The archives

We're moving soon, and I've been going through my files, the boxes of yellowing paper I keep in the closet with the cats' litter boxes. A flyer for a show at the Knitting Factory in 1994, a draft of a screenplay I was working on in high school, my notes from the 2003 roast of the then-Mr. Lower East Side, Eric Kirchberger ("I've never seen such a bunch of syphilitic, indigent statutory rapists as I'm seeing here tonight..."). A postcard from Sapphire, dated 2/20/94, 3:00am: "Just finished 'Girlbaum.' It is an awesome pain/beautiful book..." An article I wrote in 2000 called "Chemical Castration: Does it Go Far Enough?" A flyer for the toga party we had in senior year of high school. The 1983 draft of a suicide note. A whole folder full of the Zoloft poems, now ten years old, with titles like "bashing the oracle," and "Marmosets." Here's the only one I still like:

Prosaic

I wrote a poem to my love
And didn't know how to end it.
The love is over, the poem is bad;
My view of the world is defended.

Well, okay, I like this one too:

Ne me obsess pas

Ne me obsess pas
ne me obsess pas
ne me play Betty Carter, ne Patsy Cline, ne Nina Simone
ne me watch movies where people kiss
ne me think about you until I burn holes in things
jamais means never but I think it means I must
ne me remember how to say I must
jamais cut it out cut it out
toujours distracted and jiggling my leg
je must remain concentrated on the reality of the situation which is over
je m'appelle Janice
non, je ne regrette rien.

But the rest are really bad.

The old love letters. Do I keep them?, I ask the friend who's been helping me get organized. Kind of creepy, she says; I mean, you're married. But I don't keep them for the romantic thrill of it, I tell her. I keep them because I'm a memoirist. And you never know when the archives are going to come in handy. Not that I need the letters themselves -- I know who the authors were, I know what they said. Well, maybe I'll just keep the outgoing ones.

Here's an excerpt from a letter to an ex-lover I just found tonight, dated September 1997:

"I hope you find some obnoxious freaked out woman who's desperate to be attached and have kids together, I really do, so I can move in across the street and spend my life marvelling in joy how it isn't me."

I laughed out loud when I reread it.

What, said Bill from the other room.

Nothing, I said.

Non, je ne regrette rien.

Last minute update -- NOT hosting tonight

But it's still worth going to Happy Ending to see Amanda and guests.

More shows/classes coming soon!

Twittering the Glamour panel on "Women, Race & Beauty"

Here early, prime seat by door, reading Min Jin Lee as I wait.

Kicked out of prime seat by A/V guy; denied alternate seat by snotty redhead, "waiting for [her] friend."

Who is bitch kidding. Bitch has no friends.

Obtaining new seat on far side of room. Cute girl at end of row smiles. Much better.

Woman in African dress sits between me and cute girl, introduces herself: Nelly, from Ghana, works in public health.

Cute girl is author Veronica Chambers. Change cute girl to cute respected author.

Why is this starting late? Take opportunity to chat with Nelly and Veronica, re: writing, public health. Also, what's up with using the word "race"? Isn't that, like, racist?

Starting! Ed-in-chief Cindy Lieve introduces event:

"So, this white chick who no longer works here said afros were no good for work, so we're having this panel because oh my god, how gauche was that."

Farai Chideya takes the moderator's podium. Instant credibility.

Farai: Most black women have a 'hair moment,' where someone questions or insults their choice of hairstyle.

Audience, panel: Indeed.

Panelist Jami Floyd of CourtTV: Tell me about it. I had my natural poofy hair for years, but to get on TV, I had to straighten it. How do I explain this to my daughter, who hates her poofy hair?

Panelist and make-up artist Mally Roncal: Asian clients ask me to make their eyes rounder, some black women want their noses thinner. Sometimes entertainment execs want their clients whitened up a little. I get flack for wearing big hair and fake nails. You just gotta be you.

Panelist Vanessa Bush, Executive editor of Essence: If it's not Don Imus criticizing our hair, it's some other ignoramus. At Essence, we show all kinds of hair, because that's what our readers have.

Token white panelist Barbara Trepangier, author of a book about "well-meaning white people" and racism: White people are racist, and they need to admit it to themselves.

Panelist Daisy Hernandez of ColorLines: Yeah, that's not really a surprise to the rest of us. So, do you have any non-white chicks working at Glamour, or what? Also, Jami, what's up with your straightened hair?

