September 11 bis

The day after in New York City

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."

We're With The Band

This is another picture of me and Alain. He had a band with the guy on the left, Jean-Pierre. I made Alain let me and Lindy sing with them because two people in a band is not a band, Alain.

At 15 and 13 Lindy and I owned the same dress. She always wanted to do everything I did and wear everything I wore. She probably begged my mother to buy her the same dress she bought me. And I probably yelled at her and said We're Not Twins You Stupid Moron. Because I have an incredibly sophisticated vocabulary from reading all the thick books in our library.

We entered a Battle of the Bands at the Casino de Royan, the next town over from Meschers on the west coast of France, and came in second. I was devastated but I remembered that it's not whether you win or lose but how you play the game. I bet I know who coined that phrase. LOSERS. Here we are singing at the Casino de Royan. As you can see, we just had the one performing outfit. We're even wearing matching shoes. Sure it's a horror to look at now but check out Alain's shoes. I hope to God we did not all plan to wear white shoes for the contest because if we did I have to turn in my subscription to Vogue and move to Bulgaria.

Three years later I was in college in Paris and dating a German named Karl, below. Karl devirginized me. I can still see the trauma etched on my face as it finally dawned on me why he kept pushing my head down to his crotch. I probably looked like someone in The Blair Witch Project. I saw Karl only once more, in New York, many, many, years later. His brother took me aside and said "Karl no longer speaks. He got tired of talking."

At dinner I kept up a steady stream of chatter and eventually he answered one of the forty hundred questions I asked him, Why did you give up talking? He said he had talked enough and was going to spend the rest of his life listening. Because I have excellent taste in men.

Why are some of my pictures oddly shaped? Because I used to put my photo albums together like this and yes I have a disease.

The next summer we were in Canet Plage in the south of France and my sister looked like this in a bikini: Horrifying.

She was 14 and had longer hair but I convinced her to let me cut it all off because A. I'm a terrible person and B. Not one boy found me remotely interesting while she wore that fucking bikini. But the only thing shorter hair did was call more attention to her body. She always had spectacular boobage until she lost them in a tragic aerobics accident many years later. No body fat? No boobs. Run and hide, A Cup, run and hide.

Meanwhile I can increase my cup size just by looking at pudding.

A Thanksgiving Mystery

This is from my giant postcard collection. Click on the label at the end of this post to see some others that have made it onto my blog over the last 3 years.

The postmark on this card is from 1914 and has a One Cent stamp on it. It was addressed to Mrs. W. Goodwin in Columbus, Ohio. It was sent by her husband Walter, who wrote it on November 26:

My Darling Muriel,

Rec'd your card okay. Was more than glad to get it for old times sake.

Truely (sic) your husband Walter Goodwin.

It was postmarked in Columbus and sent to Coumbus. I wonder if this is what they did back then rather than just save the penny and hand the card to the other. Were the Goodwins living apart, on their way to divorce, or did he send it before he left for somewhere else? Did she know he couldn't spell? And if he was her husband, why did he have to add his last name to the card?

The card is so old and from the wear and tear on the right side, the blue border is all but rubbed away, I'm guessing this card was handled a lot by right-handed people. In anger? In joy? With turkey grease?

And one more question for the Goodwins; what's up with the Dutch?

Happy Thanksgiving.

If You Like Pina Coladas...

...then you should go to Bonaire, in the Netherland Antilles, right above South America, underneath Aruba and next to Jimmy Buffet.

It's so small their ants moved to a larger island.

The man who turned my sister Lindy and I on to Bonaire was Mr. B.B. from our NYC days. She and I lived together but I eventually encouraged her to move to L.A. She always got first dibs on the rich guys in NY. She was also dating Peter K. and Peter S. at the same time and they were all wealthy and would bring me along on dates to entertain them while they drooled over Lindy. It was really annoying to have to work that hard for a lobster dinner. Those bastards used to spike my drinks because they said I got funnier. Thanks for the blackouts, guys.

After one night with Peter S. and his group, a double shot of Green Chartreuse (which I thought was one shot) and a lot of wine, I went home and felt so sick I called my then current boyfriend The Doctor, who told me to get in a cab and come over. That's the last thing I remember.

