CHALLENGE WINNER and A BIT OF BACK HISTORY REGARDING ONCE HAVING BEEN A KLEPTOMANIAC
by Jessica Delfino
OK, I am going to award Joe with my pretty new shiny free CD for his reply to the Delfino/Flavorpill Challenge.
His answer was as follows:
I would be Edgar Bubblewrapbutt. Then every time a woman would pinch my ass it would make that fun popping sound. As much as folks can't resist popping bubblewrap, imagine how many chicks would line up just to pinch my ass! What the hell, guys line up too. I'm confident in my heterosexual-bubblewrap-ity.
Congratulations, Joe. Please e-mail me and tell me where to send it.
I'd like to give a runner-up honorable mention to Echocat because I really like the idea of being able to sniff white out all day long at a boring day job. That's my kind of party.
All the rest of you - if this was an advertising agency, you'd all be fired. Me, too. I didn't win my tickets. I guess that means I suck. But I get the last laugh - I've already seen Edward Scissorhands. I just like to get things for free. Who doesn't?
I've gotten lots of great shit for free. But when I say free, I mean free of monetary payment. Everything, unfortunately, usually has a price of some kind. I have gotten several free computers from several different men with crushes on me. One guy gave me a computer then he indian gave it to me when he realized computer or not, we weren't fucking. I should have just refused to accept it, but it was really awesome to be given a computer, especially when you don't have one, which I didn't. Plus, he pretended it was a Christmas present. This was several years ago - I guess I was 22. So young and naive. And dumb.
Then, I got a computer from my friend Victor who is just an awesome friend. He had bought a new computer and he gave me his old one. It was a few years old and really not worth too much to him anymore but the sentiment was stellar. He didn't even have a crush on me or anything. Most of the gifts I get are usually in affiliation with someone wanting to have sex with me which really bugs me.
NOTE: If you want to give me something, don't expect me to have sex with you. I might have sex with you because I want to have sex with you, but not because you are giving me something. Also, by you, I mean the proverbial "you." And not you, or you, or you, guy in the back.
I got a laptop from a friend of mine who has a lot of faith in my writing ability. He was a rich old guy who owned a company that got sold and he just swiped a few laptops as gifts for friends and relatives. It was old but nice and yes, he wanted to fuck me. Even old guys - god dammit!
When I was younger, guys used to give me stuff for free all the time. Now that I am older, I am less inclined to accept such gifts because I know that free is a synonym, or perhaps I daresay a sin-o-nym.
I will, however, accept free meals on almost all occasions because I love to eat out at restaurants but don't have the money to do that so often. So, someone has to be either a huge slimeball or just have really bad timing for me to not take them up on a free hot lunch. And I don't mean the sexual innuendo hot lunch that Sylvester Stallone is said to engage in from time to time, and by time to time, I probably mean every day for all I or anyone else knows, for that matter.
I will also accept free advice or tips or compliments, always. And media. I love to find free magazines at the doctors office or the dentist's office. I guess technically, that's stealing, but hey, I didn't say how it becomes free or if that matters. Free is free, stolen or paid for.
I used to be a kleptomaniac when I lived in Maine. It's sad but true. In my small, no future for kids who stay there town of Damariscotta, there was nothing to do. We would walk down to the back town boat landing and throw rocks at horse shoe crabs, we would smoke in a barn in an abandoned construction lot, we would walk around like little sluts and talk to guys who were a lot older than us. We would disobey our parents and drink beer in various friend's cars and at people's houses where there wasn't any parental supervision. It was only a matter of time before I learned that I could get things for free if I simply put them in my pocket. I remember the first thing I ever stole. It was a bag of kitty treats for my kitty. I was 9 or 10. My mom and I had gone to the grocery store and I asked her if she would buy them for me to give to my kitty, Rags. She said no, so I just put them in my pocket. When we got home, I tried to feed them to my cat, but she didn't like them. She turned her little kitty nose at them and walked away. So, I picked them up and put them in my desk drawer. Later, my mom came in and looked in my desk for a pen. She found the kitty treats and beat hell into me. She was so pissed.
But did I stop there? No. A year or so later, my two friends and I were out cruising the streets on foot and we came upon the town hamburger shack (this was before McDonald's had bought it's way into town) and hid behind it to smoke A cigarette - one per the three of us. As we were back there rattling around, my one friend who was like an investigative little cat, jumped up on the ledge and looked in through the window and noticed the window was unlocked. She opened it and climbed in. While she was shimmying her little body through the window, I turned the door handle and opened it right up as her feet were smacking onto the ground on the other side. We went in and walked around the 10x10 space, scoping out what might be worth taking. There were some boxes of soda and chips and we carried them back to her house and munched out. Her boyfriend, who was like 16 and is now dead (he died in a drunk driving accident when he was maybe 19 or 20) was storing his Camaro in her garage. We sat in his Camaro and ate chips and drank soda and listened to the radio and smoked another cigarette or two. We really knew how to party. We decided to split up the soda and chips and take them home, telling our parents that one of us was going to have a party and bought all the stuff and then the party got cancelled so the treats were given away. I took mine home and told my mom the story, and it worked. We sat and ate chips and drank soda and laughed and had a great time on the front porch, watching the sun set. It was very easy to entertain ourselves back in the day, especially in a town with so little going on as Damariscotta. I prayed inside that my mom never find out the true story about the chips because I knew she would murder me if she did. As we were eating the chips, the phone rang and my mom went to get it. I could tell it wasn't good because, well, you know how you can listen in on the open end of a phone conversation and just know if it's good or not. A few minutes later my ass was red and I was crying, chips everywhere. What happened was the girl with the dead boyfriend and Camaro in her garage, she bragged to her step-mom about what we had done, and she called mine and the other girl's parents and ratted us out.
From there, things got more elaborate. My friend Rachel and I would steal make up from Waltz Rexall and then go home and dump it out on my bedroom floor, pouring over the items we had stolen and trading various colors and pieces. We would steal cigarettes from the Puffin Stop or Maritime Farms gas stations where they just kept them right out in front on the counter for any sticky fingered punk to help themselves to.
My friend Robin got a car and we began to take our thievery on the road. We would drive to Brunswick and steal jeans from Sears. We even stole our prom dresses that year. We would just put them on under whatever we were wearing and walk out of the store with them. There were no security tags or anything back then and it was like Sears was begging us to rob them with their blind trust of everyone.
I almost sort of got busted once though, when we went to Ames in Wiscasset. I painted my fingernails with some pink polish and put it back down in place. As I was walking out the door I got stopped by a snaggle-toothen froofy haired security bitch who really looked like she was just a white trash shopper. They had really nailed the part when they hired her. She took me up into a little glass room and searched me. She found nothing on me and so she let me call my boyfriend, who at the time was Steve the fisherman who drove a Ford pick-up truck, to come and get me as I was a minor, but I was living with Steve, which made Steve my legal guardian. (My father had already given up on me and kicked me out at this point - I think I was 16.) She then took me downstairs and we got what we thought was the bottle of nail polish I'd painted my fingers with, in addition to three other bottles just in case the one we'd picked wasn't it. Steve had to buy them all for me, they were 2.88 each. He was not happy. He didn't talk to me all the way home.
All my friends were little kleptos, too. Man, I could go on and on with this, I have so many childhood thief stories but I think I've told so many strangers enough personal depressing information about myself. I guess this is part of the reason I am the way I am today. I'd probably be a piece of trash if I weren't so smart and sophisticated. Thank God for that, then.
Monday, December 29, 2003
Tuesday, December 23, 2003
FLAVORPILL CHALLENGE - More like Delfino Challenge
There is an event listings e-mail that I get every week with fun things to do around the city. It is called "Flavorpill." I used to write for them. One thing that makes their
e-mail so cool is that they ask you questions and if they like your answers, they'll
give you free tickets to see shows. This was their question for the midnight showing
of Edward Scissorhands at the Sunshine Theater, and my reply.
Tell us which office supply you would want permanently implanted in your body.
Our favorite six answers each win a pair of tickets to this film.
It might be cool to have stapler hands - Edwin Staplehands. Then if someone
was shit talking you could staple their mouths shut. And if someone was
eating too much holiday food, you could staple their tongues to the roofs
of their mouths. And if someone was being a slut - well, you get the idea.
So.....let's see if I win. I won tickets to see Marc Maron's one man show once with an answer I sent in. I'd be interested to see what other answers might have been.
Write your answers in my bulletin board section and my favorite answer will get
a free copy of my brand new awesome CD.
There is an event listings e-mail that I get every week with fun things to do around the city. It is called "Flavorpill." I used to write for them. One thing that makes their
e-mail so cool is that they ask you questions and if they like your answers, they'll
give you free tickets to see shows. This was their question for the midnight showing
of Edward Scissorhands at the Sunshine Theater, and my reply.
Tell us which office supply you would want permanently implanted in your body.
Our favorite six answers each win a pair of tickets to this film.
It might be cool to have stapler hands - Edwin Staplehands. Then if someone
was shit talking you could staple their mouths shut. And if someone was
eating too much holiday food, you could staple their tongues to the roofs
of their mouths. And if someone was being a slut - well, you get the idea.
So.....let's see if I win. I won tickets to see Marc Maron's one man show once with an answer I sent in. I'd be interested to see what other answers might have been.
Write your answers in my bulletin board section and my favorite answer will get
a free copy of my brand new awesome CD.
Who Makes Things That I Invent?
by Jessica Delfino
I have a bunch of ideas for inventions but nowhere to send them. I don't have any idea how anything gets made.
I guess the first thing I need is a mock up of some kind. How do I get that? Do I have to go to The Art Institute of New York's tool and dye program and get someone to make a mold for me? Or is tool and dye even a thing that people do anymore?
Then, I have one. So I take that one to companies? To the bank? I show it to them and say, hey, you don't know me. You wanna give me a bunch of money so I can make this? Or maybe I try to find someone who's rich, I dunno - pick him up in a bar or something. Pretend I just hang out at the 4 Seasons bar all the time and saunter over, asking him to light my cigarette, because in the 4 Seasons hotel bar you CAN smoke, because rich people can do whatever they want to.
Then, say he gives me a bunch of money to make this project - after I've finished blowing him or whatever it is I have to do to get him to say he'll give me the money. Because men don't just give you money to make things when you're a girl unless there's something in it for them - more money or some pussy or the opportunity to run for some kind of political office or meet a celebrity. I'm walking out with some kind of business plan, wiping his semen off my lips. Then where do I go from there?
I'll tell you where - I guess I make a phone call to a friend maybe who has friends who live in some third world country or in China or Tibet or Chile and I say, hey, get your friend to hook us up with a group of children who are interested in making $2.50 a day, wait - it's Christmas - $3.50 a day. So he makes some calls, the only reason he does this is because we used to have sex and he used to enjoy it very much, or perhaps he thinks there might be something in it for him - money or someone else's pussy (he already had mine) or the opportunity to run for some kind of political office or meet a celebrity. Sure enough, he finds a warehouse in the back brush of some country I didn't even know existed and offers them $3.50 a day. Well, of course they leap at the prospect of making that kind of money and insist on starting the project a day earlier than whatever day I want to start, and will work for free that day because they are so glad to be working at all. I say, no, I have to pay you for that day, because what's $3.50 to me? It's a milkshake or a pair of vintage gold shoes I will buy from some homeless guy on the sidewalk.
A week later, they have made 40,000 of my gazmos and are carrying them to America by hand on a ship where they have to sleep in three inches of water every night. When they get here, they are drenched but the merchandise is dry because it got to sit in the beds where there is no water.
I pay some man with a van a hundred dollars to go and pick up the shipment and drop it off in my living room. I open up an account on Ebay or Amazon.com and take a digital photo with my new camera. I put the pic up and people start buying them like crazy, at $4.50 a pop.
Before I know it, I'm rich. I give the fat rich man back the money I 'borrowed' from him but I actually had earned it, and I buy a house in Connecticut and one in Belize and one in San Francisco, in addition to the condo I relocate to in Manhattan.
I hire people to come over and run errands for me and do work on the condo. I make them work naked. They will do whatever I ask them to because I will pay top dollar just to have my every wish be their command.
Soon, I sell so many gazmos, IBM or Hasbro comes to me and says, HEY! We want to buy the blueprint for your gazmos and we'll give you a few million bucks, what say you? And I say, no. Then they come back and say, HEY! We'll give you a few million more bucks, what say you? And I say, no. Then, they come back and say, HEY! We'll give you a billion bucks and a car and a house and a man and a pair of gold earrings and you can star in a movie and we'll make it so that you are the first female to fly into a black hole or, whatever you want, we can make it happen. So I say, OK. Then, I buy my mom a house and my sisters and send my siblings and cousins to college and maybe I start a trust fund for poor people.
Ahhhh - all thanks to a great little idea I had in a dream. But I didn't do any of that. I still have my inventions. They are in my head and they will stay there forever and one day I'll be dead and my inventions will be dead, too, dead and buried with my head. Because I won't ever get to make them, because I don't invent shit and I don't know how to make a millionaire worship me and give me money and even if one did, I'd be too grossed out to take advantage of that.
Guess I'll just stick to working my shitty temp jobs and writing out my fantasies out on my blog.
by Jessica Delfino
I have a bunch of ideas for inventions but nowhere to send them. I don't have any idea how anything gets made.
I guess the first thing I need is a mock up of some kind. How do I get that? Do I have to go to The Art Institute of New York's tool and dye program and get someone to make a mold for me? Or is tool and dye even a thing that people do anymore?
Then, I have one. So I take that one to companies? To the bank? I show it to them and say, hey, you don't know me. You wanna give me a bunch of money so I can make this? Or maybe I try to find someone who's rich, I dunno - pick him up in a bar or something. Pretend I just hang out at the 4 Seasons bar all the time and saunter over, asking him to light my cigarette, because in the 4 Seasons hotel bar you CAN smoke, because rich people can do whatever they want to.
Then, say he gives me a bunch of money to make this project - after I've finished blowing him or whatever it is I have to do to get him to say he'll give me the money. Because men don't just give you money to make things when you're a girl unless there's something in it for them - more money or some pussy or the opportunity to run for some kind of political office or meet a celebrity. I'm walking out with some kind of business plan, wiping his semen off my lips. Then where do I go from there?
I'll tell you where - I guess I make a phone call to a friend maybe who has friends who live in some third world country or in China or Tibet or Chile and I say, hey, get your friend to hook us up with a group of children who are interested in making $2.50 a day, wait - it's Christmas - $3.50 a day. So he makes some calls, the only reason he does this is because we used to have sex and he used to enjoy it very much, or perhaps he thinks there might be something in it for him - money or someone else's pussy (he already had mine) or the opportunity to run for some kind of political office or meet a celebrity. Sure enough, he finds a warehouse in the back brush of some country I didn't even know existed and offers them $3.50 a day. Well, of course they leap at the prospect of making that kind of money and insist on starting the project a day earlier than whatever day I want to start, and will work for free that day because they are so glad to be working at all. I say, no, I have to pay you for that day, because what's $3.50 to me? It's a milkshake or a pair of vintage gold shoes I will buy from some homeless guy on the sidewalk.
A week later, they have made 40,000 of my gazmos and are carrying them to America by hand on a ship where they have to sleep in three inches of water every night. When they get here, they are drenched but the merchandise is dry because it got to sit in the beds where there is no water.
I pay some man with a van a hundred dollars to go and pick up the shipment and drop it off in my living room. I open up an account on Ebay or Amazon.com and take a digital photo with my new camera. I put the pic up and people start buying them like crazy, at $4.50 a pop.
Before I know it, I'm rich. I give the fat rich man back the money I 'borrowed' from him but I actually had earned it, and I buy a house in Connecticut and one in Belize and one in San Francisco, in addition to the condo I relocate to in Manhattan.
I hire people to come over and run errands for me and do work on the condo. I make them work naked. They will do whatever I ask them to because I will pay top dollar just to have my every wish be their command.
Soon, I sell so many gazmos, IBM or Hasbro comes to me and says, HEY! We want to buy the blueprint for your gazmos and we'll give you a few million bucks, what say you? And I say, no. Then they come back and say, HEY! We'll give you a few million more bucks, what say you? And I say, no. Then, they come back and say, HEY! We'll give you a billion bucks and a car and a house and a man and a pair of gold earrings and you can star in a movie and we'll make it so that you are the first female to fly into a black hole or, whatever you want, we can make it happen. So I say, OK. Then, I buy my mom a house and my sisters and send my siblings and cousins to college and maybe I start a trust fund for poor people.
Ahhhh - all thanks to a great little idea I had in a dream. But I didn't do any of that. I still have my inventions. They are in my head and they will stay there forever and one day I'll be dead and my inventions will be dead, too, dead and buried with my head. Because I won't ever get to make them, because I don't invent shit and I don't know how to make a millionaire worship me and give me money and even if one did, I'd be too grossed out to take advantage of that.
Guess I'll just stick to working my shitty temp jobs and writing out my fantasies out on my blog.
Monday, December 22, 2003
Christmas Bump and Grind
by Jessica Delfino
This story is not about how much I hate Christmas or getting laid on Christmas or anything like that. It's much more dyer and sincere.
I have been noticing lately that more and more people are just crashing into me when they walk. Just because it's Christmas doesn't mean it's okay for everyone to slam into me when they are sauntering down the street. I try not to take it personally, but I can't help but wonder - if I was 6 feet 5' 300 pound black man, would people still be jabbing me as they pass by? The answer is a probable no. Unless they themselves were a 6 feet 5' 300 pound black man.
Is it that hard to look around and know how far away the person near you to your right or left is and not smack into them with elbows or hips or purses or shopping bags or shoulders? Every time I go outside I am getting checked by strangers. And what did I do to deserve it? I'll tell you what - nothing. NOTHING!
I think it might have something to do with the fact that everyone is out in full force, shopping and what not and everyone is anxious to hurry up and get done shopping and then hurry up and get home. But for the love of Christ, after all, it is his birthday, don't bump into me, fuckers.
Sometimes I accidently bump into random people. I am usually never walking anywhere without carrying a guitar and a purse, sometimes also a bag of clothes that I have purchased at the Stuyvesant Thrift Store on 2nd Ave near 88th Street or a baggie with a soda and a buttered bagel in it or what have me. But when I do, I usually turn around and say, "Oh, sorry," or "Didn't see you there," or "What the fuck are you gonna do about it, bitch?" That's what you call manners. Ever heard of 'em, fuck wads?
In short, I'm only ever so slightly guilty of doing that myself. But I usually don't do it. If someone rams into me for some reason it always pisses me off. I want to turn around to them and scream, "Hey, fucker! Did you not see me here? I'm 5'9", dammit! I'm pretty, too! I'm tall and pretty, fuck head!" Maybe that is why I get checked so much. People don't like to see tall pretty girls walking uninterrupted. But I'm pretty in a way that makes me not intimidating to people. I'm pretty in a way where men think they could get some easily and women think I'd steal their boyfriends because I look like I might be insecure. I don't know if that's true or not, I'm just um...hypothesizing.
