Ped O'File

I would surely kill for these shoes. I have a pair of boots from the same designer, Rocco P. The boots are black with a pointed toe, yet the tip top is square. They'recooler than Elvis. When I wear them, I am 90% sure I'll be complimented.

These shoes would be a fabulous addition to the family. I've always wanted a slick brown oxford. They're kinda pricey, though. (And dykey, but I don't care.) So I have decided to wait, an entirely new concept for The Shan. I'm a faster, now, all at once and right away type of gal. But these shoes make me want to be a better woman. And so I will wait until my bonus comes through, and when that sucker hits, these puppies are mine. M-I-N-E. Mine.

I wrote the above last Thursday. And 5 days later, I have two new pairs of shoes. Neither of which are the pair I spoke of last week. Clearly, I have a severe shoe addiction. Honestly, I cannot help myself. I cannot stop at just one. It's beyond my earthly control. I am powerless over shoes and my life is unmanageable. But I am a connoisseur, not your average, indicriminate consumer. I only buy the best. You will not find a pair of Steve Madden or Nine West shit on my shoe rack. I feel dirty if I settle for Kennth Cole.

So anyway, my cousin was in town this weekend, and a visitor cannot leave New York City w/out experiencing 3 things: an egg cream, a Broadway show and shopping, shopping, shopping. (Museums? Whatever. That's why living rooms have coffee tables. And Central Park? They have grass and trees everywhere else in the world. Why trek uptown to suffer the stink of horse shit and risk death by roller-blader?) I got her an egg cream from Eisenberg's Sandwhich Shop on 5th Ave. between 22nd & 23rd, the oldest, smallest and most authentic Jewish diner around. Katz's can eat Eisenberg's shit. We got tickets to 'Doubt,' John Patrick Shanley's Pulitzer, Drama Desk and Tony Award winning play about a molestation charge at a Catholic school. (I cannot say enough wonderful things about the show. It's also a love story to every nun who ever laid down the law. They get a raw deal more often than not, but as Shanley writes in the Playbill, "Who among us has given more?") Completing the Holy NYC Tourist Trilogy A Le Shan, we shopped our asses off. Unfortunately, she was looking for a pair of boots and that was the equivalent of taking me on a tour of the Guinness brewery for 3 days. I broke down twice; once at Otto Toostie Plohound and once at (no irony lost here) Shoemania.

I owe my readers pictures of the Rocce P black boots. You must feel their magnetism. I also owe you a shot of the new boots from Otto. To follow, I promise. But here are the beauties I picked up at Shoemania. Technically, tho, they picked me up. I didn't stand a chance.

A gaybian can never have too many sneaks and kelly green is my favorite color. You'd have done the same thing--fork over your tired and poor Visa.

It's a Bird! It's a Plane! No, it's Giggle Girl!

Let me know if this is a potentially funny concept for a sketch: EXISTENTIALIST WEDDING and RECEPTION. For all you Camus worshipping, erudite, humorless bitches out there, yes, I am aware that an avowed Existentialist would never marry. Would you please willingly suspend your knowledge of philosophy? Pretty please? For the sake of all comedy!

I'm having one of those exceptional days when I feel like I've got Brilliantly Funny Mojo going on. For the most part, only assholes and idiots have felt this sensation and it's commonly called delusions of grandeur. And they'll corner you. The approach is quick, too quick to evade. "Hey, I got one for ya..." Put that in another context and you've got a viable sexual harassment suit. Sorry lay person, I want to put your head in a vice. Best to walk away as fast as you can. But for professionals, like myself, Funny Mojo feels like being an actual Superhero. Sign me on for X-Men 27, baby! Giggle Girl* can do no wrong. If I've got it pumpin' on stage, I have the power to improvise better jokes than the ones I'd prepared. The set builds into an orgasm of adoration. Giggle Girl is the only Superhero who serves the greater good when she 'kills.' (Get it? Huh? Is this thing on?)

I submit the following example of the Funny Mojo in action. I work in int'l sales and got an email request to provide the names of countries that needed to be included on a licensing contract. (My job is all thrill-a-minute like that.) Here's the full text of my response:

Add Mexico, Ireland, New Zealand, Sweden, Netherlands, Belgium, The Baltics (Croatia, Serbia, Slovenia), France, Germany, Greece, Japan, Latin America (ALL), PR, Atlantis, Mongolia, Bahamas, Virgin Islands, Philippines, South Park, South Fork, Harper Valley, Melmack, Knots Landing, Cloud Nine, and Neverland. The Neverland rights must cover The Neverland Ranch.

