For Continuity's Sake

Call it overexposure to media, or the rising persistence of the masses, but regardless I've just been suckered into as many as eight episodes of a single trashy show, released on Netflix and anticipated for months. Was the writing up to even past semi-par? Did I not have other compelling things to do? Why, after the first two episodes fell so terribly flat, did I not simply shut down my laptop and return to the order of the day? Continuity, you needle me so.

On Monday I filmed a scene, and for those who work in the medium know, you don't just shoot what's in the script. You cut, you jump, you angle. Listening to these performances, with tech changes inbetween, teaches you that the camera is sent to record stutters. The boom pole catches whiffs. Relationships of space and time are divided into fragments, toothpicks of meaning. These whittled nothings are sewn back together again, glued as seamlessly as possible, so the gaps are invisible.

Life's all fits and starts. You make plans by logic, by the order of things, for continuity's sake. Then everything leapfrogs, clips and fragments dashing in bounds over one another. You step outside of yourself to watch the story be told. And as any good editor would, you come up with a sequence to form the frames.

I Like You, Amy Sedaris

If it wasn't enough that I already doodle in my diary, "Dear Diary, Someday I'm gonna meet Amy Sedaris and we will be BEST FRIENDS. We'll make matching aprons with squirrels on them, take our pet rabbits for an easter-egg hunt around the dirt-brown sofa, and crawl into the bottle together," now the jimmy-covered tramp has gone and written a fabulous new book, "I Like You: Hospitality Under the Influence." Since I am illiterate, I skipped straight to the audio CD version. I got it at the store.

The four-disc set is read by hers truly and offers such helpful hints as how to decorate for deaf children, discourage having guests pee in your bed, and how to recycle half-eaten cheese balls. Basically, it covers everything you need to know about being the hostess with the mostest rump roastest. Barring that, you will at least learn that you should never interrogate widows at the wake, two year olds do well with gifts of old lightbulbs, and googly eyes are an excellent way to send Ms. Sedaris off in style: by which she means, bury her wearing them instead of her real eyes.

There were, however, a few things missing from this tarty little packet of shiny roundy things that made all sorts of sounds that I experienced as words. One, where she purchases her plastic baked turkeys. Two, if her agent calls her in for cable access commercials for funeral homes. And three, if the box the CDs came in is edible. Hope so. Ran out of whipped cream and sprinkles...isn't imitation the highest form of flattery, or in this case, hospitality?

When I Have Fans My Neurosis Will Be Validated

Do you recognize me? I hope not. I have made my best efforts to go incognito to our neighborhood restaurant. Yes, I know I come here several times a month—I try to switch it up so you won’t know me, but unfortunately I really appreciate this particular menu.

Why am I so paranoid? What exactly am I donning sweatpants and a hoodie to hide from? When is the last time I washed my hair, and who is that well-dressed and groomed person that looks vaguely like me and also seems to live in my building?

Am I actually famous and chased by paparazzi?

The answer, my friends, is no(t yet). And why would such a nervous Nelly aspire to such prominence when she doesn’t even want to make eye contact with the waiter? Why would this native New Yorker with her fuck-you shell to coat her shy insides even consider such a public career as acting?

Because when I have fans, my neurosis will be validated. After all these years of therapy, I am still neurotic. That’s not heading out any time soon. So as a hallucinatory person may pull up a chair and cut cake for their imaginary friend, so shall I court my audience in my hobo outfit. So shall I.

Gratuitous Post About A Dog

Armstrong is only the greatest beagle ever. Why? Because he's my nephew, and we spend every Saturday together, and he's completely adorable.

Is it sort of embarrassing that I am using my blog as a vehicle to rave about a two year old puppy? Yes. So here I go.

Lil' Bones was rescued by my dear friend Sarah from a laboratory where he was pumped full of who knows what experimental drugs for humans. He lived to see the day he wouldn't have to inhabit a metal cage anymore, but retains much of his non-dog autism. The guy doesn't know how to lick your face to say hello, or understand that other dogs might bite you. He tries to make a sound, but was debarked.

This dog, however, is the sweetest thing you could imagine. He's interested in everyone, and is incredibly friendly and welcoming. He carries around the octopus I bought for him, and has learned to wait patiently while Sarah finishes teaching her Bikram classes. Once he hears the final breathing sequence, he sits still, knowing his mommy and aunty are about to come out and slather him with love.

Did I mention that I am smitten with Armstrong? He is the best. Right now I'm exclusively dating myself, but I think he's my wingman. He makes things happen. He's housetrained. And there's nothing like taking a nap with that guy nestled in your arms, snoring away like a rattly engine.

Marketing Executives Are Slipping

Two of my friends and I were sitting around the dinner table. The question posed: “If you could change any part of your body, what would it be?”

Claire shrugged and said, "I've always thought my feet were a little small. I guess I'd like my feet to be bigger."

Shana brought up the tiny scars on her leg from her semester in Nepal.

I said, "More seratonin!"

There used to be a day when three twentysomething women sitting around a dinner table post-grind would push away their barely-touched plates of pasta, throw up their mitts, and wail about lipo. They'd whine over implants, drool at the mention of augmentation, and put their thighs in the line of fire. They would actually consume that poisonous substance they call artificial sweetener.

Clearly marketing exectutives are slipping.

Accessories: The King James Version

Tragic, but true: in my search for affordable fashion pieces I committed a socialist sin. Last weekend I bought a headband at Forever 21, that bastion of teenybopper trendiness. How could I help it? Krista was in town and needed to tour downtown shops, and our twinhood demanded velvet bows!

And yes, I am aware that the reason my headband was $2.80 was because someone somewhere was sorely underpaid. Barbara Ehrenreich in Nickel and Dimed talks about how her co-workers at Target were hard pressed to even afford a $5 shirt on sale, and when trolling through the obscene mounds of dresses at Forever 21 I think about that loveliest of shopping epiphanies, class struggle. I'm there buying the cheapest thing I can find for my penny-filled wallet, and those to whom this adolescent bargain basement is a steal troll the most expensive thing they can afford, and so on and so forth, creating the layer cake of bank accounts, the, ah, SAVE WATER DRINK BEER flocked ringer at the store, if you will. For teenagers, no doubt, who needn't worry about being forever 21 as they haven't yet been it.

And then there was the bottom of the shiny yellow plastic schoolbus of a bag the headband came in. JOHN 3:16. Oh, dear Jesus. I had to consult the King James online to find out that the passage reads as follows: For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.

Now, I find it mighty ironic that the very company which makes clothes built to last as long as one's first menstrual cycle is concerned with everlasting life. Are cheaply made garments a marker of time, a signpost declaring "only eternity more to go"? I'd look awfully silly in my headband in less than 35 years, if it lasts more than three months, that is. And if I wanted to return my purchase I couldn't. The store doesn't offer refunds. Forever mine.

Dear reader, I ask you this most of all: does anyone honestly want to believe in God so that one can not only live forever, but be forever 21?

Ask the Obstinate Tortilla Again

Dear Obstinate Tortilla,

You gave such good advice before, that I wanted to write you with a very pressing concern. Namely, that I was wondering what topics people really try to avoid bringing up on first dates, such as anal leakage (of which I, for better or worse, have none).

Love,
Shana

Dear Shana,

The Obstinate Tortilla knows the answer:
Put cheese in me, I'm toasty and warm.
Additionally I will add:

Camel toe
Those heinous pizzas with garlic cream in the crust
Any Baldwin
Hepatitis (C or otherwise)
Rapacious neighbors
Athlete's foot
Love of canines

Yours truly,
The Obstinate Tortilla

P.s. Anyone is encouraged to write in to ask The Obstinate Tortilla with their questions. I will answer, but you must provide SALSA!!!

