Wednesday, March 29, 2006

So Many Talented People.... many mansions for important corporation bosses to buy in stead of paying these talented people to make great art.

So, a few months ago, a "stranger" contacted me saying he'd like to animate a song of mine. I said, "Sure, sounds great!" and sent him a CD, all but completely forgetting about it a few days later. Today, I got an email from him saying, OK, go check it out!

So, do that...go check out this beautiful, funny little animation that stranger Mr. Nick Fox-Gieg did for my song, "I Wanna Be Famous." (On his website, click on the green animation still image that looks like the one above to launch it...)

It's TERRIFIC, if I do say so myself.

Nice work, stranger Nick. And by nice work, I mean, A + +.

If you have some money, hire this guy to do stuff.

Saturday, March 18, 2006


On March Two Two, I'll sing for you
the residents of Indiana
I'll sing songs of my vagina
in a way no one else canna

2131 E. 71st St.
Doors @ 7:30
8:30 - The Born Again Floozies (Tuba, Tap and Funny)
9:15 - TBA
10:00 PM - Jessica Delfino & Dirty Folk Rock



I'm goin' to Chicago, on Tuesday March Two Three
I'll sing songs on the radio but not on the TV

Someday the FCC will chill
and that will be a super thrill

I'll be surprised if my songs play
on FM while I'm still alive

Til' then, it's on-line radio,
where all bad words can truly thrive...

From the Mac & Slater Show, Chicago, IL:

Just a note to let you know your music will be featured this week on
Fearless Radio's Mac & Slater Show. You and Jessica Delfino fans
can tune in between 2:00 and 3:00 p.m. CST, Tuesday, March 21st,
through Friday, March 24th, only at

Please add our link,, to your website and thank
you for continuing to support independent radio!

You heard 'em, friends - support independent radio, exclamation point.

1354 W. Wabasia
6:30 - 7:30 PM SHARP
$5 suggested donation - Nice!

See you in the windy city and beyond.

Sunday, March 12, 2006

by Jessica Delfino

As I've mentioned before on this blog and elsewhere, I have an amazing, I'd even dare say "spiritual" knack of finding money on the ground. Sometimes in the dark.

Again today, the free money gods blessed me. But this is quite magical - they didn't just bless me once. They blessed me TWICE in the SAME BIKE RIDE!!!

So, I'm cruising down the street on my Schwinn K-Mart special which has fallen apart so badly with such frequency, I was actually pedaling down the street in midtown once when the ROUND METAL GEAR SHIFTER/CHANGER THINGY FLEW OFF and started ROLLING DOWN THE ROAD. I had just dropped off an ass load of heavy transcripts to my convict boyfriend's lawyer. I took the long scenic way home, as it was such a beautiful day, and accidentally wound up right over yonder near the Tombs, where he is being held. I looked over in angst at the pinkish-grey building and exhaled sadly.

Silver lining, I thought. I noticed I was right near Division Street, so I took it. Riding along the fish-gut odor infested pavement, I saw that old familiar crinkled up trash-resembling wad and damn if I didn't nearly run it over before I leaned over and picked up a TEN DOLLAR BILL! That is quite unusual. Generally, it is ones or fives. Not very often do I find a ten or twenty. That might have even been my first ten, though I have found twenties before.

Eureka! I screamed in my head. I tucked the bill into my pocket and continued on, thanking fate for sending me on the path I happened to take. It was good timing, because I am literally down to zero dollars. I have money in the bank, but not much.

I sometimes wonder why I even bother to have a bank account at all.

Besides, who has the time to go to the bank?

I turned left and started up Allen, thinking, GOD DAMN I am lucky when it comes to finding money on the street. I have always been very lucky with finding money. I find money on the street ALL THE TIME. Not daily, not even weekly. But maybe five or six times a year, and when you are as poor as I am, that is all the time.

