You Can't Make It Up

SHOW TONIGHT! Tell Your Friends @ Lolita Bar

2007-11-12T03:01:00.001-12:00

Hi all,

My hosting duties continue all this month and next, as I host "Tell Your Friends", the long-running hit alternative comedy show in the Lower East Side. Tonight's line-up is stellar:
November 12th @ 8:00 PM
Christian Finnegan (Best Week Ever)
Brian Baumley (Stand Up NY)
Leo Allen (Premium Blend, Writer for SNL)
Tom Shillue (Comedy Central Presents)

Lolita Bar: 266 Broome Street, New York, NY 10002, between Allen and Orchard Street.

So, you know... "TELL YOUR FRIENDS!"

Hope to see you later!

LAST SHOW! Tomorrow night, Join me!

2007-10-29T09:47:00.000-12:00

**Last Show**Last Show**Last Show**Last Show**Last Show**Last Show**Last Show**Last Show

TOMORROW NIGHT! 10 PM! LAST SHOW!

My month long residency at Rififi end tomorrow night, everyone. It's gonna be a big show, and I hope you can make it!

Please join me tomorrow night, when I welcome my dear guests:

VICTOR VARNADO - Too many things to mention, here's his IMDB link http://imdb.com/name/nm0890075/ A TREAT OF A MAN!

BARON VAUGHN - Funnyman extraordinaire, on 8,000 college tours at any given time!

JOE MANDE - One of the Heeb 100, One of My Top 5 Kikes of All Time

NICK STEVENS - Took time out of his ESPN Taping Sched to join us!

$5!

Rififi
332 E. 11th St. btwn 1st & 2nd Ave
Tuesday, October 30 @ 10 PM

Join Me Tonight!

2007-10-16T04:31:00.000-12:00

Hey all, it's that time of week again... time for my Tuesday Night Extravaganza at Rififi!

My month long show "Just an Evening?" (which I'm considering changing to "Just a Chat!") at Rififi continues tomorrow night at 10 PM with these amazing comics:

You've seen him on The Rejection Show, and you might be his neighbor in Brooklyn... JON FRIEDMAN!

The charming host of hit viral video sensation Best Night Ever.... MICHAEL CYRIL CREIGHTON!

Yet... another charming host of hit viral video sensation Best Night Ever, he's a Sunday night staple at Rififi... MAX SILVESTRI!

And me! I have a presentation involving goats, so don't miss it!

And to fulfill my usual audience desperation quota in these e-mails: PLEASE COME AND BRING MANY FRIENDS!

These shows are always really fun, and at only $5... how dare you not come?

Rififi
332 E. 11th St. btwn 1st & 2nd Ave
Tuesday, October 16 @ 10 PM

Hope to see you!

TONIGHT! Just an Evening? with Me!

2007-10-09T05:01:00.000-12:00

TONIGHT TONIGHT TONIGHT!! 10 PM @RIFIFI OCTOBER 9

Hey guys,

My month long residence "Just an Evening?" at Rififi continues tonight at 10 PM with these amazing comics - all of whom you've seen on TV!

Kurt Braunohler
Baron Vaughn
Hayes Hargrove
Gabe & Jenny

And to fulfill my usual audience desperation quota in these e-mails: PLEASE COME AND BRING MANY FRIENDS!

These shows are always really fun, and at only $5...

Rififi
332 E. 11th St. btwn 1st & 2nd Ave
Tuesday, August 21 @ 10 PM

I will be singing the sextet from Lucia di Lammermoor ALONE!

Feverishly,
Michelle

Conversations with Mother, Part 2,355: "Where the Hell Did You Get These Towels?"

2007-09-27T16:45:00.001-12:00

Why hello there, faithful readers who are still checking in with lil' ol' MimiCoco! How've you been these last couple of lonely months? As I type this, a loud bang occurs outside of my window and a man screams... New York City! You know what I mean?

Anyway, enough about you, here's how I've been. I traveled back to my hometown of Miami, Florida last week to visit my parents whom I hadn't seen since the beginning of the year. I spent my 5 day minibreak wisely, doing some killer outlet shopping -- don't get me started on the $8,000 Michael Kors Pocahontas bag I picked up at Neiman's for a steal! ($2,100) -- and taking hundreds of photos of the original ghost baller himself, Lutzy, in the hopes of making it onto this site. Here's a preev:

(Kitty throat clear): I dreamed a dream in time gone by, When hope was high, And life worth living. I dreamed that love would never die! I dreamed that God would be forgiving! (Cue soft paws clapping.)

I also managed to exchange the usual pleasantries with my mother, including this little ditty, which I am entitled "The L.L. Bean Towel Incident":

(Cut to my mother, folding up my already clean laundry, which she insists on rewashing because she doesn't trust the detergent I buy. She grabs an oversized white towel with a navy blue "M" embroidered onto it.)

Mother: WHERE DID YOU GET THIS TOWEL?
Me: Oh, the L.L. Bean Outlet in Maine. They put the "mistake" towels in a bin for like $6, and I found one with an M on it. Why?
Mother: IT IS SUCH A BEAUTIFUL TOWEL! IT'S HUGE!!
Me: I know.
Mother: AND THE PILE... IT'S SO THICK! WHY, I THINK THIS MIGHT BE ONE OF THE NICEST TOWELS I'VE EVER SEEN!
Me: Do you want it?
Mother: Nuch, get out of here!
Me: I can buy you one online and ship it here... they're like $20...
Mother: Uch, please, keep your money, do me a favor... I don't NEED any towels.
Me: Are you sure? I'm glad to do it.
Mother: MICHELLE, PLEASE! Get out of here with your idiot ideas.

Cut to: The Next Morning.

Me: (Washing my face, and drying it on one of my parents' towels. As my face pulls away, the entire towel is soaked in blood, because that is how hard and stiff and sandpapery it is.)

This towel is literally absorbing every ounce of moisture from my body!

Thankfully this will all be part of the upcoming horror movie I'm writing called "Mother's Towels."

I'd also hand out a made up invisible award to my favorite Google search used to get to this blog this week, to the brilliance that is: pregnant half human half horse dream.

FINALLY!!! ONE LAST THING!!!

For the entire month of October, I will be hosting a stand-up comedy show on Tuesday night's at 10 PM at Rififi! Please join me this Tuesday as I welcome my guests: Dave Hill, Adam Cole-Kelly and Sara Jo Alloco and Brandy Barber to the stage!!!

The details:
Just an Evening? with Michelle Collins
Tuesday October 2 (and all other October Tuesdays)
10 PM
$5
Rififi
332 East 11th St BTWN 11th and 12th

Show Tonight!! Just an Evening? with Michelle Collins

2007-08-28T01:25:00.002-12:00

BIG SHOW BIG SHOW BIG SHOW BIG SHOWWWW!!!

Hi guys -- I'm hosting a show tonight at Rififi, promising at least one hour of me just bein me, i.e. singing and laughing and just having a great timeeee! Here's the info:

Just an Evening? with Michelle Collins TONIGHT!

Hey Guys!

TONIGHT, RIFIFI @ 10 PM

FINAL SHOW

Just an Evening? With Michelle Collins (me)

Amazing guests, so many good times with:

Roger Hailes (MTV, Commie Central)
Rob Lathan (Late Night with Conan O'Brien)
Ann Carr (Comedy Central, Hilarious Town, USA)
And
Greg Johnson (Many, Many Credits, He's So Humble!!!)

PLEASE COME! It will be incredibly fun. I will be doing a lot of singing, so bring your babies! Here's the info:

Rififi
332 E. 11th St. btwn 1st & 2nd Ave
Tuesday, August 28 @ 10 PM
$5

Xoxo
Please come to my show
Michelle
Is begging you.

xoxox2
Manatee Cat

Alexyss Tylor Is Back and Fully Against Anal

2007-08-14T17:35:00.000-12:00

If you thought Alxyss Tylor's previous rants were the epitome of genius, you were right. So please, check out this latest video of hers, where Ms. Tylor speaks her mind about the down low gay community and, more importantly, anal sex. Under normal circumstances, I would transcribe her extreme not-safe-for-workness so that you could enjoy the brilliance of her rancid mind from the comfort of your work cubicle. But seeing as it's 2 AM, all you really need to know is there are men out there who will suck d for food. Oh, and her mother is back, with the same accordian file blocking what I'm assuming is a colossal camel toe.

"Alexyss K. Tylor's Warning to Gay Boys" (NOT SAFE FOR WORK!)

The real question is why didn't she and the hair-tail hanging out of her head replace Rosie on the View?

I'm a Maine-iac on the Run!

2007-07-03T09:35:00.000-12:00

Happy Pre-Independence Day to all. This last weekend, I travelled to Portland, Maine to visit some old friends and buy 17 towels at the L.L. Bean Factory Outlet. I also toted along my new digital camera, which I was convinced was a piece of garbage... until now:

A photo of the sunset over Manhattan as the plane was about to land at JFK. That, or a preview of the impending apocalypse. (Click here for an xlarge version)

You may have noticed how "hot" my clavicle is.

Barnacles at Cape Elizabeth. Note: When you sing Happy Birthday to a snail, it crawls out of its shell. My friends and I looked insane proving this theory to be true. But, oh, the texture!

Did someone say they were dying to see the most photographed lighthouse in the world? Wish = command. Taken on a "Lighthouse Lovers" Cruise. Seriously.

It's hard to see the depth on this one unless you look at the bigger picture... Needless to say, I'm extremely proud of myself.

Have a great holiday everyone!

The Most Convincing Argument to Buy a Mac Yet

2007-06-10T07:10:00.000-12:00

Last night, after a long-night of wine-consuming and food-eating, I returned home only to find an e-mail from my friend Lindsay titled "The Best Reason to Buy a Mac." I thought: "Here we go again", as all of my genius friends do their best to turn me to the white side. Only this time, I opened my e-mail to find the following comic -- made on a Mac, of course -- attached:

I think I'm finally starting to see the light.

Caroline's Comedy Tonight!

2007-05-31T02:12:00.000-12:00

Hey guys --

Performing a lil' stand-up comedy at the legendary Caroline's Comedy Club tonight! Here's the info, I'll make it quick:

Llame Toe w/ Bobbie Tisdale
Caroline's
1626 Broadway at 50th
10 pm - $8 + 2 Drinks

The lineup includes BWE fave John Mulaney, Baron Vaughn, Gabe & Jenny, and many more special guests!

OK, now that the Kurt Schilling is over... a sweet e-mail:

Many moons ago, I posted the famous 50 Animals in Casts list, and ever since, proud parents of clumsy animals have been e-mailing me precious photos of their little ones bandaged up. Today, I bring you Cupcake, who according to his owners "has had three lots of eye surgery AND is a real little trooper." It's sort of sad, but the heart on his head is 2MUCH2HANDLE.

Sweetness! Also, if you guys are incredibly bored with me, as I know you are, check out my best friend Annie's blog called Ape Kabuki. When not being hilarious and -- dare I say -- quite opinionated, she posts beautiful hand-made drawings and etchings for your perusal. Camman... her cat sort of looks like Hitler. Do it!

An Encounter with Walter Matthau

2007-04-28T06:05:00.000-12:00

(Photo via Brooklyn Vegan)

A couple of weeks ago, I caught the latest installment of the Dave Hill Explosion at the Upright Citizens Brigade. Dave's guests included Dick "Chatty Cathy" Cavett and the absolutely delightful Rufus Wainwright. Dick Cavett was a special treat -- if only because my own parents made me call into his CNBC talk show as a girl only to ask him why he talked more than his guests. And you wonder why I have emotional problems.

While Dick brought a handful of old timey entertaining stories (think Groucho Marx and Woody Allen), believe it or not it was Rufus Wainwright who absolutely stole the show. After singing two mesmerizingly beautiful songs, Rufskies sat down and regaled the audience with his charming laugh, his thick head of hair, and hands down the best story of the night involving everyone's favorite late curmudgeon, Walter Matthau. It went something like this:

Walter Matthau and his wife had taken a trip to Auschwitz. As they were about to enter one of the gas chambers with their tour guide, a woman runs up to him.

"Oh my God, Mr. Matthau!" she screamed. "I am such a huge fan of yours! Would you mind giving me an autograph?"

"What?" he responded. "Absolutely not. That's completely inappropriate. I can't believe you would even ask me that here." With that, him, his wife and the guide go into the chamber.

About an hour later, he's walking out of the compound, and the woman approaches him again.

"I just want you to know," she says "You ruined my trip to Auschwitz!"

Vagina Power: A Ten Minute Play by Alexis Tyler Alexyss Tylor

2007-04-17T16:29:00.000-12:00

Yesterday, Gawker went ahead and posted what is possibly the most genius, not to mention poignant, clip to ever grace the archives of Youtube. Courtesy of a cable access show in Atlanta, the clip is 9 minutes of theatrical Not Safe for Work Bliss. While we could easily just embed the video in this post and call it a day, the more we listened to it with friends and coworkers, the more we realized we were listening to possibly the best 10 minute short play ever written. The things you will learn!

And so I transcribed it. How long did it take me? That's not important. (An hour.) What's important is that below is a piece of literal genius. Stay tuned for a live reading of the following play at an upcoming stand-up show.

Check out Alexyss' Myspace Page for a lesson in Hysterectomy 101. Noon-town!

(NOTE: Reading is not for the faint of heart.)

VAGINA POWER
By Alexis Tyler/Alexyss Tylor

Characters:

ALEXIS TYLER/ALEXYSS TYLOR: Southern black woman in her late 30's/early 40's. Dressed in a nice business suit and long braid. Put together on the outside, unravelling within.

GUEST: Heavyset older black woman holding huge portfolio of some sort over her crotch.

AT: …Of some of the things I’m talking about, cause if you really want to earn ya man your need to learn ya man. And a lot of times we get caught up with the wrong man, or caught up in a man’s penis power, because it’s good. I mean if a man has been around, and he’s a ho, especially like the one’s I’m talkin’ about, they’re hopping from here, here and there, they have a lot of practice, and they know a woman’s body, they know the power of their penis, and they know how to soothe her body and to sooth her vagina, so it’s really easy to be caught up with that dog kinda man. Like that one girl asked me “Well why,” she thought somethin’ was wrong with her because she liked the flashy guys with the jewelry, I said “Well, there’s nothin’ wrong with liking a flashy man, you just have to know what time of spirit and energy he’s carrying. Because there are some good men, though they still like to flash, they’re not whores. And the don’t give their penis to everybody. You have to be able to recognize em.

Because the man that is living to ejaculate? He’s in a predator mode. And when the man is in a predator mode, he’s gonna look for the weaknesses of a woman. A woman that’s lonely. Her vagina is cold. She’s layin’ in bed at night playin’ with her toys, or she’s got a man beside her, he’s a good provider, but he’s not hittin the walls and working the middle like that dog she’s having the sneaky sex with.

HEAVY GUEST: But what drives a woman to toys?

AT: Because, like I said, she needs the vagina penetration. A lot of women are hooked on having clitoral stimulations. You have an outer orgasm with your clitoris, but also you have inner orgasms, inside the intra vagina. Inside the vagina walls. Hidden g spots. And every woman’s g spots may be similar, or some women they have more than one g spot. So some women are actually hooked on cummin’.

I mean there’s women that can be at work, at their desk, they got the jack rabbit on, it’s a part you can buy, hook it onto your clitoris all throughout the day, and you can be having orgasms –-

HEAVY GUEST: Jackrabbit?

AT: I knew some girls and that was their favorite product. They called it their favorite best buddy to keep in their pocket book.

HEAVY GUEST: But, see, I go back to when I was a little girl, bein’ raised in the country, jack rabbit… jump from here to there.

AT: Yeah, we ain’t talking bout the rabbit –

HEAVY GUEST: Jump – Jump –

AT: Yeah but --

HEAVY GUEST: We ain’t talkin’ bout a real rabbit. Jump. When a rabbit, in nature… jump from here to there. Just constantly. Movin.

AT: Yes, and they say that they have takin’ the same concept of the rabbit jumpin’ from here to there… the design of it… it jump all up on the clitoris (bounces invisible basketball) Just jump out of control and make the woman have incredible orgasms. That’s why they call that –

HEAVY GUEST: We are livin’ in the 21st century.

AT: That’s the mechanical jackrabbit for the clit.

Some men, they have so much heat and intensity in their peenus, that you can feel it radiating through their clothes. Just to touch the penis… it’s on fire, it feels like it’s fire underneath the skin. So a lot of women actually start goin’ crazy. Cause all penises are not created equal, and they don’t hold the same level of intensity. So if there’s one hot like that, and he has the energy, and he knows how to work his hips, work his buttocks, and really twist her and bend her like she’s a pretzel, give her the gratification she needs, she’s going to be hooked and think that that’s love or on a deeper root level, she’s going to become sexually, mentally and emotionally attached… although he ain’t no gooood. And this other man she with provides for her. Take care uh children that aren’t even his, that woman will still sneak, and get that penis power from him.

But what she doesn’t realize is we have to deal with our attachments and separate the love, the orgasm and the penis. They are separate issues. Cause if we at a lower level of it, and we’re hooked on the penis power, and this man won’t even buy you some shrimp from Long John Silvers. And what. That plate what… $2.99?

But he can give you a mouthful of sperm and a rectum full of sperm. We have to see what our issue is. Because a man like that doesn’t respect a woman. Yeah, he’ll hit her. But if a man is having sex with you and he had the opportunity to be with you, or he’s an ex, and that mean he had you before the other man that’s providing for you could get to you. And all he’s offering you is a side of penis? When he could sneak in and out yo man bed and out yo man house? That man ain’t got no respect for you! And he know you don’t have none for yourself. Because you’re so hooked on him and you’re hooked on the penis, you will sacrifice and sell yourself out to let him come in the backdoor, or let him come at lunch or let him come in the daaaark, when your real man that don’t have the same penis power is heralding all the expenses. So a woman think she getting over, and think “Oh that’s the best sex”, but she really playin herself, and he playin her. Cause it ain’t about her. It’s about his ego, and about his penis, and his testicles, and how many notches he can get up on his belt to brag about.

Remember… don’t let every man hit the bottom of your vagina, the root of your vagina…

HEAVY GUEST: They don’t know about the bottom. They don’t know about the bottom.

AT: But see every man may not know because he might not have a penis to really know how to hit that bottom, or how to lift and hit that bottom, or how to work that middle with a woman. She spread her legs wide and she start screamin’ sayin’ “Yeah daddy, das it” or she might start cursin’ or screamin’ out all types of profanities cause he doesn’t hit the bottom and now her mind… (hand to head) She insane. Her mind ain’t good. Because the penis done ejaculated all up in her brain. She’s gone crazy. So you don’t let every man hit your bottom, and your body remembers it. Just like a man’ll put a woman over doggy style, or maybe get a mirror or somethin’, then they start hittin’ that woman from the back….

Then they start talkin’. (pause) They start sayin’ all kinds uh stuff to her while they’re hittin her, and see that woman is bein’ seduced, she bein’ seduced, he breakin her down man. He is screwin’ her into submissssion. He’s screwin’ her into slavery by usin’ the penis as a weapon to break her ass DOWN! And her defenses! I mean she wide open, with a penis all up in your vagina, man, you don’t have no defenses?!

Unless you are just really thinking, and this is not about the love experience, this is about a money experience or she’s a prostitute, then she’s workin’ it just for her benefit. But when a woman’s really liking this man and she’s feeling him and what he’s doin – especially if she’s sneakin around with him and he has nothing to give her, and her man is treatin her better than he is – he has already gotten her defenses down when she’s very weak, and that’s the worst thing that can happen, is a man to get you, and while he’s thrustin’ the penis in and out – WHO WHO WHO WHO IS IT? Whose vagina is it? Who does it belong to? That that that what’d I say? Who? And then the woman starts callin’ out the man’s naaaame, screamin the man’s name.

Then she let him know she’s comin. When she’s comin’ she hollerin, she callin for him.

This stuff is programmed all up in this woman’s vagina, rectum, uterus, all up in this mind right here (pause)

And that will actually bind her. Actually reduce her to a cum freak. So if she can’t get to him, she’ll slip him in, and that’s where the jack rabbits, and all them different size penises and dildos come in, because she’s tryin to, she’s rememberin, and trying to recapture that experience.

And that’s why I said, you don’t wanna let everybody hit that bottom, you don’t want to let everybody spank you and talk to you in all kinda ways! Because women – especially when the man pull it back, won’t give you no penis no more – women be all in the bed at night, tryin to sleep, they tossin and turning and dreaming about it. Lawd have mercy! Wake up out there sleep cause they done dream their man did this to somebody else! And the thought of that, you know, is devastating. That woman heart get to beatin fast, blood pressure go up, she can’t hardly catch her breath. Just to think about that man, just ration that out, just laid that out for somebody else, bent them over and talk to them too? And spank them?

[I may not have] a PhD and a Master’s degree to put on my wall in Acadeeemia, but I have a Master’s degree in bein’ played by men, used by men, told everything I wanted to hear to get men in positions.

And I am, to be honest with you –- I’m just gonna be real about it! – I’m very upset by being made a fool out of.

We’re about to close now. But is there something? Cause I didn’t let you talk very much.

HEAVY GUEST: Well I –

AT: You let me talk! So say what you want to say.

HEAVY GUEST: Well…

AT: Go ahead, for the closing, say what you wanna say. I’m sorry.

HEAVY GUEST: The only thing I want to say is, again, I’ve learned something…. That I didn’t know. And I’m definitely gonna be on the watch out. Cause I know what’s out there. That’ll come atcha. And from what your saying it’s comin atcha with all full force. All this power comin atcha. Then a girl ain’t got a chance. So I’m gonna have to say “Pray it up!”

AT: We have to know who we are and we have to know our roles.

HEAVY GUEST: I’ve got to keep standing in the Lord. I’ve got to ask Jesus to keep me every day.

AT: Thank you for watching the Alexis Tyler Show. And we’ll see you next time with more of…. Vagiiiina Poooower. (maniacal laugher)

(The two dance in their seats to a slow jam.)

SOURCE MATERIAL:

UPDATE: YET MORE INSANITY!!!! (No more transcribing though -- these videos are like a "noose on my balls."

ps That woman next to her? Her mother. Bye.

The Duke Lacrosse Player Dating Game

2007-04-11T07:57:00.000-12:00

Earlier today, the North Carolina prosecution dropped all charges against three Duke University Lacrosse Players accused of raping a stripper last spring during a party. (No word if the Evite title was "Rape & Grain!"... anyway.)

Now that the charges have been dropped, the above three fellas are probably the only guys at Duke University to never have raped anyone -- making all three fantastic catches! Plus, since the stigma of rape was only lifted a handful of hours ago, we're guessing these hotties are single and looking... making them prime candidates in a little game we like to play every now and again called The Duke Lacrosse Player Dating Game! Let's take a look at our contestants:

Bachelor #1: Reade Seligmann is a history major with a penchant for catchphrases, such as his famous "Reade my lips!", and his intriguing Myspace headline: "Raul owns this bitch! ***Inland_Empire***". (Seriously.)

Bachelor #2: David Evans, from Bethesda, Md., was the captain of the Lacrosse team, meaning he's a take charge kinda guy who doesn't take lip from anybody. He enjoys action movies and Mallomars.

Bachelor #3: Collin Finnerty of Garden City, N.Y. would like you to know he is not related to the older brother on Pete & Pete.

Let's get the game started!

Bachelorette: If you guys had could be any ice cream in the world, what flavor would you be?
#1: Beer.
#2: Tits.
#3: Isolation and fear for my future.

Bachelorette: Ok... Bachelor #1, which Disney character would you say best describes you?
#1: Beer.

Bachelorette: #3, same question.
#3: Is there a character named Aimless Rage Johnson? That would be me.

Bachelorette: Bachelor #2, what's your idea of the perfect date?
#2: Ummm..... (pause) probably keggerrr -- no, no, sorry -- tits. Definitely tits.

Bachelorette: OK, final question, to all of you: If I were stranded on a desert island, how would you save me?
#1: I'd make a raft out of dildos and boob implants. Then I'd float you and your coconuts to safety.
#2: (Snort) Uh, I'd probably discover a way to turn saltwater into beer, then funnel the ocean directly into my mouth, and have you run into my arms.
#3: I wouldn't save you, you backstabbing hooker. You'd probably accuse me of trying to drown you. Did you try to save me when I was being falsely accused of rape? Did you? No, no you didn't. You just sat at home applying for some dating reality show that no one will remember 10 years from now. But do you know who'll remember me in 10 years? Goldman Sachs, that's who. And J.P. Morgan. Merrill Lynch will remember. I'm... I'm ruined. My life... is ruined.

Winner: #2. We've got a great rack.

Reliving My Day as an Extra on Music & Lyrics

2007-02-14T03:53:00.000-12:00

Months and months and months ago, I posted my journey out to Long Island to be an extra in the movie Music & Lyrics (out today, and Happy Valentine's Day!) Well -- my scene is still in the movie! If you check it out, in the scene where Hugh is playing at Adventureland in Long Island, the camera cuts away to two rather perplexed looking lovers (my and my friend Mike in the roll as boyfriend and girlfriend.) You can't miss me: I'm a head taller than my boyf with the auburn hair of a lion. I'm in it for all of 2 seconds, but it's still a nice closure on my experience, which for convenience's sake, I've reposted below.

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! (EDITOR'S UPDATE: Was I really that insanely puffy? Holy Ess.)

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!)

One of These Things is Not Like the Other

2007-01-22T10:46:00.000-12:00

There's really no right way to introduce this, so I'll just dive right in. Here is a scan of the backpage of this week's issue of In Touch Weekly, with a possibly pregnant Britney Spears on the cover. The page is called "Last Laughs"...

Notice anything? No? What about now?

Or now?

Is it the funniest quote? Of course not. Is it Re Re Ricardo? A little. But am I quoted alongside Conan, Leno, Letterman and Kimmel when I really have no business being there? Most def. Which gives me a strange tingling sensaysh in my scalp. As does the fact that Leno's quotes are seriously the best ones in the group. Click here for a version that would make a lovely computer wallpaper. Or buy your own!

I called my mother up last week to tell her about the quote. She was at work, and upon hearing the news, covered up the receiver and yelled to every single person buying sale-marked cashmere "My daughter is in InStyle Magazine!!" Bless.

How's 2007 going for everyone?

One of My Typical Emotional Journeys via IM

2006-12-27T18:43:00.000-12:00

It's been many a-moon since we've checked in with my old friend Mike. The good news? We're just as re-re as ever.

Michelle: MIKE! HI!!
Mike: Hello my sweet
Michelle: Are you in NY?
Mike: Tomorrow night. Then i'm all yours
Michelle: i cant wait to cradle you! I'll be playing this on my mouthharp upon your arrival:

Mike: why are all classical music stars busted? Kiri Ti Kanewa, Yevgeny Kissin
Michelle: Uh, Perlman has polio.
Mike: Stop. You're lying.
Michelle: You're kidding.
Mike: No!
Michelle: Michael. You didn't know Itzhak Perlman walked around on polio crutches?

Mike: Those braces do nothing for his legs.

You have blocked Michael. You can no longer see each other online or chat together.

(One minute later.)

You have unblocked Michael.

Mike: ;(
Michelle: So... hey, I got contacts. I took a pic wanna see?
Mike: Yes
Michelle:
.
.
.
.
.

Mike: omg! You got braces!
Michelle: hahahahahah
I'm literally crying laughing

Mike: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cri_du_chat
Michelle: Wait. Is it funny that its called the cry of the cat? Or that they develop to be severely mentally retarded?
Mike: BABIES MEOW LIKE KITTENS. If that's not so cute, I don't know what is.
Michelle:

My bad I meant to send this:

Mike: My heart just exploded.
Michelle: No no seriously my bad:

Mike: LOLLOLOLLOLOL
Michelle: HAHAHAHAHAHA
Mike: I need more
Michelle: OK, Mike, this might be the best one:

HIS NAME IS FRIPPLE

The foot! Haha!

(A minute later.)

Michelle: oh my god.
Oh no. It’s from a website about handicapped animals….
Oh No. Read this:

I have a handicapped cat named Fripple. As a kitten in a barn he was shaken by a dog and sustained back injuries. My daughter took him from the barn and brought him home. He walks flat footed in the back and has no bladder and bowel control. He wears a diaper and is a happy little guy.

Fripple also had a huge sore on his heel that took a year to heal because of the way he walked on it. I tried many many many contraptions and bandages and finally I took a baby shoe and put a gel cushion inside and of course his foot was bandaged and he wears the shoe and will continue to wear the shoe his whole life because if he doesn't he tears his foot open again.

He's happy and very very VERY loved by the whole family. I have never seen a cat like this one he lies in my lap at diaper changing time and purrs and never moves while his foot is tended just gives me those goo goo eyes while purring. He also never tries to take anything off. He's my special gift. I thank God for this little guy every day.

Michelle: Sorry… I have to go cry for a million years.

To read a lifetimes worth of sob stories, friends, check out Handicapped Pets. Didn't think it would end on such a downer did it? Such an adorable, diaper clad downer.

These Are the Things...

2006-12-26T21:37:00.000-12:00

...that I find at 4:37 in the morning when I can't sleep. Suffice it to say, my dreams tonight will star non other than Lou Hilario (no relation to Hilario Dawson... or is there?) Yes, it's 9 minutes long, but trust me, the end has gems, the end... sparkles. (You can stop watching around 7:40)

How did I find it, you ask? Youtube search of "ventriloquism" obviously.

Oh I also just saw the loose skin of a man who lost 800 pounds on Inside Edition and wait, do I have Prader-Willi disease? Sighhhhh. Why am I spooning a 6 foot long sub right now?

Hey, also also? If you're in New York December 30, I'll be performing at a special New Year's Eve Eve Show at Mo Pitkins. It's the Shark Show, it's at 8, it's free, and it's really fun.

Now it's 4:42. OK beddy-bye for rizzzzz.

Do you guys have any idea how hilarious that is at 4:48 am? Answer: Very.

The Other Talent Show, And Some Inties!

2006-12-05T07:21:00.000-12:00

The above picture is my current laptop wallpaper, psyche-FYI.

A FEW UPDATES!

1. Jon Friedman and I are bringing the Other Talent Show back this Monday, December 11 at Mo Pitkins! The info:
Other Talent Show
Monday, Dec 11, 2006 8:30 PM EST (8:00 PM Doors)
at Mo Pitkin's 34 Avenue A btwn 2nd and 3rd St.

Jon Friedman & Michelle Collins - THE OTHER TALENT SHOW - The Other Talent Show is a gathering of comedians, writers, and other artistic types performing their hidden or "other" talents. Comedians singing, musicians doing comedy, writers juggling, and many more crazy hidden gem talents!

The lineup is amaaazing.

TICKETS!

2. I was interviewed by the hilarious and chivalrous Baron Vaughn for hot comedy website The Apiary. If you ever wondered what my childhood was like, or want to see some really old flattering pics of me, you will want to CLICK HERE.

3. Also, I had the unbelievable opportunity to interview Parker Posey for one of my favorite magazines, Bust. The interview isn't online, but you can pick it up in your local bookstore. You will not be sorry!

Dog On Motorcycle That Blinks

2006-11-30T05:30:00.000-12:00

This is by far the best e-mail attachment to ever arrive in my inbox.

Sometimes, I really miss the good ol' days here. (With MUCH thanks to Helen in Virginia!)

Define Yourself

2006-11-13T19:18:00.000-12:00

Last night I was directed to a new website called Hetemeel, which offered a feature allowing one to define something anyway they wished, and include a picture. (The site appears to be down right now...) It's fun for about 2 minutes, when it officially gets old. Which is right about the time I discovered the best feature of the program: The website made it possible to view other people's definitions. Not realizing the platter of hilarity just served to me, I clicked on a random one. This was what I found:

Well, it seems that Chelsea holds herself in quite the high regard, doesn't it? Also, for those curious about Envyed.com, it appears to be a site that doles out awards to cars that have come back from the future.

I was intrigued. Here it was, a way for humans to define themselves in a single blurb! I clicked on yet another entry:

Awesome! A wiccan sex writer who hearts vampired and Marvin Gaye! This is the most fun I've ever had... even more fun than when I learned how to tie nautical knots.

Many clicks later, and I noticed some trends. The most popular one being defining some sort of dirty or demeaning word (i.e. Dickface), and then plugging in someone's name and pic as part of that definition. It started out funny enough:

But then grew tiring:

Then there were those people who clearly didn't realize their definition would be available to the public. Take these characters, Henny Youngman:

The above blurb also defines the meaning of "I feel disturbed and uncomfortable." What about this cooz:

Nice glamour shot, Sar. I particularly enjoy the dichotomy of this girl: She'll leave you in a second, but when you're with her, be sensitive and caring. She's not Fisher Price, so don't kick her down the stairs, gentlemen. This girl looks like someone I could be friends with:

My friends used to call me Jazzy too! Well, before the accident (Momma says my legs will work again soon enough.) I also caught wind of Burger King's new spokesman:

Finally, I'm taking this dude on just because it amazes me that someone who is so clearly clinically insane also knows how to use semi-complicated programs on the internet:

Though, to his credit, the Alligator Fuckhouse is

Conversations with Mom: Election Edition

2006-11-08T07:12:00.000-12:00

For all 4 of you still with me: Hello. These past few months have been completely insane, and I apologize to those of you who felt abandoned. But I'm happy to say that I now believe I can balance both blogging at Best Week Ever and here -- so please, take me back!

To inaugurate the rebirth of the blog, I'd like to share with you one of the hundreds of humorous conversations I've had with my mother. This one took place last night, Election Night (yay Democrats!).

Me: I'm so glad Santorum lost.
Mother: Why?
Me: Well... because it means something kind of gross.
Mother: What?
Me: (Regretting opening my mouth) This sex columnist Dan Savage hated Santorum so much that he started calling something really disgusting "Santorum", and now every time I hear his name I think of it.
Mother: What? What does it mean?
Me: I can't tell you.
Mother: Come on! What does it mean??? Umm... Scrotum? Does it mean Scrotum?
Me: Mom! No!
Mother: You can't dangle this in front of me like that! (Direct quote.)
Me: It's something that happens when men have gay sex.
Mother: Oh! Dirty Sanchez?
Me: Uch... no. (She keeps harping.) It's something that comes out of a man's ass after gay sex.
Mother: Umumum... Doody?? Does it mean doody?
Me: Doody and... something else. Gay sex.
Mother: (pause.) How could you tell me that?
Me: But I warned you!
Mother: No, you're right. I pushed for it.

For an entire website donated to this definition (mind you, the first hit on Google when searching for his name), visit Spreading Santorum. And courtesy of My First Fan(c) Atara, Santorum brought home a 20 week old stillborn for his children to hold. I didn't believe it either, but here's the article. Sad story equally balanced with a little creepiness.

Also, I'd like to add my favorite quote from the election coverage on CNN last night, courtesy of Jeff Greenfield: "Tammy Duckworth, running in Illinois, lost both of her legs in Iraq. She's currently trailing her opponent."

So... did you miss me?
XOXO4VR
Michelle

I Am FREAKING Out!

2006-08-11T05:42:00.000-12:00

You guysssss,

The all-time best Looney Tunes cartoon EVER MADE is on YouTube. It's called Feed the Kitty, and while I've tried explaining to people how amazing and funny and wonderful it is, you really have to see it to know what I mean. When it was originally shown some 50 years ago, audiences ran out of the movie theaters crying. God bless the person who posted this thing!

Where Have I Gone??? & Other Talents Business

2006-08-08T09:12:00.000-12:00

A big thank you to all the people wondering where I've gone for so long... fret not. I'm am actually BLOGGING EVERY DAY NOW. Yes, it's true.

BestWeekEver.tv

I'll say it again, so there's no confusion.

BestWeekEver.tv

I'll still post here every now and again, but a bitch can't burn out so young. Hence, stay patient my loves!

Also -- I'm hosting a show on August 17 at Mo Pitkins...

THE OTHER TALENT SHOW!
Mo Pitkins
32 Avenue A btwn 2nd and 3rd St.
$6!

Here's the lineup, it's crazy, you MUST come.

Nick Kroll: Comedian, talent will be OFF THE CHARTS.
Laura Dawn: Cultural Director, Moveon.org, talent will be singing
Andres de Bouchet: Comedian, will be singing
Gabe Liedman: Comedian, will be giving a haircut
Mandy Stadtmiller: NY Post Columnist, will be doing stand-up comedy
Julie Klausner: Comedian, will be singing and might dance a little

BUY TICKETS HERE.

Not Sure What It Is...

2006-07-27T14:48:00.000-12:00

...about this video that brings me so much joy. Maybe it's the whole grown man crying thing.

Dedicated to my friend Becky Yamamoto, who, as far as I know, has never had any inappropriate relations with any 17-year olds. 13-year-olds, sure, but 17? That is just sick.

Also, I'm watching the saddest show about a little baby named Archie who weighs 84 pounds, and has something named "Momo Syndrome." I'm weeping, but then they say Momo Syndrome, and I crack up. Climb aboard the Discovery Health Rollercoaster Folks.

A Mother By Any Other Name

2006-07-23T16:49:00.000-12:00

Yes, it's true. Mother is in town. Dog sitting for a Jack Russel mix named Ziggy on the Upper East Side for the month of July.

Ziggy, clearly coked out of her brains.

And while she may always repeat the mantra "Do what you want, I'm not bothering you," she will usually follow that up with "So what are you doing tonight? Tomorrow? Maybe I could swing by the office, meet you for lunch? Howsabout tomorrow at 6 am, we have a quick bagel and catch a matinee before work? There is a great Gerard Depardu movie at Lincoln Center..." By this point it's usually too late, as I've hung myself from the rafters in my bedroom, Shawshank Redempy stizz.

Not actually true -- I've managed to squeeze in a number of Mommy-Daughter dates so far. Just this Saturday, we went to see Superman Returns on the Imax, where my Mom chose to wait for the quietist, most serious moments to stifle funeral-worthy laughs, and apply lipstick no less than 3 times during some key plot moments. The Daughter then must become the Mother, chiding her for such behavior, then feeling guilty, offering her a piece of gum, and secretly wishing she had never given birth to this 58-year-old menace.

