CHOCOLATE is the song I hear now

Ever stayed at work late on a beautiful Fall Friday? Sun shining, weekend waiting, yet you can't gather enough motivation to leave, can't lift out of your not-at-all comfortable chair and go somewhere. I could go on amazon or half.com and find some CDs I think I need--er, want. Or I could do all kinds of unhealthy internet based shit. Search any of the 'singles' websites, only to be reminded that it's depressing fishing. I was thinking of google searching chicks I thought were hot in high school. OK. I didn't think about it, I did it. Only one chick in particualr. Then I gave up b/c I'm not too far gone. Maybe I could surf for shoes. Oy. I am jonesing for a new pair of loafers, black, casual. Actually, I'm just jonesing. And that's OK. At least I know I'm doing it. Two years ago, I'd have bought something I couldn't afford, actually, two or three things, then I'd hit the nearest Happy Hour to chill out, overmedicate and falsely assure myself that I deserve rewards. Hence, my willingness to not do anything, because I've done worse.

Remind me to tell the tale of the crack house, head injury, hung out in "the projects" story. I'd do it now, but I can't remember the main dude's name. Troy? Wayne? Diddy? I always forget it. But I'm the only one who does. Everyone else remembers, bless their little hearts. If I need a quick dose of humility, I'll ask one of my friends to recount a memorable episode from As The Shan Turns. They all start, "Oh, shit. Remember that one time you..." Then they reveal my secrets in detail, none of which I recollect. Guess they're not secrets then.

Wait. I just looked at my Nike pants and shoes. It just hit me. Go home and ride your bike, Shan. Then have a reasonable dinner at a reasonable hour. Then watch Angie on TV, and go to bed at a reasonable hour. When I was 23, I never used the word reasonable to describe any activity.

OK, I'm going b/c my most annoying and cigarette smelly co-worker--we'll call her Wet Dog--appeared to motivate me to leave. Thanks, Wet Dog! Good Wet Dog.

Shh! You've Got Mail

Hot Tip From Auntie Shan!

For all the well intentioned friends out there who want to warn their pals that they're close to an unpleasant, embarrassing, and emotionally scarring 'Oops' situation without hurting their feelings, this one's for you. Everyone, at least once, has sat across from someone at a restaurant who's talking and talking, ad nauseum. However, you cannot pay attention to what they're saying, not because they're boring, but b/c there is unidentified shit stuck in their teeth. And of course the story they're telling is epic because you'd be less tormented if you could interrupt a quick anecdote but that's just not the way your life goes. You have to wait for a pause during their recitation of The Odyssey.

To tell or not to tell...Situations like this one pop up all the time. Common warnings usually attempt a stab at humor to lighten the news. For instance, to someone who's got a clearly visible, errant booger, you might say, "You've got a bat in the cave." (My Mom hates that one.) How about the person who has failed to lick their lips or wipe their face clean after a meal? In this case, I like to go with the traditional, "Dude, you've got some food riiiiiight there," while I mime strategic gestures until they remove the schmutz.

Give this a try. "You've got mail." Revolutionary, isn't it? It's sweet and funny. It's a flattering allusion to good old days when aol's creepy Jane Doe web voice informed you that someone had sent you some wireless love. "You've got mail" is the Hallmark card of bad news. Next time your boyfriend or girlfriend is wearing, not eating, their ice cream, pipe up and tell 'em, "Hey, you've got mail."

"You've got mail" may even be useful in the worst notification confrontation mankind has encountered: the period stain, leaking Auntie Flow. Double Whammy! Show me someone who can effortlessly approach the menstruater in question, and acknowledge that her dam broke. The world's most accomplished gynecologist with the best bedside manner imaginable couldn't do it right. No matter what anyone says or how they say it, she'll be mortified. Damned if you do, dammed if you don't. So JUST DO IT! Honest to God, let her know. In a low whisper, tell her, "Sweetheart, you've got mail." Then duck.

I've got a backstory regarding the alternative, not telling. And it wasn't even my period! I'd stayed over at a friend's house and borrowed a pair of jogging pants to wear to bed. They were so comfortable that I couldn't stop singing their praise all morning. Finally, my friend said that since I liked them so much I could have them. "Are you sure?" I said. Generosity of any kind raised my suspicion. No one gives away good shit. And I should have listened to my gut because when I got home and sat down to pee, I noticed the huge period stain on the ass of the jogging pants! I'd ridden the subway in those pants! I'd transfered trains in those pants! I greeted my ancient Greek landlords in those pants! God dammit! I grabbed the phone and frantically punched my dastardly devious friend's number. She wasn't able to utter so much as Hello before I screamed, "Bitch! You bitch!" She just laughed and laughed, put her phone down, told her roommate the good news, then they laughed together.

