Tuesday, June 29, 2004


Today was kind of shitty again handing out flyers against Dr. Rosenthal. Dr. Rosenthal said his friend Vincent was coming by tomorrow at 10 am and I'm afraid it's his mafia friend who's going to beat me up.

He said he was coming at 9 am and wanted to have a chat.

So, everyone, if I "disappear" tomorrow, around 9 am, look for some guy named Vincent. Dr. Apa, you are too handsome. Please stop it soon, or I am going to begin picketing your chiseled, gorgeous face. He's really just very too good looking.

Also, I'm performing tonight at Piano's on Linday Robertson's "Ritalin Reading" series. It starts at 8 pm.

Friday, June 25, 2004


I found them at the library! (Answers and Chineses)

I am at the chinese library on East Broadway and lord, jesus, I knew that there were a shit load of asian kids out there, but I just learned today that the reason they're all so damn smart is because every single one of them is at the library.

I guess this is where they come to read and learn, and then when they get bored, excessively run and yell. (Maybe that's why they are such good athletes, too.)

THIS WAS NICE - NY BLADE writer Rachel Kramer Bussel was at our PS122 show, "The Dirtiest Sketch Show Ever" as part of Schoolhouse Roxx!, and she wrote us a flaming and lovely review.

The RAPE & CRY roof patio concert series continues Saturday, June 26th at 63 Pitt St. #5F. I wasn't going to put the address up on my site fearing an overflow of art rock lovers, but NY PRESS publicly listed the address when they gave the show a PICK for Sat. June 26th. (That's two picks for two shows in one month!) Awesome. 7 pm - 11 pm. It's $5 or pay what you wish, which means if you're rich, pay $5, if you're poor, pay $1, if you're middle-class, pay $3. AQUI's offshoot band will be performing, (basically AQUI sans the bassist) and will call themselves NOT HERE. Get it? Also, the BUNNYBRAINS will play, and HAUNTED PUSSY, psychadelic horror-opera which sounds fucking weird, and I promise, it is. There will be cheap booze and WHITE FIRE as well. For those of you who don't know about WHITE FIRE, well, lemme school you.

WHITE FIRE is a delicious dish I created to help me deal with the fact that I'm incredibly poor. It's white rice with salt, butter and hot pepper sauce, and it is served piping hot in a bowl. You eat it with a fork, and drink beer with it. It's fucking good. I'm going to sell it at the show for cheap, so come hungry. I intend to start a rock and roll food cart soon that I will push down to Ludlow St. on Friday and Saturday evenings. If all goes well, I'll sell veggie dogs and WHITE FIRE out of the cart while performers entertain the masses from a 3 ft. x 3 ft. platform attached to the cart, about four feet off the ground. Sounds awesome? That's because it's going to be.

Ann Carr & Shauna Lane will be performing at Collective Unconscious tonight (Stanton between Rivington and Delancey) both of them will be doing their one woman shows. They are both terrific performers. The show starts at 10 pm and it is $4. Ann Carr is going to be 1/3 of Haunted Pussy tomorrow night, sitting in for this one show for Mikie McQ, who has shirked her psychadelic horror-opera responsibilities in exchange for the sun and the cancer in Florida.

Here's a bad, awful joke:

I saw a little hispanic girl and boy holding hands in the park the other day, and they were so cute! It then dawned on me why hispanic families are generally so large. It's because they teach the girls that it's okay to start being sluts at a very early age. Ya know? 3 going on 13! I mean, jeez! Kripies!

I expect a full on-line back-lash from the asian and hispanic communities within the hour. K, guys? Don't let me down!

Thursday, June 24, 2004

by Jessica Delfino

I worked today for David, and it was a pretty shitty day. Let me give you a little back story - This is as David told it to me.

Basically, David had some work done to his teeth by Dr. Rosenthal. He had veneers put over three teeth under the promise from the doctor that if David didn't like the veneers, he could have them removed and his regular teeth would still be the same as they were before the veneers. David went to the office for a check up and Dr. Rosenthal asked him how he liked his new veneers. David said that they were blocking his bite. Dr. Rosenthal said, "Do I tell you how to do your job?" He then left and refused to treat David anymore. David went to another dentist who removed the veneers. Once they were removed, he saw that Dr. Rosenthal had drilled his teeth down to stubs, and they were permanently disfigured. David had new veneers put on to cover them and eventually David tried to get his money back from Dr. Rosenthal, but Dr. Rosenthal refused to give him a refund. David put up a website, baddentist.com and started looking into Dr. Rosenthal's history. He found out that Dr. Rosenthal had been sued for malpractice four times and had his license suspended at one point for using it to obtain illegal drugs. People started coming forward with their personal horror stories and thanking David for exposing his acts.

