I Found it Online

The copyright police will probably make me take this down, but I did find the comeek online, posted herewith:



My copy is yellow-brown and obviously spent a lot of time folded in quarters as it was transferred from wallet to wallet.

Now, interestingly enough, in 1990, I was dating this guy and that guy (aka, sleeping around, remember when you could do that and no one thought badly of you?), but somehow I must have known that the big lifetime thingamajig that other people seem to do so easily was going to elude me, probably forever. Otherwise, what would have prompted me to hold onto this tattered cartoon for TWENTY YEARS? Holy shit, I just realized I've been holding onto it for TWENTY YEARS!

Christ, that's scary.

Happy Holidays Shot

Not a creature was stirring, not even Miss Kitty.

I don't know how an old crank like me ended up with the cutest, sweetest widdle kitty.

2009 Wrap-Up

I thought I'd try to do one of those sagacious and tenderly humorous end-of-year wrap-ups, but I realized a couple of things before I started: One, that it hasn't been such a hot year for anyone (except maybe for performance artist extraordinaire Lady GaGa), and Two, I'm not Garrison Keillor.

So, I've decided instead to tell you 20 things that are on my refrigerator. Hey, in this era of excessive navel-gazing, when 70% of Americans actually believe that they can become famous (hello, Salahis!) based on their ability to do exactly nothing, isn't one end-of-decade list as good as the next?

And so, I give you the accumulated refrigerator detritus of Jane. Make of it what you will.

1) Assorted magnets of various vacations I've taken: Alaska, Montreal, Captiva Island, Colorado, Washington DC, Boston, New Orleans, Yosemite. I'm clearly still deep into exploring our North American continent.

2) An Indian Larry commemorative sticker.

3) A full-page magazine headshot of George Clinton in all his multi-hued dreadlocked glory. Make my funk the P-funk, I wants to get funked up.

4) An article from the NY Times Book Review about a biography of Darryl Strawberry. It has what I think may be the funniest headline ever written: "Buy Me Some Peanuts and Crack." I think it was Jerry Lewis who said, "funny better be sad somewhere." Well, there it all is, in six little words.

5) A quote from Augusten Burroughs: "I like flaws and the people who have them. I myself am made of nothing but flaws, stitched together with good intentions."

6) A snapshot of Miss Midwesterly's dog Sprocket, sprawled in what looks like total doggy bliss.

7) One of those buy-after-you-ride shots of Roni and me on the Coney Island Cyclone. Both of my hands are thrown in the air and I am grinning like my face is about to split open. Roni's eyes are squinched shut and her mouth is open like Ms Pacman. She is holding on with both hands and her arms look a million times better than Michelle Obama's. I am wearing an oversized Penguins tee shirt and look a little chubby, to be honest.

8) A snapshot of me, on my bicycle about 50 miles outside of Fairbanks, Alaska, taken in August 2000. I was rider number 107, and the expression on my face is joy. (Had I known what John McCain would dig out of Alaska's primordial ooze eight short years later, maybe I wouldn't look so happy.)

9) A snapshot of Roni and me, dressed as mermaids in 2007. I am wearing my turquoise Louise Brooks wig. We are in a bar, next to the jukebox, and I'm sure we are both probably pretty drunk.

10) Another column from the NY Times in which my Pittsburgh childhood pronunciation of a famous philanthropist/robber baron's name is validated by none other than the corporation AND the university that bear his name. It's "Car-NAY-gie," people.

11) My NYS Supreme Court Juror Pass. Serving on a jury was one of the most important things I've ever done, and I'm grateful that I did it. People may say that bringing a life into the world is the greatest responsibility you will ever undertake -- I believe that essentially taking away a man's life is greater. A man murdered his wife and we put him away for 25 years.

12) Miscellaneous ticket stubs that I've saved for no real reason -- Blues Traveler at Irving Plaza, some Mets game in 2004 in which I remember Mike Piazza had an important hit, the LA Philharmonic at the Hollywood Bowl, Rent, Lestat, Lee Oskar and Magic Dick at BB King's, and la creme de la creme, a ticket stub for the Cream reunion concert of 2005 which I am pretty sure I saved simply because of its ridiculous face value of $354.50. (No business transactions or sexual favors were exchanged for that ticket, and what I remember most about that concert was that the audience consisted primarily of suburban white guys in relaxed-fit jeans, blinding white sneakers that had obviously never been used in any kind of sport, and leather bomber jackets, the kind with the knit waistband. You know, the basic uni of the guy who has been "given permission" by his wife to go out on a school night. Oh, and Jack Bruce was wearing leather pants, which I found oddly upsetting.)

13) A tiny classified ad from The Daily News, placed by someone selling purebred puppies. "Shit Tzus," to be exact. I'm still tickled that an excretive expletive made it into the newspaper.

14) A Colorado bookmark. Think I miss it much?

15) A windy Cary Tennis excerpt that boils down to, "Jesus, get OVER yourself!"

16) A Lynda Barry cartoon clipped from the Village Voice in 89 or 90. Ernie Pook's Comeek, "Report on Love." The best distillation of love I've ever seen boiled down to four cartoon panels.

17) A tiny photo of Jake Langbehn, who died last year in Malibu

18) A really old photo of me on the beach in Puerto Rico. My body at its most slammin' -- I had a 24-inch waist!!!

19) A quote from my friend Bill Repsher, who said to me in 1990, "Love is a test of sanity. We'd all fail miserably if life wasn't graded on such a generous curve." Genius.

20) The only poem anyone ever wrote for me, with the opening lines, "To the bartender: Be sure that when you mix my drink/the water is holy/And blessed by barmaid/ assassins trained by the Vatican to cross their hearts/before overpowering defenseless men." I kept the poem but for the life of me I have NO idea of the guy's name who wrote that poem.

Well, there you have it, Jane's "I Survived This Awful Decade" list of 20 things that I have on my refrigerator.

The Snotmonster Returns

Are you kidding me? I seem to have been invaded again by the microbes from outer space which are hellbent on manufacturing tsunami levels of snot to pour from my nose. So far today I've managed to create a blizzard of soggy tissues and eat two bowls of the homemade chicken soup that I made over the weekend, besides watching several hours of mind-numbingly awful daytime television.

The kitties seem happy to have me around, though, since a warm, inert lump of flesh is always welcome in Kittyland.

Teabagger, Please!

According to the National Review, the teabaggers, after months of TV commentators smirking in their faces, were finally brought up to speed about what teabagging actually is.

So I guess they've decided that they don't want to be called "teabaggers" anymore, or maybe they just want the word "teabagger" to become their version of the "N" word, or they want to try to make liberals who have enjoyed a good laugh at them for the past few months "ashamed" of using the word by asking them, "what do you mean by 'teabagger' and why do you smirk?" to which the smart liberal will answer promptly, "Why, it means that you suck men's balls, of course!" Ahh, there's nothing quite like seeing gay panic growing in a wingnut's eyes to fill your heart with Christmas spirit!

Even though Jay Nordlinger is proposing that the more decorous "Tea Party Patriot" be their nom de revolucion going forward, I myself like the sound of "Dirty Sanchezers" or "Rusty Tromboners" much better.

Just as I Thought, Lawyers are All Talk

So after my lengthy, inexcusable absence, I checked the email that is connected to this blog and found a comment from Mr. Archer dated November 30th, threatening to stand under my fire escape playing the ukelele until I posted again.

You know, a couple weeks have passed since that comment and I haven't heard note one of the Israel Kamakawiwo’ole version of "Over the Rainbow" anywhere in Bushwick.

Hmph.

Lawyers.

I Know I've Been Missing For Awhile

No, I haven't disappeared in the Facebook, and I continue to refuse to be a Twit(terer). I've just been preoccupied with other things. Work has been distracting, my old cat now has a diagnosis of high blood pressure requiring daily medication (blind, deaf, shaky in the legs with hypertension -- I swear my Dad has come back to reside in this fur person), and I just haven't had much to say.

I honestly think this cat is going to live to be 25. Someday you will see me featured on Huffington Post, I just know it. "Mambo, world's oldest cat, turns 25." Yikes.


Jack Skellington's Cat











Wait, I always have something to say...I just haven't been saying it on the Blog. Huh. I keep having ideas for blog posts then not writing them.

Besides, I think I have been quite admirably silent on the subject of Governor Quitter for long enough. Don't you know how HARD that has been for me?

Some of the ideas that came and went since October 22nd:



Did you really think I was going to put the actual book on my blog?

November was apparently "Special Olympics of Publishing" month, as half-a-retard Wasilla housewife Sarah Palin got a whole lot of trees murdered on her behalf. A book ghost-written for a maroon who doesn't think, to be bought by a whole lot of other maroons who can't read. But frankly, isn't it about time the white trash parts of America get a coffee table book to call their own?

