I told myself I was going to start a resume tonight but I lied lied lied. I wish I could just write "I Am Smart" on a piece of paper and send it in.

But that wouldn't be very smart.

I seriously just this moment found this site GirlComic...I can't believe I've never seen it before. Awesome.

I've thought a bit about trying to hone my craft, make my funny better. I have great opportunities to be funny because I'm on the radio in the morning (which I swear isn't as bad as it sounds; it's not one of those stupid morning zoo shows with boys making dick jokes and bubbly girls being the laugh track. I hate that so much.) but at the same time radio comedy can be very transient. Unless you develop a good running gag, you just think of a joke, make it, and then it's over. It's not like being a stand-up comedian where you refine and reuse your material. Not that standup is easy or anything, not at all, but it's different. Anyway, I like crafting jokes, but it's something I could work a lot harder at and maybe be a lot better at. I never realized it before now, but a lot of my heroes are funny women. Janeane Garofalo, Margaret Cho, my best friend.

It's one of the best things in the world to laugh, right up there with dancing and the dirty stuff.


One time Dave Wakeling from the (English) Beat came to town and came to the station for an interview and all that. It was awesome. I mean, the fucking English Beat! He was opening for a reggae band, Black Uhuru I think. He and his band were all great folks, and I think they couldn't believe that they'd stepped off a long (and I imagine not terribly rewarding) road of gigs into this stupid commercial radio station and all the DJs there were just gaga over all of them. I got the sense somehow that Dave had gotten used to being forgotten.

I tell you now: Don't forget the English Beat. They're super important and they rock.

We all went to the show and all us DJs and a couple of dates and friends were almost half the audience. There were really only about 20 people in the room when they started. We ordered pitchers and pitchers of Newcastles and danced like crazy. I'm not a dancer, but several pints plus the fucking English Beat would make anyone dance.

So again, Dave's onstage with this crack band and sees all of us being utter fools by ourselves on the dance floor. He sang like it was Royal Albert Hall packed to the rafters.

The English Beat, I tell you!

I Confess!
Mirror In The Bathroom!
Tears of a Clown!
Ranking Full Stop!
Hands Off She's Mine!
Save It For Fucking Later!

After the show we went backstage with them and talked about all sorts of wonderful music. Everybody rolled joints and got excited about life.


Erm, yes, sorry. Got interrupted by the boyfriend coming home early and didn't finish my thought on wine racks. (That last sentence is so blogspot it makes me want to shoot myself.)

Wine racks are for storage. Storage is for wine drinkers who can be arsed to get off the couch and get a bottle of regular wine and resist the temptation to just break into the really nice bottle they've been saving. I'm not living inside that particular Venn. I'm definitely of the wine is for drinking and not saving camp.

Blogging from home is so awful! I'm just brain-dead by the end of the day and am trying to forget everything that happened in the day so that I don't fret all night long. I should just say fuck 'em all and resume normal operations.


Lookit me, home earlier than normal! Actually doesn't count as was working lots yesterday. Had to go to the store to get food since I didn't have a chance yesterday and they were having a wine sale.

Man, I love wine. It's great when you match it to a good meal, but I'm having mine with veggie corn dogs right now and it's still mighty fine. I bought two bottles (a pinot noir and a sangiovese) and I already had two bottles at home. So I think, hey, maybe I'm at the point where a wine rack would be a nice thing to have around. Then I immediately dismiss the thought.

I'm not a wine rack person. Maybe some day if I was fabulously wealthy I might have a cellar, but I doubt it. I'm not a wine rack person because I'm fundamentally lazy.


Sorry. I've been horrible about blogging since I resolved not to blog from work. Has it really been three days? This month is flying by.

So the stripey Kenneth Cole sweater won't be arriving until early February, and it'll be arriving sans boots...apparently they were out. The good news is I did a freelance job today that would pay for three stripey sweaters! After seven years in radio I've for the most part managed to stop being so baffled that I get paid to talk on the radio (esp. now since I run the damn station and get paid to do things that aren't quite as fun as talk about music). Doing freelance voice work is still surreal though...walk into a studio, read a few pages into a mic, walk out with a check. Sometimes you just get lucky.

Other problem about blogging from home: I've programmed myself to dump all information from brain as I walk through the door, so now I don't remember what I've been wanting to blog about for the last few days. It's a protective strategy that works pretty well, so I'm not willing to give up the data dump. Kinda like the beer I'm currently enjoying.

