Stuffy, Achy, Fever So I Can't Rest

Just in time for the weekend, a URI has struck The Shan. Not unlike Hurricane Wilma, Betty, Barney or Fred, I've been wiped out, so much so that I typed "whipped out" just then. PS - I like to use flowery language when it builds drama. All I've got is a freakin' cold, but URI (upper respiratory infection) prompts sympathy and an undercurrent of worry. It's dramatic and romantic to be a hypochondriac. Who wants a cold when you can have a real sickness?

If I Can't Say Anything Nice, I Say It Slowly.

Ever call somebody a Streptococcal pharyngitis ass munch? I just did, in an email. Well, I told the guy I was writing that some other dude called him one. But it was MY insult. And it's awesome. I hope they fight.

Also, when describing the smell of a skank entering my office, I said "She stinks to high heaven, like wet paper bag, Cool Ranch Doritos and oysters on the half-shell. Low tide."

Sure, I'm tired as hell. But ain't nothing gonna keep my mean girl quiet.

Never A Heather

I remember cliques in high school, A #1 Top 40, The Chosen, and I never got to be a part of the cool kids assembly. No matter how I pretended to not give a shit, I gave a lotta shit. And I've found this same pattern of pre-arranged pecking order to be alive and well with the bitches at Toy Fair. I'm talking about the cool girls, the ones who love to hang together and laugh loudly at something no one else heard, a joke that was just for them, probably about that guy from Target, the rep who had his fly open all day. The cool girls assemble quickly, and if you don't get in on the ground floor, you're persona non grata. They're easily pigeonholed by jealous, petty little people like me. Their clothes are expensive and even if they're carrying a little extra weight, they still look better than you. It's got to be the veneers. Fucking veneers, man. Perfect teeth, my arch nemisis. Oops, I was hasty there. Tall is my arch nemesis, perfect teeth are the arch nemesis' half-as-evil sidekick.

Day #2 of Toy Fair culminated with the cool girls exiting the premises to go get a drink. Very sophisticated, very dry martini, very 'this gentleman at the end of the bar sends you this drink with his regards.' They're impatiently waiting for the lolly-gagging cool girl. There's always one of them who's like, "Hang on, my hair is so not perfect!" She can singlehandedly hold the cool girl show, indefinitely, too. And when she finally arrives, one cool girl sighs and says, "That's what we waited for?" That's the cool bitch girl. She's my favorite. But I can't leave the drama queen cool girl out in the cold. Every elite bunch needs drama, and she's the master of stating the obvious. The tardy cool girl pulls on her suede jacket that matches her suede full-length boots and drama cool girl is all, "Ohmigod, are you ready now?" Yes, drama queen. Her fucking coat is on, she's all set. And thank Christ because "I am leaving with or without you" girl has gotten on my last nerve.

So, as they're heading out, I decided to bust out my sarcastic, pathetic nerd, Catholic-fried guilt trip. "Thanks for the invitation." All I want after that is a heartless, "Aw, we didn't think of it. Come with us." Confident that they'd take the bait, I just stood there, looking hopwful, a bit slighted, lips pursed just like the Church Lady's would be after she said, "SATAN?" But tonight I got...nothing. No response. Tardy girl's arrival must have been riveting b/c nobody acknowledged my fishing trip. Fucking bitches.

Guess what? I wouldn't have come anyway because I'm not comfortable around liquor and bars aren't a "safe" environment for me. Nope, I'm not coming to your party b/c I don't want to, not b/c I wasn't asked. I'm a die hard lesbian who chooses to head home to watch her White Sox in the World Series over tagging along with some hot marketing and sales chicks while they get hammered, and inhibitions evaporate. But the friendly touching escalates and one of them would eventually end up asking me to accompany her and her boots to the 'hotel room that's too big for just one person.' Then we'd have to ignore all that post-coital, carnal connection all week, and frankly bi-curious cool girl, you wouldn't want that to happen, now, would you?

It's that kind of reasoning that never got me "in" with the cool girls in high school. Were I a true cool girl, I'd not give a shit. But I do, so for tonight, I'm back in high school. Although, it's possible that envious and embarrassed feeling might last until my next shrink appointment. I'll bet they're sorry, though. And I hope they have a crap time.

