With my tube of Colgate nearly emptied and my stomach unable to quell its own convulsions, I surprise even myself for surviving. From the childhood days of surpassing a normal consumption of dirt, to the bad shrimp at a prestigious Calabash in South Carolina, and even to the twelve-year-old package of Twizzlers I found in an old Halloween bucket and simply could not pass aside, my internal digestive system has weathered all horrors. Or so I thought.

Upon attending a recent talk show, I was more than ecstatic to receive my own Harry Potter collector’s bag of Jelly Belly jelly beans. Firstly, Jelly Belly manufactures the very best of the little  gourmet sugary dolls, and secondly they were free. Any item sugary and free is an instant adrenaline rush for my impoverished little being and an ultimate source of glee for an entire twenty-four hour period.

With great anticipation, I sat home the very same evening in my mildewy black leather chair (yet another free item I pulled from the streets of NYC on a rainy day). I opened the package and briefly scanned the directory for the hundred or so capsules of tangy sugar before deciding that such planning and excavating is not my style. I far prefer to be surprised. Hot damn, was I ever!

White candies are generally a tranquil flavour, offering a tropical coconut essence redolent of the sweetness on a tropical island. With this in consideration, my tongue began to water in the savory anticipation of a brief escape to paradise. Mr. Misleading Jelly Belly Corp. had another destination in mind, another fruta del mar, flavor of the sea –SARDINES! The little pellet instantly flew from the pocket of my cheek to become the victim of my little Imagination (the kitty of course). My body convulsed and pitiful mouth brough the profanity of f-bomb intensity. But, oh no, I couldn’t possibley run to the bathroom and rinse the vomitous flavour from my tastebuds. Instead, I optioned to cover the Sardine with another mischievous capsule of doom while hoping the flavour of my second candied adventure would be strong enough to cover the first mistake. Well the former requisite was met by the strongest, foulest, candied taste of HORSERADISH! It was worse than the chicken pate on my last United Air Flight. It was more sickening than the Chinese Sesame Noodles that were allowed to turn in my fridge for three weeks. Its redolence was more wretching than the green water of the docking area for the Staten Island Ferry. Wait… YES IT WAS MORE PUTRID THAN THE BODY ODOR SMELL EMANATING FROM OPERA LADY’S APARTMENT ACROSS THE HALL.

What more can I say than, DAMN YOU Jelly Belly! Ya’ll are more misleading than Judith Light!


I hate show business, I hate show business, I HATE SHOW BUSINESS. To all four of you fellow, dedicated readers of my past entries, please allow yourselves to soar to the highest winds of Hollywood hypocrisy and heartbreak. Indeed, I pledge to offer words where innocence is lost, but please do believe that I maintained levels of naivete that I was once too proud to admit. Dreams die harder than pride and apparently my pride is dead. Gone. Adios. Besame el culo.

With my tremendous financial debt and difficulty in finding enough money to purchase a bagel, most people would find my willingness to spend $30 on a boxed lunch and script reading to be in excess. However, I never felt one could put a monetary value on the realization of dreams. Accompanying this expensive lunch was the once in a LIFETIME opportunity of meeting Judith Light. Being she is not ten percent of the caliber Bette Midler or Barbra Streisand (two women whom I both came across), I assumed she would maintain a high level of humility and compassion. I mean the woman spends two hours a month speaking with callers about blackheads and pimple pus, with an intense empathatic approach. Judith Light simply HAD to be the mentor I always sought, the kind gem amidst the hard stones of the industry, and the ONE woman I could trust.

 I had been considering taking a Greyhound to Philly at 2 AM and then take a cab from Philly to Amish country in order to make it to the QVC Studios and catch my one inspiration. However, the very same week the chance arose for me to attend a special script reading by the one and only Judith Light. Granted, sharing my news with friends and collegues sought little encouragement as most of them asked, “Who the hell is that?” When I replied, Angela from Who’s The Boss, I found some support and interest. However,to me, Ms. Light was the “Meryl Streep of television,” the heartwarming female role model of Who’s The Boss?, but most importantly, a woman whom I hoped to glean insight and understanding. What I should have truly asked for was an acting class, because apparently that is all it took for her.

Upon arriving at the ritzy, artsy-fartsy, museum I should have relinquished fear of imposing upon this former angelic “Angela.” Certainly an anomoly, I was surrounded by post-menapausal, post-hip replacement, and post-breathing women who looked down upon my poor black rags from Macy’s. One of their fur coats could have covered my $30,000 debt of student loans and life expenses for the next ten years.

