Not to brag, but I’m getting SO much writing done!

Image above stolen from the desk of the amazing Austin Kleon.

HA!  Hello lovelies,

Greetings from The Overlook where I am in a white-heat manic frenzy and positively useless as a human. It’s not hyperbole. Friends came to visit from France, and I’ll admit it; I was the worst hostess ever. Domestic badasses like Martha Stewart, Ina and Snoop would excommunicate me tout de suite. I used to really, really  be able to cook, but all I can think about right now is the book, which is due molto pronto. I can’t do drugs because of my spazzy brain, but damn if I don’t start twitching like a meth mom every time I think about all the egregious typos in my manuscript. I’ve even started to resemble Karl Ove Knausgaard. Seriously,  I am his less-cute doppelgängster:

karloveknausgaard

Plus, my skin is scaling away like that old corpse broad from The Shining. I’ll spare you the graphic bathroom visual from Kubrick’s stunning masterpiece. Suffice it to say, I’m trying to hydrate more.

Maybe it’s just aging, but I feel like my whole body is at war with itself. Where it’s like, “Yo’ lady! I need to see some ID!” and there’s me having left my driver’s license in my other purse. It’s almost a case of self not recognizing self, but I can’t figure out if it qualifies as an existential crisis or an auto-immune disorder? I think both are still covered under the #ACA.

On the bright side, the book is making me heaps skinnier. It’s a kind of terror-burp dyspepsia that gives you zero appetite as you are literally eating your own words. To cope, I’ve started harboring lush escapist fantasies and conducting wildly aggressive real estate searches for places like these:

front hall

It’s a farmhouse in Gers, France where there is health care and people still take naps. I also love this particular region because everywhere you look, there’s food like this:

19GASCONY5A-superJumbo

Quack, quack went the duck. I have so much to tell you, from the different women’s marches to old AF parades to all-new New York weirdos, I just have to write like a mothertrucker this week.

Who was it who said, besides sex and wine… you are my favorite procrastination?

Stay rad – xoxo – gg

 

Why yes, I am a lefty ho…

Hello My Lovelies,

A quick post before the Cheeto-elect places his small, sweaty, orange, pussy-grabbing palm on a bible (leaving a stain, no doubt) and I morph back into a pre-existing condition—epilepsy. (My brain likes to spontaneously combust now and then. A genetic electrical issue, but what can you do?)

It goes without saying that there’s a definite buzz in the city this week. A reckoning humming… as though someone has strung high tension wires from skyscraper to tenement and back again. It’s a mood both distinctly electric and furtive. Like a burgeoning totalitarian regime, people pass each other on the street with expressions of crumpled worry… that say, “Are you one of us? Are you a… ahem… a friend? Oh, you’re not? Okay, no big!”

Just yesterday, I was trudging up Madison to the dentist in the freezing rain for my nine millionth root canal (that I cannot afford) when this homeless man came up to me and said, “Can I just tell you, I really like your boots?”

The snarky, jerky ne’er-do-well in my head replied, “Well then, clearly, I need to do some shopping!” (Only because these boots are from Costco. That’s right, the brand is “waterproof”)

But because New York is so bizarro-feeling these days, instead I said, “Thank you?”

And then, he launched into his whole elevator pitch, which when you’re a writer you do a lot of… but in my desire to be empathetic, I forgot that I still can’t make the right faces (post-accident) so I can mostly only look either terrified or uber cynical.

I must have looked really scared because a cabbie stopped traffic and called out to me, “Hey, are you okay??? Is he bothering you?”

And lo, in a voice that came out just like Greta Gerwig’s, I called back, “No, he just likes my footwear!” I’m a lefty ho, who’s as scared as the next person, right now.

But oy… it made me think that with all the protests and marches going on this week and going forward… we need to proceed thoughtfully, with compassion for those who think differently (or maybe not at all ) and keep a steady eye trained on intersectional politics… reversing stigma of all kinds, refraining from getting our collective dander up, being more inquisitive of each other and diffusing with humor wherever possible.

You just never know who is going to turn out to be a pal…

friendapp.jpg

If you plan to protest or march in NYC at any of the many efforts, just some handy tips!

