Sunday, August 30, 2009


Yes, y'all, this is art. This is part of an installation at P.S. 1, a branch of the Museum of Modern Art here in New York City. Also featured in this exhibit - Katie Couric's face and torso on top of Britney Spears' now-famous snatch-flashing shot, some pictures of Jane Fonda and Jerry Lewis, and a player piano that tinkles out, "Listening To You" by The Who. What kind of shenanigans are these? 

Thursday, August 27, 2009

You'll Be Permeated By Its Odor - Further Travels In the Realm of Inappropriate Fragrances.

If you're walking in a mall and you come across a wretched stench that smells like a cross between hairspray and dung, then you've probably just walked in front of a Hollister Co. store. Not familiar with Hollister? Well, you can get an idea of what their attire looks like from the fact that their website refers to men as "dudes" and women as "bettys."

Now, I've only been inside a Hollister Co. store once - I was in the Glendale Galleria in, of course, Glendale, CA. They keep Hollister Co. stores very, very dark - perhaps so you won't realize that what you're looking at looks exactly like anything you'd find at any other popular clothing store - ugly, tan and boring. The generic and cheap-looking clothing wasn't what forced me to run screaming from that store, though. No, it was something much worse. They "fragrance" their stores - intentionally - with a noxious odor that could only have been generated in a laboratory in HELL. This fragrance doesn't contain itself in Hollister's walls. It pours out into the rest of the mall, stinking up at least a 30' radius with the Scent of Lame.

Why am I bitching about this particular chain of overpriced conformity? Well, specifically because they have brought their patented brand of shame to Manhattan.

I was reminded of the olfactory horror created by this purveyor of shitty clothing yesterday when a friend who is traveling to California in the near future (and who works in SoHo) posted the following status update on Facebook - "If California smells like Hollister Co. then I don't want to go."

Picture it - I'm going down to SoHo, a neighborhood I like to steer clear of in general due to its descent into Tourist Shopping Mecca, with Polly Prissypants who wanted to go to Pottery Barn to purchase a picture frame. We get out of the subway to find that not only is Pottery Barn gone, but a Hollister Co. store has been crammed in its place in order to appease the stupid tourists who come to New York City specifically to find and purchase the exact same shit they could buy in their own towns.

And then it hits me. Not subtly like in a mall. It's as if someone has smashed me in the face with a mallet, the stench is so strong. This Hollister Co. store is pumping their fragrance out into the street with such urgency that it obscures any other scent (no small feat in New York City) and hinders my ability to breathe. I immediately cover my mouth and nose and tell Polly Prissypants that I have to get out of here and I mean RIGHT NOW. The headache brought on by artificial odors is already threatening to render me immobile. I cross Houston Street and can still smell it, trailing after me like an obnoxious panhandler who can't take "no" for an answer. Barely making it out of there alive, I vow never to return to SoHo unless it is a life-or-death situation.

Who do these assholes think they are? Why are they forcing their "patented fragrance" on an entire fucking neighborhood? Isn't it bad enough that they've further shamed a dying New York City with their presence, allowing the vapid, rich, entitled shitheads who have moved here en masse in order to live out their dreary Sex and the City fantasies to dress casually in overpriced, poorly-made clothes that look like thrift store finds?


Saturday, August 22, 2009

Things You Can Find In My Neighborhood.

Someone's been pulling some pranks in my neighborhood, apparently, because when I was walking lazily down Lafayette with two friends, we spied this little number growing oh so happily out of the cement in front of an apartment building.  New York City Wonders never cease.

Thursday, August 20, 2009


Lately I have become obsessed with - no, ADDICTED to - Rush. Yes, Geddy Lee's Canadian band Rush. I don't know why. When I was in middle school, the kids who wore Rush t-shirts and scrawled the words to "Tom Sawyer" on their Trapper Keepers - they were the ones with the acne. The ones who wore those ugly painters caps over disheveled, sloppy mullets. The ones who tied bandanas around their ankles, wrists and thighs. The ones who smelled bad. The ones who ended up working at the hardware store.

So why is it that now, when I am one year shy of 40, I am head-over-heels in love with Rush? I have been listening to them nonstop for weeks now. Whether it's taking one song and keeping it in a loop on my iPod for hours, performing one of their many selections available at the local Karaoke Salon, or making the students at the yoga studio I manage listen to their greatest hits before class starts - I just can't get enough of these bass-heavy iconoclasts.

I'll be the first to admit that I go through weird musical phases. Jumping from the Grateful Dead to Judy Garland to Christian Death to El Debarge and back again has been the norm for me for the past several decades. But where the fuck did Rush come from? And WHY didn't I let them into my life before?

What bands did y'all discover later on in life that you perhaps wish you could have enjoyed during their prime?

Saturday, August 15, 2009

Pet Store Shenanigans.

A lifetime supply of this special product should be sent to most politicians and anyone who's protesting a town hall or has ever been involved in a 'tea party.'  They need it more than the dogs do.

Friday, May 8, 2009

Bad Business Practices.

Dang, what were these fools in Glendale, CA. thinking?

