Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Monday, April 25, 2005
Amity Gardens.
Let's take a sec to discuss the Overstock.com commercials, shall we?
First of all, does anyone else feel like they're entering the Red Light District in Amsterdam when that freaky pseudo-Dutch woman starts yammering at them about half-priced books in an unsettlingly come-hither voice? What the fuck is with her obvious accent that she does a piss-poor job of trying to cover? Well, I guess it is Overstock. com, so they had to cut corners on the dialect coach. Perhaps this odd choice of her as their spokesperson was made because the ad company thought the stupid public would be fooled into thinking she's a model? Did a focus group of beer-bellied frat trash from Kansas give her the thumbs up as "classy but I'd fuck her"? I'm baffled.
I don't understand what they're trying to achieve at all, especially with the "color" scheme. The whole white on flourescent orange makes my eyes itch. The creepy-sexy talking lady's unselfconcious lack of acting ability is the only definite aspect of the commercial. On a scale of "What the fuck?" to "jesus holy christ on a bike", I give it a suck a dick up to the hiccup. I only hope Overstock.com swallows.
I would say "boo-ya", but I fucking hate that phrase.
First of all, does anyone else feel like they're entering the Red Light District in Amsterdam when that freaky pseudo-Dutch woman starts yammering at them about half-priced books in an unsettlingly come-hither voice? What the fuck is with her obvious accent that she does a piss-poor job of trying to cover? Well, I guess it is Overstock. com, so they had to cut corners on the dialect coach. Perhaps this odd choice of her as their spokesperson was made because the ad company thought the stupid public would be fooled into thinking she's a model? Did a focus group of beer-bellied frat trash from Kansas give her the thumbs up as "classy but I'd fuck her"? I'm baffled.
I don't understand what they're trying to achieve at all, especially with the "color" scheme. The whole white on flourescent orange makes my eyes itch. The creepy-sexy talking lady's unselfconcious lack of acting ability is the only definite aspect of the commercial. On a scale of "What the fuck?" to "jesus holy christ on a bike", I give it a suck a dick up to the hiccup. I only hope Overstock.com swallows.
I would say "boo-ya", but I fucking hate that phrase.
It Must Be Summer.
Back at work after a fruitful week off full of overindulgence, performance and sleep...marvelous, magical sleep.
In a better mood now. It's amazing what the full moon and menses do to you. This morning I woke up and thought, "OK, unless the new Nazi pope used his dark powers to make me immaculately knocked up, I'm not pregnant. If that then is the case, how can I be having a fucking miscarriage?!" Oh, extremely heavy periods! That make you think you're perhaps giving birth to a stillborn! Fun times!
And while we're at it: there's nothing like taking a shower and realizing that you're reenacting "Psycho"*, starring you and your hyperactive uterus! The bathroom looked like a crime scene. Me? No, I don't mind scrubbing the floors down with Lysol at 7:45 am, naked but for a sodden towel. I'm Irish, it's in our genes. Hearty stock, fit for cleaning, breeding and- quite evidently- bleeding. Ba-dum-dum-CHING! YOU'RE WELCOME!
Someone at the office STOLE MY CHAIR while I was gone. I'll fix you.
*not in any way a reference to the shitty, unnecessary Van Sant re-make.
In a better mood now. It's amazing what the full moon and menses do to you. This morning I woke up and thought, "OK, unless the new Nazi pope used his dark powers to make me immaculately knocked up, I'm not pregnant. If that then is the case, how can I be having a fucking miscarriage?!" Oh, extremely heavy periods! That make you think you're perhaps giving birth to a stillborn! Fun times!
And while we're at it: there's nothing like taking a shower and realizing that you're reenacting "Psycho"*, starring you and your hyperactive uterus! The bathroom looked like a crime scene. Me? No, I don't mind scrubbing the floors down with Lysol at 7:45 am, naked but for a sodden towel. I'm Irish, it's in our genes. Hearty stock, fit for cleaning, breeding and- quite evidently- bleeding. Ba-dum-dum-CHING! YOU'RE WELCOME!
Someone at the office STOLE MY CHAIR while I was gone. I'll fix you.
*not in any way a reference to the shitty, unnecessary Van Sant re-make.
Give Me Room, I Feel A Wicked Spell Comin' On.
That, dear readers, is a line from a poem titled, "Freddy The Rat Perishes". I did not write it. It was found by my best friend in high school, Becky, and I. It was in a paperback book of "modern" poetry which, when I was home for Christmas, I was delighted to find I still had.
