Monday, August 30, 2004

by Jessica Delfino

I went to a private screening of a documentary today produced by K Video, called "Giuliani Time". It was pretty damn interesting, pretty damn educational, and I learned more than I ever cared to learn about Mr. Rudy Giuliani, the (so-called) hero of the free-world.

As I sat in the very cold theater observing this documentary, the same thing kept coming to mind, and in general, when I think of politics and politicians, this is what comes to mind: I know nothing about politics. I am 28 years old and have never voted, not once, not even for the Last Comic Standing. I have a few ideas as to why this might be.

1. It could be because politics are considered to many, to be 'boring', and I believe that many of you share that point of view. Why is that? Why do so many people think that politics are boring? The truth is, politics are NOT boring. Politics are the most important aspect of our life, they affect EVERY SINGLE THING we do. Many people would rather be oblivious and live their lives unaffected by politics, or just ignore them, and that's truly impossible to do, even if you think it isn't. The main reason so many people think that politics are boring is because politicians (mostly male) TELL us that politics are boring and try to make them complicated and boring so that no one will want to pay attention to them so they can be free to do whatever they want to do.

2. Another reason is because every time I try to read the paper, listen to the news or watch the news on TV, I am bombarded with bullshit. I may be hyper-critical, and I generally give people the benefit of the doubt that they ARE lying to me. But there are other key factors involved in smelling bullshit. Body language is an important one, as is listening for misdirection or the insistence that an official doesn't have to explain his or her stance. (A perfect example is our President, Geo Bush, who was quoted in the paper yesterday as having said, "I don't have to explain what I do, that's one of the perks of the job I have." Perfectly put.

So, why would I want to get involved with an agenda that bores me and lies to me? The truth is, I don't. However, I do enjoy making art, and as the country tends more and more towards facism, I won't have a choice but to get involved. In the documentary, someone said, "You don't realize how changes in society affect you until it's at your front door." For example, the documentary covered the Soho Artists who were arrested for putting their art out on the sidewalks. I want to be able to put my art on the sidewalks. And why shouldn't I be able to? I own the sidewalks, to some extent. We all do. So, most people don't get involved with politics because they want to be oblivious and not be bothered. But it seems that I might have to get involved with politics so that I CAN be oblivious and not be bothered. Or so that you can continue to.

I really don't want to have anything to do with politics, truthfully, but the great Rev. Jen once said, "All art is inherently political," and I believe that to be true. So, I'm political, whether I want to be or not, as long as I'm making art.

Thursday, August 26, 2004

by Jessica Delfino

I'm so ashamed that I haven't written on my blog in over a week. I feel like I should be going to blog confession at some yuppie church that isn't really a church as much as it is a quasi-cool coffee house with some alternative music playing on the radio that I don't recognize. I should order a coffee, (decaf - I don't need drugs to be happy) with tofu milk in it and perhaps sign into a cyber station that is either directly connected to god or plugged into a mainframe liason who delivers confessions to god's inbox. Then, I should type my confessions into a blank word document, save them as a word file, upload them into the stratispere, and forgiveness will be delivered priority mail within 4-6 weeks (or longer in the event of a nuclear catastrophe).

My mom has invited me to write my own column in her paper, The Brooksville Belle, which is a really adorable little community newsletter based out of Brooksville, Florida. I dont' like Florida very much, actually, I quite hate it, and I think that the US Government and Florida have a plan that any ex-convict can get shipped down there and live, and the government gives them a break of some kind, like, they get free foodstamps for a few years, or they get to write a book of their memoirs to be published by Penguin Books (sold on E-Bay, too!) because that whole place is filled with pock-mark complected meat-hook handed men who look, talk and overall just seem like back-in-the-day criminals. So, my column that my mom is giving me is called "Coffee Talk" or something, and the paper comes out twice a month. I kind of don't like the name Coffee Talk, I feel like it's been used already for something, (can't quite place my finger on it, SNL, Dana Carvey) but it's my mom's paper and she cuts the checks, so she's the boss. Now, I know what you're thinking. Nepitism! Yes, it is, indeed. However, those of you who regularly read and like my blog do know that nepitism or not, if I'd written and sent writing samples to my moms, asking for my own column, even if she wasn't my mimmy, she might have given it to me.

