When is it time to call it quits with relationships? How much are you willing to go through before you cry ‘Uncle’? Well, lately I’ve had to ask myself a lot of questions like that and I really don’t have a lot of answers. You see, I would like to believe that people are basically good hearted, fine, honest, upfront, upright beings. Guess what? They are not.

So, while I would like to tell ya that all is groovy–ah, heck, all IS groovy. It’s  my pal David’s birthday on the morrow and he’s been a true blue pal ever since I met him at a movie theater revival screening of “All About Eve”. He’s  the Vera to my Mame and I adore him.

The best thing is that he got to meet my best friend. (I’ve still not shared our weekend together, have I?) They fell in love with one another immediately. This brings me enormous pleasure, I’ve gotta tell ya. David is an extraordinary person and when he met Kim the sparks flew, the lovelight started shining and it was lovely.

David will celebrate his birthday tomorrow and I wanted to share the love. He and I sing at the top of our lungs while walking down New York streets. We share laughter, we bitch about tourists walking willy nilly along ‘our’ sidewalks, we create characters and remain in character for the better part of the day, we write together…we drink, we cry, we consume food that’s bad for us, but above all else, we share our lives in a meaningful way.

We don’t give one another lip service. We’re honest with one another. That is important in friendship. It’s vital. I appreciate this more than you’ll know, given recent events in my life. True long lasting friends are hard to find; we need to cultivate them like heirloom roses. Nourish the soil from which the friendship blossoms, ya dig?

 So, I want to honor my friends, my loved ones on this blog when I can. Let others know that they’re special to me. David deserves some recognition for being a superlative dude.

He’s young enough to be my kid for cryin’ out loud. (that is if I was a slutty high schooler) David had to raise himself, he had to figure out that it was perfectly okay to be gay. No one gave him anything. He’s a hardworking young man with a great mind and an open heart.
David…Vera…your heart is from Tiffany’s and I am honored to have you in my posse.

Happy birthday, youngster!  I love you!

Spookyand I have been talkin’ about getting the Brotherhood of the Travelin’ Pants back together which is fabulousity times about a million—but that’s another story.

Pooper is too smart for  his Bubbee…

Ah, life is getting pretty darned groovy, man. I am totally groovin’ on my blessings.

What to do? Share it, yeah? It is so superfantastic that I’ve got to wonder how I can appreciate it without screwing it up…

Let  me know if I DID screw it up, but in the meantime…let me tell you just how groovy you all are…revel in it, babies…roll around and wallow in you funkitude ’cause lemme tell ya…no one else is gonna tell ya how super groovy you really are. Most folks are lookin’ to see how they can benefit. Not the Pfunk, baby… I’m here to tell ya that you rock the school.

Yep…YOU. You’re boss of the beach. Why? ‘Cause you care about folks. You go the exra mile when you don’t have it in ya. You call. You write. You bring something to the person who needs it. Sure,  you can’t afford it—you still do it, and you’re honest.
Guess what? I absolutely adore you for that. Hell, in spite of it. You rock the school.

Go and share your coolness. Share your honesty. Share your wonder.
You are the best you can be.

I dig that.

Some of it is pretty groovy but most of it is making me tired. Very tired. This blog business isn’t much of a business, but it’s a good way to vent for a bit and express myself. You know…complain while sounding all kindsa deep. Okay, maybe not.

Working, working, writing…laughing at the insanity…eh. Pretty good stuff. Did NOT see myself on Law and Order: SVU. My kid did, which is a problem. Is it that I wasn’t watching or is it that I just can’t SEE? We’ll investigate that burning (itch?) question later.

On with the show: Okay, the gig on Sunday was cancelled, but the gig before that was weird. I don’t know why I went on so late, but by the time I went up the audience (peopled with all kinds of out of towners–foreigners at that) was pretty tired. I was mediocre, but still charming. I didn’t feel that adrenaline rush that follows a great show. Eh. You can’t be a winner all the time, I say.

