Stop Acting!

There he was. An earnest-looking young man on the subway. He had the look of someone who'd just arrived in New York from the land of corn. Somewhere open and expansive. His skin didn't have that greenish cast all us New Yorkers get during the winter months (no matter what ethnic/racial background we all manage to look green this time of year). He gallantly stands up for a young woman to offer up his seat up. This plain young woman, obviously unaccustomed to gentlemanly behavior sits down looking awkward and confused. He doesn't want anything from her. Just offering his seat. Doin' gentlemanly things.

In his hands, this young man holds a book. I always check out what other people are reading (I never read anything so I read other people's book covers instead). The book's title: "How to Stop Acting". On the book's cover is an older-looking man who slightly resembles Steven Spielberg. He frames his face with his hands (think Vogueing). This book really gets me thinking. A book on acting explaining how to stop acting. Huh.

I take this whole thing pretty personally because I too was once like this young man, spending money on all kinds of acting books; how to's, how not to's, monologue books, scene study books, break-into-the business books. And it wasn't just the books- there were headshots, classes, clothes I would only need for that one audition where I play a hooker/cop. I was pretty much going broke desperately trying to learn how to stop acting and become authentic-as a hooker/cop, naturally.

Here's the problem with that. Most people who want to be actors don't know how to be authentic. Actor-types probably all grew up like I did; playing roles constantly while checking yourself in mirrors to see what that looked like.

You know this is all you want to do with your life and vow to take this craft extremely seriously so you enroll in one class after another. Here you endure countless hours of humiliation intermingled with nursery school coddling.

A typical New York acting class is meant to break you down completely. Strip you of all those "acts" you've been working on your entire life. Everything you ever did to get attention-that integral driving force within every actor is yanked away piece by painful piece till you are nothing but an open, bloody pulp laying on the floor. "Okay, NOW do the scene!" your teacher will excitedly say.

Of course, we are all terrified of our acting teachers. This is generally what defines a great teacher. He or she should be the most intimidating human being you've ever encountered. You begin to live for their approval. The small moments of praise you receive from your acting teacher become the only moments you are truly happy or feel worthy. You begin to crave this praise constantly. Every time you go up to show your work you know you will either come out feeling like a genius, or go home to die small deaths till next week's class where you might redeem yourself.

This is really hard on anyone who is dating an actor or married to one. You are up or down and they can't do a damn thing about it. They don't understand! They lead mundane lives. Free of humiliation and glory.

In class, we watch terrified as our fellow classmates go up to do a scene. One poor guy goes up to play George from "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf". He's doing fine. Fine, for Wisconsin.

Suddenly, our demi-god-acting-teacher stands up in a fury and kicks this poor guy in the balls. "Do you feel that?!!" he asks enraged. Said student is now laying on the floor in fetal position. "That's how emasculated George feels by Martha! Look at you, you pussy!!". Finally, the student begins to cry. "Okay, now you're ready to do the scene! Now!" The student gets up. "Wait! Hold on a minute. You're what? 24? Your grandfather still alive?" The student nods his head no. "Good. You remember what he walked like? How he moved?" The student nods his head yes. "Okay, use your dead grandfather's body. But don't forget what a minion small piece of shit man you are. And...go!".

We all watch in amazement. By the end of the scene several of us are crying. Our genius teacher has done it again. This boy from Iowa now knows the pain of a has-been, aging, emasculated professor. It's incredible. It's painful. But at some point, you gotta wonder what the point least, I did.

I started acting to escape pain. I wanted to be on a sitcom. This shit... I didn't need this shit. I was already an emotional mess, did I really need to get my mind fucked with weekly? These other kids, the ones who'd led fairly pleasant lives up until then and now got beaten up emotionally every week- this may have been novel for them. They hang on to it longer than I do. But, eventually many of them give it up too.

Let's face it, at some point, the debts pile up, the therapy bills aren't getting any cheaper; we know its time to look into other options. I run into some of my old classmates now and again. They're doing all sorts of things. We talk about what those things are for a bit and then say our goodbyes.

Some of them are still at it. Some are actually working on tv. I can't help but get excited every time I see one of them on the tube. You see them on Weeds and think, wow, they really stuck it out! Maybe I shoulda held on a little longer...

This thought only lasts for a moment. See, I know deep down that I could never, ever "stop acting".

NYC-Subway Talent

It's really too bad I shot this with my shitty Android phone and the quality is so poor. You miss just how truly amazing this guy is. Do you have any idea how hard it is to rub your belly while doing a turn to a beat? Yeah. You try that.

The Megan Fox Backlash

When Megan Fox first came on the scene, I'll admit, I was not a fan. I thought, I can't be friends with this girl, she'd definitely steal my boyfriend (yeah I know, but if I had one she would).

Anyway, suddenly all this stuff started to emerge in the press about all the crazy stuff she said, and I started to have a change of heart. I was like, this chic is kinda nutty, and I kinda dig it. We could mos def be bff's, after all. So, just as I'm fantasizing about how Meg and I would go out drinking together and talk weirdo-style (my fave!), I start hearing all these guys hating on her.

A few weeks ago some guy we were hanging out with said that Megan Fox was a stupid, slutty, bitch. Whoa! Hold the cell phone pal. First off, I don't recall Meg Fox promising anyone she was smart. Second, how come she's supposed to hang around half naked making guys think about sex, but act like she's totally oblivious to it? Now, that to me would seem pretty stupid. Obviously, she's gonna talk about the obvious.

And, bitch? C'mon. We all have our bad days. My girlfriend who I was with that night works in film and said that most actors she works with are nightmares. She went on to say it was most likely that either Meg Fox didn't sleep with someone really important, or, she has a terrible publicist. I think both. She probably didn't fuck her publicist.

I'm still with you, girl. For today, anyway. Don't do something really terrible over the weekend. It could start to get difficult to defend you all the time. And, I really wouldn't want it to put a strain on our friendship.

xoxo gigi

Be Seen And Not Heard-And Not Seen Too Much Either

I've been thinking lately about how women who keep quiet about their achievements, or just keep quiet in general, are generally idolized in our society. Its all about being low-key.

Let's start with Penny on Inspector Gadget. Gadget, always the bumbling fool, while Penny, his adorable niece solves all the crimes behind the scenes, never outs her uncle. She teaches young women everywhere to stand behind your man. And, maybe even hide sometimes.

Next up, Meg White. Everyone loves her silence. She doesn't say anything, she just adorably drums away while Jack stands in the spotlight. This makes her "rad".

Clara Bow. Big star in the 20's. Just watch one of her movies. Not a peep comes out of this chic's mouth. Ever. Although, they do add subtitles to let you know she's got some thoughts.