But it does inspire me to suggest some holiday mischief for all you holiday Krampuses (or is that "Krampii?") At any rate -- go into your local Barnes and Noble or any big box bookstore and move the books around. Switch "The Nation's" version with the "not written by Sarah Palin but by her Ghost Writer Lynne Vincent" version. Move them one at a time to the bookshelf outside the store bathrooms. I have to confess to doing some variation on this petty vandalism every time I travel -- I move Glenn Beck's books around in airport bookstores, turn them upside down, or put two copies of someone else's book on top of his. Since most people who are looking for Sarah Palin's book have probably never been inside a bookstore before, it should be really easy to fool them.





If you look really closely, those two Penguins are Evgeni "Geno" Malkin and Sidney "Sidney" Crosby

I went to the NY Rangers game on November 30. That would be the one where they got totally spanked, and really hard with a wooden spoon drilled with holes, by my beloved Penguins. The Rangers have been on a bad slide after a strong start, mainly because they seem to be relying on Marian Gaborik to throw the entire team over his shoulder and fireman-carry them through the entire season. If he gets hurt they are TOAST. In other hockey news, Alex Ovechkin, who is probably the best player in the NHL -- I have to admit, that guy is an ANIMAL -- learned about karma the hard way, not only getting kneecapped and injured, but he earned a suspension in the bargain. Somewhere in Pittsburgh, Sergei Gonchar had to have said (like that Chinese guy in "The Hangover"), "see you later, muthafuckaaahhhh." Don't know if Ovie's back on the ice yet.




Apparently morning TV needs another Mommy.

No matter how much I try to like her for being the "liberal" voice on "Morning Joe," I find Mika Brzezinski completely annoying. She gets this purse-lipped puss on her face and climbs up onto her moral high horse where she wags her finger at Joe Scarborough and Mike Barnicle every morning. Blecch.




You said I'm funny. How the fuck am I funny, what the fuck is so funny about me? Tell me, tell me what's funny!


Bullet in the Eye, Back of the Garbage Truck. I have to admit to having this fantasy, folks. First, you have to imagine you hear the piano outro from "Layla" as background music. Then, long shot on a Cadillac. Pink. Camera moves in, to reveal two dead people in the front seat. Look, it's Dick and Liz Cheney! Fade to shot of refrigerator truck, move past frozen slabs of beef on hooks, to show another frozen solid corpse on a hook...Joe Lieberman! Last, but not least -- and "Layla" is still playing, folks, while Ray Liotta supplies our voiceover -- we see the garbage truck, churning its fetid refuse, turn out the bloated corpse, with a closeup on the bullet in the eye, of Glenn Beck! Ahhh, a girl can fantasize, can't she?


ET, phone home.

I saw "This is It," in November. I have to admit, in between marvelling, "That's a 51-year old man!" I wept several times. MJ was like some creature from another planet that we got to borrow for a little while. What a loss.


International Paper -- Drunk on Black Liquor

Last but not least before I check out and go to bed...if you want another group of corporations to be angry with, I say, go with American paper and pulp manufacturers. Not for the expected reasons (decimation of forests, replacing them with those heinous "managed forests") but because they are pocketing your tax dollars, to the tune of billions -- yes, that's billions with a "B" -- by exploiting a loophole in a bad piece of legislation. They're getting checks written to them by the IRS -- that's BILLIONS, folks -- for something called "black liquor." I suggest you check out a blog called Dead Tree Edition. And if you were wondering how Baucus and company got Snowe, just consider that the loophole is scheduled to close at the end of 2009, and Maine happens to be where an awful lot of pulp and paper is maufactured. Congressional back-scratching at its finest, folks. It makes me feel dirty.

Well, that's all I've got for tonight, folks. But just remember, black liquor.

Oh wait, one last thing: that 16-second "surprise kitty" video may be the cutest video EVER posted on youtube. I think it even beats the NY Lottery Sweet Millions commercials.

They Don't Call it the High Country for Nothing

When I lived in Breckenridge, the diviest dive bar in town was a ramshackle, crooked old barn (it was, literally, an old barn, and it was, literally crooked. If you stood across the street and face it, the entire building had a noticeable list.) called Seamus O'Toole's. It was dark, it smelled bad, the regulars had about seven teeth between them, and it was one of two bars in town where you could go in during ski season and not have to be polite to tourists.

The downside of living in a town whose economic engine is powered by tourism is that you have to interact with tourists. At least in a ski town you only have to do it for four or five months of the year.

Thus, Seamus's.

On Friday nights during happy hour, the bar would be crowded with locals pounding Coors Lights (to drink aything else was heresy), until about 7:30. Around that time, a guy on a giant Harley would roar up to the bar, stroll in, look around, and stroll back out. Ever so slowly, the regulars and locals would follow him out the door, like an ebb tide, until you noticed that the bar was practically empty.

That guy, come "up the hill" on his hog, was of course their dealer. Duh. It took me a few visits to realize.this.

Now I read this -- that poky (in the off season), pop 3000 Breckenridge might legalize pot!

Think of the boom this would bring to their economy. It could be locally grown (though I don't know if marijuana will grow at 9500 feet), packaged, and taxed. Breckenridge would become a little American Amsterdam.

When I was there Breck had the biggest halfpipe in the world; legalizing pot would make it even more of a snowboarders' mecca. Not to mention a year-round destination or relocation spot for people who need medical marijuana to treat their "anxiety" yet who don't want to live in the Land of Douchebaggery (aka LA).

I may need to move back, even though sadly, Seamus's was sold in 2002 to some local community theater group.

Humming John Denver now...

Look at This

The creationist wackadoos who go to that museum that has the dinosaurs with saddles can flap their gums all they want, but if this photo isn't evidence that we are far closer to apes than something divine, I don't know what is.




To read the story of this amazing photo, go here.

And if it doesn't bring tears to your eyes, you are one stone-cold son of a bitch.

You Tell Me Which is More Terrifying

I'm feeling a little better today. Sometimes all you need is a good cry to clean out the plumbing. I don't, however, recommend reading about Baxter the dog if you're feeling the least bit emotionally fragile. Don't Google! I swear, don't do it!

Have you ever played "Which Would You Rather?" If you ever spent any time in a dorm room at college drinking beer out of a beer ball and smoking weed from a Coke-can bong, you probably have. It's one of those stupid stoner games in which you ask someone to choose between two distasteful yet unrelated things. "Which would you rather? Be trapped alone on a desert island forever? Or have two-inch legs?"

Today's "WWYR?" comes to us courtesy of Delta airlines.

Which would you rather? Book a flight on which the two pilots either get distracted or fall asleep and somehow manage to "wander" 150 miles off course, losing radio contact with ATC for nearly an HOUR AND A HALF, causing them to call the pilots of other planes to ask them to try and raise them on the radio, and finally leading the FAA to consider scrambling fighter jets to intercept, or...

Would you rather book a flight from Brazil to Atlanta on which a member of the flight crew becomes ill, and in the resulting cockpit cleanup the rest of the crew misses the runway altogether and lands the plane ON A TAXIWAY?

Both true stories. Read about them both here.

There are so many levels of scary here I don't know where to start. Didn't the flight attendants on the wandering plane wonder what was going on? What about the passengers? Why did it take the FAA so long to even think about srambling jets for a plane that had gone silent for 78 minutes? Does anyone in that agency remember what happened eight years ago when they were caught flatfooted when a bunch of planes went missing? And what about the people on the flight from Brazil? What did they think when an incapacitated navigator or first officer was brought into the main cabin? Did the guys in the Hartsfield tower totally shit themselves as they watched that 757 land in the wrong place, then immediately become believers because there were no other planes on that taxiway?

Note to self: don't fly Delta. Clearly their financial problems are causing some serious trickle-down shit.

Weltschmertz

Isn't it a great word? I'm not sure why I like it so much. Maybe because it so perfectly captures a state of mind in a way that no pedestrian English word can. The German language does have a couple of good words after all (one of my other no-equal-in-English favorites is "schadenfreude").

World sadness.

Perfect for me right now. Maybe it's all this economic uncertainty, or residual jetlag and exhaustion from a nine-day business trip. Maybe it's that I just can't believe that it's been two years since Dad died and I still sometimes feel so terribly sad. Maybe it's because I'm waiting and watching for my old cat to curl up one day and just let go at last (I can't even think about having to make the last ride to Dr. Felton with the Sherpa bag without crying. Poor old man. I can tell myself he's had a good life -- no, he's had a GREAT life -- but that doesn't stop me from being sad when I watch his bony blind self bumping along the furniture to get to the food bowl. What will be worse -- having him go to sleep one day and let go, or having to appoint myself the Mambo Death Panel and put him to sleep? Put ME to sleep, please.)

This will pass, it always does, but for now I think I just need to go through it to come out the other side. I was thinking today -- what must life be like for people who feel like this all the time?

One more thing about the word: I also really, really like it because it's the only word I've ever seen with six consonants in a row.

Oh, no they dih-int!

Really, South Carolina Republicans? Did you really go there?

