Is anyone really grateful to be dead?

The first time I went to a Grateful Dead show should have been my last, but it wasn’t. I went back a few more times just to make sure I wasn’t missing out on something spectacular. Turns out, I wasn’t. Except for that one time I discovered the meaning of life, and then forgot it by the end of the night.

I’ve always been intrigued by hippies. Why? First of all, their utter disregard for how offensive they smell is truly amazing. Also, I’m impressed with people who can take multiple hits of acid for years and still formulate sentences.

But going to a Dead Show?

Not good. When you’re me.

Picture a steamy mid-July afternoon in our great capital, Washington D.C., and a swarm of long hairs cattle calling their way into RFK Stadium. Most people would stop there. Right? Not me, I kept going. I had to know the secret behind the secret…

Now picture a rickety-ass stadium packed to the gills with 80,000 stank-ridden, scraggly barnyard animals. Add 100% humidity to a 98-degree day and you’re right there with me, experiencing one of the most disturbingly claustrophobic moments in the history of mankind. I wonder how much booze I must have ingested to purposefully put myself into that situation. A lot. I’m pretty sure it was a lot.

I stood out like a whore in church clad in my brand-new white t-shirt, crisp white Keds (I know, embarrassing) and cut-off-to-the-ass jean shorts (possibly more embarrassing). My attire was very un-hippie and inappropriate for the occasion, especially with a mid-summer thunderstorm on the horizon.

I remember having to adjust my tolerance levels to the pungent bouquet of rank weed, ripe oniony body odor and patruli oil (the international hippie scent), as I impatiently waited for the music to start. I was getting irritated watching people dance and skip around in the absence of song. I stood in my upright persnickety stance, gazing at the thousands of barefooted people, wondering how on earth they didn’t have dysentery.

Finally the music started and as if intentionally devised by God - or more likely Jerry - lightening split across the sky and thunder erupted, bringing on a torrential downpour with raindrops the size of dimes that smacked onto the dirt. I looked at my Keds and waved goodbye to the last shred of white.

“Look how happy everyone is!” A friend laughed.

“Sure, it’s the first time they’ve showered in months.” I snickered, covering up my boobs that were now visible through my drenched white t-shirt.

I watched in satirical amusement as the hippies swished around in the growing puddles. The more daring folks began sliding into the mud like it was “Splish ‘n Splash” day at RFK. I slowly eased backward, making my way to shelter when the unthinkable happened – a filthy, dirty Birkenstock smacked against my chest, covering me in mud. I released a blood-curdling scream and ran for safety.

Inside the stadium I dried off and wandered through the crowded hallways, staring at strange witch-like women spinning in circles. Either five minutes or two hours passed. I’m not sure. The rain had stopped and night had fallen over the stadium. Thousands of tiny lighters flickered as people lit up one bowl after another.

Something in the air felt different, if not eerie. The vibe from the audience was still; not a single soul took flight. I meandered through the forest of statuesque people, looking for my friends. I was right on the cusp of a full-blown panic attack when out of nowhere a laser beam shot across my path just as a high-pitched sound whizzed through my eardrums.

“What THE fuck was THAT?!” I yelled out.

“This is Space,” a shirtless man with stringy hair answered. Oh, okay, that explains everything. Thanks, dude.

Space?!

By that point, I was extremely annoyed. How the fuck long is a Dead show anyway?

Apparently, decades…

I may have ruined the “space experience” for nearby folks. Whenever a sound passed by, I’d spin around to follow it. My body looked possessed as I jerked around in circles trying to figure out “space”. Noises shot through the middle of my eardrums, zoomed up my spine, and then zipped away into the black night.

After a few torturous moments, a miracle occurred - I LET GO. I stopped trying to figure out everything and let my mind drift away. I was floating in the seamless night with countless strangers who didn’t care that I was wearing white Keds.

Slowly the guitars started back up and Jerry’s nasally voice streamed through the speakers again. In those glorious moments of relief I serendipitously stumbled upon my group of friends. I was safe and somewhat sound.  

By the end of the night, I had transformed. No, no, no - I didn’t become a hippie, but I had experienced my first Dead show and came out the other side slightly less uptight, definitely dirtier and grateful to be... not dead.

If you look closely, Jerry is wearing white Keds.

Celebrity comes and goes...

In high school I had a car that lived up to its name – the Chevrolet Celebrity. That car was so dang famous, I’ve written songs about it. The parties, the sex, the booze, the drugs – that car was like Studio 54 on wheels. Piled high with rambunctious teenage girls, itching to get into trouble throughout Rock Creek Park, Washington D.C. and several high-end ghettos. My Celebrity was the super star I always aspired to be.

One hot, sticky summer evening exactly 21-years ago I recall a night, I recall a night… well, let’s just say I don’t remember much of it, other than the pitiful realization that all good things must come to an end…

Sitting behind the wheel of my 1980-something silver Chevy Celebrity, the tangy scent of tree sap drifted across my nose. I bolted awake. Where the fuck am I? What the hell time is it? Did I miss my curfew - again? (For the record, it was 4 hours passed my curfew and I was piss drunk - the kind of wasted you can smell from the top floor when you call out to your mom that you might need a little help. My poor, dear mother.)

Using the steering wheel as leverage, I pulled my drunken body upright and gazed at my surroundings. As my vision slowly came into focus, I noticed a tree in front of my car and branches toppled over the hood. To the right of me was grass, to my left, more grass – Apparently I had driven onto someone’s lawn. Just beyond the tree, that my Celebrity had attempted to murder, sat a red brick house. My heart jumped when a light from a second-floor window clicked on.

How long have I been here? Did I pass out at the wheel? Wasn’t Bill supposed to drive home from downtown? Where is Bill? These questions rattled in my head as I turned the key to my ignition. Under the hood the engine stuttered and stammered. Terror shot through my chest as more lights came on from inside the house. They were coming for me.

“Dear God – please, PLEASE start this car. Please help me. I’ll never drink again!” I begged to the heavens. I slammed my forehead against the steering wheel and tried one more time, simultaneously pleading with God, making the same promises I vowed to keep, but never did.

In a flash of light, the engine turned over. “THANK YOU!” I yelled to God. I yanked the gearshift into reverse and sped backwards off the lawn and onto the street.

By the time I got home, that incident was just a blurry memory. Parked in front of my parent’s house, I felt a strange tickling sensation on my chin. I looked in the rearview mirror to see blood pouring out of my chin, dripping down my neck and drenching the top of my boobs that were bursting out of the too-tight dress I had shoved my 19-year voluptuous body into. Jumping out of the car, shock set in as I examined the crunched in hood and smashed front windshield. I pried out a few branches from the front bumper in an effort to save face.

Did I do this? I wondered, holding my face to keep the blood from spilling out. I tiptoed into the house and before I shut the front door my mother was standing in front of me in shear panic, calling me horrible names, throwing towels at me, making me eat Saltines and giving me handfuls of peppermint gum. She grabbed her purse and rushed me to the hospital. My poor, dear mother.

I don’t need to bore you with the details of how I spent the rest of the night in the emergency room, confessing to the doctor how sorry I was, or how I screamed when he gave me a tetanus shot and stitched up the gash in my busted up chin. I don’t need to tell you about the dent in my left thigh or the purple bump across my forehead. And I probably don’t need to go into how my mom made me drive that poor bastard Chevy Celebrity to the junkyard with branches and smoke spewing from the hood – that was after she made me keep the banged up heap in front of the house for a week to show the neighbors what drinking and driving looks like first hand. I’m still bummed because I’m pretty sure I left my Cool Moe Dee mix tape in the cassette player.

I can name at least 57 reasons why I shouldn’t be alive. The real mystery is how I never brought anyone down with me. I’ve spent decades bouncing from one debauch to the next, yet I remain alive. I continue waking up, working out, showering and going about my day. Alive. I don’t know whether to be grateful or irritated.

I often think back to that moment when my Celebrity was sprawled out on a stranger’s lawn. I wonder how differently my life would have turned out if the car didn’t start and the cops showed up to haul my drunken ass to jail. I wonder where I’d be today if God hadn’t interfered with that moment by “saving” me.

I’m happy to say, I finally made good on my promise and no longer threaten the lives of innocent bystanders, or really awesome cars.

"Guest adgirl, Simone DeBlasio"

Ruth Naperbaumhausen interviews freelance ad exec, Simone DeBlasio.

