All posts for the month September, 2012

The shit I forgot

Published September 8, 2012 by Sandee

Did you know about the earthquake in San Francisco?  1989.  I didn’t. Pork Chop told me. I was in California that year, in Los Angeles.  I wasn’t drunk.

But I had to have known at some point.  I just had to let this pass as one of those things…until I reread one of my short stories.  “Why, who’s this Ann?  Never heard of her before.  ‘Ann’?  I don’t know any ‘Ann’.  Oooh — aheheheee!  Guess I kinda forgot I named my character Ann!”

Then there was yesterday when I saw a friend who’s my age on Face Book.  “She’s hot for 49!  I ah, I’m 49, too?  Right?  Am I?  I was 48.  Can’t, remember – wait – shit. 2012, subtract 1962 carry the one – good Lord I am 49!”  I’ll be fucking fifty in November.  I will be 50.  Well.  Memory loss can be useful at times.

Not to worry.  I don’t believe I have dementia, only lack of sleep and some intense preoccupation.  Don’t be putting Auntie Sandee Sword-Chinned Bitch out to pasture yet for goodness sake!

The Chronicles of Cake

Published September 7, 2012 by Sandee

I’d flip through mom’s Betty Crocker cook book to the page with the devil’s food cake frosted white.  I’d stare, fantasize and drool, like porno. Eventually I helped mom bake, measuring flour, stirring batter.  At ten, I started making cakes by myself.  I loved serving dad cake.  “Mmm mmm!  Sandee, this is good cake,” daddy would say with cake in his mouth.  Cake would get in his beard.  He had full cheeks and his eyes told jokes.  He’d chew, look at me, nod, and clink his fork to the plate until the end.  “Hey, cut me another piece of that cake Sandee.”  Win!

My cakes then were box cakes with Duncan Hines Frosting.  I was meticulous about stirring the batter 300 times – God forbid I should fuck up and stir too many times – I only imagined what manner of wrong this would cause.

I matured and made scratch cakes.  I made this spice cake after work and would eat the whole thing in a night.  It didn’t affect my weight because I smoked a lot, exercised and took stress pills.  I made cakes for boyfriends in heart shaped pans.  I favored lemon cakes with lemon frosting that I made all from scratch.  I made up this cake with coriander in it.  Finding a desk drawer at work stuffed with ketchup, mustard and teriyaki sauce packets I threatened to make a condiment cake.  Jeff, my boss, he liked that, “Condiment cake!  Hee hee hee!”  He said.  I took a ginger molasses cake sprinkled with confectioner’s sugar to my Auntie’s on X-mas.  When it got there the confectioner’s sugar melted but it was still scrumptious.  I bought a fancy cake carrier to take cakes to people’s houses.

It’s been a while since I’ve baked a cake.  But I still eat the shit out of a piece of cake.  I love the thick white frosted cake at work from somebody’s birthday or from a leaving the job party. I bought a piece of black forest cake from the Carrot Top that I ate slowly, with my eyes closed – it was unbelievable!  When Summer Solstice Girl suggested red velvet cake I bought a piece.  I almost died eating it.  I cannot buy a whole cake, or make a cake without having company because I would eat the entire cake no problemo.

As a child, frustrated at having to eat asparagus and lamb with mint jelly for dinner, I dreamed of growing up and eating whatever I wanted.  I think of this now when I eat cake for dinner and it makes me happy.

My apartment

Published September 6, 2012 by Sandee

I work in Riverdale, the part of the Bronx with mansions and luxury apartments.  On the bus I pass neighborhoods and think, “I wonder what it looks like over there?”

After work I walked a different way to the bus stop through private streets with old mansions and got lost.  So I went on an adventure.  The sky was blue with cumulus clouds though it was swampy.  I got sweaty walking.

After walking in circles, I came to a familiar avenue, so I felt comfortable, though the area was strange.  There were swank luxury apartments with pools and terraces.  I figured where west was and walked as far west as I could because I wanted to see what was down by the river.  The streets were quiet, wide and pristine.  The sun glowed on the Whitehall, which actually is a stark white building.  I see it from the parkway, but from this vantage point, it was in another world, facing other privileged dwellings.  From there I walked on the southwest edge of Riverdale which eventually curved east.  There were woods then a school with a big soccer field.  Kids wearing orange uniforms were in there practicing.  Teenagers were in a park hanging out on the swings.  They looked like the cool kids.  I thought of Archie comic books, because the town of Riverdale where they lived is based on here.

My neighborhood is desirable by Manhattan standards, but it’s urban compared to this and in a different sphere.  Since this was a different world when I got home I had a new perspective of my neighborhood.

I felt like a traveler from somewhere else.  My neighborhood was quaint and vibrant.  I appreciated the different types of people, the prewar buildings, tenements, corner stores and congested streets.  The light seemed to shine differently on my own avenue even.  The buildings are neatly lined on the street.  It’s a clean look.  In my lobby I had a new appreciation for the photographs on the wall of this area from the early 1900s.  When I put my key in the grey door, I felt like somebody subleasing from another country.  Inside, I was a guest having a novel experience.  My building is pre-war so though my apartment isn’t big it has character.  I have a dressing area on view from the living room with a fake tiffany lamp and a spotted pig mirror.  I have textured walls and a view of the woods.  I felt like I was experiencing life maybe as an artist in a European apartment on a colorful street.  Sometimes I feel like I could live here forever.  It’s quiet on the street now, because the children are back in school.  Today I’d rather live here than in one of those sprawling Riverdale apartments.

Published September 5, 2012 by Sandee

Irene Lentz committed suicide two days before I was born. She was a costume designer whose creations help to make Hollywood the fantasy land that we all know and love. I thought I might be Irene Lentz reincarnated since her death and my birth were so close, but I realized that was a silly idea, because I’m a nudist who would have nothing to do with clothes if being naked around here weren’t against the law. Read about this interesting life and drool over these designs — wow! But more importantly, dig Fred Astaire — there was nobody like him!


Irene Lentz.  What can I say?  I only just learned of Irene Lentz and made mention of her in my last post, but have seen her work in many films without knowing whose work it was.  I did not know that she designed the costumes for movies such as “Shall We Dance” and “The Postman Always Rings Twice” where she put “hot pant’s” on Lana Turner.  Check out the Vintage Fashion Guild, Irene Lentz, and Wikipedia for a more in-depth look into her life.  However, take a look at some of her beautiful designs here…

Sometimes success like this doesn’t bring complete happiness.  She committed suicide November 15, 1962.

Here are some excerpts from two of the famous movies she worked on.

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Lust, Dementia and Depends

Published September 4, 2012 by Sandee

The gnarled branches of a majestic, ancient tree with veined leaves telling tales of — shit!  I wanted to say this, poetically, like Unfettered BS or Boomie Bol in their renderings – I wanted to be classy, but I just can’t do it.  I was trying not to tell you straight up and crass the tale of ancient old ass people damned near fucking at the Hebrew Home for the Aged at Riverdale.  “Look at ‘em — look!  They do this every damn day,” my ninety year old grandma said as we were leaving the TV room.  I turn around and holy shit, these two, gray bird, lovey doveys were a gnarled intertwined, unabashed hump-fest, tonguing away, arthritic hands pawing, ripping at each other from their chairs, with their walkers just inches away I tell you.

Vantastic, I say!  I told you I wanted to recruit 90 year olds for my “outer-limits” porno movie.  Well I think I found my leads.

My first installment will be called “Lust, Dementia, Decay and Depends.”

My hard copy version is on sale

Published September 3, 2012 by Sandee

The hardcopy version of my book is on sale through Amazon.   The link is on the side-bar.

I’m preoccupied with other things right now, but soon I’d like to do readings at these places:

Indian Café

Indian Road Café

The Blue Stocking Book Store

The Nuyorican Poet’s Café

and maybe some other places.

Processing the things that I’m preoccupied with is normal, so I’m not overwhelmed, I’m just moving more slowly, so that I can think clearly.  In yesterday’s post I mentioned being in possession of myself.  This means I can face what I am thinking and respect the way that I process things.  I have some trepidation, but it’s fine.  It will all die out as the days pass.  As long as I have love and the vast universe to guide my thoughts, it’s all good.

The Power of Christ Compels You!

Published September 2, 2012 by Sandee

Inspired by Sara and La La, I wanted to share hope, in my case about being older and in possession of myself.  But I’d rather talk about when I was possessed.

Yesterday I snarled at people if I didn’t like their looks or if they looked at me too long.  It wasn’t me.  It was Satan.  Just as I was about to post on the glory of goodness he took possession.  That’s how he rolls.  Satan battled God for the soul of The Sword-Chinned Bitch.

I insulted people’s looks OUT LOUD and giggled like a troll.  Oh, my!  What a big round head you have, hehehehehe!  How unfortunate, hehehehe!  Showing ass crack on a Saturday afternoon.  Splendiferous!  What a nasty view of cellulite you’ve just given me — tehehehe.  I enjoyed it ever so much.  I wanted that speeding motorcycle to explode into the wall.  I wished hard for it to happen. I grinned imagining the carnage. If I wasn’t snarling, I giggled at the evil things that I had said.  I tried to unsnarl my face but it didn’t work.  This isn’t my normal behavior; my head usually doesn’t spin 360 degrees.

To age is fine, but, there are hormonal side effects that kick in especially when you don’t get sleep.

In the Exorcist, priests throw holy water on the possessed girl and chant fervently “The power of Christ compels you!”  By the bye, I’ve done this to wild coworkers and it does calm them. I went home, took a bath in holy water and now I’m back to my old Sword-Chinned Bitchedy goodness — hallelujah!  The demon has left the building, and I’ve got some pretty damn good holy things to tell you!

Strange Drug

Published September 1, 2012 by Sandee

The strangest drug I ever did was Broke Back Mountain.  How does one DO Broke Back Mountain?  You need pills, the tranquilizing kind, an urge to escape, and an obsession with being ‘involved’ with two men who ‘involve’ themselves with you as well as with each other, in a ménage trois where they live with you, in a relationship, on a king-sized bed.  First, space out on Klonapin.  Take three, four at a time, sit back, turn on the TV and melt into the movie while your brown eyes dilate to the size of oranges.  Let the movie wash over you, the theme music, the scenery…

Cue Twilight Zone music:  I’m in that stinky tent, BETWEEN Jake and Heath, helping Heath ‘do it to Jake’.  I’m bathing in that brook with Jake, helping him reach the part of his back by his ass.  When they sing those songs that cool night, I sing too, having a good ‘ol time.  Water walkin’ Jesus, take me awayyyy…  It’s all a mishmash phantasmagorical ride, where I don’t refer to them as Innis or Jack.  I want Jake, Heath – that does it for me.

Everything they feel, I feel.  I feel disappointment, embarrassment when that guy in the bar rags on Jake’s character for coming on to him.  Fuck that guy!  When Heath and Jake meet years later and kiss, I pause, rewind, pause.  That pause button is hot from my finger. I add shit to the scene.  In my scene, their mouths are open when they kiss.  But I’ve done that with other scenes too, added shit, have them get full frontal naked, with erections, and have them say stuff not in the script.  They say stuff to me too, to Sandee.  I don’t give a crap how Annie Proulx wrote it.  And, they’re not gay, they’re bisexual.  I’ve convinced myself of this, as I come home from work, ready once more for my umpteenth viewing, replete with tranquil scenes of Tetons, twangy country western music, and sparse western streets.  I’m the only black person in the town but it’s my Twilight Zone episode so leave me alone.  Please.  I’m having bad days.  I must escape.

In social gatherings I bring it up.  “Have you seen it?  It’s dreamy.  Very well done.  I like the movie better than the short story, actually.  They are so fine. I know the whole script, I’ve seen it so many times.”   This last part —  a quiet calling out to reveal my unhealthy obsession.  Maybe.  Do I need help?

Friends and family can’t find me.  When they turn the TV on and see the movie, they gasp, drop the remote control.  Some faint, other’s run out of the room.  My sister knew all along.  “She’s, she’s in…THERE,” she says, trembling, pointing at the threesome frolicking in babbling brook.