Jami: Hey listen, I had to give up a piece of my self to get this job, and it sucks, but I do it, because I have bills to pay, and they are not letting me on Court TV with my 'fro on.

Audience member: But WHY would it matter how you wear your damn hair? Can we just say that it's because people are racist, and that's bullshit?

Jami: Look, white men are in charge. I said I was conflicted about it! Did I mention my mortgage?

Panelist Venus Opal Reese: People are stuck in history instead of living in today. It's about how you perceive their perceptions. Don't accept their bullshit interpretations, and you'll be free of them.

Vanessa: Again, ignorant people will say stupid shit about your hair. Try to regard it as an opportunity to teach them something new.

Panelist Lisa Price, founder of cosmetics company Carol's Daughter: I want to see more black women represented in major ad campaigns for everyday skin and hair care products. Niche stuff is great, but let's bust out of the niche.

Audience member: My white friends envy people of mixed ethnicity for being sexy and exotic. Do all white women wish they were non-white?

Me, to myself: I am embarrassed by your white friends.

White chick in crowd: First of all, you think YOUR hair is a problem, mine sucks. Second, white chicks get held to impossible beauty standards too. Like, what about ageism?

Audience member Ayana Bird, author of Hair Story: Black people are just as bad as white people, if not worse, when it comes to each others' hair.

Audience member Loretta Rucker, African-American Public Radio Consortium: Tell me about it. I wore my hair natural for forty years, but then I had to perm it so that I could work with the conservative black colleges.

Audience, panel (sings): Talkin' 'bout good and bad hair! Whether you're dark or you're fair! Go on and swear, see if I care, good and bad hair!

Audience member: So, when are we going to see magazines like Glamour acknowledge white privilege in beauty standards?

Farai: I think we have time for one more question.

My bladder: No, actually, I think we're done here.

Sudden Happy Ending!

Friends, it looks like I'll be guest hosting one of the city's funnest and best-loved reading series this Wednesday night, Amanda Stern's Happy Ending. Join me, and Amanda-in-absentia, as we welcome poet Jessy Randall, author of A Day in Boyland; Sarah Schulman, author, playwright, and co-director of the ACT UP Oral History Project; Matt Marinovich, author of Strange Skies which asks, "What kind of man would lie to his own wife about having cancer?"; with music by Brooklyn's Dave Doobinin. Featuring also: delicious drinks, singalongs,and mandatory risky behavior on the part of the readers! Not the host, though. The host gets to play it safe.

Weds., November 28
Happy Ending Bar
302 Broome Street between Forsyth and Eldridge, 212-334-9676
Doors open at 7, show starts at 8 pm sharply!
Free

Searching for myself

So, you know, every so often -- and I do mean "often" -- I like to run a little web search on myself, see what people are saying about me and the book. To wit:

Sara, a sophomore at a high school in Edina, Minnesota is reading Girlbomb for Mr. Hatten's English 10 Class

Wilfred doesn't know how he wangled an invite to the Vanity Fair party, and neither do I, but I'm glad he came anyway.

Michelle Brooks, a fine, fine writer from Detroit, recommends the book for cocktail hour reading.

Carly, who loves school, thinks "this book so far is really good. It makes me think into more things when I'm reading it."

Kameron Z. Weston liked it, too, along with DC skate shoes, Bape hoodies, giant guinea pigs, and the guy who was in the skate shop in Boulder, CO.

Aisha wanted to replace me -- but she, like Beyonce, is the one who is irreplaceable.

Felicia Sullivan is sticking up for memoirists, including me.

And a whole bunch of cool-looking chicks, including Neva (22, North Carolina), Brenda La--De-Da (26, Allston, MA), Chloe (22, Melbourne, Australia), and Sarzee (31, Ontario) listed Girlbomb as one of their favorite books.

All this feedback is invaluable to me -- not just as "market research," which is how I like to justify it (I also like to justify masturbation as "aerobics") -- but as inspiration. As I said to a friend the other day, I don't care how many copies I sell, or what lists I make, as long as Carly who loves school blogs about how much Girlbomb made her think into things. So thanks, random internet peoples, for writing about my writing. It helps.

My even newer TV boyfriend

Well, folks, it's that time again -- time for me to choose a new TV boyfriend. The last one I had on record was Bo Bice, from three seasons ago on American Idol, and his expiration date passed as soon as I saw that picture of him on his first album cover:

Whoa! Dude! Why are your eyes so far open? Did you just see Carrie Underwood bash up some dude's truck? Did you have an eye job? Or just a big honkin' line of meth? Either way, I liked the heavy-lidded, smoked out Bo way better. This Bo is just too...alert for me.

