All Aboard The Mammary Express!

"A full bosom is actually a millstone around a woman’s neck: it endears her to the men who want to make their mammet of her, but she is never allowed to think that their popping eyes actually see her. Her breasts ... are not parts of a person but lures slung around her neck, to be kneaded and twisted like magic putty, or mumbled and mouthed like lolly ices."

-Germaine Greer

It all began suddenly when I was in the seventh grade. Up until that time, the only confines my breasts were restricted in were cotton training bras purchased in the little girls' section of JC Pennys. They were precious and dainty little pieces of fabric, usually adorned with itty bitty pearls. Sometime during the latter end of my first semester, my bosom sprouted faster than a Chia Pet. I went from wearing those uber-delicate training bras to surreptitiously going into my mother's top dresser drawer and "borrowing" her C-cup bras.

I was no longer able to purchase the pretty, frilly, and lacy trainers. I had moved out of the little girls' section of undergarments and into tacky minimizer land. Some girls were catty and envious that I was a Seventh grader who not only had breasts, but had so much of them that they needed to be tamed with constrictive material. Little did they know what it was actually like to be the victim of relentless ogling from primitive prepubescent boys.

During a routine gossip exchange with a gal-pal in the school cafeteria, I made the glorious discovery that the boy I was crushing after at the time had taken a liking to me as well. This was wonderful news to me, unfortunately his affection for me was reduced down to writing dirty limericks about my my boobs on his desk in our Algebra class. My crush came to a screeching halt one day when I was wearing a form-fitting t-shirt that happened to have the GUESS? brand logo embroidered on it.

My crush responded to my attire with, "Hmmm, 32D?"

"Rot in hell you dirty pig!"

And with that brief exchange of words, I went from longing to loathing him. I spent the remainder of Junior High and High School warding off the repulsive quips and remarks of lowly teenage males. Many of my girlfriends (and female relatives) praised my ta-tas as though they were some sort of blessing granted upon me from the Playboy Bunny Goddess. I had a different take. I felt as though my freakishly huge breasts were a focal point for conversation, masturbation, and objectification.

I figured the best way to downplay the attention my chest received was to adorn myself in clothing my grandmother would sport. Cute, form-fitting sweaters were soon replaced with bulky, conservative coats. Low-cut t-shirts were immediately veiled with scarves, even in the summer months. It wasn't until adulthood that I began to feel comfortable enough to celebrate the fact that I was indeed blessed with an amazing pair of knockers. It took alot of experience and personal encouragement to shamelessly release my buxom qualities to the world at large, and the experience that helped me the absolute most was undoubtedly the "Critical Tits" parade that is held at the annual Burning Man festival.





My Burning man experiences are another extensive blog in and of themselves, but participating in the "Critical Tits" parade was hands-down one of the most empowering moments I've ever had as a woman. "Critical Tits" is an event in which thousands of women parade around the desert on bicycles, completely bare-chested. Well, many of them decorate their fun-bags with pasties, body paint, stickers, etc. I was going to go completely bare chested until some kind gentlemen handed me stickers in the shape of flames that each said, "HOT". Turns out, those stickers were the kind specifically designed to designate the level of spiciness on hot sauce bottles:


Immediately after I shed my bathing suit top before the parade, I was bombarded with an enormous gaggle of men, all eager to take my picture. Contrary to the sort of attention I received from the male gender back in high school and junior high, these men were entirely respectful and decent. I was asked permission before the photo-frenzy began and as soon as I permitted it, a series of flashes went off very reminiscent of lightening.

One man in particular struck me when he asked, "You really do have amazing and beautiful breasts, but do you ever feel insecure about them?"

"Wh-wh-why yes, yes I do. It makes me feel like a Circus Freak having these as my most distinguishable physical characteristic."

"Well, you really shouldn't. They're really beautiful and you have nothing to be insecure about. Don't let a bunch of under-sexed pigs ruin a wonderful symbol of femininity for you."

And with that he rode off in the dusty desert. I was impressed, he graced me with a heartfelt and genuine compliment and had absolutely no ulterior motive to get into my pants.

I then proceeded to cycle through the desert with my fellow bare-breasted sisters, I felt completely comfortable and sound. Ladies of every size, shape, and age were celebrating their womanhood. We were a cycling caravan of divine divas, grandmothers, mothers, aunts, sisters, and friends. At the tail-end of the parade we were ushered into an exclusively female party. The party was dedicated to every decadent luxury a female deserves. The only men present were the nude waiters presenting fruit platters and cocktails. Massage tents were littered about the premises. There was a magnificent dance party encouraged by live music in the heart of the celebration. After a few cocktails, massages, wonderful conversations with my fellow females, and bouts of dancing- I retrieved my bike and rode back to my camp (still topless) never feeling prouder to be a member of the female gender.