I was driving down Colorado Blvd. yesterday when I noticed this salaciously-named business - Mamas Carpet. I don't know about you, but that brings anything but custom floor coverings to my mind. I could just be a pervert, but I don't think so, given that every other person I've mentioned this to reacts the same way I did - with abject horror.

Monday, May 4, 2009

A Trip to the Factory.

Oh, Uncle Andy - you've outdone yourself this time. You've combined two pop culture icons into one! Good timing, too, what with that new movie coming out and all.

Sunday, May 3, 2009

Good Times in Brooklyn.

I was perambulating Smith Street in Cobble Hill earlier today when I came across this inviting, yet puzzling, sign:

"Whether" what? Whether the cook has diabetes? Whether there are or aren't any muffins? I just don't understand. 

Or, could it simply be whether or not the person who created this sign knows how to spell?

(Meanwhile, FUCK trout season.)

Friday, May 1, 2009

Art in the Village.

Greenwich Village. Bongos, coffeehouses, beat poets, jazz.  

The area is known as the birthplace of many an influential artist in almost every genre.  Which is why I was not surprised to find this important piece hanging in a major gallery nestled in the heart of the Village's vital art scene.

Change Is Immobile and I am Permanent (Paint on Board, 1997)

DelRay Shaggits, Art Critic for Modern City Life, explains the artist's importance in this recent essay:
Born in 1926, Fiordal Doorke began exhibiting in 1952 and continues to this day. He is one of the important protagonists of L'Art Informel and his work is inspired by the desire of the postwar generation to create a universal human language through art, a path to peace, a way to overcome frontiers after the horrors of war. Doorke's work is greatly influenced by jazz, and especially by dance.
Of this piece, he stated:
Doorke's marks articulate matter on a surface so that it becomes an objective correlative of sensations such as, say, looking without focusing, looking fixedly, looking out of windows, looking into darkness, seeing things grow, seeing them sicken, seeing the passing of a day, feeling threatened, feeling nothing, feeling elated, feeling tears prick the back of one's eyes.
Do you agree with his theories? 

Sunday, April 26, 2009

Art In the City

Who says art in New York is dead?  I see art everywhere. As a matter of fact, I went on an Art Walk today and took some pictures of a few very important pieces.

Homotopy #12 (marker on wood, 2009)

The following is a triptych, Formal Dining (chalk and lead-based paint on glass and brick, 2009). 

Here is what Thenebrius Deitz, famed art critic, had to say about this work: "(Formal Dining) addresses language as a major visual subject matter: the visual body of language, the embodiment of voices as words and gestures, and language as a metaphor of the worldly aspect of human existence through the eloquence of naming and writing." 

Panel 1
Panel 2
Panel 3
Panel 4
Panel 5 

Art is an important means of expression. Marky Mae will keep you up-to-date on the Art Happenings in New York City so you can live fuller, richer lives.

Saturday, April 25, 2009

Why I Love New York, #5

Picture it - Chrissy and I are on the subway. He's on his way to some appointment and I am planning to go to a yoga class in Union Square (at the Shala). We're doing what we generally do, quoting inane movies to each other instead of engaging in real conversation.

Chrissy - "The small lemon-colored animal."
Marky Mae - "I shall go and purchase the necessary comestibles."

Then, all of a sudden, we hear the all-too-familiar call of The Subway Panhandler. Most of the time, when one hears the inane ululations of these degenerates, one covers one's ears with headphones, acts as if he or she is very involved with a book, or pretends to be deaf. This time, however, there is no avoiding Mr. Vagabond.

"I'm a homeless person. I'm a homeless person. I'm a homeless person. I'm a homeless person. I gots no place to sleep. I'm a homeless person. I'm a homeless person. I'm a homeless person. I'm a homeless person."

Back and forth, he trumpets this information, as if we couldn't figure it out just by looking at him, and then - something awesome happens. It turns out that he has Tourette Syndrome

He continues his assault on the subway car, marching back and forth and shouting that same line, until he stops in front of a petite woman who is smartly bobbed, dressed for success. She sits stoically, her eyes locked in a gaze toward the floor. He looks down at the hapless lady, pauses his rant, and then shifts gears.

"I'ma FUCK DIS HO UP! I'ma FUCK DIS HO UP! FUCK DIS N*GGA! FUCK DIS N*GGA!" He begins repeating, much like his previous mantra, and storms off in our direction. When he's about three inches away from my friend Chrissy, who is blocking his way, he stops and breathes down Chrissy's neck. "Excuse me," he says to Chrissy in a soft, polite voice.

Chrissy shuffles out of the way, and then the hobo goes back on his tirade.

Sometimes, the subway is a magical place.

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

Definitive Proof that We As a Culture Have FAILED.

This is, by far, the most disgusting, disturbing, revolting, idiotic, insipid, pandering, loathsome, inane, foul, vulgar, distasteful, egregious, filthy, moronic, imbecilic, cretinous, flabbergasting, dung-encrusted, horrific, putrescent, purulent, creatively bereft, misogynistic, terrifying, ugly, tainted, ignominious, horrendous, and just plain gross ad I have ever seen. In every single way. And what makes it worse - it's aimed at children. (And why, oh WHY did it have to be SpongeBob?)