Q: How long have you worked in advertising?
A: Coming on two decades. So, I started when I was ten years old.

Q: Why advertising? Why not politics, banking, psychology, or the service industry?
A: Advertising is a grab bag of many professions. Only you get to wear jeans and a T-shirt to work.

Q: What was your first look into the world of advertising?
A: Growing up, I loved the show “Bewitched”. Samantha’s magical powers were cool, but I was more impressed with Darren’s copywriting. I loved his pun-filled taglines.

Q: What was your first advertising gig?
A: In 5th grade we were given an assignment to write, direct and star in a TV spot. My commercial was for “Honeycombs” cereal.

Q: Other than the “class project” which is totally legit, what was your first paying job?
A: About eight months after college graduation, and 479 sent resumes later, I landed a job at a direct marketing shop in Mountain View. They hired me as an “assistant account manager” with the caveat I could move into copywriting. That was 17 years ago, and I’m still in management. Advertising folks know how to sell an idea (even if it involves a little finagling of the truth).

Q: Why stay in management if you’d rather be a copywriter?
A: I didn’t know how to put together a portfolio, and I was terrified to ask for help. I took the safer, less satisfying route. Decisions based on fear usually don’t pan out.

Q: Wow – admitting to selling yourself out.
A: Um, that’s not a question…

Q: Fair enough. What are some of your favorite aspects about advertising?
A: Other than the late nights, leftover food from meetings and working with lunatics? I love seeing cool ideas come to life.

Q: What is your favorite commercial?
A: “Aaron Burr/Got Milk” produced by Goodby, Silverstein & Partners in the mid-90s.

Q: Why does that commercial stand out?
A: The premise is simple and relatable, and the execution is brilliantly satirical. The strategy plays on the basic human experience of deprivation. Running out of something you need more than anything at the particular moment. Joni Mitchell said it best – “you don’t know what you got ‘til it’s gone.”

Q: Who are some people you admire in the advertising industry?
A: The variety of quirky personalities is endless. Some folks are memorable for representing what NOT to do, while others are etched in my mind for their prolific idea-generating minds. Jon Steel, Chuck McBride and Todd Grant from my days at Goodby come to mind.

Q: Do you think you’ll eventually take the risk and move into copywriting?
A: While I’m a glutton for punishment, I’m not a fan of rejection or rules. I admire creative teams for their inexorable endurance to work inside a cage, and listen to annoying feedback.

Q: What’s next?
A: I’m releasing a book of essays titled Letters from the Dead – inspired by my demented and haunting dreams. After this freelance gig is up, I’m going to Lopez Island (2 hours from Seattle) to finish writing my sci-fi novel.

Q: Any final words of wisdom?
A: Today is the only day of your life – do something you love. Or start drinking, heavily.

Q: And as for lali?
A: Two of my favorite adgirls! You lovely ladies are so incredibly inspiring. Don’t ever stop :)

Simone DeBlasio is a struggling writer and musician living in Los Angeles. The struggle is mostly in her mind. Otherwise she has a pretty dope life, writing her venomously satirical blog, short stories, novels, movie scripts, and really depressing songs. For more Simone, visit simone-says.com.

Ruth Naperbaumhausen is a figment of Simone DeBlasio’s imagination.

Ladies, if you’d like to be featured as a guest adgirl, contact: http://laliadverts.wordpress.com/

Flying is for the Birds

Recently I flew to Seattle, and the experience reinstated my hatred for the human race. The struggle to get through airport security is the beginning of the end: “take off your shoes, remove your jacket, do a flip, walk on your hands, bend over”. Walking to the gate, one of the first questions that often comes to mind is - did someone shit their pants, or did a septic tank break?

Maybe it’s the transient nature of airports that gives people the illusion they can act like inconsiderate buffoons. Just because airports have many helpful amenities, this shouldn't give people free reign to act like they're in the privacy of their own home. This includes, but is not limited to, unleashing madness in the restroom, eating like nobody is watching, or allowing kids to behave like wild boars.

While waiting to board the plane, you can always spot an insensitive bum, lounging across three seats, while a little old lady with osteoporosis has to use a trash can to hold herself up. Or a barnyard animal hogging down a bag of McDonalds like it’s his last meal. Then there's the geek who won’t share an outlet because he has every single gadget ever invented plugged into the wall. You have to love the couple YELLING in a foreign language. And my personal favorite - parents staring off in a lobotomized gaze while their of out-of-control kids scream and cry. I think they are secretly hoping that the plane will go down in burst of flames, ending it all.

If you want to eat a healthy meal at the airport, good fucking luck.

If you want to buy bottled water, take out a loan.

If you need internet service, prepare to sell your soul to the devil.

If you have to use the restroom, God help you.

Inside the airplane things typically worsen…

The stranger next to you elbows into your personal space, the jerk in front of you reclines his seat all the way back, and the brat behind you kicks your chair throughout the flight. The greasy stench of French-fries (that some pig-person hoarded onto the plane) melds in with the underlying scent of stale shit. The ass cheeks of middle-aged women rub against your face, polluting your innocence, as they waddle sideways down the narrow aisle. The flight attendant shouts admonishments over the intercom, forbidding anything that gives you the slightest bit of pleasure, so that you’re forced to read that horrible Sky Mall magazine you know thousands of plague-ridden fingers have touched. Endless torture. All on your dime.

Flying is exhausting. It takes a lot of energy glaring at one person to the next, as they publicly fail at life. Other than maneuvering through a Trader Joes parking lot, I cannot name a more brutal human experience.

Sugar Tit isn’t just a town in South Carolina

On Sunday I cheated on my vegan diet and ate eggs. Surprisingly (or unfortunately, depending on who you are), I didn’t go into coma, or die. Now I can't stop thinking about those damn eggs. I’m considering getting a pet chicken so I can have farm-fresh eggs every day. Only they’d be balcony-fresh eggs, and probably not very fresh since I live right next to the 10 freeway and the pollution wafts directly toward my house (seriously, I might have black lung). Also, I don’t think my neighbor below (who already hates me) would appreciate chicken shit dropping onto his patio.

Oh, on a side note, did you know the government is increasing the “sugar tax”? Did you know there was such a tax? I want to meet the croon in charge of that paperwork. Let me guess, he’s a complete troll-like asshole? On another note, I’m going to start taxing people for reading my blog because I’m sure I owe someone somewhere for having this much fun.

I don’t know about you, but I have some food issues – mostly with people bugging me about my diet. Since I went vegan (to lose weight, and because animals are adorable – yes, including fish; why do you think Finding Nemo was so successful?), people love pointing out that I’m not getting enough protein. Is that what’s wrong with me? Because I’m thinking it has more to do with annoying people telling me what’s best for me. The other day a package came in the mail and it turned out to be an amazon-sized container of vegan protein powder that Peter had ordered for me.

Um, can someone tell Peter, this is NOT the way into a woman’s heart...  

Food issues started in my home when I was a young girl (shocking, I know), and my younger sister was diagnosed with hyperactivity (that picture says a lot more than a thousand words). We had to expunge all of the sugary treats from our house. Goodbye Ho-Hos, see ya Twinkies, and farewell my beloved Kool-Aid… a round of applause to my sister for ruining my childhood.

After the mass exodus of sugar from our home, everything sucked. Do you know how utterly depressing snack time is when it includes Saltines, stalks of celery with all-fucking-natural peanut butter, and an occasional bowl of Napoleon-flavored ice milk? Ice milk, people!

By the time I was nine years old, I was so desperate for sweets I secretly concocted “sugar rolls” (mounds of sugar rolled up into slices of bread). I’d hide in the dark basement and devour one sugary handful of bread after another. Thus began my abusive and somewhat dysfunctional love affair with sugar. And dark places.

Sugar is pretty amazing. However, I’m currently in the market for a healthy chicken. Until then, I’ll be dreaming about eggs... Sunnyside up. Over easy. Scrambled. Poached. Soft-boiled. No omelets - because they suck. And so does hyperactivity.

Regulations are the leading cause of rebellion and chicanery

I grew up in a suburb of D.C. where selling alcohol was prohibited. Funny thing is, everyone within the 3-mile radius of Kensington ended up a drunk, or worse. I used to blame the town for my troubles, until I came across a photo of my younger brother. It wasn’t until Peter pointed out the Playboy nonchalantly sitting on the table next to my infant brother, that I decided maybe I was being too hard on K-town.

