Clair RSS feed for this section

An Update on Clair

There is a girl that walks these streets with unruly hair and a shrill, shrill voice.

Her name is Clair and she is a 27-year-old woman who enjoys cyber bullying her friends on the internet and any tomato based recipe. At 25, she decided to quit being a commercial real estate broker because her soul was dying and she got sick of trying to remember which colleges all her clients’ kids were applying to. Then, she met a guy and fell in love and had her heart shattered into a billion pieces with such velocity that the only historically comparable event in history is most definitely the “Big Bang”. That guy was a comedian. She never wanted to be a comedian, she just wanted to write jokes behind the scenes but not be in front of people ever. But after she had her heart ripped out of her chest, she randomly woke up one day and thought, “hmm, I will do this now”. So she does this at night time now and often eats pizza on her way home. If the pizza place she chooses to frequent does not have ranch dressing for some reason, she immediately morphs into a rage-filled animal and usually physically assaults whichever employee is unlucky enough to deliver her the bad news.

indexWhen Clair was still masquerading as a commercial real estate broker, rotting each day under the florescent lights, she used to daydream about what she would do if she didn’t have to live each day in her grey jail cell cubicle. She decided she would be a fiction writer. This was before she had done much fiction writing and knew that it requires insane discipline, self structure, and an ability to tolerate hours of solitary confinement without dicking your day away on the internet. But naive as she was, she decided to apply to a bunch of grad schools for her MFA, fully confident that she would never be admitted to any of them. Then, one day, she got a call that she had gotten into The New School in New York City. This was her chance to escape Irvine, California! She was so in shock that she started crying and impulsively left some people voice mails mid-sob. These people continue to remind her that they have saved these embarrassing voice mails for the future- so what I am saying is-  Clair really, really understands how Donald Sterling feels.

Anyway, Clair moved to New York and went to school for two years where she wrote a collection of stories about weird, racy shit that is so nutso she can never show it to her family. Then, the time came where she finally finished her goddamn thesis, and that’s why she now has time to return to this dumb fucking blog!!!! Clair would probably say that I shouldn’t curse on here in case her mom or dad or a conservative future employer read it, but she didn’t come this far to be a pussy okay.

So, that’s the update on Clair. She graduates on Thursday and is wondering what the hell she is supposed to do now. Check back if you want, she’ll be writing on here about random shit in case you’re so bored that you can’t find anything else on the fucking planet to do. K thx bye.

I Took A Greyhound Bus To New Jersey

I took a greyhound bus to New Jersey the other day. This is because I live in New York and don’t have a car.

And also because I’ve made poor choices and am not a rapper or trophy wife or professional wrestler like I should be and therefore do not have any money.

Artists take greyhound buses. See, I am one. All you have to do is say it, nobody can take away a self declaration you guys.


It was on a nice Wednesday that Christina (character of best friend extraordinaire) and I boarded our multi-wheeled chariot in pursuit of a wild 4th of July on the Jersey Shore (***this was not our first bus trip, just simply the most notable as of late). We had the excitement and adventure of that Sex In The City episode where Carrie wrangles Samantha into a cross country train trip to her book party in LA. Except we were only going three hours away.

Everything started off smooth. Before it became not smooth.

We had traveled for a mere thirty minutes, barely entering the state of  New Jersey when the skies started rumbling with anger. Within a few seconds, we were in the middle of a flash flood on the turnpike. Ordinarily, this would just make for a slower ride. But not on this day, dear readers.


It was discovered by our surly bus driver, that the windshield wipers on our beloved perambulator were in fact busted. And this was only observed after the homeless man sitting in the seat directly behind us started screaming that the roof was caving in. Since he’d been yelling for most of the ride, it took the whole bus about four minutes before we realized that he was actually telling the truth about the onslaught of water on his head. There was literally a waterfall leak pouring in from the roof everywhere.

I’m 75-years-old man! Gimme another seat, it’s rainin’ on my goddamn head, GODDAMN-IT-IS-RAININ-ON-MY-HEAD! What is an old man sposed to do. IT RAININ ON MY HEEADDDDDD!

But he didn’t look 75. I just want to tell you guys that. He looked more like a strong 50. So he got up and ran to the front of the bus and sat next to the driver. This was a relief for us. Because we were very close to him and his yelling.

Then our bus driver started yelling at us that we had to sit on the side of the road until another bus came to pick us up because he refused to lose his job “just to get us to our destination on time”. EVEN THOUGH IT ONLY RAINED FOR A TOTAL OF TEN MINUTES and we actually didn’t need windshield wipers any more. The man really channeled his anger towards his passengers.

So while we waited for our rescue bus for two hours on the side of the road with our phone batteries dangerously approaching dead, we were then treated to our old homeless friend’s philosophical musings. He commandeered the front of the bus, taking it hostage as his stage, while we all sat listening as his (literal) captive audience:

You guys are lucky I’m here fo yo entertainment. You guys hungry? I got crab salad and egg salad in my backpack for you. You don’t have to pay nothin for it. I also got a bottle of sneaky sneaky. Don’t tell nobody but I got the Hennessy in there if ya’ll want some.

