touch my ennui

hitting the fan

2009-03-06T17:28:00.000-08:00

I used to joke about being the most accident prone person on the planet and then 2009 rolled around and I realized the time I broke my arm playing dodgeball and broke my leg tripping on a twig were nothing compared to the tremendous physical cosmic joke going on in my life right this very minute. Let's take a look, shall we?

1. 12/30/08 (basically 2009): Fell down the stairs, broke elbow, massively bruised right butt cheek, placed pride firmly in check
2. 2/1/09: Broke foot walking.
3. 2/5/09: Slipped disk falling on the ice and, later, bending over to put on one shoe (since other shoe was in a foot cast that made me look like an extra in I Am Sam).
4. 3/6/09: Found out that the reason my eye is tearing and feels like it's got most of the world's sand collected in the lid is because I scratched my cornea. How? Blinking. Literally. Apparently "very dry eyes" can actually tear themselves apart...or something like that. Regardless, I went to get my prescription at my local CVS where people cleared a path for me since I looked like the ocular equivalent of Typhoid Mary.

When I can finally use both of my eyes I will write more. For now...Cyclops. Out.

one more thing sarah palin and i have in common

2008-10-23T09:29:00.000-07:00

A sample of my famous pumpkin muffins

Since I know that only two people read this blog and both of you know I'm interning in a hospital-based hospice, I don't need to say it again. I guess I just did. So you're hearing it twice. Not that this is unusual. As you also know, I frequently repeat my favorite stories or biographical facts. My sisters refer to this as "Oh no, Jenny's Telling an Ireland Story." This bulky label refers to a time (ok, most of a decade) after I returned from studying abroad in Ireland that - according to those little minxes - I did nothing but regale anyone who came within two feet of me with the EXACT same tales of comical woe from my stay in the Land of Eire. My repeat performances were so identical - right down to inflection, hand gestures, and over-the-top facial expressions - that they claimed they forgot what day, month, and year it was when I climbed aboard my soap box for a little Irish cheer. "Is it June of 1994? Or March, 2002?" one sister who shall remain nameless said when I launched into my personal fave: "Did I ever tell you about the day the University closed the library because they said it was "too windy" but really it's because there was a big soccer match on?" This story is very funny but I won't go into it now because I'm pretty sure you've heard it.

A perfect time to segue back to the point of this post. So every Wednesday there's a "team" meeting at the hospice. Doctors, nurses, chaplains, social workers, the music therapist (more on her later). We're mostly there to catch up on who died during the past week and to discuss the plan for the folks who are still with us. The meeting can be a little grim, so I decided to lighten things up by bringing in a sumptuous pink box of my moonface & wally goodies. I'd be the hero of the hospice. Everyone would love me. The cute doctor who looks like the Baltics version of Elvis would think I was radically fly. All of these thoughts were pumping through my brain as I baked up a batch of pumpkin bread "cookies" from an improvised recipe at 1am while listening to Chet Baker on repeat and reading about schizophrenia (for school and not because I was attempting to self-diagnose).

Now, I know better than to try to pass off any untested gluten-free/vegan recipes I've created at the spur of the moment, especially when I've listened to "Funny Valentine" 8000 times. But I decided to wing it. The next morning I made a batch of maple icing, slathered it on the sizeable "cookies" and rolled out the door.

So I get to the meeting and plunk my pink box (not THAT pink box...sorry mom) on the table and everyone lunges for it. I settle into my seat convinced that my myriad skills will be lauded and that Gorky Park Elvis will turn his sideburns my way. The reality? Apparently, the "cookies" may have looked ok, but turns out they more closely resembled a toasted hockey puck in weight and texture. For anyone who hadn't broken a tooth with the initial bite, there was a soft (ok, softer) center, but few made it that far. More than one iced puck was bitten into and accidentally dropped and flipped (icing side down) on to the table because the eater wasn't expecting the jawbreaker quality and unwieldy size. The meeting was peppered with sounds one would normally expect from grapefruit sized hail slamming into concrete.

Goal!

have you seen this man?

2008-10-02T10:06:00.000-07:00

You know when people tell you "I had the weirdest dream last night!" and then proceed to regale you with 5-10 minutes worth of nonsensical detail, peppered with the occasional chuckle at their own wackiness, and the disclaimer (when they notice you're considering falling asleep yourself) "but here's the REALLY weird part." Well, I'm about to do just that. So sue me.

Last night I had a dream that was so totally bizarre I actually woke myself up wondering if I had officially turned the corner and gone completely nuts. Based on family history, losing my mind is sort of a given, but even this made the usual Warner lunacy seem comparatively normal.

So in the dream, I've hung up a shingle and have a little therapy business going. Who should walk in but the Quaker Oats guy looking exactly as he does on the box. I soon learn that he's struggling with his bisexuality, promiscuity, and some homicidal tendencies that have been irking him for awhile. We spoke for awhile, I offered him some tea (which I had conveniently brewed under my chair), and he left with many thanks for my time.

What the...??

In the interest of full disclosure, I did wake up laughing at my own wackiness. Or maybe the laughter was just symptomatic of the budding insanity.

Sweaters McTubeSocks - "The Dope Cat of Montclair" - Dead at 16

2008-09-08T09:42:00.000-07:00

Sweaters "Sebastian" McTubeSocks, who brought his love of food, baggy fur sweaters, and fuzzy "tube socks" to the suburbs of New Jersey, died today near his home in Montclair. He was 16.

