buffalo void

But You Did, Rose (Or, The Talk-Back Artist)

2012-02-26T17:50:00.002-05:00

The Oscars are this evening. This little ditty has been sitting in my head for weeks, and it's fitting to drop it tonight.

In keeping up with the onslaught of end-of-the-year-so-called-prestige films, I end up seeing the same previews over and over again for movies I supposedly want (or should want) to see. Normally this is irritating enough...but this year, there was an added annoyance:

The trailer for the 3-D re-release of Titanic.

I know the world just loved to shit itself over this particular movie. For me, the damn ship couldn't sink fast enough.

Anyway, in one screening of said Titty-tanic trailer, I was not alone in the misery brought on by revisiting Leo DiCaprio's acting pre-Scorsese, Kate Winslet's easily flopped out flapjacks, and Billy Zane's glowering hairpiece. Just as the ship was going down and Kate/Rose whelps: "OH JACK! I'LL NEVER LET GO!", someone in the audience wailed back defiantly:

"But you did. YOU DID LET GO."

Thank you, whoever you are.

Mouthy M (Or, Drawn This Way)

2012-01-20T08:00:00.000-05:00

Is This Desire? (Or Electron Toot)

2012-01-12T16:52:00.005-05:00

Pardon my tootage....

"Sometimes (Is This Desire?)" (top) and "Please (Is This Desire?)" (bottom) will be on view in the Electron Salon at the Los Angeles Center for Digital Art today through February 3.

See more at smith80.com.

Drawing Board (Or, Over the Shoulder)

2011-12-16T14:38:00.001-05:00

Ladies' Mile Disaster (Or, You're Not Seriously Wearing That)

2011-12-15T18:15:00.000-05:00

I overheard this exchange between a young man and a young woman a few weeks ago on Sixth Avenue. The man was neatly dressed. The woman...well...let's just say she was so tricked out in alt-trends that it looked like all of hipster Brooklyn just barfed all over her.

NEAT MAN: OK. Well. Wow. That's not at all what I thought you'd be wearing today.

MADEMOISELLE TRENDITA: Is something wrong with my outfit?

NEAT MAN scans her up and down, clicks his tongue against his teeth.

NEAT MAN: It's interesting. What you're wearing is interesting.

MADEMOISELLE TRENDITA: Totally. That's what I was going for.

NEAT MAN: Listen. Why don't I give you fifty bucks to go buy something nice? You can change.

TRENDITA: What?

NEAT MAN: Omigod. Was that so rude of me or what? I guess it was rude. Did you think that was rude of me to ask?

TRENDITA: Uh...

NEAT MAN: Listen, let's just go to like the Gap or something and you can get a nice dress. Let's face it. What you're wearing is a nightmare and I can't have it. I just can't believe that's what you'd wear today...

Unfortunately, they turned off after that. I never knew if Mme. Trendita (his date? his hired beard? his employee? his hooker?) gave in to his stylistic whims or if she jammed her ankle-bootied foot in his ass and got her Bushwick ladyballs out of there.

Things You Can Tell Just By Listening to Her (Or, Rhea)

2011-11-14T19:43:00.003-05:00

I overheard this last week. To make matters worse (or, uh, better I guess), the indiscreet woman was coming out of my neighborhood's community health center.

INDISCREET WOMAN ON CELLPHONE: Omigod. Guess what? I think I totally gave you guys rhea. Yeah. I just saw the doctor. I know. I'm sooooooooooooooooooo sorry! Call me later!

Of course, only she and "you guys" know if the rhea in question was diarrhea, gonorrhea, or Rhea Perlman.

111111 (Or, Make a Wish)

2011-11-11T13:16:00.005-05:00

Make a wish.

Draw Straws (Or, No Reason)

2011-11-01T17:58:00.001-04:00

Drawn Together (Or, Russell)

2011-10-28T13:29:00.003-04:00

Drawn to the Rhythm (Or, Ditto)

2011-10-25T17:06:00.000-04:00

Drawn Blank (Or, No Reason)

2011-10-05T08:12:00.001-04:00

Is This the Way Out? (Or, Shit Year)

2011-09-22T19:31:00.000-04:00

Can't wait to see this...

My Problems is You (Or, The Bitch Is 99)

2011-09-19T21:40:00.003-04:00

Overheard on 7th Avenue a few weeks ago...through a wafting sea of stale vodka:

DRUNK MAN: (to his DRUNKER FRIEND) Lisssssten, we need to talkkk about your drinking problem, OK?

DRUNKER FRIEND: No, you listen. We got nothing to talkkkkkkkk about. The reason for my drinking problems is YOU.

Ah, the splendor of codependency.

Romantical (Or, Golden)

2011-08-22T11:21:00.004-04:00

Overheard recently...

WOMAN: I want to go somewhere on a date. Somewhere that's romantic, but not too fancy.

MAN: How about the Golden Corral?

WOMAN: What's that?

MAN: Haven't you seen the commercials on TV? It's not fancy - you can get dinner for ten dollars.

WOMAN: But is it romantic?

MAN: Of course it's romantic. It's golden.

On View This Month (Or, Some Toots)

2011-08-11T10:56:00.006-04:00

Self-Portrait as Duane Michals

Self-Portrait as Nan Goldin

The above two photos of mine will be on view August 23-September 17 in Partial Relation at the Residence Gallery in Long Beach, California.

Mystery Train (below) was selected for the online annex of The Poetry of Shadows at the Vermont PhotoPlace Gallery in Middlebury, Vermont. The show runs August 13 - September 10.

Mystery Train

And Mah Jongg (below) was selected for Still Life: A Depiction of Things at the 1650 Gallery in Los Angeles. The show also runs through September 10.

Mah Jongg

The Scentuous Woman (Or, Sensitive Persperative Concessions )

2011-07-26T19:41:00.007-04:00

I had the pleasure of seeing Dog Day Afternoon last weekend at the Film Society of Lincoln Center. I was basking in the venue's general loveliness...until I realized where I was.

The Upper West Side.

While it is a neighborhood I love and consider retiring to it one day like it's Florida, it is less than accommodating to those who are under the age of 80. Dear reader, before you cry ageism, consider the following three totally true encounters from my moviegoing experience:

#1 Concessions of a Dangerous Mind

The single line for the concession stand was long and slow. To make matters worse, an elderly gentleman got confused and bumrushed the front of the line, causing an ocean of ladies to form a second line behind him. Fearing a riot, I stayed mute. Luckily, a young woman behind me (who must live on the UWS and have to deal with such events on a daily basis) scolded the ladies as such:

"You ladies need to get to the back of this line right now. There is only one line."

"But he got to go. I thought there was two lines! Don't yell at me!"

"He's confused. You are not. MOVE."

I was in love.

#2 The Scentuous Woman

Finally entering the theater, I heard this exchange between two older women:

"I have to move seats. I can't sit near you. I have a scent sensitivity and you are wearing too much perfume."

"Well, I'm sorry. I like how I smell."

"You're disgusting."

Luckily I didn't splash myself with Jean Naté after I showered. I might have been bludgeoned.

