McLoserstene #4

For those of you who are new to this blog and don't know who McLoserstene is, click on the label at the bottom of this post to trace her sad, tragic story.

She does not like to be photographed which, of course, only makes me want to photograph her as much as I can because I'm helpful that way.

The Best Of September 2006

This was my first blog post ever, called Plastic Surgery For Dummies. I have added italics to it as a year ago I didn't know that in Blog World that was acceptable. In Screenplay Writing World, adding italics is a big no-no and pegs you as an amateur. I am also laughing at my references to Jude Law and Colin Ferrell. They were huge then, now, not so much. Which is another no-no in Screenplay Land, no topical references as your movie could be made twenty years after you wrote it, which just happened to a friend of mine. Unless you're mentioning icons, like Van Gogh or The Beatles, it's doubtful the future will remember L'il Kim. Unless the future is really fucked up.

And to those of you who are sitting at your computers bitching that I must be too lazy to post something new, the answer is Yes I Am.

There are two kinds of New Yorkers who move to Los Angeles. One is dreaded and hates L.A. because there’s no winter/smoking/people who read. Then there’s me. I loved it because there were hot cars, hot homes, and most importantly, hot people everywhere. Not to mention my building had a pool and a view of the Hollywood sign. I know there are gorgeous people who live in other parts of the world but it couldn’t possibly compare to the pulchritude this town spits out like olive pits from a dirty martini. And Los Angeles was littered with car dealers to the stars, Realtors to the stars and plastic surgeons for the rest of us. This is where Hot comes to die and the Mother Ship had called me home.

Even though no one in L.A. has actually had plastic surgery, is ever going to have it or would ever admit it if they did happen to have it while accidentally sleepwalking into downtown Beverly Hills for a three p.m. appointment, there sure are a lot of people ahead of me when I go for my Botox shots to my plastic surgeon’s office. I admit to having it because I love it and will be having it to the end of my life. As a matter of fact, I’ve booked my doctor for my embalming or autopsy, whichever comes first. I’m going to exit this world looking glorious, especially since I’m surely not going to feel that terrific.

I just don’t understood women who say they would never have plastic surgery. I’m pretty sure Janet Reno does not spend all her free time returning Jude Law’s calls or texting Colin Farrell. I once heard Cindy Crawford interviewed and she said that if she felt she needed it, she would have it. Cindy Crawford, not Broderick Crawford.

I wasn’t obsessed with my looks until a week after I moved to Los Angeles and was walking down the street with my mother. We ran into an old family friend who hadn’t seen us in many years. The friend looked at us and said, “Wow, you two could pass for sisters,” and I thought, ‘Man, how bad do I look?’

So I bought a jar of face cream that claimed to reduce the visible signs of aging and I tried it. It didn’t do much for my face but I used it on my 1998 Toyota and now it looks like a 2001. I knew then that the only thing that really reduces the visible signs of aging is death. And an upper and lower blepharoplasty.

When I had the eye job I told my friend Metia and she replied “You’re kidding, you can’t even tell.” Well, if you could tell, it wouldn’t be called an eye job; it would be called a lawsuit, now wouldn’t it?

Then I wanted my nose to tip up so I had a piece of my ear put in right above my nostrils. The manager of my Hollywood Hills apartment complex asked me if I could hear through my nose. So apparently there are some people here who don’t read. Restylane? Captique? Mesotherapy? Sculptra? Had it, had it, had it, need it.

A lot of people are afraid of surgery and I can understand that. When I had my eye-lift, the last thing I remember before I went under anesthesia was the doctor holding a scalpel, the fluorescent lights and the smell of burning flesh. I was mortified. Do you know how bad you look in fluorescent lights? The nurse asked me to count backwards from 100, giving me the illusion that I was going to be awake for a really long time. Meanwhile, no one makes it past 98. Why don’t they just make you count backwards from 2?

The truth is that I’d rather have plastic surgery than go to the gym with all the mutants oozing toxins out of their pores. If I see toxins coming out of any part of my body, bring me a margarita and check me into the Chateau Marmont.