After nervously noshing watercress and appetizers of canine-quality cuisine, I admired the intensity of Ms. Light’s performance. Her command reached to my very being at a level that I was simply abashed and fearful. Her booming voice and pristine usage of the word “f***” made me once again recognize the extensive versatility and passionate force she shared with us.

After a warm and light Q&A, it was time to join Judith in the grand parlor for cocktails and praise. Though my dear friend insisted upon hiding out in a separate wing of the parlor, I nervously chatted with the surrounding theatre and art hounds who passed my intellect and sense of humour off as unnecessary. After fifteen minutes of lingering and three carelessly swallowed glasses of wine (despite the fact I am minor), I was truly prepared to meet my inspiration. Ms. Light’s authority and strength hardly translated to warmth and charisma, as my friend and former Judith Light fan refused to impose. She was simply too intimidated by the glitz, glamour, and gregariously grotesque group.

Not me, though. No siree, I was destined to meet Ms.Light and not return home with a siren of regrets that have haunted my soul on many sleepless nights because I simply missed a chance, not wanting to impose on people whom I admired. I approached Ms. Light and was slightly alarmed by her austere and apathetic welcome to my starry-eyes and hopeful heart. I nearly cleared my bank of its last final thirty dollars to see this woman and I just wanted to express my profound respect for her.

Well forget about that. Ms. Light awkwardly smiled to the camera and I said my friend was highly intimidated by her and such a true fan, I expected the warm Ms. Light I knew to be understanding. However, she coldly remarked in a voice that froze my warm and nearly inebriated blood, “Well she’ll have to learn to get over her intimidation. I have to go.” Had she been joking in that charming, sensitive voice that lures Proactiv guinea pigs to spend fortunes on benzyne peroxide and simply “trust her,” I could take it. Her voice was in an unbearable timbre of Ethel Merman, that simply caused the crystal chandeliers above head to jingle and jangle. Why hadn’t I taken the eccentric, effervescent approach and ran to her screaming with open arms, “My pores are clean! My pores are clean! And all thanks to you.” Undoubtedly such histrionics would find her humility amidst the pretentious playwright and regal attendees.

Of course, Ms. Light passed me aside and hurried with her elitist entourage while I stood in shock. For being in such a rush, she managed to stand schmoozing for another ten minutes, while her co-star and the most charming, graceful, and charismatic man I have ever met saved the day. This actor stars on Third Watch and showed a diversity in the two reading beyond the capacity of Ms. Light. He smoothly greeted my friend and nearly carried her to Ms. Light, as my eyes seriously and disappointedly revealed “Don’t even ask.”

Ms. Light involuntarily posed for the photo with my friend, as I stood watching with an uneasiness and rejection that could sink the Titanic once again. Ms. Light eventually left and I placed my knees upon the wealthy, oriental carpet and thanked God for the open bar. After a few more glasses of wine, I gave one last cheer to another shattered dream….

“There were times… I lost a dream or two. Found a trail and at the end was you. There’s a chance to take and the chance not taken. The choice is up to you my friend. Night’s are long, but you’re wide awake…with a brand new life. Brand new life. Brand new life around the bend.”

Cheers to my brand new, Judith Light-free life around the bend.

*On a further note, I must say her people are incredible and manager, Herb, was brimming with charisma and charm.

Vegas Artforms

On a rather impromptu visit to Las Vegas a few weeks ago, I found myself frequenting the lobby(ies) of Mandalay Bay, reliving past experiences. I suppose this takes me back to the weaning days. I found this photo in my inbox a few days ago, from the drooling middle-aged men who pleaded with me to pose for their digitical camera. I believe I was the first model with low testosterone, daring to be showcased upon these stone tits.

He’s Just My Imagination

I love my little, five month old kitten named Imagination. He curls amidst my swollen, ice-cold feet at night when the landlord cuts back on energy costs and denies me heat.

Imagination purrs ever so gently as rests against my chest while I enter my glorious, articulate entries upon my own special Xanga site.

I rest my head against his fluffy white and gray body and realize there is no place else I would rather be. Until…

The rabid, psychotic little furbrain AWAKES and create havoc throughout the small confines of my NYC apartment. He bites through my toes until blood is forced from them and he gives me the look that it is time to eat. I calmly enter the kitchen to feed the scrangly rodent when he digs his little claws into my pajama pants and the flesh of my legs. I hate that screwball!