Next up, John Boehner compliments that boy in the White House for being articulate and clean.

Oh, wait, Biden already did that.

Sen. Sessions (R-AL) Says it's Not the Government's Place to Decide Who the Government Does Business With

Doesn't reading that headline make you feel like the top of your head might explode?

Oh, and he and 30 other senators also condone gang-rape by government contractors.

Here are the other 29:

Alexander (R-TN)
Barrasso (R-WY)
Bond (R-MO)
Brownback (R-KS)
Bunning (R-KY)
Burr (R-NC)
Chambliss (R-GA)
Coburn (R-OK)
Cochran (R-MS)
Corker (R-TN)
Cornyn (R-TX)
Crapo (R-ID)
DeMint (R-SC)
Ensign (R-NV)
Enzi (R-WY)
Graham (R-SC)
Gregg (R-NH)
Inhofe (R-OK)
Isakson (R-GA)
Johanns (R-NE)
Kyl (R-AZ)
McCain (R-AZ)
McConnell (R-KY)
Risch (R-ID)
Roberts (R-KS)
Sessions (R-AL)
Shelby (R-AL)
Thune (R-SD)
Vitter (R-LA)
Wicker (R-MS)

Once Again...

Your Janey is hipper than the New York Times. Not that that's saying much.

I've had Jen linked for a year or so, if I'm not mistaken.

The Greatest Painting Ever

This is even better than those Thomas Kinkade paintings you see on QVC. (No double-wide would be complete without one.)

Have fun scrolling around on the painting and reading what painter has written about each character. Note that he apparently has nothing to say about "Handicapped Child." I'm not sure what that means. Does he mean that handicapped children have no value to our nation and should be aborted? And the "College Student" is holding what the painter calls "the most important book written." He is of course referring to "The Five Thousand Year Leap," which if you've been paying attention, is also Glenn Beck's favorite book.

Thanks, Wonkette, for the quarter hour of laughs!

I Am Not Making This Up

Hey, Dave Barry flies American! I know this because I was behind him in the security line. Yes, I saw Dave Barry with his shoes off. I am not making this up.

Yessiree Bob, I am racking up the celebrity sightings, aren't I?

Meanwhile, with dozens of empty seats at gate D2, some woman with a suitcase, a giant purse and an ugly canvas tote bag big enough to hold a full-grown collie had to sit practically on top of me, at which point she proceeded, with maximum fidgeting and fussing which entailed knocking into me several times with her raised elbow, to stuff her purse into the tote bag in an effort to make it seem like she's actually only carrying two bags onto the plane.

I wish her luck cramming her shit into an overhead and under the seat in front of her. The equipment on these ORD runs is inevitably an MD-80, which is basically a yellow schoolbus with wings.

My trip was only booked yesterday, so I've got that choice row 31 seat next to the engine. On the upside, it is a bulkhead seat so my little legs have some stretchin room.

See you in Chicago, where a stroll through O'Hare makes me feel positively slender!

A Football Question

Why are the Denver Broncos wearing yellow and brown unis today? What kind of color is BROWN for a football team? Unless it's your team name, of course, but then that begs the question -- what the heck kind of name is the Browns?

But back to the Broncos: I'm always happy when weenie Tom Brady and his dickhead cheater coach get bested, which is what just happened. Belichick is a known and admitted cheater -- why is he even allowed to take one step onto a football field?

The Boys of Winter

I'm still on west coast time, and out of Lunesta, so I'm not ready to sleep yet...

I think nearly every team in the NHL was playing tonight, and while cruising my digital cable menu, I made the happily accidental discovery that Time Warner is either running a free promotion or -- gloria in exelsius! -- I actually have the NHL Network.


Woo-hoo, right?

Well, it was a pretty "woo-hoo" moment for me -- I thought I was going to have to either go the entire season watching the Rangers, Islanders, or (God help me) the Devils, wait until the playoffs to see my favorite team in action, or become a high-functioning alcoholic cruising the sports bars of the West Side in search of Penguins hockey. You die-hard football fans only have to worry about one night a week for your sports fix; do you know how many hockey games there are in a season? Jesus wept.

Tonight the Penguins played at the Maple Leafs (Toronto). It was a rout by the Pens, of course, who have brought forward most of their Cup-winning line from last year (minus Cup-clincher Max Talbot who is out recuperating from shoulder surgery -- better now than later, I say -- big Hal Gill, and Miroslav Satan, who is in free agency now and has yet to be picked up by another franchise...I'm a little bummed about that, but mostly because now I won't be able to get a T-shirt with SATAN written across the back).

Coach Dan Bylsma seemed to be working his different lines, mixing and matching throughout the whole game, so we saw all the key guys getting plenty of ice time. The Pens played hustle hockey tonight, which is good to see after they were surprised by Phoenix last week ("what the -- ?") and then had a struggle to beat the Flyers.

Honestly, it wasn't much of a challenge for my boys, it looked like a pre-season scrimmage at times, with a lot of blue jerseys standing around while the Pens shot past them. At the end of the first period the Pens were 14-2 shots on goal. And after both goals scored by Toronto, the Pens came back to score within 30 seconds. Two goals for Crosby.

It was like watching one of those old Harlem Globetrotters games, and the Leafs were the Washington Generals. I kept waiting for Sidney "Meadowlark" Crosby to pants someone and Evgeni "Curly" Malkin to toss a bucket of confetti into the audience.

Colton Orr (Toronto) lived up to his goon rep and was up to his old tricks, starting not one, but two fights -- on two different face-offs! -- and spending a good chunk of time in the box.

Nice to see Billy Guerin putting in his shifts when it was optional tonight. He admitted he was going to sit this one out but got shamed into playing by his teammates. He's a former NJ Devil, but I don't hold that against him.

We didn't get to see much of badass Brooks Orpik because he took a hit that put his face into the glass and sat him down for the rest of the game. After he got himself up on all fours with his eyes spinning in his head, you could practically see the birds tweeting around his head all the way back to the bench.

I'll be watching big Jordan Staal this season -- the kid is just growing and growing, and is a superstar in the making.

Penguins, 5-2

Afterthought; How will the loss of Johan Franzen affect the Red Wings this year? He's out for at LEAST four months with a torn ACL.

Well, the Little Cat is giving me her bedroom eyes, so I think I shall retire with Dr. HS Thompson and his bitter musings on sports and life in post-9/11 America.

My Idea of Happiness

My flight boarded on time, and we landed 45 minutes early. I sat across the aisle from Evan Lysacek (yes, I am a figure-skating geek, too). Wished him luck in Vancouver as we got off the plane.

Greeted with feline joy upon opening my apartment door. The little cat has glued herself to my side. The old man, too.

Transferred 9 days of dirty laundry from my suitcase to the laundry bag to be dealt with tomorrow.

Craig Ferguson had Gerard Butler as a guest and ended his show with a farting kitten. Maybe you had to see it to appreciate just how funny it was.

Bravo is showing "Goodfellas."

"Please stop feeding the dog from the table from the plate on top of it." (Spoken by the brilliant Lorraine Bracco)

My pleasures are small ones and I am glad to be home.

Oh, and our President won the Nobel Peace Prize. Maybe, just maybe, we will finally get to see Rush Limbaugh "explode like a bag of meat dropped from a helicopter." (Bill Maher)

Keep Those Warrantless Wiretaps Coming

You know what? Back when all of that FISA stuff first happened, in the darkness of the Bush-Cheney years, I was almost violently opposed to this whole "warrantless wiretap" thing. It's unconstitutional, right?

But still...

Now that threats against our President have increased by 400%, a poll appears on Facebook asking "Should Obama be killed?" and shit like this appears ALL THE TIME, I say, warrentlessly wiretap away, FBI! CIA! SECRET SERVICE! NSA!

I hope that everyone who pulls this unpatriotic bullshit is tracked and tagged like a rogue coyote so the US Government knows where they are at every moment. In fact, I hope the TSA has their little travel records marked so they get the extra special "bend over and cough" searches every time they try to get on an airplane.

Frankly, I'm scared of these crazy people.

On the other hand, maybe they'll just die out at their own hands, like these two maroons.

Coupla dead gun nuts?

NO BIG LOSS

Jesus Edited out of New Conservative Bible for Being Too Liberal

All of that loaves and fishes to feed the multitudes, and helping poor people and sick people, throwing the moneylenders out of the temple crap is just too liberal, I guess.

WTF?

I Want to Go Home!

I miss the Little Cat. And the scary old "Portrait of Dorian Cat" toothless bag of bones one, too. (Though he's looking more like the portrait than the preternaturally youthful avatar, I don't discriminate because of looks. He WAS there first, and he honestly can't help being a cranky, needy, pissy old gay man. When he was young and beautiful, he was Rock Hudson in the Doris Day years. So now he's Quentin Crisp, what are you gonna do?)

Um, Didn't We Already Know About That?

Sometimes, an editor just needs to re-read the headline before hitting publish.