There's some kind of trashy little shit hole on Allen where dregs always seem to be hanging around. They sit on the ground, staring into tvs that aren't plugged in, dressed in clothes which have been rolled into mud and perhaps feces. I often wonder what the place is and feel sympathy for the sad looking people I see lingering around the joint. Is it an off track betting place? Is it a food stamp office? I can't tell. But as I rolled by, I thought, "Those poor people. They should try looking for money on the ground." As I finished thinking that thought, I saw that old familiar crumpled wad AGAIN and had what was practically a knot of disbelief in my stomach. I thought, "I can't even believe it - more free money?" I bent over and picked up a $5 bill that, to the untrained eye, looked exactly like a piece of garbage.

"Holy shit", I actually said aloud this time.

I rode my bike home very carefully, because I had had too much good luck for one day and expected to meet with a terrible accident as mother nature's way to restore the balance of what has to happen in order for NYC to be NYC.

I later spoke to a friend who rattled off about seven instances in a matter of seconds of times he'd found bloated balls of $20s lumped together, wallets full of hundreds and briefcases loaded of unmarked yen. I felt like a huge money finding amateur / jackass for having found my measly $15. It was as if I'd had a cruel trick played on me. "Here ya go!" said yahweh, or whoever'd put that money there. "Take a fiver for your trouble. Now, go buy yerself something nice!" It was like I'd been tipped a penny by a rich dude on a $300,000 pizza. But I was still pretty glad to have it. Fifteen dollars might as well be a million, if you need money. Unless you get to choose. Then, I guess I'd pick a million.

Friday, March 10, 2006

by Jessica Delfino

One of the most emotionally exhausting, depressing and time-wasting things I've done in a fortnight is visit my boyfriend at the Manhattan Detention Center, aka "The Tombs" aka Bernard B. Kerik Complex (named after a true criminal) aka jail. Though the process is painstaking and belittling, in other ways it is educational and inspiring in that the visitor's waiting room is a true cultureshock rainbow - and an experience not to be missed just because you have no criminally charged loved ones.

There is a system to a visit, like any thing else that has a system. The process is quite simple once you've got it down. It begins at home as you are getting ready to leave your house. To save some time, do yourself a favor and do the following, which I will call STEP 1:

a) make sure your cellphone and contraband are left behind, unless you have a few days to sit around in a cell
b) be sure to have at least 2 quarters for the lockers (not two dimes and a nickel)
c) have the inmate's book and case # and cell # written on your hand or memorized
d) don't forget to bring a good book, a pen, your ID and maybe a snack
e) wear shoes that slip off easily, you're gonna have to take them off twice
f) don't wear a sweater with a hood or any jewelry (except your wedding ring, you will have to take them off)
g) go to the bathroom BEFORE you leave your house
h) be prepared to say good bye to the next 3 hours

STEP 2: At the front entrance a cop will ask you through a crack in the door (which is always kept locked and is only unlocked every so often when the police man on duty finally decides to inquire:) if you have a cellphone, cigarettes, beeper, pager, weapons or contraband on your person. If you didn't do as suggested above and the answer is yes: you can't come in. Proceed to the local deli round the corner where a "gentle" man charges you $5 to "store" your cellphone (and contraband, I found out!), and by store, I mean toss into a brown paper bag held behind the counter with a "receipt" which is actually just a scrap of paper with your name written on it in pen. If the answer is no: move to step 2.

TIP: The visits begin either at 7 AM or at 1 PM, depending on the day. If it begins at 7 AM, don't even bother to get there til 8 AM or later, because they don't really get things going til 8:30 or so. At 1 PM, you can show up at 1 PM. If you get there right on time, the facility won't be open yet and there will be a small crowd of visitors pooling outside. Wait against the wall to the left of the door, as that is where the police officer will instruct people to form a line. You will be first in line if you are already waiting there.

Step 2: You are asked to show ID and then led in the door to a small table where your bag is half-heartedly searched, or not searched at all. The back of your left hand is stamped with invisible ink and you are given an index card on which you are to write the inmate's name, book and case #, cell #, number of visitors, package being dropped off? y or n, and on the back side of the card, your name, address and date of birth, in case they need to arrest you later. Shockingly, they don't ask for your blood type, favorite song or a three page essay regarding an interesting anecdote from your childhood.

