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.)
TIP FOR THE DAY:
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.