Friday, September 28, 2007

The Dish (Update) Saturday September 29

The fabulous Crionaberry's LA Writers Group has a booth at this year's West Hollywood Book Fair. Be sure to stop by and show your support! It's this weekend. Below are the details. Run. Go. Now.
Before you solidify your fabulous weekend plans, make sure to schedule in an hour or so to stop by the West Hollywood Book Fair this Sunday, September 30th, and say hello to us! Admission is free, and we have our very own booth there! While you're there, ask us about our new one-day writing seminars, which we are announcing at the fair, and participate in the magical Exquisite Corpse writing exercise which we will later post on our Web site. Exquisite Corpse is an ongoing poem where each person writes two lines without seeing the preceding lines. We will also have a few groovy new T-shirts to purchase.
At the West Hollywood Book Fair, check out this seminar with Rye-Rye's wife, How to Make a Book a Success from 3:00-3:45pm with Betsy Amster, Barbara DeMarco-Barrett, Bella Stander. Moderator: Kim Dower from L.A. Literary & Media Services

The divine Miss MadameZ has written a post that you have GOT TO READ called 101 Things you Wanted to Know About Me. This broad's got moxie. Real moxie. Vintage moxie. Run. Read. Now.

Thursday, September 27, 2007


Tonight at the Fixx in Chicago: Guthy's monthly smash hit reading series. Head on over this evening to hear from the editors of some of the finest literary journals going, Ninth Letter Arts & literary Journal and Hobart Journal.

PS: Check out Guthy LIVE, LIVE, LIVE via podcast.

Monday, September 24, 2007

Chris Crocker

Nathan Lane might have broken ground on the first glory hole, but Queenie COCKer has given them new meaning. I love this kid. Bethy sent me some articles about him and I gotta tell ya, he's a fuckin' inspiration. Kid lives in a rural Southern ass backwards town. Thanks to the Internet and this fagellah's creativity, he's pushing his way out, and into the world.

Think about all of the gay teens in similar circumstances that sadly become victims of hate crime or feel so desperate they take their own lives. Yeah, he's flamboyant, but he's fabulous. Of course he's not representative of many gay men. He's out there literally and figuratively.

He needs a better stage name... Toss your ideas into the salad ;0

Associated Press and The Stranger (Beautiful interview).

PS: Doesn't he look like Avril Levigne in that photo?


I would hate to have phone sex with someone I didn't know for fear they might have a heart attack during said p-sex. If I didn't know their address, what would I say, "Cough your address and I'll call 911?"

There's no way I could just hang up and say, "Good luck ta'ya." If they died. Oy vey, the guilt would kill me. I suppose if it was post orgasm, it would diminish the guilt. I'm just speculating. Reaching? Semantics...

Friday, September 21, 2007

On This Yom Kippur Rainy Night

This afternoon at 5ish it started raining. It rarely rains in Los Angeles, especially this time of year. Me and The Kid always went to the park in the rain. The first rain was never missed. No matter what time it started raining, even if it was 3AM, we were at the patch playing catch.

I've always loved the rain and so did The Kid. Watching him run and shake himself off, the way he smelled of wet dog when he got back into the car. After a few tosses, he would look up at the sky with his mouth stretched open catching each and every drop of rain. It was just PERFECT. The joy it brought me made my heart push through my chest. They were uninterrupted, complete moments. I cherished each one of them.

When Guthy mentioned how much she loved the Avinu Malkeinu prayer, it reminded me of why I love this prayer, "Avinu malkeinu (Our Father, our King) is a penitential prayer that originated on fast days as a plea for rain." Etc. Etc. Etc. Beautiful. Beautiful. Beautiful. Read. You'll love.

On the eve of Yom Kippur for the rain to fall, to mourn the loves we've lost, especially The Kid, it's so special. It feels like a sign.

Tonight, I said the Kaddish, a prayer for the dead and I lit a Rokeach for my kid. Tomorrow I will go to Shul to share my mourning with my peeps. We will think about this past year, about how we fit into the landscape of life and about our futures. We will learn from our mistakes and we will love in Yiddish.

