A NOTE ABOUT COMMENTING:

I don't mind if someone insults me on my comment board. I don't remove the comments, I don't cry. But I don't like when people write negative comments ANONYMOUSLY on my blog. I put this comment board up so that actual people can write actual comments. If you comment anonymously, you are a coward and do not get to share your opinions with me or my readers, because I don't CARE what COWARDS have to say. I don't care if you write good or bad comments, but OWN UP TO WHAT YOU WRITE, and stop living your life like a SPINELESS SHIT! (*Please use this advice in all aspects of your life. It will make your life much better, and make people actually respect you, as currently, they most likely do not.*)

To my Potentially Former Friend: If you write negative comments IN SECRET about me, you AREN'T my friend. My friends don't fear the repercussions of being honest with me.

If you would like to write a negative comment on my blog in the future, please use your REAL NAME and EMAIL ADDRESS (unless I know you, Captain Hilarious) or simply do not comment on my blog. Please respect my very simple request, or your comment will be deleted.

I HATE deleting comments, so please - naysayers - just own up to your comments.

ALL YOU CAN TAKE - cancelled

I've finally had all I can take and cancelled my weekly show at Apocalypse Lounge. This show started out okay and quickly nosedived once Time Out NY refused to list the show anymore, showing just how important it is to get your shows listed in NYC.

Joe Grossman, where are you? I miss the days of a fairer, more honest Time Out NY comedy listings, not to mention, simply decent writing. For example - read the page long article on Flight Of The Conchord, and one would have to be 100% idiotic to not notice the cock craving that went on in that "story." I saw FOTC at CBGB's, and they were there, alright.

Note to Jane Borden: Are you a total fraud? I'd like to give you the benefit of the doubt, but every interaction I've ever had with you has been disappointing, at best.

However, I can't completely blame Jane Borden, and all the Jane Bordens who write for magazines all over NYC.

The playing field is uneven and always will be. A friend and I were talking about this today, and yesterday and every day before that for the last two years or so. I wonder if it helps you as a performer if you are an executive at Comedy Central. I wonder if it helps you as a performer if you have a close friend who writes for the NY Times. I wonder if it helps you as a performer if you went to Harvard, Columbia, or NYU. I wonder if it helps you as a performer if your dad is a famous anything. Probably not. It's all most likely based solely on talent and drive.

or NOT!

Isn't it interesting how the sons and daughters of famous actors and actresses grow up to be famous as well? Genetics are amazing!

Fun fact: Did you know that you can buy fame? They sell it at the whore store.

Everyone has to struggle a certain amount in this business, but there's a difference between simply struggling and eating a daily can of shit flavored cheese whiz.

But this anecdote gives me hope: I sold 18 CDs at a show I did last night. I came home and did some heavy thinking. If I'd sold 18 CDs through Virgin Megastore, I'd get paid 30 cents per CD. But I get to actually touch every single CD that I sell. I get to look at every person who buys a CD from me and say "thank you." And then I get to put each one of those $5 directly into my pocket.

That's important to me, even if it is kind of gay.

So, I shall relish this time of anonymity, as I know I will miss it someday.

And I'll try not to hate shady writers and promoters, as I know that they are simply cogs in a machine that is more powerful than they are. Thank god I have managed thus far to avoid that machine.

Today's Jokes

Our first set comes from the dark, disturbing book of jokes for children:

What do you call a man who beats his wife?
Dad -- sometimes.

What do you get when you take a child's lolly pop away?
A free lollypop.

How do you catch a butterfly?
With a fly swatter.

AND in closing, one rape joke.

What do you call a girl who gets raped all the time?
A liar.

CRIMINAL MISCHIEF

Doesn't that sound like fun? Hey Adira, Hey Diane, Hey Liz...wanna come over and do some criminal mischief?

Criminal mischief is a pretty generalized, vague term, basically meaning causing trouble, but I suppose you already know that. Well, just yesterday, I saw an opportunity to cause criminal mischief rear it's handsome head, and I turned away...or did I?

As I came out of my apartment building in the morning (on my way to buy supplies to make french toast, for as you may or may not know, asians don't eat scones) and I saw it there, glistening ever so slightly underneath a layer of sludgy fish water. It was a NY state license plate. It made me think of breaking the law.

You see, my friend gave me a car a while back - a white cadillac. Right now, it's sitting in his yard in Long Island. It's a nice, older caddy with plush red seats and some rust around the tire arc thingys. He said I could just come and get it if I want to - but here's the catch - there are no license plates on it.

Now, the way my mind naturally works whenever any kind of opportunity arises is to go deviant, because obeying the law never did me any favors. As a matter of fact, obeying the law almost has always proven to be rooted in bureaucracy and hypocracy. So, now, my instinct is to do it whatever way I can, and as long as I'm not hurting anyone, the gamut of ways may or may not include breaking the law. I think that also may be a bi-product of growing up poor. (Though in all fairness to my parents, we were only poor sometimes.)

