Tiny Blazers!!

What my child's ultrasound will look like.

Here's a little peek into my maternal instincts. I like children. I'm not crazy about them, for example, I don't feel the same way about a little girl as I do about a long-haired chihuahua, but if they're cute enough, I dig 'em.

A few years ago, my friend Will told me he thought I'd make a great Mom. This meant a lot to me, as at the time I was almost fully emotionally shut off from the world. He told me that I'd be the type of mother who would dress her kid up in a tiny leopard fur coat, with red galoshes, and then buy the matching outfit for myself, and just parade my baby around in a mini-outfit of what I was wearing. No statement has ever been truer. One of the main reasons I want children is to dress them up like morons and/or raise them into direct facsimiles of myself. Even still, it is rare that I'll see a little baby or small child and think "I want one of those right now!!!!"

Until this morning.


I am such a card, I swear.

This morning, a woman got on the subway with her little boy. She was in her early 40's, wearing unflattering jogging gear and a fanny pack. But her little boy!!! You guys, I could not take my eyes off him. A perfect little face!! Sweet as candy!! Obviously bright (a trait I measure by the sparkle in one's eye.) But the best part is...

He was wearing a tiny, tiny navy blue blazer with a gold button!!

A LITTLE BLAZER!


Even littler!!

My ovaries are doing the wave, ya'll! This morning I decided that I just want to have a little boy so I can A. turn him into a genius and B. dress him up in formal wear EVERY DAY OF THE YEAR. Because...


...the only thing I like better than a small, long-legged, hermy looking aryan boy in formal shorts is...


...a chihuahua named Dinky getting married.

Putting the "Extra" with "Ordinary"

Quiz of the Day: Loch Ness Monster? Or Hugh Grant?

A few weeks ago, a friend in "the Biz" ("Biz" = showbiz, not a parasite living inside of Biz Markie) was describing her latest project: Working behind the scenes on the latest Hugh Grant movie "Music & Lyrics By." My friend Mike and I woke up at the crack of dawn to take the bus out of midtown and into Long Island, where we were dropped off at what appeared to be an abandoned amusement park, but what was actually "Adventureland". For those who don't know, "Adventureland" is a menagerie of various "stupid ways to die and/or have fun" set up in Farmingdale, New York. I'm not huge on carnivals, specifically carnies, so I was more than pleased to learn that the people operating the various rides (last inspected in what seemed like 1974) were not drug-addled carnies but, in fact, 14 year olds with no prospects. Safe at last.


Mike impersonating a teamster playing a carnival game.

This was my first experience being an extra, and I couldn't have asked for more. A Hugh Grant movie!! Are you kidding me? I don't think I can name another actor who elicits such heartfelt laughter and realistic seeming wedding dreams as Mr. Grant. I don't want to get "Jet Blue sale fare to psycho-town", but even the worst of his movies have ended up in my DVD collection thanks to his effortless smarm and sex appeal (barring Extreme Measures because, well, I'm pretty sure he doesn't end up in bed with Gene Hackman and his undoubtedly huge knickers. Otherwise 4 sure.)

The night before, I engaged in my geisha hair-and-make-up ritual. Every strand on my head had been straightened and glossed 3 times over in preparation. I wore an apropos "extras" outfit of off-white cords and a caramel colored blazer. I chose flats because, well, I didn't want to have my head lopped off by a boom mic.

How would my encounter with Hugh go down? Would he spot me, holding a parasol and drinking river water with my hands, and immediately invite me back into his trailer? Or would I accidentally take a sip from his coffee, leading to an awkward but upfront exchange about oral herpes, with my wit (and, might I add, herpes free mouth) overwhelming him with lust, leading us to peace the fuck out to his trailer? Would he go into his trailer, find me hiding under his bed Cape Fear-style, scold me for such a childish prank.... and then immediately invite me back to his trailer? I dreamed and dreamed.


Me, slyly taking a camera phone pic of Hugh Grant's stand-in, who bore a striking resemblance to Ty Pennington. I am so grateful my bloated face made it in! Proof that I was there!

Following extras check-in, Mike and I broke free from the pack and sat patiently on a bench watching them set up. In the meantime, I chatted up the director's older Jewish mother, who immediately out-ranked Mike as my "On-Set Bestie." I had a brief but thrilling flirtation with an adorable camera guy. I ate 3 bites of an Adventureland Quesedilla. I sat. I waited. I twiddled. And then...

