poses on a rock.

Physical narcissism isn’t limited to people who actually look good.  Nope.  Uh uh.  I don’t even like too many pictures of pretty people, because at some point the reason they’re taking all those damn pictures begins to taint their image, and they start looking a little warped.

But there are some, dragons, out there whose mamas told them they were beautiful – and they believed them.   So it becomes their mission to use facebook to force this belief on us, to convince us of their mama’s — LIES.

Woo woo woo, wooka momma’s wittoo babeeeeeeee, tees toe toot!  Ain’t she the sweetest little potato a pie?  Mama told you that you looked like Halle Berry but you look like a goddamned wolf in the prairie — Arwooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

As I told you, I could give a shit about clothes. I see nudist colony in my future — too bad cause by then I’ll be really wrinkled. Those unfortunate enough will see my wrinkled ass play naked tennis. Until that day comes, and it will, every so often I get an urge to throw on a tiara, some shiny shoes, and a sheer seaweed colored gown for a night out on the town. My sister’s getting a graduate degree in fashion design — I had no idea it was such a varied area of study that includes art and history. Her entire basement is filled with these marvelous items that even I’d wear, with a tiara of course. Check it out yo!

chiccityvintage

Here are some of the items up for sale at Ebay RIGHT NOW!  Stay tuned…I will be adding more garments in the next few days as well as setting up a preview page of what’s to come.  Click here for link to my Ebay Auctions, or click My Auctions at top of my page.

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My pissed off nine year old little brother gave me this name

Scroll back to 1973

Me:  Get outta here!

Little Brother:  I can stay in here!

Me:  Stu-pid!

Little Brother:  Fuck you!  Sword-Chin Bitch!

Fast forward to 1989, walking down 9^th Avenue, Manhattan.  I tell my boyfriend the tale. 

“I used to be skinny with a sharp chin.  So my brother — we had a fight.  He calls me a Sword-Chin Bitch.”

“Sword-Chin Bitch?!”  Boyfriend spits pipe out. Stops walking, bends over, holds belly.  Breathless with laughter, he wipes tears from eyes.

1991, hanging with my good friend B.  To break the monotony of post coital cigarette smoking I recount the story.

“And do you know what he called me?”

“Nah baby what he call you?”

“A Sword-Chin Bitch.”

“A sword-chin who!?  Yo that ma’fucker’s funny as hell.”

Laughter ensues for five minutes.

Years later, old as shit, I come up with the idea of marketing my homemade book.

Ah, lets see, my sister says I need a blog.  She says I need to get on that gaddam facebook, and I need a catch.

Got it — I’ll name my book Why Did You Try to Fuck Somebody You Hate, and Other Mean-Spirited Tales, Told by a Sword-Chin Bitch.  It’ll be like, like — Monty Python!

B. thought Sword-Chin Bitch was hilarious – my ex thought so too.  And I’d be giving my brother a shout out.

But I can’t say Sword-Chin – it ain’t grammatically correct.  Gotta hyphenate, make it Chinned.  I’m selling a book.  It gotta be right.

Responding to the prompt for a handle on Word Press, Sword-Chinned Bitch, no-brainer.

Months later, thwarted by my own guerilla marketing ploy with that long ass book title, I change it to Mean-Spirited Tales, but keep the Sword-Chinned Bitch handle, to the dismay of a few.

Dear Readers,

Now you see the origin of my name.  I’m the antithesis of a bitch and strive to be evolved when confronted by bitches.  My handle doesn’t mean that I endorse bitches, beeotches, or sons of bitches.  Some were put off by my Sword-Chinned Bitch head appearing in their posts.  I don’t know, should I follow her back?  She might be mean, you said.  But I assure you that I am kind, loving, and do not consider bitchiness an attribute.

God bless you.

Yours truly,

Sword-Chinned Bitch

A Walk Through Inwood Park

Crap quality pictures, but you get the gist.

