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:
"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.