My parents did the best they could (I guess) and I love them, but the combination a backwater country girl and an Italian city slicker, makes for a very confusing upbringing. It’s a miracle their three kids graduated from college (barely), never went to jail (well, one of us might have been arrested), or damaged any property (not true, I caught some stuff on fire). I find it astonishing that they would leave me charge whenever they went to Atlantic City to gamble away our college fund. They were fully aware of my ineptness for giving a shit about anything, so why would they leave their other two children (who they liked a lot more than me) and their beloved home in my care? I think they were on drugs.

When my folks went to the movies, I’d invite friends over to guzzle as much Milwaukee's Best as we could in two hours, so you can imagine the utter debauchery that took place when they left town. Or maybe you can’t. Maybe you were a good kid and obeyed your parents. Perhaps you didn’t start stealing your father’s cigarettes at the age of ten, or raiding the liquor cabinet when nobody was looking... If you were a golden child, then you won’t understand how something as innocent as a birthday gathering with five girlfriends could end up with your younger sister puking up gallons of wine coolers (along with a wad a gum that we swore was an undigested French fry) on the living room rug, a broken window, footprints on the wall, holes in the ceiling and cigarette burns on the floor.

The last time my folks left me in charge (and it was definitely the LAST time), I had a big party. It wasn’t much fun for me because I spent the entire night cleaning up after everyone, like a street sweeper removing every last bit of evidence. By Sunday morning the house was sparkling clean. To avoid any unnecessary grilling, my sister and I left before our parents returned (note: I have no recollection of my brother’s whereabouts). We were at a friend’s house watching Dirty Dancing for the 100th time when the phone rang…

Our friend muffled back some laughter and said, “Simone and Adrienne, your mom found two roaches and a roach clip. You need to go home.”

After a brief moment of panic, I devised a lie and called the house, “Mom – it’s not mine. It’s Jonathan’s.” Jonathan, bless his devious little heart, was our go-to scapegoat anytime we got caught for anything. And it was believable because 85% of the time he was guilty. Poor bastard, he didn’t stand a chance in our neighborhood.

“Come on, Simone, do you think I’m stupid?” My mom was completely irritated (um, YES – you’re the one who left your 16-year old alcoholic, pothead, hopeless wreck of a daughter in charge...)

“Mom, if it was mine, don’t you think I’d do a better job at hiding it?” That was a true statement –I was a stealthy little bitch.

“Either way, the house is entirely too clean, I know you had a party when I told you not to. You’re on restriction. Get home now.”

This was nothing new - I spent the majority of my high school existence “on restriction”, and a lot of good that did for the cause. I really don’t know how to end this blog because I’m still trying to figure out if Jonathan set me up. Moral of the story - don’t smoke pot, or smoke it. Whatever. It’s legal in most places. Except Kensington.  

Islands are tipping over with ignorance

In addition to the weight I’ve gained since I started my freelance gig, I’ve noticed a new trend in the business world – dumbing down things for lazy people who don’t want to use their brains to actually think.

“Hey Bob – great report, but can you dumb it down for the clients?” Boss says with some of the most atrocious coffee-cigarette breath ever, possibly.

“I guess, but if I dumb it down isn’t that just perpetuating their stupidity?” Bob asks incredulously.

“Per-what?”

“Maybe we should consider smartening up our clients?” Bob still has hope, poor guy.

“That might work on television, but I need you to dumb it down.” Boss hacks up a chunk of tar and storms off.

Business people and their spiffy buzzwords aren’t the only culprits condoning ignorance. Stupidity is everywhere. But the most disturbing place to find this horrific reality is within our government - the people running the country - the people supposedly in charge of our welfare. When House Representatives are questioning whether or not sending more troops to Guam could possibly tip over the island, well, that just obliterates any hope for a brighter future. The disheartening truth is that ‘we the people’ voted these morons into office. We’ve done this to ourselves.

Hello? Georgia? Is this thing on? What appealed to you most about Hank Johnson? Was it his inarticulate clamor, his unawareness of basic geology or his relentless inability to comprehend a simple conversation? (If you haven’t seen the infamous video clip, it’s below.)

We could discuss this topic for weeks, but I’m really tired and don’t feel like pontificating on the matter. When I’m feeling less disgusting, I’ll write a follow-up weblog regarding my theory on why there is so much ignorance in our country… For now, I’ll dumb it down for you – ignorance might be bliss, but there are consequences. (See Exhibit A)

Exhibit A

You’re not somebody until somebody loves you. Apparently.

Everyone thinks I’m joking about dropping off the grid and disappearing for a little while. I’m totally serious. The one thing holding me back is my poor track record with homeless people. Also, I’m not a fan of body odor, especially my own.

My grand plans to live on the streets changed after I watched a video of my niece singing. I shit you not, she sounds better than most musicians out there – she’s three years old. 

I closely watched the video, observing her natural grace and ease with the microphone. She wasn’t just performing - she became the song - eyes closed as she hit the high notes, softly shaking her head from side-to-side. She was brilliant. After the fourth or fifth viewing of the video, I was struck by a bolt of inspiration…

… I’m going to be her manager*.

The best part about this proposition is that everyone wins. Her mom and dad won’t have to be the type of creepy, over-zealous stage parents who tend to corrupt their kids. I’m her aunt, so I’m allowed to be crazy. It will be expected.

Look, I’m doing her family a huge favor - making them filthy rich and taking the blame if she becomes a child star crack-ho later in life. I’ll be the scapegoat. Why should I care? She’s not my kid. I’ll take my 10% manager fee and squeeze out as much as I can from that little girl. I’ll always be ahead of the curve, planning her (my) next move. She will reach her (my) goals: a record contract, commercial licensing, publishing rights to her story, and ideally a movie deal that will propel her into a successful acting career (unless you’re Dolly Parton, the female musician’s shelf life is typically short-lived). I will make all of her (my) dreams will come true.

I’m going to be the best manager I never had.

She will know fame and fortune, travel the world and touch the hearts of millions. Where I categorically failed, she will achieve great success. I can see it now - her name in bright lights… fans clamoring for encores… multiple bank accounts… cars… butlers… maids… private jets… personal vegan chefs… little Boston Terriers running freely at the ranch house in Paso Robles…

Life is incredibly amazing the way it sneaks up on you and rips all of your original hopes and dreams away, but just when you’re ready to quit and live on the streets, it presents an entirely new path. This small twist of blinding fate has given me a reason to live - even if it is vicariously through my three-year old niece.

*The band number4 will profess that I’m a great manager – if it weren’t for their crack-addicted drummer they would’ve gone far.

The old man and the sewage system

After leaving the gym, I got into my car and hung my sweaty workout bra from a hook, and rolled down the window to air out the copious amounts of stink.  By the time I parked at the office, the bra was gone. It must have blown out the window as I was speeding down Centinela.

I hated that bra anyway.

Along the route to work, I found myself stopped at green light – this type of shit happens a lot in Los Angeles. I sat back and waited, refusing to blow my horn. How can people still think horns help when science proves that jarringly loud noises only exasperate tense situations? Come on. Don’t be an asshole.

I decided I could either get angry that I wasn’t getting to work fast enough (does anyone else hear how ridiculous that sounds?), or I could take it as an opportunity to slow down and breathe. I turned up the Westside Connection and let the bass drop. In other words, I sat back and let the show unfold before my eyes…

Crossing the street at the pace of a 3-legged turtle, shuffled an old geezer. I say old geezer because this dude was no longer a man – he was an otherworldly creature most likely coming up from the sewers for a little bit of “fresh” air. His back hunched as though he had giant rocks tucked under the shoulders of his filthy jacket, and his was face fourteen shades of brownish-purple with lines so deep, you could rest coins inside the furrows. I felt bad for the old critter, and for a fleeting moment I wanted to get out of my car to help him cross the street. But I didn’t want to cause more traffic, or touch him, so sat and listened to Ice Cube tell me about suckas and bitches.

I was overwhelmed wondering what happened to that guy that he was so broken? By the looks of him, he hadn’t seen a doctor in over a century. This got me thinking about health insurance (probably because it’s being blasted out of every outlet the media can get their grimy hands on). There’s no way that guy had, or ever had, any form of health insurance. Does that mean the government’s new-fangled health reform law will help him out? Doubtful.

