Why I Hate Avocados
God forbid a doctor ever tell me “you’ll never walk again” because I’d immediately believe them. Even if I was walking at the exact moment that they told me–I’d suddenly collapse at their suggestion. I’d be a great plant at a hypnotist show. Or prime cult material.
My most gullible era was when I was in my early 20’s and living in Amsterdam, though. Man, was I bossed around a lot when I was there. From a Dutch junkie telling me how to lock my bike up so he could steal it as soon as I walked away, to a Greek man I dated convincing me to have a threesome with him and his friend at the end of the night (“But his date didn’t show up! That’s not fair for him!”).
So, it’s not really a shock that I ended up meeting the only “guru” I think I’ve ever had. And by “guru” I mean someone who was fatter than me and from Texas–both things I held in high esteem at the time. Her name was Cynthia and she had moved to The Netherlands to start an experimental theatre company and to escape the law.
The first assignment she had for me was to repeat the mantra “I’m okay..I’m okay..I’m okay…” all through the day. As I smoked pot and read Dutch children’s books, I’d pause every so often and recite it.
Another pearl of wisdom that Cynthia gave me was the “compliment chest.” As Cynthia lay on my futon eating eight avocados and an entire birthday cake (she did bring out two forks when she emerged from the kitchen with it and offered me one, but I was full–on her behalf), I was to take all the good reviews and nice things that had ever been said to me and put them in a chest and then open that chest up before I went on stage.
Which basically meant I went on stage every night remembering that I had good ankles.
One of the last nights that I saw Cynthia before she disappeared, I walked into my apartment and turned the lights on to discover her seated in a chair smoking cigarettes with tears streaming down her face.
Then, with shaking hands she rolled another cigarette and told me how her big financial backer for the theatre company had “gone crazy” and moved back to Texas, so the company was disbanding. I speak crazy, so I knew that what she meant was that the backer had never officially agreed to give any real money and once he’d gotten sick of spending every night at the CockRing Bar, he went back to his job at IBM.
Which meant the year of work that she’d just promised me and about 29 other artists was now gone–but I didn’t get upset with her. I just stuffed her into my compliment chest and tossed her into the ocean.
I Totally Cleaned the Fuck Out of My Bathroom Last Night
I don’t know if this has already been reported on NY1 or maybe CNN.com or something, but just in case it hasn’t I should probably put the word out there: I cleaned the fuck out of my bathroom last night and holy shit was that shit incredible. It had been a long time coming too since I’ve been living at my current residence for about a year and a half now and had yet to really set sponge to tile (as they say in the trade) the entire time. There was quite an ecosystem going on in there too, but last night I decided to finally take back the night on that fucker once and for all. The neighbors are still talking about it.
I got it all started by scrubbing the tub. I sprinkled some Comet all over the fucking place and then just sort of stared at the porcelain (or whatever the hell that tub is made out of) for a few minutes before really digging in. I even got into the tub itself to do it. I took off my socks and everything. This shit was serious.
After I got done scrubbing the tub itself, I worked my way up to the tiles surrounding the tub. And since no one knows better than me exactly what’s on those tiles, it was a daunting and humbling task. Still, I dug in like an ex-con let loose in Times Square in 1978. It was awesome. The shower tiles were all like “What the fuck?” and I was all like “How you like me now?” I really got those tiles pretty clean. And thank God you can’t really catch anything from your own germs.
After I finished bitchslapping the general tub area, I decided to make my way down to the floor. I sprayed that shit with some floor cleaner shit and within minutes the entire floor (including behind the toilet) could consider itself totally scrubbed the fuck out of. You would have thought that floor was getting ready to go make its First Communion or something it was looking so motherfucking clean and angelic. Damn.
After I got done fucking up the floors, I started to attack the cabinets. As a man who stays in hotels often, I have roughly ten years-worth of hotel soaps, shampoos, conditioners, mouthwash, toothpaste, and various lotions to contend with when I open up that shit. I thought about emptying all the bottles and whatnot into one giant bottle that I could use for all-purpose body washing/moisturizing/breath freshening and/or looking incredibleness, but then I was all like “Fuck it” and started organizing the various products in order of classiness. Four Seasons (Who cares if I was only there for an hour? That shit was paid for!) to the left, Days Inn to the right. Barring any exceptional hygiene issues, I should be set until well into 2019 provided I ignore all that lather, rinse, repeat bullshit (according to something I read once, some guy at a shampoo company–Prell or something–just came up with that so they could sell more shampoo. And it totally worked! Motherfucker got a plaque and everything.).
Once I was through whipping the cabinets into shape, I started fucking up the general sink and mirror area. I cleaned that shit so good that if I could serve lunch on a vertical plane, I would totally have motherfuckers over for lunch on my bathroom mirror right fucking now. Windex, 409, Fantastic–if it comes in a bottle, chances are I sprayed that shit all over my mirror last night. Fuck it.
After I got done with all that shit, I moved on to the toilet. Man, was that a wild scene. I thought about setting it on fire to really kill all the butt and wiener germs once and for all, but then I just sprayed some pine-scented bullshit all over the place, covered my nose and mouth, held back the tears, and got down to business. It was pretty incredible. I got that motherfucker so clean I’ve been holding it in ever since.
By this point, everything was all pretty much cleaned the fuck out of, so I focused my efforts on organizing my various store-bought lotions, creams, and fragrances that I leave out in the open for up-to-the-minute clarifyin’ and beautifyin’, which took up pretty much the rest of the night. I cursed under my breath most of the time, but then I caught a glimpse of my radiant skin in the mirror and remembered how crucial all 46 products really were to making this (I am pointing to myself as I type this) happen.
Anyway, now I’m all like “What the fuck am I gonna do now?” I feel like today is the first day of the rest of my life. Maybe I’ll see what’s going on in the kitchen.
The Town That Olives Forgot
I’m still in Pittsburgh. I can’t sleep because there is a girl in a car who is sobbing to her boyfriend right below my window. The only words I can make out are “noooooo” and “whyyyyyy”. She’s been crying like this for over an hour. It’s been going on for so long I’ve started to sing along with her like you do with a car alarm that’s been going off for a long time. She’s repeated her rhythm enough time that I just jump right in, “nooooooo” beat-beat “whyyyyyy.” It’s like she’s performing the city of Pittsburgh’s sacred welcoming ritual–a desperate drunk girl in a car crying “NOOOOO.”
When I wake up after a few hours of sleep I wander out on to Carson Street to get some breakfast. The streets are littered with beer cans and dead baby birds. Well, I see two dead baby birds. Which seems like too many. The only store open is Schultz’s market and when I walk in I suddenly miss the dead birds and the beer cans. I walk through the store twice and even with all the food being fully packaged–I trust none of it. The store is a little bit what my friend Allison would call “an ice cream and porno store”. I don’t see any porno–but I feel it. You know the kind–the bad porno where the women are missing a few of their fake nails and are slightly bruised on their cellulite. Later in the day, the people I’m here working for tell me, “Oh, don’t buy anything from Shultz’s. They make their own meat.”
