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, 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, 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

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