Friday, October 31, 2003

What Are You Doing For Halloween?

I'm going to see a show at the Sidewalk Cafe, then I'm going to Killgore at UCB Theater.
What Are You Going To Be For Halloween?

I am going to be magic. (the concept)

I plan to paint my entire body blue and wear close to nothing, lots of glitter. Maybe I'll carry a magic wand or a bag of glitter and blow it in people's faces.

It should be fun.
Something Like A Poem, A Story and a Song ALL IN ONE
by Jessica Delfino

Get your fuck out of my face
Get your ass out of my bed
Get your smelly feet off the seat that I found in the garbage
and get the hell out of my head

Get your cereal off the top of my fridge
Get your soap out of my soap dish
Get your meat hooks off of my sweet supple personal belongings
Get your reality out of my wish

When are you going to come off of this trip that you aren't even on?
When are you going to face up to people who have been making you feel like you've been facing up to everything?
Are you ever going to do anything that you talk about with your hands up your ass?
Are you ever going to make a wish that has something like realism attached to it?

You should just commit suicide
I don't mean die, I mean kill yourself
Just so you can be reborn
Because you are dying anyway
You're dying, dying, dying anyway, every day
Try diving, diving, diving away
off the bridge, out of the way of the truck wreck that has your name on it

You never were brave, and your inner reserve is too shallow
Your face is too pretty and your insides are melted

Thursday, October 30, 2003


Fill their shoes with cereal (don't forget the milk)
Put stickers all over the television screen
Kiss them all over their face with chocolate on your lips
Put counterfeit money on their nightstand (then let the fun begin!)
NOTE: Do you know how to make counterfeit money? If not, read below.
Lick all their stamps. If their stamps are the ones that aren't licky, peel them off and put them on regular paper.
Cry all over their favorite shirt. (works best if the crier is a girl who wears make-up)
Get them three adorable puppies.
Put peanut butter in their hand while they are sleeping.
Throw the remote control to their tv away.
Paint their ceiling fan on a hot day moments before they come home.
Step all over their underwear with your dirty clompers.
Clip your fingernails in their bed.
Bake them a cake with pickles in it.
Fill the ice cube tray with rainwater.

Counterfeit money - It is very easy to make, my sister's ex-boyfriend went to jail for three years making it this way. You need a computer with Photoshop, a scanner, a color printer and some heavier stock paper, similar to the paper stock that money is printed on. Scan the money into Photoshop and print it out. Put it in the dryer with your clothes to give it that spent a few dozen times look. Take it out and spend it! It might be harder to do now that there are all these fancy dollar security measures but you could probably still do it. However, keep in mind, you WILL get arrested, and you WILL go to jail for several years, and there's a good chance you WILL get anally accosted. Just a few things to think about. All that stuff aside, let me know how it turns out!

Wednesday, October 29, 2003


She hated the way he tricked her into being jealous – you know how they do it, ladies. He’d drop little emotional shit-bombs on her like, “Oh, I’ve got a lunch meeting with Marie. You know, she’s my old girlfriend from high school, the one I told you about who I was madly in love with. We’ve been friends since we were 13.” She already knew that, she’d heard the story once for every year they’d been friends. Now he was 27 and she knew the story syllable for syllable, and had memorized the cadence of his voice for all the words he used. He’d give her details that to him were just part of the way he spoke, but to her enough to ruin her day every day for the next 2-3 days. “You have nothing to worry about, babe, you know I can’t stand her. Regardless of the fact that she’s got the hottest little figure I’ve ever seen, she’s the worst human being I’ve ever met. Absolutely unlovable. Believe me, I tried to love her. I would have married her if I could have. She was my one true love. Besides you, honey.”

When she heard things like this, which by the way, was about once a day or sometimes twice if she was unlucky, or sometimes every other day if she was lucky, her emotions tore and split into shards like offspring of themselves. From one angle, she knew that to be jealous was belittling of her, smaller than her personality, weak-minded, immature, not becoming of her, stupid, childish. It made her feel out of control and confused. From another aspect, she considered her place in his life. The way he rationalized every lunch date or meeting or piece of art that he needed to create with an ex-girlfriend or short term lover led her to believe that he couldn’t care for her the way he spoke so indelicately about something so tender to her. Either that or he was simply oblivious. Either way, what an idiot.

Janice had just about had it with guys playing songs she didn’t like all up and down her heartstrings. She decided that without failure she wasn’t going to stand for it anymore. What then, though? Would she be a lesbian? Surely there couldn’t be a man in the world who was thoroughly considerate, thoroughly tender, thoroughly understanding of how you can and can’t talk to a woman. There just couldn’t be. What then? Would she become celibate? Perhaps begin dating and possibly marry her career? What career? She worked days answering phones at a trading company downtown. The best she could hope for was full benefits and maybe half a hundred grand a year. Maybe they’d reimburse her if she went to college, but what would she take up now? 32 years old is young still, but it isn’t too young that you can just up and start over. Or can you? Can you up and start over at age 32? What if you are tired? What if you are close to dying? What if your heart has been broken? Don’t those things matter in life? Why didn’t anyone seem to be able to relate to her? How many questions could she ask herself in a row without stopping?

She made herself a cup of green tea, and then another, and then finally, one more. She didn’t finish the third cup, but she noticed that the caffeine had begun to take effect because she started to clean her apartment in an intricate way. She sprayed bleach spray (you can buy it now in a spray bottle) into the corner of one of the walls near the kitchen where a black puddle of fuzz had begun to form. What was in that fuzz? Germs? Cooties? Filth? Maybe a new disease? What was it? Cockroach shit? Dust? Isn’t dust dead skin flakes? That was what she’d heard once and it horrified her, the idea that her old flesh was wandering around her apartment, laying on the tables and the lamps and everyone who came into her house could see her dead old skin from months or maybe even years before, grey, still, dead. Dust laid on the furniture with the same emotion of a dead body lying in a casket, and that made her even more upset at her boyfriend. She imagined herself lying in a casket and he looking over her, holding the hand of his new girlfriend. “I loved Janice more than anyone. I told you about Janice. Amazing ass. They should have buried her bottom side up. I told you about her ass, didn’t I? The best ass I ever saw on a human woman. Besides yours, of course, honey.”

She wiped the dust up with a damp paper towel and threw it into the trash. She picked up the phone and dialed her boyfriend.

Monday, October 27, 2003

by Jessica Delfino

Legitimate poetry I wro-etry just to see if I could do it-ry. This is not found poetry.


I bite my nails when I ride the subway, chewing on them until they bleed
People look at me, they see me chomping
One person wonders, ‘why is she chewing her nails?’
Fuck that bitch. I can see her, staring at me, thinking,
“I bet I know.”
Most people don’t notice. A guy who is also biting his nails sees me.
He looks over at me as if to say, “hey, look at the two of us”
But I don’t want to look at him.
I’m busy.
I’ve got things to do.
Rent, too much.
Bills, too many.
Paychecks, too few.
Bite, bite, chew.
I live in a 4 story walk up on the Upper East Side.
The train lets me off at 77th Street.


