Just a reminder that our show is still on for 8pm tonight at Juvie Hall. Be there! Or don't!

Two full-length productions of “Extra Pudding” will take place at 8:00pm Saturdays November 5 and 19. Tickets are $9 via Theatermania (see below) or $8 at the door. For those of you with less time or shorter attention spans, abbreviated 45-minute shows will take place at 9:00pm Wednesdays November 16 and 30. Tickets are $6 via Theatemania or $5 at the door for these two shows.

Juvie Hall is located below the Gene Frankel Theater at 24 Bond Street, between the Bowery and Lafayette Street. (Take the B, D, F, V or 6 to Broadway Lafayette/ Bleecker Street.)

TICKET INFO: Visit www.theatermania.com, or call 212-352-3101 or 1-866-811-4111.

My boyfriend is sweet. So sweet, in fact, that he didn't want to correct me that the show he was performing in (a Halloween version of "Match Game" called "Match the Dead"), wasn't *actually* a costume party. I looked happy getting dressed up, he thought it was good that I was happy. He let me be happy. I was happy!

You know those helpful people who say, "You looked like you needed the sleep so I turned off the alarm for you" while you're running out the door with one sock on asking them not to be helpful ever again? Yep, that's the love of my life.

We spent the subway ride making up a backstory for our characters - Phil and Doris Kitzman, of Kitman's Bakery and Kitzman's Too in Forest Hills. Erik was dressed in his costume for the show, but Phil Kitzman's bowling shirt and bright red pants were in a WNYC travel bag. He had his costume with him, thus sealing my concept of this being a costume party.

Upon our arrival, Michelle, who was in the show, asked if I was in the show. The bouncer asked if I was in the show and let me in for free.

I was the only person dressed up.

In the bathroom, I held a folded piece of toilet paper across each bottom eye lid like a rain gutter. My head tilted towards the ceiling to give gravity less time to streak my makeup.

Here I was the only person dressed up, but as a kid I was the only person NOT dressed up. I stood in the bathroom and had myself a little "I can't fucking win" tearfest with a pinch of "Everybody hates me" thrown in for good measure.

Erik begged me to be mad at HIM instead of myself, but he said it so damn cutely that it was a lost cause. He is the cute! I cannot be mad at the cute!

At this point, we found out that Sharon Tate was missing. Ten minutes to showtime, and the girl who was supposed to play Sharon Tate hadn't shown up and wasn't answering her phone.

Within 5 minutes, I was playing Ann Bancroft.

Like a neurotic Doctor Seuss story, in the end, my moronic fuckup kinda saved the show (at least, from having a glaring empty seat on stage).

Afterwards, someone said to me that my Ann Bancroft was dead on. "You were channeling!" they said. Which means I started the night as an utterly socially-inept moron, and ended it by managing to redeem myself from the horrible bomb the LAST time I was on Mo Picken's stage.

I also had an opportunity to write "Dustin Hoffman's ball jelly" on an index card, which is always nice.

One day, at a Deal 99 in Brooklyn, I came upon the following cat* in a bin of socks:

*plus tax

A quick stroll through Greenwood Cemetary with my boyfriend and my digital camera

One hour of sitting in a warm bathtub with an ice pack on my face, reading Memoirs of a Geisha because I found it on the sidewalk. Chock-full o' Vicodin, but it ain't even touching the pain. Ain't even coming close.

Currently, several kids are knocking at my locked apartment door and whispering "biiiitch" through the keyhole.

Candy? Here is what I have in my cabinets:

1. Oregano
2. Japanese crackers which are simultaneously frosted and salty
3. Vidodin
4. Not candy

I've never lived in an apartment building where children Trick or Treat before. It didn't even occur to me to put razor blades inside apples or buy some fun sized beef boullion cubes.

Instead, I'm sitting here wrapped in a damp towel, eating oregano and listening to some spoiled douchebag call me names through the door, which suddenly seems so thin as to be made of rice paper.

I think this is almost as awesome as the Halloween our parents made me and my little brother read a bible verse and then hand out Watchtowers to our classmates, who were dressed up like Strawberry Shortcake or Mister T, while we were not. Who were eating candy while we were not. Who were not standing in their foyer reciting bible verses, while we most definitely were.

Then, after such an amazing night of festivities, my mother sent us to bed.

I'm not saying this was abuse. There were no wire hangers involved, no "not the green kitchen!" enemas on the table or nothin'. It's not abuse, but it is baffling.

