VINTAGE DELFINO

I wrote this story about eight years ago for a magazine called Backwash Zine. My mom brought the story to my attention again today when I called to wish her a happy father's day. She called it one of her all time favorite stories, which I take as a very high compliment, as she adores Lewis Carroll, Dorothy Parker and other greats. It's a little long, but a fun read, even if I do say so myself. It is an investigative piece that follows the lives of two very similar women with yet another thing in common - a strange use of mayonnaise. Enjoy!

PS I have to mention I saw Nellie McKay perform tonight at Joe's Pub. She mentioned in her song "Sorry" that she was sorry for the judge and the justice system on the occasion that she saw them refuse to give Christopher water in the courtroom when he asked many times and then begged for it. To my extreme delight, she called Judge Nunez a "bitch" in front of a packed room full of people who would have eaten dog biscuits out of her hand if she'd asked them to. And I should also mention, her show was beautiful and terrific beyond words, even without the honorable mention of CXB.

Condiments in the Trailer Park
A Creative Journey

by Jessica Delfino

With the help of a tip from a reliable source, I discovered a place called "Common Law Gardens" in Dogcrap, NJ where two ingenious women have been experimenting with mayonnaise. So, I decided to go and do a little bit of investigative reporting. I figured if I was going to go butting my nose into their mayo businesses, I might as well have something to offer them in return. With a little bit of prompting, I got a few national mayo companies to supply me with a nations' supply of Miracle Drip mayonnaise and Hell-Boy's mayonnaise. Everyone loves the creamy goodness that is mayonnaise. How could Dogcrap turn me away when I came bearing gifts? With that in mind, my multi packs of mayo and I made the long trip by car to Dogcrap.
Mayonnaise is a pillar of what makes this country so great. For years, thousands of Americans have consumed billions of jars of its creamy goodness, still unsure even of how it is made, or what it is made of. All most Americans know about this 'miraculous whip' is that it is almost white and it tastes great on most anything.

On the day that I have chosen to visit Common Law Gardens, it is a sunny, temperate day. It is almost as if there are real frogs trapped inside the smiling, glass-eyed frogs that sit smooshed into the brown dirt spots scattered amongst the plush, plastic green tufts that slyly trick passers-by and neighbors into believing that they are glimpsing at what is called in some regions, the "front lawn." Crafty little wooden maidens rise up from a pole in the ground; they are bent-over in a row and convincingly appear to be digging worms to sell to the local tackle store; or, perhaps they are picking up cigarette butts that their guests have thrown all over the ground. Almost every unit proudly sports its own sign that offers up knowledge of the residential status of each trailer. "One old goat and one cute chic live here!" Indeed, they do. This is Dogcrap, NJ. Dogcrap is a small town, compiled mostly of mullets and mini trucks. Yes, a happy race of people make up the residents of this neighborhood, which seems to consist mainly of members of the same genepool. Like the mighty bumble bee, these fiery creatures only attack when provoked, unless, that is, they are drunk or high, then, like the mighty crocodile, they attack for the hell of it. But we are here today and no one seems to be attacking anything yet.

Edna's Story

My first story begins with Edna Headlong, proprietor of her own mayonnaise based business. Edna is a short little woman; frumpy but kind. Edna answered the door in her work gear; a pair of tight fitting jeans that appeared as if washed by hand in a lovely stream in Mexico that flowed over rocks and stones before someone purchased them and handed them down to her. An oversized tee shirt with a darling but all too pixelated picture of what appeared to be her own offspring on the front topped her apple-shaped body. We could see through the fabric in her, let's just call them, 'stone-washed' jeans that her camel lips were flared; a sign of welcome in Dogcrap, so I knew that I was wanted here. I let her know that I wasn't there to take away her children, as she wrongfully assumed, but to share with her the magical, mystical, miraculous workings of mayonnaise. When I explained that I was there to write a report on her invention, she was both surprised and delighted. She asked if she could go 'make a doody' before we got started, and I allowed her to perform that duty. When she came out, without further ado, we got to work.
I offered her some free samples which she gladly accepted, and I showed her that I knew a thing or two about how to use mayonnaise as well. I showed her how one could mix mayonnaise and ketchup together to create a tangy salad dressing; how one could place mayonnaise on 'bread' under choice slices of deli cuts or how it could be mixed with chopped eggs, the delicious orb that comes out of a chicken's butt. She acknowledged that she was well aware of these modern mayonnaisical advances and commenced to show me a wonderful use of the product that has never ever been seen before. Her kids call it 'the fun dough' but she markets it as 'playonnaise.' It is a colorful dough-like substance that was created one afternoon when her kids came home from school with a recipe for dough that their teacher had given them as homework. Edna realized she was not in possession of well, ANY of the ingredients required to make the dough, and decided it was up to her to use her own ingenuity to create a like-substance. So successful was the experiment, it caught on. Soon, mothers all over Common Law Gardens were offering to trade her raggedy high tops and Pepsi bottles brimming with coffee brandy for samples of the colored goo. "It was as if I'd been given a pile of the most wonderful garbage that only I got to dig through," Edna commented on the experience. Edna realized that she was onto something and began packaging the substance in old vegetable cans which she sealed with a sandwich baggy and trash ties. Due to the lack of funding to cover the packaging design costs, she thought it would be clever to leave the actual vegetable label on the can, color the playonnaise in the can the same color as the vegetable that had once lived there, and call it after it's vegetable name. I liked "pea" the best. Clever, indeed. But this is the best part. When the kids were finished sculpting lovely action figures and their favorite vehicles from playonnaise, they could eat them, wet or dry. Kids have always fought with parents about eating their vegetables, but no more. Playonnaise makes consuming veggies both fun and delicious. Edna showed me some special little figurines made by her children that she held dear to her heart. Among them were the Incredible Hulk in "pea" who her oldest son wanted to someday become, and she herself had sculpted the life-sized head of Jerry Springer in "corn" and created his facial features in a rainbow of "beet" and "carrot". Might I add, the figure held a startling resemblance to the real Jerry. In Dogcrap, in the Common Law Gardens, and anywhere, recipes are treasured and cherished, and pirating recipes is an offense not to be taken lightly. I stumbled upon trouble in mayonnaise paradise, just two trailers down from Edna. She informed me of a neighborly bitch who had stolen the mayonnaise theme right out from under her nose and created her own foul-smelling concoction. She referred to the bitch as Judy. I decided to pay her a visit, much to the dismay of Edna Headlong. "That bitch ruins everything of mine!" were her parting words as I took my complimentary cans of "corn" and "pea" playonnaise and went on down the road.

