Monday, December 29, 2003

by Jessica Delfino

OK, I am going to award Joe with my pretty new shiny free CD for his reply to the Delfino/Flavorpill Challenge.

His answer was as follows:

I would be Edgar Bubblewrapbutt. Then every time a woman would pinch my ass it would make that fun popping sound. As much as folks can't resist popping bubblewrap, imagine how many chicks would line up just to pinch my ass! What the hell, guys line up too. I'm confident in my heterosexual-bubblewrap-ity.

Congratulations, Joe. Please e-mail me and tell me where to send it.

I'd like to give a runner-up honorable mention to Echocat because I really like the idea of being able to sniff white out all day long at a boring day job. That's my kind of party.

All the rest of you - if this was an advertising agency, you'd all be fired. Me, too. I didn't win my tickets. I guess that means I suck. But I get the last laugh - I've already seen Edward Scissorhands. I just like to get things for free. Who doesn't?

I've gotten lots of great shit for free. But when I say free, I mean free of monetary payment. Everything, unfortunately, usually has a price of some kind. I have gotten several free computers from several different men with crushes on me. One guy gave me a computer then he indian gave it to me when he realized computer or not, we weren't fucking. I should have just refused to accept it, but it was really awesome to be given a computer, especially when you don't have one, which I didn't. Plus, he pretended it was a Christmas present. This was several years ago - I guess I was 22. So young and naive. And dumb.

Then, I got a computer from my friend Victor who is just an awesome friend. He had bought a new computer and he gave me his old one. It was a few years old and really not worth too much to him anymore but the sentiment was stellar. He didn't even have a crush on me or anything. Most of the gifts I get are usually in affiliation with someone wanting to have sex with me which really bugs me.

NOTE: If you want to give me something, don't expect me to have sex with you. I might have sex with you because I want to have sex with you, but not because you are giving me something. Also, by you, I mean the proverbial "you." And not you, or you, or you, guy in the back.

I got a laptop from a friend of mine who has a lot of faith in my writing ability. He was a rich old guy who owned a company that got sold and he just swiped a few laptops as gifts for friends and relatives. It was old but nice and yes, he wanted to fuck me. Even old guys - god dammit!

When I was younger, guys used to give me stuff for free all the time. Now that I am older, I am less inclined to accept such gifts because I know that free is a synonym, or perhaps I daresay a sin-o-nym.

I will, however, accept free meals on almost all occasions because I love to eat out at restaurants but don't have the money to do that so often. So, someone has to be either a huge slimeball or just have really bad timing for me to not take them up on a free hot lunch. And I don't mean the sexual innuendo hot lunch that Sylvester Stallone is said to engage in from time to time, and by time to time, I probably mean every day for all I or anyone else knows, for that matter.

I will also accept free advice or tips or compliments, always. And media. I love to find free magazines at the doctors office or the dentist's office. I guess technically, that's stealing, but hey, I didn't say how it becomes free or if that matters. Free is free, stolen or paid for.

I used to be a kleptomaniac when I lived in Maine. It's sad but true. In my small, no future for kids who stay there town of Damariscotta, there was nothing to do. We would walk down to the back town boat landing and throw rocks at horse shoe crabs, we would smoke in a barn in an abandoned construction lot, we would walk around like little sluts and talk to guys who were a lot older than us. We would disobey our parents and drink beer in various friend's cars and at people's houses where there wasn't any parental supervision. It was only a matter of time before I learned that I could get things for free if I simply put them in my pocket. I remember the first thing I ever stole. It was a bag of kitty treats for my kitty. I was 9 or 10. My mom and I had gone to the grocery store and I asked her if she would buy them for me to give to my kitty, Rags. She said no, so I just put them in my pocket. When we got home, I tried to feed them to my cat, but she didn't like them. She turned her little kitty nose at them and walked away. So, I picked them up and put them in my desk drawer. Later, my mom came in and looked in my desk for a pen. She found the kitty treats and beat hell into me. She was so pissed.

