I'VE GOT A SHOW TONIGHT
SEXYTIME
Comedy with your hosts Brandy Crawford and Heather Fink
Friday July 28 at 11pm at
Mo Pitkin's new downstairs stage http://mopitkins.com/
34 Ave A near 3rd Street (East Village)
Free
Featuring:
Craig Baldo
http://www.craigbaldo.com/
As seen on Premium Blend, Late Night on Conan, Last Comic Standing
Seth Herzog, AKA the Zog
Host of the Lower East Side comedy staple "Sweet", Best Week Ever, The
Baxter, and most recently The Chappelle Show's lost episodes
Jessica Delfino
http://www.jessydelfino.blogspot.com/
Comedian and Dirty Folk Singer, bringin it!
and Pornstar Ben Andrews, Lucas Entertainment exclusive and biggest
cock in porn!!! He's such a sweety too ...
www.myspace.com/lebenandrews
It's f'ing Sexytime- only the most best special time that there is!!!
Featuring cute outfits n shit ... oh yeah, and we're bringin the "blue
material". Hardcore.
Friday, July 28, 2006
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Gay? N'Sync? YOU DON'T SAY...
I love when gay guys come out who you so knew were gay, like, since the day they were born (Their bulging forehead veins matched the shade of their swollen belly buttons). Here's a shocker!
NEW YORK (AP) -- Lance Bass, band member of 'N Sync, says he's gay and in a "very stable" relationship with a reality show star.
Bass, who formed 'N Sync with Justin Timberlake, JC Chasez, Joey Fatone and Chris Kirkpatrick, tells People magazine that he didn't earlier disclose his sexuality because he didn't want to affect the group's popularity.
"I knew that I was in this popular band and I had four other guys' careers in my hand, and I knew that if I ever acted on it or even said (that I was gay), it would overpower everything," he tells the magazine.
'N Sync is known for a string of hits including "Bye Bye Bye" and "It's Gonna Be Me." The band went on hiatus in 2002. Bass has also found headlines for undertaking astronaut training and failing to raise money for a trip into space.
Bass says he wondered if his coming out could prompt "the end of 'N Sync." He explains, "So I had that weight on me of like, 'Wow, if I ever let anyone know, it's bad.' So I just never did."
The singer says he's in a "very stable" relationship with 32-year-old actor Reichen Lehmkuhl, winner of season four of CBS' "Amazing Race."
Bass and Fatone, 29, are developing a sitcom pilot inspired by the screwball comedy "The Odd Couple," in which his character will be gay.
"The thing is, I'm not ashamed -- that's the one thing I want to say," Bass says. "I don't think it's wrong, I'm not devastated going through this. I'm more liberated and happy than I've been my whole life. I'm just happy."
And by gay, he means happy AND also gay
I love when gay guys come out who you so knew were gay, like, since the day they were born (Their bulging forehead veins matched the shade of their swollen belly buttons). Here's a shocker!
NEW YORK (AP) -- Lance Bass, band member of 'N Sync, says he's gay and in a "very stable" relationship with a reality show star.
Bass, who formed 'N Sync with Justin Timberlake, JC Chasez, Joey Fatone and Chris Kirkpatrick, tells People magazine that he didn't earlier disclose his sexuality because he didn't want to affect the group's popularity.
"I knew that I was in this popular band and I had four other guys' careers in my hand, and I knew that if I ever acted on it or even said (that I was gay), it would overpower everything," he tells the magazine.
'N Sync is known for a string of hits including "Bye Bye Bye" and "It's Gonna Be Me." The band went on hiatus in 2002. Bass has also found headlines for undertaking astronaut training and failing to raise money for a trip into space.
Bass says he wondered if his coming out could prompt "the end of 'N Sync." He explains, "So I had that weight on me of like, 'Wow, if I ever let anyone know, it's bad.' So I just never did."
The singer says he's in a "very stable" relationship with 32-year-old actor Reichen Lehmkuhl, winner of season four of CBS' "Amazing Race."
Bass and Fatone, 29, are developing a sitcom pilot inspired by the screwball comedy "The Odd Couple," in which his character will be gay.
"The thing is, I'm not ashamed -- that's the one thing I want to say," Bass says. "I don't think it's wrong, I'm not devastated going through this. I'm more liberated and happy than I've been my whole life. I'm just happy."
And by gay, he means happy AND also gay
Sunday, July 23, 2006
I Went To Canada, & All I Got Was Everything I Wanted & More
I'd like to start off by stating the obvious: I'm apparently very easy to please, as "everything & more" mostly just means a place to sleep and some dough.
As an unconventional person, I rarely do things conventionally, nor do opportunities or experiences present themselves to me in a "normal" manner. I sent a film to the Montreal "Just For Laughs" festival a few months ago and forgot about it. A few weeks ago, JFL contacted me and told me my film had been accepted into the Comedia film portion of the festival, and I was invited to come with full accreditation, (which is the fancy way of saying "you get a badge") and even perform some live songs at the showing of the film, if I liked. A badge is important, because it's the major difference between being an invited guest of the festival (totally respectable and even admirable) and a curious comedian who's "just there to hang out out" (so not cool).
Can I see your badge?
Unlike many festival comedians, I was not being flown in on a fancy jet plane, costs covered, or being put up by the festival in the regal Hotel Delta, comedy ground zero if you will, where all industry and talent converge in a vortex of hope, desire and disappointment, laden with excessive amounts of alcohol. No, I did it Delfino-style: I took the drive up to Burlington with my friends who happened to be going there anyway, and then hitch-hiked from Burlington to Montreal.
Hitch-hiking is something I've done since I hit my adventurous/dangerous teens. In Maine, where I grew up, as well as surrounding Vermont, New Hampshire and Canada, hitch-hiking isn't such a scary activity as it is in NYC, land of the psycho killer. As a matter of fact, in these hilly states and provinces where people's typically old beater cars tend to break down a lot and jobs aren't exactly springing up like the psychadelic mushrooms do in the plentiful cow plops that surround the terrain,
hitch-hiking is quite common. So, when I go home, if I don't have a ride and only have a short distance to go, that is my preferred way to get around. It's cheap, it's fun, and there is never a lack of interesting characters behind the wheel. Normal, boring people simply don't pick up hitch-hikers.
