Love is in the Air!

Click right here, sweet cheeks....Love Rules!

Heads Will Roll!

A severed head has been found near the Hollywood sign! I know! A dog found it in a plastic bag and thinking it was a toy (who wouldn't?!) snatched it up and showed it off.  

Sweet mother of pearl, is nothing sacred in this town? If you've got to lop off someone's melon, please have the foresight to take your victim away from tinseltown landmarks. Manners matter.

For Love Nor Money

Yesterday I found myself musing over the heady, mesmerizing days of the summer of 1973, when I fell desperately in love with a woman. Full disclosure: that woman was, Michele Bachmann. And yes, we made love. A lot. Like tons of it, and it was awesome.

Regrettably, our relationship ended like the flash of a meat cleaver through the shank of lamb. I was rather slow to heal.  After loving a woman like Michele, it’s hard to bounce back, but I can honestly say that I look back on those crazy days (and nights, when our lovemaking sessions were the most ferocious) with fondness, and just a smidge of terror.

I first spotted her as she hopped out of a cab in the East Village.  She was shrieking at the taxi driver who had offended her by asking for more than a nickel tip on the 50 buck fare.  But, Michele’s tight with a buck, and fairly loose with the insults as I soon came to learn.  She called the cabby a homo who wanted more than just one kind of free ride.  Wow.  Her shrill voice pierced the humid air as she gave him what for. And frankly, I was instantly smitten.  She seemed so dangerous, yet indifferent.

I approached her cab, my outstretched hand dangling a twenty, somehow knowing that that would catch her eye.  She grabbed the bill with her talon-like fingers and briskly walked away.  I raced after her, my batik dashiki flapping in the late summer breeze.  I didn’t know her name at the time so I simply shouted, “Lady!  Hey, Maam!”  Finally, she turned on her pricey heel and met my beseeching gaze.  And that, as they say, was that.

We spent our first afternoon together in my tiny studio apartment, burning incense, and our bras.  (Michele’s was huge.  I mean her knockers are just tremendous.)  We talked Steinem, Zinn, Chomsky, and the Parent Trap.  (We’re both just crazy about Hayley Mills.)  It seemed there was nothing we didn’t agree on.  We compared our fraying ACLU cards and threw back our heads, and laughed like crafty toddlers at how we would bend this country to our mutual will.  How was I to know that this was mere charade? (Pronounced SHA-ROD.)

At the time I was toying with the idea of starting a commune in upstate Idaho.  Michele initially seemed supportive, but kept dropping hints about using the land as a part-time dog fighting ring.  When I refused, she smacked me on the ass and said, “Just use those lips for coolin’ soup, sister.” Yep.   She’s tougher than a nickel steak. And I knew she was no good for me, but like a huge festering boil – you sort of like it.

Things went from bad to worse.  She began peddling green stamps, used my comb when her hair was greasy, and stole change from my coin purse, making me buy it back at twice the price.

As expected, I awoke one morning to find myself strapped to the radiator in my empty apartment.  She’d drugged me and cleaned me out.  She'd also taken the deed to my land in Idaho. Apparently her dog fighting ring was fairly fruitful for a time.

The next thing you know she’s running for President.  Isn’t that something?  I gaze at photos of her now – shrieking about gun control and arabs, or standing uneasily next to her gay husband, and all the memories come flooding back.  Some good. Some not so good.  Anyhoo, she was a great lay and my one and only lady love.

Ring It On In!

Happy New Year, soda pops!

May every single dream you've ever dreamed come true this very fine new year.

pop the champagne!

On a Permanent Flight

Overheard On Flight #6773

Seat 17B: "Did you want these? These nuts?"
Seat 17A: "No thanks."
Seat 17B: "I'm sorry, what did you say?"
Seat 17A: "No thanks. I said, no."
Seat 17B: "I heard that, but I thought I heard you say something about my hair."
Seat 17A: "Your hair? No, I just said, no thanks."
Seat 17B: "I mention my hair 'cause I just had it done. Today."
Seat 17A: "It looks nice."
(I miss about 7-8 minutes because I avail myself of the plane's ghastly facilities)
Seat 17B: "So I just wash and go. Just easy peasy."
Seat 17A: "Oh. That sounds nice."
Seat 17B: "Nice? Nice and easy is more like it. And it looks so natural, doesn't it?"
Seat 17A: "Really natural."
Seat 17B: "Really, really natural. Just like nature, that's how natural it looks."
(a lengthy pause)
Seat 17A: "Yes."
Seat 17B: "That's the thing about perms. You can just wash and go."
(a horrifyingly long pause)
Seat 17A: "No. That's great."
Seat 17B: "And you know sometimes I don't really trust those people. The hairdressers. Oh, they say, let's just give you some bangs, or some layers, or a shag, or something crazy and you wind up looking just like dirt. Dirty as sin. But with a perm, you just wash and go. Easy peasy."
Seat 17A: (quietly) "Oh."
(Seat 17A clicks off her overhead light. I imagine she's hoping that if she can't be seen, perhaps she won't be spoken to.  I follow her lead and don my headphones. Easy peasy.)

It Blows

This week a windstorm swept through this tinsely town. The city went completely dark for a couple of days causing much hoo-haw. But here's what you can't do when the power's out: laundry, return email, answer the phone, or cook. All in all, a stunning couple of days, kitten toes.

Moon Me!

