Forced Entry

I'm a bit stressed out by the neediness of my expanding reading audience. You see, it has grown to an enviable 20-30 people a day. This is nothing to take lightly, mind you. Especially because most are return visitors. And, I might add that each of them, like you, hangs onto my every syllable and lives vicariously through my every word. Of course, I can see the appeal. I live quite the glamorous life. I dredge myself up every day at 7 a.m., write, go into the office, work out, write more, get denied by publishers, drink it off, and occassionally hang out with my long distance boyfriend. What can I say? I'm basically a rockstar.

On top of catering to my visitors, I probably provide the sites that I link to an additional 2-3 hits per day. What would they do if I chose to not write one day simply because I hadn't slept in 48 hours? If I deprived them of those expected and coveted hits? As you can see, I am a very important part of this life-granting food chain. Oh, how the pressure is mounting...

I usually sit down every morning with something clever to say; something I know will leave my loyal readers with a bounce in their collective step for the remainder of the day. But today, I am tired. I didn't sleep at all last night. I had anxiety dreams about work. I received a call from an annoying friend. I dreaded waking up early to go to the gym. I dreaded not waking up early to go to the gym. I dreaded being awake until the point that I'm supposed to either wake-up or not wake-up to go to the gym—all of this with insomniatic precision. I made the mistake of anticipating the emails I'd receive at work today. I traveled to the couch and back, hoping the new environment would provoke sleep. It didn't.

Anyway, the point is, today I have but a list of topics that, under normal circumstances, I would discuss in full detail. But, today, no.

List:

- I received my first Bastardly whore story submission last night. Within this submission lived the phrase "Plowing that Piggy." I could expand, but again, no...

- Some annoying girl on the subway yesterday—instead of simply moving out of the way so that new passengers could board—chose to get loud, voicing repeatedly her opinion that, "People need to learn to say excuse me. It works, you know?!" Look, bitch: I hate to break it to you, but they're not the ones in the way. Got it? Now, shut up.

- One of the guys who I'm starting the new site with just launched a new blog. Hilarious. Go there: Steve L Kneivel

- My roommate got a new wine key. That was the gist of our conversation this morning. I'm pretty sure he hates me.

- D comes tomorrow. Yayy!

- Cak—my friend who has serious issues with her sleezeball boyfriend—has two dates this week with people who are not said sleezeball boyfriend. Nevertheless, she'll be flying out to Houston to see her sleezeball boyfriend this weekend. One might argue here that she is, in fact, the sleezeball for dating other guys. Yeah, one might...

- My sister made me sign up for a MySpace account because she wanted to add me as a friend. You know, so that it would look like she actually has some. My other sister calls it a "MyGeek" account, yet is begging for my password so she can stalk people. She's a riot.

- My good friend and her boyfriend are moving into my building, to an apartment directly below me. This would be perfect if the whole boyfriend element of this fact was eliminated. Party? I doubt it.

- The receptionist where I work had this genius idea yesterday: She was going to buy a cot and put it under the table in the mail room. Then she was going to invest in a long table cloth so that we could all take turns sleeping on the cot under the table hidden by the table cloth. This idea must be adopted immediately.

As for now, I'm going to sleep at my desk. Have a good day all.

Chosen and I get dissed*. Again.

Chosen and I both submitted Open Letters to McSweeney's.

Chosen sent his in about 5 months ago and I sent mine in about 2 months ago.

Chosen brought it up several times, wondering why they hadn't contacted him.

I told him, "Yeah, that's weird. They usually diss my ass right away."

Chosen went as far as to hypothesize that McSweeney's might not even be doing open letters anymore.

I countered that, "Yes they are, silly. I just saw a new Open Letter to Rudolph the Rednose Reindeer the other day." It's true. I really did.

Well two days ago the mystery unfolded when I received the following email:

GiGi:

I apologize for the extreme tardiness of this reply. It isn’t the way I want the website to do business and I’m ashamed that I let it happen under my watch.

I’m sorry as well that I’m going to pass on these for the site. I do hope you won’t hold it against us and will submit again in the future.

Best,

John Warner
Website Editor

I promptly sent it to Chosen and he wrote back with this:

"Good to see they personalized the response. Oh, wait...."

Chosen:

I apologize for the extreme tardiness of this reply. It isn¹t the way I want
the website to do business and I¹m ashamed that I let it happen under my
watch.

I¹m sorry as well that I¹m going to pass on this for the site. I do hope you
won¹t hold it against us and will submit again in the future.

Best,

John Warner
Website Editor

Very creative those guys are over at McSweeney's. Very creative, indeed.

*A quick site search reveals that McSweeney's has indeed eliminated their open letters section. So, instead of admitting fault for once hosting a mediocre section, they opted to instead make us feel like we're not good enough (A tear departs my eye). Bastards.

Memoirs of a Dirty Whore

Every time you see this image on the bastardly.com...

...you will know that another episode of Memoirs of Dirty Whore has been scripted. It's my new "column" with them. Click HERE to read my introductory post...

NY Post Update, Part II

My NY Post interview will be featured in next Sunday's issue rather than yesterday's.

Considering that this is my second update on the stupid thing, I regrettfully inform that it has just been way too hyped. On top of that, it's only going to be moderately interesting. Uh oh, that's a bad combination...

Either way, it will be featured here next Sunday...

The Ghost of Hell Past

I went out with my friend Cak last night. Every time we hang out, she's pretty much a drag, but I can't help but like the girl. She's a cool chick underneath all of the drama.

All of the drama.

Cak's in a shitty long-distance relationship with a guy in Houston. He's 40, she's 25. He parties, she doesn't. He lives with an NFL player, she lives alone. Oh yeah... he also cheated on her a year ago. Being a reformed cheater myself, I imagine he still is. Nevertheless, Cak eventually took him back after he groveled, shamelessly, for 6 months. Needless to say, she's still not over it. She just can't seem to trust the bastard. Could you?

She does that chick rationalization thing whereby she analyzes everything he has said/done for the past week or month or other time period. It goes something like this: "I know the only reason he's not calling me is because he was busy this week because when I go down there he's busy. I've seen how busy he is, so I'm sure that's why he's not calling. He's a really busy guy. That's why he's not calling. Yeah. Busy."

Cak never goes out.

She got decked-out last night; her bra sticking out of her shirt, her jeans glued to her legs, and boots up to her knees. She looked hot. She thought so too, so she had me take a picture of her so she could send it to her man's cellphone. Maybe as a threat.

Cak is a one-drink max kind of lady.

Her first and last drink of the night occurred at 10:30.

I like to get shitfaced.

I don't stop until I'm sleeping.

She checks her phone (and his) constantly.

I spent the majority of the evening building up her confidence; telling her that if she's going to stay with him she's gotta drop the jealousy shit. I personally couldn't take a guy back if he cheated because I'd always be paranoid, kind of how she is...

You can see where this night was heading, and did head. We left the club at about 2 a.m. I must admit some fault however. My friend promotes there, which means I don't pay for drinks. Ever. We arrived too early and he arrived too late. The product of which was me buying a drink for myself. Can you even bare the thought? I was pissed. I'm not being serious (but, I kind of am). My thinking is that I wouldn't be at the club if it weren't for my promoter friend being there, so I shouldn't be paying for any drinks. The situation put me in a bad mood.