But I'm a big girl now, and I am working on not taking myself too seriously. So, I do laugh at things like this years later. And I still have those pants. As a tribute to my walk of shame, they no longer have the slightest trace of a scarlet mark. I am free to transfer trains without a second thought.

Fart Party

I am starting a new column on my blog. Since I've got so much unsolicited, great advice that no one listens to, I thought I'd humor myself and give it out on the ol' blog. This way I don't have to suffer the pain of witnessing anyone ingore me in person .

Hot Tip from Auntie Shannon!
If you’ve got gas, I’ve got a solution. It’s possible to release them and not leave a scented trace. You can hide farts in thick upholstery, like cheap car interior. Find a chair covered in that material, sit down and let loose. Get ‘em deep in there! Those puppies can take ANYTHING, proving that there’s more than one kind of absorption. Ever smelled a nasty stank fart at the movies? See what I’m saying? Personally, I’ve thrust many an 8 a.m., post-kegger skunk bubble into a few B.U. lecture hall seats. Sorry, Anthropology 101, 1994! I didn’t intend that any escape, but every one of my chairs worked really hard on your behalf.

Note: This policy does not apply to sushi farts. For those, I’m afraid you’re on your own.

Lately, I've been pitying myself (more than usual) and inventing fantasies so I can feel better. Here's a sample fantasy I'd like to share. If I should ever get married, be prepared for a huge-ass, 24-hour blow out. I’m going to pull a Star Jones and get the whole damn thing sponsored. Birkenstock, Olivia Cruises, Curve Magazine, Toys in Babeland, AfterEllen.com and Home Depot will slug it out for signage, press mentions and product placement while the little lady and I take care of booking the entertainment. I plan to make an executive decision, though. I will pick without consulting my bride to be. I wouldn't want weigh her down with the inconvenience of having to make her own choice. That just takes time, and she'd endanger herself if she disagrees with me. She'll adore my thoughful consideration.

Guests will be treated to the stylin’ sounds of the woman-lovin-woman cover band, Lez Zepplin. The managers who represent Betty will call and plead to play, and I’ll just say, “After what they did to the L Word? Why not hire Anita Bryant as our spokesperson?”

kate moss? cocaine? you don't say...

WILL SOMEONE TOSS KATE MOSS A BONE OR GIVE HER A FUCKING BREAK? I’LL BET ALL THE FASHION HOUSES AND MAKE-UP BITCHES WERE ABSOLUTELY BLOWN AWAY WHEN THEY SUDDENDLY DISCOVERED THAT KATE MOSS LIKES THE NOSE CANDY. HMM. I WONDER WHO PUT THE SHIT IN FRONT OF HER 16 YEAR OLD FACE IN THE FIRST PLACE. NOW SHE’S 31 AND A COKEHEAD. IT'S HARDLY THE SHOCK HEARD ROUND THE GO SEE. NO WAY! OH GOD, WE CAN’T BELIEVE IT! WHAT AN OUTRAGE! UGH, SHUT IT. ASK ANYONE IN THAT ELITE CIRCLE ONE QUESTION: WHICH WOULD YOU RATHER BE--A COKE ADDICT OR FAT?

LET US NOT FORGET THAT SHE WAS SOLD TO US AS THE POSTER GIRL FOR HEROIN CHIC! SHE EMBODIED FUCKED UP, HIGH GLAMOUR, AND NOW SHE’S BAD FOR THE FASHION WORLD’S IMAGE? I SMEARED MY EYE LINER FOR A YEAR! BUT ONCE AGAIN, THE ONLY COMMODITY HELD MORE DEAR THAN BEAUTY, REVERED AND WORSHIPED MORE THAN IMAGE, IS MONEY. BILL MAHR RECENTLY REMARKED THAT G.W.’S REAL JESUS IS MONEY. NO SHIT. EVERYBODY’S HIGHER POWER—GOD, ALLAH, JIMMY CHOO,WHATEVER—IS MONEY.

