Predictably, your dear friend/hairdresser/Crazy Egyptian columnist Alexa has already broken two resolutions from her "The Year That Bitch-Slapped Me" list.

The First: "I want wives, live-in-girlfriends and baby's mamas to STOP calling me bitching about how my number was found in their man's pocket. Check with your man first—for I am simply skanky, trailer-trash!"

The last chick that called me in '01 was the first to call in '02. Apparently she is doubling up on "stay away from my man" phone calls and is totally unaware of it. If she wasn't so nice about the whole situation over the phone I would say she's a psycho, but maybe she's just a nice psycho.

Crazy Girlfriend: Do you know my man? His name is James but sometimes he calls himself J or Jamie or Pete.
Alexa Camp: Nope.
CG: He drive a black Jetta or a Ford.
AC: Did you just say he's the black Lita Ford? And haven't you called me before?
CG: [long pause] I don't think so.Is you Alexa?
AC: Yup.
CG: So, you don't even know who he is? Well, thanks anyway. Sorry to bother you.
AC: [sigh]

The Second: "I've learned that hindsight is a bitch but me on birth control pills is worse so I've stopped taking them."

All I have to say is that the boys at Slant are in for some fun! I'm back on those lil' poppers. Funny thing though, the brand is called "Yasmin." Do you think they're named after the One Life To Live-Baywatch-countless TV movies-spotted on Nash Bridges (ew) and the short-lived night-time soap Titans-recently faced drug charges for possession of cocaine-Yasmine, Yasmine Bleeth? Things that make you go hmmmmm.

Luckily, I've managed to shag all new men in '02 so far. I've been able to keep the following resolution without the diseases:

"My Fuck A New Guy rate was down in 2001 but my Fuck An Old Guy rate was high. For 2002 I would like to sleep with more New, less Old and avoid venereal diseases in the process—although I hear they build character."

So anyway, let's get down to business. I'm not getting paid to entertain you with my personal tribulations. Oh wait, yes I am (but it's true that I'm not getting paid). It's been a crazy year and all, what with Mariah Carey turning out to be both La Toya and Michael. Did you see that awful wig "Michael" was wearing at the American Music Awards? I think I speak for everyone in North Jersey when I say, "Where's your upper-lip, Mikey?? What has happened to you??" At least he's not resorting to desperate pleas for attention like Tiffany, who's posing for Playboy Magazine in April. Yes, it will be just like when she was born, only she'll be older. Oh, and she won't be singing in malls and county fairs. Next on the 10 o'clock news: "Tiffany's tits end world hunger!" Besides, who really needs to see those refurbished and freckled former-teen-pop titties? I'd rather see Deb-or-ah Gibson's coochie-snorcher any day. But for real, when's it hit newstands? Just curious.

Speaking of desperate, could Winona Ryder be the next recovering addict/lesbian-prophet/loony-toon to guest-star on "Ally McBeal?" We're taking bets she ends up on HBO. "Sex and the City?" Nah, they'd never let her near Carrie's closet. "The Sopranos?" "Six Feet Under?" If Winny had any sense of humor, she'd guest-spot on HBO's male full-frontal prison drama, "Oz." Thank God for cable. The kitschy Game Show Network is my new guilty pleasure. Thanks to Monty Hall I began to wean myself off Animal Planet but then I discovered "The Pet Psychic." She's the animal kingdom's answer to John Edward, a clairvoyant British biddy who's face-lifting her way into Jocelyn Wildenstein's litterbox. Even those infomercials are captivating. I've made my first easy payment of $9.99 and am eagerly awaiting The Perfect Pancake. Hot flap-jacks were never this easy! Eggs in a basket in just seconds! I'm never leaving my apartment—except to go see Rollerball, which I've seen four times already, not counting that uncut preview screening I caught last year—you're not missing anything, full-frontal Rebecca Romijn-Stamos is not all it's cracked up to be. Until next time kids, keep the gifts rollin' in!

Alexa Camp
© slant magazine, 2002.

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