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4/28/00 Hm. So this was interesting: I got invited to a black-tie event at the MOMA by a reader. I have always said I have the best readers in the world. There's not that many of 'em, but the ones I do have completely rock. I like readers even more if they invite me to parties. I like readers the best if they invite me to parties with free drinks. I'm not used to getting all gussied up. As one might suspect from my foul mouth, love of rock, and generally naughty/nasty attitude, I'm a simple girl with simple fashion needs. Those fashion needs can be met by using the following criteris:
Anyway, this night out provided me with the opportunity to wear my very-much-loved poofy, shiny, silver silk skirt that ties in the back and has a little bit of a bustle. I feel like a princess in it. I brought the beautiful and talented Anne Beck as my date, and she, too, looked wonderful, having purchased a shiny, strappy silver dress from Banana Republic the day before. Banana Republic, by the way, is a no-no according to my list above. You have to be dry-cleaned just to walk in the store. You think I'm joking, but I'm not. So we got all dressed up and hailed a cab in the rain to the MOMA. We felt kind of giggly about the whole thing. Sure, we've been to our share of gallery openings, but hell, most of those are clothing-optional. You think I'm joking, and I am. We hoped we were dressed appropriately, and we were. In fact, there were some that were far less dressed up than us. We decided if we ever get invited to something like that again, we were just going to wear whatever the hell we wanted. So we walked around, drinking, looking at the art, looking at the people, wondering why we were there, why they were there, what one had to do to be there. I think many in attendance might have donated lots of money to MOMA. Anne and I hid at a table downstairs for a while watching this crazy guy get all subversive with the candles on the tables. Each table had three candles in small glass containers. He would pour wax from one candle holder to another, dousing the wick in wax and putting out the flame, effectively eliminating the usability of that candle anytime in the near future. He wore a toupee and a long black coat. He looked around nervously as he fucked with the candles. I think he thought he might get in trouble. I wonder if you can get in trouble for doing something like that. I also wonder how much money he donated to MOMA. There was also a guy wrapped in a tinfoil shirt strutting around. He was wacky and making some sort of statement that eluded me. He reminded me of a big Jiffy Pop. After my third drink I developed a brilliant idea. How about I try to find the reader? I just wanted to say thanks, you see. I found someone watching a door and asked him if he knew the name. He described him to me by height, hair, and look. I grabbed Anne and we went on a hunt. It didn't take long. We went to the second floor, and I spotted him immediately. I just knew it was him, and, of course, it was. He looked surprised. Dunno. I didn't think it was that weird to try to find him -- no weirder than inviting a perfect stranger to an art opening. Anyway, we made polite chit-chat. He seemed very nice. All was well. I figured it was just one of those things. We'd exchanged a few emails in the past of a friendly nature. I felt cool with it, and I chatted with one of his friends for a while. Anne and I wandered off after a while and then I suddenly ran into another online journaller. It took us about two minutes to figure out we had been invited by the same person, and another minute to realize another online journaller had been invited as well. And then it took another minute for our host to show up, smiling at the both of us. I had one of those tunnel vision moments, when you focus on someone and everyone else in the room disappears. I tried to understand why he would invite three of us. Why us? I tried to understand who he was. It made me feel...suspicious. And then, instantly, I felt like I was an item, rather than a person. After he left, I said, "We've been collected." I have always been told I'm a character. This upsets me sometimes. I'd rather be able to be the cool observer, remove myself from situations so that I can watch and take notes. Unfortunately, I'm a freak and have to involve myself in situations. This is fine. I have come to terms with this. Life is often more fun when you participate. But I had always thought my writing was the one place I was safe, that I could document others and steer the attention away from myself. I'm too self-involved though, I guess, and my writing reflects that. Even in my writing I have become a character. The other thing that bugs me about being a character is that I think that this makes people take me less seriously. "Oh, it's just Jami being Jami again." I guess all of this -- this site, my writing, my journals off and online, all of it -- is about figuring out what being Jami actually means. I felt my host had decided I was a character, along with the other writers he invited. We had no reason to be there besides the fact that we were somehow culturally relevant, not as relevant as the works on the wall, but relevant in our potential to be revealing or amusing. (Well, actually the other online journaller present had received a formal invitation as well, because his folks donated lots of money to MOMA, but you get the idea.) I was just like the guy in the tinfoil, only I didn't know it. I had a shiny silver skirt on, though, the one I wear on my very rare special occasions. I was two steps away from tinfoil. Next time I'll remember that. Later the three of us snuck outside to the courtyard, the artist and writers, the collectibles, and smoked a cigarette by the beautiful red tulips until the security guards busted our asses. Read Swerdloff's take on it.
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