On location from the hollow log

It's fewer than 12 hours to the reunion. We have chosen our outfits. We have debated the merits of getting drunk first. We have raided our mothers' medicine chests in anticipation.

Gordon and my mother's cat are not getting along. They have crapped in each others' litter pans as if to say That's right, biatch. Bring it.

I am weary and I want to go home.

Loath

There's probably nothing worse than a "best-of" post with all the blogger's favorite posts catalogued hubristically. But since I'm heading into the hinterlands, and likely won't be back online until Sunday, I offer, along with a side of humble apologies, my favorites from the past year-and-an-almost-half. Pretend it's, like, the Lewis Mumford reader, only gayer. And dumber.

on hipsters♥on art♥on the homeless problem♥on sterilization♥on shite opening bands♥on violence against women♥on being a lesbian♥on xmas upstate♥on going to bars♥on meeting the mayor♥on not picking up furniture on the street♥on the sexless marriage♥on diaries♥on mardi gras♥on sushi♥on shooting guns♥on my gay dad♥on music♥on spam♥on art♥on sad things♥on karaoke

Have a festive holiday. Mommy will be out late and she doesn't want you awake when she gets home, m'kay?

I give and I give

So while I'm upstate this weekend, I have a suggestion for those of you who plan on staying in the city. This Saturday night, you should go to Hank's Tavern, and see the greatest live band in NYC, The Live Ones. They go on at 10:30. They are playing with Teenanderthal, so it's gonna be a most excellent show.

See? Xmas came early for you losers.

Please, like it's hard to find a gay architect in this town?

CAN YOU HELP ME WITH AUTOCAD - m4m

Shithouse rat crazy never goes out of style

Speaking of autistic geniuses,* God bless my friend J for introducing me to Eric Satie's inimitable writing:

I have subscribed for some time to a fashion magazine. I wear a white cap, white stockings, and a white waistcoat....My doctor has always told me to smoke. Part of his advice runs: 'Smoke away, dear chap; if you don't someone else will.'

TMF,TML wouldn't use this joke, so I am.

By the time I get to Phoenix, I'll be wasted.

What kind of man wears Armour hotdogs?

For the love of christ, I'm facing 4 whole days without internet access this week. My mother's computer, last I recall, was on the fritz. And there aren't any internet cafes in my hometown. This will only make worse the fact that I'm headed upstate to have thanxgiving scrambled eggs with said mom, attend a baby shower for my best friend, and make an undoubtedly drunken appearance at my high school reunion.

Why am I going, you ask? Because unlike the rest of my classmates, I'm not overweight or divorced or saddled with three children from three different men. This puts me at a distinct advantage. No, I'm not famous or successful, and honestly, I'm still in contact with the folks I wanna be in contact with. But still I RSVP'd because I thought, hell, I am as goodlooking as I am ever gonna be, and goddamn if I won't light up the Ghent VFW like a motherfuckin' firecracker.

It's a sad, pyrrhic victory that I am going to my reunion simply to gloat. I should know better, having spent the better part of my high school career being gloated at for not possessing the charm, the worth, the perfect spiral perm that all the popular girls had. Now that these popular girls are big and desperate and old, I should show some sympathy, shouldn't I? I should be the bigger person, right?

I'm sorry, I cannot.

Also, I am going to see what the men look like. I mean, I ran into a couple of guys from my class last time I was home and they looked mostly the same, only more bloated. And married. To much younger women. I want to see what they're up to. And why no one ever asked me to the prom.

I remember chatting with one of the guys from my class a few years back in the local bar. "All of us thought you were pretty," he admitted, which was news to me. I made him buy me a shot of JD for reparation. If he is at the reunion, I will make him buy me at the very least another shot, maybe 3. And I will make him dance with me to "Melt With You."