Dundee Cake

While reading Simon Winchester's The Professor and the Madman about the making of the OED, I stumbled upon a mention of Dundee cake. Allowing myself total narcissism at 5:30 in the morning after a night of tossing and turning (baby crying next door, angsty dreams about dormlife past), I thought, "That's MY cake!" and scuttled off to find a recipe online. Tragedy of all tragedies (hyperbole, folks), it's really a glorified fruitcake. Now, as Sir Moore of Belfast outlying would say, I AM a fruitcake (genus Americana), but I would like to retort that though I may be, I don't wish to EAT one.

Nonetheless, for you readers who enjoy things cooked with fruit peel, the recipe below. Requirements: think of me, and of mother Scotland.

DUNDEE CAKE

1 cup flour
1 1/2 sticks butter
1 cup sugar
4 eggs
1/2 cup blanched almonds
3 T mixed fruit peel (oranges, mostly)
6 oz each of currants, raisins, white raisins
grated rind and juice of 1 lemon
1 tsp baking powder
2 T whisky
2 T boiled milk and 1 T sugar

Cream the butter and 1 cup sugar in a bowl. Slowly add the four eggs (one at a time), plus a spoonful of flour with each, beating well all the time. Stir in the nuts and fruits.

Sift the flour with the baking powder. Add this dry mixture in with the eggs, butter and sugar. Add the whisky. If the mixture is too stiff, add a touch of milk.

Place mixture in an 8-inch greased and lined cake tin. Flatten the top with hands which are slightly wet. Cover with foil or greaseproof paper and bake at 325 F for two hours. Halfway through, take off the foil and arrange the split almonds in concentric circles on the top of the cake. Check the cake with a skewer towards the end of cooking to ensure it comes out clean.

Boil the 2 T milk with the 1 T sugar. 5 to 10 minutes before cooking is finished, brush the top with the sweetened milk to create a dry glaze. Keep in the tin for 15 minutes before turning out on a wired tray. Store in an airtight container. Do not gift results to your friend Audrey, even though her dang birthday falls so close to Christmas.

Watch Out For the Antlers

I'm eating walnuts, which look like tiny brains. But you know what looks like deer antlers? The deer antlers in my apartment.

Krista warned me that I'd better drag them out of the cabinet; that before I knew it an unsuspecting evening guest would prop open the door, take one look at the herd of them, and run out the door in his boxers. "But Krista!" I protested. "It's like a secret hidden treasure!"

I shuffled them from place to place in my house until I can get the guy up the street who drives an old VW van with eyelashes painted on it to help me turn them into a chandelier or a set of sconces. Finally, I decided it was time they came out of the closet. These gorgeous old bones are spread out on a dresser from so many animals who dropped them (and were collected by the man on eBay I bought them from). It occurs to me that this is perhaps pertinent information to provide to suitors: "Yes, I've purchased animal parts over the Internet."

They're beautiful: and yes, melancholy. In an apartment full of pink, girly things, they are strikingly masculine. They are foreign to me, and yet they feel like skins I've shed myself. On the other hand, the box they came in--KLAUS' MEAT HAUS--well, that looked better in the recycling bin.

Funding Workhorse

Making this play about work, about finances, about the sociopolitical issues implicated therewithin, has taken all my energy and heart this last year. Workhorse is more than a full time job: but like most artists, it is a job unpaid. And like the homeless man on the corner of Haight and Masonic singing "there go some yuppies buyin' more shoes" with his guitar case propped for change, I wonder who and what organization would want to fund a one-woman show about the lies and abuse experienced by American workers, and in particular, women, queers, artists, activists.

Well, who? I set about hunting for corporate and government grants for performers and playwrights, and turned over stone after stone finding not much more than a pile of dirt. As the majority of us, the minority, have little in the way of funding, my only hope was to search out the very organizations I'm critiquing. And unless I can reinvent myself as a 301(c) with a 20+ year track record and a review in the NYT, my only bet is a Bay Area grant of $1,500, which, if I manage to garner it, would cover painfully few of my performing and living expenses.

Like any artist working on staying true to her work and also keeping a roof over her head, I fantasize about the days of patrons of the arts, and of a culture that valued the handmade and local over the Hollywood blockbuster. Everyone tells me to go to L.A.: but Hollywood is still, after all these years, a place of closets, corporations, and conformity. (See Fabulous! The Story of Queer Cinema.) What I'm working on is a San Francisco piece; something that is of a place, and seeks to create more of that ever-elusive arts community here. I am eternally grateful to David Ford, my director, and to The Marsh for supporting me creatively through this process, but there's a bottom line, too, which usually comes in the form of bills.

How can we create support for the next Margaret Cho and Ellen DeGeneres and Marga Gomez hopefuls? It's not just about my own plight to feed myself and make this piece happen--it's my fantasy too that the great artists and creators coming out of school will actually be put to work doing what they do best, and not be kicked back into baristahood. Because let's face it, nobody wants me or my distracted friends making their $4 latte.

Two Strawberry Ice Creams, Please!

Bette Davis just got more fabulous with age. It's really true. I watched "What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?" last night for the first time...and oh, my, oh my...you mean we could've been friends all this time?

Then, because my high level of anxiety has me making like Rapunzel in my tower, I had time to put the movie on AGAIN, this time with Charles Busch and the love of my life, John Epperson, doing commentary over the score. John! Who so brilliantly brings to life the dame to end all dames, LYPSINKA!

Those queens knew EVERYTHING about the film. If they ever run out of things to perform, they can transition right into being college professors. Bless them!

The thing that is so amazing about "Baby Jane," of course, is its camp. Half comedy, half thriller, it's creepy, innovative, and dated all at the same time. What's under the silver platter this time? Is that really Davis' face? And could this happen to Mayim Bialik?

The Feng Shui of Money

WOW!!! Feng Shui for finances works WONDERS! I know, because I tried it.

As many books on the topic will tell you, it is important first to acquire a lot of money. You will need this money for the purpose of a) wallpaper; b) stuffing; and c) outfits. Money used for these purposes will send a message to the world that says: I have money! And as we all know, like attracts like.

The best way to get started is to put your money everywhere. DO NOT SPEND IT. Do you hear me? It is very tempting to take the money you have and use it for things. After all, this is the moment you have been waiting for! Having money! To trade for actual stuff!!!

What you need to do with your money, though, is be able to see it. How are you going to know it's there otherwise? And more importantly, how will the I Ching, the Bagua, and the ghost of Grandma know it's there?

I started by making a curtain of my Benjamins in my kitchen. Then there was an oven fire, and then I had a lot of recycling to do. So I proceeded by turning my bed into a pile of money which I could sleep on and in doing so envision greater things, like more money, for when I wake up. It's like I'm my own Rumplestiltskin!!!

Also I made a carpet out of money, carp out of money, and a pet. It doesn't bark, it doesn't eat, and it attracts better finances to my wallet. Huzzah for me!

And most importantest of it all, is of course to dress yourself in your money. Make a hat--think pillbox! Tie it around your head with a string, preferably free. Look in the mirror--how many money hats do you have now?? The possibilities are infinite. There's you, and the other you, and your hat, and that other hat, and the hat behind it, and behind it, and behind it...

Ian Falconer is My Baby Daddy

This just in: Olivia has formed a band.

Seeking no alternative but create her own musical accompaniment to a fireworks show on the beach lacking a little pomp, the feisty young piglet is now officially an entire troupe. Instruments she now plays include drums, keyboards, a bell, a whistle, and pot lids. She can also be seen twirling a baton.

While the band, in the end, did not make it to the show, a cheeky attempt at a lipsticked mouth and the world's most delicious dinner did. Events included going to the bathroom, and getting tired. And in late-breaking news, Olivia now aspires to a post on the Supreme Court, where she will no doubt yell and look up to Maria Callas.

TeXXXt Me Later

File my library books.