(NOTE: I just called my mom "mimmy", and I have a hundred other names for her as well, such as Matilda, mimsy, as in - all mimsy were the borough groves, from Lewis Carrol's Jabberwocky, ma'am, mother, and just about everything else you can think of, except mom. Some psychiatrists or students of psychology might read something deeper into this, but I think it just stems from a very simple hatred of my mother. Just kidding, I do love my mom...., and I don't want her to read this and take my column away.)

So, I've been thinking and thinking, trying to come up with some ideas for this column she gave me, and I started writing a few stories, one stinker after another, and I just can't think of any damn thing to write. Then, I sit down in front of my blog and it just pours out. My writing this blog is like taking a humongous mental crap. It feels so good and I feel a little ashamed, which I probably should or shouldn't, depending on your interpretation of the bible, and it is pretty good for me, but it also kind of stinks.

I finally ended up writing some crap hole story about performance art, which was inspired by the olympics - some one jumped into the olympic pool wearing nothing but a tutu and polka dot tights, which made me do a little jumping myself - as in, to the conclusion that it must've been performance art, because only an artist would do that, I think, either that, or someone on a dare or on drugs (probably psychadelics, but like the new psychadelics that are coming out, the ones that make you actually able to fly and defy the laws of physics physically). I'm not too proud of the story, and I'm not going to put it on my site for you to read, because I don't think it'd caiter to this audience at all. The thing is, in Florida there is a different, slower kind of mentality. I thought it'd do them good to learn about performance art, as no one down there probably knows what it is. But I think it's important that they know that performance art is real and have some kind of explanation of what it is, because otherwise, they would just think that everyone who does public art is a crazy person who should be contained with crazy ropes and crazy pills in a crazy house. And that is just simply not the case, oh, Florida and Floridians who live there.

I need a computer so I can update my blog more often.

My friend is buying a four story brownstone in Manhattan and won't be living there for six months, so I'll be moving in and helping to clean the place up for when he is ready to move in. I am so excited I could shit and piss at the same time. It's on Thompson St. in the West Village. Can anyone say effin a?

Tonight I'll be at the Sidewalk Cafe (ave A & 7th) for Bad Teenage Moustache's CD release party. I'll be doing Dirty Folk Rock. Chelsea Peretti is also on the bill, as is Haunted Pussy and I think that Bad Teenage Moustache has some friends who are playing some music, also. The show is free, and here's a little secret: If you get there before 8 pm (the show starts at 8) you can get two for one drinks, so say, for example, two bloody mary's would only cost you $4!!! (Do what I do - get there at 7 pm and get as many drinks as you can in one hour. Then see if you can stand! It's good fun.)

If you are say, washing the dishes in your kitchen or about to swallow a paxil pill in the bathroom with a glass of water which you have taken from the sink, and you happen to glance out the window to see a large nuclear explosion, say, due north at the top of Central Park, note the following. Most of the deaths that occur from a nuclear explosion come from shards of broken glass flying through the sky and into your face and body, mascerating you into bits and pieces. So, if you see that blinding light, know you probably only have less than a minute before the sonic boom arrives at where you are standing, blowing the glass out of the window. Immediately upon seeing that light, DUCK AND COVER! I know it sounds funny, because that's what they used to tell people in the 50s, and now it seems like ridiculous advice, but it actually is perfect advice, and it is exactly what you should do. Try to get away from the window very quickly if you can, but you probably won't have time, so just curl up into a fetal position as close to the wall that the window is on as you can, cover your head and pull in into your knees, and wait for the deafening sounds of a million shards of glass shattering and raining around you like a beautiful death storm.

Until next time...., remember - it's nu-cle-ar. NU-CLE-AR.

