Dear Blog!
Greetings from my college town, home of the Masshole, Boston! Who is the Masshole, you ask, Blog and readers-who-have-not-lived-in-New England? The Masshole is the blue-collar native of Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Rhode Island, perhaps Connecticut.
On Easter, the liquor store near my BFF's apartment, hosted the Easter Bunny, so drinkers with children could conveniently combine an Easter-alcohol-shopping trip and a photo opportunity with the Easter Bunny. A Masshole is someone who, non-ironically, would take advantage of this exciting festive experience. We visited this liquor store last night, to purchase beer to accompany an anticipated spicy-dinner. I was pushing the stroller containing adorable baby Ray and the liquor store lady, described by my BFF (who is a published writer: www.RoseGowen.com) as jowly bleached blond smelling of cigarettes, said in heavy Boston accent, which means no R's, "The'es goldfish ovah he'ah fo'wah the baby." I relayed that we were headed next door to Wang's Dumplingery for delcious zagat-rated dumplings 'n' crispychicken; the liquor store lady wrinkled her nose, packed up another customer's Colt 45 and expressed distaste for Wang's, describing it as "fancy".
She is a Masshole. It's not a mean thing, it's just a fact. There are rednecky types all the world but the kind born and raised in and around New England is particular to the region. They descend from fishering folk, enjoy Keno and their grandchildren tweenagers give blow jobs to the carnies at Whalin' Park in Fitchburg MA. I learned the term from my many college pals who grew up amongst the Massholes. The Masshole women may also wear sweatshirts with kittens and puppies and Masshole men are beefy with work boots, ball caps with a super-curved brim and both genders smoke, drink and doubtfully do yoga.
Travel brings out the snob in me.
Love The UkuLady
PS: I've developed a heavy celebrity crush on Gael Garcia Bernal! HOT! Meow! Yum! He's been dating Natlie Portman, so now I hate her. But it's promising that my Celebrity Boyfriend Gael likes Heeb ladies.
PPS: My snobbery is totally curbed watching the movie "The Science of Sleep", where everyone is tri-lingual. I need to learn Spanish and brush up on my French so I can steal Gael's heart away from that whore Natalie....
Monday, April 30, 2007
Friday, April 27, 2007
UkuLady in NYC & DuranDuran!
Dear Blog!
Greetings from NYCsies! UkuLady observations of the Capital of Planet Earth:
1. NYC has total Cupcake Fever! They are Everywhere and are twinkie-fied, with frosting centers!
2. Subway is the best teenager-watching! NYC teens are tough and many favor accessories with the word Phat emblazoned on the purse, shirt, hat.
3. Unlike Texas, everything is smaller in NYC. Less room, more people. Houston is more room, big people, perhaps due to large rib portions. How presumptuous of me.
4. NYC is almost like Burning Man to me, in that I'm having sensory overload. Too many cupcakes to taste, too many awesome old friends to see, too many amazing museums and shows I have no time for.
Meanwhile, in other news, when is Katie Holmes going to leave Tom?
Meanwhile, my awesome college galpal BFF, with whom I am staying, is recently single, so I've been coaching her on Making Out with Boys. The favored line is straightforward, "Hey, wanna make out?" delivered in a coy, middle-schoolish way. I'm encouraging her to do some frenching with a variety of fellas before her summer-camp boyfriend moves from New Mexico to her Brooklyn pad, for what seems to be an inspiring long-term mutual-admiration-society moving into fruition - that word looks weird.
My galpal and I worked out an amazing version of "Hungry Like The Wolf" voice and uke last night. We also sang our way through the libretto to "Working", which she directed and cast me in, in college. We agreed there is no choice but to hate Brent Popilizzio, who has become a minor Nickelodeon heartthrob to tweenagers and subsequently has become a total asshole; we googled forgotten classmate/theater majors and we called old college pals and sang "Hungry Like The Wolf" into their voicemails. I'm so selfishly pleased my married girlfriends are starting to get divorces because then they have more time for important galpal activities, iike shopping for liquid glitter eyeliner (which, upon purchase my galpal said to me, "What, are you a drag queen?" and I was like, "No duhsies!") and honing earnestly-delivered renditions of Duran Duran medleys. Rio is on the schedule next.
Good Album or Band Name: Worm Hospital
Love The Ukulady
PS: I will return to NYC forever, but I am a total California girl and yearn for palm trees, beaches and the Golden Gate bridge.
PPS: Yearn, in that I feel cozily nostalgic for home when I travel, but not in that I'm homesick and ready to leave. I could stay in NYC for weeks, as long as I maintained my sorely-missed Anusara yoga schedule.
Greetings from NYCsies! UkuLady observations of the Capital of Planet Earth:
1. NYC has total Cupcake Fever! They are Everywhere and are twinkie-fied, with frosting centers!
2. Subway is the best teenager-watching! NYC teens are tough and many favor accessories with the word Phat emblazoned on the purse, shirt, hat.
3. Unlike Texas, everything is smaller in NYC. Less room, more people. Houston is more room, big people, perhaps due to large rib portions. How presumptuous of me.
4. NYC is almost like Burning Man to me, in that I'm having sensory overload. Too many cupcakes to taste, too many awesome old friends to see, too many amazing museums and shows I have no time for.
Meanwhile, in other news, when is Katie Holmes going to leave Tom?
Meanwhile, my awesome college galpal BFF, with whom I am staying, is recently single, so I've been coaching her on Making Out with Boys. The favored line is straightforward, "Hey, wanna make out?" delivered in a coy, middle-schoolish way. I'm encouraging her to do some frenching with a variety of fellas before her summer-camp boyfriend moves from New Mexico to her Brooklyn pad, for what seems to be an inspiring long-term mutual-admiration-society moving into fruition - that word looks weird.
My galpal and I worked out an amazing version of "Hungry Like The Wolf" voice and uke last night. We also sang our way through the libretto to "Working", which she directed and cast me in, in college. We agreed there is no choice but to hate Brent Popilizzio, who has become a minor Nickelodeon heartthrob to tweenagers and subsequently has become a total asshole; we googled forgotten classmate/theater majors and we called old college pals and sang "Hungry Like The Wolf" into their voicemails. I'm so selfishly pleased my married girlfriends are starting to get divorces because then they have more time for important galpal activities, iike shopping for liquid glitter eyeliner (which, upon purchase my galpal said to me, "What, are you a drag queen?" and I was like, "No duhsies!") and honing earnestly-delivered renditions of Duran Duran medleys. Rio is on the schedule next.
Good Album or Band Name: Worm Hospital
Love The Ukulady
PS: I will return to NYC forever, but I am a total California girl and yearn for palm trees, beaches and the Golden Gate bridge.
PPS: Yearn, in that I feel cozily nostalgic for home when I travel, but not in that I'm homesick and ready to leave. I could stay in NYC for weeks, as long as I maintained my sorely-missed Anusara yoga schedule.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
UkuLady in Houston & Cameltoe FatPouch!
Dear Blog,
I write this from the Everybody-Is-Allowed-Area of Houston Hobby Airport, where the native Texans flock to bid farewells. Everything really is Bigger in Texas. The American Obesity Epidemic is in full bloom here at the Houston airport. In one way, it’s refreshing to be amidst absolutely zero junkie-style-meth-freak hipsters; the Silverlake (LA) Mission (SF) Williamsburg (NYC) artsy hipsters (of which, I’m admittedly, probably one), with super skinny jeans and shaggy/wispy haircuts and eighties-style ballerina flats (although I have none of the above). Although the hipsters are lacking, flats, the shoe, are all over the Houston airport, along with the cork-heeled wedgie; however most of the flats here in Houston encircle sausage-like feet, stuffed into the pleather and fleshily bursting below the cuffs of high-rise pants! Yes, they are alive and well here in Houston! I haven’t seen high-rise jeans in years and I’m pleased to announce they have never gone away. Being at the Houston airport has brought to light an extremely disturbing phenomenon; the Fat-Pouch Cameltoe Roll. I write this dispatch, seemingly surrounded by the displeasing spectacle. It is a cameltoe that goes beyond the Muffin, squeezing the belly of American Obesity Epidemic Victims, into two parts, a vertical equatorial vagina-line; essentially prolonging normal cameltoe all the way to the waist. It’s really unattractive.
Houston Hobby also has an abundance of American Flag garments, from tee-shirts to hats to the previously discussed, ties. I’ve also seen a lot of teen mothers, few non-white people and many skinny-thighed-but-enormously-bellied-women, which makes me feel kind of jealous, as skinny thighs seem to be a genetically-unattainable goal. I also think about how Anusara yoga would really be great for all the Houston Plumpies.