Behind the Toys

I am one sick puppy. Above is the latest addition to my office decor. That man with the protruding sack/ass is Sportacus from NICKELODEON's 'Lazy Town.' The show aims at getting kids in shape because they're all fat bastards these days, what with the videos and all that technology and McDonald's and sloth. No one gets picked first for Dodgeball anymore. No one can do the bent arm hang for more than 3 seconds!

Sportacus to the rescue! He's is the main character and he motivates Stephanie, an 11 year old Sweedish kid with bright pink hair, to exercise. Together, they annoy the residents of Lazy Town with their fitness regimen, which consists of dancing to Sweedish techno, and that's it. I swear to God. Watch the show, I beg of you. Sportacus is the next generation's Mr. Rodgers, a pseudo-pedofile disguised as a children's TV character. Fred Rodgers stripped at the top of his show, everyday, while little kids joined him in song. He played with his trolley, if you get my drift. I'll show you what a beautiful day in Lazy Town looks like. It's a pink headed blur standing beside some overgrown gymnast while he cajoles and cuddles toe-headed boys and girls, "The best way to exercise is naked because it's more natural." If you think I'm paranoid, look at his mustache.

So where did I get this gorgeous 5' wide foam-core board of Senior Sportacus? At last year's Toy Fair, my company introduced a line of 'Lazy Town' activities, and Sportacus' buldge featured prominently in the showroom display. When I first saw it, I thought we were peddling products specially marketed toward molesters so they could attract children they would later torture, forcibly rape and murder. A few sales reps fainted as Sportacus snuck into their line of sight. He clearly disturbed anyone who ever watched the TV movie, "Adam." And others, too, like Members of The Angel Network who've seen one of those very special Oprah shows where she and some "specialists" scare the shit out of parents so they can turn around and scare the shit out of their kids about Stranger Danger. Thanks, John Walsh. Get a real job, it's what Adam would have wanted. Besides, they're teaching kids rude behavior. I would totally help find that guy's puppy and doesn't everyone keep their van (with tinted windows) stocked with candy? No. Go. Tell? More like, Sure. Stay. Help. Help!

Surprisingly, we couldn't give the 'Lazy Town' crap away. Summer camps, fat farms, they all said, "Sell Captain Touchy elsewhere. What kind of sick fucks are you?" Well, I am a devoted sick fuck. So, I've chosen to display Sportacus prominently in my place of work.

My Panda, My Namesake

Photo: I think we 'bear' a strong resemblance to each other. The dark circles under the eyes, the listless look, pouty, head tilted, so as to say, "I love you. Don't touch me." I'm dying to ask her how she snagged the chicks with gloves to measure her ass. (That blond one looks like she's really into it.) When she's fully grown, all 400 lbs. of her, our hinies will be the same size.


















I have loved her since her birth. I've posted her pictures as she's grown. She's changed a lot, developed eyes, hair and...well, eyes. And now, The Shan is proud to announce, she has my name.

Meet Tai Shan, everybody! Chinese tradition says that a panda shall not receive a formal name until 100 days after its birth. This morning, at Washington's National Zoo, 100 days since she splashed onto the scene, the zoo named the cub Tai Shan, which means peaceful mountain in Chinese.

I feel like I've been given my very own panda. Congratulations on your naming, Tai Shan. May you wear it well, always. Some motherly advice, when in public, please chew your bamboo with your mouth closed. I'm coming to see you as soon as I can.

ELATION DANGEROUS

Chicago sports fans are a long-suffering lot. Now, before I moan and groan, the six Chicago Bulls championships in the 1990s have to be acknowledged. But with Jordan on the team, we might as well have had Jesus himself on the floor. Screw 'acknowledge,' I'm gonna fekkin' brag. The first title, in 1991, was amazing, of course. And the second, well, I'd rank that in my top 5 life experiences. It was 1992 and I had a driver's license so my friends and I could join in the traditional 4 wheel festival of recklessly driving around the Westside beeping the horn and playing Garry Glitter's 'Rock N' Roll Part II' on pepeat, at deafening decibles. I spent the whole month of June atop the neighborhood watch's most-wanted list. Oh man, the third was a 48 hour "Whoop There It Is" beer-a-thon. The phrase three-peat was coined that year. A team that's responsible for coining a phrase as righteous and arrogant as three-peat deserves a humbling reminder that they're fallible like everyone else. Except the Pope. And Oprah. After indulging in prowess from 1991-1993, The Fall was so bad, we had to build a new stadium.