#3 Ode on a Damp Seat

After taking my seat, I noticed a woman standing in the aisle next to her seat. She was purveying the audience as if she were about to make an announcement or begin a soliloquy. Not happy with the lack of attention she was receiving, she bellowed:

"I can't sit here! This seat is so damp. I have to move seats. Someone has been perspiring all over this seat and it's so moist. It's not dry. Really, it isn't. I just can't sit here."

She took the aisle with a dramatic whirl and sat down again two rows behind me.

I'm sure her friends say this behind her back:

"Oh, that Joyce. She thinks she's Sarah Bernhardt."

Old Lady Diner (Or, Turn, Turn, Turn)

2011-07-21T10:27:00.004-04:00

One Sunday morning about a month ago, I was having breakfast at a diner in my neighborhood. Yes, I am so old that going out for breakfast at 8 A.M. on a Sunday is now a reasonable, pleasant, and thoroughly enjoyable thing to do. I now also enjoy seeing movies on weekends at 11 A.M. because it's less crowded and the youthful riff-raff is nowhere to be found.

Sometimes I think, Jesus Christ, just call the AARP already and see if you can get an early-bird discount membership.

Having breakfast at a diner that early on a Sunday means I encounter two groups of people: up-and-at-'em old ladies like myself...and...party people who are just exiting bars and clubs who are still still drunk/coked/whacked out of their gourds and in dire need of some kind of greasy sustenance.

So, on this said Sunday, as I'm casually eating a Greek omelet, a guy and a girl roll in with busted, matted hair and reeking of vodka, cigarettes, and clammy, boozy sweat. They plop down in the booth behind me. So, while I didn't have the complete visual picture, I did get to experience the following dialogue:

DRUNK GIRL: OmmmmmmmmmmmmygoddddI'mhunnnnnnnngry

DRUNK GUY: I've NEVER been here before! WHAT should I get?

DRUNK GIRL: It'slikeadineranshitsoyoucangetwhatevercausetheyhaveeverythinganshit... becauseit'slikeadineranshitttttttt.

The waiter approaches, clearly scared of what has been poured into his section.

WAITER: Can I get you coffees?

DRUNK GUY: WHAT kind of COCKtails do you have?

WAITER: It's before noon. I can't serve you drinks.

DRUNK GUY: FUCK. How about a FANCY coffee then? Like a MOCHAfuckingCHINO or something with whippppped cream and Bailey's?

WAITER: Um, yes. But no Bailey's.

DRUNK GUY: WHAT KIND OF A PLACE IS THIS?

DRUNK GIRL: Jussssgitafuckincooofffeeorsomeshittt

DRUNK GUY: OK, OK fine. Just TWO coffees.

Waiter leaves.

DRUNK GIRL: WhatwasgoingonwithyouandDaniellllle?

DRUNK GUY: Omigod. She was coming on to me. She was all "YOU'RE NOT REALLY GAY!" and I was all "BITCH. I SO am." and she was all "I'm gonna TURN YOU!" and I was all "OHNOHONEY!"

DRUNK GIRL: Omigodshedidnotsaythat.

DRUNK GUY: Oh, HONEY. She DID.

Waiter returns with coffees.

WAITER: Do you know what you want to have?

DRUNK GUY: I've NEVER been HERE before! Like, GIVE ME THE WHOLE EXPERIENCE!

DRUNK GIRL: OhgodlikeItoldyouitwasjusssadineranshit.

WAITER: Should I come back?

DRUNK GUY: What's like THE BEST thing to have here?

WAITER: Omelets? Pancakes? Waffles?

DRUNK GUY: NO! I know. I want a CHEESEBURGER!

WAITER: OK. Deluxe? What kind of cheese?

DRUNK GIRL: YouarestillsowastedIcan'tbelieveyouwantacheeseburgeranshhhit.

DRUNK GUY: Shut UP! That's what I want. Deluxe. AMERICAN cheese!

DRUNK GIRL: PancakesanbaacconIneedtogotothebathroom.

They gurgled back and forth like that for while. When I finally got up to leave, I turned to see both of them slumped down on either side of the booth, eyeliner smeared, barely conscious.

Ahhhhh...Sundays in Manhattan.

Krautastic Tuesday (Oder, World on a Wire)

2011-07-19T12:47:00.001-04:00

Fuck, ja.

"Analog to Digital" and "Exposed" (Or, Some Toots)

2011-07-08T16:58:00.010-04:00

Self-Portrait as Nan Goldin

Self-Portrait as Maya Deren

Yes, it's time for some toots. Four toots in two parts.

Two of my photographs (above) were selected for the Electron Salon portion of the show Analog to Digital at the Los Angeles Center for Digital Art, opening tomorrow night and running through August.

The following two photos will also be on view in Exposed: The Contemporary Nude at the 1650 Gallery in Los Angeles. The show runs July 9 - August 5.

Queensberry Street

Back

Ask Showgirls (Or, Are You There, Elizabeth? It's Me, Nomi)

2011-05-25T08:18:00.007-04:00

My friend Patty's birthday was a couple of weeks ago. In celebration of said event, I decided to get Patty a copy of Ask Elizabeth, famed Showgirls star Elizabeth Berkley's hit book for teenage girls.

Yes, I know.

The first person you'd think would write an advice book for teenage girls is a woman who starred in the Citizen Kane of sexploitation films. OK, maybe Showgirls isn't the Citizen Kane of sexploitation...but it might be its Magnificent Ambersons.

Ask Elizabeth is, to quote the book's subtitle, "Real answers to everything you secretly wanted to ask about love, friends, your body...and life in general."

Patty is not a teenage girl.

Patty is, however, a deeply committed fan of Showgirls.

Given the nature of such a book, I couldn't resist. It's not the subject matter that drew me in. Oh, no. It's the faint hope that Elizabeth would eschew earnest advice and answer semi-to-hardcore NC-17 questions a la her alter ego Showgirl Nomi Malone:

Dear Elizabeth/Nomi,

How do you have an orgasm like you're a short-circuiting robot in a swimming pool?

Love, Hopeful RoboBimbo

Or...

Dear Elizabeth/Nomi

How do you get that 'whorish' look on your nails?

Love, Keep On Pressin' On

If Nomi's voice wasn't given airtime in the book, I figured maybe she would answer questions from young girls seeking fame and fortune in Hollywood:

Dear Elizabeth,

If you have a flat ass, how do you handle nude scenes?

Love, Two Saltines Out Back

Or...

Dear Elizabeth,

If you realize your starring vehicle is going to get laughs rather than Oscars, shouldn't you work it like a drag queen? It worked for Gina Gershon. Let me know!

Love, Cristal Connors II

Of course, the book has answers to none of these important questions. That didn't stop me from hunting the thing down like a high priest of camp, scouring the teen readers sections of multiple Barnes & Nobles for this sacred ritual text. I nearly gave up after a surly Customer Service clerk wearing a pin that announced "I AM NOT A SERIAL KILLER" rolled her eyes at my request and sent me deep into the bowels of the store. Looking over tables and tables of Twilight merchandise, I began to lose hope. Finally, a male clerk recognized my despondency and asked me if I needed help. I went through the same "I need 'Ask Elizabeth'!" desperation speech and his eyes lit up.

She knew exactly where it was.

