Oh! Hello. Didn't see you there. Sneaky bastard aren't you...

Booby Hatch is a comedy stealth bomb detonated by Alex Gray, Katharine Houston, and Sabrina Veroczi. We write, we perform, sometimes we turn on the video camera machine. Sitting comfortably? Good. Welcome to The Hatch!

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Kung Hii Fatt Choi from Booby Hatch!

Imagine if you will that the text on this page is beginning to flicker. You check your computer, swearing that if it dies on you, you will “totally go 100% mental, and this time you mean it.” By “100% mental,” you mean you will go to a Big and Tall Men’s Store and buy a giant suit, like the one that David Byrne wore in that Talking Heads video, and you will run around the streets in the middle of the night, holding a stuffed penguin, and screaming “BOW WOW WOOGIE WOOGIE WOW!” And by “this time you mean it,” you mean that you’ll talk about doing it with your friends as you get drunk in a bar and swear that you’ll do it next week, but “next week” will never come, and when your friends tease you about it later, you’ll say, “Let it go already, Funky Winkerbean!”
But before you can further contemplate your computer’s demise, the words fade and the image of a deserted moonscape appears on your screen. Without much hesitation, you realize that your FaceTime Jetson phone (a.k.a. Skype) has turned itself on and “accidentally” dialed our number. 
Now “close your eyes” and keep imagineering. Take a deep breath. By “close your eyes,” we mean keep your eyes wide open and read the words on the page.  By “take a deep breath,” we mean put down the bong and exhale.  Celebrate the fact that with modern technology and old-fashioned mind drama, any crap you can think of becomes possible. Just ask Steve Jobs. Cough. Too soon? Back to our future playtime saga…

Sabrina stumbles into the frame, holding a tiny man in a space hat.

Sabrina: AAAAAAAAAAAAAALEX!!! Yer space phone’s ringing.

Alex pokes her head into the shot and looks around suspiciously.

Alex: Ahoy ahoy?

Sabrina: How many times I gotta tell you – save that crap for Alexander Graham Bell Assassination Re-enactment Day. The BLOG is ringing!!

Katharine runs in, holding a smoking gun.

Katharine: Is it the neighbors? I just shot their parrot.

Alex: Dammit, Katharine! He was the only one who knew my email password!!

Sabrina: (Looks at the tiny spaceman) We should probably wish them a Happy New Year or something. We’ve neglected the blog for a while.

Alex: What about the neighbors?

Katharine: Taken care of. I told you I just shot their parrot. Why doesn’t anyone ever listen to me?

Sabrina: No, no. Not Jim Nabors and his wife, who coincidentally happen to be our neighbors. It’s time to wish our blog readers a Happy New Year.

Katharine: Taken care of. That was last year. I wrote a Haiku about it.

Sabrina: No. For this year.

Alex: AGAIN??? This happens every time I drink whiskey. WHERE DOES THE TIME GO?? (sings) Sunrise, sunset..sunrise sunset…

Katharine: You really need to stop blacking out. You miss so much.  Also, people keep writing “Twat” on your forehead.

Alex: This pop stand blows. Let’s get in the time machine!!

Sabrina: But…but…(looks sadly at the spaceman, who has fallen asleep in the crook of her arm.)

Katharine runs out of the frame and returns with a Vita-Mix with a large pineapple sticking out of it.

Sabrina: We can’t all fit inside there! Tiny Spaceman, you’ll have to stay behind.

Tiny Spaceman: Mumble, mumble, fart, poop.

Alex: Good job Tiny Spaceman! That’s another Adam Sandler script in the can. Stay here and write us a Steve Guttenberg vehicle.

Sabrina: Enough jibber-jabbering! It’s time to go BACK! To the fu—(she begins violently coughing. Alex slaps her on the back and a dead parrot shoots out of her mouth. Somewhere, John Cleese rolls over in his cash-filled swimming pool.)

Katharine: (stroking the Vita-Mix time machine affectionately) I have complete faith that this will work.

Alex: That’s what I’m afraid of! Never tell me the odds! Yippy kai ay motherf— (Katharine slaps her.)

Katharine: GET A HOLD OF YOURSELF!!