Today, Mother came to the apartment to help me organize a Pizza-the-Hut-style clothing pile on my floor. Beforehand, we took a short detour to St. John the Divine, the largest Gothic Cathedral in the world, and around the corner from my apartment, the smallest Gothic Cathedral in my building. St. John's is stunning -- but what really makes it in my opinion is a little garden behind the church, next to where the priest resides. Away from the street, full of wildflowers and manicured topiaries, it's a fantastic mini-break from the city.

Making me believe in Jesus a little more evr'y day. (Note to new readers: I'm a Jew. But an easily converted one.)

But what made the trip extra special? Two things.

1. We saw two peacocks while perusing the premises. One was a beautiful blue male; the other, a startling albino peacock! We were having a time looking at them, until some little bastard children ran up to the albino and scared it away. Following my mother disciplining the little rats as though they were her own, we followed the bird down a little pathway, cooing and complimenting it as though it were our own.

It looks delicious.

2. At one point, my mother points to a pretty patch of yellow flowers and says "Uch! Those are my favorite flowers! I think they're called "Lazy-Eyed Susans".

Don't be fooled. The flower wasn't the more commonly known "Black-Eye Susan." It was, in fact, a lazy-eyed flower.

Clearly, my brain is fried from the weekend antics. However, if interested in seeing the inimitable dynamic between Mother and I, head down to the Rejection Show at Mo Pitkins (34 Avenue A) tomorrow at 7:30 pm, where I'll be confronting her, live on stage, about various rejections she put me through in my childhood. You can't miss us -- we'll be the Lazy-Eyed Susans fighting loudly by the bar.

Cute-iasm

2006-07-19T02:41:00.000-12:00

Only 4,623 days til I become a full blown cat woman.

With thanks to Cat Krudes for this pic.

Oh Say, Canada You See

2006-07-17T10:50:00.000-12:00

Me, driving to school on a winter's morn.

Back in high school, I used to stay up into the wee hours of the night in order to watch some of the dumbest programming available on television. One local Miami affiliate, WBZL Channel 33, used to show Perfect Strangers and Head of the Class at 4 in the morning -- and high school began at 7:30. My schedule went something like this: Wake up at 6 am to make the bus, get home at around 3:30, sleep until 9:00 or 10:00, stay up to watch Balki, fall asleep at 4:30, wake up again at 6. I found that I was much more productive during those nighttime hours -- the streets empty, parents asleep, I was able to watch nighttime television uninterrupted. Was it worth it? Why don't you ask me to recount the episode where Balki overbid on a bottle of wine at some sort of wacky wine auction to find out for yourself. (The answer is yes.)

One show that I was certainly addicted to was on the old school Cartoon Network (I think...), and it was called "O Cananda". This half-hour show would feature two or three short animated movies straight outta our friendly neighbor to the North. Some of them were terry, the types of cartoons you would watch in 3rd grade when your teacher had her period and couldn't mosey about the room.

But some were amazing. And now many of them are online! Check them out on the National Film Board of Canada's website. My personal faves are Bead Game (mesmerizing), George and Rosemary (from the same animators who brought you Bob and Margaret), Notes on a Triangle (make sure you're high beforehand), and the following two videos, so good in fact, I'm posting them here directly: The Big Snit (love this one!!) and The Cat Came Back (which will no doubt be in your head for the next millenium or so.) Enjoy, it brought back a lot of memories for me.

Best Week Ever.TV!

2006-07-13T12:16:00.000-12:00

Guys, check out BestWeekEver.tv, where I'll now be blogging on a daily basis!

And also -- a monkey playing Ms. Pacman! (thanks Matt S.!)

Castro Dead?

2006-07-11T07:29:00.000-12:00

My father, apparently a hotbed for unsubstantiated internet rumors, just instant messaged me at 3:30 pm to say that Castro is dead. When I asked for a source, he literally directed me to Free Republic, only the biggest conservative, Jew-hating, Klan-surfed website on the net.

I was like "Oh, yeah, I also meant to tell you, the Holocaust never happened.... PAYCE!"

(Update: A reader writes in to tell me that Free Republic is only conservative, and not necessare Klan-sponsored... MY B!)

But seriously... I looooove totally made up, fictional rumors about Castro dying. It takes only one small rumor to turn Miami from a humid, crime-ridden city into a humid, crime-ridden city with bottle rockets aimed at baby's faces in celebration. This Castro dying thing has seriously given me a new lease on my afternoon.

Wait a second... hot off the Dad IM Press...:

The Corner on National Review.com

Castro Dead? [Jonah Goldberg]

Two e-friends working on Wall Street say rumors are running around that he's bought the big one. I find nothing on the wires.

Wait... I work on Wall Street! And I just opened my window, stuck my head out, and heard nothing, so it can't be true. Anyway, if he's really dead, Miami is gonna be soooo looooud tonight.

ps I taped another Best Night Ever last night for VH1... check it out!

Update: 4:36 pm: Father says that news radio in Miami is reporting the Venezuelan News Agency, or EFE, just confirmed Castro's death... Lord, I haven't felt this much anticipation coming out of Havana since Cuba Gooding Jr. was nominated for an Oscar!

The Life Dramatic with Z. Zizou

2006-07-10T04:47:00.000-12:00

Other title ideas: "Animal in the Zizou", "Zizou See That?!" and "Making a Stink Out of the Head-Butt".

I had big plans for the World Cup finale yesterday. And when I say "big plans", I don't fuck around. We're not talking heading to a bar to watch the game with a bunch of average-salary earning plebes. We're talking hanging a plasma screen from the inside of a hot air balloon, while sitting on a cashmere-lined loveseat, with a bowl of Pirate's Booty in my lap, while flying over Ralph Lauren's pad in the Hamptons. I was excited, and like the Mannequin theme song, nothing was going to stop me now.

Then my 25th birthday party happened on Saturday night. And this year would be special, as I had the brilliant idea of inviting my parents to the bar so they could meet all my wonderful friends. They arrived at around 11, my ultra-glamorous mother, and my sweet father, who shares a birthday with me, and was turning 60. The day already got off to a rocky start when my mother called me to say that she was bringing about 4,000 Pepperidge Farm cookies to the party to feed my friends. My brain switched from kind, quarter-life crisis girl to snobby, bitchy 15 year-old in 2 seconds. "Mom! I don't want you bringing cookies to the party!! Why don't you just show up riding a pony side-saddle while a circus clown molests me with his horn on the bar?" (Rough translation obviously.)

She agreed not to embarass me and leave the cookies at home. Cue my mother walking in with an orange Hermes bag brimming with all the delicious pastries grown on the world's fattiest farm. "I BROUGHT COOKIES!" she screamed, and began handing entire bags of Chessman and Chantilly's to my friends. While I slowly crumbled to the ground in horror, I could hear people's reactions. "Awesome! Cookies!" yelled one unfamiliar looking girl. "Wow! Thanks, Mrs. C!" yelled the child actor from the Stove Top commercials.

What does this mean? It means that throughout the night, I had to put up with my mother saying in her Americanized Israeli accent "See? The cookies were a BIG hit. Everybody LOVED THE COOKIES. Right? Didn't you like the cookies? See, she LOVED the cookies. What do you say?" I then pulled out an Acme brand shotgun, put it to my head, and pulled the trigger to reveal a little flag that said "Thank you."

My parents' presence at my party also meant that I could not really relax and enjoy myself, as I wanted to make sure that they were a. having a good time, and b. not humiliating me. As usual, they were a big hit, my mother holding court like The Divine Miss M at a gay bathhouse, and my father small-talking friends about the wonders of baggage handlers, which sounds like a euphamism for something, but he literally was just talking about airline luggage.

It also means that when they left at around 1, I made it my duty to get SHIZZ. TANKED. I was already fairly tink-tanked when they left, but I turned into an effing slut-bot who needed booze poured straight down her throat. Within an hour, I downed 2 more martinis and did another shot. I don't quite remember the cab ride home, but I definitely remember coming home, derobing, and laying on my bed eating Baked Cheetos with my eyes closed and thinking "Is this what 25 is about?"

The answer is: Clearly.

Which brings me back to my World Cup plans. Which were ruined, as I woke up at 1 pm with a headache...

This big.

So instead of comfortably chaising in a hot air balloon with a box of Cracklin Oat Bran, I slumped in my roomate's bed with a Vitamin Water, bottle of Ibuprofen, panini, and a death wish.

But of course, the game was UNBELIEVES. I was rooting for Italy, as I felt a connection with their on-field behavior, histrionically speaking. The biggest thrill of the game wasn't so much the edge-of-seat shootout that was the deciding factor in Italy's victory. Moreso the insane, uncalled for, extreme head-butting incident that occurred between the French captain, Zinedine Zidane (or "Zizou") (no relation to Billy Zidane), and Italian player Marco Materazzi, in the 110th minute of the game. If you missed it, here's the clip:

My roomate and I could only imagine what words went down between these two. I combined the only two words I know in Italian to assume that Marco spat out "Va fon-gool-eh too-eh mad-reh!" Zizou was thrown out of the game, and France ultimately lost (although he was still voted Best Player), but his rash headbutting got me to thinking...

First, it got me to thinking of the famous "asses where their faces should be" episode of South Park.

Then it got me to thinking about head-butting. Not the most normal fight move. When two drunk dudes have an altercation at a bar, they don't automatically Pamplona each other in the chest -- chances are they'll sloppily punch each other in the face for a coupla minutes, until the whole thing ends up boiling down to some borderline homoerotic bear hugging.

"I am totally gonna kick your ass, bro. P.S. you smell great."

But of COURSE a soccer player would head-butt someone -- these are men trained not to use their hands. Their heads and feet are all they got, kind of like a land-bound, ball-hungry Daniel Day Lewis. Maybe this Zizou character doesn't even know how to punch someone, or even make a fist! Maybe he's such a finely tuned machine, he doesn't use his arms at all.

What is a day in the life like for that cray-cray Zidane "the Zizmeister" Zizou?

At the ATM machine.

Playing the piano.

Making love to his wife.

Playing ping-pong.

I am dyyying to know what Marco said to him to provoke such a reaction. How would an Italian sound saying "I hope your children die of cancer", I wonder? Probably sexy.

Zidane, taunted with hundreds and hundreds of waving hands, at a press conference today.

Also, Michelle's World Cup "Crush of the Game"©?

Referee Horacio Elizondo. Mee. Ow.

World Cup Aftermath: Soccerplayers + Overtime = Sweaty Hotness

2006-07-07T07:55:00.000-12:00

I gotta admit -- I wasn't too involved in the World Cup madness that's paralyzing the rest of the world. It's very hard for me to watch a sport with any interest unless it's a playoff or finale of some sort, where everything matters and it's all or nothing. So I didn't protest this Tuesday when friends wanted to watch the World Cup Semifinal between Italy and Germany at a local Irish bar in Portland, Maine called "Re Ra." I'll pause so you can repeat that name a couple times. Roll it around, get comfortable with it. Done? Great.

There we were at Re Ra's, with prime seating in front of the plasma screen. I was more jazzed about the possibility of meeting a lonely, homesick Irish fisherman looking to score -- soccerly speaking of course -- but would settle for a couple of dirty martini's (yes, still drinking them) and eating artichoke dip with my fingers (which I did with style and grace) (JK I looked like a monster).

The game was aaaaabsolutely amazing. I wasn't sure who I was rooting for. On the one hand, I love touring both countries, and even though I have a couple of tiny issues with Germany, the teams cancelled each other out, fascist-history wise. I kind of went into the game deciding to root for the underdog, but not knowing who was the underdog, ended up rooting for Germany...

...If only because I was in love with their coach, Jürgen Klinsmann, which translates loosely into Jeremy Irons. If you say shit about his resemblance to Michael Bolton, I'll find you, and then kill you.

One thing that became very obvious early on was that Italy's team was very very dramatic. Like a tiny German elbow to the face would cause nearly an hour of kneeling on the field, sobbing, waving your arms at God, then at the German team, cursing in Italian (seriously, we could see their lips utter "Fongul" a number of times), pounding the ground with their fists, then shaking them again at God. This happened roughly 384 times. It never got any less amusing. Especially when they brought out to the field Italy's best known soccer player, Roberto Benigni.

"I love you! I want to make love to you! Mia madre! I want to make love to all of you!! From a-behind" -- Roberto Benigni's last words in the Italian soccer locker room.

My celebrity analogies do not end there, people. One Italian player named Mauro Camoranesi was a preeeeetty big asshole. He would refuse to help a German up, nor would he accept help off the ground from an opposing player, and pretty much looked like he was gonna murder every single person in the stadium. He also wore his hair the same way I did every day in seventh grade: The half-pony tail/half-bun look.

Like so.

Then it hit me: He looks like someone. Someone I know. Personally or otherwise.

He's the spitting image of Uma Thurman.

Exhibit A.

I told my friends, and they enthusiastically agreed. This is how Mauro Camoranesi came to be known in my inner circle as "Bunuma." If you watch the game on Sunday, be sure to refer to him that way. Bunuma. It did occur to me later that Mauro Camoranesi actually looks a lot more like wildman guitar player G.E. Smith, but as there were no catchy nicknames, I decided to keep this tidbit to myself.

Exhibit B.

The best part of the game? No doubt watching the limber acrobatics of the athetic world's most flexible men.

Print these out, make a flip book, and by God I swear, you have yourself "The Slater Dance."

It's the first shimmy that literally has me laying on the floor, clutching my womb and crying.

IN OTHER NEWS:

If you're in New York Monday night, you must must must check out Nick Kroll and John Mulaney's show "Oh Hello" at the UCB Theater. Seriously, you haven't laughed in like years. You look ashen.

THE OH, HELLO SHOW!
79th Street Television, WOLO TV, presents The Oh Hello Show, a monthly talk-show/sitcom hybrid broadcast live from the Upper West Side apartment of George St. Geegland (John Mulaney) and Gil Faizon (Nick Kroll): two divorcees in their mid fifities who have a new lease on life and a deep love of Alan Alda.

Special guests include a box of After Eight Thin Mints, Gil's son Joel and of course legendary New York rock/pop-jazz artist Boogie Weinstein. New drink recipes are always included! All this and not much else. Indoor show features rest rooms and air conditioning.

Starring: Nick Kroll & John Mulaney
Featuring: Dave Hill & Bobby Moynihan

The Oh Hello Show
Upright Citizen's Brigade Theater
July 10 9:30 PM
$5
Buy tickets here!

The Lowdown

2006-07-06T01:42:00.000-12:00

They look like swastikas for a reason folks. Not my current office, which should be obvious, as the Kapos would never allow heart-shaped balloons into the barracks.

Dear Readers,

If you're a frequent user, abuser, and sometime peruser of my innermost psychotic bloodthirst here, you may have noticed that the last couple of weeks have been a little sparse. There are a few reasons, between vacations, work, comedy-related things, etc... but there is a light at the end of the tunnel. Which is that in just a matter of days (like, around 7), I'm going from spit-on secretarial garbage to full-time blogger for VH1's Best Week Ever. So, yes, less dogs and more celebrities, which I think is a step in the right direction, that direction being NNE to Sanity.

Details to follow, of course, but just wanted to say I haven't forgotten about you, I love you -- yes YOU! -- and I'm -- no I swear, I LOVE YOU -- I'm incredibly excited to take this leap from casual, daily, non-paid blogger to intense, scoop-hungry, fast-talking blogger.

Also, this blog will still be alive and kicking like a baby in a toilet on promnight. I would never, ever kill you my darling one.

xoxo
Creeptown Sally

ps A fun flickr search: Pictures containing the word creepy. Although I don't think any picture could possibly rival the creepiness of the baby featured on Flickr's main page:

It's like Grover mated with Jeffrey Dahmer, I swear. Also, I have no idea why this post is so twisted... I just got back from Maine, maybe all that L.L. Bean-like wholesomeness is squeezing the final tinges of hate from my bloodstream. Oh dear God, I hope not.

Bear with me....

2006-06-30T04:37:00.000-12:00

Oh, man, that title joke = classic!

Too crazy too too too too too crazy to blog right now ya'll!!!! I have like 15 posts saved as "drafts" because I haven't had a moment to sit down and chitter.

Howevs, we will return to regularly scheduled HILARIOUS OBSERVATIONS ON LIFE AND BEYOND © next Weds. I seriously look like a crazy, strung out beggar from my recent lack of sleep and running around. But, heading to Portland, Mainy for a nice, calming break, where I will take all of my aggression out on cracking open lobster claws and stabbing locals in the heart with the remaining shell.

Landing in my inbox: The worst nerd-euphemism for sex.

And also, thanks to Newport News, where I read up on all the breaking stories related to stirrup pants and lace-and-denim vests, I will be "Building My Own Bikini" for the weekend:

HAPPY FOURTH!

Lunchtime Chat with Mike

2006-06-28T07:51:00.000-12:00

Mike Barry: Are you so busy that i can't send you a picture, say, of a 1000 lb. man doing the splits?
Michelle: what's the splits?
Mike Barry: this:
Michelle: sigh, if it's gross dont send it, about to eat lunch
Mike Barry: It's not gross...

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/13568024/

(NOTE: THIS IS THE POINT WHERE I CLICK ON THE LINK)

Mike Barry: JK IT'S REALLY GROSS
Michelle: OK literally, I'm dying laughing
Michelle: I have like 4 hot tears

THE END.

Best Night Ever!

2006-06-28T01:21:00.000-12:00

Me doing my best Keira Knightley impersonation.

I taped my first webisode of "Best Night Ever" for BestWeekEver.tv last night.

Check out the clip here!

Things I learned the hard way: Toe Dancing. Also, leaning forward into the camera does not make you look slimmer, just kinda awkward, crooked, and Easter Island-y. This ends my typical "Just because I posted this clip does not in any way make me even appreciate myself even a little" disclaimer. I love you all, xoxoxoxo, MC.

Tuning In To WEDZ

2006-06-27T02:44:00.000-12:00

Their wedding song: Wu-Tang's "Gravelpit."

This Sunday, I attended the wedding of a close friend of mine from college. It was a beautiful, heartfelt ceremony at a country club in Massachusettes, and a nice reunion of college friends who came cross-country and overseas to attend the festivities.

Following a post-nuptual cocktail hour, we were ushered into the banquet hall for the dancing/lunching portion of the day. This part of the day also includes the "first dance" for the husband and wife. They did a lovely dance to their chosen song, "Is This Love?" by Bob Marley, the irony of course being that these were two of the whitest people I've ever had the pleasure of knowing.

