R.I.P.

Mitch Hedberg is dead. I can't think of anything funny to put here that might lighten things up. So go listen to some of his stand up...and go get lunch at the 24 hour Mexican joint on La Brea down towards the 10. I've been told that was one of his favs. g

Off Road

I saw Dust to Glory last night. This is a documentary from the same dudes who did the oh-so-gorgeous Step Into Liquid (about surfing). This one is about the Baja 1000 race, where hundreds of motorcycles, trophy trucks, ATVs, and even VW Beetles run a 1000 mile race in the Mexican desert in 32 hours or less.

The trailer for this flick didn't really get me. However, I have fond memories of that arcade game Off Road, which was the only motivating force in me attending the screening. I figured that this time I didn't even have to pay a quarter at the skating rink to participate, though.

When the lights dimmed and the movie started up, I was hooked. This movie has so much testosterone, you get drunk on it--huge, 20,000 horsepower trophy trucks on two wheels, crowds narrowly escaping obliteration from oncoming cars, accidents, hot chicks in tight pants, amazing cinematography, and great sound. These crazy drivers (Robbie Gordon included) have to do part of the race at night, too. I was constantly clapping my hand over my mouth going, "Oh shit! Did you see that?!" and I would have been lynched if it wasn't for everyone else in the theater doing the same thing.

The boys do a great job of introducing you to the drivers and creating drama within the race. Co-director Dana Brown does extensive voice-over which my friend thought was too much--however, I think it detailed everything quite nicely. Otherwise, it's easy for the layman to get lost. I am, after all, a girl. Tee hee!

It's a tiny little indie that is only in limited release right now. So please go support Dana Brown and Co., so they can keep making sweet docs like the aforementioned two. They're doing some great work! So open up your wallets.

cha-ching. g

(Chariots of Fire Theme Song)

Well kids, it has happened. EFil WROTE US AN EMAIL. This is huge. I got to hear him whisper on the phone AND read his beautiful words on my gmail. He is so much better, my darlings, and I am reeling from all the positive vibes everyone has been sending. Again, your well-wishes and prayers are what has helped him get stronger. Keep it coming, donate more blood, and keep rockin'.

So, needless to say, it's a great day. I had a great workout this morning, complete with some good laughs with ole Buddha Bill/Warren Beatty. And I can feel that the coasting I have been doing the past few weeks is coming to an end. This is the moment, my darlings, where she leaves this plateau she has been hanging out on, and goes to the next level. I am totally pumped full of endorphins and I am ready. I also can't stop wearing pastel colors and escaping from work to let the sunshine soak into my skin...

You (yes, you) are here with me for my day-to-day ups and downs, and you read my entries that run the gamut. Some days I am overwhelmed with feelings of mediocrity, and others I am in love with the world. Welcome to my head, kids. Pull down that lap bar, this shit can get intense.

In my quiet moments, I am grateful for you. The thought of knowing you are out there, and you are listening, makes this whole thing all worth it. A part of reading online journals is the "Train Wreck" phenomenon that you can't look away from. The other part, though, is that we are somehow closer because you're reading. I might not get to read the contents of your head poured into cyberspace, but you can read mine and I am enthusiastic about that.

Now let's go somewhere nice and private....

vixen. g

Body Worlds Burglars

On Sunday, as Body Worlds 2 was coming to a close, two women who were described as "well-dressed" in long coats were seen on security tapes lingering around an exhibit. One was blonde and the other brunette. They waited until the other onlookers trickled out of the exhibit, and when the coast looked clear, they snatched the plastinate in front of them.

It was a tiny fetus from the 1920's and is "irreplaceable," according to Body Worlds representatives.

This is the kind of thing that happens when you won't let lesbians adopt.

waah. g

It's All So Poignant

Wow, whatta morning. I woke up, energized, with the wheels turning about how twitterpated I am with the arrival of Spring. I was thinking about how the chemicals that surge through my body that make me feel all psyched up for Nympho Day fade in about 72 hours. (I need a recharge.) I was thinking about blasts from the past and how nice it is to hear from old friends who knew you when you were only beginning to be the person you are today.

Now I am thinking about other things. Growing up. Facing your fears. Upping your game. Becoming an adult. Drawing lessons from the events in your life.

To be a truly excellent person in this world, you must do things that you do not want to.

There is no peace in this life. There is only a push and pull that is facilitating change. We are malleable and always shifting, and we cannot ignore the fact that the outside world changes us every single day. We must rise to meet the challenge, or we become irrelevant.

And this makes me remember how important meditation is. In order to take on life, we must also be able to shut it out for a second.

Human beings are so reactionary. The abillity to be proactive is extraordinary and rare. Why wait until you have a heart attack to quit smoking? Why do you have to mow someone down before you stop speeding? etc.

There's a lot to be said for relaxing and enjoying life. But our mind is the only thing that keeps us from being the best that we can be RIGHT NOW.

There are so many people floating through my consciousness...and I feel this responsibility to be strong for you right now. I am lucky to have you around, you know. The ones I keep close are the ones that inspire me to be better than I am.

camera one. g

What is a Sinai, anyway?

EFil is doing much better. He had a rough weekend, but yesterday was spent getting off the evil respirator and giving the nurses trouble. His aunt referred to him as "Feisty." This is a good thing.

So, day by day, like sands through the hourglass...he is fighting. We can't see him right now. My guess is that there are quite a few people trying to get into that ICU to cheer him up, and it's overwhelming. What a lovely problem to have. He knows we love him, and he is probably so doped up that he won't remember much of the fear or pain he is going through. This is also a good thing.

one day at a time. g

Snips, Snails, Puppy Dog's Tails...

I recently had a conversation that involved first impressions. I love these, because I am fascinated with how people appear as opposed to how they actually are, inlcuding myself. The dialogue went like this:

"I bet you thought I was a lesbian."
"No, no, I saw the look on your face and I knew that..."
"That what?"
"I thought, 'There goes a girl...'"
"...That likes dick?"
"Well...yes."

This, in a word, is awesome. Let me paint you a picture: I am a tall, solidly built lady with short hair. I like to wear Birkenstocks unless the situation calls for something else (which it rarely does). Although I adore what has been referred to as the Wisconsin Going Out Attire, which includes flirty tops and jeans, and even dresses and heels, I enjoy tee shirts with ironic sayings and my gaucho pants the best. I like cowboy hats, and my floppy hat if it's sunny. I get my nails done but will still operate power tools with them on.

So the fact that I gave off the air of heterosexuality is rockin'.

And in this lovely morning, where I am thinking about the wonderful men in my life, both romantic and not, I am thinking about things they do that send my feminine sensibilities aflutter. Ladies, some of these are from your stories. If you don't recognize your man in here, do they still ring true? Do tell!

-Playing musical instruments
-Fixing things around the house (and scrunching themselves in hard-to-reach places to do it)
-Driving places and letting you out while they park the car
-Opening doors
-Fixing dinner
-Massages
-Falling down/tripping in moments they were trying to be smooth
-Running around in the surf
-Walking out of the bathroom with a towel around their waist
-Calling your name
-Listening to stupid, long stories and interjecting opinions
-Watching sports on TV and drinking beer
-Putting their arm around you
-Pumping your gas (Ladies, have you ever had this done?! My guess is no. Guys, get to it! This is a major point-earner!)
-Buying tickets to a movie you wanted to see
-Buying you a DVD of a movie you Love
-Spooning

Guys are great. Of course, most of these things can be applied to women as well, but that doesn't matter to me. I am the Bastion of Heterosexuality. I care not for vaginas and breasts. And you can quote me on that.

Love the one you're with today, my darlings. Let your hugs flow freely and write a naughty email. Pump up those hormones and get all antsy thinking of someone you like. Make today Nympho Day. Wait...hold on. That's a genius idea.

I DECLARE MARCH 29 NYMPHO DAY!

