twinkle twinkle blah blah blah etc.

Men are from Mars and women want their penises

I offer as proof that gender is *so* not a social construct: the male affinity for Hawaiian shirts. Now, I consider bmarkey a friend and a confidante*, so I hate to seem like I'm singling him out; I'm not--this applies to all of you out there with the dangly bits: Hawaiian shirts are an abomination before the eyes of God. Repent! REPENT! Thank you.

*And if he threw a party, invited everyone he knew, he would see the biggest gift would be from me.

Songs for paradigm shifts and whatnot

Hot on the heels of yesterday's big retreat, I present to you Brian Eno & Peter Schmidt's Oblique Strategy Cards, via fishfucker.

Off our backs

K and I ran into one of his coworkers today on the train. With proof of my physical existence, K was able to conclusively establish that he is not, in fact, a gay homosexual. Unfortunately, everyone now thinks he is a lesbian.*

*This is not uncommon. We get frequently mistaken for a lesbian couple, most recently at IKEA and, um, Meow Mix.

The plot, she thickens

Although I was pretty much convinced that I'd killed all the witnesses to Tuesday night's Karaoke Massacre, apparently there were other witnesses who claim that it was not Maud's husband but the mysterious and elusive Maxx Klaxon who trilled WHAM! so delightfully.

You've got to get him thinking

Charles Mingus on toilet training your cat. (via dust congress.)

I've discovered God for the next LP

The Manual (on how to get a #1 hit the easy way) by The KLF. Please enjoy this while I'm in sensitivity training, or whateverthefuck this retreat is they're sending us all on.

Accidental karaoke

(Ok, I know the premise is approximately as plausible as, um, accidental bukkake, but indulge me.)

(Oh, and don't believe a word that Maud said about last night. Whose word are you gonna take? Mine, or the girl who had to have extra digits removed from both hands as a child?)

So last night Maud and I agreed to meet for A (emphasis on the long a) DRINK because we hadn't seen one another in awhile. It was still light out when we got to Enid's, which is roughly the epicenter of the Hipster Hellmouth. She was still in her work attire, looking every bit the professional she is. I had taken a sick day yesterday, so I'd only just changed out of my so-old-it's-nearly-transparent WFMU t-shirt and cut offs into something less...um...gamey.

Then 2 hours later we found ourselves performing karaoke. I called K and he grudgingly put down his Russian translations to come witness the spectacle. Maud's husband, OTOH, apparently had better things to do, like work or something, and was unmoved even after I called him 17 times. Undaunted, I threw down Surrender still relatively sober. I threw in a couple of kicks, a bit of the jazz hands, but you know how it goes--I was just warming up. Maud, on the other hand, sensing this was some sort of competition, tossed back her third Singapore Sling and outdid me with an eerily heartfelt rendition of Crazy On You (an obvious nod to Heart's Number One Fan).

Not to be outdone, I scoured the 400-page karaoke song list for my follow-up performance. The irony of offering such a large selection of songs to karaoke participants who are, by and large, drunk and thus suggestible, wasn't lost on me. Why offer a list at all? Why not just have the DJ delegate, like, "You! Sing 'Total Eclipse of the Heart'!"

Anyhow, I made my selection and did a highland fling onto the stage, where I performed a truly maudlin Jolene with a flaming baton routine.

Maud, meanwhile, screwed up enough gumption to storm onto the stage and sing Call Me while simultaneously drinking a glass of Everclear. I called her husband one more time and shouted "Listen!" I'm not sure if it was her pitch-perfect performance or the regurgitated-Everclear fireball she blew out of her mouth at the end (which could be appreciated even over the phone) or the power of Christ, but he was on the next B43 to Enid's. Success! No sooner had he marched in the door he was up there crooning Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This).

Did I mention that K was observing our spectacle from underneath the table? Honestly, some people don't know how to have fun. I had to keep pinching him to fork over more Pink Lady money for me.

I was busy planning my third and final piece. How would I trump the fireball? (I considered those tricks with the pingpong balls I learned in Phuket, but really, that's just silly: where does one get pingpong balls at midnight in Willamsburg?) So I did the only thing I could do: I sang Everybody Wants You hanging from the ceiling by my hair.

I'd like to think that it was my trapeeze act that really got the audience psyched, but by the time I was back in my seat wiping off the baby oil, Maud was up there, standing on top of the monitor and belting out Black Dog wearing nothing but pasties with little propellers on them.

Fine Maud, you win--this time.

At this point, K felt moved to escort us out of the bar before a riot began. As we left, he threw his jacket over my head like I was in the McMartin Preschool Trial.

The rest is kind of a blur. At some point on the walk home K had to peel me off a lightpost, which I had climbed to sing "Pinball Wizard" at a higher-than-street-level altitude.

So all this merriment got me-n-Maud to thinking. Karaoke is pretty nerdy, right? But it's fun. And bloggers are pretty nerdy, right? And they don't get out and have fun nearly enough. So here's the deal. In two weeks, Monday, August 11, we will have the first official Revenge of the Blogger Nerds Enid's Karaoke Takeover, or RBNEKT for short. Seriously, it will be fun.

Stop groaning! It will be. C'mon, I know there's a few of you drama fags out there. And then there's the actual musicians among us. And to those of you who couldn't be arsed to set foot in Brooklyn unless the CHUD army took over Manhattan, those who sneer at trucker caps and eschew bars decorated with anything more than a stool, a jukebox, and a bottle of Maker's, those of you who would consider coming to Enid's but certainly not for karaoke, consider the gauntlet officially thrown down, motherfuckers. CAN YOU DIG IT?!?

I kid because I love.

Bring the noise. And the little propellers. The first one of youse to show up gets to sing "Suspicious Minds" with yours truly.

Phases and Stages

I realize that I'm comin' down all heavy this Monday, but that's just the mood I'm in. Listening to AC/DC and fiddling with my new digital camera. When will the novelty of photographing my areolas closeup in sepia tone wear off? Never, I hope.

So the other day while I was looking through BMEZine for scarification pictures, I came across this series of columns written by Cora Birk, a transitioning MTF and, above all, an amazing, illuminating writer.

