Enjoy these initial examples. (Misery loves company.)

-”That was nice. Were you happy with that performance?” (after one of my band’s shows)

-”Your new hair looks a lot like Ashlee Simpson’s.” (That was today. The wound is still fresh.)

-”I’ve always preferred  full-figured girls like you.”

-”That’s neat how you’re wearing that as a dress.”

-”Wow. That joke was, um, emotional. It kinda looked like you were gonna cry up there.”

-”I just love how your whole attitude toward life is, like, ‘I just don’t care.’ ”

*Also, anything preceded by “Don’t take this the wrong way, but…”

STOP saying things like this. They are not pleasant.

Just a friendly reminder from Miss Meaux, Manners Maven.

Say nicer things, please.

Their idea was a little bit of hope, a lot of crap. Same crap as “You can do whatever you set your mind to.” (I still can’t manage to win MegaMillions and Lord knows I’ve set my mind to that.) It definitely takes more than one person to change a lot of situations, but there’s one situation in particular that may just prove their theory.

One of my favorite albums is Portishead’s “Roseland NYC Live.” Love it. Want to marry it. I named my kitty (r.i.p.)  ”Madison Portishead.” (I almost added “Chromeo” to her name when she was like 12, but that’s a whole other story. One that I once told David Macklovitch from Chromeo, which elicted the most horrified face I’ve ever seen. Royally blew that Dave-1 encounter.)

Anyway, during the song “Roads,” someone decides to start clapping along. Said clapping was not really necessary…it rarely is. But, sometimes it can be a nice touch on a live recording, if done correctly. In this case, it’s a disaster from the get-go because that person decides to clap on the ONE. And the TWO,THREE AND FOUR. And people join in! Even if you don’t play music, you have to feel in your bones how wrong it all is. It would be laughable if it wasn’t a zit on an otherwise perfect album.

The concept of a “group mind” was promoted by Gabriel Tarde and Gustave Le Bon,  French social psychologists.  (Go learn something.) I doubt even they imagined something as bad as what these people did to “Roads.”

If just one person, maybe a soulful person or a former high school drum major, clapped on the correct beats, he or she could have maybe changed history. Also, then I wouldn’t be so annoyed whenever I get to that point in the record.

 I know, it’s been over 10 years.You’d think I’d be immune to it by now. But are you immune to homelessness even though it’s been around for years? Are you immune to war just because it keeps happening? Well, this is essentially the same thing: an atrocity about which we should never forget.

END IMPROPER BODY PERCUSSION t-shirts coming soon!

ClapClapClapClap

[The offending clapping isn't as apparent  in this video , but on the record, it's like knives between your toes. Don't let it stop you from buying it., though. After about 4.2 grillion listens, I can vouch for its shear beauty.]

\”Pretty Girl\” Jon B (The video can’t be embedded, but believe me, it’s worth the jump.)

Yes. The “Have You Seen My Sketches? Scene” HAS to be the WORST in music video history! Who would do this to my beautiful boy?! (I tried to track down the name of the director to blame, but I wasn’t able to. He has hidden himself in shame as he should.)

I walked away from watching this video with the same thought each time: If I ever meet Jon B, I absolutely MUST ask him, “Have you seen my sketches?” I knew if I ever did, it could be funny, or go horribly wrong. (Wrong like the actress was his girlfriend or best friend’s sister or something.) Either way, it had to be done.

And this weekend, it was put-up or shut-up time. There I was, mere feet away from the Jon the Don Juan himself, and it chance was drawing nigh. Lately, I’ve become a believer in the philosophy of “Why not?!” So, I went for it.

The following is the play-by-play:

Me: “There’s one thing I’ve been waiting my whole life to say to you.”

Jon B: [incredulously] “Yeah? What’s that?”

Me: [Deadpan. Monotone. Stupid expression. Just like the girl in the video…whose dialogue was DUBBED by the way] “Have you seen my sketches?”

Jon B looks at me confused, and then looks up, as if he was scrolling through the database of genius in his mind until he recognized the reference. Eureka!