Because my friends all know I’ve had plastic surgery, they ask me if they need it. Yes. Even if they don’t think they need it now, yes, they need it now. And for those of you stalwarts who think you don’t need anything done ever or are too afraid or too cheap I can only say this: When your rear grazes your ankles and you’re carrying your breasts around in a little red wagon and your husband is sleeping with the baby sitter, don’t come crying to me. Just remember that King Solomon had seven hundred wives and three hundred concubines and I’m sure he has male descendants out there somewhere. And I’m sure the hot ones ended up in Los Angeles.

End of chat.

L.A. Sign Of The Times #24

Another Ridiculous Hollywood Moment

According to an Irish entertainment website, the Pussycat Dolls have 'been blown away by Victoria Beckham since she arrived in L.A. They love her style and think she has the perfect figure for the group.' Have the Irish ever seen The Pussy Cat Dolls?

I'm guessing other recently chosen Dolls are a Tootsie Roll Pop, Matthew McConaugnahead and Tits on a Stick.

End of chat.

LIBRA

© 2003 Clayboys

Best with: Libra, Aquarius, Gemini, Leo and Sagittarius
Fair with: Capricorn, Taurus, Scorpio and Virgo
Difficult with: Pisces, Cancer and Aries

Happy Birthday Alfred Nobel, Sting and Groucho Marx.

The Wedding

I don’t like going to weddings. People are too happy and in love and that’s a recipe for disaster where I’m concerned. But I wouldn’t have missed this one for anything because it was Joy Behar’s lovely and sweet daughter Eve's wedding, who I adore. Whom I adore? Joy used to teach English so I'll probably hear about this.

Italians really know how to throw a party. The best food, a romantic setting, an amazing band and of course, Italians have no problem with anyone wearing black so we all looked thin.

It was held at Chelsea Piers, overlooking the Hudson river.



The chalice in the middle of the table was handmade by Eve. Right before the ceremony, a huge sailboat pulled up next to us and floated out onto the Hudson.


Eve being walked down the aisle by her proud father Joe Behar.

Mr. and Mrs. Al Scotti

The bride and groom posing for pictures and listening to the band.

Italians also know how to dance and a few women speared me like a shish kabob with their stilettos so this is what my feet looked like the next day. The wedding was 10 days ago. The bruises are only now starting to fade. The gash will probably be there until my own wedding and we all know how far away that will be.

Eve Behar is a gifted ceramist. This pot was recently shown in a New York gallery and singled out for its spectacular design. Visit her website and see for yourself.

Eve handmade over 190 vases for her guests. When you walked into the reception area, there was a table with bowls filled with Jade Roses. You located your rose and then found your table, which was written on the card attached to the rose. Each place setting had a vase. You could choose your vase, put your rose in it and that was your seat. Or you could move the vase you chose to the seat you wanted. Clever, romantic and creative.

And now this is where the story turns ugly.

I chose a pale green vase to match my kitchen and dining room, which are forest green. I stuck my rose in my vase and thought no more about it. One of my table mates chose the pink one in the above photo. I have no PINK in my entire apartment, unless you look in my thong drawer.

As the evening wore on, I looked over at my table and everyone had gone. It was getting late so I went to collect my things and found this:

My rose had been discarded on the table. It was dead, though. And my green vase was gone. The pink one was sitting empty about 18 inches away. Gee, I said to myself, I wonder who could have done this?????????????????? The next day I saw my table-mate who had chosen the pink vase. I asked him if he had stolen my vase. He replied, "No, I stole the other woman's vase." What a class act. He didn't even realize he had answered 'yes' to my question.

So this is the thief: Although I might be wrong and it could have been this person:

But then again I could be entirely mistaken and it might have been this person:
Right about now Joy is saying to Steve, “My God, isn’t Soro ever going to let that go?” And my answer to that is, uh……no. Home Sweet Home.....only in Hollywood would we name our airports after a comedian.

End of chat.

The Rest Of Day One In NYC

After Ground Zero I wandered uptown.
The best modern architecture in the world is in New York City. Don't argue with me, I've been to a LOT of countries.

They're turning The Plaza into condos. I used to know where the ladies room was in this hotel. I would be in midtown and if I had to go, I would walk through it like Eloise, knowing every inch like the inside of my purse. And now it's having plastic surgery and as we all know, I'm FOR this in general but I wish they had just left well enough alone.

