Autoportrait 3.0

[Autoportrait]

It's April of last year. This is where I've started to begin; April of last year. We're in Malibu and the wind is as perfect as wind has ever been. You're looking at the beach because you recognize a celebrity and her dog down there and she's huddled in your hoodie, her whole body squeezed up inside it 'cause she's always cold and even colder now smack between the pool beside us and the ocean below. She's so tiny in there, like a girl, and now looking back I remember it like this: it's because it was your hoodie, that's how you made both of us feel sometimes, like a girl all wrapped up. And alternately, like something torn of its surface and alone. But maybe that was just me. It's just easier to imagine or remember that it wasn't just me. I mean I feel smarter that way.

The wind picks up. We put rocks atop our construction paper and our crayons throw caution to the wind.

I come back to this beginning [Malibu, April] because this is the scene that opens the novel [fictionalized, of course, with everyone playing someone else, including me] I assume I'll eventually finish, otherwise this whole thing [my life] is kinda anti-climactic. In the novel, we are there with our crayons when I get an email on my phone from my other half, who I haven't heard from in years -- I've lost him, that much is true -- and it turns out he's in LA but he doesn't know I am too.

When I tell vosotros, you say, Clearly we are going to stalk him right now. My friends love me like that, drive faster for me. It's a novel. This didn't happen.

++

Malibu in April was a place where everything felt perfect except me. And you and you and you and you and you, and her. It was like crying and laughing at the same time, it was the opposite of fucking & laughing at the same time. The air and the sky, and how at night the stone floor would get so cold, and how I slept so easily next to her because I trusted the silence so bad. I was torn up from all sides, like a fistful of frayed rope.

The three of us in the sunshine; three jellyfish with hoods up and phones out but unimportant, dream on, shades shading.

See -- I'd decided to go to Malibu only a few hours before I got on the plane to go to Malibu. I was still packed from the trip to China I never took, and though that dream had been dashed a few weeks prior to Malibu I had not yet unpacked because I was very busy self-destructing in New York, crawling with blades flared across those creeping warm dumb almost-spring days. Then you called me from the airport and said do you want to go.

That was the week when my heart crashed. I don't mean broke. I mean everything breaks my heart but my heart still works though, I mean that my heart crashed.

I was alone at the time of the crash. There were no witnesses. Or there was one witness; later. Your finger on my skin, and maybe I told you it was your fault and maybe I didn't but it didn't really matter, it wasn't her fault, I mean it wasn't your fault, I mean it was my fault, I mean nothing is anyone's fault except my own and cracks like blades and I had a magic pill that made me forget. It kills me now not to remember.

++

In Malibu we spoke in little bright charges of electricity and then retreated like lights going off. We drove like nothing bad had ever happened. Does she know, she would ask, does she know? Does she know?

No, of course not. No one knew. We thought we knew and we didn't.

Something changed that week inside me. I mean it changed before I went. In a way I knew what I had to do but I decided instead not to do it because I was scared that if I did what I had to do that I would end up alone and heartcrashed. I mean that writing this I have to pretend like you'll never read it. You, and you, and you and you and you and you and you it was not just you, or even just you, vosotros, you, you ah'tem, ah'ten.

I mean that now as I write this I am heartcrashed to know two or three things I know for sure: that you will not read it, and that you won't either. You weigh against one another like steel and iron, like fire.

++

In the past week, three people have mentioned to me that it's still hard to see themselves, here, sometimes, in the right kind of light. If I get you at a bad angle. If I was in the right place at the wrong time. I was, I guess. I love the wrong time. I am the wrong time, you're a circle and I'm a fist and an angle. No, I'm a circle.

It's just that I don't know that much about the right time except that I'm determined to prove to you that right can come out of wrong, that right doesn't need to be new. Like I don't trust my own decision to always prefer the blank slate. Like I don't know what I want so I just feel like right now I am trying to remove myself from everyone who could be impacted by that decision.

++
I was someone else before you and you. The red bulb and drawing on her back, the girl who lied and the girl who cried, Brooklyn and Harlem and red red red and smoke in the air and the secrets you share alone and naked that you can't explain, which is what makes everything exactly what it is.

And now when we talk about the way we were back then (before you, and you) -- before I knew the jellyfishes I know now.

I don't think I could do shit like that anymore, I said, I mean. Now you can't pretend like you don't get what you deserve when you get it.

Dra-ma, she said.

I don't want to do anything we won't remember, I'd said then.
But it's fun, she'd said.

I don't know that girl back then. I was all desire, no want. I was patient and fast. I dug that Radiohead last night, she said the next morning a chunk of years ago. I love the things there isn't time to say at the time. That was years ago. One day I too would no longer want to remember.

++
I was born with three wishes, but I didn't know any words. My head like a cannonball and flames to the brain. I wasted my first wish on words. My second: no one can leave before I'm ready. Third wish = Infinity.
++

Now she's picking glass out of her foot with tweezers.
I missed the part when she stepped in the glass.

"Don’t hurt me," she says.
Her first wish.

I ask her if she wants a the middle or the end of the sandwich

and she says she wants the end. She says she likes the ends of things.
"I like pretzel ends, I like hot dog ends, Twizzler ends. The ends of things."
++

When she wrote me and said It's stagnant, and you don't like that, I said you're right even though I'd never really thought that before. I never thought I craved change because I didn't like staying still. I always assumed I craved change because where I am never feels right. By "assumed" I mean "I've always known."

But did I tell you about how the air in Malibu was so perfect, how everything was so perfect and airy, how slippery it is on top of a rainbow and skating.

I'm telling you the air was perfect. I mean it when I tell you that I think it was in the air. In Malibu, remember? Where we were when this story began, and a place we will never be again. Those were the last moments of that dream. So there it is. Behind me. I had mentioned, after all, the ocean.

++

I've never been good at describing the weather 'cause it always just seemed so obvious. Now I'm obsessed with it. I want to know about the wind and the ocean and all the things that people who like life like to be close to.

Maybe that was because that was the week I realized that everything was so much larger than me. The good and the bad. That's when things started changing in me. In the fall I decided I wanted to be infinite. In the winter I hid in the middle of everything.

Now there are so many yous, there are so many shes, it's like the universal you. The universal she.
The memory, which we can forget if we want to,
or change when we re-write it,
or eat it, and keep it in our guts forever
like o
like h
++

When I re-write you, I will make the breeze breezier. I will make your eyes bluer even if they weren't blue in the first place. I pick blue because it's the color of sky. You will laugh at me when I say this.

And now I feel like you laughed at me from above and she laughs at me from below and here I am in the middle, nowhere near the ends of things. And I can't hear. Because isn't the wind terrible.
++
Which is to say none of the pronouns I so carelessly employ necessarily apply to anyone specific, I mean that.

I wish we had a proper vosotros.

I'm sort of on my own right now, in a weird way. Not for reasons I can explain. But I am, in my head. Oh, no one ever makes sense.
It feels almost like when I stopped taking the anti-depressants years ago,
like coming up from underwater onto a shore that looked black to you but golden to me.

++

The night before I left for Malibu (before I knew I was going to Malibu), I was on the phone with her and then you arrived and I told her my Mom was on the other line but she wasn't, and never would be. Not at that hour.