Have sex indiscriminately with as many partners as you can! Pretend that, with every orgasm, you are erasing a painful childhood memory! But deep in your heart, know that it isn't working and then have sex with someone else! Hooray!

...maybe Nympho day isn't such a good idea...

Whatever. Quit reading this and go make out in a storage room with that hottie you've had your eye on for weeks.

delicious. g

Scared Shitless

Contrary to what I so boldly declared an imminent quick recovery, EFil has taken a turn for the worse. There was fluid in his lungs, and that has spurred pneumonia. He is hooked up to tubes and is immobilized in the ICU. Every time we try to visit, the nurses yell at us because we're not immediate family. Then he gets frustrated because he can't communicate with us and the aforementioned nurses won't give him a pen and paper.

Writing gets him all worked up and messes up his oxygen intake.

It is terrifying to see someone you love hooked up to so many tubes. A guy I previously enjoyed punching in the arm can't move anymore. I don't think I ever saw him run or anything, maybe walk sort of quickly for a couple steps...but the thought occurred to me that to see him on his feet would be heaven. I don't even know where to touch him when I see him. That movie Jesus Son with Billy Crudup has a whole section about how human touch saves lives...but I can't figure out where to lay hands on him. I don't know what hurts, what has a needle in it, or what is immobilized. I gave him a rub on the shin, and a pat on the shoulder, but it was done gingerly. I don't think it helped at all.

His amazingly large hands had IVs in them, and a finger was covered with one of those heart rate-monitoring, glowy E.T. things. If he could talk we would have joked about him phoning home. But he couldn't talk. And I am scared every time I think about it.

The doctors say he's better. I say better than what? A dead person? If he was going to catch fucking pneumonia in the hospital, where things are sterile and safe, then he might as well have been camped out on Bordo's couch eating chips the whole time. Those people help us when we can't help ourselves, and they save our lives. But I find myself getting mad at them. Like Eric's ex-girlfriend, I have become wary of them and have forgotten the laughs we had. I am just mad.

Being angry is a great cover for the fear. It is a great distraction to be all fired up about it and blame people. To actually feel scared and sad and sick is difficult. Understanding that pneumonia is not preventable would be taking the high road. But today, after a disconcerting visit yesterday, I want to take the easy way out. Maybe tomorrow I will grow up.

When EFil recovers and reads this blog, I want him to understand something strange that I think about from time to time: aside from your pain, I wouldn't change a thing about this event. We're getting a great opportunity to really show you how much you mean to us. If you ever thought that we only half-liked you or just humored you, you were very wrong. Actions speak louder than words, jerk, and we're putting our money where our mouth is.

So get better. Get that pneumonia out of there, friend, and come back to us. I want to spoon-feed you cereal and watch Strangers with Candy with you.

get well soon, baby. g

Punch Card Predicament

Every place you go offers punch cards these days. Like insecure fat girls awkwardly half-shouting, "Let's hang out sometime!" the punch card in your hand is an open invitation to return. Pretty, pretty please, return. I have a giant collection of punch cards from Coffee Bean, Hot Topic, Body Shop, etc. Everywhere. And I always forget them at home or forget to pull them out when I buy something. So,I have learned to walk away from the shop/fat girl, force a smile, and quickly put the invite out of my head.

It doesn't have to be this way.

My betrothed recently offered her "man on the side" a Blow Job Punch Card. I think that this is genius. Talk about something you would never forget to carry with you! In these days of Standing Os and David Bowie albums on repeat, this seems like a phenom idea. One can feel like a bit of a maladroit for offering pleasure to someone they dig. It's a very delicate topic that is best handled with care...and the pressure is taken off by the tangible B.J. P.C.

I imagine my card being business-card sized, nothing unusual there. It would be made of fine card stock--really rigid--just to be metaphoric. Glossy, too. Perhaps my B.J. P.C. would be grey, for obvious reasons, and it would say something like, "Turn your blue skies Grae." or maybe just "I like your Unit." Maybe something less crude..."You're in good hands with Grae." "Cum visit!" "Let's Hit It." or the always demure "Let's Fuck Around."

I would have a special hole puncher in the shape of a heart or a star, and it would be tiny enough to fit into an evening bag or my fifth jean pocket.

The Punch Card would be free (although if you buy me dinner to get my strength up, that's okay), and there would be few restrictions. The card is only good for the person it is issued to. Choosing to redeem a punch when it might get you arrested would make me take pause...although technically, in most states, it can get you arrested even when you're in your own house. So, I guess the dressing room of Fred Segal is in. Oh, the bathroom of Cheetah's? No problem. Space Mountain? Maybe when it re-opens, cowboy.

giddy up. g

Observe This

They have moved EFil to an observation room, which I am pretty sure is a good thing. For those of you following this story, we are almost out of the woods and he is almost out of Cedars-Sinai. Have a great weekend, my darlings. Your love and support makes me smile.

toothy. g

Leave it To Gunther

I don't know myself as well as I think I do. This was made clear to me last night as I went with the Mighty G to see Body Worlds 2. For those of you who don't know, Body Worlds is a traveling exhibit currently at the science center. Through a process called plastination, a visitor can find nearly every organ in the body in either a see-through cross section or in its entirety, complete with tumors, hemorrhages, and various diseases. There's an even bigger part of Body Worlds, though, and that is the people.

They take cadavers, pose them ironically, and splay them out so you can see different pieces of their body. Recreational activities in Plastinated Dead People Land include skateboarding, ballet dancing, soccer, skiing, shotputting, lassoing, yoga, javelin throwing, ice skating, and standing very still while some German man cuts you into pieces.

HellCat thought she had a cast iron stomach. She oftentimes would be found riding rollercoasters over and over again with no ill effects. She loves the teacups at Disneyland. She has a soft spot in her heart for falling from high-up places. Horror is her favorite genre of film. But last night, my darlings, HellCat learned that she does not react so well to dead shiny people.

I walked in, and looked at a foot, a skull, and a hand. No problem. Then I saw the skeleton man looming before me, with his muscles standing next to him. My knees went weak. My stomach went sour. I felt dizzy. And the MIghty G just laughed at his exposed genitalia.

The funny thing about Body Worlds is that these kinds of models are for scientific purposes. They help doctors understand the nature of tendons, muscles, organs, and sickness better than any model ever could. But when you are a layman, that is easy to forget. I felt like some pieces were insensitive and were kind of saying, "Fuck you guys, we're scientists and we need to see this stuff." It's hard not to notice the skull you're looking at belongs to an infant. Female bodies with the latissimus dorsi raised up and out like wings (and then named "The Angel") can make you take pause. They even had fetuses at different stages of development, and it was simultaneously amazing and sad. All these things are dead. And now we're ogling them in a museum while talking on our cell phones.

These people all agreed to donate themselves, but I still felt kind of bad for them. Mom was right--I guess I'm a shitty scientist.

I had trouble enjoying the exhibit. I had too many emotions surging through me when I looked at the heart section. I imagined Eric's heart, and how much it must hurt right now. I examined the aorta and tried to visualize it ripped and weak. Then I wondered who was missing the heart that sat in front of me. And then I wanted to kill the man who was reading the description cards in some foreign language loud enough for the dead people to actually hear him.

One of the scarier things I saw was the comparison of the regular-sized man to an obese one. You could see the 120-pound man's innards just fine. The 300 pound man's insides were severely compacted. His fat hung over his knees, and you could fit the other man inside him easily. It was rough, but was a great deterrent from buying anything from the Candy Kart nearby.

I wish there had been an "I survived Body Worlds" tee shirt, because I really felt as though I had been through something. It was cool to see the camel's many stomachs, but the prison tattoo on the "3-D slice" man was a little much. When I close my eyes, all I see is fake eyebrows glued on to exposed red facial muscles. Ugh.

