Friday, June 29, 2007

I Just Don't Know What to Do With Dionne (Or, I Said a Little Prayer)

I was just on a website that - boldly - declared:

"Dionne Warwick just rolled over in her grave."

I immediately wailed at the screen: "Don't make me over! Bitch ain't dead!"

And then proceeded to fact check like a lunatic on the web.

And...Lindsay Lohan and behold...Ms. Warwick is indeed still with us.

So, I said a little prayer on the way to San Jose. I sent a message to Michael although I don't know anyone named Michael. I tried to walk on by. I fucked around a little like Alfie. I swore I'd never fall in love again keepin my head above water - because that's what friends are for.

Then I thanked G-d, Baby Jebus, the Dali Parton, and everyone else who counts - for keeping Dionne's lovely singing voice, questionable business acumen, and gargantuan nostrils with us for yet another year.

Smoke Gets In Your Eyes (Or, One More NC-17)

One more NC-17-ism...this is it...I promise.

I have been smoking - on and off - for too long. Far too long. I was a social smoker for a while, which meant I only smoked when I drank.

Or in dire emergencies.

Or on Tuesdays.

Back in the days when you could still smoke in bars, I was once berated for smoking by a stranger:

STRANGER: Smoking's a dirty habit.

ME: (exhaling all over the guy) It's not a habit. It's a hobby.

NC-17 (Or, A Drawing)

Since I've been rated NC-17, I might as well dirty it up a little with a drawing.

I Wouldn't Have It Any Other Way (Or, Is It the Smoking?)

Not that any of you need to be warned...

Online Dating

I thought my rating might have to do with the return of my smoking habit.

Really though, it's my fondness for the words ass, fucking, and whore.

Go figure.

Thursday, June 28, 2007

Summer School: Scatology (Or, The Power of Four)

As many know, I have a scatalogical sense of humor.

I've reported it, diagrammed it, analyzed it, flipped it and reversed it here for the world (or all four of you that read this) to see.

But, recently, my scatology has taken a new turn - the study of certain foods' impact on that precious movement we call bowel.

Now, there are obvious foods that can kick a turdie up a notch (whole grains) and visual ones that aim to amaze on release (corn). But - what I've become obsessed with a magical combination of ingredients sure to set thrones across the globe on fire.

It's a recipe.

Sort of.

Not really.

It's a sandwich.

--On two slices of that crazy German "health bread"*, spread hummus and beet paste.

--Place as much baby spinach as you can on the two slices of bread.

--Add more beets.

--Lather everything with black beans.

--And pinto beans.

--And white beans.

--Sprinkle with corn. A few ears or so.

--Shower with peanuts.

--More corn.

--More peanuts.

--More corn.

--Smash it together and smash it down your hole. With a glass of prune juice.


(And warn others what you did to yourself.)

(And don't tell Sheryl Crow you're going to need a whole motherfucking roll in the morning.)

*what's that shit called again (no pun)? anyone?

Suddenly, This Summer Part 2 (Or, Photographs)

Views from upstate New York - June, 2007.

Paris Is Paris (Or, Like So Unfair)

Paris Hilton was on Larry King Live last night.

I was so bored, I can't believe I watched the whole thing.

I was so bored, I can't say much.

Well, that's a lie.

I have two things to say:

1. I take great comfort in knowing that prisons in California have collagen enhancement clinics. Bitch's lips were 'bout to explode off her face, they were so newly pumped.

2. The only moment of truth in the entire hour was when Larry King asked her about Lindsay Lohan. Her response to her friendship with her (with an un-public-relations-scripted-eyeroll):

"Yeah. I know her."

Monday, June 25, 2007

Hair Don't (Or, Live Or Memorex)

I remembered this story over the weekend...

A (very) long time ago, my friend Max's then-roommate worked for a tech company in Boston that hosted a 1-900 phone sex line. The sex line was designed as a peer-to-peer (or queer-to-queer) system where people left messages and other potential, um, peer/queers responded to them. The roommate would occasionally come home with digital copies of the better messages left on the system.