The next morning I asked him what happened and he replied, "Well, you went on a DATE with another man...."

"MEN." I corrected him.

"Are you telling the story or am I? Then you got sick, called me, came over and threw up." Great.

One night Mr. B.B. asked Lindy if she wanted to go to Bonaire with him. "You can scuba dive, can't you?"

Lindy did many things well. She snow skied, water skied and once tread water in shark-infested waters between Africa and the Seychelle Islands trying to keep her friend alive because the yacht they were swimming off suddenly pulled anchor and left them behind.

Me? I cheat at Scrabble. And you KNOW how hard that is.

My sister has always been in amazing shape. She used to have great boobs. Seriously miraculous boobs. Until she discovered aerobics and then they disappeared. She was once on the cover of Muscle & Fitness magazine BUT SHE COULDN'T SCUBA AND LIED THAT SHE COULD.

The day she returned from Bonaire I was in our living room with my friend Louis. Lindy came in all bouncy and happy. She threw her luggage down and went into the kitchen with a bag of groceries. After a few minutes we heard the blender whirring. She came into the living room holding a Pina Colada and said "Now THIS is the best drink ever."

Every five minutes she went to the kitchen and emerged with a fresh drink.
"He wasn't that good in bed."
"I didn't even want to learn how to scuba."
"That island is SO fucking boring."
"His friends were a snooze fest."
"There's nothing to do but sit at the outdoor bar and drink."
"God that guy is a loser."
"The bartender said I drank all the pineapple juice on the island."

Eventually the blender stopped. After a while Louis and I noticed the silence and found her sprawled out on my bed, dead drunk.

Yeah, that guy was a real loser, Lindy.

End of chat.

King Of The Hill

A serene, tranquil place to gather your thoughts and if you're lucky, some of Elvis's expired prescription drugs.

All The President's Men

The NMBA

We all have one talent that will never make us money and is generally just a giant waste of time.

Mine is that I'm able to recognize the names of famous people who do voiceovers for commercials. I can have friends over for dinner and be in the kitchen cooking and if the TV is on and there’s a commercial break I will shout out ‘Christine Lahti!’ or ‘Patrick Dempsey!’

McLoserstene can correctly identify the music played on any popular TV show and tell you what movie soundtrack it’s from.

And you thought mine was ridiculous.

Her friend Kristin, from Ohmagah, Nebraska, can walk into a room and tell you that it smells like Barbies. Or a pencil. Stuff no one can prove, essentially.

And you thought McLoserstene’s was ridiculous.

I call it the Niche Market Business Association and even though it’s completely useless we have three members and are looking for more. Hopefully dues-paying members.

Applications now being accepted.

End of interview chat.

The Queen Of Shots

This is the auto-response I got when I unsubscribed to the newsletter that I never signed up for from Advanced Health Laboratories:

Thank you for your time. Sorry for any inconvenience.

This is the auto-response I got from my plastic surgeon’s office when I unsubscribed to their newsletter, which I did sign up for:

This is the last email you will receive from us. We have added you to our "blacklist", which means that our newsletter system will refuse to send you any other email, without manual intervention by our administrator.

Blacklisted. Top that freaks.

I get Botox every three months. I love (need) it so much that I will make sure my embalmer has plenty of it on hand before I’m laid out in front of people with a 1971 forged birth certificate clutched in my wizened hands like a rosary.

I don’t mind needles. I’ve had immunization shots, spinal taps, cortisone shots, IV’s, Restylane, blood drawn, allergy patch shots, collagen, and diagnostic shots. I even used to donate blood once a week in college because I’m O negative and that paid $25.00. Only Novocain brings me to my knees. Even though my dentist presses on part of my gum and then wiggles the lower part of my mouth to distract me, I still grip the chair as if I was onboard Apollo 15 hurtling towards space. I repeatedly beg for gas but dentists in LA won’t give it to you unless you have someone to drive you home.

Sidebar: I always want to tell mine about the time a friend and I dropped acid back in the 80’s, drove to a MacDonald’s, ordered food and drove home. We got the order right but were unable to eat it as it appeared to be multicolored and crawling all over the table, which pretty much describes an ordinary McDonald’s meal anyway.