And I saw you. And we were together for a moment or twenty in the darkness. And then you left. I felt like a very very bad person, which was sweeter than saltwater. Maybe that happened or maybe you didn't.

I called her back. "So anyway ..." I began.

And we spoke like only simple things had transpired between before and now, like nothing had changed, maybe she'd had a snack or I'd put on my pajamas, like we are two little rocks of love that are stronger than time or change or memory or anything. That's something. You need two or three things you know for sure, a person and maybe two or three more people who are like rocks. Then you can have wind on top of the rocks which don't move. The trouble begins when you mistake Malibu for forever. When you mistake anything for forever.

And the next day I slept until I couldn't sleep anymore because every waking moment was hard. I woke up and you called and asked if I wanted to go. Of course. Of course all I ever want to do is go. I didn't tell you that I'd gone until I got there and you were mad at me for going. But I was safe.

And I went.

++

We came back laughing. We took two Valiums each, or maybe you took three. Then we were really flying. Nothing hurt. I'd always hated flying but I wanted that flight to never end. Our seats were large, we pretended to be rich people because you pretended to be a rich person all the time and I went with you wherever you wanted to go.

And I loved you so much in that moment. As a friend, perhaps I had never loved you or needed you more as I did in the air that day, coming back from where you had taken me and feeling you'd never take me anywhere again. I always knew, you know.

Hiding in your hoodie, and the Valium you put into my palm.

The food they brought us on trays. We flew through sky and clouds and the world was as perfect as it had ever been.

++

Nobody ever really changes. So you take it or leave it.

++

I've always wanted to run away with someone crazy.
Instead I came back to someone who made me smile.

Instead now I

++

I think of Neal Cassady,
I even think of Old Neal Cassady the father we never found,
I think of Neal Cassady, I think of Neal Cassady.

I've got a postcard super-glued to my desk of William Burroughs trying to stab Jack Kerouac with a dagger. I did that 'cause I opened a super glue bottle and it got everywhere and so I had to put something new on top of it, so I put this postcard on top of it and after all this time it is still here on the desk from the whorehouse. "That's what you call it?" She asked me, once. "You call it 'the whorehouse'?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said to her.

++

The ends of things.



Then you left, and I wasn't ready.

auto-world sure was fun, i wish it still existed, it could be our fun of the day 7-28-2008

It's already 3:21 A.M. ... I'm slightly stoned/sleepy and the screen sometimes looks like it's 3-D with pixels of red changing colors in dots. I just ate a granola bar but I put it in a sandwich bag first to make it easier to deal with crumbs. I have a lot of crumbs in my life. Metaphorically.

It's 3:37 AM. (I wrote "I'm 3:37 A.M." first) I wish I had another granola bar. I'm editing this movie for Broadway World and learning how to use Final Cut at the same time. When I'm editing something, I get really into it like almost nothing else I do. Between November 1994 (when The Sads became The Darkness) and October 1999 (when I became Happy), I edited videos compulsively to fill the fat loitering hours, it was the only thing that could distract me or absorb me. I don't know if I'm happy or sad right now. I think I'm happy.

I think it's a nice break to do something more technical, nice to deal with bounds when I'm used to writing for a willing audience, which's so ... well ... boundless. !!!

But I think I'm also behind on things like um ... for real, I really am going to comment about those um, comments and respond to some emails y'all wrote me. Basically at this point it's gonna have to be The Iliad of Comment Responses to justify the wait. Or like; The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, which took Diaz 11 years to write and omg speaking of -- book club is NOW people. NOW. You don't have to answer any of my questions, FYI. I just rambled per ush. What day is it?

Did anyone else think last week's rumble was really meta though? I mean, it's not often that a theory I present in a post evolves into a full-fledged hypothesis without me even changing its content. The Science Fair hypothesis: "It's not a good idea for Autowin to meet people from the internets."

Results: Clearly ... TRUE!

On a totally unrelated note, one of my least favorite things about blogging is this: though it may not seem this way, I hold back a LOT OF STUFF. Though certain weirdos have liked to accuse me of having no self-censorship or withholding abilities, that's absolutely not the case, as any long-time readers are very well aware. I'm fully capable of blithely sporting a swimsuit in the middle of a snowstorm and pretending I'm audio-captured by my iPod when my friends/readers ask me if I'm cold.

I learned all about how to hold back -- both w/r/t information and spiritual virginity -- during my many years as a high-class prostitute. That's not the point though -- the point is ... it really fucking pisses me off when people who've really established some pretty fan-fucking-tastic narratives within my life go off at me for saying ... absolutely nothing whatsoever about any of it.

Why don't I say anything?
1. 'Cause 99% of people are good. For example -- "that woman" is a good, inquisitive, talented and sensitive person with a good heart and ultimately good intentions.
2. I try not to waste my time with unnecessary drama when I could be playing with tweezers or tinkerbell.
3. It's totally unfair since most of the people who read this will probs take my side even if I'm wrong, so it's mean to present anything that could have two sides.
4. 'Cause I'm scared of opening up a can of worms and inside it will be all the gross ugly things about me, stories about how terrible I am too (which are usually misinterpretations, clearly).
4a. However, sometimes I just gotta say that honesty can be a real bitch but bitches can be even bitchier.

I mean ... me? Really? I try really fucking hard not to hurt people here, or be immature. I don't talk shit about people or identify people and say shit I shouldn't say about them -- arguably I did this once ... (the supreme court will get back to me on this particular misstep/miscommunication eventually). ONCE. MAYBE. (And also that one time that I wrote stuff and deleted it the next morning for real, though in my defense it wasn't worse than what'd been said about me) (I'm starting to feel like the existence of this paragraph might be countering my point, which I think is meta, but maybe isn't, I'm not that smart).

So why assume that I'm doing it this time? I don't know. Statistics would suggest it's not likely. So whatevs, if someone gets hit by lightning or wins the lottery today, then we can talk.

I mean -- I'm doing this -- being direct instead of having a passive pity party. So who knows what could happen next!!?!? LOLKATS? Maybe I'll publish my complaint letters to my friendish-peoples to my brother's blog about complaint letters to companies: me to the man.

Wow! I hadn't even thought about that stuff in like five days. Now it's all out of my system and I can get back to things that matter. Here's some auto-fun for snack.

