Expressions.

The Future Is Ugly.

2011-05-22T08:41:00.007-04:00

I'm on the A Train - which can in itself be a trial. Any subway ride opens you up to an assortment of derelicts, perverts, hobos, shrill bitches, thuggz, turkeys, evangelical douchebags whose outfits and demeanors always raise the question in my mind - "Really? If you represent God's Chosen, then I'm glad I ain't going to Heaven," clits, scabs, vermin, hipsters, and parents with babies. Parents with babies. Yes, I said it twice. Why? Because this is a tale of a parent with a baby.

I'm minding my own business, attempting to traverse the subway system to West 4th Street in order to meet some friends for a light dinner at Sacred Chow - when I spot it. A baby, lying completely ignored in its stroller, is eating out of a sack of Cheetos. GOD DAMN CHEETOS. This baby could not possibly be more than five months old. Its mother, completely oblivious to how foul and counter-healthy this gift of "food" to her child is, sits entranced by her iPod, bouncing her head back and forth to whatever brainless crap music is pumping into her earbuds. Her gunt drapes over her lap like an apron. Her sleeveless t-shirt is split in stripes horizontally down her back to reveal more of her stretched flesh. Her roots betray her hair's natural color, but the tips are dyed to resemble an unholy mixture of dung and earwax.

Once the baby actually tries to engage in a parent/child exchange, the way it's supposed to, by attempting to pass this gargantuan whore a Cheeto, she pauses from staring at her mobile device long enough to check the child's ass crack. Is it dirty? Why yes, it appears it is! So what does Ms. Guntalong decide to do? You guessed correctly. She actually changes this child's diaper right there on the train in front of a gaggle of horrified onlookers. She then proceeds to remove a moist towelette from her purse and swab down the hapless tot's butthole in plain sight of just everyone in the subway car.

Once that little task is done, she decides it would be a great bonding moment for her and her child if she shares her music with him - she made it perfectly clear to everyone on the train what sex her child is - so she crams the earbuds into this baby's ears and jams to the Phat Beatz with her baby.

And this is our future.

Diggin' Fer Gold.

2010-10-22T16:17:00.005-04:00

There's gold in them thar hills!

Picture it - Manhattan. Polly Prissypants and I are attempting to have one final luncheon before he deee-parts New York City for that Swirling Vortex of Hippies known as the Bay Area. (Yes, in California.) Now, we were planning to go to the gayest of all gay New York restaurants - VNYL - when we saw a notice from the Health Department slapped on their door. They done been shut down, y'all. It appears their pipes burst and flooded the joint with dookies and number ones. Ain't no one want to gobble a tofu wrap in that sort of mess, so we considered our options. I hate most restaurants in this area because I can't eat at any of them. But Polly Prissypants pleaded with me to peruse the menu at Eatery, one of his favorite luncheon diners in the vicinity - and, after glancing at it, I noticed they had added a tofu burger to their menu (a rather toothsome entree, I might add - try it out sometime. The shit was fucking good).

I agree to his terms, so we enter the establishment and are seated right next to a vacuous pair of twat blondes. Polly Prissypants had spotted them and very surreptitiously attempted to get me to sit elsewhere, but I didn't pick up on it. Down I sat, and then I heard one say, "Yeah, it wasn't like English as a Second Language, it was like ESOL - like to teach to people in like a totally different country. Like foreign." And I realized what PP had been trying to do. I said, "We need to move right now." He replied, "I tried to tell you..."

Nothing. And I mean NOTHING - gets on my nerves faster than these airheads who have descended on New York City like a plague since that Sex and the City bullshit made being an upwardly-mobile idiot trendy. GOD DAMN IT. Why can't there be a resurgence in crime so these assholes run back home to their rich parents???

So we move. And then it happens. Behind us, a man in his 50s is flossing his teeth. Not casually - not this one. He is GOING TO TOWN. As if his life depends on getting that strand of food out from his dentition. Back and forth he motions, and despite the fact that he's covering his mouth his his hand, we are HORRIFIED.

Who the fuck goes to a restaurant and flosses their fucking teeth at the table? If you can't wait til you get home, go to the god damn bathroom! No one wants to have to worry about plaque or semi-masticated pasta flying around the joint and potentially landing on their sleeves, their caesar salad, or their face. Just plain gross.

And yes, example no. 432 of why our society needs to crumble. And I mean right now.

Your Ass Is Grass, Kid.

2010-09-14T19:57:00.007-04:00

This is a very old post from a long-defunct blog I started in Los Angeles, but VOX (the host site) is closing, and I wanted to keep this around because it is important to me. So y'all just pretend like it's March 28, 2007 for a while.

My aunt Linda passed away yesterday. While her later years suffered from ignominy and a strange penchant for avoiding and abandoning her family, up til that point she was a bright light in my life and in those of many others. I don't plan to blather about how terrible it is that she's gone, but I want to share three stories.

One. When she was a child in Sidney, Ohio, Linda decided that it would be a good idea to rush out into traffic and smash a tomato against her chest and then hold an arrow to the tomato as if she'd been shot. She staggered dramatically and then collapsed in front of passing traffic. Of course, this caused quite a commotion.

Two. Linda used to come down to visit us from Chicago every Christmas. It was the high point in everyone's humdrum lives - the big city family member was coming to impart her sophistication and wisdom on those left behind. She had been visiting for a few days when somehow we wound up lost in the seedier part of town - white trash central. Mobile homes teetered on the brink of collapse while inside 19 babies were subsisting on one can of baked beans, cars were piled up on cement blocks, refrigerators doubled as lawn decor. We were driving slowly when Linda stopped the car. We looked over, and there were two gangly, scummy teens chasing a rooster with a cinderblock. The rooster, neck bobbing frantically, was dodging and darting away from those two hooligans, who were laughing hysterically - apparently traumatizing farm animals is big fun in the hillbilly set. My aunt feverishly tried to unbuckle her seatbelt, jostling back and forth in the car , and then finally screamed across the passenger seat, "YOU HURT THAT CHICKEN, KID, AND YOUR ASS IS GRASS!"

Three. She loved Nina Simone. LOVED HER. A friend of hers in Chicago happened to be acquainted with Ms. Simone and, after a performance, took Linda backstage to meet the chanteuse. As Linda stood nervously outside Ms. Simone's dressing room, she heard her friend inside say, "Nina, I have a friend who wants to meet you," to which Dr. Simone replied, "I hope it ain't no HONKY!"

(yes, you are supposed to click on the link below to listen to and reflect upon the following song.)

So, I always idolized her. For some reason, screaming at children, causing panic among the innocent and being the victim of racism at the hands of a superstar always inspires in me a sense of reverence. I will miss her.

Times Square Can Fuck Off.

2010-08-10T11:03:00.007-04:00

What does Times Square need?

Well, let's see... It's got a Hershey's super-store and an M&Ms World, T.G.I. Friday's, Olive Garden, 982 fucking sneaker kiosks that all sell the exact same thing, a motherfucking RED LOBSTER. oh - and absolutely NO SINGLE SHRED OF EVIDENCE that it was once anything other than a god damn shopping center designed for inane tourists who flock to New York City in droves to waddle around and wonder at shit they can see in their own cities. So, what can we add to this miracle knoll of assholeism geared toward the insatiably dull?

That's right. A POP TARTS RESTAURANT. Mmmm!

Yes! Brain dead tourists, weary after shuffling through this blocks-long maze of mass consumerism Hell, can plop their chafed, aching thighs down in this Nutrition-Free Cess Chamber and order Pop Tarts - a food that has NO BUSINESS being associated with breakfast for it provides little but the opportunity for shitheads to gorge on crap - in oh so cute ways, like 'pop tarts sushi.'

I mean, FUCK OFF.

Instead of coming to New York with the sole purpose of getting your pictures taken in front of the H&M or retracing the steps of those vacuous cunts from Sex & the City ("Oh my god, they serve CUPCAKES!"), why don't you follow this suggestion (well, two):

1. Plan a trip that involves seeing things that ARE NOT available in your home town. Museums, plays, concerts, the Brooklyn Heights Promenade, Central Park - these are things you don't have in your city. M&Ms - you can get them at the grocery store. Nikes - yes, you can get them at the mall. Cell phones are available anywhere.

2. If you a) are coming here specifically to shop at mass market chains and b) are afraid to eat anything that doesn't come from McDonald's, Applebee's, Pizza Hut, P.F. Chang's, or Taco Bell and c) are not planning to take in any local culture or sights that actually made New York City the amazing place that it is and was, then why don't you just stay your stupid fucking asses AT HOME so I and others who live here don't have to circumnavigate your shit while you gaze unintelligently at your mobile devices and maps looking for the nearest Club Monaco?

Everyone here hates you because you suck, and TIMES SQUARE has become a radiant example of absolutely EVERYTHING that is wrong with this culture, and, in fact, the world, thanks mostly to people just like you.

Art.

2009-08-30T15:50:00.002-04:00

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?

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

2009-08-27T10:35:00.005-04:00

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?

Fuck!

Things You Can Find In My Neighborhood.

2009-08-22T18:03:00.005-04:00

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.

WHAT'S HAPPENING TO ME?!?!?

2009-08-20T15:01:00.005-04:00

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?

Pet Store Shenanigans.

2009-08-15T11:36:00.003-04:00

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.

Bad Business Practices.

2009-05-08T18:00:00.004-04:00

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.

A Trip to the Factory.

2009-05-04T19:20:00.005-04:00

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.

Good Times in Brooklyn.

2009-05-03T16:13:00.004-04:00

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.)

Art in the Village.

2009-05-01T21:50:00.004-04:00

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?

Art In the City

2009-04-26T14:36:00.005-04:00

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.

Why I Love New York, #5

2009-04-25T19:02:00.006-04:00

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.

Definitive Proof that We As a Culture Have FAILED.

2009-04-07T22:38:00.006-04:00

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:

Why I Love New York, #4

2009-03-31T20:15:00.004-04:00

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.

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

2009-02-22T08:27:00.005-05:00

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.

Observe:

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.

Oh, and SPOILER ALERT -

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.

Why I Love New York, #3

2009-02-19T11:12:00.006-05:00

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.

Jack T. Chick - Super Genius.

2009-02-13T10:00:00.009-05:00

Jack T. Chick, rabid evangelical Christian, is full of misinformation:

"Liberals" are pushing gay marriage in elementary schools.
Catholics are doing the Devil's work.
Dungeons & Dragons leads to suicide.
Homosexuals recruit.
Dinosaurs were on the Ark, but couldn't survive in the new "thinner air" we have now thanks to the Great Flood.
Most Christian ministers are knowingly working for Satan.
Rock & Roll will give you AIDS.
Jesus is Lord.

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 chick.com 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!

SwayzeWatch - UPDATE!

2009-01-29T13:10:00.005-05:00

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."

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

2009-01-22T11:13:00.004-05:00

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.

He's gone!

2009-01-20T23:31:00.000-05:00

THANK GOD.

This Guy Has NO SHAME.

2009-01-15T16:40:00.003-05:00

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:

National Sanctity of Human Life Day, 2009

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.

GEORGE W. BUSH

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.

SwayzeWatch

2009-01-15T10:54:00.003-05:00

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

Visit msnbc.com for Breaking News, World News, and News about the Economy

Sterility - Why Dost Thou Forsake These Shitheads?

2009-01-14T13:21:00.005-05:00

Visit msnbc.com for Breaking News, World News, and News about the Economy

"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?!?

SwayzeWatch

2009-01-14T11:07:00.003-05:00

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 msnbc.com:

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?

Why I Love New York, # 2

2009-01-09T19:31:00.006-05:00

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?

I Can't Tell You Why.

2009-01-07T10:47:00.009-05:00

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.

Midnight at the Majestic.

2009-01-06T12:48:00.014-05:00

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 weirdoes 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 hours to kill, 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 hizzouse.

Then it happened - the harried-looking 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.

Blossom.

2009-01-04T21:57:00.006-05:00

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

Tracklist:

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.

2009.

2009-01-01T19:13:00.005-05:00

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.

"Rain" - Jerry Garcia Band. Donna Jean Godchaux sings this delightful song.
"New World Coming" - Dr. Nina Simone.
"Hey, Jack Kerouac" - 10,000 Maniacs.
"Killing Me Softly With His Song" - Blossom Dearie. I love Blossom Dearie o so much.
"I Need You" - the Pointer Sisters. Who doesn't love those Pointers, I ask you.
"This Flight Tonight" - Joni Mitchell.
"I Think It's Gonna Rain Today" - Dusty Springfield. The best version of this song.
"Love Is Everything" - Jane Siberry. I love this song. Listen to kd lang's version, too.
"Let It Be Me" - Indigo Girls. I wish they were in charge.
"All You Get From Love Is a Love Song" - The Carpenters. Dang, that Karen Carpenter just kills me.
"In the Still of the Night" - Ella Fitzgerald. I saw her perform when I was 16.
"Simple" - kd lang.
"How Long Has This Been Going On?" - Judy Garland. So sue me, I like Judy.
"You Are the Sunshine of My Life" - Liza Minnelli.
"A Good Thing" - Saint Etienne.
"Primitive" - Annie Lennox.
"Special Bonus Track" - Surprise Celebrity.

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.

GOD DAMN IT.

2008-12-24T08:29:00.009-05:00

Progress can kiss my ass.

I was going to take my niece and nephew to the St. Pete Beach Amusement Center - yes, THE arcade zone on St. Pete Beach. The one that maintained in pristine condition all of our favorites from throughout the years.

You could still play Tron, Frogger, Crystal Castles, Tempest, and Donkey Kong. They had air hockey. They had skee-ball. They had pool, pinball machines, and weird pre-video game games that were so fucking cool they made my knees buckle just looking at them. Gone. All gone forever. (And if Treasure Island Fun Center thinks for ONE SECOND that I am going to visit them in their new, "updated" location where fat children have pizza parties and scream and eat Laffy Taffy, they can KISS MY ASS.)

Observe:

When the Amusement Center opened on July 4, 1969, it had all the latest crazes in Florida vacation fun. Indoor miniature golf. Bowling. Ski Ball.

Founder Jerry Rodgers opened two other amusement centers in the area and pioneered indoor bumper cars, which rolled around with poles scraping the metal roof.

Sunburned kids would finish off a day at the beach with some air conditioning and button-pounding. They snacked on soda, junk food and ice cream. There were never tokens or quarters to worry about. Just an admission fee and hours of fun.

Before they moved to the area, Lenny Stamos and his grade-school-age son visited as tourists from New Jersey. Derrick Stamos sat on his dad's lap and drove a bumper car for the first time.

"It had the biggest collection of pinball machines I'd ever seen in my life," Derrick Stamos said.

In the 1980s, the cars gave way to the golden age of stand-up video games — Galaga, Asteroids and Pac Man.

read the rest of this gripping article here

Barefoot Mailman, Foxxxy's, Ollie-O's, Tracks, Piggy's Place. All of the cool shit, one zone after another, has been tainted. Even our beloved beaches, once lined with whispering pines and palms, have been desecrated by pink stucco abominations and fast-food chains to the point that you can't even see the fucking water.

One of the few remaining things that made me happy about coming to Florida is now dead. Everything I loved about this place has been razed and transformed into a craptacular strip mall.

THEY HAD TRON, GOD DAMN IT.

Don't Know When I'll Be Back Again - The Sequel

2008-12-21T14:01:00.006-05:00

Faithful followers of Marky Mae's foibles will remember fondly the trauma and horror Marky Mae went through last year when attempting to get from New York to Florida. It was akin to the tortures of the damned, an experience from which Marky Mae barely escaped with whatever sanity was left.

Sadly, due to economic concerns, Marky Mae was forced to fly Delta again this year. I can tell you one thing - I will never, EVER fly Delta again.

Picture it - I'm dreading getting to the airport due to recent snow storms that have backed travel up, but am told "things are fine," not only by all people who had been listening to weather reports, but also by Delta officials themselves. Heartened, I drop Nizzles off and prepare for my journey. I arrive at the airport, and aside from seeing a bunch of stupid cunts waddling around in full-length fur coats, things seem to be going swimmingly.

We board at the appropriate time - 6: 30 for a 7 pm flight. Wow, this may actually work out after all!, I thought to myself prematurely - because, apparently, Delta airlines is bent on never, EVER getting anyone to their destination in a timely or relaxing manner.