After my critically inspirational experience participating in the "Critical Tits" parade, I learned to embrace my bust. There are still moments when I yearn to wear tube-tops or a strapless dress, and I still get sleazy stares from construction workers, but I've learned to accept what genetics has bequeathed unto me. Now, when I hear comments about my chest, I laugh rather than sneer with disgust. In fact, here are some pretty good comments that I've received in just this past year alone:

"They arrive a half-hour before you do."

"Oh my God, you could breast-feed a small African Nation."

"Where were those floatation devices when the Titanic went down?"

When you really think about it, everyone has at least one physical attribute they've had to work to accept. Whether you've grappled with a noticeably large nose, head, ass, gut, mole, etc...you eventually have to sit down and have a heart-to-heart with your ego and address the issue. It all boils down to your own security with yourself, and whether you want to treat your physical uniqueness as a blessing or a curse.

I once dated a guy that said, "I think your boobs need a blog."

Well sir, there you have it, hope it was informative.

I'll leave you with this photo of myself surrounded by "Hooters" Waitresses on my 20th Birthday:

Stranger to the System, Housing, and Excess

Anyone who has the luxurious sense of touch and sight knows what a glorious weekend of Spring weather New York City was blessed with on Sunday. I made it a point to savor every little bit of the outdoors that I could this weekend. Sun-dresses that had been hidden in my closet like refugees were freed from closet captivity. My umbrellas and their rubber boot counterparts took their place.

One of my favorite activities to engage in on a bright and sunny day in the city is people watching at any given park. The best parks for such an activity are without a doubt Tompkins Square park and Washington Square Park. Since I needed to make a trip to the JAS Mart, a delightfully decadent and cheap Japanese grocery and cafe on St.Mark's Place, I decided to go with Tompkins Square due to its proximity.

As I nibbled away at my carrot salad and onigiri, I noticed I was sitting a bench away from a napping homeless man. Being that it isn't an uncommon sight in a New York City public park, I went on to finish my lunch and devour my book. Just as I was reveling in the glory of David Sedaris's keen sense of humor, I notice a NYPD car drive right through the park, next to the homeless man I was perched near. A very tough, rigid looking mamacita got out and poked him, prodding him to wake up.

"Hey, c'mon there Sleepy. Snap out of it! Look alive!"

I find it amusing how New York City Cops (and most cops in general) exude an air of over-inflated authority to those that least deserve their brash attitudes- much like a typical Catholic school nun with a splintered ruler in her hand. I thought the cop was going to follow that statement with something along the lines of, "We're on page twenty-seven of your geography textbook. Please read the third paragraph to the class."

The homeless chap responded with a series of gurgles and moans that, with the right tweak of pitch, could sound similar to a newborn baby waking from its nap. After finally coming into a full state consciousness, the cops drove of on their proverbial Clydesdale horses. I overheard him cursing and critiquing the criminal justice system under his breath.

The gap that existed between the homeless man and me was soon filled by a trio of German lesbians. I immediately became annoyed, because the one sitting next to me lit up a cigarette and aggravated my already inflamed sinuses and cold. I stuck around anyway, not letting the Germans defeat me. How patriotic.

The cigarette smoke soon dissolved in the air and the Germans departed and it was back to just the homeless man and myself again. He looked at me, I looked at him, and he opened the conversation with, "You're still here!"

"Where else am I going to go on a day like this?"

"I have to tell you, you're the most beautiful thing I've seen in this park all day."

"Thank you, that's very sweet of you to say!"

"D'em girls were from Germany. Hamburg specifically. I recognized d'ey accents from when I was stationed in Germany before departing to Vietnam."

With that little snippet of information, he introduced himself. Juan was the name.

"I know I don't look like a Juan (he was black), but my mother was cuban and my dad...well I don't know what or who the hell he was."

I began to gain some insight into Juan's life and character. He regaled me with his tales of being homeless in New York City. He has lived without a roof over his head since 1988. Juan proved to be a fascinating individual. He was one of the original Mole People living in the abandoned subway tunnels. He told me about the community of homeless people that dwelled under there, unaffected by the outside urban world. A colony united by their poverty.

I learned when he did indeed have shelter nearly twenty years ago, he furnished his entire apartment (the rent only $190.00 a month, rent controlled) with furniture he had found off of the sidewalks. That's not an uncommon practice in they city either. I know someone who was commissioned to do just that for a piece in New York magazine. In a city with such an abundance of resources, Juan proved that one could survive with a strong sense of frugality, resourcefulness, and imagination.

