People have been asking me to post pictures of my own dog. I won't do it. He deserves his privacy too. The best I can do is offer this incredibly life-like artist's rendering of him anticipating the frozen delight I wrote about several days ago. (He prefers his without baby meat.)
Yesterday I was quite amused to find, among the heap of crap in my Hotmail account, an email from someone regarding a product of his that I wrote about several months ago, before I switched to Movable Type. Because it is not my "policy" to post email from readers or to republish articles other than my own, I won't "share" the contents of his email or the article he attached.
If you are at all the queasy type, you may wish to read it before or after you eat, depending on the heartiness of your constitution. It's not that off-putting, actually. It's just that I don't want people to complain later that they couldn't finish their Snackwells® because they got sick to their stomachs while simultaneously reading and munching. (Unrelated Aside: Just eat a real cookie. Fat-free is bullshit-full.)
So without further ado(do), here's the entry.
Thanks, everyone, for picking up last week's notes. I have rehearsal for my one-woman show later this morning, but assure you that this week's notes are forthcoming.
I just want to take this opportunity to introduce Gene, our fabulous new Stage Manager. We're incredibly fortunate to have him work with us on this project, as his services are in very high demand.
Gene is not here at the moment, because he remained behind at rehearsal this morning to work on a particularly trying locker room scene with a few of the supporting players. He did, however, request that I pass along a word of advice to one of you, as follows:
To Al E. Tozes: Please meet with Al Toyd as soon as possible. It's a matter of life or breath.
When you come into rehearsal tomorrow morning (5:45 a.m. sharp, people!), I'd appreciate if all of you would say "Hi" to Gene and welcome him into the fold.
Go on, say it.
It's fun, isn't it?
Yes, it is. Admit it.
So why the fuck do people say "frig" and "freak" and "eff" and "fudge" and "the F word" when what they really mean is "fuck"?
If you mean FUCK, then just say it. Don't go around pretending you can't say it. Or acting like it's a "bad" word. You're not fooling anyone by using "frig", et al.
Just say what you mean ... for fuck's sake.
All right, so tell me.
What's for lunch today?
I really want to know.
Are you "brown bagging" it? Are you that unpopular? Or do you actually prefer staying in on your hour (or half hour) break, sadly munching your squishy little sammie or microwaving your leftovers and eating them out of the container? (Remember to "pop" the lid just a little!) Or are you woefully underpaid, and it was a choice between a glamorous lunch and clean laundry?
Are you going out? To the "usual" place? Or maybe an all-you-can-eat Indian buffet, so you don't have to worry about dinner but worry after lunch that you may have eaten enough not only for today but for the rest of the week as well?
Are you eating pizza crust off the street, a la my dog?
Are you foregoing lunch entirely so you can get that deadlined project in to the boss "ASAP!!!", and nibbling on Triscuits® at your desk while it prints out? Or are you foregoing lunch so you can Jazzercise®?
I want to know!
Me? I'm going to vacuum. And eat whatever collects in the little plastic bucket inside.
Even kibble and dog hair can be appetizing if served on a beautiful plate.
"If you're bored in New York, it's your own fault." Myrna Loy (actress)
I'm always amused when people who don't live in New York think that those of us who do spend all of our time doing Touristy City Stuff. As if just because we live here, we're always going to museums, gallery openings, book signings, and street fairs. Swinging from the antenna atop the Empire State Building. Waving to our friends from inside the Statue of Liberty's head. Hanging out in trendy bistros. Lounging on plush, overstuffed sofas in a quaint coffee shop with five of our most cloying friends, wearing oversized sweatshirts from colleges we've never attended and dabbing cappuccino foam on each other's rhinoplasty'd noses.
I love the touristy New York (with the exception of the Disneyfied Times Square). Indeed, I like to play Tourist In My Own Town, and, in "A Thousand Words" (link on the right side of this site), I include two "albums" of photos that I've taken on jaunts to Battery Park and the Brooklyn Bridge. I, too, look up at the buildings to see the gorgeous architecture. I love seeing this city in the movies and on TV shows. (Although, for the record, not everyone lives in amazing lofts or in colorful spreads a la Monica and Rachel from Friends.) I love reading about it in books and magazines. I can't get enough of it.
And because I live here, I do like to do a lot of New York-specific stuff, and I do take advantage of the fact that I live in one of the most amazing cities on the planet and not in Boring-Ass, U.S.A. (pop. 1096). With a few exceptions, I try to avoid stores and restaurants that can be found in the suburbs. I prefer to patronize "mom and pop" shops. The tiny Kitchen Market in Chelsea, where $1.25 gets you a delicious takeaway cup of iced Mexican hot chocolate and conversation with the cute Latin boy behind the counter. The tinier Casbah, a closet of a store in the West Village, where the owner knows everything about every item there and who hands you your purchase with a bright flash of his gold-capped teeth. Among countless others.
But what I enjoy most of all is just existing in New York. Walking down the sidewalk doing "nothing special". Going to Java-n-Jazz just above Union Square, getting a huge iced coffee (yes, the love affair has resumed), and finding a bench in the park to watch people and dogs pass by, and even the occasional cat on a leash. Squirrels. Pigeons. Everything. Even the guy who carries on a conversation with himself, only one side of which I can hear (or two if I listen really carefully).
What I love doing the most, however, is going off the beaten path. Going to other neighborhoods -- not necessarily the most beautiful or trendy -- to see the "ordinary" elements. Dry-cleaning establishments. Corner delis. Laundromats. I like knowing that these places are common to those who live in the area. I like knowing that the deli I just passed is the one that that girl over there runs to at 11:15 p.m. when she really really needs a Dr Pepper. I like knowing that the guy behind the counter knows what her "regular" sandwich is. Stuff like that makes me giddy.
I love finding places that other people would probably overlook. An intercom store in Chelsea displaying a row of dusty old telephones in its front window, a 100-year-old elevator call box from the Flatiron Building. And, while admiring these objects, having the store's owner come out and invite me inside to show me the intricate, ornate intercom system used by an impossibly rich woman to summon one of the many servants who ran her outrageously large Manhattan home. (Unfortunately, I didn't take a picture.) (Fortunately, this means I must return to get one.)
One of my greatest "finds" was a tiny, rinky-dink beauty parlor (definitely not a "salon") that still has and uses the old-fashioned bubble-type hair dryers. Every time I pass by, I can't help but glance inside and smile at the quiet line of pensive, tiny old ladies reminiscent of my grandmother.
I love walking down the sidewalks of a residential neighborhood, far from the throngs of people, far from the gawking, squawking, "fanny-pack" tourists, and guffawing when encountering a fantastically hilarious metal sculpture on a gate. Walking ten more paces and meeting gorgeous new friends. Looking down and seeing their two-dimensional counterpart. Looking up and seeing evidence of someone's caprice.
These are the things that draw me out into the streets of New York. These are the things that captivate me. These are the things that I consider parts of My Own Private New York. Sure, the Empire State Bulding is fantastic. Sure, the Brooklyn Bridge fascinates me. Sure, I love the Statue of Liberty and the Flatiron Building and the Chrysler Building and all the other fabulous buildings I crane my neck to see. But I really do love to stop and smell the flowers (but not the ones painted on the sidewalk). As corny as that may sound, and as corny as I know it is, it is still what gets me going. And what keeps me coming back for more.
Immediately following September 11, people kept asking me if I was going to stay in New York. I couldn't understand why they thought I'd want to leave. Would I abandon a friend who'd just suffered a terrible tragedy? No. Still, now, almost a year later, people ask me the same thing. And my answer remains the same. No. I'm not going anywhere. Why would I ever want to live anywhere else?
I've been to Paris quite a few times, and every time I went, I asked whomever I was with, "Do you think these people think, when they walk around this city, 'Wow, I'm in Paris, one of the most amazing cities in the world?'" It wasn't until I lived in New York that I realized that people who visit here think the same thing about MY amazing city. Sometimes I think, "Yeah yeah, it's just another place to live." But then a red double-decker tour bus will pass by, and its brightly-dressed passengers will be looking every which way, taking in more than their eyes can handle, and I'll think, "My GOD. I live in New York." Then I smile up at the Flatiron, I turn and wink at the Empire State Building, I step slightly to one side to air-kiss the Chrysler Building, and I sigh.
There's no place like home.
Damn it, I NY.
Today, just before noon, a woman was hit by a truck on Sixth Avenue just north of 23rd Street, and died on the scene.
I didn't see it happen, but when I got there, on my way to an appointment, and asked someone what happened, the man I spoke to told me and said that her body was still there.
This poor poor woman. Probably crossing the street to get something cold to drink, or maybe pick up something to snack on at her desk. Woke up this morning thinking it was just another day, another Monday, another hot day in the city. But it was OK, because she knew she could get something cold to drink at that little store across the street.
I imagine the final milliseconds of her consciousness. The moment of her last breath. The police going through her things for identification. The calls they have to make. Her life gone, and that of her family and friends changed forever.
I come home and want to continue writing what I started before I left for my appointment late this morning, just before noon, but find that I can't manage the upbeat tone of the piece. I can only pour some iced coffee, get myself a snack, and thank "god" I am here.
For the last time, everyone, do not call this site a BLOG.
I hate that word.
Cunt, fuck, shit, tits, dick, suck, cock. These four letter-words I accept. These four-letter words I use. And there are many others, I'm sure, that elude me right now.
BLOG is one word I despise.
Use the word SITE. Here, at least. When referring to my site.
C'mon. Don't piss me off.
If I see one more person's fucking tits on the internet -- either overflowing from a bra, cupped in their possessor's hands, pressed beneath a see-through meshy shirt, or even just clever cleavage ... in connection with yesterday's "Blogathon" or the ridiculous Rack Browser or any other permutation or mutation -- I'm going to fucking scream until I bleed from the ears.
Enough already, ladies. We all have 'em. We all know you have 'em.
Put your shirts back on.
This isn't Mardi Gras.
My personal assistant has been fired. FIRED.
When was she planning to tell me that stamps went up to 37 cents?
Why did I have to find out on my own late last week -- just by happening to see a sign posted on the mobile post office on Sixth Avenue near 23rd?
I am taking applications for the personal assistant position. The job itself isn't that difficult, but the person I hire must genuinely regard me as the most stunning, fabulous, witty, intelligent, well-dressed chick north of the Mason-Dixon Line, east of the Mississippi River, south of the North Pole, and west of the Atlantic Ocean.
Let me know if you know anyone. Ass-kissers, either amateur or professional, need not apply.
... what the fascination is with Wil Wheaton? Why all the fuss over his "blog"? What's the (big) deal?
Am I missing out on something?
Is this just another instance of celebrity-sniffing that I just won't get, no matter how much it's explained to me?
Someone, help me out here.
If you don't see the kind you like, well, that's just too bad. Bagels can't be choosers.
While you're busy stuffing your face, I'll be at the gym. But don't feel guilty or anything about sitting around stuffing your face.
It's disgusting outside today. At least that's what my Chicago-area and Manhattan sources tell me.
Play inside instead.
If it's "nice" out where you live, you can still stay inside and play. You don't have to go out, despite what anyone else says. Especially your mom. She just wants you to go outside so she can root through your underwear drawer in search of your diary so she can find out if you've "done it" yet and, if so, if it was any good.
Don't give her the opportunity. Stay inside.
It's Saturday. (Yes, it is, so if you're at the office right now and wondering where everyone else is, well, uh, that's why ... so leave. No one's going to be impressed if you tell them on Monday, "I came in on Saturday and finally got all my filing done!" They'll just think you're a loser or a kiss-ass. And no one likes either. So get out of there, pick up some snacks, and go home and watch bad TV the way I am.)
Anyway, it's Saturday, and it's snacktime. But how about treating the furry, floppy guy who's blocking the TV, staring boldy and intently at whatever you're eating, hoping his telepathy will transport it out of your hand and into his waiting mouth.
Be a pet and make this for yours. But no fair eating some yourself, you glutton. That's why you picked up that ice cream (or, OK, Tofutti) on the way home, remember?
Oh, and if anyone can tell me where to find a high-grade variety of the ingredient listed in the "Note", I'd appreciate it. Zabar's, Citarella, Jefferson Market, and Citarella have stopped carrying it. And it's just too messy to make at home.
If I ever need an alibi for what I was doing today from approximately 1:15 p.m. until 4:45 p.m., I have one.
So don't even think about trying to blame me for grand theft auto (whatever that is), sleeping with your husband (or wife), or any sort of shoplifting.
This time it just won't fly.
Who came up with that concept, anyway?
Here are some better ideas.
Will people ever start taking responsibility for their own actions?
