emilyrems.com

Big ups to TMZ.com for alerting the world to the existence of the most perfect gift anyone could ever give me:
“Ever pictured the gals from the “Golden Girls” dressed up in leather and whips — or just plain naked? Of course you have. Live the fantasy — with the new ‘Golden Gals Gone Wild’ art show, set to open in Los Angeles on August 11. After purchasing a Chris Zimmerman oil painting of Bea Arthur in full frontal view, Lenora Claire felt inspired to create a show where artists submitted their naughtiest versions of the ‘Girls.’ This is the most age-inappropriately sexy show since Dennis Franz bared it all on ‘NYPD Blue.’”

O.M.G….OMG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Well, maybe not millions, but there were a ton of kids at the Drunky Brewster show at Cake Shop on Monday. Not only that, but one of their adoring fans (a dreadlocked member of a notorious bicycle gang methinks) started setting off crazy firscrackers in front of the stage during their combined set with Mixel Pixel. Everyone started screaming and the fire alarms started whooping and strobing like mad, and the gals kept on trucking until the fire department came in and busted up the fun…

Of course by then enthusiasm was at a fever pitch, so Callie’s friend Dana started aggressively propositioning New York’s Bravest while McBrush got feisty screaming “Firemen are hottt!” and Cokane and LCF and I cheered and giggled in the darkness. Finally the powers that be were satisfied that we weren’t going to recreate some kind of Great White scenario, so they let the show roar back to life and the firemen even stayed to catch a whiff of the Brewster’s latest jam “Scent of a Womens.” Truly, it was a rock show that shall go down in Cake Shop history, though I doubt they’ll ever let the Brewster play there again.

Just when I thought that things were starting to get relatively sane for me, my beloved shrink informed me today that she will have to stop seeing me at the end of August because she’s moving her practice to Riverdale. Riverdale? Riverdale!?!?! Is she fucking kidding me??? She’s the fifth shrink I’ve gone to in my long, illustrious career of mental illness (not counting the bored, tired pill-pushers assigned to me when I was in the nut hut back in the day), and she is the ONLY one I ever liked. She says that she’ll help me find someone new, but I’m just like “whatevs.” Right now I just feel surprised and super sad and so not ready to start telling my life story all over again to someone new. I would rather chew glass in fact. I dunno - maybe my Woody-style, neurotic 40-minute ramble phase has just reached it’s anti-climactic conclusion. Lookout world - here I come. I may look fully clothed, but inside I’m totally naked.

In all the fashion show excitement of last weekend, I have neglected until now to mention the hilarious events of last friday night. LCF’s friend Kim was having a big blowout birthday bash in the back karaoke room at Jeollado, where her parents had generously footed the bill for piles of sushi and liberal amounts of sake, and where everyone was taking advantage of their lowered inhibitions to delightfully massacre super-white hits by Neil Young, Eric Clapton (”Tears in Heaven” anyone?) and Billy Joel, much to LCF and I’s collective horror. We did our part to mix things up, me with “Total Eclipse of the Heart” (natch) and LCF with “Paint it Black.” But the latter got us all sweaty so we bailed for a walk around the block. When we reached the notorious gay dive The Boiler Room, the heavenly creature you see at the center of the above photo (between Kim and LCF) was having an impromptu photo sesh out front with her entourage. We watched for a while, then I told her she looked awes, at which point she thanked me and roughly grabbed my tits. I guess this made me comfortable enough with her to suggest that she run into our old ghetto-ass Dolphin gym next door and run on the treadmill in her giant heels for a photo op, because suggest I did, and to my delight she swiftly took action and make a ruckus on the road to nowhere until she got thrown out by security while we watched and laughed our asses off through the plate glass window. After that little escapade, LCF and I dragged the space oddity now identified as Rainblo, and her entire entourage back to Kim’s party with us, where they quickly took over. First Rainblo called the birthday girl a whore. Then she took off her skirt. Then she sang a little of Elton John’s “Tiny Dancer,” then she called the birthday girl’s mom a whore, and then she posed for this picture before disappearing into the night. One could easily imagine that our little stunt with Rainblo was the most shocking turn of events of the whole party, but in a stunning upset, it was actually this:

Hours of sake-drinking into the festivities, Kim’s mom draped her arm around my shoulder and screamed into my ear over “Purple Rain” - “When you get older, dancing makes you pee! I’m gonna go throw my underwear away!” After which she left, returned minutes later (presumably sans underwear), and then busted a move so fierce she lost her footing and fell through a table. Kim’s mom - I salute you!

In a touching denoument to the whole affair, I found out at the fashion show that Rainblo is actually friends with The World Famous *Bob* and that the two of them had recently been ejected from the Ritz Carleton in Paris during fashion week because management had deemed their attire inappropriate. Further proof that Parisians have no taste.

