MY COMEDY SCHEDULE
by Jessica Delfino

Week of: Mon, April 21th - Sun, April 27th

MON - 4/21
I think I'm going to go watch, not perform in:
Pajama Jam
@ the Marquee Theater
306 W. 27th St. bt 7th & 8th aves.

TUE - 4/22
JERK-OFF @ Via Della Pace (downstairs)
7th St. @ 2nd Ave. (SE Corner)
8:00 PM

B3 (downstairs)
3rd St. @ Ave B (SE Corner)
9 PM

WED - 4/23
BIG NIGHT OUT @ RIFIFI (in the back)
11th St. near 1st Ave. (South side of street)
10 PM

THU - 4/24
BELIEVE CHICKEN @ NIGHTINGALE
13th St. @ 2nd Ave. (SW corner)
7:00 PM

FRI - 4/25
NY State of Mind, Mensa Comedy Show
Staten Island
10 PM
For more info, call: (782) 438-0067

SAT - 4/26
BOUDOIR BAR
Sacket & Degraw Sts.
Carrol Gardens, BKLN
(F,G to Carrol St.)
8:30 PM

SUN - 4/27
BAR B
2nd Avenue and Essex St.
(F to 2nd Ave.)
9 PM

So come out and see some shows. To be on my emailing list, please send email to:
jessicadelfino@aol.com. Thanks, you're awesome.

LOST: Cell phone
by Jessica Delfino

I lost my cell phone the other week. I can’t believe I did that. I spent about an hour late one evening last week tracing every step I took, over and over in my mind. Did I leave it at the late night burrito shack that I visited with my friend after smoking a joint on the street in Union Square? That would’ve made sense, I was stoned and hungry. I imagined myself leaving it on the table and just walking away from it, leaving it there like a child to fend for itself. I know it’s just a cell phone but that thought made me rag on myself for days about the kind of mother I might someday make. After all, I am my mother’s daughter. But I digress. Had I put it on the tray o’ trash and dumped it into the garbage can? Would I do something so stupid? All the times I’d hitch hiked here or there which had been asleep in my memories awoke at that moment, and banded together as a chorus, pointing markedly at yes. Yes, I would do something so stupid. But really, would I have done something THAT stupid? I think I already answered, yes.

I walked down 2nd avenue and across 9th st. towards 1st ave where I would catch the bus. My friend and I talked about bills or boys. Did I remember a mysterious clanking sound behind us at one point while we were walking? Could that have been my phone spilling out onto the sidewalk and shattering into two pieces – phone shell and battery? I imagined a homeless person finding the phone and feeling like he’d just won the lottery. If that were the case, I was unexpectedly shoved into the ‘they’ in that situation. As in, “I don’t know, I guess “they’re” leaving phones around the city for us to use,” or, “Well, “they” ain’t never done nothing for me, so I’m keeping this shit.”

At 1st ave, we parted ways, kissing on the cheek in New York fashion. I crossed the street and made my way up towards the corner of 14th St. to get the bus. I waited for a bit. I think I remembered feeling my cell phone in the flimsy pocket of my satin jacket. When I bought that jacket on sale at Urban Outfitters, I knew that the pockets were going to do something unspeakable to me someday. Still, in the name of shame, I bought it anyway.

I boarded the bus and sat in the corner. I took out my notebook and began writing some jokes. I looked around the bus at a few late night couples, cruising uptown to go do it in their tiny studio apartments. I saw a smelly man flipping out over some pictures in a magazine. A fat lady and her friend watched him, making “that guy is nuts!” facial expressions at each other. When my stop came, I was so engrossed in joke writing, I missed it. I jumped up in time to see it fly by and pushed the strip to stop at the next closest stop. The bus came to a screeching halt and I almost fell over. I regained my composure and pranced off the bus, into the cool air surrounding the street.

I felt in my pocket to check the time. Cell phone – gone. I felt in my other pocket. I searched in my purse, but then I stopped. I didn’t even have to do that. I knew it was gone. My purse felt strangely different without the cell phone’s slim, rectangular shape clanking around among lipsticks and notebooks. I sighed a stoned sigh of defeat and slowly stumbled back to my 17-story walk up apartment.

When I got in, I dumped my purse out on the floor to confirm what I already knew. “I lost my cell phone,” I told my fiancé. “Aw,” he said. “Come here. Take your pants off.”
That’s one thing I love about him. When things were sucky, he always did know how to make himself feel better.

“They” sent me a new phone. It came in the mail in 3-5 business days. I ripped the package open like a junkie and spilled the contents out onto the floor. I sat on my knees, almost ritualistically sliding the battery into the phone shell. They sent me an extra charger, too. I hadn’t lost my charger. Now I have two. One for trips.

My phone came turned on and ready to go. I just had to unlock it using a special code. But I didn’t make any calls, all day long yesterday. Nor did my cell phone ring. I didn’t get back into the cell phone swing of things until last night. As I was exiting the L train to walk over to Level X to do the Comedy Kabob, my cell phone made it’s familiar peaking and falling tinkle, to indicate that I had messages.

As I pressed the voice mail button, I felt myself simultaneously falling back in line with the personal technological advancements we have today to be thankful for.

JOB-SEARCH SELF SABOTAGE
by Jessica Delfino

Reply to: pj@xxxyyy.com
Date: 2003-04-14, 10:07AM

We are looking for a plumber to fix leaky faucets in two buildings we have in Jersey City. The problem may be as simple as replacing the washer or as involved as replacing the faucet. We at a budget of around $20 per replacement. If you need to replace the faucet, we will reimburse you for the price of the faucet. Please contact Jean-Paul.

Dear JP

I couldn’t help but overanalyze, it’s just my nature, and I don’t mean to come off seeming like a freaky weird-nick, but I was wondering if by ‘fix leaky faucets’ you mean, engage in anal sex?

If so, I am definitely interested in this position. I was hoping that by ‘replacing the washer’ you meant frolicking among a queen sized matress in a dimly lit room. I know you have a ‘budget’ (huge testicles, right? Wink-wink, nudge, nudge) and all, but I am willing to ‘work with you.’

I am so horny, and I am really just dying to get reimbursed, really hard. Please let me know if your ‘faucet’ is still broken, because whether you like it to be ‘simple’ as you said in your ad, or quite complex, I think I’m the person for the ‘job.’

Have a great evening, hope to see your “Jersey City buildings.”

Sincerely,
Dallas

JOB SEARCH SELF-SABOTAGE
by Jessica Delfino


Reply to: xellmanx@xxxyyy.com
Date: 2003-04-14, 1:37PM

Full time Super, Prefer mature couple. FREE apartment, FREE health insurance. Free phone, electric and cable TV. Must have knowledge of: repairs, electric, plumbing, painting, boiler and #4 oil burner. Minimum 5 years experience and good references. 40 apartments. Walk up building. Starting salary $750/month.

Dear Xellmanx

You have a very interesting name. Is that Yugoslavian? I bet it isn’t! Ha ha! I am writing about the job you put up on Craig’s List. I am the mature half of a mature couple. I have no knowledge of repairs, electric, plumbing, I can do some painting (I was an art major) I don’t know about boiler – what you meant by that, and #4 oil burner, I’m blank there, too.

