Archive for December, 2006

A Good Find

I had never before seen these angry emails between my hero Judd Apatow and the tron who ruined television with That 70’s Show, but here they are. Enjoy.

[PS – Boyfriend just told me I am like 100 years behind on this shit.  I was too busy looking at celebaginas, I guess]


New Years Run

This was how I used to spend New Years.

It Was Therapeutic

Last night, my friends Charlie, Jim and Gil celebrated their birthdays at this place called Deno’s Party House here in NYC. They set up some instruments and invited some of our friends to play some jams.

And then I started singing.

A lot.

For hours.

Mostly Beyonce and Shakira.

I only stopped when Pat Baer came over and threatened to kill me.


Sorry about that guys.


La la la di da






Young Hov

“Stop Laughing.  My fart wasn’t THAT loud.”


If you ever wanted to get me a gift or a pet for which I need not be responsible, I think this would be a good way to do it.

I really love pigs (and I haven’t eaten them in over a year and a half!).

Comfort Books

Maybe you suffer from anxiety like me. And perhaps it gets worse at night, when it’s time to sleep, like me. Or maybe sometimes you wake up feeling panicked with your heart racing, and can not fall back asleep, as I often do.

Or maybe you are MaryKate Olsen and you can’t sleep at night because your bones are crying and missing their muscle.

Regardless, I have been trying to get over my sleepless nights by reading. And pills. But more importantly and educationally – READING!

The first time I did this I picked up some book my mom had lying around – “We Are The Dunleaveys” ( I think?) – which is written by some famous lady whose name any decent lit-head would know. I am not one of them. The book details a tight knit family that goes apeshit when their perfect daughter is raped after a school dance, and because they can’t handle their own insecurities with the situation, they send her away and she becomes some sort of anorexic cult member. This fucker made my heart race so much that all hopes of obtaining some sort of calming effect from the written page was shot. I chucked the thing on my floor never to look back again, but still I spent night after night dreaming about being sent away by my family to some bizarro college cult. I do not know what happens in the end, but my guess the daughter ends up looking like our friend MKO, above, just in shittier shoes.

I am now much more sensible about my comfort books. They are grilled cheese sandwiches and french fries for my brain. I know these books – they sooth me, they make me feel warm and fuzzy and most importantly, tired. In Massachusetts, at my parents house, I use “Miss America” and “Private Parts” by Howard Stern. “Quivers A Life”, by his cohort Robin, is on deck. “Me Talk Pretty One Day” is by my bed in New York City, and I keep an additional copy in Boston just in case. It is also my audio-book of choice for the bus/train/gym. I am a baby in the arms of these books – they help me relax and eventually fall asleep – all the while increasing my literary pedigree.

I’m sure that lady that wrote the smart book about the crazy family with a raped daughter would be proud.

December 2006
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