Bye Bye Bushies: A Farewell Card Odyssey

Nap Time News

We Report. We Throw a Tantrum. You Decide.

Tight Shots

Lena Dunham is my favorite young director. She is smart in her perversity - and has created an ensemble cast comfortable in their strange and funny improv. The result sometimes shocks and almost always amuses. You can see more of her work at pistolskillponies.com.

More than Meets the Eye

A short film. Transformers. Me. Enjoy.

The Ceramacist

Sara fell in love with a man. He was a competitor in ceramic shark sculpting competitions. And she had serious plans for him. Gutter cleaning, oil changing, take out the trash plans. But she wasn't ready for him yet. She'd have to wait until her tour of duty was over - which wouldn't be for at least another year. She said, "I've got a light inside of me that burns 100 times brighter than most street lamps. Which is 93% brighter than what's inside of most people." I agreed with her. What I disagreed with was her driving. She drove like her father's rage. He always rode in her back seat. And whenever his temper flared or his blood pressure rose, Sara would crash into something - a parked car, a median strip, a trash can. Impending accidents everywhere. Especially on her way to those shark sculpting contests. Everyone at them was very serious. They all wanted to have the most realistic, most biting ceramic shark sculpture. Sara crashed into a concrete island. And then she thought about how badly she wanted to win.

Word to the Mothers

Thank you to the Mothers, you who wipe our faces with your own spit. Thank you for the trays of cookies and teaching us how to sit. Thank you to Mother Magpie who is a bird, Mother Hubbard who always has a kind word, Mother Superior who jumped a gun, Mother Theresa who gives her all but doesn't have much fun, Mother Jones who carries an old purse, Mother Earth who quenched her baby's thirst, Mother-May-I who teaches the q's and p's, and special thanks to you, dear Mother Fucker, for showing us how to do it on our knees.

Orna-Mental Floss

I had my eyebrows threaded today. A first. And how could I say no to a new experience proposed by a large woman with hot wax at her disposal? She said it was only a dollar more than the old, hot method. And at only $8, paying to have an Uzbek woman put thread around her neck and then use it to somehow floss one's face is a real bargain. Stephania, the ironically bearded Uzbek lady, twisted and scraped and gritted her teeth - and elegantly ripped hair out of my brow into a very stylish shape. My eyebrows now echo the tamed beauty of an English garden. So it is with great enthusiasm that I recommend this technique to you, my hairy, swarthy friends.

The Wishes of Fishes

"Peculiar travel suggestions are dancing lessons from God." - Kurt Vonnegut I've been meaning to mention Peru. There were fish everywhere. Raw fish. Caught by fishermen in the morning. Brought in to the fish markets, sold, sliced and doused in the juices of lemons and limes. All to be eaten before noon. Ceviche - most heavenly food of the sea. This food has effected me deeply. Lately I traveled deep into the sea in dreams. I met a very nice fish there. We talked for while. He recommended a nice red wine, which I thought was very clever for a fish. He told me he had once been a Sommelier when he lived on the West Coast. Next I was seated at a dinner party. The table was filled with young, fashionable people. We all had lovely yellow tuna steaks on our plates. And we drank red wine. The same red selected by the fish - the very one it appeared was also being served upon the plates. The fish had chosen the wine to be had with himself. A very clever fish indeed. If wishes were made by fishes, this fish had made his last one a good one.

Cooking Chicken with Patti Davis

Yes, that's what I was doing until just moments ago - making chicken fried steak, actually - in a garden with my friend kate and patti davis, daughter of ronald and nancy reagan - who had a gift for garden cooking, but was certainly not wearing a bra of any kind. every time she'd lean over to stir the gravy, i'd get a big helping of a now deceased president's daughter's boobs. not very attractive, i might add. it's 4 in the morning. i've taken a sleeping pill, but in the meantime, thought writing in a blog would be the perfect activity for the delirious. oh wait, i think i hear patti davis calling me. she says she also made apple pie! so i gotta go. but if you're still up and in in the mood to travel to outer space, i recommend this to whet your appetite.

A Dad's Story

"This little girl knocked my socks off from the day she was born."

Phone Hug: The Audition

Being an actor is hard work - and auditioning is the worst of it. You have to act like you're in a flaming car crash trapped under shattered glass and metal and a heavy glove compartment that is pinning your legs and the whole car is being crushed by a 300 year old Elm tree with fangs and all you have as an actor at your disposal is a metal folding chair. Here is an auditioning scenario, unlike that just described, yet somehow just as horrible.

The Cup is Half Empty, The Cup is Half Full

In a moment of fleeting yet genuine generosity, I decided to give a little this morning in the subway station. The air was bitter cold. A man with no teeth, probably from meth, sat on the steps of the subway exit at Broadway-Lafayette. He looked sweet, in that no tooth sort of way - a kind of gummy innocence, his lips disppearing into his mouth - making him seem elderly and somehow almost holy. Seeing his toothless smile and hearing his reasonable request for "a little spare change", I remembered I'd found two dollars on the street a couple of days ago. I put those happy, found dollars in my pocket when I discovered them, knowing someone had lost them - and the only way to make that right would be to give those dollars to someone who really needed them. And here was my chance. All of the variables were in place - me, the coat, the homeless person, and the found money. I reached into my pocket and grabbed the bills. In one quick turn of my wrist, they were in the homeless man's cup. Tada! His eyes grew very wide. He thanked me. And then he and I both realized what I had put in the cup - his was an exclamation of "Praise God!" Mine was more of an "Oh, shit." It appeared I had done away with the two dollars - and somehow replaced them with a twenty. The twenty was in the cup! I paused briefly, about to reach down to the homeless man, connect with him for a secon, tell him I had only intended to put two dollars in the cup, a generous amount, I thought. He would understand. I bent down to whisper in the man's ear, "Mind if I just switch this out? I meant to give you two, and I accidentally gave you this twenty. You see, now you have more money than I do. You understand, right?" And as I bent down, fingers pinched to retrieve from the dirty paper beverage container, a voice in my head said, "Don't. Just walk away. This was an act of God meant to humble you and make you keep better track of your bills. Get a better wallet and stop putting $20's in your coat pocket. And with any luck, you will laugh about this later."

