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.)

How to Write & Perform Your Very Own Kick-Ass Show

Maybe you’re satisfied drooling over Amy Sedaris' or Margaret Cho’s genius on DVD. Maybe you are tired of seeing men on TV being mean and calling it humor. Or maybe you wrote this joke: This October, I am only going to a nudie show if they have a Halloween special. I will only drop coin if I can see monster costumes, with headpieces that match the rug; or really, really short ghost costumes. If you wrote that joke, and especially if you are me, it’s time to get the show on the road.

You MUST, MUST, MUST first toss any doubt you have to the side. The fact that you think your work might not be compelling suggests that it’s not a carbon-copy of everything else out there. If you’re engaged, that’s reason enough. Once you’re ready to face the lappy, write. Although I am still learning the alphabet, I can give you some key tips. If you’re going to be a writer, the first thing you need to know is that you have to look COLD. For accessories you’ll need mittens, a scarf, and probably some excessive socks; like legwarmers or a body stocking. Also a wooly skull cap, so your head doesn’t fall off because you’re thinking so many things to put on paper.

Part of the process of creating a viable work for stage means your genius phrases must be tested in a real, live black-box theater; preferably with real, live fake people. I don’t recommend those built-to-requirement dolls; try sandbags. Be willing to improvise your work. Be willing to edit out things that your mouth doesn’t like. Be in your body.

No instruction manual on actressing is complete without the mention of networking. Embrace it, minus the under-the-table favors part. Take classes in your locale; scope out community spaces; aim high and be willing to do your show in your car if you have to. And above all, gather a support system like it’s going out of style. If it means pandering shamelessly in blog format to anyone who will give you their email address, do it. Send weekly updates on your progress. Set goals that are specific, achievable, realistic, timely, and above all, fabulous. This is your show! Show up (You might want to put pants on first).

(Oh, and in case anyone didn't know, I'm, um, making a show? Like about stuff that happened to me? At work? And I've performed it in San Francisco, Berkeley and Amsterdam? And I really want more venues and such? And it's called "Workhorse"? And I think it's pretty funny? Email me and I'll add you to, like, my performance mailing list? xoxo Audrey)

RE: Arbor Day Party

Dear Officemates,

I know you'd like to have a Valentine's, or a celebrate-the-neighborhood, or a get-drunk and say-inappropriate-things themed party. But I'd like for us, this February, to have an Arbor Day Party. And here are all the reasons why.

Arbor Day is in April.

Arbor Day was started by Julius Sterling Morton, a Nebraska journalist and politician. He had a big mustache and was balding and had a coat. We could dress like him.

We could make paper hats shaped like leaves for our ENTIRE OFFICE to wear.

There is nothing more festive than a wood-themed party.

We could post friendly beaver cutouts on the walls.

Wood-grain alcohol.

Plant-a-seed.

“When Birnham Wood comes to Dunsinane…”

Optional: come as your favorite bulldozing construction worker.

Optional: come as your favorite treeloving activist and staple yourself to a cubicle.

Optional: bring a powertool and remake the office wood products into a log cabin.

Tree you later,
Audrey

FASHIONISTAS REACH LITERARY MASSES, GET HIGHLIGHTS

NEW YORK—Although the fashion world's most elite shoppers haven't always been noted for their clever rejoinders and supple syntax, editors at the top publishing houses have busied themselves of late with turning this misconception on its blueblood head. "It's beyond judgmental to think that just because a girl has a huge credit line and gets invited to exclusive sample sales she can't put a pen to paper," Doubleday editor Stacy Creamer insisted. "She can. How do you think receipts get signed?"

Books topically ranging from diatribes on failed relationships to the search for employment when in one's twenties have cropped up ornamented in Victorian leitmotifs and scrappily drawn Prada shoes with coiffed and sanded ex-model heiresses and surgically altered Ivy League graduates stiff-lipped and hungry on the back covers. The same young women that collect at Barney's to stave off boredom have discovered that the next best thing to Vogue editor Anna Wintour's clothing allowance is to create a great work of art, even while living on Park Avenue.

"Some people think I'm totally ana," proclaimed Plum Sykes, author of the novel Bergdorf Blondes, about a fetching pair of rich girls who have hijinx at Hermes, "But I'm just skin and bones because I'm an artist. Artists are supposed to starve, and if you've already got a new Valentino for the soiree of the year, it's such a waste to eat. I'm giving the girls of the world real heroines to look up to; girls just like me that want companionship, love, and a closet the size of a studio apartment!" Sykes' closet was indeed so expansive and lush that there was room enough for the ambulance crew to easily carry her out after she fainted without knocking over a single quilted Chanel bag. "Are those Choos?" Rick the ambulance guy asked, picking up a sandal. "I like her style."

