Who can turn the world on with her smile. As many of you know, I am a big David Sedaris fan. I am also a big Amy Sedaris fan. In fact, I've probably never met a Sedaris I didn't like...not that I've ever actually met a Sedaris in person. But their mom sounds pretty cool; I wish I could have met her, but she died when I was three. Damnit.

Anyway, back to my point. As part of the Strangers With Candy media blitz, Amy Sedaris talked to the the A.V. Club about, well, stuff. And it was cool. So I am posting it here for you to enjoy because Lord knows the world could use more Amy Sedaris fans. Also, doesn't she sound eerily like her brother? The similarities are a little unnerving...at least they are to me, but I don't have any siblings, so what do I know about it? So, uh, enjoy!

One more thought: Amy Sedaris is ridiculously pretty. Do you think that's her real nose?

I want everything he's got. I'm sure that this is going to offend someone, somewhere, which is probably part of why it's such a darn funny joke:

A young monk arrives at the monastery. He is assigned to helping the other monks in copying the old canons and laws of the church by hand.

He notices, however, that all of the monks are copying from copies, not from the original manuscript. So, the new monk goes to the head abbot to question this, pointing out that if someone made even a small error in the first copy, it would never be picked up! In fact, that error would be continued in all of the subsequent copies.

The head monk, says, "We have been copying from the copies for centuries, but you make a good point, my son." He goes down into the dark caves underneath the monastery where the original manuscripts are held as archives in a locked vault that hasn't been opened for hundreds of years. Hours go by and nobody sees the old abbot.

So, the young monk gets worried and goes down to look for him. He sees him banging his head against the wall and wailing,"We missed the "R" ! , we missed the "R" !"

His forehead is all bloody and bruised and he is crying uncontrollably. The young monk asks the old abbot, "What's wrong, Father?"

With A choking voice, the old abbot replies, "The word was...

CELEBRATE!!!"

So I tell the world that it can kill itself. I am going to take an arguably controversial stance on the straight rights issues that are currently being shouted about: I don't care. That's right, America, I no longer give a shit about you. I live in New York, a state that legalized abortion three years before Roe v. Wade. You want your women to die of cervical cancer because you are convinced that the HPV vaccine will lead to promiscuity? Fine. You want to place pharmacists' religious beliefs above the health needs of your constituents by allowing pharmacists to refuse to fill prescriptions for emergency contraception? Fine. You are so determined to keep your women stupid, poor, disease-ridden and pregnant? Fine. Go ahead.

You know why I don't care? Because you refuse to care! You don't care that 80% of American women will contract HPV by the time they are 50, you don't care that HIV infection rates are on the rise, you don't care that abstinence-only education isn't effective. All you care about is preserving your precious Christian morality! Apparently, Christ would want your daughter to marry a closeted gay man brainwashed into denying his sexuality. Christ would want you to sacrifice your wife's health, or even her life, for the sake of your unborn fetus. And Christ would certainly want your sister to live in poverty because she wasn't allowed control over her reproduction, consequently causing her to give birth to a slew of children since she isn't allowed to refuse her husband his "marital rights" (and it's not like you're going to help her or her children out of poverty by providing free vaccines, school lunch, welfare, or public housing, are you, America?).

America, you win. You are so intent on damning yourself by voting (or not voting, as the case may be) for right-wing, fascist, self-righteous, Bible-thumping corrupt hypocrites that I really don't see the point in arguing with you. All I'm doing is sitting here in my SoHo office, basking in the glow of sexual freedom and access to effective and safe reproductive health care, and watching you people willing vote away your freedoms. I don't live in one of those 42 states that hate women. I live in New York. So fuck you, America. I hope you all stay in Oklahoma or where ever it is you are, and I hope you all reproduce yourself into disease-ridden oblivion. I hope your women get cancer, your gay children hate you, and your straight children premarital sex themselves to death. If that's the way you want it, who am I to stand in your way?