She thinks she is so fucking hot!
I guess she is hot, but not really
Her hair hangs all over the place
Her body is good but not great
Her ass looks like a wet pillow
I guess some guys like that, but I doubt a ton of them do
She fills a niche
Guys who like girls who are almost artists
But not quite
She smiles and she smells of fresh flowers
And warm hands
I think I know her, just when I think I really know her
I don’t know anything about her
She disappears every night

Saturday, October 25, 2003

by Jessica Delfino

I found this poem in the subway:

Fuck me in the ass
Fuck me in the grass
Fuck me in the foyer
Fuck me like a lawyer
Fuck me in the school gymnasium
Fuck me till I'm crazy, um
Fuck me like you know me
Fuck me to a song by Moby
Fuck me in the bathroom of a KFC
Fuck me in the math room of your wildest fantasy
Fuck me on a pair of designer jeans
Fuck me and then tell me what, to you, the word friend means
Fuck me on a pile of our clothes all damp from perspiration
Fuck me the way the price of a stamp goes up from inflation
Fuck me like a fat kid dancing to a song he wrote
Fuck me with the vigor of you losing the remote

It's so nonsensical, I am thinking maybe it was ripped out of a Mad Libs notebook. It was so bizarre where I found it, it was hiding along the inner lining of my brain, and I never would have found it if the E train hadn't been coming right at that moment. It inspired me to create the hypothetical Mad Lib it might have been derived from, were it a Mad Lib.

Mad Libs Fuck Me

Fuck me like a ______ you bought when you __________ into ________.
(noun) (past tense verb) (place)
Fuck me like a _______________ you______________when you were only_______.
(article of clothing) (past tense verb) (age)
Fuck me like a __________you dropped when your____________was in ________.
(noun) (family member) (place)
Fuck me like it's _________and you're__________.
(time of day) (age)

These are the answers my friend Patrick gave me for the above Mad Lib. (in italics)

Fuck me like a(n) apple you bought when you ran into New Hampshire.
Fuck me like a belt you cried when you were only 22.
Fuck me like a costume you dropped when your brother was in Italy.
Fuck me like it's 2:47 pm and you're 62.
Send Kurt Metzger Your Sex-Related Questions!!!

Kurt Metzger is the man I was slated to marry in July 2003. We dated for something like 5 or 6 years, I can't even remember. We met at the Art Institute in Philadelphia and moved to NYC roughly around the same time. Kurt is a superbly talented writer and stand-up comic. He's got probably the best ideas of any comic I know for jokes and stories and he is also a great artist, which a lot of people don't know. I can say without bias that he is my favorite comic in the city. Other comics I like a lot are Travis Poston, Jim Norton and Debbie Shea.

Anyway, Kurt is working on a blog and I read it and like everything he does, it's very, very good. It's called "Kurt Metzger Talks To Young People About Sex," an idea which was taken from a book called "Ann Landers Talks To Young People About Sex." It was a hilarious and ridiculous book filled with phrases like, 'heavy petting' and 'going steady.' We were walking through the streets of Philly one night when we came across the Legendary Wid, a semi-famous prop comic who mostly works out of Philadelphia. He was selling some of his stuff out of the back of his station wagon and we bought a bunch of books from him. If anyone knows or sees the Wid and talks to him, please tell him Jessica Delfino says hello.

Kurt is looking for people to send him letters about sex. Write him your questions, letters, queries, etc. You can write him real questions or write whatever you want to write to him. If your letters are good for what he's doing, he will answer them in his classic sharp-tongued and sarcastic, abrasively clever manner. It would be quite a treat to whoever's letters he answers because he's so damn funny.

Check it out:

Email your sex questions to him at

I Didn't Stick My Hand In Any Cement
by Jessica Delfino

I was walking to the subway today and I walked past Sullivan Theater, home of the David Letterman show. The front of the theater was all roped off and a man was spreading fresh, wet cement out flat and with a metal-looking mop-like thing attached to a long stick. I walked by the new cement and smelled that earthy fall dirt smell and saw the glistening blocks of rock mud and it was all I could do not to stick my fingers or whole hand, I couldn't even decide, deep into the setting sidewalk. No one seemed to be watching me. I thought about just plopping my hand in there, or maybe even reaching in and just grabbing out a handful of the stuff. Would the man flatten back over it with his stick? Or would he just let it stay? What would happen if I got away with it and the cement dried and my hand print stayed there? I closed my eyes for a moment and tried to imagine.

The year in my mind's eye was 2016. I was walking down the road with a friend I haven't met yet and saying something like, "Hey, remember when the David Letterman show used to be here?" And she'd be like, "No, who?" And I'd be like, "David Letterman, the late night talk show guy." Then she'd be like, "What? I don't know who that is." And I'd be like, "You don't know who David Letterman is?" And she'd be like, "No. Is he famous?" And I'd be like, "Yeah, he's totally famous. He used to have a show in this theater every day." And she'd be like, "Hm. That's weird. I guess I just never heard of him." And I'd be like, "Well, anyway, look, that's my handprint." And she'd be like, "Oh, cool. You did that?" And I'd be like, "Yeah. 13 years ago." Then there would be silence for a minute as she digested what I'd just told her and tried to figure out the reaction I was looking for. During her comprehensive momentus, I'd be watching her, wondering what she was was thinking and hoping she wasn't judging me. Then we'd walk away and talk about something else. Maybe we'd go get a low cal ice cream cone or buy a book from the sidewalk library robot.

Well, I didn't stick my hand in the mud rock and I didn't leave my hand or fingerprints for the children of the year 2016 to glance upon in wonder, but I did walk to the subway and enter the turnstile and go onto the platform and wait for my train.

And you know what? It felt just as nice as sticking my hand into cement might have felt.

Wednesday, October 22, 2003

His Favorite Hobbies: Walking, Standing
by Jessica Delfino

“Hey Fred!” Boynton yelled out the window of the Monte Carlo as it passed by Puffin Stop. Fred, looking up to see it was Boynton promptly lifted his middle digit on both hands and raised them high. Fred’s jeans were covered in grease stains, but not in the cool way like they are in the window displays at the Diesel flagship store on University Place. The filter of a cigarette burned between his lips and the smell made him wince menacingly. He needed a shave, but he didn’t seem to notice, even though it were his own cheeks and chin that were covered over with moss-like layering. If he were to comment on it, he’d probably say something like, “Mother nature,” and then spit on someone’s empty parked car.

The way Fred stood was flamingo like, with one leg standing stiff and holding his weight, all one-hundred and seventeen pounds of him. The other leg was folded at the knee and bent up, his ass supported by the heel of LL Bean boots that should have been turned in for new ones last year. You could tell Fred a mile away because he never changed anything about his appearance. His John Deere mesh and foam trucker style hat never left his head, a look he had boasting way before hipsters brought it to New York City. His shitty light blue Lee jean jacket was always layered atop a green or navy sweatshirt with the logo of some fish market smeared across the front. His little hands were scaly and dry, thumbs inserted into the belt-loops, obliviously appointed to keep watch of the other digits and perhaps the cigarette package looming in his jacket pocket. His jeans were often stone-washed Lees or Levis, generally Lees, and as mentioned before, covered in mysterious grease stains. But why? He had no car. He wasn’t a mechanic. He didn’t ever appear to eat. Perhaps grease was just attracted to his jean legs in the same way that lightning is attracted to some people’s rib cages, and it sought him out whenever he was in a place where there was grease. When Fred smiled, Dentists everywhere got hard-ons, and they didn’t know why.

Fred had mowed our lawn for us one summer - it was the same summer he had blessed Tammy with Harley Rose, their second illegitimate child, and only daughter. Tammy was a fat, fat woman with a lazy eye and a lazy life. She lived in a trailor down the Pemaquid Harbor road and drove a Chevy Citation that was as beat-up as her own existence. Kids from Lincoln Academy, the town’s private high-school that also served as a public high-school, would come down to her trailor to drink in the woods behind it uninterrupted by adults. Empty Shaeffer and Schlitz cases fed the bonfire and the liquid that had once been in the containers fed the children’s desire to disobey the rules society had set for them. Tammy didn’t drink Schlitz or Schaeffer, though. She drank coffee friggin’ brandy, in a huge plastic refillable coffee mug that you can get at Puffin Stop for $1.79 full of coffee. She would send someone off in her car over to Hilltop grocery store in Pemaquid to get it and watch the window, anxiously waiting for them to pull back in. At Hilltop, you could buy groceries with food stamps and get cash change back. So she’d give them a $20 and say, “Buy a gallon of milk.” With the change, they knew what to do. A half-gallon of coffee brandy lasted her about two days. She was very fat. You knew when Tammy had been drinking because the world was turning and the sky was above. She was slightly cross eyed and got a slurred tinny sound in her voice, and would try to instigate a fight. “I’ll kick your friggin’ ass right now, bitch. Come on, let’s go!” She meant it, too. She’d set the cup down and stand up, wide-eyed but swaggering, emotion on her face and coffee brandy stains down her enormous teddy bear sweatshirt. She would gladly weeble wobble over to and flobble all over an unexpecting opponent who would act ready and excited to do battle with a huge drunk lady but actually feared her crazy lazy eye and slurred threats. Fred would lean on the trailor, one leg up in his signature flamingo stance, watching, laughing through the holes in the cityscape of his smile. At the end of the night, he would sleep over in her bed, possibly just long enough to be disgusting with her, and then move out onto the hole-ridden mysteriously stained couch.

When Fred came to mow our lawn, it was always an event. My sisters and I would watch him through the window of the kitchen. He would shed his layers of crummy tee shirts, and Lee jean jacket and throw them into a pile on the deck. He was so gross and strange to us, we couldn’t take our eyes off of him. We’d watch him for a few minutes, then go into the living room and watch tv, slowly forgetting about him until the sounds of him making some sort of living just became faint background noise.

Last time I went through town, I didn’t see Fred. I was surprised because I had seen him standing in the same spot in front of the same store for most of my child and teenage life. He was like a statue greeting tourists and passers-by with his checkerboard smile. I wondered if maybe he had died, but then I doubted it. Guys like Fred live into their 50s or 60s and maintain and support the rumors of small town ignorance. Guys like Fred date desperate teens forever. Guys like Fred don’t grow on trees and they never fall too far from them, either.

Monday, October 20, 2003

The Secret To Being Happy
By Jessica Delfino

What makes a person strange, and is being considered strange good or bad? Almost everyone I've ever liked I have considered to be a strange person. Most of my closest friends are strange in beautiful ways, physically, emotionally or otherwise.

My one friend only likes me when I treat her shitty. My other friend likes to pee on girls. I have another friend who tapes his potato chips shut and insists that the potato chip roll of tape be left near the chips and only be used for the chips. And no one can eat his chips.

I usually associate being strange with being smart, and consider intelligence to be one of the most important qualities in a person. Unfortunately, it seems like we don't have much to do with how smart we are. Can a person become smart with time and schooling? Is education really the key to intelligence? I don't think so - I believe education is the key to becoming more educated and getting a good job. It's the key to whether or not you will have the option of taking public transportation or driving the car of your choice to work.

In my observations, I have also noticed that being smart factors in to how talented a person is, how creatively unique and interesting their art is, and also whether or not they are considered to be crazy.

Maybe when I say I look for intelligence in a person, I realize I am looking for craziness. My father is bi-polar and I'm not sure, but I hear it skips a generation and so I think I'm okay, but I notice my own undercover crazy traits and I wonder if it is hereditary - am I able to control or alter those qualities? Or am I stuck with what I am? Are other people with what might be considered crazy characteristics able to adjust them? My dad is crazy. One time we were driving on the freeway in LA and someone cut him off. He screamed at the person things like, "You stupid dick!" and "Fucking asshole!" for like 15 minutes, long after they had taken the nearest exit to excape his insanity. Then he turned to me and said, "Everyone in this city is a fucking stupid asshole!" I replied by saying, "Maybe it isn't that everyone in the city is stupid, maybe it's that you happen to be uniquely smart." He liked that response very much and I think he bought me cake later.

When I say I notice my own crazy traits, let me elaborate - I won't go into all of them because we'd be here all day, but here are a few examples.

1. I cry a lot, especially during my period. It makes me feel crazy and out of touch with my ability to control my emotions. For example, I start to feel sad, and I don't know why, and then, I'm crying. I was working at UCB theater a few weeks ago and I couldn't get the computer to turn on. Even though there were people in the room and I didn't want to cry in front of them, and not being able to turn on a computer is not tear-worthy, my eyes started flooding. A day later, I got my period. I might be able to blame this specifically on my period, but period or not, shouldn't I be able to control whether or not I cry and when?

2. I have an affinity to be incredibly filthy in the mouth and mind. As a matter of fact, I prefer to be filthy, and I encourage it in others. Most of my art is filthy and I find things of a dark nature to be funny and generally better than fluffy horseshit. A lot of people got mad at me about an essay I wrote about how we shouldn't rape the elderly, based on a true news story where a new york teen had been accused of doing just that. My (ex) fiance and I then wrote campaign slogans such as, "My body is not a shuffleboard court!" and "Don't rape the elderly! When they were young, bread was a nickel!" People gave me shit about it and one small-minded comedian twat even told other people not to hang out with me.
I write and create things that are disturbing in nature and there's nothing I can do about it. It is similar, I think, to a person who likes to have sex with pre-teens. I can relate, because I find myself eerily attracted to ripe young boys, aged about 15 to 17. Go fuck yourself before you judge me, why is it okay for men to lust after young budding teens but if a woman does, it is considered wrong and gross? I like young boys. Which brings me to:

3. I like young boys. I have the ability to make sense of this inappropriate desire and not act on my will to take the virginity of adorable little highschoolers, but it's there, believe me. I see them, I think to myself that I could definitely get them, I fancy the idea of teaching them everything there is to know about being an adult, and then I wipe my hands of it. It's just a fantasy ideology, not a way of life. But if a young boy really put in the hours, I don't know if I'd be able to say no. You can relate, men, age 25-death, if the situation involved a nubile 16 year old with rose bud nipples and curious eyes.

