Thursday, March 30, 2006


Star Jones. I mean, how does this lady keep her job? I have yet to find anyone who likes her. Her new book is such an ego driven gift to herself it should be called “I’m Star Jones And I Love Myself and You Should, Too.”

And Star, a word of advice from one queen to another: sleeveless is not a good look for you. Furthermore, can you imagine what she looks like naked after losing all that weight – yuk.

And come on, we all know she married a queen, who any day now is gonna pull a “Stella got her groove back” on her. I can’t wait until he does, because someone has to take this bitch out.

Nicole Richie is not too thin - I think she looks great. But what I do find odd is how she seems to have erased her original race. If you look at childhood pictures of her, she had nappy hair, dark skin and a wide nose. Who knew that with a little surgery and healthy dose of concealer, a 22-year old black girl could be transformed into a blonde 40-year old socialite?

Ok, now some real white girls.

I do love Brad and Angelina, but I feel sorry for Jennifer – it must be hard for a plain girl with good hair to lose your man to Miss Jolie. I mean, Angelina is so hot I’d fuck her. And what about Ashlee Simpson? It must be hell being the ugly sister to Jessica. I adored Ashlee’s first Cd, which doesn’t say much for my taste level, does it? But I sang along to my ipod and felt her teenage angst like any 14-year old pretend punk from Long Island.

And finally, I love Mary Kate Olsen. In fact, she’s my new role model. I mean, a billionaire who dresses like a Burberry bag lady and uses Starbucks as her main source of nutrition is my kinda NYC gal.

Tuesday, March 28, 2006


I was thinking today about the people I keep close to me. My nearest and dearest are a pre-op tranny who can’t get enough sex, a husky redhead who has not had sex in 10 years, and last but not least, a kooky artist who fantasies about serial killing to reach orgasm. What a bunch! I wonder what this says about me?

Monday, March 27, 2006


Why do smart women make stupid choices when it comes to men?

My best gal pal from high school regularly trades in her 9 to 5 YSL skirts for black catsuits to stalk her married lover. Yes, she makes regular midnight runs to his house and slinks around his backyard peering into his windows. Why? She is convinced he is not only canoodling with his wife, but also the divorcee across the street. I accompanied her on one of these missions – yes, I too, apparently have no life. Outside of his house, I inquired about her knowledge of his philandering ways, she replied:

“See that big lawn sign over there.”

“You mean the “Say No to War in Iraq” sign.

“Yes, I was hiding behind it one night when I heard them going at it.”

I sat there wide-eyed. I didn’t know what was more shocking, a grown woman hiding behind a lawn sign in the middle of the night or a “No War” sign in a wealthy republican neighborhood.

Her stalking went on for several months until the police came knocking on her door. Apparently, someone had broken into the man’s house and cut the heart and crotch out of his designer suits. I asked her over morning lattes if she had indeed did the deed. She looked me dead in the eye and laughed sarcastically…”What do you think?” I couldn’t tell if that was a yes or a no.

Several months passed and she was still seeing him. I didn’t ask any questions. But when I stopped at her house, the answer was right there in plain sight – sitting in her laundry basket was a freshly laundered catsuit awaiting its next midnight mission.

Monday, March 20, 2006


Why is America so afraid of strong gay men? It’s ok to win Oscars and awards if you’re feminine, a drag performer or a crazed murderer – or better yet, all three. But take a couple of macho gay men who actually have passionate sex on screen and what do you get: jokes, jokes and more jokes, and finally, the loss of the best picture at the Oscars.

Now don’t get me wrong, I loved Crash, but did it deserve the coveted best picture prize? No. As much as I loved the movie and it’s message, it seemed like something I would see on Lifetime. Plain and simple, Brokeback Mountain was the groundbreaking movie of the year.

In a town such as Hollywood, with its hypercritical liberal views on gays and openly gay stars, perhaps the saga of two married men carrying on a 20 year romance was a little too close to home – are you listening Mr. Cruise and Mr. Travolta?

Saturday, March 18, 2006


I hate smokers. What a digusting and filthy habit. I want to kill those assholes who think they have the right to walk down the street and puff their cancerous smoke into my face. How would they like it if I whipped out my dick and started pissing on them as I strolled down the street? I bet all hell would break loose and I would probably be arrested, but if the truth be told, piss is a lot healthier than smoke.

Thursday, March 16, 2006


It’s been said that the longer you live in New York City, the less you leave your apartment. I got to thinking about it, and there is a lot of truth to that statement. What with the Internet, HBO and a Lindsey Wagner endorsed Sleep Number mattress, there’s little reason to venture outside into the big bad world ever again.