Aside from all of this, though, I think I might donate myself. I love museums and the plastination process would make me look way skinny.

filet o'grae friday. g

If Loving Kylie is Wrong...

...then I don't wanna be right, my darlings.

Kylie Minogue is a large presence in my life these days. She is always on the TVs at the gym, motivating all of us to do just five more mintues on that stairmaster and complete one more set of crunches. Bless her little heart.

I love watching her videos without sound. It really helps me realize that sometimes, you don't need drugs to feel all jacked up. How trippy are those vids, people?! With those little moving graphics, people in funny costumes, and her sparkly silver eyebrows. Bless her little heart.

I have recently downloaded some of her best tunes and made a "Down Under Thunder" mix. Originally, I wanted something fun to listen to at the gym and in traffic...but I have been playing it at work, and it has started to slip into an obsession. I'm not scared to share that with you. The first step is admitting it, right?

Sometimes, when I get an annoying email from the bosses or when life pushes in a little too close for comfort, I have turned to Kylie. All of a sudden, I am transported from my downtown loft, away from the Mac, the webmasters, and the carbs in the kitchen. I am in a discotheque. I am dancing, wearing this fabulous peach sequiny number I own and wear only on very extra special occasions (it has a cowl neck and a plunging back, super hot). My skin is shimmery, my hair looks great, and my lipstick is perfect. My white teeth glisten in the disco light, and I am wearing strappy stilettos that are SO COMFORTABLE.

I am also surrounded by 400 gay men who are taking turns lifting me in the air as I lip synch the words to the song and smile the M.C.O.G. (McCrumb Original Grin) that shines so bright it borders on evil. It's kind of like the Material Girl video, but the discotheque is dark and has way better lighting that makes my ass look unbelievable.

Yes, lighting can be the secret to having a great ass.

I am also a phenomenal dancer in this fantasy. I am spinning, gyrating, and winking playfully at my audience. There's a little bit of salsa, a smidgeon of ballroom, and drop of hip hop in there, all perfect and appropriate and finely tuned. I am a dancin' machine, really.

And when the songs are over, I plummet back to the Brewery. I sit in my ergonomically perfect chair, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Even a diva like me needs a little rest. Hand me that Fiji water, Enrique, and go oil yourself up. You're looking a little matte.

can't get you out of my head. g

Is Good!

The word on the street is that EFil has a pumpin' heart. It was working on its own as of last night. The last 12 hours have been critical to the docs figuring out if the surgery went well or not, so we eagerly await their report.

The kid always comes through in the clutch, though, so I have a good feeling. Also, his desire to get out of the ICU and have "his own crapper" burns within him, so he's gotta wake up for that.

Thanks again for all the well-wishes. Now go give some blood in his honor.

pump it up. g

useless knowledge

I found myself surfing the net, and I stumbled across a site that gives answers to real-life questions like "What do I do if I get pulled over by an unmarked police car?" I thought the answer was "Pull over, take your top off and start whistling the theme from Man from U.N.C.L.E." It's always worked for me, but whatever. Citizens have the right to request the officers' ID/badge, and if there are doubts, they can request a supervisor come out to the scene or ask to drive to the nearest police station.

Anyway, I was dig'ing some footage and simultaneously learning that I can afford to buy a house that costs three times my yearly salary (so I will be buying a Tuff Shed here within the next few weeks--watch for the housewarming invite).

I also learned how to clean up bad credit, how to figure out if a traffic ticket was worth fighting, and how to start a business.

The best part of my little cyber-adventure was learning how to change your name in the Grand Ole State of Cali. If you're getting married and changing your last name, you just fill out a form at the DMV and you're done. If you're changing the whole thing, you need a court order to get everything switched.

There are other rules, though. You can't change your name to that of a famous person if they determine you're doing it to be fradulent or present that person in a negative light. I guess the whole idea of changing Grae Drake to Ann B. Davis is out, then.

You also can't use fictitious names that are protected by copyright, like R2D2. They actually gave that example.

The best rule, though, is that you cannot use racial slurs or "fighting words." Once again, the Man has taken away all our fun. Think of the possibilities. Greasy Goombah, Esq. Whitey McCracka III. I'mGonna KickYerAss. Kick N. TheNuts.

You also have to publish your name change request in a local newspaper for 4 weeks. Where the hell do they put this in the LA Times? Next to the obits just to be ironic? Or can you put a classified ad in Backstage West? Hustler? That's printed here, isn't it? Oh, well. Devious Honey Drake Large will have to be my unofficial name...although I would love to hear THAT in the unemployment line, huh? Or at the free clinic.

times they are a changin'. g

Bloody Hell

Hey everyone...EFil is going into surgery this morning. Please send him good vibes, and go donate some blood too. They are really low this season and need all they can get. You can go to

Cedars-Sinai
South Tower, room 1690
310.423.5346 for an appointment
In Honor of Eric Filipkowski

www.cedars-sinai.edu/1756.html

Tips: Make sure you eat something before you go, and bring something to munch on afterwards. It only takes about an hour, and parking is totally free (with validation). They hook you up with a free movie ticket for donating or even attempting to donate--Some people get turned down due to low iron or because they are a dude who had sex with another dude within the last 28 years.

If you're really ballsy, you can donate plasma or platelets. They pay you for that and show you a movie too, but it takes a super long time. You gotta be tough...

Thanks to all for your continued support and emails to EFil. It really means a lot to everyone.

More news as events warrant....

gusher. g

The Dating Wizard

Well, everybody, you can relax, because your dating problems are over. I discovered last night that one of my close friends is The Dating Wizard (or Wiz, for brevity purposes). I have known him for going on 3 years now and he NEVER TOLD ME THIS. I went though many stages of emotion regarding this, and when I finally reached Acceptance, I was able to ask him why in God's name he thought that he had all the goddamn answers.

He had an easy, fast, and to-the-point response: The 5 Factors.

I had heard whisperings of this idea before. Apparently his legend had spread throughout the world ("Hitch" was based on him, in fact). And here is that idea.

When you are not dating anyone, and when you don't like anyone in particular, you have to come up with 5 traits that your ideal mate has to have or cannot have. There is a trick to this. They have to be over-arching themes and not too specific, and they cannot include the imperative and obvious theme of Attraction/Chemistry. You cannot include physical traits either, because they fall under Attraction/Chemistry, too, as a sub-heading. The Mighty G wanted large penises to be on her list, much to the Wiz's chagrin, and we finally convinced her that it's not what you've got but how you use it. I don't think she was persuaded.

If any of you reading this are involved with someone, you can forget about making this list. You will only manipulate it to make it fit your current love interest, or it could destroy the relationship...because the next step after making the list is to kick someone to the curb if you discover they don't have one or more of the 5 traits.

That's the cold, hard reality of the list, my darlings. If you make it and choose to use it, you shouldn't do it half-assed. When someone is missing one, it's nothing personal, but they aren't your ideal. Therefore, they need to be let go so you two crazy kids can find your real matches.

Some people might say that this is a little harsh. Some people might be afraid that they would be branded "Picky" or "Shallow." I say that these people are pussies and this list just might work. I cannot formulate my own list right now, for reasons stated above, but I look forward to doing it sometime. Or maybe I will make my list in secret and put it into effect later on (don't tell the Wiz).

What would be on your list? Remember to come up with specific traits, then put them under a larger umbrella word. Think yellow stickies here, ArcLighters.

So, this was some food for thought. If any of you out there are single and looking for some lovin', give this a shot. The Wiz has invested a lot of time and effort into his current relationship, and things seem to be going nicely. So I guess he's proof that the list can work. Get out your lined paper and WRITE!

ease on down the road. g

Oh My Christ

Life is worth living again. I couldn't figure out why I had such a half-assed entry this morning...why it lacked heart and solidity...and now I know. I was waiting to find out the real news of the day.

She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has finally posted a new picture on her myspace page.