I was picked up by an elderly fellow in Burlington who took me to a small town about 20 miles north. He worked at a solar energy plant and would have been a hippy if it were 1962, but he'd grown up and all that shit. He insisted of taking a photo of me with all my gear and my sign.
Heels are the best hitch-hiking shoes
Next, I was picked up by Bruce, a dirty but kind gentleman who drove a drafty, tiny red sedan. Upon opening the back door to put my guitar in, I noticed a twelve pack of beer that was a few short. My kind of fellow. I hopped in and ignored his lecherous leers, chatting him up in my cheeriest voice, being sure to mention I was carrying a lethal knife, which I mostly used for arts and crafts, in the most delightful cadence I could muster. After a little while, he stopped giving me the creeps and started telling me about his past DWI, his two failed marriages, his two kids, and his future plans of a career in truck driving. He offered to drive me right up to the border, though he knew his DWI would prohibit him from entering Canada. I thanked him for the ride, but mostly for not raping me, as he dropped me off at the last exit before customs. He offered me $10 for the road before I jumped out of the car. The poorest, most downtrodden folks are, in my experience, always the most generous.
The next ride took awhile to land, as I was surrounded by trees and strange birds, but not much traffic. I went right out to the highway, though it is illegal to hitch-hike on the highway. I held up my sign and hoped for a VW Bus. After about 45 minutes, I saw a VW bus. And it stopped. Inside was a terrific gentleman named Sylvester who worked for the CBC, which is Canada's PBS. He was getting ready to take a trip to Antarctica to film a documentary. He was a handsome, old school super cool ex-hippy-like man, but he was way too sophisticated to be a hippy. He spoke to me in fluent english with a sexy french accent, and though he was surely in his 50s, I would have let him be my new boyfriend.
Handsome older hottie
We hit it off immediately, and chatted light-heartedly all the way to Montreal. We stopped only once, and that was when we got searched at the Canadian border because he told the border police he'd picked me up hitch-hiking. I was surprised he told them, but he said it's better to be honest about everything so you don't get caught lying, because then they get pissed. By the time he dropped me off, we'd exchanged information and made a plan to meet again someday.
I've arrived
I arrived in Montreal on Saturday afternoon around 3 PM. The plan was, I would stay at a friend of Nick Fox-Gieg's, the guy who did the animation half of the short film I was going to represent. Her name was Freida. I took the Metro to her apartment to meet her in the "Myland" section of Montreal. She was not home when I got there, and didn't come back for two hours. I sat on the park bench across the street, and waited until it started to rain. I left a note on her door where I'd be - at an amazing divey Mexican joint that made their own tortillas - the fat yummy ones that look like pancakes. I had a huge feast of beans, rice, salsa, salad and tortillas for $7. She came in and met me with her long purple dreds and friendly face. She was an artist. I took a breath of relief, as artists are generally superb people.
She'd just moved into a cool apartment, and not much was really unpacked or set up. She cleared a space in her painting studio, and I pitched my sleeping bag on the floor. I took a nap and then took the Metro into Montreal to my first show. The Metro is not air conditioned in Canada, as A/C is reserved for the rich! While I waited for my show to begin, I walked over to Club Soda for The Nasty Show, which sounded like my cup of tea. Of course it was. My friend Jay Oakerson was performing, along with one of my favorite filthy-mouthed assholes, Patrice O'Neal. I watched the show, which was terrific, and later accidentally met up with Patrice and Jay as they ate at a nearby restaurant. I told them my story of hitch-hiking and staying on Freida's floor. We talked for awhile and then I went back to my show. A little while later, Jay came over to my show and told me he had a double room - two huge beds in his hotel room - paid for by the festival - at Hotel Delta! He invited me to go and stay with him for the week, starting that night. I went back to the art studio, but in the morning, I went to investigate. I showed up at the hotel, and it was magnificent. It was like the scene in "The Wizard Of Oz" where Judy Garland goes from black and white into color. There was a pool, free internet, JFL welcome tables set up, goodie bags for performers, transport vans to take performers where they needed to go, comedians and familiar faces walking around, rich people everywhere, radio stations broadcasting live - it was a happening environment. Transport generously drove me to Freida's to pick up all my stuff. Freida seemed bummed that I jetted out so quickly, and I felt a little bad, but the offer was too good to pass up.
Once at the hotel, life was divine. Every day was pretty much the same. I swam and went in the hot tub and sauna every day. I sucked up more A/C than 50 rich people. I hung out with comedian pals Mike Britt, Jay Oakerson, Patrice ONeil (who is such a bad ass faker - though he pretends to be a cock, he is the one who told Jay to go get me and let me stay in his room!), Reggie Watts, Steve Byrne (who hosted the show I was in), Pete Dominick, Jordan Carlos and a bunch of others over the course of the trip. I'd walk around the city, go to my shows in the evening, go to parties that the festival set up, go see great comedy shows (I saw Demitri Martin's "These Are Jokes", Ray Romano's documentary "95 Miles To Go", The Nasty Show and many others, all free with my festival pass), meet and talk with industry people, chat with natives, practice my shoddy french, and enjoy how pleasant and nice Montreal and it's people were. They were too nice to be actual human beings. I have a theory that they are aliens.
In bed with Reggie Watts (that should be the name of his TV show)
Jay left on Thursday morning, and my last 2 shows were on Thursday night. I was wondering where I'd sleep after my shows. I called concierge and they told me that Jay's hotel room was paid for through Sunday. I considered just staying there alone, but feared the festival might get really pissed if they found out I did that. So, I just gathered all my things together, performed at my last two shows on Thursday night, went back to the hotel, did an interview with XM through a new comedy pal Laura Nikiforchuk and took off for Bus Central. I hopped on an 11:45 pm bus and was in NYC just in time for a massive, apocalyptic lightning storm.
Montreal is an amazing city. It's like mini-New York but without much of the bullshit. There are only about 3 million people there, so people are nice because they aren't cramped, and have room to walk without getting elbowed or stabbed in the head by some oblivious asshole's umbrella. They are 95% bi-lingual, english and french. All the signs are in french by a law that says the french sign has to be as big or bigger than the english sign. It's easy to get around, many people ride bikes. I had some great shows. The first was small, but they just kept getting bigger and better. I sold CDs, signed autographs, met lots of other filmmakers and talented weirdos, and just had a terrific time.