Why do I put so much of my identity as a person into what's between my legs? Why do I not even feel human without breasts? Why do I feel like throwing up anytime someone slips and refers to me as "him"? Why can I not bear the thought of living one more minute as a boy?

Sometimes I'm told that I have "courage" and "strength" for doing what I'm doing. I smile and thank the people who say this to me and it makes me feel good inside, though I know that it's not actually "courage" or "strength" that drives me through this shapeshift. It's desparation. These are the actions of someone who does not want to die....

Then I think of my earliest memory of the realization of something very, very wrong. I was five years old and in tears and screaming in a shoestore because my mother was refusing to buy me saddle shoes. She told me that they were shoes for a girl, and that that's not what I was. I told her that I was too a girl and continued my tantrum until she bought them for me. I remember the shoe salesman asking me if I wanted fringy shoelace-covers for them and getting those as well. I remember thinking that there was something very scary about my mother telling me that I wasn't a girl, and wondering what was the matter with me.

This shapeshift was inevitable.

Go read now.

Oh where have you been my darling young one

Big news today! House and Senate Pass Legislation to Curb Prisoner Rape:

"The bill calls for the gathering of national statistics about the problem; the development of guidelines for states about how to address prisoner rape; the creation of a review panel to hold annual hearings; and the provision of grants to states to combat the problem. 'Unfortunately, in many facilities throughout the country sexual abuse continues virtually unchecked,' said Stemple. 'Too often, corrections officers turn a blind eye, or in the case of women inmates, actually perpetrate the abuse. We hope federal legislation will not only create incentives for states to take this problem seriously, but also give facilities the tools and information they need to prevent it.'"

This is, as they say, a start.

Those filthy five, they did nothing to challenge or resist

Welcome to another installment of cowboy_sally's infrequent (but too common) fetish meanderings.

I was very disappointed to discover via google that there are a very limited number of bruise fetish sites. One would think it'd be at least a little bit popular. Most of 'em are more focused on the means by which the bruises are administered--paddling, spanking, whipping. That, to me, isn't as interesting as the bruises themselves.

My obsession could stem from the fact that I bruise easily. (See, it's always all about me. All the time.) But for real, I bruise with almost no prompting--an errant jocular backslap, my propensity for walking into things even when I'm sober (as my friend Robbie used to say, "Just flew in from Monaco, Grace?"). I am perhaps the only soul who can get bruised on a StairMaster. Anyway, I never realized the significance of of bruises until I was presumed to be a beaten wife by a well-meaning (but nevertheless completely off-base) customer. See, I'd just moved the day before, and all the jostling of boxes and shouldering of chests of drawers had left me all purply-yellow-blue. "Whoever is doing this to you," she intoned solemnly while gripping my forearm, "He's not worth it." I looked at her incredulously, gave her adamant denials, but no; she was unmoved, and looked at me pityingly. She clucked her tongue, shook her permed head, and said "You don't have to cover up for him."

I was shocked. Bruises do have import, particularly on women. I notice them all the time now. Yesterday I saw a girl get off the elevator with two matching, apple-sized and -shaped bruises on the back of her calves. Fascinating. So lovely, and as far as body mods* go, so ephemeral.

And frankly, there's something really hot about a boy with a shiner.

I'm currently quite bruised up. Thankfully, though, the one on my, um, inner hiney** (sustained the night I went ass over teakettle, not discovered until some days later, and I won't tell you how) has healed. Now it's just the three on my calves, the 5 finger-print-shaped ones on my left thigh (I *really* don't recall that one), and the swole'd up egg on my right hip from where I walked into my desk at breakneck speed.

But it's got me to thinking. Wouldn't it be cool to get graphic bruises? Shaped like, I dunno, ships or flowers or Mickey Mouse. It's the perfect sorta mod for noncommittal types like me.

*I am, as Harry Crews would say, a scar lover. I've always wanted to have some scarification done, but I'm not sure I'm ready for that. (Plus, my father almost had kittens when I came home at 16 with a nosering, so I'd have a whole lotta 'splainin' to do. This ancestor veneration is killing me, I tell you.) I noticed that the a.m. shift manager at Au Bon Pain, the nice one who always opens up a register just to ring me up, had some nice brands on his arms. I finally got up the nerve to compliment him. No idea if they're fraternity brands or something a bit more substantial, but it got me an extra stamp on my coffee card!

**Technical medical term.

Disco frog!

Ha! Holy fuck, I *had* this album. I wish I had kept it. (Found via Queer Day, whom I can't get enough of.)

Hey, remember Voivod? They rocked!

Busy day today. I've got a rather large and solipsistic wank post about bruises I'll put up later. Anyhow, currently editing a piece on some study abroad programs, and came across this passage under a class called Global Music Management: Seminars focus on why hot music keeps coming out of Canada and Liverpool. I almost choked on my cherry pit.

Ass pants

My favorite coworker has returned from his vacation in P-Town with a fabulous pair of pants. They're rough-hewn cotton canvas with zippers and a camo print. Really cool. "They were expensive. But they were worth it. They make my butt look great." I seconded that they did make his butt look bumpin', and added they actually *looked* expensive, which (because I am low-class) is key. I mean, you can go shell out 800 bucks for some wack-ass Imitation of Christ dress that's made out of pox-ridden blankets, but I prefer to save my cash for drugs and hush money and buy my pox dresses on sale at Century 21. Although, on second thought, I'd have no problem paying 200 bucks for a pair of pants that *really* made my can look first-rate. I'm not sure such a pair exists, however. Perhaps I can pay a sycophant 200 bucks to follow me around telling me how great my ass is. (Come to think of it, I don't need to pay anyone for that when I've got the frickin' neighborhood day laborer Lullabye League sucking their exiguous teeth in approval every morning. Maybe I could get an unpaid intern?)

Hey, speaking of interns, I'm going away on vacation for the first week of August. Does anyone want to guest-blog while I'm drinking muddy water and sleeping in a hollow log? Email me.

Fuck you very much

The Village Voice fired C. Carr? I'm going over there right now to give 'em whatfor. (Thanks Maud.)

And the Nazis want to kill everyone

Sometimes when I'm having a bad day I drag out my mp3 of Blind Man's Penis, as performed by Ramsey Kearney. (Written by the genius John Trubee, noted prankster, discussed in REsearch Pranks.)

