Today I feel like Ms. Gloria Estefan in “Coming Out Of The Dark,” how she reemerged into the plasticine limelight in a glorious convalescent black and white celluloid cloud after that harrowing back injury. She always seemed very stiff to me, before and after. Of course I didn’t suffer a major physical blow—I’ve only just had a very bad cold but yesterday, (even though the music reference is far superior to any Estefanian), I felt about up to the limp sentiment of Jarvis Cocker’s quiet spoken part in “Ciao!” by Lush: “Eating vegan meals with the blinds closed,” only there was tuna fish involved.

Speaking of tuna fish. There’s something so Coney Island about using tuna fish’s full name.

Tuna fish. As opposed to tuna bird or tuna mammal. There’s a big menu sign by the Lechmere T station for Tuna Fish (among other things)—apparently there’s some sort of snack bar there, which in itself is sort of odd. Mayo, fish, trains, dirt, and exhaust—a bad combination. Why not write “Sandwiches” on there instead, emphasizing the bread—something neutral and dry? Why conjure some fish oil, dairy, dirt soup in the mind and stomach of the commuter? Anyway.

I always picture teachers eating tuna fish out of Tupperware.

Yeah, nobody said I couldn’t take another dose of cold medicine today, for good measure. And I really am still sick. I’m just so glad it’s sunny and 60 DEGREE!!! You may say HO MY GOD!

Last night Wil and I did a karaoke gig at the B-Side for one of the waitresses’ birthdays—a real dish named Courtney. It was a blast. I wore my hot fringy black skirt, pink satin camisole, crazy gold Cuban dance heels, pearls, and a butter-colored insane Tom Jones ruffly tuxedo shirt with weird gold under-the-sea mermaid scene cufflinks—a look I like to call “I caroused with a Cuban dancer last night, slept with him, and then stole his shirt for the walk of shame.” It’s important to keep one’s perspective, though, with a look like that because it’s easy to go too far. The point is to look good, to look sexy with a frenesi twist, not to play the part so wildly that you put lipstick on the collar, smear your mascara and dab on some Agua Florida Colonia. A few years ago I was a ladybug for Halloween. My sister Nancy kept trying to convince me to stuff my butt (oh, I’m going to get Google hits for that), and I’m all “Girl, I already got back. I’m playing on the lady part of the ladybug so that I can look hot. There will be no butt stuffing. There will be a slinky black satin dress, pearls, wings and tentacles.” Or antennae even. Anyway. I go on and on.

I’m all for reckless dedication to costuming as well, of course. Amy Sedaris is the queen of costume/transformation dedication and has been since she was a child. She is unbelievable. According to her brother David’s writing, she wore the bottom half of a fat suit while visiting her father just to drive him and muss his old fashioned “my daughters must be thin to get married to live a decent life” schema. She purposefully ate mayo with a spoon in front of the fridge to taunt him. She is my hero. I wish she were my gal pal.

Now I must go back to watching Eliza Dushku and David Boreanaz kick each other’s asses. Hot.