Saturday, March 31, 2007

Just Call Me Brute (Or, Notes on Effectiveness)

I tried to take a nap this afternoon. The weather isn't exactly suiting my mood - it's one of those too-sunny-to-be-indoors types of Saturdays - and I'd prefer it to be one of those too-rainy-to-do-anything-but-read types of Saturdays. So, anyway, I tried to take a nap - hoping that somehow, someway a massive weatherfront would move in while I was asleep and wreck the early Spring sunshine - at least for the remainder of the afternoon.

I just drifted off to sleep when my newish next door neighbor (which could be an illegal sublet - and, if it is, I'm a-gon' put my best pair of tight 70s lowslung Levi's and get all Serpico/Silkwood/Norma Rae whistleblower on her ass) clambered into her apartment, promptly turning on the most annoying music I have ever heard. Yep, it beats the other, upstairs neighbor's music hands down. After hearing what I heard this afternoon, I'd take boots-in-dryer gay disco tit-bang remixes any day.

The "music" that came from next door sounded like the soundtrack to a Japanese video game. Sorry, let me clarify: a girl's Japanese video game. One where you have to dance and sing and primp your hair and bitchslap and backstab your friends "Whitney" and "Tiffani" to get to the next round - when the "music" gets faster and faster.

Said another way - it sounded like the stylings of an inhouse DJ at a Sanrio superstore...or a Hello Kitty vibrator with a sound system attached to it (insert "boom box" joke here).

Cranky from the sun and the napitus interruptus, I paused and thought about what to do. I could be civilized and get up, put pants on, go next door and ask my new less-than-best friend to turn the shit down or...I could not get out of bed at all.

I chose the latter - with a manly variation.

Without getting up, I clenched my hand into a fist and pounded the wall - I gave it the usual "shut the fuck up" three strikes. It was loud - louder than I thought it'd sound. The frames above my bed shook and I heard the skid of heels on hardwood.

The sound of Hello Kitty, Live in Ibiza! was suddenly - thankfully - reduced to a whimper.

Made me think of a quote from a show I love: "The only thing violence has ever done is solve problems."

Never before has being a semi-barbarian felt so good.

Friday, March 30, 2007

The Queefes Of Los Angeles (Or, Bulemia For Everyone)

Last night, I made the mistake of entering the new Pinkberry store on 8th Avenue. My friend Torrey and I were hungry for dessert after a hardcore eat-a-thon at one of my personal culinary jams - Grand Szechuan. We kept walking, walking, walking to try to find something decent. Neither of us had set foot in Pinkberry before and it seemed relatively empty, so we walked in - attempting to satisfy a certain irritating curiosity. Prior to the Los Angeles-based chain opening a store in New York last Fall, miles of press had been devoted to this new version of the tasty low-cal, low-fat, low-impact, low-maintenance, low-blow, low-low-low dieter's staple: Frozen Yogurt.

Two feet in the door, we were bombarded by the tinny antics of Pinkberry's core client base: the tarted up trendy girl* in her mid (more like late) 20s - the one who swears that Sex and the City is like, omigod-Becky, a like total documentary/story of my life in New York like totally.

Blow-outs, wonky heels, little tiny tampon purses, and eating disorders were fully in tow:

PINKY 1: Omigodomigodomigod. This is SO good.

PINKY 2: Like, totally. Omigodomigodomigod - can I get a taste of the Green Tea?

PINKY 3: Omigod, can I get a lid. Sorry!

PINKY 4: Omigodomigod. I'm like so swearing off Tasti-D** now...this IS SO MUCH BETTER!

PINKY 1: Omigod are you like, so totally transformed?

PINKY 4: Omigod, yes. I am. I am totally totally totally transformed.

PINKY 2: Can I get a taste of the other flavor. Omigod...did you try the Green Tea? Omigod. It. Is. So. Good.

PINKY 3: I still need a lid, like now.

PINKY 4: I'm still transformed. Totally. Trans. Formed.

PINKY 1: I know, right? So. Trans. Form. Ational.

