Gay Quote of the Day

Packaged in the latest version of Final Draft (the unfortunately monopolized and fascistically hacker jinxed screenwriting software) is a brochure for Gotham Writing Workshop (go friends!) and a little sheet of "pro-creativity" wisdom from screenwriter Lizzy Weiss of "Blue Crush" penning fame:

"I write because I am always watching. And what I see all around me are characters, moments, details. An odd cadence to the way someone speaks or walks or breathes. A snippet of dialogue too good not to be shared. I write because some of the moments I see stay with me, refusing to leave, begging to be stolen and shaped and brought to life."

Gag.

If only I could include the accompanying photo of her curled at a cafe sipping coffee as she scribbles, and like, totally observes...

Ugh.

It just gets worse.

Liberal Pain, Fashion Shame

items found during fall cleaning

Anyone want to make an offer? They're selling cheap.

We Apologize for this Voyeuristic Interruption of Blogging Narcissism

This blog has moved.
This move meant the loss of pictures. Like, a year of pictures.
Your patience is appreciated as we rebuild.
We feel that we will be stronger, and safer, and more unknown, and more fun.

Thank you,

Management

Dreaming of the Tetons... and Manhattan Transfer

Mitchissmo at the Tetons, August 2005

I wonder if Manhattan Transfer can be my tripod...

Orange Alert: the Mormons Have Invaded the Upper West Side

Wedding, October 2005

What we thought was the last safe vestige of Liberal America has been invaded.
There is a Mormon Church (surreptitiously labeled the Church of Latter Day Saints), on 65th and Columbus. Like, right across from the Opera. And Alice Tully Hall. For real.

Such are the things that Mitchissmo discovers as a fly on the wall at weddings, this time a Mormon one. But my heart goes out to the bride's relatives-- all Jewish New Yorkers born and bred-- who had to endure sparkling cider for toasting. The horror, the horror!!

Hour three at the Tavern, of course, found these guests buying their own wine from the bar next door. They looked happy, like they were winning a small war. Perhaps there is still hope for Liberalism in America.

Vive le vin!

Il pleuvait, il pleuvait...

Dear gods:

Thank you for answering my prayers for productivity. As you all know, something about the constant sounds of pitter patter not only keep you inside, but apparently mimic elusive brain waves into a state of hypnosis. For that, I thank you.

The thing is, now I have met my deadline and I am done. And I'd like to go out and celebrate. But now all the rain is doing is making my hair frizzy and my mascara run so that I look like a drunk homeless harlot. And dudes, you like do not even want to know how much I spend on that mop.

So please, let up on the rain. We need to see the leaves turn. Before we all write bad poetry.

BOREDOM

What happens when you:

1) have nothing to do
2) own a sharp knife
3) have a large lime
4) own a patient cat
5) drink too much tequila
6) and it's football season?



Compliments of a random email spreading through cubicles

Favorite Link of All Time

I mean, for real. It doesn't get much better than that. And what better way to learn about Led's love for Nordic war ballads?

Summer in my Trunk

le summer pink hussy dress

My friend Billy was wearing a terribly wrinkled sweater the other day. I didn't even need to ask-- I knew the crumpled thing was victim of a sloppy summer storage job, and this day was its first wakening into the season.

It reminded me that although global warming brought a disturbing stretch of muggy warm chill to New York's October air, it is time to break out the sweaters and bury summer in the trunk. Frankly, this summer was one doozy and colder ground is welcome. And so I say to you, sweet flip-flops and pink ten dollar sun-hussy, sleep well until April. It will come around soon enough.

Nothingness

I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write

[author rearranges sock drawer, throws out dried pens, Googles nursery school friend]


I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write I cannot write

Reason #48 not to be Alone: Group Thrills

A screening last night in Avery Fisher Hall brought a simultaneous communal shriek to 700 people, reminding all of us why sitting at home alone with Netflix has a certain experiential Lack.

