Last and final rest

homeboy
Feb 1991 (approx) - June 29, 2006
go in peace

The 4:24 on the Ronkonkoma Line

...kicks ass if you live in Bethpage, or need to get there in a hurry. No Jamaica, not even Hicksville, let alone Mineola, Carle Place or any of that other bullshit. First stop Bethpage. Pre-electrification, trains were slow and chuggy and houses were cheap; changing at Jamaica was mandatory to get to my hometown. Now, you can whiz right in practically directly. We've even got a 7-11 in the parking lot where the gas station used to be, another place for loser youth to congregate (used to have to truck into Farmingdale for a damn Slurpee); it hasn't driven the Dairy Barn (drive up beer and smokes and chips and Twinkies and a carton of milk convenience store) out of business.

The Dairy Barn was the second-most mystifying concept to people about Long Island when I described it to people at college; the first was my actual accent. Fuck 'em if they can't take my cawfee tawk.

The funnyish thing was, yesterday I was coming from a VH1 audition where I had to be a "long island housewife" type, basically, although the accent was never specifically requested. I bigged up my hair and wore sweats plus East Hampton tee, did up my eyebrows nicely. My friend and colleague Becky appeared with a terrific matchy running suit and a wicked top ponytail; found out she was from East Meadow, just up Hempstead Turnpike, prime senior-year cruising road in my friend Lisa's '71 Beamer. (Lisa's family was divorced but slightly mysterious; how did they afford that? No matter, it was awesome, and capable of seating six and blasting Huey Lewis and the News at top volume).

My accent gets thickish as soon as I board the train, standing-room only, behind a large (in number and density) family just come from Police Academy graduation. I try to discern relationships - who's the parent, stepparent, parent of the smallish children, parent of the graduate, girlfriend? sister? brother or babyfather? Family friend or new partner? I smiled at the matriarch, with drawn-on eyebrows, three-inch wedge espadrilles, capris and a pack of Marlboro Lights 100s tucked smartly into her bra. We chatted about the lack of air and movement. Seriously. I wanted to congratulate, tell them my dad was retired on the job, but found it far more interesting to observe than to intrude. I counted the tattoos of the newly minted officer as he tentatively flashed his shield (free train ride) and inspected the baseline of his incredibly fresh haircut.

It takes almost exactly 7 minutes and 36 seconds to get express from Westbury to Bethpage, because that's when I snapped on Billy Joel's "Scenes from an Italian Restaurant." I used to be able to play it on the piano; probably still could. I certainly know all the words; my brother and I have been to the restaurant (he pulled the name and location off a bootleg live concert tape. Yeah, it's like that. It's a pretty good red-sauce place if you know what I mean. (As opposed to the Olive Garden where I was going with my family once I arrived. Sigh. Family friendly chains...it's the pasta Red Lobster. Stick to breadsticks. But I digress.)

The Hicksville-Bethpage passage is something I know quite well. I was slightly dismayed to see the weird old coffee shop by the Hicksville station replaced by a Dunkin Donuts. I was slightly bemused to see that light industry marches on, and there's a Kozy Shack pudding factory in Bethpage (Do they have a thrift shop like the bread and Hostess bakeries, I wonder? Ick.) Much remained the same, on the train ride and the drive to the restaurant - the odd stand alone tavern/grill, the weird churches (the kind with Vacation bible schools), the regular churches (the kind with Catholic schools and Bingo), the satellite malls that orbit the big ones, the little bridal shops and lumber yards.

I just made the 10:44 back to town.

For shits and giggles, here's a photo of a photo of me in front of my childhood Bethpage home, circa 1985 (dieted way down by Dexatrim, stress, and Andy Capp's Hot Fries. As well as a fair amount of Lycra.) Yum! Happy prom girl! My gay best friend was likely in the bathroom, hiding from my dad who'd just flashed his .38. Good times! I am flanked by my aunt and mom who dashed over for photo opps.

Love the hat and sleeves! (Invisible are the 3" red pumps and purse with Lord knows what in it. Fortunately my prom date was roughly 6-2.)

Kitty update

That healthy-looking little fucker below (therein, about 14 pounds or so) now weighs barely 8 pounds, is severely dehydrated, anemic, infected and is in the throes of kidney failure. According to the very nice vetereinarians, his kidneys are 'lumpy and bumpy.' None of this is good in an approximately fifteen-year old cat.

I am, in turns, rational and weepy. I was never what you'd call an 'animal person.' So I'm kind of confused, and weirded out right now. I did raise him. I totally loved him. I gave him up to the ex mostly out of guilt, but I knew he loved him a lot and would be lonely.

Just when you think things suck, they suck worse. Sorry for those who read this cause it's usually mildly amusing.

Please think happy thoughts for my cat

If your're the sort of person who does that sort of thing.

Thanks.

So much for that plan.

I had daytime nightmares that I couldn't breathe. I literally thought I was going to have to call 911 in my sleep.

I am letting people, places and things get to me far out of proportion to their importance. I think. I'm not sure.

I need to see the dentist.

And I can't get close to a beach this weekend. It's going to rain buckets. Buckets.

PS - Cheap toilet paper really, really isn't worth it. But it makes OK Kleenex.

Ha ha, indeed. an effort to de-downer things.

You never know who will, surprisingly, put you in a good mood.

(doesn't mean I'm not still mad. well, a little. kinda.)

(pouts, stamps feet, smiles anyway. fuck!)

But thanks. Seriously.

In other news, as un-PC as this sounds, I need a tan. Fucking SPF 15 can blow me. Whatever happened to Hawaiian tropic oil? yum! sizzle sizzle.

variations on a theme by eliot

We are the damaged men
We are the wounded men
Drawn to you like moths to a flame
Broken and bruised, heartsick and aching,
Knocked about by life's lack of parity and conscience

We come to you, our iceberg-tip of fury
lancing you through the heart
yet covered in soft puppy-fur
smoothing your cheek

Our eyes blaze blue like the sky
blinding you with sunlight
burning you as sunstorms dance across your soul

We wrap you in our spidery arms
burrow into your skin
injecting our venom
paralytic and soothing
until you thrash from withdrawal
or tolerate to its effects

This is the way our pairing ends
This is the way our courtship ends
This is the way our love ends
With a bang
With a cry
And a whimper.

Get a job

For my bad movie-money, you can't beat Twin Peaks-Fire Walk With Me. Great soundtrack and effects combined with a ridiculous prequel-plot and phenomenally bad acting, most notably a living Sheryl Lee who displays terrible, terrible emotions by contorting her giant mouth into a series of deep, dark lipsticky black holes.

Top that off with a replacement Lara Flynn Boyle (a disturbingly bland Moira Kelly) - gold!

Disarray

I just realized that the ultimate act of self-loathing is to sleep on top of your clothes.

I mean, this is the stuff I put on my back everyday to look good, and I make nests out of it.

Ever since I was a kid, I've thrown it in piles, on chairs, desks, on the bottom of the closet. What gives?

I've got to fix that. Before I wake up hugging another skirt.

SPAMMARKETING - DO NOT CLICK ON 'RINGO"

SERIOUSLY!

If anyone sends you a link from the photo service RINGO - DO NOT CLICK ON IT! DO NOT SIGN IN USING YOUR GMAIL ACCOUNT!

It spammed my whole Gmail address book.

I am angry.

I am usually smarter than this.

It's in my head!

Sometimes I can't resist this crap:

The Movie Of Your Life Is A Black Comedy

In your life, things are so twisted that you just have to laugh. You may end up insane, but you'll have fun on the way to the asylum. Your best movie matches: Being John Malkovich, The Royal Tenenbaums, American Psycho

If Your Life Was a Movie, What Genre Would It Be?

Long Island Verite

Tommy: No, Jerry is allright. Saved my life once.
Debbie: What, he was gonna kill you but he changed his mind?

- Steve Buscemi/Chloe Sevigny, "Trees Lounge"

imdb

Besides I can be just as self destructive and loathing on my own.

DISCLAIMER

I apologize for everything I have ever done to hurt, offend, or cause disrespect to anyone when such action, intentional or unintentional, was unjustified by such other person's conduct, attitude or behavior.

Sorry.

That is all. OK?

Leaving Las Vegas? Leave it alone!

First I thought it was hilarious. Then, maybe, good soundtrack, salvageable but merely miscast (Robert Downey Jr and Jennifer Jason Leigh, perhaps?)

But the whole dinner scene/rescue fantasy at its peak has officially pissed me off. For real.

And now that he's brought another hooker to the hooker's house? Full circle back to hilarious!

I needa a drinky.

The Unintentional Joys of Targeted Advertising: Air on a Gmail Thread

Broken Heart? Heartache? - www.howtowinanexback.com - Strategies to get your lover back, even if he/she is unwilling.

I Used to Miss Him But My Aim is Improving: Not Your Ordinary Breakup Survival Guide
www.improveyouraim.com

Jealousy and Suspicion
Jealousy will ruin a relationship. Learn how to deal with jealousy.
www.truthaboutdeception.com

How To Eliminate Jealousy
Increase Love and Connection, Overcome Jealousy, Release Fears.
www.NoMoreJealousy.com

Song Running Through my Head

featured in Homicide episode "Sniper: Part 1"...but for the life of me, I don't know why it's haunting me. ??

"If God Was One Of Us"

If God had a name, what would it be
And would you call it to his face
If you were faced with him in all his glory
What would you ask if you had just one question

And yeah yeah God is great
yeah yeah God is good
yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah

What if God was one of us
Just a slob like one of us
Just a stranger on the bus
Trying to make his way home

If God had a face what would it look like
And would you want to see
If seeing meant that you would have to believe
In things like heaven and in jesus and the saints and all the prophets

And yeah yeah god is great
yeah yeah god is good
yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah

What if God was one of us
Just a slob like one of us
Just a stranger on the bus
Trying to make his way home
He's trying to make his way home
Back up to heaven all alone
Nobody calling on the phone
Except for the pope maybe in rome

And yeah yeah God is great
yeah yeah God is good
yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah

What if god was one of us
Just a slob like one of us
Just a stranger on the bus
Trying to make his way home
Just trying to make his way home
Like a holy rolling stone
Back up to heaven all alone
Just trying to make his way home
Nobody calling on the phone
Except for the pope maybe in rome

This is only a test.

