Tarhearted.

RAPUNZEL IS A HORROR STORY.

I have a genuine and well documented fear of or repulsion of super long hair. Ladies, don't get all upset or insecure. I mean really, really long hair. Past your butt long. Renaissance festival, Crystal Gale long.

I don't know why, but I feel really nervous when i see those flyaway hairs. It just looks unhealthy and weird and unclean to me. Do see them combing it is obscene and if I'm ever so unlucky that it touches me, I shudder. I have no idea where this comes from, but it's genuine and deeply embedded. (I also hate horse's tails, which seem similar, and touching any untreated wood. I never said I was rational or normal!)

That said, people will occasionally leave pictures like this on my Facebook or in my inbox:

And I think, "My friends are jerks!" and I laugh it off.

Then, today, The Boyfriend emails me a picture from his phone, subject, "Neigh!" I open it up and get this:

I'm glad it's braided and thus put away, sort of, but hurt that The Boyfriend hates me and is clearly not involved in this relationship.

PITY PARTY.

I got older today.

I'm 29.

It's depressing.

I can't shake the feeling that I'm behind everybody else my age and that I should be more settled and secure. Is that normal? I would like to be the kind of person with a family and a 401k. Instead, I'm the kind of person who accidentally overdrafts their checking account buying jeans. I have a really terrible day job that pays me no money and my apartment looks like a set from a John Waters movie. (I have the only New York apartment that actually feels like a mobile home inside.) In short, my life is a big mess.

29 is also too old to be a wunderkind playwright. Not that those exist, really. It's still on the young side, though, right? I'm trying to tell myself that. The one bright spot is that I'm still on the young end for my art, though that's because the industry is warped and totally messed up. (Only one more season of Youngblood though.) And, anyway, I can't actually make a living at playwriting. It's kind of a fake career. People with MFAs can kind of do it, but usually only by teaching or writing for television. (I could never teach because I'd be terrible at it but, god, I'd love to write for television. Call me, Gossip Girl!)

Thank the gods for They Boyfriend. If it weren't for him I'd probably stick my head in an oven. Speaking of The Boyfriend, he got me a massage and a pedicure at Nickel, so at least for two hours today I'll get to feel like somebody fancy. It's these little things that I'll remain grateful for.

I'm just listing the things I'm grateful for: The Boyfriend, my friends and family, my cat Augustus (Gus), The Management, my beloved theater bloggers, The Whitney, skinny jeans, soap operas, old pop songs about teenagers dying in car accidents, punk, teh gays, Paris, bad movies, Williamsburg and really just Brooklyn in general, my record collection, the hipster grifter, Youngblood, burritos, blow jobs, New Wave, French things, AA, the color purple (the actual color, not the book), F. Scott Fitzgerald, poorly conceived musicals, striped shirts and cardigans, steak.

And I'm grateful for Altered Images singing "Happy Birthday":

Okay, I'll stop being such an asshole about it now.

BOOTS, BITCH.

That would be my answer if you asked me, "What did you buy while you were out this weekend?"

A few years ago I was known as quite the snappy dresser. Then, without getting too personal, my financial life came crumbling down and I had to worry about stupid, ugly things like eating. Things are getting slightly better, so I decided to treat myself to a pair of much needed boots and got two pair instead.

Exhibit A. These cute Florsheim boots.

Exhibit B. These Frye-esque boots (I totally can't afford the real thing right now.)

Hooray for beautiful things!

That said, it's really hard to be a pinko socialist and root for the fall of capitalism and the redistibution of wealth when shopping for cute stuff is SO MUCH FUN. At least if the revolution comes I'll look adorable and have great boots for kicking in windows.

SAUCY.

Over on Parabsis there is a handy little tool that tells you who has recently commented so that you can click on a particular entry and read it. Naturally, my curiosity was peaked when I saw the following...

Recent Comments: Penis Stretching on an old post about cooking.

Naturally, I clicked through.

"That sauce is delicious!! Have you others recipes?" Clearly, Penis Stretching is a tiny British orphan a la Oliver! I clicked on Penis Stretching. It was awesome.

I know what somebody's getting for Hanukkah!

P.S. I've been spending too much time on that blog.

THE HIPSTER GRIFTER.

I don't know why I didn't write about Kari Ferrell aka "the hipster grifter" when it was all the buzz a few months ago. I certainly had an interest. I was following the whole thing quite closely, actually, and would update The Boyfriend with all the latest developments on a regular basis.

I suppose it might be because all the coverage was so negative. Of course it was. She is a "hipster" which we're supposed to disdain, right? (Even though nearly everybody I know who hates hipsters actually is one.) Also, and more to the point, she swindled lots of people out of lots of money. So... um... that's bad.