I usually don't scream. Instead, I just scowl. Scowl, and sometimes frown. Frown, and sometimes get bitter. Then, I see someone who is small and susceptible to a jabbing, preferably someone who is old and crippled and whammo! They don't even know what hit them!
Is that fair? How many old cripply-bears do I have to take down on the streets before New York gets it? Respect eachother's personal space and keep your fucking elbows down when you are walking around - if not to boost your own levels of goodwill towards your fellow man or woman, for the sake of people who are smaller and weaker than I.
Consider this a public fucking service announcement, assholes. Thank you and God bless.
by Jessica Delfino
This story is not about how much I hate Christmas or getting laid on Christmas or anything like that. It's much more dyer and sincere.
I have been noticing lately that more and more people are just crashing into me when they walk. Just because it's Christmas doesn't mean it's okay for everyone to slam into me when they are sauntering down the street. I try not to take it personally, but I can't help but wonder - if I was 6 feet 5' 300 pound black man, would people still be jabbing me as they pass by? The answer is a probable no. Unless they themselves were a 6 feet 5' 300 pound black man.
Is it that hard to look around and know how far away the person near you to your right or left is and not smack into them with elbows or hips or purses or shopping bags or shoulders? Every time I go outside I am getting checked by strangers. And what did I do to deserve it? I'll tell you what - nothing. NOTHING!
I think it might have something to do with the fact that everyone is out in full force, shopping and what not and everyone is anxious to hurry up and get done shopping and then hurry up and get home. But for the love of Christ, after all, it is his birthday, don't bump into me, fuckers.
Sometimes I accidently bump into random people. I am usually never walking anywhere without carrying a guitar and a purse, sometimes also a bag of clothes that I have purchased at the Stuyvesant Thrift Store on 2nd Ave near 88th Street or a baggie with a soda and a buttered bagel in it or what have me. But when I do, I usually turn around and say, "Oh, sorry," or "Didn't see you there," or "What the fuck are you gonna do about it, bitch?" That's what you call manners. Ever heard of 'em, fuck wads?
In short, I'm only ever so slightly guilty of doing that myself. But I usually don't do it. If someone rams into me for some reason it always pisses me off. I want to turn around to them and scream, "Hey, fucker! Did you not see me here? I'm 5'9", dammit! I'm pretty, too! I'm tall and pretty, fuck head!" Maybe that is why I get checked so much. People don't like to see tall pretty girls walking uninterrupted. But I'm pretty in a way that makes me not intimidating to people. I'm pretty in a way where men think they could get some easily and women think I'd steal their boyfriends because I look like I might be insecure. I don't know if that's true or not, I'm just um...hypothesizing.
I usually don't scream. Instead, I just scowl. Scowl, and sometimes frown. Frown, and sometimes get bitter. Then, I see someone who is small and susceptible to a jabbing, preferably someone who is old and crippled and whammo! They don't even know what hit them!
Is that fair? How many old cripply-bears do I have to take down on the streets before New York gets it? Respect eachother's personal space and keep your fucking elbows down when you are walking around - if not to boost your own levels of goodwill towards your fellow man or woman, for the sake of people who are smaller and weaker than I.
Consider this a public fucking service announcement, assholes. Thank you and God bless.
Saturday, December 20, 2003
Things She Thought
by Jessica Delfino
"I don't know, I guess I like Diet Coke alright," she said as she swirled the contents of the cup around in her mouth. She only came to this thing to get the money that they give you for sitting through it and honestly didn't give a shit about Diet Coke or who their target market was or if she was involved in that market, which she was, or the fact that in 15 years she wouldn't be involved in that market anymore.
"OK." The man seemed very interested in every word she said. He wrote it down on a clipboard and nodded, his mouth partially open, his bottom teeth, crooked, peeking up over his bottom lip. "OK. Great," he said again after a minute. He turned his face back up toward her and stared at her intently, waiting for her to say anything else. She wanted to say something to freak him out. You know, ask him about his family or pretend to be a psychic for a second and give him a vague prediction about something that could have been true maybe and then spend the rest of the afternoon wondering if he was wondering about the prediction.
But she didn't. Instead, she took his cue and answered properly. "It's not my favorite kind of soda," she said.
"OK, then, what is?" He asked.
"I sort of like Fresca," she said.
"Mm-hmm...." he muttered and began scribbling again. He was left-handed which was kind of weird to her. She hadn't known many left-handeds in her life and no one in her family was a lefty. Left-handeds are weird, she thought to herself. She thought they were weird because when they wrote it seemed like their whole body wrapped around their left hand, like a mother trying to teach her child to ride a bike, as if it took more effort to use your left hand to write something. But there's no reason it would, is there? She thought about Leonardo Da Vinci and how she learned from her art teacher in grammar school that he could write perfectly using both hands. She remembered when she heard that thinking to herself, "So?"
Then, she went home that night and practiced for an hour writing her name with her left and her right hand, just to see if she could do it. Well, she couldn't. Everything that she wrote came out looking like she was writing it while riding on a train or a bus, some mode of public transportation, but not in a car. It would have been messier if she had been in a car, because the center of gravity is smaller and there's more shaking.
She finished her small plastic cup of soda and wondered what the guy interviewing her had wanted to be when he grew up. Certainly not a guy who asks questions about soda. Right? Certainly not. Right? She wanted to ask him but thought it might be rude. Maybe he would get mad and feel insulted and for some reason end the interview and not pay her her stinking $85 bucks that she needed so so badly. She always needed money. She didn't grow up rich. She had to sometimes do soda interviews and occasionally would even go on dates to get the free dinner. "It's no big deal," she told herself as she'd be putting on her make up, getting ready to go out on some poor dickwad's dime who she was never going to lay. "It's kind of like getting a free sample of hair spray when you buy shampoo, or getting a free toothbrush with a tube of toothpaste the way they do sometimes," she reasoned with her conscience.
"Is it?" her conscience asked back. "Or is it kind of slutty?" Hm. "Well, who cares?" she told her conscience. "If it is kind of slutty, it's worth the amount of sluttiness it might kind of be. He's not getting to fuck me. And I never get to go out to eat. And he wants to take me out." Hm. "O-kay," her conscience sung to her in a sing-songy cadence. "Let's hope he isn't one of those guys who puts shit in your drink and rapes you and then falls asleep like nothing happened while you have nightmares all night and then wake up in the morning unsure of where you are with no panties on."
She stared at the guy and he stared back at her. He had those kind of glasses that were so thick that they make your eyes bulge a little bit, make you look kind of buggy. But he was kind of cute, even with the big bulgy bug eyes. He was tan, which was weird, because he didn't look ethnic, he looked Swedish or something. She thought of the word in her head, 'Swedish' - was there one e or two? One, she thought. But it seems like there should be two, she thought. But he was cute, and he seemed pretty young, like maybe 34. He was probably married. He probably made okay money at this shitty job.
"Do you like your job?" she asked him. He seemed taken aback, surprised that she had said something that didn't relate to soda. "Yeah," he said, looking down at the clipboard. "I like it. It's good." She didn't believe him. She had read somewhere that the way that people look, like the direction that they look in or whatever when they are talking to you tells you a lot about that person. It tells you if they feel nervous, or if they are scared, or if they are lying, or if they are thinking. Detectives probably know all about that kind of stuff, she thought. But she couldn't remember the directions and which one meant lying. She thought it was to the right, maybe, but he'd looked down. Maybe he wasn't lying. Maybe she was just overly sensitive and too critical and maybe a little judgmental. But who the hell wasn't?
"Are you married?" she asked him. "No," he said. "Do you want to take me out to dinner later?" she asked. He didn't answer right away. "It's just that I thought maybe you liked me," she offered. "Oh, well, I do, you seem very nice," he said. "It's just that, well, I don't date women," he said. "Oh," she said. "You mean, like, you're gay?" He smiled warmly. "No, I'm not gay," he answered. "I just don't date women."
Later in the evening, she got out of the shower. She dried her hair with a towel which her mother had sent her for Christmas a few years back. It was a nice towel with her name embroidered into the terrycloth. "Stacie" it said, as if she didn't know her own name. She picked up the phone and dialed the chinese place on the corner. She knew the number by heart.
"China King?" the lady answered as if she were asking a question. "Hi, can I get a small mixed vegetables with brown rice and garlic sauce on the side?" she asked. But she already knew the answer. The answer was yes.
by Jessica Delfino
"I don't know, I guess I like Diet Coke alright," she said as she swirled the contents of the cup around in her mouth. She only came to this thing to get the money that they give you for sitting through it and honestly didn't give a shit about Diet Coke or who their target market was or if she was involved in that market, which she was, or the fact that in 15 years she wouldn't be involved in that market anymore.
"OK." The man seemed very interested in every word she said. He wrote it down on a clipboard and nodded, his mouth partially open, his bottom teeth, crooked, peeking up over his bottom lip. "OK. Great," he said again after a minute. He turned his face back up toward her and stared at her intently, waiting for her to say anything else. She wanted to say something to freak him out. You know, ask him about his family or pretend to be a psychic for a second and give him a vague prediction about something that could have been true maybe and then spend the rest of the afternoon wondering if he was wondering about the prediction.
But she didn't. Instead, she took his cue and answered properly. "It's not my favorite kind of soda," she said.
"OK, then, what is?" He asked.
"I sort of like Fresca," she said.
"Mm-hmm...." he muttered and began scribbling again. He was left-handed which was kind of weird to her. She hadn't known many left-handeds in her life and no one in her family was a lefty. Left-handeds are weird, she thought to herself. She thought they were weird because when they wrote it seemed like their whole body wrapped around their left hand, like a mother trying to teach her child to ride a bike, as if it took more effort to use your left hand to write something. But there's no reason it would, is there? She thought about Leonardo Da Vinci and how she learned from her art teacher in grammar school that he could write perfectly using both hands. She remembered when she heard that thinking to herself, "So?"
Then, she went home that night and practiced for an hour writing her name with her left and her right hand, just to see if she could do it. Well, she couldn't. Everything that she wrote came out looking like she was writing it while riding on a train or a bus, some mode of public transportation, but not in a car. It would have been messier if she had been in a car, because the center of gravity is smaller and there's more shaking.
She finished her small plastic cup of soda and wondered what the guy interviewing her had wanted to be when he grew up. Certainly not a guy who asks questions about soda. Right? Certainly not. Right? She wanted to ask him but thought it might be rude. Maybe he would get mad and feel insulted and for some reason end the interview and not pay her her stinking $85 bucks that she needed so so badly. She always needed money. She didn't grow up rich. She had to sometimes do soda interviews and occasionally would even go on dates to get the free dinner. "It's no big deal," she told herself as she'd be putting on her make up, getting ready to go out on some poor dickwad's dime who she was never going to lay. "It's kind of like getting a free sample of hair spray when you buy shampoo, or getting a free toothbrush with a tube of toothpaste the way they do sometimes," she reasoned with her conscience.
"Is it?" her conscience asked back. "Or is it kind of slutty?" Hm. "Well, who cares?" she told her conscience. "If it is kind of slutty, it's worth the amount of sluttiness it might kind of be. He's not getting to fuck me. And I never get to go out to eat. And he wants to take me out." Hm. "O-kay," her conscience sung to her in a sing-songy cadence. "Let's hope he isn't one of those guys who puts shit in your drink and rapes you and then falls asleep like nothing happened while you have nightmares all night and then wake up in the morning unsure of where you are with no panties on."
She stared at the guy and he stared back at her. He had those kind of glasses that were so thick that they make your eyes bulge a little bit, make you look kind of buggy. But he was kind of cute, even with the big bulgy bug eyes. He was tan, which was weird, because he didn't look ethnic, he looked Swedish or something. She thought of the word in her head, 'Swedish' - was there one e or two? One, she thought. But it seems like there should be two, she thought. But he was cute, and he seemed pretty young, like maybe 34. He was probably married. He probably made okay money at this shitty job.
"Do you like your job?" she asked him. He seemed taken aback, surprised that she had said something that didn't relate to soda. "Yeah," he said, looking down at the clipboard. "I like it. It's good." She didn't believe him. She had read somewhere that the way that people look, like the direction that they look in or whatever when they are talking to you tells you a lot about that person. It tells you if they feel nervous, or if they are scared, or if they are lying, or if they are thinking. Detectives probably know all about that kind of stuff, she thought. But she couldn't remember the directions and which one meant lying. She thought it was to the right, maybe, but he'd looked down. Maybe he wasn't lying. Maybe she was just overly sensitive and too critical and maybe a little judgmental. But who the hell wasn't?
"Are you married?" she asked him. "No," he said. "Do you want to take me out to dinner later?" she asked. He didn't answer right away. "It's just that I thought maybe you liked me," she offered. "Oh, well, I do, you seem very nice," he said. "It's just that, well, I don't date women," he said. "Oh," she said. "You mean, like, you're gay?" He smiled warmly. "No, I'm not gay," he answered. "I just don't date women."
Later in the evening, she got out of the shower. She dried her hair with a towel which her mother had sent her for Christmas a few years back. It was a nice towel with her name embroidered into the terrycloth. "Stacie" it said, as if she didn't know her own name. She picked up the phone and dialed the chinese place on the corner. She knew the number by heart.
"China King?" the lady answered as if she were asking a question. "Hi, can I get a small mixed vegetables with brown rice and garlic sauce on the side?" she asked. But she already knew the answer. The answer was yes.
SUBWAY PARTY
by Jessica Delfino
I went to a subway party last night. Were you there? It was fucking insane.
If you've never been to a subway party, I'm about to tell you all about it. I'd heard of a subway party but never been to one, though my friend and I tossed around the idea of having a comedy show on a subway car but I doubt that would have been even half as successful.
We met at Blarney Stone down near the World Trade Center at 10:30ish on Friday night. There was a huge crowd of people outside of the bar milling around waiting for instructions. That's one thing I love about instruction-based performance art in New York - people will actually follow the instructions. They will show up toting whatever was asked to be brought, if anything, and await further directions. A lot of the people who attend these type of events are either artists themselves or trustafarians, I think, though so that may or may not affect why they are so eager to be led.
Around 11 I guess, (I was pretty drunk having gone to two other parties between 7 and 10 pm so I wasn't sure of the time) the crowd started moving and I, too, followed along. We poured down into the 6 line and overflowed the subway platform. When the train came everyone started cheering and I'm not certain, but I bet we filled almost every car on the train with the amount of people who were there. The fun thing about the party was that there were regular people on the train who were just trying to get home, and then all of a sudden there was this party on top of in front of and all around them, complete with liquor and beer being recklessly chugged and pot being smoked like crazy. It was like what I imagine it is like to ride the subway on new year's eve around 1 am. Complete and utter fun mayhem.
We took the 6 to Union Square and transferred onto some other train. I think we lost a few people there. We took whatever train we got on to Brooklyn. I am not sure where we were headed - some people said Levins or something, but when Levins came everyone chanted, "Don't get off the train!" I think it was that stop. I should have written this stuff down because I am having a hard time remembering the details. The train kept going further into Brooklyn and at this point it was a full on party. Someone with a boom box started blasting music and there was also the Hungry Marching Band somewhere but I wasn't in the same car as them. Booze and pot and cigarettes were being consumed everywhere and people were crowd surfing and it was a pretty crazy party, needless to even mention the fact that it was on a subway car and many of us were totally breaking the law in public.
Unfortunately, when people break the law in public, sometimes they get arrested which is exactly what happened to one or two people once we reached Atlantic Avenue, I'm pretty sure it was Atlantic. The train stopped for a long time and we couldn't figure out whether we were supposed to get off or not. Finally, everyone started filing off and there right in front of us, a cop was cuffing some kid. Everyone started chanting, "Let him go!" The cop (who was black, by the way, arresting a white kid, just in case anyone was wondering) turned to face the crowd and pulled out a canister of mace, threatening to spray the people in the front. I started getting a little bit panic-y because I am sort of a pussy in those kind of situations and I was hanging out with Touching You who is a known instigator and scofflaw. I was afraid he was going to try to insite some kind of riot or try to verbally attack the cops, call them pigs or something. But he was surprisingly well-behaved and except for a few little practically innocent digs, he left the coppers alone.
We walked out of the platform and up to the sidewalk, and half the party had been misplaced. Maybe more than half, actually. They either went further into Brooklyn to the actual designated destination or they went home or they got lost, who knows. So the crowd that was left went to Hank's Saloon to regroup and drink. We only ended up sticking around for a few minutes. At that point it was late and the party just didn't have the same kind of energy and charm that it did when it was on rails.
If you ever hear anything again about a subway party, I strongly recommend you go. It's probably a little bit dangerous for all those drunk people to be running around on the subway platform and in-between subway cars and there's a small chance you might get arrested, but when was the last time you got arrested for having fun and being involved in a massive public art project? It's probably been awhile.
by Jessica Delfino
I went to a subway party last night. Were you there? It was fucking insane.
If you've never been to a subway party, I'm about to tell you all about it. I'd heard of a subway party but never been to one, though my friend and I tossed around the idea of having a comedy show on a subway car but I doubt that would have been even half as successful.
We met at Blarney Stone down near the World Trade Center at 10:30ish on Friday night. There was a huge crowd of people outside of the bar milling around waiting for instructions. That's one thing I love about instruction-based performance art in New York - people will actually follow the instructions. They will show up toting whatever was asked to be brought, if anything, and await further directions. A lot of the people who attend these type of events are either artists themselves or trustafarians, I think, though so that may or may not affect why they are so eager to be led.
Around 11 I guess, (I was pretty drunk having gone to two other parties between 7 and 10 pm so I wasn't sure of the time) the crowd started moving and I, too, followed along. We poured down into the 6 line and overflowed the subway platform. When the train came everyone started cheering and I'm not certain, but I bet we filled almost every car on the train with the amount of people who were there. The fun thing about the party was that there were regular people on the train who were just trying to get home, and then all of a sudden there was this party on top of in front of and all around them, complete with liquor and beer being recklessly chugged and pot being smoked like crazy. It was like what I imagine it is like to ride the subway on new year's eve around 1 am. Complete and utter fun mayhem.
We took the 6 to Union Square and transferred onto some other train. I think we lost a few people there. We took whatever train we got on to Brooklyn. I am not sure where we were headed - some people said Levins or something, but when Levins came everyone chanted, "Don't get off the train!" I think it was that stop. I should have written this stuff down because I am having a hard time remembering the details. The train kept going further into Brooklyn and at this point it was a full on party. Someone with a boom box started blasting music and there was also the Hungry Marching Band somewhere but I wasn't in the same car as them. Booze and pot and cigarettes were being consumed everywhere and people were crowd surfing and it was a pretty crazy party, needless to even mention the fact that it was on a subway car and many of us were totally breaking the law in public.