His terror fails to cease as he leaps from the kitchen to fill the air with his putrid emissions from underneath his fluffy tail. I work away at the keyboard until he comes along to pounce on my frenzied fingers and freeze my computer system. After hurling the bad-breathed beast across the room, he returns with toilet streaming from his mouth, which I know has a trail down the hall to my bathroom. I return to the bathroom to repair the layers of Cottenelle nightmares as the little hellraiser returns to my bedroom to frolic in my pile of clean and just folded clothes. I long to see if a cat REALLY has nine lives when thrusted from the fire escape of the sixth story.

And then the apartment silences, minus the normal city traffic outside the tenament and the whaling mockery of music from “Opera Lady” next door. I search frantically to find my little Imagination. I hope he is ok… I couldn’t stand to see my poor little baby hurt or trapped beneath a piece of furniture. Why, he has hardly learned to meow… if something happened he would never be heard.

I find my poor, tired angel sprawled across the living room floor and layer his fur with kisses of relief. I love my Imagination… how perfect he is. How much he needs me and I need him…three minutes of sheer bliss as I enjoy his slumbering presence.

Yet again he betrays my trust and awakes. We are destined to repeat a hell and our endless cycle of love and hate.


Proactive For Judith Light (Not intended to sound dirty)

Indeed my late night life consists of an ode to Judith Light; a brief moment in time when I sit transfixed before the television at midnight to behold the reruns of the glorious show in syndication –Who’s The Boss? My day becomes brighter when I accidentally land upon the QVC network to discover the glory if Proactiv in my mastered technique of clicking through the 89 channels in less than 30 seconds. These are times for rejoicing! It’s Judith Light, folks!

Sure people get their fix on baseball games or soap operas, but I need just a sprinkle of Ms. Light in my daily intake of televised pollution. She lifts my heart and makes me become a naive, carefree child who believes that amidst the futile sales pitches, the superficial, plastic divas on the television, and the lying politicians who inundate us daily, compassion may be transfixed upon my bleary eyes as they freeze at the glass surface of my twenty inch boob tube.

In these moments of sheer bliss that I catch Ms. Light’s informercial at one AM, I must lower my dialogue with her to prevent the neighbors from hearing my childlike banter through the paper-thin walls of my tenament. It goes as follows…

Me: Wooohoo! Judith Light is on!

Judith Light: At the age of thirty I became a victim of hideous red acne.

Me: Isn’t she so deep? So candid? I love you Judith!

Judith Light: But the makers of ProActiv have recently found a three-part solution to a problem many of us face at least once in our lives.

Me: Oh, Ms. Light, you care so much for us. You don’t see Madonna or Rosie O’Donnell concerned about that little blemish under my chin!

Judith Light: With ProActiv you can shine at your brightest moments.

Me:No, no, Ms. Light. You are the only shining star on at this dull moment at night.

Judith Light: If you don’t believe this product works for you, you can return it for a full refund.

Me: Of course I believe you Angela! I mean Judith Light! I mean, who is the boss? Only you and the boss would never lie!

Judith Light: All I want is for YOU to have the best skin and glow you can possibley have.

Me: She likes me, she really likes me!

Thus, it should shock no one to know that my one room apartment is cluttered with the $1000 worth of Proactiv solution that greets my stumbling feet as I fall to the floor each day. Don’t you just LOVE Judith Light????

*Note to reader- in effort to comic effect I merely went on a tangent and seem to mock Ms. Light. So my advice is laugh away, but don’t doubt this – I LOVE JUDITH LIGHT!

**The $1,000 supply of proactiv is a comedic hyperbole. I’d be happy if I had 10 bucks.


To Whom It May Concern

To whom it may concern I am not asking for your pity.

To whom it may concern, I’m not asking for your compassion.

To whom it may concern please grant me time to break down.

To whom it may concern let me tumble, let me fall.

To whom it may concern I wonder if I’ve strength to be as strong and great as you.

To whom it may concern I am just trying to be perfect.

To whom it may concern please do forgive me if I’m not.

To whom it may concern can I sail with dreams in flight?

To whom it may concern just please pray I’ll sleep tonight…

Who is that girl?

Today I was lost amidst the trains of thought that haunt my being. My old, worn out spirit fails to match the glimmering young child I see in the mirror…

Though I should adorn my youth and exuberance, I neglect all that lay before me in the future. WHat is the point of this dreamer? This schemer?