So, yeah, we left. I ended up spending the night at Cak's place near Times Square. When we got back, Cak got on her computer to check her boyfriend's Cingular bill. For some reason she's got his password and with it, she traces every single call he places and receives. Somehow she also knows who every phone number on his log belongs to. I have to give credit where credit's due: she's a master of her pitiable craft. She repeated this whole process when she woke up in the morning as well.

You've got to stop this.

I told her that everyone has, at one point or another, been in a similar hell. Maybe not as intense, but a hell just the same. I think I got out of mine when it was in the early stages, before it had time to consume me like so. Living in her reality for even 10-hours invoked a kind of nostalgia I could've definitely lived without.

Cak is taking baby steps.

Evidently after I left this morning she called one of her friends and had her change the password to her boyfriend's online phone log. Now she won't be able to check it even if she wants to. She'll want to. This was a good move, one that will actually save me some stress too. After all, I didn't really have a good reason as to why he was calling other chicks at 4 in the morning. Evidently Cak did though: "I know the only reason he's calling her is because he works with her. When I go down there, he calls people he works with around the clock. I've seen him do it, so I'm sure that's why he's calling her. He's a really busy guy. That's why he's calling her. It was business. Yeah. Business."

What to write about?

Chosen is in Toronto visiting his girlfriend.

This leaves me with an important question:

What the hell am I supposed to write about if not Chosen's antics?

NY Post update

Just completed my interview with the NY Post. The article will be in the Sunday, Feb 26th issue. Like I said, I'll post it, so stay tuned...

GiGi to be quoted in the NY Post...

I'm getting interviewed by the NY Post today. Yayy!

This is clearly a publication that recognizes a good thing when it sees one.

Actually, who am I kidding? The story will not highlight my finer points (perhaps there are too many?), but I'll post the clip when it comes out.

To be continued...

RE: New Reader Bio

How, one might ask*, can I become so lucky as to get my bio on your VIP** blog?

A good question indeed. And the answer is not a cryptic one. In fact, it lies in the heart of the following passage -- it having been sent to me by the owner of the displayed bio:

You are SO fucking funny!!!! And damn talented. I could read your shit all day but it is back to my monkey tasks now. I am going to put your blog on my favorites...so keep writing you ugly little whore.

Yes, it's really that easy, folks. Honesty is an endearing policy. One to which Ms. McCord clearly and rigorously abides.


*No one asked.
**This is how I explained to Chosen the phenomenon of him getting more traffic than I do. "You see, Chosen, my blog is only for VIPs. While my doorman is very strict with the list, yours will let in any old riff raff off the street." Boy, did I set him straight!

New Reader Bio

I would like to take this opportunity to welcome a new reader to my blog. Here are her vitals:

Name: Courtney McCord
Date of Birth: August 13th, 1979
Sign: Leo
Hair Color: Auburn, which is not really red, but then again, not really brown either.
Eye Color: Green-ish
Skin Type: Fair to Midland, lingering more - okay, a lot more - on the fair side.
Dogs' Names: Dakota and Cash
City/State of Residence: Carlsbad, CA
Occupation: Something dealing with real estate
Hobbies: Giving into her vices, walking her dogs, scaring cats, hanging out with her boyfriend, & much, much more!

Let's everybody give a big, warm welcome to Ms. McCord! And, if you see her in the neighborhood, don't hesitate to say hello. She's quite friendly as it turns out.

In a nutshell...

After reading my previous entry, Chosen accused me of being over-sensitive and of thinking that the world was out to get me (which is not at all a belief I entertain). I countered his accusations and explained the blog like so:

"The blog is just my way of unboring myself and in turn, boring the hell out of others. You see, boredom is not created nor destroyed, just transformed and transfered. As you know, I'm a physicist..."

I'm so darn clever.

A list of people who are currently pissed at me.

Sally: I wrote an email to my friend Cesar about her negligence to show her room to him (he is supposed to rent it come April), as well as her lack of foresight regarding her decision not to tell her roommates she's moving out, while, Surpise!, Cesar's moving in. I ended the email with the line: "She bugs about that kind of shit." The thing is, I accidently sent it to Sally instead of Cesar. Oops.

Chosen: So, I made some comment about how the majority of people working in corporate America have the tasks of a monkey. I think this pissed him off, because I haven't heard from him since. At the same time, I thought that since I work in corporate America and since mine are the tasks of a monkey, I was eligible to make this claim. Like if you're black you're allowed to make fun of black people, but if you're white, you better shut the hell up before I gat yo ass.

Aaron's Sister: As she was scrutinizing the wine menu the other night, I made a comment about how generally people don't really know shit about wine, yet they sit and stare at the menu hoping that they will -tada!- suddenly understand French or Italian. I elaborated by detailing accounts of the times when I worked at restaurants and people would order one wine and I would give them another. Conveniently, they had no clue. Or, when people would complain about a glass of wine and I would bring them the same glass back and they would sing its praise. Pathetic really. I think she thought I was referring to her and her present practice. No, not at all really. But, I must admit, her looking at the menu so intensely did provoke the conversation.

Misty: Related to the Sally story, plus some of her own personal issues, which she is conveniently blaming on me.

Ken: Please refer to my previous entry about how I thought my roommate was mad at me. Well, all of my guesses were right on. He's no longer mad at me, however, but since this was a recent event, he made my list.

My Cousin Sara: She overheard me saying to one of my friends that I wanted to take diet pills so that I could stay awake at work. She looked at me with disgust, saying, "You are already skinny." Right, right. But, it still takes me an elephant's worth of coffee to stay awake at my job. I'm turning to drugs. Sorry.

My mom: My mom called me the other day and told me that her new hobby was laminating things. Her old hobby, which spanned 6 years, was making jewelry. She got bored with that though. So, she sent me a story she wrote me and it was, of course, laminated. She asked me what I thought about the picture on the other side. I told her that I didn't know there was anything on the other side. I got a message yesterday letting me know that when, in the future, I receive something that is laminated, I must turn it over to see if there's something on the back!

I'm sure I'm leaving out a few people, but this is not set in stone. I keep a running tally. This is the most names I've had in a while though. I imagine this means that I am doing something wrong. I apologize.

When Armageddon comes....

I was talking to D the other day and he informed me that when Armageddon comes, I will be saved.

"Geez, now I feel safe from harm's way. Thanks for the heads up."

The conversation started when I was telling him that Brian's once-nickname, "Chosen," had since evolved to become his official name. Brian and D are both Jewish. I'm Jewish on my mom's side, but have never practiced, which to me means I'm not Jewish. Evidently this isn't the general consensus amongst my Jewish friends. And, it certainly isn't important to D. Although when I tell people I'm Puertorican, D is quick to follow with "Jewish Puertorican." I think it's cute.

D was pleased with Brian's new name and reconfirmed Chosen's status as one of the Chosen.

"Well, yeah, that's kind of what I just said," I told D.

Then D told me that I too was one of the Chosen people and followed with the Armageddon thing.

I've never heard him talk much about his beliefs, but I'm glad he's into them. I mean, I guess. I'm not religious, but I very much respect religion. I just hate people. It is usually a religion's people that turn me off of it. How they represent it, etc...

And all of this is to say, was D for real? About the Armageddon thing? Hmmmm....

I'll take it as a compliment. After all, I guess that someone saying that I'm going to be saved from global ruin is better than someone telling me I look nice tonight, did I do something different with my hair?

My roommate is huffing around the house

...at this very moment.