Distill my sugar cane.

Park me on a side street.

Wear me as an inverted hat.

Own my bossy cow.

Make waffles with syrup.

Paint my toenails cozy.

Drip-dry the walls.

Tune my baby Grand.

Defenestrate, well, you know.

BTW OMG C U ltr ;)

The Lady With the Hat

As you can see, the Lady With the Hat and I have a very profound relationship.

This is how it goes: I commune with her, and in return, she provides to me valuable life lessons. For instance. Close your eyes when you are at a party. Don't wear a bra. Count on your fingers.

What a mysterious look in her eyes! What glamour and style! A light glints off of her--is it her aura? Is it a sign from God?

I guess we'll never know.

Jobs I Am Not Qualified For

Let's face it, the negative cash flow has officially gone TOO FAR. I'm on the trail of part-time gigs. Unfortunately, there are an awful lot of jobs I am not qualified for.

I am not qualified to wear business casual, make it my goal to "be successful," smile excessively, or greet every customer with the same standardized greeting.

I am not qualified to work full time, try to impress my boss, not make jokes on the job, always be quiet, or respond inauthentically to "HOW ARE YOUUUU?"

I am not qualified to get an office job just because I have a college degree, teach children at a public school, or work swiftly with people and on my feet.

SWF seeks J-O-B in which she can wear the clothes she already has, earn enough money to live on, be herself, and be left alone while she rocks it out getting projects done. Good with dogs, kids, adults, crafting, cooking, sewing, cleaning, futzing, organizing, styling, writing, proofreading, editing, instructing, posing, acting, massaging, advising, and reading. Plus if I can work from home. BIG plus.

Mood: Moody

Hello, and welcome to this very serious blog post.

Sit tight, because I will be elaborating all of the intricate details of my personal life, and more specifically, what I think about it. I write this, dear reader, because I want you to understand me: and most importantly, I want me to understand me. If I don't know who I am, then why are you reading what I write? Because I write it. See? This has got to be important.

First of all I want to talk about my recurring dream in which Jimmy Smits has a showdown with Liza Minelli. LIZA ALWAYS WINS!! Especially after that darn octopus jumps out of Jimmy's ass, it's all over. Then I bicycle slowly around Ogden's house shouting "You guppy! You popsicle-colored guppy!"

What do you think it means?

Ok, so true confessions: Ogden kind of looks like Liza, which is OK, because I look like Jimmy, so we were meant to be.

XOXOXOXO OGDEN & MEEEEE

(A poem.)

Shiny
stickers. Love
peels open like
cottage cheese.

I miss you,
oh bastard of my heart,
because you ate
my
words

you
Asscastle.

Now I'm going to talk about my political beliefs.

Have you read the NYT? Seen the Colbert Report? Seen the Jon Stewart show? Been outside? Watched CNN? Talked to someone? Liked stuff? ME TOO.

A reflection on coming of age:

Wow. I miss when I was young, and had parents who'd cook macaroni and cheese for me. These days, I open my own box. I guess it's cool to be older now, but I don't know all those people I knew in college. Where did they go? It's like we're all SEEDS or puffy balloons that went floating off to make our own nests. Sometimes you don't see the tree you're going to make, but you miss it.

It's sooooo late...but I'm still so MOODY.

Whatever, I don't have to turn forty-six for another, like, twelve hours.

Helen Lawson!

Perhaps the greatest cinematic line of all time: The only hit that comes out of a Helen Lawson show is Helen Lawson, and that's ME, baby, remembahh? Oh, to be in the stage version of Valley of the Dolls! Hell, to be in a remake of the film!

I'm no blonde and I can't play frigid, so I suppose that leaves me with having to tune up my pipes and strap on Neely O'Hara. God help us! Oh, but the leotards...and those fabulous little red and black striped tops!

And for the record I'm prepared to say Ted Casablanca is not a fag...and I'm the dame who can prove it. Here I come, Broadway! I want a doll! I WANT A DOLL!!!

Starring Audrey

My newest blogworld addition is a weekly column I am now writing for Queercents called "Starring Audrey." It's my inaugural astrology column; in this case, focused on finance. I've always wanted to have a page in a magazine to fill with symbols and abstract instructions, as well as some saucy astro-humor and a sweet spot to promote my individualized astrology readings.

The other day I came across a bookmark I got as a child: Garfield with a bow(ne) and arrow as a classic Sagittarius. "Very expressive, has an open mind, is friendly and sincere. Can sometimes be irresponsible and tactless. Oh well, nobody's perfect," it reads. As anyone who knows me well is privy to, I have a longstanding relationship between Garfield and major life choices. I first decided to become a writer so I could focus on telling people about him. And now, putting the pieces together of my interest in astrology, here's this bookmark.

Lasagna-lug aside, I love sitting in front of a list of planets and degrees and signs and using my knowledge and intuition to understand the challenges and fortunes that lie ahead. It's a poetic act, reading the stars; and one with its own logic, which makes a hell of a lot more sense to me than other systems of thought. Someday, it'll happen for me, and a lifetime later I'll be in a pink Chanel suit with pearls, looking out dauntingly from the back pages of Vogue, warning to fellow members of my sign, "Cut back on the cheese this month, or Jupiter's gonna get you!"

Something Other Than What You're Thinking Of

Lately there's been a rash of people saying I'm trying not to... and then finishing the sentence with a thought, an action, a person, a desire. My god! And all this time I've been trying to!

We all know there's nothing more appealing than shouldn't. I shouldn't eat the whole cake, I shouldn't call him, I shouldn't turn down the offer... It's almost like a guarantee: call something a negative in order to make sure it happens in the positive.

It also becomes a classic case of saying no to mean yes: the friend who calls themselves "naughty" if they purchase a purse in front of you; the co-worker who grunts about being a workaholic but happily tucks themselves into bed at their cubicle; the cat who doesn't want to get burned but keeps playing with fire.

I like to call a spade a spade, when I can. (Politeness being one weakness of mine that stops me. Does anyone know how to tell an instructor that you simply can't understand what they are saying because they mumble and talk in a whisper?) I like to kick out the drama in favor of the action. I check things off lists. I do laundry. I throw shit out.

But just for kicks, I torture myself my own writing assignments (which I should complete). Damn you, brain! Why must you always win?

Beard Club

Watch out, 2007: my friend Laura is making the hit of the year. And I said that even before we filmed at my apartment yesterday!

I love no genre more than documentaries, and love no content more than camp. It's what we want, it's what we need, it's a documentary about beards and mustaches!

A primarily self-taught filmmaker, Laura J. Lukitsch has poured herself into nearly three years of filming international facial hair contests, interviewing men on the street, and conducting revealing and funny tete-a-tetes with those who grow where it shows. As a woman with both a mustache collection and a penchant for drag, I strapped it on to be a part of this insightful and festive movie-to-be.

You can watch a trailer at Beard Club, as well as read about the picture and donate to this future Sundance winner.

That's Not A Man Pose

Tonight in yoga class I felt truly masterful. Which is rare, because I often feel sorely inadequate. Able to move with the best of them, my poses were felt downright cozy.

Then the instructor shouted to the dude next to me, "What, are your legs tight or something? It's OK. It's just not a man pose."

So much for possibility.

That comment didn't make me feel that I would be supported, as the guy clearly wasn't getting help from this shrieking teacher. I didn't roll back on my spine and think, "Ah, yes...this is effortless, as it is a woman's pose." It was as if a wall went up then and there in class: girls on one side, boys on the other. Back to square one.

I wouldn't be the first person to point out that it's often in these places of supposed spiritual exaltment that this kind of neanderthal behavior takes place. I mean, there we all are, taking a really freaking long time out of our day to do something that usually makes you feel pushed to your limit. It was the man's third class, and Fixed-Firm pose is challenging, and no one needs to be harped on.