PINKY 3: Are you guys like getting toppings? They have like so many toppings.

PINKY 1: Omigodomigodomigod. I know. And they don't even charge you extra. Not like Tasti-D.

PINKY 2: I can't decide you guuuuuys. Which do you like more? Tell me, tell me, tell me what to get!

Before it went any further, Torrey and I turned on our heels and walked the fuck out in horror.

*I hate to backtrack on the Women's Movement, but these were most definitely girls - there was nothing even close to 'womanhood' in sight.

**Tasti-D-Lite - otherwise known as frozen powder, water and air - whipped and beaten into something sort of resembling a dessert.

Thursday, March 29, 2007

The Welcome Wagon (Or, I Had To)

Continuing this week's theme: gay, gay gay...

Today is my mother's birthday. (Again, if I could get gayer, I would.) As one of the few, dedicated readers of this blog, I owe her a shout out...and, yes, contrary to last year's entry about her birthday, I believe she's still 32 or 33.

Clearly, she won't say.

She's also been known to out gay her gay son from time to time.

Happy Birthday, Linda Marie.

Pictured above: my mother circa 1980. We had just moved into the house she and my stepfather Joe still own and live in. When we found this photograph - shoved in a box - a decade or so later, my mother laughed and said: "Jesus, no wonder the Welcome Wagon never came when we moved in. Joe and I had the same perm."

How To Get Head In Advertising (Or, Broadway Bores)

So a couple of nights ago, I worked late and was getting ready to wind down and tear myself away from the computer. To force myself to make said transition, I shut my music off and turned the TV on - sort of a way to trick myself into stopping work. The trick didn't really take, so I ended up working with the TV blaring on a random channel for about an hour.

Within that hour, that GAP ad with Claire Danes and that dude from Angels in America / Little Children aired - kid you not - 6 times. I was humming Ethel Merman to myself over and over again...when it hit me.

This ad - featuring a man and a woman onstage - dancing together to an old show tune - is for a product called "The Boyfriend Trouser."

As the song plays "anything you can do, I can do better...", the woman ends up ripping the pants off of the man to wear them herself.


Clearly, homosexuals - or, women who only know homosexuals - created this shit.

I suppose too, homosexuals - or, women who only know homosexuals - are the ones buying this shit.

In my mind, this product - the same fucking beige box pant the GAP has been hawking since the beginning of time - will permanently be known as:

"The Fag Hag Trouser."

Tuesday, March 27, 2007

You're The One I Don't Want (Or, Stranded at the Drive-Thru)

I'll get this out of the way upfront:

I was a Drama Fag in high school.

I was also an Art Fag, a Newspaper Fag, a Poetry Fag, and an Overachiever Fag.

If there was another kind of Fag I was allowed to be in high school, I would have been that too. Like most fags to come of age in the 1980s, I had to wait until college to become a liberated that was out and loud in that very political, kissing-at-kiss-ins-making-homoerotic-artwork-and-shoving-it-in-your-face early 1990s way.

I digress though - the point of this isn't the bloom of my early adult faggotry.

The point of this is my adolescent Drama Faggotry...and all that specific safe haven allowed at the time. Here's my absolute favorite story from the time - it's probably way shorter than this intro...I guess I'm overwriting to make up for all of the videos...


My senior year, we put on the musical Grease. The girl who played Sandy was, well, a little plump. Her lovely singing voice landed her the role, but her physicality was a little off for the part. Most of the play, she was buried under the requisite good-girl poodle skirts and twin-sets, so she looked fine. Good, even.


When the time came for her to turn into the "hot" Sandy at the end of the play, some, um, problems arose. The play requires Sandy to strut out in a teased up bad-girl hairdo, bad-girl pumps, and a black, skin-tight outfit. In the movie version, Olivia Newton-John wears a sort of off-the-shoulder tube-top (who knew) and these roller disco leggings that seemed to come with their own yeast infection pre-installed for her final entrance as the fuck-me-fuck-me-fuck-me version of herself.

