Bologna Has a First Name. It's O-S-C-A-R-S

The Academy Awards were about as interesting as the bowl of Cream of Wheat I had for breakfast. I should have hired a streaker to jog across the stage or at least dared someone to cough, "Nobody Cares" before the Lifetime Achievement Award. No mutton chops, no backwards tuxedos, and no one to pull on the giant bows that kept crowding my television screen. I guess the 79th of something isn't important. It's 80th time that matters. Just ask my OCD.

High points:
-Phillip Seamore Hoffman looking like Nick Nolte's mug shot and beating out Jack Nicholson for the award for Most Plastered off stage.
-The near-wardrobe malfunction that almost made Dreamgirls a Nightmare. The bright red, the undulations…did anyone else get nostalgic for Jell-O Jigglers?
-Will Ferrel and Jack Black's song about comedians never getting nominated. WORD! But more importantly, Will Ferrell taking his non-black, non-Jewish 'fro to new diameters. It's like a giant, horizontal donut. I hope he's doing a biopic on Bob Ross.
-The gargantuan Amazon woman who escorted people off stage and towered over film giants Spielberg, Lucas and Coppola. I wanted her to pick Martin Scorcese up and carry him off in a Snuggly.
-Forest Whitaker winning the night Peter O'Toole experiences his last moments of consciousness. I think the Academy was placing bets on whether Whitaker would do acrobatics like Cuba Gooding, Jr. or pull a Ving Rhames and offer his award to an older, white man. He accepted his Oscar and made a speech that was neither memorable nor embarrassing to the African-American community. Attention fashionistas: bland is the new black.
-Speaking of Forest, look what happens when you spend too many months studying accents. You sound like an alien practicing English. He'll have to consult Gwenyth Paltrow and Madonna for a good speech therapist. Even then he'll still probably say "car park".
-Will Smith's son Jaden skipping ahead with the teleprompter and bypassing the announcement of the winner. Great for two reasons: it upstaged Abigail Breslin reminding her that she's over the hill, and it snapped us into reality, reminding us all of how stupid it is to listen to people who read teleprompters.

I want entirely improvised Oscars next year! And I want them hosted by the dog from The Number 23.

When I'm Wrong I Say I'm Wrong

The other day I voluntarily edited a friend's work and informed him that he used the abbreviation e.g. when he meant to write i.e. I explained to him, "I.e. is Latin for id est which means 'that is to say', and e.g. is Latin for err go which means 'for example'..." I then patted him on the head and went back to smoking my pipe.

Answers.com, insolent site that it is, said I was not only mistaken about the Latin, but about so many parts of the definition that it is amazing I wound up at the correct conclusion.
1.Id est means "that is". Years ago I must have added, "...to say" because it has a nice ring to it. In related news, the song Kiss From a Rose sounds better if Seal says, "To me you're like a word the dictionary can't define," and not, "To me you're like a growing addiction that I can't deny." Id est I give you. Wrong lyrics are a matter of taste.
2.E.g. stands for exempli gratia, which translates into for the sake of example.
3.Ergo is not two words.
4.Ergo means consequently or therefore.
5.Ergo is not spelled Err Go. To err (go) is human.

While I'm coming clean, I seem to enjoy making fun of people who eat Grape Nuts, but the truth is I love Grape Nuts. I own a box. I like the way they taste with bananas. I eat them because it reminds me of how I used to want to be just like my mom. She let me add a spoonful of sugar to them so I could stand it. Then one day I didn't need sugar anymore. On that day, I became a woman.

The truth shall set you free--i.e., make you feel good--when you carry a heavy burden, e.g., guilt, shame, Grape Nuts.

Pour Toi

Happy Valentine's Day, in honor of candy, fools, and Matt Sears' seven days of hilarity wrapped in adorableness called Monkey Week.

Good Humor

I'm in the (cyber) papers again! Thanks to the talented writer/editor/literary series curator Cheryl Burke, the show I co-produce is now publicized on the World Wide Web! Read her article about The Living Room on Until Monday: BKLN. In addition to writing for Until Monday: BKLYN, Cheryl produces a unique variety show called Poetry vs. Comedy on which both Luke and I (and many other past Living Room stars) have performed. Who can forget my lovely parting gift?

See what the buzz is about tomorrow, February 9th for the Spread The Love at the Living Room special!

I knew today was going to be a good day when one of our maintenance workers found me at a copy machine and said, "Do you want some ice cream??" really enthusiastically. Ever the improv pro, I chose to match his energy. "Okay!!" He reached into his bathroom cart, in between two rolls of toilet paper, and gave me a Klondike bar on a stick. Where did he get it from? Why doesn't he want it? These are things you don't ask when it comes to ice cream. You just take it. So, in the middle of winter, inside a sparsely decorated cubicle, I ate ice cream at 10:30 in the morning. Because that's what being an adult is all about.

Space Cadet

Right in time for Valentine’s Day!

Is the worst part of the story that she already had a brilliant husband and (by default) prodigy kids? Is the worst part of the story that her mug shot makes Paul Reubens look like a mild-mannered Blockbuster employee? Is the worst part of the story that she cornered someone while wearing a giant diaper?

No. The worst part of the story of the astronaut who plotted against the girlfriend of her secret astronaut lover is that no one is commending this woman for her follow-through. How many times have we been jilted and sworn revenge, ladies? And how many times do we actually buy a garbage bag and drive cross-country to stuff someone into it? Nevah! We don sweats and watch the latest romantic comedy so a ripped and oily Matthew McConaughey/Taye Diggs can remind us that better men exist.

With smudged eye liner and a Shar-pei sitting on her forehead, Lisa Nowak boldly looks into the precinct camera and says, “I made it as far as I could, girls.” The 43 year old in all of us cheers--she hikes up her light blue jeans until they rest comfortably above the pooch, and she cheers.

Let this be a lesson to the Other Woman! Mess with players, and you mess with players’ psychotic, scorned, BB gun-wielding, rocket scientist, evil genius, ex-flings.

Channeling Aileen Quinn

I got a haircut. Remember last time when I wandered into the East Village and a man magically made bangs appear on my head? I went back to see what else he had up his sleeve.

My initial reaction after a haircut is to panic and become insecure. How long will this last? What will my family think? Can I still morph this into the ever-comfortable, old standby, boyfriend-repellant, librarian bun? Change is a big deal for me. I still remember the horror of learning that I was too old in pictures to strike my Adorable pose (chin down, eyes looking up) and had to switch to Friendly Goodtimes (eyes squinted, head tilted to the side). I wore the same ponytail for nine years. I once hummed "Taps" as I placed a broken banana comb in the trash can.

Unfortunately, I had no time to stew over the new 'do because I was scheduled to perform immediately after the hair appointment. Getting on stage in front of people who are supposed to laugh at you is the best way to get over yourself.

I'm past the Stranger in the Mirror phase, and I'm moving into the This Won't Look Right When the Roots Come In, Will It? phase. All in all, I'm happy to say that color and length alterations don't have to wait for the summer. They can happen on a whim. For those of you who aren't ready for the look, don't worry. It's just a matter of time before it grows in, I become boring again, and have to lie about my health to spice things up.