Montreal is way so super dope
Here's the icing on the cake: I didn't get paid for travel or board by JFL. I found out a lot of people actually don't get paid or put up. But yesterday, they called and said that they decided to pay me after all. They ended up paying me more for performing in five shows than many people make working a 40 hour work week.
So, this has been a story all about my trip to Montreal's Just For Laughs Festival.
Thank you for reading this long-ass diatribe. Stay tuned for other lengthy stories that are probably more interesting in my brain then they are on paper.
Special thank yous are owed to Andre for his kindness and Carolyn for being one of the coolest, friendliest people I met while I was there, Jay Oakerson, Mike Britt and Patrice O'Neil for looking out for a girl, and the Hotel Delta for all the free shampoo. I'd also like to thank my peeps, Lopi, Christopher and Norbert for the ride from NYC north in the mini-van, one of my favorite vehicles in which to travel.
I'd like to start off by stating the obvious: I'm apparently very easy to please, as "everything & more" mostly just means a place to sleep and some dough.
As an unconventional person, I rarely do things conventionally, nor do opportunities or experiences present themselves to me in a "normal" manner. I sent a film to the Montreal "Just For Laughs" festival a few months ago and forgot about it. A few weeks ago, JFL contacted me and told me my film had been accepted into the Comedia film portion of the festival, and I was invited to come with full accreditation, (which is the fancy way of saying "you get a badge") and even perform some live songs at the showing of the film, if I liked. A badge is important, because it's the major difference between being an invited guest of the festival (totally respectable and even admirable) and a curious comedian who's "just there to hang out out" (so not cool).
Can I see your badge?
Unlike many festival comedians, I was not being flown in on a fancy jet plane, costs covered, or being put up by the festival in the regal Hotel Delta, comedy ground zero if you will, where all industry and talent converge in a vortex of hope, desire and disappointment, laden with excessive amounts of alcohol. No, I did it Delfino-style: I took the drive up to Burlington with my friends who happened to be going there anyway, and then hitch-hiked from Burlington to Montreal.
Hitch-hiking is something I've done since I hit my adventurous/dangerous teens. In Maine, where I grew up, as well as surrounding Vermont, New Hampshire and Canada, hitch-hiking isn't such a scary activity as it is in NYC, land of the psycho killer. As a matter of fact, in these hilly states and provinces where people's typically old beater cars tend to break down a lot and jobs aren't exactly springing up like the psychadelic mushrooms do in the plentiful cow plops that surround the terrain,
hitch-hiking is quite common. So, when I go home, if I don't have a ride and only have a short distance to go, that is my preferred way to get around. It's cheap, it's fun, and there is never a lack of interesting characters behind the wheel. Normal, boring people simply don't pick up hitch-hikers.
I was picked up by an elderly fellow in Burlington who took me to a small town about 20 miles north. He worked at a solar energy plant and would have been a hippy if it were 1962, but he'd grown up and all that shit. He insisted of taking a photo of me with all my gear and my sign.
Heels are the best hitch-hiking shoes
Next, I was picked up by Bruce, a dirty but kind gentleman who drove a drafty, tiny red sedan. Upon opening the back door to put my guitar in, I noticed a twelve pack of beer that was a few short. My kind of fellow. I hopped in and ignored his lecherous leers, chatting him up in my cheeriest voice, being sure to mention I was carrying a lethal knife, which I mostly used for arts and crafts, in the most delightful cadence I could muster. After a little while, he stopped giving me the creeps and started telling me about his past DWI, his two failed marriages, his two kids, and his future plans of a career in truck driving. He offered to drive me right up to the border, though he knew his DWI would prohibit him from entering Canada. I thanked him for the ride, but mostly for not raping me, as he dropped me off at the last exit before customs. He offered me $10 for the road before I jumped out of the car. The poorest, most downtrodden folks are, in my experience, always the most generous.
The next ride took awhile to land, as I was surrounded by trees and strange birds, but not much traffic. I went right out to the highway, though it is illegal to hitch-hike on the highway. I held up my sign and hoped for a VW Bus. After about 45 minutes, I saw a VW bus. And it stopped. Inside was a terrific gentleman named Sylvester who worked for the CBC, which is Canada's PBS. He was getting ready to take a trip to Antarctica to film a documentary. He was a handsome, old school super cool ex-hippy-like man, but he was way too sophisticated to be a hippy. He spoke to me in fluent english with a sexy french accent, and though he was surely in his 50s, I would have let him be my new boyfriend.
Handsome older hottie
We hit it off immediately, and chatted light-heartedly all the way to Montreal. We stopped only once, and that was when we got searched at the Canadian border because he told the border police he'd picked me up hitch-hiking. I was surprised he told them, but he said it's better to be honest about everything so you don't get caught lying, because then they get pissed. By the time he dropped me off, we'd exchanged information and made a plan to meet again someday.
I've arrived
I arrived in Montreal on Saturday afternoon around 3 PM. The plan was, I would stay at a friend of Nick Fox-Gieg's, the guy who did the animation half of the short film I was going to represent. Her name was Freida. I took the Metro to her apartment to meet her in the "Myland" section of Montreal. She was not home when I got there, and didn't come back for two hours. I sat on the park bench across the street, and waited until it started to rain. I left a note on her door where I'd be - at an amazing divey Mexican joint that made their own tortillas - the fat yummy ones that look like pancakes. I had a huge feast of beans, rice, salsa, salad and tortillas for $7. She came in and met me with her long purple dreds and friendly face. She was an artist. I took a breath of relief, as artists are generally superb people.
She'd just moved into a cool apartment, and not much was really unpacked or set up. She cleared a space in her painting studio, and I pitched my sleeping bag on the floor. I took a nap and then took the Metro into Montreal to my first show. The Metro is not air conditioned in Canada, as A/C is reserved for the rich! While I waited for my show to begin, I walked over to Club Soda for The Nasty Show, which sounded like my cup of tea. Of course it was. My friend Jay Oakerson was performing, along with one of my favorite filthy-mouthed assholes, Patrice O'Neal. I watched the show, which was terrific, and later accidentally met up with Patrice and Jay as they ate at a nearby restaurant. I told them my story of hitch-hiking and staying on Freida's floor. We talked for awhile and then I went back to my show. A little while later, Jay came over to my show and told me he had a double room - two huge beds in his hotel room - paid for by the festival - at Hotel Delta! He invited me to go and stay with him for the week, starting that night. I went back to the art studio, but in the morning, I went to investigate. I showed up at the hotel, and it was magnificent. It was like the scene in "The Wizard Of Oz" where Judy Garland goes from black and white into color. There was a pool, free internet, JFL welcome tables set up, goodie bags for performers, transport vans to take performers where they needed to go, comedians and familiar faces walking around, rich people everywhere, radio stations broadcasting live - it was a happening environment. Transport generously drove me to Freida's to pick up all my stuff. Freida seemed bummed that I jetted out so quickly, and I felt a little bad, but the offer was too good to pass up.