Never before have I felt more “like an East Village version of Tracy Turnblad from Hairspray, only, like, not,” then I did this past Sunday when I made my modeling debut at the Mode Merr fashion brunch at Marion’s. Angela Zampell, the mad genius behind Mode Merr, made this amazing skirt to go with the 666 top she made me for my 30th Birthday, and together, the ensemble looked like it had come right off the rack at Mr. Pinky’s! Not only was it super-amazing and glamouriffic to get all dressed and made up and fussed over by awes rockabilly chicks who actually know something about cool hair and makeup, but it was also surreal to be hanging out with local legends like The World Famous *BoB*, Little Brooklyn, and The Pontani Sisters as a fellow event participant instead of as a journalistic observer.

That’s not to say it wasn’t also terrifying, because it totally was! Just before I stepped out onto the runway, I was nervous-sweating so hard under all that tulle that my pantyhose which had been perfectly in place for the last three hours started rolling down my hips. By the time I made my first turn, they were off my ass and threatening to come down around my ankles at any moment. So I cast the packed house (including my parents and the Baroness von Pink!) my most fake confident smile, grabbed the top of the hose where they had now landed mid thigh, and shuffled casually off the runway as best I could in time to Edith Piaf. As soon as I got off stage, the other models who knew it was my first time were all like, “How was it?” and I couldn’t even front. I was just like, “It was fun! My pantyhose fell down!” And that was that until the next show at 2:30 where LCF and my work homies Callie, Dawn and Tara had secured a VIP booth at the end of the runway. That time around, before I lined up, I yanked those suckers almost up over my boobs to avoid a repeat performance of their amazing disappearing act. Maybe a little extreme, especially since I did it in front of all the other models backstage, but it seemed to do the trick. After I took my final sashay, I downed a strong libation called “The Fashionista” in one long stiff pull, then sadly went down stairs to give my hair back. I didn’t have to give the skirt back though, and that was the best part of all!

I’m so spoiled. I float around my well-lit, bustling-at-all-hours neighborhood in a perceived bubble of safety, assuming that the city that never sleeps will always protect me from random harm in the night. But this sign, which LCF and I spied after sushi last night on 2nd. Ave. & St. Marks made me feel so sad and worried. And then Jennigirl forwarded me this alert from Gothamist this Morning:

“The police are looking for a man they believe may be involved with four sexual attacks in the East Village and Lower East Side. Early yesterday morning, a 20-year-old woman was attacked at East 9th and Second Avenue, as the Sun puts it, ‘just steps away from the bright lights of the 24-hour Veselka Restaurant.’ The other attacks occurred in other parts of the East Village and on Mott Street, near Prince. Police Commissioner Ray Kelly said the latest attack is ’seen as part of the pattern,’ with all the attacks happening in the early morning, when women are entering their buildings. The attacker puts the woman into a chokehold, and, in one case, the News reports, ‘the man put his arm around a victim’s neck and caused her to pass out for a short period.’”

Holy crap! I KNOW I live in a huge city and that these things are bound to happen, but after all this time, the Villiage really does feel like a little villiage to me, and it’s terrible to think that this is suddenly happening with such alarming frequency to my fellow-lady neighbors, and that it could happen at any time to my late-night-going-out ass. Keep those keys handy at all times chicas! And lets keep our ears and eyes out for each other.

Just a quick note to anyone I haven’t already harassed that my band Royal Pink is playing a huge show at Crash Mansion tonight called Girls ROCK! It’s sponsored by AM New York, so there were already big ads out for the show with our pics in ‘em (a first for us!), plus there’ll be lots of dancing, tons of glam girl bands, and a local TV show called New York Noise will be filming the whole sordid affair! As a side note, my parents will be there too, getting their RP on for the very first time, and you KNOW you don’t want to miss them getting their 60 and 70-year-old grooves on! Here’s the deets:

Crash Mansion
Thursday, July 19th
8pm
cost: FREE for YOU!!

Crash Mansion is at 199 Bowery at Spring. Take the B/D/F/V to Broadway Lafayette or the F/V to 2nd Ave.

So last night, LCF and I were excavating all the creepy cluttered corners of our wee apartamente, when he discovered a pair of baby blue men’s pajamas (see above right) that his mom had given him. When he put them on, I realized not only that I had never seen him in old-school, ’50s dad-style pajamas before, but that I had in fact NEVER seen a real grown-ass man wearing them in real life - EVER! I guess this makes sense since LCF is the first BF I’ve ever lived with, but still! How could I have gone this long without experiencing the sublime pleasure of seeing a cute boy all curled up and cozy in a full-out sleep suit??? I think my enthusiasm over his noctournal attire freaked him out a little, but hopefully that won’t inhibit him when he wants to sport those long lost jim-jams again. Ladies - consider this a public service announcement. Old School PJs are HOTTT! So tell yer loverman to dispense with the boxer briefs and to go with something a little more formal if he wants to dress for success between the sheets.