Judy's Story

I found Judy passed out behind the steering wheel of a rusty pinto parked in her driveway, stinking of gin and tobasco sauce. It appeared that she had slept there the previous night, and was not shocked when I woke her by pressing on the horn, as I was instructed to do by a strange, fuzzy little creature who called himself Son. I assumed he was her son, because he had called Judy his mom. Son excused himself because he had been involved in a bout of backyard wrestling with some local hoodlums, when the four or five barking dogs alerted him of my presence. Though it might seem strange to the layman, I learned that the 'drunken' state is actually the preferred state among the people of Common Law Gardens and all of Dogcrap. Once I told her that I had come to write a report on her mayonnaise magic, she rose to make my acquaintance. She picked a mostly smoked cigarette butt out of the vehicle's ashtray and toked on the filter while we spoke. She told me of a day when her family was very poor. She said her dad would make her and her sisters and brothers and cousins and nephews and nieces and friends and strangers that came over to hang out with her brothers and sisters and cousins and nephews and nieces toys, since he could not afford to purchase toys. He would whittle pipes and ice picks out of wood for the boys in the family, and he would make crayons out of whiskey and candle wax for the girls. Judy recalled her father's recipe and decided to put a new, modern spin on it by making edible crayons out of mayonnaise for her own children and calling them crayonnaise. This would be considered a crafty idea by anyone's standards, except her father's. There was a family dispute about altering the natural ingredients of his down-home crayons, and they haven't spoken since. Her recipe involved mixing wax, mayonnaise and miscellaneous leftovers and spices to give the crayons texture. The crayons were then used in a very creative manner. The kids could actually draw on their dinner plates, and then lick the plates clean, accomplishing three tasks; entertaining the children, feeding the children, and washing the dishes. "That Edna is a larr," she explained to me. She told me a deeper, darker story than the one Edna had delivered to my ears just moments earlier. "She's jist mad cuz her husbin spant the nott here erry nott last month. Ah came up with the ah-dear of usin' mayonnaise in the craown re-si-whatever you called it, to make usage of the leftover egg salad I made. And it made the craowns so smooth and creamy, I decided the mayonnaise was the thing that did that to 'em so I decided to do it again and then the thing went off, and we did nothin', I swear, officer."

Again, I offered up some tidbits of my own mayo-wisdom by showing Judy how it is perfectly acceptable to mix mayonnaise into a hollandaise sauce or use it in dips. Judy showed me her crayonnaise workshop which consisted of a dirty counter top and a bucket that had encrusted wax stuck to the bottom. She also showed me other ways she makes use of mayonnaise. "If you rub some in yer eyes after you smoke a crack or two, it takes the red right out. If you eat three or four tablespoons while givin' birth, it makes you feel so sick you don't even notice the pain. And when you rub it in yer hair and dip yer haid in a bucket a'water and shake it all around in the water, it makes yer hair as soft as a plate fulla cat hair and cigarette ashes." It couldn't have been put better in english. And what a tasty dish that must be. But that recipe was for another time and another occasion. She went on to explain that she feeds her son, Son, mayonnaise sandwiches for lunch just about every day. I can't even begin to elaborate on the nutritional content in a mayonnaise sandwich, which consists mostly of bread, mayonnaise and air, but I didn't really have time to anyway, because at that moment, her common law husband came home and he had a shot gun in one hand and a few of his own teeth in the other. That was my cue to run, er, leave.

So that was my mayonnaise adventure. I learned a lot on this journey. I learned about a little hole of a place called Common Law Gardens. I learned two fun, new ways to use mayonnaise. I learned that a town exists that is called Dogcrap. As you may or may not know, mayonnaise may not be great for your arteries, but no one can say it doesn't taste great. And that's what counts. Now, you and your cool suburban buddies may call me a 'mayonerd' but the fact is, I have always had a good old time sharing and learning all types of recipes with all types of people. Maybe next time, it'll be you. Until then, bon appetit!

BIG DAY FOR DELFINO

Yesterday was my special day, the day I left my childhood behind and became a woman. I woke early in the morning to a door bell sound which was actually more of an irate buzzing that most New Yorkers know as a household noise. The man on the other end of that buzz delivered a package to me containing a birthday card and earrings from my sister, plus a card with $20. What are they, rich?

Thankfully the day started out nice, because I spent most of my special day sitting around in court. My boyfriend and good friend Christopher X. Brodeur got sentenced to serve 6 months in jail for his reportedly harrassing form of activism, which entailed calling City Hall enough times to possibly make a world record, and now will be "vacationing" as he put it, at Riker's Island until perhaps next year.

