Home again, home again, jiggety jig.

As soon as I got off the plane, New York City slapped me in the face. It was freezing cold and people were fighting each other for taxis. Babies cried. Cops yelled. New Orleans faded away from me while I stood in a 30 minute cab line and watched the world collapse.

I woke up the next morning with a balloon head so I called out sick to work. Once the afternoon rolled around, I felt fine, so I did every ounce of laundry from my trip. Everything smelled like booze and boys and needed to be washed immediately.

Last night, my alien roommate told me that he was going out of town from December 18th to “sometime in January”. He informed me that his friend, “Dimitry from Europe”, will be staying in his room while he is visiting family in Texas or Jupiter or somewhere.

“Do I get to meet Dimitry from Europe before this is official?”
“No.”
“Don’t you think that’s weird, since I’ve never met him?”
“Well, you can’t meet him. He’s in Europe.”

A couple months ago, when Joaquin from Jupiter first moved in, we had a conversation about our travel plans during the Chrismukkwanzakkuh Holidays. I mentioned that I had plans for a friend of mine to come to town and spend Christmas with me. Joaquin said no problem.

When I tried to explain why it is strange that some dude is gonna live in some other dude’s room without having met some other dude’s other roommate, a blank look of stupidity washed over his face. Joaquin from Jupiter said that it’s the same thing as me telling him that my friend was staying with me. He failed to understand the difference was that I would still be physically present with my friend for the duration of his week long visit, while Dimitry from Europe would be alone with me for an indefinite amount of time. Seems different to me.

Dimitry from Europe could look like Jake Gyllenhaal and have a thing for chunky gay boys and we could fall in love and he would take me to Europe where he is a DJ and I get to sleep in late, or Dimitry from Europe could be a murdering, drug addicted, sloth who steals everything I own. Either way, Joaquin from Jupiter is a complete moron.

My alien roommate’s and my trails of thought are from two different planets. There are many hilarious stories about what a dense piece of cat crap he is, but this is the one that has broken my will. I’m trying very hard to not escalate this to The Great Christmas War of 2008. How do you reason with someone who has no reason? How do you explain anything to someone who is tuned out to the world around them and only interested in the world directly in front of their loud-eating, smacky-gross face?

I will have my New Orleans blogs up as soon as possible, but my computer is full and won’t let me download all my photos. Of course.

New Orleans! I miss you!

I even miss that tiny, bullshitty shower I had to shower in every day.

Goodbye, Harlem!

I am Twyla Tharp. I am Movin’ Out of Harlem and dancing all the way to Brooklyn! I mean, BKLYN. Wow, that was really musical theatre of me.

This week I am putting the finishing touches on packing and cleaning my room at The Mothership. My Harlem apartment complex is 29 stories tall and four thick towers wide. Twenty-seven billion black people live there and five white gay guys. I’ve met the whiteys several times while doing laundry. We all love to do laundry on Monday nights it seems. Only this coming Monday, I will be in a different laundry facility. Ch-Ch-Ch- Changes!

Stuff I will miss in Harlem: The lady who shouts “TAMALES! TAMALES!” while people empty out of the subway. She is very consistant. She is always there, parked with her banged up cart. Her tamales are muy delicioso! I will also miss the middle eastern teenager who works at Anwal Deli who calls me ‘pops’ for no apparent reason. Sweet potato flan from Tres Burritos, washers and dryers in my building, living with kitties, and ample closet space will all be missed.

Stuff I will not miss in Harlem: The crazy ex-marine who doesn’t wear a shirt and asks me for cigarettes all the time, the goddamn 1 train on the weekends, fuckit – the 1 train anytime, really. Rats, cats with rats in their mouths running across the walkway to The Mothership, the “maintanence” department, not having hot water twice a week, alarm clocks on Saturday, chicken bones in the street, and over an hour commute to work will all be forgotten as soon as the 1st rolls around.

So, I may be a bit busy this week. Don’t get your panties all in a ruffle (Sophia) if I don’t post until after I moved. In the mean time, you can read about how the gossip hounds are predicting that Jake Gyllenhaal is coming out of the closet. As if I couldn’t be more in love with him. Maybe if it was me in this picture with him.

Gyllenhaal’s Wiener

I didn’t know it was possible to fall in love with a pair of homemade capris. Don’t examine his package too closely, you could lose an eye. It might be worth it, though. Click on the picture to enlarge. Not that he needs it.