Mr. McTubesocks was the leader of the Grobowitz Gang, a comedy troupe of feline gastronomes who enjoyed troublemaking almost as much as they loved eating.

He was perhaps best known for his oft-quoted phrase "If you can't have fun with it, what's the point?"

"Sure, things hadn't been going so well for him lately," explained fellow troup member Mr. Simon. "But Sweaters was the Falstaff of the house. No one enjoyed basking in the sun or gorging on dry food more than him."

Sweaters is survived by Growbowitz Gang members Mr. Simon, Oreo, and Smokey; and his manager and agent Susan and Irina.

Just Because You Look Like Mariska Hargitay, Doesn't Mean You Should Be VP

2008-08-29T11:00:00.001-07:00

Sarah Palin f*ing terrifies me. I don't know if it's her "sexy librarian" glasses, or the fact that she named her kid with Down Syndrome "Trig." Maybe it's the fact(s) that she's an NRA lifer who used to hunt moose with dad before school in the morning (who didn't?). Or that she's staunchly pro-life and supported a constitutional amendment banning gay marriage and only happened to give Alaskan gay couples partner benefits by default. She's a former Miss Alaska runner-up, with a BA in Communications, who doesn't mind drilling in the National Wildlife Refuge for oil.

Hopefully, Senator John of the Dead will finally pipe down about Obama's "lack of experience" now that he's chosen a first-term governor to be his running mate.

Oh, and her oldest kid's name is Track. Along with Al Qaeda we can all wait in terror for the day the Palin kids (including Bristol, Willow, and Piper) all descend on the Vice President's House for a day of reckoning over their names.

Winehouse and Warner: Separated at Birth

2008-08-03T08:14:00.000-07:00

Amy Winehouse and I have a lot in common. First, there's our choice of hairstyle. The Dirty Beehive is a look I'm proud to say I've been sporting since way back in 1987 right after I got the worst perm of my life. Then, there's the body and the voice. As anyone can see, Amy is a little chubbier than I am and a slightly less talented vocally than myself, but not everyone can have it all.

Amy and I also love prescription meds. I'm a big fan when forced to go on a flight of longer than 45 minutes. Hell, I do it up even for those too. So as Jackie and I head out for our six-hour flight to Seattle today I'm doing it up right. Above is a picture I nearly mistook for myself as we depart for the airport.

2 Boobs, 1 Cop

2008-07-30T18:38:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I was heading home from The Paid Internship (vs. The Unpaid Internship) with two fake boobs in what looked to be an insulated lunch bag. Both boobs are covered in a nylon material reminiscent of a nightgown that my mom used to wear back in the late 70s except one is supposed to be a "white" boob while the other is a "brown" boob. To top it off these boobs have little fake cancer lumps implanted in them. So WHY was I toting around two different color lumpy boobs in an insulated tote? The short answer is I'll be giving a workshop tomorrow about breast cancer for the ladies in the job training program at the homeless organization I interned at this past year and I thought it would be a gas to break out the fake boobs and pass `em around. They feel a little like stress balls which makes them a ton of fun to play with. Spend a little time squeezing the "training boobs" as I like to call them and I defy you to not become a lesbian.

So I get to the train station and I notice that the cops are there with their little "backpack checkpoint" set up. What's their beef with backpacks? Other than school children and people in their thirties who work for non-profits, who actually carried a backpack in this city? Frankly, I've never seen the cops stop anyone at these checkpoints. They always seem embarassed to be standing there with what looks like a bake sale folding table for rummaging in random New Yorkers back packs which has got to be a treat. After riding the 2 train a few months ago with a homeless woman who pulled a bag of underwear out of her sack and strung them up on the overhead handrail like it was her personal drying rack, only to strip off her sweatpants so she could put on a fresh pair of skivvies, I don't really want to think about what's in most New Yorkers bags.

Maybe I looked a little suspicious on this particular day. I was mopping the humidity induced flop sweat from my brow with a handkerchief my youngest sister Abby refers to as a "fat man rag." But just as I'm about to swipe my card, one of the cops calls me over:

Cop: Ma'am, I need to inspect your bag.
Me: My bag?
Cop: Yes ma'am, step over here to the checkpoint
Me: (chuckling because he said checkpoint)
Cop: Is there something funny ma'am?
Me: No sir (wipe brow with fat man rag)

[Cop rummages through my bag and then motions for me to set down the Boob Tote]

Cop: Ma'am, please open this.
Me: (chuckling, uncontrollably as I flip open the bag to reveal two different colored boobs)
Cop: Are these prosthetics ma'am?
Me: Do you mean do I wear them?
Cop: Yes (cop lifts boobs out of bag and holds them up as if to put them against his chest)
Me: Um no, but they'd look good on you.
Cop: (silence)

At this point I forgot how to communicate in English, mostly because I was laughing and sweating so hard as I wondered to myself what occasion would require me to slip these badboys under my t-shirt.

Me: Training. Cancer. Boobs. Lumps. Feel. Stress ball.

The Cop - figuring I was probably a lunatic with a boob fetish - let me go. At this point, I had attracted quite a crowd, most of whom assumed I had just been caught with my falsies: one for the winter and one for when I'm sporting my deep tropic tan.

The Intern's Lament

2008-07-29T17:31:00.000-07:00

Big sorries to my two occasional readers for the extended blog silence. Here's the thing: When I get home from a long day of being The Oldest Intern On The Planet all I really want to do is strip down to my skivs and stuff ice cream in my face. Ice cream and the occasional hit of crack. In case you were considering changing careers in mid-life, here are some highlights:

1. You get to share a desk with five other people, many of whom don't mind if they can't read the letters on the keyboard because it's covered with unknown food substance(s).

2. You make less than you did when you were babysitting in 7th grade.

3. You have many people who consider themselves your superior, including the 24-year old kid who just finished grad school but doesn't know what you're talking about when you tell him his ringtone sounds like "Hungry Like the Wolf."

4. You are the designated water cooler bottle-changer.

5. You are the designated photocopier paper-refiller.

6. You think twice before responding to the question "What year did you graduate from college?"

7. You're grateful when one of the other interns sends you Booze Mail on Facebook. This means you're not as unpopular as you thought.

8. You actually know what Facebook is and do most of your communicating on it.

9. When asked to lunch, you decline and explain in an unnecessarily loud voice that you brought your lunch and some "healthy snacks for later!" while holding up your eco-friendly lunch tote.

10. While surfing the `net holding a Wet One(so as not to contract a communicable disease from the mouse) and eating your homemade lunch, you recall using the adjective "creepy" to describe people just like yourself back in your salad days.

Hopefully this sheds some light into my day. Feel free to pity me. Or buy me ice cream.

Rhythmless Stripper Busts a Move; Eyeballs and Dignity Fry

2008-07-08T19:26:00.001-07:00

Years ago, my sister Merry and I used to play "The Depressing Game" while stuck on long car trips with our parents. The game involved the two of us peering out of our respective car windows looking for sadness incarnate: stray kittens, old men sitting alone on park benches, heavyset women in denim mini skirts. This was car bingo for neurotic, Upper West Side kids. By the time we reached whatever destination we were being dragged to by our parents in whatever busted vehicle my parents owned at the time (the 1974 Cadillac played a prominent role during the Depressing Game years), the two of us were nearly in tears and the folks were exasperated at what I'm sure they identified as years of therapy bills in the making.

It's been awhile since my last round of TDG, but it all came back to me in spades when I went to a friend's surprise birthday party this weekend and got to experience my very first stripper-who-makes-house-calls. The dude - a handsome Dominican man who called himself Starlight, spoke no Engligh, and had a brain we soon learned that existed solely in his penis - arrived on the scene and went straight to the bathroom where he remained for more than 45 minutes. While we moved furniture and guzzled beer in anticipation of the show, the Birthday Boy - mortified at what we had planned - put on his darkest sunglasses and tried to psyche himself up for what was to come. So there we are, the eager spectators, clapping out of sync with a song featuring the lyrics "Put it on my face" only to note that the stripper is still AWOL in the can. Some wondered if he was "fluffing," while others thought perhaps we had accidentally signed up for the Stripper and Enema show. A pall fell over the crowd and then...out of the bathroom burst Starlight in a baggy set of Gulf War fatigues. Hoots and hollers went up as we breathed a sigh of relief that he was not dressed in anything that smacked of The Gimp. Starlight did an awkward two-step, hurling legs and arms in Birthday Boy's direction. A painful looking straddle and then the sound of velcro tearing. The fatigues were coming off, slowly, loudly, but surely. What remained were TWO layered pairs of underpants - zebra print and satiny red - while on his feet were a pair of busted looking boots. Also, it was impossible not to notice Starlight's half-oiled body. We realized that his lengthy bathroom tour was spent trying to oil himself up with limited success. While an egg could have been fried on his upper back somehow the lower back remained dry. Suddenly, the music cut out. One of the partygoers ran over to Birthday Boy's turntables (because Starlight is the only stripper in the history of strippers-who-make-housecalls who didn't bring his own tunes) and threw on whatever record was within reach. Techno blasting, Starlight grabbed Birthday Boy and tried to lift him from his chair, then threw him on the couch for the world's most awkward simulated doggystyle. Birthday Boy - a committed "top" - took it in stride but it was clear from the way his sunglasses were cutting into his face with every staccato thrust of Starlight's groin that his patience was in limited supply. Next up, Starlight featured his pump and grind move on the floor. Even when both sets of panties started riding up his crack, nothing was going to keep him from thrusting his manhood at the carpet like a guy who's been fucking rugs for a long time. The music cut out again, but Starlight wasn't fazed. With only the beat in his head, he straddled Birthday Boy's chair and attempted to lift one oily leg up so everyone could appreciate the spectacle of doubled-up, too-small undergarments. Suddenly, the scratch of a needle on vinyl and the music came on - another album within reach had been thrown on the turntable. The grand finale of 2001: A Space Odyssey blasted through the speakers. Starlight frog-jumped his crotch towards the Birthday Boy's face when Birthday Boy - tolerant of the freakshow no longer - shouted "This is so bizarre!" and the Dance of the Seven Testacles came to a screeching halt.

Dear Merry, I win.

trash talk

2008-05-29T08:39:00.000-07:00

Check it. I'm walking down the street and what do I spy but a sparkly granite headless angel torso leaning just so against a trashcan. As you can imagine, I have a couple of questions:

1) Did someone actually have this thing in their house and did it, once upon a time, have a head?

2) What suddenly made them want to get rid of it? In a mad fit of spring cleaning did he/she wake up and say "Honey, that headless granite angel has got to go!" or "It's either the headless granite angel or me!" P.S. Don't ever issue ultimatums about tchotchkes unless you really mean it.

