Victories on my Mind

Key Search Words Brought to You by Sitemeter!

Recent visits to Sitemeter to check out what is drawing an audience to this very blog has revealed that I am most popular in Germany and the Netherlands, where apparently searches for "ponysex" and "texxxt" and "tranny bars" pull up this site. To widen my readership, I hereby offer a list of other key words, which surely will leave me with hordes of visitors a day.

Nut milk
Lederhosen
Mermaid choreography
Chewy asphalt
Perturbed rabbit
Basement highlighter
Kleptomaniac shrink
Bowling tightwad
Legendary absence
Koala feet

And, to sum it all up...

Money on rollerskates.

Obama in a Yarmulke!

Nothing says "You're my President" like this accessory, Senator!

Wii and Cohort Goes Maxi

Feminine hygiene product, complete with aim and shoot diagrams? And thinly veiled pro-choice ad? I suppose gamers don't have time for babies anyway.

Specificity in Casting

Full Moon Rising

Does the moon have an eating disorder? All this waning-waxing business sounds a little too much like binge and purge. At least now we know the moon most likely came from a white upper middle class household with controlling parents and horseback riding trophies from middle school.

Hey Raw Vegan, Where Do You Get Your Protein?

I'm serious. You are never going to build any muscle if you keep on with the fruits and the vegetables like this.

MTV Movie Awards 2008 Spoof King Ad

After a month airing on MTV and in movie theaters nationwide, the MTV Movie Awards actually went ahead and happened. So while you can't flip the channel or head to Loew's anymore to catch it, the ad is now posted (illegally) on YouTube. I maintain that all those years temping as a receptionist were just for bringing authenticity to this role...and of course hanging out with that much popcorn, a man in a Godzilla suit, and the coolest AD ever, Big Riff.

The Fastest Furry

The setting: an idyllic Topanga Canyon estate. A sunny, gorgeous day. A talented cast and crew to zip through shots with.

So why, I asked the director, was I so freezing cold?

He said, Because you're wearing a toga and your underwear is dipped in sugar.

For your viewing pleasure, click here.

Hipsters On Ice

First the Lower East Side, then the Mission District, now Los Feliz, Silverlake, and Echo Park. Managing always to be surrounded by these tight-pantsed tattooed creatures, I've moved from enclave to enclave, learning their language of apathy for anything other than outdated technology and bicycle riding. Between the fauxhawks, and the American Apparel, and the takeoff on ethnic scarves, they are unmistakable. They studied art and the social sciences, mashed up mod and punk and hippie and anarchist, and attempt the appearance of low-income lifestyles while spending about half a million dollars every day on a hand-crafted latte. They are mulleted yuppies on wheels, meant to work in a show called Hipsters On Ice.

Imagine hordes of waifish men and women in grey jeans posing and skittering across a glossy rink while the White Stripes play over the intercom. There could be a girl dressed as Karen O from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs doing figure 8s while the president of Urban Outfitters skates with a rose in his teeth to a pack of boys admiring moccasins. There could even be a giveaway where the winning audience member gets a messenger bag filled with an ironic Christmas sweater and a vegan burrito. The winning audience member will be picked by the cast member who has the worst posture and owns barrettes made out of Legos, which will also be criteria for getting cast in the first place.

The sequel to the show will of course be called Hipsters On Nice, in which it is revealed that all the little poppets really wanted in the first place was to go back to their childhood in the 80s. The marketing potential therein is endless. They've got to slouch and remain their teenage weight for something.

Potato.com

Potato.com will mark the dawn of an era of websites that don't even require words. What I'm saying is, Illiterates, we want your money too. You will simply open the URL, scroll down to the image of a potato of your choice, and click on it. That potato will be added to your cart, by which I mean an elderly woman in your neighborhood will hustle up to your porch with the potato and put it in the basket on your porch. Nothing says you don't read like owning a basket, or knowing someone old. Voila! You've bought a brand new potato, and now I have your clams in return!

Why the potato-by-potato approach? Culturally we're moving towards the unique, the individually prepared, the hand-picked. Nobody's going to want a bushel of potatoes--who knows what bad fruit therein lingers? I don't know about you, but there's something about an individual root vegetable that screams, You're going to be my pet chicken Cackles and follow me around like the lover that you are until one day, I roast you for dinner.