LATER:
I am now in the Passenger-Only waiting area and Aha! Here’s where all the non-white people are. It’s It’s A Small World in real life here amongst the peeps headed to the Capital Of Planet Earth, NYC. The people-color medley reminds me of why I love NYC; the medley, buzzing together in the beehive of the 5 boroughs, forced to interact with one another on the subway, on the streets, in the high-rises. In LA we are isolated in our cars, our huge boulevards and tract-house developments. LA is a medley of peeps, but Angelinos are rarely forced to interact with people other than their constituency. I go to my agency, interact with other voiceover actors; I go to my yoga studio, interact with yoga people, go to gay bars, interact with my gay men. In my neighborhood, I am somewhat ostracized by my Latino neighbors, glared at for asking them to park better so we can all fit, and disliked for moving their trash bins placed in prime-parking spots every garbage night. Crash is totally a right-on movie. The trick to Enjoyment of LA Living is discovering community. Fucking hippie.
Love The UkuLady
PS; Brittney would friggin love the Houston Airport - she'd be amongst her people!
I write this from the Everybody-Is-Allowed-Area of Houston Hobby Airport, where the native Texans flock to bid farewells. Everything really is Bigger in Texas. The American Obesity Epidemic is in full bloom here at the Houston airport. In one way, it’s refreshing to be amidst absolutely zero junkie-style-meth-freak hipsters; the Silverlake (LA) Mission (SF) Williamsburg (NYC) artsy hipsters (of which, I’m admittedly, probably one), with super skinny jeans and shaggy/wispy haircuts and eighties-style ballerina flats (although I have none of the above). Although the hipsters are lacking, flats, the shoe, are all over the Houston airport, along with the cork-heeled wedgie; however most of the flats here in Houston encircle sausage-like feet, stuffed into the pleather and fleshily bursting below the cuffs of high-rise pants! Yes, they are alive and well here in Houston! I haven’t seen high-rise jeans in years and I’m pleased to announce they have never gone away. Being at the Houston airport has brought to light an extremely disturbing phenomenon; the Fat-Pouch Cameltoe Roll. I write this dispatch, seemingly surrounded by the displeasing spectacle. It is a cameltoe that goes beyond the Muffin, squeezing the belly of American Obesity Epidemic Victims, into two parts, a vertical equatorial vagina-line; essentially prolonging normal cameltoe all the way to the waist. It’s really unattractive.
Houston Hobby also has an abundance of American Flag garments, from tee-shirts to hats to the previously discussed, ties. I’ve also seen a lot of teen mothers, few non-white people and many skinny-thighed-but-enormously-bellied-women, which makes me feel kind of jealous, as skinny thighs seem to be a genetically-unattainable goal. I also think about how Anusara yoga would really be great for all the Houston Plumpies.
LATER:
I am now in the Passenger-Only waiting area and Aha! Here’s where all the non-white people are. It’s It’s A Small World in real life here amongst the peeps headed to the Capital Of Planet Earth, NYC. The people-color medley reminds me of why I love NYC; the medley, buzzing together in the beehive of the 5 boroughs, forced to interact with one another on the subway, on the streets, in the high-rises. In LA we are isolated in our cars, our huge boulevards and tract-house developments. LA is a medley of peeps, but Angelinos are rarely forced to interact with people other than their constituency. I go to my agency, interact with other voiceover actors; I go to my yoga studio, interact with yoga people, go to gay bars, interact with my gay men. In my neighborhood, I am somewhat ostracized by my Latino neighbors, glared at for asking them to park better so we can all fit, and disliked for moving their trash bins placed in prime-parking spots every garbage night. Crash is totally a right-on movie. The trick to Enjoyment of LA Living is discovering community. Fucking hippie.
Love The UkuLady
PS; Brittney would friggin love the Houston Airport - she'd be amongst her people!
Monday, April 23, 2007
UkuLady in The AIR!
Dear Blog,
OMG! The Pioneers would totally lose their minds if they knew that today, not only are travelers able to traverse the country in a single day, but that feat is accomplished by flying n a giant metal ‘n’ plastic machine, and one can also use a computer in the air! This is the Ukulady’s first time utilizing Tallulah Petunia Mackulele aloft. Some pre-NYC traveling observations:
1. It is not the wisest choice to request a ride to the airport from a Stoner. Time has no meaning for them, aside from 4:20. I know this because in my youth I was a stoner. Highlights from those years include smoking pot all over Europe; sub-highlight of that highlight, was puffing from an orange Fanta can at Jim Morrison’s Paris grave, where my pals and I gleefully spotted nearby graffiti declaring, “Smoke Pot!”; smoking dirt which had desperately been scoured from a carpet where the bowl had fallen, and as we were either too desperate or too high to discern or care about the difference between the cheap Boston schwag we smoked and actual dirt, so the bowl was repacked; and being caught in the dorms smoking pot senior year in college, by the junior-year RA. Alongside me was Former-Comedy-Partner and Best-Gay-Friend-From-Chicago. FCP was, at the time of Caught! an employee of the college and amazingly, not fired. BGFFC was hit with a hefty fine hours before graduation, which, unless the hefty fine was paid asap, he would be uninvited to graduate from college, potentially robbing his family, who had traveled from California to witness the event, of the inevitable joy and pride the commencement ceremony evokes. He paid the fine. I was sent to Emerson College Drug rehab, where I was the lone senior amongst freshman and we were asked to complete time-wasting tasks, such as listing all the words for being stoned.
So my stoner airport ride was late, but made up for it, by driving me all the way to LAX, rather than the flyaway bus stop. Stoner-Ride’s dashboard displayed healing herbs (not pot) and a half-smoked spliff lay in that little pouchy-scoopy thing under the ashtray – that resty thingy that in my car, holds an old mix tape from my ex ex ex and an aromatherapy squirty bottle from my Current Crush.
2. Once through security at LAX, I made a beeline to the airport lit corner to find out what’s going on with Brittney! Instead of Brittney, People and In Touch, both renown celebrity trash rags, featured cover stories on Prince William’s breakup and Virginia Tech. It’s says a lot about our culture that Prince William’s breakup and the Virginia Tech senselessness, tragedy, loss-for-words-to-describe-the vast and varied emotions-brought-on-from-it, share a magazine cover. I guess Brittney’s laying low.
3. LAX has superior people watching! I can’t wait to get to Houston though, where I’ll really have a lot to say! Already, my flight to Houston carries people in cowboy hats and thick accents and the heavily-twanged couple across the aisle from me are drinking his ‘n’ hers Bud Lights at 11am. Who does that besides rednecks, all-night-gamblers or circuit-party-goers? No, circuit-party boys do E and drink Red Bull. It is in airports where I feel the most repulsively smugly-superior; clutching my New Yorker, as I expertly make my way through the throngs of less-experienced travelers. I’m such a schmuck, judging others on their romance-novel reading-material and lack of familiarity with the new travel rules and regulations. I’m a total judegmental snob, but like Anne Frank, I ultimately do believe everyone is good at heart. What a fucking hippie thing to say. I played Anne once, so I feel I can quote her, as I embodied her for an exhausting 3 months. It was a highly successful run and the final performance I went onstage with a fever of 104, and subsequently went to the hospital afterwards, suffering from a friggin kidney infection.
Love The Ukulady
PS: Time to read up on the cultural events on NYC that I simply cannot miss! NYC makes me feel like Eloise, my first NYC fantasy!
PPS: I even put a rubber band around my nose once, to be just like Eloise, and the tip of my nose was literally purple for a week. Ahhh, childhood….
OMG! The Pioneers would totally lose their minds if they knew that today, not only are travelers able to traverse the country in a single day, but that feat is accomplished by flying n a giant metal ‘n’ plastic machine, and one can also use a computer in the air! This is the Ukulady’s first time utilizing Tallulah Petunia Mackulele aloft. Some pre-NYC traveling observations:
1. It is not the wisest choice to request a ride to the airport from a Stoner. Time has no meaning for them, aside from 4:20. I know this because in my youth I was a stoner. Highlights from those years include smoking pot all over Europe; sub-highlight of that highlight, was puffing from an orange Fanta can at Jim Morrison’s Paris grave, where my pals and I gleefully spotted nearby graffiti declaring, “Smoke Pot!”; smoking dirt which had desperately been scoured from a carpet where the bowl had fallen, and as we were either too desperate or too high to discern or care about the difference between the cheap Boston schwag we smoked and actual dirt, so the bowl was repacked; and being caught in the dorms smoking pot senior year in college, by the junior-year RA. Alongside me was Former-Comedy-Partner and Best-Gay-Friend-From-Chicago. FCP was, at the time of Caught! an employee of the college and amazingly, not fired. BGFFC was hit with a hefty fine hours before graduation, which, unless the hefty fine was paid asap, he would be uninvited to graduate from college, potentially robbing his family, who had traveled from California to witness the event, of the inevitable joy and pride the commencement ceremony evokes. He paid the fine. I was sent to Emerson College Drug rehab, where I was the lone senior amongst freshman and we were asked to complete time-wasting tasks, such as listing all the words for being stoned.
So my stoner airport ride was late, but made up for it, by driving me all the way to LAX, rather than the flyaway bus stop. Stoner-Ride’s dashboard displayed healing herbs (not pot) and a half-smoked spliff lay in that little pouchy-scoopy thing under the ashtray – that resty thingy that in my car, holds an old mix tape from my ex ex ex and an aromatherapy squirty bottle from my Current Crush.
