The rockstars of Aspen this year: Flight of the Conchords.

If you want to know what it sounds like inside my head for the past week, download their hilarious "Business Time."

There was a time, somewhere back last spring, when we were still trying to figure out both the ceremony and the location, that we had been excited about the notion of the following: Having Allison sing Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah as I walked down the aisle of The Wayfarers Chapel.

One week later, we're watching The O.C. season finale on TiVo when they cut to the big wedding ceremony.

Huge, sweeping crane shot of the Wayfarers Chapel while playing Jeff Buckley's cover of "Hallelujah."

When we finally were able to move our mouths again, I whined, "The O.C. stole our wedding."

"Everyone at TWoP will be in their row coughing, 'O.C. wedding! Losers!'"

The Wayfarers Chapel was booked on New Year's Eve, Andi and Hamish included "Hallelujah" as an integral part of their ceremony, and we couldn't have loved what became our ceremony more. But there was an evening last summer when we were heartbroken because of a stupid FOX television show.

I wish I could figure out how to cure this staph infection, as I'm really fucking sick of taking 500mg of Keflex every day.

Dear Eddie Izzard,

Sorry I made an ass out of myself standing next to you on a staircase. See, Jessica really likes you, and I do, too, but I wanted her to see she was standing next to you. I'm sorry I kind of pushed her into you while you were trying to dial your cell phone. You looked like you were having a hard time acclimating while walking up the stairs. The stairs never get easier, do they? Heh-heh-heh. Anyway, YOU'RE AWESOME AND WOOOO! [Virtual flashing]

Tardedly,

-p


Dear Snow,

How come you don't come out to Los Angeles? I think you'd really like it here. We've got lots to do, and there are plenty of things for you to cover. Think of the traffic jams you could cause! Also, you'd do really well out here: you're white.

Let me know when you've got a headshot,

-p



Dear Comedy,

I don't want to make fart jokes. I don't think poo is all that funny. I mean, every once in a while. But every joke? Is that what it takes to be your girlfriend? I'm not Sarah Silverman.

-p


Dear Janeane Garofalo,

Whew. I made it an entire conversation with you without blushing, stammering, or staring at you like you're my Selena. Thanks for the advice, and for the appreciative nod at my "America Is Scary" t-shirt. One day we'll bond over the misery of our shared Houston pasts. But that's for another day, one where we could maybe share a bottle of tequila. Oh, do you not drink anymore? Whatever. I'll drink; you just keep complaining about the president.

-p


Dear Colin Quinn,

You are my favorite story about Aspen. While I truly wish you got involved in our two a.m. snowball fight outside the hotel, all was forgiven the moment I pelted a transportation van instead of my husband, causing you to shout, "She's got a good arm!" If you don't think that's going on my resume like the ultimate blurb, you don't know me at all.

-p.

P.S.: I know you don't know me at all.


Dear Condo,

Thanks for making me feel like a total rockstar. All that and free passes to the Aspen Club, too? There's nothing better than sitting in a hottub in the snow. One thing: why so much weird Navajo art? Why were the couch cushions made out of burlap? Why did every wall boast a cow skull? Why was I sleeping on a bed of bones? Why are you so tacky, Aspen? You're made entirely out of snow and money. There's no need for so many statues of animals in attack, statues of "common people" doing their cute little "jobs," or four-foot tall vases filled with even taller sticks of bamboo. It doesn't make any sense.

-p


Dear Aspen clothing store,

When your "Steal This Shit, We Don't Care" rack that sits outside contains items marked down to "$500 or less," I cannot stop laughing at you.

Made $100 last month,

-p


Dear Greg Behrendt,

Thanks for being the coolest guy in Aspen.

Seriously,

-p


Dear Fancy Party I Attended,

There was a moment, just after stuffing myself at the sushi bar, just before my third free drink, just before I found the large-screen television in the spare kids' room on the third floor, when I found your Warhol. I know you know where it is, but I just want to point out that you put your Warhol on the second floor, on the way to some spare guest bedroom, in your Aspen vacation home. It makes me wonder how fucking famous your piece has to be to get prominent placement in your impressive art collection. And thanks for letting me stand in a room with Christopher Lloyd and Mena Suvari.

