twinkle twinkle blah blah blah etc.

Theater is the life of you

OK, so I was gonna wait till tomorrow to spring my surprise on all yous. But here it is: I've got myself a whole new place. It'll be fun. You should come over. But like don't wake my moms and shit, she's got the early shift at the factory.

It's here. Learn it. Love it. Change your bookmarks.

And thank you dong for all your help. If it weren't for him I'd still be makin' broom handles at BOCES.

That's my girl

Ha!(In The) Back by Popular Demand.

Lake....big lake

I have been in a cab three times this week and that is exactly three fuckin' times too many for this editrix (who, though meagerly compensated, is still overpaid for the halfassed shite work she does). Two of these occasions were the result of feeling wino rich and too lazy to shlep up to the subway. All they do is render me sadder about my poor little car.

Last night I ended up at Mona's for their Thursday night Guiness special.

One of the first times I ever got drunk in NYC was at Mona's. It was roughly ten years ago. Then the pints were only two bucks, not three, on Thursdays.

It was also my first experience with projectile vomiting. Ten pints. Oy.

Last night I knew better than to test the ten-pint fates, so I retired early. My cabdriver was one of those dying-breed types: Chatty Native New Yorker. He had lived in Mexico for twenty years, was evasive as to why he came back. We talked about WBAI and Cointelpro.

I'm not used to talking to cabbies. In fact, I thought all cabbies were nonverbal until I visited San Francisco, where the cabbies uniformly do not know when to shut the fuck up. There, I had cabbies who told me how NASA faked the moon landing, that the heads of IBM were aliens (they don't blink, he said. That's how you can tell). One guy told me about his dissertation on superstring theory.

This morning I woke up at 6 and thought about going to the gym. Part of me was thinking, Well, shit, you're awake already. That's half the battle. But then the other part of me was all like, Fuck that noise. Hit that snooze button and gimme some of that local pro action, Soterios.

Anyhow, I've got a surprise for all of you. Coming very, very soon. I know I periodically make these wild claims. I know that every time I do and don't follow through with it, you begin to quietly resent me. But this, my friends, is a surprise on the realz. You have to take my word for it. And in the meantime, just kiss me like you mean it.

The cashier wore Prada

There's this one nearby deli that has a halfway-decent saladbar (ie, I've never seen any Rajneeshis or liquified-feces-carrying crazies there, but then again, I can't be there all the time. Oh well. History is written by the winner, after all) and sometimes if I'm too lazy to pack my own lunch (what, you thought I had Zone Diet lunches delivered to me *every day*?) I go there and get some gelatinous, msg-laden foodstuffs by the pound.

The cashiers are all rather friendly Korean girls. They're preternaturally happy. (Probably Moonies.) So I'm there yesterday and the girl ringing me up points to my sunglasses* and says, "How much did you pay for those?"

I smile demurely and finger my invisible strand of pearls. Ah, the proletariat, they don't understand that one doesn't ask such things. I responded in my best Locust Valley Lockjaw, "Well, you see, they're the real thing, so I bought them at the Prada store, and they were a bit pricey-"

"I know," she cut me off. "I have the same ones. I got mine in the Seoul store."

Well, darn it all. Turns out she paid 40 bucks less than I did.

*Here's the deal. I'm not too much of a label whore. Not really. (Of course, if anyone at Dries van Noten reads this, feel free to send me some freebies.) I'm also a fairly altruistic, fair person. Ask anybody!

But sometimes someone gets my Irish up and I stop being the nice, caring, UNICEF-Christmas-card-sending person that my years at finishing school made me.

This is how I first came into possession of my first pair of Prada sunglasses. See, a few years ago, K and I were cat-sitting in the West Village. At some bistro on Charles Street we were seated next to an obnoxious woman of a Certain Age and her milquetoast dining companion. She was going on and on about how anyone who voted for Nader ruined it for the rest of us. That anyone who voted for Nader was an asshole. And that no one over 25 voted for Nader.

