HAPPY ST. PADDY'S ... MAY THE STYLE O' THE IRISH BE YOURS!

Happy St. Patrick's Day, MacPeeps! My bonnie ol' grandmother, who hailed from County Cork, would sing "Danny Boy" in her thickest brogue, wear monochromatic green, pass out paper shamrocks, drink a bottle of Hennessy, kiss way too many strangers, and call it a day. Jeez. As much as I adored Granny, let's not get nuts. I'd NEVER speak with a brogue. (That's the geisha side of the family rearing its pasty-faced head.)

However, I'm happy to share some of the chicest ways to celebrate this side of the Blarney Stone. No doubt they'll give scads of cheap "Kiss-Me-I'm-Irish" buttons a bling-y run for their money. Take note and break out the Dom ... let's save the Hennessy for Granny. Bless her wee soul.

Pick me up in this hot hunk o' steel and I'll DEF let you kiss me. (Once.) 

Hand over the title and keys? Baby, IT'S ON. (Oh yeah.)

Even Debbie Harry clones watch the parade in holiday-appropriate garb ... 

just make mine mink. Please and thank you.

Pre-parade festivities go well with the mink. (Hint, hint.) 

Start spreadin' green cheer (as in Benjamins, you big boozer) 'cuz this is 

the ONLY post-parade spot the spirit-of-the-day would approve of.

How head-to-toe green is really done ... size 0, of course.

Courtesy Elie O'Saab.

Oh, my, what big emeralds you have! If you're packin' 206 carats 

of this kinda' heat, rest assured you'll get lucky. V-e-r-y lucky.

Here's the ideal spot to give me that big-ass emerald. RENT. IT. OUT.

Why would Erin go braless when wench-wear's so much fun? (Especially after an 

emerald the size of Kilkenny.) Get ready to dig for my pot of gold.

Keep it flowin' Papi ... I might even bust-a jig.

Irish lads and lassies can't resist cake pops as enticing as these ...

until the real dessert is served. (We ain't talkin' Baileys.)

No words except ... GIMME WHAT'S UNDER THAT KILT.

You luscious little leprechaun.

When I come out from under the above-mentioned kilt.

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ON THE RADIO ... TODAY!

Hola Love Muffins!

King O$iRi$ and I will be dishing, laughing (or crying from laughing), and chatting up a storm about our latest collab for GEISHANISTA GO-GO! today on the radio. That's right, you thought you'd heard the last of me ... but NO! How's THAT for a trip-hop/hip-hop holiday gift that keeps on giving? (Naughty, nice, whatever floats y'er 200-foot boat. Preferably in the south of France.)

GEISHANISTA GO-GO will be featured on my upcoming EP due out this spring, and King O$iRi$ is the featured artist. With all this featuring going on, why wait to hear about it? (TEASER: The song's a crazy kaleidoscope of bling, fashion, and hella cool fun. Word.)

We'll spill the beans (and then some) to Omar Mosley on his "The RU Talented Show" today at 5pm PST on KTST 89.5 Anaheim. You can listen LIVE via the Internet, so take a break from the mall madness and settle in with a liquored-up hot toddy ... or two. (Three or more and you're on your own. Oh yeah.) The holiday shopping can wait — Christmas ain't goin' anywhere. Seriously.

See you on the radio! 

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AND THEY SAID SHE DIDN'T HAVE A TALENT ...

"YOU try balancing a huge doobie from YOUR mouth."
LOL is right.  That takes mad skills.

Needless to say, Kim Kardashian's booty-bearing cover pose for PAPER magazine is already fodder for millions ... including moi. Oh, sweet silly Kim. Who does this? We know you're a MILF, but where will it end? (No pun intended.) Call me crazy, but you truly are bored with life, eh?

Okay, enough psychoanalysizin'. No one cares. Let's get back to the fodder. Along with horses, apes, peaches, and the lengthy list of bodacious butt memes spawned, Homer Simpson joined the party as well, but who wore it better?

My money's on me (see above), but that's just, um, me. I mean, really Homer? Purple sequins? They're so last season. Do you NOT read Vogue? Do you NOT subscribe to Haute Look? Jeez. Even Andre Leon Talley's shaking his head in shame. Will someone please tell the gottdamn artists that purple sequins are a faux pas before Lagerfeld gets wind of it?