I think he's mad at me, and I'm pretty sure it's because I left all my recycling by the trashcan for 3 days; because I conveniently ignored a small pile of coffee grains I spilled on the stove, or because I tend to lay on the couch like a jungle sloth after work, have Cesar over for coffee every morning before I go to work, and because I set up shop in the living room, making it more of an office than a TV den.

But, beyond this, I really don't see the need for the attitude problem.

Really. Well... in his defense, I admit that I'm downright useless during the work week. I leave the house for 10-11 hours per day, I come home, and, quite frankly, don't really feel like lugging the recycling down 4 flights of stairs; don't want to break out the paper towels to clean up the grains; don't care to get off the couch in lieu of doing something productive; enjoy having an alternative to my stuck-in-the-potty-training-stage-of-development roommate over for coffee & conversation before work; and would love to use my NYC-licious, $1,125/month room as an office, but it is so damn small that my bed doubles as a floor. Honest. Plus, there are no windows, so I can't breathe. Did I mention that I'm clastrophobic? And, that I have asthma? This is not a good combination, especially when my clastrophobia turns into hyperventilation. My asthma follows in suit, and, well, it's just a downhill, medically-unprescribed game of hell's dominoes from there. In essence, I kind of sort of have to bring my computer and papers and office supplies and phones and purse and slippers into the living room. Every night. Or. I. Will. Die.

So, go to hell, Mr. Poopie Pants.

Oh, on top of this. I don't have a problem with anything he does (except this moping problem, which clearly annoys the living bejeezus out of me). Not because he doesn't do anything annoying, but because we are paying way too much rent to not be "allowed" to do anything that we want. For $1,125/month, I will craft a couch made of Costa Rican espresso if I, for some reason, feel the need...

Um, yeah. A couch of espresso.

Rosen-the-Chosen calls me a bitch (and more!)

The background on this one is short. I asked Brian Rosen-the-Chosen (from here on out, "Chosen") if he was free this weekend and he wrote back that he was, but I must've overlooked it. I asked him again and this is what he said:

Chosen: "Already said I was free this weekend. You deaf or something, bitch?"

[Editor's note: This conversation took place over email, so him asking me if I'm deaf is, like, so irrelevant.]

Since this mode of speech is about par for the course with Chosen, I failed to mention the bitch comment in my next email, but still he bantered. He was very proud of his hardcore persona and wanted to make sure I noticed that he had indeed called me a bitch.

Chosen: "And my availability was clearly stated in my prior e-mail. Right
before I made a Kobe rape joke...again....for the 100th time. Like
shooting fish in a barrel.

"Oh yeah, did I call you a bitch? Sorry! I must have spelled it wrong. Cunt.
Okay, that's better."

I think I must have laughed at this one (and a laugh over email is something like this: hahahahhahahaah. Well, for me, at least). So, Chosen ended the day's emails with the following.

Chosen: "I can't believe I used the C word. tee hee.

Still, I gave him no credit. Mostly because I knew he was trying to employ the whole shock factor theory, and I didn't want to give him that kind of satisfaction. Obviously still bothered by my aloofness about the whole thing, I received one final bitch/cunt reference from him a day later.

Chosen: "Oh...I guess now that you have a blog I should be careful what I say as EVERYTHING ends up on there!!! This quote probably will too. :) Although our bitch/cunt exchange didn't make the page. Sigh."

To this I wrote back: "One bitch/cunt entry coming up!"

And that, my friends, is this...and the end of my series of email-based entries. But, not really. Sadly, email is my life. Sigh...

My friends are funny. Well, that or they don't have lives --> you decide

Background: My friend Dan left his 1980s skateboard at my house. I gave him a warning: "Get it soon or I will kill it." He repeatedly promised (with much passion, mind you) to come get it, yet failed to do so one too many times.

Finally, I gave him an ultimatum (get it, or it dies), followed by a relevant choice: "Death by euthanization or public hanging? You choose." Still, he did not show. So, finally, I gave it to Cesar. Today Cesar sent out this message to our list of friends on email, along with a Craigslist listing for guess what? Dan's skateboard! (Dan's reply and an interested party's reply to follow):
All you skaters,
don't be haters.
hear me now,
take a look and bow.
i only take cash,
you're not being rash.
40 bucks is all,
so come on ya'll.
check out this link,
of a skateboard, wink wink.
its dan, the man's.

Skateboard - $40
Reply to: sale-134520044@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-02-16, 6:34PM EST

Check out the picture.
No, my friends, "Skateboarding is not a crime."
Double D did not salvage this one.
It's $40 bucks.
Act now. This won't last long.








this is in or around manhatton

no -- it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

cesar wrote:

HERE IS THE FIRST REPLY ON THE SKATEBOARD
YOUR TIME IS RUNNING OUT, DAN

___________
From : PoLo Gan
Sent : Friday, February 17, 2006 12:07 AM
To : sale-134520044@craigslist.org
Subject : Skateboard - $40

what are the dimensions?
and what type of wheels are those?
__________
Dan Drew to Cesar:
I love my baby - please don't let somebody adopt it. I promise I can pick it up Saturday - 4:45. I'll be there, in my skateboarding shoes, ready to ride her all the way home.

-Dan "Skateboarding is not a crime" Drew
__________

You see, now Dan is groveling. I tell ya, boys only want what they can't have.
________

Follow-up: Cesar has decided that the guy who replied is too dumb to take the skateboard. After all, he asked about the wheels. Is there not a huge picture of the wheels? There is, my friends. There is.

Update 2/17:
Cesar wrote:

THERE IS A SECOND INTERESTED PARTY FOR THE SKATEBOARD, DAN.
I DON'T KNOW HOW LONG I CAN HOLD THEM OFF!

From : Maxwell S Dubler
Sent : Friday, February 17, 2006 5:06 AM
To : sale-134520044@craigslist.org
Subject : Skateboard - $40

This still around?
Let me know.
Max

Jane Mag got back to me. No celebrating yet.

Jane Magazine got back to me regarding the following pitch. Yayy.

I loved this pitch and was actually surprised when I didn't get a response. Now I have. Justice has been served.

That is soooo only half the battle though. I'll keep y'all updated.
________________

Hi GiGi,

Sorry for the delay in responding to this—I missed this email, for some reason. Anyway, go ahead and send me your article.

Thank you,
Esther--
Esther Haynes
Features Editor
Jane magazine


"GiGi" wrote:

Dear Ms. Haynes,

Hello. I am interested in submitting a first person narrative of cheating to you for possible publication. I got your email address from the MediaBistro "How to Pitch" article.

The story I am interested in submitting is a quarky albeit intelligent account of what goes on in the female cheater's mind during the processes of cheating and seeming reformation. The narrative begins as a condensed history of the character's problem (as detailed by several arguments with herself; the opposition created when her conscience enters her reality) and concludes with her ultimately trying to, once and for all, solve her problem, i.e. "kill the beast":

Me: I've made a decision to break the chain this time around. I don't want to cheat. I want to kill the evil beast that resides within but it seems to be overpowering me.

Me: Oh yeah, blame it on something else. It's not you. It's a fire-breathing dragon.

Me: Brilliant, ain't it?

I would love to submit the above described story for your review. Please let me know if you are interested in having me send it over...
------
As a follow-up, Esther dissed me about 5 minutes after receiving the piece. It's a shame too. It was quite an article...

Dick Cheney Gets Credit for Taking Blame

The media is very impressed that Dick Cheney admitted fault at having shot his hunting partner.

Here is a headline from the New York Post: Silence Broken as Cheney Points Only to Himself

Well, no shit. Who else would he point to? The grass? The open clearing? God's will? His bro's bad karma?

