Saturday, September 05, 2009
Friday, September 04, 2009
Joke of the Day
Thursday, September 03, 2009
Joke of the Day
Wednesday, September 02, 2009
Joke of the Day
Tuesday, September 01, 2009
Joke of the Day
An unpredictable wildfire raged through the Los Angeles area, destroying dozens of homes. Some Angelenos can't wait for Lindsay Lohan and Sam Ronson to breakup.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Joke of the Day
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
Joke of the Day
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Joke of the Day
"We are not going to allow Europeans to define and describe our children," said a South African close to the Semenya matter. "We will however continue to let Bono infantalize our continent."
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Joke of the Day
My mom is Lutheran and my dad is Mennonite, so nobody's going to understand the joke that would come right here.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Joke of the Day
Cowboys and Indians
I’m so liberal, when I have kids I won’t let them play cowboys and Indians. They’ll have to play Social Historian and Chinese Transcontinental Railroad Worker. One child will turn to the personal diaries and other primary sources to try to piece together a narrative untold by the traditional, mainstream academy. The other child will have to build a railroad.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Joke of the Day
I saw an ad in a magazine for a Distinctive Psychiatric Hospital. That’s for when your television talks to you, but from behind a tasteful oak cabinet.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Me Against the Hamptons
On Sunday, my boyfriend and I drove out to the Hamptons for a fundraising event for his job. We tooled around in this really adorable red Mini Cooper and sang along real loud to Alicia Keyes “No One” out on Montauk Highway. Then we had to talk to people. Talking to people out in the Hamptons—wait a second. I’m going way too fast. Let’s start with the fight about what a sundress is.
Right there, I was feeling uneasy for a number of reasons. Number one: my boyfriend knows what a tunic is. Only gay men and Phyllis Diller know what tunics are.
Two: there are only three categories of things I can wear. Seems a little rigid.
Three: I’m reminded that every girl in Murray Hill is wearing a long dress down to her ankles and that something normally ethereal and a delightful rare treat is right now an overplayed standard.
“Okay, so I’ll wear my J Crew linen sun dress.”
“Yes, except that’s not a sundress.”
“What?! That is too a sundress.”
“No. A sundress is cotton and has straps.”
Now I was getting angry. He clearly had something against the J Crew dress. Why not just say what his problem is with the Crew dress?? But I didn’t say this. I went to the internet and looked up “sundress definition.” Eventually, I found a definition that made me think that a linen strapless dress is too a sundress.
OH! OH! Before I forget. So we have this fight. He seems not on board with the linen dress. I fume around Manhattan and part of this involves running to an open mic in my wonderful but totally ancient (2004) and about to fall apart Calvin Klein gladiator sandals and what Greg R calls the Hiawatha dress. Well. Around the Montrose stop, the Hiawatha dress—which is I should mention pretty much SEE THROUGH--began to fall APART. Ripping at the CHEST. Not good. But a girl can carry on. If a wind doesn’t blow, and I’m not carrying a backpack, the chest piece lays flat and covers my boobs. But then, I get to Union Square where I get off the L to transfer to the F to get down to Comedy Corner, which I should say is run by a smart Russian dude Bad Slava who maintains a fantastic, accurate weblisting of open mics. (He also interviewed me for his great website wherein he does even MORE service work by interviewing comics.) ANYWAY, back to my day of horrors: as I am walking off the train, my foot gets stuck on what is presumably a wad of gum. MOTHERFUCKER! I yell to the long gone Neanderthal who once thought it was okay to put gum on the ground. I look down and what I see is my bare left foot. What the hell? I then look back, and there is my Calvin, totally Kleined. My sandal has been ripped in two by a subway rivet. It got caught and when I kept walking, part of it flew off. I go back and grab the pieces of my sandal and then begin TO WALK BAREFOOT THROUGH NEW YORK. (“Folks, I’ve heard of Barefoot in the Park but not Barefoot in the Subway, okay!”) A new low. Luckily, there is an Urban Outfitters right up at the intersection. I walk in, yes, left-foot barefoot, and prance down to the shoe section. Whereupon I grab some $12 blue canvas shoes. Like what a retarded person would wear in the 70s. Or a retarded person in 2009 if her shoe broke off.