K and I, both being over 25 and Naderites (well, I *told* him I voted for Nader when I really voted, as always, for LaRouche. But, for the sake of continuity...), grimly eavesdropped. When the couple finally got up to leave, I noticed that she'd left her sunglasses behind on the banquette. I picked them up and was about to call out to her when K (more of a moral relativist than I) stopped me. "See if she comes back for them on her own." I examined them. They were real Prada sunglasses. I felt a slight tingle, as I'd never consciously fingered Prada before. (That one time with one of those Sykes sisters in the bathroom at Bungalow 8 doesn't count, because I was drunk and vulnerable.) I tried them on and looked in the smoked mirror behind me. I looked fabulous. I took them off and waited. She never came back. I felt bad about it (for about 5 minutes) but then I thought, "Hey, private property created crime. And anyhow, she called me an asshole."

You know how many compliments I've gotten on those glasses? It's criminal.

Flash forward to this spring when I noticed they'd started to get a bit scratched. K suggested I get another pair. "I can't go back to something cheaper. I have to get another pair of Prada sunglasses. Price is no object."

See, this is a lie, though, because I did care how much they cost. And I didn't realize just HOW FUCKING MUCH they cost. Sticker shock doesn't begin to describe it. I mean, on one hand, shopping at Prada is fun--they give you cappucino, they kiss your ass, and they send you little handwritten thank-you notes. But is it worth it to drop over 200 clams for something you'll end up crushing at the movies?

My inner drag queen says HELL MOTHERFUCKIN' YEAH.

Mike and Donnie against the world

As a belated b-day gift a friend of mine burned me a CD copy of what he calls the Hoser Biker tape. If you'd like to believe the provenance he relayed to me, a friend of his up in Toronto found the tape inside a car stereo that he bought at a police auction. It's 45 minutes of phone conversations between a rather terse police hostage negotiatior and a tweaked-out biker named Mike who's holed up in a sporting goods store with his buddy Donnie, holding the manager hostage.

It sounds like a joke, but it isn't.

♦

Negotiator: Mike, how many people you got in there?

Mike: Fuck off, eh? Never mind how many people we got in here. That's none of your fuckin' concern. [sniff] But, ah, your taxpayer ain't looking so good, eh?

Negotiator: What did you do to him?

Mike: Nothin', eh, but where's my sammitches, eh? If you don't bring 'em we're gonna march him out into the parkin' lot and he's gonna go tits fuckin' up, eh?

Negotiator: The sandwiches are coming.

Mike: Well so's fuckin' Christmas, eh? Get those fuckin' sammiches.

Negotiator: Calm down. How many sandwiches you need?

Mike: Fuck off, eh? I'm not gonna tell you how many....[mumbles]...ah, make it four. Four sammiches! [sniff, sniff] And bring us a case of beer, eh? Labatt's fuckin' Blue.

Negotiator: OK, I'll try.

Mike: And where's our getaway car, huh?

Negotiator: We're working on that. Soon.

Mike: How soon? How soon? HOW SOON!?!

Negotiator: Please calm down, there, Mike.

Mike: [sniff] What'd you call up fuckin' Chrystler and have 'em build me a custom model or somethin'? Fuck right off, eh, and just get me a used car.

Negotiator: Like I said, we're working on that...

Mike: And don't none of you pigs touch my van, eh?

Negotiator: It's a nice van, Mike, did you customize--

Mike: That's my fuckin' shaggin' wagon, eh? Don't fuckin' touch it. [sniff] Where's that Labatt's, eh? My throat is dry as a fart.

Negotiator: We're, ah, workin' on the beer, Mike. So, can you tell me, how is Epps [the store manager] doing? Is he all right?

Mike: Fuck off, he's fine, eh? But he's not gonna be for long if you don't get us some fuckin' beer. [sniff] Oh, and get my old lady over here, eh?

