Friday, December 26, 2008


Dear VH1 Producers and Dr. Drew,

Thank you for putting Andy Dick in your new, critically acclaimed (by me) VH1 Presents Reality Funhouse: CELEB SOBERHOUSE. I wait with baited breath for the first episode to air. And, I thank you for making me constantly feel better about my sorry self. I love you guys, even if you are fat and have untrimmed nose hairs, which is probably true, like Tom Cruise's version of a producer in Tropic Thunder. Except for you, Dr. Drew. You're kind of hot in a wellness sort of way. If I wasn't imaginarily married to the fictional character Dr. Gregory House, I'd totally marry you. Imaginarily.

Emstar Productions & my imaginary associate, Dr. Pugglesworth Woofsalot

Thursday, December 25, 2008


Xmas is a time for reflection.

1. Xmas, or Christmas, if your prefer to include "christ" in the name of such a respected religious holiday, loses its appeal when you stop being a child. *

* Although, I do remember the magic of Christmas. The idea of a strange, much older man breaking into my house and leaving me presents appealed to me even in my toddler-ship. Now, I'd wish my Santa Clause to be Hugh Laurie. I want Hugh Laurie to break into my Manhattan apartment and leave me the best present ever: him in my bed with a pack of trojans and a bottle of viagra and a tub of LUBE.

Back to reflecting:

2. Christmas is a time for sales in this beautiful recession, and I am unmoved by the recession because I was a starving artist before and I am the same kinda starving artist now, only better off, as I've been snapping up part-time jobs left and right! Kiss my ass, business people. Take your blue-shirts and khakis and use them to mop up your beer-tears and vodka-vomit-o-despair.

3. Marathons. Christmas television marathons. (Namely, the FIRST 48 & l&o.)

Fun muffins.

Saturday, December 20, 2008

playing dead

playing dead

Why does the fantasy of disappearing completely so appeal to me? I'm writing a short story - fiction for once - and the protag is a redhead, but she's really a thickly veiled version of me, and my favorite part of the whole she-bang is that she's erased her own identity. I don't like futuristic shit; I don't watch that show alias. The only TV I watch, really, is bad reality shows and Dr. Gregory House, who I'm going to marry in fiction-ville. I just really like the idea of not being myself, which I'm sure is some form of psychosis.

I have to figure out a new occupation that will allow me to wear wigs and disguises. I'd like to wear a wig on a daily basis, but a comfortable one. Options:

Britney Spears
Undercover Detective

I don't have the balls or the dancing chops to be a stripper, I am not quite as crazy as Britney Spears, and I'm pretty sure you have to be a uniform cop before you can be an Undercover Detective.

I like this guy:


The diablo, not the douche who's skin he calls home. I meester blue devil. Sad and evil, a little sweet cartoon of rotten trashiness.

Wednesday, December 17, 2008


Ugly holiday sweater parties? Really? Where the hell did this concept come from? Why on earth would I own an ugly holiday sweater? And why would I go to a party wearing something ugly?

I’ve gotten E-Vited to two of these ridiculously themed parties, and I’m going to neither, because:

(a) I don’t wear things that are ugly unless its some sort of costume
(b) I don’t wear costumes when it isn’t Halloween or for a job, and when it is Halloween I don’t dress in things that are “ugly” either
(c) I just know my generation is going to look back at these parties when we’re all thirty-something the same way Gen-X remembers fucking fondue

Do people really choose sweaters that are ugly? And is it a requirement to wear my converse with no laces to these parties? Or is this a shabby-chic sort of thing? I hate shabby-chic. My ex’s vast SoHo loft was furnished with stuff he found on the street covered in sheets, with the occasional ugly but massively expensive antique sprinkled in, and it pissed me off to no end. There’s nothing innovative about sticking your tongue in your cheek.

Wake me up when the hipsters actually do something hip.

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

wounded lions

i heart wounded lions. Tonight a heavily tattooed, devastatingly skinny boy in miss sixty helped me find the women's shoes, and i couldn't help but notice how wrongly sexy he was in all of his obvious woundedness. I am not alone. Hugh Laurie would not be a household name if not for the millions of women who worship his portrayal of the drug-addled and crippled Dr. Gregory House. Dr. Gregory House is my ideal man. Moderately successful, emotionally unavailable, too old for procreation, and beautiful. Does anyone out there know who that character was based on? I refuse to believe House is entirely fictional. Do tell.

Friday, December 5, 2008


celebrity bloggers make me uncomfortable. blogging makes me uncomfortable. writing makes me uncomfortable. if one more person compares me to carrie FUCKING bradshaw i will put my head into a vice, and right before my eyeballs explode and i perish, perhaps i'll look like sarah jessica parker.

to quote my favorite manager of all time, Sir Benali, "I JOKE."

(which remind me of an evening at my ex's bar, when i arrived unannounced and he appeared to me courting a narrow-faced girl. you know? the kind of woman with a hot-dog face. i responded by ranting and raving about how i was going to go cram my head into a vice, which he interpreted as a suicide threat, but i was actually making a mean-spirited joke.)

stand-up comedy is going to get me in all sorts of trouble, isn't it?

sense of humor is more important to me than i'd like to admit. if someone is too insecure to laugh at my off-color humor, i'll never really love them. i can't love - or even like, actually - someone who i can't entertain.

"that's a bad trait," my exboyfriend used to tell me, "being unable to like people who don't like you."

"if someone isn't amused by me, why would i like them?"

he offered, "maybe there's more to life than just joking."


i call her anne...

so so so in love

i hate the scarlet letter and other fancy readin's, and when i was asked to perform in a bookclub burlesque based on the scarlet letter, this is what i did. does anyone actually get hanged in the scarlet letter? i never read it. i know the jist of it. demi moore has an affair and they shame her by tacking a big angry A on her chester. she has a daughter named after Janis Joplin's classic album Pearl. Blahblahblahblah LIT'rature.

i've always been very good at pretending to know things. i can remember playing hand-raising-roullette in high school with myself. the game was easy. i'd raise my hand when the teacher asked us to comment on something we read regardless of whether i read it or not. the equivalent to a bullet in the brain was getting called on first, before anyone else was called on who's answer i could pirate.

i miss high school sometimes, except for the whole waking up at 6:45am and not being an independent adult part.

i heart jenny holzer

my favorite part of being in london was stumbling into her inflammatory essays in the tate modern when i was about to leave. i endlessly referenced these essays in my work in college, and i think about them every other day or so, probably because i've taped them up all over my bedroom...


-Jenny Holzer

Wednesday, December 3, 2008

Trimming my fat.

I hate airplanes. They're all fart-filled vessels that have the potential to randomly explode, implode, crash, or be terrorized.

I often surround myself with good people; I think most of my friends and family have cleaner souls than my own, so usually I can trick myself into believing that God would not allow a plane crash with THEM on board. But this time I was boldly making the trip alone, and I saw no one who looked particularly Heaven-bound on my flight. This trans-atlantic jaunt was to be my vacation and my reawakening as an artist, or so I said, but really, I was going to see a Scotsman who made me laugh. Needless to say, I doubted that the artless Catholic God (with wrinkly, grey-haired balls) that I had been taught to so cherish felt that these were good enough reasons to save me or any of the sorry alcoholic bastards around me in economy class on Virgin Atlantic from our impending doom, so I had been a little overenthusiastic sedatives and wine. The fact that I have to always sedate myself before boarding – and my eagerness to sedate well ahead of even leaving for the airport - means that something always gets forgotten or left behind. Where were my tourist guidebooks? I imagined they were still rolled up in my comforter back on East 14th.

Now, circling some European park, I missed the early morning bustle of my neighborhood. I missed the haggard, smoking Beth Israel nurses cursing the stolen DVD peddler who had spread his stuff out quite nearly over the entire sidewalk, and I especially missed the dark skinned man who carried a child’s boombox playing mariachie music who yelled “Glory! Gloria!” while frantically waving his little hands over the Korean bodega’s flowers, as if to but a fire out. I missed respectfully avoiding my neighborhood’s freaks. I was, instead, surrounded by a very pristine, grey landscape. Very white people were everywhere, even drinking outside of a pub, but they did so with a hard to fathom sort of dignity.


Tuesday, December 2, 2008

lopsided: the evolution of my lip

“Did you get punched in the mouth, or is your upper lip just naturally sexy and lopsided like that?” Mark Z. asked me as he swiveled around in his office chair. He passed me the Berry-Blast Gatorade he was drinking, and I drank some and passed it to Jack, because we were all re-hydrating from the night before. Jack and I were looking for jeans for me in Mark Z.’s studio, and Mark Z. had taken an interest in me in spite of the fact that I was seeing his good friend, Jack.

Mark Z. was making me nervous. He was, afterall, Mark Z., and the fact that he was known by just his first name and only a single initial by what seemed like the world to me made him intimidating. I was a little bit interested in him, in spite of the fact that I knew he was dating a well-known heiress-slash-model and, of course, in spite of Jack. Mark Z. was a fashion designer, constantly at glamorous parties absolutely everywhere in Manhattan, while Jack rarely migrated above Houston.

“I, um, got hit in the face when I was little,” I explained, while Jack picked out jeans for me. “I was a tomboy, I used to play softball, and this really tall girl named Jessica Kraft hit a line drive. Down first base line. I wasn’t paying attention and it got me in the mouth.”

“Its still swollen?” Mark Z. asked, approaching me to pinch the fatter side of my upper lip between his thumb and his forefinger. My skin immediately goose-bumped. Like Jack, Mark Z. was incredibly attractive for his age. I covertly admired his right sleeve of tattoos on his toned bicep. He was wearing thickly rimmed glasses and his lips were perfectly symmetrical.

From behind me, Jack answered for me. “No. It healed with a cyst. It’ll always be like that.”

Mark Z. released my upper lip and said “gross,” and walked away. Jack selected a pair of jeans for me and we left. On Broadway between Prince and Spring I kissed Jack goodbye, new designer jeans in hand, and I walked home, feeling heavier on one side than the other.

That night in my little bathroom I looked at my uneven upper lip in the mirror. Something about the scene in Mark Z.’s SoHo studio had left me ill at ease. I wondered if the cyst would always be there as Jack had said. How could Jack know? He wasn’t a doctor. He was just a mysteriously wealthy middle-aged divorcee with a penchant for twenty-one-year-old girls.

Dr. Steinbeck was a doctor. A handsome plastic surgeon. He was old, like Jack, but much better preserved. When I went in for my consultation with him he plopped a book of samples into my lap. Sample boob jobs. Female torsos posed for the camera, on the left side with pretty little boobies and on the right side with water balloon mammaries.

“No,” I said, “I want to scrape the cyst off of the left side of my upper lips.”

Dr. Steinbeck squinted.

“You want to make your upper lip thinner?”

He said that it would be less intrusive to pump the right side with a collagen like substance called juvederm.

“Would it be balanced, then? More symmetrical?”

He nodded. Yes. I would be symmetrical, balanced, and I wouldn’t feel so off-balance and available to critique. Dr. Steinbeck was my hero. He was also mildly handsome. I wondered if he would date someone without a doctorate.

“I even did my boyfriend’s lips,” he said, showing me a picture. I sighed deeply and let my thoughts swirl back to Jack and Mark Z. (Only, not in that order.)

It cost me $750.00 of hard-earned waitressing money for my even upper lip. The next time I saw Mark Z. I was with Jack and he was with the heiress. I sat on the bench in the back of Lucky Strike between Jack and Mark Z., hoping Mark Z. would acknowledge me. He didn’t say anything at first, but when the rich girl’s car service came to pick her up he patted my lip and I squeezed his knee while Jack played with a lock of my hair.


Sometimes when rats and other vermin are trapped improperly, they manage to gnaw off their pinned extremity. Then they usually run about your cabinet, leaving a trail of blood, until they finally bleed out. If they happen to die leaning against the door of your pantry, and if you happen to live in a cheaply renovated apartment where the wooden doors of your pantry weigh about as much as cardboard, the animal may force it open with their weight and plummet, hitting the tile with a moist thud. The sound, if you are a light sleeper, wakes you from your tenuous sleep and you walk into your kitchen, where you find them in rigor mortis in the middle of the kitchen floor. If it can happen to me it can happen to you.