There are some women who are disdained no matter what they do, often women I like to think of as the "ten pound flip-floppers." I mean, one look at Brittany Spears' neck when she was a teenager told you that her body wanted some cheetos. She looked hot, but her body clearly wanted to be bigger. A part of enjoying My Time is knowing that when one needs to make a "Run For The Border" that it is indeed something to be proud of as you shout EXTRA LETTUCE on your double-layer nacho supreme Doritos taco bowl. If it comes in a bowl (or a bowl-like object), America teaches us, it is less calories. After Courtney's husband killed himself and left her with the ability to have much less My Time, seeing as how she had a child, drug addiction, money managers, and the paps, America still has never seemed to ease up on her. While watching the "documentary" (really, can any woman be fairly represented by a television channel that chooses to be known by a short letter-number combo that doesn't even equal an acronym?) and eating a frozen pizza out of a bowl while an orange sat nearby in a smaller bowl, lonely and surely to be uneaten, I realized (not in a Carrie Bradshaw way, but in a "there are no good answers" way) that this woman named her band Hole, not Whole, and has a sense of humor about herself that is witty and undebatable. When Dave Chappelle lost his ability to experience My Time in private, he went to a magical place he calls "Africa" which is apparently a country where everyone understands roots and coming back to them. That's right. Africa is one place. It's a country. Courtney, on the other hand, enjoyed Rohyphnol and made where ever she went the Country Of My Time. This is a perfect opportunity to comment on Fredric Jameson, a man I met at the Sorbonne in the 70s, who became my lover. I explained to him the importance of a woman's hole as one that can, through material reality, paradoxically defy any conception of nationhood as material. Indeed, any hole is surrounded by physicality, but as we all know, it is how to fill the spaces in those holes that matter most to people, whether they are seeking a material experience or a mystical one. No one knows what awaits you when you enter any place that can be described as a hole, an absence surrounded by non-absence, and like the Soviet Union, when being inside the hole, or being the surrounding non-absence of said absence, nationhood becomes imaginary. No Estonian I've known has forgotten the material world they knew existing as a hole, an absence of physicality, at the same time. This all relates back to calories of course, where the struggle with desires about what holes to fill and with what items becomes a philisophical conflict. Which brings up back to the bowl, a physical hole, really. Oh, Dagmar, you do digress when speaking about old lovers. Don't even get me started on Sam Elliot.
As the sun began to rise in a Missouri winter, I went to my freezer and looked for more food that I could microwave in a bowl and opened another bottle of wine. What's the point of breaking down if you can't do it in an Anthropologie piece of ceramic?
And I choose to follow Courtney's path. Get the money and understand there is no return. There is no motherland because, honey, the motherland is full of fucking wars, and your Anthropologie Senegalese sweetgrass basket ain't changing your broken heart at 4 am nor what Senegal will be called ten years from now. This bitch looks fabulous. I believe the reverence in her eyes are focused on the lit-up mecca of Taco Bell after the show. Fill your holes any way you can, Honey, because the absence they exist as are easy metaphors for all the material beauty you can surround yourself with and in.
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