Zoe Deschanel. Yeah, she talks, but it's all monotone, so it's more like white noise.

Barbara Bush. Did she ever say a single word in eight years? Not, that I can recall. And, she is one of the best-loved first ladies of all time.

Henrietta on Mr. Rogers. She was a cat and all she could do was meow-meow. Big hit. Big.

Nell. She just made noises. This was soothing and non-threatening. "Chicawaaaaa, chicawaaaay".

And, of course Melanie vs. Scarlett from "Gone With The Wind". Sure, Scarlett learned in the end, but a little too late. Everything had gone to shit and Rhett was goners. He always told her she'd never be half the woman Melanie was. Melanie died in childbirth enduring to the bitter end with no complaints.

Well, that's all for today. I will now shut the fuck up.

Conversation with My Dog Theo

Me: Theo, am I the greatest owner ever or what?

Theo: You're pretty good.

Me: Pretty good? That's gratitude. Who fed you yesterday?

Theo: You. And, about that. When you run out of dog food, I don't like that whole cereal mixed with a can of tuna thing you do. Just FYI.

Me: But, you ate it right up!

Theo: Well, I'm a dog. I'll eat anything. I'd just prefer something better.

Me: Done! Anything else?

Theo: Well, now that we are on the subject, I am still upset about that time last week when you tied me up outside the deli and forgot about it until you got home.

Me: I had a lot on my mind that day! Plus, I came back didn't I??

Theo: Also, when you come home drunk late and think I want to cuddle... you'd be wrong about that.

Me: Geez. It's like you don't even like me.

Theo: Love you. Just telling you some stuff I need to get off my chest.

Me: So, you're still glad I'm the one who rescued you from that shelter in West Covina, right?

Theo: Absolutely! And, like you always tell me, "I'm the most special because you chose me".

Me: Actually, I didn't. Your deadbeat dad did. I didn't think you had much of a personality. See, while all the other pups were playing, you did nothing but sleep. But, I've come to see this as a blessing since we now live in a small apartment in Brooklyn.

Theo: That's...sweet. Hey, Gigi?

Me: Yeah?

Theo: I'm glad you're my owner. But, I'm also glad you don't have kids yet.

The Future is Now!

If you've never seen the film Logan's Run, the 1976 sci-fi classic, I strongly recommend it. My friend Paris brought over one night a while back and I was immediately struck by how accurately the future as we know it now is portrayed in this movie. The world is dictated by pleasure and the landscape strongly resembles a gigantic Vegas shopping mall. People communicate by typing on little gadgets (texting), and the citizens regularly go in for face and body morphs when they are bored or unhappy with their looks (plastic surgery). You also have computers that bring you lovers (internet porn). It all seems like the perfect world- except the big catch is that everyone is forced into mandatory euthanasia when they hit 30. The protagonist of the film is a "runner". You see, Logan is 29 and tomorrow is his 30th birthday...tum tum tum. Lucky for me, this has not become a part of the future (yet) or I'd be dead meat. Also, notice how in the beginning of this trailer those people floating from above making figures resemble a Cirque De Soleil show. More proof that Vegas and Cirque De Soleil are just trying to distract us from our impending decay and inevitable death. Never did like or trust those Cirque De Soliel shows....


I remember...

Subway tokens

When Soho was desolate

Thinking Mayor Ed Koch was super-cool, especially after that claymation video of him came out

Graffiti on the subways

Going to the Limelight in the 1900's (before it was a rundown sample sale space)

My dad making me close my eyes when drove along the westside highway cause the tranny hookers only wore lingerie in the streets

When Ave. B was really scary, C was taking big risks...

Going to comedy clubs in the W.Village because they were the only places that served minors

Patricia Field's was like a fantasy land for a high school girl- and Sex and the City was light years away...

All the boys got their hair cut at Astor Place

Snooze Button

Dear Snooze Button,

I've been thinking about us a lot lately and I just don't think this relationship is healthy. I know you've always been there for me, but it's like the more I rely on you the less I rely on myself! I just don't think this relationship is helping me grow as a person.

This is so hard for me, believe me, just one touch and I feel like all is well with the world again. But, I can't keep looking to you for comfort! At some point I have to do it on my own. Do you know what I mean? Oh, this kills me! You've always meant well, and yet you usually just end up hurting me without even knowing it. Like, staying in bed with you makes me late for work almost everyday! Ok, I know, I'm the one who always initiates that business...but that's what I mean!! Its a love/hate relationship and I can't do this to myself anymore. Anyway, I'm sure you'll find another woman by tomorrow and forget all about me.

Oh, who am I kidding?!! I can't live without you Snoozer! I'm not ready to end things... just stay. See you tomorrow? Same place? Same time?



More from my Dad (Well isn't imitation the highest form of flattery?!)

"Since you are so good with the internet, I want you to teach me how to use craigslist."

"I always want to improve myself, so please tell me if I have bad breath or you don't like my shirt. Believe me, I can take it."

"No more guys with tattoos. No more tattoos and no more homeless!"

"The whole entire family can't believe you're not married yet. We can't understand what your problem is, we discuss it a lot, but we still haven't figured it out."

"Most married people I know are so goddamned miserable and lead miserable lives."

"I already know what this whole, entire universe is about."

*Just in case your wondering why I don't quote my mom, its because she gets her own entire book. Yes indeed, been working on it for a while now...

Cherchez La Femme


"Cherchez La Femme-
The phrase embodies a cliché of detective pulp fiction: no matter what the problem, a woman is often the root cause."

I've been thinking a lot about this concept lately. Admittedly, I read tabloid magazines more than any one woman who considers herself an intellectual and feminist ever should. However, I have to say that while reading these rags makes me part of the problem, its also quite often a fantastic study on our culture and the way in which women are depicted within it.

I'm sure if I never looked at these tabloids I'd certainly have a much less cynical perspective and hostile feelings about it all. But alas, I do, I'm drawn into the wreckage. The sick thing is I often find myself being part of the beast, "Oh wow, look at so and so's cellulite!". Making myself feel better about the ridiculous standards I feel held up to as a woman by putting other women down. What the fuck? That wasn't the point- I'm horrified. So for a while, I put them down and don't open a single tabloid. I remember women are my allies not my enemies, and that these magazines represent a cattiness I detest.

Then, inevitably some headliner will pull me in; "Brad Is Sleeping On the Couch!". I have to look. The couch? Really? I thought the couch was reserved for lazy, big-gutted, farting, mid-western husbands-not Brad Pitt.