Luckily for me, I was in great company. Friends the Trachtenburg Family Slideshow Players, musical genius Nellie McKay, comedic pedal wizard Reggie Watts, Bilge Byron of Haunted Pussy (or Mikey McHugh), Mormon Delicious aka Mike Amato, DEVA's synth player Rob Bose, Sidewalk Anti-Folk scene photojournalist Lippe and others were in attendance. Together, we made a fun day of it, joking around, eating yummy Thai food for lunch and giving eachother faces full of shocked expression with each assinine sentence to spill from DA Duncan Levin's overpaid, lying lips. It was also quite surprising to hear the judge's distraght tone upon hearing that Christopher had called her "Bloomberg's #1 puppet at the bench." Perhaps she felt ashamed. Regardless, I'm sure it didn't help lighten his sentence any.

After the courthouse experience, I was then treated to a tasty dinner by Rachel and Tina Trachtenburg and then we went to see "An Inconvenient Truth" at the Landmark Sunshine. It was a pretty convenient theater, very close to my apartment. And equally as convenient or perhaps even more so, Jason Trachtenburg paid for my "birthday" ticket. Hell of a guy, that Jason.

I stumbled into my home, exhausted, around midnight.

It was certainly the strangest and most interesting way I've spent my birthday yet.

I can't wait to to see what next year brings.

JESSICA DELFINO'S THIRD ANNUAL BAD BIRTHDAY POETRY PARTY is nigh!

Maybe you were there last year, maybe you weren't. Hope you can make it this time. It's this coming Sunday...

This is how it works:

Everyone in the world is invited to write me a bad poem on the theme, "Are you glad I was born?" (Answers of "No" are accepted and even encouraged. Indifference and ambivalence are both fine, also.) Everyone is then invited to read the poems aloud on stage. I will give out crappy gift bags as well as bad awards for worst poem, lousiest poem, etc. Readers will also get booklets of last year's bad poems written by the poets of 2005. Hilarity will ensue.

There will be birthday goodies, featured guest readers of musical, literate and comedic backgrounds, Dr. Steam Whipple of The Pizzas will provide a subtle and strange musical backdrop in place of the usual imprisoned musical genius, Touching You; and Fisher Spooner's Vanessa and her dancey friends will do interpretive dance to the bad poems.

Admission is free. Please wear your nerdiest dark rimmed glasses, your best (or worst) poetry outfits and don't forget your beret or sophisticated scarf.

Hints: The born and porn rhyme has already been used to death, and there is nothing good that rhymes with Delfino.

Extra credit goes to any and all extra efforts deployed.

Come one, come all!

RSVP for a poem reading spot at jessdelfino@yahoo.com, or just show up and try to slip in somewhere.

Jessica Delfino's (3rd Annual) Bad Birthday Poetry Party
SUNDAY, JUNE 4th, 2006
BOWERY POETRY CLUB
308 Bowery Poetry Club at 1st St.
7 pm SHARP to 9 pm

Let the rhymey times roll!

Huge Dump Taken At New Sushi Restaurant
by Jessica Delfino

I don't remember what time it was when I realized I had to go #2. But I had to go, and there wasn't a brick wall or a pair of handcuffs anywhere that would keep me from doing what I "needed to do." My friend invited me out to lunch not knowing what evils hid deep inside of my soul and my entrails. I went into the fancy bathroom, a small room much too good for doing what I was about to do in it, and a pang of guilt overtook me - what had these nice people ever done to me? Surely nothing to deserve the horrid attack I was about to deliver. I am no terrorist, but my butt can be terroristic at times.

I made sure the door was locked. I was not about to have some poor tourist from Boise trapse in, catching my eyes for that one moment that would leave them in shock and fear; the moment that overtakes a person as they catch you in mid-plop. It is a similar feeling to catching someone you love with their man meat in their mitt; a look of desparate self-loathing-love on their ecstatic faces. Among the evil that lies in man lest we forget that man is also a sad being; a lonely being that makes gross liquids.

I kissed the seat with my soft buttocks. Oh, the joy of the men whose fingers have graced the flaxen flesh of my downy bottom - wouldn't they be shamed now to imagine their palms in place as my mudflaps flapped the mud away?

As every person fears when defecating in a public place, especially one of value, I hoped the toilet would flush, carrying my brown sins to hell, where they belonged.

I pushed, and it pulled, and I thanked god, once again.

I washed my hands furiously, as if to scrub away the metaphor of filth that surely coated them, and went out to eat some yummy food, and go make more dark wrongs.

I'd nearly forgotten about my private donation, when a child; a lovely-faced child entered the restaurant, joyfully exclaiming to the kindly japanaman in high-pitched innocense if she could please use the bathroom!? Of course, he said yes.

It took all I had not to leap from my seat, fly through the air in a japaname' stream, and knock her to the ground, saving her from the aftermath of my leavings.
But I let her go.

She would be a woman, soon.

As I ate the last bite of my delicious meal, I thought of the last remarkable line of the poem by Alexander Pope: "Oh, Celia! Celia! Celia shits!"

Oh, she shat alright. And don't they all, Alexander? Don't we all?

EUREKA!!! It's a new post!

Holy vagina!

Wow!

I've been waiting for a long time to update my blog, but now, thanks to my friend David, there's a link to my video placed in the upper right hand corner (look up...see???) and I can go on with my blog life.

Where to begin? OK!

