Don't Cry, Tomato Baby

2008-01-01T06:03:00.000-05:00

Dear Diary,

2008's a HIT!

PS McKenzie Astin is really cute in the Garbage Pail Kids movie!

"I won't be needing a plastic bag,"

2007-11-02T22:59:00.000-04:00

said the lady on line behind me at the overpriced fancyorganicgourmet store up the block. The one I shop at when I'm lazy or busy or just really need a $6 pint of hisbiscus rose ices.

She started pointedly at me, with my box of cookies in a bag. "I don't need a bag, and I ESPECIALLY wouldn't if I had one thing, because that would be wasteful. For the ENVIRONMENT." Pointed look again.

Things I could have done in response:

1. Explained that I keep all of my bags and reuse them. Which I do.

2. Self-righteously pointed out that all of her items are rife with animal products, which is way more wasteful than one plastic bag. As in, feeding plants to animals just to kill those animals and eat them. Plus, the cow farts destroying the world. (That's true - look it up. Methane!). But then I'd be a) a preachy vegan b)stooping to her level.

3. Kissed her on the forehead and whispered, "Thank you." Slowly, deliberately pulled the box of cookies out of the bag and handed it back to the cashier with a rueful smile.

I ignored her and left.

Tableau

2007-07-15T15:43:00.000-04:00

On my way to lunch and back to my office, I often pass a porn store. Porn shop? Establishment with pornography available for retail purchase. When I passed by Friday on my way back from Zen Palate, the door was open and blasting "You Can't Hurry Love" by Phil Collins. A defeated-looking man with dreads had his face down in his hands, sitting on the doorstep. Sitting about 3 inches in front of him was a shredded, decrepit brown glove.

I was going to theorize about the scenario, but I think it's probably more interesting to put the details out there and then let you use your own imagination.

Because I Never Sleep Anymore.

2007-05-31T21:47:00.000-04:00

Here are some things I really, really hate.

1. Spitting in the street. When did this become socially acceptable? Would these people blow snot rockets onto the sidewalk? Is your mouth really so flooded with saliva that you cannot possibly wait to get to a sink or swallow it, for fear of drowning? And does anyone even spit in sinks when they're not brushing their teeth or at the dentist?

This makes me question what you do at home alone, when you're free to be even more Josie Grossy. Play cat's cradle with your phlegm? Writhe around in a bathtub of boiling diarrhea?

2. When you haven't mentioned the outcome of a potential good thing you stupidly mentioned to someone, and they ask you about it. Example: Douchey Friend: Hey, remember that guy you went on one date with like, 4 or 5 months ago and said was the only person to melt away the icy dungeon where your keep your heart? The really awesome, funny, hot, probably rich (not that that really matters) one? You know, the one I've never heard you mention again after that, nor seen you with? Did he ever call you?You:No.
Or, Douchey Neighbor:Hey! Did you end up booking that TV show you were auditioning for the other day when I ran into you last spring? The one that filmed in LA?You:No.

Guess what. If something amazing happens to me, I'll tell you about it. I appreciate your interest in my life, sincerely. But especially if you ask multiple times, "So, did you ever hear back about that submission you sent to The Onion?!", and I explain to you that I'll let you know that I'll tell everyone when I do...then you are a doucherabbit.

3. Lettuce. The texture is gross, and you never know when it's going to appear in a dish, without being on the menu. I hope a plague of locusts descends on every lettuce crop in The Land. (Note to my lettuce farmer readership: But I hope you also have many other successful crops that grow bountifully to make up for it.)

Subtly retarded

2007-03-16T22:54:00.000-04:00

Look, you missed my birthday last weekend. And it's almost too late to apologize, just save it for next year.

I turned 28. That's some late 20s shit, (girl). And because of my oldyhood, I can freely admit to you the retarded thought I had as my birthday approached.

My hair is long and supercurly for the first time in many years. I get sick of it easily, and as I looked in the mirror, I thought about chopping it all off. Up until semirecently, when that urge struck me, I would take a pair of horrible old rust-crusty scissors and hack it off (I was so spontaneous and CRAAAAAAAAAZY). Now I would never. But the niggling thought that was causing me to consider it was, I realized, less about boredom and more about this feeling that with my hair long and curly, I didn't look 1)cool 2)alterna 3)hip 4)easily identifiable to others in the... counterculture? Mainly, boys with stupid hair and snarkitudes who somehow had it burned into their synapses that short dyed hair in a certain style = hottie.

As I had this thought, I simultaneously had thoughts about how stupid that was, along with a third set of thoughts that came in with their hands up in the air, all "Hey, man, don't judge your thoughts; you can't control them, you can only control your actions, and you shouldn't be ashamed."

I'm very different than I was 3 or 4 years ago. I guess most people are. But even 3 years ago, I would never have dressed like I do now - meaning, half my wardrobe is, dare I say it, "cute". Pink, flowery, little-girlish. Whereas when I bought a Hello Kitty (ringer, duh) t-shirt in high school, it immediately went into the back of my closet because I was totally not the kind of girl who liked that shit, I mean, not like there's anything WRONG you know with girls who like that shit, but you know...(there is).

Also, while I still have a fluffy spot in my heart that the right amount of snarky banter makes fluffexpand, I realize that it's probably not a good idea to attack people with it once you first meet them. And being (faux)mean isn't hot. And maybe it's just because I can't make a hip reference anymore that's not at least 6 months old, but I promise I won't (secretly, even though I think I'm too good to do that) judge you for liking Billy Joel nonironically.

People will just have to like me even though my hair no longer looks like a wig.

Tagged Like a...

2007-01-20T03:51:00.000-05:00

Skin Tag? Like a Bathroom Stall? YEAH! I still got it, guys.

Jen MacNeil, my dazzlingly floopy friend and co-Pearl Brunswicker, has tagged me. This means I will tell you 5 facts you didn't know about me. I can't vouch that you all don't know them, but they should be at least new to some, and rehorrifying to others.