"You must have done some serious damage in your past life, buddy. I'm just the universe's preferred medium for delivering punishment for that which you, quite frankly, reaped upon yourself lives ago. Hey, don't look at me. I'm just the messenger. Don't shoot the messenger. [Self-induced guffaw here when Cheney realizes he just employed a tasteless pun in the face of the recent shooting]." His hands in the air, his face to the floor, the shaking of his head. This all occurs as he does the stance. You know the stance. The guilty one...

In all fairness though, the White House evidently wanted to blame it on Cheney's hunting partner, so the headline isn't completely glorifying Cheney's *magananimous* & *earthshattering* decision to admit fault.

The White House is kind of like this though. One of those bastards trip and, hell, it was the sidewalk's fault. Poor kid in Iraq trips over a grenade and is disintegrated--> "Wrong place, wrong time." Isn't it easier to just say, "Sorry dude," "I'm a damn clutz," or, "We should seriuosly rethink our strategy..."?

Denial Letters from Competing Mags...REVIEWED

Brian Rosen doesn't think we should advertise the fact that we both got dissed by nationally-distributed magazines. I disagree. I think that it instead advertises our confidence.

Like,

"We don't need your stinkin' magazines!"

So, there.

Yeah, that's exactly what it says.

After all, Steven King got denied several times before hitting it big, and we all know what a great writer he is. Wink, wink.

I am just a bad person.

I realized this last night when my friend Aaron and I walked his dog through Central Park. When Aaron's dog, Ruby, poo-pooed on the snowy sidewalk ("Good Job, Ruby. You're a good girl!"), Aaron instinctively pulled out a plastic bag and transformed it into a deli glove with which to pick up the shit.

Meet Ruby.

"Just cover it up with snow and freeze it," I suggested, not able to imagine wanting the warmth of dog crap to be that which keeps me heated on a cold winter night.

"GiGi, what if you stepped in this? You wouldn't be too happy about it, would you?" He said in a manner that really suggested the notion that he was - plainly and simply - a better person than I.

"No, I guess not. But, when I had a dog, she used to go in the decorative grass area right by the sidewalk, not directly on the sidewalk."

"Well, Ruby is completely liberated now."

"Really? You mean, like, she doesn't wear a bra?"

"Exactly. She has really small nipples anyway."

Denial Letters from Competing Mags...

The following are denial letters that Brian Rosen and I received from MAD magazine and CRACKED magazine, respectively. CRACKED dubs itself "MAD's competitor." The number 2 man must make reference to number 1 in order to gain proper recognition. Just like Chicago and Boston compare themselves to New York City, while New York City never thinks twice about its lesser counterparts.

Anyway, these letters are further proof that MAD is still the reigning champ. And that Brian Rosen and I need an in!

Letter 1*


Dear Friend,

Unlike many cold, callous editors, we at MAD believe that anyone takingthe time and trouble to submit material deserves a warm, personal noterather than a cold, indifferent e-mail. So, please consider this to be awarm, personal note rather than the cold, indifferent e-mail it actuallyis!We want you to know that we appreciate your taking the time to think ofus and send your comic brainstorms (yeah, right!) our way. Because ofthe overwhelming number of submissions we receive, we cannot respond toall those who submit material, even geniuses such as yourself.If you've tickled our funny bone and we are interested in having youdevelop what you've sent, you'll hear from us.Thanks for sharing your twisted comedic musings with us.

MAD-ly yours,
The Editors

Letter 2**

Thank you for your recent submission to CRACKED.Unfortunately, after careful review by our print and online editors, we donot think that the piece fits our current needs.Again, we greatly appreciate your interest in CRACKED and wish you the bestof luck.

Sincerely,
The CRACKED Editorial Team

*From MAD to GiGi
**From CRACKED to Brian

Snow Day!

Yayy! I got snowed-in in Chicago and I can't go back to NYC until tomorrow.

With the receptionist as my witness, I spent the day at work Friday willing this upon myself. I knew there was a snowstorm set to hit New York on Saturday, so I thought it would be great if it caused cancellations at the airport. Now I get an extra night with D and a paid day off at work. Life is good sometimes.

On that note, all of my anxiety has passed. Last week was intolerable. I feel like I just emerged from a really bad acid trip (even though I admit, I've never experienced a really bad acid trip). I don't know where my mind went. It's like it left me and in it's place was a sub-par stand-in. A shitty substitute teacher. An unskilled temp worker who can't figure out how to transfer calls (bonus: that's her only responsibility!) Anyway, it's a bit scary to think that that level of paranoia-insecurity-anxiety lives inside me. I hope it stays away for a while. I can't handle going through that again any time soon. Hopefully, this wish will too come to pass with my dedicated two-ish readers as my witnesses.

As for my snowday, I wish I would have found out about it a bit sooner as I would have really enjoyed having a couple more bloody mary's this morning at brunch and enjoying the day fully with D. He makes me rethink my old ways, not that I need any reason to think about things anymore than I already do. Sigh.

In conclusion, snowday=good. That's all

Gizoogle.com is really the name of a new website.

www.gizoogle.com

In the event that you want your site to be understood only by 14-year old, suburban, white kids, go here. Gizoogle.com allows you to "translate" your entire website into Snoop Dog lingo.

It's worth taking a look at, but like any gimmick, it becomes un-funny very quick. And by "very un-funny" I really mean "horribly gauche and not entertaining whatsoever." So, yeah, check it out.

So Very Gullible I Am

To understand the following post, you must know a few key factors:

A) I am gullible as hell

B) Jenny = Morris Ridgefield = this weird guy who has a self-righteous blog where he posts "advice," rants, and random email conversations he has with dumbass girls like me who will fall for it.

C) He must have got my email address from the Black Table masthead or from numberII magazine's contact page.

D) The absolute entire time (until the last couple entries, at least) I thought this was M and his friend messing with me.

Enjoy at my expense. Please. My stupidity amuses even me sometimes:

Jenny Lions <jennyboston@gmail.com > wrote:

Yo bitch,

stay away from my man. He is mine, just because you had sex with him, doesn't mean he is going to leave me. Grow up!

Jenny

GiGi to Jenny

Who are ya?

Jenny to GiGi

Don't take me for a fool bitch! Stay away from my Johnny! You think because your tits are bigger, he will like you more?


GiGi to M

Is this your chick? If so, tell her to leave me alone. Thanks, GiGi


GiGi to Jenny

[Now, thinking this was M and his friend messing around, I wrote back the following to "Jenny"]

Isn't it past your bedtime, M-ski? Stop thinking about me.You too, Burke. You guys need a new hobby.kisses.

Jenny to GiGi

[Going along with it, "Jenny" wrote back]
GiGi,

We are getting all hot and bothered thining about you! Care for a threesome?

GiGi to Jenny

Hmmm... Although having sex with two 35-year olds who are so bored they have to harass me via a fake email address on a Sunday night in lieu of, well, meeting a real girl, sounds enticing - I'm going to instead opt to clean the shelves in my medicine cabinet. You see, they have commenced rusting and I don't do well with rust. In any event, you can surely see my hesitancy at taking you fine lads up on this tempting proposition. But, please, don't feel obligated to cancel your plans on my account. After all, two is better than one - the latter with which I am sure you're very familiar.

M - be a dear and send me my Might mag.

Jenny Lions to GiGi

We even cut out your head and put it on the face of two lesbians...