++

[sarah kane]
++

Quote: "He who has a pact with aloneness can even now prepare for all of this ... embrace your solitude and love it. Endure the pain it causes, and try to sing out with it. For those near to you are distant, you say. That shows it is beginning to dawn around you; there is an expanse opening about you. And when your nearness becomes distant, then you have already expanded far: to being among the stars. Your horizon has widened greatly. Rejoice in your growth. No one can join you in that." (from Rilke's "Fourth Letter" from Letters to a Young Poet)

---

Links:
1. nerve's design issue includes "dating advice from graphic designers" , a Stefan Sagmeister interview: "A Very, Very Graphic designer," (@nerve.com) and a piece on the evolution of limosine design and our wildest dreams; "it seats about twenty." (nerve.com)
2. on the stage, no more mr. tough guy (@the nytimes)
3. elitism is not a dirty word: "Categorizing 'the best' isn't confined to art; it plays out in sports, cinema, pop music and beyond." (@the la times)
4. teenagers who prefer to read online -- is it really reading ? (@nytimes) and lost for words: "[the uk] spends more on books than any nation in europe, but many haven't read one in the past year." (@guardian.co.uk)
5. global input requested holler australia - publishers fight against imported books (@the australian)
6. in which you look like you're losing a piece of your soul: "waitress" (@this recording)
7. stef's note: "I always wanted Bette Porter to explain art to me." -- jennifer beals' top five favorite photography books, in which i am not in love but open to persuasion (also @this recording)
8. blogging is ruled by grubby stupid boys (@gawker)
9. ira glass and bob discuss the angry commenter/newspaper comments debate: "comments on comments" (@npr's on the media)
10. the long island railroad is new york's lifeline in the summer -- a fleet of rescue vehicles destined for the beach ... a report from every station down the line: "the 11:11 to Penn Station" (@the morning news)
11. novel thinking: "creative writing is as popular today as critical theory was a decade ago, how does it fit in with the study of english literature?" (@times higher education uk)
12. katy perry ("i kissed a girl") actually answers ten entire questions. (@the village voice)

Tuesday Top Eight: We're Unsure We're Unstop We're Unstoppable

Hi, welcome to the new and improved Tuesday Top Eight. 'Cause of "The L Word," I probs won't execute a timely Sunday Top Ten 'til about April. I asked y'all for ideas and you came out full force, per always, and so I'll be doing one of your! ideas! every week as a Tuesday Top Eight until the lesbian television season ends. If you get another top 10 idea -- because who knows where thoughts come from, they just appear -- y'know, there's no deadline, this isn't like, Harvard or The Spice Girls Reunion Tour. It's just a little blog. Bloggity blog blog with rolling admissions. You can even use the Common Application if you want. There's just a small matter of verifying your identity via the correct transcription of a series of oddly shaped letters. Also you should take AP Calculus. You don't have to, but you might want to consider it.

You guys, seriously, you know how sometimes I make jokes/self-deprecating statements like "I'm not funny anymore," or "one day I'm gonna run out of words/ideas/things to say"? OMGGG I was the girl who cried wolf! Now it's for real! No, not really. Seriously I've felt uninspired for about ten hours and I think it's the end of the world.

I don't talk alot about the process of writing, mostly because I'm in denial that I actually "write" things, like I'm a "writer," I tend to think more that like, I'm a producer of entertainment that happens to take place in letters forming words forming sentences forming paragraphs forming hopefully LOLs or Deep Thoughts. But from time to time I enter phases where -- for no particular reason (because moods don't correspond neatly to writing ability like they do for other vocations -- as in ... a happy person is more likely to be a better waitress, but a degree of happiness doesn't correspond that neatly to being a better writer -- nor does extreme sadness, or anything, moods and writing are closely related but certainly not easily predicted how they'll match up, you never know really 'til it's happening ... no rhyme or reason, so to speak ... ) -- my writing time becomes 50% writing, 50% staring at the wall. Luckily, I love the wall. I love all kinds of flat surfaces. You may recall that I frequently (redundantly, even) describe my adolescence (post-11.14.95) as a long period of time spent lying on the carpet staring at the ceiling fan. I'm not being dramatic when I say that; totes true.

I've been staring at the wall a lot. It's like, "What's up, Riese? I am a wall. You are not a wall, even though you have many complicated emotional walls and enjoy the album 'The Wall'." The usual idea-to-wall-staring ratio is like, 20:1, but it's been more 10:1 lately. That'll pass. I think the problem is I haven't been spending enough time reading. I mean, I still read more than most people, but I need to read about ten times more than most people, and since I spend less time on the train than I used to, I read less than I used to, and that sucks. Yeah. New Year's Resolution. Ta-Da!

So I'm just gonna write stuff, and ... yeah. Um UPDATE: I'm calling this a Sunday Top Ten for no reason other than because I can, because it's my blog KAZAAM! It's basically the top ten thoughts that popped into my head. Don't worry, the other ones will be soooo much better, totes promise.

Someone suggested "things I should do at least once or only once or never or everyday." Who was it? I separated topics from author of topics because I don't want to be biased. Like, I might automatically pick Haviland, you know? Except Haviland didn't have any top 10 ideas, so I can't pick her.

TUESDAY TOP TEN THOUSAND:
THINGS I THINK ABOUT WHILE I STARE AT THE WALL
OR, "things I should do at least once or only once or never or everyday"

A while back, I did a Top Ten on "Things I'd Like to do In Life Before I die" (Lozo's topic suggestion). So therefore, everything below ... are things I HAVE ALREADY DONE. 'Cause for that top ten I did only things I HADN'T done yet.
Get it? Got it. Good. Also 'cause I wouldn't be like "do this," even though I didn't do it, you know? That'd be totally hypocritical and weirdo. And I am many things but not a weirdo.

Things I'm Almost Entirely Positive Abolustely Everyone Should Do At Least Once:

