Bitching with Nicole is one of my favorite pastimes. I know, that sounds odd. How can I explain this? Maybe a story will help. A story about the day the bitching began.
It was a Tuesday in October, 2009. Nicole and I were having dinner at the Café Loup with G, a literary agent, who told us we should write a book that sells. We could still write our poems on the side, sort of like a hobby, maybe like knitting, baking bread, or crocheting . . .
Instead of objecting or running to the defense of poetry, Nicole immediately responded in a way only Nicole responds.
Okay! she said. I will write The Bitch. And that bitch will sell.
But someone has already written a book called Bitch, G. objected.
No, Nicole said. No one has written THE Bitch. No one knows THE bitch. Because I own THE bitch. And I will write you the bitch, which will sell like no other bitch has ever sold.
G. grinned and sipped his martini. Yeah? he said. Okay then. Send me the bitch.
Ever since that day Nicole has been composing poems and essays about THE bitch. We have sent each other countless emails, poems, parodies, rants, raves, elegies, essays, comics and laments. All about the bitch.
There’s nothing like having a partner-in-crime, especially if that partner is Nicole Santalucia.
So for the next week, we will be bitching together on this blog. Or bitch-blogging.
I will start with a comic of the first bitching poem Nicole ever wrote, and then with my response to the poem. I will close with a meditation on finding your inner bitch, in case you are having trouble relating to the topic.
Analysis of Nicole’s “Bitch”
The title of Nicole’s poem might easily offend you. Whatever this title means, you might assume it has nothing to do with you. (After all, who would call you a bitch?) Maybe you have never read a poem like this. So clearly, it is addressed to someone else. And is not compatible with your role of spouse, citizen, and upright pillar of society. Clearly, you should never be seen in the company of a poem like this, a poem that is radical, irreverent, uncouth, a poem that flings it’s bare arms in the air and dances like an infidel in the pristine sanctuary of your mind, urging you to seize the day, change your life, get drunk, stay drunk, on wine, virtue, poetry . . . Or bitching, as you wish.