Anyway that is neither here nor there. I am in a hateful mood and want to be as mean as I can right now. I am filled with spite. Pure, venemous bile. It's going to backfire, mark my words.
I should be in a great mood, I had a great show. Even better than last week. I kicked ass. But as I am a misanthropic malcontent, I can only focus on how malicious I am. I am a peevish, sullen toad right now.
Bite me.
Anyway that is neither here nor there. I am in a hateful mood and want to be as mean as I can right now. I am filled with spite. Pure, venemous bile. It's going to backfire, mark my words.
I should be in a great mood, I had a great show. Even better than last week. I kicked ass. But as I am a misanthropic malcontent, I can only focus on how malicious I am. I am a peevish, sullen toad right now.
Bite me.
Saturday, April 23, 2005
MORTIFIED NYC!
Hey all-
I maintain a seperate section of my blog with my performance calendar on it, but since I am so excited about this show, I am going to brag on it here, and even post some press about it. Suck it.
Experience me reading poetry I wrote the year I thought it was appropriate to cut all my hair off because it was "ugly" and "frizzy", and I desperately wished for straight bleach-blonde hair & giant cockroach bangs like all the "pretty" girls had. It made sense at the time, along with stuffing my bra and praying to be frenched nightly.
Angst invades the East Coast!
Yes, MORTIFIED, Los Angeles' cult comedy sensation is finally coming to NYC. Witness grown men & women reading aloud their most pathetic REAL teenage journal entries, poems, letters & lyrics... in front of total strangers. New city, same melodrama.
WHAT: Mortified NYC
WHEN: Sunday April 24th 8pm
WHERE: The Tank, 432 W 42nd St, NYC b/t 8th & 9th Ave.
COST: $10
TICKETS: Smarttix
STARRING: Sara Allocco, Brandy Barber, Abby Gross, Margot Leitman, Jen McNeil, Dave Nadelberg, Will Nolan, Giulia Rozzi, Victoria Scroggins, Maria Suozzo and Law Tarello.
As heard on NPR's "This American Life"!
Hailed "a comic cringe fest" by Backstage West!
Mortified is created by David Nadelberg. Mortified NYC is produced by David Nadelberg & Giulia Rozzi. More info @ http://www.getmortified.com
In angst we trust.
But this mention on Gawker was better, since I earned it for my art, not my (hard) ass. Word.
See you at the show!
I maintain a seperate section of my blog with my performance calendar on it, but since I am so excited about this show, I am going to brag on it here, and even post some press about it. Suck it.
Experience me reading poetry I wrote the year I thought it was appropriate to cut all my hair off because it was "ugly" and "frizzy", and I desperately wished for straight bleach-blonde hair & giant cockroach bangs like all the "pretty" girls had. It made sense at the time, along with stuffing my bra and praying to be frenched nightly.
Angst invades the East Coast!
Yes, MORTIFIED, Los Angeles' cult comedy sensation is finally coming to NYC. Witness grown men & women reading aloud their most pathetic REAL teenage journal entries, poems, letters & lyrics... in front of total strangers. New city, same melodrama.
WHAT: Mortified NYC
WHEN: Sunday April 24th 8pm
WHERE: The Tank, 432 W 42nd St, NYC b/t 8th & 9th Ave.
COST: $10
TICKETS: Smarttix
STARRING: Sara Allocco, Brandy Barber, Abby Gross, Margot Leitman, Jen McNeil, Dave Nadelberg, Will Nolan, Giulia Rozzi, Victoria Scroggins, Maria Suozzo and Law Tarello.
As heard on NPR's "This American Life"!
Hailed "a comic cringe fest" by Backstage West!
Mortified is created by David Nadelberg. Mortified NYC is produced by David Nadelberg & Giulia Rozzi. More info @ http://www.getmortified.com
In angst we trust.
And now, I shall inject the hype. People, sometimes the critics are right. This is one of those times.
FLAVORPILL:
Whoever said humor is based on the pain of others may well have had Mortified in mind. This LA-sprung comedic collective takes schadenfreude to a whole new level as its performers bravely bare their souls — just for kicks. Alone on a spotlighted stage, these folks share their desperate diary entries, very bad poetry, and unattainable dreams of happiness, as well as heartbreakingly hilarious tales of personal woe and social catastrophe. From the embarrassing to the eternally horrifying, all-too-human foibles and fumbles finally get their chance to shine. (SND) Note: We suggest advance tickets as the show is likely to sell out.
flavorpill is an email magazine covering a hand-picked selection of music, art, and cultural events — delivered each Tuesday afternoon.
