shoulda copyrighted that shit!

haven't i always said it's my philosophy to have four crushes at all time? ALL TIMES! well, i have, see, and i try, oh how i try, to live up to that. makes life much more interesting.

then, sheer moments ago, perusing a book catalog i see some cindy-come-lately has a book coming out called: the four man plan. crap-ass ad copy reads, 'a hilarious, high-concept dating manual that boils romantic success down to a simply formula: always date four men at any given time.'

soooo much is wrong!!! first, i rilly doubt this book is hilarious. or, it's hilarious the way andy capp is. hilarious.

two, high-concept?!! me is without speech.

but only temporarily, cause—

three, bitch upped and took my idea. it never even occurred to me that my personal mantra could be a book idea.

is everything a book idea now? can i get a book deal out of the fact that i don't like it when people clip their fingernails on the subway? what about that it irks me that my landlord will not put covers on the outdoor trashcans and that mess attracts flies? here's one: i like to use the illiptical (or is it elliptical) machine when i go to the gym but when i run, i much prefer to be outdoors. that's got bestseller written all over it.

hot damn.

papa! don't breach!

well, my date last night was very fine. it was sorta romantic, very fun, swapping kisses on the cheek (is that spelled right, it looks so weird). other things ensued. i don't get how a waiter comes to own a couple of motorcycles and a mercedes. for now i don't really care. cause i got driven home in a benz and that's better than the damn q train.

papa can you hear me

was talking to a pal about yentl, yo.

weird days these. the waiter from the restaurant called and we are going out for a drink. to-nite! i mean, if he calls again to tell me he's arrived in my 'hood.

and then i also wrote an email of some import but to tell youse about it would be to diminish it.

and then i was talking to a pal and looking at 'missed connections' on cl and found this most outstanding haiku which i must reprint:

Driving in my car
I see a splendid booty.
It makes my pants tight.

unholy pretense

my friend c says i have a thing about ethan hawke, that i protest too much in my dislike, that in fact i am obsessed. he might be on to something that even i cannot admit.

at the gym i watched the interview with monseiur hawke on some early morning bullshit. i couldn't hear the interview. i could only read the closed caption. thus i learned hawke's fav band is wilko, headed by geoff tweety.

but he looks now like that lead guy in the crap band sugar ray. which makes a lot of sense. they both seem to think they're really edgy interesting creative types. and to me they seem like dave matthews, echt mainstream but in plaid so the casual viewer might think they're indie. except the plaid=indie; whisker scruff=innovative equation is ten-years old at least. which is even after i met mister hawke at a party, right after reality bites. and i said to him cause i was young and snide and bitchy and i am no longer quite any of those, 'hey, reality bites is a really good movie,' and he grabbed me by the bicep in a gesture of urgency and import and said, 'thank you, thank you so much.'

anyway, then i was cruising around on the internet and happened upon an interview kurt anderson did with him on his show studio 360, a show that is sometimes great and sometimes majorly blah, and i had to listen. twas pegged to the movie version of herr hawke's novel which i read in a very comfy chair one afternoon in a bookstore (cause i ain't gonna pay for that!) and the interview was irksome like some gal's long hair grazing your naked arm on a hot, sweaty day in the subway. someone needs to tell him he's not the greatest writer of his generation; nor the greatest filmmaker. and if it's gots to be me, it's gots to be me!

on another note: i was in a restaurant the other night and the waiter was a major qt and he had a dimple and he comped some drinks of ours and he was either a kosovar from albania or an albanian from kosovo. and so, or regardless, actually, i flirted and then asked if he wanted my number and he said yes and i gave it to him but he hasn't called and i don't 'spect him to and that's fine. it was the exchange which was pleasing meantime to me and to my old friend, k, from spain, who was in town for the weekend and helped facilitate the smoove move. thanks doll.

quel bizarre!

quand j'ecris maintenant dans ce programme, les mots sont en francais!

suddenly blogger's in french today—all the directions and buttons talk to me in french. it's warped. which goes along with something that happened on the wkend. i went to buy a spatula on account i ruined all my non-stick pans with metal utensils and my brother told me metal utensils are bad for non-stick and now i'm eating all sorts of toxic crap. which is not much different, likely, than what i breath, but anyhoo, so i went to buy NEW! BETTER! pans and a spatula made of wood or maybe plastic for longevity's sake. and i come to find spatulas no longer exist.