♦

It's really brightened my day.

I think my neck is rather sexy, thank you

Over at World New York, the problem with Friendster.

Sadly, it was not David Berman

Also over at Brittney's place, Crazy Poem Guy:

I go back to cleaning when he asks for pen and a napkin--he is a writer--and that he is going to write a poem. I mention that I am also a writer and he tells me that he is currently working on a book of poetry to be published in February. To coincide with Valentine's Day. I ask if maybe I would have read any of his work and he says if I've studied any contemporary literature at all then I would likely know his name. Which he refused to tell me.
Which was fine by me. It was late, and getting later, and all I cared about was getting my clean on. "

Chortle. If I ever did get a bun in my oven before it manages to nuke my ovaries I would get it a t-shirt with “My mummy says you can slap my legs if I am a brat”.

Welcome to the cheap seats

Har. Funny Things I Have Said To "Famous Bloggers" That The "Famous Bloggers" Did Not Find Funny At All:

Me: Jason, don't be coy. Are you paying people? Is that it? Do you pay people for links? Because I'd totally accept money from you.
Jason: No.
Me: Because when you look at the site... what is it? Where's the 'there' there? Sure, you update it frequently and shit, but a lot of times it's like, hello? So what? Really, Jason, so what?
Jason: I'm going out.
Me: I'll come with!

Via Brittney.

Makes me wistful for those days as a child prostitute...

Go read all about the rejected Vegas tourism slogans over at TMF,TML. Not included on this list:

Las Vegas: We Guarantee That You'll Be Better Looking than 98% of the People Around You.

and

Las Vegas: Stretchpants Country--Come to Where the Flavor Is.

I'm so bad I kick my own ass twice a day

I highly recommend that you go see How to Kick People, featuring the genius literary-comedic stylings of Todd Levin and Bob Powers, who are both so disgustingly talented I can't even deal. It's tomorrow night at KGB.

Really, you don't want to miss this, and I'm not just saying that because one (or both) of these guys might be my babydaddy.

Can you handle this?

Confidential to the suave and debonair construction worker catcalling me whilst standing atop a dumpster on Mercer and Waverly this morning:

Oooh, yeah. You look so freakin' sexy standing on top of all that garbage. Man, how did you know that was my fantasy? Yeah, papi. I want you to fuck me in that garbage. I want you to rub my face in coffee grounds and pizza crusts while you devastate my ass.

Today is your lucky day, mister. Bring it.

Gdzie Twoje Pierogi?

My hootchie-cootchie man

Ah, nice visit to the gyno. I like to call him the Shoe Shine Boy (it's the stirrups). Sometimes, though, when I go to see him, he's not in, so his brother works in his place.

"Hi, I'm here to see Dr. B?"

"Great, have a seat. But he's not in today, so you'll have to see his brother."

[beat]

"OK. Is he a doctor too?"

That joke just never gets old. Seriously.

Dr. B2 is not as charming or as friendly as Dr. B1. He also dives into you like he's birthing a foal. This would explain why he's still single.

Both Dr. Bs are Orthodox jews. I kinda like this, because it means that they don't give you the usual scant hospital robes you're forced to wear by the Gentiles, they give you these huge swaths of fabric. By the time Dr. B comes into the exam room, I'm looking like a pink bathtub virgin. Right on.

So Dr. B2 came in today. Here's a rough approximation of our conversation:

"How are you, cowboy_sally? Still refusing to step on the office scale, I see. And how is your chocha?"

"Well, Doc, the chocha's fine, but I'm a little sad today."

"Why is that?"

"Oh, I'm just sad about my man JC dying is all."

Judging by the look on his face, I should've said "Johnny Cash." There was some confusion with the initials there. He got a little nervous 'cos I think he thought I was referring to the Crucifixion.

Waving our hands in the air

Welcome back, tremble! We missed you.