Burger King - I hated you before, but I REALLY hate you now. You "Marketing Executives" who are knowingly and willingly contributing to the destruction of this once-great culture by luring kids in with this sick shit - just so you can sell pieces of plastic crap in a "kids meal" - I hope each and every one of you rots in Hell for all eternity. 

This is just beneath contempt.

Witness the end of civilization:

Tuesday, March 31, 2009

Why I Love New York, #4

Picture it. New York City, 2009.  My friend Lil Chrissy and I are on our way back to Brooklyn after having a lovely dinner with friends and our chosen mode of transportation is the B Train. We're waiting at West 4th Street, along with all the other freaks and weirdoes, and the B comes a-trundling along. We board, discussing such important topics as 'The Sensuous Black Woman' and 'Dirty Dancing.'  

We stop at Broadway / Lafayette, and Chrissy's back is to the door so he doesn't see the elderly gentleman who's trying to get past him. I gently prod Chrissy to move aside so the gentleman can pass us and get to the only seat that's available in this particular car, when I hear him whisper under his breath, "Fuckin' faggots." 

Aghast, I immediately shove Lil Chrissy over to a different section of the train, although I do manage to call the guy a "fat-gutted piece of shit" within earshot. 

It never pays to do the "I wish I had," thing - you know, stuff like "What I should have said was 'Excuse me, what did you just say, you geriatric mound of shit?' or "I really should have just spat right in his face" - because if you do that and you replay the situation over and over in your head, reenacting the horrid and bigoted actions of an obviously deranged mind, you just get madder and madder, and what's the point in that?

So I'm just writing about it here, getting it out of my system, and letting the world know that even in New York City in the year 2009, people are still just a-hankerin' to bash them some motherfuckin' faggots.

Sunday, February 22, 2009

Q: Which sucks more: a) This cold I have or b) the new Friday the 13th movie?

A: The answer is B, the new Friday the 13th movie. Why? Because, unlike this cold, the new Friday the 13th will never go away.

  • Hillbillies pork mannequins and talk to them about how "tight" they are.
  • Black men jack off to the LL Bean catalog.
  • Asian men are sex-starved buffoons who talk to themselves in toolsheds.
  • Jason has a vast underground network of tunnels in which he keeps PRISONERS.
  • Jason's vast underground network of tunnels, which is located on an abandoned campground, has ELECTRICITY.
  • Jason has an elaborate system of trick ropes hooked up to bells so he knows when someone is lurking on his property.
  • Every girl and every boy ever born ever lives to flash tits and have sex and do drugs and die in stupid ways.
Oh, and most importantly - it's not scary. It was just an excuse to show tits, ass and gore. Now, I'm a huge Friday the 13th fan from back when the original came out. Those, though technically and intellectually challenged, at least had some scares in them - each and every one. Even the purulent Friday the 13th Part V - the New Beginning

Michael Bay and talentless Co. - if you're going to "reboot" a franchise - one that is adored by people the world over - could you at least put a little effort into it instead of just farting out a script of foul-mouthed slutty teens who get butchered without the luxury of a storyline? I mean, "boy looks for missing sister, gets attacked by Jason" is pushing it, even for Friday the 13th.


What the fuck was up with the two "protagonists" pushing Jason's limp, dead body into the lake? Thinking humans in the 21st century wait for the police to show up so they can file reports about the dozens of corpses draped around the property. If there IS a Friday the 13th "Part 2," I hope these two boneheads get diced the fuck up in the first five minutes just to rid the planet of their stupidity. Lame...

Meanwhile, y'all, if you want to see a GOOD Friday the 13th movie, and the word GOOD is actually a translation for horrifyingly bad but fun, gross and scary - may I recommend watching Friday the 13 1 - IV? Awesome. Part VI ain't bad, either.

Thursday, February 19, 2009

Why I Love New York, #3

Up close with the damnation that takes place on 53rd Street.

From Wikipedia:
A stalactite (Greek stalaktites, (Σταλακτίτης), from the word for "drip" and meaning "that which drips") is a type of speleothem (secondary mineral) that hangs from the ceiling or wall of limestone caves. It is sometimes referred to as dripstone.
Now, one expects to see things of this nature at Rock City in Chattanooga, Tennessee. They're natural. But in New York - the last thing one expects - or wants - to see is a stalactite collection.

Milky slime looms above, waiting to strike!

Yet there is quite an impressive stalactite display at the Seventh Avenue stop on the B & E lines at 53rd Street, one that has been forming for years and is growing larger each and every day. 

At first glance, one might assume that these dripping, dangling masses of milky madness are caused by the winter weather - but one would be wrong. These entities are there year-round, dripping their clouded elixir of misery and shame onto unsuspecting subway passengers day and night. 

The residue that collects throughout this station is horrifying and deadly.

What caused these Hellish stalactites' formation in the first place, and what aids in their growth? Is there hobo corpse gel in their mixture, or rodent urine? Most likely both. 

All I know is that each and every time I walk into this subway station, which is daily since I work directly above it, I feel as if I need to go into a decontamination booth and get scrubbed down a la Silkwood

This shit is nasty, y'all.

Nubs of misery coagulate like Great Teats, excreting a vile 
substance no thinking creature would dare attempt to suckle.

Friday, February 13, 2009

Jack T. Chick - Super Genius.

