Lesson for today

You exist only in what you do.

Everybody loves the sun

It's 90 degrees here and the living is sweaty.

Yes I know It's June It's hot, I still hate it.
Maybe if I loved to sit on a beach chair lather myself with baby oil and sit in the sun till I was nicely roasted, I would be just fine. But I am a mild weather person with problem(frizzy) hair so all is not well.

I went to Brooklyn today Atlantic Ave. Nice area,
Reminded me of the old version of the Village(when I actually liked going there)
Now it's all overpriced boutiques and Starbucks.
I probably liked the Village because I was younger. Its easy to look back and be wistful
Memory is always influenced by emotions, and yes I know, times change.

At least I'm not one of these people who pines for the good old days of 42 street
Yes everybody misses the crack, underage hookers and peepshow at every corner.
Enjoy the rest of your day, and let Global Warming be damned,
put those air conditioners on full blast.

ASK A QUESTION

I think it is a challenge for human beings to go in the right direction.
Would you agree? Ponder this thought and reply.

No more dusk till dawn, no more Key lime pie.

This had to happen.



The Cheyenne Diner, the last of the railroad car style diners in New York, has closed its doors.
Sadly, every shred of originality has been sucked out of this city. This was the place I used to go
after school (or during school--take your pick). Drink endless cups of coffee and never bothered.

It's where I had my first piece of key lime pie. All the hours, staring out the window...

Talk about philosophy, thinking about porn

This is the way it goes: not hot enough for metal, not cool enough for alternative and I haven't given up on life enough for emo. Oh, aren't we all in a bind.

Never really thought of myself as an artist; a mere dabbler, as they say. I recently tried to work on a painting. Oh, it's always so much better in our heads. What comes out on the canvas? That's another story. Sorry, I'm quite tired.

So... my train of thought has been derailed. No funny pictures; no witty comments.

Just raw, uncut Le Fig.


Back again riding the ferry, may I just say "voyage of the damned"? Why does the drug addict, the woman with 10 kids, the really loud woman, the wino and the shitty teenager have to sit next to me? I must have done something really bad in a past life. If I have learned anything about public transportation, it's keep your head down and always look busy.

No, This is a real photo.

It's okay, it will all be over soon.

See a bunny, beware

The photo in my last Blog reminds me of this story from when I was a kid.

This comic book,about a bunch of kids who sadistically love to bites the heads off their chocolate bunnies. Somehow, they are invited to this Willy Wonka candy factory. It's owned by this 6 foot 8 bunny in a brightly colored suit (don't ask, I was 9). The gist is the hapless children are dipped in vats of chocolate and what happens?

He bites their heads off. Yes, it was predictable and silly but hey, it scared me. And any time I saw a mascot, I would break out in a cold sweat.

First Day of Spring

First day of Spring. And Sunday's... Easter! Bunnies are a hoppin' and Christ's a risin'.

Short, Sweet

Notes from Liz: not short, but always sweet.

I use the computer now more than I ever have. Now I understand the addiction to email; there's nothing worse than waiting for that important message. Did I get it? Did I
accidentally delete it? Could it be the message I've been waiting for? I've turned into a 14 year old girl waiting by the phone (gimme back my Duran Duran poster).

Years ago, I tried a chat room. Struck me as a bunch of teenage and mid-twenties douches trying to one up each other. Sorry, I have better things to do. Like what you ask? Maybe I'll watch a marathon of documentaries about crystal meth. There, I can find out how people buy the products on line, cook it up at home in their lovely double-wide trailers and proceed to sell and or smoke it all. At that point, you sit in your hole, surrounded by beer cans, porn, pizza boxes and the smell of rotted teeth. As you probably can tell, I watch too much of the Discovery Channel. Yes, I know far too much about bikers, speed and meth mouth.

Speaking of rotted teeth and public intoxication, I saw The Pogues on Sat. I must say they put on quite a good show, The band sounded great. Shane was, well, Shane, and the audience didn't try to use me as a battering ram or vomit on me. All in all, a good time.

A girl walks into a Starbucks and...

No, not a joke; I go to Starbucks, order my usual latte (skim milk/one sugar, thanks for asking);
sit down, waiting to savor my $3.47 goodness when in walks a fellow. He is obviously a
member of the Nation of Islam (hat, bow tie; carrying a bag full of their newspaper, "Muhammad Speaks"). The gentleman sits down at my table with his Venti coffee--black, of course, and one by one, empties 16 packets of sugar into it (it was "Sugar In The Raw", non bleached--not Domino's, that imperialist, white as snow sugar, just so you know).

I was sorely tempted to ask him, "hey, would you like a little coffee with your sugar?"and guffaw but something told me he wasn't the LOL type.


No sadly, he didn't say anything; I was kinda hoping he would say something like "how does it feel to be the cause of all the wickedness in the world, white devil?", but the minute another seat became empty, he quickly fled.

Gotta admit a great set up for a joke: A Jew and a 5 Percenter walk into a Starbucks and...

You must think better of me

Oh, joy--another day, another blog.

Is it just me or are you sick of seeing Bill and Hillary Clinton? I just can't bear the thought of another four years of their schtick.  Before you think I'm a Republican, think again- Total Liberal.  It's just the whole Clinton act of playing good cop, bad cop. She opens her mouth; says something dumb, then gets teary eyed and says she's being picked on. He says (or does something) stupid and blames it on a vast right wing conspiracy. Oh, joy; it's like the '90's all over again,  except I don't have acne and I have an apartment. The election cycle is one dog and pony show that I wish I could avoid, altogether. Sorry, I am feeling a little fatigue.

Speaking of polling:
My ratings are down on http://www.humorblog.com/; this must be remedied, my minions.
Return your beloved Clementine to her former glory.

The stranger in my life

So here we go again.

A new tale of an author who wrote a "personal memoir", only later discovered to be fraud.

Margaret B. Jones' story of a young white/American Indian girl's life in foster care, complete with drugs, guns and gangs. Only problem, she's from a nice family and went to private school(sorry not the Bloods/Crips Academy for girls). See, apparently she knew people in this environment and wanted to speak for them. Ah, the old "giving a voice to the disenfranchised" excuse. Then how about writing about them and not making up a story? Novel concept.

I honestly don't know how people get away with this. In the internet age, nothing is private; any little thing about you will come out. Are these people delusional? Ever heard of www.smokinggun.com? Recently, a woman named Misha Defonseca, was found to have lied about her book, "Misha", a Holocaust memoir. How do you lie about being in a death camp? I know everyone wants to have their book published, but the Holocaust? How about I was a teen during the rise of the Nazis and was really unhappy? It's harder to prove it didn't happen; people can relate to your story and hey, if you do meet up with actual survivors there's none of that awkwardness, trying to relate to their story.

