My theater friends used to say that I'm the Bukowski of desserts, so I know whereof I speak when I vociferously recommend the new line of chocolates, Cocoa Pete's. The flavors, textures, packaging, and price comprise the perfect dessert, or PMS dinner.
If only writers landed endorsement deals.
Cocoa Pete's Chocolate Adventures
Photo by Kymberlee della Luce
About Me
- Litsa Dremousis:
- My work appears in The Believer, BlackBook, Esquire, HuffPo, Jezebel, McSweeney's, Monkeybicycle, MSN, New York Magazine, Nerve, The Nervous Breakdown, Nylon, The Onion's A.V. Club, Paper, Paste, Poets & Writers, the Seattle Weekly, Slate, Aol's Spinner, on NPR, KUOW, and in sundry additional venues. Among others, I've interviewed Sherman Alexie, The Black Keys, Dan Boeckner, Augusten Burroughs, Billy Corgan, Betty Davis (the legendary, reclusive soul singer), Dead Can Dance, Death Cab for Cutie, Estelle, Ron Jeremy, Demetri Martin, Colin Meloy, Alanis Morissette, Tim Blake Nelson, the Posies, John Roderick, Lynn Shelton, Jesse Sykes, Wanda Sykes, John Vanderslice, Rufus Wainwright and Ann Wilson. My essay, "The Great Cookie Offering", appears in Seal Press' anthology, "Single State of the Union", I have a piece in Smith Magazine's HarperCollins anthology, "It All Changed in an Instant: More Six-Word Memoirs" and I'm a winner of BlackBook's Hemingway Short Story Contest. I'm completing my first novel. YOU CAN CONTACT ME AT ldremousis at yahoo dot com and, if you want, follow me on Twitter @LitsaDremousis.
Monday, March 22, 2004
Sunday, March 14, 2004
Buckingham's Chalice:
A few months ago, I wrote that Lindsey Buckingham now looks like a haggard English professor.
A retraction of sorts: I'm watching the Fleetwood Mac documentary on VH1 and next to Mick Fleetwood and John McVie, Buckingham's visage is positively dewy. In addition to the bongwater, Buckingham clearly drank from the cup of life, too.
[Note: Dear Stevie, your cracked gravel voice still breaks my heart.]
A retraction of sorts: I'm watching the Fleetwood Mac documentary on VH1 and next to Mick Fleetwood and John McVie, Buckingham's visage is positively dewy. In addition to the bongwater, Buckingham clearly drank from the cup of life, too.
[Note: Dear Stevie, your cracked gravel voice still breaks my heart.]
Friday, March 05, 2004
The Blair Bitch Project:
I'm really ill and missed most of my friend's birthday party tonight. (By the time I got there, I had to leave. Otherwise, I wouldn't have been able to drive home safely.) I was looking forward to toasting her on her big night and I'm bummed.
I've got awful chills so I've changed into flannel pajamas, my robe with the puppy dogs on it, and thick wool socks. (The latter comprise the only garments I own from that style-chomping black hole, REI.)
It is in this mood and under these circumstances that I've turned on the television and inadvertantly encountered Katie Couric's interview with Jayson Blair. I loathe Blair for all the obvious reasons, but here's the truly absurd thing: he's explaining to Couric that his bipolar disorder played a role in the grotesque deception he perpetrated at The New York Times. A manic depressive New York writer: that's *historically unprecedented.* He must feel like a two-headed baby. With fins. If mood disorders gave writers permission not to do their jobs, homo sapiens would still be scrawling in the dirt with sticks.
This day is over. I'm going to sleep.
I've got awful chills so I've changed into flannel pajamas, my robe with the puppy dogs on it, and thick wool socks. (The latter comprise the only garments I own from that style-chomping black hole, REI.)
It is in this mood and under these circumstances that I've turned on the television and inadvertantly encountered Katie Couric's interview with Jayson Blair. I loathe Blair for all the obvious reasons, but here's the truly absurd thing: he's explaining to Couric that his bipolar disorder played a role in the grotesque deception he perpetrated at The New York Times. A manic depressive New York writer: that's *historically unprecedented.* He must feel like a two-headed baby. With fins. If mood disorders gave writers permission not to do their jobs, homo sapiens would still be scrawling in the dirt with sticks.
This day is over. I'm going to sleep.
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