2. Once through security at LAX, I made a beeline to the airport lit corner to find out what’s going on with Brittney! Instead of Brittney, People and In Touch, both renown celebrity trash rags, featured cover stories on Prince William’s breakup and Virginia Tech. It’s says a lot about our culture that Prince William’s breakup and the Virginia Tech senselessness, tragedy, loss-for-words-to-describe-the vast and varied emotions-brought-on-from-it, share a magazine cover. I guess Brittney’s laying low.
3. LAX has superior people watching! I can’t wait to get to Houston though, where I’ll really have a lot to say! Already, my flight to Houston carries people in cowboy hats and thick accents and the heavily-twanged couple across the aisle from me are drinking his ‘n’ hers Bud Lights at 11am. Who does that besides rednecks, all-night-gamblers or circuit-party-goers? No, circuit-party boys do E and drink Red Bull. It is in airports where I feel the most repulsively smugly-superior; clutching my New Yorker, as I expertly make my way through the throngs of less-experienced travelers. I’m such a schmuck, judging others on their romance-novel reading-material and lack of familiarity with the new travel rules and regulations. I’m a total judegmental snob, but like Anne Frank, I ultimately do believe everyone is good at heart. What a fucking hippie thing to say. I played Anne once, so I feel I can quote her, as I embodied her for an exhausting 3 months. It was a highly successful run and the final performance I went onstage with a fever of 104, and subsequently went to the hospital afterwards, suffering from a friggin kidney infection.
Love The Ukulady
PS: Time to read up on the cultural events on NYC that I simply cannot miss! NYC makes me feel like Eloise, my first NYC fantasy!
PPS: I even put a rubber band around my nose once, to be just like Eloise, and the tip of my nose was literally purple for a week. Ahhh, childhood….
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Disneyland Magic!
Dear Blog!
Today was a Special Occasion! In honor of Don Black's 30th birthday last September, I took him to Disneyland! Along for the Special O, were two delightful galpalsies FolkFlower & Saturn Girl. Literally. Folkflower is my Indigo Girls friend and Saturn Girl is my voiceover friend. We were Team Great Day and it was.
Here are the observations from the Gay Boy Capital of Southern California, aka, The Happiest Place on Earth (untrue):
1. Jean Shorts are unattractive on Everyone. Even The Slim should not wear Jean Shorts. I mean the jean shorts that are hemmed and made as shorts, not jean pants which have been haphazardly cut in the heat of summer, to provide relief from a sweltering sun and teen angst. Jean cutoffs, depending on length and the form-fittingness, are on the edge of ok. I believe jeans are meant to be a long-panted garment and are fairly hideous on everyone, as a short. Particularly the plump are fashion-no's, in jean shorts. Not that I am a fashion maven, but I feel strongly about the jean short.
2. Shorts are a tricky item. Many shorts are poorly cut or thoughtlessly designed. It seems the majority of shorts cause it's wearer to look fat, dowdy and ultimately touristy.
3. Shorts that do not fit into the above catagory include Dickies brand, and any baggy-ish cutoffy-Non-Pleated (extremely important) and shorts that go Below the Knee. For some reason, above-the-knee shorts are unflattering on almost everyone; women have a far more difficult task, looking good in shorts, than men. Some woman are luckily, blessed with cellulite-free genes. Not me. Happily, as I found out today, at Disneyland, not most women. Even the slimmest of the slim, generally have cellulite.
4. Almost all the youthful collegiate ride-assistants at Disneyland are totally my peeps, gay boys. Cute musical theatery fellows. It's an interesting juxtoposition, as Walt Disney was a nazi supporter and sheltered several nazi scientists after the Holocaust. These pals of Walt, were the first Imagineers. So it's odd that so many gay men love Disneyland. I love it too. I think it's the kitsch.
5. The best part of Disneyland is the landscaping. Great plants.
6. Gluttony is in the air at Disneyland. What is it about Main Street USA, which feeds me with the impulse to buy ice cream, taffy apples and grandma's fudge? Something about the Good Old Fashioned Fun...leads to Old Fashioned All-American Gluttony. Team Great Day resisted the sugar everywhere and ended our Special Occasion Day in LA's Chinatown. My fortune said I deserve respect and would soon get it. Bring it, Hollywood.
7. I was surprised at the under-abundance of obesity at Disneyland. Certainly I saw my fair share of overly-large "guests", as they call us, but it was nothing compared to the horrifying LA County Fair (see www.TheUkulady.com songpage song: LA County Fair)
8. Small World has a sign right before you embark into the line which says "On This Ride You Will Be Serenaded by Costumed Children From Around The World". Hilarious. Costumed cardboard cut-outs.
9. In Echo Park, before we left for the OC, one galpal told us that her bikini-waxer said,"A girl must 'Scrub The Muffin'". Reminded me of Best Chicago Gay Friend, who's African American officemate told her grandchildren to, "Clean Out Your Pocketbooks Real Good".
10. Speaking of hoohas, the UkuLady was preceded last night at Canter's Kibitz, by the worst singer/songwriter I've ever heard. He actually, earnestly, sang a song which repeatedly included the lyrics, "I wanna kiss her vagina". Makes me feel dirty just writing it. He was sadly beyond awful. Made me feel really good about myself, in that I knew that audience would love me because I certainly would not be singing earnestly about kissing any unmentionables.
Love The UkLady
PS: I love cowboys, pirates, pioneers, cartoon vegetables, ghosts, tropical knick-knackery and mermaids. Ultimately, that's what Disneyland is. And spaceships, ice cream socials, frogs, teacups, butterflies, eyelashed woodland creatures and indiana jones.
PPS: All the ladies of Team Great Day agreed we would totally get it on with Harrison Ford, even in his old-age.
Today was a Special Occasion! In honor of Don Black's 30th birthday last September, I took him to Disneyland! Along for the Special O, were two delightful galpalsies FolkFlower & Saturn Girl. Literally. Folkflower is my Indigo Girls friend and Saturn Girl is my voiceover friend. We were Team Great Day and it was.
Here are the observations from the Gay Boy Capital of Southern California, aka, The Happiest Place on Earth (untrue):
1. Jean Shorts are unattractive on Everyone. Even The Slim should not wear Jean Shorts. I mean the jean shorts that are hemmed and made as shorts, not jean pants which have been haphazardly cut in the heat of summer, to provide relief from a sweltering sun and teen angst. Jean cutoffs, depending on length and the form-fittingness, are on the edge of ok. I believe jeans are meant to be a long-panted garment and are fairly hideous on everyone, as a short. Particularly the plump are fashion-no's, in jean shorts. Not that I am a fashion maven, but I feel strongly about the jean short.
2. Shorts are a tricky item. Many shorts are poorly cut or thoughtlessly designed. It seems the majority of shorts cause it's wearer to look fat, dowdy and ultimately touristy.
3. Shorts that do not fit into the above catagory include Dickies brand, and any baggy-ish cutoffy-Non-Pleated (extremely important) and shorts that go Below the Knee. For some reason, above-the-knee shorts are unflattering on almost everyone; women have a far more difficult task, looking good in shorts, than men. Some woman are luckily, blessed with cellulite-free genes. Not me. Happily, as I found out today, at Disneyland, not most women. Even the slimmest of the slim, generally have cellulite.
4. Almost all the youthful collegiate ride-assistants at Disneyland are totally my peeps, gay boys. Cute musical theatery fellows. It's an interesting juxtoposition, as Walt Disney was a nazi supporter and sheltered several nazi scientists after the Holocaust. These pals of Walt, were the first Imagineers. So it's odd that so many gay men love Disneyland. I love it too. I think it's the kitsch.
5. The best part of Disneyland is the landscaping. Great plants.
6. Gluttony is in the air at Disneyland. What is it about Main Street USA, which feeds me with the impulse to buy ice cream, taffy apples and grandma's fudge? Something about the Good Old Fashioned Fun...leads to Old Fashioned All-American Gluttony. Team Great Day resisted the sugar everywhere and ended our Special Occasion Day in LA's Chinatown. My fortune said I deserve respect and would soon get it. Bring it, Hollywood.
7. I was surprised at the under-abundance of obesity at Disneyland. Certainly I saw my fair share of overly-large "guests", as they call us, but it was nothing compared to the horrifying LA County Fair (see www.TheUkulady.com songpage song: LA County Fair)
8. Small World has a sign right before you embark into the line which says "On This Ride You Will Be Serenaded by Costumed Children From Around The World". Hilarious. Costumed cardboard cut-outs.
9. In Echo Park, before we left for the OC, one galpal told us that her bikini-waxer said,"A girl must 'Scrub The Muffin'". Reminded me of Best Chicago Gay Friend, who's African American officemate told her grandchildren to, "Clean Out Your Pocketbooks Real Good".