I'm OK now. But they just tested the Emergency Broadcast System and I'm still a little shaky.

It's not as bad as when I was a kid when I would actually run into the other room, with my hands over my ears when that high-pitched squeal came on. But I still get hyper-alert, just in case. And I still get edgy, until it's over. Just so I know that it's only a test.

Balloons, too. Balloons freak me out. Because when they pop, I inevitably hit the ceiling; so, seeing loose balloons around makes me skittish. At a party the other day, full of noise and laughter, some balloons popped and it wasn't so bad. Maybe I'm getting over it.

One thing I'm not afraid of, oddly, is water. I may forget to pay a bill or two, but I faithfully remember my swimming lessons at the Bethpage Community Pool - home of the annual lice outbreak (somehow mercifully missed by me), Arts and Crafts at the skating rink (lanyards and ashtrays), and the best frozen Milkshake bars ever. I remember learning the strokes, the breathing (although I'm only good at it on the left side, for some reason). I can execute the front crawl, back crawl, breast stroke, side stroke, and weird froglike elementary backstroke. It's the one athletic thing that I am better than my brother at (forgive my bad grammar). I can tread water for a very long time, seriously, long enough to meet the lifeguard-test criteria. (I did it fully clothed at my brief summer-day camp stint, but forgot what kept me from the rest of the Advanced Swimmer test. It may have something to do with the diving board.)

Oh yeah. Diving freaks me out. Not the board so much - I can jump off - but the actual act of diving. Don't ask me to explain, cause I can't.

I was a weird kid. I guess I still am.

Is this true?

(click on it for a better view)

Truly, Madly....Waspy?

I don't know when it hit me.

Was it gazing on Kyle Secor's slightly upturned nose while obsessively watching "Homicide," making me forget that Belzer exists? Was it taking a work break, flipping on the TV where the final scene of "She's Having a Baby" turned up and a small slow tear dripped down Kevin Bacon's finely chiseled yet pale cheek? Perhaps it was a late night viewing of "sex lies and videotape" where a tousled, crazy and so cleanly yet dirtily white James Spader steals the show from a suspendered-yet-dauntingly attractive Peter Gallagher and his terribly ethnic eyebrows. Which came on after "Reservoir Dogs." Did you know that Tim Roth is NOT a Jew? As English (Smith) as they come. Perhaps it was when I paced around my living room the other night, tensely flipping a cell phone around in my hand, knocking off my shelf a copy of "Secretary," another kinky-Spader vehicle, while angrily scrolling through my recent calls; I was on the brink of facing down a litany of well-spoken yet powerful New England-white-boy frustration and rage, going head to head with my equally eloquent, well-honed New-York-ethnic-scorned-woman fury. Was it the curtly dismissive email I sent this morning, to someone who has frequently charmed the socks off me, yet literally couldn't pick a synagogue out of a line-up of buildings on a city block?

When? When did this simple mixed-ethnic generic-slavic-hebraic girl become such an Aryan acolyte? When did my Mayflower flower bloom? Isn't Anglophilia a recessive trait?

Whither the gloriously ethnic heroes, crushes, loves of my youth? My Lee Mazzillis and Ron Darlings? My fun ethnic comics? Why did the buffet of extras on my Aristocrats DVD lead me away from Jon Stewart and towards Jake Johanson? Stop looking at me, Bill Paxton, bigamy is wrong! I'm a Sopranos girl, not a Big Love-r! Save me, Steve Buscemi! Be my Reservoir Dog and chase these fair-haired boys out of my yard!

WHAT THE GOSH DARN HECK HAPPENED TO ME?

Maybe I need a scholarship to J-Date. STAT.

And a call from the Belz couldn't hurt.

POSTSCRIPT: The correct acronym for Daughters of the American Revolution is, in fact, DAR. And I'm nowhere near close, natch. Can I be adopted?

oy.

How I'd like to Be Proposed To Someday, Seriously

"Would you like to go waste some of your life with me?"

- Det. Tim Bayliss (Kyle Secor), "Homicide"

Cheese!

Seriously, who doesn't like cheese! Even the lactose-intolerant can handle a bit of its pre-digested glory. Come on, chew a Lactaid, dive in!

One of the sickest and finest cheese-related dishes I've had the privilege of tasting is the PortWine Cheddar Cheeseburger from Big Nick's, the cramped, encyclopedically-menu'd uber-diner on 75th and Broadway. It's awesome, in so many ways that other coffee shops are not, in that it transcends the rule that only certain food 'groups' - ie, burgers, salads - are actually good on a huge-menu'd coffee shop/diner menu. The burgers are good, the pizza is good, the hummus is good, the weird sandwiches, big salads, the potatos...I could go on. The place itself is a sticky deathtrap of sorts (look out for the open-flame burners jammed near the doors, where the delivery guys and the registers are), with aging B-list headshots on the walls. But it somehow never feels crowded, and they don't rush you out. I think it's always open.

Anyway, the port wine cheeseburger is a burger (decently sized, get it charcoally), with a thick layer of orange-winey cheese slathered on top. It kind of melts from the heat, in a sharp semisolid mass. It's impressive. My dining companion got it, and all I could handle was two bites before retreating back into my portobello-veggie-mozzarella-focaccia (a bread I usually hate, but here it's really baked pizza dough, and amazing) sandwich and egg cream. Why my dining companion (a quirky dude of the highest order) was sullying this glorious burger with ketchup, I'll never know.

Outstanding. I guess this is more a Big Nick's lovefest than an ode to dairy, but there you have it.

depress.....zzzz

If you make yourself a perfectly healthy shrimp pasta dish, and put it in the fridge and ordered bean burritos...you might be depressed.

If you got dressed to go to the gym (thus saving the need to work out and shower) and are sitting around in a wrinkled tshirt slugging diet coke and writing in a blog instead...you might be depressed.

If you sleep through your meds that are supposed to relieve depression...you might be depressed.

If crying, throwing up and removing contact lenses are activities that all seem viable yet require hours worth of thought...you might be depressed.

If you had nightmare about your involvement in an Extreme Sport that involved ski-jumping down a rickety, home-made nearly vertical ramp, and feel compelled to blog about it...you might just be a loser.

I am not a crazy romantic....SHUT UP.

She don't like her eggs all runny
She thinks crossin' her legs is funny
She looks down her nose at money
She gets it on like the Easter Bunny
She's my baby I'm her honey
I'm never gonna let her go

He ain't got laid in a month of Sundays
I caught him once and he was sniffin' my undies
He ain't too sharp but he gets things done
Drinks his beer like it's oxygen
He's my baby
And I'm his honey
Never gonna let him go

In spite of ourselves
We'll end up a'sittin' on a rainbow
Against all odds
Honey, we're the big door prize
We're gonna spite our noses
Right off of our faces
There won't be nothin' but big old hearts
Dancin' in our eyes.

She thinks all my jokes are corny
Convict movies make her horny
She likes ketchup on her scrambled eggs
Swears like a sailor when shaves her legs
She takes a lickin'
And keeps on tickin'
I'm never gonna let her go.

He's got more balls than a big brass monkey
He's a wacked out werido and a lovebug junkie
Sly as a fox and crazy as a loon
Payday comes and he's howlin' at the moon
He's my baby I don't mean maybe
Never gonna let him go

In spite of ourselves
We'll end up a'sittin' on a rainbow
Against all odds
Honey, we're the big door prize
We're gonna spite our noses
Right off of our faces
There won't be nothin' but big old hearts
Dancin' in our eyes.
There won't be nothin' but big old hearts
Dancin' in our eyes.

in spite of ourselves

- "In Spite of Ourselves," John Prine/Iris Dement

I'm eating oatmeal at Tiffany's

You know what's wrong with you, Miss Whoever-you-are? You're chicken, you've got no guts. You're afraid to stick out your chin and say, "Okay, life's a fact, people do fall in love, people do belong to each other, because that's the only chance anybody's got for real happiness." You call yourself a free spirit, a "wild thing," and you're terrified somebody's gonna stick you in a cage. Well baby, you're already in that cage. You built it yourself. And it's not bounded in the west by Tulip, Texas, or in the east by Somali-land. It's wherever you go. Because no matter where you run, you just end up running into yourself.

- Paul Varjak (George Peppard) to Holly Golightly (Audrey Hepburn), Breakfast at Tiffany's

an aside...what was life like before IMDb?

Fun Fact! Human Sexuality Edition: "Jiggling boobs is the porno hello"

I heart Katie Morgan (Don't click here if you are at work.) Katie Morgan is a porn star, although her web site is almost restrained, pop-up free with a tasteful nude picture, an email link, a link to her favorite poker site and sex shop. That's all. All the more reason to heart Katie Morgan.

I just got finished watching "Katie Morgan: A Porn Star Revealed" interview on HBO (after being crushed by the new lack of On-Demand immediacy. Missed the f-ing Sopranos, and idly doing some copyright research.), in which she's interviewed, nude on a stool, while clips of her films are woven in and out (so to speak).

She's got a high-girly voice, but not quite squeaky, which saves her, at least in my book. She's so natural and matter-of-fact, hard to convey here with my out of context quoting, and lack of false titting (hers are large and widely set, just like her eyes.) Katie's prettier without her movie makeup, and gives a great interview.

Here's some quotes and fun facts (FUN FACTS!) that now reside on the back of a case file (Sorry, HARSH!)