Brian, an ex-Marine and old friend of mine from Seattle, found out that I’m visiting his home town so he’s been calling me and telling me where to go. His suggestion for the neighborhood I’m in is Dee’s bar, a sort of punk rock steel-worker bar. Alcohol feels right in Pittsburgh–like eating corn in Indiana. When I walk in to Dee’s I go up to the bar and don’t see the bartender until I look down and see her sitting on a lawn chair behind the bar. She’s not hidden away to secretly read her trashy novel or eat her dinner in peace–she’s just sitting in her chair and staring straight ahead–maybe thinking. When she pours me a giant pint glass of vodka and adds a few melted ice cubes to it, I ask her if she has any olives to help cut the vodka flavor. She looks at me like I just asked her to hand me the glass with only her right hand and to not look me in the eye as she does so. She can’t even stand to look at me after my olive request. “That will be two dollars.”
“Two dollars! Why I won’t pay!” I tried to sound full of hilarious mock outrage but the fear in my eyes may have fucked up my rhythm. She said, “Fine,” turned around and sat back down in her lawn chair. When I told Brian about what happened he yelled at me, “You did what? You pretentious-snobby LA nightmare. Shove your olive up your ass and get over yourself. I ought to kick your ass.”
For more neighborhood ambience I have a neighbor, a large older white gentleman who sits in front of his house blocking the sidewalk. I’m forced to pass him if I want to go anywhere. He never has his shirt on (so his belly can breathe) and he watches an old TV that he rests on his lap. The trucker cap he wears has his own humorous message written on it in black marker. I can’t get close enough to see what he’s written-but the first word is “WOMEN”. He doesn’t sit alone. In the lawn chair next to him is a large stuffed Wiley Coyote. This made me laugh and continues to every time I pass by. Until today when I walked by and noticed that Wiley Coyote was wearing a white silky brand new bra. A “C” cup.
When I ran around the corner and called Brian to tell him what Pittsburgh had done now, Brian very definitely felt that the guy was fucking Wiley. “Oh for sure.”
If I walk by today and Wiley isn’t sitting next to him–and if he tries to tell me “Oh, he’s just laying down inside. He’s tired…” I’m calling the cops.
Weedman was a correspondent on “The Daily Show” with Jon Stewart and lived in New York City right up to the time the Iraq war started. During the Gulf War she lived in Amsterdam and learned Dutch and did odd theatre. When the Iran contra thing was happening she was growing up in Indiana listening to Bowie and Costello. After Kurt died she moved to Seattle and lived there for five years as a writer/performer. She is most well-known for her AWARD winning self absorbed solo shows. Her book, A Woman Trapped in a Woman’s Body, was recently named by the Kirkus Book review as a “Top 10 Indie Book of 2007”. Now she lives in Los Angeles and has had a dreary day appearing on “Curb Your Enthusiasm” and played “hysterical woman” on several episodes of “Reno 911”.
www.laurenweedman.net
I don’t know Mike Edison, but I like him. He’s part of a generation of NYC rummagers who came before me, stirring the trough around here when there was plenty of room at the edges to stink it up. Born in the suburbs of New Jersey, Edison parlayed a teenage marijuana habit into a resume that, in his own words, “reads like a crime scene”:
* driver of the crash car for the Rock Against Reagan tour in ’84, and crowd instigator for Reagan Youth’s sets
* columnist, then editor, of Wrestling’s Main Event, back when such business mattered
* drummer for GG Allin and the Holy Men, Sharky’s Machine, the Raunch Hands, and the Pleasure Fuckers
* author of dozens of anonymous stroke books sold in ye old Times Square
* writer for various Drake Publications offerings (High Society, Celebrity Skin, Hawk, Live Young Girls!)
* freelancer for Al Goldstein’s Screw magazine (and later there in management)
* journalist for Soft Drinks & Beverages Magazine
* publisher of High Times, who led the magazine into its most profitable stretch to date
* frontman and guitarist of Edison Rocket Train
I Have Fun Everywhere I Go (Faber & Faber/Interstellar Roadhouse, 2008) is the story of his life, as told by the man himself. I grabbed a copy at his book release party at Black & White, a bar I used to remember as a hipster dive, Italian restaurant worth a slight damn (depending on how messed up you were), and pre-game spot for SPA Wednesdays back in the dot-com days, before 9/11, when this town’s nightlife was still dealing in young decadence. Edison’s not the type of guy I would have associated with that sort of place, but it didn’t matter: he’s as much a part of what kept NYC as dangerously great as it was for years on end, and his writing is clear, solid evidence of that. Capturing first the awe and confusion, and eventual degenerate mastery of a metropolis on the verge of cultural bankruptcy, his prose dances through tales of peddling smut and heroic benders dance like Nero fiddling his way through the back alleys of a burning Rome. Edison also plies himself as the voice of reason, the one guy in the room who actually gets off on pride in his work, and in this regard he finds himself at odds with the remnants of the culture he loves so dearly (his struggles with the lifetime burnouts of the High Times empire are as entertaining to read as they were frustrating for him to deal with). Still the man trudges, onward and upward, into local legend status.
Sadly the same thing cannot be said for his CD. Sharing the title of the book, Edison recites his text with plenty of gusto, landing him between the Big Bopper and Wolfman Jack. He’s also got respectable backing musicians in Raunch Hands singer Mike Chandler, and producer-guitarist-theremin savant Jon Spencer (yeah, that Jon Spencer, of Blues Explosion fame). Sadly, this comes at a cost; namely, overlong rave-ups where seediness goes to seed, hoedaddy ramblings of the old guy at the corner of the bar to anyone who’ll listen. Great writing doesn’t need to be deflated by such rote music charts or hammy performance, and the lounge-bop-groove tracks have about as much legitimacy as flames on a silk shirt. But hey, in this day and age, who gets to bat .500 and be the last man standing? Edison’s lived it; he gets the pass.
Book Rating: 8.4
Take a Deep Breath…
For the last 3 days I’ve been trying to meditate before I walk out of the apartment where I’m staying in Pittsburgh–I really need to get on the relaxation thing now that I’m going to be here for 5 weeks–not because the city isn’t cool as can be…but because I’m staying in a very Sports Bar-laden area of town. Every few steps I’ll think, “Oh somebody spilled their soup again..where is this popular soup place around here that clearly doesn’t have good lids on their take out containers?” Then I realize that it’s not spilled soup–it’s frat boy throw up everywhere….
Since I’ve been here, I’ve been having these moments in the middle of the night where I’ll get up to get a drink of water…and as I stand in the dark of the kitchen I’ll start to wonder if ghosts are real. Then I think about the twins in The Shining who wanted Danny to come play with them “forever…and ever…and ever”…then right from there I start thinking about the word “eternity”…and then I’m so crippled with existential angst I wish ghosts did exist to give me something else to think about.
