Thursday, September 23, 2004

How I Learned About God
by Jessica Delfino

When I was in third grade, there was a girl named Mei-Ning. She was the smart asian chick in the class, with long, cornsilk black hair but oddly, big, puffy lips. She played the piano, and was athetic and pretty. Somehow, we became friends. It was fun being friends with Mei, because she had a big house with a huge yard, and lots of siblings so her house was always very fun and full of life. One day, Mei asked me if I wanted to go to church with her and her family. I didn't really know what church was, but I said, "OK" because it sounded wierd. I began going to church with her family regularly every Sunday. They would pick me up at 9 am on Sunday morning in the mini-van full of sparkling clean asian-german kids, the asian mom in the front seat, the german dad driving. Sometimes Mei and I would hang out in the kids part of church, playing with clay while singing God songs, other times we would sit in the pews and listen to the sermon. Afterwards, Mei's dad would take us all swimming in the big community pool at the YMCA - the only one for miles and miles - in Boothbay, about a 45 minute drive away from Damariscotta.

I remember going with them to church for a while, though it was probably only two weeks or something in real life. But one night, they invited me to special church. It was church that took place in the evening. I think it was a Saturday night. We got there at 8 pm and were treated to a God play, the story of David and Goliath. The play reenacted the famous scene from the bible, and at the pinnacle of the play, before the punchline was delivered, the preacher came out and told everyone in the audience that before we saw the end of the play, we had to make a decision - would we accept Jesus Christ as our lord and savior or not? Mei's dad turned to me and said, "So, Jessica? Are you willing to take Jesus Christ as your personal savior?" It seemed like a no-brainer. "Sure, yeah, of course." I said. Then, we got to see the end of the play where David kicked Goliath's ass or whatever.

Over the course of several weeks of churchery, I began to think about my family and their relation to God. I thought about my sisters and how we fought a lot. I thought about my mother swearing and my father smoking cigarettes and drinking beer. I began to get very scared that my entire family was going to the devil. I'd pray a lot and ask God to forgive my evil, terrible family. I tried to tell my sisters that they better not be mean to me or eachother or else we'd all burn in hell. I begged my mom not to swear to help save her from the fiery pits of satan's living room. I began to steal my father's cigarettes and throw them away, citing that if he kept poisoning his temple that God was going to feed him to demons. My mom eventually came to me and said that if I didn't cool it with the God talk that she was going to keep me from going to church with Mei anymore.

I can't remember what happened next - I think at that point I was nearing sixth grade and my period began to distract me from hanging out with God anymore. Mei and I eventually stopped hanging out, maybe it was because I told God to beat it. Mei always kept her first place in everything way about her all through out the rest of grammar and high school, and graduated valedictorian. I am handing out flyers on the street in front of Dr. Rosenthal's office. Maybe I should have kept in touch with God? Or at least his son, Jesus. But that's the way things have always been for me. I always route for the loser, who, I guess in this case, would be Satan. I guess I like bad boys or whatever.

Friday, September 17, 2004


I had planned to take a two week road trip in October, which I mentioned a few entries ago. Well, check out this kind of amazing luck: I'd placed an ad on Craigslist that said if anyone needed a car driven to Florida, I'd do it. What do you know, the next day, a lady emailed me and said she needed her car driven down to Florida. She said she'd pay all tolls and gas, plus give me $250 upon delivery. Awesome, huh!?!? I talked to her a few days ago to confirm some details and everything was a go. She was about to leave town for three days and said we'd settle everything when she got back. So, she called me two days ago and said this: Her grandson had stolen her car while she was out of town and totalled it. He was in jail and her car was destroyed.

NOW if that's not a healthy heap of fuck you from the universe, I don't know what is. I must either be a terrible person or have excellent bad luck.

But on what I think is a lighter, happier note, (but it could equate to commercial sell-out - so the nature of the note might be up to interpretation depending on your particular set of values) I went on my first commercial audition the other day. It was an audition for a Ben & Jerry's commercial. I'd performed on a show at the Village Lantern on Monday, and had had a pretty good set, but nothing spectacular. The next day, I got a call from my friend John who'd booked the show. He said a casting director had been in the audience and thought I might be good for the commercial, and asked me if I wanted to audition. I thought about it such a nominal amount before answering yes, my thoughts actually travelled back in time. They emailed me the sides and I did my best to memorize them. The audition was the next morning at 11 am. When I got there, I recognized every single person at the audition. There were a few people from UCB there including my old improv teacher, Liam McEneaney was there, Mike Dobbins, and a guy Dan I knew. I got to hear every one of them audition, because it was one of those fancy Soho loft offices where the "walls" are actually pastel-colored frosted sheets of plexiglas that hang from hooks in the wall and don't actually touch the floor and really barely can technically be called a "wall". It was neat to hear what they all did. Everyone's audition was pretty good, it was fun to hear each comedians interpretation of the characters in the script, because I knew all of them and had seen them perform on stage, so I got to hear their stage personnas twisted up a bit and used in another scenario. They asked me to bring my guitar and sing a few songs while I was there, which was fun, but it's always awkward to perform for four people, especially when one of them is a casting director, one of them is a camera man, and two of them are script writers, and you're auditioning for something that for all intents and purposed could change your life, even if only a tiny bit.

