When I am in New York City — just below the earth’s surface, on a subway train with all those people I do not know and will never see again — I get the most amazing sense of shared humanity…a swell of human communion that I don’t get anywhere else in quite the same way. Sometimes it is such a profound experience for me that it actually brings tears to my eyes.
Silly, I know — but absolutely true.
The simply ADORABLE Miss Pearl sends all her love out to her gorgeous Aunt Jackie Beat, who is currently on the road with her amazing “All-You-Can-Eat Christmas” Holiday Extravaganza — a 6-city, 14-show tour that has fans and critics alike FALLING ALL OVER THEMSELVES WITH RAPTURE, AWE, AND DELIGHT.
Hurry home, Aunt Jackie! We love you and miss you! xoxo
From the wry, wry mouth of one of my greatest literary inspirations:
“What used to be called middle-class respectability looked like it was going to disappear, but it didn’t. It’s returned. It just returned in a different costume. If you do it in a loft instead of a split-level in the suburbs, it’s still the same.”
Finally got sprung from the hospital yesterday afternoon…and trust me, the shouts of joy and exaltation could be heard high above the rooftops all over Los Angeles. And NO, IT WASN’T MY NURSES CHEERING, silly. It was ME! Believe it or not, Your Not-So-Gentle Correspondent is an EXEMPLARY patient — cheerfully giving up my blood, swallowing my pills, and making my life-affirming BM’s upon request.
So, now I am home — weak as a snarling, newborn baby jackal, yes…BUT, HOME.
A conglomeration of posts arisen from the morphine-induced haze that was Saturday:
“Was brought to Emergency yesterday in unbearable pain, which unfortunately continues. Pain beyond the imprecision of words. I am still here…so full of morphine that I find myself fighting the urge to don a slinky, white gown, tuck a gardenia behind my ear, and slur out a steamy rendition of, “Lady Sings the Blues” for my nurse-sent-from-heaven, Johane. Where the fuck is The Piano Man?”
“”Fat Lady Sings the Blues”: Piano Man? Piano Man? Where the FUCK is The Piano Man?!”
“”Some junkie nurse has been stepping on my medication!” — Bill Burroughs”
“Here I lay suffering, and not a single offer to feed my kids, walk my dogs, or do my dishes. The list so far? A top-shelf Pina Colonic, several offers to generously take any extra medical-grade narcotics off my hands, a blow-job for my poor husband who is all alone and holding down the fort, and a request to shoot a scene in my hospital room for an indy one of them is directing. ALL HAIL THE MIGHTY JACKALS!”
“For all those who have so thoughtfully sent along offers of help — I was just fucking around to get a laugh. Gregory, in his usual way, has it all under control. Though my doctors are not yet releasing me from this joint, my little family is fine and dandy. Thanks to all for your sweet thoughts of love and healing — oh, and for your offers to blow my husband. He said he might just take you up on it.”
Muff Fact #662: I love the poetry of Ted Hughes and Anne Sexton. I love chamber music and Gregorian chants. I love the films of Fellini and Godard. I love Mussorgsky’s “Pictures at an Exhibition.” I love TS Eliot’s “The Wasteland.” I love Modigliani. I love vintage Mikimoto pearls. I love Merry Old England (which, of course, no longer actually exists.) I love the earthy, intoxicating smell of old books. I love Elsa Schiaparelli and Coco Chanel. I love black cashmere sweaters and red lipstick. I love Scott Fitzgerald. I love a great cup of coffee and a cigarette. I love Truman Capote. I love a good bob. I love Rome, Paris, and Greenwich Village.
But more than anything else…
Muffy Ponders Living Part-time in New York City. Pros & Cons; An Ongoing Series of Observations: Despite being head-over-heels in love with the subway, I must admit that it radically cuts into my girlie grooming time…as while a car passenger on a good ol’ fashioned LA freeway, I usually spend the idle travel time plucking the stray hairs from my ebullient Sicilian chin.
Your Not-So-Gentle Correspondent taking a break to squirt the ol’ clam…in between enjoying the extraordinary company of the guys who created National Lampoon Magazine (well, the ones who are not dead, rotting, and stinking in the earth, anyway). Where have you gone, oh, brilliant Mikey Gross? A nation turns its lonely eyes to you.
New York City, 4 December, 2010.
According to the latest census estimates, there are roughly 8.5 million people currently living in NYC — each of them power strutting 70 mph up and down streets, stairwells, belvederes, and boulevards to catch a subway train at all hours of the day and night. Consequently, aside from myself, of course, there is not a SINGLE fat person on this entire blessed island. Yes, Mein Poppets, what I telling you is that I am THE FATTEST MOTHERFUCKER IN NEW YORK CITY.
That is all.
I feel somehow comforted that I am in New York City on the day of Elaine Kaufman’s death. This is where she lived — AND, OH, HOW SHE FUCKING LIVED! — and today, at the age of 81, died.
Oddly enough, several hours before I got the email telling me she had passed, we were out sashaying the city and I mentioned to Gregory that I really wanted to go to Elaine’s this evening…but since he wasn’t feeling well, we came home to the East Village so he could rest and get better.
So, I will instead go tomorrow to say goodbye to that awesome old broad in the manner which would have undoubtedly pleased her the very most: By eating an infamously not-so-amazing meal…at her infamously OH-SO-AMAZING joint.
Save us a spot at table 4, Miss Elaine.
muffy bolding 