So, that's basically the back story. Last week, David had 10,000 flyers printed up with a photo of Dr. Rosenthal on them, a photo of David's fucked up teeth, and a bunch of information that he discovered about Dr. Rosenthal. He then offered to pay me handsomely to stand in front of Dr. Rosenthal's office and hand them out.

At first, the job was pretty uneventful. I stood there and handed out flyers. After a few minutes, the security guard came out and told me I'd have to leave. I knew I wasn't breaking the law, so I said that I refused to leave and said I knew I wasn't breaking any laws. Before long, Dr. Rosenthal's incredibly HOT, hot partner, Dr. Michael Apa, came out and started asking me questions and berating me.

"Why are you doing this? This is slander. This is illegal. This is all lies. David is crazy. You are ruining someone's livelihood by doing this." He went on and on. All I could do was stare into his gorgeous eyes and watch his lips move. He wasn't being violent or rude, necessarily, but he was definitely perturbed and upset for his business partner, Dr. Rosenthal. And also, he was being all super hot.

I started to feel a little bit bad, like maybe I was making a mistake. Maybe, I thought, David hadn't given me all the facts, or maybe I didn't know the whole story. Then I snapped out of it. I'd seen all the proof myself. I don't know David to be a liar. I then started to feel a little bit guilty for having doubted David. It actually disturbed me that Dr. Apa's handsome good-looks were able to cloud my judgment so easily. I shook myself out of the stupor his perfect jaw-line had induced and told him to call David if he had any questions.

"How much is he paying you? I'll pay you more not to do this. Come up to the office and let me show you his file." I would have gone anywhere with Dr. Apa. But I knew I shouldn't leave, because David was on his way over and probably would have been pissed if I wasn't there when he got there. "You have to leave," Dr. Apa and the security guard said. "You'll have to call the police," I said. "I'm not breaking any laws." So, call the police was what they did.

As we all waited for the police, David showed up. He was obviously very delighted by the whole thing and teeming with anxious energy that came off a little bit like he might have been crazy. Dr. Apa started to talk to him and ask him questions. There was some girl there also who I think was an employee of Dr. Rosenthal, and she was very pissed off. She grabbed a flyer away from me and said, "What the hell is this?"
(Before David got there.) Once David got there, she started goading him, saying things like, "Hey, you seem a little nervous there!" and things like that.

After a minute, David calmed down a little and he and Dr. Apa began talking about the situation in a more respectable manner. Dr. Apa said, "Let's sit down and talk about this." David said, "Tell Dr. Rosenthal to pay me back my $10,000, just so we can sit down and discuss my terms."

The whole thing was pretty nerve wracking, kind of funny at times, and a little bit freaky, also.

The cops finally showed up and said, "Don't block the doors," then left.

I realized on my walk over to Starbucks to get David and I iced teas that obviously, Dr. Apa must have heard stories before about Dr. Rosenthal. He was his partner. He must have heard the accusations before. He couldn't have been oblivious to any of it. The fact that he was in bed with Dr. Rosenthal even though he must've known about the accusations made about 80% of my attraction to Dr. Apa fly up into the sky. David said, "The devil is a temptor." It was a good point. Dr. Hot ass Apa, as hot as he was, gave me a kind of skeevy feeling. I don't like being lied to, and I felt like Dr. Apa was probably not letting on that he knew more than he did.

Here's the most interesting point of all - As I stood on the sidewalk handing out flyers, no less than ten people came over to me and said, "I'm so glad you are doing this. Dr. Rosenthal has to be stopped." One lady called him "an idiot" and another lady told me a story about how he had invited her up into his office after hours and groped her breasts while she was on laughing gas. She asked him what he was doing and he said, "I was only kidding around."

That helped me to feel better about handing out the flyers. Not that I doubted David, I do know him, I have known him for years and I trust him to be an honest person. But it's always good to hear several sides of a story before making a final opinion.

I know that there are other people who have been his clients for years and are probably happy with his work, but none of those people talked to me at all. And like my friend said to me once, "It doesn't matter if a priest only molested a boy one time. He MOLESTED A BOY ONE TIME."

Anyway, I'll be there all week next week handing out flyers. I am going to get someone to come with me, because I'd feel better handing out flyers if someone else were there too, in case I get confronted again. I hear Dr. Rosenthal is in France right now, and I am hoping I don't see him, because I'm afraid he might try to physically or verbally assault me. I might be pissed if someone was handing flyers out in front of my office.

If you want to come and visit me, I'll be there from 8:30 am to 4:30 pm, Monday through Thursday, and his office is located at 30 76th St. between Madison and Park Avenues.

I'll be the girl handing out flyers.

