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I don't normally complain about physical pain

I don’t normally complain about physical pain, being that I prefer to complain about deep psychic wounds and stuff, but yesterday I dropped my wallet on my foot and was convinced I broke my toe. This is not a sign that I am so full of money that my wallet is a weapon. It’s a sign that I need to clean out all the assorted crap that I’ve been keeping in my wallet for so long because when I get a piece of paper, I like to file it in my wallet.

And then last night I was reading in bed and somehow I did something because my neck hurts so bad today I can only move slowly and melodramatically. I should probably start sighing.

Maybe I need to drop my wallet on my other foot to knock everything back into alignment?

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A moment of silence for Fred

Blog readers, I have some bad news. Fred the Jade Plant has left us for the great garden in the sky. In fact, he shuffled off his mortal coil a few weeks ago but I haven’t thrown him out yet because I’ve been thinking I need to take a picture so I can make a touching tribute video highlighting the impact he’s made on our lives. But I don’t think I’m going to get around to doing that. So basically a very dead Fred has been sitting on my kitchen table for three weeks getting deader and more shriveled with each passing day and instead of giving him a proper burial I just look at him and think “Huh, I should do something about that.” What kind of monster am I?!

But I choose to remember Fred as he looked in his youth.

Fred as a young houseplant
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Photo from last night

With Patti Ann Browne, after the show. Apparently we’re a couple of blurry ladies. Blurry chicks? Blurry broads? Blurry TV personalities? Blurry broheims who are girls? No, not that last one.

I wish I’d taken photos at the next place I went last night–WOR studios—because that was priceless. I was the youngest person there by about sixty years and everyone there was crazy in this very entertaining old timey showbiz kind of way, made more surreal by the fact that it was two in the morning.

Well maybe not sixty. Forty. Thirty five? Well, you get what I’m saying.

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See me, hear me

So I’m doing Red Eye tonight and then I’m jetting—in a car—downtown to be interviewed on the Joey Reynolds show on WOR 710. The interview will air live at midnight in NYC and 8AM in the 220 other markets that carry it or where it airs or something. Anyone know what that means? I don’t speak radio. I do have a radio-ish voice though, so the irony cuts deep as you can imagine.

Anyway, for some of you that means you can hear me before seeing me on Red Eye. Like the opposite of thunder/lightening!

But not like that at all.

For others there will be a five hour wait time during which I hope you’ll reflect on important things involving me.

Thank you.

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An important warning about shoestring eggplant

Sour; deadly

Should you be considering enjoying shoestring eggplant in vinegar marinade which you probably wouldn’t consider eating anyway—I have a thing for weird foods in jars which few of my fellow humans share—but anyway should you be making this bold lifestyle choice I beseech you to make sure you do not have any cuts or broken skin in your mouth because the eggplant will get in there, get into your bloodstream and then turn you into an eggplant. It’s how eggplant works! One minute you’re trying to introduce Mediterranean cuisine into your diet, the next minute you’re an eggplant. Some of my best friends are now purple.

Wait, come back, that’s not what I meant to say.

See, I bit my lip a couple nights ago so I have one of those things inside my lower lip where it feels like the skin is puffed up to the size of a marble but then I look into the mirror and really it’s much smaller. So I stupidly decided to try this shoestring eggplant because hell, why not? I wasn’t even put off by the strange lack of color, as if Bunicula had gotten to it (anyone?). It looked like bits of pre-chewed albino vegetables, so I decided to dig in. Anyway, the vinegar marinade went straight into my cut and hitched a ride through my face and then shot straight into my brain. “Oh my God!” I yelled at no one, pawing at my lip. “Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God” I said, jumping around. I’m surprised I didn’t start drooling. Maybe I did but I didn’t notice because there was an eggplant-borne vinegar hole in my brain? It’s possible.

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Furniture Design Styles ™

I’ve been thinking a lot about Rachel Ashwell lately. She’s the founder of a design style called Shabby Chic and she’s made a fortune stuffing this frilly, distressed white-on-white style down the public’s throat. I’m a member of that public, by the way. Today I sat in a shabby chic chair in the Shabby Chic store in Soho and had to agree with the sales girls: “It’s like being hugged! It’s like a big down hug! It’s like a two thousand dollar hug!” What does a two thousand dollar hug feel like, you may be wondering? Like being embraced by a big marshmallow peep cloud, but not sticky, just soothing and warm and comforting. If my sister were worth two thousand dollars I would sell her and buy that chair, no offense Laura.

So then I was thinking that I should create my own design style and trademark it and write a bunch of books and sell DVDs and give ol’ fussy Ashwell a run for her money. Here are some movements I’m thinking of trademarking:

Shabby Crappy
Crappy Chic
Crab Chic
Mid-Century Morbid
Yellow
Oodles of Ribbons
Honk If You Love Wood Furniture
Bright Lights; Big Chaise Lounge
Pretentious
Squishy Washy
Fuck This Chair Is Hard

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