Celebrity Island - Vote Now!

Who gets voted off Celebrity Island? Stay tuned....

Maybe its my advanced age (?) but my tolerance for celebrity culture is wearing thin. Why can't we vote on who gets to be famous, to be a celebrity, to be shoved in our faces 24/7?

and why, oh god, why do they hire these inarticulate people to host and announce?
I just heard a pussycat doll announce "Caryann Ameoba " would be coming up shortly,
Who gave her the job?

For the past few weeks its been Jay Leno and Conan O'Brien and the twits at NBC who decided to yank Conan and be a Leno giver (finally, we have absolved the Indians) to take back his show. Personally, I feel each of those nitwit executives, Leno, and O'Brien should donate $1 million each to Haiti relief for putting us thru this nonsense. But,  it doesn't stop there.

Oprah has to chastise Jay on her show and I guess you are only released of your sins if you appear.
Oh, Tiger, where are you? Who is she?  "Big Mama?"  I still cringe about the poor guy who faked his memoirs and got a brutal bitch slap on Oprah.

As for Tiger and Elin, I personally don't care who Tiger bonks, but somebody, please, tell me where Elin gets those really cool sunglasses.

And then, there's Sundance, the only interesting film community, but god knows what's going on since now its all about celebrity face time. I have to watch Mario Lopez sample ten different types of cuisine at Park City, Utah, instead of finding out about any films. I find out much later that there is this really cool documentary about Afghanistan by Sebastian Junger, who brought us the only book I will ever read about weather - The Perfect Storm.

There's no news anymore. I have no idea if I will have health care. I can't get away from Brangelina if I tried, but I would like to housesit for them, not babysit, house sit, since apparently they own twenty or thirty houses. How do I get THAT job?

They trivialize the news so much that when Nancy Kerrigan's father died - all I could think of was not that she won an Olympic silver medal but how she is more famous for crying on TV, saying, "Why........why?????? "

And OMG, I am from New Jersey, so I always knew the Jersey Shore was an ongoing reality show, but these guidos are pulled from deepest darkest NJ, and they even put Danielle and Theresa of North Jersey housewifery to shame.(You Hawe!)

How can we vote these people off of Celebrity Island?  Never mind Spiedi and her now plasticized face serving as a cautionary tale, but I propose a lottery where two complete unknowns get facetime and and celebrities get tossed, blacklisted.  It used to happen naturally as in "where are they now,' but now they never seem to die, even if they die!

XMAS Frenzy Redux...

 Okay, remember last Christmas? Me neither....
I go visit my brother, his wife, their three grown children, and circle of friends from our hometown who now reside in L.A.
Heh, I'm single, and I'm just happy I have a place to go, but there's alot of people out there who flail about looking for Xmas. As they grow up and the elderly tier of their families DIE, they try to hang on to old traditions
But, my sister, her husband, their only child, a  grown-up, decided to embark on a Caribbean Cruise with my cousin, her husband, who grew tired of Christmas spent on the highways of New Jersey, which are often fairly icy at this time of year.

Only, the blizzard came a day early, and my cousin, Katie and her husband, Kevin, got caught in the tailwinds of a Nor'easter and their flight to Miami was cancelled -  abruptly on their way to Christmas in the Carribbean. That was a dream come true for me, and I was living vicariously through their experience, as I am an impoverished writer. But, I do live in San Diego, having escaped the brittle New Jersey winters out of fear of falling and breaking a hip. So, bah humbug, I say. But, I was so bummed for them. because, now there's a break in the force of the family web. Oh, c'mon, you know what I'm talking about.

My niece, a New Yorker, spent all night in the airport, waiting for a standby flight to Miami, and gosh darn it, she made it! But, then, I always thought she had a broomstick.

My sister and her husband drove through torrential downpours to get to Miami from their beachfront villa in North Carolina. They made it.

So, I call my cousin and try to sympathize, but bah, I'm having Xmas dread, nonetheless, and wonder, when do I get my  Christmas Cruise? Even, the little jaunt down to Ensenada would be great. Maybe, next year.
Why don't I ever have the dough to go? I'm always paying off Last Year...

