Tuesday, December 16, 2008
I would barf out some navel gazing shit about how poor lil BV is skidding toward the brink of "permanent vacation," but I'll spare the melodramatics.
Above is this week's/months'/last-3-month's official Krautastic Tuesday...which is really German "in-name-only": the video for Towa Tei's "German Bold Italic" featuring the permanently 40 Kylie Minogue.
I saw it in Tokyo last Thursday...at a gay bar that makes the Interbelt in Akron, Ohio seem like Studio 54.
So, please enjoy the only song I can think of that's an ode to a typeface...
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
I wouldn't admit this, but my blogger profile will crank 36 all up into 37 at midnight, so I might as well fess up.
I've taken to mentally just think "I'm 40". Pretty soon, I'm going to adopt my paternal grandmother's tactic of adding 10 years to my age in order to get showered with rapturous compliments like: "You look great for (your actual age +10)!".
Now that she's 94, she's had to scale back on that particular mode of spin.
Also of note, I'm leaving for Japan in the morning - thereby pitching my actual birthday into the International Dateline vortex. I've been trying to avoid my birthday for years now...and I finally figured out the best method:
Just don't let the fucker exist.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
I once thought that the best thing about a liberal arts undergraduate education was the curiosity and love of learning it instilled in me.
Now that I'm older, I realize the best thing about said education is the crazy, whackass stories that those four years provided.
For instance, there's the one about when I - under duress - performed with a circus in Greece...
Or the one about having to pick up six female friends who went to the local bowling alley in floor length gowns, wigs, and tiaras and were afraid for their lives once faced with the reality of "League Night" at that particular rural establishment...
Or the one about when I performed in a modern dance piece.
People that only know the current, middle-aged me, are always shocked when I talk about my short-lived stint as a dancer. I took a semester of Drama in college, which also had two mandatory dance components (Modern Dance and Ballet). Having no dance training, the Modern class drove me nuts. In one 90 minute class, our only instruction was: "The room is a river...and you are a water molecule....now MOVE!" I sludged around the class, rolling my eyes. This kind of crap even irritated me in Kindergarten. With its intense structure and attention to form, Ballet was much easier for me to get my head around. Plus, the ballet teacher was a hilariously cranky broad named Leonore who chain smoked and cursed like a sailor.
It goes without saying: I loved her.
At the end of the semester, the delicious ballet teacher asked me to perform in a piece she was choreographing the following term. I thought I had modestly limped through the class...so her invitation immediately flushed me with pride.
"I must be, like, a really, really good dancer," I thought.
So, I showed up for the first rehearsal, ready for my dance career to headily commence. All of the other students cast in the piece were actors - but I cockily thought nothing of it.
Leonore swept into the rehearsal room and pronounced:
"Before we discuss the piece, I think we should listen to the music I've selected."
She inserted a cassette tape into the room's stereo deck and pressed play.
I didn't see the shit-eating grin on Leonore's face until after I heard an all-too-familiar voice booming from the stereo:
"Hi Everyone. This is Jane Fonda. I hope you enjoy this next segment of my Workout Series. Now, get ready. Let's begin!"
The demanding ballet piece I thought I'd been picked for was actually a fugue of workout moves set to The Jane Fonda Workout. I was cast as one of two narcissistic "meathead actor types" in the fugue.
"Jane" was performed in the dead-center of a program of hyper-feminist, hyper-postmodern, hyper-serious dance pieces.
And, no, I don't have video footage of me preening and doing push-ups onstage.
Above: "Do the Jane Fonda". Goddamn...I want that duffle bag.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
"Are you really going to wear these?" I asked.
"Oh yeah, " Torrey replied. "I'm rocking these at Thanksgiving. I'm going to be cooking and serving up everything native style while wearing these bitches. I'm going to whoop it up like I'm chilling with the Pilgrims."
With that set up, I had to spike it as such:
"And then when the meal is done, someone will give you a blanket laden with smallpox so you can go into the bedroom and die."
Friday, November 21, 2008
Thursday, November 20, 2008
I recommended that she watch Absolutely Fabulous. I mentioned that it was a British show...and that it was campy and hilarious. I figured the show would give her a kick.
A few weeks after I made the recommendation, I got a call.
"What was the name of that show you were talking about?" my mother asked.
"I got confused at the video store...I rented something called Queer as Folk. Is that not it?"
For a long, long second all I could think about was my mother watching hours of gay sex and drug use...in Pittsburgh.
"I watched the whole first season and I kept waiting and waiting for it to get funny. Is the second season funny?"
"Not that I know of."
"I do like the mother character...and WOW is there a lot of sex."
After another long, long second, my mother asked:
"Are you sure I shouldn't watch the second season?"