I left and got french toast supplies, and when I returned, there it was, sitting there, beckoning to me. Then, I heard it speak directly into my mind.

"Come on, Delfino. You know you want me. Pick me up."

"But you're covered in fish juice and some other black water and something dark and chutney like in consistency."

"Aw, come on, you pussy! There's no chutney to be had for miles. This here is oil, spit and rain water."

"But, I don't want to touch you. You're gross."

"Think of what I could help you accomplish. With me, you could get that car. You could get the car long enough to drive it to the DMV, or wherever you need to take me. You wouldn't have to tow me there. It could save you a hundred or more dollars. Think of what you could do with those dollars. Cocaine. Hookers. All the marshmellow fluff you can handle."

"License plate, stop it! Just stop it! I'm not picking you up!"

I walked past it and keyed myself into my building.

"You'll be back!" I heard the plate chuckling, a chance of demise appeared to be lingering in the forecast. I went inside and began to prepare french toast. I finished preparing the french toast. I ate the french toast. It was delicious. I did a bunch of other errands. I hooked up the two VCR / TV set-up in my living room. I tidied my home. I called a friend. I thought about the caddy. Later, as I came back out, I saw the plate again. It was even deeper into the muck than it had been before. The puddle seemed to have grown and almost enveloped the plate so that only it's very corner was still sticking out. This pleased me, because if any one else had designs on stealing the plate, they might be discouraged by the swamp-like sludge of the puddle. Or, they might have thought the plate disappeared. When you're into criminal mischief, you think that everyone else is zoning in on your crimes and plans of mischief.

I decided it'd be fine for me to leave it there for a day or two, while I decide if it's worth the help it could be to touch it. "I could get rubber gloves..." I thought to myself, but I thought it too loudly, and the plate heard me.

"Get some rubber gloves, then," it said. "You better hurry. The street sweeper will come for me. Another criminal mischief maker will see me and want me. You'll come and look for me, sweet tits, but I'll be gone."

I woke up this morning with the plate on my mind. Inanimate object - one, Delfino - none. I dreamed about it last night. The same scenario. I was out there looking at the plate, but it was imbedded into rock, like King Arthur's sword. "What should I do?" my ghostly dream self asked the plate. All of a sudden, an angel of god ascended onto me, and said "Everything will be alright." I asked that angel of god his name, and he said, "Satan."

Sometimes criminal mischief is a slow boiling process. It doesn't have to be all immediate, tucked into a half hour special like on Magnum PI, or NYPD Blue. Sometimes, it has to stew.
But, who doesn't love stew?

I'm a gemini, meaning, for every emotion I experience, there is an equal and opposite re-motion. So it wasn't long before I thought about turning myself in. I enacted out the fantasy in my head, and it discouraged me from following through with my plan.

ME: Hello, my name is Jessica, and I'm considering stealing a licence plate.
COPS: Really? Well, we're working on 327 triple homicides right now, but wrap it up, boys! We've got a stolen license plate confession. We'll be right over! (sounds of laughter, phone clicking down onto receiver)

Sometimes, you have to not think about what's right or wrong, but follow your heart.

My heart wants a car.

NEW ATTITUDE

For the last year and a half, I've felt like a person who is not this one. I've been practically homeless, crashing in boyfriend's bed, or boss's couch, or buddy's bodega. It's been pretty depressing, and it's definitely affected my blog, because I haven't really had a steady place to write e-mail, or write anything for that matter.

I'm very thrilled right now to have found an apartment and moved into it. I feel like a completely different person - the one that used to exist like, two or three years ago, before Kurt and I split up. Back in those days, I had a home with a bed, and a dresser, and I had my stuff set up the way I like it, with my make up in a special container, and my towels on hooks and silverware in a drawer. Those are little things that you take for granted when you are essentially homeless. Though they aren't so important, they are things that make you feel settled, like, "This is my place." You can't have that kind of security from the front pouch of a back pack, or when you're wondering what that scuffy white spot is on your friend's comforter, when you already know god damn well what it is.

When people think of the homeless, they think of dudes with drawers full of feces, or people who live in Underground Caves, like in Demolition Man starring Sandra Bullock and Sylvester Stallone. But they don't consider the thousands of people in NYC who are crashing on friend's couches or floors, sleeping in rent by the week rooms, or hopping night to night into various assorted lover's beds. If you consider that, you actually are probably quite friendly with many homelesses.