I talked with one of my girlfriends last night about what we should expect. She's thinking of wearing an argyle sweater she just bought from J. Crew. I'm thinking of doing a more Joe Coleman sorta routine, wherein I show up and pretend to be someone from my class who died shortly after high school and then end the evening by exploding the firecrackers I have strapped to my chest. That, to me, would be satisfying.

I suppose I should pick out something blousy to wear.

Ecuadorian president stepping down? Or maybe not.

Newley provides us with some rather interesting-if-true breaking news.

Just in time for the holidays

A holiday as auspicious as the celebration of hundreds of years of rape, pillaging, socioeconomic slavery, and football needs a proper cocktail. Put away that Beaujolais Nouveau, and lay off the Drambuie. We've found the perfect pork martini:

Wow. This Martini packed a pork wallop. The aroma was overpowering, I have to admit. But that masked the oil; I saw the oil before, really, see my comments under "Transmogrification," supra, but I tasted no oil. I declaim this a Martini you will love or hate, no middle ground. You could get drunk on the bouquet alone, a secondary high.

More sad news

RIP Snowflake: World's Only Known Albino Gorilla Dies.

Steel guitar and settle down

RIP, Speedy West.

We are easily amused

Am enormously entertained by M.I.L.K.E.D. - animated bodies. (NSFW, but hell, it's Saturday night, ain't it?) Via Get Swank.

Will you not heed the commands of your lord?

Work demands that I, uh, do some. So today, in an uncharacteristic show of devotion to the things that *really* matter (namely, IS ice-skating hyphenated? Let's have a symposium!), this blog will be silent.

But for those of you who are interested, last night's Mountain Goats show was pretty fuckin' fabu. The only disconcerting aspect was the two opening bands. The first one was a trio of seventh-level wizards who played rather quiet, ambient, sad tunes that had everyone lolling on the floor like they were waiting for the mothership behind the Hale-Bopp. We christened them "Corduroy Lardass."

The second was a duo of girls who appeared to have formed a band based on their love of Meg White. The one who lost the bet on who got to be Meg White played guitar. The crowd was more enthusiastic for them. "Oh my god, I can't believe you're all standing up now," the singer/guitarist/non-Meg White gushed.

Finally, The Mountain Goats came on. And they rocked and charmed everyone. And they seemed a bit frightened by the shouts of 3 overzealous TMG fans in the audience. They practically went all Man-U crazy when John Darnielle struck the first chords of "The Monkey Song." People are funny like that.

Anyhow, so because of the dearth of stuff happenin' around these parts, I think you should check out Maud's guest blogger. I hear he's interesting.

He fucking shimmered like a seal in the sun

Does anyone think this Jonathan Brandis death is a bit reminiscent of the Might magazine-Adam Rich hoax?

Tonite

If you got nothin' else to do, the Mountain Goats are playin' at the NYU Kimmel Center.

That is all.

HA!

I wish I wrote this:This girl couldn't fuck if dicks were fire and she was the world's only water source.

I was in the house when the house burned down

Sorry for the silence here. Yesterday we hadda run home to check on poor little Gordon and our poor little apartment because of this fire, which (though it broke out a few doors down) fortunately didn't get near our building. I feel terrible for the folks in my neighborhood who lost everything. But on the plus side, I know what a cockloft is now.

Yesterday on the train a group of schoolgirls mocked my ass. Presumably they were laughing at how small it is. Nothing makes one regress faster than a group of schoolgirls pointing at you and giggling, uniformly flipping their hair and rolling their eyes.

Of course, I know I have a small ass. It matches my small tits perfectly. This is my birthright, and my grandmother took me aside at age 11 to inform me: Dana, the women in this family are not well-endowed. But you'll never hear any of us complaining of a backache.

No joke. Of course, I assumed that she was telling me this with some sort of oracular knowledge heralding my pubescence.* This is it, I thought; I will finally start getting the boobs I so richly deserve.

Needless to say, I did not get boobs for another 2 years. I felt cheated.