The thing is, mostly what I find disturbing about these stories is that women are usually to blame for all the trouble. Angelina's too controlling and too harsh, while Jennifer Aniston is too meek and clingy. Then there are the young "party girls". They are criticized mercilessly for drinking and hooking up with famous male actors who are at the same clubs doing it along with them.

But of course- the guys never get any heat for it. These men are acting totally appropriate for the way powerful, single males should be. The girls however, are "seriously troubled" or "at it again, friends are worried". How often do we point out how many women these guys are hooking up with in a negative way? Of course not. Because if a single male is dating a "string of starlets" he's idolized, envied. While an actress doing the same is looked upon as "skanky" and unstable.

Then lets look at the marriages. If the woman cheats, she is a piranha, but if the male strays, its usually because wifey drove him to it. She was (again) "too controlling", "letting herself go", or God forbid-"too preoccupied with her career" (something men in our society are lauded for).

Then, there is of course, the single vs. married issue. Single men are dashing catches that no woman can seem to trap, while single women are sad, pathetic creatures who are doomed to "drive all men away". Case in point, George Clooney. Clooney who is going on 50, has only ever been committed to one constant companion, his pet pig Max who even shared Clooney's bed till he died recently (RIP Max). Could you imagine what would be said about a single actress in her late 40's who slept with a pet pig every night? I'm sure "friends" would be "worried" and "deeply concerned". But not Clooney, it only adds to his charm.

I'd also like to go on the record for a moment while I'm on my tirade to say that this shit about Gerard Butler being a sex symbol is just that, a bunch of shit. I'd love to see a woman that chubby with a bulbous nose be considered hot. Just once.

Strangers Waiting

Let's talk a bit about street interactions, because one of the reasons I moved back from LA to NY was that I missed, and I mean-I genuinely missed, being able to just meet and talk to strangers. And, strange as this may sound, it took me a while to realize I that I actually never, ever did that before moving back to NY from LA. You know, eye contact, casual conversations with people at cafe's, deli's, etc. Now, I talk to strangers all the time. Those truck drivers that say hi, I say hi back. I like some girls shoes at Starbucks, I tell her. The street musician, I like what he's playing, I tell him so. We talk about it. I talk to street artists about their work, they ask me about mine.

The train has been a really interesting meeting place. I no longer look away if someone looks at me or smiles. Some of these interactions have actually gone a little further than mere casual conversation. I may have given one or two my number. Recently, I went on a date with someone I met on the L. It was a real snoozer which was funny considering that just a few days before, at 9:30am on the train, we were full on eye-banging. Now, I couldn't get out of this date fast enough (and neither could he, believe me I have no delusions).

The thing is this, I don't necessarily know if this much interaction is opening me up, or causing me to give up on people faster and causing them to give up on me faster as well. In New York, there is always someone new to meet. Does this make us less tolerant of people? Does this make us all so much more apt to flake out and drop out at the slightest annoyance?

Because, suppose you do live in some tiny town and your chances of meeting new people are so slim that you are genuinely psyched to when you do. And, what if that infrequency of meeting new people causes you to be more tolerant to their imperfections? Do you cherish connections more in general?

I want to share an interaction I had the other day, because to me it was a stunning example of this. I am walking off the train on my way home from work. I spot a boy (he really couldn't be called more than that because I suspect he was very, very young). Or maybe he spots me. I stop to look at some books nearby. By accident on purpose, of course. He comes over to talk and walks me home. I learn all about him in that short walk (but not much really). About, how he is a model and that he has a lot of free time in between gigs. This doesn't bother him, and he's from North Carolina. He's still trying to figure out what he'd like to do. Which is great, because that's what your 20's (or maybe teens) are for.

He said he'd like to get a drink sometime (so at least 21?). I said sure. I went home and got a text from him that said he would have liked to have kissed me. I thought this was sweet. To this I said, "Well, we just might" (cheeky, in my old age). Then I added, "I think you are probably a lot younger than me and I'm afraid to ask". To this he wrote "Age is like wine, it gets better with time, but at a certain point, it spoils". And just like that, it was all over.

I guess what I really think is sad, is that so much of it is so fleeting. And, its all because of the sheer overwhelming amount of so-called-opportunity. That because we don't really cherish any of these interactions in a deep way, it all amounts to very little actual opportunity. None. We are left empty, wandering, searching endlessly in an overcrowded city.

I think a lot of it is this is an expectation of something exciting-that kind of shallow type of interacting that has very little to do with making any real connections or friendships at all.

I was born and raised in New York, and the only other place I've ever really lived in was LA where I can tell you from my own experience, connections are even far more fleeting. If you've made a couple of good friends in LA, hold on tight, because there's not a lot of that going on.

I have dear friends in New York. My closest and best, those who have been with me through everything. I feel so lucky. But, I really want to become more aware of how special it is to live in a city amongst so many, many strangers. And, to cherish that more- all the interactions, as if they were each unique and special (I mean of course, lets face it, some just aren't). But, I'd like to believe and hold on to the possibility that this one stranger, could in fact become another good friend-if given a real chance.

I was told to write goes crap!

This one is gonna be so deep, so mind-blowingly good, you're gonna flip the fuck out, you'll see. Its gonna change your mother-f'n life. Hang on...just give me a second.........................................................................

Alright, how about this...."an individual's ability to thrive lies in their ability to adapt to change". Or somethin.

I read this on the bottle of a lemonade I just drank. I got it all wrong too and I threw away the fucking bottle and now I can't find it because my office is so meticulous about garbage disposal. Either way, you get the idea.

Its too bad I'm set in my ways and don't adapt to change very well. That, and I have such tremendous creative blockage right now I can't offer you anything good or original.

Do I suck? Heavens no! Well, maybe right now I do. But this will won't last. Brilliance will return.

Why is writing everyday a good idea again???

What about some of the shit my dad says?

Try to keep in mind some of this is translated from Spanish:

"No one's gonna know you're fourteen in that blazer and the lipstick! Just walk in confidently. Here's some money for roulette, I know its your favorite. I'll be at the blackjack table."

"I hate alien movies. People are so prejudiced against aliens. Why are they always depicting them as evil?! It makes me angry!!"

"I don't understand American women. They say no to me, then they go make out with their dogs."

"I can meditate for 20 hours then levitate. I would show you but you would get scared."

"You were always afraid of everything, even the bubble bath"

"Don't go to college. All you do there is read. I had a cousin who read so much he lost his mind."

"Why are people afraid of ghosts? I wish so badly a ghost would come talk to me right now."

"You just called me while I was in Samadhi, this is the highest state of enlightenment. No you're not interrupting me, on the contrary, I love to talk while in Samadhi."