- According to those online IQ tests, her IQ is around 165. "I'm a porn star with a genius IQ, what are you gonna do?" (Perhaps, correct some of the typos on your web site. Just a couple Katie!)

- On her own orgasms, business versus pleasure: "(That's usually when) someone yells Cut....I don't always get my yayas."

- On anal action: "Just for someone special." As far as film goes, it's an exit only.

- On why people never have sex on a bed in porno films: "Everybody has sex on beds, why should we?"

- On character: "It's all the same character, just different outfits."

- On dialogue: "You get sick of ooh and aaahh eventually." She goes on to explain how to improvise; by describing what you are doing, what you want to do next, etc. And always, with enthusiam! Commit, Katie, commit to that bit!

- Do the scripts make sense, usually? "No." She pulls off some hilarious dialogue, even taken out of context; I think she does a decent job of what she's given. ("Everyone fast-forwards through the dialogue; I fast-forward through the sex")

- Her favorite scenes? Two guys, because she likes to be the center of attention, and there's no shortage of things to do to keep busy.

- Remember, "A smile on your face means a happy happy porn star!"

Her poker handle is "snackmixgirl" on Hollywoodpoker.com. I'm up for some Texas Hold 'Em! Or maybe I'll drop her a line "Just to Say hi!"

Thanks Katie Morgan! You make porno fun!

From the outside looking in.

I've spent the day writing, working and ducking my inner monologue via baseball, blogs and NPR. And then I come across this (through the multipurpose time sucker, MySpace)

Damn.

It's true of this person, a funny talented friend, something of a mentor to me. It's true of the friend I sent it to, almost startlingly so. It's true, to a large extent, of me (subbing in men, not without the occasional girl crush...you get the point).

Does it speak to its universality, or the types of people to whom I am drawn?

That's a hypothetical question.

Fully attributed above, herefore and to wit, I reprint it below to test said hypothesis, to enlighten...whatever. It's just pretty good.:

Junkyard Dog

I think I fall in love with every woman I care about. And I mean that literally. But before you break out the restraining orders relax. It's like that but it's not.

I'm probably the last person in the world you'd think of as a romantic. And surrendering to real intimacy has always been a foible. Or maybe trust is the word I'm looking for. It's always a gamble to trust somebody with you.

But I'm not talking about sex here. Sex is far to easy to find and therefore is equally as easily rendered meaningless. I'm talking about romance. That melting feeling. And let's be honest. It's not hard to cultivate. Take two even margainally compatible, funny, intelligent people who aren't physical ogres and put them in a room together and eventually some chemistry is bound to develope. It's not rocket science. If it were match.com would be a subdivision of NASA.

Nobody's got to act on this sexual tension by the way. More often than not it manifests itself in harmless flirtation or a friendship where the emotional boundries are a little murky. Maybe you have that "if she wasn't seeing someone" thought but that's about it. Course it gets inappropriate if that thought gets on a loop. Funny how that DJ in you head likes to fu-- with you huh? Might as well just go with the flow because he knows your play list better than you do. He knows who you imagine you're dancing with when you hear "Time After Time" or making love to when you listen to "Beside You" or remembering who's life you blew up any time he plays the Ramones. And the son of bitch can be merciless with that Top10 when he chooses to be.

But I do look at women who grab my attention very closely. (Maybe too closely?) I want to know the why and how of who they are. Probably because I want somebody to look that closely at me for the why and how of who I am. That's got to be it.

But the collateral damage of getting that close is a driveby celestial arrow right in the bloody heart.

What can I say? I guess I just prefer the thrill of intelligent, funny, sensuous women. Even if it is from the outside looking in.

Fun Fact! Sports edition

MAJOR LEAGUE BASEBALL OFFICIAL RULES 2.00:

A BALK is an illegal act by the pitcher with a runner or runners on base, entitling all runners to advance one base.

The actual rule (8.00) makes reading law look like flipping through a book of Marmaduke cartoons!

There are funny articles, serious articles, books and even videos about the balk!

This makes the infield fly rule look like a snap!

I loves me the balk rule. So subtle, so arcane, so fun to wave around. What ump doesn't feel smug calling a balk, what pitcher confused? I bet you piss off an ump one time too many...ooooh, BALK

Balk. Just one generator of obscure baseball arcana, statistics, and FUN FACTS!

Fun Fact!

The MS Word SpellCheck correction for "hottie" is "hogtie."

FUN FACT!

Dream Sequences

In the first part of the dream, I was spending some time with a guy I really liked. And it was really, really nice. We watched TV, looked at photos, funny photos that made us laugh, of us 'together', talked about work, were playful and fun together. That part of the dream, man, it should've gone on forever.

In the second part of the dream, however briefly, I reconnected with an old friend. She seemed happy, and was applying (Strangely, already having an advanced degree she was already quite invested in) to law school. I wished her the unqualified best. I was happy that I didn't let go, but I knew things were settled, finally, and OK.

In the third, brief part of the dream, I was surrounded by one side of the family, all wearing maroon jackets and/or cardigans, all buttoned up. I asked them to relax, unbutton themselves. Awkwardly, they did, a little. I don't know why they were there. It was evening, I think.

In the final part of the dream, it was pouring rain, I was in a wonderful antique store, old, dusty. I came across a stash of old, old checks, and a gentleman walked up behind me, closely. He was a large man, like Penn of Penn and Teller, nearly embracing me. I asked him where his girlfriend was, and he said, "She wasn't my girlfriend, just some crazy woman." We browsed together, bodies wrapped together, his arms around my shoulders, talking like we'd known each other forever. My aunt and grandmother came in, and they had to speak to me, but one spoke to him as the other spoke to me, and they wanted to go to a nearby park to see a ballgame; then they left. I walked them out; he went out to make a phone call. I ran back inside from the rain; he was in a large, comfortable old bed in the middle of the shop. I tried to crawl next to him; there was another, movie-star-looking couple in the middle of the bed, who I had to awkwardly slide past. I was next to him briefly, magically, but somehow I ended up in a cab, driving away, but then I panicked, and asked the driver to drive back. The driver ended up turning the wrong way, and I cursed and yelled at him. He pulled into a gas station and stopped. I threatened to steal the car. He said "You're not going anywhere, Michelle." (I don't know how he knew my name). I spluttered. He said, "If he wanted to know, he'd have asked for your phone number." I spluttered, thought...and woke up.

beat-en poetry copyright 1955

I.
Have.
HAD.
IT.
Seriously.
man.
you.
people.
what.
the-

Mix Tapes

That last entry depressed the fuck out of me. Let's talk about Mix tapes. they've been coming up in conversation lately.

First of all, remember when they were really mix TAPES and not CDs, even though people still often call them that?

In 1985, a now-theater critic for a local rag sheet and public-television station made me a Broadway show tunes mix tape, which I still have; this fact greatly amused a friend of mine. That year, my then-fiancee made me a mix tape, mostly Simon & Garfunkel's Central Park concert but on the end were all these 'meaningful' songs, which got all romantical and shit. Some Genesis (old not new), some Clapton, maybe a Beatles tune. Real sweet, to fill out those 45 minute sides.

Some subsequent collegiate year, my friend Mike made me an obsessive-quest tape (We were brilliant at obsessive-quest activities - this being one of many. Obsessive film festivals, obsessive drink mixing, the list goes on). This one held "the most versions of a single song that he owned." The song is an old pop-jazz standard, "All the Things you Are." The count, I believe, was seven, including his high-school jazz band (which had to be transferred tape-to-tape rather than vinyl-to-tape). There was vocal, non-vocal, and a Mingus version called "all the things you could be if sigmund freud's mother was your mother." It also had, among other things, some They Might be Giants tracks on it (oh you hipsters...i saw them first!)

I still have those draggy yet precious tapes. And stereos today are so tape-disregarding, the last boxy-shelf stereo I bought failed to have an auto-rewind (I didn't even check, and now I pay the price of flipping. FLIPPING! What a fucking hassle.)

A few days ago, I went to iTunes and downloaded about fifteen versions of "All the Things...." including a weird-ass Mingus cover ("All the Things you C#"). So easy. Too easy. Not quite the same. And it won't have the Fairport Jazz Ensemble on it.

I'm making mixes for people. I've got an overdue one for a friend, who wanted something 'upbeat.' I've got some 'chick mixes' I've made for friends, and playlists named for people. I've got a 'highly specific mix' that isn't, and 'songs I like right now.' I need to do another comedy mix for someone, in exchange for my deficient hip-hop collection. I gave my mom a mix CD for mother's day last year. My music collection's not that extensive, but it's fun and pretty eclectic. And it's a hell of a lot easier than knitting a damn sweater.

Maybe I'll create an 'obsessive mix,' just for amusement. To package up with "All the Things you Are."

No, really, gifts optional.

Today's my wedding anniversary.

I'm not officially divorced yet. It's all over but the paperwork.

Aaaawwwwkkkkkward. Right?

Last year I went out for some karaoke. This year....

Got any brilliant ideas, people? PEOPLE?

Keep those cards and letters coming. I like the ones from the dusty old stationery stores, with the scratchy-fuzzy glitter surface and ill-fitting envelopes. Beware the poison glue.

"I now pronounce you Blog and dipshit. You may now post and hide."

In other news...

I think I need an Attitude Adjustment.

Any inner chiropractors out there?

Creative Shit: Finishing Things

I reactiviated my old spec script. It's time to put those editing skills to work, for real.

I am going to pull together my show stories, no matter how daunting the pile is.

I am going to do these things before I deal with that short-film script I generated, and those songs I started.

I have a little sketch I'd like to put together. It's Dirty!

I think, I think, I really do have an ending for that old children's book I'd long since thought I'd finished. It's a Real ending. It changes the book, a lot.

And it's time to stop being joke-lazy.