Jack T. Chick, rabid evangelical Christian, is full of misinformation:
One might wonder why a staunchly liberal, agnostic, gay, vegan, environmental and animal rights fanatic would relish the Heavenly Delights Mr. Jack Chick pumps out so prolifically. Aren't they espousing in a rabid and judgmental way the very aspects of the Religious Right's closed-mindedness that has ravaged this country and turned it into a cesspool of drooling morons? Well, yes- yes, they are.

But, they do it awesomely.

For those of you who don't know who Jack T. Chick is - he is a purveyor of the finest religious tracts in the known universe and has been "witnessing for Christ" through the comic medium for decades, after he discovered that comics would attract and keep people's attention more than actual literature (if that doesn't say something about his target audience, I don't know what does).

Now, my introduction to these tracts came way back in 1989 when a friend who knew that I a) found rabid Christianity to be hilarious and b) loved horror movies gave me a copy of the tract, "Boo!" which I believe she had found in a rest area somewhere between Georgia and North Carolina. As I read its pages, filled with dreary cliches about sacrificing cats on Halloween and the bafflingly incorrect assertion that Satan's birthday actually falls on Halloween, I knew I was witnessing pure, raw genius in action. I was hooked.

What I love most about Mr. Chick's tracts is the whole conspiracy theory that each and every one of us who isn't exactly like him is out to ensure his and his brethren's downfall and sentencing to everlasting damnation in the lake of fire. Even the ministers are out to get him! Oh, and the Masons... we can't forget them.

When I first discovered Mr. Chick's World of Wonder, it was not as easy to come across these tracts - the internet had yet to be invented, so you had to rely on Christians "witnessing" by passing these things out, or leaving them surreptitiously in fast food restaurants, book stores, glory holes, and other places people who need to be "saved" may hang out. I managed to scrounge up a few, either finding them on my own or having them show up in my dorm room as if they were meant to be there.

Discovering a tract that had actually been placed out in the wilderness by a well-meaning but idiotic Christian was like discovering a new species of frog or winning the lottery - I would jump up and down with glee, especially if the tract had been personalized by the Church that passed it out (see for information on how to customize your tracts!).

Now that we have the internet, the world of Mr. Chick is at anyone's fingertips. When I first found his website, I went a little insane, ordering multiple copies of my all-time favorite tracts in order to hand them out as favors or use for liner notes in compilation CDs and such. I also ordered the Tract Assortment Pack - yes, one copy of each and every Chick Tract in print - and rushed home every day to see if it had arrived.

When it did, I tore that package open and didn't stop reading these little books of joy until I had pilfered all that Jack T. Chick had to offer. Abortion, Catholic conspiracies, child abuse leading to homosexuality, the public school system as a forum to endorse the practice of witchcraft - it's all here, and it's all awesome.

I took to carrying these things around with me, even "accidentally" leaving them where people could find them in order to "spread the love." Why I thought it would be a good idea to pass these things out is beyond me... I doubt most people find them as hilarious as I do. A friend of mine actually busted me tucking one into a nook on the subway. I didn't know she was in the car with me, and she walked over and said, "Are you actually leaving that were someone can find it?"

"Yes I am," I said, embarrassed.

I'm not embarrassed anymore, though, and I will fully admit that I am a huge fan of Mr. Jack T. Chick and his massive collection of whimsical comics.

Oh, and if any of you ever come across a copy of his long out-of-print epic, "Wounded Children," PLEASE let me know.

Read a tract below!

Thursday, January 29, 2009

SwayzeWatch - UPDATE!

Update - the below rumors are FALSE! According to Mr. Swayze's rep, he has NOT - I repeat, NOT stopped treatment.

LOS ANGELES - Patrick Swayze has not stopped chemotherapy treatment, the actor’s rep confirmed to Access Hollywood.

“Patrick is continuing to receive treatment,” the rep said in a statement.

Earlier this week, the National Enquirer reported that the star of A&E’s “The Beast” had stopped receiving chemo treatment for his stage 4 pancreatic cancer

Swayze Nation has some sad news to report.  

According to multiple sources, Patrick Swayze has stopped his treatment for pancreatic cancer:
Cancer-stricken movie star Patrick Swayze has reportedly given up all medical treatment.

The 56-year-old is said to have made the decision after doctors told him there was little they could do to stop the progress of his illness, according to reports from US magazine The National Enquirer.

The Dirty Dancing star was diagnosed twelve months ago with pancreatic cancer, one of the most virulent forms of the disease.

Medical experts say most patients have less than six months to live after being diagnosed with such cancer. 

Swayze had been determined to fight but earlier this month suffered a setback when he was admitted to hospital with pneumonia.
Patrick's mother added:
"Please tell everyone to keep us in their prayers. Pray for Patrick. I know he has a lot of fans out there thinking about him, and we all appreciate that."

Thursday, January 22, 2009

Night ov thee Damned (Or, A Trip To Macy's)

There was a time that a trip to Macy's - while not necessarily highbrow - elicited a sense of wonder - a touch of glamour, perhaps. The wooden escalators, the grand scale, the magnificence of the building itself all made one feel as if one were experiencing something unique to New York City.

Believe me, those days are gone.