However, I do have five years experience in many things, and good references I promise you are not fabricated. I am especially interested in the free apartment, health insurance, phone, electric and cable TV. I think those things would be great for me. I’m really good at not paying rent or utility bills. I do have to question the starting salary of $750 a month. How am I supposed to live on such meager earnings? How am I to purchase food, diapers for my fiancé, make up products, pens when I run out of them, matches, laminating plastic, razor blades, cotton balls, facial exfoliant, denim pot holders, French to English translating software, tickets to see the play Cabaret!, a candelabra, rare baseball cards, a pink flamingo lawn ornament, extension cords, a vintage Mickey Mouse tee shirt with Mickey Mouse giving us all the finger, a patch for my diaphragm, patchouli, lemonade straws, a spitting cup, Lysol? You have given me much to consider. I hope I’ve given you something, too.

Is it too much to ask that you pay minimum wage? Just because you are Yugoslavian doesn’t mean that you can pay Yugoslavianan wages here in America.

I guess now that I think about this job, it doesn’t sound so hot. Walking up a building that has 40 floors seems a bit intense. Aren’t there laws against that kind of thing? It seems like you are advertising an illegal occupation here.

Thank you for your consideration, and have a great day,
Mrs. Balolowlochowskowi

JOB SEARCH SELF-SABOTAGE
Episode 1 - Blowing The Chauffer Job
by Jessica Delfino

Reply to: lavail@xxxyyy.com

Chauffeur wanted for occassinal driving, most often within Manhattan.
Hours will vary according to my schedule.
Excellent job for students, actors, etc.
Must have NYSDL and a good driving record. You will be using my Lexus.

Dear lavail;

How are you doing? I would like to drive your sweet ass car around. You seem
like a nice person with great taste. I bet you are rich, too.

I have special interest in this job, because your ad reminded me of the song
”Mercedes Boy” in which the artist sings, “Do you want to ride in my Mercedes, boy?”
And then after she goes, “Ri-yide!” I thought that was sort of like your situation,
Except I’m a girl, and I guess I’d be driving mostly, and you’d be doing more of the riding.
And your car is a Lexus, which isn’t quite as good as a Mercedes, but it’s no
Ford Focus, I’ll give you that.

Let’s help each other. I come from meager beginnings. I always wanted to
drive a Lexus. Unfortunately, in my family, it was Subaru, all the way. We
probably could have afforded a nice Lincoln Town Car or perhaps even a rock solid
Peugeot, but my dad wouldn’t have it. “Subaru!” he’d shout, sometimes unprovoked.

I have a grade A clean NYSDL (New York State Driver’s License, I bet you meant)
And a stellar driving record. I think you and I will really hit it off. As you can see,
I’ve got a great sense of humor, (knock knock, who’s there? Me? Me who? Me-OW!)
And I’m really just the peaches flesh. You’ll love me. I promise.

So hire me, and you won’t be upset. Lex(us) begin a beautiful work relationship in which
you pay me a ridiculous amount of money to do little to no work.

Thank you and god bless,
Sha-monit

Don’t Ask A Girl To Pee In Your Mouth (On The First Date)
By Jessica Delfino

Being a freak is fine, but timing is imperative, especially in regards to special requests.
When you go on a first date, ask a lot of unrelated sex questions. If the girl has a strong libido, she will bring up sex without your help.

When trying to involve bodily fluids into sex, be patient. If you aren’t patient, you should probably just pay for a hooker.

When you first get your girl to bed, then you can ask questions, but keep them soft core. Do you like this? What turns you on? Mild questions will open doors to more information. Don’t come on too strong. Instead of asking, “So are you going to pee in my mouth or what?” Try asking, “Have you ever peed in your pants? Isn’t it fun?”

Face the facts, sir. You may be a nice guy, but you’re still a pervert. Most girls don’t pee in guys’ mouths. It’s gross, it’s unsanitary, and it’s just plain weird. It doesn’t mean it’s wrong, necessarily, but it’s not common. You shouldn’t just expect that every girl wants to pee in your mouth. It’s important to create and maintain a level of trust before you jump into pee requests. You’d probably have better luck asking to borrow $100 on the first date.

Once you have reached a common comfort level, anything is possible. If a girl loves you, it is likely she will do just about anything for you. However, don’t accuse her of leading you on when at the end of the night she says, “I’ve really got to go,” and she doesn’t mean in your mouth.

Don't Order A Bloody Mary At A Diner, Ever! (with Exclamations)

Don't Order A Bloody Mary At A Diner, Ever!
It is only going to bring you disappointment!
You will order the drink and it will come out too weak, too strong, too
gross!
Your waiter will be insulted if you ask him to take it back!
Because HE made it!
He will say, no! Just drink it!
Give it to your friend!
Hey, waiter, YOU drink it!
Cause I don't want it!
Then he takes it back, begrudgingly!
Only because you made a sad face! Unintentionally!
He brings you a milkshake!
Then he ignores you for forty five minutes!
Because he thinks you're an asshole!
Later, finally, he comes over to your table!
He makes a joke about you being a wimp!
He says, "She can't handle her drink!"
"She prefers chocolate milkshakes!"
And "Ha, ha, ha!"
Then he writes the check in front of your face!
And you check it twice!
Just to make sure!
He left off the Bloody Mary!

HOW THE ANTI-WAR DEMONSTRATION RESEMBLED A GRATEFUL DEAD SHOW
by Jessica Delfino

I went to the Anti-War Demonstration today. It was very intense. There were about (I’m guessing) 3 or 5 million people there. I felt almost guilty, because I just went to watch, and brought no hand made “Bush Shit” signs or self-written protest chants. I wouldn’t say I am in favor of Bush starting war with Iraq, but I am not exactly opposed to taking Saddam out of power. So, If you’re wondering, I guess my official standpoint on war with Iraq is either undecided or not sure.
The protest was neat, because they set the rally up a lot like a Grateful Dead show, so I felt quite at home, except for the time there were a few hundred people pushing me into a few hundred other people, and I couldn’t breathe and started ‘freaking out’. In keeping in theme with the whole Grateful Dead analogy, that part was what I’d like to refer to as the ‘bad trip’ of the incident. I did see Jerry Springer in the crowd, however, and I also heard that Harry Belafonte spoke at the podium. At this juncture, I would like to describe to you, the reader, how I, the writer, found the protest to strongly resemble a Grateful Dead show.

WAYS THE ANTI-WAR DEMONSTRATION WAS LIKE A DEAD SHOW

-You knew which way to go ‘to the show’ because there were hundreds of freaky looking people and college kids to follow.
-Everyone was carrying signs that could have been either vaguely understood or easily misinterpreted.
-There were a lot of socialists and communists selling pamphlets, books and chocolate marijuana brownies.
-Much like at a Grateful Dead show, there were way too many children there with their parents and I was confused by that.
-Everyone was dressed up as trustafarians, hippies, and/or pilgrims. Also, a few people were wearing costumes that sort of scared me, specifically a “(M)an”gel of Death and Lady Liberty but with the face of a scary monster.
-Everyone who’d been stupid enough to try to drive through that mess was stopped in the middle of the street locked inside their cars, looking scared as peaceful protesters danced on the hoods of their cars.
-Some guy was trying to sell mushrooms, who knows if they were ‘real’ or not? There was a crappy drum circle band being led by a white girl with dreads.
-When I told people I was going to the protest, the looks they gave me strongly resembled the look my dad had given me when I told him I was off to see a Dead Show which was blindingly similar to the look he gave me when I told him instead of going to Yale, I’d be going to Art School.
-A lot of old people were present, vocally reminiscing the war protests of old and their disappointment that the war protest of ’03 wasn’t as ‘hip’ as the one of ‘63.
-Lots of fat lesbians were screaming incoherently, and it made me glad that I am not gay.
-The cops weren’t really fucking with anyone unless “provoked”.
-A few people had pitched tents.
-Every so often, you’d see a juggler.
-Random scaliwags were on the prowl, trying to pick up some rich, white, lady ass.
-I thought I was going to die on two or three separate occasions when the crowd became very dense and I couldn’t escape the city-block sized mosh pit.
-Only the bravest store owners left their doors open for business, selling their wares and snacks at inflated prices.
-No one was crowd surfing, but EVERYONE was dancing.
-In-state plates? Not a one.
-I was on acid, and I saw god, again. It’s getting boring how many times I’ve seen god. If I see god one more time…

Well, I hope you liked my comparison of the Anti-War Demonstration to a Grateful Dead show. Tune in next time when I will compare the impending chemical attack to a road trip I took in ’96 to see the Vermont Reggae Festival.