I'm listening to my 70s Soul Experience Box Set..."Thin Line Between Love and Hate" by the Persuaders. Damn. Compare their lyrics with the Pretenders' version. Damn.


Cheap fake Prada bag is falling apart and I need a change so it's new bag for me. Luckily there was a new one waiting in the wings from my last trip to NYC so it's not like I was spending new money. New bag is much smaller than old bag, really positively tiny, which I like. But it's a bit of a juggle to get everything to fit.

In bag: Wallet, cell phone, CLIE, Sony digital camera, keys, Burt's Bees lip balm, checkbook, pen, lip gloss.

I used to be anti-purse and I still pretty much am, except it's like being anti-pants. All well and good in theory, y'know.

I used to just stuff some money in a pocket and go (if I had money). Then I got a driver's licence, and a credit card, and all that hooha and you start needing a wallet. And a wallet doesn't fit well in girls' pants, not even in baggy jeans. Then a couple of years ago I finally caved and got a cell phone because I had to be on call for work all the time.

Once you get a purse you start accumulating things. The bigger the bag, the more crap you haul around. Strictly speaking, I could slim down to just the wallet, phone, CLIE, lip balm and keys. But I like the camera, and you never know when you're going to have a great shot present itself. The checkbook, pen and lip gloss hardly take up any room.

Last time I was at Saks, I almost asked about those new Spring 2003 Louis Vuitton bags. I hate Vuitton bags--rampant logophilia, you know, and not my style anyway--but the new ones with the eyeballs are such weird fun. I would never buy one but I'd like to look at one up close. Fat chance; I know it's the 'it bag' of this season.

What do boys think about all day?


Whirlwind weekend!

After work on Friday, Boyfriend and I went to Big City for schmooze-ola party with record label. Party was much less fabulous than expected, but still a fine time. The main point here was to meet new boss of Big City radio station, who was very late to party. New boss has position open that I'm very much interested in, but the trouble is, it's open now and I'm not wanting to move to Big City for a year or so. Beggars can't be choosers, though. He seemed like an okay fellow despite being late (I'm an on-time sort of person) and I've heard good things about him otherwise. However, I was half a bottle of wine into the evening before he showed up. Oh well.

The party was at the record label person's house, a near-mansion. Her husband is a lawyer at the second-biggest firm in town. The boyfriend has a job waiting for him at the biggest firm in town. Boyfriend was a little freaked out at the parallels of the situation and the size of the house. They had, as they say, stupid money. What really put him over the edge was their complaining about their au pair leaving and how it's so hard to find a good one.

The boyfriend drove me to his parents' house for the night and I woke up the next morning with a hangover. I swallowed it and smiled through the morning. His mom and stepdad live in the suburbs: white flight. They're quite skeptical of our desire to live in the city. His stepdad pulled out a big map of the city that he uses in his work for a city utility. Certain parts of the map were marked as 'blighted' and the workers have to go in pairs and/or with a police officer when they make a house call. The street we were on the previous night, the street with a gate and half-million dollar houses up and down it, was marked as blighted.

We left and drove an hour to have lunch with his dad, who still lives just outside the city. He told us that his dad was in intensive care recovering from cancer surgery, so we decide to visit him too. He was in a VA hospital in a bad part of the city. The hospital looked kind of grungey. There were smirking pictures of GW and Cheney in the lobby. We wandered up to the ICU and saw Grampa, who I really love. He had lost a lot of weight but he was in great spirits. He's still a very handsome man, with sharp eyes and a bold Middle Eastern nose. They only let us visit for fifteen minutes.

We went to a restaurant downtown then, for a surprise birthday party for an old college friend. His wife organized it and did a great job. There were about thirty of us she had gathered together from all over the country. We ate and then went to a hockey game, the first I've ever watched including on TV. It was good fun and made me want to ice-skate. After the game we went to a bar in the building where his wife had set everyone up with free beer and munchies. I took lots of pictures. It was stellar. We drove home late.


Dude, I just got home. Notice time of this post vs. time of last post. Ridic.
Hey. Good morning. This is when my day starts. Actually, I'm a little bit into it already because it took me a while to make the boyfriend's computer work right.