Rick, and the rest of the ambulance crew that stalled for twenty minutes to sort through Stella McCartney and Prouenza Schouler treasures, are not alone in their appreciation of a dame with a knack for garb. Lauren Weisberger, author of The Devil Wears Prada, joins Sykes in linking garb with gab. She presents a bold and imaginative role model to young girls. Her 5'10", 115 pound heroine rises to her success while recovering from dysentery, coveting her waify colleagues' figures, and joining them to don fluff-and-leather outfits. Mickey LaRue, a local tween who dreams of following in Weisberger's footsteps, responded fervently that she would love to be like heroine Andrea Sachs. "She gets to wear all the cool designers and drive her boss' car. Boys end up totally liking her."

LaRue's collegiate older sister, on the other hand, disagrees. "She has no life plan, no ambition, and then gets handed an exclusive job at a top fashion magazine without being an intern first. That's not life. That's having connections and possibly a tiny little magical man with pointy shoes." Mildred stabbed the stoop with her Lucky Strike. "Plus she wears a lot of suede. If a girl can't choose a better animal skin, how can I be bothered to read her stupid book?"

Loyal subscribers to Vogue and W, however, are even reading tomes that do not come with perfume samples. Doubleday's director of sales, Allan Ficus, commented on the figures that keep publishing giants tapping unknowns with their finger on the pulse of fashionistahood. "It's no coincidence they've had such an impact on the market at this time," Ficus said. "I mean, did you see the Spring 2005 Fashion Week shows?" Ficus then asked for his Burberry umbrella back.

Perhaps, then, it is time that the world's intellectuals and academics quit the cease-fire separating the heady world of design and the drab domain of thought. "I used to read Proust and Sartre and Kirkegaard," Ficus added. "Now, do you think then I had pants that made my ass look this good?"

Ficus' assistant Rosemary dropped off a tray of madeleines and commented, "I may never get to have the budgets of the women in those books. I may never date princes or international playboys. I may never even try to kill myself because I'm not the only one with the new Vuitton. But this fine literature has made it clear to me that there are women out there who will do it all; they inspire me to do things I never would otherwise try, like be an Opera singer!" Rosemary then croaked out a passage from Carmen.

"Just as long as you're still a size two!" Ficus laughed. "I mean, who wants to listen to a fatty?"

Omigosh, You Guys, I Am Sooo Indian!!

By guest blogger Maggie MySpace

Hello, or what I REALLY meant to say was, NAMASTE YOU GUYS!!

Now I know that you expect a boob shot from Miss Maggie, but now that I'm so Indian that's just NOT going to happen, ok you guys??? Can we just leave that where we left off at last night's party? I'm sure I'll get drunk enough again, alright? YOU GUYS ARE SOOO CRAZY!!!!!!!

Ok, so you probably want to know, how does a white chick like me--yes, I'm a natural blonde!!--end up being sooo totally multicultural? Well I guess it all began when I started taking yoga classes, and realized that like, when you seriously contort your body into different shapes, you just feel more connected to the animals. So I moved near the zoo! (Houseparty pronto, OK??)

When I'm in yoga class, which I do every day, because otherwise how are you going to make progress and achieve anything? If you don't do it, like, all the time, you will seriously not burn off any of that jello you got on in the first place with too many wine coolers! Yoga is about accomplishing something, like losing at least three pounds a day, even if it's just water weight. Yoga is about being Indian!

Sooo, today I finished up in class and went to this Starbucks near my house that is decorated with like, mendhi designs, and has for reals an Indian food bar instead of sandwiches and dried old boxes of cheese. I practically INHALED all the Indian food. How could a true California girl like me enjoy Indian cooking THIS MUCH?

I know the answer. My Vedic astrologer was explaining to me that I have had a lot of past lives in India, and I've totally thought about going there to ride elephants, you know? So really, you might be looking at my pale skin and blonde hair and think, this girl is American. But seriously? When you see me with a plate of Chana Masala you might think different, just like the Apple ad with Gandhi says. You might seriously think different.

Don't be a racist. Just because my skin is pale, doesn't mean I'm not totally from this magical land with pink ponies and dressy shorts and big handpainted signs, and all of my yoga teachers' guru, who wants me to come and study with him. I think when I go there that I won't just fit in with all the pretty Indian people, I think it'll be like I'm just one of them. Like, "Hey Maggie, you are sooo Indian! Look at you in standing bow-pulling pose!!!"

Basically, the divine in me greets the divine in you at TEN O'CLOCK SHARP TOMORROW NIGHT ROCKIN' HOUSE PARTY!!!

