Wednesday, March 31, 2010

File Under: Timely (Or, It's a Good Time in 1998)

So, in a revelation as timely and staggering as an earthquake: Ricky Martin came out of the closet. I would be happy for him and his surely upcoming appearances on Ellen, Glee, Modern Family, Project Runway, Chelsea Lately, The View, and The Real Housewives of Puerto Rico, but I feel there's a greatest hits collection of his that's being released soon that I am now compelled to buy.


Anyway, if I had a time machine and could travel back to 1998, my 27-year-old self would be beside himself - in his leather pants and blonde highlights - at this news. Yes, I was once a twink...a twink who spent too much time guzzling chocolate martinis, shopping at Diesel, and getting chased around Boston by a lot of Latino men. Some of them might have been Ricky at 2 A.M....but needlesstosay, none of them were at 8 A.M. the next morning.

Oh, Vuelve...

Tuesday, March 30, 2010

Driving Miss Deadly (Or, I'll Take Ugly)

Call me an ugly American, but Jesus Christ do SmartCars freak the shit out of me.

Seeing them parked on the street is frightening enough...let alone seeing someone actually driving one in Manhattan traffic. It's like standing in the middle of a six-lane highway and yelling "BRING IT ON!" to oncoming traffic.

Of course, like the unintentional jackass I can be at times, I mentioned this once to some unforgiving-ready-to-argue liberal man/woman/person/non-denominational being who responded with: "Well, Europeans love them."

I tried not to roll my eyes and explain that Europeans also adore bedazzled denim, foreskin, and Dannii Minogue.

My point really - isn't that SmartCars seem unsafe unto themselves...but when slapped onto a road next to a Hummer, an SUV, an MTA bus, and a taxicab, the poor little EuroBitch doesn't stand a chance. Sure, Ace of Base's greatest hits sounds great pumping out of the stereo, but that won't matter when you're sideswiped by a vintage Plymouth.

Sunday, March 28, 2010

Fall Like a Dancer (Or, Fanny Pack)

All overheard last night - in various places (the subway, a Broadway theater, the street):

SEATED WOMAN IN THEATER: [to man next to her, who just stood up to exit the theater] Oh my, my are tall. When you stood up, your fanny was right in my face.

Here's to free fanny facials...

STANDING GIRL ON SUBWAY WEARING BALLET FLATS AND FEATURING A 'XANADU' SIDE PONYTAIL: Look! Look at me! Mom! MOM! Look. At. ME!!! I'm still standing and I'm not holding on to the handrails! WHEEEE! [The stopped train suddenly lurches into motion - GIRL flies across car, bashing into gay German tourists and a drunk man] Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit! [She stumbles and falls to the ground in a pile of side pony and ballet flats] I can't believe I fell...but, at least I a dancer.

Her mother rolls her eyes, clearly regretting her decision to let What's-Her-Name have her own way with those goddamn dance classes.

DRUNK MAN ON SUBWAY: [addressing aghast gay German tourists]'re loooooooooookinnnnnnnnnnnng fuckinnnnnnnnnng goooooood there Charliiiie....wheeeeeeeerre are youuuuuuuu headddded? The villlllllagesh?

The Germans consult their subway map furiously...hoping the drunk will exit at the next stop or - at the very least - pass out on top of or accost or molest Xanadu-Girl-With-Side-Pony.

Thursday, March 25, 2010

Sandy In Your Pants (Or, Cindy Doth Protest Too Much)

A highlight of the whole Sandra Bullock-Jesse James "Her Blind Side" tabloid sensation of the last week was gossip columnist Cindy Adams' talking-head commentary on the local NBC news last Sunday morning. I missed the first part of Cindy's desperately-in-need-of-new-meds rant, but here's the gist of what I remember of it....

CINDY ADAMS: [agitated, glaring into the camera without blinking] I do feel bad for you Sandy. I do. But I have one thing to say: why would you choose this man for your husband? Just look at that tattooed hunnnnnnnk of a man. Sure, he's the kind of dude you would want to make love to you while riding on the handlebars of his motorcycle riding uptown on Madison Avenue, but he is not the kind of man you want as a life partner Sandy! While you're off making the movies we all love, he's cavorting with the lowest filth...barnyard animals and trash.

