Stare at the boobies and repeat after me: I will vote Democrat in November.

American voters may not listen to reason, but nekked hotties? Now we're talkin'. Behold: Babes Against Bush. (n*totally*sfw)

You know you're a drunk when...

...you go to your neighborhood liquor store, notice they are having a wine tasting, have the helpful sales clerk offer to pour you samples of the two featured wines, ask your opinion, chat a bit about the virtues of each (more specifically California vs. French and your preference for the French because of their use of seasoned oak barrels which do not overpower the light buttery/pear/pepper tones you so enjoy), and have the clerk respond with, "Wow, I didn't know you knew about good wine. You only ever buy the cheap magnums."

My super-famous, mix re-mixin'est, 'shake your booty on the dance floor cuz that's what God gave you that booty for' friend Mr. Xavier is a finalist in the David Bowie mash-up contest. And although it's been said that simply being nominated is a thrill and honor unto itself; um, bullshit. Winning is much, much better.

So go vote for the man. Several times. If he wins , he's promised we're all invited* for a ride in his TT, and a night of cocaine and hobnobbing at David and Iman's uptown pad.

*by invited I mean invited to look at photographs of Mr. X doing said activities.

Making friends in the new neighborhood, part deux.

[Read part one, if you'd like to get up to speed]

On our walk, my dog led me over to one of her favorite pooping spots; a two foot square patch of dirt and garbage adjacent to of one of the classier be-stuccoed manses of Williamsburg. She did her business. So I took a plastic bag out of my pocket and inverted it over my hand to execute the upside down bag scoop maneuver (if you have a dog, you know what I mean) preferred by fans of good hygiene and veteran dog walkers everywhere. I picked up the poop --and a large shard of glass hidden underneath-- which was discovered only after it filleted the bag and lodged itself in my finger. I shouted "Ow!" as the wounded often do, sounding off my tragicomedy:

The scene unfolded with me, one bleeding shit-smeared hand in the air (to keep it from getting all over everything), trying, with the other hand, to pick up a pile of crap with a shredded grocery bag. Meanwhile I'm being yanked to and fro by a very excited dog (my bellows set her off) who kept pitching me forward, sent my headphones flying, and caused me to repeatedly drop the crap back on the ground until it became inexorably combined with the glass. After this scene played itself out for awhile it became clear I was in a losing struggle; the bag was useless, and my finger needed attention. I had to come up with a plan B. I saw a trash bin a few feet away, and figured I might have luck finding something in it (a flyer, a coffee cup) I could scoop the glass/crap into and get home.

When I stood I felt a gaze. I turned and locked eyes with this sour-pussed old man relaxing in a lawn chair not two feet behind me--watching the whole thing. But instead of becoming enraged that at no point did he offer to help me; I gave him the benefit of the doubt, assumed he was possibly infirm, that he couldn't. I took two steps toward the trash bin I intended to inspect, when he yelled, "Hey!" I stopped, turned back toward him.

He looked at my face, then my bloody hand, then back at my face. And it occurred to me that maybe he hadn't seen what happened, the bag ripping, the glass. Maybe he had been focused on something else --I don't know, daydreaming about the summer of '42 when he dated that Sophia Lauren look-alike from Palermo-- while I was flailing around on the ground, bleeding finger suspended over my head, yelping in pain. Maybe he was otherwise engaged; two feet away. Maybe when I stood he noticed the mangled plastic sheet and trickle of blood, the agitated dog, my furrowed brow, and had put the two and two together of what had happened, was stopping me to ask if I was alright, if I needed help. How sweet.

But of course that wasn't the case. "You can't leave that there," he said, pointing to the poop.

"You can't be serious." I said, shaking my head, holding my gashed finger out in case he didn't catch the part where I was bleeding.

"I'm very serious, honey. Don't leave your dog shit on my sidewalk." His face never changed, same sour puss as ever. Not even when he leaned in to inspect my hand (ass).

"Well as you can see, I can't use this bag, " I held up what remained of it, "because it was shredded by the glass on your sidewalk." With that his face changed for the first time. An eyebrow raised, a millimeter. "Do you have a bag I could use?"

"No."

"How about a band-aid?"

"No."

So I walked over to the trash bin, the old man leaned forward on his chair to superintend. (Lord knows I might try to make a run for it and pull off the fucking crime of the century.) I was happy to find a nice, clean newspaper right on top. I grabbed it, walked back over to the dirt square, scooped up the poo/glass, and threw it back in the garbage. I decided to keep going, walk the long way around the block, primarily to avoid the jail time that would undoubtedly be the result of any further contact with Mr. Empathy. Not three steps toward home, freedom, Neosporin, what time is it? noon? and wine, yes wine, he yells, "HEY! HONEY! Who said you could use my newspaper?"