Now, I'm not saying there have been zero contenders for the position of my TV boyfriend -- of course there was Project Runway's Michael Knight:

So cute! So talented! So sweet! So loved his momma! So not a heterosexual!

And I recognize that it doesn't actually matter if Michael Knight is interested in having sex with me or not -- I know all this TV boyfriend having is theoretical anyway. I mean, he doesn't even know I exist (sob!). Also, I'm married (hi, Shmoo!). But if I'm going to go through the trouble of having a TV boyfriend, he should at least (a) be a real person (sorry, Sawyer; you almost had me there), and (b) have the potential to break up my domestic partnership. So...next!

Well, there was a lot of heat around Survivor's Yul Kwon last year:

Homina homina homina homina homina homina homina...oh, sorry.

Obviously, Yul Kwon was an ideal candidate for the position of my TV boyfriend -- HOMINA, for one, and also smart and loyal and decent and HOMINA. But sadly, Yul is no longer appearing on my TV screen, and that disqualifies him. A TV boyfriend must not only be able to break up my domestic partnership, he must threaten to do so on a weekly basis. Via my TV screen. That I share with my domestic partner. Hi, Shmoo!

So that brings us to this season. What've we got...a bunch of meh nobodies on Survivor, buncha jerky nobodies on Amazing Race...everyone on Runway's gay, especially the guy who announced he was straight...there's Buddha from I Love New York 2, but he's kind of violent, which is p/m a deal breaker for me...I'm liking Dani on the Tila Tequila show, but I don't know if she's really leave-my-marriage hot...

It's looking bleak...

UNTIL:

Ladies and gentlemen, meet my new TV boyfriend, Phurba Tashi. Eleven time summitter of Mount Everest, one of the world's most accomplished mountaineers, and now direct threat to my domestic partnership -- congratulations, Phurba!

Oh, and, hi, Shmoo!

Unblock

Back in 2001, when I was doing stand-up comedy, a veteran comic gave me some great advice about how to generate new material. "Write about what disgusts you," he said, which, at the time, included him. He'd been staying on my couch while recovering from falling off the wagon after eleven years sober; now his drug of choice seemed to be phone sex, or so said my bill. I'd had to call the phone company and get them to block pay-per-call numbers; I also asked if there were any way to get the charges removed from the bill.

"Do you state that you are the person whose name is on this account, and that you did not make these calls?" asked the female representative with whom I spoke.

"Yes, and yes," I said.

"Did anyone living in your house make these calls?"

"Not to my knowledge," I said, and we both knew what I was really saying -- Thank god he did it behind my back, because I really did not want to hear his end of those conversations.

"Well, all right," she said. "I'll go ahead and erase the charges."

I thanked her, and she continued.

"You know, half the time these men call up and tell me they didn't make these calls, and then I play 'em a sample of the recording they keep on file, and they hear gotta their own voice."

"You have their voices recorded?" I asked, and she confirmed it. All the sex lines take a voice sample, she said; otherwise nobody would ever pay for their calls.

"All these men," she said. "Bunch of horny, cheap liars."

I shared a chuckle and a shake of the head with her, and she let me go. Then I went downstairs to the coffee shop and wrote ten minutes worth of jokes about phone sex.

Back in 1997, I started taking Zoloft, after the end of a truly terrible relationship with a manic, grinning, fraudulent husk of a man. Something about the end of the relationship, the onset of the Zoloft, and the three joints per day I was smoking, kicked me into creative overdrive. I would come home from a ten hour day at the office, light a joint, and write sheaves of poems, one right after the other. They were mostly unintelligible, but I thought they were great. I would come into the office in the morning and write one of them in dry erase marker on the white board we were supposed to use to track projects:

...You can call me Monterey Jack, for all I care --
Shit on you in Yiddish! I don't remember how it goes...

That's from a poem called "Sad." I actually wrote a poem called "Sad." That's what happens, when you override your internal editor with drugs.

These days, I am more resigned than disgusted. And it's been nine years since I stopped taking Zoloft, a year since I stopped smoking three joints a day. I haven't written a joke, or a poem, in forever. I haven't written a short story since September. It's been almost two months that I've been going to my writers' room, opening my notebook, and writing I don't know what the fuck to write. Sitting here in front of the "new post" window, typing and erasing and calling to Bill in the next room, What should I write?