PS Dr. Apa, if you read this, please know that though you are incredibly sexy and hot, and I am physically attracted to you in a way that makes me feel dirty, I am dating someone right now. His name is Christopher. I am in love with him, and so I won't be able to date you or spend any time with you. (I'm loyal to the bone, a serial monogamist, if you will.) I'm sorry if this hurts your feelings in any way, but that's the way it goes sometimes. There are other girls out there. None as sweet, charming, smart, pretty, darling, potty-mouthed and wholly adorable as me, but you will find someone. I promise you. However, perhaps maybe you can buy me dinner some night and I'll let you try to prove to me that you aren't evil. I'll have to think about it. (Please keep in mind: Dinner is not an invitation or offer for you to see any of my bikini area parts.) Until then, keep that jawline intact, and if you feel that you miss me, simply gaze upon the photo that you stole of me with your camera phone. You know, the one you took as you kept asking me to "smile"?

UPDATE - I visited Dr. Rosenthal's website and found no information about any Dr. Apa. He might have been either making that story up or maybe he's new there. The only reason I found out his name was because I called the office and asked what the name of that hot young dentist who worked there was. The receptionist said "Dr. Michael Apa." Also, as "Dr. Apa" was walking away, David asked his name, and he said Michael. Hot Partner, tell me it's true, and you exist, and you are indeed a man named Dr. Apa. I don't want to believe you are a liar.

Saturday, June 19, 2004


Everyone is now starting blogs. I started mine over a year ago, and since then, a dozen or more of my friends have called me, dropping the exciting news in my lap, "I started a blog!" as if I am going to cheer proudly into the phone and welcome them to the club. Blogs have been around for awhile. It's about time you fag asses are getting with the program. As if there aren't enough sorry assholes out there posting graphic details of their tittilating lives on-line for all the world to read and contemplate over chips or a blow job.


Chelsea Peretti - Chelsea's Blog (I bet it sucks)
Jim Norton - I don't know, google his name or go to Norton's website. (I bet it sucks)
Alex Emanuel (my roommate) - Alex's blog (I bet it sucks)

Don't say you weren't warned. In all reality, Chelsea and Jim are two of the funniest, smartest people I know, so I doubt their blogs suck. I've never read anything Alex has written, but he seems smart as well. I just met him a few months ago when I moved into his apartment after we met on Craigslist. (He's cute and single, so he's probably a killer.) I imagine that Chelsea's blog is full of multiple entries, mostly sarcastic observations about things like pencils and her hair, each wittier and more clever than the next, when she should be doing actual work. And Jim's blog is surely full of mockery and insults about other people's blogs. Alex's blog is called "You Can't Get Snot Out Of A Suede Jacket" or something like that, so I'm gonna guess it's a diary of all the chicks he has banged and murdered.

I'll have to actually go to them and read them, and then I'll come back and write some real reviews. But, I bet without even looking I'm right.


Today, Saturday is the 3 Farms Festival at the East River Park Bandshell starting at 1 (I'm late) and going to 8 pm. It's a bunch of bands that probably are overrated and enjoy any popularity they may boast mostly thanks to their extensive friendster associations. The festival is being put on by Arlene's Grocery, but I don't know what else it involves in order to be classified as a "festival". Perhaps there is face painting? Colored ice balls in white cups sold by old men? Maybe even juggling. It's free and it's nice out, so what the hell? I'm going over there to investigate. If you know me, look for me. I'm wearing a red and green and white flowered dress that goes past my knees.

I'm opening up for The Whitest Kids You Know tomorrow night at Piano's at 8 PM. My sister will be coming up on stage with me to sing a song we wrote for our father, who will also be in the audience. It's $5. Come and see the show if you're on Ludlow and Stanton at 8 pm. Also, this afternoon, my friend Margaret Dodge is having a yard sale of sorts at her apartment in Brooklyn, because she's moving to Manhattan, because she's sick of being a loser who lives in one of the outer boroughs. It's at 4 pm. If you want to go to her yard sale, email her at whoringforjesus@hotmail.com, or if you know where she lives, go to her house. (She lives in Park Slope, but I think she'd be mad if I wrote down her address. If I had a dollar for every friend I've accidentally created a stalker for, I'd have seven or eight bucks.) More info is on Craigslist.org, also, so maybe go and do a search under yard sale or free stuff or something like that.

There is some kind of construction going on at the library, where I am right now, and they are using some kind of drill that sounds really a lot like a very loud fart. I keep laughing really loudly every time I hear it, and I turn to the guy in the terminal next to me every time it goes off and say, "Was that you?" He seems to be getting irritated at me, but I just ignore him and keep doing it. That joke never gets old for me, here, now. I just did it again. He looks pissed. He just got up and left. I won.