So, the poor girl who played Sandy in my school's version of Grease comes out at the end of the play - all done up with the hair and the heels and the tight, tight, tight outfit. The overall effect though, was a little less than what was intended: her "Innocent Imogene" Sandy had been way cuter than "Sexy Sadie" Sandy.

On opening night, my family was in the audience. My younger brother was then about 12 years old. At the time, he had the habit of asking horribly obvious questions very loudly in public. Going to the movies with him was torture for me at that time, since I was striving for that anonymity that most teenagers crave in public - especially when they're with their families.

So, as soon as the semi-sort-of-not-really-sexy-Sandy slunk onto the stage and Danny Zuko fell madly head-over-heels for her, my brother turned to my mom and asked, full-voiced in the middle of the scene:

"Hey, Mom. Why does he love her now that she's looks like shit?"

Do You Like Horrors? Horror Films? (Or, My Breasts Are Too Big, I Can't Run Anymore)

OK, OK, so...I know I've been a quite the YouTube blogging machine lately...I can't help it though. I'm sort of a junky for the shit right now. Here's another genius clip from 3 Non Blondes...

It's sort of food related, so I'll pretend like it's still "Food Week" and I'm really writing about how much I love giant turnips.

And tits.

And turnips.

And turnips and tits together.

And turnips and tits...togevvvaaah.

Actually, this is really a mash-up of food and culture...

Nevermind, just watch the clip. I'll write something real shortly....

I Just 'Ave To 'Ave It, Y'Know? (Or, More About Food)

I get this way with Chinese food...

Another clip from 3 Non Blondes...Enjoy.

Monday, March 26, 2007

Cha-Cha-Cha-Cha José-Ah (Or, Fashion Weak, #3)

I'm hopefully going to wrap up my own Mercedes Benz Fashion Weak Week here in one day...

Someone just turned me onto this...a hidden camera show from the UK called 3 Non Blondes.

The show's killing me softly and loudly and all over and up and down and sideways and backwards and over and over again...I think I'm in love.

Fashion Weak, #2 (Or, The Car Didn't Know the Difference)

Also from Night of the Comet...girls with guns and spiral perms never looked so good...

Table The Label (Or, Fashion Weak)

My friend Torrey sent me this forever's still too much of a good time.

Just remember to follow Mr. T's always titular advice: "Table the label...and wear your own name."

Sunday, March 25, 2007

You Were Born With An Asshole, Doris (Or, Scenes From a Forgotten Camp Classic)

I guess this week has been more like high-to-low culture week...

Here's a scene from the (nearly) forgotten camp classic Night of the Comet. I think my little brother and I watched this movie 100 times over the course of 1986. I think we even bought the shit on VHS since we would rent it just about every week. Seemingly, YouTube has the entire film, so I might have to post more...

Friday, March 23, 2007

John Waters' Pop Idol (Or, Behind The Curve Again, What Am I To Do?)

I know I'm behind the curve on this one...

Britain's throaty, drunk-off-her-ass pop muse Amy Winehouse is now attempting to conquer these here parts known as America. The hype-music-PR machine is in full tilt since her latest album came out this week.

I'm liking the tracks fine enough...but the thing that's most on my mind is her appearance.

I'd read many a thing about her on various gossip sites ("Amy Wino. Drunk Again!") and thought nothing of her until I saw a photograph of her singing at the Brit Awards last year (the left half of the image above). I'm not really one for putting the visual above all else when it comes to music (except for, of course, a certain lady), but I'm mesmerized by Winehouse.

I'll cut to the chase - it's all about one thing:

She seems to have sprung directly from the loins of John Waters.

Lady Drunkalade is working some serious Female Trouble drag (see also: the right half of the image above): that magic marker cat-eye look that reeks of juvenile detention...that rat's nest bouffant that screams upper echelon cat burglar...that drunken stagger that will probably lead to her whipping out a dick and taking a piss standing up...most likely on a future ex-boyfriend or one of her parents.

Anyway, I know she's been around for a while and it's the hype train that's popped her into my consciousness, but still...goddammit if I don't love this shade of bad girl camp.

Thursday, March 22, 2007

Loss Leader (Or, Mrs. Louden Clear)

Here's a reprieve from 'Culture' Week...

The universe is a funny, funny place.

Madonna's delightfully horrible (or is that horribly delightful?) Who's That Girl? came up in conversation a few weeks ago...and, like some sort of fucked up voodoo camp magic, it is now on various HBO channels seemingly nonstop.

Above, Madonna ("Nikki Finn") explains the hidden social value of shoplifting to her love interest Mr. Louden Clear.


Wednesday, March 21, 2007

Casual Corner (Or, Rock Out With Your Frock Out)

Last week was about food...this week seems to be about 'culture'...

Quite a few years ago, the Guggenheim had a retrospective of Giorgio Armani's work in fashion. It was a popular exhibition for sure and I went on a Saturday afternoon. In other words, the place was packed with everyone from tourists to Upper East Siders out for an afternoon jaunt. Since the Guggenheim main exhibit space is hyper-linear (despite being as curvy and eliptical as the cone-shape of the building) in terms of flow, I was stuck behind two older couples the entire time. They were very quiet until about halfway through the exhibit - when one of the women burst out:

"Where's the casual wear? This is all formal wear for crying out loud. It's all so fancy."

To which her female friend replied...

"I know, it's like that's all this guy does is gowns and tuxedos. I mean, where are the regular clothes for regular people?"

I got to giggling, since the show was as serious and staid as any retrospective could be. There was a heavy emphasis on celebrity. One segment was all about Oscar fashion, which sent the formerly quiet ladies of the couples over the edge:

"Arnold Schwarzenegger is a fucking midget."

"That Jodie Foster must be awfully petite. That mannequin that's supposed to be her is so tiny."

Toward the end of the show, there was a display of various accessories. I thought for sure the ladies would have nothing to say about them, since they were fairly beige and all. However...

"That beaded clutch. I had something just like that."

"You did?"

"I did. I threw it in the garbage. God, I hated that purse."

Ladette To Lady (Or, A Recent Obsession)

I'm obsessed with this show. Period.

The clip doesn't do it justice: it's a British reality show currently airing on the Sundance Channel called Ladette to Lady in which a group of rowdy bargirls attend a proper English ladies' finishing school.

I first fell for it on a hungover Sunday - luckily for me, the entire first season was aired as a marathon that day.

Tuesday, March 20, 2007

A Night Uptown (Or, Opera in Another City)

I went to see an opera last night. It was Strauss's little seen Die Ägyptische Helena.

Since I traveled above 59th Street for the first time in a few months (and experienced the consequent culture shock), I'll provide a simultaneous translation of my night - uptown vs. downtown. (And by uptown vs. downtown, I really mean Upper West Side vs. Fagland.)

Here goes - an event from the evening is expressed without tone first, followed by neighborhood translation:

"I do enjoy eating at this Chinese restaurant."

UPTOWN: There's not enough sauce for this duck. It's delicious, but I would like more sauce. Can I get an extra side of sauce?

DOWNTOWN: Grand Szechuan is so much better than this.

"That gentleman is certainly very close to his daughter."

UPTOWN: Is that Rachel's husband? He's cheating again! I can't believe it!

DOWNTOWN: God, that girl that old guy with is so young. He can probably get away with buying her handbags from Coach. He has to buy Hermés to fuck his wife.

"The set direction is interesting."

UPTOWN: The scenery is so amazing. It's so colorful and alive! It's very creative.

DOWNTOWN: So, Helen of Troy returned to Sparta on a giant purple spaceship?

"The elf characters have interesting costumes."

UPTOWN: My friend Judy has those sunglasses. She does. And that white wig.

DOWNTOWN: Didn't those elves perform once at the Roxy?

"I like to dress up to go to the Opera."

UPTOWN: Watch your coat Gladys! It's FUR for Christ's sake.

