Wednesday, December 29, 2010

A Prisoner Of New Year's Eve

Stand-ups always work on New Year’s Eve. It’s one reason I’m not a fan of that day.

Flashbacks. In the 90's I was booked with two male comics to do two New Year's Eve shows at Lompoc Maximum Security Penitentiary north of Los Angeles.

Upon arrival, Paul, (I can’t remember his real name) Bobby and I were ushered through a security check and asked to remove our belts and keys. We also had to surrender our drivers’ licenses. I asked why.

"In case something happens to you in there…we’ll need some sort of identification to uh…”

“...identify the body.” Bobby finished the sentence for him. It's probably important to note that prison guards don't carry guns. And that prisoners were allowed to talk to us.

As we walked through the halls we passed a locked glass-encased bulletin board. Inside were our pictures, all smiley and show bizzy. We were escorted backstage and introduced to our M.C., a prisoner from Cell Block Kill The Comics.

The headliner, Bobby Gaylor, was a very funny guy who wrote for the sitcom Roseanne and was a veteran of prison shows. As first-timers, Paul (John, George, Ringo?) and I asked him if there was any advice he could give us that would make the gig easier. Bobby said nothing could make a prison gig easier.

The M.C. introduced Paul (Pius, Benedict, Boniface?) and he hadn't said two sentences before the cons started heckling him. I stood backstage and prayed for an earthquake. I decided to keep my biker leather jacket on because I had the blonde hair liability going on. During my half hour on stage I heard “show me your tits” more than I’d ever heard it in my entire life and that’s including from my gynecologist.

After my set ended and I went backstage to learn how to breathe again, a prisoner named Ronnie came up to me holding a camera and told me he thought I was funny, which I hoped wasn’t a prelude to shivving me in the neck. He was nice, sweet even, and very shy. We talked for a long time. As Gaylor came backstage after his set a guard motioned for me to follow him. I shot Gaylor a parting glance that said, “Don’t lose me in here, dude. Seriously.”

“Do you have any idea who you’re talking to over there?” The guard asked, motioning towards the prisoner with the camera.
“You mean Ronnie?”
“That’s Bruiser.”
“He said his name was Ronnie.”
“Yeah, on the outside, in here he’s Bruiser and I gotta warn ya; he’s the most dangerous guy in the pen. We have no idea how many people he’s killed.”
“He must have a file; aren’t the numbers in there?”
“No, inside the prison.”

As we waited for the next show to begin, a deafening siren sounded and we were escorted out. Security said they would come and get us when it was safe to go back in. We walked out to the deserted parking lot in a cold, drizzling rain and piled into Bobby’s car. We decided to take off. Fuck the gig. No amount of money was worth dying in a prison riot although we all agreed we could use the press.

Fifteen minutes later security tapped on the car window. There had been a fight but the guards broke it up. YAY, AND NOW MORE COMEDY!

As we walked past that locked glass case, I noticed my picture was missing. I asked a guard what happened to it.

“Probably stolen by a con.”
“But that case was locked with a key, how did they open it?”
“They got tools.”
“Where do they get tools?”
“They make 'em.”

We went backstage and prisoners from the first show were still milling around. One came up to me with a pen and my head shot from the locked case. I asked him how he got it and he just smiled. I signed it and I’m pretty sure that picture ended up with my mouth torn out in the shape of a circle. Bruiser asked me for my address. I gave him my agent’s address. Better that he kill him when he got out instead of me.
A month later my agent called and said there was a package for me from Lompoc, from some guy named Ronnie. I went to pick it up and inside was a little ship inside of a bottle with my name spelled out in calligraphy on one of the sails. I called Bobby Gaylor and told him what Bruiser made for me.

“Made for you? Soro, he had someone make that for you. He’s the head con at Lompoc. He had a camera; no one has a fucking camera in the pen.”**

I still have that ship in the bottle. It reminds me that no man I’ve ever been with has ever bothered to shake down someone into making me a present. Or killed anyone.

End of chat.
*** Ronnie, aka Bruiser, took the picture of me above and another one where I appear to be not scared to death of having the stage rushed by a bunch of convicts.

Friday, December 24, 2010

The 12th Day Of Christmas

Santa Tracking dominates the news. How many 5 year olds are watching the news?

The North American Aerospace Defense Command, NORAD, an organization made up of the United States and Canada, tracks Santa Claus every year. I can understand why Canada is tracking Santa Claus; they have plenty of free time on their hands. But the United States? People are gunning for us all the time. Shouldn’t we be tracking where Kim Jong Il drops off his plutonium? Or in which cave Osama Bin Laden is reading back issues of How To Kill Americans Digest?

This was the quote of the week from NORAD “I hope Canadians and Americans are assured that NORAD is prepared to respond to threats as they present themselves and to deflect and deter those attacks before they occur.”

Dude, you're tracking Santa Claus, who doesn't exist. I’m not all that assured you’re prepared to deflect and deter attacks from giant killer tomatoes, much less suicide bombers.

This is the NORAD War Room. Thank God we're prepared in case that shifty Santa Claus sends in his Trojan Reindeers and attacks us.

If you want to track Santa with your kids, go here.

And now, the picture I picked as the winner of the 2007 12 Pets of Christmas Contest.
It was the most imaginative. And didn't really make sense. Yet made me laugh. You always get points for that.

Thursday, December 23, 2010

The 11th Day Of Christmas

This is the first - and last - Christmas tree I ever bought. I vaguely remember buying a box of blue ornaments and some tinsel. I have no idea where the angel on top of the tree came from. I do remember the day I threw it out.

I must have been very proud of my efforts because I invited people over.

The girl on the left is Celeste. She and I waited tables together at Hobeaus, a fish restaurant in NY that served dead lobsters along with live ones in a two for one sale. Only no one knew about the one dead lobster. Beware of all two for one sales.

The guy next to her is Chris. He and I went to the same university in Paris and his father was the German Ambassador to France. His brother Karl de-virginized me. And broke my heart in a million pieces. Chris now lives in Berlin and is a very successful psychoanalyst. I hope Karl is his patient and discusses how he should be forever punished for breaking my heart. Their mother made me get on birth control pills.

The guy who appears to be leaning into my boobs? I HAVE NO IDEA WHO THAT IS.

I had Christmas trees growing up, of course, but my parents never mentioned the downside to owning one and it's just one more thing I get to blame them for in therapy. Those things leak needles. I found them years later, hiding in the cracks of wooden floor boards, in the cushions of my couch and in my cereal.

When I moved to L.A. 13 years later, I found some under one of my rugs.

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

The 10th Day Of Christmas

If you've been reading me for a while, you'll remember the Suicidal Bear from the 12 Pets of Christmas Contest of 2007.