“Someone will be by later to pick me up,” I lie sweetly to the dental receptionist as I sign in and ask for gas.
“And who would that be?”
“My mother.”
“Your mother who lives in France?”
“No, my stepmother, who most assuredly does not live in France.”
“Realllllllly? Well have her stop at the desk for your release forms.” Jesus, I need to seriously shut the fuck up when I’m talking about my dead stepmothers with the people taking my credit card and telling me what a good patient I am. If you call ‘offering to have sex with the dentist if only he’ll stop the drilling’ being a good patient. I hear dentists have a high suicide rate. I have no problem with that.

My plastic surgeon, Simon, got so successful that he moved from The Doctor’s Building of Beverly Hills, next door to Eyebrow Queen Anastasia, and bought an entire building two blocks away. The waiting room has flat screens, serious art work and snacks. And not gross ones like Chex party mix or cellophane wrapped butterscotches but homemade chocolate macadamia cookies, fresh fruit and designer coffee. The iced water pitcher has lemons and cucumbers floating in it. Note To Overcharging Establishments Everywhere: Cucumber and lemon slices in WATER do not make me feel privileged to shell out a mortgage payment for services rendered. Throw in a cashmere sweater and maybe. Throw in some Dolce and Gabbana and definitely.

The men in Simon’s waiting room always sit on the cookie side of the waiting room and the women always sit on the fruit side. I sit on the cookie side long enough to check out the talent and then head over to the fruit side if any guy is staring at himself in a hand-held mirror. But only after I’ve had at least two cookies. Maybe three.

I love Simon. In the past, when I was broke, he would load me up with extra cc’s for free because he always watched out for my career. You can’t live in this town and get acting gigs without Botox unless you’re 23, which I was two years ago. Or was it a hundred?

Three months ago Simon’s nurse practitioner gave me Botox and it didn’t work. I had to go back, which they let you do if it’s in less than three weeks time, and get more for no extra charge. She was nice and very gentle, like she was the first time, when it didn’t work. So I insisted on Simon for last week. I never had to return for more with him. As we were catching up I realized that no one had numbed my forehead. They usually put some cream on and leave it for ten minutes or so and then return to give you the injections. As we chatted, Simon walked over to me holding a syringe and I realized he was just going to plunge the thing into my forehead, probably assuming I’d already been numbed. Before I could open my mouth and stop him he pushed the needle into my forehead. I braced my feet against the chaise-lounge when I heard the crunch of cartilage above my eyebrows. He continued at such a rapid pace that I couldn’t catch my breath long enough to breathe. And then it was over. And I had felt nothing. I’ve now had so much Botox that I don’t even need a numbing cream. That’s got to be worth some sort of discount, right?

End of chat.

Botox, Beverly Hills

Just Die Already

"The dog probably saved their lives" by lying across them during the cold night, said Erik Brom, a member of the Portland Mountain Rescue team. He described the wind in the canyon as "hellacious."

Apparently the dog, Velvet, is more intelligent than the morons who took him to Mount Hood. That's animal abuse. Specifically, dog abuse goes like this:


1. Designer booties on paws
2. Dressing them in pink
3. Belonging to Paris Hilton
4. Climbing Mount Fucking Hood

They never found two of the other three people lost up there. Although it is no Everest and there are not as many deaths as there are at Everest, I think that if you want to die that badly, you should get your wish. Ditto for Nascar, sky diving and driving in the rain in L.A. behind a Chinese woman. Consider yourself warned.

End of chat.

The Governor Of Florida Was Mean To My Dad

I heard on the news tonight that the governor of Florida, Charlie Crist, skipped the Superbowl to survey the damage in parts of Florida that were hit by a recent tornado. I was shocked. I didn't realize that Charlie had gone that far in Florida politics. He didn't go to the Superbowl because of the tornado. He didn't go because he's gay and hates sports as much as I do. Why am I outing him? Because he screwed over my Dad. And I'm not a big fan of my Dad, now deceased. Dad was not the best or kindest father on the planet but that's another post altogether. But I am a fan of gay people and to quote my out gay friend Alan, "while Crist is less anti-gay than many, he opposes gays all day long and then wants to fuck them all night; enough of the hypocrisy." And it's not such a big secret in Florida that Charlie is gay. Except maybe to Charlie. Even Jeb and George W. know he's gay.