Ta Ta For Now, Therapy

My therapist is breaking up with me. He looks like an adorable weeble-wobble. I am assuming he is moving to California or somewhere else that steals your soul but doesn’t snow. The day he told me he was leaving, I was going to tell him I wanted to stop sessions soon. Funny timing. A mutual break, very natural. I’m at a great point to be done anyway, and its been exactly two years since the car crash that started it all. I have been eating a ton of fruit this summer. Mostly cantaloupe and pears. It makes your poop different. Recently, I developed an interesting OCD tick where after I crap, I stand up, look at the crap, and, simultaneously flush and say the word ‘excrement’ in my mind – not out loud. I’m moving to Brooklyn soon. Thank god. They have lots of vegetarian grocery stores on Bedford Avenue. Not that I am vegetarian, but lots of hipsters eat that way. Hipsters should piss me off, but they don’t. Instead, I want to make out with them. I shaved my head last weekend because it was Saturday and I didn’t have anything else to do. This is horseshit. I wish I was Anderson Cooper. Fuck. I am excited to put my money I’ll be saving from therapy and join a gym. Also, I will buy some hookers that look like Jake Gyllenhaal. I will also buy a pony.

I Met Jake Gyllenhaal..OMG!

I met Jake Gyllenhaal on Thanksgiving Eve. By met, I mean saw.

I had just started laundry. I needed to grab some stuff from the grocery store to make my Mommy’s Famous White Trash Broccoli Souffle for Thanksgiving the next day. I was on my way to D’Agastino’s grocery store when I saw a little girl scout selling cookies. I took a few minutes to chat with her and her mom and buy a few boxes. I had trouble finding the Velveeta in the overpriced, fancy market so I asked the manager. He slowly walked around with me and helped locate the cheese. On my way up front to pay, in walked Jake and what I believe to be his mother.

It was extremely hard for me not to run up and do or say something insane. Compliment his mothers scarf? Offer him a Thin Mint while I gushed about Brokeback Mountain? Viciously attack his mouth with mine? I wasn’t an arm distance away, but if I had lunged forward with my arm outstretched I would have been. I thought it better not to do any lunging. A loud banging started in my chest. I broke into a cold sweat. I saw spots. For just a moment, I felt that I would faint in front of Jake on the floor of an upscale grocery store on Thanksgiving Eve…(AWESOME!)

I thought it was super adorable that he was shopping the night before Thanksgiving with his mom. I pictured Maggie Gyllenhaal and Peter Skarsgaard back at mom’s amazing West Village loft apartment waiting for them to fetch some last minute holiday items. He was just as I had pictured him and even more squeezably scruffy in person. They appeared to be in the middle of a conversation about french cheeses.

If it had not been for the timing of running into the girls scout and having trouble finding the Velveeta, I may not have had this moment. So, I would like to add to my ‘Thankful List’. I am thankful for girl scouts and Velveeta….go figure.

Put The Sausages Down!

It’s disgusting. The sound of sausages being chewed. Smacky, wacky, slurpy. It is making my pepporoni pizza do cartwheels in my tummy. I want to vomit. The only reason why I am blogging about this is so that the sound of the keys being typed on the keyboard will hopefully drown out the echo of her sausage lips.

Nope. The typing isn’t quite enough. I had to claim that I was hot so I turned on the air conditioner in the room. It is 55 degrees and raining outside. Absolutely no need for the air to be turned on. Noise. Noise…..more precious noise! Oooh! A phone call! I’ll let it ring three times.

OK. They just needed to be transferred to the Fine Arts Department. It appears that Monster Mouth is finished dining. Ah. Silence. Let’s see, what to blog about today…I saw the season premiere of LOST the other night. I think – OH MY GOD! SHE HAS CANTALOUPE! The only thing noisier to slosh around her loosey-goosey, garbage disposal mouth than sausages is motherfucking moist melon! I have to go to a happy place right now….

HAPPY PLACE
EXT. Jake Gyllenhaal’s Oceanside Villa in Italy.

It is a perfect beach day. The weather is completely temperate with a slight breeze coming in from the west. I am sitting on the sun deck writing a third screenplay on my Apple Mac-Mini. Maggie Gyllenhall and Peter Sargaard bring out a delightful tray of baked breads, jams, jellies, cheesey scrambled eggs, tabasco sauce and fresh squeezed papaya juice. They sit with me and comment on 18th century Italian architecture and the merits of the heavily anticipated, newly released sophmore CD by The Postal Service. I say “It might be nice to invite Johnny Depp over for cocktails tonight”.

Jake enters from the archway and tip toes up behind me. Maggie see this but does not let on that I am about to get the pee scared out of me. He is dressed in an almost tight white t-shirt and plaid drawstring pajama bottoms. Jake covers my eyes from behind and giggles in a manly way. “Guess who?”. I respond by reaching up behind him and hugging his neck. A female musician begins playing the cello in the street below.

OK. OK. OK. That was nice. The Great Pit of Carkoon has closed. The Sarlacc is done feasting. Seriously, who eats sausages and cantaloupe for lunch? Back to work.

I can’t believe I just made a Retrun of the Jedi referrence.