4. I think I have some kind of hybrid eating disorder cycle that is a combination of anorexia, bulimia and overeating. It's hard to explain, but it goes like this: when I'm feeling very upset about something, I will generally eat something sweet and carbohydrate-y, cookies, muffins, etc. As I'm usually always upset about something, I do this for awhile until I get too fat for my clothes. Finally, I get angry that my clothes don't fit and I go on a diet where I don't eat any bread or candy or pasta or sugar or soda beverages for a few months. I also exercise more and don't eat late at night. I fix my metabolism so that I can eat little snacks during the day and not feel hungry, or I'll have one medium sized meal like a burrito or a salad or some soup and a granola bar or whatever and that's all I'll eat for the day. The weight comes off really quickly and before I know it, I'm a size 6. I also drink more when I'm dieting because it makes me forget to eat and it also numbs my hunger. Since there's never any food in my system to sop up the alcohol, I end up getting drunk too quickly, usually off just one or two drinks and I start to feel sick. Then, I make myself vomit. So, I never vomit food, only alcohol, but technically I think that still counts as bulimia. Eventually, I start to feel happy for some reason, usually it's based on having a good comedy set or receiving a fat check for something I wrote, and I take myself out to dinner, then I start to get fat, then that makes me unhappy so I eat cupcakes and candy bars and before I know it I'm a size 10 and it just goes on and on to infinty. I think it's also known as roller coaster dieting and before you give me any crap for it, give some credit to my dad who every night made me clean my plate regardless of whether or not I was hungry, then told me one night at age 15 that I was getting a fat ass as I was about to leave to go out with friends, one of them a boy I had a huge crush on.

I think that's enough craziness that you get the point. Several of my friends will probably read this and judge me harshly - you know who you are and fuck you all. I get judged a lot because I'm intelligent but also attractive which somehow seems like it should not be possible. But I'm in a place where I don't care if people like me. Who knows if it will last or not, but I'm guessing there will probably be more writings like this as I build up the courage over the next few weeks and months to tell everyone I know to go to hell and develop hermit like qualities. I get more work done when I'm alone anyway.

But truthfully, I'm not that unique. We are all crazy in our ways. Some of you have surely far exceeded the walls of my ability to create imaginary crazy scenarios to pin you into.

So, if a person is strange or crazy, or maybe even both, is that enough to ruin them? I think the answer is yes - but only if they are strange enough or crazy enough to not GIVE a shit what people think.

I believe that to be the secret to being happy.

Sunday, October 19, 2003

Weekend Of Fun
by Jessica Delfino

This past weekend was interesting. I had my first show at CBGB's in CB's Gallery and at 8:10 there was still no one there. All of a sudden at 8:15 everyone showed up and the show began. I even sold one cd. It was a great show, you shoulda been there, Cincinnati. I befriended two mohawk guys outside. That was neat.

After the show, my friend Christopher and I went to see a horrible movie called Runaway Judge or something like that. It was so retarded. It starred John Cusack who I love and have always loved and will always love, ever since Better Off Dead, he is my favorite guy to fantasize about making out with, next to Wil Wheaton, and perhaps Edward Furlong, or Ed Norton. Fuck-a-BULL! Hello? Anyone?

I had gone with the intention of seeing Kill Bill again, but it was sold out. I shoulda known it would be, 10 pm Friday night. I very much enjoyed seeing Kill Bill the first time. It was the last thing my ex-fiance and I did together before we broke up.

The next day, I had a message on my voicemail from my fiance. It hurt me to hear his voice and it made me feel sad. I listened to it twice, then saved it so that I can hear his voice again if I ever miss him, without having to call him, because I know if I talk to him, we will make up. If we don't talk for awhile, I might be able to bypass getting back together with him and we can just go straight to being friendsters.

Around 2, I went to the church flea market and bought a pair of Las Vegas-y looking 70s fighter jet pilot sunglasses for $3. I put them on and walked back toward my apartment. Around 72nd street I stumbled into an Indian Restaurant and had a delicious vegetarian lunch. I have gone back to being a vegetarian since my break up. I factor it in to an overall cleansing process, spring-like cleaning from eyes to vagine. (pronounced va-JINE) I went home and packed up a bunch of my ex's stuff into bags and almost cried, but then didn't. I haven't cried yet since we broke up and I'm not about to start now. Last Wednesday I was feeling very, very down and really wanted to drown my sorrows in alcohol, but I tried and I couldn't even do it. The beer tasted bland to me and it wasn't going down nicely when I swallowed it, it was burrowing up along my throat and bubbling and hissing at me, almost like for a second it was more friend than evil, as if it were trying to say, hey, babe. You're too good for me. I rushed home that night and went straight to sleep.

Around 5 on Saturday I went to the DUMBO Arts Festival. That was interesting. Everyone opens their places up and you can just go in and see people's work spaces and studios and even living spaces. It is very open minded of them and there is also live music and everything. I went to one studio in a huge old factory and there was a little bridge that went across the middle space of the building. In the middle of the bridge there were two chairs and a table with an ashtray. Above the chairs hung two large cinderblocks on wire. I promptly smacked myself in the head - HARD - with one of the cinderblocks, but I guess that was what the chairs just below were for. First, you smack yourself in the head with a huge brick, then you sit and have a cigarette and hope you don't die. I got some ice from a nice lady inside who warned me not to go to sleep and placed it on the egg sized bump that immediately rose to the surface of my skull. For the next hour or so I walked around with a bag of ice on my head and everyone asked me what happened? I told them I walked into a cinderblock and we all had a good laugh at my expense, over and over and over.

The parks are lovely by the water under and in between the two bridges in DUMBO. I had the pleasure of sauntering through just as the sun had set and the lights across the river were coming on. A tugboat chugged its way past and for just a moment I imagined it crashing into the side of the park pier where lovers sat together on benches, oblivious to everything around them. But it kept going.

