miss ellie bronson

creepy cults really creep me out...but...cant...look...away.....

It’s no secret I’ve had a morbid horrified fascination with mormon polygamist cults for the past few years.  Really it was Jon Krakower’s fault.  My fixation pre-dates that whole texas compound thing from a few years ago.  I read ‘Under the Banner of Heaven’ and was hooked.

As an atheist, it is difficult for me to imagine following any leader, however charismatic, into a lifestyle where you would not only share your man, but be treated as a virtual servant in your own home.  That would have to be some helluva god to get me to renounce both fidelity and free will.

Despite, or perhaps because of, my above stated beliefs, I am obsessed with said cults.  I am not proud of this obsession.  I read every book, from Carolyn Jessop’s disturbing memoir to ‘The 19th Wife.’ I am addicted to Big Love.

The latest news of Warren Jeffs has inspired me to post.  Apparently he is claiming innocence and appealing his conviction of ‘accomplice to rape’ for forcing a 14 year old to marry her 19 year old cousin performing the marriage himself and instructing the cousin-couple to ’be fruitful and multiply’ and when the young woman begged for the union to be annulled he instructed her to ‘submit: mind, body and soul’ to her husband/cousin.  This is awesome!  It really sounds like the young lady in question was a total prude.

Next post about polygamous cults may or may not be about the ‘children of god’ cult, which has been re-branded to the more family-friendly ’the family.’ It’s a so-called christian cult where group sex with children is encouraged!  Doesn’t that sound fabulous?

In all seriousness - I cannot believe that these groups are allowed to live and flourish in america.  i realize that there are complicated laws to contend with when prosecuting these people, but i cant help but think that SOMETHING MUST BE DONE.  For the kids, you guys, FOR THE KIDS.

Maniacal narcissist Werner Herzog is my hero

As I was only 7 at the time I missed what surely must have been extensive coverage of the staggering folly that was Werner Herzog’s filming of “Fitzcarraldo” in the Amazon rain forest.  The 2 1/2 year shoot apparently achieved wide notoriety  when Herzog had a steamship hauled over a hill between two rivers.  Today’s article in the New York Times by Janet Maslin reviews the director’s new book “Conquest of the Useless” - his first-person account of the experience.

Maslin is a hilarious writer, yet the strongest points are made when she lets Herzog’s words speak for themselves: “Has anyone heard rocks sigh?”  He seems to have anthropomorphized the entire inanimate world as well as insects, birds, and small animals, yet ONLY as said objects and animals relate to HIM.  Every occurrence in the natural world is deeply personal to the director, and consistently crushing: “Fire ants rain down on him spitefully…Hens regard him diffidently…A broom is lying on the ground as if felled by an assassin…A book leaves Mr. Herzog feeling so lonely he buries it.”

To say Werner Herzog is clearly unbalanced would be a gross understatement.  The most impressive of his unique experiences occurs when he becomes so emotionally involved with an albino turkey, who’s “vanity” enrages him to the point where he slaps the bird across the (face?  beak?) in his description “with the casual elegance of the arrogant cavaleirs I had seen in French Muskateer films.”  I LOVE this guy!!!

My new goal is to see the world through Werner Herzog’s eyes.  It will be a revelation.  I will be heinously assaulted by the mosquitos that bite me.  I will get locked into staring contests with the tiny ratdogs at the small dog run in Tompkins Square Park.  I will challenge a pigeon to a duel.

I will no longer be “sane” in the conventional sense of the word but I will be so much more.  Experiences will be had.  Interactions will take place.  The drama of everyday minutia will consume me.  And maybe, just maybe, I’ll be internationally recognized as an artistic genius.

How do I love The Wire? Let me count the ways...

Dear The Wire,

I can no longer keep my feelings to myself…  Every time I watch you I fall in love all over again.  Thats right.  I love you.  There- I said it.  You don’t have to say it back.  I am not ashamed.  I love you selflessly, without need of any reciprocation.  I had to tell you this now because everyone else knows already.  I cant help it.  When I go out to dinner and to parties I keep talking about you.  I bring you up with the flimsiest of excuses.  I sing your praises.  I want to shout your name from my rooftop!

My darling The Wire, I realize this might seem as though I’ve lost perspective, and I don’t want you to be alarmed.  I know we have only just finished Season 3 - which I have been told by many well-meaning friends is still the “honeymoon stage” - I don’t care.  I know that what we have is real.

You are unique, and even though you are loved by so many, you and I will always have those special moments together that I cherish every day.  From McNulty’s first drunken bender, to when Beadie opens the shipping container filled with dead Russian hookers, to the Barksdale clan’s rising and falling fortunes and brutality to the inimitable Stringer Bell.  Don’t even get me started on Kima and Bubbles!  I love them soooo much that I LURVE them.