"I'm sorry that I hit on your best friend from college. I've changed. I like a woman now who is almost fifty. She has a belly."

"You focus too much on looks. What you need is an ugly man who will take good care of you."

"Now, Charles Bronson, that's a real man."

"Kissing can give you cavities. It's disgusting."

Since everything I've been writing lately is shit...

Here's what you get, you get fucking pictures of puppies. You don't like puppies? I don't know what to tell you, get help.

Crazy-Ass Gringos

Ever seen a well-meaning Mexican suddenly get caught up in a conversation with a crazy-ass Gringo? Maybe you don't notice these things as much as I do, but I seem to see it pretty often. Today outside a deli, a nice Mexican couple that barely spoke more than a sentence of English is listening politely to this dude who is out of his damn gourd.

"I'm sayin to them, don't make me wait till Monday, by Monday I'll be in Bellvue! You know what I'm sayin?" says, crazy-ass Gringo. The nice Mexican couple just nod their heads at him smiling uncomfortably and doing their best to listen intently.

And its sad to me, cause they don't just get to walk away from this crazy guy like we American citizens do. They feel obligated to stand there listening to crazy-ass Gringo go on as long as he wants to because they feel guilty for even being on our streets. It doesn't matter for a second that they make the best damn tacos at the stand on the corner; they have no right to walk away from this mess. They may even have to give this guy a dollar just so he can shut up and they can get back to work.

Later, I get on the train and a similar situation, well not really, but still, crazy American citizen vs. well-meaning illegal aliens. Crazy-Crack Gringo gets on the train going on about how he got in a shelter and all, but now he needs extra spending money (for crack), so won't you please, give it up.

A moment later, this trio of Mariachis (they have the uniforms on and everything) come through the same cart with their instruments, holding them like you know they have skills. They would've gladly played a nice little diddy for some extra dough, but crazy-crack gringo is so loud, they can't. Plus the Mariachi's know they have no right to compete with the citizen, even if he is really loud and annoying and out his damn mind on crack.

So, off they go on their merry little way. Quite humbly I might add. Off to play something nice and uplifting for another cart that I wished I was on instead.


My dad and I were talking the other night about my grandmother who passed away last year at 103 years old. He said that he and my aunts had been discussing her secret to a long happy life a lot lately. He said there were three crucial things they'd realized about the way my grandmother lived:

1. She found joy in the little things. Walks, drinking tea, chatting with a stranger at the supermarket, chatting with anyone for that matter (she was very social).

2. She always tried to bring harmony into any situation. If you ever talked badly to her about someone or had a fight, she would immediately explain why so and so must be understood and the hard time they were going through. In other words, she always strove to see it from the other person's perspective.

3. She never tried to compete with men.

See, number three is where I think my dad is mistaken. The truth is, my grandmother never tried to compete with men because she felt they were actually the weaker sex and that because of this, as women, should treat them very delicately. I know this because whenever any of the men in our family acted out (especially my mean grandfather) she would look at me with such pity in her eyes and say "pobrecito" (poor thing). She really felt sorry for them. She felt the male ego was very fragile and so out of her sense of kindness never, ever tried to challenge it.

As for us girls, she expected nothing but strong, upright behavior. She accepted no nonsense from us-ever.

I do think number three was dad's subtle way of sending me a message. I have always been willful, argumentative, and competitive with men (including him) whenever I felt challenged. But, don't get me wrong. It's because unlike my grandmother, I see men as my equals. I believe in men. I think they are strong and capable in a way my grandma never did. She never gave my grandfather any shit (even when he really deserved it), but how sad that is to me, because it only meant she never really believed in his ability to change or grow.

Make no mistake, I still think my grandmother was an amazing and strong woman, but I'd also like to think she brought forth a new generation of women in our family. The fighters, the believers...and me.

I take it all back...

I want a normal life. I want to learn to bake and make quilts. I want a porch and a yard. I want the neighbors to ask me for a pinch of salt. I want to make jelly preserves. I want to bring the baby to dinner parties. I am not meant to be alone in Sedona! God help me. I may be losing it this time for real.

I'm Not Acting Crazy, I'm Acting Russian

The only thing that really sucks to me about being in your thirties is that you feel like you no longer have time to waste on bad men. Because lets face it, they are always the hottest and funnest men in the room. But try as you may, you just can't trick yourself into pretending you're not wasting seriously, valuable time. You've done this enough times now to know you will not in fact be "the one" to change him, and your eggs, the ones that you still have, would absolutely kill you. So would your friends. You know you've used up all the years you get leaning on those well-intended friends who saw it coming, bit their tongue, and didn't say "I told you so" time after time. At this point you know they won't hold back. They might even stop speaking to you, and really you couldn't blame them. Who will you cry to now? I suppose this is why as you get older you have to pay someone to listen to that kind of self-imposed torture; its called therapy.

Still, its really tough, because while you know your eggs would kill you, other body parts would really thank you. Generously. And, that gorgeous, womanizing, musician or the handsome, successful playboy all beckon you with great force. "No way" I say to these men. Not out loud, of course, so its never clear and somehow I've given them my phone number against my egg's will. I then wrestle with myself over the situation which causes me to act in really bizarre and contradictory ways. And, since these men seem to love crazy women they don't go away just because I'm acting mental.

I often wonder what it would be like to be more like one of my sensible friends. Well, for one thing these sensible women are all married now so I guess I would be too at this point. I have one friend in particular, she is so no-nonsense it drives me crazy! I can't analyze things obsessively with her, she gives me deadlines to get over things, and we're left with nothing but the present and the facts to discuss. Its vulgar, really. I mean what one earth would life be like if we just ran around making practical decisions? Russian literature wouldn't even exist. Its considered great for a reason, people. I understand its unbearable to watch, I mean I can't sit through an entire Chekhov play, but still, we have to consider it all pretty genius. And, tortured is such a good look on me!

Also, I wonder, without any drama in my life could I actually be happy? I suppose I'm willing to try it, just because I'm willing to try anything once. But, I've already come to grips with the fact that either you fall in love with a normal life and man, or you don't.

And, if I don't I promise to be happy in all my drama, live in the desert, have many animals, and paint in between torrid love-affairs. I will never cut my hair once it all turns grey, and I will wear long, sheer dresses and amazing jewelry. Lets forget I don't paint for a second, because anything is possible. This really isn't such a bad life, is it? Hmm...maybe I will go out with that charming mess, then. I mean, I do love Sedona, and I have always wanted to learn how to paint. I guess what I'm really trying to say is that the best part of being in your thirties is finally, really and truly getting to know yourself.