So while I am at Urban (I know: annoying. I hate it when people call it that), I decide to peruse the sale section. If you are going to walk around barefoot in a long flowing see-through dress, the basement of Urban is the place to do it. THIS IS REAL PEOPLE. I AM NOT MESSING AROUND. I am an artist and I am poor and I am crazy. Deal. I am the package you are trying to buy.
Okay, not really but let’s pretend. So I am looking at the—ugh. This is boring me. Bottomline: I buy an adorable blue SUNDRESS with straps that my boyfriend later declares too small for me. Well. So there you have it. Through it all I tried. Tried to wear a dress with straps that would distract from my armpit wrinkles.
So before we go to the Hampton’s garden party, we decided to eat food. Never good to arrive at a garden party famished and just stuffing your face with upscale potato salad for the first half hour. So we go to grab some breakfast sandwiches.
Let me just say that you have not seen a line for breakfast sandwiches until you have seen a Sunday morning Hamptons sandwich line. People were wearing pink shorts embroidered with lobsters, waiting in line for lobster breakfast sandwiches. These people knew how to live. With an abundance of lobsters.
Let me assure you that preppy fashion is alive and well and not even in an ironic way. It looked very serious, the preppy hanging out in that breakfast line. But it was 20 people deep and we were hungry. We kept walking until we found Southhampton’s other breakfast sandwich place, which was not nearly as crowded. We got two breakfast sandwiches and when the total came to $18 I yelled out “Jesus Christ!” Which I really hadn’t intended to do but it just sort of happened BECAUSE TWO BREAKFAST SANDWICHES CAME TO $18.
At that deli, lots of ladies were prancing around in skinny tan bodies wearing drapy silky beach gowns (?) and high heels. Here’s the thing: when the milk’s gone bad, the milk’s gone bad. Aint no way to make it not smell sour. You can put on all the high heels and lotions you want, but you’re still 37.
That was mean. But seriously. This world is cruel. I am 33 and I might as well start packing up. We could be just months away from a gray pubic hair.
ANYWAY, we got back into the car, where I just wanted to stay and play Beyonce’s Halo over and over while he did his work stuff.
Here’s the thing about Hamptons parties. Luckily no one wanted to talk about what they did for a living because it appeared that some people did NOTHING for a living. Which is actually a lot like being a receptionist at a dying non-profit. So I found I had a lot in common with these people. Also, luckily being the daughter of Bill Buller has adequately prepared me for William F Buckley-based conversations, and that proved to come in quite handy.
A problem: the hedges. They really like their hedges. So you have to slow down quickly when you come to a break in the hedges to get a glimpse of the homes. A borderline dangerous game.
There was a woman selling jewelry in the pool house. The pieces started at around $3000. I mentioned to her that I had been trying to sell my Tiffany gold (ON CRAIGSLIST. This part not mentioned.) She said I shouldn’t sell it. I should expand the hole in the disc and get a chain with DIAMONDS so that it really pops. The way I had it now, she said, it just got lost against my skin. The diamonds would stand out nicely. My bf and I nodded in agreement. The diamonds would really help.
DIAMONDS.
I went back to waiting in the lemonade line.
Here’s something about rich people. Everything is always nice. “This weather is amazing! Perfect day for this event!” No it’s not. This weather is terrible and I want to go inside. I am sure the inside of your giant house is air-conditioned. I am sure you have a nice plush basement where we can go hang out and play video games and drink lemonade. Not sure why we are standing around a pool outside in garden dresses when it is 98 degrees out. Also, doesn’t anyone have pot? Why aren’t we smoking pot.