“You’ve got a letter here from India,” my boyfriend called to tell me. My Xanax had arrived at our home address in Santa Monica “What?!” I feigned confusion. “India? You’re kidding. Well, just send it to Pittsburgh and I’ll check it out…huh.” He was very upset by the rough little exotic brown envelope that was hand addressed to me. So I told him “Just take it easy…I’m sponsoring a child and he sends me fake Xanax whenever he wants to thank me.”
I accidentally had my Indian online doctor send my pills to relax to the wrong address. So I may be forced to learn to meditate.
Years ago I went on a three day silence and meditation retreat called “The Places that Scare You.” You were supposed to let yourself go right into your greatest fears, let yourself really look at them so that they wouldn’t hold so much power. Since my greatest fear was cheating on my then-current relationship, I was able to really bring that fear out of the shadows and into reality–I acted on it the day after the retreat ended.
Since then I’ve used that as my excuse as to why I don’t meditate: “I better not–I’ll have an affair.”
Speaking of affairs, my boyfriend–the most nervous person I know–has done transcendental meditation for years. He actually comes out of his meditations more stressed out than when he went in. I think he uses his meditations as a chance to construct his side of the argument for whatever fight we may have been in the middle of. His eyes will pop open and he’ll immediately say, “hey, you know what? I did pay that bill but they must have just sent out the notice before they got the check–I can show you online…I paid it and…”
“Go back inside…I don’t think your meditation ‘took,’” I tell him.
“Last night I was able to do it for 4 minutes. I used the very powerful mantra of, “ohmmmmmm–please let the people in India get a label maker so it doesn’t look so suspicious…and please let them get it soon…ohmmmmmm.”
Weedman was a correspondent on “The Daily Show” with Jon Stewart and lived in New York City right up to the time the Iraq war started. During the Gulf War she lived in Amsterdam and learned Dutch and did odd theatre. When the Iran contra thing was happening she was growing up in Indiana listening to Bowie and Costello. After Kurt died she moved to Seattle and lived there for five years as a writer/performer. She is most well-known for her AWARD winning self absorbed solo shows. Her book, A Woman Trapped in a Woman’s Body, was recently named by the Kirkus Book review as a “Top 10 Indie Book of 2007”. Now she lives in Los Angeles and has had a dreary day appearing on “Curb Your Enthusiasm” and played “hysterical woman” on several episodes of “Reno 911”.
www.laurenweedman.net
I Want a Ritalin Patch
Last weekend my beautiful 15 year-old niece and her mother/my sister were visiting me from Indiana. My niece is all about hip-hop and ironically the one part of her body that I got to know very well during her trip was her hip–because that’s the part of her body where she wears her Ritalin patch. If she doesn’t wear her patch, according to her mother, she’s moody. When I complained to her that I don’t believe in putting minors on mood-altering drugs just to suit our comfort levels, my sister reminded me of my last trip home. “Remember when she screamed at me ‘motherfucker, don’t touch my yearbook?’ She wasn’t wearing her patch that day.”
The patch is like a giant piece of packing tape–so my niece has to follow re-applying her lip gloss with yanking her mini skirt down and yanking at the hairs that have gotten stuck to the patch. Cat hairs, sweater hairs…hairs that were blowing by in the wind.
When I was young, my parents were convinced that I had petite mal epilepsy because I seemed to ‘be in my own world’ and I laughed too much. Plus I was adopted, so who knows what had happened to me those 8 days that I was just laying in the garbage bin waiting to be found. So, I’ve always felt almost angry that my niece is being medicated. She’s intense–like I was–so I’m sure that if the ADD thing had been as big back then as it is now, it would be me, and not my niece, yanking my mini skirt down in order to yank the stray hairs that had gotten stuck to it in the course of a day.
Our first stop on their “Lauren’s Hollywood Tour for Visiting Family” was Rose’s Café in Venice for brunch–light and airy and lovely and sunny. My niece and sister said nothing about how lovely the restaurant was… hich made me think they were mad there wasn’t a race car hanging from the ceiling.
My niece spent most of the meal hoping her friend would text her. She liked this friend even though she was a “cockblocker.” That word was like a magic wand–cockblocker tapped me on the forehead and poof I was a fucking granny. Clutching my heart , I asked her if she still had the finger puppets I’d given her for Christmas when she was three, “or have you been using them as whimsical condoms?”
At the end of a long day of shopping I took her and her mom to another café so they could watch me drink. I ended up taking them to a place that I thought would have a Venice Beach-y vacation feel, but instead was a complete date rape sports bar. As we stood at the hostess stand, my niece started hiking her mini skirt up–or down (what’s the difference really)–and ferociously weeding the stuck hairs out of her patch. When she noticed me watching her, she told me that “mommy’s gonna bring one for you tomorrow…you’ll love it. You’re never hungry.”
It was stressing me out wondering if the patch was working…not working…if the restaurant would be appropriate…and would my sister really bring me one of those patches like she’d promised? I had a bunch of phone calls that I’d been putting off…
Weedman was a correspondent on “The Daily Show” with Jon Stewart and lived in New York City right up to the time the Iraq war started. During the Gulf War she lived in Amsterdam and learned Dutch and did odd theatre. When the Iran contra thing was happening she was growing up in Indiana listening to Bowie and Costello. After Kurt died she moved to Seattle and lived there for five years as a writer/performer. She is most well-known for her AWARD winning self absorbed solo shows. Her book, A Woman Trapped in a Woman’s Body, was recently named by the Kirkus Book review as a “Top 10 Indie Book of 2007”. Now she lives in Los Angeles and has had a dreary day appearing on “Curb Your Enthusiasm” and played “hysterical woman” on several episodes of “Reno 911”.
www.laurenweedman.net
A few years ago I wanted to get a tattoo on my wrist that would symbolize “trust your instinct.” Unfortunately I felt compelled to get this tattoo while I was in Idaho.
When I walked into the tattoo parlor in Boise I saw the dreadlocked owner of the store holding a baby so tiny and squishy it looked like it had just dropped out of the mini skirt of the girl standing next to him. (“So glad I didn’t wear underwear today–super easy birth.”) The owner dude looked down at the baby’s face and then handed it right back to its mother with a “gross, get that thing away from me” shudder and he told her that one of the baby’s eyes was way bigger then the other one. “And it’s freaking the shit of out me.”
He then responded to my very simple Hopi Indian design with, “Oh fuck, circles are really hard.” My instinct whispered very softly to me “THIS IS A PLACE OF EVIL…GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE,” and then it told me to wait until I was in prison to get this ink. At least there everyone is pretty much detoxed and they don’t have the morning shakes as bad as this guy had them.
It turns out he was right–circles are really hard. The circle he left on me looked all inbred and fucked up. Just like the Quasimodo baby that he tried to act like he wasn’t the father of.
And imagine my surprise when I got back to LA and discovered that the three little dots that were a part of the tattoo design were the Mexican gang symbol for Mi Vida Loca. Boy, was my face red–with the blood that was gushing from the head wound where a cholo threw a beer can at me in the 7-11 parking lot.
Even though I sort of hoped the gang symbol on my wrist would help me get a better partner at my salsa class, I knew I needed to get it removed, or at least changed into the Chinese symbol for “All Girl Babies Must Be Drowned in the River”.