Tuesday, August 17, 2004


I've seen some really cool haunted pussy tee shirts floating around the east village. Turns out a friend of mine named Mikie has been making them and selling them for $7. Not too shabby. The tee shirts are usually very cute, kind of sloppy in a spooky way and sexy. You can order your haunted pussy tee shirt at or at an HP show. All proceeds go to exorcising the demon from Bilge Baron's haunted pussy. (Bilge Baron one of the front-ghouls for histrionic fear-metal NYC-based band, Haunted Pussy.)

Speaking of Haunted Pussy, this Saturday night at MIDNIGHT (midnight between Saturday and Sunday) there will be a free concert in a cemetary in the lower east side at EAST RIVER PARK just south of Delancey St. (These are the directions I got: Take the F to Delancey and walk to the end of Delancey. At the end of Delancey, take a right and look for tombstones).

It should be hysterically scary, horrifically entertaining, and loads of freaky fun...

Monday, August 16, 2004


So, there was an audition today for a show at the Laugh Factory in NYC (sponsored by NBC) called "Stand Up for Diversity" (typically lame theme/title) and I went to the audition,, I'm a minority....right? I'm "Italian-American" and I'm also a woman! So, maybe I'm pushing it, but what if there was an opportunity and I slept through it? I'd feel too lazy and like I wasted a chance. Otherwise, what am I even doing in this city, paying exorbitant amounts of money for rent, food, and other guilty pleasures?

I get there and of course, I'm a millionth in line. I followed the line around the building and almost gave up when a friend said I could jump in with him. Though I know that's not fair, I did it anyway. That put me at #60-ish. (I've arrived at 2 am and waited in long, long audition open call lines before and had been jolted from my spot by late comers, so I justified it with that line of thinking.) However, when the line started moving, all chaos broke loose. It became every man/woman for himself and everyone was pushing and shoving, trying to get a number before they all disappeared. I got number 83, which actually might have been right-ish. I signed up and decided since I was in midtown at an ungodly morning hour (10 am!!!), I'd give Howard Stern a call and see if he wanted me to come on his show and sing some songs about my vagina.

I called up the show and they said it was probably too late, but invited me to stop by and drop off a CD. I was at 42nd St. anyway, so I walked over to the Howard Stern studio at W. 57th St. As I walked up to the building, this kid ran over to me all tired and junked out looking, and I thought he was going to ask me for a dollar or a hit of crack, both of which I had neither. But instead, he asked me if I would please, please, please!!! accompany him up to the Howard Stern show. Turns out, Howard made this poor kid a deal. He said, "If you can find a girl to come up to the show with you, we'll let you come up." So, he ran around since 6 am this morning looking for some girl to come up to the show with him, but no one would go! He said everyone said they had to work or they didn't want to be on the show or they hated Howard Stern. I said, "Let's go!" He couldn't believe it, he had been looking for hours and I so easily said I'd go up. (Isn't that weird? I was headed there anyway!)

So, we walked inside and the doorman called up to the studio, but he said it was too late and they couldn't come and get us. We sat outside for a little bit and I put a CD and press kit together to give to Ann Marie, and while we were sitting talking, Artie came out and I handed him my CD. I met Artie before but he didn't remember me and I didn't try to jostle his memory, because I decided it might be better to start from scratch, anyway. The kid who found me, his name was Justin Mellow. He was so psyched to meet Artie, I thought he was going to pass out. We chatted with Artie briefly, then he took off. A few minutes later, some other guy came down, I think his name was Casey? Or KC? He gave us each an autographed photo of Howard Stern and sent us packing. I said he should have us come up and give us a tour of the studio and a free soda or something, but he said nothin' doin'. The kid, Justin was so excited to even be there. He was a die-hard fan of Howard's and I thought it was kind of shitty that they didn't even let him go up after he spent 4 hours looking for a girl. Of course, I had wanted to get up there so I could shove my dirty folk rock down everyone's throat, but still, they didn't have to shaft the kid like that. I guess once you get rich and famous, you can shaft anyone you want. I can't fucking wait!!!! I have been assembling a long shaft list and I had it laminated so that it won't get ruined by the sweat and blood of my toil. Some day, I shall refer to that list with unrelenting venom and no pity!

