And just which tragic murderer are you supposed to be?

This, from K:

As I left the apartment this morning, I ran smack into the middle of three young carbunculars dressed head to toe in camouflaged army fatigues. They were all short, chubby, and greasy. One of them struggled clumsily with a duffel bag. First I thought, "What could he have in that the duffel bag?" Then I thought, "Uh oh, Columbine in Greenpoint!" But I put it out of my mind and continued on. Next, I get to the Graham Avenue train station and see a tall, thin Polish kid in blackface and a ridiculously outsized black afro wig, wearing an equally ridiculously oversized tee-shirt and baggy jeans.... Perhaps I should have thrown him onto the third rail then and there to spare someone else the trouble of doing it later.... Next, I get off the train and exit the station at Union Square Park where I'm greeted by a man dressed like an Arab replete with flowing robes and headcloth handing out free AM New York newspapers, "Get your free papahs!" Of course it doesn't hit me until I get to work and bump into R, inevitably dressed up as Pippi Longstocking, that it's fucking Halloween! "Uh, nice costume, R." "Thank you, K. Are you going to change into yours later?"

I used to defend NYers, but today they stab me in the back by dressing up as tragic murderers and racial stereotypes! Please do not tell me that you dressed up as a bean counter after I left. I do not want to know.

Levels of perversion

Exactly how *wrong* is it to allow one's kitten to lick one's nipple? I mean, it's just a vestige of nursing, right? It's not on the same level as, say, cutting a hole in one's pants and plying one's golden retriever with coldcuts, right?

My blood runs cold (at the mental image of Hef on Viagra)

Has the once-groundbreaking magazine become culturally irrelevant?

The recent infusions of frat-boy raunchiness are shouldering out the old smoking-jacketed sophistication, and the magazine seems to have lost all control over its editorial tone, confused about whether to act its age or try to get down with the kids. The result? Well, it's a lot like a 77-year-old guy surrounded by Playmates and maxed out on Viagra: really pumped, but wheezing.

Incidentally, when I finally get the funding together to do my own porno mag, I'm thinking of calling it Gimme Chocha. It came to me this morning like a vision on a flaming pie. It's amazing how much *thinking* I'm getting done now that I'm protecting myself from pornography this week.

Time to show those evil spuds what's what

NIH questions researchers on AIDS grants:

A government document naming 157 scientists who study AIDS and human sexuality is alarming university researchers, who call it a Republican "hit list'' that may be used to target prevention programs that some members of Congress find offensive.

National Institutes of Health program officers, who are responsible for overseeing research funded by the federal agency, have been asking members on the list for thumbnail descriptions about the "public benefit" of their projects, which in most cases have already been approved and funded, according to several scientists familiar with the list.

I personally would like to found an organization called The American Values Coalition for American Family Values and make the splash page on the website like and eagle with a baby with an American flag cape on its back and then when you click through to the index page I want it to be a site totally devoted to felching and shit pigs.

There is water underground

Last night I struggled to get the cap off the meds bottle. I'm not mentally deficient; there really was something wrong with the childproof mechanism. I think I stripped it. My growing frustration was matched by my growing shame. "Here," I thrust the bottle at K. "Open it!" Pause. "Please."

When he couldn't get it open either I knew that the pill bottle engineering had failed miserably, not me.

I pulled out a breadknife and started sawing at the orange plasic. "C'mon, c'mon," I muttered. I felt remorse about not investing in a set of Ginsu knives.

"Would you like to try using my Leatherman?" K's brother asked helpfully.

I shot him a scornful look. "Don't ever tell anyone about this." But the pliers attachment did help pry a keyhole in the rigid plastic. I dumped the last of the pills into my palm and sighed.

My mother would be so proud.*

*She would also be proud that I was ironing a pair of dirty pants to wear to work this morning. "Never iron dirty clothes!" she used to tell me. "It seals in the dirt!" She's right about that. But she also used to warn me against the evils of wearing one's socks inside out ("It makes them wear unevenly!") and wearing "day clothes" to bed at night ("It MAKES them WEAR UNEVENLY!"). She's got her own agendas.

I'm the dandy highwayman!

Unreasonable behavior is Britspeak for "gayer than a football bat," right?

Do I wanna go out with a lion's roar?

OK, so it's Wednesday, right, and no one has bothered to tell me that it's Protection from Pornography Week until now? You were all just content to sit back and let me spend my daily average 2.5 hours (+/-) looking at naughty bits when GW came right out and said that he wants "all the people of the United States to observe this week with appropriate programs and activities."

Please, protect me from what I want.

Thanks to Fables of the Reconstruction for pointing this out before it was too late.

The man who got no sign

My horoscope today:

You might be having trouble with your plumbing today, Dana, particularly if you have a good-sized kitchen. This is far too complex a problem for you to handle yourself. Pay the extra money to have a professional come in and take care of the problem. It'll save you a lot of work and certainly a lot of frustration.

Yay!

Skwak. (via Surfstation.)

Every town shall furnish its own women

Right now all Fat Possum Records are 13 bucks or less. You should go order some. This might be a good time to pick up that Black Keys CD that you've been on the fence about. I mean, yeah, on one hand, they sound like Steppenwolf. But on the other hand, that's not such a bad thing.