*It was kind of like when they march you into the nurse's office in 4th grade to watch one of those special movies. I remember going home expecting to get my period any day now. I practiced in the mirror all the menstruation-related conversations the movie made me presume I'd undoubtedly be having now that my menarche was imminent.

No dice for 4 more years.

Come take him by his lily white hands

An interesting article about the burgeoning industry of crime scene clean-up. (See also Aftermath, Inc.'s website.)

Via Obscure Store.

Obstacle to joy, one reason to use some drugs

OK, so while I'm currently moonlighting as a revolutionary, I'd like to suggest to everyone that you go see The Revolution Will Not Be Televised, which is about the 2002 Venezuelan coup to oust the democratically elected president. You can read more about it here and you can read a little bit about the media obfuscation of the whole ordeal here.

Watching this made me mourn the death of my nonapathy.

I don't have to prove...that I am creative!

I mentioned that I took some pictures at the Dia:Beacon, which is a no-no of course, but I am quite the badass. I'm only posting the ones that don't involve my friends' genitalia draped on the various sculptures. As such, there are just these three.

This is inside one of the Serra pieces.

This is at the entrance of one of the Naumann pieces. There are two TV sets at the end of the hallway: one is a static image of the hallway. The other is a real-time video of the hallway.

You can sorta see my reflection in this one.

Elegy

MC with guy who "cums" too fast.

Am not so proud of Brooklyn's finest

Hey, so did you hear about the latest case of police brutality? I would be surprised if you had, seeing as until HereIType mentioned it to me, I hadn't heard about it whatsoever. Here's allegedly what happened: Police (21 cop cars, according to the above release) showed up at a fundraising event for Anarchist People of Color. Although it was by all accounts a peaceful event, the outcome was a hundred people sprayed with pepper spray and a number of people subdued and beaten with batons. There were 8 arrests. And numerous injuries. How supremely fucked up. And I can't find news about it anywhere. (Except, of course, the Daily News, who chose only to mention that two cops were injured.) Does anyone else have any information?

I'm proud of my birth-state

Massachusetts court strikes down ban on same-sex marriage.

1 0wn3rz j00!!!

OK, so either Blogrolling is having some technical difficulties or my blogroll has been hax0r3d. As such, we will be trying to get to the bottom of this. In the meantime, my links sidebar has been removed. Sorry for the inconvenience.

A good time was had by all

This weekend was all about driving hither and yon in an attempt to culturally enrich myself. We went up to the Dia:Beacon on Saturday and roamed around. I took some surreptitious photos which I might post tomorrow when I'm back at work. See, today is the day that Gordon Lightfoot gets snipped. And we're all very, very sorry about that, Gordon.

The Dia:Beacon is situated in one of those upstate towns that has been on the downswing for some time. Though with this sudden influx of city money, new restaurants and shops have begun opening up on Main Street. It's all very charming in a way that makes me feel ashamed to be a Citiot, as we used to call them.

So after taking in the de Marias, the Serras, the Beuyses, we decided to thorougly purge ourselves of our intellectual pretenses and go to the Woodbury Commons Factory Outlet.

And then we drove home and got stuck in traffic. Numerous times. I am not a good navigator in such situations.

But then the fun came! We went to a birthday party for some friends. And having little else in my stomach aside from true grit, I proceeded to get astonishingly smashed. The evening culminated in me badgering and insulting members of this fine band, and I am ashamed. They are very nice and talented and charming. I meant nothing by it. As Maud and Emma can attest, I just get a little punchy in my cups, but really, I'm harmless. "Another rock-and-rye, bartender, and this time pour it like you don't own it!" Thank god K was there to sling me over his shoulder and drag me home before I started slicing people with a broken bottle neck.

And yesterday is a blur. A headachey, bloated blur.

I think he likes me.

TMF,TML just told me: I'm sure a team of shrinks is using you for a grant application.

Nishimori Swint

I'm tired of coming up with post titles today. So I'm just going to use the names I find in my bulk email folder. She wants me to defend my vehicle's most significant inner workings.