GAWKER:
LA-based comedy collective Mortified find humor in reading embarrasing diary entries, awful poetry, and hearbreaking tales of personal woe on stage. Go laugh at how marginally better your life is than theirs at The Tank tonight.
Your daily source for Manhattan media and gossip. Gawker, reporting live from the center of the universe.
PERSONAL ANECDOTE:
Now, I was excited when I got my first Gawker stalk:
Saw Brian Huskey, one of the better talking heads populating “Best Week Ever”, at the L train stop on 14th on Tuesday the 25th. He was talking to an Amazonian redheaded woman (girlfriend?) who made him look smaller than the usual “they look smaller than they do on TV” small. Tried to spy on what they were talking about but failed. I assume it was snarky.
But this mention on Gawker was better, since I earned it for my art, not my (hard) ass. Word.
See you at the show!
The Wisdom of Rob Webber.
"It's like you're Turbo and Ozone, and you're in hell, and you gotta pop, lock, and break your way outta hell."
-2002
Rara avis.
I looked at myself yesterday and decided I was not healthy. What was my first clue, you ask? Was it the little silver mountain of Hershey's Kisses wrappers next to my laptop? The suspicious clink of numerous discarded wine bottles in my Islamic, non-drinking landlord's recycle bin? Or perhaps the fact that the last time I willingly had a glass of water, it was to stave off the inevitable nauseua I was going to be experiencing after ingesting 4-5 more Grey Goose & cranberries than I could possibly handle?
The final straw was when I asked Ben if he thought I'd gained any weight. He without hesitation said yes. Then I said, "Do I look chubby?" He considered, then said, "Well, you're on the borderline of chubby. Like, I wouldn't say you were chubby but you're getting close."
That does it. Things are going to change.
So as of this morning I have had two glasses of water. And handful of raisins. And half a whole wheat bagel with almond butter and grape preserves. I am on a mission. This mission includes avoiding excess consumption of soda (I am already about to cry on that one) carbs (so I have to throw out all my beloved snack crackers) and of course, candy. And I have, have, have to cut down on the drinking.
My drinking goes in cycles. I'll be a drunk assed hellion for 6 or 7 months- meaning I'm out at least 2 times a week if not more, hammered and rowdy- and then, I switch back into "I haven't been drunk in months" minsdet. I am in the former mode as of January, but sense that I may go back to being drunk every couple of weeks (as opposed to every other night) soon.
I did a quick, depressing equasion: How many times have I been drunk this past week?
April 17th: Went out after my show, did not intend to have more than one drink but people kept buying them for me. So why say no to that? That would be rude. Sara and I dig in purses for change. She is the brave one, so she walks up to the bar with only a few paper bills in hand, the rest being coin, and gets drinks (I am not only a chubby drunk, I am a coward to boot). Only have 4 beers total (or was it five?), but this was on an empty stomach, so I am a bit tiddly. Giulia, Sara and I are harrssed by an obese man with a Montell Jordan jukebox fetish, who I begin to refer to as my "dad". His pockets are, comically and tragically, turned inside out of his ill-fitting pants. My friend/old roommate Deb is visiting from San Francisco, so she and I then go home and eat at the Carrol Gardens Diner, where it seems wise to have a bacon cheeseburger, fries and a Coke at 1 am on a Sunday.
April 18th: Went to see Liam's show. Met Anne at the Hat prior and had a large one of their gasoline-powerful margaritas along with a handful of chips. Smart plan. Went to the show, spilt a bottle of wine with Anne. Went to the Magician, had 2 glasses of wine and about 3 peanuts. Went somewhere else in the LES (can't remember) had a beer? I think? Went home, laid in bed and thought, how the fuck did I drink that much? Had the spins.
April 19th: Wrote sketches with Sara. Had two beers. Went to see Midnight Pajama Jam taping. Did not drink at the show- but did eat a guacamole smothered fried catfish taco at, oh, 1 am? Nice.
April 20th: DID NOT DRINK. EXCEPT FOR A HALF A GLASS OF RED WINE. THAT SO DOES NOT COUNT. Where's my token, dammit? Porter came over, I made outrageously fattening french fries w/ a butter/garlic/parsley sauce and red-pepper turkey burgers. Then we went on a walk and got ice cream. Something tells me that in order to make up for those fries, I would have needed to take a walk back and forth over the Brooklyn Bridge a few times. Say, 23.
