R.I.P. Jim Carroll

Little Ode on St. Anne's Day

You're growing up

and rain sort of remains

on the branches of a tree

that will someday rule the earth.

and that's good

that there's rain

it clears the month

of your sorry rainbow expressions

and clears the streets

of the silent armies ...

so we can dance

-- Jim Carroll, "Fear of Dreaming"

At 13, I read "The Basketball Diaries" because Leonardo DiCaprio (my future husband, I was sure) starred in the movie version of the book. For about a year after, I walked around with a notebook and wrote deep writerly thoughts about how totally messed up the world was, ma-an. Carroll made chaos and torment -- particularly of the teenage variety -- seem exquisitely beautiful and worthwhile. Thanks for that.

I survived Literary Death Match

Yep, I came out alive. Only, it turns out everyone survives Literary Death Match. They don't actually let you fight to the death. Bummer, right? But, get this, I won -- which is the opposite of a bummer.

I was especially nervous about the essay I read, because I'd written it in the days before the event. That meant I didn't have the endorsement of my kick-ass editor at Salon, Sarah "My Safety Net" Hepola. Also, per my usual, I chose a topic one usually doesn't discuss with other people, let alone a large crowd of strangers: How I, as a pubescent teenager, attempted to investigate the deepest, darkest depths of men's collective sexual unconscious through Internet porn.

The judges offered their commentary and, much to my relief, there were no curmudgeonly Simon Cowells. The hilarious Elissa Bassist was won over by my use of the word "vagina" and Kasper Hauser's Dan Klein offered my favorite compliment of the night:

That's right: I'm not selling sex, people, I'm just writing about it. I made it through the first round based on literary merit and won the final heat with a single round of beer pong. Thank you, college!

A fight to the literary, but not literal, death

It's the match no one's been waiting for: I, Tracy "Carpal Tunnel" Clark-Flory, will battle it out with rival writers in San Francisco's next Literary Death Match. This brawl promises to be so soul-crushing and ego-battering that even HBO refuses to air it. Be there!

The deets, according to the event Web site:

Kneel down and grovel before LDM SF's talented and blood-thirsty readers Noria Jablonski (The Nervous Breakdown), Tracy Clark-Flory (Salon.com), Eugenia E. Gratto (100 Proof), and Jack Boulware (Gimme Something Better), all judged by our panel of Elissa Bassist ruling on Literary Merit, Kasper Hauser's hilarious Dan Klein deliberating on Performance, and City Lights' Stacey Lewis arbitrating the Intangibles.

Where: The Elbo Room, 647 Valencia Street.
Doors: 6:30, Show at 7:15 (sharp)
Cost: $5-$20, sliding scale
Pre-Sale Tickets: http://www.brownpapertickets.com/event/80002

Going down in the downturn

My latest feature about women turning to sex work during the recession was just published on Salon.

Oof, it's been a long time coming. How long, exactly? Well, at least three months, but I don't want to do a more precise accounting of the time put into this 1400-word story because it's a reminder of all the stories left untold. I talked with so many more women than I could actually quote, I learned so much more than I could share -- partly because Web readers will only hang around for so many words, but more so because, from an objective viewpoint, the women's stories were all so similar. On the other hand, my subjective viewpoint told me that each story was unique and profoundly important. That's because I've never been so emotionally connected to a story; I've never before had an interviewee break down sobbing or tell me things they hadn't told a single other soul.

I guess that's why, even having published the piece, the work feels unfinished. These women's crises aren't resolved, nothing has changed for them. They've merely shared some intimacies with strangers, yet again.

The Feminist Battle Royal

Earlier today, I wrote on Salon about the launch of a new Web magazine for the ladies:

We have some new neighbors on our lady blog block. The women from Slate's XX Factor just made the move to Double X, their brand spanking new sorority house ... And, hot damn, they've initiated some fantastic female writers. As if we weren't already paying attention, they kicked things off Tuesday by having Linda Hirshman toilet-paper Jezebel, home to the smart-'n'-snarky girls on the block.