Once at the hotel, life was divine. Every day was pretty much the same. I swam and went in the hot tub and sauna every day. I sucked up more A/C than 50 rich people. I hung out with comedian pals Mike Britt, Jay Oakerson, Patrice ONeil (who is such a bad ass faker - though he pretends to be a cock, he is the one who told Jay to go get me and let me stay in his room!), Reggie Watts, Steve Byrne (who hosted the show I was in), Pete Dominick, Jordan Carlos and a bunch of others over the course of the trip. I'd walk around the city, go to my shows in the evening, go to parties that the festival set up, go see great comedy shows (I saw Demitri Martin's "These Are Jokes", Ray Romano's documentary "95 Miles To Go", The Nasty Show and many others, all free with my festival pass), meet and talk with industry people, chat with natives, practice my shoddy french, and enjoy how pleasant and nice Montreal and it's people were. They were too nice to be actual human beings. I have a theory that they are aliens.
In bed with Reggie Watts (that should be the name of his TV show)
Jay left on Thursday morning, and my last 2 shows were on Thursday night. I was wondering where I'd sleep after my shows. I called concierge and they told me that Jay's hotel room was paid for through Sunday. I considered just staying there alone, but feared the festival might get really pissed if they found out I did that. So, I just gathered all my things together, performed at my last two shows on Thursday night, went back to the hotel, did an interview with XM through a new comedy pal Laura Nikiforchuk and took off for Bus Central. I hopped on an 11:45 pm bus and was in NYC just in time for a massive, apocalyptic lightning storm.
Montreal is an amazing city. It's like mini-New York but without much of the bullshit. There are only about 3 million people there, so people are nice because they aren't cramped, and have room to walk without getting elbowed or stabbed in the head by some oblivious asshole's umbrella. They are 95% bi-lingual, english and french. All the signs are in french by a law that says the french sign has to be as big or bigger than the english sign. It's easy to get around, many people ride bikes. I had some great shows. The first was small, but they just kept getting bigger and better. I sold CDs, signed autographs, met lots of other filmmakers and talented weirdos, and just had a terrific time.
Montreal is way so super dope
Here's the icing on the cake: I didn't get paid for travel or board by JFL. I found out a lot of people actually don't get paid or put up. But yesterday, they called and said that they decided to pay me after all. They ended up paying me more for performing in five shows than many people make working a 40 hour work week.
So, this has been a story all about my trip to Montreal's Just For Laughs Festival.
Thank you for reading this long-ass diatribe. Stay tuned for other lengthy stories that are probably more interesting in my brain then they are on paper.
Special thank yous are owed to Andre for his kindness and Carolyn for being one of the coolest, friendliest people I met while I was there, Jay Oakerson, Mike Britt and Patrice O'Neil for looking out for a girl, and the Hotel Delta for all the free shampoo. I'd also like to thank my peeps, Lopi, Christopher and Norbert for the ride from NYC north in the mini-van, one of my favorite vehicles in which to travel.
Friday, July 14, 2006
DELFINO TAKES MONTREAL
To your top right there is an adorable drawing of a strange little girl. That little girl is me, and it was drawn by Nick Fox-Gieg. He contacted me quite out of the blue and asked if he could animate my song, "I Wanna Be Famous." I said no. He offered to pay me $50,000. I quickly changed my mind. None of this is true. I immediately said yes, and then forgot about it. A few months later, he sent the finished product to me, which is linked above.
Wonders never cease, and this short, brilliant animation was accepted into the Montreal Comedy Festival. I'll be there all week, try the tofu. If you live in Montreal, come to one of the screenings. I'll also be performing at one or more of the screenings.
Here are the screening details:
Monument International
1182 St. Laurent Blvd
It will be shown there at the following times in the following shows:
100% Animation - Friday, July 14th @ 8 PM
Eat My Twisted Shorts - Saturday, July 15th at midnight
Eat My Twisted Shorts - Tuesday, July 18th @ 7 PM
100% Animation - Thursday, July 20th @ 7 PM
100% Animation - Thursday, July 20th @ 9:30 PM
It will be cool to see it on a big screen in front of a bunch of french people! Hope to see you there. I will be selling CDs and signing autographes, (that's the way they spell it with a french flair) along with kicking ass and taking names.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
JOKES TO SPICE UP YOUR BORING DAY
by Jessica Delfino
I painted my fingernails bright fluorescent day-glo green with glitter in them...to go with my bulimia!
Yes!
So, I went to CVS and bought some stickers, and the lady asked me if I wanted a bag, so I said, "No" but quietly added via my inner dialog, "I'll just stick them in my purse, like the lipstick and vitamins and candle holders and barretts and staples and the cute picture of the puppy covering it's face with it's paws and the female moustache bleach."
OK!! Here we go!
Any math whizzes in the audience? (Dead Silence) OK, great. Maybe one of you can help me solve this math problem. An F train leaves the Delancey Street station at 11:15 am going north about 27 mph. How long does it take for the next fucking god damn F train to get to Delancey Street Station, huh? Cause I don't have all fucking day!
Ta-da!
Thank you, I'll be here all week. Try the vegetarian turkey loaf.
Saturday, July 1, 2006
NEAT PERSON OF THE WEEK:
Annelies Middel, painter
Holland is known for lots of great things - wooden shoes, killer marijuana, spekjes (a crazy, squishy bacon-looking candy that tastes a lot like peeps) and now, Annelies Middel, a painter who I had the pleasure of meeting during her brief stay in NYC. Annalies put up her first gallery show in NYC today at New Century Gallery in Chelsea. I don't know the perfect fancy terminology of how to say that correctly, because I'm not a damn painter. But simply put, her paintings were hanging on walls and then people came and looked at them. And there was wine and carrots.