April 21st: Anne and I drink some 40s, go to Quinton's birthday, where I have 2 beers, then go downtown, stop in at Pommes Frites and eat some amazing fries drenched in blue cheese sauce, then on to Telephone Bar, where we have 2 beers, then go to Welcome to the Johnson's, where we are picked up on poorly by NYU freshman as we drink a PBR, then to Motor City, where we have another beer, then to the Hat. I order something off the menu and by the time it comes, I forget what I ordered. Which is sad because it's so awesome I want to order it again. It's in a fried tortilla shell smothered in- yes of course- guacamole, sour cream, and cheese. Massive. It was so lovely, so fatteningly lovely. I can only eat half of it, so they make me a little doggy-bag and Anne and I stomp out the door directly into cabs. Again, it's 1 am and I am drunk and have eaten my staple of cheese, fried things and booze. Nummers.
April 22nd: I go out to meet some co-workers of mine, and some aquaintances who were visiting from London. We were meant to have Japanese bubble tea, but instead, we end up having cocktails. After my fourth drink at, oh, I guess it was about 7 pm, we all head to Max in Alphabet City and have an AMAZING Italian meal, offset by two bottles of red wine for the 7 of us. Now, I was only a bit buzzed, and this is because I made a point of eating everything in front of me that wasn't bolted down. It was frightful. I had to eat some of everyone's rigatoni, osso bucco, and of course my own lasagna. It was heavenly piggery. I was sick to my stomach by meal's end because I overate horribly. I got home at 10ish, stuffed and in pain, and that's when I decided things were verging on retarded. So, I crawled into bed with Confederacy of Dunces, nursed my awful stomach ache and made promises to myself that I was going to fucking BEHAVE.
After documenting this and reading it, I had to laugh at myself due to my repulsive behavior. It is time to exercize the muscle I feel is my weakest- the self-control muscle. In me, I suppose this muscle might resemble the stunted, puny arms of the Tyrannasaurus Rex, present yet impotent, something to be mocked rather than feared.
This is the muscle that seems to be largely absent when I decide it's totally OK to have two Magnolia Bakery buttercream-frosted cupcakes/another Sapphire & tonic because he's buying/make out with you.
Being impulsive is something I neurologically cannot help- and while I do think it makes me unqiue, it also gets me into heaps of trouble. I find myself in situations doing absolutely ridiculous things, things I don't even want to do. I don't have that "off" button that practical people have. I don't grasp consequences of actions until it's quite late. And again, while I think that that lends me a certain charm I am proud of, it also means that sometimes, I am an asshole.
So that's how that goes.
The final straw was when I asked Ben if he thought I'd gained any weight. He without hesitation said yes. Then I said, "Do I look chubby?" He considered, then said, "Well, you're on the borderline of chubby. Like, I wouldn't say you were chubby but you're getting close."
That does it. Things are going to change.
So as of this morning I have had two glasses of water. And handful of raisins. And half a whole wheat bagel with almond butter and grape preserves. I am on a mission. This mission includes avoiding excess consumption of soda (I am already about to cry on that one) carbs (so I have to throw out all my beloved snack crackers) and of course, candy. And I have, have, have to cut down on the drinking.
My drinking goes in cycles. I'll be a drunk assed hellion for 6 or 7 months- meaning I'm out at least 2 times a week if not more, hammered and rowdy- and then, I switch back into "I haven't been drunk in months" minsdet. I am in the former mode as of January, but sense that I may go back to being drunk every couple of weeks (as opposed to every other night) soon.
I did a quick, depressing equasion: How many times have I been drunk this past week?
April 17th: Went out after my show, did not intend to have more than one drink but people kept buying them for me. So why say no to that? That would be rude. Sara and I dig in purses for change. She is the brave one, so she walks up to the bar with only a few paper bills in hand, the rest being coin, and gets drinks (I am not only a chubby drunk, I am a coward to boot). Only have 4 beers total (or was it five?), but this was on an empty stomach, so I am a bit tiddly. Giulia, Sara and I are harrssed by an obese man with a Montell Jordan jukebox fetish, who I begin to refer to as my "dad". His pockets are, comically and tragically, turned inside out of his ill-fitting pants. My friend/old roommate Deb is visiting from San Francisco, so she and I then go home and eat at the Carrol Gardens Diner, where it seems wise to have a bacon cheeseburger, fries and a Coke at 1 am on a Sunday.
April 18th: Went to see Liam's show. Met Anne at the Hat prior and had a large one of their gasoline-powerful margaritas along with a handful of chips. Smart plan. Went to the show, spilt a bottle of wine with Anne. Went to the Magician, had 2 glasses of wine and about 3 peanuts. Went somewhere else in the LES (can't remember) had a beer? I think? Went home, laid in bed and thought, how the fuck did I drink that much? Had the spins.