The hipster LA tattoo parlor that I found magically transformed my jail tat’ into what most people refer to as “a piece of toast with a weird gang design in the middle.”
At first I’d said “No.” when the LA tattoo artist sketched out what looked to me like an old mahjong tile…but he manipulated me. When I said “I don’t really like it” he shook his head and said, “I think you’re making a mistake. It’s actually really cool.” I didn’t want him to think I couldn’t recognize cool when I saw it…so I laid back and let him do it.
When I went to pay for his work, I spotted “tattoo removal brochures” and started to ask for one–but didn’t want to be rude.
Right after it was done I sat in my car thinking of bracelets that I could wear or having my arm sawed off. As I sat sobbing, staring at the bizarre tattoo of what was starting to look like a piece of concrete toast that was now on my body for the rest of my life, I heard on the radio that one of my favorite writers and fellow Hoosier, Kurt Vonnegut, had died.
So every time someone aggressively grabs my wrists and demands to know, “What the hell is that?” I tell them it’s a piece of concrete toast that Kurt Vonnegut wrote about in some of his lesser known works. If they don’t believe me, I lie and say it was the last mahjong tile my grandmother played right before she died. If they don’t believe that, I point out the three dots that are still visible in the design–and threaten to kill them if they ask anymore questions.
No Really, Shut Up
Normally, I don’t talk politics. When I was on “The Daily Show” as a correspondent I had to practice how to say Kofi Annan’s name over and over for a joke that I didn’t even understand. My self-absorption level works well with writing poetry and drinky parties but it can get in the way of good political banter.
But the other day I thought I had a political insight.
Sitting on the beach eating tacos I read about how Winston Churchill loved war. Which I thought was sick and sad and wrong. And much like my personal life.
My friend Gay Jon had recently yelled at me over the phone that I was “addicted to drama”. Which I thought was ironic since he was the one screaming and who moments before was claiming to have lung cancer because he’d been feeling “oddly tired” all the time. He implied that I always create drama because I saw myself as a struggling artist and needed the striving and suffering to feed my work. He claimed that he was sick of me acting like I was a victim to it all and didn’t want to talk to me until I had more pleasant things to say about my life (we haven’t spoken since). I hung up the phone, took Gay Jon out of my contact list in my cell phone and went to Circuit City to buy a Tivo so I don’t have to suffer through the experience of missing another episode of “Intervention”.
Gay Jon was right, though…I like conflict. The tension and the drama. It keeps me feeling productive. I may not have “worked” today at an actual job…but I did spend 3 hours fighting with my boyfriend and getting angry at Sprint. And I may say that I’d like peace…but do I really? I’m sure Winston didn’t say, “God, I love war” out loud. And then there’s Bush.
President Bush and I have so much in common. First there’s the nose thing. I have one…he has one. There have also been moments that I thought I recognized our shared humanity. Like when they told him that we were under terrorist attack–he stopped reading to the kids and looked stunned. When I saw that moment I recognized it as a human moment–“wow, he looks pretty stunned and jolted. That’s how I looked when I found out. God, we’re just alike.” Then he kept reading to the kids–and I thought–“oh, there we go–I’m back to not recognizing him as ‘one of us’ anymore”.
So I thought about how Bush loves war. This sounds simplistic, but he must sadly and oddly love the full on, all-encompassing conflict that leaves room for nothing else. I could get out of my relationship–but why would I want to when I’d be left with such real and deeper issues that take a lot more effort to solve.
But in a war people are dying–so this is a bad comparison.
So for the last 3 days I’ve been living my milk toast liberal motto of “No More War” at home with the BF and have stopped all the conflicts. The sad thing is that once I created peace…the days seemed so long. Not fighting is so lonely.
Peace is so lonely. And how do you know that you’re getting anything done or going anywhere if someone isn’t sobbing on the bathroom floor in his or her underwear. Covered in whipped cream and throwing poker chips at their own face.
The Great Molasses Flood
I was speaking with fellow show business professional Dan Allen today on the topic of Postum, the elusive coffee substitute invented by cereal magnate C.W. Post and made available to the public from 1895 to 2007 (the year its production was controversially halted due to what insiders are calling “a shrinking demand”). As is often the case when one finds himself in the midst of a Postum discussion, the talk eventually turned to molasses, one of Postum’s primary and no-longer-secret ingredients (the others being bran, wheat, and corn dextrin). And it was during this talk of molasses that Dan hipped me to the Boston Molasses Disaster (or “Great Molasses Flood” as it also sometimes awesomely known), arguably one of the top nine or ten molasses-related disasters the New England area has ever seen. The year was 1919 and it was a wild scene to say the least.
As the story goes, the people of the North End neighborhood of “Beantown” (as it is known to “some”) were just going about their business as usual on January 15th of that year, exactly one day before the ratification of the 18th Amendment (which prohibited alcohol production and, ultimately, public groping and fun in general), when shit got seriously crazy all of a sudden. For as long as anyone could remember, the Purity Distilling Company had been maintaining an extremely large molasses tank at 529 Commerce Street. The tank held approximately 2,300,000 gallons (which is to say several shitloads) of the sticky sweet goo and on that fateful day it burst, sending mammoth waves of molasses (reportedly 8 to 15 feet tall, which is generally unheard of in molasses circles) raging throughout the streets at speeds up to 35 miles per hour (again, an extremely impressive molasses-related speed) and with a force of 2 ton/sq. ft (I’m not sure what this means really but it certainly doesn’t sound good).
As you can probably imagine, when a couple million gallons of molasses is sent hurtling through the streets at such girth and speed, well, nobody wins–not even the most die-hard of molasses fans. By all accounts, molasses went everywhere, covered everything and everyone in its path. Horses, dogs, humans–no one was safe and pretty much no one had even guessed that their day would involve such a thing. Author Stephen Puleo, who witnessed the whole grizzly yet delicious debacle, described it like this:
“Molasses, waist deep, covered the street and swirled and bubbled about the wreckage. Here and there struggled a form- whether it was animal or human being was impossible to tell. Only an upheaval, a thrashing about in the sticky mass, showed where any life was…. Horses died like so many flies on sticky fly-paper. The more they struggled, the deeper in the mess they were ensnared. Human beings- men and women- suffered likewise. Anthony di Stasio, walking homeward with his sisters from the Michelangelo School, was picked up by the wave and carried, tumbling on its crest, almost as though he were surfing. Then he grounded and the molasses rolled him like a pebble as the wave diminished. He heard his mother call his name and couldn’t answer, his throat was so clogged with the smothering goo. He passed out, then opened his eyes to find three of his sisters staring at him.”