See what I'm talking about? You have to believe it's magic. Nothing can stand in my way.

*I considered Good Humor Girl, but didn't like the ice cream association because it opens the door for a fat girl association. I don't want to be a fat Superhero looking all schlumpy standing next to Famke Janssen in X-Men 27. Being six feet shorter than her is enough.

And Now, Please Do Not Welcome...Constructive Criticism!

The critic subject to criticism? The hater gets poked back. Do yourself a solid. Read what my friend Claudia has to say about the theater critic for the New York Times and his review of the new “Barefoot in the Park” production. This is classic critical critic- hater satire and I cried laughing.

My mind cannot digest constructive criticism. Let’s say my boss tells me, “Shannon, your rapport with customers is fantastic. They’re comfortable and relaxed with you, and that’s great. But you might want to make an effort to be more professional.” In the nanosecond it takes my synapses to relay the message to my brain, my mind edits it with an unforgiving red pen and comes up with this wrist-slitting gem. “Shannon, you’re a disgrace to your Ann Taylor suit. Why don’t you just wear a clown costume?” I perfected the kicking of my own ass listening to Hannibal Lector tear Clarice Starling a new asshole as a means of expressing his purported admiration. My feet are covered in bullet holes.

In my thick Woulda Coulda Shoulda file of witty comebacks that never happened, I say this back to my boss, “Everyone calls you Fat Bastard. That’s not very professional, is it?” I am the reigning ex post facto quip champion of the imaginary world! Wanna throw down? Step up and do some battle? I’ve got a virtual grenade between these ears, baby! Immediately following any attempted crucifixion (normal people call it feedback), I pull the pin. Moments later, sometimes well into the following day, I perform countless verbal vivisections, ending the lives of the helpful. Thumbs down, send in the lions. Fuck ye.

Shannon’s Mangled Psyche 101: All schools in the Archdiocese of Chicago distributed report cards in a standard format. These report cards were designed to crush the spirits of Catholic children. In addition to the regular old’ grade, which even the poor underprivileged public school kids got, we had myriad other measurements of humility. On the report card were covert, seemingly harmless little statements, like “Heeds suggestion for improvement.” Next to that there were these boxes in which the teacher would make 1 of 3 marks:

+ meant you were awesome, outstanding. All I ever wanted to be was outstanding, worthy of the +. I longed for + after plus. Other girls chased boys and dreamed of their first kiss. My fantasies were filthy, gluttonous ++++++ orgies.

∙ meant that you were O.K., but just O.K., though. You were average, indistinguishable, in the middle, a measely dot. Ugh! The horror of being average! To me, average is the same thing as invisible, banal and sad. When I received a ∙ (which happened like twice, and I’m totally over it and have never discussed said incidents with a therapist), I felt like the Hester Prynne of the 4th grade, the Mary Magdalene of St. Colette.

√ meant that you were below average. Let’s face it, check mark kids had room reservations in jail.

Next to “Heeds suggestion for improvement” I’d always get a ∙ Shocker, huh? If someone dared suggest that I was anything less than a gleaming personification of perfection, they could fuck off, die and be wrong forever. Might as well stab me with a poisoned dagger, fiends!

Don’t ever tell me what to do or how to do it. There is no better way unless I think of it first.

Past the Hole in the Doughnut

In order for a lesbian couple to break up, officially, a petition to sever the relationship must be approved by both houses of Congress. This process usually takes 1-2 years. During this period the line between 'just friends' and 'couple' blurs significantly. Sadly, little actual sex occurs. However, the mind-fucking is amazing.

Give A Girl 5,000 Hits, Would Ya?

C'mon, I'm so close. And it's so validating. And it's Valentine's Day. And I'm a narcissist. I am my own Valentine for the 3rd year in a row. Give me my 5,000 hits so I can remember what love feels like.

Freud Dumped Me

Dude, check out the sign to my right in the Bruce Lee pic. Look closely. It says, "Do Not Enter." More like "Do Not Enter The Dragon!" Ahhhh hahahahahah! Maybe that's only funny on 5 Diet Cokes, a Snickers Bar, large coffee, an almond danish and chicken marsala. There's a frozen Butterfinger with my name on it waiting in the kitchen. I'm timing my will power. My iminent breakdown will be a crispity crunchety good time.

