My Cat Stella Purrs in the Face of NYC Snowricane Horror

Yes, despite the fact that this is our last night on earth, owing to the spastic flailing devil's storm that is right now barreling toward NYC, my cat Stella couldn't stop herself from just stone cold sittin' on Jimmy's lap and purring her ass off. I got it on this film, which is awesome, because I'd wanted to capture a tiny little fragment of what our last night on Earth was like, and this pretty much sums it up. Here's what you will hear: my loud-ass voice, some Stella purrin', and then a god-awful ruckus that is my reaching into the Dorritos bag to get a few more chips because I was hungry. Sorry bout that last thing, but the rest is golden.

 Anyway, I thought, you know, we live in the big city and everyone will want to see our mad crazy hurricane blowout, so you're welcome, see you in heaven, we'll be the shirtless ones wearing the powdered wigs and Bugle Boy jeans.

Crazy Blue Furry Offers Any Tom, Dick, or Harry a "Bouncy Ride" at the Lorimer L Stop

Ah, the Lorimer L Subway Station--it's where things happen. You know how you're getting really f-ing tired of riding the subway every day but you've been forced to leave your tricycle at home and spelunk down to the L train for the past few weeks because of the snow-smothered streets? Well, sometimes being forced to ride in a diseased underground aluminum can with a slew of other human sardines allows you to witness poetry in motion upon alighting at your destination. To wit: this random blue furry bouncing around on a bench and startling me as I looked up from my Philip K. Dick book that features a book that tells the future and which probably foretold the arrival of a bouncy blue furry but I missed it. (Also the cover is blue... Coincidence?!). This furry held a sign saying "Free Bouncy Rides," naturally, but unfortunately he wouldn't stop bouncing long enough for me to get a decent picture.

So did anyone take him up on his offer? To bounce? And ride?

Not to my knowledge. But I haven't finished the book yet, so who knows?

Tune in Tokyo Successfully (If Fleetingly) Placed on a Bookshelf at the Strand Bookstore, NYC

Fans of my book Tune in Tokyo have obviously been clamoring for the book to be available in bookstores and not just for sale on Amazon. They've been climbing walls, overturning police cars, and setting themselves on fire in desperate attempts to have their voices heard. I feel your pain, dear readers. I also wish that bookstores would heed the wishes of the people. The people will not be silenced! It's almost exactly like what's going on in Egypt now. (Awesome/Tasteless Segue Into Topical Subject Award, please.)

Anyway, none of this is true, but if it were, fans of Tune in Tokyo would have been celebrating for roughly two hours last Thursday, when the book was placed on a display shelf downstairs at the mighty Strand bookstore here in NYC. The Women's National Book Association (of which I'm a member, because I'm every woman, as you know) was holding its first open mike night and I was on the standby list, yay! I didn't get a chance to read, but since I was on the list my book got some good face time on the display shelf of readers' works.

Another open mike night at the Strand is in the works for the spring, so hopefully my book will be available to buy at one bookstore in the world for two more hours in late April/early May. A victory for the people, in other words.

Snowdickpocalypse

As you probably know, snow has eated New York once again. But the real story is the one that the local news is afraid to report, the one about the trickster bandits making their way through Brooklyn in the wake of the storm, slithering under the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway and defacing snow-covered cars with their chilling gang symbol, a stubby dick with prickly balls.

If your car has been tagged, you should report it to your closest gas station attendant or librarian. They will surely know what to do. (Don't ask a barista. They usually just try to get you to come to their band's next gig, and you don't have time for that bullshit.) You should also check under the hood of your car for dildos. Brooklyn gangs love to leave behind dildos as a warning. (Helpful dildo-hunting hint: they're usually stubby, with prickly balls.)

What Have the Chelsea Gremlins Left in My Bike Helmet Today?

After work the other day I left the office and walked out to my tricycle, which was parked, as always, on 24th Street in Chelsea, locked to some scaffolding that has been there since the beginning of time. I've taken to hanging my bike helmet from the top tube of my trike because it's a free country, so why not?

And what little gift do I find waiting for me in my upside down head protector? Why a cute little plastic bag with its handles tied into an adorable little knot. And what's in this bag? That's right: dog shit.

For me? I thought. You shouldn't have. Seriously, bitch, you shouldn't have.

Now, I love dogs. I do. But nobody likes dog shit, not even Betty White. Even when it's wrapped up nicely. It's still dog shit. And dog shit should never be given as a gift. Obviously the person who left this present for me has never read Miss Manners or Dan Savage.

I must say, I laughed when I first realized what it was, because what a fun joke to play on a random person. Then I kind of got pissed, because WTF, why do I have to be this random person? Or was it not random? Was I the intended target? It's possible. I can see one of the many grumpy old ladies that live in the building doing this in retaliation for me walking around all the time looking all smug, because they're old and don't give a shit anymore (or rather, they DO give a shit, and they all look like crabby old Maxine).

Or is someone flirting with me? If so, I'd like this person to know that (1) I have a boyfriend already and (2) I prefer to receive gives like folks used to give in the old days, like Bed, Bath, and Beyond gift certificates or Live Strong wrist bands.

ANYWAY, so yesterday I left my office again (I do this every day) and I noticed as I approached my tricycle that there was another little gift left for me in my helmet. What would it be this time? Cat puke enveloped in deli wrap? A big ball of bubble gum rolled in dingleberries? A half-used condom?

The answer is no. It's just an empty bottle of airplane booze.

Should I be thankful or offended?