I handed out flyers today in front of Dr. Rosenthal's office. It wasn't very much fun. I thought it was going to rain, but it didn't. I thought I'd at least get to see hot Dr. Apa, but I didn't. I hoped someone I knew and liked might walk by, but no one did. I tried to get a friend to come up and visit me, but she simply laughed harshly in my ear and called me insane. While I'm handing out flyers, I sometimes have to pee. When that happens, I usually go to the restroom in the hotel across the street. It's a very fancy hotel reserved mostly for white people, unless you're a celebrity, and then it doesn't matter, because the international color that people from all walks of life can get behind and befriend is the color green. When I walk in, I always feel like a junkie or a homeless person who knows a secret, and that secret is that most hotels don't bug you if you try to use the bathroom, even if you don't ask permission, and even if you aren't staying there. I guess it's not so much a secret, but I think it just isn't a high profile thought. Living in NY, though, where there are quite few public restrooms and the few that do exist are generally very dirty and smell like pee pee and hard times, it eventually becomes common knowledge that if you want to use a shitter, you can usually duck into a hotel or a Starbucks without having to buy anything, and they'll gratefully accept your deposit. Most hotel bathrooms and Starbucks toilets are cleaner than any public toilets or port a potties, but the bathroom at the fancy hotel across the street is a pristine example of what all other human waste receptacles wish they could be like. They have those fancy rich people toilets that are low to the ground (I guess so it's more like you're sitting in a recliner or a cozy chair, and not so much like you're sitting on a toilet, because I bet if you're rich, the last thing you want to be reminded of is that you have a dirty, dirty anus and vagina and that poop and pee come out of there). The toilet paper is very special quilted toilet paper, so fine and fluffy, it's as if while you wipe, you are dabbing at the tears of your clitoris. The toilet flush is silent, so as not to disturb your cellphone conversation or tip your phone caller off that you're on the john. The decor itself is lovely, it's like the bedroom of a seventeen year old rich girl, without the N'Sync posters or whatever kind of posters 16 year old girls hang on their walls now. But here's the best part. When you go to wash your hands, there's really nice fancy liquid soap in a bottle, and then next to it, there's this lovely lotion that you apply to your hands after you wash. Instead of using shitty brown paper towels like every one else uses, they use these really thick, fancy cloths that are like towels. They are like blankets for tiny midgets. They are so fat and padded, that if the rich ladies wanted to, they could have their dog nannies use them as diapers for the tiny dogs they all have.

Why do so many rich white ladies and now hot yuppie chicks also all have tiny dogs? Do tiny dogs say wealth? Is it a trend? Was there an explosion of the tiny dog population within the last three years? I'm not anti dogs, and I'm not anti tiny dogs, I even prefer the idea of miniature dogs to enormous dogs, but I'd like to see rich white ladies and hot yuppie chicks have a pet that isn't so adored by the masses, like a pet snake or tiger. Rich people can afford to be wierd, so why aren't more rich people wierder?

I'm performing tonight at The Lion's Den at 9-ish, which is on Sullivan St. between Bleecker and W. 3rd. (The show starts at 8). I'll be giving a free CD away to the audience with rare tracks on it that aren't on Dirty Folk Rock. Not like YOU care, but maybe that guy over there does.

Wednesday, September 15, 2004


...but for some reason that seems to be the way things have been going. I've been running around a lot and showering and being fashionable have unfortunately taken the back burner. I do shower almost every day, but sometimes not until very late, or sometimes I shower one day on another day. For example, I haven't showered yet for yesterday, I'll get to it today, but I still mentally consider it showering for yesterday. Got me?

The sky is black blue right now. It's always feels so spooky to me when the sky gets like that. Like any minute, a bunch of evil horses are going to come riding out of the sky and destroy the world. But you know the world isn't going to end in a way that is fun or exciting like that. Brimstone raining down from the skies? Yeah, right. Only in my horniest fantasies. What's probably going to happen is something totally lame, like the equivalent to not returning your library books on time. God will forget to renew the lease or something, and then, whammo! A comet the size of the universe will knock us all into Alpha Centauri. I don't think there's air over there, in Alpha Centauri.

I talk about God a lot in my blog, mostly whenever I am writing something about nature or the planet, but the truth is, I don't actually believe in God. I believe in lightning. I think I've talked about this before, but I'm not sure. Lightning, I believe, is the energy which once fueled the souls of the now dearly departed. When people get struck by lightning, I believe that is a bad batch of souls who are jealous of the living. Of course this is mostly made up, but I think there might be a shred of truth to it. Not that evil lightning beats people up, but that the energy from our bodies is dispersed upward and outward, because it's lighter than air, and gets turned into electricity.


I have to be honest, I am feeling kind of shitty right now. All this stuff with my sister has brought me down. I talked to my mother yesterday and she told me not to write anything about Abby or my family anymore, and Abby said she was never talking to me or reading my blog again, and that's irritating enough, but I'd specifically like to address anyone with a woe is me comment, sisters and otherwise.

I've never been a carefree person. I'm a thinker; a sensitive person who spends time considering things. So, if you find this blog to be bothersome, boring, or annoying CURRENTLY, you must never have really liked what I've written on here IN THE PAST, because not too much in my life has changed, and I've always been into complaining, whether life is going good or not. Read my blog and enjoy it, or don't read it. It's a very easy scenario. It's like watching TV. Parents complain that their kids can watch bad tv shows. Parents complain that kids can be manipulated by what they hear on the radio. People complain that they don't want to see certain things. Well, here's a simple solution - change the channel. Turn off the radio. Read someone else's blog. This blog was never for anyone but me. The original reason I wrote this blog was because I wanted to get into the habit of writing every day. I wanted to use this as a tablet for me to take daily mental writing craps. And I must admit, I've been pretty poor about writing daily, as I'd originally set out to do, but I have maintained a regular writing schedule - at least once a week, usually more. I've managed to attract several thousands of readers over the past two years and have been linked to by hundreds of sites. There's a reason why that is - it's because some people somewhere want to read what I have to write. I can assure you that what I have to write isn't life altering. It isn't fascinating. It's hardly even interesting. I'm not here to wow you with my amazing life or charm you with my delightful tales. I'm here to hone my writing skills, to get some shit off my chest, and to hopefully amuse you to some extent. If you are reading this now and have been brought up from utterly bored to only somewhat mostly bored, I consider this entry a complete success. On the flip side, if you are reading this now and have been brought down from utterly bored to horrifiedly disappointed or completely and terrifically bored, I again, consider this entry a complete success.

In the future, I might specify a segment just for my woes. I have to use this space to complain. Therapy is too expensive.

Thank you for reading, and thank you for not reading.