I'd only been blogging a little over a year back then and mistakenly thought that I'd get HUNDREDS of entries in this contest.

I was wrong.

So my friend McLoserstene and I desperately cobbled together the teddy bear I got as a kid, Christmas ornaments we both had and McLoserstene's fake gun. The bear is wearing my Chanel eyeglasses. And I never told anyone I made it myself.


Tuesday, December 21, 2010

The 9th Day Of Christmas

Every year each comedy club in NY gave a Christmas Party. One of the best ones was at Caroline's Comedy Club.

In 1988 they rented a photo booth and this is a picture of Larry David, creator of Seinfeld and Curb Your Enthusiasm, and I together. Obviously, we were drunk.

I love Larry for many reasons, not the least of which is that he put me on his two TV shows. But the main reason is because of something he did for me in the late 80's.

I had auditioned for and made it into Catch A Rising Star, the best comedy club in New York at that time. Not once, but twice. I had been thrown out by one booker but managed to get back in when another booker named Cynthia took over.

Cynthia really liked me and I got lots of stage time. Then she had a stroke. I wish I was making that up, for both her sake and mine.

So the club hired their bartender to take over. HI, WELCOME TO COMEDY!

The bartender didn't like me. And the more I knew he didn't like me, the worse I treated him. I do not recommend this as a career move.

The bartender slash booker, let's call him Hassle, would put me up when there were no other comics hanging around the bar area. In those days, you had to pay dues by hanging out at clubs for hours at a time, every single night. Then the booker would walk up, tap you on the shoulder and say, "You're on next." And you'd better have been prepared because the odds of you getting another chance after bombing were slim.

Because of that, I've never hung out at bars because I'm always waiting for someone to say, "You're on in 5."

Larry and I played a lot of the same clubs and he noticed I didn't get a lot of stage time at Catch. So one night he asked Hassle to put me on more.

Hassle liked Larry. Admired him. Thought he was a genius. And totally ignored his request.

Hassle said he didn't think I was funny. Larry said I didn't work like most comics. I didn't sit down and write jokes. I made up jokes while I was on stage. Which was harder.

Hassle didn't care.

Larry asked him to reconsider. He didn't and still never put me on unless there weren't any other comedians available.

I only heard this story because other comics had been at the club when Larry did this. And they told me.

Because of Larry I can't stay friends with anyone who isn't supportive of my career. So thanks Larry, for saving me from a lot of people like Hassle.

If you add an "o" to the anagram Hassle, you get the word Asshole.

Monday, December 20, 2010

The 8th Day Of Christmas

One of the first year readers of my blog, Anne, sent this in for the 12 Pets of Christmas Contest in 2007. Anne no longer blogs and I have no idea what happened to her but wherever she is, I'm betting she's scaring kids half to death.

The Bloggess isn't the only one who likes stuffed whateverthisis.

While you're visiting Jenny, read about the Christmas miracle she pulled off for families on the blogosphere. A M A Z I N G.

Also? This picture did not win the contest.

Sunday, December 19, 2010

The 7th Day Of Christmas

This is the picture my college roommate put in her Christmas cards three years ago.

She's now divorced. She went back to her maiden name after 23 years of marriage. And she changed her first name.

No good can ever come of dressing up for your Christmas card.

Saturday, December 18, 2010

Friday, December 17, 2010

The 5th Day Of Christmas

Me, the last guy I almost married and my dog Kiko. Kiko was an AKC show dog, which explains why he's posing perfectly. That dog knew where his key light was. I did his hair and makeup in case anyone's wondering.

I look so young in this picture I've decided never to look in a mirror again.

Thursday, December 16, 2010

The 4th Day Of Christmas

This is a picture of comedian Lisa T. She made gingerbread houses every year at Christmas and passed them along to agents, bookers or anyone else in Hollywood who had helped her career.

Of course it couldn't top what I gave these people at Christmas: Indigestion.

I went to her apartment one day while she was assembling the houses and they were really spectacular. I noticed there was one that sat apart from the others. She called it her practice house. It looked good to me but she said it had lots of mistakes on it. There are no mistakes in candy, Lisa.

I asked her what she did with the practice house and she said she saved it for someone she didn't like that much.

So here's Lisa, a week later, having forgotten what she told me about the practice house, giving me the practice house.


Wednesday, December 15, 2010

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

The 2nd Day Of Christmas

Whereas I send emails every Christmas that say Bah Humbug Please Stop Contacting Me, comedian Steve Altman always comes up with a card that doesn't contain bile.
Bing Crosby, Steve Altman, Mary and Santa Claus cross Abbey Road.

Steve and I met at a club around San Diego years ago. The Owner of this particular shit hole put us up in separate condos and then later paid for all my drinks. He also offered to buy me a massage from His Massage Girl, as long as he could watch. Yeah, that's a normal part of a standup comic's career.

I turned The Owner down. Well, not the drinks part.

That entire weekend poor Steve ran interference for me with The Owner, who stuck to me like an uncancelled stamp you're trying to soak off an envelope. He said he would be glad to help me with my jokes and had I considered wearing shorter skirts on stage?

Yeah, yet another normal part of my job, short skirts.

To punish me for not returning his attentions, on the last night he wouldn’t pay me after my set until after Steve’s part of the show was over. Steve always did an hour and sometimes went longer. I had a lengthy drive back to L.A. so I begged The Owner to please pay me so I could go. I called my agent at 11 pm and begged him to talk some sense into this clown. My agent declined. THANKS! The Owner finally paid me after he deducted the cost of all the drinks he had bought me that first night.

Our business is so full of classy people and no MEN DON'T HAVE THESE PROBLEMS WHEN THEY PERFORM.

Steve has loads of extra talent, as you can see from this clip.

Monday, December 13, 2010

The First Day Of Christmas

A few years ago I had a 12 Pets of Christmas contest and this photo from one of my close friends was submitted. It didn't win but it did make me laugh.

Thursday, December 09, 2010

I'm Tired Of Writing

Thanks for doing this Lisa!

Tuesday, November 30, 2010

It's A Dog's Life

December's featured Teeshirter** is Molly Campbell. No, this is not a picture of Molly. Or if it is she needs to change her avatar and admit she doesn't have opposable thumbs and is typing with a spoon handle. This is her dog, Stirrup.

I met Molly back in 1989, or maybe it was October. She was visiting Los Angeles and invited me to have dinner with her daughter and her daughter's friends. I had a terrific evening and knew I wanted to spend more time with her and not only because she borrowed a large sum of money from me and I thought I'd never see her again.