I am so sick of being a struggling writer! Its time to publish the trashy bestseller! Tender is the Loin! I'm gonna make it so trashy, that it sells 25million copies. Only, I don't have an agent. I can't get published. Publishing is 'down." There's a recession on. The public is not buying hard copy novels anymore - they are buying E Books. Am I too late to be Jaqueline Suzann? or whatsername? or his name? Stephanie Meyer? Heh, I was a vampire when vampires were not cool...

C'mon, I need a little Christmas, right this very minute.....
candles in the window...

I'm gonna repeat a blog for your reading pleasure although people do not read anymore.
apparently, I will have to start a porn website...

The rerun:
I'm one of those people who prefers the Bermuda Triangle to Christmas and here's why:

I had a succession of retail jobs in high school and college where looped Christmas music drummed into my brain a monotonous cadence triggering subsequent psychotic episodes.

 cue audio:

...Just hear those sleigh bells jingle-ing Ring ting tingle-ing too Come on, it's lovely weather
For a sleigh ride together with you Outside the snow is falling And friends are calling "You Hoo"
Come on, it's lovely weather For a sleigh ride together with you 

Giddy-yap giddy-yap giddy-yap let's go ...

Another reason I don't like Christmas is THE DEAD.

Dead people seem to pop up at Christmas as 'we gotta go to the cemetary and put a grave cover on them..."  A grave cover is not cheap. I had a  happy childhood and enjoyed Christmas up until people started up and dying around the holidays, when a worldwide phenomenon of depression takes hold, and people decide to check out. And, then I had to engage in keeping them in their graves by 'covering' them with expensive evergreen blankets.

I saw people go into Christmas Frenzy where they shopped till they dropped, spent money they did not have, and and decked and decorated the halls with unpaid child labor.  I still hate gift wrapping.

Forced Socializing - Who doesn't love a christmas party with coworkers you can't stand?

My favorite? A endless boat ride around the harbor, a three hour tour, where the successive turns and swings made me seasick.

Begging - Everybody comes out of the woodwork trying to separate you from your cash.

I see posters for food banks and wonder where I can get on line.

Jesus - There is a timeline that accurately states Jesus was born in and around April 6th.

Do you KNOW how many times they've tampered with the calendar?

Jesus Redux - Don't pretend you celebrate Christmas for him and make your one visit to Church to atone for your sins. It doesn't work that way.

Okay, forgive yourself, you heathen

Jews - Jesus was Jewish, so why aren't we?  And, Jews don't go into Christmas Frenzy! They go to the movies!

Entrepreneurial spirit - The best way to make money is to have a Christmas Tree farm, get the farm deduction, and work three weeks out of the year. And, think of the secondary market in grave covers.

Santa - St. Nick, Santa Claus, whoever is a pagan god and gives you insight into greed and avarice, but its a lovely German myth. Ho Ho Ho...but one thing about this myth is:

TOYS OR ELSE!  when small children, some of which you never even met, demand you buy them toys and I'm sorry, but toys are not cheap.  Try to find a 'toy' for under $40 these days.

Drinking - no state secret that those depressed people are three sheets to the wind this time of the year. People buy booze, you have to buy booze, everybody is drinking, and if they're not, they are CRABBY.

And, the number one sign of Christmas Frenzy?

People are running away from home...so stay off the roads and away from the airports as many of them have been drinking!

Just hear those sleigh bells jingle-ing Ring ting tingle-ing too Come on, it's lovely weather
For a sleigh ride together with you Outside the snow is falling And friends are calling "You Hoo"
Come on, it's lovely weather  For a sleigh ride together with you Giddy-yap giddy-yap giddy-yap let's go merry xmas!

The BITCH Party

It occurred to me that the USA needs a new political party. There are certain people who email me, and, no matter how tenuous our relationship, they are only seeking an audience to ‘bitch to. ’  They do not care what I think or what I say, they just want to bitch at me, to me, or to anyone else who will listen, read, or give them any attention. Should you open your cornucopia of communications to them, they will invade and never leave.

This new party, I call the BITCH PARTY, would be for the people who love to engage in commentary about politics, society, health care, immigrants, war, peace, nukes, oil, gas, energy, and conservation, hunting, polar bears, guns, and religion, BUT never contribute anything to resolve the problem, but will do their level best to stop anyone else from doing so.

This party has a large majority in the world, and I think I will start it, and make a killing.