Tuesday, September 14, 2004

by Mabel Happenstance

When I come home, the first thing I like to do is make a sandwich. This is how I make a sandwich:

I take two pieces of whole wheat bread, not generally white bread (I'm prejudice against certain kinds of bread) and two pieces of pepper jack cheese (sometimes I use cheddar cheese in those wrappers because it is fun to open the cheese in one swift whoosh of plastic wrap inertia, but other times I just love pepper jack cheese) and then I put the cheese on the bread, one slice overlapping the other, and then I squirt mustard on it. I use the store brand mustard, because you can buy it in an enormous tube (painted yellow so you know it's mustard) and then you can squirt it onto your bread using that very handy nozzle that is so accurate, you could write your name on the bread in mustard (and I often do). After it's all put together, I eat it in a very specific way. I take the bread and I lift it up to my mouth area on my face region. I then slip any corner of the bread (there are four) into my mouth and bite! I chomp with a ferociousness and a voracity that is unmatched by sharks or tigers. I clamp my teeth into the soft, spongy bready goodness and pull back, ripping a bleeding mustard slathered hole into the once whole concoction. Then, I chew and chomp with my mouth closed so my husband doesn't punch me. I chew and I chew, and while I chew, I think about everything that is wrong in the world - I think about how batteries die (that's just a way for the government to totally scam you!) and I think about how clouds move too fast so that if you see a pretty image in the clouds, by the time you tap your friend on the shoulder to show it to her, the cloud is gone, making you look like you're the insane one. (That, too, is a conspiracy). I think about park benches, and how birds shit on them. (It's not fair to the benches or the shit). By the time I'm done thinking of all the world's sorrows, my sandwich is finished and it is time for me to pair socks.

I start pairing socks with one thing and one thing in mind: socks of one will become two. It's not hard to pair socks, if you have the right tools and the imagination to boot! What I do is put on one of my favorite sock pairing CD mixes, like the one that is an Aerosmith and They Might Be Giants parfait. It's all like, I'm back in the saddle again! Ana Ng and I are gettin' old... I was crying when I met you.... Particle man! Particle man! It gets my blood flowing and really puts me in the mood to make my socks make sweet love. I then hold the socks up to eachother. If they are right for eachother, the static makes them move closer together, where they will kiss. If they aren't right for eachother, the static makes one sock punch the other out. I then pick up the one sad, bloodied sock and clean it up before the cops get there.

After all the socks are either paired or bloodied, I put them in a drawer, side by side, like the way people park cars in a junkyard. Then, I pray that god forgives me for siding with the bad socks sometimes. It's just that I always love bad boys, you know? That's what I call the punching socks. It's not easy to find punching socks in America. Sometimes you have to go to South America and smuggle them in through your stomach. It's illegal to have them here, but if you keep them in your room, no one will know. Just hide them next to the place you keep your cocaine and prostitutes.


Mama, sissa, men in charge,
I know you think I'm crazy
And maybe you're correct, y'all
I shoulda joined the Navy
then I would be all programmed right
and wouldn't be unruly
Cause lately I've been making art
and all anti-authority
I wish that I could join the team
that makes the world go round and round
It seems like such a close knit group
in mediocre boring town
I'd like to help the rich get richer
if not for my self-righteous goals
I guess that makes me more selfisher
than the ones who fill the holes
One day far from now, I'm sure
I'll look back down on all of this
and I will say, I wasted life!
I should have worked, not been jobless
I shouldn't have spent clear days out
in nature, kissing, smelling grass
I should have been behind a desk
inside gray walls, completing tasks
I wish I'd done more paperwork
for men with names I do not know
instead I wasted life on art
when I could have helped some dude's business grow

Monday, September 13, 2004

At the library this morning, I was perusing an issue of Mad Magazine that was lying transiently on the table and I came across a story called The 50 Worst Things About Comedy or something like that. #1 was Mad Magazine, which I guess was meant to be ironic, and might have been, if not for the complete and total void of irony. #5 or 6 was some half-hearted dis of Tough Crowd, citing D-list comedians and how they aren't funny. Alongside the quip was a characature drawing of Jim Norton and some token black guy that looked like a cross between Patrice O'Neal and Keith Robinson. Jim, Patrice and Keith are three of the funniest people I've ever come across, in addition to being totally loud and obnoxious. Their worst jokes take a hard shit on the funniest piece Mad ever wrote.

I was invited to submit to Mad a few years ago and I never did, because I didn't want to have to censor the funny out of anything I submitted, which seems like a prerequisite for anything they print. I've seen one or two things over the past, oh, say 15 years that made me crack a smirk, but even at age 12 I knew the magazine was for gay dorks and jewish kids at camp.

Take that, Mad!

On my comment board yesterday, someone named Jess W. commented that "Maybe my sister would think differently if she saw CXB's giant penis." In addition to being a dumb comment because a) CXB's penis is not giant, b) why would my sister care about that? and c) How would Jess W know about my boyfriend's penis? Well, the comment rubbed me the wrong way, because I couldn't figure out why someone would write that unless they were totally joking, or did know about the size of my bf's dick. I did some thinking, and realized she WOULD know, because she is Chris's ex-flavor of the month, who was known around these parts as Hot Nerd, until she moved to New Hampshire or somewhere to have a baby. (By the way, I saw several photos of her, and I think they should have called her "just okay looking nerd", but I'm sure any guy would disagree because men like all chicks.) So, this is an open letter to all of Christopher's ex-things. (There are many of them.)

Dear Christopher's ex-whatever you are:

I don't like you. Probably the most poignant reason that I don't like you is because Chris tortured me with photos and stories of you for months. I know every detail of your relationship with Chris, I know what it was like the first time you had sex, I know things you used to do and say to him. I've seen pictures of you, some naked, and you're not as hot as me. I don't care if you come and visit my website and read my stories and even comment on the boards. I am guessing you are probably only here to revisit the old days to some extent (lame), to find out what your loveable old ex is up to (vicariously through me), and to try to compare yourself to me to see who's better (I am) . If you'd like to read the site and post comments, that is fine, but please keep in mind: I don't like you. Even though I don't like you, I admire the fact that you find my blog interesting or useful, for whatever reason. That, to me, is a sign that you probably aren't a complete and total shithead, though you are probably still somewhat mostly a shithead. Please feel free to come back and visit, read the stories, and comment when you feel it is appropriate. However, I'd really appreciate it if you don't post comments regarding elements of your or my relationship with Chris, for example, where you'd fancy we might share a laugh about the size of my bf's dick. The only thing we have in common is his dick, and that's where it ends. I don't want to be your friend and I don't think you are witty. Stay out of my relationship with Chris. If you want to write stuff about Chris's dick, I recommend you start your own blog. Otherwise, I'm going to attack you verbally and harshly, for all the world to read.