Happy Birthday to Me!

Yesterday was my birthday, and Judy decided that there was no way I was going to spend the day alone in Hermosa Beach.

So she whisked me off to Malibu. First stop, the Getty Villa, where we wandered the galleries until art fatigue set in. When it comes to museums, I've got about an hour and half, two hours -- tops -- in me. Then I start wandering aimlessly, woolgathering while gazing with tilted head at carved Roman busts, thinking to myself, "Wow, the Italians were really hot in those days, look at the cheekbones on Caligula!" or while staring into a vitrine holding the treasures from an Egyptian tomb, "I would totally wear those earrings that were buried with that queen, I wonder if they have knockoffs for sale in the gift shop," instead of serious arty thoughts like, "Wow, that is some important archeological shit they dug up."



We had lunch at someplace called the Malibu Country Mart. I was very excited because I thought that I might at last get to sample the local charms of Southern California, and that it might have stalls featuring local artisans. What it turned out to be was a mall. A very expensive mall, but a mall. On the upside, we sat next to Pierce Brosnan at lunch, and yes, he is still gorgeous. On the further upside, how can you not love a man who could have any supermodel on the planet and still chooses his chubby wife? I love that about him.

We drove back down the PCH to Santa Monica, where we had a drink at The Lobster while eavesdropping on a semi-drunk semi-pro named Sylvia (who, I want to know, under the age of 60 is named "Sylvia"? Working girls, I guess) fending off the advances of a horny drunken local while planning another assignation. One side of her loud bar cellphone convo: "Do you want to meet me at my hotel room or here at the bar?" Drunken local removed himself to the other side of the bar, where he proceeded to cast hurt looks in her direction when her "friend," some acne-scarred, Ed Hardy-wearing d-bag showed up. It was all so amusing.

Then it was off to dinner at The Hump.

Ohhhh, The Hump. Where does one begin to describe it? I can't. Except to say it was the best sushi I have ever eaten in my life. And in this funky little restaurant at the SANTA MONICA AIRPORT of all places. I KNOW. If you are ever in Santa Monica, with someone who has an expense account, make them take you to The Hump. Make sure there is an expense account involved, or if you are taking a date, make sure that the lay of a lifetime is guaranteed at the end of the night, because being presented with the bill may make your heart stop for a moment or two, and you want to be sure to get your money's worth. I'm not saying I would automatically put out for someone who took me to The Hump -- oh, well, who am I kidding? Actually, yes, yes I would put out for this sushi.

Greetings from LA (again)

Yes, I'm back in Los Angeles for another 9 days. The weather has been gorgeous since I arrived and I plan on getting in some quality beach time over the weekend.

Today we ate lunch at a venerable old Mexican restaurant located on the fringe of South Central. See photo above.

I don't understand when Angelenos talk about "the 'hood" as we're supposedly driving through it. My rep wanted to avoid the 405 coming back to Hawthorne, and so we drove back through "the 'hood," meaning South Central and Inglewood, which frankly, looked a lot nicer than my crappy neighborhood (Bushwick) in Brooklyn. Everytime she said, "this is the 'hood," I looked out of the car windows expecting to see junkies shooting up on street corners, layabouts trading cash for AK-47's out of the trunks of cars, trash in heaps, and burnt-out cars on the sidewalks. You know, like parts of New York, or Newark. Instead, I saw tidy, well-kept single-family homes (albeit some with bars on the windows), with nice, if not necessarily new, cars parked in front, and working class people going about their business.

I see scarier teenagers outside the Grand Street High School next to my subway stop, fachrissakes. We're talking oversized North Face parkas in July scary, you know what I'm talkin' about?

Is "the 'hood" a state of mind? Or do we have a different reality altogether in New York? Maybe it's all the sunshine.

Sully's Back in the Cockpit

...and did you know that there is now a new mandatory training module for Airbus pilots?

Inner Monologue: The Little Cat

"I need to sit here. Wait, I'm small. See? I'm small. Look, your chest is the perfect size for me to sit on. Am I blocking your view of your blackberry? How is that possible? I'm small."

Logrolling Off of Archer: More About Air Travel

Why is it news that the airlines are charging a whopping $10 more to fly the Sunday after Thanksgiving? Because it's an opportunity to show airline customers kvetching about ten bucks and whining about how the evil airlines are gouging them with fees?

As far as I can remember, the airlines have always charged a little more to.travel on high-volume days. It's basic supply and demand, folks -- on the days that everyone wants to travel, the airline takes advantage of the scarcity of seats to up their revenue a little bit. What's wrong with that? You want a cheaper ticket? Take another half day off from work and travel at 10am on the following Monday. You'll pay less and probably have the added bonus of a flight that isn't packed to the rafters with screaming kids and armrest-hogging fatsos. Hell, you may even get a row to yourself.

And no whining about how dismal the flying experience is. Of course it sucks. It sucks because everyone has gotten so used to paying 300 bucks for a round-trip JFK-LAX ticket that the airlines are backed into the corner of eliminating your bag of Chex Mix and charging you to check a bag just to stay financially afloat for another month. You wanted to pay the equivalent of bus fare to jet cross-country in a few hours? Then a bus ride is what you'll get.

Last week I went online to see what flights I wanted to take for my upcoming trip to LA, and yes, there were round-trip fares as low as $300. Then I clicked over to business class fares and the price jumped to $2500-$3000. First class was something like 5 grand. I've taken those flights before, and they are always full. So those thirty or so passengers in first and business class represent about 2-3x the gross revenue of the 150 passengers in coach.

I've been fortunate enough to fly business class to California for work, and I'm well aware that I won't arrive any faster than someone in coach, I have to use the same crappy, cramped bathroom, and I'm breathing the same stale recycled air as everyone else. You want to know what that extra two+ grand bought my company? The "privilege" of boarding the aircraft early (so I can sit in the tin tube even longer!), no checked baggage fees, or even better, plentiful overhead space so I needn't worry about checked bags, all the liquor I might want, gratis, a nice hot 3-course meal with real silverware, one of those personal video thingamajigs, and best of all, a seat that reclines nearly all the way, so after I've drunk myself into a stupor over breakfast I can pass out for the rest of the flight. Oh, and the warm nuts. Don't forget about the warm nuts. You can add that up as many times as you want, it still doesn't add up to 2 grand's worth of extras. Where does the rest of it go? As far as I can remember, no one's ever come around offering hand jobs up there in business or first, so it must be subsidizing all those $150-per-leg seats back in coach. Not to mention paying the flight crew's paltry salaries, maintenance and fuel costs, ground staff at both ends, baggage handlers, airport tariffs, and those aggravating TSA agents who want to confiscate my Jergen's and nail clippers.

I watched a show on cable (can't remember which channel, maybe CNBC?) "Inside American Airlines" and they ran down the numbers on one of those JFK-LAX round trips, and at the end of the day, the total profit for the airline for that particular aircraft was something like 200 bucks.

So you know what? Stop acting like flying cross-country is a basic human right that is being insulted by an airline charging you $3 for a can of Pringles or $10 because you want to fly on the busiest travel weekend of the year.. If you want a better flying experience, put your money where your mouth is and buy it. Are you willing to pay a couple hundred dollars more for your ticket?

I didn't think so.

Big "Whoops!" on SNL Season Opener

I stayed up to Watch the season opener of SNL last night. It was only so-so, with the exception of Weekend Update, which was completely hilarious -- is it me or was Seth Myers totally killing it?

U2 is officially too big for anything but stadium shows. They looked straitjacketed on the tiny SNL stage, and both of their performances were oddly bloodless.

Now, Megan Fox. Who seems to have had the fastest hot-to-not trajectory of any celebrity in living memory (maybe the Octomom has her beat). Can any of you guys explain the Megan Fox thing to me? Because I just have never gotten it. Generally, I can look at the latest object of male lust (Angelina Jolie, Jessica Biel, Scarlett Johanssen) and say, "yeah, I get that," but Megan Fox has me completely baffled. From an empirical standpoint, she's pretty enough, but there's always been a vaguely "ick" feeling about her, as if inside her shoes she has dirty feet. Doesn't a date with Megan Fox require a course of penicillin for a week afterward? There's just something "schkeevatz" about her. Plus, lately, stories have started to ooze out that she's a big asshole. So -- if any of you men out there can explain her appeal to me, I'd really appreciate it.

Best (unintentional) moment of the show: the biker chick skit, when one of the new female cast members, in a "frickin'" and "freakin'" laden skit, slipped and blurted "I fuckin' love you!"

I've spent a little bit of horrified time with biker chicks, and trust me, the skit didn't go far enough. These are tough and scary women, so coarse and rough in their speech that it will turn your hair white. "Fuck" is not the worst of their words, let me tell you. The c-word flies with just as much casual frequency. They scare me a little bit, because these are females who think nothing of getting into fights at the slightest provocation. The amount of anger, resentment at the world, and violence that simmers under the surface in the biker lifestyle is astonishing. It ain't pretty, let me tell you, and I'm puzzled by the dark glamour it holds for my best friend. And I won't say anything about the rampant drug and alcohol use and casual criminality...its so far outside the boundaries of reasonable society that I feel like a big narc when I'm at a biker party. I know, Jane has standards for acceptable behavior, albeit pretty low ones, but they do exist.