Juan commended me for reading stating, "That'll open up new worlds in your mind. You want a mind that's as wrinkled as a raisin, lemme tell you."

He was refreshingly candid about his own personal struggles and flaws. He admitted that he was ill and an alcoholic. He didn't have a sense of entitlement or belligerence to him. Juan wasn't one that harassed pedestrians for spare change; he earned his meager wages by recycling cans, and finding treasures on the sidewalk and selling them to the flea-market on Avenue A. He also made a few extra bucks every now and then by selling a book that features a story about him called: Stranger to The System.


The writer of the book, Jim Flynn, published the book years ago. SInce he's already made his money from publishing the book, he allows Juan to sell copies on the street and keep whatever he makes. The book is an anthropology of stories told straight from the lips of various homeless people surviving day to day specifically in New York City. Juan's was the most humorous of the tales called, "King of the Supermarket."

Years ago, Juan was on East 14th Street at the Associated Supermarket between 1st Avenue and Avenue A. He was looking for some spare change and the manager of the store finally agreed to give Juan a job sorting out recyclables in the basement. Juan was drunk at the time and in the midsts of plucking out cans and sticking them with their aluminum brethren, he passed out. He awoke after what only seemed like a five minute nap (Juan is prone to passing out, as was the case when I first saw him) but was frightened to discover that hours had passed and he had been forgotten by the staff. He emerged out of the basement only to discover that the store was completely locked up, he was imprisoned inside.

After five-minutes of panicking, Juan calmed himself down completely when he came to the realization that he was a hungry, poor man surrounded by a plethora of groceries, a deli, and most importantly- beer. He first went to the deli and made himself an enormous sandwich. He took a bite out of a pickle then proceeded to put the pickle back in the jar.

As Juan was telling me this he guffawed while saying, "I feel sorry fo' the poor sonuvabitch that wound up buying that thing!"

He continued this pattern throughout each aisle of the grocery store, finally landing in the aisle of spirits. He took swigs of every kind of beer available. He eventually passed out with the residue of his feast smeared all over his face and empty beer bottles lined up around him in the bathroom, that was precisely how he was discovered by he manager of the store.

Clearly, the manager had wound up with an enormous liability and, for lack of a better word, was in deep shit. The manager knew he could be sued, fired, shut down, or all of the above. Juan made a deal with him and said, "You give me the cans I was sorting out and make me a sandwich whenever I damn well request it, and we'll call it even."

It was agreed upon.

I found the entire park-bench conversation to be an enlightening one. Eventually I shook Juan's tough and callused hands to go on about the remainder of my day, thankful that I had actually stopped to take the time to communicate with a stranger. In a time when people use ipods, cell-phones, and Blackberries as an invisible picket fence, it's nice to step outside the gate and really feel and see what is truly there. I'm just as guilty as the next modern bozo out there when it comes to distracting myself and immersing myself in a technological bubble of solitude. Once in a while you have to pop it and acknowledge reality.

I went out Sunday thinking I was utterly broke, but after my conversation with Juan (trite and sentimental as it may have been) I never felt more rich.

Lowly Laurie

The daily grind is a merciless pattern of living that consumes the livelihood of many average souls. It consists of a monotonous minutia of mundane details that at the end of the day, leaves one feeling like all hope of living an exciting, adventure-packed life has been pummeled and stirred into a bland existential paste.

Laurie was one of many prisoners chained to this lifestyle. She began and ended each passing day with a series of routines that struck her with painful regularity and comfort. At forty-two, she was very much a stereotype being that she was a single woman living in a cramped (yet rent-controlled) one-bedroom apartment in Manhattan, complete with a cat, a freezer full of "Lean Cuisine" entrees, and a heart pumping nothing but bitterness. She often struggled with the conflict of fearing the unfamiliar yet loathed the suppressing familiarity that she had grown so accustomed to.

Wednesdays were the worst for Laurie because her week was at the peak of its banality. This particular Wednesday began like any other. At 7:30AM the alarm blared its siren next to her on the night-stand, harshly invading her last few moments of unconsciousness. She squinted her eyes in response to the streaks of sunlight crawling through her blinds and flared her nostrils in recognition of the unmistakable stench of cat piss.

"God-dammit Pickles, you have worse bladder control than my grandmother," she said while lovingly kicking the withered and relatively obese feline.