That is our building above. It was in the downtown part of St. Petersburg, now a haven for yuppies and according to state statistics, the place to where an ever-increasing number of Texan Richie Riches migrate. Charlie was my Dad's tenant. Dad owned two condos in that building and Charlie rented out 1409 for over ten years. Dad loved Charlie, which was discouraging since he was a Republican and Dad contributed to every campaign he ran, even though we were Democrats. After Dad died, I went through all his papers and found letters from him addressed to Charlie, giving the reasons for the hikes in rent every year. Dad was always specific in his demands, the water went up, the refrigerator needed to be replaced. Always specific.

But I also found papers from Charlie to Dad where Charlie said he couldn't afford the rent hikes. He needed to keep two residences because he was the attorney general at that time and had to have two apartments, one in the capitol where he attorney generaled and one in our building. Like that was our problem. My father acquiesced and stopped raising the rent. I begged Dad to at least raise the rent $20 a month, a nothing, a pittance, but Dad didn't, he felt sorry for Charlie because he couldn't 'afford it.' Fuck that. A rent is a rent is a rent. I didn't get to be a rich kid by ignoring that logic.

After Dad died at the age of 89 and I took over the estate, I invited Charlie over one night to discuss the matter and told him that I felt that he had used my father. I said that my Dad was old and Charlie had taken advantage of my Dad's fondness for him. He demurred and didn't offer any argument. I raised his rent. He told me he couldn't afford to pay anymore than he was paying. I evicted him. I am SO not my Dad. Buh Bye.

I sold two of my Dad's condos. The first was 1409, the one that Charlie rented. The second was the big one, the one Dad and his fourth wife lived in. During one open house for the big apartment, Charlie and his stinking filthy richer-than-we-were father came by to look at it. They didn't buy it. Soon after, Charlie's father bought him a condo on the other side of our building, with an ocean view, which cost more than ours. What is totally sick is that my Dad would be so happy that Charlie made it to the Governor's office, even though he lied to him about how much money he had.

Charlie did send lovely flowers when Dad died. Maybe from all the money he saved on rent.

End of chat.

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 planet 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 why we elected the dumber of the two Bushes twice.
I wonder why we elected either of them once.
I wonder why we’re still in Iraq.
I wonder if this is the End of chat.

I'd Rather Sniff Armpits

There comes a moment every fall when I first see a mutilated pumpkin, a twinkling Jesus in a window or a nude blue Spruce waiting forlornly for an abusive owner who will forget to water it, and something inside of me dies. My soul. I'm pretty sure that the grand gesture that was expected of the human race each Christmas did not start at a Best Buy sale.

And for that reason, I'd rather sniff armpits for a living than go through the protracted agony of the holidays. For starters, I have a standing rule that I don’t accept gifts at this time of year. I have enough crap and you have bad taste. While we’re on the topic, doesn’t Totes make anything the rest of the year? If you know anyone over the age of twelve who has given someone a Chia Pet, drop them immediately. The Clapper has survived five U.S. Presidents and eight terms of office. It will be around after a global nuclear holocaust. Someone somewhere will clap their hands and a generator in Slovenia will turn on.

I hear you. But what about the children? Fuck the children. How many presents do you have to give them until they have high self-esteem? What about getting together with the family? Fuck the family. Families fight more at the holidays than at any other time of the year. What about the extra days you get off from work because of the holidays? Interestingly enough, I embrace that one.

The famous Secret Santa of Kansas City, Missouri has outed himself this year so I decided to out myself as well. For me it started in the early 90’s with the boyfriend who couldn’t get it up, otherwise known as The Impotentate. On Christmas day he had not invited me to his family’s celebration. Lonely and bored, I drove around my neighborhood in my 1990 gray Ford Festiva and decided to hand out money to the homeless. Even if they were getting high, I wanted them to be smoking The Christmas Crack. When I was down to a dollar I decided to pack it in. On the way home, I saw one last guy trudging up a hill and stopped my car.
“I’m really sorry; I only have a dollar to give you.” What was anyone going to do with a dollar in Los Angeles? (Don’t say the 99 cent store you miserable fucks)
“You know,” he said, “This morning I asked God to help me and now I got a dollar!” (I’m not God, right?)

