This ain't the Mudd Club

I think I broke something in my cerebrum last night. That's neither here nor there.

Everyone should have a doctor who just comes right out and says stuff like, "OK, I'm going to give you a prescription for either Xanax or Klonopin--which do you want?"

Or maybe everyone shouldn't.

I, of course, when faced with such a time-sensitive decision, immediately thought which one will fuck me up more?

"Don't they give Klonopin to schizophrenics? And, like, epileptics?"

I thought about these girls at school, the two Heathers, who wore matching Victorian hooker garb and fancy wigs and whose chins lolled on their chests at parties because they ate Xanax like M&Ms.

Then I thought about Margo Kidder in that Dumpster. "I'll take the Klonopin, please."

He wrote the scrip on a very official-looking prescription pad, with serial numbers and water marks and embossed frippery.

My doctor, who always sits as far as he can from me in the examining room, then extended his arm, the scrip in his hand. "Is this one of those meds that...ah....will go down on my permanent record?" I said.

He jerked the scrip away from me for a second, holding it aloft as though he were playing Monkey in the Middle. "Why, you running for President or something?"

"Well, no, but I might have to pass a co-op board's muster at some point in my life, sheesh."

"Nah, this won't be a problem."

"What if I want to adopt a dog or something?"

"Probably not an issue."

Thank you, Doctor Feelgood.

Speaking of doped-up retards in goofy outfits, over on Tale of Two Cities, there's been a sighting of these party dolls originally identified in this post.

I had no idea that anyone but me noticed these people (though--DUH--how could you NOT notice 'em?) but I see them EVERYWHERE. My earliest sighting was at the 2003 Tokion Creativity Now thingy, and later at the Greater New York show at PS1. I sort of assumed that they were Parsons undergrads. They wear matching costumes and hairdos--performance artists with false nostalgia for some period or scene that never existed. I knew Leigh Bowery, and YOU, SIR, are no Leigh Bowery!

(Jesus, here they are again.)

[Edited to add: And here are the costumes they wore to the Creativity Now conference.]

The Klonopin side of me says that they ain't hurting nobody (unless they send their poor mothers to their graves with those crazy hairdos of theirs), but the bitchy killjoy in me, the one who can slip out of any pharmaceutical rope-knot, wants to tell them to quit it with the maribou and the body glitter or else they'll never be promoted to shift manager at Oren's.