Started the day--and by "started" I mean "not started at all"--by waking up and immediately praying for a swift,painless death. -Oddly, I don't do that most mornings.
Why?
Well. Had a singing gig last night, doing songs such as my own "Mrs. DeSade Explains" (written from the point of view of the wife of the Marquis); "Mr. Harris", Aimee Mann's beautiful ode to unconventional love; "Last Day Of Pompeii", an upbeat swing tune by the great Michael Peter Smith, in which several about-to-be-covered-in-lava Pompeiians reflect cheerfully on what they might have done differently in life; and my own "Touch", about why women (well, okay, me) tend to like the Unavailable Bad Boys,rather the Devoted Ones Who Are Good To Us. (-Luckily, my own fella combines both archetypes, so I don't have to choose, but it hath not always been so.)
And red wine was consumed.And I forgot to eat.And I woke up to find that some prankster had inserted red hot curried marbles where my eyeballs used to be,and also my hair hurt.
However, had to be at the Algonquin Hotel at 9:45 AM to go to a Sherlockian fest with a writer pal. Which would have been fine,and generally WAS fine, except that,in my hurry to get out the door, I threw on a dress that was actually more like, say, a shirt. And put on the shoes that were immediately visible, which had four inch heels. And showed up at a dignified, canonical gathering looking like The Blonde Who Lost Her Pants.- The six foot three blonde who lost her pants. That's a lot of pants to lose.
My writer friend,the lovely,talented and newly-engaged-to-Amanda-Palmer Neil Gaiman (Miss Palmer is also lovely and talented) winced slightly when he saw me, but was otherwise the soul of tact,and almost never said "My that's a short-to-nonexistent skirt you're almost wearing,Miss Lyons."
He introduced me to some lovely people. One very nice gentleman was the former head of The Royal Academy Of Art. -I applied for that job, but I think they were put off when I mentioned "Dogs Playing Poker" as my favorite Old Master painting. I also met a very very nice Norwegian gentleman,and I have to say this: Norwegians always wind up talking about being Norwegian. No one knows why.Science is baffled.
I knew Neil when he was just a simple New York Times multiple bestselling author, but now he has achieved the kind of megastardom that makes other multiple NY Times bestselling authors look like pikers,slackers and unproductive wastrels. He's won every award I can think of, including "Tupperware Distributor Of The Month", but I think that last one was an accident. Anyway, he's one of the world's kindest humans, and a lovely human,and it's just lagniappe that, he's kind of a walking Golden Ticket: when one hangs out with him, random people walk up and offer you nice things,like membership to cool Sherlockian societies,and Maseratis,and stuff. It's a wee bit taking-abacking,in a nice way.And one has to be very nice to the people he's chatting to, becaause the person you're introduced to as,say, "my friend Bob", later turns out to be the,say, King of Sweden,so maybe asking him to get you a cup of coffee wasn't the best idea. -I'm just sayin', Anyway, I spent my last 20 bucks on "The Sherlock Holmes Illustrated Cyclopedia of Nautical References", because the nice elderly gent who wrote it was sitting by himself at a table,where his books were selling like whatever is the exact opposite of hotcakes. He inscribed it to me with much enthusiasm and many letters after his name, and I felt quite nice about it.
Mr. Gaiman and I then wobbled over to a coffee shop (wait-he walked.I wobbled) and I stared bemusedly at eggs. It was quite nice. Except for the part where my brain kept turning on and off and little flashing bits kept falling out of it. -But he was quite nice about that,and tried to be less of a genius for a bit until I could pretend to be sentient.-It didn't work--he was still a genius and I still wasn't sentient--but I appreciated the effort.
As he strolled off to a photo shoot with the glamourous Miss Palmer, I relaized that I was getting a migraine and went home to put a cat on my head and lie down. First I had to walk,in my large blonde pants-free way,through Times Square. I don't recommend this. As my pal Jim said,"Hey,ten years ago you could have made good money."-I am going to assume that he MEANT that,ten years ago, Times Square was seedier, NOT that ten years ago I was considerably more salable.-But whatever.