I'll tell you this. I'm performing a lot this week. See my schedule for specific details, but I will say this - tomorrow, Tuesday at 8 PM, I'm playing at Freddy's Back Room (485 Dean St., Park Slope, Brooklyn) with Tickle Dracula and Bitter Poet. Hurrah! Tickle Dracula tells jokes over surf-y rock (they are terrific) and Bitter Poet sings songs of his bitter poetry guised in red and black, the colors of bitterness.

Next, this Friday, I'm opening for Otto and George, ventriloquist comedy legend! And I'll go one more with a huzzah! It's in Yonkers...if you live in Yonkers and you want more information, just send me an eletronic note and I'll send you details.

Sunday, May 21st from 6-8 PM ($5) is the monthly "Night of A Shitload of Stars" or NO ASS for short. This is a terrific, fast-paced variety show of epic proportions, originated and partially booked by CXB and carried on by me in his jailed stead. This month, we've got a fabulous line-up so good, your teeth could fall out. (Not guaranteed.) Hosted by Reverend Jen and featuring Kristen Schall, Elephant Larry, Mike Amato, The Black & The Jew, Adira Amram, The Dustbunnies, The Trachtneburg Family Slideshow Players, short films and virtually a shitload more stars.

And speaking of CXB, this is very important. I hereby implore each and every reader whose eyes lie upon this line to come and stand witness next Monday, seven days from now (technically six since it's now 2 am on Tuesday) MAY 22nd at 10 AM, for the sentencing of my beloved and imprisoned fiance, Mr. Christopher X. Brodeur. (The X is real - it stands for Xavier.) By now, most of you know that Christopher is a political prisoner who is serving the maliciously vulgar amount of time of 6 months at Riker's Island for a speech related misdemeanor. He will be sentenced on this date and is looking at up to 9 additional months in jail at Riker's.

Please come to show that you believe in free speech, even if it isn't nice speech.

The sentencing will be held at 100 Center St. (downtown), Rm. 450. Go left in the hallway (out of the elevators) and through the door at the end of the hallway. See room 450 straight ahead. Please arrive around 10 am. You will go through metal detectors, so leave your knives and illegal drugs at home.

"All that is required for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing" - Edmund Burke

So, come out to Center St. on Monday, May 22nd and show your support.

At the last sentencing, about 50 people showed up and we had an impromptu, vivacious party in the courtroom, featuring many spirited and beloved artists, activists and people about town. Everyone's going. Bring your dancing shoes and get ready to do a jig for justice.

On a very serious note, Christopher is looking at a lot more time, and we could use any and all support. I've been struggling to pay an exorbitant amount of rent alone and I fear what the future holds for us. We're supposed to be getting married on Dec. 25, 2006, and he is missing my special bad birthday poetry party on June 4th and my third tenth birthday on June 8th. So, to say I'm a little bummed about this is a gross, disgusting understatement. I'm literally crushed by all of this, and would relish any bit of support any of you could muster.

So, please don't hold the muster or the relish. Just show up.

So Many Talented People....

...so many mansions for important corporation bosses to buy in stead of paying these talented people to make great art.

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

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

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

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

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

INDIANAPOLIS

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

WEDNESDAY, MARCH 22nd
BIRDY'S
2131 E. 71st St.
Doors @ 7:30
8:30 - The Born Again Floozies (Tuba, Tap and Funny)
9:15 - TBA
10:00 PM - Jessica Delfino & Dirty Folk Rock
$5!


PHOTO by GRAHAM MORRISON

CHICAGO

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

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

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

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


From the Mac & Slater Show, Chicago, IL:

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

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

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

THURSDAY, MARCH 23
The HIDEOUT
1354 W. Wabasia
773-227-4433
6:30 - 7:30 PM SHARP
$5 suggested donation - Nice!

See you in the windy city and beyond.

FREE MONEY!!!
by Jessica Delfino

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

NYC ADVENTURES: VISITING YOUR BOYFRIEND IN JAIL
by Jessica Delfino

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PARTY IN THE COURT ROOM
Christopher X. Brodeur's Sentencing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE VEGETARIAN KITCHEN with Jessica Delfino

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enjoy!

HUGE PICTURE IN THE NY POST...

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

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

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

Take that, normals!

Out of Body Experience experiences, anyone?

Do you believe in out of body experiences? I've talked to two people who say they have had them. One of those people was a sort of wacky relative of mine, and my instincts tell me I shouldn't believe her, because she seems like the type of person who is just goofy enough to have misinterpreted a dream as an out of body experience. However, perhaps she's just wacky enough that she would have the crazy kind of brain to allow something as insane-sounding as that to happen. Of course, she could have hallucinated the whole thing, and just thought it was real. Acid hallucinations can be very intense, and I'm sure crazy hallucinations are very real seeming as well. I don't know if she's ever tried acid, as a matter of fact, I highly doubt it. But, they can be intense. I speak from experience. From reading about it in books.

The other person who told me she had an out of body experience was a totally normal person. It shocked me when she told me that. It was like, "I thought I knew you, then you go and tell me something like this, and now I'm not sure you're as normal as I thought you were." I've known her for about two years, and the whole time I've known her, she has never done or said anything to make me think she's nutty, or koo koo, or even ditzy. She seems very smart and of sound body and mind. But the way she described it, it almost sounded like she herself wasn't unsure that she might have been dreaming.

I'd think if anyone would be having an out of body experience, it'd be me, on account of all the hallucinogenic drugs I've sampled, and not to mention, I'm an artist, kind of a strange personality and all, and I'd think that I would have at least hallucinated some kind of bizarre thing like that by now. But I haven't even had one lousy flash back, much less any out of body experiences. I've had a few panic attacks, but that's about as crazy as it gets around here. I'd think I'd be a prime candidate for some kooky unexplained phenomenons - I'm up for that kind of shenanigan. I'm up for seeing a ghost, I'm up for floating around town, causing trouble while my body sleeps. I'd write a song about it or something.