So, it feels really great to be happy again. The way my bed is set up, the sunlight comes filtering through my huge windows all over me. It wakes me up every morning at 9:30 am, and that's kind of cool. I've been sleeping until noon or one for the last year, because I know that when I wake up, I'll be back in life again. But I have good reason to want to wake up early now, because I have lots of work to catch up on. My bed is so cozy, too, with a soft egg crate thingy on it, and tons of soft pillows and a huge comforter. My boyfriend is warm and cuddly, like a pet, until he speaks. There's a huge balcony in my apt. that is about twenty feet long. There's a space to put a swing, which I will do very soon, and at night all the buildings downtown glow and shimmer, as if my life is perfect. There's even an asian neon sign out my balcony view. Asian neon? How can life get any better than that?

Wor fay chung gao sing. That means, "I'm extremely happy," in Mandarin, Liam M.

I guess being happy isn't conducive to good comedy, but don't worry. Things are going so great, I know that something HORRIBLE is looming around the corner. Hopefully I'll live through it and bounce back to turn it into a musical hit, or a musical shit. But either way, hopefully there will be music involved.

THE ASIANS DON'T EAT SCONES

I woke up early on Sunday morning to see the sun shining in my windows with a glow reminiscent of a microwave oven in full blast, roasting a chicken pot pie or some other such tasty frozen treat to radioactive perfection. The analogy immediately made me hungry, so I stretched my slim, perfect body complete with the accompanyment of odd vocal squeals and crawled out of bed in a gangly, cat-like fashion.

I just moved into a new apartment in Chinatown, and in the past three weeks I've lived here, I feel like I've been on vacation in a small asian nation. All the signs are written in Chinese, all the employees at all the stores are Chinese. All the people who drive the cars, all the people who live in the buildings, all the people who walk on the sidewalks, all the people's dogs - all Chinese. The menus at the restaurants resemble something from a reality TV show eating dare - Fish Eye soup, Slimy Pig Tongue and other delicious treats that could fill you up, make you vomit, or whatever you're into.

So, I knew it wasn't going to be an easy feat when my stomach whispered to my brain "Scone..."

I got on my shiny blue bike which wears a duct tape dressing to keep people from stealing it and rode around to all the stores in the neighborhood. There were dried fish stomachs, there were bottles of ginger and infinite boxes of teas and spices. There were Chinese people. But there were no scones.

"I'll try the bakery," I said. In the bakery, there were puffy breads full of pork and bean sauce. There were rice balls. There were cream rolls. There were Chinese people. But there were no scones.

"I'll try a JEWISH bakery," I said. At the Jewish bakery, a few blocks east of my actual neighborhood, there were rugalahs. There were bagels. There were cookies. There were Jewish people. But there were no god damn scones! "No scones," said the lady behind the counter, who I assumed must have been Jewish, but she looked mighty Puerto Rican to me. "We're not selling them during Passover. Try back in three weeks," she said. "But I want them now!" I yelled, throwing a temper tantrum. I jumped up and down, fists in balls at my sides. "Now! Now! Now!" I yelled. I pushed over a cart on wheels, loaded with trays of freshly baked jewish treats, sending kosher goodies sprawling everywhere. Two men playing cards looked up at me with blank expressions. A nice man with payos asked me to leave. I did as he said.

I eventually had to give up and go to the true outskirts of the neighborhood, almost to the ghetto, to the actual grocery store. At the grocery store, there were bottles of juice. There were loaves of bread. There were containers of cream cheese. There were tons of Mexicans. But there were no jesus fucking h christ scones. I began to cry.

I left the store and settled on bagels at a nice Jewish bakery around the corner. On the way back to my apartment, bagels in bag, I rode by a tiny hole with a sign that said "Baked Goods." I KNEW there would be scones in there. How could there not be? After I'd already bought bagels? There was no way in HELL that they wouldn't have scones. I parked my bike and walked inside. Two old men were eating soup. A Chinese man cooked grilled cheese sandwiches behind the counter. They had cheesecake. They had burgers. They had fish sandwiches. "Do you have any mother fucking scones?" I asked. "Ching chang chong," he said.

I went home and ate bagels.

JOKE

Q: How many popes does it take to screw in a lightbulb?

A: Well, normally only one, but the pope died today.

SELF-PROMOTION COMING UP -

Jessica Delfino plays the KNITTING FACTORY at 74 Leonard St.
A NIGHT OF PERFORMERS who are both comical and musical.

TONITE!!! Friday, April 1st.

8 pm show starts (I'm the first act)

Tickets are $6

Old Office (All the way downstairs in the basement - comedy's natural habitat)

also featuring:

Sharon Mama Spell
Stuckey & Murray
Tickle Dracula

AND ALSO TONIGHT:

Haunted Pussy at Tonic - 12 MIDNIGHT
with
COOKIE MONGOLOID at 1 am (from Seattle)
$5 - Norfolk St. between Delancey and Rivington

Come out in celebration of all this wierd, multi-genred fun (with a beat)