Archive for June, 2008


June 16, 2008


Timmy and Milo

June 5, 2008

Timmy and Milo: rescued last winter from the Fantastic– did I say Fantastic?– San Gabriel Valley Humane Society.

Timmy’s talents:

1: fall over into somersaults of happiness in anticipation of human contact and lovinzzz

2: train his mistress on the absolute need for daily litter maintenance by standing out side the box mewling with such woe as to break your heart if there is a lone poo inside barring his entry

3: turn on the air conditioner– though he seems to forget he can do so because it shocks the shit out of him whenever he does it (see item 2)

This is Tender Timmy:

Milo’s talents:

1: flush the toilet for the oh-so-neato sound it makes (game ends when handle gets stuck in water running position)

2: turn off the vcr while you are watching something that a) vaguely displeases him or b) he’s already seen

3: crash over large stacks of books at 4a.m. to make sure the proffering of the wet food is coming sooner rather than later

4: knock over any size garbage can that exists on this earth– unless it is wicker in which case one must first gnaw on the rim and snap off a piece before overturning the basket

5: open the hallway closet door–just because

6: take down the dining room curtains– tho this only happened once (i got a new rod)

7: play the messages on the answerting machine– this was his favorite– and was previously employed when the book crashing over wake up call did not generate the desired effect quickly enough. This trick died the day I brought home a tupperware knockoff from the 99 cents store and created what I like to refer to as “Le téléphone…under glass.”

Oh, and let us not forget, the toilet paper parade wherein Milo steals the paper off of the roller thinger and proceeds to march proudly around the house, head thrown back regally, with lil Timmy hot on his heels, in complete awe at how goddamn badass his brother is.

This is Crazy Milo:

My 2 boys.

What awesome looks like

June 4, 2008

Ms. Parker and Me

June 4, 2008

For those who wonder about the title of my blog, which are none of you because I haven’t told people I have a blog save Karen and Sharon, it is taken from a line from Dorothy Parker– said to be what she would exclaim on the ringing of her phone: What fresh Hell is this?

I love her.  She is fabulous.  Read about her.  Read her work.

You will be so much the better for it.   Check out this lil sparkler she telegrammed in response to an editor’s missive bugging her for promised stories while she was away on her honeymoon:

“I’ve been too fucking busy – or vice versa.”


So, other than my admiration of the famed wit of the Vicious Circle

why choose this monkier for my site?  Sadly, it suits my life of late.  Like another quote from Ms. Parker that perfectly encapsulates the past 2 years of my life:

“This wasn’t just plain terrible, this was fancy terrible. This was terrible with raisins in it.”

Like Dottie, though, as down as I get, some how I soldier on.  That’s evident even the blog I am now penning (hahaha– tapping?).  I am doing my level best to pull myself out of the funk with raisins that has been my existence for the last too-long while.

Wish me luck.

Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song,
A medley of extemporanea,
And love is a thing that can never go wrong,
And I am Marie of Roumania.


Tell ’em Charlie Sent Ya

June 3, 2008

So here is the story that I was telling to my friend Sharon that made her say I should create a blog.

Now, I have been fighting the notion of creating a blog for years– ever since the computer geek dude I was dating years ago would quake with insane intensity while bemoaning a lack of readership.  Maybe, I suggested, if he focused his blog on doing a something like giving tech advice instead of just spitting out the random musings of some random dude, he could increase traffic to his site.  But that wasn’t what he wanted.  That isn’t what most bloggers want.  They want, I feel, to add a sense of import to their otherwise regular lives.  They want people to pay attention to them.

This is not the kind of writer I am.

Part of what I love about being a writer is exactly that anonymity that comes with the job.  Even if I were to become a world famous writer, queen of the sceenplay, my public life would go on much as it does now.  No one stalks writers.  No one interrupts a writer at dinner to get an autograph.  My life stays my own.  I am a storyteller.  I make shit up.

This being said, here I am.  But my reasons are selfish.  We writers are known to procrastinate when the muse is being fickle.  My thinking is that were I to have a blog it would force me to write more regularly– which would truly be a gift to myself.  So here goes.

When I was little, I distinctly remember being very confused by the StarKist Tuna commercials.  They upset me on many levels.  First off, and most obviously, it bothered me that Charlie the Tuna wanted so deperately to be caught so that he then could become my lunch.

His chipper enthusiasm for the hook didn’t jibe with his morbid desire to meet his end.

But that was just the begining of my befuddlement.  Why, I wondered, were these tunafish wearing hats with dark glasses and smoking cigars?  Why did they have such pronounced mobster accents?  And then the enigmatic last line of the commericals, the envoi, as it were: “Tell ’em Charlie sent ya.”

One night, my family and I were watching a stand-up showcase when a commedian came on making fun of the StarKist commercials by saying he had actually taken Charlie’s advice.  He had gone into a grocery store, approached a guy and said, “Hey, Charlie sent me.”  The punchline: “He hands me an envelope with $500.” Confused, I turned to my parents for an explanation.  I was shocked to learn that the joke was a reference to “protection money.” A brief explantion ensued.

Now, growing up in New York, the mafia was a known component of life so I was not shocked by my folks’ explanation of protection money.  What struck me was to wonder why on earth Charlie the Tuna was a mobster.  Why had the decision been made to represent a food company with a fish that had it in him to break your knee caps?

I like to imagine the ad meeting:

Ad dude (and yes, he is a dude it was the 70’s): I’ve got it!

Tuna dude: The MASCOT!

Ad dude: Yes! What about…a tuna fish…and we’ll give him a name…something average Joe-like…like Charlie?

Tuna dude: I see it!

Ad dude: Yes, and wait…oh ho ho, this is gold…he wears a hat, see? and dark glasses…

Tuna dude: And smokes a cigar!

Ad dude: Yessssssssssss!!! And let’s give him a Brooklyn accent and drop subtle yet clear hints that he is a made fish…

It puzzles me to this day.  It’s just too…pardon me, but “fishy”…

So ever after I have been a staunch Chicken of the Sea girl.