10. Speaking of hoohas, the UkuLady was preceded last night at Canter's Kibitz, by the worst singer/songwriter I've ever heard. He actually, earnestly, sang a song which repeatedly included the lyrics, "I wanna kiss her vagina". Makes me feel dirty just writing it. He was sadly beyond awful. Made me feel really good about myself, in that I knew that audience would love me because I certainly would not be singing earnestly about kissing any unmentionables.
Love The UkLady
PS: I love cowboys, pirates, pioneers, cartoon vegetables, ghosts, tropical knick-knackery and mermaids. Ultimately, that's what Disneyland is. And spaceships, ice cream socials, frogs, teacups, butterflies, eyelashed woodland creatures and indiana jones.
PPS: All the ladies of Team Great Day agreed we would totally get it on with Harrison Ford, even in his old-age.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Couch Count of EP
Dear Blog,
Just a quickie update on the Couch Count of The Couches of Echo Park: today in a two-block radius I counted 5 couches! This is a ridiculous number of streetcouches. Mostly because I don't understand how the abandoned pee-ridden-beer'n'cat-hair-coated couches are always in front of the seemingly-same apartment buildings. Are the inhabitants constantly purchasing new and discarding used, couches? I am a one-couch kind of gal. In my SF apartment, we had The Pink Whale, a vintage pink couch which was so large, it took over 8 hours to get into the apartment. Moving out, The Pink Whale was sadly and rather violently, chopped into pieces. Subsequently, my Echo Park pad had one distressingly-dusty totally-uncomfortable couch, which left Echo Park with the Big Change (breakup - see www.TheUkuLady.com songpage for breakup songs: Ice Cream, Another Breakup Song, Bonnie Brae Lament). I now play ukuele on Marty Ballins's (of The Jefferson Airplane) couch in EP. It is aqua and black vinyl, art-deco, purchased at his garage sale. In Marin County it is normal for aging rock stars to have garage sales. So I've had 2 couches in 3 years, which seems reasonable, almost extravagant. Apparently my neighbors are re-furnishing every week or two.... Weird.
Love The UkuLady
PS: Hilary Duff's album is being marketed as "The Most Highly Anticipated Album of the Year!". By whom? Certainly not I, nor anyone I know.
PPS: Why do airline pilots always wear American Flag ties? I think they are tacky and it doesn't make me feel any safer. If they wore ties with Muppets featured on them, then I would probably feel a warm feeling of safety, rather than the disdain and embarassment I feel when I look upon the American Flag.
Just a quickie update on the Couch Count of The Couches of Echo Park: today in a two-block radius I counted 5 couches! This is a ridiculous number of streetcouches. Mostly because I don't understand how the abandoned pee-ridden-beer'n'cat-hair-coated couches are always in front of the seemingly-same apartment buildings. Are the inhabitants constantly purchasing new and discarding used, couches? I am a one-couch kind of gal. In my SF apartment, we had The Pink Whale, a vintage pink couch which was so large, it took over 8 hours to get into the apartment. Moving out, The Pink Whale was sadly and rather violently, chopped into pieces. Subsequently, my Echo Park pad had one distressingly-dusty totally-uncomfortable couch, which left Echo Park with the Big Change (breakup - see www.TheUkuLady.com songpage for breakup songs: Ice Cream, Another Breakup Song, Bonnie Brae Lament). I now play ukuele on Marty Ballins's (of The Jefferson Airplane) couch in EP. It is aqua and black vinyl, art-deco, purchased at his garage sale. In Marin County it is normal for aging rock stars to have garage sales. So I've had 2 couches in 3 years, which seems reasonable, almost extravagant. Apparently my neighbors are re-furnishing every week or two.... Weird.
Love The UkuLady
PS: Hilary Duff's album is being marketed as "The Most Highly Anticipated Album of the Year!". By whom? Certainly not I, nor anyone I know.
PPS: Why do airline pilots always wear American Flag ties? I think they are tacky and it doesn't make me feel any safer. If they wore ties with Muppets featured on them, then I would probably feel a warm feeling of safety, rather than the disdain and embarassment I feel when I look upon the American Flag.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Cinchy!
Dear Blog,
The UkuLady is so over news of suicide bombings in iraq, racial--freakout-incidents and the Severe Lack of Left-Turn Lanes and arrows in Los Angeles. The first two topics only briefly affect my mood. The Severe Lack Of LFT&A's in LA are a constant. As are Mini-vans, the seemingly-car-of-choice for really bad and slow drivers who are partial to beanie babies and Jesus fish. I've ranted about this before. How fucking boring and repetetive. Oh, I've been censured from my former-weekly Uke shows at the Heeb Deli for saying Fuck too much. It's my upbringing; my former-NYC-Cab-Driver dad says it a lot too, as in "These fucking mini-van drivers driving 45 in the fucking fast lane on the fucking freeway!".
Meanwhile, I'm wondering if the kids are still saying, "Get Jiggy" and "That's da Bomb". My yoga teacher said "Cinchy" the other day, as in, "This pose is cinchy!" It wasn't, but she was describing the kind of attitude that will make the pose Cinchy. Love Cinchy. I don't feel comfortable saying "Jiggy". Cinchy, though...bring it!
Love The UkuLady
PS: I did my taxes and it was pretty cinchy! Everyone should be taught by a fiscally-saavy cultural-heeb (my dad) how to do their own taxes. It's cinchy!
PPS: I'm totesies getting money back!
PPS: The Heebs are truly genetically-fiscally saavy. No one can fire me from my job as the UkuLady, for saying that; because I work for myself; because I am a fiscally-saavy cultural-heeb. It's true. Us, the frizzy-headed, pushy, loud-mouths are totally good with money. It's cinchy because it's genetic. Bring on the debate....(See www.TheUkuLady.com songpage song, "Waxing Confessional")
The UkuLady is so over news of suicide bombings in iraq, racial--freakout-incidents and the Severe Lack of Left-Turn Lanes and arrows in Los Angeles. The first two topics only briefly affect my mood. The Severe Lack Of LFT&A's in LA are a constant. As are Mini-vans, the seemingly-car-of-choice for really bad and slow drivers who are partial to beanie babies and Jesus fish. I've ranted about this before. How fucking boring and repetetive. Oh, I've been censured from my former-weekly Uke shows at the Heeb Deli for saying Fuck too much. It's my upbringing; my former-NYC-Cab-Driver dad says it a lot too, as in "These fucking mini-van drivers driving 45 in the fucking fast lane on the fucking freeway!".
Meanwhile, I'm wondering if the kids are still saying, "Get Jiggy" and "That's da Bomb". My yoga teacher said "Cinchy" the other day, as in, "This pose is cinchy!" It wasn't, but she was describing the kind of attitude that will make the pose Cinchy. Love Cinchy. I don't feel comfortable saying "Jiggy". Cinchy, though...bring it!
Love The UkuLady
PS: I did my taxes and it was pretty cinchy! Everyone should be taught by a fiscally-saavy cultural-heeb (my dad) how to do their own taxes. It's cinchy!
PPS: I'm totesies getting money back!
PPS: The Heebs are truly genetically-fiscally saavy. No one can fire me from my job as the UkuLady, for saying that; because I work for myself; because I am a fiscally-saavy cultural-heeb. It's true. Us, the frizzy-headed, pushy, loud-mouths are totally good with money. It's cinchy because it's genetic. Bring on the debate....(See www.TheUkuLady.com songpage song, "Waxing Confessional")
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Brittney's New Website
Dear Blog,
I rarely have time to "surf" the internet, however yesterday, I found myself in the recording studio watching my producer mix and edit a UkuLady album track. It was kind of ackward sitting there, in the funsies rolling chair, watching him work, so I decided to do a little detective work online and see what Brittney has been up to lately. I've visited her official website before, which is where I learned of the launch of her perfume line, distressingly named, "In Control" (see www.TheUkuLady.com song page song called "Brittney's New Fragrance").
Her pre-rehab website featured pastel colors and a magical animated fairy blowing bubbles. Well Blog, there has been a major shift in Brittney's online marketing campaign. Her post-rehab website home page features a scantily-clad Spears, splayed out in a Come-Fuck-Me-But-First-You-Have-To-Unpeel-The-Tiny-Extremely-Low-Cut-Shorts-I'm-Barely-Wearing. Beside her whore-photo, are animated rotating "Dear Brittney" letters from fans. These rotating letters say things like, "Heal Brittney!" Tammi, Nebraska and "You are an extremely talented young woman and don't let anyone tell you otherwise!" Shep, Manitoba, Canada.
She's really good at doing a pouty child-like-pucker-fuck-me facial expression.
I'm glad I'm not her nanny, child or lover. She seems really high maintenence.
Love The UkuLady
PS: I also went to Lindsey Lohan's website, which also blends the popular Child-Whore image, featuring baby-pink heartsies and fucking hot pictures of Lindsey. She is totally sexy and hot. Brittney, not so much.
PPS: Hypocrisy Thrives! I'm referring to the worldwide epidemic of pedophilia, child-porn and the repulsive sexualization of children. Hellosies? How about not whoring out children? (see www.TheUkuLady.com songpage song "Poor Brittney") That will probably aid in the decline of the rampant epidemic which troubles me to repeat-the-nouns in writing.