Hugh Grant arrived.


Can you spot him in this photo? Answer coming up later. Hint: You can't see him.

Wearing adorable little velvet trousers, white cowboy boots, a white tuxedo shirt and a black leather studded blazer, he looked the part. The part is that of an 80s rock star who failed to hit it big as a solo artist and must resort to performing at, yes, Adventureland. My own Jewish maternal instinct kicked in, as Hugh looked very thin in person, smaller than he seems on screen. With him in the movie is Drew Barrymore, who speaking of petite, is tine-tine. Poor thing gets a reputation for being "not so thin" because she has a strong jaw, but I swear in 4 inch heels she was a little over 5 feet tall, waif-thin, and very cute. On the other end of the freaky-sized-celeb spectrum was Brad Garrett, better known as the brother on Everybody Loves Raymond. Much handsomer in person, I'm putting my comedy career on the line by saying that yes, I sometimes watch Raymond, and you know what? I laugh, so fuck you and your high brow judgment.

Seeing Hugh made me giddy. But I'm no asshole, I know how to behave. I wasn't about to go up to these actors and tell them that I'm a "fan" because, really, it's the douchiest, and my name ain't Massengil Collins. No, my plan was to pass Hugh on set, cock my head, wink an eye, give a tug at my jacket lapel, and say "Trade blazers?" For some reason, I thought this was brill. "Trade blazers! It's perfect!" I told Mike, who lowered his head in disgust and shame. Just random enough to get his attention, but coy enough to point out that we were both wearing ladies blazers.

I ran it by my friend working on the set, who immediately put me in my place and told me to behave. There would be no small talking with Hugh. If I didn't want to be sent back to the "Exta's Pen" (i.e. the Adventureland cafeteria, filled to the brim with 40-something actresses looking for their big break) I'd have to remain quiet.


The Extra's Pen: Where Dreams Become a Fast-Food Character Driven Nightmare.

We filmed our extra's scene, which was kind of cute. Mike and I played boyf/girlf, and the camera follows us walking behind a crowd of fans while totally disregarding Hugh's singing. We held hands and ate tri-colored snocones. We practiced looking "non-chalant", which may actually lend itself to our looking just a tad "chalant". I'm a solid head taller than Mike, so if and when you see the movie (which I get the feeling is gonna be great), and you spot a man and woman holding hands eating snocones, and you wonder "Are they dating? Or is that his mom?", that's me and Mike. And I swear to God, if my face ends up on the big screen, even for a brief mome, I will absolutely slit my throat in joy. Just like I did when they filmed my apartment in "New Jack City".


Mike and I sitting on a bench. This is a bird's eye view of 95 percent of my day.

During lunch, the PA's had all the amusement park rides opened for the people working behind the scenes. (Think key grips and the like.) We went on a hilarious roller coaster that looks like it's made for babies, up until you're dangled upside-down with your ovaries hanging out of your mouth crying out for Jesus to save you. Then there was a Haunted House ride that was basically a box on wheels moving slowly through a pitch black room, which is actually pretty fucking scary. This morning I was shocked to find bruises on my legs -- I think I was literally "Too Tall To Ride."


Me and a haunted house witch. Don't let the smile fool you: I was sure the moment I touched her she would reanimate into Karl Lagerfeld.

I had a brief, random encounter with Drew B. Someone brought a baby husky on the set and I, being half-mongoloid/half-carpathian, ran over to the puppy with arms outstretched and milk dribling down my chest, just wanting to embrace it's tiny dog-body. She was there along with her friend and some younger kids, and truly seems genuinely sweet -- I don't think it's an on-screen shtick with her. I managed to hold myself together and not remove the torah scroll I keep tucked in my bra with the 15 reasons why "Ever After" is one of my favorite movies ev.

Towards the end of the day, Hugh, Drew and Brad were filming the same scene they had been working on the entire day from a different camera angle. It must have been the 50th time they were running the lines, and Hugh seemed fatigued. Fragile, British, and fatigued. He kept mussin' his lines up, and getting progressively more agitated. It didn't help that he was surrounded by 5 year olds holding hands with their incredibly aggressive stage moms (see also: Me in 15 years.)