HOLD ON A GOSH-DARN MINUTE!!

what i mean is, they exist but they are now called: 'folder' or 'food folder' on the packaging of more than one manufacturer. and is this because 'spatula' sounds like dracula and maybe folks gets scared by the very allusion? or is it because spatula sounds eye-talian and we don't need no stinkin' tony sopranos to tell us how to flip a frickin' omelette!!! or it is because packagers and kitchen utensil makers have decided 'spatula' is far too complicated and big a word—after all, it's got 3 syllables. and, like, 'folder' only has two!

when i worked in public radio a very long time ago my boss, who now works in p.r., told me to never ever use multi-syllable words if there are words with fewer than multi that mean the same thing. he told me to write at a fourth-grade level. now, listen here: my 8-year-old niece, in advance of her 8th birthday, advised me that should i choose to buy her a book as a gift to keep in mind she reads up to and not really yet beyond a 5th grade level. and, as far as i know, she's not a particular fan of public radio, which leaves me very confused and in a kind of warp of my own, which is an anagram for wrap; which is now often defined as a sandwich.

the oddest

had a whole dream last night about the word 'ticonderoga.' morgan freeman made an appearance in it.

it's gettin' hot in haar

so take off all yer clothes. big ups to my man, chingaaayyyy!

saturday night i was reminded that if you wear fewer clothes and go out to da clubs, men come up to you to 'dance' but that really means you end up kissing.

yes, well, some italian friends were in town (the scoundrels!) and a bunch of us went out to dinner but didn't actually eat dinner until around 11:30 and then we went to a little dance place, quite fun, in the east village and it was there that a brazilian guy named murad and i got a wee busy. and he wanted my number but that's not how i roll, yo.

then one of our party knew the owner at some other place, seemed almost like a bona fide disco and may have been where that club the world once was, though i was at the world only once, i think, and it was in 1987, so can't remember anymore. and in this joint with the thumping techno (the first place had much better music, latin, salsa) a guy came up, asked me to dance. and we kissed but i wasn't into it owing to some very probing hands attached to his arms, so said, 'i'm actually here with somebody' (which was technically true, but not romantically so) and he backed off stat.

and in other news my, 'contact and phenomenon are my fav flicks' friend and i chatted this weekend. he told me, for the third time now that he's a do-er, not a reader. which reminds me that i'm a lover, not a fighter. i simply couldn't love another (hat tip to the prince of pop as the kids say and the kid's alright!) but repeating the 'me do, you read' blather gets stale like the bread i once ate at a popular nyc restaurant. he didn't go to college, which is fine, i don't care, but he mentions it a lot which makes me think he's pretty self conscious about it. and he's earnest. but not like hemingway. cause he was a reader. and a doer. and a fisherman too, right? i think he was very fond of marlin.

i'm fine with being earnest but the unhalting, recurring splaining of one's own personal philosophy gets under my skin like a rash.

rock steady

at last night's hold steady show it occured to me that one day all the tattooed-hipsters are going to be clamoring for beds in the same nursing homes and some young nurses aides are going to have to bathe their backsides and help them wipe and all the tattoes of mother and anarchy now and rufus for-eva! will sway and shake on their bye-kid muscles as they slowly raise their hands so the attendants can wash in their armpits.

oh! the humanity!

the hold steady were good, though i was surprised how much they sound like, basically, a cross between the boss and van morrison with just a touch of skynard. they are classic rock guys and mostly it's unironic. which is refreshing, after a fashion. (i could have done without the keyboardist's porkpie. that and the resurgence of skateboards everywhere is a little overwrought).

my date tonight cancelled. which is okay 'cept i'm all gussied up and in a mood for love. so i might go see fallen angel. who wants to come?

i takes it medium rare

d'ja hear the one about how girls on the make now eat steak on dates to show that they can eat steak on dates and aren't so dainty that all they want is frisee, hold the frizzy. supposed to make you seem casual and not so body-fat-mass-orientated, see. was in today's paper.

what does this mean for the likes of me, who actually loves steak (that juicy, succulent, chewy goodness!) and orders it, and burgers and lambchops and even, occasionally, ribs and other manner of meat on dates, with friends, alone. now someone might think i order a steak cause i want to catch a man!

when a and p got married (you were there jc, remember?) oh, what a meat fest! and she had already closed the deal!

but what this article misses—and i even had a long discussion about it with a fella i used to fellate (move over chas simic!)—is that there are stereotypes about women who eat meat that challenge the miss porter-inspired steakophilia now in vogue: that is, female steak-eaters are sexually unabashed. i think that's what it was. please, all, correct me if i'm wrong.

crrraccckkk!

thwack. and a rainstorm paralyzes a city.

on to what really matters: the song i have had stuck in my head for near up to 24 hours is 'hey joe' by sparklehorse...oh, what a terrific song. it rivals jimi hendrix 'hey joe' and is totally different. it's not a cover. you should listen to it. download it or whatever.

in other irrelevant news, got a date on friday night coming up with my friend who likes bad movies, except he thinks they're good movies. i look forward to it. i had a coworker who often dropped the 'r' in the word forward...and so it sounded like...fowad...which is exactly the name of a store on the upper west side which i never went into but which is imprinted in my brain nevertheless.

ciao for now.

free at last!

guess what i just did? i utterly deleted my profile on nerve. that's right. i'm not saying i'm not dating. but i think it's time for a new chapter, without that site. yahoozee!