As soon as it started raining today, I was at the patch, walking his course. Pausing where he paused. Feeling the rain on my face. Crying. Aching. Missing him. And that's ok.

I wish you all a beautiful, healthy, happy and peaceful Yom Kippur.

PS: It's still raining...

Thursday, September 20, 2007

Guthy's Jewcys

As you know, Guthy is writing for Jewcy awwwl month. She's written some fabulous, funny and thoughtful posts about Jewchach, Madona and fasting. Be good boys and girls and read her entries. Comment galore. DIY Judaica and Such, An Open Letter to Madonna and To Fast or Not to Fast.

I had no idea that fasting was such a hot topic. Guthy and the Jewcy readers made some really interesting points. Loved what Orieyenta said. That dame's got moxie. The Madonna post is FANTASTIC. It stirred quite a bit of controversy. You will love Adam Shprintzen's comments. They resonate. Check it out, peeps.


I started my menses yesterday. It came on strong, fast and hard. My womb is an outpouring of emotion. Oy, I'm just one hot mess, eh?! I am so happy to be menstruating. Everything is working and in order and right on time.

Wednesday, September 19, 2007

Sex Offender Night at the Laundrette

When my sister and I went to the laundrette the other night, the walls were climbing with men that felt so sex offenderee. They were in pairs. They were creepy and disheveled. The kinds of men that don't wear freshly laundered clothes because they're too busy trying to hide their electronic anklets and man tits. You know... side effect from the stop fucking young boys drugs they take.

PS: Don't break up with me yet. Next week, I will be blogging wayyyyy more (towards the end of the week).

Monday, September 17, 2007

Crionaberry Hits 6S

You have got to read our sweet, beloved Crionaberry's 6S. It kicks ass! Bitter Chick Channels Henry Chinaski. Run. Read. Now.

Friday, September 14, 2007

Meet the Mormons

Have ya's heard about Mormons Exposed? The calender of studly Missionaries that seeks to educate the masses about just how cool and easy going Mormons really are. Anybody want to fuck a Mormon? Yeah... Me neither.

The double standards are unbearable. One of the calendar missionary muffins said that it would be ok if women participated, provided they weren't so exposed. According to him, it's ok for men to show their nipples, but not women. Ya know what, mormarooney, if you can show your tits, SO CAN I!

Check out the Mormon's Exposed Promo...

Yes, I am Jumping on the Chris Crocker Band Wagon

Thanks to our sweet Lewchers for sending me the debacle that is the Leave Britney Alone video. Had he not, I might not have discovered just how queenylicious Chris Crocker really is. I'm listening to Take Me Out as gayspiration while writing this post. I love ChrisTINE because she's just too much. It's deeper than her intoxicating plea video to Leave Britney Alone. My love affair for peenyette began when I read an MSNBC interview she did.

When asked if she was worried about her fame being fleeting, one of the things she said was, "The public doesn’t make this diva, I’m already made."

How can you not love her for that, alone. Being a former fagallah hagella, I appreciate her overbearing sense of drama and passion. I just love ha. I've thrown together a montage of her video greatness for your review and if you don't love ha hahd now, you will-- trust me.

Chris's warning to men who try to fuck and run.


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This dramatic little number is about the color of skin.
See beyond skin color.

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The Britney Videos, Take One and Take Two


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More from Papa Schwartz

Ah, my father really does know how to dish up the rePUKEican party, doesn't he?! What's not to love.