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Since it seems to be "Week of the Fierce Black Woman" at BV...
B*A*P*S is a film close to my heart.
Well, let me rephrase that.
20 minutes of B*A*P*S is close to my heart...the other 66 or so minutes is pretty useless.
Above are two of the best scenes...which have held parts of my persona in hostage for over a decade.
I swear I use these phrases on a daily basis...all due to the genius of Natalie Desselle as Mickey (Ms. Halle Berry's sidekick):
Oooh...you wrong fo that.
Look at you...tryin' to show out.
We bout to blow up.
Livin' large and takin' charge...big boi!
I hope that dance routine is in Berry's audition reel...right up next to her hospital breakdown in Monster's Ball.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
I'll admit I have been a huge fan of The Real Housewives of Wives of Atlanta. Above is a clip from the upcoming reunion show...I just can't take it.
Below is my favorite image from the show...the show's sole white woman (The Wigstand They Call Kim) listening to her future solid gold smash hit single...
in her car...
in a wig...
smoking a Misty...
Did I mention she was behind the wheel of a car?
Sweet Jebus have mercy.
Well, this isn't really going to be about squelching and squeezing and oohing and aahhing and aching and moaning and squealing like a bitch about how much I love my dog. Rather, this is going to be about the strange wonder he brings into my life on a daily basis.
By "strange wonder," I really mean "strangers that wonder and won't shut up."
For instance, Saturday night it was raining. I took Mr. B. for his usual late night poo/pee spin around the block. It wasn't raining hard at the time. Anyway, a gaggle of young queens stopped to say hello to Bobo and one of them thoughtfully interrogated me:
THE YOUNG AND THE TACTLESS: Why don't you have a coat for your dog? I mean, really. Don't you care about your dog?
ME: (through one mother of an extended eyeroll) No. I don't care about him. That's why I feed him and walk him and clean up his shit and spoil him. Because I don't care.
Of course that exchange was nothing compared to one I had at the end of August. Le chien had caught Bordatella (despite many expensive vaccinations) and was hacking nonstop. During a walk, an elderly woman (let's call her Miss Crazy Cracker) stopped me while Bobes was trying to eat a discarded chicken wing off the sidewalk.
MISS CRAZY CRACKER: You should really pay attention to your dog. He's choking on a chicken bone.
ME: No, it's not that. He has a cough.
MISS CC: No - he's choking! OH MY GOD HE'S CHOKING!
ME: No. He has a cough.
MISS CC: I see you don't care. Let me check his mouth.
ME: Uh...no. Thanks for your concern. But. Please. Continue. On. Your. Way.
MISS CC: HE'S CHOKING AND YOU DON'T CARE!
ME: Please leave us alone.
(At this point, most of lower Ninth Avenue is now watching our exchange).
MISS CC: PLEASE! He's CHOKING!
MISS CC: PEOPLE LIKE YOU SHOULDN'T BE ALLOWED TO HAVE DOGS!
ME: If you're such an expert, where's your dog?
MISS CC: He died last year.
ME: Clearly he must have died from annoyance.
A fountain of expletives then showered between us. I'm pretty sure I looked crazier than she did by the end of the tirade of F-bombs we shared.
Despite these types of situations, the good walking stories far outweigh the bad.
For instance, Bobo made friends with Ethan Hawke.
I gave him a spare poop bag.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
I'm not sure if this meme is rigged...but Madonna came up twice in my answers. I suppose middle-aged men of my persuasion can't help but be forever held hostage by the Lady of the Lake Michigan.
1. If you played your iTunes library from start to finish, non-stop, how long would it play for?
2. If you played your iTunes videos/movies from start to finish, non-stop, how long would it play for?
3. What artist appears the most in your iTunes library? How many files?
Madonna - 437 items - 1.7 Days.
4. Which word appears the most and how many times, when typed into your iTunes search: Love, Sex, Fuck, Death? Which is the least?
Love - 1,402
Sex - 99
Death - 89
Fuck - 44
5. What is the longest iTunes file?
The Confessions Tour - Madonna (2:01:15)
"Friends and Enemies" - DJ Cam (0:01)
7. Right now, which track has the highest Play Count?
"I Would Love to Give You Up" - Halou
8. If you were to close and reopen your iTunes, what is the first track that plays on your Party Shuffle?
"'75 AKA The Slow Train" - Lemon Jelly
9. What was the last item you purchased on iTunes?
Shinchi Osawa - The One
10. What item is in your shopping cart that you are hoping you can find as a free download?
I'm compulsive as fuck when it comes to iTunes...if it's there and I want it, I buy the bitch.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Instead, I'll relate a little ditty about one of my favorite topics: the elasticity of the English language.