I've been riding my bike around the city a lot lately. It's the easiest way to get around. I got hit by a car a few weeks ago by some puerto rican chic. She said she had the right of way, in a snotty rican accent as she turned her car directly into my bike tire. I fell and ripped the thigh out of my (too tight) black satin pants. There's nothing that will ruin your self-esteem when you feel pretty like getting hit by a car and falling in a heap onto dirty city asphalt. Did I already write about this? I feel like I did. I'm okay. Please, don't send cards or cash.

A Poem For My Dress

Oh, dress! You are so pretty
You have flowers on you and you flow down to my shins
You cover the bruises my boyfriend did give me
and make me look graceful or like I'm on welfare
because you're homemade, and I'm not sure which look you cultivate more

I don't wear brazierres cause I think they're for breast feeding mothers
and so I fear that passers by may see my tits
because you are white and just ever so see through
my boyfriend would get mad if he did read this

And dress, you look like you were made in the 60s
I think that you were, you're no vintage impostor
My friend let me borrow you permanently
because she's embarrassed to be seen in you
because she fears not society's backlash
and prefers to wear short shorts and halter top tee shirts

You have a tear in the side
Isn't it funny that tear and tear are spelled alike?
For, I imagine if you were alive you'd be crying
cause someone let your hole go unpatched
and that someone is now

Thursday, June 17, 2004

IT'S A SAD DAY WHEN A ROCKER GOES BALD and other musings, like how shitty my dads were

I was riding my bike along Rivington St. and I saw a rocker walking, no, strutting towards Essex. He was wearing strategically ripped jeans with a chain adornment, he had tattoos all over his arms and neck, his torso endorsed some shitty band he looked up to via overworn tee shirt and his long, rockin' hair fell gracefully past his shoulders. He looked like any rocker, except for the fact that he had a large bald spot atop his peak of rock, his fountain of rock-spiration. When a normal guy goes bald, he shaves his head or gets those horrid transplants or wears a hair piece or yarmulke or baseball cap or combs his hair across like the cascading pages of a book, or colors in the bald spot with shoe polish or sharpie markers. But when a rocker goes bald, what the hell is he gonna do? If he's just your typical pose-rocker, he'll do one of the above maneuvers or make up his own. But if he's true hard-core rock personified, he has to let his hair fall away, like the dreams of fame and fortune he fostered as a 23 year old, fresh on the scene. He has to watch as his hair drops out of his scalp, much like the way he dropped out of high school. He has to recognize the open space above his heart of rock, empty - like his bank account. Maybe he can find some charming comparison, say, the fact that his skull shines like his leather pants once did. But the harsh reality will eventually sink in as he realizes that he will go bald before he will go platinum.

Father's Day is on the way, and I find myself strangely looking forward to the annual phone call I place to my father where I thank him for being just okay. I have a strange-ish dad set-up - I was lucky, I got not only one neglectful father, but two! The first one couldn't bear the responsibility of parenthood and he went to California, I think he walked, to find his fame and fortune as a gay sex maniac. When he wasn't being gay, he'd build computers and call me every so often to remind me that my mother was a horrible cunt or ask me if I could send him photos of my vagina.

My step-dad, dad number two, started off well-intended, I believe. He met my young, hot mom who was burdened with abandoned child, and decided yes, maybe taking on parental responsibilities it is worth it to bed milady. Little did he know, but there were lots of young hot women who were kidless. After a few years he decided that, having the equipment, he could make his own brats and gave my mother two more daughters, pride and joy numbers one and two. I got put on the back burner, literally, face held down to the burner, no, just kidding. My dad threw a softball at my face once, though and hit me in the nose "accidentally". He also pushed me off a boat and chipped my front tooth, which ruined my childhood.

Happy fathers's days, pops's.

Wednesday, June 16, 2004

by Jessica Delfino

Doing open mics can be fun and give you a chance to meet other freaks, interesting nerds or whatever it is you are, too. However, if you attend an open mic there are certain responsibilities as a performer which it is your duty to uphold. So don't be a fuckwad. Follow these rules and you'll be the best one at the open mic.

1. Prepare something
No one really wants to hear your whining. If you are unprepared, take five minutes before your spot and think of something. Think of a story that is funny or poignant, or at the very least has a moral, though morals are kind of corny. Those kind of stories go over best at church or convalescent open mics.

2. Try not to perform at Church or Convalescent open mics
They generally are sad and or stupid.

3. Don't do a Shakespeare Monologue
Shakespeare is a boring jerk. Maybe he was popular back when he was alive, like 40,000 years ago or whatever, but now he's dead, and no one cares about him except for high school guys who are ultra sensitive and who knows? Maybe gay? And church chicks. Save Shakespeare monologues for church or convalescent open mics. Also, refer to rule #2 again.

