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.


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