Hey kids! (A term which can also mean adults of various ages, for are we not all children in the eyes of God? And that one Trader Joe’s cashier who still cards you every time?)

Time to head back to school! (“School” is how you refer to the Jane Goodall MasterClass™ you impulse-purchased off a particularly stirring Facebook ad after drinking a lot of Trader Joe’s wine one night by yourself. You have not actually activated the 29-video class as of yet, but definitely plan to soon.)

The summer reading assignment was A Wrinkle In Time! (Interestingly, you also spent the summer deeply invested in a wrinkle, the new one in the middle of your forehead, and now possess a near-expert level understanding of facial serums such as hyaluronic-acid rich Cosrx snail-mucin essence, the current snail slime you can’t live without.)

School supplies lists were sent home to parents! (Your parents just called concerned that around three in the morning you sent the entire family a link to a public Amazon wish-list filled with expensive Korean skincare products and a single Jane Goodall autobiography, My Life With The Chimpanzees, and would you please call them back to make sure you’re not having some sort of nervous breakdown over getting fired?)  

Picture Day is coming up! (Speaking of getting fired, how were you supposed to know your old job expected you to leave behind your photo ID badge? Sure, the bar code can technically still get you in the building, but you resent the implication that you’re some sort of “security risk” now.)

Get to know your new teacher at the Back To School Fair! (Unfair is how you’d describe the treatment you’ve received during this entire situation, actually. You were practically forced to use the ID badge to break into the office in order to return said ID badge, and seeing as you are no longer an employee at the company it’s entirely reasonable that you weren’t aware of the times of night when the office might happen to be closed. You seriously wonder if Jane Goodall ever had to deal with this sort of workplace harassment in the jungles of Tanzania.)

Make new friends but keep the old, one is silver and the other gold! (You weren’t “attempting to conceal your identity from security cameras” you were simply wearing a snail secretion collagen sheet mask that is specially formulated for nighttime application.)

Each new year is a new opportunity to learn, try your best, and have fun! (This restraining order is actually a good reminder that it’s time to leave the past in the past and start looking for a new job, one that is better suited to your unique skill-set. Every individual has a role to play, as Jane would say. As a matter of fact lately you’ve even been considering going back to school.)


“New York Is Different Now” A Summary Of Every Alt-Rock Memoir

There was only one good time period to live in New York and it was when I was 22 years old and inventing the idea of not caring about society. In 1978 I had a studio apartment above Woofy’s Strip Club which was also a gallery and I played bass in a No Wave band called This Is A Gallery and my rent was four dollars a month and the landlord was Patti Smith. The studio apartment was also a gallery. There was a claw-foot bathtub in the kitchen and a mattress on the floor, until the rats carried it away one night, and from then on I slept in the bathtub and all I had for a pillow was my guitar. From 1980-1983 I only owned one shirt which I gave to Thurston Moore after he beat me in a fist fight over who got to sleep in the bathtub and who had to stay awake with a baseball bat in case the rats returned. I actually wound up starting a Post-Noise band with the rats and we opened for Nico at the fist-sized hole in the plaster of my living room wall, which had become a gallery. Now the whole scene has completely deteriorated and Woofy’s is a Fro-Yo Lite.

New York used to be a place where everyone was serious about their art and about going to the same parties as Lester Bangs. What happened? Everywhere I look I see a building that used to be a gallery but is now the Stock Market. The other day I went by the dungeon in Bed-Stuy where I once caught an amazing strain of oral herpes from a conceptual artist named Trash, but these days it’s just a place where people take improv classes. It was then I realized, I don’t even recognize New York anymore. You used to be able to buy pure Columbian cocaine from a baby who dealt out of his stroller on Twenty-Third and Tenth in Chelsea. He’s now an executive at Tidal and we haven’t spoken in decades.

New York isn’t alive like it used to be, because it’s become completely corporate and also because a lot of the people I knew are dead and there are new people here. Case in point: I once watched Sid Vicious push a safety pin through a cockroach at the methadone clinic on Spring Street but nowadays no one famous goes to that methadone clinic. You don’t know what it was like. One time I got so hungry I ate a cigarette, and when I threw it up later Jean-Michel Basquiat smoked it. Back then New York kids were broke because we were making art and stopped talking to our parents. These days New York kids are broke because they take improv classes and stopped talking to their parents. It’s just crazy how New York is different now.