It's not on the regular that I take time out to lend my support to the male gender, as they've got advantages in spades which I am painfully aware of. But as a woman who loves men and particularly men who take the risks a practice such as yoga requires of you, I wondered if the male-centered yoga of India had been reversed in California by a mass-market "feminism" that doesn't seek equality and respect but rather role reversal.

It's not about girl power, or pleasure parties, or saying we're smarter. It's not my pose, or his pose. For better or worse, it's ours. And I would hate it if anyone got to sit out while I bent backwards into Camel.

Queercents

Great news: I am the latest edition to a small GLBT website called Queercents! It's a personal finance world of wonder where queer writers with advice on money dole it out. Advice, not money, unfortunately.

I'm currently at work on some ideas for a column or two on the site, and welcome any suggestions of what you'd like to see. I'm interested in representing a range of our community, so I'm thinking articles on how to make your own mustache as well as sewing a shift dress that would make Lady Bunny proud. My focus will be cramming all the fabulousness you can into your dollar.

I may also add on something I've been wanting to do for awhile: a weekly astrology column. It's been years that I've looked to Jonathan Cainer and Susan Miller and Rob Brezsny and wished I had their jobs. And charting the stars in the name of the most practical thing there is? Perfect!

Queercents can be found at Queercents, or you can just click the link to the right of this blog. My work should be up and running within the next week. I'm officially making your pay plenty gay!

How to Drastically Lower Your Food Bill

A List of Obvious but Necessary Tradeoffs

As any financial advisor worth her salt will tell you, saving money is a habit that most Americans don't cultivate enough. Instead of self-tithing, we get further and further into debt. Scraping by in your twenties while you get your career game going is one thing, but doing so while dropping down coin for $10 martinis, quite another. Here's a simplified guide on how to maneuver when your spending habits have gone way over.

Face the Music and Dance

You pay through the teeth for packaging. That includes rice in a box, or even a pre-made meal that seems like a steal. Any time that a food substance has been altered, interacted with, shrink wrapped, and had its label designed, you are as much as quadrupling your food bill. Getting rice, beans, vegetables, and fruits as-is will not only provide for your nutritional needs, it'll save you a bundle.

Location, location, location. Finding foodstuffs that haven't had to travel far to get to you: also key in saving money. If you can buy directly from a farmer, such as at an outdoor market, all the better. And then, for those of you lucky enough to have gardens, getting your goods from your backyard is not only nearly free, there's no fuel cost to factor into mealtime.

The food chain. Eat lower on it. Not only will you be able to eat for less, there's all those lovely health benefits that go with cutting back on meat and dairy.

Minimize eating out. How on earth can you keep up your social world if you're not frequenting restaurants and bars? Simple: have your friends over. Cook together. Go out on picnics. Order in. And when you do hit the bar scene, stick to house wine or beer on tap.

Joneses: 1, You: 0

Yes, it's true. Cutting back is simply not glamorous. It means that you will have to hold off on some of those Thai cravings. It means that preparing dinner is going to take a little bit longer. And that you'll have to practice telling your friends that you've decided putting away money in your savings and/or getting out of debt is much more important than a $24 piece of grilled fish eaten in public. It doesn't mean you have to become monastic and don a wimple: just that you're actively considering the true cost of purchases that in the past you didn't question. One $50 night out actually costs much more, if put on credit--as opposed to the much more it could be earning you in a Roth IRA or savings account. And what do you walk with for your cash? A few extra pounds and a drunk dial to apologize for?

Sweet Victory

Thankfully, habits eventually become less and less effortful. I'm in month five of making these changes: and believe me, the reward of cutting back my food bill by about $300 a month is more than worth it. I (almost!) fit back into my skinny jeans, my social network has grown richer as I spend more time with friends and less money doing so, and I get immense pleasure fixing fabulous meals out of simple and cheap ingredients that give me the energy I need to Bikram yoga my heart out.

Yes, I miss ordering everything on the menu, and going back to the store if I don't feel like eating what's in my fridge, as well as picking out things unnecessary for my survival and health. But like all true medicine, it stings going down, and ends up making you feel a whole lot better. In the end, there's so much we just don't need.

Your Employees Are Too Helpful

Today, I went to a local grocery store to pick up a few things. Now, this particular store is part of a national chain that I normally don't frequent. Perhaps I have missed the revolution amongst management, but last time I checked, wandering into a Safeway didn't amount to being in a family reunion where everyone wants to help you find produce.

Within the space of five minutes, not one but seven employees had accosted me with their plasticky greetings. I was preyed upon manhandling a peach, gazing at chicken wings, and peering down an aisle. I was looking at a label, considering a magazine, avoiding the liquor section. I was walking somewhere.

Wanting desperately to hunt down the leader of this Stepford salesclerkism, I pictured standing by the popsicles, and intoning in all seriousness, "Sir: your employees are too helpful!" I'd drive home the point: "If your employees keep talking to me this frequently, I am going to have to stop shopping here!" But would he understand?

After all, this is the kind of press that I imagine is the ultimate goal: that luxury and satisfaction are married in the long walk to the checkout aisle. As someone that prizes anonymity and feels more than capable--even desireous--of the hunt that is part of buying food, the thought that I'd want someone less versed in my particular foodisms picking out my dinner with me makes me cringe. I may not hunt wild boar or pluck blackberries from their earthen nest, but I am capable of filling a sack or two. Isn't that what having freedom of choice is about: I worked for the money that I then choose to use on what I will?

But these pizza-peddling Pollyannas are trained to comment even as I fork over a twenty. One gropes my Ben & Jerry's; another makes the "Mm-m-mm" noise as she piles my wings into a bag. Like a coyote, I want to find kill and eat in silence and without help. I claw home, gnaw off the lid and let my wolfen tongue pile on the mintyness. Give me what little dignity, in this world, I have left.

Balancing Stick, You Bastard

I keep falling out. Jesus, it's a ten second posture! Something always comes into my mind to distract me.

For instance, Tammy. Tammy used to be a yoga teacher at a studio where I used to practice. She was created by God to be a dominatrix, but instead was teaching yoga. Whether or not this actually happened, I picture her screaming at me that I am not doing a good enough job. I don't yet look like a sideways letter "T"!

Well, I probably didn't, but all jesting aside, fuck, this pose is hard. I can hang out with the best of them for the minute-long poses. I can bend myself into a pretzel and stand on one finger while reciting the Marx-Engels Reader. But that thing where I do the hard thing for the short time! S.O.S.!

I need the determination of 1,000 steers, or a recent college graduate ordering margaritas at a New York bar. My friend and yoga teacher Sarah is going to pinch me if necessary to keep me on pointe, literally, if I don't ship-shape. I have the muscles of a fighter. It's my mind of a mosquito I've got to work on. Concentrate!

What?

Battling Workhorse

It's one AM and I forgot to move my car, and already, my friends, working my way through a bottle of two-dollar Charley. Dang! No maid, no butler, no live-in boyfriend. And no play that can write itself for me while I sleep.

I've been fighting Workhorse every step of the way. Usually the pattern is: I make myself miserable, then I hide, then I make a fool out of myself, then I write like a fiend, and pull it together in the end. Oh, but can't I skip all the suffering and cut straight to the script?

In past sections of the piece I've had the luxury of time and distance in relation to the material; this time around, it's hitting too close to home. Writing about having 37 cents in your pocket is not the stuff of glamour, nor is it easy to find humor in it. When I delve into the political reasons that an empty coin purse is actually not tragic, then I sound preachy. Sometimes I want to hire someone else to write a funny and political autobiographical piece about me. Perhaps the same cleaning lady that doesn't do my dishes.

My car sits out front like a patient little marshmallow. How could I callously forget the street-cleaning schedules? How could I get drunk on two fingers of cheap wine? And how could there be such a crucial difference between being loved and being spooned?

