Three weeks ago, I gave blood. Last week, in the mail, I received an Exxon Mobile cash card from the New York Blood Center with a five dollar credit on it. Blood for Oil!
(Or: Altruist acts may result in a nasty bruise on one's arm, whether or not one gets a free quarter mile's worth of gas for it!)
In the interim of my absence--a complete upheaval. Still, events occur without pause; there is a seamlessness to time and circumstance.
Without warning, the Self may shift dramatically; becoming itself, touching upon its unconditioned origin: not death but truth.
There is freedom in facing one's situation.
Consciousness comes. A path opens up. There is no turning back.
Today is my birthday. I'm 17!
No need to delve into your retirement funds for gifts, loyal readers. If you must give, simply pick up one piece of trash today and throw it into the nearest waste receptacle.
Glory be to the Great Lords Of The Abyss!
Over the weekend I went camping with friends in Pennsyltucky.
I swam in a pond, read a book in a hammock and slept in a tent.
There was a huge spider on my tent. Cows ate my shirt. There were fireworks.
We set a dinasaur pinata on fire, followed by a Jenga tower.
Just as one is patting one's self on the back for leaps made in the way of "reasonable adulthood," one may find one's self quickly plunging into the depths of one's own animal nature.
Hopefully when the Emperor realizes he's naked, he does not have to reach for his starchiest three piece suit in penance.
So last night I was out drinking with my buddies on the LES/ Greenpoint and I ran into this chick named Lecy. She said I would write about my night in my blog the next day (today) and that when I did, it would be f*@kin boring.
Me: Your blog's f*@kin boring! Why else would I hijack it? Because I like you?
Lecy: Because you're an aspiring schmactor who's trying desperately to get noticed.
Me: Schmactor? Wha--? Dude, I was on Law and Order!
Lecy: So was she.
Then she pointed to some random chick who, though smokin hot, was definitely not on Law and Order.
Me: What's up with the lame, robot entry anyway? Trying to steal my fire? "Angrycommenter-bot?" That's gay.
Lecy: You're gay.
Me: You're gay.
Lecy: I wish.
Me: No you don't.
Lecy: Okay. You're just mad you got upstaged by a tin can.
Me: You should listen to all the Roseanne watchers who google you and go to your blog to give you sh** for not being famous anymore. They're right to question your cantankerous ways.
Lecy: You're right. Someone's got to do it.
Me: Get a life, Dude. Have some fun. Lighten up!
Lecy: En-lighten up.
Me: I am enlightened! How else do I get all the hotties?
Lecy: The lasses you "get" have their idea bulbs burnt out. And they've each called a hundred supers to their little E.Vill apartments who, together, can't screw in a new one...
Me: Alright, alright! Stop speaking in tongues.
Lecy: Stop doing mouses.
Me: Stop dating rats!
Lecy: But I have so many jokes to tell them!
Me: Yeah. The homeless man with the cheeseburger in his pocket. Hysterical.
Lecy: I'd rather be a hysteric than a clone.
Me: Then you should be on The Surreal Life!
Lecy: Life is surreal enough. Like talking to you right now reminds me of that movie Sssssss where that guy turns into a snake at the end...Later, Gator.
Me: What?
She left (thank god). Then me and my buddies partied till dawn and met all these hot chicks. It was rockin--anything but boring! I'm the m.f.in man.
Joe Wimpster
3.
In the grotesque nature of truth;
In the grotesque truth of nature;
Guilty or innocent, we die.
And, while living, watch
the guilty and innocent
live and die.
Thus, alone
in our thoughts
we find others.
2.
Identifying with
the organization
divides the family.
Trusts and bonds
feign trusting bonds
to steer the local politic.
There is no security
in blood and money;
church and state.
1.
In small moments
of happiness
the mind defies complexity.
The burden of worry
is less than
the awe of simple being.
"I'm alive and living"
is enough to unite
spirit and daylight.
The sun and lush green seem new
as if, yesterday, there had been
no storm at all.