DOWNTOWN: Are you wearing underwear?

"I would like to take a taxi home."

UPTOWN: I can't walk five blocks Harold! Get a taxi. Next time, we're driving.

DOWNTOWN: We'll get a cab, right? No one else is heading downtown.

Translations aside, the best part of the evening was indeed catching a cab ride home. Despite the frenzied crowd of Uptowners scrambling for taxis, my friend Rob and I were able to get one - ahead of everyone else - without incident. When we got in the cab, the driver was laughing to himself when we thanked him for picking us up.

He said, "Of course I was going to pick up you guys. You were the only ones I could tell were headed downtown."

Monday, March 19, 2007

Just Crazy For Cultcha (Or, All the Great Operas in 10 Minutes)

I'm so happy I found this.

And, by happy, I mean: dorky, spazzy, affected.

I saw this years ago on the Independent Film Channel (like, at its inception in 1994) and managed to get it on (a now long, lost) videotape.

Anyway, if you have 10 minutes to spare, you will learn so much without having to, you know, actually sit through all of these operas. The best part is the death count in the lower right-hand corner.

If you do happen to watch the entire thing, it's worth it for Wagner's Ring of the Nibelung.

Sunday, March 18, 2007

Gratuitous Titties (Or, A Blurry Review)

I saw 300 this weekend.

At least, I think I saw it.

I remember lots of blood. I remember lots of swirling fabric. I remember lots of poorly executed make-up. I remember lots of British actors speaking in loudly affected British war cries tinged with enunciation that would make any teacher at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art prouder than Professor Higgins with a classroom full of reformed Cockney girls saying "The Rain in Spain..." properly in unison.


What I really remember is tits.

Lots and lots of tits.

Now, I don't mean lady cans or tomatoes or funbags.

I mean man tits.

Lots and lots of pumped up, worked out, musclely man tits.

I'm not sure if the plot was really hard to follow...or if I was in need of a nap...but I felt like I was watching a luxe remake of a lost, forgotten Best of Colt Films silent 16mm classic called God's Rod or Greece 'Em Up or Challenge of the Tit Titans with all of the XXX parts cut out.

Even the villain in this movie is gay. He's a giant bald, black queen who has 100 face piercings and wears lip liner. He speaks with a low lisp and rides around on a huge gold pyramid to the overall effect of "Vegas Curcuit Party."

I'm sure there's a queer-studies dissertation brewing up in this shit somewhere...


Friday, March 16, 2007

Post Digestive Sleaze (Or, Beet Down)

One more about food...or, rather, a particular after effect of food...

Around the same time as the Coq Au Vin event (see below), I was speaking to my friend Louise on the phone. Louise and I have the same sort of scatalogical sensibility, so I felt comfortable in bringing up BM, pooptown, the skids, the squirties, the runs, the shits, et. al. in conversation:

ME: I'm scared.

LOUISE: What's wrong.

ME: Well, I just went to the bathroom...


ME: Yes. And something was wrong...

LOUISE: Tell me.

ME: Well, I don't want to get into the specifics...but I've been self-diagnosing on the internet...and...I have colon cancer.

LOUISE: One question.

ME: Yes?

LOUISE: Did you eat beets yesterday?

Wednesday, March 14, 2007

Coq Pour le Déjeuner (Or, More Songs About Buildings and Food)

"Food, Glorious Food" continues...

Quite some time ago, I worked for a university. Our particular school had its own - quite luxe - cafeteria that served everything imaginable - including things you wouldn't necessarily expect for lunch at, well, school.

Case in point: the cafeteria frequently served a delightful Coq Au Vin - a lovely chicken in wine and garlic sauce. I tended to avoid such borderline extravagant lunches, but a female friend and colleague of mine always went for them. The first time she ate the aforementioned Coq Au Vin in my company, we got our lunches to go. When the slightly gruff counterperson rang up my friend, she asked her what was in her closed to-go contatiner. My friend replied "Coq Au Vin" in a very impressive French accent - to which the counterperson responded, at an appropriately loud level:

"You mean the COCK, right?"