My personal fave was that doyenne of the book world, James Frey. His "Million Little Lies" was on the best seller lists and had that old Oprah stamp of approval. Until it turned out the story wasn't true--OOPS! Since I couldn't stand his whole smug approach to it all; his "yeah, I was an addict, I was in jail, I'm tough, I'll go to the dentist and not take any pain medication, I beat this thing on my own, go hard or go home" attitude. It was such a funny sight to see him on Oprah, turned into a stuttering mess. Schmuck.

Note to publishers: fact check. Note to authors: try calling it fiction.

Burn the lake; it's of no use to me anyway

Do you ever have one of those afternoons? I know that sounds like a set up for a joke.

There I am, just walking down the street; this fella's walking towards me. He decides to stop, drop and lie in the middle of the street. This stops me in my tracks. Sir--hello, sir can I help you? Nothing. Sir, this is dangerous--the guy could have easily been hit by a car. I tried to grab hold of his arm but he was limp and lifeless; not only was I repulsed by having to touch a stranger's(sorry, most people are filthy) hand, but he wouldn't help himself, leaving me to try to pick up the slack.

I got this funny feeling is this guy trying to kill himself? Has he given up all hope; thinks it would be better to just lie in the middle of the street and get run over by a car? Sure, the soccer mom in the Outback would be thrilled to know she was responsible for the death of this heavy overcoat wearing in 62 degree weather gentleman. Kids in the back: "Mommy, what was that large thud and crunch noise?" "Don't know kids; Mommy's putting the pedal to the metal and getting the McFuck outta here!"

Back to the gentleman... After several minutes of pushing and pulling with this dead eyed fella, I gave up; all hope lost I guess. I supposed I should be grateful Mr. Hopeless wasn't the head of the EPA. The lake's polluted--clean it? What's the point; burn the lake, it's of no use to me anyway. He lights his cigarette, over the blue flame of a roasting body of water, he smirks and walks away. I don't know what happened to this troubled gent, but I assume someone came along, picked him up, threw them on their back, slapped them around couple of times and told them to shape up or ship out. I am assuming cliche man lives in my neighborhood, but one never knows.

The lesser of two douchebags

"Oh, blogging is so five minutes ago"... usually said by someone who doesn't have anything to write about.

They probably spend way to much time on their webcam, complaining. Probably voted for Nader in 2000, said things like "there's no difference between Bush and Gore"--really? Guess what--Bush becoming President is your fault. You had to fight the fight, man. Ecch is what I have to say about that.

I can't believe Nader is actually running again; who would vote for him--have you learned nothing? The Green Party? Stop; please stop. Whether you like it or not, there are two parties: Democrat and Republican. No Green, Right to Life, Libertarian, Socialist, Communist, Bald Eagle, or whatever. Two parties; the rest are fringe groups, get it? Now cut the malarkey, register to vote and shut up already,

Oh and please go out once in a while; you're starting to stink.

By the by, saw "Grindhouse-Planet Terror" again this weekend; damn I loved that movie.
If you haven't seen it you should; if you did see it and didn't like it, well there's no hope for you, is there?

Back in the day

The Cyclone, that old rickety death trap.
Gone but not forgotten by those who loved it
and those who had been injured. Godspeed
you twisted hunk of metal.

Free the Coney Island Bee

The title says it all. Sad plastic bee behind a fence all day, actually he's gone now I'm sure there's a Condo in his place. Ah yes, progress

Nothing to it but to do it

This blog suffers from ADD, so don't be alarmed at the lack of cohesiveness.

This gem of a title came from an expression a gentleman I knew years ago.He would do the old hand smack with his male friends before they would go out and get there party on. Yes I admit it I have known many douche bags in my life. Where is he now? Probably selling sensible shoes in the heartland of America.

Relax, strap in and get ready for the blinding lack of continuity .

Let's do a remember when--remember when: You saw your first movie alone? Jaws 3D; year, 1982. Nothing to report; it was a piece of crap, but I got to see this dreck alone, so I felt cool. First time you thought you were going to die in a movie theater? Early '90's, watching Alien 3-- fella in back of me was making quite the racket, so I gathered up all my gumption and said "hey could you and your ladyfriend keep it down? I am trying enjoy my cinema experience. He obliged by kicking my seat quite forcefully and explained in very salty language that I would meet a bad end at the barrel of a gun; oh, and his girlfriend was going to f#ck me up, too. No, I did not die, but I certainly did not enjoy my cinema experience

Maybe if I was prettier, I could have done better in life, but alas, that's just not me. I suppose I thrive on mediocrity and a little slice of retail hell.

"I used to love them, but now, not so much"... I've been thinking about this; have you noticed that so many of the things that happen to you in life become metaphors for relationships?
Bands you like. At first, every thing was great; then, it changed. Things were never the same;
now you pretend they don't exist. You liked them before they were popular, now they're the pretty girl at the prom who's ignoring you. You're probably angry because they loved you when no one else did; they moved on--you didn't. But hey, let's face it; human relationships are so
yesterday.

Even old jobs have become abusive relationships. At first it was fine , then became controlling treats you like moron , might as well push you down the stairs. Suddenly a lousy boss turns into Ike Turner. Now I've had some lousy bosses, but I don't ever remember being beaten with a shoe, as far as I'm concerned maybe if I did some physiological beatings I might have ended up in a better place.

One last piece of the confused pie:

As you may have surmised, I watch a hell of a lot of TV, so you start to see many of the same actors over and over again. Do you ever think Keith David and David Keith ever get confused
with each other? The two fellas bump into each other on the street...


Start: Keith David and David Keith


Hey you! It's you!


David Keith:
Don't you narrate commercials for the Army?


Keith David:
Didn't you make that movie where you killed yourself and you were in the Army?


Both guffaw.

Keith David:
Weren't you in the film Lords of Discipline?

David Keith:
Hey weren't you in that movie with Jennifer Connolly where you taught her a little discipline with a stripper and a double sided dildo?


Both laugh heartily, slap each other on the back and decide to make plans for a sitcom.


Scene: fin.

If you had just listened to me, none of this would have happened

One day, every thing is peachy keen; the next day you find yourself in a church, in a subway station and people with very bad skin are praying to a nuclear missile, yapping on about "we reveal our inner self to you".

In other words, you're just having one of those days.

I know who killed your career: sorry for the corny play on a really bad movie. If you haven't seen this film, "I Know who Killed Me" trust me--don't. This magnum opus of drivel has hooting owls, Art Bell, blue roses, "scary music", stigmatas, body parts that just happen to fall off, then get stitched back on with sewing needles. It stars Lindsay Lohan as a whacked out stripper, who has a psychic connection to her long lost twin. She gets to say things like "I always felt like half a person with half a soul". Watch as she throws f-bombs, smoke and wear every low cut top and pair of boy shorts they could find at the local Long Island Mall. Of course, when she actually gets down to the "stripping", it's a costume right out of central casting (note to filmmakers: actual strippers are rarely stylish, glamorous or sexy; they step on stage, strip and leave; get on you and you get off). At least they got the thigh high hooker boots right.