But did I stop there? No. A year or so later, my two friends and I were out cruising the streets on foot and we came upon the town hamburger shack (this was before McDonald's had bought it's way into town) and hid behind it to smoke A cigarette - one per the three of us. As we were back there rattling around, my one friend who was like an investigative little cat, jumped up on the ledge and looked in through the window and noticed the window was unlocked. She opened it and climbed in. While she was shimmying her little body through the window, I turned the door handle and opened it right up as her feet were smacking onto the ground on the other side. We went in and walked around the 10x10 space, scoping out what might be worth taking. There were some boxes of soda and chips and we carried them back to her house and munched out. Her boyfriend, who was like 16 and is now dead (he died in a drunk driving accident when he was maybe 19 or 20) was storing his Camaro in her garage. We sat in his Camaro and ate chips and drank soda and listened to the radio and smoked another cigarette or two. We really knew how to party. We decided to split up the soda and chips and take them home, telling our parents that one of us was going to have a party and bought all the stuff and then the party got cancelled so the treats were given away. I took mine home and told my mom the story, and it worked. We sat and ate chips and drank soda and laughed and had a great time on the front porch, watching the sun set. It was very easy to entertain ourselves back in the day, especially in a town with so little going on as Damariscotta. I prayed inside that my mom never find out the true story about the chips because I knew she would murder me if she did. As we were eating the chips, the phone rang and my mom went to get it. I could tell it wasn't good because, well, you know how you can listen in on the open end of a phone conversation and just know if it's good or not. A few minutes later my ass was red and I was crying, chips everywhere. What happened was the girl with the dead boyfriend and Camaro in her garage, she bragged to her step-mom about what we had done, and she called mine and the other girl's parents and ratted us out.

From there, things got more elaborate. My friend Rachel and I would steal make up from Waltz Rexall and then go home and dump it out on my bedroom floor, pouring over the items we had stolen and trading various colors and pieces. We would steal cigarettes from the Puffin Stop or Maritime Farms gas stations where they just kept them right out in front on the counter for any sticky fingered punk to help themselves to.

My friend Robin got a car and we began to take our thievery on the road. We would drive to Brunswick and steal jeans from Sears. We even stole our prom dresses that year. We would just put them on under whatever we were wearing and walk out of the store with them. There were no security tags or anything back then and it was like Sears was begging us to rob them with their blind trust of everyone.

I almost sort of got busted once though, when we went to Ames in Wiscasset. I painted my fingernails with some pink polish and put it back down in place. As I was walking out the door I got stopped by a snaggle-toothen froofy haired security bitch who really looked like she was just a white trash shopper. They had really nailed the part when they hired her. She took me up into a little glass room and searched me. She found nothing on me and so she let me call my boyfriend, who at the time was Steve the fisherman who drove a Ford pick-up truck, to come and get me as I was a minor, but I was living with Steve, which made Steve my legal guardian. (My father had already given up on me and kicked me out at this point - I think I was 16.) She then took me downstairs and we got what we thought was the bottle of nail polish I'd painted my fingers with, in addition to three other bottles just in case the one we'd picked wasn't it. Steve had to buy them all for me, they were 2.88 each. He was not happy. He didn't talk to me all the way home.

All my friends were little kleptos, too. Man, I could go on and on with this, I have so many childhood thief stories but I think I've told so many strangers enough personal depressing information about myself. I guess this is part of the reason I am the way I am today. I'd probably be a piece of trash if I weren't so smart and sophisticated. Thank God for that, then.

Tuesday, December 23, 2003

FLAVORPILL CHALLENGE - More like Delfino Challenge

There is an event listings e-mail that I get every week with fun things to do around the city. It is called "Flavorpill." I used to write for them. One thing that makes their
e-mail so cool is that they ask you questions and if they like your answers, they'll
give you free tickets to see shows. This was their question for the midnight showing
of Edward Scissorhands at the Sunshine Theater, and my reply.