First, I will start my long running “Sick Chick Hotline” for both men and women who suffer persecution complexes, think everybody is after them, and of course, wants to bitch ad nauseum.  This works well for the phonaholics.

Then, there’s my Boyfriend Rehabilitation Institute, where you send your old boyfriend to prepare for a new girlfriend, and he needs a few instructions.

Plus, he’s forbidden to contact you.

And, for the politicos, the Bitch Party provides a huge conference call of likeminded people who can ‘discuss’ hellth care and how our government is going commie pinko socialist, and there can be a special chat room for Haters. 

You see, I think people do need to vent these feelings, so as to purge them, but I don’t care to participate. I will just provide the server space and charge them a small fee. Have your credit card ready.

I am SO SICK of the Armageddon!

I’m so sick of the Armageddon…

The Apocalypse, Dooms Day, the End of the world, the End of Days, and even the Rapture…




Good god, when will it end?


All these movies, television shows, books, even the History channel is prophesying the END of the WORLD, and I’m just not buying it.


They promised it in the 1940s, the 1950s, 1960s, the 1970s, 1984, the 1990s, and of course, the year 2000, 2001, and now again, 2012.

This is it!

This is what?

I’ve been around since the 1950s and remember well, the Bomb Scares, the Atomic Bomb scares, the Cold War, when we had our heads up our asses, and it scared the bejesus out of me. I was about 5 years old, heard the air raid siren, and ran down to the basement to hide under a blanket and yelling, “Cmon Mom! You’ll be killed!” while she, nonchalantly, continued doing the laundry.

By the 70s, I was like, ‘Ppfffft” so jaded, even though there were several nuke facility meltdowns, because, you know, I’m just not buying it anymore.

Even 9/11 didn’t throw me, because I knew that was coming. Well, I knew all about Osama and his clan of terrorists. Hell, terrorism has been around forever. They were skyjacking planes in the 70s.

And, I have lost all respect for The History Channel who obviously cares little for history with their programs featuring the "Antichrist," the Nostradamus prophesies, and God versus Satan. Their Doomsday programming apparently gets them ratings, but, OMG,what are they selling?

We are a country of complete nuts. When are we going to stop selling fear? And loathing? What if we just kept on living? Wouldn’t it be nice? Of course everybody dies, and yes, the planet will die someday too. Just not now….and when we are sitting around in the year 2525 in our Jetson carjets, won’t we be laughing at the crazy ‘television’ people from a couple of centuries ago. At least I will be, since, of course, I'm immortal.

I'm Not a MORNING PERSON!!!!

Morning Person!!!!!

My idea of a ‘morning show’ is NOT chirpy, cheery chatter or raucous laughter or a rock concert.

I am not “a morning person.” I don’t know about you, but I speak Swedish before 12 noon. I need a half gallon of espresso to start my engine. If I could intravenously feed coffee into my veins at 6 A.M. like a morphine drip, I would. Why doesn’t somebody invent that?

Let’s just say, I wake up SLOWLY. I’m a conflicted and tortured artist, who by night, flies into a dream world of strangely subconscious states of memory, psychic suffering, and soul damage.  I toss and turn all night long and wake up and then return to my bizarre dream world. It’s akin to being locked inside a multiplex cinema for days and going from one movie to the next to see what’s playing.  When they told me I had an ‘overactive’ imagination in Journalism school, they weren’t kidding. I think I’m the epitome of a chemical imbalance.

So, when I wake up, I turn on the TV to see if there’s still a world outside. Maybe there’s been an Armageddon, how do I know? A manifestation of my nightmares comes alive in society. So, I have to be sure what is psychic and what is schizoid, and to check the weather and traffic, but, instead of sobering news and information, I’m subject to Meredith and Matt, Al and whoever, cheerleading us on to seize the day with our meager salaries and wages and/or unemployment while they partake in a variety show of music, dance, comedy, and not much news, except for the occasionally scare of disease, pestilence, and plague. Yesterday, it was showerheads that contain a contaminant microbiological virus that will shower you with Cancer.

Why are these people so happy? Aside from their seven figure salaries and two hour work day, I think they are ‘on’ something,’ and I want some.  My morning routine is reminiscent of the Jews being loaded onto cattle cars to get gassed by Nazis. And, yes, I have the same dread, or psychic scar, since I’m pretty sure I was a Jew in a previous life. And - probably killed by Nazis.  Or I read Ann Frank’s diary when I was much too impressionable. .