In other news: I’ve been working on some short stories. They’re crap but they make me remember why I wanted to become a writer and why I enjoy telling stories. Speaking of storytellers: Check out ‘Zoli’ by Colum McCann. He’s one of my favorite writers. Brilliance. And you know I don’t use that word lightly…

In a late breaking story: The ‘old man’ I’ve been taking care of is out of the hospital. No more jaunts to Queens on the “R” train. I am relieved. Queens is miles from nowhere, ya know? BUT, they’ve got a Target. Bought some health and beauty aids on the cheap. Should last me a good long time. Happy.

My crush on Kevin James is going strong–thought you should know that. WHY does  “The King of Queens” still slay me? Can’t help myself. The cast blows my mind. Got into an argument with a woman who thought me daft because I said he was cute. Mind you, I was ragging on her because she said that Mick Jagger was sexy. Okay. Mick. Jagger. Sexy.

Are you kidding a person? First of all, old enough to be my daddy. Second of all, he looks like the Grim Reaper’s cousin Frank on a bad day. Thirdly…YIKES, man. Have you really taken a good look at the old boy lately? I’ve seen him up close and personal. I needed a shower for my eyeballs. And the boy cain’t sing. I want to slap him with a baby seal. Only if the baby seal would survive, mind you. Maybe with a kitten. Okay, PETA is gonna be on my arse.

Where am I going? Oh, what about PETA being a little crazy also? I’d like to see People for the Ethical Treatment of HUMANS. That would be nice.

All right, that last bit was apropos of absolutely nothing, but I felt it had to be written.

PETH. Heh. PETH. When you say it softly, it’s almost like praying. Peeeeeeettttthhhhh.

You’d think I was a stoner and not a sleep deprived maniac on the verge of –well.

Well, let’s see what’s in the mailbag…

“Dear Pfunk, Lately I’ve been wondering about a couple of things: what is going on with the hair on Zahara, the Jolie-Pitt kid? Do they even KNOW any black people or are they convinced that it’s perfectly all right for that kid to walk around  with a fright wig atop her adorable head? Comb and brush. Apply them to her hair. Every. Day. The other thing is this: what is going on with us having to know every single move that Britney Spears makes? I don’t care and I would give the highest prize in Journalism to the reporter who refuses to utter her name again–unless it is accompanied by the phrase ‘and I couldn’t  possibly care less.’ Yep, I’ve had it. So, Pfunk…please respond with some foolosophy.
Yours most truly,

Your inner self”

Dear Inner Self,

I got nothin’.

Hey–this has been a scattered column tonight, but then again, so am I.
Keep on keepin’ on, know that I love ya and I’ll write again soon. I’ve been missin’ us.

We’re  really good together.

: )

Another win/win situation.

I would love to regale you with our adventures, but I want to check in with her first.

I may have to coerce her and also get the lowdown from her perspective.

So, keep your eye on this column, dear readers. You’re gonna get an eyefull of some crazy happenings including just why she and I are lifelong friends. She’s a bit of a devil, that kid.

This may take a couple of days to process.

In any event, if you have dear friends with whom you’ve lost touch…give ‘em a jingle. Drop ‘em a line. I’m nearly always in contact with Kim. We’re sorta co-dependent but in a healthy way. HEALTHY, I say!

Heh. That were funny. We were phrasemakers all weekend, with Kim being the champion for this one: “The fart from the ass who must not be named”. Ruminate on that one for a bit, kids.

Oh, there was ass-gas and it wasn’t pretty. I think I just overshared. Yep, I sure did.

Can’t take it back now. Chuckle it up out there, gang.

Love ya!
Hey, and pick up my cookbook!
I’ve not mentioned it enough, have I?

THE PRETZEL COOKBOOK: A NEW TWIST ON EVERYONE’S FAVORITE SNACK

Is that good enough for ya?
Amazon has it…so does Borders and Barnes and Noble.

GET it,  already!
If you request it, I’ll even autograph it for ya.

How do ya like THEM apples?
Ah, youth. I wish I still had it.

Be careful out there.

27 April 10 pm

10 May 10 pm

17 May 7pm

The time and VIP line info is for the 17th only, but the rest is solid… 

Broadway Comedy Club 318 W. 53rd Street (Between 8th and 9th Ave)
NY, NY 10019
SHOW TIME 7:00 p.m.
Doors Open at 6:15 p.m.
Cover: $15. Only $12 if advance reservation is made on VIP line:
212-252-4255

 Hope you can make it.