Anyway, I'm sure the skit is all over Youtube by now. Catch her expression as soon as the f-bomb flies -- "Oh, SHIT! I am so fired." Then watch her try to regain her composure for the rest of the skit. You actually have to feel a little sorry for the poor girl!

Sometimes What You See on "Law & Order" is Real

Like the rivalry between the NYPD and the FBI.

You know that big terrorism bust that the local news has been touting with all those glowing stories?

Well, it turns out it was just another colossal fuckup by the NYPD.

Read about it here.

Slice of Life, Friday Night, Brooklyn

As I write this, I'm sort of semi-reclined and curled up in my chair watching the news. My little cat jumped up to join me and is now curled up on my lap, purring madly and occasionally kneading my arm and looking up at me with that blinky lovesexy gaze that a contented cat will give you. She just lifted her head and gave my nose a little lick.

The weather is turning crisp, with that fresh apple bite of coming fall. Soon it'll be time to start layering blankets.

Judge Street is quiet tonight, unusual for a Friday. No idling cars with booming bass. No groups of idling teens on the stoop of number twelve, gossiping and giggling in high Boriqua voices.

It's my favorite time of year in New York.

I have to go to Los Angeles next week. I'm leaving on Wednesday and not returning until the following Friday. Nine days, during which there will be a king-sized bed in a luxe hotel room with a fireplace, two gigantic flat screen tv's (because it wouldn't be America without a television no further than ten feet away at all times), Aveda bath products and an ocean view. Nine days, during which I will eat the freshest sushi imaginable, spend some free time walking to Manhattan Beach, and try to spot celebrities on Robertson Boulevard.

On the other hand, no little cat will crawl into my lap, there will be no big chair for me to curl up in, and for nine days the full inventory of my stuff will be defined by the perimeter of my wheely Samsonite.

I don't know why I'm not very excited for this trip. Usually I really enjoy getting out of the office to go on press, but this time...

I dunno.

I Need to Brag About Something

I have done a lot of my posts since June from my Blackberry. No, no, you don't understand how monumental this is...I look at my laptop and think, "very, very expensive and delicate typewriter." So this is equivalent of finding water on Mars.

Aren't I clever? I'm fricking Sissy Hankshaw with that bad boy, is what I am.

Just wanted to pat myself on the back.

Peter, I Can See Your House From Here

I just returned home from a daytrip to Chicago, and while I don't exactly love getting up at 3am to catch a six o'clock flight, I don't really mind it so much either. It's just part of the job.

In case you haven't noticed, I have a thing for air travel.

It's not just my slightly ghoulish interest in plane crashes; I am intrigued, occasionally appalled, but ultimately fascinated by pretty much every aspect of the entire travel experience, from how my luggage gets on the right plane (barcodes and conveyor belt sorters kind of like a USPS Bulk Mail Center) to how a plane actually flies (Bernoulli's Principle, of course. It's all about the curve of the wing assembly and how the differential between the speed of the air flowing over the wing and the air flowing under the wing creates lift and snoooooooore). I mean, one of my internet must-reads every Friday is Patrick Smith's "Ask the Pilot" on Salon. (He's linked over in that sidebar on the right side of this blog.)

I know: NERD ALERT!

I'm such a geek that I was tickled when I moved into my apartment in 2004 and learned that it was under the approach path to LaGuardia Airport. I've been known to sit in my front windows or on my front stoop just watching the planes go by. I'm close enough to LaGarbage that I can see the landing gear (as it is another two to three minutes to landing by the time a plane passes over Judge Street, if the gear isn't down, there's something seriously wrong and you should listen for a large boom), and I like to idly recite to myself the airline (identified by its livery, or "paint job" for you non-geeks out there) and the type of aircraft. "Hmmm...American, MD-80; USAir, 737; Delta, 757...Song? What the heck is Song?" Okay, so that was back in ought-four, Song doesn't exist anymore...) I've been known to stand in my bathroom watching incoming flights and timing the separation between the planes. New York has the most congested airspace in the country and there is a plane landing at LGA every 45 to 60 seconds. Scary, huh? Those ATCks really are pushing tin!

See? Geek.

Two years ago, flying into Pittsburgh for Dad's funeral, I was looking out the window and casually thought to myself, upon spotting a split-entry ranch well off the road and surrounded by trees, "That looks a lot like Uncle Chuck's house...Holy shit! It IS Uncle Chuck's house!"

Tonight, flying home on American, we had a smooth flight with clear-clear-clear skies and I was lucky enough to have the A-seat in a row not obstructed by a wing, and as we flew up the East River, I was able to start pinpointing landmarks (to myself, of course. I'm a geek, but not an audible one). Statue of Liberty, Governor's Island, Ferry Terminal, Brooklyn, Manhattan, and Williamsburgh bridges...ooh, that's Metropolitan Avenue, there's Kellogg's Diner with its hideous purple and pink neon outlining the whole building, and holy cow, I can see my little one-block street with the building on the corner with the five bright orange lights on the outside and just a few doors down, with the three bright lights on the facade, I could see my own house! So cool.

What did I tell you? Geek.

But as Jesus said, blessed are the geeks...

Do you need any further evidence of my geekitude? I just wrote a thousand words -- if that isn't evidence enough, I don't know what is.

Ew, ew, ew, ew, ew

So Mackenzie Phillips' big reveal on Oprah is that she was screwing her father, "Papa" John Phillips.

I'm so skeeved by this that I can't write anymore.

How to Waste a Beautiful Sunday

Oh boy. I'm not a Jets fan, but I loved seeing them put the spank on New England. I'm sorry, but what kind of team isn't even affiliated with a city but calls itself after a region? It's a football team, not an airline. Pick a damn city. Boston, Hartford, BurlingtonN something.

Now its time for a blue-collar bash -- Steelers-Bears.

Roethlisberger just scored Spaeth on 4th and goal, 92 yards on first possession. It's a beautiful thing. Go Big Ben! It is a good thing that the next couple of weeks they're playing weenie teams, cause they are Troy-less for at least the next couple of weeks.

Secret confession: I really watch because I think Mike Tomlin is all kinds of chocolately delish.

When Does Joyce Carol Oates Sleep and Eat?

It's become a semi-annual thing, hasn't it, to think to oneself, "Hmmm, isn't it about time for Joyce Carol Oates to put out a new book?"

Well, it has for me, at least.
JCO has published FIFTY SEVEN books since 1964. Think about it -- that's two a year!

Is it just me, or is that mind boggling?

The woman teaches creative writing at Princeton, which one would think is a huge time-suck in and of itself. Imagine having to deal with the fragile egos of a seminar of post-adolescent writers (is there any creature more self-regarding than a college-age writer? Well, maybe the hipster population of Brooklyn, but that's a topic for a different post).

Who knows, maybe she has a big red rubber stamp that says, "forget it, kid, you'll never be a writer -- go down the hall and sigb up for Krugman's classes," and that frees up her time for writing.

The only conclusion I can draw is that she must spend every free waking moment writing something. It's kind of inspirational, and oh so basic when you think about it. The lesson is: the way to be a writer is to write all the time (have you seen her? She's certainly not wasting any time fussing about how she looks, that's for damn sure. Too mean?).

I've always got so many ideas for stories, characters, scenes. But they fly around in my head like those flocks of birds that take off from telephone lines and whirl around in crazy circles before settling down again. I haven't mustered the discipline to snag even one out of the sky.

Why is that? There was a period in my life, spanning the time roughly from when I was about four years old to my early twenties, when I did nothing BUT write stories. What happened? Lots of other people do it, why haven't I?

Now I find that we are surrounded by a whole lot of published crap (much of it. perpetrated by my own gender, I'm sad to say) and when I dip my toes into the latest airport bestseller, the first thing that crosses my mind is "I'm a better writer than this," not "Wow, I wish I could write like this."

It's not a matter of reading books about writing (guilty as charged, I've read them all, and I will whole-heartedly recommend Anne Lamott's "Bird by Bird" and Natalie Goldberg's "Writing Down the Bones") but of actually writing.

Oh, and please don't talk to me about The Artist's Way. There's something insufferably smug and self-satisfied about Julia Cameron. I think her 12-step bullshit creeps into her books, and besides, she is a writer who only writes about writing. It's a little too meta for me. (I guess you can give her a tiny break; she was married to Martin Scorsese, after all, and if I was a super-ambitious moderate talent married to an authentic genius, I'd probably drink and drug, too.)

You know what I'm going to give myself for my birthday? The time to write stories, that's what.

Now -- go write something. And steer clear of Krugman's office. That way lies madness.