Sabrina covers the tiny spaceman’s eyes with her hand and gently carries him off-screen. She returns and the three ladies climb inside the blender, alongside the pineapple. Alex hooks the pineapple up to a computer, and the lights begin to flash. You put a bra on your head and press this link, as it disappears beneath your finger: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zDe5Ckt4joQ  The screen goes dark, and one-by-one all the lights in your house/coffee shop/office/train car/box of donuts go out. You sit in darkness, wondering what in the Heckleberry Finn you have gotten yourself into, when suddenly power is restored and your screen comes back on. The moonscape is gone. You are now watching the past, a New Year’s party in an old-timey wild west saloon. The date is December 31, 2011.

Alex: (Looks around) What a dump.

Katharine: I don’t think my spleen made it.

Sabrina: It did, but it’s over there, sitting on Mark Twain’s Melba toast.

Katharine: Again?

The camera zooms out and reveals Mark Twain, Shania Twain and Damon Wayans standing in front of a poster of Dwayne Wayne, star of Michael Bay’s remake of Shane.

Mark Twain: All things change except barbers, the ways of barbers, and the surroundings of barbers. These never change.

He eats Katharine’s spleen.

Shania Twain: Men are like shoes! I ain’t got time for the flip flop kind.

Damon Wayans: I was 12 years old when I had my first job, delivering packages.

If you decide to follow Nostalgic Damon Wayans to the nearest UPS, turn to page 15. If you decide to suggest that Mark and Shania Twain are the same person, click this link: http://uncyclopedia.wikia.com/wiki/Mark_Twain  If you think politicians have become way too political, grab some poster board, the ghost of Andy Rooney, glitter glue, and make a sign about it, why don’t you? If your name has any vowels in it, continue enjoying this space blog.

Alex: This Western SUCKS. Where are all the floozies and sarsparilla?

Katharine: Ooh check out this trunk fulla junk!

Sabrina: EXCUSE ME? Just because a lady has a curvaceous derriere does NOT —

Katharine:  Wha chu talkin’ bout, Brina?  I was just pointing out this mysterious trunk full of Olde Tyme Western Wear I just found.

Alex: I call dibs on the chaps!!

Sabrina: I call the tiny spaceman! Wait, what’s the spaceman doing here? I thought we left him behind.

Katharine: Don’t question it; this is fantasy. And put a kerchief on that spaceman; he’s nude, and this is a family show.

Alex: Isn’t it New Year’s Eve? Sabrina, didn’t you and Don Rickles have a gig tonight?

Sabrina: Crap, you’re right. (turns to the blog audience) Thank you all for coming to the New Year’s Eve Friar’s Club roast of Kadeem Harrison. I would like to take this opportunity to share this eggnog recipe from the restaurant formerly known as St. Elsewhere with you:

6 eggs separated
1 cup brown sugar
1 cup dark brown sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
1.5 teaspoon vanilla
6oz Scotch
3oz Bourbon
3oz Brandy
1 pint milk
1 pint cream
3 tablespoons white sugar

Beat the egg yolks with the brown sugar, salt and vanilla to the ribbon stage. Add the booze and the dairy and mix until incorporated. Set this mixture aside.

Whisk the egg whites with the white sugar to the medium-hard peak stage. When ready fold the egg whites into the boozy mixture. Season generously with freshly grated nutmeg. FRESHLY!

Allow this to sit for at least an hour or two to let the drink separate from the foam a little. Garnish with a pair of round flip glasses and shoulder pads. Enjoy!

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a large crowd begins to count down in unison. The Ladies of the Hatch throw on their Western wear, dress up Mark Twain as a saloon tranny floozie, and pose confidently against the flimsy backlot film set as flashbulbs pop and confetti cascades down upon them. There is a resounding cry of HAPPY NEW YEAR!! Ryan Seacrest makes out with a New York City cop and all is right with the world. Sabrina, Alex, and Katharine clink glasses of eggnog.

Sabrina: (leaning on the tiny spaceman’s rifle) God bless us, every one!

Alex: (through violent hiccups) It really is an (hic) anytime drink…Ann Jillian (hic) was right…(hic)

Katharine: Who’s the dude?

Sabrina and Alex: MARK TWAIIIIN!!

Katharine: Huh. He looks different in person.

Posted by  |  January 26, 2012 | Categories: Alexandra, Booby Hatch Talks, Katharine, Sabrina | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | Leave A Comment »

Coney Island Fantasy!