I'm sure she did this film, thinking it was going to be some sort of masterpiece. That's why it's best not to go on a two day coke binge before you read the script. And of course, the role was "empowering"--another word of the '90's that won't die. You know sexual situations and nudity;
it's to embrace your sexual self and empower you... Sorry; just writing that line made me wince.

For once I would love to hear from an actress," my career was in the crapper; I needed some press" and like Sheriff Buford T. Justice said, "That's what I call an attention getter!" Indeed, Buford, indeed.

Now that you've read the review, trust me; this film is God awful. If you're dying of curiosity, go to www.moviespoiler.com; better yet, It was her piano teacher, OK? He did it! Don't say I didn't warn you.

One or the other

I bring questions:

What do you choose? Would you rather look like Courtney Love or Anna Nicole?
Answer: Anna. Why you ask? Because even though she's been dead for a year, her rotting corpse still looks better than Courtney on a good day.

Who would you pick: Nicole Ritchie or Paris Hilton?
Trick question: neither. Besides, can you please tell me what do these people actually do for a living?
Actually don't answer, I already have a headache...

Hillary Duff or Hayley Duff? Another trick; it does not matter--you just want the last name Duff, so Simpsons geeks could always greet you with "HMMMMM, Duff".

Miley Cyrus or Hannah Montana? Don't care; I just want the 3 billion dollars she has.

Old Lindsay Lohan or little Lohan?
Young: you could start out fresh-faced and avoid all the tomfoolery that's left her looking like a 40 year old divorced, single mom from Long Island. Sorry, maybe I'm just looking at a picture of her mom; these days it's hard to tell.

Finally, XM or Sirius radio? At this point, nothing. If these two idiot companies merge together that only means one thing--one mega company that falls flat on its face and the subscribers holding the bag and paying the price for their greed.

One final note: do you know where the expression "rule of thumb" comes from? It was the width of stick a man could use to beat his wife with. This was legal, people.

 God Bless America.

Oh, the folly of youth bring memories I'd rather forget

Remember the days of your youth?

The fun, frolic and frivolity of days gone by; when you didn't have to get up in the morning, you could play all day and in the evening sit on the porch, drink Country Time lemonade and listen to old-timey music while grandma braided your hair. Actually, I made that part up. I only had one grandparent and she could have been described as a "passive-aggressive manic depressive", who one minute was nice; the next minute, putting rat poison in my fruit punch. "Come on sweetie, grandma made you a drink; it's got an extra kick to it". No wonder I always had stomach aches and nose bleeds as a kid. Yes, my grammy was Lucrezia Borgia, damn her and her hollow ring.


Remember the lovely Peanuts animated specials? I was never that much of a fan.

Charlie Brown was a pussy; Lucy: just an angry feminist living in a man's world. Linus and that stupid blanket--did he ever wash that damn thing? Peppermint Patty aka Jodie Foster--just one of the boys with a gentleman's hair-do (wink, wink), oh and Franklin; what the hell did he ever do? Poor token cartoon character; he probably had to be bused in from another comic strip every day. Do not get me started on Snoopy; damn war monger. There was no Red Baron, you loony canine, and always doing his dumb dog house dance. Oh and Woodstock, hippie bird --probably had mescaline in his bird seed. I don't know if you were aware of this; back in the day, my mom described Peanuts as a bunch of Christian comic strips, lots of homilies for the kiddies being spoon fed this pablum right under their noses. I guess that made Charlie Brown Christ, and Lucy was Mary Magdelene (angry whore, not actual whore). Who knows the truth?


My Mom also hated "Little House on the Prairie"; she thought that was a load of of do-gooder, fake sentimental crap. Honestly, I can't argue with that; have you ever gone back and watched it? Trust me, if there's ever a marathon on TV Land, you will be running for the remote. Either that or in the begin,ing when "little half pint", Melissa Gilbert goes running down the hill, you'll hope she trips and breaks her neck. Please spare me another picture with Michael Landon and his poofy '80's hair. Loved the Gingam though.

Ecch

Even if I wasn't married, this wouldn't fly.

You go on one these My Space (it should be called "My date rape and murder and body found in a shallow grave 2 weeks later, if you're dumb enough to meet someone you talked to on line" page). If it's Facebook or Vois, it's all a creep congregation. You just want to get in contact with someone for a business transaction and it turns into perv free-for-all.

Jackass #1 calls himself "Well Hung"; next winner calls himself "Porn69". Do they realize I could be 12; do you want to end up on Dateline NBC? "I thought she was 25"; sure you did.

Anyway, why do people do this crap? Is it any different than the garbage that makes the sounds and gestures to you when you walk down the street? If only my hard, cold stare carried the Ebola virus, I could have taken care of this problem long ago.

I would like to share with you a reply I sent to a master of subtlety:

Dear Sir,

Or shall I call you by your other name, "Recently Released Sex Offender"? I am just a simple lass, trying to make a busisness transaction. I have no interest in a hook up, dirty messages or being sent private photos. I know you are from the generation that hooks up first, asks questions later, like "why don't you like being chained to my radiator? I thought you enjoyed crying and blood? Wasn't in your profile?"

But I, sir, am a married woman who doesn't tolerate this sort of guff. Now I ask you to leave me be; go back to your collection of underage prositute body parts you have stuffed in your large freezer and who knows? If you wish real hard, maybe you can create one whole girl from that mess. Go away creep.

Signed,
Friends With Many Cops

So how do you like them apples?

Multinational death burger: the sequel, "No country for old Hippies"

Do you know this person?

Everthing to them is a conspiracy: "the corporations are destroying this country". Yes, I get it: Wal-Mart is the devil; so is Kmart, Target, all large bookstores--Borders, Barnes and Noble, the grand Satan, Mc Donalds and of course the Big Daddy, Starbucks.


Of course it goes a little something like this: you sit there with your coffee (latte, extra foam, do you know how many Guademalan children have to pick those beans for you to get one cup? Read a book from some conglomerate store, swallowing up the little guy so you can get the new Oprah's book selection half price. Go buy your wares at one of the "stores" (they dare not speak its' name, like it's Candyman or Voldemort, for goodness' sake). All the suffering, so you can have your things. Oh yes, you must be hungry; have a bite at the local McMultinational death burger--that should make you feel good. Can you hear the cows screaming in pain?