3) How did he/she come to the decision to just lean the thing against a trashcan? Did he/she try to put it in the can and then when the wings wouldn't go in and setting it down next to the trashcan didn't seem obvious enough, he/she decided to jauntily tip it against the can?

I come from a long line of hoarders and recognize that any attempt to decoratively pile or shape one's trash is a cry for help. The clutterer is having trouble parting with his/her junk and has decided to instead spend some time molding the junk into something pretty. One day I found my mom trying to clean out her multiple purses which were always stuffed with a strange amalgam of items which might lead one to think that a soldier at war had a penchant for ladies magazines and Sweet n Low. The dining room table was covered with the contents of her bag collection. As I watched her sift through the remnants of old mints, doctors' appointment cards, tissues, and pink artificial sweetener packets, I noticed that she had constructed a small log cabin from the wrapped tampons she always carried in case of emergency. Personally, I was impressed, though the cabin - as well as everything else - got swept back into the bags about five minutes after she completed the roof.

All this to say that I think the angel on the trashcan was the previous owner's tampon cabin; a signal to the garbage person that another cramped NYC apartment had hit a saturation point and something had to give.

no sleep til brooklyn

2008-05-23T08:14:00.000-07:00

Here I am trying to look attractive at the second of two "sleep studies" I was forced to go to by my doctor whose latest theory on my fatigue is that it's compounded by some kind of narcolepsy. Having never fallen asleep in the middle of a road or, say, on top of Keanu Reeves a la River Phoenix in "My Own Private Idaho" I'm not quite feeling this. I have, however, definitely considered nodding off during work-related meetings or while being forced to watch football. And then of course there was the time during freshman year of college when I drifted off in the middle of a Psych 101 class while sketching the brain, brain stem, and cerebellum (that little bump at the base of the brain) only to regain consciousness to discover that I had drawn a brain with a big ear (the supposed cerebellum) and a necktie (my take on the brain stem). Maybe I am narcoleptic.

So I got shipped over to a hospital that shall remain nameless where I was given a room that looks like a pay-by-the-hour motel room, complete with majorly uncomfortable hospital bed, a small TV with three channels and a camera stuck to the ceiling. During the first study, the "sleep tech" who wired me up was an older Russian woman who dropped a lot of hints about being a spy for the Communists back in the day. I wondered if - along with the wires being glued to my scalp - she was sticking a microchip full of state secrets that would lead to a Bourne Ultimatum-style chase at the end of all this madness. I tried to put those thoughts out of my head for fear she would see on my brain scans the word "Help."

The first study revealed nothing except that I had trouble falling asleep at night while covered with wires and being watched by a camera on the ceiling. By the time of the second study, my Russian spy was gone and I was given a 22 year old tech who looked vaguely like that Romanian transsexual and music sensation Aziz, except with a mouth full of Invisalign. He walked into the room, noticed my water bottle and said "For a thecond there I thought that was thomething else, Abtholute vodka!!" He laughed, I thought about making a run for it. P.S. This study also required me to both sleep in my sleazy motel room overnight AND stay until 5pm the next day taking 20 minute naps every 1 1/2 hours from the time I was awakened in the morning at 6 until the end of the day.

So Mr. Invisalign sticks wires to me in such a way that I know when I finally remove them I will have lost plenty of hair and most of my skin. I'm hurled into bed with the camera pointing directly at me when Mr. Invisialign's lispy voice crackles over the intercom: "Eyes to the theiling, now down, theft, right, grind your teef, now snore. Ok, good night!" After doing these calisthenics, I was supposed to sleep all while watching the blinking light of the camera on the ceiling. I feared touching myself inappropriately or saying something out loud. At one point, I guess I did fall asleep only to have Mr. Invisalign show up in room to re-stick one of the wires to my nose and exit with the sign off "Thweet dreams!" Right.

Next morning, Mr. Invisalign's back with a vengeance at 6am. The light goes on and I'm directed out of bed with my newly formed ponytail of wires (this is what Mr. Invisalign called them as he clipped them with what looked like a banana clip / chip-clip hybrid) that's connected to something that looks like a purse that I must sling over my wrist when I walk around the room or use the bathroom (my one respite from the camera). I'm told that I'm not allowed to go anywhere near the bed until it's time for the first of my twenty minute naps. "Whatever you do, don't fall athleep!" And with that, he's gone, I'm forced to hit my bag of snacks and watch whatever I can find on TV at 6am which includes NY1 and a televised Mass in Korean.

Not sure if it's just the perversity of human nature or just my own perversity, but the command "don't sleep" immediately makes me want to do it more than anything. The kind of sleepiness overcame me that can only be described as totally desperate. Drug addicts must feel this way when they need a fix. Pacing the room with my wire ponytail and purse, shoving a granola bar in my mouth, I tried making deals with myself and the Korean priest whose language I momentarily thought I could understand. Just as I started to feel a little more awake - without benefit of a blessed cup of coffee (no caffeine!) - a new tech with a very distinguished French accent and highly polished shoes walks in. "Bon matins, Jenny-fair! It is time for your nap!"

Sure napping midday sounds luxurious. The reality? Closer to water-boarding then I thought possible. Just as I had fallen asleep, the door of my dungeon swings open, the light goes on, and Jean (yes, his name was actually Jean) announces "Jenny-fair! Time is up! Get out of bed!" Clapping his hands as French people do when they want you to get your lazy American ass in gear.

Jean and I continued our nap tango for the next 10 hours. Up for 1 1/2 hours, down for 20 minutes, up again, and repeat. By the time it was all over and he was trying to pull the glue out of my hair ("Mon Dieu! This was not done well. Your hair will grow back Jenny-fair!"), I was the closest thing to completely insane that I've ever been. I left the building squinting into the late afternoon light, weird thoughts racing through my brain, wondering for a moment if the guy on a motorcycle was Keanu come to pick me up for our trip to Boise. No such luck.

i heart backwoods barbie

2008-05-12T11:03:00.000-07:00

Jackie and I just returned from our Big Gay Pilgrimmage to see Dolly Parton in Chicago and all I have to say is if loving Dolly is wrong I don't want to be right. Sure we were the only people in the entire crowd not wearing cowboy hats and/or blazers (women included). And no, neither one of us is a gay man with a spray-tan fetish (at least, not technically). It takes all kinds and Dolly - that rhinestone-laden F-cup bombshell with a fantastic collection of wigs - is just the lady to do it. I'm smitten.

With her backup band of geezers dressed in black with silver cross trimmings, Dolly puts on one hell of a show. Anyone who can make a crowd full of homosexuals sing "Jesus lifts me up, gravity keeps me down" at the top of their lungs is a star. Overall, the crowd wasn't the most energetic. I blame this on the Midwestern tendency to see anything involving standing up as work. But there was no keeping a couple of the diehard Dolly-ites upfront down. One chunky lady at the front of the stage - overcome with the spirit of bedazzled boobage before her - jumped up with her hands in the air and started waving a glowstick around. Two young, bespectacled gentlemen in powder blue blazers virtually lost their collective voices shrieking at "Better Get to Livin'." Even Jackie and I parked our cool and shimmied like a couple of rhythmless white women trying to catch flies (you try clapping along to Jolene).

We left in a great mood only to return to the W where we were staying. I always wondered where my neon-soaked memories of high school went when I wasn't in the midst of a night terror. Apparently, they chill at the five separate bars at this hell-hole of a hotel. Jackie and I had neglected to pack nasty slides and sundresses for our trip, so we didn't quite fit in with the crowd. Seriously, does anyone actually find it attractive when girls with tiny purses and fruity drinks in one hand dance in place while jabbing one fake nail in the air calling out their friends for not being drunk enough? One group of female intellectuals in the elevator had a ringleader who slurred her way through the challenge of champions: "I want to see you, and you, and you so drunk you're on your knees. WHOOOO!!"

Dolly even made a crowd of drunk ho's bearable. The sign of true greatness.

pic 'o' the minute

2008-04-26T10:43:00.000-07:00

As further proof that my ridiculous level of school work has robbed me of all sense of humor, here's a photo I managed to take of some Orthodox gents getting their Shabbos on. Let's just say it's not exactly an L Word rant.

P.S. The guys were not amused by me.

poop goes the world

2008-04-14T13:00:00.001-07:00

So overwrought was I by the throne-plosion, I neglected to mention another similarly-themed event that happened to me just a few short days before.

While plodding through my day as The Oldest Intern On the Planet, the most unbelievable stench started flowing through the halls and, as far as I could tell, set up residence exclusively in my cubicle. Seeing as how this is an organization for homeless folks, I wondered to myself if someone had tried to pull a Shawshank only to meet an untimely death in one of the vents. As I mused on this while trying not to gag, an announcement went out that the smell was "just" raw sewage that had somehow backed up into the ventilation system and would we all be so kind as to evacuate immediately. I was well on my way to making this decision for myself, when the brain trusts in charge (this is non-profit after all) decided to pour bleach directly into the vents thereby creating a gaseous soup of unparalleled toxicity and odor. Peace out to the few brain cells I had left.

And with that, I shall never mention poop again.

Throne-plosion

2008-04-10T10:51:00.000-07:00

Today I learned the true meaning of fear. Hard at work trying to finish up a paper mere hours before it was due, I retired to the bathroom to, you know, use it. I closed the lid and stepped on the flusher which I like to do for a few seconds because - in the immortal words of John Cage - "I like a fresh bowl."

I must have blinked because the next thing I knew the toilet suddenly became the closest thing I'll ever get to a geyser, or maybe a landmine. I'm not kidding when I say the thing blew up cartoon-style. So there I am in my early morning study gear of too short/too tight sweatpants, crocs, and a t-shirt howling at the top of my lungs as ice cold toilet water turns my bathroom into a veritable swimming pool. Post-traumatic stress disorder allowed me to clean myself up and hose down the bathroom with bleach, plus drag our landlord with the anger management problem into the apartment to fix the toilet all without shedding a single tear. The landlord - a guy known for shouting obscenities at inanimate objects like the garbage cans in the courtyard - happened to be wearing his dress pants and a very fancy pair of shoes. While snaking the bowl he told me that just yesterday he got bleach on his "best jeans" which "really pissed me off." Yeah, I bet it did.

So everything's back together, though I'm terrified of using the thing now. I can't even say the word. The T-thing. Anyway, it's technically safe to use, but I think I'm going to have to go pee at the Key Food for the next few days.

100 posts of ennui

2008-04-07T06:53:00.001-07:00

Big day this Monday is. Besides being the day of the 100th post of "Touch My Ennui," the following unparalleld events happened:

1) Charleton Heston - a guy who pretended to be Moses and loved guns almost as much as he hated homosexuals - died over the weekend. Rednecks throughout the country are rending their flannel shirts.

