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.”

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“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:

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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

Bustle was right… It was hot as balls! And we were all just hanging on by a thread…

Especially the dog… I’ve been worried that he’s just dumb as a rock, but it appears he’s figured out how to control the air conditioner with his hot, stinky chicken jerky breath… So, that’s positive. (Right?) Today is cooler… (praise Xenu) With the dog though… I keep hoping he’ll grow up to be a chill, literary pooch… one who likes jazz, wears glasses and reads the New Yorker, but right now he’s more like a slack-jawed, mouth breathing yokel… I’m going to record it… You can totally hear him from across entire apartment… amid the Rear Window symphony that summer in the city always is. He sounds like a muppet laughing… (think: Ernie from Sesame Street). It shakes the damn coffee table. And  I’m pretty sure everything I say to him sounds like this:

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by the amazing and incomparable Allie Brosh…

… though this may be because I still sound so unintelligibly French since breaking my face… (This, despite all my “What’s New Pussycat?” jam sessions) Yes, he likes to sit right next to me, his chicken jerky face poised at my ear, breathing heavily like a bedraggled tourist on the subway. Drooling on my laptop… Not so good for the writing productivity… oy… I’ve been hibernating, working on a book based on a TEDx talk I gave a few years back about creativity, electricity and the brain… It’s turning out to be so chocked full of sci-fi tropes… I almost feel like I’m right back in Scott Bukatman’s class at NYU…Yes!… Love me my NERDS 🙂 So, am writing out the heat… eating loads of muffins… and bacon and cheeseburgers pizza with brie and ice cream… At a size zero, I need some reserves… lest I disappear with this next round of surgery and being wired shut. it’s getting so old… I told the doctors at this point… I totally don’t mind being a mute, living out a quiet Amelie-like existence… talking is so overrated…  If I can just lose this damn Kirk Douglas vibe, I will be the happiest spaz in all the city 🙂 No offense, Spartacus… I jus miss being able to smile.

Stay cool ladies and gents…

xoxo – gg

Mother of Dragons…

I love them. I hate them. I love them… ghyaaaaagh!!!… I’m home from the hospital and my neighbors across the yard are barbecuing this:

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It’s summer in the city and total Rear Window olfactory torture… I have not had solid food since April 10th… How many days is that? I did, however, wake up on the table after 11 hours and write this:

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I can feel my face! And despite being mute and meatless, I’m not wasting away in total squalor–as several of you have suggested… The ladies made me decorate. We went with girly library meets Wes Anderson:

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with some serene mixed in…

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Also, I decided it’s time for a role model changing of the guard. Over the years, I’ve had everyone from Nora Ephron… to La Femme Nikita… to Nora Charles (The Thin Man), but after a truly horrific NYC hospital stay, followed by a nightmare call from the head of school that one daughter just set the new science lab ablaze trying to convert her iPhone to a dark matter detector… I think I may need to step up the level of bad ass required to get through the days ahead.

Marvin, my queen from Queens, insists there is nothing more dangerous (and therefore more bad ass) than a single mother… He cites examples to an imaginary jury in my living room…  Sarah Connor, Erin Brockovich… Medea (wrong) but I say there is… A single mother of dragons:

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This is what I need right now.

Oof… my mouth hurts… At least, there’s that… Hooray for that 🙂

xoxo – gg