A close friend of mine who I love very much used to have this girlfriend. I mentioned her once before, as that one woman who singlehandedly teaches us all what NEVER to be. She and I have crossed paths once. Once.

She writes the Best Blogs out of anyone I know because she has this way of writing down half-truths that are centered around confusing poor, unsuspecting young men and their penises. She is a little hottie with a nice ass, I'll give a sister that credit, you know? But underneath that nicely sculpted gluteus maximus of hers lies an insanity rivaled only by that of Lady MacBeth or Fran Drescher. This bitch proves that the ratio of hotness to cruelty is directly proportionate, you dig? So approach if you dare.

She has been absent from myspace for awhile. We haven't read her thoughts, seen her face, or anything. She dropped off the face of the planet and spent her time hassling her ex and trimming the Christmas tree...and now her fans finally have some contact.

She has posted a new pic! Yes, my darlings, a new picture of her in A BIKINI! It is the visual version of her blog--"Look how hot I am, don't you want to smack it? Just a little?" but in it are a couple of dead giveaways--the smile, for instance. Her mouth is wide open, seemingly playful and inviting, but past the toothy grin lies something dark and evil. I'm looking at it expecting wasps to fly out from the abyss or something. It's TOO wide. Like, past what you would like to see in a Maxim pictorial--almost unhinged.

Her eyes are truly disturbing, too. Blank. Void of any shred of human decency. All clad in a little red bathing suit.

I think the photo would fool anybody who just stumbled across her online. She looks fun. Crazy. Wild in the sack. A little spitfire. But the reality is very different, and that is what makes this discovery so precious. I think I'm going to make this photo my wallpaper.

Word of warning to all you PoonTang Hunters out there: it's not always what it seems. Have fun hittin' it, but remember that when you try to quit it, it will call you 17 times a day, break the windows in your apartment, and barbecue your DVDs to make you realize the error of your ways.

once. g

Call of the Wild

There have been a lot of stories in the news lately about animals ripping people limb from limb. I mean, this kind of shit happens everyday in the jungle, but the valley? What the eff is going on?!

A couple of weeks ago, a man and his wife went to visit their chimp Moe in a sanctuary. Moe had been sent there because about in 1999, he had bit off a woman's finger. So fast forward to the couple bringing Moe a cake in early March. They enter the cage where their chimp and two others named Buddy and Ollie were held, and all of a sudden, the others got out and attacked the dude. They bit his foot off, destroyed his face beyond recognition, and according to the uncomfortable anchorman, "found his testacles in another location."

The chimps were shot. Cries of disbelief came from Californians. How easily we forget that these things we lock up in our apartments and backyards are one step away from being WILD ANIMALS. Sometimes their instinct to mate, kill, and eat are stronger than you saying "roll over" with a Snausage in your hand.

A friend of mine mentioned that since Moe stayed hidden during the attack, it sounded like he had been abused and the other chimps were seeking vengeance. Like the Monkey Mob. Maybe Buddy and Ollie thought that the man had told Moe to "go get his shine box," like that dude in GoodFellas, and they just didn't have a trunk to stuff him in so they ate him.

Now last night, a woman was attacked by a Pit Bull mix. She was at her house and the Pit tried to attack her puppy. She stepped in, and the Pit turned on her instead. By the time the cops showed up, she was laying there and the Pit was just chewing on her.

They shot the dog four times, he stepped back, then resumed eating her. So they killed it. Video footage is chock full of bloody door jambs and puddles of liquid on the pavement.

She's in the hospital as we speak.

Just when you thought things couldn't get more disconcerting, Pat O'Brien, host of one of America's tippy-top news shows The Insider, has checked into rehab AND has been caught on tape saying super-dirty stuff involving anal sex, cocaine, and prostitutes...and Margaret Cho was on Wayne Brady rapping in a Yeti jacket and a top hat (check out the clip at ifilm.com).

I think that something weird is going on in the universe. Make sure you have your earthquake tack and some fresh water around.

yikes. g

No Limits

Forget about what you know, and start thinking about what is possible.

1.8 million people have never had a drink of fresh water--particularly people in war-ravaged countries, poor communities, and the like. There's even concern that we can't get our astronauts water. So now NASA scientists are figuring out how to recycle excreted fluids to make them usable. This same technology will be used to clean polluted wells.

"Here you go, Iraqis. Sorry we messed up your country. But at least you had an election--even if your legs got blown off by shotguns and your house got set on fire. Now here, I know you're thirsty--here's some of Neil Armstrong's urine and/or sweat. Doesn't that taste good? Peace totally rules."

Reality TV is really losing its shine...the nightly news is always much weirder.

gulp, gulp. g

Impotence

Powerlessness is truly one of the most dangerous problems that plagues our species. The inability to change a situation and the strain it puts on your heart will take people to dark places.

The land is barren these days, my darlings, and I am trying really hard to find some solid ground here. It just keeps sliding around, though, and I'm worried that this could be quicksand.

The secret to meditation, apparently, is to realize that every state of being will pass. Every moment of anger, joy, sadness, bliss, excitement, and fatigue are all temporary. It is fleeting, and none of it deserves the attention we give it. There is no reason to allow your body to suffer because of an earthly event. Taken too far, this theorem kind of takes the fun out of being a human being. But in a small dose, this practice can really help you through the hard times.

I am trying to be the Shepard here, Ringo. I am trying to remain in stasis, but some moments are more disturbing than others. Those other little things that melted away when we heard that Eric was sick are creeping back in, only to freak me out and bury me some more. I find myself wishing I was drinking right now...and then I realize that this is the exact reason I should NOT drink. Then I think, "Maybe some Cardio will help," and I find myself on the machine for an exhorbitant amount of time...

...What is it that makes things better? Oh yeah...time. Not an hour and a half of the treadmill. Or a glass of perfect, tannin-licious wine.

He has moved from the ICU, and he looks great. But he still has a bum ticker and needs surgery. So there is little peace in seeing him with washed hair, you dig?

"It's funny how life turns out/the odds of faith in the face of doubt"

If only I could stop listening to that fucking song....if only I could stop engaging in mildly compulsive behavior to give myself something to focus on other than death and sickness and worry and suffering. If only.

Today is a down moment in the cyclical pattern...which means there's nowhere to go but up.

bring it. g

Death or Sushi

We're in the midst of a subtle crisis here with EFil. The impression that I get is that he is not stabilizing the way they need him to, which is delaying surgery. They moved him out of the Intensive Care Unit, which is good (?). But he has not yet had this surgery they told him he really needs.

We went to donate blood for him Friday. At the time, he was being rushed into surgery and he said that he either needed our blood or we should donate in his name. So we did. We all told work to go fuck themselves, we were helping our friend. Then we got in a car, turned on Poison and Quiet Riot, and hot-footed it to a hospital. We made jokes about how this was a great bargaining tool--"Oh, you don't like this sketch? Does my BLOOD like this sketch?" and "You don't like this tee shirt design? Well then give me my blood back." Nothing covered the fact that we were all worried as hell. The Odwalla bars and fag jokes only made a thin facade of okayness surround us as we got needles shoved in our arms.

One Animal from the Future almost passed out. The flobotomists loved my crazily-painted toenails. And we all got juice. So that was something. But that was the last thing we could do. Now it's just visit, visit, visit, and pray really hard.

Last night we went out for sushi. We went to our favorite joint in an iffy part of town. On one half of this place, there is a karaoke joint, which always houses the finest of drunk warblers. Even on that quiet Tuesday evening, there's one girl in a sparkly tube top singing Pat Benetar. On the other side lies a Dance Floor and the Sushi Bar.

Last night it was jumpin'. We were trying to order Toro, Unagi, and some sake, for chrissake, and the Japanese were just jammin'. The band consisted of two lead singers, older then, say, dirt, and a bunch of defeated-looking Asians on the instruments.

We had just finished the California Roll when we realized that something terrifying had started to happen. All these Japanese people were behind us, doing the electric slide in perfect unison. Now, you know how when you're in a bar, and the whites are all clumsy and drunk, distracted and sloppy, lolling this way and that, looking for someone to have sex with later, and sort of dancing in the meantime? Well, that was not the case at the Gower Gulch last night. These people were right on the money, stepping cleanly, with reserve. There were no looks of joy in their faces, no glimmer of electric-slide excitement in their eyes. No laughing. No out of place claps. Just a 20 minute song and a determination to be the best.

The thought occurred to me that as the only whites in the building, we might not make it out alive.

They would complete the final step-ball-change, and their heads would turn to the right, staring directly at all three of the Whitey McWhitensteins at the bar through almond-shaped eyes. Then, they would glow red for a split second and they would all leap over the flimsy paper screens and rip us to shreds. Nothing would ever be found of our bodies.

But we did make it out alive, and I considered that a gift from that higher power. I had to live so I could go visit EFil today, and text him and call him names. It was a sign, dammit. And today, the air smells like triumph.

fist in the air. g

Self-Censorship

For some reason, my fingers won't allow me to type what it is I really want to talk about today. I have an idea, a thought, a feeling--an assertion, even--that is making me crazy. I have officially gotten all up in my head today. And until I make it out, which will be after I listen to a couple meaningful songs on the iTunes and get drunk on That Feeling...I will write about two things that have been important to me this week.

First, I had a 30 minute conversation with the oh-so-fabu Mr. D.Soll on Wednesday (Note: D.Soll is an old co-worker of mine--see the January entry "Farewell my Friend" for deets). We had a chat, talked about the status of things, the relationships, the sex, the cities we live in (NY and LA), and pickup trucks. We talked about how Dave Matthews Band was shooting a video 20 feet away from me and how it made me think of senior year of high school (when "Crash" seemed like a good song to fuck to). Then, I walked into my office and he was standing right in front of me.

He had come to town for his cousin's wedding and surprised us all. That is why this man is one of my favs. Past the exterior of pretentious words and mumbling, he just really likes making people happy. What a guy. How wonderful it is to be sitting at my desk and have him walk in and start complaining about something straight out of the gate. He accuses me of stealing his headphones, dirtying his desk, and erasing his projects and I just laugh and laugh.

For Christmas, I made us "I Want You on Team Zissou" shirts. D.Soll's says Team Zisson, because I was drunk and turned the iron-on letter U upside down. Four Kir Royale's will do that to HellCat...the funny thing was that on Wednesday, I was wearing mine for the first time. It was fate.

So welcome back, guy. What a lovely few days it's been. Thank you for listening to my stories, understanding why I think the Hitch Theorem is the secret to dating success, and telling me that I'm right. You are a gem and I am glad that that girl is fucking your brains out. You deserve a hot little bi-curious dominatrix, you magnificent man.

The second thing that is important to me this week, is my pal EFil. For ages, everyone has made mumblings about how "Careful, he has a baboon heart and can't life over 40 pounds." I always just laughed and shoved the anvils in his hands anyway and told him to "Mush."

EFil has fallen ill. The doctors say "torn aortic branch," and I say "excessive pornography use and ginormous hands," but what does it matter? My boy ain't feeling so good. And the weight of the worry has really put my new lifestyle to the test. I don't feel much like taking my Taurine or regulating my Niacin in the midst of all this.

Have you ever just sat with close friends, looked at each other across the table, and shared the depth of their concern? No conversation can cover for the fact that something is wrong. No hand holding, hugs, reassurances, or text messages can really make it okay. If something is broken, it's broken. All of a sudden, life is put into perspective.

Around 3PM, my head was swimming with thoughts like, "I should really get back to work and quit drinking iced tea on the veranda," "Why is my cell phone so quiet?" "I sure hope she can sue their ass," "I love this satchel," "I'm hungry," I hope I can make that appointment."

Then at 5, those trivialities disappeared. I wanted to get to the hospital. I wanted to give EFil a hug. I wanted him to have that open-heart surgery and get him better PRONTO. I wanted him to live a long, healthy, and somewhat depraved life. I wanted to kill his ex-girlfriend, even. I wanted to kiss his forehead. I was desperate for him to be able to perform, make people happy, and say "Fingerbang this chick" one more time.

This thing we're living is precious, people. Take the lessons that films have tried to teach us for generations and LEARN SOMETHING, for fuck's sake. Don't wait until tomorrow to make things right. Call him. Apologize. Tell her how you feel. Admit it. Own this moment and don't let it go, my darlings, because some day you won't be able to. Hopefully you won't have to be scared into learning that.

EFil is going to be okay. I've been texting him, adressing him only as "Cripple," and telling him to bite the nurses if they try to put any more tubes in him. He always texts back.

D.Soll rubs my shoulder and says, "You're okay." He's right.

prayers. g

No Peace

Just when you think you have the world figured out, my darlings, it comes back to getcha. All of a sudden, you realize that you don't have a handle on anything and things are not as calm as you thought.

The natural state of things is all-shook-up (uh huh).

The day after I get engaged to a beautiful woman, life pulls the rug out. And that rug really tied the fucking room together.

Nothing bad has happened, don't get me wrong. On this middle-of-the-week day, the car is in the shop, the schedule is filled to the brim, and the Grae is feeling tired. I'm still loving my morning energy shake and the sunshine on my shoulders. I just wish that things were a little bit easier. A little clearer, a little less demanding. I want some peace, and there is very little peace to be had 'round here.

On a side note, The Mighty G has offered to be Jenni's and my flower girl. She said that our guests will only have a split second to realize that rose petals CAN in fact hurt when they are hurled at you, and that white is not the best color to wear when she's walking down the aisle. Basically she wants to stir some shit up, in true Mighty G style. That's why we call her Thunder...

I am choosing to focus on the things that make me smile, like the image of RobMag huddled in a corner of Jenni's and my Hawaiian tiki hideout...JamieJames' fabulous tee shirt design for the Animals....and a salad. Everything else will have to wait until I choose to acknowledge it.

Harumph. g

A Sexy Rollercoaster Ride/Yes, Jenni

Well kids, if any of you were planning on asking for my hand anytime soon, back the fuck off. You snooze and you lose, because Jenni has asked for my hand. She's a little wacky cutie with weak hamstrings, a winning smile, and know-how in the ole bedroom. Sign me up, kid, and call me your missus.

Now, for anyone who is planning on poppin' the question soon, take a lesson from Mizz Jenni P. She wowed me with promises of ice cream, movies at the old ARC and Toblerone bars. This bitch has got me DOWN.

So you know, Jenni, or Mrs. Grae, Skip and Steve (the Robbins Brothers) will actually send a limo to our house so we can pick out rings...their latest commercial discusses this very thing. They are going to give us unique settings, displaying the depths of our love and affection all in that little band of promises. I think I want mine to be something fluorescent. Because that's how hot my love burns for you.

See, to those of you who don't understand Jenni's and my Thang, we both love raspberry jello and people who eat other people for nourishment. Rarely do two people meet on such a deep level, and if you don't approve of our union, then you can just blow it out your ear.

Jenni-face-pookie-time wants to take me to Hawaii, which neither she nor I have been to. She knows that my favorite activities are eating roast pig (when I'm not eating people) and SCUBA diving. I love watching sunsets on the porch and making out, too.

So we're set.

Tell me, Jay-Jay-lover-girl-boo-boo, would you prefer a summer wedding on the beach? Like, a nice part of Santa Monica? It could be so heavenly...we can hire some homeless dudes to hold the flower arrangements. You can wear your projectionist polo, and I'll put on my server's apron from the ARC...or we can just wear artfully arranged palm fronds. Whichever. We can hire the gypsies from the barbecue, and ask Trey to make a special "So you're fuckin' her in the ass..." reference in our honor.

I'll buy you a beer Koozie, baby. You're the greatest. Bring on that handtruck!

sapphic. g

Ode to Moms

My mom is the cutest mom around. You might think this about your mother, but you would be incorrect and misguided. Serious. My mom must have a certificate somewhere. Aside from normal, everyday fallibility, Peggy Murphy is the coolest.

Let's start at the beginning. This lady has led a wild life. If anyone ever wonders "Gosh, that Grae sure can be crazy sometimes. Where did she get that from?" the answer would be the O.G. (Original Grae), which is my mom. This woman wreaked havoc on Longmont, Colorado in her earlier years as the youngest of ten kids.

She loved movies, dancing, beer, boys, and her radio show. She liked to stick it to the man, and was the only one in the whole town that would stand up for the Harlem Globetrotters when they came to town and were refused service at a local diner (she has lots of Meadowlark Lemon stuff in her memory trunk as a result).

Anyway, Peggy grew up to marry a man who hobknobbed with all the big stars that came to town. My mom was often seen cruising around Denver with Liberace and stuff. "There goes Peggy Murphy," I imagine an onlooker would say. "Cruising around like she doesn't have a care in the world." "She doesn't!" Onlooker's husband would respond. "Have you seen those gams?"

There was some sadness in her life, but she eventually ended up marrying my PapaBear. And then my family as I know it is complete. Six of me. The HellCat you know is a carbon-copy of the rest of the Drake family.

Moms is a trip. There's never a dull moment, never a time she's not making me laugh. Okay, that was slightly overly-sentimental, but just go with it. And the latest cute thing my Mom does (aside from sending me frozen beef and chocolate cake for my birthday) is send email forwards.

We taught Moms how to use the computer email system, and our inboxes were never the same. This woman forwards those chain letters, sappy stories, and funny jpegs to my inbox as though her life depended on it. I opened my email up this morning, tea in hand, ready for some good reads, and what did I see?

22 emails from my mommy. I put a lot of effort into counting them, my darlings, and I would never lie to you. There were that many. She is SO lucky I have 1GB of space...

My first inclination when seeing this kind of e-onslaught was to exhale sharply and roll my eyes. Then it occurred to me. Someday she won't send me any more emails, period. I will never get the joy of corresponding with her as she types in ALL CAPS or says things like "I don't know how to paste this link into my address bar thingy, honey. What does that mean?"

So I sift through her pictures of fawns asleep with Yorkie puppies, jokes about old people having sex (emoticons really drive the point home on that one), recipes for Fruitcake, and Christian sentiments. The best one today was Jesus Christ's resume. I really got a kick out of that one.

Moms has helped me see pics of eagles superimposed over the Twin Towers, .wmvs of old ladies dancing, and naked skydivers. She sends me prayers, quizzes, and images of Moses parting the red sea made entirely out of 1s and 0s.

My mom was cute in person. Now, when we all live so far away, she has become cyber-cute. For the record, she hates being called Peggy. It's Margaret to you, pal, and don't you forget it (because when Moms gets mad, she oftentimes calls people a "sorry sonofabitch").

lets' hear it for the mom. g

Star Maps to the Sun

Raspberry jello is its own reward. I found that quote on Jenni's blog today, and it really made it all clear to me. Well, not clear so much as puzzling in a sweet way.

I do love Jell-O. I even love Bill Cosby for shilling for them.

But even though I don't trust the way jelly moves, that is beside the point. I am on a quest to find out what love is. Do you faithful readers remember when I was told that I needed to find out what love is, and in the meantime he was going to go watch Alias? Well, that's what I've been doing. And he's gotta be through at least season two now, but I'm not sure I have an answer yet.

Does anyone out there know? Is it letting someone have the last bite off your plate, or holding their hair when they're getting sick? Is it bringing them soup when they're sniffly? Are you allowed to fight or do you always have to give them a special ringer on your phone regardless of the extra charge?

I know what it's like to have other people love me. I can see it. I can feel it. It's beautiful, like a warm sweater that's part cashmere. I love other people...or do I? I can't figure it out. Is it in my eyes somewhere, is it that twinkle? Or is that just the bathroom light? I thought I had it all figured out...and now I just spend all my time messing shit up. I am confusing and confused.

I've seen it in movies. I know that people in love do crazy things. He comes back for her after being trapped for years in a POW camp. A couple meets, against the odds, at a national landmark. Together, they can stop an out-of-control bus from careening into various things. He gets lost in her despite his hard-boiled exterior and has sex with her on the kitchen table. He dies and she goes shortly after of a broken heart. The list goes on.

We see the kisses, the embraces, the wistful glances, the late-night conversations, the sex; we hear the music swell and we know that those people are going to be forever united. The Movie Drug has really fucked up my life...it just so happens you can't SEE my track marks.

This silver-screen idea has gotta be what love is. Which is why, when I found the following quote on Jenni's blog (without knowing the actual context), it got me thinking.

"I'll just put you on a handtruck and wheel you around like Hannibal Lector."

I know that Jenni messed up her hamstrings playing pool and was temporarily crippled (that's just our Jenn-bear). I'm guessing that one of the funnier people we know must have suggested this as a solution to the problem of her not being able to walk around.

It is my assertion that this is a loving statement.

I love the use of the word handtruck, first of all, but mostly I love the feeling behind this sentence. I am volunteering my time and my muscles to help you out, and it is inevitable that you will eat me later. We all know you're going to get out of those restraints, honey, and I say bring it on. I absolutely adore letting the hours slip away pushing your criminally insane ass around because you can't get along on your own. Get out the fava beans, you little presh, because I have a liver that is here to satisfy you. Take me, all my organs are yours.

All Yours.

So come on, Mister Hopkins. I think celluloid and cannibalism have given me a definition to latch onto. And without such burning life questions on my mind, it's WAY easier to hit it like it's going out of style.

screaming lamb. g

Coincidence?

Somethin's in the oven on this lovely Monday mornin'...perhaps a nice conspiracy pie...or cover-up muffins...I was in the shower this morning, listening to the hard-hitting news of the day as told to me by Steve, Jillian, and Dorothy of Good Day LA. People have been at unrest in this world this past weekend. There was something in the air. Strange things have been happening...and then it dawned on me. They're related. And no one is the wiser--Yet. Read on...

Fact: Cameron Diaz, in all her precious little dancing queen glory, was rushed to this hospital Friday. Justin Timberlake entered her home, Kangol cap firmly in place, to find Cammie on the floor of her wardrobe bleeding from the head. He scooped her up and sought medical attention immediately. Apparently, she fell off a dresser while reaching for something high up. Perhaps last season's Uggs?

Fact: Mario has voluntarily left American Idol. He stated that he needed to give attention to some family problems, and has been replaced with Nikko Smith. He left LA Saturday and is now back in NYC.

Both pieces of news are sending shockwaves throughout America today. And something funny is going on.

Mario's "family problems" came as a surprise to the world, as well as his family. Mama Mario says that she doesn't know what he's talking about. And the Executive Producer of Idol won't talk either. He didn't even crack under the pressure of the Dorothy's relentless, hard-hitting questions that come between Jillian's recollections of her last trip to Fred Segal.

And as for Cam--why would Justin move her immediately? Why wouldn't he call 911? And what was a dresser doing in her closet? Certainly the experts at the Closet Building Company to the Stars wouldn't allow something like that to happen.

I think that the two are connected.

I think Mario went insane. I think that Simon's brow-beating finally got to him. Randy's dog pound didn't bark loud enough for him. Paula's comments weren't quite sugary enough. His tummy was a jumble of madness when he heard, "Seacrest OUT," and lost his goddamn mind. He concocted a scheme, not unlike those of Al Qaeda, to shake up the nation. He was going to take away our little (Charlie's) Angel. He also probably hated Justin with the intense burning of a Thai-born venereal disease and wanted to disable him. Don't we all, kind of?...