OK - so if you didn’t know that this falafel joint on my block was called Chickpea, what, exactly, would you suppose that they were delivering? I know I have the sense of humor of a seventh grader, because every time I pass their new sign I’m afraid I might piss myself.

Whenever people ask me why I’ve never gone through with my fantasy plan to get a giant flaming heart tattoo on my big meaty bicep, I have to unsteadily explain that if I wanna get buried in a Jewish cemetery with the rest of my family, I gotta keep it clean or they’ll posthumously chop my arm off. Which is, you know, gnarly. What I didn’t realize until today, however, is that I’ll really need that arm at the end of days! According to this article on Jewcy, scripture states that when the Messiah comes, decomposing Jewish zombies will pop out of their graves all over the world and simultaneously start ROLLING towards Israel through a series of underground tunnels that end at the Mount of Olives. Once we’re all there, we’ll explode out of the mountain like a giant Jewish zombie tsunami, be reunited with our souls, and transform into the hottest, most awesomest version of our living selves. Yessssss! When I think of all the excruciatingly dull hours I spent in hebrew school being forced to memorize by rote words I was never taught the meanings of when they could have been telling me insane zombie stories instead, I get all riled up! Not to mention itchy for a lil’ trip to the tattoo parlor…

I often wonder if animals have the same sense of time that we have, or if they recognize the weekends as those two days per week when the humans are lazier and more underfoot than usual. Last weekend, Xiola was a devil kitty on a mission, and that mission was to torment me, but her rebellion only lasted two days, Saturday and Sunday, and then it abruptly subsided. Over the course of those two days she was a holy terror—administering two long, bloody gashes to my calves as I slept, hiding behind the arm of the sofa and then leaping out, hissing, with claws bared every time I had the audacity to try and leave my bedroom, and generally being a rotten pet. In the face of this unprovoked insurgency, I chased her around the apartment with a full sports bottle of water in a vain attempt to douse her into submission. Maybe it worked eventually. Or maybe it was just her freaky kitty circadian rhythms that had her purring in my lap once Monday rolled around. But now it’s Friday, and though I’m hoping for the best, I’m still girding for battle. Be warned cat. You better straighten up and fly right or it’s gonna be another wet ‘n’ wild weekend.

Jenni & Emily do battle with Wii Boxing, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

I know I’m way late on this one, but how come nobody told me how insanely fun the Nintendo Wii is? After a Memorial Day spent kickboxing, brunching and watching the crackheads put on their own live-action nature show in Tomkins Square Park, I headed over to Jenni’s place with LCF to get my first taste of her coveted white console. In this vainglorious picture above, I’ve just successfully knocked out Jenni in Wii Boxing and am shamelessly gloating. The silliest part of the whole thing is that the Wii let us make adorable nerd-girl avatars of ourselves, complete with nebbishy black glasses, so as we worked up a sweat feverishly flailing our limbs at her TV screen, or virtual selves were ruthlessly punching each other HARD in our respective bespectacled faces. Like, over and over! Ever the artist, LCF spent a really long time carefully creating his avatar, agonizing over the shape of his lil’ cartoon-self’s eyebrows, but had no interest in actually playing any games with it. I, however, was all about slugging Jenni in the face. Maybe eating lots of soy hasn’t made me lose my violent edge after all.

NYU dorm, 14th St. 5/23/07, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

This time of year, the decidedly Sporty-Spice-style inhabitants of the NYU dorm by my house clear out for the summer, and their rooms are immediately repopulated by a refreshingly weirder, more free-spirited breed known as the summer students. Here, two such specimens were captured in their natural habitat, on the street in front of the residence hall’s main entrance, engaging in some sort of primitive mating ritual involving inappropriate use of office scissors. Aren’t they presh? Much like Happy Fun Ball, it is wise not to taunt the summer students. Not because they’re dangerous or anything. I just think they might be sensitive. Awww.

Loose Marbles in Washington Sqare 5/23/07, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

I’m such a bizzy-bee this week I don’t even have time to pee, but I couldn’t let another second go by without telling all of N.Y.C. to run to Washington Square to try and catch the Loose Marbles! This New Orleans jazz collective will make you shout “Allelulja!” to the heavens, they’re so astonishingly good! We’re talking, trumpet, clarinet, tricked-out washboard and high hat percussion, acordion, upright bass, steel guitar, olde tyme dancers, a girl singer with an amazing voice, THE WORKS! They usually grace the street corners of New Orleans where they’re local legends, but for the next little while they’re playing Washington Square Park during the day and clubs at night, so hit it don’t quit it!

Freaky-ass girl guitar, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

And who says there are no women in rock? Mad props to Cokane for bringing this little gem to my attention. No explanation came with it. I guess it just is what it is. May God have mercy on his soul.