So we're sitting on the plane. It's been quite some time, and people are starting to act like jerks, as people are prone to do when placed in situations in which things don't go exactly the way they want them to. "What the hell's going on?" some brusk turd starts shrieking at one of the flight attendants. "I'm sorry sir, it's out of my hands," she responds. And really, how could it not be? Does this fuckmouth think that screaming at this already harried stewardess is going to make things any better?

Then it happens. The PA comes on and the obviously-gay "head attendant" lisps into the mic, "Excuse me, but we just have an update - yes, we're all here and ready to go, but there's no captain yet. He's on his way from Atlanta and we'll be off as soon as he lands."

Now, this raises a question - why would these ASSHOLES choose to cram us all onto a stuffy, horribly cramped plane if they KNEW that the captain wasn't there and they had no idea when we'd be taking off? We could very happily have waited in the terminal with access to food, bathrooms, phones, et cetera, but there we were trapped on that plane with increasing agitation and angst, unable to eat, drink, move.

It's 10:30 - yes, FOUR hours after we've been boarded, and the captain finally arrives. But wait! Now there's something wrong with the fucking lock on the door, and THAT has to be checked! Oh, and as soon as that's taken care of, we have to wait in line to be de-iced.

An hour later, we're being de-iced, and that process involves spraying some hideous, viscous and I'm sure highly toxic chemical on the exterior of the plane. It takes about five minutes, and then we're on our way - but something strange is happening, because we've just turned back around and are heading back for the de-icing zone.

"Sorry, folks," the tardy captain states. "We're going to have to de-ice again. It wasn't snowing before, and now that it's started snowing, we're going to need the 'strong stuff.'" Now, why the hell wouldn't they have just used the 'strong stuff' in the first place? WHY ARE THESE PEOPLE DETERMINED TO STEAL FOUR HOURS OF MY LIFE?

I forgot to mention something. Throughout this entire ordeal, the most obnoxiously shrill and horrifyingly whiney baby ever to claw its way out of a uterus has been pitching a non-stop shrieking tantrum, its parents doing little to silence it. They walk the drooling foghorn up and down the aisle, bouncing it and saying things like, "It's all right, honey," and "Shhh." Clearly, none of these approaches is working, and by 9 I am ready to take that baby and hurl it into a running propellor.

Finally, at 12:30, we take off, but I can't sleep because the shithead in front of me is farting nonstop - a noxious blend of what appears to be compost, artificial strawberry and beef jerky keeps wafting back and assaulting my nose. Throughout the ENTIRE FLIGHT.

By 3, when we land, I am trembling with rage. Gas and babies and idiotic airline tactics to take us prisoner have taken their toll and I can barely speak as I wobble off the plane. It's the next day and I am still recovering.

Damn, I hate Delta Airlines. That's two - yes, two in a row - Christmases they have attempted to derail. Let's hope their plot isn't a complete success this year.

We'll Remember You Forever, Eddie.

2008-12-19T14:36:00.010-05:00

My brother, ten years older than I am, had it made in the 70s. He got to see The Rocky Horror Picture Show when it was still "cutting edge" to throw crap and scream inexplicably at a movie screen. He got to see Pat Benatar in concert before she had succumbed to singing such drivel as "Papa's Roses". He got to do all that cool stuff kids in my generation made fun of for a decade and then embraced as miraculous and wonderful a decade later.

One of those things he got to experience firsthand was a little film by Mr. Brian De Palma called Phantom of the Paradise. Like Rocky Horror, Phantom of the Paradise was a midnight movie, popular with stoners and weirdoes in the mid-70s. My brother, being both, enjoyed the film quite a bit.

He had the soundtrack LP. I wasn't allowed to see the film, but I was obsessed with this record - in particular, the song "Old Souls" as sung by out dear friend Ms. Jessica Harper. My adoration of this song at such a young age was yet another in a long string of proofs that I was a future homosexual. It was haunting, sad, beautiful, and it made me cry every time I listened to it.

Years later, when I was in high school, my brother and I had a "film marathon" - he had a VCR, a luxury item in the mid-80s my parents had not yet splurged on. He rented Phantom of the Paradise along with Shock Treatment - the sequel to Rocky Horror - and Purple Rain. We had a long night ahead of us.

It has been said that Rocky Horror is "queen" of the midnight movies and Phantom of the Paradise is "king." Before The Rocky Horror Picture Show came along and stole its thunder, Phantom of the Paradise was one of the most popular friday-night cinematic destinations for thrill-seekers and perverts. The film was a bit of Phantom of the Opera (I bet you figured that out already) with a dash of Faust thrown in. Lots of action, sex, sleaze, drugs, and typical 70s perversion.

It also had an amazing soundtrack written by Mr. Paul Williams, one of the film's stars. (You may know Mr. Williams through his compositions for the Carpenters and The Muppet Movie - he is a musical genius).

I loved it the first time I saw it, and enjoy it more and more each time I see it. (Have you guessed by now that I'm going through my annual 1970s cult film frenzy?).

Here, for you, is the soundtrack to this delightful, campy and awesome film! Please promise to succumb wholeheartedly to the merriment.

Click here ->Phantom of the Paradise Original Soundtrack <-

Track Listing:

1. Goodbye, Eddie, Goodbye - The Juicy Fruits
2. Faust - Winslow Leach
3. Upholstery - The Beach Bums
4. Special to Me (Phoenix Audition Song) - Phoenix

5. Phantom's Theme - Paul Williams

6. Somebody Super Like You (Beef Construction Song)
- The Un-Deads

7. Life at Last - Beef

8. Old Souls - Phoenix

9. Faust - Paul Williams

10. The Hell of It - Paul Williams

If you enjoy cult films, as you certainly should, I would highly recommend checking this little number out. It's a good'n.

Christmas at the Movies.

2008-12-15T10:20:00.008-05:00

Everyone's got a favorite Christmas movie.

Some hunker around the TV to watch that sappy bastard Jimmy Stewart extol the miracles of friendship in that bile-producing It's a Wonderful Life while others like to watch drunks, perverts and stuck-up agnostics duke it out over the true meaning of Christmas in Miracle on 34th Street.

Now, don't get me wrong - I love both of those movies with all my heart and each render me a blubbering mass of sentimentality and schmaltz by their endings. But when it comes to the TRUE meaning of Christmas, there's only one film for me. Yes, you guessed it.

Female Trouble.

Our dear friend Dawn Davenport has in no uncertain terms announced to her delinquent friends that she'd better get cha-cha heels for Christmas or her parents are going to be sorry. Now, since her parents are decent, God-fearing Christians, naturally they don't purchase those slutty pumps for their beloved daughter.

Watch the madness unfurl:

Fuck you both, you awful people!

You're not my parents!

I HATE YOU,

I HATE THIS HOUSE

AND I HATE CHRISTMAS!

The runner-up: Wild At Heart.

Now, this film, by Mr. David Lynch, is one of my all-round favorite movies of all time for eternity, but it's also got a special Christmas glow to it.

Observe:

Other holiday films that will warm the cockles of your hearts:

Silent Night, Deadly Night.

I first watched this movie with my great-aunt June, in her 70s, and a huge fan. When I told her I had never seen it, she said, "Ooh, I love that one! Let's watch it!" Fucked. Up. Family. That's all I can guess. I was 15 when this occurred. Naturally, I was immediately enamored of her - how many people in their 70s would actually GO OUT AND BUY this film?

Silent Night, Deadly Night. Oh, the tragedies that befall our protagonist... his parents are murdered by a drunken Santa. His grandfather is a psycho. He gets stuck in an orphanage where nuns beat the crap out of him. He develops an unhealthy obsession with Santa Claus. He gets a job in a seasonal toy store, goes a little bonkers and starts chopping people the fuck up. What's not to like?

Christmas Evil.

Who could forget Christmas Evil? It's my all-time Super Hero Mr. John Waters' favorite Christmas movie. In fact, the new edition of the DVD has bonus commentary by Mr. Waters throughout.

The ending of this film is magical and awesome - one that will keep you and your friends mystified for decades. Ho-ho-ho!

I recommend that you purchase these DVDs posthaste. Each and every one of them. Then, get yourself a fat vat of wassail or comparable nectar of holiday cheer and light up that yule log.

Sit back, relax, and bask in the filthy glow of the Christmas Holiday.

Dang, I love Christmas!

A Kenneth Anger Christmas - Red, Blue and Green.

2008-12-11T21:50:00.018-05:00

A few years ago, I went to see Dr. Kenneth Anger speak and present some newly-restored versions of his films at UCLA. After the show, Dr. Anger took some questions from the audience. One, a tubby, sycophantic nerd, stood up and bleated, "Dr. Anger - I've seen all of your films and followed your works for the past several decades and I was wondering if you could potentially clear up a conundrum I've had all that time," in a nasal, "I've never left my parents' basement except to go to Radio Shack or the Comix Knoll" sort of voice.

He continued - "In your brilliant film Fireworks, the protagonist ends up with an artificial Christmas tree on his head before waking up next to an electrically-charged gentleman of undisclosed origin. I was wondering - what, exactly, is the significance of the Christmas tree to this film?"

Now Anger, at this time well into his 80s and clearly losing what little grasp on reality he ever had, took to the microphone to answer this geek's attempt at being cerebral.

"Christmas as a holiday actually predates Christianity," he started. "It was a pagan holiday in which druids performed human sacrifices. Chunks of human flesh were hung on the tree and then the birds came, carrying the little messages up." He paused. "It was much more beautiful than the perverted version of it we have today, don't you think?" Not really an answer to the acolyte's question, but who cares.

My friend Chad, who had accompanied me, and I were trying so hard not to laugh at Anger's non-answer that we almost had to leave the auditorium.

* * *

My introduction to Dr. Kenneth Anger came at the Harley House - a big sort of "pervert commune" behind the Harley-Davidson dealership in Swannanoa, North Carolina. Lots of my best friends lived there and they had parties all the time, so I was pretty much a staple round those parts.

Now, on one particular evening, I had dropped quite a substantial amount of our good friend LSD (Give me a break. I was 20) and was lounging appropriately, when my friend Norn - who always always always always ALWAYS had some new and wonderful thing for everyone to see or hear - pulled a VHS tape out of his satchel full o' miracles and said, "put this in! we've got to watch this RIGHT NOW!" By then, most people who knew him had figured that it was best not to question his judgment in such situations, so the owner of the VCR followed Norn's orders.

I didn't know what was going to happen, but I knew it would be good. A logo appeared on the screen - "Puck Productions. What Fools These Mortals Be!" I liked it so far, and agreed with its sentiment. The screen went black, and then titles appeared - "A film by Anger." and "Rabbit's Moon." A gong chimed, and then a sped-up black-and-white tale that combined a Japanese myth of the rabbit in the moon with the famous characters Pierrot, Harlequin and Columbina unfolded before my dilated, hallucinating eyes. Was what I was witnessing real, or a product of the acid?

The film, accompanied by the addictive soundtrack song "It Came In the Night" by the band A Raincoat, burned itself into my brain. After it was over, I wanted to watch it again - but I think I was the only one who had done drugs that evening, and everyone else had different agendas. I finally saw it again, and it turned out it hadn't been the LSD - that movie really WAS that awesome.

I learned a lot about Dr. Anger - his fascination with Aleister Crowley, his relationship with Manson-associate Bobby Beausoleil, his books Hollywood Babylon I and II, his tempestuous stay with our dear friend Dr. Anton Szandor LaVey in the Black House, and his hatred of pretty much everyone in the world make him a very interesting fella, to put it mildly.

Over the years I managed to procure my own copies of Kenneth Anger's short films - Eaux D'artifice, Fireworks, Inauguration of the Pleasuredome, Invocation of my Demon Brother, Lucifer Rising, Puce Moment, Kustom Kar Kommandos, and yes, Rabbit's Moon.

Now, there was one Kenneth Anger film - Scorpio Rising - that I had actually been reading about for years and years. My hero and personal deity Mr. John Waters wrote in several essays of his adoration of the film, stating that he had run away from Baltimore to New York City just to see it. Another, lesser hero, Mr. Andy Warhol, loved the film and had it shown at one of his incarnations of The Factory. David Lynch, Martin Scorsese, and other prominent film nerds stated their reverence for the film, either outwardly or through their work.

There was just one problem - it wasn't available in the United States. Its soundtrack - which Anger had never bothered to acquire rights for - featured the likes of Elvis Presley, Ricky Nelson, Martha Reeves, Ray Charles, and more. THIS was the Kenneth Anger movie I wanted to see. Its non-story followed the lives of several New York City bikers as they primped for a party and repaired their "hogs." Homoerotic, the film was banned in many places (you can see dingers for a split second, plus there is heavy anti-Christian imagery - but who can blame anyone for that?).

I despaired that I would ever get to see the film. Then, I went to New York City to visit several friends, and I discovered a bootleg copy of it in the Kim's Underground on the corner of, as Amy Sedaris puts it, "Faggot and Cocksucker Streets" (Bleecker and Christopher) in the Village. Let me tell you, I snatched that god damn thing up faster than a hobo picks up his Mad Dog 20/20. This was years ago.

The film didn't disappoint me. Its rock-n-roll soundtrack complemented the gorgeous and at times unsettling images in the film. Plus, there are two really cute siamese cats that yawn and lounge about. Who can beat that?

The Scorpio Rising Track List:

Ricky Nelson - "Fools Rush In (Where Angels Fear to Tread)"
Little Peggy March - "Wind-Up Doll"
The Angels - "My Boyfriend's Back"
Bobby Vinton - "Blue Velvet"
Elvis Presley - "(You're the) Devil in Disguise"
Ray Charles - "Hit The Road Jack"
Martha Reeves and the Vandellas - "(Love Is Like A) Heat Wave"
The Crystals - "He's a Rebel"
Claudine Clark - "Party Lights"
Kris Jensen - "Torture"
Gene McDaniels - "Point Of No Return"
Little Peggy March - "I Will Follow Him"
Surfaris - "Wipe Out"

Download the Soundtrack, as compiled by me, right ->HERE.<-

Now, the film is available on DVD. Our friends at Fantoma took YEARS to get the rights for the soundtrack and remaster the movie (along with the rest of Anger's oeuvre), releasing it in Volume II of The Films of Kenneth Anger.

If I were you, I'd buy both of them. They're good with or without the acid.

Ice For the Bachelor Set.

2008-12-11T19:41:00.015-05:00

I don't know about you, but I have lots of stag parties. I invite lots of swingin' bachelors over, we watch nudist colony movies, play cards, smoke cigars, and drink lots and lots of cocktails.

And what better to keep those cocktails chilled than buxom Ice-Nudes?

For realz, I've never had a stag party, I don't care about tits, I don't smoke, and I certainly don't make cocktails. Somehow, though, these Ice-Nudes ended up in my possession.

Now, I've been given lots of things over the years.

Starting in 1988, people saw me as a dumping ground for their kitsch and antique castaways, so I received vintage clothing, furniture, lamps, vinyl LPs, magazines, 70s porn, pulp books, cookbooks, fabric swatches, toys, gadgets, contraptions, accessories, stuff, and shoes.

For the most part, I can tell you exactly who gave me what, and why. The ruby red knee-high ashtray with bangly baubles hanging from it? Cori Blanton gave it to me - it belonged to her grandmother. "Don't ever let my mom find out," she said as she handed it to me. The ancient statue of Mary and at least one of the several Extreme Unction kits I have came from my friend Sabrina. The bedazzled "Oriental Landscape" lamp came from my oldest friend John. The list continues forever.

But these Ice-Nudes remain a mystery to me. One morning I woke up and there they were, gunboats a-pointin' right at me. Shazam! I love them - they represent everything I stand for. Trashy, tacky, dumb, and campy.

I'd say they're from the early 60s, though I'm no expert, and I'm sure they were available by mail order through magazines such as "Oriental Massage Prison Journal," "He-Man Monthly," "Women of Mystery," "Sunshine and Joy Nudist Revue," and so forth. For the bachelor set. (In other words, dumbasses who never developed past a second-grade sense of humor.)

Ice-Nudes brand ice cube trays consist of a top and a bottom. The qualified bachelor fills the bottom tray with water, snaps the top portion in place, taps the air bubbles out of the holes in the mold, and pops these bitches in the freezer to firm up.

Observe:

Ice-Nudes after they've been taken out of the freezer.

Ice-Nudes coming out of the tray. Look at those fun bags!

And Presto!

Nude Beauties

a-bobbin' in a cool beverage.

It's pretty amazing,

the dumb shit humans think up.