The C train roaring into the station on the West side. New York no longer uses tokens and now issues metro cards that you buy out of a machine. I spent about five minutes trying to work one until I flagged down a person and asked her to help me. The girl walked over and pushed the START button. I, bien sur, had done everything but push that button.

This is the view of the courtyard of MOMA. (Museum of Modern Art) I was almost killed by the entry price, 20 dollars. Our modern museum in LA, LACMA, charges 9 dollars and I was bitching about that. But MOMA's gift shop has got to be the best museum gift shop in the world, bar none. Seriously, I could have spent the entire time in there. I have a shopping problem, have I mentioned that?

Currently showing at MOMA.

Trump Tower under construction. Do you think that signage is big enough? Look at the size of the cars for contrast. Just remember this, the richer they are, the faster they come.

Harry Winston, comes in 6 seconds.

The Mother Ship

They have a guy spinning in the jeans department at Bloomingdale's.

I asked this cop why he was ticketing this artist. He wasn't, he was just writing down what time he went to lunch and discussing art with the painter.

End of chat.

p.s. This had to be re-posted and all the comments were lost.

Leaving On A Jet Plane

"You’re in my seat.” Said The Man.
“I don’t think so, uh 19A?”
“Yeah, that’s the window; you’re in the aisle.”

Why do men always have to be right?

I moved over and something about this guy seemed familiar. I gave him the side-eye a few times. Finally, so as not to appear to be the stalker that I clearly am, I told him he looked familiar to me.

“Well, I’ve been on TV.” In LA that is just not enough information to narrow down the memory.
“What were you on?”
“Becker.”
“Oh my God, you’re the blind guy that sat at the counter.”
“Yeah, for five and a half years.”
“I never watched the show.”

I know, I’m quite the little moron, aren’t I? How in the fuck did I know he was the blind guy if I never watched the show? Thank God he laughed. His name is Alex Desert and unbelievably we live in the same neighborhood, about 15 blocks apart. He was going to see his brother’s show at the Brooklyn Museum and we were returning to LA on the same day, same plane.

Somehow we ended up talking about sweets, because I think he’s one of those guys who can take them or leave them. In other words, a mental patient.

“My parents only bought us that big box of Neapolitan ice cream.” I said.
“That’s so ghetto.” He replied, laughing. I had to laugh, I guess it is ghetto.

We flew over Lake Erie and Nanticoke, Ontario, Canada. The Nanticoke are an Indian tribe and I wonder how they got their name and how much an ounce goes for up there?
This was the apartment in a doorman building that my friend Henriette Mantel hooked me up with for five days. This was the view from the balcony looking into Central Park. I have lovely friends, don’t I? I also have to thank Hen’s friend Lynn, who was generous enough to lend it to me. I went to Ground Zero. This is a picture that was taped on an electrical box directly across from it. It was only 4 days past the 6th anniversary so someone wanted to remember this girl and wanted us to remember as well. Seriously, how can we ever forget any of them?

A worker on the site of the new structure.

This was the Deutschland Bank, which was burned and is being rebuilt. It's amazing to see how close some of these buildings were and how they survived that conflagration.

The site of the old World Trade Center.

Henriette told me that Lynn, who gave me her apartment, was only one of three people in her group who survived 9/11. She wrote over 130 eulogies. While I was in her apartment, I moved a little bowl that was next to her bed on the nightstand so I could put my stuff there. A card fell out of the bowl and when I picked it up and turned it over, it was a memorial card for a fireman.

When I got home I read the interview Lynn gave to the 9/11 Task Force (she was Deputy Commissioner at the time) and I cried through most of it. I don’t understand why ball players get a lot of money and firemen don’t. I love Michael Jordan but he’s not a hero. Reading this interview, you realize that firemen never fumble the ball. Or strike out at bat. Or miss a three-pointer.

Ever.

End of chat.