She has a very nice touch; she paints the faces of mysterious people (push "play" now on The Doors "People Are Strange" for backdrop atmosphere as you read remainder of this entry) on small canvases. She doesn't paint all the details, however. She leaves some misty spaces for our brains to fill in on our own. Yes, she makes us work for it! The results are intriguing, ghostly images that make me wish I had hundreds of dollars to shell out for the "snack-sized" paintings.
Her paintings will be hanging for your viewing pleasure until July 15th at New Century Artists, Inc., 530 W. 25th St., Suite 406 (btw. 10th - 11th Aves). And if you're the link following type, here's hers: www.anneliesmiddel.com The building itself is pretty keen. It's got lots of galleries all side by side in various shaped and sized rooms. It's like a grocery store where you can get all your art.
Saturday, June 24, 2006
SEE THE IMAGE LINK ABOVE THIS ON THE LEFT?
It goes to Toxic Pop, which is a website where you can learn about goings on in various aspects of the arts (comedy, music, etc.) and art star communities all over NYC. There is also a new pod cast which shows some of my short videos (some that you can't see elsewhere) along with other very cool artsy videos and music clips, etc. The pod cast is hosted by Bex Schwartz from VH1, and it's pretty fun and funny.
If you like the pod cast, you can sign up for the mailing list. And if you like the mailing list AND the pod cast, be sure to check out the live screening in September at the Pioneer Theater in the East Village.
It's like some strange bird took a blue shit on my TV monitor...
Save the date: Sunday, September 10th at 7 PM
There will be a screening of "The Best of the Toxic Pop PoPcast" featuring the best segments produced throughout the summer (featuring many familiar faces) along with some stuff that's just too dirty - even for the internet. There's also a deal going right now that if you purchase your ticket through the Advance Ticketing Link, by Weds, June 29th you will get into Faceboyz Open Mic afterwards for free...that's a four dollar discount. Do you know what you can do with $4 these days? Well, you can buy a note book and write something. And you can get an ice cream cone. You can buy a good used book and read it, and gain some knowledge. Don't you want to be smarter?
If you're a student or a senior (which you're probably not) the tickets are only $8.50. For everyone else, they're $11 bucks.
Get your tickets HERE NOW
Learn more info at:
www.Toxicpop.com
www.artstars.org
It goes to Toxic Pop, which is a website where you can learn about goings on in various aspects of the arts (comedy, music, etc.) and art star communities all over NYC. There is also a new pod cast which shows some of my short videos (some that you can't see elsewhere) along with other very cool artsy videos and music clips, etc. The pod cast is hosted by Bex Schwartz from VH1, and it's pretty fun and funny.
If you like the pod cast, you can sign up for the mailing list. And if you like the mailing list AND the pod cast, be sure to check out the live screening in September at the Pioneer Theater in the East Village.
It's like some strange bird took a blue shit on my TV monitor...
Save the date: Sunday, September 10th at 7 PM
There will be a screening of "The Best of the Toxic Pop PoPcast" featuring the best segments produced throughout the summer (featuring many familiar faces) along with some stuff that's just too dirty - even for the internet. There's also a deal going right now that if you purchase your ticket through the Advance Ticketing Link, by Weds, June 29th you will get into Faceboyz Open Mic afterwards for free...that's a four dollar discount. Do you know what you can do with $4 these days? Well, you can buy a note book and write something. And you can get an ice cream cone. You can buy a good used book and read it, and gain some knowledge. Don't you want to be smarter?
If you're a student or a senior (which you're probably not) the tickets are only $8.50. For everyone else, they're $11 bucks.
Get your tickets HERE NOW
Learn more info at:
www.Toxicpop.com
www.artstars.org
Monday, June 19, 2006
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!
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!
Friday, June 9, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, May 29, 2006
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!
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!
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
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?
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?
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
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.
Saturday, March 18, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
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.
by Jessica Delfino
As I've mentioned before on this blog and elsewhere, I have an amazing, I'd even dare say "spiritual" knack of finding money on the ground. Sometimes in the dark.
Again today, the free money gods blessed me. But this is quite magical - they didn't just bless me once. They blessed me TWICE in the SAME BIKE RIDE!!!
So, I'm cruising down the street on my Schwinn K-Mart special which has fallen apart so badly with such frequency, I was actually pedaling down the street in midtown once when the ROUND METAL GEAR SHIFTER/CHANGER THINGY FLEW OFF and started ROLLING DOWN THE ROAD. I had just dropped off an ass load of heavy transcripts to my convict boyfriend's lawyer. I took the long scenic way home, as it was such a beautiful day, and accidentally wound up right over yonder near the Tombs, where he is being held. I looked over in angst at the pinkish-grey building and exhaled sadly.
Silver lining, I thought. I noticed I was right near Division Street, so I took it. Riding along the fish-gut odor infested pavement, I saw that old familiar crinkled up trash-resembling wad and damn if I didn't nearly run it over before I leaned over and picked up a TEN DOLLAR BILL! That is quite unusual. Generally, it is ones or fives. Not very often do I find a ten or twenty. That might have even been my first ten, though I have found twenties before.
Eureka! I screamed in my head. I tucked the bill into my pocket and continued on, thanking fate for sending me on the path I happened to take. It was good timing, because I am literally down to zero dollars. I have money in the bank, but not much.
I sometimes wonder why I even bother to have a bank account at all.
Besides, who has the time to go to the bank?
I turned left and started up Allen, thinking, GOD DAMN I am lucky when it comes to finding money on the street. I have always been very lucky with finding money. I find money on the street ALL THE TIME. Not daily, not even weekly. But maybe five or six times a year, and when you are as poor as I am, that is all the time.
There's some kind of trashy little shit hole on Allen where dregs always seem to be hanging around. They sit on the ground, staring into tvs that aren't plugged in, dressed in clothes which have been rolled into mud and perhaps feces. I often wonder what the place is and feel sympathy for the sad looking people I see lingering around the joint. Is it an off track betting place? Is it a food stamp office? I can't tell. But as I rolled by, I thought, "Those poor people. They should try looking for money on the ground." As I finished thinking that thought, I saw that old familiar crumpled wad AGAIN and had what was practically a knot of disbelief in my stomach. I thought, "I can't even believe it - more free money?" I bent over and picked up a $5 bill that, to the untrained eye, looked exactly like a piece of garbage.