Actually, you could pick up any of the Fat Possum collection and be pretty fuckin' set. They're truly a great label.

(And I realize this is all very boring but there is currently Not Enough Coffee In The World to awaken me from my torpor.)

Evanescent loveliness of boys translates into indistinct bitterness later on

"I have a feeling of being utilised that is close to distasteful."

Oh, shut up and drink your gin. And let's see some more Correggio shots!

(via Daze Reader)

File under: The Benjamins, All About

Combs' Clothing Line Accused of Sweatshop Conditions:

Among the poor conditions the study cited were daily body searches, contaminated drinking water and 11- to 12-hour daily shifts for the workers, who earn 24 cents for each $50 Sean John sweat shirt they sew.The study also said that women were given mandatory pregnancy tests and that those who tested positive were immediately fired.

I'm glad I have a real reason to hate him. Before it was mostly his weak-ass lyrics, his ganking Schooly D's samples, and that confounding mouth breathing look he's got going on.

Photo TK

Happy Birthday, Brittney! In honor of this festive occasion I've shaved my pubic hair in the shape of a B.

I won't attack you I just won't back you

From this point, on, I would like to kindly request that TMFTML start every blog post with EITHER THERE ARE NO EDITORS AT THE TIMES OR THEY'VE MADE A CONSCIOUS DECISION TO KILL US. A thing of beauty is a joy forever, after all.

Next week in Vows

For those of you puzzling over the recent trifecta of Gawker links to these here (pink) parts, I suppose now is as good a time as any to announce that Choire and I are very much in love and will be getting married next week in a small, private ceremony at his parents' farmhouse in Grafton, VT.

You motherfuckers better get us those 16 Elsa Peretti brandy snifters we registered for.

Not for all my little words

Vidiot, as usual, is right: Sappycards are pretty okee-dokee.

There's the ol' gal now!

The Old Hag's looking pretty spiffy. And she's got acerbic blow-by-blow commentary on this weekend's times, which I read but failed to truly absorb. I honestly didn't realize that the Dale Peck profile and the article on cannibalism were two separate pieces. It all makes much more sense now.

Better late than never

I feel like such a heel, as I meant to post a link to the website for The Run, a documentary about the Tompkins Square Park Dog Run, on Friday afternoon so that you would all go up to the New-York Historical Society that night and watch it. But I forgot. Shit.

In a town where the kind of dog you have can be political no matter where you are, this particular dog run is like the Gaza Strip. (See here.) Class struggle as evinced by pooches. You get the picture.

Still, it's one of my favorite dog runs. I go there some weekends and stand outside the gates for probably too long. Like a pedophile casing a playground. Getting pitying looks from the people and their dogs coming in and out. I, the dogless.

Go watch the trailer, and cross your fingers that they'll show The Run again sometime soon and that I won't forget again.

If all the girls at Bennington were laid end to end

Don't we all dream of marrying a painter-printmaker-boxer?

Charles Miller and Amy Sohn got married.

"I've been with a lot of women," he said. "I'm 43. I went to Bennington."

Oh ho ho. Ho ho ha ha hee.

Full disclosure: I was once a Bennington girl. Yes, I remember the chilly fall nights, the ardent intellectualism, and the time that one of the houses on campus had to be fumigated due to a rampant crabs infestation.

One alumni weekend, I remember sitting in one of the houses among a mix of pie-eyed grad students and recent alums. Among them was Tom Sachs, who was trying to talk me into accepting a fieldwork term internship at his sculpture studio.

"I dunno, Tom," I told him. "I don't think my mother would be happy with me living in Brooklyn with a Young Turk such as yourself."

Lubricated conversations flowed around us.

"But think of the opportunity! I'll teach you how to weld! [I already knew how, but whatever] Plus you get free room and board. And a fifty-dollar-a-week stipend!"

"What for?" I spat at him, taking a swig of rum from a bottle that had miraculously appeared at my feet. "Spermicidal foam?"

I didn't realize how loud I said that until the whole room erupted in derisive laughter. Tom scurried away, mortified.

Yeah, I gots a way with the menfolk.

Yes, Sofia, there is *something* more than this

Maccers relates her own Lost in Translation tale of Japan, which doesn't involve moody lighting or puffy lips:

10 years ago I was in the midst of a 2 and a half year trip all over the place, just for kicks. Working when I had to, mainly in the sex slave industry. It was good bucks and white blondies could make a load of cash, especially in Asia. Japan therefore was the mecca for all travelers where the work available consisted of waitressing, hostessing and selling jewelry in the street. I was obviously looking for a nice indoorsy job with alcohol.

Boys are from Mars and Girls are from Doodypants Town

Over at Fussy:

As Caitlin laid her cheek on Jackson's shoulder his eyes magically glazed over and he stared blankly at some ants performing maneuvers on his graham cracker, and I thought, "Ah, this is where it all begins."

Wow, to think that his Flaming-Juggernaut-of-a-Career was nearly cut short

Jesus actor struck by lightning. (via Brittney.)

I finally feel calm, finally just relax

This morning, I actually got to the L early. I know I was early because I saw the Train People I only see like twice a month. Everything was normal, then between Lorimer and Bedford the heating element in my car CAUGHT ON FIRE.