Yours in solidarity, xoxo – gg

Delicate Flowers…

Here in Gotham, we’ve had our first real snow day… complete with people tiptoeing around the city on sidewalks made of eggshells. As I was padding home from the library yesterday, I could hear piano notes floating from a modest brownstone on 81st, carried out over wafting snowflakes… the only sound in the street, the sound of someone practicing her or his art. And it reminded me of why I’m also here.

I’ve been going through a grim patch lately… a romantic, political and societal malaise. Clearly, I need some Gemma Correll… and to read Roxane Gay’s new book… Difficult Women

01-embed-roxane-gay-difficult-women

Yes, I’m still taking the election personally… With the threatened repeal of Obamacare and nothing to replace it? So many people I know rely on it. And just the very idea that America would choose a sexist, racist, bigoted, lying, non-tax paying, nuclear Cheeto over a competent, experienced woman… it still smarts. Do they not like us that much? I want to see difficult women win. Lord knows, I am one. Doesn’t take a Gallup poll to figure that one out. My issues have issues. Epilepsy, anxiety, a fear of juice. A mugger once tried to take my purse and I argued that it didn’t go with his outfit. I wanted us to win for once. I wanted to keep that damn purse.

When my daughters and I were younger, and we were sad post-le-divorce, we’d play OGT in the car… One Good Thing… Roxane’s book is today’s. We have to stay Difficult Women. Stay rad and resist.

xoxo – gg

Happy 2017? More like…

ftheitinerary.jpg

Yes, we’re all still in shock for a variety of reasons… The 2nd Avenue Subway is LIVE. Meanwhile, the Cheeto-elect with his chronic gaslighting and “fabbing” (a.k.a. telling really YUGE lies) keeps everyone in a constant state of dyspepsia…  Best take care to “Memento” your most basic civil rights while you still have them. (Thank you, Sam Bee)

Screen Shot 2017-01-02 at 5.27.27 PM.png

Millions may lose their healthcare. We lost so much between Hodor, Prince, Bowie, George, Carrie, and Debbie… And don’t get me started on last night’s untimely death of Mary Morstan…  Oh, what have you done to us, Mark Gatiss? Can’t you see? We all just needed a little brightness back in the world? And here you go killing off the smartest woman left on the show and making her darling husband into a cheating cad? Is nothing sacred?

gif-sherlockblanket.gif

This year, in lieu of resolutions about ironic taco cleanses and wearing granny undies, I’m recommending a little art therapy, courtesy of an amazing comic illustrator, Gemma Correll (gemmacorrell.com) whose book The Worrier’s Guide to Life is coming out tres soon! In these times of uncertainty, maybe make your number one resolution about self-preservation. Behold… stickers!

resolution2

And if you are feeling too weary of the world, a book recommendation to hide out with under the blankets… Olivia Laing’s remarkable meditation: The Lonely City

images.jpg

You’ll thank me later. Chin up, my lovelies… Resist and stay rad!  xoxo- gg

Meditations for Introverts Whose Families Showed Up for the Holidays

Ho-ho-ho… Okay, here’s the secret plan… Number 1. Start with a Six Sigma Wheel of Domination.. (yes, the one your cray-corporate boss tried to explain to you, but you couldn’t pay attention to him for so long, so you just made your usual hedgehog face and nodded like it made total sense?) Well now, it does!

wheelofalone.jpg

 

Step 2. In your mind… while your spinster aunties are over-basting the bird and tying all the glass ball ornaments into pairs so that they look like testicles… order this very special:

starterkit.jpg

3. Contemplate why you don’t have this kid’s parents:

subwaytherapy.jpg

Yeah, he takes my insurance 🙂 And then…

jolly.jpg

(pic via 2 fab dudes in Chelsea)

Happy Holidays Lovelies… xoxo – gg

A Stroppy Harridan…

A toast, a toast… it was finally snowing-ish. Or it was yesterday morning in Central Park. (Pic courtesy of Alex Di Stasi)

Cz4S9ILUoAAOAHL.jpg

Yes, Decima… promised to be a stroppy harridan of a storm…

I bet you’re wondering what that is because I certainly was when my BFF and criminal service animal, Ed, proclaimed me nothing but one at a recent birthday lunch. A fine how-do-you-do…

I’ll confess, my first guess was stroppy harridan: a variant of some hipster-nonsense Christmas cocktail, one that involves artisanal singing… Wassail, wassail… and whatnot. (Thinking about it now, all cocktails should involve singing. We should make it a rule, like diplomatic protocol. Singing keeps drunk people in Mary Poppins mode and prevents them from morphing into a sea of Archie Bunkers, amIright? And we’ve had more than enough Archie this past year. Electors, how about a write-in on Monday…Vote Julie Andrews!)