After this, the other newspeople were visibly taken aback. Someone said "That was...uh...vivid, Cindy."

CINDY ADAMS: Last week you said I was boring. I wasn't boring today!

I still have the image of Cindy and Jesse James having sex on a motorcycle riding up Madison Avenue. Cindy, thou dost protest too much.

Sunday, March 21, 2010

Tooting It Softly (Or, Two Toots Tooting)

Yes, here comes more tooting...

My (appropriately old - given the topic of the show) photograph My Brother at 13 (above) was selected to be part of the show NOSTALGIA at the Vermont Photoplace Gallery in Middlebury.

Second tiny toot...and I'm done:

My self portrait (below) will be in The Self-Portrait Project at the Brooklyn Art Library next month.

Friday, March 19, 2010

Gee, Your Wig Smells Terrific (Or, Get a Gay)

You know you're wearing a cheap wig when...

While riding the subway, your $5 polyblend hatchet job leaves ten strands of 1/4" plastic-Barbies-be-mo-betta hair on the jacket of the passenger standing 10 feet behind you.

Yes, that poor, bitter rider was I.

The woman clearly needed an emergency make-over...or at the very least...someone needed to prod her off the train at 14th street in order to get bewiggity at the faux hair superstore known simply known as WIGS.

Thursday, March 18, 2010

Happy St. Drunkass Day (Or, Unlucky Charms)

On the subway last night (yes, St. Patty's Day) heading downtown (yes, toward the Staten Island Ferry):

DRUNK WOMAN WITH BLADDER CONTROL ISSUES: Omigod I'm so glad we got this fuckin train. Holy shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit we is lucky. But goddammit do I have to PEE. I mean this train better be express or some shit because I HAVE TO PEE and I can't even wait all the way until we git on that fuckin' ferry. (Train stops at 34th Street.) WHAT THE FUCK! Stop fuckin' stopping this train already because I HAVE TO PEE and I can't take it. (Rocking herself gently, she pauses in thought). You know I just want to stay in the city all night long and fuckin' PARTY. I was at this place on Friday and they kicked my ass out. Yeah, I got kicked out by some fuckin' bitch dudes. I mean why me? (Train stops at 28th Street.) JESUS CHRIST STOP STOPPING THE FUCKIN' TRAIN OR I'M GONNA PEE. (Leaping to her feet, she stops the door from closing so a man can enter). Holy shit man, I fuckin' saved you. I SAVED YOU! I seen that Mets hat on you and I said, I GOT TO STOP THIS TRAIN for this man. I SAVED YOU! (Train stops at 23rd Street. Now frightened man in Mets hat exits train). WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT! I fuckin' SAVED him and his Met hat and he gets off already? He was fuckin' fine. I would have jumped that ass if he was still on the train. WHAT THE FUCK? (Pauses in thought and turns to her friend). Are we even on the right fuckin' train? Where the fuck are we anyway. Christ the city sucks and I HAVE TO PEE SO BAD. (Train stops at 18th street.)

I get off, leaving Miss Piss on her merry way.

Yes, she was wearing a plastic green bowler hat - which I'm sure she considered taking off and using as a bedpan once she realized she had seven more stops to go before she got to the fuckin' ferry and she could fuckin' pee.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Weak Wink Weekly (Or, Googly Times)

An olde favorite (and, yes, lazy) regular are some of my favorite recent Google search queries that led the mildly unkempt masses here to BV:

Ginie Tingle
Red Hooker
Dumb Drag Queen
Bethenny, Dumb Drag Queen
Anachronistic Slang Words
Mädchen Amok

The perennial favorites:
Monster Fucker
Midget Escort

And, clearly the best in the bunch:
Where to Find Hey Lady Shoes

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

You Had Me at "Chained Heat" (Or, Lady Prison)

Her public seems to be mildly-to-very confused about Lady Gaga's latest video "Telephone" - so let me break it down in my own way:

1970s faux Lesbian prison movies + hilarious product placements + Dawn Davenport hairdos + 1980s faux Lesbian prison movies (see: Chained Heat and Chained Heat 2) + Thelma and Louise + Kill Bill + Chicklet and Conchetta from Female Trouble + almost everything else from Female Trouble + Eating Raoul + the usual fashion stunts + the Food Network + "I told you she didn't have a dick" + packaged Little Debbie Honey Buns + Diet Coke cans as hot rollers + Beyoncé's best performance since Obsessed + so much camp it hurts = fuck yes.