VALENTINE'S DAY BLOWS
by Jessica Delfino

Valentine’s Day blows. It’s just another day for you to wake up late, worry about terror, wonder how you’re going to pay rent, spend the day sulking in your underwear and a cute tee shirt, eat a goober grape sandwich, half-assedly clean your apartment, and then go do a shitty open mic spot. Did I say you? Sorry, I meant me.

Even if you are lucky enough (lucky enough, who am I, Donna Reed?) to have a boyfriend, you still have to choose a route – you can go the ‘high road, one that involves annoying primping and a bout of high maintenance, or one that involves unprovoked fighting and raunchy make-up sex. I keep saying ‘you’ like any of this is your doing or fault. It’s not you, I swear, it’s me.

The best Valentine’s Day I ever had is a tie between two times with two different boyfriends. One was the time my boyfriend and I bought a half-pound of marijuana to smoke while we split a book of acid and a six pack. Now THAT’S how Valentine’s Day is done.

The other best Valentine’s Day I ever had went a little something like this. My friend called me up early and said a friend of his who was a card dealer in Atlantic City had been given the responsibility of finding one of the hotel guests a few good prostitutes. His friend had called him, and he had called…..me. The friend told my friend he’d pay him $400 if he could put it together and drive them to AC by 5 pm. He said he’d give my boyfriend and I $100 each if we’d help him out.

We were living in South Jersey at the time, and so we picked up a copy of the Philly Weekly and pored over the classified whore ads in the back. This was my favorite conversation with my favorite whore.

LADY: (Sorry, I meant to type…..)
WHORE: Hello?
ME: Uh, hi. Um, me and my boyf., uh….I am, was just wondering – how much do you charge?
WHORE: It depends on what you want.
ME: How much would it cost to get you to drive with me and some friends to Atlantic City?
WHORE: What?
ME: Well, we need a few prostitutes to come with us to Atlantic City.
WHORE: I don’t think I’d be interested in going to Atlantic City.
ME: Aw, come on. It’ll be fun. It’d be me, my boyfriend…..
WHORE: Yeah, I don’t really do that. (click)

So I had my boyfriend call her back.

WHORE: Hello?
MY BF: Hi. Um, I was wondering, how much would it cost for you to go on a short road trip with me and some friends?
WHORE: I’m not going anywhere with you and your freaky girlfriend. Fuck off!

We did, however, find two ‘ladies’ who were happy to take the trip with us and asked us to please pick them up in Camden, NJ, where they lived. One was actually a quite attractive petite little Puerto Rican girl with the mouth of a trucker who had us drive her over to her brothers so she could feed his pit bulls before we left. The other was a 6’5” “wo”man with her make up tattooed on and her face unexplainably dented in several places. My friend found one girl himself - she was the girlfriend of a friend of his who had talked her into going so they could split the money. The six of us - my friend, my boyfriend, the two Camden chics, the one girlfriend and myself squeezed into a little Saturn and took the hour and fifteen minute ride to Atlantic City.

When we got there, his friend met us. He said I would lead the ladies up and be the negotiator. The four of us went in and the man, who was a Japanese CEO came out and looked the three girls over. He dismissed the two Camden chics immediately, and
led the third into his room by her tiny little waist. The three of us walked out and went to meet our friends downstairs, leaving the fourth girl in there to have god knows what done to her.

Ten minutes later, she came down. We were of course, dying to know what had happened in there? She told us he had lifted her shirt, kissed her belly button, handed her $1000 and sent her on her way.

I theorize that she blew him and I stand by that theory to this day, but I guess anything is possible in Atlantic City. Isn’t that what the city’s motto is?

It’s true, too. Once I went to the boardwalk with my guitar and played a bunch of corny cover songs including “Down By The Boardwalk” for about three hours and left with $150 in dollars, coins and weird tokens.

So the moral of the story is, Valentine’s Day is like anal sex. It’s sort of fun if you do it right, otherwise, it’s just a huge waste of time and you end up feeling embarrassed.

Sweet Dreams of Suicide
by Jessica Delfino

So….I’m 26 and I have done a lot of things. I’ve been to Florida, I’ve taken a shower with a woman, and I’m a woman too, I’ve even learned how to cook chicken liver pate, the correct way.

Still, I haven’t committed suicide yet. I thought it’d be so easy to do. I’ve been thinking about it for years. There are so many new ways to do it, thanks to modern medicine and improvements in technology, there are new buildings to leap off of, new poisonous juices to drink, crazy weapons with which to self-inflict death, weird vapors to smell and bad foods to ingest. Me not being able to kill myself is just one more reason for me to talk shit about myself and conquer that I am, in fact, the laziest person in the world.

Did you know that if you combine simple cleaning agents bleach and ammonia, you can create a severely deadly gas that if breathed will deliver death onto you in a quick and delicious manner, as if you are being covered with a down and lead filled blanket?

I should have done it by now. My days are a combo plate of self-pity and television. Most times, I don’t know whether to wash the dishes or cry. I am cooking a bagel in my gas oven right now. I eat bagels for breakfast, brunch and dinner. It’s all I can afford. I don’t even have butter. I am just going to eat it with a sample size of this new mayonnaise-salsa hybrid sauce that Kraft sent me in the mail. Sometimes I go to light the oven and I catch myself wishing out loud that the whole building would explode. Other times, I hope out loud that the pilot light will go out and I will choke on sweet, sweet cooking gas and flutter peacefully off into oblivion.

When I think about all the things I have to be happy about, very little comes to mind, but there are some things.

Bag clips. I have a collection of over 30 of them. I use them to clip back the curtains, clip back my hair from my eyes as I stare crying into the mirror, I use them to clip my nose so I won’t have to smell any offensive odors that either have wafted uninvited into my apartment or have been created by me, I use them to keep papers together, I use them to remind me that life is worth living, if even only in small spurts.

I own a pair of $1700 shoes. I won them in a contest that was being advertised in one of those loathsome women’s magazines. Win Claire’s shoes! The magazine told me, and showed Claire Danes modeling a dress too daring and sexy for me to ever wear, not even in my fantasies, and the shoes of note. I wrote my name on a postcard, though I never, ever win anything, and sent it in. Imagine my surprise when I got the phone call, asking me to come in and pick up the shoes at the office. They handed them to me in a box and I took the hot pink and green striped shoes home. They are quite exquisite. I can’t ever wear them out, but I can put them on while I’m lying in my bed and hold them up high overhead and pretend I’m walking on air. They will probably never feel the cool cementy sidewalk under their heels, I’ll probably just leave them to my sister upon my death, but for the time being, they are keeping me alive.

I can’t do anything right. If I ever tried to inhale a suicidal amount of piano cleaner or paint thinner, I’d probably be one of the ones who not only doesn’t die, but gets a better personality and a new attitude on life.