Now that that's out of my system, let's get back to Kim. Yes, she's beautiful, but do self-respecting mothers need to bare all to prove they've still got it? Hmmmm, the jury's out. (I'm thinking a resounding "HELL NO.")

Rather than "Break The Internet," maybe Kim should've gone with "Vape The Internet." That's a party most everyone would've rooted for ... which brings this sweet little post full circle back to me.

Thank you, Kim Kardashian, for such an easy post. Seriously. Easy. (Maybe not as easy as you, but a no-brainer nonetheless.) Here goes:

HIGH-KU OF THE DAY!™

I like big buds and

I can not lie, you other

Vapers can’t deny.

No further comment. xo

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TGIF ... TIME TO PAR-TAY IN VEGAS!

TGIF, Love Weed Muffins!

Ready to take a toke in Sin City at tomorrow's Hempfest? Head out early for a day of music, comedians, vendors and, obviously, all things cannabis. Quite the party.

Though I won't be able to join you (this time), here's a little teaser to hold you over. And just think, this month's Kush Cup in San Bernardino, California, is RIGHT AROUND THE CORNER. (October 17-19). Put that in your pipes and smoke it.

HIGH-KU OF THE DAY!™

Vegas strip’s hoppin'

Just in time for Shatterday

Wanna skirp some derg?

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NATIONAL POETRY DAY ... OH YEAH.

It's National Poetry Day and I could, for lack of a better term, "wax poetic" on our beautiful, sexy, soulful language. (For those that know how to use it.) I get a twisted kick out of smithing words that (at the very least) make me laugh, cry, and feel. Mostly laugh. Sometimes I just can't even believe my brain, getting all hilarious and cracking myself up. Egocentric? Perhaps. Geishanistas are human too.

As far back as I can remember (actually it was seventh grade with "Sister Wimpy Wart Walk" -- her real name was Winifred, like "The Jungle Book" elephant -- no joke), I was extremely conscious of the importance of crafting the written word. We had NO choice.

Day after day, Sr. WWW prattled on and on that no two sentences in a paragraph should start with the same word. Pretty harsh. She mentioned other stuff too, but even the great and powerful couldn't intervene if you screwed up ... and I'm not talkin' Oz. (Or James Franco, although he would've have convinced her to smoke a bone and shut the f*ck up. Okay, I'll stop.)

Sure as hell's supposedly all fire and brimstone (sorry, I can't stop 'cause, IMO, it's really, really NOT), that sex-starved old penguin would be waddling at breakneck speeds down the aisles, warts and all, to further scream. IN. YOUR. FACE. Crazy bitch. We were twelve.

Somehow it stuck (for the most part), and I pretty much became obsessed with writing from that point on. I felt like it was my secret stash, my mission, my raison d'être. From poetic stream-of-consciousness rants reminiscent of neo-Dada Nam June Paik videos to super-silly songs and nicely structured articles practically begging for a tidy bow on top, I've honed my craft over the years to arrive at this lovely, nonsensical, and ever-so-snide juncture. It's a culmination of all I am. You can imagine my glee -- unrestrained, of course.

Obviously I mangle rules along the way, but a few no-nos in the name of "creative license" is totally acceptable, even thrilling. (To me, anyway.) Isn't the point to express your unique voice? Anyone who's watched GEISHA-MANIA! knows my voice is definitively "distinct," which is being kind. A few of my fave poetic heroes include Maya Angelou, Sylvia Plath, Jack Kerouac, Shel Silverstein, Jim Morrison, Patti Smith (um, have you listened to "Horses"?), and a list of rappers whose "flow" leaves me speechless. And that, my fellow Catholic school refugees, NEVER happens.

Speaking of which, you can just imagine how friggin' proud Sister-from-a-Higher-Mister would be to read my contribution to National Poetry Day. Yup. Rolling in her BIG. FAT. ROSARY-BEADED GRAVE. So without further snark, I bring you a little "afternoon delight." Pun intended.

HIGH-KU OF THE DAY!™

Weed, best stuff on earth

Twenty-four carat gold blunts
Now who’s trippin’ boo?

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READY FOR VEGAS HEMPFEST???