The first two are guest spots so I don’t know the exact line up. Be there or be square, kids.

Hope you are all doing okay.

Life is a funny thing. Gonna have to catch you up on my pal’s visit here. It was superfantastic and I miss her already.

We’re coming up on our 37th anniversary—friendship-wise in August.

It would be great if she could come out for that.

Here’s hoping she’ll let me post some pics from her visit. Maybe she will, maybe she won’t.

I can’t blame her for not wanting her mug posted on the internet for potential stalkers.

Still, I want to share our adventures in the big onion.

Talk to you soon!

Be groovy…

No es bueno. He also was trying waaay too hard to crack everyone up. I felt sorry for him. It was just a couple of days after the divorce announcement, so I know he must have felt additional pressure to appear to be chipper. Instead, he was annoying.
I really don’t  dig that ‘ghetto Black woman’ voice he does. It really makes me want to pimp slap him. G-d bless him, though. He’s kinda cute. Like a furbee. He’s also got pretty good skin.

Here’s the thing: Chris Meloni is quite handsome. I mean, HANDSOME. He’s not nearly as hair impaired as I thought he would be (although that could be a piece, I dunno) and he’s in excellent shape. I couldn’t stop looking at his bum. And I’m not a bum watcher.

Weird. Some guys have that presence about them. He’s one of them.
Richard Belzer somehow has my heart, though. He’s got the best, most genuine smile I’ve ever seen on a man who otherwise seems to be the boy who never had a date. Ever. There is a very sweet gentle vibe that makes him attractive–sorta. Anyway, it was fun to be on the set.

We were participating in a ‘pillow fight for peace’. I have no idea what that even means, since if you use the words ‘fight for peace’, you’re sorta bein’ moronic…but that’s just me.

I am all for cheesecake eating for peace or manwatching for peace. This requires very little effort on my part. But I digress.

There were  pillows everywhere…feathers flying…laughter…and me…sneezing like a bastard. I had taken some Benadryl prior to the shoot, but I didn’t  take enough. I’m also asthmatic. Not a good look. I’m sure that Meloni was NOT charmed. I’m also sure that  he was paying me no mind at all. No matter. He’s married.

I offered Robin Williams a lozenge. He declined. I offered my giant Lifesavers. Nothin’. I offered some kugel. He gave me the cutest look. “KUGEL? You don’t  hear that very often”
Har har…please riff on that one, Robin you comedic genius.

I shrugged and made some kinda  funny mouth noises and he and I shared a moment.

I love it when celebrities act like they are the only ones to have facile minds. Makes ya wanna slap them. Or help them open up their water bottles.

Jeepers creepers. I’m praying  he makes it home okay, though. This is his second divorce. I am praying  he doesn’t start up the drinking and drugging again. He’s  an okay guy. He’s insecure. It’s not cool to be sad deep down where it counts.

In other news, you can watch that very special SVU on the 29th of this month. I think.

If you see a tall Black woman wearing bohemian clothing, chances are it’s me. Hope you tune in. The show rocks hard, man. Even if I’m on the cutting room floor, the show is groovy and you should watch.

Take ‘er easy and to all of my Jewish friends out there–Happy Passover…it’s a- comin’.

It’s been forty years–FORTY years and I remember it like it was yesterday. I was four years of age and I remember seeing my mom crying. She was sitting at the television and sobbing. I knew something historically significant had happened. She wasn’t watching soap opera or a sad movie. At four, I KNEW that my life was going to change immeasurably.