If you're going to be a whore, admit it! Own it! Commit to it! Don't pretend you are a non-whore! Be a whore! But be a grown-up whore and lose the child-like fuck-me-pout.
PPPS: As my Best-Gay-Friend-In-Chicago says, regarding tummies, "Own The Roll!"
I rarely have time to "surf" the internet, however yesterday, I found myself in the recording studio watching my producer mix and edit a UkuLady album track. It was kind of ackward sitting there, in the funsies rolling chair, watching him work, so I decided to do a little detective work online and see what Brittney has been up to lately. I've visited her official website before, which is where I learned of the launch of her perfume line, distressingly named, "In Control" (see www.TheUkuLady.com song page song called "Brittney's New Fragrance").
Her pre-rehab website featured pastel colors and a magical animated fairy blowing bubbles. Well Blog, there has been a major shift in Brittney's online marketing campaign. Her post-rehab website home page features a scantily-clad Spears, splayed out in a Come-Fuck-Me-But-First-You-Have-To-Unpeel-The-Tiny-Extremely-Low-Cut-Shorts-I'm-Barely-Wearing. Beside her whore-photo, are animated rotating "Dear Brittney" letters from fans. These rotating letters say things like, "Heal Brittney!" Tammi, Nebraska and "You are an extremely talented young woman and don't let anyone tell you otherwise!" Shep, Manitoba, Canada.
She's really good at doing a pouty child-like-pucker-fuck-me facial expression.
I'm glad I'm not her nanny, child or lover. She seems really high maintenence.
Love The UkuLady
PS: I also went to Lindsey Lohan's website, which also blends the popular Child-Whore image, featuring baby-pink heartsies and fucking hot pictures of Lindsey. She is totally sexy and hot. Brittney, not so much.
PPS: Hypocrisy Thrives! I'm referring to the worldwide epidemic of pedophilia, child-porn and the repulsive sexualization of children. Hellosies? How about not whoring out children? (see www.TheUkuLady.com songpage song "Poor Brittney") That will probably aid in the decline of the rampant epidemic which troubles me to repeat-the-nouns in writing.
If you're going to be a whore, admit it! Own it! Commit to it! Don't pretend you are a non-whore! Be a whore! But be a grown-up whore and lose the child-like fuck-me-pout.
PPPS: As my Best-Gay-Friend-In-Chicago says, regarding tummies, "Own The Roll!"
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Children, Spoken-Word & Mormons
Dear Blog,
Children are generally so cute that even if they were murderers, one would still feel compelled to say, "Awww!" if that child performed a skill at a talent show or something of that ilk.
Love The UkuLady
PS: The UkuLady is pretty different than spoken-word poets. Both are expressing themselves, but The UkuLady isn't quite so earnest, except when she is singing earnestly about love and breaking up. Big Love (but not the Mormon HBO kind) from the UkuLady to all my Spoken-Word Peeps.
PPS: Big Love, the Mormon HBO show, made me hate Chloe Svegny, or however you spell her stupid name, even more than before. She's too cool for school and kind of looks like a horse, but not the My Little Pony kind.
PPS: I'm reading Under The Banner of Heaven, by John Krauker and it is all about how Mormonisim, the world's fastest growing "religion", which is pretty much based on rape, molestation, child abuse, women-enslavement, incest and greed. Good Times. Fucking Crazy Mormons.
Children are generally so cute that even if they were murderers, one would still feel compelled to say, "Awww!" if that child performed a skill at a talent show or something of that ilk.
Love The UkuLady
PS: The UkuLady is pretty different than spoken-word poets. Both are expressing themselves, but The UkuLady isn't quite so earnest, except when she is singing earnestly about love and breaking up. Big Love (but not the Mormon HBO kind) from the UkuLady to all my Spoken-Word Peeps.
PPS: Big Love, the Mormon HBO show, made me hate Chloe Svegny, or however you spell her stupid name, even more than before. She's too cool for school and kind of looks like a horse, but not the My Little Pony kind.
PPS: I'm reading Under The Banner of Heaven, by John Krauker and it is all about how Mormonisim, the world's fastest growing "religion", which is pretty much based on rape, molestation, child abuse, women-enslavement, incest and greed. Good Times. Fucking Crazy Mormons.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Me & The Scientologists
Dear Blog!
Last night I worked, again, for The Scientologists! Dear Blog and Readers, I am so sorry I didn't tell you about the first time I worked for them. I poured that experience into song, entiltled, "I Gave My Social Security Number to The Scientologists!" (see www.TheUkuLady.com song page)
"OMG, Lerner, What is going on?" I'm sure, Blog, you are quiring in your virtual head. Well, Blog, I submitted my voiceover reel via the internet, to a recording studio producing L.Ron HUbbard's short stories and was subsequently hired. I have now recorded 2 of L.Ron's really trashy pulp fiction, audio books and hooked up another friend with the company. She has been hired much more than me; possibly owing to her willowy physique and seemingly-gentile blond-good looks. Little do the Scientologists know, she's Greek. She's also really talented, but the Scientologists, I think, really like the hot starletee beauties, and the more non-darkey-ish, the better. I say this, because L.Ron's short stories are outrageously racist and sexist. They all seem to be about the dashing white guy bringing salvation to the darkey indiginous people.
The people who work at the studio all wear the same outfit - dark pants, minty button down shirts. I wanted to ask them if they ever get to wear their own outfits, but I didn't want to be rude. My theory" the people who are insecure and lost in LA, get sucked into Scientology, a cult, because Scientology is dripping with money and power! The director of these audio books is a total industry professional. Found out last night, after he showed me family photos, that his real mom is Richie Cunningham's mom. As in Mrs. C. As in Happy Days. I was checking out his pics and I was like, your mom is so familiar...is she Jane Wyman? Or Shirley Jones? Anywaysies, the clone/droid/robot/scientology workerbees, who work for practically free, were completely over the moon about the director and his familiy. Totally starstruck. So I'd deduced that they want a piece of the pie, to touch the insider power of hollywood. Because a ridiculously large amount of powerful money people in LA are scientologists.
This is weird: last time I was there, the gaggle of uniformed-cultists, were finishing lunch, which, as I saw from my water-bottle-fill-up-stop in their kitchen, centered around a huge vat of cottage cheese. Last night, they were finishing dinner, and again, it centered around a huge vat of cottage cheese. My roommate, this morning, at coffee-making -time, agreed, that the little he knows about Scientology, he has heard of their odd cottage cheese obsession.
Ultimately, I work for the Scienologists because it's fun doing books-on-tape. L.Ron is the worst trashy-novel writer. He uses sentences like, "She had a stunningly beautiful body." (that was my character last night, an eskimo saved by the whitey) and "The Sledge dogs slavered." and "High firm breasts..."(me again). I suppose it's actually good trashy writing, but I have an extremely low-tolerance for bad writing. I'm a total writing snob, being partial to Haruki Murakami, Roald Dahl and Malcolm Gladwell.
Anywaysies, this Scietology recording studio is owned by Jazz great Chick Correa, to burst the bubble of his apparent-normalcy. They pay really badly and last night, after working for wayway below my usual payrate, i was like, "what the fuck am I doing this for?" And I was supposed to work for them tomorrow, but did some money-come-to-me chanting over my green-candle--hippie-shrine, and luckily the phone rang with a fun and well-paying vo job for some former SF clients.
I kept wanting to ask the Scientologist worker bees things like, "don't you miss wearing shoes other than sensible oxfordy-nurse shoes?" and "Are you really so lonely and insecure that you would become the pawn/semi-servant to a cult, which masks itself as a world religion, although it is based on the writings of a sex-crazed science-fiction tax-evader?" I hope they don't read my blog. They were all extremely nice and the session was fun because we laughed a lot.
Love The UkuLady
ps: There are these ridiculous posters on Hilary Duff taped to the side of the freeway exit ramp, I frequently exit. It seems like the most ludicrious place to market a talentless former-teen pop-sensation. I greatly dislike Hilary Duff, although I'm sure she is really nice. Unlike Paris Hilton, who is clearly a total bitch.
pps: My awesome gay manager danced with his new-lesbian stand-up-comic client at Zach Braff's bar mitzvah, like 20 years ago. They just figured this out because she is his new client, like me. I love him. We listened to show tunes on his tv yesterday.
Last night I worked, again, for The Scientologists! Dear Blog and Readers, I am so sorry I didn't tell you about the first time I worked for them. I poured that experience into song, entiltled, "I Gave My Social Security Number to The Scientologists!" (see www.TheUkuLady.com song page)
"OMG, Lerner, What is going on?" I'm sure, Blog, you are quiring in your virtual head. Well, Blog, I submitted my voiceover reel via the internet, to a recording studio producing L.Ron HUbbard's short stories and was subsequently hired. I have now recorded 2 of L.Ron's really trashy pulp fiction, audio books and hooked up another friend with the company. She has been hired much more than me; possibly owing to her willowy physique and seemingly-gentile blond-good looks. Little do the Scientologists know, she's Greek. She's also really talented, but the Scientologists, I think, really like the hot starletee beauties, and the more non-darkey-ish, the better. I say this, because L.Ron's short stories are outrageously racist and sexist. They all seem to be about the dashing white guy bringing salvation to the darkey indiginous people.