I can call the corner deli and have a bagel, cappuccino and a Post delivered in 10 minutes. For lunch, the Chinese restaurant brings by egg drop soup and dumplings. If I need groceries, I log onto

For entertainment, digital cable offers over 200 channels of non-stop entertainment – and yes, channel 35 still has porn, porn and more free porn. And I don’t care what anyone says; I can watch reruns of the Golden Girls all day long.

And I love my Sleep Number bed so much sometimes I need bionic strength to just get out of it. I purposely keep the phone and television in the living room just for that reason.

Now don’t get me wrong, I get out of the house plenty, but I alway love coming home.

Wednesday, March 15, 2006


My friend Donald works as a leather S&M escort – or prostitute if you will. He makes a good living at it - $175 an hour.

He has turned his bedroom into a dungeon complete with a leather bed, sling, St. Andrews cross and, of course, dim lighting. (Not to get off subject, but I’ve always wondered how he explains this room to the super – oh, I forgot, this is NYC – who cares.) Anyways, I’ve always been fascinated by ladies or men of the evening. Getting paid for sex has always seemed so glamorous.

One day Donald called and asked if I’d be interested in a three-way with a client – an older gent who wanted to be dominated by two guys. The pay: $350 for two hours. Now Donald is the horniest person I have ever met. I mean, the man has no boundaries or limitations. I have seen him make out with a cute young twink only later to see him swashing tongues with a senior citizen. Lord only knows how he does this, but I admire him for it.

Well, I didn’t need much convincing – my inner “belle de jour” got the best of me and like Brenda from “Six Feet Under”, off I went. It wasn’t as hard as I thought. With the help of a little blue pill and lots of macho acting and fantasying, I was able to pull it off – or get it off. The “client” wasn’t all that bad looking and honestly I didn’t really have to do much other than sit there – if you get my meaning.

No, I didn’t start a new career with this – it was strictly a one-time affair. But it was nice to know I could pull it off – or get it off – if need be.

Tuesday, March 14, 2006


Are there any good-looking gay men in NYC that want to tie the knot? I think not. When I scan the Sunday Style of the Times for the gay wedding pictures, I have yet to see an attractive couple.

I mean, this might sound mean, but my first thoughts are…”Who else would have them.” Bald, fat, old and a lack of a chin seem to be the requirements for a wedding band and a picture in the Times.

Just once I’d like to see a hot couple smiling back at me from the inked pages. Or maybe hot guys don’t want to get married – too busy playing the field. After all, this is NYC – the hardest city in the world to stay faithful in. What with candy on every corner just waiting to be sucked on, why pledge your love and lust to just one man?

Sunday, March 12, 2006


Why is it nowadays anyone and everyone thinks they can model? I blame it on that tubby Tyra and her cast of mangy model wannabees. Think about it, what have any of the winners of "Top Model" accomplished? Cover of Vogue? No. Face of Estee Lauder? No. Oh, yeah, one married a middle-aged Brady. Whoopee!

Believe me, just because your mom or dad or the guy who wants to bang your box said you could model, doesn’t mean it’s true.

As a makeup artist, I am constantly harassed by overly groomed average looking people begging for advice on modeling. How many times have I wanted to say…”Honey, get a mirror and clean your contacts, cause it ain’t happening in this lifetime.” But no, I always smile and wish them luck and suggest “commercial print” or “lifestyle” modeling.

Listen, if you want to model, you have to be a genetic freak with features and a body so fierce that they would turn Gandi into a sex maniac. If not, keep sending your pics to Tyra and hope that your fifteen minutes are just around the corner – but don’t hold your breath.

Saturday, March 11, 2006


Is it just me, or does everyone spend his or her paychecks at Starbucks? I mean, I thought Whole Foods was an addiction, but this coffee craze has gotten out of hand.

The other day I ordered a large mocha Frappacino and a whole-wheat muffin. As I fished for a few dollars in my wallet, the sales gal looked me straight in the eye and said, “That will be $11, please.” Now don’t get me wrong, I love Starbucks, and they are a progressive and humanitarian company, but $11 for coffee and a muffin just seems criminal.

Friday, March 10, 2006


As I walked out of my apartment today, I saw two machismo workmen cleaning out the garbage cans. The two Latino matadors smiled at me and made some joking gesture to each other – I guess I had on a tad too much spice lip-gloss.