Don't you agree?

Your One Way Ticket to Midnight.

2008-12-10T09:45:00.009-05:00

I am not sure what originally attracted me to the film Heavy Metal - was it the dusty, grimy copy of the magazine I found in my pot-smoking, MG-repairing uncle's junk heap of a backyard?

Eschewing the many issues of High Times that were in the same pile, I picked Heavy Metal up. This so-called "Fantasy" magazine was in actuality a "pump-it-out" magazine for pothead losers.

Flipping through its pages at the tender age of 9, I was assaulted by buxom, barely-clad beauties swinging ornate swords and fending off tigers, more buxom, barely-clad beauties exposing their nether-realms in various exotic locations, and finally, buxom, barely-clad beauties doing some sort of science-fictiony type businesses in which they were very willing and able to expose their breasts and asscheeks to anyone who wanted to take a gander.

Seeing as I wasn't and am not very interested in breasts, I don't think it was the barely-clad beauties. It was more likely the exotic locales. I'm a geek, and since Heavy Metal is a science fiction cartoon, naturally I was drawn to it. Also, since it was rated R, I felt as if I were doing something I shouldn't be doing - and that always adds to the fun.

Back in the early 80s, when cable television was still a bit of a novelty, I would stay up late on Friday nights and watch HBO. These evenings were generally reserved for "cult" or horror films - I learned all about Jason Voorhees and Michael Myers and Emmanuelle on this wonderful cable channel.

Of course, when it was announced one evening that Heavy Metal would be coming on, I writhed with excitement. And I was not let down. From the moment that vintage Corvette is released from the Space Shuttle to touch down on earth and peel out to Sammy Hagar's "Heavy Metal," this movie does NOT fuck around.

The Loc-Nar, a glowing green orb the astronaut driving the Corvette naively brings home for his daughter, is in actuality the very essence of evil. It kills the astronaut and then imprisons the little girl, deciding, as all ill-fated villains do, to boast and brag about its dastardly accomplishments instead of just taking fucking care of business.

So the Loc-Nar glows green and tells various tales of woe and misery that it has caused throughout the universe. Kingdoms have fallen, religious sects been overthrown, archaeologists murdered... all due to this little green asshole.

The Loc-Nar tale that scared the FUCK out of me when I was a child was the one with the fighter pilot who, after the Loc-Nar lands in his bomber, crash-lands on a deserted island that is actually a graveyard of dead pilots. They all come to life, in various levels of decomposition, and corner him. Fortunate for the young version of me, the scene ends before the pilot is ripped limb from limb, or whatever hideous fate befalls him.

Trembling with fear from that business, I was relieved and uplifted when our fearless leader Taarna the Terrakian shows up. Taarna never spoke a word, but if you've seen this movie, you know one thing - she wasn't taking no shit from nobody. That's right. She was summoned, she came, and she kicked all those asses up in there. I loved her then and I love her now.

Like most "cult" movies, this film is schlocky, dated and probably downright dumb - but I don't care. I still like to watch it every once in a while on a late night and revel in its thoroughly amazing soundtrack, its blatant sex and violence, and its 100% awesomeness.

"What's on this glorious soundtrack?" you may wonder. Well, here's Mr. Tracklist:

Heavy Metal Original Motion Picture Soundtrack:

1) "Heavy Metal" (Sammy Hagar) (3:50)
2) "Heartbeat" (Riggs) (4:20)
3) "Working in the Coal Mine" (Devo) (2:48)
4) "Veteran of the Psychic Wars" (Blue Öyster Cult) (4:48)
5) "Reach Out" (Cheap Trick) (3:35)
6) "Heavy Metal (Takin' a Ride)" (Don Felder) (5:00)
7) "True Companion" (Donald Fagen) (5:02)
8) "Crazy (A Suitable Case for Treatment)" (Nazareth) (3:24)
9) "Radar Rider" (Riggs) (2:40)
10) "Open Arms" (Journey) (3:20)
11) "Queen Bee" (Grand Funk Railroad) (3:11)
12) "I Must Be Dreamin'" (Cheap Trick) (5:37)
13) "The Mob Rules" (Black Sabbath) (2:43)
14) "All of You" (Don Felder) (4:18)
15) "Prefabricated" (Trust) (2:59)
16) "Blue Lamp" (Stevie Nicks) (3:48)

You may sample its delights yourself by clicking HERE.

There was a sequel, Heavy Metal 2000, which I have never seen and probably never will. I'm pretty sure Heavy Metal, like Star Wars, is best seen for the first time when you're a kid - otherwise it may just seem cheesy.

Poppin' & Lockin'

2008-12-07T22:27:00.009-05:00

Our friends Menahem Golan and Yoram Globus of Cannon Films brought us something very spectacular - very special - in 1984. They brought us a little film called Breakin'.

Any of y'all who know me realize by now that I am this film's strongest supporter, its most ardent acolyte. Anyone who challenges this film's integrity within a 500 yard radius of my being had better beware, because I will cut them the fuck up. The. Fuck. Up.

That's right.

I remember it very clearly. I was fat, androgynous, bowl-haircutted, socially retarded, covered in braces, and dressed in clothes they wouldn't even carry in JC Penney, but when I went to see this movie with my cousins in 1984, I decided right then and there that I wanted to be a "breaker." My cousins and I came up with breakin' names. And mine was... are you ready? DJ Ice.

Fuck you - I was a child.

I got those fat neon ghetto laces for my sneakers, the breakdance instructional book from the B. Dalton, and a big piece of square cardboard on which to practice my phat dance moves. I'm pretty sure I got through one half-hearted centipede before I decided I'd be better off watching Diff'rent Strokes and eating pudding pops.

That breakdancing was hard work.

Meanwhile, Turbo, Ozone and Kelly made it look so easy in Breakin'. I was and am thoroughly jealous of their abilities. Every time I watch it, I get a hankering to attempt that shit.

We're very fortunate that Breakin' and its equally stellar sequel Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo were recently released on the DVD. In a box set, even!

Sadly, the soundtrack - and music is pretty crucial to this film - is out-of-print. It features a pre-thug Ice-T and Ms. Chaka Khan! Well, naturally, as a nerd, I had to procure a copy of this soundtrack and use my handy cd-recorder to transform it from vinyl to mp3 magic, and now I can share it with y'all.

Click -> here <- to download.

Breakin' Original Soundtrack

Track Listing:

"Breakin' ... There's No Stoppin' Us" by Ollie & Jerry – 4:34
"Freakshow on the Dance Floor" by Bar-Kays – 4:42
"Body Work" by Hot Streak – 4:22
"99 ½" by Carol Lynn Townes – 4:02
"Showdown" by Ollie & Jerry – 3:57
"Heart of the Beat" – 4:18
"Street People" by Fire Fox – 3:23
"Cut It" by Re Flex – 3:11
"Ain't Nobody" by Rufus & Chaka Khan – 4:41
"Reckless" by Ice T – 3:57

Fish and poi.

2008-12-06T19:19:00.009-05:00

I don't even know what to say about this one.

Except this, of course - More Hawaii In Hi-Fi has brought me hours and hours and hours of utter and complete giddy joy. It is so ridiculously cheesy in almost every sense that a listener cannot help but feel uplifted.

My friend Emily found this in, of all places, the AV department's record collection at my college library. I think she had an innate ability to choose things that thoroughly and completely rock the house, because she grabbed this god damn thing and ran screaming with it all the way back to her room, where she proceeded to turn it into a legend.

We - my friends and I - built a culture around this album and, in particular, the track "Sheik of Araby." We had dance routines choreographed for it. We had mood lighting to accompany it. We had special Gin & Tonic events in which we gathered specifically to listen to it. Yes - that's how important this record became to us.

A little history of our treasured Leo Addeo, the man who brought us this classic LP, from our friends at Space Age Pop:

Addeo was one of RCA's key house arrangers for most of the 1950s and 1960s. An Italian American from Brooklyn, Addeo's specialty was Hawaiian music. He studied violin as a child, but switched to clarinet and saxophone in his teens when he noticed these instruments were in greater demand for local dance bands. He gradually moved from performing to arranging, working with Gene Krupa, Larry Clinton, and Frankie Carle.

Hugo Winterhalter hired Addeo as an orchestrator and brought him along when he moved to RCA in the early 1950s. Addeo was a steady producer for RCA, backing vocalists such as Vaughan Monroe and Don Cherry, arranging and conducting on numerous credited and uncredited instrumentals, and writing an occasional song. Addeo held down the marimba band corner for RCA's "Living" series, producing a respectable knock-off of Julius Wechter's Baja Marimba Band.

The Immortal Track List:

Click album title to download!

Leo Addeo & His Orchestra: More Hawaii In Hi-Fi

1) The Sheik Of Araby

2) Isle Of Paradise

3) Near You

4) Song Of India

5) Harbor Lights

6) Third Man Theme

7) Moon Of Manakoora

8) To You, Sweetheart, Aloha

9) Song Of The Islands

10) Red Sails In The Sunset

I assure you - this is one of the most powerful antidepressants around.

You will wonder at its power to transform you. No, to transport you - from the doldrums you're suffering through in today's wrecked society to a faraway land. A paradise of red lightbulbs, plastic vampire teeth, fish & poi, tiki glasses, paper umbrellas, vintage comic books, Tahitian Treat soda, the soothing sounds of waves crashing against a moondrenched shore...

And a sense that maybe everything is going to be okay after all.

A Certain Smile, A Certain Sadness

2008-12-04T22:06:00.009-05:00

Who recalls rain lamps like Mona here? I certainly do. I remember vividly a store in Tyrone Square Mall, right 'round the bend from JC Penney, that sold these and other tacky things like bowls of alabaster fruit and rattan furniture.

When I was five, I waddled into that store and reached right up and touched the magic slime that dripped down the strand of fiber and created that eerily hypnotic effect of a Goddess bathed in a soothing rain. "Don't you touch that!" the nasty saleslady screamed at me, running over as if I had just attempted to steal her baby.

She was too late; I had already totally touched that rain lamp. It was worth it, too. I had wanted to know what that crap dripping down around this lady was for SO long... I still remember the smell of that oil. Not unpleasant, not overpowering, just sort of hippie-ish. It was delightful.

For years and years and years I tried to recreate in my head the feeling I got when looking at that rain lamp. I don't really know if I could ever put into words what that feeling was / is, but I do know a few people who had been searching for that elusive feeling as well - a mysterious sense of ease brought about by exotic music of times past. We found it together in a man named Walter Wanderley.

Walter Wanderley (12 May 1932 - 4 September 1986) was an organist and pianist, born in Recife, Brazil and best known for his lounge and bossa nova music.

Already famous in his native country by the late 1950's, he became an internationally renown star through his collaboration with the singer Astrud Gilberto and her husband, João Gilberto. During 1966-67, he recorded three notable albums on the Verve label with the Walter Wanderley Trio (consisting of Walter, Claudio Slon (drums) and Jose Marino (bass). These albums, "Rainforest", "Cheganca" (complete with gatefold sleeve) and Astrud Gilberto's "A Certain Smile, A Certain Sadness" were produced in the United States by Creed Taylor, who initially brought the Trio to the U.S. to record. Wanderley's U.S. recording of "Summer Samba" reached #26 on the Billboard charts in the summer of 1966.

(from Wikipedia.)

His style was like no other's. I was introduced to him through a Verve Bossa Nova compilation. The song - "Summer Samba." Astrud Gilberto was singing and Mr. Wanderley and his trio were providing the music.

Now, if you've ever heard this version - and I know a lot of you have - your first impression may be what mine was at the age of 20. "Holy shit, this music is cheesy," I said to myself. But I didn't turn it off. Instead, I wanted to get more - and right away. It started out with A Certain Smile, A Certain Sadness, his collaboration with Astrud Gilberto. "Portuguese Washerwoman" is my favorite from that album. I could listen to it forever, I tell you. Forever.

After that one, I found what for YEARS I mistakenly thought was his only solo release - Rain Forest. It's all instrumental. It's all electronic organ. And it is all awesome. I cannot tell you the times this album has dragged me and others out of deep depression. You think I'm joking? Get a copy of that shit, put it on and tell me that you don't feel at least 78% better than you did just moments earlier. I told you so.

Meanwhile, last year I was scrounging through that record store Bleecker Bob's, avoiding its surly and bossy owner and fingering through the Bossa Nova vinyl, when I saw a Walter Wanderley lp - one I didn't have. Batucada was its name, and you're god damn right I snatched that shit up...

I ran home SCREAMING, expecting to be transformed yet again by Mr. Wanderley's magic fingers. Of course, the album was pure genius. I sent emails to my fellow Wanderley enthusiast friends. "Oh my Christ, you'll never believe what I just found," I typed. They were all, naturally, overjoyed by this discovery! And who wouldn't be!

It wouldn't end there - a quick search of our friend the internet revealed an entire catalog of albums I had never even dreamed existed. I attempted to get them all. I don't know if I did, but the ones I found - including Samba!, Kee-Ka-Roo, Cheganca, Moondreams, and When It Was Done certainly and impressively built upon what I had already considered to be a masterwork of Bossa Nova organ playing.

Most of these albums are out of print. They're available in used record stores, on eBay and other places. Some are going for a LOT of money. They're worth it, of course, but if you want to find out what Mr. Wanderley's like, you can listen to this'n here and hear for yourself:

Walter Wanderley: When It Was Done

Tracklist:
1. Open Your Arms (And Let Me Walk Right In)
2. Surfboard
3. Baiao Da Garoa
4. Reach Our For Me
5. Ole, Ole, Ola
6. Ponteio
7. When It Was Done
8. On My Mind
9. Just My Love And I
10. Capoeira
11. Truth In Peace

Would you just look at that album cover? That just about says it all. Amazing. I hope y'all enjoy it.

And if you're wondering why I'm putting all this music up - well, it's Christmas, y'all.

I Was Born Beneath the Dying Sun

2008-12-03T21:20:00.013-05:00

I remember the first time I heard a song by Swans. It was "Saved." My friend Cathy, one of the Goth Goddesses on my college campus, was playing it in her room while I was visiting. I was instantly attracted to it - it was folksy, beautiful and uplifting, yet at the same time, earth-shatteringly depressing.

She made fun of me for liking it.

Apparently all the goths I knew at the time - and there were plenty - were required to purchase and immediately memorize anything Michael Gira released, even if they hated it. It was a rule of the subculture. So by listening to it while I was visiting her, Cathy was performing a sort of goth community service. (I must confess that after I got more deeply involved with their catalog, I understand completely the need to own and memorize everything they ever did up to that point.)

Even as the subculture elite made fun of me, I rushed out and purchased a copy of this maligned CD. Its Robert Mapplethorpe cover called to me as I entered the music store, and I happily succumbed to its magical visage as I carted it up to the cash register.

While my Swans-enthusiast friends suffered through The Burning World, I reveled in it. I thought it was gorgeous, start to finish (excluding Jarboe's dirge-like cover of "Can't Find My Way Home," which I could do without). I would, to the consternation of my pickier friends, play it constantly for the next several years.

Swans were for people who had graduated from The Smiths' playful self-loathing and wanted to get nestled down into some serious, deep-dark depression. M. Gira and his compatriot Jarboe were NOT fucking around when it came to misery.

From "Jane Mary, Cry One Tear"

I live in an empty house
There's no one there but memory and me
But I loved a woman once
One hundred years ago
For a while

When she left here she was filled hatred
And with a second child
Now I've heard nothing ever changes
But nothing I touch has stayed the same
Everything just turns to poison
That I have loved or made
So bury my children's children
In a deep and lonely grave
Anything is a cause for sorrow
That my mind or body has made.

Do you see what we're dealing with here? How could anyone NOT want to listen to it?!?

After I learned all there was to know about Swans, I realized that yes, The Burning World was a HUGE departure from their previous releases like Children of God - primarily industrial, grating, throbbing, aggressive, and malevolent.

I loved Children of God along with all of Swans' other releases that I had acquired, but The Burning World was and always will be my favorite. When I hear it, I recall some of the best memories of my life. My less stuck-up friends and I, we would all gather 'round in a klatch, Olympia beers in hand, and scream the lyrics to "God Damn the Sun" along with the CD. And we meant each and every word.

When their next album, White Light From the Mouth of Infinity was released, I went to see their promotional concert at Masquerade in Atlanta, Georgia. I was amazed by Jarboe's defiant hatred of her audience - she would sulk out on stage, belt out her number, then shoot a glare at us as if she wanted to kill us. Then she'd turn her back to the crowd and hobble back to her corner of the stage, where she was doing who-knows-what between songs.