Save yourself some time - as you're approaching the building:

a) have your ID out and ready
b) have your pen in hand and the inmate's book & case number and cell number written on your hand or memorized
c) have nothing in your pockets - just carry a bag with everything you need in it, such as your book, your quarters, any property to give to the inmate (see approved list below) etc. If you do it as I've outlined it, you will save time and decrease your room 1 wait, getting you in for the visit and out of the joint faster.

Step 3: You give the index card to the dude at the desk, sit down and wait for anywhere from 5-20 minutes. Sometimes you wait for longer, though it is unusual to wait longer than 5-10 minutes.

Step 4: Read a book or whatever and wait, but sort of pay attention, because they will call the inmate's last name whom you are there to see, not your name. When they do that

Step 5: You go over and get the card. Keep your eye on that card like it's a winning lottery ticket. If you lose it, you're gonna fuck everything up. If you have a package for the inmate, you know, porno magazines or razor wire, at that time, get into the line to drop off property.

Step 6: Wait a long time for the bitchy ass package lady to be rude to you.

Step 7: Hand the bitchy ass package lady the index card and put your shit into the bank teller-like open door. The bitchy ass package lady will not speak to you, will give you "say, what?" bitchy black lady facial expressions if you try to ask her something, and give you attitude anywhere extra she can squeeze it in, so just stay put and wait quietly. MAKE SURE SHE GIVES YOU THE INDEX CARD BACK! Whatever you can't give him, you can take into room 2 with you and put into a locker or throw away.

Step 8: Go into room 2 and take a bin. In the bin, put your shoes, your purse and all your outer wear - jacket, hat, jewelry if you have any on, etc. Give the index card to the very nice bald man. MAKE SURE YOU PUT IT INTO HIS HAND!

Step 9: Walk through the metal detector. Get your bin when it comes through the conveyor, carry it over to a locker and put your stuff away. Choose wisely. Most of them are broken and will steal your quarter. #13 and #104 are both good. The only thing you can bring into the visiting area with you is your locker key, so leave EVERYTHING ELSE in the locker. When you stick the key in, it spits your quarter back out. So, if you want to read a book while you wait or have money for snacks in the snack machine, you can have them, and then when your name is called, you can just put them back into your locker and put the quarter back in again. But you'll save time if you just sit empty handed and watch Jerry Springer, which is always what is on.

Step 10: Take a seat and wait in your chair for a long-ass time - perhaps an hour, maybe two if it's very crowded, the inmate is "not ready" for some reason (perhaps they're takin' a poop), or it's simply not your lucky day.

Step 11: Watch the craziness that ensues around the waiting room. There are always colorful, entertaining black ladies telling funny stories, crazy hair-dos to examine, and drama that unfolds. It's always fun to watch everyone watch Jerry Springer, because it turns into a full room discussion with TV talk back, such as, "If that was me..." diatribes and a lot of "Oh, hell no, girl!" comments.
So far in the waiting room, I've seen a crack head hit on a trio of girls who in return, asked him if he had any money, so he explained that he had at least $200 in food stamps on his EBT card; I've seen a lady take her fancy fake hair-do out because she kept setting off the metal detector, when it turned out she just had some random piece of metal on the back of her pants; I've seen one poor devastated girl get told by a guard after waiting an hour plus to see her man that he had refused her visit (there were a lot of both, "If that was me"'s AND "Oh, hell, no girl"'s on that one). Sometimes people will ask you questions because there are no instructions posted anywhere, and you just have to figure the system out by doing or asking or both.

Step 12: After waiting at least an hour (less only if you are very lucky), the guard will read the inmate's names off a stack of index cards. Maybe one of them will be the person you came to visit, so pay attention. When they call your name, put everything but your key into your locker and hurry your ass into line.

Step 13: Take off your shoes, put your key in a shoe and wait for the guard to give you the signal. At her signal, walk up to the Star Trek "beam me up" sci-fi looking device, set your shoes to the outside of it to the left around the corner, press the green button on it, wait for the clear door to slide open and step in to it. The door behind you will close and the one in front of you will open. Step out and get your shoes but don't put them on. I asked once what that machine did and was told, "We can't tell you." Why can't they say? Does it fry my internal organs or scramble my brains?

Step 14: The guard will do a search once about five people come into the small search room. She'll make you pull your socks over your ankles, unzip your pants, fold them over and turn around, pull your bra up over your boobs and shake your boobs out, she'll pat your arms, armpits and sides, she'll ask you to show you the inside of your mouth. She'll then stamp your right hand with invisible ink and tell you to take your card. Put your shoes on, put your key in your pocket and take your card.

Step 15: Wait for a million years for the antiquated automated door to slide open. Step into the corridor and wait for that door to close, and then the other antiquated automated door on the other side to open. This could take 5 minutes or 1 minute, depending on who knows what?

Step 16: Hold both hands up underneath the black light so the guard can see both your stamps side by side. (Very sci fi!) Hand the index card to the second guard, who will point you to a table to sit at. Go sit at it and wait anywhere from 3-8 minutes for your inmate to come out a separate set of old, rickety automated doors.

Step 17: You can hug them very quickly, for like, 4 seconds when they first come out. You can hold hands. But you can't really do much else. No making out, no hugging through the visit, no intimate contact, no nuzzling, no forehead to forehead pow wow. No funny business, or a guy named Stewart will come over and yell at you in a very calm and intimidating way.

Step 18: Visit for an hour and talk about what you will. Make small talk or try to devise an escape plan.

Step 19: At the end of an hour, Stewart or someone else will call out the inmate's last name. You get one more hug, and then that is the end of that. Sit back down while they go back through the old, rickety doors and wait til the guards tell you to stand up.

Step 20: On your way back out, show both your hands again. Go back through your set of old, rickety sliding doors. Go back through the tiny search room. Go back out into the visitors waiting room. Get your crap out of your locker. Get your quarter back. Go back through the metal detector and out into room 1.

Step 21: Shine your hands again at the black light at the main facility entrance. A man with a key will unlock the door and let you out.

Step 22: Get the hell out of there! Have a new-found appreciation of your freedom! Pay the tan man $5 and get your cellphone back. Go on with your day. Look at your watch. If less than three hours has passed, you did good.

Wednesday, March 8, 2006

Christopher X. Brodeur's Sentencing

March 8th was a cold, sunny day. It was actually perfectly freezing at 32 degrees, the radio told me matter of factly. I got up before the alarm clock went off, showered and dressed as an angel of peace and justice in all white with the hopes of at the very least, snow blinding the judge into letting Christopher go free. My friend Mike had slept over the night before in our guest room so he could make it to court on time, as we had to be there at 9:30 am. My friend Rob was supposed to pick us up at 9 am, but he called to say his car had died that day. Much like the days of junior high when I half pretended/half insisted I had make-believe psychic powers, I took the dying car to be a bad sign. Rob and his friend Gerry met Mike and I at my place at 9:15, and we found a cab without too much of a ruckus. As we roared across Delancey at typical taxi speed, I looked up at the sky through the windshield and said, "Well, at least it's a beautiful day." My friend Mike nodded. "Yeah. Just like 9-11." We had a good laugh. The taxi driver, who was a tan man, refrained from laughing.

When we pulled up at the court house, I was delighted to see Bob Holman, Virginia and a few other friends waiting in a small group. Quickly, the group doubled in size, tripled, quadrupled and quintupled. People just kept coming from every direction, with hugs, kisses and well-wishes to offer. I passed out signs I'd made the day before that said, "Free CXB" with the intention in my mind of creating a scene if the judge gave Christopher an excessive jail sentence, though I felt deep down that any sentence would have been excessive, and was 100% positive that he would definitely get a jail sentence. So certain was I that he'd be sentenced to incarceration, I actually said to my friends the night before, "I'm so sure he'll get jail time that if he doesn't, I'll eat my own poop on stage." I later told a friend I'd said that and he said, "Um...why didn't you just bet money?"

