The Longest Day: Time to Bust Out Those Flower Crowns and Druid Dresses!

Happy Solstice Lovelies,

How the hell are you? I just realized we’re going to need a whole lot of Pagan rituals if this cruel, Illuminati, Skull & Bones healthcare bill passes. In the meantime, if you’re around Times Square today, keep your eyes peeled for thousands of people with their bums in the air in down dog for the Mind Over Madness solstice party. Yes, I’ll admit to finding something momentarily erotic about it all until I realized we’re going to need to start making special electrolyte water out of reconstituted boob sweat to keep the planet going. Oy. I can help with that.

And I’m sure I’m not the only one who was disappointed in Pope Francis’s condemnation of yoga. What gives Pope? What happened to all are welcome? Every culture celebrates the solstice in its own way. What happened to the whole acceptance vibe? Cranky.

I also realized if I’m to survive the rest of this year, I need to stop shuffling around the apartment with Warren Ellis hair (my hero) and get to work on the next thing. I have something fermenting. I’m just haunted by a crapload of “Should I haves” and “Is it too lates?” with SPAZ.

Should I have talked more about how when Marlene moved in next door I had to buy sniper earmuffs? She looked at me like I was Dexter with a kill box when I opened the door wearing them. They were only $14 (on Amazon, of course) and I was desperate to quell the sound of her explosively yappy dog, not to mention the boom-boom of the 70-inch flatscreen she mounted on the other side of my bedroom wall? Oh, Marlene…

Should I have recounted the Nancy Drew-style Search Party investigation my BFF Ed and I conducted to get to the bottom of the Marlene mystery? How it ended with me actually meeting someone from the show?


Is it too late to talk about why epilepsy belongs in the neurodiversity NeuroTribes category along with Autism Spectrum and ADHD, Anxiety, and all the other ways in which we are wired as people?

Is it too late to do work that scares my dad? That’s been my goal all along, but he might be too old by now. I wanted to write a comedic book about having a totally unapologetic relationship with my damaged brain and now I’m having big separation anxiety about it. Does this happen with all first books? I think I need other neurotics to weigh in. David Sedaris? You up? Or is there a Pagan rite or ceremony I can perform today that doesn’t involve so much boob sweat?

Meanwhile, happy solstice everyone and stay cool, you exhausted futurists, you!

xoxo – GG

Pope Fiction… a Conversation With His Holiness on the G Train…

Happy decorative gourd season everyone…

So, I have been off on this crazy Gonzo Journalism adventure these past few weeks. Honestly… when I was a little girl and I told my dad I wanted to grow up to be Indiana Jones–I never envisioned it unfolding quite like this… Still, I am going to resist the urge to blurt everything out at the get-go and practice the art of suspense… for once.

Suffice it to say, I have been writing about silly things… instead of serious ones (mostly weddings, fashion and pop culture garbage… the kind of writing that makes you want to take really long showers and remember all the rules of diagraming sentences).

 (best wedding ever in France…mon reve!)

… all of which has left me a little behind on what I am supposed to be doing… finishing this book of essays that is not about epilepsy. We seem to exist in this gilded age of failure… and I don’t want that for this book… not all suffering is transcendent… or teachable or redemptive… the essays have to be about something more than just me… or they’re not worth doing. (Wow, did I get serious fast, or what?)… and they have to find the funny… which is not always so easy when you feel like gnarled tree limbs are growing out of your lips like some low-rent Poison Ivy from George Cloony’s Batman.

So, I arrived home last week to Pope-mageddon on the upper west side… police everywhere… loads of single-wide trailers and volunteer-types… earnest, nervous, guilty-looking and in need of absolution… those little pretend Mercedes van-trucks that always feel kind of skeezy–just one carpet shampoo away from the last mobile orgy. I was late for dinner in Brooklyn (damn you Brooklyn for being so far away)… But I am usually late for most things… (it stems from a deep-seated fear of commitment and overcompensating for chronic work underperformance) so there I am… I meet his holiness on the platform after a Tourette’s syndrome of texts. And I know he’s the Pope and all, but the big rule of the subway… empty cars are never a good sign… We step on…

The Pope: Oh Jesus…

Me: Whoa… Shit just got real…

Because it had! Some charming straphanger had just deposited a steaming pile of… (oh, let’s not get all gratuitous like Ryan Murphy) you know what… It’s New York… so everyone just looks everywhere, pretending not to see it. We move to the next car and sit…

The Pope (sighing despairingly): We are all Pizza Rat…

Me: Even John Boehner? (I’d just seen him crying on the tele and had to take an anti-acid)

The Pope: Especially John Boehner. Pizza Rat stands around all day just doing ordinary rat things. He’s a humble, little guy who just wants his dollar slice and to go home, but somehow… it’s too big to fold in half and shove it in his mouth like any good Gothamite… and so he gets caught in front of millions of people burdened with this huge slice of humanity… Eventually, he gives up, heads for the nearest dive bar that will someday soon be an artisanal pickle shop…

Me: Frank?

The Pope: What?

Me: Are you talking about the nuns?

The Pope: Those bitches set me up… Rat-fucked into meeting Kim Davis…

Me: Worst blind date ever, eh?

The Pope: Here I am… carrying this giant slice of people’s opinions, hopes, lives and cheese… and now this evangelical puppet…  even I can’t fold that in half…

Me: Well, let’s just say enough Hail Marys to get us to dinner…  I think you’re really going to like these guys. They are the most amazing family, and even if you can’t get with it… it doesn’t have to mean everything… you know?

The Pope: (sheepish) Amen to that.

And as His Holiness starts humming, “Let it go…” (a little coping technique we’ve been working on) the G train grinds to a halt… and we’re all just Pizza Rat, but hey… Amen to that.

Have lovely weeks, people 🙂

xoxo – gg