After flubbing a line for the 4th time in a row, Hugh freaked. I was standing behind the director watching the dailies, and all of a sudden I heard it: (spoken in the most high-brow British accent) "Fuck! Fuck me!! Fucking blighmy! Goddamn fuck!" The children all stopped walking. The ferris wheel came to a halt. A squirrel stopped eating a nut to look up. A baby cried. I, however, stood under the tent DYING laughing. Yes!! Some color! Some action! Hooray!!


There he is.

A few minutes later, he nailed the scene, and returned to his chair which I happened to be standing next to. (Don't read into it, there was nowhere else to go!) Hugh, the ultimate gent, turns to an older woman sitting nearby and says "I do apologize for the outburst." I couldn't help myself. "Are you kidding me?" I piped in, "That was the best thing I've seen all day! I was losing my mind, and finally -- fireworks on the set!"

I bit my lip... Did I break a rule? Would I get thrown out of the park like DJ Jazzy Jeff in the opening of Fresh Prince? I waited.

And, to my relief, Hugh gave a small chuckle... and then... he... LOOKED AT ME! And people, listen. His eyes were the deepest of turquoise, azul like the clearest waters of the Pacific. His built-in indigo laser beams bore holes directly through my skull. I died inside.


Another "on the sly" pic of the back of Hugh's chair. I came thisclose to scouring it for hair follicles to auction off on Ebay.

But that was it. He didn't say anything back, and I'm pretty sure my internal "freak out" mechanism kicked in, because I made some crack about killing myself on the Long Island Rail Road, and the convo kind of ended right there.

When I told my friend working on the film, she got a little dismayed but laughed. I'm basically an asshole, but this is common knowledge. Mike and I took the train back into the city, exhausted, a little burnt, but aware that we just had one of the best days of our lives.

Later on that evening, I got a text from my buddy. Apparently she went up to Hugh following my departure, and said "I'm sorry my friend accosted you." (Accosted is a major thorn with me, as I was standing right there, but nevertheless.)

To which he responded: "Oh no, I liked her."

"Oh no, I liked her."

I haven't eaten in three days.

The end.


That also might be thanks to this french-fry smoking cone of french fries, who reduced me to a chain smoking meth head on set.

(Big thanks to my friend who made this most amazing day possible!)

LVHRD MCFGHT-- This Tuesday!

Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa'
lllllllllllllllllllllllll
lllllllllllllllll
llllll
ll
!

I'm emceeing LVHRD's next event: MCFGHT! A Karaoke Showdown.

MCFGHT! is a single elimination karaoke tournament where LVHRD's best will come forward to prove their skills before a rambunctious audience of fellow members and a panel of astute judges. The competition will be structured into 3 rounds. Seven competitors will be whittled down by a series of battle duets and surprise challenges, culminating in the epic Mic Fight. LVHRD will be working with Sapporo Beer, Japan's oldest Belgian-style brew, and Pravda Vodka, the smoothest premium vodka ever produced, who will be providing complimentary drinks for MCFGHT! attendees.

You have to sign up with LVHRD in order to buy tickets $11.

They will then text message you with the location of the show the day of.

Doors open at 8 pm.

And yes. I will be singing. A lot. I'm still fency on whether or not I will wear a gown.

See You Never, Alli... Allig... Gever. :(

Thanks to my best friend in Portland, Maine, Lindsay, who just forwarded this really startling piece of information to me:

Vicious Dog Pack kills Gator In Florida

At times nature can be cruel, but there is also a raw beauty, and even a certain justice manifested within that cruelty. The alligator, one of the oldest and ultimate predators, normally considered the "apex predator" in it's natural eco-system, can still fall victim to implemented 'team work' strategy, made possible due to the tight knit social structure and "survival of the fittest pack mentality", bred into the canines over the last several hundreds of years by natural selection.

See the attached remarkable photograph courtesy of Nature Magazine ..Note that the Alpha dog has a muzzle hold on the gator preventing it from breathing, while the remainder of the pack prevents the beast from rolling. Not for the squeamish! We strongly recommend that you preview this privately before determining if a younger audience views the below contents...







(click to enlarge... worth it!)

Worth the Hasselhoff

Check out this slo-mo vid from last night's American Idol finale of David Hasselhoff crying. Honestly, I think he looks great.

The Sound of Silence

Riding the subway in style.

While I try to sell off the new Ipod that Apple replaced for me and pawn it in for a newer, video model, I've been doing my usual New York errands sans constant stream of inspirational jazz/tap music pumping into my earholes. Except, without the accompaniment of the Electric Light Orchestra and/or Steve Perry, I can now listen in on my fellow New Yorker's convos.