"Holy shit", I actually said aloud this time.
I rode my bike home very carefully, because I had had too much good luck for one day and expected to meet with a terrible accident as mother nature's way to restore the balance of what has to happen in order for NYC to be NYC.
I later spoke to a friend who rattled off about seven instances in a matter of seconds of times he'd found bloated balls of $20s lumped together, wallets full of hundreds and briefcases loaded of unmarked yen. I felt like a huge money finding amateur / jackass for having found my measly $15. It was as if I'd had a cruel trick played on me. "Here ya go!" said yahweh, or whoever'd put that money there. "Take a fiver for your trouble. Now, go buy yerself something nice!" It was like I'd been tipped a penny by a rich dude on a $300,000 pizza. But I was still pretty glad to have it. Fifteen dollars might as well be a million, if you need money. Unless you get to choose. Then, I guess I'd pick a million.
Friday, March 10, 2006
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.
by Jessica Delfino
One of the most emotionally exhausting, depressing and time-wasting things I've done in a fortnight is visit my boyfriend at the Manhattan Detention Center, aka "The Tombs" aka Bernard B. Kerik Complex (named after a true criminal) aka jail. Though the process is painstaking and belittling, in other ways it is educational and inspiring in that the visitor's waiting room is a true cultureshock rainbow - and an experience not to be missed just because you have no criminally charged loved ones.
There is a system to a visit, like any thing else that has a system. The process is quite simple once you've got it down. It begins at home as you are getting ready to leave your house. To save some time, do yourself a favor and do the following, which I will call STEP 1:
a) make sure your cellphone and contraband are left behind, unless you have a few days to sit around in a cell
b) be sure to have at least 2 quarters for the lockers (not two dimes and a nickel)
c) have the inmate's book and case # and cell # written on your hand or memorized
d) don't forget to bring a good book, a pen, your ID and maybe a snack
e) wear shoes that slip off easily, you're gonna have to take them off twice
f) don't wear a sweater with a hood or any jewelry (except your wedding ring, you will have to take them off)
g) go to the bathroom BEFORE you leave your house
h) be prepared to say good bye to the next 3 hours
STEP 2: At the front entrance a cop will ask you through a crack in the door (which is always kept locked and is only unlocked every so often when the police man on duty finally decides to inquire:) if you have a cellphone, cigarettes, beeper, pager, weapons or contraband on your person. If you didn't do as suggested above and the answer is yes: you can't come in. Proceed to the local deli round the corner where a "gentle" man charges you $5 to "store" your cellphone (and contraband, I found out!), and by store, I mean toss into a brown paper bag held behind the counter with a "receipt" which is actually just a scrap of paper with your name written on it in pen. If the answer is no: move to step 2.
TIP: The visits begin either at 7 AM or at 1 PM, depending on the day. If it begins at 7 AM, don't even bother to get there til 8 AM or later, because they don't really get things going til 8:30 or so. At 1 PM, you can show up at 1 PM. If you get there right on time, the facility won't be open yet and there will be a small crowd of visitors pooling outside. Wait against the wall to the left of the door, as that is where the police officer will instruct people to form a line. You will be first in line if you are already waiting there.
Step 2: You are asked to show ID and then led in the door to a small table where your bag is half-heartedly searched, or not searched at all. The back of your left hand is stamped with invisible ink and you are given an index card on which you are to write the inmate's name, book and case #, cell #, number of visitors, package being dropped off? y or n, and on the back side of the card, your name, address and date of birth, in case they need to arrest you later. Shockingly, they don't ask for your blood type, favorite song or a three page essay regarding an interesting anecdote from your childhood.
Save yourself some time - as you're approaching the building:
a) have your ID out and ready
b) have your pen in hand and the inmate's book & case number and cell number written on your hand or memorized
c) have nothing in your pockets - just carry a bag with everything you need in it, such as your book, your quarters, any property to give to the inmate (see approved list below) etc. If you do it as I've outlined it, you will save time and decrease your room 1 wait, getting you in for the visit and out of the joint faster.
Step 3: You give the index card to the dude at the desk, sit down and wait for anywhere from 5-20 minutes. Sometimes you wait for longer, though it is unusual to wait longer than 5-10 minutes.
Step 4: Read a book or whatever and wait, but sort of pay attention, because they will call the inmate's last name whom you are there to see, not your name. When they do that
Step 5: You go over and get the card. Keep your eye on that card like it's a winning lottery ticket. If you lose it, you're gonna fuck everything up. If you have a package for the inmate, you know, porno magazines or razor wire, at that time, get into the line to drop off property.
Step 6: Wait a long time for the bitchy ass package lady to be rude to you.
Step 7: Hand the bitchy ass package lady the index card and put your shit into the bank teller-like open door. The bitchy ass package lady will not speak to you, will give you "say, what?" bitchy black lady facial expressions if you try to ask her something, and give you attitude anywhere extra she can squeeze it in, so just stay put and wait quietly. MAKE SURE SHE GIVES YOU THE INDEX CARD BACK! Whatever you can't give him, you can take into room 2 with you and put into a locker or throw away.
Step 8: Go into room 2 and take a bin. In the bin, put your shoes, your purse and all your outer wear - jacket, hat, jewelry if you have any on, etc. Give the index card to the very nice bald man. MAKE SURE YOU PUT IT INTO HIS HAND!
Step 9: Walk through the metal detector. Get your bin when it comes through the conveyor, carry it over to a locker and put your stuff away. Choose wisely. Most of them are broken and will steal your quarter. #13 and #104 are both good. The only thing you can bring into the visiting area with you is your locker key, so leave EVERYTHING ELSE in the locker. When you stick the key in, it spits your quarter back out. So, if you want to read a book while you wait or have money for snacks in the snack machine, you can have them, and then when your name is called, you can just put them back into your locker and put the quarter back in again. But you'll save time if you just sit empty handed and watch Jerry Springer, which is always what is on.
Step 10: Take a seat and wait in your chair for a long-ass time - perhaps an hour, maybe two if it's very crowded, the inmate is "not ready" for some reason (perhaps they're takin' a poop), or it's simply not your lucky day.