I got on the F train and took it to the JMZ to go into Williamsburg to see a show at free103point9. It was a show of half noise bands and half dj's. The first band, The Believers had an incredibly hot yet inconspicuous looking young madame belting out discordant lyrics and dancing and then at the end, she saved us all a special surprise - a set of blood curdling screams. That band was the only one that was not a noise band, but then, technically, based on the discontent of the mingling sounds, they very well might be considered to be so. If you don't know, basically a noise band is a band that instead of making clear cut music with notes and choruses and songs and guitars and hot babes, it is a guy, or maybe a gal, or a guy and a gal, or perhaps three guys, and they make noise consisting generally of static, or seemingly non-specific strings of beeps and blips, random screeching sounds and electronic jolts of tone. I didn't know what a noise band was until last night and though the noise didn't necessarily speak to me, it was interesting to watch because most of the people were straight up weirdos with home-made contraptions who flicked and turned the knobs in a manner so haphazard and chaotic I wasn't sure if it more closely resembled the movements of a dj or those of a mad scientist.

2 am I left the show and went (almost) immediately soundly to sleep. So, that was my crazy exciting weekend. I hate writing blog entries like this that are 80 parts diary or journal entry and only 20 parts interesting or void of self-masturbatory references or true human emotion. Human emotion makes me feel....bored.

Wednesday, October 15, 2003


Q: Are you coming to my show at CBGB's CB's Gallery on Friday Oct. 17th at 8 pm?

Please answer in the comment section and might I remind you to think this through before answering.
Do not copy anyone else's answer, unless their answer is yes. Once you have finished, read the
correct answer in the answer key.


If you answered yes, you are correct and awesome.
If you answered no, please note that you neither correct or awesome.

You ever heard of Rheingold beer? Ever drank it? On their website you can submit stories to them about their beer. I don't have a legitimate story to submit about Rheingold beer, so I made one up.

Our consumers share so many stories about Rheingold with us that we publish them on our website. If you have a great Rheingold photo or tale to tell, or have a connection to Rheingold, we’d like to hear your story.

MY STORY (submitted):
A few weeks ago I was hanging out with some friends and my one friend turned to me and offered me a beer. I was like, sure, what the hell, it was a week night and I had to be up early the next day at 7:30 to get to my job (I drive a schoolbus) but one beer wasn't going to hurt anyone, and least of all, me. I've done my fair share of drinking. So, my friend brings out a sixer of Rheingold. I'm like, what the hell is this? Because I'd never heard of it, and I'm expecting something fancy, like maybe bud or bud light if my friend is health conscience or old milwaukee if my friend is from milwaukee. So, I'm like, what the hell is this? And she's like, it's beer. drink it. And I'm like, good point. So, I'm looking at the label on the can, and I'm thinking to myself, this beer is going to be shitty so I better drink it quick, and then drink two or three more after it so I don't notice how shitty it is. So I just crack the side open with my bus key and shot gun it. It's falling all down my face because I haven't shot gunned a beer since I'm 11. My friend gets all pissed, she's like, what are you doing? And I'm like, I'm shot gunning your shitty beer so I don't notice how shitty it is. She laughs and I laugh and before I know it, we've shot gunned the whole six pack. Next thing you know, we're in the car on the way to get more. Before I know it, I'm blasted out of my mind. So what I learned was, Rheingold may be shit beer, but it's good shit.

I know they won't publish it because there are references to driving drunk and driving kids drunk and all that bad shit but I hope they do publish it knowing I'm just a kidding. I know they won't though.

submit your own story at:

Tuesday, October 14, 2003

Desparately Seeking Distractions

My boyfriend and I just broke up and I am looking for distractions. Yesterday was the first day that we broke up. He broke up with me. I was expecting him to call me and say, "Maybe I overreacted" or something like that, and he never did, so I guess that's that. I wouldn't take him back, but at least I wouldn't feel so victimized if he'd just call.

I spent a lot of the day floating around, asking myself questions like, "Is this real?" and "What am I going to do now?" I have been dating the same guy for five and a half years and we were engaged, actually, so he was my fiance, not just my boyfriend. We broke up over something so stupid I refuse to even acknowledge it but let me just say this: we broke up over a fight about a cellphone.

I went to work yesterday for a few hours but got let go early because there wasn't really any work to do. I walked over to my friend David's apartment and checked my e-mail. I ended up taking a two hour mid-afternoon nap which was nice and certainly distracting. At 7 pm I woke up and went to the Sidewalk Cafe at 5th and Ave A to try to get onstage. I got slotted for a very late spot so I decided to just try again another week. While there, I met a guy named Dr. Ray who travels and performs around the US. He seemed very nice and we ended up talking for awhile, singing some songs on the sidewalk and drinking beer together.

My friend Christopher came and met up with me around 10 pm and we went and broke into a kids playground by climbing over the fence and then we smoked weed on the jungle jim. That was very distracting and I thank god for weed at times like this.

Today was day two - my ex didn't call me today either. I didn't go into work this morning because there was nothing for me to do, so instead I had lunch with a few friends at Zen Palate. That was pretty fun and fairly distracting. Chelsea got bitched out by the waiter for bringing her Starbucks coffee into the restaurant. He made a lame analogy about wiping your muddy feet on the floor of someone's home and we laughed at him for the entirety of our meal. We said grace when we got our food which was something I haven't done in a forever. It was half jokey but it was also kind of nice. We said, "Thank you for this food." Instead of amen, we said, "AND - Thankyou."

I had to leave after that and run a boring errand which might have been distracting but I was running it alone and the fact that it was boring made my mind start to wander and you know where it went. Surprisingly, I don't feel awful about having been broken up with. I don't feel like I wish my ex and I will get back together. I feel sad that we tried to have a good relationship for five years and then after all that it still failed. I liken it to a business I guess that we started five years ago and then we just went out of business. Everything must go. Liquidation sale.

Now I am updating my blog which I haven't done for awhile. I have an improvisation class tonight which will partially distract me but there will be times when I will get off the path of focus away from distraction. After class I will go to B3 where I will try out some new jokes I wrote about failed relationships, being single, and distraction. I'll probably have a few shots of tequila, my drink of choice. That will be distracting.

I hate the idea of doing things to distract myself from being single and lonely because it seems like something that people do in movies and it always seems so pathetic and sad to me when I see people out, drinking shot after shot, or learning a foreign language under the guise that they are bettering themselves when they are actually just distracting themselves from lonliness. I hate being single. I usually always have a boyfriend because I like being in love and I like to have sex and I like the feeling that I'm with someone, and not alone. I won't be single for long, I'm sure, but in the meantime, I'll be seeking distractions of most any kind, no matter how desparate it seems.

Thursday, October 9, 2003

Which Is More Gruesome:
A Jealous Girl On Cocaine or A Man Mutilated In A Car Crash?

I saw a maniacal episode last night when my friend and I ran into his ex-girlfriend who was high on cocaine. She was so pretty and slim, she was so crazy and energetic, she was so jealous and insane. I was walking with my friend and she just jumped out at us, ranting for about 15 minutes a really funny and interesting (I can only imagine made up on the spot) monologue about how she recognized him, as he was a great and famous performer. It was the kind of thing that I would love to have the guts to do to an ex-boyfriend of mine I spotted on the street at midnight walking with a scantly clad pretty girl I didn't know. She didn't even think about it, she ran out and jumped in front of him, and all he could do was stand there and take it, and all I could do was laugh because as preposterous as it was, it was hilarious and really quite brilliant.