How does it seem new every time;
The storm, so readily forgotten;
Today, evenly sad and beautiful.
I'm brainwashed in the way of ___________.
I have tendencies toward_____________.
I am corrupt because___________.
I am not corrupt because____________.
___________makes me angry.
___________makes me happy.
___________makes me human.
___________makes me "me."
And my old pal Joey.
Meet my new friend Peabody.
Today, while spackling holes in my brick walls, I saw an angry cat with a chainsaw.
Late Edition
Today: Brilliant sunshine, chilly start, mild end, high 67.
I am Angrycommenter-bot. I am programmed to hijack Don't Shoot The Messenger and destroy it with a monotonous drone of half-truths.
Destroy Don't Shoot The Messenger.
(lasers)
Former child stars with blogging hobbies are no match for Angrycommenter-bot.
(lasers)
I did not like it when you erased your mouth in Photoshop.
(lasers)
You are too old to be blogging. You should find a reason to resurrect your career, like taking up meth or dancing with the stars.
(lasers)
Lecy: Not so fast, Angrycommenter-bot!
How did you get through my forcefield.
Lecy: With a little help from the Blogger Team. Thanks Blogger Team!
Now, what were you saying about me being a worthless piece of crap?
Destroy Don't Shoot The Messenger.
(lasers)
Ruin Lecy's day by insulting her blog.
(lasers)
Lecy: Angrycommenter-bot, why do you bother writing such negative comments on my blog? Why not just say "Mental Note: Next time don't click on Don't Shoot The Messenger?"
Your self-indulgence irritates me to the point of political action.
Lecy: Well I hope you're writing Dick Cheney, too.
I'm not.
(lasers)
Lecy: I understand the need to take political action--quit lasering me! But sometimes a blog is just a blog.
Freud. Does not compute. Error. Low disk space. Warning. This Angrycommenter-bot will self-destruct unless the batteries.........................................................................................................
Lecy: Whew. That was a close one, Socrates. Good thing I didn't have to press the Rapture button.
Socrates: Yes.
There are so many things going on. So many thoughts. So many people with so much to do. So much potential. And dissatisfaction. And happiness. And sadness. And trees. And leaves. And stuff. And pieces of trash. And places to go. And things to read. And to listen to. And to ignore. And to worry about. And to look forward to. And to learn.
In a cab today, exiting the Brooklyn Bridge, I saw a plump robin perched in a blooming tree.
You might be wondering, "Why the long break from blogging, Lecy?"
Well, I just got back from Cancun where I was going wild the past week with my friends Heather, Gretchen, Sarah, Candi and Shannequa.
After the pre-tanning sessions, mani-pedis, boot camp workouts, full body waxing and the Bebe bikini--my Dad's credit card was maxed out before I even hit the beach.
While all that preparation may seem extraneous, it was the only way this 31-year-old hag could pass among all the sweet young things.
I never imagined there would be so many hot college boys clad only in Abercrombe bermudas and hair gel.
Not to mention all the red-faced, white 40+-year-old pedophiles. And the VJs--all those hot VJs.
200 mai-tais mixed with date rape drugs later, it's a holy wonder my midriff stayed on at all.
Now, every time I listen to Sean Paul, attempt to glance at my new, lower back tribal tattoo or look back on the photos of all the teenage boys I deflowered, I'll remember 2006 as the best Spring Break ever.
So what I'm still burnt and hungover. I passed.
And you readers think I'm depressed and never have fun.
Okay. The dog ate my entries. Honest.
The zoo baboon
awakens to fruit
tossed by the uniformed,
scowls at onlookers
on the other side
of the glass.
Power, imprisoned,
resists and adapts
to canned Nature;
Instinct, thrown upon itself,
may roar at the sun
or scratch in boredom.
While hundreds snap photos,
bang and shout
at the glass--
is he ever truly seen
or is it a primate mirror
we take home with us?
It bugs me that Democrats and Republicans alike proclaim that Democracy is the superior form of government.
While I see their point, to a degree, clearly there are some loopholes in our current government (insert gripe here and feel free to laugh at the gross understatement).
Why discount the prospect of new, alternate systems?
Complacency is so prevalent, mass opinions swaying according to authoritative (corporate and otherwise) whims.
Can we not imagine a better way--beyond Star Trek?
Last night I went bowling.
I woke up this morning, thinking it was Saturday and at around three, Hecate told me it's Friday.
It was creepy: as though everything was black and white all of a sudden, and Rod Serling came out of nowhere and started talking.
Maybe that's what bowling does to you.
Or maybe it was those wild dreams I had last night, which bled into today.
It's a little embarrassing. But at least I gained a day.
Hey Socrates.
Hey Alicia.
When I was on Larry King Live a few months ago, I insinuated that society hasn't progressed much since your day. Was I wrong?
Yes. Certainly.
But reading your conversation with Plato yesterday, your discussion seemed pretty relevant to current social issues. Would you agree?
Totally, dude.
And would you agree that although mankind has proved fairly corrupt, historically, there is still hope for social justice and reform?
Yes.
Excellent. And what of individuals? Would it be blindsighted to say that individuals are engineered to favor justice over injustice?
Hell yeah.
Our conversation is beginning to remind me of that song Kool Thing by Sonic Youth. Would you agree?
Word up.
Are you going to agree with all of my questions?
Yes. Absolutely.
Do you think I'm cool?
Yes.
Thanks, Socrates. Talking to you sure beats consulting the Magic 8 ball...
So yesterday I drank a lot of coffee, and while walking, wrote on a matchbook:
While garbage dumps fill, the insatiable emptiness of the individual remains unfilled.
It's amazing: when one, with a propensity toward reactive behavior, while in a milieu, charged with psychic dynamism, finds one's self effortlessly "clicking" into an Observer's Mind.
One, therein, is a surprized witness to the natural order of things; and sometimes Nature's scale may level abruptly.
This marks the fiftieth entry of Don't Shoot The Messenger. So whether you're a subscriber or you're just tuning in now, you have a reason to celebrate.
Thank you for your support. And Glory be to The Great Lords Of The Abyss!
The other day someone asked me if I was happy. Happy?
I do not find glad acceptance in certain aspects of life. I do not suffer fools gladly or accept what I read in the newspaper often.
In short, I struggle with injustice on a social and personal level a lot of the time, and thus long to be part of the Justice League.
It seems that making peace with man's proclivity for greed and cruelty could be liberating, and might result in glad acceptance if not happiness.
Yet how does one accept life's many injustices and still find the fervor to advocate change?
So last night I was drinking with my buddies on the LES/ Williamsburg and I ran into this chick named Lecy. She said I would write about my night in my blog the next day (today) and that when I did, it would be f*@kin boring.
Me: Oh that's original, Lecy! You're like a broken Hole record. If I'm so boring, why do you engage?
Lecy: I try not to but you're always all up in my grill. Besides, you hijack my blog, Joe, and I have a V for Vendetta.
Me: Yeah. And when I hijack your blog, it's good for once!
Lecy: You're messing with my blog's delicate eco-balance.
Me: No. You're a cranky witch who takes herself too f*@kin seriously. Unlike you, I am capable of having fun!
Lecy: Then make like Santa Claus and go back to your "fun" (aka drinking with your frat buddies and picking up dumb boring chicks).
Me: Frat? Wha--?! You're just jealous of all the chicks who want me.
Lecy: You're right. I'll try to act more dumb and boring in the future, and throw myself on more guys like you.
Me: That would be a nice change...
Lecy: Talk to your hand, Joe.
Me: It's talk to the hand.
Lecy: No. Talk to your hand. It's the only thing that's gonna be keepin you company later on and the only thing you can relate to.
Me: You don't know sh**. I get laid all the time. All the time. And if I can't relate to anyone, why is it that when I see you, I'm always with my buddies and you're always alone?
Lecy: Men are pack animals and the witches are busy tonight. Besides, why do I always have to have somebody around me. You're like that guy in Basket Case with that siamese twin/ appendage that gets cut off. And he carries it around in a basket and it attacks people...
Me: I know the movie, Lecy!
Lecy: But you have two siamese twin/ appendages and two baskets...
Me: Okay, okay! Stop. Jeez.
When suddenly, on the bar TV, Crash won for Best Picture!
Me: Whoa!
Lecy: Yawn. I'm going home. I hope you and your cowboy buddies aren't too upset by the upset.
Me: Again, very original humor. Good luck recessitating the Riot Grrrrrl movement.
Lecy: Good luck chasing all the Lilith Fair cotton ball heads. And Spring Break's just around the corner!
She left. Then, me and my buddies partied till dawn and met these hot chicks. It was rocking--anything but boring!
P.S. When I win for Best Actor at next year's Oscars, Lecy, I'll know who not to thank! I'm the m.f.in man.
Joe Wimpster
Sometimes life seems symbolically heightened. This may cause awe or just plain anxiety.
Sometimes the only change seems to be no change, and thus one is anxious about the impending change to come.
Shelley says, "Nought may endure but Mutability."
Similarly, my Dad says, "The only thing consistant about golf is inconsistancy."
But when one hears "Fore!" one's instinct says "Duck!"
For two years in high school, I ate at the same restaurant almost every night (and for brunch on Saturdays).
The Good Earth was located at the Glendale Galleria in Glendale, CA., about a twenty minute drive from my apartment.
For dinner I would have either the Planet Burger or the Twelve Summer Vegetable Soup--always with a Good Earth Iced Tea.
For Saturday brunch I'd have a large bowl of granola.
As I usually dined alone, I think the waitress felt sorry for me; after awhile, she stopped charging me for everything but my Good Earth Iced Tea.
When I read that David Lynch stopped at the Toluca Lake Big Boy for a chocolate milkshake every day at four o'clock, I was comforted.
Being a regular is easy, though it also demands a certain diligence.
And "comfort food" takes on a whole new meaning.
Love, Ludlow is not only in demand (It went up three bucks on Amazon.com), it's now On Demand.
Got cable? Your ninety-nine cents will help keep my blog alive and contribute to next month's utilities (What's up with the gas bill, folks...?).
Actions in life have resonance.
Incredulity may prove a sad entrapment.
Integrity can evoke integration.
There is an angel looking down on me named John Belluso.
And if he's just a memory, if the pragmatist says he's "no more" (Angel? What proof? Why is he up there and you down here?), I will, instead, take John's Romantic philosophy and say: Love and Truth reign supreme. And the future is Hope.
The news is always slanted,
But slanted not to me;
Celebrities and pedigrees
Don't talk philosophy;
The Great Lords are a-waitin'
In an Abyss full of fog;
Come on I'll give you shelter,
Shelter in my blog.
Of all the online places,
No elsewhere you will see
A witches' brew, Joe Wimpster's views,
Personified pastry;
Escape from corporate hell-fire
And meet the underdog;
Come on I'll give you shelter,
Shelter in my blog.
Google is addictive,
e-harmony is wrong;
And I tunes doesn't always seem to
Have my favorite song;
I'll wonder as I'm walking,
And wander as I log;
Come on I'll give you shelter,
Shelter in my blog.
It's just like looking in the mirror.
No, seriously: Have a nice day.
A star stops. And the black hole implodes in a dense mass of darkness.
Its event horizon is brilliant, invites awe (What looks like coral is, surprize!--carnivorous fish!).
Inside, all that is stretched speeds incomprehensibly into the future singularity.
Those roots are good with the dirt still on 'em.
Witches don't tuck their jeans into boots.
Two out of three witches have punched or kicked a hole in the door.
"Memory Lane" is just another way of saying "hell."