A Funny Thing Happened to and from Work

The other morning on my way to work my sense of smell was so strong, I could smell every passenger on the train's breath. I could even smell what they'd had for breakfast. One guy had apparently had booze for breakfast. I looked at him disapprovingly. "Before work??" my look said...tsk tsk. He looked ashamed. Anyway, it was absolutely disgusting.

On the way home, there were these teenagers (who tend to scream a lot, I've forgotten it seems). One girl kept yelling out to another very pretty girl, "Where is my girlfriend!! Come here girlfriend!". Finally, the two joined each other in the midst of the other teenagers, holding hands. The other kids asked the girls, "So, you're not lesbians or bisexual, right?". To this the more vocal girl of the couple said, "No, not. We just have this thing with each other". This answer apparently made total sense to the other teenagers and they were on to the next subject just like that.

I found this totally fascinating. Sexuality amongst urban teenagers nowadays is about as important a decision as what type of music you like. It was the first time I'd ever felt like I'd really experienced a generation gap. This would never have gone down so easily when I was in high school.

It made me feel happy that with age comes the newness of seeing things for the first time...Also, as smelly and gross as the subway is, I do learn more than I ever could driving in a car. So, there you go. Eat it middle America. You're sheltered.


When I was in the seventh grade I had this boyfriend named Brendan. Brendan was a loner. He looked like River Pheonix and instead of listening to Megadeath and Metallica on his walkman like all the other boys, Brendan listented The Beatles. For these reasons, the other boys called him a faggot and he was ostracized. The thing is, I don’t think Brendan would have hung out with these guys even if they had wanted to be his friend. He seemed to live in his own world. Brendan and I would get into deep, philosophical discussions about religion and music.

Although the popular girls had decided they wanted me in their clique the year before, by seventh grade this was becoming a very time-consuming position, and I found less and less time to just sit and ponder life with Brendan. The stuff that was going on with this group of girls was insanely dramatic and unhealthy and I’m not sure why being their friend was something to be coveted when really, I should have ran as far away as I could. Attempting suicide became very en vogue with them that year, or at least attempting to make some small enough incision on your wrist that you could wear a bandage to school. The truly beautiful, cunning girls, wore long sleeves which they conveniently allowed to pull back with a long stretch at the most public of moments. They were thrilled at the look of the teacher who would look away and then ask to speak to them after class. After class, they could relish in the teacher’s questions and cry telling them about their parent’s divorce, or their older sister getting all the love and attention at home or, whatever horror it was that drove them to the butter knife.

Anyway, there were very intense meetings to be had after school with these girls, because one was always in a massive crisis. Then there were the boys. Who was going out with who changed routinely and the interchanging of one another’s boyfriends was completely normal fare with this crowd. They all agreed my boyfriend was gorgeous but none would dare date him as doing so was socially a terrible move. And, besides he was weird.

Most of the talk was about how far we should go with these guys. Everyone had been to first base, and now some were preparing for second. The popular girls were all in the dance program and studied ballet. Some already belonged to professional ballet companies. For this group of impossibly skinny, flat-chested girls, myself included, second base was really a moot point. But still, it was the principal.

Then there were the parties, roller-skating and movie outings, etc. All which were aimed at making out endlessly with “the boys”. I guess that in all of this, I really wasn’t paying very much attention to Brendan anymore. We talked on the phone everyday, but eventually at school and even after school I'd become far too consumed with my activities with these freakishly manipulative adolescents.

Then one day Brendan broke up with me. He told me it was because he’d thought I was different, and that it turned out I was pretty shallow. He’d thought I had more depth and a firmer character (he didn't use these words exactly). He’d watched me with these girls and thought I was a total sell-out. Gone was the girl who would sit with him to talk about “Yellow Submarine” endlessly.

But, I wasn’t prepared to be a loner like him. I didn’t have that sort of self-knowledge and I absolutely needed others to dictate my self worth. So, when he ended it, it hurt for two reasons, one because he was gone from my life as I’d known him, and two, more importantly, he reminded me what a shallow, frivolous girl I had become, and I was ashamed.

When I came home that day my father asked me how school was and I started to cry and told him that Brendan had broken up with me. I cried because I thought that was what I was supposed to do, but the truth is I was relieved. I couldn’t be held up to Brendan’s expectations of me and now I was free to be a vapid little monster. My dad thought it was very funny that at twelve I should be sad about a silly break up and he just laughed it off. But, dad didn’t understand this wasn’t so much about a boy as it was about an identity crisis. Eventually dad had me laughing about it too, but then I had to get serious. There were calls to be made to my friends, and I wanted to make sure I was sufficiently upset. I somberly went to my room, closed the door, dialed the first number and began to cry. As I did this a few times, the experience of the break up did indeed become more painful. I found myself inconsolable by dinner time.

Who knows who I dated next. Probably some douche-bag with a tail. But, I have always relived my breakups through telling each and every friend every grueling detail until its absolutely unbearable. I am starting to think the best thing might be to keep the next one to myself...

Father's Day

I slog off to meet dad with a hangover, its father's day and I've asked him to lunch. Dad. I spot him immediately in Union Square in his white jacket, navy polka dot tie, talking away on his celly. For a while his phone continues to ring nonstop and he tells people he must get off because he's with his daughter. All the calls are social, mind you, and require back stories which he gladly goes into explaining in between calls. Finally, he turns his phone off so they will all leave him alone. Some of the calls are from silly women who love to get caught up in dad's drama. Its amazing how easily one can piss my dad off, but then of course, he always wants to talk to them about it endlessly and apparently, so do they. What they did wrong and why he was upset, etc. One of his latest arguments involved a female friend who was livid that my father wouldn't even try to read her future because she's heard he's clairvoyant and has done this for other women. He insisted this wasn't true, but she didn't believe him and they got in a terrible row about it.

We sit down at a restaurant to eat. We have to move at least three times because dad doesn't like it when people sit too close to him. If someone's chair accidentally touches his when they move I really believe he dies a bit inside. He also believes this always happens to him because people are so drawn to him, that even when the restaurant is empty everyone wants to sit near him.

Dad always gives me some sort of semi-precious stone to attract all kinds of fortune whenever I see him. This time he tells me to pick a hand. In one hand he holds the stone meant for luck, and in the other hand he holds the stone that brings love. I choose luck so dad gives me both. A malachite owl for luck and a rose quartz heart for love.

The clouds look very dark and we're sitting outside but dad says it won't rain for a while because he doesn't want it to. This man has a great deal of faith in the power of his thoughts. His, not anyone else's mind you. He's tried to teach me this mastery of mind-control, but so far, nobody he's tried to teach has been able to reach his level of god-like powers. He feels sorry for everyone for lacking his powers.