Win. Straddle. Top. Dance. Get your heart broken -- not just broken, but totally torn up, ripped from your chest and run over and then dragged around the block 'til the whole neighborhood's aware you've been bleeding. Leave, be left. Read The Torah. Also: 1984 (George Orwell), Things Fall Apart (China Achebe), A Clockwork Orange (Anthony Burgess), The Catcher in the Rye (J.D. Salinger), Lolita (Vladimir Nabakov) The Unbearable Lightness of Being (Milan Kundera), Girl, Interrupted (Susanna Kaysen), Hamlet (Shakespeare), Mrs. Dalloway (Virginia Wolff), and really just read poetry, seriously, like anything. Be broke and do something you thought you'd never do to un-broke yourself and hate every minute of it. Read: Savage Inequalities, by Jonathan Kozol and Appetites, by Caroline Knapp. Give to someone in a situation where the recipient will not know it was you who gave, where you will never be thanked or recognised. Give and don't tell anyone you gave. Give just to give, give secretly and selflessly. Live Alone, live with strangers, live with friends, live with a lover, live with your family, live with an animal. Listen to these Albums: Kind of Blue (Miles Davis), The White Album (The Beatles), Blood on the Tracks (Bob Dylan), The Immaculate Collection (Madonna), The Dark Side of the Moon (Pink Floyd). Leave the country. Swim. Have sex with someone of the same gender: have sex without "traditional" heterosexual penetration and know that it is also sex. Divorce the idea of intercourse from the idea of sex, and then open up that idea and run around in it naked, touching and biting everything. Take care of someone who is sick because you care too much not to. Make sacrifices, allowances, time. Push everyone away and then let everyone in. Do something for yourself, purely wholely for yourself. Work in a restaurant. Tip your sever 100% and leave the restaurant before they can thank you. Leave the country. Go to a country where you don't speak the language: I was in Paris once, alone. I thought it'd be romantic -- I'd stroll side-streets, sit in cafes drinking pretentious coffee, feel inspired and full of possibility, meet strangers and develop brief but intense life-altering connections to them, order the wrong thing and then try to explain it to the waiter in a sort of slapstick skit that would ultimately result in me getting the right thing for free. But it wasn't really any of those things, it was just me: an 18-year-old girl in a strange city where I didn't know anyone and didn't really know why I was there either, walking around with nowhere to be and nothing to say that anyone else would understand. Do something you thought you'd never do for love. Call in sick to work because you're coming down from a bender, call in sick to work because your BFF is having a breakdown, call in sick to work because your heart hurts, be able to call in sick all those times because you never call in sick when you're actually sick. Acquire a bad habit. Listen to These Songs: "Simple Twist of Fate" (Bob Dylan), "Woodstock" (Joni Mitchell), "Yesterday" (The Beatles), "Redemption Song" (Bob Marley), "The Sound of Silence" (Simon & Garfunkel), "California Girls" (Beach Boys), "When Doves Cry" (Prince), "Ave Maria" (Handel). Do drugs ... I mean it -- loose your mind, even if it's just for a few hours or a weekend. Trip. Roll. Speed. Get high. Whatevs. I haven't done everything and I don't plan to or want to, but I think there's a value in finding out where your brain could go if you wanted to be crazy forever (you don't, you shouldn't, don't, don't ever) and just once ... Spend time, in whatever context (a volunteer, a teacher, a visiting friend, an employee, a convict), in an institution where people are locked in rooms and are not permitted to leave or make any of their own choices about activities, meals, sleep, waking, communication, therapy, punishment, reward. Pull an all-nighter. Get wasted. Like fucked-up blasted out-of-your-skull completely 150% wasted ... watch yourself do crazy things you've always wanted to do but never would've been able to do without your liquid thunder. Fast. Binge. Splurge. Save. Crossdress. Go to the movies alone, go to a restaurant alone. Drink alone. Be alone, be single, be in love, think you're in love but you're really not. Walk from the southern end of Manhattan to your apartment and call it a birthday party. Read a novel for fun, on your couch. Do absolutely nothing for a number of hours. Stare at the wall. Read blogs when you should be sleeping. Listen to music when you should be working. Have a torrid affair. Be a cliche, love it or not even know that it's a cliche. Also: The West Wing. It will really change your mind about what government is capable of ... I mean; it's fiction, obvs, but still. Do a walk of shame. Get fired. Cut off all your hair. Forgive. Talk to yourself out loud. Write an entire blog entry that sounds like a bad greeting card or like those annoying "dance like nobody's watching" posters they had up in your music classroom at elementary school that made you want to dance only when everyone you've ever known ever was watching, lest you be regulated to crappy font and gaudy purples and posters. End this paragraph because it's ridiculous enough as it is, even though you're sure there are 100 things you've left out.

Things I Personally Think You Should Do At Least Once, But Really, It's Only My Opinion, Probs Not Right For Everyone:

Read: Where I'm Calling From (Raymond Carver), Bad Behavior (Mary Gaitskill), Birds of America (Lorrie Moore), The Year of Magical Thinking (Joan Didion), Between Angels (Stephen Dunn), Cowboys are my Weakness (Pam Houston), Our Town (Thornton Wilder), The Corrections (Jonathan Franzen), Bastard out of Carolina (Dorothy Allison), The Glass Castle (Jeannette Walls)Wasted (Marya Hornbacher), The Safety of Objects (A.M Homes), A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (Dave Eggers). Watch Six Feet Under, My So-Called Life. See (you don't have to agree, but give it a shot): Roger & Me, This Film is Not Yet Rated, Bowling for Columbine, Farenheit 9/11, 7UP! --> 49UP!, SuperSize Me, All Aboard!, When the Levees Broke. Do something fantastic and then celebrate by dancing around your room to Blister in the Sun (Violent Femmes) or Umbrella (Rhianna). Listen to Tegan & Sara. Shut up. Turn off your phone. Make an escape plan. Visit New York City -- not because I live here (I'm busy obvs) but because it's important. Oh also: Empire Records, obvs, and Six Degrees of Separation. Keep a Journal. Let yourself go. Shape up. Buy Automatic Apparel. Um, whatevs. Follow your heart. Tell the same story twice. I just said that so I can tell this story, which I maybe told before, but I don't care to check, which's that in 2000 we were in a real estate office on 72nd and Amsterdam and we'd just dropped out of college to move to nYC for no reason really and the cute Israeli boy that'd showed us apartments all day 'cause the one we thought we were moving into wasn't ready yet and they'd fucked us over royally and now we'd be living somewhere ridiculous and more expensive and we found a place and it was great but also more than we'd planned on spending and I put my head in my hands and said Ryan, why the fuck did we do this? What the hell were we thinking? and all our stuff was in this U-Haul outside, we'd just taken all our stuff from Sarah Lawrence and our friend SF was in Philly with her van ready to go as soon as we knew of an address for her to move into and I said ryan why the fuck did we do this? and the cute Israeli real estate boy said "You have to follow your heart," and that was the best thing anyone has ever said to me ever. Also when he told us he played bass, Ryan thought he'd said that he drove a bus, and that was a funny convo.

Things Everyone Should Do Every Day:
sleep, wake, eat, move, read, think.

Things Everyone Should Never Do:
Hurt innocent people needlessly or with malice/intent. Kill.
Promote hate or ignorance
Eat chicken wings in front of Riese, because the bones gross her out
Watch "That 70's Show"
Make me watch you play video games.

UPDATED! Sunday Top Ten: You Tell Me

On Sunday I said this: "I'm accepting suggestions for the Sunday Top 10, as "The L Word" and other catastrophes* are crowding my brainspace. It's my job here at AutoWin to provide the illusion that it is possible for a semi-intelligent human girl to produce an endless flood of ideas, howevs, this is not true. Therefore, I'm fully prepared for the possibility that no one else has any ideas, either. But I thought I'd throw it out there. If I pick your Top Ten topic, you can win an auto-apparel item of your choice pending size availability. Or stickers. Um, or nothing. Soundtrack? Haviland? Just the joy of the game. The spirit of the game? It's not if you win or lose, something something. OMG, I feel like Snoopy or something, it's really gross. Hm. Well, here goes.

*JK!"

Now it's Monday. There are so many beautiful Top Ten ideas, I barely know where to begin! Some of the ideas are kinda similar to stuff I've already done, but I think I might end up doing alot of them as time continues to go on like sand through a hourglass. I've put the list of all the ideas here. And I'm thinking about it. Input is always welcome. I also have to get a passport today and a number of other important tasks, but this is totally like the top top ten list on my list of top things to do for the day of today.

Someone suggested I do a Sunday Top 10 of the Best Top Tens. So, while I ponder the next Top Ten, here's an old school link dump for ya'.