And here's what I've discovered: At least 85 percent of the people living in this city might be borderline mongoloid. At least. And it's turned me into Scowling Johannsen -- if two people on the morning train are having a conversation above 300 decibels, I believe I have the right to shuffle my paper, clear my throat, side-glance them, cross my legs and kick them in the back of the leg, do I not?

A few days ago, two blonde girls in their mid-20's got on the train, and stood next to the coveted corner position seat I had so cleverly nabbed (thanks again, strap-on preggers belly!). They begin talking about inane shit, but in that really annoying, middle-class half-valley-girl almost-Long-Island accent that is so prevalent amongst girls working in PR (which I gleaned from their convo was where these two were at.) PR stands for public relations, but it should stand for public retardation (good one, Collins). Because if you've ever met a publicist, after 5 minutes you're amazed that there isn't a doody-lined stream of toilet paper flowing out of their pant leg, and a cord connecting said publicist's wrist to that of his/most-likely-her legal guardians.


The President of FPA: Future Publicists of America.

Where was I? Ah, yes, the daily nightmare of having to listen to strangers. So one of these two blondes starts a-talkin, and I have no choice but to listen. And that's when I think I heard the single dumbest sentence ever uttered by man/Jersey trash:

"Whatever, that Amish boy totally lied, because he said it was a dwarf rabbit, and it grew up to be a full grown cat."


Me.


Don't blame the Amish -- any zipperless fool would have made the same faux paw.

Seriously, how do these people get HIRED at JOBS? And, like, buy groceries and read signs and not get accidentally killed everyday and shit? I've been thinking about this for 8 straight days.


On the other hand: awwww. And relax, PR people reading this, I have severe, severe autism. So my word is worth nothing.

20 Minute Set: Tomorrow!

Off-topic, but this vanity plate is still available in Maine. Let everyone in your neighborhood know that you're the MAINE Gangbang Lobster.

For those of you who really want to get to know me, I'll be doing a 20 minute set tomorrow night at Rififi. What does this mean? Well, it means that I will be rambling and raving for 20 straight minutes, and depending on how my voice heals, maybe even singing a little. What it means is: It's gonna be cray, and I beg of you to join me.


"Oh, Hello"
Thursdays w/ Nick Kroll and John Mulaney

8 pm

Rififi(cinema classics)

332 E 11th st (btwn 1st and 2nd ave)

(we're each doing 20 minutes. Nick and John are the funniest people in NYC, I don't think you can beat this show.)

Gas You Like It

Last night, my friend Becky had a rocking performance/birthday party at Galapagos, followed by the usual dancy-wildy-crazy karaoke antics seen in Williamsburg on a Sunday. Because of post-illness vocal limitations, I couldn't regale the crowd with my usual karaoke stand-by, Celine Dion's "It's All Coming Back To Me Now", and instead had to choose the lower-pitched "Freak Like Me" by Adina Howard.

Once my song was done (and being a total karaoke whore) I gravitated back to the binders chock full of song choices (and memories) to pick another crowd pleaser. And some... how... I ended up finding what, at the time, I thought was the funniest thing in the world. A Britney Spears parody song called "Oops I Farted Again."

Now, listen, Platinim Monocle Sally with the Sky High Brows, fart jokes are beneath me as well (aaaaaa-literally), but the idea of putting on a huge song and dance for "Oops I Farted Again" sounded like a total... dare I say... gas? No, I daren't. Because, sadly, it was never meant to be. My train people were leaving. I had to leave and never sang it.

When I arrived home, I did some web browsing. And came across one of the most entertaining reads of the year. But is it by coincidence, I ask you, that I Stumbled Upon (thank you Garth!) a site related to farts? I say no. I say that last night the stars aligned to make farts funnier and more interesting than they've been since Star Jones let one rip on the surgery table.

I promise, it might seem low brow, but check out this site and read it til the end (where the juicy questions are asked!). Chances are you'll fart 3 times during.

Facts on Farts by Brenna Lorenz

Sadly, I watched the music video for "Oops I Farted Again", and it really sucked. I'll stand by that it would've been amazing last night, but for the interests of this website, I won't post a link here.

And this post just wouldn't be right if I didn't reprint an old Hungarian limerick taught to me by my Grandfather in Tel Aviv, called, simply, Shari Neyni:

(spelled phonetically)

Shari Neyni Baboht Fuhz
Shegi Yukon Dyuhn A Gaz.

