Piero Fornasetti

If you know me well, you know my fancy for dishes.
When thrifting, one of the first things I peruse are the plates and glasses.
And in searching for a sad face for my post about Adam (sob) I came across a plate.
With a crying woman on it.
Which led me to this man.
A genius in housewares and decor, ranging in everything from wallpaper to chairs.
But his plates.
Oh, his plates...
I am newly obsessed and inspired and completely in love.
He is deceased now, but his son is keeping the legacy alive.
Check this out:
I love
Piero Fornasetti.

COME BACK ADAM!!!!!!!!!!!

My dear pal and lovely neighbor has officially moved out.
Packed his bags and planted himself in Bed-Stuy.
No more drop-ins from Jesus, asking to borrow my fanny pack.
No more impromptu glasses of wine with Vito.
No more "changing light bulbs" at 3:30 in the morning.
No more playing Bowie to inspire a knock on the door.
No more adoring my upstairs neighbor.
Okay, perhaps I'll really like the GIRL that's moving in, but the chances are slim that she'll be even half as lovely as Adam.


This weekend I had one of the best thrift finds in the history of all my digging.
A DOUBLE album of Loretta Lynn's greatest hits.
For 99 cents.
In mint condition.
I don't think I stopped talking about it for two days straight.
And I don't think I'll stop listening to it for two months straight.
So if you don't like her (which would be a damn crying shame) and you don't wanna go to Fist City (which is where I'll take you if you don't, in fact, like her) then don't come knockin' on my door.



This is Thomas Beatie.
I'm sure you've all heard about this pregnant man in Oregon.
He used to be a woman, had a sex change to become a man, complete with removal of the breasts (shudder) and weekly testosterone injections.
When his wife could not conceive, he ceased the injections and sperminated himself.
NOT with his own sperm.
He can't make sperm. He still has a uterus.
Plus, that would be grossly incestuous.
He is due in July.
And I have just completely confused myself.
So a woman became a man and then went back to being a woman in order to conceive but is still technically a man and the father of the household?
Oy vay.
I am sure they are awesome people, and to each his own, but imagine the poor child:
"Here's daddy, 8 months pregnant. Isn't he glowing? That's you in there!"



"A shoe is like a chair," says Finnish designer Julia Lundsten.
Architecturally pleasing and classic.

A nutshell...

So Detroit was fabulous and more.
It snowed on Friday. And snowed. And kept on snowing.
The 6AM "wake-up call" on Saturday consisted of a jackhammer pummeling the ground on the 8th floor.
Please be advised, we were on the 7th floor.
Please also be advised, my sister was PISSED.
And banging on the ceiling with the luggage rack.
And on her 8th call to the front desk.
And after two hours of the most grating sound you have EVER heard, I couldn't stop laughing to save my life.
The entire hotel lost its mind.
Some dude threw a plate in the buffet line: IT WAS DIRTY! AND DO YOU HEAR THAT JACKHAMMER!
The cops showed up to restore order.
This is comedy in disguise, my friends, and nothing short of hilarious, escalated by lack of sleep.
Needless to say, we moved hotels.
And we did a lot of driving around.
And toured my parents old stomping grounds.
And I drank a Vernors and nearly wept at how good it was.
We bowled the Majestic on Easter Sunday, which has been there forever, claiming to be the oldest active bowling alley in America.
We basically had the run of the place, save for a wake that was happening at the bar.
A dear friend of the guy pouring the drinks had killed himself, so everyone had gathered, singing along with the old-school punk blaring through the building, throwing back beers and shots and memories.
They were mourning, and it showed, but they were generally in good spirits and happy to be together.
We could well relate.
The city itself was a ghost town.
Abandoned building after abandoned building.
For lease. For rent. For sale. FORECLOSURE.
Brand new apartment complexes, EMPTY.
The mitten needs your good vibes, so send 'em on through.
Oh, also: Owen says it's FINE to eat your boogers, he thinks that kid waiting for the elevator is awesomely FAT, he shoots webs from his fingers if he disagrees with you and he is ready to bowl, after he stretches.
He is three.


Slip. Slide. Dip then take a dive...

It's raining this morning.
And I wore my wellies to keep the water out.
And my commute was pretty uneventful, save for a young dad trying to entertain his baby with a Nutri-Grain wrapper.
Somehow, I managed to make it to Seventh Avenue without getting my eye gauged out by protruding, jagged-edged umbrella spokes.
If you have any smarts whatsoever, you use umbrella etiquette and you WATCH OUT for others.
You move and shimmy and calculate space to avoid injuring others.
You DO NOT carry huge, obnoxious umbrellas and then never raise them or hold them sideways as others approach.
You DO NOT just forge ahead, tangling strangers hair and slapping people in the face with wet nylon.
That useless thing on top of your neck? It's your head. Fucking use it.
And so comes the next part of my story.
I made it into my building.
No harm done.
Until I hit the polished marble floors.
And my wet, right rain boot slid out from under me and I came crashing to the floor.
Slamming to the floor.
Teeth clashing together, direct tailbone hit, loudly screaming "SHIT!" as I went down, which echoed throughout the enormous, gleaming lobby.
And yes, people falling is indeed funny.
It is.
But it was 8:30am.
And I guess that's what I get for thinking the way I do about my fellow pedestrians in life.



Sign this, if only for the sake of going out to the bars, imbibing like a camel and ending up looking like this guy by the end of the night.
And then, dear Irish God, being able to sleep it off.


Dead Ringer?????

I give you Glenne Headly, my own personal dead ringer, or so I'm told, ALL THE TIME.
And I'm not posting photos of me, because the four of you that read this know well what I look like.
But I promise you, I'm not exaggerating here, I get it a lot, sometimes twice in one week.
And nobody ever knows what her name is, they just know I look like someone.
Then they go through some movies or TV shows, and it's her every time.
Mr. Willy was the very first person to call it, in high school, after Mr. Holland's Opus came out, and he would not shut up about it.
"You look JUST like her, Molly..."
And then he would grit his teeth a little and say it again, "Just like her."
He did this until I graduated. Annoying? I'd say so.
So I eventually figured out her name.
And it still happens.
In stores, on the street, on trips, even at my job.
One guy at work thinks The Love Story should change its name to The Glenne Headly's.
And yet another dude at work kept telling me about this character in Lonesome Dove that looks "just like you."
Every morning.
He eventually brought in the DVD's and I spent six hours of my life watching them.
There is one particular shot in the film where she eerily resembles my mom.
And I do, indeed, look a lot like my mom.
But I still don't see it.
Do you?

Dead Ringer

I think it's true, Ms. Sweeney.
Tim Gunn was indeed Max Headroom.


Dead Ringer

I tried Renn. I really did.
But in doing my research, I found that Leonard Cohen looks WAY more like Dustin Hoffman than he does Adam Sandler.

What the duck?????

I slept TERRIBLY last night.
Too hot. Too cold.
On my back. On my stomach. On my side.
Switch of pillows. No pillow. Pillow over the head.
All the while, the minutes ticking away until the alarm clock would open it's big, dreadful, dinging mouth.
FINALLY, after hours, I fell into a deep, dark, amazing slumber.
It was just getting light outside, and I shit you not, a duck, quacking away like the sky was falling.
A steady beat of quacks, every second a quack for a good few minutes, followed by a short silence and then, for the finale, two very loud quacks.
Woken up by a duck?!???
In the midst of NYC!??!?!
It must have been asking for directions.
Too bad the pigeons don't smoke quack.
Ba-dum ching.
(Golf claps)