Lil Chrissy and I foolishly decided to go to Macy's Herald Square after work yesterday in order to peruse the bedding department as we are both in need of new sheets. Simple enough, right? You go there, you look at fucking sheets, you leave. Or so one would think.

First, we had to attempt to squeeze through a huge line of human detritus that was winding around the block and into the front doors of Macy's. What were they lining up for? Judging from the collective foulness, I'm assuming it was for a glimpse at the Fall 2009 Juicy Couture line or worse. Their pinhole eyes were glued to their cellular devices and the word "like" was being thrown around as liberally as rice at a wedding, bastardizing the English language with its presence. ("Like" as a buffer in speech is one of my major pet peeves, y'all. Listen to people and hear how far we've fallen. Its usage is disturbing and everywhere.)

After managing to pry ourselves through this chain of dullards, we thought we were safe - but cunt after fur-coat-wearing cunt pushed in front of us without even so much as an "excuse me," or "I'm sorry, I didn't see you" as they shoved their ways through the revolving doors. (An aside - what is UP with fur coats? Y'all, these are the grossest fucking things around. I wouldn't be as repulsed if people started wearing steaks around their necks. I see people in fur coats and automatically know them for what they are - assholes. Selfish, obnoxious assholes. This is not an opinion. This is a fact. Stop wearing them - they are murder in the form of fashion and are to be shunned.)

Once inside the store, we were immediately assaulted by a noxious cloud that had been created by various sales associates spraying every variety of cologne and perfume ever created on unsuspecting guests. The deathly mixture lingered thick in the air and my sinuses reacted immediately - my head felt as if it were ballooning out to the size of a watermelon and had been filled with bricks. I almost passed out. "JESUS FUCKING CHRIST," I screamed, holding my nose in a vain attempt to escape the death cloud. 

Up we went on the wooden escalators, surrounded by rude god damn tourists and selfish coozes in fur coats, to the bedding department. Now, I'm no regular shopper, but I have been to more than one bedding department in my day. The prices in this particular Macy's were ridiculously higher than those in other Macy's, like the "ghetto Macy's" as it's called in Fulton Mall. The SAME SHEET, by the same designer, was marked up at least fifty dollars more in the Herald Square Macy's. What the hell is that all about? They think that just because they're on 34th Street in Manhattan, they have the right to rape people's bank accounts? I was turned off. I wanted to leave. But Chrissy needed a coat, so we fought through the refuse to get to the men's department.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Pandering to assholes who watch too much reality television and MTV has dragged the clothing industry straight down into the dirt. I was appalled by the lack of anything that didn't like like a bedazzled potato sack in any section of the Men's Department. There was a line of clothing that had actually been designed to look like Naval wear, only on the chest were stitched the words, "Department of Good Taste." Who the fuck are these assholes trying to fool? "Department of Tragic Dipshits," more like.

Chrissy actually managed to find a coat that didn't have glitter, rhinestones, or felt skulls attached to it and attempted to pay. "Can I pay for this here?" he asked a thug in a t-shirt. "Yeah," the thug said, grabbing the jacket and ringing Chrissy up with an enthusiasm one usually reserves for scraping dogshit out of grooves on the bottom of a shoe. 

"I'm your protector," I overheard an asshole saying, hitting on the woman with the pierced cheek who was supposed to be working in the underwear department. He leaned over the Jockey display with his arm hovering over her. "You so crazy," she responded. 

Chrissy and I managed to escape with our lives, but barely. Shoving our way much less politely through the line that still littered the sidewalk outside the store, we actually got to the B Train, got on and attempted to ride home in peace.

That was not to be. 

A bitch sat down next to me and started eating a fucking apple. AN APPLE. Slurping and lapping at its fibers, this foul goiter of a woman sprayed bits all over herself before finally getting to the core and noisily wrapping the uneaten portion in a plastic bag and cramming it back into her purse. Once she was finished, the fellow sitting next to her took out a motherfucking bag of Fritos. The stench of Fritos on a subway is a torture the Bush Administration should have considered as a replacement for waterboarding.

Trembling with rage, I finally bid adieu to Lil Chrissy who, sadly, was trapped on the F train for several more stops. I was hoping my transfer to the C would be without incident, but I was disappointed. I got on a crowded train only to be confronted by a wailing baby whose parents were doing absolutely nothing to placate the shrieking beast. I hear these inconsolable tantrums and wonder how the human race has survived this long. 

And trips like this one make me wish it hadn't.

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

He's gone!


Thursday, January 15, 2009

This Guy Has NO SHAME.

Yes, George W. Bush, you continue in your final days - perhaps even more so than you did over the past eight years - to show the world that you are an unrepentant ASSHOLE. 

Your heinous, reckless, stupid, grotesque attempts to destroy the little patches of wildlife and animals remaining in our country are foul enough, but then you have to go and dump this incoherent shit on us:

A Proclamation by the President of the United States of America

All human life is a gift from our Creator that is sacred, unique, and worthy of protection. On National Sanctity of Human Life Day, our country recognizes that each person, including every person waiting to be born, has a special place and purpose in this world. We also underscore our dedication to heeding this message of conscience by speaking up for the weak and voiceless among us.