Breaking it down… “stroppy”… I quite liked. It means irascible and/or easily annoyed. That’s definitely me when lacking actual REM sleep. You know, the kind of deep slumber you get in the early, early mornings, the kind that is fevered and awash in vivid, storied dreams that play out like a Daphne du Maurier novel–complete with Mrs. Danvers lurking. The Victorians referred to it as the “second sleep” and apparently it went away with the invention of the electric light bulb… Damn you, Edison. For me, it’s always SUCH a fortifying sleep that… upon waking, I immediately race into the kitchen with a new musical or book idea, which I then frantically, nonsensically attempt to explain to the dog as I fumble with the coffee-making while he listens politely, trying ever so earnestly not to pee…

“Harridan” seems like a fancy version of a religious ne’er-do-well or someone with an implausible haircut, like Boris Johnson. In fact, it’s a grumpy old woman from the French for old horse. Charming.

I’m not sure what merited this whimsical moniker. Honestly, I don’t think Ed knew what it was either, and for the record, I was super cheery and decidedly un-horse-like given it was my birthday. But right as I left the restaurant, I ran smack into one of those very serious New York City joggers, you know… the kind who runs even when it’s rul cold out. He was wrapped in tinfoil like a baked potato with a ski mask. We were flirting distance apart, trying to avoid each other so naturally, “See-something-say-something” took hold, and I called him a stroppy harridan… to which he replied, “You bet your sweet ass I am!”

And what can I say… it was the quintessential Manhattan moment: a term nobody knows, uttered in an instance of grouchy, unanticipated physical disruption that could have resulted in conflict, but instead resulted in Seinfeldian intimacy. It’s what makes this place, this place.

So, a toast, a toast… To the stroppy harridans, the difficult-sweet people, and storms…

while-the-train-was-stopped-people-dressed-in-anachronistic-clothing-posed-for-photos-next-to-the-antique-train-cars.jpg

Keep singing and enjoy the holiday mayhem… I have a book to finish, but lovelies you are my favorite procrastination. Have a day that means something 🙂

xoxo – gg

P.S. If you need to avoid your family for hours upon hours of wrapping or just general brooding… I highly recommend Netflix’s new thriller The OA

All is Calm… All is Bright…

But we really need some snow.

Seriously, it does not look like this in NYC and it needs to because it’s December people… and I am seeing way too much garbage and poo on 82nd Street.

Hello lovelies,

I know it’s been a long time. I’d like to say I have good excuses, but then… I’ve always said excuses pretty much blow, which is an excuse in and of itself now that I hear it out loud in my head 🙂 I have been all over the planet lately as a panhandler of words… hovering, warming my cold, chapped, Dickensian hands over the smoldering embers of other people’s much better ideas.

Here I am outside Berlin on the set of Grand Budapest Hotel for Project Vargr

gbh

Sidebar: who knew a western European country like Deutschland could have so much schnitzel and so little product? The mind reels! The hair frizzes. Still learning how to smile for the camera…

And here I am in LaLaLand for Project G, wearing socks by the pool. Yes, that’s my pigment-free ankle. Liz Lemon’s got nothin on me.

50085230619__6B53FBB2-5730-40BB-BD85-B1979273CE35.JPG

I can never stay in LA for long. I get a headache from rolling my eyes so much.

I started GG as an ongoing love letter to a city that has always made me feel at home… a tiny blog in praise of this place’s crazy ones, celebrating or leaning into its very difficult, nerdy, outspoken, prickly-pear, harrumphing people who make you realize why other cities pale and feel sort of JV (sorry other cities)… Not a political blog, not necessarily a neuro blog… except when warranted… and hoo boy… do I have some tales.

I was so blue after the election I almost defected to Sweden, but… I just cannot put that much sugar in my coffee. I like my coffee bitter… so, all is calm… all is bright… in the snowglobe that is my head and it’s time to get back to Gotham. Stay rad, my lovelies…

xoxo – gg

PS – the best thing I’ve watched this week… courtesy of Brainpickings.org… best blog ever: