Pimp Daddy

Because I'm so down with the street, Time Out assigned me to review Don Reed's one-person show about growing up with his very own pimp daddy, East 14th.

At Least the Music's Good ...

Did you know that the IRS does not forward your economic stimulus check? If the address on it is old, it goes back to them. I learned that the hard way last week, when I realized I still hadn't received my $600 check. And get this -- when I tried to transfer to an operator to give them my new address, I couldn't even get on hold! It took a few more calls before I even got to that stage, and when I finally did, it took me an hour before I was at last transferred to a live person.

Fortunately, during the wait, I managed to get some editing and proofreading done thanks in no small part to the IRS's hold music: Mozart, Tchaikovsky and other classical composers rather than bland Muzak. At least there's one thing that the federal government is doing right.

From Whence They Came

Our main reason for going to the Brooklyn Museum was to catch the much-ballyhooed Murakami exhibit before it ends next this weekend, but as we were leaving we stumbled upon Judy Chicago's The Dinner Party at the Elizabeth A. Sackler Center for Feminist Art (how's that for an imposingly named wing!).

I wasn't familiar with the piece when reviews of Manhattan Theatre Club's recent revival of Top Girls referenced it, and now that I am I'm even more impressed with Caryl Churchill's ability to take inspiration from a rather dry and didactic installation and find such wit, humor and heart.

One omission from Chicago's dinner party of 39 notable women in history that seems particularly egregious to me is Eleanor Roosevelt, especially because I spent Saturday in Hyde Park, N.Y., traipsing around the wonderful FDR Presidential Library and Museum (pictured), including a side trip to the home Eleanor called her own .

Georgia on My Mind

A Brush With Georgia O'Keeffe was certainly educational, even if it didn't get under the canvas of its subject as successfully as Sunday in the Park With George or Edward Albee's Occupant did. My Time Out review.

That's Dickey, you $*^)!

My boss asked me to forward her contact information for the novelist Eric Jerome Dickey, and we couldn't understand why my e-mails, which had his name in the subject line, weren't going through.

Then she remembered that she'd programmed her e-mail to send all messages involving the word "dick" to spam because we'd been getting copious amounts of penis-enlargement spam with very graphic photos. Sure enough, problem solved!

Could this mean that Iona Nipple's friends are wondering why they don't hear from her more often?