(Now, not to brag, but when I first moved to Williamsburg, the G train was ALWAYS on fire. It was like the Christine of the MTA.)

I actually had no idea what was happening as I was engrossed in a heuristic dissection of "And We Danced" by the Hooters, which happened to be playing on my iPod. But then, all of a sudden, I was nearly knocked off my feet by a stampede of people from the other side of the car. "The train's on fire!"

Ecco homo: Some people panicked. Others barely looked up from their paperback copies of The Corrections. I grabbed onto the hulking man standing in front of me so as not to be flattened. (If you're reading this, I'm sorry about that.)

We all got off at Bedford and the conductor and motorman checked out the scene. Apparently the coils had got too hot. So they turned off the heat and announced the dreaded "This train is out of service." Incredibly, people stood poised to hop right back on, presuming (I thought incorrectly) that the MTA is given to fits of mercurial whimsy and would announce I jes' keeeeeding! I lingered as far away as I could, contemplating taking the L back to Lorimer and hopping on the G.

But spank me hard and call me Shirley. The conductor, after turning off the heat in the car and, oh, I dunno, employing his *years of training* as a terrorism expert to determine that the fire was not, in fact, a bomb of some sort, let us back on the train.

I swear to god, people were jockeying for seats on the bench DIRECTLY ABOVE where the flames had shot out. The smell of charred flesh and Payless Shoes still hung in the air. I guess I'm just as much of an idiot as everyone else, because I got back on the train too. I mused on the fact that when I first moved here, I wouldn't even get on the train if there was a discarded paper bag under the bench, but that was then. Of course, I used to say "bless you" to sneezing strangers on the street.

People bravely chatted with each other about the struggle they'd just endured. Meanwhile, I listened to my iPod and had a vision of sorts:

"Ever tell yous about the L-Train Troubles of October Ought-Three?" they'd tell the children they would undoubtedly sire after the adversity of the morning's events would embolden them to shtup in the elevator at 14th Street-Union Square, introducing themselves only after the seed had planted and they'd shared an awkward moment trying to figure out whose Jonathan Franzen was whose.

"And that's how I met your mother."

Mummy monkey! Just in time for Halloween

Missing monkey's remains found, 30 years later:

The monkey, about 2 feet from head to the end of the tail, died with its hands around a pipe and was so rigid that Hill could hold it straight up by balancing the end of the tail in his hand.

All fork, no pork

Carnival strippers, via Daze Reader.

Meanwhile have made myself seriously ill by eating too much macrobiotic food. I didn't think that was possible. So now I've wolfed down a chocolate bar to balance the yin with the yang. I've got the spins.

Those filthy five, they did nothing to challenge or resist

I'm really happy that it's cold out because now I am able to wear my new gloves.

No photos of Naomi Wolf. Yet.

Am enjoying Awful Plastic Surgery more than I should. Perhaps there'll be a new category soon for celebs who've had their chochas tightened? (via Gay Porn Blog.)

One more reason

...to loveThe Fold Drop, not like you needed it: introducing us to the term bucket fanny. (And, in a moment of sheer synchronicity, maccers gives us her own vagina monologue.)

This day's just getting better and better

Oy vey: MTV.com - News -Singer/Songwriter Elliott Smith Dead Of Apparent Suicide.

More ugh

Study Finds Hundreds of Thousands of Inmates Mentally Ill:

As many as one in five of the 2.1 million Americans in jail and prison are seriously mentally ill, far outnumbering the number of mentally ill who are in mental hospitals, according to a comprehensive study released Tuesday.

Emeute Blanche

Hey'd you hear about the riot in Montreal? Who riots over the freakin' Exploited? Ugh.

Some in the crowd traded riot stories; others called the whole thing a waste of time and money. "I guess it seemed like a good idea at the time," said Chris, 20, who had a fresh mohawk and who said he had been arrested and released during the riot. "Honestly, though, I thought the cars would be covered by insurance."

When I was a kid everyone had either the Subhumans, the Exploited, or the Varukers on their jackets/bum flaps. (It's surprising how many of those in the third camp couldn't name a Varukers song off the top of their heads.) What I wouldn't give for a pair of those stretchy black trousers now. Am tempted to go into Trash and Vaudeville. I'm too old now to be mocked. Plus, as I learned when I went into 8th Street Labs for stockings, the best thing to do is to immediately throw up your hands and shout "I'm shopping for my niece!" Then they leave you alone.

As my future husband once said, "Punk rock died when the first kid said 'Punks not dead, punks not dead.'"

The stars ain't shinin' 'cause the sky's too tight

Virgo: Virgo, this could be your lucky day! Oh wait, no, it's Aquarius' lucky day. Again. Sorry, Virgo.

I think you should do yourself a favor and go read Monk's happy bag of filth cheesecloth soaking wet astrology feature.

Feelin' my highs and my lows in my soul

Today, K and I were discussing our efforts to become the Smallest Couple in Williamsburg*, which is something we've aspired to for many years but will obviously never achieve given the rampant heroin-and-anorexia oneupmanship that goes on around here. We couldn't hope to compete.

