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.

our very own, vinnie lacey

i feel like i am about to do something really weird

like give away everything i own, including my hair, and join a sun worshipping cult in the weird new age-y part of arizona. and then two weeks into it realize that i am miserable and bald and want to go back to my old life but i can't because i gave all of my money away so i'm forced to live in a women's shelter in tucson where a lady punches me in the mouth for my ipod nano that is like two years old anyway, and knocks out all of my teeth. and the next time abby and sarah come to visit chicago they will find me face down in a trash can with my legs sticking up in the air, and it won't even be my first day of crazy.

i want to live in poemland

I spent a couple hours today reading Chelsey Minnis's Poemland. The reasons I love Chelsey Minnis are sort of endless. Here are some:

1. I can read her books straight through; I can fly through her books; usually I make it to page 5 of anyone's poems and feel tired and like I need to take a break or enter a coma. But I can eat Chelsey's poems one after another. They are light like rice cakes. They are delicious like rice cakes aren't. You do not feel heavy after eating 126 of them.

2. She has planned and bought the most awesome "death outfit" ever: "White boots, tan suit, orange shirt and pink necktie." She should probably design a line of death outfits. People's death outfits are usually so bland and awful.

3. She can write so accurately about how awful it is to write things. "Poetry is like waking up drunk in a lemon yellow room," or "If you want to be a poem-writer then I don't know why...It hurts like a puff sleeve dress on a child prostitute," or "With my poetry I want to barricade myself from other people's poetry..." I hate when writers write about writing, unless they are Chelsey.

4. "I am so drunk I'm seeing toy bats"

kumquats are the stupidest fruits

They look like they are going to be awesome and interesting because they are very small and also have a weird name. They are like the tiniest oranges. They are like grape oranges. But they are sour, and their rinds are thick. Nothing can be done with them. Also, I am not sure if you are supposed to eat the rind. Kumquats need a new packaging designer.

Pinch Punch Ch. 5: New Rule: Plus-sized Models Clause

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

Only four (4) plus-sized models are permitted in The Pinch Punch at any one time. If you see a new plus-sized model at Entry Day ceremonies and her hair is the same color as yours, you have the following options:

1. Knit your contraband jump ropes (eyes in the back of my head) into a ladder. Attempt escape.
2. Dye your hair (NOTE: Ash-blonde and blonde are the same color. Black and blue-black are the same color. Red and auburn are the same color. Brown and dishwater are the same color. As is chestnut.)
3. Use your switchblade in any way you see fit (NOTE: I am not encouraging, or even condoning, violence).
4. Sex-change operation.

NOTE: Hair-dye option is included so that you may face off with the least burly of the plus-sized models admitted.

NOTE: There is no such thing as a male plus-sized model.

ANNOUNCEMENT: Four new plus-sized models have been admitted to The Pinch Punch! See TYRA for your sex-change operation today!

Crotchety old man post

I hate Twitter. I hate that when I was watching the Miss USA pageant last night, Miss Teen USA was live-twittering. I hate that the word "twitter" appeared at least 25 times in the OK Magazine that I impulsively bought. Then this morning while driving to driving to work I listened to a story about how Twitter is both helping and hurting traditional journalism.

This is a new development, this Twitter over-exposure. It happened yesterday. I hate Twitter.

It's the enormous eye thing

So, it took me forever to figure this out, but the reason that I'm rooting for Allison so hard on America's Next Top Model is that I think she looks like our own Katerina. There are the enormous eyes, the pillowy lips, the thing where everybody thinks she's totally the sweetest person on earth because of her enormous eyes when she really draws pictures of Tyra with her nose bleeding.

Donald Barthelme, you're dead but I still have a serious crush on you.

Oh Donald Barthelme, you are dead. Dead and you look just like an Amish cowboy hijacker/bomber. Still, you are my celebrity crush of the moment. I have just re-read your brilliant story "The Balloon," which is so brilliant and lovely, which is a picture of your captivating brain, which I cannot wait to put on display for my students tonight, who will never, ever understand "The Balloon" or your captivating brain, and will therefore have to complete what I'm calling a "Postmodern Scavenger Hunt" in order to sort-of understand it. I think you would love a postmodern scavenger hunt, Donald Barthelme, and I wish you could create one for my students instead of me, because it would be way better, and then they would love you like I do, dead and Amish as you are, and we would all climb the balloon together just as it crosses 47th street, and there would be quiet applause for us from like 3 people.

Harmless vandalism

There have been three (3) occurrences of harmless vandalism at our house since we've moved in. I am recording them here just in case the next step is breaking in to our house and tickling us until we cry, or something.

1. The fuck balloon: Sometime in late August/early September we awoke to find a partially deflated pink balloon on which someone had written the aforementioned naughty swear in large block letters tied to the ironwork on our porch. It was creepy.

2. The open but mostly full Coke can: About a month ago we found the aforementioned object propped on our garbage can against the house, almost as if someone had been casually leaning there, looking in our window, sipping away. Also creepy.

3. Spray paint stain: When we came home last night someone had spraypainted something on our porch. There was white around a negative space corner. There was a spot of white on our railing, too. Very very creepy.

Who is doing this? Who? And why?

She is in the air right now.

I Am In the Air Right Now from Greg Lytle on Vimeo.

Returning to our original vision

Amazon just informed me that Stacey Levine's new book will be arriving in my mailbox on or around 5/6/2009.

We haven't had an official book in a while. This book should be our official book.

Yes?

Why can't library cards earn us airline miles?

I have been amazingly literate lately -- for me this means going to the library twice in the last month. I'm pretty sure I'm going to stop buying books altogether, because library books are so much more pleasing to me than anything I purchase.

Why are library books always better? I feel practically compelled to eat them (literally), while if I buy a book, I can only read like 3 pages a day. I complain about books that I buy, often dislike them, and will very likely never read them again. Maybe because I spent many years trying to create an impressive library and I only bought books that I believed should appear on display in my home, so that anyone who visited my home would be impressed by my eclectic and fabulous literary taste. That was in college; it alarms me that I still know people who read and buy books in this way -- to display them. That is gross.

That is what the Auersbergers in Thomas Bernhard's "Woodcutters," which I just finished, do: host disgusting "artistic dinners" and invite the kinds of people who buy books in order to display them, in order to display their own books. If you would like to be completely grossed out by the future godawful personalities that of many of our contemporaries will inhabit by the time they're 50, you should read it. It is lovely and hilarious. A man narrates an entire novel while angrily sitting in a chair in a dark room at a party, picking apart all the guests and refusing to interact with them. Also, this book has also made me almost completely certain that I am about to abandon American literature completely...

A trio of old ladies just made fun of me

Me: Sitting in a breakfast hotspot, cheerfully observing this table filled with old ladies who all had the same spun sugar hair, and I was all like, "aw, ain't they cute." They had these complicated canes with handpainted designs on them, and I couldn't figure out whether they were sisters or lovers or just VL in the future. One of them smiled at me, and I smiled back. That is how cheerful I was. One of them dropped her cane, and I thought about picking it up for her, but then I thought that maybe that was insulting, so I didn't.

And then they all laughed these dry, smoker cough-laughs, and I saw an arthritic claw pointing at me. "She looks so tacky!" the one wearing the most jewelry rasped in this I'm-trying-to-talk-quietly-but-my-friends-are-mostly-deaf voice.

They totally made fun of me. Old ladies.

This summer I am going to write:

1. A Family Drama.
2. A Musical. Actually it will probably be more like a rock opera.

What? So it's a short list. That's still really a lot to write.

Miami Beach was chock full of celebrities, and I didn't see a single one.

Also, it monsooned basically the whole time we were there. Also too, I got a sunburn that turned this eerie maroon color after a few days, even though I had slathered on the 45 and lounged under a palm tree. The second half of that sentence is the result of having read nothing but women's magazines and Twilight all week. And plus also too, there were a ton of spring-breakers there. And I saw a huge blue jellyfish.

Act V: Desecration by Kittycat

: I am pissed! I can't find any of the pictures I used to play Barbies with on my computer! I think my evil boyfriend may have murdered them! Grrr! Now why would someone want to murder an image of Elizabeth Taylor or Wayne Koestenbaum from their photo albums? I don't get it. Luckily I've been drinking, so I'm not that pissed.

: Also luckily I was not among the murdered images! I guess I am just that likeable. Or else this is a dream, like the one you had the other night about living at the Playboy mansion, where you had to borrow Holly's backless pink satin shirt with the polka dots, that your boobs kept flying out of. I thought it was strange how you felt so uncomfortable in Hef's shower with that random dude. To me it seemed like great fun!

: Um, excuse me, but how did you break into my dreamlife?

: Crowbar, fork and knife, and the very crafty meercat I hired in the alleyway.

: I am no meerkat! I'm the Gato, otherwise known as McFuzzy VonStubenKitty! Now it is time to claw your face off!

Pinch Punch Ch. 4: Room 4832, Caravaggio

Ch. 1 here
Ch. 2 here
Ch. 3 here

So I was running down this Mediterranean beach, full of mania and malaria and mead and sunshine and oceanwater and a history of stabbings, to deliver my paintings to the pope.

This is what I replay in my mind all day long in room 4832 at the Pinch Punch, where I am allowed to drink only the vile liqueur TYRA calls her “specialty,” where I am allowed only jars of fingerpaint in the three primary colors with which to create my masterpieces. That I was almost there to deliver my paintings; that I was almost pardoned for the 357 murders I had committed the week prior; that I was almost free again. That I…

“Watch it again and tell me what’s missing, says my 19-year-old roommate Kashmir. “I just don’t think it’s right yet. Something about the beesting rings so false.”

Before he arrived at the Pinch Punch, Kashmir was a film student at West Suburban Community College for about three days before he fled because his brilliance “could not be contained inside the walls of WSCC.” He has teeth like a vampire and carts his projector everywhere for “necessary impromptu viewings.” Since he arrived he’s been making a film about my life, which he projects onto our wall at all hours of the day. Kashmir’s masterpiece began as a 12-minute short and has devolved into a 200-hour miniseries, which documents every itch, scratch, and orgasm of my existence.

"Watch it again, watch it again,” he says, so that I spend every minute of my current “life” inside the Pinch Punch reliving my life as it was before I arrived here.

Since I’ve existed in the Pinch Punch, I have not been in love (forbidden), nor eaten a French fry (forbidden), nor broken a sweat except those induced by drinking (the only exercise I enjoy is jumproping, also forbidden). There’s basically nothing left of the old me, so who cares that I wear a wig and swimming trunks at all hours, that I am a state of complete disrepair, that I stand in the shower for days at a time without turning on the faucet, thinking about washing then deciding against it? Who cares that I stab for entertainment?

“The bumblebee that stung my tongue that winter didn’t sound zzzz like an airplane, you bastard; he sounded like a puncture wound doused in hollandaise. Not fucking béchamel. Hollandaise. Their sounds are completely different,” I tell Kashmir.

Lately everything I tell Kashmir is a lie. TYRA says no books unless she wrote them or has read and approved, which means no books, which means no research for Kashmir. Fuck Kashmir. TYRA is in love with his vampire ass and allows him any artistic freedom he desires; he is the ultimate reminder of my former life.

Why is he wasting his life creating films about me? I don’t ask—I cooperate and tell him his project is way too brilliant for WSCC and pray that he destroys his whole life creating a botched miniseries of such impossible detail that no one will be able to watch it for more than ten minutes at a time without crumbling into a heap of boredom.

“Hollandaise…hollandaise,” Kashmir says.

Kashmir definitely grew up on Applebee’s; Kashmir will never travel the world, except to visit other suburbs.

“Can you describe that for me?”

“It’s like how your face tastes after I stab it.”

“I hear the new pope wears saucy red leather shoes made by a shoemaker in Genoa, which cost $600 a pair, but which are free for him,” says Kashmir, to spite me. “Wouldn’t I look fucking fabulous in those?”

“I think the new pope is a bastard, and that when I deliver my paintings to him I’ll wait for him to pardon me as his eyes to go afire with the love of Christ. Then I’ll then stab him in those fucking shoes, steal his robe, and make myself pope.”

Kashmir giggles, slaps me on the back, tells me I’m “such a card.”

He thinks I’m kidding about the stabbing, but stabbing is all that keeps me alive. Kashmir and I share bunk beds, and at night I stab stab stab up through the mattress, but his young skin rejuvenates itself immediately, frequently digesting my switchblades.

“A switchblade digested by pasty juvenile vampire skin is not the same as a switchblade destroyed,” I said to TYRA after I lost the first three to Kashmir's bellybutton.

She said: “Nu-uh girl. Same difference. You shouldn’t stab things that are so soft. The softest things are the evilest things. It’s the soft things that will seriously fuck your shit up.”

That’s when she put the humiliating purple wig on my head and told me I had to wear it always, else be sent to the Pinch-Punch vats.

I’m up to switchblade #7, but I can't help myself from stabbing everything in sight.

Remember that one time we all dressed up like Jon?

We were sooo ahead of the times. Probably they didn't even think of the idea of making Watchmen into a movie until some movie exec saw a group of Dr. Manhattans traipsing through Chicago.

Act IV: The Conflagration

: Richard Burton is my true love!




: Unless you're doing a character voice, Ball, there's gonna be a beatdown.




: Careful, he is a soothsayer, which comes from the Old English. And means truth. Also, he believes in lucid dreaming and spontaneous combustion. So do I, come to think of it.


: I'm growing out my hair. Lizzie, did you hear me? I'm growing out my hair!




: There is no such thing as violet eyes!




: Okay, I get it. You're pushing my buttons. Attacking my mythology. Did Jon hire you?



: I don't need other people, Taylor. Frankly, you have insulted me. I'm going to go hang out in outer space for a while. Why don't you join me?



: He's baiting you, Lizzie! Don't--Lizzie? Lizzie? NOOOOOOO!

act III: the lumination

: i fell asleep in the tanning bed and woke up glowing. my eyes are so full of light!




: oh lizzy, you sparkle like one hundred galaxies! your head is a beautiful gleaming orb!



: be careful wit dat sheeeit, yo




: john, cram it. i have diamonds in my skin! diamonds!




: you shine like a nuclear holocaust!




: awww sheeeeeit

Act II, Elizabeth Taylor enters

: Eli, OMG, that sweater is gorgeous. I am so glad we bought matching sweaters at H&M the other day! Also, I'm happy to see you're wearing the BFF diamond heart pendant I gave you for V-Day!

: Oh shut UP and stop asskissing! We're just in a scene together, Wayne! And I also wish you'd stop following me into the tanning bed - there isn't room enough for the both of us in there. Also, for the record, before we begin this scene, may I state how much I hated Slumdog Millionaire? Its half-baked characters, flimsy plotline, and overall nauseating generic-ness? I found it quite yucky, particularly when the brother gets shot in the heavyhanded bathtub of money.

: Really?!?! I sort of loved it. That was sort of my favorite scene. But while we're on the topic of things we hate, I'll have you know that I was NOT at AWP in Chicago, although I did fly to Chicago simply so I could hang out in the hot tub at the Drake all during the conference and get all pruny. I was in that hot tub for 3 days straight. I feel fucking amazing!

: I think I'm more of a cornflower blue, rather than whale-blue. Or a suffocated-baby blue, perhaps? Ooh, that's morbid. Jon don't do morbid. Who am I, anyway? Why am I in a scene with two people who won't talk to me? Why wasn't I invited to read at AWP?

I'm in love with a playwright

You know me. I hate plays. I hate them even when people I love are in them.


But I have been reading Sarah Ruhl plays over the last week or so, and, heck, I think she deserves some serious Wayne Koestenbaums. I think I would like to watch her plays. I think I might even want to play peripheral characters in her plays. That is a weird feeling. Wait. I think I might want to write plays. Let's write a play! Oo, let's! Kathy, you can wear antlers and vampire teeth. Oh wait. Someone already wrote that.


Really though. I miss our collaborations. So I will start:



: You are blue, like a whale because blue whales aren't really blue.




: No, I'm really blue.




Your turn!