April 19th: Wrote sketches with Sara. Had two beers. Went to see Midnight Pajama Jam taping. Did not drink at the show- but did eat a guacamole smothered fried catfish taco at, oh, 1 am? Nice.
April 20th: DID NOT DRINK. EXCEPT FOR A HALF A GLASS OF RED WINE. THAT SO DOES NOT COUNT. Where's my token, dammit? Porter came over, I made outrageously fattening french fries w/ a butter/garlic/parsley sauce and red-pepper turkey burgers. Then we went on a walk and got ice cream. Something tells me that in order to make up for those fries, I would have needed to take a walk back and forth over the Brooklyn Bridge a few times. Say, 23.
April 21st: Anne and I drink some 40s, go to Quinton's birthday, where I have 2 beers, then go downtown, stop in at Pommes Frites and eat some amazing fries drenched in blue cheese sauce, then on to Telephone Bar, where we have 2 beers, then go to Welcome to the Johnson's, where we are picked up on poorly by NYU freshman as we drink a PBR, then to Motor City, where we have another beer, then to the Hat. I order something off the menu and by the time it comes, I forget what I ordered. Which is sad because it's so awesome I want to order it again. It's in a fried tortilla shell smothered in- yes of course- guacamole, sour cream, and cheese. Massive. It was so lovely, so fatteningly lovely. I can only eat half of it, so they make me a little doggy-bag and Anne and I stomp out the door directly into cabs. Again, it's 1 am and I am drunk and have eaten my staple of cheese, fried things and booze. Nummers.
April 22nd: I go out to meet some co-workers of mine, and some aquaintances who were visiting from London. We were meant to have Japanese bubble tea, but instead, we end up having cocktails. After my fourth drink at, oh, I guess it was about 7 pm, we all head to Max in Alphabet City and have an AMAZING Italian meal, offset by two bottles of red wine for the 7 of us. Now, I was only a bit buzzed, and this is because I made a point of eating everything in front of me that wasn't bolted down. It was frightful. I had to eat some of everyone's rigatoni, osso bucco, and of course my own lasagna. It was heavenly piggery. I was sick to my stomach by meal's end because I overate horribly. I got home at 10ish, stuffed and in pain, and that's when I decided things were verging on retarded. So, I crawled into bed with Confederacy of Dunces, nursed my awful stomach ache and made promises to myself that I was going to fucking BEHAVE.
After documenting this and reading it, I had to laugh at myself due to my repulsive behavior. It is time to exercize the muscle I feel is my weakest- the self-control muscle. In me, I suppose this muscle might resemble the stunted, puny arms of the Tyrannasaurus Rex, present yet impotent, something to be mocked rather than feared.
This is the muscle that seems to be largely absent when I decide it's totally OK to have two Magnolia Bakery buttercream-frosted cupcakes/another Sapphire & tonic because he's buying/make out with you.
Being impulsive is something I neurologically cannot help- and while I do think it makes me unqiue, it also gets me into heaps of trouble. I find myself in situations doing absolutely ridiculous things, things I don't even want to do. I don't have that "off" button that practical people have. I don't grasp consequences of actions until it's quite late. And again, while I think that that lends me a certain charm I am proud of, it also means that sometimes, I am an asshole.
So that's how that goes.
Friday, April 22, 2005
Pancho & Lefty.
So hungover. I ate so much at the Hat at 1 am that I am still full. My hair smells like belgian frites. Which Anne and I also ate. Which explains the odor. When did I start to slowly morph into Meg Ryan in "When a Man Loves A Woman"? Best not to dwell. Going back to bed.
Thursday, April 21, 2005
The "Problem Child" Motif Escalates in a Scary Way...
Your Sexual Flavor Is: Chocolate
Deeply sensual. Complicated and over the top.
You're a bit of a "problem child" in the bedroom...
But that's also what makes you so hot.
You tend to push limits, make lovers uncomfortable, and cause trouble.
In other words, you're an incredible lay!
Secret talent: Needle play
What's Your Sexual Flavor?
More Great Quizzes from Quiz Diva
Would someone be so kind as to explain to me in the comments sections what the hell needle play is? I'd be ever so thankful. Ta.
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
The Great Escape.