I never looked back.

Some years I make mistakes, some years I hit a home run but generally I just wish I was as rich as the Secret Santa of Kansas City. One homeless man was camped out under the awning at Big Lots. I handed him a five-dollar bill but he wouldn’t take it. He wanted a meal from McDonalds, which was right next door. I asked him what I could get him and he said some combo-name I didn’t recognize and believe me, I’ve done hard time at McDonalds. I went into the restaurant and scanned the list. I finally found what he wanted; it was the most expensive breakfast McDonalds had. $3.85.

One time I gave money to a guy who looked at my car and said, “I think you need this more than me.” Fool. Another year I saw a real bad case, a man who looked like he wasn’t going to make it to the end of the day. I gave him ten dollars and asked him what had happened to him. He said he had been living on the streets after being thrown off the Planet Nebutron and sent to Earth in a time capsule to repopulate Wyoming. And I thought to myself, ‘Good Lord. How am I going to get my ten dollars back?’

Another year I gave money to two guys walking down the street with an empty supermarket cart. They took the money but looked at me strangely. Something was not right. So I drove around a few blocks and when I came back, they had collected another cart. They worked for a supermarket, which I would have realized had I looked at the backs of their jackets, which said Ralph’s.

Two years ago I saw a man and a woman living out of their car. They had parked in a deserted lot and taken a few of their possessions out to rearrange. I stopped and buzzed down the window of my car (the Festiva was long gone). The woman looked at me with the most stricken look on her face and yes I was wearing makeup. I waved two five-dollar bills and she came running over.
“Here, this is for you and your friend.”
“Oh my God! ThankYouThankYouThankYou, can I hug you?”

Before I had time to answer she had reached inside my car and gathered me up in a giant bear hug. And the entire time all I could think about was, ‘Dear God let her not steal my Nicole Miller purse.’

End of chat.

Thanks For Nothing

This is the dumbest holiday Americans celebrate. For starters, there are no gifts. And what are we supposed to be thankful for; stealing the United States from the American Indians? Thanksgiving is just an excuse to string an extremely tedious Thursday into a 4 day event because people hate their jobs so much that they would rather spend time with their families. And you know that is just wrong.

Spare me your desiccated turkey, your mother’s recipe for a vegetable you wouldn’t be caught dead eating in a four-star restaurant and the inevitable tedium of playing party games with your dumbass neighbors and your psychotic family, people I don’t ever want to spend quality time with unless I'm in a coma.

Last year I was invited to a Thanksgiving where I was asked to bring food. Am I supposed to be thankful for being invited to a dinner where I had to supply part of the meal? If you can’t afford to fund a party, for the love of God, please don’t have one. It just makes you look cheap. Do you think Jackie O ever asked anyone to bring a covered caviar dish to one of her dinners?

And stop with the party games. Hi, I’m an adult; join me in reading a book and talking about something important. Like George Clooney.

End of chat.

How Can I Break Up With Gym?

Before I bought a scale I used to walk to the gym, weigh myself and then hike the three blocks home. In my defense, the walk back was uphill. So a few years ago I decided to get serious and hire one of the trainers at Bally's. I chose Nasto. He had been Mr. Bulgaria twice, Mr. Northern California in the early 90’s and he had written three fitness books, which was three more than I had written. I liked him. His business card was an unevenly scissored piece of Xerox paper. He was earnest and committed and I just knew he had a family waiting in a cramped one-bedroom apartment somewhere in Korea Town expecting him to put borsch on the table. He had that sad, vacant look that people who do not ever expect to catch up with life have. If I didn’t break up with The Impotentate, a man who couldn't get it up for five of the seven years we went out, there was no way I was going to break up with Mr. Bulgaria.

Sidebar: No, this is not a picture of Nasto, but of my best friend ever, Clark Henley, the first person I knew to die of AIDS.