Fever for the Beaver (Or, Marquee Dreams)

2011-05-09T19:08:00.006-04:00

When I first saw a trailer for Jodie Foster's new film The Beaver, I really and truly hoped that she chose the title in the spirit of intentional camp, like John Waters did for his film Pecker. Waters developed Pecker around the title, as he was obsessed with seeing the following on a movie marquee:

NOW SHOWING
JOHN WATERS' PECKER

Alas, Ms. Foster seems to have been earnest in her titling. She wasn't aiming for the movie marquee genius of NOW SHOWING JODIE FOSTER'S BEAVER. Oh, well.

But now that Foster's The Beaver is a classified box office bomb, there are some truly titilating headlines that I wish would appear on a newsstand/browser/mobile device/tablet near me. Here are just a few...as you can see, the jokes are easy, breezy, and plentiful (well, either that or I need to be an intern for the Daily News' copy desk):

Jodie Foster's Beaver Stinks
Jodie Foster's Beaver Fails to Find an Audience
No One Wants to See Jodie's Beaver
Jodie Foster's Beaver Keeps Them Away
Foster's Beaver Can't Make Money
Foster's Beaver Has No Legs
Public Ignores Foster's Beaver
Critics Hard on Foster's Beaver
Foster's Beaver Uninteresting to Men, Women, Children

And my favorite...

Jodie Foster's Beaver: Not a Big Opening

Sorry, Jode. Loved your bitchery in Inside Man and I still imitate the rescue scene in Silence of the Lambs on a weekly basis.

Is That A Poem in Your Pocket or Are You Just Glad to See Me? (Or, This Room Has Mystery Like a Trance)

2011-04-14T10:42:00.007-04:00

Today is National Poem in Your Pocket Day. "Poet" was a sincere career aspiration of mine when I was a child (oh, who am I kidding, that intent lasted well through college). I credit my grandmother Mae for getting me excited about poetry. Her brother (so, my great uncle) was poet and artist Kenneth Patchen, who was a fixture in the literature and art scene of Greenwich Village in the 1930s and 40s (he and his wife Miriam lived on West 11th Street - around the corner from the White Horse Tavern). Kenneth and Miriam later moved to San Francsico and then Palo Alto. My grandmother had a lot of his books and I was awestruck every time she shared them with me.

To celebrate Poem in Your Pocket Day, here is Patchen's poem "This Room Has Mystery Like a Trance":

This room has mystery like a trance

Of wine ; forget-me-nots of you
Are chair and couch, the books your
Fingers touched. And now that you

Are absent here the silence scrapes
A secret rust from everything;
While sudden wreaths of sorrow's
Dust uncover emptiness like halls
To stumble through, and terror falls

In the 1950s, he performed his poetry with John Cage ("The City Wears a Slouch Hat") and jazz greats like Charles Mingus. He also experimented with painted poetry. Below are some samples of his visual work (more can be seen here).

A Toot in the Mirror (Or, I'll Be Your Mirror)

2011-03-29T15:53:00.008-04:00

Jason at 13

Pardon my tootage...the above photograph of mine was selected for the show I'll Be Your Mirror: The Portrait opening this Saturday at the 1650 Gallery in Los Angeles. And these three photographs were chosen for the exhibition's online annex:

Anna at 95

Miami

Self-Portrait as Man Ray

Gerry and Lo (Or, Rounding Out the Three)

2011-03-28T18:45:00.003-04:00

So, I'm hoping that the deaths of Loleatta Holloway and Geraldine Ferraro complete the celebrity-deaths-in-threes triangulation of the past week. Ms. Holloway made the early 1990s - via the late 1970s - a whole lot more fun...and Ms. Ferraro was the original badass woman running mate. Fuck you-know-who (like I even have to say that) and her faked and half-baked tough-for-the-cameras-with-a-rifle bullshit. Gerry was the real deal.

Relfections in a Golden Eye (Or, More Liz)

2011-03-24T10:36:00.005-04:00

A Place in the Sun (Or, Queen Elizabeth)

2011-03-23T09:50:00.008-04:00

And to think I was just about to post an R.I.P. entry for Loleatta Holloway...

Growing up in the 1970s, I thought of Elizabeth Taylor as something of a joke. She was often parodied and was often a parody of herself - the out-of-control, drunk and bloated faded superstar who was famous more for her husbands, jewelry, and various appetites than she was for her talent.

Despite it all, I was mesmerized as a kid. A woman in a turban leaves me weak in the knees.

Sometime after college, I discovered a different Elizabeth Taylor. I found the Elizabeth Taylor that existed before the sludge of gossip and unintentional camp hardened around her. I found Elizabeth Taylor the actress.

Her sheer power is obvious in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, but her blatant yet sophisticated sexuality in Butterfield 8, A Place in the Sun, Suddenly Last Summer, and Giant floored (and continue to floor) me. She was the most famous woman in the world in the 1950s/early 60s for good reason - beyond her stunning physicality, a great deal sparked behind those violet eyes. She was beckoning, but still a fantasy. It's no wonder so many men gave up everything to be with her.

I'll be mourning her death by watching Butterfield 8 tonight in a turban and dark sunglasses.

Suck (Or, Two Conversations In Search of Each Other)

2011-02-08T19:06:00.003-05:00

I overheard these two conversations recently on separate occasions.

#1

HORNY MAN: I just wanna suck some dick. You know what I'm saying?

COMPANION: Oh yes, honey.

HORNY MAN: Like I'm about to pay someone for it. I. Need. It.

And...days later...#2

ANOTHER HORNY MAN: I can't believe it. I shell out two hundred bucks for dinner and she doesn't put out.

ANOTHER COMPANION: Really?

ANOTHER HORNY MAN: Not even a blow job. Bitch.

Although, time, space, and the Kinsey Scale kept these two horny soulmates apart, one man is willing to pay to give head...the other is shelling out cash to receive. It's a short story O. Henry forgot to write...for Blueboy.

Three Toots (Or, Like So Weird)

2011-02-01T12:00:00.004-05:00

Pardon my toot(s)...

Three of my photographs were chosen for the show That's Weird (February 5 - March 5) at the 1650 Gallery in Los Angeles. If you're there...here's the info.

Bobo Desmond

Neo Classical

Nipples in Dialogue

Stopping Traffic (Or, A Belated Christmas Miracle)

2011-02-01T11:52:00.003-05:00

As heard on 8th Avenue, late December, 2010:

WINDOW SHOPPING MAN: Oh! I love those pants!

WOMAN: What do you need pants for? You just bought a cockring.

RIP Teena Marie (Or, She Was for the Real)

2011-01-04T08:54:00.002-05:00

I know this is late in coming...but I was saddened by the death of Teena Marie last week. In 1985, as I was getting shoved around seventh grade, I took solace in listening to "Lovergirl" in my bedroom...on my boombox...as I diagrammed sentences and entered contests in Read Magazine. (No, seriously, I did...I even won a hot-as-fuck Read duffel bag once.) She was the in-charge, empowered flipside to all of Prince's Ladies-in-Waiting-in-Lingerie. She owned her shit. She was for the real, sugar. She sparkled.