The Pigeon

This is the pigeon - he is arguably the cutest animal of any species on this good earth. This kitten is so cute, my friends are trying to steal him. Everyone wants a piece of this little guy - and for good reason. Being around him is like a fresh release of sweet, loving endorphins. He is a doughnut factory of the soul. The pigeon lays golden eggs of cholesterol-free happiness. To you, my friends, who want this cat, I say, "I know. I understand. But it's not going to happen. Good thing I know where you live."

State of the Union

The President addressed the nation tonight. And then he addressed the nation again.

Here is his second address -

She'll Never Wash Her Hands Again

New Fork is famous for meeting famous people. And if you don’t meet them, at least you get to see them out of the corner of your eye while you’re crossing the street or are in a shop – and you get the chance to pretend they’re not there, just like everyone else you don’t care about. This is the beauty of New Fork. Acting understated and listless when all you want to do is whip out your digital camera and jump up and down and point.

I had such an experience on Friday night. I was at the film house. I had just finished watching a film about the evil ways of women. Bah! Feeling dizzy from the wily behaviors of the female, undernourished and overly hydrated, I went to seek refreshment of various kinds. After buying a box of snow caps on my way to the bathroom, a friend of mine mentioned that she’d seen a swan. I hit her with my box of snowcaps, and proceeded into the women’s bathroom – that den of long lines and iniquity. After several minutes of private time with my pants down behind a metal door, I emerged to wash my hands. My friend emerged to wash her hands at the sink as well. And then the third metal door opened – and out popped Bjork. The swan! She was dressed in fuchsia – like a toreador in the powder room – with white piping and ruffles all about her smallish, elfin person. I wanted to kiss her - grab her tiny head in my hands and give her the gift of a kiss that I could only muster for a woman of her caliber. This would be my thank you for all she had given me – the countless words and melodies, the reassuring beats. But she scurried off, the shy bright pink extrovert, into the night of the theater. My friend noticed she hadn’t washed her hands. The swan had left her hygiene song unsung.

Begin the Beguine

I was invited to a party last week - the type of party I never should have been invited to. I am of the boxed wine and first-class processed cheese ball party variety. This party was not such a party - it was a rather fancy gathering of New York literati types. You know the type - or at have imagined them - with their impressive eyeglasses - the severe and artful plastic frames that look German or gay - they somehow suggest that whoever is wearing them is curating some gay exhibit at a German museum. Ah, them - with their bundles of grapes and thoughtful scowls - the well-timed throwing back of the head. They who write for Karper's, The New Forker and The Paris Redo. Walking into the room they know how to dangle their participles. I, on the other hand, have no clue what to do in these situations. I have not read the Times today. Nor have I read anything else for that matter in over 3 months. I did eat a delicious sandwich for lunch and hope that if given the opportunity to engage in conversation, that this sandwich will carry me through for a good 2 to 7 minutes. And I was given just such an opportunity to regale the dance critic for The New Forker, who it turns out was actually the dance calendar compiler for The New Forker, with my many sandwich tales. After wrapping up my lunch food speech, which thanks to the help of vodka and club soda - more the vodka, less the club soda - was a real unleashing of party conversation poetry. Having warmed up the air and trying to find a way to connect with this great critic of dance, I told him a story about how I was a tap dancer when I was 12. That I learned to tap dance because I thought that would be the basis for a great career as an entertainer. As long as I could do a little heel-click-toe, everything else would fall into place - the movie roles, the repeat guest appearances on the late show, the public radio interviews. The Gregory Hines of white men said, "Isn't that a bit anachronistic?" And I smiled awkwardly, craving a little sliver of a cheese ball on a friendly cracker and trying to remember the definition of the word 'anachronistic'. Thankfully his friend walked in. This guy was named Josh. He said he'd made a movie. It was a good movie - one about smuggling drugs in one's intestines in airplanes. Gregory said Josh had smuggled drugs to pay for the making of the movie. A point for Mr. Hines - who could, after all of that dance calendar creating, be funny. I suggested the name of the drug smuggler's movie could be used as a name for a new sexual position involving two women. This didn't go over well with the witty dancer or the law-breaking filmmaker. So I turned around, pushed my way through the bespectacled gorgeous men and women of literature, dashed to the emergency exit and into the subway - which I took to the ugliest stop I could find. Once there and noticing how hungry all the banter and talk about sandwiches made me, I found the dirtiest DcMonald's in America full of crazier people than I'd seen since my days of working in that lock-down psychiatric facility in Sylmar. I did a little soft shoe and ordered a cheeseburger with no meat. Like walking up to my own front door with the mat in front of it that says, 'Welcome home'.