Translation:

Aunt Shari is cooking beans
And from her asshole steam is coming.


It's so much classier in French. "Tous Les Soirs" could translate into "Rose Petals and Ivory" or "A Day Without Rain", but probably means "My Lonely, Wet Fart."

End Of Slang Request: "Making Out"

You are not this classy, bitch. Nor this gilded. Move on dot org.

I'd like to make a proposal. I am really starting to get sick and tired of people using the phrase "made out." As in "Hey, how was your night last night? What happened with that guy?" and "Oh, it was fun, we made out."

Now, don't get too hasty here. I'm not suggesting that the term "made out" be obliterated altogether. After all, making out is a blast. Who doesn't like a little making out now and 24/7? Even the term "making out" is fine, when it connotes two people engaging in long-term kissing/heavy petting (side note: heavy petting is my all time least favorite term ever.) Because you are: Making out just fine for yourself, with no risk of catching an STD, a fetus, bird flu or SARS.


Gerald's first trip to the heavy petting zoo was life-changing. For the rest of his life, he would only be able to work up his arousal mechanism with the smell of bacon present. Family brunches were awkward, to say the least. As was his eventual marriage to a kosher woman.

But this latest trend in 20-something slang has skewered the word into a territory that, frankly, the gossipmonger in me will not stand for.

Lately, friends will throw down the "make out" card with wild abandon, even when more than just middle school "making out" is taking place. If you tell me you're making out with someone, I picture retainers getting caught, spit being swapped, and at the very worst, a couple of herpes germs getting passed here and there. "Making out" does NOT describe anal in a satin-lined heart-shaped bed with a Greek sailor in town for the weekend and his goat, Menelaus. (Brendaaaaa, I'm talking to you). "Making out" is not an all-base-emcompassing description. At least with the sometime juvenile sounding "Hooking up", you can't immediately rule out abortions. But don't play all prim and proper when you're as dirty a whore as we ALL are.


Unless you're banging this guy, and then please, save all details for your Hello Kitty trapper keeper diary.

I know what you're thinking: Why Michelle? Why do you care? Is it any of your business even at all? The answer is this: Of course it's my business. How am I to retain my status as a fantastic advice giver and girl with a vicariously happy and bustling social life without knowing the intimate details of my friend's love lives?

There's nothing more embarassing than this conversation, which I've had all too often. "How is {insert name of random dude}?" "He's great, he's great." "You guys still seeing each other?" "Yeah, we make out." "When was the last time you saw him?" "Oh, he's here right now. He moved in last Tuesday. I gotta go hose off the rubber sheets -- T T Y LLLLL."


"We've never been happier."

So please, for the sake of my social sanity, just fess up and dish already! Thank you.

Conversations with Mother, Part 3: The Urgent Phone Call

This morning at work, my phone rang. I was busy, but picked up.

Me: Hello?

Mother: Mich? Can you talk?

Me: No! Really busy. Gotta g--

Mother: Mich, quickly, listen I really have to tell you something.

Me: (cringe) Uch, OK. What is it.

Mother: I called to tell you that... (dramatic pause) Tomorrow is Lutzy's 11th birthday.

(Lutzy is our housecat.)


These are his feet.

Me: Heheheeee. Yoy! 11!!

Mother: That's 77 in people years! But he's not well.

Me: No?

Mother: He's groaning again when he makes doody. (A recurring problem)

Me: Oh no...

Mother: (half laughing) Yes. He pushes and groans... he's got such a little hole back there! And his doodies are like rocks.

Me: Oy may God! (quietly laughing, sounds like robots farting)


Such a little hole, and such invisible balls.

Mother: (laughing) You wanna hear him purr?

Me: Yes!!

Mother: Hold on.

(silence)

(Unebelievably loud purring. Like a little furry motorcycle. I choke up and tears come to my eyes. Purring!!! Ayayayayay.)



Mother: Did you hear him?

Me:


Missing home and wearing ballet shoes.


Happy 11th Birthday Lutz!

NY: Love It, Leave It, or Murder Someone in Blind Rage

Me on a typical day in NYC.