Just kidding.

So, let's see if Howard Stern puts me on his show. He's all about anti-censorship, too, at least he talks like he is, so let's see if it's true. If he puts me on his show, he's definitely legit.

Thursday, August 12, 2004


I picked up a book at the library book sale today on my daily trek into the free internet workspace. It's called Nutty Knock Knocks! by Joseph Rosenbloom. Without even opening it, I knew it would be funny because the guy's name is Joseph Rosenbloom. (He's probably jewish and jewish = funny.) Looking through the book, however, proved to be something of a disappointment as cracked, cruddy gems like the following entered my eyesight:

Knock Knock.
Who's There?
Keefe who?
Keefe me one more chance!

I felt inspired to re-write this joke as follows:

Knock Knock.
Who's There?
Queef who?
My vagina just farted.

It's not only educational, but if kids think that farts are funny, wait 'til they discover queefs!

Here's another:

Knock knock.
Who's there?
Kumquat who?
Kumquat may, we'll always be buddies.

These are REAL JOKES from a REAL BOOK!!! More proof that I too, could and shall someday write a book.

Knock knock.
Who's there?
Kumquat who?
The Kumquat is one fruit I bet I could easily stick into my pussy.

See? It's easy to rewrite bad jokes into worse jokes that are at least educational to children. This joke will inspire children to spend quality time with their parents as they ask such questions as, "What is a kumquat?" and "Can I someday stick a kumquat into my pussy?"

Here's a true example of Mr. Rosenbloom's dangerous wit:

Knock knock.
Who's there?
Lester who?
Lester the Red Hot Mamas.

That one didn't even make sense. Does it? Or is the reference so obscure and deep that even I am lost on it?

Wednesday, August 11, 2004

and some things that happened over the past weekend


I went to Vermont this past weekend to attend and perform at an all night hippie dance birthday jam at a commune in a town called Quarry Hill. The town was surrounded by lush, green mountains in every direction and contained several Green Mountain marble quarries, hence the name Quarry Hill. The commune we stayed at was not at all what I was expecting. I was prepared to bunk in a large, dilapidated farmhouse with dusty shutters and overgrown trees along the front entrance, shading a plant-ornamented "No Trespassing" sign. I planned to party with several hippies who were purportedly friends of Wavy Gravy or Ken Kesey. But, no. Instead, I was treated to a lovey attic room in a cozy bungalow amidst a collection of lodges and nestled in the heart of a bouquet of mountains.

I took the trip up there to perform at the party, but instead, ended up dancing and overeating thanks to massive amounts of marijuana and alcohol consumption. (They forgot/sort of blew off having a show.) That's one thing I love so much about hippies. They just roll along through everything. "Should we have the show now? Dude, let's just smoke some more pot and we can think about it later." (Cut to: 7 am, fire is dying down, I'm asleep and dreaming of walking down the rickety stairs into the Icy-Heat (TM) colored water of the quarry...chip crumb children cling to the sides of the bowl where their parents had once lived...)

So, in closing, I didn't get to perform, but I did get to do these things:

- Go on a nature trail walk through the woods, carrying my guitar and playing it like a minstrel.
- "It", in an open field beside a pond with mountains in the background
- Explore a Green Mountain marble quarry, throwing rocks into it, marveling at the amazing sounds the well of the quarry created
- Stay at a lovely, hospitable hippie commune
- Write a song (which is sure to become a hit!) about how happy bears love to eat chubby hippies
- Get paid even though I didn't perform (nice!)

I stayed with my friend Vid, who was a more than amiable host, he was amicable, too, and his house was lovely. Accompanying me were friends Robert and Sarah, and my boyfriend, Christopher.