As I write this, I look upon my belongings. They stare back upon me with no love, with no pity, with no advice or answers. I imagine my suicide in black and white, then again in color. I think about my family coming to my house and going through all my worldly possessions. My suicide note will read, please! Do not fight over my belongings! Share them, divide them evenly, take what you like and sell the rest, or give it to charity.

I imagine my sisters fighting anyway, over my pink and green shoes or photos of us together as children. I can see my mother rifling through my closet, holding up a shimmery shirt in one hand and a black dress in the other, thinking, “Jessica would have wanted me to have these.”

I can see my little apartment, packed up and emptied by the people my family hired on Craig’s List to do the job for just a few dollars an hour over minimum wage.

I can see the tattoo of my name, glistening on my boyfriend’s back as he fucks his new girlfriend.

Then, I close my eyes, and I see nothing but space, and time, and where is god? Is he even there?

Super Bowl....s......of Cheese Dip!

I am really excited about the Super Bowl. It's not that I'm absolutely crazy about sports but I love dip. I also love chips. I've been looking forward to 'the day of snacks' for so long. I can't wait. I'm going over to my friend's house and we're going to crunch out. He's going to have potato chips, nacho chips, pretzels, popcorn, crackers, maybe some kind of vegetable sticks, probably some chicken wings. And the dip - I'm going over it now with my mind's eye. He's going to have salsa, and guacamole, and artichoke dip, and that cheese in a jar, maybe even the cheese in a spray can, definitely cheese in a block. He'll probably have some hot mustard sauce for the wings, some refried bean dip or something of that nature, and I wouldn't be surprised to see some sour cream dip.

Beverages - I know he's going to have those. He's going to have beer, soda, probably tap water, I doubt it but maybe bottled water, probably some milk but I doubt I'll drink any and I don't think it will be milk that he purchased specifically for the super bowl party, unless maybe he also purchased a bottle of kahlua or some kind of sweet coffee like liquor to mix with the milk, or perhaps just for coffee itself. I hate drinking coffee with out milk, so if he makes coffee, I hope he bought milk because otherwise, I won't be able to drink the coffee. Who wants coffee without milk?

I actually do know this one kid who loves to drink coffee without milk and every time I see him do that it makes me so angry. I always ask him every time I see him drinking it - why? Why coffee with no milk? How can you do that? It's really gross, black coffee. He says some kind of clever stupid little quip every time, like, "Hey. I like my coffee the way I like my women. Lactose free." Or, "Hey, I like my coffee the way I like my women. No cream, please." I never get it, but I always kind of chuckle because I imagine he's trying to make a joke and my mother always taught me, if someone tells you a joke, even if you don't think it's funny, you have to laugh, because that's what manners are all about.

So, this Super Bowl, I'm going to do a lot of fake laughing, because my friend who loves to drink coffee without milk is going to be there, and so if my other friend who's having the party didn't buy milk, I'm definitely going to be laughing, quote unquote.

My other friends who are going to be there are a rainbow of personalities. My one friend is going to be there who is always screaming in a very mascot-y way. My friend is going to be there who always is high fiving everyone. Last time I saw him, he was like, "Hey, Jessica. How's your mother?" I was like, "She's doing really well, thanks for asking." Then he was like, "All right!" And high fived me. There are going to be a few girls there that always travel in a pack. One of them will be really pretty and probably quite stupid. Then there will be a girl who's not as pretty as her friend, but her personality is a lot better than her friend's. Then there will be a girl who is really tiny, and all the guys will throw her around like a football. There will probably also be some foreign girl who is here visiting for a few days and doesn't speak english too well. We will make jokes to her face and laugh at her when she doesn't get them. That's so much fun. Who else will be there? Oh, yeah. There will be the guy there who tries to hook up with me all the time even though I've all ready shot him down so many times. Then, there will be a guy there who I totally want to make out with and he is so nice and it seems like he totally likes me, but he's just a nice guy, that's just the way he is, and he has no intention of either making out with me or letting me make out with him. I think the guy is going to be there who does beer tricks, he crushes cans of beer on his face, or bites the heads off of small animals swimming in beer. There will be the weed guy who always has weed, and will smoke it with you if he knows you, or if you introduce yourself to him and listen to stories of his trip he took to Europe. Finally, you will be there. You're the person who always....oh, yes, that's right. You're the one who loves to watch the game.

See you there!

This is for a dating book (for women) I am writing with five other people which will be out in April. It's kind of corny, but it's comedy related so I thought I'd put it up.

There are close to a dozen stand-up comedy clubs in New York City. About 90 percent of the comics who perform in the clubs are male comedians. Most of those comedians range in age from 21-35. There are older and younger comics as well, and females too, but this is what most of the clubs are working with.

Because females aren't funny? Yes, if you ask Jerry Lewis. No, if you ask us. But that is a debate for another time. Right now, we're focusing on finding you a dateable guy.

Stand up comics are generally single, as they travel from city to city to do shows at colleges, bars and night clubs. It's a very independent lifestyle, full of cheers and boos, booze and cigarettes. Many comics I know stay single because it is hard to find people who are willing to tolerate that special something that makes a person become a comic.

And some are happily married, so who knows? Maybe a comic is just what you needed in your life.

Jennifer, one of NYC's comedy club bookers, says she only dates comics. "I know it's not the best idea to date the people you work with, but I love comedians. They are funny, they are passionate, believe it or not, a lot of the guys are actually pretty shy and sweet."

She probably is not referring to Andrew Dice Clay. She's referring to the young up and coming stars of tomorrow who are working out their material on the stage for their future sitcoms.

Take Tom, for example. Tom is a 30 year old stand up comic. He is single, by choice. "It's hard to find a girlfriend being a stand up comic," Tom told us. "Girls automatically assume I'm going to be loud and crass all the time, just because some of my jokes are a bit edgy. The truth is, I'm a pretty quiet guy. During the day, I like to watch tv, I work out and lately I've been really into yoga."

Comics are typically very sensitive people with extreme egos that get fed by the energy of an audience of people, laughing at their jokes. This is not the case for all stand ups. Some of them really are obnoxious.

We met Chris one night in a comedy club on the upper west side. "I hate dating," says Chris. "The women I meet at the clubs are all the same. They come to the comedy clubs to try to hook up with a successful comedian. Then they don't feel so badly about not having their own careers."

While we don't necessarily agree with Chris's opinion, it does leave the door open for you, an independent, strong minded woman to stand out in the crowd.

So, you're in the club. A hot, tall, slender, future movie star has just left the stage to uproarious laughter and applause. You see him walk to the back. His head is up, he looks confident. He's probably in a really good mood, just having "killed". Look to see if he's going to meet his lady. If he's not, it's possible that he doesn't have one, or she might be there cheering him on. It's a good idea to wait a few minutes until he's had a chance to let his stage buzz cool down, so he settles back into the reality of regular life. It's a pretty quick process, maybe about five to ten minutes. If you are bold enough to go alone, walk over to him and say something very simple about his set. It is just as good to go by yourself or approach him with an entourage of friends. That will create a bit of a spectacle and all his friends will be envious, which will make him really want to play it up. "Nice job up there" or "You were really funny" is generally all it takes to win him over. He will most likely thank you and immediately humble himself to you. For all he knows, you could be an NBC executive or a friend of one. He will most likely ask your name, and if he doesn't, just put out your hand and tell him. "I'm Sarah," you say. "Oh, nice to meet you, Sarah," he will reply. "I'm Jeff." You shouldn't worry too much about conversation, he will most likely jump into it, unless he's got another spot he's about to run off to. You can flatter him by asking him where he'll be next or if he has a website you can look up. Most comedians do have their own url and are booked at several show locations weeks or months in advance. He will no doubt be flattered and thrilled to have a pretty girl politely pestering him in front of his comrades, as that is why comics are in the business of getting attention.

After you walk away, don't be surprised if one of his comic buddies comes up to you and tries to mack. The good thing about comedy clubs is, the guys hang out in packs, and they are very competitive for a lady's attention.

Be careful about basing your opinion of a comic on his stage personna or the first meeting. A lot of times, a stage presence is just that. He is doing a job, and when the job is done, he goes back to being normal. Most comics are not at all what they are like on stage. A lot of people expect comedians to be constantly cracking jokes and always poking fun at everything. That's not necessarily the case always. Most comics get bothered if you go up to them and insist they be funny. Also, keep your funny jokes or stories that you think they should try on stage to yourself. How would you feel if someone came to where you work and tried to tell you how to do your job? It's annoying and no one likes it, so be considerate of that.

Once you get to know him better, then maybe you can berate him with your funny boss stories, or how crazy your mom is. Until then, just buy him a drink and get to know eachother.

Comics like to stay out late, and the business calls for it. It's a vampire lifestyle. Most comics sleep until the afternoon unless they have a meeting or a supplemental day job. Then, they get ready to go out and perform around 6 or 7 and are out until sometimes 2, 3 am or even later.

The best time to go out to a club to scope out the comic scene is on the weekend, because that is when the handsome and most talented comedians are performing at the clubs. Bring a pack of wild girls and go have a great time. Be supportive and most important, laugh, if you think he's funny. Don't call out to them while they are on stage, unless you want to get verbally smashed. If you heckle, it might turn out funny and it will definitely be fun for you, but it could mess up their flow. If your obnoxious blabbering caused him to mess up his set, generally he is not going to want to befriend you. If he's a strong enough comic, he should be able to pull through, but sometimes a bombing can't be helped. Maybe it was a friend of yours, though. Then you have a perfect excuse to go up and apologize for your friend and tell him you thought he was funny anyway.

It's also a good idea to go to a smaller, alternative style show, like Luna Lounge on Monday nights which is produced by Comedy Central, or Upright Citizens Brigade Assscat. The crowd there tends to be more intelligent, younger, and hipper. The comedy clubs generally attract a more bridge and tunnel or out of town crowd.

Just because a comic bombs by the way, doesn't mean they aren't funny or worth talking to. Some comics have off nights. It happens. A guy who gets your attention even if he didn't leave 'em crying in the aisles is going to appreciate your feedback and consider you very special and smart, different than the losers who didn't get him or his jokes.

Don't be a tag-a-long. After you give him a few compliments and chat briefly, you will know whether or not he wants to hang out with you or be alone. Sometimes comics just want to go over their material or listen to the tape they made and see how they can improve their act. Don't take it personally. He's at work. Remember that. The comedy club is a good place to meet a guy, but then after that, you want to remove yourselves from that situation. Set up a date for another time at a place that is not a comedy club. Most comics don't want to hang out in a comedy club if they aren't performing. They're there all the time. Comics are different than any other type of person you've ever met, in the same way that doctors are different from lawyers are different from anchorpersons. They all hang out in their own little world, but at the end of the day, everyone wants to be loved. Why not be loved by you?

Important Public Service Announcement
by Jessica Delfino & Kurt Metzger

This was sent out as a Believe Chicken mass email, but is based on a story I heard on the news.

I was watching the news tonight when I saw a story that brought one tear to my two eyes, so each eye had half a tear. In a borough of NYC somewhere, far, far away from the safe part where we all live, an elderly woman was raped by a young man of 16 or 17.

This upset me very deeply, because the elderly should not be getting raped. I have particular interest in this case, because my grandmother is elderly – and at high risk for rape.

Why are young people raping our elderly? I believe it is because there are no programs that teach our children how gross it is to have sex with the elderly. I propose an after school program where our adolescents will be brow beaten with stories of how disgusting even consensual sex with old people is, and strongly encouraged to stop raping them.

Together, we are delivering a message: Adolescents need to keep their hands on their books, and out of the giant bloomers of the elderly. The elderly should be respected, not bent over their little Rascals by hooligans.

This week at Believe Chicken, we want to help. Bring all your pictures of the oldest people you know. These photos will be distributed by us to children who we think are at risk of raping the elderly. We will also be voting on an anti-rape campaign slogan. Some suggestions are:

Nye means Nye
Don’t rape the Elderly – When they were young, bread was a nickel
Old People – They’re bad at fucking

Thank you.

Now to the funny!

BELIEVE CHICKEN –
@ Nightingale, 13th St. & 2nd Ave.
Showtime – 7 pm
Cheap Drinks - Happy Hour from 6-8 pm
Awesome DJ from 6-7 and then after the show
$2 cover
BELIEVE CHICKEN IS EVERY THURSDAY

Featuring your hosts Jessica Delfino & Liz Laufer
And a slew of comics:

Liam McEneaney
Andrea Rosen
Danny Cohen
Bernadette Pauley
Ray Field
Tom Daddario
Tom Padovano
Sasha Guilla
Sheldon Wickowitz

Also: starring special guests. It’s gonna be a great time, so make sure to come by, and don’t forget those photos.

Be There. Believe Chicken.

THE BOSTON COMEDY CLUB - EVERY WEDNESDAY FROM 7-9
It's an interesting format that you probably have never seen done before.
First, Jessica Delfino and Chelsea Peretti are in charge of this show. They get
on stage and sort of represent the comics, joking and getting the crowd 'ready'
for the show. Then, there are comedians who tell jokes on the show. There are six.
They are all funny (except for two of them, who I won't mention by name.)
The rest are funny. All of them. Except for those two.
THE BOSTON COMEDY CLUB
82 W. 3rd St. at Thompston St.
ACEFV to W. 4th ST.
NR to 8th
6 to Bleecker
Taxi to 82 W. 3rd St.
212-477-1000
$5 cover, one drink minimum (coffee or tea costs $2)

(How) I Got Off My Ass And Got On Drugs (Again)

I went through a very dark period of my life where I quit smoking marijuana. I don’t like to talk about it or really even think about it, but it was my life. It happened to me.

Every day of not being stoned was like a different day over and over again for me. There I’d be, just sitting, watching tv, eating a whole entire bag of donuts with one hand and a whole entire bag of popcorn or peanuts with the other, when I realized, you know what? I’m not stoned and I’m still engaging in the munchies like I never stopped smoking pot. I’ve got all the food and none of the buzz. I don’t like this feeling. It made me feel like I was truly on my way to being fat without any reason behind it. I didn’t want to be one of those fat people. I wanted to know exactly how it had happened. I wanted to be able to blame it on marijuana.

What is the most important thing in my life, I asked myself, hypothetically, not exactly expecting myself to answer out loud back to me. But strangely, I did answer myself. And this is what I said. “Marijuana, and comedy. Comedy is the most important thing to me. I love it. I like to make people laugh. I like to make myself laugh at myself making people laugh. There are many levels to it. It runs very deep. It’s sort of interesting, and at the same time not, really. Marijuana is the thing that makes comedy not feel so depressing and also makes eating for four fun.”

What I said really affected me. I was like, “Hey, wait a minute, me. You’ve got some really good insight here. But here you are, sitting on the couch, stuffing your face and not prioritizing. You know what is important to you, yet you are not doing that thing.”