Bring dal.

My Amsterdam Top Ten

1) REMBRANDT FACE. Everywhere you look, there's this one drawing Rembrandt did of himself. He looks extremely surprised, a little turned-on, and a bit queer. You see this face on the airplane, the tram stations, and even on bike rentals. A man who wanted my money punched this Rembrandt face on my bike as I rode off. It seemed appropos.

2) CAFE QUIBUS. Yes, this place deserves mention in not one but two posts. Is it because of the plaid-wearing lady bartender? The packs of overgrown man-children? Its proximity to Krista's house? That a glass of wine costs two Euros? (Approximately equivalent to 1,000,000 American dollars.) It's all of the above, and more: it's called QUIBUS.

3) CAT BOAT. Amsterdam: a top European city that can proudly boast a Poezenboot. It's free, it's filled with felines, and they're fluffy and fat. You can adopt them, and I saw one British man that did, but mostly it's a happening hangout for people wearing purple stretchpants and t-shirts with cats on them. Singel 40, people; Singel 40.

4) FIETSWORLD. I didn't walk, I didn't take the train, I didn't drive, I didn't get driven. I rode my Rembrandt face bike, and I fucking loved it. As Gwen Stefani would've sang if she was me, now, "UH-HUH, THAT'S MY FIETS/ALL THE 'DAM RIDE AROUND LIKE THIS/'CUZ I AIN'T NO PEDALBACK BIKE/NO I AIN'T NO PEDALBACKBIKE/...KISS MY FIETS/KISS MY FIETS..." (Note: don't get off your bike. You will DIE. I mean it. You will be murdered by a rabid pack of angry cyclists when all's you tryin' to do is cross the street, or like, touch your hair.)

5) TRANNIES FROM FRANNY. Why is everyone in this klompen-wearing world from San Francisco? Why have they all moved on from their original gender? I don't know, but I kind of want to move here. And keep performing at Cafe Sappho (www.sappho.nl) where I did another round of "Workhorse" for trannies and ladies from both Franny and Dammy.

6) MJ & JOE. What is better to take the edge off the Anne Frank Huis than some Mary Jane? And what better to have with it than some espresso? (Note: espresso comes with a biscuit.) No cops, no jail sentence, no bad-laced ju-ju. Yes, there were crowds of Japanese tourists chasing after me on my fiets, and yes I am famous, and that doesn't mean that I deserve to be hounded when I'm just trying to figure out how to not lean to the left while biking home, wherever that may actually be.

7) MAN. Only here could I find the closest thing to my first true love, Mork. Here, men in rainbow sweaters with hip haircuts walking fluffy dogs are not gay, they are just Dutch.

8) THE LADIES. What's better than walking through ancient stone alleys filled with some good lookin' whores in red-lit boxes? And what's funnier than being in the middle of packs of straight men looking at the girls? One tried to wrangle Bas, and even gave him a free little whipping. The outfits could use some work--a few too many Soviet Britneys. And furry boots. And metallic lycra!

9) DROOHHHG. I wanted to eat everything Droog Design as soon as I set eyes on it. I was forced to find a sorry substitute around the corner (unreal chocolates from a store that smelled better than being inside an enormous hot cake), and snuck about taking lots of pictures of the most perfect light fixtures I'd ever seen (barring a porcelain antler chandelier that Jason Miller of Brooklyn designed).

10) OUTLETS. Which brings me to: power outlets. In Amsterdam. In Europe. Are round. And perfect. With two round, perfect holes for prongs. And the plugs on things fit them. And are perfect, and beautiful, and a creamy white. Truthfully, those outlets are the #1 reason why I itch to move to Europe, at least for awhile. They fit things like Droog lamps, and Heico hot pink bunnies, and even without their usefulness they are perfect little art objects lining every apartment. If this doesn't make me a romantic, I don't know what does. I mean, really. Outlets. Hot.

Hamsterdam!

Straight off the flight, the first bar I see in Schipol airport is "HELLO THERE..." Bar. It actually bore a font that screamed quotation marks (the Dutch, always ingenius at problems of design) and was filled with 45 year old men without dates at crusty tables. Crusty: not as in dirty, but as in old, because the Dutch would NEVER LEAVE ANYTHING DIRTY. I'm from New York City, and this state of affairs stands out for me.

This morning I ate scrambled eggs with spinach and pesto and drank appelsap out on Krista and Baas' balcony, hoping to at least see a piece of litter or something. A pigeon dropped off a present for me, but that's about it. I read "Koken met Linda," aka Linda McCartney's vegetarian cookbook...in Dutch. With is to say that I looked at the pictures, and tried to decipher the words. Baas has an imersion blender, so all I could think while looking at the images was TOMATO SOUP! TOMATO SOUP!!! True to form, my first venture out in this new place was to the grocery store. Food is fascinating to me, especially when it's called Chippers or Aardbein.