4. Don't go up twice - especially if the first time you went up you stunk up the open mic
Going up twice is especially self-masturbatory, and if you already went up once and blew it, just sit in the back and watch the actual good performers. Maybe you will learn something - such as how to not suck.

5. Don't do an interpretive dance that sucks
If you want to do an interpretive dance that's fine, but just remember - you've been warned. It's best when doing an interpretive dance to mock interpretive dance - for example, do an interpretive dance to "Every Rose Has Its' Thorn" or "Mercedes Boy" by Pebbles. Wear a stupid costume and over interpret. If you are an actual good dancer, then you can do your dance, but please for the love of god, don't dedicate it to a dead relative, a lover who is in the audience, and especially DO NOT cry at any time during your performance.

6. Try to stay until the end of the open mic
Though it may be hard to stay for the entire show, perhaps because you have to wake up early in the morning or because every single act gave you a nosebleeding headache, it will often win you appreciation if you stay and support other performers acts. You might be surprised by the last act.

7. Be Open Minded
Maybe someone's act involves carrots up butts or some other such debauchery. Art is art and is open to interpretation. So, don't be such a judgmental prick. You fat faggot.

8. Heckling isn't cool, but I think it's cool
A lot of open mics have a no heckling rule which is a bit pussyish, but understandable. Some people are getting onstage for the first time ever and they are scared. There are sometimes jerks in the audience who love to shout mean shit out. They think it's funny, but later on, said performer goes home and commits suicide in their bathtub. What a punchline to a cruel, cruel set up. While heckling generally isn't intented to hurt people, it does sometimes. However, though it seems mean and sad, it will strengthen a performer's skin, which is a necessity in the entertainment industry. In closing, heckling is funny when done well, and when the performer can deal with it. No one likes to see a cry baby at the open mic. Which leads to....

9. Don't cry on stage
Don't cry on stage unless you are doing some kind of avant garde performance art type act that involves you crying on stage. But if you start to get sad or upset, end your set early. You don't have to stay on stage for your whole set. Also, you can always go cry in the bathroom or something. Pussy.

10. Don't hook up with open mic-ers
This should be a no-brainer. If you go to open mics and hook up with people you meet there and it doesn't work out, then you have to see them at the open mic again. Or what if you hook up and then realize that their act is horrible? Then you break up with them and you look like a jerk. Stick to getting your dates at dirty floored bars and on the streets of drunken NYC.

In closing, open mics can be fun if you do them right. So, open mic responsibly and enjoy this city's plethora of sensitivity and insensitivity in a caring, non-caring, microphoned environment.

Tuesday, June 15, 2004

So....what's up with you guys?

I had a really fun weekend - Saturday night I hosted "A Night Of Dirty Songs" with the lovely, talented stand-up comic Chelsea Peretti and crazy go-to guy, the also funny Todd "Thaddeus" Montessi. There were a lot of great performers and a lot of terrific highlights, and the show was packed, which I owe to friends, curious perverts and the great little pieces of press the show received in The Onion and Time Out, who both gave us notable mentions.

The Onion called me, "Redd Foxx meets Jewel" which I guess is cool - it means whoever wrote that half thinks I'm a fucking awesome genius and half thinks I suck more than anything in the world, which I guess describes many or most performers.

There were some really special moments in the show, besides Chelsea and my banter back and forth, which for the most part was pretty fucking funny, (besides the fact that maybe on a few occasions it wasn't so funny, and ended up being kind of long-winded and not going anywhere). I'd like to take a moment to chastise the otherwise quite intelligent audience for not finding the humor in one exchange Chelsea and I had that went like this, (upon introducing performer "Mormon Surprise")

CHELSEA: Last time I had a Mormon Surprise, I woke up in a ditch with ten babies.
JESSICA: Last time I had a Mormon Surprise, I got kidnapped out of my bedroom by two freaks my parents had hired to fix our house, and kept in a hole in the woods for several weeks.
CHELSEA: That's a Smart reference.
JESSICA: Yes, yes.

That should have gotten a rousing audience response, but no. They did seem to both enjoy being and hearing the designated hecklers, though, which I thought was great. Chelsea and I also had little masks which we'd hold up to entertain eachother during the show. They were faces of us laughing hysterically at eachother's jokes (to parody the fact that we have a love/hate understanding and respect for eachother's senses of humor) but some people thought that we were mocking the performers, which was not the case. I truly enjoyed every act. Some more than others, but all of them were at the very worst, pretty damn good.

Todd said some really funny things in his typically absurd referential/ observational humor, too, which were not lost on the more intellectual audience members, and surely some of the less-brainy audience members as well.