Baffling that ultimately my parents seemed completely unaware that maybe - just maybe - this is a MEAN THING to do to your own child. What kind of parent & et cetera & so on, no?

Sure, you may THINK children like dressing up and eating candy, but I assure you that nothing is more fun for a 10 year-old than forcing them to hand cult literature to smiling, giggling children in costumes, who will then hate them for the rest of their lives.

Now the same kids are knocking on my door and I have nothing to give them but a toothache. I really do wish I could give them a piece of candy. Not because it means a lot when you do, but because it means so much more when you don't.

The next time you meet a Jehovah's Witness, ask them if you're going to survive Armageddon.

"Well, it's like this," they'll start with a smile. And roundabout 10 minutes of rote-memorized scriptures later, they'll tell you it's not their decision, it's "Jehovah's decision". It's in His hands. You see?

But no, insist, say, "I'm bisexual and I smoke a joint every Saturday. I believe in God, but I don't believe God is Jehovah. I volunteer at a homeless shelter twice a month...'

'...I'm an organ donor. I vote Green. I'm a vegetarian. I drive a hybrid car with a PEACE bumper sticker. I read to the blind for free. I fucking do yoga for fucksake! Am I going to survive Armageddon?"

"That's Jehovah's de-"

Nope. Insist. Am I going to survive Armageddon? Make them tell you. You're bisexual, after all, and that makes you pushy. You're a vegetarian and that makes you testy (you need iron, damnit!). Test. Push.

"Well, the bible says..."

Well, the bible, as it turns out, says 'no'. The bible says you're going to die. Dead, dead, dead. The earth will swallow you like Gulliver drinking tiny barrels of beer. Jehovah will kill you for not being a Jehovah's Witness, for believing that "God" is simply loving one other.

The Jehovah's Witnesses don't believe in "good people." They don't believe in Gandhi or Mother Teresa or Buddha. They believe in Jehovah's Witnesses. Dues paying, card carrying, book buying, Watchtower subscribing Jehovah's Witnesses. And if you're not one - you fucking die at the hands of the Almighty God who deserves - no - demands your worship.

What about unborn babies? Do unborn babies die?

"Well, if their parents are sinners... but really, it's--"

Yes. Unborn babies die.

What about the retarded? Do the retarded die?

"Before Armageddon comes, everyone will have a chance to convert, it says so in the scripture here--"

Do retarded people die? What do you think? Fuck yes.

And once you get them to stop talking in Scotty McClellan circles and admit that you are vulture meat, volcanic treadway, the End Time's collateral damage, ask them this:

Do YOU think I should die?

"Well that's Jehovah's de-"

No, do YOU think I should die?

"I-"

Do you think I should die? Would you hide me at Armageddon? Would you feel sad? I mean, God says that if I'm not a Jehovah's Witness he's going to murder me at Armageddon. Do you disagree with God? Should I die SOLELY because I'm a different religion?

Yes. Yes you should.

All Jehovah's Witnesses are accomplices to murder, under the guise that the murderer is infallible. When you walk away, when they talk amongst themselves, they have no qualms about you being swallowed up by the fiery earth if, perchance, you happen to be, say, Jewish. Jehovah's Witnesses have death in their hearts and they call it "God's will".

They'll squeal with joy that the earth has been cleansed of your evil homeless volunteering, vegan, peace demonstrating Jewish Buddhist Agnostic Hindu Islamic Unitarian Whatever presence - and they'll dance on your hand waving through the volcanic fissure. Then they'll pass the buck onto God.

And this is true, this is true. All of this is true.

The next time you meet a Jehovah's Witness, ask them if you're going to survive Armageddon. Let me know what they say.

All of my coworkers apparently know about my blog.

Hello fellow coworkers!

Remember early this year when I spent two weeks railing against the boyfriend who left me standing in the rain on Valentines Day? I noticed I've left his site linked on my blog. Nothing says "it's time for a redesign" like noticing that you left a link to the creep who asked you to pay for the food you ate out of his refrigerator.

The only problem with a redesign is the design. The re is easy. I can re with my eyes closed. But designing - that involves an attention span.

Maybe I'll just create a bunch of fake ads for awkward "Cafe Press" shops like the political blogs have.

A weather-beaten Lyndon LaRouche protest sign (think Bush riding a tricycle) digitally rendered on a thong!

Let this stylish Messenger Bag convey to the world that you think "Well, the trolls are out in force tonight. When will they learn? Shrub & Co are just gearing up for the next one & the lemm's just keep walking off the cliff --- everybody just keep looking the other way and watching the run'way bride, okkkay Amerikkka??? IT'S 1984 PEOPLE HELLO! YES, IT WAS BEHIND THE PICTURE!!" made with high-quality canvas!