The audience was just as baffling. The place was packed, mostly by black-wearing Harbingers of Death (myself included), and they all acted so nonchalant and bored by the fact that they were there witnessing their idols live and in person right there on the stage. The smoked, they shot tired glances toward one another, they lingered in the back of the auditorium. No, they were not enthusiastic. No, they did not want to be alive. Yes, they were gracing Swans with their presence, and Swans should be happy about it.

My relationship with Swans fizzled out after Love of Life was released. I don't know if I was becoming less "teen-style" depressed, sick of hearing about other people's depression, or what. From time to time, though, I still listen to them. They're still great. You should listen, too.

It is a sad fact that The Burning World is out of print. If you want a copy, you can pay $218.18 for it on amazon.com.

Or you can click here.

Some Swans albums have been reissued. Many, to the detriment of the world, remain out of print. If you're lucky, you can find them - but most people who have them won't let them go. Listen and realize why.

Oh, the Seventies...

2008-12-02T21:11:00.008-05:00

FREE TO BE... YOU AND ME

I am very glad I was a child when I was.

I can't imagine what it would have been like to be five in the early 80s, 90s, or - God forbid - now. The early 70s were perfect for children. Electric Company was busting a move, The Letter People, Captain Kangaroo and Mister Rogers' Neighborhood were all in full swing.

It was a darn good time to be alive - and children's education was just that - education. It wasn't a marketing ploy to sell plush toys, lunchboxes, videogames, chapstick, extra value meals, and sneakers.

Remember the book Free To Be... You and Me? It was, according to the cover, "a different kind of book for children and adults to enjoy together." It was also pretty radical for its time - probably for this time, even. The people who put this together weren't fucking around. Sexism, gender identity, consumer capitalism, and any other issue that might have turned children into materialistic, stuck-up jerks was addressed in this here book.

I'm sure kids today would hold their noses up at it and give it a big "P.U." - but the little creeps don't know what they're missing. This book molded my brain.

The Sunday School teacher at the Unitarian Universalist Church my parents dragged me to read it to all of us (Unitarians are Godless hippies, don't you know) and I remember particularly the "Ladies First" story by that pervert Shel Silverstein (I don't give a crap what ANY of you say - I HATE The Giving Tree) and being thoroughly petrified by it. Reading it today, I realize that the little snot got exactly what she deserved.

The book is filled with poems, songs, stories, art, and music that instill good leftist, socialist, tree-hugging values - you know, the ones that are so sorely lacking these days. Observe:

The Sun and the Moon

The Sun is filled with shining light
It blazes far and wide
The Moon reflects the sunlight back
But has no light inside.

I think I'd rather be the Sun
That shines so bold and bright
Than be the Moon, that only glows
With someone else's light

That sounds exactly like something Maude would have said to Harold.

Free To Be... You and Me was also a record, including the talents of stellar celebrities like Diana Ross, Marlo Thomas, Dick Cavett, Alan Alda, and even our dear Ms. Carol Channing. It's worth it just to hear Ms. Channing's rendition of the essay, "Housework."

You can hear it by clicking here.

Free To Be... You and Me - buy a copy of this book and force it on your children, whether they want to play their Wiis or not. They will grow beautifully and fortify the human race with peace, love and understanding. We're going to need it.

Thanks to N69N!

Euphoric Too.

2008-12-01T22:15:00.005-05:00

Here is the long out-of-print This Mortal Coil ep first released in 1983 (not including "Song To the Siren," which is available on It'll End In Tears).

Click here: This Mortal Coil.

Contributions from:

Michael Conroy - Bass (Modern English)

Elizabeth Fraser - Voice (Cocteau Twins)

Robin Guthrie - Guitar (Cocteau Twins)

Gary McDowell - Guitar (Modern English)

Gordon Sharp - Voice (Cindytalk)

Martin Young - Keyboards (Colour Box)

Enjoy it - it is delightful.

Euphoric.

2008-12-01T13:56:00.006-05:00

I've been on a This Mortal Coil bender for the past twenty-two years, ever since my friend Bernadette sent me It'll End In Tears and their initial self-titled ep in the mail. On vinyl, even.

This Mortal Coil, 4AD's "house band," combined the efforts of such greats as Modern English, Cocteau Twins, Dead Can Dance, Pixies, Throwing Muses, and many other talents and created something wonderful - and something that only lasted for three albums. Three albums is enough, though, because they border on perfection. They have been integral to my continued evolution. I owe them quite a bit and I'm pretty sure I've listened to them (at the very least) once a day since they were introduced to me.

Their available albums:

Blood

Filigree & Shadow

It'll End In Tears

Blood is my favorite, start to finish. Some people whine that Blood is too "mainstream" (presumably due to the lack of Lisa Gerrard) or some such nonsense - but I can guarantee you that it is a joy. Tanya Donelly and Kim Deal's rendition of "You and Your Sister" is good enough, but add to that "Late Night," "I Am the Cosmos," and - well - everything else - and you've got a fantastic CD, one that I have pushed on people since it was released.

If you're new to This Mortal Coil, I would suggest this - before dipping into this World of Wonders, please navigate yourself to the nearest Aveda Aesthetique and purchase a Euphoric Plant Pure-Fume Candle, get home as quickly as possible, light that thing and let its all-natural, ayurvedically-balanced beauty permeate your zone, then lie back, press play, and close your eyes. You will not regret it. You will witness your life changing.

An Early Christmas Present.

2008-12-01T11:36:00.003-05:00

Our good friend Barack Obama has announced today that Hillary Rodham Clinton is his choice for Secretary of State.

Not surprising, but still thoroughly and completely awesome. I love her and I love him. I hope they do their best to erase the jackassery we've all suffered through for the past eight years.

"Hillary's appointment is a sign to friend and foe of the seriousness of my commitment to renew American diplomacy and restore our alliances," Obama said at a news conference in Chicago, Illinois. "I have no doubt that Hillary Clinton is the right person to lead our State Department and to work with me in tackling this ambitious foreign policy agenda."

Things are looking up round these parts.

My All-Time Favorite Christmas Album.

2008-11-30T16:03:00.005-05:00

Do you remember a particular Christmas album that, no matter how schmaltzy, drags you kicking and screaming directly back to your childhood - a time when you got all warm and fuzzy writing your letters to Santa, sipping cocoa while watching those stop-action animation specials, and were too excited to get to sleep on Christmas Eve because you knew the next day was going to be so fucking awesome that you just couldn't stand it?

Well, my album like that is Living Voices - The Little Drummer Boy. I listened to my own personal copy of this cheesy little number so many times that the grooves were worn down to nothing. Hearing it again reminds me of my Tyrannosaurus Rex model with the glow-in-the-dark teeth and nails, my Mickey Mouse record player, my aunt Linda, and the utter and complete joy that was once-upon-a-time Christmas.

The Living Voices were a choral harmonizing wonder group. Their songs are soothingly drenched with fromage, and their accompanying band relies very heavily on our good friend Mr. Xylophone. Who could complain?

Since I love all of you, I'm going to share this album with you right now.

The Living Voices - Little Drummer Boy.

Download the hell out of this album, whip up some Swiss Miss, turn down the lights, and listen. This shit is off the chain, y'all.

Meanwhile, I'm not endorsing this album's intellectual or artistic merits. Please note that I was four when this album made its impact on me, and you should react accordingly.

Christmas is coming - the goose is getting fat.

2008-11-30T09:43:00.006-05:00

Now, it's no small secret that I'm pretty misanthropic. I would be quite content to see 3/4 of the human race crammed into a space capsule and shot off into the galaxy to orbit some distant planet until they all perished, preferably after having to go through some horrifying trauma like having to eat one another to cling to their last degrading moments of existence.

I've felt this way for years, primarily because on a daily basis I am given concrete examples of our status as a species gone wrong, one whose time has come for extinction, one whose selfishness, greed and blatant arrogance is dragging this planet and all its other denizens right down into the gutter.

And here is just one particularly Christmassy example of how low humanity has sunk: a temporary worker was trampled to death by over-eager Wal-Mart shoppers at the beginning of this so-called "Black Friday" shopping tradition that follows Thanksgiving. Over 2,000 cheapskate assholes were so desperate to get into that Wal-Mart store that they broke the doors down and stampeded over a man they KNEW was there in order to get to whatever Made In China plastic bullshit their stupid children "needed" for Christmas.

And the worst part - when the police got there and told shoppers to get out of the store because a man had died, the shoppers COMPLAINED. "I've been waiting since yesterday," one was quoted as saying bitchily. The prosimian morons actually refused to leave the store and continued shopping, defying all logic and sense of morality that may have been instilled in them by their weak genetic codes.

A man died because people wanted discounts on crap they don't need. A man died because we as a society are SO DESPERATE to make sure that our kids are spoiled. A man died because we have devolved to the point that a bargain is more important than compassion.

What was so pressing about getting into that Wal-Mart that these people actually felt compelled to trample someone to death? What did they think they were going to gain by getting into that purveyor of cheap, earth-destroying shit fifteen seconds earlier than if they had entered in an orderly fashion?

In that instant, the moment those doors caved in and crushed that man, these people proved just what humanity really is and what it has become thanks to the idiocy of consumer capitalism gone insanely wrong. Buying things is NOT the sole purpose of our existence. Our kids don't need to have EVERYTHING on their Christmas lists. They don't even need half of the things they've asked for. In fact, they'd become stronger and better people if they DIDN'T get everything they asked for.

I hope this monstrous act of greed and violence is isolated, but I doubt it. Every year, this Black Friday shit seems to get more and more frenzied.

Guns in Toys R Us - what the fuck is wrong with us?!?

Dang, it's almost December.

2008-11-29T19:57:00.002-05:00

Who's better than Nat "King" Cole? Not many people, that's for sure. My dad introduced me to this song when I was a child. I didn't think much of it at the time - I was in that "anything and everything my parents enjoy must be shit because they are, after all, my parents" mode. You know the one.

Fortunately, I grew out of that stage and have embraced Mr. Nat Cole as the fine and shiningly brilliant artist that he was (I can't say the same for his has-been parasite of a daughter, but that's another story).

Observe:

Wouldn't it be nice if songs were still so innocent and melodic? I certainly think so.

Kill her, mommy!

2008-11-10T10:51:00.006-05:00

I hate "reimaginings." I do. I thought Rob Zombie's "reimagining" of Halloween into a white trash nightmare world of swearing, rape and idiocy really demeaned the franchise, far beyond what Halloween 6: The Curse of Michael Myers ever could have, or even that purulent pile of horseshit Blair Witch Project ripoff Halloween: Resurrection did.

And don't even get me started on the Texas Chainsaw Massacre remake. Or The Fog remake. Or the Psycho remake. Or any of the other remakes of perfectly acceptable horror films. (I will say that the Dawn of the Dead remake was acceptable and in many ways preferable to the original - but that is an exception to the very simple rule that Bad Horror Movies Should Be Left Alone.)

Why oh why does a Hollywood bereft of creative vision or talent feel the need to remake every film ever made? It is an insult to the movie-going public, to the talents that created the originals and to Hollywood itself. You want to make a horror movie? Fine. Do what they did in the Eighties - the formula is very simple.

Observe:

Innocent girl somehow gets involved with sluts - cheerleaders, friends from school, cousins gone bad, any other variety - and they all go off for a jaunt in the country somewhere.

Some vagrant or local eccentric tells the story of a psychotic killer who is taking revenge against an uncaring society for some reason or another. He could have gotten beaten up during the local Easter Egg Hunt. Perhaps they threw him down a well at the Veterans Day Picnic. Maybe his home got torched after people mistakenly pinned him as the 'Riverbend Slasher.' Who can say - but the point is, the OPTIONS ARE ENDLESS. The innocent girl bemoans the psychotic killer's existence and pleads with her friends to turn back. "Shut up and stop being a baby," the pert-titted gaggle exclaims. "Let's get drunk!"

They all end up in a big house in the middle of nowhere. The innocent girl protests when boys arrive - with beer or dope - and various sluts end up coupling off and disappearing into rooms upstairs.

One by one the couples die, leaving the innocent girl and the one boy from the group who hadn't attempted to play 'slip-n-slide' - as they go searching for their friends, corpses a-plenty get strewn around and the killer finally reveals himself.

A Big chase ensues, with the innocent girl seemingly victorious, until the surprise ending leaves it open for the inevitable 952 sequels.

You see, Hollywood? I just did your job for you. Pull your heads out of your asses already.

What was the point of this rant? Well, specifically the upcoming Friday the 13th "reimagining."

Now, I've been a fan of Friday the 13th FOREVER. Way back when the first film came out, I watched it over at Frankie Quinto's house (my parents wouldn't let me see it) and we all screamed and jumped as Pamela chopped the fuck out of those slutty teens until she met her match in the whiney Alice. I was hooked. Sequel after sequel, each of worse and worse quality, came - and I saw them all many, many MANY times. I can probably quote Friday the 13th Part 2 line by line, start to finish - that's how many times I saw that thing.

So now they're remaking it. Friday the 13th. WHY? WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY? Why take this classic trash horror film and make it into a slick, stylized piece of shit movie that is destined to bomb before it even gets to the theater? WHY? If you have to further the franchise, then make a fucking genuine Friday the 13th Part 11 or a sequel to Freddy Vs. Jason. Why do the dreary, predictable, LAZY thing and tell a story that's already been told?

Hollywood - I hate you.

"Darling, You're Letting the Flies Out," or Ed Wood Month, Part III.

2008-10-06T11:09:00.002-04:00

"Pornography. A nasty word for a dirty business."

What can one say about The Sinister Urge? It's got everything - sex, violence, bad dialogue, gangsters, bar fights, gams, booze, the porno racket, and good cops out to sever the jugular of the seedy criminal underworld.

Ed Wood's hilarious and retarded "expose of the pornography industry" was basically an excuse to show tits, gams and ass to a public that really didn't care. This was Ed Wood's last legitimate film before he really slid into the downward spiral of pornography loops and wretched topless films like the almost unwatchable Orgy of the Dead.

I love The Sinister Urge with all my heart. Its "serious" look at the "ugly business" of pornography is hilariously over the top. When a "tax-payer" comes to scream at the detective in charge of fighting pornography or this "silly dirty picture business," as the citizen puts it, the detective goes off on a rant in which he connects every single crime in the world to the pornography industry. Break up porno and save the world, he says.

The leader of the "syndicate" in town is a loud-mouthed, horrid dame named Gloria who lures unsuspecting young girls into showing their legs on film. She lounges around her glamorous home and barks orders to her various toadies, believing herself to be untouchable. Of course, after a little over an hour of gams and bosoms, she gets her just desserts and gets shipped off to the big house.

This movie's difficult to find, for some unknown reason. The best place to look for it on DVD is Sinister Cinema - yet another DELICIOUS outlet for all sorts of exploitation, horror and b-movies.

Take note - Ed Wood himself makes a cameo in this movie. In one of my favorite scenes, one of Gloria's workers, a bullet-bra-wearing tramp who runs the porno racket at the local high school, goes to one of her distributors and roughs him up. "I'm gonna cram that ice cream down his throat," she treatens, and then does just that. Later, she's at a restaurant where a fight breaks out for no apparent reason. One of the combatants is Ed Wood himself, sliding down into the dirt and beating the crap out of some schmegeggy.

I'm not the only fellow who loves this movie - Rob Zombie named one of his albums after it.

Why I Love New York, #1.

2008-10-05T12:58:00.007-04:00

What is it? Bloody stool? Spaghetti sauce? The contents of a lanced boil? Your guess is as good as mine, but there it is, unabashedly on display at the Lafayette Street subway stop here in good ol' Fort Greene, Brooklyn. You never know what you'll come across when you venture out into the streets of this wonderful city - bum piss, defecation, dead rats, syringes, vomit, discarded wigs, missing limbs - they're all here! You've just got to look for them!

New York City - a place of charm and grace. A place where you can find anything.

"Yes, there's a name for a girl like that..."

2008-10-04T19:14:00.011-04:00

What record from your past did you hear for the first time and know - there and then - that your life was changing?

I think the record that has had the longest, deepest (dang that sounds dirty) impact on my life has been "Forbidden City Dog Food," a compilation bootleg made from tapes Lux Interior and Poison Ivy played as the pre-show warmup for Cramps concerts.