The most basic duty of government is to protect the life of the innocent. My Administration has been committed to building a culture of life by vigorously promoting adoption and parental notification laws, opposing Federal funding for abortions overseas, encouraging teen abstinence, and funding crisis pregnancy programs. In 2002, I was honored to sign into law the Born-Alive Infants Protection Act, which extends legal protection to children who survive an abortion attempt. I signed legislation in 2003 to ban the cruel practice of partial-birth abortion, and that law represents our commitment to building a culture of life in America. Also, I was proud to sign the Unborn Victims of Violence Act of 2004, which allows authorities to charge a person who causes death or injury to a child in the womb with a separate offense in addition to any charges relating to the mother.

America is a caring Nation, and our values should guide us as we harness the gifts of science. In our zeal for new treatments and cures, we must never abandon our fundamental morals. We can achieve the great breakthroughs we all seek with reverence for the gift of life.

The sanctity of life is written in the hearts of all men and women. On this day and throughout the year, we aspire to build a society in which every child is welcome in life and protected in law. We also encourage more of our fellow Americans to join our just and noble cause. History tells us that with a cause rooted in our deepest principles and appealing to the best instincts of our citizens, we will prevail.

NOW, THEREFORE, I, GEORGE W. BUSH, President of the United States of America, by virtue of the authority vested in me by the Constitution and laws of the United States, do hereby proclaim January 18, 2009, as National Sanctity of Human Life Day. I call upon all Americans to recognize this day with appropriate ceremonies and to underscore our commitment to respecting and protecting the life and dignity of every human being.

IN WITNESS WHEREOF, I have hereunto set my hand this fifteenth day of January, in the year of our Lord two thousand nine, and of the Independence of the United States of America the two hundred and thirty-third.

A) This is not a religious nation. For the 987,000th time. This is NOT a religious nation. Stop trying to cram your stupid Christian values down everyone's throats.

B) Why don't you hand-deliver a copy of this to the parents and family members of all the soldiers who died in Iraq and Afghanistan due to your lies? I'd like to see you explain the importance of this holiday to them. 

Thank you.


New information surfaces regarding Mr. Swayze's medical condition.  Please watch the following.

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

Sterility - Why Dost Thou Forsake These Shitheads?

"It hurts," the sweating, dirty, pinhole-eyed, dipshit mother whines. 

Guess what, dumbass - if you hadn't named your child after the most hated, evil and reviled man in the history of the world, then you wouldn't be suffering the consequences of your own actions. 

Oh, and what hurts more - the fact that your neighbors now know that you're a drooling, hateful moron or that you have relegated your children to lives of horror, misery and desperate poverty by saddling them with those unemployable names? One can hope they'll escape the faults of their genetic legacy by legally changing their names the MOMENTS they turn 18.

Back in December, the boy's parents, Heath and Deborah, were outraged when a local ShopRite declined to provide them with cake for Adolf's birthday.
"They're just names, you know," Heath Campbell told the Easton Express-Times in December. "Yeah, they (the Nazis) were bad people back then. But my kids are little. They're not going to grow up like that."
However, Heath reportedly denies the Holocaust and their home is decorated with swastikas.
The parents were to attend a hearing regarding their children on Tuesday, but it was apparently postponed. (read the rest of this article here)
Jesus, what is WRONG with people?!?


Regular readers of Expressions know very well that Marky Mae Brown is an ardent acolyte of Mr. Patrick Swayze. Marky Mae will keep you up-to-date with Mr. Swayze's condition as reported through various news sites, because he knows that you care about Mr. Swayze's health too. From today's
Swayze’s mom says he’s upbeat 

Patrick Swayze’s mom, choreographer Patsy Swayze, is speaking out about her son’s health for the first time.

She says that despite her son’s pneumonia, Patrick remains “upbeat and positive.”

Swayze, who has pancreatic cancer, checked into the hospital for treatment of pneumonia Jan. 9.

His mother said to Us Weekly, "We don't talk about illness when I talk to him. He hasn't even been there a week!"

Swayze’s new A&E police drama, “The Beast,” premieres Jan. 15.
Keep Mr. Swayze in your thoughts, please. And might we suggest having a viewing of the surf-thriller Point Break while you're at it?

Friday, January 9, 2009

Why I Love New York, # 2

Oh, the joys of the "economic downturn." Everywhere around my office in midtown Manhattan, businesses are closing, leaving empty shells of once-thriving concerns, boarded-up or painted-over windows, and zones where hobos can feel free to sleep, defecate, shoot up, or whatever it is that hobos do in their spare time.  

Now, My coworker Lil Chrissy and I - we walk the stretch of road on 54th street between Broadway and 8th Avenue at least once a day.  Where once was a marginally acceptable deli and luncheon counter is now a hobocamp. The windows, once shattered glass revealing the gutted remains of this store, are now obscured with wood and whitewash.  

Generally, I'd find a site like this to be depressing - a reminder that our soon-to-be-EX-Simian-in-Chief has driven our (and the world's) economy into the toilet.  There is one panel on this walk of shame, however, that caught my attention, and brightens my outlook each time I see it:

Rat poison, pussy and our dear flag, together for the first time. Does that say "America," or what?

Wednesday, January 7, 2009

I Can't Tell You Why.