Wednesday, September 12, 2007

from papa schwartz


1. Bush: End of an Error

2. That's OK, I Wasn't Using My Civil Liberties Anyway

3. Let's Fix Democracy in this Country First

4. If You Want a Nation Ruled By Religion, Move to Iran.

5. Bush. Like a Rock. Only Dumber.

6. If You Can Read This, You're Not Our President

7. Of Course It Hurts: You're Getting Screwed by an Elephant

8. Hey, Bush Supporters: Embarrassed Yet?

9. George Bush: Creating the Terrorists Our Kids Will Have to Fight

10. Impeachment: It's Not Just for Blow Jobs Anymore

11. America: One Nation, Under Surveillance

12. They Call Him "W" So He Can Spell It

13. Whose God Do You Kill For?

14. Jail to the Chief

15. No, Seriously, Why Did We Invade Iraq?

16. Bush: God's Way of Proving Intelligent Design is Full Of Crap

17. Bad President! No Banana.

18. We Need a President Who's Fluent In At Least One Language

19. We're Making Enemies Faster Than We Can Kill Them

20. Is It Vietnam Yet?

21. Bush Doesn't Care About White People, Either

22. Where Are We Going? And Why Are We In This Hand basket?

23. You Elected Him. You Deserve Him.

24. Dubya, Your Dad Should'a Pulled Out, Too

25. When Bush Took Office, Gas Was $1.46

26. Pray For Impeachment

27. The Republican Party: Our Bridge to the 11th Century

28. What Part of "Bush Lied" Don't You Understand?

29. One Nation Under Clod

30. 2004: Embarrassed. 2005: Horrified. 2006: Terrified

31. Bush Never Exhaled

32. At Least Nixon Resigned...

Finger Bang Vadge

A few days ago, I wrote about Big Vaginas, remember? Today, Bubbsie sent me the most fabulous link about the dangers of vaginal rejuvenation. FINALLY broads get to see that there really is a downside and that our wadgeys are fine just as God created them.

When I asked him if I could post it, he said, "Of COURSE you should post it! That's why I sent it to you--I get clowns and perverts, you get vagina's." Is that hilar squared or what?!

L'Shana Tova

The High Holidays are upon us Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. This is my favorite time of year. I get way too inside my head and my heart. Oy, do I peel the layers. I cleanse. I clean. I organize. I reflect about the choices I've made, the people in my life, where I'm going, where I've been, who and what I've lost. So, so, so much to ponder.

This year feels different for many reasons. Some I know about and others I don't--not yet, anyway. The Kaddish, a prayer for the dead, has always been one of my favorite prayers. This year, reciting it will feel different, too. I just know that.

Guthy is Jewcying all month about the High Holidays. Be sure to hit it daily and read her wonderful posts and don't forget to comment. Yesterday's post, "Sit, Already, and Have a Little Something" is filled with fabulous, funny heebaliciousness. Today's post, "Kindly, with Open Eyes?" is about tolerance and pausing for a quick shalom. Run. Nosh. Now. It's beauuutiful.

PS: Do not forget to hit Facebook to use my brother's iPredict application. Capisce?!

L'Shana Tova,



I'm hawkin for the meshpucha on this eve of Rosh. My fabulous baby brother Nick created a tool on Facebook called iPredict. Kid's a genius. Adorable. 21-- Just turned, donchya know. Do you remember your 21st birthday?! Who does. This is the sweetest tool. You can predict the future. What's bad? You'll have a little fun, a good laugh and be a mensch all in one simple little click.

Run. Review. Now. Tell all the teeny and twenty-something's you know all about it. Grazie.

Tuesday, September 11, 2007

Big Vaginas

We all know how Katie feels about a split pookie. It's just wrong on every level. Ain't nobody need to see a dame's lips literally pierced to her pants. The world knows ya got em'. When the pants fall there isn't a big reveal. However, with proper grooming and an air of mystery, it could be the pookiestravaganza event of the year. Coco is another story. She was born to exude her cavernous taco. It would be rude not to recognize and support that commitment.

I'm actually talking about something quite different. The dame who wears... I can't even say it. Ok, ready, set... leggings. PS: She also listens to Michael Bolton. This same leggings bird features her VAGINA in a way that makes her vadge look bulbous, like a drunken Bukowski nose. To accentuate the massive box even more, she wears a slinky top. I'm not trying to be cunty here, but the legging vadge I saw yesterday was like nothing I have ever seen in my life.

She's a shorty like me. She's petite and her vagina was THREE TIMES HER SIZE. She wasn't playing peeny-stash. This was an actual vagina. She wasn't wearing a menstrual pad. She uses plugs. This was her God given VAGINA and it was GINORMOUS. Impossible to miss and definitely intimidating. If I were a man, I'd want a wing man to ensure my safe return, that's how huge it was.

Moving right along... On a far more important note, our beloved Bubbsie has a heavy heart. Be a mensch and send him warmth and loving thoughts. He's always there for us when we need him to lift our spirits, make us laugh and impart a pearl. Run. Go. Now.

Monday, September 10, 2007

Groovy Dish

The High Holidays are upon us. Guthy is writing again on Jewcy. She wrote a spectacular post about this most introspective time for our people. Run. Read. Learn. It's absolutely beautiful. "All I wish I could Say in a Sentence When Asked to do so"

Have you downloaded the FIRST ISSUE of Astonishing Adventures Magazine? You have got to read it. There are over 180 pages of no joke pulp art and writing. There's a great mix of up and coming and established writers. The stories are so, so, sooooo well written. The art is sexy pulp squared. Over 5,000 downloads so far! The positive reviews have been pouring in. Are you plotzing?! AAM has skyrocketed straight to the top. You've got to read it. PS:: Cormac Brown's piece "Tit for Tat" (page 28) is so divine, it will run chills up your spine. It's a swoony yarn, my friends. Run. Read. Now.

Pussy Pooches

I have decided that little dogs are Pussy Pooches. My mother was telling me about this couture canine store she read about that sells, are you ready? WIGS FOR DOGS: long and blond. Bouffant fire engine red. Sultry black bobs. The whole nine yards. The shame...

Oy Vey

Before heading out to my doctor's appointment last week, I ran into my postal broad who I happen to like because she's so dishy. She was diligently filling our boxes with bills and asked me where my big black dog was. It's the second time I've been asked (I know you're sick of the death lament. Build a bridge, bitches). It seems I still haven't mastered the art of deathversation.

I said, "Dead".
She said, "No, shit. For reals? Why"?
My first thought was, No, I'm lying, schmuck.

Then I thought, has she never heard of the word empathy? What about diplomacy? I have a Webster's that we could've perused together as a family. Then I thought, maybe she thinks I whacked The Kid.

Battling between quippy response and sincerity, I was so heartbroken by the reminder, I pussed out. So, I cried and explained that he had abdominal sepsis. BIG-MISTAKE. Without missing a beat in distributing each tenant's mail, she managed to express herself without reservation, "Now, how'd the fuck he go and get hisself that?"

That quickly reduced me to a puddle of shame and tears (I'm a show, I know). As I peeled myself off the floor and started opening the front door to run as far and fast from her as possible, I said, "I don't know. The culprit was a likely tear in his intestines".

The door was now wide open so I could make a clear exit and inch my way out. She paused from her robotic mail deposit to say, "Did he suffer? Was he in pain?"

I wanted to say, did some old Jew rub pastrami on your split knish this morning, because you are hitting all the right Jewguilt buttons today. Instead I said, "You see the tears streaming down my face? It's called heartbreak. I can't have this conversation with you."

Then something very interesting happened, she put the mail down and she said, "My dog died a month ago. A week later, my mother died. I got a new dog the day after my mom died, hopin' he'd take away my loss, but he didn't. So, I know what you going through, girl. But, you gonna be alright."

I guess it was ME who got the roast beef, split knish delivery that morning because not only did I feel guilty, I felt tremendous empathy and compassion. It also felt signy. And now I love her again.

Saturday, September 01, 2007

One Month

The Kid died one month ago today. That occurred to me just a few hours ago. I kept telling myself today was August 31st. It's September 1st. I KNOW. Happy Anniversary is wildly inappropriate. It's right up there with going to a non-Jewish funeral and asking who will be attending the after party. Guilty.

I worked on an essay about hagamuffin today and recalled so many fabulous memories. I laughed and I cried. It was cathartic. It was difficult and that's OK. I still miss him so much. I think I always will. I need to learn to live with that, which I will do... eventually.

Crimes Against Dog, by Alice Walker

My dad sent me an Alice Walker (love her so much, I can't stand it) essay. The below is excerpted from, Crimes Against Dog, from her book, We Are the Ones We Have Been Waiting For: Light in a Time of Darkness. Have you read it? I just bought it-- can't wait to read it. Alice Walker is the earth mother incarnate. What a divine soul...