Mmmm, on second thought, I don't know if I'd want to see a ghost. I'd probably take a pooper right in my pants. I'm even scared by those really cheesy phony baloney horror movies, like, the ones where the bad guy wears a hockey mask (spooky!) and runs around chopping people's faces off with his long fingernails. I'm sure if some ghost came to visit me, it'd be the scary kind, with one eye ball dangling down and half his ear hanging off, a bloody scalp with half his brain sticking out, like Paxcal in Pet Sematary, one of the scariest movies ever! (It's misspelled on purpose, because in the movie, the sign was supposed to have been written by a child.)

I guess it doesn't have to happen in real life for me to write a song about it. I'd call the song, "Hey Ghosts, Please don't visit me."

Hey ghosts - I don't want no visitors
I don't need no supernatural inquisitors
Grandpa, I miss ya
But I wouldn't want to kiss ya...

Has anyone out there who is not completely insane had an out of body experience? I'd like to hear accounts from Wall Street types and Harvard Grads, perhaps a Brain surgeon or a police officer...not to say that these people can't be insane, they're often even more unusual than they would like to have the rest of the world believe, it's just that it's always artists and mind readers having supernatural experiences.

Well? Anyone normal out there experience anything abnormal?

I'm watching figure skating...

...and the commentators are such dink anuses.

The commentators are such fair-weather friends - when the skaters are doing well, they are all up in their crotches. When they aren't doing well, they start getting all psychoanalytical on their asses, totally cutting them down, but doing it in an eloquent-sounding way that is OK, because it's on TV. If there were people at an ice skating practice just shanking a bunch of teenage girls ice skating, they'd get their asses kicked. TV makes everything okay.

It's amazing to me that these gals can even do this shit with their body, let alone do it on ice. They do things with their bodies that I can't even do with my imagination.

The skaters are doing amazing, awe-inspiring movements that human bodies were probably never even meant to be able to do. The one Japanese chick, Shizuki, just completely rocked it, without even making one mistake. They called it a "clean presentation". Shouldn't everyone in the theater line up to place their lips upon her anus? She can jump four feet into the air with ice skates on, going about 35 miles per hour, and then land on fucking ICE! What ELSE can she do? She can probably also fly and eat fire. And the announcers say things like, "It was a good quality performance, it is beatable".

They remind me of my parents. "I know you can do better," they'd sometimes say. Oh, yeah? How the hell do you know, MOM?

Maybe the ice skater's routine being absolutely perfect is as good as it's going to get! Deal with it!

I can't help but notice the similarities in ice skating and go go dancing. There's lots of gawking, I, like everyone, I'm sure, can't help but stare at these half-naked hot chicks like they are freaks. Even as I try to write, my eyes keep going back to the TV. And they keep doing these moves where the girls totally super spread their legs, holding one leg up very high, exposing their young crotch mounds to the entire free world. No dollars in G strings, that is one very clear difference.

"She has a sort of concerned look on her face," he says of a 16 year old asian ice magician who has just gotten marks for her routine which put her in third place. If he had a sense of humor, he might add, "Probably because she knows if she doesn't take a medal home, she will be forced to commit suicide." But it never comes. Instead, we just hear the sounds of him eating donuts into the microphone.

Amazing women! I mean, teens!

Now this russian chick is dancing to spanish music - insert race-related joke here. This russian chick is kicking ass! The audience is cheering her like she is the queen of England, and the announcer says, "It's a little off." She's absolutely spectacular. I would make a horrible commentator, because the whole time, I'd just be saying, WOW! FUCKING WOW! WOW! HOLY SHIT! WOW! Did you SEE THAT??? JESUS H! MOTHER FUCKER!

DAMN! She just landed right on her ass. She was doing so good. She was the only one who even had half a chance of beating the bad ass Japanese chick with the perfect, or as the commentators say, "quality, clean" performance. It must suck to lose something so precious by doing something as clumsy as falling on your ass.

The perfect asian chick's nick name is "cool fire" or something. She has complete poker face. She won the first gold medal for Japan ever in Olympic figure skating.

They will be the next USA.

It's sad to see a pretty little face get bent up at "only winning a bronze".

What a tough gig! And I thought stand-up comedy was a shit fest.

TV is run by aliens.

CXB IN JAIL AGAIN, this time maybe for a long while...

Hello Friends

If you could, please list any or all of this anywhere possible, and please participate:

Political activist and notorious gadfly/performance jokester Christopher X. Brodeur (aka Touching You, known for his involvement in The Liquid Tapedeck and Mr. Brooke Shields of Haunted Pussy) has been found guilty on 21 counts of various levels of harrassment. All of the specifics of the case are not available, but these details are:

** His charges of harrassment and aggrivated harrassment (regarding annoying and sometimes seemingly aggressive calls he made) is a misdemeanor charge. Though Christopher has no prior record of violent crime and has obeyed every restraining order ever placed against him, he was remanded immediately, which means he was taken to jail on the spot once he received a guilty verdict. Many people in his position would be let go until the next court date to get sentenced. Even though his sentencing date was set for March 8th, he was refused bail (though there was already bail on this case) and taken immediately to jail to be subject to now a THIRD psychological evaluation. This is not a 730 remand psychiatric evaluation, this is a judge-ordered psychiatric evaluation to determine how to "best sentence Christopher".