I hate working out but I hate eating even more. I don’t like food. Hand me a pill called LUNCH and leave me alone. I refuse to cook. I’ll eat out, I’ll take out, shit, I’ll put out, but I’m not cooking. When I get my dream house I’m going to have them put a McDonalds in on the ground floor. If you don’t want to impress me, invite me out for dinner and then ask me where we should go, what we should eat and what we should order. Then as we’re eating, ask me how my Sea Bass is, or if I want to try your carpaccio or split a dessert. Just so we’re clear, I don’t like to discuss food, shop for food or try out the food at the new restaurant in Who Cares, New Jersey. I can hardly wait until I’m rich enough to have Emeril move in. It’s the only reason I’m still breathing in and out.

When I think back on it, I only kept going to the gym because there were cute guys there. But sometime in the last year my gym became a meeting place for old Chinese women. Mr. Bulgaria deftly escorts me through them as if he's afraid I will suddenly stop and spontaneously break into a mah-jongg game.

The gym rat in our family is my sister, who once graced the cover of Muscle & Fitness magazine. She goes around spewing communist propaganda like, “I’m really craving an apple.” Please, Johnny Appleseed didn’t crave an apple. If you’re at her house and want something fattening to eat, you have to lick the grease off her stove. She’s the kind of person who you will ask, “How do I look in this bathing suit?” and she’ll say, “You look fabulous.” Then ten days later she sees you in shorts and says, “Gee, you really look great; not like you did in that bathing suit.” She got so addicted to exercise that she had to join a 12-step program. I don’t think it worked because now she’s up to 27 steps. As for the rest of our family, we would rather die with a stent in our hearts than a deltoid on our wherever-the-fuck the deltoid goes.

I went to World Gym in Venice with her one day many years ago. Arnold Schwarzenegger owned it then and Stallone hung out there a lot. I was having a rough time in the business and my sister, who was friendly with both Arnold and Sly, had told them about my struggle. Sly was there that day and when she introduced me to him, he had that crooked half-smile going on and came towards me with his arms outstretched. “Aaaayyy, somebody needs a hug.” His bodyguards surrounded us and Sly hugged me like I owed him money. I knew he had had a rough ride in Hollywood before Rocky hit and I knew he understood where I was in my slide into artistic hell, or as I to refer to it now, a big agent who thought he could do something with me and was wrong. “Aaaayyy, don’t give up, it can happen to you,” he continued.

Sly and his body guards left and my sister and I began to work out in earnest. (She did, I was staring into space and wondering if Sly noticed that I hadn’t plucked my eyebrows) My reverie was finally broken as I watched my sister admire her calves. She inspected them as if they had USDA stamped on them and were going to market in a refrigerated truck. A line formed. Now other people were inspecting her calves. Suddenly one of these voyeurs took time out from his busy schedule of ogling her and eyed me suspiciously.
“What’s that on the back of your arm?” he asked.
“A triceps?”
“Well,” he continued, “have a doctor look at it; it might be cancer.”

End of chat.

S.W.A.K.

Hollywood is a town where people are always out of work and yet no one is ever home. Among cell phones, voice mail, Treos, answering services, answering machines, three-way calling, call-forwarding and Spanish speaking maids, I can usually find someone, although the maids just say ‘Meesis no home’ over and over until I’m forced to hang up. But I’m starting Spanish lessons and soon I’ll be able to tell them to fuck off before I hang up. And believe me, those will be the first two words I learn.

I have a friend in the Midwest who doesn’t have a cell phone, an answering machine or voice mail. But she assures me she can make blackberry pie when I bring up the eponymous PDA. I yell at her all the time to get something that takes a message but she says technology is going too fast and she longs for a simpler time. Yes, for god’s sake, let’s get out the butter churn, throw it into the covered wagon and head over to the quilting bee.

What is she really missing? Texting? That’s as gay as it gets. You’re already on a phone, people. Dial.

PDAs? I got an email from a friend in NYC who had picked up my email to her and was returning it five minutes later from the # 6 Lexington Avenue subway. Was I awaiting her decision to give me a kidney? Lend me a million dollars? No, I was just asking her how she was.

Caller I.D.? I didn’t mind *69 which was great for trapping people who lied about calling, including me. But the *82, the *62, not to mention all the ones I can’t remember, what kind of control freaks have we become? I once starred when I should have pounded and my friend Metia looked at me horrified.
“Now he’s going to know you called because you didn’t STAR it, you POUNDED it.”
“Hey, pound this; I just wanted to know if he was home tonight, that’s all. And he wasn’t.”
“What if he’s home having sex and not answering his phone?”
“Fuck.”

The ubiquitous cell phone? I miss the days when I was bothered by someone’s chirping pager going off ten feet across a room. For seven seconds. The instruction book for my cell phone has eighty-four pages. It might actually dust and do dishes, but I wouldn’t know since I’m not about to read those eighty-four pages anytime soon.

And finally, the home phone as corporate grift. I have MCI, which is hooked up to my Delta Frequent flier program and I get five miles for every dollar spent. If I call Shanghai every day for six years, I’ll get a round trip ticket to Cleveland. And if I use MCI’s online service, I get one dollar off per month on my bill, but there goes sixty free miles a year on Delta because you have to choose one or the other. I could always fly American, which long ago merged with T.W.A., thereby boosting my frequent flier mileage to just one hundred and thirty-six miles under the twenty-five thousand miles required for a free trip. But for just one hundred and twenty-five dollars I can still turn them all in and get a round trip ticket from San Francisco to Berkeley or hook the phone line up to Blockbuster’s new program so I can get one out of every four DVD rentals free. Only I hate DVD’s because I don’t care what went on behind the scenes during filming, what scenes didn’t make the final cut and the alternate endings that the studio hated but the director loved. I never want to hear what M. Night Shyamalan has to say about anything at anytime unless he explains why his middle name is ‘Night’. Yes, I know I don’t have to watch those special bonus features but what was wrong with VHS again?

Maybe I’ll stop yelling at my friend in the Midwest and just write her a letter.

End of chat.

Who's Your Favorite Midget?

I was watching the end of the Megan Mullally show and by end I mean just for that day, sadly not for all time. She has many talents but hosting a talk show doesn’t appear to be one of them.

A. Megan held an audience dance contest. There were four contestants, three women in their late 20’s to early 30’s and one woman who was 61. The three younger women were great; the 61 year old looked like she was having an epileptic fit. Who won?

B. A year ago my family and I were on a cruise to Hawaii. There was a dance contest in one of the lounges so we went to watch. It was three men dancing first, then 3 women dancing last. There was one hot guy, one average looking guy and one chubby guy. The hot guy and the average guy were great dancers and the chubby guy couldn’t dance at all. Who won?

C. Then the women danced. There was one hot girl, one average looking girl and one chubby girl. The hot girl spent all of her time dancing in the audience, having not understood the complicated request to dance on the stage. The average girl was the best dancer and the chubby girl couldn’t dance at all. Who won?

ANSWERS:
A. Old woman
B. Chubby guy
C. Hot girl

JUDGMENTAL OBSERVATIONS:
A. We feel sorry for old people, but not sorry enough to hire them
B. Chubby men get more sympathy than chubby women
C. Hot girls win no matter how stupid they are
D. Duh
E. End of chat

Little Mary Sunshine

At the beginning of every October I keep all the lights on in my place starting at 4:00 p.m. because otherwise I get cranky. This lasts for about six weeks or until I get used to the darkness. I don’t think anyone should get used to the darkness but that’s another topic altogether. I have Seasonal Affective Disorder, SAD, which is a malady that didn’t exist before 1984, which is probably when doctors discovered they could charge it off to insurance.

Currently, these things get on my last October nerve:

1. Straight men who wear matching earrings in both ears. You look like a girl. Seriously, quit it.
2. People who never use Spell Check. If Microsoft, Macintosh and your IP assume you can’t spell, why don’t you?
3. Baby Daddy. Enough already.
4. Pimping your ride, your crib and your mama. Just stick to the hos, okay?
5. Overalls on grown women. Are you kidding me?
6. Emoticons. Just a way of lying and masking it with a little yellow frown. You can’t meet me for dinner? I promise you that will not make you sad. Unless you have SAD.
7. Women who have tubular boobs. Donna Karan at the VMA’s, it’s called a breast lift Donna, look into it.
8. Tattoos. Send me a picture of yourself when you’re 76, I’m going to need a good laugh.
9. Hair extensions. Unless you’re Cher, which you’re not. And that means you Nancy O’Dell.
10. Rachael Ray. Shut the fuck up and stir.
11. Sunglasses on musicians. If Andrea Bocelli doesn’t wear them, neither should you.
12. Rubber flip flops, unless you’re 8 years old.
13. UGGS. The name says it all.
14. End of chat.

