No Gracias, Madre- my review from Yelp.com

Posted Posted in los angeles, Uncategorized, vegan

  I have always loved Gracias Madre SF and was looking forward to checking out the new Melrose location.   Every time I’d been to San Francisco, I’d made it a point to visit Gracias Madre, even though it was always a wait and jam-packed with happy customers.  I had been talking our local outpost up to local and far-flung vegans.  It was a bit of a wait, as usual, but our spicy Purista tequila drinks and cauliflower and cashew cream were fantastic.

When I got my entree, however, I bit down hard on a tooth-sized shard of glass that had been inside.   I felt that unpleasant nausea and tasted blood as I scraped my tongue.  We called the waitress over and she apologized and told the kitchen.  The manager came over and apologized again.  I graciously accepted the apologies.

I was offered a comp dessert, but I found that my appetite was reduced after the glass chewing.  The last thing I needed to deal with was glass-filled Mexican wedding cookies.  I was pleased to see that the tab was reduced to just drinks and one entree and we sent our card to pay.  An apologetic waitress came back over and said she’d gotten it wrong, she was only supposed to take off the entree that had the glass in it, and brought us a new tab.
Look, I’m not complaining that I got a large, sharp shard glass in my food, which ruined my dinner and evening.  I know that this stuff can happen, and in their defense, glass is totally vegan.  I’m just surprised that the comp was only for the food that had glass in it.
I hate to review a vegan restaurant like this, but I really feel that this was handled poorly.
See the receipt with the code for foreign object discount, which for some reason made me laugh.  In short, gracias but no gracias, man.

My receipt, showing the discount for a foreign object in my food. Yum!

So, You Think You Can Dance Downtown?

Posted 1 CommentPosted in comedy, fashion, los angeles, Uncategorized, women
photo (1)

I’m a big fan of the show So You Think You Can Dance.   I felt lucky to attend some shows last season, and when I got an email for two shows this week, I jumped on it.  I was wary when I saw that the address was for the Orpheum and not the CBS lot, but when I got there it was clear that it was: Auditions.  I didn’t want to go to fucking auditions.  

In recent seasons, I haven’t even watched auditions.  One in twenty people will be good, one in forty will be amazing, one in ten will be completely delusional.   It’s the reality TV shock-jock portion, where people fall and cry and lie and the desperation seeps through and they edit to support the judge’s decisions.  However, I had already parked downtown all day for six dollars, so I stayed.

 It was kind of cool to be in the Orpheum and to see the familiar carpeting and to see a pile of dance bags and the warm up room.  We were seated and introduced to the newest judge, Christina Applegate, who has been a dancer her whole life and who crossed the stage in gold heels so high she needed a handler to come down the steps to the judge’s dais.

  Nigel Lythgoe went through a list of don’ts for the dancers.  He listed out things the judges were tired of seeing.

1. Don’t extend an arm and reach out pleadingly to the judges, wild-eyed.

2. Don’t jeté , tumble, then leap into the air to jeté again.  OVER IT.

3. Don’t look at the floor. (This is also a good tip for comedy!)

4.   Don’t wink.

5. Don’t put your finger on your mouth.

6. Don’t blow a kiss.

7. Don’t lip-sync.

8. Don’t hold your leg up.  This is So You Think You Can Dance, not Do You Think You Can Hold Your Leg Up For An Assload Of Time.

I stayed for the day and saw all 114 dancers although it felt like a billion.  I now have my own list.   It’s kind of inside baseball, but what in life isn’t?

List of Most Of The Dancer Types from So You Think You Can Dance Auditions:

1. Mama’s pretty pretty princess, the best ballerina in Pig’s Snout, Arkansas.  This represents 20% of the attendees.  Wearing a sports bra and leggings.   Has long, pretty girl hair.  She will do one million pirouettes and lift her leg up by her head and will get yelled at because all the other pretty princesses have done the same thing.