There are a lot of things to discuss today, so I will be dividing things up into sections. Also, I don't know why this post & photo are formatted so stupidly but I perosnally loathe it. The goddamned computer keeps overheating and shutting itself off (how considerate of it) so I am really in a state at this point. I digress:
In Fine Fettle
This warm weather wave has me literally hot & bothered. This is fucking weather and I am not amused at the lack thereof. Add to this my turning on the FINALLY WORKING television and low and behold, Velvet Goldmine is on. How unfair is that? I was forced to watch Ewan McGregor slither around full frontal in a perfect 1970's mullet slathered in glitter and oil, than watch him makeout with John Rhys-Meyers who is much prettier than I could try to be with all that makeup on, then see Christian Bale beating off to a picture of the two of them kissing, and finally, watch Ewan make out with the ever-creepy Christian Bale. How cruel. This is a cruel, hot, sexy, cruel world. Goddamn do I have a boner for hot men kissing. Excuse me while I drink another glass of wine. A-thank you, a-thank you.
"Beer, scotch, juice box, whatever."
I went out to my friend Rob's birthday party late Friday night and decided to drink a large quantity of vodka in a short period of time. This resulted in public nudity, which is something I pride myself on avoiding at all costs. I am a total prude, so there was something clearly wrong with me. I then flopped onto a couch, placed my chin on my hands, and declared, "I Like Parties!" What an asshole. When I told this to Ben, he said, "Wow, you really are in love with yourself, huh?" Meaning that, since I was sort of marveling at how gross I act when I get too drunk, I was being a little self-serving. I thought about this later; do I come off as proud of what an idiot I am? Because I'm more shocked at it. That doesn't mean I'm going to knock it off, mind you. Thinking. [I was typing a whole sentence, but the fucking laptop shut itself off so I am just leaving that one word because it seemed to fit]
Retard.
I watched Pretty in Pink, and not only did I feel old, but I cried like an idiot at the end. Yay! Love & mortality with a background provided by the Psychedelic Furs? It's like I'm 15 except I'm not, even though I still act like I am! More wine, sire!
THIS FUCKING COMPUTER BETTER NOT SHUT ITSELF OFF AGAIN I SWEAR, OR ELSE I'L
Book Lust.
Disappointed by the brevity of Elly's applause, he continues to clap until a father turns to stare.
-Myla Goldberg, Bee Season
NOTE: I followed at link on April's blog to the source on PatrciaScott.org.
A new book meme is circulating and its rules are these:
1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the sentence in your journal along with these instructions.
5. Don't search around and look for the coolest book you can find. Do what's actually next to you.
-Myla Goldberg, Bee Season
NOTE: I followed at link on April's blog to the source on PatrciaScott.org.
A new book meme is circulating and its rules are these:
1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the sentence in your journal along with these instructions.
5. Don't search around and look for the coolest book you can find. Do what's actually next to you.
Just Kickin' Back, Holmes.
I managed to gross myself out with that title.
FINALLY! I am back online! Let the pettiness, the cattiness, the spiteful cavalcade of snarking...COMMENCE!
But first: a mid-afternoon nap.
FINALLY! I am back online! Let the pettiness, the cattiness, the spiteful cavalcade of snarking...COMMENCE!
But first: a mid-afternoon nap.
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
I hate Ben Gruber Part 2.
Ben Gruber is MEAN!!!!
I hate him and his ass face.
[NOTE: My internet/cable stopped working on late Sunday night and are not going to be repaired until early Wednesday, so Ben was nice enough to let me come over and check my e-mail quickly since he lives so close. When I say nice, I mean, he only threatened to kick me out 8 times]
He is standing behind me, yelling at me and being mean about how gay I am for being so into this blog.
Ben says (in his Brandy voice): "If you like paying attention to me here's my phone number, call me and pay more attention to me!!!"
Then he asked in a nice voice, "Will you stop with your stupid blog?"
I told him to shove it. He also yelled at me earlier when I was on the phone with a boy and said, "I didn't know this was your office!"
Anyway, I will post more when my service at home is fixed which is meant to occur tomorrow from 10 am to 12 pm. Thanks TimeWarner, you fucking walking abortions.
Ben says he knows the national drought of my blog postings is finally over, and he's glad. Yes, ladies, he IS single.
Please send hate mail/nude pix to:
sweet ben at earthlink dot net
WORD.
I hate him and his ass face.
[NOTE: My internet/cable stopped working on late Sunday night and are not going to be repaired until early Wednesday, so Ben was nice enough to let me come over and check my e-mail quickly since he lives so close. When I say nice, I mean, he only threatened to kick me out 8 times]
He is standing behind me, yelling at me and being mean about how gay I am for being so into this blog.
Ben says (in his Brandy voice): "If you like paying attention to me here's my phone number, call me and pay more attention to me!!!"
Then he asked in a nice voice, "Will you stop with your stupid blog?"
I told him to shove it. He also yelled at me earlier when I was on the phone with a boy and said, "I didn't know this was your office!"