You should take your PMS medicine more often. Your cabinet wouldn't rust out if you ever opened it. I'm sure with all the other pills you have in there (anti rage, anti constipation, laxatives) you do get confused at times.

haha, I am sure you and "Mr. Wiggles" know all about being alone.

Gigi to Jenny

Are you for real? I'm so happy it's over, lover.

I'm pretty sure I win. A reliance on laxative jokes pretty much confims this.

Morris Ridgefield to me

You've been punked!

Morris
http://askmorris.blogspot.com/ *

GiGi to Morris
[Still convinced it's M and his friend using a fake address, I continue writing...]

Cute blog. Comparing one's self to Maddox is pretty presumptious. Quoting Ashton Kutcher is ludicrous. Good night.

Oh yeah, good work on the alias.

Jenny Lions to GiGi

GiGi

As cute and intelligent as you are, I think you completly missed my point. I punked you. I have no clue who your friends are. Although I would be interested in talking to you more. You sound like a really interesting person.

Morris
http://askmorris.blogspot.com

GiGi to Jenny

Cool. Let's talk over coffee and a crumpet tomorrow (or scone, whatever you prefer, really). 7-ish? I've got a badminton game at 9:30.

Morris Ridgefield to GiGi

I think geographically we have an issue there, and I do have to work....

GiGi to Morris

Yeah, location has always been an issue with us, huh? That and personality defects.

Morris to GiGi

My dearest sweetie,

I would be more then happy to meet you some weekend, but my current parole doesn't allow me to leave Kentucky, so you can come to me, or we can just communicate virtually. What's your IM name? As for personaltiy defects, that really hurts!

GiGi to Morris

Sure, I'll come to Kentucky. I'm going to be in Boston tomorrow through wednesday, and then NYC until Friday. How 'bout Saturday or Sunday. Do they have crumpets in the big house?

Morris to GiGi

I'm under house arrest. I can get anything you want, even including some midol.

GiGi to Morris

You're boring me. Good night.

Morris to GiGi

Yeah I was just thinking the same thing. I'll talk to you tomorrow.

R to GiGi

Ha! Nope, not one of my old psychos. Who else you have sex with lately? Any guys with Boston ties? Burke and I could probably track this broad down if we had enough info. It's a small place. Now that I have her e-mail address, maybe I'll mess with her anyway...

GiGi to R

[Feeling like an imbecile at this point, I write back...]

Nah. No boston ties. Well, except my ex-boyfriend who I haven't seen since the ol' break up.As for sex, i don't kiss & tell, lover. Although I can assure you - I have no interest in any guys right now. I'm pretty focused on moving, so don't you worry your pretty little head off (I know you are). Y'all have fun with this one. I'm over it.good luck on your interview. Keep in touch.

Morris to GiGi

How did your badminton game go? Kick their ass?

GiGi to Morris

Of course. I am the badminton queen. In New Zealand they have a special name for me, but I can't remember what the hell it is.So, are you going to post my conversation with you? Do I get royalties? How does this all work out? I think you should post it, despite the fact that my replies were more skilled than yours. Yu'd have to alter your correspondence a bit to make yourself, well, seem more intelligent than me. I can help you out with this, of course

Morris to GiGi

You completely misunderstand me here. I am just trying to make a new friend! I have no intention of posting our convo. First of all, you are way too intelligent. The average person I look for is someone that would buy an extended warranty, and I know you wouldn't fall for that! People who buy an extended warranty are very gullible. If you would like to end our newly formed friendship I can understand.

GiGi to Morris

You are hilarious. I'm going to the airport. Talk to ya later!

Morris to GiGi

Hi,

Glad you aren't mad at me anymore. Saves me the $35 detective agency fee to find out who you are so I could send you flowers! But I don't need to do that anymore! I would have chose the cheap ones anyways and they usually die after a few days...I hope you have a fun trip!

*As far as I know, Morris never posted our conversation. He did ask me to talk to him on Google Talk, however. I declined. I'm bored, but not that bored.

Pattern Identified

Ha! I kill myself. And if you've read my recent posts, you might actually believe that this is a literal statement. Every month I have a nervous break down at about the same time. And every month it is for the same reason: I'm PMS'n. To a guy, this is no kind of excuse. To us chicks though, it is the difference between night and day - to use a cheap cliche, that is.

The funny thing is, I've been doing this freak out for no reason and then instantaneous revelation ("Oh shit, it was PMS...I should have known") for 13 years now and still the pattern never seems to occur to me until after the fact.

I ask myself why I'm so depressed, why I'm freaking out, why I'm so miserable. And the answer is always the same, yet I never seem to quite get it.

It would be ideal if I could pinpoint it beforehand, so I could hold my tongue the entire week. The following week is obligatory clean up week, wherein I call everyone I freaked out on to apologize. They too should start recognizing the pattern. Then maybe they would start calling me in order to collect their apologies. Or even better yet -- maybe they'll just stop picking up the phone when they see my name every second week of the month.

Whoa...On a much, much lighter note

I was sitting on the subway the other day, biting my nails, and I flicked the saliva-lacquered nail speck I had unhinged from the nail mainland, onto the leg of the lady sitting next to me - she, innocently reading the New York Post or Metro or something else that was free. Purely habitual. I gave myself a second before peaking out of the corner of my eye to see if she noticed. She didn't. However, I saw the girl sitting across from me chuckling because she had witnessed this little act. I discredited her opinion though. She was wearing flip-flops in February in New York.*



*Later that night, I was walking to the Rainbow Room in my new, stylish and oh so non-sensible, pointy shoes. As I felt the right one boaring a hole into my big toe, I wished I was wearing the flip flops. Cold feet are better than bloody ones. A little flap of raw toe skin haunted me for 2 days thereafter. Moral of this story? I'm pretty sure there isn't one, but there really should be.

The new site...

My old partner from the mag just moved out to NYC from San Diego a few nights ago. Yeehaw! His soul has been saved from the perfect weather and gorgeous scenery characteristic of California. Get out while you can, I warn thee my former San Diego brethren! San Diego is so beautiful and so perfect and so slow that it is so easy for one to do nothing and to really, really like it. After the mag ended, I realized that I was doing nothing and not really liking it at all. . That's why I had to come to New York. If you are in San Diego, doing nothing and liking it, there really is no chance for you. You are a victim of the system.

And on that note, I would like to introduce myself as a recently joined victim of a completely different system (That sounded weird -- as if I were insinuating that victims, like members of a club, are volunteers. Well, that, in fact, is not at all what I meant... So, there). Here is my latest update and the thinking that has led to my very voluntary victimization...

Cesar, the old mag partner who just moved here, is now looking for a job. As soon as that happens, it will be time to launch the new site, which I'm pretty sure I've never before mentioned, so my referring to it now - like it is some oft-discussed mutual friend - is very innappropriate. Oh well. So, we've been planning to launch the site for months, but, with my move, Cesar's move and the corresponding job searches, there wasn't a shot in hell of getting it up earlier (Insert dirty joke here about an old man's weener). The four of us who will be actively involved in the pending site are old numberII magazine veterans: Brian Rosen, Steve Lemig, Cesar Cruz, and yours truly, GiGi. I love being the only girl involved in boy projects. I am like the Gwen Stefani of the independent publication movement. Duh.