I find it’s hard to stay mad at a confectionery of any sort for very long, but on that infamous day in 1919 the people of Boston added molasses to their collective shit list for a long time to come and with good reason. By the time the whole thing was over, approximately 150 people were injured and 21 people were killed altogether (easily the largest molasses-related death toll the city of Boston had ever seen). Doctors and surgeons were forced to set up a makeshift hospital specially for the purpose of treating the many victims’ painful yet delicious wounds. And it took over 87,000 man hours to clean up the sticky brown mess. Needless to say, any time anyone in or around Boston so much as mentioned the word molasses after all that they were met with dirty looks, the gnashing of teeth, and the occasional shake of a fist in the air coupled with the fist-shaker in question saying the word molasses out loud with marked disdain.
They say if you walk the streets of the North End neighborhood of Boston on a hot day, you can still catch a whiff of the killer molasses in the air. And naturally, it’s on these days most of all that the locals find themselves once again grappling with the “What the fuck happened?”-ness of it all. Some say the molasses tank burst just from having so much goddamn molasses in it. Others blame faulty rivets. Still others point their finger in the direction of foul play. The one thing they can all agree on, however, is this: molasses sure is tasty and even fun a lot of the time, but just not when there’s so goddamn much of it.
“Empathy for Humanity” or “Ode to Whores” or “Inbred and Corn Fed…Let’s Move to Florida” or “But That’s Not Funny”
It’s the oddest feeling when people laugh at things that aren’t meant to be funny.
“My Grandma died” shouldn’t get a laugh–except maybe if it’s used absurdly. Like if she’s standing right next to you. Or if you quickly tack on, “9 years ago…so that’s why I couldn’t come to your party last night.” Although I’m certainly no laugh police (I’m the dream police). Folks are free to laugh at what they want. Except in Florida.
I just got back from Florida where I performed a solo theatre piece that I wrote called BUST. It’s a play that’s billed as a “dark comedy” about me volunteering in the women’s jail in LA. As I said before, I started volunteering in the jail because I needed to find the one environment in LA where I had a shot at being the prettiest girl in the room–but with all the movie stars serving DUI time, not even the jails can put you on top of the heap anymore…sad. I digress. So BUST the play has comedic elements but it’s also about women caught in a horrific system and who have for the most part been completely forgotten and left inside the jails.
HA HA HA HA!!!
Now, if you are in Florida reading this right now–you are doubled over with yuks. It would have been the line “completely forgotten” that just killed ya. That was the sort of thing they were laughing at. The audience behavior consisted of people laughing at lines about characters being molested, answering their cell phones, or walking out in the middle of the show because they had no idea what was going on. I didn’t have any idea either–but I was on stage so I had to stay.
There’s a point in the play when the character of the prostitute says, “I don’t know how to read or write because when I was in third grade my step dad took me out of school…so I could be with him…so I don’t know how to do any of that stuff.” The line was said and the theatre erupted with laughter. For a second I thought maybe I’d unwittingly made a funny clown face, or a little clown midget that had escaped from the circus had run across the stage behind me being chased by a man dressed like a caveman with a club–you know, stuff they think is funny in Florida.
It was so confusing. The only thing I could come up with is that these were the folks that thought “COPS” was comedy. “Oh boy…here come the dogs! Ha ha ha!! They’re sending the dogs after him–he’s not even going to try to jump that fence is he!” When I mentioned how odd it was for them to be laughing at all the NOT FUNNY parts the woman who booked me said, “well, you said the show was a comedy so they get it into their heads that it’s a comedy and you know.” She blamed the victim…
Which reminds me of a little story…about my ex sister-in-law.
My ex sister-in-law (who has a HOT BOD) would wear outfits that she’d decided would look a lot cuter on her than on her 3 month old baby. So she’d tear them off the baby, shove herself into them, add some heels, and off to the strip mall we’d go for Taco Salads and smoothies. As soon as we’d park and step out of her car she would be aggressively sexually harassed which didn’t surprise me at all. What did surprise me was how absolutely angry and insulted she was by the whistles and the flicking tongues. “God! What the hell!?” she’d yell back the first few times. It would get to the point where we couldn’t carry on a conversation without a man covered in dried concrete interrupting our lunch to say “Hi.” She’d just ignore them and keep her focus on whatever it was we were talking about. She’d look honestly depressed by how inappropriate she thought the boys were all acting.
I didn’t get it. I blamed her for dressing like that. I still do. That story doesn’t really relate but I just wanted a chance to write about what a whore she was. Just kidding. She wasn’t and she isn’t and she never responds to my messages on MySpace–but that’s not what this about. I SWEAR. What this is about is how I get now why Florida is responsible for Bush being President. They think it’s funny when people are molested and that Bush won the presidency. They’re all confused. Which is kind of funny…except for the whole war thing and being hated around the world and destruction of our country–other than that–it’s frickin’ hilarious.
Weedman was a correspondent on “The Daily Show” with Jon Stewart and lived in New York City right up to the time the Iraq war started. During the Gulf War she lived in Amsterdam and learned Dutch and did odd theatre. When the Iran contra thing was happening she was growing up in Indiana listening to Bowie and Costello. After Kurt died she moved to Seattle and lived there for five years as a writer/performer. She is most well-known for her AWARD winning self absorbed solo shows. Her book, A Woman Trapped in a Woman’s Body, was recently named by the Kirkus Book review as a “Top 10 Indie Book of 2007”. Now she lives in Los Angeles and has had a dreary day appearing on “Curb Your Enthusiasm” and played “hysterical woman” on several episodes of “Reno 911”.
www.laurenweedman.net
My Perfect Day
When I was in 5th grade I wrote an essay called “My Perfect Day”–I ate pizza for every meal and got to go see the movie Stir Crazy after school. Which seems pretty standard. But the upsetting part of the essay was the part where I wrote, “and my hair looks perfect and my jeans make me look really skinny. Then I walk out to the bus stop and see my friend Wendy. She looks horrible.”
And that for me was a perfect day. Me looking great and everyone else looking like shit. When I started volunteering at the LA County Jail for Women, my on-going joke was about how “it’s the only environment in LA where I have a shot at being the prettiest girl in the room. Damn it, I’m going to the jails so I can feel successful.” Interestingly, I noticed that those who knew me well didn’t laugh. They just smiled sadly, patted my back and told me that when I’m not in direct sunlight–you could hardly see my moustache. So I should go back inside.
A few years ago I was in a pilot for Showtime and I got to meet Richard Pryor.
(What’s that thing on the floor right there? Oh, whoops, it’s the name I just dropped. Sorry about that–hope it didn’t land on your foot because that would really hurt since it’s so HEAVY.)
He was very sick and very weak when I met him, but he was being wheeled in for an interview with “Entertainment Tonight” that his wife, I think, had arranged. He couldn’t actually answer the questions himself so his wife would answer for him. And it’s not like he would whisper the answer to her and then she’d repeat them nice and loud for America to hear. Pat, the creepy interviewer, would ask him about let’s say, his past drug use–and there would be a pause as if there was a chance that Richard was going to answer–then after a few beats his wife would answer, “When I re-married Richard I said no crack, no whores…” She looked fabulous and healthy as Richard was slumped down in his wheelchair with a look in his eyes that seemed to be saying, “Pat, please tell this bitch to wheel me away…”
Maybe his wife was enjoying the perfect day that I’d fantasized about–she just seemed SO alive and SO happy sitting next to someone so dying and so sad. Oh god, I’m not implying that she was happy at how sick he was–I don’t mean that. I mean…anyway…she’s a very nice lady that rescues dogs and she cared for Richard a long time…
Back to me. When I was in high school I’d try hard to sit next to the one girl in the band who was fatter than me. There was just the one…and when she lost weight I had to resort to telling people how she considered using a tampon “losing her virginity.” I’ve heard that she actually did use a tampon when she turned 18 and they’ve been dating ever since.