Monday, March 15, 2010

Chopped Clams (Or, Of Course It Was Florida)

Last week, my friend Patty told me about the following news story:


Uh...really? It had to be proven?

One of the most disturbing elements of this case is that the woman was not alone in the car...her ex-husband was holding the wheel of the moving vehicle from the passenger seat while she was managing her pubic mound.

You see, she had to git-git-git herself to see her boyfriend in Key West and simply did not have time to pull over and mow her junk. I would reflect on how much Meth she had smoked before getting in the car, but I'm still overwhelmed by her ex-husband sitting in the passenger seat. He's such a sensitive man.

I'm still awestruck as to how you can do such a thing behind the wheel of a college, I did some fairly dumb shit while driving, but I never thought to myself - "Hey - this would be a great time to shave my balls. Now, where did I leave that straight razor...."

A recap of the initial conversation:

ME: Whuuuut. How can you even do that?

PATTY: And, she had someone else holding the wheel from the passenger seat.

ME: Did she have a shaving mug and a can of Barbasol in her glove compartment...or was it a dry shave?

PATTY: I have no idea...

ME: Was one leg hanging out the window?

PATTY: I really need a diagram.

Friday, March 12, 2010

Downtown Train (Or, Will You See David Letterman Tonight?)

Shouted in my ear last night on the platform at 42nd Street:

EXTREMELY UPSET, AGITATED MAN: I KNOW WHEN THE WORLD IS ENDING! It's ending on October 10, 2010! TEN-TEN-TEN! Somebody call David Letterman! GET ME ON HIS SHOW!

I just marked my calendar...thank you.

And...overheard on the subway ride:

JUST REGULA UPSET MAN: Why he gotta name like that anyhow? Yowaddalajandro or Alliewatalandro? What the fuck is that? Can't he be like a regula a 'Tony' or a 'Anthony'?

Thursday, March 11, 2010

Eye Can See Clearly Now (Or, Brow Beat)

I do my best to steer clear of those on-the-street-youths-wielding-clip-boards-for-Give-Money-to-Greenpeace slash Give-Money-to-Your-Local-Congressman slash Give-Money-For-Gay-Rights slash Give-Money-For-Unicorns-Are-Pretty. However, I never fail to get slammed into by the on-the-street-marketers-for eyebrow threading. For the longest time, I wondered why I always fell prey to these dudes (yes, always male) and why I would be deemed in need of such a service. I thought threading was for people who were eyebrow deficient and needed better eyebrows threaded in (like poor Brooke Shields whose only work these days is pimping out her poor, balding eyelids for Latisse...or Madonna circa 1992 when she was working the frightening-alien-no-brow-at-all look).

Yes, I, the dumbass, thought eyebrow threading was a polite way of saying "eyebrow weave".

Yesterday, I mentioned this to someone who proceeded to explain what eyebrow threading really alternate to eyebrow waxing. Suddenly, a whole new shitty world of eyebrow insecurity opened up. My eyebrows aren't "barely-there" they are "holy-shit-they-are-too-much-girl-you're-out-of-control". Those dudes in the sandwich boards are trying to tell me I need to get my shit threaded in order to blend with the peeps of the Jersey Shore...or they're overwhelmed and confused by my nearly-always-overgrown ear hair...which needs daily monitoring and on some days could easily pass for a full, wandering eyebrow.

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Not-So-Starvin Marvin (Or, Gut Feeling)

I've been hellbent on getting back into shape after the continual suckerpunch that has been the holiday season/the post-holiday season/the holy-shit-it's-so-cold Winter weather/the usual if-there's-food-up-in-here-I'm-housing-it-everyday pattern of my life. After weeks of semi-dieting (blech) and compulsive gym-going (requisite behavior for my neighborhood), some things have moved back into position, while others are decidedly stubborn.

