Down Here Pal!

It's not the morning commute that I hate. It's the people who do it with me that irk the hell outta me. Yes, I am 5' tall, but I am matter. I occupy space just like you big haired bitches and grown men with backpacks. (Don't even get me started on fatty who takes up 2 seats while she buries her head in a romance novel pretending not to notice when someone realizes that even if they were anorexic, they still couldn't slip into that middle seat, the 1/5th of it that's empty. Everyone in the vicinity of would-be Tracy Gold sympathizes, makes eye contact as if to say, "Yeah, we've all been eyeing that seat. We feel you, man.") For your information, I'm not a midget or a small person either. So, when you bump into me and say, "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't even know you were there," that's not an excuse. And it's also a lie. Be honest with me, 5' 5" giant passengers of the MTA. Why don't you say what you really want? "Damn shorty, you might as well be invisible!" F-you. I'm gonna get pregnant. With a bun in the oven, knock me around then. Not so funny, eh? Guilty-ass Goliaths.

To the Opportunistc Gropers and Molesters, You Know Damn Well Who You Are: If you're going to feel me up, have some class and hand me a Thank You note before I exit the car. Though I support the concept of stealing from the rich to give to the poor, it wasn't my intention to unwillingly donate my ass and boobies.

Reese Stupid Spoon

Dear Miss Reese Witherspoon,

I saw the SAG awards last night. I laughed hard when they showed that clip of Jamie Foxx forgetting how to say the words last year.

I also saw that you won. And I listened to your acceptance speech. Cudos to you for your performance as June Carter Cash in "Walk the Line." You were great and I could hardly see that other guy's hairlip or cleft lip or birth defect thingy. However, don't think for a minute that anybody's fooled by your whole, "I'm just a simple girl from Tennessee," routine. If you do than you're more stupider than a real simple girl from Tennessee. Name me one wife and mother living in Memphis who has their own production company and I'll eat my words. There's not a soul alive above the Mason-Dixon line knows how to pronounce yer husband's last name. So, put a plug in it Ms. I Went to Stanford My Parents Are Doctors. I got a hunch you ain't never waited a table in yer whole life. Go tell that to the "Hustle and Flow" cast or that humble plumber guy from "Desperate Housewives."

PS - Please don't think I resent your wealth, success and beauty. Au contraire! I think it's awesome. Keep it up! Check out my website: www.reeserocksit.com I've got my fingers crossed that you get a Golden Statue named Oscar!

PPS - Who babysits your kids when you and Ryan go to pilates? Is this person big or strong? Has he or she expressed fear of tasers?

PPPS - What kind of puppy do your 2 little blond children like best? You know, in case somebody wanted them to help find his lost puppy.

From Your Biggest Fan,
STAN

Sitting Shiva

Wendy Wasserstein died yesterday. She was 55 and her daughter, Lucy, is 6. As someone who's been there and done that, my heart goes out to that girl. Kiddo, you didn't do anything wrong, and it will be O.K. When, I can't tell you. You'll miss her next month and then you'll miss her in a completely different way when you're 12, 19, 25 and so on. Grief can take a lifetime. If I could give you a great big hug, I would. And if the company of a total stranger could make you feel a little better, then sign me up.

On a lighter note, turn that frown upside down! Wasserstein was hysterical and self-effacing and often times brilliant. Hello Pulitzer! I've lost my favorite Jew. (Judy Gold, all rests on you, baby!) To me, she was a female Woody Allen, except with a soul and a conscience. By watching and reading her plays, I got to peek into a world I never would have seen otherwise. I was a 17 year-old shiksa before I was introduced to Wendy Wasserstein. Hers was the first "Jewish humor" I ever understood. I could actually identify with her characters. I might have felt a connection to her material because it was obviously written for chicks by a chick, not any of that Aurthur Miller crap. But having had the time to think about it, I think I loved her characters because the were such human women, always candid with fabulous, sharp wit to match the honesty. They has neurosis and bad hair days, shrinks and over-bearing mothers. And they talked about it! In my family, if your uterus fell out during Easter dinner, you shut up about it and prayed that it didn't stain the linen table cloth. In her seat at the Tony's, which I never missed, Wasserstein always looked like a normal lady, and I loved it. "Theater people" are sometimes intimidating and ridiculous. Oh, the Tommy Tune nightmares of my youth! But not her.

Any woman who could write so well that thousands of theater go-ers bought Glen Close and Joan Allen as Jewish, could probably 'Jewishize' Kristin Chenoweth. Or my Grandma Ennis. If you knew Grandma Ennis, bless her soul, that would be really, really funny. In heaven, she's busting a gut. Look her up when you get there, Ms. Wasserstein. She, too, is a hoot and a real normal lady.

What is Private if Poop Isn't?

For the first time in my life as a Blogger, I have chosen to edit myself. I have a long-ass entry blabbing on and on about vast age differences btwn lovers. For example the May-December sort of arrangement. They're commonly called Craddle robbers, Second Wives, Gigolos, and do'ers of the M.I.L.F. In it, I let it slip that I am currently suffering from such an affliction.

Making 'the post' terrifies me. Whether or not it's good for me to confess, I don't know. What are my motives in posting my little diatribe? Release? Relief? Is it purely selfish? When I feel angst or restlessness, I usually just regurgitate it into stand up material. Take it to the stage and let it fly, make it public. (I don't see the risk in sharing something with 20-100 strangers. ) But I don't have any shows lined up. I haven't done a set in more than 4 weeks. Privately, I take the silent route. Hold it in, hope it dies quickly and if it gives me diarrhea I buy nice toilet paper. Do unto your butt as you would have your butt do unto you, that's my motto.