The music on this album was of tragic, schmaltzy quality, and that was what attracted me to it. Rockabilly, exotica, lounge - the lowest-rent of each of these genres was featured. Here's the tracklist:

The Screw - Crystals
The Bee - Kenny Henkle's Friends
Do The Pig - Mercedes & Blue Notes
O-Ma-Liddy - J.J. Jackson
Forbidden City - John Buck & the Blazers
Ungaua - Kingpins
China Rock - Florence Pepper
Noisy Village - Rod McKuen
Wow Wow Yea Yea - Dynamos
The Lamb Shake - Sliders
Sour Biscuits - Wes Dakus
Dog Food - Wes Dakus & the Rebels

Now, that tracklist in itself would make for a pretty good listen. But you wouldn't want to hear it more than a few times. "Not that again," you'd say if someone wanted to play it.

There are a few things that make this compilation special. The first is the cover - it's a collage of ultra-sleaze advertisements from the 1950s and 60s making statements like, "Unusual... Clubs, fotos, films, bondage, discipline, wrestling, fetishism, nudism, etc. ADULTS ONLY! Send $1." and "Sun-bathing movies. European girls - Natural, Unretouched!" and "Raised Skirt Movies!"

The second is what's in between each of the tracks listed above. Whoever whipped up this little number placed in between each song a radio spot - a 30 second commercial - for sleazy exploitation movies from the 60s and 70s. "May I say 'yes' to you?" a trampy teen coos. "The traffic is murder in Death Race 2000!" an announcer yells. "Breaker one-niner, this is bedbugger out of BR town..." a CB-talkin' trucker yodels. Yes, this LP is ALL ACTION ALL THE TIME.

I heard this record at a time in my life where I was just learning about the oeuvres of such sinematic geniuses as Herschell Gordon Lewis, Russ Meyer, John Waters, Ed Wood, and the like. This record's passing my musical threshold was NOT an accident; I was meant to find it.

Because of this album, my love of trashy cinema grew and grew and grew. I started to collect exploitation movie radio spot 45" records and the films that accompanied them. Yes, it's true - most of the films are too terrible to watch, but the radio advertisements make them sound so sexsational and blood-drenchingly horrific that one simply HAS to see them!

This album, and others like it, is best when listened to with a red lightbulb (or blue) as your only light source. Lie back and remember when sex and violence were taboo and why stuff like this was shocking and so much fun, and why the people who dared to create it back then were the TRUE mavericks.

The two audio playlists are of some of the exploitation movie radio spots I've collected over the years. If you want to hear some of the songs that are on this LP, you can find them on the exceptionally brilliant CDs called Songs The Cramps Taught Us or the Frolic Diner series. They are worth seeking out; they are gems packed to overflowing with rare and awesome music.

"You've all got guns! Get 'em into action." or, Ed Wood Month, Part II.

2008-10-03T09:40:00.011-04:00

My introduction to Edward D. Wood, Jr. came at a very early age, thanks in part to local horror movie host, Dr. Paul Bearer. Dr. Paul, each and every Saturday for the majority of my childhood, would play one, two or three cheesy horror movies from days gone by, interspersing them with short skits and ramblings. Yes, he was a childhood hero, and he even had a real-life glass eye.

Dr. Paul showed Plan Nine From Outer Space when I was a young'n. Of course I thought it was deplorably bad. I was only interested in Godzilla, Gamera, Rodan, and Gigan - who cared about these space jerks reanimating dead people to show humans that their military ambitions were taking them on a trajectory that would lead to universal doom?

At the time, I didn't get the "bad = good" thing. Years later, a friend at Warren Wilson College in Swannannoa, North Carolina, gave me a copy of a book that would change my life - Incredibly Strange Films. Within was an essay regarding Edward D. Wood, Jr. As soon as got home from my freshman year of college, I made it my mission to find and memorize every single one of Ed Wood's films.

This task, back then in 1989, was a little more difficult than one would imagine. The internet had not yet come into play, nor were DVDs yet available. Down home in St. Petersburg, we had a Blockbuster Video on Fourth Street that actually, before they became a reactionary and censoring "family" corporation, contained a 'cult films' section, featuring everything from John Waters' X-Rated films to the campily revolting Criminally Insane, a film about a fatass who goes on a murderous rampage after her mother puts a padlock on the refrigerator to keep her from eating so much. There, nestled in amongst all of the glorious perversion, were three Ed Wood films, and one that had Mr. Wood had written, but had received no credit for.

This was the one that immediately attracted my attention.

The Violent Years opens with a narrator letting us know, "This is a story of violence." As this disembodied voice rambles to us about the tragedy of juvenile delinquency in America, girls pass by the camera, giving hateful glares at a chalkboard on which are written words espousing good behavior and courtesy.

The movie is an exploitative "JD" film, trying to cash in on the frenzy whipped up by the "menace of teen gangs" people experienced in the 1950s (if they only knew what was to come), and Ed Wood's influence is seen throughout, though as I said, he used a pen name when writing the script.

The movie is hilarious. It's about a Teen Queen who, when ignored by her socialite mother and newspaper mogul father, decides to go "for kicks" and forms a girl gang, terrorizing her local community, raping men, selling purloined jewelry through fences, and ultimately, thrill-killing. It's got it all - Teen Pregnancy, pre-marital sex, tight outfits, sluts, drunks, crime, and "vulgar jazz words." It's all topped off with a morality speech by "the judge" that is so cheesy and revolting that it might just make you barf.

Trust me when I tell you that this is a life-altering movie. I've watched it over and over again; I give it as a gift (our friends at Something Weird video have it as a drive-in double feature DVD with the equally ludicrous, but non-Ed Wood, film Girl Gang - take a gander here. This DVD is CHOCK FULL of extras - trailers, radio spots, short subjects. Something Weird never disappoints in their DVD presentations, and this is a shining example of how lovingly these nerds preserve this genre).

Ed Wood's script-writing skills flourished in this film. Imagine the most inane dialogue possible, and then multiply that by 200, and you'll have this script. Let's just say it's all part of a well-organized foreign plan.

Please promise me you'll watch this movie. Ed Wood worked his ass off so we could make fun of him (lovingly) for eternity, and he got nothing in return but a life of alcoholism, abandonment and destitution.

No glue, no mess!

2008-10-02T09:17:00.003-04:00

For some unknown reason - way back in 1985 - I got addicted to General Hospital. When I say addicted, I mean ADDICTED. Like a heroin junkie trembling in a puddle of his own filth, if I missed an episode I was beside myself with grief.

At the center of this maelstrom of idiocy was Anna Devane, as portrayed by Ms. Finola Hughes. I connected with Ms. Hughes IMMEDIATELY, despite her role in the tragic sequel to Saturday Night Fever. I cut her pictures out of magazines. I hung on her every word. I wrote her fan letters.

On the program, she had a daughter with Robert Scorpio. At one point in the drama, her daughter, Robin, was kidnapped and held captive in the "Asian Quarter" of Port Charles. In a touching scene, Ms. Devane and Robin were reunited - briefly - and let me tell you what. I had a nervous breakdown.

My cousin Kathy had come over to pick me up so we could go shopping at John's Pass Boardwalk, home of Florida kitsch and tackiness, including an Official Red Skelton Art store (who wants paintings of that fuckface dressed up as a clown? The mind reels), but I couldn't move. I was so distraught over the scene that I stood there with my hands over my mouth, unable to talk, for at least ten minutes.

I found out years later that my mother had considered placing me in a home after witnessing that particular idiocy. Here's the scene:

I never heard back from Ms. Hughes, even though I wrote her on numerous occasions. Devastated, but not one to admit defeat, I decided to write to another star of the show and get HER autograph.

"Who! Who was it!" I'm quite sure you're all asking. Well, it was none other than Leslie Charleson, also known as Dr. Monica Quartermaine. ("Monica likes to have her fun - that is why she had a son. She told Rick he was the dad! Soon found out that he'd been had," the famous 'General Hospi-tale' rap, as performed by the Afternoon Delights, states).

Unlike her coworker, Ms. Charleson actually wrote me back. "Dear Ben," she wrote, "I'm thrilled you enjoy our show. I'm also very excited about my new product - Magic Mud! Enclosed is an ad for it. I hope you enjoy it. Love, Leslie."

Now, in the letter I wrote to Ms. Charleson, I stated very clearly that I was a fifteen-year old BOY - one who, although obviously of questionable sexuality since he was writing soap opera stars, most likely was NOT in the market for "Magic Mud." But whatever. I got an autograph from one of Ms. Hughes' coworkers, and that's what counts.

I watched General Hospital through the whole Asian Quarter mess and then through that endless Laurelton story line (none of which I can recall at all, except that it was dull). My adoration of this dreary shit was replaced by goth and industrial music, Andy Warhol, John Waters, and Philip Glass. I don't know if my parents were relieved or more taken aback by the switch, but whatever. It's their genes' faults, after all. They ain't got no one to blame but themselves for this shit up in here.

The only thing I have retained from all of this nonsense was the everlasting memory of the Lee Press On Nails commercial, which aired about seventeen times during each episode. They REALLY wanted their viewers to wear press on nails! I would recite this commercial to all of my friends at school, like a mantra of stupidity, and they would repeat it back to me. We all loved it. And I still do.

It pops into my head at random moments - "No glue, no mess!" People stare at me like I'm retarded, and they're probably right. But it's just one of those things, like listening to the Grease soundtrack or watching Star Wars, that reminds me of simpler, gentler times.

Marky Mae Declares October as International Ed Wood Month

2008-10-01T10:03:00.005-04:00

It's October, y'all! Let's celebrate the best month of the year by honoring one of cinema's best and worst directors. Yes, I am talking about my friend and mentor, Mr. Edward D. Wood, Jr.

As a filmmaker, Ed Wood sucked. But he sucked AWESOMELY. I invite you to view his films this month and realize why he has been immortalized and imitated for the past several decades. If you're unfamiliar with Mr. Ed Wood's oeuvre, may I suggest starting your celebration of this genius by viewing the wonderful, though factually inaccurate film, Ed Wood, directed by Mr. Tim Burton:

Once you've watched Mr. Burton's homage to Ed Wood, you simply MUST move on to the director's actual films.

His most famous, of course, is Plan Nine From Outer Space, with its inane dialogue like "The saucers are up there. And the cemetery's out there. But I'll be locked up in there" and "We are all interested in the future for that is where you and I are going to spend the rest of our lives."

You'll marvel as actors stumble through a graveyard set and trip over the headstones, which wobble and fall down. You'll gasp with wonder at the "Stunt double" for Bela Lugosi, who died while the film was being made. You'll applaud Vampira's dialogue-free depiction of a ghoul from beyond the grave, and swoon at Bunny Breckinridge's queeny / campy role as "The Ruler."

Observe a small sample:

This guy has been one of my heroes for almost as long as I can remember. I hope y'all appreciate him as much as I do! I'll drool about more of his films as time permits, because while Plan Nine is his most famous, it is far from his "best."

The Traffic Is Murder!

2008-09-30T17:14:00.005-04:00

Treasure Island Fun Center - back when it actually WAS in Treasure Island - was THE hot spot destination for Pinellas County kids in the 70s and 80s. Sure, there was Aladdin's Castle and Piggy's Place - but those arcades were smaller and always overcrowded.

Treasure Island Fun Center had it all - pinball, pool, ski ball, weird and frightening clowns painted throughout the building, and - starting in the mid-70s - video games.

I remember the first video game I ever saw. The side panels of the cabinet had two Grim Reapers, looking particularly aggressive, driving dune buggies. The game's goal was simple - you're one of the Grim Reapers and you have to run over as many pedestrians as possible. When you hit a pedestrian, he/she immediately turns into a tombstone.

The one who kills the most people wins!

It was about as technologically advanced as Pong, the various characters barely discernible from one another - just a black and white mass of nothingness. Its premise, however, TERRIFIED me as a child. I guess I must have been six when it came out. I vowed to scour the planet until I could find out what the hell that game was.

I finally found it. The game was called Death Race, and was based loosely on the film Death Race 2000 starring David Carradine.

I guess I wasn't the only person who found the plot of the game to be a little gruesome - apparently a big stink was made about the game and it was pulled from most locations. I'm lucky that I got to play it before it was yanked from Treasure Island Fun Center, only to be replaced years later by the ever so much more wholesome House of the Dead.

The 1970s - the end of innocence. It's funny what sticks with you from your childhood, though.

I wish I could play that game just one more time... I'm sure by now I'd be bored with it after about three minutes.

Long Ago and Oh So Far Away

2008-09-30T16:34:00.004-04:00

I just need to say it once again - I love Karen Carpenter.

If I may be nostalgic for a moment... (part I)

2008-09-26T16:41:00.005-04:00

Dang, youtube has everything. Here in a nutshell is my childhood:

WTOG, long-since taken over by crappy UPN, was the local station in St. Pete when I was a kid. I learned all about horror movies, Ultraman and the Little Rascals due to this television station.

Zayre - next to the Kash N Karry and Galen Drugs - was our local discount department store, complete with the BEST gumball machines on the planet. I fiddled with the only remote control Sand Crawler I ever saw in this here toy department, and I was pissed when I didn't get it for christmas.

Dang, what this show did to me as a child. I watched it chaque matin avant que going to Admiral Farragut for my YMCA swimming lessons with Terri West.

I still have all of my Burger Chef Star Wars posters and glasses. I remember the punch-out C-3PO playset they had for their first "Star Wars meals" and I probably still have that somewhere, too. My parents - if it said "Star Wars" on it, they saved it. Because they're geeks just like me.

Farrell's. My brother worked here. I can't even begin to describe this place... from the Zoo sundaes to the candy counter on the way out, this place was just about the best dang thing in the entire universe. And then it closed and turned into a god damn Ruby Tuesday's. Assholes...

Dr. Paul Bearer hosted "Creature Feature" on WTOG every Saturday for as long as I can remember. I would sit there and watch Gamera beat the fuck out of Japan or Dracula sucking some hoe dry while gobbling Hershey's or some other crap food. If it weren't for Dr. Paul Bearer I would be a completely different person today. I don't know whether or not I should thank him for his contribution to my perversion, but whatever. He's dead and I can't change.

All I can say is, "Wow."

2008-09-24T20:24:00.001-04:00

This is the first time I have allowed myself to hear this inane cretin's voice. For realz, yo. I have avoided hearing her speak, I don't want to know her thoughts, opinions, missteps, idiocies. But I had to watch Katie Couric bust a BIG TIME move on this asshole. Oh. My. God. That's all I can say. This woman knows NOTHING. She knows absolutely NOTHING about her running mate, the government, the country.

And I wish all these people would take this "maverick" shit and, to borrow a phrase from Lil Chrissy, "fold it in four and shove it up." Maverick, my ass. He's just as clueless as this bitch.

Click here, read, and watch the video. A-may-zing.

Mary, please.

2008-09-24T17:07:00.002-04:00

Ooh, Mr. Helperz John McCain wants to "suspend his campaign" to tend to the economic crisis. Mr. Hero. Who does this asshole think he's kidding?

Democrats - not just spineless, but stupid too!

2008-09-21T09:08:00.005-04:00

We figured when the Democrats gained control of congress that things might - just might - take a turn for the better.

Instead, we saw a majority leader with the charisma of a retarded duck and a speaker of the house who refused without exception to hear any calls for President Simian's impeachment until very recently. "Impeachment is off the table," Ms. Pelosi said, despite the glaring fact that our president is in charge of a vast network of thieves, liars, hypocrites, idiots, marmosets, douchebags, and downright evil people.

Alas - the Democrats' victory two years ago was a hollow one. Nothing - that's what they've done. They posture, they whine, they act indignant toward the president's disgusting disregard for the law - and yet, he's still getting away with it. Chaque jour.

This election coming up - everyone thinks it's our last hope. "We MUST take back the White House," democrats cry. And I agree with them. It is imperative to our well-being not only as a country but as a PLANET to get these greedy, big business coddling dickfucks OUT OF OFFICE.

And yet, hope fades. Why? Because humans, Americans in particular, it would seem, are just fucking stupid. Observe:

WASHINGTON - Deep-seated racial misgivings could cost Barack Obama the White House if the election is close, according to an AP-Yahoo News poll that found one-third of white Democrats harbor negative views toward blacks — many calling them "lazy," "violent" or responsible for their own troubles.

Really? Are you people serious? Is this not the 21st Century?