This morning's conversation stemmed from my observation that although I'd eaten approximately 27 cupcakes this weekend at two separate birthday parties, the scale at the gym says I've lost 2 pounds. Shocking. I'm beginning to wonder if my liver has finally liquefied and passed right through my urinary tract? That would explain it.
K: Don't lose any more weight.
Me: Well, how do you expect us to become the Smallest Couple in Williamsburg?
K: Oh, that's right. I forgot. I think that when we finally become the SCW, I'll become a jockey.
Me: And I'll play an Ewok in the next Star Wars movie.

Anyhow, some quasiliterary links. A review of Noguez's Houellebecq, En Fait.

From the shortstack herself, a British serial killer is fighting with prison officials to get his unpublished memoirs back.

Finally, a comprehensive list of banned books online.

*Oh stop it. I'm joking. I don't have food or body issues. This all started because, to borrow an observation from a diminuitive friend of mine, "No one is small in this town. So, K and I, being slightly taller than Elves and the DeVito/Perlman clan, supposed that with a little work, we could possibly claim the title.

Monkey baby why you lookin' at me?

This may be the one and only time you'll see me endorse a travel journal on this site. But how can you not love a book entitled No Touch Monkey! Here's an excerpt:

...My intestinal Get Out Of Jail Free card expired on the roof of the Brahmaputra guesthouse on the shores of Lake Pushkar. If I might be allowed a note of scatological explanation, all travelers undergo some transformation of their customary bowel function, otherwise how could they join in the lurid shit-story one-upsmanship that passes for polite mealtime conversation with others of their ilk? I was no exception, even after Africa laid me low. There is a difference, however, between the garden variety tummy trouble one encounters on the road and the miserable, cramping, Everything-I-Eat-Comes-Pouring-Out-My-Ass that I endured in Pushkar.

Was she wearing her cowboy hat? Well, not exactly that...

Hey everybody! Did you know that the glut of porn that exists today desensitizes men's libidos? No? Naomi Wolf is here to drop science for you then.

Pornography is addictive; the baseline gets ratcheted up. By the new millennium, a vagina which, by the way, used to have a pretty high "exchange value," as Marxist economists would say, wasn't enough; it barely registered on the thrill scale. All mainstream porn--and certainly the Internet--made routine use of all available female orifices.

As Carly Milne put it, "Last I checked, men still liked having sex. And last I checked, most men were not fucking porn stars exclusively. To say that men are giving up on having sex with regular women due to porn consumption is the funniest damn thing I think I’ve ever read, and once again, blames porn for something that is a deeper seeded issue than what Wolf has originally lead the reader to believe."

So now New York is like all porn, all the time, I suppose. Though Naomi Wolf eschews David Amsden's Ivyed Rolodex for--wait for it--Orthodox Jews on a settlement!

“Can’t I even see your hair?” I asked, trying to find my old friend in there. “No,” she demurred quietly. “Only my husband,” she said with a calm sexual confidence, “ever gets to see my hair.”

When she showed me her little house in a settlement on a hill, and I saw the bedroom, draped in Middle Eastern embroideries, that she shares only with her husband—the kids are not allowed—the sexual intensity in the air was archaic, overwhelming. It was private. It was a feeling of erotic intensity deeper than any I have ever picked up between secular couples in the liberated West. And I thought: Our husbands see naked women all day—in Times Square if not on the Net. Her husband never even sees another woman’s hair.

She must feel, I thought, so hot.

More later. Work (and the three-martini lunch) beckons.

Apropos of nothing, I'd be willing to wager serious cash that Naomi has had rhinoplasty. Ever since The Beauty Myth came out I've been seriously scrutinizing that shnozz of hers. I'm thinkin' finishing school graduation present.

You: don't talk so much, just smile and look nice

Josh Homme answers the dirty dozen and proves that he can wield and ax, and he can plow my field anytime, but clearly, we're bringing the ball gag out should that happen. (via Get Swank)

Like to show me all around, thank you girl but I know this town

Wow, it's CMJ time already. Seems like it just happened. (Yes, I'm doing that hackneyed blogging approach where I reference something I wrote a year ago in the absence of having anything of substance to say.)

It wasn't so long ago that I had the stamina for this sort of thing. I would take a few days off from work, attend every possible show I could, stay out late drinking, hobnobbing uselessly, and wishing I had those gel inserts for my shoes. I can't do that anymore. Unless I have some really high-quality coke.

::stares intently::

I really like how they've organized the CMJ site this year; it's way more user friendly, and it allows me to completely forgo the schedules of any bands or venues whose names start with G. We hate G.

I've really got no idea who I'm going to go see this year. Coolfer had some good picks. So far, I think I'ma see Crimson Sweet at Lit on Thursday, the Bloodshot lineup at Tonic on Friday, and of course the Bloodshot BBQ on Saturday at Union Pool. I'd also really like to check out The Stars at Bowery Ballroom early on Friday night, but I sense that show is gonna sell right the fuck out.

So, let's employ another hackneyed blog device: why don't all twelve of my readers peruse the CMJ schedule and make a recommendation on what shows to see? Please bear in mind, if I can get on the guest list, I'm much more likely to see the band.