President Obama Makes The Sunday Morning Rounds

Tomorrow morning, tune in to the morning shows. President Obama is going to be on five of them.

Of course, he's snubbing ClusterFOX in favor of Univision. This has sent crybaby Chris Wallace into fits. I mean, what does it say about your network when the President of the United States would rather talk to the network of El Sabado Gigante con Don Francisco (you have to imagine it in that guy's voice, really) than you?

It's smart, actually. Why bother with a network that talks almost exclusively to a tiny, vocal, teabagging, lunatic right-wing fringe who believe that Glenn Beck has something important to weep about when Latinos are the fastest-growing minority in the country?

I think it shows that President Obama is fully aware that FOX is now completely irrelevant to the national conversation. By showing them the back of his hand, he's semaphoring a huge message to the rest of the media that he will not talk to unserious hacks calling themselves journalists (Mike Wallace must be embarrassed by his kid every single day).

Of course, he's finishing off Monday by going on Letterman's show. Man, that must REALLY chap Chrissy Wallace's hide.

My prediction for Wallace's guest lineup for tomorrow morning; Glenn Beck, Michelle Bachmann, Sarah Palin, Dick Armey, and Joe Wilson.

Keep Pluckin' That Chicken!

I've decided that I'm going to make that my new buzz-phrase.

It works really well as a snarky answer to someone who is engaged in or is going to engage in something that is so hopeless, so mind-numbingly futile, that you can only throw your hands up and say,

"Keep pluckin' that chicken!"

Mark Sanford, you're going to work on falling back in love with your wife? Keep pluckin' that chicken!

Joe Wilson, you want your Wikipedia entry to show that you did good things in Congress and look beyond your ill-mannered outburst for the rest of eternity? Keep pluckin' that chicken!

Sarah Palin, you want to be taken seriously as a human being? Keep pluckin' that chicken! You betcha!

In case you you don't know what I'm talking about, just go to YouTube and search for Ernie Anastos' F-bomb. I'm sure he had "plucking" in mind when he made the statement, but every now and then, an unfortunate rhyme will be standing nearby and will shoulder the intended word out of the way to grab its moment in the spotlight.

Happens to all of us.

I'm Not Saying...but...

The funniest internet meme going lately is the "Did G1enn B3ck rape and murder..."

Just google his name + murder and read the reddit string for a good chuckle.

I'm not saying he did it, but some people ARE saying it, and all I'm saying is that he hasn't produced the long-form document proving that he didn't do it. America deserves the truth and we will not be intimidated!

Hoist by his own petard, the black-souled alkie scumbag.

Hahahaha!

Jane Talks About Sports (Gay Friends, Feel Free to Go To the Kitchen for a Drink)

First order of business:

The classiest act from an era of Yankee class acts (alums of the Classy class include Bernie Williams and Paul O'Neill, but most definitely NOT overpaid cracker douchebags Roger Clemens and Randy Johnson), Derek Jeter passed Lou Gehrig's hit record last night! 2722 -- wooooohooo!

What is it about Derek? He was born in pinstripes and he'll die in pinstripes, I reckon, and he just seems to be an all around good egg. Quiet, great work ethic, good character. No showboat, and even his mishmash ethnicity is a perfect reflection of the city he's played in since 1992.

Oh, and still so cute.

Unfortunately, despite Jeter's Big Hit last night, the Orioles seem to be owning the Yanks this series.

Total side note, the pitcher of record for JBH was Chris Tillman, a Baltimore rookie who seems to have a big future. Your Janey knows this kid's father!

Second order of business:

My hometown Steelers won the NFL season opener, squeaking out the win in overtime, which I missed because I was so tired I went to bed at 10 o'clock. (I'll say it again -- I'm OLD!). The bad news is that our resident Tasmanian Devil, Troy Polamalu, injured his MCL and will be out for 3-6 weeks. Bad news...

Troy's yet another class player -- a total animal on the field (but in a fun, Muppety kind of way -- when you watch him play, you can almost hear Frank Oz: "AniMAL! AniMAL!") and so quiet, soft-spoken, and gentlemanly off that you can't believe he is the same person.

Third order of business:

The Penguins got to visit the White House last week. So that's two Pittsburgh teams who have gotten to meet President Obama this year! The Prez couldn't resist getting in a dig that he's really a Blackhawks fan (even I smirked at that -- our basketball-playing, hip-hop-loving President, a hockey fan? Come on!), but since the 'hawks bought the Stanley Cup Repeller (aka Marion Hossa) this year, Obama'll have to start rooting for the Caps.

Well, that's my sports roundup for the week. Now back to our regularly scheduled programming...

Found a New Blog I Love

Linking to a Buddhist doctor.

Today's Hooray

I came home from a function tonight and landed at Letterman, and my attention was actually grabbed by -- get this -- a commercial. Or rather, the song in a commercial.

It was a t-mobile spot, and if I'm not mistaken, the song that was playing was YUSUF!! For the uninitiated, or hopelessly nonmusical, Yusuf is to the rest of us, and forever will be, Cat Stevens.

He was on Charlie Rose recently, and despite his little Muslim beard and clothes, he was still Cat. Still gentle and soft-spoken. Still sweet-eyed and self-deprecating.

Still hot.

Or, just Google "Cat Stevens Peace Train Live" if you don't believe he's hot. He's a Greek Brit, for gods sake. The defining national characteristic of Greek men is hotness. You should not confuse this with the defining characteristic of Greek women, which is moustaches.

I lurve him

Idyut

I mean, seriously, how ridiculous can one cat look, ALL THE TIME?

People I've Been Meaning to Link to But Have Lazily Been Cruising Through Other People's Blogs

Don and Mr. Rochester.

Go there. They're in my links, finally.

And Miss Midwesterly has been updated. Finally.

Michael Jackson Birthday Party, 8/29 in Prospect Park

Spike Lee is throwing a birthday party on Saturday, August 29th, at the Nethermead in Prospect Park. (Don't you LOVE that name? It sounds like something from medieval times).

The party was originally going to be held in Fort Greene Park, but has since been moved.

I'll be there! Pun intended.

Congratulations Irene!

I've got to get this down before I go to bed tonight, because some nights are so good that they can't go unrecognized. Nothing particularly earth-shaking happened, but taken as a whole, I took a lot out of the evening.


My friend Irene eloped to City Hall a couple months ago and rather than planning an elaborate, formal party, she planned a happy hour at a local Williamsburg bar.

Today I was feeling sticky and VERY low-energy after the debauchery of Thursday night at CVLT Studio, then going out last night with my friends to see my new Favorite Movie of All Time for the second time.

After a sweaty semi-nap this afternoon I was not feeling particularly festive, and even slightly blue. I think I was just feeling bleh. Maybe enervated from the heat.

After entertaining the idea of just staying home and avoiding the Bedford Avenue cohort altogether, then further rationalizing it with the thought that I don't know any of Irene's friends, so I wouldn't really be missed, I remembered that someone once said to me, "Baby, you just gotta fake it till you make it." I also reminded myself: Sistergirl, it ain't always about you. YOUR FRIEND GOT MARRIED, so show the fuck up.

I also think that I was feeling some of that social anxiety thing that I get -- many, many people would fall out laughing if I were to tell them that in my deepest heart I'm still a painfully shy 4-year-old hiding my face in my mother's skirt.

So I painted on a face, put on my favorite belt (it's my version of Wonder Woman's magic bracelets), plastered a smile onto my face, and went to a party where I knew only one person.

I'm so glad I went.

Rehashing the old trope that a person is judged by the company they keep...you can tell a lot about a person by the quality of their friends. And Irene has great friends. Everyone was so, so nice.


I ended up having the most amazing 2-1/2 hour conversation with a couple that ranged from guns (he is pro and I am anti) to cakes (she is a cake artist, and she made the MOST adorable cake for Irene), to Cayce, to the Hadron Collider to Rupert Murdoch to Osama Bin Laden to Michael Vick. I literally haven't had such a great, rangy conversation with smart people in I don't know how long. And wonder of wonders it was reasonable and fascinating conversation with someone whose political views are about 180 full degrees from mine.

You know how you feel after you get a great full-body massage? Relaxed and energized at the same time? That's how I feel right now -- like I got a full brain massage.

Fantastic party, Irene!

Whole Lotta Love

Went to see "It Might Get Loud" again last night.

There'a a moment, about halfway through, when Jimmy Page starts tearin' it up with the opening riff from "Whole Lotta Love."

The Edge and Jack White stop what they're doing. The Edge seems to forget there is a camera rolling and seems to be pulled to his feet and he just stands in front of Page, watching in awe. Jack White, as if giving up the fight, merely takes his guitar off his lap and props it on the floor in front of him, with a look on his face that says, "Pinch me!" He gives a little shake of his head that indicates his knowledge that he will never be able to lick the bottom of Jimmy's shoe.

When the Master is at work, all must bow down before him.

I know I sound like a 16-year-old boy about this movie.