I didn't explain to him that I was trying to tempt fate. And that I'd gladly eat a little poop in exchange for Christopher's freedom. Or that I'd rather eat poop than part with money.

One friend and I even considered writing "FREE" on one of our asses and "CXB" on the other's ass. We pondered if showing our asses in court would be considered protected free speech or just simply profanity? Is a bare ass profane? What if it's hot?

Once we'd gathered together, we started up towards the metal detectors. A paparazzi with a full spread of cameras stood poised along the walkway. We considered for a second that perhaps the cameras were for Christopher, but someone somehow knew that no, they were in fact for Boy George, who had had some kind of drug offense and was also scheduled to be in court that day. Bummer. You can't even do drugs as a rock star anymore without getting busted. Hasn't anyone ever heard of being famous? Maybe cops just don't like people who are men who looked like ladies in the 80s.

At the metal detectors, the bitchy cop guard stole one of our signs. "Keep a look out for signs," she whispered to her friend. "I don't want no bullshit today." My friend asked, "Is it illegal to have signs?" The cop explained, "It is in the court house." 'Well, what about the ones on the walls?' I wondered quietly.

We took the stairs up to the court room because the last time I'd taken the elevator, it had broken and just shot up and down the elevator shaft from the top floor to the bottom floor, back and forth, like some kind of crazy amusement park ride for about ten minutes while I screamed and pounded on the doors until finally it stopped, opening on the 8th floor to a big crowd of concerned latina ladies who were like, "Damn, girl! Are you okay?" We all had a good laugh, and then I took the stairs to my floor.

As I entered the tiny court room, room 546, the court room that Christopher had been tried and found guilty in, the court room that he had described as "the most depressing court room in the world," I got a nauseating wave of deja vu. We all filtered in and, to my complete thrill, filled every single seat in the court room. There were about 50 of us. It was truly a beautiful sight.

Jess, Chris's "legal advisor" (as he chose to be his own lawyer), finally showed up at about 10:30 am. But we waited in the court room and entertained ourselves. Mike quipped about "opening up for the sentencing" by doing five minutes of comedy material. Bob Holman made an announcement that we should all support Christopher and if things went south, there were enough of us to just sack him and split the joint. I momentarily considered this as a viable option.

So many people came out - The whole Trachtenburg Trio, replete with 12 year old Rachel, Reverend Jen, Mr. Michael Portnoy, at least two dozen or more art stars, a reporter from the METRO paper named Patrick Arden who seemed very interested in the case, even an ex-girlfriend of Christopher's drove six hours to get there from New Hampshire. It was like some kind of freak show family reunion. But there was no food or free booze.

FINALLY, Christopher came in (in cuffs) and he looked so tired and defeated, but mostly healthy. He wore a pink shirt and a grey pull-over and I got a wave of extreme sadness as he walked mere inches from me and I couldn't even touch or talk to him. It was like he was on TV. Everyone said "Hi" and "We love you" and other encouraging sentiments to him as he entered. A few of us girls got out our note pads and began to take notes, like the busy little secretaries we would have been if it were 1945.

The prosecutor ADA Duncan Levin went first. He spoke quite briefly and wasn't as mean as I expected him to be, though he of course, told a ton of exaggerated truths, as is his specialty. And he had the nerve to reprimand me on the telephone for "taking things he said out of context." What a piece of work! However, of course, he did ask for the maximum sentence, which was 2 years, as he told me he would.

Next, Jess Berkowitz spoke, rather eloquently, if I do say so myself. It was the best speech I've ever heard him give on Christopher's behalf, and I'd dare say that the huge audience behind him was, perhaps, an incentive to not slack off.