TV Hotties: From the Shallow/Obscure Files: Non-Reality Division (updated)

Kyle Secor
Kyle MacLachlan (from "Twin Peaks" not "Sex in the City")
Dean Winters
That Michael Steadman guy from "thirtysomething" until he opened his mouth
Goran Visnjic
Michael Imperioli
Christopher Meloni
Tom Fontana's upper arm
Paul Lynde

and of course, the Belz.

And we're back

Thanks for all who were concerned over the last burst of sadness. That's what happens when you Cry like a Girl.

I actually had a smashing weekend. Of course, I'm back to my baseline level of anxiety again. But I had a great time.

Just a summary. Got to figure out the next move. Usually, that implies 'getting something that I think will help me do shit' rather than 'doing shit.'

Maybe it's time to change my approach. Or play with the new palm pilot.

Today I burned two fingers on coffee-steam. But I'm OK.

There are people in this world that I love.
There are people in this world that love me.
All in all, that's pretty damn good.

Now, back to work.

Back to life.

I don't want to

I don't want to listen to the Daily Show, I want to listen to the live version of "Like a Rolling Stone" from Live at Budokan.

I don't want to go to sleep, I want to feel the exhaustion in my bones and weariness in my eyes.

I don't want to hold back the tears.

I don't want to finish these Baby Goldfish crackers, they are absurdly small.

I don't want to take another pill, I want to feel better.

I don't want to describe the unusual harmonies, I want you to hear them.

How does it feel? To be without a home. No direction known. A complete unknown. Like a rolling stone.

I don't want to proofread that.

I don't want to unclasp the pearls that are half-choking my trachea.

Most of all, I don't want to hear Robin Williams right now.

When you ain't got nothing you got nothing to lose. You're invisible you got no secrets to conceal.

I want to apologize.

I want to cry it out.

I want to ride the train.

I want to sleep for eight hours under a fluffy down comforter with lots of pillows.

I want to finish crying, but I can't. I just can't. I just stop. I'm not done yet.

We aim to educate.

Symptoms of Hypothyroidism

Fatigue
Weakness
Weight gain or increased difficulty losing weight
Coarse, dry hair
Dry, rough pale skin
Hair loss
Cold intolerance (can't tolerate the cold like those around you)
Muscle cramps and frequent muscle aches
Constipation
Depression
Irritability
Memory loss
Abnormal menstrual cycles
Decreased libido
Forgetting to pick up your prescriptions for a week at a time
Feeling oh so attractive
Posting retarded blog entries.

What's under the towel?

bzzzy!

Lessons potentially learned today:

1. Don't dye hair before making a business call that should have been 'brief' but has lasted several minutes longer than the box time...while getting a cell phone call in the middle that you just had to take to be polite.
2. While on a business call, do not have ringer of cell phone on Loud.
3. If rule #2 is violated, do not have ringer set to "Don't Stop Believin'"

I am going to rinse. I am afraid.

Now, play nice!

Person 1: Hey, Person 2, you were funny/did a great job!
Person 2: Ha/derisive snort/self-deprecating gesture/dismissive wave
Person 1: Visible expression of dismay.

Fine, Person 2 is me. Person 1 is another improvisor (well, 3 or 4, by some fluke last night.) There, I'm the Big E on the chart again. How long did it take you to figure out, campers?

I don't often take compliments well, although I'm getting better. (There's a few more of you like me out there, I know there are.) I had an honest and reasonable believe (fine, I'm still paying for the degree) that I did a balls-out shitty job during ten minutes of competitive improvisation. It's over, I've moved on, excuses are my own.

But you know, I didn't realize (or only dimly), that the self-deprecation stuff really slams down someone's elses nice gesture. It's like hitting someone in the face with their own pie. And it's not very nice, really.

To be an improv geek - It's the ultimate 'no-but' and the antithesis of 'yes-and' (Maybe this belongs in the comedy journal. Maybe I'll do a rare reprint.)

Along these lines....Yesterday I also picked at someone for apologizing to me. You know, he was probably just being nice. Instead I just took it as an attempt to make me feel insecure.

What have we learned here, folks? FOLKS?

- The simplest explanation is usually the best. If someone says you're funny, maybe you are. If someone says they're sorry, maybe they are.
- Yes, and generally works.
- Don't be a dick. (Unless absolutely necessary.)



Addenda: Who were the other 2 votes?

Familiarity II: Addenda

So I got up from my terminal at the Kinko's on East 52nd Street, so I could pick up my (very pricey) thirty-page printout....was that a grey-suited Dave McKeel sitting behind me? That would certainly brighten my day! I turned fully. Inconclusive. I strolled to the printer and retrieved my Operating Certificate, laser-printed on oddly shiny paper. I looked expectantly at the bespectacled man at the terminal, hoping for McKeel's sweetly reassuring smile. He, in turn, looked expectantly at me, hoping for Kinko's potentially reassuring technical support.

Neither of us, alas, were satisfied.

Familiarity: Or, Name-droppy as hell, but in a good way; or, it would be funnier if, Dyna Moe or Andy Rocco wrote it.

So I was riding the F train from Brooklyn this morning after a hearing, and I could have sworn that I was sitting across from Will Hines.

Now, I don't know Will Hines, personally, all that well. He's an enormously talented and funny performer/writer/filmmaker sort of fellow; I know him "well enough to say hello to and have pleasant/amusing conversations with at a show" but not "well enough to have in my cell phone and ring up to go to a movie." I'd venture as far to say he's even a "friend of a friend," one degree removed from someone whose number is in my cell phone on the Recent Calls list. He's also very polite. I'd say that Will Hines is someone that perhaps I'd like to, given the opportunity, get to know better.

At any rate, the gentleman sitting in front of me was, within 90% accuracy, a stunt double for Will Hines. I blinked, but something was off; perhaps the shape of his head, the hairstyle. He was wearing a business suit; it wouldn't be completely ridiculous for Will Hines (unlike some other improvisor types; sorry, Curtis Gwinn) to wear a suit, at least in my estimation. The resemblance was that close. Every so often I'd look up, pretending to stare off into the middle distance, at the nonexistent subway map over faux-Hines' head, just to make sure.

I wished it was Will Hines. I'd be assured of a pleasant, amusing conversation about people we knew in common, perhaps; I could share the news of my recent comical legal victory. It would have enhanced my subway ride greatly. He lives somewhere in Brooklyn (I don't know him very well; see?); maybe he was going in late to work, or to an interview. Good luck!

At Delancey Street I thought I caught a glimpse of Amey Goerlich, but my perspective was way off; halfway down the car, I was visually conned by a taller, heavier woman. Where have you been, Amey Goerlich?

At Second Avenue I got nervous. Come to think of it, I haven't seen Will Hines in a while. What if it was him and he was ignoring me? Or worse, what if I was ignoring him? I got nervous.

Two Mexican singers entered the car. He played guitar; she sang. Apparently they were also evangelists of some stripe, because there were a healthy dose of "Allelujias." They canvassed the car for donations, then tried to sell their CD. Faux-Hines didn't look up; I was relieved. Real Will Hines would've certainly, in my estimation, happily purchased the CD and incorporated it into some potantially amusing bit down the road (or at least blogged about it in some far more eloquent way than I'm doing now). Really committed to the bit. Cause he's funnier than me, I thought, as I saw them slipping into the next car, me frustrated and a dollar short.

An Asian man sat down next to me, eating a sandwich apparently made of dead-and-buried-and-then-excavated-cat salad. The purulent odor distracted me from further musings on the subject. Probably for the best.

My accidental-doppelganger-traveling-companion, who'd unintentionally amused me after all, pocketed his Treo at 34th Street, gazed longingly at an overstuffed blonde in tight capris, and got off the train.

And, did I mention, that while killing time at the Transit Bureau, I spotted Matt DeCoster of the future? With slicked-back hair (barely receding at all), and snappy maroon suspenders that matched his half-framed reading glasses. Smart!

Juxtaposition

Those last two posts. Weird, huh?

Blueswailin'

The title of my first folk/blues album is going to be "Cry like a Girl."

And I am hard at work on the first track, "Totebag Full of Blues."

"If you need a friend, get a dog."

"The point is ladies and gentlemen that greed, for lack of a better word, is good. Greed is right. Greed works. Greed clarifies, cuts through and captures the essence of the evolutionary spirit. Greed, in all of it's forms - greed for life, for money, knowledge - has marked the upward surge of mankind and greed - you mark my words - will not only save Teldar Paper but that other malfunctioning corporation called the USA. Thank you."

- Gordon Gekko (Michael Douglas), "Wall Street"

You're so vain (REM sleep edition)

you'll probably think this dream was about you.

So at some odd confluence of locations (a school? A party? A show?) I find myself in the company of a gentleman known to me, let's just say (let's call him "Mr. Hankey"). Mr. Hankey is angrily deriding me in front of some of my stand up comedy friends - well, nearby - "why do you hang out with these losers...what are they doing with their lives...what are you doing with yours" and proceeds to run down a gut-punching and not entirely inaccurate litany of my perceived weaknesses and faults. He storms off, promising to retrieve me shortly. I skulk miserably around the corner of what appears to be a school, train station, some tiled-wall building hallway, and see, sitting against the wall, holding his knees to his chest, grinning, an identical, parallel-universe version of Mr. Hankey. How do I know P-Hankey is different? I just do. (Surprisingly, no goatees are involved.) Because he's smiling and has a cheesy yellow shirt on. He comes over and hugs me, and tells me not to let Evil Mr. Hankey get me down. I am relieved to have him holding me so reassuringly, being so nice, but I am afraid that E-Hankey is lurking, and shoo him away. "He'll be back, soon." I think they'll weirdly annihilate each other, or something, I guess. So I detach him, shoo him off. He casually turns the corner just as E-Hankey appears around the one behind me, throws his arm around my shoulder, and continues his litany of asshole-ness, insisting it's right and "for my own good." I'm forgetting what happens after that.