New York Snow - Set 5

2011-01-02T17:27:00.002-05:00

New York Snow - Set 4

2011-01-02T17:24:00.002-05:00

New York Snow - Set 3

2011-01-02T17:19:00.006-05:00

New York Snow - Set 2

2011-01-02T17:14:00.011-05:00

New York Snow - Set 1

2011-01-02T16:55:00.011-05:00

We Three Toots (Or, Rewind)

2010-12-08T18:23:00.000-05:00

Yes, BV has been neglected and left for dead like a forgotten birthday (ahem). Here are some toots I meant to toot earlier this...uh...year:

Toot #1: The digital drawing below (Suited #47 / Alex) was selected for this year's GLAAD OUTAuction held on November 21...

Toot #2: My ancient Self-Portrait as Nan Goldin was selected for Self Searching: The Art of Self-Portraiture at the PhotoPlace Gallery in Middlebury, Vermont (September 7-October 2)...

Toot #3: And...this very new photograph Conquest was selected for Direct Objects: Still Life as Subject also at the PhotoPlace Gallery.

Smells Like Blank Spirit (Or, Overheard)

2010-11-19T08:11:00.000-05:00

GAY MAN: Are you sure those two guys are gay?

WOMAN: Um...yeah. Both are wearing enough cologne to cripple the perfume counter at Saks.

GAY MAN: Gays don't wear cologne like that anymore.

WOMAN: Well, those cunts do.

Out There on the Ice (Or, A Haiku)

2010-11-18T08:54:00.004-05:00

It's mildly insane of me...but despite November's cold weather, I haven't been able to give up iced coffee for its hot and (in my opinion) thoroughly useless yet seasonally-appropriate cousin regular coffee.

That said, a romantic haiku:

It's cold baby, cold
I won't dump you like a trick
All I want is ice

Two Ho Tuesday (Or, Get Some)

2010-11-16T07:44:00.003-05:00

Yes, yes, yes.

Ho, ho, ho.

Despite being down for the count with this blog (who's she, anyway?), I felt compelled to share these two hoedowns.

Below: Lykke Li's video for Get Some (hat tip: G) - featuring the best line of any song in recent memory - "I'm a prostitute...and you gon' get some"

And...way below: New York State's new Semi-First Lady Sandra Lee presents her favorite "Oceanbreeze" Tidy Bowl cocktail...inspired by a visit to her local "Aquorium". While Albany will undoubtedly remain corrupt with our new Governor, it will at least be well-lubricated while the not-quite-Mrs. Andrew Cuomo is in the passenger seat.

Like a Tit in Motion (Or, Next to Topless)

2010-09-23T11:49:00.005-04:00

Despite being nearly 40, I'm not mature enough to not say the word "tits" at least a hundred times a day.

Not worry feministas...my titslinging is mostly aimed at myself and my own tits.

Case in point...my terse and meaningful review of the Broadway musical Next to Normal:

"This would be very a very engaging piece of theater if only it had more tits...and more guns."

More damaging evidence...I'm currently singing the chorus of the song "St. Elmo's Fire (Man in Motion)" with tits everywhere:

I can see your areola
Underneath the blazin' sky
I'll be where the titties
Flyin' higher and higher
Gonna see your tit in motion
All I need is a pair of lips
Take me where my tit is lyin'
St. Elmo's Fire

Fortunately, I'm not singing this in an empty apartment with crimped hair...crying about how I can no longer afford my decorator...or my coke problem.

High Lo-Tech (Or, Mo, Mo, Mo)

2010-09-23T11:20:00.001-04:00

Mo-Dettes - "White Mice"

Hat Tip: JD

Miss Miscellany (Or, Two Months of Dust)

2010-09-20T09:11:00.002-04:00

Yes, there's two months of dust up on this piece...despite much hooting and hollering and squawking and gawking and glittering and littering and toiling and boiling and pumping and dumping and schvitzing and spritzing and rolling and tolling and crying and lying and tearing and leering and jeering and cheering and loosing and goosing and stuffing and puffing and slamming and jamming and clamming and bamming and clogging and jogging and spooging and gurlging and a lot of other miscellaneous gerunds and tings that go ing, I haven't posted anything since July.

Whoops.

I actually doubt what I'm writing right now will end up being an actual post, so I won't apologize or attempt to excuse my hazy laziness.

Two ditties - right quick:

#1

[The scene: driving past a string of 1960s surf motels in Montauk in late June]

PATTY: What does resort motel on that sign mean?

ME: Topless.

#2

[The scene: drinking coffee with my mother]

ME: You're really reading Eat, Pray, Love?

LINDA MARIE: Well, I'm trying to. I'm about halfway done with it.

ME: How is it?

LINDA MARIE: Christ, she needs to get laid already. If Javier Bardem doesn't show up soon, I'm tossing it in the trash.

The Bunny Ranch (Or, Showpets)

2010-07-08T08:36:00.001-04:00

Growing up, I used to kid my younger brother about the deliriously cheesy, unintentionally campy names he chose for his pets. To this day, he gets teased incessantly about the odd collection of monikers he assembled for his guinea pigs, goldfish, kitty cats, and dogs:

Amber
Angel
Bambi
Bimbo
Cassie
Ginger
Peaches
Pretty Boy

Last year, my sister-in-law broke down the list as such:

"Those aren't names for pets...they're names for strippers."

Now, that just makes me mad...at myself.

If I had only realized my brother was running a fuzzy pink brothel of sessy sexy times out of our family room, I could have made my brother's pre-teen life even more miserable.

"Hey Jason, Amber and Bambi have a couple of customers at the door...are Peaches and Pretty Boy done with their donkey show yet? Angel and Bimbo need to start a new round of antibiotics because Cassie's got the Clap with a side of Chlamydia."

Goddammit, did I miss out.

Even Cowgirls Get the Booze (Or, Dirty Diana)

2010-07-01T08:01:00.004-04:00

Ok, two weeks have sputtered by and I didn't even bother to get hot and bothered up in here about how amazing I Am Love is (see previous entry).

Here are a few things to note and file for future reference this first day of July...

File Under: Things You Never Want to Hear Your Mother Say...

"Well, I still look like a cowgirl. I just don't ride like one anymore."

File Under: What to Do When Liquor Stores Are Closed...

New York State's favorite (and, yes, only) grocery store wine, the appropriately fancily named Chateâu Diana will get you drunk when all else fails...but you will have a headache for two days and a harmless game of dirty Scrabble will turn you (and by you, I mean me) into a raving, possibly-Turrets addled cunt.

I Am Mame (Or, Auntie T)

2010-06-15T09:23:00.005-04:00

As ready to wet myself about seeing I Am Love this weekend...I'm equally shits and giggles about knowing the following:

Tilda Swinton and director Luca Guadagnino want to remake Auntie Mame (starring Swinton, naturally).

Just the thought of Tilda in a sari, jodhpurs, and twenty different wigs makes me delirious.

Blinded By The Light (Or, A Haiku)

2010-06-11T18:03:00.003-04:00

The print ads for the new series The Real L Word are truly horrifying.

Not because of the lovely L.A. Lesbian ladies...or the nudity of said lovely L.A. Lesbian ladies...or the idiotic misuse of Photoshop on said lovely L.A. Lesbian ladies' lovely lady parts...it's that freakishly well-placed sunburst streaming right out of the middle one's hot pocket.

It's so scary...yet I can't look away.

Ever.