Tell us which office supply you would want permanently implanted in your body.
Our favorite six answers each win a pair of tickets to this film.

It might be cool to have stapler hands - Edwin Staplehands. Then if someone
was shit talking you could staple their mouths shut. And if someone was
eating too much holiday food, you could staple their tongues to the roofs
of their mouths. And if someone was being a slut - well, you get the idea.

So.....let's see if I win. I won tickets to see Marc Maron's one man show once with an answer I sent in. I'd be interested to see what other answers might have been.
Write your answers in my bulletin board section and my favorite answer will get
a free copy of my brand new awesome CD.
Who Makes Things That I Invent?
by Jessica Delfino

I have a bunch of ideas for inventions but nowhere to send them. I don't have any idea how anything gets made.

I guess the first thing I need is a mock up of some kind. How do I get that? Do I have to go to The Art Institute of New York's tool and dye program and get someone to make a mold for me? Or is tool and dye even a thing that people do anymore?

Then, I have one. So I take that one to companies? To the bank? I show it to them and say, hey, you don't know me. You wanna give me a bunch of money so I can make this? Or maybe I try to find someone who's rich, I dunno - pick him up in a bar or something. Pretend I just hang out at the 4 Seasons bar all the time and saunter over, asking him to light my cigarette, because in the 4 Seasons hotel bar you CAN smoke, because rich people can do whatever they want to.

Then, say he gives me a bunch of money to make this project - after I've finished blowing him or whatever it is I have to do to get him to say he'll give me the money. Because men don't just give you money to make things when you're a girl unless there's something in it for them - more money or some pussy or the opportunity to run for some kind of political office or meet a celebrity. I'm walking out with some kind of business plan, wiping his semen off my lips. Then where do I go from there?

I'll tell you where - I guess I make a phone call to a friend maybe who has friends who live in some third world country or in China or Tibet or Chile and I say, hey, get your friend to hook us up with a group of children who are interested in making $2.50 a day, wait - it's Christmas - $3.50 a day. So he makes some calls, the only reason he does this is because we used to have sex and he used to enjoy it very much, or perhaps he thinks there might be something in it for him - money or someone else's pussy (he already had mine) or the opportunity to run for some kind of political office or meet a celebrity. Sure enough, he finds a warehouse in the back brush of some country I didn't even know existed and offers them $3.50 a day. Well, of course they leap at the prospect of making that kind of money and insist on starting the project a day earlier than whatever day I want to start, and will work for free that day because they are so glad to be working at all. I say, no, I have to pay you for that day, because what's $3.50 to me? It's a milkshake or a pair of vintage gold shoes I will buy from some homeless guy on the sidewalk.

A week later, they have made 40,000 of my gazmos and are carrying them to America by hand on a ship where they have to sleep in three inches of water every night. When they get here, they are drenched but the merchandise is dry because it got to sit in the beds where there is no water.

I pay some man with a van a hundred dollars to go and pick up the shipment and drop it off in my living room. I open up an account on Ebay or and take a digital photo with my new camera. I put the pic up and people start buying them like crazy, at $4.50 a pop.

Before I know it, I'm rich. I give the fat rich man back the money I 'borrowed' from him but I actually had earned it, and I buy a house in Connecticut and one in Belize and one in San Francisco, in addition to the condo I relocate to in Manhattan.

I hire people to come over and run errands for me and do work on the condo. I make them work naked. They will do whatever I ask them to because I will pay top dollar just to have my every wish be their command.

Soon, I sell so many gazmos, IBM or Hasbro comes to me and says, HEY! We want to buy the blueprint for your gazmos and we'll give you a few million bucks, what say you? And I say, no. Then they come back and say, HEY! We'll give you a few million more bucks, what say you? And I say, no. Then, they come back and say, HEY! We'll give you a billion bucks and a car and a house and a man and a pair of gold earrings and you can star in a movie and we'll make it so that you are the first female to fly into a black hole or, whatever you want, we can make it happen. So I say, OK. Then, I buy my mom a house and my sisters and send my siblings and cousins to college and maybe I start a trust fund for poor people.