Oh, but the play. The play's the thing! Writer, write on! Let's just say I'm considering becoming a plumber. When you've gotten the shit out of the way, you can go home and watch the game.

On Loyalty

Look, Marc, I don't talk smack when you roll out a year of questionable garments, OK? Mum's the word, and if anyone asks what I think of my beloved Mr. Jacobs' latest collection, I assure them that your creative freedom is far more important than something I'd shell out money I don't have for. As a performer, I'd love to work with a Coppola or two, but ultimately, it'd just be to know you. I'd sit by your side, dear MJ, and feed you grapes if you wanted, or at least tell you jokes and point out cute substitutes for that hot tool you just axed from boyfriendhood. I'd go in drag in your ads by Jurgen Teller, and then I'd go in girl drag. I'd show up for you when you needed reminding of your fabulousness. Marc, I would have your baby.

So, my lovely idol, when back in February I sat back at my corporate job, ignored the yahoos, and watched your fall show, I was reminded for the second year in a row that you just aren't ready to give me what I need again. And that's okay. What are friends for? You're saving me hundreds, thousands, ultimately. I don't feel like wearing kickbacks to your '94 collection with a twist of Russian peasant and Igor: that's cool. I totally support your innovativeness. And as an added bonus, I do look forward to those osteoperosis-bound socialites hobbling around New York in your muff-bound oversized woolens.

I ask only one thing of you. Let me prop up my iBook this August and see something that takes my breath away: the most beautiful, eccentric, magical, sweet dresses, sweaters, and boots a girl like me could dream of. You've got it in you--you've done it before, oh so many times. Make the goods just weird enough that the press still doesn't get you. I'm on a no-spending plan, also known as a I want to do something more satisfying with my life plan. Yet, I see what you do as true art: and for that, maybe come November I can splurge on a kitten heel, a cowl-neck sweater, or a pair of newsboy pants. You're a genius. I wait with baited breath.

(So...I wouldn't mind having the above outfit in a size 10. Send to my house?)

A Brief Review of My Illustrious Career To Date

+ A naive and bigoted Russian who gets thrown the slammer and dies of gonorrhea

+ An evil and disembodied psychiatrist programming a child full of culture's lies

+ A secretary that is the human version of Betty Boop

+ A war protester with breasts the size of small children

+ A transgendered person trying to take a leak

+ A cute girl on a bad date

+ An administrator of McCarthy-era blacklisting

+ A murderess who happily cuckolds her husband

+ A loyal sidekick and, disturbingly, a blonde ghost

+ A whore from Long Island with a sidekick

+ A mistress to her best friend's hubby

+ A dumpy, broke mama with a wheedly voice

+ A power-hungry daddy destroyer

+ A peasant who loves waltzing

+ A preadolescent leg model

+ A Holocaust escapee

and

+ A preacher with a set of Jesus handpuppets

Now: how should I market myself to agents?...

Sir, Don't Buy That Small Dog

Dear Sir,

I appreciate that you would like a canine companion to call your very own, and possibly call over a girlfriend from the pack of bitches on the other side of the dog park. Your taste in clothing, while impeccable, does seem to find exceptional talent in the choosing of both doggie wardrobe and carrier platoon. It would be distasteful of me also to skip entirely mention of the blase you so naturally bring to a scenario involving a Muttley the III.

But Sir, I do beg you to reconsider. Buy a rat, or a hamster. Buy a Dobermann, a stallion, an ostrich. Buy a photograph of a hound, an Hermes leash, an idea.

Do not buy that small dog.

Yours Truly,
The Voice of Wisdom

Dundee is a Marmalade and a Place in the UK

My great aunt's first name was Dundee, hence my middle name. It's probably from Scotland, whereas my last name, Hannah, is probably from Ireland. (My first name, clearly English.) Because my father doesn't seem to know when my family on that side came over from across the seas, and I don't have talent for geneological trees, I figure that the important thing to know is not the time frame but simply that my blood was forged in the UK not too many generations back. And this does make perfect sense.

While listening to a rotating constant of U2, The Cranberries, and Sinead O'Connor, teenage me knew that the Irish soul was far superior to any other. As I penned volumes of poetry, I looked to Galway Kinnell and W.B. Yeats and Samuel Beckett. In college I lay awake at night in my freshman dormroom bed with a brochure in my hand for a small art school in County Clare, fantasizing about the smell of the salty air and the swell and quiet of the ocean lapping the unelaborated shore. I literally ached to be there. Later I devoted a semester to my Northern Irish accent for a part in a Martin McDonough play, and fell in love with the most magnificent of all the magnificently handsome Irish men there are.

After trying so valiantly, despite all personal shortcomings and external disappointments to make work work out, I've come to the conclusion that I might be happiest in a barn, mucking out stalls and milking cows. In worn overalls and bottle-green wellies, with a twig for a hairpiece if need be. Oh, the green rolling hills that I miss though I've never met. Hopefully, as I've forgiven myself for being sorely out of place in my country, the UK can forgive me for one indiscretion: I can't drink beer. Oh, but I love it. I love it.

Ask the Obstinate Tortilla

I'M RIGHT!!!
Put cheese in me.

Okay, what are your questions? Ask them of me! I don't have all day to sit around and entertain this sort of nuisanceful of peoples!

Fine, don't ask. I'll guess and tell you the answers.

#1, You will get married and effect the fate of 1,000 lives. Watch out for a landmine filled with exploding babies!!

#2, The second answer, which is, that sounds like no kind of deal to me.

#3, And three, OK, I might just be a tortilla but I like your style. Later, but in the back of the house.

Top Ten Things NOT to Say to Your Massage Therapist

Yours truly has been working as a certified and licensed massage therapist for the past six years, over the course of which I have had the great priviledge of hearing several recurring, highly irritating comments and questions. I recognize, dear reader, that not everyone is familiar with the proper etiquette for the office and in the presence of a professional who falls somewhere between your doctor and your aesthetician. You can talk about your cooch with your waxer, or defer to dear doc's framed Ph.D., whereas you may consider the possibility that your masseuse engages in illegal trade. I recognize the grey area, and thus am hereby providing you with a straight-forward instructional on what NOT to ever, EVER say to myself or one of my colleagues.

1) "Wow, what a RELAXING job!"

It's funny you should say that. I mean, when I talk to other professionals who deal with their clients' deepest emotional stresses and physically work hard to unweave their clients' physical conundrums, "relaxing" is the first descriptor that comes to mind. Really, tanning on the beach and giving another person 100% of what you've got: kind of the same level of output. I'm practically ASLEEP when I work; I mean: that relaxing. Sometimes? I just curl up on top of my client for a long, sweet nap. They hardly know the difference! Really!

2) "Do you LOVE IT?!?"

Answer possibility #1: Yes! It is the greatest job in the whole world! In fact, don't even pay me! Do you want me to just move in and massage you all day long?

Answer possibility #2: As much as you love YOUR job!

Answer possibility #3: You don't really want me to use up your session explaining the fine points--i.e. the ACTUAL answer, full of complexities, to your question.

3) "So, are you getting lots of clients?"

Maybe I am. In which case, if I say so, you may either worry I won't have space in my schedule for you, ramble on about how my job is relaxing, or tell me I'm making a killing.

Maybe I'm not. In which case, you've just put me in the awkward position of simultaneously wanting to be honest, and also wanting to project this confident image of prosperity.

How are YOU going to feel if I answer either way? You are asking me to take on making sure YOU feel comfortable with the answer to a question which, if I understand you correctly, is just a casual inquiring on how I'M doing.

4) "How much do you charge?"