I'm reading up on a few newspapers before I go do my radio show and thought I might as well blog since I didn't make an entry yesterday. A little bird told me that my company's installing spyware to track our surfing habits. After my last entry, I'm suspicious of coincidence.

I do think that nearly all my surfing is defensible (that's the wonderful thing about trying to find interesting things to talk about on the radio). Some of the shopping probably is not (I got that cute stripey sweater and the boots, BTW), but seeing as I spend an average of 12 hours at work every day, usually without a lunch break, I think a little recreational surfing to cleanse the palate is excusable.

Of course, I don't get to make the decisions about what's excusable and what's not. Fair enough.

So no more blogging at work. And if anyone knows a good web-based free email that's not a stupid domain and littered with spam, let me know. I'm thinking about just getting my own domain again now.

Oh, I forgot to mention last time, chachacha.co.uk sidebar-linked me for some reason and that was very nice, so I've returned the favor. They're fun. Visit them through the link so they can see in their referrer logs that I love them back.


I'm back from vacation but I couldn't post yesterday because my life was full of vaginas.

I try not to blog about work even though I have a very sexy job as a DJ and meet all kinds of fabulous famous people who are usually more sleep-deprived and patient than fabulous. I know this makes the blog a little more boring, but I don't feel comfortable about describing the specifics of work for a variety of reasons (Dooce, anyone?).

But the fucking vaginas put me over the edge.

Here is the less sexy side of working at a radio station: I come back from vacation to find that a salesperson has sold a contract to the producer of the Vagina M0nologues in which my station and one of my sister stations will be sponsoring the production. We'll be mentioning the production and ticket information on the air.

We'll be mentioning this twice an hour. Every hour. For the next month and a half.

Also, we'll be creating contests in which listeners can win tickets to the production, and we'll be promoting these contests every day.

It goes on.

Needless to say, neither station authorized this kind of activity.

So I wrote an incredibly polite memo about this to the appropriate parties and was looking forward to sorting everything out today, but the appropriate parties are hiding from my vengeful wrath. They should know they're not helping their situation any.

Now, I have nothing against vaginas. Quite to the contrary.

But if I were to put myself in the shoes of one of the awesome listeners to my radio station (who I would guess, on the whole, also have nothing against vaginas), I think I might get just a wee bit tired of hearing about vaginas twice an hour, every hour, every day for 45 days.

Vagina vagina vagina vagina. Vagina.

Some DJs might be thrilled at the prospect of saying "vagina" on the radio twice an hour. I am not one of these DJs.

There will not be nearly as much vaginal activity going on my radio as this salesperson might expect.


shh. I'm on vacation. Back on Monday.


Happy new year and all that.

I love these big panorama 360 things, and they made one for Times Square for New Year's, yay. Do not attempt on dial-up; it'll take a while on a good connection even.

Also finally Matt got that ticket stub site off the ground; we've been waiting for, like, forever already. (Sorry, that's me being peevish and ungrateful for Matt's good work in making the net a better place, in case it didn't come off as you know I meant it.)

Mmmm. Look at all that champagne. The hostess of the New Year's Eve party I went to (hands also pictured above) and I resolved to go to wine tastings together every month or so. She's a mother and a pretty good one at that. The party was waist-deep with kids under three. Her boy is coming up on his third birthday, I think, and he's the best of the lot. I'm not just saying that because he likes me, although it does speak well of him, doesn't it?

This mom is a year or so younger than me and I kind of envy her (in a weird way) for her early (for our college-educated crowd) start on motherhood. If I wanted to be a mom I would have gotten right on that train. As it is I'm happy to play with her non-spoiled, sensible child. And you know I hate kids, so you know he must be a little charmer. Oh, I actually told him once that I didn't like kids, and in a very sympathetic tone of voice he said, "Yeah." Priceless.

There was a mom-to-be at the party who left shortly after I arrived. I think she was feeling bad (she's due soon) but it's likely my arriving was the last straw. She's my nemesis. She's also big as a barn and covered with spots. Almost makes me not despise her, poor thing. She's one of those people who's wanted a baby her whole life and until now has poured her maternal instinct into three million houseplants and cats. (Let me say for the record that the reasons I don't like her are merely supplements to the enmity felt on a molecular level; there are some people you just dislike on sight for no reason, you know?)

Um. I forgot what my point was. Boo kids, yay new year I suppose.