Sunday, July 27, 2008

In which Jane Donuts suffers a collision.

Jane Donuts was headed west on Olympic last night at approximately 11:40 when a sixteen year old kid took a left hand turn and crashed into her car, setting off the airbags and leaving her stopped parallel across the road in a cloud of smoke and with a bruised and cut arm. The Silver Jews were on the radio. It was a pretty dark stretch of road and there were a few nighttime creatures walking along on the road. Jane Donuts sat frozen in the car for a minute or two until the youngling that hit her walked up the to the passenger side door to ask her if she was alright. She was alright, just shocked. The kid lit up a smoke. Jane Donuts removed her ipod from the car and got out. A nice lady stopped and told her she saw the crash and that it was not Jane's fault, and gave her her business card and offered to be a witness. So that was nice.

Five minutes or so passed and Jane Donuts was trying to collect her thoughts. The car's back left wheel was crushed in and concave, and so she couldn't move it out of the street. Assholes were driving by and honking. Some bitch shouted out the window that she should move the car, and Jane Donuts gave her the finger and yelled at her that the car wouldn't move. The cops were called, but they didn't want to come since nobody was injured. They transferred Jane Donuts to a tow company. The operator there had attitude, which was not surprising. Jane Donuts was trying to write down her information when a nice looking Indian woman walked up to her and just looked at her. Jane Donuts looked back at her for a minute. The woman said, "I'm his mom." Jane Donuts nodded and was trying to be nice and offer some kind of conciliatory gesture, but found she lacked the strength. The kid was scared shitless. An older black man with a nice gold chain and plaid shorts came up to her and offered her a pen. A younger black man with a pit bull told Jane Donuts and the kid that they should get everything of value out of the cars immediately.

The cops pulled up and shined flashlights, asked if everyone was OK. The tow truck guy came and he was 300 pounds at least. He had some kind of contraption with claws that sought out the wheels and sucked the car up onto the truck. JD asked him for a ride home, which he was not entirely happy about, but was slightly mollified when he was informed that home was just a mile west. There was no music in the car on the ride home. The driver had a blue tooth ear thing. The driver and Jane Donuts didn't speak. Jane Donuts' brother called and Jane Donuts was cursing while describing the incident. The driver did not mind. The tow truck rattled as it rolled over the speed bumps in Jane's neighborhood. He dropped her off and she thanked him kindly.

The night was over and Jane Donuts has all body parts functioning, but a sore arm and shoulder and a slightly bruised psyche.

And that was the end.

Tuesday, July 8, 2008

Monkey Love

I have a new friend in the blogosphere. I don't know him very well, but I like his vibe.

Enjoy the first two installments. I'll post more as they come out. Welcome, Monkey.

Part One:

Part Two:

Jane Donuts Takes Your Questions.

From a love lorn reader on the east side, we have this:

"Will anyone love a plump chick who carries a good extra 15 el bees?"

Jane Donuts can speak from experience here, and the answer is yes. True, he may not himself have rock hard abs, and he may in fact have an addiction to Scrabulous and an undying love of Sparks and taquitos, but good loard, yes, it is possible. While it's true there are many men out there with double standards - like it's OK for him to eat Jack in the Box on a daily basis but he abhors any trace of cellulite - there are also many men out there who yearn for a soft feeling woman with a good set of hips who can make them laugh and entertain them both in and out of the boudoir. Which any friend of Jane Donuts can certainly do.

Think of all women throughout time. How many of them could stand up to the scrutiny of a paparazzi style photograph without getting a label like "Worst Beach Bodies"? Very few, my dear, very few. In fact, I am reminded of the American beauty I once met at an event I produced while living in New York City who not only had a great husband, a life that was by all accounts enviable and a mother who was a legendary beauty, but who also had a sort of saggy bulbous ass in khaki pants. Did this stop her from being stellar? No. And what of these people who really do look stellar all the time? What of these models, these starlets, even these genetic freaks (Halle Berry? Uma Thurman?) who, even after several kids and an age approaching the wrong side of 40, still look amazing? Well, one of the reasons they are so regularly photographed is because of their very genetic freakishness. It's a marvel. It's far stranger to appear perfect (and far more difficult, I might add - don't think those women aren't availing themselves of every beauty treatment modern technology and a shitload of dough has to offer) than it is to appear normal. And that's why we want to look at them, really.

But I'm digressing a bit here. I think the real key is to just own it. Just do the best you can with what you have, as my dad likes to say. On a physical level, anytime you really examine someone, even the most ostensibly physically flawless person, you can find a few flaws. The difference between those who really attract people and those who don't is the attitude. If you can somehow convince yourself that you should be fucked - nay, loved - and of course, some days that's easier than others - then somehow others will want to fuck/love you. Even if you have to wear Spanx and other horrifying female contraptions. Once the clothes start to come off, no one really gives a shit. For reals. Just keep the lights off at first if you have to. After a while, it really won't matter.

Do you have a question for Jane Donuts? Email me at

Wednesday, July 2, 2008

Avoiding the Hot Stove

As a child, you learn the concept of a hot stove. Mom says "hot," and that means bad, and that you shouldn't touch it. You learn it again (or at least we did, when we were small) when you see the Bugs Bunny public service announcement, which is not so much about not touching the hot burners on the hot stove (which will in fact burn your fat little hand, and possibly cause a paralysis/nub situation), but more about keeping the pot handles turned in. "Keep those pot handles turned in!," says Bugs.

He was smart, Bugs. Anyone with common sense knows to not keep going back to something that harms you, and without any rewards.

Tuesday, July 1, 2008

So I'm Back to the Velvet Underground

Not really. But that's the first line to one of my favorite songs ever. "Gypsy." Half bittersweet, half just regular old sweet. Hopeful but at the same time resigned to accept the way things tend to play out.

Reminds me of listening to Fleetwood Mac when I was little. We had a huge old wooden stereo cabinet that my dad used to play records on. He had America and Abbey Road and the soundtrack to the Wizard of Oz, among others, and eight track tapes of other, less interesting stuff. Like Johnny Mathis. (Yikes.) And Elvis. (Never interesting to me.)

My dad would throw on a record and, if the mood was right, we'd go to town, dancing, chasing each other around, singing, spinning and acting slightly less disordered than usual by virtue of keeping in time with the music. Maybe that's where it all started. That and with roadtrips, which involved nonstop music. My mom listening to "The Tide is High" and "Abracadabra" in the station wagon on the radio. Cassette tapes of Hall and Oates, Paul Simon, more Fleetwood Mac in the Buick Delta 88. (My dad: "Christine McVie is a fox!" Strange that he preferred her to Stevie Nicks.)

And no, I'm really not sure where I'm going with this. But if I could figure out how to post a song, I would post "Gypsy."