I'm curious about you. I have a bone to pick with music critics: Why don't you write coherent reviews? About halfway through my tenure as Arts Editor for the News, I noticed a disturbing trend in both the articles submitted to me for publication and reviews I was reading in such publications as "Entertainment Weekly." Gone were the coherent, well-articulated descriptions of what an album or artist sounded like. Such clearly-written critiques were substituted with bloated, buzz-word jargon that only an insider or an obsessed fan could possibly understand. Take, for example, a recent review of Nelly Furtado's new CD in the AV Club: "'Promiscuous,' the first single, follows suit with gleaming synths shot through a long, luscious hook." What the hell does that mean? I have this single on my iPod, and I've listened to it countless times, and I still have no clue what a "gleaming synth" or a "long, luscious hook" could possibly sound like! What happened to terms like "bass-line" or "lyrics?" Music critics are simply juxtaposing as many two-dollar words as possible in the hopes of sounding erudite yet cool--the epitome of snobbishness. Also, lay off the the alliteration. There is no excuse for deeming a song off the new Keane album "tritely positivist pap." For shame.

There could be nothing better. Today in B-List Celebrity Sightings:

This is a good one, people. A once-in-a-decade siting of a most motley crew. At Ruby Foo's last night, I was seated across from Richard Belzer and Paul Schaffer, both wearing sunglasses at night in a very dimly lit restaurant. Who knew that Detective Munch and David Letterman's band leader were such pals? I actually felt bad for them, though, because some idiot sat them at a table right at the top of the stairs, so everyone who was seated in the balcony immediately spotted the stars and couldn't talk about anything else. So much for privacy.

Two Law & Order: SVU sightings in one week. I have such a pathetic little talent going on here.

Take the backroads. Today in C-List Celebrity Sightings (I am really scraping the barrel here):

Michelle Hurd, season one cast member of Law & Order: SVU. You may remember her as the sexually promiscuous black cop with the super-curly bleach-blonde hair and the impressive biceps. I think she's also been in some Excedrin commercials. Anyway, I saw her chatting with a friend outside a tea store located at the back of the DKNY boutique on Sullivan Street. You should go there; they have good tea.

Nobody knows where they might end up. Today in B-List Celebrity Sightings:

Dr. Callie Torres of Grey's Anatomy fame, walking down 8th Avenune with what looked like her boyfriend. Can I just say that, even though they make her look fat on the show for some inexplicable reason, sister is gorgeous and rather petite-looking. She couldn't have been more than 5'6" and 120 lbs. Also, she's a Tony-award winning singer. Who knew?

I have no idea why I have gotten so good at spotting B-List Celebrities. I chalk it up to what Caroline calls my uncanny ability to turn my head. Either that or I spend way too much time reading celebrity gossip and watching television. Lord forbid I actually spotted an A-list celebrity! Then I might have to invest in a camera phone.

You're my number one. Today in Random But Fun Things on the Internet:

Dead Celebrity Soulmate Search! If only you lived in the past and had access to celebrities, you could have found your soulmate. How pointless! How fun! Apparently, in my past lives I was destined to be with silent film sensation Rudolph Valentino, Edgar Allen Poe, and Leonardo Da Vinci. Great. My past selves loved swarthy Italians, manic depressives, and gay men. Woot.

Life in plastic, it's fantastic. Today in B-List Celebrity Sightings (actually this should be "Yesterday in B-List Celebrity Sightings, but blogger was on the fritz and prevented me from sharing my all-important stalkerness with you):

Rachel Zoe, of all people, checking her blackberry at the Tasty D Lite on Spring Street. I know it was her! I just know it! She had the long, stringy extensions; the wasted-away, low calore intake body; the pouty lips and wrinkled skin; the fake-bake tan; and, most telling, despite the downpour she was wearing huge-ass sunglasses. I feel so proud to have spotted such a Celebrity Gossip denizen, let me tell you.

In other banal celebrity news, Ryan Renolds and Alanis Morissette split up. He will be mine. Oh yes, he will be mine.

I'm the one who will shed this old skin. Many of you out there, for some inexplicable reason, do not read Savage Love, so it is my duty to show you what you are missing. I am posting the below because I really think it is some of the most sage advice I have ever encountered. This applies to certain of you out there in particular (I'm looking at you, Petit Morceau de Sel). Anyway, I hope you'll find it helpful and join me in the cult of Dan Savage worship.