Does any of this sound familiar? Save the earth, Free trade, Stop the corporations from taking over the country... I have always wanted to ask this question: have you ever been to a local coffee shop? I might be generalizing, but coffee shops and diners stink. Overpriced; service is lousy and from the minute you sit down, they want you to go. I always shop at Target; I love Target--sorry, vintage overpriced duds aren't my thing anymore. And as far as I'm concerned,
I hate fast food; I've learned not to trust food that smells the same coming in and going out
(don't make me spell it out; idisgusting). If you want to eat a McRib, God bless--your insides
will probably explode, but you will enjoy it going down your gullet.


The world in general is a scary place, filled with lots of nasty dictators, thieves and vile scum.

Fine; if it makes you feel better carry a bag to the supermarket, support your local whatever, fight the good fight, carry your silly heart on your sleeve, just don't do it in front of me. I laugh and point.

Multinational death burger

Do any of you have friends that just make you cringe?

Not cringe in a good way, like your drunken friend from college--still drinking and whoring like it's 1994. Every time its the same--starts out fun; hours later she's in a supply closet, blowing the porter crying in a puddle of bile. You cradle her, brush away her vomit crusted hair and whisper gently, "It's okay; your stepdad isn't here. Let it go; he cant hurt you".

The whole time, you're filming it on your cell phone and stick it on YouTube.


How about this group: vegans. Not the wimpy "I only eat fish" types; the no leather, wool, silk,
won't eat meat, cheese,dairy. Always against animal testing, want to blow up research labs, attack the ASPCA and generally thinks that people are scum. Just a bunch of Tofurkey eating loons. I had a debate class with one of these wack jobs in college. We had to choose between saving a baby or a dog and she picked the dog. She put a higher value on Marmaduke-- granted, he could really get into some funny shenanigans, but we are talking about a baby, people.

Now if it was the choice of baby Hitler and Lassie, maybe she might've had a point.


But thats the problem with these people. Chickens don't have a soul; cows are cute, but dumb, and you know what? No matter what you do--how many animals you save--Clarice, the lambs will not go silent. Trust me; if I'm in the ocean, the shark that will rip me to shreads isn't thinking about my existence.

Eat a damn cheeseburger and put on some ill-fitting leather pants.

This is just a start. Next time, I'll write about the Mother Jones types; that should be fun.

Every time I let down my guard, the irritation starts

It's easy!--is it? A little bit of love from LeFig.

Those stupid "Easy" buttons; you know the damn Staples commercial. Things are tough, so you press the Easy button and magically, things are perfect. Now, as revolting as the commercial is, you know what's worse--people who buy the damn thing. Why are you buying a useless piece of red plastic crap? And why does the teller at my bank always have one at her station; why is this nimrod handling my money? Should I be surprised if she had a wall filled with Kathy cartoons and a poster of the "Hang in there baby" cat poster--ecch. If any of you out there have an "Easy" button and you are constantly pressing it, every time you do that, you lose a small piece of your soul.

There's nothing about today that interests me except tommorow

Ever see people with their hair and clothes like it's obviously from two or three decades ago? They were probably in high school at the time; that was probably the last time they thought they looked good or felt good, for that matter.


I say this because I went to a show expecting the worst and was completly won over.

I saw this group, From the Jam. No Paul Weller; it was the other gents, Bruce Foxton and Rick Buckler. When I say the show was fantastic, I kid you not--the band was tight and played all the songs perfectly. In fact, to borrow a quote from Goodfellas, "if you close your eyes, you would think it was the real person" (when Henry's in the bar with his buddies and their mistresses, just in case you forgot). The venue--perfect; to be able to drink, sit in a comfortable chair and watch a great show--priceless.


One final thought: I loved the fact that almost everbody there looked as if they were older than me and no stupid dress up (except for one jerk outside skulking around in a wet parka; he walked as stupidly as he looked). It is so sad to see adults at punk shows wearing the old uniform; it was just people there to enjoy the music.

I almost never go to shows anymore, so to have this time was fantastic. And think--somewhere
out there, some soccer mom was taking her kid to a Hannah Montana concert, wishing she was in my seat, and probably has a plaid skirt and creepers in a box locked away somewhere; she listens to her Jam CD's when the kids at school. Some lady with all her memories and a pair of ill-fitting bondage pants from twenty years ago.

I tell you what you need to know when I think you need to know it

Damn you, the torpedoes, and the horse you road in on.

Good thing I'm not a gambler; I'd lose the house. Not that I own a house--who needs that headache; all seems like a big gamble... Buy a house, then the neighborhood goes to hell and now gas prices go sky high and you can't make the morgage; now you live in a cardboard box. Thanks, I'll rent.

Me? I live under no illusion that one day my ship will come in; that ship has sailed. The reality dingy for me. What's the expression--don't have a pot to piss in or a window to through it out of. Ah, lovely street wisdom; something your drunk uncle might say (probably after he inappropriately touched you). Seeing the way things are going with the job and housing market, you would think you more people would be doing nose dives off buildings.

And speaking of suicide, I was given this pearl of wisdom once: what's the difference between someone who attempts suicide and someone who actually does it? Gumption--probably a little luck too. Tax season is here; maybe I'll get a refund--hope springs eternal, but I'm sure I have a better chance on picking the right team to win the Super Bowl. And hey, at least that's tax free money.

Warm and fuzzy, like a hot cup of cocoa

You know what I think? What does the world needs now? Peace, love, caring, understanding-- all of us holding hands singing ,"I'd like to teach the world to sing."

No, we need another Jim Jones.

You read me right. Of course, not innocent people trying to do the Lord's work.

How about celebrities? Yes, thats it; can you think of a group of people who contribute less

to society? What function do they have, except make outragous sums of money and then complain they want to be left alone? But: first, before they pull the wounded bird act, let them lecture you on how you need to live your life the right way while they do completely the opposite. Ever watch the show Dirty Jobs? There is a job out there where people have to clean up bird vomit. That's a job. Play acting? Not so much.

But just so you know, I will play fair--you get to each keep one celebrity. I'll pick Shia LeBeouf.

I liked Transformers and he hasn't been stupid enough to annoy me yet.

*2015 update Shia can join the list...

Some see the Menendez brothers as evil, I see them as go-getters

We all know people that we wish we didn't know.

Friends maybe even family; they make our lives a living hell.

Admittedly, the stories we tell about them are amusing, but it's a headache we don't need. Why did I cross paths with them? Why did I cross that street; why did I pick up the phone; why did I think they were looking out for my best interest? A constant liar whose thrill it is to make you feel as if everyone is against you, because they're the only one who care about you. Let's tell a story to pit you against someone else's family, friends, band mates--of course this person is always the schemer.

Him or the wife, sends you emails about their troubles (probably about the crappy kids), even though you haven't spoke to them in months. Oops, sorry didn't mean to send you this, but since I've got you here, read this: how I've fallen on hard times--brother, can you spare a dime? How personal and I bet if each one of us sends you a dollar, your pyramid scheme will be perfect. This person probably always wanted to be famous, so let's ride on your coattails. Make sure they never have your Social Security number ever. Probably put out a CD of their crappy music and write a blog as if anyone would read this drivel; remember, everything is for an audience. If they ever looked around and took stock in their life, they would have to take a gun and pull the trigger.