Something that interests me about it very much is that I felt it was inspired by me, which tickles me, though she was acting purely on animalistic jealousy and vibes, because he is a friend of mine and that is all - she had no idea that I am engaged to someone. However, she just went off intensely on something she was simply feeling. I can't imagine what she is like not on cocaine, but I am sure she is just as brilliant. I could see what he liked about her, and also why they broke up in the few minutes the whole thing took place. I got a full sense of the spectrum of good to bad and saw secrets of their relationship unfolding in front of me in a very brazen way that made me feel a little bit insecure and perhaps like I was seeing something I shouldn't have been. It made me think of this -

Last summer, I saw a man who had gotten hit by a car and the insides of his head were scattered around the street. It was brutally gruesome and troubled me for weeks. I immediately started the process of trying to block it from my memory, but how do you block something like that out? It gave me a feeling I haven't experienced since the first time I stumbled onto a pile of my father's Playboy magazines. I felt like I was seeing something that I shouldn't have been seeing - something so intimate and personal - something I didn't know that you could see - someone's insides, lying there on the street for everyone to peruse.

That is how I felt when I saw the girl - like she had left her insides on the street for everyone to see, and it was as troubling and as fascinating to me as it was seeing bloody, scattered brains.



I have been moved from Thursday the 16th to Friday the 17th at 8 PM. As you know, this is a much better slot and it is a slot that is saved for bands who are bigger and better than me. Therefore, I have to make them think that I am deserving of this spot by having a good turn out. So, please be sure - if you thought you were sure before but then you weren't sure, be sure now to write down the NEW date - FRIDAY the 17th at 8 PM. at CB's Gallery, and then be sure to actually come to the show. You guys, this is important, don't fuck this up for me. I will be playing my dirty folk rock musical hits and you guys will be enjoying them. For a sample of what is to come, click on my music link above and listen.

I'm gonna dirty folk rock out, you guys, and I want you to be there with me, dirty folk rockin out, too.

Wednesday, October 8, 2003

Appearance Coming Up at CBGB's Gallery

I am going to be performing at CBGB's Gallery on Thursday October 16th so write the date down somewhere important where you won't forget to look at it. Also, call all your friends (especially the one with the car) and make arrangements so you can go together, you know, plan where you are going to meet and if you are going to have dinner beforehand or afterwards, and where you will have dinner and for your friend who has a car, what time to pick you up.

The show starts at 10 pm, but I won't be going on until a little ways into the show, so don't feel the need to rush down. If you get there at 10:15, that'd be okay. 10:20 would probably be okay, too. 11:00 might not be okay, but you know, it's your life, you guys, do whatever makes you feel good while you're living it.

Say you didn't come to my birthday party, and I'm not going to mention any names, say, Chelsea, for example, but suppose you were going to come to my birthday party and you didn't get to for one reason or another, say, just off the top of my head, you were being inconsiderate or got too drunk in Brooklyn or whatever, and say you've been wanting nothing more for the past 4 months than to make up for your selfish maneuvers, whoever you might be, this would be the perfect opportunity.

So, write it down! Then stick it up your ass! (so you don't lose it)

CBGB's 313 Gallery
313 Bowery (bt 1st and 2nd aves)
Lower East Side, (NYC)
Thursday Oct. 16th - 10 PM
look on the website for more info:

Monday, October 6, 2003

by Jessica Delfino

Lisa found a pile of mail on the ground today while walking to the 6 train at 77th St. She noticed it out of the corner of her eye as she was walking by the mailboxes at 3rd Avenue and 77th. It was a thick stack, lots of important looking pieces of mail bound together by a pair of industrial sized elastics. She got so excited when she picked up the mail. It was like she'd found something really special. Anything could have been in that pile. "I'm so nosy," she thought to herself as she imagined tearing every piece open and reading every letter, finding out how much Mr. Harris at 344 77th St. owes on his phone bill, finding out what the Motor Vehicle Dept. wanted with Hillary Somarkin, but most of all, she really want to read the card with the Thanksgiving sticker pasted across the back flap, addressed in colorful marker obviously, by a child. She started racking her brain. "What can I do with this pile of mail? What can I do with it besides read it and then throw it away?" Maybe she could take the pieces that looked important and read them, and dump the rest of them in a mail box, she thought. She knew that fucking with the US Mail is a felony, and she didn't need any more trouble. She'd already fought to escape two other felonies, one for international drug smuggling which was nothing more than driving into Canada with a joint in her purse, and grand theft larceny which had been a bit more complicated, but she had been a minor and had good grades, and was able to wriggle out of it fairly easily with only a few hundred hours of volunteer service.

As she walked, she thought. Maybe it would be fun to open every piece of mail and try to figure how all the people in the stack related, including who the mail was going to, who it was coming from and who it was about. She'd been walking for about three minutes, dreaming about what she was going to do with the huge stack of mail when she saw a mail mistress standing beside a mail box. She held out the stack to her and said, "I found this on the street." The mail mistress looked very alarmed and looked over the pile, eyeing Lisa a bit suspiciously. "You found this?" she said. "Yes," Lisa insisted. "On the corner at 77th and 3rd." The mail mistress took her headphones out of her ears for a minute and seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. "It's not mine," she said. "He must have dropped a pile on his route. OK, I'll take this," she said. "Thank you."

Lisa walked away feeling happy that she'd done a good deed, but she was also a little bit miffed because she had really wanted to read the Thanksgiving card. She imagined all the people who would be getting their mail in a day or two thanks to her having picked up the pile and not putting it into her purse to take home with her. She wondered if someone else might have wanted to read it too, the way she had. Would someone else have wanted to do the same thing? She wasn't bad, was she? Was she normal? She'd never felt normal, not for one day, not one day in her whole life. But she had grown to accept that. There was nothing she could do about the way she felt, and she had been able to make friends and find her way in the world, so what was there to fix, then? She walked to the corner of 77th street and looked around the huge crowd of people, imagining the likeliness of Mr. Harris or Hillary being among them.

Sunday, October 5, 2003

Jessica Delfino

I stumbled upon Surf Reality accidently a few years ago. I was immediately harrassed by Big Mike. I wish I could remember the first thing he ever said to me. I bet it was something relating to me flashing him my taters so he could photo them. I bet I then replied, "What?" I am sure I hadn't needed him to repeat himself, I had probably heard every modulation in his voice. I wasn't saying 'what' because I was confused, either. I wasn't confused. It was obvious this guy was trying to do one of the following - annoy me, fuck me or non-chalantly include me in his self-masturbatory art-like thing. As irritating as it was, I was also fascinated by his straightforwardness and the way that he saw polaroids of boobies as art. There was nothing like this in Damariscotta, Maine, where I'd grown up. I didn't let him shoot my tits, but I didn't feel like punching him. It took him about 40 more times of asking to photograph my blammos before I finally decided I was done with his creativity. But, I respect his right to be creative, and I even respect his medium.