Sometimes in this fine city, I'll find myself walking along 6th Avenue, where I'll look up and catch the most exquisite view of the Empire State Building, or perhaps in the middle of the Metropolitan Museum, spinning in circles with my arms spread out, elated to be in a single building that houses every wall calendar I've ever owned. And I'll think "Wow! Am I the luckiest girl in the world?" as I skip through Central Park in my "I (Heart) NY" velour tracksuit, holding a soft pretzel in one hand and Derek Jeter's hand in the other, with Woody Allen secured in a papoose and strapped to my rack.


Well it IS winter, and I AM Native American.

Then there are days in this city where I want to drop kick a baby in the fucking face out of sheer anger.

Yesterday was one of those days.

The day itself wasn't so bad. After a pretty innocuous day at work, I made plans with a friend to go to my favorite yearly event, the Alain Mikli Eyeglasses sample sale, where I buy all of my spectacles. I slapped on some makeup beforehand -- there's nothing worse than trying on glasses with nothing but a big pasty face as your backdrop. Nothing too rash... just enough to make it look like I had a rash. That Prince Harry has it so easy sometimes.


Easy on the Nars Shim-Shim Stick, Har.

I hopped on the uptown R train, which was moving as fast as a Passover stool. Luckily, my Ipod was back in working order, and shufflin like Al Jolson. And right as I was thinking to myself how lucky I am that I had this wonderful music playing on this slow ride (Hall & Oates, as alw) the shit stopped. Just stopped. Frozen! Fuck I hate Ipods. There is something oddly infuriating about having to reboot a machine that's the size of a fucking sardine can.


Yet something oddly intriguing about a tiny boot filled with matchsticks.

But rebooting proved pointless. Because I was met with a brand new little malfuntion icon. Not the folder with the exclamation point, or the drained battery for that matter. But a little fucking picture of an Ipod with x's for eyes and a frowny face. A motherfucking DEAD CARTOON face on an Ipod.


They might as well have a little Dot Matrix Jeffrey Dahmer come up with a quote that's all "My B!"

Once out of the train, time to call my friend and -- my phone! FUCK ME! I left my fucking phone at work! GAH! The funny thing about meeting plans is they never work without a phone.

I decided to ditch my friend for the sake of glasses. I entered the sale with the same mongoloidy optimism I've been known to cherish -- only to find bins of Meshach Taylor-style Mannequin sunglasses at 1986 percent off. Where were the frames made famous by Elton John, Daniel Liebeskind and Samuel L. Jackson? I mean, I'm pretty sure these Alain Mikli people were taking advantage of the blind, read: me.


My future child.

The good news is that while I left the sale empty-handed, the skies opened up and took their mighty fury out on us pitiful New Yorkers. Thanks to my 900 foot "Condor" umbrella, I remained mostly dry. Ne'ertheless, the R train smelled like a Jamba Juice shake made out of piss, jizz, sweat, shit, dogs and a Power C Boost. The train arrived quickly, though, but was bumper-to-bumper people, and I ended up standing directly over a woman who had whatever disease Eric Stolz had in "Mask." I've never learned the name of this disease (elephantitis?), and insist on calling it "The disease Eric Stolz had in 'Mask'", which will be double-awkward when my child is no doubt born with it.

At this point, I'm fuming. Like boiling over. Everything is upside-down. I'm covered in damp-sticky-rain sweat. And now, lucky me, I get to transfer at 42nd Street for the red line, the station that puts the "New York makes me want to kill myself" in the "No, I'm serious, New York makes me want to kill myself." A million people! Narrow stairways!! Leaks and bags and canes and eyepatches and GOD I hate it there!

I climbed the staircase in full on Robocop mode (head upright, shoulders back, willing to trounce on anything to get to my platform) when I heard music playing. Then I saw it. Two fucking guys, in a ragtime band, in goddamn straw hats, one with a cymbal on his foot, just rollicking and laughing and playin' the oldies to a crowd of onlookers. I'm already at my boiling point, when the other guy starts playing... the kazoo.

The kazoo.

Playing.

The.

Fucking.

Kazoo.


Kazoo.

Here is the exact thing that ran through my mind: "Wha... What! Is that a kazoo? OMFG. I'm -- I wanna take my gigantic Nike Golf umbrella, hold it up to my waist, facing outwards, like a knight. Then, I want to run my umbrella directly into that man's chest, Braveheart-style, open the umbrella up, and listen until the sound of the kazoo fizzles out ever so slowly."

This, friends, was one of my worst afternoons in New York.

Thankfully, I was wearing makeup for it.


I looked pretty, but more importantly, I felt pretty.