Now, I'm no Rocket Scientist here, but that poll tells me something. Y'all aren't Democrats - y'all are racist assholes.

If you're actually considering - even briefly - voting for that geriatric war mongering bastard who can't even get his facts straight for prepared speeches even though he's been in official positions for God knows how long and his little thin-lipped, land-raping idiot sidekick - then you're not a Democrat. You're a Republican. Just switch your party alignment right now.

"Well, I'm a life-long Democrat, but I just really think blacks are lazy so I couldn't vote for Obama. I voted for McCain," you might say. This line of thinking stands directly opposed to what Democrats stand for and, in fact, what America stands for. I can tell you this much - Barack and Michelle Obama have worked harder and gotten farther with their lives than probably ANY of you asshole "Democrats" who are worried about having a "lazy" black president.

You people aren't Democrats. You people are morons.

Get out your hoods and robes and join the rest of the unthinking white supremacist jackasses who cling to their insipid ideas that "white people are better."

What is it with these entitled asswipe parents?

2008-09-16T19:17:00.006-04:00

Say you're in a restaurant and you see an Urban Outfitters-clad asswipe with that "Williamsburg art director" air of superiority about him and his wife who weighs about sixteen pounds both talking on separate iPhones. They're blocking the aisle with their designer stroller they use for the younger of their children, but where's the other one?

Where did the little imp go?

Why, he's running amok throughout the restaurant, making faces at people, climbing over booths, getting in the waitstaff's way, being an obnoxious poster child for Planned Parenthood. The disinterested parents couldn't care less that their offspring is running around being a dildo. From time to time, the mother will turn in its direction and say something like, "Honey, that's not nice," or "Say you're sorry to the nice lady for spilling coffee all over her pants," but then she'll go right back to ignoring the hyper toddler because she's too busy talking about the "really amazing" time she had at her yoga retreat. "He was so spiritual," you can hear her say.

What's with these assholes? Where did parenting skills go? They have these babies, spend up to a thousand dollars on their double-wide strollers, perambulate the neighborhood, blocking everywhere they go - but they don't discipline their children. Their children are more like accessories than an opportunity to further the human race. And these parents - they gather. They gather and they all talk about how smart THEIR children are. Or what THEIR children did at daycare. Or what THEIR children said the other night that makes them SO glad they became parents. They act as if their ability to squeeze a fucking larva out of their bodies has somehow made them better than everyone else.

Guess what, y'all - ALL animals fuck and have babies, and I can tell you this much - all other animals do it a hell of a lot less obnoxiously. Monkeys don't have to carry around ninety pounds worth of accessories just to walk down the street to meet a friend; dolphins don't bloviate to one another about their babies; skinks don't shop at specialty boutiques to find 'educational toys' (boring toys) for their intellectually superior children. No, they don't. Animals excrete their children, hang out with them till the little assholes can gather food on their own and then they move the fuck on.

Meanwhile, these obnoxious parents who litter the prepared foods section at Whole Foods and allow their brats to use would-be empty booths as jungle gyms - they're raising loathsome, spoiled beasts who are going to be INSUFFERABLE in twenty years.

You people - and you know who you are - PAY ATTENTION to what your children are doing. I don't want to have to shoo away your stupid baby as it peers at me over the back of a booth, smashing crackers all over the place while you just stare on and smile. I don't want to have to watch people swerving to miss your obnoxious babies as they play "tag" in the middle of a fucking grocery store while you and your friend talk about what an "amazing teacher Lilias is." I don't give two shits whether or not you find non-GMO soy protein - get your fucking child and your stroller OUT OF MY WAY. Grab your child and keep the little bastard in line.

Get some parenting skills.

Don't even get me started on the opposite end of the spectrum. I don't know which one is worse. Let's just say that yesterday after work I saw two very ample women pushing two strollers with about three other children UNDER FIVE scampering around them, and one said to the other, "I told that motherfucker she come by me one more time I'ma slap her motherfuckin face off..."

We are so screwed. Either way you look at it.

ADDENDUM!

Picture it - my friend and coworker Lil Chrissy and I were just attempting to enter Le Pain Quotidien for a light lunch where, behold, a stupid bitch with a baby had her stroller placed DIRECTLY in front of the door, making it next to impossible to enter the establishment. Yes - she was, of course, talking on a cell phone. I looked right at her and snipped, "Nice place for your baby," to which her friend frantically responded, "OH MY GOD, DID YOU HEAR WHAT HE JUST SAID?" But you know what? Upsetting Twat 1 and Twat 2 was worth it. I am fed up with these people in this city blatantly disregarding that there are OTHER PEOPLE WHO LIVE HERE and that they are NOT the center of the universe. I hope that stupid bitch thinks long and hard about my admonitions, though I doubt she will. She probably thinks she was "wronged" by a bitter, sarcastic fag. Still, being able to put my disdain for these people into action made my day and I am in a 250% better mood than I was when I woke up. Yelling at people - it works!

(Note - I know many people who have had babies recently who are doing JUST FINE at raising their children, so thankfully this is not a totally lost art.)

You Got Me Hotter'n Georgia asphalt.

2008-09-13T22:23:00.006-04:00

I scoured the earth looking for one of these bastards after seeing and becoming completely obsessed with Mr. David Lynch's travel and romance classic film, Wild At Heart. Lula plays with one in a bar in New Orleans. She can't stop talkin' 'bout that town!

In case you don't recall, this mermaid is rubber. There's a crank on the bottom - when you spin the crank, the mermaid does a seductive little dance. If you maneuver it just right, her bosoms smash against the plastic like "Catholic High School Girls In Trouble" from Kentucky Fried Movie.

Wild At Heart came out at a very special time in my life. Whenever I watch it, I'm transported back to North Carolina and the Blue Ridge Parkway, "Heaven or Las Vegas" by the Cocteau Twins, and smoking cigarettes with my friends Norn and Amelia while lounging around being fabulous.

I vowed I'd find one of these god damn mermaids.

And I FINALLY did, after typing "vintage mermaid" into eBay on an almost daily basis for about six years. When it popped up on the screen, I was at work - I shrieked like a six year old girl who was being chased by a boy holding a frog. I vowed I'd stop at nothing to win that auction, but luckily it didn't come to that - apparently, I'm the only person who cares. But now I have it, and I can reenact that Wild At Heart moment whenever I want to.

My dog barks some...

A Trip Down Fourth Avenue and Round the Bend.

2008-09-13T22:06:00.010-04:00

I took a stroll down Fourth Avenue in Park Slope recently and took a few snapshots. Here you go.

This is the sort of shitty fucking building they're replacing trees
and buildings that weren't shitty or ugly with. Everywhere.

Shitty fucking building-to-be.

Purveyor of fine goods.

Trust them with your loved ones.

Just like what my first car, Mr. Shuttle, looked like.
Oh, how I miss Mr. Shuttle.

Appropriate for the neighborhood.

One can find beauty anywhere if one looks hard enough.

Why did you tell me to come this way, Grizelda? You know I hate nature!

This water will cause the skin to slide off your bones if you touch it.

Doomed - you're all DOOMED!

2008-09-11T09:43:00.003-04:00

United Nations Climate Change Expert Rajenda Pachauri reiterated earlier this week that cutting red meat out of our diets is the most immediate way to curtail global warming:

Even having one meat-free day a week will help cut greenhouse-gas emissions and other environmental problems -- including habitat destruction -- associated with rearing cattle and other livestock, Rajendra Pachauri, chairman of the U.N. Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change, told The Observer of London.

The scary thing is - people already knew this. It was reported when the U.N. Panel on Climate Change's report came out last year.

The scarier thing is - people haven't done anything about it. I know plen-T o' people who have said, "Oh yeah, I know it's important, but I really like hamburgers."

LAME.

Let me tell you what - cutting hamburgers, steak, steak-ums, and any other variety of red meat out of your diet is NOT that huge a sacrifice. In the big scheme of things - that ain't shit. To NOT cut red meat out of your diet - or at least cut down on it - is just downright selfish.

Sure, there are people who actually get that global warming is serious and derail their entire existences by giving up almost EVERYTHING that could possibly contribute to global warming, feeling guilty about the plastic containers their seltzer comes in or the fact that they travel every now and then - but those people are few and very far between.

Then there are people who think global warming is a scam - braindead cretins who have been conditioned by the neocon oil bigwigs and mind control fundamentalist Christian cults (yes, that's right, I said CULTS) that global warming is either a "liberal ploy" (a ploy for what, exactly? Cleaner air? Trees? Excuse me, but if it IS a liberal ploy to get those things, then fine by me) or "God's Will" (ask Ann Coulter). They're stupid, and they deserve what's happening.

The rest of us don't. The rest of us - people with brains - have a responsibility to do what we can to curtail this horror we've wreaked on the planet. Like termites burrowing through and devastating houses, we've overrun the earth in all the wrong ways, and now every living being is in jeopardy.

Give up the fucking hamburgers already. I don't want to hear, "But I like red meat too much." That's asinine. Given some of the sacrifices we're going to have to make in the near future if we don't shape up, removing red meat from your diet is a piece of cake.

My Life As a Garbage Man Part VI - the Front Loader Years

2008-09-10T09:22:00.007-04:00

Front loader in ACTION

I had been working as a garbage man for two years and had gotten the routine down. I loved it - the wind blowing through my hair as I clung to the back of that garbage truck while it zoomed way too fast down the main streets of Clearwater - I felt like a serious badass. My fluorescent orange and reflective green vest signified to people that I was kicking garbage's ASS.

Plus, I had gone from being a doughy pile of fat with man-breast and love handles to having thighs of steel and the ability to lift major appliances. Who could complain about such a transformation?

I was going out mostly on the "recycling run" - picking up huge hunks of metal, broken air conditioners, TVs, refrigerators, microwaves. When I wasn't being utilized on that thoroughly butch task, I was either with Al and Chico or Wheaty and Darnell on the regular trash run. I became very good friends with these garbage men.

Al, my "father figure" at the Sanitation Yard - took to calling me Benny B and always asked my dipshit supervisor to include me on his routes. When buttplug did NOT include me on Al's route, Al got incensed. "Why you gotta fuck wit Benny B?" he would yell. "He a good man!"

When I worked with Al, we would generally make "stops." We would go to his friends' houses, Circle Ks, wherever. We stopped at his house once and he asked me if I wanted a soda. "Sure," I replied. He went into his garage, came back with a generic grape soda - the crappy kind family members you don't like bring to picnics - handed it to me, and then said, "that's a dollar." I laughed, but then he told me he needed a dollar. He wasn't kidding.

After working with Al and Chico and Darnell and Wheaty, I was told I was being put on "special assignment." Apparently, one of the front-end loader workers was incarcerated and they needed a replacement. I groaned. I didn't think front-end loader work would be as fun - it seemed so bland.

Front-end loaders, for the uninitiated, are the trucks with those huge prongs that lower and pick up gigantic dumpsters. The route I would be working as a front-end loader assistant would be primarily business - restaurants, malls, hospitals, churches, and the like. We stopped at the occasional apartment complex, but they were sprinkled lightly throughout our industrial run.

The man I was assigned to was named "Mack." He was a squat white man who never, ever talked. EVER.

He drove a truck with a bumper sticker on it that said "I Love Fishin'."

Even then, when I clamored to gobble up as many formerly-living animals as humanly possible, I found fishing to be a loathsome sport - particularly the act of catching a fish, pulling it out of the water, ripping the hook from its mouth, and then throwing it back. Because, despite what DUMB FUCKS say - fish experience pain. It is a proven fact.

I was already starting off on the wrong foot with this joker. Fishing bums me out, and he loved it. He didn't smoke, and wouldn't let me smoke in the cab of the truck - issue #2. Although I abhor smoking with every fiber of my being now,, I was a voracious smoker back then, inhaling up to (and at times exceeding) two packs - yes, two - of Camel Filters (or Wides, which were trendy at the time) a day. His inability to support my habit made me grouchy and unpleasant, more so than usual, and I took to lighting one up at almost every single stop, sucking it down as if my life depended on getting that whole cigarette's smoky loveliness into my lungs in one breath. I got very good at it.

Mack did "favors" for some places in return for services or goods. He made arrangements with the managers to pick up their garbage on unscheduled days in return for stuff. Highly illegal - but who was I to complain? I got kickbacks too.

One of the stops he made a deal with was the McDonald's on Missouri Avenue. We would pull into that McDonald's and get whatever comestibles we wanted - generally quite a bit, from what I recall. He stocked the fuck up on that McDonald's trash and ate it all day long. McMuffins, hash browns, whatever. The bitch crammed that stuff DOWN.

My job consisted mostly of getting out of the truck at each stop, running out into the middle of the street and stopping oncoming traffic, waving him back and making sure he didn't run into any telephone poles, pedestrians, kittens, or puppies.

Many times, the dumpsters he needed to empty were placed in areas inaccessible to the truck, so I would have to drag them out into the street. Those fucking things are HEAVY, especially when they're full of trash, so my upper body got disproportionately strong. At least I was getting exercise.

As mentioned before, at the end of each route I had to get up inside the back of the truck and scrape the slime out. Now that we were dealing with restaurants, the slime became more intense and revolting - a viscous, shimmering form of oily compost that stank beyond one's comprehension and lingered on the skin for days. I got it in my hair, my eyes, my mouth. I came home every day encased in a shell of dried restaurant goo.

We were going along at a pretty regular routine, saying nothing to each other, listening to the oldies station in the cab of the truck, and whatnot when what I refer to as "The Chinese Restaurant Incident" occurred. It is a nightmarish event that haunts me to this day. I wake up screaming, in a cold sweat, and have to take deep breaths to calm myself down.

This particular Chinese restaurant had a reputation for the roaches that crawled freely throughout its kitchens and dining area. There were whispers that the chicken was anything but, and only the bravest or cheapest of souls dared cross its threshold in search of subgum fried rice.

Mack approached and lanced the dumpster expertly. Then he lifted the thing up into the air and turned it over, but he missed the truck's roof opening. Yes, he missed. The one time he ever made a mistake in the entire time I worked with him, and it had to be at this place.

An ocean of slime, "meat," eggs, rotten vegetables, and God knows what else came sliding down like a Rain of Despair out of the sky. I watched it, as if it were being shown in slow motion, shower the truck, the parking lot, the street, parked cars with a layer of yellowish and chunky liquid mixed with large hunks of animal carcass, celery stalks, egg shells, and other things that start to stink after sitting in 100 degree heat for days.

Mack got out of the truck. He didn't apologize. He didn't say anything. He got a shovel out of the storage area and handed it to me. Then he went back and sat down in the truck.

I approached the main Lake of Doom and looked at it. Where was I supposed to put this shit? It would be impossible to clear this crap out without a typhoon pouring inches of rain down onto the scene. But I lifted my shovel, readying it for the task.

Then I noticed that the Lake of Doom was moving.

I leaned in closer. Maggots. Maggots the size of my pinky - big, brown maggots. Hundreds of them. I used to think those little white ones were horrid until I saw these leviathans. I shuddered to think what type of fly would actually spring forth from these Hutt-like creatures.

I braved the maggots and started scraping gunk up and flinging it back into the dumpster. All was going well until I reached the more solid portion of the dumpster's contents. When I disturbed it, something happened.

Do y'all remember that scene in the first Creepshow, the one in which the germ-phobic rich guy runs around his apartment killing every single roach he finds, only to be overtaken and consumed by roaches?

I stuck my shovel into a mound of vegetables. It was as if I had tapped into a reservoir of oil. A sea of black sprayed out, but it was alive - and it was roaches. German cockroaches. Flying cockroaches. "Stinkbugs" - the grossest type of roach I can think of - they leapt out of that mound of trash and onto me as if I were their mothership.

I threw my shovel, flailed, shrieked like a six-year old girl. They were in my hair, up my pants legs, in my shirt. "Jesus FUCK, get them off of me!" I moaned. But Mack, he just sat there, looking on with that expressionless tub of a face.

After what seemed like hours, I managed to make the area appear clean, though a thick stench of decay lingered heavy in the air. I got in the truck and we continued on our way.

The Chinese Restaurant Incident was never mentioned again. The next day, we stopped at McDonald's and got our breakfast burritos and McMuffins like any other morning.

What's the difference?

2008-09-09T16:07:00.007-04:00

Can you tell? Is there one?

Oh, wait. Yes, I know what it is - the Emperor was smart.