Ahhhh - all thanks to a great little idea I had in a dream. But I didn't do any of that. I still have my inventions. They are in my head and they will stay there forever and one day I'll be dead and my inventions will be dead, too, dead and buried with my head. Because I won't ever get to make them, because I don't invent shit and I don't know how to make a millionaire worship me and give me money and even if one did, I'd be too grossed out to take advantage of that.

Guess I'll just stick to working my shitty temp jobs and writing out my fantasies out on my blog.

Monday, December 22, 2003

Christmas Bump and Grind
by Jessica Delfino

This story is not about how much I hate Christmas or getting laid on Christmas or anything like that. It's much more dyer and sincere.

I have been noticing lately that more and more people are just crashing into me when they walk. Just because it's Christmas doesn't mean it's okay for everyone to slam into me when they are sauntering down the street. I try not to take it personally, but I can't help but wonder - if I was 6 feet 5' 300 pound black man, would people still be jabbing me as they pass by? The answer is a probable no. Unless they themselves were a 6 feet 5' 300 pound black man.

Is it that hard to look around and know how far away the person near you to your right or left is and not smack into them with elbows or hips or purses or shopping bags or shoulders? Every time I go outside I am getting checked by strangers. And what did I do to deserve it? I'll tell you what - nothing. NOTHING!

I think it might have something to do with the fact that everyone is out in full force, shopping and what not and everyone is anxious to hurry up and get done shopping and then hurry up and get home. But for the love of Christ, after all, it is his birthday, don't bump into me, fuckers.

Sometimes I accidently bump into random people. I am usually never walking anywhere without carrying a guitar and a purse, sometimes also a bag of clothes that I have purchased at the Stuyvesant Thrift Store on 2nd Ave near 88th Street or a baggie with a soda and a buttered bagel in it or what have me. But when I do, I usually turn around and say, "Oh, sorry," or "Didn't see you there," or "What the fuck are you gonna do about it, bitch?" That's what you call manners. Ever heard of 'em, fuck wads?

In short, I'm only ever so slightly guilty of doing that myself. But I usually don't do it. If someone rams into me for some reason it always pisses me off. I want to turn around to them and scream, "Hey, fucker! Did you not see me here? I'm 5'9", dammit! I'm pretty, too! I'm tall and pretty, fuck head!" Maybe that is why I get checked so much. People don't like to see tall pretty girls walking uninterrupted. But I'm pretty in a way that makes me not intimidating to people. I'm pretty in a way where men think they could get some easily and women think I'd steal their boyfriends because I look like I might be insecure. I don't know if that's true or not, I'm just um...hypothesizing.

I usually don't scream. Instead, I just scowl. Scowl, and sometimes frown. Frown, and sometimes get bitter. Then, I see someone who is small and susceptible to a jabbing, preferably someone who is old and crippled and whammo! They don't even know what hit them!

Is that fair? How many old cripply-bears do I have to take down on the streets before New York gets it? Respect eachother's personal space and keep your fucking elbows down when you are walking around - if not to boost your own levels of goodwill towards your fellow man or woman, for the sake of people who are smaller and weaker than I.

Consider this a public fucking service announcement, assholes. Thank you and God bless.

Saturday, December 20, 2003

Things She Thought
by Jessica Delfino

"I don't know, I guess I like Diet Coke alright," she said as she swirled the contents of the cup around in her mouth. She only came to this thing to get the money that they give you for sitting through it and honestly didn't give a shit about Diet Coke or who their target market was or if she was involved in that market, which she was, or the fact that in 15 years she wouldn't be involved in that market anymore.

"OK." The man seemed very interested in every word she said. He wrote it down on a clipboard and nodded, his mouth partially open, his bottom teeth, crooked, peeking up over his bottom lip. "OK. Great," he said again after a minute. He turned his face back up toward her and stared at her intently, waiting for her to say anything else. She wanted to say something to freak him out. You know, ask him about his family or pretend to be a psychic for a second and give him a vague prediction about something that could have been true maybe and then spend the rest of the afternoon wondering if he was wondering about the prediction.