STOP THE HEMP PRESSES! Sin City turns Stoner Heaven as Las Vegas Hempfest opens its doors this Saturday, October 4. Wait, wasn't it just Memorial Day? Time flies when you're having a life. (Unless you've been in a complete stupor for four months.) With music, comedians, speakers, vendors, and a whole lotta sweet leaf, the event promises to "light up the town" in more ways than one. Are YOU ready to start chonging the bong?

Why's a Geishanista-with-the-Mostest promoting 420-filled fun? Well, little love [weed] muffins ... it will all become clear -- very, very soon. You'll see. I promise. (And you WON'T be disappointed.) Until then, like Confucius, let me impart this tidbit of stoner wisdom. It's the least I can do. And if you're checking out Hempfest, take a toke for me! Hugs, I mean NUGS!

HIGH-KU OF THE DAY!™

Chonging the big bong

Puff, puff pass, Vegas Hempfest

Rocky Mountain highs.

PS: And yes, I know Vegas is nowhere near the Rocky Mountains. Duh ... it's called creative license darlings. You so silly.

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IF WOMEN CATCALLED MEN ...

I know it's Music Monday and National Coffee Day, but I couldn't resist. I think most ladies will agree with me (and this video). Finally, a true depiction.

And now that the proverbial shoe's on the OTHER foot ... I CAN'T. STOP. LAUGHING. Plus I'm sure, based on experience, that this is being way too kind. But I digress. See how it feels, muchachos. Roll around in the down 'n' dirty of it all. Muy caliente, si? Mira, mira, what you say now, papi ... eh?

SEPTEMBER 11, 2001: MEMORIES, TEARS & THE FUTURE

This was the amazing view I'd see every night before going to sleep. After a lifetime of living in New York City (and then waking up each morning to view its glorious skyline from the Jersey side), I had just moved to Los Angeles about a month before 9/11. Finally, a longtime dream was coming true. Things were falling into place.

Little did I know, as movers packed the last of my boxes onto a truck bound for Southern California, that I was leaving behind more than just years of comfort in familiarity. My moving day would be the last time I'd ever see the World Trade Center's gleaming, majestic towers. I can't tell you how often I'd take the Path train to WTC for meetings in that area. Friends of mine owned a production company and lived in a loft ONE BLOCK AWAY. Little did any of us know that September 11 would be etched into our hearts and the pain never forgotten. Nor should it.

I remember getting a phone call early that morning from my boyfriend at the time. He was still living on the east coast. His voice was strangely somber. "They flew a plane into the World Trade Center." After a few seconds of silence, my response was that of a typical New Yorker. "What the hell are you talking about? You're crazy. Who does that? No way. I don't believe it -- you've got to be wrong. WHO DOES THAT?" After dropping my daughter off at school, I came home and found out it was true -- al-Qaeda does that.

Like the rest of the world, I sat glued to the news and watched that horrific scene -- over and over and over. Tears streamed down my face for eight hours straight. I felt totally helpless and couldn't move. I couldn't think and was in complete shock. Why? I, like the rest of the world, couldn't comprehend what had just happened. Where do we go? What do we do? What was next? For the first time ever, I felt like nothing, even our mighty military, could protect this country.

Family and friends were shaken but okay -- for the most part. A close friend, who had shared that same skyline view a few doors down, immediately took her kids to Florida. The same day. My mom, who'd been planning to visit me the following week, wasn't sure if she should cancel her flight. That boyfriend? Turns out he had a 9 a.m. meeting at Cantor Fitzgerald but rescheduled earlier because he was running late. He never left his house. Talk about fate ... but it hits home even more.

My first cousin, who had just moved back to Westchester county after living in Cali for years, also had a 9 a.m. appointment in the North Tower. His breakfast meeting across the street took longer than expected and, he not only witnessed everything as it was happening, but was one of those covered head-to-toe in debris trying to escape. Post-traumatic stress disorder plagues him to this day and he refuses to venture into Manhattan. Ever. And I don't blame him.

I can't imagine the psychological torment he's been through, relives, and still battles on some level, but he was one of the lucky ones. He survived. What I can't begin to imagine is the grief and heartache of the victims' families -- to this day. It must be too much to bear regardless of the time that's passed.