I don’t like the government telling me that I have to have health insurance, and if I don’t enroll I’ll get fined. If I can’t afford health insurance, I’m pretty fucking sure I can’t afford to pay a fine either. I’m hitting some big numbers this year (August 21st for those who want to send gifts or throw parties), and my health insurance fees will increase. I was considering dropping it altogether and going commando until I turn 61 years and nine months of age. Now I can’t. The law tells me that I have to buy health insurance. They say it’s going to be cheaper, but I say - you get what you pay for, suckas.

I’ve mentioned this before, and it’s sounding better and better - grabbing my sleeping bag and space heater, maybe my photo albums, definitely my slippers and dropping off the grid. I might just join the man in the sewage system.

This might be the most depressing shit I’ve ever written..

... but I never promised anyone a rose garden, except my best friend growing up and we're estranged.

Earlier today I was intentionally starving myself because I had an appointment with an ENT doctor, and though I’m hoping for bad news like a brain tumor or some deadly incurable disease, I don’t want the scale to mock me. (update: didn't even weigh me!)

Lately my thoughts have drifted into some morbid-ass creepiness – like how much longer will I have to endure living. It’s becoming a nuisance, living that is. Yesterday I received another reminder note to make an appointment to see my OBGYN, and I tossed it. I don’t want an update on the lump in my right boob we checked two years ago. Why bother? I won’t do anything about it anyway. I can only hope for something to take me out, then I won’t have to kill myself, and I die a noble woman.

(I can hear my father is chanting the words, “Take it back. Ain’t gonna happen. Take it back. Ain’t gonna happen.”)

I’m pretty sure most of you have had similar thoughts. If you disagree, guess what – you’re lying, or you’re in denial, or you actually have something horrible going on and if you are one of those people reading this, I truly apologize (but only to you).

On Sunday, a family friend killed himself. We are at a loss. What? Why? What? No. Not. Possible. He left behind a beautiful family and many friends. How do you heal from such a deeply confusing and baffling travesty? How much pain must someone feel to do something so horrible? I’m guessing a-fucking-lot of pain.

I’ve flirted with that level of pain, and though it’s uncomfortable talking about this shit, I need to – all of us need to…

I am not alone, but my head loves telling me that I am. Add a little grief and that’s a toxic cocktail (and yes, I’m still grieving over my dead dog – I’m still grieving over my parents selling our home of 36 years). I know that if I block myself off from the world and isolate, I’m doomed. I’ll go straight to self-pity, and then walk down the dark road of depression, which quickly leads to despair. 

I’m alive today because I’ve learned not to believe the lies my shitty head tells me. Instead, I tell on myself… like when I’m running on the treadmill, sometimes I hope I’ll trip and bash my head so that I instantly die. If I tell you this, then it no longer has power over me. Eventually, after I stop taking myself so seriously, I can laugh at myself - joining those of you already laughing at me.

We are not alone. Even in our darkest hour, there is someone waiting with open arms. The tough part is finding the courage to ask for help. Every day, I thank God for giving me the courage to ask for help 5 years ago when I was on the bathroom floor with a razorblade. I am so completely grateful that I continue asking for help from people I trust and love. This is how I keep living... one breath at a time (until the aneurysm takes me out).

Some of us don't need additional madness

March Madness is quickly approaching. Typically, I spend grueling hours researching college basketball teams and compiling amazing picks (only to end up second-to-last in the pool), but this year I cannot endure the heartache of losing again.

Besides, I’m already up to my ASS in madness. I blame Quincy for dying and leaving me to live out the rest of my pathetically depressing life alone. Also, I think my father is trying to sabotage me.

Call me paranoid – wait, don’t do that, I’m sensitive – but I believe my father started writing a blog to deliberately steal away my readers. He thinks I’m too dim to figure out what’s happening, but I know – I’m quietly watching… It’s hard not to notice all of the attention and comments his angst-ridden blogs receive. He can say the craziest shit, or bash the crap out of some political geek, and everyone is like, “Totally, dude. Totally”. While I work myself into a dither trying to squeeze out one miniature golden egg, and lose readers by the minute. I’m dying over here (no, really, I think I might possibly have a brain tumor).

Seriously, dad, I love you, but stop pilfering my readers with your obviously more entertaining blogs. You know that I’m extremely insecure; can’t you let me have this ONE thing? Do you want to ruin my life?

To the one or two of you still reading my blog, I’m sure I sound certifiably insane. This is because I am certifiably insane.  I don’t have an actual certificate with a seal, or anything like that, but trust me - you’re reading the ramblings of a lunatic.

The other day I considered taking out my sleeping bag and making a new home under the bridge down the street. Life would be SO much easier without the annoyances of bills, work or meal plans. In fact, I’ve been diligently studying homeless people and thinking, ‘hmm, that doesn’t look so bad, I could do that’.

Not so bad, I could do that…

The one thing holding me back is my beloved space heater. Most bridges and doorways don’t have outlets. I can live without a lot (meat, dairy, cigarettes, human contact), but I’ve grown very attached to my little space heater. Though it breaks my heart to kill the dream of living under the bridge, I will have to stay put. Instead of wasting time picking basketball teams that will eventually fail me, I’m going to devise a plot to take down my father’s blog. Stay tuned…

Girl Scout cookies are laced

You may not know this, but the Girl Scout cookie racket is more lucrative than a Mexican drug cartel. Those seemingly innocent little bitches have cornered the market by offering a legal product that is extremely addictive, and small enough to leave you obsessively wanting more. I’m surprised there aren’t cookie-hoes on every dark corner soliciting blowjobs so they can purchase just one more box of Thin Mints. Come on, baby… Help a girl out… I need it reaaaallly bad.

The office has been hit with a plethora of the brightly colored boxes with their sappy photography, and thanks to the Girl Scouts of the USA, getting people to do their work (yes, this is what I get paid to do – professionally stalk people) is becoming incredibly grueling. It’s tough motivating people to meet a deadline when they’re either all hopped up on Girl Scout cookies, or gazing off in a sloth-like trance with crumbs caked around their lips.   

Sugar makes people stupid.

Call me paranoid, but I think Girl Scouts purposely want to dumb down the adult population in time for spring break, thus giving them the freedom to run wild like hooligans.

“Mom, can I spend the night at Lisa’s? Um, for the next five days?”

“Sure, honey… Hey, where are the Do-Si-Dos? Did your bastard father finish them off?! I’ll kill that mutherfucker.”

Girl Scouts are sneaky; making the cookies small enough to fool you into thinking they’re harmless. Before you know it, the one or two cookies you politely popped into your mouth turns into an entire row… There is no ‘just one cookie’. Ever. Otherwise it would be noted in the Guinness Book of World Records. Also, I think they lace the cookies with a magical ingredient that isn’t listed on the packaging.

I promised myself I wouldn’t cheat on my vegan diet (at least until Friday because that seems like a good day to make myself sick to my stomach). Ever since I made that decision, the hours are dragging. All I can think about are those damn cookies. Boxes on top of every desk relentlessly taunting me, singing in unison like sirens on a sugary sea of ecstasy. I’ve indulged in fantasies of shoveling handfuls of Tagalongs and Samoas into my mouth, polishing them off with a plate of Thin Mints…

Due to the lack of productivity in the office, I've been working late. In the dark hours of the night I've been devising a secret plot to hijack the remaining cookies and hoard them all to myself. I'm also writing a letter to the Surgeon General asking that in the future they issue a warning on each box stating, "contents are highly addictive and might cause utter retardation".

Remember when spam was just "food"?

This morning when I checked my email, I had 23 spam emails regarding VIAGRA. I found this deeply disturbing because 1) I don’t have a penis, and 2) if I did, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t take a pill that magically gave me a 12-hour erection.

I hate spammers.

No… wait…

I detest spammers. 

These sly little bastards might be one of the lowest levels of sub-human existence on the planet. Right along with thieves and murderers. Over-the-top? I don’t think so - they rob us of our precious time and sanity, and they destroy our innocence (I don’t want to think about boners at 9 a.m. – unless I’m in bed next to my man, in the mood for love - which is rare because I still can’t get over the morning breath).

After I deleted the multiple spam emails, I trolled over to my Twitter account to see what was going on in that farcical world. Since my recent ban on following celebrities, the information stream has been sparse. So I decided to see who was following me (this usually gives me 10-minutes of validation, unless I’ve been “un-followed” and then my heart crumbles and the suicidal ideations begin). Low and behold - I had a new follower!