Today I found the flash animation.

Something's gotten hold of my heart

Yay, Todd is back, and he's already doing a reading! Sheesh.

Also, you may recall Victory Shag. Well, Dobbs has returned for a parting shot of sorts--he'll be participating in this year's Blogathon, raising money for Sweet Relief. And why should you sponsor him? 'Cos he's gonna be spinnin' some sweet and some rare tunes for all y'all:

So far I have the support of Lambchop, My Morning Jacket, Bob Wiseman, Bright Eyes, The Bellrays, Manitoba, I Am Robot and Proud, Lullabye Arkestra, Starvin' Hungry, Sybarite, Coyle & Sharpe, Polmo Polpo, Marah, and Deerhoof.

And yes, gentlemen, his taste in music is most likely better than yours. Edify yourself and maybe you'll get some tail too.

Scotch and Penicillin

Tonight! At the avatar of hipness that is Enid's, come catch Rural Route Film Festival, which is chockablock with all sorts of short film goodies, including a Pernice Bros. video, a Silver Jews video, and a documentary on the esteemed Moon Pie. Fuckin' A! (Thanks vidiot for the heads up. Figures it would take somebody in Astoria to keep me posted on what's going on 4 blocks from my apartment.)

PS I'd tell you more about this, but as it stands now, I'm typing all wrapped up in a tarpaulin, because the roof above me is about to collapse from this righteous rain that's swooped into clean this city once and for all of its fetid scourge: Bloomberg. Look for it in the news tonight: Bloomberg carried away in freak afternoon rainstorm. We all float down here.

They didn't know the music was in my soul

And loving this, via Maud: gayprom.com. I never got asked to the prom, probably because everyone *thought* I was gay. The friggin' theme for my junior prom was based on The Little Mermaid, though, so one can only assume the whole prom committee were the *real* gays in that equation.

Reason number 4,359 why I love TMF,TML.

Oh, and.

arm|sasser is now my friendster. He is the only poet on my list so far.

David Berman, I'm looking in your general direction.

It takes a nation of millions

Milestone: Successfully incorporated "Fo shizzle" into a conversation with one of our designers.

So busy! So much else to say. More later, fo shizzle. (See! See how natural that was!)

TELL ME WHERE BOYS HANG OUT.

Hee!

my friends & i have futilely been trying to find boys in every corner of the city, in every type of bar/exclusive bar/dive bar/happy hour bar, museum, park, street fair, beach, etc. and we find them, but:
they have just gotten out of serious relationships
they shave their arms and ask us to guess the moisturizer (cocoa butter, then exclaim "black people use it!")
they paint owls obsessively
they are short like garden gnomes
gay gay gay gay gay
cheap cheap cheap cheap

Dilemma

Throw out this morning's coffee in favor of the iced coffee I bought for lunch? Why? They're both cold.

You deserve something more life-affirming

This week's Habitats features none other than the single most brilliant woman ever, Amy Sedaris.

Around Ms. Sedaris's fake fireplace, Mr. Oldham built plywood cabinets and bookshelves, which he peppered with cutouts of wood-grain shelf paper, a deadpan ode to suburban rec rooms. The twin themes of suburbia and a woodland grove play well here. The walls are lettuce-leaf green; a boomerang table sits atop a leaflike cutout of green indoor-outdoor carpeting, beside which runs a darker green "path" of the same hairy carpet — a runway for Dusty.

Usually Habitats makes me want to drink carbolic acid and run around the Upper East Side vomiting up chunks of my own stomach, but this; this one was okay.

All houses dream in blueprints

Very moody black and white photos of deserted farms in Iceland. Via metafilter. This sounds like my kinda vacation.

Get your lit on

Hey! The new Archipelago is on line!

I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. Demille

Sunday morning postscript: Man, I realize now I was tipsier than I thought when I typed this out. I'm tempted to delete it all, as it's not very interesting--I mean, I'm bragging about my BARBECUING ABILITY--but two tears in a bucket, etc., etc. Needless to say, drinking and sitting on one's front porch late at night is about all you can do up here. When you're not tied to a chair for misbehaving, that is.

I am blogging from my Top Seekrit bunker upstate tonight. The combo of the ergonomic keyboard and the bouteille du vin que j'avais bu avec le diner has made me nearly unable to type intelligibly. Dommage!

I meant to get here last night but instead I ended up drinking a wee bit. And that's all I'ma say about that (she said, head in her hands, fingering her sobriety chip). So I didn't drive up until this morning. Such a lovely day, white cumulus clouds hovering in the sky making you believe that maybe, just maybe, this might be the best summer ever. I loved driving up the Taconic today. The smell of the grass clippings, the warm wind; it was truly joyous. I sang along to my iPod, my special selection of cheesy driving music..."When I'm with you baby, I go out of my head...I just can't get enough..."

Got here in time to see my mom before she went to Mass and drove over to see my newly impregnated friend. She tolerated my penetrating (he!) questions well: "So, are you wicked horny now? So, have your nipples gotten big as silver dollar pancakes? So, is your vulva all swole up beyond recognition yet, like a hemmorhoid pillow?" Like Babs Walters, I ask the hardhitting questions...

Went tag sale-ing and got some old photos and some CDs: AC/DC Live, Slick Rick, Billy Squier, Buddy Holly, and Clarence Carter! Clarence Carter! Clarence Carter! Amazing what people will get rid of.

Then came home and barbecued dinner. I miss barbecuing. I have a natural acuity for it, I believe. We made portabellos, zucchinis, and filet mignon ("Because we didn't get to have it for Xmas," said my mom. No, we had scrambled eggs, as I recall, I thought loudly.) I put Bobby Flay to shame. And the mosquitos didn't lay a hand on me.

Cooking with existential malaise

Maccers shows us how to make Green Crepes:

Pour about 5 cups of boiling water, and from a kettle – absolutely no heating water in the microwave at any time please, onto a handful of dried porcini picked up last year during the Tuscan holiday with bastard ex-boyfriend. Spend 2 minutes thinking about bastard ex-boyfriend and mutter “cheap fuck” under your breath. It’s ok, this part is essential and there should at no times be any one else around when you are making this, you’ll see why.