The Bulls' public ego deflation arrived in the form of sheer crisis. Before the next season even began, Michael Jordan held a press conference to announce his "retirement," the first of several fake retirements to come. (Streisand and Cher? Copy cats.) That hit me hard, literally. I found out about Michael's announcement from a so-called friend while sparring in my shotokan karate class. Caught off guard, devastated really, I took a roundhouse kick to the face.

But for the grace of Wilt Chamberlain, Oprah and the Pope, neither I nor M.J. were down for long. He returned a couple years later to vault the Bulls into history. By winning a record 72 regular season games, how could the Bulls NOT beat the Seattle Supersonics for a 4th championship? That one overwhelmed Mike. His dad had croaked, which some say prompted his retirement at 30, and 1996 was the first crowning moment that he didn't get to share with Papa. Air Jordan's emotions got the best of him. He cried like a girl clutching the Larry O'Brien trophy in the locker room, hugging it like it might just squeeze him back. Yeah, yeah, you miss your Dad. I do too, but you don't see me shedding tears sh on NBC, do ya? That brings us to 1997, a gimme. Our finals opponent that year was the Utah Jazz. We kicked their Mormon asses. Malone and Stockton would end their illustrious careers championshipless. Wah, wah. In 1998 we beat the Jazz again, proving that God doesn't even like Mormons. To sweeten the beatdown, it took the exact same number of games to re-kick their asses: 6. Whoop, there it is again!

Chicago Bears fans remember only one team, the '85 Bears. Led by Mike Ditka, arguably infalliable to any Superfan, and Buddy Ryan's 46 Zone defense, the storied season ended in the best game ever, the '86 Super Bowl. The Bears won Super Bowl 20 by a score of 46-10, by far the largest margin of victory in a super bowl to that point. Even 'The Fridge' scored a touchdown, and he was too fat to walk.

Ah, the Chicago Cubs, Northside n'er do wells. Loving them is suicide in red and royal blue. They alone killed Harry Carray. He was too Budweiser shitfaced to notice. Harry slurred 'Take Me Out to the Ballgame' until he pickled at the age of 84.

WONDER OF WONDERS, MIRACLE OF MIRACLES

Yesterday, the Chicago White Sox clinched the American League pennant for the first time in 46 years. There was another victory yesterday, equally as rare (not really, but if you're a Bears fan, you get it) and cause for celebration in it's own right. The Chicago Bears beat the Minnesota Vikings 28-3. The Bears' win quickened my pulse and my heart rate climbed unusually high. But when the Sox game was over, and I realized that we were going to The World Series, it felt like something was bursting out of my chest. It wasn't a heart attack, though. And I would never make light of that medical mystery. It was more like a heart explosion. Filled with more joy and enthusiasn than my litte body could contain, I lost feeling in my legs, and crashed to the floor. Luckily, I was able to resurrect myself. Thank God I bought that home difibulator kit.
GO WHITE SOX!

The Obligatory Voice Mail, Who You Callin' Crazy? and Gay Male Authors Rule!

Bless me father for I have sinned. It’s been a few days since my last post. I am in the midst of preparing for the NYC Toy Fair, beginning October 24th. I am a busy little bitch.

So busy, in fact, that a couple comedy club bookers are pissed at me because I didn’t return their phone calls in a timely manner, and apparently, that’s unprofessional. I had no idea that the comedy business expected me to be considerate. I should refer them to anyone who’s ever left me a message. They can explain that I am not a call back kind of gal. The way I see it, if you call me and leave me a message thinking that puts the onus on me to call you back, expect to get pissed, because homey don’t play that. I didn’t call you. You wanted to get a hold of me. Why should I have to respond just because you missed me? In Shan-land, voice mail messages serve as notification of a call, not as an RSVP. That’s bullshit. You want to talk to me? Keep trying.