In New York, there is lots of performance art, and I feel bad lumping it all into that one phrase, because not all performance art is actually art, and not all art is based on performance. That is why when I describe it, I like to throw lots of non-specific pro-nouns or nouns in there, like that or it or thing, because it's so much nothing/something, and I think that's the best way to describe that kind of somesuch none other than.

He is a smart guy, and he recognized my awareness of his thing. It turned out he was trying to do a little bit of all three. I was extra endeared when he called me "freak." What a fucking asshole. I loved the fact that when I said "What?" he knew I meant, "This better be good, or else, fuck off," and he felt so inspired that what he was doing was worth it, he went ahead with it and continues to do so to this day.

This week I've been to see several performance art shows and I always walk out feeling the same way - confused, irritated and inspired.

CONFUSED: I'm confused because a lot of times I don't understand what kind of emotion the performer(s) is/are trying to evoke from the audience. If I were in a shitty movie, I might stand up and yell, "Hey! What the fuck do you want from me/us?" But I'm not in a shitty movie and I'm shy in a unique an outgoing way, so instead I sit and watch. While I watch the show, though, I also really watch the audience. I look around at people's expressions and body language and listen to hear how they are absorbing it, how they are dealing with it. I see a lot of what I am saying on many of their faces. But then, I see others who are having so much fun and are enjoying the fuck out of everything that goes on, and I suddenly become internal. Maybe the problem isn't performance art at all. Maybe the problem is all me. Maybe I am a dick, and I am jaded, and I am just permanently bored, unable to become shaken from the hard coating of discontent that I have created for myself. I don't hate the coating though, I made it, and I'll be able to wear it all winter long while others are open minded and vulnerable and cold. Am I despondent or is the art? This sums up confused.

IRRITATED: I'm irritated because I see a lot of ideas coming out that are to me, great ideas, possibly even ideas I swore that I'd thought of first and were somehow stolen from me. It makes me angry to think that while I'm at home writing on my blog about how performance art is over glorified art-related crap, people are out there inspiring people to be creative. I would love to think that reading my over glorified writing-related crap inspires people to be creative but I am willing to bet money that it probably doesn't. So, while I am watching shows and cursing something that is poorly done, I am overlooking the fact that it got done. That's worth something, and it irritates me that I am smart, but I keep overlooking that. Which leads to:

INSPIRED: I've been doing stand-up comedy for a couple of years now and I am slowly finding myself morphing stand-up into a performance like art-thing. It seems like a move north and east of stand-up comedy. I've been doing music in the genre of dirty folk rock, a genre which I created. I have been writing on this blog which could be considered some kind of performance art in a loose sense of the term, but probably just qualifies as writing. But I have other ideas, too that I want to dive into. I want to make an entire show out of voice mail messages, and come out on stage and actually physically cry during my stand-up routine, something I've wanted to do forever, I want to create something on stage instead of leaving empty words hanging in the air. I happen to really love stand-up and great stand-up comics are something to behold, but just as not every performance artist is creating art, not every stand-up comic is creating comedy. There are the great comics, the just horrible shitty comics that should be making babies or working in construction and then a whole bunch of in the middle, smart-enough but going nowhere, not sure what they really want to be doing hacks. That is where I sit, and this seat is hurting my ass. I will still do comedy and I will always love it, and hopefully someday I will magically, suddenly become good at it, but until then, I'm going to do what comes very naturally to me, and that is going to be to leave my creating to whatever flows into my head and out of my hands. I think that is the very definition of performance art. Key words: whatever, flows, into head and out of hands.


Trachtenberg Family Slide Show Players
The (Liquid) Tape Deck
Melting Men
Deep Dish - (By The Way, if you read this and you know Steve Kosloff, tell him to give free admission to Deep Dish alumni performers and then call him a fucking cheapskate.)

What do you do that is more important than going to support live performance art? It is usually cheap or free, and it's everywhere.

Case in point - Remember the Flashmobs of this past summer? Check out the newest mob-like thing here.

Friday, October 3, 2003

by Jessica Delfino

You will like this link if you are:
-into politics
-a resident of NYC
-a friend of Christopher Brodeur's
-a fan of people who create weird alternative art or enjoy bizarre art performances
-a Mayor Bloomberg hater
-a link clicker
-an art star
-someone who likes things that I think are interesting
-a person who enjoys good writing
-a member of the Green Party

It's very interesting, well written and slightly retarded.


A vote for Brodeur is a vote for something.
Vote for Brodeur and keep your 16 year old daughter safe.
Hey Voter - Think Brodeur.

Vote for your favorite slogan or suggest your own BELOW in the COMMENTS section:
Job Search Self-Sabotage
by Jessica Delfino

I sent this letter to the NY Press because I all of a sudden had an emotional cramp thinking about how the editor, Jeff Koyen, asked me to write for the paper, but then when I sent him the story that he'd asked me to write, he not only didn't use the story, but he didn't pay me for it and never printed it and never e-mailed or talked to me ever again.

The story was about elderly rape, and it was a nice story. Here is the letter I wrote for him, asking him if I could write something else. (FYI - I sent about 30 very nice e-mails asking if I could write something else.)

Mon, 29 Sep 2003 10:26:39 -0700 (PDT)
Subject: Is it true? Are you an asshole?

Hi Jeff

I wrote to you a long time ago and sent you a story about raping the elderly. You never wrote back to me. I either misunderstood the assignment, or you really are a huge asshole like everyone says, but I think it's time you give me another assignment and let me have a go at it.

Christopher Brodeur said to tell you that I'm better than most of your writers.

Also, Wil Wheaton, actor and famous blogger linked his blog to mine. He called my blog the funniest blog he ever read. It now gets a few hundred hits a day and I'm selling cds like crazy.

My point is, you should just let me write for your damn paper the way I should have been writing for it for about 8 months now. Just return an email once in a while, and let's get this shit rolling. I sent you a list of twenty good story ideas before, but now here is one more: I want to write about the flugtag event for Red Bull or for the Playboy Sale at Christies. Either that, or I'd like to interview you and write an article about whether you actually are an asshole or not.


I didn't get a response from Jeff. But I did get a phone call from Alex, second in command at NY Press, abou half an hour after I sent the e-mail. He hired me to write an article about the elderly in NYC (if I could just figure out how to slip the topic of rape in there it would be perfect de ja voux)
and so that is good news. Sometimes self-sabotage actually works.