(Thanks to Ethan for the heads-up on the similarities, at least superficially, between these two people/planet-subjugating dictators)

Look at me, look at me, look at me, look at me...

2008-09-06T23:00:00.009-04:00

So, Australian cult favorite program 'Kath & Kim', which has had me as an enthusiast ever since my friend Norn introduced me to it, is coming to America.

The American version will star Molly Shannon and Selma Blair (who has enthralled me ever since her role in Cruel Intentions) - both of whom I enjoy very much.

Do we think they'll be able to pull it off, or will it be a watered-down, dreadful experience? I for one am hoping that America will get something right for a change, but American television seems not to like taking risks. This is why Roseanne's 'Absolutely Fabulous' never got off the ground here (I think we can all be thankful for that).

What do y'all think - have any of you seen the original 'Kath & Kim"? Do you think Molly and Selma are up to the task?

When Facebook Goes Wrong.

2008-09-05T09:39:00.006-04:00

This is taken from a friend's "status update" on Facebook:

Owner of the Status Update doesn't get why the Republicans cheered when Romney bashed unions and cheered again when Palin introduced her husband as a lifelong union member. WTF?8:21pm

Me at 8:25pm September 4
They do not possess opposable thumbs.

Some Kid 1 at 9:13pm September 4
Maybe for the same reason Sarah Palin can claim she was against the Bridge to Nowhere when she actually campaigned on maintaining it. They have absolutely no scruples.

Conservative Jackass at 10:20pm September 4
What I don't understand is why every single liberal democrat that has anything to say continues to ignore all of the horrible things that are being said about Sarah Palin and Senator McCain. How they can continue to deny that every story obama is weaving is beginning to crack and be proven to be nothing but a bunch of glitz and glamour. How can anyone who is capable of thinking for themselves and not just spitting out democratic rhetoric is voting for McCain. I would like, just for once, for a liberal to answer a question with an answer instead of another justification for their unyielding venom and hate that is spewed towards the Republican party. Notice how NONE of the protestors at the DNC destroyed the city of Denver, but video clip after clip shows the protestors of the GOP wreaking havoc on the city of ST Paul. It just goes to show the caliber of the liberal left versus the conservative right.

Some Kid 1 at 10:26pm September 4
Lady, you're kidding, right? You mean Obama the muslim? Obama the terrorist sympathizer? Barack Hussein Obama? That's what your conservative friends are up to. Palin is getting a free ride.

Me at 10:27pm September 4
Sarah Palin wants to have polar bears removed from the endangered species list so she can pummel untainted land for oil. That's enough for me. Oh, plus she refuses the science that proves global warming is man-made, wants to refuse gay people spousal benefits, wants to deny women the right to choose whether or not they can have abortions, is pro-aerial hunting of wolves and bears... I could go on and on, but I think I've made myself clear. She stands 100% opposed to everything I stand for.

Sweet Pea in SF at 11:43pm September 4
Marry me, Marky Mae Brown. Or marry Aloysius. Either way is fine by me.

Conservative Jackass at 11:46pm September 4
First of all, in case you didn't know, obama was raised a muslim, so I don't see the point in arguing that. As far as removing polar bears...really? That's just asinine. She knows what Alaska holds for our country trying to become independent from foreign oil. Theres nothing wrong with that. Gay couples, people who choose to live that lifestyle...and YES it IS a choice, don't need special benefits anymore that child molesters need to be given clemecy because they were abused...you make a choice you live with it. Being a woman I have the right to CHOOSE not to spread my legs for anything that walks the earth. If your not ready for the results or products of your behavior, don't do it. Oh an by the way, when was the last time anyone asked Biden, a single father, how he managed to be a good parent while he was in the senate? Why is no one asking obama if he is going to be able to raise his little girls when he is going to be in the office? An easy ride...strange definition of easy.

Sweet Pea in SF at 11:50pm September 4
What's asinine is continuing to believe that Barack Obama was raised as a Muslim, when he absolutely was not. Saying so over and over doesn't make it true.

Conservative Jackass at 11:56pm September 4
You obviously don't know your candidate as well as you wish you did. You should do some research before you start talking about things you don't understand.

Sweet Pea in SF at 12:02am September 5
"You should do some research before you start talking about things you don't understand." Oh girl, you're killing me. Get over yourself. Try reading something that wasn't published by Focus on the Family. Try thinking.

Conservative With a Brainat 12:05am September 5
Holy crap, Owner of the Status Update. A battle of the polar opposite (names withheld!)! This could only happen on your Facebook. ;)

Owner of the Status Update at 12:09am September 5
Oh for fuck's sake. Do I go piss all over your Facebook comments when you say something I disagree with? Jesus. I can't even figure out what the hell you're asking because you do not appear to be using English.

You're not going to convince me or anyone else to agree with you and you know it, so why are you trying to bait me? It's pure ass-hattery and you know it. Go troll DailyKos if you want to pick a fight. They love that shit over there.

Conservative Jackass at 12:10am September 5
Thats funny because the only things I ever hear coming out of liberal's mouths are words and phrases that are dictated by the democratic campaign. None of you think for yourselves, if you did you would be able to see past the flashy magic tricks that obama is using to dupe his followers into believing he is going to do anything. Just for your info, not that its something you need to know, I don't read focus on the family. I develop my thoughts and ideas from watching and observing, not from listening to the brainwashing rhetoric from the democratic campaign. But you're obviously not willing to create your own ideas from what you observe, you just think whatever they tell you to think...that's sad.

Owner of the Status Update at 12:13am September 5
BARACK OBAMA IS A MUSLIM. IT ARE FACT. I KNOW BECAUSE OF MY LEARNINGS. LOL.

Conservative Jackass at 12:17am September 5
Hey, I was just having fun, trying to have an intelligent debate...sorry if you got offended. A lot of the anti war protestors that trashed minnesota are saying that we should have open dialogue with the enemy until we reach a conclusion or an agreement, yet they choose to act violently themselves. The point is that it just seems really hard for liberals to be open to the other side of the coin. Just out of curiosity, I thought you had started going back to church. What church and what BIble are you reading that substantiates anything you are "against" or "for" in this campaign. I don't know what happened to you, but I still care for you. I hope JESUS shows you the truth about whats really going on before it's too late.

Sweet Pea in SF at 12:30am September 5
If you are truly interested in having an intelligent debate, you might want to avoid statements like "none of you think for yourselves." That doesn't leave a lot of room for discussion, does it?

Conservative With a Brain at 12:40am September 5
Conservative Jackass: I have to tell you, I had a whole nasty response to what you just said about "Jesus showing people the truth before it is too late", but something held me back from that. I can't say what it was, maybe it is the fact that I am also a Christian. However, I hope you understand that what you have just stated is extremely condescending and rude. In a sense, I hope Christ shows you the truth about how to deal with others in a loving manner, but I realize I need the same help and I'm in no place to judge you.
Here is the thing about politics. I'm a conservative, and probably more so than McCain or Bush. Being a conservative is exactly why I do not support the actions this administration has taken in the last 8 years. Spreading ourselves thin all over the world under the guise of bringing "freedom" to people (or was it WMDs?) is in no manner conservative. Now, we can debate this and many other topics all night, and in the end we will have to agree to disagree (cont)

Conservative With a Brain at 12:49am September 5
(cont from above)
However, what we are not going to be able to do is to prove to one another whose position Christ would approve of the most. I think the actions of the Bush administration, and what I perceive McCain might do in regard to foreign policy are very anti-Christian and non-conservative in many respects (not to equate conservatism with Christianity). However, I am not going to go around telling my Bush supporting friends that I hope Christ opens their eyes. I know my own limits. I know how imperfect I am.

I also know that any human government is going to fall so far short of the perfection of God that I don't tend to bring Him into it when it comes to political debates. He'll show us the right way someday. For now, all we can do is try to treat each other with respect, and without the arrogance of assuming that we have a direct line into God's mind in regard to our pet political beliefs.

Owner of Status Update at 4:34am September 5
This flamewar needs more macros. Facebook, get on that shit!

Sweet fancy Moses on a pogo stick. Conservative Jackass, I refuse to "debate" your Roveian talking points (which are perversely hilarious given what you are accusing me of doing with regard to the Democratic platform) or justify my political and religious beliefs to you for the same reason I don't talk to my father about those things: Nobody is going to convince anybody of anything and it's just going to end with bitterness and hurt feelings on both sides. Please do me the courtesy of ignoring me and I'll return the favor.

Me at 6:43am September 5
Lady - I'm gay. It is NOT a choice. NO, it is not. Do you think anyone would consciously CHOOSE a lifestyle where we'd have to put up with shit like this all the time? If you do, then you're insane.

Me at 6:50am September 5
Oh - and how DARE you compare me to a child molester? You say liberals don't think for themselves, but that inane comment - which has dribbled out of every hate monger's lips for the past several years - proves that YOU don't think for yourself. I have done far less harm to other people in my "choice" of living than George W. Bush - heterosexual, "Christian" conservative - has done by upholding strong "family values."

And one final note - who cares whether or not Barack Obama was raised Muslim. I do hate to point this out for the 923rd time, but the United States is NOT a Christian nation - and we are NOT at war with Islam - we are at war with terrorists. There are Christian terrorist groups as well. Like Operation Rescue.

Obviously, I have stripped out names and such, but it is CLEAR to me that Conservative Jackass was spouting out doctrine despite her statement that she "forms her own ideas."

Gays compared with child molesters? Straight out of Focus on the Family's literature. I mean, for fuck's sake.

I would have been more involved in this, but most of the nastiness took place on West Coast and Mountain time, while I was trundling away in dreamland. We'll see if Conservative Jackass responds to my final complaints in regards to her "gaiety is a choice" idiocy. That argument always boggles my mind. "I CHOSE to be gay because I love the universal persecution! Oh, and the cock!"

All of this blather enrages me because it's the shit being pumped out of conservatives' mouths all over the country at this point. They bend truths as readily as Superman bends steel, they do, and they're getting away with it. We must fight it.

Geraldine Ferraro Has Broken My Heart.

2008-09-01T20:28:00.002-04:00

I remember when Geraldine Ferraro and Walter Mondale were running. I was in ninth grade. I cannot explain to you the feeling of pride and happiness I got when I listened to and watched Geraldine Ferraro making history in that election. No, she didn't win - but she had been nominated. The first woman ever to be nominated for the Vice-Presidency of the United State of America - no small feat.

I remember a stupid bitch in my ceramics class - Mrs. Turner's class (yes, THAT Mrs. Turner - the one who accused me of making a "smoke stack" (bong) when in fact I was the only one NOT making a bong) - saying, "I don't think America is ready for a woman leader." Let me tell you what. I wanted to slap that cunt's teeth out. What a stupid thing to say - and coming from a WOMAN.

When Geraldine Ferraro lost, I was very sad. Not only because we were now faced with yet another idiot Republican presidency, but because I truly respected her.

And now she pulls this GAYWAD bullshit.

Geraldine Ferraro, the only woman to run on a major party presidential ticket and a supporter of Hillary Clinton, has accused Barack Obama of conducting a “terribly sexist” campaign. Miss Ferraro, the losing Democratic candidate for vice-president in 1984, said that she might abandon her lifelong party loyalties and vote for the Republican John McCain if Mr Obama is confirmed as the nominee.

Geraldine Ferraro - you can KISS MY ASS.

Please prepare for me a PowerPoint presentation showing exactly how Barack Obama's campaign was "sexist." What's that? You can't? That's what I thought.

"Oh, but boo-hoo, he didn't pick Hillary as his running mate," you and your dreary, pinhead cohorts cry.

Maybe that's because she spent the entire primary insulting him. Would YOU want to choose someone who had done everything in her power to make you look inexperienced and a poor choice as President? I don't think you would.

Geraldine Ferraro, you were asked to step down from the Clinton campaign for making racially insensitive and downright stupid remarks. Remember?

If you vote for John McCain, you're not only slapping yourself in the face - you're slapping Hillary Clinton, Chelsea Clinton, and every woman in the country in the face.

You people - all of you - need to get your shit together. This was NOT about sexism. It was about choices. McCain choosing that droolcup moron from Alaska - THAT'S sexism.

Why? Because he knew how to play on your emotions. And if you can't see through his choosing someone who has been in office for two years running one of the least-populated states in the country as a play to woo your dumb asses over, then I guess you deserve what you're going to get.

News Flash!

2008-09-01T18:00:00.003-04:00

ST. PAUL, Minnesota (CNN) -- Bristol Palin, the 17-year-old daughter of Sarah Palin, is pregnant and will keep the baby and marry the baby's father, the Republican vice presidential candidate said Monday.

John McCain was aware of Bristol Palin's pregnancy before he chose her mother for his running mate, a top adviser to the Republican presidential candidate said.

Read the rest here.

PUMA - Think about this for a minute. You people are bumming me out.

2008-09-01T09:38:00.004-04:00

Observe some of the reactions of PUMAs upon learning that Sarah Palin is Gopher Face's running mate:

Says hillary1: "HOPE ITS PALIN, I WOULD VOTE TWICE JUST TO STICK IT TO OBAMA"

Says Vanity4Hillary: "yay. McCain need to put her on his myspace main pic than they will go in my top friends."

Says joeysky18: "Hoo Ray! Fu*k the DNC. Fu*k Obama. They are so fu*k up. They brushed off the women base like dirt. and the GOP pick them up. Go McCain. Go GO OG !"

Damn right there's more:

Says Bella: "OMG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Buuuuurn Obama Buuuurn! What a slap in the face. If it's Palin, I will put blood and sweat into campaigning for that team."

MaryinOregon strikes a particularly ominous note: "Do you all hear the sound of the running feet of all the women the Obama camp tossed aside? It is THUNDEROUS!!!!"

FloridaDawn provides some trenchant analysis of Palin's relevant experience: "McCain has picked PALIN!!! I am THRILLED! AS for the Dums whining that she doens't have experience running things—SHE HAS FIVE KIDS!! TRUST ME! SHE KNOWS HOW TO RUN THINGS!"

And user Gumshew trusts that, somewhere, her pantsuited queen of hearts is smiling: "What I really like about this choice is that Palins' IDEALS are so much like Hillarys'. And, I would gesture to say HILLARY is very proud at this moment."

To the people of Party Unity, My Ass who are so vocally pleased by John McCain's choice of running mate in Sarah Palin -

ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MINDS? Do you think that by exacting "revenge" against perceived slights by the democratic party and voting for John McCain you're going to be doing yourselves any favors? Your emotional reaction to this whole debacle is going to cost us thousands of votes and lead to four more years of a) War, b) Environmental mayhem, c) hell on earth.

This is not about getting revenge for Hillary. This is about the FATE OF THE WORLD. This next administration is going to have to undo all of the idiocy George W. Bush and his money-grubbing, evil toadies have wrought on the Earth, environmentally, diplomatically and fiscally.

Think with your brains, not your emotions. I am begging you. This is too important to act snotty about.

Sarah Palin is a woman, yes. But read her positions on the issues. She does not believe in global warming. I doubt very highly that she's even read or looked at a copy of the United Nation's definitive report from two years ago that laid out in no uncertain terms that global warming exists and is at least partially caused by man. She is anti-abortion. She is pro-creationism in schools. She wants to drill for oil on every available spot of land in the country, displacing polar bears, caribou, and any other animal that gets in her way. She does not care about the environment. She does NOT CARE.

She is a Jesus Freak. She's anti-gay rights.

Is this what you really want? Will you feel "good" about yourselves when, after election day is over and you've finally gotten your dream of a woman vice-president, she immediately goes to work to overthrow Roe Vs. Wade? How proud of your struggle will you be then?

She's a woman, yes. But so is Phyllis Schlafly. Please. Use your brains. An anti-woman woman in the white house is worse than no woman in the white house. Listen to Geraldine Ferraro's words of wisdom:

"I have always said that I wish I would have never been the only woman, until now," she said.

LISTEN TO HER.

"Klippy the Klown Presents" Bringin' It Back Old Skool

2008-08-28T08:19:00.006-04:00

Y'all - it's been some time since we had a visit from our chipper clown friend Klippy. He just popped up, and he dragged this "Oldy But Retardedy" short story out from his Sack of Wonders. He wants to share it with you!

Klippy the Klown Presents:

"Lil Miss Staples"

by Brett Breckenridge

Once upon a time there was a little girl named Staples.

Now, Staples lived in a little village where the main source of income for everyone was milk. Why, her own father was a dairy man by trade. "If it weren't for those cows out there in that field," he would say over their humble nightly meal of bread and beets, "I'd be living in the gutter and so would you, little Staples."