DON’T THE COMPANIES WHO SCHLEPPED, PRIMPED, PIMPED, COSTUMED, CATWALKED AND STARVED HER FOR 15 YEARS OWE ‘THE WEE WAIF’ AT LEAST SOME LOYALTY? OH, NOW THEY'RE STUNNED? NOW THEY THROW HER OUT THE DOOR WHILE THE CAR IS STILL MOVING BECAUSE THE LIABILITY OF RAMPANT DRUG USE IN THEIR INDUSTRY, THE ONE THEY’D HEDGED ALL BETS ON SINCE THE MID-SEVENTIES, GOT BUSTED? THE LIST OF BENEDICT ARNOLDS, COVER GIRL FAIRWEATHERS WHO CUT KATE LOOSE READS LIKE AN ISSUE OF VOGUE. THERE’S BURBERRY, CHANEL AND GLORIA VANDERBUILT RUNNING AS FAST AS THEIR WELL HEELED LEGS WILL TAKE THEM. IT'S AS IF SHE WAS THE WHORE DAUGHTER WHO SHAMED THE FAMILY RATHER THAN THE DANGEROUSLY THIN CASH COW THEY'D CREATED FROM SCATCH, WHO MADE THEM RICH, RICH, STUPID RICH MUTHAS. EVEN H&M DROPPED HER FROM THEIR FALL AD CAMPAIGN FEATURING THE DESIGNS OF STELLA McCARTNEY. WHEW, THAT'S WHAT I CAN BULLSHIT. I ASSURE YOU THAT H&M IS WELL AWARE OF THE FACT THAT ALL THE MONEY WE SAVE SHOPPING AT THEIR STORES GETS SPENT ON BOOZE AND PILLS, X AND BLOW. DO THE HEAD HONCHOS REALLY THINK THAT BURBERRY-OBSESSED ASIANS AND MULTIMILLIONAIRE EUROPEAN WANNABEES WON’T BUY THEIR BRANDS ANYMORE BECAUSE KATE MOSS HAS THE SAME DEALER THEY DO? AND SCREW YOU, GLORIA VANDERBUILT. YOU HAVEN'T BEEN HOT SINCE '83. FRANKLY, YOU COULD USE A SCANDAL.

THEN THERE'S THE CLICHE'S JUICY CENTER: THE PRETTY BUSINESS RUNS ON COKE AS MUCH AS IT DOES ON THREAD AND OBNOXIOUS LOGOS. THEY’D HAVE TO HACK THEIR SHIT AT OLD NAVY IF KATE AND CINDY AND GISELLE AND HEIDI AND NAOMI AND LINDA COULDN’T GIVE A B.J AND DO A RAIL AT THE SAME TIME. BOB MACKIE WOULDN'T PEE IN THEIR SOUP IF THOSE GORGEOUS MONOLITHS NEVER DID A BUMP IN THE BATHROOM AT LOTUS OR DIDN’T SPEND A FEW PER DIEMS ON SMACK. AND, WONDER OF WONDERS, SOMEONE TOOK A PICTURE OF KATE MOSS WITH RING AROUND THE COLLAR, CAUGHT IN THE ACT OF SNORTING THE SHIT THAT WE ALL KNEW SHE DID! HELL, CHILDREN IN MINNESOTA HAVE BEEN DRAWNING HER LIKENESS LEANING OVER A TOILET SEAT FOR YEARS! BUT THE MOMENT HER ADDICTION BECOMES FRONT PAGE FODDER…DUMP HER! SEVER ALL TIES! SHE’S PERSONA NON GRATA!

DAMN, THAT’S COLD. FASHIONISTAS CAN BE SUCH CUNTS. THE NEXT MODEL PHOTOGRAPHED SO MUCH AS SUCKING ON AN AMERICAN SPIRIT CIGARETTE IS FUCKED. THERE’S NO CRYING IN BASEBALL AND THERE’S NO SMOKING IN MODELING. SO, WATCH YOUR PERFECT ASSES.

INCONCEIVABLE? UNBELIEVABLE!

1. That Angie Harmon is well suited to play a doctor.

2. That Angie Harmon played a lawyer so well for 3 years.

3. That this show will stay on the air for more than 4 weeks.

4. That the general public doesn't know that Jodie Foster is a total lesbo.

5. That I won't drool tonight as I sit on my futon, motionless, directing my full attention to my 32" Zenith as it projects images and sounds of the most perfect creature I've ever seen.

6. That I won't hate Jason Sehorn even more after the show is over. At 10pm Eastern, my detestation of their marriage will reach a new peak.

7. That the names "God" and "Jesus" won't be repeated by yours truly, taken in no manner other than vain, as I gaze in wonder and awe at the most perfect creature I've ever seen.

8. That I've written yet another Angie Harmon-centric blog entry.

9. That this obsession is harmless.

10. That I will carefully consider the validity of points 1-9 before I decide to ignore them.

Say Hello and Wave Goodbye 

Tell Me What I Don't Like About NIP/TUCK

The Carrot:
If you saw Nip/Tuck's season premiere last night, you know exactly what this photo is all about. If you didn't see it, examine the photo carefully. There are 3 Ways you can look at it. Three. Tres. Trois. Trois. Trois.

The Truth:
Nip/Tuck is one of the best shows on television, now or ever. It's clever, provocative and the writing is unmatched. Set in the shallow glamour of Miami beach, the lives of two plastic surgereons are revealed through fearless story telling, high style (the likes of which I haven't seen since Miami Vice), and there isn't a shallow moment to be found, even amongst all that silicone. Every critic and their brother praises Nip/Tuck, how it's "sexy" and "cutting edge" and "jaw-dropping." I call it tight TV. There's no fat in Nip/Tuck. It's perfect. Ryan Murphy, the Creator/Director, is a friggin' genius and I cannot wait to see his big screen version of Augusten Burroughs' "Running With Scissors."

