Things What Brung Folks Here

It’s time for a fun edition of a game where I look at the search terms that led people to my blog, and then try and figure out WHY they came to search for these items.

sara benincasa: That’s me!
neil gaiman girlfriend: That’s not me! That’s Amanda Palmer!
que sera sara: That’s the name of my blog!
soft belly: That’s what I’ve got!
obama sucking cock: That’s what Glenn Beck dreams about every night!
sara sara: That’s my name, twice!
how to tell if your insane: That’s an incorrect conjugation of the infinitive “to be!”
amanda palmer and neil: That’s them!
dr bronner’s homosexual : That’s my favorite brand of dish soap AND my favorite type of person!
persian bread: That’s delicious!
fupa: That’s part of the aforementioned soft belly!
cosmo radio xm 162: That’s where I work!
tell if your insane: That’s still incorrectly conjugated!
1930`s porn: That’s creepy!
emerson college: That’s where I went to school!
benincasa dorota: That’s my last name plus the name of the only good character on “Gossip Girl!”
blowjob: That’s a sex act!
sluts that suck alot of dick stories: That’s…I’m so glad that brought you to me, random weirdo.

Love,
Sara

I’ll Write You a Personalized Sexy Sex Poem!

So, you hot pieces of ass, I’m participating in Women, Action, & Media’s benefit auction. There are tons of fun things upon which you might bid–for example, show tickets & a meet + greet with Lily Tomlin, Margaret Cho, or Cyndi Lauper! You can also bid on dinner with Jessica Valenti of Feministing, which is a website for man-hating bra-burners who are bound for Hell (but probs a girly lipstick feminist Buffy kind of Hell, with Spike and shit.) It’s a great fucking site.

And there’s lots more. But wouldn’t you prefer to bid on the following?

Comedian Sara Benincasa will write a personalized poem about how the winning bidder is the sexiest feminist person of all time. The winner will be required to fill out a short, exciting questionnaire about his or her favorite things and personal characteristics. The resulting poem will be free verse and will be presented in handwritten form amidst a delightful handmade collage consisting of shit she found in her apartment. It’s a poem AND it’s Outsider Art (TM)!

Of course you would. I’m like Henry Darger combined with Bella Abzug! Wheee!

Ellie Kemper and D.C. Pierson in BLOWJOB

My friend DC and I went to see “Mystery Science Theater 3000″ live in L.A., thanks to the generosity of the very kind TV’s Frank (Conniff).

I didn’t realize that DC was in the famed Derrick Comedy BJ video (although I obviously realized he was in Derrick.) But here he is, in all his pervy glory!

D.C.’s debut novel, “The Boy Who Couldn’t Sleep and Never Had To,” comes out in January 2010.

Monday Morning Poetry Jam

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.

-Mary Oliver

Will Smith’s Son Jaden is the New Karate Kid

Just FYI.
He has to do a better job than Swank.
That is all.

Glad Thanksgayving Tidings to Thee, Gentle Reader

This Thanksgiving, I am trotting off to Jersey as per usual in order to consume stuffing, deviled eggs, bread, and pie made by the Amish people who run the market where we get all our Thanksgiving stuff. Having one’s day catered by a bonnet-loving cult is truly a delight, because those people do NOT skimp on butter. They also wear fun outfits. They’re like the Christian Chasidim, except more rural.

I am also being shackled to a vehicle and forced by my overzealous best friend to attend my high school reunion. I fail to understand her enthusiasm for the gathering, since I was way more hyped on high school than she was, but in the intervening years our enthusiasm for the Hunterdon Central Regional High School experience seems to have switched, somehow. She will show people photographs of her extremely friendly toddler; I will consume tequila in some dark corner and wonder why I worked so hard at popularity during my adolescence.

Then I’m returning to the city to consume homemade Italian food with strangers who are allegedly very enjoyable and fun people. I am most excited by this prospect, as well. I intend to bring wine for the guests and the host, who is cooking for 11 people just because he feels like it.

I love my job–all of my entertaining and weird and fun jobs.

But.

It’s nice to have quite a few days off, right in a row.

I find I often focus on work to the exclusion of maintaining ties with friends, and while working brings me joy, I found myself occasionally struck by loneliness over the past year. That’s odd, considering I live in such a densely populated city and perform all over the place (just in the past year, I’ve performed in Germany, North Carolina, South Carolina, Texas, Massachusetts, Illinois, California, and New York. I’m headed to Norway in the spring!) I realize now more than ever that my dearest friends are scattered all over the country. It’s good to know that I can visit so many parts of the country and know I’ll have hospitality to abuse. And I feel really lucky to have a handful of tried-and-true, long-term friends. If you can count even one dear true friend in your life, you’re a fortunate kitten.

This is all just to say that I’m glad the holiday is upon us, and I’m filled with gratitude for a full, bountiful, intriguing, bittersweet, strange, wild, healthy, unpredictable, lovable, sad, happy year of growth and change. I don’t know to whom I should direct the gratitude, other than to the friends and family who helped make the year what it was. I’ll toss the rest in the general direction of the cosmos, and wish for blessings and good fortune for you and yours.

SHE BANGS!

The title was necessary.

One day, if I learn how to type, I'll get to be a secretary at Sterling Cooper Draper Price!

High (School Reunion) Anxiety

Ugh. Mine is next week. What the fuck is one supposed to wear to these things? And how the fuck do I get through it? Important note: I cannot get drunk, because I have to serve as the designated driver.

Ah, Emerson College.

An excerpt from my book proposal, AGORAFABULOUS! (Kindly say hello to Scott Mendel if you want to buy it based on the strength of three out-of-context paragraphs.)

My solution was to keep my life noisy, filled with chatter and bustle. I had just finished my sophomore year at Emerson College, a school for writers and actors and assorted other deviants. It was a colorful, loud, silly place. In the hall between classes, one wee gay or another was always imitating a character from “Rent” or “Hedwig and the Angry Inch.” And when that tiny flamboyant lad warbled a few bars of the show tune that had gotten him through locker-room beatings in high school, he would inevitably be joined in his crooning by a chubby girl from across the hall. Thus did countless blessed hag/fag unions form in the space and time between Page to Stage 206 and Mid-century Chicana Queer Poetry 307.

I knew I couldn’t sing, and I was pretty sure I couldn’t act (not that I’d ever tried), but I could write reasonably well, so I did that. I had long, curly brown hair and big boobs and a belly I was convinced was terribly pudgy, and I made out with boys and got A’s and B’s and found a bunch of friends who were infinitely better-looking and more glamorous than me. They did cocaine and wore really tight Diesel jeans and dabbled in the kind of stand-up comedy where you made a joke about a children’s TV show people remembered from the ‘80s and then the audience laughed and then you looked at the audience like you hated them and then you made fun of a band you secretly liked and then you rolled your eyes and got offstage and drank whiskey. This was called alternative comedy and it was very cool. There were a lot of alternative comics out in Los Angeles, and that was where everyone was going to move once they finished school.

I couldn’t imagine moving to Los Angeles. I couldn’t imagine standing on a stage by myself and telling jokes to strangers. I couldn’t imagine wearing my jeans that tight, not with my belly. Instead, I went to the other students’ shows and then went home and wrote poetry about feelings and cups of tea. I had a lot of both of those in college. I didn’t write about the fits of fear, the panic attacks, because in writing class everyone got to read everyone else’s poems and I didn’t want any of these skinny, pretty people with frayed-on-purpose clothing and sharp tongues to know that I was the wrong kind of different.

Muthafuck YOU, Says Michael Caine!

Oh shit! It’s fucking on!