Bumpin' donuts

So, the liminal liberal and I went out last night to check out the Sweet Action release party. We got there kinda early, all the better to varda the talent, and situated ourselves at the bar. People began pouring in. Cute boys, but also: women in droves. It was like a stampede of boobs. After being elbowed and shouldered by a number of different double-x's, I said to her: "Man, this is like the opposite of a sausage party. What would that be?" "A donut party," she replied, unequivocably. We had our fun, and pored over the premiere issue, which, as promised, was chockablock with thick, slick members and arty photographs. All in all, I'm impressed. Plus, there were commendable articles on handjobs and tossing salads. We should've stayed for the raffle, but it was just getting too mobbed.

The magazine reminded me of a gayed-down Butt, but glossy, and colorful. Me likey.

Afterward, I went home, and then brought over some moving boxes to HereIType, because I am a *good friend.* She declined my offer to loan her my .22, but that's because she's more of a people person than I am.

Unfortunately, I made it home in time to watch the last 20 minutes of "Real Sex," a TV program which has the ineffable ability to inspire the female equivalent of a softie. If they are to be believed, real sex involves a lot of blond perms and a lot of swinging Dutch men. Gross.

I have to read the lines between the lies

Leave it to vidiot, who is probably the most politically astute and media savvy person not ashamed to be photographed with me, to find this link to the now-infamous Dean speech/screech, filmed from the audience. It's worth checking out.

(I hasten to add that Dean could be caught eating babies and I'd probably still vote for him. In fact, I'd *definitely* vote for him. Babyeater in '04! YEEAAAGH!)

Don't you hate pants?

NoPants2k4. (Thanks dong.)

X-Ray Spex

My pal Stv just sent me an article about a girl with X-ray vision:

“Her pupils dilated and she seemed to go into a trance for a couple of minutes.
“Straight away she began identifying a pain site at the base of my spine which she called a ‘blockage’.
“In fact I have four healing spinal fractures and some nerve damage.
“She described my pelvic area as being asymmetrical and pointed to the right side — where I suffered several fractures.
“Pointing to my jaw, she reported seeing a ‘hard, alien part’ – it was exactly the spot where a titanium plate holds my bones together.
“The most astonishing moment was when she saw the injuries to my left leg.
“Both the tibia and fibula bones — the two below the knee — are broken. I was amazed as she identified the two separate breaks and told me I had problems bending my knee joint.
“Then she said she saw ‘traces of several metal pins and screws’ which had left their mark on the bone.
“She could not possibly know, without seeing the scars, that until two weeks ago my leg was held together by half-a-dozen pins and screws.
“She even said the scars where the screws had been were covered over with new tissue — which is exactly what my last X-ray showed.”

I need a beer and it's titty-squeezin' time

This weather has me so bummed out that I can't even get excited about the Sweet Action release party, which is tonight and which could ostensibly be a lot of fun. The Liminal Liberal is supposed to be accompanying me, but her Kiwi boyfriend may or may not be returning home tonite. Honey, I know how it is. I had a Kiwi once. Once. The accent alone is drool-worthy.

Am currently engaged in a dispassionate IM conversation diagramming and deconstructing one of my favorite jokes, the one whose punchline is Fuck you, clown. If you haven't heard the joke, you'd be amazed how many variants there are out there.

Anyhow, it's funnier when you don't put it in a headlock. I reckon many would dispute even that. You have to be in the right mood is all. Which I am not.

This weather ruins even porn and dumb jokes. I am half expecting to come home tonight to find This Weather scratching all my Willie Nelson records and telling me offhandedly that all my exboyfriends are achieving great success. Bastard.

We have no original content this week, sorry

Being an only child I feel that I probably missed out on some serious opportunities to hone my Psy-Ops and torture skills. (This is probably why as an adult I still find purple nurples, ninety-niners, and dead legs to be perfectly acceptable.) Anyhow,13 Laboratories offers up a tale which, compared to my strategies, reads like the Art of War:

Explaining to the older child that the hi-beam lights indicator was actually a warning light that came on when the car was lost, I urged him to let me know if it ever lit up. I drove a bit further, and turned into a forest preserve and hit the lights. He of course noticed it right away, and began to fret. I pulled over and began to sob fake tears. I apologized to the kids, and explained that we would most likely never find our way home.

Brutal reality miraculously circumvented by the Swiss

God bless my coworker J who brought in a tiny little bottle of something called Eucasol to deodorize the women's room. One spray and the charnelhouse smell is nearly gone, for now anyhow.

Doo-be-doo axe wound!