Best Protest Sign So Far

I think we should start a movement for the smart people to go out and stand amongst the dummies and feebs with signs like this, get other smart people to snap your photo, and post them on a website.

"It Might Get Loud"

If you're one of those people for whom music is in your top four basic needs, galloping hard on the heels of food, shelter, and clothing, then you need to see this movie.

If you're one of those people who has memorized every note of your old albums, to the point where you mentally add the end-of-side scratching when you listen to the cd's, then you need to see this movie.

If listening to late-60's blues-based rock and roll makes your entire body break into one giant goosebump and you headbang and air drum whenever you hear your favorite song of the genre, then you MUST see this movie.

Short description: Jack White, The Edge and Jimmy Page meet and talk about guitars.

If you're a person who has to do a wikipedia search to find out who Jimmy Page is, then this is not the movie for you. And you can't be my friend.

Go. It was the best movie I've seen in a couple of years. I know it's only out in limited release right now (NY/LA) but if it goes wide, GO!

After seeing this, I kind of think that maybe, juuuust maybe, that whole "Jimmy made a deal with the devil" thing just might be true. The man is still a rock god, he looks hot, and he still does that guitar-genius face.

Loved it, loved it, loved it. I'm going again on Friday.

The Conundrum of Being from the (Semi) Midwest, or Why I Don't Visit My Family

SOOOOOO....

In general, I like my brothers just fine, but I like them better from 500 miles away. Okay, I'll admit it, sometimes they can be assholes.

But they are capable of incredible acts of kindness and generosity, too.

I put that out there into the universe in hopes that it will buy me some good karma for what I'm about to say.









One of my brothers is a "birther."

There, I said it.

Do you still like me?

More on Texas and the Goddamned Bible

Yeah, I said it.

Read more here.

Why not just offer a comparitive religion course? I had one of those in the 7th Grade, fachrissakes.

Sarah Palin To Sue Entire Internet

Based on this ruling.

Screw Texas

So apparently the Texas State School Board is now mandating teaching the Bible.

Are our federal stimulus dollars paying for this Jeebus freakery? If so, how do we get our money back?

Hitchens! Where are you?

And speaking of Texas, Tom Delay is going to be on "Dancing With The.Stars."

You know what? Fuck Texas.

They Were Stardust

This weekend marks the 40th anniversary of Woodstock, and watching all of the retrospectives, I'm convinced that I shoulda been born sooner!

How did that group of kids, nearly "half a million strong," who partied so peacefully for three days, taking care of each other, sharing their food and drugs (the Hog Farm's trip tent, where people went if they were having a bum trip, was a classic example of paying it forward -- once you came down, you stayed to guide the next kid to the end of his trip, and so on and so forth) -- how did these muddy, music-loving, war-hating utopians turn into the generation of "I got mine, so fuck everyone else?"

When did they become Republicans?

Rachel Maddow on Meet the Press

Since David Gregory started his Death by a Thousand Cuts of "Meet the Press" last year, I haven't watched. I'm tuning in this morning to watch Rachel Maddow, who is on with Tom Daschle, Tom Coburn and that orange-tinted booby Dick Armey.

I'm a little bummed, as her innate good manners are causing her to be too deferential to people who only deserve scorn and derision.

Armey's innate bad manners and sexism are evident in that he refuses to look directly at her and when she speaks, he plasters one of those "what do women know?" smirks across his bulbous, caricature-ready face.

This dipshit, whose organization is one of the ones disseminating lies about HR3200 (that's the health care reform bill or The Secret Government Plot to Kill Old People, if you're a non-thinking American) and encouraging wackadoos to show up and shout down discussion at town hall meetings, blithely said he bears no responsibility for the tone of many of these meetings.

What an idiot.

Proust Questionnaire: Garrison Keillor

From Vanity Fair, September 2009:

What is the quality you most like in a woman?

High-spiritedness, wit, a love of repartee and wordplay and allusion and jokes -- in other words, an English major.

Can someone tell me why there are no men like this in my generation?

What a Crappy Day

I woke up to the sun shining in my face and no alarm going off. It was nearly 9 o'clock, so I got up and made a pot of coffee (full disclosure, Mr Archer, I did it with the Krups today.) and drank a couple of cups while watching Dylan Ratigan. Don't you hate when you get to sleep until you wake up and have to relax for a couple hours without rushing off to catch a jam-packed rush hour subway? Awful, isn't it?

I looked out the window and saw that it was a blue-sky, sunshiny day. Aww, dang it! So I put on my bathing suit and made myself a mango-banana-watermelon-orange smoothie with a handful of frozen blueberries thrown in for good measure. It's such a bummer to have fresh fruit in the fridge and a working blender. Sigh.

I got on the train at 11:20 and less than an hour later I was stepping into the sunshine at New York's own funky beach town, Coney Island. It was surprisingly crowded for a weekday, but I staked out a nice little plot of beach and lounged for about 3 hours. The ocean was not too cold and it was crystal clear today. It really sucked, I gotta tell you, to sit on the beach with a book and an icy bottle of water and be surrounded by the happy screams of a kids' day camp playing in the sea.

When I left the beach, I stopped at the Beach Shop (I love that it's called what it is, no clever names, it's just so basic) and bought a t-shirt with a mermaid on the front, then I went to Nathan's (home of the original 4th of July hot dog eating contest) and got a dog and some bacon cheese fries and a big beer, I sat at a table in the sun and ate my lunch and read my book. It was truly terrible.

On my way home, I stopped and got a pedicure to replace my month-old Hollywood pedicure. Isn't it terrible to sit in a cushy chair that massages your back while someone rubs your feet and calves and paints your toes a silvery rose color? (Ulterior motive -- to get Archer to crawl after me slobbering and drooling. You think I'm kidding.)

Then I topped the day off with some naked playtime with my SNF and I'm ready to boil some pasta and heat up the lovely bolognese that I made early this week.

Wasn't that just a crappy day?

Summer Friday

We get to take four Fridays off during summer (I know, isn't my job just awful?) And today is one of mine.

So I'm on my way to Coney Island to work on my skin cancer -- er, I mean, my vitamin D replenishment. My doctor says I am deficient.

Willfully ignoring that whole "wonky white blood cell count" thing until the results of the follow-up test are back.

Rachel

And my final note of the day.

I think I've said this before, but it's totally worth saying again.

If I were a lesbian I'd TOTALLY lust after Rachel Maddow. She's so freakin adorable, but what gets me is just how wicked smahht she is.

Me loves her.

She's going to be on "Meet the Press" this Sunday with -- get this -- that old boob Dick Armey, which ought to be really, really amusing.

Make sure you watch. She will be polite and pointed as she picks him apart, and he will most certainly get all red in the face and make some shamelessly sexist or homophobic remarks. She will sink him. I can't wait to watch.

It's best, however to look away from David Gregory the Monkey-faced boy. There's just something weird about the guy's face.

My Cool Friend

My friend Miss Midwesterly is so cool.

Not only is she as bouncy and smart and amusing as an Australian Shepherd dog, she has done more cool things this year than most of us do in five.

To wit:

She moved her ass back to New York, finally giving in to the inevitable truth that while she made a fine Chicagoan, at the center of it, she's a New Yorker! Welcome home, Eesh!

She did a frickin' Ironman last month. An IRONMAN, people. That means she swam a couple of miles, crawled out of the water, then hopped on her bike and rode a century-plus -- that's A HUNDRED and TWELVE MILES. And THEN, after that, in case you weren't tired just thinking about that, she ran a marathon. And she did the whole thing in something like 14 hours. When was the last time YOU pushed yourself to the outside boundaries of human endurance? Sheesh, when was the last time you walked up three flights of stairs?

And today, she found out that she's being deployed to Taiwan by Shelterbox as part of their disaster relief team aiding mudslide victims. She leaves on Saturday and will probably be gone for a couple of weeks.

Fabulous. Fabulous. Fab. U. Lous.

My friends are just cool.

Les Paul, RIP (1915 - 2009)

The day the music REALLY died. Without Les, there wouldn't have been any rock and roll.

Farewell.

Randomalia

Greetings from the town of Randomalia, population; me. Where my mind is a velcro wall and every now and again something falls off and drops into the public sphere. Here are today's brain droppings;

1) I promise to try not to call Sarah Palin mean names in this post. But honestly, if she keeps puttin' her skinny ass out there in public I can't see how one can't give in to the urge to kick it.

2) I wonder why the gun control and pro-choice people haven't put up their own web pages listing the names of their reactionary foes, their home addresses, work addresses, phone numbers, their children's names and schools the way the radical right has done. Then they can hold up the shield of the First Amendment if "something" happens to someone. Or they could simply call it self defense, right?

