Wednesday, June 30, 2004


One of my dog's favorite people in the world is leaving the Mile Square City, and I am a little sad. David, Faith's friend, was one of the first people Faith met who took her for the dog she could be rather than immediately reacting to the breed everybody's freaked out about these days. David, a finance guy with a big fondness for race car driving, first met Faith when he was working on his car in his garage. Due to his wife's allergies, he couldn't have a dog, and, well...the dog hunger was palpable. Faith loved David, and especially his Garage of Big Smells. David loved Faith in a guy-ish, roughhousy way. They would wrestle and play, while I marvelled at the transformation of my somewhat nervous dog. Faith sometimes sat outside David's garage, even when David wasn't there, hoping somehow, he would materialize.

It was a big step for Faith, who can look intimidating, and had not had an easy first couple of years. Along the way, it became clear that David and I probably didn't vote the same way, but by the time I found that out, it didn't matter. I was pretty thrilled somebody would look beyond the pit bull label to see Faith's greatness. Thanks in part to David, Faith began to approach strangers as opportunities for fun, not potential threats.

Yesterday, we bumped into David along a river park. He and his family are off to New England and rural living. Faith and David had a final happy wrestle. Something great happened in that smelly garage, and I will miss it. And Faith will, too.

Tuesday, June 29, 2004


We went to see Michael Moore's movie this weekend, and...the projector conked out in the all the theatres and the lights died in the multiplex about, oh, 70% of the way in.

I'm not quite sure what to make of the fact that everybody stayed calm. Edgewater (home of Geraldo Rivera!) sits directly across the river from upper Manhattan. Ground Zero--physically, psychologically--is not that far away. Still: People dialed their cell phones, reminded each other that there were guys working on the power lines a mile away. Nobody got particularly upset that the theatre staff didn't seem to know what was going on.

We left after a few minutes. The good/bad thing is that we've both been totally inundated with Fahrenheitiana, so we even knew what portion we were missing. Next week, after Shrek II, closure will be ours, we swear.

The theatre, for an 11 am Sunday show, by the way, was packed. My only regret is that I didn't have any voter registration cards to hand out to the captive--well, slow-moving--audience.

Friday, June 25, 2004


Margaret Cho knows niceness, and she is not nice.

I am ferociously mean and unbearably kind, and this paradox is what keeps my friends close and my enemies closer. I hate injustice, dishonesty, cowardice, greed, stupidity - but that doesn't stop me from committing all of these acts in one way or another. I am not nice. Not in the least. But that will not stop me from helping you.


For one of my favorite people on the Web, Sex-Geek. She has breast cancer, and is now going through chemo, and writes about it with her usual blend of sensuality, good humor, and honesty, here.

Thursday, June 24, 2004


I wish I could be one of those daily epigrammatic bloggers, with a single sentence, and an elegantly chosen link.

But I get behind myself. The highlights of my week: going to Ian Kerner's book party for She Comes First at the Museum of Sex. Eating coconut shrimp. Getting mildly hassled by the security guard on the way out. Bumping into my editor Rachel Kramer Bussel on the sidewalk outside, Rachel of the lovely blog, and the even lovelier kitty ear headband.

Juicy links to follow. Amen.

Friday, June 18, 2004


On Salon today: Cynthia Silver was an ambitious actress who thought she'd get her fifteen minutes of fame when she became part of a documentary on Manhattan brides. Instead, the filmmakers won her trust, betrayed it, and ended up calling the whole train wreck "Bridezillas." A stunning development, given Fox's long tradition of sterling documentary journalism.

And she's so mad, she's...made some performance art about it?

I think one of the things Andy Warhol told us about fame was just a little deceptive: we will all get our fifteen minutes, for sure, if only on a surveillance camera,'s the tip, Cynthia, we won't have any control over what the fame looks like.

It almost makes me nostalgic for my days as a true crime TV movie hussy, where I couldn't promise the subjects (usually survivors of incredible tragedy) much, but I could pretty well guarantee they'd be played by Valerie Bertinelli or Chris Meloni.