Its because of these powers that most people who call him want advice on everything from their marriages to legal matters. He sighs and tells me how hard it is for the entire community of Astoria, Queens to count on him for everything. They all wanted him to run for local councilman for a while but he declined. Instead, he has meetings at the local cafes where he gives his advice for free. A formal position would taint it all and possibly interfere with his powers. His latest meeting with some of the locals involved sending letters to a man they've decided they collectively hate. A feud between the man and my father that he has now involved all of Astoria in. Dad has convinced them all to tell this man what a despicable character he is in writing. The man moved to Colombia three months ago, but that doesn't stop dad, because he feels the man should know how many angry Astorians he's left behind. One woman says this man lifted her skirt once in the street for kicks. This is not funny stuff, and dad wants each person to tell him so in writing.

Then dad tells me if he wanted to he could make our waitress fall in love with him, but he's not going to bother because he doesn't have the energy for women that young anymore. Most of lunch is spent with each one of us not really listening to the other because we are too focused on what we will be saying next. Its a game of who gets the attention and in the end I always win by getting teary-eyed and dramatic about something going on in my life. He gets very sympathetic here, dad hates to see me upset. I think it hurts him more than it does me. Sometimes this tactic really backfires because I then have to console him about it endlessly. I say, "See this is why I don't tell you when I'm upset anymore, because it just makes you too upset!" This undermines dad's powers so he pulls himself together quickly and insists that those were the old day-ways, and he's just fine and knows I will be too.

Then we go to the Buddhist center where I practice at dad's suggestion. I chant for a while. Dad claims to be meditating, but really I think he's just napping. Outside the center he charms everyone with his stories about all the various guru's he's followed since the sixties. They seem to think he's great and one woman even compliments his white jacket. He looks at me with a smile as if to say, "didn't I tell you this jacket was great?" It is. And so is dad.

Ode to Pebbles

My dog laps up the water that leaks from the fridge and as I watch him I think its absolutely brilliant. He's not ashamed, he's just thirsty and that's as good a water as any. I think that's what I love most about dogs. They do things that would be considered degrading if they weren't dogs, and make us grapple with the how insecure we are about our basic needs to eat, sleep, fuck, and be loved. Its unabashed and so endearing because there is no inner monologue or social rules to stop them from being exactly who they are and acting exactly how they feel. Even a well-trained dog is only doing so to get your love and treats, and they're not trying to hide this fact in any way. Isn't this why we have pets, so we can live vicariously through them?

Then, there are cat people. Cat people are strange, because cats play all sorts of mind games and withhold love and affection and that sort of thing. I never understood the joy in owning one when life is already filled with dealings of this kind, and I really feel we could use a break from it all. I think that if you derive a great deal of satisfaction from having to work hard to win the love and approval of your pet, you're so fucked. I really do. I apologize in advance because I realize this is judgmental, but I don't see the fun in coming home to a hard day of work and trying to coax your cat into affection. A dog is always happy to see you and that's true love as far as I am concerned. Cat people be damned, you're weird.

I'll end by saying that I do love one cat. She lives in LA. She's a chub and she has google-eyes and she's quite the diva. She's not into games and she tells you like it is. Her name is Pebbles. I do love me some Pebbles...

Always a Lady

A friend's mother in Colombia once pulled my friend and I aside to give us an important life lesson on how to behave like a lady. Forget that this woman looked nothing like a "lady" to me because what she told us made a great deal of sense. Anyway, she said "Girls, when you go out to a party or anywhere you will be consuming alcohol, make sure to stay away from any mixed drinks or sugary cocktails. If you drink those you will drink too much too fast, and before you know it, you will be acting foolish. What you must do is get something really strong, like scotch on the rocks, which you will sip slowly. Just nurse one of those all night long, and you will always behave like a lady."

Well after years of foolish behavior, I decided to take her up on this advice. So, the other night while I was out- where was I? Oh yes, Chinatown, I ordered myself a scotch. Neat, fuck the ice, I am a goddamned princess. The Asian bartender looked at me kind of funny, served my drink and asked if I was a lesbian. I just laughed and said, "No silly. I'm a lady." And boy, did that work out well! I swear, everything that came out of my mouth that night was pure, lady-like talk. I mean, I didn't completely follow the advice, because I didn't stop at just one. I snuck some sugar packets into it and it really improved the taste, but a lady is always resourceful. So, thank you Mrs. Bustamante, you have changed my life. I'm pretty sure if I could remember that night well enough to tell you about it, you would be very proud of me.

You could sponsor this woman-child

My friend told me you can get an advertising sponsor through these things. So, here it goes:

I love Jaguars. They make me hot. I wish I could have sex in a Jaguar. Then again, BMW's are good too. So are Ford's, domestic is hot.

This isn't going very well.

Did I mention how much I love Diet Coke? This one's for real. Seriously, I don't even care about cars, but Diet Coke is my shit. Ask anyone.

Uh... yeah... so Jaguars...

Open letter to mom

Dear Mom,

I often go on and on about how terrible a mother you were because you were so not the stay-at-home-baking-cookies kind of mom. I made a list of pros and cons about some of some of your parental choices:


1. We were vegetarian and all the kids at school made fun of my weird sprout and seitan sandwiches 

2. You would take me to see experimental dance troupes in which the performer would walk across the stage toward an egg very slowly for an hour straight. Score? Who loves Philip Glass?!!

3. You also took me to see a Kabuki version of Hamlet. I could barely grasp Hamlet at 12, never mind having to wear headphones to hear the Japanese translation.

4. You took me to all your parties even though I had school the next day and I was exhausted. 

5. You would take me to your gay friend's apartment to listen to classical music records for hours upon hours when I was five. This friend also hated children.

6. You missed parent/teacher night because you were going to Studio 54 instead.

7. You took me to the Pyramid Club even though I was a minor to see your friend's awful band play.

8. You took me all over the country to follow your Guru. We also spent time handing out flyers for Guru Maharaji in Central Park. 

9. You gave out as party favors those crazy Velcro and plastic belts you were designing at my seven year old birthday party. The other kids gave out things like stickers and candy.

10. The neighbors saw you smoking pot and wouldn't let their kids hang out with me anymore.

11. When I was in High School, after I would come home from partying and pass out, you would sneak into my room to take my make-up off for me so I wouldn't break out. Hi, not your skin.


1. We were the only vegetarians in the ghetto 

2. I can now deeply appreciate experimental dance troupes in which the performer will walk across the stage toward an egg very slowly for an hour straight. I also enjoy a little Philip Glass every now and then.