But First, The Emmys

Once, in my local supermarket here in the Hollywood Hills, I was waiting in line and some studio guy ahead of me casually mentioned the casting for the new movie Get Smart. When he said that Anne Hathaway was playing Agent 99, the entire queue, including the cashier, broke out into a heated discussion over whether this was right or wrong. This is not an argument you will ever hear in New York. I'm a hardcore showbizite and if I ever wasn't clear on the difference between these two powerful towns, I was this time around. L.A. is Show Business. New York is just Business.

I liked the theatre in the round at The Shrine, which I thought would be awkward and I loved Ryan Seacrest. He was a great host. Mainly because he wasn't trying to cock up the event with jokes. He actually did what he was supposed to be doing, HOSTING. He has one of the highest Q ratings in the business and he's no stranger to large crowds and he has the gift of ad lib that does not offend. Let's face it Former Hosts Of Awards Shows: we're not watching to see you; we're there for the gowns, the bling and who loses. I mean, who wins.

Note to Hayden Panetierre, you're 18, not a transvestite.

The censoring of Sally Field was beyond stupid. She used the word "God Damn." Having worked the South extensively during my stand up career, I can tell you these people would rather hear you say 'Fuck' than 'God Damn.' Already, you know how wrong that is. There are many Gods, there is only one Fuck.

Ray Romano was censored because he allegedly mentioned the back story of the new Patricia Heaton show, Back to You. God Damn Fucks.

I was happy with a lot of the winners, mainly Jaime Lee Presley winning for My Name is Earl and Jeremy Piven for Entourage. I never respect the drama winners as much as the comedy winners. Comedians can handle drama expertly (Robin Williams, Richard Belzer, Billy Connolly) but people who can only do drama can't do comedy. Even Meryl Streep falls down in that category. And please don't comment that Jack Nicholson is funny. Seriously, you'll only prove that you don't know shit about comedy.

Sidebar: And while I'm bitching about comedy, there are lists in comedy, lists of THREES. If you're writing comedy on your blog, make a list of 3, not 7. It doesn't work for the ear or the eye. And while I'm still ranting and raving, Fuck is the funniest word and there's not a professional comedian or comedy writer anywhere who doesn't know that. Stop fiddling with it on your blogs or find another word that has the blissful K sound. God Damn Fucks.

I was, once again, confused by the win of The Amazing Race, which has won its category every year it has been nominated. To me, the Amazing Race is to see how fast I can change the channel if I accidentally land on it.

The best part of the night for me was when my old friend Mike Sweeney gave the acceptance speech for best writing for a comedy/variety show for Late Night with Conan O'Brien. Mike was always a funny guy. He was a lawyer who gave up one sleazy business to do another sleazy business, stand up comedy. This photo was taken on the last night of Comedy U Grand, which only Sweeney can pronounce correctly. This club was a pioneer in its time because it was the first one in New York City to give an entire night over to women, who were not exactly having an easy time getting booked back then. I'm talking 1983-86. When this club closed, all the women showed up to do sets and say goodbye and Sweeney showed up dressed like the big girl that he is. A big girl with huge balls. I haven't seen them, I'm just saying.

Anyway, it was great to see him and his team win. Love the socks.


End of Back From New York But Still Bitching Like A New Yorker chat.

I'm Back!

Thank you all for your really drunken yet kind comments re my blogoversary. I read them all off my Not-An-IPhone cell phone while I was in New York.

I was actually happy to have time off from my computer. It was a lot like being on the island of Fiji, only a lot cheaper, not as beautiful and minus the sand. It's just a joke how addicted we all are to this machine. Not me, because I am, still, quite perfect, but YOU PEOPLE NEED HELP.

We have a lot to discuss, and many pictures, so stay tuned. And there WAS sex. There had to be, someone is NY must be getting it, no?

End of New York-in-5-days-chat.

My One Year Blogoversary

I'm grateful to all of you who read me and especially to the bloggers who have helped me along the way: Fussy, Baby on Bored, People Are Idiots, Shecky Magazine and Blogography. You know what you've done and now I'm as insane as you are. Crystal Meth is less addictive than blogging so thanks for that.

I'm leaving for New York this morning. I can't say why I'm going but you'll read about it in the tabs and no I'm not going into rehab. Been there, done that.