INTRODUCING…




What disturbs me most isn’t that she wants me (a female of non-lesbian nature, except when I’m drinking cosmopolitans and smoking hash) to check out her naked pictures, or FRISK her panties… but rather the fact that there are 92 other hot dummies out there “exposing” themselves to innocent bystanders such as myself.

Spammers should be arrested. Or at the very least, they should be sentenced to wearing bright orange jumpsuits and picking up all of the trash on the internet while shoveling spoonfuls of spam-sandwiches down their filthy dirty throats.

Yum.

Who said grief is good?

I’m astounded that something as simple as finding a dog hair on my shirt could throw me into a spiral of gut-wrenching pain. The tiny white dog hair that I used to brush off my clothes without a thought suddenly seems like the most precious piece of gold in my fingertips.

The shock of Quincy’s sudden and traumatic loss has projected me into in a place of utter sadness and confusion. For the first time in 14 years I’m without a loved one to care for – no more morning walks, no checking the water bowl, no more incredibly excited greetings when I walk through the front door, no stepping over gates or last-minute walks before bedtime… the daily routines have been ripped away – in the blink of an eye. Gone. All of it is simply gone.

My dogs were not just dogs - they were my babies, the most important part of my adult life and everything centered on them. Wherever I went they were by my side – holidays, road trips, airplanes, parties, weddings, freelance jobs, restaurants, beaches… the list is endless. The love went deep, and spread far and wide.

Last year when Sadie passed I was horribly devastated, but I still had my Quincy to keep me company and help me grieve. With the passing of my little old geezer, I feel completely alone and disoriented. I know to some this may sound dramatic, especially those who haven’t experienced losing someone so incredibly dear. Before I went through it, I didn’t fully understand the depths that the sorrow will go. I can only explain it as my heart being pulled from my chest, and a hollow sinking hole in my middle, with endless tears and howling to the sky in agony.

The cliché says that time heals all wounds, but I believe that time only lessens our pain. The pain never leaves rather it becomes a part of our essence. I don’t regret the pain because I believe it teaches great lessons. It is in those darkest moments we discover who we are and what we are capable of.  Our souls reach beyond the physical crap and touch a place that is unimaginable unless you are in it. We also realize our truest companions – the people we want to be with on the journey until the final destination. Sadly, we discover the ones who are merely pit stops along the way.

Grieving is pushing me to soften and be vulnerable, and to ask for help. I’ve been blessed with wonderful people in my life – even strangers I’ve never met – who aren’t afraid to reach out when my face is a puddle of snot and tears. I’m learning that compassion is something I can freely and fearlessly give when it’s my turn to show up.

I’ve experienced a lot of loss in the past five years. When all I wanted to do was curl up into a ball and die, I found the strength to face each painful situation. I was forced to reach out to people when I would’ve rather isolated. And in the midst of the darkest night, I fell to my knees and found God. And that is THE gift. My faith has only grown stronger, my soul has soared higher and the road has gotten narrower. I never knew what that meant until I went through the pain and reached the other side. On the other side, I realize the things that used to “fix” me no longer work. I’m granted a deeper appreciation for life and its many miracles when I let go of everything and fully surrender.

Sending off of my little Quincy was the end of an era for me. The transition is slow as it is painful, but the path is clear - put my faith in God, love even when I don’t want to and let go of the physical desires. I will be guided, the pain will ease and my heart will mend. My soul will continue reaching and soaring until the physical journey is over, and I’m pretty sure Sadie and Quincy will be waiting with wagging tails and lots of kisses.

Sadie & Quincy at Runyon Canyon, Los Angeles January 2006

Hallucinogens, reggae music and the inner vortex of hell

I woke up remembering the time I ate mushrooms and flipped out at a reggae bar in D.C. Reggae music sucks. Not Bob Marley or Jimmy Cliff, but the kind that makes your stomach bounce around until you’re suddenly puking up cheap beer in a bush outside your friend’s apartment wishing to God you had never played Mexican quarters with those dudes...

What do mushrooms and reggae music have to do with each other? I wish I knew.

During senior year in college, my friend Sean and his two buddies came over to my Spring Hill Lake apartment in Greenbelt, Maryland to kick off a Saturday night. I shared the place with three girlfriends and it was amazing - four bedrooms, two bathrooms and two phone lines (this was before cell phones). The downfall was the cockroach-infested kitchen, and the fact that the complex was dubbed “Spring Hill Rape”.

We gathered around the white, plastic Ikea dining room table, and Sean grinned holding up a baggie of brown crud that looked a lot like dried up turds, that I soon discovered tasted a lot like dried up turds. Although, I’ve never eaten shit, so I could be completely off. Either way, the mushrooms did not taste good, and to avoid their putrid flavor, I swallowed the chunks whole.

“We’ll meet you downtown. We have to pick up my friend on the way.” We left the apartment, and Lisa, my roommate/best friend drove my teeny, tiny red CRX toward D.C.

Somewhere along the BWI Parkway, the ‘shrooms kicked in. The streetlights turned into giant balloons floating in the black night. Red brake lights began making trails, and the red streams pulsated to the music (we had to turn down the volume because I started seeing crazy shit). I became mesmerized with the headlights zooming in our direction – they were so bright I could taste their whiteness.

“Where are they going?” I whispered in awe.

“Who?”

“All of the cars? Where is everyone going?” I thought about each individual car while contemplating the entire universe of cars moving as one entity, and then my brain split right down the middle.

“They’re going to random places, Simone. Just like us.” Lisa was always so solid and together.

“Why did everyone leave at the same time?” I couldn’t wrap my melting brain around the puzzle.

“It’s a Saturday night. People go out – just like us.” She focused on the road.

We arrived at my Moroccan friend’s apartment complex in Roslyn, Virginia and for the life of me I couldn’t find his unit. I’d been there several times, but every red brick building looked the exactly same that night.

“Is this a dream, or am I really forgetting where he lives?” I asked touching the building with my palms. I placed my cheek against the bricks to feel the vibrations.

“Simone, let’s go. We can call him from the bar.” Lisa pulled me away from the building.

What seemed like seconds later (I had lost track of the time continuum by that point), we were at the bar. Loud reggae music pounded and a sea of people swayed to the annoying rhythms. I stood along the peripheral and witnessed a man morph into a gorilla. I ran out of the room and found a phone booth to hide in. The next thing I knew my Moroccan friend was talking to me. I remember wondering why he had a purplish hue, and why his curly hair was so curly.

“What’s wrong with you? Your pupils are extremely dilated.” He said with an accent.  

“I ate some mushrooms and I need to get out of here. Where is Lisa? LISA!” She appeared out of nowhere like Glenda the good witch, and took my hand.

“You should go to the hospital – you are really messed up.” He looked terrified.

“Hospital?” I looked at Lisa with panic ripping through my chest.

“No, no, no. We’re not going to any hospital. Let’s just get you home. This is too much stimulus for you.” Lisa took me outside and buckled me into the passenger seat.

We drove in circles for hours, though Lisa assured me only twenty minutes had passed. She was growing frustrated because every street I told her to turn down led us deeper into the city.

“We’re trapped.” I cried.

“No. We’re lost. Ask those people for directions.” Lisa pointed to a young, metropolitan couple strolling down the sidewalk somewhere near the Washington Monument.

I rolled down my window (automatic windows were not standard back then) and asked for directions. The couple said to take a few right turns, or maybe a right and then a couple of lefts to get back to Connecticut Ave. I don’t know, I wasn’t paying attention - I was suspiciously scanning the couple up and down.

“QUICK - GO!” I shouted.

“What is it?” Lisa remained calm.

“Don’t listen to them - they’re LYING! It’s a conspiracy to keep us trapped in the city. They don’t want us to get out. We’re going to die here.” And this is right about when my trip spiraled into an evil vortex.

Somehow, and I say somehow because I seriously have NO idea how, we made it back to our apartment. We walked up to the entrance of our building, and sitting in the dimly lit hallway we noticed Sean and his two buddies, Kenny and Mike (Mike?) huddled close together.

“Oh, thank GOD, you’re back.” Sean hugged us.

“Why didn’t you go to the bar?” Lisa opened the door letting in the circus of hallucinating freaks.

“Kenny’s bugging. He thinks he’s always going to be like this.” Sean explained. I made the mistake of glancing over at Kenny whose eyes were wider than a fat lady at an all-you-can-eat buffet. Terror filled my pounding chest as I began to wonder – are we going to be like this forever?