I decided, at 12 years old, that pregnancy was not something I wanted to worry about, and now, at the ripe age of 26, I'm still a virgin. I exchanged oral favors with my boyfriends, none of whom lasted more than three months. Approximately half said they wanted more, and the other half were only settling for me until someone better came along. At 19, I figured out that it was a form of leading men on to date them, yet give them no chance of sleeping with me until some arbitrary future date when I was ready to have kids. So I took myself out of the game. I have not dated in six years. My self-imposed sexual isolation is complicated by the fact that I am now overweight and have abnormal hair growth. (I have to shave my face and chest daily.)

For years, my inner emotional life has been locked between aching loneliness and cold emptiness. My friends and my family, though warm and loving, are no longer enough. I want more, I want physical comfort and emotional gratification. I want sexual contact. But I just can't seem to get over my original reasoning and self-conscious body issues.

Of the columnists I've read, you are the bluntest. Help.

Frigid Frustrated Fool



The weight? Lose it. Join a gym, buy a bike, walk an hour a day. Move more, eat less—it ain't rocket science.

The hair? Lose it. Go to an electrologist or a laser-hair-removal joint and have your face and chest hair blasted away forever.

The self-pity? Lose it. While it sucks to be fat, FFF, you have to take responsibility for letting yourself get fat. (And, hey, some guys dig fat chicks.) While it sucks to have to shave your chest and face every day, FFF, there are worse physical challenges. (And, hey, some guys dig hairy chicks.) And while it sucks to be dumped, there's nothing spectacular about the dating misery you experienced as a teenager. Used? Dumped? Settled for? It happens to the best of us.

The 12-year-old? You need to murder that dumb cunt.

That sounds harsh, I realize, but I speak from experience. You see, FFF, I decided, at age 12, that parental disapproval, religious condemnation, and social ostracism were things I didn't want to worry about, so I resolved never to come out of the closet. Instead, I would learn how to become a priest or fuck girls, and I gave both options my best shot. (Hey there, Quigley Preparatory Seminary North! Hey there, Wanda!) But by age 26, FFF, I was out, my parents were over it, and I was living in Berlin with my first serious boyfriend. I couldn't have gotten the physical comfort and gratification that I ached for—to say nothing of the bruises and rope burns—if I hadn't wrapped my hands around the throat of that scared, pansy-assed, 12-year-old faggot and squeezed the life out of him.

Reading your letter, FFF, was like hearing from that 12-year-old faggot again. You made the same mistakes at 12 that I did, but whereas I wanted to avoid the potentially painful consequences of crushing disapproval, you wanted to avoid the potentially painful consequences of unplanned pregnancy. We both ran away from our desires in order to protect ourselves from the pain we feared. But our youthful attempts to avoid the possibility of pain by denying ourselves love and intimacy only succeeded in bringing down upon us the certain pain of aching loneliness and cold emptiness.

So, FFF, just as I had to get out there and risk being disowned by my family, getting tossed out of my church, and contracting a potentially fatal sexually transmitted disease in order to find physical comfort, emotional gratification, and sexual contact, you're going to have to get out there and risk getting pregnant, contracting diseases, and getting hurt to find the physical comfort, emotional gratification, and sexual contact that you need. There's no other way. Will you find love if you start taking risks? Maybe, maybe not. But I guarantee that you won't find love sitting on your ass in your apartment obsessing about pregnancy and downing pints of ice cream.

You can do this, FFF. If I could kill that scared 12-year-old fag, FFF, you can kill that dumb 12-year-old cunt. Just wrap your hands around her throat and squeeze.

Fight for your right.

"This week, the Senate begins debate on the Marriage Protection Amendment [Federal Marriage Amendment]. And I call on the Congress to pass this amendment."

- George W. Bush, June 5th, 2006, 1:45 p.m.

I HATE THIS MAN.

Tips for how to shake things up here.

And the real state of the union here.