Wedding Song: "Doth Milady's Cup Runneth Over? Methinks Quite." by Earth, Wind & Fire

Nevertheless, it got me to thinking about my favorite wedding related subject: the choosing of the song. It is a topic I have delved into before, in no doubt one of the more sobering blog posts seen in these parts. But this wedding spawned new ideas in the wedding song debate. Groggily seated on a 6 am flight out of Boston yesterday morning, listening to my Ipod on shuffle, I thought of each random song playing on my list in the context of a husband and wife's "first dance." Some examples:

1. "I Sing The Body Electric" - Fame Soundtrack

I sing the body electric
I glory in the glow of rebirth
Creating my own tomorrow
When I shall embody the earth

And I'll serenade Venus
I'll serenade Mars
And I'll burn with the fire of ten million stars
And in time
And in time
We will all be stars

Choosing this as your wedding song tells your guests a few things about you. First, it tells them that you probably have a really disgusting, hippy sex life, one that likely involves spandex and swinging. Secondly, it also speaks volumes about what you and your hubby/wifey do in your free time: Tai Chi with "the locals" (i.e. homeless) in San Francisco, weekend jaunts to your local Rennaissance Festival for some additional role playing, nightly organic market visits for some roll-on patchouli deodorant. The ideal song for making a good 50 percent of your wedding attendees mildly to extremely uncomfortable.

"Celebrate the me yet to come"... shudddddderrrrrr.

--------

2. "Cold As Ice" - M.O.P.

I'd like to welcome motherf***ers
To the back of the mind of Bill
See I'm for real
When deliverin'
These M.O.P. tactics
I'll bury you b*stards
I custom make caskets
The B.G. (told ya nigga)
The Y.G. (soldier nigga)
Even the O.G. (cobra nigga)
Told ya nigga
I may come
With my gun in my hand
To make sure you
Motherf***ers understand

Most of you recognize "Cold As Ice" as the hit Foreigner song. The M.O.P's rap remix of "Cold As Ice" will tell your guest one thing: 6 months tops. But also: We're in love!!

--------

3. "Leningrad" - Billy Joel

Viktor was sent to some Red Army town
Served out his time, became a circus clown
The greatest happiness he'd ever found
Was making Russian children glad
And children lived in Leningrad

The ideal melody for a couple who met during the Cold War. It would also help if the groom was a circus clown named Victor. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, download the song right now. The lyrics are totally re-re, and yet I get goosebumps everytime. See also, Celine Dion, and 88 percent of what's on my playlist.

--------

4. "America" - Neil Diamond

Free
Only want to be free
We huddle close
Hang on to a dream

On the boats and on the planes
Theyre coming to america
Never looking back again
Theyre coming to America

See also, Number 3. Perfect for the gay Mexican marriage, where someone's scoring a Green Card.

"I A-DO-EH!"

--------

5. "Your Ex-Lover Is Dead" - Stars

Live through this, and you won't look back...
Live through this, and you won't look back...
Live through this, and you won't look back...

Commitment people. This is what the day is all about. Make sure to wipe the blood off your hands on anything BUT your wedding gown. AWKY!

--------

6. "I'm Looking Through You" - The Beatles

I'm looking through you
Where did you go
I thought I knew you
What did I know
You don't look different
But you have changed
I'm looking through you
You're not the same

The ideal melody for the Nicole Kidman/Keith Urban nuptuals. Why? Because she weighs 37 pounds and is transparent and made out of leftover T2 parts.

--------

I could go on (seriously, I have 2,765 songs left), but really don't feel like revealing every single tune on my Ipod, as it would involve the kind of humiliation not seen since the famous "Public Ass Rapings of '79."

Uber Alles Indeed

2006-06-26T10:51:00.001-12:00

This is officially the prettiest and most come hither looking pig I have ever seen. Hitler would be happy to know I've been humming this tune for approx. 48 minutes.

Also, if anyone could translate the part of the song I don't know (everything other than "Pigs for Germany"), I'd appreciate it.

Update: Translation!

Wir brauchen Schwein für Deutschland,
dass jede Flanke sitzt.
Verdammt viel Schwein für Deutschland,
dass jeder Schuss ein Treffer ist.
Wir brauchen Schwein für Deutschland,
dann ziehen wir in's Finale ein.
Denn nur mit Schwein für Deutschland,
wird der Weltmeister auch Deutschland sein.

We need "pig" for Germany
that every cross is right.
Damn much "pig" for Germany
that every shot is a hit.
We need "pig" for Germany,
then we'll make it to the final.
Because only with "pig" for Germany,
will the world champion be Germany.

Note: In German "Schwein haben" ("to have pig") is an idiomatic expression meaning "to be lucky". "Schwein brauchen" ("to need pig") is not really used but is easily understood by anybody with a good command of German to mean "to need luck". Just eeplace every instance of "pig" above with "luck" and the song will make even more sense.

With thanks to Christoph W. for the above translation, and additional thanks to Noa, Jenna and Martin!

Flying Coach

2006-06-26T03:13:00.000-12:00

So I'm half-dead right now thanks to a 6 am flight out of Boston this morning. I made the genius decizh of flying JetBlue, by far the nicest airline in the country now that Delta Song is down for the count. Make a long story short, due to the early boarding time, I couldn't watch my usual HGTV marathon (as it was all informacials). So instead I opted for an hour of Headline News, which recycles the same story over and over and over again every 15 minutes. My main reason for watching so long? The following clip, which was shown during the sports segment. I was a-CRACKING up. Esp. when he grabs some water to wash off home plate.

Pedi Crimes

2006-06-23T06:21:00.000-12:00

Me getting a pedicure. (picture of De-Fen Yao from China thanks to a good hearted reader. I do not believe it is photoshopped. My friend Julia said De-Fen has a head the size of a washing machine, and I believe it.)

It's June. And if you're the graduate of a women's college and in your mid-20's (and Jewish), that means it's wedding time. This weekend is the second wedding I'm attending in June, and I'm travelling up to Boston to reunite with many girls I haven't seen in years. This is code for "Look your best."

I've got the outfit all planned out. Going with a navy gown that I had shortened to be more "tea-lengthy", a navy bolero that screams Upper East Side rodeo, and gold sandals. And what outfit would be complete without talons for feet. Every outfit, that's what. Which is why I spent my coveted lunch hour at the SAH-lon, getting my feet primped and clipped for my wedding sandal debut.

I am always very humble at the nail salon. Just the idea that I'm making someone touch my feet, even for money, leaves me with cuticle blood on my hands. It seems wrong. So I counter-balance the foot touching by acting like Young Chiyo from Memoirs of a Geisha, bowing low, saying thank you every 5 seconds, avoiding eye contact, and serving tea. This salon was on the second floor, a common occurrence in a space-deprived city. I climbed the stairs and waited a good 20 minutes until my turn was up.

"Hmm... I think I can squeeze my pedi in between steeping lessons and my two o'clock 'sensual dance' hour."

The first thing I do when sitting in the futuristic leather massage chair growing out of a bucket is inspect the other feet, to rank how nasty mine are. The woman next to me had short, chubby tan feet with tiny toenails. The woman next to her's were real veiny, with opaque white nails (before polish.) In comparison, mine really weren't so bad... sure, they vaguely resemble a chitlin, and yes, my pinky toenails have somehow ceased to exist, but the nailbeds themselves were nicely shaped. No, really, my feet were quite nice in comparison.

Ladylike, in fact.

Then I saw my assigned pedicurist snapping on two rubber gloves as if I were about to get a cavity search. Gloves, eh? I glanced at the other two women... no gloves. Were my chitlins that unsavory? Boo.

On second thought, maybe they were.

I'll spare you the declawing process, but I chose I loverly light coral color to compliment the navy dress. I looked at my watch, and saw that I only had 5 minutes left before my lunch hour was over. Gah! No time to dry. Pay, tip (very generously to assuage more guilt) and run. Money went flying as I swung open the door, and then went to open the door leading to the staircase.

Instead, I found that I literally ran into a broom closet. Like in the cartoons. Luckily, 8,000 basketballs didn't fall on my head. No time, no time! I booked it down the stairs, emerged into daylight, and tried to run without ruining my polish.

Even these two were like "Yoooouuuuu schmuck."

End of story? It took me 30 minutes before I fucked the polish up and had to remove all of it. I just made a Dr.'s appointment to have my blood tested for the Hulk gene.

Looks like I'll have to wear my bird shoes again...

Radio: The One Word That's the Same in Every Language

2006-06-21T01:44:00.000-12:00

If there is one form of media that I'm not so up-to-date on, it's your classic AM/FM radio. Not having a car in New York, and being underground for my commutes, the radio just doesn't find its way into my schedule. Sometimes I'll come home and hear my roomate, a radio listener, humming some unknown melody. And I'll be all "What song is that?" and she'll say something like "Oh, it's the new Pussycat Dolls song", and then I'll usually say something defensive like "Still playing with dolls there, huh? I mean really," run back into my room, plug my iPod headphones into my Victrola, and just cry and cry while listening to how Al Jolson absolutely loves his dear, old Swanee. I'm ol' fashioned is what I'm sayin', seeee?

The funny thing is, I was joking. Then the shit actually exists.

Sunday, I went to Target in the Bronx to buy my quarterly stash of shave gel and syringes. While perusing the aisles along with roughly 44,000 other poor people, it dawned on me that I needed a new alarm clock. So I just picked up an adorable little cube-shaped one with a dual alarm (which I immediately named "Cubey Gooding, Jr.") for only $15. But, as usual at Target, I can walk in needing a travel-sized tampon, and walk out with two microwaves on each arm, pool noodles strapped to my chest, and a basket on my head full of Pampers. So my $15 alarm clock turned into a $150 tab worth of shit I will forget I bought next week.

I came home, plugged my new clock in, and within minutes, had it all programmed for the next morning. Its been years since I've used a standard alarm clock. In college and up until last week I used to wake up to my stereo, which was a blessing and a curse, as the clock automatically played the first track of whatever was in my CD player. So if track 1 happened to be "Dreamweaver", I would wake up in an ever so pleasant mood. On the other hand, one time I accidentally left my "101 Civil War Sound Effects" CD in the player, and woke up to the sound of Confederate warfare... I had to carry around my Hallmark PMS mug all day, ya'll!

Oh, that is good. I'm gonna put this in my cupboard right next to my mug that says "He Who Farts In Church Sits On His Own Pew." And then I'm gonna break off the handle and slit my own throat with it.

OK -- it just hit me that I'm literally writing a love poem to my new CLOCK RADIO. Sigh. I'll make it short.

Unfurling long torah scroll and re-inking ostrich quill with which to finish remainder of post. (Note to self: Get wrists waxed.)

One click of the Cubey's radio, and memories began to flood in. Long drives down sun-splashed Miami highways. Getting into fights with my mother about touching the radio dial while the car was in "Drive". Winning concert tickets by calling in a radio show my freshman year in college... and not caring that they were tickets to see Chaka Kahn and screamed like I just won tickets on Bono's space shuttle. But one memory in partick needed a little more sharing...

When I was a girl, I landed a highly coveted position on an AM radio station in Miami, co-hosting a "talk show for teens" called (my skin is crawling) "Livewire", along with the perky blonde traffic girl from the Fox affilliate named Tiffany. I was getting $30 an hour to gab, and I couldn't feel better about myself. Until the first show, when it became clear nobody, NOBODY, was listening to a teen talk show on AM radio at 9 pm. My poor father would sit in the green room, while Tiffany and I begged and pleaded for people to call in. Inevitably, the phone light would blink, we would rejoice, and it would almost certainly be a 98-year old diabetic who accidentally mashed his colostomy bag up against the buttons on a phone and ended up on AM radio. We would say hello, and then he would just scream really loud. This actually happened.

It's not pretty, but it colostomy a fortune!

One time, we had a guest on named Nancy who was a Super-Vegan. Like vegan to the extreme. So much so that she fed her dog lettuce. When we asked for callers, we were surprised to see the phone light illuminate immediately. On the line was a man, gruff sounding and a little southern, who was there to give Nancy a hard time. He loved meat! He loved hunting, and especially murder! He went on and on about the thrill he got from blowing a bald eagle's brains out, and killing random, innocent animals. He really was quite argumentative, and Nancy basically sat there in catatonic shock. She attempted to argue, but the guy on the line was a total lunatic! He wouldn't let her talk. There were fireworks on the set!

Then it dawned on me. The voice... it sounded familiar. Familial.

It was my father calling from the green room.

I mashed my palms into my eyes and took a deep breath. I looked at Nancy. She was flatlining. I looked at Tiffany. She seemed pretty psyched, the same kinda face she probably makes when traffic was backed up on I-95. I looked up.

After the show, when I walked into the green room for my ride home, my Dad and I looked at each other, and burst out laughing. We laughed all the way home.

That night, Nancy killed herself.

Nancy the Vegan, 1968-1996, R.I.P.

Epilogue: I've been listening to the radio every morning this week, instead of the ol' Today Show routine. And I have noticed a few things: 1. I'm getting my makeup done in half the time; 2. I haven't dreamt about Matt Lauer all week; 3. I'm out the door faster; 4. I really, really, really, really, really cannot stand Campbell Brown; 5. Maybe I should think about going back into radio?; 6. No but seriously, Campbell? Why do you always stand like you're really really freezing cold? It's June and you're standing outside. Ugh. Where's Ann Curry at, ya'll?; and 7. For real, Ann Curry looks exactly like my Grandmother.

"Brr... I'm chilly." -- A blood cell travelling through the atria of Campbell Brown's heart.

If you're still bored, check these out: Spirit Spheres. Can someone say ideal wedding night locale? Stephen Hawking can't.

But also: I feel really bad about the Stephen Hawking joke. But you can relax because he just paralyzed me with his mind.

Finally: Go on job interviews from the comfort of your underpaid cube-job.

Dog v. Snake

2006-06-20T02:00:00.000-12:00

Stick around for the end.

Bonus video with surprise ending:

Cat using a toilet

Gross, but the end really gets you.

Update: Jon Friedman had this story to add:

"I was once dog sitting for dayssssss....and then the owner (my friend Todd) showed up to pick up his dog.... and the dog starts doing those heaves, immediately... about 30 of them and vomits all over my rug. And it was totally like 'What the fuck did you do to my dog?'. The heaves wouldn't stop and it was RIGHT AWAY."

All Aboard My Typical Emotional Rollercoaster

2006-06-19T05:18:00.000-12:00

Hungary's most famous cinema.

A few months ago, a rarity occurred: A Hungarain movie was playing right here in New York, at the ultra-hip Film Forum. Here is an example of how I would pitch it to my friends:

Me: Hey wanna go to the movies tonight?
Friend: Sure, what do you want to see?
Me: Welllll, there's this amaaaazing movie playing at the Film Forum, it's getting raves...
Friend: Yeah?
Me: Yes, it's in Hungarian.
Friend: Oh. Hmm. Well what is it about?
Me: The Holocaust?
Friend: Oh. Well... Can you hold on a sec? My beeper's going off. (pause) Oh, it's the hospital, my wife is having the baby!
Me: But you're not even marrie--
Friend: PAAAAYCE!

The movie's name was "Fateless", based on a novel by Imre Kertesz, whose self-hating and blunt account of the concentration camps make it one of the more shocking accounts of the Holocaust. To save this blog post from becoming creepily similar to every paper I wrote in my eighth grade English class, I rented the movie last night, and of course was sick to my stomach for the remainder of the evening. Watching a movie about the Holocaust in the native tongue of all of my Grandparents, all survivors, made this movie particularly hard for me to watch. The fact that one character's dreams was to be back on a street that was two blocks away from where I lived when I studied abroad was just surreal. I'll kinda end there on the movie, but if The Holocaust is your bag (and I know there are klanspeople reading this blog to keep track of my Jew-moves), then check it out.

To change directions completely.

So I call up Annie for our nightly Sunday week rundown, and tell her about the film. She then tells me that before our January trip to Budapest, she rented some Hungarian movie that was supposed to be "groundbreaking"... "groundbreaking", in this case, to be defined as a handful of gang rapes and murders. When trying to find out the name of the film (so I could add it to my Netflix queue, along with my fave gang-rape musical of all time, West Side Story), I came across another Hungarian film... animated... whose name alone had me hooked... Cat City.

Here's the Wikipedia description, and some triv:

The movie opens with a Star Wars style text scroll, which tells the main situation: In year 80 after Mickey Mouse, the mice of Planet X are threatened by humiliation and total apocalypse. The well-organized, fully equipped gangs of evil cats are aiming to wipe out the mouse civizilation totally, not caring for the old conventions between mice and cats. But in the last moment, when the mouse leaders are beginning to consider leaving the planet, a new hope rises...
* The half-eyed boss cat is named "Mr. Teufel", which is "Mr Devil" in German, but Teufel sounds like tejfel in Hungarian, which is one of the favorite titbits of cats, sour cream.

One piece of trivia deserves a special call out:

* The secret password for the mice's counsel is "Egy aprócska kalapocska, benne csacska macska mocska" (pronounced "Edge ah-proe-tschka kala-poe-tschka, benne tchatchka matchka moh-tchka") (meaning "A tiny little hat with a silly cat's dirt in it").

This literally had me rolling on the floor. Say it out loud yourself.

Livin' the thug life in Cat City.

Ok, so obvies now I'm OB-GYN-SESSED with "Cat City". I must own a copy. So I go to Amazon.com to order... which is when I'm confronted with their radically different take on "Cat City":

Cat City is an outdated James Bond spoof supposedly involving cats and mice, but the characters are just humans with animal heads and tails. Although the animation is a bit more polished, this 95-minute feature recalls the worst kidvid shows of the '70s and '80s. One pointless scene follows another as the characters natter in amateurish voices, mistimed gags fall flat, and the inane plot involving plans for the ultimate anticat weapon stumbles to its conclusion. Hispanic viewers will understandably take offense at the stereotypical depiction of the Mexican vampire bats. The jacket calls Cat City the "animated sensation that rocked critics and censors around the world." But except for a few brief shots of a rat in pasties and a G-string, and the possible double-entendre of the inept musical number "Pussy Talk," sung by a cat in baby-doll pajamas, the film would have a hard time qualifying for a PG rating. If Cat City were genuinely shocking, it'd be more fun. -- Charles Solomon

Cat City has now officially turned into my worst nightmare, for all of the bold-faced reasons above. RAT PASTIES!!! IN A CARTOON!!! Although I guess for a country that starts airing its free porn at roughly 3:30 in the afternoon, it isn't that surprising.

However two Amazon reviewers may have changed my mind. First, we hear from Piszi, who says:

I'm an other hungarian, who loves it since childhood. The editorial rewiew absolutely missunderstands it (or the english translation is bad) takeing it too seriously. It's not in James Bond-style, it's funny and light. In wich James Bond-movie could happen, in example, that (in the middle of a battle in a city) the bullets and rockets at a crossover politely stops in the air and waits for the green light? The vampire bats aren't stereotyphicals: after listening their victim's tromphet solo decides to not kill such a talented young mouse, and at the end theye will become a jazz-band. I don't consider it a stereothype :).

OK, Piszi, I see your point.

But what does "A viewer" have to say about it, I wonder?

CAT CITY is a rip-roarin' good time, full of thrills, chills, spills and lotsa hip action!The animation rivals other mega animation companys, and it's a perfect film for viewing either alone or with that special someone. Yow baby!, this kittens' got claws! Grrr! The characters are thoughtful, well written, and at times satarical.These animals rival spy flicks of the 60's and 70's. Cat city is touching, heart warming and action paced. Keeps you guessing until the shocking and suprising finish.A non-stop roller coaster ride!Heart pounding and breathtaking with a good deal of romance too! So if you like urban living or felines or both, this movie is a reel winner! MEOW!