3. Five years later when we finally did study Hamlet at school, I knew that shit inside out.

4. I love going to bed early now. If needed, I can also cover up under-eye circles with make-up better than anyone I know.

5. I had opinions on classical music at five. For instance, I thought Stravinsky was scary and I still do. I can also charm gay men who initially dislike me.

6. You missed parent/teacher night because you were going to Studio 54 instead.

7. I can say I went to the Pyramid Club in the 80's.

8. I understand the importance of having a deep spiritual practice and am immune to others criticism of it. 

9. All the kids loved those crazy Velcro and plastic belts. Everyone said I had the best party favors ever.

10. You kept me from having close-minded, square friends.

11. For a teenager I had pretty damn clear skin.

Its Easier To Get into Mexico Than Onto the Warner Brothers Lot

So we were off on our road trip to Mexico, myself and a couple of friends who were all horrified of what lurked south of the border.

"Yo, I heard they kill white surfers for fun"
"What should we take as a weapon? I got this crowbar"
"If we get carjacked, only one of us coughs up the money, ok?"
"Man, I am not going down like this!"

But, somehow we made it. Alive, and safely on the other side of a wall that separated us from the garbage, sewage and shanty-towns. Safely, in our own little paradise that separated "us" from "them".

Later that night we hot-tubbed with other good LA folk, all grateful that they too had made it alive. They shared horror stories and chatted about how dirty, disgusting, and poor Mexico is while sipping on Margaritas.

"Eeew! There was like, a leak in the bathroom I used at the border! It was disgusting!" said one of the girls. I looked her over; blond, tan, cootie shots up to date. For a moment I had this horrifying thought about the gringos that get killed for fun. But then, an even more horrifying thought. I think I'm better than people who think they're better than other people. And really, isn't that just worse?


I totally blame my failures on my culture. I know that may seem like a lame cop-out, but you tell me, what would become of you if you were raised to believe the highest form of achievement was eating soup? Latin people love soup-eating children. It's like, if you love soup, you can do no wrong. It didn't matter if I won the science fair (which I never did), but my soup-eating cousin who was failing every subject was the talk of the family, "Ay! Look how Manolito loves his soup!". Fat fucker.

Then, just because I never joined a gang, ended up in jail, rehab, or got knocked up, they all thought I was a fucking genius! They would go on and on about how brilliant I was. I was like, "Guys! I'm not that great- just compared to you". 

Naturally this gave me an over-inflated sense of self. Eating soup really doesn't get you very far. Its a harsh reality to wake up to. The world expects more from you than soup-eating and staying out of serious trouble.

Who's Your Daddy?

My dad is really weird. He's this Colombian immigrant that loves gambling, hookers and transcendental meditation. His favorite movies are "Ferris Bueler's Day off" and "Can't Buy Me Love". His accent wouldn't be so bad itself, but whenever my friends would come over he'd say things like, "So, you wanna ride the Ronnie Miller Express?" Even when I explained to my friends what he just said, they still had no idea what he was talking about.

My dad told me that once when I was about five years old, we were at Flushing Meadow Park and some gypsy tried to buy me for ten thousand dollars. He said he had to really think about it because one, he needed the money and two, I was really boring. He said until I was ten my mind was limited and we had nothing to talk about.

My cousin from Texas was always wildly sophisticated. She had guys picking her up in convertables when were like, 10. Her boyfriend when we were 12 was the heir to the Dos Equis empire. So, he'd drive in from Jaurez in sports car to where my cousin lived in El Paso and take us back to his hacienda where they had bodyguards.

But, I really just wanted to be home reading the latest book in the "Little House on the Prairie" series. In the latest book Pa teaches Laura how to salt a pork and store it for winter (which as you know, is very useful information for a kid from Queens).

Anyway, my dad decided that books were making me socially inept. Because, I mean what 12 year old wouldn't want to hang out in Jaurez at the Dos Equis empire? So, in an attempt to make me "normal", he took my books away and would force me to go outside and make friends.

This is how I met Ashley and Tara who shoplifted and played a little game called "pole dancing" in their parents basement. 

I'm really glad my dad got me to stop reading and focus more on my social life.

The Races

When I was little we lived right by Belmont Park Race Track. My favorite days were when my dad would take me there to bet on horses. A high-risk roller, my dad always let me pick the horse even though I was only four. By the time I was five I figured I didn't need him anymore to bet on horses. I was a pretty seasoned player, besides I had ten dollars. I planned on walking over with my best friend Patty, making a few grand, and then taking off for a series of adventures. It was easy to get out of any adult supervision since my parents and Patty's had left us with a fourteen year-old babysitter named Maureen who said she had to go when she got called for lunch by her mother (she said it was because they were eating hot dogs and we were vegetarian). 

When I told Patty about my plan she only had one condition, I had to let her borrow an outfit. I said no problem, and soon we were on our way. Just as we were about to make our way across Hempstead Turnpike, probably about to get smooshed like ants, my dad pulled up. He was only slightly shocked when I told him where we were going, then he laughed and asked where Maureen was. I told him she had to go to home for lunch. My dad said that would be the last time they left us with Maureen.

Paul Rudd

Recently, while out with friends at a favorite hang-out of a certain beautiful, dead, Australian actor, I ended up having a very early, champagne breakfast with an eclectic group. This group included some young, stunning model-boy, who was so boring it made me not want to speak to him for a single moment longer (he was eventually so ignored by everyone he stormed out in a diva-fit), some chubby guy that someone whispered in my ear was in the movie "Superbad", and Paul Rudd. At this point, I was so drunk I had to adjust my vision to realize that the dreamy guy from "Clueless" was sitting across from me (and trust me ladies, he only plays the good guy in the movies)...

The feedback I received from this evening from my dear friend was that I had acted "very LA". And, here's why:

I got far too drunk and said to Paul Rudd (in slurred words) "Oh my God. This is so weird. I'm writing a screenplay and I based the lead guy on you. I mean, how weird is that?!" Then I turned to my friend and said "Isn't this crazy? Who did I tell you I was writing the lead guy for?". I wait, and she looks at me blankly and says "I don't remember you saying that". Shortly after that I passed out right at the table and had to be helped into a cab.

Well, here's what I have to say to that. Yes, I suppose its true. If being "very LA" means that I no longer feel the need to make any celebrity feel comfortable by pretending to be less self-involved than I really am, then yeah, I'm very LA. Anyone who has ever spent any time with me at all knows that my favorite subjects include me, whatever pet-project I am working on, coincidences, astrology, and that I will always drink just a little too much. 