Next, when a friend or coworker introduces someone to me, I’d like to impress upon them that my name is Shannon, not Crazy Shannon. I am not crazy. Granted, it’s a wide, fuzzy line that separates me from crazy, but it’s there nonetheless. I am just funnier, smarter and more quick-witted than anyone else they know. That doesn’t make me crazy. It makes them fortunate.

I overheard this today: “Man, I gotta do some sit-ups. My abs are invisible. I am a doughnut with a belly button.” Who among us couldn’t use a few thousand sit-ups?

Does tyranny of the aesthetic exist? David Rakoff, at his Barnes & Noble reading/book signing, said it does. He revs me up big time. I highly recommend his 2 books of marvelous essays. The first, “Fraud” is based on his world travels. The new one, “Don’t Get to Comfortable” is more of a peek into his cultural philosophy. Rakoff, if I were compelled to classify his writing, is more erudite than David Sedaris. However, they’re both masters of the snarky, queen bee quip. Rakoff’s stuff reads more like a wicked op ed column, whereas Sedaris leans toward the big gay autobiography. David Sedaris taught me that it’s possible to weep and cackle simultaneously. I mean, he did a piece in “Barrel Fever” on his very public love affair with Mike Tyson. I shit myself on the N train in front of hard core Astorians who weren't amused. He could've gotten me killed. In between descriptions of what a playful couple they are, he let’s us into their circle of friends. According to David, he and Mike hang with Burgess Meredith and Strom Thurmond, each major queens in their own right. Also, having gained access to a ‘behind the scenes’ inventory of the Sedaris’ home occupants, complete with reviews of Mom, Dad, sis Amy, and brother "The Rooster," I am exponentially more appreciative of my own family’s eccentricities. Speaking of big gay autobiographical authors I love, meet Mr. Augusten Burroughs. He writes like people speak. He is the only man who will ever truly satisfy me; laughing one minute, leaking empathy the next. The first time I read “Dry,” I was an active drunk. The second time I read “Dry,” he took me to rehab. Burroughs won’t slam you with an SAT vocabulary word assault. That’s Rakoff’s bag. His reader’s companion is a thick thesaurus. Regardless, you’ll be all the better for having examined any offering from Sedaris, Rakoff and Burroughs. I am.

Expect fewer blog entries from me in the next coupe weeks. I love you. Don’t touch me.

Sandra Dee: Cold Blooded Killer

Patrick McDermott, 48, Olivia Newton-John's on-again, off-again boyfriend of 9 years, disappeared less than 4 months ago. McDermott went on a fishing trip, but didn't return with his boat. His stuff was on the boat, he wasn't. Foul play has not been ruled out in the missing person investigation spearheaded by the U.S. Coast Guard.

Believe it or not, the Coast Guard is an official branch of the United States military. I have every confidence that they'll uncover the mystery surrounding Patrick McDermott's vanishing. Wait 'til after swimming lessons, though. Treading water wearing dress blues would crush a wussy Navy Seal or a Marine. But the brave men and women of the CG can dive into frigid water without their noses plugged. If the CG would listen to me, they'd have time to play Marco Polo because there is no need for the investigation to continue. Olivia Newton-John did it. Cuff her. Mirandize her to the tune of "You're the One That I Want." She's guilty.

First, Olivia is considerably longer in the tooth than her beau. She's 57, he's 48. Granted, they're no ASHTONnDEMI, but 9 years age difference? That's a receipe for danger. She's well past menopause, has one boob and had a lead role in one of the most successful movie musicals ever, yet filed for bankruptcy in 1992. (Shit, I could live off the royalites of "Hoplessly Devoted to You" alone.) I smell a latant felon. Let's say he takes one step out of her 'he loves me' radius . BAM!, there he goes, right off the side of his boat. Say they're watching TV in bed one night, and he innocently observes, "Wow. Susan Sarandon still looks great. So does Goldie Hawn." The next morning, that kowala-humping time bomb is mixing his coffee with Raid.