2. Mama’s pretty pretty princess got a mohawk and earrings and is all edgy and shit.  She will do a ton of pirouettes and lift her leg up in the air.

3.  Mama’s pretty pretty princess (male).  Appears to have a sixteen-pack of abs.  I don’t even know if this possible.

4.  Breakdancer type one:  Learned on the streets.  Looks to have been homeless as recently as this morning.  Amazing dancer.   Doesn’t appear to hear or understand instructions but can pop and lock like a sonofabitch.

5. Breakdancer type two: Learned at boarding school.  May dress like Parappa the Rapper.  May have a rat-tail.  (Rat tail odds doubled if Asian)

6. Ballroom dancers who have spray-tanned their legs to match their shoes, which is awesome.

7. Girl with a big bottom and men’s shoes?  Lindy hopper.

8. Tap dancers, who never get through even though some of them are awesome.  The sound and size of this show are never great for tap.

9. Hot-Ass Male Russian Ballroom Dancer.  (Thank god.)  (Please take your shirt off.)

10. Asian Twerk Twink.  Wears harem pants.

11. Midwestern Sincere Contemporary Dancer (male)- Wears what looks like pajamas and his one black Lucky Spinning Sock, which is black.  He’s the best modern dancer in Pig’s Snout, Arkansas, but he’s not as good as Contemporary Eric.   Why not wear a light colored sock?  You look like a rube, Trent!

12. Elderly street dancer- He’s here to do all of Michael Jackson’s moves!  You can see him tomorrow in front of the Hollywood Boulevard wax museum.

13.  The Only Gay In The Village: A chubby small-town club dancer with a lotta heart and board shorts and a couple of awesome moves.  He is trying not to lip-sync.  My god, he tries.  But that’s not a reasonable ask for a gay club dancer.  He would have to put duct tape over his mouth, or put a Lucky Spinning Sock in it.

Good luck to these and all the dancers that auditioned, I look forward in seeing you on the show in a paint-covered t-shirt or a Victorian zombie outfit!

Bloodmeadow Portrait!

Posted Posted in comedy, costume, fashion, gay, Gothic, gothixxx, halloween, los angeles, portland, Uncategorized

An amazing birthday portrait of myself as Bloodmeadow by Monsieur Pete Ellison, the very talented wunderkind at www.heyitspete.com!  And when’s the last time you watched an episode of GOTHIXXX?  Probably too long!

Postscript: Here it is printed and framed in a lovely frame  I stole from an Oscars party- You can get your own print of Bloodmeadow enjoying a Slurpee and haunted by ghosts here!

Supporting Tommy Johnagin at Helium!

Posted Posted in comedy, portland, Uncategorized

I’m so excited to be visiting Portland’s Helium Comedy Club  to support the hilarious Tommy Johnagin March 6,7,8!  I won’t be at Bridgetown this year, so this is your only chance to see visiting Portlander Virginia Jones until next year!

Postscript: It was a fun week of shows, although Ian Karmel came out to run his late night set and that made me feel like a schlub, which is usually how I feel in my hometown.

Baby Wants Pole

Posted 2 CommentsPosted in comedy, costume, fashion, gay, Uncategorized, women
poledancer

Baby Wants Pole

It’s honest, is what it is. A cheerful, grinning pole dancer is the only female role model America really wants. That’s why Miley Cyrus got on on a pole at 16 at the 2009 Teen Choice Awards, and why she was cheerfully twerking on Robin Thicke’s crotch at the VMA’s in 2013.  (And don’t worry, everyone acted like they were outraged in 2009, and her Dad acted embarrassed and said “I don’t know where she learned that” and the answer was, then too,  “from her choreographer that painstakingly created the routine.”)  

That’s why Britney was on a pole when she was 18 and one second. We might be living through another Republican White House if Sarah Palin had just dropped the soundbites and climbed a pole. These things don’t come from nowhere and marketing doesn’t lie.  Don’t pretend you’re shocked.  Don’t pretend to be surprised when teen idols play strippers, again and again-  Performers do what is asked of them.  Feminism has fallen down gone boom and we all need to pick it the fuck up.

