Archive for May, 2007

For Reece

For my high school graduation, my parents made a huge scrapbook of pictures, old artwork, report cards and loads of other stuff from when I was a kid. When I brought this book to college, one picture stood out to all my friends. One picture that they all latched on to and made fun of me for. One picture that was worthy of photocopying on a flyer for my 21st birthday and plastering around campus. This is that picture. Who knows if it was the Sophia Loren glasses…The bubble wand necklace…or the chef hat that takes up 90% of my head. Who knows? I sure don’t. I think I’m the picture of adorable.

Chef Hat

Reece, are you happy now?

I should have titled it “Help!”

I wonder if Van Gogh or Picasso ever went through awkward phases. I don’t even mean Blue periods, I mean, were they dorky teens? Did their artistic outlet serve them, not just because they were pimpled and single, but because they were passionate about whatever the equivalent of Nirvana was in 1898?
I am submitting some new material for Mortified and in going through my stories, poetry and journals, I found the cache of high school art that I was once so proud of and which represented my tortured 15-year-old self. There was a silver-foiled scratch rendering of a Buddha in chains (Free Tibet, y’all!), a self-portrait as seen in the convex side of a spoon (because my soul was distorted, y’all!) and continuous line drawing of a lacrosse stick (cradle that ball, y’all!). But the piece de resistance was the giant (at least 2 feet by 3 feet) watercolor and ink rendering of the Beatles in a tree, framed by a Technicolor setting sun entitled “Within You, Without You” because it was just that awesome (don’t tell mom the baby sitar’s dead, y’all!).

It's art, man

A closer look, you ask for? But of course. Pointillist John, Paul, George and Ringo, a way in which you hopefully never have seen them, nor ever will again.

Meet the Beatles

I’ve posted this for Amy Lou from sewing at Brooklyn General, I hope it meets her expectations.

New York Post Sitcom Puns – Celebrity Edition

As with all the puns I’ve ever come up with, these ones are a stretch. But a lovable stretch that makes me the semi-brain-damaged, adorable punstress you love. Right?

Sometimes what people need is a push, some encouragement, to attain their goals. A life coach, perhaps? And who better to motivate than country music star Faith Hill. Watch as she turns lives around in Faith-Based Initiatives. On Pax Network. If the Pax Network still exists. Which I’m not sure about.

Remember when Aaron Neville sang about “The touch, the feel of cotton, the fabric of our lives”? Well, he’s not the only musician schilling for fabric! Drug-loving Depeche Mode frontman Dave Gahan loves man-made polyester so much that he wrote a song about it. VH1 Classic presents the hourlong reality special about the making his Poly-Love Song in Gahan, But Not For Cotton.

What happens when you put Marlee Matlin, Donald Trump and George Hamilton in an Easthampton beach house with 12 underprivileged kids who desperately need to learn trigonometry? That would be the heartwarming and fascinating Bravo show Sign, Co-Sign and Tan Gent.

Falwell that End’s Well

R.I.P. Jerry Falwell. You died just as you lived – of heart failure. I hope your afterlife is filled with musical theatre, actor-waiters, Lifetime Movie Network and New York Sports Club steam rooms.

A shower that ended in a bath. That ended in a shower.

My dear friend Reece is getting married in June. Reece’s bridal shower was 2 weeks ago and me and our friend Jen were responsible for the party favors. We decided to do something that might be useable but also fun for the guests because when was the last time anyone ever said “Oh, yes! Jordan Almonds in net baggies!”? So we ordered 50-something bath fizzies, a.k.a. bath bombs, a.k.a. bath-ka seltzer, to hand out. Approximately 3 people actually took them home, so we had a lot of leftovers. I took three and used one of them last night. If anyone wants two bath fizzie-bomb-ka seltzers, call me.

As the directions stated, I placed the Sun-Ripened Raspberry scented ball into a tub of warm water and watched it fizz into action, dissolving into a Pepto-pink puddle. It smelled nice! Also, even though the scent was “Sun-Ripened Raspberry”, we didn’t get them from Bath and Body Works, the store that trademarks and owns that scent. We bought them from Jojo the internet bath lady. A++++ buying experience! F minus-minus-minus bathing experience!