A Few Minor Details:
FX, Tuesdays, 10 p.m.
TV MA - Mature Audiences Only. This program is specifically designed to be viewed by adults and therefore may be unsuitable for children under 17, the criminally inclined and terminally ugly. This program contains one or more--usually lots--of the following: graphic violence, explicit sexual activity, crude or indecent language, nudity and free refills.

WARNING

I'm mad as hell, and I'm not going to take it anymore!

The spammers can find someone else's blog if they want to sell a mortgage or a massage or a mortician or a mammary-filled booty video or a muther f**king ANYTHING! I'm an artist, for Chrissake. I am more than willing to sell my soul, commentary section included, but you gots to pay for it, like all of my johns...and janes.

While I regret being such a Catholic school teacher about it, I've received my last spam. One more and I'm shutting down the comment section.

PMS HH FF

My PMS is special and I am willing to expose it for the education's sake. Or for exhibition's sake. Whatever.

I am in the phase of my 28 day 'woman's cycle' where I exclusivey and aggressively desire two things: ass and food. I call this pre-period period The Attack of the Double H's. Hungry and horny. Pick an appetite and try to satisfy it. The Shan must be fed.

While the H combo is damn near unbearable, it's also got really shitty timing. They're not compatible! I mean, who wants to get it on w/ a chyck who's face is buried in a pepperoni pizza, who smells like burnt sugar and Doritos, who's' dressed in the ugliest 'softies' she could possibly assemble? Hot, heh? "Honey, I would love to get funky. Would you hang on a sec while I polish off these chips then down a Snickers chaser? Shit! Where did I put that milkshake?" Oh, I nearly forgot the magnet like sex pull of PMS acne. If a smattering of zits gets you good to go, you're in luck.

In popular culture, PMS is associated with frequent, drastic changes in mood. The PMSer can go from pissy and mean to full on sappy weeping in seconds flat. One minute she's bitching on about her hatred of Star Jones, how she was better fat. Next minute, that David Duchovny voice-overed puppy commercial comes on and the tragedy of her dog Kenny's death is relived. She is a Porche of emotion, a high performance vehicle, but enormously delicate, too. Don't get sucked in. There's no escape and she'll bring you down with her. Rather, watch her as you would Riki Lake.

I would advise men to follow some simple instructions to advoid decapitation:

• Dude, you know how you "pet" your car, lovingly, lightly, mindful of not leaving a smudge? Apply that affection and care to the woman of the verge of a nervous tampon festival.
• Consider the double H's. Handling the H's requires introducing a new alphabetical duo, the Double F's. Feed her. Fuck her. C'est tout.

Now, I am having NO PROBLEMO with the food part. I can buy that, and I'm not too fussy about what candy I'll (over)eat. The, uh, you know...the other thing, that's a dilemma.

Do You Like to Boogie Woogie?

! NOT EDITED. PLS DO NOT JUDGE GRAMMAR, SPELLING OR CONTENT !

I am not, nor have I ever been, a braggart. I am a gracious in victory and defeat.

My friends and family are pissing themselves laughing at that one. I am the all-time, most obnoxious, annoying, competetive shit-eater. And if I lose, which never happens, I sulk, low and deep and long. Sadly, though, witnessing a Shannon victory is worse. For example, I do an inspired, celebratory dance everytime I win. Could be darts, could be Trivial Pursuit, could be beating children--there's a different dance for all all winning moments. Ah, the thrill of victory. I have the skill to make the simple declaration, "I win!" sound like, "I am prime evil. You want to shoot me in the face. Do it. Make me stop. Shoot me now. You know you want to."

During the Emmy telecast last night I added two more dances to my repertiore. One for Felicity Huffman's win as Best Actress in a Comedy Series, and the other for Blythe Danner's win in the Supporting Actress Drama catergory. I felt like a winner, too. Hence, an ocassion for creating new dances.

Felicity Huffman has long been a fave of mine. We go back to Sport's Night, circa Fall 1998. I was a vocal supporter even then, when no one was watching the damn show. For my money, she played one of the most interesting, complicated, bright and vulnerable female characters on TV since the incarnation of Murphy Brown, exactly 10 years before the idiot box blessed me with Dana Whitaker. On Desperate Housewives, she's the one with the chops. The other gals are good, but are nowhere near achieving the nuance and ouright hystertia (in every sense) of Huffman's Lynette. Hats of to Felicity. I predicted an eventual Emmy for her and prayed that if Sport's Night wasn't the vehicle for her win, than a role that'd be something equally as deserving would roll her way. Brag. Brag. Brag.

Felicity and my victory dance looks very much like Raphael Nadal's psyched up, clenched fist, elbow back toward hip, "Yeah!" motion. But I did it really fast, repeatedly, shouting, "Yessssssssss!"