1. Before "fan fic" was even a concept to most people, I wrote Mickey Mouse Club (MMC to the cool kids) fan fic. Hundreds and hundreds of pages in marble notebooks. I also watched the show every single day, and audio taped the musical numbers by putting my pink boombox on a chair up against the TV. (Sidenote: I also did this with National Lampoon's European Vacation. And La Bamba, which sucked.) I even made up an excuse to miss the 5th grade class trip to Mystic, Connecticut, to watch a rerun I'd seen 5 times before. The fan fic was mostly about how I was a mouseketeer, and every male 'teer fell hopelessly in love with me. It was really an internal, Hamlet-esque struggle - how do I deal with the fact that I'm so incredibly desirable, even to other girls' boyfriends? How do I cope with the fact that I'm the best singer, dancer, and actor on the show, and everyone is ragingly jealous of me? In real life, I cried because my mom wouldn't take me to the auditions and furiously berated her in my diary for not wanting to move our entire family to Orlando.

2. I spent a total of about 5 years, on and off, sick and out of school. I was diagnosed with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, among other crap. During part of that time, I had home tutoring. I'd come back to school after months or a year and have to deal with being the weirdo freaksickgirl who had everything from AIDS to quadruplets to "spoiled and lucky"-itis. This occupies the coveted #1 slot on the "Top One Reason for My Mental Issues" list.

3. When I was 21, my childhood home was destroyed (I lived there at the time). Supposedly, workers on the roof of the building left a blowtorch on and went home. Towering inferno ensued. The floors above us were incinerated - everyone got out, but some pets died. (A couple of people later died from heart attacks from the stress - one right after climbing the stairs to see the ruins of her apartment.) Our apartment was flooded, destroyed by the water the fire department used to put out the fire. And smoke damage, natch. We managed to save some things, but we had only a short period of time to come back and carry them out ourselves, amidst the buckling floors and newly created wallpaper made of mold (every color of the rainbow!) covering the walls and what remained of the ceilings. Additional fun fact: despite the tremendous stress, or because of it, this was one of the few times in my life that I managed to stop biting/picking my nails.

4. I've never had a cavity.

5. Even though I consider myself agnostic (but culturally Jewish), I cannot lie if I say that I am "swearing to G-d." I feel terribly guilty, and slightly afraid that I will have to Face the Consequences. So, if you really wanted to be a jerk, you could probably coerce me somehow now knowing this information.

I can't think of anyone to tag, everyone's been tagged already! So, if you're reading this and haven't been tagged it, do it and let me know about it.

Freakily-deakily

2006-12-17T15:06:00.000-05:00

OK, so I'm blog-lazy. I'm not winning any Bloggies or Blogoos or whatever the blogger awards are called. According to an article I read that I can't remember so I won't actually cite, 100 MILLION blogs have already been abandoned. And blogging analysts(?) predict that blogging activity is at its peak right now and will level off.

But I'm also getting kinda freaked out realizing how easily someone could keep track of me if they really wanted to. I post various places about all my shows, and a guy I met online emailed me to let me know that when he Googled me, he could find my cell phone number. Creepy of the guy to Google me? Maybe, but everyone does it. Creepy that a profile page I made on NYCastings.com with all my contact info can be Googled? Definitely.

This didn't come from nowhere though - I've recently had a few people who had seen my shows contact me online in creepy ways. It's a fine line, I guess. You want people who aren't just your friends to come to your shows, and you get flattered, but you don't necessarily want them showing up at every single thing you do. I guess this is just training for being Totally Famous, right?

(I did delete my phone number from that page.)

Happy Hanukkah!

2006-10-24T00:28:00.000-04:00

OK, it's been a while. But I've got exciting news and links!

1. I have rosacea. No more need for blush! Soon I'm going to look like WC Fields!

2. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WonQ2qVM41k

This song has been in my head for years.

3. The mockumentary (sorry) I was in, WOP, was totally re-edited into a different film.
Magic

4. One day I won't be lazy, and I'll copy the YouTube embedded video code instead of putting in these primitive links. And you'll miss them when they're gone.

5. I'm working on getting a new version of The Dangers of Kissing up, along with my lovely roommate Kalika. We did the whole thing in a week, and now it's going to be totally awesomer.

6. OMG I LOVE JIM HALPERT JAM IS SO MUCH BETTER THAN TIMAWN (DAM?)

Thanks and good luck.

Grover is a terrible waiter

2006-09-24T20:51:00.000-04:00

I'm sick. But more importantly, read this book before bed tonight:

http://smollin.com/book/mikes/tmonstr/mon001.html

That's what happens when you're a meanie.

2006-09-17T03:54:00.000-04:00

Tonight, I went to Ernie's birthday party at Planet Rose, a karaoke bar. Listening to a girl not-sing "Strokin' It", barely even trying, I told Ernie that I wanted to start a business coaching people who want to sing karaoke. Most likely people who have never done it before and are preparing for a Big Event (maybe a bachelorette party, as there seems to be one at Planet Rose every time I'm there).

Then, at the end of the night, after I exhaustedly sang my last song, one of the Bachelorette girls (who had earlier been humping her female friend, standing up on top of a couch) drunkenly pulled me aside to high-five me. Then, in the gruff way that I imagine Sinatra would have when dispensing advice to a young crooner, she said, "You're a great singer... but you need to work on that posture. Believe me, I've got it too... just watch it."

I didn't know what to say, so I just walked away. I know I don't always have great posture (AND I have scoliosis, guys, you feel me?). Which is especially bad for a teen-tiny like me. But hearing it made me feel like a dorky hunchbacked 6th-grader in headgear and pink leggings with stirrups (when everyone else someone knew that you NEVER buy the ones with stirrups).

It's funny how the thing you're obsessing about - in this case, the pimple on my forehead - is rarely the thing other people are noticing about you. It's either enough to make me quit obsessing forever, or quadruple it.

I guess that's what I get for making my snide karaoke-coaching comment.

BUT I WASN'T THE ONE HUMP-DANCING ON TOP OF THE COUCH.

I love everyone.

Food Porn

2006-08-31T19:55:00.000-04:00

I spend a lot of time thinking about food. Discussing food. Reminiscing about meals I've had. Looking at pictures of food online. Trying to think of ways to describe food to other people so that they can get as excited as I am about it. Which is like trying to explain an inside joke to someone who wasn't there, but infinitely more annoying.