2) My mom - a woman with an uncanny skill for hyperbole and self-diagnosis - develops an actual staph infection in her foot but swears it's MRSA.

3) My terror of dwarves returns when I spot this video on YouTube of La Pequena - a Chilean transgendered dwarf with a penchant for wigs and Amy Winehouse. After so many months back on the wagon thanks to the happy little drunk Matt Roloff of "Big People / Little World," I'm officially off again.

P.S. A big shout out to our non-blood relative El G. for being a loyal reader even without the obligation of biology. You rock.

stuff white people without jobs don't like

2008-04-02T19:28:00.000-07:00

#1: Reading About a White Guy Who Only Started Blogging 4 Months Ago and Already Has a Book Deal

Ok, so his "Stuff White People Like" blog is brilliant. Who cares? As all two of you who read "Touch My Ennui" know (hi mom and dad), we've been(that would be the royal we) updating our little nook of the blogosphere - albeit sporadically - for going on three years now and Random House hasn't once offered us a little something (wink wink) for our "efforts."

Sure there was that one moment when a friend clued me in to the fact that Touch My Ennui had been mentioned on an L Word stalker site because I happened to poke fun at Shane aka Kate Moennig's extraordinarily small feet which mesmerized me during her way off-Broadway turn as that dykey white trash soldier who put a guy on a leash only to get pregnant and court martialed. You totally know who I'm talking about, don't even pretend that you don't.

Needless to say, the passing mention did not get me millions of readers, pop culture fame, and - dare I say it again? - a book deal. I want a book deal!

All of this was made even worse because I read about Stuff White People Like's blowout success while sitting at my internship eating the free lunch I brought from home because, in case you missed it, I am the oldest living intern on the planet. There's nothing like eating out of a Ziploc bag in a nonprofit agency for homeless people where you work 3 days a week for free at an age roundly considered to be too old to not have a job that, you know, actually pays.

Not that I'm resentful. As I said, I enjoy Stuff White People Like just as much as the next white person and the people who like to laugh at white people. I just can't afford half of what he talks about. Of course, maybe that's the point.

skanks 'r' us: the finale

2008-03-23T18:20:00.000-07:00

This Easter began like every other: in a sugar blitz. While Christians throughout the world are celebrating the holiest day of the year, the Warners are gorging on baskets overflowing with every conceivable kind of homemade chocolate that my mother has handpicked from Mondels, the 40-year old chocolate shop on the Upper West Side. The other day my dad alerted me over IM (I was up doing homework and he was playing online backgammon with a faceless challenger of dubious skill who called himself "Stewie") that the baskets would be "unprecedented" this year. I could almost hear him salivating at the thought of the jumbo sized chocolate coconut egg that would be his for the taking a mere 48 hours later.

Still clothes-challenged by my career change, I arrived at my parents' apartment in an outfit that combined the very worst of social worker and TV producer: courdoroy pants and a pair of oversized white sunglasses that made me look like Elton John at his most addicted and sexually confused. In a scene straight out of our childhood, my sisters and I piled into the back seat of my parents recently purchased "gently used" PT Cruiser in a shade described by my dad as "opal" which in reality translates to "sparkly purple." I feel pretty safe saying this is the gayest car on earth. My mom handed me my basket and - even through the $5 glasses I could see the treasure trove that awaited me: caramels, jellybeans, chocolate and almond bars, and the requisite toothbrush which my mother always adds like a drug dealer giving you a multi-vitamin with your rock cocaine. I always imagine her saying "Go on. Slip into a diabetic coma, but before you do make sure to brush."

The drive to my Aunt Dolores' in Hollis, Queens was agonizing as usual due to my father's difficulty with exit ramps. Whenever and wherever we miss an exit (as we do repeatedly) my father blames it on the lack of "intuitiveness" in the exit's design. This always leads to a monologue about urban planning which inevitably leads to another missed exit and our regular arrival at my aunt's a solid two hours late.

Once there, we blew out on marshmallow covered starches and an assortment of other Easter type fare. My mother whipped out some homemade mint jelly for the lamb which looked vaguely like jellyfish (the jelly not the lamb) and my father got into holiday joke mode which usually involves competing with any pre-schooler at the table (in this case my 3 year old second cousin) for attention. Dessert and conversation followed and I wondered to myself if my pant button might injure anyone when it inevitably exploded off my person.

All this to say that the holiday-induced food and sugar coma - plus a nice pair of roomy sweatpants -helped control my rage problem while watching The L Word finale. Actually, I almost hate to admit that tonight's show wasn't even all that bad. Perhaps because Ziff's contribution was limited to the music? And Chaiken both scripted AND directed? Or maybe it was just my insulin levels.

Highlights!!

Helena is back! And she's got a dirty-looking fake tan, a hippie shirt, and a couple of blond streaks - inexplicably placed at the bottom of her hair - to prove that she's been "slumming it" in a Tahitian hut with Dusty, her former cellmate. Mama Peabody - bitten by a poisonous jellyfish and possibly near death - wants Helena to know that she's her sole inheritrix in the event of her untimely death. Helena has grown used to the rough and tumble life and doesn't want to be anyone's benefactor, but comes around when Peabody Sr. gasps that she could use the money to do good, not evil and buy out Dawn Denbo AND her lover Cindy. MEOW!

Helena goes to The Planet to reveal her dastardly plan to Kit who greets her in her native tongue of "Porter-gese" which is to say she shouts "Girl!" over and over again.