The Crimes Against Dog essay was in this month's Ecologist Magazine. My dad is so green. Who knew?! Anywho... The essay made me feel so much better for a million different reasons. It's a beautiful read. Scroll down.

Crimes Against Dog
Alice Walker
For Wendy

My dog, Marley, was named after the late music shaman, Bob Marley. I never saw or heard him while he was alive, but once I heard his music, everything about him-his voice, his trancelike, holy dancing on stage, his leonine dreadlocks-went straight to my heart. He modeled such devotion to the well-being of humanity that his caring inspired the world; I felt a more sincere individual had probably never lived. Considering his whole life a prayer, and his singing the purest offering, I wanted to say his name every day with admiration and love. Marley has grown up on his music; Bob, leaning on his guitar in a large poster on my living room wall, is regularly pointed out to her as her Spirit Dad.

Marley was born December 19, 1995. She shares a birth sign, Sagittarius, with my mother and several friends and acquaintances. At times I feel surrounded by Sags and enjoy them very much; they are fun to be with, outspoken, passionate, and won't hesitate to try new things. They also like chicken. Marley has all these qualities, though I didn't know that the morning I drove out to the breeder to look at the litter of Labrador Retrievers I was told had arrived.

Crossing the Golden Gate Bridge, a friend and I joked about whether I was in fact ready to settle down enough to have a dog. Who would feed it when I was distracted by work? Where would it stay while I was away on book tours? Had I lined up a reliable vet? I had no idea what would happen. I only knew this friend was about to go away on a journey of unknown length. I would be unbearably lonely for her. I needed a companion on whom to lavish my overflowing, if at times distractible, affection. I needed a dog.

My first thoughts are always about enslavement on entering a place where animals are bred. Force. Captivity. I looked at the black and the chocolate Labs who were Marley's parents and felt sad for them. They looked healthy enough, but who knew whether, left to themselves, they would choose to have litter after litter of offspring? I wondered how painful it was to part with each litter. I spoke to both parents, let them sniff my hand. Take in the quality of my being. I asked permission to look at their young. The mother moved a little away from her brood, all crawling over her blindly feeling for a teat; the father actually looked rather proud. My friend joked about offering him a cigar.

I was proud of myself, too, standing there preparing to choose. In the old days of up to several months before, if I were going to choose an animal from a litter I would have been drawn to the one that seemed the most bumbling, the most clueless, the most un-amused. I saw a couple like that. But on this day, that old switch was not thrown: I realized I was sick of my attraction to the confused. My eyes moved on. They all looked much alike, to tell the truth. From a chocolate mother and a black father there were twelve puppies, six chocolate, six black. I'll never get over this. Why were there none with spots?

I asked the woman selling them, whom I tried not to have Slave Trader thoughts about. She shrugged. They never spot, she said. That's the nature of the purebred Lab. Well, I thought. Mother. Once again doing it just any old way you like. Mother is my favorite name for Nature, God, All-ness.

I settled on a frisky black puppy who seemed to know where she was going-toward a plump middle teat!-and was small enough to fit into my hand. I sometimes wish I had chosen a chocolate puppy; in the Northern California summers the dust wouldn't show as much, but I think about this mostly when Marley rolls in the dirt in an effort to get cool.

After seven weeks I returned alone to pick her up, bereft that my friend had already gone on the road. It didn't feel right to pay money for a living being; I would have been happier working out some sort of exchange. I paid, though, and put Marley in my colorful African market basket before stroking the faces of her wistful-looking parents one last time. In the car, I placed the basket in the front seat next to me. I put on Bob Marley's Exodus CD and baby Marley and I sped away from Babylon.We wound our way back through the winter countryside toward the Golden Gate Bridge and the bracing air of San Francisco. Before we had gone twenty miles, Marley, now about the size of my two fists, had climbed out of the basket and into my lap. From my lap she began journeying up my stomach to my chest. By the time we approached the bridge she'd discovered my dreadlocks and began climbing them. As we rolled into the city she had climbed all the way to the back of my neck and settled herself there between my neck and the headrest. Once there she snoozed.