But she didn't. Instead, she took his cue and answered properly. "It's not my favorite kind of soda," she said.

"OK, then, what is?" He asked.

"I sort of like Fresca," she said.

"Mm-hmm...." he muttered and began scribbling again. He was left-handed which was kind of weird to her. She hadn't known many left-handeds in her life and no one in her family was a lefty. Left-handeds are weird, she thought to herself. She thought they were weird because when they wrote it seemed like their whole body wrapped around their left hand, like a mother trying to teach her child to ride a bike, as if it took more effort to use your left hand to write something. But there's no reason it would, is there? She thought about Leonardo Da Vinci and how she learned from her art teacher in grammar school that he could write perfectly using both hands. She remembered when she heard that thinking to herself, "So?"

Then, she went home that night and practiced for an hour writing her name with her left and her right hand, just to see if she could do it. Well, she couldn't. Everything that she wrote came out looking like she was writing it while riding on a train or a bus, some mode of public transportation, but not in a car. It would have been messier if she had been in a car, because the center of gravity is smaller and there's more shaking.

She finished her small plastic cup of soda and wondered what the guy interviewing her had wanted to be when he grew up. Certainly not a guy who asks questions about soda. Right? Certainly not. Right? She wanted to ask him but thought it might be rude. Maybe he would get mad and feel insulted and for some reason end the interview and not pay her her stinking $85 bucks that she needed so so badly. She always needed money. She didn't grow up rich. She had to sometimes do soda interviews and occasionally would even go on dates to get the free dinner. "It's no big deal," she told herself as she'd be putting on her make up, getting ready to go out on some poor dickwad's dime who she was never going to lay. "It's kind of like getting a free sample of hair spray when you buy shampoo, or getting a free toothbrush with a tube of toothpaste the way they do sometimes," she reasoned with her conscience.

"Is it?" her conscience asked back. "Or is it kind of slutty?" Hm. "Well, who cares?" she told her conscience. "If it is kind of slutty, it's worth the amount of sluttiness it might kind of be. He's not getting to fuck me. And I never get to go out to eat. And he wants to take me out." Hm. "O-kay," her conscience sung to her in a sing-songy cadence. "Let's hope he isn't one of those guys who puts shit in your drink and rapes you and then falls asleep like nothing happened while you have nightmares all night and then wake up in the morning unsure of where you are with no panties on."

She stared at the guy and he stared back at her. He had those kind of glasses that were so thick that they make your eyes bulge a little bit, make you look kind of buggy. But he was kind of cute, even with the big bulgy bug eyes. He was tan, which was weird, because he didn't look ethnic, he looked Swedish or something. She thought of the word in her head, 'Swedish' - was there one e or two? One, she thought. But it seems like there should be two, she thought. But he was cute, and he seemed pretty young, like maybe 34. He was probably married. He probably made okay money at this shitty job.

"Do you like your job?" she asked him. He seemed taken aback, surprised that she had said something that didn't relate to soda. "Yeah," he said, looking down at the clipboard. "I like it. It's good." She didn't believe him. She had read somewhere that the way that people look, like the direction that they look in or whatever when they are talking to you tells you a lot about that person. It tells you if they feel nervous, or if they are scared, or if they are lying, or if they are thinking. Detectives probably know all about that kind of stuff, she thought. But she couldn't remember the directions and which one meant lying. She thought it was to the right, maybe, but he'd looked down. Maybe he wasn't lying. Maybe she was just overly sensitive and too critical and maybe a little judgmental. But who the hell wasn't?

"Are you married?" she asked him. "No," he said. "Do you want to take me out to dinner later?" she asked. He didn't answer right away. "It's just that I thought maybe you liked me," she offered. "Oh, well, I do, you seem very nice," he said. "It's just that, well, I don't date women," he said. "Oh," she said. "You mean, like, you're gay?" He smiled warmly. "No, I'm not gay," he answered. "I just don't date women."