::stares intently::

[edited to add: My friend J is too nice to pimp himself out in my comments here ::cough:: but this Thursday he'll be playing at the Bowery Poetry Club with the STYRENES at midnight, and if you know what's good for you, you should go. This is *wholly* unrelated to CMJ, btw]

By the way, The Mountain Goats RAWKED! Why haven't any of you told me to listen to them before? Assholes.

Rude descending a staircase, part 2, OR Geezers need excitement

I know that no one reads blogs to find out what happened two days ago. It's akin to still caring about what Colin Farrell is up to. I'm a bit lax. But think of this as Pledge Drive Week, when I string you along for days on end, dunning you with endless entreaties for cash, with the promise of some Really Excellent Programming coming up (we're talking boobies of the non-aboriginal variety, something racy and Italian, or at least cute footage of bear cubs). And the totebag arrives in four to six weeks, fuckers.

I said no touching the radio!

From my friend J:
pay the fuckin toll, shitheel. slow down. now speed up, you fuck. change lanes, loser. ok, now stop at this roy rogers.

Rude descending a staircase, part one

The irony of my life is that 95% of the time, I find myself with plenty of time on my hands and very little (other than menstrual cramps and operating systems) to blog about. The moment I rendezvous with fun and excitement, I no longer have any time to write about it. You can imagine my dilemma. And it's no wonder that all the A-list bloggers are coke heads.*

Finally!

My first missed connection! And it's from Bryan Adams! (We met years back at the doctor's office, you know. We go to the same dermatologist.)

Fresh breath is the priority of my life

I'm more excited about this than I should be.

Pardon our dust

I'm currently bogged down in work, feeling a bit hazy, and participating in a double-blind experiment to determine how many Ginger Altoids can prove fatal. I've got stories, though, kids, just you wait.

In the meantime, go play outside, Mommy's got a headache.

I feel nice when I sing this song

Negative/Charge is a man after my own heart, which he might be surprised to learn:

As someone who has never bought into the whole helpless guy thing, as someone who actually kept his place tidy and organized and barely even has rats, this is especially troublesome. But nevertheless, I am, even as I write this, wearing only a garbage bag and eating a jar of expired grape jelly with my hands. I spent the night, when I finally fell asleep around 5 a.m., sleeping under my desk with a slice of American cheese stuck to the side of my face and I have not eaten anything that wasn't pre-cooked/processed/condemned by the Surgeon General since Thursday. I now hold a World's Record in Peanut Butter Chocolate Oreo Consumption, but I plan to break it again before Carnivale comes on. The entire range of my human interaction this weekend would make John Merrick cluck his tongue disapprovingly. I mean, I just watched an entire episode of Real Sports With Bryant Gumbel for fuck's sake.

I did always like the CUE crossword puzzle, tho'...

Lowculture.com calls bullshit on New York magazine.

Is it really possible that a writer can find an interview subject who fits perfectly within the magazine's target audience (usually described as someone "attractive" and "Ivy-educated") and who manages to articulate the central point of the article in complete, grammatically correct sentences? Is it possible that writers from the same magazine find these people every time they do a sociological trend piece?

As my grandfather used to say, C'mon, I wasn't made with a finger.

(Take it away, kids, I got nothin.')

Empire of the senseless

I got no words this morning, but WEFAIL is tres interessant. (Via surfstation.)

Life in a northern town

I went upstate this weekend to pick up my car and stop in to visit some friends.

Bring Back the Skank

Mary Gaitskill on bringing sleaze back to erotica. And trust me--last time I saw her read in person, she was wearing a tight red minidress and white heels. Mary knows from skank.

That movie ate a dick sandwich with a side of balls!

How to kill an auteur's comeback:

"After stepping out of the theater, I immediately drove to the ASPCA and adopted a puppy - a gorgeous, playful Black Labrador mix. I named him Here's What I Think of Kill Bill, and then murdered him with a salad fork out in the parking lot."

I got no hole for my pole, I'd fuck a mink stole

We're gonna do this weekend in reverse, okay? So I got home last night to find an invite to my high school reunion. I would like to know who gave out my address. I think I need to lay some ground rules with my mother.

The reunion is being held at the VFW Hall the Saturday after thanxgiving. Am I going? You fuckin' betcha. Having run into 20 or so porcine and rapidly aging classmates at the local bar, I can say with utmost certainty that I will be the best looking one there. So of course I'm going.

Yes, I really am this vain. Because this girl (like others, too, apparently) is still just a little bitter about high school. Not Carrie White bitter, but bitter nonetheless (Note: the bob is an asymetrical wedge in the back. The cord around my neck is ::groan:: a rune.):

Oh, and...

AUSSIE AUSSIE AUSSIE! OY OY OY!

She wants to lead a glamorous life

Hey everybody! Guess what I'm doing this weekend? I'm getting a new car. Well, a newer car. Another Subaru station wagon of the soccer mom variety, the kind that one can only find in upper Westchester/lower Putnam county. The owner wanted to upgrade to something a little more sporty. As such, I will be out of town, while the rest of you are partying down. Or swigging bourbon in a closet in North Carolina.

But there are a number of events I highly recommend you attend. First off, Squirrels from Hell are playing a free gig tonight at Otto's Shrunken Head. Don't just take my word for it: Go see 'em yourself. They really fucking rock.