Ten Best Top Tens of 2006:
12.28.06: Top Ten Books of 2006, Some of Which I've Actually Read
12.24.06: Things They Are Better At Out Here in the Heartland
11.26.06: How to Provide Visitors With The Ultimate NYC Experience
11.19.06: Relationships I've Had With Animals
10.29.06: Revivals
10.15.06: Reasons Apartment 1A Is not A Place For Good Clean Living
10.8.06: Things That Are Cuter than Cute Overload
10. 1. 06: Yom Kippur Edition - Things I'd Like to Repent For
8.20.06: Things I Would Like Back, Please
7. 23.06: Appearances by Flannel Shirts in My Videos From Middle School

Ten Best Top Tens of January --> June '07
1.30.07: Why You Don't Want to Date Me
2.27.07: Dreams You Want to Hear About
3.25.07: Apartments I Want To Live In
4.15.07: My Skills
5.8.07: Potential Reactions To The Loss of One's Sunday Top Ten
5.13.07: Summer Scattergories
5.20.07: Requirements for My Unpaid Intern
5.28 & 5.31: Top Ten Clubs To Which I'd Be a Member: Part One & Part Two
6.11.07: I Am Not The Only One Without a Phone
6.19.07: On Camp

Ten Best Top Tens of July '07 --> December '07
7.2.07: Team Awesome's Gay Teevee Show Is Unlike All Other Gay Teevee Shows
7.22.07: Things That We Lost Along the Way/Concepts Abandoned Prior to Execution
8.13.07 & 8.16.07: Things I Want to Do Before I Die Part One and Two
8.30.07&9.2.07: Worst Nightmares One and Two
8.23.07: Live Through This And You Won't Look Back
9.16&9.20: Dream Jobs Part One and Two
10.2.07: Great Mysteries of Life Part One and Two
10.22.07: Things That Were Harder Than I Expected
10.28.07: Things You Might Not Agree With
11.26.07: Cities I Could Totally Never Live In

The New Sunday Top Ten will drop on Tuesday, fo'serious ...

When You Get So Into your VLOG

I am 95% sure that today is my Mom's birthday. It is, right? Mom? Actually, 'cause you have dialup, by the time your computer finishes loading this page it might not be your birthday anymore. Anyhoo, watching this vlog might make you question your success as a parent -- I've been editing clips of myself for the last hour and I've subsequently discovered that I'm really irritating. Also: I say "you guys" and "like" way too often, the lighting in the Halloween blog was the most flattering for both of us, rock bottom is super-fly, gold pants save the day every time, and I nearly have a full body seizure every time I laugh. Also, I obvs need to lay off the smack, because crack is whack.

Looking back on my life so far I'd like to say that my mother has always been there. From day one, she's been around or relatively available via telephone. For that reason and many others, including love, warmth and caring, I'd like to say, Shalom! That means "hello," "peace," and "goodbye" in Hebrew, which is way more than any one English word means, which is why the Jews are the chosen people. My Mom is Jewish, coincidentally. If you're not Jewish, that's cool, we can still be friends, even more than friends if you're cute and I love you. That's not related to my Mom, this is a tangent now.

You guys, I love editing Vlogs. It's like, a bad habit. Almost like a drug, except I don't have to find a dealer that'll deliver to West Harlem, like I do when I want a pizza or a pretty girl or a bottle of Hypnotiq.

I wrote deep things the other day, now I am a monkey with feta cheese for brains. I wanted to clear out my hard drive from all the un-used random footage that's accumulated from unfulfilled "to be continued ..."s, so, this VLOG has got clips running the gamut from A to Z and beyond, all NEVER BEFORE SEEN ON TEEVEE OR THE WEB. We reference a lot of stuff from other Vlogs so you should probs watch them all again, just to be sure you're up on it. I find that re-watching my Vlogs is very soothing, like warm milk or a similarly temperated bath on a summer's day, in the poppies.

Is There Inner Peace in Manhattan? - Love, Peace, Harmony, Oh, Very Nice, Very Nice

"Oh, love, peace and harmony?
Love, peace and harmony?
Oh very nice,
very nice,
very nice.
Oh but maybe in the next world."

-The Smiths, "Death of a Disco Dancer."

New York Magazine is a clever little machine. They do this very keen bait and switch thing to keep you on your toes. This is how it goes:

July 17th, 2006: You are unhappy because you live here. Do you want to be happy?

December 4th, 2006: You are burned out because you live here. Sorry!

December 25, 2006: You love living here? Right? You should!

THIS WEEK: Just kidding! You are miserable because you live here. Do you wanna be happy?
(Side Note: 1. It is problematic to have birds/butterflies flying out of a girl's head because of the term "bird-brain," which means "stupid person." And because it's just sort of strange to begin with. 2. Is it a coincidence that there are flowers in her hair, and there's that song about girls in San Francisco with flowers in their hair, and people in San Francisco already have inner peace? Simmer on that, NYMag design department.)

The various paths to inner peace the magazine suggests all seem a little time-consuming/expensive to me (e.g. religion, yoga classes, ditching bad habits, acupuncture, investigating toxicity levels of household objects). If they had asked me, which obviously they didn't, I would have said that Seeking Inner Peace is lovely in theory (as the cover so clearly illustrates), but in practice it's better just to Avoid Bad Things. This will better your chances of stumbling upon Those Shreds of Random Goodness that make the path to enlightenment a bit less crowded (unlike the aisles at Rite-Aid, which, as I will discuss, are quite crowded with gigantic boxes of Beta-Blockers and "Get Some Zzzzs" Aromatherapy Linen Spray).

Bad: The Manhattan Mall:

I have to get off the train at the 34th street B station three times a week, and I can't seem to figure out how to exit the station without walking into the Auntie Annies/Charlotte Rouse Orgie that is the Manhattan Mall. Going to the Manhattan Mall is the exact opposite of a Retreat to Como Shambhala Resort at Parrot Cay. Everything smells like Sweet and Sour Chicken/Cinnabun and the escalators never seem to take you where you want to go, and the garishly large signs--large enough even for the blind, which is probably a target audience for most of the clothes sold by the basement boutique "Hype! Hype!"---bear no relationship whatsoever to the actual location of the store advertised on the sign. I know these things because obvs I accidentally shop there sometimes, specifically at that little store by the door that sells trashy underwear for people with no class, like me.

It still mystifies me that The Manhattan Mall exists. It has a Food Court. Even the now-remodeled Arborland Mall in Ypsilanti, Michigan, got rid of it's food court. You used to be allowed to smoke in the Arborland food court. It was like a total encapsulation of slow suicide. Manchu Wok + Kools + Merry-go-Round (the store, not the ride)= death.

Good: Discovering New Things About Your Favorite Appliances.

Me and this toaster have been through some rough stuff. The other day I yelled at it and asked Maggie if she knew why it had such an attitude and she said she never uses the toaster. I use the toaster probably 15 times a day. Basically, the problem is that whenever I asked the toaster to toast just one item, it would refuse violently by spitting out said item within only moments of it's insertion, and obviously the item would NOT be toasted to my liking. I tried unplugging and replugging it (I call that the "cool-down" theory) and I tried holding down the lever even when it made terrible noises, like the noise of a ferret being electrocuted. But then I looked a little closer at the problem and saw this:
That is a little "instruction," if you will: the words "One Slice" with two tiny little arrows pointing at a particular toaster slot. A HA! True enough, when I use the slot indicated by the arrows, I have no problems. To think I've been battling this problem for about 5 months without noticing this--or even realizing that my problem only happens when I'm toasting one item. I realized it like, in retrospect.