Each of the 21 counts holds a maximum sentence of 1 year, so essentially, he is looking at 21 years in jail. He *probably* won't get that many years, but he technically could. It's likely he will get sentenced a few years, though, with probation to follow. A FEW YEARS in JAIL!!?? For SPEAKING???????????? That seems unreasonably harsh.

WE ARE ASKING ANYONE who has been touched or affected by Christopher's thousands of various art, musical and political projects over his 15 years in NYC to please consider doing one or more of the following things, #s 1 and 2 being the MOST important, 1 being the MOST important of all.

1. Please write Judge Neil Ross a postcard or letter explaining that you know Christopher to be a harmless and beneficial artist, musician and politician if you find this to be true. If you have a project involving Christopher coming up, such as a show where he was scheduled to perform or work, please mention it. If you voted for him when he ran for mayor, please mention that. If you respect him or his work in any capacity, please mention that. Please mention that you do not know Christopher to be a violent person if that is your experience, and anything relating to that. Note that Christopher has been a Lower East Side resident and artist creating positive and imaginative art for the past 15 years, if you know this to be true. Please ask that Christopher be given probation or community service instead of having to do jail time. Mention that many violent criminals don't have to do jail time. Mention that you don't want YOUR tax dollars being spent imprisoning artists. Please do not insult the judge or the courts, even though it might be tempting. If you will write a letter or postcard, please do it ASAP and send it to:

Judge Neil Ross
c/o 100 Center St.
NY, NY 10007

On any piece of mail sent to the judge, please write on it somewhere FREE CXB or FREE CHRISTOPHER X. BRODEUR or something to that effect. Please ask three friends to do the same. List this on your blog and forward it to anyone you know who cares about free speech. This will only take a moment and only costs one stamp. Please do this if you can.

2. PLEASE come to Christopher's court date on March 8th. It is important that the judge and court see that Christopher is a member of a community of artists and activists and that he is appreciated and loved. Yes, you might have to get up early, and be in criminal court at 100 Center St. at 9:45 am. If you can't get there that early, just come a little later.

3. If you know a lawyer, a powerful person with activism or free speech interests, a group of people who somehow want to get involved in this cause or are a friend of Christopher's, please forward this message, put it on your website, print it out, copy it and leave it on bus seats. Please help keep freedom alive. This may seem small and insignificant, but it is part of a much larger liberty that we all MUST hold dear and protect, or we will LOSE it. If you know Christopher, you know him to SPEAK his mind. This is a right we have, but we are losing that right more and more every day. Remember, he is in JAIL (currently he is in the TOMBS, to be transported to RIKER'S ISLAND(!!!) possibly for MANY YEARS, because of WORDS HE SAID.

4. Visit www.mayorbrodeur.org if you are not familiar with Christopher X. Brodeur.

Please forgive me if this seems a bit disjointed, I watched freedom's throat get slashed today and bleed all over the floor in open court. Please send any email correspondence to jessdelfino@yahoo.com.

THANK YOU dearly.
917-450-4178

Where That Joke Came From
by Jessica Delfino

The best jokes have a little bit of truth and back story to them. Here is the story of the joke I tell about a guy in college who would never have sex with me - a joke which I still tell to this day. In the joke, I am the hero, winning the argument with a quippy line. In real life, it was rather traumatizing.

I met Justin (name has been left the same in hopes that the maximum amount of humiliation possible is had on his part) while studying animation at the Art School I went to in Philadelphia. He was a cute guy - kind of hip hoppy-ish, not the kind of guy I'd probably "typically" date. He drew graffiti-style art and cartoons and wore very baggy pants. He was a skinny white guy with short, dark hair and cute, puppy boy eyes. He tawked with a kind of New Yoowk accent that I didn't recognize as a New Yoowk accent at the time. I'd never been to New Yoowk.

He said he was from Lowng Island, which he also called Strowng Island to show how awesome and strowng he was.

We started talking during class and somehow over the course of the next few months, developed a casual, friendly relationship. Things took a turn for the fun when he invited me over to his apartment one early evening for dinner and to hang out.

When he told me that he had a girlfriend named Jessica before me whom things had gone horribly wrong with, I should have taken that as a clue of what to expect. But when it comes to clues and signs, I see them, acknowledge them, and then I cruise right by them, stopping only briefly to give that sign the finger.

I would go to his apartment every few days or so after school, a willing parcipitant in a game he invented which went something like this: We'd kiss for a long time. He'd tell me how beautiful I was. He'd remove articles of my clothing, one by one staying completely dressed, himself! (Clue #2 - ignored!) He'd get me completely naked and marvel at how beautiful my body was. He'd then yawn and say he had a big morning and had to get to sleep early. I'd get dressed in shame and walk myself to the train. It was always awkward and stupid, and yet, I kept going back for more.

Finally one night after this had been going on for about 4 months or so, he invited me over to his friend's house to hang out. There, his friend had many lines of "special k" laid out on the table for the two of them to enjoy. I was invited to share in the fun, but I opted out. I'd done enough acid for all of Philadelphia and was still recovering from the after-effects and experiencing random flash-backs.

But a bell rang in my head - perhaps his weiner was broken? I would think that if the stuff could tranquilize a horse, it surely could pack enough of a punch to render a fuckstick useless. Later, we went back to his apartment and went through the ritual. First, he took off all my clothes, but this time, he actually let me sleep over and tried to consumate our, um..., like. But his poor penis was out like a light. And soon after, we followed suit.