Upon reflection, this is fucking weird. Isn't it? Oh yeah, Mr Hankey is probably me, blah blah blah. But I never wear yellow.

No.

http://www.united93movie.com/index.php

Read a damn book, okay?

"He looked at her and for a moment she lived in the bright blue worlds of his eyes, eagerly and confidently. Then he shouldered his last piece of junk and went up to his car, and Rosemary came out of the water, shook out her peignoir, and walked up to the hotel."

- F. Scott Fitzgerald, "Tender is the Night"

Prophet knows best...the great work begins.

To paraphrase a phrase....."Forgiveness...perhaps that's where love and justice meet."

"Angels in America" is one of those movies that, when it's on too late, I'll stay up. Get it? Well, here I am. And I'm a sucker for a well-turned phrase.

But I'm in the midst of life-inventory, of re-stocking and garage-saling my personal inventory. At the risk of sounding self-helppy (Hey, I see some toilet-room paperbacks in someone's future!), damn if I don't hate when I realize shit about myself. Maybe it's time to start making it stick.

And sometimes, as the kids say, it ends up synching up.

Sometimes, forgiveness is important. I know, believe it or not, I've forgiven some crazy stuff in the past. Forgive and forget? Forget and forgive? Sometimes, one is harder than the other....Perhaps the logistics aren't as important as the actual process. Perhaps it's the result. Perhaps it's your own sense of peace with the one who has wronged you.

And sometimes, people can't tell you who to forgive and who not to. It's up to you to decide. Flip side: You have to learn how to trust yourself.

And maybe, just maybe, you have to learn how to forgive yourself.

(I reserve the right to insert and delete specific examples whenever the fuck I want.)

Like, discussing your divorce settlement with someone who's divorced. "Blah blah..I wouldn't have settled for that..." Gently pointing out that this is your choice-

Actually, examples don't work. What I just realized, is that I don't have to justify myself or explain myself. And sometimes, yes, sometimes, gently point that out to people. And explain, maybe, just a little.

And realize, that some things are inexplicable. And unknown. And yet to be discovered.

Angels in America makes powerful use of weather. Darkness, light. Rain, sunshine. Wind and water.

Emotion surrounds you like the air you breathe, like the feeling of damp and chill and heat on your skin, like the light that casts a gentle dawn glow or blinds you starkly and fierce.

"Failing at love isn't the same at not loving."

Damn you, Tony Kushner!

Painful progress. I can't stay up till the end without tears.

Miscellaney

1. I had a vivid and shaky dream that someone I slightly know (an improvisor, well-known and liked) died suddenly. The rest of the "community" was assembled in what looked like an elementary school assembly room/cafeteria, harshly lit, for the announcement and "healing" service. His wife (who I don't know) was led in, shakily and tearfully; their child was not in evidence. I didn't recognize the leader of the service, and not all the people; there was a large photo up on some sort of stage. People were behaving oddly and in unfunny and awkward ways.

2. Assertive, aggressive, annoying. You decide.

3. Time to clean the house, so I can have the house cleaned.

4. What does 'dollars to doughnuts' mean?

5. Am I obsessive in having to end lists in multiples of 5 or 10?

Where is my F***ING Palm Pilot

This is really, really not good. Not good at all. At. All.

Seriously.

Although this was a borderline-gratuitous purchase to begin with (the Monopoly/scrabble chip notwithstanding), I really have come slowly to develop a 'calendar' routine. Anybody who knows me knows that developing a routine that doesn't depend on me keeping inordinate piles of information in my head knows what a huge goddamn step this is.

Most of my stuff is neatly coded inside my computer. And I'm getting better about checking.

I'm starting to keep lists, gain focus. Trying to get a grip.

And the fucker is gone. Fucker, fucking shit.

Fucking Tungsten. I knew it was too good to be true. I was just getting Graffiti 2. I knew I didn't deserve it, and it's still got the new-case smell.

If you loved me, you'd buy me a new one, whoever you are.

(I don't know who you are. I'm just whining in utter frustration about the Sisyphean nature of it all, while scratching a plot of my hours on the back of a business card).

For Guy and Dale

Pulchritudinous Haiku

Voluptuous breasts,
Cascading, casting shadows
O'er the spare mike stand

Barely restrained by
leather jacket, partly zipp'd
yearning to breathe free

Gloriously full,
aglow under hot stage lights,
How's that for a POEM!

xoxoxo

ps - boobies.

Me! ME! ME!

So, I've yanked this out of the sidebar and put it on the main screen.

What the heck. Be anonymous, make up hilarious pseudonyms. Go nuts. I'm curious.

Hey! I'm feeling narcisisstic. Tell me the good.

Hey! I'm feeling masochistic. Tell me the bad.

America's last top model.

I've got to stop watching, for real. It doesn't make me want to be dumber, just prettier.

How much prettier do I need to be? Come on guys, girls.

(In full disclosure, I think the three hours' worth of videotaped episodes did ruin my brain. And give me an overwhelming urge to purchase mascara. Cover. Girl. Mascara.)

Cool stuff I got today (inspired by an eclectic friend and package-sender)

In a Priority mail box:
- an allergy-products catalog
- two pillow covers
- two cartoons (one lawyer, one New York related)
- one tape of two episodes of America's Next Top Model
- one handwritten note

In a small plastic wrapper:
- one pair original iPod earbuds (yeah, the crappy white earbuds I desired)

On a shopping trip:
- Apples, potatoes and cash

From the Greek restaurant at brunch with dad:
- Spinach Omelet, potatoes, warm pita, grilled octopus (share) and feta (stolen)

At the theater:
- Several very warm hugs
- Compliments (awkwardly acknowledged)

Nice to focus on the things you did get rather than the things you didn't, right?

I meant to go to sleep but ended up in Baltimore.

but I got disc 1 season 1 of the best TV show ever.

It's got Baltimore, buddy-cops and Belzer. And a Baldwin to boot!

Unbeatable. Tom Fontana. Catch the episodes before the shark-jumping Jon Seda and Michael Michele (the short and the female Ted McGinleys) join the cast. Even they can't totally destroy the magic, no matter how hard they try. And the late-limping season-wrapping two hour movie that came along some time afterwards is worth watching, even just for the final Pembelton Bayless scene. Not as finely drawn as the original series, but worth it for a fix.

Look for Fontana-crossover favorites Zeljko Ivanek, always smarmy, and a sweet-faced Lee Tergesen before the land of Oz. Dean Winters too!

Edit: Episode 3: "Night of the Dead Living" - Watch closely. The candle subplot which I won't give away but left me stunned.

Blog-quiz-theft, or putting the "little red machine" to the test

1. What's my mood like right now?
"You Oughta Know" Alanis Morrisette

2. How's the week going to be for me?
"Drug Me" Dead Kennedys (great...)

3. What kind of person am I?
"Montage, Part 2: Mother" - A Chorus Line (huh?)

4. Am I loved?
"Twilight Time" - Leo Kottke

5. How can I achieve my highest potential?
"All Things Dull and Ugly" - Monty Python (huh?)

6. What should I do with my life?
"Ghettomusik" - OutKast (huh??)

7. What is my theme song?
"Contrapuntas 8" - Bach (classic, yet bad-ass)

8. What is my best quality?
"Falling in love Is So Hard on the Knees" - Aerosmith (yikes)

9. How does my sex life look?
"Where you Lead" - Carole King (No comment.)

10. What's the meaning of life?
"Material Girl" covered by kMFDM

11. How do people see me?
"Mari Mac" Great Big Sea

12. Would I make a good catch?
"Pump it Up" covered by Doug Moe at ETV4

13. How crazy am I?
"Hugh Hefner" Lenny Bruce

14. Will I have a good life in general?
"No. 13 Baby" - Pixies"

15. Can me and Kylie Minogue* ever be more than friends?
EDIT - This makes no sense but says a great deal about the person I stole this from. So I refuse to answer on the grounds the Mr. X is a dork.

16. What's going to happen to me this week?
"Pusherman" - Curtis Mayfield (there are far too many sex and drug references in this particular Shuffle.)

17. Where will I be in a year?
"Turn Around" - Billy Joel (In my bedroom? Hmmm.)

18. What is my biggest wish?
"Prison Grove" - Warren Zevon (Fortunately not the answer to the previous question, but it does beg some other serious ones)

19. What is the love of my life doing at this very moment?
"Dejame Sonar" - Tito Puente (I'd imagine that means either listening to or creating some hella cool music)

20. How will I die?
"Rodeo: 3 Saturday Night Waltz" Aaron Copland (cool!)

21. What will happen after I die?
"Bookends" Simon & Garfunkel

22. How do my friends feel about me?
"Hanukkah Song," Adam Sandler

Well, that's joyful and weird.

Whatever happened to Andrae?

Or Santino, Nick, Daniels, or Zulema?

"Top Chef" is but a poor substitute. That chick is no Heidi. And the contestants are super-whiny. Whiny does not equal 'personality,' folks.

Who can top "You can cry, but you'd better cry and cut." Or the iniminitable Red Lobster bits? Alas.

It's not bad television, and clearly a valiant effort.

Tom Colicchio makes a sharp judge, though.

Come to my show!

Tonight
Laugh Lounge
830 PM
151 Essex Street
F to 2nd Avenue
$12 + 2 Drinks
Hilarious!

Will cover your cover if you want me to. Or come to your shows. Seriously.