Well. It’s been QUITE a month, hasn’t it boys and girls? First, Booby Hatch held our first annual country bear reunion jamboree, where we chewed some scenery, sampled local culture, got charmed by a tiny bald dude, and met Ned Beatty:

And if that much fun wasn’t enough, the 2011 Coney Island Film Festival bestowed the hallowed Best Music Video distinction on our saucy little baby, Suck It!

Katharine and Alex happily accepted the hand-painted plaque, spurred on by several generous gin & tonics and heads full of adrenaline (earned the way Jebus intended: on the Cyclone and the Wonder Wheel!)

But something was missing.

Instead of basking in much-deserved glow on a Brooklyn Boardwalk, Sabrina was blissfully ensconced in her family-size comedy space farm, and unable to join her fellow Stooges. So we would like to take this time to imagine what our acceptance speech might have been like, had all three Darrens been present at the reunion special:

>>> Wiggly visuals! Harp Music! Time Travel!! <<<

KATH: (runs up to the mic, breathing heavily) WHOOO! Kibbles and BITS this is awesome!!! USA! USA!

SABRINA: (tackles Kath from the side, tearing off her weave) This one’s for all the LADIES!! My hotel room is number…(squints at her car keys) One…Nine..Subaru?

ALEX: (stumbles up to the mic clutching her fourth martini) I can’t…I just…I feel like for the first…this is so…you guys you just…you GET us, you know? YOU GET US. (Cries.)

(mic squeals. Kath grabs it away.)

KATH:  If I had known we were going to be accepting this major award, I would have worn spanks. That said, why is Sabrina still skinnier than me and she pooped out a baby?

SABRINA: I’m not. I’m just standing in front of a fun house mirror. The GOOD fun house mirror. (Sabrina winks at a Carny)

KATH: Enough already yous! They want to hear about our Sucking It geniusnessnesses.

ALEX: (frowns at Kath) Uh…

SABRINA: (also frowns; begins to say something, then stops herself and winks at the Carny again.)

ALEX: (clears throat, straightens tie and drains her martini) I just wanna sssay…that I couldn’t have done it without my number one girl, the love of my liffffe…the creeeeam in my donut —-

SABRINA: Alex!! Get to the point. This carny’s getting cold. No, seriously. Somebody poke this guy with a stick. He might be dead.

ALEX: Right! I wanna take this opportunity to ask a very special lady here…(Kath smiles and begins smoothing her dress.)

ALEX (looks out at the audience): You know who you are. You’re my everything. (She stumbles down onto one knee. Kath gasps) Will you…make me the happiest lady on the planet, and —

KATH: YES! YES! I will! (Alex knee-walks over to a rubber tree plant in the corer of the stage and tries to shove a diamond ring onto its leaves) Wait…what?

SABRINA (taking hold of the mic) I’m sorry, ladies and gentlemen; we’re all a little overwhelmed up here.

KATH: (to nobody) I knew she loved that plant. I knew that… (She coughs casually, covering her pain.) I have a husband.

SABRINA: Focus, you silly kites. They’ll be plenty of time for making out with plants and dead carnies and us when we get that golden diamond award thing. So, before the sweet and kind citizens of the Island of Coney give us our giant diamond encrusted gold medallion pirate ship, we would like to thank John Des Roches for being the director whose name was painted on our award.  You did real good, kid.  Space Wipe!  Ha. That’s an inside joke between me, John and Jesus.  We also want to thank Dylan for having a fantastic camera and knowing how to use it.   Thank you also for climbing up walls, for taking your shirt off, and for wearing shiny silver ass-tro-nut underpants.  Are you going to be in the next X-Men movie? Because you should be. (She winks at the dead carny. A sea breeze ruffles his hair, and for a moment he resembles a young Robert Goulet.)

ALEX: (still cuddling the plant, suddenly remembers something)  Megan Steer! You made us bee-yooootiful and for that we thank you. I mean, HD is a harsh mistress am I right everyone? (Silence.) I mean this thing (points to her own face) looked like a bag of old Band-aids before Megan got a hold of it! And these two (jerks her thumb towards Kath and Sabrina) …woooo! They were….just…

KATH: (gives death eyes to Alex) I want to thank the Coney Island Film Festival for asking important questions during the Q & A talkback – questions like, “Who’s that guy in your video who takes your picture on the subway? He looks so familiar.”  And we told ‘em, “That’s E. James Ford from the web series Pioneer One! Yeah, we know him. Any other questions?  About the process? No?”