Though everyone who performed was really very good, I got repeated notable mentions of the sets of Touching You, Dan Fishback and XAR!

Touching You did a twenty minute song that was mostly not a song at all as much as a list of all the song titles he'd have liked to perform but wouldn't be able to, including, "When Toys Disappear, It Means There's Lesbians Near" and "Lesbian Slayer" where he falls for and wins the heart of a lesbian after she catches a "flying abortion".

Dan Fishback told a story about a doctor examining his butt which the audience loved, and then played a song. He is very charming and adorable, and I was thrilled to have him in my show.

XAR! did a deadly silent and brief physical movement performance which some say channeled the energy of performer Walter Gambine, then sang the song, "Run Through The Wind With Your Hands On My Timmy Tim Tim" which I think is slang for a dink or cock. (Later he told me that our introduction of him, where I say, "Don't gaze to intently into his intense, intense eyes, and Chelsea whispers, "For you may never return!" was one of the best intros he ever received, which made my heart melt and my pussy's heart skip a beat).

At the end of the show, XAR! verbally attacked Touching You and accused him of being a woman beater, since he'd beaten up his last girlfriend Maryanne. According to Touching You, she deserved it. XAR! manipulated the audience into getting up and walking over to Touching You which reminded me of a scene in a european b-rated zombie flick, and then he announced that was just the way he begins the dick joke he was about to tell.

The show ran too long due to maybe a bit too much banter and a few sets running long and a lot of performers, but I think that everyone was pretty pleased with the show for the most part, and I'm thinking about making it a regular show somewhere.

Sunday we filmed "Dead Toddler Sluts on the Move" starring Johanna Buccola, Tonya O'Debra and Diane O'Debra. They looked great in diapers. Big Mike spit a green lunger on a sign and I almost vomited. I stopped into Lindsay Robertson's terrace party on the way back home, since she is a neighbor, and tasted some of the Sangria, which was so yummy.

That night, I had a show at Piano's. I was supposed to be performing with "The Whitest Kids You Know" but our messages got mixed and instead, I ended up performing after the entire audience was ushered out. We did have a small audience of about 20 people, half of whom were performers on the show, but none-the-less, the show was really superb. I hosted Hot Little Pieces of Ass who were great, Eurotrash who I always love, Touching You whose neurotic rant-rock is wholly entertaining, I did a set of songs, Chris Jurek told some jokes, Rick Shapiro whose brain I am truly in love with told some jokes, XAR! came and did a set, and I can't even put into words the joy it brought me - he was then joined on stage by Kavass on drums and Touching You on guitar; almost a reunion of the Tapedeck, but not quite. Haunted Pussy (myself and Mikie McQ) did a set which is rockin' opera with a back story that goes like this:


There was a young girl age 15 who lived on a vast estate in upstate NY with her filthy rich, self-indulgent parents who often would travel, leaving her alone with the servants and staff of the mansion. The maintenance men and other male employs would often rape her and mistreat her, knowing the parents didn't care about her and that they would suffer no repercussions for their misdeeds. One day, she met a ghost who said he promised to be her friend and help her. Then HE raped her. But he explained, he was impregnating her with a baby ghost, and if any of the men were to try to hurt her ever again, the baby pussy ghost would violate their dicks. So is the story of Haunted Pussy.

Now, imagine that in an opera, with rockin' guitar, outlandish outfits, lots of screaming and the sounds that you imagine a haunted pussy would make.

Finally, NARB did a set with the ridiculous antics of Nico, who is old and getting very moody. He spent most of our set complaining, refusing to take his place on stage, whining, yelling, and looking like an ass. I think at the end of the show, he quit the band or fired us all, or both.

After the show, we enjoyed free drinks thank you Pianos, and Touching You dropped a large heavy cymbal on his big toe, either breaking it or just really smashing the hell out of it. It turned blue/green and I didn't feel sorry for him because he was very drunk and had tried to catch it with his toe. What an idiot.

All in all, the weekend was tons of fun. I thank all of you who helped me to make this week so awesome, starting with my birthday and ending with the show at Piano's. It was too much excitement, really, but almost somehow, mysteriously, not enough.

Friday, June 11, 2004

by Jessica Delfino

Hey there. It's been a few days since my last blog entry...

There's a lot of shit going on in my life right now...

My birthday was a TON of fun...I had a great party on the roof of my boyfriend's apartment and it was terrific. A lot of people showed up, many who I didn't even know, quite honestly, and a lot of others who I hadn't personally invited but was really glad to see. I didn't want to invite a ton of people because it's a small space, but I assumed that my friends would know who they were and come to my party if they wanted to celebrate with me. I mentioned it at the Bowery Poetry Club on stage and hoped that the word would spread. I think about 60 people came, which was a good turn out for a Tuesday night, I suppose. Yuengling stopped by also and dropped off 5 free cases of beer, one of my favorite birthday presents.