Other people might speculate on the coincidence of your relaunch with the deaths of Johnny Cash and John Ritter, but not me; I'll just sit here quietly and giggle nervously.

Born under a bad sign

That's the only possible way I can interpret this slew of bad things happening, right? 'Cos it's all about me. I mean, Jesus may have been castigated for our personal sins, but that was his fuckin' choice.

I try not to take the deaths of my idols too personally, but man. Johnny Cash. Fuck. I literally said "Fuck" this morning when I heard. I had just come in from running and noticed that NPR was running an interview with him. Then they started recounting his entire career. "No, nooooo...." I muttered. And then they announced it. "Fuck." It's sad. I got a bit teary-eyed, which is silly. In a way, I was counting on the fact that once June went, Johnny would too--I mean, how could they be apart? But still, sad. Very sad. I threw on my favorite cowboy shirt--it's black and silver--in a very half-assed honor. Anyhow, farewell, Johnny.

Last night my father came into town to run some errands so I asked him to stop by my place and try and help me move my car. See, the rear right fender is so smashed in that it's deformed the wheel well. So you know what we did?

We borrowed a sledgehammer from my neighboring machine shop and smashed the fuck out of it. People stared. It was like a cross between some strange Situationists prank and an Iron John catharsis dance. WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! He did most of the hitting. I did some. Then he handed me a crowbar and said, "Here, hold this steady."

"That's what Bill Burroughs told his first wife, y'know."

"Relax."

WHAM! Right into my thumb. You gotta laugh. I know I did. I was frickin' doubled over. He laughed too. It triggered a long-forgotten memory of when I was three years old and my father pushed me off the swing by accident. WHEE! WHEE! WHEEE! Thud. He laughed then, too. I pulled off my workglove expecting to see something resembling a squashed plum but it wasn't too bad. "Oh, did I hurt you?" he giggled.

"Yeah, ya fuckin' did. Just like when you pushed me off the swing."

"I never did."

Anyhow, we managed to smash it enough to make the car movable. So we pushed it over to the other side of the street (the battery shit the bed sometime this week, I guess, and oh, the radiator's cracked too) and went to dinner.

It was all kinda fun, actually. But now I'm sad. Seems as good a place to end as any.

But nobody cared, 'cos it's just the Indians

Indians' Prospect Had Gay Porn 'Mistake'

Tadano admits that while he was a college student in Japan, he appeared in a gay porno and performed homosexual acts in the film. That would qualify you as a gay porn actor. If you are making movies committing homosexual acts, I’m guessing you’ve met all the requirements.

(via Get Swank.)

What if Christ died in a hallway?

Choire muses on the inevitable:

"And what will we do to September 11th in a hundred years? Will New Yorkers' put little aluminum twin towers in their living rooms, with little presents underneath? An empty table setting at the picnic table, like Elijah's? Will it be an official bank-closing holiday? Will the federal government take it for their National Anti-Terrorism Day? Will suburban children race about their Westchester lawns with toy jets, shrieking 'I'm going to fly a plane into you'?"

C'mon, just show your love

I'm glad to see that someone is finally takin' care of business.

Confidential to d_r: The less time I have to spend scrolling horizontally to read your brilliance, the more time I can spend taking upskirt shots. Capisce?

We care a lot, redux

What is the protocol for observing the second anniversary of 9/11, exactly? Last year I was totally filled with dread. This year I feel rather ambivalent. So I'll just link to what I said last year, which was back when I wasn't taking 20 mgs of Botox for the psyche and hence able to articulate and feel the whole spectrum of that emotions thing you people feel.

I've been rather lax this week about posting links. I actually have them all on a stickie on my desktop but I can't be arsed to blog them. But here is an interview with Jim Crace, who has a new book out. Well, it's only out in the UK, so I have to content myself with reading this snippet. (Thanks be to Maud, who I would feel bad ganking links from so often if we weren't actually the same person.)