AUDIENCE: (Chants) E. James Ford! E. James Ford! E. James Ford!!!

SABRINA: Ok, we get it. You like the sexy man. But before they play the exit music, I would also like to thank David Crittenden for letting me wear the underthings that one Beyonce Knowles wore in some kind of fancy magazine something. Her ass sweat gave me courage and fire. I haven’t washed my butt since. I liked it, and now it has got a ring on it! HA-WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! Say, is that funnel cake?

ALEX: You looked like Ann Jillian!

KATH: In a Lifetime movie!!

SABRINA: What if I AM Ann Jillian?? And what if this is all just part of a very elaborate Lifetime movie??

ALEX & KATH: Nooooooooooooooooooooo!!!

ALEX: (too close to the mic) Although if there IS anyone from Lifetime here I will gladly star in one of your movies. For free. I do nudity. And animals.

SABRINA: Also, whatever happened to that Narnia thing we shot? That actually happened…right? I remember Ethan Hawke eating bagels and Kath throwing up. Or was that just the after-party?

KATH: It was the after-party. I was strapped to his chest in a Baby Bjorn. You know, for the government.

ALEX: So THAT’S why there was only one set of footprints in the sand! That’s the last time we have an after-party on the beach. Too confusing.

JESUS: (in audience) You suck! Get off the stage and let some real musicians get an award!

ALEX: DJ! Play us off! (Silence. the “DJ” glares at them from the orchestra pit)

SABRINA: Hey, is that DJ Henry Mancini? (Henry Mancini plays them off with a vengeful version of “The Pink Panther Theme”. They sing over the music.)

ALL: Oh Baby YOUUUUUU, you got what I NEEEED…but you sssayy— (A horrible noise as all three fall into the rubber tree plant.)

FIN.

In closing, The Management would just like to say that if we HAD gotten that ill-fated tattoo on our trip to Sabrina’s space station…it woulda looked something…like…THIS: 

Posted by  |  October 5, 2011 | Categories: Booby Hatch Talks | Tags: , , , , , , | Leave A Comment »

Coney Island, here we come! Fayetteville: we’ll call you back…

First, the Good News: Everyone’s favorite antipodean rap travelogue, Suck It! was accepted to the 2011 Coney Island Film Festival! We’re already drunk on thoughts of red carpets, surfside cocktails, and sideshow naughtiness. If you’re in the NYC area September 23-25th, come on out – you know the words!

Now, the (Dwight) Gooden News: Just as the three suns had to align in The Dark Crystal before Bowie could wow the Muppets with his pants (magic pants), every so often the three ladies of the Hatch must come together in order to recharge their creative mojo. This weekend will witness the Grand Funk Reunion of Booby Hatch in the Heartland of America. Mayhem, baby fashion montages, and a few tee many martoonis, are bound to ensue.

We’ve got Goulet on speed-dial. Stay tuned.

Posted by  |  September 1, 2011 | Categories: Booby Hatch Talks | Tags: , , , , , | 2 Comments »