Unfortunately, when people break the law in public, sometimes they get arrested which is exactly what happened to one or two people once we reached Atlantic Avenue, I'm pretty sure it was Atlantic. The train stopped for a long time and we couldn't figure out whether we were supposed to get off or not. Finally, everyone started filing off and there right in front of us, a cop was cuffing some kid. Everyone started chanting, "Let him go!" The cop (who was black, by the way, arresting a white kid, just in case anyone was wondering) turned to face the crowd and pulled out a canister of mace, threatening to spray the people in the front. I started getting a little bit panic-y because I am sort of a pussy in those kind of situations and I was hanging out with Touching You who is a known instigator and scofflaw. I was afraid he was going to try to insite some kind of riot or try to verbally attack the cops, call them pigs or something. But he was surprisingly well-behaved and except for a few little practically innocent digs, he left the coppers alone.
We walked out of the platform and up to the sidewalk, and half the party had been misplaced. Maybe more than half, actually. They either went further into Brooklyn to the actual designated destination or they went home or they got lost, who knows. So the crowd that was left went to Hank's Saloon to regroup and drink. We only ended up sticking around for a few minutes. At that point it was late and the party just didn't have the same kind of energy and charm that it did when it was on rails.
If you ever hear anything again about a subway party, I strongly recommend you go. It's probably a little bit dangerous for all those drunk people to be running around on the subway platform and in-between subway cars and there's a small chance you might get arrested, but when was the last time you got arrested for having fun and being involved in a massive public art project? It's probably been awhile.
Monday, December 15, 2003
TWO PEOPLE WHOSE RELATIONSHIP IS VAGUE TO THE READER HAVE AN ARGUMENT
"You're a cunt."
"No, YOU'RE a cunt."
(pause)
"What is your fucking problem?"
"You are my fucking problem."
"You have been an asshole to me since the day I met you. What do you have against me?"
"Everything. You think you are so great and you are probably the most annoying person I've
ever met."
"But what exactly did I do to make you hate me so much?"
"Does it matter? The fact remains that I hate you."
"Yes, we both are well aware of that. But why not clue me in on what it is I've done to make
you harbor such resentment for me?"
"I don't harbor anything for you. When you aren't around, I don't even think about you. It's
when I see you that I remember I hate you."
"Oh."
"Yeah. So, fuck off."
"I was here first."
"This is the kind of thing that you do that I think is so annoying."
"What?"
"This thing exactly."
"What thing?"
"This thing you're doing right now."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Never mind, forget it. You know what I'm talking about."
"No, I don't."
"You know what? It doesn't matter anyway. You and I are never going
to get a long and let's just leave it at that."
"OK."
"Good. I'm glad we finally agree on something."
"It doesn't matter to me one way or the other."
"Me neither, really."
"Yeah, sure. I bet you would probably like to be friends with me deep down,
it's just that you have this stupid ego level to maintain and anger inside of
you which you can't let dissipate for feelings you have towards me that you
can't even articulate."
"I barely understood what you just said."
"You understood me."
"Maybe if you spoke in actual words that normal people use I could understand
you better."
"Maybe if you weren't so uptight and rigid you could make sense of what I'm saying."
"Are you calling me uptight?"
"Yes, I am. And I just did."
"I'm not uptight."
"You are."
"Fuck you."
"Noted."
"So, are we finished?"
"Yes, I think so."
(pause)
"Do you want to have a cigarette?"
"No thanks, I don't smoke."
"Since when?"
"Since never."
"Oh."
"Well, I guess I should be going."
"I don't care."
"I know. I said it more for me than for you."
"Oh. Well, whatever."
"Whatever to you, too."
"You're a cunt."
"No, YOU'RE a cunt."
(pause)
"What is your fucking problem?"
"You are my fucking problem."
"You have been an asshole to me since the day I met you. What do you have against me?"
"Everything. You think you are so great and you are probably the most annoying person I've
ever met."
"But what exactly did I do to make you hate me so much?"
"Does it matter? The fact remains that I hate you."
"Yes, we both are well aware of that. But why not clue me in on what it is I've done to make
you harbor such resentment for me?"
"I don't harbor anything for you. When you aren't around, I don't even think about you. It's
when I see you that I remember I hate you."
"Oh."
"Yeah. So, fuck off."
"I was here first."
"This is the kind of thing that you do that I think is so annoying."
"What?"
"This thing exactly."
"What thing?"
"This thing you're doing right now."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Never mind, forget it. You know what I'm talking about."
"No, I don't."
"You know what? It doesn't matter anyway. You and I are never going
to get a long and let's just leave it at that."
"OK."
"Good. I'm glad we finally agree on something."
"It doesn't matter to me one way or the other."
"Me neither, really."
"Yeah, sure. I bet you would probably like to be friends with me deep down,
it's just that you have this stupid ego level to maintain and anger inside of
you which you can't let dissipate for feelings you have towards me that you
can't even articulate."
"I barely understood what you just said."
"You understood me."
"Maybe if you spoke in actual words that normal people use I could understand
you better."
"Maybe if you weren't so uptight and rigid you could make sense of what I'm saying."
"Are you calling me uptight?"
"Yes, I am. And I just did."
"I'm not uptight."
"You are."
"Fuck you."
"Noted."
"So, are we finished?"
"Yes, I think so."
(pause)
"Do you want to have a cigarette?"
"No thanks, I don't smoke."
"Since when?"
"Since never."
"Oh."
"Well, I guess I should be going."
"I don't care."
"I know. I said it more for me than for you."
"Oh. Well, whatever."
"Whatever to you, too."
Friday, December 12, 2003
NOTES and JOKES and QUOTES and BOASTS
So, what's up, you guys? It's been a long time since we've talked. I've been pretty busy, I've got lots of stuff going on because I'm so busy. I hate when people say that, it sounds so self-important. "I've been seewwww busy, you don't even know! God!" But it's true, and I have.
I have just finished my new CD which I am so happy with. It has 8 songs on it - a few new songs, a few polished up versions of some hits and a few nice surprises. I had a lot of help from Touching You, who is one of the most creatively talented people I've ever met, and then it all goes downhill from there. Just kidding, but I'm not, really.
For those of you who are interested in purchasing the CD, you may follow the same directions posted on my BUY A CD link. I am so proud of it and I think that you will like it, too, if you are into Dirty Folk Rock, and maybe even if you aren't into Dirty Folk Rock. It's also got a really nice insert with some beautiful photo art. And Christmas is coming and you can buy some for people as a cheap Christmas gift which is great and all, but I'd really rather you buy it for people because they deserve to experience and sample some of the great art, music and creative miscellanea that is being made in New York City right now, some of which was made by me and my friends.
I will be performing at Arlene's Grocery at 8 pm on January 13th too, so if you buy a CD and you love it, come and see the show. I will be opening up for a band called "Oh My God!" and I hear they are great.
Hmm....what else? I wrote a new song which isn't on the CD but it's a hit, it's called "Someone Who Loves Me" and it's about the female rape fantasy. Many women claim to have a rape fantasy but really they just want to be made passionate love to by someone who they are in love with. Most women are not loved properly by the men who they date and it manifests itself as a rape fantasy, where they desire to be ravished by the men who they are in love with. They don't really want to be raped the way rapists like to rape people. They don't want to be hit in a face by a shitty sweat smelly guy and dragged into an alley semi-unconscious. So, I wrote a song about it. It's me singing to my assailant, telling him yes, I admit, I do have a "rape" "fantasy", but I was saving that rape for someone who loves me, not him.
People have been responding to it fairly well, I guess more men than women, and several men have approached me and say that they really appreciate the song and it speaks to them on several personal levels, but I think that they were all just men who secretly want to rape me. And by rape, I mean make passionate love to.
What else? What else? The Comedy Kabob is back up and running, now at The Pussycat Lounge, which is a go-go bar downtown. I heard that there is actually going to be go-go dancing after the show. I don't know how that's going to be but generally the Kabob is great and I recommend everyone go check it out at least once. Tim Brennan runs the show and has lots of comics on the show who are both up and comers and down and outers and everything in between. Some of the jokes you'll hear are stinkers and some are keepers, but you will definitely have fun and see some great performers.
Um....I performed at Collective Unconscious last night in a Garage Opera. It was fronted by a guy named Nico with Mikey McCue as lead vocalist and Touching You on bass, Frank on drums and the other guy on guitar. I forgot his name. But they were all really great. I came in half way through and sang a few duets and some single stuff with Mikey and it was pretty bizarre. Thank god we got it on video tape. The name of the band is Born On Arrival and there is a story behind it - an old man falls in love with a young beautiful talentress. The girl is torn between being in love with the old guy and being young and stupid. Her sister (me) is trying to tell her to leave him behind. It's weird and interesting and chaotic and melodic and I recommend the next time Born On Arrival performs you should check it out. Nico used to front the band NARB and is a regular performer at Collective Unconscious. You might love BOA and you might hate it, but it is worth seeing one time.
I also saw a show at PS 122 last night - I'm not so into seeing dance but I saw Chris Elam and the Misnomer Dance Theater. I liked what they did, it was as close to clumsy as you can get and still be graceful. There was a lot of pulling and mushing and twisting and anti-dance elements. It was very child-like and sweet and there were moments that were also very erotic. I don't know much about dance so it is hard for me to elaborate or eloquently describe or explain what I saw or what it meant, so I'll just say I liked most of it and found it to be inspiring on some level. It made me want to dance. I briefly studied ballet and it made me feel like I should have stuck it out. The problem is that my body is so round and I'm so curvy and hippy that I felt ridiculous dancing as a ballerina. I felt like while everyone else was lean and long and slipping gently around the room, I was just flaunting my hot body everywhere. I was a much better go-go dancer. I learned a lot of pole tricks. I actually plan to use go-go dancing in an interpretive go-go dance at some point. I'll get around to it. One of my many projects that I need your quarters to be able to make happen.
Which reminds me - if you haven't sent a quarter, send one in. Call it a Christmas present, call it a phone call you won't be able to make, call it loose change, but call it mine and send it to me. I need your quarters to make lovely projects come to life such as more Dirty Folk Rock and interpretive go-go dancing and lots of other stuff I would be happy to discuss with you if you inquire to where your quarter is going. I'll even tell you which project your quarter is getting used in. Send all quarters to me at:
230 W. 55 St. #23D
NY, NY 10019
Unfortunately, due to the huge amount of quarters I have the potential of receiving, my friend and legal advisor has recommended that I reneg the offer to send a thank you letter to each individual person who sends me a quarter because it will cost more than I will make, and I'll be back to square one. That is why he is a lawyer and I am an artist. In an unrelated related comment, he is also jewish. So instead, I will send you an e-mail thanking you for the quarter, so make sure to include your e-mail address.
I guess that's it for now. I'm getting sued by my landlady and stuff, but that's not really interesting. I went to court yesterday and sat there for a few hours and wrote a bunch of dumb jokes about court and Christmas, such as this one:
ON COURT: The court room is a lot like church. There are wooden benches to sit on, a guy sits in the front of the room judging you and everyone is getting fucked.
ON CHRISTMAS: I'm not going to get a Christmas tree this year, it's too expensive and too much hassle. Instead, I'm going to decorate my pussy because it's cheap and easy.
Yay! Love you all and send in those quarters and order those CDs. Lots of X's and O's.
So, what's up, you guys? It's been a long time since we've talked. I've been pretty busy, I've got lots of stuff going on because I'm so busy. I hate when people say that, it sounds so self-important. "I've been seewwww busy, you don't even know! God!" But it's true, and I have.
I have just finished my new CD which I am so happy with. It has 8 songs on it - a few new songs, a few polished up versions of some hits and a few nice surprises. I had a lot of help from Touching You, who is one of the most creatively talented people I've ever met, and then it all goes downhill from there. Just kidding, but I'm not, really.
For those of you who are interested in purchasing the CD, you may follow the same directions posted on my BUY A CD link. I am so proud of it and I think that you will like it, too, if you are into Dirty Folk Rock, and maybe even if you aren't into Dirty Folk Rock. It's also got a really nice insert with some beautiful photo art. And Christmas is coming and you can buy some for people as a cheap Christmas gift which is great and all, but I'd really rather you buy it for people because they deserve to experience and sample some of the great art, music and creative miscellanea that is being made in New York City right now, some of which was made by me and my friends.
I will be performing at Arlene's Grocery at 8 pm on January 13th too, so if you buy a CD and you love it, come and see the show. I will be opening up for a band called "Oh My God!" and I hear they are great.
Hmm....what else? I wrote a new song which isn't on the CD but it's a hit, it's called "Someone Who Loves Me" and it's about the female rape fantasy. Many women claim to have a rape fantasy but really they just want to be made passionate love to by someone who they are in love with. Most women are not loved properly by the men who they date and it manifests itself as a rape fantasy, where they desire to be ravished by the men who they are in love with. They don't really want to be raped the way rapists like to rape people. They don't want to be hit in a face by a shitty sweat smelly guy and dragged into an alley semi-unconscious. So, I wrote a song about it. It's me singing to my assailant, telling him yes, I admit, I do have a "rape" "fantasy", but I was saving that rape for someone who loves me, not him.
People have been responding to it fairly well, I guess more men than women, and several men have approached me and say that they really appreciate the song and it speaks to them on several personal levels, but I think that they were all just men who secretly want to rape me. And by rape, I mean make passionate love to.
What else? What else? The Comedy Kabob is back up and running, now at The Pussycat Lounge, which is a go-go bar downtown. I heard that there is actually going to be go-go dancing after the show. I don't know how that's going to be but generally the Kabob is great and I recommend everyone go check it out at least once. Tim Brennan runs the show and has lots of comics on the show who are both up and comers and down and outers and everything in between. Some of the jokes you'll hear are stinkers and some are keepers, but you will definitely have fun and see some great performers.
Um....I performed at Collective Unconscious last night in a Garage Opera. It was fronted by a guy named Nico with Mikey McCue as lead vocalist and Touching You on bass, Frank on drums and the other guy on guitar. I forgot his name. But they were all really great. I came in half way through and sang a few duets and some single stuff with Mikey and it was pretty bizarre. Thank god we got it on video tape. The name of the band is Born On Arrival and there is a story behind it - an old man falls in love with a young beautiful talentress. The girl is torn between being in love with the old guy and being young and stupid. Her sister (me) is trying to tell her to leave him behind. It's weird and interesting and chaotic and melodic and I recommend the next time Born On Arrival performs you should check it out. Nico used to front the band NARB and is a regular performer at Collective Unconscious. You might love BOA and you might hate it, but it is worth seeing one time.
I also saw a show at PS 122 last night - I'm not so into seeing dance but I saw Chris Elam and the Misnomer Dance Theater. I liked what they did, it was as close to clumsy as you can get and still be graceful. There was a lot of pulling and mushing and twisting and anti-dance elements. It was very child-like and sweet and there were moments that were also very erotic. I don't know much about dance so it is hard for me to elaborate or eloquently describe or explain what I saw or what it meant, so I'll just say I liked most of it and found it to be inspiring on some level. It made me want to dance. I briefly studied ballet and it made me feel like I should have stuck it out. The problem is that my body is so round and I'm so curvy and hippy that I felt ridiculous dancing as a ballerina. I felt like while everyone else was lean and long and slipping gently around the room, I was just flaunting my hot body everywhere. I was a much better go-go dancer. I learned a lot of pole tricks. I actually plan to use go-go dancing in an interpretive go-go dance at some point. I'll get around to it. One of my many projects that I need your quarters to be able to make happen.
Which reminds me - if you haven't sent a quarter, send one in. Call it a Christmas present, call it a phone call you won't be able to make, call it loose change, but call it mine and send it to me. I need your quarters to make lovely projects come to life such as more Dirty Folk Rock and interpretive go-go dancing and lots of other stuff I would be happy to discuss with you if you inquire to where your quarter is going. I'll even tell you which project your quarter is getting used in. Send all quarters to me at:
230 W. 55 St. #23D
NY, NY 10019
Unfortunately, due to the huge amount of quarters I have the potential of receiving, my friend and legal advisor has recommended that I reneg the offer to send a thank you letter to each individual person who sends me a quarter because it will cost more than I will make, and I'll be back to square one. That is why he is a lawyer and I am an artist. In an unrelated related comment, he is also jewish. So instead, I will send you an e-mail thanking you for the quarter, so make sure to include your e-mail address.
I guess that's it for now. I'm getting sued by my landlady and stuff, but that's not really interesting. I went to court yesterday and sat there for a few hours and wrote a bunch of dumb jokes about court and Christmas, such as this one:
ON COURT: The court room is a lot like church. There are wooden benches to sit on, a guy sits in the front of the room judging you and everyone is getting fucked.
ON CHRISTMAS: I'm not going to get a Christmas tree this year, it's too expensive and too much hassle. Instead, I'm going to decorate my pussy because it's cheap and easy.
Yay! Love you all and send in those quarters and order those CDs. Lots of X's and O's.
Wednesday, November 26, 2003
Gross-Out Point: Blank?
by Jessica Delfino
I bummed a cigarette off a pair of vaguely foreign looking construction workers over at the service entrance of the new Random House building.
"Do you live there?" One of them asked me, pointing to Le Premiere, which sits right across the street like a huge retarded dwarf in comparison to Random House.
"No, I don't live there, but I do stay there a lot."
"At your boyfriend's house?"
"No," I said. "Not my boyfriend."
They looked at eachother knowingly and smiled a little bit with the ignorance and filthy thoughts of two underpaid service men.
"What floor do you stay on?" One asked.
"I stay on the 30th floor," I lied. I just felt like lying, in case they decided to come and try to find me one day.
"We see you shower," the shorter one said to me.
"Oh, really?" I asked with feigned overly sarcastic delight. "Well! How interesting!"
"Yes, we see you and a lot of other people, too."
"Well, the window is frosted on the outside of the building, so you probably didn't actually see me," I said.
"No, we can see you anyway," they insisted.
"Wow, well, imagine that," I quipped.
Silence. Weird smiles. I take pride in not being affected by weirdos. I try very hard to out weird people by tolerating their weirdness. I win sometimes. For example, the other night after Deep Dish Cabaret, I went to the diner and had some food with friends. I didn't end up getting onto the subway until about 4 am. I walked down with my guitar and looked around the platform for a seat. There was a black guy sitting on the bench with a very disheveled and scraggly looking white lady leaning up against him, feet outstretched across three or four seats of the bench, and another man endcapping the row of seats.
If I wanted a seat, I was going to have to ask the creepy drunk chick to move her feet. I did want a seat, and I was quite drunk, so I walked over and said, "Excuse me." When she didn't move her feet, I just kind of snuggled into the seat beside them.
