Calling out to all you Moonage Ravers and Intergalactic Gallivanters! We’re a week away from our convention on the moon, where New York’s top storytellers will take us on an out-of-this world journey! PLUS: You can win great prizes in our Sounds From Space Trivia Contest! Check it out at Parkside Lounge on Friday, March 24th, 8pm!

Lunar Convention Flyer

Moment In The Sun


I went on a road trip a couple weeks ago.


That’s stretching it.

That conjures up images of driving under sunny skies, smiling with the roof top down and music blaring.

I had to travel to Ohio for a funeral. In February.


The funeral was for a cool guy who truly loved music, and found a way to enjoy life no matter what life threw at him.

So as we headed back to New York, I snapped this photo at a gas station. Because I realized that odds are, at least one person managed to see the beauty in eating cheap food,  perched at this picnic table, by a highway, in a shithole town, in the shadow of a gas pump.

Or, maybe someone just changed a baby’s diaper on it.

Either way…here’s to the people who see beauty wherever it can be found…

The Hopeless/Hopeful Chest

The wait is over! After a month of diligently checking my mailbox for the Chinese Nipples to arrive, my art project is done! Behold…The Hopeless/Hopeful Chest!


A while back, I bought a plastic torso off the street for 10 bucks. My friend Jesus sliced it open and added hinges to the back. Then I painted it silver, added the Chinese Nipple latches and on the inside…I plastered ALL of my rejection letters!


Rejections of short stories, articles, essays, my memoir and my novel. I added alphabet letters as a flourish. But you know what I realized? The rejections weren’t THAT bad. And some of these projects deserved to be rejected. I never used to understand why authors like Stephen King pasted their rejection letters on a wall but I get it now. The rejections are as important as the publications. They teach you how to be a better writer. That’s why this is The Hopeless/Hopeful Chest. It all depends on your mind set…

The Spiritual Side of Grand Central Terminal

Grand Central Terminal is my temple. In this busy city, filled with people from all over the world, it is a beautiful, bustling intersection of humanity. Whenever I walk through late at night, I pick out my astrological sign on the ceiling and pray. I pray for success. I pray that one day I’ll be a best-selling author. I pray that one day I’ll live George Plimpton’s life. But mostly I pray that I’ll never have to leave New York.


Turning On The Faucet in the Age of Trump


I haven’t been doing too much writing since November 9th.

Instead I’ve been drinking too much gin, reading too many Slate articles, posting on Facebook too much, watching too much MSNBC, scouring Twitter for anti-Trump Agitators to follow, fantasizing about stumbling across a tape in the laundry room marked SLEAZY EVIDENCE AGAINST TRUMP, and collecting bitchy names for Trump: Agent Orange, Hair Twitler, Trumpkin, Cheeto Benito, Trumpssolini, That Orange Asshole.

But actual writing? No. Every time I started a project I’d stop because it didn’t seem to have any meaning. What difference did it make? Why did it matter? Nothing I wrote was going to fix the massive shit storm that was about to hit the White House, so what was the point? I’ve been paralyzed by the idea that none of it had any purpose, so why bother to write it all?

(Admittedly, some of the ideas I’ve come up with recently probably shouldn’t see the light of day. The  Garrison Keillor Porn Parody tentatively called A Hairy Home Cumpanion springs to mind.)

But today, after I actually vomited during the inauguration coverage, I walked to the gym to clear my head. After working out, I went to wash my hands. I held my hands under the faucet but forgot to turn it on first. As I looked down, I thought of a Louis L’amour quote, “Start writing, no matter what. The water does not flow until the faucet is turned on.”


So I grabbed the Agatha Christie paperback I’d brought with me and a pen and headed to the sauna. (We Finns do some of our best thinking in the sauna. No one knows why.) Sweating profusely, I started to write down several ideas on the blank back pages. The ideas came pouring out along with the sweat and I remembered why I love to write. I remembered how much fun it is, and the magic of when your mind is working faster than you can write it all down. But most of all, I remembered why it matters.

I realized that the act of creating has meaning all on its own. The act of creating is the purpose. If you can achieve more than that, if you can affect change, even better. I salute you for it! I will continue to strive for that every day. But we shouldn’t become stifled by the weight of meaning and value. We can’t stop creating just because we’re not solving the world’s problems with what we create. We can’t hinder creation with this expectation. After all, Oscar Wilde once said, “It is always with the best intentions that the worst work is done.” Maybe it’s a good idea to just start creating and see where it takes us.

So consider the faucet turned back on. Hell, I may just inflict that Garrison Keillor porn parody on you after all…

The Plastic Torso Project

torsoReason 1,573 that I love New York. Just got home and had this exchange with the doorman:

“Jesus, you remember that plastic torso I bought off the street for 10 bucks?”

“Yeah. You paid too much for it. I coulda got it for five.”

“I need him sawed in half. You know anyone who can help me?”

“Horizontal or vertical?”

“Horizontal. I want it to open like a trunk.”

“Whaddya mean like a trunk?”

“I’m gonna paint it silver and put stuff inside.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Magazines. Golf balls. Lipstick.”

“You know you’re a very weird woman. But that’s okay. I gotta tool at home. Really sharp disc blade. I’ll be up at your apartment tomorrow at 6 to saw your man in half.”