Ken Dolls...Pffffft!

           I like people who look like old houses. People with creaky floors, layers of paint, and weird 1970’s wallpaper; people with character. I’d gladly take Sarah Jessica Parker’s nose or Keith Richard’s wrinkles. I’d love nothing more than Frida’s unibrow or Anne Boleyn’s rumored sixth finger. Scars, tattoos, stretch marks, crooked noses, weird toenails… all so much more attractive than the media would have us think. I mean, if people actually thought the whole bulimic, orange-skinned, bleach blond look was attractive, the Barbie people would have made Tanorexic Ken by now. Have they? Nope. They did, however, make Beach Glam Ken and also some monstrosity called Hottie Ken.

           Thank-you toy gods. 

  

The Beginnings of the Dreaded Christmas List...

           All I have to say is: goodbye Starbucks, hello Tassimo. With your little cups of goodness and your streamlined physique, able to be crammed in next to the fridge, you shall save me from my Starbucks addiction, oh wondrous Tassimo! 

           After much highly un-academic research, I’ve come to the conclusion that the Tassimo is superior to the Keurig because of the wider variety of drinks and brands associated with it. Basically, it makes Chai lattes. That’s all I need to know. Anyways, the Tassimo is now officially in second place on my Christmas list.

First place goes to the amazing Surrealist painting my stepfather painted this summer. It’s beautiful, full of vibrant oranges and blues. I’ve already cleared a space for it on my wall.

Here’s another one of his paintings. I succeeded in prying it from his steely grip earlier this year:

He’s definitely the artist in the family. I paint with acrylics and draw. My style is very basic and folk-arty. That's the kind of stuff I love, obviously. Mexican folk art is my favorite. 

Frida was also inspired by folk art. She was capable of drawing photo realistically, but purposefully chose a more primitive style. She often studied medical manuals and handbooks. I know this because I’m halfway through the Herrera biography. Frida even considered a career as a medical illustrator. It shows in her artwork, the fetuses and anatomical hearts. I, on the other hand, am not artistically equipped beyond the realm of primitive folk art. Perhaps I’ll post some photos if I feel particularly confident one day.

Writing, writing, writing...

      
            In case I hadn't mentioned it, I'm trying to be a writer. That’s one of the reasons I started this blog, it forces me to write something new every day. But then I read a page of the Frida biography by Hayden Herrera and I think, "I shall never be that awesome!”

*sigh*

Here's a brief excerpt from her book in which she relates Alex’s story of the tragic bus accident that ruined Frida’s body:

Something strange had happened. Frida was totally nude. The collision had unfastened her clothes. Someone in the bus, probably a house painter, had been carrying a packet of powdered gold. This package broke, and the gold fell all over the bleeding body of Frida. When people saw her they cried, ‘la bailarina! La bailarina!’ With gold on her red, bloody body, they thought she was a dancer.

Yep. It’s THAT good. For your information, I spent the better part of yesterday writing an article titled “History of the Merkin.” If you don’t know what a merkin is, google it and then laugh at the ridiculousness that is my life.

Guess how Diego Rivera died???

For those of you who are unfamiliar with Ms. Kahlo and Mr. Rivera, let's just say their relationship was non-traditional. Diego was incapable of fidelity and had numerous affairs with every glamorous woman from Mexico City to New York, including Frida’s sister, Cristina. It should be said that I don’t think this makes him a bad person. He was honest about needing extramarital sex and I personally believe some people are not built for monogamy. Besides, Frida had affairs of her own with people like Leon Trotsky and Georgia O’Keefe. What’s interesting about this whole predicament is that Diego’s affairs broke Frida’s heart over and over and over again and yet she maintained that she could not love Diego for what he’s not. Of all the things Frida has taught me, this is the one lesson that has helped me the most. You have to love people for exactly what they are. You can’t say, “I love you but you have to change your clothes/taste in music/mother.” You have to love everything about them, even the stuff you don’t like. It’s all about what you’re willing to put up with. Either you can love someone despite his or her flaws or you can’t. Frida loved Diego more than anything in this universe. In a letter to him she wrote:

“I love you more than my own skin”

But the interesting thing is how Diego died. Look it up anywhere and sources will say his cause of death was cardiac arrest or heart failure, but that’s a cop out. Everybody dies of heart failure. I’m no medical expert but I’m pretty sure it’s a univeral truth that your heart arrests, then fails, then you die. SO the real question is how did Diego die?

Any guesses?

It wasn’t a heart attack from working too hard (or f*cking too hard)

It wasn’t diabetes caused by his obesity

It was…

Cancer

Of

The

PENIS! You have no idea how hard I laughed at this. I know it’s not particularly graceful to laugh about someone’s death, but it is HILARIOUS. His death certificate might as well read “killed by irony.” How do I know all this you ask? I watched a youtube video of a lecture Hayden Herrera, the most well respected Frida biographer, gave in 2009 and she mentions it toward the end. I highly recommend that you watch this lecture. Even if you think you know everything about Frida (like moi), you’ll hear some things you haven’t heard before.

But yes, cancer of the penis is how Mr. Rivera died. Apparently the doctors wanted to amputate his penis but he wouldn’t let them. He went to Russia for crazy radiation treatments instead which made him even sicker. Yep. Gooood moooorning!

Here’s the link:

Hayden Herrera Lecture

You know…the light…and stuff…

So how do I find this aforementioned light? I’m not an optimistic person. I’m suspicious and paranoid by nature. I was born sans faith gene. There’s truth to that Hunter S. Thompson quote, “pray to god, but row away from the rocks” and I’m a firm believer in “hope for the best, plan for the worst.” I read Eat, Pray, Love. I was with her through Eat…then she lost me. Not intellectually. Just spiritually. 

So what is it that I believe in? I’d say my personal belief system could only be described as a vague sort of kitchen witchery. I need something more personal. A guru. A role model. Someone whose face just happens to be my computer background. Frida Kahlo. 

I’ve decided that beautiful Frida, who’s paintings I’ve admired for years, will help me get through this quarter-life crisis. Obviously. Clearly, a Mexican folk artist who died 33 years before I was born will have all the answers. A raging alcoholic and morphine addict is the perfect choice for a mentor. 

And they lived happily ever after…la la la...