Caesar Barber, on ABC News just moments ago, claimed, "There wasn't no other alternative" to eating fast food. He blames it, and not himself, for his obesity.
Give me a McBreak with cheese. To go.
As you all know, I was the director and star of "Gym Dandy!", a spectacular theatrical production that enjoyed a wildly successful run in Center City Philadelphia for several years. The show is currently performed by many touring companies, and was recently picked up by a producer who found it a home here on Broadway. The show is currently in its pre-production phase, and we recently started rehearsal several times a week. I am continuing my dual duties/roles of director and star.
As the show's director, one of my responsibilities is to hand out notes after every rehearsal. However, because many of the cast members don't have time to stick around after rehearsal, what with dance classes and odd jobs, I've decided to distribute these director's notes via this website. It's easier than sending email, and besides, I want everyone to know what everyone else's notes are.
Director's Notes (Sunday, 7/21 through Thursday, 7/25)
Before I say anything else, I'd just like to thank those of you who've been bothering to show up for rehearsals this week. However, I must say that I'm more than just a bit put off by the fact that the majority of people who have been making appearances have been Extras. And while I do appreciate their work ethic, they are NOT what makes this show. So those of you who are the so-called stars would be wise to take a tip from them and show up on a regular basis, lest you find yourselves in their shoes, quite literally. Got it?
- Member Extra #11: Fantastic. Any interest in understudying for Trainer #6?
- Trainer #12. Please note that there will be no deviation from the blocked choreography. Although you are in the background for most of the first scene in Act 1, the audience will still be able to see what you're doing. This thing has been carefully staged. That means that having Member Extra #23 walk backwards on the treadmill at 2.0 mph on a 15% incline is prohibited. We don't want to draw attention to the extras. Extras are not the stars. You are not the star.
- Member Extra #3: The part of Herr E. Grohner has already been cast. I realize that he did not show up for rehearsal, but that doesn't mean I want you running his lines. I will keep you in mind for his understudy, however. Your grunts and groans contained a certain subtlety that his don't. Impressive. But for now, just hang in the background and grimace, red-faced, as you bench-press more weight than you can handle.
- Staremasters #1, 6, 14, and 30: Don't be so obvious. When the girls walk by, it shouldn't look like you're staring at them.
- Staremaster #7: That thing you did where you hid your face in your towel and pretended to wipe your face, but were really checking out the girls? That was brilliant. Inspired. Share that trick with Staremasters #1, 6, 14, and 30.
- Trainer #3: You are not Matthew Perry. Please stop. One Matthew Perry is more than this world needs. Please use your mirror time more wisely: Stop checking out your own ass' reflection and try practicing a different mouth arrangement other than the goofy fun-boy grin.
- "Of Human Blondage": It's OK to break a sweat, honey. In fact, I insist that you do so. We're supposed to be in a gym, for fuck's sake, not the Russian Tea Room. Contrary to what you may have heard from the ladies with whom you lunch, you do not have to buy it if you break it. The money you've amassed in anticipation of having to spend it on the sweat you thought you might break someday can be better spent on a new colorist who will not insist on that horrid shade of blonde. (If you really want a little tip, let me just tell you that you can get the same effect with a bottle of peroxide. But that's our little secret. Who am I to drive the colorists out of business?) So get to steppin', raise your heartrate above your weight (don't be confused -- that means anything over 85), and put down the magazine.
- Jumping Jackass: After a little talk with the choreographer and the producer last week, we decided to write out your part. Take your things and go.
- This is not a porn movie. We do not make those sounds here. Stop it.
- BoyBandWannabe: "Gym Dandy!" is not a musical. The singing must stop.
Oh, and everyone: Please please please drink your coffee before coming to rehearsal. I want your energy to come from a deeper place than caffeine. You should be honored to be part of this production, and the excitement of working on a Broadway show should be the force that propels you out of bed every morning. And leave the newspapers at home.
Thank you all for your time. See you at 5:45 a.m. sharp tomorrow. And please, do us all a favor and at least try to brush or comb your hair. "Bedhead" closed weeks ago.
This morning on the news, Reverend Robert A. Schuller, who led last night's funeral service for Samantha Runnion, was asked how Erin Runnion, the girl's mother, was holding up. He said something so generic that I can't remember what it was, even though I heard it only an hour and a half ago.
One thing that he said made my stomach churn. Irked me enough that I felt compelled to jot it down in the little notebook that I keep with me at all times. And that was this:
"The grief process is about a year long."
A year long? A year? That's it?
Something tells me that Erin Runnion's "process" is going to last for the rest of her years. Something tells me that her grief will never be processed.
No doubt someone will say, or already has said, to Erin Runnion, "Everything will be fine. It will get easier. Time heals all wounds." I hope that every time she hears those inane platitudes, she turns to whomever is offering them and shows them the hole where her heart should be.
Velveeta is processed. Grief is not. If I were Samantha Runnion's mom, my grief would be raw for eternity.
Mommy has been traumatized.
Be a darling and hand Mommy her purse, would you? Or better yet, open the purse ... and you see that little box in there, the one that looks like a small Altoids tin? Yes that one. Just pop it open and bring Mommy a couple -- no, better make it three -- of the pretty pills inside. And a glass of water too. Thanks, sweetie.
Well, let's see. The title of this entry has nothing to do with these. And don't even think about leaving a comment about how much you like the new purple ones or you wish they'd bring back the red ones, or how it's just so not true that they don't melt in your hands, because, well, I don't want to hear it. All right?
M & M here stands for Misogyny & Masochism. Two mints in one. And today I treated myself to a big helping of both, just by going slightly out of my way and veering off the path I'd set for myself. Ordinarily I don't adhere to schedules, and in fact detest and shun them, preferring to fly by the seat of my fancy pants. But today, by making two small adjustments to my afternoon, I managed to wind up with a few unwanted handsful of M & M.
I went to Pilates, the walk to which requires contact with the teeming, steaming public. It requires me to maneuver my impatient way through the slogging hoi-polloi, to subject myself to the leers of men who think that by staring at my shirt my tits are going to pop out and greet them with a giggle, to be forced to zigzag down the sidewalk in order to avoid the scattered walking patterns of so many slow-moving miscreants. My destination, however, provides me with an hour or so of fantastically controlled movement and concentration in the company of one of my favorite people, my darling Christine.
I knew the walk home would be a repeat of the walk to the studio, if not an even more unpleasant experience, given that it was about 1:20 when I started back, and people would be on their lunch breaks. I was, of course, right. So I thought I would just slip into the nail salon for a bit of a refuge. Forty-five minutes or so of quiet reflection, inventing translations for the Korean banter surrounding me. (And no no no, do not comment about the hilarious Seinfeld episode where Elaine goes to the nail salon and ... haha LOL!!!) I was wrong.
Note to Bloomie Nails: Restock. Refuckingstock. It's been how many weeks since you ran out of OPI "Serenade"? (And by the way, it's not pronounced "Ser-uh-NAH-day".)
Kim, my manicurist du jour, spent more time looking around at her co-workers than she did at my nails, thus prompting me to mutter, perhaps not as under my breath as I thought, "Why don't you pay attention to what you're doing." She was more fascinated by the owl talons of the girl to my left than in my utilitarian not-quite-to-the-tip human nails. I, too, was fascinated by the talons, but only because they disgusted me. It was sort of like an accident scene, where the very sight repels you but still you can't tear your eyes away.
Now, if there's one thing I can't stand, it's long nails. I don't "get" them. I can understand nails that extend just past the fingertips to which they are attached. That's fine. But any longer than that and I automatically assume the possessor has an IQ that she can count on those fingertips. This chick was getting hers clipped, which is one of my least favorite sounds in the world. I used to think that I hated it only when out of context (such as the time I witnessed some dirty bastard on the subway clipping his fingernails and piling the clippings atop his gut, then taking the little pile and flinging it toward the doors). But no, I hate that sound no matter where it is. It's like an assault.
It was everywhere. To my left. To my right. Behind me. In front of me, performed on a woman who looked like a cross between Bill Clinton and Bea Arthur, who should have been advised that coral lipstick is bad enough by itself and should not be repeated on her fingernails. I even suspected there was someone hanging from the ceiling, a la Cirque de Soleil, having her nails clipped by someone dressed like a harlequin. But I didn't dare look up. I was stuck in the middle. (And yes, listening to the clipclipclip was about as excruciating as having an ear sliced off.
Granted, it was not as painful as a recent trip to the salon, where I witnessed a customer wielding a pedicure implement on her left big toe's nail bed, half of which was exposed due to a broken-off toenail [gagworthy enough in its own right], with all the vigor of a sculptor and all the insouciance of a housewife scooping out melon balls, but it was obnoxious enough.
As if that wasn't enough to turn my stomach, I later saw that the owl talons weren't limited to just the chick's fingers. No, her toes followed suit. Long toenails, extending perhaps an eighth of an inch beyond the tips of her toes. (An eighth of an inch sounds like nothing, but believe me, on a toe it's something.) And not only that, but the pedicure was a French one. French manicures are all right, if done nicely. French pedicures, on the other hand, should be avoided. They make the feet look like elongated, mutant hands. Plus, the only way to really get one is if the toenails are long enough to accommodate the white tip. Hence, ergo, and therefore, French Pedicure = Long Toenails = Gross = I Think I Lost A Lunch I Ate Back In '86.
Then there was a chick in a thong that shouldn't have been visible, cutting into the flesh of her hips like twine on an Easter ham. Posture that belied the self-confidence she was trying to portray. A voice more annoying than a squeaky, wobbly shopping cart.
Which takes me to (nothing like a neat segue) ... Food Shopping. The next stop in my whirlwind tour of self-inflicted masochism. Yes, I had to pick up a few things at Whole Foods. I had already reserved a fair amount of dread well in advance of my arrival, but the actual experience, as always, surpassed my expectations. Within one minute, I was rammed into by some officious bitch wearing a jacket that I suspect was equipped with shoulderpads (hello, 1985?) and a whole lotta nada as far as style was concerned. And when I was at the register (the time between my arrival in the store and reaching the cash register was thankfully a blur -- I think I managed to get everything I needed in five minutes -- no hyperbole), another lovely lady jammed her J.Lo-circa-1997(Selena) ass into me in her haste to pay for her stuff so she could then hurriedly waddle back to her office and cram her fallaciously healthy garbage snacks down her gullet. "Fucking PIG," I said, not under my breath this time.
I'm home and hoping J.Lo+ is choking on whatever grub she grabbed. I'm hoping Shoulderpads McAsswipe has to work overtime. Hoping Miss Thong trips over her cheap red sandals. Wishing nothing but the worst for every guy who leered at my tits, every snail who didn't realize that we just don't walk that slowly here in Manhattan, and every alien lifeform whose nails grew so long that she needed to have them almost surgically clipped rather than filed like a normal earthling. And reserving a special place in my heart and in hell (reservations not required) for every girl on the street whose toes peered over the edge of her sandals as if they were on a diving board. (But that's another story for another day. I can only stand so much.)
The highlight of my day -- aside from Pilates, my dog's "goodbye" before leaving for school this morning, and email from the other DOG -- was this. Little stuff, such as a round number, and a five-dollar bill, can actually cheer me up on days when the other little stuff brings me down.
So thanks, darling, for the sweet little pills. The purple ones were divine. Almost as much fun as the old red. But where are the green?
And now, after an afternoon of M & M, Mommy needs a little R & R. Play quietly in the den, and wake me in an hour. And yes, you can have a glass of chocolate milk.
(Please note that the last image was not scanned in. Several of you mentioned, in response to my chastisement about not "getting the joke" of my entry yesterday about the walls having ears, that you didn't know I don't have a scanner. Well, consider this my open invitation for someone to buy me one. Yeah, just buy me one. I figure if that bubble-headed asswipe Karyn can ask for $20,000, I can ask for this.)
Seth Green is tiny. I never realized it. He was just on "Live With Regis and Kelly" to promote the new Austin Powers movie. He took up only like two-thirds of the chair. It reminded me of Lily Tomlin doing her "Edith Ann" thing.
I would make a comment about how he could've/should've played Mini Me instead of Scott Evil, Dr. Evil's son, but I'm not that mean. Or evil.
No, I'm not.
Fucking walls have no balls. Couldn't even say this to my face.
(Don't they know that only pussies hide behind Post-Its®?)
And what bad fucking penmanship.
I ordinarily shun these regularly scheduled quizlets like the plague that they are (did I say that?), but because I adore Kelly so much, I'm going to play. I'm not saying this will become a habit, so don't get all, like, excited and all.
1. What sound do you love to hear and why? The sound of my dog and cat crunching on food. I don't know why. I do know that I turn off all other noise (TV, jackhammer, constant clambake in my living room) just to hear Taxi crunch the occasional pretzel piece that falls to the floor or to hear Shana indulge in an errant puff of popcorn.