After four hours of being at a garden party (!) My bf and I got back in the car and drove back to Manhattan. It seemed like most people at the party split their time between Manhattan and the Hamptons. I feel that’s really the most practical way to do it. It was annoying having to rent the car and drive back the same day. If my bf and I had property in the Hamptons, we could have just stayed the night.
On the car ride back I made all sorts of disparaging comments about money and people with money. I think at one point I think I even said “Give me Bushwick anyday” by which I meant “I am insane.” Yes, it’s nice to have things “real.” To be in touch with the common man. To sit on the L train with America, to know that we aren’t supposed to use the words “cripples” and “negroes” anymore. But would it kill me to make some money? To actually take some solid actions towards earning serious money? Probably not. I would be able to buy a non-see through dress and have my Calvins re-Kleined.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Me Against the New Madonna Song
After enduring a barrage of gushing Madonna-Celebration-relate
her skeleton head in various phases of “Party” or as she says it: “Potty.” One such photo shows her sucking on a cigarette while a male hand lights it. Potty. If it is 1993 and you are hanging out in the school parking lot, ditching class. There’s also the classic Madonna dance pose: one hand raised defiantly above her head, while she looks down to the ground, mouth open in serious “getting stuff done” dance mode. Potty.
The song does start with an authoritative dance beat, but before long Madge has to open her mouth with her commentary:
“I think you wanna come over, yeah I heard it through the grapevine.”
Pretty typical but pretty clear. Madonna is in control, in possession of the necessary information. She is a woman in the know, connected to the “grapevine.”
“Are you drunk or you sober? Think about it, doesn’t matter.”
Here she gets confusing. If it doesn’t matter, why do I have to think about it. WHY EVEN BRING IT UP. This reminds me of certain fights I’ve had with my boyfriend. I will ask a question that should have just been a statement.
Kara: Are you feeling comfortable treating me this way?
Boyfriend: What are you feeling Kara? Is there a feeling that you want to say?
Kara: YES. I FEEL LIKE I DON'T LIKE IT WHEN YOU TALK TO ME LIKE THE WAY YOU WERE TALKING. AND I DON’T LIKE THE WAY WE ARE TALKING RIGHT NOW. (takes to bed and starts crying)
Back to Madonna!
In the next lyric, she doles out some terrible advice:
“and if it makes you feel good then I say do it”
Madonna, I’m not sure how many AA friends you have or friends who compulsively eat hamburgers, but pretty much for some people? If it makes us feel good? We probably shouldn’t do it. Because it kills us. So…pretty stupid advice if you are talking to, well, Americans.
More silly lyrics:
“Let’s get this started, yeah
Coz everybody wants to party with you.”
“Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?
You look familiar…
You wanna dance? …Yeah.
I guess I just don’t recognize you with your clothes on… (laughs)”
“I’m a slut” humor: I used to be a fan. When I was 15.
Okay, maybe I’m being too hard on her. Have I tried to write a dance song? No. So let’s get a little Atticus Finch and try walking a mile in a man’s dance shoes before judging.
Here is my dance song:
Ooohhh you know I like to dance
But sometimes I feel uncomfortable
Don’t know whether to do the grocery store
Or to dance like Dr. Huxtable
I just wanna dance
Just feel the beat and get on the floor
Come on now
Put your carrot cake down and dance with me
I put on a special bra.
So I can wear a strapless dress
and still dance
Yes they served carrot cake at a wedding
Ooohhh you know I like to dance
But sometimes I feel uncomfortable
Don’t know whether to do the grocery store
Or to dance like Dr. Huxtable
Okay, so writing a dance song is pretty hard. I guess Celebration is pretty good. It does what every good Madonna dance song has made me do: make me laugh at Madonna and love her at the same time. Download it today.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
"How's Business?": A Mid-morning Rant
As I was taking off my headphones this morning, after enjoying a very sensual DJ Kaos Love the Night Away remix, some elderly business douche asked me in the elevator “How’s business?”
“How’s Business?”
I’m sorry, what? To what the fuck are you referring? How does it look like I think business is? My hair is wet, I am wearing headphones and I still have a crease on my face from my bedsheets. How’s business? I have no fucking reference point for this conversation. Unless of course it’s your not-so-subtle attack on my not-ready-for-prime time business attire. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I don’t look like Bette Midler in Big Business. Sorry I am not wearing a shell-pink Anne Taylor suit and spectator pumps. But I can’t. Because 48 hours after I put on a shell-pink Anne Taylor Loft suit I will be found in my Aurora, Illinois hotel room, dead from suicide.
Sorry I’m wearing vintage running shoes with giant black Lily Tomlin “I’m on Broadway” pants. Not my first choice either. But we work with what we have. I currently make 41,500 American lady dollars a year and frankly that appears to be enough for iced coffee, bagels, the ownership of karabuller.com and frightfully little else.
How’s business?
How the fuck do you think business is? Ask yourself before you ask others. He better check himself before he wrecks himself. How’s business.
Office Talk
I was in the elevator at work the other day and this guy turned to another guy and was like, “hey looks like you were pretty heavily lauded for your work on the newsletter.”
Here’s what I have to say to that. Let’s all just settle down. Let’s just take a ten minute cool down. I think we’re all getting real nervous in this economy and we’re acting a little squirrelly. We’re using words we frankly shouldn’t be using. We might be using words where we don’t even know what they mean.
Let’s just sit this thing out with our dignity intact.
I work at an office and I have to say, I don’t really do well. There are office conversations there that as far as I’m concerned could be like Guantanimo Bay-approved acts torture. “Now, there was a Sandy in Accounts payable, but I think there was also a Sandy in HR on 14, before she left for the Toronto office. I think the Sandy in Accounts Payable left because her baby had some sort of problem.”
Okay, you know what I’m not really interested in following the sad career trajectories of mid-level people named Sandy. It’s just not my thing. It’s apparently your thing and you appear really into it. Me not so much.
Like, I once had a three way on top of a moving vehicle. I’m friends with gay boys who shit their pants and have it come out their pant leg. Those are my kinda stories. That’s were I’m coming from. That’s my wheelhouse. If you don’t have shit coming out of your pantleg I’m not interested. If this story about Sandy in Accounts Payable doesn’t end in a shitty pant leg or humiliating public sex I’m not interested.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
In the Bag: Inside Women's Handbags and My Soul
For celebrity nuts like me, a glimpse into a star’s handbag is akin to a man’s stolen glance between a woman’s thighs. If I am idly flipping through a magazine, a shot of a ritzy purse spilling its contents will stop me dead in my tracks. My pulse will quicken. I’ll look around to see if anyone notices. This is it. This is what I want. It is a peek into a full life, well-lived—and lived with shitloads of money. (Let’s not kid ourselves; a big part of this is about money.) Just like us, these are human beings with bad breath and ragged cuticles. But oh, look at what they have to take care of these imperfections! The breath mints are tucked into a $5,000 purse, and Madonna’s manicurist is on speed dial in that cellphone. These are the belongings of people who are doing something right, and so I stare at those lists of objects as if I am divining the Torah. Answers can be found inside the depths of that handbag. Why am I thirty-two years old and still not making a living at comedy? Maybe I should be more like Rebecca Romijn O’Connell and pack some extra handywipes for the airport and a Granny Smith apple in case I get hungry?
I am not alone in this obsession with handbag innards. Inside Your Handbag porn, as I call it, is something of a phenomenon. There is a seventeen year old boy in the Phillipines who runs a site, insidemyhandbag.com, where anybody can scan in an image of their bag and its contents. You can scroll through image after image of candy-colored designer bags spilling Dior lipsticks, pink cellphones, and sun tan lotion. Under each image is a simple label: Balenciaga in San Francisco, Manbag from Istanbul. Bryanboy, the “curator” of the site, says that there is no discrimination, all handbags are welcome. However, the site pretty exclusively features designer handbags loaded with pricey goodies from around the world. There is no Liz Claiborne bag from Duluth spilling Vaseline tubs and a Gap wallet.
