I have just now come to accept that I am going to get little work done today, thanks to my king-sized hangover. My head feels like it’s the size of Texas. But at least I had a lot of fun putting myself in this condition, at a friend’s housewarming party last night. I imbibed in champagne and (I found out later, very expensive) tequila, all after nearly two months of self-imposed work related sobriety. I finished not one, but two books last week, hurray! Indeed I was one of only two people at the party who did not eat any chocolaty magic spores, but being drunk and silly I truly enjoyed the antics of the dressy cocktail crowd-gone-awry on hallucinogenics. I also decided, after a small gang of Asian women outrageously high on mushrooms hijacked the party, that I absolutely need an entourage of ridiculously stoned, well-dressed Asian women who giggle constantly like shrill hyenas. Suddenly, houseplants had never been so hilarious. I’ll put them in my rider next time Playboy comes calling. "No, there’s four of them. Yes, they all have to be in Manolos. Huge, pupils absolutely huge. And put that hilarious Carmen Electra Strippercise video in the limo, that chair dancing sequence makes them pee their pants."
Playboy comes calling, heh. I’ve never even been in a limo. Actually Oprah called me on Thursday. Well, not personally, but O Magazine interviewed my completely out of the blue for a feature on women’s erotica and sexual fantasies in October. And after the 20-minute interview, I screamed like a little girl and ran in tight little circles around my kitchen with my fists all balled up and my eyes closed for ten minutes straight. And then a very special thing occurred — I got a copy of Maxim’s Blender Magazine in the mail, with a nice fat quote by me on the first page of their article on porn music. Clark Collis, I would kiss you if it wouldn’t start rumors; that is the first time in my six years of magazine interview commentary from Cosmo to Men’s Health that anyone has ever sent me a copy of the magazine when the article is published. Miracles do happen.
The press hits perk me up after a particularly brutal couple of weeks at my day job. I lost my store shift (no, I did not misplace it in my dildo drawer, yes it sucked), and found out that if I want to keep publishing two articles a week in the magazine I edit, I will now have to do all the web team’s magazine work myself (because publishing a web page is a lot of work?).
And I was really bummed out that I didn’t do the fetish photo shoot with Thomas we had planned, unfortunately because Thomas fell suddenly ill. I was really really worried. He recovered, and sent me and the stylist a *very* Thomas email, reading: "the entire world was filled with simpering monkeys who wanted to wrench my toenails out with their fluorescent pink forceps and put depleted-uranium piercings in my wee-wee with unsterilized instruments. So I hope you’ll understand." I knew he was feeling better when he sent me an email with no subject or message, just an attachment that read "The First Time I Shaved." Ah, back to normal. (Thomas Roche and Alison Tyler are my two closest buddies, and we send each other stories and articles several times a week. They are far more prolific than I, though I can hide behind the fact that I write nonfiction.)
As this post gradually goes nowhere, I crave Advil and hangover food, and shall sign off with three very interesting links: awesome, hilarious and irreverently hip is Arlo Tolesco’s new badsexadvice.com; I don’t know if this is hilarious or creepy or both, but my pal Allen‘s wife just discovered lollipopblowjobs.com. Amusement for all. Good night.