Speed Dial Love/ Shout out to my Chicas

A cellular travesty has occurred. It appears that Mitchissmo Speed Dials number 3 and 9, previously belonging to the office and mobile digits of a certain Object of Affection of some 365 days, are blank. After the User honored a respectful ninety days of mourning the aforementioned's permanent displacement overseas, the facts are incontrovertible: whatever satellite clusters once connecting our User to her Object have now expired, and will most likely soon be reassigned as the cell and office phone numbers of an unknown party whose name will likely be Bozena or Jose. Thus, they have been erased, and we are taking applications for new digital components for speed dial numbers 3 and 9.

Management would like to add that three and nine are special speed dial numbers, for they are the easiest and most easily dialed by even an unskilled thumb in times of great happiness, anguish, or chatty boredom.

Addendum

Another matter of grave import: it has been brought to Management's attention that all of our current speed dials belong to male friends of the strictly friends category. Ringing in our ears is our consultant friend Crispito's ground-breaking assertion (circa 1994 kegger) that having a disproportionate amount of friends of the opposite sex is not a sign of good character. While this male-dominated status is a recent occurrence for this particular cell phone (owing to top notch ladies moving beyond the metropolis), Management admits that this problem exists, and we intend to make every effort to make Mitchissmo Speed Dial an Equal Opportunity employer.

So to all the females out there, please apply for advancement into Speed Dial. Four and seven might soon be available. You shall be favored.

Goodbye, Booze World, Goodbye

Ninety days ago, my good friend (who for reasons of anonymity we shall call Michael) descended from another planet where they do not drink alcohol. He had been living there for nine years.

Like many creatures from his planet, Michael is a bisexual woman caught in a man's body. I mention this because this makes him susceptible to both callous and gushy emotions alike, thus rendering him a perfect candidate for his planet's mission. After seeing earthly movies like Sideways, his Superiors had given him a list of things to accomplish on his visit to that far away Planet Booze. Item number one, master wine. Item numbers two through four: 1 Mojito, 1 Cosmo, 1-3 Sangria, and 1 of that Brazilian thing beginning with C which that planet's population was physiologically incapable of pronouncing. But mostly, he concentrated on wine. And indeed, he was pleased with the many variations that wine had to offer: woodsy, fruity, cherry, oaky, hint of this, hint of that. He tried it all, assuming safety, his Superiors having informed him that you do not get drunk on wine. This, in the end, was not true.



Strange things happened. Strange rumors circulated on this planet, which may have borne the girls and boys surrounding Michael's spacecraft as soon as he arrived. And then there were the rumors about the magical powers of this thing called liquor. It allegedly eased comings and goings, made the mundane fun, filling the earthling mortals' painfully blank time with sex and balloon parties and so on. Certain things were said to be possible and only possible when you were on this planet. All of this, in the end, was not true. To be fair, he did find that it was possible not to remember the balloon parties at all, whether they were fun, and why. What was also possible was that you could lose your Metrocard, your ATM card, your favorite jacket, your monocle and an antique umbrella. Not to mention a friend, a lover, and yourself, all in the same mushroom cloud.

Because one thing I can tell you about my friend Michael: he is already whacky and weird and of a strange dynamism common among folks from his planet, and alcohol does not blend well with his green blood. It has nothing to do with babble, sluttiness or sluggishness (all of which exist in spades on his native planet); the juice is just bad for that dude's spirit.

With what may well have been his last earthly hangover, Michael zipped up his space suit and sighed. He was confused about what to say in his Summary Report. I could see that he was excited to get himself on the right path where he could fly straight and high and, well, like normal. Finally, he turned to me and just shrugged goodbye.

I knew what he was thinking. Zoo animals have a hard time in the wild, and often want nothing more than to run back to the safety of captivity and calm discipline. Being a wild animal is hard on the soul. And as we all know from watching Extraterrestrials in the movies, non-earthlings are much the same as hobbling, starved Pandas. Best send them back to where they came from.

Ninety days was enough for Michael. And while I cannot say with certainty that he won’t visit for a day here, a day there, I sure hope he finds his umbrella and all the spiritual lattes and junk food he needs.

Bon chance, Michael, bon chance!