Lately, it's reached a particularly intense obsessive period. And my fetishes are very specific. The first is food from Disney World. I went there in May, and have been thinking about meals I had there since. I know, you're probably thinking, "um, theme park food? isn't that, like, hot dogs and Mickey-shaped...hot dogs?" There's definitely that, but there are also some of the best restaurants I've ever been to. For real. I have been seriously contemplating going back there soon just so I can eat at Jiko, the African restaurant. This was my first time eating African food, and I love it so much that I actually get a nostalgic happy/sad feeling welling up inside of me thinking about it. Specifically, about the Sweet Potato and Maize Tamales, with goat cheese, pictured.

I think it's the only time I've ever ordered more of an appetizer. Inside the tamale, the sweet potato is sort of like a polenta/pudding, with goat cheese on top. I can't really do it justice, though. If you know me, you know I never cook. Pasta and pan-frying are pretty much my limits. But I actually went and emailed Disney asking them for the recipe so I could make it. I know I'd probably slaughter it, but at least it would be some sort of sad imitation to tide me over. My heart leapt when I saw the response in my Inbox. I felt like I was getting a response back from a Boy I Liked.

Alas:

Dear Lynn:

We are pleased that during your recent visit to Disney’s Animal Kingdom Lodge you expressed interest in one of our recipes. Normally it is our pleasure to provide you with these requests. However, the chefs at Jiko share only a very few recipes, and unfortunately, the tamale recipe is not one of them.

We hope you enjoyed your visit to Disney’s Animal Kingdom Lodge and that you will return again to enjoy this particular menu item.. If we may be of further assistance, please feel free to contact us.

Sincerely,

The Culinary Team at Jiko

Disney’s Animal Kingdom Lodge

It's not that I don't understand. I understand all too well. But that doesn't change how it feels, you know? I can almost taste it now. But how can you ever know for sure whether the memory of a taste is true? I even went so far as to tell them in my original email that, "My dining companions and I couldn't stop raving about them!", hoping that my grown-up language would do something to sway them. But for naught.
For now, all I can do is write this paean, nay, this apostrophe to the food.

And maybe try to cook the Coconut-Crusted Tofu Noodle Bowl I had there, too, at The Brown Derby.

I'm gonna live forever

2006-07-29T14:07:00.000-04:00

My MTV promo is airing now. Someone from work actually stopped me and told me that he saw me on MTV, which was bizarre considering what it was cut down to:

My 3 Seconds of Glory

We shot 4 hours to get those 3 seconds.

Between this, and the E! show I did that never aired, it looks like I'm pretty much living the dream.

Fun facts about this promo:

- I auditioned with a male model who wore a shirt with a thin, sexy? slit straight down from the top to his torso, and some mystical beaded necklaces hanging down into the chasm. I sort of panicked in the waiting area, thinking, how can I be up for the same thing as this Beautiful Man? (He acted terrified in the actual audition.)

- I am a skater teen in Washington Square Park. I wonder how much longer I can feasibly play a teen.

- The director tried to make it interesting by giving us subtext. "You're sleeping with text-messaging guy, and your best friend is trying to get with him!"

- The food was awesome. They fried their own donuts on the set!

- When the director couldn't find me, because I got lost between the trailer and the set due to my embarrassingly poor sense of direction, I could hear his voice barking over the walkie-talkies, "Everyone, we have to find Lynn... Talent Lynn." I felt a little bit cool.

- When I wait a month to write an entry, I am too lazy to write an interesting description, and post it in bullet point form, thereby depriving both the reader and myself of a fully immersive and engaging story.

- Despite not really seeing me do much of anything in this, my dad is really really proud, and emailed the link to all of our relatives.

Come see my Pearl Brunswick show tomorrow at 10AM at UCB for the Del Close Marathon,

Talent Lynn

I can quit my job...

2006-07-08T00:41:00.000-04:00

...cause I'm going to start my own business.

I find that when I'm talking to my single friends, and we're all whining, it's not usually, "Damn, I really need to get my **** ******." It's usually, "I want a lovebunny to braid my hair for me and tell me I'm the cutest!"

That's where CutieTutes comes in.

In the spirit of cuddle parties and CuteOverload (but with less puppies), now there's CutieTutes. Our team of dozens of highly trained CutieTutes can be at your house within half an hour, and is happy to accompany you to any social event, be it a vegan bbq or an office holiday party! Services include:

*Huggies
*Hand-holding
*Hair-mussing
*Spooning
*Pet-name-calling
*Hair-braiding, mussing, and then braiding again
*Mix-tape-making
*Faux-apologizing for messing up the braiding, accompanied by "I'm gonna fight you!"
*More huggies

...and more!

At no point will any of our CutieTutes make "the moves" on you. They just wanna get cute with you! CutieTutes are available in many different varieties, genders, and flirt severities.

Contact me for rates and availabilities.

Please note: actual emotions of CutieTutes can and will vary.

(The) Who loves hilarious song parodies

2006-06-14T12:08:00.000-04:00

I couldn't sleep last night, as has been the case for the past couple weeks. And I couldn't get this idea out of my head:

Pan in on a Frustrated Housewife.

Wifey (to the camera): Uggh, housework!

VO: Sick of slaving all the live-long day on tiresome chores, just to have them back on your plate only days later? Good news! Now there's:

(Psychedelic shimmering background appears, and from a misty haze emerges...)

PETE TOWNSHEND!

In a montage - Pete sings, and stars and random beautylove pops up all over the screen:

"Let my love open the door (shot of Wifey frustratedly trying to use WD-40 on her bedroom door)
Let my love organize the drawer (a pile of shirts neatly stacks itself inside of her dresser)
Let my love polish the floor (the fomerly dull kitchen floor is magically brand spankin' new!)
Let my love open the door...."

Wifey is now done with all of her chores, and the door springs open, and she can enjoy the sunny day, jamming on the lawn with Pete Townshend and the band (not the Who, just his own band.) Pete spins and dips her. She laughs and even makes devil horns. The two look deeply into each others' eyes. Fade out as they kiss....

VO: Pete Townshend. Let his magical love clean and organize your entire home.

It's very hard being a mouthpiece of the Gods. I guess Moses probably didn't sleep when writing the Ten Commandments down, either.

I'm going to Disney World.

2006-04-25T22:14:00.000-04:00

Scoff as you will, but I am going to be staying in faux New Orleans and weeping with joy each night as the fireworks climax in the shape of a heart.

