No, Your Eyes are PERFECTLY FINE!

I may have used this one before....hmmmmm...I just can't remember! It seems odd to have forgotten an image such as this, but it HAS been a long time now, hasn't it?

My favorite part is the tiniest peek of cleavage....so tantalizing...mmmmmmm. Is this a family blog!!?? I hope not! I remember what a stir my dimples caused on ABC. Men were leaving their wives and children in droves, on pilgrimages, to find me and the Lesbians were sent into a frenzy. It all led to the financial crisis and good Americans lost their homes as a result. Also, I think gay people actually married each other in California somewhere. I have powers that even frighten ME!

I figured it was safe to show my face again but the tiny peek of cleavage may be too much! GOD! I hope you don't go and do anything crazy after seeing me again. I tried to use a picture that was around a twelve out of ten on the sexy-scale. You should see the twenty-fives! WAIT! No you shouldn't....not yet.

I suppose you are wondering where I have been? I have been enveloped in academia and now my nails have grown unusually long and curved. No, I mean UNUSUALLY! You remember that guy in the 80's that was from India and he was always on the opening credits for Ripley's Believe it or Not and his nails curved and curved and curved in concentric circles and if you stretched them straight they would circle the earth, or was it reach the moon and back? I make him look like...um...well, mine are longer. They shine and make a sound like a wine glass orchestra.

I Saw Cincinnati: a Plagiarism

I was expecting a downtown. I was expecting hillbillies.

Instead, Cincinnati was fascinating. It looked like a bunch of dirty, tiny Iowa river towns crammed together, with sprawls of ghetto and/or nature in between. It was eensy and seemed like it would taste of dirt, like when you're a kid and the wind comes out of nowhere and blows dirt into your mouth. I had that taste in my mouth most of the time I was there. This is because everything in Cincinnati is crumbling.

I was looking through the ruins of a city that was living in the 1970s. That's what the world looked like then. I kept thinking about 30 Rock and how hot I was in Cincinnati. Because I was definitely hot. And even fashionable! There is no fashion in Cincinnati; first this appalled me, then it refreshed me. I realized I could wear cutoff jean shorts again! Most people in Cincinnati are in their 40's. I'm not sure if other age groups are allowed.

I had this experience with everything there: appalled then refreshed; appalled then refreshed. You can go kayaking in Cincinnati. You can climb rocks. Technically, there are even mountains.

It is confusing. You never know where you are. Nothing lines up. In that picture, for example, there is an amazing european market in the center of the worst neighborhood in town.

Two things to report

1. I am trying to slim down my morbidly obese cat by giving him hug endorphins. Every time he sits by his bowl, I scoop him up, throw my back out, and squeeeeze him, instead of giving him food. I may actually be training him to sit by his bowl.

2. Our entire side yard is covered in strawberries.

I saw Saturn

I was expecting a fiery ball. I was expecting space dust.

Instead, Saturn was adorable. It looked like Atari, white on black and totally clear. It was eensy and seemed like it would taste of really sharp peppermint.

Mostly this was because I was looking at it through a telescope that was built in the 1880s. That's what the world looked like then.

Pinch Punch Ch. 7: Welcoming Committee

Plus-sized Model: I didn’t know there would be so much blood on the sidewalk, did you?

Plus-sized Model: That’s not blood. It’s cake batter.

Plus-sized Model: No, I licked it. I didn’t like it.

TYRA: You’ll develop a taste for blood in here.

Plus-sized Model: Who are you?

TYRA: Why don’t you follow me up to the roof deck?

Plus-sized Model: No, that’s okay.

TYRA: I wasn’t talking to you.

Plus-sized Model: Then who were you talking to?

TYRA: Have some boneless, skinless bunny feet with a side of Venus flytrap. Have a pinch-punch.

Plus-sized Models (in unison): Ow!

TYRA: Just kidding. Here’s a real Pinch-Punch. Delicious, right?

TYRA: Carry them off, Caravaggio.

***

Call: How do you live your dream?

Response: I do what I must.

Call: Do you renounce Satan?

Response: What?

Call: How do you live your dream?

Response: I pinch. I punch.

Call: Do you accept that you have thus far been unable to live your dream and must relinquish yourself to my care that you might become truly beautiful?

Response: I do.

Call: Do you understand that I am doing this for your own good?

Response: I do.

Call: Call me Mama.

Response: Mama.

***

You are not here to be painters. You are not here to be songwriters or filmmakers or bookkeepers or entrepreneurs. You are not here to work. You are not here to think.

Plus-sized Model, your disease is Open Drain. Whenever you speak, an overwhelming sewer odor will permeate the air. People will associate it with you, even if you take to obsessive mouth-washing.

Plus-sized Model, your disease is Bird Call Fever. You will speak as a cardinal for the rest of your days. Here’s a water whistle I got at the circus. People will be able to interpret your meaning eventually, I think. But it’s really up to you. How good you are at it.