Finally, Christopher's turn came. He listed many, many very valid points and started off very strongly. At one point, he started to lose me, and I hoped he wasn't also losing the judge. Several friends behind me were tapping my shoulder, saying "Can't you make him shut up?" I kept tapping my foot onto the floor and making loud exhale noises to give him some kind of indication that he'd nailed it. But he just kept speaking. All his points were good and valid, but he kept saying some things that were certain to aggravate the judge. For example, he kept saying, "pain in the ass" and "pissed off" which made the judge who, hates bad words so much he wouldn't even repeat the name of Christopher's book, "Perverted Little Creep", wince. I was surprised he didn't yell at Christopher as he had all through the trial every time Christopher would say "pissed" or "ass".

Christopher also said on at least three occasions, "I'm not like some crazy ex-boyfriend who keeps calling his ex-girlfriend saying, 'I'm gonna cutcha, cutcha, cutcha!" which would inevitably send the audience into spattered chuckles. The judge made it very clear that he would not tolerate any laughter in the court room at the very beginning of the sentencing when Christopher said something funny and we all laughed. Judge Ross said, "This is not a laughing matter. Mr. Brodeur is facing a sizeable jail sentence here, and if you feel that you should laugh, you will take it out of this court room." Christopher is pretty funny just by nature in the way he speaks. So, it was hard not to laugh out loud during his diatribe. At one point, Judge Ross even questioned him about the comic he drew of ADA Duncan Levin which called Mr. Levin "A very good German". Judge Ross said something about it insulting Mr. Levin, and Christopher said, "I call him a very 'good' German. Is that not complimentary?" Of course, the court room was tickled by that.

At the end of Christopher's speech, which was, almost perfect in my opinion, with the exception of being too long (totaling 1 hour and 50 minutes), perhaps "too funny" and a bit "brash" in places, it was Judge Ross's turn. He read from a script that he had written. It was already prepared and typed out. I don't know what the policy is on writing out a report in advance of the sentencing for the sentencing, but it struck me as a bit premature. Perhaps he'd written it during the lunch break. In his report, he took what Christopher had said to his landlord (and Kathy O'Malley) very seriously. He didn't consider it to be colorful expression, or retaliatory harassment in response to Paul's original harassment, or protected free speech, or Christopher's way of responding to losing his home of 15 years or anything else. He said that Christopher was hardly a pacifist, or he wouldn't have made the calls. He said that Christopher had wanted to "get into their psyches" and had planned to make them feel fear, and had succeeded. He called Christopher a "terrorist" and said that he "terrorized" Mr. Stallings and Ms. O'Malley, and said that he didn't use 'that word' (terrorist) lightly in this day and age of terror. Then, he sentenced Christopher to 6 months in jail.

I didn't hold up my signs in protest, but I did say, "I'm going to be sure that this story gets as far and wide as it can. I'm going to tell everyone I can what happened here today. You will all be famous from this." I left the court room in tears and quickly regained composure.

Later, I decided that this will be like a um, mini vacation. A break for both of us. I'm getting a free trip to "your rent and bills just doubled" land, and it's straight to Malnourishment Point for Christopher.

The thing I keep going back to is, I wonder if Christopher feels anything was gained by doing this? Even if he truly believes it was his right to call his landlord, was anything really gained? I guess I'll ask next time I visit him in jail.

A friend during the sentencing turned to me and said, "Hey - you know what? Even the sun shines on a dog's ass." I laughed and thought about Christopher, and wondered if in this metaphor, he was supposed to be the sun shine or the dog's ass?

Sunday, March 5, 2006


(I enter to tame applause)(My hair is manageably brushed and I look like I'm the personification of 1974)

Hi! And welcome to "The Vegetarian Kitchen" with Jessica Delfino. I'm your host, Jessica Delfino. (camera closes in on my face a little bit and holds the frame of me smiling and staying perfectly still for just four or five seconds too long)

Today, we are going to prepare one of my favorite dishes. It's called tofu-crumbles-burger helper. In some places, it's also known as american chop suey or leftover surprise.