END NOTE: I know several of Chris's ex things and ex girlfriends, and several of them I find to be very delightful. For example, I love Claudia, Reverend Jen, I like Simone alright, I think Marianne is interesting even though I'm certain she's probably mostly insane, I like a few select others also. So, this isn't about me being super jealous or anything like that. It's more about couth and manners. I think the entire world has extremely bad manners, and Jess W's comment was a good example of bad manners. If you want to talk to me about Chris, why not start by trying to make a connection with me? I talk openly with Rev Jen and Claudia and others about their old relationships with Chris, and I find it to be interesting and insightful, usually, not hurtful or bothersome. The reason why is because they are my friends and they care about me. We've come to develop our own relationships.

So, world, get some manners. And if you're an ex of Chris, leave me alone.

Sunday, September 12, 2004

by Jessica Delfino

Last night, I went to see Jennifer Blowdryer's play, "White Trash Debutante" at the Bowery Poetry Club. I thought it was written quite well, it was funny, touching, dark and the live band was awesome. Jennifer Blowdryer is one of my favorite "get up and read shit" writers who performs at Show N Tell. I also really like Rev Jen reading her stuff. Tom Nevin still wins first place as my favorite writer though, for having penned the best birthday poem I ever received.

After the play there was an afterparty. Andrew Katz, Milton Katz, Touching You, Haunted Pussy, Diane Langan and others performed. It was really terrific. Diane's rich girl jokes were absolutely hysterical and Milton's set was a work of disturbed genius. Touching You's sets are always loveable and terrific, I just adore him. Andrew, again, A+.

Today, I didn't get much done. I just read my comments boards from the last entry and was disturbed on several levels. I wrote a comment back to every single person who wrote. So, go see what I wrote to YOU if you wrote a comment in the last entry.

Tomorrow, Monday, I'm performing at The Village Lantern at 8 pm and again at the Frying Pan at 9:45. Haunted Pussy plays at 11 pm at the Frying Pan. Afterwards, I'll go patronize Show N Tell, my favorite weekly show in NYC. If you're a performer who doesn't suck, go to Show N Tell and perform. It's always packed, it's $3, and it's fun as hell. If you do suck, go and watch people who don't (alongside people who do.)

This was really more journal entry than blog masterpiece. But, they can't all be blindingly awesome, now can they? I guess they can, but just not the ones I do.

TIP OF THE DAY: If you have an illness or a mental problem, take a multi-vitamin and pray, but not to God, because he doesn't exist.

TIP OF THE DAY #2: Whenever you are feeling sad, make sure to look in a mirror (one that has no cracks, also Windex it first, and don't use the bathroom mirror because there's a chance that someone could have just done a turd and it could be very smelly in there, this is supposed to be a serene experience, dammit) and say: "I'm feeling sad because I am a terrible, miserable person." If you don't start to feel better immediately, you probably truly are a terrible, miserable person.

Thursday, September 9, 2004

PREGNANT is to HIGH, as MISCARRIAGE is to ____________?
by Jessica Delfino

Last night, friends Chelsea and David joined me for dinner at a japanese joint on St. Mark's Place that serves discount sushi. It makes me feel nervous to see half-priced sushi anywhere, because it indicates to me that the fish might try to murder me from the insides out with poisonous old fish magic. I usually don't eat fish because I am a vegetarian, but I was raised on fish (my dad sold seafood for a living) and it is an important source of nutrition for females, especially females who do not eat meat. I mostly ate seaweed salad and drank sake, my favorite hot booze.

After dinner, which David treated Chelsea and I to (thank you, David) Chelsea and I parted from David and headed towards the L train to go to Williamsburg for Todd Montessi's new show at Pete's Candy Store. I like Todd Montessi a lot, even though he is black. On the way there, this very skinny red-haired woman started kind of freaking out on the sidewalk, screaming and moaning and writhing in what appeared to be pain. Chelsea and I watched her for a moment, then I realized she was neither doing street performance art, nor just crazy. She was going into labor. She lifted up her shirt and exposed her humongous belly at us. I half expected a baby to leap out of her flesh, alien style, that's how fat she was in the stomach. Yet, her legs and arms were bones, bones, bones, and a bit of flesh. I seemed to be the only person around who was willing to help her, Chelsea was a bit frozen with shock or surprise or repulsion, so I ushered her to sit down. She sat, but mostly rolled around screaming on the sidewalk. She was unconsoleable and kept trying to stand up, but she seemed to be in too much pain to do much of anything besides wail. That's why doctors get paid so much - because pregnant women are cunts.

I called 911, and they are completely useless in every emergency I've ever had. The lady asked me 15 times where I was, and after I'd already told her 14 times, I realized she'd be of no help, so I just hung up on her. I hailed a taxi cab and asked the driver to take her to the hospital. He non-chalantly told me to call an ambulance. I tried to flag a police car that drove by, but neither of the two cops in the car saw me or the other seven people waving furiously at them. They must have been having a really in-depth conversation or singing a really good song on the radio. Maybe cleaning their weapons. Finally, an ambulance moseyed along. I had to literally leap in front of the ambulance to get them to stop. They seemed mad that I made them stop, because they were probably on their way to get some KFC or Wendy's or something. The girl had a friend with her who was covered in tattoos and appeared to be pretty high. I asked if she could help her from there and she answered me in half-english, half-a made up language that I used to speak, too, when I took a lot of acid.

As Chelsea and I walked away, quite shaken from the experience, we agreed that the pregnant lady seemed to be really fucked up on something and was maybe having a miscarriage. I wanted to call the hospital to find out, but we were on our way to a show!

I wonder what she was on, or if she was on anything at all. I know that pregnancy is painful, and I imagine that miscarrying is even more painful, but I've seen my mother in labor several times, and this lady was OUT of it.

At the show, Chelsea had a nice little set. She's so funny I fucking can't stand her!

SO, this is what is going on in my life right now, and these are the people who I am pissed at.