At first, we were going to veer toward creativity and underground-ness, but who exactly are we trying to kid? Only ourselves, my friends. Only ourselves. We already did that and fell on our once-beautiful, now-scraped faces. In response to that fatal plunge, I suggested we instead try to make some money this time around. I mean, after all, why is it so bad to have money as a primary motivator? I've spouted the evils of working for money for so long, and now I step back and slap myself on the wrist. Why is it so bad to work for money? Who the fuck am I trying to impress by working for free? If everyone else is jumping off of a bridge, do I? Hmmm? Never before, but now, yes, yes, yes! Mama needs a new damn pair of shoes and she'll be damned if her poor artistic cronies are going to buy them for her.

Basically, I've never embarked upon a creative venture with money in mind, and, in related news: I'm broke. My thinking is that if we produce a somewhat mainstream site with an underground "feel," we will attract visitors who will eventually follow us to the more literary, creative sites we plan to produce as offshoots.

That having been said, the site will essentially be a regularly updated news blog with a dash of crass humor and a touch off-the-wall intelligence. If it sounds like it has been done before, well then, that's because it has! While our template might not be 100% original, our design and content will be. We will call upon our inner trivia wells to make deep-seated connections between a series of entities that have no business whatsoever sharing a deap-seated connection. For instance, Brian wrote the following as a sample the other day. He really had no reason to connect Wilson Pickett and Ashlee Simpson, but, somehow it all worked out:

Singer Wilson Pickett Dead at 64; Ashlee Simpson Still Alive.

Beloved soul singer Wilson Pickett died on Thursday at the age of64. After waiting and waiting and waiting for the midnight hour, itfinally arrived. "Wicked" Wilson, as he was known both to fans and agirlfriend whom he assaulted in 1992, was a soul pioneer. Sweet ironythat a soul is all he has left. He is survived by all the remainingpeople alive on Planet Earth, including Ashlee Simpson. This is yetanother example of The Lord working in mysterious ways, as the greatWilson Pickett was selected for expiration while Ashlee Simpson keepschugging along. Ashlee, the sister of Juggy Simpson and daughter ofPervert Simpson, is beloved by tone deaf fans across the globe. Hersongs have inspired hundreds of record sales, and hundreds moresuicides. The Pickett family declined to comment on the tragicsurvival of Ashlee Simpson at the expense of their sometimes drunkdriving and pedestrian hitting, but always raspy-voiced, "Wicked"Wison. A viewing will take place in Virginia next week. No word yeton whether Simpson songs will be played.

All of this is to say, I'm entertaining delusions of working in my pajamas (just like the good ol' days), not showering for weeks on end, and advertisers contacting me, yes me, to give me money. Why would they give me money? Not a bad question and at this point I have a decent answer, but not one which I am sure I can support creatively. My creativity has been drained. For the life of me, I can not beckon my sanctum of offensive humor and tasteless wit. At once it lied at the tip of my fingers, now it is but a mere memory. Creativity and I are sullen lovers, looking for something to spice us up our sex life.

But seriously, something about the whole 9-5 routine is severely hindering me. That and the new long distance boyfriend who consumes the majority of my thoughts (isn't that gross?). I'll be back to report on those topics soon. For now, I just wanted to blab about the new site. My new baby. My new lover. My new obsession. Yayy.

I'm not writing a lot because...

I got a job. I will update with details soon. Remind me to start another company soon. Maybe -- just for fun -- I'll start one that actually generates revenue. Working for other people is for the birds. Pays the bills though, so ... chirp.

More M problems

D wasn't very happy about me having M in for the weekend, so I told him I would ask M to find another place to stay. After all, he has plenty of friends in the city and plenty of money to pay for a hotel should he not have access to friends (which he does because he is coming in to visit about 5 of them!)

Here's how it played out. The following is pretty much a summary of how our entire "relationship" played out. Me being nice. Him being rude.

From: GiGi
Sent: Monday, January 23, 2006 3:47 PM
To: M
Subject:

Hey M,

So it seems that D is, understandably, a bit uncomfortable with me having you come stay this weekend. You know how I am: I don't really take these things into consideration when making plans. Anyway, I wanted to see if you could possibly stay with another friend this weekend or if you want me to make alternative plans for you? I still want to see you (and I will at the BT party), but I'm not in the business of pissing off the lovers. Well, you might beg to differ on that front. Ha ha.

Let me know your situation and let me know if you want me to help. I have plenty of people you could stay with. Sorry to be so last minute on this one. I didn't realize how this was going to affect him...

gigi

On 1/24/06, R wrote:

This email was in my SPAM folder.

Do not make alternative arrangements for me.
Do not attend the Black Table party.
And you never mentioned you were sleeping with your roommate. I would not have asked to stay with you under those circumstances. I would -- however -- have made arrangements to stay with others. It is now too late for me to do that, which means, once again, your inability to be forthright is costing me money.
Do not come near me this weekend, and I strongly advise you do not use me as a reference for creative or professional endeavors in the future.

On 1/24/06, Gigi wrote:

I'm a bit confused right now. I didn't do anything intentionally vindictive or malicious, nor did I intend to hurt you. I'm not sleeping with my roommate. I'm sleeping with my boyfriend. I thought I mentioned that he would be in town. I didn't fail to be forthright, I just didn't know that D would feel so strongly about the situation. I would have liked to see you and have you over here. Sorry for offering to make alternative arrangements for you. I can see how that would be offensive? Sure, I'll skip the Black Table party too. I'm not that worried about it.

I'm curious as to when I was not "forthright" in the past. If you want to talk to me about something, you should. We've always had a problem with the whole communication thing.

GiGi

[I never received a response from M after this, so I wrote the following back]

On 1/25/06, Gigi wrote:

So, I think you are being a bit harsh about this, yet I'm still bummed. If you would step out of the situation, you would realize that no personal attacks toward you have been made.

At least write back and tell me what's up.

____

Needless to say, I haven't heard from him. He's such a pissy little boy.

Another Day, Another Interview.

At the Jewish New Year's Eve party I went to, some guy asked me what I do (Surprise, surprise -- imagine someone asking that at an NYC party) . I told the guy the truth:

"Nothing."

He laughed. "Ha. Me neither," and we toasted.

Of course, I imagine that he, unlike me, has a hefty trust fund that allows him to "do nothing" quite comfortably. That, or he already retired at age 29 from some cush job left to him by his father. In other words, to him this status report was a declaration of purpose; a compliment to self. To me it was but a disguised admittance of failure.

Fast forward to now. I have received a promotion. My status has changed. While I am still most certainly unemployed, I am no longer doing nothing. Now I am a professional interviewer. I try to fit in 2 or 3 a week - even got a job offer, which I kindly declined (well, after working there for one day). I started my NYC adventure as an amateur interviewing candidate -- displaying all of the tell-tale signs of such: desperation, anxiety and shyness. Following the aforementioned promotion, I have gained the confidence necessary to walk into a corporate office, snub the interviewer and pretend like I could care less whether I get the job. Sure, this is all an act, but it seems to be working well.

For instance, today I had an interview with a magazine in Brooklyn. Quite the hike, by the way. The position I interviewed for was Editor-in-Chief, but the publication isn't one that I would otherwise read and the pay package isn't very impressive. I'd rather take the job I interviewed for on Monday. The publisher asked me when I could start. I told him I was waiting to hear back from another place so I could weigh the options (them: yes, you: no), but Monday would be fine if I do, in fact, accept the job.

"But you will have a lot more fun here. I interviewed Bill Clinton, Ariel Sharon, Mayor Giuliani, [etc...] We go to parties. Look at these invitations. Next week you can go too..." His plea continued like so.

