Having now seen the movie I must admit the knickers, like the performances, were spot on. (note: no knickers)
"If we had lives, what might we be doing?"
It’s almost like in posing this question Dustin was suggesting we DON’T have fascinating fabulous lives. I can’t speak for him. He’s a sad man who loves oatmeal*, a sad man who loves oatmeal who’s also out of town so I don’t think he’s going to see this for a little while, hence I can refer to him as a sad man who loves oatmeal when perhaps that’s not fair, but I am very fabulous and fascinating and I’m currently living three lives that’s how many lives I’ve packed into my one life. You know?
*Oh my motherfucking fuck I just spent one whole lifetime trying to find the myriad blog entries I’d written on the Time Out New York blog about Dustin and his oatmeal when we both worked at there, including a bit of genius when he cheated on his oatmeal with a box of poptarts (I believe it was titled “Who Cries For The Oatmeal?”) but for the life of me I can’t find them. I can’t even find the blog.
corporate yogurt lingo
“pro-Activia”: 1. the state of being really on your game when it comes to eating laxative yogurt 2. eating laxative yogurt in anticipation of future problems, needs or changes See also: “It’s Go-GURT time!”
Share me
Please note the fancy “Share this” tags on each post. I’m not sure exactly what they do or how but feel free to use them to bandy my content all over the web somehow securing me untold millions of dollars, fame, fortune, a private jet, my own porpoise filled lagoon, my own dolphin filled infinity pool, a jacuzzi filled with sea otters, a hot tub featuring flamingos, a sitz bath for my parrots, a sponge bath with an octopus, two tide pools packed with starfish, a foot bath for my labradoodles, a warm compress for my mauzers (half maltese, half schnauzer) and a wet bar for my sea monkeys.
Movie Reviews of Movies We Haven't Seen: He's Just Not That Into You
Attention, lovers! A special Valentine’s edition of our award-winning segment. (note: not award-winning) (note: yet)
Old radio interviews with Michael Showalter and Michael Ian Black
In honor of turning over a new leaf and focusing on the future, I decided to repost some interviews from three or four years ago. Two years ago? I forget when these were. Mostly I did this because I realized I could grab the code and put them here and that they weren’t stuck, like pubic hairs in amber, on my fossilized MySpace page. Jesus Christ, what kind of MySpace page do I have anyway? That is the appropriate question. Anyway, I can’t actually bear to listen to these, but maybe you can. They were the first radio interviews I’d ever conducted, by the way, so be gentle!
I'd make a shitty chicken
A wise chicken doesn’t cackle until she lays an egg or something, but that’s not my style and plus if I were a chicken I’d much rather be the kind that plays piano. Probably something light, like Debussy. I know what you’re thinking: Do I take tips? Yes I do. I refer you to the tip jar on the side of my baby grand. They wanted to get me a concert grand since I’m performing at a pretty big concert hall however I explained that I wasn’t the biggest chicken (I actually said I wasn’t the biggest “cock on the walk” and we all had a good laugh at that) and therefore a concert grand would be using a hatchet to remove a fly from my friend’s beak.
I mean, I want the main thing you notice on that stage to be me and my amazing plumage first, then my romantic (and I mean that in the Platonic sense of the word) and moving playing, and then the light show and then you are free to notice the piano. And the tip jar. Please notice that. But I mean, I don’t want to be upstaged by my instrument.
But back to the tip jar. If you aren’t able to ascend the steps at Carnegie Hall (yes, that’s where I’m performing the works of Debussy) then we’re sending a collection plate out into the crowd.
What’s that? There aren’t any steps? I simply flap my wings and fly over the orchestra pit to get to the stage but I don’t really know how it would work for you. And I know what you’re thinking again: You’re wondering why I’m flying over the orchestra pit instead of entering the stage from backstage where I’ll be nibbling on various vittles kept warm on chafing dishes, as per my contract rider? Look, I’m a pretty down the earth chicken and I find that when I take the stage from the audience it really starts things off on the right foot. It’s my way of saying that I don’t OWN the music. I’m merely a vessel through which it speaks/lives/breathes.
Am I getting too lofty? I do that sometimes. In the coop where I periodically pass the time I’m kind of known as an intellectual. Some think I’m snobby but I’m really not. I just want to know what came before me, and what came after me, and how I fit in.
I read a lot of Nietzsche. I went through an Orwell phase but it hit a little close to home, as you can probably imagine.
1984. It was the year of my birth. Why, what did you think I was referring to?
Anyway, I have to go practice on my Casio keyboard which I keep in my mobile dressing room. A lot of people wonder how I practice and that’s how.
Oh and P.S. it looks as if I’ll be interviewing a certain Michael Showalter in a video/vlog soon. Happy Valentine’s Day!
NOTE: If you want to hear the old radio interviews I did with Michael Showalter and Michael Ian Black go to my seldom-updated Myspace page and scroll down on the right side, after the videos, and there is a gray box with the interviews.
Wherein we try to remember the most interesting conversation EVER!
Anna and I try to remember The Most Interesting Conversation Either Of Us Have Ever Had.
Also, what’s up with my voice? I sound like my sister to me in this one, which probably doesn’t mean anything to anyone here. Speaking of voices, Anna is losing her voice and so I told her we had to vlog last night to capture her ephemeral husky voice. I don’t know if she’s looked at the video yet. I’m totally blog baiting her right now. Vlog-baiting?
I'm on Red Eye on Monday–wait, no I'm not.
Remember how I was going to be on Red Eye tonight? Well shit happens, things change, people disappoint you. I mean, grow up, you babies. What, you think I can spoon feed you air dates forever? I have to go to France to find myself! Maybe I’ll grow my hair out and burn my bra and burn the turnips I’ve been making for supper every single night since the great turnip famine. Maybe I don’t even know HOW I like my turnips. Maybe I never stopped to think IF I like turnips. Maybe I’ll get my ears pierced and not just one hole in each ear but two! I’m telling you, I’m CRAYZEE like that and I might just do it. I would need to pass it by your father and my pastor first, but then I totally might get genuine diamanelle studs in each ear, twice. But what will the women at the auxiliary club think? They just know me as Helen. Trusty ol‘ Helen who makes turnips and fudge and doesn’t have extramarital affairs or pierced ears.
Who said anything about an extramarital affair? Is it getting hot in here? I have to go check on my turnips before Ned and the kids get home. Ned’s indigestion has been pretty bad lately and Lewis entered his solar system in the science fair and I do hope he got at least a ribbon. I stayed up half the night painting Uranus.
Oh, just out of plaster of Paris and acrylic tempura paints.
At the start of this email I was going to tell you how I was rescheduled for Monday but in the course of writing it I found out there was a bit of booking confusion and so I’m not on Monday but will be on next week. I feel the not Monday thing isn’t certain though. So we’ll see.
These photos aren't as dark
Please note the hot Rudolph action happening on my nose and also my cheeks a little bit. I still don’t know WHY it happens, but I can feel it happening. “My face is red, isn’t it…” I’ll say. And then the person I’m talking to will either say it isn’t and that I’m imagining it, or they’ll say ‘um, I guess kind of?’ or they’ll say ‘yes’ at which point I know I’m reaching angry tomato levels of ruddiness. Don’t be jealous!