2. Is there a smell that you find particularly unpleasant? Why? Ginkgo trees. When they, like, shed (or whatever it is that trees do). Why do I hate the smell? Because, uh, it is about as close to vomit as a smell can get without actually crossing the line.
Hugs to Kelly! (*oompphhh*) (Is there a ginkgo tree in the house?)
Dear Stretch of Fifth Avenue, Just South of West 23rd Street:
This is a delicate issue, and one that I wish I didn't have to address. But it's better that I do, rather than ignore it, because it's something that just needs to be said. We're friends, and I feel I can tell you anything.
The problem is (and please don't take this the wrong way) that you, well, let's just say that you're not smelling so fresh. I don't know if this is a recent phenomenon, because as you know, I ordinarily take a slightly different route home and only see you from across the street. So when I decided to come over to greet you this morning on my way home from the gym, I must say I was shocked. (I daresay appalled -- I'm sorry, but I was.)
I don't ever remember you smelling this bad. Not even last summer when the humidity was, as we liked to joke, "like a crotch". This summer, however, I must say that you smell like one. And not in a good way.
What's particularly alarming is that your problem is so intense that not only did it overpower the glorious aroma of J'Adore, the French bakery several yards away, but completely obliterated it.
I probably won't see you until tomorrow morning, or Thursday morning at the latest, but if you'd like to talk about this before then, I'd be willing to do so. Provided, of course, that you use the telephone on your block.
Again, I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but I do it because we've been such good friends for so long. I tell you because I care.
P.S. I'm sorry if I offended you. But frankly, you started it. It's a two-way street.
This is dedicated to Kelly.
In all my years of being a girl, I've never been able to understand just what the hell others of my gender are doing in the ladies room for so long. I'm not talking about the primping and the preening and all that other girly girl garbage, but about what goes on in the actual stalls.
What's going ON in there? Why does it take so long to use the facilities? What the hell are are you DOING in that little enclosure that is almost as claustrophobia-inspiring as a coffin (except without the pretty velvet)? Just pull down your pants, squat/hover/plunk your ass down, do what you have to do, get the hell up, zip/button/lace up your pants, and get out. Leave the stall. Don't dawdle. Just get OUT.
The entire operation should not take longer than one minute. Tops. (This, of course, does not include those special, tender moments that come around once a month and stick around for a few days; for those special occasions, an extra 30 seconds or so is acceptable.)
I don't know how many times I've had to stand in some godfuckingawful line for more minutes than I have fingers and toes, all because someone is undertaking something so complicated that it requires more than a minute to accomplish it. How many times have I flown out of a restroom in a fury, after having spent 20 minutes there, only 5% of which was devoted to the actual activity for which I was waiting, and spit out venomously to the "DOG", through gritted teeth that could spur TMJ, "What the FUCK takes these bitches so goddamned LONG? What are they DOING in there -- massaging their goddamned TWATS?"
I was once in a line during the intermission of a friend's performance, waiting to use a restroom that contained only one stall. The line was probably about ten deep, and I was "at bat" next. I was all excited. At last my time had come. I was prepared: I'd unzipped my pants and hidden the unzippity-do-dah behind my bag. Ready to go go go! The only problem was that some girl was in there hogging the room for at least five minutes.
I turned to the guy behind me, a deliciously freaky fop, and said, "You know ... when it's my turn in there, I'm going to go so fast that you are going to swear I have a dick!" He and several others behind him guffawed, and he said, "Oh, I know what you mean! Pee, check the hair, and just leave!"
When my turn finally arrived, I bolted into the room, did what I had to do (even including a little flip of the hair), and left.
"Forty-five seconds!" the fop said, applauding.
(That would've been the only time I would have accepted someone saying, "You GO, girl!")
Is this just further proof that I am, indeed, a man?
Oh, and while I'm at it, I just have to touch on two more things that pisses me off about restroom behavior:
- Do not, under any circumstances, talk to me while you are "going". Do not engage me in conversation while I am. The general rule is this, and I'm going to use the direct quote that I used to educate my friend Jennifer when she violated this rule: "If your twat is out, shut the fuck up."
- Do not ask me if I have a feminine hygiene product. More specifically, do not ask if you can borrow a tampon. If I have one in my bag it's because, well, I'm gonna need it that day, so there's no way I'm going to give it to you. Further, if you ask me if you can "borrow" a tampon, I certainly don't want you to give it back.
It's aaalll about lookin' out for #1.
A few weeks ago, I asked you, my devoted readers, to ask me questions that I would then answer in a Q&A page to be unveiled in the future. I received quite a few responses, and am still deciding on the format in which I wish to present my answers.
A few of the questions I really liked, mostly because they didn't take themselves (or my request) that seriously and because I could have a lot of (or at least a little) fun answering them without having to dig deeply into my psyche in order to provide suitably pretentious responses. But that would, of course, require that I find my psyche, which has been missing since, oh, I'd say about 1974. Last I saw of it, it had a long stick flung over its shoulder, attached to which was a red bandana containing a few of its most precious personal belongings, and was sticking its thumb out along I-95. Crying.
I'm still going to answer those questions (maybe), but I'm also going to answer the unasked questions of the many hapless thrill-seekers who've stumbled upon this site by way of a myriad of well thought-out search-engine queries. I figure they have as much right to sensible answers as the rest of my "legitimate" readers do. And for those whose searches weren't necessarily seeking answers but just some variety of fun fun fun, I hope to provide some sort of fun-filled features to satisfy their whims. Because fun is my forte. And also because I'm such a people pleaser that I want to make sure everyone's happy.
I thought about categorizing these things, but then decided that I have other pressing obligations today, such as taking a shower and making bread pudding (not necessarily in that order). And besides, I'm just not in the mood to categorize and pigeonhole. Plus, I don't want to hurt any of the listed items' feelings by not being able to fit them into any category and lumping them together with the rest of the misfits, seated at the Awkward Wedding Reception Table populated by a pair of white-pumps-wearing dorks from the bride's book club, some woman no one knows (or really wants to), three sweaty guys sporting bad skin and short-sleeve dress shirts with visible T-shirts underneath, and Bill and Mitzi, that cloying couple from the bride and groom's cruise circa August 2001.
So anyway, sometime in the near future, I hope to provide some sort of relief for the following queries and searches:
- What brand of glasses is Kelly Ripa wearing
- Kelly Ripa’s body type
- garbage truck auctions
- Pebbles flintstone drinking glass
- hang in there baby poster
- Dog AND head AND poster AND reward AND funny
- Gwynneth Paltrow embarrassing 2002 speech
- how can you make hard pretzels
- picture of cockroach fecal matter
- kidz cum show
- funny teen diaper pictures
- where can i get her eyebrows done
- naked posture photo
- sexily feet
- how to hem pants
- love parade naked jpg
- tinted window removal
- whore red toenails
- Sophia Loren measurement
- how to make braided leather belt
- naked bedroom shenanigans
- mother son “I like that” touch
- candid office fuck
- say-so stand by me
- identical twins psychological effects dressed alike
- string breast implants
- cheap makeup
- something cute to say
- hair punishment
- kneesocks + high heels
- my hips were like a shelves
- Short skirt parade pictures
- mime homepage white face girl
- second cup and Starbucks, calories
- i don't want to say i am sorry because i know there is nothing wrong
- because [nothing like being specific]
- pretty girls doing yoga
- scat poop link 2002
- female pedicured feet
- Japanese bellybutton picture
- mime crying jpg
- tall girl gallery fuck
- Reese’s puffs
- roommate boy gallery
- 10.year fuck
- working shitheads
- vulva jeans
- Robert DeNiro Jew mother
- braless mermaid
- chocolate bellybutton
- cleavage voyeurs
- cum sign this
- huge braless woman
- ball busting woman
- ass poop scat
- black nails fuck
- bleeding from the ears + leukemia
- how old am I supposed to be to have my period
- how to get rid of pesky cats
- "leg press" women female girl lady lady
- sexy mature free fotos
- my litter sister fuck me at age 16
- female, lady, girl voyeurs
- linking words even so
- because why
- so because
- painted his nails while sleeping
- secretary fucking the deliveryman
- naked posture photo
The following few are only separated from the rest because I want to show that people may actually be trying to find ME. I'm so proud. Here's why:
- Jodiverse eyebrow
- Jodi feet
- Jodi girl
- Jodi fuck
- fuck jodi
- Jodi naked
- naked Jodi
- it is because i say so
- because i say so
- because i said so
- because mom said so
- because i said so and jodi
- Model Behavior + .wav
By the way, although I did "officially" close the period within which you could submit questions, I am hereby extending the offer indefinitely. I want this to be an ongoing thing. Not just because I hated a lot of the questions asked (and believe me, many of them made me cringe almost audibly), but because I want to give everyone a fair chance, especially some of my new, even more fabulous readers who came onto the scene too late to submit a question before the deadline I imposed earlier.
If you're shy about directly submitting a question via email, thus semi-sorta revealing your identity (even if you disguise yourself via a whimsical e-mail address such as "firstname.lastname@example.org"), you can always devise a search-engine query that will lead you to my site. And if you're extra-crispy clever, you'll make that query disgusting enough to grab my attention.
But that's just a suggestion.
To everyone in the ground-floor yoga studio:
The chanting thing? That obnoxious, unrelenting crap that I can hear all the way up here, five floors above? That thing I'm going to have to hear all day long?
Yeah, that thing.
Knock it off.
Have a little consideration and realize this is a sacred day for some of us. I don't do the Sabbath thing on Saturdays, but I do like my Sundays quiet. To that end, I suggest you join me in the worship of St. Fu (a/k/a Shut The Fuck Up).
P.S. No comments on how I should be tolerant of other people's beliefs. This post is a joke. I have no tolerance for anyone who doesn't get it. If you don't get it, well, uh, get out. Thanks.
Why is it that whenever people say they've had a "past life", they're always saying they were fearless warriors, Cleopatra, nobility, Florence Nightengale, Abraham Lincoln, or some other cherished historical figure? Why is it that no one ever says, "I was Sidney Plotnick from Flatbush" or "I used to be that guy who lived in a box under the Brooklyn Bridge that one really cold winter with all the snow"? Or just "I was Cindy"?
I guess they don't keep track of the people they send this stuff to either. If they did, they'd remember this.
I have just one thing more to say to you, Captain Spamaroo: If I did have twin supermodels in bed with me RIGHT NOW, do you really think I'd have a computer propped on my lap instead of them? No.
Do your research!
I have so many little slips of paper floating around my desk on which I've scrawled phrases and sentences that have no hope of ever becoming full-fleged posts. Rather than keep deluding myself into believing that someday I'll make something of them, thus prolonging the procrastination even more than I already have, I thought I'd just toss a few random ideas about here so I can finally toss out the scraps of paper. These tidbits are swirling around my desk like the loose dollar bills that, on some old game show, flew around inside a glass-enclosed booth, eluding the desperate flailing hands of the contestant who didn't mind making a national jackass of himself for a bank-busting $36.
- I hate when someone starts to say something, and then stops mid-sentence or mid-thought, and says, "Ehhh ... never mind." What I hate more is when it's clear that the person wants me to then beg, "What? What? What were you going to say???"
- There should be some sort of quality control on ATMs so that I don't have to figure out which way the card has to be inserted. Same goes for the locked doors through which I have to gain entry to use the ATMs in the first place. Fumbling around with the card just screams, "Hey! Please prey on me!"
- Patchouli should be banned.
- I want someone to invent a portable device, like a CD player, that would replace offensive odors with something else of the wearer's choosing. Of course, the invention would "play" the replacement aroma only for the person wearing the portable device, just like with a CD player. But unlike the personal CD player, there would be no way to turn up the "volume" so as to disturb other people.
- Why does the Chinese language always sound so angry?
- I hate seeing evidence that someone has been reading in the bathroom. What I hate even more are reading materials and magazine racks designed for such a purpose.
- For some retarded reason, I'm always flattered when foreigners ask me to take their pictures.
- I love when someone on the street asks me for directions. I feel all "proud" when I can say, "Sixth Avenue is that way" or "You take the N or R to 59th, and then transfer to the 6, which will take you to 77th." Contrary to what you may believe, I have never purposely misguided someone. There is the chance, however, that I did inadvertently give an old lady on the subway directions to Lincoln Center when she asked for Rockefeller Center, but I'm not really sure. I just hope she didn't think I did it on purpose.
- It is actually someone's job to design stuff such as napkins and scissors.
- Seeing someone on stilts always make me laugh.
- I wish people would stop saying "shit-eating grin". When I eat shit, I don't smile, let alone grin.