Adele has taken over as director of "Lez Girls" and is nothing short of evil. How do we know? Because she smokes cigarellos. Tobacco wrapped in dark brown paper = Dark Side. I kept hoping that someone would reveal Adele as the scamp we all know her to be and as part of her unmasking we'd discover that her smokes of choice are actually Mores, a cigarette preferred by Arizona housewives, hillbillies, and fans of "Flowers In the Attic" everywhere.

Alice doesn't likey Tasha's new blue-collar attitude. She craves a sister with goals and joining the LAPD ain't supposed to be one of them. Alice wants a woman who can wear a school-girl jumper and drive a scooter. A woman with an accent. A woman with a slight double-chin and a bad hairdo. Alice wants a woman who starred in a long forgotten movie starring Kate Winslet about two lunatic lesbians in an English boarding school. Alice wants a white woman.

Phyllis confronts Shane about dating her "exceptional" daughter Molly who was planning on heading off to intern at the Supreme Court until she got caught up in the McCutcheon web of delight with the cut-right-to-the-bone remark "Even your friends think you're bad news." Shane looks humbled ans raises her eyes heavenward as if to say "Dear God, it's me Shane. Am I bad news?"

With mom's blessing, Helena confronts Dawn Denbo with the earth-shattering news that she not only owns The Planet and She-Bar, but Denbo's lover Cindy! This Easter miracle is made even more tear-jerking when Cindy speaks for herself: "I'm not your lover Cindy. I'm Cindy Annabelle Tucker;" a gem closely followed by Denbo's keen observation that all the ladies - Kit, Helena, Cindy, etc. - are "skanks r us." Writing like this only comes around once in a generation, folks. I hope we're all taking notes.

Jodi is one angry deaf woman and she's out for revenge the old-fashioned way: with a bizarre mixed media installation consisting mostly of fractured images and audio clips of Bette's own words (recorded when and by whom is anyone's guess since presumably the deaf woman has no use for recording equipment). What was once just plain creepy is now modern art! Bette is humbled and humiliated and seeks refuge in Tina's arms.

But wait for it, here comes the ending! Jenny has been banned from the "Lez Girls" wrap party. Adele thanks the cast and crew and Wallace Shawn with a lock-jaw voice that must have come on with the cigarello habit. Our ladies wonder aloud how this debacle occurred and - high on life and the rescue of The Planet - Kit blurts out "It's the man that does all this shit." Not surprisingly no one responds to her outburst in much the same way that one quietly forgives the homeless man without pants occupying three seats on the subway. Suddenly Jenny arrives and takes over the mic to thank everyone for their work and loyalty. Jenny has also come to publicly announce her love for Nikki (though I was pretty sure everyone knew this already)only to discover that Nikki and Shane are totally getting it on. Confrontation ensues and Jenny is not in a forgiving mood. Finally, we learn that Adele has approved a script change and that the end of "Lez Girls" will be made "less gay" to the moral outrage of all of our ladies, including Kit who probably doesn't even remember where she is but knows enough to know she doesn't like any of this one bit!

Where to now? See you in 2009!

pic of the minute

2008-03-21T06:40:00.000-07:00

Another random pic from the 15th St. F stop station. Looks like someone was trying to climb out; a thought I have every time I ride the train.

beware the easter candy

2008-03-18T10:49:00.000-07:00

Jen takes a study break

For all of you who have heard me talk about the trials and tribulations of my family's hugely obese cat, Ham, I'm sad to say she was put on a diet about 6 months ago and now looks like a bone in a baggy sweater. This photo, then, is representative not of her but of me on vacation with my hand in the starburst jellybean bag.

Dean Flynn: Ranch Hand, Task Master, Porn Guy

2008-03-17T14:23:00.000-07:00

Dear Tal, let's face it. A talent this huge doesn't come along every day.

Erin go L Word

2008-03-17T13:02:00.000-07:00

Elizabeth Ziff in her natural habitat

Sorry about the lack of post last week. I can't remember if I was too busy or too bored to actually write something, but it was nice to see that I could roll right into last night without missing a beat. Speaking of, Ziff gave it a rest this week, so the show didn't feature any lengthy slo-mo montages set to wailing guitars. Instead, Chaiken herself took over the pen so the plot revolved around - what else?- PMS. Because as every bad female comic knows, nothing's funnier or more entertaining than "I am SO on the rag" jokes.

Almost immediately we're treated to the evil amnesiac Dawn Denbo who introduced everyone once again to "my lover Cindy" right before ripping the girls' heart out with the announcement that she is now the proud owner of The Planet (thanks to trans-Ivan's sale of his percentage). Like a true villain Dawn's parting words are meant to really twist the knife: "And I'm going to totally re-decorate!" The girls freak out, Kit snaps 'n' bends so hard it looks like she's going to hit the ground, and superheroes everywhere are quaking in their pleather boots.

I've got to hand it to Chaiken. She really used her extended vacation to do a little thinking on metaphor. The running theme of "women and their cycles" followed so nicely on the heels of last week's episode where everyone was looking ridiculous in the Bike-for-a-Cure. This week we were treated to lots and lots of everyone's favorite topic: your/her/our/my period. When in doubt, blame it on the period. She's in a bad mood? It's her period! Alice even used the period as the last word (pun intended?) in her femme-butch disagreement with Sgt. Cutie about splitting the rent on a new shared domicile: "I hope you bleed soon." I think this sums up all of our frustrations. Somebody get this show a Pamprin.