It's funny how you can *know* someone online, in this case from blogging and Twitter, and you picture them a certain way. Molly is very, very tall. I don't know why but I'm always surprised when I meet a tall woman. Unless I'm at a WNBA game and then no.

Molly not only blogs but is a very popular person on Twitter. More popular than me which I find annoying only kidding Molly please don't stand close to me and glower down like that thank you. So check out her funny blog and follow her on Twitter and once again, if you're not on Twitter yet. Groan.

In other news Kindle listed their top 100 blogs in the Humor Category and I made the top 10. Go take a look at their list; you'll recognize a lot of your favorite bloggers.

In the last week of November Twitter sent me a notice that my ranking was 572 in the U.S. But based on your score, ratings go up and down every week. And what goes up? Usually taps you on the shoulder in the middle of the night and wants sex.

**You can be a Teeshirter too! Buy a shirt on my sidebar and I'll leave your link and picture up for a month. Only $20.00 no shipping and handling. My first opening is March of 2011 so buy a shirt, take a picture of you or your dog or your lasagna wearing it and send it in as soon as you can to reserve your spot. Also send lasagna.

Thursday, November 18, 2010

The Stupids Get A Headache

My head hurts.

You should take aspirin.

It feels like it's going to explode.

Or Aleve.

My eyeballs hurt.

Advil is good too.

Maybe it's a brain tumor.

Probably just a migraine.

But it could be a brain tumor.

Yes, I suppose it could.

Oh my God you think I have a brain tumor?

I'm not a doctor.

Oh my God I have a brain tumor!

If it's that bad you should go to the Emergency Room.

What if I'm dying?

We're all dying.

But I'm dying faster because of my brain tumor.

I thought this was just a headache.

I didn't want to worry my family and friends.

So you've already seen a doctor?


I think you should go to a doctor just to be safe.

My jeans are so tight they're hurting my legs.

Maybe they have a brain tumor.

For Stupid People When The Rainbow Isn't Enuf

Humans can be stupid. We're especially stupid when things go wrong. When things go very, very wrong, we're the Nobel Prize winners of Stupid.

If you've ever caught yourself responding like THEM, congratulations, Oslo is on line 2.

I'm really sick.

THEM:You should see a doctor.

I don't have insurance.

THEM:You should get some.

I'm broke.

THEM:You should get a job.

I'm bored.

You should do something.

I'm so tired.

THEM:You should sleep.

I'm hungry.

THEM:You should eat.

Do you think I'm stupid?

Really, you should eat.

Friday, November 12, 2010

I Don't Want To Get Married But You Go Ahead

People always ask me why I never got married. When they do, I look up long enough from counting my stacks of money to laugh. Then I put on my diamonds and furs and ring for the butler and he rings for the chauffeur and soon I'm in my Maybach heading for another fun day at the plastic surgeons.

And I don't have to check with anybody and can spend my money however I want which does not include having to buy a new hot water heater and other things I can't wear.

The truth is, I don't play well with others. Apparently marriage requires sharing and compromise. What kind of living hell is that? And if you're married you can't go to bed mad? THAT'S JUST CRAZY TALK. I wasn't aware there was another way to go to bed.

The real story is that I've had trouble with men from the moment I started dating. My first boyfriend got hit by a truck. My second boyfriend had a heart attack. My third boyfriend called me up one day and said, “You know what, I think you’re a jinx." And I said, “How do you figure?” But then the phone went dead because you’re only allowed ten minute calls from prison.

I don't do domestic. Unless that includes hiring them and then I'm the valedictorian of domestic. As a matter of fact the first thing I look for is a man who cooks, because I don’t. I’ll eat out, I’ll take out, I’ll put out. But I ain't cooking. When I get my dream house, I’m not even going to build a kitchen. I’m going to put a KFC in on the ground floor.

Because I'm not a quitter, I've been engaged three times. The first time I bought a long white dress. The second time I bought a long off-white dress. The third time I just bought something I could return.

My first fiancé was in the Army. The Salvation Army. He was so immature that on April Fool's Day he put Polygrip in my diaphragm. I walked around all day sounding like a plunger.

One day he shaved his head.

"Why did you do that?"
"I'm trying to make my head look bigger."
"I wish you'd shave another part of your anatomy."

My second fiancé gave me a big diamond ring and I got him nothing. It's the only time in a relationship between a man and a woman where if you don't give, no one's going to call you frigid AND IT WAS ONLY THAT ONE TIME.

My third fiancé was twenty years older than me. When he took me to meet his parents I was very impressed and said, "Wow, this is a really nice cemetery."

Marriage scares me because I'm not sure people can be faithful to each other. If only we took a page from the animal kingdom. The bald eagle mates and remains faithful for life. Of course if he had some hair he'd probably be out screwing around.

So dear Becky, just because I'm not that brave, don't let that dissuade you RUN FOR YOUR LIFE from marrying the man of your dreams IT'S NOT TOO LATE I'M SURE THE CATERER WILL REFUND SOME OF THE MONEY and living the rest of your life in harmony and bliss I'M LYING and I wish you and Matt the very happiest parts of forever.

Poor bastards.

~For the full list of virtual bridesmaids***, please visit our creative ringleader, Ann.

~Everybody Can Bite Me Fridays is on hiatus because Ann made me do this today.

~Can someone point me to the buffet?

Crazy broads at
Mouthy HousewivesAnn at Annsrants
Lisa at Smacksy
Jessica at Bernthis
Ellie at OneCraftyMother
Amy at I Have More Rocks

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

L.A. Sign Of The Times #69

I found this CD of Vincent Van Go Go in a thrift store.

A. Who the hell are they and

B. doesn't that baby looked stoned?

Sunday, November 07, 2010

The Secret To A Long Life

In a study of people who live to be 100, researchers found they shared certain personality traits:

1. Generally extroverted and gregarious.

"Dear God I'll be dead in 5 years."

2. Have a stable social network.

"Maybe 4."

3. Don't bemoan life's difficulties.

"3 years, tops."

4. Have mastered the art of letting go.

"Definitely 2."

5. The majority were in decades-long relationships and had only kissed one person their entire lives.

"I won't make it to 5 p.m. Wednesday"

End of chat.

Saturday, November 06, 2010

L.A. Sign Of The Times #68

Click on the label at the end of this post to see the entire series of photos. Unless you're busy and then never mind.

Monday, November 01, 2010

It's Baby E Day!

If you don't know who Baby E is then you're not reading another one of the most popular blogs around. It seems all the people who buy my shirts have terrific blogs with lots of fans so that means, well, I'm not sure what that means but I'm glad they found me. And more importantly, gave me money.

Go check out this blogger's followers and the number of comments she gets. Don't look for comments from me over there since it appears I'm unable to do it correctly. I've apparently gone blind from counting all my money.