Lou Reed's "New York" sums things up nicely sometimes

Busload Of Faith

You can't depend on your family
you can't depend on your friends
You can't depend on a beginning
you can't depend on an end

You can't depend on intelligence
ooohhh, you can't depend on God
You can only depend on one thing
you need a busload of faith to get by, watch, baby

Busload of faith to get by
busload of faith to get by
Busload of faith to get by
you need a busload of faith to get by

You can depend on the worst always happening
you can depend on a murderer's drive
You can bet that if he rapes somebody
there'll be no trouble having a child

You can bet that if she aborts it
pro-lifers will attack her with rage
You can depend on the worst always happening
you need a busload of faith to get by, yeah

Busload of faith to get by
busload of faith to get by
Busload of faith to get by, baby
busload of faith to get by

You can't depend on the goodly hearted
the goodly hearted made lamp-shades and soap
You can't depend on the Sacrament
no Father, no Holy Ghost

You can't depend on any churches
unless there's real estate you want to buy
You can't depend on a lot of things
you need a busload of faith to get by, woh

Busload of faith to get by
busload of faith to get by
Busload of faith to get by
busload of faith to get by

You can't depend on no miracle
you can't depend on the air
You can't depend on a wise man
you can't find 'em because they're not there

You can depend on cruelty
crudity of thought and sound
You can depend on the worst always happening
you need a busload of faith to get by, ha

Busload of faith to get by
busload of faith to get by
Busload of faith to get by
busload of faith to get by

There Is No Time

This is no time for Celebration
this is no time for Shaking Heads
This is no time for Backslapping
this is no time for Marching Bands

This is no time for Optimism
this is no time for Endless Thought
This is no time for my country Right or Wrong
remember what that brought

There is no time
there is no time
There is no time
there is no time

This is no time for Congratulations
this is no time to Turn Your Back
This is no time for Circumlocution
this is no time for Learned Speech

This is no time to Count Your Blessings
this is no time for Private Gain
This is no time to Put Up or Shut Up
it won't no time to come back this way again

There is no time
there is no time
There is no time
there is no time

This is no time to Swallow Anger
this is no time to Ignore Hate
This is no time to be Acting Frivolous
because the time is getting late

This is no time for Private Vendettas
this is no time to not know who you are
Self knowledge is a dangerous thing
the freedom of who you are

This is no time to Ignore Warnings
this is no time to Clear the Plate
Let's not be sorry after the fact
and let the past become out fate

There is no time
there is no time
There is no time
there is no time

This is no time to turn away and drink
or smoke some vials of crack
This is a time to gather force
and take dead aim and Attack

This is no time for Celebration
this is no time for Saluting Flags
This is no time for Inner Searchings
the future is at head

This is no time for Phony Rhetoric
this is no time for Political Speech
This is a time for Action
because the future's Within Reach

This is the time
this is the time
This is the time
because there is no time

There is no time
there is no time
There is no time
there is no time

Sick Of You

I was up in the morning with the TV blarin'
brush my teeth sittin' watchin' the news
All the beaches were closed the ocean was a Red Sea
but there was no one there to part in two
There was no fresh salad because there's hypos in the cabbage
Staten Island disappeared at noon
And they say the midwest is in great distress
and NASA blew up the moon

The ozone layer has no ozone anymore
and you're gonna leave me for the guy next door
I'm Sick of You
I'm Sick of You

They arrested the Mayor for an illegal favor
sold the Empire State to Japan
And Oliver North married William Secord
and gave birth to a little Teheran
And the Ayatollah bought a nuclear warship
if he dies he wants to go out in style
And there's nothing to eat that don't carry the stink
of some human waste dumped in the Nile

We one thing is certainly true
no one here knows what to do
And I'm Sick of You
I'm Sick of You

The radio said there were 400 dead
in some small town in Arkansas
Some whacked out trucker drove into a nuclear reactor
and killed everybody he saw
Now he's on Morton Downey and he's glowing and shining
doctors say this is a medical advance
They say the bad makes the good and there's something to be learned
in every human experience

Well I know one thing that really is true
this here's a zoo and the keeper ain't you
And I'm sick of it
I'm Sick of You

They ordained the Trumps and then he got the mumps
and died being treated at Mt. Sinal
And my best friend Bill died from a poison pill
some wired doctor prescribed for stress
My arms and legs are shrunk the food all has lumps
they discovered some animal no one's ever seen
It was an inside trader eating a rubber tire
after running over Rudy Giuliani

They say the President's dead but no one can find his head
it's been missing now for weeks
But no one noticed it he had seemed so fit
and I'm Sick of it

I'm Sick of You
I'm so Sick of You, bye, bye, bye

Bye, bye, bye

Vacation...all I ever wanted.

Oh lord, I need to get away.

Not that I've been working particularly hard (have I? Maybe. In different sorts of ways.) Not that I have an excess of cash (I don't).

But I want to get on a jet plane and fly, fly away. I have Reward points, I can catch a plane the the UK and hunker down in a Priceline-bargain hotel and run the streets of London, or EasyJet about to another country, perhaps. Or I can jetblue or ATA out to any major city within 500 miles and hop a train back, with a laptop and a few pairs of clean shorts. I still, God help me, have some credit, although I'd have a severe fiscal hangover when I got back. I'd be productive, I'd be at ease. I'd live off convenience stores and a box of store brand Balance bars and all the Poland Spring half-liters I can carry.

Most importantly, I'd do my best to be out of cell phone range whenever possible.

Some times you've got to go where absolutely nobody knows your name.

Pontiac Moon: Seriously has anyone seen this movie?

Right now an oddly compelling Ted Danson is singing Heaven, I'm in Heaven in an amateur singing contest in a bar.

This movie has been on heavy rotation on HBO. So, I've dipped into it from time to time. And it's so freaking bizarre. Ted Danson plays a nutty-professor type, with an obsessive compulsive child and an agoraphobic wife (Mary Steenburgen, I think they met and fell in love on this film). And I believe the kid and father are taking a road trip to see the Apollo 11 launch even though the mother doesn't want the kid to ever get in a car. And look, there's Cathy Moriarty as a sultry voiced barfly!

Every time I flip on to this movie, something disconnected and strange is happening.

And Ted Danson is strangely, wonderfully attractive, with a strange stilted accent and shaggy brown hair and chiseled cheekbones and an amazing smile. I can't tell if he's a fantastic or a terrible actor. It's that kind of movie.

random miscellaney, or straightforward Web abuse

"You at the barricades listen to this,
Nobody's coming to help you to fight,
You're on your own, you have no friends,
Give up your guns or die!"
- Les Miserables

“Now I know the things I know, and I do the things I do; and if you do not like me so, to hell, my love, with you!”
- Dorothy Parker

“To love is to suffer. To avoid suffering, one must not love. But then, one suffers from not loving. Therefore, to love is to suffer; not to love is to suffer; to suffer is to suffer. To be happy is to love. To be happy, then, is to suffer, but suffering makes one unhappy. Therefore, to be happy, one must love or love to suffer or suffer from too much happiness.”
- Woody Allen

Whither John Hughes?

Do you want to be Lloyd Dobler-boombox-desperation loved? Do you want to be goofy-best-friend-Duckie Dale loved? Or the derivative female counterpart, Watts the drummer-chauffer loved? Perhaps awkward-wrong-side-of-the-tracks Blane McDonnagh love? Do you want to be John Bender insulted-with-longing loved? Or secretly-forsaking-all-others-for-my-best-friend's-girl Kevin Dolenz loved? Maybe even quietly-suffering-through-your-transgressions Wendy Beamish loved? Or flat-out-cute girl-gets-hunk-Jake Ryan loved?

Just don't you forget about me.

el sol eterno de la mente inmaculada

For my money, you cannot beat the vocal dubbing accurace of the Kate Winslet and Jim Carrey characters in "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" on HBO-L.

Just in case you were wondering. I mean, weren't you?

Claro que si.

The pearl of the day.

“We are lonesome animals. We spend all our life trying to be less lonesome. One of our ancient methods is to tell a story begging the listener to say -- and to feel -- ''Yes, that's the way it is, or at least that's the way I feel it. You're not as alone as you thought.''”

- John Steinbeck

One of the most absorbing, fast, intense reads ever is Steinbeck's "Cannery Row." If you have not read it, I implore you.

The pearl of the day is my favorite hour too.

Tonight I walked some more.

From 107th street, past the seated comedy show barker who spieled me with "Free Comedy" before realizing that he knows me, me being charming and pushy at the same time. Past my old block, past the best falafel hut in the city, Jerusalem, most intensive veggie combo platter, yes even better than my locally beloved Damask on Avenue A, I ate most of my meals there when I lived in my rent controlled room on 104th. There was a Ben and Jerrys replacing the scary coffee shop into which I never, ever entered; the Associated, now a chain drugstore of some stripe. I recalled the Dominican families who stayed out late well into the summer, and beyond, cheerfully playing dominoes outside all the buildings on the block. Tonight was for many reasons a nostalgia walk, reliving the early 90s very very much out of context, many places were gone, many still remains, and a slightly willing victim to hear some of the tales. The great discount clothing store on 96th where I took clients to shop and shopped myself from time to time, where I ran into my model-bartender-fling from med school to their amusement, was now a Washington Mutual just like everything else. The Dive Bar still exists, the dart board and pool table and rest room in awkward juxtaposition, and I had many nonspecific smiles despite things. After 96th street I walked alone.

Blah blah blah

Scorpio (October 23-November 21)
I feel like you're still in a funk, Scorpio, even if you are shaking your head in disagreement. The truth is that you're in limbo and you'll continue to remain there if you don't face a simple fact. The truth is that you are not happy with yourself. Fine. Congratuations. Most people aren't–and those that are, probably shouldn't be. But you need to remember that your shortcomings do not define you. Somewhere along the way, you started to equate your faults with your entire existence. Um, that's just retarded. I mean, look at OJ, George W, the evil-looking Pope. If these people can walk around and live their lives, you should, too.

From girlspoke

We are not amused.

I just phoned my husband to ask him if I should get a boyfriend.