So Jenny is actually starting to get kudos from the production staff which is to say Tina (job title unknown)and the lesbian cinematographer - identified only by her bandana and lens-on-a-rope - got together in Tina's office to have some girl-chat about Jenny's "great stylistic choices." Not for long! "All About Adele" has decided to take Jenny down a peg through good old-fashioned blackmail. She's smart as a whip and cooked up a couple dozen copies of Jenny and Maxim Girl's homemade porno edited so nicely by...Wait, who is responsible for that sexy push in on the strap-on action? No matter because Jenny is caught in the net of her own undoing. With her little black hairbow and smoker's eyebags, she tries to get the cast and crew to bring down the curtain on the whole production, but only Tina and Shane stick by her side. Maxim Girl must honor her contract and remain hetero to see another day. Shane and Jenny get their flirt-on over a soda bottle bong.

Kit channels her salad days and puts on a trench coat to go "do something bad" to Denbo with her gun and her Chevy Impala. But Foxy Brown doesn't go through with it because she gets a call on her Iphone from Bette who is caught in the clutches of a deaf woman who doesn't know the meaning of no and can't find childcare. Later little Angelica nearly becomes a statistic when Foxy leaves her gun lying around. The maximum number of "Baby Girls!" allowable on cable were uttered in this one moment until the requisite knee bend stopped the flow (so to speak).

While guest hosting on "The Look," Alice meets a fashion designer (played by that Australian actress from "Heavenly Creatures) with whom she is supposed to have an instant attraction even though no two people have ever looked less interested in one another. Will she cheat on Tasha to go ride the Aussie's scooter? Stay tuned.

why we have term limits

2008-03-12T14:29:00.001-07:00

What does George Bush do while waiting to introduce John McCain to the press corps? He gets his tap dance-on. Seriously, there's nothing else he could have done while he was standing there? For god's sake, if nothing else, pretend to look presidential. You know Osama bin Laden has a cramp in his side from laughing.

hot times in L city

2008-03-03T06:24:00.000-08:00

Not sure I've ever told you this, but I LOVE television shows which use the proverbial heat wave as an excuse to get everybody hot, bothered and into the sack. Throw a nice amber gel over the lens and you've got yourself desert conditions, just perfect for a little roll in the toasty hay. I especially love this Hollywood device when, in the real world, it's approximately 25 degrees outside and just a few degrees warmer inside thanks to a totally negligent landlord.

I was too busy bundling myself in blankets to notice who wrote this gem of an episode, but I didn't have high hopes when it opened with a lot of folks on set of "Lez Girls" looking jaundiced from the unbelievable amount of amber gel (see above) talking about "the heat" and "will this heat wave ever stop?" while walking around doing what people on the set of movies do. In the case of the female cinematographer that means using a lot of shop talk while wearing really tiny shorts and hiking boots: "Let's get this camera on set" she shouts to her male assistant. "Have you got the 500zt?" or whatever. Blah blah. We get it. It's hot. And this woman knows her shit.

The next highlight comes with the unsinkable Kit Porter who must still be pouring hooch on her Cheerios because nothing gets by this lady without a finger snap and a knee bend. The first words out of her mouth are about fighting "some bitch in the bodega" for the last bag of ice. I've been to LA. I would have killed for a bodega. All I got was a stupid Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf. But leave it to Kit to find the place that sells ice and 40's.

Later Kit and the crew meet up mafioso-style with Dawn Denbo - hands down the most laughable character on TV - to end their turf war the likes of which haven't been seen since, you know, the Bloods and the Crips. According to Dawn, she's come to realize that LA "isn't Miami" which I guess is supposed to highlight what? That the lesbians in LA aren't octogenarians? In keeping with the senile theme, Dawn reminded everyone that Cindy - the woman sitting directly to her right - is in fact her "lover." Jenny is forced to give "your lover Cindy" a bit part in her movie. Everyone takes a Cuban cigar, pushes past the female bodyguards (because Dawn Denbo = Suge Knight) and the show goes on...and on.

In case you forgot or missed the drops of sweat everywhere, it's hot. The rolling blackouts have synchronized everyone's jiggy clock and at some point all of LA is getting it on to the dulcid sounds of a song with the lyric "everything is perfect now:"

1. Bette and Tina hook it up in a stuck elevator
2. Max loses his guy-ginity to the deaf interpreter in short shorts
3. Shane gets played by her straight-girl crush who loves her for her "simplicity" and because she's "not Richard" which is ancient code by which straight people identify lesbians (as in "That girl with the mullet? She's not Richard.")
4. Though Kelly McGillis was mercifully absent from this episode, her memory lived on when Alice went down on Tasha (whose orgasm more closely resembled giving birth) when the synth-guitar music kicked in.
5. Jenny's stalker - Adele - almost tricks Niki into believing she's Jenny. Doppelganger kiss ensues.

Due to the prolonged music interlude and nudeness about town, I'm going to venture a guess and say this was a Ziff creation. Whatever it was, hot wasn't one of them and, to quote Kit "that ain't no thang."

have you seen this man?

2008-03-01T23:06:00.000-08:00

Roger C.: Just chillin'

Just because I haven't had the heart to update I Heart Roger Clark since he decided to lose a few lbs and most of his sense of humor, doesn't meant that I don't still love the guy. Roger, you are NY1. Hell, you are New York City. What good are the five boroughs and all the lunacy that exists within them without you there to "report" on it. Come on back and we'll forget all about this little hiatus.