Anything for a laugh..I'll even make this face

Jon B: “Yo! Haahaahaaha! That girl was wack yo! She was soo bad!”

Me: That could NOT have been the best take!

(Ok, maybe he was tipsy. That's STILL a laugh.)

Still sort of amused

Jon B: No, it was. It was so awful. Wack! I can’t believe you said that. Yo, you’re funny.”

Annnnnd Monet dies and goes to heaven.

As much as I appreciate someone thinking I’m ok to look at, I am MUCH more thrilled when someone laughs…or even listens when I say something. This was above and beyond.

In a way, making Jon B laugh was on my bucket list. Check.

An 18 year mission...accomplished.

As you could probably tell from the name, Melissa the Nail Tech does nails for a living. Not ashamed of it, nor should she be. It’s an honest living and, frankly, Melissa is an artist. And when Melissa
senses that a conversation is going to a bad place, she starts talking incessantly about the different designs she’s done on fingers and how she can do the same on toes but needs to take more time because
toes are completely different from fingers.

Melissa the Nail Tech doesn’t know a lot of bands, but she likes all kinds of music. Like John Mayer, Dave Matthews, and rap, especially Flo-rida. Rap sounded the most awesome in her Mitsubishi Eclipse that she used to have. Her ex got her 10’s for her trunk for their 6 mo. anniversary.

When Melissa the Nail Tech was in college, Metropolitan Academy of Beauty, she got like really good grades. She scored the highest on the Advanced Cuticle Management exam, and still has the framed certificate for that.

She really wants to get married and have three kids, because three’s the perfect number. But she hopes it doesn’t make her fat. Whatever, she can get lipo and stuff because her husband’s gonna have a
good job, like selling insurance or something so they can afford to get her plastic surgery.

What made me think of my alter-ego Melissa? (Other than the fact that some days I wish I was anyone else but me?) I forgot I was Melissa recently, until someone said “Hi Melissa! How’ve you been?” to me on the train. I struggled to figure out why they’d say that, but then my little secret came to mind. Duh, Monet!
Sometimes you go out and act 100% opposite of how you really are!

Dont worry. I don’t have multiple personality disorder. I’m not bi-polar. Just bi-polar-curious.

All day, my gay wanted to shop for cologne, of all things. I couldn’t stop sneezing. Finally, I convinced him he had to try the cologne at C.O Bigelow, that way I could get some pills from the pharmacy in the back.

Backstory: My parents met when they worked as pharmacists in a hospital. I was raised in a prescription-only pharmacy they later opened. I learned to count with a pill-counter, my real-world first word was Actifed, and I would make sugar pills for fun after school. So, I kind of know drugs and know what I want in my drugs. 

I asked the C.O. Bigelow pharmacist  all about each of the decongestants. I figured since the place was a little fancy, a little old-timey, they might carry some things that other drugstores wouldn’t. Some discontinued strong stuff. I asked if they had the original version of Sudafed, and how many milligrams of pseudoephedrine was in the other allergy-relief pills they carried.  I drop a couple other cool words like “contraindicated” and “post-nasal.”

I thought I sounded, at worst, annoying. At best, well- informed. However, I slowly started to realize he thought I was a methhead. He was asking all the classic “Ask a methhead” questions, like what my symptoms were, if I had identification, what state I lived in, etc.

I really wanted to bust balls and play along. Start scratching and picking at my hair. Asking where the batteries were.  But, methheads are sad, and not “Sad Panda sad,” so the softie in me won and I didn’t make funnies about drug addicts…this time.

Being that I’m not the edgiest person on Earth, though, it was a little fun knowing this guy thought I was committing a crime. For 3-4 minutes, someone thought I was a badass. I’ll take my thrills where I can get ‘em.

Meth stuff aka Central Florida Stocking Stuffers

I ran out of tp, and put “buy more tp” on my mental list of things to do. My mental list also includes: ways to eat more protein while eating less food, witty yet disarming things I’ll say to Ryan Gosling when we finally meet, the names of our kids, people to leave out of my Emmy/Oscar/Grammy acceptance speeches because they suck, and a reminder to check and see if there’s an Olympic sport in which my flexibility would be considered a winning asset…other than gymnastics. Point is, when things get on my mental list, they can easily get lost.