Good: The Wiggles:

So today at the gym I was watching "The View" and suddenly Rosie and Elizabeth are talking to these really enthusiastic children's performers called The Wiggles? They wear bright colors and they sing songs with lyrics like "Do the Monkey Yeah Yeah Do the Monkey!" and "Romp-Bomp-a-Chomp There's Dorothy the Dinosaur!" I mean: WOW. As I have not given birth to any of my own children and most of my friends are in a similar state of arrested development, I'm not really like "up" on the "Toddler Scene," and I'd forgotten how fantastic it is when grown men dress up in primary colors and totally just let it loose, you know? They put on TURTLENECKS--one of them dresses like a PIRATE--and sing "Let's make fruit salad today, let's make it the healthy way!" and the little kids just soak that stuff (I'm trying not to curse for an entire paragraph, because of the children) up! It totally took me back to the old days of The Gemini Brothers and The Song Sisters, my favorite musical groups when I was a tot. Children's Music is Magic. My face went from semi-horrified to completely captivated in about ten seconds. I just looked at their website and realized these dudes are more rich and famous than I will ever be. On the other hand, no one has ever photographed me in a turtleneck. Though I've been known to don pirate gear from time to time.

Bad: Rite-Aid

I know it's weird, since Duane Reade is generally at the top of my list when it comes to bitching about drugstores. But I'm switching camps. Duane Reade is cleaning up it's act and Rite-Aid is officially worse, and here's why: The aisles are crowded with tall stacks of unopened boxes and the cash wrap is crowded with employees--at any given time, you can assume that four of said employees are actively NOT unpacking aforementioned boxes and one is manning a cash register with an imitation of efficient behavior comparable to that of an aging carnie stuck with operating a ride that catapults children to their death while she smokes the cigarettes that cause the hacking cough she emits about every 20 seconds. I assume these boxes contain the stock that is noticeably missing from the shelves, as each aisle looks as though it has recently been ransacked by a band of Wild Cabbage Patch Kids with Rabies and long arms.

Good: Les InnerPeacables:

Maggie and I have decided to communicate only in song today, as if our lives were a rock opera. I'm a notoriously dreadful singer but Maggie says my voice is "cute, like a little girl's." Sample lyrics (imagine these being sung to a very peaceful melody):

Me: Would you like me to get you anything from the store?
Maggie: Yes you can get me a whore!

Bad: The Things Behind the Deli Counter:

Speaking of the store....Hey ladies! Do you feel like the intimacy of your relationship to your deli guy increases significantly the first time you have to buy tampons from him? (which involves, obvs, telling him exactly which ones you want, and since it's usually on the first day that you find yourself without any tampons, you're all like: "Green!!!!! I said GREEN!") Like the first time he sees you drunk, or the first time he sees you with someone you are clearly dating/fucking, or the first time you drop an armload of food-ish products on his counter that all include, in some form or another, processed carbohydrates, refined white sugar and/or obscene amounts of cream?

(Side Note): It's weird for me to mention tampons on this blog because, even though I am old, I still find the-act-which-shall-go-unsaid-which-requires-tampons to be embarrassing and gross and it makes me wish I was a bony boy who never cried or needed tampons. BUT tampons, in and of themselves, are not gross. They are just Q-Tips for Elephants. Plus I'm working on my issues, and one of my issues is "Disgusted by Womanhood In Self, Though Totally Tolerant and Occasionally Enchanted by Womanhood In Others."

Good: Reading About The Guy Who Wanted to Quit Smoking in New York Magazine's "Inner Peace" Issue
(photo from the article itself, which you should read, really, especially at the gym to maximize potential superiority complex)

Smoking for 25 years has made this dude "spit blood at regular intervals" and develop "chronic asthma." Holy shit! I'm like Captain Planet-healthy compared to that stuff.

Good: C'mon Get Happy Playlist:

fidelity/regina spektor. peaceful easy feeling/the eagles. laura/scissor sisters. the seed/the roots. because of you (jason nevins remix)/kelly clarkson. tell me something good/rufus+chakra kan. nothing in this world/paris hilton. crush 16/dave matthews band. the state that i am in/belle+sebastian. i've got my mind set on you/george harrison. maneater/nelly furtado. bad reputation/joan jett. iron man/the cardigans. better things/dar williams. first day of my life/bright eyes. i want you back/jackson five. stronger/britney spears. understand/christina aguilera. family business/kanye west. baby you should know/joy zipper. crazy/gnarls barkley. one love/bob marley. right in time/lucinda williams. irreplacable/beyonce. for the longest time/billy joel. come see about me/the supremes. as cool as i am/dar williams. i really got the feeling/dolly parton. all we have is now/the flaming lips. by the way/heavenly. lovertits/peaches. become you/indigo girls. one is the magic number/jill scott. i kissed a girl/jill sobule. uncle john's band/grateful dead. sexyback/justin timberlake. free/the martinis. marie/kevin devine. fuck and run/liz phair. papa don't preach/madonna. the luckiest guy on the lower east side/magnetic fields. mona lisa/wyclef. tower of song/u2 with leonard cohen. build me up buttercup. the temptations. under the bridge/red hot chili peppers. musicology/prince. sweet caroline.neil diamond.

Merry F***in Christmas, or "I Bet SARS is Blog-Worthy, Too."

This is what I look like as of yesterday. This is Exhibit A ("The victim looked stable and content in a dashing crimson sweater only days before the incident!") for when I am in court testifying about the attempted assault that will take place on the Greyhound Bus in Cincinnati this upcoming Saturday. Also notice the beaming smile. I won't be smiling on Saturday. Don't let that boggle you. I know you've played PhotoHunt, and I know you've played it after four tequilla shots.

So.

Every holiday season, my brother and I make like Moses and leave the earnest burning oil of our Mother's Hannukah menorah in Michigan and head South. Unlike Moses and his Jewish friends, we usually do this in a car, and also unlike Moses we do not have to deal with false idols (though we've had some heated arguments about music, e.g., my desire for most of the late 90s to listen to either a sad emo boy or a lesbian folk singer at all times) or parting the red sea (though we once skidded on black ice outside of Bowling Green and almost died). Also we are not going to the promised land, we are just going to Gold Star Chili. I mean, to see the Christian side of our family, like our Grandparents, and have wholesome feelings in the deepest pits of our charred souls.

This year we face a challenge, and that challenge is that Lewis is driving up to Ohio from NOLA. I could call this a "betrayal of dire consequence" but I won't.

I am flying into Detroit on Friday morning, where my Moms live, and as I don't have a car (or, at this point, a drivers license, though I hope to acquire one at the Royal Oak DMV on Friday), I don't know how the fuck I am going to get to Ohio.

What I really want to talk about is how this relates to abuse of the semi-ironic term "blog-worthy," which I employ with the same (relatively) witty sarcasm that I use for terms like "omg" and "LOL really." I don't know if those are terms so much as paradigms.

Thus far, the "blog" hasn't caused me much harm, aside from time suckage: no, I haven't been "outed" at work or punished for things I've said or, even, had aforementioned Ohio family stumble upon this blog and wonder if I'm serious about the whole 'bi thing,' nor has anyone told me that I suck (not including my anonymous friend, who thinks I am a dirty whore, a dirty bitch, and a dirty slut, but I think he kinda likes me that way, so whatever rolls your dice, dude) BUT now my mother has co-opted my language for her own sinister desires.

Exhibit B (selections of e-mails exchanged on Dec. 18th)

From: Lewis
To: Me and Mom.