I've even stopped to photograph the damned thing more than once. I wasn't worried about looking like a creep in capturing the suntwat either. I know how so-not-lascivious I must have looked.

I really don't get it. Or, rather, I do get it, but I just can't believe what I'm seeing.

Anyway, here's a haiku (see how obsessed I am) about the fucking thing:

Lesbians beachin'
All that sun pours out a cooch
West coast pussy's bright

Tootie (Or, You Are Here)

2010-06-07T08:45:00.002-04:00

Sorry I'm about to toot...

My photograph You are here (above) was selected to be in the show "Photos With Words" at the PhotoPlace Gallery in Middlebury, Vermont - July 20th - August 7th, 2010.

Biker/Jane (Or, While I'm At It...)

2010-06-03T11:45:00.000-04:00

Since I'm blue for Rue, here's to the life of Dennis Hopper...in my mind a fantastic photographer first.

Above - "Biker Couple" - one of my favorite photographs.
Below - Um...that's Jane Fonda with the bow and arrow c. late 1960s Malibu. Enough said.

Blue Rue (Or, And Then There Was One)

2010-06-03T11:37:00.001-04:00

I know the world is about to be hit by a tidal wave of grief and remembrance for the passing of Rue McClanahan (otherwise known as Tropical Storm Blanche - a powerful, wild, and wetly luscious blue period originating in South Florida). I was lucky enough to see her up close and personal two years ago at a benefit for the Trevor Project. Rue vamped it up onstage, reading from her (then-forthcoming) autobiography My First Five Husbands...And the Ones That Got Away. She, like her alter-ego Blanche Devereaux, was a true broad.

One of my favorite Blanche ditties:

BLANCHE: Oh, the rain...it reminds me of my first kiss.

DOROTHY: Your first kiss was in the rain?

BLANCHE: No...it was in the shower.

Fuck Sex and the City and those perimenopausal wannabes. Here's to the memory of a woman (and a show) who sexualized the pants and panties off of senior citizenship at a time when our culture was mortified of sex in any form. If only each of us can grow old that vigorously.

Kiss My Who? (Or, Hounds of Love)

2010-06-02T08:34:00.004-04:00

Ok, so this shit's a week old.

Last week (see), I was watching the so-called "Lady Gaga" episode of Glee with my friend Pattesia. The kids' performance of "Bad Romance" was excellent..."Poker Face"...was...well...gross and uncomfortable. Anyway, when the episode took that bad turn into KISS territory, I was nothing but perplexed when they sang "Beth".

ME: What horseshit song is this?

PATTESIA: It's that great KISS song "Beth". You really don't know it? It's a great song. It so reminds me of high school. I can't believe you don't know it.

ME: Pardon me, Miss Sexually Active Long Island, but I didn't spend my high school years getting fingerbanged in the backseat of an IROC-Z listening to heavy metal ballads.

PATTESIA: What were you listening to?

ME: I'll have you know, I was swiftly and unchastely deflowered while listening to Kate Bush's "Hounds of Love".

PATTESIA: You...art fag.

ME: Exactly.

Madvertising (Or, MDG)

2010-06-02T08:13:00.000-04:00

Yeah, yeah.

No stories, no nothing.

I will say: this is crazy sexy.

That's all.

Gross (Or, Long Overdue Overheard)

2010-05-24T11:33:00.000-04:00

Since I've been phototasticicizing instead of coughing up stories, here's a very long overdue set of "I can't believe I just heard that"-icisms:

WOMAN AT BRUNCH: I had sex sober last week and it was gross.

10-YEAR-OLD BOY ON STREET: So what it's Mother's Day. She needs to get off my dick.

TEENAGE GIRL TO HER GROUP OF FRIENDS: Omigod...you are so lucky you're dating Matthew. He's such a good texter.

I'll Tumbl 4 Ya (Or, Dig For Fire)

2010-05-24T11:26:00.003-04:00

Yes, it's true.

Lately, I've been getting photo-heavy up in this piece, and the blog is bogged down with imagery.

So, as if I ever needed another distraction, I started a Tumblr photoblog here:

Dig For Fire

So click it, follow it, dig it.

Stories to come.

Squaresville (Or, Man/Hole)

2010-05-17T08:02:00.002-04:00

Mixed Bidness (Or, The Week in Fauxlaroids)

2010-05-14T07:30:00.000-04:00

Hoohaa Shitstain? (Or, Stealth Marketing)

2010-05-11T09:34:00.009-04:00

I saw a movie (the fantastic Please Give) the other day with my friend Patty. As we walked into the theater, Patty turned to me and said:

"I love Ice Road Truckers!"

I didn't know what she was talking about. We sat down.

"Have you seen Ice Road Truckers? It's so great!"

I have her a sidelong what-the-fuck? glance. I still had no idea what she was talking about. I felt like she was saying some nonsensical term like "hoohaa shitstain" over and over again.

"Seriously, have you seen Ice Road Truckers? It's a great show!"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Ice Road Truckers? It's a fantastic new show on the History Channel. There are posters and ads throughout the theater. You should check it out!"

I felt like my friend Patty had been quietly replaced by an overexcited marketing droid sometime between us buying sodas and strolling across that insanely "funky" patterned carpeting all multiplexes are crippled with. I was concerned.

"Why do you keep saying the title over and over and over again? Are you secretly a stealth marketer for whatever-it-is-you-keep-saying?"

"Ice Road Truckers. It's a great show. Ice Road Truckers. Seriously. Check it out!"

I teased Patty endlessly the rest of the afternoon. All I could imagine was her popping up in odd places, slyly and not-so slyly sliding into strangers' lives and dropping references to "Ice Road Truckers" and pumping her marketing impressions quota through the roof .

PATTY AT THE GAP: Those jeans look great on you. You know what else is great? Ice Road Truckers.

PATTY ON FIFTH AVENUE: Yes, I'm sorry I stole your wallet. You know what, I'll give it back if you watch Ice Road Truckers.

PATTY HIJACKING A BUSLOAD OF TOURISTS: On your right you can see some other place that Sex and the City or Law and Order filmed. On your left is one of the former governor's hookers. On Tuesdays you can see Ice Road Truckers at 8pm!

PATTY AT VICTORIA'S SECRET: No, you can't return panties after you've worn them. But you can return to Ice Road Truckers any time you want. It's on the History Channel - check it out!

*Editor's note from Patty herself: "OMG! I literally have tears running down my face from laughing so hard!! I love "ice road truckers" which is on the discovery channel not history, you know in case you wanted to watch it. Also another good show is "whale wars" that is on animal planet and starts this summer :) so be sure to check the listings :)"

I think she just got a salary increase....

Enough With The Photoslop (Or, Carrie Nation)

2010-05-07T08:18:00.003-04:00

While I'm sure I'll get some shits and giggles out of Sex and Some Shitty 2: We're Still Whoring Luxury Goods Like It's 2006 when it will inevitably play over and over again on Home Box Office's latest satellite channel HBO-HO, I ain't planning on getting "Carried Away" in the theater this time around. Last time was bad enough...with the "labels and love" poop and the "Louise from St. Louis" crap and the brokedown wedding turd and the Mexican diarrhea. It's bad enough to be accosted daily in the subway by the breathtaking and frightening Photoshop-slop work that's hobbling across all those movie posters (did any of the four actresses actually show up in front of a camera...or were they merely recomposed from shit that retouchers had on file?). And the preview...oh, honey. Dragging out Liza for a performance at a gay wedding?