Other gifts I received were THE hat I wore in my one woman show, "Subtle;Pussy" which I did at UCB last February. It was the beautiful red and black hat that was keeping me alive in the suicide monologue I did. The thing that is so special about that hat, is that the lady who gave it to me, Dana, proprietor of Cha Cha's House of Ill Repute, (her hat shop in the Lower East Side) MADE the hat by hand. Dana and her husband, Kevin have been good friends to me and I often perform at a small show they put together at their shop called Crabby Hour. Stop by and see Dana's hot, hot hats, if you're into hats. If you're not into hats, kindly go fuck yourself.

I also got a video camera from my friend David. It's kind of a funny story, but maybe not...I use the camera so much I have kept it at my apartment for the last six months. I guess he got sick of me just keeping it and said I might as well keep it. So, he wrapped a blank tape up and said, "I'm giving you my camera." Not a bad gift! Pretty awesome, actually. He also brought a huge pitcher of this insane punch to the party with tons of vodka in it, and midori, and pomegranate juice, and it was so rough I only drank two and did actually black out for the second half of my party. I wasn't feeling well anyway, and tried to drink my physical pain away. It worked.

I got a lovely book from my friend Stefonik and two books and some pot from my friend Joe. And all the gifts I received were so, so nice and thoughtful. But absolutely the best gifts I got of the evening were the shitty poems that everyone wrote to me. That was the kind of underlying theme of the party - everyone was supposed to write me a crappy poem addressing "Are you glad I was born?" or something like that. We set up a mic and Chris played mystical guitar while each person who wrote me a poem got up and read them out loud. Some people just gave me the poems because they didn't want to read them. Some of them were really beautiful, too good - others were mean, confusing and just plain shitty. Some were way too fucking long, but I loved every single one of them and put a few of them up below. I might even scan some in so as to embarrass those with shitty penmanship and bad spelling. There were so many, I don't think I'll put them all up, but if you don't see yours up, it doesn't mean I didn't truly love it, and make love to it.

After the party, I ended up puking, puking, and puking. It sucked, because my boyfriend was passed out and couldn't even hold my hair back for me. It was very sad. I also fell asleep with my forehead on the toilet seat for about two hours and when I woke up in the morning I had a huge bruise on my forehead. In addition, I scratched the FUCK out of my leg so badly and there is a huge bruise around the scratch. If anyone knows how I did that, please tell me. Finally, did anyone take any pictures at ALL? If you did, please email them to me. If I could do it all over again, I'd have changed a few things - I'd have video-taped the poetry readings and performances, and I would have asked someone to remove the cup from my hand and say to me, "I think you're drunk."

In the morning at around 8 am, Brode and I woke up early cause the alcohol wore off and snapped us both awake. Chris and I smoked some pot to try to subdue our hangovers and read the poems again, while cuddled up together in bed. It was very sweet. His poem and some others are missing. I will have to look in the garbage pails for them.

Thank you to everyone who I like who came to my party. It was a super fun blast and I'm glad you were there. To party crashers who I don't know or hate and mysterious unnamed teenagers who showed up uninvited, I hope I never hear of you having a party at your apartment because if I do, I'll be showing up to deliver a Maine Bathroom Sundae. That's when a person shits in your tub and sticks a fork in it. That's what we do to assholes who have parties in Maine. That's my plan, at least. But I can be a bit brash, and sometimes even outlandish. Maybe I'll be dead by the next time you have a party. So, I guess we'll all have to sit it out and see.

***NOTE: I'm not correcting any spelling errors or anything. Losers.

A Birthday Poem for Jessica Delfino:
Yogurt curved figure
Awake, and it is for naught

by Jeff and Kelly

***That one really was too good.

Bad Band Rehearsal
Inpure Thoughts
About Jessica Delfino
During bad Band Rehearsal
with touching you
Watching Me...

by Shawn

***I knew you were watching me, Shawn. You don't even try to pretend like you're not. Wanna fuck? Just kidding. But no, really. Wanna?

ONE MORE FOR NOW, and I'll put more up later:

Jesse Delfino
What do you meano
Tits and Sparklers
Tits and Sparklers
Tits and Sparklers
Leave me alone
Cunts and farts
Hold the mayo

by Warren

***This poem has it all - it's shitty, funny, and referential

END NOTE: My friend David's mp3 player reader man is a dick.

My friend David mentioned that on his text to speech program for his mp3 player (he listens to a lot of audio books and also puts my blog and other people's blogs on there so he can listen to them as he is walking to the store or what have you...they are read to him in a computerized male voice) the male actually says the word "BEEP" for the words fuck, shit, ass, asshole, cock, bitch, cum (but not spelled come) and even the word rape. He also mentions that listening to my blog, it says "BEEP" non-stop.