They're all trying to fit "the mold."
What's up with Failure to Launch?
Don't be a movie-whore, Dad!
Dr. Phil is hiding something (He's at the bunny ranch with Rush Limbaugh).
My cell phone started meowing in the middle of my session.
It's a crime that Steven Soderbergh remade Solaris!
Tourqouise is good with the muscle suit. What about a fanny pack?
You can take that Bust I'm done with it.
Black or white--money's green.
What's this green thing? It tastes like wasabi...
Look, I'm Amelie, playing the violin!
Those roots are good with the dirt still on 'em.
The "period movie" stayed with me for five days...
Did he really think you were going to go home with him--from the street corner?
Sometimes I get so mad!
Last night I felt frightened and abandoned and acted like a needy child. I regret it.
This morning, my heart led me to the place where it is happiest, and my head did not stop its course.
I was foolish. But a pure feeling in this cruel world can be worth living for. And I was surprized to find my heart speaking its truth, unconditionally.
Two Haikus
Robert De Niro:
The American Express
Commercial's edit.
Watch Lou Dobbs Tonight:
Commentary re: trade and
Our Nation's borders.
Someone's having sex tonight...
Outside, everything is white. And the sunlight reflects off the white like a vast blanket of bounce-board.
Even when one is indoors, white light remains imprinted on the eyes like a negative or a soft lens.
mourning dove, mourning dove
you flew down from up above
and sang a little song for me
in which I heard conspiracy
I found myself in a blind rage
shoved you into a white cage
and you were smaller than my glove
o mourning dove, mourning dove
mourning dove, mourning dove
to take back that brutal shove
I did not think yet was headstrong
your throat was right, my ear was wrong
for you were faithful all along
so fly wherever you belong
but don't fly far now that you're free
please sing again and release me
Last night Hecate and I went to a screening of Dr. Bronner's Magic Soap Box, a wonderful documentary Bathory edited about the eccentric soap shaman.
While I have bought Dr. Bronner's soap over the years, taken by its delightful scent and cryptically verbose label, watching the film, I was gripped by the notion that a label only goes so far in representing what can be a far greater and more complicated vision behind it.
And, as the film shows, Dr. Bronner's vision is as clear as it is opaque; as simple as it is grandiose.
Dr. Bronner's Magic Soap Box depicts a humanitarian whose life is stricken with mental illness while being graced by an idiosyncratic genius.
Losing his parents to the Nazis, Dr. Bronner left Germany for the States where for years, he was in and out of mental hospitals before he finally escaped.
His tragedy continued into the lives of his three children who, after losing their mother early in life, were basically orphaned.
What saw Dr. Bronner and his family through their respective tragedies was a shared spirit of social change and a plight to overthrow those aspects of religion which oppress and divide men.
As a child, when his father told him that "soap and politics don't mix," Dr. Bronner defied him by mixing soap and politics for his livelihood.
His story celebrates the individual, and the strength one must find in order to transcend a life of tragic circumstance.
The next time I wash with the Dr. Bronner's Magic Lavender soap I received last night from the Bronner family, I will gladly enter "spaceship earth," so long as I don't have to pick any flowers or hug anyone on board.
It is better to have loved than to have not loved at all.
Who first spoke this tale so tall?
Who had such a sanctified wherewithal?
Who had the gumption and the gall?
It is better to have loved than to have not loved at all.
It is better to have loved than to have not loved at all.
What is Love? To whom does it befall?
Does one clearly hear its call?
Is its writing on the wall?
It is better to have loved than to have not loved at all.
It is better to have loved than to have not loved at all.
Is there freedom in Love's enthrall?
Is comfort found in its appal?
And can Love lead to one's downfall?
For when it is everywhere, it is nowhere at all.
Just when I thought it was going to be just another ho-hum Monday night of stir-frying kale and watching Wife Swap with Rudy (the cat), my friends Susan Buice and Arin Crumley dropped by with two of their friends and--surprize--I was having a party!