I want to be the girl with the most cake

2006-03-23T12:33:00.000-05:00

My doorbell rang this morning at 8:30, so I ignored it. My rationale being that the only people who would ring a doorbell that early are killers and delivery people, and I didn't order anything.

I found an envelope taped to the door with a note inside. Who could it be from? My downstairs elderly neighbor lady, who once came up in the middle of the night screaming at me, enraged, because I was stapling? A gentleman caller, who, rapturous with enchantment, could not contain himself until a more decent hour?

Behold, in shaky handwriting:

Dear Neighbors-

Yesterday your housekeeper took clothes that belong to us. She got into a fight with my housekeeper and threatened to hit her. I'm very upset about this and want our clothes returned. One item is a pair of Nautica jeans, Size 32x34. And possible other items. Please call me at (212) xxx-xxx.

Lady and Dude She Lives With

For some reason, my initial half-asleep thought was that maybe this was true. Maybe I DID have a housekeeper, or maybe I had done laundry last night looking like the help, gotten into a fight with another housekeeper, threatened violence, and then run off with a pair of Nautica jeans.
Then I laughed (in my head. I don't really LOL.)
Is it because of my ingrained prejudice that I find the idea of two housekeepers fighting mildly hilarious? Do I need to undergo sensitivity training?
I think it's also that the idea of anyone having a housekeeper is way too froufrou for me.

I think I'd make a terrible rich person.

January 8 - February 12, 2006

2006-02-12T21:39:00.000-05:00

I tripped and fell.

Saffron

2006-01-07T01:13:00.000-05:00

OK, so technically it's 1AM, Thee Who Judges My Blogging-Daily Ability. But I didn't go to bed yet!

Today was a frustrating day of looking at $2600 apartments with 9x7 bedrooms. GUGGGH. Stuy Town increased my rent 15%.

So I am going to bed, but not before I share with you this entry from my old old journal. Because it's like when they put out a special edition of a classic with new cover art and a prologue, perhaps by a great fan of the author. It's retypeset, it's on my own Web site, and it has a prologue by Freaks and Geeks impresario, Judd Apatow.

The Female Version of Hilarious, by Freaks and Geeks creator Judd Apatow*

Much has been written lately in both fancy-pantsy cultural journals and consumer mags alike about "the female sense of humor". Examples cited with the same aching frequency of a dull, throbbing bruise time and time again include "Sex and the City", "Girl's Guide to Hunting and Fishing", Teen Girl Squad, "Mommie Dearest", Rachel Dratch as Debbie Downer, Lisa Marie Presley's new sitcom, French Stewart, a loaf of French bread sticking out of a purse, Ally McBeal, grandma prison, arguing about whether the recorder is a real musical instrument, and Erma Bombeck.

I've been averse to this singling out of women in comedy, not so much because calling things out by gender is sexist or divisive, but because these examples are so poor and incomplete. I was idly lounging in my apartment one Sunday morning when my good friend Sarah Silverman IMed me and said "You've got to read this." Sarah knows me and knows I don't cotton well to being Web-linked to videos of fat people falling down shafts and the like. So I knew this was going to be something.

With almost no hesitation, I clicked the link to the Improv Resource Center website. "Don't Cry, Tomato Baby" I mulled like fine wine, chuckling a breathy chuckle, almost an exhalation of air with no audible sound. 20 decibels at most. "It's got a ring to it." At the time, blogs were very rare, almost unheard of. It was a subculture frowned upon by mass media and most state governments. To have a blog was an act of brashness, and a blog by a woman, even more so.

So I read. I read like the Israelites reading the tablets upon which Moses had inscribed the Commandments. And you know what? It was the best 20 minutes of my life. These 6 entries inspired me to write what would later become known as short-lived but beloved cult favorite television show "Freaks & Geeks". Their openness, honesty, wry but not without warmthness. I got to work and worked feverishly until the sun came up.

I have never met Lynn. But to her I say, "thank you, chica."
And I know that if she could talk, she'd say "you're welcome."

What follows is the exact original version of one of her blog entries. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

Funny is as funny does,
Judd Q. Apatow

1-21-04, from the IRC

Lynn's Journal

Drama of the Day:

I ordered a black bean burger with cheese from Sidewalk tonight (50 cents extra). When I took it out, I realized there was no cheese on it. So I decided that I was going to stand up for my rights, and called them. The woman on the other end matter-of-factly, even pleasantly, responded, "OK, great, I'll send a slice of cheese right out to you. Is that OK?" "Well, no, not really. I don't have a grill." "Great, I'll send out the cheese." Silence for a ridiculously long amount of time. Finally, I say "Hello?" "OK, hi, cheese coming soon" (she hangs up).

I wander the length of my apartment (about 10 feet) to my roommate's room. "Alison, do I want them to send me a piece of cheese?"

"No, that's disgusting. They probably spit on it." This is a girl who won't even let her boyfriends sleep in her bed for fear they'll drool on her pillows.

I mull over the idea of spitty cheese, and how this could impact my life. I would never KNOW the cheese was spitty, unless it smelled like spit or glistened excessively, which could just be moisture. But yes, if it was beaded, and smelled, it was probably saliva on top of the slice of cheddar.

"Call them back and tell them to keep the cheese slice!"

She was right. I was just making the unfortunate delivery boy, who seemed underage and vaguely tongueless, come back and climb up the four flights. And for what? Tainted cheddar. If not with the pearlescent sheen of mouthjuice, tainted with the desperation and selfishness that walked hand-in-hand with me forcing the poor boy to bring me the slice. I couldn't help but wonder, though, would it be neatly packaged, a la Kraft Singles? Haphazardly swathed in plastic wrap? Angrily balled inside a napkin? The death of this potential knowledge was a small price to pay for regaining my integrity. I called back.

"Uh, hi, I uh, I don't need any cheese. Save it for next time."

"OK, great, bye."

And so begins my career as a stand-up who tours cheese-related establishments around the country - dairy farms, wine tastings, uh, cheese shops. "So then this idiot wrapped her 1/2 lb. of Hoberfeld in cling wrap!!! I said, I said, would you put a plastic bag over your kid's head like that?! She said, in all honesty, sometimes I think I would!

I want to acknowledge that this means I am now well on my journey to being an Old Jewish Lady, and/or Larry David.