Next up is Blythe's "surprise" crowning as Supporting Actress in a Drama Series. Dude, I predicted that shit during the 3rd or 4th episode of HUFF. As Huff's semi-alcoholic, racist, brutally honest Mom, Izzy, she slays me. I cry tears of joy when she's meanspirited and curt. She would be so easy to hate, but Danner refuses to let us go there. Like Murphy Brown, she's irascible and abrasive one minute and before we can blink, we get to see the part of Izzy that no one else does, the part that draws on our sympathy. She's as dead on nagging her daughter in law as she is confessing the overwhelming pain of reconciling with her youngest son's mental illness. So, not halfway into HUFF'S season, I declared Emmy, and shared this prediction with anyone with ears. And wouldn't you know it, there's Blythe on stage, Emmy in hand, forgetting to mention her poorly named grandchild, Apple? Haha. Poor fruit baby.

The dance of Blythe's victory is explosive, because I was all crouched with my fingers cross as the envelope was being torn. The moment her name was read I jumped up and Whooo Hoo'd until I realized that she and I deserved a song. Admittedly, the jingle I came up with last night doesn't even compare to my "I have cashmere socks" ditty, but oh well. So to no particular tune, without concern for melodly, I improvised, "Uh huh. That's riiiiiiiight. I said it. I said that she would wiiiiiin, she would wiiiiiiin. Oh yeah, she won. I said it, oh yeah. Reward me oh God of award ceremoniiiiieeeeees. I said it. I did. Fire me up a piece of Mariska Hargitay (grunt)because that's riiiiiight, I said it. Yeeeeeaaaaaahhhh."

Funny, isn't it, that I always watch these shows alone?

While typing this, JAK FM played "Super Freak." I actually teared up for Rick James, bitch. So, ghetto style (b/c I know all about the ghetto), I tipped some lukewarm coffee on the floor as a sign of r'spect. Since the only thing Rick and I share is addiction, I snorted the coffee off the floor in an intensely more personal remembrance.

Dress Juan Up In My Love

• Last night I walked past a new bank in my neighborhood. It's not open yet, but their ATM is on, not distributing money on, just power on. To let the layman know that the ATM isn't actually working, the screen reads: "I AM CURRENTLY BEING SERVICED." Lucky machine.
• There was an assistance dog, a canine companion, on my train this morning. Bless his little heart, he was so good and so quiet. He certainly smelled a lot better than most train patrons. He also dressed better. He wore a doggie parka that said, "PLEASE DON'T PET ME. I'M WORKING!" Oy. How many times have I wished I had that parka?
• There's a Pretty Woman in my office. His name is Juan.* I bought Juan a tie, a very nice tie, a Nikkoletta tie. ((See photo below)) I chose a versatile tie so it will go with basically everything. It's silver with hints of mint green in very tiny, tiny, little checks. It's nicer than anything I've bought myself in a while. And that's the freakin' truth! The reason for my gift? At the end of October the toy b'ness has a huge mutha Toy Fair, and everyone who's anyone in The Industry attends. Let's call it the Toy Oscars, except the awards are millions of dollars in purchase orders, not statues. And every year, the 'Big Guys' at my company demmand that Juan morph into their step-and-fetchit Peruvian. I'm sure they think he's Mexican. I did. This year, I'm elevating Juan's status. I am determined to dress Juan in the Emperor's Clothes because the VP's of Ball Sucking and Trickle Down Ecomonics should feel shitty when they send my buddy out to get them Nathan's Hot Dogs. I want Juan to have that post-Fab Five makeover look. Maybe the power dicks won't be so ass-holey toward him if he looks like a power dick himself. Maybe they'll think he's an impeccably dressed Mexican. Juan's already bought new dress shoes, my selection. Tomorrow, we're going to J Crew to try on shirts. We're only considering the ones on sale. Progress is our aim, not perfection. If we were gonna spend serious jiing, we'd hit Thomas Pink. But I try not to set my expactations too high. All things considered, I'm working with raw material and a tight budget here. But if all goes according to plan, once the package is assembled, Juan will look like he spent a fortune on his hair.

*For more on Juan and our adventures together, please review my past blogs. Anything with Juan's name in the title will enlighten and entertain. He's the coolest office mate ever and we are to marry in the summer.

Juan's tie. 

NGOTB

We've got a new girl in the office. Her name is Barbara. And I hate her.

She impressed me this morning when she came in with her own lunch and put it in the fridge. I joked with her that I always wanted to do that but had no discipline.

ME: (Doing an exaggerated impression of my lethargic self) I'll be on the couch the night before thinking, "Yeah, I could make myself something and save money." Instead I keep watching TV.

BARBARA: Oh, I make mine in the morning. I'm a morning person.

Lunch-making, morning person? I hate you Barbara.

laTeRegistration

Guess who's listening to the new Kanye West?