Suddenly, the men let out two huge screams. I turned my head to watch a small rat run out from behind the garbage cans. Another rat ran out and the men screamed louder and jumped into each other’s arms. A third rat ran across my feet and the men howled again.

I remained expressionless, after all, this was NYC and rats are as common as Duane Reade drugstores.

The screaming had attracted a crowd – the many faces looked at my glossy lips and the two quivering men. The irony of the situation was lost on no one.

Thursday, March 09, 2006


The search to find a decent man in Manhattan can lead one to some strange places. The other night a friend asked me to a party called “Foot Friends.” And yes, the party is just what you think it is - folks who like feet. Now personally, I find nothing attractive about feet whatsoever, but since I did meet a former amour at an S&M party, I decided to give it go. Plus, we were on the guest list, so it wouldn’t cost a penny.

The party was at page six staple Serena’s. (I guess Monday’s are celebrity slow for ol’ Serena’s, so she lets the foot freaks in.) At the door, we were told the foot folks were being joined by “Touch”, a party for those into massage. A foot and massage party...only in NYC, darlings.

Once inside, I sauntered up to the bar for my usual Black Bitch – vodka and diet coke – for some social lubrication. The bar was filled with professional massage tables and moaning men on them. On the couches and chairs were groups of men licking and massaging feet. Trying to put my best foot forward (no pun intended), I looked around the room for a potential poke. Nothing caught my eye, so I sat down on one of the plush sofas and listened to Nina Simone croon Feelin Good.

I was about to tell my buddy good night and good luck when a rather portly man sat down across from me. He asked if I was a college student – yes, the bar was dark. Going along with the Chanel fantasy, I told him I was a graduate student. And yes, flattery got him my feet. For over 60 minutes this man massaged and caressed my bare feet until I dosed off from the bliss. When I woke up, there were two other men massaging my legs and feet. Who knew that in only two hours I would become a foot whore?

When the men were through, my rather astonished buddy said he had no idea I was a foot top. A foot top? Who knew? I couldn’t even get my boyfriends to massage my feet for five minutes, let alone a full hour. This foot top thing was starting to look pretty good.

Ten minutes later I threw caution – and my clothes – to the wind and I was up on a massage table. My somewhat young and gymed body proved quite the attraction and I was massaged for over 90 minutes.

All in all it was a good night. I didn’t find anyone to date, but I had a few drinks, received a fabulous foot and body massage - and it didn’t cost me a dime. Since I don’t have any interest in feet, I don’t think it would be fair to lead these men on, but you never know. After all, this is NYC and anything goes.

Tuesday, March 07, 2006


Well, it was bound to happen - my blog has offended certain readers who see themselves in my essays. (I even have a friend's mother pissed at me.) One pal commented that New York City has made me mean. Well, yeah, NYC doesn't make people nice. If you want "Up With People" bullshit, read Chicken Soup for the Soul, darlings.

What more can I say...get over yourselves comes to mind as well as stop taking yourselves so seriously. My essays are meant to be silly slices of modern life in NYC. And if my writing makes you think, well, all the better. And if you see yourself in my work, consider this: at least you're interesting.


Today we learned that Dana Reeves passed away from lung cancer – just a little over a year after her husband Chris died. Left behind is their 13-year old son. It doesn’t seem fair, does it? But then, as we all know, life isn’t fair.

I’ve had my share of death in my somewhat young life. What has it taught me? Not much. Sure, everyone sings the song of cherishing life and being strong and blah, blah, blah. The only thing I know for sure is that it hurts, and the hurt never goes away, it just becomes less vocal.

I think it is important to make your life count – and that can mean many things to many people. It is never too late to pursue your dreams and the things that make you happy.

Sunday, March 05, 2006


On the red carpet last night, did anyone notice how E kept Isaac behind a small wall so he wouldn't be able to touch the stars. LOL. No looking down dresses, grabbing boobs or patting asses for Mr. Isaac.

Saturday, March 04, 2006


Brats. The city is full of them - trust fund brats to be exact. You know what I mean, rich 20-something kids with no talent or skills who think they own the city. Sure the city always had brats, but since Giuliani cleaned things up, it is now overrun with them.

These brats run around with pink Razor cell phones attached to their ears taking up space and adding nothing to the cultural landscape that is NYC. With rich mommies and daddies paying their rents, entire buildings on the lower east side are becoming “brat buildings.”

It makes me wish for the days when there were muggers and druggers on every corner and it took balls - not bills – to live in the city.

