last night i sat in the basement room of garrett ripley's with 7 other presbyterian women who read the worst poetry known to man. sure, 'hairy fairy' by wolferama was my contribution, but that was meant to be funny!
a dying 12-yr old boy featured on oprah who writes about dandelions and being an autumn leaf? this ain't art. it took all of A--'s willpower to resist snatching that poem out of that woman's hand and making her eat it.
at the end of colonial house, A-- and i watched avidly for don wood, our favorite colonist. 3 months after the project, what was his life? where did he live? did he have a girlfriend? (a plane ticket is, what, $189??) and suddenly, there he was, wearing a parka and camo pants, walking his dog henry. in the background i spied an awning with a partial address - 55th 33--. in anguish i tried to remember what i saw of brooklyn when i was there years ago, but who am i kidding? i saw nothing except so&so's ceiling.
A-- said, the show's been over for ages. he has to have a girlfriend by now.
i said, we are the only single women watching this dorky show.
but the possibility of another dorky girl winning the love of the wood chopping/flea eating/profanity spewing/beer stealing colonist made me slightly sad.
then, a shot of don wood, sitting on a crate while petting his dog, in an apartment filled with other crates, bricks, a weird looking sofa and surrounded by paint-cracked walls. an old stereo tilted on a milk crate.
this man has no girlfriend, i said.