Pickles was the only living thing that had shared a mattress with Laurie in months and due to that pathetic fact, no amount of cat urea could sway her undying appreciation and attachment to the incontinent critter. She reminded herself of this every time she had to deposit urine-saturated bed sheets into her laundry basket. Note to self: Pick up bottle of Febreeze after work.

Before stumbling to the shower, she always made sure to engage in the self-destructive act of inspecting every inch of her naked flesh in the mirror. Some women prefer to write positive affirmations in lipstick on their bathroom mirrors, but Laurie would never be one of those women. She would rather scrutinize each varicose vein, dimple of cellulite, and stretch mark as a way to justify the unrelenting insecurity she grappled with day to day. After her shower, she would stuff her lower half into a constrictive pair of panty-hose and top it all off with an unimaginative professional ensemble. Today felt like a pin-stripe day.

Coffee was always made instantly then poured into a steel traveling mug. Breakfast usually consisted of a piece of fruit or a Krispy Kreme doughnut, depending on her level of dietary ambition for the week.

The walk to the subway was always a bit arduous, as Laurie had to shuffle through the hoards of humanity that pervaded East 86th Street. One of the toughest obstacles to overcome was pretending not to notice the poor saps handing out flyers advertising the latest deals at CVS Pharmacy. Despite the countless number of times she had made this trek, she would never fail to be slightly startled at the way those flyers were presented to all pedestrians. The distributors flashed them like switch-blades. If you want to live, take this sheet of coupons for "Bounty" toilet paper.

The subway always proved to be claustrophobic at this time of day, the dreaded commute hour. Laurie's one glint of hope on this expedition was that she would wind up magically immersed in a gaggle of dashing, single investment bankers. One of them would find her mousy hair and wide hips irresistable and eventually take her proudly as his bride. Alas, that was never (and probably never would be) the case. Today the tip of a toothless hispanic woman's umbrella was pressing into her spine. In front of her was a mammoth-sized man carrying a briefcase proportionate to his size. The briefcase protruded into her stomach, she could feel it poking at the exact spot where the glazed Krispy Kreme doughnut had nestled itself. Great, a briefcase is giving me grief about splurging on a doughnut. While doing her best to prevent spilling coffee all over herself and her fellow passengers, she finally reached her destination at 42nd Street/Grand Central and was freed from the frenzy of people traffic underground only to be reunited with it when she reached the street level. Faces fleeted past one another darting all eye and physical contact. How is it that in a sea of so many people I constantly feel so isolated?

Laurie reached her office building, stuffed herself amongst many in an elevator and finally arrived at her cubicle; her little cell of secretarial solitude. She had been working as an assistant for fifteen years at a professional ghostwriting company. She had originally aimed to become a writer fresh out of college, but seeing that she hadn't written or been inspired to write anything since the Reagan Era- she figured her career would be fruitless. Next to her computer laid a stack of contracts she was to distribute to a heap of recent college graduates who had obtained writer's grants. Ugh, nothing beats being a middle-aged woman with crow's feet and brow lines that is required to peddle out contracts to aspiring writers with fresh, youthful bounties of acne.

She did her best to avoid water-cooler conversations and obligatory small-talk in the office, but that was about as easy as shooing one dog away from sniffing another dog's ass. It was impossible to make it from her cubicle to the unisex bathroom without being regaled with updates on the latest HBO series from her coworkers. It's very reassuring to know that Tony Soprano had a breakthrough with his psychiatrist. The world is better for it.

She continued to whittle away at the tasks required of her, meanwhile keeping her peripheral vision focused on the clock. As the hours diminished eventually winding down to 5:00PM, she concluded the work day by entering the nearest Duane Reade and purchasing her much needed Febreeze. In a rare act of spontaneity, she threw in a People magazine. This particular issue included a distressed looking Katie Holmes that was supposedly being held captive by her whacky Scientologist hubby. I can take comfort in the fact that while I may be perpetually single and lead a sex-less existence, at least I'm not under Tom Cruise's tyrannical reign.

She was eager to devour her newly acquired magazine on the subway ride home. Fortunately, she had the rare luxury of finding an available seat. She was just delving into "Golden Globe Fashion Disasters" when someone stepped on her toe.

After looking up to confront this invasive stranger with a mean, menacing stare she was thoroughly suprised to see a gentle-featured man (probably in his late forties) who graced her with an effusive, "I'm so sorry, ma'am."

Laurie felt deeply touched, he had actually stopped to look her in the eye and acknowledge that she did indeed exist. She stared at the man who perpetrated her foot, devouring him with her eyes. While he wasn't outright attractive, she suddenly felt incredibly aroused.That was the closest I've come to real human connection all day.