*What, guys? Judd Apatow.

Vomit My Heart

2006-01-05T21:57:00.000-05:00

I worked 12 hours today.
Deerhoof writes the songs I want to write.

I will write more interesting entries on the weekend.

In the meantime, visit this site, upload a photo, and find out which celebrities you look like.
As a baby, I looked like Walter Mondale.
In my bleaker times, I looked like Michael Jackson.
But for the most part, it says I look like old movie stars.
Most Walter Mondale babies grow up to look like Greta Garbo. It's just the way genetics work.

My purse looks like a baby's nightmare

2006-01-04T21:26:00.000-05:00

Obviously Buffy would win in a fight, but Veronica Mars would probably do better on the GMATs.
A snarkfight would end in a draw.

I have slept a total of 7 hours the past 2 nights.

Hollow Nancy Drew Book

2006-01-03T20:56:00.000-05:00

The Babysitters Club, of my youth beloved, is rereleasing the original books as graphic novels. Was it not enough to make that TV show with the non-Asian Claudia? Must they keep tinkering?
PS, I met the girl who played Stacey at a Veruca Salt concert once. She was really embarrassed, covering her face, and her friends laughed at her when my friend Kim recognized her.

Why are these stupid things people post on MySpace being referred to as memes? It's such an oddly sciencey word for posting a bulletin that says "NAME THE FIRST 7 PEOPLE YOU HAD A CRUSH ON AND THEN GOOGLE THEIR NAMES TOGETHER AND THEN POST THE FIRST 12 BAND NAMES IT MAKES U THINK OF AND THE NAME OF YOUR FIRST-GRADE TEACHER AND IT WILL TELL YOU WHAT YEAR YOU'RE GONNA DIE TOMORROW WHEN U SEE THE SUN RISE."
From dictionary.com, a meme is "Richard Dawkins's term for an idea considered as a replicator, especially with the connotation that memes parasitise people into propagating them much as viruses do. Memes can be considered the unit of cultural evolution. Ideas can evolve in a way analogous to biological evolution."
I prefer to think of it as a Paradigm. Just because I like that word.

Speaking of "U", I am listening to a lovehatehorrible song by one of Prince's concubines, Apollonia 6, entitled "Oo She She Wa Wa."
Read the lyrics here and download it if you like fun.

If you hate fun, download it anyway and see what happens.

Grown-Up Stuff

2006-01-02T19:34:00.000-05:00

Stuff I Want to Accomplish by 11:59:59 PM, December 31, 2006:

1. Decorate my room. It's frighteningly bare and austere, a huge expanse of white wall and boring wood furniture. As a side effect of moving 4 times in 5 years, it takes me quite a while to get settled. And seeing as I just got a whopping 15% rent increase, making my whole future a psychedelic funhouse-mirrored abyss of uncertainty and MADNESS, this might have to get put on hold a couple months. But I want curtains, at least, soon.

2. Get a PS2 and catch up on the 10 years of video games that I missed. 8-bit NES emulators, nostalgic love of Maniac Mansion, and this crappy Ms. Pac-Man thing that attaches to my TV just aren't cutting it anymore. Also, I want the karaoke game and Dance Dance Revolution. And Guitar Hero.

3. Book a national commercial that's shown all the time and live off the residuals.

4. Put up this show I'm writing with Betsy Todd (www.thebootyolympics.com)about mid-90s college riot grrrls that's going to change the course of comedy (and Cultural Studies theory) forever.

5. Do a 102/pilot for the New York Independent TV Festival that I've been working on forever with Kirk Damato and Mary Regan.

6. Exercise. No, really.

7. Stop being so insanely tired that I have no social life, but still do all the things I'm listing here.

8. Establish a 401k.

9. Meet someone who seems like a good candidate to have redheaded twins with me in 2010.

10. Do workshops with Pearl Brunswick and some improvfests.

11. Keep my room clean.

12. Write more solo/character material.

13. Stop biting my nails (this one has been going since I was like 8, so it's dubious).

14. Join writing staff of highly respected television show, or develop my own and have it run on the network of my choice. Most likely the cartoon I've been working on with Ainsley.

15. Actually approach people first, and stop being insane and doing the somehow-ingrained "only speak when spoken to" thing I've been doing lately.

16. Remember that I am not a character on a TV show, and that I can not act sassily sarcastic to everyone and expect them to find it adorable. On that note, remember to act like I actually like the people that I like.

17. Make a more complete Web site.

*18. Record a successful indie album that starts off being discussed on popmatters.com, brooklyn vegan, gorilla vs. bear, but eventually becomes a worldwide Sensation. Take some time off from the band and out of the public eye to think about what it is I really want and who matters to me. Dissolve the band and become Legend. Continue to record secretly under the name "Phantasmagoria", causing another buzz, compounded by speculations as to my identity. Keep recording, now content to just release my music and know that it's not about the Fame. Remain moderately rich forever.

19. Go on a vacation. Disney?

20. Do not get any older.

Midnight Bicycle Mystery

2006-01-01T22:03:00.000-05:00

My stomach has grown a brain. It lives somewhere deep within, and it is pink and slushy and pulsating.
All day, everything I do and see has been processed through TummyBrain. Example: I see a bottle of bile-yellow Fabulous brand all-purpose cleaner sitting on my desk. My first thought is, "Uggh, I feel like vomiting, that would be really disgusting to drink."
If one part of my body has to have its own thought process, I guess it's not that bad.
Better than a pancreas brain, or a liver brain.
Although liver brain would have forbid me from drinking as much as I did last night.
I'm normally not a big drinker. I'll have a couple occasionally.
Last night, I decided that since I never do, I was allowed to. Why? WHY? Was it any more fun than it would have been with say, 2 glasses of champagne instead of a bottle?
Sure, it looks cool to tote around a bottle of champagne while wearing a schmancy turquoise sparkly formalwear ensemble (aka "dress"). Like heroin chic, but lush instead. It's like I'm Courtney Love Live Through This era mixed with the cleaned-up Hollywood Courtney Love of Celebrity Skin vintage.
No.
I don't even know how to work champagne. At home before I headed over to UCB, I opened up the bottle I had gotten from work as a holiday present, heard a sonic boom, and watched as it shot all over my kitchen floor, dishwasher, counter, microwave, and cabinets. "No," I whispered, delicately caressing my dampened flesh with my fingertips of milky white.
"Yessss," it replied. In Gollum's voice.
Anyway. I danced and such and it was fine fun, but today I woke up feeling like a beached whale. I wanted to crawl out of my flesh all day. I finally feel somewhat better. I'm eating normally. But I have sworn off drinking more than a couple of drinks, even on Momentous Occasions. I really don't enjoy it.
I look perfectly happy in this picture:
http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/8054/1077/1600/DSC00809.jpg
but that's BEFORE I drowned my liver. And brain. And before my stomach grew its own brain.
I didn't drink a drop for 5 years. I can be all soberlike again, since I barely do now anyway. XxxBiXXXenspanxxX will be my new screenname.