The age thing isn't what's killing me. That would be new and interesting. But this wrestling match is old fashioned Shan to the hilt. I'm a chicken. An obessive little chicken with exceedingly high privacy needs. While I'm willing to blow this wad w/ the blogging world, but not with anyone in my immediate vicinity.

I'm going to sit on it this weekend. Most likely, the bulk of this sitting will take place on the nearest toilet.

Fuck. Shit. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck. Fuck. Shit. Ass. Damn. Bitch. Jesus Fucking Christ, God damn, asshole fucker. FUCK!

Exactly when does a curse word, or series of curse words, even a particular curse word, become profane? Because I don't think I have any muther fucking clue. And I could use some God damn guidance!

If a single one of you cocksuckers so much as thinks about responding with that fucking, "I can't define what pornography is, but I know it when I see it," quote, I will hunt your dirty cunt-smelling ass down and fuck you--REALLY FUCKING HARD--up your formerly tight, stank ass with a crucifix!

One more question while I'm at it: Why isn't there more peace, love and kindness in the world? Does no one approach their daily life with patience, tolerance, grace and dignity anymore? If I could summon reverance, I would. I'd spread it all around, like frosting on a cake. And I'd write upon that cake with bright yellow icing, so bright the Lord above could see it. I'd write "FAITH, HOPE and CHARITY." May God bless us all as we travel as fellow passengers on the road to Eternal Life.

Gotta go, the Devil is calling me to supper!

Me & MLK

Here's a quickie in honor of the holiday. I hadn't a clue how much Martin Luther King, Jr. and I had in common until today...

1. We're both Capricorns, born within one week of each other. Him: 1/15 Me: 1/19
2. We both attended Boston University.
3. We're both left-handed.
4. We have been to the mountain top.
5. Our first names have two syllables.
6. We have huge frontal lobes.
7. In our opinion, Malcolm X was a bit of a trouble maker.
8. Our belief in three principles/principals: God, bitches and money.

All screwing around aside, I was listening to the TODAY show this morning, and they played the famous excerpt from MKL's speech the night before he was killed. I suppose my feelings upon listing to the familiar words were a simple convergence of age and life experience. But I was dumstruck by a far deeper understanding of what a profound and indelible mark he left on so many aspects of American life--the realms of the spiritual, the political, the cultural, the ethical and so on. I wish I had an entire afternoon to dedicate to appropriately express what I mean, but the words MLK spoke that night were beautiful and elegant, yet in less than 24 hours, they'd take on the haunting characteristics of a fatal premonition. In Memphis on April 3, 1968, he concluded his remarks to striking city workers with the following:

Well, I don't know what will happen now. We've got some difficult days ahead. But it doesn't matter with me now. Because I've been to the mountaintop. And I don't mind. Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I'm not concerned about that now. I just want to do God's will. And He's allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen the promised land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the promised land. And I'm happy, tonight. I'm not worried about anything. I'm not fearing any man. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.

I Take It All Back

Hong Kong is amazing. I love it and will have a hard time leaving. Everyone here is MY SIZE. I am normal, me and my little feet fit right in. And they speak English and think I'm funny. What else can a jester want?

Can't wait to get home and blog it out.

Dick Clark's Post-Stroke New Year's Rockin' Eve -- Skipped It

Maybe I'll stay in Hong Kong and celebrate Chinese New Year. I wasn't available for the traditional New Year's Eve 2005 in the good ol' United States. See, I'm sitting here in my office at 200 Fifth Ave., 6th floor in the historic Toy Building. I've been in this hole since 2ish this afternoon, finishing crap for my trip to H.K., Kowloon to be exact. It's 2:22 in the a.m., the early hours of 2006. For the past 3 hours, I've heard blaring sirens of firetrucks, police cars and muchas ambulances. Apparently, everyone in this city partied their asses off, most of them to a dangerous extent resulting in bodily harm or fire or something else I deeply envy despite the end of my Party Whore days. But not The Shan. Poor me, alone in my office, all limbs present and counted, staring out at Madison Square Park, self pitying and tired. I'm going to go home now and get some farkin' sleep. Tomorrow I hit CVS for travel necessities: hand sanitizer, travel size shaving cream, Pepcid AC, my .5 mg of Lorazepam and several dry cleaning bags to use as a packing aid.

Hot Tip From Auntie Shan:
When traveling, it's a swell idea to pack your clothes in plastic bags, dry cleaning bags are most handy. Place the bags in between the layers of your clothing and they won't get wrinkled! That way, you'll save some ironing time once you get to the hotel. This will leave you a little extra time to do unweildy hair and make-up. Unless you'd rather take that time to masturbate. It's your call.

It's my first Toy Fair in H.K. and in terms of my 'career,' it's a big deal. I'm equal parts thrilled, anxious and terrified. I've been clenching my jaw for weeks now, getting ready, putting my ducks in a row. Please pray that yours truly doesn't get fired in a foreign country bazillions of miles away from the shoulder of any dear friend upon whom I would normally rest my weeping head. If I get canned, I know I'll cry. And then I'll get shitfaced, hit a cheap massage place where I'll tell them to throw in a Happy Ending, only to end up God knows where.

My goals: stay sober, don't offend more than 14 people and get home in one piece.

I'll have MUCH to report when I return January 14th. Until then, fare thee well... and Happy New Year. Best wishes for a stunning and gorgeous 2006.