Step 11: Watch the craziness that ensues around the waiting room. There are always colorful, entertaining black ladies telling funny stories, crazy hair-dos to examine, and drama that unfolds. It's always fun to watch everyone watch Jerry Springer, because it turns into a full room discussion with TV talk back, such as, "If that was me..." diatribes and a lot of "Oh, hell no, girl!" comments.
So far in the waiting room, I've seen a crack head hit on a trio of girls who in return, asked him if he had any money, so he explained that he had at least $200 in food stamps on his EBT card; I've seen a lady take her fancy fake hair-do out because she kept setting off the metal detector, when it turned out she just had some random piece of metal on the back of her pants; I've seen one poor devastated girl get told by a guard after waiting an hour plus to see her man that he had refused her visit (there were a lot of both, "If that was me"'s AND "Oh, hell, no girl"'s on that one). Sometimes people will ask you questions because there are no instructions posted anywhere, and you just have to figure the system out by doing or asking or both.
Step 12: After waiting at least an hour (less only if you are very lucky), the guard will read the inmate's names off a stack of index cards. Maybe one of them will be the person you came to visit, so pay attention. When they call your name, put everything but your key into your locker and hurry your ass into line.
Step 13: Take off your shoes, put your key in a shoe and wait for the guard to give you the signal. At her signal, walk up to the Star Trek "beam me up" sci-fi looking device, set your shoes to the outside of it to the left around the corner, press the green button on it, wait for the clear door to slide open and step in to it. The door behind you will close and the one in front of you will open. Step out and get your shoes but don't put them on. I asked once what that machine did and was told, "We can't tell you." Why can't they say? Does it fry my internal organs or scramble my brains?
Step 14: The guard will do a search once about five people come into the small search room. She'll make you pull your socks over your ankles, unzip your pants, fold them over and turn around, pull your bra up over your boobs and shake your boobs out, she'll pat your arms, armpits and sides, she'll ask you to show you the inside of your mouth. She'll then stamp your right hand with invisible ink and tell you to take your card. Put your shoes on, put your key in your pocket and take your card.
Step 15: Wait for a million years for the antiquated automated door to slide open. Step into the corridor and wait for that door to close, and then the other antiquated automated door on the other side to open. This could take 5 minutes or 1 minute, depending on who knows what?
Step 16: Hold both hands up underneath the black light so the guard can see both your stamps side by side. (Very sci fi!) Hand the index card to the second guard, who will point you to a table to sit at. Go sit at it and wait anywhere from 3-8 minutes for your inmate to come out a separate set of old, rickety automated doors.
Step 17: You can hug them very quickly, for like, 4 seconds when they first come out. You can hold hands. But you can't really do much else. No making out, no hugging through the visit, no intimate contact, no nuzzling, no forehead to forehead pow wow. No funny business, or a guy named Stewart will come over and yell at you in a very calm and intimidating way.
Step 18: Visit for an hour and talk about what you will. Make small talk or try to devise an escape plan.
Step 19: At the end of an hour, Stewart or someone else will call out the inmate's last name. You get one more hug, and then that is the end of that. Sit back down while they go back through the old, rickety doors and wait til the guards tell you to stand up.
Step 20: On your way back out, show both your hands again. Go back through your set of old, rickety sliding doors. Go back through the tiny search room. Go back out into the visitors waiting room. Get your crap out of your locker. Get your quarter back. Go back through the metal detector and out into room 1.
Step 21: Shine your hands again at the black light at the main facility entrance. A man with a key will unlock the door and let you out.
Step 22: Get the hell out of there! Have a new-found appreciation of your freedom! Pay the tan man $5 and get your cellphone back. Go on with your day. Look at your watch. If less than three hours has passed, you did good.
Wednesday, March 8, 2006
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?
Christopher X. Brodeur's Sentencing
March 8th was a cold, sunny day. It was actually perfectly freezing at 32 degrees, the radio told me matter of factly. I got up before the alarm clock went off, showered and dressed as an angel of peace and justice in all white with the hopes of at the very least, snow blinding the judge into letting Christopher go free. My friend Mike had slept over the night before in our guest room so he could make it to court on time, as we had to be there at 9:30 am. My friend Rob was supposed to pick us up at 9 am, but he called to say his car had died that day. Much like the days of junior high when I half pretended/half insisted I had make-believe psychic powers, I took the dying car to be a bad sign. Rob and his friend Gerry met Mike and I at my place at 9:15, and we found a cab without too much of a ruckus. As we roared across Delancey at typical taxi speed, I looked up at the sky through the windshield and said, "Well, at least it's a beautiful day." My friend Mike nodded. "Yeah. Just like 9-11." We had a good laugh. The taxi driver, who was a tan man, refrained from laughing.
When we pulled up at the court house, I was delighted to see Bob Holman, Virginia and a few other friends waiting in a small group. Quickly, the group doubled in size, tripled, quadrupled and quintupled. People just kept coming from every direction, with hugs, kisses and well-wishes to offer. I passed out signs I'd made the day before that said, "Free CXB" with the intention in my mind of creating a scene if the judge gave Christopher an excessive jail sentence, though I felt deep down that any sentence would have been excessive, and was 100% positive that he would definitely get a jail sentence. So certain was I that he'd be sentenced to incarceration, I actually said to my friends the night before, "I'm so sure he'll get jail time that if he doesn't, I'll eat my own poop on stage." I later told a friend I'd said that and he said, "Um...why didn't you just bet money?"
I didn't explain to him that I was trying to tempt fate. And that I'd gladly eat a little poop in exchange for Christopher's freedom. Or that I'd rather eat poop than part with money.
One friend and I even considered writing "FREE" on one of our asses and "CXB" on the other's ass. We pondered if showing our asses in court would be considered protected free speech or just simply profanity? Is a bare ass profane? What if it's hot?
Once we'd gathered together, we started up towards the metal detectors. A paparazzi with a full spread of cameras stood poised along the walkway. We considered for a second that perhaps the cameras were for Christopher, but someone somehow knew that no, they were in fact for Boy George, who had had some kind of drug offense and was also scheduled to be in court that day. Bummer. You can't even do drugs as a rock star anymore without getting busted. Hasn't anyone ever heard of being famous? Maybe cops just don't like people who are men who looked like ladies in the 80s.