Happy New Year!
Yes, it's an artificial distinction, but time is a man-made invention anyway. So if you decide it's going to be different, lala lala woo.

I'll be posting every day in January! YEAH!

Resolution

2005-12-23T20:40:00.000-05:00

I am going to post every single day in January.
For real.
If you want to join me in this endeavor, let me know.
EVERY SINGLE DAY.
A day beginning at midnight and ending at 11:59 PM, none of this 24 hours from the last post nonsense.
And, congratulations to Melanie Chartoff, who correctly guessed that the name of this blog comes from mishearing the lyric "Don't cry to me, oh baby" from Metallica's cover of "Die, Die My Darling." She requested that this entry be about modus ponens.

Also, fans, I just found out today that some of my jokes are going to air on Fuse Action News in late January. I'll post about that when I know the details.
And if you watch Comedy Central, you may see me dressed as an elf in their "Dingleberry" promos. I haven't seen them yet but word around the farm is that there are about 400 of them and they're on all the time.

Entry Summary:
1. I'm blowing up your TV.
2. More next year, like every day.
3. "If Tuesday is the 14th, then Friday must be the 17th. Tuesday is the 14th. Therefore, Friday is the 17th."

Next time: Modus tollens.

Fibberies I've Committed

2005-11-13T01:49:00.000-05:00

I like to think I'm pretty honest at this point in my life. Especially if you ask me a direct question. I may not go out of my way to break painful news to you, as I've realized that at some point in the past I used honesty as an excuse for bitchery. But I will tell you that your joke isn't funny or confirm that, yes, your eyeballs were pecked out by crows in the middle of the night and replaced with giant marbles filled with googly eyes.
And I can't participate in ongoing deceptions. I will never Punk you. Nor throw you a surprise birthday party. Good or bad, it ties my intestines in squirmy bows. I can't even watch TV shows where the main character is in the dark about something the audience knows.
OK, so now that you know I'm a pretentious fuqtouch who lives up in a virginal tower of unabashed truth.
Here are some horrible lies I've told in the past.

1. In 2nd grade, I was desperate to be famous. Well, not so much desperate as... eagerly awaiting, with complete certainty of the eventual nature of this fact. I wasn't quite yet dreaming of glamorous things like teendom. I was still too consumed with writing poetry about extremely relevant and universal topics like "Freedom".
Excerpted from my postmortem collection of juvenalia:

(Selected stanzas from)
Freedom
by Lynn Bixenspan

In this land
You can stand
Up
For what you believe in.
You might even win.

In this land
there will always be justice.
Whether the name is Mary
or Augustus.

It's all clear
Very near
Never fear.

Freedom.

- - -

I know. It's pretty amazing that an 8-year-old was tackling this topic with such incisive ... incision. Words that cut with the precision of a surgeon, right into the heart of a nation. That's a metaphor. A simile uses "like" or "as". Don't confuse the two. Thanks.
OK, though, seriously, Augustus is clearly a Latino man. Mary is clearly an Anglo-Saxon woman. But here in America, they both receive the exact same treatment. That's something to be proud of.
Proud enough to lie about in the name of Dr. Martin Luther King.
My teacher announced that she was submitting it to the Martin Luther King Day Poetry Contest. Youths from all over America would vie for the prizes of up to $50.
I had no doubt in my mind that I would emerge victorious from this battle. I seriously had no concept in my mind of the prospect of defeat. I was the Smartest Kid in Lido Elementary School. And the Best Writer. I had my own 4th-grade language arts workbook. THAT I DID, UNSUPERVISED. This is no fuckaround. I was on some Doogie junk.
So, prematurely, I told my mom that I had won. Not a lie, just an early revelation. She was proud and happy, of course.
The next day in school, over the loudspeaker, they announced the results. I was already preparing my clapped-at-face. No big deal. Just par for the course for the Smartest Kid in School.
"...1st place, Damian Marley, 5th grade. Congratulations!"
There had to be some mistake.
Should I ask Mrs. Lieb what had happened? Maybe she forgot to send mine in.
No, I would just accept that there had been a mistake.
And when my mom asked me later that day where she could read the poem, naturally I would say:
"The winning poems were published in 3-2-1- Contact Magazine."
Why? Why add to the lie with something that could clearly be proven false?
I don't know. Why did the guy on tonight's edition of Crime Story lie and say that he had dropped his mail-order Russian bride off in Moscow when the airline records would clearly reveal that she HAD, in fact, come in to the US, which would then lead eventually to the police uncovering her body in a shallow grave on an Indian reservation 25 miles north of Seattle, with her bony hand sticking out of the dirt, as if crying out for help, clutching at one last hope?
The criminal mind is. diabolical.
I quickly ran to my room and hid every issue of 3-2-1 Contact Magazine deep into the disgusting moldy recesses of my closet.
She could never know I had lied. It would break her.

But yet, I continued on this path throughout the year.
And the lies just got bigger.

My face and mouth, moving

2005-11-02T22:10:00.000-05:00

Much to your excitement, I have 2 videos of my Projects online.
I truly embody the phrase "frantically twee."

Me in Urchins, Glennis McMurray's Lil' Rascals-esque pilot for Channel 102 submission:

Urchins

Directed by Luke Ward, my co-worker who I had never met until we worked on this together. But I had edited his manuscript for anemia drugs for chronic kidney disease patients.

Then, for a change of pace and me with all of my teeth in my mouth, check out:

The Pearl Brunswick! Live on video!