I am really pissed at my sister Abby because she keeps writing retarded and obnoxious comments on my message boards. I get enough assholes who write stupid comments, and I wish one of those assholes was not my sister. What a dick! She told me the other day that she thought I could do better and not write what she called, "pussy rock." But when Liz Phair wrote pussy rock, it was inspirational.

I am also really pissed at Jeff Singer, booker of Luna Lounge's Eating It. He e-mailed me today asking me if I got his e-mail he sent three weeks ago, which I had not, so I called him and we talked for awhile. I sent him a tape last season to perform at Eating It, and he said maybe this season he'd book me. He did book me last season for the 50 in 50 show, but he said that he wasn't going to book me on Eating It this season to do a full set because my style isn't right for Eating It, not to say that maybe it will be good for something else, and not to say that he doesn't like me, and he thinks that what I do is interesting and creative, it's just that most of my stuff is very easy, mostly just jokes about sexual stuff.

I started to feel upset at him for a moment, because I feel that if someone doesn't like me and the art I make, then that someone is probably an idiot. Then I realized that simply put, he's not into it, it being what I do. (He thinks I just make pussy jokes! Anyone who thinks my songs and jokes are merely pussy jokes is what is known in my brain as an IGNORANT ANUS.) But a lot of people DO get me, and those people are intelligent, open-minded and usually good at math. We chatted for a bit and found out we have some things in common, like he's from Canada, and I got banned from Canada on an international drug smuggling charge (my friend brought a joint on our journey into Canada to get a case of Molson XXX, extra strong beer they don't sell in the US. Jeff even said "aboot". I swear he did, and I called him on it, but he denied it.) We also both like Genesis and went to see the Musical Box tribute show (our seats were one row apart in front of eachother. Creepy.) We both like Reverend Jen and Rick Shapiro, (he said that I'm like them - alternative! Also, that Eating It is no longer an alternative room.) And we talked a little about where he sees me performing if not at Eating It. He didn't exactly answer, but I think that the answer is probably anywhere but Eating It.

I think the main reason a lot of people opt into show business is so that they can buy all the people that they hate, and I am no different. It's just that I'm going to have to buy the whole world.

More people I'm pissed at: Anyone who calls me crazy. To call someone crazy is easy. Think it through, and let me know what your exact beef is with me. What is it about me that you don't like, or that you fear or envy? To call someone crazy is very lazy. Use your brains and plot it out.
What don't you like about me? Why don't you like me? Specify. "You are crazy!" says to me, "I trouble speak! I neanderthal! Me think you crazy. Me eat beef! Me kill rabbit!"

My uncle and aunt had a baby the other day. Congrats on the baby, dudes. I want to go see it. To be honest, I'm kind of afraid of babies. I fear babies in the way that men fear monogamy. But my uncle is pretty cool, he's very smart and my aunt is very sweet and nice, so their baby is probably pretty dope. I bet it can already dress itself and play chess and cook. There are pictures of the baby online on the Rizzo family website. I tried to find the site and I couldn't, but I'll put the link up when I do find it. So, I have a new cousin now. If it weren't for babies, the world would end. So, remember that.

Wednesday, September 8, 2004

by Jessica Delfino

On Monday, (Labor Day) I was kidnapped on a boat. Chris said we were going to take a ride on his friend Harry's boat, which we did, and it was truly amazing. The water was a bit rough and I was sort of scared, because Harry drives that boat like it's indestructable, and says scary things like, "This boat will never tip! The hull is hard as a rock!" You know, things that would totally temp fate to fuck our asses up. We were supposed to be back by 7 pm, but at 6:30, we were just off the coast of Connecticut. The sun started setting and we were sitting at a shoreside restaurant somewhere far away. I began to realize that I was probably not going to be home by 7 pm for the songslam that I was going to accompany Chris to. Chris seemed pretty drunk and not to upset about missing it, so I decided I didn't mind, either. But when Harry asked me if I was up for taking the boat all the way around Long Island and back to his house, I realized that it didn't matter if my answer was yes or no, the answer would be yes in his head, and I was about to be kidnapped on a boat.

We rode in almost complete darkness out along some coast with Bridgeport, CT. straight ahead in the distance. It was very choppy and I was pretty scared. I kept seeing the boat smash into a buoy or a rock in my mind's eye and hoped that we wouldn't be too far from shore for me to swim. We rode for a few hours until it became pitch black. The moon was hiding and we were relying completely on sonar or whatever to find buoys and other boat destroyers. We eventually made it into Port Jefferson at 10 pm. The library is now closing. I'll finish the story later.

Sunday, September 5, 2004

SUNDAY is supposed to be a day of rest
by Jessica Delfino


I am leaving here on or around October 15th to head up to Massachusetts to pick up a car in Boston, then drive it down to Tampa, Florida where it's owner is going to meet me and pay me, provided I deliver the car in one solid running piece. I will be stopping in some cities along the way to perform, meet some people, peddle my CDs and other wares, and perhaps even sleep over at your house. (Maybe eat some snacks, too, and shower in the morning.) So, if you happen to live in or near one of these cities:


or any other place in between basically Boston and Tampa, and you know of a cool show, bizarre event, or music or comedy festival of some kind, or have a tip where I could find some information, even if you could just suggest a neat venue that I could perform at, please e-mail me and let me know about it, and I'll look into adding it to my growing collection of pit stops. If you're interested in coming to see a show, check back here around the beginning of October and I'll have added a link with details about where you can find this roving folk rockstress.


At Bowery Poetry Club, tomorrow, Monday night, there is a songslam at 7:00 pm. I won the last one (#8) but I'm going to go and cheer on Touching You, who will be in this one. On Dec.14th, there will be a big songslam off. The show tomorrow night is free, and if you want to, you can be a judge. They give you cards with the numbers on them like it's the olympics. You can give people like, 4.6's or 8.2's or whatever they deserve according to you. It's like you're god.