If you're feeling slightly more posh, you should go uptown to Cafe St. Bart's and check out their Johnny Cash Tribute. The lineup is pretty fucking incredible. And it's the least you can do for my friend John who had to be up at the hour of bastards this morning to pimp the gig on Fox morning news while the rest of us were sleeping like kittens on opium benders.

Um, also, you should go to the Emily Harvey Gallery (537 Broadway) and check out "Accidental Significance," a show of Geoffrey Hendricks' work. Half of it is Collaborative Boxes, done with his late partner Brian Buczak, the other half is Memorial Boxes, done after Buczak's death. They're these exquisite shadow boxes filled with found objects.

Hendricks and Buczak are major Fluxus artists. This small show is running concurrently with a really huge Fluxus retrospective at Rutgers, where Hendricks teaches now.

Rutgers is still in NJ, right? Shame that.

Anyhow, see you kids when I get back.

Like toast in the oven with government cheese bubblin'

I'd like to personally take credit for getting my ordinarily mild-mannered compatriots' Irish up today. I have no real proof of this, but it seems that everywhere I go I get people riled up, so teh intarweb shouldn't be no different.

See, okay. Would TMFTML ever have written the phrase Fuck you, Klosterman if I hadn't plied him with a little hair of the dog during our post-lunch, pre-high-tea victuals today? I knew he was in trouble when he ordered a "drob Rye Roy" lying under the banquette. Check please!

Some time later, while I was still dabbing my pointelle-knit twin set with club soda (kindly proferred after the above incident, which culminated in a "rehash" of the penne alla vodka lunch special in my lap), Maud Newton swept by. She had just come from the knife-sharpener (in preparation for her trip home this weekend) and was on her way to her Mexican pharmacy connection so she could only join us for 3 or 4 Pink Ladies.

I pointed her in the direction of this anonymous fellow, who appears to be reading our mail! Man, it's like a preview of my frickin' memoir right there. Anyhow, after this revelation (and a Singapore Sling "for the road," wink-wink, plus some requisite mutual bung-hole licking), Maud went back to work and abruptly used the word "cornhole" in her rebuttal. Now, admittedly, she was quoting said blogger expose, but still, it's rather unladylike, no?

I can only blame myself for the corruption of the tabulae rasae.

Watershed news from the Department of Duh

Having sex is good for you, says study:

The best that modern science can say for sexual abstinence is that it's harmless when practiced in moderation. Having regular and enthusiastic sex, by contrast, confers a host of measurable physiological advantages, be you male or female.

Scat AND pussy

I promised I wouldn't write about the cat, I know, but right now I've hit a bit of a block, see: I'm drier than grandma's you-know-what, creatively speaking, anyhow.

So, I was at the store the other day lookin' to get some kitty litter. I found this stuff that looks like rock salt. The package promises that it'll last a month. This was the selling point for me. (And yes, I'm cognizant of the fact that I have to *clean* the turds out of it periodically.)

When I got home, I read the instructions, which rather ominously stated that, given the revolutionary formulation of this particular shit-box party mix, there might be a bit of a learning curve for some cats. Hmm.

Needless to say, Gordon has not responded well to this new litter. Last night he hopped into his box, freaked out, did a kitty St. Vitus Dance, and did a tear-ass across the room. He repeated this approximately 73 times. This morning I noticed he still hadn't taken a crap.

Well, not *in* the box, anyhow.

(Addendum: The Liminal Liberal reminded me of Mingus' cat training advice. Always helpful, that woman.)

Kid I'm one of the illest of all times

Hey, so guess what's playin' at Video Theatre on November 4? Miike's Ichi the Killer. I know some people who will be very excited to hear about this. One of those people, of course, is me.

Sensitivity training

So the work stud(y) guy turns 21 next March. I know this because I asked him.

"How long till I can legally take you out in the guise of friendly maternalism, get you hammered, and then shamelessly take advantage of you in the john?"

"Oh, uh, March."

"Great. Save the fuckin' date then, baby, because mama's gonna rock you like a hurricane."

"..."

"Oh, and could you leave those copies on the table there? Thanks."

I'm thinking about installing one of those cute javascript countdown clocks over in the sidebar. Kinda like those preverts what likes the Olsen twins.

Which would you prefer, a computer or a gun?

Wow, so everyone in California really *is* batshit. Clearly I should've listened to my father. K and I eagerly await the resurgence of Jello Biafra. C'mon, Jello! We forgive your Lexus! Get LARD back together! Record I Blow Minds For A Living II! Make up with East Bay Ray, kick that punkass former child star out, and write a few new verses to "California Uber Alles"!

There is no THE ONE

Hee.

Get a grip. There is no The One. All there is are meaningless lies told in a fit of passion and lust. Its all about pheremones. You convince yourself that you actually KNOW someone on some deeper spiritual level. When in fact all you really know is that consciously or subconsciously you like the odor they emit. And then you get to know about all their nasty habits. The way they leave ice cream boxes on the counter with the spoon in em. The way they have to shake their flacid dripping penis EXACTLY four times before tucking it back in their too tight pants. The way they pick their nose when they think you aren't looking, then self consciously claim they were "just scratching". The way the hair on their ass gets rolled into little tanngled balls from walking in leather pants. The way they tell the same pathetic jokes over and over to every new person they meet. The way they lie and cheat.