Namely, that giddy circular tumor spooning my middle section known only as Monsieur Marvin Mangut.

Used to be that such a thing would appear sometimes and quickly vanish once I set my mind (and body) to it...being my age, that mangut is a persistent and codependent motherfucker. He's not going anywhere, no matter what I say or think or feel or do or eat or crunch or crap out.

He's happy as a pig in shit...unfortunately, that shit happens to be all of the gorgeous processed and unprocessed and sugary and fatty and fried and salty and sweet and buttery and tasty and cakey and flaky and gooey and semi-sweet and bittersweet and confectionery and toasted and toasty and warm and cool and frozen and sour and citrusy and juicy and dark and milky and generally excellent things that have passed my lips since...well...ever.

Tuesday, March 09, 2010

Dumb Drag Queens (Or, Unreality)

The hilarious clusterfuck also known as The Real Housewives of New York City has kicked back into gear. I have to say, I have an intense soft spot for this jam - maybe it's seeing New York in a new light (one that I barely recognize), or maybe it's seeing how the competition is upped more than any other Housewives show (a New York I do recognize), or maybe it's just that it's funnier than the rest of them combined (sorry New Joisey).

Anyway, one episode into the muck and the existing story-edited-narrative has already been flipped on its ass - all the "friendships" from last season are now busted up and formerly semi-sane "wives" (namely Jill Zarin and the Countess) have gone batshit crazy. As usual though, Bethenny Frankel is the only one who's in on the joke and isn't afraid to call out lady-on-lady horseshit (of course, she's authoring her persona far more actively than the other women). You have to love a woman who calls another woman "a dumb drag queen" for all the right reasons.

Monday, March 08, 2010

Mo (Or, The Local Train)

Well, Oscar season is finally over. And, as always, the build-up is more exciting than the actual thing. There were moments-of-the-highest-order (namely, Barbra Streisand in a very poorly chosen suit-with-a-doily-collar getting to present the first ever Best Director award to a woman. The kicker is that it wasn't Babs getting the award...and I'm hoping Kathryn Bigelow doesn't have a few red silicone-wrapped-nail tips stuck in her back this morning), but for the most part it was the same-ole-boring-shit-show. Whoever thinks that the American (or Global, for that matter) audience really wants to see interpretive dance routines at all is clearly at a loss.

When that Best-Score-Dance-A-Thon horseshit amped up - despite the presence of the feverishly handsome presenter Sam Worthington - I leapt out of the room. I had other more pressing sock drawer needed organizing and surely there couldn't be a better time to do it.

Anyway...mostly glad Precious won Best Supporting Actress and Best Adapted Screenplay. Both were well deserved.

Sunday, March 07, 2010

Everyday is Not Like Sunday (Or, High Fashion Shit)

Overheard uptown this afternoon...

MAN ON SUBWAY WITH STROLLER, LUGGAGE, AND CHILD IN TOW: I can't even deal with this motherfucking high fashion shit. I got a big ass and a big ass thigh and I can't even be stuffing those motherfuckers up in some skinny ass motherfucking jeans. Give me a fucking Levi...give me a fucking big ass motherfucking jean. Step off with all that other bullshit, bitches.

OLDER WOMAN IN RESPONSE TO THE WHITNEY BIENNIAL: It used to be that you go to a Museum, you know the art's good. Now it's the other way around. Look - another pile of garbage over there. I can't take this shit. You come to a Museum and it's a joke now - a sad, sad joke.

Amen to both sisters.

Saturday, March 06, 2010

Plop Tarts (Or, The Down Low Highlights of Organic Living)

This can be filed under: Delicious / Ridiculous.

While perusing the "organic foods" aisles of the always-exciting Fairway in Brooklyn, I found myself bewitched, bothered and bewildered by this product:



Yes, put less politely, they are Pop Tarts for the organic foods generation.

The thing is, I only paused and pondered their ridiculousness for 10 seconds before I slung the bitches into my basket. Sure, they have absolutely no fiber, are as processed as anything else in the grocery store, and are loaded with sugar...but I felt decidedly fantastic about myself when I pounded through the entire box of six "pastries" in one sitting.