Shedding tears every year in their memory is an honor, because we're still here. Reflecting on how we can spread peace in a world where hate-mongers thrive is an honor, because together we can initiate change. Remembering this tragedy is our duty, because being alive is an honor. Never forget September 11 ... and be thankful that we are American.

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CAN WE TALK?

Comedy has lost another of its greats -- the incomparable Joan Rivers.

Aside from the shock of her passing, my heart is truly broken as I remember growing up watching Joan on "The Tonight Show" with Johnny Carson. Now I never really thought Johnny was funny (his cornball humor seemed inane to me, even as a child), but Joan was simply BRILLIANT.

This tiny-but-tough New Yorker wasn't afraid to speak her mind during an era when women would rather play Betty Crocker than Caesars Palace, which was just unheard of. I was only a young kid from the Bronx, but Joan's hilarious, acid-tongued wit somehow fascinated me. Her delivery? Sublime. How great was it that she built a career out of making people laugh?

There's no question that Lucille Ball made everyone fall in love with female comediennes (who didn't love Lucy?), yet Joan was truly unique. She was a wild card. She was one-of-a-kind. She brought audiences to tears (including herself and Johnny) by saying what no other woman dared ... and it was refreshing. Liberating. Exhilarating. Joan was just what we needed. 

Dishing about Edgar, her sex life, family -- no one or nothing was sacred. Even herself. Joan's self-deprecating sense of humor was beyond anything we'd ever heard. Brazen, brash, and without apology. Best part was, she showed us how to laugh at OURSELVES. Joan clearly harnessed her own brand of comedic power and controlled rooms with only her mouth. Talk about fabulous. I was hooked.

She made up her own rules and broke'em just as fast. Forging a path in what was once an exclusively patriarchal industry, Joan claimed "The Tonight Show" changed her life and later appeared regularly as Johnny's guest host.

After Fox offered Joan her own competing late-night talk show in 1986, her "mentor" refused to speak to her again. Aside from (IMO) his inability to be funny, now "Carnac the Magnificent" was scared of a woman? Where's the equality? What year was this? Someone clearly needed to check his misogynous shorts at the door and leave those caveman days behind.

Did any of that phase Joan? Hell no. She prevailed as the first woman to host her own late night talk show ... the rest is history. And that, my friends, is priceless because it illustrates the epitome of believing in yourself. Imagine the concept of absolutely nothing standing in a woman's way? It wasn't easy (or common) during her early career, but Joan not only imagined it, she made it happen.

It's not hard to see how Joan Alexandra Molinksy lured me to the "dark side" at an early age (not that I had any clue what that meant or how it would actually affect my life). She flaunted a brass pair without caring about upsetting network brass. Screw status quo and the powers that be -- her balls were bigger than any man's. I couldn't help but wonder if mine would ever grow that large? (Jury's still out.)

Tolerating Johnny's nonsense wasn't easy, but if I caught Joan "in the act" it was all worth it. She lit up the room, was funny as hell, and had a BLAST doing it. She said what people thought and that's what made her successful. "We all need to get over it and move on."  Indeed. Little did I know that Joan was blazing trails that would actually impact my life.

Joan, thank you for showing me the importance of laughter and a lifetime of inspiration. YOU are what makes a legend most ... and will definitely be missed but never forgotten. xoxo

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KNOCK, KNOCK THIS

Hola love muffins ... como estas?! Since today's National Tell a Joke Day, I'm gonna share something I find funny. I don't really care if you agree 'cause it's my story, damn it. FYI, the very first comedy album I ever purchased was Steve Martin's "Let's Get Small." I loved it. One of his classic lines is forever ingrained in my mind -- "People ask me, 'Steve, how can you BE so fuckin' funny?'" I'll never forget his delivery (perfection) and, from that moment on, I was hooked on making people laugh. It's my crack.

Back in the day, I used to run wild through the desolate, late-night streets of NYC with my punk rock girl pack for shits 'n' giggles (sporting a black mohawk, no less). We'd land -- "take over" may actually be a more apt description -- at the Mudd Club, Danceteria, Irving Plaza, CBGB's, Peppermint Lounge, the Tunnel, Limelight, and places I don't even remember for some hella hardcore fun. Like cockroaches in the Bronx, we were everywhere.