There–so now I’M THE MONSTER.
Weedman was a correspondent on “The Daily Show” with Jon Stewart and lived in New York City right up to the time the Iraq war started. During the Gulf War she lived in Amsterdam and learned Dutch and did odd theatre. When the Iran contra thing was happening she was growing up in Indiana listening to Bowie and Costello. After Kurt died she moved to Seattle and lived there for five years as a writer/performer. She is most well-known for her AWARD winning self absorbed solo shows. Her book, A Woman Trapped in a Woman’s Body, was recently named by the Kirkus Book review as a “Top 10 Indie Book of 2007”. Now she lives in Los Angeles and has had a dreary day appearing on “Curb Your Enthusiasm” and played “hysterical woman” on several episodes of “Reno 911”.
www.laurenweedman.net
SHE gay, HE gay…they ALL gay
I’ve spent more time than really should be necessary discussing how I’m not a lesbian with…mostly lesbians–and TV people. An agent in New York once told me that “I think the reason people think you’re a lesbian is because you seem smart and you don’t really put off a sexual vibe,” (according to him, a gay male). So, smart and not sexy=TV lesbian. That was when I learned to start every meeting with “Hi nice to meet you, I’m Lauren and by the way…cock, yum yum yum.”
Then I couldn’t even get cast in the lesbian parts for TV–I wasn’t hot enough for the hot lesbian and not fat enough for the funny lesbian. Who do you have to fuck in this town to get a lesbian part! A woman, I guess.
The Pittsburgh gay pride people asked me to ride in a convertible for their gay pride parade–I don’t mean to brag. I told them that I would if it was okay that I carried my “Fags Burn in Hell” sign and wore my Baby Fetus Plushy Costume that I like to wear to all parades and “baby’s first birthday parties”. They responded with an “oh you hilarious dyke, you!” email. So then I had to do what I’m forced to do 4 times a day–scream “I’M NOT A LESBIAN”, punch the wall, then watch 20 minutes of girl on girl porn.
I saw a lesbian punch a wall once and now I associate it with being a lady lover. Someone from Brazil needs to punch the wall in front of me so I can have a new association.
When I was on “The Daily Show”, I had one die hard fan in Brooklyn who wanted to start a website called “Chicks Who Dig Chicks Who Dig Weedie M” but she never got it together and got it up. Which was frustrating to have such a passionate yet lazy fan. Everybody else had stalkers and would receive little gifts in the mail. I just kept getting long letters from her asking me if I ever wore tube socks to bed.
I’d love to be a lesbian because it’s true–they do get so much done in a day. I don’t do anything; I just sit around thinking, “Oh, my boyfriend will wash the dishes.” It’s odd because the boyfriend will wash the dishes but not all of them. He always leaves 4 items unwashed, which is symbolic because he’s sort of half a lady–emotional and delicate like a lady man but rough and angry like a Brooklyn street kid.
The other night he screamed and grabbed his heart because he thought he hadn’t made a salad for dinner and it turned out he did.
So, I’m basically in a lesbian relationship. Or a gay male relationship. He does love Project Runway with a fierce passion and gets almost violent when he’s interrupted while watching it. “Not now! They’re judging!!! Just hold on!” He yells then he picks up his mug of tea and slurps it with a pinkie out to the side.
Which I can relate to–whenever anyone interrupts me when I’m watching Ani DiFranco in concert on DVD, I punch them–then the wall. Or vice versa.
Weedman was a correspondent on “The Daily Show” with Jon Stewart and lived in New York City right up to the time the Iraq war started. During the Gulf War she lived in Amsterdam and learned Dutch and did odd theatre. When the Iran contra thing was happening she was growing up in Indiana listening to Bowie and Costello. After Kurt died she moved to Seattle and lived there for five years as a writer/performer. She is most well-known for her AWARD winning self absorbed solo shows. Her book, A Woman Trapped in a Woman’s Body, was recently named by the Kirkus Book review as a “Top 10 Indie Book of 2007”. Now she lives in Los Angeles and has had a dreary day appearing on “Curb Your Enthusiasm” and played “hysterical woman” on several episodes of “Reno 911”.
www.laurenweedman.net
Intervention
Last night on cable, I watched an exciting episode of “Intervention”, the incredible program that shows some drug addict taking a bunch of drugs for almost the whole show until the drug addict’s entire family shows up at his house, bangs on his door, and starts crying and telling him how he is a drug addict and they are not getting off his lawn until he gets into the weird van that’s in the driveway.
The drug addict on last night’s episode was named Jason and his favorite thing in the whole world was to shoot up cocaine while wearing a pair of camouflage shorts and a baseball hat that was turned to the side in a manner that suggested he is the kind of guy who is not exactly opposed to good times. When he wasn’t shooting up cocaine in his fun hat, Jason was drinking from a big red plastic cup just like the kind you get at Pizza Hut, only instead of being filled with Dr. Pepper or something, it was filled with vodka or whatever else that damn drug addict could get his hands on. When he wasn’t drinking from the big Pizza Hut cup, Jason was talking on the phone with his drug addict friends. He called them “dude” and “bro” and told them how things were going to be “really awesome” just as soon as they got their hands on some more drugs, which ended up happening right after the next commercial.
In between shots of Jason taking drugs, drinking from the big Pizza Hut cup, or talking to his druggie friends about drugs, they showed interviews with Jason’s four sisters, most of whom appeared to be addicted to highlights and wanted Jason to not be a total drug addict anymore–except for Jason’s youngest sister Joy, that is, who explained that she was “just not a worrier.” Later in the show, they showed Joy snorting a big pile cocaine off the back of a toilet, and, boy, did that explain a lot. Sometimes they would interview Jason too and he would go on and on about how incredible cocaine is and also how his mother is a lesbian who moved to Florida.
After another commercial break, Jason’s whole family was sitting in a room with some lady named Candy who was all business. Even Jason’s mom was there and she was getting all worked up about things like only a lesbian from Florida can. Then Jason walked into the room in his crazy funtime hat and couldn’t for the life of him figure out what was going on even though all he or anyone else could talk about up until that point in the show was how much he loved cocaine and drinking from the big Pizza Hut cup. Then that Candy lady was all like “Jason, you don’t know me but I think you’re damn drug addict!” Then everyone started to cry and blow their noses. The next thing he knew, Jason was shipped off to rehab where he wrote a bad song on the piano about Jesus and also got his lip pierced. As it turned out, Candy was able to talk Jason’s sister Joy into going to rehab too, which worked out great because when they checked in with her three months later her hair looked incredible.