Are You Hot?

The Girls Next Door to me aren’t, they all need an Extreme Makeover or a visit to Dr. 90210. And haven’t those girls had their 30 Seconds Of Fame? Must we watch the rest of the fifteen minutes?

My Big Brother is hot but he’s one of those irritating Newlyweds who got into a Blow Out with me over The Family Jewels. Since I’m a Bachelorette Who Wants To Be A Millionaire, I think I should get them but he disagrees. We also fight over a Blind Date he set me up on after he explained to me How To Get The Guy. But I didn’t get the guy and he was only an Average Joe, so what does that say about me? Or my brother’s advice?

My neighborhood is littered with interesting and eccentric people. So one day I got into the Cash Cab to go up into The Hills and check out a Million Dollar Listing. I was wondering What Not To Wear when female Cops pulled us over. Turns out they thought I was a Rock Star and wanted to know if I could introduce them to The Bachelor. “So, Deal Or No Deal?” they asked. I said the best I could do was take them down to Laguna Beach and introduce them to My Big Fat Obnoxious Fiancé. They got mad and wrote me a ticket and as we drove away, they pulled up next to us and started to play a mean game of chicken. It was an Amazing Race.

We passed countless celebrity homes. Whitney Houston’s ex-husband was outside on his lawn just Being Bobby Brown. A homeless guy was standing on a corner with a sign that said, I Want To Be A Hilton, like he had a chance. I Pity The Fool. I went down a small street close to the Hollywood sign and there was a guy sitting on the curb crying because he was Breaking Up With Shannon Doherty. There was so much noise coming from The House Of Carters that I had to roll up my windows. Then a Celebrity Mole ran in front of the cab and I told the driver to try and hit it because aren’t there enough celebrities in this town? Here’s a thought, don’t you think that Dog The Bounty Hunter and The Osbournes should do a Wife Swap? But that would just make them Cheaters and we’re already way over our quota here in L.A.

Well, I’m off to get Inked but I’d just like to say that in The Real World I consider myself a Survivor of Adventures in Hollywood. Or maybe I’m just The Biggest Loser.

End of chat.

Vive La France, But Not In August

My mother is arriving from Paris in a few weeks and I’ll have to face the same questions Americans ask me when they find out I have a French mother. So here’s my list of answers:

1. I’m half French and half American but when I go to France I just treat myself like shit.
2. The French do not hate Americans, they hate everyone.
3. My mother does shave her armpits, sometimes twice a day.
4. She also bathes, sometimes twice a year.
5. Juicy Couture is not real couture. Only the French government can hand out that title.
6. The French think fast food is a one hour lunch.
7. They take a month’s vacation and if you didn’t know that before you booked your trip for August, the vacation month of France for the last zillion years, then stop using Travelocity.
8. The French gave us The Statue of Liberty, which is 151 feet tall. The Americans gave the French a replica of the Statue, which is 35 feet tall.
9. The French are more generous than the Americans.
10. The structural engineer of the Statue of Liberty was Gustav Eiffel.
11. When it was being built, the French hated the Eiffel Tower.
12. The French don’t speak English when Americans address them in English because they find it rude that Americans assume their language is more universal than the French language.
13. English is the Universal language of the world.
14. If you’re from a red state and still referring to French Fries as Freedom Fries then you need to book a ticket on Travelocity and go home, now.
15. The accent never goes away, no matter how much your children wish it would have when we were teenagers.
16. The word Boutique is not pronounced Boteek.
17. “Pardon My French” is an expression the British invented because they thought the French were vulgar and sex-obsessed. I can only vouch for sex-obsessed.
18. During certain wars when the French were accused of not letting planes fly over or under or around or beside their country, it’s because they hate everyone.
19. Or it was during the month of August and no one was around to give their permission.
20. End of Chat