Barbie Girl

barbieMood: Industrious
Drinking: Sweet tea

A little body-image black humor on a lovely spring afternoon:

36. 18. 33.

Even Barbie thinks she’s fat
worries about the wideness of
her molded Mattel hips
tries to arrange her doll parts
into the most attractive combinations
while driving her pink convertible
past Ken’s house.

Every time Barbie catches a glimpse
of herself in the tinfoil mirror
she thinks her Twist n’ Turn stomach
looks bloated, imagines new dimples
on her soft vinyl thighs, tosses
synthetic gold tresses off her shoulder
and wonders if her makers
will go up a cup size.

In the right light, her frigid pink smile looks insecure.
She’s convinced Skipper is made of better plastic
and envies her youthful complexion.

Even Barbie thinks she’s fat,
so you will never be small enough.

*****

This one was inspired by my new pal Jim, who collects Barbie dolls. After seeing photos of his impressive (and expensive) collection, I started thinking about my own Barbie experience… My mom wouldn’t buy me a Barbie doll, but my cousin Becky gave me one of hers after half of its hair fell out.

Then I remembered these photos I took of my childhood Barbie after I found her in a box in my Mom’s attic. I remember a puppy gnawing on her face, but I don’t know when her arms fell off. I took a few nude Barbie photos before throwing her away.

But I got all nostalgic last week and did a search on ebay for the 1976 Ballerina Barbie and found myself a replacement, complete with tutu and toe shoes, with the wee golden crown molded right into her cranium. I have no idea what I’ll do with her when she arrives.

All this Barbie talk is weird. So many people have such violent opinions about a bit of plastic and vinyl. Here. Check out a more philosophical Barbie poem — the famous “Barbie Doll” by Marge Piercy.

Did you know that (accd. to wikipedia) if Barbie were a real woman, her measurements would be a ridiculous 36″, 18″, 33″? Crazy, I know. Hence the title of my little ditty…

On to less scandalous topics. I am not a 2008 Mastermind. Disappointing, but not surprising given the high caliber of my 14 fellow finalists. You can’t win ’em all. But I have to say the “party” that SF Weekly threw at Mojito was pretty lame. “Artopia” it was not. Somebody over there needs a lesson in how to do an artist shindig up right!

Speaking of doing it up right, Shel and I are almost finished with cinépoem #19 (holy cow!). “Strange” just needs a few more visual tweaks, and our brand new composer, Aaron Purvis, is mixing up the final score. That’s right, we’re debuting an original score for this one. Movin’ up to the big time. I think you’ll all dig it.

And that’s about it for today. Be safe, be well, and don’t be too hard on Barbie. She thinks she’s fat, poor thing!

-Lo, who thinks an 18″ waist must be kind of painful to achieve.

Object

Mood: Restless
Drinking: Not at the moment

Object

secretly,
i want the men
to look at me.
women, too.
but i don’t want to know
when they’re looking.
just tell me when it’s over.

i sneak peeks
at myself
on the sly.
in mirrors,
in windows,
in spoons, even.
i want to see what they see.
myself from the outside.

do i seem tall?
small?
or do they glance over once
and think nothing at all.

are they looking at eyes?
breast size?
or do i remind them of someone
they physically despise.

i wait sometimes
poised on a streetlight corner
hoping for a telepathic driveby.
all my receptors are open.
my eavesdroppers are standing by.
i’ve cranked the volume
to deafening decibels
but i still can’t hear
what they think of me.

at home again,
i let the mirror do her worst.
armed with calipers
and red wax pencil,
i calculate the errors
unflinchingly:
-10 for celluloid thighs
-5 for accusing eyes
+2 for well-designed brows
-6 for an ass that goes “pow!”

i put that high school algebra
to real life use (for once)
and figure in the x-factor.
(where x=the understanding
that objects in the mirror
may be more fucked-up than they appear.)

-9 for unclaimed emotional baggage
-6 for obscure childhood trauma

i take the numbers out for a run.
we work up a sweat
and settle the score.
(it turns out to be a round,
rather voluptuous number.)

but still i cannot get the angle right.
distracted by some trick of light, i
look away from the mirror. and
that’s when it happens.

when my best face is finally forward,
there is no reflection.

-Lo, who thinks vampires take self-portraits to doublecheck their hairdos.

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