When I saw that Season 4 has just popped up in my HBO On Demand selections I knew that today was the day I would tell you of my love.  I don’t know what the future holds for us, but I do know that we’ll always have Seasons 1-3.  You don’t have to write back, I think I already know how you feel.  

Forever yours,

Miss Ellie Bronson

car radio vs. self respect and responsible driving

Every Memorial day weekend I have a little ritual that goes: mooch a ride to Maine from friend/family member/obligated acquaintance to pick up car at parents’ house, enjoy a spectacularly dissipated and emotional reconnection with childhood friends whom I mostly haven’t seen since Columbus day weekend, drive home.

As those of you who are my Maine friends can attest, this weekend was no failure in any of these respects, notably the dissipation and sentiment.  But I digress.  

I’ve missed my car over the winter.  In NYC one never needs to drive (or go anywhere- its all right here!) so I just leave it to rust in Maine all winter until I need it to “summer” in the Hamptons and Maine.  The car isn’t much for NYC anyway- it’s kind of a hick- a 1999 red jeep cherokee, pimped out with features such as a tape deck, sand from 10 summers past, and a small collection of WASPy round stickers with “ME” and other acronyms on the back.  If my car were a person, it would probably wear clogs and a patagonia vest.  

So as I’m driving down I-95 south headed back to civilization, I ignore both my ipod and the NPR stations that come in clearly in favor of the scratchy classic rock stations that require fiddling with the dial every 20 minutes as I fly through eastern seaboard towns.  I am not sure why, but there’s something about the start of summer and sun that makes this part of the ritual absolutely necessary.  Which is not to say that it’s always pretty.

This past Tuesday things got gnarly before I even got on the highway when I aimlessly bobbed my head to the Allman Bros ’ Sweet Melissa’ as I waited at the one stoplight in town.  A quick glance in the rear view mirror reassured me that my mouth wasn’t hanging open but it was a swift decline.  By the time I was on the interstate I’d progressed to Zeppelin which is of course far superior musically but had the effect of completely unhinging what was left of my winter inhibitions.  I sang at the top of my lungs to Whole Lotta Love.  Things went downhill after that.  I don’t remember what happened for a while, then there was Steve Miller Band (“I’m a midnight TOOOOKER”), Lynard Skynard, U2 (“I STIIIIILLLL haven’t FOOOUUUUUUUND what I’m looking FOOOOOOR”), Carly Simon Anticipation (did you guys know that song is about Cat Stevens/Yusef Islam?  Yeah, they had a thing), Tom Petty American Girl (remember how that song is playing in Silence of the Lambs when he abducts the senator’s daughter?) and the next thing I knew I was in Massachusetts with Neil Diamond Sweet Caroline (“so GOOD so GOOD!”) and after that I think I blacked out.

I woke up in CT on the Merritt with Bebel Gilberto’s soothing croonings issuing forth from my now-plugged-in IPOD.  I guess I caved somewhere around 91-South or 84-west.  Not really sure.  The thing is, a lot of Classic Rock is pretty good if used in moderation.  I love Bob Dylan.  I love The Boss.  Who doesn’t?  Godless commies who hate freedom that’s who.  People who hate America.  A lot of stuff everyone likes is really good, but you have to be careful.  Moderation is necessary.  When taken in large doses, especially if you’re not used to it, it will rot your brain quicker than smoking Oxycontin laced with meth.  

I never found out what happened during those lost hours on my drive, and I probably never will.  I will never get that time back.  I was a danger not only to myself but to others on the road.  I shiver when I think of the children at the Mobil station who MUST have heard my music when I stopped for gas.  There’s no way they didn’t.  My god, the humanity.

Moving forward, I have accepted my IPOD as my personal Lord And Savior, and I solemnly vow NEVER to listen to Classic Rock stations for more than 30 minutes at a stretch while driving.  Even if it’s a Zeppelin marathon.  Or Dylan.  I love life too much to risk it anymore.  I’ve had my wild rides.  Now I have freedom AND responsibility.  It’s a very groovy time.

the bike shop hippies : an uneasy truce

I’ve lived in my apartment in the east village for 6 years now, and in almost all ways it is perfect.  Almost.  Leaving aside for the moment the chronic issue of no-heat (more on that later) there remains only the bicycle repair shop downstairs.  It is open year round, but really only gets going in spring and summer when people go outside again.

This is no regulation bike shop with lance-armstrongs-in-training stopping by in spandex with the latest Trek.  This is a dirty little place for shady second-hand dealings, staffed by sketchy aging hippies and skinny androgynous youths.  The staff’s interests include drinking beer on the sidewalk and hosing down filthy bikes on my stoop.  They also blast Classic Rock from noon until night.  I suspect many of the part-time staffers are homeless and that most of the bikes are stolen.  Come June, I can barely get in and out of my building because of the huge number of filthy bikes and equally filthy humans clustered out front, spreading debris around with a hose and hustling passers-by.  