“Lisa, what if he’s right?” I panicked.

“Please put Kenny in Vicki’s room. Don’t let Simone near him.” Lisa instructed.

I had a sudden flashback of the night our other roommate, Maria, flipped out on acid because she thought demons were talking to her through the television. Seeing her bug out caused me to freak out… and the rest of the night Maria was locked in the kitchen like a caged animal, screaming at anyone who passed by and I was not allowed anywhere near her. That’s what happens when thirteen kids take poor grade acid, but that’s another story…

With Kenny quarantined in Vicki’s room and Mike staring intently at the carpet, Sean and I went outside to smoke.

“These ‘shrooms are crazy. This is the LAST time I’m doing this shit.” I said (it wasn’t my last time).

“I’ve never tripped so hard. We didn’t even leave the parking lot. They were arguing over who got the front seat because nobody wanted to sit in the back alone. So we all squeezed together in the front seat, and then Kenny started wigging out. I couldn’t drive like that.” Sean’s eyes spun in creepy circles. I couldn’t look at him – or anything – for extended periods of time.

After a dozen cigarettes, calmness washed over me - I was feeling less trippy and much more on the safer side of crazy. We went back inside and sat with Kenny, making jokes until the mushrooms wore off. Vicki would have died if she found a group of derelicts sitting on her queen-sized bed tripping balls. It would’ve been worse than the time she came home to find blood splattered all over her shower curtain – but that’s another story...  After that night it became very clear that hallucinogens are not for everyone, and that reggae music was spawned by satan.

Tips on not meeting Mr. or Mrs. Not-so-right

One of my readers requested more stories, and while I have a slew of yarns to spin (mostly because I make horribly shameful decisions that always end up being comical… to others) I couldn’t find the energy to coherently string together the words. So I’m going to do what all writers do – plagiarize.

For this exercise, I’m going to steal from some articles I wrote during one of my dating phases. Because who doesn’t want to read about painfully embarrassing dating escapades? Hopefully my words of wisdom will be helpful to those who are currently dating…

Dating can be interesting, like going to the gynecologist or getting a root canal, and to save my fellow women the anguish of wasting time and energy on the wrong guy, I created a list of red flags – these could possibly go both ways, but I can only speak from my perspective - a woman who dates loser-asshole men.

You know it’s bad when…

1. he calls you at the end of the day to ask out for that night
2. he makes you pick him up because his car is broken, or growing mold
3. he doesn't tell you how beautiful you look the second he sees you
4. he can't figure out where to take you to dinner
5. he expects you to carry the entire conversation
6. he keeps glancing at the TV at the bar throughout dinner
7. he brushes over his past
8. he doesn’t even try to feign an interest in your goals
9. he talks about his ex and gets all broken up about it
10. he tells you how hot your friends are
11. he flirts with other women when he's out with you
12. he doesn't grab the check *immediately*
13. he doesn't make a plan to see you again
14. he is in debt - for life
15. he drinks booze and burns hippy lettuce like he's still in college
16. his longest relationship with a woman is less than a week
17. he cancels your date at the last minute
18. he doesn't contact you for months, then suddenly resurfaces
19. he emails and text-messages you, but refuses to call
20. he doesn't return your calls (kind of obvious, I know)

Another question that comes up from time-to-time is when is it not a date? I was talking with guy I really liked, but I wasn’t sure if we were ‘just friends’ or if we were 'dating'. He asked me out to dinner, and I became instantly paranoid and confused… is this a date? Or is it two friends meeting up for dinner?

So I asked.

He laughed and then asked if I would behave differently if we were on a date. I told him the truth – if we were on a date I'd be more lady-like, and he'd be picking up the check. Oh, and he probably should tell me how beautiful I look the second he sees me. If we were just two friends having dinner, we'd split the check, and I'd be free to use words like "fuck" or "shit", or ghetto slang. Looking back I wasn't completely honest, because what I really would have considered an appropriate date situation is using foul language and he still picks up the check.

We went on our date, and it was so horrific that I wrote about the night and published it - not caring if he read it. Although I’m pretty sure he did because I never heard from him again.

You know it’s NOT a date when…

... you split the bill ... you don't care if you have food in your teeth ... you eat every last morsel of food on your plate, just because ... you both talk about how uninterested in sex you are ... you both are checking out the wait staff ... you are bitching and complaining about your empty, unfulfilling job ... you eat so much you unbutton your pants and then order dessert... you don’t kiss goodbye... you end up home alone at 10:15 p.m. and you find yourself trolling the internet…

Remember – ‘if you don’t stand up for something, you’ll fall for anything’. Be safe. Be smart. And always be prepared.

Me on a hot date:

Award show season is in full swing

The onslaught of commercials tells me that award show season is here. I’ve noticed a buzz in Los Angeles, although it might just be the cars whizzing by on the 10 freeway 200 yards from my balcony. Still, this is a special time of year when the industry gives out awards to people for doing their jobs. Pretty amazing. It’s also the time of year when actresses emaciate themselves to get that gorgeous anorexic glow. They should donate the money they saved on groceries to a cause like, Fed Up with Hunger or Haiti. 

I watched the Golden Globes because I like to torture myself, but I was pleased with some of the wins. I’m happy that Mo’nique won Best Supporting Actress for her role in “Precious” – her performance was mind-blowing. Half way through I was about to start crying if “Glee” didn’t win something, then they won Best Television Series Comedy or Musical. I’m still wondering if Sandra Bullock bought her Best Actress award with the million-dollar donation to Haiti – good for her though – that’s incredibly generous. I just hope she never bleaches her hair ever again. The odds were with Meryl Streep, especially since she was nominated twice in the Best Actress Comedy or Musical category – imagine not winning under those circumstances. I’m not surprised that Robert Downey Jr. won Best Actor Comedy or Musical. He’s a talented man with more lives than a cat and the tenacity of a cockroach – he is a survivor, and I adore him for that. My favorite win of the night was Jeff Bridges for Best Actor. He will always be The Dude.

Since I was a young girl, I’ve been a stargazer. I think the official term is “star fucker”, but I would never sleep with a star just because of their celebrity. Although… there are three men I would make-out with if the opportunity came along. The funny thing is (not really funny, but sad and pathetic), I might have had a chance with all three of these men, but I blew it.

Let’s start with Joaquin Phoenix…

I worked for a photographer who had a shoot with Joaquin. I relentlessly begged him to bring me along until he broke. At the shoot, I was admonished to the catering area with the other assistants. I sat down on a big fluffy couch and got stuck in the cushions, so when Joaquin came out to leave I was like a beached whale on that couch – I couldn’t get up. He waved to everyone and thanked us for our hard work and then left.

Moving onto Keanu Reeves…

I was at Joe’s Diner on Main St. with some friends and my boyfriend at the time when low and behold – Keanu struts in and sits at the counter. I began squeaking like a teenager, “Oh my god, you guys, that’s Keanu.” I took out my “five people I’m allowed to sleep with” list and pointed to Keanu’s name. He sat at the counter and none of the waitresses acknowledged him. “Should I take his order?” I asked, but my friends begged me not to do that. I sat in that booth watching and biting my nails, until Keanu got fed up and walked out. (Note: on a separate occasion, I walked right by him in a parking lot and didn’t realize he was outside until all of the women in the office were slobbering at the windows)

And finally, Ryan Adams (not Brian, p-lease!)…

I was at the 9:30 Club in D.C. to see my favorite musician perform. The venue was intimate and I got up close to the stage - Ryan was only ten feet away from me! For a while we were flirting with each other. I yelled out songs and he played them. Every time he took a shot, I took a shot. He did a lot of shots, and I’m not the type of person who should do shots - ever. I turned into a maniac, and pretty much ruined the vibe for anyone within a 1-foot radius. Finally someone (my friend) yelled, “Shut the fuck up!” and Ryan looked right into my eyes and said, “Yeah, shut the fuck up.” I died that night. 

Although we have a few more award shows on the horizon, I’m going to pass - the Golden Globes covered everything. However, I will keep looking for these three gentlemen (not in a weirdo stalker way), hoping that my luck will turn and I’ll get to make-out with one of them before my lips get all old and wrinkly.