In totally unrelated news, I bring to you my favorite thing of 2006 thus far: EARTH SANDWICH. (via Boing)

My Secret Identity

A great show? Clearly. Who doesn't like Jerry O'Connell?

But a Google search phrase used to reach this very blog today has lead me down a different mindset.

The search was...

Michelle From Booty Talk 39

I mean -- what if that WAS me? What if Google had never been righter? What if my booty has been DYING to gab this entire time, only I never let it? Is this me? Is this a sign?

These movies must be unbelievable!! They made at least thirty-nine of them. Don't expect to see The Da Vinci Code 27 anytime soon.

In fact, this Google search says there's a number 62... SIXTY-ONE SEQUELS!! God, I would get sick of the sound of my booty's voice after all that time.


Here's this guy telling his booty to "Put a lid on it!"

Update: What's Por... Pornnnn... Pornography? What is that?

Update 2: Please do not answer the above question in the form of an "e-mail attachment." Thank yew.

Balls on a Bike Seat

Second 31.

(Grodes via FourLeggedLinks)

Promise Me This

Feeling a little... how do you say... under the weather?

So I'm still sick as a dog. When I laugh, I sound like a goose honking, and when I cry, I sound like the final spurts of life coming from a slaughtered pig. But with this illness in mind, I just have one favor to ask: Please, please, please make sure my obit does not read like this one:

Final Clarabell the Clown Dies at 84

(I can't even post a picture of Clarabell the Clown -- Google Image search it yourself, then speeddial John Wayne Gacy and call it a life.)

Although one sentence in that arty I just can't get enough of: Anderson followed Bobby Nicholson, who later played Doodyville's J. Cornelius Cobb.

Doodyville's J. Cornelius Cobb
Doodyville's J. Cornelius Cobb
Doodyville's J. Cornelius Cobb
Doodyville's J. Cornelius Cobb
Doodyville's J. Cornelius Cobb

His nickmane was "Corny." Corny in Doodyville. Savor that for a while.

Speaking of Doodyville, shouldn't have had that third cup of coffee. One way ticket ya'll -- PEACE.


See you in your dreams... children.

Play These At My Funeral (Spit Three Times)

Very sick. In bed all weekend. Sore throat. Head foggy. I kinda feel like this:



I wish I felt like this:



xoxo, poss for eternity,
mc

NYC Beard and Moustache Championship!!

Click here to enlarge.

This Tuesday! May 16! Beards and Moustaches!

New York City Beard and Moustache Championships
Knitting Factory
74 Leonard St., New York, NY 10013
between Broadway and Church St.

I'll be presenting an award! And maybe (read: definitely) singing the show's theme song!!

Featuring:

Todd Levin
Nick Kroll
Christian Finnegan
Michelle Collins
Jon Friedman
Stuckey & Murray
Jon Bulette

and musical performances by:

Country Club and the Porn Horns
Curtis Eller's American Circus
Valley Lodge

Here's a blurb from New York Mag:

Hairy participants compete for top honors in categories such as patchy, freestyle, Kenny Rogers, and artificial (for the ladies and follicly-challenged) at the first ever NYC Beard and Moustache Championships. In addition to live music from Valley Lodge and Curtis Eller's American Circus, comics Christian Finnegan (VH1's Best Week Ever) and Michelle Collins (VH1's So Jewtastic) are among those slated to introduce the different facial hair categories. — Leaya Lee

Here's the OFFICIAL WEBSITE: NYC BEARD
Where you can buy tickets for either $12 or $15, depending on how lazy you are!

I'll make sure to greet each and every one of you at the door.


Please, pleaaaaase don't-disappoint-me.

Everybody... Just... Calm... Down.

Good God. Never in my life did I think that posting a SESAME STREET clip would lead to the influx of angry mail piling up in my "Bulk folder" (also my euphamism for my stomach.) A sampling:

Did you know the first Gordan was fired for smoking pot and David killed himself and one time I met Maria and she's really pretty and OH YOU BITCH! I'm a 37 yr old middle school teacher & now I have to explain to my 8th graders why im all teary eyed & shit.

I didn't know that. Good luck teaching Trig today & shit.

man, i totally thought i was over that whole Mr Hooper death thing. and now you went and made me cry at work. Youtube: bringing back all the horrific TV memories of childhood. nice.

jen

You should have seen me in my cubicle after the Tsunami. I'd watch the videos on my lunch break, and people would walk by while I'd be sitting under my desk, weeping, and rocking myself back and forth, clutching a baby tiger. I was a wreck.