To show my appreciation, I went to the NY Press party last night with a bunch of friends where we ate and drank a few hundred dollars each worth of food and alcoholic beverages, and smoked marijuana one at a time, under the table, (which was covered by a big table cloth.) It was a great trick, it really held the smell of the pot in, and no one had any idea what was going on. I recommend it for any boring party or banquet style gathering such as a wedding or political shindig where you'd like to be able to smoke pot indoors, underneath your table.

Important Tips To Remember When Smoking Pot Underneath A Table At A Boring Party Or Banquet Style Gathering (if you don't want to get busted):

1. Make sure the bowl, piece, or what have you is packed in advance and you are equipped with a lighter.

2. While one person is smoking under the table, the rest of the people sitting at the table should not be looking around like they are keeping look out, they should be laughing and drinking and pretending that no one is under any tables smoking anything.

3. The person who goes under the table should go down and come up swiftly, and not hesitate or pull up the table cloth and wait for a few minutes, then announce, "Well, I guess I'm gonna go down now" and then wait a few more minutes, and then announce it again, and then go down.

4. The people sitting at the table should hold the table still so the person going down or coming up doesn't knock all the shit over on the table if they are clumsy.

5. The person who is smoking has to go all the way under the table, and not just stick their head under the table while their ass is still sitting in the seat. This attracts unwanted attention and also creates a way for the marijuana smoke to escape, encouraging a bust.

6. It is unadvisable to light the table cloth on fire, accidental or otherwise.

Best of Luck.

Thursday, October 2, 2003

A Letter to God From Melissa, Age 24

Dear God

Please, God, please let my friend, Touching, be mayor. He has so many great plans that I know are going to work. He thinks the subway should be free, and he hates Mayor Bloomberg and so do a bunch of other people, so he's probably on the right track. True, he did kick a glass plate window while wearing flip flops and he almost killed a child when he dropped keys down to me off his fifth floor fire escape without looking, but I think that despite his moronic facade, he's really a genius underneath it all.

I wish he wasn't a vegetarian, however, because it makes me think he might be something of a pussy. I try not to be judgemental of others, lord, I know how you despise it, but I hate when straight men act faggy. Do understand, lord, I don't mind when faggy men act faggy, I think that is perfectly acceptable, and I love the new hit show "Queer Eye For The Straight Guy." It has really helped me to re-think my theory that gays are straight from hell. Who knew a few great design and cooking tips could change one's whole outlook on a species of people?

I don't know how I got onto the topic of gayness, lord, please forgive me and may you come down to earth from heaven and wash my mouth out with soap. I would like to ask you for some favors, while you have this letter in hand and are reading.

Please make me be able to know instinctively if someone is actually homeless or just faking it. Also, please make me know ballet by the time I wake up. I'd like it a lot if you could clean my apartment or send angels down to do it while I'm at work, and if you could make my parking ticket debt disappear, that'd be a true miracle. I need new shoes, lord, please make them brown and also, I could really use a back rub. I have faith in you, lord, I really need to find that beanie baby graduation owl from the year 2000.

Please grant all my wishes and send me a receipt, snail mail or e-mail, which ever is easier for you.
You are omnipotent and all-knowing and massive.


P.S. I always had a feeling like maybe you were Santa Claus. Are you Santa Claus?

Wednesday, October 1, 2003

Gavin's Got A Good Sense Of Humor

Lookwhat he did, and I have a feeling it was done for me, possibly even to make me feel better about being slightly shat upon. The only reason that I doubt his lack of dedication to the fact that he was doing a little shit talking is the placement of the word "but" which he used in the following manner:

"The girl is clearly mental but writes very well."

Thanks, Gav! You're the sweetest.

Smiles and cheers,
Jessica Delfino

PS I'll take all the synonyms, thanks, after all, I did "pays" my money.

You are invited:

Shecky's 2004 Bar Guide & Review is out for 2004 and they've spared no expense with a boot-knockin', head-stompin', face-smashin', ass-slappin', knee-jerkin', responsibility-shirkin' party from 6-9 pm tonight, with open bar from 6-7. Eat your heart out every other one hour of open bar party in the city tonight!

I have contributed to the Shecky's 2004 Bar Guide & Review party and was paid scantly and treated poorly by restauranteurs who neither know or care about Shecky's Bar Guide and Review, 2004 into infinity. Therefore, I
hereby encourage you all, everyone I know to come to this party at 6, drink my deserved salary's worth of free drinks, and then leave at 7:01.

Also, get a free 2004 Shecky's Bar Guide & Review at the party.


Wednesday, October 1st, 2003
76 E. 13th St. (Broadway & 4th Ave)
New York, NY
6-9 PM - (OPEN BAR 6-7)
Me? Mental? I'll Show You Fucking Mental
by Jessica Delfino

From what I can see, Gavin Morris is the blog reviewer, and it appears that he reviewed my blog. This is what he said:

27th September 2003

Found some really nice writing over at Jessy Delfino's blog. The girl is clearly mental, but writes very well. I picked up the link from fellow TotalFarker Wheaton's blog, which remains as good, tortured, strangely irrellevant and entertaining as it ever was.

***You can debate or commend his opinion, or read his fancy kibitzes and what nots here***

So here's my question: is this a good review or a bad review?

Because part of me says, hey, now wait a minute! Now, you wait just one god damn
min-ute! He gave you a non-specific generally favorable review. Remember the "nice writing" and "writes very well" phrases used? That indicates feelings of overall approval!

But then I get stuck, because in the next sentence, he called me mental. Not a little mental, or somewhat mental, or mental in a cute way but "clearly mental." I shouldn't be upset because that just implies that I am mental, because if I weren't mental, I would be able to brush it off like lint and go work it out on the eliptical machine. I'd be laughing hysterically, fingertips lightly grazing my chest and with whimsy and perfect teeth say out loud to no one in particular, "Me? Mental?" I would then pop anywhere from 2-4 xanax and hallucinate my way through various clerical duties. So, I guess I have to give him some kind of credit or literary high five because he can obviously peg a crazy bitch when he reads the writing of one! Way to go, Gav!

So, I think the answer is the review is neither good or bad, but indistinct and generally favorable. I think Gavin gave me this review because he is a fan of Wil Wheaton's blog or Star Trek series, either/or, and probably doesn't necessarily enjoy my blog, but recognizes good writing because he's not an idiot, and just decided to give Wil Wheaton the benefit of the doubt on this one.

After some intense contemplation, I have decided in all fairness, credit for Gavin's indistinct generally favorable review should go to Wil Wheaton.

Thanks, Wil! Keep the links and good reviews comin' vicariously through your many fans and their undying love and devotion to you!

I feel my breakdown and analysis of this review is probably correct, but it might not be correct. I could be mental. Thank God Gavin had come along when he did and pointed this out, because otherwise I might have lived my whole entire life having no idea of the state of my emotional wellness. Again, Gavin, thanks, buddy.

Tally of thanks in this blog entry:
Wil - 1
Gavin - 2