How bittersweet that would be.

A late afternoon person can never be a morning person

On the treadmill? Really--whats the point?

For my money, there's nothing that spells irony more than someone at the gym, standing around eating a candy bar. It was a Snickers bar; had to be my favorite. There he was, just chomping away, right in my face. I would have loved to see him on the treadmill, cigarette in one hand; bourbon in the other. Burn the candle at both ends, I say.


Later on in the day, I pass by a tanning salon. This ample broad was standing, outside smoking a cigarette and talking loudly in her cellphone: "you know, they say tanning makes you look slimmer." Does it Really?--tell me about it, hungry hungry hippo. There would have to be a whole lot of sun to cover the hurt on that one. Besides, nothing says attractive like orange mottled skin. I'll keep my deathly pallor.

Bringing the misery since 1971

These are a few of my favorite things:

Hairdressers who don't listen to you:
"hey I would like a bob haircut": instead, you wind up with something similar to a mushroom head on top and a mullet in the back. Try to explain that in the office. Yes, I wanted to look like a 56 year old lady from Kansas named Lula.


The guy at the sub shop who doesn't speak English, yet can magically make your sandwich right. Yes, I wanted turkey with light mayo and lettuce. Thank you for the fried mystery meat cutlet with extra full fat mayo; at least they remembered to skip the black olives (I said I'm allergic and it could kill me). Not really; I say that so they would generally pay attention to my order. Nothing like a customer having a seizure and turning blue--that makes them pay extra attention .

Chain subs: one word--hideous. Subway, with that bready dreck; Quiznos--that greasy mayo and onion-drenched devil's handmaiden of a sandwich. Blimpie used to be good, now the last ones standing are all in the mall next to the gyro meat. Nothing says yummy like dry meat that looks like it's been around since the Soviets invaded Afghanistan.


Customer Service or lack thereof. Get on the phone--need to speak to someone about cable service; some guy couldn't care less about you, the job or his life. I wouldn't be surprised if old Mr. Friendly started taking people out with a rifle on the roof.


Oh yes, Heath Ledger is still dead and the media vultures are picking this one dry.

Listen, I, like so many, were so happy to here of the passing of Anna Nicole Goldigger but this was sad. It's hard to find out someone so talented died. It just left me wondering why, oh why couldn't it have been Paris Hilton?

As I said so many things to complain about... so little time.

Ode to a conversation heart

It's that time of year again: overpriced flowers, jewelry, cards and loads of sickly sweet candy
wrapped in boxes of red and pink velvet, just to say I love you. I love the many versions of candy: boxes of heart-shaped chocolate, filled with cream, milk chocolate, dark chocolate, peanut butter and anything else you can imagine. There's even Valentine's Day candy corn--remember when you could get candy corn once a year, at Halloween?

Let's say you want to send flowers to your loved one. Red roses, yellow, maybe white? The $40.00 special? No, send the $70.00 assortment; it means you really care. Remember, this is a holiday to impress--dyed daisies from the bodega just won't do.

How about some jewelry? A nice diamond perhaps? Fancy cut or maybe just a a nice CZ necklace; I'm sure she won't know the difference.

I'm sure some of you feel Valentine's Day is just a ruse. Who is this Valentine's Day character,
anyway? He must have been an executive at some multi-national corporation. I don't think this, but somewhere out there, someone is posting this theory on the web. Remember, this was probably the same guy before computers who would be at the copy store all day and night, handing out his manifestos to passers-by on the street and of course, now he has a website, so it must be true. Type in http://www.valentinesdayisalie.com/. See if I'm right.

Me, I'm a simple gal. Ive always loved a good box of "Conversation Hearts". Cute, heart-shaped candy; pastel colors with little messages on them: "BE MINE ", "LOVE YOU", "TOO CUTE"--
you get the picture. The candy itself tastes like stale chalk, but it's just adorable. I used to use them in my paintings, collages and that sort of thing. I thought it was great; everyone else... not so much.

A word or two in passing: if you are someone with a somebody, buy them some pink champagne, a box of Russell Stover candy and a card at the 99 cent store.

Alone? Send flowers to the office to make the catty coworkers jealous and that night, have some Godiva chocolate and drink vodka and cranberry juice while watching a tearjerker on Showtime. I'm not saying that's something I would do; just a suggestion.

All of them: the flower, candy, greeting card and jewelry companies got together to create this
holiday to separate the working man from his cash. I don't think that, but I'm sure someone's
floating that theory out there.

Oh! The tragedy of the modern artist

Recently, I read an article in AM New York; the cover story was about how expensive NY was and the tragedy of artists who feel they have no choice but to move out.


I actually gave this some thought (you know I'm an artist and all).

Instead of feeling sorry for this colorful lot of artists, poets and others, I came to the realization that all the people who they interviewed to be polite, were full of malarkey.

New York has was and will always be expensive. But there are 5 boroughs: Brooklyn, the Bronx, Queens, Staten Island and Manhattan.

The problem is that everyone wants to live in Manhattan; people have these silly dreams
of coming here and making it big. Stop with the whole Sex and the City/Breakfast at Tiffany's/Woody Allen thing. I'll make it here and be a big star--will you?


I say cool it, Holly Golightly, Sara Jessica, etc. and remember: Woody makes movies in England, now (that's what happens when you sleep with--sorry--marry your daughter).

Let me offer some advice --

Stop trying to live in the cool places. To be cool, you don't live in a designated area. Cool and artistic isn't Manhattan, Chelsea, Williamsburg, Park Slope or Dumbo. If you would stop posing for a second, you might your find your laces are untied; your pants are too tight and you're paying too much rent.

Me, I live in S.I. and you know what? I'm perfectly happy, I pay a fraction of what I would
for almost all other places. So is this thought of as a smart move? No, more or less, I'm derided with usually the old "isn't that where all stereotypical N.Y. people live?" This usually comes from someone who lives in Brooklyn (tell me you understand the irony). I actually had someone ask me if Staten Island had hospitals. This was coming from someone who lived in New Jersey out in the boondocks no less. Oh yeah, I lived in Jersey for almost 2 years. I would rather drink bleach than go back to that place (OK--I miss Jose Tejas and Vintage Vinyl being only 10 minutes away, but hey, that's why God made cars).

One last thing: haven't you noticed that all the "New Yorkers" are people who aren't from N.Y. (Ohio, Nebraska, Texas--wherever--then they come here and tell us how tragically unhip we are). Hey, go ahead--pay4,000 a month for a 2 bedroom apt. But how will you afford the lattes?