And yes, there is a bit of resemblance in potato.com to those websites for Russian brides, but the difference is weight. Those brides are way fatter, no offense. And they talk more and relate to you, and if I get you correctly, you'd rather be eating or making stamps with a third grader than knowing somebody on a personal level. Bottom line: potatoes aren't demanding. They fry well, and go with ketchup. And coming to a website near you, they'll be available one at a time.

Me, Dita Von Teese, and a Piece of Bacon

Girl Woody

Sometimes I do feel like a girl Woody Allen. Even aside from the Sagittarius Jewish New Yorker comedy writer part. In recent history I felt terribly depressed, and when asked why, could only say, "Because I'm so happy." I was! I was very happy, and quite frankly, it was bringing me down.

Unable to successfully get out of bed this morning like the Aries stockbroker goyim, I reminisced about a better time in which I may have still experienced depression and sadness, but was at least on my feet for it. Oh, the motivation I had, bounding from my slumber to stare mournfully out the window! I can respect that: stumbling through one's personal fog in sneakers.

You psychoanalysts out there might be saying, "Oh, that's actually an agitated depression you're describing; there's the difference." I wouldn't say that the former experience was agitated so much as vertical. When the makers of the DSMV V call me back, I'm going to explain that here on out there should be two kinds of depression listed: vertical and horizontal. Maybe it's a blood-flow sort of issue: when you're horizontally depressed, there's some sort of biochemical effect such that if you stand on your feet or your head, the blues get worse. If I could find my old board game with the guy you operate on and when you do it badly, the whole thing lights up and honks at you, I could really prove this theory of mine.

But don't get me wrong, when all you want to do is hide under the covers, even a neurotic person such as myself longs for happiness. Even when I recognize that it might make me a little anxious, and therefore maybe a touch sad. If I have a say, however, I'd like to request the kind of happiness that does include lying down.

In Honor of Groundhog Day, The Mighty Beaver

Deranged Psychopath Fitness System

For a classy mock infomercial, click here:
Deranged Psychopath Fitness System

Tranny or Banana?

It's a fair question. An innocent question, asked by a small Philipino child wandering the Old Pasadena Target with his mother. Impossible that this kid queried anything in earnest but what I heard: "Tranny or banana?" Aisle after aisle, wanting to know, "Tranny or banana? Tranny or banana?"

Those on the banana side. At work yesterday a customer left behind a book with his tip. Perhaps the lunch quenched his thirst, leaving knowledge in the lurch? And who totes the complete history of the banana in the first place? The book, called simply Banana, appears to be an undelightful 200+ pages of what can only be thinly veiled references to foreskin and bunches. Call me adolescent; I can handle that name; I don't moniker around, though I do enjoy a certain yellow fruit.

And as for the tranny vote, the selfsame day, in walked a gorgeously handsome F-to-M. I'm normally uninterested in facial hair, but his appearance is helping the tide turn, lovely girlfriend in tow. With all the confidence in the world, a tranny wrecks a girl's sense she's seen all in compelling masculine expression.

I should've stopped the kid in his tracks, called the argument off, said "Tranny AND banana, my friend, tranny AND banana."

A Brief Chemistry Lesson

“There is a difference between nonfat and lowfat milk,” I calmly explained to the baffled 19 year old. “You see, when I drink lowfat milk, I’m consuming milk that has approximately 1-2% of the fat remaining in it. When I consume nonfat milk, all of the fat in whole milk has been removed, leaving 0% fat. I prefer lowfat to nonfat. And yes, there is a difference between the two,” I concluded.

Newly educated, the Starbucks barista went back to doing his job.

And Now a Word From An Anonymous Library Patron

Cracking open a public library copy of Tim Kasser's The High Price of Materialism, the first thing I read is not the author's quoting of Lao Tzu. Instead, I have the benefit of a pencilled-in brief review of the tome I have waited weeks to arrive at my local branch. On the title page, in careful script, Anonymous speaks.

The following is the work of said unknown author.

The writer of this book is a professor of a well known University and in his book he showing his resensment against the achievement of others. A professor! In other words there is no promise of success in high or good grades in school.