Maybe next week I'll post my recipe for Forcefeeding Yourself a Can of Beets Over the Kitchen Sink Because It's All You Have Left in the Larder (and You're Worried That Your Body Has Gone So Long Without Nutritive Sustenance That It Will Begin to Cannibalize Itself).

Even cheap knives are sharp at first

I was waiting in a bar, where were you? So last night's show was awesome. Not like any of you ingrates would know. The Live Ones really kicked ass, and Crimson Sweet, just back from their tour of the 48 contiguous, rocked in perpetuity. I thought I saw a guy I knew from Albany, but fortunately I was introduced to him (and discovered his name was not Jack) before I made an ass of myself by saying, "Do you remember me? I think we dropped acid and had sex twelve years ago. It was the day after I got dumped. Are you, ah, still into the Damned?"

Before the show my friend P the restaurant critic took us out to gorge on the company dime. Nothing like throwing back a steaming crock of escargot, a hanger steak, and a tarte tatin before heading down to the LES to mingle with the unwashed masses! I couldn't get more bougie if I was wearing a powdered wig.

(Note: The above items are really best consumed when you don't have to go to a loud show and drink cheap beer. I felt those little slugs doing the hurly-burly in my stomach every time someone stomped on the reverb pedal.)

[Oh, and just out of curiosity, how old is *too* old to wake up with the inverted handstamp from the club imprinted on your cheek? And if it's indelible ink, then how did it transfer from my hand to my face, anyhow? Weak!]

So guess what K and I are doing for our vacation this year! We're disappearing into the Catskills for a week! We've rented a bungalow with no TV or phone. There's like 40 acres of hiking trails, according to the brochure, but I'll take their word for it.

Vacation 2003: Two go in, one comes out.

Come for the zeppoles, stay for the hairdos

A bit of background on the Giglio Festival:

The 120 men, who lift the tower 25 times just to travel four blocks, take on the burden as a religious penance to remember dead relatives as well as to honor family and neighborhood tradition. And it is a test of manhood, according to Dr. Joseph Sciorra, 48, a folklorist at the John D. Calandra Italian-American Institute at Queens College. "The giglio is also about the correct way of being in the world, masculine prowess and a mature masculine responsibility," he said.The lifters are led by five capos, or chiefs. Those men who reach the position of No. 1 capo, the leader of the whole endeavor, consider it the highlight of their lives.

Interestingly, both jonmc and I have lived on the giglio route, albeit at different times. It's really pretty incredible to watch, and the festivities are a whole lot of fun. Though this year I've noticed they're offering baby lizards as prizes on the game thoroughfare. I don't like that one bit.

Well, damn

The Oxford American has been forced to suspend publication, again, due to lack of ad revenue.

The Old Syrup Dripper

Happy Birthday, Red Sovine!

Tour spiel

Um, so, tonight? You might wanna think about heading down to Sin-e to see two of the greatest NYC bands ever: Crimson Sweet and none other than THE LIVE ONES! Also on the bill are the Snakes, and Broke Revue are headlining. But you should get down there at 8 PM sharp, 'cos The Live Ones go on first. I'll be the one in the cardigan nodding my head to the beat like the hipster doofus I am.

A Stratocaster with a whammy bar and a cheesy little amp

Yesterday I alluded to Brittney and porn. I hope I didn't get you all unnecessarily excited. (That is to say, I have no naked pictures of Brittney or myself for your enjoyment. The ones we took together at the Pillow Fighting Competition in Reno last week are being held up at the Wal-Mart photo department for some strange reason. But believe me when I say that she and I made a champion team.)

Anyhow, in her Saturday post she wrote about seeing Playboy for the first time:

I was frightened to death of ever looking like that woman. Her breasts were enormous and bulbous, while my mother's were much more modest. I saw a thicket of dark pubic hair, a long red fingernail in her painted mouth, and quietly freaked out right there in my desk.

Remember the first time you looked at porn? Sure you do. You remember everything about it--where you were, who you were with, what it looked like, and how you felt. Those memories still inform how you look at sex today.

So I discovered my father's porn collection when I was about 11 or 12. I don't remember what I was doing in his closet, but I pushed aside a couple of outdated sportscoats and wall-LAH! There were four neat stacks of magazines on a hidden shelf, each stack approximately a foot and a half high. That's a lot of porn, ladies and gentlemen.

Also next to this pile of porn was a Remington semiautomatic, still in the box. My adolescent mind fogged over. Porn or guns? PORN OR GUNS?!? I chose the porn, of course. (Duh! Aren't you glad I chose the porn?) See, I'd already read Everything You Ever Wanted To Know About Sex... the prior summer (Which enabled me to describe for all my 5th-grade classmates exactly how anal sex was performed. Go me!), so I could approach the Towers of Porn as a seasoned professional.

There were Playboys. There were copies of Penthouse, Hustler, and Oui. There were a number of special, single-issue magazines--The Franklin Mint Collectibles of wank mags--Big-Tittied Bitches, International Hairy Quim Revue, VulVulVaVoom. I perused each one; meticulously inventorying every page and storing it away in a special spot in the back of my brain. The quantity and clarity of what remains in that spot to this day is staggering; it's no wonder I barely made it out of college--my cerebrum is full beaver shots.

There weren't just picture magazines, though. I found several issues of Penthouse Forum (happily) sandwiched in between the big glossies. Whoa.

There's no question that '70s porn was a bit out there. Hey, this was the era of the zipless fuck, Plato's Retreat, and music so bad there was nothing to do but bone a lot. But it only took about 15 minutes of reading a randomly selected Forum to realize that people in the 70s didn't just fuck a lot--they fucked everything, six ways from Sunday. If the folks who wrote into Forum were a representative cross-section of society, that is.

In Forum-universe, no sexual proclivity was unworthy of microscopic examination. Pederasty, voyeurism, and cross-dressing skipped hand in hand across the pages, singing It's a Small World. Women fucked their meter-readers, their Rhodesian Ridgebacks, their fathers, and each other. It turns out that, in the parallel Forum universe, there isn't a single woman out there who doesn't have fond memories of being diddled with a hairbrush at a junior high sleepover. And the men! They tag-teamed lady cops, shtupped legions of stewardesses, and nailed their twin brothers ("I wanted to know if...every...bit...of...us was identical," and I am *so* not making that up), their fathers, and seagulls.

