No Pants

In the 1970's, you had to remind people all the time to put their clothes on which is pretty horrifying and/or amazing, if you think about it. When I was but a wee lass in Venice, CA, some folks on the beach tried to go all nekkid. It only lasted a summer. But I do have a distinct memory of a lithe, tan, hairy nudist trying to chat up my mom. I was au natural as well. The main difference is I was maybe five and he was maybe 25. Many years later, my mom said all she was thinking was, "Oh, god. Please don't let Raina say anything." I didn't say anything. I was confused but not enough to care. My mom didn't go out with him. She had her own sign: no pants, no chance of romance.

Happy Birthday, David Bowie!

Me love you now and forevah!

Three True Stories about Me and Hot Dogs

1. At Dodger Stadium in Los Angeles, a hot dog is called a Dodger Dog. When I was 8 I bit into my aunt's Dodger Dog and lost a tooth.
   
2. When I first moved to NYC, I said to a friend, "At about 5 o'clock yesterday, I saw this street vendor pushing his cart away and all this hot dog water was dripping out of the bottom. Then I started thinking there are carts everywhere in this city and they're all dripping hot dog water. The streets are like a giant sponge soaking up hot dog water. I'm serious. Why are you laughing? Every inch of every street in all of New York is covered with hot dog water!" I think I was flirting.


3. At a slumber party in 5th grade, a girl named Jennifer was dared to rub a hot dog on her vajayjay. She totally did it. I was there.

Once Upon a Time

Once upon a time, on the Upper West Side, there was a princess named Rachel. On a sunny afternoon, while walking to Zabar's Delicatessen, Rachel happened upon a young pigeon. Having seen a lot of Disney movies, she knelt down and spoke to it.

Said Rachel, "Fine feathered friend, I understand that someday my prince will come. I'm just wondering, what day is that, exactly? To have the right wedding, a princess has a lot of planning to do!"

"Gettoutta my way, lady," the pigeon replied. "Can't you see I'm eatin' ovah here!" And with that, the pigeon continued to peck at a discarded scrap of pretzel. Anytime Rachel tried to to say anything, the pigeon simple turned his back to her and emitted an angry cooing sound that sounded an awful lot like boiling water.

This gave Rachel an idea.

"Thank you, pigeon!" She scooped him up and shoved him in her handbag.

She returned to her castle, handed the handbag to her chef, and he immediately cooked the pigeon into a lovely squab soup for "squab" is what one calls a cooked pigeon.

Rachel took a bite, "Delish!" She said. She took a second bite. "I do not EVEN care how many calories are in this!" She took a third bite and said in a gravelly, familiar tone, "January 14th, lady. You'll meet a nice kid named John at the fountain in the park and you will marry in May of the following year. Now leave me alone. There's a half eaten burrito your stomach and I gotta get with it."

As predicted by the soup, Rachel did meet John at the fountain in Central Park - you know, the one with the sculpture with the lady in the center. For when the soup had said, "the park," that is what she assumed he meant. Alas, he was not referring to a big fountain but rather to a drinking fountain. The drinking fountain in Thompkins Square Park, to be exact. The squab soup had been predominately a downtown pigeon. Unfortunately, the John Rachel married was still in love with his ex-girlfriend. So Rachel, John, and the ghost of girlfriend past lived tolerably ever after.

The End.

Trash TV

You know, there is nothing wrong with watching the show Hoarders on A&E just like there is nothing wrong with:

• Gawking at a car accident
• Giving the stink eye to a stranger's child throwing a 45 minute tantrum
• Marveling at a not so pretty girl trying real hard to be real pretty

In other words, even though you know better, you do it anyway. Sort of like picking a zit or dating an alcoholic.

Not surprisingly, Hoarders is about people who refuse to throw things away. There are a lot of embarrassed children and dead cats on this show. The humiliated children are not a surprise but the cat carcasses often are. Not to me but to the people on the show. Let's be real: if you live in a big ol' litter box, you can expect a few feline friends wanting to come over and play. For some reason, I watched two episodes of this show last night. I should be scolded. But no one was there to witness it except The Man Upstairs.

Hoarders. It's between me and my god, now.

Thank God

Southern California is home to so many amazing things such as Fashion Island and a classy chain of restaurants called Pink Taco. You would think that you died and gone to heaven most days, but the rats in the palm trees and the possums on your lawn bring it all back to earth.

The real story of this city can be found in the humble genre called B Movies. Thank God It's Friday, Roller Boogie, and The Van tell it like it is. Don't show me Chinatown directed by that damaged Polish kiddy diddler. Don't you dare mention LA Confidential, Barton Fink, or even Beverly Hills Cop. Those are fantastical bits of celluloid rubbish trying to sell a stylized, sterilized, organized Hollywood Blvd. Well, I'm here to tell you, it's ain't like that at all. It's ugly. Embrace it.

All you need to know about Los Angeles can be seen in Xanadu. Art, love, hopes, dreams, silly hair, skates. It's all there for you and for me.

Merry Christmas!

I made up a new joke for Christmas. It goes like this:

You know when you have to deal with your fuckin' family?

Ba-dum-dum.