Maybe poverty makes people happy. To be a tramp, a welfare recipient for life is an honorabel thing to do. The author appear like envious in his writing.

Tim Kasser: psychologist, researcher, professor, writer, hobo loyalist.

Come All Ye Traif-ful

Such a good Jew am I that even after my dietary revisions to exclude blood agglutinating wheat and body poisoning sugar, I toss my unsweetened spelt pizza crust on the counter pre-bake and proceed to dress it with mozzarella and pepperoni. Lots of pepperoni.

Ignore the picture, folks: it's meant only as a vague representation. Imagine loads more pork and nitrate filled deli sausage slices piled high. Maybe for effect stick an angry rabbi in the background, or at least my horrified mother who is convinced that her toaster was bequeathed to her from the machinations of Adolf himself.

Dietary regimens, cultural history, the sensitive digestion of my people: all touchy subjects; subjects that can lead to two sets of knives and/or being unable to order anything on a menu, as you consider it Not Real Food. Come now, you say: Pepperoni? You consider that Real Food?

No, say I. Oh no. It's dessert.

GI Tracking Treasure Down

Wearing my fauxjamas tee with "THE NEW BEGINNING" splashed across it like so much punk rock, I hereby set out into virgin territory: creating my first Wikipedia page.

You never know how fast you're going to grow up. One minute you're rubbing your fetal little eyesockets, and the next, you're home with the flu doing mindless internet research about what you should do to get better. And then: the sound of the pik-axe hitting precious cargo. The phrase to end all phrases.

Greedy colon.

Physician Goodhart of London first made the remark that excess loss of water in the intestine leading to constipation could indeed be the result of a "greedy colon." A colon that is greedy, lest you get the wrong idea, is actually thirsty. A thirsty colon becomes greedy for more than the average colon's share of H2O.

Do you not see how fateful this discovery is? Do you now know my destiny as the writer of a Wiki page about the concept of greedy colon? I welcome all research, scientific, historical, and diagrammatical, for I am but the messenger to a public anticipating ne'er but at least a stub, dear Reader, demystifying that which end on end runs foot after foot and won't be satisfied even with every last drop.

Love Movies I Hate

1. Shakespeare in Love (1998).
In this piece of dreck, the fatty lips of Joseph Fiennes star alongside the Struggle To Be An Artist. Bard aficionados were given two hours and three minutes to resorb references with which to torture those of us who think there is more than one great writer in the canon.

2. Love Actually (2004).
Because we're supposed to believe that a woman who wears a size 8 is too large to be loved. Oh, Hugh Grant's character is so enlightened!! We can't believe he isn't also on Keira Knightley's doorstep!!!

3. The Last Kiss (2006).
Paul Haggis = genius; remake of Italian film = bad idea; script = disturbing; Zach Braff = makes a heinous character even more loathsome in such a way that literally terramotos career suicide.

4. Just Friends (2005).
Yes, I actually watched it. That's embarrassing. But what's really embarrassing is a movie filled with nothing but second-hand Jim Carrey moves and only but few Anna Faris moments.

Anna Faris! I love her.

Behold, As a Grown Woman Finds Solace in a Stuffed Animal Worm

LOTS OF GUYS

Dear Single Rejected Job Applicant,

You should totally come to our event--there will be LOTS OF GUYS!!! I know we didn't hire you for the job, even though you did your best impersonation of a Marina socialite on the phone to sell yourself to us. I know that you probably don't want to be on our emailing list. And I know that the only reason you haven't clicked "unsubscribe" is because there's still a whisper of doubt in your mind that you may be buried with the cats you may one day have.

Seriously: LOTS OF GUYS. You can come too, for only $37! That's the equivalent of being around guys at a bar full of guys, but guys you'd actually like, who are buying you three Manhacosmotiniopolises with conjunctivitis and lime, except instead of the guys paying for them, you are, but in advance. What I'm saying is, being single costs money.

I know what you're doing right now. You're IMing with your married friend, and she's telling you about how her husband's in the kitchen whipping up din-din. You're in your heart-print pajamas, paying your electric bill, and wondering if you will someday take up knitting tea cozies. Don't. MEET LOTS OF GUYS.