The truth the truth the truth the truth the truth the truth the truth the truth the truth the truth...

Pre-publication projects

With less than three months to go until the publication of Have You Found Her, I find myself doing a lot of typing, but very little writing. I'm trying to catch up on my emails, especially after receiving a disappointed note from a correspondent bemoaning the fact that it took me six whole days to respond to the latest batch of poems she sent me -- if I had time to blog, she noted, surely I had time to read her work and respond to it. Indeed, I had time not only to blog, but to watch Survivor, Project Runway, and The Amazing Race, all of which I prioritized over this young woman's poems, which are certainly heartfelt and adept, despite my alacrity in telling her so. Maybe I should switch to form letters -- Thank you for sending your latest work; I read it and found it both heartfelt and adept -- or, conversely -- Thank you for sending your latest work; I think you should give up trying to communicate through language and express yourself solely through semaphore from now on. That would certainly increase my response time.

Besides answering email (most of which I am honored and delighted to receive, by the way; I'm always flattered that people choose to share their work with me, and am happy when they value my opinion), I've been trying to create a mailing list and database out of ten thousand sent emails and a bunch of little, semi-legible scraps of paper. That's going really well, for about ten second at a time, and then I tend to lose focus and start looking at pictures of cats with funny sayings attributed to them. I'm also trying to redesign this website, having just bought the URL janiceerlbaum.com -- after eleven years of using the online moniker "girlbomb," I think it's time for me to grow the hell up and start using my real name. I mean, I'm 38 years old, I'm hardly a "girl" anymore, though I am still, on occasion, a bomb. Also, Girlbomb is now only one of the many fine products in the quality Janice Erlbaum line. I'm vertically integrating my brand, like how Marc Jacobs has two labels, Marc by Marc Jacobs for the younger people, and just plain Marc Jacobs for the their older, richer counterparts. So, following that analogy, if you liked Girlbomb, your mom will love Have You Found Her.

But most of what I'm working on is just not going crazy. Three months to go, and outside of some data entry and diligence to my email, there's not a lot that I can do right now. The waiting is almost worse than the writing -- at least when I'm writing, I feel creatively productive, I can write in my notebook at the end of the day, Got four pages done, moving onto Chapter Six soon. Now I write in my notebook, Answered a bunch of emails, bought mothballs at Bed Bath and Beyond. Blogged about how I have nothing to blog about. The usual. Soon, I hope, I'll have a wonderful new project to work on, something that will keep me from obsessing about pre-orders and long-lead publicity bites. In the meantime, if you'll pardon me, I've got some poems lolcats to read.

Heh.

Sometimes, when I am at the writers' room, supposedly working, I am instead staying busy trying to answer a very important question: Who is the weirdest person at my writers' room?

Is it the nattily dressed guy with the spacey grin who shits every afternoon during peak work hours in the one communal bathroom and never uses the air freshener?

Is it the guy who sits in the corner and grunt-coughs every thirty seconds or so, as though his bong needs a thorough cleaning?

Is it shrieky-laugh lady, the one who was talking really loud the other day about her scabies?

How about the snotty twink who got mad at me when I tapped him on the shoulder to tell him his headphones were leaking sound and I could hear his shitty taste in music?

What about the guy who said into his cell phone, in earshot of everyone, "You have to meet my guru, he's really helped center me"?

Or is it the chick who took off her boots and stretched out on the couch for a nap this afternoon, during which she both drooled and snored?

Because that last one...that was me.

Heh.

Great Night

The sign in the window -- "Dooney & Bourke and Vanity Fair invite you and a guest to a special evening of conversation with Janice Erlbaum, author of the soon-to-be-released memoir HAVE YOU FOUND HER." Cocktails, hors d'oeuvres, and..........squeeeeeee! My book!

Here's me and superwoman Lauren Cerand, the embodiment of style, as well as substance. (Can't believe she got her post about tonight up before me.)

Look! It's wacky reading face, with broad gesture! Where might we have seen this before?

Me and my dear friend Janet, who those of you who've read the book will know as "Maria."

There's so much to say about the event, and all the wonderful people who were there, but it's late, and my exhilaration is turning to exhaustion, so I will just say for now: Thanks. Thanks to everyone who helped me live through this book, write this book, and celebrate this night (ed. -- yay). I'm grateful. And thanks.