I swear to Christ, I was just harangued for 20 minutes because I hyphenated "ice-skating." I spent 10 minutes calmly trying to explain that Merriam-Webster's 11th hyphenates ice-skating. Naturally, no one listened to me. Finally, one of my coworkers said, as though the thought came out of the clear blue, "Well, look here! Merriam-Webster's hyphenates ice-skating." RTFM, people.

This morning at the gym I found myself lifting weights next to one of the maintenance men. He was benching 275 lbs. He happened to be the same maintenance guy who delivered my salvaged office desk but refused to take my old one away. "That's a different department," he said.

"Right. So you're saying that, although your office refused to pinpoint a day of the week that they could deliver this desk--and I won't bring up the fact that you're located a mere block and a half from here--I was supposed to have some other bureaucratic entity dispatch one of its henchmen to come and take my old desk away first. Ostensibly leaving me without a desk for a couple days in between."

He nodded.

"Even though they are bringing said desk back to your office."

He nodded again. "Union rules."

Up until this point, I was blissfully unaware that the acquisition of used office furniture was only slightly less complicated than the orchestration of the Sinai Treaty. This is the same office that requires you to summon one of its workers should you need to hang anything on your wall that demands something more substantial than Fun-Tac.

("Hi, can you please hang up my motivational poster?"

Hand to pocket, nail to wall, hammer to nail. THUD. "There you go." That only requires an appointment scheduled two weeks in advance.)

If John Henry could've harnessed the energy he's generating spinning in his grave, he might've beaten that steam engine.

Anyhow, I'm just supacranky because I didn't get much sleep. I'd much rather be sitting on a couch, drinking wine, eating cheese, and watching a Bill Murray movie right now.

What Would Snigda Prakash Do?

A very amusing entry over at Ask Brendan:

Let me say that many guys are in your predicament. It may seem odd, given that mostly old people listen to NPR, but NPR is part of the mating ritual. For both the male and the female, listening to NPR sends a signal to a prospective mate: “Despite my current income, in a few years I will have a house in a neighborhood with good public schools, and I will drive a Volvo stationwagon.” Women are sending an additional signal: “I consider myself smart and sophisticated and if I get pregnant, I will have an abortion. I might consider a three-way.” Men signal back: “I won’t try to stop you from getting an abortion, but I’m not afraid to cry if you do. I don’t like guns, but I’m manly enough to camp and mountain-bike. I just love nature! A three-way sounds intriguing.”

Pillow talk

Just so y'all know, when I told dong that thing about the Jessica Lynch Sex Tape, it was a postcoital musing, not meant to be broadcast to you unwashed masses. So, it's only fair that I reveal that in our relationship, I'm the Rimbaud, he's the Verlaine, if you know what I mean.

[Edited to add: What? I thought Simon Rex was as gay as the wallpaper. Hmph. I guess when he posed for youngstuds.com he was only in it for the money.]

Blasphemer!

HereIType is lying, I tell you. Lying!

For the record, it wasn't "shitwad," it was "fucknard." Big difference.

Got me some quarters for the Magic Fingers

Oh. Oh my. Motel Fetish. (Thanks, fleshbot!)

A body and a bed

Yay! Jim Crace's new book is out in the states! Alright, you FSG folks--I know you're out there, I've seen your IP addresses--gimme a promo copy! (Thanks Maud for reading the paper so that I don't have to.)

All the Classical Civilization and Hellenic Studies double majors in the house say HO!

OK, before I forget, tonight, at NYU's Kimmel Center, Dead Prez and The Last Emperor are performing. It will undoubtedly be worth checking out.

I'm glad they didn't bust out in an a cappella rendition of It's Gettin Hot in Herre

Eeeeeeuw.