I know what you’re thinking: how could a four year old know how important that event was? Well, in my family, we don’t treat our kids like morons. In my family, we discussed everything–including civil rights and the war in Vietnam. I knew what was going on. Maybe I didn’t understand why blacks weren’t given a fair shake–I grew up in a place where racism may have been alive and kicking, it wasn’t overt. We had a comfortable life…but my mom and dad grew up in Kansas and Mississippi- mom was in school in Kansas during the whole Brown vs. The Board of Education thing. Dad of course, was in MS for the better part of his formative years; no need to tell you that he understood only too well, the Jim Crow laws and lynchings. He’d seen his share of heartache. I think that’s why he enlisted in the Army. See the world and get a better understanding…anyhow, I’ve been thinking that I’m not doing nearly enough to make an impact on the world. What am I doing to keep the ‘dream’ alive? Am I being the best person I can be? Am I trying to help everyone I can with a cheerful heart?

Nope. Not by a long length. I’ve been too busy with my own headnoise. I’ve not been reaching out to my dearest people. I’ve been in my hole. Well, I’m getting out of it.

Lainie: I’m gonna ring ya as soon as I get a phone that won’t drop my calls every five seconds.

Gogammie: You have a call in your future as well.

Okay.

So, tomorrow is the anniversary of my sister’s death. That’s been on my mind as well.

Twenty-two years. It’s still fresh in my mind and it’s just as hard as it ever was. I miss her every day. I can hear her voice sometimes and it’s unnerving. There are days when I swear I see her walking ahead of me in this city and I rush to say something to her. When I reach my destination, I see that it’s a woman who resembles my sister only in that she’s of a similar build. Tears sting my eyes and I wander off, confused and sad. It’s never easy, kids.

You get sort of used to it, but you’re never over it. So, what do you do? You put one foot in front of the other and you breathe. You embrace the memories and share them with folks who knew her. You listen to music that reminds you of her, of her laughing at your stupid dances, of misheard lyrics…you just keep on truckin’  because you know you’re not the Lone Ranger–other folks have experienced great losses too. Get over  yourself and make your life happen the way you want it to happen. Believe in the miracles you can create.

You marvel at your resilience.

Okay, so if you’re me—you probably eat a ton of ice cream and stay in bed all day.

It’s a coping mechanism.

Get over it.

Okay, kids…that was kinda deep and rambling. My apologies.

I love ya and I’m here.

Talk it up. Keep laughing, keep loving and for goodness’ sake, keep on keepin’ on.

Be well!

Apart from them ripping off a song title by The Clash, a band  I’m sure Sonny Jim is familiar with due to the age of his siblings (although he strikes me as a guy who probably likes The Smiths–I sorta dislike that about him), the bachelor this season is a pretty funny guy. (and I’m sure the title was not his doing) He has the sense of humor that in a perfect world, would turn this dismal, sad little show into a true laughapalooza.

First, here’s what the geniuses at ABC SHOULD have done:
Call in Pfunk and Efunk as “relationship experts”.

It would be delightful. We would be perfectly coiffed and attired women with sensitive insight and glaringly white teeth. We would offer our ‘expert’ take on the proceedings from the vantage point of the bar located inside the mansion. The first two episodes would go off without a hitch. We would be on our best behavior.
There would be a confessional where we would show our true colors. Yep, we would rank on each and every woman who walked through the door.

“Get a load of the head on THAT one! Has she seen the business end of a hairbrush?”

“Did she say she was a HOTDOG VENDOR? What the heck is that all about? She could have said waitress and it would have been respectable.”

“Oh, who is she kidding? She’s 37 if she’s  a minute!”

We would also get them riproaring drunk. It would be a requirement. We would most certainly NOT hold their hair when they horked. We would mock them along with the bachelor…we would call him “Mack”. It would be fun.

Next on the agenda, we would get rid of the rose deal. We would definitely have to substitute something. I say a pair of Totes slipper socks which the lucky contestant would wear on their one on one with our plucky single man.

We would call them on their ‘feelings’ for Matt (or whomever).
It’s ten minutes and you’re falling for him? Please make it stop.

I think if you had to vie for a pair of slipper socks you might  just want the guy.

After the first couple of episodes, the audience would watch Efunk and Pfunk devolve into sweatpants wearing, delivery pizza eating, margarita swilling harridans.

Oh yes, we would definitely start in on the girls. We would pull our best “Mommie Dearest” waking the kids up to chop down some shrubbery act. Possibly a wire hanger or two for good measure.