To make a long, boring story as short as possible, he set me up one night. He brought me back over to his friend's house, hung out for a bit and then left me there. I could feel where it was all leading. I'd mentioned his friend was cute (when he asked me!) and he kept insisting his friend thought I was cute, too. I hated Justin's shenanigans and his inability to be honest with me on almost any front. So, to spite him, or rather, to indulge him, when he left, I made out with his buddy. I knew he'd tell Justin and Justin would "break up" with me. And that is exactly what happened.

And that is the end of that.

Though the experience was sordid and littered with Bob Seger-like night move lust and half-hazard emotion, I rejoice in it, for it inspired the hit joke, a bastardized clipping of the above, elongated tale:

I used to date this guy in Philadelphia. He'd never have sex with me, and it hurt me so badly, because I thought he was "the one" - I thought we were going to get married and everything. So, eventually, I decided I should talk to him about this. I went to his house, knocked on the door and said, "Listen. We've been going out now for like, a week..., and I feel like this whole time, I've been washing my ass for nothing."

I don't "normally" do this, but I wanted to plug this on my website, because this was SO MUCH FUN last time I'm still sighing in delight upon contemplation of the memories it left within me...

Come to this if you can - it's mostly good for chicks, but dudes might dig it as well...especially the cool ones. Here's a tip for the guys: it will be a veritable chick feast! If you can't pick up a nice shirt, you might very well pick up a honey!

And...I'll be performing!



Rain, Snow or Alien Abduction
Swap-O-Rama-Rama is this Sunday

In keeping with the artwork on the Swap-O-Rama-Rama winter flyer the snowflakes will be joining us. Any x-raver will tell you that an event is only as good as the obstacles to get there. Luckily we're two short blocks from the L train (there are no L line closings this weekend) and the snow is expected to behind us by Sunday morning. So please know the swap is on!!! Rain, snow or alien abduction, clothing will be exchanged, modified, transformed and you might be too. Don't forget that while we swap and modify clothing we're also transforming ourselves from consumers to creators. Anyone can stroll into the gap and put on the costume of the masses. The only thing the industry forgot to put on their labels is "this is your uniform, you are now a drone." Not so for the maker! Bust out, be independent. Don't be branded and divided into socioeconomic stalls that reflect the size of your wallet rather than the expanse of your creativity. You can do better. At Swap-O-Rama-Rama you will learn all you need to know to resist the silly tactics of big biz: sew, stitch, rip, zip, puncture, staple, embroidery, glue, iron, paint, solder, design. . . do it yourself!

A quick review of what to bring...
What to bring: jackets, wallets, hats, pants, shirts, skirts, shoes, gloves, belts, accessories (wearable), jewelry, sunglasses, bags, costumes, lingere, pjs etc. Only clothes please!

What not to bring: books, bikes, vases, lamps, your hamster, furniture, statues, dolls, stuffed animals etc.
If you cant wear it, dont bring it!

* Quantity is not important. Come with a little or a lot, whatever you got.

Thanks for participating. See you all on Sunday!
Wendy Tremayne

* read on for the day's events

A reminder of the days events...

Swap-O-Rama-Rama
Sunday February 12, 2006 - 2pm to 7pm
$10 and a bag of your unwanted clothes
all workshop and DIY materials are provided
http://www.swaporamarama.org

Galapagos Art Space
70 North 6th (btw Wythe & Kent), Brooklyn NY
L train to Bedford, two blocks

Join in the communal process of creative reuse!

It’s time to clean out your closet and get rid of those unloved items to get ready for the winter Swap-O-Rama-Rama! Dig out the clothes you bought thinking “I’ll fit into it one day,” the gifts that made you wonder how well your aunt Marilyn really knows you and the stuff your hanging on to thinking it may come back into fashion. Let it go! At Swap-O-Rama-Rama you will trade your unloved items in for over 4,000 lbs of clothing for you to dig through. And it’s all free!

Once you’ve picked your new favorite duds you are invited to take back creativity from industry... bring your new clothes over to the DIY stations where you can learn to create new from old. Here you can work with skilled designers (Wheylan Dean Ford, Rienke Redman Akkerhuis, Kpoene Kofi Bruce and Claire Shaw) and modify your finds into something special or do on-site tailoring. You can also download images off the web and iron them on at Nat’s iron station (bring your own art on DVD or search the web on site) or silk-screen your new clothes at the silk-screen station with friends Dee and Shawn from Antimart to show you how. Explore a mass of bows, buttons, decals, trim patches and other notions at the decoration stations where Lina and Blanka will show you how to embroider, knit and have an all around great time doing hand sewn mods. All of your creativity materials are provided. Dive in and have fun!

You’ll also find artist taught workshops (a new one each 1/2 hr) where you can learn a unique clothing modification or recycling skill. The winter swap features: Alison Lewis’s Fashion Hack - create your own Twinkle Tote bag which lights up when your cell phone rings, Megan Nicolay’s Tee Party with 108 ways to transform a T-shirt; Dana Moskowitz's Knitting with Recycled Ts; Mikey Sklar’s RFID tag pocket replacement; Itsi Atkins Bra to Handbag conversion; or Daniel Tainow’s how to on composting organic textiles.

Swap-O-Rama-Rama also features a DIY fashion show including Kate Goldwater’s AuH2O Designs created using recycled clothing from the autumn swap. You are also welcome to join in the “Do It At the Swap” fashion show where your invited to show off the items you modified at the swap and win prizes.

And for the grumbling bell Louisa's Lucid Food will offer vegan sandwiches and sweets!