Well, this relieved me of a very impressive four small slips of paper. What an accomplishment. I still have a stack of papers, pamphlets, and other sundry unsorted stuff that I must tend to today, while I'm in the frame of mind to do it. Otherwise, it will sit there for another month, and mock me, saying, "Didn't you say you wouldn't let this happen again, after the last time you had to go through a similar stack of sundry garbage?" I want to put everything in its place before it puts me in mine.
I wish I had something "deeper" to say other than the trite crap that insists on lingering in my mind, such as the comment I left on Robyn's site. Something about the two piers being a "phantom reflection of the towers imprinted into the water. A reflection to reflect upon."
In other words, I dig it. A lot.
M E M O R A N D U M
FROM: Vestibule Loiterer
RE: I need your help
I've been sitting down here in the vestibule for the past few days, ever since the bitch who bought me months ago finally decided to get her shit together and move the rest of her stuff out of the apartment she vacated back in May, months before her lease expired. Man, that crazy bitch had a whole lot of crap. I mean a ton of absolute fucking junk. I'm glad to be out of there, let me tell you. I thought I'd never make it out of there intact.
But it looks like I'm not gonna make it out of the vestibule, either. I don't think the bitch is coming back for me. Apparently she deemed the rest of her garbage more valuable than I am, because I'm the only thing she didn't take. I don't get it. Do you think it's because I never opened up to her? I don't know. If so, it's really her fault, because she never once made a move to help me open up. Whatever.
So here I am, still waiting. Like an idiot I'm waiting. Stood up, but still standing here, humiliated. Leaning against the wall like some kind of loser. It's clear she doesn't want me. I fear I've been replaced by someone bigger and better. Fine. She could at least have had enough class to tell me. She didn't have to abandon me like this.
Well, I've taken enough of your time. I didn't mean to ramble. I really just wanted to ask you if, the next time you come back in from your morning trip to the gym (by the way, you look fantastic!), you wouldn't mind scooping me up and bringing me upstairs with you. I could use a good home. (I've heard your apartment is beautiful!)
Don't worry, though. If you do take me in, I won't stay long. I know your cat, Shana (that is her name, isn't it? such a pretty name!), and I will be good friends, even if I'm only there for a week or so.
Just because I'm litter doesn't mean I'm trash.
Did I mention how fantastic you look? I mean, you really do. And strong. Strong enough to carry a seven-pound bag like me up those five flights of stairs with one perfectly manicured hand tied behind your back, I'd say! (No wonder your legs are in such great shape! Wow!)
Thanks for your time. See you tomorrow?
P.S. You're much prettier than the girl who abandoned me. Much. And thinner. xoxo, Freshie S.
The best part about "burning" your own CDs (I'm not hip enough to have an mp3 player ... yet) is that, unless you're a masochist or just an idiot, you won't include any songs that you despise. I've rarely found a pre-made CD that contains all gems. One of the only ones is Cat Stevens' "Tea for the Tillerman", but hey, that was years ago, and it wasn't a CD when I found it. CDs didn't even exist then. It was probably an eight-track, and I probably walked three miles in the snow in shoes with cardboard soles to get it. By candlelight.
I recently made myself a new CD full of "cardio" music for use at the gym. It contains mostly '80s stuff that I loved dancing to at "gay" clubs in Philadelphia. Think Erasure meets (no, I didn't say "meats") Dead or Alive meets Bronski Beat.
This morning when I listened to this new CD, I was overjoyed to hear one song that I forgot I'd invited to the party. As much as I love the flashy dance tunes that take me back to my multi-zippered, silver-tipped-boots days, the one that really got me going this morning was the one that takes me back even further -- 39 years ago this July 12. I think I heard it in "the womb".
Wiggle into your capris, girls ... brush your bangs down over your foreheads, boys ... climb atop your desks, and ...
(My favorite part of this song is a four-second bit from 1:32 through 1:36. Absolute bliss. Like a good sneeze.)
Go on. Take one.
The supply is endless, but that doesn't mean you can hoard, OK, Homer? Don't jam a few down your pants or into your pantyhose and scurry back to your desk so you can stash them in the big file drawer where you keep the box of tissues, mail order catalogues, and the "good" stapler.
And no fair picking the chocolate off the top of a donut you don't intend to eat. Same goes for jimmies. No splitting anything in half. No poking your finger into the jelly. And no rooting around to find the "best" of any variety.
Just take one, or two, and take a napkin so you don't get crumbs all over the carpet.
Now get back to your desk, and make sure you don't eat over your keyboard.
Ahhh ... I feel much better now that I've changed out of that turtleneck!
Several weeks ago, Tess posted a list of things you'd never hear her say. A few days before she did so, I had considered doing the same thing, but put it off to post something politically pressing or socially relevant instead. After I read her list, I didn't want to publish mine for fear that she would think I was stealing her idea and then come out to New York with an industrial-size drum of "whoop ass". I may like a good ass-whoopin' (who doesn't, really?) and Tess may be pretty cute and all, but still.
So now I present for you a few things you'll never hear me say. (I would never actually use the words "whoop ass" in real life, but given that it's Tess' preferred method of punishment, I thought I'd use it here in deference to her.)
- "Disneyland? Never been there. But someday I hope to go."
- "Come here and give me a hug."
- "Extra cheese, please."
- "Softball? Count me in!"
- "Here, let me help you with the dishes."
- "Enough of these Brady bastards. Let's see if there's a car race on ESPN or something."
- "Be nice."
- "Two forks, please."
- "Ommmmm ..."
- "Can I hold your baby?"
- "Big deal. It's just a cat."
- "Oooh! A food court!"
- "Just stop by anytime. No need to call first."
- "Who's having the Botox party this week?"
- "Gwyneth, I love your work."
- "Scientology is not bullshit!"
- "A baby shower! Neat! I'll pick up some of those paper umbrellas and organize the whole thing."
- "Where are we going to dinner on Valentine's Day?"
- "PIN number"
- "No, you're wrong. It's pronounced LAHR-nix."
- "Order in? Are you crazy?"
- "Black Friday? Who cares. Take me to the mall!"
- "Pass the butter."
- "Mmm. Sauna."
Numbers 26 through 4,862,129 to follow. Stay tuned.
After spending a fair amount of time yesterday outside these four walls (actually, there are more than four, but it's really just a "figure of speech" and doesn't require me to count, which is a good thing because since the amputation, I can only go as high as 15), and being subjected to noxious body odor generous enough to not only assault my sense of smell but to invade my sense of taste as well; weedy, pungent armpits exposed when the man-arms to which they were attached felt compelled to hold onto the subway straps; sweaty, moist shorts crumpled far up into the wearers' crotches; women's underarms with five o'clock shadows at 1:30 p.m.; too many toes; too much inane chatter ... yes, after spending a few hours outside these walls, and wanting everyone to be sucked through the hole in the ozone, I decided that my original opinion regarding the Outside World During the Summer still stands.
Which is why you'll find me inside all day today. Which is why I'm sitting here in a semi-lotus position, hair atop my head (just like in the drawing at the top of this page), pretty glass filled to the brim with a Clamato Fizzy (see my comment to the previous post). I am, thus, happy as a clam -- at least the ones who avoided being made into juice. Cool as a cucumber. Footloose and fancyfree. I have nowhere to go, no places to see, no one to meet.
I have stopped telling myself I "should" be outside. I have stopped thinking that Something Exciting is going on in which I am not participating. I have stopped thinking I should be at a gallery, at an exhibition, at a bistro, in a park, in a store laughing at pricetags and the idiots who obey them.
My friend Christine stopped up today after our Pilates class (I am trendy, yes) and hung out with me for a while. It was the first time she'd been up here. "This place is fantastic," she said. "No wonder you never want to leave. If I lived here, I'd stay inside all day too."
Why leave heaven for hell, I ask you? There will be plenty of time for that once the underarms and armpits are hibernating inside thick sweaters and thicker overcoats. When toes are crammed into boots, where they should be. When people are scurrying to get inside, away from the cold, that's when I'll be the first one outside, my coat unbuttoned, its tails flapping behind me in the refrigerated breeze. But until then, I'm staying inside, hibernating, away from the moist wet-sponge stench of unwashed flesh and more bare body parts than I can bear.
See you in October.
I never thought I'd say it, but ...
you may want to sit down ...
In fact, this is something I can barely say above a whisper or even stand to see in actual print, so I'm going to hide it here in white text. It's a very sensitive issue, and it's something that some of you may find appalling. I suggest you take the kids into the other room. (If you want to see it, you'll just have to drag your
ass mouse across it.)
Here it is (and don't say I didn't warn you):
I'm getting sick of iced coffee.
Thanks for listening.
I wonder if when I wake up in a few hours, this will amuse me even a fraction as much as it does now, at 1:30 a.m.
Forget starving children. (Population control, anyone?)
Forget animal rights and all that hooha. (Animals don't count.)
Forget all those silly charities. (Just a buncha handouts.)
Forget that crazy AIDS stuff and all those other countless diseases that still need cures. (Too many of 'em.)
Be a sport and help out the truly needy.
You can also support her worthy cause here.
And no, she's not kidding.
But yes, she thinks she's cute.
And yes, of course I want her to die in a fiery crash. Duh.
Dear Miss Jodiverse:
Don't think we're not onto you.
We read with great interest and a fair amount of chagrin your entry dated 12 July 2002, entitled "Poppup Pops Up". While we certainly sympathize with your loss of a man whom you clearly cherish, we must inform you that we have no sympathy whatsoever for your unabashed kleptomaniacal compulsion.
So please, without further ado, return the cobalt blue bud vase, zinnias, and "smallest bottle of Heinz ketchup" to the Marriott Hotel immediately. While we understand that it was the hand of your grandfather that figuratively stole these items, and appreciate the bittersweet sentiment inherent in that symbolism, you must realize that because it was your literal hand that "purloined" (as you say) these items, we will have no choice but to prosecute you to the fullest extent of the law if you don't surrender the above-mentioned items by 5:00 p.m. EST tomorrow, 17 July 2002.
Oh, and by the way, this also goes for this item that you slipped into your pocket at a French bistro on Second Avenue, somewhere in the 40s, on 28 June 2002. Just because it's small and "they have tons of them and, what, are they going to, like, count them or something, and besides, how much could it have possibly cost them anyway", doesn't mean you can just take it. And then to brag about it to your brother and 15-year-old nephew? That's just not cool.
In addition, the Japanese restaurant that, until late November or early December, 2001, owned this item , which you swiped from atop a cash register and then hid under your jacket on your way out of the establishment, has decided not to press charges. The proprietor, whom you erroneously thought was eating in the back of the restaurant with his staff when you made the decision to "just take it", saw and heard everything, and it saddened his heart that not only would you steal something that you could have easily bought at Pearl River Mart for $2.95 but also that you would laugh about this theft for the rest of the day and even now, several months after the fact. He, alone, is willing to forgive you. He will not, however, forget.
Isn't it high time you stopped this stealing business, anyway? Isn't this the sort of juvenile shenanigan that got you into a bit of trouble during your madcap teen years? Did you not learn anything from your experience? Please pardon the vernacular, but we strongly suggest you grow up already. Enough is enough.
If you have any questions or concerns regarding anything contained in this letter, please do not hesitate to call us.
Very truly yours,
Robert T. Feldman, Esquire
On my way back from the gym this morning, I saw this sign taped to a pole. PUGS FOR SALE. It depressed the hell out of me. The mother's face says it all. She knows her kids are not only going to be taken away from her, but separated from each other as well. She knows she'll never see them again. And here's where I'm going to stop because if I go any further, I'm going to start thinking about how my own dog, every time he sees a German Shepherd on TV, looks over his shoulder at me and plaintively says, "I miss my Mom!" and then I'm going to be forced to get maudlin and all "girly". And we certainly don't want that. I mean, the next thing you know I'll have a MIDI file embedded on this page of a sappy song that blows enough in its original form but suffers even more in the new incarnation.
Signs advertising puppies, or any other animal, for sale do little to elevate my mood. Indeed, if I'm in a good one (and no, it's not as rare as you may think) (remember, you don't know me in real life), the sight of a sign like this instantly reverses that mood for at least an hour. Signs advertising FREE animals plunge me into despair for as long as it takes for me to get the mini-lobotomy necessary to remove that part of my brain responsible for the storage of memories that would otherwise keep me even more awake at night. And signs advertising LOST animals ... well, let's just take a tip from the modern lingo so popular with the kids these days and say, "Don't even go there."