I'd like to introduce you to the newest and coolest sensation to hit this town and hit it hard -
Mr. Willy Moon.

You won't be disappointed, America. Just hop on board the Willy Moon Train! 

(Will he moon? We hope so!)  

Dig this, pigeon lips!

Many Thanks, My Tootsie Pops

Crafts Can Hurt

My dog Ed is really good at crocheting.  He’s just got a talent for it. A flair. And to be perfectly honest, I’m a little bit jealous.  First of all, it was my idea to start a crocheting circle, not Ed’s.  Second of all, he’s never shown any interest in the Arts.  But now that everyone is all, “Ooooh, Ed, you’re so good at crocheting, could you make me something?  You’re just so great at it”, it’s all I ever hear about.  There’s no more, “Can I have a treat?” or “How ‘bout a catch?”.  No, Ed’s all business.  “Paula, I’ve got to get to the Yarn Barn before they close, I’m almost out of teal and I promised Cheryl I’d finish her plant hanger tonight.”  Well, who do you think has to drive Ed to the Yarn Barn?  Me.  For fuck’s sake, dogs don’t drive.  So I’m stuck chauffeuring this douchebag around town, so he can find the perfect width, or whatever, of yarn.  It just makes me sick.  

Plus, he’s gained weight.  Big as a blimp.  Does he honestly think he’ll burn calories sitting on the fucking couch? The only thing he moves are his wrists.  And he wasn’t thin to begin with.  He’s a pit-bull, so he’s pretty barrel-chested, but now he’s just plain old fat.  And I plan on saying that to his face tonight.  And I’m also going to mention that he’s just a little on the slow side.  His vet said so himself, “Ed’s slow.”  That’s a professional opinion, not just me saying it because he’s getting so much attention lately.  

Then this morning Ed asked me if I wanted any help with my crocheting technique.  Oh really?  Do I want help?  Uh, no.  Crocheting is stupid.  It’s what old ladies do.  I hate Ed.  He’s adopted.  He wasn’t even housetrained when I got him.  He peed on my brand new mattress, but did I yell at him?  Did I embarrass him?  No I did not.  I just took him outside and praised him when he did his business in the great outdoors.  I didn’t fucking ask him if he needed “help” with his tech-fucking-nique.  

And he keeps pronouncing it, CROTCH-HAY.  I said, it’s CROW-SHAY, and he says to me, “I’m using the European pronunciation.”  Oh really, Ed?  ‘Cause you eat your own barf.  And eating your own barf, if I’m correct in my assumption and I believe that I am, is gross.  Even in Europe.

Zen Shmen

You should meditate. Find a quiet place, put on some tranquil music, fold your legs up and go. It's gonna make you, I don't know, nicer.

Or you could just take stealth sips from a dented tin flask throughout the day and save yourself the fucking hassle.

Happy Birthday Sugar Britches!

Happy Birthday to the coolest guy in the world who I do my very best to live up to.

(He's the hot stuff 4 year old on the left, ladies...that's right, it's a red cardigan.)

Trick!

Not many know the true legend behind Halloween so I'd like to share it with you. The holiday was founded about three years ago to celebrate my racist neighbor.

This hothead would stand there, scowling on her porch in her too tight Lee jeans, menthol Salem burning softly in the twilight, unhappy with every single thing she'd every known, and scaring the crap out of all the children on the block.

So, to fete this dynamite lady, we knock on some doors and chew fun-sized Dots for a few days.

Feel free to spread this fable far and wide because, as Steven Seagal so beautifully stated last week, knowledge is power.

(This year I'm going as a stay-at-home writer.  I wear it everyday, people.)

That about covers it. Trick or Treat, my sweet candy corns.

Lo-Cal Fightin'

I'm just gonna throw this out on front street - I watch the Real Housewives. Every city. What I'd like to do right now, in case your tivo lamed out on you and didn't get a chance to see it, is recap this gem. Here goes:

A blond lady threw a party and invited all the other blond ladies, plus one brunette, to come.  They played charades and drank a lot of booze. The house they were in was enormous. After a while some of the ladies started drunkenly accusing each other of being drunks. The ladies who weren't yelling sipped their hooch and watched with red bloodshot eyes.

Nobody ate a bite.

Boy, this thing is really heavy...

And the Emmy goes to...me!

For the riveting portrayal of a girl who is hard at work while secretly not working at all but watching several episodes of the Rockford Files.

Job well done! Brava!

Finer Than Frog Hair

For many Yuletide seasons now, my family and I greedily await a Christmas letter from an unnamed (Aunt Shirley) family member.  This letter is something of a goldmine, talked about for days and marveled about the rest of the year. Curiously, Shirley mails it out in early October, so we're already buckled up for this year's gem.

The contents of Shirley's letter swings the pendulum from snooze-fest to shock-a-roonie although Shirley is in no way dynamic in real life. Squat in both body and mind, her letters belie her demeanor. But as the saying goes, "Holy shit, she belongs behind bars."

Last year's Christmas letter told of her struggle to get rid of rust stains and that she was an escort for a short while in the 60's. She shared her recipe for plum pudding and for what appears to be a roofie-laced cocktail. We heard about her check kiting and month long stay in a little known Alaskan penal colony, as well as handy tips on scuff mark removal and easy ways to hide a corpse.

So she'll swing by for a bit on Christmas day, sit in her favorite recliner, not saying much. But we all know what lies beneath that cat fur covered cardigan - a criminal mind finer than frog hair.