Later in the evening, she got out of the shower. She dried her hair with a towel which her mother had sent her for Christmas a few years back. It was a nice towel with her name embroidered into the terrycloth. "Stacie" it said, as if she didn't know her own name. She picked up the phone and dialed the chinese place on the corner. She knew the number by heart.

"China King?" the lady answered as if she were asking a question. "Hi, can I get a small mixed vegetables with brown rice and garlic sauce on the side?" she asked. But she already knew the answer. The answer was yes.
by Jessica Delfino

I went to a subway party last night. Were you there? It was fucking insane.

If you've never been to a subway party, I'm about to tell you all about it. I'd heard of a subway party but never been to one, though my friend and I tossed around the idea of having a comedy show on a subway car but I doubt that would have been even half as successful.

We met at Blarney Stone down near the World Trade Center at 10:30ish on Friday night. There was a huge crowd of people outside of the bar milling around waiting for instructions. That's one thing I love about instruction-based performance art in New York - people will actually follow the instructions. They will show up toting whatever was asked to be brought, if anything, and await further directions. A lot of the people who attend these type of events are either artists themselves or trustafarians, I think, though so that may or may not affect why they are so eager to be led.

Around 11 I guess, (I was pretty drunk having gone to two other parties between 7 and 10 pm so I wasn't sure of the time) the crowd started moving and I, too, followed along. We poured down into the 6 line and overflowed the subway platform. When the train came everyone started cheering and I'm not certain, but I bet we filled almost every car on the train with the amount of people who were there. The fun thing about the party was that there were regular people on the train who were just trying to get home, and then all of a sudden there was this party on top of in front of and all around them, complete with liquor and beer being recklessly chugged and pot being smoked like crazy. It was like what I imagine it is like to ride the subway on new year's eve around 1 am. Complete and utter fun mayhem.

We took the 6 to Union Square and transferred onto some other train. I think we lost a few people there. We took whatever train we got on to Brooklyn. I am not sure where we were headed - some people said Levins or something, but when Levins came everyone chanted, "Don't get off the train!" I think it was that stop. I should have written this stuff down because I am having a hard time remembering the details. The train kept going further into Brooklyn and at this point it was a full on party. Someone with a boom box started blasting music and there was also the Hungry Marching Band somewhere but I wasn't in the same car as them. Booze and pot and cigarettes were being consumed everywhere and people were crowd surfing and it was a pretty crazy party, needless to even mention the fact that it was on a subway car and many of us were totally breaking the law in public.

Unfortunately, when people break the law in public, sometimes they get arrested which is exactly what happened to one or two people once we reached Atlantic Avenue, I'm pretty sure it was Atlantic. The train stopped for a long time and we couldn't figure out whether we were supposed to get off or not. Finally, everyone started filing off and there right in front of us, a cop was cuffing some kid. Everyone started chanting, "Let him go!" The cop (who was black, by the way, arresting a white kid, just in case anyone was wondering) turned to face the crowd and pulled out a canister of mace, threatening to spray the people in the front. I started getting a little bit panic-y because I am sort of a pussy in those kind of situations and I was hanging out with Touching You who is a known instigator and scofflaw. I was afraid he was going to try to insite some kind of riot or try to verbally attack the cops, call them pigs or something. But he was surprisingly well-behaved and except for a few little practically innocent digs, he left the coppers alone.

We walked out of the platform and up to the sidewalk, and half the party had been misplaced. Maybe more than half, actually. They either went further into Brooklyn to the actual designated destination or they went home or they got lost, who knows. So the crowd that was left went to Hank's Saloon to regroup and drink. We only ended up sticking around for a few minutes. At that point it was late and the party just didn't have the same kind of energy and charm that it did when it was on rails.