For one second, think about whether you, as a person with lady parts, have ever said “It’s fun to go to the strip club an’ get attention from the dancers!”, or said “Those Suicide Girls seem pretty self-actualized, because having tattoos means you’re your own person!” and realize that you might be part of the problem. Being comfortable with your own body and sexuality has gotten confused with being porn-positive and chauvinist-friendly to an uncomfortable degree.  Moby tried to bring up how misogynist the Robin Thicke video for Blurred Lines was, and everyone shouted him down like he was an asshole.  I’m not talking about suppressing freedom of expression, and I’m not saying you shouldn’t do exactly what pleases you- I’m just saying, if you don’t like the society we’re living in, own your part in creating it.

And girls, you don’t have to let boys grind on you at a club if you don’t want them to.  You don’t have to send them nude pictures on your phone.  And for chrissakes, don’t laugh at them if they aren’t funny.

Hey! Serious for a second! That was weird, huh.

Besides, the VMA’s are where fake scandals are made.  Sacha Baron Cohen putting his balls in Eminem’s face.  Kanye cockblocking Taylor Swift.  Russell Brand joking about the Jonas Brothers.  Diana Ross grabbing lil Kim’s boob.  Madonna humping the floor.  Courtney Love dissing Madonna.  Madonna kissing Britney.  Lady Gaga wearing a meat dress.  What’s it gonna be next year?  More importantly, how long are you rubes gonna keep walking down the midway?

Laura Palmer Erotic Fiction- CEFF

Posted Posted in artsy fartsy, Bridgetown Comedy Festival, comedy, Gothic, gothixxx, halloween, los angeles, Uncategorized

Mom, pretty please don’t read this one either.  I’m sorry.

This was my entry for the second round of Bryan Cook’s amazing show, Competitive Erotic Fan Fiction at the Nerdmelt Theatre on 7/16.

 If you’re not familiar, it’s a show where the first half is talented writers and comics who have pre-written amazing prose, and the second half is crazy people who have had an audience suggestion assigned to them.  It is released in podcast form here, please go listen and attend this show!    Bryan is taking it to SF, and it’s been to Seattle, Portland, Bridgetown Comedy Festival, and just all over.  It is hilarious and deeply disturbing.  My first show was just posted, which was a filthy story about Touched by an Angel.  This time, I wrote on a random pull of topic “Laura Palmer”, in 18 minutes.

First of all, the subject-I love Twin Peaks, it’s my favorite, it was the first show I saw every episode of, and there hasn’t been a second- but it’s a pretty weird topic for Competitive Erotic Fan Fiction.  Twin Peaks was pretty much erotic fiction on its own.  All in all, it’s like saying, write a really dirty version of Deep Throat.  So, this story will be the only one that doesn’t have an orgy in it.  Don’t be confused, you’re still at CEFF.

Laura Palmer’s postmortem diary- Fire, Go Fuck Yourself

I’m Laura Palmer and yeah, I’m dead, wrapped in plastic, sooo kinky, as imitated at Halloween by girls who want to sweat off a few extra pounds in Saran wrap. That’s the opening credits and the whole goddamned show is a smear campaign against me.  A lot of claims were made about be before, during, and after the show.  Recently the internet has claimed that I took off my top at the Glastonbury festival, but that was Amanda Palmer, who married Sandman creator Neil Gaiman, so fuck her. The whole two seasons are about how I f*cked everyone in the show and was eventually murdered by a malevolent spirit who took over my Dad, Leland Palmer, who used to sing as he went nuts, like Ophelia,

Does eat oats and mares eat oats and little lambs eat ivy, a kid’ll eat ivy too, wouldn’t you?

This is a heavily whitewashed version.  What my Daddy really used to sing was:

Whores eat c*ck and mares eat c*ck and little lambs are fuzzy, my kid’ll eat p*ssy too, wouldn’t you?