I am eating my angst away. This morning my shrink and I chose to separate. (In the back of my head, Ross is insisting, "We were on a break!") If I ain't gots the cash, she ain't gots the time. Or something like that. Whatever reason makes me look like a helpless victim, I'll go with that. Talk about painful breakup! Damn. This is something I would discuss with my shrink. OK. So, yeah, I am flying solo for the time being. Look for me jumping in front of a train at your local subway station soon!

How much do babysitters make these days? Just in case.

Final Words Before Sugar Coma

This photograph is the only proof that I was ever in HONG KONG

GREETINGS FROM FEB. TOY FAIR. Not much time to ...talk. Am being ferociously attacke

by sugar cookies! Must........save..........ass..........hips..............gut

Oprah Breaks Frey Into 'A Million Little Pieces'

First I missed the NYC transit strike and now this. Oprah has been dedicated to the burial of James Frey, author of the memoir “A Million Little Pieces,” for almost two weeks. And I’ve done nothing in defense of my fellow addict. James Frey, not Oprah. Though she is addicted to herself. Note to self: Start a chapter of Oprah Anonymous.

Here’s a recap: Dude writes a memoir about drugs and addiction and his wicked fucked up life. He put his experience on paper. Oprah says to her flunkies, “His book is my pick for OPRAH’S BOOK CLUB.” She loves it, she reads it, she’s captivated, and her audience learns how to smoke H. Smoking Gun, online focus-less Woodward and Bernstein nerds, publish a report titled, “The Man Who Conned Oprah.” Not the man who lied about his book that sold millions of copies. Not the ethical principles of the blurring line separating Fiction from Non-Fiction.

Come on! Everyone’s memoir has a few lies. That's why it's called a memoir, not an autobiography. (To assume that memoirs don’t spin the truth means you’re naïve, and are probably being taken for thousands of dollars by some cult that told you they’d fix your “leaky roof” for only $5,000.) It’s O.K. to lie in your memoir. Lies make the truth better. Some famous memoir writing liars did it way before Frey. Candice Bergen? PRETTY LIAR. John Glenn? NOBLE LIAR. Dwight Eisenhower? MILITARY LIAR. Greg Louganis? FAG LIAR. Bill Clinton? BLOW JOB LIAR. Anne Frank? PERSECUTED TEEN, and POSSIBLE LIAR. (C’mon, that diary may as well have been jotted down on a dry-erase board. What a crock! Yeah, I lived in my attic and hid from Hitler, too, Anne! Puberty sucked for me, too, Anne!)

So Smoking Gun's headline draws major attention from serious newsmen. Larry King has does a whole show dedicated to uncovering the scandal. Oprah calls in, and she defends Frey. According to Oprah, sage, oracle, goddess, he is a man who “stepped out of [alcohol and drug addiction] to be the man he is today.”

Later, in a dream she has that night, an epiphany occurs. She is fucking Oprah, defender of good, giver outer of crappy cars, speaker of plainly obvious moral truths. Her book club seal of approval is literary gold, it’s the best thing that’s happened to publishing since the invention of the printing press. “Oprah will not be duped by a junkie liar,” she whispers quietly to herself. (Steadman hears just the, ‘Oprah will not’ part then rolls over figuring the last part of the sentence was ‘ever marry my black ass.’) No one lies to Oprah. Oprah is honesty personificiationalized. She will change course and nail him. So, Oprah says to Frey, “Come back on my show. Defend yourself.” During the taping she gives him a royal beat down. It’s a televised sequel to the Spanish Inquisition. She strips Frey’s lying ass naked. Lyin’ about his root canal; lyin’ about jail, lyin’ about Suicide Lilly, Lilly who supposedly hanged herself but who really slit her wrists.

OPRAH: I acted in defense of you and as I said, my judgment was clouded because so many people seemed to have gotten so much out of it. But now I feel that you conned us all.

Oprah was not the target of a con. This may be semantics, but Frey set out to write a book about his journey. He did not attempt to grift Oprah. He wrote a memoir with some bullshit in it. If a single person got something out of his book then she'd be wise to shut the hell up.

OPRAH: I remember when you were here the last time. In the after-show a woman stood up and said, “You know, after reading this book and seeing you coming through what you came through, the way you did, and you having the attitude that you did makes me feel like I can do it, too.” I think you presented a false person.

False person or no false person, WHATEVER, WHOMEVER and HOWEVER a person suffering from alcohol and drug addiction, or someone affected by alcoholism and drug addition, is helped in any way, it’s spectacular. I don't care if Santa and the Easter Bunny lead the intervention.