"Those are my feet," she said incoherently. "I know," I replied. "I see what they are." She sat up from where she had been comfortably leaning and started to interrogate me.
"Where do you live? What's your name? Where are you going? To your boyfriend's house to get fucked? Does he take care of you? Does he pay your bills? Does he pay your rent? Do mommy and daddy take care of you?"
She shot questions out at me in rapid motion. I felt like Nero, swatting each to the left or
right with a short, brief answer, arrogant drunken smile on my face, challenge accepted.
Uptown. Jessica. Home. No. No. No. No. No.
She got up and started circling me. She put her face right up close to mine and said, "You're a liar. You're a fucking liar," she spat out. "You're a fucking bitch."
Her boyfriend interjected. "OK, now, calm down," he said.
"I'm calm. I'm fine," she said, almost falling onto the train tracks. "Don't look at her," she told her boyfriend. "Don't look at her. She's a fucking bitch. Stay away from her." She began to spit repeatedly on the ground, rabid-like expression across her emaciated face.
"Don't get in trouble," I said to her.
She could have a knife and stab me, I thought to myself. She probably doesn't, though, I thought, hoped. I looked around to see if there were any cops down in the station. If she tried to fight with me, I was sure I could restrain her, she was small and scrappy. I hoped that her boyfriend would help me if she began to get out of control. But I was kind of enjoying her uninstigated attack and interested to hear what kind of comment she would throw out at me next. I wondered what it was about me that so fired her up? Probably my funky black and white cabbie newsboy hat. It screamed out at people, hey, I'm an artist, do you wanna fuck with me? Or something like that.
So, I sat and watched her, ready to jump up at any moment, but not really, mostly just kind of drunk and comfortable. I did silently beg for my train to please hurry up and come so I could get on it. She sat next to me and stared intensely at me. "So, you fucking bitch. Your parents take care of you, huh? What do you do?" She spat and it landed on my jacket. I was just about to get irritated, when she leaned over and brushed it off. "Sorry," she said. I knew she was drunk and probably on a salad of other drugs, and I just nodded forgiveness.
"No. I work at Christies." I guess she got bored of trying to instigate a fight and seeing she wasn't going to get one, she began to ask me questions about my family.
"How many siblings do you have?"
"Five," I said.
"I have five brothers," she said.
She saw this as reason for instant bond. When people hear I have five sisters they usually assume I came from a poor family and that makes them like me better or at least feel sorry for me, but either way, telling people I have five sisters, a true fact, usually works in my favor. Her guard came crashing down as she told me stories about how she lived in New York all her life, missed her family, currently taught English in the New York city school system.
Finally, our train came. I excitedly hopped up like a puppy and ran to greet it, leaving the platform cherishing the fact that I had either outweirded her or her buzz began to wear off. Either way, I won. It's not that I'm unaffected by weirdos, because I get affected, I just have a very high tolerance to craziness.
I blame it on my mother, and this is why.
My sister and I were talking about my tendancy to take in stragglers, route for the underdogs of society, hang out with dreggs. I blamed it on my mom, because there was a woman who could find and love a straggler if I'd ever seen anyone who could do it. My mom picked up nomads and transients all the time and brought them around our house. Not full on losers, usually creative people who'd been down a hard road, but still, in need of a shower and some guidance.
Two of my favorites were a guy in the wheel chair who looked like Weird Al Yankovich who had a fork for one hand and a knife for the other and the scraggly artist with fuzz in his beard who my mom paid to teach me how to draw.
I said to my sister, "I thank mom for my inner need to take in strays." My sister told my mom what I had said, and I heard my mom in the background say, "Yeah, whenever something is wrong in her life, she gives me credit and whenever something is right, she gives herself credit."
I puffed on my cigarette outside the Random House building while the men groped and molested me with their eyes. I stood there for a minute, flip flopping between feelings of disgust and sympathy. Part of the reason that I wasn't more bothered by the men might have something to do with my history of having go-go danced. That was the job - being oogled by icky men all day, and an occasional, very rare, no so icky man. But that's a story for another time.
"Well, thanks for the cigarette," I said. Ex-dancer or not, my threshold of grossed outedness had been just about reached.
"Yes," they stammered.
"Happy Thanksgiving," I said, and walked off, leaving them in the wake of the vision of a perfect ass.
by Jessica Delfino
I bummed a cigarette off a pair of vaguely foreign looking construction workers over at the service entrance of the new Random House building.
"Do you live there?" One of them asked me, pointing to Le Premiere, which sits right across the street like a huge retarded dwarf in comparison to Random House.
"No, I don't live there, but I do stay there a lot."
"At your boyfriend's house?"
"No," I said. "Not my boyfriend."
They looked at eachother knowingly and smiled a little bit with the ignorance and filthy thoughts of two underpaid service men.
"What floor do you stay on?" One asked.
"I stay on the 30th floor," I lied. I just felt like lying, in case they decided to come and try to find me one day.
"We see you shower," the shorter one said to me.
"Oh, really?" I asked with feigned overly sarcastic delight. "Well! How interesting!"
"Yes, we see you and a lot of other people, too."
"Well, the window is frosted on the outside of the building, so you probably didn't actually see me," I said.
"No, we can see you anyway," they insisted.
"Wow, well, imagine that," I quipped.
Silence. Weird smiles. I take pride in not being affected by weirdos. I try very hard to out weird people by tolerating their weirdness. I win sometimes. For example, the other night after Deep Dish Cabaret, I went to the diner and had some food with friends. I didn't end up getting onto the subway until about 4 am. I walked down with my guitar and looked around the platform for a seat. There was a black guy sitting on the bench with a very disheveled and scraggly looking white lady leaning up against him, feet outstretched across three or four seats of the bench, and another man endcapping the row of seats.
If I wanted a seat, I was going to have to ask the creepy drunk chick to move her feet. I did want a seat, and I was quite drunk, so I walked over and said, "Excuse me." When she didn't move her feet, I just kind of snuggled into the seat beside them.
"Those are my feet," she said incoherently. "I know," I replied. "I see what they are." She sat up from where she had been comfortably leaning and started to interrogate me.
"Where do you live? What's your name? Where are you going? To your boyfriend's house to get fucked? Does he take care of you? Does he pay your bills? Does he pay your rent? Do mommy and daddy take care of you?"
She shot questions out at me in rapid motion. I felt like Nero, swatting each to the left or
right with a short, brief answer, arrogant drunken smile on my face, challenge accepted.
Uptown. Jessica. Home. No. No. No. No. No.
She got up and started circling me. She put her face right up close to mine and said, "You're a liar. You're a fucking liar," she spat out. "You're a fucking bitch."
Her boyfriend interjected. "OK, now, calm down," he said.
"I'm calm. I'm fine," she said, almost falling onto the train tracks. "Don't look at her," she told her boyfriend. "Don't look at her. She's a fucking bitch. Stay away from her." She began to spit repeatedly on the ground, rabid-like expression across her emaciated face.
"Don't get in trouble," I said to her.
She could have a knife and stab me, I thought to myself. She probably doesn't, though, I thought, hoped. I looked around to see if there were any cops down in the station. If she tried to fight with me, I was sure I could restrain her, she was small and scrappy. I hoped that her boyfriend would help me if she began to get out of control. But I was kind of enjoying her uninstigated attack and interested to hear what kind of comment she would throw out at me next. I wondered what it was about me that so fired her up? Probably my funky black and white cabbie newsboy hat. It screamed out at people, hey, I'm an artist, do you wanna fuck with me? Or something like that.
So, I sat and watched her, ready to jump up at any moment, but not really, mostly just kind of drunk and comfortable. I did silently beg for my train to please hurry up and come so I could get on it. She sat next to me and stared intensely at me. "So, you fucking bitch. Your parents take care of you, huh? What do you do?" She spat and it landed on my jacket. I was just about to get irritated, when she leaned over and brushed it off. "Sorry," she said. I knew she was drunk and probably on a salad of other drugs, and I just nodded forgiveness.
"No. I work at Christies." I guess she got bored of trying to instigate a fight and seeing she wasn't going to get one, she began to ask me questions about my family.
"How many siblings do you have?"
"Five," I said.
"I have five brothers," she said.
She saw this as reason for instant bond. When people hear I have five sisters they usually assume I came from a poor family and that makes them like me better or at least feel sorry for me, but either way, telling people I have five sisters, a true fact, usually works in my favor. Her guard came crashing down as she told me stories about how she lived in New York all her life, missed her family, currently taught English in the New York city school system.
Finally, our train came. I excitedly hopped up like a puppy and ran to greet it, leaving the platform cherishing the fact that I had either outweirded her or her buzz began to wear off. Either way, I won. It's not that I'm unaffected by weirdos, because I get affected, I just have a very high tolerance to craziness.
I blame it on my mother, and this is why.
My sister and I were talking about my tendancy to take in stragglers, route for the underdogs of society, hang out with dreggs. I blamed it on my mom, because there was a woman who could find and love a straggler if I'd ever seen anyone who could do it. My mom picked up nomads and transients all the time and brought them around our house. Not full on losers, usually creative people who'd been down a hard road, but still, in need of a shower and some guidance.
Two of my favorites were a guy in the wheel chair who looked like Weird Al Yankovich who had a fork for one hand and a knife for the other and the scraggly artist with fuzz in his beard who my mom paid to teach me how to draw.
I said to my sister, "I thank mom for my inner need to take in strays." My sister told my mom what I had said, and I heard my mom in the background say, "Yeah, whenever something is wrong in her life, she gives me credit and whenever something is right, she gives herself credit."
I puffed on my cigarette outside the Random House building while the men groped and molested me with their eyes. I stood there for a minute, flip flopping between feelings of disgust and sympathy. Part of the reason that I wasn't more bothered by the men might have something to do with my history of having go-go danced. That was the job - being oogled by icky men all day, and an occasional, very rare, no so icky man. But that's a story for another time.
"Well, thanks for the cigarette," I said. Ex-dancer or not, my threshold of grossed outedness had been just about reached.
"Yes," they stammered.
"Happy Thanksgiving," I said, and walked off, leaving them in the wake of the vision of a perfect ass.
Exchange Between Doctor and Patient
Hello, doctor.
Hello, patient.
How are you, doctor?
Oh, I'm okay. That's not entirely true. Things aren't going so well for me.
No? What's wrong?
Well, I've been getting these horrible headaches, and they have been so painful that it is messing up my ability to make logical decisions or properly diagnose patients.
Really? That sounds terrible.
It is.
Well, is there anything I can do?
Well - since you mentioned it, there is. I would love it if you would just massage my temples for a minute.
Well, I guess I could do that.
Then we'll get straight to me doing the doctor thing.
OK. (starts massaging doctor's head)
Wow, that's great, that really helps.
Why don't you take some time off?
What? I don't have time to take time off. I have lives to save, people's problems to fix, pain killers to prescribe, car payments to charge to my American Express, a wife to ignore, the list goes on and on.
I understand.
That's what I like about you, you seem to really be very understanding right this minute.
So, do you feel any better?
Yes, I do, thanks.
So, now what?
Well - how about a drink?
Um, I probably shouldn't.
Oh, I didn't mean you.
Oh. Um, well, you probably shouldn't, either.
Of course I shouldn't, that's not up for debate. I definitely should not. I think it might even be illegal.
Right.
I'm just thinking, it might help me to relax a bit.
Yeah, well, I'm sure it will.
Well, I guess it's settled then. (doctor takes a bottle out of his pocket and drinks it all)
Sorry I didn't offer you any. It's better that you don't.
Right.
(awkward silence)
Maybe I should come back another time, doctor.
What? No, no, no! Stay right there! Things are just about to start getting exciting.
Well, if you say so. After all, you are the doctor.
Hello, doctor.
Hello, patient.
How are you, doctor?
Oh, I'm okay. That's not entirely true. Things aren't going so well for me.
No? What's wrong?
Well, I've been getting these horrible headaches, and they have been so painful that it is messing up my ability to make logical decisions or properly diagnose patients.
Really? That sounds terrible.
It is.
Well, is there anything I can do?
Well - since you mentioned it, there is. I would love it if you would just massage my temples for a minute.
Well, I guess I could do that.
Then we'll get straight to me doing the doctor thing.
OK. (starts massaging doctor's head)
Wow, that's great, that really helps.
Why don't you take some time off?
What? I don't have time to take time off. I have lives to save, people's problems to fix, pain killers to prescribe, car payments to charge to my American Express, a wife to ignore, the list goes on and on.
I understand.
That's what I like about you, you seem to really be very understanding right this minute.
So, do you feel any better?
Yes, I do, thanks.
So, now what?
Well - how about a drink?
Um, I probably shouldn't.
Oh, I didn't mean you.
Oh. Um, well, you probably shouldn't, either.
Of course I shouldn't, that's not up for debate. I definitely should not. I think it might even be illegal.
Right.
I'm just thinking, it might help me to relax a bit.
Yeah, well, I'm sure it will.
Well, I guess it's settled then. (doctor takes a bottle out of his pocket and drinks it all)
Sorry I didn't offer you any. It's better that you don't.
Right.
(awkward silence)
Maybe I should come back another time, doctor.
What? No, no, no! Stay right there! Things are just about to start getting exciting.
Well, if you say so. After all, you are the doctor.
Saturday, November 22, 2003
YOU'RE WASTING YOUR LIFE
This is a song that I wrote for a friend of mine who is about to finish college and move to Massachusetts. He is an extremely talented and funny writer/performer and he never gets on stage anymore because he works so hard in school. I am very proud of him for getting a degree, I think everyone should go to college, but only because you can learn stuff that can be applied in a creative manner to the world around you. For example, if you go to school for art, which I did, then you can use those skills to make art. If you go to school for pipe fittery, which I didn't, then hopefully you can use those skills to make a pipe sculpture or weld something interesting or do some kind of pipe fittery dance, perhaps even write a musical about pipe fitting! So, you know who you are, Josh, this song is for you.
You're Wasting Your Life
You got a BA in interdisciplinary studies
Now you're moving to Amherst to live in a place with a yard
You've got talent and you're squandering it
don't you know that's really fucking gay of you to do?
You're wasting your life
You're wasting your life
You're wasting your life, hey hey hey!
That's okay, not okay.
You say that rent's to high to live in New York
You've got to take your new degree and go put it to work
at a job doing something stupid every day
while your talent slowly dies and withers away
You're wasting your life
You're wasting your life
You're wasting your life, hey hey hey!
That's okay! Super gay!
You probably never even appreciated art
You probably just did it so that you could get laid
Now that school is almost over and you had lots of tang
You're gonna move to Massachusetts and get boring and fat
You're wasting your life
You're wasting your life
You're wasting your life, hey hey hey,
that's okay. Waste away.
So go and buy some neckties and a few pair of slacks
Make sure you get a briefcase and package of pens
Find yourself a nice girl to whom you can relate
You're fine with mediocrity because you are lamer than lame
You're wasting your life
You're wasting your life
You're wasting your life
hey hey hey,
(spoken) You know what? It's not okay, you fucking nerd
You should be writing and performing
performing and writing
You're smart and you're funny
and god damn enlightening
So stop being a lazy, fat, fat, lazy fag
and fucking do something good with yourself!
You're wasting your life
You're wasting your life
You're wa-sting your life.....
hey, hey, hey, hey, hey hey,
I'd rather see you get run over by a car
then watch you turn into a boring loser
This is a song that I wrote for a friend of mine who is about to finish college and move to Massachusetts. He is an extremely talented and funny writer/performer and he never gets on stage anymore because he works so hard in school. I am very proud of him for getting a degree, I think everyone should go to college, but only because you can learn stuff that can be applied in a creative manner to the world around you. For example, if you go to school for art, which I did, then you can use those skills to make art. If you go to school for pipe fittery, which I didn't, then hopefully you can use those skills to make a pipe sculpture or weld something interesting or do some kind of pipe fittery dance, perhaps even write a musical about pipe fitting! So, you know who you are, Josh, this song is for you.
You're Wasting Your Life
You got a BA in interdisciplinary studies
Now you're moving to Amherst to live in a place with a yard
You've got talent and you're squandering it
don't you know that's really fucking gay of you to do?
You're wasting your life
You're wasting your life
You're wasting your life, hey hey hey!
That's okay, not okay.
You say that rent's to high to live in New York
You've got to take your new degree and go put it to work
at a job doing something stupid every day
while your talent slowly dies and withers away
You're wasting your life
You're wasting your life
You're wasting your life, hey hey hey!
That's okay! Super gay!
You probably never even appreciated art
You probably just did it so that you could get laid
Now that school is almost over and you had lots of tang
You're gonna move to Massachusetts and get boring and fat
You're wasting your life
You're wasting your life
You're wasting your life, hey hey hey,
that's okay. Waste away.
So go and buy some neckties and a few pair of slacks
Make sure you get a briefcase and package of pens
Find yourself a nice girl to whom you can relate
You're fine with mediocrity because you are lamer than lame
You're wasting your life
You're wasting your life
You're wasting your life
hey hey hey,
(spoken) You know what? It's not okay, you fucking nerd
You should be writing and performing
performing and writing
You're smart and you're funny
and god damn enlightening
So stop being a lazy, fat, fat, lazy fag
and fucking do something good with yourself!
You're wasting your life
You're wasting your life
You're wa-sting your life.....
hey, hey, hey, hey, hey hey,
I'd rather see you get run over by a car
then watch you turn into a boring loser
ALCOHOL-INDUCED STREET THEATER
or
WHAT HAPPENED WHEN I GOT DRUNK LAST NIGHT
If you read Friday's entry entitled, "DRUNK" then you might find this story extra amusing. If you haven't read it, you might read that one first (it's the one after this) and then come back to this one for extra amusement. If that's too much work for you, then just read on, and take your amusement from knowing that you are a lazy, fat fag.
I got too drunk last night. It was awful and also very liberating. The evening started off at my friend David's with a few very tall, very strong glasses of diet coke and vanilla vodka. It sounds gross, but believe me, it even tastes gross. David and I chit-chatted for awhile, then decided to go to the Lower East Side and eat dinner with Christopher, a guy I have been known to canoodle with. We walked to the F train which I don't even remember doing. It was so wierd because neither of us use cocaine, but I guess our brains have somehow evolved the effects of alcohol to react in us the way cocaine is supposed to, so we had a very loud, co-masturbatory, I should say loud again conversation on the subway about how great we both were - me telling David I thought he was the smartest person I know and otherwise elaborating on how great he is, he telling me how talented he thought I was and how likely I am to be a star. Then it digressed into exactly how smart David is out of all the people in the United States. I think we calculated him to be in the top 3,000. Loose and drunk, he let me in on the secret to being rich, which he is, and according to him, it is that you should take risks. Interestingly, we agreed that it is also the secret to being homeless.