Either I'm more sensitive to my surroundings than other people, or I'm an Idiot Magnet. Or a bizarre hybrid of the two.  Whatever the case, I am turned off.

Picture it - I'm riding the Q Train this morning, minding my own business and listening to the heavenly intonations of Dr. Nina Simone, when I spot two love-struck hipsters. All of the appropriate and telling accoutrements are in place:
  • Nose ring
  • Artfully-draped scarf
  • Weird highlights
  • Irony sneakers
  • Skinny jeans
  • Olive drab jacket
  • Sweater with holes ripped in it on purpose
  • Smug, self-assured looks of entitlement
  • Feathered hair on the dame, tousled hair on the gentleman
They're lost in their own little world, drinking their FUCKING Dunkin' Donuts coffee, oblivious to the fact that there are dozens of other people surrounding them. They paw each other, they hold hands, they coo... and then, the bitch does something so horrifying that a person with a lesser stomach than mine surely would have vomited on her.

She turns his head toward her and starts popping zits on his nose. And not quickly, either. She is savoring every second as that pus slithers its way out of those infected pores like icing out of a tube.  She goes from one to another, methodically, slowly, wiping each zit's extracted contents on her pants leg. Her eyes are as focused as a chimp's as it roots through its compatriot's hair looking for lice to chew on.

Finally satisfied that her work is done, she gazes into her boyfriend's eyes and blows him a kiss, releasing her grasp on his face.  

Horrified beyond words yet unable to look away, I stand there for a good while in stunned silence, Nina Simone's heavenly intonations drowned out by the inner screaming my brain is emitting. 

Now, what the fuck is wrong with people? Popping your partner's zits is definitely, ciento por ciento, something you should NOT do in public, especially on a crowded train. 

You want to engage in pus extraction? Fine. Do it on your own time, in your own apartment. I do not want to see people's home grown cottage cheese spraying forth from facial volcanoes while I'm trying to steel myself for a day of work.

What's as baffling to me is the fact that this gentleman had absolutely no problem with the fact that this stupid bitch was troweling around on his nose like a gardener hacking at weeds right there in the middle of the train.  

Wouldn't you recoil in horror if someone attempted to pop a zit on your face in the middle of a subway car? Wouldn't you scream out, "WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?!?!?"

Yes, I believe you would. One more example of why we are doomed, that's what this is.

Tuesday, January 6, 2009

Midnight at the Majestic.

Whenever I whip out my Jerry Garcia Band CD Cats Under the Stars, I am immediately transported back to a magic moment in my history - one shared with my friends Dumpers, Peggy, Blakley, and Hello Kitty.

To go into the tale in great detail would take days, but I can sum it up like this: one afternoon, Dumpers and Blakley were sick of listening to me bitch about how much I hated the Grateful Dead (though, naturally, I'd never listened to them), so they pinned me down and forced me to hear at least an hour's worth of the twangy nonsense.  

In that afternoon, I was brainwashed into liking - no, loving - the Dead. Most of my friends were appalled... some were overjoyed. How could a hateful, bile-spewing goth/industrial bastard enjoy the hippie intonations of Jerry Garcia and his tie-dyed brethren? We'll never know, but it happened.

Anyway, I'm listening to "Rain," as sung by Ms. Donna Jean Godchaux - the only female member ever in the history of the Grateful Dead (unless you count Ms. Sheryl Crow's recent tour with The Dead, minus Garcia... her version of "Night of a Thousand Stars" was riveting). 

It's transported me back to 1991 in Swannanoa, North Carolina - to the time Hello Kitty and I were so riled up about getting tickets to see the Grateful Dead at the Omni Theater in Atlanta that we piled into her barely-running VW Bus and, misguidedly, drove to some weird Ticketmaster location on I-40, only to be told no tickets to the show would be sold there. So, what did we do? We turned around and decided, "Fuck it. We're driving to Atlanta right now to get those fucking tickets." 

Off into the twilight we sputtered in her noxious gas-emitting, lawn-mower-sounding contraption, through Asheville, down through the Center of the Vortex of Misery known as Greenville, South Carolina and on to Atlanta.  

We stopped at a Turtles Records & Tapes on Ponce de Leon, one of the few sanctioned purveyors of tickets to the Dead shows at the Omni. We had 12 hours to kill - we had gotten there after Turtles had closed, and tickets went on sale the next morning.  Luckily, this Turtles was right next to the Majestic.  

Every town has one - a place where the freaks and weirdos congregate because although the food is gross, the waitresses douches and the atmosphere less than wonderful, something about it just feels comfortable. The Majestic is that place in Atlanta.

Now, the Majestic is a horrible dump. It's got a reputation throughout Atlanta (and through most of the South) as being a place you go when you want to die. I haven't been there in almost 20 years, but I can't imagine it's changed that much (and it would be sad if has). The menu was standard diner crap, nothing fancy. Hoagies, eggs, hamburgers, all cooked with the precision of a blind person trying to play basketball.

It was the waitresses that made this place a beacon of light in a dark tunnel for me. They were adversarial, rude, aggressive, hateful, mean, downright ugly, and nasty. They threw food at you. They DARED you to order, scowling at you as they held their pencils up and ready to strike. One - I am not exaggerating - had a paralyzed tongue. She would shuffle through the restaurant, the tip of her tongue oozing its way out of her chapped lips like a snail peeking its head out of its shell, never batting an eye as restaurant patrons stared lovingly at the useless appendage.