Hirshman's attack on the feminist credentials of Jezebel's bloggers (for not reporting a rape, being drunk in public, having casual sex, getting STD's, etc.) stirred up some controversy to the surprise of exactly no one. Susannah Breslin, she of Reverse Cowgirl fame, responded to the "who's a better feminist?" debate on Double X:

Apparently, if you launch a website for women in 2009, the most important question is whether or not it's feminist. At least, that's what you'd think, judging by today's launch of the women-oriented website you're reading.

What a pity that a "feminist pissing match," as Feministe's Jill put it, had to, uh, stain the launch of the site. I've only been waiting for a good women's magazine for, oh, my entire life. (I somehow missed the Sassy years.) It's time to get beyond the feminist battle royal and just be people ... who happen to have vaginas.

"Away We Go"

Tonight, I saw a sneak screening of "Away We Go," which was directed by Sam Mendes and written by local literary superstars Dave Eggers and Vendela Vida. It's sure to be a hipster hit -- but, unlike so many cloyingly cute indie films of late, this sucker is deftly quirky and strikes just the right balance of humor and melancholy. If this one makes it into to my parents' cultural consciousness, I will not roll my eyes.

What made me fall for the film, though, is its unusual and offbeat portrayal of love. Understand that I don't like romantic comedies. I'm typically the one going: "But I don't understand what their connection is! Why do they love each other?" That wasn't the case with this film. It speaks a language of love that you won't find in an ad for DeBeers, Godiva or Flowers.com. It's singular, unique and attainable. It's a story of two separate people on a journey together, rather than one person on a journey to the other or two conjoined people on a journey to themselves. 

It certainly didn't hurt that the lead actors, Maya Rudolph and John Krasinski, stepped off the screen and into the theater as the credits rolled. OK, so they actually walked from the back to the front of the theater, but it was as though the very real characters they had brought to life on-screen, and who left every person in my row sniffling, were standing right in front of us. Along with Mendes, Vida and Eggers, they answered all sorts of questions volleyed from the audience -- about everything from the awkwardness of filming the opening oral sex scene to shaping the soundtrack. 

I might see movies in the theater more than a couple times a year if they were all followed by a chat with the creatives. Is that too much to ask? And while you're at it, Hollywood, can't all movies be this good?

Finally, I got a chance to publicly hate on MTV:

Look, the network ushered me through puberty and, like a lab monkey raised by a fake wire mother, I keep returning to this cold, cultural progenitor even though I know she won't offer me anything of substance.

Breakupsville: Bristol and Levi

As I said in a Broadsheet roundtable, I have but one comment in response to the news: Parents, this is a teachable moment: Tattoo engagement rings are never a good idea.

Will you, California, marry gays?

This Q&A is a departure from my recent string of sex-related stories. Well, it's related to sex, but not sexual intercourse. (OK, well, maybe tangentially.) It's my one-on-one with San Francisco City Attorney Dennis Herrera. Any day now we'll find out whether the gay marriage ban will be struck down in California. Fingers crossed.

Did "sexting" really kill?

MSNBC recently covered the suicide of 18-year-old Jesse Logan of Ohio. The article trumpets the fact that the teen girl was caught up in an embarrassing "sexting" scandal at school, which was likely one of many compounding factors in her suicide. But other key details -- like, that just hours before killing herself, she attended the funeral of a friend who had committed suicide -- are intentionally buried. It's just another example of accuracy shamefully sacrificed for the latest scaremongering narrative about kids and sex. I recently wrote about it for Broadsheet and got some great feedback from readers who have clinical experience working with teens:

Thank you Tracy

I am a psychologist and work with many teens. People are so naive about teen suicide, I am grateful to see someone pointing out the importance of looking at the many complex variables that lead to such drastic behavior. The media usually drastically oversimplifies it.

-- sjvaughn

Re: teen suicide

Tracy, thank you so much for doing the research you did for this piece. I have been involved with suicide prevention efforts for almost 16 years now and it is appalling how often people just make assumptions about this issue.

There were a lot of factors that contributed to this person's suicide. One of the items you pointed out that contributed to this suicide was exposure to suicidal behavior. People who are exposed to suicide, such as this person was, are 60-80% more likely to attempt or complete suicide. This is so frequently ignored as a contributing factor. ...

-- Nevadan