The Madagascar Institute is a group of multi-talented plurally-faceted artists who can build, weld, construct, sew, and do just about anything else it seems. They have these neat parties where they build their own rides and toys and games and you can come in and see what they do with their free time. They had a party last night in Carrol Gardens. They sold cheap, strong booze for $2 a cup, we played BINGO which was so fun, I almost could see why old people love it so much, they gave out free heaping bowls of spaghetti with marinara sauce (delish!) and they had a little confessions booth where you could write your confessions in a book. The funnest event of the evening was the talent competition. A girl got up and did a cheer, cheerleader style, another girl named every article or preposition or some other kind of special group of words in record speed, some guy did some math calculations, Touching You sang "When A Widow Gets Fucked," his song about how the whole town rejoices when a widow finally goes back to her regular life and quits mourning. I told three dirty jokes. I was actually pretty surprised to win, but I did win. My prize was an AWESOME hat that Jason had made, a ski mask with a skeleton face sewed onto the outside of it. It was very crafty, and it inspired me to want to start sewing more stuff. Interesting side note: I told the emcee to tell people to come see Haunted Pussy next Saturday night at the Bowery Poetry Club (10 pm) and a bunch of the people there were familiar with Haunted Pussy, because they'd come to the cemetary show. But several of them were very pissed, they said that they went to the cemetary show and when they found out it was fake, they turned right around and left before the show even started! They said they were disappointed it wasn't a real cemetary. I was very surprised that a group of artist builders wouldn't appreciate the fact that the cemetary featured in the Haunted Pussy show was built from scratch, and that each tombstone was delicately designed and handcrafted by a human artist. But, still, they were very bugged by the fakeness of it, insisting that they were duped.

Haunted Pussy is having another cemetary show at a fake cemetary that is made out of a grassy knoll, a park, cardboard, and strategically placed lights. It looks very cool, it feels very authentic, it is very playful and creative. I was impressed myself. As a matter of fact, if Madagascar Institute feels so slighted, maybe they should come forward and offer their services to either a) help Haunted Pussy find a REAL cemetary to play in where the fence isn't 14 feet high and topped off by a body-impaling iron arrow, or b) help Haunted Pussy make the fake cemetary they have even COOLER. Are you up to the challenge Madagascar?

Saturday, September 4, 2004

By Jessica Delfino

My dad (Mark Delfino, the one who lived in LA my whole life) moved back to Connecticut a few weeks ago and we've been in touch a little bit, after only really spending probably six months of time together over the course of my entire life. He called and invited me to come to Trumbull, CT. today because there is a huge bash at a mansion on a giant estate. I think I'd like to go up and check it out but all the friends I've asked to drive up there (it's an hour and a half drive) already have other plans or are out of the city. So, I placed an ad on Craigslist looking for someone who has a car and would be into driving up to Connecticut TODAY to go party at this mansion. Within three minutes, a guy called me and said, "Wow, that sounds like fun. I wish I had a car..."

I am sending out a signal to anyone who happens to read this blog. If you live in Manhattan, have a car, are bored, right now, let's go to Connecticut and party at this estate. There will be tons of (free) food and drink, live entertainment, a pool, a posh experience, people you've never met, (maybe some of them will even be interesting!) and the ride up should be fun as well. (I've got ways of making car rides fun, and one of them smells suspiciously like marijuana.) It's an hour and a half ride, the party starts at 4 and goes until late. It is today, Saturday the 3rd.

So, let's go! Isn't there someone out there with a sense of adventure who will drive me to Connecticut? I looked into taking the train, but it's $25 round trip, and I'm taking Chris, so that's $50 round trip, and at that, I could just rent a car, which I still might do, if I can find one on Labor Day weekend, though I'd prefer not to rent a car, I'd prefer to have a little adventure / day trip. It's beautiful up there! It's lush and green, there are no terrorists, and the water is clean and chlorinated and pristine. (In the pool...)

Any one out there have a car and a little spirit? Wanna take a trip? Call me now -
917-450-4178. Operator is standing by.

WAIVER FOR FAMILY MEMBERS WHO MIGHT BE READING THIS: I know that my family thinks I'm insane, and this is exactly the kind of thing that a sister or mother might read and find themselves feeling pleased as lemonade with themselves over because it cements the idea that I am just crazy! Just simply insane! Since everyone thinks I'm crazy anyway, I might as well use that free pass to do whatever I want. If trying to rally a few souls together in search of a little adventure proves me crazy, well, then, mom, sis, I guess you've been right all along. Congrats on your keen observational senses!

If you are on the fence about taking the trip and need a few more good reasons why you should go, (besides the reasons of adventure, free food, drink and entertainment, a chance to meet new people, the opportunity to see a lovely estate in a part of the country you've probably never been to, a chance to get out of NYC, a pool) I've provided a few more for you to consider:

1. You should go because GOD wants you to go.
God loves all things that are good, and therefore, God loves parties. He also loves pot and getting drunk (but not so drunk you are late for work or abuse your spouse!)

2. You should go because my father is going to be there.
My father is a dude who got my mom pregnant when they were both about 18. He left moms when I was just a tater tot and never looked back. He moved to LA to become famous, which he never really did, and he also lived a very leisurely lifestyle among celebrities such as Paul Jabara (writer of tons of famous songs that you don't even know he wrote), Louis Anderson (that big fat comic who hosted Family Feud for a bit), and a variety of other gay stars. Anyway, he's an interesting character and he's funny and bizarre, and he'll probably make you laugh, ponder the meaning of life, or contemplate the question, "What is sanity, and how can it help me?"

3. You should go because the terrorists don't want you to.
Terrorists hate freedom and parties, just ask George Bush. What would the terrorists do? Not go to a party at a mansion. Not drive a stranger up to Connecticut. Not have fun at a vast, lush estate. The terrorists would blow up a party at a mansion. The terrorists would blow up a stranger, not drive them somewhere. The terrorists would blow up fun, not have it at a vast, lush estate. These are things to consider when considering reasons why you should go to this party.

4. You should go because rich people need us to eat their food and use their stuff.
People who are rich buy lots of stuff and then other people, like me, who are poorer than rich people have to help them out by eating and using that stuff because they often buy too much and either throw it out or pay someone else to throw it out. So, if you want to idly sit by and watch good food and stuff get thrown out, hey, pal, it's your life.

5. You should go because this party isn't going to celebrate itself.
It's up to us to help this party be a celebration. The party has been provided, now it is our duty to provide that party with us.