My girl

Everyone go over to Sparkwood & 21 and welcome Brittney to her new digs.

Try and not leave skidmarks on the white sofa, okay?

Either stand tall or sit the fuck down

Being the pincha macha that I am in this office full of mincing pantywaists of both genders, I am often called on to dispatch cockroaches, bees, and the occasional dead mouse. This morning I was in the bathroom with a coworker.

Me sits in stall 1. Coworker walks into stall 2.
Coworker: Oh god.
Me: What?
Coworker: There's something on the seat.
Me: So? Wipe it off.
Coworker: No, this is too gross.
Me:...
Coworker: You really have to see this.
Me: Don't talk, will ya? Makes it crawl back up.
Coworker: Sorry.
Me flushes, walks out buckling pants, goes into stall 2.
Me: Jesus Armflapping Christ. What is that?
Coworker: It's...a pubic hair.
Me: But what's that it's stuck to the seat with? It looks like...tapioca.
Coworker: Oh my god, it's cootchie cheese.
Me: You stay here, I'll get the paper towels. And the Lysol.
Coworker:...
Me (sighing): Jesus, you know how many people on this floor have advanced degrees? Did they Fast Track past the toilet training? Fack. Shitpigs, every last goddamned one of 'em.
Exeunt

This is the thanks I get.

How sensual big ladies are

Adam Ant wants to Save the Gorillas, why don't you? (stolen from TMF,TML, but presented with 50% less snark.)

Not that there's anything wrong with that

What do you do when your toddler favors the pink Powerpuff accessories and showtunes? You take pictures of him in pink maribou slippers, that's what.*

*Don't worry, Mrs. Kennedy. My mom thought that my dad made me gay by combing my hair like Bowser from Sha Na Na and letting me watch The White Shadow, and she was wrong, wrong, wrong about that!

Comin' straight from the underground

Hey, how about this article in the Post yesterday:

Nearly 5 percent of new cops are reading at a seventh-grade level or below - a shocking new discovery that has prompted the NYPD to boost its reading requirements on its entrance exam, The Post has learned.

Here's my best look of surprise. Know where I read this article? It was taped to the front desk at the 94th Precinct, the place I spent my early morning hours wheedling for an accident report. Wait, it wasn't just taped, shit was laminated like it was a motherfuckin' first grade Thanksgiving hand-turkey painting.

After perusing the accident report like it was the Dead Sea Scrolls and coming up with more questions than answers, I wonder about Officer Williams' aptitude:

Driver of Vech#1 states He Stopped at Intersection proceded to Go Through when Vech#2 Enter intersection and collision occured. Driver of Vech#2 States He was traveling N/B on North Henery [ed note: North "Henery" is a one-way street that runs south, btw, but go on] come into Intersection and Collision occured Sending His Vech into Vech#3 and 4 which was Parked.

The combination of the random CAPS and the handwriting on the report lend an apocalyptic-religious zealot touch to the whole thing. In fact, it feels incomplete without at least a single "Repent! He Is Coming!" in the mix.

Incidentally, where else in NY but Greenpoint could you have two different drivers involved in an accident who are both named Jerzy?

We care a lot

OK, sometimes I like to pretend that I give a shit about other people and what they do. To that end, I entreat you to go see Tony, who's playing tonight in NYC! Last time I saw him he promised to do a Britney Spears cover and said he would let me duet with him on his always-rousing cover of The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. Anyhow, this man is an incredible songwriter, and oddly enough when I compared him favorably to Grant Hart he didn't punch me. So go on! The power of christ compels you.

If living right is easy

Sometimes, when life is looking pretty dark, and you start to realize that you were born alone and will eventually die alone, a small glimmer of hope, suggesting the existence of perhaps a higher power, arrives in the form of an email from eBay that says Congratulations, cowboy_sally! You are the winning bidder on No Skin Off My Ass!