When you need a break from the action sit back and watch two on-theme short films: artist Jess Dobkin’s michevious Restored project and Faye Lederman's A Good Uplift, a documentary about a lower east side shop where jewish grandmother Magda will size you up for the perfect bra or catch Jessica Delfino’s stand up comedy.

What to bring? Bring: Clothes in season: jackets, wallets, hats, pants,shirts, skirts, shoes, gloves, belts, accessories, jewelry, sunglasses, bags, costumes, lingere, pjs etc. Only clothes please! What not to bring: books, bikes, vases, lamps etc... If you cant wear it, dont bring it! Quantity is not important. Come with a little or a lot, whatever you got.

Swap-O-Rama-Rama is for boys, girls, men, women.

All left over clothing is donated to St. Martin DePorres Shelter in Brooklyn, NY.

More Info: http://www.swaporamarama.org

Strange Poetry going...somewhere?

Iron can't be good for you
it's metal
fear metal

When eaten a pill or two,
it's yellow
it's yellow

Hippies dig nutrious stuff
they're mellow
they're mellow

They don't shave their pubic puffs
well, hello!
well, hello!

I could do this all day long
No day job
No day job

I'm gonna do a show tonight at
The Continental
Experimental

Haunted Pussy takes the stage
It's histronic
fear metal

9 PM, no admission
Tonight - we'll
See you there, all

LIVE (free) DVD TAPING or whatever SATURDAY, FEB 4 at 1 PM (Tomorrow!!!)
and free wine

For those of you who are eager to find something New York Centric and free to do at 1:30 PM on a rainy Saturday, I'm taping a live DVD tomorrow afternoon at 1:30 PM at MNN Studios. It's on the north side of 59th Street between 10th and 11th Aves.

Some things you may experience at my DVD taping:

*** love at first sight (with a stranger or perhaps someone you know)
*** free wine going into your stomach
*** diarrhea (but I really hope not, that would be so bad)
*** songs about vaginas
*** peace and tranquility as we gaze at the green screen nature scenes behind me



Some things you WILL NOT experience at my DVD taping:

*** there will be no elephants trampling your hands and feet
*** you will not experience electric shock therapy
*** i promise no shanking by a home-made tooth brush knife
*** lice (98% sure)
*** you will not be harrassed by any deaf mutes, not on my watch
*** no one will dump orange juice on your genitals



Those are the promises I can make to you as an attendee of my live DVD taping.

So come one, come all.

MNN Studios
1:15 SHARP!
FREE admission, and most of all,
FREE wine

This will not last more than one hour. You are allowed to get up and move around. You will not be forced at gun point or stabby point to stay seated or watch, or even enjoy the show.

SOME OF THE HITS I WILL BE PERFORMING:

*** My Pussy Is Magic - my dance pop hit featuring glitter
*** Sudden Change - A song which is all about bloody crotches
*** Lullabye - A ditty that will make you snivel while chortling
*** Happy Bears - All about how in Vermont bears eat hippies
*** Really Great Knobber - This one's about learning from your elders
*** and many, many more.

and HERE IS A VIDEO OF ME PERFORMING A SONG THAT MAY SOMEDAY LAND ME IN JAIL

Be there, or be doing something else, like eating overpriced omelettes at some greasy yuppy hell hole or shopping for products made by Chinese minors.

LOUSIEST WEEKEND EVER

Saturday night I felt a lot of thumping around in my chest. I've had a little chest gnome for years, but I've ignored it and it's ignored me. However, on Saturday, it was as if the chest gnome had a family reunion and all it's chest gnome buddies were there, drinking and causing all kinds of havoc.

I went to the emergency room around 3 AM, because I am afraid of chest gnomes.

The doctors hooked me up to a chest gnome checker, and went back to playing UNO or whatever it is the doctors do in the emergency room. I fell asleep and later woke up, so that was good, or bad, depending on your outlook.

The doctors said my EKG (chest gnome test) was abnormal, and said I might want to hang around for a few days so they can monitor me. I thought it strange that they would invite me to stay like that, so I took them up on the offer. I figured they wouldn't have asked me if they weren't at least a little concerned.

So, I said yes.

I was moved up to a bed on the 7th floor of the hospital around 1 PM.

I missed lunch, but the kindly lady snuck me an egg salad sammy.

I slept most of Sunday, waking every few hours only to get blood removed from my arm and have doctors ask me questions and hook me up to machines and have nurses drop pills down my throat. It was downright sadistic.

Monday I took some more chest gnome tests and was told that my chest gnome, though annoying, is mostly just that. I decided if that was good enough for the doctors, it was good enough for me and packed up my goodies (a free tooth brush and some baby lotion) and headed to Chinatown.

As I was walking south towards my homestead, I turned on my cellphone (which I wasn't allowed to use while in the hospital) and checked my messages. Four new messages. Around message number two, something happened - a car drove by really loudly, or perhaps someone yelled something that sounded like my name and I panicked and practically threw my cellphone down a NYC sewer grate. You should have seen it, all in slow motion, bounce out of my hand, dance across the pavement and in three tango steps, commit cellphone suicide.

I gasped as it slid so gingerly through the bars, as if it were trying on a dress that fit perfectly. It was as if it was trying to run away. It actually made a "ker-plunk!" sound as it hit its' spit, piss, shit and rain water demise. I saw it's little light flicker and then go out.

It was practically sad.

A few passers by saw the commotion and exclaimed, "Oh, shit!"

I'm celebrating the life of my loyal cellphone with a Dirty Folk Rock show in Indianapolis, IN on Wednesday, March 22nd at 8:30 PM at a little joint called Birdy's. In lieu of flowers, please buy a CD.