1. I'll be driving to Ohio from NOLA on the 23rd. Michigan 25th or 26th
2. May I suggest you "Go Greyhound" It could be "blogworthy" as the kids say.


From: Me
To: Lewis and Mom

Uh-oh,
Mom how I am going to get to Ohio, even if I do have a license? Can I borrow your car? I am not going Greyhound. I'll get killed.
also, the tickets are SIXTY BUCKS!! which is more than i will ever spend to be sexually harassed for.....um....SIX HOURS.


From: Mom
To: me and Lewis.

Marie ........
I agree with Lewis, a Greyhound trip would definetly be blog-worthy.

and for gosh sakes, you take the subway at all hours in a very crime-infested city and lived in Spanish Harlem. and you wait in lobbies of community mental and medical health ..... you've already dealt with and been exposed to more then any Greyhound trip could possibly provide.

Some things:

1. I bet that giving away all of my things for a life on the streets, and by "streets" I mean inside my largest fresh direct box or perhaps 2-3 taped together, which I will set on the corner of 180th and Somethin' Awful, injecting myself with needles i find on the "crime-infested' streets and paying for my Popeye's chicken habit by hooking (dressed in my Halloween costume and a warm scarf) would be pretty effin blog-worthy too, but you don't see my ass in a box on the street do you? No you don't.

Also, things like going to Iraq or going to a tornado are examples of things that people do for "news-worthy" stories. However those people get paid.

News=information someone pays you to share
Blog=information no-one pays you to share.

2. I do not take the subway at all hours. Only hours before midnight, or one a.m. Whatevs. Def. not shy of springing for a cab though.

3. While in East Harlem, I started dressing like a boy and walking like a boy so that I wouldn't get harassed and/or assaulted (the former happened constantly, especially in Snow Bunny Outfit '04, which involved pink yoga pants and a puffy white coat and was the last time I wore tight pants north of 110th), which worked pretty well. I also felt protected when I started spending almost 75% of my time-at-home-in-Sparlem with my dear friend the 6'4 slightly-crazy male model, house-builder and club bouncer who drove a monster truck disguised as a big-ass red jeep and knew everyone in the 'hood. Including the drug dealers. So where is that bouncer now? New Jersey.

4. New York City has the lowest crime rate of any major U.S City.

5. During the summer of 2005, Krista and I made a very poor choice to travel from Medford, Oregon to Denver, Colorado on a Greyhound. I've taken Greyhounds before from Ann Arbor to Interlochen (with friends, every time), but never had I truly felt the authentic Greyhound experience that we discovered in the Wild West. In fact, this trip was so pleasurable that, after subsisting on no sleep, eating only processed foods that come in plastic bags (e.g., Combos, M n'Ms, Twizzlers, Wheat Thins, Welch's fruit snacks) and living through a ten-hour layover in Salt Lake City (during which we had to sit on our suitcases and not move, just wait, while people had Jerry Springery fights and drank too much Sprite) and of course, spending time on the bus itself, which was completely full of people who probably collectively could not have mustered up an entire set of teeth, we actually got in a semi-physical squabble.

Because Krista is my heart, obviously you can imagine the kind of stress we were under for this to happen.

Phone conversation in Colorado, at some stop where we split up to go get supplies for the next few hours (including a small pillow we passed back and forth and more bags of junk to cram down our pie-holes):

Me: Krista, I can't hear you.
Krista: I can't hear anything you're saying.
Me: Can you hear me now?
Krista: Goddamit Marie, why don't you get a new phone service? I CAN NEVER HEAR YOU!
Me: Are you yelling at ME about Sprint PCS' failure to provide a suitable coverage within it's wireless network?!!!!
(Krista hangs up)

The passengers were a rowdy bunch, all looking to make friends, and somewhere between California and Colorado, a debate over the merits of The DaVinci Code resulted in several passengers rising from their seats to yell at one another (while drinking beer out of paper bags). I mention this because...

Despite the apparent plethora of Dan Brown fans on our trip, a passenger (who, being without a shirt of his own, was leasing shirts from fellow travelers for the duration of their journey and, when the shirt-donator got off, finding a new traveler to lend him a shirt) asked Krista and I if we were students.

"No," we said, looking confused.

"Ah," he nodded. "I thought you were."

(Krista attempts to deliver a genuine smile that comes off as a pained grimace)

He continued: "Cause you're both--you know--readin'."

(pause as we look at our books, and then at each other, and then up at him)

"Um," I responded. "We just uh, like reading."

(He looks at us with that look I used to get when I told strangers "I go to boarding school.")

This is the only surviving photograph from this expedition, and I got it from my camera phone. I don't know where we are, probably somewhere between nowhere and purgatory.

People kept staring at Krista and I, because we didn't look like the other people on the bus because we were wearing clean clothes. At first, at least. We replenished with the Hanes wifebeater 3-packs because that's how we roll. By the time I got to Chicago, I probably smelled like Kools with a dash of Wal-Mart.

UPDATE: Carl is taking me to Toledo, and my aunt will pick me up there. HOLLA.

Anyhow, so parents, you should know that making your kids miserable is not blogworthy, it's probably better for like, youtube, except that on greyhound someone would fo-sho steal your camera.

Sunday Top 10: Reviving Shark Earrings and Brain Wave Rooms

People usually associate Spring (the season, not the verb) with re-birth, probably because of flowers, trees and Jesus. Who are these people? Peter Rabbit? Personally, I find the late rainy misery of October to be far more appropriate to re-birth/revival/renewal than that optimistic Spring nonsense. There's something about the grey gloom that just warms my half-empty heart to it's sinful embers.

I mean...plants may be dying, but Broadway shows, Ophelia and heavy metal ballads have learned to REVIVE.

TOP TEN REVIVALS: BRINGING IT BACK, Y'ALL!!

10. My roommate, MM, is an amazing uptight-turned-wild-wife in the music video for the revival of "Come All Ye Faithful," the first single from the Twisted Christmas CD. During the test audience screening When Natalie and I got to see the latest cut (it's not out yet, but we're special), we were both LOLing, almost LMAOing. For those of you who did not live in a liberal anti-commercial police state between the years of 1981-1994 (like me), you may remember the "We're Not Gonna Take it" music video, which showed on MTV while I was watching 3-2-1 Contact. This video is like that one but it stars MM and Dee's Cablevision guy.

9. I used to have a Yankees hat. Where is it now? Probably in some gigantic black hole with my ex-ipod and Stephanie's Adidas hat. I used to wear a Tigers hat. I can't do that anymore because: 1. It was the victim of one of many pilot-pen-ink explosions, 2. The Tigers are like, an actual threat this year? So I decided to revive the Cubs hat, which I bought for a Cubs game in Toronto in '03 (everyone had SARS, so we got a pretty handsome travel package), and I think that it's pretty f***in fabulous. And it doesn't scare anyone, because the Cubs aren't gonna like, win, or whatever.

8. I haven't done Halloween for the last several years (besides October '03--we went to Madison for their big bash. I was a peppermint stick. On the way back, when we were zipping past an asshole on the highway in Wapackaneta, Wisconsin, a police officer who was clearly jealous of my hot Lexus pulled me over for speeding. I got a $350 dollar ticket which led to a semi-serious total complete tantrum). But this year I am bringing back the Halloween and so
the point is: what should Stephanie and I be for Halloween?