And I had me. It was totally true. I should have been out doing comedy, my lips fresh off a fat doobie. So I called up my friend who is always quick to try to push a joint down my lungs. I said, “Hey. What are you doing?” And he was like, “Nothing.” And I was like, “I was wondering if you know any spots tonight?” And he was like, “Why don’t you come over and we’ll smoke this J, then we’ll go do a spot?” And I was like, “I don’t smoke weed.” And he was like, “It makes comedy fun and not depressing. Those are your words, you know.” And I was like, “I’ll be right over.”

I arrived with a bag of chips as an offering, because I don’t know how to pick wine out the right way. I gave him the chips. He was standing on a ladder, packing a fourteen foot bong. He was scooping the marijuana out of a cat litter bag with a pair of salad tongs. He looked at me like I’d just walked in on him wacking his bag off. And in a way, I felt like I had. I was like, “Um…I thought we were gonna smoke a J or whatever.” He was like, “Well, I have a lot of weed and you don’t smoke, so I figured I’d just make you help me smoke a lot of it.” So, smoke is what we did. I climbed up on top of that bong, and I huffed, and I puffed, and I fell over.

When I woke up, three days had passed. I was in a room in a house I’d never been in before. There was a lady named Fannie who was yelling at some dirty faced kids. There was also an older guy eating ice cream out of the container with a fork. I knew I had made the right decision to start smoking marijuana again. I think it was a Tuesday, because I had no idea what day it was, and that is usually the day I come around in the week and say, oh, yeah, it’s a new week.

So, I hope you’ve all learned something here. 1) Smoking marijuana kills the pain of following your dreams. 2) Smoking marijuana gives you multiple excuses to be able to do things that seem to be stupid ideas to others who are more organized in life. 3) I can’t not smoke weed because it’s not fun to not be stoned.

The Hudson Hotel

Tucked into a corner of midtown that I never would have noticed if it weren't for flames shooting out of the side of the building is a house where continental trend followers and New Yorkers in the 'no' set up shoppe. You would guess the place is kewl from the outside fire holders shining away as if to light some kind of medieval cavern. Here, capped men stand in appropriate costume, waiting, gloved, to open the door for a Hermes suitcase set and it's owners, Mr. Foreign Currency and Ms. Cigarette filter, whom, by the way, are NOT married. As soon as you walk in, a hot blast of air presents you with the personna you need to enter this world.

Up the yellowed escalator you go into a city of dark wood and beautiful everythings everywhere you look. The music sings itself to you without you even noticing you've never heard the words to the song before. The hotel, which you wouldn't even be able to call it if it weren't for the fact that people pay money to sleep in private rooms equipped with beds and showers, is basically divided into four parts to the average lay-success story.

First, to the left is a set of elevators. Walk towards them. Now, turn right. A long hallway/tunnel shows you the way to the best room in the house. The Library has books, but you can't reach them. They line the wall for hours, high and far away, tempting the literate in all of us. Will we never get to touch said sweet spines and caress silken pages from out of print versions of obscure titles and glorious masterpieces? A stranger and I had a deep and thought-provoking discussion about whether or not the books were even real. They look like a photo, perfectly stacked and set, side by side, paper backs slid in for effect, a pathway around them, taunting you to step.

The real books line the walls - gigantic versions of intelligence, shocked with images of innocent pornography or architecture. Photo books for dummies to peruse - famous buildings, Maraini, Robert Mangold, Brassai - books that people who don't like to read distract themselves with. Party pieces. Table clutter. Every one as beautiful, large and oblivious as the next.

A studio apartment sized pool table spends it's time lounging in the middle of the room, befriended only by 4 enormous wooden pillars. Does anyone even care? It is ornate - polished, sexy, creature-like, always entertaining, being touched and admired, swallowing balls.

Two chess actual tables keep in the far corners of the room, but mostly serve as a place to set vodka gimlets, merlot and ashtrays, which are never full, none of these things. The nearest neighbors are two flat screen computer monitors accompanied by a mini-virtualy indestructible keyboard and a remote hard drive, connected, of course, to the internet. But who's checking their e-mail? No one.

The furniture - leather, except for an occasional brushed metal chair. Everything a warm tan. It makes you want to sit on it, sin on it, become friends with it, lounge, rub, nap, drink as you perch upon it, suck you in. Welcome to the Hotel California in New York City, the truest devil town.

Let us take a look at the fireplace before we walk out, because there IS one. No where else in NYC have I seen an actual working, burning fire place, so this is something to behold. So, there it is. Back we go, out the long corridor, past the elevators, here, we turn left - this way - and walk through the lobby past the mile or so of registration desk. At the end of the horizon line of counter space, to the right we see the velvet roped entrance to the Hudson's own personal nightclub. I don't care for the nightclub so much because I am a terrible dancer, except when I am drunk, when I magically take on a talent for the dance, just before embarrassing myself via vomit. Dancer or not, I do like the space. The floor glows, the alcohol flows like alcohol, into my mouth, people stake out every square inch of this sceney room. The music is loud and I am feeling too drunk to keep my balance, so out we go again to the restaurant.

Straight down we stumble, until we reach the 30 foot ceilinged 'cafeteria' as they call it. Hmm. When I think of cafeteria, I think of a place where at age 6, I once hiked up my knee skirt until it became a mini, pulled my shirt down and filled my lunch tray with wierd pizza, mashed potatoes and some kind of bean. At the end of the line, the lunch lady firmly grabbed the hem of my skirt and much to my shagrin, yanked in down, down, down, back into place. I don't, however, think of long mahogany tables, end capped with huge cathedral chairs, a truly delightful waitstaff, a menu decked with food items so pleasing to the stomach they could only be from another planet, and the sexiest foreign men you ever saw to your left, right and across the way. Everything you eat there is prepared with the 'best' in mind. This is going to be the 'best' Macaroni and Cheese foie gras you ever had. The 'best' lobster bisque, tomato and mozzarella salad, penne pasta with shrimp and tomato. It's so good, you don't even mind that you are so full you have to force feed yourself the last few bites of your banana split and that the check for four totalled $273.

Finally are the rooms. Thank the waitstaff, sign your room tab, and follow me back around to the elevators. Into the elevators we go, which are a party in themselves. The walls of the elevators are lined with some funky metal that makes you feel like you're in a space ship. Music plays so you don't get bored for the 45 seconds it takes you to get upstairs. Once to your floor, you are greeted by a sci-fi looking lobby where you can purchase snacks, get ice or sit and talk for awhile with the man you met at the bar before you make your final decision as to whether or not he should get to see you o.

Back to the room, you go. It's been a long night of partying, eating, barring, fireplacing, poolside conversating, leather chair sinning, wooden floor taking in-ing and now it's time to watch bedroom shadows. The rooms are tiny. Two people are too many. The bathroom shower has a transparent wall so the relative who you are sharing the room with can watch you shower from the bed. There is a small tv up in the corner, a miniature desk, a hallway just big enough for a starving model to slip through, and a bed so big, you can't think of anything else you've ever wanted to do more in your entire life than undress and lie down, dreams already forming behind your eyes. But due to the practically flawless course of the evening, it almost seems like enough just to sleep - at the Hudson Hotel, dreams are a plush, sweet, classy bonus.