And to think; I thought it was cool when James Gandolfini called me "Red".

A tip for all you New York actor/writer types trying to bribe Dick Wolf's cleaning lady to *wink* accidently drop *wink* your tear sheet or fantastic script idea onto his desk...you're barking up the wrong tree. Evidently the person to know, the connection to the who's who in entertainment, is a two year old kid named Jeremy.

On a totally unrelated note... I am unemployed at this time, great with children, and available for baby-sitting gigs.

I'm nothing if not an optimist.

It's Earth Day, and a beautiful Spring day to boot, sunny, warm breeze; the kind of day you're so happy to be alive you can't stop thinking about...

Death! According to the quiz below, I will be here to celebrate approximately 38 more Earth Days. If I make it through that last, cruel winter. Enjoy!

DEATH QUIZ:

Begin the quiz by awarding yourself a score of 79 (today's average life-expectancy). Next, answer the following questions. Based on your answers, you'll be asked to add or deduct years from your score. Your final tally will yield a score that represents an estimate of the number of years you can expect to live based on your current lifestyle habits.

LIFESTYLE QUESTIONS
Do you have an annual physical exam? If so, add three years to your score. If not, subtract three years from your score. Physicals for male boomers should include a prostate and testicular exam. Physicals for female boomers should include a breast and pelvic exam. Remember, most diseases in later life occur without clear symptoms or pain (high blood pressure, various cancers).

If your grandparents lived to be at least 80 years of age, add three years to your score. If they're not that old yet, then you can't answer this question. Sorry. No years added, but none deducted either.

Do you volunteer on a weekly basis? If so, add two years to your score. If not, one year deducted. Volunteering means non-paid service to unrelated individuals. Sorry, driving your grandmother to church doesn't count.

Do you live alone? If so, subtract three years. If not, no years subtracted. Singles tend to lead more passive lifestyles, and are less attentive to healthful dietary habits.

Are you able to laugh at, and learn from your mistakes. If not, subtract 3 years.

Do you have a confidant, a close friend who will listen to your problems, hopes, and dreams? If so, add one years to your score. If not, subtract two years.

Do you perform daily neurobic exercises to maintain mental fitness (reading, learning, word or card games like crossword or bridge or scrabble, jigsaw puzzles or dominoes, chess, teaching or tutoring, keeping a diary or journal)? If so, add four years to your life.

Do you engage in aerobic exercise (smooth, rhythmic, continuous walking, swimming, biking) at least four times a week for at least 30 minutes at a time? If so, add three years to your score. If not, no years added. Anaerobic (weight-lifting), although great for body-building, has far fewer cardiovascular benefits.

Do you eat a balanced diet including fresh fruit, vegetables, and whole grains? If yes, add two years. If no, subtract three years.

Do you smoke a pack of cigarettes daily? Subtract 4 years. Live or work with smokers? Subtract one year.

Do you constantly "yo-yo" on and off the latest diet crazes? If so, substract five years.

Do you own a pet? Add two years for interactive pets (dog, cat, bird). Add one year for passive pets (fish, reptile, tarantula).

If you are left-handed, subtract one year.

For every inch of your height that exceeds 5'8", subtract six months.

Are you a religious person, and do you practice your faith? If so, add two years.

Do you have two or more female children? If so, add three years to your score. Family support for elders in later life is predominately provided by an adult daughter. Sons, as a rule tend not to be actively engaged in eldercare. In fact, a daughter-in-law is more likely than your own son to provide direct care.

Do you use a stress management program (exercise, meditation, reading, journaling, spa)? If so, add four years. If not, subtract three years.

Do you walk to work? If so, add two years. Ride public transportation to work? If so, add one year. Do you drive yourself to work? If so, subtract three years.

Had cosmetic surgery after age 30? Once within a decade? Add five years. Subtract one year for every additional surgery done within the same decade.

Do you fear the uncertainties of growing old? If so, subtract two years. I always say, "If you don't long to live, then you won't live too long."

Are your friends roughly the same age as you? Subtract two years. An equal mix of younger, same age, and older? Add one year.

Have you written down specific life goals and timeframes for each goal's completion? If so, add one year.

My Christ is a more Ariel, Marvin Gaye kind of guy.

I'm down with the part about Jesus being a Liberal, but something tells me He wouldn't be too jazzed about His message being relayed in Comic Sans with a backdrop of cheesy Casio music.

I'm just saying.

It turns out victory is sweet.

Today (actually it started last night, and there will be more on Sunday) is the big Beat Bush Bake Sale all around NYC. There are (at least) five booths within walking distance of my house. My plan is to put on my big pants and hit each-and-every-one-of-them --for Democracy, of course. If you live in or around NYC, I suggest you do the same.

I love the true stories. Like this one, from my pal Monk (who may or may not have ever been referred to as "Johnny"). Maybe, if you're really really nice to him, he'll dish the dirt he's got on Gibby Hanes.