Plus-sized Model, your disease is Broken Tubing. That seems self-explanatory.

Plus-sized Model, your disease is Worthlessness. No one will ever pay attention to you until I have freed you from its clutches.

Kashmir, show the ladies to their room.

Ch. 1 here
Ch. 2 here
Ch. 3 here
Ch. 4 here
Ch. 5 here
Ch. 6 here

let's talk more about television

i just watched the 30 rock finale. boy, it was a doozy. i really liked it when jack said "rainstorm katrina." what was your favorite word coupling? if you can't remember, watch it and report back.

i started doing cognitive behavioral therapy and it's making me really depressed. isn't it supposed to do the opposite.

Disinterested

Last night I saw Obsessed, which is a movie that stars Beyonce and the handsome fellow from The Office (who took over as Regional Manager when Michael Scott started The Michael Scott Paper Company), who was also on The Wire, who is also secretly British.

The best part: When Beyonce and the woman from Heroes were in a fight involving two-by-fours that culminated in a 40-foot fall through a glass coffee table. This fall did not result in death—at least not until the chandelier squished the victim into spatter. (I don’t want to tell you whether it was Beyonce or Heroes in case you are ever watching this movie where it belongs, on television, deep, deep in the night.)

The lesson of this movie: Call the police.

The other lesson: Women are only ever assistants and mothers, and gay people are possibly a different species altogether, one that is related to humans but which has the intelligence and motivation of seven-year-olds.

The other, other lesson: You can trust Jerry O’Connell. He is just there to be a recognizable name in the credits.

The other, other, other lesson: Drink Starbucks. Listen to Crudo, which is apparently real and also probably managed by Beyonce’s dad.

The final lesson: If you walk out, you will miss the awesome fight. If you don’t walk out, you will be able to work up an excellent impression of Ali Larter making a sex-crazed face. Weigh those factors.

Pinch Punch Ch. 6: Song of the Plus-sized Models…and of the Howling Girl…and of Kathy

Ch. 1 here
Ch. 2 here
Ch. 3 here
Ch. 4 here
Ch. 5 here

The Plus-sized Models, in unison: “The first time we became aware of TYRA watching us, we were quite small. Her eyes seemed like Jupiter compared to our Mercuries. Her hair was like genetic jackpot, ours like a scratch-off ticket. Her legs like whoa and ours like teacup piglets’.”

Oh, the luring story. Everyone has one. TYRA offered me bobbins and acres of jersey. There is a girl, on the third floor, who recreates the moment of her luring, again and again. She cannot articulate this (or much of anything, anymore), but I suspect she needs to know how it happened. At what point could her mind have been so weak?

She clambers atop a stepstool and smashes her head against light fixtures. Glass shards have joined with her hair to create a sparkly tangle. Her concussed speech is slurred, her tongue lolls uselessly much of the time.

In the light, she looks fantastic, her hair like iridescent candy floss. But then she goes and butts her head into its source. TYRA has tried everything: fluorescent tubing, candles, elimination of dropped ceilings. The other residents are getting pissed. She’s put her head through all the television sets.

The Plus-sized Models continue: “We could sense her desperation and wanted nothing to do with her. Most of all, we were frightened of her body weapons: vagina dentate, need we say more? We probably should have reported her to The Authorities. But she took us horseback riding and then for manicures. And our pet marten disappeared. Implied threat.

“She fattened us on a diet of gin and babyback. The tenderness, oh! The first time she kissed us, our tongues retracted, and we choked. We would have died if she hadn’t been there to snag and tame our struggling muscles.”

That crazy girl howls at the night sky, straining her neck to break the moon. She is so dumb. The moon is really far away.

“We grew up with her in our peripheral vision. The day she left we took some pills. They were just Tylenol, but that is still a cry for help.”

I take the Plus-sized Models on a tour before handing them over to TYRA for the ceremony, and they’re all way too interested in the vat room. “What’s in there, perfume? Fabulous cash and prizes? World-famous photographers?” The vats, the vats: What could they possibly contain other than gore? This is no funeral parlor, but it ain’t exactly an amusement park either. I guess Movie Night is okay. I’m getting better at the piano. And TYRA gave me some silk once in exchange for my grandmother’s engagement ring.

The Howling Girl spaces her neck with bangles. Each day it grows half an inch, a rate alarming to our keeper. We have been told not to give her jewelry because, even now, her height far exceeds door frames, and it’s interfering with her massage duties. She rolls shattered pieces of glass in her shredded cheeks till they’re smooth enough for beading. She is her own ocean.

I would like to surf her tongue, but must content myself with staring as she showers. How come everyone but me gets a muse? And do you choose your muse or does he choose you?

The Howling Girl needs to get over herself and start helping me sew clothes for the small pets. I hate that I can see the teacup piglets’ nipples.