Of the weeks of training I remember little. Dashing down three flights of stairs in the middle of the night to let her pee outside under the stars. Sitting on a cushion in the kitchen, before dawn, her precious black body in my lap, groggily caressing her after her morning feed. Walking with her zipped up in my parka around and around the park that was opposite our house. Crossing the Golden Gate Bridge on foot, her warm body snug in my arms as I swooned into the view. She grew.

Today she is seven years old and weighs almost ninety pounds. People we encounter on walks always ask whether she's pregnant. No, I reply, she's just fat. But is she really? No matter how carefully I feed her or how often I downsize her meals, she remains large and heavy. And she loves to eat so much that when her rations are diminished she begs, which I can't stand. This is one of those areas where we've had the most work to do. I've settled it lately by taking her off any slimming diet whatsoever and giving her enough food so that she seems satisfied. I did this after she was diagnosed with breast cancer, had surgery, and I realized I might lose her at any time. I did not want her last days to be spent looking pleadingly at me for an extra morsel of bread. To make up for giving her more food, I resolved to walk her more.

The friend who went away never really returned. Marley and I ceased expecting to see her after about the first year. Marley was an amazing comfort to me. What is it about dogs? I think what I most appreciate in Marley is how swiftly she forgives me. Anything. Was I cool and snooty when I got up this morning? Did I neglect to greet her when I came in from a disturbing movie? Was I a little short on the foodstuffs and did I forget to give her a cube of dried liver? Well. And what about that walk we didn't do and the swim we didn't take and why don't I play ball with her the way I did all last week? And who is this strange person you want me to go off with? It doesn't matter what it is, what crime against Dog I have committed, she always forgives me. She doesn't even appear to think about it. One minute she's noting my odd behavior, the next, if I make a move toward her, she's licking my hand. As if to say, Gosh, I'm so glad you're yourself again, and you're back!

Dogs understand something I was late learning: When we are mean to anyone or any being it is because we are temporarily not ourselves. We're somebody else inhabiting these bodies we think of as us. They recognize this. Ooops, I imagine Marley saying to herself, sniffing my anger, disappointment, or distraction. My mommy's not in there at the moment. I'll just wait until she gets back. I've begun to feel this way more than a little myself. Which is to say, Marley is teaching me how to be more self-forgiving. Sometimes I will say something that hurts a friend's feelings. I will be miserable and almost want to do away with myself. Then I'll think, But that wasn't really the you that protects and loves this friend so much you would never hurt them. That was a you that slipped in because you are sad and depressed about other things: the state of your love life, your health, or the fate of the planet. The you that loves your friend is back now. Welcome her home. Be gentle with her. Tell her you understand. Lick her hand.

Animals teach us decline and mortality. We understand the importance of being able to help our ageing parents or grandparents, or ill and incapacitated relatives and friends, in just this accepting way.

Cats, in particular, teach us to be ourselves, whatever the odds. A cat, except through force, will never do anything that goes against its nature. Nothing seduces it away from itself.

Contemplate ways we can strengthen our resolve to live our lives as who we really are. See the beauty, for instance, in forgoing an 'important' meeting or gala event in favor of a warm fire at home and a restorative nap.

What makes us purr with contentment? Find it and let it, easily, find you.


I'm in the middle of a wild miscommunication with a now former friend. it makes me crazy when someone who knows me, really knows me, takes something I say and decides that I'm someone I'm not without taking the soul of who I am into consideration. that wouldn't send a flag pole of ire up your ass?! oh, please, missy. you know it would.

on the eye inFUCKtion front, it's still going strong, thank you very much. itchy-burny-stabby-painy-blurry. whatev. I've reached new heights of ocular ugliness. at least it's not ebola or cancer. a girl has to be grateful and maintain perspective, doesn't she?! indeed she fucking does.

what is wrong with you?!

not 1, not 2, not 3.... 7 of ya's broke up with me. WTF?! a girl's dog peels. she gets an eye infection and now you're done with her chubby jew ass? that's nice, real nice.

you didn't think I'd find out, didjya? I'm not that stupid, putzeem.

go. run. have a katiefree labor fucking day weekend. see if I care.


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