How. Very. Dare. She.

Underachieving Stripper (Or, Just Take Your Top Off Already)

2010-05-05T08:20:00.005-04:00

By far one of the funniest exchanges I've heard recently:

"We went to the Slipper Room to see some burlesque. This one woman's striptease act was so bad."

"Why?"

"Well...she kind of forgot to take off her clothes."

***
Last night riding the subway home, I was definitely in the Subway-Car-of-Forgotten-Toys. The woman sitting next to me was mumbling to herself in drunken Spanish and was rocking back and forth violently while holding a tote bag covered in leaping dachshunds. I thought maybe she was having a seizure. I made the mistake of making eye contact...and I got the craziest, shit-eating grin from her in exchange. She winked at me and purred "Que rico." I immediately looked away and hoped the leaping-dachshunds-bag in her lap wasn't shielding a vibrator.

To kick things up a notch, an elderly man and woman sat down across the car. The man pulled his eyeglasses out of his pocket. One of the arms of his glasses unhinged and fell to the ground. The woman lept up and got down on all fours, trying to find the teeny tiny screw that clearly went AWOL. The man yelped: "I LOST THE SCREW, DAMMIT!" and slumped into a pout.

Of course, my new best friend Que Rico had been waiting for this bout of excitement. She also got down on all fours, still clutching the dachshund bag, and helped the woman attempt to find the missing screw.

"Those little screws...they are soo teeny, no?"

"We'll never find it! What will we do!"

"I don't know, honey. You gotta git one of those kits with the other little screws and put another little screw on it."

The man sat, still pouting, while his lady friend and Que Rico went to work. They eventually gave up on the search, but remained on all fours for a moment.

"Oh, I just love your bag."

"Is cute, no?"

"Yes, where did you get it."

"Is mine, ok."

I got off the train before Que Rico got fully loca.

40 (Or, A Reprint)

2010-05-04T12:28:00.000-04:00

This is from four years ago...I updated the dates, but the rest, despite a new President, is still accurate.

On this day forty years ago, 4 students were murdered by National Guardsmen during a student demonstration at Kent State University protesting the U.S. invasion of Cambodia. Another 9 students were wounded. A total of 67 rounds of ammunition were fired off into a crowd of students.

Of the four students killed, only one was part of the protest, which was mostly non-violent.

Nixon thought of the government santioned violence at Kent State as a potential example - he was looking to quiet the youth resistance movement led partly by the Students for a Democratic Society (SDS). Members of the SDS, disheartened by both the murder of Black Panther leader Fred Hampton and the perceived inefficacy of non-violent protest, later formed the leftist terrorist group Weatherman (later known as the Weather Underground Organization).

I grew up in Kent, Ohio. My parents were both students at Kent State at the time of the killings. My mother was a classmate of Sandra Scheuer, who was killed by a stray bullet on May 4, 1970 when walking on her way to class.

This day every year, I take time to reflect on this event. It was odd to grow up in such a small town that had the ghosts of such symbolic violence. On this day forty years ago, our government was desperate (in the form of the sweaty, paranoid Nixon) to control its youth and to quiet all dissent.

Today, we live in times of great violence, but dissent is on the back burner. Our economy, our media, our hyper referenced and meta lifestyles keep us sated.

On that note, required viewing today: Network and The Weather Underground.

Peace.

Continental Shit Walk (Or, Details)

2010-05-04T08:59:00.004-04:00

Masculint Stories (Or, Privacy Please)

2010-05-03T09:46:00.005-04:00

"Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaah. Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuckkkkkkk. Yeahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Feel it. Come on. Yeaaaaaaaaaaaaah. Fuccccccccccccccccccccccck. Yeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah. Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Grrrrrrrrrrrr. Come on almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Yeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah. Feel it. Yeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah. Come on. Come on. Come on. Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah."

Was I entertaining a gentleman caller recently?

Uh, no.

That extended sweaty gurgle was expelled next to me on a cardio machine at the gym on Friday. I was minding my own business, sweating and stinking up myself, while the straight guy on the machine next to me belched all that unnecessarily erotic talk inches from my ear. Even though I shot him some passive aggressive, come-on-really? looks, he kept heaving and groaning until he finally hit the STOP button and got off.

Sorry. Pun semi-intended.

Anyway, I felt cheap. Cheaper than usual.

He could have at least asked me for my number or slid me a fifty dollar bill.

Another ode to masculintity...

Also on Friday, I witnessed this exchange between two mini-gays in front of a neighborhood bar that needs not be named. They were tugging a Louis Vuitton duffel purse back and forth like it was an Olympic event.

MINI 1: Let go of my bag, bitch!

MINI 2: Don't storm off again.

MINI 1: Leave me be bitch!

MINI 2: Calm down.

MINI 1: Just let me go - and LET GO OF MY BAG! I hate you, I hate you, I HATE YOU!

MINI 2: Come on.

MINI 1: This is always how it end up, you not letting me LEAVE YOUR SORRY ASS!

I didn't stay for the rest of the exchange. I hope the bag's OK.

She's My Wife (Or, Pageant Talk)

2010-05-02T09:24:00.000-04:00

If only SNL were always this good...

Below...Pageant Talk's older sister:

Oh, Billyburg (Or, Smoking)

2010-04-29T11:57:00.008-04:00

This morning, I had the completely unfortunate thrill of riding the subway deep into the sweltering, useless ass of Bushwick, Brooklyn (Fuck you very much, FedEx Ground). On the interminable ride back, I was made painfully aware of just how middle-aged I am as the L Train (a.k.a. Fauxhemian Express) plummeted its way through various levels of hipster hell.

See, I'm not impressed by unkempt middle-class girls on the lam reading poetry books and listening to MGMT on their iPods loud enough for the entire car to hear fronting looks that hopelessly read "trying-hard-to-be-depressed-1980s-teen" and not "yeah-I'm-a-cool-girl".

Sorry Becky - you've got about 10 minutes left on this ride before daddy cuts off the cash and it's time for law school.

Anyway, this exchange made my trip:

HIPSTER CHICK: What the fuck is her job, anyway?

FAUXHEMIAN DUDE: She's, like, a model.

HIPSTER CHICK: Yeah...she's, like, really skinny.

FAUXHEMIAN DUDE: Bony.

HIPSTER CHICK: And what the fuck does her boyfriend do?

FAUXHEMIAN DUDE: From what I can tell, all he does is, like, smoke cigarettes outside of bars.

HIPSTER CHICK: Cool.

Roid Up On It (Or, T-Square)

2010-04-25T13:19:00.004-04:00

Love Is Like A Rock (Or, Skinny Little Bitch)

2010-04-24T16:28:00.005-04:00

You stepped your heels in broken glass
So I could kick your scrawny ass
And all the drugs and all the burns
What a nasty
What a nasty, nasty piece of work
Oh baby does it hurt
Oh baby just go slower
Oh baby just go lower
Skinny little bitch.

Ladies and gentlemen...Courtney Love has stumbled back into the building.