At the metal detectors, the bitchy cop guard stole one of our signs. "Keep a look out for signs," she whispered to her friend. "I don't want no bullshit today." My friend asked, "Is it illegal to have signs?" The cop explained, "It is in the court house." 'Well, what about the ones on the walls?' I wondered quietly.
We took the stairs up to the court room because the last time I'd taken the elevator, it had broken and just shot up and down the elevator shaft from the top floor to the bottom floor, back and forth, like some kind of crazy amusement park ride for about ten minutes while I screamed and pounded on the doors until finally it stopped, opening on the 8th floor to a big crowd of concerned latina ladies who were like, "Damn, girl! Are you okay?" We all had a good laugh, and then I took the stairs to my floor.
As I entered the tiny court room, room 546, the court room that Christopher had been tried and found guilty in, the court room that he had described as "the most depressing court room in the world," I got a nauseating wave of deja vu. We all filtered in and, to my complete thrill, filled every single seat in the court room. There were about 50 of us. It was truly a beautiful sight.
Jess, Chris's "legal advisor" (as he chose to be his own lawyer), finally showed up at about 10:30 am. But we waited in the court room and entertained ourselves. Mike quipped about "opening up for the sentencing" by doing five minutes of comedy material. Bob Holman made an announcement that we should all support Christopher and if things went south, there were enough of us to just sack him and split the joint. I momentarily considered this as a viable option.
So many people came out - The whole Trachtenburg Trio, replete with 12 year old Rachel, Reverend Jen, Mr. Michael Portnoy, at least two dozen or more art stars, a reporter from the METRO paper named Patrick Arden who seemed very interested in the case, even an ex-girlfriend of Christopher's drove six hours to get there from New Hampshire. It was like some kind of freak show family reunion. But there was no food or free booze.
FINALLY, Christopher came in (in cuffs) and he looked so tired and defeated, but mostly healthy. He wore a pink shirt and a grey pull-over and I got a wave of extreme sadness as he walked mere inches from me and I couldn't even touch or talk to him. It was like he was on TV. Everyone said "Hi" and "We love you" and other encouraging sentiments to him as he entered. A few of us girls got out our note pads and began to take notes, like the busy little secretaries we would have been if it were 1945.
The prosecutor ADA Duncan Levin went first. He spoke quite briefly and wasn't as mean as I expected him to be, though he of course, told a ton of exaggerated truths, as is his specialty. And he had the nerve to reprimand me on the telephone for "taking things he said out of context." What a piece of work! However, of course, he did ask for the maximum sentence, which was 2 years, as he told me he would.
Next, Jess Berkowitz spoke, rather eloquently, if I do say so myself. It was the best speech I've ever heard him give on Christopher's behalf, and I'd dare say that the huge audience behind him was, perhaps, an incentive to not slack off.
Finally, Christopher's turn came. He listed many, many very valid points and started off very strongly. At one point, he started to lose me, and I hoped he wasn't also losing the judge. Several friends behind me were tapping my shoulder, saying "Can't you make him shut up?" I kept tapping my foot onto the floor and making loud exhale noises to give him some kind of indication that he'd nailed it. But he just kept speaking. All his points were good and valid, but he kept saying some things that were certain to aggravate the judge. For example, he kept saying, "pain in the ass" and "pissed off" which made the judge who, hates bad words so much he wouldn't even repeat the name of Christopher's book, "Perverted Little Creep", wince. I was surprised he didn't yell at Christopher as he had all through the trial every time Christopher would say "pissed" or "ass".
Christopher also said on at least three occasions, "I'm not like some crazy ex-boyfriend who keeps calling his ex-girlfriend saying, 'I'm gonna cutcha, cutcha, cutcha!" which would inevitably send the audience into spattered chuckles. The judge made it very clear that he would not tolerate any laughter in the court room at the very beginning of the sentencing when Christopher said something funny and we all laughed. Judge Ross said, "This is not a laughing matter. Mr. Brodeur is facing a sizeable jail sentence here, and if you feel that you should laugh, you will take it out of this court room." Christopher is pretty funny just by nature in the way he speaks. So, it was hard not to laugh out loud during his diatribe. At one point, Judge Ross even questioned him about the comic he drew of ADA Duncan Levin which called Mr. Levin "A very good German". Judge Ross said something about it insulting Mr. Levin, and Christopher said, "I call him a very 'good' German. Is that not complimentary?" Of course, the court room was tickled by that.
At the end of Christopher's speech, which was, almost perfect in my opinion, with the exception of being too long (totaling 1 hour and 50 minutes), perhaps "too funny" and a bit "brash" in places, it was Judge Ross's turn. He read from a script that he had written. It was already prepared and typed out. I don't know what the policy is on writing out a report in advance of the sentencing for the sentencing, but it struck me as a bit premature. Perhaps he'd written it during the lunch break. In his report, he took what Christopher had said to his landlord (and Kathy O'Malley) very seriously. He didn't consider it to be colorful expression, or retaliatory harassment in response to Paul's original harassment, or protected free speech, or Christopher's way of responding to losing his home of 15 years or anything else. He said that Christopher was hardly a pacifist, or he wouldn't have made the calls. He said that Christopher had wanted to "get into their psyches" and had planned to make them feel fear, and had succeeded. He called Christopher a "terrorist" and said that he "terrorized" Mr. Stallings and Ms. O'Malley, and said that he didn't use 'that word' (terrorist) lightly in this day and age of terror. Then, he sentenced Christopher to 6 months in jail.
I didn't hold up my signs in protest, but I did say, "I'm going to be sure that this story gets as far and wide as it can. I'm going to tell everyone I can what happened here today. You will all be famous from this." I left the court room in tears and quickly regained composure.
Later, I decided that this will be like a um, mini vacation. A break for both of us. I'm getting a free trip to "your rent and bills just doubled" land, and it's straight to Malnourishment Point for Christopher.
The thing I keep going back to is, I wonder if Christopher feels anything was gained by doing this? Even if he truly believes it was his right to call his landlord, was anything really gained? I guess I'll ask next time I visit him in jail.
A friend during the sentencing turned to me and said, "Hey - you know what? Even the sun shines on a dog's ass." I laughed and thought about Christopher, and wondered if in this metaphor, he was supposed to be the sun shine or the dog's ass?
Sunday, March 5, 2006
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!
(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!
Thursday, March 2, 2006
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!
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!
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