This is really sad: My bike got stolen on Thursday night outside of the Bowery Poetry Club, where I'd been in attendance of "Jolly Ship The Whiz-Bang: Tudley's Reef Variety Show".
I was treated to a special evening featuring the O'Debra Twins (who were shafted by always rotten traditional comedy club management that evening who bumped them from the show for not having 'brought' enough people, even though they said they were going to be able to perform) and Nick Jones daughter who played the violin, also, Haunted Pussy rocked it. I came out after a totally great evening and my bike was gone. I almost started crying until I remembered that the breaks were gone, the wires were frayed and rusty around the gear shifters which cut my hands almost daily, and the regulator (I think it's called) had been blocked broken with a rock by my boyfriend, who believes that regulators are trouble, rendering me stuck in one gear when riding - the hardest one. Good riddance, and I hope whoever stole it gets that disease you get when you touch rusty metal to your blood. Tetanis? Is that the one? If not, then, tetanus also.


I won the Songslam 8 last night at the Bowery Poetry Club. I was up against Touching You, Letitia Veloria, David Leopold and a few others whose names have fleeted from my brain. In the end, it came down to David Leopold and I, but I won. I was a bit surprised to have won, because David got really high marks all the way through and I thought that would have made him win in the end. I was awarded with guitar strings and a strong sense of pride that comes with the feeling of having beat out your lessers in society. I will be in the finals in December.


This was a particularly boring entry of Jessy Delfino's blog, I'd have to say. This reads like a community newspaper. Please print out this entry and line your cat's litter box with it in a show of disapproval of half-assed writing everywhere. But the truth is, I'm too overwhelmed by the trappings of being a lower class member of society to even be able to revel in the charm of my tragic life. I've got every kind of trouble you can imagine - boy troubles, computer troubles, family troubles, health problems, money problems, etc., etc. If a person is drowning in a pool of sorrows, how are they to choose but one sorrow to focus on, creatively? I could write a thousand sonnets about my broken laptop. I could produce a short film festival based solely on my money problems. I could make ten one woman shows starring my boy troubles. Used to be, when I had a problem, I'd take it to the blog and write it out. But what with having a broken computer and a half-hour time limit at the library, and a bible-thick stack of horrors in my life, how then, am I to focus on but one? I do know how much the world loves to read my graphic entries detailing all the specifics of my life's woes, but please understand. How can I love any one of my children better than the rest?

Thursday, August 5, 2004


I dreamed last night that New York City got nuked. It was terrifying and strange. I had my guitar with me, my purse and my bike, and I lost all three but found a replacement for each. I found a guitar that was better than my old one, a purse with more money in it than mine had, and instead of finding a bike, I found a flying rat man (with wings) who agreed to fly me wherever I needed to go for $2. Even in my dream, I found that to be really weird. I'd needed to get from up, up in Harlem to the Upper East Side (to my old studio apartment where I still lived in my dream) and I had lost my bike. So, I looked around thinking, "How am I gonna get from here to there right now?", cause New York was shaken up and I knew if I didn't go back to my apartment then, I'd never get to go there again, and I really wanted to get a few things that were important to me. But there was a rat man right there, waiting for me, almost. What are the chances? He had huge white wings and a kind of pointy, menacing nose, and long, grey hair, stringy, and he was kind of slovenly-looking, but not in a way that was troublesome to me. I wasn't afraid of him.

My side project band wrote a song recently called "Spread Eagle." Here are the words:

OooooooooOOO! Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Isn't it beautiful?

Tuesday, August 3, 2004


I've been dating my beau for 11 months, but if you're one of those people who prefer to measure in babies, according to my math, that's one newborn and an eight-week-old fetus.

The other day, I woke up at 7:51 am. The alarm was set for 8, but I woke up early because my boyfriend was raping me in my sleep. It was weird too, because I'd been having a dream that I was in a loving, respectful relationship.

I purchased stamps today, they cost $6.66. I can finally stop blaming the government for the shitty service at the post office. (sidenote: I bet less postal workers would kill themselves if satan just told them to stop.)