My cat, who spends a fair amount of time by my side when I'm in this room, is a "lost" cat. Someone else's. When she was a kitten, she was found by someone I'll just call S at a suburban Philadelphia train station, where S saw her every day for quite some time, just sort of hanging out and mewing like mad. There was no sign around pleading with anyone to return a lost kitten. No one knew her. S, who admitted that she wasn't really a "cat person", scooped the poor thing up anyway and, to make a not so long story short, the kitten wound up with me. And a trip to the vet confirmed that the shaved belly she presented, although perhaps all the rage among the renegade punk cats in England, was only an indication of a recent spaying here in this country.
It's been two years and four months since S rescued the kitten from the train station, and almost that long that my cat has been thanking me every day for caring enough about her to take her in. Of course, she shows her thanks in ways that I misinterpret. I mean, who knew that peeing on the bed was an indication of gratitude? But then again, the cat's lack an opposable thumb is probably why she didn't just leave a nice thank-you card instead.
P.S. Yes, I did blur the phone number on the little slips of paper at the bottom of the "Pugs for Sale" sign. I'm sure that whoever is selling the puppies wouldn't appreciate being bombarded with hilarious calls reminiscent of the Beastie Boys and/or this Crank Yank Prank Skank (or whatever the hell it's called) crap that everyone seems to think is funny (but which I think blows ... and which could be the subject of another post, but which I assure you won't).
P.S.S. Even if you squint really hard, you still won't see the phone number. But if you gently stare at the blurs long enough, then just like with those Magic Eye (sp.?) drawings, something might pop out in secret code!
You know, I guess I should, like, expand my newspaper browsing to include something more than just the Weekly World News and Page Six of the New York Post. And stop spending so much time on the internet searching for one-dish no-cook recipes and rainy-day crafts. Or maybe I should just fire my no-good personal assistant. The girl sure can type well and has a great telephone manner, but she's going to have to keep me abreast of all the important news while I'm busy catching up with the backlog of Lifetime movies that I'm just now starting to get around to watching.
I mean, just today I found out about this. How long have you known about it? And when were you planning to tell me?
Green Bay Packer Najeh Davenport allegedly left a little fecal friendliness in a laundry basket in a woman's dormitory closet. And yeah, it's certainly vile, and yeah, this dumb shit certainly does deserve to be treated to a return party favor (yeah, I'm just going right on ahead and assuming he did it -- I just don't like this wishy-washy "allegedly" stuff). But I've got to say that I'm giggling like the infant that Davenport apparently is over this statement, made by his attorney: "The truth will come out in the wash."
Someone, please, provide me with a sidesplittingly hilarious pun on a laundry detergent's name, so I don't have to do it.
Funday is over.
The only rule/restriction I imposed on myself for this project was this: No way would I go out of my way to go out of my way for any shot. (A mouthful, yep.) Rather than make this an easier undertaking, this sole rule made it a bit more difficult. Nothing was posed. Nothing was changed. Not even cropped.
I originally intended to "make a day of it" and spend this day outside, out and about, "finding" stuff to shoot. I thought I'd do the touristy thing. Empire State Building. Flatiron Building. A park. But then I decided to indulge my usual Sunday sloth, stay inside, and see what I could see.
Was anything "extraordinary"? I don't think so. Extra ordinary? Yes. And that was my intent.
What I saw was CommonPlace.
Note 1: There are two photos for the 9:00-10:00 p.m. slot because I just couldn't make up my mind.
Note 2: The three photos at the end were submitted in response to my invitation for you, my fabulous readers, to send me one photo of your day to include here. Thanks, Tess, Charlene, and Stacey!
Update, 10:24 a.m.: Thanks, Kim, for the submission. (Even though it was late, I included it with the others.) If you (collective "you", of course) didn't submit a photo by now, well, I really hate to tell you, but ... it is now Officially Too Late. Snoozer/loser. That sort of thing.
The inimitable LA deserves to be included in the list of exhibits as well, as her elegant "Ahem" suggested in the comments to the previous post.
I like to kiss the boys and make them cry, but with girls it's another story altogether. I may kiss them (but only where the paparazzi will never find us), but I don't like when they cry, either because of me or something entirely unrelated. I did gently point out to LA that she had to provide public proof of her devotion so I would have an Exhibit to which I could direct my readers.
So here it is, everyone: Exhibit "E".
Finally! Chicks are diggin' me! And I don't even have to resort to hypnosis anymore! The ladies are finally coming 'round and recognizing me as the swingin' funster that the boys have known me to be for years!
I offer as evidence the following:
- Exhibit "A". This comes courtesy of Elise, to whom I introduced you a few weeks ago after "discovering" her like the Ed MacMahon clone I am. (And here you wonder why I never post an actual photo of myself. You knew there had to be a reason, didn't you?) Elise is the long-lost daughter I never knew I had. (I thought all that bloody pain was just a bad dream, so you can imagine how shocked I was to find out the truth.)
- Exhibit "B". This part of a post dated 7-10-02, comes courtesy of Jess. The link (underlined in pretty teal) there brings you here. I may be no Paula Poundstone, but Jess thinks I'm pretty darn funny in my own right.
- Exhibit "C". Apparently I put a spell on Michelle after sending her this Nina Simone song.
- Exhibit "D". Jett doesn't know me well enough yet to know I'm not a team player, but I don't think this is what she's talkin' about here.
I'm pretty impressed with my harem! (And yes, I must confess that I am envisioning every one of them dressed like this. Except Elise. Even though she's adorable, I do not want my daughter running around like that!)
I'm actually doing this today. I know you're shocked, because ordinarily I recoil at the mere notion of joining some sort of group effort. Because I'm not by any stretch of the imagination a "team player". Because I'm not a big "community" person. Because I'm an anti-social misanthrope.
Two more fucking "because"s, and I know I'll have people leaving comments about "We're off to see the wizard" -- and that would really make me vomit. And I really prefer Sundays to be vomit-free, if at all possible. Even "God" had a day off.
So now I can't stop hearing "Because of the wonderful things he does" in my head. (And no, the "h" in "he" is not supposed to be capitalized. I'm not referring to "God" here, despite the segue.)
It's too late to sign up for the project that I link to above, but if you want to send me ONE PICTURE (via email) of your day, I will include it in "A Thousand Words" tomorrow.
Go team go!
"You use humor to mask your pain."
Someone once actually said this to me.
"If you want to talk about pain, jackass, you will be using a mask to hide the bloody pulp that used to be your face if you don't step away from me right now," I wanted to say.
But I didn't.
Instead, I came home and drowned my pain in five fifths of vodka, a mouthful of pills, an armful of heroin, and four pints of Tofutti.
Last time I checked, no one ever died from laughing. And Max Beerbohm backs me up: "Nobody ever died of laughter." Even though people say they almost did, I don't think anyone has.
There is, however, an infectious disease called "Kuru" (all but wiped out now) that has as one of its symptoms uncontrolled laughter. Here's what happens upon the death of a Kuru victim in certain tribes in Papua, New Guinea, where the disease once flourished:
... the maternal kin were in charge of the dismemberment of the corpse. The women would remove the arms and feet, strip the limbs of muscle, remove the brains, and cut open the chest in order to remove internal organs. Kuru victims were highly regarded as sources of food, because the layer of fat on victims who died quickly resembled pork. Women also were known to feed morsels such as human brains and various parts of organs to their children and the elderly.
The next time someone says something as asinine to me as, "You use humor to mask your pain," he's going to wish he'd died from Kuru, because the tribal women's treatment would've been more merciful than the one I will mete out. Except I won't even wait until he's dead, gasping his last breath by the tip of my uncaring boot.
We'll see who has the last laugh.
Oh, and by the way ... "Laughter is the best medicine," schmuck. Haven't you ever read Reader's Digest? If not, there are plenty of copies in hell for you to enjoy during your stay. So go there.
All day long I've been in a strange mood.
"Yes, but you're always in a strange mood," you're thinking.
No, this is not the ordinary kind of strangeness. This strangeness is extraordinary, tinged with something that I couldn't quite identify until just moments ago. I didn't realize why until I remembered that, nine years ago to the day, my darling Poppop (my mom's father) died.
What's weird is that all day I've been smelling him. Not the cigar that seemed permanently welded to his hand. Not the food that he would prepare for hours in his kitchen. No, the smell is of his "person". His body. Today I smell like him. It's really quite strange, since I haven't exerted myself at all today, physically. And it's not warm in here. Yet my skin is giving off a sort of ... scent ...
What's even weirder is that this happened to me last year too. Not the scent, but a reminder. A reminder of a day that still pains me, nine years after the event. Last year I wrote about it in longhand. (I didn't even know that "blogs" existed then and the idea of creating my own website was still just a sort of "fantasy".)
This is what I wrote last year:
Oh, I just laughed aloud to myself. People must think I'm insane. Strange, isn't it, and really sad as well, that happiness is frowned upon and treated with suspicion. "What're you smiling about?" as if it's a crime.
Ahh, to feel like this on a regular basis. Where do I sign up? I'm in love with the wind, the air, the sky, the chill on my arms on this uncharacteristically chilly July afternoon. It must be Poppop, smiling down on me, on this, the eighth anniversary of his "passing". I feel him here, I feel his strong hands holding my wrists and making me playfully slap my own cheeks. He is in the air, he is here, he was with me when I stole the bullshit things from Brian's hotel room. It was his hand that put the smallest jar of Heinz ketchup in my purse. It was his suggestion that I slip the Neutrogena shampoo and conditioner ("My brand!" I exclaimed) into my bag. And it most certainly was his doing that the small cobalt blue bud vase and white zinnias (I think) are now sealed in a Ziploc baggie, giggling up at me from where they rest inside my bag. I eyed the salt and pepper shakers for quite a while as well, seeing them through his eyes as a token gift for me, his oldest granddaughter.
"Poppop! What is this?"
"You said you liked it in the restaurant."
And so it would be mine.
Poppop, I dedicate the purloined contents of my purse to you! Here's to [his full name]! My sweet, smiling, toaster oven pan-scraping, turkey-ass-eating, cigar stub-munching, Jello-package-stashing, big gold Jewish chain-wearing, adorable, darling, beloved Poppop. I miss you, I love you, and in so many ways I am you. You live through me in ways you could never imagine. You are a part of who I am, so much more than just biologically/physiologically. Your spirit lives in me ... your table-hopping social grace, your warmth, your laugh, your humor ... your dark under-eye shadows. You are here with me -- always. Caress my face by way of the chilly July breeze. Make me smile by threatening to rain. Stay with me, be with me, sit with me.
What's particularly eerie is that I wrote that while sitting on a bench in Battery Park. And just this morning, before I realized what the date was, I told myself that if I went out today, I was going to go down to Battery Park, take a notebook, and write.
I'm glad I didn't. I'm glad I stayed inside, where, by being so close to myself, I was reminded of him.
I love you, Poppop. And miss you like you wouldn't believe. :-*
It's time for your break. Take it.
It may be almost 4:30 p.m. here, and those in my time zone may already be packing up their desks and organizing everything so it's all neat and the stapler is at a right angle to the tape dispenser ... and those who don't work desk jobs may already be starting to position themselves for the long slide down the dinosaur's back (yeah, Fred Flintstone, I'm talkin' to you) ... but since my readership isn't just limited to the East Coast, or even this country (yes, that's right, it's INTERNATIONAL! the word is out!), there's definitely someone out there who needs a break right about now.
So take it.
The coffee on this site is fine. I get the good stuff. I know you say that Folger's is good enough, but I went ahead and spent a little more ... because you're worth it.
Thanks for reading, everyone. Enjoy.
But be careful not to fill your cup up to the rim lest you spill it all over the hideous office carpet (or the dinosaur's back).
I "should" be outside on such a "gorgeous day". I should be out and about, among the hoi-polloi, amidst the hullaballoo that is no doubt happenin' somewhere in this big, sprawling ci-tay, doing something summery and lighthearted ... footloose 'n' fancy-free ... skipping down the sidewalk with a kitten in a wicker basket, singing a sweet tune to myself, smiling at passersby. Helping the inevitable lost tourist find his way to his destination, and not giving him wrong directions on purpose so he finds himself atop the Statue of Liberty when all he really wanted to do was find the nearest Houlihan's.
I should be outside, but I'm not. No, I'm not. I'm not coming to you by way of some laptop hookup at the park, or even from a bistro tabletop, where I'm eating chilled asparagus with my fingers and enjoying a refreshing glass of iced tea with a slice of citrus fruit jauntily winking up at me, all of us grooving and delighting in the beauty of the weather, the glory of the sunshine, the sweetness of being alive on this planet in this city ...
No, I'm inside. Inside, and wishing it would rain. Wishing it would rain so I could go outside and feel safe and protected and "in my element". Wishing it would rain on everyone's parade, whether literal or figurative. Wishing the sun would just go away, stop mocking me, stop taunting me. Sun, I have news for you. I know this is going to hurt your feelings, but I'm sure someone will come by in a nanosecond and make you feel all happy and peppy again.