(You heard me.)

After my initial discovery, I of course went back on a regular basis. I'm confident I could have read three magazines a week and there would *still* be issues I hadn't gotten around to to this day. If these stacks of magazines still existed, of course. Which they do not, because about 2 months after I became aware of their existence, they mysteriously disappeared. My mother had discovered that I was reading them, and I imagine her, new-from-the-package Remington in hand, ordering my father to load them into a wheelbarrow.

When I say that this was the single greatest loss of my childhood, you must believe me; this may be the most (perhaps the only?) sincere statement on this blog. I know that pornography--great gobs of the stuff, to be specific--is probably not good for a 12-year-old mind. But I had adopted this porn and grown to love it as much as my subscription to National Geographic, as much as all those Anastasia Krupnik books I got from Scholastic. Entertainment, education, a look into mysterious, far-flung worlds: porn had it all.

I didn't realize until many years later how twisted my adolescence had been in comparison to my friends'. Sure, you all saw your brother's Playboys, or ogled the water-stained issue of Juggs you found in the woods,* but I guarantee you there are gynecologists out there who've seen fewer pussies than I had at age 12. In the long run, however, I don't think this carnal knowledge has messed me up too much. (You in the back! Quit laughing!) Sure, I like porn more than most women. Sure, I like weirder porn than most normals. Yeah, maybe I'm a bit sexed-up.

OK, so sometimes I drink too much.

But don't blame the porn! The porn and I were like a summer camp relationship: we fell hard for each other and we were doomed to be yanked apart. But you never forget your first kiss. And you'll always have the memories (and the ornately groomed fetishes). Always.

*What is it with porn and the woods? I was just chatting with a friend about this today. Is there some WPA "Restore Porn to the Woods" program? For the benefit of today's youth!

Freakin' at the Freakers' Ball

An interview with the lovely Cynthia Plaster Caster over at Suspect Thoughts.

Aren't you a naughty wee hermaphrodite?

Eeksy-Peeksy, savior of snails.

Don't worry about the government

Eeeeeeuuw. Thanks Maud. Thanks a lot.

Love me with no lube and bees in your mouth*

Well hey, look who got hisself a blog? Yay! One of us...one of us!

I'm a bit batty today. I have only random snatches of ideas to write about...they're going by like beers on the conveyor belt at Shotz brewery. (Smell the glove--don't kiss it.) I feel like I'm simultaneously trying to land a space shuttle and conjugate in the passé composé. Hey, my method is unorthodox but of course it rocks.

So I got the newest Houellebecq, Platform. I'm not far enough along yet to give you the full report. When I grow up I want to be a crank writer who gets by strictly on his reputation for being and iconoclast asswipe. I also want to use this reputation to get a lot of tail.
See me after the show.

Also, because I am a good girlfriend, I got K the big new Robert Lowell collected poems. Motherfucker weighs 25 pounds. I am so not kidding? For this I paid 45 bucks. Estate of Robert Lowell owes me something, I think. Dragging it home behind me on a makeshift toboggan the other night, I wondered how the diminuitive Frank Bidart shlepped the manuscript home at nights. I'm thinking hydraulic crane.

There are some things I found yesterday that I wanted to show you.

This guy photographed indie rock shows through the '90s. I have a strange feeling he was following me around. Either that or we had such similar musical taste we should breed. (Via dust congress.)

Best back on the booze, from the Sun, the arbiter of responsible journalism. (Via TMF,TML.) So it's kinda gross that George has decided to fritter away a liver transplant, but how can you begrudge a man who once said "I spent a lot of money on booze, birds and fast cars. The rest I just squandered"? That's just player hatin'.

OK, more on Brittney and porn in a bit. (Ooer missus, what a tease!)

*I totally ganked this from someone--I'll give you three guesses, and the first two don't count.

Begging the question

Her: And then we got kinda drunk and he promised to tell me the story of how he lost his finger.

Me: He's missing a finger? Which one? I've never noticed.

Her: You didn't know he's missing an index finger? I would think that you of all people would have noticed that.

[BTW, not that I'm ::cough:: into this or anything, or in any event you'll never find the pictures to prove it, but here's an interesting article about a new documentary out called Whole. Oh, and here's another article on the subject by the same author.]

Doot!

Can you believe it? I missed my one-year blogiversary by two days. No wonder my blog hasn't been putting out for me this week.

Me: What's wrong?
Blog: Oh, nothing. [smooths hair, looks around]
Me: You sure?
Blog: Oh, sure. [picks invisible lint off sweater]
Me: Great, can you get me a beer then?

Happy one year and two days to twinkle twinkle blah blah blah etc.!

Other peoples' lives are way more interesting than my own

This via email, from a friend:
I went to a neighborhood bar! And I just started drawing in the corner minding my own busines! So I'm mindin my own business drawing in the corner and I guess some douche semi-yuppie doesn't like me! I didn't realize it! The batender apologized for them and I was like "what do you mean"! Then, I go outside for a smoke and these two guys are like, "he's got a lot of balls for going out there!" I didn't ubderstand! After I'm out there 3 guys come out, the one that was talkin shit bout me totally pussed out, turnin his back an all! Fucking pussy fucks...I would've torn him apart!! So I go back in and then later girls he was with start yelling at him, calling him homo, because of his fascination with teasing me!! Ha! All I was doing was burying my head in a sketchbook! Then I heard that lame yuppie in new york stuff like, "This is my bar, I come here all the time, especially whern stacy's working."!! Puhleeeze! Bitch, I was this bar's first customer an' shit, I was here when muthafuckas be getting rubbed in the bar and on the way out. 6 years later I'm surrounded by douchebags like you claiming some sick ownership...puhleeeze! Grow up fucks!! So apparently this guy was a stalker of the bartender, or just obsessed! I guess he saw me talk to her once and she was all nice and shit! I think she said something nice about me to a friend and he flipped out an shit! But right when I came in, this guy was on me like a fly on shit! As soon as I sat down he was all talkin shit to me to the bartender! Yesterday I was walking home passed the bar and I think he was out there again, and something like "turn around" I dare ya or sumpin, so I turned around later and he kinda hid behind someone else! But boy! I hate when I don't do anything, just mind my busniss and muthafuckas can't get off my dick!! Yo, that shit usually doesn't bother me but my neighboorhood is filled with fresh faces, who've been here for like 2 years and already they all just stand outside and talk shit about people!! All I hear is, "oh, this person is this, and this person is that, bla bla, look at those pants, blabla,"...these muthafuckas just don't know or understand to KEEP YOUR FUCKING MOUTH SHUT, you never know when someones gonna call you out on that shit!!! Problem with me is I've got really good hearing...these past 2 days if I hear one more thing about me, only bad of course, I'm cracking skullz!! Anyway, before i get upset...So after that, I went to take photos at like 3:30 am-4 am,! I was taking a picture of a truck that ws pulling into a garage on Kenmare st! The truck was a beautiful silver!! But my flash was fucked up, so it kept going off!!! Before it was to be unloaded, I took a picture of the back of the truck and the drivers stared screaming in chinese!! Then the truck sped off!!! I guess with a camera and notebook, a red head in jeans and t shirt in chinatown looks like an undercover!! It was really funny until I noticed a buick with tinted windows just happened to be everywhere I walked!!! So I eluded and snuck home!! Snuck IS a word!! Maybe I stopped a heroin shipment...dope stuffed in side of pigs! Or maybe they were counterfeit pigs, plastic blow up pigs that they try to sell as real pork!! There's more to the story but I can't write no more!!!!