Also, come to see the show at PS122 on Sat night. It's at 10:30 pm, 1st ave and 9th St.
Jason Trachtenburg, Chelsea Peretti, Corn Mo, Touching You, Dan Fishback, more, more and more. See the calendar for more details. $7. We got a few nice write ups too, one in Time Out NY and one in The Onion. So come!!!

Wednesday, June 2, 2004

by Jessica Delfino

I opened the can of refried beans and dumped them into a microwave safe bowl. The pasty lump slid out like an old family pet. "Merry Christmas", I said, and threw the can, empty but for the remaining layer of sludge lining the insides, at the wall on the opposite side of the room. The can hit the wall and then bounced to the floor, giving off a joyous clank. I opened the drawer and pulled out a fork. None of my forks match. Most of them are stolen from various restaurants and the homes of people who've had me babysit or hosts of miscellaneous dinner parties - Drew, who was celebrating his engagement to his new fiance, Lydia; Spence who hired me to walk his dog three times a week; Jay who fucked me three times and then never called me again. But who had the last laugh, Jay? Fork you, asshole! I specifically dug out the fork I thought belonged to Jay at one time and mashed up the can shaped bean mold. I wondered if Mexicans found canned refried beans to be an insult to their nationality or whatever, the way many Italians find offense at Olive Garden calling itself an Italian restaurant?

Digger was on his way over and I was still a mess. I hadn't showered or cleaned my toilet. The ring around the white bowl would scream at me every time I walked into the bathroom, but I would get distracted by a pimple or an article in my May 1999 issue of Good Housekeeping, and before I knew it, the toilet would stay dirty. I glanced at the clock on the wall which said nothing. My clock doesn't talk. It was 7:16 in the pm, and the news was blaring from the tv in the other room. "Spring has sprung today in the village of Temperdan, and with us we have correspondent Jeff Jingerson, to tell us about the flowers in bloom! Jeff?" The newscaster lady had a sing-songy voice that reminded me I wanted to punch her. I'd just been thinking it, before, and then I forgot, but was made aware of the fact again.

I'd met Digger at the post office a few days before. He was in line, holding a big, big box that looked very heavy. Dirt was leaking out of the cracks and it was bowing in the bottom from the strain of whatever was inside. "Your box is leaking," I told him. "Yeah, I know," he said. "Let's hope the post man don't notice nothing," he added. "Yeah," I agreed. "All we can do is hope." I had a few letters to send out - a Memorial Day card for my brother in the war, a letter to a friend in Germany who technically wasn't even a friend, a subscription for Reader's Digest, check enclosed, and my entry for the Ladies Home Journal home-made cookie recipe contest. I normally put my letters in the mailbox and flipped up the red flag to let the carriers know - Warning! Mail in here!

The recipe was a special one. It was handed down to me by my grandmother's friend. Ether. Ether was one hell of a lady. She owned 17 guns from 14 countries, she spoke fluent french, spanish and pig latin, and she had mis-sized feet - one was a 6 and one was an 8 and 1/2. She'd gone most of her life switching shoes in the boxes before she purchased them, you know, at places you can do that like Madley's or J.B. Mutt's. She said, "If you ever tell anyone about this recipe, I will gladly murder you in your sleep." I knew she wasn't kidding. But she had gone to heaven, though I doubted that resolved the evil in her heart.

This is recipe, as she told it to me:

2 eggs, shells included, you slut
4 whole walnuts and a few almonds
a cup of baking soda, don't fuck with me!
a half cup of water, shut up.
a bag of chocolate chips
a teaspoon of salt
a pound of butter, melted, for the love of christ!
a cup and a half of sugar, don't you talk back to me!
three shots of whiskey, Jim Beam or Jack Daniels if you got it, and
a full six ounces of cocaine uncut, you god damn whore!

I doubted that the cookies would be very good. As a matter of fact, I begged my grandmother to let me not taste them. But the two of them held me down and smooshed cookie after cookie into my young face, laughing all the while. I realized they were kind of good.

When I saw the recipe contest in Ladies Home Journal, it spoke to me. It said, "Do you have a recipe that's been handed down to you from a higher generation? How do you feel about winning one million dollars? Send the recipe in and you could be a winner!" I've never known what it was like to be a winner, and was excited at the chance to try it on for size. So, I dug up the old recipe that I'd kept hidden in a journal, I typed it out on a piece of pretty rose flavored stationary, folded it up and put it in an envelope, addressed it, stamped it, and decided for good luck, I'd deliver it to the post office myself.