Thursday, September 2, 2004


I bet the world is wondering how Jessica Delfino spends her days? Well, I'm going to walk you through the highlights in an unprecedented display of brutal honesty paired with a healthy helping of idle hands, too. (Please pass the boredom.) Let's play a game where you look at your calendar, compare it to mine, and we'll see who had a better day. Give me one point if my day was better, and you one point if your day was better. This should be so much fun!!!

WEDNESDAY, Sept. 25th
I went to see St. Aggostino (with pals David and Chris) over in the West Village as part of the Fringe Festival. My friend Red Bastard directed the play, and my friend Adira was one of the demons. I am slightly jealous that I'm not involved, as I was offered a chance to audition for a small role as of one of the demons and would have liked to have been involved in the Fringe Festival, but I'm known for my bad luck and sour grapes aren't goin to change my luck, so what do you want from me, Satan? It was a Commedia Del Arte kind of thing, which I'm not a huge fan of, but I am a fan of Red Bastard and some of the play speaks to me and makes me laugh, particularly the ragged old bitch Saint who pours water on everyone and waves her hands around with reckless abandon. After the play, Chris, David and I walk over to the West Side Highway where our friend Harry and his wife, Liz, try to pick us up in their speed boat. He ends up smashing the rear diving platform into the pier and almost ripping it off. David bails for home and Chris and I jump on the boat just in time to see Harry freak out in a hilarious display of swears and spit. (I love physical comedy sometimes after all.) We jet across the river into New Jersey and dock at a marina in Newport to explore the damage. It doesn't look as bad as it seems, so we spend a few hours sitting around while Harry tries to fix it and end up taking his wife's car (already parked in Jersey near where she works, what a coincidence...!) to a few hardware stores to get this or that. Harry ends up spending HOURS in Home Depot and while he's in there, Chris and I eat fries and ice cream out of a vending truck with Scooby Doo stickers all over it. We don't end up fixing the boat til around 1 am, but at that point, we take a beautiful late night cruise around the tip of Manhattan, get pulled over by the water cops for getting too close to the island during this time of terror watching, and finally hit the shore at 4 am. I can't remember how I got home that night.

THURSDAY, August 26th
I worked for David on Thursday, running errands and whatnot. We met at Whole Foods at 59th and Columbus Circle for lunch (he always treats as part of my pay, nice, huh?) along with a friend, Claudia, and I pigged out on their hot, yummy buffet. I didn't feel badly, though, because I rode my bike there (over 60 blocks.) I did whatever mundane chores he had for me to do, send out laundry and buy diet coke and shampoo, and then rode back downtown for Haunted Pussy at the Sidewalk. Jose showed up from and reviewed the show for his website. (He put a very nice article up on his site.)We had a nice turnout for the show and Bad Teenage Moustache headlined, rocking hard. (I especially loved their song, "I don't love you, I love the person around your pussy." It spoke to me. (And my pussy.)

FRIDAY, August 27th
I woke up around 10 am and zoomed on bike back up to 42 and Lexington to meet the crew at Starbucks who I'd be working with at the "Grand Slam" event in affiliation with the US Open. We were met (late) by (cunt) Jen Cohen, (at the wrong Starbucks) who had flown into NY just to coordinate this event. She was super LA, with straight (probably artificially straightened) blonde (probably artificially blonde) hair and a face that looked like it'd already been lifted and tucked here or there, (though I bet she just naturally looked weird, without any help) and perfect (also fake) nails. She handed us HUGE duffel bags of mints and postcards which we were supposed to hand out to people in Grand Central Station. We handed out all the mints, then had a really hard time getting people to take the cards, so I called the USA Networks headquarters and asked if I could ride my bike over (just a few blocks away) to pick up more mints to help us do our job more efficiently. They said no, so we told passers by that the cards were collectible, and that they could use them to win free tickets to the US Open, (technically true, the website was posted on the back where they could go to enter to win free tickets. How lame.) The other three guys in the crew (one of whom was Chris) sucked at handing out cards, but I was pretty good at it and got rid of mine and most of all of theirs fairly quickly. I then rode my bike down the East Side boardwalk and enjoyed the cool breeze. I forget what I ended up doing Friday night.

SATURDAY, August 28th
My USA Networks supervisor called and left a message, so I called him back and he told me that I was fired (Chris also) from working for the rest of the US Open. We were scheduled to work three other days, including a few days at the Open, where I was looking forward to exploring the grounds and seeing some tennis. I am sure it would have been mostly boring but kind of interesting too, probably, plus I was getting $12 bucks an hour to do work a monkey could do. I got pissed and asked why I was being fired, but my supervisor, Brad Engle, (who I'd met at UCB during an improv class) told me he really didn't know (complete and total lie). I told him he better tell me if he knew or else I was going to cause a scene and include him in the backlash. He insisted he didn't know. (TOTAL lie). So, I hung up and called Jen. Here's our conversation:

ME: Hello, Jen?
JEN: Hello...
ME: This is Jessica, the girl who worked yesterday at Grand Central Station...
JEN: Yeah, hiyee?
ME: Um, Brad called me today and fired me, and I was just wondering if you could tell me why that might be?
JEN: Sure. I didn't think that you acted very professionally. Chris wasn't standing where I told him to, and I thought your phone message was rude.
ME: The one where I asked if I could get more mints?
JEN: Well, it was more that you said the people didn't want to take the cards.
ME: But it was true!
JEN: Well, it's not my job to get rid of the cards, it's yours. That's why we hired you. So, if you can't do it, then fine. We don't need you. So I reported that to my supervisor.
ME: Well, did you report that you were 15 minutes late to meet us and that you gave us the wrong address to meet you at?
JEN: I was not 15 minutes late to meet you, but that attitude is why you aren't working at this event.
ME: Who is your supervisor?
JEN: I'm not telling you who my supervisor is.
ME: Well, I'm going to find out who your supervisor is, so we can either do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way.
JEN: I'll have my supervisor get in touch with you. (Click.)