During the obligatory pot-smoking question, several candidates seem willing to drink bong-water if it would establish their credentials. When one woman asks which of their fellow candidates they'd most like to party with, Lieberman creeps-out the room by saying, "I hope my wife understands this. I'd like to party with the young lady who asked that question." Sharpton takes it further, saying he'd like to party with John Kerry's wife. Kerry sheds his long-faced Easter Island mask, adopts a self-conscious smile, and says he'd wanted to party with Carol Moseley Braun, but now he'd better stick with Sharpton "so I can keep an eye on my wife." Sharpton and Kerry then clasp hands in what is the first, and it is to be hoped last, soul-brother handshake of this election.

Thank goodness my mother hasn't figured out how to even send email yet

For the record, I think the Antigeist is way cooler than I am:

This is just a private, anonymous diary in which I occasionally (*wink*) make things up. It's not a biography, I would never, for example, mention your name, your status as a well-respected, widely known player in the entertainment industry, or point readers to your website, or your thousands of print, television, and radio interviews. I honor your privacy too much to do that. I mean, did you read that Mommy Dearest book? Man, did THAT make her mom look bad.And her mom was just a bitchy narcissist.

Don't be gentle with me

Am so glad that the straights have finally gotten a hanky code. (via Gawker.)

So I work my youth away

It's Soros Week here at TTBBBE: Soros To Give Millions To Oust Bush.

Scuttlebutt down the wire: The Olsen Twins have purchased a condo at Morton Square, which *could* mean they'll be attending NYU in the fall. Look for my OlsenCam next year, trained on W. 4th Street. (And lest you think I have catamite tendencies, I'm strictly in it for the money.)

OK, so Work is bearing down on me. Go chase down the fine folks in the sidebar, will ya?

Who held the top of the hill from the rest was called the king

In observance of Veterans Day, you should go read up on Operation Whitecoat, an interesting and frightening chapter in the history of our government's love of domestic bioterrorism.

Saving the world from civil society

Private Paramilitary Force Raids Soros Institute:

"I would suggest to the Soros Foundation that it stop these lightweight, petty arguments -- in the end it's not really big money. We will put all their folders back and even wipe the dust off, and we will stay away from here, if they agree to pay the rent on time," he told NTV television Friday.

Yay!

Welcome Yuebing.

Gee, I wonder what I could have meant

K told me that in my sleep last night I said, repeatedly, "Time to go back to Nerdville."

"Where?"

"Nerdville."

"Where?

"Nerdville!"

"Are you awake?"

"Nerdville."

All I want is my liver all polluted with Remy

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Am currently trying to scarf down the remnants of Friday night's dinner at Goa because it was there in the fridge and because I am broke. The food there is surprisingly good and they $3 Imperial pints at the bar during happy hour.

That I consumed three of these pints will come as no surprise to anyone who has ordered the Chicken Phaal.

No idea why I attempted to eat the leftovers of said chicken today, sans the soothing Newcastle. I'm crying at my desk right now. Clearly I am lacking a fundamental logic component to my brain. Or (perhaps more likely) it's my Scottish frugality overriding the sheer inedibility of the leftovers.

So this weekend my father and my friend S's father were in town. I dragged them to the WFMU record fair. "What freaks!" they both cried, which is rich coming from antiques dealers. Anyhow.

So here's what I got: a 60s garage girl-group comp that I may or may not already own, The Sympathetic Sounds of Detroit, just to show that there is no love lost between me an that fair city (even given my recent musical misadventures AND having to miss the Dirtbombs on Saturday night in order to go see Robert Earl Keen with my father and [apparently] every Sigma Alpha Epsilon brother and/or Texas A&M alum in the tristate area), a Blasters LP, a Canadian Tribute to Nashville, and a couple of gems from the good folks at Hyped2Death, including a hot-off-the-presses Steve Treatment double CD.

I figured I was done, seeing as I'd spent every last dollar and my eyes were glazing over. Plus having to escort my father, who was openly mocking the other attendees the entire time, was rather draining. Though secretly enjoyable.

But then I came across a Marlin Wallace display and I stopped. The guy manning the table (and boy was he manning it! A good 6'2, shaved head, and Ed-Gein-not-Shannon-Hoon-style overalls) came over and pitched the story to me. Some background: Marlin Wallace is like country music's Jandek, except more talented. And more insane. He spent 20 years as a hobo, fought in Vietnam, and paddled down the Amazon alone in a canoe. The man has a lot to say. You can hear one of his tunes here. (And yeah, I find the marketing of crazy people as entertainment as distasteful as the rest of you soulless humanoids, but I was sold when I said, "Can you tell me what he sounds like?" and the guy replied, "Johnny Cash meets Captain Beefheart and Roky Erikson." Well alright.)

And *then* we were done. Back to the car, where S's dad presented me with a jar of peach moonshine from the Blue Ridge Mountains. Yay!

(Did not see any of the usual suspects, btw. They were probably crouched down low, pawing thru dusty crates, looking for Small Faces white labels, and thus obscured by the milling neckbearded masses.)

Brittney wanted to put it in a croaker sack and throw it in the river, but I told her to make this flyer first

Is this your dog?

Three cheers for our bitsy belle-lettrist!

Maud's got a story up at Mr. Bellers. Good on her!

Benefits include all the Flooz.com notepads you can carry.

Editor-In-Chief needed strong writing skills, style req'd: Must have exceptional writing skills, a keen sense of pop culture, and reside in a completely delusional parallel universe where "NYC's newest style/music/culture mag"+"Compensation: 85-120k" = At all skimming the trajectory of the outermost reaches of the realm of possibility.

She said, “How'd U like 2 waste some time”

Online Competition Hurts Adult Magazines

On Friday, Guccione resigned as CEO of General Media's parent company, Penthouse International. He remained at the helm of the magazine, which has seen circulation decline from nearly 1 million to 565,700 over the past five years.

Goldstein said circulation woes throughout the field show "we are an anachronism; we are dinosaurs; we are elephants going to the bone cemetery to die. ... The delivery system has changed, and we have to change with it if we want to survive."

Again, why did no one tell me until now

...that it's Protection from Crappy Porn Week of Resistance? Thank God I've been unwittingly doing my part all week!

Scold 'em when they come home dirty cryin'

It's such a luscious fall morning. This is how fall is done. Wet mouldering leaves, crisp air, gusts of wind that drown out the sound of everything but the footsteps.

Friendster, despite being played out, apparently, continues to amuse and absorb me in that I have managed to spy on--not actually get in contact with, because who'd want that?--the few flings from college whose names I remember. Interesting to see what they've been up to since then. One is married, the other is in the UK. The one in the UK was quite young when I met him and had poltergeists. The other looked like a high-renaissance angel, replete with golden curls, blue eyes, red lips. Total turnoff, if you ask me, but he was okay I guess. Sometimes, when it's cold outside, and you have no heat in your ramshackle shanty, "okay" will do.

Also have managed to track down, though not get in contact with, my friend Julie, who, when we were 15, taught me how to smoke, hold my liquor, and drive. On separate occasions, of course. We dyed my hair blue and red. We pierced her nose in my bedroom. We almost got arrested for dangling monkey-like from a highway overpass. We held each others' hair and applied cold compresses when we *couldn't* hold our liquor. The closest I've come to death was in her 1976 Dodge Aspen, the two of us screaming at the top of our lungs--first to the symphonic stylings of Ministry, and then in abject terror--as we came around a blind corner on a country road and found ourselves staring at the fast-approaching grille of a NYSEG cherry picker. A year and a half later, she'd moved down to NYC and became a coatcheck girl at a fairly well-known club. I thought that was the most glamorous thing ever. The last time we spoke, it was the day after GG Allin OD'd. I would really love to hear from her again.

Yeah, that's all, just a wisp of an idea. In the meantime, go read Kalma Falzoi's Trippers and Askers.