Sigh. The world is full of idiots. I'm exhausted and blatantly frowning. I think I'll just stick to soul-maiming Concentration Campy flicks from now on.

Conversations with Mother, Part 4: Cultural Differences

2006-06-16T07:45:00.000-12:00

Friday, on my lunch break, from my cubicle, I dialed mother in Miami for a quick pre-weekend check-in:

Mom: (exasperated) Hello?

Me: Hi.

Mom: Mich?

Me: Yes...

Mom: Hi! Mich, it is so hot here. I'm dying. It is 100 degrees, I can't breathe. I just walked out of the supermarket and even from the door of the supermarket to the car, I feel like I'm gonna faint. Oy my god. Anyway now I'm in the car going to buy some t-chhhina from the Israeli supermarket. And it's Friday, which means all the religious people are gonna be in there pushing, and I won't be able to move. (Door opening) Oy my god! MICH IT IS SO HOT HERE! All I want is some hummus and I'm dyinggggg!!! Oh my god, I can't breathe... I can't breathe! Anyway so I'm off work today, I have a million things to do. I'm gonna buy some tchina, go to the dry cleaners, go home, I have to do some laundry...

Me:

Mom: Anyway, so tell me, how are you?

Me:

Mom: Mich?

Me: Yeah, I'm here.

(I proceed to tell her about a gift I purchased for a friend's wedding tomorrow, a mini-Cuisinart.)

Me: I was very close to buying this gorgeous red tea kettle from this French company... sounds like Le Corbussier...?

Mom: Le Creuset! They have beautiful things. You know what's nice? They have beautiful dutch ovens, for when you want to keep things warm.

Me: (cracking up.) Do you know what "dutch oven" is slang for?

Mom: No...

Me: When someone farts under a blanket, and then they lift the blanket over another person's head and trap them with a fart smell.

Presumably for things cooked in a dutch oven. By the by, out of all of Pazzin Gazz's books, this one is by far the best.

(This dutch oven explanation takes a good four times of repeating until the concept is understood by her. I should remention I'm in my work cubicle.)

Mom: You know what your father did to me once? We were laying in bed, and he pretended he was going to spit on me. So I went to hide under the covers, and that's when he farted.

Me: Young love.

Mom: One time he asked me to pull his finger. In Israel nobody ever pulled anybody's finger! So I pulled it. And then he farted. That's when I learned what "Pull my finger" means.

Da-da-da da-da da - Honk!

He then fooled the cat, and laughed about it for 48 days. That's mah dad for ya!

p.s. My mother, the very wise and glamorous Judy Collins, will be appearing with me on stage, one night only, on July 25 at "The Rejection Show". Details to follow, but I swear to God if you are to ever see me perform, make it this show. It's called puzzle pieces, people. Falling into place, ya read me? Poor Dad, Mel, will be back in Miami, possibly appearing on stage singing one of his many parody songs, including "Shake It Up, Abey" and "The Hondeler" (sung to: The Wanderer.)

50 ANIMALS DRUNK

2006-06-16T04:05:00.000-12:00

Keeping with the theme of 50 animals doing random shit (see also driving and in casts), here are 50 animals getting hammertimed, smashed, wasties, shittanked, flibble-flarbed, date-raped and drunk.*

*Many of these pictures make me a little uncomfortable, like there was child pornography being filmed a stone's throw away. Something about the "grape and graininess" of the pics themselves. Anyway, it's Friday and I'm dehydrated.

And a dog in a hat for good measure:

You Better Watch It.... Two Times!

2006-06-14T03:23:00.000-12:00

While in college, my best friend Annie and I shared a mutual obsession with singer Elliott Smith (RIP). Annie would cover Google Image searching him while simultaneously GPS/Lojacking his every move, and I would try and record his live TV gigs now and again. (Please, non-Elliott-Smith-fans, keep reading: This post has little to do with him.)

In 1999, he made an in-store appearance at the Virgin Megastore in Union Square to promote his album Figure 8. After the blandish show, being 18 years old and a virtually retarded person, I celeb-u-stalked Smith packing up his gear in the basement and approached the notoriously shy musician with such glee and vigor that Annie refused to join me, choosing instead to stand a solid 15 feet behind me and stare at the floor. There I was, raving like a Jewish mother about how great he is, how much we love him, and how my friend Annie is his biggest fan, while motioning behind me to a girl sitting on the floor, rocking herself back and forth and crying. All jokes aside, it very nearly ruined our friendship (you know how emotional college kids are), and I'm sure even my simple blogging of the event will reignite the smoldering embers of anger that Annie holds on to so dearly. (Epilogue: He stabbed himself in the heart a few years ago.)

Ok, so why the long face/story? Before his performance at the Virgy-Meggy-Store, he made an appearance on Conan, which I duly recorded. Low and behold, the song was OK, not super memorable. What was memorable was the Jack Black interview that came on directly before him. Now this was back in Jack Black's "High Fidelity" days, i.e. the non-mega-famous days, when he was portlier, unkempt, and completely unrefined. It had to be and still is one of the funniest things I've ever seen. Lines from the interview were generously sprinkled into our everyday convos, my VCR's belt running thin from constant rewinding.

With Nacho Libre coming out this Friday, my friend Alyson e-mailed me to reminsce about the famous Jbles interview, which we hadn't seen in years. But thanks to George Jetson and all of his wacky technology (I literally took a shower on a conveyor belt this morning, go figure), THE JACK BLACK INTERVIEW IS ON YOUTUBE! So, of course, it is my duty to pass it along.

Enjoy.

McDonald's Opens In Africa!

2006-06-14T02:18:00.000-12:00

Check it out!

By the way, if you're at all as tickled by giraffes as I am, head over to Hungary. They are seriously obsessed with them, so much so that there is a "Zhiraf" restaurant, hotel, building, and numerous products bearing a giraffe's logo. Which is strange, as I'm pretty sure the giraffe at the local zoo died of malnourishment and shame. Somehow the Hungarian Zoo manages to stay open despite its 78 rupee check from the gov.

(With my as per yoozh thanks to Lindsay for the pic.)

More Like Page Sex! Swish!

2006-06-13T01:48:00.000-12:00

The closest thing I could find to a picture of Orlando Bloom and Claire Danes: A picture of Orlando Bloom and James Blunt.

Page Six has a real scoop in today's column: Angela Chase (i.e. Claire Danes) being bumped and ground by Legolas! (Orlando Bloom!) To wit:

DANCING DRACULA

ORLANDO Bloom snacked on Claire Danes' lovely neck during a dirty dancing session on Saturday night. The hookup happened on the dance floor at the Raisa Gorbachev Foundation party at the Althorp (Earl Spencer's) estate in Northamptonshire, England. We're told the "Lord of the Rings" hunk made his move after boogeying over to Danes during a performance by the Black Eyed Peas. "He was kissing her neck and grinding against her," reports our snitch. "He didn't seem to care who saw it." Guests included Mikhail Gorbachev, Denise Rich, Salman Rushdie and Nicky Hilton.

Now, as if that weren't scintillating enough, those last two names really threw me for a loop... Salman Rushdie and Nicky Hilton, seen together? At the same party? Doesn't this defy some sort of law of intellectual physics or something?

Then I got to thinking: What if the item was about them? What if...

WHY THE RUSHDIE?

SALMAN Rushdie snacked on Nicky Hilton's lovely neck during a dirty dancing session on Saturday night. The hookup happened on the dance floor at the Raisa Gorbachev Foundation party at the Althorp (Earl Spencer's) estate in Northamptonshire, England. We're told the "Satanic Verses" hunk made his move after boogeying over to Hilton during a performance by the Black Eyed Peas. "He was kissing her neck and grinding against her," reports our snitch. "He didn't seem to care who saw it." Guests included Mikhail Gorbachev, Denise Rich, Nick Lachey and Estelle Getty.

It's like a Mobius Strip of nooniness, really.

Also spotted bumping and grinding, but not reported in the item...

Quentin Tarantino and Lil' Uncle Sam.

June 11, 2006: Officially the Best Day to Be a Mexican Jew

2006-06-11T09:58:00.000-12:00

Congratulations Mexico! Your soccer team defeated Eye-"What Holocaust?"-Ran's Team in Round 1 of the World Cup. Which can only mean one thing...

June 11, 2006 is officially the best day to be a Mexican Jew.

So live it up Mexican Yids! I know the 8 of you will be living it up together in secrecy til' tomorrow.

That includes you, Shmuley! Viva La Jew-Caracha!

Childhood Fears

2006-06-09T02:48:00.000-12:00

Not on the list, but shoulda been: Three-headed dog costumes.

Think back to when you were a child for a second, and to what your worst fear was. For me, it was three things: 1. Cockroaches (natch); 2. Lightning (being the tallest kid in the playground gave me an excellent reason to crabwalk to shelter anytime rain was near); and 3. The long, foam tentacles that are standard in every car wash, the ones that slap down on your windshield like a sea alien and swish around, the fear compounded by loud, strong jets of water shooting at your face and loudly spraying off the window. Then the huuuuge pipe cleaner looking thing that comes down to scrub.... Really, I didn't think there was anything more frightening to a child than a carwash.

I'm not kidding you, I'm still scared of these shits.

But my beliefs were swiftly crushed this morning as I saw, live and in person, an entirely different kind of childhood transportation-related fear play out before my very eyes.

There I was, listening to a Patsy Cline/Ludacris Mashup on my Podzy ("Crazy for Being Such a Dick-Lickin' Ho"), when I heard horrible, piercing screams coming from behind me. I turned around, expecting to find a Lord of the Rings Ringwraith coming for me for good, instead finding a frazzled dad in a business suit trying to drag his two little children (like 5 and 7 years old) onto a packed train car, right when the "bing-bong" bell signaling the closing doors went off. Now, if you've ever been caught in the subway doors, you know that it's no joke. I'm built like a Fisher Price radio, and even still I've been nearly crushed and badly bruised from near subway misses. They slam hard and fast on your body or arm (sometimes hair), and not having motion sensors, the doors stay that way, hermetically sealing themselves to your body, until the train operator decides he's had his fun and lets you free.

And that's my adult experience with them. I wouldn't be surprised if those doors could slice a toddler clean in half.

Even J-Lo knows better to wait... even when she's kidnapping someone's little boy.

So what kind of a father would risk slicing his kids in half, I ask you? Judging by the terrified looks on his kids' faces, who were each tugging at his shirtsleeves from behind, screaming like banshees, while the Dad tried to dive headfirst into the car: A really, really bad father. Unless he was trying to ditch them on the platform, in which case: Good try.

Funny, the baby's body language is like totally "Wheeeeeeee!" but you know inside it's all "God, please let me die before he touches my bathing suit place."

More Like Blogrrrrr

2006-06-08T07:50:00.003-12:00

Blogger has been down and giving me problems. I have not abandoned you. I have not given up.

While I figure out what to do with my time, you should be reading these two articles from this week's amazing issue of Rolling Stone.

This piece about Merv Griffin gets an A+ in Hysteri 101. What a jolly, fat, super-hard-core-conservative hilarious vaudevillian gay! That is, until he says some shit about the Jews. That's when I crossed him off my "5 People I Want to Meet in Heaven" list, and reinstated Jack Palance. And all I kept thinking when I read this was: OMG, did Ryan Seacrest give him a BJ? Probs. Nay. Def.

Dear Mister Fantasy by John Colapinto

Once done with that, change gears a little, and check out this piece about allllllllllll of the thousands of sluts and man-whores currently attending Duke U. The article pretends for 5 seconds to care about the Duke Lacrosse (or "Laxers") rape scandal, but really it just wants to talk about girls in a baby oil wrestling match. Frankly, when first hearing about the rape case I sided with the guys... but this piece reads lke a draft of "Caligula", making me doubt anything I've ever known. An enjoyable read, as you feel superior to these morons (because you yourself have little to no self-confidence), until you realize they will be making much, much more money than you in T minus 5 minu --- oh wait -- they're ALREADY richer. Fuck.

Sex Scandal at Duke by Janet Reitman

Deal or No Deal Starring Celine Dion

2006-06-05T16:37:00.000-12:00

Last night, NBC outdid themselves in the "Make Michelle Pleased" department. I happened to be home, working on some other stuff (flossing), and switched the channel over to Deal or No Deal (the hit NBC game show hosted by Howie Mandel) for some innocuous background noise. Well, the Gods must be crazy, because last night, of ALL nights, Deal or No Deal was above and beyond a-may-may.

The contestant, Sherri, self-described as Celine Dion's biggest fan, was playing for $5 million (as opposed to the standard mill). Then, on top of all the season-finale-soulpatch-clad excitement, CELINE DION HERSELF surprised the contestant (live via satellite), and then stuck around with the fam (live via satellite) to give advice (live via satellite), and in general just make hilarious faces. I pieced together a recap of the show, but please keep in mind while reading: (You are now entering the sarcasm-free zone) I am a serious-town huge-time Celine Dion fan. Like, love her to death. Think she's a geen. And was super-jazzed to see and hear her for the hour and a half special (End of zone.) Enjoy.

Please welcome to the stage, a television screen with a live satellite feed of Celine Dion!

Hellew! Hellew every-rrrone! I am sew happy to be here!

Let's get the game moving along: Sherri, deal or no deal.

This is really the kind of question I need to leave up to family.... Celine, what's your take?

Ehm, it is hard for me to dee-cide, because I... How do you say eet... I have...

I have more money zan God!!!

So let me think about eet.... You are a school teacher... it is a deal for $170,000, nothing to sneeze at... and there is that whole 'I have more money zan God' thing...

NO DEAL!

"Patrice, open up the suitcase..."

It's only a dollar! Thank you Celine!!! THANK YOU!!

YAY FOR CELINE!! She truly can change lives! She is a miracle maker!

I told you, my chil-dran! I am all knowing! And did I mention?

I have more money zan God!!! So yew know ma advice is sound!

OK, so zat is the game, yes? It's been a pleh-zhour! Sank you so much for having me today. My papa used to call me zee magical harnless unicorn who makes drams come true. Sank you again!

What? Zee show is an hour and a half?

Fuuuuuuuuck.

Somebody! Let me out of this horrible plazma shamber! I feel trapped! No deal!! Please (sobbing) no deaaaal!! Let me out!

(throat clearing) Sherri... the time has come again... Deal, or no Deal?

In unison: Please Sherri! Ask us!! We're your family!! We want to help you! She's from QUEBEC. She's married to a corpse!!! SHERRI!!!

This is a tough one.

Celeeeeeenay!! Over here!! It's your biggest fan, Sherri! Whaddya think? Maybe I should start a college fund for my children? Buy a new house? Or is it gonna be dog food and garbage bag shoes for me and my fam til we die? I'm so glad Celine Dion is here to make these decisions for me.

Thees ees hard... so much pressure. Sometimes it helps me to sing to think. "But when you touch me like this... and when you hold me like that... hmm hmm hmm... mmm... Cause I'm your laaaadyyyyy... and youu... hmm hmmm hmmmm"

No. Facking. Deal.

But don't forget! I am richer than most nations!! LOL!

Very savvy! Very savvy indeed. Let's see how that decision plays out for you...

...Open up the suitcase.... check insiiiiiide.... Aaaaand you'velosteverything.

My future!

In unison: "YOU FUCKING BITCH!"

I'm... I'm... ruined.

Celine... I... I trusted you. I trusted your eyes, your voice, your wild gesturing... and now I'm left with nothing.

Weeeeeell, you know, it's only a gahm! No big deal, rrright? Rene and I like to play gahms too! It's all the fun times. You can always get your own show in Vegas!

Every day, I wake up on a mattress made out of live Taiwanese boys, my head resting on pillows made out of diamonds and Liza Minelli dander, and I think: Good thing I have that show in Vegas! You know, if you work for the next 15 years, you could try to get some tickets, you would love it!

Howie: It's off to grief counseling for these folks. Thanks again for helping out tonight, 25-foot-tall satellite feed of Celine Dion. Nobody does it better.

Do not sank me! It was my plezh.

Al-Packa You Bags: It's Off to Bellevue

2006-06-05T08:47:00.000-12:00

This adorable post on Cute Overload spawned the following conversation between me and my buddy Lindsay. I am posting it because I do believe it's proof that I should be in a mental institoosh:

Michelle: DID YOU SEE CUTE OVERLOAD? THE ALPACA!!!!!!!!!!!!
Lindsay: With the little boy?
Michelle: Yes!!
Lindsay: I can't believe it. I knit tons of alpaca wool. (Ed note: Lindsay lives in Maine.) I wonder what they look like naked.
Michelle: Oh my God. Do you see the pretty alpaca face? Sososos pretty. I know gay guys who look like that. (Ed: Intended as a compliment.)
Lindsay: Haha. You mean gay alpacas?
Michelle: Don't you mean... fudge-pacas?
Lindsay: NOOOOOOO. That was brill.
Michelle: OMG. I have to blog this.

And sceeeeeene!

But seriously, look how damn pretty that thing is!! You know in two years it's gonna be trying on it's mother's high-hooves and stealing her nylons. That's not to say I don't want to spoon with it all the live-long day.

Also, for the record: I have an alpaca scarf that I bought at J. Crew a few years ago (at the World Trade Center... awkard...) Anyway! To this day it has held up beautifully, is totally waterproof and is the warmest thing I own (aside from my live-Yeti suit). This officially ends my public service announcement for the wonders of alpacas.

From the Corners of My Mind

2006-06-05T04:55:00.000-12:00

A recent top-2-bot room cleaning left me with not only an entirely new wardrobe (Hammer pants and Skidz are in style again, right?), but also a tote bag full of random pictures from my childhood up until my really, really, unfortunately overweight college years.

Some were too good to keep to myself. Enjoy.

Me, my mother, and Bob Dole, 1996. I was 15 going on a 35 y.o. preggers Latina when this picture was taken. We got word that Bob Dole was going to be at Versailles in Miami, so my family put on our best (and apparently pastiest) faces and trekked down to meet him. Please also note the beaded flag necklace strung around Bob's neck. Rumor has it he got gunned down in a gang fight not 5 minutes after this photo was taken.

Budapest, 2001. McDonald's had introduced a new Pork Burger to allay mad cow fears. Apparently, pigs "bark" in Hungary. I'm not quite sure how a dog-meat-patty would go down here in the States, but I'm "Pavlov-in" It!

London, 1999. Here's me, taking signage really, really seriously. Best nap evs.

Finally -- some random, old shots of me torturing my cat!

Ay...

May...

Goddddd... Seriously I think I'm blood related to this cat -- look at those yeggs!

Pre-Weekend Thank You!

2006-06-02T07:13:00.000-12:00

Even though this little blurb posted below from the "Not For Tourists" website about the blog/my stand-up is from April 13, I only saw it today for the first time. And maybe it's my new birth control (gentlemen...?), or maybe it's the fact that I got a little clipper-happy cutting my toenails this morning (foot fetishists...?), or maybe that I've just undoubtedly made you feel awkwy/naushy, whatever the reason, it brought tears of gratitude to my eyes.

As Kelly Clarkson would sing -- it's because of you. And not in an abusive, over-protective dad way! But in a thank you for being such loyal readers, and sending me such awesome e-mails n' pics, and coming back for more of my daily mind-wandering.

Here's the blurb (taken from this larger article about all things NYC), plus a bonus 1-by-1-inch pic of me. With special thanks to Michele Langer, without whom the 14-liter dirty martini I'm holding would not have been possible. Treat yourself to one this weekend, then scan the bill as an animated .gif file, text it to my phone, I'll forward it to my accountant in Bermuda, and consider the drink on me.

Stay tuned: I'm in the process of developing a press page, chock full o' clippings and blurbs. It will be posted as soon as I stop being lazy and get around to it :)

Smartest Thing I've Read All Week

2006-06-02T03:48:00.000-12:00

Poor Baby: How long will it be at school before Shiloh Pitt gets nicknamed Piloh Shitt?

(via Popbitch, pic via Gallery of the Absurd)

While we're on a rare linking spree, here's some other mindless shit:

- What's inside a Magic 8 Ball (Hint: Not cocaine.)

- Check out how this family ages from year to year. Helpful if you have a beard.

- Wikimapia makes virtual travelling fun!> Ok, not fun, but no doubt more interesting then the contents of your cubicle.

- A dolphin and a dog find true love.

- And lastly and beastly: Cat drums, and this:

Press Play For Paws

2006-06-01T11:27:00.001-12:00

Nearly 2 minutes of a kitten attacking a laptop.

IT JUST DOESN'T GET OLD!

With thanks to Gothamist for posting it.

Slow Booze Day

2006-06-01T07:24:00.000-12:00

I'm gonna keep it simple: I am 5 seconds away from passing out/dropping dead of exhaustion, I've gotten a total of negative 14 e-mails today but have checked it no less than 38,000 times, my eye is twitching like pervy, winking, bench-warming old man, and I'm pretty sure I just survived a mini-stroke.

So you will understand that I'm not in the mood to chitty chitty chat chat with you guys today.

Instead, check out this smiling dog, sent in by Angie (many thanks!). It's all my bloodless brain can deal with right now.

Two Other Quick Observations:

1. It's June 1.

2. Where has my youth gone?

Officially the best picture I have ever found on this here internetty.

Tiny Blazers!!

2006-05-31T03:11:00.000-12:00

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"

2006-05-30T01:33:00.000-12:00

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!

2006-05-26T05:03:00.000-12:00

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. :(

2006-05-26T01:45:00.000-12:00

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

2006-05-25T08:45:00.000-12:00

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

2006-05-25T05:47:00.000-12:00

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!

2006-05-24T05:28:00.000-12:00

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

2006-05-22T05:23:00.000-12:00

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"

2006-05-22T03:04:00.000-12:00

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

2006-05-19T05:12:00.000-12:00

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

2006-05-18T11:44:00.000-12:00

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

2006-05-18T08:01:00.000-12:00

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

2006-05-17T06:00:00.000-12:00

Second 31.

(Grodes via FourLeggedLinks)

Promise Me This

2006-05-17T03:26:00.000-12:00

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)

2006-05-15T04:30:00.000-12:00

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!!

2006-05-12T06:00:00.000-12:00

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.

2006-05-12T02:19:00.000-12:00

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

2006-05-11T04:09:00.000-12:00

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.

2006-05-10T06:44:00.000-12:00

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.!)

M:i:III:MY:revie:W

2006-05-10T04:45:00.000-12:00

(Preface: I have never written a movie review before. I penned this one after seeing Mission Impossible III, and thought it was a really intelligent, different way of looking at the franchise. I submitted this review to the Wall Street Journal, but they declined. I called up some family friends who own Google China, and they told me they didn't have a place for it. I was hurt. I cried. Then I realized, put it on the blog!! Enjoy.)

You guys, remember when Tom Cruise was soooo adorable? Like, I don't care how cray cray he is now -- if TBS is showing Jerry Maguire, I will devote an entire 4 and a half hours of my day (with commercials) to watch it. Because he's winning as shit!

You guys, remember Top Gun? Remember Tom Cruise in that? He was so fucking cute!

You guys, remember when Tom Cruise was apparently photographed by his creepy child molester neighbor??? It's like... Awww!!!

Ok, fine, I know, I know. He's been wearing the same jeans/tee/motorcycle jacket combo on and off screen for the past 5 years. And he has bangs. And he made his wife sign a contract to marry and then put on 40 pounds to make the public believe she was pregnant when in fact she was taking Cheetoh baths in a platinum hot tub and now they have a "baby" together who is clearly going to grow up looking Vietnamese because it was actually adopted and not -- as Tom Cruise would have us, the adoring public believe -- curated in the belly of a former WB star.

Tom Cruise and baby Suri, who will grow up to be a fine Pre-Cog.

I have two words to say to that: What. Evs.

Because here's the thing. The guy is not the most famously shnauzed actor in the world for nothing. He fires a gun with intensity. He smiles with panache. And he runs perfectly upright, a 90 degree angle to the pavement, like the next animal up on the evolutionary chart. Is it possible Tom Cruise is more evolved then us "regular folk", and because we are all so threatened, we instead choose to publicly mock him? Is it possible that a million years from now, man will propose to cyborg by jumping on a couch, pumping his fists in the air, and then body slamming Oprah? I think what I'm saying is: Yes. It is possible.

You can never relive this episode too many times.

Now that I've cleared up any confusion about Tom Cruise, let's move on to the movie, Mission Impossible III, cleverly abbreved to M:i:III, which if you wanted to take it a step further, you could just say "M:i:TH", such as the "M:i:TH" that Tom Cruise has lost his star power. Don't buy into this liberal media b.s.: "M:i:TH" is supes kick-ass.

Don't let his period cramps fool you: He is all man.

And I know there's been a lot of bad press about the film, but let me make this clear: This movie serious-town delivers. I don't give a "Hoot" what else is playing! They can "Stick It" up their "R.V."-Weinstein-hand-job-giving asses! This is the "United (93)" States of America, and I'm not gonna let someone like Matt Drudge or the meeeeedja "Poseidon" Tom Cruise's good name!

This movie is great. Just trust me on this -- it is sosososososososoooo good. I walked out and felt like the huge fattie-mc-fat-guy-wife-abandoner who walked across the entire UNITED STATES OF AMERICA and only lost 100 pounds (out of a possible 420)... I.E. AMAZING-TIME.

Have you ever been to Shanghai? Me neither. But now I don't have to go, because Tom Cruise went for me. Didja ever meet and then almost save the life of "Felicity"? Me neeths -- I owe ya one Tom Cruise! Didja ever dangle Philip Seymour Hoffman out of the belly of a jetliner? Oh, you did? Oh, OK, forget that one then. Didja ever kill a guy? I thought so, you fucking pussy.

Smugging for the camera, as per yoozh.

Look. I know the ticket is $10, and I know you have to deliver 17 Wonton Soups to earn the kinda tips that can buy a movie ticket. But please, I swear to you: This movie is worth all of that furious, near-death peddling. Please, for once, learn to trust someone other than your adopted parents.

I'm looking at you, Suri Cruise.

The Other Talent Show... Results!

2006-05-10T04:40:00.000-12:00

Why buy a digital camera, when Nate at The Apiary always comes prepared?

Click here to see his vivid and lifelike pictures of the "The Other Talent Show". Plus get a rundown of all the happenings.

This is the lead singer of Stickerbook, the 80's cover band that should be at least 100 times more famous.

New Heights of Exhaustion

2006-05-09T08:48:00.000-12:00

You may be wondering where your daily blog fix is at here at You Can't Make It Up. Truth is, it's still rollin' around in the ol' tinker-toy up top. I've got a few ideas, but here's the thing: I am so exhausted, that I am on the major verge of passing out. You know the term "So tired you can't see straight"? I get it now -- my eyes are crossing against my own will. I'm usually pretty perky after 19 x-large Dunkin Donuts coffees and 14 vials of top notch koka-yee-nay (ps I'm totals Xstraight edgeX forevs), but today I look Droopy following a Gus Van Sant marathon. So tired, that I realize this entire paragraph makes zero sense.

How tired am I?

I shit you not, this picture made my cry.

Ima take a nap, and see if I can hammer something out before midnight. Your patience is appreciated during this difficult time.

DON'T FORGET! I bare my soul tonight @ 8:30!

2006-05-08T06:21:00.000-12:00

Why listen to me tout my own show, when you can listen to PAPER MAGAZINE, who picked it as a "Tip for Today":

CBS/NYC PRESENT: THE OTHER TALENT SHOW

Can you picture Steven Wright flipping burgers or Sarah Silverman selling life insurance? Comics become comics because they really don’t know how to do anything else -- or so we thought. Apparently there’s a world of untapped skills hidden inside every comedian. At “The Other Talent Show,” Jon Friedman and Michelle Collins host as a bevy of comedian Renaissance men showcase their other attributes, like freestyle rapping and making a delicious tuna casserole. Yum. Mo Pitkin’s House of Satisfaction, 34 Ave. A, (212) 777-5660. 8:30 p.m. $6

Once again, here's the lineup:

Jonathan Miller (NY Times) & Peter Koechley (The Onion) Handflute Showdown 2006!

Jessica Delfino (Comedian, Musician) Catches food in her mouth!

Ricky Van Veen & Jakob Lodwick (College Humor) Blindfolded freestyle rapping!

Shawn Hollenbach (Comedian) Making his famous tuna casserole!

Molly Crabapple (Illustrator) Will dance a little burlesque!

Sara Schaefer (Comedian) Will knit a sweater during the show!!!

Stickerbook (a band comprised of comedians) 80's Cover Band!!

SEE YOU THERE! (I'll let you know that when I first came across this pic, I thought it was a girl with only one limb at a pagaent for the disabled, and immediately tossed it aside. Turns out it's a LEGIT beauty pagaent for fully-limbed redneck slut-children, and only an optical illusion that makes it appear as though she hoofed it to Maury dragging herself in with flip-flops on her hands. Enjoy.)

Speaking of Maury, check out this genius, found via this site, that will be my card for this year.

Tonight -- Show @ Joe's Pub!

2006-05-05T03:06:00.000-12:00

I'll be doing a little stint in a fundraiser for Amend.org tonight at Joe's Pub. The show starts at 11:30, doors open at 11. Not to give too much away, but I'll be in character.

Mr. Fernet Branca, Laura Dawn, Peter Feld, Rachel Goldstein, S. Khatun Huber, Julia Kay, Celerie Kemble, Philae Knight, Anne Maffei, Deborah Schoeneman, Louisa StPierre, and Mayur Subbarao...

cordially invite you Amend.org's 2nd annual Founders Evening featuring a performance by René Risqué and the Art Lovers, with onstage cameo appearances from Moby, Rocco DiSpirito, Stephan Jenkins, and other special guests, a Live auction conducted by Nicholas Lowry, president and principal auctioneer of Swann Auction Galleries...

Friday, May 5th, 2006
Joe's Pub
425 Lafayette Street - NYC
Doors open: 11PM
Performance: 11:30PM (sharp)

Tickets :
$25/person at Patron level
$50/person at Benefactor level

More Info Here!

"Later Hozen!"

2006-05-04T01:17:00.000-12:00

Anyone who knows me is aware of my borderline-obsession with Europe. I don't care how trite or American it is. When I'm in most parts of Europe, I feel my best, physically, emotionally, cash-strappingly. Notable exceptions to this rule include Florence, undoubtedly a beautiful city, but a city so small that it's abundance of Long Islanders left me walking around like Mel Gibson in the movie Ransom, cameras swinging around me as I'm jostled by a flurry of black Prada bags, finally collapsing in a busy Piazza, foaming at the mouth and yelling "Give me back my son!" over and over again for no reason. Florence made me cray. (Siena, on the other hand, was a dream.)

Me blending in with the locals.

The most controversial European country for me would, of course, have to be Germany. Not to get too Depression-Causing Sally on you, but a good chunk of my ancestors were killed in concentration camps, and all four of my Grandparents were Holocaust Survivors. (You can tell I'm exhausted when I throw down the Holocaust card, but it is important to this story. I mean if you want to buy me a sympathy meal, I'm not gonna say no.)

Our bleak history didn't stop my family from travelling to Austria and Germany when I was a toddler, making up for years of physical torture by stuffing our faces with various buttered pastries. And speaking of ugly Americans, even I was not immune to acting the brute: At 5, small, Asian-faced and delicate, I sat with my family at a fine dining establishment somewhere in Salzburg. At one point, I leaned into the table and whispered "Mommy, I farted." My mother then said "What, sweetheart, I can't hear you. Say it louder." I then screamed "Mommy, I farted!" Well, the people sitting next to our table got up and left, and I'm pretty sure my brother sprained a testicle from laughing so hard.

Where was I? Ah, yes, my chronic digestion problems. I mean, Germany.

When I studied abroad in Hungary, the only television stations not showing slave pornography 24/7 was Germany's version of NBC, "RTL". Every afternoon I'd come home, settle down, and watch "The Weakest Link" in German, or "Das Schwächste Glied" ("The Weakest Member"). German is similar to English, only the Nazis didn't speak English. Needless to say, a few words here and there sounded familiar. But clearly I did not understand a single thing being said, other than "Blochen!", which was their version of "Bank!". Here's an actual question asked:

Frage: Welchen französischen Namen tragen die knäuelartigen Quasten, diezur Grundausstattung jedes Cherleaders gehören?
Antwort: Tampons

Click here to read more hilariously inappropriate questions.

Even the insults spewed by the host were lost on me. "Sie dumm fuhrt! Sprechen Sie mit mir verruckter Mann nicht!!" This small setback did not stop me from watching it Monday through Friday, with a little porn sprinkled in for good measure.

And yet still, Germans make me uneasy.

Which is why I was slightly chagrined to learn that a German Trade company had moved into my office building. Oh, I wouldn't really care, if it wasn't for the fact that every morning in the elevator, I look and feel like Bruce Willis in Die Hard 3. (If you've seen the movie, you'll remember the elevator scene with him in the bank. If you haven't, I feel sorry for you.)

My typical work attire.

There I'll be, surrounded by beefy looking blonde men, super-stylish (but horribly toothed) women, and an occasional Asian person, which really throws me off. You can spot the Germans in the building from a mile away. They just don't... really... look like we do. (By we, I'm referring of course to my drop dead gorgeous readership.) Their clothes, their strut, their laser-beam vision. It's different.

And every morning, as the elevator climbs its way skyward, they all kibbitz about their lives... in German. Do you understand how jarring it is for me (groggy, plain-faced, usually hungover) to listen to a heated conversation in German before 9 am? Also, my crafty Jew instincts make me certain they know of my lineage. I push my toasted bagel further down into my bag. Did they see? Do they know? I feel around for the gold coins hidden in my shoes... still there. No matter - my uneasiness hasn't changed a short, black moustache hair in my morning altitudal commute.

Kinda like this, only death-stinkier.

Last week, 8:45 a.m., I pressed my floor and waited for the doors to close. These elevators do not fuck around. Try to hold the door for someone and the doors will lop your arms clean off. I have renamed them "Darth Vators" (and before this post, never had anyone to share that with.) From afar, I hear the unmistakable sound of European-made heels click-clacking on the marble. The steps grew faster. The doors began to close, as she ran up in an attempt to catch it. Now, I'm not a bad person, so I actually motioned to keep the doors open, then decided it was too risky. So there was that awkward face to face moment when you're in the elevator and the other person, a desperate Aryan running late for work, is left standing in the lobby. If you've never seen a fraulein with a frown-line, I highly recommend it.

As I replayed the events over in my head, I could only think one thing: "Did your grandparents hold the elevator door for my grandparents in Auschwitz? I didn't think so." The only solace I can take is hoping it's a Schindler elevator.

One might even say... Schindler's Lift? Schindler's lift? Two three... Hello? Is this thing on? No? Probably for the best.

The Other Talent Show is Back!!!

2006-05-03T03:32:00.000-12:00

Monday, May 8, to be exact.

8:30 p.m.

Only 6 bucks. (Remember?)

Mo Pitkins, 34 Avenue A
between 2nd and 3rd

The Other Talent Show
Hosted by Jon Friedman & Michelle Collins

The windup:

Jonathan Miller (NY Times) & Peter Koechley (The Onion) Handflute Showdown 2006!

Jessica Delfino (Comedian, Musician) Catches food in her mouth!

Ricky Van Veen & Jakob Lodwick (College Humor) Blindfolded freestyle rapping!

Shawn Hollenbach (Comedian) Making his famous tuna casserole!

Molly Crabapple (Illustrator) Will dance a little burlesque!

Sara Schaefer (Comedian) Will knit a sweater during the show!!!

Stickerbook (a band comprised of comedians) 80's Cover Band!!

And the pitch:

It's going to be so much fucking fun. If you don't come you're an official idiot.

Click here for tickets!

There are five* letters in the word Blaine. Now, if you mix up the letters in the word Blaine, mix 'em around, eventually, you'll come up with Nebali

2006-05-02T08:58:00.000-12:00

Nebali. The name of a planet in a galaxy way, way, way... way far away. -- UFO Expert, Waiting for Guffman

Before and after my stand-up show in midtown yesterday, I swung by David Blaine's latest spectacle, "Drowned Alive", in front of Lincoln Center.

Gothamist has good coverage of the event.

While waiting in line to see Blaine, the globe, and his six-pack up close, a man comes up to you and hands you some paper and a pen, encouraging you to write a message to David. Apparently he can read things from inside his little human snowglobe. My friend Jenny and I were hyper-hypos, dying laughing, and my brain, coked up on 48 cups of coffee, was scrambling for something clever to say before we made it up the ramp. I looked at this man, topless, surrounded by water and flashbulbs, wearing a complicated scuba mask and looking like something out of The Abyss 2. And I thought, what's the most absurd thing I could say to him right now? Something to put a smile on his face? And there was really only one thing that came to mind.

I scribbled it down, cracked up laughing, and braced myself. I've seen Blaine do two of his other stunts: Burying himself alive by the Trump Towers many years ago, and more recently encasing himself in a huge block of ice in Times Square. But this would be the first moment we would share, together, just me and him. I stepped up to the sphere, where he was politely waving at some other gawkers, and slammed my paper up against the surface. It said, simply:

"Do You Want To Make Out?"

See, it's funny, because he's in an underwater prison, is topless, and is wearing a complicated air mask... Get it?

Needless to say, he refused to make eye contact with me for the remainder of my 15 seconds of ramp-dom. I slinkered off, feeling the fool, and thought to myself: You've done it again, Collins. (Jazz hands waving in a room of complete and utter silence, while a movie of animals getting slaughtered is projected onto my face.)

I am such an idiot.

Bonus pic: "Murray! The Dog Who Refuses To Make Eye Contact With Me."

*Thanks to the 700 people who e-mailed me to let me know "Blaine" has six, not five, letters. My response is that this is a quote from an improvisational-style mockumentary from Christopher Guest, but I'm sure David Cross would love to hear from you.

Tiny but crisp pictures thanks to my Sprint/Samsung A920 phone.

The Old College Cry

2006-05-02T05:22:00.000-12:00

Man, college traditions really bring me back.

Very few college memories elicit genuine reminiscing on my part. There was that time freshman year that my floormates and I broke into the Barnard Dining Hall, as only a group of overweight, girl-college 18 year olds could, and ran back into our room cradling bagels, croissants, and an assortment of nearly-stale pastries that tasted delicious to us, not only because they were free, but because they were dangerous.