If you ever hear anything again about a subway party, I strongly recommend you go. It's probably a little bit dangerous for all those drunk people to be running around on the subway platform and in-between subway cars and there's a small chance you might get arrested, but when was the last time you got arrested for having fun and being involved in a massive public art project? It's probably been awhile.

Monday, December 15, 2003


"You're a cunt."
"No, YOU'RE a cunt."


"What is your fucking problem?"
"You are my fucking problem."
"You have been an asshole to me since the day I met you. What do you have against me?"
"Everything. You think you are so great and you are probably the most annoying person I've
ever met."
"But what exactly did I do to make you hate me so much?"
"Does it matter? The fact remains that I hate you."
"Yes, we both are well aware of that. But why not clue me in on what it is I've done to make
you harbor such resentment for me?"
"I don't harbor anything for you. When you aren't around, I don't even think about you. It's
when I see you that I remember I hate you."
"Yeah. So, fuck off."
"I was here first."
"This is the kind of thing that you do that I think is so annoying."
"This thing exactly."
"What thing?"
"This thing you're doing right now."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Never mind, forget it. You know what I'm talking about."
"No, I don't."
"You know what? It doesn't matter anyway. You and I are never going
to get a long and let's just leave it at that."
"Good. I'm glad we finally agree on something."
"It doesn't matter to me one way or the other."
"Me neither, really."
"Yeah, sure. I bet you would probably like to be friends with me deep down,
it's just that you have this stupid ego level to maintain and anger inside of
you which you can't let dissipate for feelings you have towards me that you
can't even articulate."
"I barely understood what you just said."
"You understood me."
"Maybe if you spoke in actual words that normal people use I could understand
you better."
"Maybe if you weren't so uptight and rigid you could make sense of what I'm saying."
"Are you calling me uptight?"
"Yes, I am. And I just did."
"I'm not uptight."
"You are."
"Fuck you."
"So, are we finished?"
"Yes, I think so."


"Do you want to have a cigarette?"
"No thanks, I don't smoke."
"Since when?"
"Since never."
"Well, I guess I should be going."
"I don't care."
"I know. I said it more for me than for you."
"Oh. Well, whatever."
"Whatever to you, too."

Friday, December 12, 2003


So, what's up, you guys? It's been a long time since we've talked. I've been pretty busy, I've got lots of stuff going on because I'm so busy. I hate when people say that, it sounds so self-important. "I've been seewwww busy, you don't even know! God!" But it's true, and I have.

I have just finished my new CD which I am so happy with. It has 8 songs on it - a few new songs, a few polished up versions of some hits and a few nice surprises. I had a lot of help from Touching You, who is one of the most creatively talented people I've ever met, and then it all goes downhill from there. Just kidding, but I'm not, really.

For those of you who are interested in purchasing the CD, you may follow the same directions posted on my BUY A CD link. I am so proud of it and I think that you will like it, too, if you are into Dirty Folk Rock, and maybe even if you aren't into Dirty Folk Rock. It's also got a really nice insert with some beautiful photo art. And Christmas is coming and you can buy some for people as a cheap Christmas gift which is great and all, but I'd really rather you buy it for people because they deserve to experience and sample some of the great art, music and creative miscellanea that is being made in New York City right now, some of which was made by me and my friends.

I will be performing at Arlene's Grocery at 8 pm on January 13th too, so if you buy a CD and you love it, come and see the show. I will be opening up for a band called "Oh My God!" and I hear they are great.

Hmm....what else? I wrote a new song which isn't on the CD but it's a hit, it's called "Someone Who Loves Me" and it's about the female rape fantasy. Many women claim to have a rape fantasy but really they just want to be made passionate love to by someone who they are in love with. Most women are not loved properly by the men who they date and it manifests itself as a rape fantasy, where they desire to be ravished by the men who they are in love with. They don't really want to be raped the way rapists like to rape people. They don't want to be hit in a face by a shitty sweat smelly guy and dragged into an alley semi-unconscious. So, I wrote a song about it. It's me singing to my assailant, telling him yes, I admit, I do have a "rape" "fantasy", but I was saving that rape for someone who loves me, not him.