Can I fuck with people or what?

full moon

The sky is almost slate blue, not even black, streaked with clouds reflecting strangely.
imagine the most complex blue eyes into which you've ever gazed.

Tonight I walked.

I set out late tonight in search of stage time. Instead, I walked.

I walked around the West Village, the part you can get lost in. All the windy brick old streets, with the quiet pretty townhouses. I walked to the gay bar at the improbable corner of Eleventh and Fourth Streets, and it was jammed, far too jammed for a Monday, so I left. I walked and smelled the faint chocolate from the new location of Li-Lac. I walked past Bleecker, did a lap for good measure, a lap of indecision. I walked Eighth Avenue and continued on Hudson, past the little concrete park where I'd had some nice times with some nice friends. I saw a pet portrait gallery next to a baby beauty shop. Past the Sazerac House, where I'd improbably watched the World Series alone one year, remembering Randy Johnson on the Diamondbacks. Past the White Horse, nodding sagely, remembering its implications. Feeling lonely, a little, and remembering I had a notebook and a pen, with which loneliness is not possible. Sat at the bar at Cowgirl and hastily ordered catfish, writing a poem while it cooled. Talked to a friend on the phone about alcoholism while sipping a stiff Wild Turkey. No judgments, here. Drafted a script outline. Got the once-over from a hostile butch who drank half a glass of water, picked a fight with the bartender and left. Sketched out a character for a show host. Settled the tab as the eternal process of cleaning the empty bar seemed to finally wind down. Walked some more. Saw some fashionable gay boys picking on each other, loudly. Everyone seemed spirited, yet restrained, like they were scared it was spring, and only wanted to put one toe in the water of life in a new season. Places were closing, cabs were hailed, small groups laughed nervously outside the terrible dirty delis. A thin dark-haired woman sat in the window of a bar on a velvet chair. I let her read my tarot cards. She looked like Gilda Radner; she did not seem to know who Gilda Radner was. She spoke of agony and happiness and choices and positive, strong magical forces. The candles and the incense made me feel strange and good. Behind the red velvet curtain was a bar whose name I don't know; hookah smoke, or perhaps more incense, drifted past as people left. She was Egyptian but spoke with an English accent. I wrote down her name.

This is a real word, but sounds like it shouldn't be!

Crapulous: Sick from, or marked by, excessive drinking.

More Things I think I'm supposed to like but don't

1. Family Guy
2. Lost
3. Most Coen Brothers films
4. Sketch writing
5. Sweet potatoes

What I need to do, really, is write. Not scribble.

I know job searches can be boring, but...

To email yourself this job (on Hotjobs):

"Separate multiple email addresses with a coma."

Things I wished I liked more

1. The movie "Sideways"
2. Wine
3. Spa treatments
4. Pickles
5. Football (American)

Two quotes found on a Post-it for which I cannot find attribution.

"Approach things with open hands as opposed to closed fists."

"I want to know you...People share things...that's what intimacy is all about."

Anybody?

Analogies, lame

Sometimes it just feels like trying to make up a waterbed.

Group Dirty Mind

Doesn't seem to just exist in improv.

An entire room full of open mikers - granted, a smaller, smarter room than is necessarily the norm - managed to riff an evening's worth of jokes on porn, after the second comic (a friend and funny, funny man) came up with a story about his wife discovering his 'real stash' of dirty goods.

Fascinating. Really fascinating. By the time I got up there (two from the end, 14th in line), the host brought me up with "I KNOW she has some material about porn."

Needless to say, I did not disappoint. You want a porn rant, you got one.

But it was neat to watch. Callback after callback, story after story, riff after riff. Regardless of preparation, pre-existing ideas. Even the baffling woman who got up and said "I'm not doing porno, sorry," and basically read the news without punchlines, she spoke of some new Paris Hilton tape.

Incidentally, a full 25% of the room were lawyers by day. Hmmm.

Big Brother is Watching You (but I'm not watching big brother)

The DVR is a window into one's soul...the deepest darkest corners of the human psyche.

That's precisely why I don't have one.

Nobody needs to know my fondness for TV poker shows, not just that Bravo-come-lately "Celebrity Poker Showdown" but those badly-lit smoky-casino tournaments on the lesser sportschannels like ESPN2 and MSG. (See also the Strongman Competition, Futbol/Football/Soccer, and sundry other odd sports.) Nobody needs to be privy to my futile crushes on hulking, arrogant, gorgeous gay/'gay' men like Santino Rice (Project Runway), Jonathan Antin (Blow Out) and the guy from Open Bar. And I don't need some machine spontaneously taping top-anything lists on channels that used to play music videos but now play top-anything lists, retro-retrospectives, and...Real World Road Rules Retreads.

I won't even program VH1 and MTV into my remote, that's how viciously closeted I am about my guilty late night channel-surfing love for Next, RW/RR and occassionally, if I'm feverish and home, Made (Make me a Waveboarder!)and Real Life (I am a Bulimic/I am a Competitive Eater).

Forgive me, network television, for I have strayed. I can't abide "Lost," and I've never laid eyes on 24. Someday I'll watch Desperate Housewives, maybe.

And "America's Next Top Model" starts this week. My ostensibly non-tv-watching friend guiltily whispered this to me last night on the phone. Who knew he liked skinny babes? Certainly not his thirteen-inch black and white late-model Zenith.

Excerpts from "The Elephant Man"

MERRICK
(his voice is gaining strength)
The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not
want. He maketh me to lie down in
green pastures...
(he continues through the following
dialogue)

Treves and Carr Gomm are alone on the landing, speaking quietly.

CARR
It was a nice try, Treves, but the
man is so obviously mouthing your
words.

TREVES
Yes, I'm very sorry to have wasted
your time, sir. I just felt that
I had to do anything I could to
protect him.

CARR
I'm sorry too. He simply doesn't
belong here. He's be much happier
somewhere else, where he could be
constantly looked after. Believe
me, Frederick, it's better that it
worked out this way. Good day.

Merrick has come to the end of what Treves taught him to say.
He makes one last, desperate attempt to be heard.

Treves, disheartened, stands on the landing as Carr Gomm starts
down the stairs.

MERRICK (V.0.)
(now full voice)
Yea, though I walk through the
valley of the shadow of death, I
will fear no evil, for Thou art with
me; Thy rod and Thy staff, they
comfort me...

Treves is staring, open-mouthed, back into the room. Carr
Gomm looks up at him.

CARR
What is it, Treves?

MERRICK (V.0.)
Thou preparest a table before me
in the presence of mine enemies,
Thou anointest my head with oil...

TREVES
I didn't teach him that part!

Treves rushes back into the room, followed by Carr Gomm.

MERRICK
My cup runneth over. Surely goodness
and loving kindness shall
follow me all the days of my life,
and I shall dwell in the house of
the Lord forever.

There is a long silence as all three men stare at each other.

TREVES
How did you,know the rest? I
never taught you the rest of it.

CARR
I don't understand.

TREVES
Tell me, John, how did you know the
rest of the 23rd Psalm?

MERRICK
(hesitantly)
I... I used to read the Bible every
day. I know it very well. The
Bible, and the Book of Common
Prayer. The 23rd Psalm is very
beautiful.

............


TREVES
Why did you let me go on like
that, teaching you what you
already knew? Why didn't you tell
me you could read?

MERRICK
You did not ask me.

TREVES
I never thought to ask. How can
you ever forgive me?

MERRICK
Oh, no do not say that. You have
been so kind to me. I was afraid
to say too much. People always
want me to be quiet. You wanted
me to speak, but I was afraid.
Forgive me.

TREVES
We do have a lot to talk about, don't
we?

...............


CARR
Can you imaaine what his life has
been like?

TREVES
Yes, I think I can.

CARR
No you can't. You can't begin to
know, no one can.


From Script o Rama

Apologia

To all the boys, girls, friends, relatives, buddies, pals, and etc's I've been lax about keeping up with...along with your projects, shows, good times, events and stuff.....

I officially suck.

I hope to crawl out of this physiological and what not hole ASAP. I am sure that beating myself up about it will make it go sooo much faster.

Right?

Hugs and shit.

don't tell your lawyer the babysitter's dead

If nothing else, the ex will bring me bottles of Vitamin Water, saltines and seltzer when I am projectile-retching for the second day in a row, more or less. So I'm down a bottle of wine and all my leftovers and ice cream are gone, and I had to squawk at him about the floor covered with old newspapers. It's pretty nice of him, really.

I just don't understand why he thinks I'm 'cute' when I'm sick. I always thought that was weird. Who the hell is cute when they're sick? I'm green and stringy-haired and dragging ass in a sports bra and sweats. This is not cute.

Not at all.

hi--yaaah!

You Are Miss Piggy

A total princess and diva, you're totally in charge - even if people don't know it. You want to be loved, adored, and worshiped. And you won't settle for anything less. You're going to be a total star, and you won't let any of the "little people" get in your way. Just remember, piggy, never eat more than you can lift!

The Muppet Personality Test

Why can't I NOT be sick???

exhausted but glamorous

A fashion update:

I went with dress #1 with a smart little faux-fur shrug and black heels. Believe it or not, it was entirely flattering and appropriate. Dress #2, on the day in question (today), made me somehow look like a pregnant ballerina - no dice. Dress 3 is likely going back to Torrid. The military dress is staying firmly in the closet until, well, I decide to trot it out.

The wedding was lovely. I am exhausted. I'd show you how lovely I am but my cameraphone can't capture my face and dress in the same frame, alas. And I'd completley lost track of my digital camera (hastily left behind and uncharged at my grandmother's house, apparently).

Lovely. And chock full of comedy gold. And a chocolate fountain besides.

I've apparently stopped making sense.

i am SICK of being SICK

Act 3, Chapter 22, something!

If this were the 19th century....