She was my favorite.

Hello Kitty and I had miles to go before we slept, so we spent a good deal of time in a booth at the back of the Majestic. As time passed, different subcultures made their ways into the restaurant. When The Eagle's festivities had passed their peak, a wave of leather gays came in, much to the consternation of the harried staff. And after Masquerade's dark proceedings had come to a close, gothic drag queens and fag hags whisked themselves into the red vinyl booths, deigning to order hamburgers at three o'clock in the morning.

After a while, HK and I sadly trudged back out to the parking lot. There was only so much coffee one could consume in an evening without dying. We sat in that VW Microbus til morning, when the Deadheads started to queue up for tickets. She and I were first in line - and proud of it. We hadn't driven all the way down from Asheville for nothing, y'all. We were gonna get the best seats in the house. 

Then it happened - the frantic Turtles worker came out and made the announcement that tickets would be given by lottery, meaning that our drive - our vigil - it was all for nothing. We were handed numbers on a slip of paper - and of course, mine was at the end of the fucking line, as was Hello Kitty's. We didn't get tickets.

Despondent, we sat in her van in the parking lot, when two hippie girls who had spent part of the evening with us came up and knocked on the door. "Did y'all get tickets?" they said. "No," we replied, near tears. "Well we got lots extra, so we'll give you some," they stated. Hippies. We happily purchased the number we required, then went back into the Majestic for some coffee-to-go. Back to North Carolina we went.

Months later, HK, Dumpers, Peggy, Blakley and I careened back down through the Vortex of Death to the Omni, where I witnessed my first Dead show. Before the band came out, my friends gave me a rose. "Everyone should get a rose at their first Dead show," they said. 

Then the band came out.

"Look - that's Jerry Garcia!" I heard. Peeking to my right, I saw a stoned, bloated hippie holding a baby and pointing lovingly to the junked-out guitarist. "That's Jerry!" the hippie repeated, bobbing his child up and down lovingly.

The show itself was unremarkable - they played every song I had hoped and prayed I wouldn't have to hear, starting with "Hell In a Bucket" and going through a repertoire of mediocrity that is probably unparalleled in the history of their tours. But the experience was worth it - the knowing smiles on my friends' faces as they made fun of the various "spinners" and other  sub-classes of Deadhead, our perambulating the parking lot experience, haggling with toads over bean burritos  - every second was awesome. And of course we went back to the Majestic after. 

You simply COULDN'T go to Atlanta without a stop at the Majestic. Unheard of. I have made a point of going there every time I'm in Atlanta, but the times associated with the Dead were the best.

"Rain" drags me back to that time, the squeaky, broken booths, the shuffling anger of the waitresses, my good friends and I recuperating from a night with the hippies before driving off into the dark on our way back through the mountains.

Sunday, January 4, 2009


Everyone's heard Blossom Dearie, even though some of you may not know it. 

She only sang the best Schoolhouse Rock segment ever recorded, on top of having a very successful career as a jazz chanteuse, pianist and wonderful composer.

A touch of her biography, the rest of which can be read here:
Blossom Dearie's wispy vocals, classic repertoire, and quick wit have combined to make her a distinct stylist for over 50 years. Lacking the vocal prowess of Ella Fitzgerald and the range of Sarah Vaughan, Dearie made the most of her delicate voice by incorporating elements of cabaret into her style. She further strengthened her approach by relying on ballads borrowed from the classic songbooks of the Gershwins and Rodgers and Hart, along with humorous songs by newer writers like Dave Frishberg. 
I'm going to share with you one of her best albums - well, actually it's two albums that were re-released as one album in Japan - but that means you get two for the price of one! 

Click on the album title to download it.

Blossom Dearie: Whisper For You


1. That's Just the Way I Want to Be 
2. Long Daddy Green
3. Sweet Surprise
4. Hey John 
5. Sweet Georgie Fame 
6. Both Sides Now 
7. Dusty Springfield 
8. Will There Really Be a Morning 
9. I Know the Moon 
10. Inside a Silent Tear
11. Yesterday, When I Was Young 
12. I Like London in the Rain 
13. Just One of Those Things 
14. Like Someone in Love 
15. Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea 
16. Try Your Wings 
17. The Riviera
18. The Middle of Love 
19. Plus Je T'Embrasse 
20. Give Him the Ooh-La-La 

If you ever get the chance to see her perform live, I highly recommend it. She is charming, witty, funny, lovely, and gracious.

And if you still don't know her, watch this and you'll remember.

Thursday, January 1, 2009


I woke up this morning perkier than usual. I suppose I, like most people, am expecting wonderful things to happen in 2009, especially after that buttplug leaves office.  You know the one I mean.

To commemorate this day, I threw together a little iTunes playlist of some of my favorite ladies - I've been celebrating with them since nine this morning. I thought I'd share them with you.

You can download all those little numbers RIGHT HERE.

Clearly, I am having a very faggy new year. But so far it's been good - I hope it keeps going that way for everybody.