Or, rather, the worst messages.

Case in point:

(First, to appreciate fully, think of the thickest Baaaawston accent your imagination can muster)

"Hi. My name is Michael. I'm a hairdresser in Brookline. I don't get many responses - don't know why. I want to suck you, fuck you, do your hair, do your nails, and take you out to dinner. So call me. Call me. Call now."

Now, not sure if it was the desperate three "call me"s at the end of the message...or the threat of a new spiral perm and acrylic nail tips that doomed poor Michael to never finding true love (or sweaty sex) via this 1-900 line.

Trapped in the Body of a White Girl (Or, Walk It Out)

Who knew?

Who knew Gwen Verdon and Bob Fosse are able to choreograph and perform hip-hop videos from the great beyond...

Good times.

Tuesday, June 19, 2007

A Purse By Any Other Name (Or, Laughter in the Dark)

The word pocketbook makes me laugh.

Not sure why - just does.

It's my grandmother's word for a purse, a handbag, a clutch.

Sentences like:

"Are my keys in my purse?"

Come out of my grandmother's mouth as:

"Are my keys in my pocketbook?"

And...I wet my pants with laughter.

Don't know why - I just do.

I once saw a play where one of the lead characters had to say "Now, where on Earth did I leave my pocketbook?" about ten times in a row in varying levels of emotional tone. Everytime "pocketbook" was said, I got to giggling so bad, everyone around me in the theater thought I was, well, nuts. I nearly hyperventilated at one point, since there were so many audial "pocketbook"s littering the air.

Unfortunately, the play was not a comedy.

Fortunately, I was not ushered out of the theater.

Thankfully, I had some Valium in my pocketbook to take the edge off.

Up Next: Adverbs Are Fun!

Daddy Day (Or, Finally, A Story)

I meant to post this yesterday - meaning Sunday - meaning Father's Day. To me, it's still Monday night, even though Tuesday has crept up on my ass like an upper echelon cat burglar as I've barreled away catching up with work.

Anyway, this is one of my favorite stories from my youth about my father:

My Dad used to tease me a lot when I was a kid. He had good reason: I was cranky; I ate far too slowly; I often demanded last minute ironing and several outfit changes just before leaving for kindergarten. On a particularly tease-jab-joke filled kindergarten morning, my dad was kneeling in front of me, tying my shoe or zipping up my jacket. I was complaining about how cold it was outside.

"I'm cold." I said.

"Hi, Cold. I'm Terry." my Dad replied.

For some reason, he loved that joke.

For some reason, I hated that joke.

"You know, Dad. You make me so mad sometimes, I want to punch you in the face."

Unimpressed by my threat, Dad laughed and said, "Oh, yeah. Take your best shot."

Still laughing, he closed his eyes.

I wound up and socked him - hard - right in the nose.

He flew back and whelped - clearly, he wasn't prepared for my cashing that particular check.

"Hey, why'd you hit me?"

"Because you said I could."

Wednesday, June 13, 2007

Regally Blonde (Or, Another Old Ass Story)

Continuing on the I-Can't-Believe-1997-Is-A-Decade-Ago's another ditty from ten years ago:

My friend Lucas is a less-than-natural blonde.

There. I said it.

Once upon a brunch, Lucas - newly re-tinted a brighter shade of "natural" ash-blonde-platinum-whateveryoucallit - was taking far too long to place his order with a far less than patient waiter.

As the waiter, well, stood there waiting less than patiently, Lucas hemmed and hawed and hawed and hemmed about how he wanted his Two Eggs, Any Style. When Lucas finally came up with the ever-elusive answer "sunny side up", the waiter snatched our menus, leaned in to ultra-blonde Lucas and said, loudly:

"Lay off the color."

Bean-O (Or, A Story So Old It Hurts)

Once upon a time (ten years ago, exactly), I lived in Boston. Well, I actually lived in Boston from 1994-1999, but the story I'm about to relate is decidedly from 1997.