Staples, a wee child of four, loved the cattle. Oh, how she used to sit in her room watching the cows stand there for hours, shifting occasionally, swatting flies with their tails, all the while churning up that frothy white treat for her to drink at breakfast. Yum!

She dreamed of tugging on those bulbous pink udders just like her daddy did all day. Oh, if only she could get to those udders! Her daddy had warned her on several occasions to stay away from the milking room until she was older and more able to handle the bulk of those cows.

"But daddy, I AM big enough!" she would lament, sometimes stomping her clogs down into the well-trodden earth with such conviction that her father would shake his head and say, "She got that from her mother," before walking back to the pasture.

After a particularly good batch of beets, Staples asked her daddy what the meaning of life was. Her daddy, a wise but simple man, answered as best he could: "Be happy. Do what you want to. Otherwise you end up old and mean like your grandmother over here," and with that, he pointed his pipe at the wattled old crone in the corner, who grunted disapprovingly before gumming another mashed beet.

"Oh, thank you papa! Thank you!" Staples cried, as she hugged her daddy around the neck and rushed upstairs to plot her activities accordingly. She sat and planned for about an hour, and then got an early start on her sleep: tomorrow was a special day for her.

That night she dreamed of free-flowing rivers of milk on the banks of which all the children of the world came and joined hands before drinking from the untainted elixer in a gesture of peace and harmony.

She woke up beaming and put on her best frock. Then, grabbing her gloves and hat, she made her way down to the milking room, oh so quietly, so she wouldn't wake papa or grandma on her way to her destiny.

As she trundled ever so gingerly on the dew-laced grass, still sharp with the smell of morning, she remembered how to grasp those udders with force and squeeze all that milk out. At least, that's what she thought; she had only really watched papa doing it once, and when he caught her gazing, he made her leave. "This is no place for little girls!" he shouted as he shooed her out the door.

"I'll show daddy. When he wakes up this morning, he'll find the freshest milk ever waiting for him on the table."

She neared a cow.

"Good morning," she said, and patted the cow lovingly before taking her place near the low-hanging appendage which had fascinated her for so long.

"Now, take it easy, Lue-Ellen. I'm just going to milk you. You're used to that," she placated the beast. But when she grabbed that udder and squeezed as tight as she could, digging her little digits deeper and deeper into that nipple, Lue-Ellen jolted forward and let out a terrific moo before stomping Staples' face right into the dirt.

Staples' fingers grasped the milking pail so tight that they had to bury her with that pail.

Purulent Unthinking Mindless Apes - PUMA

2008-08-26T22:10:00.005-04:00

Here we go.

PUMA - or, "Party Unity My Ass" - is a group of stupid fucking loudmouthed jackasses who are determined to derail Barack Obama's chance at winning the presidency all because, boo-hoo, their choice - Hillary Clinton - wasn't nominated.

Guess what - people's choices aren't nominated in EVERY election process. In most instances, people suck it up and vote for the member of their party who WAS nominated. They don't cling to their candidate and whine incessantly like a ululating band of overly-emotional morons that their nomination was "stolen" from them. They don't yodel that they're going to do everything in their power to make sure the person who DID win the nomination - and who did so through the popular vote - doesn't get elected.

I hate to break this to you - but if Obama doesn't win, McCain does. What's worse for you? Do you want someone who will fight for women's rights to choose whether or not they have control over their own uteruses, who states he will do what's right for the environment, who is not a war-mongering and big-business pandering asswipe, or do you want John McCain? Because if you stupid fucktards don't get your heads out of your asses and move past the fact that Hillary Clinton didn't win the nomination, you're going to get John McCain. And then you'll feel like the dumbasses you're acting like RIGHT NOW, and we'll be stuck with four more years of hell.

I didn't vote for Obama in the primary. No, I did not. But I'm going to vote for him in November, because I, like most people in the country, am not acting like a thumb-sucking dipshit over this whole thing. Yes, it was a nasty primary - and guess who had a lot to do with that? Ms. Hillary Clinton herself. She had a loud, nasty mouth most of the time and said things that were damaging not only to her campaign, but to the Democratic Party in general. And altough I still think she was the best choice (a roadkill duck is a better choice than John McCain), I am going to do what is right for the country, and for the world - I'm going to vote for the next best thing. And that's exactly what you "PUMA" turds should be doing too... not acting like Rebel Without a Cause and stirring up a bunch of nastiness.

Jesus, you people are stupid. If you fuck this election with your inability to get over this shit, I'll hold you responsible.

Teen angst - does it ever end?

2008-08-14T09:37:00.005-04:00

Last night I went over to my friend Mina's house to have a light vegan dinner and enjoy some John Hughes films.

I brought Pretty In Pink and Some Kind of Wonderful - two films written but not directed by Hughes. I had been hankering to watch Pretty In Pink since my friend Gina wrote recently that she had watched it and been reduced to tears by its sappiness.

Now, I've had difficulty with this film for years, and I'll tell you why. Annie Potts plays the manager of Tracks - a record store Andie (Molly Ringwald) works in, and Molly looks to her as a surrogate mother. She asks for dating advice, they reminisce, they hang out together. Annie Potts seems to be the perfect role model for an outcast teen in a heartless, cruel world - she's self-assured, she's artsy, she's brash, she doesn't take any shit from anybody.

And then it happens. She meets a guy and, from what I remembered, basically dumps her personality and turns frumpy just to fit in to this guy's view of womanhood. I never forgave her for that. For YEARS I wouldn't watch this film because I felt betrayed by Annie Potts' character. YEARS.

But I finally relented. Gina's judgment is something I trust wholeheartedly, so I figured if she liked it, I probably would too - perhaps my recollection was incorrect.

I popped the bitch in. Of course its portrayal of the high school caste system, particularly in the sleazy fuck-dump character played by James Spader, is ludicrously over the top, but is in many ways true.

I remember very clearly a rich, stuck-up cunt named Marti Spondheimer who sat behind me in science class and ridiculed me ENDLESSLY - on a daily basis - because I wasn't wearing Guess jeans or whatever else was in fashion. I hated her then and I hate her now. I hope she works as a Clinique consultant at Dillard's. I hope she's fat. But that's beside the point.

As I was watching this film, I got dragged in. It was like a time machine back to 1986, when Lisa Tamburello changed my life by lending me "The Pink Opaque" and "Love's Easy Tears" by Cocteau Twins. When I had my first gay crush on a kid in my French class. When I started coming out of the shell of insecurity I had been placed in due to the utter nightmare of middle school. And all of those emotions from 1986 were fresh and new all over again.

When Blaine asked Andie to the prom I cried. I literally balled up in a fetal position. Is it because I'm an overly-emotional retard? Probably. Is it because my life is bereft of anything other than geekery and yoga? Most definitely. But still - this shit has a tremendous impact on me to this day - and I HATED high school.

Annie Potts' character redeemed herself, thank goodness, and my relationship with Pretty In Pink went back to the one I had with it when I saw it in the theater with Dana Deberg, Jennifer Mixon, Vanessa Cobbley, and others. Field trip...

Mina, after we watched the too-over-the-top-for-its-own-good Some Kind of Wonderful (the only redeeming qualities of this film in my mind are a) The March Violets and b) Lick the Tins, both featured on the soundtrack), decided it would be a "good idea" to pop in Sixteen Candles.

Now - for anyone who was 12 - 15 in the early 80s - this is, by far, the quintessential nostalgia film. It can render the most emotionless bastard a mound of quivering jelly by its ending. Seriously. Tell me one person who saw that movie as a child who doesn't have to hold back the overwhelming need to vomit from too much emotion by the time "If You Were Here" starts playing. It gets me every time - it's like I've been punched in the stomach.

As the cars pulled away and Jake Ryan stood there leaning up against his Porsche, Sam staring incredulously as he says "Yeah, you" to her - Mina and I both started blubbering. Like slapped newborn babies.

Mina and I were talking about it last night. We're both in our 30s and we're both still waiting for Jake Ryan to pick us up outside that church. Still feeling that awkwardness Andie feels when Blaine takes her to a party at Steph's house. Still going through what Watts has to endure watching Keith woo Amanda. And still reeling from telling a group of strangers that our elephant lamp that we made in shop didn't work when we tried to turn it on.

Do these feelings ever go away? Does anyone ever actually attain a level of fulfillment that calms these various emotional struggles? Or does "Teen Angst" just turn into "adult angst" and linger with us forever?

Can someone explain, please?

Have You Met Lydia?

2008-08-05T13:35:00.010-04:00

Picture it - I'm walking out of the Whole Foods on Houston and Bowery, minding my own business, after a lovely vegan luncheon with my friend Jackie, when I am assaulted by an obnoxious mob of overweight children, apparently involved in some sort of YMCA day camp.

They're all wearing matching t-shirts, and I am immediately drawn to how those t-shirts are being stretched to the limit by these children's Jabba-esque rolls of undulating blubber.

These are children, for God's sake. They're supposed to be frolicking in parks and jumping on pogo sticks and playing hide and go seek, not gnawing on an endless supply of Hot Pockets and Cap'n Crunch while becoming codependent on their god damn PlayStations.

Jackie and I begrudgingly shuffle through this maze of underaged obesity in an attempt to get to the clear sidewalk on the other side, when I see it.

One of the camp counselors, a young woman, has one of the most egregiously tacky tattoos I have seen in my life.

Attempt to visualize, please.

Tweety Bird's disembodied head atop a cumulus cloud, halo in place above the bulbous decapitation, with the name "Chandra" written underneath in garish cursive.

Who is Chandra that she warrants such a tasteful tribute? Is it this woman's daughter? Is it her mother? Is it a dead pet budgerigar?

I don't know. What I do know is that this woman was clearly so desperate to jump on the tattoo bandwagon that she didn't think through the fact that she is going to have Tweety Bird's severed head on her arm for the REST OF HER LIFE.

Now, we've all come to accept tattoos as part of the culture. Some are beautiful, some aren't. Some people get tattoos to mark a period of time in their lives they want to remember forever, or as a rite of passage. Some just get them because other people are getting them.

They're so commonplace these days that for the most part I just brush them off. Sometimes, though, I just can't. For example:

The only other tattoo I have ever seen that affected me as strongly as the one I saw today was at the Red Hook city-run pool - a hotbed of tragedy and horror.

Fatasses bring their families to this pool, charring chicken on portable grills around the pool's gutters, shrieking into cell phones and arguing animatedly with one another in a strange hybrid of the English language that is barely discernable as a form of advanced communication. The water appears clear, but when one steps on the pool's floor, sediment separates and reveals the true nature of the elixir in which hundreds of troglodytes are bobbing and, I'm sure, expelling all sorts of bodily fluids.

My friend Barbie and I used to go to this pool every Saturday, despite the heightened risk for catching ebola (or worse) simply because we were trying to be healthy and outdoorsy during our summer. For me, going to this public pool felt marginally like going to the Admiral Farragut Academy pool I used to spend my summers frequenting back in St. Petersburg (minus the cool lifeguard who used to blast Q-105, introducing me to the hits of the late 70s and early 80s), but I finally just had to say "NO MORE" after finding something I won't describe here floating in the water.

Meanwhile, back to this tattoo. Barbie and I are standing in line waiting to get in. There's this rotund midget in front of us in a bikini top that is struggling to support her enormous bosom. But that doesn't distract me from the true tragedy of this person's physical being.

Imagine this, please - a tattoo of Bamm-Bamm from The Flintstones, club raised overhead as if ready to perform his one and only action throughout the show's run, with the name "DARNELL" scrawled underneath it in airbrush-like lettering.

BAMM-BAMM.

"Barbie, Barbie, oh my God, look at that bitch's tit," I whisper, trying to be subtle, but it's not working, since I have already gasped audibly and placed my hand over my heart as if I just saw a dog getting hit by a car.

I saw this image probably five years ago, yet it is burned into my memory as if I witnessed it yesterday.

Is Darnell happy that he is immortalized in such a sophomoric, idiotic way on this woman's sagging, over-tanned teat? And what the hell was running through her mind when she thought it would be a good idea to get this hideous mockery of a tattoo?

Sadly, these tragic permanent manifestations of man's collective idiocy are still on the rise. You can see asswipes displaying their gaudy, horrifying tattoo "art" everywhere, whether it be the hick who thought it would be "funny" to get Ronald McDonald being blown by Grimace on his lower back or the dumb hippie who loved the Grateful Dead so much that he just couldn't live for one second longer without a Steal Your Face logo overlaid with a marijuana leaf.

Tattoo tackiness is a sad symptom of today's thoughtless, throwaway culture. To deface your body with a permanent design for absolutely no reason other than to fit in proves exactly how inane you truly are. It's your body, not a sheet of paper you can just rip out of a notebook and throw away. So if you're going to get a tattoo, get one that doesn't suck, please.

I have HAD IT with this crap.

Don't Get Hot and Flustered - Use a Bit of Mustard.

2008-07-27T14:22:00.010-04:00

Two pieces of Hollywood "news" have the chunks rising in my throat as I type this. I've known about them for days, but I've only just now let the knowledge sink in to the point that I can process and then immediately trash it.

I'm simply pulverized by this latest news.

MTV is "remaking" The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

John Waters is writing a treatment for a "sequel" to Hairspray - the film based on the broadway musical based on the film.

Hollywood - a land of creative waste, where they take the classics - whether they're horror, musicals, science fiction, whatever - and throw them to figurative hyaenas that tear them to shreds, shitting out shiny, sleek new films bereft of any emotional or artistic value.

The Rocky Horror Picture Show. You can't remake this. You just can't. To try is to miss completely why the film worked in the first place. Its success was purely accidental, and will never ever happen again.

1975 was the height of the sex, drugs and decadence era that started with the "Summer of Love," morphed with the Manson Family, and would end when AIDS epidemic wreaked havoc across the world.

Frank N. Furter and his bisexual, transvestite antics were a call to people around the globe, saying, "You can suck dick and wear women's undergarments and be cool as hell!"

It was shocking then because homosexuality was, for the most part, still a subject of derision. Gays were portrayed as lisping, timid perverts scouring bathrooms and lurking in parks. Frank was assertive. He was strong. He killed people with pickaxes. And he boned everything that walked.

Before that geriatric asshole Ronald Reagan destroyed everything good and turned the country into a seething cauldron of moronic right wing fucks, we were almost to the point where we would be able to just get along. Rocky Horror is a product of that time - it was just fun.

To remake it is a huge mistake. It just won't work. Kids today - they don't give a fuck about homosexuality. It's not shocking... it isn't even interesting. "Big deal, he's a transvestite," they'll say. They see more shocking shit on TV every night. Drugs - big deal. Underwear - ooh wee.

But all that is beside the point. The point is this - WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY would you even want to attempt to recreate what Tim Curry already made perfect?

Much to his chagrin, Tim Curry IS Frank N. Furter. Sure, the character's been portrayed around the world on the stage by tons of actors - but Tim Curry originated the role on the stage in 1973 and immortalized it on film in 1975. Great voice, awesome, erotic moves, some of the best facial expressions ever captured on film - this is what Tim Curry brought to the character. Who will the cast who could even hope to do a fraction of what Tim Curry achieved? No one.

So, MTV - fuck you. Don't desecrate a cult classic. The film's still showing in theaters around the world - why not just let the original continue its existence unabated instead of spreading your asscheeks and taking a giant, corn-filled shit on it? You people ought to be ashamed of yourselves. Assholes.

The other news - Feh. John Waters has always said he will do anything for money, but I just thought he was saying that to be cute. After the last botched abortion that was Cry-Baby: the Musical, you'd think he'd be a little hesitant to go tacking his name on to any project that Hollywood buttfucks suggested. But you'd be wrong.

He's doing a sequel to Hairspray and they're hoping to bring the original cast back.

This news isn't as pernicious to me as the other, but it's still pretty icky. I've bloviated about my adoration for Hairspray before, so I'll spare you. I've been trying to think up an acceptable storyline for a sequel to the dance-happy story of Baltimore's racial struggles and the power that comes to a young fatass named Tracy Turnblad, but I just can't.

My friend Chris did, but I'm not going to share it with you here. Because after this sequel comes out and flops, I'm going to force him to write his idea and get it produced. Because it is awesome and amazing and he is a genius for coming up with it.

Hollywood is packed with shitheads who don't care about art or creativity or even quality. Fuck that shit.