This question almost never comes from someone who is about to book an appointment. Those about to book an appointment either have already booked it, and then are asking, or I've already told them. The people who ask me the most are those eager to do mental calculations on my relationship to the GNP. They either want to tell me I'm making a killing (whether or not they realize if I actually am) or that I charge too much, or that I charge less than so-and-so. They're making the assumption that I haven't done the research to know market rates, or that I want their opinion on the worth of my service (which they've never experienced firsthand). Note: this conversation NEVER includes them offering up how much THEY make. I'll add that I'm never asked this question by women. It's a fact. 99% of the administrators of this question are middle-aged men who clearly make more money than I do and want to solidify this fact.

5) "Doesn't this hurt your body?"

Ok, you need reassurance? I'll reassure you. I am not breaking myself in half in order to help heal you. I know how to walk, stand, move, what pressure to use so that I'll come out whole at the end of the session.

That said, of course it's hard on my body. I've had repetitive stress injuries, and I've also done a lot of things to keep myself in shape. I get regular massage myself, and I do yoga, and I rest, and I don't make it a practice to sit around with clients and talk about what's hard on me and what isn't. I want to know: do people ask this question of their doctor? Their CPA? Their nail tech?

6) "You can go as deep as you want."

THANK YOU. It is my fantasy to risk a likely injury in order to push on your unyielding muscle (which would benefit more from lighter, slower touch anyway). I've been standing here fantasizing about going deeper--in fact, even doing deep tissue, which I am not trained in--and feel you have given me this great gift! Likewise, I hope you tell your lawyer that he can "sue as much as he wants," and that your grocer can give you "as much food as he wants."

7) "Do you also give erotic massage?"

If you're not a client, it's WAY not cute that you asked this. If you are a client, don't expect me to finish the session (or finish you off, as the case may be). You have the right to ask such a question, but I also hold the right to bar you from my office. No truly legitimate massage therapist with a degree from a therapeutic school, an office in a family neighborhood, and who discusses your medical history with you also does erotic massage. You wouldn't ask for Craniosacral therapy in a red-light district, would you?

8) "Do you have a boyfriend?"

Often coupled with the erotic massage question. Do I give erotic massage to my boyfriend? Why exactly would I be inclined to discuss my sex life with you? Sex aside, what about simply my love life? Is your question an invitation? Are you just curious? What makes you assume I'm straight? What makes you assume that my boyfriend wants to be talked about? (And no: I don't want to discuss how much money he makes, either.)

9) "Do I have to tip you?"

Standard practice in the massage industry, as opposed to that with chiropractors or medical doctors, is to tip 15-20% on top of the charge for the service rendered. That's what I will tell you if you ask, and what I do when I see another massage practicioner. That said, please understand that my saying so does not make me "greedy" or "sneaky." Just because I have my own office rather than working for a spa does not mean that I make so much more money: because I have to pay rent now. Someone once asked why I didn't just tack a tip onto my base fee. Why? Because then those conscientious receivers of massage would feel obligated to tip me on top of my extended fee. If you don't tip me, it doesn't mean that you are blacklisted or that I will have a little less shine to the mansion you think I own, lined with gold. It means that I'll be a little more strapped, and I'll assume that you didn't tip me because either you are strapped, or because you feel I did not give you excellent service. And while we're on the same page, if I gave a "friend rate" I wouldn't be able to pay the rent. Do you give your employer, who you get along well with, a "friend rate"?

10) "Are you for sale?"

Ha ha!! What a cute comment!!!

No. Are you? I've got five dollars in quarters.

Fascination with Better

For my one-woman show, "Workhorse," I have spent an inordinate amount of time this last year studying, talking, and thinking about work. A lot of what I come up with doesn't make it into the show, either because it somehow doesn't fit or because my brain can't quite make a vehicle for it. Any piece of inspirational literature or corporate harpy would point me towards self-improvement: I'm not sure what to do with an idea? Figure it out! Get better at working with it!

In Beyond Good and Evil, Nietzsche refers to the concept of self-improvement as a bourgeois concept which has no spiritual worth.

On the other hand, every job ad in Craigslist that I read wants to hire someone that "Is constantly working on getting better and LOVES constant feedback on how they can be the BEST!!!"

As for me, I veer towards the concept of perfection already achieved.

Lest I sound entirely averse to either labor or ladder-climbing, let me clarify that perfection doesn't necessary involve a certain status or accomplishment. It does not come with a raise, and it doesn't mean you can pay your rent. It just means that as a creature on this planet, you are already whole, complete.

I'm with Nietzsche, but let me add this clause: true transformation, which ultimately would be the goal of an improvement plan worth following, comes from actually being present as the Buddhists and yogis suggest. That's where vision enters in; where there is little to nothing that you feel you need.

Self-improvement, dished out by managers and HR personnel everywhere, is based on the concept of getting better along the same lines you've been walking. 80% rather than 75% of goal. Reaching 12 clients rather than 8. Taking what they hired you for, who they perceived you to be, and adding on more of that hireable you.

But what about outside of the middle-class stairway to heaven? What about if the you you wish to become--and the things you wish to do--require you to step onto a different platform; utilize a different you? What if, fundamentally, getting "better" requires you to make choices that others perceive as doing "worse"?

My life currently doesn't involve eating out at restaurants or driving much or going to entertainment venues or shopping. These are all stand-ins for happiness; cues to an outcome. While I miss these things--Thai food, the movies, trips to H&M--I am much happier now than when I did have these things in my life. There are plenty of people that don't understand this--I am choosing a path which involves this hardship when instead I could use my college degree and get myself a 9 to 5 and order $10 cocktails again. It can get exhausting explaining all of this--and often involves the other person either not believing that I'm currently so bare-bones with money or feeling sorry for me or seeing me as the opposite of that deluxe person who is trucking away at getting better, better, best.

This is one of the current challenges of anyone who does fall in the space between dirt-poor and loaded: either going with or against mass culture. Making individual choices that you can get behind: I know this has spiritual worth (but not in a I'm-getting-better sort of way, of course!). I hope someday corporate culture understands this and fully embraces being good--and continuing on as such. I won't hold my breath on this, of course. I'm getting better at knowing what to count on.

Grandmationary II

Yes, folks n' spuds, it's Wednesday Grandma Word Day!!

Today's featured ancient phrase we'll dust off for the use of this blog is dilly-dally.

Dilly-Dally. What you're busy doing when you're not doing what you're supposed to. You just take your time whenever you feel like it, don't you? You let the begonias go thirsty in favor of humming to some song in your head that the rest of us just don't have the priviledge of hearing. It's fine; you sleep in. The rest of us will be out getting all the errands run and cows milked. You'd be here too, but you GOT DISTRACTED. That's cool! Dilly-dally all you want, little sloppy Sally!

Workhorse T-Shirt for Sale

Lovely American Apparel t-shirt with a design yours truly made to reference my one-woman show in progress. Pale blue women's long sleeve shown; can also be ordered for men. Women's M, L, XL (order a size up; i.e. an XL if you usually take an L) and Men's M, L, XL. $28. Also you are entered into a drawing to win a pony, or possibly a drawing of a pony.

On the Slipping Morals of Our Times and the Preponderance of Cluggs

We live on the slippery slope of where good judgment meets capitalist values and demolishes classic values. Once it could be said that designers and artists and urban planners, trained in the fine nuances of their craft, erected only monuments to what historically had been proven just and blessed. Strength and guidance was available to anyone witnessing and passing by a stone pillar, a hand-sewn and inscribed text, a treated leather boot. Now: not so.

The Ugg was one thing. A cross between a llama and a garbage-bag sock, dyed pastel colors to pair with miniskirts, they at least have the virtue of warmth.

The clog, on the other hand.

The clog is a staple of Europeans and gardeners, eternally doomed to be cool enough to experiment with but weighty enough to never quite make it on the runway. One can truly respect the clog: it knows its place, and persists. It's made of simple materials and has a sturdy past.