Hazy Shade of Pale

• Sunday was the opening weekend of the 2005-06 NFL season. The Chicago Bears were defeated by the Washington Redskins by a margin of 2 points. For the next 16 weeks, I will root for my Bears as though this never happened.
• In more consoling NFL news, the Detroit Lions beat the Green Bay Fudge Packers, 17 – 3. Ahhh, smile.
• A few of my sorority sisters came to my Improv show on Saturday. I am blessed to have these women in my life, 10 years after our careers as Boston University ADPi girls. They are grown women now, more beautiful and lovely than ever. Their friendship and support means the world to me. In my act, I do a silly joke about what it was like to be a latent lesbo in a sorority, and the punch line compares the situation to being at an all-you-can-eat buffet without eating anything, and they actually laughed, proving once again that I have excellent taste in babes. I hope that Saturday was as enjoyable a mini-reunion for them as it was for me. Hopefully, they're not just star fuckers.
• P.S. – I killed on Saturday. They'd better be star fuckers if they know what's good for them.
• This weekend, I made a life altering change. I took out the earring I got as a 21st birthday present to myself—it was my first unusual piercing, in the cartilage of my left ear, all the way up top. It was my first attempt at a Lesbian Signifier. The chycks in “Go Fish” had it, why not The Shan? Good enough for Guin Turner was certainly good enough for me. But at 30, it felt silly. I’ve got both of my tragus pierced, so in earring land, I remain slightly funky. Still, moving on is difficult. I feel the pain of loss. It’s not a 2 point dump to the Redskins, but it’s left a hole nonetheless.
• Watching Andre Agassi lose the U.S. Open Championship in 4 sets to Roger Federer was exhausting. Afterward I took a 3 ½ hour nap. Thank God there isn’t any Grand Slam tennis ‘til next year in Australia because I’m pooped!
• This weekend the U.S. Open marked the close of the tennis season. The NFL began its season this weekend. The Emmy Awards (given for last season's best TV) will take place next Sunday. The new TV season begins this week. My Fall wardrobe is poised to make its debut. Soon I will sip hot cider. I am sliding off my chair as I type. Je t'aime Fall, bitch.

Come. Stalk me, I dare you.

Eat Your Heart Out, Dostoevsky

Once in a while, I shamelessly flaunt my fancy, pricey and (for the most part) useless college education. Thanks, Mom! Read below show off.

I've been revisiting a few of my favorite books lately because I cannot bear to read any more self-help manuals right now. I’d rather revel in the stories of others than exist in the mangled, quirky masterpiece I call my own. Yesterday, I remembered this beautiful passage from the last pages of The Hours. Prior to reading Cunningham's novel, in which he deftly intertwines the lives of 3 women who share a subtle and profound connection, I’d never been literarily knocked to the floor by a single paragraph. In the excerpt above, he encapsulates the whole book by breaking the characters down to a sound bite. Then he uses the pronoun ‘we’ to connect the experiences of those 3 women to what unites all of us - sleep and death. In 5 sentences, Cunningham connects all humankind by joining us together through the simplicity of our bodies and our physical reality. He suggests that while life is finite and ripe with unavoidable darkness, profound joy and seemingly endless hours of wonder await us. And they're worth it.

Fuckin' Awesome, eh? Man, I could make a lot of cash if I could figure out how to write real sensitive, girly shit like that! I'd buy myself expensive g-strings and find out if the silk and yak's fur ones are as uncomfortable as what I get at Old Navy.

Yeah, yeah dude, the hours, on and on, happy and sad, blah, blah. I gotcha. Don't fucking whack me over the head with your pussy prose, ya faggot writer. I ain't an idiot. So what, this shit won a Wurlitzer Prize? When I was 9, I won a dance contest to Prince's "Let's Go Crazy." So, suk it.

Gotta Get Up to Get Down

She's A Lady? Me doing stand-up sitting down at CHICKS and GIGGLES. It was a great show despite my rugged posture. Check it out: http://chicksandgiggles.blogspot.com

Tennis Junkie

Following is a copy of an email I sent this morning to a friend of mine. We have plans to watch the U.S. Open tonight. It's a big, big, huge mo' fo' day in the tennis world.

Re; US OPEN ACTION TODAY/TONIGHT

I could me MORE excited, but that would mean I'd levitate, and while I'm a goddess, that's still a tall order.

MoreLesbo* is playing Mary Pierced* this morning (following Martina Navratil-rug-muncher* in some titilating girl on girl doubles action). Both are French 'hos, Fed Cup teammates (wink wink) and neither has really stepped up in big-ass matches. It should be quite the duel. I have T.H.O.

This afternoon it's Coria vs. Robby Ginepri (which I only 65% care about).