"I'll take you to dinner," falls from her mouth. He tilts his head toward her car, hitching the blanket up. What was that? I'll take you to dinner, she repeats, looking over the rims of her sunglasses. Perhaps she should have taken them off. People like to see your eyes when you're talking to them. The light turns green. The honking starts. She waits, her breath stalled, while he saunters around the front of the car and climbs into the passenger seat.

And remember, kids, premarital sex will blow your legs off!

An interesting story (in Reason, of all places) about an infamous sex hygiene film from the 50s:

Alarmed letters to the editor would appear in the newspaper. Clergymen would express opinions from the pulpit. If you were Catholic, you’d be banned from attending. In some towns the police would send men to check the film for violations of the obscenity statutes. And as soon as the first women-only matinee was screened, at 2 p.m. on a Friday afternoon, the town would blaze with Mom and Dad gossip. Though all but forgotten today, Mom and Dad was so heavily promoted that Time once remarked that the ad campaign "left only the livestock unaware of the chance to learn the facts of life."

On massages and other things

Hilarity from Rosecrans Baldwin over at The Morning News:

It’s with great relief to me that Janyen wants me on my stomach first, but I know soon enough, Janyen, shielding her eyes, will ask me to roll over. And I can’t get this out of my mind. I force myself to think about my dead grandmother. Some side of my brain tries to fool me into thinking I have necrophiliac tendencies, but it doesn’t win. Still, it’s not long before my imagination gets so wrapped up with the idea I might lose control that it insists I will lose control, simply for thinking about it so much.

Am taking a quick lunch at my desk, simultaneously reading the paper, eating broiled salmon, and giving my ears a much-needed cotton-swabbing. Yes, disgusting. But we've been out of Q-Tips for so long and the box, just minutes ago purchased across the street at Duane Reade, was calling my name. Ah, sweet sweet wax buildup removal. Yes, we are throwing caution to the wind and givin' that ear canal the deep action. Lovely.

All this Bernini-like ecstasy leads me to think about full-release massages. I mean, obviously a place like Elizabeth Arden ain't givin' you the ol' happy ending, but you'd be surprised how many seemingly innocuous--nay, even decent--massage parlors offer such a service. I'd say that approximately half of the men I know have had a happy ending massage. And of those men, half of them weren't expecting it (::wink::), but decided to go with the flow. Either I know more preverts than most, or there are many men in the world who will not turn down a handjob, regardless.

Of course, I'm a bit jealous, seeing as there's no real female equivalent to the full release massage as far as I know and I'm not certain that it'd be a popular service anyhow (because, you know, like we'd *pay* some guy to finger-fuck us when we got that shitz fo' free back in the eighth grade?). I'm sure what most women would like is a nice massage from a goodlooking man who, after giving you your 45 minutes' worth, would politely ask you to flip over on your back and tell you that you have the ass and the tits of a woman ten years younger, and that he has seen a recent photo of the man who broke your heart in college and is pleased to report that he is paunchy and balding.

Look! A squirrel!

OK. I have this work thing that I am paid to occasionally do. I'll check in later. In the meantime, go and read up about the Shadow Government

I am easily amused

Stryper and Rosie Greer.

Webster's is redefining "nadir" as we speak

Emma is right, as usual: If you thought Bret Easton Ellis couldn't sink any lower than The Rules of Attraction, think again: he's adapting Jong-Fast's novel for the screen.

I'm the luckiest guy on the upper east side...

A very late (and unsolicited) entry for Why They Hate Us.

I'm worried about the Italians. And the British. And Jim Henson's soul.

Actually, this commercial for Vigorsol gum is way better than those parochial "....AND TWINS!" commercials we got stateside. But still, there is something that does not love...extendable male nipples.

I love to hate

I saw Crimson Sweet on Saturday night. They played at Sin-e, and if you missed them, you fucked up. I mean, Legs McNeil* was there. A better endorsement cannot be found.