People have been responding to it fairly well, I guess more men than women, and several men have approached me and say that they really appreciate the song and it speaks to them on several personal levels, but I think that they were all just men who secretly want to rape me. And by rape, I mean make passionate love to.

What else? What else? The Comedy Kabob is back up and running, now at The Pussycat Lounge, which is a go-go bar downtown. I heard that there is actually going to be go-go dancing after the show. I don't know how that's going to be but generally the Kabob is great and I recommend everyone go check it out at least once. Tim Brennan runs the show and has lots of comics on the show who are both up and comers and down and outers and everything in between. Some of the jokes you'll hear are stinkers and some are keepers, but you will definitely have fun and see some great performers.

Um....I performed at Collective Unconscious last night in a Garage Opera. It was fronted by a guy named Nico with Mikey McCue as lead vocalist and Touching You on bass, Frank on drums and the other guy on guitar. I forgot his name. But they were all really great. I came in half way through and sang a few duets and some single stuff with Mikey and it was pretty bizarre. Thank god we got it on video tape. The name of the band is Born On Arrival and there is a story behind it - an old man falls in love with a young beautiful talentress. The girl is torn between being in love with the old guy and being young and stupid. Her sister (me) is trying to tell her to leave him behind. It's weird and interesting and chaotic and melodic and I recommend the next time Born On Arrival performs you should check it out. Nico used to front the band NARB and is a regular performer at Collective Unconscious. You might love BOA and you might hate it, but it is worth seeing one time.

I also saw a show at PS 122 last night - I'm not so into seeing dance but I saw Chris Elam and the Misnomer Dance Theater. I liked what they did, it was as close to clumsy as you can get and still be graceful. There was a lot of pulling and mushing and twisting and anti-dance elements. It was very child-like and sweet and there were moments that were also very erotic. I don't know much about dance so it is hard for me to elaborate or eloquently describe or explain what I saw or what it meant, so I'll just say I liked most of it and found it to be inspiring on some level. It made me want to dance. I briefly studied ballet and it made me feel like I should have stuck it out. The problem is that my body is so round and I'm so curvy and hippy that I felt ridiculous dancing as a ballerina. I felt like while everyone else was lean and long and slipping gently around the room, I was just flaunting my hot body everywhere. I was a much better go-go dancer. I learned a lot of pole tricks. I actually plan to use go-go dancing in an interpretive go-go dance at some point. I'll get around to it. One of my many projects that I need your quarters to be able to make happen.

Which reminds me - if you haven't sent a quarter, send one in. Call it a Christmas present, call it a phone call you won't be able to make, call it loose change, but call it mine and send it to me. I need your quarters to make lovely projects come to life such as more Dirty Folk Rock and interpretive go-go dancing and lots of other stuff I would be happy to discuss with you if you inquire to where your quarter is going. I'll even tell you which project your quarter is getting used in. Send all quarters to me at:

230 W. 55 St. #23D
NY, NY 10019

Unfortunately, due to the huge amount of quarters I have the potential of receiving, my friend and legal advisor has recommended that I reneg the offer to send a thank you letter to each individual person who sends me a quarter because it will cost more than I will make, and I'll be back to square one. That is why he is a lawyer and I am an artist. In an unrelated related comment, he is also jewish. So instead, I will send you an e-mail thanking you for the quarter, so make sure to include your e-mail address.

I guess that's it for now. I'm getting sued by my landlady and stuff, but that's not really interesting. I went to court yesterday and sat there for a few hours and wrote a bunch of dumb jokes about court and Christmas, such as this one:

ON COURT: The court room is a lot like church. There are wooden benches to sit on, a guy sits in the front of the room judging you and everyone is getting fucked.

ON CHRISTMAS: I'm not going to get a Christmas tree this year, it's too expensive and too much hassle. Instead, I'm going to decorate my pussy because it's cheap and easy.

Yay! Love you all and send in those quarters and order those CDs. Lots of X's and O's.