Video of The Pearl Brunswick (www.thepearlbrunswick.com) at the New York Musical Theatre Festival, doing our long-form musical, "Hospital Waiting Room." It's a pretty big file, but rumor has it that RealPlayer can stream it. I can't substantiate. If you want a DVD, just ask me.

Also, as an exciting enticing marketing device, the first person to guess what the title of my blog means will get to dictate what my next entry is about.

Please participate.

Thank you for your time.

Coma Victim Says He Heard Everything

2005-10-18T00:03:00.000-04:00

I know I haven't updated. I will soon.
On the other hand, maybe I won't.
In the meantime, my MySpace blogis truly a gem!
Also, there are species of crustaceans that upchuck their own entrails when threatened by predators. The point being, to satiate the attacker. If I were 15 I would use this as a metaphor in a poem about love. The poem would also contain the terms "see sick" and "flotsam and jetsam". Did you know flotsam and jetsam are two different things? Flotsam is wreckage or cargo that remains afloat after a ship has sunk. Jetsam is cargo or equipment thrown overboard to lighten a ship in distress, related to the word "jettison." But they are both used now to mean whatever washes up after a ship goes down.
Thanks for visiting, and tune in for the next entry, where I interview Jacques Cousteau in the ocean. IN SPACE.
Bye.

Deutschsland has Gotta Die

2005-09-15T12:07:00.000-04:00

Because of the crazy UN debauchery going on, boohoome, my morningly trip to work has been disrupted.
I work on 42nd, and the bus dropped me off at 49th. MY LIFE IS SO TERRIBLE.
As I was walking the 7 blocks, through a throng of cops and official-looking starchsuits, I heard chanting up ahead of me. It was a rhythmic call-and-response chant:

CROWD: Get China out of Tibet!
ONE IMPASSIONED GUY: GET CHIN-A OUT OF TIBET!
CROWD: Stop the torture in Tibet!
ONE IMPASSIONED GUY: STOP THE TORTCH-A IN TIBET!

My first thought was, "I should really research what's going on in Tibet".
My second thought was, "This could make a really good Atari Teenage Riot song."

The above has been my political blog.

...of Cons Past

2005-09-14T16:12:00.000-04:00

I found this post from January '04 in my old IRC blog, about Ainsley and I trying to go to a Fangoria con.
It is a Found Post:

Last weekend Ainsley and I went to the Chiller Theatre Fangoria con. I hadn't been to a convention since I was like 12, when I went to a wrestling superexpo and met Sting. We drove there from her house in Jersey City, in her '69 butter yellow Plymouth Barracuda (with flower-bedecked roof). I tried to figure out if being in the car made me feel cool, and decided it would feel cooler writing about it. Somehow we got lost after we got to the Meadowlands exit, and then finally once we got there, I realized that it probably wasn't being held on the racetrack or in the clubhouse, and I was an id. So we looked for the Meadowlands Sheraton, and somehow getting in there is incredibly difficult. We could see the hotel, towering above the clouds, but couldn't get into the parking lot. We went down the NJ Transit employees-only road (trespassers shot on sight), and could see the parking lot right across the culvert, with nothing separating us from "Return to Sleepaway Camp: The Panel" but 10 feet and a chain-link fence. The hands on the watch in my head crept slowly towards 4PM, the time of the panel. I had already missed seeing such celebrities as Selma Blair and Ron Perlman, not to mention Kane Hodder.

"Jump the fence," I whispered, trying to muster some sort of Jack Nicholson in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest inspiration.*

"What the shit are you talking about?"

"Jump. the fence," I repeated, my resolve strengthening, now channeling some Thema and Louise action.

A shadow darkened her face. "You asked for it, you got it," she replied, bloodying her lip with determination, her black moon boot pressing pedal to metal. "Don't say I never did anything for you in this lifetime."

So we flew. Oh, we flew like a ... an amnesiac baby swan separated from its family, raised by bald eagles, whose memory is finally restored after a little help from his newfound friends. Like a wizard in a hot air balloon powered by the dreams of children in whom idealism has yet to be crushed.

Uh, for reals we drove around for like another half an hour looking for the road into the hotel parking lot, and missed everything good. Undaunted, we paid $15 to get in, only to go into the dealers' room. There was some Women of Friday the 13th thing going on too, but I didn't care about that. Realizing that I'm poor, and had just paid $15 to get in, plus way too much for a sports bar pizza, I just bought a couple of videos: "Witchcraft IV:The Virgin Heart" (in this fourth installment of the WITCHCRAFT erotic horror series, rock stars sell their souls to the devil in exchange for fame and fortune. Warlock/attorney Will Spanner's (Charles Solomon) only hope of conquering the soul-stealing madness is to use his own black magic powers and recruit the help of a supernaturally sensuous stripper (Julie Strain)) and "Monster on the Campus", starring Troy Donahue (A college professor acquires a newly discovered specimen of a prehistoric fish. While examining the find he is accidentally exposed to its blood, turning him into a murderous Neanderthal, and evoution runs backwards). Evolution runs backwards.

I also purchased some new Garbage Pail Kids. They suck ass. There's 4 pieces of some green slime gum (individually wrapped, not just rotting in the package, the way it should be), 2 sticker cards, and one foil card. And of couse they're no longer allowed to look like Cabbage Patch Kids, so they just look like stupid overgrown babies standing in toilets. Much like...my ex-boyfriend! Haha, thanks, you've been great.

We met some interesting guys, I guess. Bald on top, long on sides guy was selling his own movies, and asked us if we'd like to be in his next one. "What's the name of your production company?" He replied with something like, "American Film Company Productions USA Ltd. Incorporated". This made us feel really comfortable, so we gave him our addresses and told him to contact us, in person if need be, when he needed actors for his next film. "No nudity!" he stressed, balding.

And actually, well... no one was really that interesting. It sounds like I should have some hilarious stories about seedy David Cronenberg-obsessed weirdos, but I really don't.

Then I went home.

Yay, life!

*I'm not saying that Jack Nicholson actually said this. Nor Susan S. nor Geena D. Just that I was thinking of them. OK? Thanks.

