Artisanal

It was requested that I ‘be funny again’ this week so I guess I’ll take a stab at it…

Q: Why is reverse cowgirl illegal in Alabama?

A: Cause you don’t turn your back on family.

That is the only guaranteed laugh I have to offer. I don’t believe I have much of an audience in Alabama, so if you didn’t laugh at that – have some vodka and maybe relax a little, BRENDA! This is why I hate the question ‘what do you do?’ It always ends in ‘tell me a joke’ which is why I told people I was a firefighter or a flagmaker for so many years. What do I do? (scoffs) What do YOU do, Carl?

First and foremost, you know your country is doing well when the President’s butt procedure is national news. The media was going on about how a woman finally held presidential power like it was some big feat of historical symbolance and I was like, ummmmm, absolutely not. This is not how this is going down in the books. And of course it’s like the only way a woman could possibly hold the “most powerful position” in this country would be if the man of the hour was unconscious with a camera up his b hole. Also should a presidential surgery/procedure really be broadcasted like that if it’s not life threatening? I felt like I knew too much. That was personal information, not national information. Are we keeping track of his flatulence as well?…ugh, nevermind…

It’s been 90 degrees in LA – so walking induces sweat. And I realize a lot of you have been dealing with sub zero temperatures and snow and hats and gloves and mittens and are about to curse my name but DEAR SUN, FUCK OFF!! And I don’t mean entirely or forever but just dim it down a notch will you? Cause I know how this works, when you’re hot you want to be cold and you’re cold you want to be hot and it’s the constant game of always wanting what you can’t have which is very similar to dating which is fun – and by fun I mean if you enjoy riding Merry-go-Rounds with a bunch of children who have no manners or sense of time, just this fleeting excitement that they got on the ride followed by the intention of jumping off as soon as humanly possible. It’s a carnival fire. A hot carnival fire. It’s Thanksgiving – I don’t want to be eating a pot of mashed potatoes today with my right armpit just sweating away like I’m some kind of human who runs 5ks on the holidays – woof. If I could have one wish it would be to not unintentionally sweat ever again – that and to never wake up to an alarm clock – and for men to universally understand the female orgasm.

Speaking of scarves, Taylor Swift laid low these past few weeks. (sarcasm) And here’s what I got out of it: If you ever think you’re being overdramatic about a breakup, you’re not. If you’re still mad about how your relationship ended when you were 21 years old – write a ten minute song, hire actors and recreate your breakup in front of a camera and perform it internationally so you can tell the world that there’s a man out there who did you wrong and he still has your scarf. Just give her the bloody scarf back! And to all the men out there, let me explain something: if he hadn’t kept that scarf, this song probably wouldn’t exist. It’s the details. We remember the small things. You think we broke up because of that big fight in your car in the Home Depot parking lot? No, no. We broke up because you all of a sudden changed your ringer to silent and didn’t reach for my hand like you normally do on our evening stroll on the boardwalk that one night!

I ventured into the public a few days ago which is something I’ve been avoiding lately for my sanity and all around disposition. I went to The Grove which is an outdoor mall here in LA. I forgot what part of the year it was and how much I hate that place during the holidays. So little Miss Grinch made her way through the Christmas music and tourists to her genius bar appointment with CJ. A little skater boi with a beanie on who told me he was hungover. I told him my computer has been doing this really fun thing where the screen will go black, even if the battery is charged, sending me into a panic attack of a thousand suns for about 20 minutes and then just all of a sudden be fine. So he did some diagnostic test on it and 15 minutes later CJ informs me I need a new battery. Great. And then he said ‘so you’re going to be without your computer for a week’ at which point my entire mind melted into a giant pile of saganaki on a hot NY street in July which then reminded me of the time my boyfriend made me a Cheese-Whiz grilled cheese after smoking a joint which then reminded me of the time he accidentally texted his mother from MY PHONE ‘ready to light it up when you are’ which then reminded me of how she used to point out all the “pretty girls” to him while we were dating which then reminded of the song I Feel Pretty from West Side Story when then made me wonder if Spielberg’s version is going to be any good and if Top Gun 2 is ever going to come out and why I continually dream that I’m an assassin…And when I came back to consciousness, CJ was saying ‘…aaaand judging by the look on your face that’s not something we have to do today.’ And then I ran.

So I immediately called my writing partner who did not answer because I’m pretty sure Montana only has one cell tower and my phone probably doesn’t know to reach it. When I finally did get a hold of her, she goes ‘you used to write on an iPad, you’ll be fine’ to which I was like ‘I’M BOUJEE NOW!!!!’ I can’t go back. It would be like having a roommate again. I’m not dividing snack shelves again, ok? I’m not arguing over parking spots. I don’t have to worry about the salad I’ve been dying to eat all night long being gone when I get home – nope. Can’t go back. I have an upstairs neighbor who drives me crazy enough. She has started wooden clog relay races in her apartment again. Between that and the new guy who who walks around the complex like Michael Myers moving his mouth like he’s talking to himself but with no actual sound coming out, I’m all stocked up on bullshit.

In an attempt to avoid the reality of our actual political/”judicial”/economic society, I’ve been rewatching Scandal. Which then, of course, enraged me even more because this scripted, fictitious show full of MONSTER people somehow came up with exponentially better candidates for presidency in ONE season than this country has been able to present in a decade. I also am finding the placement of Olivia Pope’s television in her apartment infuriating. It was like they built the set and then were like – ‘oh shit. should she have a TV? She needs a TV. Where should we put it? Just on this random wall that no piece of furniture in the room is facing? Perfect. Phew.’ Seriously though, season 1 is so good and season 7 is the same episode 6x from different perspectives while Papa Pope screams at a plastic dinosaur…stop at the season 4 finale. And I would like to personally thank the writers of Succession for agreeing with me that Hamilton is overrated. Swoon.

I’ve been listening to a lot of GaGa on Amazon Music lately which has felt a bit schizophrenic because one second you’re dancing to Poker Face and then next it’s her and Tony Bennett singing Love for Sale. And don’t get me wrong, I appreciate both genres but mixing them together on a playlist is mental fuckery. It’s as if I was being yanked back and forth between the present and the 30s on a three minute loop. ‘Dorothy pre-tornado! Dorothy post-tornado!’ on repeat for hours. And while we’re on the topic can we discuss the lyrics of The Lady is a Tramp? I am a musical buff myself but wtf is this song? I can’t listen to Baby It’s Cold Outside anymore but this woman can be called as tramp, official definition ‘a woman who has many casual sexual encounters or relationships’, because she’s hungry for dinner at 8!? I realize it’s satire and Sinatra wrote this jabbing fun at the social elite and his version of a tramp was more of an unrefined vagrant but can we all agree this song sucks?? She likes the theatre and never comes late – so the elite don’t like the theatre and are never on time? I’m confused. Is this the origins of when arriving on time for anything became gauche? How the hell did he even know what a Sharpie was? – It wasn’t introduced into the market until 1964?! (After a google dive, I’ve discovered that sharpie is also a term for a cheater as in ‘I’ve dated a lot of Sharpies’. cool…). I feel it could use a lyrical update. Sinatra continually skirts the line of belittling women and maybe he gets away with it because of his stupid handsome face and big blue eyes because don’t even get me started on My Funny Valentine – his version of funny being a hideous and unphotographable (which isn’t even a word really) woman he can’t believe he’s attracted to. Sinatra, you gangster.

Well, I don’t know if this was funny, per say, but hope you found it entertaining. Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours. Find grace in the world around you – it’s there – I promise. You have so much to be thankful for. Even my stupid neighbor reminds me that my life isn’t so bad. Try not to strangle your sister’s boyfriend when he brings up politics. Pretend your aunt’s mashed potatoes are amazing even though she used accidentally used powdered sugar instead of flour in the gravy. Help with the dishes. Remember that tomorrow isn’t promised. Tell them that you love them. Take in the moment…and try not to throw up after eating an impossible amount of food that no person in their right mind should ever consume in one sitting but we do because…America. In the words of one of my favorite cousins by marriage ‘Nothing tastes better than memory’. Adios idiots.

If you’d like to thank me/support an artist, please use the link below for all your holiday shopping!!!