When the rain stopped yesterday, I walked to Inwood Park.  It’s on the northernmost tip of Manhattan at the border of the Hudson.  With my air conditioner off and windows open, I heard cars racing, horns beeping, and groups of people talking.  I had to get out.  My walk was for mental health.

It was breezy and not hot, and occasionally overcast, which made the greenery in the park stand out.  The views include cliffs that border the river.  On Halloween, Haunted Inwood takes place in the forest.  Actors in costume lead you through the woods for ghostly tales.  There are caves up there with streams of trickling water.  The hike is complete with fog machines, graveyards and monsters peering from behind trees. The organization turns the nature center into a haunted house.

I sat on a bench, looking across the river.  Not far from there is a view of a huge rock in The Bronx.  In 1952 a Columbia University student began painting a large C on that rock.  The job was finished by members of Columbia’s row team later.  Columbia’s row team docks their boats at their row house near Inwood Park.  The C rock is part of the legend of this area.  Boys climb up the hill to the top of that rock and dive into the river over and over.  Once I sat for a while and watched them from across the river.

After sitting in that one area, I walked around the bend to a large Chinese cherry tree with drooping branches enveloping a small bench like a curtain.  It was perfect to keep the sun out so I sat for a while watching geese in the river a few feet away.  Though the bench was perfect for lovers, that idea was an intrusion on my meditation.  In the park you don’t hear city noises, only an occasional plane or the horn of the Metro North Train going through the Marble Hill Station.

I took the long way out, at the border of the cliffs around the soccer field.  A group of troopers waved as they passed in a car on the way to the hills.  I took a tour once with one of the troopers.  I walked this way to look at the inscription on the rock marking the beginning of three different paths into the woods.  The plaque says it’s where Peter Minuit bought Manhattan from Native Americans for trinkets and beads worth 60 guilders.  This area was also an encampment for Hessian Soldiers during the revolutionary war.

I continued out along the edge of the soccer field, watching a man clean up after his dog on the litter free path.  I had faith that he would.  Minutes after I got home, it rained.

 

Yeww Sssssuck!

I wish we could write “You sssuuck”or “Boooooo” in the comments section and be anonymous.   I guess if you’re going to say things like that you should have balls big enough to show your gravatar huh?

We should be able to throw eggs at posts.  Rotten eggs.  When the stupid person who says stupid ass things opened their blog, they’d hear ‘Spalat!’ and a rotten egg would dribble down their screen as a comment.

Or rocks?  I’d like that, ‘Thunk!’

Ah well…

So long, going to pray now.

 

The Supreme Ass Cake Award

In the Wizard of Oz, they pull that curtain back and see no giant, loving omniscience back there, just some ‘ol bull shit.  Click that ‘Awards’ widget on my side-bar.  Nothing.  You were gonna pull that curtain back some day and say “Aha!  She’s been fooling us!”  Oh, I swear I was gonna put awards in there!

I bees SO gwuilty. [Insert picture of cute kitteh]  I accept awards.  I say ‘Thank you.’  But I don’t follow the rules.  I don’t give acceptance speeches, list things about myself, pass the awards on, or display them on my side-bar.

I appreciate you lovely people for giving them to me and I thank you all.  But I’d rather not receive awards.  Just lavish praise and rent money.

I watch others who feel this way.  What do they do?   I’d take guidance from that.  So I’ll be a punk ass and piggy back on what that fabulous Kyle says.

Here are beautiful people who gave me awards.  Some of you may have forgotten, but I’ve given you all Award Cakes!