I've long said how much I love making up new words...and today I was given one as a gift.
I saw this today on a photocopied sign in my gym's locker room:
PLEASE BE CURTIOUS TO OTHER GUESTS.
DO NOT LEAVE YOUR BELONGINGS OVERNIGHT.
At first, I laughed at the misspelling of courteous...until I realized that the misspelling was touched with genius.
While courteous speaks of politeness...the newly coined curtious is about being speedy...quick...curt. Things that New Yorkers admire above all else.
I can't say how many times I wished pedestrians on the sidewalk would be curtious and get the hell out my way.
Other examples of possible uses:
"Your story is awfully long winded. Can you be more curtious?
"Being curtious at parties means coming late and leaving early."
"I had to break it off with Bruce. He was just too curtious in the bedroom."
Of course, had I been the author of the original sign, mine would have read:
PLEASE BE CURTACIOUS TO OTHER GUESTS.
GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER ALREADY AND BEAT IT.
Monday, November 10, 2008
I will say this: as much as I will miss Tina Fey's impersonation of Sarah Palin...I'm glad the bitch is done...for now. The frightening things that were leaked last week (hopefully by a bitter McCain camp) were more chilling than anything she'd done during the election.
I know that the Evangelical Right loves her to pieces...but does that out-of-touch faction of our nation really want a President that didn't know Africa was a continent? That it wasn't just a song that her C-minus-drunk-on-Miller-Lite-high-school self rocked out to in the backseat of a Camaro?
Anyway, I'm glad the bitch is heading back to the Arctic Circle.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Well, this feature has long hit the skids, but here's a sort-of-half-assed attempt at reviving Krautastic Tuesday from its cold and lonely deathbed.
I've long been a fan of Luomo (see above: a video for his song "Tessio") and although he's Finnish (and also goes by Vladislav Delay and Sasu Ripatti), he's currently living in Berlin.
His new album Convivial just came out...I highly recommend it as well as The present lover (hands down one of my all-time favorite albums).
So there. A sort-of-krautastic Tuesday it is.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Along the way, a family of fancy tourists got uppity when a Volvo station wagon drove out of a parking deck. The youngest of them - a lovely young girl - ran into traffic to snap a photo of the exiting wagon.
Rob and I were amazed at the sudden burst of interest in the mundane sight of a beige Volvo making a wide right turn.
ME: That was fucking crazy. Who was in that wagon?
ROB: I have no idea.
We then turned to look again at the family ahead of us on the street. They were still engaged in a shameless display of eight shades of shits-and-giggles over the car sighting. The young girl who snapped the picture was jumping up and down with glee, showing her parents the image she'd captured.
ME: Jesus. Enough with the Volvo. What is wrong with them?
ROB: Oh...they're Swedish.
Now, I've certainly had my days abroad being considered the forever-provincial American (see also: T$ The Barbarian) but I never went apeshit seeing a Chevy.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
I have long been a fan of A&E's addictive real-life melodrama series Intervention.
Above is the insatiable inhalant addict Allison...whose catchphrase "It's like I'm walking on sunshine" got mashed up into this delicious rehash.
I can't take it...
Hat tip: It's Pattesia Bitch! Love, Amber-Tawny
Monday, October 20, 2008
However...I feel compelled to do so today.
Yesterday my boy Bobo turned 1.
Although his name is simple and thoroughly whitetrash, Bobo has a catalog of nicknames that he responds to:
His official full name is Bobo Bojangles Bostoferson. As evidenced by the photograph above, Bobo's got a wonky lazy eye that I love to pieces (hence "Bojangles" after Mr. Sammy Davis, Jr.).
I should have named him Mr. Sandy Duncan...or Wheat Thins.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
The above sample talks about "the devil [making] bats of 2 million people, children every year in America."
There have been more than ten different versions of these - I happened to pull this one down and take it home with me this week...I'm kind of dying to see the loon that does these and posts them. Given the demographics of my neighborhood and its proximity to a large concentration of art galleries...I keep thinking (er...hoping) it's a joke.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Thursday, October 16, 2008
I don't like Cindy McCain.
There, I said it.
She's bald. She's weirdly robotic and vacant. She has delusions of Christian grandeur and - the kicker - should be in federal prison for using her probably fake foundation to procure illegal prescription drugs for herself. (see also: the New Yorker profile on her a month or so ago).
I guess I shouldn't feel so bad about hating Cindy.
Apparently, her husband doesn't like her either.
Check this out (quoted from rawstory.com):
Three reporters from Arizona, on the condition of anonymity, also let me in on another incident involving McCain's intemperateness. In his 1992 Senate bid, McCain was joined on the campaign trail by his wife, Cindy, as well as campaign aide Doug Cole and consultant Wes Gullett. At one point, Cindy playfully twirled McCain's hair and said, "You're getting a little thin up there." McCain's face reddened, and he responded, "At least I don't plaster on the makeup like a trollop, you cunt." McCain's excuse was that it had been a long day. If elected president of the United States, McCain would have many long days.
Nice work, Senator McCain.
I didn't realize slutty make-up was an option for male octogenarians. Who knew?
Shopping for groceries last week, I had a different sort of consumer moment at my local supermarket. In the produce section, I found a brand of grapes (if grapes can be branded) called Pretty Lady (see above). Now, I'd understand if this logo/brand identity were for a line of hairnets or stockings or mascara or nylons or panty shields...but grapes?
Of course I had to buy them just for the logo.
Even now as I gaze into Pretty Lady's eyes, I wonder what the motivations of the marketers responsible for her existence were thinking when they dreamed her up.
MR. MARKETING: We need a new concept for the grape line.
MS. MARKETING: I agree. Who is our target consumer?
MR. MARKETING: I say men. And women. And children. People who like food.
MS. MARKETING: Yes. I agree. Our target audience is people who eat.
MR. MARKETING: Should we be concerned with the bulemic market? What about people who eat and don't digest?
MS. MARKETING: Research shows they are more interested in processed sugar products...not fructose based natural-oriented snacks.
MR. MARKETING: Got it...Let's ideate. Grapes are fresh. Not frozen. Let's think about that.
MS. MARKETING: In the food sector, I see that characters have a great deal of success. Aunt Jemima, Mrs. Butterworth, Pilsbury Doughboy, etc.
MR. MARKETING: Genius. What do you associate with grapes?
MS. MARKETING: Sex. Roman orgies. Peeling grapes for lovers.
MR. MARKETING: So a Caligula theme?
MS. MARKETING: How about Sweet Orgiastic Sweet Bite-Sized Bits?
MR. MARKETING: Hmmm...seems long.
MS. MARKETING: Sexy Time Bits? Sexy Time Pops? Sexy Time Grapes?
MR. MARKETING: I like it...I like it...I like it.
MS. MARKETING: Sexy Lady Grapes?
MR. MARKETING: YES! It says "be sexy with this product" to women...and "you will get sex with this product" to men.
MS. MARKETING: What about the child demo?
MR. MARKETING: Ok...tone it down just a bit.
MS. MARKETING: Pretty Lady?
MR. MARKETING. A subtle feat of perfection.
Dianne Wiest on Broadway in All My Sons...which segued to...
Dianne Wiest in general...which segued to...
Dianne Wiest in Footloose...which segued to...
The entire cast of Footloose...which segued to...
"But if Dianne Wiest played Lori Singer's mother, who played Kevin Bacon's mother?"...which segued to...
An imdb.com search...which segued to...
A discussion of Frances Lee McCain (aka Footloose mama)...an underknown workhorse of late 1970s/early 1980s entertainment...which segued to...
A discussion of the early 1980s genre of "hot macho cop detective show"....which segued to...
We then watched the intro to the show (see below) and were beside ourselves. It seems to have been filmed by Colt Studios in 1978.
No wonder I was glued to this shit every Friday night as an overweight sixth-grader in 1983.
Be sure to catch two things in the clip: the helicopter controls and the champagne cork. It's...uh...really subtle what the show's producers were trying to get at.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
M: So when should we launch the divorce? With my new album? The second single?
L: Let's push it back a few months. You're on tour in the fall. October divorces are so pretty what with the changing leaves and all. Plus both films are coming out the second week of the month.
M: Hmmmm....before or after the film premiere?
L: Which one?
L: I'm sorry. Of course I meant yours. I say after.
M: Better pictures.
M: Ok...let's book it.
L: I'll email the memo.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Here's a statement that can always provoke a good eyeroll from heterosexuals and discerning too-hip-but-secretly-envious gays:
I saw Madonna in concert this week.
And here's a more detailed statement that can turn that eyeroll into a bonafide "oh-lord-what's-her-problem" mouth-agape-silent-gasp:
I saw Madonna in concert this week...twice.
And with those back-to-back shows, my membership in the clan known as Freespending Urban Homosexuals is now guaranteed for another few years.
I will let the pictures I took do the talking.
On a sad note, just prior to the start of the second show I saw, some poor devotee passed out and was hauled out by four security guards. I was waiting online for a deliciously warm $8 Bud Light when his Italian suited ass was dragged by. There was a mini-souvenir stand right next to the bar line and the woman working the stand expressed the dismay of everyone in line:
"Oh that sad son of a bitch! He passed out even before the show started...and I know these seats ain't cheap. He must have been an alcoholic or something."
The Souvenir Lady then held up on of the items on sale at her stand - a giant shotglass with "MADONNA" printed over and over again in hot pink letters.
"See...check this out. This is supposed to be a shot glass? I bet that kid was doing shots from one of these. When I first saw these, I was like 'Dang...is this a shotglass for alcoholics? This bitch is huge!' I mean, you do a few shots out of this motherfucker and you're going to get dragged out on your ass no matter what."
Not one to pass up an intro like this, I pointed to a ceramic "MADONNA" coffee mug on her stand.
"Maybe he was doing shots from this." I said.
The Souvenir Lady howled with laughter.
"Ooooh! If he was, he must have been a professional alcoholic. You got to wake yourself up with a fucking drink, that's how bad you are."
The Souvenir Lady then yelled out to the rest of the line:
"You all be careful! Don't be drinking shots out of these glasses tonight...and enjoy the show with out falling down drunk!"
Thursday, September 25, 2008
I just (let's see if I can use that word again in sentence #3) noticed a banner ad on Blogger stating that image/photo postings are automatically saved in a Picasa web album.
If you're so inclined, a big chunk of the images I've posted since July, 2006 (definitely not all...don't know why though) are here:
T$ / Buffalo Void Picasataciousness
Oddly enough...not all of the images I've posted are here, yet there are quite a few versions of different images that I futzed and futzed with. The most glaring example of this is an image I made for a post about Barbara Walters' interviews with child transsexuals. The version I posted was chaste...yet somehow Picasa kept on file a version I did where an uncut chorizo is practically strangling poor BabaWaaWaa.
See...now I feel like I've accomplished so much...when I really haven't.
Since Little Britain and Kath & Kim (scurrrrred of that jam...they didn't even bring along poor Sharon!) are invading American television this fall, I vote that someone hurry up and import the hell out of 3 Non Blondes...a BBC3 hidden camera show starring three extraordinarily talented women. Above is the genius Tameka Empson...just needing to rehearse...Tina Turner's entire catalog...in a record store.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Anyway, after I politely replied ("neo-fascist" is a term of endearment these days, isn't it?), I looked again at the email...it looks more like a scam than anything else.
I only hope some masterful spam-scam-artist is using Mrs. Horsepucky Palin (again, what's her husband's name? Trig? Tripper? Spelunker?) to make some quick cash. Can't be anything more illegal that what she's been up to in between banning books, squashing the work of the women's movement, and pretending that her daughter's first child is really hers.
Above Photograph: You see...Mrs. Palin was right...dinosaurs did walk among us 4,000 years ago. They even wore football helmets. I bet the female dinosaurs wore lipstick and taught their children that babies came from overeating at church barbeques.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Anyway, dinner before hand must have been an odd thing to overhear...since statements like these were made:
"Hoppípolla is the best."
"What about Olsen Olsen?"
"No....Saeglópur is my jaaaaaaam."
Tossing around those unknown and unknowable Icelandic words reminded me of an ancient story. In high school, I wrote a review of the (also-Icelandic) Sugarcubes' first album Life's Too Good (see far below...and yes, I know I'm old) for the school newspaper. After I submitted my article, I was approached by my journalism teacher with a smirk and a gotcha-wiggle in her step.
Since I had used the band members' names ( Björk Guðmundsdóttir, Einar Örn Benediktsson, Sigtryggur Baldursson, etc.), I was asked to serve up the album liner as proof of two things:
A.) I wasn't making their names up.
B.) I wasn't sniffing glue.
In retrospect, I see this story as proof of how inferior my primary education was. I mean...who doesn't know how wonderfully convoluted and nearly-vowel-free Icelandic names are.
That shit should have been forefront in my high school education.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
After trudging through much commentary, the following quote from an interview in Philadelphia Magazine - found on Salon.com - made me smile.
When in doubt, America should simply turn to Lynda Carter for guidance.
Here's what she had to say about the gay-hating, evolution-denying, lipstick-wearing, anti-choice, sex-education-mishandling, all-around-fascist Hockey Mom and how some highly misguided conservatives have been comparing Palin to Wonder Woman.
"Don't get me started. She's the anti-Wonder Woman. She's judgmental and dictatorial, telling people how they've got to live their lives. And a superior religious self-righteousness … that's just not what Wonder Woman is about. Hillary Clinton is a lot more like Wonder Woman than Mrs. Palin. She did it all, didn't she?
"No one has the right to dictate, particularly in this country, to force your own personal views upon the populace -- religious views. I think that is suppressive, oppressive, and anti-American. We are the loyal opposition. That's the whole point of this country: freedom of speech, personal rights, personal freedom. Nor would Wonder Woman be the person to tell people how to live their lives. Worry about your own life! Worry about your own family! Don't be telling me what I want to do with mine."Now all we need is for Ms. Carter to swoop in and kick a certain Governor's ass, drop her in any worthy federal prison, and save a shirtless Steve Trevor from harm.
Instead, I will blow my wad and pound out four ditties that would otherwise take me a week to get posted here.
Recently at the dog run, I overheard someone say this about a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel:
"Omigod.That's one of those Sex and the City dogs. I mean...just look at her. She is such a little whore...look at her little tail up like that just saying 'Come and get it boys...come knock me up with your babies!'"
The observer quoted above neglected to notice the whorish Spaniel in question was male.
On the street recently, I walked by a surly looking dude who growled - seemingly into the vacant air - since no one was around - "Oh fuck yeah man....all guys love girl-on-girl action."
Perhaps that was an invitation to ghosts of New York's Lesbian past.
Living next to one of the motherships of downtown retail, I hear an awful lot of things I'd prefer not to while entering my apartment building. Yesterday it was:
"Well...like....when I was a finalist on America's Next Top Model....I never told you that? Anyway....when I was a finalist on America's Next Top Model, they totally fucked up my hair. I mean, it was fucking orange for fucking weeks and they didn't even fucking fix it when I wasn't on the fucking show."
America's Next Top Model...or America's Next Top Pathological Liar. You decide.
For quite some time now, I have been blathering on to anyone who will listen about how hardcore fashion ironoclasts (yes, that's irony+iconoclasm) should leave the 1980s for dead and work the early 1990s like they were Deee-Lite before anyone noticed them.
And...lo and behold...walking my dog this morning at 6:30 AM, I saw a guy featuring black parachute MC Hammer pants, a printed, blousy nylon jacket and wrap-around Oakleys. The look was topped off with - no joke - an 8-inch high Kid-N-Play boxed fade. He was carrying a copy of VMAN - just in case anyone didn't get it.
Got it, I did.
I wanted to hug him and spent the rest of the walk cursing myself for not carrying a camera. I did, however, feel as vindicated as Elsa Klensch forecasting grunge in 1990.
*And, by "dear reader", I mean any of you 40-or-so people a day that wander onto this site from various XXX-rated blogs or from Google searches for Midget Escorts in Buffalo. Sitemeter's still a motherfucker.
Friday, August 08, 2008
Anyway, I felt the need to gush about the wonder of today's date - 8.08.08.
I was a handwriting freak when I was a child and the number 8 was my favorite to draw/write/doodle/all that. It can be perfectly symmetrical written as two circles...or lopsided and loopy when drawn with a cross-over line...or fat and nasty...or slim and elegant.
So...here's to the sexiness and versatility of 8 - on the one day it can work in triplicate.
There's also that lame-as-fuck kids joke about "Eight Ate Eight", but I can't remember it for the life of me.
Thursday, August 07, 2008
However, that's not the case.
While I am taking some short trips, I'm more swamped with work than swamped with summerfuntimes.
Anyway, if you're interested in seeing how little I can post this month, stop back frequently.
If not, I'll be back in full force come September...I always get a little too back-to-schooly for my own good that time of year.
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
Anyway, in a span of 48 hours three weeks ago (ahem), I saw Yaz in concert and was dangerously close to shaking the hand of one Miss Olivia Newton-John.
I didn't have the gumption to approach ONJ, but I was less than five feet from her at the NY premiere of Sordid Lives: The Series.
Now, in the nearly 25 years (ahem) since these dreams were hatched (more like close to 30 for the near-meeting of ONJ), I would never have imagined that I'd see the legendary-yet-long-broken-up Yaz play a live show...or nearly get physical with Olivia.
Just goes to show you:
Gay dreams: they do come true!
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
For those of you familiar with the work of Beth Grant you already know she's a national treasure. She shows up in character roles just about everywhere (from The Golden Girls to Speed to Pearl Harbor to Flags of Our Fathers to Little Miss Sunshine to Six Feet Under).
When she turns up in the last act of No Country For Old Men in a battered wig and thick Sophia Loren Collection eyeglasses, she singlehandedly steers the somber film into semi-camp terrritory. When she declares: "I'm just filled up with that cancer!" you can't help but laugh despite yourself.
My friend Patty recently got into an argument with someone regarding Ms. Grant. Evidently, Grant appears in a current insurance commerical.
PATTY: Beth Grant in a commercial? That's a crime.
BYSTANDER: I'm pretty sure no one knows who she is.