Fancy gentlemen do nothing for me

Men, what's the matter with men today? Let me opine on a "relevant" subject.

I don't now how or when, but it seems overnight, normal guys adopted the stance they were becoming suburban housewives. Fancy frosted hair do's manicured nails, waxed eyebrows and chests and the spray-on tan that gives you the orange glow of an Oompa-Loompa. It's all so sad; what happened? Why would any hetero guy want to look like this? More importantly,what woman finds this attractive?

Really- tan, wax, powder and pomade yourself into oblivion; you do your thing. I want you to be as happy and perfect as you can be.  But you must understand, I just feel that a man should never smell better than his girlfriend. Grooming should be shower, get the crud from under your nails, pluck the stray hairs and use deodorant; there you go, you look like a million bucks!


Let me give you an example of all this foolishness:

I went to get my eyebrows waxed; sitting next to me, a man instructing the woman how to perfectly arch his brows. His girlfriend was standing right next to him, watching this whole scene transpire. I just couldn't watch; actually, it had more to do with the woman working on my brows--when someone has a large sharp pair of scissors. you turn your head in any direction they want.


I guess sometimes, I would like things to go back to the way they were. Now, if you will excuse me, I must go back to sitting on my porch, drinking lemonade and back to my fine whittling.

This public service announcement was brought to you by LeFig

Girls, what's the matter with girls today (here I go getting all uppity)?

Women used to care about themselves, used to have goals; get an education and try to go
someplace in life. Now it seems as if every time I turn around, it's another story about some dumb broad who sent a naked picture of themselves through the Internet, and now shocked! that it got in the hands of the wrong person.

Maybe we used to have a sense of shame; now it's become "I did a stupid thing, but now I'll become an Internet sensation." Or "I'm free; I just want to express my sexuality". Please stop--you're making me nauseous. Express yourself, okay; how about doing a little interpretive dance, write a little poetry--why does it always end up becoming just another cog in the wheels of the machine of stupid?

Sorry; maybe I'm just old school, but all this nudity, all this in your face behavior, it seems as if it's the work of somebody not getting enough love, or somebody has a boyfriend (always a real piece of work) that can just talk them into anything: "baby, you're beautiful, come on, let me show the world how beautiful you are"--girls still fall for that drivel, I guess.

And we know what happens next. Once a normal gal turns into a freak job with bleached blond hair, duck bill lips and clown boobs (sort of a cross between Victoria Beckham and Pam Anderson, very creepy), she's a star. I would think If I was an actual porn star, I would be pissed that these gals would jump on my turf. But then again, all of you are spreading your legs and/or having sex on camera, so what's the difference?

Women used to have a sense of self; its hard to imagine a time when we couldn't work where we wanted, lead the lives of our own choosing. It's no wonder so many women from the 70's were so damn angry; trying to get a job and some fat bastard with a cigar wants you to be his secretary. That meant sitting on his lap while he called you honey and smacked you on the ass.

When did it go from "ladies we can do it to 10am stripper pole classes"? Really, you would never see a guy putting up with this crap. Maybe when a rash of men are coming out of cars going commando I might change my tune.

And please, If you do not understand what "going commando" means, just ask a 12 year old,

I'm sure they can explain it along with "Rainbow parties", sipping syrup and pulling a train. I must go now; I feel ill.

Hello, my little bluebird

So my little breaded veal, how's life treating you? Happy and full of good cheer? Ready to greet the day like a ray of sunshine? Probably not; more or less, it's the feeling of being a diabetic who just had their big toe amputated and the person closest to you just gave you a box of chocolates and a pair of flip flops--and they smiled giving you your gift. Always remember this my minions: a good attitude will get you everywhere and a lousy attitude will get you to read my blog.

Even though there are times I go through crippling self doubt (enough to put Brian Wilson back in his sandbox), I somehow manage to go through the routine. Listen, I know I'm an odd gal and strange things set me off. At the supermarket, I have to fight an odd urge to squeeze the cheese balls (big yellow or wine colored, covered in nuts; tell me they don't just scream "smash me please!"). When I was a kid, I used to mush the Wonder bread. It drove my mother crazy to the point where she stopped taking me to the market altogether. All around N.Y. are loaves of mutilated bread with my finger prints all over them.

So let me tell you about a dream I had: I'm a bluebird flying along. A hunter catches me in his sights, shoots me--I fall, a dog picks me up and drags me to the hunter. He takes one look at me, throws me into the bushes, and I die alone, only to be picked apart by a family of squirrels.

What does it all mean? Now, I seek a metaphor that could closely resemble who I am.
The graceful bird, the mythical unicorn, cheeky monkey or just a clever horse. I would probably be the pig. Born under the sign of the pig (or boar--whatever you prefer). I don't know what my sign signifies, just that I was told quite a bit in my younger days that I had ham hands. Apparently, I had a propensity for dropping and breaking things (ham hands seemed silly; shouldn't it have been hoof hands? Furthermore, I've never actually seen a pig pick up anything but who knows?

While I still have you here let me share this story with you.

When I was a teenager, at 2 in the morning, I found myself being followed by a group of youths for about four long blocks. They walked behind me, making oink noises and throwing beer cans at me. The beer cans were empty of course; why would you waste good beer on a sow? So did I have a girly meltdown? Fly into a rage? No, I finally got home and suppressed my feelings with carbs. The great thing is I get to write about it and tell you the boys who did this all wound up dying in a fiery car crash, hit by a drunk driver. I don't know this for sure, but this is my story and I end it as I see fit.

Have a sunshine day my little sparrows; remember to avoid the hunters.

Can't be happy all the time, can we?

I feel a bit of the old January sadness. Everyone seems so cheery; people still say
"happy new year" to me but I just don't feel it. I guess I have other things on my mind.
(and no, it's not just that Starbucks stopped using the Christmas cups this week).

Let me pose this question to you: do you ever feel that you're a bit behind the times? At my ripe old age, I do feel as if I've been phased out of the workforce. Well, everyone uses a computer, knows everything there is about computers and I don't. Well, I'm kinda behind the times, and trying to catch up. Maybe if I can get my typing skills up to 40WPM instead of 19 WPM, maybe there's hope (I know; its sad).

So what can a gal do to kill the time--read a good book? Nah, let's see what's on TV.
So what's on in Jan.--NOTHING! It's all show cast-offs; thank you, writers strike. Actually,
thank you, greedy companies for not paying writers pennies on the dollar, you bastards. Really need the money, don't you. Let's see... shitty bosses being cheap; I may know a thing or two about that subject. Keep your chins up, writers; I would doff my cap to you, if I had one.

Unfortunately, now what we are stuck with are the usual suspects: reality show crap.
Drug addicts, sluts, sad fat people, Orange County whores, matchmakers, bickering couples in faraway lands, bitchy designer wannabes, crappy dancers, song contests and desperate former stars with some "day in the life reality show"; great, thank you VH1, NBC, ABC, CBS and Bravo for adding so much to the TV screen.