Floating into her apartment, she fashioned herself a microwavable dinner and a glass of wine. Dessert included cuddling with Pickles and watching her most recent "Netflix" rental.

After the predictable romantic-comedy had been witnessed, she began her bedtime routine. Cleanse, brush, floss? Check. Inspect increasingly noticeable crow's feet? Check. Apply eye cream to reduce increasingly noticeable crow's feet? Check.

Lying in bed, she found it impossible to sleep. She suddenly found herself reminiscing about the toe-abusing gentlemen on the subway. She remembered the way his warm, green eyes stared into her hollow, brown ones. He had blessed her with a milli-second of connection to the world; she couldn't remember the last time that had occurred. The only remedy available to this restlessness was to honor the kind stranger with a fevered bout of masturbation. Laurie howled with sensual joy while swimming in fantasies of sexual trysts with the man. One image that kept orbiting her filthy mind included the two of them naked as the day they were born, alone, in a subway car. The vibrations and bumps of the route only adding to the glorious friction they were engaging in with one another. The man had an impressive ability to leave an impression, with his one minor gesture he had aroused a great passion from inside her; a yearning to seek out adventure, love, and wisdom.

Laurie's body quivered with orgasmic glee while sweat flooded out of every pore on her skin. Yes, yes, yes! I am going to celebrate life with every fiber of my being from this point on! Gone are the days of holding myself prisoner! I'm going to abandon my rigid daily structure and embrace risks and spontaneity! Ooohhhh, heaaavens yes!

She then came for about a minute.

After she climaxed, Laurie scoffed at herself for exaggerating the erotic and spiritual value of the brief encounter that had occurred earlier in the evening on the subway. She couldn't believe that all it took was someone stepping her cheap, Payless pumps to get her to stew in her own ejaculatory juices. She glanced across her bedroom only to discover Pickles staring at her with a seemingly smarmy expression. Well, fuck you. At least I'm potty-trained.

"God Bless You, Mr.Vonnegut."

For those of you like myself that are avid readers and revere stellar literature, there is a moment in life that we all share. It is a defining moment that usually grips one in their youth, a moment that can easily make a life-long fan of literature out of someone; it is the moment you discover your favorite author. Their prose, style, voice, and essence speak so profoundly and articulately to you, you're left feeling as though you had just engaged in a lengthy one on one conversation with the writer. Kurt Vonnegut was the author that blessed me with that moment. His deeply insightful and innovative writing style always managed (and still does) to simultaneously amaze and enlighten me.

I first came across Kurt Vonnegut when I was sixteen-years-old, compliments of my well-read fathers moldy book collection from college. I was in the garage rummaging around for an old sweater when I luckily stumbled upon a box of literary goodies. As I sifted through the works of Hunter S.Thompson, Mark Twain, Aldous Huxley... I discovered a title that really caught my eye. The book was "Deadeye Dick," by Kurt Vonnegut. It is a tale of a young man that commits accidental man-slughter and spends the remainder of his adult life seeking forgiveness for it. I abandoned the search for the sweater, retired to my room, and immediately began devouring the novel with glee.

Upon finishing "Deadeye Dick," I found myself embarking on a literary binge of Vonnegut's works. His consistent talent for injecting a quirky, humorous perspective and portrait of his characters never failed to entertain me, though, beyond that I found myself deeply moved by his ability to use his vast life experience to create stunning philosophies about humankind and the purpose of existence. Oh Kurt, if you only knew you were my best friend (and still remain so) during every angst-fueled existential crisis. Thank you for being there, pal.

Anyone that has read a thick chunk of Vonnegut's works' knows that he was an oppenent of war and a heavy critic of organized religion, and has remained so throughout his life. He was a young prisoner of war in Dresden during World War II and included many of those experiences in the well-known masterpiece, "Slaughterhouse FIve, or, The Children's Crusade." In one of my personal favorites "Cat's Cradle," he created the religion of Bokononism which was admittedly based on a series of comforting lies. My favorite saying of Bokonon, the founder of Bokononism, is without a doubt:

Tiger got to hunt,
Bird got to fly,
Man got to sit and wonder,
Why, Why, Why?

He has graced the world with a legacy of amazing stories, plays, novels, and essays for future generations and fans of counter-culture literature to gobble up with joy. Vonnegut passed away last night in his apartment in Manhattan due to brain injuries as a result of a bad fall he suffered from last week. He was eighty-four-years old. So it goes.

Ok, So This Cheered Me Up...

Oh John. Johnny, Johnny, Johnny. Does anyone recognize who the guy playing the mob boss is? Place your guesses in the comments section.