I climbed into my New York City-sized tub (not the size of the city, of course, but the size of what an administrative assistant who lives in the city and earns a below-average income can afford. Which is to say small, but at least not in my kitchen as so many tubs in the city are. Ok , I’ve never seen a tub in a kitchen, but the myth exists.) So I’m trying to displace as much water with as much of me as I can and still, most of my body isn’t really wet. I think my tub has a safety drain. Is that what you call it? That hole near the tub’s spout that drinks up any excess water so you won’t overflow and flood your possibly-Mafia-affiliated landlord’s house below. Yeah, a safety drain. Ensuring my safety against the angry outburst of my possibly-Mafia-affiliated landlord. I’m too young and pretty to sleep with fishes! BUT ANYWAY!

So I’m in the tub and quickly remembering why I’m not a bath person. How is this enjoyable? It’s very hard, my tailbone is digging into the textured, no-slip grippy thing on the floor of the tub, and my legs, which are unusually short, are too long to extend in this tub. So I’m hunched in a bent-knee position and I also decide that this is the night I’m not only going to take a bath but I’m going to listen to a podcast of This American Life while I do so. Who am I? I am a Birkenstock-wearing, PBS-donating, colored-frame-for-my-glasses-wearing, neighborhood-association-meeting-attending 50-year old is who. But wait! The TAL podcast was no ordinary episode. It was the one about the prisoners at Guantanamo. I was in the tub relaxing to THAT! I’m crying at how this sounds now, too. You’re not the only one.

So there I am relaxing, or at least questioning how I planned to relax when I was done listening to the prisoner who tried to kill himself because it was a better option than continually being beaten, stripped and humiliated, and I’m not really paying attention to my tubbing. I shifted position a couple times, but really, in that tub? Please.

But I noticed that my knees – bent and out of the water – were so pale compared to my thighs and calves which were submerged under water. Was the water really that hot that my blood rushed to the surface and my skin had flushed? Or was a slowly dyeing myself like a human Easter egg in this pink-tinted water, unaware that while I mulled over the importance of the ACLU, my extremities were getting redder than red? Quite a way to PAAS the time. (Sorry. I had to.) I tried to evenly distribute water all over my skin now, basting myself in it so that I might just look sort of sunburned and not the bath equivalent of farmer’s tanned. After a few minutes of splashing around and not being able to hear part 2 of TAL at ALL, I dried off my right hand, paused the show and turned on the shower. I mean, come on. That’s how most baths end, isn’t it? In a shower. Are you really going to shampoo your hair and then dip it in your dirty bathwater to rinse? I don’t. And I wouldn’t understand you if you did. I showered off as much pink as possible but didn’t even attempt to rinse the pink ring that was ever so faint around the tub itself. One thing at a time, first we remove the egg, then we wash the vinegar soaked bowl, then we have a happy Easter.

So I washed off all the stuff that was supposed to be cleaning in the first place and emerged a more confused person than ever. How do people take baths often and really, I mean really, get clean? Is there a trick to it that I don’t know about? And how can our government be so horrible to innocent people? Water torture abounded last night in my bathroom in so many ways. This bath bombed.

Field Music Interview

I got to interview Field Music for PopMatters back in March and the interview is finally posted! You may remember that back in January of 2006 I gave Field Music 3 and 3/4 out of 4 Cuddles-The-Mini-Seeing-Eye-Horses on a scale of adorability, so I was pretty excited to meet these guys. So excited that I let down my defenses and actually told them how charmed I was by them (insert all sorts of gushy compliments here), thereby destroying all my journalistic integrity and cool aloofness one in this particular field is probably supposed to have.

I was a little nervous during the interview because I borrowed Roommate Jeff’s iMemo or iNoteToSelf or whatever the recording thing is that you can attach to your iPod and I was paranoid that it wouldn’t work. Luckily it did work, I just have to remember to remove the interview from my iTunes. It’d be quite the party blunder if all of a sudden while my songs were playing randomly and “Don’t Stop Believin'” segues into “Test test…um…so, yeah, It’s nice to meet you – I’m really paranoid that this recorder won’t work, um so anyway like, you guys are musicians and stuff, huh?” That would be awkward city!
Anyway, enjoy!


Just Because

I found this picture stored away in my rarely-checked Hotmail inbox – it’s over 2 years old and was the original Photoshopped image for Glennis’ and my Celebutantes show poster. I’m just posting it because I laugh every time I look at it. Even though the main focal point is us as Brad and Jen (R.I.P. Pittiston), I think my favorite part is us as the trashy “Will They or Won’t They” couple on the left.