Hole's new album Nobody's Daughter comes out Tuesday...and Ms. Love is working her whole Hole magic like it was 1994...or 1998. Either way, I'm glad she scraped herself together for something that - at first listen - sounds smoky, messed--up, and excellent.

Property Of (Or, New York Annoyances Part 1,899)

2010-04-21T08:06:00.003-04:00

Just before a rain shower last week, I hurried to get my dog out the door to do his bidness. (He loathes the rain.) Anyway, as dark clouds rolled in, Bobo finally whizzed his heart out on the side of a building. Toward the end of said whiz, I could feel the clammy breath of a New-Yorker-In-Need-Of-A-Fight on the back of my neck.

NEEDY UPPITY MAN: Um....could you PLEASE not have your dog PEE on MY BUILDING?

ME: It's going to rain in a minute.

NEEDY UPPITY MAN: CAN'T HE PEE SOMEWHERE ELSE? Thaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaanks.

Yes, there were that many passive aggressive "aaaaaaaaaa"s in his Thaaaaaaaaaaaaaaanks.

Luckily, the rain came down before I could get into it with her.

Strange Days (Or, Traffic)

2010-04-19T19:05:00.002-04:00

I should stop doing this...looking up the search engine queries that led folks here used to be fun...but now it's just plain scary. Here's what went down this week:

Catch Phrase for Inhalants
Monster Fucker
Male Midget Escorts
Jerri Blank Chained to a Radiator
Midget Male Photos
Pube Home Perm
Janay Mitchell Starvin' Marvin
Venus in Gemini Slut
Not My First Time at the Rodeo
Oh, That Moon Is Bright!

Red Sonja (Or, Countlessness)

2010-04-19T09:49:00.005-04:00

So, yes, I've admitted it here before: I'm obsessed with The Real Housewives of New York. I thought I had said the (ok, little) I needed to say about said obsession...until last week when Sonja Morgan was thrown into the mix as the latest hausfrau. Her entrance made it entirely clear that - as over-the-top gay as this show is - the show can indeed stand to get gayer. (Why Logo is even bothering with their "Gay Househusbands" show is a mystery...they will never be able to outgay this show.)

Anyway, Sonja is sexualized, drag-queen-hilarious ("I'm the straw that stirs the drink"), 10x more fashionable than any of the other ladies, and, most importantly, she is rich. She's rich like these other wives wish they could be. She's rich like these other wives pretend they are...but so clearly aren't. Note the following exchange between Sonja and the Countess (who with every passing episode is becoming more and more common...enough with the outsized turquoise necklaces already):

COUNTESS: Did you have time to find some things to donate from your closet?

SONJA: Well, there's the Palm Beach closet and the Colorado closet and the Miami closet...

COUNTESS: Oh.

SONJA: I'll just have the housekeeper throw everything into the elevator.

COUNTESS: (quaking with jealousy) You have an elevator? In your townhouse?

In 15 seconds flat, Lady Morgan made a French Countess look like a toothless hillbilly.

Throughout the episode, the Countess tried to work her passive aggressive magic on Lady M - to no avail:

COUNTESS: Oh, Sonja. I love your Judith Leiber belt. It is Judith Leiber, isn't it?

SONJA: It's Chanel.

For a second, I felt like Jennifer Saunders was ghostwriting the episode...Sonja just needs to drop a few "sweeties" and "darlings" into the mix and she'll be ready for Tallulah Bankhead-like camp immortality.

Diggity Dog (Or, Please Return to Your Red State)

2010-04-16T08:18:00.003-04:00

Overheard yesterday on the subway:

FLORIDIAN MAN 1: Christopher Street? I hear that's where all the faggot bars are.

FLORIDIAN MAN 2: How you know that?

FLORIDIAN MAN 1: Dunno. Faggots.

FLORIDIAN WOMAN 1: Oh, Christ. We was drunk last night! I don't even 'member the flight in from Lauderdale.

FLORIDIAN WOMAN 2: Shit, I know it girl! WOOOOOO!

FLORIDIAN MAN 1: Then 'member we ate them hot dogs and sammiches off that guy on the street.

FLORIDIAN MAN 2: Right. That was expensive. We paid 'bout twenty bucks for those hot dogs and sammiches.

FLORIDIAN WOMAN 1: Oh man...that hot dog was gooooooooooooood.

FLORIDIAN WOMAN 2: Yeah, it was hot too. That hot dog was hotttt! Woooooo!

FLORIDIAN MAN 1: What are we goin' drink tonight? Whiskey?

FLORIDIAN MAN 2: Beer.

FLORIDIAN WOMAN 1: Beer.

FLORIDIAN WOMAN 2: Beeeeeer! WOOOOOO! NEW YORK CITY!!!

FLORIDIAN WOMAN 1: I can't even believe we is here.

FLORIDIAN MAN 1: Where the fuck is the Statue of Liberty? We got to git off at Rectum Street.

FLORIDIAN MAN 2: Rectum?

FLORIDIAN WOMAN 1: This subway car is moving too fast!

FLORIDIAN WOMAN 2: I know. It's like a ride at Universal Studios! WOOOOOO!

They got off at Rector Street. Hopefully they got lost and jumped by a roving gang of Financial District Faggots.

Bonnet Up On It (Or, Poor Glenn)

2010-04-15T08:54:00.003-04:00

A recap of recent events (OK, here's the Easter shizz I promised last week but got too caught up in the countdown to tax return deadline...goddammit):

I was running down a list of the celebrities I see at my gym for my mother. After saying "Tate Donovan", my mom had a confused look on her face. I qualified Tate's place on the list by saying:

"You know, the male lawyer on Damages."

"Glenn Close goes to your gym too?"

After not-really-accidentally taking over Easter dinner cooking duties from my mother, I asked her opinion a couple of times:

"Is the ham done?"

No response.

"Are the potatoes OK?"

"Sure. Why not?"

"Do you want to taste them?"

She just shrugged her shoulders.

"I don't know why I asked you." I replied to the shrug. "You don't eat this shit anyway...you'll just have your usual Boca Burger and cigarette."

I was waiting for a punch to the arm. Instead I got another shrug and:

"Can you open another bottle of wine?"

Hetero Hilarity (Or, Fight Club)

2010-04-13T19:33:00.005-04:00

An interchange I witnessed Saturday morning between a (straight, male) pedestrian and a (straight, male) motorist at a traffic light on the West Side Highway:

MOTORIST DUDE: Watch where you're going, dick.

PEDESTRIAN DUDE: Fuck you.

MOTORIST: Really? Fuck. You.

PEDESTRIAN: Oh, you're trying to impress your boyfriend by picking a fight with me, huh? Oh...sorrrrrrrrrrry. I didn't realize that thing in the passenger seat is a chick.

MOTORIST: Oh, yeah big man - you realllly want to fight me?

PEDESTRIAN: Or is it a chick with a dick? You like sucking cock?

MOTORIST (opening his car door, ready to pounce): Come here so I can kick the shit out of you.

PEDESTRIAN: I would, but I'm too busy feeling sorry for you. You have to stick your dick in that thing. I'm sorry, honey, but he's out of your league.

MOTORIST: I GOT KIDS IN HERE, PRICK!! FUCK YOU!! STOP FUCKING TALKING ABOUT MY MOTHERFUCKING WIFE LIKE THAT!

PEDESTRIAN: I didn't see those trolls in the back seat. Sorrrry!

As compelled as I was to slow down and soak it all in (Trolls! Chicks with dicks! In front of the children!), I was hoofing it to the gym and the rest of the exchange trailed out of range. I did turn around a couple of times to see if the motorist ever got out to throttle the far wittier pedestrian.

He didn't.

Tilda Italiana (Or, I Am Love)

2010-04-10T09:21:00.003-04:00

Can't. Fucking. Wait.

And So This Is Easter (Or, Jebus Who?)

2010-04-08T08:26:00.005-04:00

Ok, fine. So this ain't no story.

This is however The Importance Of Easter in four pictures: flowers, chocolate, Peeps (which I love to look at, but hate to eat), and more flowers. I should have also rolled out the Easter ham for some glamour shots, but that porkass bitch was feeling shy - her brown sugar glaze was not so ready for the wind machine, the close up, the retouching. Maybe she'll roll herself out for Christmas time (Jebus loves a ham, goddammit!) for some staged Paparazzi photos of her running to the grocery store in sweatpants and a baseball cap...trying to look casual holding out her Starbucks cup - logo forward.

Tootastic (Or, Behind)

2010-04-07T08:10:00.004-04:00

I have deliciously unreal stories of my Easter weekend spent with candy and ham and candy and ham and more ham and italian food and candy, but I have yet to get my shit together...and lately when that happens, I toot uncontrollably. The toot in this case is a site I just redid/reworked/remodeled - www.smith80.com (which was what suited.com used to be) which has been sitting and idling with old content for some time now. Anyway, it's updated with new work and rehashed old work - in general, it's the same deal with a new new face.

So, here's to smith80's plumper cheekbones and smoother forehead...and sorry I tooted.

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

2010-03-31T14:25:00.003-04:00

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.

Goddammit.

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...

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

2010-03-30T18:25:00.002-04:00

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.

Fall Like a Dancer (Or, Fanny Pack)

2010-03-28T12:57:00.004-04:00

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 my....you 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 fell...like 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] Heeeeeeeeeeeeeey....you'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.

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

2010-03-25T09:00:00.004-04:00

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.

Anthony Is Lucky (Or, Way Hot)

2010-03-24T20:42:00.008-04:00

Tooting It Softly (Or, Two Toots Tooting)

2010-03-21T22:42:00.004-04:00

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.

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

2010-03-19T15:10:00.003-04:00

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.

Happy St. Drunkass Day (Or, Unlucky Charms)

2010-03-18T12:16:00.003-04:00

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.

Weak Wink Weekly (Or, Googly Times)

2010-03-17T08:13:00.002-04:00

An olde favorite (and, yes, lazy) regular feature...here 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

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

2010-03-16T09:17:00.003-04:00

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.

Chopped Clams (Or, Of Course It Was Florida)

2010-03-15T09:37:00.003-04:00

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

SHAVING PUBIC HAIR WHILE DRIVING PROVES DANGEROUS FOR FLORIDA WOMAN

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 car...in 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.

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

2010-03-12T16:15:00.004-05:00

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 name...like a 'Tony' or a 'Anthony'?

Eye Can See Clearly Now (Or, Brow Beat)

2010-03-11T10:27:00.008-05:00

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 is...an 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 something...like 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.

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

2010-03-10T08:20:00.003-05:00

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.

Dumb Drag Queens (Or, Unreality)

2010-03-09T12:22:00.003-05:00

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.

Mo (Or, The Local Train)

2010-03-08T08:28:00.004-05:00

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 matters...my 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.

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

2010-03-07T18:50:00.003-05:00

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.

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

2010-03-06T10:14:00.007-05:00

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:

NEW!
NATURE'S PATH - ORGANIC FROSTED TOASTER PASTRIES
WILDBERRY AÇAI FLAVOR
LOW SODIUM VEGETARIAN

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!

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

2010-03-05T15:18:00.006-05:00

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!

At Ten (Or, The Official Story)

2010-03-04T09:13:00.006-05:00

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: "Well...it'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.

Red Hooker (Or, Unsaturated Saturday)

2010-03-03T08:07:00.006-05:00

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

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

Pump Up The Miracle (Or, Fingerspell This Bitch)

2010-03-02T09:19:00.005-05:00

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:

"WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO ABOUT OUR DAUGHTER!! SHE'S DEAF AND BLIND AND MUTE!! WE CAN'T PUT HER IN AN ASYLUM!! NO WE CAN'T!! WE JUST CAN'T!! THIS TEACHER BITCH FROM BOSTON DOESN'T KNOW WHAT SHE'S DOING!! NO!! SHE DOESN'T!! OH WAIT, SHE DOES!! A MIRACLE!! WHEE!!!!"

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.

He Must Like You (Or, Overheard)

2010-03-01T22:53:00.003-05:00

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?

Uh...in 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.

Dog Fancy (Or, The Unbearable Cuteness of Bobo)

2010-02-26T13:17:00.004-05:00

Fuck it: it's Official Dog Fancy Day...third blizzard of the year and all.

The Pug Monster (Or, Timely)

2010-02-24T08:18:00.003-05:00

This can be filed under: "Wow...Timely."

Since I took nearly a year off from this shebang, I feel compelled to expel energy reviewing the entries that could have been...so here's last year's never-executed Halloween entry when I forced (well, "forced" is a bit strong since he was very into the wig) my (yes, male) dog Bobo into being Lady Gaga for a photoshoot. The shades are courtesy of my mother...who was working "80s Urban Robotron" way before it was an acceptable look.

Whether or not this shoot ends up in Lady Bobo's book remains to be seen...

Below: the Ellen von Unwerth version.

Sadism (Or, Middle-Aged Listening)

2010-02-23T09:34:00.006-05:00

The world is clutted up with "Holy-Shit-There's-A-New-Sade-Album" stories, so I'll keep mine to a murmured gurgle. When I first heard the news (on the Wanda Sykes Show...of course), I was pee-my-pants excited...and painfully reminded of how fucking Middle-Aged I am.

See, for those of us in that middle hyphenate area of life, we are all shits and giggles about a Sade album because we're well aware of the fact that the world is only blessed with such a shimmering thing once or so a decade. Despite having recorded three albums in the 1980s, Sade produced just one album in the 90s (Love Deluxe) and one (Lovers Rock) in that gaping void of a non-decade we never had a name for (the 00s? the Aughts? the Post-9/11-Shitbox?). Point is: you have to be of a certain (old-ish) age to appreciate the appearance of Soldier of Love.

That said, there was joke in something recently (I can't remember if it was a movie...or a book) where a character referred to the Marquis de Sade as the Marquis de Shah-day. Pronounced that way, Sadism becomes Shah-day-ism and gets a whole new meaning. The world these days is filled with Shah-day-ists with Soldier of Love slinking out of speakers everywhere.

Another Music-To-Feel-Your-Age-To Moment: I love the band The XX - especially because they're the coolest band of 1989. Thing is: these kids weren't even born yet in 1989. How's that for Middle-Aged Listening? (Below: The XX - "Crystalized")