3) On a more serious note than kicking Sarah Palin's ass or the thought that someone might take a shot at the president of the NRA with a gun purchased (legally!) at a gun show without a background check, Mambo is in a swift decline. After the whole "going totally blind and deaf" thing, he had seemed to rally and was doing a pretty good job navigating the house, albeit in a nose-bumping, Helen Keller kind of way. Today I came home, though, and he's now staggering noticeably. I'm sooooo not ready for the end, even though he's had a fairly cushy 18+ years. He isn't hiding the way animals do when they're ready to die, but I don't think I'll get another year.

4) Two hot days does not a summer make! Today was positively mild. I'll take it!

5) Speaking of summer, I just want to point something out to everyone who reaches for a pair of sandals or flip-flops to beat the heat or complete that cute summer outfit. Folks, when you put these on, you are aware that we can see your feet, aren't you? Please, I beg you, if you don't want us to mistake you for Frodo, get at least one pedicure. And if your feet are too awful to look at, I've got one word for you; espadrilles. Today on the subway, I was admiring the cute girl sitting across from me, liked her dress, good haircut, then -- YIKES -- I got to her feet. Not only were her toenails a mess -- they actually looked chewed (I know, ewww, right?) But her toes themselves were completely "what the fahhh?" I swear, her toes were as bent and overlapping as the fence around a haunted house. I couldn't take my eyes off them until I yelled "Beetlejuice!" three times and fled the train at 5th Avenue. Guys, do you notice these things?

6) Someone at work actually noticed that I've lost a bit of weight. Yay! I have to confess there are only two concrete reasons I decided to be kinder to my body; first, I got tired of my poor abused knees hurting all the time. I was literally hobbling up and down stairs like an old lady. Second, I was terrified of turning into that person who gets on a plane and sees the "oh please, oh please, oh please, god, don't let her be sitting next to meeeeee" look in everyone else's eyes. So, now I can RUN up and down subway stairs, and feel ok because I only occupy the seat of 1 person on a plane. I'd actually like to lose a bunch more, but that will come in time. And it was really, really simple; eat less, move more. No pills, surgery, or weird cleanses. Just; eat less, move more. I said simple, not easy. It's been very, very slow, but really worth it.

7) If you didn't catch it tonight, go online and find Rachel Maddow's clip about the Iraqi National Baseball team. It's a truly heartwarming story, but tell me these guys don't look just like American baseball players!

8) I hope, if you are far enough away from a bright urban area, that you are staying up late, lying in the grass, and watching the Perseids this week.

9) Boy, do I miss my dad. I can't believe its been almost two years since he died, and I'm STILL not over it. Some days I'm dumbstruck at the thought that I'm nobody's little girl, the apple of no one's eye. It still just sucks.

10) He is surely no Rhodes Scholar, but Levi Johnston is still hot.




I know its creepily inappropriate for me to say that about a 19 year old kid, but who cares? It doesn't make it any less true.





11) Valerian. That's all I'm gonna say before I head off to bed.

Don't Click on this Link!

I tell you, don't click on it!

Okay, don't say I didn't warn you. I am not responsible for the hour you have just lost, nor for any errant squeals of "sooo cute!" that may issue from your lips.

But they are.

So cute, that is.

Summer is Finally Here

So everyone needs to stop complaining! It's August! It's supposed to be 90 degrees. Remember June? When it rained for something like 25 days? When the entire city woke up every day, looked out the window, and said, "Rain again, whatever," and seemed to be gripped by a tri-state depression? I'm no fan of hot and humid weather (I'd be happy if every day was 68 degrees and sunny, followed by 12 inches of fresh powder every night) but really, this isn't so bad. We've had worse.

So no complaining, even though it is what I like to call granny-panty weather. When it's too hot to wear anything except big comfy cotton undies. I can't imagine anything worse than dealing with a thong up my ass on a steamy summer day.

On a completely unrelated note; wouldn't "Obama Death Panel" be a really good name for a band?

Oh, and while I'm talking about that -- fuck you Sarah Palin, you numb twat

Mistakes, I've Made a Few...

I believe that regret is a waste of energy, so I try not to indulge in it too often, but I have to admit, I made mistake when I sold my Tacoma. Granted, it was far too much guitar for me, and I never did.play up to its level, but not only was it pretty to look at, it had the most unbelievable warm and big sound. But the dreadnought was just too big for me, and I felt like I had my arms around a giant carnival bear, so I sold it last fall. At least it went to a good home -- I sold it to a good friend who is a much more accomplished guitarist than I am.

But damn, this weekend I picked up my Fender "starter" guitar for the first time in months and it just sounded so...sad. I'll put new strings on it this week and that should help some, but still, a Tacoma she ain't.

Oh well.

How to Make Yourself Feel Better

Get 12 good hours of sleep. Wake refreshed. Have two cups of coffee and a frozen-banana-blueberry smoothie. Don't speak for the first six hours you are awake. Take a long shower and exfoliate your skin. Pumice the bottom of your feet and rub them with peppermint lotion. Masturbate. But not with the peppermint lotion. Clean your hardwood floors. Take a call from an old boyfriend who still makes you laugh. Change your hair color -- slightly. Put on makeup and a low-cut white shirt, your favorite jeans that you will have to retire soon because happily, they are too big, a pair of Frye boots and your favorite belt with the salad-plate sized buckle. Don't blow dry your hair. Take the subway to Lincoln Center to see a free concert of 200 Guitars. Don't feel bad bailing early because it was not what you expected (honestly, it's Lincoln Center -- you were expecting "Layla" and a wall of Marshalls?). Walk to Times Square and catch a subway back home. Make yourself a cheese and sausage omelet and eat it in front of the television in your pajamas. Vow that the only news you will watch tonight will be Weekend Update on SNL.

Now you don't feel so crummy about the world.

If He Hadn't Messed Up His Face

A computer simulation of how Michael Jackson would have looked, had he not destroyed his face with all that plastic surgery...



Borrowed from here.

Sad.

Note to Self: Don't Watch Rachel Maddow After Having a Few Mojitos

Okay, so I got home last night, wrote about my fantastic week, then turned on Rachel and had to watch more about these wackadoos who are hijacking town hall meetings and turning the democratic process on its ear.

America, I got a little hot. Sorry for all the F-bombs, but I do think these people are idiots and, I will repeat here, UNAMERICAN.

To The Idiots Disrupting Town Hall Meetings

Fuck you, you corporate shills. Fuck you, you moronic sheep, for not even realizing that these so-called grassroots mobs are completely organized by PR flacks for the insurance industry.

I hope your kids get cancer and your insurance carriers cancel your coverage and you have to set up a can at the 7-11 cash register and depend on the pennies and dimes of strangers to raise money for chemotherapy.I hope you lose your job and your benefits and you have to go to the emergency room to get a fucking ASPIRIN.

You don't want socialism of any kind? Then cancel your fucking Medicare, you fucking simpletons.In fact, quit driving on those socialized highways, quit eating that USD fucking A socialized meat, stop sending things through the fucking socialized US Postal service, and stay the fuck off the socialized fucking internet.

Most of all, fuck you, you UNAMERICAN motherfuckers for shutting down reasonable debate and discussion and disrupting the democratic process.

Shame on you. Shame on you forever.

You fucking morons.

The Week of New York

As if to erase the oily residue of Los Angeles from my soul, like attacking a chainring tattoo on the back of my calf with Dawn dishwashing soap, this has been a week of hyper-New York activity.

Last Thursday I had a Hell's Kitchen barhop with my friend Ed. We talked about sports and music and laughed our asses off.

Last Friday was a stroll around the Upper East Side with Miss Midwesterly, complete with lunch in Central Park, a visit to the Met, some shopping for shoes and a break at a wine bar, ending with a Town Car driving through a puddle and drenching us both, followed by a couple hours of playtime with my SNF and a really great night's sleep.

Saturday found me at Coney Island with Roni (slathered with lots of SPF 30 and Atlantic Ocean slime), where we sunned, drank beers at Ruby's, ate hot dogs and drank beer at Nathan's, and paid for two back-to-back rides on the Cyclone. Those two rides were the best twenty-six bucks I've spent in a long time, if only because I got to scream my face off and blow out my adrenaline for a few minutes.

Monday, though I was totally exhausted due to one of my periodic bouts of insomnia, I couldn't turn down a free ticket to a Mets game at the new Shea. Something about being at a ballpark inflames my animal appetite and I rooted around Shea like a truffle pig and ate two hot dogs, a pulled pork sandwich, a funnel cake and also drank two beers. Totally toxic eating and totally awesome.

Tonight I had drinks with my old boss (and now a vendor) down at the WTC, where we sat by the marina, drank black cherry mojitos, and admired the sunset and the view of Jersey. Jersey! It was beautiful in the sunset!

God, I love this city.

Minority Steals another White Man's Job

Go Sonia! Go Sonia! Go Sonia! (I'm doing that cabbage patch dance, in case you were wondering)

Maybe I'll get really lucky during the Sunday morning shows and finally get to see Pat Buchanan's head explode on live television. Extra bonus points if Glenn Beck ruptures that vein in his forehead at the same time!