After years of traveling as a stand up comic, I have it down to a science. A really sick, anal-retentive kind of science. First come the outfits. All hung on closet knobs to make sure I can make 78 outfits out of 3. Notice they are all various shades of black. I'm living in LA now but I have the black heart of a New Yorker always and forever. I've spared you the close-ups but the necklaces, cuffs and even bras are hung up with each outfit. A black bra is not just a black bra. Some go under see-through tops and they have lace and are different.

I'm only taking two bags. It's between the Betsy Johnson on the left and the House of Dereon (Beyonce's line) on the right. The one in the middle is the Nicole Miller I take to all parties only because it fits things like a camera, a phone and a 16 oz. can of beer.

I will put in a shoe for every occasion. Rain, beach, ice skating, you name it, I've got the shoe. Sometimes when I read about celebrities and how they need 27 pieces of luggage for three days I stop laughing long enough to remember how demented I am. I love clothes and am an unapologetic fashionista. Jeans and a tee shirt are not fashion to me. They're just a lack of imagination. It's why I loved living in New York. New Yorkers can dress. Here in LA? Not so much. The first 4 years I lived here people kept telling me I was overdressed. Like there is such a thing.

The only thing that bothers me about traveling is all the useless crap I think I need to do. Seriously, am I really going to brush my teeth twice a day? Condition my hair every time I wash it? Wear a different thong every day?

I've always been into clothes. Some people are good at math. I'm good at fashion. Bad clothes make my head hurt. People who don't care about it make my head explode. And then some people (men) wonder why they have no girlfriends. It's your shoes! Good God man, it's your fucking retarded shoes, the first thing a woman looks at!

Once when I was just beginning stand up and had to work part time jobs to make my rent, I got a job at Harper's Bazaar in New York.

Sidebar: Grace Mirabella was the editrix at the time; she later went on to have her own eponymous magazine, Mirabella.

I remember the whole crew had returned from the fall shows in Milan and Grace waltzed by my desk wearing a deep violet dress with a matching cape and shoes. I'm half French so we normally can speak when confronted with sartorial splendor but I was struck dumb. About an hour later I walked by her office and she was sitting there in all her violet finery and I couldn't help myself. I also didn't know fashion protocol. I popped into her office.

"Ms. Mirabella, that outfit, it's really, totally, just fabulous." She looked up slowly and gave me the once over and that must have been painful. I was probably wearing a Girl Scout uniform.

"Thank you, darling." And she went back to what she was doing. I was the talk of that office for a fucking week. "She went into Grace's office and SPOKE TO GRACE and now she's probably going to get fired by Grace." I didn't get fired but it would have been worth it if I had.

I love fashion so much that I'm one of those women who is not concerned with how the man I'm dating is dressed. Unless he asks me, I offer no suggestions or criticisms. I really don't care because I will always look better than he does and eventually he will be handed a ticket and asked to bring someone's car around. And that will make me laugh, and what is better than a man who can make you laugh? Especially if he's wearing bad shoes.

End of chat.

September 12, 2001

© Maxracks.com

Smunday

I write Monday's posts on Sundays. So they're not really in the moment. But then there are days like yesterday, Sunday, where I don't really care about today's post and try and fill up the spaces in between with interesting activities. Although apparently I've forgotten the meaning of 'interesting.' Like I thought I should spackle and repaint a small portion of a wall. That did not happen because that was more boring than writing. Then I thought I'd watch two movies I rented, Georgia Rule and Breach. If I have my life to do over, I would learn German declensions and study the Talmud rather than watch those movies again.

So here are a few things - in the moment - that I want to get off my double DD's. Double CC's? Okay, Double B+'s.

1. I have a former friend named Marla who is stalking me by telephone. You know how you think you know people and then one day they turn out to be a total psycho? She is what is called a borderline personality and is very obsessive. I never talked to her much over the years but in the last few months we talked a lot and now I see why I avoided her all those years. I know my family doesn't like her but they hate everyone so I didn't really pay that much attention. Anyone else have a psychotic friend they can't unload? And if you did unload them, how did you do it? I know stalking can be referred to police, should I call them?

2. I went in to get a spray tan and if you haven't gotten one yet, don't. Not unless you spend the big bucks like Paris and have a person individually paint you with a spray gun. That costs about $160. (Remember seeing that spray tan van pulling into her grandfather's estate after she was released from jail?) I went into one of those booths that cost $25.00. There are clear directions but all you can think of is that you're going to look like Ross from Friends after his run-in with the tanning booth. It's also annoying, too many places to put cream on to protect knees, ankles, knuckles etc. Then when the spray blast stops, which lasts about 6 seconds and takes your breath away, you have to wipe it off or pat it down or rub it in or lick it off or something else time consuming. Either way, your feet come out twenty shades darker that your legs. Here's a tip, make sure the shower cap is pushed all the way back to your hairline and not halfway across your forehead or you'll end up with have that unfortunate hippie look, with the headband across the forehead.

3. I went to It's A Wrap, a store over in the valley that sells clothes from movie and TV sets. They list the shows on a piece of paper on the wall and there are codes beside the names so you can see what show you're wearing. I didn't find anything, mainly because on the way down the street I found a half Chinese folding screen that was perfect for in front of my desk and lost total interest in clothes. BUT I did end up peering into a bin that had flesh-colored Spanx in them for only $6.00. As I was sorting through them, I picked one up and noticed it had a pouch in the crotch. It was a PENIS Spanx! At first I didn't understand it. I mean, I get that on TV even the men need to be pulled in to avoid the muffin top look but why would you want to crush your penis? It wasn't even padded, which would have been my suggestion but I don't have one so maybe padding it is just asking for trouble.

So here we are, in the moment. I have a psychotic stalker, my feet are darker than dirt and I felt the Penis Spanx.

End of chat.

You, Me And DuHeat

It was 104 degrees last Saturday. I didn't leave my house all day as the concrete had burst into flames and my tires had liquefied and become one with the pavement. I think my second floor apartment might actually have melted down to the ground floor unless I had Gerbera Daisies right outside my door and never realized it for five years. I had my aircon on high all day and the day before and after finally getting the indoor temp down to 79 degrees, my nose started to bleed.

I turned off the aircon at midnight and went over to McLoserstene's. She told me to use my humidifier which I had, of course, FINALLY just put away having left it on the floor of my bedroom for about 3 months. I filled it with a gallon or two of water and then tried to set it on the floor. Try bending over with a bloody nose and an oblong POORLY conceived plastic housing unit full of water sloshing back and forth. Go ahead. I'll wait.

I went to bed around 1 a.m. and felt blood dripping down the back of my throat. I sat up and it did the same thing. I never got to sleep and by morning remembered it was Labor Day weekend, which meant only the homeless were going to be in their offices. And while we're on the topic of Labor Day, shouldn't we be celebrating it by WORKING?

I phoned my internist but he was out of the country and his on-call suggested I call 911 and have them take me to an ER. I did that once before and the bus they sent for me had cute medics but they really should serve caviar and Cristal in there for the $900 they charge you. McLoserstene’s mom told me to go to the ER on my own. I was actually glad my own mother was not around because she would have said, “Well, what have you done now?” The nosebleed would have been my fault because I control both the nasal passage in my nose and the signal that the brain sends to the nose. And oh yes, I probably stuck a broken fingernail up there and doodled with it on my nasal passages in my spare time bleeding to death. (Although that part is possible)

Sidebar: Once I choked on a piece of meat and when the paramedics arrived and told my family I was going to have to be taken to a hospital, my mother replied: Ohhhhh, now my last day in LA is going to be ruined. The paramedics exchanged looks. Instead of choosing to ride with me in the back, my mother opted to ride with Mr. August from The Paramedic's 2005 pin-up calendar. When the hospital wanted to release me to my sister and mother I begged them to let me stay with them instead. I was afraid that if I was sent home and we were eating dinner and I started to convulse they'd wait until after dessert to call 911 just to, you know, not ruin dessert. No, I don't like my family if that's your next question.

So my neighbor PJ drove me to the ER. Joe was also available but he was watching the games and I didn't have the heart to get between a man and his games. It turned out my blood pressure was 200/110, which is, apparently, not good.

