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.