Madame Weebles:

The Lemon Supreme Cake Award, lemon frosted of course

Miss Carla Renee:

The Chocolate Peanut Butter Ganache Cake Award

Boomie Bol:

The Orange Rum Sunrise Cake Award

Claire Cappetta:

The Strawberry Angel Food Cake Award

Jill/Ocelot Bound:

The Coriander Cake with Butter Cream Frosting Sprinkled with Cinnamon, Nutmeg and Coriander Award  (I miss her)

Dating Bitch:

Zucchini Lemon Cake with Cream Cheese Frosting Award

Sailor Carrie:

The Ethereal Angel Food Cake Award

Shauna/Shianwrites:

The Banana Walnut Cake with Maple Frosting Award

Kathy V.:

Black Forest Cake Award

Brigitte:

German Chocolate Cake Award

Jessica Accardi:

The Peach Pie Cake Award (wink, wink)

Me:

The Supreme Ass Cake Award

I might’ve screwed this up — maybe you didn’t even give me an award — it’s been so long and my notes get mixed up, crinkled.  I hope I’ve included everyone who actually gave me an award.

I feel free.  I’ll delete that fake widget now.

Eat some cake, responsibly, and enjoy the rest of your week!  Mwa!

Outer-Limits Porn

I’m thinking of writing porn.  Everyone’s doing it.  But mine would be “outer-limits” porn.  My movie would have canned goods (But absolutely NO can openers!), Brillo pads, coffee filters, extension cords (naughty, eh?), and the entire cast, except for me, would be ninety years old – excluding my grandmother – how dare you imagine that I would allow my grandma to be in such filth!  You might have guessed that I cooked up (cooked up – ha!) this idea while in my kitchen.

I watched a snippet of Don Juan DeMarco with Johnny Depp, Marlon Brando and Faye Dunaway.  Marlon Brando and Faye Dunaway are old in it and they’re married.  There’s a scene with them in bed.  They kissed.  It got me horny.  That’s right — I think old people are hot — forget y’all!  I was mad they didn’t get butt naked.

I’ve written about my WWII veteran friend who’s one sexy bastid.  He’s eighty-six.  He raps, old school, and he killed bad people.  You can’t touch that.

I respect him too much so he can’t be in my movie even though he’s muy hotto and I know he would blow it up.  I just can’t see pimping him like that.  Plus he’s too young.  But I’ll interview some of his friends and some people from the Hebrew Home for the Aged at Riverdale – that’s where grandma is.  And I know oldsters who visit the gallery where I work.

It’ll be a problem if they don’t want to get naked.  But there won’t be animals in this movie for those of you into that kind of thing – blech!  I’ll keep you posted if I decide to do it or not.  Oh yeah, and no oxygen tanks because I’m using blow torches.

The Vomitus of my Mind

Bloggers speak of writer’s block.  It happens, especially when you have spouses, children, mortgages, cats, dogs, ferrets, migraines, sex lives, warrants.  While I do have a job, hobbies and a social life, I don’t have that other stuff, just the occasional mouse running around my apartment that I like to feed.  Soon I anticipate more going on so who knows how often I’ll be in here.

But up ‘til now, of course the fuck I’ve been able to post regularly!  What else have I got going on…sigh…

So you are it, friends!  Until that next piece of –  I mean – until that next fine, fine person comes along – who’m I kiddn’, I’m pushing the envelope, I’m old as shit, my day is done, my coins are tossed, the jig is up, well is dried, cookies fried –

— Friends, I’ve seen it all, I’ve tasted wine, and not forgotten.  I’ve loved, I’ve lived I’ve laughed, I’ve danced the dance and tweaked my consciousness.  I’ve felt, I’ve licked, I’ve spat, I’ve chewed, I’ve ea-ten off, of every sur-face, but now, more o-d-ious, more hi-de-ous, is I just vo-mi-ted in Word Press. 

Earthquaaaaaake!!!

We had an earthquake in Manhattan last year.  I felt it when a lot of people didn’t.  I had just joked about how that fault line in our neighborhood happens to be under a street with a strip of outdoor cafes.  It’s a weekend hangout.  Motorcycles race up to the street and park.  The drivers commune with each other, with people standing around the cafes.  There’s a garden across the street where people socialize.  If an earthquake came on Saturday, all those folks would be sucked into the earth’s core, I said.