That would show America for putting him in the top 12 and not just giving him the Idol crown straightaway.

So if you see Mario on the street in NYC today, punch him in the stomach and spit on his back. Then hum a few bars of "Ain't No Stoppin' Us Now" and walk away like the classy American you are. And send CamCam a hamburger at Cedars Sinai with a card that has Jared Leto on the cover. The inscription on the inside should read, "Things aren't that bad--you could still be with this guy."

get up, stand up. g

Here it Comes

Allright, look out motherfuckers. I'm abouts to bust out a confession.

I totally adore the movie Love Actually. The end never fails to give me a rush of joy--all those people, declaring love, taking risks, tying up loose ends, and getting what's best for them. The movie ends with thousands of people just hugging, for Chrissake.

The part that really gets me is the kid and Liam Neeson at the airport. The kid is in love with a super talented classmate of his, and she is getting on an airplane and heading off to America. He only has one last chance to make the magic happen and change his life. At the airport, he blasts through security sans ticket and catches up to his true love (who has the same name as his dead mother, of course. Fate, anyone?). Security hauls him away before anything can happen.

He shakes the guards off, smoothes his coat, and looks at Liam Neeson with the eyes of a champion. The eyes of a man who sacrificed his freedom to tell a girl he liked her. Satisfaction. Triumph. Joy. Pride. And the girl comes up behind him and rewards him with a pure, beautiful kiss on the cheek.

I lose my fucking mind when I see this scene. Can you remember a time when things were simple? When we understood what it meant to love someone no matter what? Or do we even fuck things up as children and learn that the only love worth having is the kind that is reciprocated?

In rare and brief moments like those, you didn't feel embarassed because you confessed you liked him and then he didn't call you. When you had a pure, unadulterated flash of joy as a result of the love in your heart, you could have cared less that you weren't on his kickball team. These moments are so rare, we forget that they ever existed. They get buried underneath the pain that we inflict on ourselves as adults struggling to Not Be Alone.

Love Actually taps into those memories for me. Like when I adored Jolon Clark so much that it made me sing Mariah Carey songs in my room. I didn't really mind that he liked Karey Deines instead. I knew it all along, even when we actually dated. But those were a great couple of weeks, I'll tell you. I put myself on the line, went for what I wanted, and had a blast. We held hands at the roller rink, and shared popcorn on movie night. It ended, of course, and we were never really friends again. But I hold a very fond place for him in my heart.

Shelby in Steel Magnolias said it best:

I would rather have five minutes of wonderful than a lifetime of nothin' special.

That is true. The romances in my life have all been wonderful at points. They would have made me charge into my beloved's home in Portgual and ask for her hand in Portuguese, or find my assistant in her home on the way to a Christmas concert when I was the Prime Minister of Britain, or fly to another part of the world to camp out with four hotties in their shared room (I guess you should watch the movie).

This life can be wonderful, my darlings. Fuck the lack of phone calls or the obstacles in your path. Go for what you want, and rejoice in the fact that you did it. LeezyB had a great point recently: What would you do if you couldn't fail?

Now get out there and make some love happen.

All I want for XMas is you. g

Be Like Mike

(Written while listening to "PYT" off the Thriller Album)

The image of Michael Jackson sitting in a courtroom, letting moral outrage and disbelief ooze out of his bleached pores is a creepy visual that keeps me awake at night. Recently things took a weirder turn.

Mikey didn't wanna show up to court. The teenager who recovered from cancer only to be allegedly molested is currently testifying, and I think that put Mike "off his feed," so to speak. So, he decided that he could take the day off and watch cartoons--I think he felt it was his right to decide, since he has been lit on fire, entertained countless Asians, and rocks the one silver glove look.

The judge got all pissy, as judges do because they're all alcoholics. He decided that a warrant was going to be issued for Jackson's arrest if he didn't show, so his lawyers hopped on the horn and got him over there. I guess he arrived in the knick of time. Here's the cool thing: he showed up in his jammies.

When you're the King of Pop, you can wear your jammy-jammers anywhere you want. Look at Hugh "Badass" Hefner, for instance. Or Britney Spears. Don't we all aspire one day to be able to wear our PJs in public without being silently judged by others?

It really gives us all something to work towards. Save that money, work that extra hour, go the extra mile and achieve ridiculous amounts of success. Then you can leave on your camoflauge tank top, pink PJ pants, and King Kong slippers when you go to the movies. Wear a kimono and no underpants, even!

When I reach this level of personal excellence, I will wear my flirty-and-feminine pink and orange boxers that do NOT have that bubble butt thing happening (because they're made expressly for ladies, thanks so much). I will top it off with my tiny tee that says "I Heart Tractors." And then, as icing on the SleepyTime Wardobe cake, I will put on my floor-length polar fleece robe that has stars on it. Yes, now you know what I look like in my kingdom when I'm ready to turn in.

I call my little treehouse Neverland too, actually.

ABC easy as 123. g

In Spite of it All

Well, my darlings, the madness never ends. Wanna hear?

-I was supposed to tape something important for my sister (she was on Entertainment Tonight last night). I left 45 minutes early to get home, and was met with an hour and fifteen minutes worth of traffic to get home. No tape. No sister, now, either. Ha ha.

-My beloved Volkswagen Graham Bingum's Check Engine light is on. Now, my darlings, when I say "beloved," I mean more "thorn in my side." I really am leaning more towards screaming "I should have gotten a goddamn Toyota like everyone told me to" instead of "I'm a 20-something, spiky-haired iPod owner, and I feel right at home in this vehicle!" This car is a joke.

-I had a severe reaction to a new herb I took this morning. I am only supposed to take it 2 weeks out of the month, and only 3 per day. I woke up, free of the congestion that has been plaguing me, and I accidentally took two of the pills at once. They smell like marijuana, by the way. I should be so lucky. Anyhow, I drank my yummy energy shake, unpeeled a banana, and marveled at my own ability to function so well before 530AM.

In the middle of the potassiummy goodness, with Pierce Brosnan and Julianne Moore on my television, I felt my chest tighten. My upper arms went numb and hot at the same time. I was having trouble breathing. My nose felt congested again. I got up, stumbled to the bathroom, and my face was beet red. I sat down, took deep breaths, and tried to figure out if I should wake up my sister, call 911, drive to a hospital myself, cry, or asphixiate myself to speed up the inevitable.

Then it passed. Then I started getting little tingles all over my body like it was falling asleep. And the itching has begun. Why the fuck am I writing when I should be at the doctor, you ask? Because I don't want to spend the money to go to the emergency room unless I'm really messed up. If my arm spontaneously shatters, then trust me, I'll go.

I have watched enough Discovery Channel to know that if I'm in shock, I'll hear a narrator's voice ring out clear as a bell, "What Grae didn't know is that she was dying. Her body was slowly shutting itself down and in a mere five minutes she would be lying dead at her desk, without having showered after her workout. She also wasn't wearing any underwear, which always makes the Coroners giggle."

When I hear his voice, I'll hop in the car and drive to a nearby hospital.

You know what, though? In spite of all this madness, I feel great. I am keeping wild hours, running this way and that, discussing business, seeing flicks, having fun, and loving every second. I am booked solid with activites, my darlings, and I couldn't be happier. I feel unstoppable. There really is something to this whole Wellness Idea.

I can find joy in everything.

--Like these Darkness lyrics:
I want to kiss you/every minute/every hour/every day

--Or that guy outside walking his beagle

--That mix with songs from YOU (found some of the rarer ones!)