The thing is, I really, really like her. I know! I can't help it though. Is it so wrong of me? People like Bonnie and Clyde, don't they? Billy the Kid? So maybe it's just natural for me to find an outlaw like Kari appealing. Maybe it's the under dog in me who also not-so-secretly thinks it would be hilarious to pretend to have an Ivy League MFA. (I still think that's an awesome idea, by the way. I apologized for getting sidetracked, not for my original point. And now I'm sidetracked again! Gah!) Also, Kari introduced me to two awesome sayings:

1. I want to give you a hand job with my mouth.

2. Throw a hot dog down my hallway.

She's like the tranny teens who were mugging people outside of an upscale Greenwich Village apartment building a few months ago and using the profits to buy wigs and makeup. In a word, AWESOME. Call me tarhearted, but I hope she gets everything she ever wanted and more. The street fags have a saying, and I would like to apply this saying to Kari.

"Get it, girl."

You can write to the woman herself while she's in prison, and I'm seriously considering it. It's unkind to make a hipster live in Utah. Cruel and unusual punishment! Write to Kari at:

K. Ferrell Inmate SO#: 295558
Salt Lake Correctional Facility
3415 South 900 West
Salt Lake City, UT 84119

I SMELL SHITTY PANTIES.

Oh, happy day! They've finally made a sequel to Jiz and the Mammograms, a youtube favorite amongst my friends. Its predecessor is comedy genius, so make sure to watch it first.

This is super NSFW or for life.

I HEART ROGER STEPHENS.

Nothing to write about? Psych! Just when I think I'm fresh out the world sends me something like this.

From CNN for those of you too damn lazy to click on a link:

(CNN) -- A Georgia man allegedly slapped a toddler at a Walmart store because she wouldn't stop crying, authorities said.

Roger Stephens allegedly slapped a stranger's crying toddler in a Walmart store in Stone Mountain, Georgia.

Roger Stephens, 61, was arrested Monday and charged with first-degree cruelty to children. An incident report obtained from police in Gwinnett County indicated Stephens did not know the 2-year-old girl he stands accused of hitting.

The confrontation happened shortly before noon at the Walmart in Stone Mountain, a suburb of Atlanta.

According to the arresting officer, the child's mother said her daughter was crying as they walked down one of the aisles.

The mother said a stranger later identified as Stephens approached them and said, "If you don't shut the baby up, I will shut her up for you."

A few moments later, while the mother and the crying child were in another aisle, Stephens allegedly grabbed the girl and slapped her across the face.

Police said he hit her four or five times. "See, I told you I would shut her up," the suspect allegedly told the mother.

Authorities described "slight redness" to the toddler's face. Before he was arrested, Stephens apologized to the mother for striking the girl, the incident report said.

Stephens, a Stone Mountain resident, is being held by the Gwinnett County Sheriff's Department.

Of course the amazing Dlisted already picked this story up. Mr. Stephens is my hero. With a face like that, how could I not love him? I can't tell you how many times I've wanted to shake a kid for ruining my dinner commute or dinner at Five Points or wherever. I'm sick of parents thinking the whole world should stop because of their awful little byproduct. In my day children knew when to shut the fuck up. First degree cruelty to children? Bitch, please. All that kid got was a little redness and a lesson in "stop being such a god damned pest."

I LOSE.

I'm physically and emotionally exhausted from trying to juggle too many things: my private life, a day job, some health issues, various writing projects, and the Management's upcoming production of my new play, MilkMilkLemonade.

I'm spent.

I can't think of anything to write about here. Seriosuly, nothing's rattling around in the old brain. I can't think of one single piece of pop culture detritus.

No, wait. Popples.

 

Popples. That's seriously all I've got.

DULL.

My double life as a marketer and a playwright has been combined. I desperately want to write a play about the branding and launching of L'eggs egg. From Wikipedia:

In the 1970s, L'eggs introduced a unique trade dress by placing its product in white plastic chicken egg-shaped containers egg (albeit much larger) and garnering shelf space in grocery stores. Parent company HanesBrands Inc. has ceased packaging the hosiery in the hard plastic shells. Notwithstanding the secondary uses for the eggs by crafters, artists, and hobbyists, the plastic eggs were seen as an example of wastefulness. ^[1]

The L'eggs naming, package and logo were created by designer Roger Ferriter, working in the design studio of Herb Lubalin Associates in New York City in 1969. On the morning of the scheduled presentation to the Hanes Corporation of the marketing and packaging ideas for the new low cost pantyhose launch, Ferriter was not satisfied that the work was sufficiently creative. In an effort to revisit the name and packaging one last time, he attempted to "experience" the product in some new way, hoping that the exercise would suggest a new creative direction for the branding. Among his efforts, he attempted to compress a pair of pantyhose in his fist, wondering how compact the product could become. Staring at his clenched fist with the pantyhose inside he was struck with the possibility that the package could be an egg. Just as quickly, he realized that egg rhymes with leg, and then adding the popular mid century marketing boost of giving a product name some French sounding twist, he incorporated the l' (french for "the" when followed by a vowel such as the "e" of eggs) and arrived at L'eggs. Some sketches were prepared in time for the presentation, including a logo that incorporated two egg-influenced letter "g"s and thus was born one of the most successful product launches in history.