The Best Idea I’ve Ever Had

I had just the greatest idea for a post, but then I had to do some stuff, and after I did all that stuff, I decided that I should take a shower, and then it sounded to me like a scary thunderstorm was building up inside the shower head, and that has never happened before, well, I mean, it’s never happened to ME before anyhow, although it might have happened to my husband, but I wouldn’t know if it had or hadn’t because he hasn’t been sharing much with me verbally, and by that I mean he hasn’t really been talking to me at all since the whole “baby incident” (which I realize that in this context sounds like I am implying that there was some sort of incident with our baby or with someone else’s baby or maybe that I am referring to a news story about a baby trapped in a well or a baby who acquired superhuman strength and lifted a bus off of his mom or something, some kind of story that particularly affected him in some way, rendering him less communicative, like some kind of third-degree form of PTSD, and I apologize, because I don’t mean to imply that at all, because what I meant by the “baby incident” was just that we had a baby, but since I ended up explaining all that anyway, now I am thinking I should have just written “since we had a baby” in the first place, because that would have saved me from realizing that I misspelled the word “acquired,” I mean, you wouldn’t have known it if I hadn’t just outed myself, because there was a red line under it, and I thought, “Well, that’s silly. That’s not how that’s spelled,” and I quickly added a “c,” but I really originally typed “aquired” without even thinking, because my lazy brain sounded it out, and it seemed like a “q” would be enough to make a “k” sound, the “cq” seemed like overkill, although I guess if you were to separate the syllables, the first one would be making an “ak” and the second one would be making a “kwiored,” but still, that kind of thing is not something I think I would have done before the baby incident, or even since I had the baby, but maybe I would have because I haven’t been reading much lately, I mean, I am almost done with Tina Fey’s book, but I don’t think that counts, because she makes me laugh, and there are funny pictures and there is really big print, you know, the kind that editors probably suggest the publisher switch to when someone is supposed to deliver a book, and he/she only turns in 115 pages after working on it for almost a year, well, I mean, after saying that he or she or the robot worked on it for a year anyhow, but then only putting about two weeks into it if you added up all the hours it was writing and subtracted all the ice cream and bathroom breaks it took, and I don’t mean a break where you eat ice cream in the bathroom, but two separate breaks, although I guess if you were either really pressed for time or had a very traumatic bathroom experience, you might want to combine the two into one swift gesture, well, less like a gesture and more like an incident, but not in the way that the baby incident was a pretty solid “incident,” but–oooooouch, the baby from the aforementioned incident just bit my boob, and then he farted, but not just farted, LIFTED HIS LEG AND FARTED LIKE  A GULL-DARNED ANIMAL (!!!), which reminds me that I really need to stop using such shitty language around my son, I mean, he can’t really understand language or even the idea of language, although maybe he’s starting to, because I did show him a “ball” yesterday, I mean, actually I guess I misused those quotation marks–thanks, Bossypants!–it was actually a ball, it wasn’t like a shoe or something that I held up in front of him while I said “ball” a bunch of times, because, well, that would be tricking my son, which, don’t get me wrong, I’ve thought about doing, but only in an abstract way, the same way I think about dressing him up like a bumblebee or a fat bear, but this time the ball that I held up was a real ball, and I held it up and said, “BALL, BALL, BALL,” and he looked at me like he didn’t like what I was getting at, and, anyway,  according to the New York Times Magazine, if I was using bad language around him, he might understand that it was language, but he wouldn’t really know that it was “bad,” because he doesn’t really know right from wrong or good from bad, which is why I forgive him for biting my boob and lifting his leg to fart, although, don’t get me wrong, I am still plotting my revenge!!– no one that I know has done that, which means it never happened), and I guess the noise, which my husband may or may not have also experienced, really threw me off my game, because when I tried to remember what it was that I was going to write for my post, I had to think about it really hard, and nothing at all came to me, except the thought that maybe it had something to do with the bathroom, so I started brainstorming and thought about all the random things that make me crazy, which is where I usually start getting ideas for these posts (famous people, classic movies being remade, bananagrams, etc.), so I started going over all the things that make me crazy, like “facebook” and my husband telling me that Daddy Longlegs are arachnids but not “spiders“ every time I point at a Daddy Long Legs on our bathroom floor and yell “SPIIIIIIIIIIIIIDER!!!” and make him smash it like the dirty spider it is, but neither one of those things seemed like things that other people would have feelings about, partially because they might not exist outside of my head, but mainly because they both start with the letter “f,” and neither one of them had anything to do with a bathroom, except the part with the spider on the bathroom floor (but that really seemed like I was forcing a connection), so I cleared my head and used the principles of “The Secret” (the movie, not the book) to awaken my mind to the manifestation of the original genius idea for my post, because I was pretty sure that it was the best idea that I’ve ever had.

Posted by  |  August 24, 2011 | Categories: Sabrina, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , | 2 Comments »

Lost in Space

In New York City, no one really has a home base. Most of us don’t travel to work in cars so we spend part of each day marooned far from comforts and conveniences we could easily toss in the back seat if we had one: a fuzzy sweater, a comfortable pair of shoes, library books, a family-size box of Little Debbie Oatmeal Crème Pies (what? I’m a family.) Instead we carry this stuff on our backs or slung over a shoulder in a giant tote bag that pulls relentlessly at our weak urban arms, stretching them towards the pavement like orangutan limbs.  We defy common sense and lug bulky items onto the subway – things that should never be taken on a moving train: coffee tables, king-size comforter sets, pool cues, a chipped wooden headboard that probably has bedbugs but really looks like it’s worth something, a twin stroller the makers swore could be folded with one hand, because we know that squeezing them into a cab would be a hassle and we’re New Yorkers dammit – we can DO this!! Gamely we struggle, up subway steps, through the turnstiles and past train doors, overbalancing and apologizing but never giving up…mostly because it’s illegal to dump a 6 foot plaster giraffe on a subway platform.