Shakin' off the fleas

Euuuw! Hereitype disappeared for awhile because apparently she was hanging out with hippies!

Then we sat around the birthday boy and played, 'go around in a circle and say why you love *****'. Since I actually am capable of having an emotion called 'love' and I do actually love some people and I don't, in fact, love ***** I sat that one out. To sit it out, I had to hide behind a tree where I had a lovely conversation with someone else, who doesn't 'love' *****.

I'm happy to have her back.

Bloody hell

I'm quitting my job and I'm going to get rich off of the combination tampon and menstrual pad. (via everlasting blort)

CYA

I'm wondering if there is a connection between the email I just got from HR entitled "Preventing Threatening and Violent Behavior in the Workplace" and the workmen who showed up unannounced this morning to replace the carpeting on half the sixth floor.

Our art department is currently trying to work on top of milk crates in the kitchen.

You can never go home again

Well, thanks to K, my cousin's kids (the folks from Georgia I mentioned?) now know all about full-release massages. Apparently the topic came up as I was leading the troop through Chinatown on a mini-tour. I thought I was getting a bit risque when I warned them to watch out for errant snot rockets (they're boys; I figured anything to do with phlegm would endear me to them) but K had to trump me and expand the list of discussable bodily fluids.

I will probably be hearing from my mother.

I'm going to pretend for a moment that dong_resin is guest blogging while I post the following: Giant Preschoolers in Wrestling Match. (And yeah, that's also dong_resin laughing.)

Family, part B

Yes, I am a withholding, blog-blocking bitch. You're not the first one to tell me that.

How about this heat? I ate icecream for breakfast this morning. That's just the kinda decadent girl I am. Nihilist! Libertine! How ya like me now?

OK, so the family saga continues. You know, the more you try to avoid family responsibilities, the more they impinge and encroach on your day-to-day meanderings. It's like when your mom told you not to start shaving in 7th grade because it was gonna make the hair grow back darker and thicker. Did you listen? No, but she was right.

I actually like spending time with K's family because no matter how embarassing or annoying they can be, they're not related to me and thus do not shame my genetics or imply some sort of parity thereof. Which is not to say they're all troglodytes. Not all of them.

We set out for Newport (the 3rd time in a month) on July 4, the day when most people find respite in weenies+watery beer+explosives. The plan was for the convoy of brothers plus others to converge at K's mom's house to take her out to eat.

This also meant taking K's evil harpy aunt out to eat as well, because she's like spanish moss...all innocent looking, but really parasitic and flea ridden. And she's everywhere. (That was a weak analogy, but I'm workin' against the clock, folks.)

After arriving (and plopping the begonia we'd picked up for a birthday present in K's mom's lap) we went to the beach. Then we went to the Christmas Tree Shops to stock up on shower curtains and those wooden lawn ornaments that look like old ladies' fannies. For dinner we went to Flo's Clam Shack for their All Things Battered and Fried Special. Afterward we went to the Cheeky Monkey Cafe. You'd think that a monkey-themed bistro would have endless potential, but you'd be wrong, and not for the first time, I hasten to add. Despite the cute Donald Roller Wilson-esque paintings and the Anna-Nicole's-Beach-Cabana decor, it was still filled with Newport's standard Dig-mes and their wretched flat-assed, flat-faced, thatchy-haired girl-units. I'll let you in a secret, though: since I figured I wouldn't be running into anyone I know, I ordered an Espresso Martini. The overall effect was like mixing Lik-M-Aid powder with crank. I ran home barking after that.

Next day we went running and then to the beach. This time with the entire clan. Five Irish men in the midday sun: you do the math.

Somehow we managed to shoehorn our distended flamebroiled carapaces into dress clothes for our 7 pm reservations that evening. K's mom made us some blender drinks that tasted like melted creamsicles with grain alcohol, which deadened the pain some. (I wasn't burned because I am Calabrese, and also because I'm not an idiot.)

K's mom sat at the head of the table in the restaurant, with his Aunt at her righthand side like Judas. I'll spare you the details, but dig this big crux: Trying to figure out who owes what on a bill for 12 people after you've been sucking down cocktails to numb the pain of talking with K's aunt for 3 hours is like trying to choreograph a modern dance version of The Bride Stripped Bare By Her Bachelors Even as performed by a dance troupe of orangutans.

(Was that metaphor too much? I can't tell.)

Anyhow. Came home, drank more melted creamsicles, passed out. Next morning we ran, went to the beach at 8:30 am, soaked up the last few cancer-causing rays, hurried home to shower off, and then jumped into the car to spend the next 6 hours sitting in traffic, in Connecticut. Sitting in traffic is not so bad. Feeling trapped in Connecticut is a whole 'nother story.

Wasn't that worth waiting for? Shit that's dull. I wish I had time to rewrite it. Oh well. Sorry.