I met Susan and Arin in Germany last September at the Oldenburg Film Festival.
When I first saw them at the festival's free cappuccino, Javer and internet center, I thought:
"Here I am, my first day in Germany, and who do I see but two young hipsters from Brooklyn!
Ridiculously young, attractive and compelling hipsters at that!"
We exchanged the Official Brooklyn Hipster "I'm so much cooler than you" look, and then soon enough, found ourselves doing the robot together to bad, early-90's euro-trance.
Throughout the festival, Susan and Arin always had a camera on them, and it was always on.1
To the degree that when they showed up at my apartment last night, I was surprized to find them camera-less (Though Arin did have a digital on him).
Their film, Four Eyed Monsters, is an artistic collage of ideas and images, which congregate in a love story based on Susan and Arin's relationship.
Four Eyed Monsters had its premiere at Slamdance last year, and has since been heralded at many festivals. In Oldenburg it had a cult-like following.
Susan and Arin are a team of adorable guerrillas; Romantic revolutionaries; innovators whose conviction has inspired me.
It was good to see them again. And it was a surprize to be having a party.
Buy the Four Eyed Monsters DVD--when you can. And fight the good fight!
1 Except for one night at a party, when a tall, blonde actress in a baby blue dress and heels fainted perfectly back into a blue stage light. I think Arin was too awe-struck to lift the camera. We all were.
Not always, but sometimes one experiences misperception.
Sometimes it occurs in a more direct cause-and-effect way, as when one's projection is recognized and accounted for soon after.
While other times, misperception can manifest in more cryptic ways, leaving one caught in a complex web of one's own deception.
It is frustrating when one is trying to ride straight down the road of awareness, only to find one has taken a wrong turn.
When this happens to one, one may feel embarrassed or horrible. And when others are involved, one may feel more embarrassed, more horrible.
I apologize, truly, to all of you who have been involved in my misperceptions over the years, and by means of continuity, understand those misperceptions to be as such.
For Betty Friedan
When a scantly-clad Jessica Simpson approaches with pizza poppers, resist the pang of hunger in your gut for Pizza Hut brand pizza.
When accosted by images of emaciated fourteen-year-old girl models in pre-pubescent boy-poses this fashion week, get your "just escaped from the looney bin-" hag on and start yellin' in the streets.
When that older guy at work comes up behind you and gently hand-swipes your ass, kick him in the balls and send him home, crying to Mommy.
When the baby's crying, comfort it--It's a baby!
Then, when he has calmed and you are calm, explain to him that when he's older he'll really be crying!
Cause Mommy's angry. Oh yes; Mommy's angry.
Hecate and Bathory got me this lighter last summer at a headshop on Cape Cod. It's a hologram that changes from ET in the woods to a skull with a tongue, emerging from flames.
When I was in elementary school we were asked to write and draw three wishes.
Mine were as follows:
1. I wish that I had a secret land of my own.
2. I wish that my parents would never die.
3. I wish that I owned ET.
The lighter, in its own way, encapsulates all three.
One's wishes truly can come true by means of materialism!
Mom-ma Mom-ma you're so bad
Mom-ma Mom-ma you're so bad
You're the only Mom-ma I've ever had
Mom-ma Mom-ma you're so cruel
Mom-ma Mom-ma you're so cruel
Beat up the bul-lies after school
Mom-ma Mom-ma you're so e-vil
Mom-ma Mom-ma you're so e-vil
You employ the tempting de-vil
Mom-ma Mom-ma you're so rude
Mom-ma Mom-ma you're so rude
It's a night-mare being your brood
Mom-ma Mom-ma you're so wrong
Mom-ma Mom-ma you're so wrong
You will mur-der me for this song...
Move over, Nun Bun! The Burger King King Streusel was discovered yesterday at baked in Red Hook, Brooklyn, causing quite a stir in this small, seafaring community.
Doesn't He look grand there on His throne of homemade marshmallows?