After resting until midnight, I got up and read the People magazine John had very sweetly brought as my Saturday guilty pleasure,and saw that Hedi Montag was on the cover,crowing about her ten plastic surgery procedures in one action packed day. She does look very pretty now, in an inhuman,plastic Nordic alien way,and has quite a career ahead of her as a very high priced callgirl. I liked how honest she was about it, in a body-dysmorphic-disfunction,narcisisstic,addictive way...if someone says that having breasts so large that she can't stand upright unassisted,is going to make her feel more "feminine", well, bully for her. She could also go for the multiple breasted, "Romulus and Remus's mother" look: that's feminine. -However, as every celebity has had huge amounts of plastic surgery and DOESN'T talk about it--Angelina, dear,I am talking to YOU--I think being honest about the expense,suffering and souldestroying vanity, is kind of admirable. Although I don't think she actually mentioned the "soul-destroying vanity at the expense of one's inner integrity" part. I might have just made that up.
But really-Nicole Ritchie's jowls disappear from one day to the next, Madonna has what look to be small steel girders implanted in her cheeks, Angelina Jolie's nose gets smaller every week,and Nicole Kidman has not moved a facial muscle since the 90's--and everyone lets them get away with it? Please. Sure,Miss Montag is going to be facing some obstacles in her future--she can no longer stand near a radiator or she'll melt, for one thing--but she seems fine with trading future grotesquerie for present money. I might too, if anyone offered. -Actually, that's not true--Ford Models asked me to have my nose done whn I was 16, and I flatly refused. And me a Jewish Doctor's Daughter! Imagine. I've got a ski jump nose,and thought "Sure it looks funny NOW,, but if there is ever a demand for female Bob Hope impersonators,I've got to be ready!!"-No. Actually, I thought I looked fine. And I wasn't very good at modeling. I would walk off runways (no depth perception); break out in huge hives before a go-see; and try to talk to the other models about the James Joyce book I was reading. That was not a huge success.
Well, thanks for hanging out. You should probably go to bed now: it's almost 3 AM. Get some sleep. If getting to sleep is a problem for you, I have a copy of "A Sherlock Holmes Illustrated Cyclopedia of Nautical Referenes" that works better than Seconal.
love
Peri
Why?
Well. Had a singing gig last night, doing songs such as my own "Mrs. DeSade Explains" (written from the point of view of the wife of the Marquis); "Mr. Harris", Aimee Mann's beautiful ode to unconventional love; "Last Day Of Pompeii", an upbeat swing tune by the great Michael Peter Smith, in which several about-to-be-covered-in-lava Pompeiians reflect cheerfully on what they might have done differently in life; and my own "Touch", about why women (well, okay, me) tend to like the Unavailable Bad Boys,rather the Devoted Ones Who Are Good To Us. (-Luckily, my own fella combines both archetypes, so I don't have to choose, but it hath not always been so.)
And red wine was consumed.And I forgot to eat.And I woke up to find that some prankster had inserted red hot curried marbles where my eyeballs used to be,and also my hair hurt.
However, had to be at the Algonquin Hotel at 9:45 AM to go to a Sherlockian fest with a writer pal. Which would have been fine,and generally WAS fine, except that,in my hurry to get out the door, I threw on a dress that was actually more like, say, a shirt. And put on the shoes that were immediately visible, which had four inch heels. And showed up at a dignified, canonical gathering looking like The Blonde Who Lost Her Pants.- The six foot three blonde who lost her pants. That's a lot of pants to lose.
My writer friend,the lovely,talented and newly-engaged-to-Amanda-Palmer Neil Gaiman (Miss Palmer is also lovely and talented) winced slightly when he saw me, but was otherwise the soul of tact,and almost never said "My that's a short-to-nonexistent skirt you're almost wearing,Miss Lyons."
He introduced me to some lovely people. One very nice gentleman was the former head of The Royal Academy Of Art. -I applied for that job, but I think they were put off when I mentioned "Dogs Playing Poker" as my favorite Old Master painting. I also met a very very nice Norwegian gentleman,and I have to say this: Norwegians always wind up talking about being Norwegian. No one knows why.Science is baffled.