In my little mind, Jan sucks. But I will say one good thing--it's 60 degrees for the last two days, so if this is global warming I say bring it on.

And one last thing: just so you know, I do enjoy the misery of others. I kinda hope Britney Spears kicks the bucket and I still hold out hope that guy from the Subway sandwich commercials gets fat again. Screw him and those awful bready sandwiches.

Some climb mountains, others just use a tredmill

You have to admit, the language can be salty, but I sure do know how to spin a good yarn.

So I joined a gym. Nothing funny about it, 15 minutes from my apt.; 50 bucks a year.

There I am on the elliptical trainer,
as I sweat away last night's steak dinner, I notice all
the gym rats dribbling in.

I'm sure you may have seen these types: the woman who uses the treadmill for 10 minutes, gets off comes back another 10 minutes back and forth; are you on or off ? Make up your mind, lady. The senior citizen on the bike with her hat, leg warmers, wristbands and yellow water bottle (all she needed was a leotard and the song "Maniac" playing in the background). The gentleman sitting next to her on the bike, wearing a ski cap, jeans and work boots: "pardon me sir, have you ever been to a gym?" Okay, I thought it; I didn't ask the man. Would you? He looked like a mental patient.

The last, always my personal favorite... Muscle guy lifts some weights, preens in the mirror,
more weights--grunting, groaning slamming the weights down; ecch, get a room you steroid- filled freak. And for the love of Pete, stop slamming the weights down; I can feel it from across
the room.

One last thing--to use the equipment you must put your name on the list. People circulating
around the machines; some one gets on, you hear "are you on the list? " The list, the list; OK, we get it--the list. You would think it was to get into some exclusive club. Silly people; after a month, they probably won't come back.

When you care enough to send the very best; when you don't send the cheap card

Once a week you run errands, pick up your prescriptions, tampons, Rolaids, candy, maybe the ''Road Songs" CD, (always loved "East Bound and Down" by Jerry Reed; I say buy it--make the bandit proud). But no matter what, I'm always drawn to the card aisle. For the love of God, how many cards are out there; how many occasions in one's life really needs a card? Does the amount of love you feel for someone really mean buying some $5.00 card with fancy script, hand cut silhouette, glitter or dried flowers ?

What happens when it's a friend, one of those "okay I need to buy this person a card, but emotionally I'm just not there". You probably check the price: let's see this is $3.99, but this card is $1.75 and it says enough. Maybe it's the friend who you never see anymore; the card you pick has some little squiggle drawing of a forlorn "Kathy"-type, (horrible cartoon strip, never funny). On the inside, "Happy Birthday--thinking of you", which really means, hey we don't see each other much, but see--I made an effort; I did my job. In those situations you never want to say too much; don't pick a blank card--you could run the risk of somehow offending. You never want to be mean when sending a card, or so I've been told. My idea of sensitivity is sending a diabetic who just had their big toe amputated a box of chocolates and a pair of flip flops.

The most fun are the relatives: the drunk uncle, the knocked up cousin, the distant mother or father, the stepbrother that inappropriately touched you when you were 12. My fave would be the niece that just got out of rehab. Little Miss Methmouth is now clean and sober and you want to show you care. Maybe a card with a watercolor painting of a bunch of boats (looks like a reproduction of one of those "starving artist" sale paintings). If someone really did paint this, they deserve to starve to death. The card itself would say "I know you feel adrift, but soon it will be smooth sailing". Translation: "stay off the ice, dimwit and maybe we might think Promises rehab and a good set of dentures was worth the money".

If you still feel unsure about buying a card, always remember: there's always the 99 Cent store.
Get a card with a kitten on it. Who doesn't love a good kitty?

Call me Elizabeth, Liz, Lizzy & Liza with a Z if you're into the whole brevity thing...

I'm in a movie quoting mood, so get your video store knowledge flowing.

Video stores -- a relic of the past. What are they now? Places to buy video games. You and your silly World of Warcraft; I have no patience. Grown men playing games all day.

For God's sake, man, get off your couch and do something. Please let me opine obsessives.
I'm sure Halo seems like pure heaven, but you smell--your couch has the imprint of your ass on it, your friends--friend, ok; your Mom's worried about you. Even the girl you have tied up in your basement since last year misses you (actually she has Stockholm syndrome, but I say
hey, use it to your advantage).

There's a world out there to be discovered, my massive ponytailed, mustard stained T-shirt wearing pal. Think of all the crappy jobs you could do, people to humiliate you, and the general sense of anger and rage you can feel towards others. Remember what a famous go- getting New Yorker once said--"someday a real rain will come and wash all this scum off the streets". Ah, words to live by.

Does anyone remember the story about the couple who let their kids starve because they were so wrapped in their video games? No, this isn't a joke--they literally forgot to feed them. What am I missing? God, people are obsessed, aren't they--the Gamers, the Trekkies, Star Wars--yes, I know the Sandpeople go from side to side; its just not that all encompassing . Besides, Anakin Skywalker wound up being a whiny twat; such a let down.

Let me leave with this thought--has anyone out there noticed that The Dude from the "The
Big Lebowski" and Lance from ''Pulp Fiction'' look eerily similar? I'll just put it out there;
discuss, debate.

The ol' whippersnappers need to get the what for from me

There are many things I regret: from the minor--using a sun lamp three inches from my face, without sun block (my face looked like pink puffer fish) to the time I bought a pair of shoes
1 size too small (it was the only size they had; hey they were adorable). Unfortunately, I then
walked around N.Y., turning my feet into a bloody mess. Maybe sometimes I drank too much. Maybe I didn't take school seriously enough. Then there's the monumental; things you said that you wish you could take back--you feel as if they've changed the course of your existence. I bet right now you might be wincing at the thought of your grand faux pas.

Maybe it's me. I've had a strong sense of shame all my life; the old right vs. wrong. You do something bad; hence, you feel bad right? Why does it seem as if no one has a sense of shame at all anymore: I do what I want, when I want--screw you. And why does it seem the ones doing it are all younger than me and couldn't give a flying rat's ass?

The one thing I find interesting about getting older is how much disdain I have for the youth.
Age gives you that great force field of indignation; no, not the old "in my day" speech, just the way things are going the youth today do seem like a cavalcade of schmucks.

They were mollycoddled as kids, can do no wrong as teens and now in their early twenties are covered in tattoos and piercings, sitting in Starbucks with laptop all day long. Why don't you
have a job? What do you do all day? I would love to have the life of leisure; why, in fact I've written about it, but I can't--I have that pesky thing called rent. Whatever happened to having tattoos that you could hide; you know, if you had a job. I love when women have tattoos on their necks; nothing says classy like having "Tony's Girl" blazoned across one's throat. I want that woman handling my cash at the bank.