A day later, my TV stand shook and I knew immediately what it was, though I live in an old building that shakes when trucks rumble by.  I knocked on neighbor’s doors to warn them.  They said they didn’t feel anything.  “I’ll turn on the news and see,” one said before going back inside.  I ran down six flights of stairs — Smokey the Bear said you shouldn’t take elevators if there’s a fire, so I figured you shouldn’t take them if there’s an earthquake either.

I got outside and stood there.  People strolled.  They waited for their dogs to finish pooping, talked to neighbors.  I squinted, looking for signs of panic in their faces, for people screaming, running around with their arms flailing.  Didn’t see any.  The super of my building whistled while he hosed our sidewalk.

“Did you feel that!  We had an earthquake – I know it.”  “Yeah?  I didn’t feel anything.  Where are you going anyway?  If there’s an earthquake, you’re probably better off upstairs.”  I told him I’d go to the armory, but I wasn’t really sure.  A couple with a baby in a harness walked by chuckling lightly.  I did recall hearing that you should stand in the door sill if there’s an earthquake.  I looked at the sky.  No answers up there.  I went back upstairs.

My phone rang.  “Are you okay?” It was my sister.  She’d heard there was an earthquake here.  “I knew it!”  I said, turning on the news.  Gotdammit I knew it.

Same thing happened around ’81.  I lay in bed Sunday morning hung over as usual.  The bed shook.  “Ma!  My bed just shook!  What was that?  Oh my God!”  “Sandee go back to sleep.  Nothing’s shaking.  It’s just you,” she sighed.  Turned out, another earthquake had happened.  Mom didn’t believe me.  She thought I was having the shakes, the DTs – I know, it’s messed up, but that’s another blog post, maybe…

[Sing to Olivia Newton John’s Physical song] Let’s get metaphysical, metaphysical, I wanna get me-ta-phy-sicaaaaal!  Let’s get into metaphysical [okay you can stop singing now] — Why do I feel the earth vibrating when others don’t?  And my joke about that earthquake a day before it happened.  ESP?  Hmm…

Explaining things to those of the dumb

George Weaver  thought I was in Mensa.  Mensa’s that group where people with high IQs commiserate about explaining stuff to those of the dumb.  I basked in the glory of being seen as somebody really really smart, but I don’t want to mislead anybody, so I immediately told George that I was dumb.  My About page says that I’m published in Calliope, a journal printed by Mensa.  That’s how she got the idea that I was a genius.  This is her fabulous photography site.

I went to Columbia University and got an A minus average.  I feel like I can tell you that because I was old (25) when I went back to school after a drunken stint at community college; and also because I dropped out after two years of credits.  Once, I asked this girl what college she went to.  Embarrassed, she cast her head down and said Yale.  I gathered that it’s bad taste to brag about going to an Ivy League school. But only if you did it when you were supposed to do it. It’s okay if I tell you where I went to school since I’m one of those handicapped cases who goes back when they’re old.

Somebody said I probably got into CU because I was black and at that time black people were ‘in’.  Maybe.  Plus during my college interview, I had a platinum afro, a nose ring and my college essay was about being an alcoholic.  They thought, Aw the freaky black chick’s trying to improve upon herself – let’s give her a chance.  Besides, I’d give them diversity. They wanted to throw somebody freaky into the mix y’all!

I got a scholarship and took out a loan to pay tuition.  After the second semester, I decided to work there because they offered tuition remission.  This was 1988 when you could get jobs anywhere you wanted.  For the youngins — back then, you could have three jobs, jobs coming out of your ass – nowadays, you can’t buy a fucking job.  Anyway, after working there almost five years, I was laid off at the same time I was offered to be published in an anthology.  I would get leverage in my field of interest.  So my anti-establishment ass says, ‘Fuck it, I don’t need no degree to be no writer, plus, it’s more romantic to be a rogue writer. Why, I’m an auto-didact, I am!’  You see folks, why I could never have been in Mensa?  These are the kinds of backass decisions that those of the dumb make daily.