Last week my only talented - yes, there are a handful - trust fund brat/friend and I were having lunch at Whole Paycheck aka Whole Foods on Union Square. As I complained about the audacity of paying $12 for a plastic tray of salad bar food, we bumped into an old school chum of hers. A Brad Johns dyed blonde with a size 14 ass and a size 2 personality, Miss big ass proceeded to tell us with a smug smile that her parents bought her an apartment and she was traveling and doing freelance graphic work. My unemployed trust fund friend was shamed into telling her that she had a fabulous job and things were going great.

As I pondered why a girl with such a huge ass would have so much attitude, I realized that even in the world of trust fund brats, there is a class system.


Madonna. Ok, first off, we all love Madonna. I mean, she’s a legend. Who doesn’t love a Midwestern gal who shows up in Times Square with $30 in her pocket and with pluck, luck and probably lots of free fucks, becomes the biggest pop sensation in the world. Like a virgin, she ushered in the video age and introduced east village street sass to the mall masses. In Reagan-era conservatism, Madonna’s sexcapades and gay antics were a Godsend, so kudos to the material girl. So long Judy, hello Madonna.

But that was then, and this is now. In other words, Madge, it’s time to hang up your leotard and go home. In fact, it’s getting kind of embarrassing. A mother of two with a phony British accent should not be pushing pop records.

And would she please shut up and stop calling herself an “artist.” In the March Harper’s Bazaar she goes at it again, comparing herself to such female greats as Frida Kahlo and Sylvia Plath. What a fucking ego! I’m sorry, but it takes more than a bottle of peroxide and a gap tooth to become an artist. And isn’t kabala and the little red string supposed to squelch the ego. NOT.

And please, no more movies– anyone who had the stomach to sit through the dreadful “Swept away” knows what I mean. Her acting is so wooden and forced she makes Hilary Duff look like Meryl Steep. And what was with the lighting and makeup – she looked 100 years old. Personally, if I were Madonna, I would have divorced my husband/director on the spot. When caught by the press exiting the theatre, former friend Sandra Bernhard was asked her opinion, with a twinkle in her eye she smirked, “Let’s just say I was swept away.” Priceless.

Her latest song and video for “Hung up” is yet another multi-media mess. I give her props – it’s a catchy song, but I guess we can really thank the genius that is Abba, which provided Madonna with the sampled backbeat and chorus. In the video, Madonna is boogieing down the street with a gang of ghetto teenagers, who all appear to love her abbaesque song. Please, when was the last time you saw a 47-year-old cracker in Gucci boots hanging with the homies and dancing to Abba? Ridiculous. I’m surprised she didn’t get Fifty Cent to rap with her to give her some street cred.

Now I just want Madonna to go away. She can settle in at her English estate and practice yoga, hang out with Stella and Gweny and write more idiotic children’s books. I don’t want her singing “The Great American Songbooks” ala sellout Rod Stewart or going on a 5-year “Farewell Tour” ala Cher or giving preachy speeches about peace in the middle east. I just want her to go away.

Friday, March 03, 2006


I hate smokers. I hate what a disgusting, dirty and nasty habit it is. I hate how smokers think they have the right to blow their cancer-ridden smoke into my face. I hate how smokers think the whole world has to stop because they have to have a cigarette.

As you can tell, I hate smokers. I just can’t comprehend why anyone would pay hundreds of dollars a month to kill themselves.

How many more dinners and movies have to be interrupted by the need to rush outside and smoke? Furthermore, who likes kissing an ashtray? Yes, I have reached the point in my dating life where non-smoking is a prerequisite. All I ask for is a nice non-smoker – and a car and a weekend house would be nice, too. Any takers?

Wednesday, March 01, 2006


I tuned into Oprah - my church - and there sitting on the couch talking about kabala was Meg Ryan. Oh my God - her lips were so deformed with filler and her face so frozen and puffed she now rivals Priscilla Presley as scariest surgery star. When you try to stop father time, mother nature always seeks her revenge.

No longer in the spotlight, Miss Ryan has turned to humanitarian work to get publicity. I am sure she is doing great deeds, but is it just me, or does it seem odd watching a collagened and botoxed millionaire walking the streets of impoverished nations. Just a thought.


The other day I was in Dunkin Donuts – the new Starbucks – sipping a yummy vanilla blended latte, when a rather rotund girl walked in. She stared at the many donuts and proceeded to order a dozen. “Frosted, sprinkles, glazed,” she cooed to the clerk. “How do I choose?” As he wrapped up her donuts, she made one final request – “A large diet Coke, please.” I ask you, why bother.