I knew Neil when he was just a simple New York Times multiple bestselling author, but now he has achieved the kind of megastardom that makes other multiple NY Times bestselling authors look like pikers,slackers and unproductive wastrels. He's won every award I can think of, including "Tupperware Distributor Of The Month", but I think that last one was an accident. Anyway, he's one of the world's kindest humans, and a lovely human,and it's just lagniappe that, he's kind of a walking Golden Ticket: when one hangs out with him, random people walk up and offer you nice things,like membership to cool Sherlockian societies,and Maseratis,and stuff. It's a wee bit taking-abacking,in a nice way.And one has to be very nice to the people he's chatting to, becaause the person you're introduced to as,say, "my friend Bob", later turns out to be the,say, King of Sweden,so maybe asking him to get you a cup of coffee wasn't the best idea. -I'm just sayin', Anyway, I spent my last 20 bucks on "The Sherlock Holmes Illustrated Cyclopedia of Nautical References", because the nice elderly gent who wrote it was sitting by himself at a table,where his books were selling like whatever is the exact opposite of hotcakes. He inscribed it to me with much enthusiasm and many letters after his name, and I felt quite nice about it.
Mr. Gaiman and I then wobbled over to a coffee shop (wait-he walked.I wobbled) and I stared bemusedly at eggs. It was quite nice. Except for the part where my brain kept turning on and off and little flashing bits kept falling out of it. -But he was quite nice about that,and tried to be less of a genius for a bit until I could pretend to be sentient.-It didn't work--he was still a genius and I still wasn't sentient--but I appreciated the effort.
As he strolled off to a photo shoot with the glamourous Miss Palmer, I relaized that I was getting a migraine and went home to put a cat on my head and lie down. First I had to walk,in my large blonde pants-free way,through Times Square. I don't recommend this. As my pal Jim said,"Hey,ten years ago you could have made good money."-I am going to assume that he MEANT that,ten years ago, Times Square was seedier, NOT that ten years ago I was considerably more salable.-But whatever.
After resting until midnight, I got up and read the People magazine John had very sweetly brought as my Saturday guilty pleasure,and saw that Hedi Montag was on the cover,crowing about her ten plastic surgery procedures in one action packed day. She does look very pretty now, in an inhuman,plastic Nordic alien way,and has quite a career ahead of her as a very high priced callgirl. I liked how honest she was about it, in a body-dysmorphic-disfunction,narcisisstic,addictive way...if someone says that having breasts so large that she can't stand upright unassisted,is going to make her feel more "feminine", well, bully for her. She could also go for the multiple breasted, "Romulus and Remus's mother" look: that's feminine. -However, as every celebity has had huge amounts of plastic surgery and DOESN'T talk about it--Angelina, dear,I am talking to YOU--I think being honest about the expense,suffering and souldestroying vanity, is kind of admirable. Although I don't think she actually mentioned the "soul-destroying vanity at the expense of one's inner integrity" part. I might have just made that up.
But really-Nicole Ritchie's jowls disappear from one day to the next, Madonna has what look to be small steel girders implanted in her cheeks, Angelina Jolie's nose gets smaller every week,and Nicole Kidman has not moved a facial muscle since the 90's--and everyone lets them get away with it? Please. Sure,Miss Montag is going to be facing some obstacles in her future--she can no longer stand near a radiator or she'll melt, for one thing--but she seems fine with trading future grotesquerie for present money. I might too, if anyone offered. -Actually, that's not true--Ford Models asked me to have my nose done whn I was 16, and I flatly refused. And me a Jewish Doctor's Daughter! Imagine. I've got a ski jump nose,and thought "Sure it looks funny NOW,, but if there is ever a demand for female Bob Hope impersonators,I've got to be ready!!"-No. Actually, I thought I looked fine. And I wasn't very good at modeling. I would walk off runways (no depth perception); break out in huge hives before a go-see; and try to talk to the other models about the James Joyce book I was reading. That was not a huge success.
Well, thanks for hanging out. You should probably go to bed now: it's almost 3 AM. Get some sleep. If getting to sleep is a problem for you, I have a copy of "A Sherlock Holmes Illustrated Cyclopedia of Nautical Referenes" that works better than Seconal.
love
Peri