Go to this webcast of OnPoint about "Intelligent Design".

Fast forward to about 31:00, where they start to take the first caller.

This has got to be a fake, right?

Right?

Please tell me this person isn't real.

No, seriously, I mean, this is totally someone fucking around.

"I'm never going to be famous. My name will never be writ large on the roster of Those Who Do Things. I don't do any thing. Not one single thing. I used to bite my nails, but I don't even do that any more."

All right Lipbalm, or whatever you pretend your "last name" to be, listen up:

You are going to smack my ass up, down, and all about the eastern perimeter. That is my final statement on the matter.

As an addendum to my final statement, I'd like to set the record straight on taxes. My opponent says I threatened to break her legs. In fact, I threatened to massage her legs and outfit them in adorable rainbow-striped toe-socks. After this, I forewarned her that I would buy her an ergonomic vibrating chair, one with a heat setting, such that you might see in a Sharper Image catalog. Fit THAT shit in your apartment, bitch.

My opponent says that "one or neither of us will prevail". Bullhockey! I will be no part of your "one or neither" psychological game-playing, and will inexplicably take the third option of "both".

Not only are you going to smack my ass in New Hampshire, you're going to smack my ass in South Carolina. And you're going to smack it in California and Texas and New York. And you're going to smack it in South Dakota and Oregon and Washington and Michigan. And then you're going to smack it all the way to Washington, D.C., YEAAAAARRGH!

p.s. I have already placed a bowl over my head and given myself a Dorothy Hamill-esque 'do to ensure that I will absolutely NOT get on "the television".

Today at lunch...

"How's the soup?" the waitress asked.

"It's FANTASTIC!" I said. "No, wait..."

"Is something wrong?" she queried.

"Crap. I meant to say a different word. Can we start over?"

"You didn't like it? Too many peas?"

"I meant to say IT'S TANFASTIC!"

"You did. You said it was fantastic."

"No, TAN."

"What's tan?"

"Have you ever been to Ithaca?"

"No, but I hear it's gorgeous."

"Like the soup?"

"ExACTly like the soup."

And then we made out.

At one point or another in your life you have seen a stocky green bumpersticker which read: Ithaca is Gorges and was most likely accompanied by a stocky, green Cornell student.

No more.

Ithaca is TANFASTIC! That's right. It's the word "tan" plus the made-up word "fastic".

It's...

TANFASTIC!

The next time you visit Ithaca and someone asks if you hiked any gorges, just turn it around and ask: "Have you seen the tanning salons?"

So here's a picture of my beau and I attending to our champagne brunch cruise on Cayuga lake, Ithaca.

We do this every weekend. It's really quite dull, I assure you. YAWN.

YAAAAAWN!

Yes. This post is for that special kind of nerd.

Erik and I went to a Renaissance Faire at Fort Tryon Park Sunday. Perhaps you saw the signs on the subway inviting you to the 14th century? Or should I say - Ye Olde Subwaye?

It's like a normal, boring street fair, but instead of wearing a t-shirt with two kittens frolicking around a watering can that says, "Friends Forever," the morbidly obese are dressed as faeries.

Imagine a street faire, only they don't sell delicious "corn". They sell "Ye Olde Corn". That's it. Just add "Ye Olde" and it becomes the Renaissance. You can also get ye olde cholera by using ye olde Port-a-Potty.

For some people, this is the culmination of everything they want out of life, and I feel bad for them because the majority of days in the year do not have Renaissance Faires in them.

At least you can always keep a stuffed dragon on your computer.

I saw a real human being riding a Segway this morning.

She was wearing a power suit with off-white slacks. Slacks are the sort of pants which cannot in good faith be called "pants". They are slacks, or, barring that - they may be pantaloons. Her not-white not-pants had the appearance of having lay discarded on a pile of pantyhose in the corner of a Murray Hill 1 1/2 bath all night. Or it may be that a Segway always gives you the appearance of being rumpled. She pulled to a full stop across from Dag Hammarskjold park at 46th and 2nd while I fumbled for my camera and failed to take any pictures other than the inside of my bag. I'm assuming she worked at this building, or she may have been systematically stopping in every office building to say, "Hey! I have a Segway! Catch ya later!"

It would be a better use of your money to simply tape it to your forehead and run backwards into the street screaming I AM AFRAID OF WALKING WITH MY LEGS!! Then punch a homeless man in the face.