The people who work at the studio all wear the same outfit - dark pants, minty button down shirts. I wanted to ask them if they ever get to wear their own outfits, but I didn't want to be rude. My theory" the people who are insecure and lost in LA, get sucked into Scientology, a cult, because Scientology is dripping with money and power! The director of these audio books is a total industry professional. Found out last night, after he showed me family photos, that his real mom is Richie Cunningham's mom. As in Mrs. C. As in Happy Days. I was checking out his pics and I was like, your mom is so familiar...is she Jane Wyman? Or Shirley Jones? Anywaysies, the clone/droid/robot/scientology workerbees, who work for practically free, were completely over the moon about the director and his familiy. Totally starstruck. So I'd deduced that they want a piece of the pie, to touch the insider power of hollywood. Because a ridiculously large amount of powerful money people in LA are scientologists.
This is weird: last time I was there, the gaggle of uniformed-cultists, were finishing lunch, which, as I saw from my water-bottle-fill-up-stop in their kitchen, centered around a huge vat of cottage cheese. Last night, they were finishing dinner, and again, it centered around a huge vat of cottage cheese. My roommate, this morning, at coffee-making -time, agreed, that the little he knows about Scientology, he has heard of their odd cottage cheese obsession.
Ultimately, I work for the Scienologists because it's fun doing books-on-tape. L.Ron is the worst trashy-novel writer. He uses sentences like, "She had a stunningly beautiful body." (that was my character last night, an eskimo saved by the whitey) and "The Sledge dogs slavered." and "High firm breasts..."(me again). I suppose it's actually good trashy writing, but I have an extremely low-tolerance for bad writing. I'm a total writing snob, being partial to Haruki Murakami, Roald Dahl and Malcolm Gladwell.
Anywaysies, this Scietology recording studio is owned by Jazz great Chick Correa, to burst the bubble of his apparent-normalcy. They pay really badly and last night, after working for wayway below my usual payrate, i was like, "what the fuck am I doing this for?" And I was supposed to work for them tomorrow, but did some money-come-to-me chanting over my green-candle--hippie-shrine, and luckily the phone rang with a fun and well-paying vo job for some former SF clients.
I kept wanting to ask the Scientologist worker bees things like, "don't you miss wearing shoes other than sensible oxfordy-nurse shoes?" and "Are you really so lonely and insecure that you would become the pawn/semi-servant to a cult, which masks itself as a world religion, although it is based on the writings of a sex-crazed science-fiction tax-evader?" I hope they don't read my blog. They were all extremely nice and the session was fun because we laughed a lot.
Love The UkuLady
ps: There are these ridiculous posters on Hilary Duff taped to the side of the freeway exit ramp, I frequently exit. It seems like the most ludicrious place to market a talentless former-teen pop-sensation. I greatly dislike Hilary Duff, although I'm sure she is really nice. Unlike Paris Hilton, who is clearly a total bitch.
pps: My awesome gay manager danced with his new-lesbian stand-up-comic client at Zach Braff's bar mitzvah, like 20 years ago. They just figured this out because she is his new client, like me. I love him. We listened to show tunes on his tv yesterday.
Sunday, April 8, 2007
Whore Potatoes & Man-Breasts
Dear Blog!
Tonight I met the ultimate temptress; I call them Whore Potatoes, made with a secret midwestern recipe. I don't know what I mean when I say Whore Potatoes. Are the potatoes the whore or am I? I think it's me who is the whore for the potatoes. Or the potatoes are a fleet of whores, tempting me with their delicious fat-tastic flavor. The Whore Potatoes were also refered to, at the LA Orphan Easter/Pagan Dinner, as Crack Potatoes. Whore Potatoes is a friendlier term, I think. Whores are more socially-acceptabe than crack. Crack is just straightup totally unredeeming, while Whores are kind of sexy, like the Nevada Mustang Ranch whores or the unionized San Francisco whores.
There used to be a streetfood Chicken stand a couple blocks from my house, on historic Route 66. The Chicken Stand was a magnet for whores, who would linger, waiting for potential clients, the drunken chicken-eaters who would (pardon the pun) flock to the Chicken Stand because it was so delicous and open latenight. We always called it Whore Chicken. It was delicious chicken. These potatoes were outrageously delicious. They had cornflakes on top. Whore Potatoes are a once-a-year treat, unless one is interested in a sheath of winter-lard.
Love The UkuLady
PS: My Best Gay Friend is feeling fat these days (he's not) and tonight insisted he was plump and hence, forced to wear a blouse. He emphatically said to me, "I'm so fat, I'm wearing a blouse!". It was kind of true, the blouse, not the fat part. It was a loose-fitting shirt, which I've rarely seen him in. Loose-fitting garments and gay men don't really go hand in hand, unless they are in a show and need to wear something gauzy, billowy or flowy. BGF also insisted that the other day that he felt oddly uncomfortable and realized the uncomfortablity was caused by his breasts making a crease. He is concerned he has an A-cup and needs to wear a sports-bra. This is not the case. He's adorable and not even pleasantly plump or chubby. Man-Blouse and Man-Breast-Crease. Nothing for my BGF to worry about, but he won't listen to me. I'm just the UkuLady, not a hot gay man ready to get down. The word blouse is hilarious when used in the context of a gay man. Same with Breast Crease. Crease is a great word.
Tonight I met the ultimate temptress; I call them Whore Potatoes, made with a secret midwestern recipe. I don't know what I mean when I say Whore Potatoes. Are the potatoes the whore or am I? I think it's me who is the whore for the potatoes. Or the potatoes are a fleet of whores, tempting me with their delicious fat-tastic flavor. The Whore Potatoes were also refered to, at the LA Orphan Easter/Pagan Dinner, as Crack Potatoes. Whore Potatoes is a friendlier term, I think. Whores are more socially-acceptabe than crack. Crack is just straightup totally unredeeming, while Whores are kind of sexy, like the Nevada Mustang Ranch whores or the unionized San Francisco whores.
There used to be a streetfood Chicken stand a couple blocks from my house, on historic Route 66. The Chicken Stand was a magnet for whores, who would linger, waiting for potential clients, the drunken chicken-eaters who would (pardon the pun) flock to the Chicken Stand because it was so delicous and open latenight. We always called it Whore Chicken. It was delicious chicken. These potatoes were outrageously delicious. They had cornflakes on top. Whore Potatoes are a once-a-year treat, unless one is interested in a sheath of winter-lard.
Love The UkuLady
PS: My Best Gay Friend is feeling fat these days (he's not) and tonight insisted he was plump and hence, forced to wear a blouse. He emphatically said to me, "I'm so fat, I'm wearing a blouse!". It was kind of true, the blouse, not the fat part. It was a loose-fitting shirt, which I've rarely seen him in. Loose-fitting garments and gay men don't really go hand in hand, unless they are in a show and need to wear something gauzy, billowy or flowy. BGF also insisted that the other day that he felt oddly uncomfortable and realized the uncomfortablity was caused by his breasts making a crease. He is concerned he has an A-cup and needs to wear a sports-bra. This is not the case. He's adorable and not even pleasantly plump or chubby. Man-Blouse and Man-Breast-Crease. Nothing for my BGF to worry about, but he won't listen to me. I'm just the UkuLady, not a hot gay man ready to get down. The word blouse is hilarious when used in the context of a gay man. Same with Breast Crease. Crease is a great word.
The Couches of Echo Park
Dear Blog,
I am amazed by the many discarded couches in Echo Park; specifically, on my one-block street. Without fail, there are always at least 2 couches plus, often a medley of mattresses and broken chairs. I can't believe there are enough living spaces to have housed all the abandonded couches. Irritatingly, the seemingly-pee-ridden-couches are apt to linger on my street for weeks, regardless of my good-citizenhood, calling the LA refuse specialty pickup number. Last summer there was a gigantic pile of garbage, including several mattresses, a couple couches and we waited a couple weeks for something to happen to the pile. Nothing did, so we called the special pickup number and went away on vacation. Returned a couple weeks later and the pile was still there, but larger. Finally, I called our city councilman's office. The pile was picked up a couple weeks later. I think it was there for about 2 months. City living.
Once a dead dog was put into a garbage bag and left in front of our house. Me and my duplex neighbors thought it was a stuffed animal, until the flies started swarming. Again, I called a special number. When I lived in San Francisco I never called the police or a special number, in 8 years. Since I've been in LA, 3 years now, I've called at least a dozen times. Someone died in front of our house last year. This person was stabbed at the Burrito King down the street, ran, bleeding and collapsed in front of our plant-filled oasis (totally a paradise, my housey). We were drinking at the oldest French restaurant in LA, staggered home to police tape surrounding our street and weren't allowed past, into the house, for about an hour. And then, only after I threw a mini-drunken-tantrum. We got to our house by climbing over our neighbor's fence. There were blood-stains on the sidewalk the next morning from the dead person. Yikesies.