Once settled in with a drink or two, I'd start walking up to random people and make up morbid jokes - ON THE SPOT. Oh yeah. I, for one, thought it was hilarious. (Not to mention my gal pals who nearly peed their pants. Again, loved it.) Best part of the whole deal was the sick and confused looks I received from my victims. Yup, I thought it was brilliant. (That's youth for you.)

Years later, while being coerced into performing at an open mic night somewhere in North Bergen, New Jersey (that's a whole other story), this comedy club producer informed me that one of the twisted jokes I mentioned creating during this heyday-of-sorts went on to become one of the most popular party circuit jokes for at least a decade. Imagine that. My claim to fame and I didn't even know it. (Kinda like how I actually won $5K in one of Snapple's bottle cap contests and threw it away BECAUSE I DIDN'T KNOW. I kid you not. Next time they tell me I "didn't" win car payments for a year, I'll start counting my Benjamins. Um, Snapple, are y'a listenin'?)

Actually, this joke is STILL my all-time fave. (I remember exactly what club I was in and the faces of the people I went up to. BTW, they weren't laughing.)  And, YES, I wrote it from my little head. © 1980-somethin'. So here goes ...

Q: Why did the monkey fall out of the tree?
A: Because it was DEAD.

Poor little bastard. 

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HIGH-KU, NEW TUNES & MOI

I missed you. (And you and you and you, too.) Really, I did. Aside from working on my upcoming Lady Geisha books that shall remain nameless (for now, it's a surprise), I've been in the final throes (fingers crossed) of getting three new songs out the door as well as my GEISHA-MANIA! Sing-Along Video. Between a few flaky rappers and even flakier scheduling that unexpectedly set things back, let's just say one could compare it to being in labor for close to a year -- only giving birth to an actual human is a helluva lot easier. Been there, done that, I kid you not.

In addition to collaborating with L.A.-based hip-hop artists for the above-mentioned ditties, I've been writing other original songs (and parodies) to complete my very first comedy rap EP, kinda like Weird Al on estrogen. Forget that newfangled "trip-hop" -- I created my own unique genre and deemed it "COM-HOP." Yup, I can deem. So, with some love from the universe and lots of finger-crossing from YOU (and me too), I'll be sharing lots more news in the upcoming month. Please, for the love of all things sacred, KEEP Y'ER FINGERS CROSSED. Forever. And just for me.

Quite frankly, so much has happened that it's hard to keep it straight but, being that today would have been the 103rd birthday of comedy legend Lucille Ball, I decided to share something special. Recently I've taken to writing haiku -- and creating one-of-a-kind collages -- with a silly stoner twist.

Why would a (quirky) middle-aged underdog (with killer biceps) start writing about wacky weed? (Um, have you watched GEISHA-MANIA??? Just kidding. Or am I? I'll never tell.) IMO, it's even sillier that, in 2014, lawmakers are still ensconced in a Prohibition-era mindset over marijuana -- somehow they're conveniently forgetting the amount of people killed by drunk drivers each year. How many research studies do those ignorant bastards need to finally believe cannabis helps cure cancer patients? (Stay tuned for Ricki Lake's upcoming documentary, "Weed the People" to find out.)

If there's any doubt as to some of the medicinal benefits (especially for anyone suffering anorexia, anxiety, arthritis, chronic pain, depression, fibromyalgia, insomnia, migraines, MS, nausea, the list goes on and on), might I suggest PUFF, PUFF, PASS. Shotgun, perhaps? A big FAT DAB'll do y'a ... and I ain't talkin' hair gel.

Live and let live is how most evolved people think. While you're waiting for the rest of the world to catch up, enjoy this selection from my HIGH-KU OF THE DAY™ ... more on Tumblr and Twitter!

Giggle bush me up

Puff the magic dragon sings

Legalize sweet leaf.

Wacky tabacky

Geisha in the sky with diamonds (oops, that’s 8)

Dance, little toe, dance.

Doobie doobie do

Stoned not stupid, puff, puff pass

Read between blurred lines.

Love and peace and herb

Bush leaves me straight-trippin’ boo

Combustible fun.

Snizzle this wizzle

Even Bill Clinton got high

Who’s illegal now?

Stoners be twaxin’

Hittin’ more trees than Tarzan
Bongzilla lives on.

Legalize they cry

Munchies munchies everywhere

Not a bong to chong.

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