For the past 5 years I’ve not suffered this gladly.  I admit I’ve been huffy, and have emitted more than a few Al-Gore-sighs when trapped between the hippies, their wares, and their ambling customers, invariably when I was carrying heavy grocery bags or my laundry.  While I always waited until the front door was shut before muttering obscenities under my breath, I’m certain that the bike guys knew my attitude.  It was no secret to anyone.  

This past february when I suddenly learned I’d be spending a lot more time ‘round the house, something changed for me.  Perhaps it was the discovery of a bike shop part-timer named Christian hosing some terrible foulness off my stoop one morning, or perhaps it is the daily cheery Good Mornin’ greetings I now get (usually in the early afternoon) from another youth who sports a faux-hawk and some alarmingly amateur tattoos.  Maybe it’s the bloom of spring that has filled me with fatuous affection for my fellow man.  Maybe I’m going soft in the head.  

I choose not to examine this fragile harmony too closely due to the well-founded fear that it will fall apart under inspection and the old New York misanthropy will return and tomorrow I’ll be stomping in and out, cursing like a sailor when the muddy bike water ruins my new Vivienne Westwood heels, and the throngs of undesirables create an impasse in front of my building.  Today we have amity.  

I lied about being the outdoors type

So now I’m visiting some friends’ country place in connecticut, and if I wasn’t clear in my previous post, I make no pretense to be the outdoors type.  Neither do I aspire to be.  It’s not that I hate outdoor activities- on the contrary- I am an avid and somewhat obsessed sailor.  Its just that, well, I’m afraid of the woods.

It’s not even just all the uncooked animals running around.  I’m afraid of the other people that live in the woods.  They do things like chop kindling, and go to bed early.  They would probably rightly view me as an idiotic city slicker wearing john varvatos sneakers instead of sensible boots, and I probably wrongly view them all as psychotic chainsaw-wielding inbred hicks.

I wasn’t always this way.  I went to boarding school in New Hampshire, where I was always the first one to head for the woods after dark to illicitly smoke ciggies in a fort we had made, and in fact, I was the only person who could find the fort on a pitch-black night with no flashlight.  (If caught by campus security discipline would have been swift and severe.)

But somewhere between The Blair Witch Project and The Woods Have Eyes, I ruined myself.  I have turned into just the kind of effete and terrified fool that would be easy prey for whatever is OUT THERE.  Whatever it is I’m afraid of doesn’t play by the horror movie rules (no going off by yourself, don’t go into attics or basements, never ever ever have sex) because it is not one identifiable fear that I can psych out- but rather a myriad of combined terrors.  Even the trees themselves are starting to look menacing - there are definitely more of them then when I got here last night.  And I think some of them have moved closer…

If my hosts don’t make it home before dark I swear to god i’m a goner.  Please have my memorial service in NYC - where it’s SAFE.

When animals attack! in NYC.

Last night, en route to the bar to watch the ballgame, I came across a small crowd of people clustered in the middle of my block staring up in the air.  Visions of ‘The Happening’ flashed through my head.  I walked over and asked a guy with a vintage Beatles haircut and Elvis shades what was going on.  He pointed up to the fire escape of the nearest building.  I looked up and saw an enormous hawk gnawing on some sort of bloody dead thing, and suddenly realized that the sidewalk was splattered with blood and PIECES of whatever the bird was eating.  As I stood there stunned with revulsion, I became aware of the running commentary of the people around me.  They mostly seemed to be encouraging the slaughter- “Wow he got a really big chunk there” and “Damn, look at all that blood.”  My friend Elvis Glasses was grinning widely.  I coped with the gore the only way I knew how - I snapped an iphone pic and headed to the bar.  If ‘The Birds’ is coming true, I better be good and drunk before the vultures get me.

I don't like being high

Last night I went to a fancy party thrown by my fancy friend Brooke at the very fancy new cooper square hotel.  In the glass-walled penthouse.  On the 21st floor.  I was terrified.

I am absolutely petrified of heights.  This came on suddenly at the age of 14 or so when at St. Paul’s Cathedral in London.  I went up in the round curvy dome and stared down at the black and white tiled floor, and suddenly went all dizzy and limp and queasy.  I have never recovered.

The penthouse at ‘The Coop’ was absolutely beautiful, all sleek and modern, with mind-bogglingly perfect 360 degree views of the city.  Have I mentioned the balcony?  There was a wrap-around balcony, with a waist-high CLEAR GLASS RAILING.  

We got there early, as the sun was setting.  My friends Ken and Lockhart sauntered out onto the balcony of danger to admire the view.  I bravely tried to follow them, but failing miserably I clung to the sheer glass walls of the building, gibbering with fear and knocking over Ken’s drink.  Terribly sorry!  I cried, I’ll get you another!  and rushed back indoors to the relative safety and comfort of the bar.  4 vodka & sodas later I tried again.  

My friends were outside, smoking and laughing and joking.  The balcony of imminent death with its spectacular views was the hit of the party.  I guzzled the remnants of my 4th drink and keeping one hand safely on the sliding door, I closed it behind me.

I got through it, with the aid of a 5th vodka, and two cigarettes, but it wasn’t pretty.  There was a really tricky moment when my friend Kevin joked about jumping over the edge and I hollered SHUT UP at him…or when my friend Dennis reached out and actually TOUCHED the unsafe inadequate clear glass railing and I lunged forward to try to save him if he fell, despite the fact that I was wearing heels, and he, sneakers.  At one point I considered asking my friend Michelle if I could hold her hand.  But I got through it.

Soon after that we left and went to a bar - on street level.  I was delirious with happiness.  I looked around at the dingy walls, and out at the traffic on the corner and breathed deeply.  I was home.

Swine flu of death is coming to kill us all!!!

OMG you guys the swine flu is coming!  its coming to kill us all with death!  we’ll grow snouts and pointy ears and curly tails and then we’ll root around in garbage, roll in mud and then we’ll DIE!  forever!

Sigh…am I the only one that is sick and tired of hearing about this stupid pig flu?  Doesn’t anyone remember SARS?  or the Avian flu?  or EBOLA??!!!!  We survived that, didn’t we?  Enough with the drama.

Maybe I speak only for fellow jaded New Yorkers who are happy to make it through each day without an anthrax attack/building collapse/terrorist airplane hijacking/homicidal cab drivers/crazy homeless people/unexplained explosion etc.  But I don’t think so.  

Even Law & Order has let me down.  Their latest ‘Ripped Off From The Headlines’ plot last night centered around THE MEASLES.  SNORE.

Until you come up with some more news about pirates or Blago or something that hasn’t simply been recycled from past pandemic-panic, I’ve stopped listening.  I’ll be home safely in my apartment downtown suffering from good old fashioned ALLERGIES.  I can’t hear you talk about the swine flu because my head is all stuffy and I’m sneezing.  In fact…perhaps a Sudafed PM is in order…g’night!

Leave the Somali pirates alone!

Ok you guys I’m getting really worried about this pirate situation.  Things seem to be getting heated and I’m afraid that people are losing perspective.  It is essential that we not lose sight of the most important thing to consider when talking about or dealing with pirates: PIRATES ARE COOL.  Waaay cooler than us.  

I’m not just saying that because I like (OK love, bordering on obsession) sailing, or because I dressed up as a pirate for halloween this year or because dark & stormies are unbelievably delicious.

I’m serious, these guys are really cool.  Think about it… Their country is so craptastic after 20 years of civil war and anarchy that Somali people are emigrating to YEMEN.  Everyone knows Yemen is the WORST PLACE IN THE WORLD.  And evidently it’s better than Somalia.  Most of these guys used to be fisherman but now they’re all starving to death because big commercial fishing companies are overfishing the coast, leaving nothing for the locals.  So ingeniously using their seafaring skills, with a little hired muscle from ex-militiamen, they repurposed.  Genius!  

Now I don’t mean to suggest that it is cool to threaten the life of the adorable New-Englander-straight-out-of-central-casting, Captain Phillips, but pirates have to be tough and desperate times call for desperate measures.  No one wants Captain Phillips to get hurt, but I don’t think the pirates should be hurt either and I’m pretty sure that poor 16 year old kid pirate they captured is gonna get hurt.  He’s en route to the next Gitmo right now, and probably getting his ass kicked regularly along the way by god-fearing, glenn-beck-watching, rush-limbaugh-listening, American patriots who think he’s a terrorist.

Pirates have come a long way from the rapey stabby old days, when you certainly would never survive their attack on your boat.  Now they just use your satellite phone to call your boss and ask for money, and then sit around getting high until the pathetically small ransom of a million dollars or thereabouts is dropped onto the deck.  According to William Langewiesche’s oddly smug article in the April 2009 Vanity Fair, these gentlemanly pirates are horrified and offended by the mere suggestion that they could be considered a “threat to women.”  Isn’t that CUTE?!

Until anyone has actually done anything concrete to help Somalia’s failed economy, lack of government or any basic infrastructure, and rampant pandemic violence, it is not ok to blame the pirates.  They are merely a (very very cool) symptom of a much larger problem…and if you think arresting or killing them will make them go away, you probably think it works to put a band-aid on a bullet wound.   

So basically what I’m saying is, amid all the media-induced hysteria and befuddled patriotism, lets not lose sight of the facts of the matter - ie Somalia is a mess, and Pirates are awesome.