There Krista and I were at the store--where a sign announced that it is "Hamster Week," meaning that discounts abound throughout. I can't not laugh at things like kaas, so I got a lot of the typical Dutch look-down-and-away responses. Kids are raised to say "Be normal!" whenever anyone deviates, so K and I manage, in contrast, to take big loud American to a whole new level.

Why not? My brassiness came in handy at Cafe Quibus, where we made friends with cigarettes and wine and their owners, another Bastiaan and both Martin and Maarten. Martin insisted a) that he works at Dutch Playboy, and b) that I have no idea how to inhale (smoke). We discussed breasts until his bedtime, at which point K, B, and I all rolled home and came up with retorts for the drunken Turkish teenager that yelled at us that K'd be hot if she stopped eating. "You'd be hot if you stopped talking!" "You consume calories and are therefore unattractive!" "If you were a corpse, I'd love you!" (This was followed up over the next days with packs of Turkish teenagers now wanting to take both K & I out.)

In contrast to my new boyfriend: a green conure who talked back and forth with me animatedly, but was a little afraid to zoom close enough to eat the peanuts in bags hanging from the roof. I whistled and tweeted with him, urging him to take the plunge. "Eat!" I said. "Make a mess!" I said. "I like you satisfied!"

Animated Pamela

Don't I have a lot in common with Pamela Anderson? We both carry silicone objects (her breasts, my blue keychain shaped like an ear), adore rockstars (her Tommy Lee, my cries of oy!), and have the capacity to say human words of English. Which is why when I went to an audition this morning for a feature-length animation based on her honeymoon video, it seemed obvious I would get the role. The director asked me in his Deutsch-stuck twang, "Are you willing to do a pornographic scene? There is no moaning, but there is a lot of 'Oh yeah, BABY.'" I said, "I'm an actor: I have no shame."

Shame! Who needs it! I recently got "Ellie Parker" on my Netflix. Naomi Watts plays an L.A. actress ashamed and in the throes of auditions, busted relationships, eating blue ice cream, and therapy. It's billed as a comedy, but if you've ever put yourself through the rigamaroll that is the theater and film world, it is not fucking funny. The movie officially goes on my list of top brilliant artworks that I would be reluctant to ever see again.

Easy to shame yourself into being what you believe other people want you to be, as an actress. Easy to skip meals, sweat until you bleed, bind your feet. Harder to risk forgoing the chance to be seen by there being more of you rather than less. By more, I mean as you are; by less, so much less. It takes a lot of cajones to waltz in as yourself--and a lot more shamelessness to refuse to change. Humping an animated Tommy Lee with my voice is nothing. It's my body and my heart I want to protect from all the casting directors of the world, many who have paused quizzically at my presence, voicing or not that wistful pity of, "People that look like you have to try awfully hard to get cast," and "Not that you're not beautiful, but...is that an ear in your pocket?"

Talking Pony, C'est Moi.

I eat carrots, and I gallop. But mostly I am an actress and writer that is fixated on making funny.

Funny? I'm funny. Bill Cosby told me I'd be the next Ellen DeGeneres. Tina Fey begrudgingly took my headshot. I stump salespeople. I make my friends pee. I've gotten jobs, dumped, and kissed for being funny.

Now for the nostalgia portion of our program.

Back when I was a mere tot I was OBSESSED with becoming funny. When you're shy, excessively sensitive, and primarily a visual artist, it feels challenging to stick your neck out and let it rip. So I had to train for my future at Aspen undetected by the masses.

It all began with a tiny collection of jokes that I wrote. By tiny, I mean: few jokes, itsy object. I was particularly fond of math jokes: yes! The beginning of my international success!

The best thing about being both funny and female is it means that you are no longer considered "hot." It also means that you can play a whole lot of supportive friend roles on TV. You can have bad hair!!

I think it goes along with women and intelligence: everyone's checking under the hood to make sure the dang thing won't blow up when they're on the road. Fuck: female, funny, AND smart? Please don't tell. There's a colony of us hiding from the law. We've got a huge embargo we knitted together out of dildo cozies and guitar straps. Don't try to find us; we will pelt you with homeade flan.

On the other hand, I, at least, would really like it if you'd read my blog, come to my shows, and shower me with orange tiger lilies.

But not so many that I drown, because then I wouldn't get to continue on with my day of recording tracks of me imitating old codgers looking for dates.