Our stop arrived and we walked to The Hat restaurant, but it was packed, so we walked around the corner to where a new comedy club had opened up. It had a very typical sounding comedy club name, like the Chuckle Shack or something like that, and we went in and checked the place out. It was pretty nice and oddly empty for a Friday night, I guess because it is new. We talked for awhile to the owners and waitstaff and David and I did a shot of tequila. I remember thinking at the very second that the little plastic cup was hitting my lips and the warm, bitter booze was flowing over my big bottom lip and into my cheeks and around my tounge that I was so very drunk and I really shouldn't have taken another shot. We left after hanging out there for a good 45 minutes or so and walked back around the corner to the spanish restaurant across the street from The Hat that is run by cool white yuppies. We ordered some food and drink and sat down.
I feel the need to be honest for a moment and digress. I am staying at Christopher's house for the weekend and when I got out of work I tried to call him to see if I could come back to his apartment. He didn't call me back for 3 hours. It bugged me a little bit. I talked to him about it on the phone and he seemed very non-chalant, acting unsure as to why I would possibly be upset, and as if I was being controlling or womany or something. It wasn't a womany thing, it was a I need someplace to go and re-up after working all day kind of thing. I dismissed it, but was still a bit chagrinned. Christopher has an ex who lives near him and who he was friends with for many years before he dated and who he broke up with not very long before we met and who he probably still has some mixed feelings for and she is constantly present. She and he speak on the phone several times a week, as do myself and my ex, Kurt, but she talks lots of shit about me to him and she obviously still loves him and wants to be with him. She also often invites him to come over and fuck her and sleep in her bed and hang out and do errands for her and otherwise tries to complicate things. One time she and I had it out over the phone when she called at 3 am. I asked her to stop calling Christopher and inviting him to sleep in her bed and she defiantly called Christopher the next night and asked him to come and sleep in her bed. Also, Christopher has shown me photos of her naked, he constantly tells me stories about her and him and all his exes and detailed and explicit stories of sex and past relationships. I have complained to Christopher about it many times and he insists both his behavior of dangling his old romantic affairs and his most recent ex's instigatory actions are nothing at all, I should take the high road and be mature about it and I have tried, but it has proven really hard, because I don't like heights and I'm not mature. He also seems to get a kick out of the ruckus that is being kicked up in his name. Christopher does this thing where he fills out magazine subscription cards for all of his friends but makes up bogus names so his friends get free magazines sent to them. I saw one filled out the other day in his room for the ex who I hate and I ripped it up and threw it on the ground like a little baby. I know it was stupid, but it just bugs me that he maintains such close ties with her, especially when she goes out of her way to instigate me. So, when we were leaving the Comedy Hole or whatever the place was called, Christopher dropped a subscription card in the mail and told me it was a replacement of the one I had torn up in a fit of jealousy. SO - let's recap here. There's tension from a three month build-up of non-confrontation with his ex, he had blown me off earlier in the evening and had purposely dropped a little shitbomb on me in the form of a subscription card. This is all information you should know to be able to fully understand what happened next.
We sat and ate at the spanish restaurant for some time. At one point, two scantly clad very attractive women came into the restaurant and Christopher stared at one of the ladies tits and commented, "Look at that cleavage!" Then, I caught him making eyes at her at one point and sneaking glances at her boobs. David, for some reason, ordered me a margarita which I drank and then I think I passed out at the table. When I came to, I had to vomit, so I went out into the street and puked a little bit. Then, David left and Christopher started to walk me back to his apartment, making comments about having to babysit me. I think I made mention of walking past his exes apartment so I could kick her window in, and Christopher made sure we walked in a direction that didn't go past her place.
Christopher and I had run into his ex on the street once before and I wrote about what happened on an earlier blog entry. She began to berate Christopher in the form of a monologue, asking if he were the celebrity who she'd heard so much about, and et cetera ad nauseum. It was funny and entertaining for a few minutes, but she went on and on for about 15 minutes until finally I realized the joke was also kind of on me, too, for having stood there through it. So, I made myself a promise that if we ever ran into eachother on the street and she did anything artily insulting I was going to embarrass her. Well, in a beautiful twist of fate, we ran smack into her on the street last night. She had some kind of black piece of cloth that she started to wrap around her face, and she stood there writhing and acting wierd with this fabric covering her eyes. So, I just started verbally attacking her, saying, "Wow, you are so creative and clever, how funny! How interesting, are you making art right now..." Bla, bla, bla..., you get the point. I guess I had accomplished my goal because she turned around and ran away. Christopher walked me a few feet and then I decided right then and there that I was going to beat the piss out of her, so I turned around and started running to go find her and give her the what for. Christopher then began chasing after me and caught up with me and restrained me. I fought and kicked and argued with him and told him to let me go for a long time, like fifteen minutes, and he wouldn't let me go. I tried to run past him at one point and he smashed me into a brick wall, which hurt a lot. I was yelling to his ex to come back and confront me and not be a pussy. I don't know if she noticed me running after her or heard me yelling but I bet she probably did. Then, I got out my cellphone and called her. I know, it's kind of weird that I have her number, but Christopher called me once from her apartment and I saved the number, thinking it might come in handy some time. Now was that time, I guess. She picked up and I started just bombarding her, telling her I was going to come over to her apartment and throw a rock through her window, and how dare she instigate me all the time, and that I should come over there and kick her ass, and she was still in love with Christopher, and she better knock it off and et cetera and et cetera to infinity. She had nothing to say. All she could do was stammer. She tried to defend herself, but I didn't care, I just wanted to yell at her, and I just kept yelling and yelling until I ran out of energy. Then I hung up.
Christopher and I went inside and he promptly got on the phone and called her to apologize on my behalf which infuriated me, because I wasn't sorry. I wasn't sorry at all. I meant every word I had said to her. It made me so angry that he did that, I broke into tears and yelled at him for calling her and for having rubbed her in my face for months and months and months and for being so lousy in that respect in general. I can't knock him in his entirety, he has a lot of really great qualities. He looks out for me when I get too drunk and he helped me make a nice demo and he cares about my music and he seems to enjoy being with me which as far as I'm concerned is worth a lot. If someone likes me, they must be at the very least, all right. But maybe that's the problem here. Maybe he's just all right.
There's a lot to consider here - we could get into specifics of how Christopher is a jerk for the way he rubs girls in my face and about how he definitely should be dumped by me pretty much immediately and about how I am overly jealous, which I already know I am and will readily admit, and about why do I vomit every time I get drunk? That's an interesting dilemma. Also, there are some elements of interest behind the point that if the situation were reversed and say, Christopher called my ex and screamed at him, would I call my ex and apologize for him? I'd like to say no, I wouldn't, but I'm bad at being sympathetic, so I'm unsure. But none of that is really very important or even so relevant. I'm just telling you a story about how drunk I got last night and the events that took place over the course of several moments in one evening of my life.
I woke up this morning feeling that feeling like something was wrong. My head hurt a little, but I'm lucky, because I rarely ever get hangovers, and my hip had a huge bruise on it from the wall slamming I'd experienced, and I felt kind of rickety, like a wobbly old fence. I had that feeling like something terrible had happened the night before. And it had. I was embarrassed and upset with myself for acting so stupid. I still didn't feel bad about calling the ex and yelling at her, she had that coming to her, and I guess Christopher should have expected that to happen at some point. He called me crazy when we woke up, which bothered me. Men love to call women crazy, but I'm not crazy. I'm fucking sane. I'm awake. Everyone else is crazy. I know I'm different. That is what makes a few hands full of select certain people enjoy being around me and most others hate me. Crazy is just one of the words that people choose to describe that differentness about me, and it has always bugged me, but I guess maybe it shouldn't. In a way, it's a compliment, or at least it is if I twist it around enough in my crazy brain.
Whenever situations like this arise where I am involved with friends or others in some kind of conflict or disagreement, some of what makes the outcome hard for me to deal with is that I never know for sure if I am right. I don't even have enough faith in my arguments or my own conscience to be able to determine if I am out of line or just plain wrong. I usually like to ask third parties for their opinions. I guess the only thing that determines whether or not a person is right or wrong is whether or not they believe they are, and then the law and stuff like that if you want to get into specifics, but I don't want to. I am indecisive by nature, so I usually will flip flop on myself, going back and forth between feelings of elation that come from feeling firm in my convictions, and feelings of confusion that come from feeling like I might be a huge idiot. It is important to me to get a sense of whether I'm right or wrong. It helps me to wrestle with and investigate further into whether or not I might actually be insane. But not girl-style crazy, like, the kind of crazy that is usually preceeded with the words, "that" and "bitch" and "is", but more the kind of insane that comes with paperwork and medicine and slippers. So, tell me what you think. You read this far, you might as well get to analyze my behavior. It's cheaper for me to read your comments than it is for me to go to therapy, and it's funner for you to write comments about my night than whatever other thing you are about to go do. I told you I was going to get drunk yesterday. Why didn't one of you stop me?
or
WHAT HAPPENED WHEN I GOT DRUNK LAST NIGHT
If you read Friday's entry entitled, "DRUNK" then you might find this story extra amusing. If you haven't read it, you might read that one first (it's the one after this) and then come back to this one for extra amusement. If that's too much work for you, then just read on, and take your amusement from knowing that you are a lazy, fat fag.
I got too drunk last night. It was awful and also very liberating. The evening started off at my friend David's with a few very tall, very strong glasses of diet coke and vanilla vodka. It sounds gross, but believe me, it even tastes gross. David and I chit-chatted for awhile, then decided to go to the Lower East Side and eat dinner with Christopher, a guy I have been known to canoodle with. We walked to the F train which I don't even remember doing. It was so wierd because neither of us use cocaine, but I guess our brains have somehow evolved the effects of alcohol to react in us the way cocaine is supposed to, so we had a very loud, co-masturbatory, I should say loud again conversation on the subway about how great we both were - me telling David I thought he was the smartest person I know and otherwise elaborating on how great he is, he telling me how talented he thought I was and how likely I am to be a star. Then it digressed into exactly how smart David is out of all the people in the United States. I think we calculated him to be in the top 3,000. Loose and drunk, he let me in on the secret to being rich, which he is, and according to him, it is that you should take risks. Interestingly, we agreed that it is also the secret to being homeless.
Our stop arrived and we walked to The Hat restaurant, but it was packed, so we walked around the corner to where a new comedy club had opened up. It had a very typical sounding comedy club name, like the Chuckle Shack or something like that, and we went in and checked the place out. It was pretty nice and oddly empty for a Friday night, I guess because it is new. We talked for awhile to the owners and waitstaff and David and I did a shot of tequila. I remember thinking at the very second that the little plastic cup was hitting my lips and the warm, bitter booze was flowing over my big bottom lip and into my cheeks and around my tounge that I was so very drunk and I really shouldn't have taken another shot. We left after hanging out there for a good 45 minutes or so and walked back around the corner to the spanish restaurant across the street from The Hat that is run by cool white yuppies. We ordered some food and drink and sat down.
I feel the need to be honest for a moment and digress. I am staying at Christopher's house for the weekend and when I got out of work I tried to call him to see if I could come back to his apartment. He didn't call me back for 3 hours. It bugged me a little bit. I talked to him about it on the phone and he seemed very non-chalant, acting unsure as to why I would possibly be upset, and as if I was being controlling or womany or something. It wasn't a womany thing, it was a I need someplace to go and re-up after working all day kind of thing. I dismissed it, but was still a bit chagrinned. Christopher has an ex who lives near him and who he was friends with for many years before he dated and who he broke up with not very long before we met and who he probably still has some mixed feelings for and she is constantly present. She and he speak on the phone several times a week, as do myself and my ex, Kurt, but she talks lots of shit about me to him and she obviously still loves him and wants to be with him. She also often invites him to come over and fuck her and sleep in her bed and hang out and do errands for her and otherwise tries to complicate things. One time she and I had it out over the phone when she called at 3 am. I asked her to stop calling Christopher and inviting him to sleep in her bed and she defiantly called Christopher the next night and asked him to come and sleep in her bed. Also, Christopher has shown me photos of her naked, he constantly tells me stories about her and him and all his exes and detailed and explicit stories of sex and past relationships. I have complained to Christopher about it many times and he insists both his behavior of dangling his old romantic affairs and his most recent ex's instigatory actions are nothing at all, I should take the high road and be mature about it and I have tried, but it has proven really hard, because I don't like heights and I'm not mature. He also seems to get a kick out of the ruckus that is being kicked up in his name. Christopher does this thing where he fills out magazine subscription cards for all of his friends but makes up bogus names so his friends get free magazines sent to them. I saw one filled out the other day in his room for the ex who I hate and I ripped it up and threw it on the ground like a little baby. I know it was stupid, but it just bugs me that he maintains such close ties with her, especially when she goes out of her way to instigate me. So, when we were leaving the Comedy Hole or whatever the place was called, Christopher dropped a subscription card in the mail and told me it was a replacement of the one I had torn up in a fit of jealousy. SO - let's recap here. There's tension from a three month build-up of non-confrontation with his ex, he had blown me off earlier in the evening and had purposely dropped a little shitbomb on me in the form of a subscription card. This is all information you should know to be able to fully understand what happened next.
We sat and ate at the spanish restaurant for some time. At one point, two scantly clad very attractive women came into the restaurant and Christopher stared at one of the ladies tits and commented, "Look at that cleavage!" Then, I caught him making eyes at her at one point and sneaking glances at her boobs. David, for some reason, ordered me a margarita which I drank and then I think I passed out at the table. When I came to, I had to vomit, so I went out into the street and puked a little bit. Then, David left and Christopher started to walk me back to his apartment, making comments about having to babysit me. I think I made mention of walking past his exes apartment so I could kick her window in, and Christopher made sure we walked in a direction that didn't go past her place.
Christopher and I had run into his ex on the street once before and I wrote about what happened on an earlier blog entry. She began to berate Christopher in the form of a monologue, asking if he were the celebrity who she'd heard so much about, and et cetera ad nauseum. It was funny and entertaining for a few minutes, but she went on and on for about 15 minutes until finally I realized the joke was also kind of on me, too, for having stood there through it. So, I made myself a promise that if we ever ran into eachother on the street and she did anything artily insulting I was going to embarrass her. Well, in a beautiful twist of fate, we ran smack into her on the street last night. She had some kind of black piece of cloth that she started to wrap around her face, and she stood there writhing and acting wierd with this fabric covering her eyes. So, I just started verbally attacking her, saying, "Wow, you are so creative and clever, how funny! How interesting, are you making art right now..." Bla, bla, bla..., you get the point. I guess I had accomplished my goal because she turned around and ran away. Christopher walked me a few feet and then I decided right then and there that I was going to beat the piss out of her, so I turned around and started running to go find her and give her the what for. Christopher then began chasing after me and caught up with me and restrained me. I fought and kicked and argued with him and told him to let me go for a long time, like fifteen minutes, and he wouldn't let me go. I tried to run past him at one point and he smashed me into a brick wall, which hurt a lot. I was yelling to his ex to come back and confront me and not be a pussy. I don't know if she noticed me running after her or heard me yelling but I bet she probably did. Then, I got out my cellphone and called her. I know, it's kind of weird that I have her number, but Christopher called me once from her apartment and I saved the number, thinking it might come in handy some time. Now was that time, I guess. She picked up and I started just bombarding her, telling her I was going to come over to her apartment and throw a rock through her window, and how dare she instigate me all the time, and that I should come over there and kick her ass, and she was still in love with Christopher, and she better knock it off and et cetera and et cetera to infinity. She had nothing to say. All she could do was stammer. She tried to defend herself, but I didn't care, I just wanted to yell at her, and I just kept yelling and yelling until I ran out of energy. Then I hung up.
Christopher and I went inside and he promptly got on the phone and called her to apologize on my behalf which infuriated me, because I wasn't sorry. I wasn't sorry at all. I meant every word I had said to her. It made me so angry that he did that, I broke into tears and yelled at him for calling her and for having rubbed her in my face for months and months and months and for being so lousy in that respect in general. I can't knock him in his entirety, he has a lot of really great qualities. He looks out for me when I get too drunk and he helped me make a nice demo and he cares about my music and he seems to enjoy being with me which as far as I'm concerned is worth a lot. If someone likes me, they must be at the very least, all right. But maybe that's the problem here. Maybe he's just all right.
There's a lot to consider here - we could get into specifics of how Christopher is a jerk for the way he rubs girls in my face and about how he definitely should be dumped by me pretty much immediately and about how I am overly jealous, which I already know I am and will readily admit, and about why do I vomit every time I get drunk? That's an interesting dilemma. Also, there are some elements of interest behind the point that if the situation were reversed and say, Christopher called my ex and screamed at him, would I call my ex and apologize for him? I'd like to say no, I wouldn't, but I'm bad at being sympathetic, so I'm unsure. But none of that is really very important or even so relevant. I'm just telling you a story about how drunk I got last night and the events that took place over the course of several moments in one evening of my life.
I woke up this morning feeling that feeling like something was wrong. My head hurt a little, but I'm lucky, because I rarely ever get hangovers, and my hip had a huge bruise on it from the wall slamming I'd experienced, and I felt kind of rickety, like a wobbly old fence. I had that feeling like something terrible had happened the night before. And it had. I was embarrassed and upset with myself for acting so stupid. I still didn't feel bad about calling the ex and yelling at her, she had that coming to her, and I guess Christopher should have expected that to happen at some point. He called me crazy when we woke up, which bothered me. Men love to call women crazy, but I'm not crazy. I'm fucking sane. I'm awake. Everyone else is crazy. I know I'm different. That is what makes a few hands full of select certain people enjoy being around me and most others hate me. Crazy is just one of the words that people choose to describe that differentness about me, and it has always bugged me, but I guess maybe it shouldn't. In a way, it's a compliment, or at least it is if I twist it around enough in my crazy brain.
Whenever situations like this arise where I am involved with friends or others in some kind of conflict or disagreement, some of what makes the outcome hard for me to deal with is that I never know for sure if I am right. I don't even have enough faith in my arguments or my own conscience to be able to determine if I am out of line or just plain wrong. I usually like to ask third parties for their opinions. I guess the only thing that determines whether or not a person is right or wrong is whether or not they believe they are, and then the law and stuff like that if you want to get into specifics, but I don't want to. I am indecisive by nature, so I usually will flip flop on myself, going back and forth between feelings of elation that come from feeling firm in my convictions, and feelings of confusion that come from feeling like I might be a huge idiot. It is important to me to get a sense of whether I'm right or wrong. It helps me to wrestle with and investigate further into whether or not I might actually be insane. But not girl-style crazy, like, the kind of crazy that is usually preceeded with the words, "that" and "bitch" and "is", but more the kind of insane that comes with paperwork and medicine and slippers. So, tell me what you think. You read this far, you might as well get to analyze my behavior. It's cheaper for me to read your comments than it is for me to go to therapy, and it's funner for you to write comments about my night than whatever other thing you are about to go do. I told you I was going to get drunk yesterday. Why didn't one of you stop me?