Now, I don't really think the counterperson meant to say it just so, but the three letters C-O-Q came out that way.

I don't need to go into how hard I laughed standing there behind her in line, as my friend's face turned a violent shade of red.

As we left the cafeteria, I was still giggling to myself. My friend knew what the rest of the afternoon held for her...a merciless, adolescent, XXX-rated remix session in which I told the same joke over and over again. Luckily, my friend has an amazing, resilient sense of humor. The whole shebang (cock-tale?) went a little something like this:

"Ooooh, you're such a slut. Just having cock for lunch."

"Man, that cock smells good."

"How does that cock taste?"

"You're an awfully little lady to be devouring such a big cock."

"Hold on, you have some cock between your teeth."

"Slow down there, don't choke on that cock."

"A cock covered in mushrooms? I've never seen that before. Be careful."

"You're going to make that cock last all afternoon, aren't you?"

"Admit it: there's nothing like a little cock in the afternoon."

"Is that cock hot, or what?"

"Hey, watch were you put that cock."

"That cock looks juicy."

"Wow, it's uncut. I guess I'm not surprised since it's French." [Prior to cutting into it]

"Open wide for that cock." [During eating]

"You really tore up that cock. Good for you." [Sated, after eating]

"You need a mint, you have cock on your breath."

Oddly enough, my friend never became skiddish whenever Coq Au Vin was served after that.

In fact, she would often say to me in the cafereria:

"Jesus Christ, there's nothing to eat. I wish I could have cock for lunch today."

Tuesday, March 13, 2007

The Sweet Smell of Excess (Or, Always On My Mind)

Clearly, I have food on my mind this week...this old story just came up in conversation:

I was watching music videos on demand with a friend...I guess it was two years ago now. Anyway, we were excited to see a new, unseen-by-us video by the indomitable Jill Scott come up in the AOL Music Whatever Channel list. The video was sort of blah...but at one point in the song my girl Jill stopped singing and said this sotto voce:

"Ooooh baby you smell gooood..."

Without a beat, I finished her thought:

"...oooh, like a bacon-egg-and-cheese."

License to Ill (Or, Sugar Daddy)

I have been known to have blood sugar issues from time to time. If I'm overly hungry, or haven't eaten for a while, or see cookies or sweets or meat products or crackers or cheese or ice cream onscreen or nearby or around or wherever that I can't have, I get cranky.

Insanely, wantonly, horribly cranky.

At a job I had years ago, a co-worker kept pretzels in her drawer and would hurl them at me whenever I got, um, cunty due to lack of food.

My mother is ever aware of said blood sugar issue. After all, she raised me - she should know. Anyway, the last time she was in town, we were strolling the city with a friend of mine. I mentioned I was hungry, and my mother's ears pricked up.

"Uh-oh," she said to my friend. "You know what that means. We better get him something to eat. Right. Now."

I stated I was actually fine...which only spurred my mother on.

"Really? News to me. I never thought you'd want to give up your guilt-free license to bitch."

Monday, March 12, 2007

Third Vurst Same as the First (Or, Dyin' von Vurstenburg)

I have this slight affectation.

Whenever I say the word wurst or bratwurst or knackwurst, I say the "w" as a "v" just like any good German would do. Mind you, I don't walk around vvvv-vamping everything up like Diane von Furstenberg or Marlene Dietrich or Heidi Klum just for kooky, krauty German-tinged kicks. My mindful pronunciation only applies to wurst and the entire lot of hearty German sausages.

Whenever tales of my trip to Berlin come up in conversation and my mind wanders lovingly to thoughts of street food, my passion for the dirty, everywhere-you-turn currywurst bubbles to the surface. And...I always say vurst instead of wurst, much to the amusement of whoever is witness to my own private version of the Food Network. (I suppose, to indict myself further, my show would be something like Kickin' With Krauty or Great Balls of Kraut).