Honestly, despite my overwhelming childhood crush, I've always felt that Olivia was a little shifty. She's too nice. She's too saccharin. It's all an act, that plastered on smile, the G rated "Let's Get Physical" video, everything 'Xanadu', her close relationship with John Travolta, being a role model during that whole 'I have breast cancer' scam, doing Christmas movies on Lifetime with her hideous daughter and, her most devious project, an entire album of lullabies, Warm and Tender. Just look at her, all earnest and soprano, aging with grace. I ain't buying it, not no more. The jig is up, 'Livy.

Take her recent appearances on the talk shows to promote her new album, Stronger Than Before (I killed my boyfriend). She commented, "I really thought of not doing it, but the album is about going through difficulty and getting through (read: away) with it. I also know that Patrick would want me to do it because he believed in the cause and following through with your commitments."

Allow me to reword that for ya. Ahem...

"Anyone with a conscience wouldn't think twice about canceling Entertainment Tonight. But then I remembered that I could use the elimination of my philanderous, man-child boyfriend, Patrick, to my advantage. In my mind I thought, 'Reality check, Olivia, your new album coincides with the ongoing investigation of his murd...I mean, disappearance. What a wonderful opportunity to slither back into the spotlight!' Patrick would support my effort to fund facelift #6 by exploiting his missing corpse."

And, I hate to be a bitch, but shut it with the "Love me! I'm an Aussie!" crap. Get in line behind Russel Crowe, Nicole Kidman, Naomi Watts, Guy Pearce, Simon Baker, Eric Bana, Nick Cave, Mel Gibson, Portia deRossi, Natalie Imbruglia, Kylie Minogue, Cate Blanchett and Peta Wilson, babe. You've been eclipsed, usurped. While you were nuzzling with a lowly cameraman 9 years your junior, planning his death, there was a coup d'etat. You're a day player now, Olivia. Your sole function as an Australian celebrity is to sing your friggin' anthem at assorted athletic events if Silverchair is unavaliable.

When justice is served, Olivia's gonna rot in the jail cell prepared for O.J., Robert Blake and Michael Jackson. How's that's for a 'Twist of Fate?' (I had to do it. )

Private Shan

One of my co-workers, Wet Dog, is wearing a pair of MISS SIXTY jeans. And they’re disgusting. Mostly b/c Wet Dog is 60 years old. She also weighs 60 lbs., smokes 60 packs of Marlboro Reds a day and could use 60k worth of dental work. Earlier this morning, an unintentional, peripheral glance at her saddle-bagged ass triggered some pre-vomit. She almost made me hork my Cliff Bar.

After working with Wet Dog for 2 years, she’s managed to dig a bone in my subconscious. Sometimes, when I close my eyes at night, I see her. It’s like a ‘Nam flashback. Only it isn’t. Besides, how would I know? I wasn’t in ‘Nam. I’ve seen “Platoon” and “Full Metal Jacket” and “Apocalypse Now,” though. And according to movie critics, who totally know everything, those are supposed to be the most accurate portrayals of how fucked up Vietnam was. Really smart guys like Roger Ebert and Dead Gene Siskel said they capture the horror, chaos, dehumanization, brutality, disorientation and madness of war. Well, then Wet Dog is my Vietnam, my office a battlefield. So, everyday I clutch my father's dog tags (Illinois Army Reserves--oorah!) for strength. That bitch ain't gonna get the best of me.

Don't Tell Me

I went to work this morning gratefully oblivious to the threat that terrorists might want to strike the New York City subway system. I missed the whole damn thing. Got in late last night, slept late this morning. No Katie, Matt, Al or Ann for The Shan this Friday. Who knew no news IS good news? Gary Gnews!

At an undisclosed location in Brooklyn (sorry, aggressive fan club, gotta be extra careful), my early a.m. lethargy was in full swing. It's totally justifiable. After all, I worked like a bitch yesterday. All week, actually. So, I was in no hurry today. The boss is on his way to Hong Kong, and I made sweet love to my snooze button for nearly 3 hours. She's insatiable. I finally awoke from my dream, featuring hot DJs and Bollywood Electronica, only to drag ass taking my sweet time to pick out an appropriate Friday ensemble. Navy VANS, burn orange pants and my super-soft, thin as cheese cloth Barry Sanders #20 Detroit Lions t-shirt.