When I say I'm in love you best believe I'm in LUV, L-U-V

Maccers makes me wish I were an outie, not an innie: Ah life. The World Trade Center can fall down but some guys will always remain optimistic cheesy cunts.

Girls the night will bury you

Har! Over at Zulkey.com, we've got all sorts of Chick Lit. They make it look so easy:

Things were fabulous!  The club was fabulous!  Fabulous!

"Ooooh!" squealed Natasha, "Hi-yeee!"

Yes, there was Veronica, slurping a fabulous mojito bleu.  She drummed her French tips on the bar's brushed steel countertop.  Her baby-blue eyes squinted in recognition.

"Natash," she slurred.  "Ohmigod."

"Ha ha!" shrieked Natasha, tossing her shiny black hair over her shoulder.  Arnold had scampered off to electric slide along the dance floor, just as sassy as could be. 

"Ha ha!" agreed Veronica.

"Thump thump!" cried the music.  "Tchaka tchaka!"

(via Maud, who, like me, writes only about fishing vessels and bullfights.)

Boys the night will bury you

My worlds are colliding: I just got spam from Richard Buckner offering me a bigger wang. I think he's in town this week; perhaps I'll ask him about his new side gig in person.

Richard Buckner is actually one of the few (semifamous) musicians I've ever spoken to for any length of time. (Interviewing John S. Hall for the SUNY Albany radio station when I was 17 doesn't count. Nor does the time I had drinks at the same table as Jon Langford and giggled like a cretin at everything he said.) One night he was playing at Mercury Lounge and I happened to stand next to him at the bar to order a beer. He smiled at me. I said, "Gosh, I love your music. I've seen you every time you come to NYC." Or somesuch fawning nonsense. We proceeded to talk about music, and Atlanta, and stuff. The opening act was still playing. "Oh, hey," he said. "I gotta go up and sing a duet now, I think. Will you watch my beer?"

See, this is the beauty of being a wee little innocent-looking thing. How many times do you think, say, Cameron Diaz has asked a fan to watch her beer?

I stood for awhile at the bar, figuring he wouldn't come back, keeping one eye on Richard Buckner's beer, the other on the bathroom door, because I had to break the seal something fierce. I was beginning to think that this was some prank that alt-country musicians like to pull on unsuspecting fans, the ol' "Watch My Beer for Eternity" joke, but no, he came back. "Sorry about that. What were we talkin' about?"

I don't actually remember what we were talking about at all. The feeling of talking to someone whose work I admired never dissipated into the feeling of enjoying a conversation with a stranger. Finally, the opening act ended. "Hey, I gotta go backstage and get ready to go on. Are you gonna be here after the show? You should stick around."

I didn't, of course. I left as soon as he put his guitar down. What, you think I'm some kinda No Depression buckle bunny?

Fuck it, it's 4, we're posting monkey links now

Ask the tiny monkey a question.

Who can say where they're blowing?

Grant gives a lovely and erudite (as if you'd expected anything but) defense of karaoke.

If you mention karaoke to your cohort, you’ll hear some say “I hate karaoke” and others comment, “I don’t sing karaoke” in the same tone they might say, “I’ve never sold access to my ass for a poke of heroin.” ...If you are bored by singing, fine. If you hate music, you’re an unamerican baby-eater, but I’m down with that. If you dislike bars, okay. But some karaoke-haters merely have a fear of public performance which manifests itself as a false pride. They have some self-respect to protect, they think. They believe singing karaoke is beneath their dignity—they would never do anything so gauche, so uncouth, something so clearly reserved for the loser classes.

Incidentally, Enid's karaoke night is tonight. I am tempted to attend, but a)I am a brokeass man and b)I have freelance copy to write on the scintillating topic of file management, storage, and destruction. We're talking Booker Prize shortlist material here. Still, I may be there nonetheless, because Grant still technically owes me a duet.

On ripstop canvas, snowboots, and spermicidal foam

I had no idea that Carhartt was such a "brand" in Europe. They've got this fairly incredible, if flash-heavy, site. Der kinder lieben das Carhartt!

I wish I still had my insulated onesie. It was perfect for midwinter Vermont--you could wear it to class, wear it to the sculpture studio, wear it on your self-destructive walk through the woods to your insane boyfriend's off-campus apartment, and the best part? It was so goddamned warm, you didn't have to wear much underneath. Rrrowr.

Jumping out of windows in expensive clothes

I don't mean to kvetch about "Oh, don't you hate it when X song is used in Y commercial," but c'mon people. Hewlett Packard? Pictures of You? Do they WANT me to associate their brand with being 16, stoned, and completely heartbroken? For the love of Christ. I was watching, like, the Arsenal game on Saturday and said ad came on. Immediately I flashed to a memory of my much younger self, crouched on the floor of my closet, sobbing hysterically, alternating between hits of sativa and Jack Daniels, exhaling into a paper towel tube stuffed with dryer sheets (you laugh, but it worked, I tell you! Remember this when you go home for Thanksgiving.), and emerging only to hit rewind on my stereo. The soundtrack? Pictures of You, of course. The single most melancholy tune ever written. Repeated for 5 hours, until I was called down to dinner. Thank you, HP. I'm going to go cut myself now.