We would make them wear Clairol hot rollers and call on Matt. We would make them cry. Often.
There would be a lovely moment where I would walk by in the background cleaning my ear with a Q-tip. I would inspect it and show the bachelor. He would giggle because he’s just as immature as me. I would call his parents and tell them that there is no one here for their son. They would arrive within the next day. I would party with the parents.

Efunk and I would instantly become the cool older sisters he never wanted.

We would coerce the less intelligent of the crew to flash him just as his parents enter.

We would be incorrigible.
Every time one of the  girls called another one a bitch, we would make the offender do a shot. We would also do a shot with her. Yes, we would be drunk. We would make a shambles of it. It  would be superfantastic.

Eventually, the slut side would show up. We would bring in our cabana boys.

It would be a melee.

Make it so, ABC.

I think Efunk can get the time away from work.

Goodness knows I can.

The other person was a friend of a friend and he enlisted because he had few options. He liked the Marines and he was a good soldier. He was also sweet, funny, messed up and talented. I’m not knocking the military–my dad was a drill sargeant in the Army. Fort Riley Kansas, the home of THE BIG RED ONE, baby! He served in Korea. We’ve had someone serve in just about every conflict since forever. But you know, I just don’t understand how killing someone makes your viewpoint correct.

We teach our children to resolve conflicts without using violence, yet we rush to make war on others. What are we solving? What are we RESOLVING? Nothing. I don’t want to see my brothers and sisters, sons and daughters perish because of a pissing match that got out of control. Understand that I am well aware that when you enlist in the armed forces, chances are you’re gonna see some combat. That’s not my issue. My issue is that this war, like all the rest, makes no friggin’ sense.

Stop it, already.
You wanna solve a problem? Get your best Parchesi, Yahtzee, Poker, Connect Four–you name it–players and pit ‘em against ours. Done and done.

My pals are in heaven nodding their heads, sayin’ “Pfunk, you are so  right. Put me back in the game.”
I wish I could.

The chatter about the body positions, the open squint (can that be possible?), Miss J–a word about that one–I don’t care if you’re a gay man, you’re a man. I’m not gonna call ya ‘Miss’. Hate to break it to ya, J–until you’ve experienced your menses, I don’t wanna hear you call yourself ‘Miss’. Get over it. You don’t see a bunch of lesbians calling one another ‘Mister Sharon’. Stop it. It’s not cute.

Tyra’s not as annoying as Heidi Klum is on ‘Project Runway’, but if I hear ‘continue on’ one more freakin’ time, there is gonna be war. Just say continue. It’s okay. Love ya, but let’s move it along. My brain hurts.
Twiggy is probably the only one who just does her thing and gets over it.

Eh. I am sure that modeling is tough. Goodness knows I don’t have the stomach for it.  Nor the physique. Dude, they’re nuts.
Now on to my suggestions to spice it up:

1. Have a ‘house mother’ who is there to check the girls. This is required. She will make  them read literature. She will correct their grammar. She will require them to chew with their mouths closed. She will be a heavy drinker. She may wake them up on random evenings  in a drunken rage dressed as Joan Crawford. 

2. No calls to the boyfriends. It’s boring.

3. If there’s a cat fight, please don’t prolong it. Tell them all to shut up.

4. Help us understand why we should care about someone’s hands being stiff.

5. Prohibit Miss J from wearing that long tee shirt and heels. At the very least, make him wear hose.

6. Jay Manuel. Make him stop wearing lip gloss and bleaching his hair. I’d like to see him as a redhead. That’s just me.

7. Nigel. Seriously, get that stick outta your arse. Take a good hard look at those choppers of yours. Appreciate your wife a whole lot more. She’s gotta kiss that mouth.

(by the way, bring your Mom back–she rocks)

8. Tyra needs to stop saying ‘continue on’. Stop it. Bring your Mom along. She’s cool.

9. Make the models promise not to crab about their makeovers. Make them sign a waiver. The  show’s been on how long? Get over it. Quit yer bitchin’.

10. Guest judges from the real world. Matter of fact, have one of the past contestants come in.

Okay, that’s it.

There will be a 12 step program for me. I made the time to blog about this. There is an intervention in my future.