Sun, I don't like you. I don't like the way you seem to want to force me to come out and play with you. I don't like your smile. I think you're pretty and I can appreciate you in really really small doses, but today I don't even want that. If you really want to be nice, Sun (I would address you properly and prefix that with "Mr." or "Ms.", but I'm not sure of your gender and I wouldn't want to offend you), you'll send in the clouds.
Not the clowns, you joker. The clouds.
Clowns don't thrill me either. They, like you, make so many people laugh and clap their hands together in irrepressible glee ... but at least there are those who admit that they can't stand clowns. I only know of one other person who shuns the sun the way I do, but unfortunately she left Manhattan yesterday for Los Angeles, where the sun will taunt her there the way it does to me here.
Fun in the sun? Not for me.
A blast when it's overcast? You got it.
So c'mon. Bring it on. Sun, if you really want me to be happy, you'll just back away quietly. Step aside ... and let the rain shine in.
P.S. Don't hesitate to listen to the song I provided. I know I've provided some pretty ridiculous music here before, but I would never subject you to the Judy Collins warble that makes me bleed from the ears.
Someone, please, ring up the NYFD, and direct them to 333
West 21st Main Street. And then, when the big red truck (complete with hyper-alert Dalmation) reaches the tree where this poor guy's been lodged for weeks, and one particularly handsome fireman scales the tree without the benefit of a ladder, and rescues it, placing it in the shaking hands of its teary-faced owner, still dressed in her little pink nightgown, and he bends down to scoop both the sniffling little girl and her newly rescued best friend into his brawny arms, we can all heave a collective sigh of relief that the sirens, at least this time, led not to disaster but to happiness.
Wasn't that pretty?
During a particularly rousing clickfest this evening, I came across a great site called Things That Suck.
Go there. (But wait until you're done reading the complex instructions that follow.)
In the corner on the upper right (on that site, not here!), there is a link that takes you to "Blogger". Follow that link, and sign on to Blogger using the username "thingsthat" and the password "suck". Enter your little bit, hit "post and publish", and voila ... the world will be treated to your personal version of suckage (or suckiosity) (I'm not sure which is the proper word).
And in answer to the question that's lingering at the tip of your tongue: Yes. Yes, I posted an entry. So even if you don't post your own, you can, at your next blog-party (the 2002 version of your old pajama parties -- you know, the ones where you wore your fluffy pajamas and played "Truth or Dare" and then Greg, Peter, and Bobby put itching powder in the sleeping bags), point to the screen and squeal, "Hey! I know that girl!"
Have fun. But don't stay up too late.
Four months ago, I went on another little jaunt about town. My destination: Battery Park, to see the "sphere" memorial dedicated by the mayor that morning in a ceremony to mark the six-month "anniversary" of, well, you know. (I don't even want to say it.)
These photos, like the ones I posted yesterday, were originally posted at "Ofoto" (and still are), but, like, those, I wanted to include them here, in "A Thousand Words", where they told me they feel more comfortable.
The album is entitled "Sphere and Now". (Oh how I love being a punster.)
No, this isn't one of those ridiculous quizzes that seem to be all the rage, and which litter oh too many people's "blogs". I'm not going to ask you to answer a handful of questions to determine "Which Ice Cream Flavor Are You?" or "Which Office Supply Are You?" or "Which Serial Murderer Are You?" No. There will be none of that.
What there will be, however, is YOU telling ME what kind of man you are. (And please, ladies/broads/chicks/dames, I don't want to hear you complain, "But I'm not a MAN! I'm a WOMAN!") Are you a leg man? An ass man? A breast man? I want to know what you check out first when you are confronted with a woman on the street.
And just so I don't have to hear any complaints, such as "I don't appreciate your objectifying women. There's more to a person than what she looks like!" I'm going to extend this question to include men as well. Yes, that's right. I'm objectifying men too. It's only fair. I don't want to exclude anyone.
I know that a lot of you will want to say "the face". And that's fine. Tell me that, and then tell me what the next "part" is. But do not under any circumstance tell me that you don't look. Don't say, "The brain is the most important part of any person, whether man or woman!" (For the "record", I really believe it is. But let's just suspend that reality here.)
We all check each other out. Men. Women. The occasional really hot nine-year-old. We all look. (And any guy who says, "I don't look at other guys" or "No, I don't notice if another guy is good-looking" is about as full of shit as people who say they never watch TV except for PBS and the Discovery Channel.) We all have a part of the body that we enjoy. Mine, hands down, are the legs. Men's and women's.
If you choose to respond to this question, be brave and answer with regard to both sexes. Because I have a little secret for you, boys (and yes, I'm addressing the guys here because most women don't have a problem admitting that they check out the chicks): Just because you look at people of the same sex, it doesn't mean you're a "fuckin' homo". (And by the way, if you really think it does, we would never get along in real life.)
So ... get to steppin'. Have fun.
(Oh, and P.S. If I were an office supply, I'd be a three-hole punch. And no, I don't mean anything sexual by that. Swine.)
Look! More excitement in A Thousand Words: in the Tourist In My Own Town album, a set of photos entitled "Where Have All the Towers Gone?"
Some of you already saw these photos online at "Ofoto", months ago. They're still there, but I'm also including them here on my own site, where they are more readily accessible. How very democratic of me!
You forget your wallet.
You forget your keys.
You forget to drop off the drycleaning.
You do NOT forget this.
One of these two lovelies is a permanent resident of this apartment. The other, a vagrant. One of them didn't survive a nighttime scuffle.
One of them decided to explore the bathroom after midnight last night, causing a barefoot me to emit a girlie squeal and flee the room in such a way that an observer would think the floor was made not of tile but of fiery coals. And not just because I'm modest and can't even share that room with anyone I do know, let alone a scuttling stranger.
One of them was found on its back by the other's food bowl this morning.
And the other is strutting around the place like she slayed a dragon.
So apparently Shana has not only forgiven me for neglecting to mention her in a recent entry, but has extended her generosity to making up for her act of revenge. And now I don't have to worry that every errant tickle on my legs is evidence of the squatter's insistence on staying here rent-free and without invitation.
I wouldn't have been able to evict him via such extreme measures as Shana did. As I've said before, I cannot kill anything and will not kill anything. I once bargained with a roach in my apartment in Philadelphia, telling him, "I'm going to go upstairs now, and I expect you to be gone when I come back down. Just take your things and go quietly." There was no "or else", of course, but the roach complied anyway, and left a nice note thanking me for my hospitality. That was pre-Shana.
One of his relatives showed up sometime later, when Shana and I were sharing that old apartment, but wasn't so lucky. He met the same fate as last night's after hours visitor.
I'm not even sure the scuffle was a physical one. I'm inclined to believe that it all came down to a staring match. And I'm willing to bet that the insect blinked first, after having spontaneously sprouted eyelids just for this occasion. But obviously even that couldn't provide adequate protection against the formidable green flash of Shana's evil radiation eye.
I'm just relieved she has forgiven me. Otherwise, that unrelenting, judgmental stare could have forced me to seek other living arrangements. And I'm really not in the mood to pack.
P.S. I now have no desire to eat these.
This just in, from the DOG, who also, by the way, serves as my editor for a generous salary and benefits:
This giorno at Duomo was typical save for one comment. A white (you shouldn't wear a doo rag) trainer and his 110-pound male protégé were doing legs, with cries of pain after each burning set. Uh -- ok, but still a pussy boy. Whatever. They invaded my area, and I had my towel, water and glasses on a bench next to the leg press. The cool doo man asked me, "Are you using this bench, ________?"
I responded no, and moved my stuff, so he could sit down and assist his client.
The "blank" evoked many thoughts, and I find it useful to pass some on to you, perhaps akin to the "ma'am" comment, as follows:
- Do I look like George W., the President and Commander? or
- Do I have a striking resemblance to Rhenquist, the boss Justice of the US Supreme Court ?
- Do I exude the military and a position of power, that I might be mistaken for the Joint leader of staff?
- Do I resemble an aged native American tribal poopah, or perhaps a highly placed policeman or fireman?
- Perhaps he thinks I play for the Kansas City professional football team?
- Better yet, he takes me for a Texaco gas pump (premium Sky pundit).
- Am I the principal character of anything?
By now, I suppose you guessed it, a reference I find particularly offensive, chiefly because it is a caustic and sarcastic reference, unless one is referring to Odin.
Any wonder why we've been together so long? Woof!
If I see one more person's fucking tits on the internet -- either overflowing from a bra, cupped in their possessor's hands, pressed beneath a see-through meshy shirt, or even just clever cleavage ... in connection with yesterday's "Blogathon" or the ridiculous Rack Browser or any other permutation or mutation -- I'm going to fucking scream until I bleed from the ears.
Enough already, ladies. We all have 'em. We all know you have 'em.
Put your shirts back on.
This isn't Mardi Gras.
As you may have noticed, in the right-hand column of this page, I have been announcing for quite some time that a "Q&A" is "Coming Soon!" Now, I may be a tease, but ultimately I do follow through, because I'm nothing if not a nice girl.
The problem is this: Most of the questions that people have actually asked me, via email, well ... how do I put this delicately without offending anyone ... well, the questions really fucking blow. If one more person asks me any sort of question that would be asked on a bad first date, I'm going to have to take drastic action.
So I need your input. I need you to ask me questions that I'll want to answer. Now, I can imagine that by now you're already cringing or cowering somewhere in the corner, the way you used to do when you were really really bad and your florid-faced, besotted bastard of a dad came after you with a rolled-up Weekly World News, because you know that ordinarily I do not entertain questions and indeed even enforce a strict policy known as DQM.
But now, for a limited time only, I'm lifting the ban and giving you license to ask me something. Of course there are guidelines/rules you must follow if you want me to even consider providing an answer to your question.
First and foremost, however, before even listing the guidelines, I must tell you that contrary to what your mom has told you, there are, indeed, such things as stupid questions. She was right when she told you not to run around the pool or when she told you that if you did that nasty thing to yourself you'd grow hair on your palms. But about "stupid questions", she was wrong.
If you ask a stupid question (and stupidity is to be determined by an esteemed panel of experts), I will not answer it with an even remotely intelligent answer. In fact, I won't answer it at all.
And now, without further ado, I present to you ...
- No sexual questions. Don't ask about sexual positions, the first time I had sex, the last time I had sex, or if I'll have sex with you. Remember: the only people who give a flying fuck about what other people are doing behind of, or in front of, closed doors, are those who aren't "getting any" themselves. Be a sport and let me believe (however erroneously) you're sexy enough not to ask.
- No questions that will enable you to stalk me. I will not tell you my street address. I will not give you my phone number. I will not give you the longitude and latitude so you can plot it on a map. You know I live in Manhattan. It's a small village, so just ask one of the dusty old guys playing chess on a dustier older barrel outside the general store.
- No bullshit questions that you would ask someone on an ill-fated first date (as mentioned in an introductory paragraph) (so you know I really mean it). These include, but by no means are limited to, "What was your major in college? How old are you? Do you have any brothers and sisters? Are those really yours? Are you sure you won't blow me in the back seat?"
- No questions about why I ordinarily don't allow questions.
"You're putting so many restrictions on us," you may be whining. "You're such a bitch. If I can't ask THAT and I can't ask THIS, then what the hell can I ask?" Well, that's up to you. If you don't have the clever, agile mind that can come up with a question that's not boring, banal, or just plain old stupid, then you shouldn't be asking me what you should be asking me. Rather, you should be asking yourself why you haven't availed yourself and your neck of that big thick rope that's been taunting you from its resting place in a corner in your dad's garage for the last decade or so.
So ask away. You have until the end of my business day (11:59 p.m. EST) on Friday, 12 July 2002 to ask what you want to ask.
You may submit as many questions as you like, but use at least a modicum of discretion.
Do not submit your questions via a comment to this post. Email me only, through this link (leave the subject line as it appears).
Oh, and one more thing: This is supposed to be fun, so make it so!
P.S. I haven't yet decided whether or not the Q&A will attach submitters' identities to their questions when the page goes "live". Let me know what you think.
"Dogs are our link to paradise." -- Milan Kundera
Nothing -- not chocolate, not a foot rub, not a new pair of boots (and no, not even that, boys) -- makes me happier.
Last week I was exposed to two cringeworthy comments, both made by men to women, one of whom happened to be me.
The first, flung in my direction, came courtesy of a white-haired man, probably about 60, fit, well-dressed, and unruffled despite the clinging heat. I made the mistake of catching his eye, and he took it as an invitation to say to me, "Excuse me, ma'am. Are you a registered Republican?"