The couches, however, are really beginning to annoy me. I just can't understand how they keep multiplying. The Couches of Echo Park are like baby mice.
Love The UkuLady
PS: I've developed a crush on John Heder (Napoleon Dynamite) after seeing Blades of Glory. However, his Mormonhood is really un-hot. Maybe I just like his flameyness...love those gay men....
I am amazed by the many discarded couches in Echo Park; specifically, on my one-block street. Without fail, there are always at least 2 couches plus, often a medley of mattresses and broken chairs. I can't believe there are enough living spaces to have housed all the abandonded couches. Irritatingly, the seemingly-pee-ridden-couches are apt to linger on my street for weeks, regardless of my good-citizenhood, calling the LA refuse specialty pickup number. Last summer there was a gigantic pile of garbage, including several mattresses, a couple couches and we waited a couple weeks for something to happen to the pile. Nothing did, so we called the special pickup number and went away on vacation. Returned a couple weeks later and the pile was still there, but larger. Finally, I called our city councilman's office. The pile was picked up a couple weeks later. I think it was there for about 2 months. City living.
Once a dead dog was put into a garbage bag and left in front of our house. Me and my duplex neighbors thought it was a stuffed animal, until the flies started swarming. Again, I called a special number. When I lived in San Francisco I never called the police or a special number, in 8 years. Since I've been in LA, 3 years now, I've called at least a dozen times. Someone died in front of our house last year. This person was stabbed at the Burrito King down the street, ran, bleeding and collapsed in front of our plant-filled oasis (totally a paradise, my housey). We were drinking at the oldest French restaurant in LA, staggered home to police tape surrounding our street and weren't allowed past, into the house, for about an hour. And then, only after I threw a mini-drunken-tantrum. We got to our house by climbing over our neighbor's fence. There were blood-stains on the sidewalk the next morning from the dead person. Yikesies.
The couches, however, are really beginning to annoy me. I just can't understand how they keep multiplying. The Couches of Echo Park are like baby mice.
Love The UkuLady
PS: I've developed a crush on John Heder (Napoleon Dynamite) after seeing Blades of Glory. However, his Mormonhood is really un-hot. Maybe I just like his flameyness...love those gay men....
Thursday, April 5, 2007
Sims-Sessions Winners-of-the-Week!
Dear Blog,
Although we laughed extensively at this week's Sims Session, in fact I was on the floor real-lifesies-weak-kneeed (sp?) there aren't many notes in my comedy notebook. Here are the few nibblets apparently worth writing down:
1. Moose Ganja. This was a Simlish slipup. I think we decided that moose are just funny no matter what. Meese. Whatever.
2. The FriendHeart. You'll find out soon....Ok, I can't resist, it's so delightful! When you and a friend have a disagreement, argument, fight, what have you; and you just want it to be over but you don't really want to work it out with theraputic hippie-attentive listening shit, you can just say to your friend, "Friend Heart." And make a heart with your hands and your friend won't be able to resist. No one can resist the Friend Heart. This is registered by ASCAP, AFTRA and SAG.
3. The Comedy Goat. It was funny at the time. After 6 hours in a recording studio speaking gibberish, almost everything is fucking hilarious.
4. Judo Mo. A Judo Master obviously. Possibly a fellow heeb.
5. Comedy Gold. As in, "That take was Comedy Gold." Or just CoGo.
6. Bell Hops vs. Concierge. Is there really a difference?
7. Nana Mammals. I suppose these would be grandmothers who are also mammals, such as my mom. I am not the child making my mom a grandmother, just for the record.
C'est Tout! As Patreek (phonetically-French-way-to-say Patrick), my, in retrospect, flamingly gay French teacher in high school used to say.
Love The UkuLady
PS: A Swedish couple has been forbidden by the Swedish tax board to name their baby girl Metallica. I think it's a pretty good name. Call her Meta. Very post-modern.
PPS: Speaking of Post-Modern, The UkuLady would like to give a Props-of-sorts Award-of-Theatrical-Dedication to my myspace friend and real life friend, Timmy, who is flying to Greece for 3 days only, in order to catch a couple performances of Nixon in China. That's artistic-appreciation-dedication! Hope you get some airplane tranquilizers.
Although we laughed extensively at this week's Sims Session, in fact I was on the floor real-lifesies-weak-kneeed (sp?) there aren't many notes in my comedy notebook. Here are the few nibblets apparently worth writing down:
1. Moose Ganja. This was a Simlish slipup. I think we decided that moose are just funny no matter what. Meese. Whatever.
2. The FriendHeart. You'll find out soon....Ok, I can't resist, it's so delightful! When you and a friend have a disagreement, argument, fight, what have you; and you just want it to be over but you don't really want to work it out with theraputic hippie-attentive listening shit, you can just say to your friend, "Friend Heart." And make a heart with your hands and your friend won't be able to resist. No one can resist the Friend Heart. This is registered by ASCAP, AFTRA and SAG.
3. The Comedy Goat. It was funny at the time. After 6 hours in a recording studio speaking gibberish, almost everything is fucking hilarious.
4. Judo Mo. A Judo Master obviously. Possibly a fellow heeb.
5. Comedy Gold. As in, "That take was Comedy Gold." Or just CoGo.
6. Bell Hops vs. Concierge. Is there really a difference?
7. Nana Mammals. I suppose these would be grandmothers who are also mammals, such as my mom. I am not the child making my mom a grandmother, just for the record.
C'est Tout! As Patreek (phonetically-French-way-to-say Patrick), my, in retrospect, flamingly gay French teacher in high school used to say.
Love The UkuLady
PS: A Swedish couple has been forbidden by the Swedish tax board to name their baby girl Metallica. I think it's a pretty good name. Call her Meta. Very post-modern.
PPS: Speaking of Post-Modern, The UkuLady would like to give a Props-of-sorts Award-of-Theatrical-Dedication to my myspace friend and real life friend, Timmy, who is flying to Greece for 3 days only, in order to catch a couple performances of Nixon in China. That's artistic-appreciation-dedication! Hope you get some airplane tranquilizers.
Mobizzo; look what I don't got.
Dear Blog,
It's a total bummer to be the voiceover spokesperson for a product that no longer exists. My ship came in a little bit last summer, when I landed the Mobizzo account. Blog, I'm sure you are wondering, as blogs are deep-thinkers in some dimension of existance, what the hell Mobizzo is. It Was a cell-phone download thingy and I was their spokesperson! I made a lot of money, that has since, totally dwindled, saying, "Mobizzo. Look what I got."
Now I am compelled to say, "Mobizzo. Look what I don't got."
If I spoke like I live in Fresno. (Jenna, since you don't live westcoast style, Fresno is considered the armpit of California. Now I'm just being mean to Fresno-residents. My anger at Mobozzo's disappearance is being channeled to Fresno-ites, who may be totally into correct grammar.)
I got a horoscope last year which said I need to develop Maniacal Career Focus. I have and now I have determined that I am Nurturing my Maniacal Career Focus.
Love The UkuLady
PS: It's totally unfair that Hilary Duff is making millions and I'm not. Bitch.
PPS: This blog is being written on Tallulah Petunia! My new computersies! It's like a new car! I encourage everyone to go into debt to have this kind of computer speed and ease. I heart you Lulu!
It's a total bummer to be the voiceover spokesperson for a product that no longer exists. My ship came in a little bit last summer, when I landed the Mobizzo account. Blog, I'm sure you are wondering, as blogs are deep-thinkers in some dimension of existance, what the hell Mobizzo is. It Was a cell-phone download thingy and I was their spokesperson! I made a lot of money, that has since, totally dwindled, saying, "Mobizzo. Look what I got."
Now I am compelled to say, "Mobizzo. Look what I don't got."
If I spoke like I live in Fresno. (Jenna, since you don't live westcoast style, Fresno is considered the armpit of California. Now I'm just being mean to Fresno-residents. My anger at Mobozzo's disappearance is being channeled to Fresno-ites, who may be totally into correct grammar.)
I got a horoscope last year which said I need to develop Maniacal Career Focus. I have and now I have determined that I am Nurturing my Maniacal Career Focus.
Love The UkuLady
PS: It's totally unfair that Hilary Duff is making millions and I'm not. Bitch.
PPS: This blog is being written on Tallulah Petunia! My new computersies! It's like a new car! I encourage everyone to go into debt to have this kind of computer speed and ease. I heart you Lulu!
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
Pork Lodge & Pouches
Dear Blog!
Just now driving home to Echo Park from Canter's Kibitz Room, where I was politely blown-off, I misread the street sign, Park View as Pork View. I wish it was Pork View Street. For some reason, when I'm in my 6-hour Sim sessions, where we speak gibberish, I am compelled to often say Pork Lodge. As in, "Sneeb norbula flidge la Pork Lodge?" And then Jack, my Sim partner in crime, will give me that look, over the microphones, like," You are totally ridiculous - you said Pork lodge AGAIN!" Or when I mistakenly say vaj or waj, which also happens frequently, as in, "Wib globbet, sneej flam worbley vaj?" Jack gives me the same look. It's endearingly amused.