It's all nice and good now, with your romantic dreams of making soup and talking to another person who is not you. You're planning out a future filled with lovingly placing a miscreant toe-clipping into the bathroom garbage, and laundering pillowcases with his drool on them. What a dashing existence you'll have.

Lady, that is so then. This is NOW. These are LOTS OF GUYS. Lots of guys, in lots, looking for lots of you. Lots of 37 year old guys! 37 dollars! 37 guys! A dollar a day keeps the drying up away! THIRTY SEVEN LOTS OF GUYS!!!

So you want a relationship. With like, hanging out, and even being sober. Fine. Suit yourself.

Sincerely,

We Didn't Hire You, You Are Single

P.S. LOTS OF GUYS

My Stylist Says I Have a Jessica Simpson Forehead, But I Don't Think So!

Why did I say this out loud in public?

I guess we'll never know.

Things with Faces

You lookin' at me? By "you" I mean of course an inanimate object that purposefully or not is sporting a face. The answer to the question, then, is always "yes," as in: yes, I am indeed lookin' at you.

Maybe I was left alone too much as a child, or maybe I'm congenitally immature, but I feel the need to surround myself with things with faces. I want the Philippe Starck gnome stools, with their sleepy eyes. I want Salvor pillows lush in their animalia. I even have Koziol stirring spoons that grin as they lap my homemade marinara.

In college (cue eyeliner) I took a series of photographs of things with faces out in the world. Marching my battalions of plastic wind-ups about, I staged the emotional response of pulseless beasts. I called the whole project "Please Don't Lick the Walls," partially in honor of the beloved James Marshall children's books entitled "The Stupids," and because I wanted my transcript to read "Please Don't Lick the Walls." Which, by the way, it does.

As the emotional branding of products becomes all the more transparent in the early oughts of this century, I find myself more at home in the world. I have always wanted a huggable world, a love-filled and punch-drunk comedy populated with exquisite bodies. I walk into the world and meet the gaze of a stool, a pillow, a spoon. Believe me, I look.

Viva Los Girlparts

Why, oh why has it been EONS since I've last written a Talking Pony blog entry? Great gallumphing grasshoppers, the answer is simple. I have been wading through the vats of fabulous audition opportunities for women in their twenties!! Because there are so many delightful possibilities for me to choose from, I decided I would share a few with you, dear Reader.

Sara
Sara is a ditzy, but very supportive girlfriend of a small-time criminal.

Lucy
Understanding, compassionate, trying to come to terms with her baby's death.

Cindy
Looking for enthusiastic and expressive women who can give a good angry/disappointed performance.

Galeatea
A corporate executive of a weapons manufacturer. She’s tough and sharp minded. As well she’s spent her life as a robot without knowing it.

Brenda
Pretty, compassionate, and innocent, Brenda is one of the most popular kids at the school. While her friends enjoy watching Bobby get picked-on, she feels sorry for him. She is soon seduced with magic slam poetry into dating the school bully.

Gwen
Attractive and fierce, Ben's mistress. Must be able to play an arrogant stubborn woman, a.k.a. 'the bitch.'

Susan
Bitchy, arrogant, and manipulative.

Andie
Sensual, musical, bit of a space cadet. NUDITY REQUIRED.

Carmen
Intellectual, snobby, effete. NUDITY REQUIRED.

Nikki
A spunky and comedic 17 year old girl. She's a tomboy, yet she has feminine mystery. She's a fun character! (Nudity and sexual situations required.)

Girl on Date
Date is in one scene, brought home by Damien, the lead. Has lines.

Corpse, Etcetera
Featured extras to play twisted bloodied corpses, Satanists (nudity required and raw sexual acts in an underground orgy with masks on), two cops, small church group.

Wise "Man"
Follow the star to Bethlehem. Sing "We Three Kings". Also doubles as Priest/Neighbor.

Small Dog
One adorable Jack Russell Terrier for the short film. Must be quiet, sweet, and be still on the executive's lap. The Jack Russell Terrier will also be wearing a cute antlers on its head!

Money Belt
Meter Maid, heavyset, any ethnicity.

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?