I wanna be the girl with the most coke...

Ooooh, get her. (Via dust congress, who, I hasten to add, probably does not wish death from above on Courtney Love the way I do.)

Just what kind of skeeza?

While the rest of us are busy being hung over, bmarkey is being supremely droll:

WASHINGTON (AP) – During a seemingly routine press conference today, the White House press corps lost one of their own. Jeremy Spengler, a 26-year-old reporter for the Sacramento Press-Terrier on his first major assignment, was asking National Security Advisor Condoleeza Rice a question regarding the continued absence of any evidence of weapons of mass destruction in Iraq when Rice leapt a distance of some thirty feet from the podium to the back of the room where Spengler was standing, stuck her talons deep into Spengler’s chest, and ripped his heart from his body. Rice then devoured the still beating organ. White House aides hurriedly called an end to the conference.

[insert Monty Python reference here]

I feel absolutely terrible that in my haste to go out and tie one on yesterday I neglected to note the anniversary of Aristotle's death. I will direct you now to the Antigeist, who has this to say:

Today marks the anniversary of the death of Aristotle, a grade-A windbag who, fittingly, died of indigestion this day 2,325 years ago, and who (if you are unfamiliar) is the grand-daddy of mind-games, manipulation, passive aggression, and everything else that's wrong with human relations be they legal, familial, or educational.

Just to show you that I'm not totally behind the eight ball here, I'd like to wish a happy birthday to Tommy Lee, with whom (contrary to what may have been reported in the Star) I am still on speaking terms.

Music is my boyfriend

Audikt "is a collaborative, issue based project between designers, artists and musicians, showcasing creative and musical talent beyond the mainstream."

(via pixelsurgeon)

Where the fuck is St. Peter?

Below the high altar of St. Peter's, investigators have found sheep bones, ox bones, pig bones, and the complete skeleton of a mouse. Was Peter himself ever there?

Water-walking Christ

OK, I just finished reading "Brokeback Mountain," by Annie Proulx, which is in her book Close Range. Fuuuuuck. Cowboys in love. I felt like I had been stabbed in the stomach when I finished it. Crumpled in my seat on the subway.

Hello, Cleveland!

OK, so guess where I'd be tonight if I didn't have less glamorous plans? I'd be going to the Knitting Factory to see Dysrhythmia. Fortunately for me, I saw them on Saturday at Lit (a bar I swore up and down I'd not set foot in, but actually, it's not so bad. It looks like it used to be a tea room) and they ROCKED. It's kinda hard to describe them--they're sorta like prog-avant-metal.

Come back here, I'm not done.

They're kinda mathcore. Anyhow, you can check 'em out here if you're interested.

Wear earplugs.

Also, this Friday, THE LIVE ONES will be playing a couple of gigs at Helen's Bar, which, according to Jon the guitarist, is on the corner of Manhattan and Freeman or thereabouts, in Greenpoint. I personally don't go that far north very often, so I am unfamiliar with this particular boite, but if you're coming from elsewhere, take the G to Greenpoint Ave., and walk in the direction of the gunshots and the flames raking the sky. Ultimately, though, this band is worth risking your life to see. They're one of the only things in life, aside from Viggo Mortensen and hashish brownies, that I like. Clearly, they merit your support.

Urge to kill rising

Zev Chafets can take a flying fuck at a rolling donut:

But the jihad lost a hero last week right here in New York City....What he did do was jam America's intellectual radar. He wasn't the architect of 9/11, but he was the father of the 9/12 inability to comprehend it....
Ah, well, Said is in paradise now. As an Episcopalian, he's ineligible for the customary 72 virgins, but I wouldn't be surprised if he's honored with a couple of female doctoral candidates. No one deserves it more.

I know people who get interviewed!

Very excited to point you in the direction of an interview with Maud. Yay! Who knows but that, on the lower frequencies, she speaks for us?

File under: Think of the children, won't someone

A recent Danish study finds no relationship between thimerosal in childhood vaccinations and autism:

The exhaustive study includes records on all the 467,450 children born in Denmark between Jan. 1, 1990, and Dec. 31, 1996. It finds no significant difference between the incidence of autism and other such problems in children who got vaccine with or without thimerosal, and no indications of a dose-response relationship between autism and the amount of ethylmercury received through thimerosal.

My cousin out in Hawaii never vaccinated her daughter, who is now (I believe) 12 or 13. Last time I saw her was about 7 years ago. "I'm thinking of going to Bali to learn to make drums," my cousin told me.

"Well, you're not planning on bringing [insert stupid hippie name] with you? If she's not vaccinated she's gonna get a 40-foot tapeworm! I've seen pictures."

"Actually, I was thinking maybe you could watch her for a couple of months. Wouldn't that be fun?"

Cut to small, feral child jumping nude on grandma's divan shouting "Milk is POISON!

"Ah, Beth-"

"It's Eliza now."

"Eliza, I don't think that's a good idea. I, ah, eat children."