And she's on Twitter (because I made her) and Tumblr (I didn't make her) so she's obviously a genius. Also, her husband reads my blog but I can't figure out if he's single or not because she won't tell me.

Isn't Baby E one cute looking kid? I think he's going to be a big star if he'll just listen to me and get on a bus to Hollywood. But first he has to go through his father's wallet and his mother's purse because I like expensive restaurants. I mean, really good private schools for kids.

Usually I wrap up each teeshirter post with a little bit of what's going on chez moi but my mother is still visiting from Paris so parts of my brain are missing and presumed dead.

End of chat.

Thursday, October 28, 2010

Dear God I Own Brown Pants

Like that one New Year's Eve when I was at a party and stood up at midnight to kiss someone, only to discover I was the only single woman there and all the couples were kissing, thus hangs my brown pants in the closet. Alone in a sea of black. A sea of black clothes kissing.

And not just any brown pants. Brown polyester pants. Jaclyn Smith's brown polyester pants. From K-Mart.

Can death be far behind?

It was 2008 and I had to go to India for surgery. Because of extreme pain I couldn't make it off the couch to the kitchen without 2 Vicodin and a walker. So I had put on weight. Up to 140 pounds from my constant 128. Nothing fit. How was I going to sit on a plane for 22 hours wearing the only thing that would fit me, four towels bound together with electrical tape?

So I dragged myself out to shop. There was a K-Mart over the hill in the San Fernando Valley. I went straight to the Overweight Section, which takes up about 97% of the store, and bought my brown no-wrinkle Jaclyn Smith pants. "No love will be lost when I donate these to The Salvation Army," I said to myself while I leaned on a store employee crying because I now owned brown polyester pants.

But when I got home I realized I didn't have anything to go with brown pants so I went to Ross and bought a matching cotton shirt. "Oh won't this make a well coordinated outfit for some nice person who loves the color brown?" I said to myself as I leaned on a store employee crying because I was now buying cheap brown tops to go with cheap brown pants.

Here I am in India wearing my K-Mart pants, my Ross shirt and risking my life in one of their pedi-cabs,  made out of plastic and spit. The necklace is from Planet Blue in Malibu and cost twice as much as the pants and shirt together. Notice how the pants appear to be riding up my leg. It turns out a big butt takes up a considerable amount of pant.

You really do learn something new every day.
I still have the outfit. I gave the necklace to my mom. And at 133 pounds and holding, I still wear the outfit. I miss the necklace.

End of chat.

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Not The One With Rock Hudson And Doris Day

When my sister Lindy first started modeling in New York she got a lot of different jobs. But when she booked her first cover shoot I was very proud of her even though I'd never heard of the magazine.

She called our Dad, who was living in Florida, and excitedly told him she had been chosen to do not one but two covers for a magazine called Pillow Talk. (not this one) She gave him the date the first one would hit newstands and then forgot all about it.

The day the magazine came out Lindy's agent called to tell her and she ran to the nearest kiosk. She came home and waved it in my face and said OH NO OH NO OH NO!!! I'd never seen her so excited.

But it wasn't exactly excitement.

It was more dread.

And fear.

Of the loss of her inheritance:
By the time she called Dad to say the magazine was NOT repeat NOT repeat NOT EVER coming out he had already bought it.

Thank God the next month they only used her body:

End of chat.

Monday, October 18, 2010

Public Speaking Isn't For Everyone

I'm no stranger to surgery. I'd like to say it's because I'm married to Dr. Oz and every day on the way to meet him for lunch at the hospital I stop off and spend all his money.

But no, I've had surgery for real reasons. None of which included a lawsuit and a huge cash settlement but that's probably just poor planning on my part.

Frankly, I'd hate to die on an operating table because they say when you leave your body you can look down and see the doctors working on you. I bet that's not what they're doing. They're probably going through your pockets.

During my last surgery, right before I went under, I remember the doctor holding a scalpel, the florescent lights and the smell of burning flesh. NIGHTMARE.

Do you know how bad you look in florescent lights?

In the operating room they make you count back from 100 when they give you the anesthesia. They make you think you're going to be awake for a really long time. Meanwhile you go 100, 99. Out! Why don't they just make you count backwards from 2?

When I woke up I drifted into consciousness and heard the loudspeaker crackle alive.

"Code Blue on the fir... (muffled voice) Gina, is that a 1 or a 7? A 7, realllly? Code Blue... (muffled voice) Gina, that's blue, right? Not purple?"

"(muffled voice) There is no Code Purple."

"(muffled voice) There isn't? Maybe I'm thinking of blue and red make purple. Like the blood mixed with the blue, you know?"

"This is Gina, ignore all previous announcements except this one: CODE BLUE ON THE SEVENTH FLOOR."

Then a nurse came in and said "I'm going to have to attach you to a drip." And I'm thinking, wouldn't I heal a lot faster if they hooked me up to a cool person? She gave me my pain meds and I cheeked the pills and saved them for later because double dosage later always trumps single dosage now.

Have you ever dropped a pill on the floor and then picked it up and taken it anyway? And someone will inevitably say, "Ooooh, that was on the floor." How do we know those pills weren't on the floor before they got in the bottle? There's probably a guy over at Squibb sitting on the floor going, 18, 19, 20.

I know you're supposed to take all the medicine a doctor gives you but it's better to have extra medication lying around. Once I ran out of sugar and had to put Cherry Nyquil on my Cream of' Wheat. Because I'm a genius.

A study says married men don't need as strong an anesthetic as married women. For women they give them intravenous Valium and for men they make them listen to a tape of their wives asking them to take out the garbage.

End of chat.

Sunday, October 10, 2010

L.A. Sign Of The Times #67

A paparazzo waits in his car outside of my Hollywood Starbucks. For sitting in his car polishing his camera lens he gets to sit on his ass wearing Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses. Poor bastard didn't even know I was taking his picture. **

**to see the rest of the series click on the label below this post. I take strange pictures of Los Angeles. Because I am strange.

Thursday, October 07, 2010

She Was A Sinner. She Was A Whore.

I don't have children. But I grew up around them.

I'm not a parent. But I grew up around them.

Is bullying someone's fault? Shitty children? Shitty parents?

When I was in junior high the girl down the street, Susan, got pregnant. The neighborhood buzz was that she and her parents were to be shunned. Her parents had done a miserable job raising this child. She was a sinner. She was a whore.

She was my friend.

And this is where the story splits in two and travels different roads until last year.

I remembered my mom told me to go to Susan's house and walk with her to school, just like I did every day. I always said I was lucky to have a mother who was not judgmental about that kind of thing. I also remembered that Susan's mother came by our house after dark one day and thanked my mother for her kindness. I'd repeated that story a million times.