I'm losing weight as I house these...because they are crammed with Açai berry goodness!

The box says these Pop Tarts are "Nurturing People, Nature, and Spirit" - whee!

I'm healthy, goddammit!

Friday, March 05, 2010

What About Your Friends? (Or, Mammaries and Me)

Part of a conversation I was on the periphery of last night:

MAN: I'm sure sometimes your breasts get in the way and totally annoy you, right?

WOMAN: My breasts never annoy me. They're my friends.

I hope there's a special bonding class she can go to called Mammaries and Me.

Or...even better:

MAN: What are you doing for your vacation?

WOMAN: Me and my tits are going to Aruba!

Thursday, March 04, 2010

At Ten (Or, The Official Story)

Last Friday was the 10th anniversary of my moving to New York.

Although I've worked through fits and starts of hating it here and wanting to move to some other manageable city, the truth remains that New York has a way of ruining everywhere else. You hear things like "Oh, This-Other-City is cool" or "Yes, That-Other-Place is fun" and then you experience those places firsthand and stew in disappointment and think: "'s OK...but it's just not...."

When I lived in Boston in the mid-90s, I used to loathe that attitude in visiting New Yorkers. I used to think those sentiments were hard-edged and presumptuous and unfounded...until I caught myself thinking them uncontrollably.

All that aside, I think the anniversary is a little strange because it's more about reflecting on the 28-year-old I was when I moved here, and that ocean of difference that is between that once-upon-a-time self and me.

Wednesday, March 03, 2010

Red Hooker (Or, Unsaturated Saturday)

Well, these were really from Sunday afternoon, but "Unsaturated" sounded better with "Saturday".

Above: scenes from West Chelsea and Red Hook, Brooklyn.

Tuesday, March 02, 2010

Pump Up The Miracle (Or, Fingerspell This Bitch)

Last night I saw a preview of the Broadway revival of The Miracle Worker thanks to my friend Pattesia.

Or, rather than say "saw" I should say, as thoroughly inappropriate as is it is to say, I was deafened by it.

You see, despite the plainly drawn earnestness of the play, the actors in this production read their lines and delivered their emotions something like this:


Stretch that bitch out over two hours and you have the show in its entirety.

That everyone was screaming their lines in a play about the triumphs of a deaf-blind-mute woman was just too much unintentional comedy to bear.

What hurt even more (even more than my still-pounding- head), is that the climactic "waa-waa"-water-from-the-well scene was a dud (or maybe it was a little dramatic, but after two hours of crazy-pants screaming, the definition of drama was hard to grasp). As the final scene rolled out, and Helen Keller (Abigail Breslin) finally communicates on her own to Annie Sullivan (Alison Pill), I figured she was fingerspelling something other than W-A-T-E-R...something more like:

W-H-Y I-S E-V-E-R-Y-O-N-E Y-E-L-L-I-N-G?

or - my best possible fantasy:

S-H-U-T T-H-E F-U-C-K U-P.

And after all that wailing and drama and commotion, once the finger spelling happens - and Miss Pill is finally allowed to cut loose and chew some scenery with the play's big line, she just shrugged her shoulders and whimpered:

"She knows."

You go, girl. Way to subvert the text and make it your own.

Needlesstosay, I didn't jump up when the crowd got all hot and bothered in the now-obligatory-on-Broadway standing ovation. Someone next to me said:

"You're so bitter! You should stand up!"

I wanted to say: "I'm not bitter. I've just been paying attention."

When did sitting in your seat to clap after a completely mediocre production become an act of civil disobedience?

Above: Anne Bancroft. Don't fuck with the original.

Monday, March 01, 2010

He Must Like You (Or, Overheard)

Overheard on the street this week:

CONSOLING MAN FRIEND: Think about it this way - he still has sex with you all the time...that means he must like you, right? my book...not really.

LOUD MAN IN CROSSWALK: She's pretty rough...but her vagina is TIIIIIIIIIIIIIGHT! I don't know what she's doing to it, but it works.

One would hope.