The years will fade and so will my youth… so why must I still long for what I will assuredly dread when it comes. I can never enjoy what I don’t claim as mine.

Who is that girl?


As a shallow promise to myself that is within seconds of becoming a shattered rant of verbose frustration, I pledged to avoid mentioning my new book BETTE OR BUST at all costs. XANGA was to be a Bette-free, celeb-free, and thus, anger-free zone. However, I suppose I can dwell on such hideous encounters (and the lack thereof) with those grand celebrities since I can reveal the demons that haunt my poor, 18 year old, jaded soul. As I told ya’ll in my profile–this is where innocence is lost.

Since I am sick to the near point of nausea from promotin’, pluggin’, and pitchin’ a book I wrote that reveals a young, naive person that I pledge to have lost, I will encourage you all to get the full story by checking out my site. I REFUSE to bring mention to that saga directly (indirectly you may expect a whalloping vent of stream of conscious explosions on a daily basis.)

So, allow me to once mention the book, as it was the primary reason I found myself outside the stagedoor of a heavy, loud-mouthed, moody, talk show host who is taking a stab at the great white way on Broadway. I won’t use names as we all know the media does more than enough to bring attention to this individual. My shivering, pallid partner in crime glowed underneath the blinding lights of the marquee. My tongue bled from the fourteen times my teeth sank into it, in my grandest effort to prevent my bitter words of hostility from touching the ears of the endearing children before me.

An hour of shivering, venting, and praying for the middle-aged celebrity to be escorted to her luxurious SUV that polluted the frigid air with exhaust fumes for the duration of my plantation upon the icy concrete. An adorable eleven-year old girl found lips spilling words in a sarcastic dialogue with me upon the parading of this celebrity’s entourage of family and friends. Their scoffs at the crowd of now at least a hundred dedicated fans (with the exclusion of my partner in crime and myself) betrayed my ability to remain quiet. When a man in this entourage ignorantly asked, “What are YOU all doing here” I opened my frozen blue lips to bitterly reply, “We are paying for your car buddy!”

As if I was not made to feel as a useless, fawning, fan already, the non-grande dame (I have a nature of poorly using prefixes) made her grande (as in spanish) showing. I subtly placed the decoupaged box of photos of another celebrity whom is the focal point of that book I refuse to mention. Inside the deranged…I mean eccentric…box was a candid letter (Hollywood types would deem it hostile… as indeed the truth hurts) that preceded the anticipated hypocrisy that the receipt of our gift would entail.

Upon handing the box to this wealthy individual, she calmy remarked “Oh decoupage.” Of course, such comments were not nearly enough as she continued to condescendingly remark, “With scotch tape!” First of all, it was PACKING tape, and second of all, I had to fight the words from screaming “THAT IS ALL US POOR PEOPLE CAN AFFORD.” However, such a mark would have been uncouth (Heaven forbid I be uncouth in person) and the worshipped ninny continued on.

I, on the other hand, became enraged that the barricade before me was quickly becoming an extra rib launched into my bruised diaphragm as the masses of adorning fans pushed me from behind. I bribed the hysterical crowd with my front-row spot should they spare me just one last breath before I became a pile of mush upon the soiled pavement. Better yet, I was to become an appendage to this barrier between the lowly common folk and the reigning celebrity with her privileged entourage.

Oh, but my fate was even worse when the celebrity surprisingly showed some compassion ( for which I WOULD have been grateful for). She pointed down at me and permitted me to go under the barricade provided that its wooden blanks would rid themselves from my weak, shivering body. As I lowered myself below the bar, she apathetically replied, “Nice to meet you” while I was thinking, “Yeah for the eleventeenth time!”

Just as I began my limbo to the ringing promise of freedom, a star-hungry woman pushed me as the celebrity turned to sign autographs for the endearing children before me. The icy sidewalk underneath me plunged my vulnerable being towards the adorned actress and my face brush against her tochus! Yes, indeed, I was kissing ass! To a woman I despised…to a woman who despised me (or soon will) … The shame of it all leaves me at this time speechless…more to come later.

Oh, but one other thing. Her robust, male, personal assistant who has been rumoured to possess a “God-Complex” apparently enjoyed the box. The mission was a lost cause, but perhaps there is some salvation in the fact my lipstick did not smear upon the celebrity’s ass. IF that had occurred, all of NYC would assuredly think she was accustomed to such worship.

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