Anyway, I will post more when my service at home is fixed which is meant to occur tomorrow from 10 am to 12 pm. Thanks TimeWarner, you fucking walking abortions.
Ben says he knows the national drought of my blog postings is finally over, and he's glad. Yes, ladies, he IS single.
Please send hate mail/nude pix to:
sweet ben at earthlink dot net
WORD.
Sunday, April 17, 2005
Uh-uh.
OK, I have ultimate pre-show jitters. This is why I could never be a stand up. To go around putting yourself in this position nightly takes a certain level of bravery I don't have. Also, the fact that I have certain pre-show rituals that must be observed ahd adhered to takes me out of the running. Because if I did nightly shows and pulled this, I'd resemble fat Elvis and that is no good.
Here's a peek:
Sleep until 11 am.
Check into stuff on blog.
Become fascinated with reading the entire "Overheard in New York" archives.
Three hours later,polish off all the leftovers in the fridge (Chipotle, Thai Sesame)
Drink a Diet Cherry VAnilla Dr. Pepper
Go over materials for show
Worry about outfit
Call Sara
Sit on couch, watch the scene in LOTR where Viggo Mortensen breaks up with Liv Tyler; start inexplicably crying
Back at computer, downloading Brandy's Greatest Hits Selections
Write into to pieces I'll premiere tongiht
Eat two handfuls of Hershey's Kisses
Drink a R.W. Knudsen Boysenberry Spritzer
Eat the remainder of a loaf of lard bread smeared with tofu cream cheese
Dance to "Sittin' Up In My Room" and taunt Nigel with Sour Cream & Onion potato chips
Worry about hair looking bad oonstage
Scold Nigel for scratching couch
Stare out the window at dumb couples eating dumb overpriced brunch at subpar "pan Asian" across the street
Sing along to "Almost Doesn't Count" balefully; when my vouce cracks, start over (kind of like Ashlee Simpson)
Wonder if I'll have time to eat before show
Wish I'd gone outside earlier
Consider going outside
Realize I'm wearing grey sweatpants that have suspect stains on them; shrug.
Ask Nigel if he thinks I'll do OK tonight; he runs under the couch.
Folks, talk about professional!!
Friday, April 15, 2005
Coconut's Place.
Xanadu Tattoo: Hey ya Ports!
Porter HM3: hey!
Xanadu Tattoo: How are you this fine day?
Porter HM3: I am OK
Porter HM3: I am meeting the fancy Mr. Barrison for some curry in a hurry in a moment
Porter HM3: so I must off with myself!
Xanadu Tattoo: fun times!
Xanadu Tattoo: have some nan for me
Porter HM3: ok
Porter HM3: bye!
Xanadu Tattoo: bye!
Porter HM3: while I'm gone, don't date anyone
Porter HM3: unless you love them, and they are in love with you
Xanadu Tattoo: I'll try
Xanadu Tattoo: They're beating down the door
Porter HM3: no, they're beating off ON the door
Porter HM3: there's a difference
Xanadu Tattoo: Right, right...
HM3: BYE!! FOR REALZZZZ!!!!! L8R!!!!
Xanadu Tattoo: LOL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Porter HM3: hey!
Xanadu Tattoo: How are you this fine day?
Porter HM3: I am OK
Porter HM3: I am meeting the fancy Mr. Barrison for some curry in a hurry in a moment
Porter HM3: so I must off with myself!
Xanadu Tattoo: fun times!
Xanadu Tattoo: have some nan for me
Porter HM3: ok
Porter HM3: bye!
Xanadu Tattoo: bye!
Porter HM3: while I'm gone, don't date anyone
Porter HM3: unless you love them, and they are in love with you
Xanadu Tattoo: I'll try
Xanadu Tattoo: They're beating down the door
Porter HM3: no, they're beating off ON the door
Porter HM3: there's a difference
Xanadu Tattoo: Right, right...
HM3: BYE!! FOR REALZZZZ!!!!! L8R!!!!
Xanadu Tattoo: LOL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
"Gob's Wand."
Life is funny. Like, last week I realized that the mascara I was wearing pooled under my eyes, making me look like a heroin addict instead of a fine, upstanding young slut. I complained about it to my friends, and Anne said, "What, you mean your porno mascara?" I was intrigued by the reference. Then, I spied a shiny thing.