--Doctor's appointments

--Falling asleep in freshly washed sheets

--Smiling at people in a car next to me

--Singing really loudly

--Giving elbow milkings

--Scarves as belts

There is so much in this world that was created to give us a split second of peace...like the fact that I haven't broken out in hives yet, that's one. Definitely.

commando. g

PS. UPDATE: My wonderful doctor has concluded that I gave myself a double dose of Niacin, which opens your capillaries. He was surpised that such a small dose would make me freak out, but he told me that I was "sensitive." And I agreed, because I cry in movies and like giving people hugs, which does in fact make me sensitive.

Also I have decided today that I love it when guys call me "doll."

This is what I do when I see You

Dance the night away by karchan85
Name
What you Look like
The Music	The Music in your Head
Quiz created with MemeGen!

Putting America on its Ear

So, the terrorists got us back in '01. They surprised us all and changed our existence. Now, we can't have any unticketed bon-voyagers accompany us to our departure gate at the airport. There are alerts in varying colors to tell us how nervous we should be in public places. Two of the most recognizable structures in New York's skyline are gone. And we lost a lot of family.

Well, for the past four-some-odd years we've been trying to hunt the baddies down and obliterate them. Maybe they live in spiderholes in the Middle East, and maybe they live next door to you. No one knows. So we've all spent the last four years freaking out...And this is exactly what they want.

The scariest thing is that these guys are trying something all the time. They get up in the morning (that is, if they ever sleep) and eat their Baby Killer Wheaties, then set out for a day of f'ing with the Americans. For variety they strap a bomb to their chest, grab a cup of Jihad Coffee, and play Splatterfest on buses. According to Wolf Blitzer on CNN this is like, a typical day for them.

I just heard their latest ploy. And now I am pretty spooked. I am now writing from under the covers, because these guys are ubiquitous and calculating and smart and this is all getting to be too much...

I heard on the news that, at one point, these heartless bastards wanted to kidnap Russell Crowe. They wanted to steal our Maximus, our Nash, our Hando. Our soul.

What kind of monsters are they?

Think how this would disrupt our lives. How could children learn their multiplication tables if their Cinderella Man went missing? Would you really be able to operate on that patient with a potentially fatal head tumor? Or what about YOU, sweetheart? How could you carelessly sit in that dockside bar, going from sailor to sailor while you know that The Crowe is getting bamboo shoots shoved under his fingernails? I certainly couldn't write this blog knowing that perhaps with every key strike, Russell was losing a chest hair by way of rusty pliers.

How would YOU would be affected by this? Be careful...if you think about this subject too much, you'll end up under your own covers.

Just pop in LA Confidential and take some deep breaths, honey.

It's gonna be okay.

still shivering. g

I'll Tell Simon You Said HEY

Hi all
Running around like a chicken sans head...I have a guest in town and we are tearing up the city.

Thanks for your song recommendations. Feel free to keep them coming.

The real reason I wanted to give a shout out to you in this time of insanity is this: today we are going to a taping of American Idol. Oh, yes. We are going to see the boys today. Boo yah.

At least I think we are. Anyway, I'll have Paula singing Opposites Attract by the end of the night. I guarantee.

More news soon.

sing. g

Mixx it Up

Allright, my darlings. I'm still working on this mix. I know for a fact that more than 4 of you have been here. Leave your songs for this mix or things are gonna get ugly. Don't make me beg. Generally speaking, the picture of me begging ain't pretty. Unless there are high heels involved.

Don't get all excited. I'm wearing tennies right now.

do it. g

I Challenge YOU (yeah, you)

LeezyB has a great point in that comment of hers.

What songs do YOU want on a Blog Mix (entitled "Music From My Darlings")? I ask each and every visitor to suggest a song. Any genre, any band. But it can't suck, guys. Honestly. Leave your comments here. This will be great.

jam. g

Fluff N Fold

Okay, so this cleansing thing my doctor has put me on is not exactly tits. My stomach hurt all weekend, and now that ailment has stopped and is replaced with a sore throat. Apparently there is something inside me that is dark and evil and does not want to go away.

Having said that, though, I really do feel better than I have in awhile. Just before I hopped in my car to leave work yesterday, I was inspired to make a mix CD. So I bust out all of my fav R & B oldies (hence the Bill Withers reference yesterday). May I say, my darlings, that this mix is the shit?

I was coming down with a bit of a migraine. Working out only makes it worse. So I headed home instead of to the gym, and I proceeded to gather my clean laundry.

Now, my pal JKas and I were discussing this--he hates doing laundry period, and I just hate hanging it up. Recently I learned a great trick. You spread the warm laundry out as if you were going to fold and hang it, but instead you FALL ASLEEP ON IT. Presto! Warm bed. It is endlessly cozy. In fact, many a laundry day of yore has been spent cuddled up and napping on toasty laundry with my then-Gentleman Caller. It was quite lovely..

Anyway, last night, for the first time in ages, I am listening to this mix and I am shakin' it. Like, for the reals shakin' it. And I am hanging up the laundry, folding, sorting, smoothing, matching, and just generally tearin' it up. It's like for a minute, I was wearing a rice paddy hat and confusing r's with l's with almond-shaped eyes.

Oh come on. Loosen up, whites.

I made it all the way through the laundry without stopping. I had the mood lighting on and the ole behind was still going. It was a great way to decompress before my night meeting...

So maybe this cleansing thing is working after all. Huh.

Here's the set list for the last-minute Mix With Soul:

Lovely Day-Bill Withers
Best of my Love-Emotions
You've Really Got a Hold on Me-Smokey Robinson and the Miracles
September-Earth, Wind and Fire
Ain't No Sunshine-Bill Withers
Signed, Sealed, Delivered-Stevie Wonder
Tears of a Clown-Smokey Robinson and the Miracles
For Once in my Life-Stevie Wonder
Just the Two of Us-Bill Withers
Across 110th Street-Bobby Womack
A Change is Gonna Come-Sam Cooke
You Can't Hurry Love-Supremes
Bernadette-Four Tops
(Your Love is Like A) Heat Wave-Martha Reeves and the Vandellas
Try a Little Tenderness-Otis Redding
You Keep me Hangin' On-Supremes
Unchain my Heart-Ray Charles

still shakin'. g

PS. Bill Withers is a Badass

Go somewhere and find a Bill Withers album. Play "Lovely Day" while reading my first blog today. Or play it anywhere, anytime. He is a total badass.

Abre los Ojos

*Subject Line taken from the fine film by your Spanish pal and mine, Senor Amenabar.*

On to the topic...this morning I was at the gas station. It was windy, and I was hungry. I was cranky at the notion of needing gas when I should already be on the highway. I stood by the ole car, willing the gas to pump faster with my arms crossed and brow furrowed.

A tall man with a moustache wearing a NICE suit walked out of the convenience store. I glanced at him and was slightly taken aback by how ready this man was to face the day. He had a bounce in his step and a pleasant demeanor about him. So I smiled. He saw me and he returned my smile.

This tall man was driving a black Lincoln in great condition. He opened the back door and cleaned some trash out of the seat, which led me to believe that he was a driver of some sort. He was whistling and slightly nodding his head to a tune I couldn't hear.

As he backed out and got ready to turn out of the gas station parking lot, he looked at me. Then he blew me a big kiss. I laughed aloud, pleased at the lack of creepiness in the gesture. I caught the kiss and put it in my pocket, still laughing.

He drove away and I was left thinking about these gifts life gives us. I've mentioned this before--if your mind is open and your heart is willing to receive love from other people, you'll find it everywhere. You will find happiness waiting for you around every corner. Strangers will blow you kisses, for crying out loud. This can be a phenomenal world we live in. Even Los Angeles, home of the Depraved, Angry, and Generally Terrifying can turn into the Land of the Warm Fuzzies if you let it.

This morning I was standing at Pump #1 whining about my lack of preparation and late start. I was busy pulling a woe-is-me, and wouldn't you know it, life once again made me wake up. So open your eyes, my darlings, and take a deep breath. Beautiful things will come to you, if you are ready for them.

mwa (that was a kiss). g