It's just my opinion--I can just imagine the parents of some of these winners. Probably out there, a couple worked their fingers to the bone to send Fred to college, only to find he's in debt
from his second life habit. His avatar name is Thor--he's quite the lady killer for a cartoon; his
girlfriend's avatar name is Luxana, a raven haired goddess (!)--actually, she's a Midwest lump with two kids and probably has a bunch of dumb tattoos--a bunch of cherubs and fairies.

Me, I don't have kids--don't want them and I can't imagine what it must feel like to be the parent of some of these wretches. Parents, I would say I feel for you , but I would make me a liar and that would make me feel shame.

Desperately seeking superficiality

You and I may have similar traits. Maybe a love of films, music, good bottle of white wine or
mixed drink ("Love potion" -- banana liqueur & gin; very tasty). Maybe you and I love tasteless jokes: "what do you say to the woman who has two black eyes"? Answer--"nothing she hasn't been told twice already". Okay; if you're laughing, you know this is a joke; if your mouth is agape in horror, remember somewhere in the recesses of my brain the synapses aren't firing at 100%. Either that or I can just blame it all on my parents.

Even with all my personal flaws people still seem to like me, especially men. Well, the types
that either troll Facebook at 2 in the morning and have a duffle bag filled with torture porn, a rope, shovel and bad intentions. Or maybe the guy whose My Space profile has a
picture of someone who looks like Clive Owen, but in reality seems to to be a 300 lb. gentleman with a mullet and possessing the social graces of Ted Bundy.

Maybe it's my way of looking at the world that stops me from enjoying some things in life. For some reason, everyone I know loved the show "My So-Called Life"; me, I would have rather drank bleach then have to sit through that self-important hour long "teen drama" of the horrible '90's. Did the people who made the show ever go to high school? Sorry; really pretty girls with the porcelain skin, perfect hair and slim bodies didn't have the problems--try being 50 pounds overweight, have acne, pissed-off & warring parents, dyslexia and no privacy--that's high school, boyo. Of course it probably says something about me that I'm writing about
a show that's probably been off the air for 14 years. Yes, just call me relevant; next, I'll discuss
whether "Red Dawn" was a piece of cold war propaganda or could Quincy really do his job as ME and solve crimes at the same time (please bring that show back; just to hear ol' half a larynx speak would be worth it).

For all my bravado I really am a sensitive gal. I have a keen idea of the inner thoughts and personality traits of others. I'll tell you who you really are and just what you're thinking. In the end, dispensing thoughtful, sage advice. Now if I could follow my own advice, then I would have it made; instead, I wisely chose not to. One can't spend too much time thinking of one's self can we and let's face it; without something to have neurosis about, how would I exist?

Don't bogart that cigarette my friend

I have never been one to get on a soapbox about anything. I have my opinions and such. If you want serious commentary or political dissertation this isn't the blog. I just feel that the cigarette hysteria is a bit much for me. No, my dad isn't Fred Marlboro and I don't think smoking is ''cool''. Well, I used to; it had that whole chic Euro thing and gave all the shy girls something to do with their hands; oh yeah and it tasted good. I'm not saying for or against cigarettes, I'll say instead the pungent aroma never bothered me much.

Remember the good old days? You would see smokers everywhere, restaurants, movie theaters and airplanes. Remember bars? You can still go to a bar, pickle your liver till it looks like an olive, but you can't smoke. And as far as I can see in films nowadays, they have "special" ratings for smoking, and it's always after "mild scenes of violence". What a bunch of pandering sissies. The only time you see a smoker nowadays, there usually a Terrorists, and European. Yes, people the threat to this great nation is... a bunch of French guys filled with ennui. Stop, please stop.

Yes, I know the old amputeed foot guy and hole-in-the-throat-where-the-voice-box-used-to-be are very effective commercials, but don't you think somebody warned those guys? And they would probably still be smoking if not for the fact one guy can't walk to the store to get the cigs and the other one has no throat? Just a sick observation; sorry, no really, sorry.

In conclusion, I am a big proponent of free will. You want to smoke, go ahead, if twenty years from now you get sick and they remove your larynx and you sound like Neil Young circa Trans-- hey, if you're happy, what do I care? So ol' Lucille Ball voice--smoke up and have fun until those crazed Frenchmen destroy our American way of life.

Couldn't change if you tried, my little Bavarian cream pie

New Year's Day--anything different yet?

So how's the resolutions coming along? Did you get up this morning have a bowl of bran flakes and decaf tea with a wedge of lemon (no milk, no sugar) and go out for a hour run, then some weight training? Nice to the kids, the spouse? Bills in order? Have you finally balanced the checkbook? Let me guess: last nights' festivities consisted of probably a bit too much wine, champagne and many, many mixed drinks. Was it the old "pass me another Long Island iced tea, it's so sweet, how could I get drunk on that?" scenario?

This morning you woke up green and pasty. Your tongue is the color of vanilla yogurt. You drag yourself out of bed and go to the first Dunkin' Donuts you can find (like that's hard; that orange and purple house of caffeine, lard and sugar are everywhere): remember--Starbucks, one block ,the next block Dunkin Donuts, Starbucks and so on and so on. So at the pleasure palace of carbs, you get a Great One sized coffee, a glazed, strawberry frosted and a Boston cream donut(wait, get a whole wheat donut for later). Crawl back to your apt, unfurl your goodies and watch TV.

Now you can feel bad seeing all the commercials for Bally's and Jenny Craig (Valerie Bertinelli I can take, but that freak Kirstie Alley made me want to rip my ears off and I have cute ears, mind you). "Have you called Jenny yet? No I haven't and I won't, thank you, now kindly let me wallow in my burger of shame and milkshake of regret.

On a personal note, I had a quiet night; some bread, shrimp and cheese, watched a doc on the Sundance Channel. Ecch, how delightful. I'm such a little fruit, after the movie, I talked about Latin American cinema with my husband and we took our Puggle, Miso, out for a walk.

My worst New Year's hangover was about twenty one years ago. Just a bunch of silly teenage geese going to every bar on Avenue A that would serve us liquor. How many? All. So after many hours of drinking "Blue Whales" I found myself at a friends house, with an urge to vomit. I was such a good friend, I waited to hurl after I left the apt., just did it in the street and a cab. Got home eventually and put a bucket next to my bed. How cute; like a little Bukowski in training. Many hours later I awoke, dragged myself into the living room; my Mom watching a Gilligan's Island marathon, barely looking at me. All she said was "I made a ham; eat some and take out the garbage." Translation: "I don't know what you did last night; I don't want to know. Eat some ham because we are Jews that laugh in the face of God." Or something like that.

Enjoy the hours you have before you have to put on your happy work face.