WE INTERRUPT YOUR LIFE TO BRING YOU A BIT

By day, I'm a jobless, hopeless, meandering freak. I wander from subway car on the 6 to subway car on the N or R, sometimes W, watching people, listening, waiting for something interesting to happen that can be morphed somehow into a crowd pleasing bit. Sometimes something happens. A fat lady carries a large bundle of inflated balloons? Where? What is she, a big fat clown in the circus? What is her agenda? A drunken bum yells at an invisible person sitting next to me because the train never takes him where he wants to go. He stands up and shows the empty seat his torn pants - sliced clean through, as if cut with a knife. What does this mean? Was he in a bum fight? Is this even funny?

Sometimes jokes are born not in the outside world, but in my head, as if by radio broadcast. I'm sitting, eating a cracker, when, blammo! A joke about getting kissed at a lesbian christmas party under the camel toe crawls out of my ear and punches me in the face. As long as I hear, feel, smell, whatever, that little vibration, that 'joke alert' sensation that I am so familiar with, the joke is alive, and soon to be down on paper. Maybe it will make it to the stage later on when I go back through the day's musings. But most of my jokes have the life span of a fruit fly, and are dead even before they get to reproduce or grow wings.

At night, I am a comedian. I get to let my little ones go out into the world. I pick them up, I throw them off the roof, I try to teach them how to fly. Many of them fall to the ground and break their legs, I can see the future before they even hit the tops of the people's heads. But every once in a while, a strong one comes along, as if given to me as a gift, when I'm not even supposed to be able to have this privilige. A special one. The inspiration for the joke, the father, who I don't even remember sleeping with - a cracker, a banana, a ride on the bus. A piece of gum flattened onto the sidewalk. The cold-ass wind. So many forces of nature, modes of transporation and pieces of food are responsible for impregnating me.

That's where I find the little fat babies, because most of my friends are evening friends. At night, we congregate and talk and mutter and write things down in the dark rooms, and we share insight and we talk shit and we complain and we fear the future, all together at the very same time in the same moment. But during the day, I'm a jobless, hopeless, meandering freak, and like a homeless person looking for leftovers, I wander from subway car, to subway car.....

It's been a while since I've written my last blog, with it being the holiday season and all, I've been very lazy.

I'm not a huge fan of the holidays. I say 'the holidays' like I'm referring to a fancy part of Long Island where rich people hang out all summer and take all the good parking spots at the beach with their antique volvos and saabs to show they've still got good old fashioned values. But what I'm actually referring to is Christmas and New Year's, in case you thought I meant Hannukah or Kwanza or Happy Present Day or whatever other ethnic holiday you might have confused 'the holidays' for. I mean, the holidays aren't the worst thing I've ever smelled, but I've never been one for celebrating other people's birthdays. It's not that I am not happy to celebrate the life of a friend, it's just that I never know what to get people. So I usually just end up getting them nothing. This works fine on my own birthday, where I give myself no presents. But it is annoying to my friends and loved ones, I'm sure. Or I make them something, which normally you might find to be cute but lately the things I've been making have gotten more slackful. I don't think that's a word, but let's go with it. Last year I made my sister a pair of binoculars out of two green bean cans.

It is late now, very very late on the eve of the New Year, and I am still awake, a little bit drunk from the evening before the eve of the new year which has now turned to New Year's eve morn. I don't know what to do with myself. I've been considering going to sleep but that would be too insincere. I don't care about sleeping. Why pretend I do?

So I wrote a list of my new year's resolutions. This year - I resolve to:
1. Find out what it 'really' means to be from Maine.
I'm from Maine. I drink Poland Spring water. Poland Spring 'claims' that is what it means to be from Maine. Yet, I don't buy it. There's something else I need to know. This year, I'm gonna find out, even if it means I have to go camping and technically, I'm probably too old to go on any more camping trips because every one knows that a camping trip is just an excuse to eat psychadelic mushrooms, and I've eaten so many. No more camping trips for me after I #1.

2. Eat more things that begin with the letter R.
I realized recently, there are so many things that begin with the letter R that I NEVER eat that sound so delicious. Rhubarb pie, radishes, raisins, rotwursts, the list goes on and on. Well, the last three don't seem so appetizing, but I bet if you put them into a pie, they'd be pretty damn tasty. I'm going to change my #2 resolution to: Make more pies out of foods that begin with the letter R.

3. Categorize my shoes by color more better often.
Right now, all my shoes are just thrown around my closet and apartment like so many goofy retarded children. This is not only not right, it's not fair to me or my shoes. THIS is the year when I am going to separate my shoes from the pile of shoes they usually play in, and pair them, and arrange them by color, more, better, often. The time is now! I'm getting older. I have to keep that in mind.

4. Start reading more porn.
I watch plenty of porn. But I bet the book versions are even better than the movies. I bet there's a lot of stuff the movies left out because they couldn't put it into words or fit it into the demanding time frame of a cinematic experience. Plus, I see more and more Mexicans every day reading porn on the train. If it's good enough for them, it's new year's resolution #4 for me.

5. Definitely lose weight, and if I can't do that, I'll try to lose some height.
I try to exercise but rarely do, I eat right a lot, several times a day, diet, maintain solid eating disorders, read vanity magazines, compare myself to models and actresses, stress over my clothes being too tight, compare myself to friends, compare my ass to strange womens' and gay mens' asses on the streets, wear tight fitting clothes to seem skinnier than I am, rarely go out in the daylight, do all the fashion tricks like wear a lot of black horizontal stripes to appear slim, starve myself, eat those low-fat chips with the stuff in them that makes you immediately shit them out, eat lots of them, especially after a big meal, eat low carbs, high proteins, low fat, high vegetable, low calorie, high nutritional, never ever ever look in mirrors because I am sick of replacing mirrors I have freaked out on, never stand on scales because it makes my personality take an immediate nosedive and do every thing else I have been trained to do by myself since I decided, for no apparent reason, one day long ago, when I was six, that I was fat. But I just stay the same FUCKING size. So this year, if I don't lose weight, I'm chopping off my feet to the shins. That'll definitely lighten the load by a good twenty pounds. In this day and age, I can cut off my feet, have them replaced by super light weight prosthetics and be up in time to go jogging the next day. So why not? People are getting their stomachs stapled shut! How about getting their mouths stapled shut! On to:

6. Get a fish, I think. One that eats people. While they're sleeping. In another state.
I don't know if there is a creature like this that exists, but I dreamed about something like that once, and if there is some wonderful fish like this, my #6 resolution will be to find it and keep it. There are a lot of people who live in other states (you know who you are) who deserve to get eaten by a fish while they're sleeping in the other state they live in. So, I'll make good use of it for awhile, then one day forget to feed it, watch it float for a few days, then eat it. Is that technically cannibalism? Who cares?

7. Make more friends, faster, without trying harder, easier, more often by using some kind of machine.
My mother always used to tell me, if you have two good friends, you are very lucky. I am so lucky. I've got like twelveteen. And I could probably use a lot more. So I'm going to try to come up with a machine that makes me make more friends, faster, without trying harder, easier, more often. This should be the easiest resolution on my list.

8. Replace my watch band with some yarn or one of those really thick rubber bands. That'd be original.
I'm never doing original things enough. I guess this resolution should really be, try to be more original. I'm always copying the newest pop star. Last week I totally copied Linda Rondstat by wearing rollerskates and five days ago I smoked crack like Whitney Houston. On the birthday of milord! So, maybe I'll just try to be more original. I'm gonna get a monkey to answer my phone from now on. Who else has a monkey who answers their phone? No one. Not even the president.

9. Make a commitment to my country to be more into my country and stick by it this time.
No more God Bless Puerto Rico or God Bless France stickers on my bumper. And the old stickers are coming off.