"Can I bring my boyfriend?" I inquired because a) I don't give a fuck; and b) D will be in town.

"Well, I will be your boyfriend that night."

"Oh, that's okay. I don't mind having two boyfriends."

"Perfect."

As he walked me out, he pointed out the pictures of him and a plethora of celebrity/politico figureheads in a "this could be you" fashion. I assured him that I'd be in touch.

I think that interviewing works the same way as snagging a boyfriend: Act as though you're not interested and they are so putty in your hands.

Style and Sensibility

I had a great interview yesterday. The position is doing PR for a publishing group. Perfect.

I've been applying for editiorial and PR positions, although editorial is my preference. However, it seems almost impossible to get the kind of editorial position I want - that being something similar to the position I described a few posts ago. I have many theories as to why I'm not being considered for these positions. They all culminate into the following conclusion: Maybe I just suck. But, I'm way too egocentric to accept this, so I flip it and assume that I'm just too overqualified. Yeah. That must be it.

I have a standing offer for a PR job, but it would be working on a project basis, which means I'd have to bartend or wait tables in between projects. This is something I am deftly trying to avoid. I've already paid my dues damnit. I've worked in the service industry for 10 years while trying to support myself through college and the starting a magazine. Haven't I earned some sort of universal credit? My former partner at the magazine would answer this query with an affirmative, "No. The world owes you nothing." He always kind of depressed me with that attitude problem of his. The depressed artist schtick. The "Woe is me, the world conspires against my happiness" mumbo jumbo. Don't get me wrong, I'm pretty sure the world is definitely conspiring against me at this time, but nevertheless, I'll stick to believing that, regardless, it owes me a cookie for my sacrifice. Chocolate chip, preferably. Then again, maybe I'm like Jesus and my sacrifice is to benefit others, not me. I just get killed in the end. Complete disrespect.

It's a possibility, right?

Anyhow, this job. After my interview, I sent the hiring lady my references and sample press releases -- one of which I borrowed from M since mine are all spin publicity and this is a pretty conservative position. (My dependence upon M further interferes with my ability to tell him that he can't stay with me. It's a big mess.) Anyway, the hiring lady wrote back immediately and said:

"Great and thanks. I like your style and sensibility. I'll be in touch."

I'm pretty sure that's a good thing. As a chick, I could analyze the sentence for hours.

-Maybe she's trying to let me down easy by giving me a compliment first.
-By "style" does she mean that I'm too "hip" for the position?
-"Sensibility." Hmmm. Maybe she wants somebody more irrational than me.
-"I'll be in touch." Sounds like a guy in a club who isn't really going to call. "I'll call you sometime." Sure you will, asshole.

Then again, it could simply mean that she likes my style and sensibility. It's a toss up for sure.

Black Table Update, Part 2

So, I gather that the Black Table will stop publishing because of the reasons given below. I was hoping there was some juicy insider reason that the underground lit site was discontinuing its reign, but I guess it's just as simple as the founding editors having been successful securing gainful jobs, being low on free time, etc...

Anyhow, they are having a farewell party Friday, January 27th here in NYC. I'll be there. Evidently, so will M.

M is supposed to stay with me. D isn't having it. I understand where he's coming from, so I will have to let M know. M will be at the Black Table party regardless. So will D and I.

I like where M and I are at this point. We have a lot of similar interests, but certainly have no business dating. We've come to terms with that (I imagine he before me). I would love to remain in contact with him. He's incredibly intelligent and has admirable insight. Plus, he tends to like my writing. I can't hate someone with such refined taste.

I just have to convince D that I am not at all interested in M. I'm really not.

Things I lost last night at Aer.

1 black glove.
1 earring.
1 black jacket.
$23


Not too bad, considering.

Poetry Hour a la GiGi

I wrote this rhyming poem a while ago and I find it hysterical, so I thought I'd post it. I think I submitted it to a couple of more "abstract" publications and they didn't get back to me. I then put it in my own magazine, but it was illegible; placed atop dark red and pink hearts, which I, for some reason, approved (displayed poorly below).



(We had to create a reason as to why we were publishing it, so we made it part of our "Valentine's Day Holiday Guide." Duh)

Oh yeah, after I initially wrote this, I gave a copy of it to my mom to read. She brought the copy with her to the sulphur baths at Glen Ivy Hotsprings. She read it to some lady who was soaking up the smell with her. Evidently the lady started crying. She thought I had written it for my mom. I find that humorous. It would be very sick if I wrote this for my mom. So, with that said, and without further ado, here is my lovely rhyming poem:

You’ve probably just arrived at the time you’re reading this.
(It’s only 7 hours later)
And at the time I am writing this,
I’m experiencing my first panic attack

Cause it’ll be ten days til you get back…

And I miss you like an injured runner misses the track...
Like a muted duck misses its quack...
Like a woman with breast cancer misses her rack...
(Or like a man with testicular cancer misses his sack)

You’re missed like the stares aged beauty used to attract...
Like the flowers that from her, men seem to retract...

I miss you like a recovering addict misses the smack...
Like a dieting fat chick misses her midnight snack...
Like a geek with no computer misses the hack...
Like the knick, the paddy & the whack miss the knack...

Cause you are the tic & I’m obviously the tac...
If you are the fiction, I’m definitely the fact...
You are the friction on my fast-paced track...

If you’re ‘lone in the cold, I’m the warm wooden shack...
If you are the player, I’m no doubt the mac...
If you are the coke, then I’m certainly the crack...
If you are the box, then please call me Jack...
Cause I’m an unstable Domino & you’re the falling stack...

Exactly, cause we’re all that goes hand in hand like:
The Ric and the Rac...
The fric and the frac...
The boom and the clack...
The hay and the stack...
2003 and the war with Iraq...

The prey, the hunter and the ravenous attack...
The clothes, the luggage and the annoying pack...
A corkboard, a post-it and a plastic tack...
A sugar-coated gummy and a mouth full of plaque...

Not to mention, the actor and the act...
The bloody, pointy fangs of a satisfied Drac…
On the Road and Jack Kerouac

A scraped floor’s affinity to a glossy schellack…
The robber in his outfit of plain ol’ black…
Or the Saved by the Bell characters, Kelly & Zack.

We’re symbiosis on a whole ‘nother level in fact…
Similar to moss growing from a dirted, cement crack…
Or a fat person eating a whopper—No, a big mac…
A mountain dwellin’ Tibetan & his milk producin’ yak…
A marine living from the resources in his bar-rack…
& If you’re feeling lazy, I’m here to pick up the slack

We’re photosynthesis too, if you look at it like that…
Consuming nutrients from one another, but quick to give ‘em back…
Oxidizing each other’s lives as if by fateful fact…
That our meeting was an effect of the stars, the moon
and the sun having aligned orbits in perfected tact…
That they were moving through the galaxy on a predestined track…
Oh, I’m stuck in your maze & there’s no turning back…
The space, the place & the time: Inexact.

And perhaps to you I seem an insane and estranged quack…
And maybe there is one card missing from my once full stack
But it seems to me that while you’re gone, it’s more like half the world that I lack.

(It’s been 7 hours since you left. There’ll be 233 more ‘til you get back)

Awww. Now, ain't that the sweetest thing you ever did read?

Happy Birthday D!

It's D's birthday. My fave day of the year.

Happy Birthday my sweet D!

Long distance absolutely sucks.

