Sunday, March 13, 2005

why, rosie, why?

did you register your blog under the
sad, desperate name
onceadored.blogspot.com?
why do you hunger,
(still hunger, such hunger!)
for love, for attention?

why don't you capitalize?
why do you insist on weird enjambment
that makes a bordline banal rage
into
a banal poem
that smacks of anne sexton gone awry
and adolescent agony
and pain and longing?

i was with you when you were an up and coming comedian,
watched you when you hosted friday night videos,
when mtv was new and rock videos were young,
cheered you on in a league of their own,
even watched that stupid undercover cop movie
with emilio estevez
and richard dreyfuss (never as dear as in "the goodbye girl," never as
naked)
even though it sucked, because there was you.
you.
funny, smart, wise, proudly large.
maybe queer.

tolerated the smarmy talk show
and the crap all over your desk,
the toys, the fooze balls, the drooling
pandering to
heteronormativity,
the novice pulled from the audience to announce the show,
because sometimes you brought kate mulgrew on
and doted on her
because you loved her as mary ryan,
and stuck with her through mrs. columbo
and rejoiced with her casting as kathryn janeway
and in your simple, loving gushiness over this hard, lovely little woman
you came out. really.
we saw you.
we knew.

oh rosie, i think i know why you do it.
why you write such sad, bad poetry
that makes me
mad.
i think i understand: abjections feels good
and loose
and easy
and crouchy, fetal-position-safe.
i feel the pull,
i can taste the temptation,
even as my pinky fingers (arbiters of logic and order) reach for the shift key, for the period key, the comma key.

you want to construct yourself as pained, as sensitive, as hurting, as deep, as a woman and a mother, just like them, every bit as legitimate as them
even though . . .

because you think that will make them
accept you, love you, make playdates with your children.

But you need to stop, goddamn it. Stop acting like a gushing teenage babysitter from the wrong side of the tracks trying to make the rich, white, straight housewives love you. (I've sang that song before, Rosie. You can't pitch it in a key they will hear.) They will never really love you, or at least will never cast a vote that might protect your family, or your rights. This is class warfare and you're a working class dyke. Step up to the table (or the plate. I'm not much good at metaphors) if you want to be a public intellectual, and correct me if I'm reading too much into this, but you did agree to an article in the NY Times last week, promoting your new "forum," so I think you understand and accept that responsibility. Write in complete sentences, try a paragraph or two of actual, cohesive thought. You know a lot, you've seen a lot, you have opinions; you even have readers (I've seen their comments. They still adore you). Blow your nose, splash some cold water on your face and start from the beginning. Now what is it you're so upset about? What do you want your readers to understand? What do you want to share?

Oh, and try being a teeny bit less anti-semitic. Giving your son a bris does not entitle you to use phrases like "nebbishy jewish below average lawyer."
with love and kisses,
Margo

1 Comments:

Blogger rotatingmass said...

Well written. Thanks for this piece - I had been wondering what creeped me out about her blog and you put it into words.

12:29 PM  

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