Glad I didn't spill a drop of red wine,

-p



Dear Audiences,

Is it television? Is it DVD rentals? What is it that makes you think it's totally acceptable to chat during a performance? I guess I understand if one of you says to the other, "This blows; let's go check out the half-naked girls again." But what I don't understand is when you want to talk about how much you're enjoying yourselves. "I like that one. That was good. Did she say 'coffee?' That's funny." Dude. I'm a human being. I'm standing right in front of you. I can totally hear you. I promise I'll be even more entertaining if you listen to what I'm saying. And for those of you who only want to watch ten minutes to decide whether or not I'm sitcom material -- could you not sit near the front row? You make it look like I suck.

Maybe I suck,

-p



Dear Daughter of Famous Comic Who I Thought Liked Me,

Guess you didn't like the show, huh? Anyway, for future reference, I don't need you to tell me you liked the show if you didn't, but pretending I'm now made of invisible molecules is kind of a dicky thing to do. When we were dancing together, were you laughing at me? Because I totally saw you laughing at me, and I'm pretty sure you saw me see you laughing at me and --

Whatever,

-p



Dear Comedy Festival,

While I'm well aware I'm being a little hard on myself, I'd like to thank you for the ultimate in learning experiences. It was humbling, exciting and mortifying all at the same time. Thank you for the opportunity, but mostly thanks for letting me achieve a goal without making a total asshole out of myself (except for that Eddie Izzard staircase moment).

-p

How is it possible we didn't know about this? Y'all, I think I'm in love.

Your reading assignment today is the PopGurls interview with Project Runway castaway Vanessa, who kind of ruled but whose tenure on the show was cut painfully short while other undeserving souls contined to live on. Wendy Pepper, how on earth can you sleep at night?

Go say hi to the PopGurls, who also interviewed the great Pamie and the great Sars and the great me back in the day. Hi, guys!

Visit author Tom Dolby's site.

Check out The Trouble Boy on Amazon.

For further questions on VBT, please contact the great Kevin Smokler,

Welcome to the latest edition of The Virtual Book Tour! This time around, it's The Trouble Boy, by Tom Dolby. The author, before you ask, is not the same Tom Dolby responsible for blinding you with science, and it's probably not until you wake up in your next life and you find your name has suddenly become John Flock-Of-Seagulls that you will understand how frequently this question is asked of him. Not that I didn't ask. I totally asked.

Sugarcoat it, dance around it, or try and forget it as you might, the first year out of college just kind of sucks. Even if one's own college experience wasn't the pep rallying, homecoming, Girls Gone Wild-ing bacchanal the American collegiate experience dictates it must be -- where half the time is spent binge drinking and the other half is spent in wild hijinks that deal with sticking it to that crusty old Dean -- the entry into the world of the working stiff is fraught with every tension imaginable. Moving to New York multiplies that sensation by about a billion, as the sheer, crushing volume of spending this first pivotal year in Manhattan is often drowned out only by the internal static of one's brain buzzing with the same unanswerable questions: How did I get here so quickly? Why am I living in this city? Why am I working this job? Is everyone already ahead of me? Why am I so beguiled by unanswerable questions? Why am I alone? And, though not a question: fuck.

Into this existential vacuum falls The Trouble Boy, the debut novel of Tom Dolby, which tells the story of young, precocious post-grad Toby Griffin. Toby is young and gay (and comfortably so by the time we meet him, so there's no contending with a coming-out story here) and has recently graduated from Yale, where a rollercoaster four years began with him being institutionalized for crying suicide practically on his first day. Now that he's graduated, he's gained the right to use his pricey degree to work for a website devoted to covering nightlife and culture in New York. Where will the money come to keep this young upstart site running? Anyone who has been laid off since 1999 knows the answer. Luckily for me, I had the forethought and blind pride to quit my job as an editor for business-to-business newsletters for the home furnishings industry before its attempt to transition its business entirely into an online environment drove it completely out of business. Luckily for Toby, his job gets him laid and drunk for free a lot more than my job ever did. But once I did get a free trip to North Carolina, and it was totally...zzzzzzzzzz.

Judging this or any book by its cover is, I'm told, is a bad, reductive idea. It is. Requiring a pitch-y flair for the dramatic, the back cover of the paperback tells us, "At twenty-two, Toby Griffin wants it all -- fame, fortune, an Oscar-winning screenplay and a good-looking boyfriend by his side. For now, what he's got is a freelance writing job at a tanking online magazine, a walk-up sublet in the East Village and "the boys," a young posse of preppy Upper East Siders with a taste for high fashion, top-shelf liquor and other men."

Yeah...but no. Convenient as it is to wrap the book up in such hyperbolic terms and make it seem like a Less Than Zero for a new generation (alas, author Christopher Rice's quote on the cover of the book likens Dolby to Ellis), The Trouble Boy is actually at its best when it is examining the simpler minutiae of the New York post-graduate experience. When Toby goes for his interview as a nightlife editor at CityStyle (I screamed out loud, "I totally applied for that job!" even though the site, clearly, is a work of fiction), he gets it because, as his future boss tells him, "I probably shouldn't tell you this, but the other chick -- you know, one of those types who has her own Web site and posts everything she's ever written on it? -- didn't show, and the guy with all the experience turned out to be pushing fifty." Hey, Pamie? Sorry you didn't get the job.

The investment capital never comes (I know! Shocking!) and the site goes out of business. Toby is desperate for money and professional connections, though having his main character living free off his parents for a year did lower the stakes slightly, especially when it's so easy to put a character in peril in New York just by virtue of making them pay rent. Toby takes a job with privileged film legacy Cameron Cole, which seems like it's going to be a career maker. But the assistant life, of course, doesn't put him in the way of any immediate success. That is, until The Night Everything Changes. Without giving anything away, there is a grand turning point late in the book that changes the course of Toby's life. And when it does, you will see the words "your character needs a bigger turning point" written on the first round of notes on the first draft of the manuscript, though by that point the investment you've made in the characters is more than enough to ride you through to the end.

My own coming of age in New York maintains more than a few passing similarities with the narrator of The Trouble Boy (and I suspect the narrator of the book shares a few traits and key details of the narrative in common with the book's author), and at no point during those first tumultuous years did I feel like I was living in the debased, dystopic hellscape Ellis depicts in his novels. Even when the book hits its climax and Toby becomes part of the tabloid insanity he's spent a lot of the book chronicling as an outside observer, the book still tells a story a lot more universal. The lost jobs, the feeling that you don't actually know any of your friends, the tanking dot-coms, the I-have-eight-diseases-that-will-kill-me-tomorrow scares, the screenplays you're going to finish and bring to LA, the late nights out most of your friends don't need to know the details of. Been there. Now as soon as I sleep with a former cast member of The Real World, I may well have enough dirt for a book of my own.

And Tom knows me and Pamie's friends Jeff and Chad! I found that out six seconds before posting this, and it made me very happy.

Continue on The Virtual Book Tour.

Our luggage was late.
I got home close to midnight.
Forgive me for them taking so long.

This year's poems were written by a variety of talented friends who were trapped at the Denver Airport with me, and our driver Dan. Enjoy.


My lips are chapped raw.
They bleed a little, whenever I smile.
The skin around my chin, crawling up to my cheeks, is chapped and red.
There's a muscle in my lower back that feels like someone dug a knife into it.
My breath smells like old cigarettes
And I'm wearing the same underwear I put on three days ago.

There's no better feeling in the world than this.
Happy Valentine's Day, new lover.
Being skanky has never been so hot.

-- Pamela Ribon



I hope we're not related.
My dad says he'll find out.
I'm not sure I trust his research skills,
But we should probably talk.
- Jason Allen


Trembling in my clothes
Just to be near you
My heart races
Will I love you or fear you?
See me. See me.
Let me fly high.
High enough to kiss the sky.
And please, dearest Cheryl
Don't look too close.
For while I am here now
You have to let me go.
My heart must be free to ride the wind
On flight 5666.
Please don't check my California I.D.
Expired 12/08/04
Our love might wither and die.
God, I must fly.
P.S. -- You can keep the tweezers of our love.

-- Jessica Kaman



Please.
Will what we have ever be more than something surface?
Why does it all need to be so shallow?
Sigh.
When we first met
I wanted you to be the one
For it to be Real
It was so hot in New York
And I got us tickets to Shakespeare
But you kept touching my leg
And trying to pretend it was an accident
I wanted more than anything
To love you
But in the end
You just weren't blond enough for me
Sorry.

- Daniel J. Blau




Such happy sound
Joy jump crowd people yelling
Travel plane. Tiny seats. :(
I sign paper of yelling my name
Even while I pee!!!
"Box the inside," red-faced Butterstinker yells.
And I do. I box.
And when I find myself
Like Christie Brinkley
At photography shoot
Eating crafty-service food
And I'm on cover of magazine same week as Jesus on "Time" and someone named Good Charlotte is on "Spin"
It's so much to make this big boy from the rurals blush with embarrass-feeling.
NBA, I love you.
Love,
Yao Ming

-- Stephen Falk


When you told me
you were bipolar
I didn't know that meant
it would be okay for you
to see two girls at the same time.
I should have paid more attention in that Intro Psych class.


-- Sara Morrison


"He didn't call."
-- "He's just not that into you."
"He didn't ask me out to dinner."
-- "He's just not that into food."
"He said he never wanted to have kids."
-- "He's just not that into poo."
"He didn't want my extra ticket to the Vince Neill show."
-- "He's just not that into the 'Crue."
"He didn't want to split my bagel with me."
-- "He's just not that into Jews."
"He said he only dates girls from Berkeley."
-- "He's just not that into shoes."
"He said he didn't want to sleep with me and my roommate at the same time."
-- "He's just not that into twos."
"Really?"
-- "No, that one's probably gay. The rest are assholes."
"This is the best book ever."

-p.r.



You are perfect.
Small and round.
Tough and sweet.
Tiny bird of paradise.
Hiding a dark heart.
I will take you inside
To the deepest craving.
And let your colors swirl
Under my tongue
Until we melt
Into a watercolor fantasy.
A small miracle
That you fill me.
Sustain me.
Enslave me.
Mini M&M's.
You had me at "M."
(You lost me with "Mini" but then you got me again with "M.")

-J.K.


Happy Valentine's Day.
I would have bought you something,
But I know you and I have evolved past
Proving our love in tangible trinkets and tokens.
That and you still owe me for last month's rent.
Tell you what. I really do love you.
Take fifty bucks off what you owe me.
And then you can take us to dinner next month.
Sushi.
You can order the brown rice,
On account of your allergies.
Hey, can I bum a cigarette?

-p.r.



You are always there,
You are my rock,
You are all I need.

I can tell you anything,
I trust you with everything
I want you in my life forever.

Happy Valentine's Day,
my gay best friend.

-- s.m.


BEDRIDDEN

Thinking of you makes my whole world improve
Though my house may be burning
I cannot even move.
For I get all choked up when I picture you near me,
Plus my trache-tube slipped out
So nobody can hear me.
Though if someone could
All I'd yell is your name
'Twill take more to dishearten
This heart than some flame.
They may come in red trucks
Or in choppers above.
But their hoses will never
Extinguish my love.
For my house may be wood,
But the only true test is
The make of one's soul
And mine's made of asbestos.

- J.A.



From behind my granite desk I sit
And watch the brokers choke and spit
As neon numbers ticker by
"Cisco's low!" "Tyco's high!"
The time swims past, the hours meld
And when the day's been Closing-Bell'd
I rocket to the 19th floor
Treadmill for hours; free-weights for more
Dinner might follow: Stu, Mitch or Paul
Masters of this grand Universe, all
Uptown I speed a car-serviced burst
Home to Park Ave. and Ninety-First
I give a "hello!" to my doorman; Puerto-Rican
And enter my flat, unable to sneak in
For there you are waiting, alert and high-Baud
I sit down to greet you, I want to applaud
For you are my reason, my evening, my morn
This Valentine's for you, dear Internet porn.

-s.f.


FOR EDDIE IZZARD

Can't meet your eyes on
The stairway to paradise
But love the highlights.

-J.K.



I will always take solace in knowing,
that the girl you dumped me for,
is kind of ugly.

-- s.m.


Okay, Denver Airport.
I'm a mile high
(or so they say).
Where's all the hot sex?
I want to join the club!
Do I get a card?
Are there dues?
How come you have a Wolfgang Puck?
(or is that some kind of euphamism?)
Oh, I get it.
I'll be waiting at the "Cinnabon"
For all the hot mile-high club-joining sex.

-p.r.


Q & A

Is it wrong that I still fantasize about the girl character from the Encyclopedia Brown stories?
It can't be an unhealthy obsession if I don't remember her name.
When we first met were you attracted to my change apron?
I always gave you extra quarters so you could maybe stay longer.
Were you aware that men have estrogen? And that too much could cause cavities?
It's true. But children still shouldn't be left unsupervised with medical texts.
When do you think I'll overcome my fear of magicians?
I'm sorry I ran home from our first date.

-J.A.


"Did you see that girl over there?"
"No, where."
"That one who just walked by with the huge fake boobs and the tiniest skirt I've ever seen?"
"No, I didn't see her. I was looking at how pretty your hair looks when it's falling out of a ponytail and you're wearing one of my old t-shirts and you're drooling on yourself waiting for our flight."
"Really?"
"No, I was staring at the girl with huge fake boobs and the band-aid for a skirt. I'm married; not blind."
"I love you, too."
Happy Valentine's Day

-p.r.



You were so funny once
So much so that I had a whole hour-long routine of yours memorized.
I didn't find your obscure pop-cult references annoying.
Even when they involved F-Troop, the 1914 Yalta Peace conference, and Mumenchantz all at once.
And then something happened.
I'm not sure if you had some sort of special intel., but you reacted as if they were actually trying to knock down your house
And ran into the Twin Towers by mistake.
This is a Valentine not to you,
But to the stagnant, lately-untapped pool of funny now buried beneath a blubber-thick layer of neo-fascist, right-wing, super-militant paranoia.
I miss you, Cha Cha.
(Please give this note to the old Dennis Miller)

-- s.f.




I go to the gym a lot and I'm really skinny now
I'm still too old for you, aren't I?
Because I've started lying about my age
And people find it charming
When I tell them that I'm twenty-five when I'm LA
And twenty-nine when I'm in New York
Because of the time difference
Ha?
Get it?
Probably not. I was always a lot smarter than you.
Please call me back
Seriously


-Djb




Everything about you;
the merlot you ordered with dinner,
the strawberry daquiri you said was your favorite drink,
the turtlenecks you always wear,
the insistence on shaving your body hair,
the degree from Emerson,
the fact that you couldn't always get it up,
the lisp,
should have tipped me off
that you were gay.
Oops.

--s.m.




Wake up.
Hey. Wake up.
GET UP.
No, I didn't have a bad dream.
No, there isn't someone in the house.
No, I don't want to fool around.
You forgot Valentine's Day.
And I wasn't going to say anything,
But all day I was waiting for you to say something
Or give me a special kiss
Or make me dinner
Or draw me a bath
SOMETHING. ANYTHING.
But instead you ordered Chinese food
And we ate it watching a few hours of TiVo we'd saved up
(the shows we like to watch together)
while you rubbed my feet and I played with one of the cats
and then you let me go first in the bathroom
and handed me my toothbrush with the toothpaste already on it.
So I woke you up
Because I wanted to say:
Thank you for the perfect Valentine's Day.
What?
Yeah.
Fine.
Hold on. Let me take out my retainer.

-p.r.



Previous Poems

Coming up tomorrow...the return of The Virtual Book Tour, featuring Tom Dolby's The Trouble Boy in the spotlight. I suspect Pamie might post something before that, but that's on the menu for tomorrow, with a side of tater tots and the steamed vegetable of the day.

Mmmmm...delicious literature.