Praise the Lord, and pass the Halliburton: a true story

I suffered from panic attacks for a few years during my late teens and early adulthood. If you've never had one, or witnessed someone who has, I cannot express how painful and frightening they are. The symptoms mimic a heart attack: shooting pains, ringing in the ears, dizziness, blurred or tunnel vision, shortness of breath, and the sensation that something --something BIG-- has decided to take a nap on your chest; all compounded by the overwhelming, ever-increasing certainty that you are going to die. A catch 22 emerges shortly thereafter. You believe you're dying, you panic, your symptoms get worse, you panic more, you worsen still. After my third or fourth attack and a few weeks of testing (blood-work, EKG's, halter monitors, etc.), I was diagnosed as having Panic Disorder. My doctor sent me home with a year's worth of Xanax, the distinction of being the youngest patient he had ever treated for the disease, and the number of a psychotherapist with whom it was suggested I share the gory details of my childhood.

Before I had an opportunity to hash things out with a head-shrinker or get to the end of my prescription [funny... for a girl with a list of vices longer than the Magna Carta, pill-popping was never one of them), the attacks just stopped. I never had one again.

Until tonight.

It started somewhere around "...we will finish the work of the fallen," and was in full swing by the time "I think the hearings will show the Patriot Act is an important change in the law..." was uttered.

I wonder. Can you sue a President for terror? How about emergency room expenses?

Do you ever have a day when you feel a little extra sexy? You know, all tingly, electric, certain you could wreak havoc on whomever and whatever at will? The kind of day when there's no need to catch a glimpse of yourself in a shop window to know that your stride is right, your clothes hang just so, and you've got it going on. Those days you (in all honesty) feel a bit sorry for the gorgeous super-model types that pass by --because you know you operate on a level of sexy they couldn't even begin to contemplate, or compete with. How could they? It's not youth, it's not beauty, it's not hair or clothes or your weight or height or checkbook balance, No! Your uber-sexy can't be found in Maxim or Cosmo. It can't be bought in Soho. It's in you. It is you. You are inseparable from it. And anyone who beholds you knows it to be true.

So what's that like?

I'm as surprised as you (are?)

You are a GRAMMER GOD!

How grammatically sound are you?

There are days I live on mango alone.

You’re terrific. Seriously. You. Nice hairdo. And that thing you do? It’s great. You’re funny. I really like you. And the times when you’re out? Just doing your thing? That’s really happening. It’s real, and it’s more beautiful than a beer commercial. And it’s all yours. These days, these nights, this time. Here. Now. You are beautiful. Seriously. I mean you.

What? Leave and ruin story-time?

So, have you ever wondered what the Commander in Chief was really doing the morning the United States was under attack?

Oh, nothing.

Taddle-tailing linked to fertility

Remember when you were a 'tween and your best friend had that annoying little sister who you were forced to let tag along everywhere you went? Whose round face would peer around the door (clearly marked KEEP OUT!!!) and ask "What'cha dooooin'?" at the exact moment you and your friend were lighting a contraband More 100 and vying over which of you would be the first to suck face with the cute French Canadian guy who just moved in across the street? Remember the hours and hours of coaching said little sister to answer "I dunno" whenever her parents would ask if her much older sister and best friend had anything to do with the watered down whiskey, missing power tools, or scratched Frank Zappa albums? Remember what a baby she was? How her little hands could barely fit between the bars of the jail you made for her out of an overturned laundry basket? Remember how she was always so freaking sticky? What was that? Like a fly strip and shit.

Well I remember my best friend's annoying little sister. And she just made this:

Welcome Mirabelle. I'm sending you my phone number and some good bribe material. Trust me, you'll need it. Your mom's a real pain in the ass.

Anti's Wild Years

Somewhere between last thursday and now, I was turned into a rock and roll star. What else could explain the crazy hours I've been keeping, the hangovers, the pizza boxes everywhere, the big, dirty hair and sudden need to apply more and more and more eyeliner. Or the waist-level cloud of smoke permanently suspended in my apartment; which I assume is related to the empty packs of cigarettes that litter every flat surface. Packs I swear I just bought like, an hour before. Having coffee at seven pm, booze at seven am, falling asleep with the morning news instead of the late-night show. I mean, the electric guitar next to the toilet is a dead give-away. Who, I ask you, other than a rock and roll star has an axe next to the john? A banker? Doubt it.

I just hope who or whatever turned me into a rock and roll star turned me into a cool one. Like Chrissie Hynde, or Patti Smith. A Deal twin. Because I don't want to end up killing my infinitely more talented husband, flashing my tits ad nauseam during any of a million smack-addled near-comas, and wondering why the state won't grant me custody of my kid. That'd suck.