Speaking of the Sims, there were tour groups flocking the EA campus monday. Scores of youthful video-game mavens, taking pictures of things like the EA cafeteria. Granted, it's a nice dining space, but it seems that one's video-game obsession has been taken a bit far, if looking at photos of a cafeteria thrills one.
So I was kindly blown-off of my now-formerly weekly gigs at Canter's deli. 3 weeks ago I was asked to take 3 weeks off. An odd amount of time. I myspace messaged the booking guy, who's very nice, an Echo Park neighbor and a trained opera singer. He never got back to me. So me and my big Annie-rejected balls, got all dolled up tonight, practiced a UkuLady set, which included Rainbow Connection, Facts of Life and Silver Spoons, and showed up at the Kibitz Room anyway. I have a show next week, but I think I'm being kindly phased out. Bummer, as I made up 1000 postcards touting the weekly tuesday shows. I said fuck too much, and was asked to say bleep or friggin instead and my political songs were also censored. A whole lot of censoring for a small lady with a ukulele. I'm edgy! Or I have superior diction, compared to the rock bands that must say fuck or else they're not rock.
Love The UkuLady
PS: I have adult-onset acne! I never had pimples as a teen and since moving to the environmental disaster of LA, I am like a prepubescent tweenager who works amongst frenchfry fryers! Ok, I'm being a tad overdramatic, but I'm being forced by the hand of Narcissim to learn a new beauty evening regime in my old age, so's to remain Askable-For-ID-At-The-Bar.
PPS: I stole a washcloth from the Sofitel Hotel to aid my beauty regime in Echo Park.
PPPS: It's a pouch washcloth and Pouch is one of the Best Words Ever.
Just now driving home to Echo Park from Canter's Kibitz Room, where I was politely blown-off, I misread the street sign, Park View as Pork View. I wish it was Pork View Street. For some reason, when I'm in my 6-hour Sim sessions, where we speak gibberish, I am compelled to often say Pork Lodge. As in, "Sneeb norbula flidge la Pork Lodge?" And then Jack, my Sim partner in crime, will give me that look, over the microphones, like," You are totally ridiculous - you said Pork lodge AGAIN!" Or when I mistakenly say vaj or waj, which also happens frequently, as in, "Wib globbet, sneej flam worbley vaj?" Jack gives me the same look. It's endearingly amused.
Speaking of the Sims, there were tour groups flocking the EA campus monday. Scores of youthful video-game mavens, taking pictures of things like the EA cafeteria. Granted, it's a nice dining space, but it seems that one's video-game obsession has been taken a bit far, if looking at photos of a cafeteria thrills one.
So I was kindly blown-off of my now-formerly weekly gigs at Canter's deli. 3 weeks ago I was asked to take 3 weeks off. An odd amount of time. I myspace messaged the booking guy, who's very nice, an Echo Park neighbor and a trained opera singer. He never got back to me. So me and my big Annie-rejected balls, got all dolled up tonight, practiced a UkuLady set, which included Rainbow Connection, Facts of Life and Silver Spoons, and showed up at the Kibitz Room anyway. I have a show next week, but I think I'm being kindly phased out. Bummer, as I made up 1000 postcards touting the weekly tuesday shows. I said fuck too much, and was asked to say bleep or friggin instead and my political songs were also censored. A whole lot of censoring for a small lady with a ukulele. I'm edgy! Or I have superior diction, compared to the rock bands that must say fuck or else they're not rock.
Love The UkuLady
PS: I have adult-onset acne! I never had pimples as a teen and since moving to the environmental disaster of LA, I am like a prepubescent tweenager who works amongst frenchfry fryers! Ok, I'm being a tad overdramatic, but I'm being forced by the hand of Narcissim to learn a new beauty evening regime in my old age, so's to remain Askable-For-ID-At-The-Bar.
PPS: I stole a washcloth from the Sofitel Hotel to aid my beauty regime in Echo Park.
PPPS: It's a pouch washcloth and Pouch is one of the Best Words Ever.
Sunday, April 1, 2007
Airport Magic!
Dear Blog!
Another distpatch from the Sofitel Hotel bar, sipping my complimentary merlot and nibbling fancy olives and cheesynibblies, all on the Electronic Art's dime! go DreamFollowers! Some observations from my Southwest Airlines weeked travel to share:
1. A tshirt with the slogan "Jesus is my Homeslice"
2. I think my air hostess was a post-op sex-changee - man to woman. I noticed her collegen-inflated lips the moment i stepped on the plane and she pointed a finger at me and said, "Cute!" not to be a total narcissist, but I've been getting that a lot lately. I think it's my newly inflated UkuLady persona I'm flaunting in preparation for my soon-to-be-public figurehood. (Also got the "Cute!" from some teen hippie/homeless kids on Haight street today) Then I noticed she (the possible sex-change stewardess, not my homeless-hippie-teen fans) was either A. a not-very-bad-burn victim with a lot of plastic surgery or B. a man. She had a great figure! Really long, lean legs with a tight boy ass. So I checked out her hands as she was passing drinks and I really can't say for sure. They were kind of big and veiny, but not outrageously so.
3. I like to sit in the front of the plane going to Oakland, so I can get off first. ( I sit on the back Oakland - Burbank because the plane is all old-school and a stair goes to the tarmac from the back of the plane in B-town) So I took a major chance and sat in the 2nd row next to a woman, baby and 7 year old. I like babies and have a bit of baby-fever. The mother was totally surprised someone was as bold as me. The baby was totally cute and although babies are generally the most popular person in a room, a baby is definitely the most unpopular person on an airplane. I bonded with the 7 year old.
4. I saw an Hooter's/Hustler employee in Burbank. She was teeeny and her boobs were unbelievably enormous and fake! Platinum hair and why do these stripper/whore/playmates always wear Juicy Couture sweatsuits when they're not wearing bikinis? I totally ogled.
5. Stewards - man-air-hosts - should not wear shorts. Seated on the plane, I am eye-level with the air-host's/essess legs and airplane proximity is tight and Men in Shorts, lingering in front of me, because they have to count bloody-mary change for the morning-drinkers, is disconcerting.
6. Honey-Roasted peanuts vs. regular - No duhsies. Nuts in general are underated. Go nuts, especially honey-roasted.
Love The UkuLady
PS: Brittney and K-Fed settled! and Katie is Tom's prisoner! I got to read US weekly at the airport. I'm thinking of getting a subscription to go along with my Harpers & New Yorker....
Another distpatch from the Sofitel Hotel bar, sipping my complimentary merlot and nibbling fancy olives and cheesynibblies, all on the Electronic Art's dime! go DreamFollowers! Some observations from my Southwest Airlines weeked travel to share:
1. A tshirt with the slogan "Jesus is my Homeslice"
2. I think my air hostess was a post-op sex-changee - man to woman. I noticed her collegen-inflated lips the moment i stepped on the plane and she pointed a finger at me and said, "Cute!" not to be a total narcissist, but I've been getting that a lot lately. I think it's my newly inflated UkuLady persona I'm flaunting in preparation for my soon-to-be-public figurehood. (Also got the "Cute!" from some teen hippie/homeless kids on Haight street today) Then I noticed she (the possible sex-change stewardess, not my homeless-hippie-teen fans) was either A. a not-very-bad-burn victim with a lot of plastic surgery or B. a man. She had a great figure! Really long, lean legs with a tight boy ass. So I checked out her hands as she was passing drinks and I really can't say for sure. They were kind of big and veiny, but not outrageously so.
3. I like to sit in the front of the plane going to Oakland, so I can get off first. ( I sit on the back Oakland - Burbank because the plane is all old-school and a stair goes to the tarmac from the back of the plane in B-town) So I took a major chance and sat in the 2nd row next to a woman, baby and 7 year old. I like babies and have a bit of baby-fever. The mother was totally surprised someone was as bold as me. The baby was totally cute and although babies are generally the most popular person in a room, a baby is definitely the most unpopular person on an airplane. I bonded with the 7 year old.
4. I saw an Hooter's/Hustler employee in Burbank. She was teeeny and her boobs were unbelievably enormous and fake! Platinum hair and why do these stripper/whore/playmates always wear Juicy Couture sweatsuits when they're not wearing bikinis? I totally ogled.
5. Stewards - man-air-hosts - should not wear shorts. Seated on the plane, I am eye-level with the air-host's/essess legs and airplane proximity is tight and Men in Shorts, lingering in front of me, because they have to count bloody-mary change for the morning-drinkers, is disconcerting.
6. Honey-Roasted peanuts vs. regular - No duhsies. Nuts in general are underated. Go nuts, especially honey-roasted.
Love The UkuLady
PS: Brittney and K-Fed settled! and Katie is Tom's prisoner! I got to read US weekly at the airport. I'm thinking of getting a subscription to go along with my Harpers & New Yorker....
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