L.A. hasn’t changed at all.

Melania’s Soliloquy

To Be Best, or not to Be Best, that is the question.
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The Stormy and Daniels of outrageous fortune ($130,000 allegedly)
Or take arms against a sea of troubles
And slap my husband’s tiny hand away every time he tries to hold mine in public.
To lie, to tweet – no more – and by a tweet the world could end,
But on the plus side I’d never have to see Macron and Brigitte making out again.
‘Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished! I usually sleep in my ski suit.
To tweet, perchance to dream of NO COLLUSION – ay, there’s the rub,
For in that tweet what likes from Russian bots may come,
But no telling what Giuliani might get gin-drunk and wind up revealing on Hannity later.
You know who I wish would shuffle off this mortal coil?
Everyone who said my White House Christmas decorations were “scary.”
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Or countless memes of their perfectly normal-sized Hat:
The Hat replaced with a picture of a large albatross,
The Hat photoshopped on the Young Pope,
The Hat eating Jared.
Ugh, maybe I should just my quietus make with one of these dull Trump steak knives we always have lying around.
Who wants to witness Donald grunt and sweat as he watches CNN every morning,
But the dread of a Mueller subpoena,
The undiscovere’d peepee tape from whose release
No President returns,
Almost makes me feel sorry for the guy. Almost.
Thus conscious does make cowards of us all,
And thus the instinct to finally give up the goat and DM the FBI
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought…would I be allowed to keep the Hat in Witness Protection?

Unpublished First Draft of The New York Daily News Thinkpiece “Why Exactly Is Anne Hathaway So Unlikeable?”

One cannot be certain of much in this cruel and senseless world save for the fact that Anne Hathaway remains the most ugh actress in Hollywood. Was there ever a time when we weren’t utterly consumed by thoughts of “Anne-oying” Hathaway and her radiant skin that is probably as smooth and cool to the touch as a saltwater pearl or something? In fact, it’s not unusual for us to dream about gently petting Anne Hathaway’s perfect pixie cut nearly every single night – that’s how much she drives us up the wall! On any given day we might obsess about Anne Hathaway while at the gym, during our commute, or even suddenly, out of nowhere and totally inappropriately in the middle of a conversation about our niece who went missing over the weekend. Enough already Anne Hathaway!

Get this – in every one of the 12,894 of images of Anne Hathaway we have downloaded and saved to a private folder on our home computer Anne Hathaway is flashing that enormous smile, as if triple-threat Anne Hathaway is living her best life and never had to help select a family member’s clearest class photograph to send to local television stations. Talk about stuck up! What Anne Hathaway doesn’t seem to realize is that while she’s busy having the velvet brown eyes of a newborn fawn, other people have been part of a local search party combing a meadow for signs of their missing niece. No one likes it when you do the “raise the roof” pose with your Oscar when their niece has disappeared, Anne Hathaway.

One thing’s for certain – we’ve had enough of Anne Hathaway’s theater kid personality, and not nearly enough information about the last known whereabouts of our niece, Tabitha, who won’t ever be cast in a school play now. Pop culture experts agree: it just doesn’t make sense that while an entire community reels from the unthinkable tragedy of Tabitha’s vanishing, we can sometimes spend an entire candlelight vigil fixated on what it might feel like to make Anne Hathaway laugh. We imagine when Anne Hathaway laughs, and we mean truly, deeply laughs, perhaps because something we said was recognized to contain the sort of surprise wit and wry observational humor that is exactly Anne Hathaway’s taste, well, in such a perfect moment we know Anne Hathaway loves and trusts us completely and all of the sudden there wasn’t a coat that looks just like our niece’s coat found in the woods this afternoon. All of which leads us to wonder – is Anne Hathaway simply the most unlikeable woman in show business?

She should really try to be more like Emma Stone.