Friday, November 21, 2003
YOUR SATURDAY NIGHT PLANS
I am going to be performing at Deep Dish Cabaret this Saturday night. The show starts at 10 PM. You should all go to the show. It's one of the best shows in NYC. Don't be gay.
DRUNK
I am going to get drunk tonight. About once a week, I've been trying to do this. It's been working out really well. I usually set plans to do lots of weekly things. I try to arrange to work out once or twice a week, I set a goal of starving myself skinny once weekly, then also break it at least once a week by eating (I am weak, only human) I try to do nice things for people if I can daily, (the other day someone dropped a book and I picked it up for her. I was so proud of myself I spent the entire contents of my savings account on chewing tobacco and Alka-Seltzer, and I don't plan to share any of it with anyone.
I have a lot of liquor options. I could do the cheap red wine thing which I love to do, I could do vodka and cranberry which is tasty and pink, I could drink rum and diet vanilla coke which is gross but it's okay and has less calories, I could drink milk and coffee brandy which is what all the trailor people used to drink who I grew up with, it's good but heavy and never gets me that drunk because I can't drink it quickly enough, I could drink whiskey which is good because I can drink it straight and it really fucks me up, I could drink tequila which is not only tasty but for some reason gives me a really good drunk buzz and I never vomit.
Looking over the list, I now think that I am going to go the cheap gross route and just drink I Wild Irish Rose. It tastes like candy-flavored sewer water with just enough perfume added to be consumable enough to make you go homeless. I think it costs like 50 cents a bottle (which is where the rap artist of the same name got his handle) Just kidding, fitty!
The reason I am going to drink Wild Irish Rose tonight is unclear. Once I make up my mind about something, I usually stick to it, even if it hurts me, even if it really hurts me and makes me vomit until I lactate. I wonder if any woman has ever used her own breast milk to create a White Russian? If so, I wonder who, if anyone, holds the Guinness Book of World Records for drinking the most White Russians made with breast milk? I would like to meet him. You know it's a guy.
So, off I go to the liquor store to fill my black trench coat pockets with the smooth, ergonomical bottle. If I only had a shred of dignity, I might not do this to myself. But as a talented artist and prolific musician and writer, I feel not only obligated, but compelled.
My mind is made up.
I am going to be performing at Deep Dish Cabaret this Saturday night. The show starts at 10 PM. You should all go to the show. It's one of the best shows in NYC. Don't be gay.
DRUNK
I am going to get drunk tonight. About once a week, I've been trying to do this. It's been working out really well. I usually set plans to do lots of weekly things. I try to arrange to work out once or twice a week, I set a goal of starving myself skinny once weekly, then also break it at least once a week by eating (I am weak, only human) I try to do nice things for people if I can daily, (the other day someone dropped a book and I picked it up for her. I was so proud of myself I spent the entire contents of my savings account on chewing tobacco and Alka-Seltzer, and I don't plan to share any of it with anyone.
I have a lot of liquor options. I could do the cheap red wine thing which I love to do, I could do vodka and cranberry which is tasty and pink, I could drink rum and diet vanilla coke which is gross but it's okay and has less calories, I could drink milk and coffee brandy which is what all the trailor people used to drink who I grew up with, it's good but heavy and never gets me that drunk because I can't drink it quickly enough, I could drink whiskey which is good because I can drink it straight and it really fucks me up, I could drink tequila which is not only tasty but for some reason gives me a really good drunk buzz and I never vomit.
Looking over the list, I now think that I am going to go the cheap gross route and just drink I Wild Irish Rose. It tastes like candy-flavored sewer water with just enough perfume added to be consumable enough to make you go homeless. I think it costs like 50 cents a bottle (which is where the rap artist of the same name got his handle) Just kidding, fitty!
The reason I am going to drink Wild Irish Rose tonight is unclear. Once I make up my mind about something, I usually stick to it, even if it hurts me, even if it really hurts me and makes me vomit until I lactate. I wonder if any woman has ever used her own breast milk to create a White Russian? If so, I wonder who, if anyone, holds the Guinness Book of World Records for drinking the most White Russians made with breast milk? I would like to meet him. You know it's a guy.
So, off I go to the liquor store to fill my black trench coat pockets with the smooth, ergonomical bottle. If I only had a shred of dignity, I might not do this to myself. But as a talented artist and prolific musician and writer, I feel not only obligated, but compelled.
My mind is made up.
Thursday, November 20, 2003
Yearly "I'm Afraid To Fly" Story
by Jessica Delfino
My mom is busting my ass to fly down to Florida for Thanksgiving. Let me first break down "mom." When I say mom, the word represents my entire family. My mom is the center of the family driving force. I guess it's kind of like when saying mother nature, it includes hurricanes, typhoons, violent hail storms and earthquakes all in the same lot. My younger sister, Abby, is my mom's second in command, the hench woman of the family. I can see the pecking order unfolding and I know that when my mother has left this life, Abby will take her spot. Usually, my mom works alone, but Abby is never far behind. They are like a harmony. First, my mother comes in and then Abby follows her in almost the same fashion, but in a different octave.
Actual phonecall:
"So, what's the story? Are we going to see you for Thanksgiving?" (insert a tone of intensity, expectation and bossiness into your head's reading voice)
"Well, mom, it's just that I have a lot going on right now. I am working full-time, (true) I don't have a lot of money to spend (true) and I don't want to fly. (true, true) I would love to come down to Florida and visit, I want nothing more than (warning: blatant, gruesome lie coming up) to be in Florida over Thanksgiving.
***In what I said, there was one word, that's all it takes, to loosen her guilt digging tools on me and sucker punch me right in the heart strings.***
"That's always your argument, Jessica. Every holiday you have a problem coming down here. And it's because you live in New York freaking City, and it's so damn expensive that you always have trouble with money. And you are never dating anyone who can pitch in and help you."
***I love my mom so much. She wants me to be dating some rich guy. I think she'd be happy if I were dating a guy who not even was necessarily rich, but who could just break the national poverty level by even 10%. It's just that rich guys are boring to me, and usually have had lots of girlfriends and I don't like to date guys who have had lots of girlfriends. I'm no trophy. As a matter of fact, I've been seriously considering becoming asexual as of late. But more on that later.***
"Mom, this has nothing to do with me not dating a rich guy. I could date a rich guy if I wanted to. Is that what you want? (I can do guilt too, I learned from a master) Do you want me to just go marry some guy for money? Because I can. But I don't want to. (Hello, Is this the Academy? Have you ever read Jessy Delfino's blog?) I know money is a problelm for me, mom. It's just that we are not a rich family and I don't have people I can call and say, "Hey, book me a ticket. I'm coming down there." (I always blame not having money on someone else.)
"Jessy - (that's how I know my mom is really turning on the urgency, when she calls me Jessy) just get on a plane. Jet Blue has tickets for $74 dollars each way."
(At this point, Abby takes the phone.) "Just fly, Jessica. Terrorists aren't going to blow up the plane."
***See, the reason money is an issue regarding this trip is I don't like to fly. Let me retype that. I DON'T LIKE TO FLY. Before 9/11. You've heard all the arguments about why flying sucks, so I'll leave out the specifics but there's more to it than my personal reasons. It's not fair to others for me to fly. I scare their kids. I make other people fear flying. I whine and whimper the whole flight, grabbing strangers arms and saying stupid things to them, like, "So - tell me a story about your life." The panic sets in once I purchase the ticket and lasts the entire trip. During, during, waiting until the day of the flight, up to the day of the flight, packing, packing, (I always write a note before I fly that says if I die what should be done with my stuff and I put it into my little dresser drawer in with my underwear, just so you know what to do, mom, sis) traveling to the airport, in the airport, waiting, waiting, the plane boards, sitting, for half a second the 'see? this isn't so bad,' sets in, then the engines start, the whirring, the air, the babies, the other people, all of them ugly, terry cloth, sweat pants, business jackets, laptops, is that laptop a bomb or an actual laptop?, the traveling, the rocking, the images of careening into the ocean, the view of the ocean below, the landing of the plane is pretty good, usually my favorite part, the entire trip, waiting, waiting to get back on the plane, every day an agonizing torture blip spent fantasizing about dying in a firey blaze, the packing, the goodbye-ing, the ride to the airport, the waiting, the waiting, getting on the plane, double the terry cloth out of Florida, the snacks, the happy attendants smiling even though they know all the same things I know, the moving, the rolling, the rocking, the shaking, the captain's voice, the view of New York City in the distance, the hope, the anticipation - will we land there? The best part of flying for me is when the trip is over and I'm on my way home. I know for a fact that I will die in a taxi ride on the way home from the airport, it's just too perfect to not happen.
I have kissed the ground of several airports. It was kind of hot.
As I share the flying dream sequence with my mother, she sighs, agrees with me and tells me to call her back in 15 minutes. I know what this means. She's taking over at this point. I love when my mom does that. She's been doing that most of my life. Who's mother hasn't? That's why everyone both loves and hates their mothers. I'd also like to take this moment to blame my mother (and father and step father) for my fear of flying, because they never took us on family trips. So, you get what you pay for.***
My mother calls a few car rental places (yes, I know, the statistics of me dying in a firey car crash are much, much higher than the likeliness of dying in a flaming, flying fireball, my fears are irrational and I know that, that's not the point) and calls me back with a quote of $300. I am not paying $300 to drive to Florida, because it's going to be $500 said and done with gas and tolls and McDonald's stops and stuff. Don't eat McDonald's by the way. I really try never to eat there. Being a vegetarian helps me to not eat there, but the sundays, the sundays, caramel....what kind of a writer would I be without digression?
So, here I am, a week before Thanksgiving. I have my credit card in front of me. I'm sitting in front of my computer. I know I am going to have to reserve a plane ticket. But do I really have to? Can't I do whatever I want? I'm in control of my own life. I don't have to go to Florida for Thanksgiving. Sure, my family will be pissed, but they'll get over it, right? No. That's the thing with my family. They don't get over shit. They save it up, like Santa and his naughty list, then it comes out later. We all do, I do it, too. I learned from a master. I'm going to have to buy a fucking ticket. Fuck. Fuck. Shit. God Dammit.
I think I am going to start a small business that hooks up scaredy cat flying freaks together and sends them on trips. You call a number and say, I have to go to Spain, and they hook you up with another maniac who also has to go to Spain and you can cling to eachother and tell eachother stories about your cats and growing up while the plane spirals downward into the icy waters of the Atlantic Ocean. Flaming.
If I die, top drawer, left.
by Jessica Delfino
My mom is busting my ass to fly down to Florida for Thanksgiving. Let me first break down "mom." When I say mom, the word represents my entire family. My mom is the center of the family driving force. I guess it's kind of like when saying mother nature, it includes hurricanes, typhoons, violent hail storms and earthquakes all in the same lot. My younger sister, Abby, is my mom's second in command, the hench woman of the family. I can see the pecking order unfolding and I know that when my mother has left this life, Abby will take her spot. Usually, my mom works alone, but Abby is never far behind. They are like a harmony. First, my mother comes in and then Abby follows her in almost the same fashion, but in a different octave.
Actual phonecall:
"So, what's the story? Are we going to see you for Thanksgiving?" (insert a tone of intensity, expectation and bossiness into your head's reading voice)
"Well, mom, it's just that I have a lot going on right now. I am working full-time, (true) I don't have a lot of money to spend (true) and I don't want to fly. (true, true) I would love to come down to Florida and visit, I want nothing more than (warning: blatant, gruesome lie coming up) to be in Florida over Thanksgiving.
***In what I said, there was one word, that's all it takes, to loosen her guilt digging tools on me and sucker punch me right in the heart strings.***
"That's always your argument, Jessica. Every holiday you have a problem coming down here. And it's because you live in New York freaking City, and it's so damn expensive that you always have trouble with money. And you are never dating anyone who can pitch in and help you."
***I love my mom so much. She wants me to be dating some rich guy. I think she'd be happy if I were dating a guy who not even was necessarily rich, but who could just break the national poverty level by even 10%. It's just that rich guys are boring to me, and usually have had lots of girlfriends and I don't like to date guys who have had lots of girlfriends. I'm no trophy. As a matter of fact, I've been seriously considering becoming asexual as of late. But more on that later.***
"Mom, this has nothing to do with me not dating a rich guy. I could date a rich guy if I wanted to. Is that what you want? (I can do guilt too, I learned from a master) Do you want me to just go marry some guy for money? Because I can. But I don't want to. (Hello, Is this the Academy? Have you ever read Jessy Delfino's blog?) I know money is a problelm for me, mom. It's just that we are not a rich family and I don't have people I can call and say, "Hey, book me a ticket. I'm coming down there." (I always blame not having money on someone else.)
"Jessy - (that's how I know my mom is really turning on the urgency, when she calls me Jessy) just get on a plane. Jet Blue has tickets for $74 dollars each way."
(At this point, Abby takes the phone.) "Just fly, Jessica. Terrorists aren't going to blow up the plane."
***See, the reason money is an issue regarding this trip is I don't like to fly. Let me retype that. I DON'T LIKE TO FLY. Before 9/11. You've heard all the arguments about why flying sucks, so I'll leave out the specifics but there's more to it than my personal reasons. It's not fair to others for me to fly. I scare their kids. I make other people fear flying. I whine and whimper the whole flight, grabbing strangers arms and saying stupid things to them, like, "So - tell me a story about your life." The panic sets in once I purchase the ticket and lasts the entire trip. During, during, waiting until the day of the flight, up to the day of the flight, packing, packing, (I always write a note before I fly that says if I die what should be done with my stuff and I put it into my little dresser drawer in with my underwear, just so you know what to do, mom, sis) traveling to the airport, in the airport, waiting, waiting, the plane boards, sitting, for half a second the 'see? this isn't so bad,' sets in, then the engines start, the whirring, the air, the babies, the other people, all of them ugly, terry cloth, sweat pants, business jackets, laptops, is that laptop a bomb or an actual laptop?, the traveling, the rocking, the images of careening into the ocean, the view of the ocean below, the landing of the plane is pretty good, usually my favorite part, the entire trip, waiting, waiting to get back on the plane, every day an agonizing torture blip spent fantasizing about dying in a firey blaze, the packing, the goodbye-ing, the ride to the airport, the waiting, the waiting, getting on the plane, double the terry cloth out of Florida, the snacks, the happy attendants smiling even though they know all the same things I know, the moving, the rolling, the rocking, the shaking, the captain's voice, the view of New York City in the distance, the hope, the anticipation - will we land there? The best part of flying for me is when the trip is over and I'm on my way home. I know for a fact that I will die in a taxi ride on the way home from the airport, it's just too perfect to not happen.
I have kissed the ground of several airports. It was kind of hot.
As I share the flying dream sequence with my mother, she sighs, agrees with me and tells me to call her back in 15 minutes. I know what this means. She's taking over at this point. I love when my mom does that. She's been doing that most of my life. Who's mother hasn't? That's why everyone both loves and hates their mothers. I'd also like to take this moment to blame my mother (and father and step father) for my fear of flying, because they never took us on family trips. So, you get what you pay for.***
My mother calls a few car rental places (yes, I know, the statistics of me dying in a firey car crash are much, much higher than the likeliness of dying in a flaming, flying fireball, my fears are irrational and I know that, that's not the point) and calls me back with a quote of $300. I am not paying $300 to drive to Florida, because it's going to be $500 said and done with gas and tolls and McDonald's stops and stuff. Don't eat McDonald's by the way. I really try never to eat there. Being a vegetarian helps me to not eat there, but the sundays, the sundays, caramel....what kind of a writer would I be without digression?
So, here I am, a week before Thanksgiving. I have my credit card in front of me. I'm sitting in front of my computer. I know I am going to have to reserve a plane ticket. But do I really have to? Can't I do whatever I want? I'm in control of my own life. I don't have to go to Florida for Thanksgiving. Sure, my family will be pissed, but they'll get over it, right? No. That's the thing with my family. They don't get over shit. They save it up, like Santa and his naughty list, then it comes out later. We all do, I do it, too. I learned from a master. I'm going to have to buy a fucking ticket. Fuck. Fuck. Shit. God Dammit.
I think I am going to start a small business that hooks up scaredy cat flying freaks together and sends them on trips. You call a number and say, I have to go to Spain, and they hook you up with another maniac who also has to go to Spain and you can cling to eachother and tell eachother stories about your cats and growing up while the plane spirals downward into the icy waters of the Atlantic Ocean. Flaming.
If I die, top drawer, left.
Thursday, November 13, 2003
Cavalcade of Personalities World Premiere!
My friend Nick made a short film last summer at his house. (Nick is the same guy who wrote www.discobarmitzvah.com which is listed in my links.) The film is funny – it’s a black and white film featuring some great and talented NYC performers, many of them comics, such as Craig Baldo, Roger Hailes, Julie Klausner and Nick himself, and ME! The film will be having it’s world wide premiere this Saturday night, Nov. 15th at Midnight at the Upright Citizen’s Brigade Theater as part of the Littleman show. Littleman is Nick Kroll’s improv group featuring Mike Birbiglia and other funny guys whose names escape me right now. On the show, Nick, Roger and Chelsea Peretti will also be doing a sketch together. The show should be very good, but I am mostly just excited about the showing of the short film, which is called Cavalcade of Personalities. It’s set in the roaring 20s and is basically just the camera spotlighting different cliché 20s character types that one might find at a ritzy summer soiree.
So get out your calendars, get out a pen, write with the pen on the date of Nov. 15th that you have something to do, and that something is to go and see this show. UCB Theater is at 307 W. 26th St. at 8th avenue.
My friend Nick made a short film last summer at his house. (Nick is the same guy who wrote www.discobarmitzvah.com which is listed in my links.) The film is funny – it’s a black and white film featuring some great and talented NYC performers, many of them comics, such as Craig Baldo, Roger Hailes, Julie Klausner and Nick himself, and ME! The film will be having it’s world wide premiere this Saturday night, Nov. 15th at Midnight at the Upright Citizen’s Brigade Theater as part of the Littleman show. Littleman is Nick Kroll’s improv group featuring Mike Birbiglia and other funny guys whose names escape me right now. On the show, Nick, Roger and Chelsea Peretti will also be doing a sketch together. The show should be very good, but I am mostly just excited about the showing of the short film, which is called Cavalcade of Personalities. It’s set in the roaring 20s and is basically just the camera spotlighting different cliché 20s character types that one might find at a ritzy summer soiree.
So get out your calendars, get out a pen, write with the pen on the date of Nov. 15th that you have something to do, and that something is to go and see this show. UCB Theater is at 307 W. 26th St. at 8th avenue.