Hot Tip From Auntie Shan
The world would be a better place if everyone, even ugly Republicans, had a well worn, old t-shirt that slid over their shoulders and onto their torso as though it had a nipple fetish...and tickly feathers to nurture it.

My point--and I do have one--is that the beginning of my day involved no terror related anxiety. I wasn't amongst those who rode the F in anticipation of another Big Bang. I did, however, crap my pants when I arrived at the office, but in celebration, not panic. My bestest buddy, Wilson, sent me a copy of the artwork for the new Madonna album, Confessions on the Dance Floor, and my jaw dropped. Because I plan everything, right down to expressions of excitement and awe, I gently set my coffee down and took a deep breath. As I exhaled, after waiting to exhale becuase Terry McMillan told me that it builds suspense, the breath grew into a moan. Not an everyday moan, though. This was a Tina Turner, 'Private Dancer' moan. "Tell me, do you want to see me do the shimmy again? UUUUUUUUUUU-HHHHHHHHHHHH." No written words can possibly do justice to that moan. It's the second most sexy, disarming, instantly arousing aural caress in all of music. The first is Stevie Nicks' "Oooooooooooooooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh" in 'Edge of Seventeen.' Whew! Stevie and Tina are the proven method of sliding me outta my Jockeys in nanoseconds. Thank God that the Detroit Lions t-shirt slides off as easily as it slides on, too. Now, when I hear Tina and Stevie, I can stare at the Madonna cover. It's as hot to look at as they are to hear.

So, tell the bed not to lay like the open mouth of a grave, yeah, not to stare up at me like a calf down on its knees. Tell me love isn't true. It's just something that we do. Tell me everything I'm not. But please don't tell me to stop oogling at Madonna while Mayor Bloomberg scares the beejesus out of 4.5 million NYC subway riders. But don't ever tell me to stop caring more about Madonna than about police randomly searching my bag and violating my civil rights. Don't you ever, please don't, please don't, please don't tell me to stop discarding soda bottles filled with mysterious green liquid at Penn Station. Don't you ever, don't you ever, don't ever tell me to stop.

Plan "B" at Culture Club

Attention Bitches, Boys and Girls! I'm hosting an 80's trivia contest tomorrow.

Unscripted.

Impromtu.

Salacious.

Transcendent.

Indecent.

Trainspotted.

Double-fisted.

Derranged.

Skanked Out.

Over blown.

Underrated.

Adjectived.

$5 cover. That's cheap for one of my shows. Usually, you have to make reservations. Or call a ticket scalper. Or join my shitty fan club. Or apply for early admission.

Click on the flyer for more info. Be there or be doing something else.

Rosh Hos-Ramadan!

This morning, my coffee guy told me that he's Muslim. The news almost blasted me out of my lawn green JCrew summer weight chinos. He looked like an Episcopal to me, an overcooked Episcopal, but Episcopal nonetheless. (I'm on the lookout for Protestants with "good color." I always knew they were dangerous.) He went on to tell me that he is fasting for a month. And I said, "For Ramadan?" And he said, "How do you know that? Wow." And I said, "I am very aware and respecful of religions other than my own. I have an open heart and mind." That's a load of crap. I wouldn't know Ramadan from the Ramada. But he did say that he was fasting from sun up to sundown. And I go, "Well, that's no big deal. You'll make it through the day." And he corrected me, saying, "No, for a month. For a month I fast during daylight hours." My sensitive retort: "Oh, Jesus!"

Assalamualaikum, coffee guy. I still love you, even though you're Muslim. Good luck w/ that fasting business. It's gonna be tough standing in your cart with all those doughnuts and rolls and bagels. Yummy carbohydrates vs. Honor thy Islam. I'd go with a muffin over Muhammad any day.

Lest I forget, to all my Jewish brothas and sistahs out there, hope you're enjoying your day off. Happy New Year. See you tomorrow. At work. Where I've been all day. Catholic and productive.