I don't know which one of those two sentences offended me more. I don't know if I was more put off that he called me ma'am, especially considering he had at least 20 years on me, or that he thought I would be a Republican.
"No!!!" I barked ever so lady-like, through a democratic half-smile, and rushed down the sidewalk.
The second instance occurred not ten minutes later, while I was at CVS, in line behind a woman who probably could have been the white-haired guy's mother. As she handed the young (I'd say he wasn't yet 30) cashier her money, he said something like "thank you", which was all right, of course ... but then he tacked on "young lady", which was not.
Knock it off with the shallow old-fashioned pseudo-pleasantries. Don't call me "ma'am", no matter what age I am or how old or young you are. Save the "young lady" crap for little girls who can't wait to grow up. If you really want to be nice and show respect, just speak to me kindly without the frilly affectation.
(And never call me a Republican.)
Thank you, sir.
Congratulations to Matilda444 on leaving the 1000th comment on this site!
Matilda, a lifetime supply of Little Debbie® snack cakes is on its way to you!
I knew it was only a matter of time before someone would complain about something I wrote here. I knew when I started this whole thing that I was taking a fair amount of risk by even daring to touch on some of the most pressing, highly controversial "issues" of our day. I expected hate mail and nasty comments.
I've seen it on other people's sites. I've seen how one malcontent can misinterpret someone's post and then proceed, in a succession of increasingly nasty comments, to (try to) wring every bit of fun out of what was meant to invoke a lighthearted discussion. I've seen the fury, the backlash -- and I've laughed at it.
But I'm not laughing now.
I didn't expect this to happen. Not to me. These things always happened to "other people".
When I woke up this morning, I found that my apartment had been ransacked. Clothes, some in tatters, strewn everywhere. Kitchen cabinets gaping open like so many shocked mouths. Everything everywhere ... except where it's supposed to be.
Everything, including ... the cat.
I put 2 and 2 together, added in the square root of pi, raised it to the ninth power, subtracted my age, and realized that this destruction has her pawprints all over it. I should've guessed immediately from the overturned litter box and the words "FUCK MEW, BITCH!" scrawled on the wall with its contents. But she's done that before, just to get attention.
Well, Scorns. You've got my attention now. Please come home.
I apologize. I really do. I'm sorry I didn't mention you in the post that immediately precedes this one. It was an oversight. It was not intentional.
Come back. Please come back. Come back, little Shana! I won't even make you clean up the mess you left. Just come home. I beg of mew!
I have almost everything a girl could possibly want.
I live in a groovy apartment in a hip 'n' swingin' neighborhood in one of the happeningest cities on the planet (I hear Jupiter is pretty cool, but it's too far from my favorite restaurants). I have my health. I have a fella who adores me and thinks I'm cute even when I know I look like something my cat would drag in (if only she were allowed outside). I have a dog who is better-lookin' than Johnny Depp. I have friends, online and off, who laugh at (no, I mean with) me. I have parents who encourage my freakishness, a nephew I absolutely adore, a sister who's the coolest chick on this (or any) planet, and a brother whom I would marry if only it wasn't illegal or just plain ol' sick.
What I don't have, however, is this.
I suppose Mick Jagger was right, after all.
Who could forget those loveable ragamuffins I described in my last (and first) installment of Gym Dandy? A mere three weeks ago I tossed out a few crunchy nuggets about a couple of people at the gym who deserved the derision I lovingly heaped upon them. Well today, kidz, there's more!
Today, however, rather than talk about these people behind their [hairy, in some cases] backs, I'm going to address them directly, in the hopes that someone leads them to this page, and by reading about their infractions, their private humiliation leads to change that will save them future public disgrace. (I'm not here to hurt you. I'm here to help.)
To Mr. Boxer Shorts and Your Lovely Boxer-Beshorted Female Companion: Oh, how cute. Precious. You shop together. While I applaud your decision to do so at J. Crew, where you can find classic stuff that will probably wear well and is appropriate for most occasions, I feel it is only my duty to inform you that working out is not one of those occasions.
What were you thinking when you bought those boxer shorts, Mister? "Oh, look, they're red, white, and blue plaid. I can wear them on The Fourth. But I don't want to spend $7.99 if I'm just going to wear them one day a year. Oh, I know. I can wear them to the gym. This lightweight cotton will absorb all moisture and become a sodden lump between my thighs wih a minimum of exertion. Plus, the navy blue will 'pick up' the navy blue of the socks I intend to wear with them in public."
And you. Over there. Mrs. Mister. What were you thinking? Obviously you weren't. Obviously you were sleepwalking when you bought those things with the intention of wearing them in public. For $7.99, you, like your boytoy, could easily amortize the cost by wearing them around the house, like I do, thus eliminating the need (if not the desire) to wear them beyond your front door. Boxer shorts at home, especially with the waistband rolled down, and worn with a T-shirt (baby doll or otherwise) can be cute-sexy. But out in public, with an oversized T-shirt and hair that should be hidden under a baseball cap, well ... no. (And by the way, I am by no means condoning baseball caps as acceptable headgear at the gym. Even with a pert ponytail pulled saucily through the space in the back. Just brush your fucking hair, pull it back, and be done with it.)
To Too-Tan Titsy: May I daintily suggest a workout top that covers more of your tits than exposes them? Once your Grand Canyon of a cleavage becomes the sweat reservoir that I know is inevitable, the effect you're going for is going to be lost. And by the way, we've all heard that getting a tan will mask cellulite, but really, a little fat is better than a lot of melanoma.
To Hirsute-Shouldered-and-Backed "Muscle Shirt" Guy: Ummm ... no. I mean ... no. Lose the growth. Gain some muscle. Then we'll talk. Or maybe not.
There are a lot more where these came from, because the gym, as always, is a never-ending source of hilarity and scorn. The sartorial selections are only surpassed by the outrageous workouts that are peformed in them. And that, my friends, is another item for another day. Stay tuned.
- Young men should never smoke pipes. (I mean the kind that a professor would cradle in his palm while wearing a tweed sportsjacket with leather elbow patches.)
- tHeRe iZ nEVeR aN eXCusE tO tYpE LiKE tHiS.
- Don't include me on the list of people to whom you are forwarding "inspirational" email. I detest that "Footsteps in the Sand" blatherskite and anything of its kind. Don't send me any hilarious variations, either. They suck even more than the original.
- Don't ever tell me you're "ROTF", unless you truly are. And don't make matters worse by appending "LMAO" to it, unless you can supply irrefutable evidence that your ass has, indeed, separated itself from your person. Hyperbole and acronyms certainly have their place, but not when (ab)used this way.
- Don't assume that because I choose the vegetarian "meal option" when flying, I don't want the brownie or cake. Just because I don't eat the meats doesn't mean I don't eat the sweets.
- Never call me on the phone (we could end this one right here ... but wait! there's more!) to tell me you have nothing to say.
As is always the case with my lists, this one is by no means complete. Tonight is no different from any other night. (This isn't, after all, Hanukkah.)
Here I am.
What ... you were expecting something more telling?
Please. I'll never tell. (Or show.)
I am so out of touch with what's going on out there in the real world. These kids these days with their long hair and their rock-and-roll!
This afternoon my adorable new friend Elise mentioned "Guster" in an email. I had no idea what she was talking about. I thought it was a kind of junk food. I pictured it having some sort of delightfully salty cheesy filling, sort of like Combos. I had no idea it was (is?) a band until I did a -- gasp! -- Google search.
I'm so out of it. What's going to become of me? Or has whatever's to become of me already become? What's next? Am I going to look down and discover that I'm sporting a putty-colored acrylic cardigan and using phrases such as "Neato bondito!" and "Yeppers!" -- unaware that they've been replaced by hipper lingo such as "Fabamundo!" and "Yessiree!" ?
It's all too much to bear! I think I need a glass of Ovaltine or Postum to calm me down.
Everyone needs a little chortle in the afternoon. I'm no exception. My mini-amusement du jour was sponsored by yet another desperate thrill-seeker who was led here via a Google search.
Any idea, kidz, why would someone search for this? Does this sort of thing usually come at a hefty price?
Is it merely coincidence that someone found me the other day by searching for "mime crying jpg"? Or has "Because I Say So!" been named Officlal Source for White-Painted-Face Entertainment without my knowledge?
Kidz! Look! There's another "jodiverse"!
You can play in her backyard as much as you like, but remember where your home is. OK?
Now ... run along! (But don't be late for dinner. You know how your father gets.)
When I left the apartment this morning for the gym, Broadway was eerily calm and quiet. A car passed soundlessly, and I couldn't even hear my own footsteps. The only sound I heard was that of a bird or two singing (I couldn't make out the lyrics, though). It was sort of like when in a movie, only one sound is heard -- the protagonist's nervous breathing, or a gunshot -- for some special effect or reason.
When I arrived at the gym, I was surprised to see that the top floor, where I do most of my stuff, was barren except for one of the employees I call "floorwalkers". I thought it was the new one who I just don't like for some reason -- a lovely combination of Jane from "The Beverly Hillbillies" and Mrs. Walsh from "Beverly Hills 90210", who sports one of those horrid "fanny packs" -- but it was someone else who actually knows how to smile.
Anyway, as much as I was thrilled that I was the only one there, I also thought that maybe something apocalyptic had happened overnight and I was one of the very few surviving members of the human race. "Ahhh, it's actually not that bad, being one of the only people left in Manhattan," I thought. "I won't have to worry about all those bitches who give me dirty looks anymore. And I think I can probably get away with not paying for a bottle of water!"
Imagine my disappointment when, at 6:12, I was joined by a guy whose workout usually annoys me. He got on "my" treadmill and started his intense 20-minute walk at the breakneck speed of 3.2 miles per hour. He started doing his usual punching-the-air-with-his-fists thing, wearing weight-lifting gloves on hands that I've never seen lifting one.
Of course, because we were the only two people left on the planet (aside from the gym personnel), he obviously thought that meant we would have to converse. I'd never spoken to this guy before, and really had no intention of doing so. But when he caught my eye in the mirror and sorta kinda semi-smiled, I found myself grinning like an idiot. He made an innocuous comment about how he and I should get "special credit" for being there. I lobbied back something just as exciting.
His timing on "my" treadmill was perfect, however, and he vacated it at the very moment I was considering doing some other form of cardio. I, in a strangely magnanimous mood (I figured I was going to have to start being nice to this guy if he and I were the only two people left, because, quite frankly, sometimes I do like to have lunch with someone), thanked him for vacating it, and spouted something off about how it was my favorite treadmill. I daresay I blathered. I may even have blithered, but I'm not too sure.
We engaged in the sort of chatter that I ordinarily avoid. Nothingspeak. Talking just for the sake of talking. He mentioned that he is a photographer, and I thought, "Well, at least the only other person who survived last night has an interesting hobby. Maybe he can finally take those glamour shots of me that I've been meaning to get. I wonder if any roses are still around, so I can delicately clutch one in my hand for the portrait."
Of course, thinking the way I do, I thought this guy was going to ask me if he could take my picture sometime. Because it's not unusual for guys to use something like this as a come-on. Alas, he didn't, and I was relieved (but also kind of pissed -- what, doesn't he think I'm cute enough to photograph?). But as I ran on the treadmill, I started thinking about a time years ago when I met a guy who wanted to take my picture. Only the picture he wanted to take wasn't a still one. No, he wanted me to be in a movie.
That man was Steven Spielberg.
No it wasn't.
One evening I was visiting a friend (I can't even remember her name now) who had a posh apartment in a "luxury" building in Philadelphia, and I met this older guy in the elevator. He asked me if I'd ever been in a movie, and I told him I hadn't (which was true at the time; now, as we all know, I'm an international movie star hiding behind this website as a way of communicating with my public in a way that my agent wouldn't approve). He told me I was stunning/gorgeous/beautiful (take your pick), gave me his card, and just as he exited the elevator, told me to call him ...
So I did.
* * * * * * *
When I got out of the taxi, I looked around to make sure the address matched the one on the business card I grasped between my fingers. Surely there had to be a mistake. I turned back to ask the taxi-driver, but he was already gone. So I straightened up, closed my eyes, prayed to some nebulous god that I wouldn't get killed crossing the sidewalk, and approached the paint-chipped door that was waiting for me.
There was no elevator. I took the stairs two at a time, not too eager to make friends with the rats that I swore would dart across my feet given half a chance. I reached his door, bowed my head, held my breath, and knocked.
"You look even more gorgeous than I remember," he said as he took a long drag on his cigarette. "Come on in and make yourself comfortable."