Why Social Networking is Vital to Our Survival

I’ve been offline for a week to focus on my book, but mostly because I needed a break. During this time I have contracted some deadly disease that has knocked me on my butt and kept me in bed for days. My dog won’t come near me, and poor Peter has had to run out and buy me stuff. Is there nothing more attractive than a man who steps up? I almost asked him to marry me a couple of times, but realized I should wait until I look and smell less like a swamp creature. Plus he’s been avoiding eye contact and it’s tough to ask someone to marry you if they won’t look at you.

This past week as I lay on my deathbed coughing and aching in excruciating pain (my brain actually hurts from coughing), I’ve realized how important social networking is for me – for all of us, really. First of all, I’m pretty sure it’s not a coincidence that I suddenly became deathly ill the moment I stepped away from my various websites and went off the grid. Incredible insights came to me, like how little I care about anything or anyone when I’m not connected to the internet. It’s apparent that without social networking I would die alone.

I made a list of why I think social networking is so important for our survival:

1. Keeps us physically healthy (this could be a coincidence, but I’m not taking anymore risks)
2. Teaches us to be altruistic by simply clicking a button to join a cause (great for self-worth)
3. We get invited to events we’ll never attend (it boosts our self-confidence to be included)
4. Endless supplies of potentially humorous videos or articles (laughter is the best medicine)
5. Stretches our creativity to come up with witty one-liners (challenges others to be more interesting)
6. Increases awareness about how much worse things could be (gratitude is good for the soul)
7. Continual updates on kids’ pooping and vomiting patterns (helps to deter population growth)
8. Alerts us when our friends are isolating and encourages us to reach out (brings us together)
9. Reminds us to wish Happy Birthday to people we hardly know (recognition boosts our confidence)

I’m still extremely sick and the medication is taking up a lot of my energy, but I’m sure there are hundreds of other reasons why social networking is vital to our survival. My final wish is that my near death experience has enlightened some of you as to how lucky we are to have these amazing technologies.

p.s. Peter edited this for me which is why there aren’t any curse words, and I apologize for that.

(editor’s note:  the p.s. is bullshit!)

What would John Steinbeck do?

John Steinbeck is one of America’s most well known authors – he wrote books that were required reading in most schools, and he won a Nobel Prize for Literature (this was back when they weren’t just giving those things away like candy). I was amazed to find out that Johnny struggled with his writing and questioned himself often. In fact, he wrote a book of letters about how much he didn’t want to write the book he was working on, and he believed it to be crap. Oh, the book? East of Eden. So not only did he write an incredible novel, but he also profited from his journal of procrastination. Super genius.

If Steinbeck could get away with finding distractions and still be successful, I thought taking time away from my novel would be okay… I wrote a blog and read it to Peter, and he says, “that sounds like you”. Clueless, I ask, “what the hell is that supposed to mean?” He says something about how my writing is always centered on me. Really? When’s the last time you wrote a blog? Oh, that one last year about the half-monkey people who were shackled and walking into a death camp – because that’s what people want to read… (I didn’t say that last part out loud). I shake my head and smugly say, “well, yeah, I’m a narcissist.” Then he wrinkles up his forehead and comes back with, “you’re not a narcissist; you’re more like a solipsist”. I bite my tongue and nod because I can’t remember what that word means, but I’m pretty sure it’s not a compliment.

Solipsism:
1. Philosophy. The theory that only the self exists, or can be proved to exist.
2. Extreme preoccupation with and indulgence of one's feelings, desires, etc.; egoistic self-absorption.

What?  

Exactly.

This is what my darling boyfriend thinks of me.

To prove him wrong, I’m not going to write about me (in this particular piece).

There are so many subjects to touch on… like thanks to Taco Bell there’s finally a diet Kristie Alley can get behind. Or maybe I should do an in depth whore-analysis about how I believe Tila Tequila had something to do with Casey Johnson’s death, the same way Courtney Love had Curt killed. I keep running ideas by my dog, Quincy, and he just looks at me, rolls his eyes and yawns, stinking up the room with his horrible breath. I could write about dog companionship. People like dogs. Oh, I know, I can work on a piece about my pathetic friend who sits around in her apartment with the curtains drawn, watching re-runs of “Charmed”, fantasizing that she is a long-lost Halliwell sister with the magical power of invisibility.

Perhaps procrastination was a novel idea for John Steinbeck, but I don’t think I can pull this off. I’m going to stop now and work on my next chapter. Unless… you folks have any suggestions on topics, other than myself, I can write about?

I took this photo for my friend who is obsessed with "Charmed".

Television shows that will change your life

I love how TLC (The “Learning” Channel) gets away with calling their programming educational. I’ve never seen a more irrational approach to education in my life. The only thing I’ve learned from TLC is that they have a knack for finding THE most dysfunctional and moronic families in Amerika.

Recently, I saw a promo for a new show called “One Big Happy Family”. The show is about a morbidly obese family of four collectively weighing in at 1,400 lbs (that’s almost one ton). We observe these four hog-people as they struggle to save their blubber butts by implementing 3-minute workouts and changing their eating habits (like cutting back to a 20-piece bucket of KFC, rather than individual buckets).

Seriously? This constitutes learning?

Several networks air shows that make me question, oh, everything about mankind… I’d really like to meet the jackhole who not only developed, but also SOLD a show about women who give birth to babies they didn’t know were growing in their uteruses for nine months. Where do you find these women? Do you put an ad on craigslist? Who are these women? My god.

The pitch: “Picture a young, chubby-ish teenager sitting on the toilet – she wipes her ass and stands up to flush, but something pulls her back down onto the seat. That’s when she looks into the bowl and amidst her stinky pile of shit is a newborn baby, and some placenta…”

Then there are the shows specifically designed to arouse pedophiles – "Toddlers & Tiaras" or “Little Miss Perfect”. I hold “Star Search” responsible for this mess. Damn you, Ed McMahon, for planting your seeds all over the place.

What about “Dating in the Dark”, where three single men and three single women shack up and partake in ‘dating activities’ - in the absence of light. The show takes the blind date to an entirely new and completely fu-cocked level.

Who did this to us? They should be shot. Or hanged. In public. At the Townsquare.

Maybe I’m pissed because the ideas I’ve pitched to producers never see the light of day. I fully understand how difficult it is to sell a show, but I’m pretty sure my ideas don’t sell because they don’t suck. I’m not saying they’re brilliant ideas (they’re more amazing than brilliant); I’m just saying if you want to sell an idea you need to tragically humiliate the fuck out of people… or have a sex tape.

Since my ex-boyfriend REFUSES to return our sex tape, I’m going the humiliation route. One of the shows I’m shopping around is called “Dinner with the Carvers”. It’s about a family of cannibal serial killers who own a butcher shop and sell their victims’ body parts to unsuspecting customers. We follow the family as they plot out murders based on what’s for dinner. Think Hannibal Lecter meets the Brady Bunch (that’s my logline). By the way, the concept is copyrighted so don’t even think about stealing it.

The world continues to baffle me with technology getting smarter and humans getting dumberer. Sometimes I want to quit everything, order a month’s supply of food from PinkDot and become one with the couch. Then I turn off the television and life becomes beautiful, and anything is possible.

Holy tits - I just got a text message from my agent – MY IDEA SOLD! FX wants to produce six episodes of “Dinner with the Carvers”. They’re also extremely interested in my other show called “Open All Night” about a hooker who has a spy cam in her twat... How friggin cool is THAT?!

Christmas Carols are presumptuous and annoying

I’m sick of holiday songs telling me this is the MOST wonderful time of the year. For me, it’s not. The commercialism of Christmas makes me scratch my head in awe - the way Max Headroom perplexed me in the 80’s. I mean, what the fuck was that?

I hide out in my bedroom during this time of year for the obvious reasons: herds of zombified sloths… the incessant droning of Jingle Bell Rock ripping away at my soul… traffic jams INSIDE the parking lots and outrageously stupid shit like a “Set of 3 Crystal Ducks” dressed up in winter garb and Santa hats.

Because nothing says Christmas like a set of crystal ducks.

If you grew up in my house, or lived within a 2-mile radius, then you know the holidays were not the most wonderful time of the year. My house was like a caldron of anxiety mixed with a few decades worth of internalized anger. There weren’t any ‘marshmallows for toasting’, rarely did I see ‘mistltoeing’, and don’t get me started on the gifts. Do you know how depressing it is to finally get the remote control dog you’ve been pining for only to find “Santa” had forgotten the batteries? So while the other kids are playing with their functioning toys, there I was with a pile of ugly sweaters and a stuffed dog relentlessly mocking me.