Grief Counseling
I’m spending far too much time alone. Yesterday, I called 3 friends in a row who all had to cut off my 40 minute story about what happened to me at the hair salon place with an “uhm…Lauren, I’m actually AT WORK. I have to go…” So down the list of my friends I went…trying all the people who I know for a fact don’t do shit at their jobs. Even they had to remind me that my life is grossly unstructured. I should have a baby. But until then…
So yesterday, at the hair salon place, I was laying back to get my hair washed by my hair lady Sashiko–and I heard the lady next to me say “My brother died in March and this November is his birthday. And it’s the first birthday without him. And with the holidays coming right after that–it’s going to be so…” and the lady who was washing her hair chimed in loudly and with a crazy cheerful voice-“Isn’t Emily’s birthday in December!?”
Apparently she didn’t want to hear this sad news as she deep conditioned. So she just chirped her way past it. I should have leaned over and chirped in a “Hey! Did I hear March? MY birthday is in March! And talk about tough birthdays…I’m gonna be 39! OUCH!!!”
I remember right after I got divorced and I called my parents and started crying about how it was all so much harder than I thought it was going to be–and my Mom brought her voice up into a happier octave and sang “Oh my gosh–it’s just tough all over! Are you still liking your car?”
Her idea is always that she wouldn’t want to upset me more by saying something like “that must be hard” just in case I’d completely moved on in the half a second since I had MENTIONED IT and she was just bringing up all these painful memories. But I love her and I can tell stories about her like that BUT YOU BETTER NOT TALK SHIT ABOUT MY MOTHER.
The woman in the salon—she was so sad. Oh, her voice…I wanted to reach over and grab her hand and tell her something like “yeah, that’s tough” but she had on this giant smock that they give us to wear–this big poncho to protect us while we get our hair cut. I’d have to pat around for a while to find her hand under it. I imagined myself patting away, “pat..pat…pat…pat…that’s not your hand…okay, there’s your belt…now I’m going in the wrong direction–where’s your damn hand so I can…comfort you…what the hell is this? There’s your non erect strap on penis…that’s interesting but not want I’m looking for…no real nerve endings there–I can’t comfort you with THAT. Let’s see…pat pat pat…here’s your belt again–okay–there’s your hand…GOT IT!”
The entire time I was getting my hair cut, I thought about the lady and her brother who had died–and as I was walking out I passed her as she was buying some shampoo–and I really wanted to say something to her. About losing a brother…or about the first birthday after someone has died. Something.
“Your hair looks amazing.” I blurted out and walked out the front door.
I should work in grief counseling.
Weedman was a correspondent on “The Daily Show” with Jon Stewart and lived in New York City right up to the time the Iraq war started. During the Gulf War she lived in Amsterdam and learned Dutch and did odd theatre. When the Iran contra thing was happening she was growing up in Indiana listening to Bowie and Costello. After Kurt died she moved to Seattle and lived there for five years as a writer/performer. She is most well-known for her AWARD winning self absorbed solo shows. Her book, A Woman Trapped in a Woman’s Body, was recently named by the Kirkus Book review as a “Top 10 Indie Book of 2007”. Now she lives in Los Angeles and has had a dreary day appearing on “Curb Your Enthusiasm” and played “hysterical woman” on several episodes of “Reno 911”.
www.laurenweedman.net
Whores on Cable
Last night on cable I watched another exciting episode of “Cathouse: The Series”, the incredible show that chronicles the life and times of a bunch of people that work at the Moonlite Bunny Ranch, which is a totally legal whorehouse located somewhere in the awesome state of Nevada. As you can probably imagine, the show pretty much consists of a bunch of whores hanging out and talking about what it’s like to live in the whorehouse and be a whore all the time. I would like to point out that when I say whore, I don’t use the word in a derogatory fashion either. These women are literally people who have sex for money, which is awesome.
Joining the whores at the Moonlight Bunny Ranch is a sort of Hugh Hefner kind of guy who is also fat and bald, which for some reason seems to add to the effect of him being a decadent and fun-loving yet quick-tempered guy who is the boss of whores. They all seem to have a lot of fun together, the whores and their boss, sitting on each others’ laps, getting really drunk, and talking about how fun it is to be together at the whorehouse all the time, just like one big happy family. Sometimes the camera will show the whores in their bedrooms getting ready to bone some guy who has driven all the way out into the middle of the desert to have sex with them, which is great. More often than not, the guy paying to have sex with the whore has a mustache and is wearing a pair of Dockers, the popular casual pant. The whore and the guy with the mustache sit and giggle for a few minutes while discussing exactly what he is going to get for a few hundred bucks and then the next thing you know the camera cuts away and we are left to wonder about all the good times they must be having together. Then the camera will show some other whore splashing around in a swimming pool, playing with a hula hoop, or jumping around on a trampoline, which only serves to further illustrate the fact that it’s good times all the time when you live in a whorehouse.
Also last night on the really good show “Cathouse: The Series”, they showed the whores drinking whiskey from penis-shaped shot glasses and–as you can probably imagine–the whores just laughed and laughed the whole time, as if getting drunk weren’t enough fun already. It was kind of like when you happen upon a roving bachelorette party and all the girls are really wasted and giggly and sipping pina coladas from penis-shaped straws while asking you to use their camera to take a picture of them that is not only hilarious, but one that they will all want copies of and with good reason. They want to remember this night forever even if they dare not speak of it again in front of their loved ones, significant others, or anyone else they don’t want to know how much they think that drinking from penis-shaped straws is a recipe for instant good times.
Sometimes I wonder what all the whores do when the cameras are off and they are faced with a bit of downtime at that whorehouse of theirs. Is it still all fun and games or do they just hang out and smoke menthol cigarettes while dreaming of the day when they’ll get to pack up their fake boobs and tattered lingerie and not live in a whorehouse anymore? And when they do leave, will they promise to call up the fat bald guy who runs the place once in a while just to say hello? I hope so. He seems nice.
My boyfriend thinks Ali G is racist. I just don’t think that he understands some of Ali G’s jokes–so when I tell him that he’s a DUMBASS (I’m a nurturer) for not laughing at Ali G, he plays the “I’d laugh if I wasn’t completely morally offended” card–to which I make my “I’ve lost my erection” noise–I’m not sure how to spell that sound. It’s a sort of “Beeeeeyooow,” going downhill noise. So now we’ve been fighting all morning about whether Ali is racist.
Jesus, I think two white people fighting about what’s racist…is racist (or a really good college class). The one time I’ve been called a racist–to my face–was when I broke up with a mixed (half black, half white) guy that I was dating and he told me that I must be happy to be away from him so that I could go back to my “latte lunches and dinner parties.” Being a starving artist who frequented the local food bank quite often, I was like “oh man–that sounds nice…” But he really meant “white activities.” What I was really glad about when we broke up had nothing to do with race…it was more about not having porn playing on the TV all day long as casual ambient soundscapes.