PATTY: Can it, bitch. Beth Grant is a star.
To confirm Patty's thesis, below is Beth Grant in Donnie Darko delivering the best line of any film this decade:
"Sometimes I doubt your commitment to Sparkle Motion."
Monday, July 28, 2008
Today on the street I saw what appeared to be an 80 year old woman wearing a skin-tight, bright pink tank top that read:
I had to do a double take to make sure it wasn't Cameron Diaz.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Click on the bitch for a larger, mo' better version.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
I was right that Estelle Getty was still alive.
I'm sad to report that the loser of last year's dinner party know-it-all battle would today be a winner.
Estelle Getty died yesterday.
I'm sure every and all gay blog will have a tribute, so I will quit while I'm sort of ahead. I will drop my favorite line of hers from The Golden Girls:
Blanche is deeply wounded after being unceremoniously dumped by a boyfriend. Dorothy consoles Blanche for a tender minute or two. Blanche suddenly leaps to her feet, confident in her own unwavering beauty, and rushes out the door to find a new man.
After the abrupt exit, Sophia says:
"Well...it's like I always say: sluts heal faster."
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Yes, yes, yes.
I'm here again typing: yes, yes, yes.
Over a week...no posts...but shitloads of shit to say.
My lack of blogging actually has everything to do with lack of time...and nothing to do with lack of inspiration.
I don't have it in me to pull a week-in-reverse-move right now, so instead I will bring attention to a new beacon on my neighborhood's retail horizon:
A little store front that once housed a gay clothing store is now occupied by a women's lingerie shop.
I'd wax poetic on a possible insurgence of local M-to-F trannies, but I'm sure it has more to do with all the new Mommies and Me in my 'hood and their need to keep their shit tight....
(Yes, I can't leave that hanging)
...now that their shit is saggin' and draggin'.
Anyway, the long lost point of all this about the lingerie store isn't my fairly obvious rage at the breeding machine that has taken hold of Lower Manhattan. The point is that said lingerie store has a camp factor that might be lost on its customers.
The store is called Sugar Cookie.
Are Prince and Sheena Easton back together?
Twenty-plus years after Prince gave Sheena her "Sugar Walls", they've reunited and have decided to take their interest in their own sweet science a step further. They've taken up sewing little tiny paisley printed thongs and bras and panties...to sweeten up...uh...some cookies.
I did laugh out loud when I first saw the store's signage. It reminded me of a story my friend Lucas used to tell about how once he thought his sister said "My cookie smells like Albuquerque" as she exited a restroom.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
WOMAN ON CELL PHONE SANS SHAME AND NEED FOR PRIVACY: ...I'm totally so hungover. Yeah. I'm just walking the dog now. Last night was insaaane. Totally. ...I figure later on I'll just go to the bar at the Chelsea Hotel - you know, the place where that Sid Vicious thing happened. I live, like, a block away from there. It's so cool. Anyway, I'll just go there and chat some guy up and have him get me high. What? Oh, yeah, I do that shit all the time...it's cool.
(ten endless minutes of chit-chat later...)
Oh God...I got this amazing crocheted bikini and I was at the Jersey shore and they had one of those photo booths. I took all these pictures. I'll totally scan them and send you them - I look so fucking hot!
I tried and tried to get away from her side of this endless cell phone conversation. I moved three times, which only seemed to amplify her voice. When I finally left the park, I thought I'd be free of the crocheted stoned bikini talk...but, alas, no. She left two seconds after me, so I was stuck with her for an entire avenue block. I kept hoping she'd notice I was listening so she'd pipe down a little, but every time I caught her eye, she got louder.
Hell, her phone probably wasn't even on.
I'm always happy to let my fingers travel down random (and not-so-random) YouTube paths...
Here's the video for my favorite song of Summer, 2005 - The New Pornographers' "Sing Me Spanish Techno".
While I really enjoy these latter days of a television without music videos (which can free the mind to create its own imagery for songs), I was thrilled to find this one...the narrative rocks and takes the best turn it could possibly have taken.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Not much is foggier than Jeanne Moreau wandering the streets of 1950s Paris...
I took the background photograph of the Arc de Triomphe with a plastic Holga camera in 1996. The film sat in a drawer undeveloped until a few years ago.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
I have gone on and on and on about the merits and joys of a barely seen film called Smiley Face. It's directed by Gregg Araki...and stars the always hilarious Anna Faris. It's about a day in the life of a stoner...and I was beside myself when I saw it.
Above is my favorite section...which is - hands down - the best filmed example of the stoned mind at work. Oh, how the minor wanderings of the mind spiral to peaks of true genius.
And, yeah, I totally now have a framed picture of President Garfield in my apartment...because...I love lasagna.
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
WOMAN ON BICYCLE: Frankieeeee...I said slow the fuck down. You drove through dat mothafuckin' puddle and you splashed water all up on top of me. Look at my fuckin sneakas...they is ruined.
FRANKIEEEEEE: Shut the fuck up.
WOMAN ON BICYCLE: You know you ain't gettin' none now...splashin water all up on top of me an shit.
The next day, this incident came back to me...as I splashed water all up on top of me in the shower.
I kept quiet though.
I didn't want to upset Frankieeeee again.
Monday, July 07, 2008
A splashy yet highly unpredictable car-chase-and-who-done-it- twisting-until-the-end thriller, Tell No One simply rocks - I can't even write about it properly...I just want to run back down to Houston Street and see it again.
It's American in content - but entirely European in execution...Hollywood would have messed it up something good.
It also stars a favorite actress of mine (Marie-Josée Croze) that I have a massive hetero crush on...I'd cross the Kinsey scale for her in a heartbeat.
Saturday, July 05, 2008
5 jobs I have had:- Grocery Bag Packer
- Library Cataloger
- Photographer's Assistant
- Graphic Designer (can't seem to shake that one)
5 movies I can watch over and over:
- Blade Runner
- Bad Education
- Notes on a Scandal
- Body Heat
5 places I have lived:
- Kent, OH
- Annandale-on-Hudson, NY
- Parikia, Paros, Greece
- Boston, MA
- New York, NY
5 TV shows I love:
- Ladette to Lady
- The Minor Accomplishments of Jackie Woodman
- In Treatment
- Anything on Ovation
5 places I have been on vacation:
- Paris, France
- Berlin, Germany
- Reykjavik, Iceland
- Tulum, Mexico
- Negril, Jamaica
5 of my favorite meals:
- Steak Frites
- Anything of the beachshack variety (Lobster Roll, Fried Clams, etc. etc. etc.)
- Ribs, Ribs, Ribs
- Mykonos (or any of the Cyclades)
Friday, July 04, 2008
It actually happened a few months ago, right when the rumors of Florent's closing were confirmed as truth. My friend Torrey and I heatedly began plotting as many meals there as we possibly could. In March, we went for a late lunch/brunch on a Saturday and sat at the counter. We both ordered entrees and decided to share an order of French Toast. I can't handle sweet breakfasts straight-up...but I will take a syrupy chaser to a savory meal.
After our orders came, we asked our waiter for the usual selections of condiments (ketchup, mayo, butter, pats of butter, sticks of butter, etc.). The waiter brought everything to us on a little side plate...and greasy culinary heaven awaited.
As I tore into my cheeseburger, Torrey grabbed the little tub of butter from the side dish and started prepping the French Toast, slathering each slice with creamy fatty goodness.
"Omigod...this butter is amazing. It's so creamy. It's going everywhere - I love it."
I looked over and was similarly taken aback by this miracle butter. It really had covered the toast with little effort.
"This shit is genius," Torrey continued. "What is it? Pre-melted or softened or something. It's amazing."
Halfway through my burger - ready to kick it up a notch with a fistful of fries - I started poking around the side plate for the as-requested mayonnaise.
I didn't see it...but I did see a huge pile of individually wrapped lil tiny pats of butter.
"What's wrong?" Torrey asked.
"Well, there's a lot more butter here...and apparently no mayo."
We both looked in unison at the empty "miracle" butter tub.
"Fuck. That wasn't butter."
"Did I really just smear mayo all over the French Toast?" Torrey asked.
"Looks like it."
We made eye contact and in a single feverish beat, we made the simultaneous decision:
"I'm still going to eat it."
And, with that, we did.
After housing a cheeseburger and fries, Torrey and I ate the French Toast...with Mayo.
We also drowned the bitch in maple syrup.
Yes, the manbitch died.
So...take your pick: rejoice in some schadenfreude today at the loss of one of the 20th Century's worst Americans...or celebrate a little birthday gift to our country.
Thursday, July 03, 2008
(POSSIBLY) BITCHY WOMAN'S FRIEND: [shrugs silently]
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
I just came across this today...the video for Dolly Parton's recent single for "Better Get to Livin'". What's better than Amy Sedaris in this (um...I'm still on the floor), is that Dolly rhymes her own name with and references the Dali Lama.
Meta never metastasized so good.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Above is my entry to this week's Illustration Friday collection...the topic was "fierce"...which clearly allowed me to get as Gay Proud as I possibly could without a parade float and an army of drag queens behind me.
If you care to do your own "guess-who-that-actress-is" and "guess-what-film-that's-from" in comments...knock yourselves out...of the closet.