Well, you did it. After making me laugh so many times, you finally made me cry. A lot. For the record, here's a complete list of things (apart from my own experiences) that have previously made me cry:

1. It's A Wonderful Life;
2. Lee Scoresby's death scene in His Dark Materials.

Richard, Dublin

I don't know that second one, but Lee Scoresby must've been a great guy.

Subject: Damn You, You Bitch, Michelle Collins
I'm guessing you enjoy torturing us. There is no other explanation for your posting of the death of Mr. Hooper. All of my Sesame Street memories are filled with laughter, love, and the letter L. I apparently blacked during the death of Mr. Hooper, sublimating my despair into martinis and cigs. Seeing Maria cry as she tried to explain it all to Big Bird was horrible. Bless you for being funny, but damn you for posting that.

Dee-doo-dee-doo-dee-doo-dee-doo,
Seth

I was soupes-town offended, up until the "Dee-Doo"-ing. Then I laughed. Why the clip opened with that little "Dee-Doo" segnment I'll never really understand. (Update: Aha. "Just because." I get it now. I must have been too swallowed in my own grief to notice. Stil the dee-doo-ing is laughable.)

AAAAAnywho, while I spend today hammering protective spiked boards into my front door to keep out the predators, let me make it up to all of you for watching that yesterday. Sometime this weekend, take 30 minutes of your day and devote it to the following video, "Heat Vision and Jack." From Wiki: Heat Vision and Jack was a proposed 1999 comedy/sci-fi television show starring Jack Black, Owen Wilson, and Ron Silver. Christine Taylor guest starred in the pilot episode, the only episode filmed. The show was directed by Ben Stiller. I saw it moons ago, but haven't in the past couple of years and it still remains the funniest thing around.



"Wow this is a really beautiful house. Your grandmother must have been really rich."
Michelle

Crystal Meth and Muppet Death

One of the best museums in New York catering to the lazy is the Museum of Television and Radio. While I am one of the laziest fucks ever, I've only been to the MTR once, while in college, to see an Andy Kaufman retrospective. After the emptyish crowd let out, my friend Sara and I perused the other floors, and then came across the best thing ever.

On the fourth floor exists a personal viewing library, where visitors can request shows from a seemingly unlimited number of listings, and then watch them in a private console. Manna from Heaven. The listings binder was damp from the drool of past TV addicts. I figured we should start off with something light, so I requested the Jim Carrey episode of SNL, the one where he plays a lifeguard in a hot tub, and dances with the Roxbury guys. Fine, not highbrow, I'll give you that. But pretty hilarious, and my friend hadn't seen it, and I was 18 years old and it was before "The Majestic".

Thanks to the AMAZING YouTube, I found by far the funniest bit from the entire SNL episode, "Jimmy Tango's Fat Busters." I love that the audience is completely bewildered. Promise me you'll watch until Will Ferrell's bead costume:



So that took care of the comedy, but ha-what about the drama?

Then, it hit me. I was a Sesame Street super-fan. So much so that I owned the Sesame Street yearbook of sorts, Unpaved, which is a FANTASTIC book full of great behind-the-scenes stories, as well as transcripts of some of the most beloved sketches.

I was too young to remember Will Lee's (the actor who played Mr. Hooper) untimely death in 1983. The producers of the show, instead of skirting the issue of his passing, instead dealt with it head on in one of the show's most famous episodes.

"Unpaved" has a transcript of the scene. The first time I read it, I was hysterical. And because I am a sick maniac, I would read it to friends, and we would just cry and cry. At the Museum, I decided I had to see this tragic scene played out first hand. Part of me feels cruel for posting this video, because I'm convinced it's the muppet version of 9/11, but another part of me really thinks you all should see it. It was recorded soon after his passing, and the neighborhood gang is genuinely tearing up. Poignant and heartbreaking.



You can read the transcript here. Needless to say, wearing eyemakeup today was a pretty bad idea.

So Cute... But Literally Arrest The Parents.

This arrived in my e-mail this morning, and I had to share. It's to die for adorable... but unless the dog is a sweet-natured retard, I would not be against finding and incarcerating the parents. Until that happens: AY MAY GOD, YOOK AT DEEEESSS!!!!!











I'm bawling. (with thanks to Maggie S.!)