Okay, there were some good moments, like the peanut butter cookies topped with Hershey’s Kisses, the over-flowing glasses of red wine and classic moments involving my embittered Italian grandmother NaNa. I’d love to explain the inner-workings of NaNa, but I’d need at least 23 pages, so you’ll have to wait for my autobiography “The History of Insanity”. Let’s just say NaNa usually had two cigarettes going at any given moment, white tape wrapped around her banged up toes and a few half-empty bottles of “prescription” pills stuffed in her cluttered purse. One could say she was the inspiration behind the cliché “misery loves company”.

“How are you doing, NaNa?”

“I AM MIZZZABLE.” This was her answer to everything… "Dinner was mizzzable. My feet are mizzzzable. My bowels are mizzzable." You get the idea.

NaNa had an unbelievable ability to get the most laughable gifts known to man. Sweaters that were three sizes too small… soap… fruitcake that had been in her freezer since the 70’s… jewelry that only dolls or insane people should wear. Somehow my brother always got the worst of it.

“No, this totally fits, NaNa. Thank you!” My brother stood 6 feet tall with the tiny red sweater stretched over his chest and the sleeves barely reaching his elbows. Once she gave him a “gold” chain with a medallion that had the face of some random Italian figure nobody had ever heard of.

Over the years, friends started coming to the house right around the time we’d do our gift exchange. People HAD to see the unveiling of these priceless gifts. It was the only time laughter filled the house during the holidays. I wonder if NaNa bought those gifts intentionally… you know, to get some laughs. One could never tell with her. One thing’s for sure - the holidays haven’t been the same without NaNa around.

In her honor, I’m considering leaving my house to go buy a “Set of Tumbling Penguin Pathway Lights”, a gallon of eggnog and a pound of fruitcake.

Mizzzable Holidays to all, and to all a mizzzable night!

Would you want to date me?

Lately I’ve been picking on my boyfriend for not being more like Edward Cullen. If you don’t know who Edward is, let me explain… He’s a vampire. That’s right - a fictional character from the Twilight saga - a book series for teenage girls. Teenagers.

I’m not embarrassed to admit that I dream about Edward taking me away to some desolate bat cave for a good old fashioned throw down... He’s so romantic - he’s the type of guy, or vampire, who’d sacrifice his life for his girl. That’s pretty friggin’ cool. Although, he’s a vampire, so that I’m not sure how that works. Still, he’d go to the ends of the earth to make his woman happy. So, I ask why Peter? Why can’t you be more like Edward?

"I’m not feeling a connection,” I tell Peter, as I frantically type away on my laptop.

“What? Is the internet down?” He knows exactly what I’m talking about.

“Come on. I’m being serious. We seem disconnected.”

“This again?” He stands up when he talks to me, I think it’s so he can see over my laptop screen.

“I’m just sayin’, I want to be swept off of my feet.” I mean this in the literal sense. I want him to pick me up and carry me around the apartment.

“Are you still reading that damn Twilight series?” He never curses. So I know he’s pissed.

“I’m on the last book.” I send the email and start on another one. It’s constant work trying to get people to love me.

“You’ve been on the computer for 3 hours. We’re late.” He walks outside.

“Wait. Can we please talk about this?” I follow him carrying my laptop.

“Put the laptop down. Let’s go.” He heads to the car.

“Alright! But we’re talking about this in the car.”

“You bet.” This is his answer for everything.

And I mean, everything…

‘can you take me somewhere really cool this weekend?’
‘you bet’

‘will you pick up some toothpaste?’
‘you bet’

‘is my new song any good?’
‘you bet’

“did you like my last blog?”
‘you bet’

‘I know you love me, but are you IN love with me?’
‘you bet’

How can I argue with ‘you bet’?

The bastard gives me nothing to go on.

Sometimes I wonder why, or how, he is still with me. I’m not high maintenance, but I’m definitely an attention whore who requires constant recognition and adornment. Most of my exes clued into this bullshit within the first year and got the hell out. Is it my fault that weirdness always ensued after they left? No. The answer is a resounding no. Well, that’s not entirely true. I think Peter might be afraid to break up with me because he doesn’t want to suffer my aftermath.

Crazy shit happens.

Things like me ‘friending’ my ex-husband on myspace and making sure he reviewed every scathing blog I wrote about him... “Yep. Saw that one. Seems like you’re, uh, healing?” Then I’d de-friend him, for the hundredth time.

On a side note, ‘de-friending’ in the social media realm is a lot of fun. I get a surge of power when I delete an asshole from my friend list. Call it passive aggressive. I call it fucking cool. Seriously though, if you pull that shit on me, I will hunt your ass down and make you write a ten-point argument on why you removed me from your list.

Where the hell was I going with this? Oh yeah, the aftermath...

My favorite ex-boyfriend ended up with two restraining orders against him, and my wannabe mobster Italian father flying across the country to 'rip his goddamn lungs out of his cocksuckin’ throat' (is that even possible?).

One dude got a police escort out of the building we both worked in together.

The guy before him ended up moving back to Iran because he was happier THERE.

Another fellow ended up coming out of the closet after dating me.

My high school boyfriend became a male stripper and later got into the porn industry.

Like I said, crazy shit happens.

So, Peter, if you’re reading this - and I know you are because I make you read everything I write - I’m sorry, in advance, for all of the horrible shit that will happen to you after you dump my ass. Your best bet is locating Edward Cullen and setting us up. I’m pretty sure only a vampire could survive dating me.

Uggs versus Fuggs

My sister called me while I was driving to Target to exchange a pair of boots. The boots were too small when I tried them on in the store, so I’m not sure why I thought they’d fit any better at home. I torture myself, daily.

“You didn’t buy those cheap, fake Uggs, did you?” I can HEAR her sneering through the phone.

“Um, what do you mean?” Of course, I had bought the cheap, fake Uggs. Screw that noise, Judge Judy, I’m not paying 100 bucks for a pair of PURPOSELY ugly boots - I had trouble dropping 30 bucks for the bastard imitations.

“Oh, Simone, come on. Those things are HOMELESS. If you’re going to buy boots, buy the real thing. Uggs, not Fuggs.”

Fuggs.

Good one, sis - thanks for making it abundantly clear how much I truly suck.

And goddamn those Ugg fuckers for cornering the entire boot market, taking up endless shelf space with their horrendous clodhoppers. I don’t want to buy your motherfuckin ugly-ass boots. And now my friggin feet are going to freeze off when I go to Denver next month. Blue toes. Frostbite. Do they even make prosthetic toes? Will Peter still like me if I am in wheelchair? Thanks a lot Uggs, for ruining my fucking life.

In addition to that tirade, the conversation triggered a memory from the bowels of my internal hell. Old cobwebby stuff that dates back to the 7th grade when a snotty, little rich bitch named Allison Roberts looked me up and down in Home Ec and laughed at my “Wear Me” jeans. What? Are YOU laughing at me TOO? Can I help it if my family was semi-poor? Hey, at least we weren’t welfare poor, or food stamp poor. And yes, my mom bought our clothes at a dreadful store called “Zayre” (not sure if this awful place exists anymore, but to qualify - it was lower than K-mart and utterly hideous), but we were clothed, dammit. We were clothed.

Up until the day that whore bitch laughed at me, I didn’t know that 2nd rate clothes were lame. I also didn’t know that I was a complete dork. But thanks to Allison, and many mean girls like her, wrecking my soul repeatedly, I discovered that I was a loser… in cheap clothes.

One day I was walking to 7-11 with a couple of girlfriends (they took me on as a poor kid project, kinda like Alicia Silverstone did in the movie Clueless), when I looked to the ground found a $50 bill in the grass. I screamed in delight and danced around waving the bill in the air, praising the heavens for such a glorious windfall. I was like Charlie in the Chocolate Factory, only without all of the chocolate or the creepy little people.

“Did you share that money with your girlfriends?”

Are you fucking kidding?! I went the mall and bought a pair of “Guess” jeans. And I was cool from that day forward. At least on the outside.

After chatting with my sis, I ended up returning the crappy Fuggs. Apparently I'd rather lose my toes than have cheap boots. Although I hate bitches like Allison Roberts, she did teach me a very valuable lesson – you’re only as cool as you look.

Allison - if you find me on one of these faggy social networks, I recommend NOT "friending" me because I will undoubtedly harass you for the rest of your life. Bitch.