I suppose I can't though, can I? I mean, Leggs is still a company and Herb was a real dude. I don't know why the mundane and forgotten fascinates me so much, but it does. Perhaps this could be my play (finally) about women who commute in white sneakers and then change into heels. (Another one of my obsessions.) I wonder what percentage of these women own cats and, further, how many of these women have tasted cat food in a private, lonely moment.

Holla, Cathy!

P.S. I still think it would be a really good idea to blow up black and white Cathy comics, frame them, and your decorating scheme be "Cathy".

MY MOM HATES ME.

I was sitting in on a rehearsal for my new play, MilkMilkLemonade (opening September 10th at UNDER St. Mark's!) when I received an  e-mail from my mother. To give you some context, my mother begins every conversation, be it by phone or e-mail or otherwise, as if you've been discussing the subject at length. It's pretty normal for her to start a conversation with "you know what I think its weird about that?" or an "I know!" without any giving any clues to what she's referring. For further context, this is a woman who measures people's auras with a metal coat hanger and maintains that she and her high school best friend, Suzy, keep in contact via ESP. She also has a black belt and practices nunchucks in the backyard. In short, she's amazingly awesome and hilarious, albeit by pure accident. Like Charles Ludlam said, "straight people don't understand camp because everything they do is camp." If you were going to satirize baby boomers (and you absolutely should) you could easily use her as a case study. As flaky as she is, she's also notoriously unsentimental. When I asked her once why there were hardly any baby pictures of me she shrugged and said, "you were our last baby." Also, during Madonna's Blonde Ambition tour (I was obsessed with madonna as a little boy as any gayling should be) my mother said, "Oh that. I was going to get you tickets but then I didn't."

Anywhoodle. I shouldn't have been surprised, I was a little hurt to get this email. The sting wore off in a few minutes and I just had to appreciate it for how hilariously "mom" it is. I've added my own notes in red for emphasis.

"Subject: the last box we're keeping for you. (What was the first box? Or the second box? Where are these alleged boxes?)

Following is what is in this box. Please let me know if there is anything here that you don't want shipped to you.

Contents of your last box:

·        Fur stole (Ha ha! Theater fag!)

·        Shoe box labeled “North Kitsap High School – 1996-1997”

·        Truancy report from February & March, 1998

·        A map of San Francisco

·        Graduation stole

·        A Pictorial Guide to the Tarot (My weird obsession of the occult goes back a long, long way.)

·        Who’s Who Among American High School Students, 1996/1997

·        A Butt Trumpet poster (My first concert. A now sadly forgotten grunge band.)

·        Several phonograph albums

·        A note you wrote Dad as a kid (Jesus, mom! Really? You don't want to keep that?)

·        A Christmas card from Dad

·        School pictures (See my last comment. Sorry all those photos of me are taking up space in your new home gym or crafts room or whatever.)

·        A Clear Creek Elementary concert program

·        A D.A.R.E. notebook (Must get back, actually.)

·        A Vans shoe box of unknown contents

·        A graduation cap

·        Clue mystery puzzle

·        "Life in a Mining Town" report you wrote (This is a paper about my family history, by the way. Guess mom isn't interested.)

·        Wine glass candles from the 1997 and 1998 proms

·        A Dick Tracy t-shirt

·        A gremlin doll

·        Shoe boxes from 8^th and 9^th grades

·        A Launch Cd of the Dave Matthews Band (Let it be known that I've never liked Dave Matthews. This must be my brother, Danny's.)

·        Your frog necklace from camp

·        Portable tv

·        Laptop

·        Faux bear rug (!)

·        NK prom prince plaque (I was the Juior Prom King. Believe it!)

·        Original Fairy Tales from the Brothers Grimm

·        Watch that Dad got you in the Gulf

·        Motorola wireless phone

·        Brites camera

·        Soccer trophy

·        Catch 22

·        Candide

·        The Breathitt Funeral Home pouch and contents from my mom’s funeral (WTF!)

 

Hope everything is going well - Love you.

Mom"

What in the hell? What kind of magical, bottomless box is this, anyway? I love how it ends. Hope everything is going well! Love you! Well, everything is not going well, mom. You are throwing away my childhood.