- I'd have consumption or some such thing, and get sent to the seashore
- I'd have faded gracefully, or be kept in a parlor somewhere, or have had poetry written about my graceful-pale-pretty-dying visage
- There'd be an opera, in which the dire cough would've started in Act 2. The aria would've started at the beginning of Act 3. Gorgeous and surprisingly powerful for someone with a death rattle in her chest.

Oh, old times, old times.

Bleah.

I had so many wildly interesting things to say. but I'm too gosh darn sick to organize them. I don't think I've been sicker in a long freaking time.

Let's put it this way. I can't muster up the energy to drag ass to the deli downstairs and secure junk food to supplement my Campbells soup and seltzer diet.

That's right. The siren song of "I'm sick and deserve a Devil Dog" is going, at the moment, unheeded.

I am in dire straits.

Lying around depressed is one thing. Lying around sick is infuriating and worrying.

Pick the dress!

Okay, campers, I'm going to a wedding next Sunday. In a castle on Long Island. What to wear, what to wear. Some of these things are going back to the store. Some to my sister in law (the previously mentioned smart brocade number, alas.) What a hassle. I've got a few old standbys in the closet, but they just don't make sense.

Let's open it up to the blogreading public (All three of you!). Open to suggestions as well.

For those unaware:

1. I am taller than these models. (Heels will also be involved; think 6')
2. I am bustier than these models. (In a serious way. Foundation garments will be involved)
3. I am not a fan of my upper arms; but, as pointed out, through accesories and distratction, according to a friend, they will likely not be noticed.

1. The Black Dress. A bit revealing, but kinda hot. (It comes with a sheer scarf thing, as stated earlier). Too much?

















2. The Brown Velvet Number. Picture this dress, in brown, with an improbable jewel somewhere near the bustline. (Some kinda wrap thing would be worn on the shoulders, again.) Too babydoll?









3. The Simple Brown Dress. Needs accessorizing. Is shorter on me than on the model. Too lame?


































Of course, I also threw this dress in the "torrid" cart - totally unnecessary, potentially interesting. Some may like it. It looks pretty fine. Definitely a bit costumey, no?

Whither Kyle Secor? I am serious.

What's right about Sleuth: "Homicide" (Andre Braugher & Kyle Secor, crisp white shirts)

What's wrong about Sleuth: "Miami VIce" (Don Johnson and Philip Michael Thomas, pink and turquoise trousers)

There's one that leaves you wanting more.

"Answered Prayers" by Truman Capote. Boy could that guy paint a picture.

I'd meant to include quotes, perhaps I will later. I'd also planned on researching who everyone "was," but perhaps later.

It's one of those works (like Raymond Carver stories or Albee/Tennessee Williams plays) that makes you want to drink, lots and lots.

Somewhere between escapist and pathetic, lies Capote.

Pharmacopeia (apologies to Edward Gorey)

A is for amphetamine, speedy and quick
B is for barbituates, slowing and sick
C is for cocaine, higher than high
D is for Demerol, slower, you sigh
E is for ecstacy, love all the people
F is for fentanyl, knocking you out
G is for gin and tonic, summertime shout
H is for heroin, riding the pony
I is for IVs, administration
J is for Jack Daniels, smooth smoky sedation
K is for ketamine, joyful and strange
L is for lithium, dampens emotional range
M is for morphia, deadens the pain
N is for nicotine, light up again
O is for orgasm, natural high
P is for Percoset, painkiller fly
Q is for Quaaludes so out of fashion
R is for Ritalin, speedy distraction
S is for sugar, the rush that you feed,
T is for Thai stick, good smoke indeed
U is for urine, teller of tales
V is for Valium, classic never fails
W is for Winston, smokes built to last
X is for Xanax, soothing and fast
Y is for yohimbe, limp dicks in the past
Z is for Zoloft, uplifting at last.

sometimes i enjoy being a girllllll

I just bought the most unbelievable dress.

It's black, and made out of some chiffon-y material, which is more evident towards the bottom, where the skirt is swoopy and swirly yet straight as it glides down to mid-calf. The bodice is fitted, yet hugs every curve in a flattering way. The bustline is gathered in the middle with sparkly-rhinestone trim, that highlights my cleavage in a most amazing manner. The top is held up with an array of multiple interweaving, thinnish strappy-straps that cross in the back and over my shoulders in an intensely complicated fashion. In a dressing-room feat which defies the laws of physics, the dress looked more attractive when I tried it on braless. Braless. (If you have ever seen me, you would be sucking in your breath right about now. I was inspired to do so by my girlfriend who kept poking at my ill-advised pink bra, and inspecting the dress with a skeptical eye, until I had the brainstorm to go top-commando, a feat which would have straightened Einstein's hair...."Ahhh, yes...Buy it! Buy ze dress!" My friend does not have an odd Teutonic accent, but you get the point. It was, in a word, transforming.) It is accompanied by a slip of a sheer chiffon scarf that glides over my shoulders in a sultry play-with-me way.

It cost me $22. On sale at Filene's Basement, reduced from, oh, a hundred and something dollars.

It was, my friends, the Dress that Had to be Bought.

I may sleep in it.

One-a-day

Every day I'm supposed to do something I really don't want to do.

Yesterday, I ate an entire salad. (Believe me, I've been existing on cereal and fruit, the all-breakfast diet, but I've also been parked on my ass more than I'd like to be.)

Today, I'd intended a gym visit. And I don't count "not blowing off a doctor's appointment." I do count clearing my messages and checking in with my temp agencies.

Tomorrow, now, that will be special.

Good times. Start small.

Tip of da day

Want to impress a European?

Do your best "Sopranos" impression. For a chick, Dr. Melfi or Adrianna. For a guy, any member of Tony's inner circle will do.

Trust me.

(I have been told this also works on Australians. Ba da bing, mate!)

Song du Jour. I've got work to do and I've got to get on with things.

I guess I shoulda known
By the way u parked your car sideways
That it wouldn’t last

See you’re the kinda person
That believes in makin’ out once
Love ’em and leave ’em fast

I guess I must be dumb
’cuz u had a pocket full of horses
Trojan and some of them used

But it was saturday night
I guess that makes it all right
And u say what have I got 2 lose?
And honey I say

Little red corvette
Baby you’re much 2 fast
Little red corvette
U need a love that’s gonna last

I guess I shoulda closed my eyes
When u drove me 2 the place
Where your horses run free

’cuz I felt a little ill
When I saw all the pictures
Of the jockeys that were there before me

Believe it or not
I started to worry
I wondered if I had enough class

But it was saturday night
I guess that makes it all right
And u say, baby, have u got enough gas?
Oh yeah

Little red corvette
Baby you’re much 2 fast, yes u r
Little red corvette
U need 2 find a love that’s gonna last

A body like yours
Oughta be in jail
’cuz it’s on the verge of bein’ obscene

Move over baby
Gimme the keys
I’m gonna try 2 tame your little red love machine

Little red corvette
Baby you’re much 2 fast
Little red corvette
U need 2 find a love that’s gonna last

Little red corvette
Honey u got 2 slow down (got 2 slow down)
Little red corvette
’cuz if u don’t u gonna run your
Little red corvette right in the ground

Right down 2 the ground (honey u got 2 slow down)
U, u, u got 2 slow down (little red corvette)
You’re movin’ much 2 fast (2 fast)
U need 2 find a love that’s gonna last

Girl, u got an ass like I never seen
And the ride...
I say the ride is so smooth
U must be a limousine

Baby you’re much 2 fast
Little red corvette
U need a love, u need a love that’s
That’s gonna last
(little red corvette)
U got 2 slow down (u got 2 slow down)
Little red corvette

’cuz if u don’t, ’cuz if u don’t,
U gonna run your body right into the ground (right into the ground)
Right into the ground (right into the ground)
Right into the ground (right into the ground)

Little red corvette

see also

Committing to your Bit....Or, what Thousands in Improv Lessons have Done for Me

I won the Rocky Horror "Virgins" Fake Orgam Contest on Saturday night in Chelsea.

Discuss.

Still more news

My Magic 8 Ball seems to have died. What's up with that! Some type of chemical degradation has occurred in the 8-ball solution. The fluid is bubbly and no longer sufficiently buoyant; the multi-sided fortune-telling die is no longer monostable inside the fluid and, thus, not a decisive predictor of one's future or a reliable answerer of one's life-changing questions.

I wonder if it is heat-sensitive; the 8=ball has been sitting near my TV, VCR or DVD player for the most part.

What is that stuff, anyway?

It also seems that, somehow, some evaporation has taken place, since more of the die is revealed.

I need to look into this. Seriously. Cause I don't have enough to do.

Also, a Magic 8 Ball would make a swell non-Valentine's Day gift. Just saying.

In other news,

- I can, do, and will play the flute. Perhaps you will see me play in public, soon!
- Upon mentioning this skill, even the most dignified and mature among us have to make a prurient joke about 'playing the flute.' Ha ha, indeed.
- Minute Maid Light Limeade is not only delightful, it is bilingually packaged.
- Soon I will be operating a comedy room of my own. It will have a snappy name.
- Not all stretchy black tank tops are created equal. They are all, however, sexy.
- I ordered a smart gold dress in the mail, along with two tiny pairs of sleeves to 'go with.' One is definitely faux furry. The other, supposedly, is real furry? But it is ridiculously cheap, so I shudder to think from whence it came. I refuse to believe it is actual furry, and am thus convinced it is merely plush.
- This is because in several weeks, I am attending an afternoon wedding in a castle in Long Island. Did you know there were castles in Long Island?
- I have not filled out my calendar for February yet. This is problematic for several reasons.
- Vacuuming and mopping have not occurred yet. This is also problematic.

Right now I am composing an email about my new comedy room and sipping limeade while wearing a smart black tank top.

I've got this and YOU don't, mortals.

Sweet!

Thanks lots to my good-friends-in-high-places-who-shall-remain-nameless.

Mortals can order it here.