10. Try very hard to meet a man who's face is mashed up like hamburger meat and love him for the great man or artist that he is.
This one is self explanatory. I'm sick of loving beautiful men with no soul!

Some of these are going to be harder than others. Pray for me.

And bless you all! Every one! Except for anyone who doesn't like me. You should be seeing my fish soon.

Here's a story I wrote which will be printed in the next version of Backwash Magazine. www.backwashmagazine.com

Fun in Buskerville

By Jessica Delfino

Any where you go in New York City, you can find some kind of musician hard at work, singing for their supper. I’ve seen a sitar player performing at an Indian food restaurant on Bleecker St., two hopped-up crack smokers jamming out to the music in their heads in a seedy dive in Alphabet city, and at a coke bar in the outskirts of Brooklyn, I was thoroughly entertained by a Polish lady as she sang a native song, sans microphone, to a tape playing in a cassette deck.

That’s just a glimpse of the above ground New York music scene. But down below, there’s a whole other music scene that is growing and morphing into something bigger than anything anyone ever expected it to become. Take any train in any direction and get off at just about any stop in Manhattan, and you’ll see the ‘underground’ music scene, alive and well. Take the A,C or E train going up or down town, and walk through the long tunnel that leads from the A,C,E train to the N,R,1,9. There, you’ll see a man with one arm, beating a drum, slowly and just south of rhythmically. You’ll see a three piece Mexican guitar band, complete with sombreros atop the head and ponchos thrown over the shoulders. Don’t try to tip them in pesos, though! They only take American dollars and change.

Get on the N or R and take it downtown to Union Square. There on every platform is a musician exercising a different genre of music. Near the stairs to the L train, a 14-piece band complete with oboe and accordion gives passers-by wedding-y sounding songs to think about their problems to, while two girls pass out literature about the band’s upcoming performances. On the L platform, a very handsome young guitarist and his friend who plays the ground, garbage pail and various buckets with a set of drumsticks create a really nice pop and roll sound that the Brooklyn-ites can really dig while they wait for the train to take them to the Bedford stop.

This is a much different music scene, and subway experience all together than it used to be just 5 or so years ago.

“When I used to come into the city, I hated to take the subway, I tried never to take it at night. It was not well-lit and it was filthy. Only homeless people and degenerates were down here,” says James, 36, a graphic designer from Monmouth County, NJ.

Now, not only is the subway illuminated by a series of fluorescent lights that runs in a chain from one end of the platform to the other, but it is a hustle and bustle of people from all walks of life, all background and financial income brackets.

The MTA allows musicians to play down under on their turf mostly because, according to a poll that was taken in the 70’s, the sound of the music and the fact that it is real people playing that music gives the public a feeling of safety and calm. Technically, you are required by the MTA to have a permit to perform in the subway. But as far as anyone with any say is concerned and this is known simply by taking a look around you on any given day, anyone can play in the subway, homeless, creepy, talented or not. Panhandling is illegal according to NY law. It is also illegal to use an amplifying device such as an amp or cordless microphone. However, it is not illegal to just hang out and play your guitar. And, if by chance, someone thinks you’re doing a fine job and would like to give you a tip, that is what is known as a ‘loophole.’

The MTA does issue permits once a year. There is a whole rigamarole that goes along with trying to get a permit. You have to send a tape in, and an application, and it’s a process. Then, there’s no guarantee that you’ll even get one. While most stations won’t hassle you if you are playing on their platform, there are some places where it is more difficult to get away with playing without a permit. At Grand Central Station, they will promptly escort you out of the terminal train area. If you are lucky, they won’t ticket you, but they can and certainly will. Most musicians won’t meet too much opposition, though, and can play wherever they like, for as long as they like, and that’s that.

Some people are really against musicians playing in the subways. They think it takes away from the homeless people who are singing and trying to make money panhandling. But let’s face it, many of the homeless people playing music out there aren’t that good. They have no rhythm, they can’t hold a note, and they have no sense of musical style. They’re not in it for the love, they’re only in it for the money. Some are pretty decent. I’ve seen one or two singing on the actual subway cars in deep baritone voices, cups out, garbage bag shoes on, really making an effort.

There’s always a funny story we’ve heard with an interesting angle a person has taken to make a few bucks, such as the man who gets on the subway car and sings in the most hideous voice ever. Then after a few minutes he says to the people, “Pay me to stop!”

People who perform in the subways for money are known as “buskers” and are actually much more common in Europe. Really within the last ten years is when they started to pick up in the US, and mostly in New York City due to the large subway system. A sharp rise is always noted during the holidays and weekends when the subways are filled with tourists.

I did a short stint as a busker a year or so back. It was pretty fun, except for a few things that sucked. One thing was, I lived in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, ten blocks from the subway. So I’d have to travel with my guitar to the subway, and then take the subway into my spot in Manhattan. It was almost harder then just getting a regular job. Then, to make matters worse, I’d have to carry my guitar in a hardcase because I didn’t have one of those soft backpack guitar cases that all the richer, cooler guitar kids had. It was very heavy and I kept having to switch hands. Due to that, my forearms got big and strong, like Popeye, which looks weird on a girl. Also, at first when I started, I decided to go to the A,C,E stop on West 4th, because it looked like a busy spot with a cool, rich, generous young crowd. I was right. I’d clean up there, making sometimes $50 or so bucks in an hour. But then one day, a crazy guitarist came along and made me leave. He was like, “Hey, this is my spot.” And I was like, “Well I don’t see your name on it.” And he was like, “Listen, bitch, I’ve been coming to this spot for four years. You’ve gotta go.” And I was like, “Let’s ask the people who they want to stay, you or me.” And he was like, “You’ve gotta finish your song, close your case up and go.” And I was like, “Whatever. ‘You pave paradise…put up a parking lot! Shooo! La La La La!” And he was like, “I’m talking to you, bitch. You better beat it or else I’m gonna get really pissed off.” And he hissed at me. And he was missing some teeth. And he was willing to fight over the spot. And he looked very ready and able to hit a girl. He looked like he’d probably hit many girls over the course of the years, which had not been good to him. And then I realized what the people meant when they said things like, “You shouldn’t play in the subway because it’s dangerous,” and by people, I mean my mom. And I also realized what other people meant when they said, “You shouldn’t play in the subway because you’re taking a job away from a homeless person.”

So, I rounded up my $35 in change, packed up my guitar, packed up my busking stint, and got a job no homeless person could take away from me – a job at Barnes and Noble. And so far, they have never asked me to play my guitar in the store, or in front of the store, or even behind the store. They like me to be as quiet as possible, generally.

Lots of people have a good life playing in the subway. They play songs, and they make a CD, and maybe a record executive hears them and gives them a lucky break, as was the case with Patty What’s Her Face on the 1995-ish album ‘Between the 1 and the 9’ (named after the subway line she could regularly be found performing on) featuring that song, “I can roll myself on down the line, telling everybody that I’m just fine….” You know the one, don’t you? Well? Don’t you?

Subway musicians come and go, and come and go and lately they’ve been coming more and going less. It’s getting pretty busy down there, what with the musicians and religious word spreaders, and the plain old change beggars, and then the actual people who ride the train. But if you live in or are even just visiting New York City, you have to take it all in and accept it, because it’s not going anywhere. As long as there’s a subway, in the subway, there will be panhandlers and beggars and commuters and performers and dancers and freaks and rats. It’s just a small sliver of what makes this city so stinkin’ neat.