It’s 2018. Where’s My Sandwich?

Hello, Lovelies… How the hell are you?

I just read that Eartha Kitt had a threesome with Paul Newman and James Dean. (It was the old girl’s birthday this past week) Of the nookie, she remarked, “That time back in my dance studio ranks as one of the most celestial experiences of my life. Those two beauties transported me to heaven. I never knew lovemaking could be so beautiful.”


“Good God,” I texted a friend, “I need to completely rethink my life choices.”

“Can I please have my cause of death be listed as ‘sandwiched between James Dean and Paul Newman’?” came her swift reply.

Hells to the yeah! They can put it right there on my tombstone. I won’t even blush. Why should I? It’s 2018. Where’s my sandwich? We have a president who likes to be spanked with his daughter’s face.

And, would that there were a way to extract that monstrous ego of his, dry it like a root vegetable, grind it into a fine powder and snort it… if only to get through the rest of what’s coming.

Isn’t it convenient when crippling anxiety doubles as your daily cardio? I don’t know about you but I have to get all my news from McSweeney’s just to keep from having a goddamn seizure on the Q train these days. In the meantime, I am conjuring up a call sheet for Project G to shoot this summer. The cover reveal for Gotham Girl, Interrupted should be any day now… and when not marching I actually managed to fly through the below tome over the weekend:


With clean, fluid prose you’ll devour, this stunner had descriptions of agoraphobia so vivid, I wondered if Finn had personal experience with the condition. (Anyone?) Add to this… all the references to badass ladies of suspense classics like Vertigo and Rear Window and it’s the perfect escape from our ongoing Black Mirror existential hellscape. I heartily recommend…

Okay, New York is noisy tonight and I must away to toil but stay rad, stay sane, and above all stay safe… XOXO – GG

You Know You’ve Made It When…

You suddenly find yourself on the Darkweb. Indeed, if people in North-South-Western Siberia are pirating your hard-won, pithy zingers, at least you know your work is probably never going away.

Someone at your reading asks how you’re dealing with becoming more well known… right after the security guard just told you the event was sold out and you wouldn’t be allowed in.

You realize you don’t want a robot vacuum cleaner that auto-maps your now slightly larger apartment only to hock said map to creepy Black Mirror-style advertisers who then want to help furnish your spartan living room via sponsored content that you yourself are paid to write.

You end up on a literary panel with a group of transracial pharmaceutical fracking advocates and are left to wonder if that means they dig for Prozac while being of indeterminate ethnic heritage, but you don’t want to trigger anyone by asking, so you end up being the quietest girl at the conference.

You now have an assistant who does things like re-label the microwave buttons after that unfortunate salmon incident:


I’ll be back in two weeks after I’ve finished final edits on my next book. This one’s not so much a tell-all as it is a thank you note. In the meantime, in the midst of the ongoing onslaught of existential tragedy, maybe we should all re-read Anne Lamott’s three essential prayers: Help, Thanks, Wow. Seems to say it all these days.  xoxo – GG

PS for locals – This is never the way to jump a turnstile:


Trump… you gassy anus of a starfish!

You’re like comedy meth… but we have to get you off TV before America gets too much more strung out… and loses all of its teeth… i.e., makes really bad choices, has drunken blackout sex with the wrong boy (you), etc.

But once again, last night… during the Ramos ejection (ejaculation)… we might as well have all been in that episode of Black Mirror, “White Bear.” You know… the one with all the people staggering, zombie-like, leering from behind their smartphones as the pathetic, hysterically bedraggled woman attempts to flee certain death by the guys in clown masks…

In this case… the bedraggled woman (expertly played by Lenora Crichlow) is democracy and our haggard electoral process. The guy in the clown mask (the gassy anus clown mask/hood) is Trump…

Indeed… to take it step further… a scarier, more apt, analog would be to compare this surreal media moment with that first, inaugural episode of Black Mirror… the one in which the hapless UK Prime Minister is blackmailed into screwing a pig on live TV in order to obtain the release of a young woman, a captive royal…

Somehow, in this scenario, it feels like Trump is both the blackmailer and the pig (wonder why). The American political process is the befuddled PM and we watch… glassy eyed… as it pops the viagra and makes ready…

I feel like we need to make like Cher in Moonstruck and slap our Nicholas Cage selves out of it… and stop covering this pig/clown/anus/meth head…

But then you’ve got the media echo chamber of today’s terrible incidents in Virginia. There’s such crazy power in driving other people to bear witness… You will watch… and you will retweet! Because we’re all driven out, for whatever reason, into the world… to bear witness. It’s the nature of consciousness. Perhaps, the art of it all though is in how we manage or exercise our own agency over that seeing, that privileging of vision… And maybe it’s less about a boycott of Trump and more like a collective media yawn at his contrived antics… I don’t know, but I’m sleepy.

xoxo – gg

*credit for anus of a starfish is due to Jonathan Ames and his troupe over at BTD… amazing writers.