So, hour after hour, I forgot to buy toilet paper. I though about going green, and using cloth napkins, but was quickly disgusted by the thought. (For the record, I think cloth diapers are gross too. ) “What did you use to cleanse your bits?,” you ask. Naturally, I used “Sleek Sensation Cleansing & Makeup Removal Wipes.”

I bought these for the times when I’m too lazy to actually wash my face. The wipes feel and seem a lot like baby wipes, so I figured, “What’s the harm?”  The package says they’re “ophthalmogically and dermatologically tested.” I figured, if they’re good for the face, they’re good for my gander.

So I used them, and used them well. I intended daily to go get toilet paper, but still kept forgetting. I guess deep down, I just didn’t have a sense of urgency about the situation. (I suppose I’d wiped away my sense of urgency with aloe and chamomile, with panthenol for tissue repair.) Plus, it seemed kind of indulgent to use these wipes where the sun don’t shine. It’s a recession.  I’ll take luxury where I can get it.

Then I finally ran out of the wipes, and I had to get my self together and head to a CVS. I went to the cabinet where I store my shopping bags, and in there were 8 rolls of super-soft, thick TOILET PAPER. They’d been there the whole time.

Sign # 8736 that my life is Sad Panda Sad. (If I wasn’t me, I’d adopt me. To save me from myself.)

Ok, that’s just my evil pipe dream.

What is true, and awesome, is the

PUNCH YOUR FACE OPEN MIC

Tuesday, June 23, starts at 7:30pm, but you’re free to wander in whenever!

@Brick NYC

22 Warren Street

(in Tribeca. Mere steps from either the Chambers or City Hall stops.)

It’s a celebration of laughter, The Llama, and the summer solstice.

Be there!

While were were paused in front of that window, this cab pulls up and three Jersey Tools in the back seat yell, “Hey ladies! euthwoeiruberitalrdkfgjhailrtuabliufgvblairutgvbalitblifugblaiet!”
(I have no idea what the second phrase was. I was born in NJ, but have been away for quite some time, so I no longer speak the language.)

I guess we should have just turned around and ignored them, but I really thought they needed directions or something. So, I say, “I’m sorry, I missed that. ” Then Jersey Tool #4 yells from the front seat,
“You got SERVED!” And they rode off.

Sure?

Servin’ like waiters.

Anyway, at the time, my now ex-roommate was not quite my boyfriend yet. I thought he knew by then that I’d do anything for a laugh, but apparently not.

So, there we are, me and my fool friends, and he and his brah friends. My friend Derek and I signed up to “perform.” I guess the boy thought I was going to actually sing, and rounded up all his friends to be there to see it, bragging about what a I great voice he thought I had. I think he imagined his new ladyfriend belting out some Leann Rhimes or maybe some Xtina.

Thing was, Derek and I didn’t sing. Instead, we tore up the 1994 classic “Tootsee Roll.” It was monumental.  We weren’t those idiots that got up and botched lyrics. Nope. 100% on point. Especially my expert inflection on, “A brand new dance SO, grab yo partner and git on the dance FLO.” If you closed your eyes, you would have thought the 69 Boyz were actually there.

Thing is, not closed their eyes. My friends enjoyed our musical stylings, and D’s sensual demonstration of the Tootsee Roll. However, the now ex-roommate could not have been horrified. It was hilarious! He had this look on his face like I’d killed his puppy and ate it. Just stood there shaking his head as if to say, “Why are you doing this to me?” I don’t think I’ve ever seen a face that embodied disappointment like that before, or since. (Probably was a sign, but you live, you learn.)

Point is, if someone can’t appreciate you honoring any one of the great party jams of the 90’s, they can get to steppin’.

Below is my preeminent 1990s booty jam performance. Sadly, I’m in this video somewhere. No need for specifics.

ANNNNNND, the classic itself: