I am the $60,000 Ring Lisa Barlow lost in a Palm Springs Airport

By Brendan McHugh

Hello Real HousePoets of The Internet! How are you? If I had a house wives intro catchphrase it might be “I’m that bitch that lives for the poem”.

Ok, full disclosure, I’ve never seen Real Housewives. That was entirely Kelly’s thing. BUT I’ve seen enough Housewives memes (and had a nice chat with Brendan about it) to know how these iconic material moments, carefully produced and generated, continue to contribute to a spectacle of wealth which ultimately benefits the producers. (Did I do good?)

This poem is iconic and timeful; when we first read it in the summer, it made us reflect on our collective distracted obsessions. Now as I reread it, I remember watching an entire season of Keeping Up with the Kardashians with my friend Judy in Paris on the night of November 13, 2015; the city went into martial law the next day. I read this poem today and remember writing my undergrad thesis on reality TV, Donald Trump, and Trisha Paytas; way back in 2017. I remember how the (French) thesis evaluation committee thought the topic was silly, overly-American, unnecessarily alarmist, ridiculously contrived. I read this poem today, and I remember last Tuesday, watching a live stream of the U.S. election votes being tallied and wanting to turn it off to watch 90 Day Fiancé instead.

I read this poem and I think of all the times I consume programs like this and am suddenly hit by this feeling that… THERE IS SOMETHING BEHIND ME. And I look, averting my eye from distraction, and I see its shadow looming in my peripheral vision, its breath on my neck, cold….

it’s Fascism.

Anyway. Thank you so much Brendan for including this in our trapper keeper! Enjoy the poem!

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I am the $60,000 Ring Lisa Barlow lost in a Palm Springs Airport

I am the $60,000 Ring Lisa Barlow lost in a Palm Springs airport
I am the $25,000 Sunglasses a “Friend of” pointed to in Encino

I am the white wine glass that smashed into its fate on an Amsterdam white tablecloth
I am the prosthetic leg, also smashed into a white table cloth

                                                                                 (even whiter at a Manhattan fundraiser)

I am the Finsta, the Scam Goddess, the Burner Phone, a Burner account materialized I am the sister’s strained sobriety, the fancy friend’s Munchausen’s, her daughter’s Lyme disease

These are her medical records, slammed on a slick table next to Beverly Hills Ice Teas with lemon. These are the wedges, lemon and otherwise.

I am the infertility clinging to the wombs of each city. I am the rescue dogs who can’t rescue these women. I am the mini-horse. I am the adoptee. I am the NDA.

I am calling out the producer’s name. I am the editor who brings up the $20 Mill elephant in the room. I am the producer with the hat.

I am the sad beige gates that opened Orange County out onto the channels of the world. I am the light, the life, the vibes, the women’s daughters wish to spread to their mother’s enemies.

I am the memoir. I am the “How-to.” I am the “Tell-all.” I am the keeping it real. I am the TV Pilot. I am the literal pilot. I am the guest star. I am Dancing with The Stars. I am the child’s cook-Tok.

I am the American Dream pageant queen. I am the Girl’s Trip. I am the Indictment.
I am the cool crisp dollars, green with envy in Andy Cohen’s Checking Account

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About the hot poet: Brendan McHugh (He/They) is a writer, public historian, and bookseller living in San Francisco. His work about AIDS/HIV history has appeared in places like KQED, Catapult, Nursing Clio, thewashingtonpost.com, and Brokeass Stuart. This is their first poem ever picked up! You can follow his work on his website (www.brendanpmchugh.com) and on IG: @ms._b_rendan

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Hope that was a bright moment in your day. Your poetry prompt for the week is to turn to your favorite reality television program. And don’t, and I must insist, don’t look behind you. It’s there.