Thelma and Louise? The Sweet Valley Twins? A Homosexy Robin and Batwoman? A Homosexy Robin Hood and Maid Marian? A Homosexy Peter Pan and Tinkerbell? Hansel and Gretel? Victoria's Secret Angels?

This is what we are working with. Close your eyes and imagine what would look good on us.



7. My best friend Haviland Stillwell rocks out about 10,000 costumes in the revival of Les Miserables, which is in previews right now at the Broadhurst Theater on Broadway. Of all the outfits she wore, the prostitute outfit was mos. def. the best. Of all the men in the show, Norm Lewis was without a doubt the most sexy. Of all the women in the show, obvs my vote goes to the Factory Girl, aka Haviland Stillwell. I hadn't seen the show before, but I had seen Joey Potter sing "On my Own" in the beauty pageant episode of "Dawson's Creek," which is just to say that I know a thing or two about Les Miserables.
Okay, you ready? I'm gonna be serious for a second. "Les Miserables" in amazing, and you should all go see it, even if you live in London, you should just get on a plane, okay? Alexander Gemignani is really stunning as Jean Valjean. Seriously. And yes, I had no idea how to spell his name or the name of the character he played until I looked it up on Broadway.com.

6. Six Feet Under, now on Bravo.It's all I could ever ask for out of life. My joy cannot be expressed in mere words, though it drives me insane that they have to dub over all the "fucks" with lame words like "crap." Nate, Brenda and Claire all know how to pack the punches with their Mamet-esque brilliant employments of the word "fuck" at least 10 times an episode, so this is nothing short of tragic.

5. I totally rearranged a whole lot of furniture, therefore reviving the spirit of the apartment. Unfortunately, I accidentally chose to start this process about 5 minutes before the AlAnonitute and her Hapless Crew of Scrawny Boys showed up to extricate her furniture and belongings from the Den of Sin. Luckily they were just in time--Boy 2 helped me move my desk out my bedroom door (it was stubbornly stuck) to take to the living room. The AlAnonitute was not impressed with my re-distribution of labor and she scowled: "Is this really the best time for this?" I wanted to ask her if this was the best time for her to throw away all her Kashi and Morningstar Products and leave them for us to take out even though she had plenty of time to remove all our tables and chairs, but I didn't, because unlike her, I am a Supreme Person. I also wanted to tell her that unlike her 6th grade students, I am not in 6th grade, and I would like to be spoken to like an adult. Booya.

4. I seriously just read Reviving Ophelia. From cover to goddamn cover. I thought it would be good info for my book. I remember when every Mom was reading this book in 1994, aka my Mom. My favorite part is Dr. Pipher's descriptions of what the various girls wear to their therapy sessions:

"Tammy was dressed in a silk jacket, designer blue jeans and stylish green boots." (really? stylish green boots?)

"Rita's brown hair was decorated with feathers and beads, and she was dressed in a skin-tight satiny dress."

"Francesca was dressed in green jeans and a SIX FLAGS OVER TEXAS t-shirt."
(her caps, not mine.)

"Carol and Gary were new age parents. Gary wore beads and had a ponytail. Carol collected crystals and had spent time in the brain wave room at our New Age bookstore."

These two take the cake though:

"Julia, dressed in pink stretch pants, an oversized sweater and shark earrings..."

"Leah was dressed casually in a Garfield sweatshirt and jeans, but she was carefully groomed with long ice-blue nails and an elaborate hairstyle."

Seriously, take a moment to imagine those outfits. Okay. Good. Let's move on.

3. I totally rocked the Doc Martens last night. Yeah, like Daria, but HOT.

2. Um, so in Reviving Ophelia?

"Holly played Prince's music until she had all the lyrics memorized, and because Prince wore purple, Holly dressed exclusively in purple. She dyed her hair red and spiked it because Prince claimed he liked red hair."

"Holly often answered my questions by quoting Prince's songs."

First off though, I totally love Prince. But in this context, it's ridiculously amazing/awesome/reviving things on so many levels.

Mary Phipher Ph.D: How do you feel about your boyfriend Lyle?
Holly: I wanna be his brother, his mother and his sister too. There ain't no other that can do the things I'll do to him. And I get discouraged, cause you treat me just like a child, and they say I'm so shy, yeah, but with Lyle I just GO WILD!!!

1. Sorry, about Reviving Ophelia again?

"When I offered her a soda, she rolled her eyes and said "Color me Excited.""

Be All That You Can Be: On Craigslist/The U.S Army

There aren't very many things that would inspire me to post twice in one day, because, as previously discussed, I lead a very busy life of working out, making fun of Stephen, going on holiday with Haviland, reading magazines, being a poorly photographed rockstar, eating fake ice cream, being poor (which my psychiatrist heard as "being a whore" which was a fun conversation in which he suggested I seek employment at Scores, which apparently has pretty dancers who "make a lot of money"), being a fairly well photographed rockstar. And oh yeah, writing. I mean, I wouldn't have posted today at all if Stephen hadn't made out with a Lesbian.

But um, the U.S Army, which as we all know has fired a lot of valuable BUT GAY language specialists recently, is now recruiting on CRAIGSLIST.

This ad isn't exactly "An Army of One" or whatever that thing was about what happens when no one else will join the army but you, but it's pretty damn close, just without photos.

It's called:

***The US Army Needs Your Foreign Language Specialty***

(thanks for "going easy on the all-caps," USA!)

Then it goes on to describe the job in question:

The US Army needs intelligence collection specialists proficient in the following languages:

(then it lists like, every language except English, unfortunately, Stephen)

You must be a US Citizen
High School Grad or higher
17 to 41
Good moral character*
Good health

*Sorry, gays!

Since I love Freedom, SGT. Morris (877-243-7058), I did some matchmaking for you and found this guy on craigslist. See, you guys are both on craigslist, so you're both looking for somethin'! Also he was in M4W, so he's not a Gay.

Future Ambassador of Freedom: "WM Mystic Tantra Energy Healer sks Ongoing Connection"

1. He doesn't speak Arabic, but he speaks something way better than that. He can "HEAR YOUR BODY TALKING TO ME" (his caps) and he can hear bodies talk "in a language of ENCHANTED, BEAUTIFUL DREAM-LIKE VISIONS!" (his caps). Which, I'm pretty sure, is exactly what we need out there to catch Al Queda.
2. He has been tested for "AIDS/STD's" (his grammar). Yup. Good health--check!
3. He would like to "share a whole universe of fascinating adventures." AKA IRAQ!!
4. He has been "forced to give up" his apartment "as of October 1st," which means: 1. he can't "host", 2. he's totally looking for a new place. Um, how about a new place in...IRAQ??!!
5. He has "rare and unique gifts" for "rare, blissful and hallowed mansions of Tantric pleasure." HELLO moral character!

Please comment only if you love Freedom.

But seriously, also, there are gay people that actually want to be in the army, and the fact that this country actually kicks them out of the army is one of many absolutely ridiculous things happening on like, the Earth, right now. Sign this petition to lift the ban on gays and lesbians in the military: Lift The Ban dot org.