I told my ex that breaking up had nothing to do with race–it had to do with CRAZY. But maybe that’s racist. I have to admit…I’m always thinking people are being racist. I’m like my ex (except for the porno muzak thing). I thought my cab driver in NY was offensive. He referred to a Chinese man as “speaking in Gibberish.” Then he quickly felt guilty and said to me, “I shouldn’t say that. Some Chinese spirit will get mad at me and throw noodles at me in my sleep.” My ex mother in law–a sweet Catholic mother of 8 children, loved and adored by all who know her–got angry when a car stereo salesman tried to “Jew her down.” They know not what they do…well, maybe.
I’m not in the best of moods–I think I’m gonna start working on a book called ‘It’s not fucking true, not EVERYBODY poops’.
I’m at Starbucks in Hollywood and the guy next to me is describing last night’s pitbull attack. “Blood everywhere. I was punching his head trying to get him to let go of the Corgie…you could have dropped bombs on the dog and he wouldn’t have let go…look at that girl…oh fuck, check her out…so you could have dropped bombs on that dog and he wouldn’t have let go.”
What the fuck is wrong with people. Everyone is dumb or a whore. Or talking loudly. I’m in a town of dumb people. Or as I should start to come to think of them, “my people”. In New York it was neurotic and here it’s dumb. As a friend once said to me, “dumb is easier to navigate then neurotic.” True. Now the pitbull guy just said “Women are designed for sex”. Well, I guess that’s why I have those arrows that appeared on me at the age of 22, pointing to various parts of my body–“you can put it here…or here…or up here…or rest it on my shoulder. It’s all good.”
I’m gonna get up and move to another table–I’m gonna get up, scream “RACIST!” and then screech out of the parking lot with Fergie’s “London Bridge” blasting…so everyone is offended.
Weedman was a correspondent on “The Daily Show” with Jon Stewart and lived in New York City right up to the time the Iraq war started. During the Gulf War she lived in Amsterdam and learned Dutch and did odd theatre. When the Iran contra thing was happening she was growing up in Indiana listening to Bowie and Costello. After Kurt died she moved to Seattle and lived there for five years as a writer/performer. She is most well-known for her AWARD winning self absorbed solo shows. Her book, A Woman Trapped in a Woman’s Body, was recently named by the Kirkus Book review as a “Top 10 Indie Book of 2007”. Now she lives in Los Angeles and has had a dreary day appearing on “Curb Your Enthusiasm” and played “hysterical woman” on several episodes of “Reno 911”.
www.laurenweedman.net
Bodies: The Exhibition
Yesterday, I went to see “Bodies: The Exhibition,” the popular exhibition of bodies advertised on most of the phone booths here in New York City. As hinted at in the name, “Bodies: The Exhibition” is an exhibition of bodies only instead of being made up of wax figures like at Madame Tussaud’s popular wax museum or mannequins like in the 1987 box office hit “Mannequin” starring Hollywood’s Andrew McCarthy in the role of Jonathan Switcher, a young artist with a penchant for mischief, the bodies at “Bodies: The Exhibition” are made up of actual human bodies that are all chopped up and preserved for eternity using a futuristic process that none of the guards will talk about. The bodies are then brought into the museum–probably at night, I’m guessing–and propped up into all sorts of exciting and lifelike poses. One body is playing football, another is playing basketball, and another is conducting a world-class orchestra that exists only in our minds, which is difficult. The one thing all the bodies have in common is that pretty much none of them saw it coming.
As is usually the case whenever any public display of the human anatomy takes place, the big question on everyone’s mind at “Bodies: The Exhibition” has to do with whether or not they are going to show the wiener. And fortunately for me and everyone else who paid twenty-five bucks to get in yesterday, “Bodies: The Exhibition” does not disappoint. Since it is a show for the whole family though, no mention is made of the donger the first couple times we see it (like we weren’t gonna notice or something). But then after you get through a couple of rooms full of bodies, the voice on the little handheld earpiece thing they give you on the way in finally gives in and says “And this is the human reproductive system.” Then everyone gets really excited and giggly and the mysterious voice goes on to talk about everyone’s private region for a while. They even show a dead man’s wiener all split right up the middle so you can see what it’s actually made of, thus finally solving one of life’s great mysteries and also cutting my average shower time in half in the process.
It’s hard not to wonder what everyone featured in “Bodies: The Exhibition” did back when they were alive and not propped up in a museum next to the Gap at the South Street Seaport with their dingle dangles all hanging out like that. Were they astronauts or sea captains or were they totally just hanging out until one day some weird blue van pulled up to them on the street and they decided to get in just to break up the day a little bit? I especially wonder about the large lady who is all sliced up from head-to-toe like a giant ham just so everyone in attendance can see what a large person looks like if you cut them up into several pieces. That’s no fun. Oh well, at least she is not conducting an orchestra with her nuts hanging out. That guy is just asking for it.
Osama Bin Laden the Elephant
Yesterday, I read a story on the Internet about an elephant in scenic India who had gained a reputation around town for being a total dick to pretty much everyone in his entire neighborhood. He ran all over the place crushing houses, trampling people to the point where they were dead or seriously close to being dead, and just sort of making a mess of things in general to the point where the people of India were so tired of his elephant bullshit that it was not even fucking funny.
Usually when I think about elephants, I imagine fun-loving animals who just like to hang out and eat peanuts, solve simple math equations, and occasionally get dressed up in a really nice suit and visit Paris, France in hopes that they might one day return home and dazzle their fellow elephants with tales of their wild nights on the town. This particular elephant, however, didn’t seem to be into any of that stuff as best I can tell. Instead, he spent most of his time terrorizing the people of India so much that they decided to name him Osama Bin Laden, which is a reference to the world-famous al-Qaeda leader of the same name who is so often associated with all sorts of crazy, attention-getting antics.
According to the story I read on the Internet, Osama Bin Laden (the elephant, not the well-known billionaire bachelor extremist whom we tend to think of first when we hear the name Osama bin Laden) was ten feet tall, approximately 45-50 years old, and generally kept to himself when not destroying houses and/or trampling people to the point where they were dead or seriously close to being dead. Osama bin Laden the elephant was also reportedly not afraid of fire or firecrackers, which I’m guessing everyone had to find out the hard way.
Being a really big elephant and all, Osama bin Laden could travel very long distances in a single day on account of his long legs and the overall joie de vivre that we so often associate with the elephant lifestyle. He was also really great at hiding in forests and other areas populated with a reasonable amount of large, elephant-hiding plants. Not surprisingly, he was often hard to find whenever people went looking for him, which is just one more thing Osama bin Laden the elephant had in common with the other, arguably more popular Osama bin Laden that we still talk about to this day.
On a sad and not nearly as elephantriffic note, recently the elusive Osama bin Laden the elephant was killed by the people of his town in an effort to put a stop to the full-on elephant-related beatdown he was handing out without even trying. And while killing Osama bin Laden may have seemed like a seriously good idea at the time, now everybody is all like “Oh, great–now what are we gonna do with this big dead elephant. Nice going, A-holes!”