A few days later I was absentmindedly killing time by typing in the names of comedy writers I admire into Google, the goal being to see how they managed to build a career from the ground up, so that I could look at that and waste time sitting on my lazy ass thinking about doing something rather than, oh, I don't know, being mature and proactive and writing a packet or some such nonsense. Somehow, from a search on Scott Aukerman, I got to a girl's blog who talked in depth about being the costumer on porno shoots. She told a pretty funny story about how, when she was working on one shoot, the makeup artist did too much coke in the bathroom. As a result of being so hopped up, the make up artist then neglected to use waterproof masacara on the actresses who were to be shot. Since this was an all girl orgy scene in a hot tob, the results were disastrous. Hi-jinx did ensue! LOL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I thought about this coincidence yesterday when I was buying waterproof Great Lash by Maybelline at the Rite Aid on Smith Street. The I came home and put the muzzle of gun in my mouth.
A few days later I was absentmindedly killing time by typing in the names of comedy writers I admire into Google, the goal being to see how they managed to build a career from the ground up, so that I could look at that and waste time sitting on my lazy ass thinking about doing something rather than, oh, I don't know, being mature and proactive and writing a packet or some such nonsense. Somehow, from a search on Scott Aukerman, I got to a girl's blog who talked in depth about being the costumer on porno shoots. She told a pretty funny story about how, when she was working on one shoot, the makeup artist did too much coke in the bathroom. As a result of being so hopped up, the make up artist then neglected to use waterproof masacara on the actresses who were to be shot. Since this was an all girl orgy scene in a hot tob, the results were disastrous. Hi-jinx did ensue! LOL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I thought about this coincidence yesterday when I was buying waterproof Great Lash by Maybelline at the Rite Aid on Smith Street. The I came home and put the muzzle of gun in my mouth.
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Mandolins, Ukeleles, Banjos, and Lutes.
I am in a great mood today, which is residue from having a great day yesterday. I spent a portion of my day on the Upper West Side as I had to deal with various problems that I had been actively ignoring. I tend to be a bit of an ostrich about conflict- I would rather hide my head then deal directly with it. But I did myself the favor of being proactive and unapologetically straightforward and it was to my benefit. You'd be surprised how my tactic ended up being very beneficial- there's nothing like looking someone in the eye and telling them they they are, indeed, going to straighten out the mess with your graduate transcripts come hell or high water, RIGHT NOW, all with a smile on your face.
After tying up various administrative and emotional loose ends, I spent the afternoon strolling around Central Park in the gorgeous weather and it couldn't have been more lovely. It was one of the nicest afternoons I've spent in New York, truth be told. Which is hilarious, considering that based on the things I had set out to accomplish, I should have been upset and maybe even on the war path, or at least felt badly for being the bearer of bad dating news, as I'd an appointment to do. But no. It was great. It was a relief, and I was so overjoyed to have all the knots in my stomach untied. It was one of those times that I imagine that when I'm very, very old, I'll look back upon fondly, and mumble the lines of my favorite Edna St. Vincent Millay poem to myself and picture. "Oh kids, your Grandma used to entertain lots of handsome gentleman callers in the cosmopolitan city of New York...and some of them she porked, too."
I spent a lot of the time I was walking in Central Park thinking about the nature of love and why it is that we love one person and not another. What is it that makes us unable to care for one person, who we should by all means be with because they are kind and good and sincere? Why is it that two people who have every reason to love one another don't, and two people who are a miserable match cling to one another? When is it that we fall out of love with someone- how does that happen? Can a nigga get a table dance? I was walking along, looking at all the gorgeous things in the park, and thinking about the last time I took a long stroll like that, and that when I did I was with someone who I was in love with. And that now, years later, it's gone and I have nothing to show for it. I don't know when I fell out of love, only that I did. I don't remember the day it happened, but one day I looked at him and I knew it. And once that thought comes into your head, there's no going back. I stayed for a long time, though. And I was trying to explain this to someone yesterday and it came out all wrong. I stayed much longer than I should have in that relationship, and yes I wasn't in romantic love with him, but I did genuinely love him. This is all very confusing still but I guess I wanted to write it down so that later, when I am able, I can look at it and try to make sense of it.
Anyway, that sounds quite sad. But it's not, in fact it's kind of reassuring. Because I realize I don't have a clue about love and men and realtionships, and I don't really fucking care. I declare a citizen's divorce from caring.
I Don't Really Have Anything Right Now.
So just look at this photo of Josh Hamilton, Man Who Shall Bang Me So That I May Bear Him Twins, and one of my comedy idols, and let it warm your heart.
Or, look at this, where there is frolicking with other comedy inspirations. And a dauchsund. And an orgy. Life is sweet.
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
August 1994.
This was the play I saw that made me really want to be an actress. I was so inspired by it. And by how much I wanted to be mounted by Josh Hamilton.
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