Monday, November 10, 2003
The End Of The World into Weekend Recap
by Jessica Delfino
Did anyone see the lunar eclipse last night? How about the meteor shower? Or the aurora borealis? Does anyone else think that is a little bit over the top on mother nature's part? Does she have to prove how great she is by tossing out this extreme display of heavenly activity? Is it even right to give the credit to mother nature? How many questions have I asked in a row now?
I didn't get to see any of it. Why? Because I live in New York City where you can hardly see the stars, much less any kind of crazy commotion going on over the star's heads. The summer before last, I went to the Hamptons and my friends and I went to Amagansett beach and built a bonfire. We sat by the fire and drank beer and there happened to be a really beautiful meteor shower that night. I got really drunk and counted about seven falling stars, then fell myself into an alcohol induced sleep.
Though I hate the fact that I can't see the stars very well in New York City, one thing I love about New York is that there is always lots of fun stuff to do all the time. I've never heard one person say "I'm bored" since I moved here. If I were to ever hear anyone say "I'm bored" I would immediately translate it into "I'm boring."
I can't remember what I did on Friday, so let's flash forward to Saturday. Saturday day I spent the day running little errands and then on Saturday night I met with my Uncle Jamie (the one who commented on my comment board under "Put In Your 25 Cents" which by the way, is a real thing. The quarters have been pouring in, and I know it's humiliating to you to have to send a quarter for more than the price of a quarter, and that is why I am changing the rules to allow each person to be able to send up to 4 quarters, and to make it easy, you can send those 4 quarters in the form of a dollar bill. Just one more way that I help you to help me make art.
So back on topic, Delfino - okay, Delfino. My Uncle and his wife, Eileen took me to dinner at La Mela with some other friends and relatives of theirs. They had seen Phantom Of The Opera which I have never seen. If you have never been to La Mela, I strongly recommend it. It's lots of fun - It's on Mulberry in Little Italy. You sit down and they just start bringing you food and liquor. You don't order. So, every time you go there you have the same meal, and you get super drunk, and every time it's a delicious and liquory time.
After dinner, I went to Caustic at Low Bar in Dumbo which was fun. It's set up like an old fashioned (for people who have graduated from high school more than 6 years ago) high school debate. The topic was something kind of wordy and confusing, like, "Who best encompasses the literary spirit of New York" or a close facsimile to that. Henry Miller was one debatist's character (is that a word?) and the other was the kid from Catcher In The Rye by J.D. Salinger, I can't believe I can't remember the character's name. Henry Miller won because he was grosser and more dirty and dark, encompassing the true spirit of New York City. Jonny Diamond of the L Magazine hosted, and for those of you who don't know, Jonny kicked ass in the L vs. New York Press boxing match a few weeks ago at Gleason's Gym in Dumbo.
Next, I went to some weird show with my friend Christopher at a dark hole in the wall of a space called The Dollhouse, way the fuck out in Williamsburg. Maybe it's spelled The Dollhaus. I am not up on foreign spellings of words. I am only up on proper english spellings and misspellings. There were lots of chickens feet and a biting cat and a dark ass short film that played downstairs on a small tv. One of Christopher's ex-girlfriends was there which is always weird for me because none of his ex-girlfriends are very polite to the fact that Christopher is hanging out with some other girl who is not them, and always act accordingly, i.e., generally somewhat rude or else they just act out in a way that makes everyone feel awkward. This ex seemed more well behaved than some others I've met, but she was definitely a bit overly antsy to talk to me and meet me to see I guess who was better, me or her? I don't care because Christopher is not my boyfriend, but everyone else seems to care quite a bit. This story is boring. Anyway -
This is where the story gets interesting for a minute. So, next, I was headed to Deep Dish Cabaret at 14th and 9th ave. to specifically see Michael Portnoy perform. I got on the wrong train side which took me further into the scary part of Brooklyn and then sat alone on the platform for about 45 minutes waiting for the train back to Manhattan.
(JMZ - scary-ish) Finally, it came and I transferred to the F. After waiting another half hour I started getting itchy to get to the show so I didn't miss Portnoy, so I jumped into a cab. I told the driver I had no money and would have to stop at an ATM. We drove to my destination and I went into a deli that had two ATMs but neither was working. I went to the driver to tell him they were broken and ask him to be patient while I tried another store, and he grabbed me and started shaking me furiously. He started yelling at me, "Give me my fucking money you fucking bitch!" He then started trying to rip the bag of leftover La Mela food I had from my hand. I was sort of laughing but kind of scared, too. He was hatian and swearing at me in English and French. I took his number down but I immediately forgot it because I was drunkish. I think it was 461L or something like that. He finally let me go and I went into the diner to try to get money out of that ATM. In an interesting coincidence, that ATM was not working either. I knew if I went out there empty handed, the guy was going to flip out so I slid out the side door and started looking for another ATM. It occurred to me that I could sneak across the street and take off and the guy would never know what happened to me, but I am too brutally honest so I turned around and went to go tell him I struck out once again. Of course, he immediately started screaming at me and telling me to get in his taxi so he could take me to a bank. I said "No way" to getting into his car with him and started crying at this point. Two nice men who were standing on the sidewalk smoking saw and heard the whole thing and saw me crying. They split the cost of the cab, $5 each. I told them not to tip him. I gave them both my card and begged them to please call me so I could reimburse them, but they laughed at me, wiped my tears away, handed me a cigarette and sent me on my way, finally, to Deep Dish.
The thing that is so great about Deep Dish is that even when it isn't necessarily good, it's always interesting, and really rarely boring. Saturday's show was really extra great. I forget the names of half the acts, and missed the entire first half of the show, but some of the highlights of the second half were: one guy was there singing these hard core sex anthems such as, "You're Gonna Get Raped" about a girl who dickteased him and other fun song topics. I thought he was funnyish and interesting and even liked his songs somewhat, but it was hard to watch because the girl behind me was obviously upset by it and was talking about how much she hated the act really loudly in my ear. I also saw
Mangina, this guy who gets on stage totally naked except for a "mangina" he has fashioned himself. Manginas are his own creations, intricate plastic vaginas that he wears over his penis, then pulls his ballskin through to resemble labia. He then encourages people to finger the mangina. Again, though not necessarily good in my opinion, interesting. Michael Portnoy played as "Nigger Jokes" accompanied by a lovely pianist. He basically sung songs and told what he referred to as nigger jokes, but were sort of songish poems and whimsical comments on this or that, none nigger related. Michael is very handsome - tall, slim and graceful, he almost resembles Prince or something, and his stage presence is overwhelming. I want to fuck him on creative grounds only and then never speak to him again. I don't know him, but I have seen him a few times and been around him enough to know that I don't like him personally. However, creative sex doesn't have to be a personal issue, Michael. Just kidding, I'd never fuck you, it'd be too ungratifying for both of us.
Today I slept for a good part of the day, then had brunch at Azteca. By brunch, I mean two monster killing margaritas and a few bites of something that looked like a burrito which they called a quesadilla. At 8, I went to Collective Unconscious and performed first, a rarity in that often three to four hour event, and then I went to Solas which I was booked to do through a friendster. Thank you, friendster. I was home by 10:30, something which hasn't been happening lately, and went to a late dinner with my friend David at Danny's Skylight Cabaret room or whatever on Restaurant Row, 46th at 8th ave. I sung a song with the pianist, "How Do I Get You Alone" by Heart. There wasn't a dry eye in the house when I was through. After dinner, I spedwalked home and immediately worked out because I felt so guilty about eating such a huge meal so late at night.
This is a very long entry but I haven't written since last Wednesday. I know my entries have been a bit all over the place lately, maybe even since day one, but I don't know what to do about that. I guess that is both the plight and the delight of Jessy Delfino's blog.
Keep those quarters coming.
by Jessica Delfino
Did anyone see the lunar eclipse last night? How about the meteor shower? Or the aurora borealis? Does anyone else think that is a little bit over the top on mother nature's part? Does she have to prove how great she is by tossing out this extreme display of heavenly activity? Is it even right to give the credit to mother nature? How many questions have I asked in a row now?
I didn't get to see any of it. Why? Because I live in New York City where you can hardly see the stars, much less any kind of crazy commotion going on over the star's heads. The summer before last, I went to the Hamptons and my friends and I went to Amagansett beach and built a bonfire. We sat by the fire and drank beer and there happened to be a really beautiful meteor shower that night. I got really drunk and counted about seven falling stars, then fell myself into an alcohol induced sleep.
Though I hate the fact that I can't see the stars very well in New York City, one thing I love about New York is that there is always lots of fun stuff to do all the time. I've never heard one person say "I'm bored" since I moved here. If I were to ever hear anyone say "I'm bored" I would immediately translate it into "I'm boring."
I can't remember what I did on Friday, so let's flash forward to Saturday. Saturday day I spent the day running little errands and then on Saturday night I met with my Uncle Jamie (the one who commented on my comment board under "Put In Your 25 Cents" which by the way, is a real thing. The quarters have been pouring in, and I know it's humiliating to you to have to send a quarter for more than the price of a quarter, and that is why I am changing the rules to allow each person to be able to send up to 4 quarters, and to make it easy, you can send those 4 quarters in the form of a dollar bill. Just one more way that I help you to help me make art.
So back on topic, Delfino - okay, Delfino. My Uncle and his wife, Eileen took me to dinner at La Mela with some other friends and relatives of theirs. They had seen Phantom Of The Opera which I have never seen. If you have never been to La Mela, I strongly recommend it. It's lots of fun - It's on Mulberry in Little Italy. You sit down and they just start bringing you food and liquor. You don't order. So, every time you go there you have the same meal, and you get super drunk, and every time it's a delicious and liquory time.
After dinner, I went to Caustic at Low Bar in Dumbo which was fun. It's set up like an old fashioned (for people who have graduated from high school more than 6 years ago) high school debate. The topic was something kind of wordy and confusing, like, "Who best encompasses the literary spirit of New York" or a close facsimile to that. Henry Miller was one debatist's character (is that a word?) and the other was the kid from Catcher In The Rye by J.D. Salinger, I can't believe I can't remember the character's name. Henry Miller won because he was grosser and more dirty and dark, encompassing the true spirit of New York City. Jonny Diamond of the L Magazine hosted, and for those of you who don't know, Jonny kicked ass in the L vs. New York Press boxing match a few weeks ago at Gleason's Gym in Dumbo.
Next, I went to some weird show with my friend Christopher at a dark hole in the wall of a space called The Dollhouse, way the fuck out in Williamsburg. Maybe it's spelled The Dollhaus. I am not up on foreign spellings of words. I am only up on proper english spellings and misspellings. There were lots of chickens feet and a biting cat and a dark ass short film that played downstairs on a small tv. One of Christopher's ex-girlfriends was there which is always weird for me because none of his ex-girlfriends are very polite to the fact that Christopher is hanging out with some other girl who is not them, and always act accordingly, i.e., generally somewhat rude or else they just act out in a way that makes everyone feel awkward. This ex seemed more well behaved than some others I've met, but she was definitely a bit overly antsy to talk to me and meet me to see I guess who was better, me or her? I don't care because Christopher is not my boyfriend, but everyone else seems to care quite a bit. This story is boring. Anyway -
This is where the story gets interesting for a minute. So, next, I was headed to Deep Dish Cabaret at 14th and 9th ave. to specifically see Michael Portnoy perform. I got on the wrong train side which took me further into the scary part of Brooklyn and then sat alone on the platform for about 45 minutes waiting for the train back to Manhattan.
(JMZ - scary-ish) Finally, it came and I transferred to the F. After waiting another half hour I started getting itchy to get to the show so I didn't miss Portnoy, so I jumped into a cab. I told the driver I had no money and would have to stop at an ATM. We drove to my destination and I went into a deli that had two ATMs but neither was working. I went to the driver to tell him they were broken and ask him to be patient while I tried another store, and he grabbed me and started shaking me furiously. He started yelling at me, "Give me my fucking money you fucking bitch!" He then started trying to rip the bag of leftover La Mela food I had from my hand. I was sort of laughing but kind of scared, too. He was hatian and swearing at me in English and French. I took his number down but I immediately forgot it because I was drunkish. I think it was 461L or something like that. He finally let me go and I went into the diner to try to get money out of that ATM. In an interesting coincidence, that ATM was not working either. I knew if I went out there empty handed, the guy was going to flip out so I slid out the side door and started looking for another ATM. It occurred to me that I could sneak across the street and take off and the guy would never know what happened to me, but I am too brutally honest so I turned around and went to go tell him I struck out once again. Of course, he immediately started screaming at me and telling me to get in his taxi so he could take me to a bank. I said "No way" to getting into his car with him and started crying at this point. Two nice men who were standing on the sidewalk smoking saw and heard the whole thing and saw me crying. They split the cost of the cab, $5 each. I told them not to tip him. I gave them both my card and begged them to please call me so I could reimburse them, but they laughed at me, wiped my tears away, handed me a cigarette and sent me on my way, finally, to Deep Dish.
The thing that is so great about Deep Dish is that even when it isn't necessarily good, it's always interesting, and really rarely boring. Saturday's show was really extra great. I forget the names of half the acts, and missed the entire first half of the show, but some of the highlights of the second half were: one guy was there singing these hard core sex anthems such as, "You're Gonna Get Raped" about a girl who dickteased him and other fun song topics. I thought he was funnyish and interesting and even liked his songs somewhat, but it was hard to watch because the girl behind me was obviously upset by it and was talking about how much she hated the act really loudly in my ear. I also saw
Mangina, this guy who gets on stage totally naked except for a "mangina" he has fashioned himself. Manginas are his own creations, intricate plastic vaginas that he wears over his penis, then pulls his ballskin through to resemble labia. He then encourages people to finger the mangina. Again, though not necessarily good in my opinion, interesting. Michael Portnoy played as "Nigger Jokes" accompanied by a lovely pianist. He basically sung songs and told what he referred to as nigger jokes, but were sort of songish poems and whimsical comments on this or that, none nigger related. Michael is very handsome - tall, slim and graceful, he almost resembles Prince or something, and his stage presence is overwhelming. I want to fuck him on creative grounds only and then never speak to him again. I don't know him, but I have seen him a few times and been around him enough to know that I don't like him personally. However, creative sex doesn't have to be a personal issue, Michael. Just kidding, I'd never fuck you, it'd be too ungratifying for both of us.
Today I slept for a good part of the day, then had brunch at Azteca. By brunch, I mean two monster killing margaritas and a few bites of something that looked like a burrito which they called a quesadilla. At 8, I went to Collective Unconscious and performed first, a rarity in that often three to four hour event, and then I went to Solas which I was booked to do through a friendster. Thank you, friendster. I was home by 10:30, something which hasn't been happening lately, and went to a late dinner with my friend David at Danny's Skylight Cabaret room or whatever on Restaurant Row, 46th at 8th ave. I sung a song with the pianist, "How Do I Get You Alone" by Heart. There wasn't a dry eye in the house when I was through. After dinner, I spedwalked home and immediately worked out because I felt so guilty about eating such a huge meal so late at night.
This is a very long entry but I haven't written since last Wednesday. I know my entries have been a bit all over the place lately, maybe even since day one, but I don't know what to do about that. I guess that is both the plight and the delight of Jessy Delfino's blog.
Keep those quarters coming.
Wednesday, November 5, 2003
PUT IN YOUR 25 CENTS
For Immediate Release:
Project 25 - (name is tentative) Jessica Delfino is a starving artist who needs to be able to create art all the time but not starve. If everyone donates one quarter, a very doable deed, Jessica will be able to quit her day job and concentrate all her time and energy on creating art, making music and fighting the neverending battle between good and evil, thus making the world a better place.
Jessica is not a super hero, she is a girl who has a lot of plans for improving lives with her art. She is putting this project together to see if she can achieve her goal of reaching as many creative (and uncreative) people as possible and encouraging them to give their thumbs up to art by sending her one quarter. In order to make art, she needs your support. She needs your quarter.
To make your donation:
Put a quarter in an envelope and send it to:
Project 25
c/o J.Delfino
230 W. 55 St. #23D
NY, NY 10019
You can send a check if you prefer, but really I want to see quarters.
Make checks payable to:
Jessica Delfino (memo: project 25)
The first 10,000 people to send in a quarter will receive a personalized thank you note.
Please only donate once and please only donate a quarter.
If you are the head of household, you may donate a quarter for each person in your family because
babies can't send quarters. Yet.
PLEASE FORWARD THIS TO AS MANY PEOPLE AS HUMANLY POSSIBLE.
Thank you. May making art fill your days and help you all to find your ways.
ADDENDUM TO Project 25 (That name has got to change immediately. Any suggestions?)
The quarters have been pouring in, (thank you all) and I know it's humiliating to you to have to send a quarter for more than the price of a quarter, and that is why I am changing the rules to allow each person to be able to send up to 4 quarters, and to make it easy, you can send those 4 quarters in the form of a dollar bill. Just one more way that I help you to help me make art.
For Immediate Release:
Project 25 - (name is tentative) Jessica Delfino is a starving artist who needs to be able to create art all the time but not starve. If everyone donates one quarter, a very doable deed, Jessica will be able to quit her day job and concentrate all her time and energy on creating art, making music and fighting the neverending battle between good and evil, thus making the world a better place.
Jessica is not a super hero, she is a girl who has a lot of plans for improving lives with her art. She is putting this project together to see if she can achieve her goal of reaching as many creative (and uncreative) people as possible and encouraging them to give their thumbs up to art by sending her one quarter. In order to make art, she needs your support. She needs your quarter.
To make your donation:
Put a quarter in an envelope and send it to:
Project 25
c/o J.Delfino
230 W. 55 St. #23D
NY, NY 10019
You can send a check if you prefer, but really I want to see quarters.
Make checks payable to:
Jessica Delfino (memo: project 25)
The first 10,000 people to send in a quarter will receive a personalized thank you note.
Please only donate once and please only donate a quarter.
If you are the head of household, you may donate a quarter for each person in your family because
babies can't send quarters. Yet.
PLEASE FORWARD THIS TO AS MANY PEOPLE AS HUMANLY POSSIBLE.
Thank you. May making art fill your days and help you all to find your ways.
ADDENDUM TO Project 25 (That name has got to change immediately. Any suggestions?)
The quarters have been pouring in, (thank you all) and I know it's humiliating to you to have to send a quarter for more than the price of a quarter, and that is why I am changing the rules to allow each person to be able to send up to 4 quarters, and to make it easy, you can send those 4 quarters in the form of a dollar bill. Just one more way that I help you to help me make art.
Girl Scout Cookie Thoughts
by Jessica Delfino
A month or so ago when I first started working at Christies, a man came in and sold us all Girl Scout cookies. I guess his daughter was a girl scout, or maybe he was one. We bought tons of cookies and ever since then I have been licking my lips thinking about those delicious tender boxes of yummy morsels, smooshed together into cookie form. Today, I thought about the cookies again, as I have been for the past month. But today, unlike the other times I have been thinking about them, they actually came in. It was surreal.
