the other evening, as often happens on warm nights on crowded bar patios, we ended up sitting at a table with a large group of semi-strangers. “hey,” said the guy sitting next to me. “i’m nick.” i blinked. “oh!” i replied in my head, “how nice for you. unfortunately, i simply cannot know a single other nick at this time. i’ll let you know if there’s an opening…” (i guess i introduced myself, and then proceeded to spend the remainder of the evening vainly rebuffing his attempts at conversation.)

pussy-strut:

i need feminism because my sandwich last night was drunk. 

Friday, April 27
This is all you need to know about me and food …

Every day I have my house manager, Hershey — who I stole from the Mercer Hotel with André Balazs’s blessing — wake me up with a hot washcloth for my face, a leg rub, and a plate of toast soldiers.

Then someone always gets chicken potpie and potato salad from D.D., you know, Dean & Deluca. If I can’t afford D.D., I just don’t eat.

One thing from living next to Paris Hilton in L.A. … she always had a fresh cake in her house. So I make sure someone gets a full, fresh new one every day, like marzipan. My house manager tries to put it in the fridge, but I don’t like refrigeration. I know, so Portlandia of me. But I’m sorry, I’m from Portland!

That’s what I eat. Every day. And then I need sugar from 4 a.m. to 5 a.m.

Saturday, April 28
Toast soldiers, washcloth, leg rub, D.D., sugar.

I know Mario Batali well. Why bother knowing anyone else? Michael Stipe told me to talk to him artist-to-artist. Those clogs built an empire, man! I took my soccer-mom/lawyer sister with Stipe and some people from U2 to Babbo, and it changed the way she ate forever. It’s like when a fat, American woman goes to France and she realizes there’s another way to eat. By the way, the only meal I’ve had that’s better than Babbo is Brooklyn Fare. It’s all about Brooklyn Fare, dude.

My whole 4 a.m. to 5 a.m. sugar thing is a problem. When I lived at the Mercer Hotel, they literally called an admin meeting on how to make the perfect warm sugar cookie for me in the middle of the night. Last night I got into some Jeni’s Ice cream in Ugandan Vanilla Bean. I stopped doing dope in the nineties, but I’ve had to eat sweets at 4 or 5 a.m. ever since.

I hate chocolate. Fuck chocolate. Kurt hated chocolate, too — that was one of the things we had in common. Chocolate makes it all too easy. Oooh. Woww. Chocolate. Oooh. Yum. Fuck that. It’s sorta like how I don’t love the Ramones. It’s a flaw. Or, I love Mr. Springsteen as a person, I’m just not a superfan. Everyone lovvves the Boss, but that’s chocolate for me. It’s just, like … no.

I’m all about the pineapple upside-down cake and google “crème brûlée circuit.” I coined that shit.

Sunday, April 29
Sometimes I forget to eat. Right now I’m 125 pounds and five foot, eleven inches, but my “rock weight” was 160. I think I’m a sexy beast at 160, but Gwyneth is the one who told me that if you want to act, and I do want to get back to acting, “You are your own advertisement.”

Actually, when I was 192 pounds, in that Vogue shoot where they had to cut the dress open to get me into it, I thought I was hot then. But here’s why: My testosterone level is 358, which is crazy because I don’t have a beard, no acne, and I’m not a lesbian. You know that fat chick with zits who thinks she can steal your boyfriend because she believes she’s actually hot? That’s her testosterone talking! But I also have more estrogen than normal. So doctors expect me to have a beard and these massive Dolly Parton tits. I’m explaining this to help understand why maybe my diet is odd.

I once lost a ton of weight from a fish-sticks-and-lemon-water diet. That’s how I started my own band; I had to lose all that weight first, apparently. Anyway, I love lemon water; it’s the key to life.

Monday, April 30
Toast soldiers, washcloth, leg rub, D.D., sugar.

I’m not a big drinker, but Bono once gave me a bottle of Pétrus in France. It gets you so stoned in a really opiated way, like you’d just taken a Vicodin. A month later I found out it cost $12K! But before that, I was like, “Dude, they should get that to the junkies!” After that, I bought a subscription to Wine Spectator … but Jesus … that’s like moving to Santa Barbara or Bridgehampton; I’m not that old. Come on, Court! Now I’m not into wine porn at all.

Tuesday, May 1
Toast soldiers, washcloth, leg rub, D.D., sugar.

Cheap wine at the gallery opening — yuck. I can count on my fingers and toes how much I’ve been drunk — and that’s always from tequila. If you see me with my top off, blame tequila. I’ve also only had four boyfriends.

The best bartender alive, Salvatore Calabrese, is who I had the honor of learning booze from. Now I make “nuritos” which is a mojito named after Nur Khan. So tonight I made an amazing nurito for my guy: fresh lime juice, rum, sugar cane syrup, confectioners’ sugar, with mint, crushed. He doesn’t like sweet so, jalapeño bitters. I am so that fuckin’ Portlandia-like person with the cocktails. UGH.

Wednesday, May 2
Hershey leaves me my tray of usual foods.

Me and André were going to open a salt store. And then across the street opens the Meadow with 800 kinds of salt. Even though they stole my fucking idea, I stop by there all the time. Of COURSE they’re from Portland. I told Fred Armisen that I’ll only do the show if they make it “Courtney Love Is From Portland Day.”

My art party is at the Americano. Someone booked it without asking me. I could have just called Mario! The last good party I had was for Ed Norton in ‘98. I’m scared for this one. I’m a stranger in a strange land with the art world. And I’m not an attention whore as much as people think.

I don’t recommend trying my eating habits at home, and I compensate by juicing kale and shit.

say ahh