So, yeah, fuck Paul Rudd and what we can do to make him feel like he's having a "normal night". And, fuck me pretending to be down-to-earth so he can marvel at how refreshing and un-LA I was. In fact, there is nothing more hideous to me than a bunch of ego-maniacs playing down their egos. It's all about "acknowledging your giant, beautiful ego" ( thank you, Casey). Now, that's what I call, keepin' it real.

Someday you’ll be sorry...but not today

Sooooo....I got in this car accident. I was hit, actually. Totally not my fault. I had a witness and everything, and he (my witness) agreed to go to bat for me. Then I agreed to go to dinner with him. In my frenzied state, I had no time to size this guy up. I had no idea who I was going out with in fact. All I remembered was someone fuzzy being there for me in a time of need. Upon meeting for said date, I realized I was going out with a for-real serious-crew nerd. We’re talkin’ long shorts wearin’ -Pantera-lovin-big wheels drivin’-winged hair blowin- all-kindsa-collections havin’-crew nerd. So yeah, not my type, no big deal. But then I never called him again. Then after about a week and a half later I realized he’s my star witness and that if I call now its gonna look like I only did it because of my case. That just makes me look bad either way. Never, ever, never date your star witness.

Then I talked to my lawyer and he said he had everything he needed except a statement from the witness. So I had to tell him about how we went on a date I haven’t called him since and was a little worried about his cooperation. My lawyer said that I had to be really really nice to him and absolutely no "lets just be friends talk" till after the case is closed ( especially now that the person who hit me is claiming it was both our faults!). So I asked how long he thought that would be, and he said, 3-4 months. 

Uh, so, I don’t know how this happened, but I guess I have a boyfriend now. I wish I liked him better, but I suppose if you can’t be with the one you love, love the one your with. He did promise to add steps on his truck (its super-hard to get in and out out of with the giant wheels and all). And, who knows, I may grow to love Pantera and his various Japanamation doll collections.

That reminds me, last night a met a dog that absolutely hated people. If you tried to pet him, he would scurry behind a piece of furniture. The owner tried to tell me he was afraid of people, but I knew better, he wasn’t scared, he was repulsed. Kind of how I feel about my new boyfriend...

The Reintegration of a New York Drop-Out

Back home in a home I never felt quite at home in, the old familiar habits come creeping back so quickly. The book I carry on the train but never read. It's in Spanish. Maybe some people won't suspect I speak English. Even better, I start taking cabs again. I still hate the fucking train. The charm of listening in on stranger's conversations wears off fast.  Most of these conversations are so goddamn depressing.

The married couple here on vacation that stick out like sore thumbs (probably because he carries her purse and they both wear shorts in the fall). They are clearly fighting. I guestimate they've been married over 20 years. She warns her husband that he can get off at this stop without her. Of course, he doesn't. He never will. You know they will live together, loathing one another "till death do them part".

The polite guy in Dockers who asks me where I'm headed, and then if I would mind joining him for coffee sometime? His thick New York accent reminds me of the boys I went to high school with, so naturally I decline. I disgust myself.
The security guard who tells me he likes my earrings as I walk by. Thank you. I see them being sold on the street by a vendor about a block later, at least thirty blocks from where I bought them. Fuck, these earrings are everywhere. They went from charming to cheap in a day. 
Later I take another cab to get away, to create distance in the city that's all about the "people" and "lively streets". I put on my horse-blinders and tune it all out to keep from going into overstimulous shock. I learned to do this well a very long time ago.

Once alone in my head... peace. Every now and then, I come up for a look. Sometimes, what I see is so beautiful. It feels good to be home.

Girls Gone Wild

Everyone was all freaked out about this video on Ms. Teen South Carolina's Q&A portion at the Ms. Teen USA competition a while ago. Personally, I have no idea what the big deal is. Lauren, I am with you honey, U.S. Americans? Love em'! Way better than those Canadian Americans, eeeew! Also, some of us DON'T have maps. I don't and I have no idea where anything is. Thank you for taking mapless U.S. Americans, like me, into account. You have a heart of gold. Also, who really CARES where we are? All we gotta know is we are hooked up, sister! Woohoo! Plus everyone knows hot girls don't gotta know shit except where the party is! Oh, and that reminds me, if you're ever in LA, look me up, cause we will party girlfriend! You, me, Lindsey, Lotus? It's so on. In fact, this invitation is extended to all ladies out there who enjoy wearing Uggs with bikinis, sucking down blue shots, and dancing on speakers. U.S Americans + Girls Gone Wild + World Domination = HOT!!!

Musings on Love and Stuff

When I'm seeing a guy I usually check his horoscope along with mine just to know what to expect. I check several sites daily so this can be really time consuming. It was so much easier when I was just dating another Leo, except that the same exact thing was always happening to us everyday and I could never one up him:

"I got fired today"
"Me too"
"I won the lottery today"
"Me too"
"I cheated on you today"
"Me too"

This other guy I dated left me for another woman. I checked out her myspace profile and, of course, it totally made sense. In her "about me" section, she lists high heels, candles and love. I mean, really? Who can compete with a hot girl who thinks about candles and feathers all day long? It's so simple and soothing. Like, "The Tao of Poo-poo".

The last guy I was seeing said I tasted funny when he went down on me, so I went to the doctor and told him to check it out, but he said it tasted just fine. 

I think I'm like a dork with a makeover. But a useless dork that's not even good with technology because i'm too caught up in horses and magic. Like Laura in a "Glass Menagerie" but outgoing and without the gimp.

NY vs. LA

NY vs. LA
The NY vs. LA debate lives on and will never die. As a native New Yorker who lived in LA for three years I can say one thing is for sure, people on both coasts are full of shit. Here's why: New Yorkers are into self-deprication while Angelinos are into self-praise. But the truth is, New Yorkers are actually egomaniacs and Angelinos hate themselves.

Typical scene shopping with an LA girl

Me: How's work going?

LA Girl: Amazing!

Me: How's your boyfriend?

LA Girl: Amazing, he's perfect! (probably some "awws" here from the salesgirl)

(LA Girl comes out of dressing room in a dress)

LA Girl: Oh my god! How cute is this?

Truth: LA girl is an anorexic, coke-head who hates her job as a celebrity stylist because it makes her really insecure. Her director boyfriend is fucking every actress in LA.

Same scene with New York Girl.

Me: How's work going?

NY Girl: (sarcastic) Amazing.

Me: How's your boyfriend?

NY Girl: Fine, I guess.

(New York Girl comes out of dressing room in a dress)

NY Girl: This might look ok if I were five pounds

Truth: She loves her job as a five pound model. She's cheating on her doting boyfriend with someone better looking, probably another model.