I was there for 4 hours. I was given 2 blood pressure pills, or was it Extasy? had my BP taken 3 times (it came way down) and had blood drawn. When I first saw the doctor I told him to give me an Ativan to lower my anxiety. He said he wanted to lower my BP first. I told him that the 3 times this had happened over the course of fifteen years, this is what the doctors always did; the BP lowers itself once you administer Ativan, an anti-anxiety drug. I explained that I've been going to doctors since I was 13 years old and that I don't do well when I'm in their offices due to past emotional experiences, like them wanting to cut me open and fill me with steel and aluminum. Call me a pussy, but that scares the shit out of me.

Instead, Dr. Sensitive forced me to pinch my own nostrils shut for over 2 hours. This in turn made the situation worse in that the bleeding increased and now I couldn't breathe and had two giant indentations on either side of my nose. Which of course made me more anxiety ridden which of course REQUIRED ATIVAN. Dr. Tampon, called thusly because he finally, after 3 hours, inflated two tampon-like devices up my nostrils and left the 10 inch strings hanging out the ends of my nose. The look for Fall and the psych ward. Win-win.

I also had packing around the tampon and the strings. I resembled a marionette that had been cobbled together by a blind wood carver. I had now lost so much blood that I was weak and thinking they definitely had given me extasy. I thought I heard Dr. Tampon say,
“You have to come back in a few days.”
“What for?”
“To remove the packing.”
“This packing isn’t going to last 3 days.” Dr. Tampon seemed unconcerned with my diagnosis and walked away. Note to self, check to see if he is actually wearing a stethoscope. Or has a name tag. Or an adz.

I wandered out of my room with a file of papers that I had been handed and went to the checkout counter. The exit officer could not be found. In that it was Labor Day and all.

“Why do I have to see her?”
“She’ll just ask you a few questions.”
“About what?”
“I don’t know.” Well at least we were all on the same page.
"Well, I'm leaving."
"Go get your meds and come back and we'll look for her then."

Yeah, that was going to happen. In about never years.

I walked across the street to the pharmacy and yanked all the packing out. I’d like to apologize to the motorists who unwittingly had to observe that curbside scenario.

I got my Ativan but couldn't stop the blood dripping long enough to open the bottle. I gave the pharmacist the I can make you look this bloody if I choose to look and he opened that fucking bottle so fast I didn't have time to threaten him with stealing the cash register. Sweet man.










I then found this box of Nosebleed Stopper for $7.25 and bought it. Notice how it says it's used in Major Hospitals. All but the one I was in, apparently.

Between the Ativan and the cheap box ‘o medicine my nose stopped bleeding. Something the doctors at Kaiser Permanente hadn’t managed to do in a total of 4 hours I did in 30 minutes.

I'm dying to see what they charged me or I might die from seeing what they charged me.

End of Dr. Soro chat.

L.A. Sign Of The Times #23

Holy Crap!

St. Appolonia is the patron saint of dental work. If you're suffering from a toothache, you're supposed to donate money to her. I'm guessing she and The Tooth Fairy have had this little scam all wrapped up for centuries.

Tooth Fairy: They lose teeth when they're kids, see? And then we put a dollar under their pillow.....then they grow up and and have real tooth problems...

St.Appolonia: Yes, yes, I get it, now they turn around and put an offering at the church for a twenty just to keep the stupid tooth.

Tooth Fairy:Brilliant, no?

Appolonia: A 1900% return on our money. Even a Google share can't match that.

After holding down this office job for a while Appolonia got bored and became a backup singer for Prince, whom she was encouraged to call God. And she did. For her entire singing career.

St. Lucy, the longest running saint in television history

If you win does that mean you get to dump a bucket of ice over this statue?

This is the patron saint of lost causes, St. Rita. First of all, the lost cause here is piety, followed closely by a contract with Ford Models NY. Check out her right knee. What kind of a religious pose is that?

Poor St. Joseph. Relegated to the lowly position of house sales and having inferior cloth luggage to add insult to injury. Stick his statue in upside down in your yard and leave his feet sticking out and you will make a guaranteed sale. Good luck with that in this market. I love that he comes with instructions. Shouldn't all men? This is my patron saint. Chanel.

End of chat.