And the main event, tonight's line up, an American cornucopia--with a lost Russian slut tossed in to bring the stink--goes a little something like this:

1. Women's Singles - Qtr. Finals
Elena Dementia* (RUS) #6 vs. Lindsay Dickinport* (USA) #2

followed by

2. Men's Singles - Qtr. Finals

Andre Agassi (USA) #7 vs. James Blake (USA) no ranking

Seriously, there's crap in my pants. Coverage starts at 7, matches usually get going around 7.30 You let me know where to be, when and I'm there.

*I like to nick-name the chicks, b/c frankly, I'm a 7th grade boy. Here is the key to understanding:
MoreLesbo = Amelie Mauresmo
Mary Pierced = Mary Pierce (if you didn't get that one yourself, I hope you reside in an assited living facility)
Navratil-rug-mucher = gayer than Billie Jean King, Martina Navratilova
Elena Dementia = Dementieva
Lindsay Dickinport = Lindsay Davenport (hey assisted living, that one was a gimme, right?)

And my personal fave, a woman we'll see later in the tournament as she beat Venus-If-You-Williams in a thrilla last night:
Titty Clitsters = Kim Clijsters

TONIGHT!

Of all the shows I am privileged to do, this is my personal favorite. (Don't tell anyone other than the Chicks and Giggles gals. They might like to know.) It's a fabulous bunch o' ladies and I always have a great time. I'm in the lineup tonight pretty early on, so, for ONE TIME ONLY, it's OK to come early.

THIS THURSDAY!

I'll be ranting and raving about INCARCERATION, as soon as I figure out what it freakin' means, this Thursday, September 8th. I will sit on the lap (and wiggle by request) for each attendee who's there to see me. If that's incentive for you, I'm sorry. But I will do it, no matter how humiliating it is for either of us.

For Anonymous, More About Me Than You'd Ever Want to Know

Anonymous, I like you. In your last comment you said that my new bag worked for a psychedelic, slightly butchy diva type. And you asked 'Is that you?' I bit.

I approached the question SAT-style. Lucky for all I didn't go to 'root word in Latin' lengths. Instead, I decided I'd elaborate on each adjective individually. After review, I hope that you’ve gotten an honest, straightforward response. Read on. It’s pretty fucking long. In yogurt commercial language, it's 'Gandhi' long. It's Homer's 'The Odyssey' long.

Psychedelic: Hmm. This is sort of a mentality, a way of thinking, right? But the impetus for the slang originally referred to specific substances, those that altered consciousness. The dirty hippies termed them psychedelic or hallucinogenic drugs. Groovy, man. These drugs were also called psychotomimetic (i.e., mimicking psychosis), thought to be “mind-expanding.” This group includes mescaline, or peyote, neither of which I’ve ever done. Don’t forget the monster of hallucinogens, Papa LSD, synthesized from lysergic acid, found in the fungus Claviceps purpurea. Read that last sentence again. Clearly, I’m too much of a nerd do get down with the acid. I had a lot of friends who dropped this shit. It scared me to death b/c as a nerd, I am also naturally disposed toward paranoia. Fear of swallowing my tongue, fear of feeling covered by snakes, was a more powerful motivation than believing it was worthwhile to forever alter my understanding the universe because I thought I saw God in an ashtray.

LSD alkaloids have also been produced synthetically. Newer hallucinogens, such as PCP (phencyclidine, or "angel dust" ), a drug originally used as an anesthetic, and MDMA ( "Ecstasy" ), an amphetamine derivative, have grown in use since the 1980s. Like LSD, none of this shit interested me in the least. It’s all fat soluble and that freaked my out. In my 8th grade religion class, we watched this preachy show called “Insight” (??) and some dude jumped out of a window on angel dust. My lesson was learned before the credits rolled. Add that to a 48 HOURS episode I saw that featured a man who did LSD once--once dude!--and had not stopped tripping. A harmless trip with no end. Shit, he’s probably tweaked right now. Thanks, Erin Moriarity, you scared me straight!

On the other hand, I’m quite familiar with Ecstasy. The hallucinogen commonly called “E,” was introduced to me as a college Senior. A few friends were heavy into the dance scene. (This scene was in NO WAY connected with the rave wave. I never held a glow stick or sucked on a fucking pacifier. The crowd was mostly Irish and English electronica devotees.) They got me listening to Sasha and Oakenfold and Digweed and the like. By the time Madonna released Ray of Light, blowing everyone’s mind with her “new sound,” I considered the style old hat. In my defense, I was a pompous 22 year-old asshole then. But I must say that she and William Orbit collaborated well and Ray is my favorite Madonna album. On to the “E.” One night we all went out dancing with th express purpose of having Shannon partake of her first E. And, mother of all mothers, I had an amazing experience! So much so that I proudly suggested giving kids tabs of E in their lunches, like SweetTarts. I’d never been so purely happy or felt so alive in my own body. The tingles alone were worth the crash. The giving and receiving of hugs and the awe when touching someone, for a kid who recoiled at the idea of human contact? Nothing short of a miracle. So, my first and (almost) every time after that (about 10-15 rolls),were enjoyable experiences. New Year’s Eve Y2K sucked, though, b/c I ate way too many pills and got fiercely and repulsively aggressive. And I have cop to introducing a different set of pals to the drug when I first arrived in NYC. It’s the only time I ever exposed anyone to anything. I’ll admit, too, that I felt pretty cool.