But meet the Clugg.

A fur booty with a wooden bottom and pronounced heel? Metal tacks edging two-tone fur? What are those yahoos who call themselves designers trying to suggest to their blind-bought audience?

You can't wear them in snow: they are MULES. They don't have a BACK.

You can't wear them to garden. They are SUEDE.

You can wear them as a walking shoe. NO YOU CAN'T! They have a frickin' honky heel!

Couture has a reputation for the extreme, the unwearable, the beyond-expensive. Things you can't walk in or move in become objets desire because most people simply can't justify them or the accessories and drivers they require. Fair enough if we're talking about a Comme de Garcons frock or Christian Louboutins (leaf-colored satin, please).

BUT WE ARE TALKING ABOUT CLUGGS.

They are not actually ATTRACTIVE. They don't look good on a foot; they don't look good in a dog's mouth as his chew-toy; and I feel for whomever is destined for them once their owner stops housing them in their closet real estate. Now, I believe in reusing and recycling. So take those bitches apart and make candle holders if you have to. Dildo cozies if you have to. Planters, tongs, a 3-D bust of Lincoln. Because I don't want to see them anymore in their original state.* Make me wonder where that wood came from.

*Neither does Krista McDermott. She so wisely invented the dang term for those tarsal-toasters.

Baby's First Grey Hair & Grandmationary

Dear Reader,

Yes: it has finally happened. My first grey hair. It's about two inches long and close to my hairline at my forehead. After considering the possibility that the singular hair had just gotten bleached by a long weekend in the sun tranny-gazing, I concede that it's time to Grandma it out.

I hereby inaugurate the tradition of Wednesday Word Day. That is, Grandma-word. The Grandmationary!

In honor of this particular pretty pink ribbon cutting, I will give you THREE words and phrases that Granny loves best.

Caddywhompus. Adjective which describes a direction or action which is all tangly-twisty, over there-and-here, the opposite of clear or direct. A queen in too-high shoes' walk can be caddywhompus, as can how you have to weave through the Mission to find the Lexington. Also as in, "Girrrl, your hair is ALL caddywhompus from last night's romp!"

Dagnabbit. Exclamation used to express extreme frustration. Usually shouted. "DAGNABBIT! That bitch grabbed the last medium pink v-neck at the H&M men's!"

Boardinghouse Reach. Idiomatic phrase from down South meaning the crude gesture of finagling a biscuit or somesuch by sticking one's arm way out to the other side of the table, ignoring all training from Miss Manners or the Tiffany's guide. "Excuse my boardinghouse reach," is the classic use. Can you be grabbing something other than food across the table? I don't know; what else do they have down South?

Business in Bed

Really, the only reason to work as a whore would be to work from your bed. You know those days when the sheets are satiny soft with repeated washings, and the sun comes streaming through your window all day, and your DVDs are ripe for the plucking? Actual work-work seems so tedious, so banal in comparison. I mean, really, you could just tell your client to scoot over while you watch South Park. Now that's cutting edge: a whore who just wants to watch TV. A Netflixistute. A Tivho.

Everyone says that once married, "bed" goes out the window. I wouldn't know; I got engaged to a pencil but broke it off. What do you want? The laptop was hotter. And since we've met, it's often in bed with me. Writing. Naked.

Anyway, my house of ill repute could refer to that it's actually the one place where you can pay to NOT get fucked. I'll pour you coffee, I'll hit the play button, but we won't play, get it? See: it pays to actually be in a relationship with me, rather than attempt commerce. Comes with English muffins! Toasted! Butter!

What am I saying here? I'm saying that being a working girl shouldn't have to involve working or girl. I'm saying I've got to save it up for when I go out. Reference "Just Two Things." (Scroll down.) Remember? I'm not a paid escort, I'm a WRITER and ACTRESS.

But if by hooker you mean that you pay me to not do what you say you're paying me for, then I'm game to be that person I'm not for as long as it takes for me to not do what I won't. And if by red light district you mean the shine on my shoes, why thank you. They look almost as good as my...

Just Two Things

Mark my words: by the end of 2006, I will be a PAID writer.

And the payment I will receive will be in the form of money.

So I hereby inaugurate my campaign to do something with my college degree other than keep it in that fancy red leather book thing they gave me at the ceremony (during which the head of the Drama department, Alice Rayner, allowed me to cluck the graduation theme song. I hope you don't mind that I mentioned you, Alice. Alice Alice).

My first concept: WRITE A BOOK! Books have a lot of words in them. People buy and sometimes read them. A real published writer! A book tour! A gem-encrusted pencil! Yesss!

And here is my first book proposal, to all of you publishing house bigwigs reading this: JUST TWO THINGS.

Just Two Things is a gripping self-help companion--no, compendium!--to one's life. Common knowledge 'round these parts says to do as many things as possible. Conquer Wall Street! Have babies! Wear like, six scarves at once! But that is not the answer to a fulfilling, satisfying life. The answer is, my friends and literary executives, to do just two things.

Two things? Oh, for Peet's sake (and I do mean the man who sells the better coffee than his prodigal, profligate son). How does anyone do only two things in a whole day? Well, let me tell you, it's possible. Don't you believe in possibilities? Well don't you?

Example. In one day, I can: a) go to work, and b) do my laundry. Or: I can a) socialize, and b) write a best-selling self help book parody. One could even: a) spawn offspring, and then b) dispense Pez. See?? No more overexhaustion due to the capitalist patriarchy's requirement that you raise the GNP with every breath. It's back to basics, without giving up all of the toys!

Maybe you are good at a) exercising and b) lounging. Well then put down those dishes, Missy! You have used up your two things! Just because you put food in your mouth made of natural vegetation and it makes energy doesn't mean it grows on trees! Conserve, conserve! Sotto voce, bella Cenerentola!

More about me. I'm a writer. I put human words of English on paper, or in this case, crunchy little plastic dipositories that make magical signs from a god that won't let me rest onto a vibrant platform which whisks off the little words and leaves me with their hollow bodies. I miss their echoing, tinny voices, but it's a price I must pay to give you what I've got, which, apparently, is only one thing, as writing this comprises my first thing.

The phrase "one down, one to go": doesn't it look lovely on a to-do list? Example (yours): a) Read this blog. b) Give to me a half-million dollar contract, give or take the half, but including all the dollars. Then sleep easy, my friend. Sleep easy.

Bikram Says!

Let’s play…Bikram Says!

Okay, everyone stand in the center of their mat/towels, ready for Pranayama breathing, the first pose of the series, the beginning of it all.

Bikram says…

With your hands clasped together under your chin, lift your elbows while expanding your rib cage and breathing on for six…

And exhale for six.

Bikram says…

Hands over your head, clasp palms, index fingers pressed together. Stretch up and fill all gaps between your shoulder and neck. Slowly bend to the right into half-moon pose.

Bikram says…

Notice how your stomach bulges: suck it in! I can eat all the chocolate chip cookies I want, because I am Bikram, but you can’t. I can because I have been doing my yoga for years, but you are American, so no cookies.

Bikram says…

Stretch up and over to the left, pushing your hips forward and your shoulders back. You should be able to do my yoga in a vat of hot oil. No slipping! No excuses! No cookies!

Bikram says…

Raise one foot over your head, and detach the second to give to a beggar. While you do this, make sure to not drip on the carpet. We love you, but we don’t love your sweat. Ok, hold on while I turn up the heat.

Bikram says…

Use the newly made stump of your leg to pirouette yourself into Assbackwards Dinosaur. Once you have attached your snaggle tooth to your costume, arch your back more, letting all fluid emerge from your kidneys. More kidneys! MORE KIDNEYS!!

Bikram says…

Staple your thighs together and lunge. Lunge! Everyone wearing spandex is not trying hard enough. That one guy in the cotton t-shirt is my friend, so don’t bug him. Plus he’s a teacher. I whip him enough in the off hours.