Typical late night snacking.

Then there was my college improv group, Six Milks. Once Columbia's oldest improv troupe, Six Milks is now dead to the world because "some kids" -- read: my younger friends -- decided they wanted to shake things up and kill off some campus legacy, and rename the group "Fruit Paunch". (And really, of all the names.) I've chosen "not to get angry about this" (note: quotations denote huge lies) because, well hey, it's college improv right? But be sure of this: Our group did not take improv seriously at all (because something about it reeks of Carrot Top minus the funny props and hot boddy.) We just acted like fucking idiots. We once travelled to Harvard for an "Improv Festival" (commence Purell bath), where half of the members of my group were drunk, the other half stoned, and we ended nearly every scene with the phrase "Suck my dick." Of course, we slaughtered.

Us in all our exhausted glory.

The highlight of the year was our 24 Hours Show, where we performed on the lawn in front of Low Library (and if you've seen Spiderman 1 or 2, you are familiar with this lawn) for 24 straight hours, taking sleeping shifts in small tents, and cramming our faces with every carb found in a 2 mile radius. The hours from 3 to 8 am were filled with mindless chatter. One guy would read from the Dennis Rodman biography for an hour or so (sample quote, on fucking Madonna: "You could tell she liked it because she was into it.") Someone else would sit alone, hosting a baseball radio show that none of us were awake to hear, except for this dude "Pete" who was our biggest fan and camped with us. Needless to say, at the end of this 24 hour comedy-genius-a-thon, I would fall to my knees in front of 100 or so people lucky enough to witness madness at its finest, hold my hands in the air, and start hysterically bawling. (This really did happen once.)

Where was I? Ah, yes, fond memories.

One of the fondest/most exhausting memories was being a writer for the Columbia University Varsity Show, the school's oldest tradition, right after gang-raping slaves. The show began as a way to raise money for the crew team, and involved men dressing up in drag, dancing out onto the stage arm in arm, and throwing a couple of high kicks out for good measure. (Remember, this was before the days of tucking.) As the years wore on, the show turned into more of a musical extravaganza (if I may), and some of the early writers included Rodgers, Hammerstein, I.A.L. Diamond, Hart, Tony Kushner, and Terrence McNally.

The highlight of our show? The football teams choreographed dance number to "Hold On" by Wilson Phillips.

The main purpose of the show is to poke fun at campus life: Rich kids, gentrification, professors, the Engineering students being stupid/Asian, Barnard Girls being huge sluts/lesbians/Orthodox Jews/stupid. It's a tried and true tradition. The earliest video I saw was a show from 1984, which had about 7 cast members, and was performed in front of a black curtain. The year I wrote it, along with 3 guys, in 2002, the budget had ballooned to over a year's tuition at the school. This meant that our set looked like something out of a real Broadway show, our costumes were very "authentic college student-y", we ate a lot of pizza, and we could even afford a monkey costume and LIVE CHICKEN. (NO NEED TO THANK ME, AMERICA.) There's a funny campus paper article about all of this garbage here. Yes, I just linked to a college newspaper article that I'm quoted in.

I'm gonna stop right here and say that I had no intention of blogging my glory years back in college today. I actually just meant to tell a story about something that happened when I went back to see the show on Saturday night. What was meant to be a brief history has turned into a re-re yearbook salutation belonging to an aborted youth. I am so sorry about this.

MOVING ON.ORG!

Every year, all the alums still kickin' make their way up to Morningside for a nice little pre-show reception, where a past V-Show alum is honored, and then gets to stick around for the show. This year's honoree was none other than castratto-crooner Art Garfunkel, who arrived with his family -- including a son sporting an enviable strawberry colored afro -- and looked almost nothing like the Krusty-image of him emblazoned in my mind.

What'd I tell ya.

He gave the perfect acceptance speech, short and funny, which allowed me to make my rounds and talk to the same people I talk to nearly every day, only this time we were eating beef wellingtons and the white wine was free. Coverage of the event, for those of you interested (I'm looking at you, Paul Simon), can be found here.

The show itself was good: A little long, but luckily the talent of the cast (now somewhere around 20 people) was good enough to keep me interested. It had blossomed to a level of professionalism I, quite frankly, found threatening.

Also it was directed by Stanely Kubrick, from the grave.

ALERT: This is the story I wanted to share. I am already incredibly bored with myself.

During the intermission, Lang and I made a quick ladies room break and decided we were thirsty. I had remembered there being some vending machines in this random room in the student center that used to have an air hockey table. So we moseyed our way over, opened the door, and walked into what seemed to be another little soiree: About 40 or so people, and some card tables with CD's and t-shirts on them.

But then: Jackpot. A table full of Poland Springs and sodas. Now, while Lang may be as petite and precious as a newborn foal, my height, on the other hand, prevents me from doing any sort of "sneaking", unless I put on a long trench coat and pretend I am a child resting on the shoulders of a large man. But I make up for it in wheelbarrows of charm. So I smile, Lang smiles, we both sliiiiiide our way up to the table. We gingerly grab our waters, slowly put them behind our backs, and begin to make our exit.

It is then that I see the sign taped to the table, informing me of what this little get together was all about. The sign says, and trust me, I wish I was kidding: "Orphanage Fundraiser."

ORPHANAGE FUNDRAISER.

I couldn't breathe air. It was too late now, we couldn't put the water back. And the worst part -- they left the price tag on the top. 99 cents. Stealing 99 cents from a Columbia Fundraiser was no big deal. Stealing 99 cents from the dirt-encrusted hands of a parentless disease-carrier was a different story altogether.

Please, meese, wontcheh spare a foldable coin for our patch colleyction?

But we did it. And you know what? Best water I've ever tasted. Thank you God, for letting me taste the cool, crisp, breezy liquid that runs through the rivers of Warsaw, New Jersey, and also for letting me grow up in a home... a real home. I am so sorry I betrayed you.

As a thank you for getting through this nonsense, I bring you the Silly Sleeping Pose Olympics. Have I mentioned I'm college educated?

50 ANIMALS DRIVING

2006-04-28T04:06:00.000-12:00

The creator of 50 ANIMALS IN CASTS is pleased to present the next installment of 50 pictures of animals in awkward situations:

50 ANIMALS DRIVING

AND SOME BONUS PHOTOS!!!

A ROCK DRIVING!

A CAT DIVING!

A CAR DRIVING A RABBIT!

A CAT LIFTING A CAR!

A DOG IN A GLOVE COMPARTMENT!

(Feel free to forward along any photos of your animal driving to youcantmakeitup @ gmail.com)

Below, pictures sent in by readers. I'll update with new ones periodically!!

You Will Be Humming It In About 5 Menudos

2006-04-27T06:03:00.000-12:00

A visualization.

You'll excuse me for the delay in posting. See, it's been impossible to think like a normal human being this morning, because somehow, someway, from somewhere, I've had the same song stuck in my head all morning. To the point that at times I catch myself singing it under my breath, robotically, and without feeling. Even now, as I jibber-jab with you folks, the melody is unfurling itself in my brain like an old-timey self-playing piano, with a toothless hobo pretending to finger the keys. It's repetetive notes time travelling me back to my "Areola Years", ones I do not remember fondly.

And that song is:

"What If God Was One of Us?" by Joan Osborne.

Now, admittedly, it's a catchy song. And the sentiment is not bad. But I believe it's the last line of the chorus that turns the entire song into the most retarded song ever written.

What if god was one of us
Just a slob like one of us
Just a stranger on the bus
Trying to make his way home
Just trying to make his way home
Like a holy rolling stone
Back up to heaven all alone
Just trying to make his way home
Nobody calling on the phone
Except for the Pope maybe in Rome.

That's what we in the "biz" call "phoning in the lyric" Joanie. I'll give you five alternate lyrics that would have been 100 times better than that one:

- Grooming his rabbit with a comb.

- Finishing building a huge dome.

- Buying his big front yard a gnome.

- Pimping his ride with lots of chrome.

- Foam foam foam foam foam foam foam foam.

UPDATE: Adrianne writes in to note that the person in charge of writing "What If God Was One of Us?" is none other than mortal deity himself: Prince. Yes. THE Prince.

While I would much rather have to deal with the wrath of Joan Osborne's than the that of the man responsible for the tiny, recorded, baby eskimoan kisses that appear in the soundtrack to every nightmare I've ever had (ever), I am considering rescinding my lyric changing request, because... well... it's Prince.

I mean, even on a fucking Rascal, the guy's got class. And the power to kill me with a twinkle of his comically effeminate moustache.

Update 2: Some dude from the band Hooters wrote it. Not I'm officially more than exhausted by this song.

Side note: Do you think God's rabbits would look like this?

From Angoran Rabbits (via Popbitch.)

Finally, I don't like to talk that much about myself, but I'm pretty proud of this: A newspaper in China wrote an article about me! Read here.

My High School Yearbook Photo.

Two Things That Made My Day

2006-04-26T06:30:00.000-12:00

Leave it to the New York Times to really deliver today, Wednesday, Administrative Assistant's Day.

First, a pretty hilarious review of "Lestat", the new Anne Rice/Elton John epic musical about male whores who live forever.

Anne Rice's Vampires, With Elton John's Music, Take to the Stage By BEN BRANTLEY

"I want to suck youuuuuuur.... blood. No, seriously, just your blood. I am a vampire. You didn't notice? The fangs... white makeup thing... didn't ring a.. a bell? Immortal-can't-stand-sunlight-sleeps-in-a-coffin... nothing? Huh."

Unsurprisingly, a quick Google search revealed an entire website devoted to Gay Vampires. So I guess a musical was inevitable. (NSFW, if you work at Fox News or The White House or GayBashingVampires.com.)

Luckily, Elton John's "Lestat" musical is the only, and I mean ONLY, Lestat that is even remotely homo-sect-sew-al.

Let's take a quick break for a second, yes?

Tony Danza as a Pirate.

Moving on -- the best thing I've heard all week! Mick Jagger is starring in an ABC sitcom!!!

OK, maybe not starrrring, but please, for me, read this article.

Mick Jagger Joins a New ABC Sitcom By BILL CARTER

Let's Rob Mick Jagger!! Listen -- Let's Rob Jeff Goldblum would have been amay -- I'm a sucker for Goldblum. But good God, could this be the future of television? Because, if it is, SIGN ME UP.

My next show? I WANT TO DATE RAPE GEORGE CLOONEY. Oh come on. Like he's not begging for it. (p.s. 3 percent of me is scared that he's going to take me seriously here and have me arrested. I already have 2 restraining orders, I don't need a third!! LOLOLOL! p.p.s. If you're reading this, Mario Van Peebles, call me!!)

Finally, if you have a second, you must watch this video of Jim Belushi falling off a stage. (via Best Week Ever.) It's no Kelsey Grammer, but it will do for now.

Happy Secretary's Day!!!

2006-04-26T03:50:00.000-12:00

Happy Secretary's Day, everyone!!

This is by far my favorite day of the year. It's a day all. about. ME. More so even then my birthday, which just celebrates the day my mother shat me out in a hospital bed, Secretary's Day is a time to celebrate all the hard work I put into my job all year long.

So how am I celebrating Secretary's Day this year? As I always do...

In style.

When Jack Black Says Shitballs

2006-04-25T12:38:00.000-12:00

Get through the first minute of so of "thank you speech" for some Jack Black outtakes.

Worth Every Penny (And Trust Me, I Counted)

2006-04-25T02:47:00.000-12:00

Maybe it's the air. The pollution. Probably the people. It is expensive. And there is graduate school to consider. Whatever the reason, my friends are leaving New York in droves. Droves I tell you!

One of my favorites, Lindsay, is packing up and moving to Portland, Maine with her boyf, and I'm pretty sure the main reason is so that they can buy 500 cats and go kayaking. (And who can blame them?) So last night, as a final hurrah, we went to the prestigious Cafe Gray in the Time Warner Center for martinis (I know, I lied.), friendship, dream analysis and 14 handfuls of cocktail peanuts.

In the midst of the revelrous/somber farewell chatting taking place, word travelled to us that a big celebri-tay-tay was in the dining room, separated from the bar by some mirrored wooden pillars. And this wasn't just some fly-by-night starlet or brainless heartthrob or weathered rock star.

This was Jerry Seinfeld. King of the Jews. Sultan of Semitism. I mean, if we were allowed to believe in two Gods, he'd be the other one.

And a finely abbed one at that.

But it's New York, right? So what? Seinfeld is here. BFD.

And yet, no matter how hard I craned my neck, I could not see him for the life of me. It was beginning to ruin my evening. My friend would be all "The moving trucks are coming at..." and my brain would be all "What is the deal with mirrored wooden pillars? I mean are they for decoration? Holding the roof up? Should I stare at myself, or at the pillar?" (As it is obvious, I am no Seinfeld.)

The only thing more exciting? A gorilla eating matzah.

Let's be real here: Seinfeld (the show) is hands down the best sitcom ever. It never gets old, never tired. And here was the half-mastermind and star. I mean, I eat dinner in bed with this man almost 3 nights a week, and sometimes fall asleep to the sound of his voice. I'd venture to say that no other show has ever made me laugh more often or consistently. Or made me prouder of my sheisty Jew status. And to see him on the eve before "Holocaust Rememberance Day"!

Yet, I couldn't locate him. I let it go for a few minutes, kept on chatting. That's when the bill came. My two martinis added up to $40. FORTY DOLLARS. Nearly a month's worth of cable, or 2 ill-fitting cardigans from T.J. Maxx. 40 bucks!

Weh-hell. For $40, I don't care how it's gonna happen: I'm seeing Seinfeld.

My friend, wisely, let me go into the dining room on my own. I did a casual scan of the room but didn't see him. "How can I be of service, Madame?" said a friendly maitre' d. "OH! Haha, hello! I just wanted to take a look at the dining room -- we've been cooped up at the bar." I realized I had only 15 more seconds of scanning before it became too obvious. "Absolutely!" said the nice man. I needed to buy some time, he wasn't leaving. I dropped the name of someone I knew who worked in the kitchen. I'm not even sure what words were leaving my mouth -- my brain was all rods and cones, rods and cones. "Would you like to say hello?" he graciously offered. Time, time, time, time. "No, no! That's quite alright" Scanning scanning -- THERE!! FOUND HIM!!! SEINFELD YAYYYYYYYY!!!!!!

Sadly, he did not invite me to join his party. And I had makeup on!

He was sitting with his back to the bar. I'm happy to report that Mr. Seinfeld is not, as I often believed, a huge brain sitting in a jar of formaldahyde. He is, in fact, more put together than I would have guessed (in a lovely suit), and from what I could gather, really likes to chew. It would seem this way because I only looked at him for 2 seconds, and he was in the middle of a really good chew. Again, I didn't stare -- always a lady! -- but I DID need vizh confirmaysh.

I'll say it again: I'm a New Yorker!

$40 for 2 drinks and a glance at one of my idols? A totes bargoon. Oh, and a good 14 pounds of peanuts. Thanks again, Cafe Gray!

A Joke from Mom

2006-04-24T03:51:00.000-12:00

Because of our work schedules, my mother and I usually converse late in the evening, once her shows have finished up and I throw back my fourth finger of Alize. Our calls lately have been starting up at around 11 pm, sometimes later. As a result, the two of us are pretty beat following a long day of work, but manage to spit out most of the pertinent details: namely back pain, fledgling careers and bloat. Just bloat. I am not surprised nor embarassed that I behave much of the time like a 59 year old woman. (Please, look away from me. I'm... I'm hideous.)

Yesterday, mother had a joke. It was about 11:45 pm. This is pretty much how it was told to me:

(Loud television in the background)

Mom: Oh, Gordon told me a great joke. Wanna hear?

Me: (Unconscious with a bubble of vomit coming out of my nose.)

Mom: OK. So this elephant walks into a bar. Hold on -- Mendy! Mendy!!

Dad (Mendy): (silent.)

Mom: Turn the TV down? I can't talk with it so loud! (pause. TV lowering.) OK. So this elephant walks into a bar -- wait, do you know this?

Me: (White paint on face, black lipstick, wrapping invisible rope around my neck and miming my own death.)

Mom: I think you'll like it. So this elephant walks into a bar. And in the back of the bar, aaaaall the way behind the other people... (pause) No, I'm screwing it up, hold on. (pause) So, in the back, there's a man playing the piano. Michelle? Are you there?

Me:

Mom: So he's playing, and it's a beauuuu-tee-ful melody. Just stunning. He's a great pianist, like a Chopin. Everyone loves it. Hold on. Mendy! Stop clinking your fork on the plate!! You're eating too loud, I can hear you all the way to here!! (phone rustling, man's voice in the background.) You shouldn't even be eating, it's almost midnight! That's why you're not losing weight! (phone rustling) OK, Mich?

Me:

Mom: So the pianist is really playing beautifully. And slowly, the elephant starts walking to the back of the bar. Michelle? Really, you're gonna like this.

Me:

Mom: So he's walking, and he starts to cry. He's standing right by the piano player, crying, while this music is being made. So the piano player, he looks up and sees the elephant crying. Michelle?

Me:

Mom: So he sees him crying, and he says "Oh no! What's wrong? Do you recognize the song?" And the elephant lifts his head, and he says "No." (beat, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6) "I recognize the keys."

Me:

Mom: Isn't that cute? (laughing wildly) I recognize the keys!! Mich?

Me:

Too soon? Probbies.

I'll Showzen Mine If You Showzen Yours

2006-04-21T03:55:00.000-12:00

The Onion's A.V. Club has a pretty entertaining interview with the Creators and Gods of Wonder Showzen, the MTV2 "Kids" show that once had a little girl asking a banker on Wall Street if he "washed the blood off his hands."

Interview with John Lee and Vernon Chatman, Creators of Wonder Showzen

And a little fun fact: Vernon is the voice behind South Park's self-described "Worst Character Ever", Towelie! And for that I say "thank you".

If you missed this week's episode involving Oprah's Minge, enjoy this clip. It's Gary's voice that makes the whole thing:

Buckle Shoe Validation

2006-04-21T01:35:00.000-12:00

Thank God for all of you. I've gotten a lot of wonderful support about my near death (read: knee scrape) caused by a pair of irregular flats. Last night, I got an e-mail from Nia, reading:

It's not just you. I have the same shoes (in brown), and I wiped out on gravel daily when the city was repaving around Times Square. I've also slipped along moderately sloped subway floors, totally flat bathroom tiles, and the marble in the department store where I bought the things, (which probably should have been a clue). So can we make that lawsuit class action?

Yay Nia!!! It's not just my inherently klutzy ways! Thank you thank you thank you.

Aaaaaalthough, I must admit, the first thing that ran through my mind when I read it was: "Wow... they come in brown?!"

OK, enough shoe talk for a week. Too chick-litty.

My upcoming novel.

The Promise

2006-04-20T04:47:00.000-12:00

Jesus, looking an awful lot like "Fargo's" Peter Stormare.

Sometimes I wonder, if I was offered a role on Broadway, any role, would I take it? And I think this montage from the Christian musical "The Promise" answered that very question for me: Yes. Yes I would take it. In a heartbeat. Hopefully as the rabid savage.