Last year I was talking to mom about Susan. I wondered what could have happened to her. They sent her away to a girl's compound where unwed mothers, as they were then referred to, could have their babies. Susan's mother brought the child home and raised it as her own. We never saw Susan again.

I thanked mom for telling me not to avoid her.

My mother said she didn't believe she'd done that much. I asked her how she could think that and she replied, "Well, the day you came to me and said you were going to walk her to school, just like you always did, I realized that for you it was a matter of standing up for your friend and you really didn't care what anyone thought of you for it. So I didn't stop you. And when Susan's mother came by and thanked you for your kindness, I was very proud of you."

All these years I'd thought it was my mom who did the right thing, but it was me. She'd just agreed with my decision. Even if she hadn't I would have done it anyway. Throughout school I was always first in my class in the headstrong division.

Is a child born with an inner compass for right and wrong and even with their parents influence one way or the other, do they still feel that moral imperative? I believe there are good kids everywhere and some who aren't. I'm not sure parenting of any kind can help a natural born asshole.

End of chat.

Saturday, October 02, 2010

Fall In Love With This Guy

Since I began the Teeshirter Program, not to be confused with The Betty Ford Center Program, in March of 2010, I've been surprised by what readers send in for their month riding shotgun on my sidebar.

This month is no different.

David McGrievey, the extremely popular blogger from An Illustrated Life, or as I like to refer to him, That Guy Who Draws Stuff Without Photoshop Unlike Other Bloggers Who Shall Remain Nameless, took time out from his very busy schedule of bar-hopping in the east village and making fun of badly dressed people in Bloomingdale's to draw me this:

I hope you're impressed.

I was.

Want your own free month of advertising that's not really free because you have to buy a shirt? Then click on the sidebar and order one. I'm currently booked through December so January is open.

If you're bored with old school blogging try the more fun blogging platform, Tumblr. I've started a blog over there on all things standup and other bloggers like Web Savvy Mom, Juli Ryan and Aunt Becky are over there too. It takes seconds to start your own and it's so idiot proof you can make your own template, change colors, load videos and pictures and just about anything else in no time at all. And the best thing about it? NO COMMENTS REQUIRED. And no one puts up long-ass posts about growing heirloom tomatoes or their vacation with pirates in Somalia, although I might actually read that.

The internet world has moved on. Again.

End of chat.

Sunday, September 26, 2010

Not That It's Any Of Your Business But

People ask me if I forgot to have kids. And I always answer, yes, I was too busy.

I had laundry.

I have many reasons for not having kids. First of all, they run too fast; it's almost impossible to trip them. Plus they're too short to dance with and you can't borrow anything from them, they have no cash. What's the point?

They're also too loud. I had one next to me on a plane once and it emitted such a piercing scream we lost cabin pressure. It made me miss the smokers. At least a cigarette goes out in 3 minutes. In the bible Jesus says "Suffer the little children." I think he knew what he was talking about.

People always tell me, "You're a woman, you're supposed to have kids." Well, I always thought I was supposed to have a Rolls Royce but you won't see that at my house either.

And based on my personality this is probably the kid I would have had:

Did I ever seriously think about having kids? Getting pregnant: throwing up every morning and putting on 60 extra pounds, every woman's secret fantasy. Hearing the pitter patter of little feet running around my apartment, destroying everything I worked my whole life to get. Yeah, no.

Plus I would never voluntarily want to go into anything called Labor. Why don't they call it something I would want to go into? "Suzy, your contractions have started and any minute now you'll be going into... shopping."

And who are these women who want to be awake during childbirth? I don't even want to be awake during the conception. When you go to the dentist and he pulls out your teeth, you're not awake, so why would you be awake when they pull this giant baby out of you? And believe me, your mouth is a lot bigger. I’ve measured.

People with kids always want to know if they can bring them along when they visit single peoples' homes. Sure. Why not? And bring other things we don't have, like a plague of locusts or some fresh manure. Oh, and dip your kid in oil before you come, I hear that's good for wood furniture.

I don't think I'd be a very good parent. I was baby sitting this kid once and he said, "I'm going to drink a gallon of Sunny D without breathing" and I said, "Cool." And I'd be too protective. I can just see the day my kid came to me and pleaded, "Please Mom, let me go to school." And I'd reply, "You have plenty of time. You're only 24."

I like to date guys who already have kids. Then if they're screwed up I can say, "Not my fault, they came this way."

And to those women out there who have 6 or 7 kids and have never heard the words The Ozone Is Killing Us All, you need to close up shop. I was talking to this really drunk woman at a party and she said she had 8 kids. I asked her if she'd ever considered birth control and she said, "You know, it's really hard to get those little pills up in there."

Having a baby can lead to heart failure, pulmonary edema and a ruptured uterus. Forget teaching young girls about birth control, just tell them that.

End of chat.

Thursday, September 23, 2010

Baby You Can Drive My Car - Part Two

I found a description of the difference between men's cars and women's cars. Men keep their cars spotless and their homes a mess. Women keep their homes spotless and their cars a mess.

I keep them both spotless but I'm a known liar.

I've noticed that a guy will cry if his car gets hit by another car. A woman will cry if she has to tell a guy that his car was hit by another car. That she was driving.

I really don't like any man driving my car.

I don't care what they claim but they have no idea where they're going. My ex-boyfriend and I took a trip to Palm Springs, in the desert. I fell asleep for 10 minutes. When I woke up there was snow everywhere. I said, "Where are we?" and he said "I think we're almost in Palm Springs." And I said, "Well, why don't we pull over here and ask this Canadian Mountie exactly where we are?"

When he's driving, it's always "We'll take a right at the light then turn left at the exit." When I'm driving it's “Get in the southbound lane and go west at that intersection." Like I'm Davy Crockett and there's a sundial in the car.

Moses wandered in the desert with the Jews for 40 years. I'm guessing that was supposed to be a 10 day trip. And Moses' wife probably spent the whole time saying, "Moses, don't be a schmuck, stop and ask Achmed where we are."

I have an elderly neighbor who I drive around so he can do his errands. He's 89 years old and reads every road sign out loud. FOOD GAS LODGING, 65 MILES PER HOUR, 280 MILES TO CALIFORNIA, which would scare me because he'd distracted me so much I'd crossed over into Arizona.

I'm still amazed they sent men to the moon with a car. What did they want to prove? That they couldn't ask for directions on two planets?

Los Angeles is a big city, 10 million people, and every one of them has a car aimed at you. The only time I was hit by a car I was standing in the bedroom. Of my apartment. On the second floor.

Everywhere you go you have to valet your car and depending on where you go, it can be very expensive. I once valeted at the new Wolfgang Puck restaurant and then couldn't make rent.