A little while later, Brad called me and gave me this whole, "You're right, you really do deserve to know why you were fired," routine. Very touching. He told me the reason I'd been fired was because there was a problem with the paperwork. (TOTALLY RETARDED.) Why didn't they simply not hire me if there was a problem with the paperwork? Duh? A few minutes later, Jen's supervisor, Colleen called me. She said the reason I was fired was because I was late to the orientation, though I had called and said I was coming from an audition and would be late. (No room for error over at USA.) So, now I had three or four reasons why I got fired, and one might think, well, jeez, if you did four things wrong you should be fired! But I see it more like no one can get their story straight because they are all full of shit. None of the reasons they gave were valid, most of them weren't true, and none of them were reasons to get fired. Even if they were reasons for me to get fired, then why did they also fire Chris? I settled in to thinking of a clever way to be a cunt and get USA Networks back, and finally decided I'd use my credentials to pull off a crazy stunt at the US Open, then changed my mind, remembering that the US Open is boring, and I hate tennis anyway.

Later that evening, I went to Reverend Jen's house to be involved in a "Slutty Makeover." It was good fun, with other art stars Margaret Dodge, Faux Mo, Johanna Buccola and a few others being transformed by Rev Jen from lovely plain Janes to stunning sluts. We drank tons of Budweiser and ate an entire coconut cake which Dodge made for the party. Rev Jen Junior humped all our legs. We left to peruse the LES in costume (and to meet Chris and Harry at Max Fish). We ran into the two of them on the street and Harry ended up almost fighting with some puerto ricans who whistled at me. (He picked up a chair and ran furiously after them, waving it in the air, and they dispersed in several different directions. Harry is good for physical comedy laughs.) Chris and I went to Max Fish as Harry hid from the cops. Eventually he met up with us and we drank and drank, and then finished off the night eating fries at a hookah place on Houston.

SATURDAY, August 28th
I have no recollection of what happened on this day. I think I spent the day working at the library and eating pop tarts.

SUNDAY, August 29th.
I was supposed to work at the US Open, but you already know that story. Instead, I think I again went to the library and ate pop tarts (my favorite snack) and then around 5 pm, I rode my bike into Brooklyn to perform at the BUSH BASH at Cafe 111. There was a nice crowd of mostly hippies and feminists and it was a complete 50/50 split who liked me and who didn't. I talked to my mom on the phone about the story I wrote and met some dudes from a band from Arkansas or somewhere. I rode home and ended up mostly napping on and off until I finally conked out for the night.

MONDAY, September 30th
I rode my bike up to the screening joint in midtown to watch GIULIANI TIME, which was produced by K Video, a place where Chris used to work. I think they'd originally contacted him to put him in their documentary and ended up hiring him, probably because he's got such a plethora of Giuliani knowledge paired with buckets of true hatred. The documentary was good, and I wrote about it on my blog. Chris and I had a big talk about his political plans and when he'd announce his candidacy. It was very enlightening all, the viewing of the documentary, talking to Chris about politics, everything.

That evening, I went to Show N Tell at the Bowery Poetry Club. As I was riding over, I called my sister to ask her for a favor and got an hour lecture detailing everything that was wrong with me, including the following:
- I'm co-dependent, apparently,
- I've got a mental problem which needs help
- My music is simply pussy rock, (is crap) and could be light years better
- I mistreat my family, all
- I'm an asshole
- I blame my problems on everyone else

There were many other things but I can't recall them all. I couldn't call my sister on her birthday because I was on a hippy commune in Vermont and didn't get any cellphone service, and when I did call her, she was furious. She changed her message on her phone to say, "If you are a friend, relative or loved one, please leave a message. If you are a bill collector, ex, or Jessica, please do not." She can be funny, but I feel she's mostly conflicted, working very hard and feeling very distant from me. We didn't get along as young children (I used to beat her up and always take my younger sister Karly's side) but came into closer times when we were both teens. (We're four years apart.) After I got kicked out and ended up sort of running away, our relationship suffered more and more, and her living in Florida and me living in NYC and us never seeing eachother certainly doesn't help. However, I am a grown adult and the beauty of that is that I can make any choices I wish to make. I'm not a drug addict, I don't hurt people, I'm not an evil-intended person and I make tons of art. As far as I'm concerned, the earth's soil has a special place for me when I die. Fighting with Abby upset me in that way that only the family mechanism can, and it definitely put a negative feeling on the rest of my evening.

At Show N Tell, I got an early slot, which is kind of rare, and performed in front of a pretty packed house. BPC has been open 24/7 during the RNC to be a safe house for tired hippies who have to pee and shit, so there were plenty in attendance. The show was terrific as per ushe, and ran quite late, until about 3:30 am. At 5 am, Yoga was to take place, and at 7 am, breakfast was to be served, but I just couldn't keep my eyes open anymore, so I peddled home in the rain.

TUESDAY, September 31st
I got a mysterious flat tire. Maybe fate punctured it? I rode it anyway, flat, over to meet Harry and co. at Kate's in the East Village. We got some small snacks and rode in Harry's car over to pick up Chris at his apartment, who was to be interviewed by some guy who has a popular political radio talk show in Texas. (I forget his name!!!) Chris was interviewed by him before when he busted up the Giuliani 9/11 hearing. We rode down to the Twin Towers site. TONS of cops were everywhere and protestors were protesting as well. The cops moved in and took a lot of people to jail, but we escaped unscathed. Chris fixed my bike tire, (he's so useful!) and I rode to the Frying Pan to perform at the Unconventional Convention. The show wasn't half as big as it should of been because everyone who might have wanted to come was in jail instead. The show was fun, none-the-less, and I didn't get home until 4 am.

OK, add 'em up, kids! What fun this will be!

PS - If you're around Saturday, check out BITE THE MOON WITH YOUR TEETH at Bowery Poetry Club, starring Ann Carr and Shauna Lane, featuring Eric Kirchberger, Adira Amram and other terrific performers. It starts at 10 pm and costs 10 bucks!!! It's funny!

Oh yeah, PS 2: If you happen to pick up a copy of 10003 and see the thing I wrote in it, please do not hold me responsible for writing it, because it sucks. It's the worst thing I've ever written. It's about my show for the Howl Festival, because that's what I was asked to write, but I wrote it on a library computer in ten minutes while eating pop tarts.