Uh, Oh! All is not well. Oprah Winfrey has been lied to! Ahhh! By an addict! Ooooh! That druggie author guy lied to Oprah. Let’s have a Senate Hearing! Oprah views herself as infallible. I learned in Catholic school that the only infallible entities are God (defined as the whole Trinity: Dad, Jr. and the Spook) and The Pope. Given her overwhelming power, I’m not surprised. Oprah could easily become the Pope. All it’d take is a decree and a formidable wire transfer. (Tomorrow, on OPRAH: "The First Female, Black Pope, ME!") But Oprah isn’t the Pope. I believe, though, that at some level, Oprah has bought her own legend. She honestly believes she is some kind of Wonder Woman. And if just one of her staff/minions dares to say a damn thing, they’re off the payroll like a Prom Dress.

By the way, I worshipped Wonder Woman. My feelings for her were not pure. I suspected that I might be guilty of a sin, but watching her run around in a costume that glorified her breasts and the American flag rendered me oblivious. Clad in a plaid skirt and wool socks, the uniform of St. Colette, I learned to fear sin, to fear what I thought. “Thou Shalt Not Worship False Idols.” That effort failed. When I was 6, I added “…Except Wonder Woman.” I remeber Wonder Woman's lasso of truth. It always worked, even on Nazi day players. Oprah wishes she had a truth lasso! No one could ever lie to her and she wouldn’t have to be mean, righteous and indignant. Keep this on the D.L. You didn’t hear it from me. I KNOW WONDER WOMAN. WONDER WOMAN IS A FRIEND OF MINE. AND OPRAH WINFREY IS NO WONDER WOMAN.

As an addict myself, I shouldn't be frontin'. I should step up for my man, Jim F. I should do service, volunteer to sit Oprah down in her ultra-fab Lake Shore Drive penthouse, and tell her the truth. I’d tell her that she ain’t nobody. She’s not special or different. Know a drunk? Know a junkie? You’ve been lied to. Lady, that’s what addicts do! We lie. Wake up and smell the crystal meth! Even when we stop devouring substances, we’re still liars, just clean liars trying hard to stay clean and not lie. Trust me, I know firsthand. Wait, don't trust me. I'm probably lying about something. Although I can't be sure, nor can anyone. Aristotle once said, "Liars, when they speak the truth, are not believed." How's that for a pickle?

One of the litany of questions she posed to James Fry was why did he lie? Why would he do that? He responded, “I think one of the coping mechanisms I developed was sort of this image of myself that was greater, probably, than—not probably—that was greater than I actually was. In order to get through the experience of the addiction, I thought of myself as being tougher than I was and badder than I was—and it helped me cope. When I was writing the book…instead of being as introspective as I should have been, I clung to that image."

James Fry and I share more than a history of addiction. We share the killer combo of monumental ego coupled low self-esteem. We act like we’re brilliant and bulletproof but inside we're terrified. What do other people think of us? That we're phonies? That we're stupid, ugly, unloveable? That we'll die alone and penniless? Addicts treat themselves like shit b/c that's what they think they deserve. At least it was true for me.

See, we really hate ourselves, but if we can manage to dupe somebody into believing the smokescreen, we’re a success! Hence, the hot air, blither and drabble. We inflate ourselves and manipulate the truth because it allows us the luxury of forgetting how awful we are. Lying is a commonly practiced technique used for the sole purpose of hiding our illness. The sickness of addiction manifests itself in the body when we ingest our drink/drug of choice. Next comes the inevitable. We fall down stairs and vomit and alienate our friends & family and punch our boss in the nuts and lose our house. At least that’s the part ‘straight’ people know. (Nnot un-gay straight, but un-fucked-up straight.) Few are aware of the other dimension to the sickness that exists in the mind. The lies get invented there.

A common misconception of addicts theorizes that we're just pussies who stop drinking and then have to say we're sorry to everybody. As addicts, we don’t ‘blame’ anything on our sickness. We accept the consequences of our actions and try to do something different the next time.

James Frey went on national television, sat with Oprah, and made an amends. He said, “I came here and I have been honest with you…I’ve admitted to lying…If I come out of this experience with anything, it’s to be a better person, learn from my mistakes and make sure that I don’t repeat them.”

Congratulations, Oprah. You nabbed the bad guy. Good kill.

Read “A Million Little Pieces.” Call it whatever you want. It’s a powerful story and a gift of James Frey’s experience. Even if it is just a load of shit.