I hate to give them money to park a car. Maybe if they changed my oil I wouldn't mind so much. Of course if I go out with a guy and he won't valet, I think he's an asshole.

Another thing that drives me crazy about Los Angeles driving is when the stoplights go out and they send in police officers to direct traffic. Instead of, you know, catching killers. The cops start talking to you through your window. They’ll make 2 circles in the air and then point to the left and I’m thinking I got a 10 yard penalty and am offsides.

I understand why minivans put TV screens in the backseats for kids. Nothing is more boring than taking a long trip and having nothing to do but listen to the radio or CD's. Last year I started doing books on tape. Only once by accident I rented a dirty one and had to pull over and get a motel.

Which was embarrassing because I was alone.

End of chat.

Monday, September 13, 2010

Thanks For Stealing My Thunder, Oprah

Today is a very big day. Oprah starts her last year on ABC.

But more importantly it's my 4 year Blogoversary. And these are the 10 things I've learned so far:

1. Tell your story, of your family, your life, your every waking moment from breakfast to bedtime. Move your life forward. Don't move sideways. Or backwards.

I don't do this.

2. Leave witty comments on other people's blogs.

I don't do this either.

3. Don't swear.

I think we all know the answer to this one.

4. Comment on every single blog you follow, even if it means missing Christmas.

Ridiculous time suck.

5. Don't refer to people who leave comments as commentors. The correct word is Commentators.

I call them commenters. Wrong word and wrong spelling.

6. Don't name your blog something , like say Hollywood, that excludes anything else you might want to talk about because then people will expect you to talk exclusively about that and when you don't they will hate you.


7. Don't take sides. Don't have an opinion on anything. Stay as bland as you can and try not to offend anyone.

Open mouth, insert foot.

8. Give your family cutesy little names to protect their identities.

No way, if I'm going down I'm taking them with me.

9. Don't guest blog. Soon you'll run out of things to say and be sorry you gave away a perfectly good post. Since blogs and websites come and go with alarming frequency, you'll lose it for your own archives.

I've done 51 guest blog posts.

10. You'll lose most of your readers from your first year. People move on, get tired of reading about your life and move to other blogs, Facebook or Twitter.


The most important thing I've learned about blogging is to be unique.

1. Can readers describe your blog in 3 words?
2. When they come to your site, do they always have a general idea of what to expect?
3. If you didn't put your name on a post, could someone pick it out of a group of other anonymous posts?

4. If someone was asked to write in your style, would they be able to?

If you answered No to any of these questions you have work to do. And by you I mean me. And by me I mean I need a nap.

End of chat.

Sunday, September 12, 2010

September 11 bis

The day after in New York City

Saturday, September 11, 2010

September 11, 2001

On September 11, 2001, I was at LAX waiting to board a flight to Florida. My Dad had died in January of that year and I spent a lot of time flying back and forth from Los Angeles, trying to get his affairs in order.

Our flight was boarding in less than 45 minutes so I went to the ladies' room to check my makeup in case I accidentally ended up on the pilot's lap in the cockpit.

As I entered I passed a little girl and her mother who were on their way out. "Why did that plane crash into the building?" the little girl asked. Thinking it was a story her mom might have read her, I wondered what kinds of children's books were being published these days. Wasn't Little Red Riding Hood and that wolf scary enough? Finding bears in your bed wasn't enough to give you nightmares? Now there were children's stories of planes crashing?

When I came out of the loo there was a crowd gathered around an airport bar, watching TV. As I got closer I saw that one tower of The World Trade Center was partially on fire and what looked like a plane was headed for the other one. Passengers were trying to explain to each other what might be going on but the sad reality was that no one really knew what was going on. A few folks reluctantly looked away, picked up their carry-ons and made for a gate as an announcement called them to their flight.

As people wandered away I elbowed my way closer to the bar to get a better look. I watched the coverage for a while and then I knew I had to leave. There was a pregnant woman next to me, alone and sitting on a bar stool. "Come on," I said quietly, "we need to get out of here." She looked at me but said nothing. Didn't even stand up. We stared at each other for a moment longer and then I took off.

As I ran down the corridors I heard the announcements over the loud speakers. All flights canceled. Go to baggage claim. Retrieve your luggage. Leave the airport immediately. At baggage claim Delta employees had flooded the area; there were three of them to every one of us. There was no panic. No pushing. No shoving.

A Delta employee found my bags and I went outside to wait for a cab. The line was long and I remembered thinking, "What if I can't get out of here?" But the taxis rolled up one after the other and people got in quickly. Silently.

As I drove away from LAX, I heard on the radio that they had just shut it down. No one was allowed to go in or out of the airport. I missed the shutdown by six minutes.

The next day I called my best friend, who worked at the State Department back then. I told her I needed to know if I was safe in Los Angeles or if I should leave town. She wouldn't give me any details about what was going on and said only this, "Be aware the target an icon makes and be careful."

To this day I don't know what my friend's cryptic message meant. She now works at Homeland Security so my chances of finding anything out are even slimmer than before. The only icons in California are the Golden Gate Bridge and Disneyland. Were they targets? Are they still?

I flew to Florida ten days later. There were six of us on the flight. The crew gave us free alcohol and sleep kits from First Class, which was empty.

A gay guy a few rows back asked if he could move up to my row. I nodded and as he sat down next to me he said, "Girrrrl, if I have to? I'm going to totally kick some ass."

Thursday, September 09, 2010

L.A. Sign Of The Times #66

Yesterday was a view from my sister's apartment building and today a picture from mine.

The reason you can't see the Pacific Ocean from mine, like you could from hers, is because it forgot to be on my side of town.

Stupid Pacific Ocean.

Wednesday, September 08, 2010

L.A. Sign Of The Times #65

The Pacific Ocean as seen from my sister's building in Santa Monica.

No, it's not funny.

But it does annoy me so that should make you laugh. You know, that I'm so even tempered and all.

Saturday, September 04, 2010

Nothing Comes Between Me And My Sister

Sisters. Wearing my tee shirt!

You'll recognize this sister because she just returned to the United States after being an Expat. This sister has always been Stateside. When Stateside got a shirt I threw in an extra one for Expat since they were going to meet up and Stateside was going to rub it in that she had a shirt and Expat didn't.

Because I have a sister I know how much fun it is to torture one.


I've been threatening to write a post about Twitter but then realized there are Twitter Tutorials online if you use this new thing called Google.

And then I found this post by blogger and twitter user Molly Campbell and she sums up perfectly why those of us who use Twitter are so addicted to it.