I did have a past life regression once, and realized I was a scribe in Ancient Egypt (and probably Jewish) and was killed by a cruel master. That’s all I remember, but I’ve had other past lives, none of which included being a princess or living in the lap of luxury. So, of course, I’m tortured each night by the collective unconscious. Aren’t you?

Okay, so Morning People, here’s advice for dealing with those of us living under rocks, in caves, under mushrooms, who prefer darkness, computer screens, movie theaters, and NIGHT TIME, do not speak loudly, or shine your light on us. We might be vampires and bite you. And, keep your children away since we know they are roosters who rise at the crack of dawn to cock a doodle doo, and Do not expect us to smile, laugh, or even talk since it should be apparent we are sleepwalking or sleepworking and its important not to disturb this somnambulism.

A Most Famous Haircut

A long-haired hippie once told me that ‘hair is power,’  and his was flowing down his back, but then, another new age nut told me that “when you cut off your hair, you cut off your past.” I believe both to be true and so when I need to be resurrected, I get a nice, short haircut.

In 1985, I got a job at the New Yorker Magazine. Yes, The New Yorker Magazine, famous for its Algonquin Round Table of notable writers featuring Dorothy Parker, later, Truman Capote, hilarious cartoons, old master and venerable editor, William Shawn, and the spawn of a thousand books and novels.   After I landed a job there, they had a corporate takeover by Conde Nast, the house of Vogue, Glamour, and Anna Wintour.

It was a bloodbath. Heads rolled out the door faster than in Medieval England.

Then, I got my hair cut. Not just cut, but Mohawked with shaved whitewalls, punked, tufted, and so ‘new wave,’ and so befitting any twenty-something traipsing into New York City every day.

My sister in law, Valerie, had hers done and took me to her hairdresser and neighbor, Rich Demers. We were too cool for words. It was akin to Rihanna ‘s hair style now. And, while punkdom was in full force in 1985 New York, it had not yet invaded corporate America.

When I arrived at the staid New Yorker, a hush fell over the crowd in the elevator, and a silent alarm hissed through the hallways about my new buzz cut. Suddenly, I was summoned to the executive offices upstairs on some trumped up errand, and stood at attention while two or three female executives circled around me like hawks. They were talking about my ‘errand,’ but really, they just wanted to see my hair.

Then, I noticed some new haircuts in the office. Not as extreme as mine, mind you, but short, punked out, and a little spiky.

The next benchmark: I’m walking through Bryant Park and get stopped by a sketch artist. He insists on drawing my picture. I beg off, saying No, No, No, I have ‘no money, leave me alone!’ and can't imagine what he wanted with me, or having to pose for picture. But, I did, at his insistence. It actually turned out pretty well, and even though posing for more than ten minutes was absolute torture, I’m glad I have this record of my hair because it turns out that this was my one and only fifteen minutes of fame.

At the New Yorker, everybody now knows who I am and my boss didn’t like it.
I referred to him as as "Turtlehead."  You see, I really was a punk.

The writers would bypass him to talk to me, because I was a writer, too. They laughed when I said I ran the "Satire Department."  (They really needed one - why should the cartoonists have all the fun?)

Turtlehead was irked to no end, especially when one old writer suggested, much too loudly, that the magazine "should give ME - Turtlehead's job."'

Sure enough, Turtlehead found a way to put my cute punk head on a stick, and it, too,  rolled out the door.

Oh well, I could have transferred to the hen house of Conde Nast’s nine other rags, but I just didn’t have the nine inch fingernails.

I was famous for my hair, and absolutely nothing else. I have yet to recapture that glory. Even though my hair has been the bane of my existence most of my life, one talented hair stylist managed to carve art out the mess, and for one short season, I was a sensation - a short fifteen minute sensation.

To date, this is my only claim to fame. I don't regret my head and punk haircut rolling out of The New Yorker...I didn’t care – I didn’t fit in there after they axed the Old Guard, anyway, but I did write a few novels and scripts. No fortune, no fame, just typing. And, worse, I haven't had a decent haircut since. 

For a most famous haircut, first go to New Jersey, contact
Rich Demers,
Capelli e Mani 224 Mountain Ave, Springfield, NJ. (973-376-9827 )

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