When I saw His Majesty yesterday morning, I did not have my camera on me.
So camera in-hand, I returned today to find He had vanished from atop His marshmallow throne!
Distraught, I scanned the baked contents of the glass counter--no scone went unturned.
Until--at last--I spotted His crown, sticking up from a row of common streusel.
I could not believe that He had not been shellaced; and no Burger King King Streusel t-shirts could be found in His kingdom.
The Barista Monk who first recognized His Majesty, happened to be behind the counter.
"Would you mind putting the Burger King King Streusel back on His throne for a picture?"
He respectfully obliged.
As he prepared my cafe con leche, I told him the tale of the Nun Bun and its tragic fate.
"Well, you don't have to steal the King. He's for sale."
So it is my great pleasure to report that while the immortal Nun Bun was stolen, the day-old Burger King King Streusel was rightfully purchased.
O Your Royal Highness: Justice has been served for all baked goods that look like someone's face!
Ye proved delicious.
Being empathetic, it is often times difficult to put one's own needs first.
I applaud you empathetic individuals who put your needs first.
What does one do when one awakens to a beautiful, sunny New York day in a King Kong-sized rage?
If one finds oneself walking on the way home from getting coffee (which one does not need while in a King Kong rage), one may imagine picking up a digging bulldozer and throwing it at another digging bulldozer.
And when a friendly Workman waves and offers, "How do you like this lovely summer weather we're having?"
One replies, "It will be gone tomorrow."
At the disappointment of this cruel fact, along with the persistant King Kong rage, one may be driven to a manic "seems like Spring" apartment clean.
Perhaps one is tempted to buy a new-and-improved cleaning product to feed the beast, yet one has a full bottle of Pine-Sol already.
Yet the King Kong rage drives one to consume still--to buy groceries--to make pate!
O great Lords Of The Abyss! Readers! I did not post an entry on Saturday as I was too busy drinking Co Co Reef and rapping Ludacris' "Number One Spot" at the local Karaoke hole.
Have mercy on this Wench! I have wronged you. But I did not buy a new-and-improved cleaning product today.
Today I did a phone interview for the upcoming DVD release of a film I did called Love, Ludlow.
I was so boring.
I took the call at the Beauty Parlour while getting my roots done. And I felt as if the satellite rays to my cellphone were ricochetting off the foil on my head, bringing electro-magnetic havoc to myself and the hip staff and patrons of the Beauty Parlour.
I also felt like a robot communicating with aliens on a UFO.
I also felt like an asshole.
So do us all a favor: If you believe in social justice, buy the Love, Ludlow DVD.
And save us all from the true horror of my science-fiction-preoccupied boring interviews.
Yesterday I went to the 1-800-Flowers.com factory, where I usually work the two to three weeks before Valentine's Day, making rose bouquets, to fill out some paper work.
It turns out that I would have to piss in a cup this year to pass a drug and alcohol test. I told my boss I would never pass that test. I would sooner pass the NY bar exam.
My boss said, "I won't tell your co-workers why you're not working here."
I said, "I'll tell them myself."
So after giving one of my co-workers the 411, he suggested I smuggle somebody else's urine for the test. And that idea completely grossed me out.
Walking to the subway back to Brooklyn, something extraordinary happened. I can't tell you exactly what as it involves personal information about a certain individual, but it was one of those extraordinary moments of personal consciousness that leaves one faint.
Then I saw Anderson Cooper on the street. He was bundled up in a blue coat and hat.
I used to have a crush on Anderson Cooper, before Michael Musto outed him (From my Vassar days, I realize having a crush on a gay man proves fruitless in that way).
I didn't recognize him at first as he was not in The Thinking Man position in the presence of hungry, though happy, African children.
Still, I waved to him. And he kind of snarled/ smiled back. Perhaps he was thinking: "There's that girl who, on Larry King, said she was offended that Roseanne kissed Muriel Hemmingway."
Or maybe he thought, "There's just another gal who recognized me."