But never fear, Liz Claiborne in Duluth, there is a place for you too in this vast handbag-exploring world. In a shopping forum on Style.com, a website owned by Vogue and W magazines, one user asked for members to detail the contents of their bags and twenty five women responded—making it one of the most popular posts. A wider array can be found on InStyle.com, where they maintain a blog entitled “In Your Bag,” where you can peek inside Celebrity and non-celebrity handbags. Ivanka Trump opened up her purple croc purse to reveal a much-used passport (two additional inserts), lip gloss and Altoids. In Style, knowing the drill, has the owner explain a few of the items. We learn that Ivanka is reading Gore Vidal because she “doesn’t like to waste time reading trash.” Please allow me to interrupt and call “bullshit!” right now. She’s not reading Gore Vidal. But she, like myself, understands that the illusion of fine literacy has its power. I got halfway through that Lolita in Tehran book and gave it a rest. But, it stayed in that purse in case someone impressively academic-looking boarded my train. Where is the truth? I don’t want the studio’s press release version of inner-purse life; I want the real thing.
For this, there is the reader comments section. Scroll down and watch America dump out her purse. “In my purse i keep LIPGLOSS, MONEY,MINTS,MY GRAY RAZR & a couple SNIKERS bars.” “In my Xhilaration bag from Target: a blood pressure monitor and medications for my allergies and hypertension.” Seriously. Now we are talking! “…my library card and an inhaler.” Inside a Degas bag, we see a bible (“Always with me”) and Fender guitar picks. Another has keys for her home and her percussion practice rooms.
Oh, Becky and your blood pressure cuff! How infinitely more interesting you are than Ivanka and her chapped, Chanelled lips. Bring on Heather, with her pot pipe and tin foil and a her ex-boyfriend’s note ripped off her Toyota Corolla. Each one of these women is her own gothic novella, some dark Nowheresville tale waiting to unfold. Oh the secrets and lies lurking in the handbags across the nation. The private sorrows and furtive dreams. Ivanka’s is nice to look at, but Tammy from Des Moines--hers has a live, beating human heart.
In the end, I need both. The celebrity bags keep me dreaming and moving forward, forever feeling incomplete. One day, I too shall carry a lucky seashell from my movie premiere at Cannes. Maybe backup designer sunglasses from a boutique in Venice. But, until then, the Duluth bags keep me grounded, in the moment and grateful for my own purse’s partially used Kleenex, waiting to collect my over-chewed gum.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Let's Wear the Right Shoes When We Go to the Buddha
At one point the leader pulled out his fancy microphone/recorder so that he could record it for his podcast*, and then everyone started making what I felt were very ostentatious “I want to hear myself on the podcast noises.” A guy loudly flipping through his notebook of Buddhist notes (!), a woman clearing her throat then slightly moaning. They were all wanting their moment in the spotlight. I had no craving for this, what with my television show The Kara Buller Show and my other media outlets.
The leader made a reference to his iphone and an app that he particularly loves, called “Things” which helps you organize your to-do lists. I felt buoyed. Perhaps if I study meditation enough, I too will have clear skin and an Iphone. Right now, all I have is the itouch, which is fine, but if walking the way of the Buddha can lead to more, then I’m on board.
click http://www.theidproject.com/podcast.htm for the podcasts. Boy, I tell you the 31 year old kid who runs this thing is on fire. He talks like the supersmart friend you got high with in high school before he left for Harvard, looks like the supercute gay friend we all want to have or be and is committed to prison reform like that gray-haired lesbian who looked at me like I’m a slut yesterday probably is! Goooo Ethan Nichtern!