I heaved a huge sigh of relief when I saw that he did, indeed, have cameras set up. He did have one of those big white umbrella-y looking things. There were wires snaking across the floor, black-and-white photos of pretty women scattered all over the place, ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts -- all the cliché accoutrements I'd hoped would be there.
He got behind one of the cameras and told me to take off my jacket. He asked me if I wanted a drink, a cigarette, or anything else. I assured him I was fine, even though I felt like I should drink and smoke just to show him I was a real adult and not the stupid 21-year-old I was.
"Just do what comes naturally," he said.
So I made stupid faces, flipped my hair, and pretended I was a supermodel. All the stuff I did at home, in the mirror. Fortunately he thought it was charming and adorable. He laughed. He told me I was beautiful. He told me to take off my shirt.
"Excuse me?" I said.
"Take off your shirt," he said.
"I ..." I sputtered, not knowing whether to believe him or not.
"Just take off your shirt," he insisted, calmly, not removing his eye from the camera lens.
Tears streamed down my face as I slowly slid my shirt from my skinny shoulders. I looked straight into the camera, and then away, unable to look him in the eye anymore.
"Now ... suck your thumb like a good little girl ..."
And just then the elevator bell "ding" woke me from my daydream and I realized I wasn't Irene Cara (Coco) in Fame.
Do you still think I'll live forever?
Baby, remember my name.
Today is Friday, not Monday.
(Oh, and your wife called. She said to remember to bring home milk and a roll of paper towel. And also to remember that you're having dinner with her parents and not to be late like last time. It wasn't cute when you tripped through the door at 8:00, reeking of cigaratte smoke and cheap perfume.)
Should I consider a name change for this site?
I'd prefer to keep it in the present tense, but I do like the intensity that the added word confers.
But what's in a fucking name, really, y'know?
On Monday I had a very slight run-in with a creditor who called looking for $39 that I owe Banana Republic. Ordinarily I don't even pick up the phone if I don't recognize the number on the Caller ID or if it just says UNAVAILABLE or OUT OF AREA. But for some reason I was in the mood to pick up the phone on Monday, without even checking to see who was calling. When this cretin called looking for $39, I could just tell it was going to be trouble.
"Trouble" because of his attitude. Not mine. He just started off with the standard monotone/drone bullshit, using my name several times so I'd feel like I was "special" enough for him to address me in such a lighthearted, familiar/personal manner. Then he started in on the Real Reason for his call. And that's where his Mr. Familiarity schpiel ended.
My account, he said, was 24 days overdue. I owed $39. I should pay immediately to avoid a $25 surcharge for late payment. I could pay right then, at that very second, before I even took another breath. It was that simple. I could pay right then. I could pay right then. All I had to do was give him tracking information from a personal check. I could and should pay right then. Right then.
I told him I never received the bill, which was not a lie. It was then that he got all snippy with me. "Uh HUH," he said. "Mmm HMM."
"Don't get all ACCUSATORY with ME," I shot back. "I told you I didn't get the bill, and I didn't get the bill. Please send me another bill for my records."
"It was mailed at the beginning of June," he said.
"I understand that," I said, ever so calmly, in my best Hannibal Lechter scary-calm voice. "I never received it. Send me another bill for my records. OK?"
"If you make payment right now, you won't be charged $25."
"I do not have my checkbook here," I said. "I will call the person who has my checkbook and arrange for payment to be made."
"Who has the checkbook?" he had the gall to ask.
This was the one moment that I could kick myself for. It was no big deal, but I could still kick myself.
"My boyfriend does." Why did I have to tell him that? Was it any of his fucking business? "I will call him and have him make arrangements to pay today."
"He has the checkbook and will make payment?"
"As I just TOLD you, YES," I said. "I will make arrangements to have it paid today. Didn't I just say that?"
At this point I could hear the blood pounding in my ears. I started to literally see red. I wanted to start stringing together all sorts of fun words to create new curses, because the old standards (cocksucker, asshole, motherfucking son of a bitch) just wouldn't do. Instead, I chose to piss him off by being "nice".
You should hear me do "nice". It's really disgusting. I don't know if it sounds as fake as I know it is. I don't think it does. However, if you know me at all in so-called real life, you know that when I decide to go into "nice" mode, it's a sure sign that there's fun a-brewin'.
"Sure!" I said, grinning broadly so it would come across in my voice. I pictured myself in a floral dress, sitting on a swing on a veranda somewhere in the South, sipping iced tea in a pretty glass, complete with a fresh mint leaf and clinking ice cubes. "But would you please be so kind as to send me another copy of the bill for my records? I like to, y'know, keep my records up-to-date and complete in case there's ever a question about payment."
"If you pay today you won't be charged $25," he said, actually sounding even more disturbed.
"That's great! Thank you!" I said, with what I think was a touch of a Southern drawl. (Just a touch.) "Fantastic. I'll make sure it's paid today!"
"Today. $39," he said. "Payment must be made TODAY."
"Sure! Yep! As soon as I get off the phone!" (Yes, all exclamation points were practically visible.)
"Hrmph," he mumbled. "Thank you and have a nice day."
"Oh, you do the same!" I said, still grinning maniacally. "Have a fantastic day!"
He hung up with a huffy click. And I'm sure he continued to scribble the word BITCH all over a little tablet in his pathetic cubicle, the way he no doubt was doing for the duration of our enervating exchange.
I gently depressed the "off" button on the receiver, set it back on my desk, and only then did I let loose a string of the most adorable expletives you'd ever want to hear. Like those snap-together beads that toddlers play with, but even more colorful.
All that fun for just $39 (with no $25 surcharge!). And I didn't even have to leave the house!
Hey. Put down what you're doing and listen to me. And look at me when I talk to you. I have something very important to say to all of you.
I know that if I don't tell you to have a safe "Fourth", you're all going to run amok across a backyard or a beach somewhere with one of those sparkler things and let it burn down close enough to your hand so that you can almost smell the flesh cooking. Or you're going to do something zany with lighter fluid, propane, or those tons of matchbooks you've amassed in your kitchen's "junk drawer". So, because I care about you all as if you were my own children, I thought I should be the mature one here and provide you with a few statistics that may dissuade you from doing something really fucking stupid.
Did you know that, last year on The Fourth, across the U.S. of A., the following happened?
- There were 457,920 backyard barbecues; 72% resulted in at least one accidental burn and 40% of those burn victims also suffered from salmonella.
- Of that 40%, 95% said the food "tasted really bad" but they "didn't want to say anything" because it was free and all they had to do was bring paper plates, plastic cups, or a big bag of chips.
- There were 18,252 private fireworks displays, and 3,105 children rushed to the emergency room with at least superficial burns; 60% of those children required skin grafts from parts of their bodies that they said they would never have wanted exposed to the public.
- Of those 60%, more than half said they still thought fireworks were "really really neat!!!" and they couldn't wait for next year when Daddy let them set off even more.
- Those 18,252 private displays also resulted in 11,526 women burning themselves on purpose just so they could use their "fat asses" (their words -- don't get upset with me) for skin grafts. Only 738 men burned themselves on purpose, but said they did so "to impress some chick with a great ass".
- Of the 168,003 guests invited to others' homes for barbecues, 33% said they could have definitely grilled a better burger.
- More than 3,111,998 sparklers were handed out to children under the age of 13; more than half of those sparklers wound up in body cavities that really don't respond well to fire.
I've found a load of other statistics as well. Way too many to mention. But I see that it's getting pretty close to the end of the work day (at least for those of you on this coast), and I wanted to make sure you didn't leave without some warning. These statistics are the ones that struck me as the most important, so I'm passing them along to you.
I don't have any personal safety tips to dispense, because I happen to hate the Fourth of July. My big plans -- staying inside and doing nothing -- don't tend to include that much risk. But please, if you do partake of the festivities, I beg you to be careful. Your lives are oh so precious, and I don't want my readership to decline because you did something really funny with a firecracker or something.
I knew it was only a matter of time before it would all come down to this.
Should I be flattered? Disgusted? Impressed that someone from the "UK" is so interested?
I don't know. I just wish I had one of those really cool foam "fingers" that idiots wave around at football games so I could parade around my apartment (naked, of course) and celebrate.
Please please please do away with these two.
I have no idea who this person is, but I want to hang out with her.
You don't call ... you don't write ...
For all you knew, I could've been bound and gagged all day -- and not in a good way, either. I could've been kidnapped. I could've suffered a heat stroke. I could've slipped and fallen in the tub and broken a hip. I could've tripped over an errant piece of kibble in the hallway and been lying face-down on the hardwood floor for hours, forced to gaze underneath one of the living room sofas at the balls of dust and clumps of dog hair (large enough to fashion into a Lhasa Apso) that taunted me because I could do nothing about them.
Something terrible could've happened to me. But did you call? No.
"Well, you wouldn't've picked up the phone anyway," you argue, "so what would've been the point!"
The point is that you didn't even bother trying. And no, I will not accept the argument that you don't have my phone number. Directory Assistance would had gladly scoured the Yellow Pages for "Jodi in Manhattan".
The least you could've done was write. You could've followed Kim's example and taken the time to send an email. Or Chad's, and checked in with me via an instant message. I would've loved to have taken you all to Coney Island for a ride on the big ferris wheel, but I'm afraid it's going to be just Kim, Chad, and I. It will be Kim and Chad who get the cotton candy and they who get to take home the Aerosmith and Budweiser mirrors I plan to win.
So tell me. What was so important today that you couldn't write? Were you really that busy at work? What's more important to you, anyway -- meeting that deadline, or making sure I'm not lying dead somewhere?
Update (10:34 p.m.): I neglected to include Jack, who sent me email shortly after noon today. Chad ... Kim ... we have a fourth!
I can't stand celebrity lookalikes. (Doesn't the word "lookalike" look weird -- like it would be a Hawaiian flower pronounced loo-KAH-lih-kee?) I don't know exactly what it is about them that annoys me so much. Maybe it's the "mugs" they sport when they invariably play up to the camera. Maybe it's that they always look desperate. Or maybe it's because they're usually worse versions of celebrities who are bad enough in original form.
Well, however you slice 'em, no matter how you dice 'em, no matter if you set 'em afire and exclaim, "Cherries jubilee!!!", I just don't like celebrity lookalikes. (But I do like the idea of a delicately aromatic Hawaiian flower, presented in a simple vase, on the sill of an open window.)
One riveting segment of "Live With Regis and Kelly" this morning featured a group of so-called regular people assembled to represent the cast of "Friends". The Jennifer Aniston lookalike was particularly ridiculous, in that the only resemblance she had to Aniston (this girl called her "Jennifer", though, as if being selected, however fallaciously, to be the celebrity lookalike, gave her permission to be so familiar) was the haircut. Unless, of course, Aniston, overnight, gained about 40 pounds, five inches, and a decidedly square chin. The rest of the "cast" at least bore a faint (in the case of "Joey", it was extremely faint) resemblance to the celebrities they were supposed to represent.
In all fairness to today's "Jennifer Aniston" lookalike, she said that she didn't think she resembled Aniston. So she's not a total loser. (Therefore, I may be willing to forgive her for the "Jennifer" thing.) But the people for whom I reserve the most disdain are those who actually offer their unsolicited opinions about whom they think they resemble. People like those on "AOL Today" (even though I have a "real" cable internet connection, I still have AOL too; why, I don't know) who have the nerve not only to say they look like someone famous but the guts to ask for ratings. Or people who submit their pictures to sites like this.
People (both strangers and friends) have told me I look like Gina Gershon and Linda Fiorentino (especially as she appeared in The Last Seduction). I've also gotten "Julia Roberts" (but no, I refuse to include a picture of her, because she rankles the hell out of me), and "even better than Julia Roberts!" from one particularly ardent admirer.
The Julia Roberts deal is just ridiculous (although I must say I think I am "even better" than she is). However, overall, I'd have to say that Linda Fiorentino is the best choice. (She has, indeed, been approached to be my lookalike on a FOX program slated to air sometime this fall.) But when I'm at the gym, and delicately perspiring, I'd have to go with Gina Gershon. Either way, I can't lose!
So how about you? Who have people told you you resemble? Imogene Coca, the Bradys' "Aunt Jenny"? Nadia Comenici circa 1976? A young Tab Hunter? Underdog?
P.S. Go here for a fun-tastic piece written by someone I don't know but wish I did. It has nothing to do with celebrity lookalikes, but manages to excoriate quite a few of the genuine articles. Delicious.
Did you like the avant-garde post (above) that appeared on my site the entire day, up until about three minutes ago?
Tell me. How much did you suffer without me?
I think I need a drink.
It's a good thing I just bought a two-liter bottle of Diet Coke®.
(Do you think the wine that's been sitting in my refrigerator for the past seven years is still good?)