I think about this in the Duane Reade, looking at their line of “Help!” products:  adorably-packaged single-serving items one commonly needs in a pinch. Pain killer! Band Aids! Opaque nipple covers! Ok that last one is made up but if you’re wearing a summer-weight top they’d really come in handy during a flash thunderstorm (think about it.) For city dwellers already weighed down by other necessities (running sneakers, tins of cat food, rape flute) and tourists burdened by distinctly unnecessary items (I Heart NY t-shirts, Magnolia cupcakes, a caricature drawn on a grain of rice, tickets to Stomp) these products are life savers. I’m just surprised it took Duane Reade so long to come up with a way to commodify our needs. Sure, every drug store carries travel size items, but how often do you really need a palm-sized bottle of conditioner? Or a tiny can of Barbisol? On a given day, chances are the urban emergency you’re experiencing is more along the lines of a giant heel blister or a jacket stained with A/C leakage than a five-o-clock shadow or scarecrow bangs.

In my ideal world, I wouldn’t have to make a drugstore pitstop for emergency basics, because I would have a dedicated space, outside my apartment, of my very own. The stationary equivalent of a suburbanite’s car packed with Capri Sun and Paul Simon CDs, it would be strategically located to wherever I spent most of my time for easy access. I could go and recharge, or sit and think, or nap, or – just for a miraculous second – put down the giant fucking duffle bag of old heels and t-shirts destined for the Salvation Army across town. Having a space like that would make me feel great – like Little Orphan Annie when she arrives at Daddy Warbucks’ mansion. I would spin around grinning under my bad perm and jitterbug with any gay gardener or turbaned doorman who’d have me.

And that’s for a space as tiny as a bus locker. (Those don’t exist anymore, do they? Shame, because the idea that I could leave something heavy at Port Authority and skip away holding a key makes New York in the 70s seem like a utopia. THANKS TERRORISTS.)

The sad thing is, if I was a person with more ambition my Annie Warbucks dream might have come true. Right after I finished college I had the idea for something called “Siesta Village”. It was a place in the city – perhaps a single floor of an office building – where anyone could go to take naps, any time of the day, for as long as they wanted. I envisioned the space as a network of cubicles, separated from one another by hanging drapes or woven tapestries. Each unit would be carpeted, with a cot, a nightstand, a cubbyhole, and a place to hang your clothes. Nap sessions as short as a half hour could be purchased on the spot or booked in advance. (I envisioned a “frequent napper” card, embossed with the image of a sleeping kitten, where the 10th snooze was free.) The vibe at Siesta Village would be as quiet as a library, with no infuriating chimes or whale songs. Everyone would wear slippers, and pad around in an alpha-brainwave state of blissful half-consciousness. It would be a soundproof oasis at the center of a honking, angry, grit-caked city. I wasn’t sure how much to charge for a nap, but honestly? There were days when I would gladly pay $50 for a place to drop my bags and zone out for an hour before schlepping to my next appointment. It was a scheme that could only have been born of post-college culture shock combined with the trial-by-fire of producing theater in New York City.

Even though I never had any intention of trying to make Siesta Village fly as a business, I spent a lot of time thinking about the practicalities (because in any city fantasizing about real estate is just another form of porn. ) I realized that discouraging squatters would be a problem, ditto masturbators and people engaged in illicit affairs who wanted to use my carpeted temple for a lunchtime quickie. I thought of all the good people: the weary, sincere nappers who would be disturbed by the interlopers’ animal grunting, and the amount of time I’d spend with a blacklight and anti-bacterial wipes. It occurred to me that Siesta Village was an idea best preserved in dreams, as I dozed on the subway or hauled dirty clothes to the laundromat. Nevertheless, when a facility called MetroNaps sprang up a few years later, I was slightly envious. I consoled myself with the thought that a hooded La-Z-Boy is no substitute for a room of one’s own. Even if it’s just a bus locker.

Posted by  |  August 21, 2011 | Categories: Alexandra, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , | 6 Comments »

Write your anger away…

Dear DayQuil,

Why do you hate me?  All I wanted was to breathe clearly and not cough all day long.  All I wanted was to be halfmy usual spunk and have the ability to speak sans frog in throat.  What did taking the red pill get me?  I find myself speaking baby babble while my thoughts sift through a meth withdrawal haze of pure confusion.  Every time I blow my nose, my sinuses make a high pitched ‘eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeh’ sound and my eyeball bleeds.  My ears are growing cotton and my mouth tastes like earwax.  Thank you DayQuil.  You have made this day very pleasant.  Instead of sleeping on my couch watching another episode of ‘Storage Wars’, I stand in my office slowly dipping to the floor in a heroin nod.  You the man.

Xoxo-  Katharine “this snots for you” Houston, Brooklyn, NY

**************

Dear NYC Straphangers,

I call upon you this 4th day of the eighth month of the 2011th year of this calendar on my wall, to stand with me against those who defile our noses!  We who silently agree to stand back to back, nose to pit and knee to crotch with those whom commute at our same hour each day have had enough!  No, I speak not of the soupy body odor that guy with the short sleeves emits while holding his arm up.  I speak of a simpler evil.  We of the olfactory sensitive stand before the accused, grasping the pole while thumbing our smart phones pleading with you for one thing… Eat when you get off the train!!  I do not mean to harass those famished or claiming hypoglycemia.  Snack on some quiet fruit. Feel free to nosh on a granola bar. Close your teeth round yon trans fatty chocolate candy yum-yum.  These are all non-invasive food types and we bestow them upon you.  What we ask for is simple.  We think you would enjoy these morsels all the more if you were not traveling in an enclosed tube with some 400 people hovering around you.  So actually, we are doing you a favor by requesting that No eggs, No McDonalds and No take out Chinese should be eaten while on the subway.   Chant with me, fellow Straphangers!  Chant so that we might get the message through!

No eggs, No McDonalds and No take out Chinese!

No eggs, No McDonalds and No take out Chinese!

And if you can’t stop yourself from eating said food on the train, for fuck’s sake, close your mouth when you chew.

Xoxo-  Katharine “your Chinese take out smells like diarrhea” Houston, Brooklyn, NY

***************

Dear MTA,

Fuck you. Sorry, that came out wrong. Fuh-huk You.  That is all.

Xoxo- Katharine “raise the fair price again and I’ll cut you” Houschmitzermen, Bronxlyn, NY

Posted by  |  August 4, 2011 | Categories: Katharine | Tags: , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments »

One Ticket to CRAZY-ASS THINGS YOU CAN DO WHEN YOU ARE RICH AND FAMOUS TOWN, Please!

Do you have more money than you will ever need? Do people give you too much attention? Does your celebrity status make you think that the world disappears whenever you close your eyes?

Whoo-ah! Tell me about it! I remember the days when not getting my picture in a magazine every time I left the house made me lose my mind. I mean, seriously, if I had a nickel for every nickel I have, well, I could buy a planet and start that outer space colony that my psychic has been predicting that I am about to start with a bunch of magical nickels and an empty planet.

So quit screaming, put down those pills, and just listen to me. I have a plan. We’re going to a little place that I refer to as CRAZY-ASS THINGS YOU CAN DO WHEN YOU ARE RICH AND FAMOUS TOWN. That’s right. Take my hand. It’s a sloppy left at the diamond rainbow and straight on past the big John Candy mountain. Yes, yes. That’s it! Right next to the Ferris Bueller Wheel and the body of your ex-wife. We’re almost there…

Please let that play under the rest of this blog.

Star-wipe. Cross dissolve to:

INT. CRAZY-ASS THINGS YOU CAN DO WHEN YOU ARE RICH AND FAMOUS TOWN

Here’s the thing. My theory is this: MOST PEOPLE ARE CRAZY.

Yup. That’s it. Most people are crazy, but most people lack the means to fully indulge their craziness, and most people don’t get their crazy put in magazines and on ET, so we don’t know about it unless they are our neighbors or family members. Rich and famous people aren’t particularly insane, they are just like MOST PEOPLE. For example, I would be a FT out-of-control crazy, but I have things I need to take care of, and I can’t afford to buy an island.

But, what if I could?

Ripple dissolve. Fade to:

INT. SABRINA’S MIND

A hummingbird lands on a tumbleweed, setting both things in motion. Imaginary Katharine appears and waves from inside of a swimming pool filled with sweet berry wine and giant chunks of fruit. 