Since I spend less time posting (FOUR YEARS OF BLOGGING, PEOPLE. FOUR YEARS) I've put some Twitter widgets on my sidebar so in case you drop by without calling first you'll have something to do while I finish putting on my makeup.

Up top is a Favorites widget. I put all the jokes I write, and sometimes what others write, but mainly me because I am a raging narcissist, and these change every week. Depending on how funny I am. And how funny others are, but mainly me because I am still, at the end of this paragraph, a raging narcissist.

At the bottom I've added a Twitpic widget. That's the platform that allows you to post your pictures to Twitter. Click on a picture and it will take you to my photos and you can flip through them.

So even when I'm not here? I'm here.

And in short doses! Win win!

Wednesday, September 01, 2010

Baby You Can Drive My Car

No one walks in Los Angeles. You drive 45 minutes, buy a carton of milk, drive 45 minutes back. If I drive anywhere for 45 minutes, I feel like I should spend the weekend.

That's what I liked about New York. You didn't need a car because everything was a block away. The store was a block away, the bank was a block away, my apartment was a block away from where I lived.

My first car, a Ford Festiva. Née October 1990-Died April 2000

I spend so much time on freeways. A week ago I took the 101 to the 110 to the 405 to the 134 back to the 101. I never did get back home. I don't know why they even erect houses on streets out here. They should just build them along the freeways.

And it takes forever to get to a good car crash. Two hours to go one and a half miles. And when you get there, what do you see? Nothing. If it takes me two hours to go one and a half miles, I want to see a head suspended in mid‑air. Show me a pancreas flopping on the pavement.

I'm one of those women who will drive weeks with my car making a pinging sound. I'll even offer to drive people places just so I can ask them what they think the pinging sound is.

This is a bad plan because I've come close to believing:

1. It was the engine grinding up kittens
2. It's the noise you hear right before a plane crashes
3. I should look into purchasing a bicycle

When you take your car to a mechanic they ask you to describe the noise. I always sound like a beatboxer saying aho ho ho, ssst ho sssta ringa, dinging, ring. Then I have to say, "My car has ho-hos and ring-dings."

When my mechanic fixed the pinging sound he managed to throw out this random fact, "You need new shoe boots for your front axle." I don't know why he thought I was gullible enough to believe that a front axle could wear shoes and boots at the same time.


Regulating the car heater is a task best left to NASA. Why do they only have two temperature settings, flame broiled and microwave? You're either hot or you've exploded. I can never get it right. I turn it on and five minutes later I think, "Gee, I must be in the wrong lane because we're orbiting the sun now."

Don't ever make the mistake of going food shopping and then put all your groceries on the floor if you have the heat coming out of the floor vents. By the time I got home I had cooked an entire roast beef medium‑rare. Twenty more minutes and the baked potatoes would have been done. If you're on a long distance trip you could use the car as a crock pot.

And some cars have the dome light on the ceiling in back of you. Who designed this, Cirque de Soleil? And that blinding light, what's in there, a 9 watt bulb? Why doesn't the car just come equipped with candles?

Before I traded in my Festiva I was at Nordstrom's and a woman sold me a cream that was supposed to reduce the visible signs of aging. It didn't do a thing for my face but the car looked brand new.

End of chat.

Thursday, August 26, 2010

L.A. Sign Of The Times #64

Pepperdine University in Malibu with deer grazing on their lawn.

To see the other 63 offbeat pictures I've taken since I began my blog in 2006, click on the label below.

Tuesday, August 24, 2010

I Thought These Things Only Happened To The Bloggess

This happens to The Bloggess all the time. (It's below the hot pictures of her in a strapless black dress and a stuffed squirrel. She's not in the stuffed squirrel, there just IS a stuffed squirrel.)

Anyway, I had the phrase you see below on my brain all day yesterday. So I Googled it. (If I need a glass of tap water I Google it.)

I've never used parentheses twice in my life. I might be coming down with something.

Google fixed the word *jackoff*, which is very 1984. The book, not the year. If you were born after 1980 I pray you didn't go to a douchey high school where they skipped Orwell. And no it's not Orwell Redenbacher.

So then I Googled *Jack off all trades* because THAT HAD TO BE WRONG.

The verb usage was particularly disturbing. I'm never dating a man with a tool again. Although I will probably date more tools.

This Entry got 47 UPS and 37 DOWNS.

The English language has left the building.

Thursday, August 19, 2010

Why The Internet Is Really Stupid

I was going to publish this list and not point out the errors. But then I felt bad for the spammers who might read it and not notice. So I've marked the mistakes in red. Because my goal in life is to help spammers over the hump of illiterate retardation and overall lack of intelligence. While at the same time giving up sugar and hacking into my mother's email.

I found these on the Internet. Some of them are obvious, some I've included even though I can chalk it up to dyslexia. I could've let those slide but where's the fun in not being judgmental?

But they all make me wonder why 'Website Proofreader' isn't the most requested job in the world.

~The Novocain’s starting to wear roof.

~Tampa Bay officials have been unable to capture a fugitive rhesus monkey that's been on the lamb since last Tuesday afternoon.

~When the show originally aired, Chopin was the center of attention and media coverage, having went from 407 to 193 pounds.

~Families are loosing their homes.

~Authorities have ruled out carbon monoxide posing as the cause.

~Singer, Johnny Holiday: Induced comma after hernia surgery.

~White, dressed in a toboggan, scarf and flannel-like jacket, said she works long hours at the law firm she owns and doesn't get much time to shop.

~There have been plenty of pictures of Woods' cuckholded wife Elin Nordegren and his alleged mistress Rachel Uchitel

~I barely hold it all together with hot glue, Velcro, zip ties, staple gun and the occasional duck tape.

~Currently he is charged with one murder in Michigan, which does not have the death pently.

~But five months after their gunshot wedding in Las Vegas, the couple got divorced.

~Presented to you without adieu, Brad's face in 2010 -- Bearded March, Stubbly June and Smooth July

I won't point out what spellcheck missed when I ran this post for errors. It's entirely too depressing, but then again sugar is a depressant. Or maybe that's Valium. In any event, I am looking forward to meeting White wearing a toboggan.

Sunday, August 15, 2010

How To End Your Summer With Me Still Talking To You

-Stop complaining about the same things over and over and over. I can’t fix it. If I could, I’d fix all the things I complain about over and over and over.

-Stop talking about the same things over and over and over. When I turn on TV I can't even watch reruns.

-Make up your mind in less than three days. As fascinating as the difference is between ecru and taupe, your equivocation gets on my last available nerve.

-Stop asking me what I think you should do with your life. I don’t know what I should do with my life and yours interests me even less.

-Stop asking me if you should have plastic surgery. Look in the mirror. If you don’t burst into tears, the answer is no.

