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.