Fantasy, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

Only in the East Village can a gal such as myself roll out of bed at dawn to give her gym’s new “Cardio Wakeup” class a go, only to end up with a private fly girl lesson from one of Mariah Carey’s backup dancers from her “Fantasy” video!!!!! Seriously. You can’t make this shit up. At 7:30 AM, the heavily tattooed Levi had all the moves: we did the bus stop, pop and lock isolations, hip rolls and more to a remix of “She’s Like the Wind” while he shouted out directions a la Debbie Allen in FAME: “Five, six, seven, eight…and FREAK…and FREAK…and FREAK!” He also had many entertaining anecdotes about how I could use these moves in clubland, and even had a special excersise “for the back of my jeans…to make the guys turn ’round.” When the class was over, the girl running the juice bar outside the classroom gave me a round of applause, so I guess while I was getting a private lesson, I unwittingly became her private dancer.

Billy Blanks Busts A Move, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

I’m totally overstimulated by the fact that my gym, which I lovingly refer to as “ShittyFitness,” finally got off their toned collective ass and started offering exercise classes. Last week I crunched myself into painful oblivion in Mat Pilates, and yesterday I almost fainted during kickboxing because the room wasn’t air conditined and all that bobbing and weaving and jabbing caused every ounce of fluid in my body to violently leap from all my pores onto the floor (ever watched your fingers sweat?). Drama aside, the class was badass. All the ladies in the room, including our totally ripped instructor Stephanie, showed up wearing black, so when we got into the routine, we looked like a coordinated gang of chubby grrrl ninjas out for street justice. It was hilarious so I had to disguise my laughs as heavy breathing and coughs. The best part by far was when Stephanie got frighteningly pumped duing her flow of motivational chatter and started shouting “Yeah Muthafuckas!” I was all like, “Hell to the Yeah.”

Jade Mountain, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

THE NEW YORK TIMES
East Village:
For Bright Beacons, a Murky Future
By CASSI FELDMAN
Published: May 13, 2007

For decades, they floated over Second Avenue near East 12th Street like twin stars guiding tipsy East Villagers home: “Jade Mountain” in glowing pink bamboo-style letters, and above it, in rosy neon, a smaller, two-sided sign bearing the words “Chow Mein.”

But these days, the name of the old-school chop suey house is obscured by a giant “For Lease” poster. Jade Mountain closed in February, five months after Reginald Chan, its 60-year-old owner, was hit by a truck and killed while making a delivery on a bicycle. As Mr. Chan’s family, which owns the building, looks for a new tenant, neighbors fear that the vintage neon signs, like the restaurant, will soon disappear.

Emily Rems, a 32-year-old magazine editor who lives on East 14th Street, is particularly fond of the Jade Mountain sign, and the buzzing sound it made when some of its letters started to dim. “It just seems like it’s been there forever and ever,” she said the other day, “and there’s something comforting about that.”

The chow mein sign captivates Ed Cahill, a 46-year-old actor and filmmaker. “It’s like something off a Hollywood lot,” Mr. Cahill said.

The restaurant, which opened in 1931, spoke to a bygone era, serving steaming plates of egg foo yong and moo goo gai pan until the day it closed. Last week, passers-by were still pressing their face to the glass as if willing it to reopen.

Mr. Chan’s 25-year-old son, Nick, who lives above Jade Mountain, does not know the history of the signs or what will become of them once the space is leased. “I don’t know who would have room for something like that,” he said.

But for Ms. Rems, who once kissed her boyfriend underneath the Jade Mountain sign, the image will always have a certain glow. “I thought it would be lucky,” she said. “Now I’ll have to do it one last time.”

*They printed this photo too! Hooray!

My Little Cthulu, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

My tiny apartment already resembles the island of misfit toys, and there is literally no room in there for anything else until I buckle down and do that massive spring cleaning purge I’ve been promising to do since LAST spring, but OMG you guys!!!!! Look at this!!!!! Never has a Lovecraftian beast of the deep been so adorable!!!! Here’s the stats on him I just got from my toy pusher:

“My Little Cthulhu from Dreamland Toyworks just arrived. Each 8″ tall vinyl comes with 2 Little Victims for you to have him dismember and you can even buy an additional set of My Little Victims for more gory fun. Based on the art of John Kovalic who has reinterpreted the classic H. P. Lovecraft character in his award winning strip Dork Tower.”

*sigh*

Care Bear Crash, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

If you saw my play Li’l Care Bear Crash mounted (he he he) by Cherry Red Productions last week, there can be no doubt that your life was irrevocably changed. If you missed it, that means you haven’t yet been touched by the play’s poignant message of peace and tolerance and are probs still a racist. Either way, you know you want to see it (or see it again for the first time), so check it out here on YouTube and tell all your friends!