Well spank me hard and call me Rhonda

Ovulation can occur up to 3 times a month:

"We were flabbergasted. We knew this happened in animal models (in horses and cows), but we read the books like everybody else and they said this isn't supposed to happen in humans."

Family 1.5

Oh my god. My friend Lynn is having a baby. This is the girl I used to get stoned with in high school in the parking lot of the Dunkin Donuts. This means I have officially transmogrified from Pretty Young Thing to Crazy Aunt status. ::sigh::

Also, my cousin from Arlington, GA* and her family are in town, so I have to show them around tomorrow. I plan on taking them to Lombardi's because where they come from pizza is made with ketchup and bagels come in bacon flavor.

*What does one do for fun in Arlington, you ask? Well, this list of local scanner frequencies is a good start.

There ain't shit on TV tonight

So you should go down to the Knitting Factory at 9 pm sharp and check out THE LIVE ONES!!! Five bucks, no excuses.

This is the worst trip I've ever been on

I want to go to Koh Samui and learn the art of Thai cooking and monkeys working the coconuts.

Actually, this place was the first place I wanted to go on Koh Samui. I read about it in this article. I did a whole bunch of research on it and emailed K the links. Come to find out that a fasting/high colonic vacation doesn't appeal to him. Seems he'd prefer to spend a week lounging by the pool drinking fruity drinks rather than squatting over a strainer in a latrine. Well, you say tomato.

Family, Part I

I was having all sorts of feelings of guilt last week for being too busy to recount last weekend's cowboy_sally family horror show. This weekend, however, was spent in Newport with K's family so now I have a suitably kooky bookend to last weekend. Serendipity, right?

So here's what happened last Saturday. Did I get to see Cinerama at the Knitting Factory like I'd been planning? Noooooooo. No, instead I went to my aunt and uncle's 50th anniversary surprise party. At Marco Polo Ristorante in lovely Carroll Gardens.

A bit of background: my family is Brooklyn Italian (or as my friend S, who is a *real* Italian, would derisively pronounce it, "Eye-talian") and most of them live within a 4-block radius of each other in Windsor Terrace. There is also a South Florida contingent, most of whom managed to show up and get really soused on this occasion. And then there's my father, the prodigal son, who left the city for the hinterlands right before I was born with visions of carrying me around in a hand-fashioned papoose while he picked wild gooseberries and fiddleheads for our dinner.

I have three first cousins and approximately 75 second cousins on my father's side. Most of them showed up that night, with the exception of Everett (no one could confirm whether he was still alive or not). Also in attendance: my father's first wife (seated at table #1! what nerve!), the Laos (my Cuban-Chinese god-family), and my cousin E's date, about whom an entire book could be written, so we will only talk about the scar on her neck.*

Seriously, though, a bit of backstory on my cousin E, who at 40 is my youngest cousin. (Why am I being selective about whose names I use in this story and whose I abbreviate? Because I like being able to walk without braces. Let's continue.) He is a contractor in Brooklyn. He still lives at home. He likes big game hunting and ham radio. He has a concealed carry permit, somehow. I won't address his hygiene.

So imagine my surprise when he arrived at the party with a date. She was tall, older, and all Kings Highway'ed out with some black embroidered party dress and platforms and haircolor that could best be described as Brighton Beach Red. She quietly stood out from the rest of us, we who are more lumpen and swarthy and emphatic. She had a real nice Nicole Brown-Simpson-style scar on her neck.

I leaned over to my father and whispered, "She looks Russian. I'll bet she's a prostitute." He laughed and waved his hand in dismissal. He looked good in his Zegna suit (bought on eBay for the occasion!) and "ugly-ass" Magli loafers. I told him we'd bury him in that outfit.

Alright, so I pass another two hours sitting with my cousin W and his wife and kids. He's an EMT, so he told me all about 9/11 and putting fingers into ziplock baggies while I poked at my eggplant rollatini and sundry ricotta-infused foodstuffs.

I was briefly saved by my cousin D's husband Jimmy, who is my favorite family member. He works for the Dept. of Sanitation and everyone thought he was finocchio when they first met him because he routinely exhibits such homosexual behavior as flossing and remembering people's names. He actually works just a few blocks away from my apartment so one of these days I will pay him a visit and then I'll give you all the rundown on what's *really* going on.

Meanwhile my Aunt L, my father's younger sister--part of the South Florida constituency--was slamming drinks to beat the band (or, in this case, the DJ whose musical tastes ranged from Miami Sound Machine to Christopher Cross) and really whooping it up. After quaffing about 16 Harvey Wallbangers (with martini chasers), she dragged a horrified K out onto the dance floor and began bumping and grinding with him. At one point, she had sort of squatted down and was trying to rub her considerable backside against his man parts, and he, in response, attempted to bend forward at the waist, which made him resemble a man deflecting blows from an invisible midget. He finally escaped her by deftly twirling her in the direction of the bar, where my father was chatting with the Lao daughters, trying to determine which one was his godchild.

K was a remarkably good sport about all this, I should add. Of course, he chose to wear his creepers to the party, which means that right now, on Windsor Place, a conversation is brewing about me and my nice club-footed boyfriend.

I sat there chatting with somebody's kids--I don't know who they are anymore--when my father appeared, besotted and doubled over with laughter. "Guess what your Aunt L just told me?" he shouted. "She said, 'Get a load of this! E brought a Russian prostitute as his date tonight!'" He hooted and clapped his hands. "How about that!"

"See, I told you!" I replied. "I can spot pros the way Grandma could spot toupees."

Meanwhile, we ate about 7 courses of mediocre Italian food and drank twice that number of not-bad bottles of Chianti. The evening wound down. One by one, each table of doddering Eyetalian Skeksis unfolded their walkers and left in a cloud of Vitalis and White Shoulders. My father clapped me on the back and announced that he was crashing at my place. Our first overnight guest! Goody.

I made up the couch and double-checked the toilet paper supply in the bathroom. While K slumbered, I had fitful dreams of my family. I also was plagued by (unsubstantiated) fears that my father would be up going through my stuff. So I ended up getting out of bed at 6:30 and making a pot of coffee.

