Thursday, September 25, 2008

Who Knew? (Or, My Own Stock Pile)

Just when I think to myself, "I should just shut that fucking blog down already", Blogger gives me a sense of accomplishment without having to do anything.

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.

Who knew?

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. I feel like I've accomplished so much...when I really haven't.

But, I Need to Rehearse (Or, The Wonder of Tameka)

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 a record store.


Wednesday, September 24, 2008

Eh (Or, A Video)

Although I admitted to be hot-to-trot-to-post, I'm at a loss for story.

Instead, here's a video that I can't get enough of right now...for Of Montreal's "Wraith Pinned to the Mist and Other Games."


Tuesday, September 23, 2008

A Whiter Shade of Palin (Or, Not-So-Fascinating Fascism)

I just received an email from one Ms. Sarah Palin (I really should say "Mrs. Lowbrow Palin - or whatever the hell her husband's name is) asking me to donate to and become a member of the Republican Party.





Anyway, after I politely replied ("neo-fascist" is a term of endearment these days, isn't it?), I looked again at the 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

Hoppípolla (Or, Vowels Are A Menace)

I saw Sigur Rós last night (thank you NTIOU$) at the United Palace Theater (quite possibly one of Manhattan's most beautiful buildings - see above and below). Although the concert was well and good enough (they aren't exactly the most throw-down-and-throw-your-hands-up-and-say-hell-yeah band ever), I was more taken with the inside of the theater.

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

Lynda Carter, Political Commentator (Or, More Than A Woman)

I - like most liberal Americans scared shitless of the Sarah-Palinpalooza - have been scouring news sources for any and all information and critiques of the frighteningly fundamentalist Governor.

After trudging through much commentary, the following quote from an interview in Philadelphia Magazine - found on - 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.

The Blow Monkeys (Or, Six and a Half Weeks)

I'd pronounce my return here (yes, it's been six weeks...the longest I've ever let this bitch sit idle with the kids in the backseat in 90-degree heat without a window cracked for ventilation) with a splatter of pomp and circumstance, but instead I'll spare you, dear reader.*

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:

" 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.