MegaMegaMicroDork

2005-09-14T01:08:00.000-04:00

I'm back from DragonCon in Atlanta. (OK, I've been back for days but this gives it a more contemporary feel). For those of you who don't know, DragonCon (www.dragoncon.org) is one of the biggest conventions (sci-fi, collector, comics, obsessive about any form of media) in the country. The schmancyish hotels - the Hyatt, Marriott, and basically all of downtown Atlanta-are overrun with costumed norks and dweerds to the nth degree. A place where you can play Magic:The Gathering in a ballroom at 3AM. A dorkotronic utopia where Levar Burton sits at a table all day long, smiling and waving, waving at YOU, beseeching you to come over and pose for a picture with him.

I'm not one of those people that feels the need to dwell on my own dorkiness, wear it as a badge in some sort of defiance to try to exonerate it. Because I realize that everyone is some form of dork. Whether it be about something more generally socially acceptable or the stereotypically nerdy things like D&D. And I am around the kinds of people that are into that stuff anyway.

That being said, a lot of these people were dorky in the more blatant ways. Not because of what they liked or how much they liked it, but more because of their non-endearingly painful social awkwardness and desperation. But at the same time, it was so great to see people unapologetically being themselves-even though an alarming number of times that "self" was a half-naked StormTrooper variant.

Some highlights:

- Our hotel room got COBRA-ed! Yes, LARPing was in full effect. Live Action Role Playing, GI Joe-style. A red and white sticker on our door late Saturday night... we were now living in enemy territory. Luckily, we were only forced to exist under this despotic rule for about 6 or 7 hours, when we got GI Joe-d.

- A light saber battle in the hotel lobby, complete with grunts and rolling on the floor. Re-enactment or original battle choreography? Not confirmed.

-Searching for one of the famed DragonCon parties in the Hyatt private rooms. Where were these fabled Vulcan orgies*? Finally, we pass a room enticingly jambed open, a pin-up girl taped to the front door and a sign saying something like, "I'm a big slut hehe!" (no, it wasn't that, but I swear it had the word slut in it). When we peeked inside at a crafty angle we saw that the whole room, walls and floors, was strewn with similar pin-up postcards, and Christmas lights. After a long, tiresome "Dare me to go inside?" session, one of our party charged the door and busted in. We waited with bated etc. He was there for about 15 seconds. "Well? What was in there? Writhing aliens?" Pause. "It was just... 5 guys... sitting cross-legged in a circle on the floor drinking beer. They said hi and asked if I wanted to sit down. I didn't." Oh you 5 Guys, you! You and your Hopeful Retro Soft Porn postcards! You are adorable.

*I didn't want to participate in the Vulcan thing. I don't even watch Star Trek.

I may APPEAR ugly, but I'm not.

2005-08-22T00:53:00.000-04:00

Saddest line found in the "About Me" section of an online personal:

I may come across desperate, but by no means am.

I don't think this needs my scathing commentary.

2005-08-20T13:40:00.000-04:00

Although I'm not above posting about myself as a cheap and very limited-range publicity stunt, this is not my handiwork:

http://newyork.craigslist.org/mnh/mis/92054024.html

girl group at ucb - m4w - 23

Reply to: anon-92054024@craigslist.org
Date: 2005-08-19, 10:06AM EDT

That girl singing group at UCB on Thursday night was totally HOT. Are any of you single? I don't care which one- or two! If you're looking for a nice guy with a sense of humor, I may be your man.

The Dangers of Kissing

2005-08-18T20:00:00.000-04:00

Here is my first attempt at making a short film. I know there are some rough spots. We only had a week to do it. It was supposed to be shown in 3 parts at Eliza's show 14 Kisses at UCB, but because of technical wackiness, only the first 2 parts were shown.
I'll write more later about the Artistic Process of Being a Virgin Auteur.

In the meantime:

http://antidotefx.com/kiss_1.mov
http://antidotefx.com/kiss_2.mov
http://antidotefx.com/kiss_3.mov

Required Reading

2005-07-30T23:22:00.000-04:00

I was going to make this post a scathing and/or insightful comparison of every blog I've ever had.
Then I realized that linking you to them would be entirely too much information about me to assemble in one place, and my flesh would turn clear and you would see my gizzards... my (dramatic pause) my Very INNARDS, like the Invisible Woman. As much as I enjoy enumerating my own embarrassments, as a great philosopher once said, "If you know everything about a person, what's the difference between them and you, besides your face?"

The premiere of the short film I was in is Monday night at the Pioneer Theater. I am mildly nervous. I only saw a rough cut of it, which was funny. It's called W.O.P. (Without Pimps), a fakeumentary about a female rap group. Apparently I only do projects about all-female musical groups.

You can see the music video from the film at:
http://www.minorapocalypse.com/PICTURES--WOP.html
Be patient, I swear it loads. Yes, I am in dreads in a wheelchair. And yes, that's Ainsley in the terrible wig and schmoopy attire. Send it to your friends and cause it to become an internet sensation.

Tonight Pearl Brunswick did the Pygmy Marmalade Show, which was tons of fun. Pygmy Marmalade and Gunshow PUNTED IT SO HARD. Am I wrong, or have we gotten the suggestion "nail salon" at least twice before?

Recently Overheard Conversations on the Way to Work:

Retarded Man #1 - Hey, how's your dog?
Retarded Man #2 - Oh, I think he's good, but I don't know. I wasn't taking good care of him and he had to be taken away.
Retarded Man #1-Oh... (pause)... Do dogs drink milk?
Retaded Man #2-Well, some do. If their owners give it to 'em.
Retarded Man #1-Oh. OK. (pause again) Do dogs eat people food?
Retarded Man #2-Well, some do. Really poor people can't afford dog food so they take the leftover table scraps and put them in the backyard for the dog to eat.
Retarded Man #1-Oh. (pause) Bye.

I'm not making fun of them. It was really a heartbreakingly sad, if unintentionally funny, conversation.

On the way to the bus-

Adorable Blond Tiny Girl, running with her mom: Mommy! Pigeons!
Mommy: Yes, pigeons! NOW SPRAY THEM!
Adorable Blond Tiny Girl whips out a spray bottle and starts maniacally spraying the pigeons.

Someone please come up with a reasonable explanation for that occurrence.

2005-06-26T11:48:00.000-04:00

This is my seventh blog since 2001.

To demonstrate commitment to this one, I have purchased a domain name. And, clearly, there is no way I would let my $6.95 go to waste.