Click here to watch a 4 minute preview of the musical and a scene where Jesus rides a donkey side saddle. It's always been my dream to ride onto a Broadway stage, on a donkey, sidesaddle, with flowing brown locks.

2006-04-19T08:24:00.000-12:00

Buckle shoes? Or sueded death traps? Hint: LATTER.

A few months ago, I rekindled my flame with Ebay in order to purchase an adorable pair of flats I had my eye on. I won the auction, spent a good 10 percent of my paycheck, and within 4 days had an adorable pair of designer buckle shoes.

Fu. King. Buk. Le. Shoes.

My problems began a few weeks ago at a bar. On my way to the ladies room, perfectly sober, my heel hydroplaned on a slick surface and I staged a perfect gymnast's landing, down on one knee, arms up in the air. My "Self-Deprecating Sally" mode kicked in, and I joked around with a man lucky enough for front row seats. "9.0!" he yelled. "I'm such an asshole!" I dropped my head in my hands and cracked up. Ol' Klutzaroo Coll-coll!

Now you might want to remind me that I've fallen in many another shoe. But these buckle shoes were different. See, the shoe was a flat (and if you know me, you know there is no other way. Although for $50 bucks an hour, I'll toe dance in your living room). The flat heel was subtley v-shaped, obviously a manufacturing error. So every now and again, when my heel went to dig into the ground, the angle was such that nothing would hit the floor and I would instead slip and fall. To put it simply: The shoes were fucked up. But I continued to wear them, because, well I loved my buckle shoes.

How on earth did these boys find my clog collection!?

Last night, after only one or two glasses of wine, I slipped down a single stair. I only wish my life was being secretly filmed so that I could cut and paste these follies into a killer Joe Pesci tribute video. It's so much easier to blame the wine than the buckle shoes.

So was the case this morning as I dressed, my geisha-like ritual of applying white paint to my fatchay and pomegranate jam to my lips. I buttoned my blazer, hot glued my hair out of my face, and slipped my feet into not so much "buckle shoes", really more like "death peds."

Let's cut to the chase, shoes.

I grabbed my purse, locked the door and was on my way. Walking down my street, saying good morning to all of the supers and handy men that hose down the vomit left by last night's homeless. Once at Broadway, the light changed as I strutted my way west, cutting across the street and bee-lining for the subway entrance.

Just another typical work day.

It was then that my left foot hit a slick patch of gravel. All struttiness came to a screeching halt. I fell forward, and with nothing to grab onto, landed squarely on my right knee. All the weight of my torzo, my upper leg, hitting my knee and shooting the bone straight into my throat. All happening in front of the IMAX-like Starbucks window on Broadway.

"Are you OK?" asked one woman, without making eye contact and increasing her pace. "Are you alright?" asked two men behind her. "This happens to me on a daily basis!" I laughed. I stood up and smiled. "I'm fine! Thank you though." They continued on.

Seriously, totes fine you guys. Just chillin' on my b-room flah with my metal walking cage.

But I wasn't fine. A shooting pain went up my leg all the way to my hip. But if you've ever been in an embarassing melee, you know that the M.O. is to get the fuck away from the scene as fast as possible. So, much like Eric Idle in "National Lampoon's European Vacation", I hobbled my way to the train stairs, shakily getting out my Metrocard and swiping it through the turnstyle. I looked at the other people on the platform. Had they seen? Did they know? I limped my way past.

Flesh wound, etc.

As my heart rate slowed a little, I looked down at my calf. My jeans at this point were blood-soaked at the knee. I felt faint. Having just taken off some days at work, I couldn't possibly miss another day.

But I also wasn't getting on that train like Lyoo-te-nunt Day-an in Forest Gump.

Get out of there Collins. I hobbled up the stairs and power-gimp-walked to the drugstore for some supplies. It's always embarassing when you limp without a cane. Like you want people to know that it's not that you've forgotten how to walk, you're injured!! You're not unfit, you FELL because of a pair of BUCKLED SHOES and HURT YOURSELF!! Don't they get it!?

Once home, I sized up my injury. Not good. Speeddial Daddy. "Go to the ER." Sigh.

Luckily, the ER was around the corny from my abode. Now, following my rabies shot series, I was somewhat familiar with the St. Luke's ER. In fact, most of the nurses there remembered me. "Rabies Girl!" "That's me!" I felt proud.

Looking good, Billy Ray.

The doctor entered my little studio, where I'm reclining in a cloth gown reading Entertainment Weekly, like a Re-Re Mrs. Robinson. "Hello Doctor." He looked like Harold Ramis. I found this comforting. Egon would know all the right moves.

He checked my knee. "Well... it doesn't look like you broke it." I squirmed "Shouldn't I get an x-ray just in case?" "Ah yes, radiation therapy, as I call it." He snapped a glove and grabbed some iodine. "If it will make you feel better, we'll do it." Nothing like a zinger of a cancer joke to get the day moving along. A small British schoolboy entered the room. "Yes, please." He cleaned off the wound as I winced. The gravel had punctured it nice and good, and it was still bleeding really badly.

"I'm gonna need to stitch this."

STITCHES? Me?!

"One stitch," he continued.

Oh. Still... STITCH!? Me?!?

"Doctor, youuuuuuu wanted to see me?"

"First I just need to trim some fat out." My mind raced. "Well don't stop there doctor! Keep on a-cuttin! Aha! Ha."

Silence. Nothing worse than bombing in a sterile room while pantsless and in a miniature cloth gown, with the cold, rubber hand of death touching your wound.

I won’t babystep you through the stitch-receiving process, but it’s sort of like being a human voo doo doll. The palms of my hands dug into my cheeks as he stitched. FUCKING BUCKLE SHOES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I screamed silently.

Doc finished up. “I don’t think it’s broken…” he felt around some more. “But, what if?” I wondered. “Ok, then, to the x-ray room. It’s the only way you’ll feel better.”

I shuffled along, gown-clad, to the radiation waiting area. Within minutes, a friendly Jamaican man came to get me. “Mizz Collins? Come raight dis way, guhl. We gonna take an x-ray of da knee.” I liked him already. Getting stitches seemed much sexier when taking place on a tropical island. Once in the dim meat-locker of a room, he started quizzing me. “What happened to ya, guhl? What’s wrong? Yah huht yah knee or sometin?” “Yes, can you imagine? Me?!” I blathered, as if we went way back.

I continued: “I was walking to the train, and stepped on the curb, and” my eyes at this point traveled upward “there is a humongous cockroach on the wall behind you so I’m just gonna grab my bag and wait outside.” Injured and all, I gracefully swooped my up tote and hauled my ass-baring self into the busy hospital hallway.

If worn the right way, it's very Marc Jacobs.

I could hear him laughing inside. A few minutes went by. Then a reassuring “Thwack!” of a 4-inch long waterbug meeting its clipboard maker. The door creaked open. “Got it!” he was still laughing. “Ya didn’t even flinch or nuh-tin! Ya just kept right on tuh-kin! Good ting - me coworkah woulda flipped!” He continued laughing while my anime eyes nervously scanned the surrounding areas for more comically oversized vermin.

While I adjusted myself on the cold metal platform, he came over with a lead blanket. “Are ya pregnant?” he smirked. “I don’t know, but let’s not take any chances… blanket off!” He cracked up. “Blanket off she says! Well let’s make sure you have children in da future, right?” and threw the 50-pound sheath on top of my “region.” I chose not to tell him that the blanket probably wouldn’t effect how overly fertile I tend to be.

Luckily, I'm sure my regular accutane-grey-goose-tinis will cover all of my birth defecting bases.

Wrapping the story up! No broken bones, but a lot of soreness. Some meds. Not the good kind. Some bed laying. Back on my feet today though, and the wound looks worse than yesterday, but hurts less. It also means no kulatz until the swelling goes down (and it’s perfect kulatz weather!!!) But I will pull through. Thanks to all of your (heavily imagined) support.

Memo to potential lawyer-y types out there: Any chance I have a case against the shoe manufacturer? I don't want to give too much away, but his smug little face on Project Runway has been BEGGING to get sued.

Glad to see orange is in this season.

What, Me Worry? Well, Yes Actually. All The Time. Right Now Even.

2006-04-19T04:01:00.000-12:00

Look familiar? You may have seen me fall to my near death yesterday in front of Starbucks. If you didn't, worry not: I'll have a full report of exactly what a douchebag on two legs looks/sounds like when injuring itself during their morning commute. Apparently I'm secretly in the running for the next series of "Perfect Strangers", playing a wide-eyed and accident prone foreigner in the big ci-tay.

In other news, poor Gilbert Gottfried. He was voted the World's Unsexiest Man by a Boston publication (The Phoenix), over OSAMA BIN LADEN. I mean really, if I am to take this completely useless poll posted on a previously unheard of website (The Phoenix, MA?) seriously, don't rank the voice of the AFLAC duck as unsexier than the most unbathed member of Al Qaeda. Also baffling: Mike D. of the Beastie Boys? If I were to get The Clap from anyone, let it please be him. Robert Patrick, i.e. T-1000? One of my early childhood crushes. (I swear. But I was also Skeletor for Halloween at the age of 5. I wouldn't be surprised if my notebooks from elementary school had "Ms. Michelle Hamburglar" scrawled all over the covers.) And leave Jim Gaffigan out of this!

Unsexiest? That's cray. I can't even tell these two apart. (Picture courtesy of Shmater.com)

And hey! Passover ends tomorrow!!

I call this my "bread dance." Here's hoping leavened shit just starts falling out of the sky.

Passover At The Pitkins Aftermath

2006-04-14T05:04:00.000-12:00

The shows last night were nothing short of hilariously fun. Great crowd, great food, and tons, and tons, and tons of wine. I was all geared up for the 6:30 show, drinking roughly 5 glasses in an hour, but by the time 9:30 rolled around, I turned into Slur Slurence Slurlivier. Things were made double surreal when it turned out that the bully who tortured me for 2 scarring years of my childhood was sitting two seats away from the stage. Unsurprisingly, he's as homo as ever, so hopefully the power plays I had to deal with as a girl helped him work out whatever "issues" he had.

What made it more surreal was that there were babies -- BABIES! -- in the audience. Such cute little babies, too. I hid the Afikomen in my bra, and even though there were kids there, doled out the incredibly fun Afikomen toys to men and women OVER the age of 18, shank you very much.

Some pictures:

Lang Fisher as Elijah the Prophet, holding a picture of Elijah Wood and wearing a trademarked "Wine Helmet".

Adira Amram, who might certifiably be the funniest fucking lunatic I've ever known, looking wistful.

It's the Snakes on a Blog girls!!!

Moses, his staff, and some vanity lights. You may recognize him from "The Ten Commandments" and "Best Week Ever."

The two non-Jews of the night, Rob Lathan and Lang, braving their first taste of gefilte fish and USING THEIR FINGERS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I am still not over this.

Needless to say, Lang got waaaay more wasted then any of us as she kept drinking Manischevitz out of the hat the entire night.

Bex Schwartz and an umbrella she stole from a Chinese woman.

Julie Klausner, Lang, and a merkin.

Mmmmmmyeah I'm pretty sure this was glass number 48. My Nars shimmer stick can only take my flushed cheeks so far. Also, I got a haircut yesterday, and apparently asked for the "Campbell Brown".

Adira, showing off the Afikomen prize.
JUST WACKY BACKSTAGE ANTICS FOR YA FOLKS!!!

With thanks to Bex, Lang, Todd, Rob, Adira, Ophira (I love doing that), Josh, Julie and Eli!

Lest I Forget!

2006-04-12T02:18:00.000-12:00

Three important additions to my Perfect Television Station.

1. Welcome Back Kotter

About a classful of Spanish, Jewish, Black and autistic students who jibbedy-jab their flagrantly Jew-froed teacher, Mist-ah Kah-tare. If only they would've gotten rid of Gabe Kaplan's girlfriend on the show (who was terribly written/acted), it coulda been perfect.

2. Head of the Class

Like Mr. Kotter, but with gifted kids and a really, really fat guy.

3. Small Wonder

Seriously, it was on my list for yesterday and in my exhaustion I forgot to add it!! I tell you what's a "Small Wonder" -- that this show didn't win every Emmy award over cheers. A TINY CHILD ROBOT DRESSED LIKE A MAID THAT THEY KEEP IN HIDING? Note to Century City: Where did your creativity go?

HEY GUYS. While we're at it, please come to my Passover show tomorrow!!

"Passover at the Pitkins!"

Tomorrow, April 13. There are two shows, 6:30 and 9:30, and a Seder meal is included in the price ($65, but the line-up is fucking killer, and a meal! And I'll autograph your chest/ass at no extra charge.)

Click on each pic to enlarge/read!

MORE INFO HERE!

AND TICKETS HERE!!

DID I MENTION THE PRICE INCLUDES 4 GLASSES OF WINE?!

C U TH-AIR

My Ideal Television Station

2006-04-11T04:31:00.000-12:00

Lately, television is missing something. And that something is the wonderful sound of people laughing in living rooms/bedrooms/golden-encrusted toilet-houses all over America.

So I've been thinking: Why does TV suck so much lately? Well, the obvious answer is that nobody knows how to write a good sitcom these days. Or make funny, clever children's programming. I find myself watching Home and Garden TV more than ever, and I neither own a home nor tend to any "garden." All I've got is a fistful of grass I found in my bra following a late night romp with a homeless fellow in Central Park a few weeks ago (read: in my dreams.)

And who do I blame this all on? Nickelodeon. Why Nickelodeon? Because they have the power to buy and air every, single, genius fucking sitcom that has ever aired. And what do they go with? Roseanne, Cosby Show, and Full House. Full-fucking-how-fucking-se. Now, I love Cosby. (The Cosby Show, to separate it from it's later spin-off, the dreadfully unfunny urban sit-com, Cosby.) But Roseanne makes me want to pick my ankle hair for lice, and Full House... need I even go there? No, I needn't.

So, I created my own line-up for a channel for which a remote control would be unnecessary, as I would never change the station.

8 am: Sesame Street (pre 1990's episodes only.)

9 am: Maury Povich (guilty as charged, but I love boot camp and paternity.)

On second thought, scratch that.

9 am: Pee Wee's Playhouse (Best kids show ever.)

OMG, a Google Image search of Pee Wee brought me to this little guy. How could I not share that? In fact, no, you know what -- PUT HIM IN THE LINE-UP!

9:30: Fraggle Rock (Maybe the 6th best ever, but that's not bad.)

10 am: Mr. Wizard (R.I.P.? Is he alive?) (Update: A reader informs me, he lives.)

At least when he touched children inappropriately, they learned something.

10:30: Bargain Hunt (British antiquing show hosted by Dudley Moore doppelganger)

11 am: Punky Brewster (typical episode: "Henry!!!" "Punk-haaaaay!" Cherie locks herself in a refridgerator.)

The fake enthusiasm that can only be mustered by a depressed child star.

11:30: Out of This World (the adventures of a young girl who's mother is retarded, father is an alien, and neighbor is a retarded car selling alien. Joe Isuzu FYI)

12 pm: Car 54 Where Are You? (Hands down the funniest sitcom I think ever. The title is now less a rhetorical question and more a desperate plea from a bored loser on the Upper West Side. Me.)

12:30: Car 54 Where Are You? (It's that good. Where the fuck is the DVD already?)

The best, Jerry, the best.

1 pm: Parker Lewis Can't Lose (I'm definitely going to make my family synchronize their watches when we take our jetpacks over to the Space Mall.)

Such on-set chemistry, thanks in large part to that shirt.

2 pm: Mr. Belvedere (Bob Euker! He's the Euker-ist.)

2:30: Facts of Life

Facts of Life deserves its own little para. So my parents have an On-Demand channel called "Tube Time!" that has old classics like Diff'rent Strokes and Maude. And also the Facts of Life. I remember loving this show, thinking it was hilarious.

But here's the thing: Facts of Life is actually the most depressing show ever masked behind a really perky and catchy theme song. With every passing episode I would watch (and yes, before you ask, I go to Miami to sit at home and watch "The Facts of Life" on television), I would be more and more shocked. In one episode, Jo (the boyish one) wanted to get back at a teacher, so she wrote a story in the school paper about some hot gossip: Teach was caught at a coke party. A COKE PARTY!!! I watched this show when I was 6. Thank god, also a coke head.

It gets better. Turns out the teacher was released from jail because he hadn't been doing drugs. But the damage at the school had already been done, and the teacher had to resign. The end of the show has Jo, crying with the teacher, begging him to stay. But it's not up to him now. He grabs a box full of books and begins walking out of the room. "But Mr. Henderson!" Jo says. "This isn't fair! It's my fault. Please, let me do something!" Mr. Henderson turns around. "You want to do something? Then help me pack," spins round and walks out of the room, leaving Jo a tearful mess. I'm on the edge of the bed, locked in the moment. And out of nowhere...

Yyyyyyyyou take the good! You take the bad! You take them both! And then you have!

The Facts of Life! (tinkling of the keys) The Facts of Life!

The sudden impact of cheerful theme song nearly aborted the ghost fetus I believe is growing in me.

3 pm: Silver Spoons (Ricky Shroeds and Alf-Rivera? Aww.)

Silver Spoons emulating another great sitcom: Good Times.

3:30: ALF (Keeping with a theme here. Also R.I.P. to Michu Meszaros, who played the body of ALF. I've never met him, but I'm guessing he's tine-tine.)

4 pm: Perfect Strangers (I'm still trying to mind-cleanse the Bronson Pinchot seen on "The Surreal Life" and replace it with the one I had a crush on for 12 years.)

4:30: Charles in Charge (Yes, of my heart. And maybe, a little bit, my life.)

5 pm: The News (hosted by me, obvs.)

6 pm: Knight Rider (Do you know that for years and years I never connected that David Hasselhoff was Knight Rider? I'd be like "Ugh, David Hasselhoff is so greezy! You know who was smoking hot, though? That guy on "Knight Rider.")

David Hasselhoff really needs to stay out of the sun.

7 pm: Amen (Made me want to convert.)

7:30: 227 (Made me wish I had a stoop. And was black.)

MOVING INTO PRIMETIME.

8 pm: Seinfeld (Yes, I am that boring. And Jewy.)

8:30: Just the Ten of Us (Compliments Seinfeld nicely, what with their addiction to unprotected sex.)

In a nutshell, it's "Big Love" starring "The Commish."

9 pm: Insert various British Comedy here, namely Little Britain, Goodness Gracious Me, and my new obsession which I'm sure I'll let you in on in a few days: Nighty Night.)

Nighty Night!!! It's seriously the only glimmer of hope on television at the moment. And I hate to say it... but it's on the Oxygen Network! You can also rent the first season, which I HIGHLY recommend.

10 pm: I'll give HBO an hour to entertain me.

11 pm: Same goes for you, Cartoon Network.

12 am: ROC (I live and love for Charles Dutton.)

12:30- 7 am: An 7.5 hour marathon of TLC Programming. (I clearly ran out of memory steam.)

7 - 8 am:

NAPTIME!

Who's with me? Let's get the funding together.

Or, an easier way: Get your act together Nick at Nite!

UPDATE!!! See some shows I missed here.