But I'm not here to praise them, I'm here to bitch and moan about the pain known as the Piranhas, who happened to follow CS.

Just as wearing glowing horns purchased hastily after work from Rite Aid doesn't make you a sexy devil for Halloween, naming yourself after one of the greatest punk-no wave bands ever does not make you sound good like them. No, in fact, what it does is it annoys a whole bunch of aging punks who've paid 8 dollars to see *their* Piranhas.

Now, the least you can do to remedy such a situation is to NOT SUCK, but sadly, Piranhas Jr. did suck. Mightily.

They sounded a bit like Stooges/Doors/garage rock. They're from Detroit, so I think they're required to. They played an intro for approximately 5 minutes that I thought was going to turn into a song, but it never did. Somehow, in the first 30 seconds of playing, the lead singer (who was doing this Joe Cocker by way of Lenny Kaye thing) was already bleeding from the forehead. Maybe he's stigmatic? I don't know. And the guitarist had already broken a string. Playing two chords. For 30 seconds. Message to guitarist: You need a new sponsor.

After the first song, the lead singer, whom I will call Hairdo, jumped off the stage and lay on the floor, convulsing, shouting into the microphone like Captain Caveman. The 10 people who remained in the audience eyed him warily. Message to Hairdo: Unless you are John Fuckin' Stabb, do not lay down on the floor during your performance. You're tempting us to stomp you.

*Not absolutely certain if it was actually Legs. Void in RI, MN, VA.

I believe the children are our future (sociopaths)

Today I was lucky voter 13 at the public school where I'm districted (not a verb, hm). We generally have about a 40% passing rate on the reading and maths aptitude exams, which, sadly, is pretty good by Brooklyn standards.

Which is why I post a link to the craigslist wishlist program, where you can buy pencils and paste for your neighborhood serial killers-in-training.

Election Day special

OK, *OK*, punks not dead.

I'm willing to tell HereIType anything she wants to hear provided it means that she won't stop blogging again.

(Yay!)

I've got rhythm!

OK, here's a list of events this week that I'll in all likelihood miss because the Fates are working against me:

Tonight, at Sin-e, is Misty Roses. You should go see them, and I hear if you swoon in front of the stage they'll pay you a dollar.

Tomorrow night, at 7:30, Ichi the Killer, which just about coincides with an ill-timed an eye exam. I'll probably have to miss it. Unless someone wants to buy me a ticket and save me a seat. HINT.

Finally, on Wednesday, is the kick-off (get it?) of How to Kick People. Todd purposely schedules all his shows on Wednesday nights because a) he knows I have class and b) he hates me.

But by all means, you should all go.

Go! Leave me here. It's fine.

Inexplicably prominent? Take that, you whinging Soft Skull pussies!

Eh, lookit, it's Maud in New York Magazine!

Wanna know just how fabulous Maud is? I dragged her and Emma to the UES this weekend to do some eyeglasses shopping and the optometrist, having eavesdropped on our completely vacuous and snide* but ever-so-entertaining conversation, looked straight at Maud and remarked, "You girls remind me of Sex in the City."

Because we're so absofuckinglutely fabufuckinglous.**

*Oh, you think when Maud goes out she's all Jhumpa Lahiri this and Evelyn Waugh that? And, well, we all know about Emma. Nasty Skoal-chewing habit, that one has.

**Nevermind that none of us could walk two feet in, never mind afford, a pair of Louboutins. And that being north of 23rd St. makes us break into hives and go all SLA and shit.

The Maladroit Boudoir

Thankful MC with the Worst Lay Ever:

It wasn't that you whisked me into your bedroom. I let myself be whisked. I was in a whiskable state, with whisking on my mind, it's true.

Fig. 1: Check this shit out

Electron Band Structure In Germanium, My Ass:

Conclusion:Going into physics was the biggest mistake of my life. I should've declared CS. I still wouldn't have any women, but at least I'd be rolling in cash.