The Job Situation

I found a job listing for what would be my absolute dream job: an editor position at a women's publication where I would be responsible for feature articles, celebrity interviews, so on and so forth. I sent my resume and writing clips in and the recruiter responsible for hiring got back to me immediately. We spoke for 40 minutes. She loved my writing clips, although she did mention that the booger metaphors in the Matthew Lesko interview kinda grossed her out. She described every aspect of the job to me, asked me if I could make it to Chicago (yep, Chicago) for an interview and if I was willing to relocate. Yes and yes. D is in Chicago, so that's an added bonus, but he's willing to move to NYC if I ever land a job out here, so it's not, by any means, a driving force.

We ended the conversation with my promise to send her references (which I did in about .5 secs) and her getting back to me with word from the company. I didn't hear back from her the next day so I emailed her today and asked what was going on. You know, I wanted to know so I could make travel arrangements and all that...

She wrote back and said that they thought I was a little bit too "alternative" for them. That maybe I would be more comfortable at a "downtown" publication.

Huh?

I love corporate America! I especially love HR fuck-ups (read: family studies major flunkies) who play God with my life. Can't you point your cursatory finger at someone else? I've worked entirely way too hard for such blind judgment by similarly-sighted fools. And, on top of all that, I hate you. Every single one of you.

I wrote back and sent a very sterile writing clip I had from Chicago magazine. Maybe that will be dry enough. I hope so. I really want the job. Sob.

Black Table Update, Part 1

M is in touch with the people who run Black Table and even further, he is the one who introduced me to the site. Appropriately, I wrote him this morning to find out more. More or less in effort to keep my promise of getting the scoop on this sad, sad occasion. This is all I know right now:

Me to M:

So, any word on why the Black Table is closing up shop?

M to me:

I've been meaning to shoot a quick e-mail to Will, but I've been busy. I think they're all just busy with other stuff now that he's doing deadspin and Gillin went to Maxim.

Me to M:

Okay, thanks. Just let me know if you find anything out.


I'll keep the updates coming, given there are any updates to keep coming.

The Black Table is Coming to an End. Tears.

Ain't that some shit? I love the Black Table. After all, they were foolhardy enough to publish my work. So, for them I cry. But even more, for me I cry. I've lost one of my go-to sites. Pooh.

The end of a publication. Aaaghh. Brings back fond memories of torture (and I'll be damned if we don't all grieve for torture lost) -- although, I highly doubt this ending has anything to do with failure. No, no, no. What most likely happened is that those Black Table-ites probably experienced success. Way too much success; got jobs that paid them real life money and such. This in opposition to what I get paid. Nothing.

Well, gee golly. I'll do some research and get back to my non-existent reading audience. And by "research," I mean that I'll glance at their website with some frequency and see if they mention why they are folding.

Talking to myself has never been so much damn fun.

I've been busy...

...dating my ex-boyfriend's friend. I'll update and get up to date shortly. I'm busy having way too much sex right now.

M-Update

So now that I'm completely over M, I get a text message from him that says this:

"I need a place to crash when I'm in NYC on January 28th. One of my writers is putting on a one-act play."

[I live in NYC now, I just haven't updated in way too long. I will though, oh yes!]

My thoughts were thus:

1) Say please, please.
2) You make money. Get a hotel.
3) Stay with your friend.
4) I'm dating someone (refer to above entry) and I'm so not willing to fuck it up for you.

So, naturally, I told him it would be no problem. It will be a problem though. As it turns out, he who I am dating will be in town that weekend. Yes, it will most definitely be a problem.

On dropping my phone in the toilet.

I mentioned earlier that I dropped my phone in the toilet.
Here's a letter I got from a friend after doing so. I've always loved this letter:


You dropped your phone in the toilet. :) I swear you
are absolutely the loveliest person I know.

I think I'll have a place to stay, (my friends booked
a hotel room downtown...) but if I don't I'll need
your help. Of course, I don't want to be an
inconvenience, so let me know again if it's cool.

In other news:

I got into a fight with my parents (more specifically
my father) and am currently homeless.
My friend Jay has been kind enough to let me stay at
his apartment for the time being while I try to get
back on my feet.

Put simply and with as little drama as possible, my
father lost his temper for no rational reason and
caught me at a moment when I didn't want to placate
him. He was unequivocally wrong, knows it, and is too
proud to apologize.

My parents have always fallen back on the idea that
their higher status as parents in the traditional
Chinese filial piety hierarchy allows them to be free
of responsibility for what they do (i.e. They've got
an endless quantity of diplomatic immunity passports).
Ironically, their abuse of the relationship has
reversed what I perceive to be the natural order of
things, by requiring a standard of maturity and
rationality out of me that they don't require of
themselves.

I'll admit to losing my temper as well, but only after
the fact and in response to his tantrum. Its really
stupid, but I really had no choice but to move out of
the house.

Not that I wasn't planning to. I suppose this just
expedites things a bit. Nonetheless, I've been
uprooted. All of this is to say that I'm homeless,
jobless and broke. I'm debating whether or not to join
the military... HA HA HA

I'd love to write for the magazine. My only excuse
(and it's a pretty good one) is that my current
circumstances have made it pretty difficult for me to
write. I need to find a job right now....

Chris Tsai

New Years Eve, 2005

Last night, Shauna, my roommate, Ken, and I went to an "Eyes Wide Shut"-themed NYE party at some penthouse overlooking Jersey. Shauna had met the host a few months prior and he invited us out. This was perfect as I was looking to spend as little money as possible while getting as drunk as possible. I don't like spending a lot of money on New Year's Eve (nor ever, really). It's usually dissappointing at best. Amateur night. Those of us who have been partying since we've been walking & who have worked in the industry for way too long - we like to hang low when it comes to paying $300 to clubs we would otherwise get into for free.



(Thomas - the party host, Shauna, some hot guy, and me)

So, the party... There was a dj, a full bar, and table full of sushi and finger foods. It was great. The only thing missing was D - the guy I'm dating. He lives in Chicago, but flew out to Arizona for the big football game Tuesday (whatever that s). We text messaged all night, giving each other the obligatory Happy New Year's shout-outs, west and east coast times.

Some long-haired Jewish guy followed me around the whole night trying to kiss me. I told him I had a boyfriend, but he insisted I wouldn't kiss him because he had bad breath. Sure, whatever works for your ego. Personally, I would just believe the boyfriend line. I would think that realizing you have halitosis would just add to the pain of rejection.

After successfully ditching the Jew, I passed out in some random bedroom in the apartment. I was way too drunk. I've pretty small, so it doesn't take me much. I woke up and two people were having sex on my feet. No big deal. I non-chalantly greeted them (they weren't too formal as you might imagine), and walked out of the room. The makle hosts had, by then, transformed into character, wearing G-Strings and hiking boots. Ever the polite host, one of the G-String mavens asked if I was okay and if I needed anything.

"Just my coat."

We left. I went home and Shauna and Ken went to a bar where they commenced hooking up. They ended up here, but didn't get very far. Shauna and I had spent the first half of the night talking about our sexual adventures in front of Ken. Evidently she felt like a whore in his bed after having divulged some pretty risque and very recent acts. I'm sure Ken would have overlooked the details.

I lugged my camera around all night hoping to get some shots but all I got were three. And of those three, two are exactly the same. I'm pretty pissed that I didn't get a picture of the G-String Crew. Out of all the pictures I could have taken, that would have been the most representative. That, or a picture of the people fucking on my feet.



(Ken and I. Ken is obviously quite sober.)