-Stop asking me if you should lose weight. Look in the mirror. If you burst into tears, the answer is yes.

-Stop burdening your friends with all your issues. Do what I do and unload on strangers. For a big enough tip those bartenders will listen to anyone.

So in a nutshell:

Thanks Liss!

End of chat.

Monday, August 09, 2010

Friday, August 06, 2010

It's Everybody Can Bite Me Friday!

I ran into actress Christina Ricci at Gelson's this week. As I mentioned on Twitter the day I saw her, she's about 3 feet 12" tall and incredibly long-waisted. She avoids eye contact with everyone. Doesn't want to be talked to. Even Patrick Dempsey stopped to talk to me. He knows a non-violent stalker when he sees one. Maybe.

Ricci lives above me in the Hollywood Hills, in a house (see below) designed by Lloyd Wright, Frank Lloyd Wright's son. Way to pass on the wrong part of your name Papa Wright.

Whoopi Goldberg is an ass and is one of many reasons I no longer watch The View. I'm not going to sit here and defend the Salahi's behavior getting into the White House but after watching the clip of Whoopi appearing stage right to tap Michaele on the arm and TELL HER to keep talking about the incident, as opposed to her new reality show, was really too much. Whoopi is not the boss of the show unless I haven't watched in so long that she is. Once during a Christmas show years ago they paraded out some "Christmas T Shirt Winners" and Whoopi proceeded to screw up her face in disgust at each one. As if to say, "I'm not a part of this bullshit. I'm just here to be taken seriously."

Take a hike Whoopi, because all that weight you lost CAME BACK. So seriously, take a hike. If I wanted to witness condescension and criticism on a regular basis I'd go live with my mother.

See that Humor Medal badge at the top of my sidebar? I received an email from a malcontent who did NOT receive a humor medal. There were 50 winners in each category and it's just a promotional tool for the company that hands them out. It's not a serious award. Although Mr. Disgruntled has a humor blog, he did not win so he served up sour grapes to all who did. He explained that keeping the medal on my sidebar would damage my reputation in Google.

Well, I should hope so.

I still have my partial bridge in. I cannot get myself to the dentist across town because I can't.

Sunday, August 01, 2010

I Can Make Anyone Taller And Thinner

Say hello to August's Teeshirter!

Due to my exceptional html skills, I shrink the pictures people send me. And this ex-pat looks normal here but I've given her a body makeover on my sidebar.

If you're sending me a picture of yourself wearing my tee, do us both a favor and make it 200 px x 317 px. I wish I knew exactly what that meant but I don't and many bloggers have had to pay the price in weight loss, height gain and overall cropping of the most important part of their picture. Save the insults for when you go to church.

Thursday, July 29, 2010

I Wonder

I wonder why Sodoku is so popular.
I wonder why most people are terrible at math.
I wonder why no one reads anymore.
I wonder why more books are being published than ever before.
I wonder why my parents made me eat lima beans.
I wonder why you never see anyone eat lima beans.
I wonder why Donald Trump thinks his hair looks good.
I wonder how much he pays his wife to agree with him.
I wonder why 82% of the population can’t find Wyoming on a map.
I wonder if that’s why only 493,782 people live there.
I wonder why women are obsessed with shoes.
I wonder why men aren’t.
I wonder why we’re on the Earth.
I wonder if anyone from Neptune knows we’re here.
I wonder why all of my ex-boyfriends are idiots.
I wonder if that makes me an idiot for going out with them.
I wonder if Woody Allen knows his therapy didn’t work.
I wonder if any of the therapy I had worked.
I wonder how I’m going to meet kinder women and smarter men.
I wonder how I’m going to meet smarter women and kinder men.
I wonder if Conan O’Brien knows he’s not funny.
I wonder if David Letterman knows he is.
I wonder why Jay Leno is still on the air.
I wonder if the other three even know Jimmy Fallon is on the air.
I wonder why we elected the dumber of the two Bushes twice.
I wonder why we elected either of them once.
I wonder if this is the End of chat.

Thursday, July 22, 2010

L.A. Sign Of The Times #62

Hawaiian Palms? Some people should not be in charge of naming buildings.

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Ex-Boyfriends And Small Dogs Are Both Mental

This picture was taken back in the early 80's, here in California. I had been invited to an ex-boyfriend's house to meet his new girlfriend because men actually think that's something their ex-girlfriends want to do.

And I did.

A chance to judge, to mock, to talk about it later with anyone I could get on the phone, are you kidding me? WHEN DO WE LEAVE?

I was in town from New York and had my dog Kiko with me. My ex had always preferred the dog to me so what else is new.

Kiko loved anything that was as small as he was and breathed. He almost lost his eyes millions of times because he could not resist a cat. Even when they hissed at him, bared their teeth and lifted a paw to strike, Kiko would just look at me plaintively. He was like that kid at the park who can't find anyone to play with.

So we're at the ex's and someone had a baby with them. A tiny, breathing baby. So naturally Kiko went over to say hello.

I interrupt this broadcast for breaking 80's fashion news.

See the inset below of my sister's foot in those white shoes? (The actual picture is the last one in this post) Those sandals were from Giorgio of Beverly Hills. At the time they cost $198, which means they would cost about $895 today. I was with Lindy when she bought them, days before the visit with my ex, and Giorgio's, like many great boutiques, served champagne to their customers as they shopped. Alcohol and shopping go really well together. As do bankruptcy and a low FICO score.I remembered that Lindy had eventually grown tired of the shoes and given them to me. She also did this with an actor named Jack Scalia. As you can see, he was much cuter than the shoes.

It's hard to visualize but those little oval things popping up from the shoe were gold leaves. I emailed Lindy the pictures and asked her if she remembered the shoes. This is what she wrote back:

Of course I remember those shoes!!!! I just forgot that I had given them to you. You're right- they were from Giorgio's because in those days I only shopped in Beverly Hills, had a maid, had facials every ten seconds and full-served my gas tank! Those WERE the days. Did I mention that I had membership to about 1700 gyms and did Karen Voight's class every day which cost more that gym membership anywhere in L.A. in those days?

I only started saving $ when I realized that I wasn't going to live forever.

This is the difference between us. I'm not going to live forever so I double-up on my shopping. This might explain why my sister is richer than I am. But I'll be better dressed in the casket. Stop groaning, you know you were thinking the same thing.

Anyway, end of fashion news, back to the baby and Kiko. The baby, like a cat, was not amused by my dog and started pounding on his head. Babies are mean.

Monday, July 19, 2010

L.A. Sign Of The Times #61

To see the rest of this series, offbeat photos I've been taking of Los Angeles since I began blogging in 2006, click on the label at the end of this post.