The last time I told a story from Berlin, I was teased at length - which turned into a little song along the lines of "third wurst, same as the first".

The only person who didn't tease me for my piggy vurst-lust was my 93-year old German immigrant grandmother. When I told her about Berlin in person, her eyes welled up. Despite being swamped by my photographs from the trip, the first thing she asked was:

Oh, how was the food?

Destiny's Chow (Or, Those Honeybuns Those Honeybuns)

Beyonce discusses her healthy (healfy?) relationship with food.

Wednesday, March 07, 2007

Traveling, A Broad (Or, Tray Chic)

Stewardess. Air Hostess. Flight Attendant.

Any way you say it, the shitty title cuts like a knife.

They're a beat down lot.

Lord knows not many people would want to slam and dunk and push and pull and weave and smash bags into oddly shaped plastic compartments, coddle cunty, surly, drunken passengers, and serve drinks and peanuts and snacks and funky, fucked-up, hell-hath-no-fury-like-too-hot food to passengers sheerly to detract attention from the fact that they've paid (sometimes big) money to hurl themselves across countries and continents in a tinny toothpaste tube tens of thousands of feet above the earth.

At least in the 1960s, some of them got to wear Pucci.

I'm always a little disappointed when I fly and I don't have a crazy ass Flight Attendant story to tell when I get back.

For instance, once a flight attendant - reeking of booze and visibly hung over from the night before - passed out during beverage service. The other attendants had to drag her to the galley in the back, hook her up to oxygen, and make the all-too-comforting announcement: "Is there a Doctor on this plane? One of the flight attendants has PASSED OUT."

Another time, on a flight to Miami, I was seated next to an Orthodox Jewish woman who was rocking and praying somewhat feverishly. She had a large cloth box between her feet, which wasn't stored fully under the seat in front of her. Just prior to take off, an older, burly Southern flight attendant stopped at our row to make these comments:

"Oh, I am truly sorry, ma'am, but you have to push that box all the way under the seat in front of you. That really is a big box. Whatever is that?"

Upon which the burly blonde bent forward to check the box closer. Turns out, the box was something of a special case, with a special purpose.

It was a wig box.

Given that our gal Friday in the aisle was ten shades darker (I'll blame the bronzer she was featuring) than subtle, she whelped out:

"Oh, honey. Is that your wiiiig? Is it? Is it your wiiiig? Well, I'm a gon' find a real special spot for this wiiiig for you up front, OK?"

And, yes, each time she said the word "wig" she belted out three more "i"s for emphasis, just in case anyone didn't hear her.

When we finally landed in Miami, the same linebacker of a Hostess had some tough words for the people seated in the row in front of me.

"I do NOT like the sight of this. Y'all better clean this UP before you get off the plane. I mean it!"

I had never heard a flight attendant be so outwardly hostile toward customers before. I was curious, so when I got up to deplane, I checked out the row to see what was up.

There was so much trash in the row, it seemed as if someone had walked by and emptied an entire GLAD hefty sack onto the row's tiny floorspace. To make matters worse, there was an item that I'm sure set the stewardess over the edge.

Sitting in the middle of the trash heap was a dirty diaper.

Monday, March 05, 2007

Is That A Pistil In Your Pocket? (Or, A Photograph)

You know you're an aging 'mo come back from a sunny vacay with photographs like this.

Friday, March 02, 2007

18 Hours in Buenos Aires

A short film I made a while back...from photographs I took when I was a barbarian abroad. The audio in this version (fucked up, squeezed, belched, bloated for your audial pleasure by YouTube) doesn't sync up so well, but a mo' better version is available here.

Thursday, March 01, 2007

Dreamgoils (Or, That's No Accent, Lady)

Oh, what a little YouTube and a digital camera can do...Nicole Kidman's not-so-secret stumble of the title "Dreamgirls" during the Oscars...maybe it was the Balenciaga poof crapping on her shoulder that made her to do it.

Leave it on a continual'll be speaking like a botoxed Australian Oscar-Winner in no time.