Katharine mentioned in her Birthday Blog that if she were rich she would get a massage every day. EVERY DAY?? Come on, Katharine! That’s not crazy-thinkin’! That just sounds nice. You gotta up the ante. Why not get a massage every hour? Why not get a tiny masseuse and attach him/her to your body with some kind of really expensive harness so that he/she/the robot can rub you ALL THE TIME??? Yeah, make it a tiny robot. And a dog masseuse for your dogs!! And by “dog masseuse,” I mean a masseuse who is a dog. A robot dog.

That’s numberwang!!

Imaginary Katharine rolls her eyes and gets on a pony. She and the pony fly away as Imaginary Alex appears. I.A. is holding a martini glass and is dressed up like Robert Goulet. 

I mean, Alex has the spirit! She wrote in one of her blogs that she wanted to buy an island and create a man-goat to be her best friend! Sure, Brando did it first (and I’m not talking about the movie), but so what? One ticket to CRAZY-ASS THINGS YOU CAN DO WHEN YOU ARE RICH AND FAMOUS TOWN!! ALL ABOARD! CHOO CHOO!!!

Imaginary Alex shakes her head, opens her mouth, thinks about it, then shrugs, gets on the tiny train from The Jerk and rides off.

So, here’s what we do first: think about some things that rich and famous people have already done and decide what kind of crazy things we would or wouldn’t do. It’s like one of those fancy frozen yogurt stores, except instead of toppings, you can choose from a wide variety of crazy. Spousal abuse or paranoid raisins? Everybody wins!

For example, I wouldn’t murder someone. Really. Or even hire someone to murder someone. I fear karma too much, and I hate the sight of blood, but I would get drunk and rob a bank. I would NOT, however, drive while intoximacated (see above re karma and blood), so I would have to get one of Katharine’s robots to take me.

I wouldn’t build a big ranch with an amusement park and two train lines so that I could invite children over for a sleepover (see above re karma and blood), but  I would buy a big ranch and turn it into a town named after me. Then, instead of adopting some kids from impoverished areas, I would adopt a whole village full of people and let them all go on the bumper cars and play video games. Like the Jacksonian, I WOULD get a ton of crazy portraits and statues of myself made and put them up everywhere. In fact, each household would get its own effigy of me doing weird things. Remember good old Yipes, the Fruit Stripe gum zebra? Yeah! Just like that, but in oil paint and gold leaf!

I would not pull a Brando and get hugemongous. As tempting as it would be, because food is just delicious, especially rich people food, I would get cranky hauling around an extra four-hundred pounds, especially in the Tahitian sun, because I would pull a Brando and buy an island in French Polynesia.

I am also a fan of the Brando attitude. One million dollars for being in Superman for a couple of minutes? Showing up to the set of Apocalypse Now with a ton of extra weight, a shaved head and none of his lines memorized? After that he would get all his lines read to him through an earpiece? I’m not saying the man couldn’t be a serious ass, but at least he did it with style!

I wouldn’t get a ton of plastic surgery (oh, don’t get me wrong, I would get some–a bunch, just not enough to qualify for crazy status), but I would make people uncomfortable at awards ceremonies and on talk shows. I don’t know if I’d be on pills or drunk or pulling a Benigni , but I would be wearing some crazy swan outfit doing the Lindy Hop until somebody escorted me away. Say…what about that? Has anyone ever done an acceptance dance? I know that Rudd dances on talk shows, but it’s more cute than crazy. I would really like to bring it over the line. I mean, maybe it would start off cute, but it would just go on way too long. WAY WAY WAY too long.

I guess the goal would be to find some new and exciting ways to be crazy. It’s not easy. From Caligula to Lady Gaga, crazy has been going on a long time.

All I can come up with is being a wacky island dancer in a town filled with pinball machines? Lame. Well, maybe I would have an army of trained penguins! What about that? And I would have a special house built that was 2/3 the size of a normal house, so that I would feel taller. So there! And…and…um, well, I would have an astronaut kitchen and only eat in zero gravity! With penguins! Robot penguins eating astronaut ice cream! BOOM! And maybe, just MAAAAYBE, I would buy myself a really nice pair of boots. They might even be some kind of crazy color, like YELLOW! HA HA HA HA HA!! I did it!! Yellow boots! Take THAT, America!

Now it’s your turn. You can press replay on the muppet show clip if you need some inspiration.

Posted by  |  July 12, 2011 | Categories: Sabrina, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , | 4 Comments »

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