Bikram Says…

You have worked hard today, bones to skin, fingertips to toes. If I could step inside of you and wear you as a strap-on, I would. If you have any questions, my name is Bikram, and I’ll be at the front desk after class. Namaste.

Profound Insights Into My Character

You Are Fozzie Bear

"Wocka! Wocka!"

The Muppet Personality Test

Praguesession!

Prague, or Praha, or Pravda, or TRUTH. I have done nothing since returning from Amsterdam but want to go there! PRAGUE!

I have had a few dreams about this place in the mysterious Czech Republic. In one, the roadside was green and a stream ran alongside it, littered with trains of dead elephants. Everyone biked, and though I did not know where I'd left my baggage--I wasn't travelling with the group--I didn't care a bit. In another, it was just a feeling--a newspaper filled with stories I wanted to read opening up with me inside it.

Going somewhere without fully knowing what you're going to is tempting in that it allows you to come with as few preconceived ideas as possible. Important to come somewhat knowledgeable about the culture, yes, but what I long for is that divine feeling of being dipped inside something totally foreign, where you don't even have the dubious luxury of being able to read advertisements. What does one try to sell in the city of Truth?

My San Francisco apartment is beautiful, especially at this late, quiet hour. The tidy package of my car sits outside, and I have everything I need. Then there's that unnameable something, which wants to stand in the streets of Prague and feel the place in my bones. Like I could know something there, that I have been aching to know, that would make all the difference.

S.O.S.

Although our government may want to take us down in the middle of the night as they do with immigrants to this country (supposed land of Liberty), that we, as humans on this planet, have the birthright of freedom.

At the San Francisco Zoo on Wednesday I made eye contact with the silverback gorilla of a group. He sat, Buddha-like, in the center of his home, meditating. Meanwhile, despite signs with anxious fingers over lips, children went unattended and shrieked like banshees. I stood stock-still until he looked back at me, this gorgeous lug, with deep, wet eyes. Oh, we've got it all wrong.

All of us thinking about how to make change think about the small things; start with not shopping at Target, because of their pro-life policies of not requiring their pharmacists to sell the morning after pill to women who show up to buy it. We wear American Apparel tees because the price tag reflects living wages for American workers. We purchase organic food and meat out of respect for both the planet and our own bodies, challenged and stressed by the artificial crash course of our cities. We buy in bulk, we carry reuseable containers, we bike, we talk.

What about the bigger part of the picture? The heartbreaking whole of it? Are we so cowed by the enormity of our task that we've no idea what to do beyond walking consumerism a different way? I ask myself this question daily, and want to be a part of the revolution, now and in the future. Ideas, please. Community, please. Because the world can't wait.

Sex for Money

While everyone I went to high school with is up in law school or some shit wearing suits and taking names, I'm trolling through Craigslist looking for a day-long gig (I typed "gay" at first, which is apropos, because I wish I was qualified for the job listed involving being the photographer on the set of a gay porn). Here are some options that I, as a twentysomething woman with a top-notch degree, have at my fingertips.

a) Intelligent actress with impeccable comic timing and knack for improv. Must look like Maxim or FHM model. Preferably is Jessica Alba. Is Jessica Alba available? Maybe at least we can hook up with some baby daddy who raised his infant in a plaster mold taken off Jessica Alba and grown up to be shaped like her.

b) Seeking HOTT! girls to promote alcholism through the use of indescriminate flirting and flavored vodka samples. Pays $25, but only if you tilt the scale on the Department of Motor Vehicles BAC test by the time you leave. Pink livers do NOT get paid, ladies.

c) Beautiful and Classy College Girl. If you are over 21, pretend you aren't. Seriously, all I need you to do is go out to a very, very expensive dinner with me and my aging grandmother. That's all! I just want to pay for your company! Send full body shot.

d) Nanny.

And by nanny I mean on film.

e) Expert at customer service for legal marijuana parlor. Excellent communication skills, extensive experience, no desire to move up within the job, $7 an hour, looks good in a bongkini.

f) Serve Cock

tails.

g) Serve ice cream to busy and stressed-out executives. Must be able to remember talk-lines and look like a model.

h) Write for up-and-coming comedy show. Deferred to no pay. Are you witty and sexy? You're just what we're looking for. A dream job for a writer. Plus you'll be an on-air personality, at no financial cost to us! You'll get to smile while your male co-stars say all the funny things you wrote!

i) My dog's babies are torn!! My dog's babies desperately need some TLC!! Please come sew up dem widdle schtuffins and make doggy sooo much happier. The job goes to whoever is willing to wear the babies inside her panties for a week.

j) Walk my dogs.

No, really: walk my dogs.

They're absolutely wonderful: two German shepherds with hearts of gold. I miss them all day, but a man's got to work. And besides, I'm sure they'll love their time with you, out strolling through the park.
Contact me and let's get you to the leashes!

Oh, one thing though...I hate sluts.

It has come down to this.

{a modern romantic tale}

Do you know how to make your own mayonnaise? Have you made it when you realized that buying the stuff was too expensive? I have. I did this week. Then I followed the same rationale with tomato basil sauce and Thai coconut curry soup.

It’s not just a starving-artist act, nor is it that I’m working through being shy about promoting my massage therapy business (despite being great at what I do and having a practice aimed at a population that overflows from San Francisco: GLBT and friends). It’s also my anger at how no one knows how to make anything anymore; my frustration with the cost of living and how hard it is for a twentysomething to get ahead; my strong belief in going back to more simple living in honor of real human values. I also like using my blender. Whirr, whirr, whirr!!

Lest you believe me to currently be wearing a) a shroud or b) sitting on Shaker furniture, I will assure you that it’s a hoody and aluminum. (Man, if I had a shroud…plane tickets to Turin! Let’s go!) I’m not about to farm for vegetables in Golden Gate Park, or weave myself outfits from carpet fuzz and old magazines. My carpet's not a dog, it doesn't have a shedding problem, and I cleaned up after it last time I took it for a walk, OK? My copies of BUST are in a safe deposit box in Poughkeepsie, so stop your askin'.

What I'm cooking up is the answer to a question that has more to do with finding your way to freedom through a thorny path strewn with alienation, missing movie theaters, and anise. Anise, because it's time to make biscotti. I'd give you facts and figures on the difference financially between making and buying, but you might cry or wonder like any worshipper of the wage how I find the time. Time is money, my friend, so I'm not paying to spend my time kneading my own dough. (To make sure my food tastes just as good as out at a restaurant, I wear a black spiky wig and eyeliner and slouch and depending on the type of eats, perkily list the special, or, disgruntled, saddle the table with my plate. Deee-lish.)

Babes with Intestines

Babes with Intestines is a renegade performance art troupe with a passion for Eastern Europeans, queerdos, and hand-made accessories. BWI will soon rule the night!! We are: Krista Ann McDermott and Audrey Dundee Hannah, and we own matching bubble gum pink wigs.

BWI was conceived when we were nineteen and wanted something we could carve on public property while drinking coffee and wondering why we couldn't sleep. The charming and newsworthy story of how we came up with the name involves the lack of functionality of aforementioned bodily organ. Isn't that glamorous?? (We're better in that department now, in case you were wondering.)

Oh, you haven't seen us in action yet, but my friend, you will. We are only just getting started. Our Soviet tour will have come and gone about a year from now, and we will be burning through many a paste-on mustache in the process. I write this only to warn you--be warned!--that the babeolution is about to begin. The Wau-Wau sisters may be skinny and acrobatic, but we are really, really, really...special. Special.

Watch for the book! (No, it won't be printed on construction paper and hand-written by Penny McDermott's preschoolers and have apple juice stains on it. They NEVER spill over there.)