invented restrictions |

Old Man Take a Look at My Life — and Please Do Not Ask Me to Dinner.

June 4, 2008

Tanning, children, is dangerous.

And not just for the reasons your mother and Oprah and the various dermatologists on The Today Show have told you. No, kids, tanning — especially tanning at your apartment complex pool — is dangerous because it makes you vulnerable to The Dirty Old Man.

Here my tale of woe, children, and shudder, and slather yourselves in sunscreen and drape your bodies in caftans and most of all, most of most of all, hide your faces in the shadows cast by a wide-brimmed hat, so that you shall not too suffer this anguish, this agony, this woe.

Vivienne is writing this most unfashionable poemalogue because while she was tanning poolside this afternoon, quietly and calmly reading Euripides’ description of Polyxena’s blood sacrifice, just as she was thinking about how this provided a sense of unity to the Troy story, as the war began with the virgin sacrifice of Iphigenia (though some claim that she was replaced by a deer at the last second, of course, but still) and ended with the virgin sacrifice as Polyxena, The Dirty Old Man appeared, carrying a cooler full of Miller Chill and Captain Morgan’s Margarita Coolers, apparently summoned by the very thought of the term “virgin sacrifice,” apparently wooed by Captain Morgan’s commercials into thinking that Captain Morgan’s Margarita Coolers will actually get him laid. The Dirty Old Man, who is fully ten years older than my father, pulled a chair up beside my chair, and the following discussion ensued:

TDOM: You married?

VHW: No.

TDOM: You got a boyfriend?

VHW: No.

TDOM: Oh, so you’re a lesbian, then.

VHW: No, no, I’m not a lesbian, I’m just sick of men right now.

TDOM: Oh. Okay. You wanna have dinner with me?

Vivienne, at this point, feels no further comment is necessary, other than this: gentlemen. Really. If you wish to woo Vivienne, tell her you enjoy the striking asymmetry of her bikini top. Tell her that her voice is mellifluous as a nightingale’s. Tell her you were just thinking about the bookend virgin sacrifices of Iphigenia and Polyxena. Tell her, for Christ’s sake, that you fucking love Bel Biv Devoe, no matter what anyone says. Just don’t, seriously, Viv-wooing-gentlemen, seriously, do NOT verbalize your assumption that she is a lesbian because she is single, and especially do not ever, ever, EVER follow a verbalization of this kind with a dinner invitation.

Oh, yeah. The poem.

Today’s poem comes from a restriction that Zelda and I invented on the phone last night, called Sponge Osmosity, which we feel has a great deal of potential for the literature. A Sponge Osmosity poem is written by culling phrases overheard from non-written media — television, a film, a conversation, etc. In this case, I Sponge Osmositized my viewing of The Trojan Women, specifically, Hecuba’s first speech. Sadly, I could find no way to incorporate Andromache’s nonverbal wails.