Now, I must ask: How old is too old to see your father in his underwear? It's a spectacle I hadn't witnessed for nigh 15 years, but there he was, emerging from the bathroom, copy of the New Yorker under one arm, patting his belly like some Polynesian king. K and I are still a bit shellshocked.

Anyhow, putting that behind us, we sat in the living room and groggily drank coffee. My father recounted, in painstaking detail, the hagiographies of my dead relatives and the cars they owned. Then he packed up his stuff and left. And it wasn't even 9 am.

So, obviously I owed K a great deal for being such a sport. So this weekend we shlepped out to Newport to celebrate his mother's birthday. It was the first time in years that all 5 brothers were present in one room (not counting LARP conventions) and it was one helluva shindig. Stay tuned.

*Yeah, I ganked this from Shteyngart but he said it's okay.

Little Miss Firecracker

All right ladies, I'm going away till Monday. Have a good time in my absence, and no lighting Roman Candles in the house.

I am a stepping razor

Don't you watch Maud's size, she's dangerous. Don't for one second think you'll be slingin' her over your shoulder, Estonian style:

I come from a line of Texan women, the kind who shoot rifles and repair their own roofs and say things like "shit in one hand, want in the other" when you say you want an ice cream cone.

Rumor has it that the reason Winona Ryder chose not to go to my alma mater is because one of our more burly male students approached her at an on-campus party (she was visiting for the weekend) and exclaimed, "My God! You are so tiny!" And he picked her up, tossed her over his shoulder, and spun her around.

To think that she and I coulda been bunkmates. "Hey, Noni, have you seen my Dries van Noten sweater?"

Hee!

Over at Izzle Pfaff, The Magical Elevator Where Everybody Told the Truth:

17th Floor. Pinched Middle-Aged Woman enters.

FFG: Hello. You wear so much perfume that I wonder if you will be carried off by bees.

PMAW: I'm sorry, I don't recognize other people's status as actual human beings.

Skot: I'm afraid I just farted.

FFG: It cuts the perfume.

Oh, mi estomago

Unbeknownst to me until this morning, last night I went out and tied one on real tight. It was my dear friend's 35th birthday (implicit in this statement is the idea that one must somehow party like a 19-y-o tweaker truckstop whore to prove that "35 ain't old!") and so we gathered at Union Pool, where my favoritest hottie bartender ever remembered me after my protracted sabbatical from his bar. K gets faux-jealous when I talk to him, though we have nothing really to say to each other. Past topics include How to Properly Make a Sidecar; Hey, Whatever Happened to [insert name of whatever band whose record is playing]?, and (my personal fave) Is That a New Tattoo You Got There?

Anyhow, so a bourbon-and-soda and a gimlet-and-a-half later, the ten of us traipsed over to Dumont and beseiged the poor waitress. (Come to think of it, I'm really wondering if I can go back there. I can't imagine that there's a worse possible table to get than 10 drunk birthday revelers.) Actually, we weren't *that* drunk. Not yet. Not me at least. K said I looked it, but I think I was just tired. Right.

I don't think that we made any ludicrous requests of our server. During the rundown of that night's specials, she said "Tonight I have a pork loin," which of course caused tittering and unduly mirthful chatter, but other than that, I think that we were fairly well-behaved--no bizarre requests for items not on the menu ("whaddya mean you don't have horseradish? Las' time I wuz here you had plenny of horseradish!") and no playing musical chairs. We were a bit loud, I'll concede, but don't hate me because I'm beautiful.

We got to sit in the backyard, which was really lovely even after I discovered some Japanese beetles in my hair.

Anyhow, we ate and drank and ate some more. (Incidentally, the hanger steak was totally boss.) K and I finally excused ourselves, fearing...umm...I'm not sure what, come to think of it--death from above in the form of squadrons of attack beetles? We came home, where I promptly plopped down on the couch, turned on the TV, and fell asleep. K tried to roust me to come to bed but I drunkenly punched and flailed and told him to mind his own goddamned business. Around 3 am I made it to bed, but not before knocking over a couple of knicknacks and then falling ass over teakettle in the bedroom because of a suspiciously strategically placed milk crate of K's 7"s (and no, he is 34, not 17, despite how that might sound). He barely even stirred. I woke up with a nice goose egg on my leg this morning.

My stomach was roiling when my alarm went off. Not in a "I'm gonna be sick" way but in a "Goodly Christ, what on earth did I consume last night?" way. And what better way to chase away the tail end of regrettable consumption than a nice run around the park. Where all the neighborhood men who didn't quite make it home last night were waking up. Don't knock it; it works. Especially if you listen to hip hop while doing it and shout select lyrics at your unexpecting, mildmannered boyfriend. "You fuckin' with a South Philly exclusive!" as we rounded the concertina-wire enclave of the McCarren Pool; "I don't state facts--I state buildings! Like Empires!" as we darted past the petanque courts. I'm sure it looked like K was being chased around by a crazy woman. I kinda like to cultivate a sort of puta loca reputation in the neighborhood.

Anyhow, I haven't even had the chance to talk about my crazy family reunion of sorts last weekend. When I get a bit more of a reprieve from this "work" thing, I'll drop science for y'all.

I'm dying, mommy

Dear Christ, is it over yet? I really can't handle this "work" thing it is you people do. Fortunately I should be back to procrastinating no later than tomorrow afternoon.

In the meantime, I want you to go check out Nikki Johnson's site, and tomorrow, check out her closing reception at Tribes Gallery tomorrow night. She's one of those people who's so talented and smart and funny that it makes you wonder how she can stand to be around the rest of us. Plus, she has the sexiest voice in the world, all the more reason to go to her closing reception.

File under "Writes Itself, This Shit Just"

Kraft Foods launches antiobesity initiative

The Northfield-based company, which makes Kraft cheese, Nabisco cookies and crackers, Oscar Mayer meats and Post cereals, said it is forming an expert advisory council to draft standards and measures it can use to promote health.

And she was never heard from again

I am plunged into--uh, something deep, dark, and unpleasant-- with the arrival of a 272-page blueline that I must turn around in a day. This makes me sad. And unable to blog today. I need all of you to pray for me, like those orders of monks and nuns you can pay to pray for you after you die so that you can get out of purgatory faster. Much obliged.

Philosophy

Some days you're the kitten, other days you're the gorilla.