Nothing like some unrefrigerated crab salad/egg salad washed down with some Henny.

But this ride was all very good for Christina and me because it made us feel way less white and suburban and inexperienced.

Greyhound buses rule, you just have to not care about getting anywhere on time ya know.  You just have to not care if you get rained on inside the bus or if your driver yells at you.

The Day I Met Derek Hough

Every once in awhile in life, there are a few things you wish so hard for that by some twist of fate they end up coming true. A few days ago, I was sitting in my neighborhood East Village coffee shop being a cliche-writer-nerd when I looked up and saw him.

A Scandinavian viking Adonis. He breezed through the glass doors in all black Eric Northman garb and smiled at me. Motorcycle jacket, black jeans, black wayfarers, blonde hair cleanly disheveled. Except it wasn’t Skarsgaard, it was Derek Hough, TV dancing tycoon and heart-throb mirage.  


What was Derek doing in New York? I thought. Is Dancing With The Stars still a thing because I only watched the Kirstie Alley season and god, I really loved when he got mad. The passion, the fire. Maybe he’s doing a theater run, I pondered, my thoughts racing. Now when I encounter celebrities, I get all reverse too cool. I just never want to bother them, or worse, have them think me a mere mortal, an every man of the masses with the same fawning groupie impulses. So I ignore them like I’m a high school senior and they’re a sophomore boy. It’s makes for the best “almost best stories that never happened”.

Like the other night, I was at the bar sitting next to Pete Holmes after my show and he very graciously said to me and a friend (THIS IS A DIRECT QUOTE), “want some of this tuna roll, I already had one” and all I said was, “no, thank you” with an inappropriate amount of earnestness. THAT’S ALL I SAID – to a comedian I really like – the entire time he was sitting next to me and talking to my friend about anything and everything. I didn’t tell him about how I listen to him talk for four hours every week or how I feel like we are best friends and have the same constant push-pull views about religion, love, booze, and kale…the self loathing. I even looked away like a total weirdo every time he tried to politely make eye contact. And he was so nice and friendly! Lame. But I digress, I’ve always had a top secret attraction to Derek Hough even though he checks a lot of the boxes in the “what I’m not attracted to in a guy ever” category. Mainly it’s the spray tans, too tight v-neck t-shirts, highlights, and lycra that throw me off. Or too much concern with his body, I don’t want to feel like a guy is constantly saying, “bitch, dont eat that” with his abs, ya know. According to my friends, I am a minority on this, but I find vanity in a man to be repugnant. Lady boner-killa. BUT NOT WITH DEREK YOU GUYS. WHAT A FORCE OF SEXINESS.


Okay so anyways, my metrosexual exception strolls in and orders a black coffee. Cowboys have drank their coffee black through the ages so I’m already on board (I attribute this order to rugged sensibility instead of caloric calculation). And then as part of God’s cruel joke, the only table available in the entire place…is directly to my left. About three inches away from my own round table. He sits down and says, “Hello”. He was speaking to me directly, there was nothing I could do. “Hello, Derek”, I said with a maniacal calmness.

He looked at my computer screen, “Mindy Project huh? Do you write for it?”

“No, no. Not even close! It’s just a spec script. I’m nobody!”

And then as he took a sip of his black coffee, he reached up and touched the side of my cheek, looking directly at me with those piercing White Fang eyes, “Nonsense! I can see your soul and it’s beautiful and brave. I met Mindy once. She’s just as terrific as you’d think. It takes balls to try and write her show for her!”

“I’m not trying to write her show for her! I mean I am, kinda. I mean, thank you, Derek!”

“You’re welcome, my sweet. Do you dance?”

“I used to when I was little, but my mom took me out of it because she thought it would be unhealthy for my self image given my body type…”

“What a remarkable woman. Listen, how about you pack up your equipment and come on an adventure with me.”

I looked over both of my shoulders, trying to make sure he had in fact directed the question to me and not somebody else. And then in the lull before I could think of words to say, he leaned in and kissed me. I felt my toes tingle as I worried about my coffee breath, but then told myself it was okay because he was drinking black coffee which everyone knows cancels out iced coffee with milk and splenda breath. Normally, I would be worrying about other people seeing me kiss in public, but it felt like I was having a stroke. A pleasant one, my brain stopped completely and I died a little. Then he grabbed my hand and gently pulled me out of the coffee shop on to the Manhattan street.

“I’m only here for 24 hours, I need to spend it with you!”, he said with urgency as he looked down at me with all six feet two inches of his towering dancer physique.

“Yes! I will! I want to!” and then he twirled me in the air above his head. Without falling down or suffering serious back injury. I gasped with happiness. We made out on the street corner and laughed like we were in a Justin Timberlake rom com.

What followed is not suitable content for this blog and I apologize for that but this is neither the time nor the place for erotic fan fiction.

Please just know that way up there in the sky, someone is looking out for your deepest, darkest dreams. They can come true. Mine did.

***The author would like to take this time to mention that the above story was in fact just a dream. A dream that never happened. Except for the Pete Holmes part, that is unfortunately 100% true.