In the summer of 1997, I was newly single after a long relationship. I found myself out on the town (as much as one can be in that town), drinking it up in a variety of locales that I'd previously had no use for since I was committed, married, a co-owner of furniture and artwork, all that. I was unused to going to gay bars alone and ended up talking to anyone who spoke to me first.

Anyway, one of the first times someone flirted with me/chatted me up/tried to pick me up was a harrowing experience to say the least. Here's how it went down (keep in mind: Boston):

STRANGER: Heah, how are ya?

ME: What's up?

STRANGER: You aaaah wicked cute. Whaaaat is yaaaah naame?

ME: Trevor.

STRANGER: Hiyah Trevaaah. My name's Maaaaag.

ME: What?


ME: Mag?


ME: M-A-G?

STRANGER: (laughs) No. M-A-AAAA-K

ME: Oh, hi Mark.

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

Cherry Bomb (Or, The Little Dog Laughed)

This is a sort-of shitty video...but it does capture some of the brilliance of Julie White in last year's The Little Dog Laughed. Homegirl just won a Tony for it...beating out Vanessa Redgrave.

The audio's a bit strained - a couple of doozies from this scene:

"He is notoriously neurotic. Which, for a gentile, is worn as some sort of badge of honor."


"You want my word? You're asking a whore for her cherry."

Not that I'm one to puff up the status of such awards...after all, the amazing Kiki & Herb lost a fucking puppet. Go fucking figure.

Monday, June 11, 2007

Monday, Monday (Or, Why Bother?)

Yes, another excuse post.

No stories...yet.

Here's a (yet another, yes indeed) man drawing in the meantime...

Saturday, June 09, 2007

Suddenly, This Summer (Or, A Drawing, An Excuse)

I blame Summer for my lack of stories this week...I have some cooking, but nothing as exciting as sunshine and beer and hot dogs and barbeques and boat rides and beaches and all those other glorious side effects of warmer weather.

Here's a drawing for now.

Thursday, June 07, 2007

Blue Thursday (Or, All Request Hour)

Here's a "naked man doodle" drawing as requested.

How's that for editorial response?

Tuesday, June 05, 2007

Bootylicious (Or, Monkey Wench)

Last Saturday, just prior to witnessing Taylor Dayne's sort-of-not-really-almost-not-quite transsexual twin brother/sister, I encountered not one or two or three - but four - sets of grown adults dressed like Pirates running around the streets of the West Village.

Now, I'm all for goofing off, acting silly, making faces, making fun, making shit jokes, and all else that comes with a, well, pointedly immature state of being...but having to watch dozens of grown-ups run around with painted on moustaches and eye patches and plastic swords and fake parrots and matching striped pirate blouses made me want to retch.

At one point, I gave voice to one set of pirates - I made up a conversation that I thought a few of them might have:

FEMALE PIRATE 1: Omigod! This is sooooo much fun. Pirate Day is soooooo much fun.

MALE PIRATE 1: Totally man. Awesome.

MALE PIRATE 2: Pirate Booty. Pirate Booty. Pirate Boooo-tay!

FEMALE PIRATE 2: What are you doing?

FEMALE PIRATE 1: I'm drunk dialing!

FEMALE PIRATE 2: Don't call Craig. He's married for Christ's Sake, Jenny!

FEMALE PIRATE 1: I know...but he's my booty!

Now, I was just riffing. After this improv jam was complete, it was pointed out to me that I had chosen the names "Jenny" and "Craig" as two protagonists.

Evidently, my head is so cluttered with pop culture, that I can write up half-assed diet plan commericals while making fun of random heterosexuals on the street.

Like Jenny C. herself might say: my mind is a pirate-y thing to taste.

An even better thing to taste with an entire cheesecake.

One More (Or, Unforgivable)

I know, I know. More YouTube shizz. But this one is too good not to post - a spoof of Natalie Cole's album "Unforgettable". Make sure you catch Tammy Wynette toward the end. The first time I saw this was the week Tammy died - oh, the comedy was so bittersweet.