Everyone thinks I fucked my Dad, and he went crazy from the guilt, but he was slowly going crazy because he spent most of his time licking mercury out of broken thermometers.  Everyone has a hobby.  Sexually, my father was ahead of his time, he was a Bronie.  He went mad drawing graphic illustrations on legal pads of Twilight the Pony being f*cked in all her pony holes, her tail held aside and grasped for purchase.

The only person in this town who I might have had sex with was the FBI agent assigned to my case, unfortunately he showed up after I died. I looked down through the Douglas Fir trees and I liked what I saw.  I’d like to just f*ck his chin, just once.  But it’s all over for me.  Dale Cooper had hair as black as shoe polish and was even hotter than he was in Dune.  He loved coffee and pie and poor little rich girl Audrey Horne, who appeared to be 17 and three quarters for their whole relationship.  I’d like to lick his licorice hairline and rummage through his files.

Audrey Horne, a busty brunette, had the sweetest cherry pie in all of Twin Peaks.  She nearly f*cked her dad one time when she was going undercover as a prostitute at One Eyed Jack’s, but that wasn’t her fault.  She was just trying to get a good review at work.

I supposedly f*cked James Hurley, the adorable boyfriend of my best friend Donna Hayward, but he wasn’t interested.  James was a furry.  He was only interested in people dressed as cum-covered wolves.

I supposedly f*cked Dr. Jacoby, my therapist, and honestly I tried, but he couldn’t maintain a hard on when he wasn’t wearing a lei and listening to the music of Don Ho, and I was simply not that kind of ho.

It’s true.  Sometimes my arms bend back.  It’s because I’m a contortionist and acrobat, which is part of my job as a cheerleader.

Supposedly I had an affair with Bobby Briggs, but honestly he was only interested in watching films of people in business suits taking a shower.  Reputedly I had an affair with his lover Shelly Johnson, the hot-ass waitress in town, who would put on a wool suit and get down in the shower for Bobby, with blonde hair cascading, and I was supposed to have slept with her murderous drug dealing brain dead new-shoes loving trucker husband Leo, but I didn’t have sex with them.  I couldn’t stand those guys.  Besides, Shelly was a fecal freak and Leo preferred to be beaten with footlong novelty gummy rat candies while being penetrated with a Tootsie Roll bank he had bought at Disneyland.

I was accused of having an affair with Diane, whom agent cooper sends microcassettes to.  She’s not even a person, she’s a figment of his goddamned imagination!  He’s a hot ass crazy person!

I supposedly had sex with Jaques Renault, the Canadian drug dealer, but he was only sexually interested in women farting onto cakes.  Also, as a Quebecer, he spoke French like a slow child and English like someone who once saw something in English.

I supposedly had sex with a backwards-talking dwarf who danced weird and was obsessed with gum, but honestly, who could?  WHO COULD?

One woman could.

But It wasn’t me.  I met my maker with a slit so tight you could whistle through it, like when you blow across a fresh green blade of grass pulled taught between your thumbs.

My c*nt looked like a goddamned paper cut on a crisp white business envelope and honestly it’s a waste.

I’m a scapegoat, when I died it was seen as a way to keep the peace and knit this broken little town torn apart by its secrets back together.

Do you know who it really was?  Who screwed all those people, who catered like a slave to their strange afflictions and affectations and who simultaneously brought this town together and tore it apart?

The log lady.  Her log saw things.  Her log did things.  Awful things.  There’s splinters from that log in every tw*t and a**hole in this town, and from skull f*cking poor Nadine Hurley’s empty eyesocket, her eyepatch abandoned on the couch.  she cradles her log and fingers the edges worn smooth from activity, sometimes smelling it and reliving memories and looking into the past and towards the future.

There’s something rotten in the state of Denmark, or in the city of Twin Peaks- It’s because, as  Pete Martell said, “There was a fish in the percolator.”