So, we'll start with making a kind of chili dish. I've already soaked a pound of red kidney beans overnight in water to they're ready to cook. See here? They look great! (I hold up a pot of bloated kidney beans. They look anything but "great".)

Dump the beans into whatever pot you happen to cook in - for me, it's an old wok I bought in college that no longer has the non-stick coating so everything cakes and burns onto the bottom. I call that "the foundation". Delicious!

Add a cup of water to the beans, add your chopped garlic - I use a whole clove because my boyfriend is in jail, how's that for turning lemons into lemonade? Top it off with a generous dollop of olive oil - perhaps four tablespoons or so. Finally, add the whole package of tofu fake meat crumbles. Mix it up good with a big spoon and let it simmer for awhile. Wow, this is gonna be good and vegetarian-y! (Camera close up on the simmering beans and fake meat. Get close enough that we can hear simmer sounds and little splatters of fake meat-y water spray the camera lens. You can see some of my hair has fallen into the beans.)

Wow! That smells so low in fat and cholesterol! You might be saying to yourself, "I thought chili was supposed to be spicy! Well, it is - if you're a Mexican. I am Italian, and that is why my chili is seasoned with lots of garlic and olive oil instead. Spicy food also gives me the shits, and who needs that?

OK. That's gonna simmer for awhile. In the mean time, let's talk about small CDs. They confuse people. I have burned some of my songs onto mini CDs to give to people and they act like I just gave them a human hand. They are like, "What the hell am I supposed to do with this? Now I have to go buy a special tiny CD playing unit from Best Buy. I'll do it, they're only what, $300? I like excuses to buy things. But next time, could you just give me a regular CD? I mean, what do I look like, Mr. Wizard? Do I appear to be a sound technician at Bose or Sony? I only have a degree in business from a state college and this CD walkman. I should frisbee this CD off the end of the dock at the South Street Sea Port." No need to get a job at a high paying sound studio! 3 1/2 inch CDs have been around for upwards of 5 years now. They are merely a regular CD with the outer rings simply "chopped off" for an appearance of high tech sci-fi new age coolness. It makes it look like I'm "doing something new and unusual" when it's actually just a regular old CD with the outer parts cut off. Look at it like a clitorectomy of the compact disc. They play in any regular old CD player, just like a regular old CD. It's the CD answer to say, a 45 on vinyl.

It looks like the beans are done, so let's just turn this off and take a taste. (Close up on me tasting the chili. I burn the shit out of my tongue and mouth. I smile wide-eyed in obvious physical agony.) Ow, that's tasty!

So, we'll just turn the heat off and put this directly into a tupperware container. We'll place this in the fridge and put it into the fridge for 20 hours to give it that "leftover" taste and feel. I have one here already left over. (I hold up a container of 20 hour old fake meat-y beans.)

Use your cooking pot, for me it's my same trusty old wok which I've used so many times I've by now actually eaten the layer of non-stick that used to coat the pan. Dump your bean and fake meat-y mixture into the pan.

In a second pan, make macaroni and cheese. You know how to do it. I have some here already made. (Show a container of clumpy mac and cheese goodness.) When the mac and cheese is done, mix it into the wok. Heat it up and eat it.

If you don't have a second pan, you'll have to make the mac and cheese first and then add the beans and fake meat to that.

Gourmet on a budget! This dish might cost upwards of $300 in Chelsea, or in an east village bodega. And it would have some fancy name, like purée, fouillis or bouillie au gratin, which translates loosely to "mess with cheese".


Thursday, March 2, 2006


It's sadly in the issue from yesterday, March 1st, with the beautiful girl on the cover who was victim of the horrific tape and rape maniac.

It's the biggest, grandest picture I've ever had in a newspaper, taking up one whole page and featuring four photos of me on a two page spread...(that's nuts!), aside from the huge Bilge Baron photo I had in the Village Voice last year.

Coincidentally, the Reverend Jen also had a huge photo in the Village Voice on the same day my pic came out.

Take that, normals!