Marijuana also has hallucinogenic properties but is pharmacologically distinct. I haven’t smoked pot in more that 2 years. No loss to me, I was not a big fan. I do not miss herb. Occasionally, if I’m feeling sorry for my alcoholic self, I’ll wish I could still indulge in a cold beer. But when I sink deep into my regret and nostalgic, ridiculous, stupid, glamorous thinking the one mind and mood altering substance I wish I could do again is E. Mostly because the music--Bedrock, the Naked Music and Global Underground series--don’t, and will never, sound as good as it did when I was rolling. That’s some raw ass truth right there, anonymous.

Mildly Butchy: I have avoided putting myself into one or the other classic lesbian categories, butch or femme. I just read an interview with Portia DeRossi in this week’s Advocate, and she’s asked about her appearance, whether her public feminine appearance reflects her lesbian sensibility. Her response was wonderful and said something to effect that she didn’t subscribe to the butch/femme dichotomy nor did she pigeonhole herself as one or the other. She said that she sees herself as her own kind of lesbian. And I’d like to think that’s where I’m coming from, too. Not exactly, but I hope that’s what I project. I don’t mind leaning a little, itty, bitty bit Butch. Anything more than that is excessive and puts me in the thralls of identity crisis.

I can throw a football in a tight-ass spiral, I always sit with my legs apart as though I’m hanging loose in the dugout, and I loathe wearing lingerie. I love the Bears more than flowers. Even though I’m short, you’ll rarely catch me in much of a heel. However, I’m afraid of bugs, obsess about my hair and shoes, and genuinely care about who wears what to which award show. Looking in the mirror amuses me, and I buy the fancy makeup. At 18, my grandmother gave me a beautiful and very expensive diamond necklace. I could tell you what I was wearing the day because it marked the beginning of my desire for more of them. The ugly part of the Butch label, in my mind, is that I spent so much time as a teenager and young adult trying hard to avoid any butchy vibe that might slip out when I wasn’t watching carefully enough. Say someone on the subway can tell I’m a dyke, so what? But I don’t want everyone on the subway to be absolutely, 100-footer, bull-dyke sure I’m a lesbo. It’s like I want my gay cake but I prefer eating the straight one. Onstage, I am always out. I didn’t actively make that choice. I figured that since my material is about me, I would include everything about me. That and, d’uh, gay themed humor is so much fun. As public Shannon, the one who’s doing stand-up in front of hundreds (more often 40’s) of strangers, I don’t care. Actually, I feel very free. But as solo Shannon, who doesn’t have a mic in hand, I’m afraid. There’s still a huge part of my consciousness that believes gay is synonymous, inseparable, with bad. Privately, I have an easier time admitting that I’m an alcoholic. I wish I felt differently, and I’m working like a dog to get there. I pray that I morph gracefully into the woman I want to be.

Diva Type: Guess what? My minimal level of fame hasn’t gotten me any star-fucker ass, nary a sniff of my crotch, and I cannot accept that. Does anyone know who I AM? I mean….please! Kiss my ass or get out of its way. The biggest part of me is my ego. Thankfully, I was blessed with a mother who was compelled to remind me that my shit did, in fact, stink. As a teenager, countless morning hours were spent preparing my hair for another day of life as an Oak Park River Forest High School Sophomore. Nothing was perfect, folically speaking, it could never be. “I hate my hair!” Bless her heart, Mom had the best come-backs to self-centered bitching and whining. “Don’t flatter yourself. No one is looking at you.” Fifteen years later, since I moved to NYC, I tell her every time I see or meet a celebrity. Unfailingly she flatters me with a, “No, they met you.”

As a diva type, I aspire to exercise humility. Contrary to popular belief, it isn’t pathetic or servile. It’s the absence of bullshit modesty. And arrogance isn’t the right antonym. Let’s say Merriam Webster busts through my office door and demands that I give him/her, vocabulary stud muffin, a definition of humility. I’d pause, for dramatic effect, careful to curtail my obnoxious, superior tendencies. I might throw in a downward glance at the floor followed by a deliberate batting of eyes. Theatricality aside, I’d offer a concept of humility that’s recently set up shop in my noggin’.

Humility: the ability to see one’s self in truth, to equally acknowledge good and bad, to seek perspective, to grow, to show love without ego, to consider weakness without shame. Ex: One who regards their whole self comfortable and content with who and what they are exactly where they are, considering all connotations of space and time.


Shit. Aren't you sorry you asked?

Happy Labor Day Weekend.