Ain't A French Oral (Or, The Last of the Tubies)

OK, so I haven't posted YouTube clips in a while...and clearly I'm making up for lost time between today and yesterday. I just found out about (the genius) Catherine Tate...and now I'm hooked like a crack whore. Here's her character Lauren Cooper...decidedly not taking her French Oral exam.

Catherine Tate, Translator (Or, Good Times, Part 9000)

After These Are Baked... (Or, Rumble on 26th Street)

Above: a highlight reel of Amy Sedaris on the Martha Stewart Show. This originally aired around the favorite bit is left out of this reel. It went a little something like this:

AMY: Martha, isn't this one of your favorite cakes?

MARTHA: Yes, I love it. I like to enjoy it with a scoop of black raspberry ice cream.

AMY: Really? I like to enjoy it with a big glass of scotch.

Monday, June 04, 2007

Requiem For Miss Sandra Clark (Or, Imitation of Life)

I can do a mean imitation of Jackée Harry as Sandra Clark on 227. Good thing...since her YouTube coverage is awfully light. Anyway, here's all I could find...enjoy.

Prove Your Love (Or, Tell It to My Dick)

While enjoying a lovely sunset on the Piers this past Saturday, I overheard this little ditty.

Oh, wait. Before I relay the overheard conversation, I should describe the person speaking...

Imagine singer Taylor Dayne's head (wonky 90s blonde blow-out; big, banged up lips; questionably sharp cheekbones) attached to the body of a linebacker.

Got that? Now press Taylor Dayne /William "The Fridge" Perry's badass self into a haltertop and belted jean shorts.

So, here's the little ditty - as said by the Tayloridgerator:

"You know, I hate it out here on the Piers. All these fags. I mean, it's fucked up: I'm a transsexual, but I'm homophobic."

God, I love a Saturday.

Friday, June 01, 2007

For No Good Reason (Or, Yes, A Drawing)

One More For My Belly (Or, One More For the Road)

Yesterday, my favorite neighborhood restaurant Bright Food Shop & Kitchen/Market closed.

I can barely type the words without getting upset.

There was no fanfare - no hullaballo. As I walked up the avenue yesterday to the gym, I noticed a crowd gathered in front of the restaurant. There was a huge poster in the window, thanking everyone in the 'hood for their patronage over the last 22 years.

I was stunned.

I am still stunned.

Now, I know the restaurant business is a tricky one to say the least...but Bright Food Shop was something special. It seemed to have everything going for it - amazing food, a lovely staff, loyal clientele, and an attitude that was just gay enough (not overwhelmingly so). Not much to look at, it served some of the best Mexican / Southwestern food in the city.

Their next-door take-out stand Kitchen/Market was equally a good time - I stopped there all the time for lunch. In fact, two summers ago, I was so taken with the place that I also dropped tons of cash on the retail items they sold there. I have a whole desk drawer filled with skull beads, little notebooks, postcards, and rosaries. My refrigerator is cluttered with Mexican-themed magnets that I bought from the side of their cash register.

Last night, even though it was too late for dinner and I wasn't that hungry, I rushed to Kitchen/Market in the hopes that they were still serving. Luckily, they were. I got a burrito...half an hour later I looped back with my friend Torrey (equally distraught) to get posole. Both times I was in the store, their last clients all looked like I felt: on the verge of tears. Someone had even left a candle/flower vigil in front of Bright Food Shop's windows.

I know that change happens and all that...but still. This place was my joint - it was my jam. Many things in my 'hood have changed since I've lived here...but the closing of this restaurant cuts deep. It was a regular haunt of was always my back-up dinner plan. I used to take great joy in turning people on to their food. When native Californians exclaim: "this is good fucking Mexican food!" - you know the shit's no joke.

I am going to miss the quesadillas most of all.

I used to freak those hardcore.