I ordered two boxes myself - a box of what used to be called Samoas (now they're called Caramel deLights -lowercase d-e capital L lowercase i-g-h-t-s. I guess the Samoans got pissed about sharing too similar a name with sweet, terrific inexpensively made pastries.) I also ordered a box of cookies I hadn't seen until this year - Animal Treasures they are called. Animal treasures are shortbread cookies the size of a coaster, each having had one side dipped in delectable milk chocolate.
My boss ordered about 15 different boxes of them. She put two boxes out on the community table for us all to share, so I made sure to do my part and share them. They were the new and improved Thin Mints which I never really gave a crap about though everyone else seems to make such a big deal about them. They're like crunchy Peppermint Patties. Big deal. They're fine, they're good, they're just overrated. She also got a box of Peanut Butter Sandwiches which were pretty good but couldn't they have thought of a better name than Peanut Butter Sandwiches?
I ate two peanut butter sandwiches, I ate one thin mint (for principle's sake) and one animal treasure. Then, I opened the Caramel deLights and proceeded to eat nine, that's NINE of them. They were THAT good. Not to mention I hadn't eaten lunch and it just seemed so right. Too right to turn down. Each cookie, righter than the next. Tempting me. Calling to me. Whistling at me, cat calling dirty comments to my tastebuds. I am only a human. I just couldn't resist the tangy coconut and caramel tastes dancing naked together on that tender sphere of desire.
Now I feel sick. I do feel sick, I must be honest. There are different kinds of sick, you know? There's like that sick when you drank too much and then you close your eyes and the ceiling and the walls are spinning, spinning. There's that sick when your face is hot and you're like, "fuck, I'm getting the flu." There's that sick that's like, "it's Thanksgiving and I just ate 17 pounds of food." And the sick I had, which was like, "I am supposed to be getting skinny now that I'm single, and I'm doing pretty good at it, but now I'm going to get fat again because I just ate NINE Caramel deLights, not to mention the animal treasures and the peanut butter sandwiches and the thin mint.
I do think about food. I don't have an eating disorder but I'm only a few inches, about the length of one finger away from one. It's not that I enjoy puking or that I'm crazy, it's just that I do want to be skinny and I am too tempted by junkfood. I lost 13 pounds since my fiance and I broke up, so I feel like I can eat a cookie or NINE if I want to. Yum.
A strange side note: On the box of Caramel deLights there was a photo of a girl wearing a fireman's hat which really surprised me because I thought that look was out. It was really popular back in like 01 and even into 02, but now we're side winding Von Dutch hats and I think even that is out.
by Jessica Delfino
A month or so ago when I first started working at Christies, a man came in and sold us all Girl Scout cookies. I guess his daughter was a girl scout, or maybe he was one. We bought tons of cookies and ever since then I have been licking my lips thinking about those delicious tender boxes of yummy morsels, smooshed together into cookie form. Today, I thought about the cookies again, as I have been for the past month. But today, unlike the other times I have been thinking about them, they actually came in. It was surreal.
I ordered two boxes myself - a box of what used to be called Samoas (now they're called Caramel deLights -lowercase d-e capital L lowercase i-g-h-t-s. I guess the Samoans got pissed about sharing too similar a name with sweet, terrific inexpensively made pastries.) I also ordered a box of cookies I hadn't seen until this year - Animal Treasures they are called. Animal treasures are shortbread cookies the size of a coaster, each having had one side dipped in delectable milk chocolate.
My boss ordered about 15 different boxes of them. She put two boxes out on the community table for us all to share, so I made sure to do my part and share them. They were the new and improved Thin Mints which I never really gave a crap about though everyone else seems to make such a big deal about them. They're like crunchy Peppermint Patties. Big deal. They're fine, they're good, they're just overrated. She also got a box of Peanut Butter Sandwiches which were pretty good but couldn't they have thought of a better name than Peanut Butter Sandwiches?
I ate two peanut butter sandwiches, I ate one thin mint (for principle's sake) and one animal treasure. Then, I opened the Caramel deLights and proceeded to eat nine, that's NINE of them. They were THAT good. Not to mention I hadn't eaten lunch and it just seemed so right. Too right to turn down. Each cookie, righter than the next. Tempting me. Calling to me. Whistling at me, cat calling dirty comments to my tastebuds. I am only a human. I just couldn't resist the tangy coconut and caramel tastes dancing naked together on that tender sphere of desire.
Now I feel sick. I do feel sick, I must be honest. There are different kinds of sick, you know? There's like that sick when you drank too much and then you close your eyes and the ceiling and the walls are spinning, spinning. There's that sick when your face is hot and you're like, "fuck, I'm getting the flu." There's that sick that's like, "it's Thanksgiving and I just ate 17 pounds of food." And the sick I had, which was like, "I am supposed to be getting skinny now that I'm single, and I'm doing pretty good at it, but now I'm going to get fat again because I just ate NINE Caramel deLights, not to mention the animal treasures and the peanut butter sandwiches and the thin mint.
I do think about food. I don't have an eating disorder but I'm only a few inches, about the length of one finger away from one. It's not that I enjoy puking or that I'm crazy, it's just that I do want to be skinny and I am too tempted by junkfood. I lost 13 pounds since my fiance and I broke up, so I feel like I can eat a cookie or NINE if I want to. Yum.
A strange side note: On the box of Caramel deLights there was a photo of a girl wearing a fireman's hat which really surprised me because I thought that look was out. It was really popular back in like 01 and even into 02, but now we're side winding Von Dutch hats and I think even that is out.
Monday, November 3, 2003
BAD DENTIST, ANYONE?
by Jessica Delfino
Hey there everyone. Check out this website. It's called Bad Dentist and it's about Dr. Larry Rosenthal, the very famous upper east side "dentist to the stars." You'll love this website if you're:
- into dentistry malpractice
- Jewish
- about to have lots of expensive work done to your teeth
- looking for which dentists NOT to ever go to
- interested in reading bizarre websites
It shows that the good dentist is responsible for a monstrous pattern of abuse that he charges tens of thousands of dollars to inflict. Interestingly, he has a lot of patients who are famous and/or rich and according to the testimony on this website, he has a track record of being a bad dentist. Yet, he's still in business. Verrrrry interesting.....
I guess in closing, don't go to Dr. Rosenthal, and also, read this site.
www.baddentist.com
by Jessica Delfino
Hey there everyone. Check out this website. It's called Bad Dentist and it's about Dr. Larry Rosenthal, the very famous upper east side "dentist to the stars." You'll love this website if you're:
- into dentistry malpractice
- Jewish
- about to have lots of expensive work done to your teeth
- looking for which dentists NOT to ever go to
- interested in reading bizarre websites
It shows that the good dentist is responsible for a monstrous pattern of abuse that he charges tens of thousands of dollars to inflict. Interestingly, he has a lot of patients who are famous and/or rich and according to the testimony on this website, he has a track record of being a bad dentist. Yet, he's still in business. Verrrrry interesting.....
I guess in closing, don't go to Dr. Rosenthal, and also, read this site.
www.baddentist.com
Friday, October 31, 2003
Something Like A Poem, A Story and a Song ALL IN ONE
by Jessica Delfino
Get your fuck out of my face
Get your ass out of my bed
Get your smelly feet off the seat that I found in the garbage
and get the hell out of my head
Get your cereal off the top of my fridge
Get your soap out of my soap dish
Get your meat hooks off of my sweet supple personal belongings
Get your reality out of my wish
When are you going to come off of this trip that you aren't even on?
When are you going to face up to people who have been making you feel like you've been facing up to everything?
Are you ever going to do anything that you talk about with your hands up your ass?
Are you ever going to make a wish that has something like realism attached to it?
You should just commit suicide
I don't mean die, I mean kill yourself
Just so you can be reborn
Because you are dying anyway
You're dying, dying, dying anyway, every day
Try diving, diving, diving away
off the bridge, out of the way of the truck wreck that has your name on it
You never were brave, and your inner reserve is too shallow
Your face is too pretty and your insides are melted
by Jessica Delfino
Get your fuck out of my face
Get your ass out of my bed
Get your smelly feet off the seat that I found in the garbage
and get the hell out of my head
Get your cereal off the top of my fridge
Get your soap out of my soap dish
Get your meat hooks off of my sweet supple personal belongings
Get your reality out of my wish
When are you going to come off of this trip that you aren't even on?
When are you going to face up to people who have been making you feel like you've been facing up to everything?
Are you ever going to do anything that you talk about with your hands up your ass?
Are you ever going to make a wish that has something like realism attached to it?
You should just commit suicide
I don't mean die, I mean kill yourself
Just so you can be reborn
Because you are dying anyway
You're dying, dying, dying anyway, every day
Try diving, diving, diving away
off the bridge, out of the way of the truck wreck that has your name on it
You never were brave, and your inner reserve is too shallow
Your face is too pretty and your insides are melted
Thursday, October 30, 2003
FUN, KIND OF CUTE WAYS TO GET EVEN WITH A ROOMMATE YOU HATE
Fill their shoes with cereal (don't forget the milk)
Put stickers all over the television screen
Kiss them all over their face with chocolate on your lips
Put counterfeit money on their nightstand (then let the fun begin!)
NOTE: Do you know how to make counterfeit money? If not, read below.
Lick all their stamps. If their stamps are the ones that aren't licky, peel them off and put them on regular paper.
Cry all over their favorite shirt. (works best if the crier is a girl who wears make-up)
Get them three adorable puppies.
Put peanut butter in their hand while they are sleeping.
Throw the remote control to their tv away.
Paint their ceiling fan on a hot day moments before they come home.
Step all over their underwear with your dirty clompers.
Clip your fingernails in their bed.
Bake them a cake with pickles in it.
Fill the ice cube tray with rainwater.
Counterfeit money - It is very easy to make, my sister's ex-boyfriend went to jail for three years making it this way. You need a computer with Photoshop, a scanner, a color printer and some heavier stock paper, similar to the paper stock that money is printed on. Scan the money into Photoshop and print it out. Put it in the dryer with your clothes to give it that spent a few dozen times look. Take it out and spend it! It might be harder to do now that there are all these fancy dollar security measures but you could probably still do it. However, keep in mind, you WILL get arrested, and you WILL go to jail for several years, and there's a good chance you WILL get anally accosted. Just a few things to think about. All that stuff aside, let me know how it turns out!
Fill their shoes with cereal (don't forget the milk)
Put stickers all over the television screen
Kiss them all over their face with chocolate on your lips
Put counterfeit money on their nightstand (then let the fun begin!)
NOTE: Do you know how to make counterfeit money? If not, read below.
Lick all their stamps. If their stamps are the ones that aren't licky, peel them off and put them on regular paper.
Cry all over their favorite shirt. (works best if the crier is a girl who wears make-up)
Get them three adorable puppies.
Put peanut butter in their hand while they are sleeping.
Throw the remote control to their tv away.
Paint their ceiling fan on a hot day moments before they come home.
Step all over their underwear with your dirty clompers.
Clip your fingernails in their bed.
Bake them a cake with pickles in it.
Fill the ice cube tray with rainwater.
Counterfeit money - It is very easy to make, my sister's ex-boyfriend went to jail for three years making it this way. You need a computer with Photoshop, a scanner, a color printer and some heavier stock paper, similar to the paper stock that money is printed on. Scan the money into Photoshop and print it out. Put it in the dryer with your clothes to give it that spent a few dozen times look. Take it out and spend it! It might be harder to do now that there are all these fancy dollar security measures but you could probably still do it. However, keep in mind, you WILL get arrested, and you WILL go to jail for several years, and there's a good chance you WILL get anally accosted. Just a few things to think about. All that stuff aside, let me know how it turns out!
Wednesday, October 29, 2003
THE CONNECTION BETWEEN DUST AND JEALOUSY
She hated the way he tricked her into being jealous – you know how they do it, ladies. He’d drop little emotional shit-bombs on her like, “Oh, I’ve got a lunch meeting with Marie. You know, she’s my old girlfriend from high school, the one I told you about who I was madly in love with. We’ve been friends since we were 13.” She already knew that, she’d heard the story once for every year they’d been friends. Now he was 27 and she knew the story syllable for syllable, and had memorized the cadence of his voice for all the words he used. He’d give her details that to him were just part of the way he spoke, but to her enough to ruin her day every day for the next 2-3 days. “You have nothing to worry about, babe, you know I can’t stand her. Regardless of the fact that she’s got the hottest little figure I’ve ever seen, she’s the worst human being I’ve ever met. Absolutely unlovable. Believe me, I tried to love her. I would have married her if I could have. She was my one true love. Besides you, honey.”
When she heard things like this, which by the way, was about once a day or sometimes twice if she was unlucky, or sometimes every other day if she was lucky, her emotions tore and split into shards like offspring of themselves. From one angle, she knew that to be jealous was belittling of her, smaller than her personality, weak-minded, immature, not becoming of her, stupid, childish. It made her feel out of control and confused. From another aspect, she considered her place in his life. The way he rationalized every lunch date or meeting or piece of art that he needed to create with an ex-girlfriend or short term lover led her to believe that he couldn’t care for her the way he spoke so indelicately about something so tender to her. Either that or he was simply oblivious. Either way, what an idiot.
Janice had just about had it with guys playing songs she didn’t like all up and down her heartstrings. She decided that without failure she wasn’t going to stand for it anymore. What then, though? Would she be a lesbian? Surely there couldn’t be a man in the world who was thoroughly considerate, thoroughly tender, thoroughly understanding of how you can and can’t talk to a woman. There just couldn’t be. What then? Would she become celibate? Perhaps begin dating and possibly marry her career? What career? She worked days answering phones at a trading company downtown. The best she could hope for was full benefits and maybe half a hundred grand a year. Maybe they’d reimburse her if she went to college, but what would she take up now? 32 years old is young still, but it isn’t too young that you can just up and start over. Or can you? Can you up and start over at age 32? What if you are tired? What if you are close to dying? What if your heart has been broken? Don’t those things matter in life? Why didn’t anyone seem to be able to relate to her? How many questions could she ask herself in a row without stopping?
She made herself a cup of green tea, and then another, and then finally, one more. She didn’t finish the third cup, but she noticed that the caffeine had begun to take effect because she started to clean her apartment in an intricate way. She sprayed bleach spray (you can buy it now in a spray bottle) into the corner of one of the walls near the kitchen where a black puddle of fuzz had begun to form. What was in that fuzz? Germs? Cooties? Filth? Maybe a new disease? What was it? Cockroach shit? Dust? Isn’t dust dead skin flakes? That was what she’d heard once and it horrified her, the idea that her old flesh was wandering around her apartment, laying on the tables and the lamps and everyone who came into her house could see her dead old skin from months or maybe even years before, grey, still, dead. Dust laid on the furniture with the same emotion of a dead body lying in a casket, and that made her even more upset at her boyfriend. She imagined herself lying in a casket and he looking over her, holding the hand of his new girlfriend. “I loved Janice more than anyone. I told you about Janice. Amazing ass. They should have buried her bottom side up. I told you about her ass, didn’t I? The best ass I ever saw on a human woman. Besides yours, of course, honey.”
She wiped the dust up with a damp paper towel and threw it into the trash. She picked up the phone and dialed her boyfriend.
She hated the way he tricked her into being jealous – you know how they do it, ladies. He’d drop little emotional shit-bombs on her like, “Oh, I’ve got a lunch meeting with Marie. You know, she’s my old girlfriend from high school, the one I told you about who I was madly in love with. We’ve been friends since we were 13.” She already knew that, she’d heard the story once for every year they’d been friends. Now he was 27 and she knew the story syllable for syllable, and had memorized the cadence of his voice for all the words he used. He’d give her details that to him were just part of the way he spoke, but to her enough to ruin her day every day for the next 2-3 days. “You have nothing to worry about, babe, you know I can’t stand her. Regardless of the fact that she’s got the hottest little figure I’ve ever seen, she’s the worst human being I’ve ever met. Absolutely unlovable. Believe me, I tried to love her. I would have married her if I could have. She was my one true love. Besides you, honey.”
When she heard things like this, which by the way, was about once a day or sometimes twice if she was unlucky, or sometimes every other day if she was lucky, her emotions tore and split into shards like offspring of themselves. From one angle, she knew that to be jealous was belittling of her, smaller than her personality, weak-minded, immature, not becoming of her, stupid, childish. It made her feel out of control and confused. From another aspect, she considered her place in his life. The way he rationalized every lunch date or meeting or piece of art that he needed to create with an ex-girlfriend or short term lover led her to believe that he couldn’t care for her the way he spoke so indelicately about something so tender to her. Either that or he was simply oblivious. Either way, what an idiot.
Janice had just about had it with guys playing songs she didn’t like all up and down her heartstrings. She decided that without failure she wasn’t going to stand for it anymore. What then, though? Would she be a lesbian? Surely there couldn’t be a man in the world who was thoroughly considerate, thoroughly tender, thoroughly understanding of how you can and can’t talk to a woman. There just couldn’t be. What then? Would she become celibate? Perhaps begin dating and possibly marry her career? What career? She worked days answering phones at a trading company downtown. The best she could hope for was full benefits and maybe half a hundred grand a year. Maybe they’d reimburse her if she went to college, but what would she take up now? 32 years old is young still, but it isn’t too young that you can just up and start over. Or can you? Can you up and start over at age 32? What if you are tired? What if you are close to dying? What if your heart has been broken? Don’t those things matter in life? Why didn’t anyone seem to be able to relate to her? How many questions could she ask herself in a row without stopping?
She made herself a cup of green tea, and then another, and then finally, one more. She didn’t finish the third cup, but she noticed that the caffeine had begun to take effect because she started to clean her apartment in an intricate way. She sprayed bleach spray (you can buy it now in a spray bottle) into the corner of one of the walls near the kitchen where a black puddle of fuzz had begun to form. What was in that fuzz? Germs? Cooties? Filth? Maybe a new disease? What was it? Cockroach shit? Dust? Isn’t dust dead skin flakes? That was what she’d heard once and it horrified her, the idea that her old flesh was wandering around her apartment, laying on the tables and the lamps and everyone who came into her house could see her dead old skin from months or maybe even years before, grey, still, dead. Dust laid on the furniture with the same emotion of a dead body lying in a casket, and that made her even more upset at her boyfriend. She imagined herself lying in a casket and he looking over her, holding the hand of his new girlfriend. “I loved Janice more than anyone. I told you about Janice. Amazing ass. They should have buried her bottom side up. I told you about her ass, didn’t I? The best ass I ever saw on a human woman. Besides yours, of course, honey.”
She wiped the dust up with a damp paper towel and threw it into the trash. She picked up the phone and dialed her boyfriend.
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