For those folks who have met me, it should go without saying that I am not a hothouse flower when it comes to smells and bodily functions--I'm sure some of you can recall the night I burned my ass hairs during the fart-lighting contest. (Thanks to the quickthinking fellow with the pitcher of beer--I owe you one.) Anyhow, for those of you who *don't* know me personally, I am fully accepting of smells, so don't get all Our-Bodies-Ourselves on me when I say that there is someone in my office with a serious medical condition. I'm not talking about feeling not-so-fresh; I'm talking about gangrene. As such, the bathroom smells (as Erika Lopez puts it) like a trapped and fearful vagina. Leave it to the Swiss--them's some uptight motherfuckers, if you wanna cast a stone--to create a miracle spray to eradicate chthonic odors.

But our land isn't free

All this talk of traffic this week. First, the Times comes out with an article about the profligate sex slave trade going on right under our noses. Having read this article, which is rife with unnamed sources, unsubstantiated "statistics," and emphemeral and mysterious locales, my bullshit detector went off.

She explained: ''They would call you out of the basement, and you'd get a bath and you'd get a dress, and if your dress was yellow you were probably going to Disneyland.'' She said they used color coding to make transactions safer for the traffickers and the clients. ''At Disneyland there would be people doing drop-offs and pickups for kids. It's a big open area full of kids, and nobody pays attention to nobody. They would kind of quietly say, 'Go over to that person,' and you would just slip your hand into theirs and say, 'I was looking for you, Daddy.' Then that person would move off with one or two or three of us.''

When (if) I'm proven wrong about the all the hyperbole and the exaggeration, I'll certainly be cowed. And sad. But I'm not holding my breath.

Speaking of traffic, I watched the first part of Traffic last night. Or rather, I watched twenty minutes of miniseries and an hour and forty minutes of the same damned commercials over and over again. Someone wake me when Elias Koteas and Martin Donovan make out. Or something.

It's not all double-fisting and Manolos

Because "sex industry blogging is the new black," and because she forever has her finger on the pulse of all that is au courant, Eurotrash has decided to offer up her diary of a callgirl:

Yes, I am remarkably beautiful, and yes, I have a PhD in nuclear physics, but I feel the need to be free and I am lazy so I am a call girl. Which people, who often faint in the street at the sight of my beauty, would find it hard to believe. I tell them I am a nanny, albeit an extraordinarily beautiful one.

"He wants you to stand and shit on his coffee table while he lies under it, watching," she said.

I sighed wearily.

"You know I don't do extreme degredation, because that is icky and my middle-class literati readers will not appreciate seeing it in my award-winning, but in no way obviously pornographic blog. I cannot afford to alienate my audience. People will think I'm just a prostitute then. I'm not a prostitute, I'm a meme, a cultural movement, on the cusp of the zeitgeist."

Let the kitties in. Give them luncheon.

Who knew there was a Grey Gardens fan site? (Frank did.)

Even the URL is hilarious

Papal blessing for break-dancers:

The 83-year-old pontiff seemed to approve, waving his hand after each dancer completed a move, then applauding for the entire group. He watched the performance from a raised throne.

On the "Handjob with Hair" and other pressing matters

The Answers to All Your Brothel Questions

Needless to say, it's not a good idea to go along with that kind of stupidity. You can get $80/hour doing an ordinary job, for Christ's sake. There's no point in doing something which may or may not even be legal in your area if you aren't going to be well-compensated.

In order to get around the pricing structures most brothels have in place, one has to apply a certain amount of ingenuity. The tricks that work in one house won't work in another--some brothels even have hidden cameras in the rooms, leaving one with little room to manoeuver. Hell, what works on one client won't even work on another, so you've got to be smart about it. The easiest method is simply to refuse anything but handjobs (and maybe blowjobs) to those who won't pay anything above house prices. Since a blowjob should be nothing more than a "handjob with hair" anyway (that is, you let your hair hang down, and do a handjob while your head bobs up and down), it's not much of a compromise. Through a condom, most gents can't tell the difference, especially if you sneakily add some Astroglide.

People are still having sex

Just wanted to welcome back Daze Reader from his vacation- and Berkeley DB-perpetrated absence. Yay!

Thinking about your spam purse

Nothing is funny about the human slave trade. Conversely, everything is funny about a madame named Poon.

Via Peace Dividend.

Like the Onion, only with less Charisma and more Comeliness

Popdork. Look familiar?

Get me the blindest, blackest retard you can find, and give him some crayons

Hey, those of you who didn't find yourself crawling across the floor of some chichi lala bar last night should go check out the Andrew Edlin Gallery tonite for some free food and drink and music. Oh, and art. Art Brut, Neuve Invention and Outsider Art. Just in time for the fair.

A many-splendor'd thing

I find new reasons to love dong_resin every day. Case in point--The Ed Gein Hangover:

It's time to wear a kilt, Dean baby, do you hear me? It's time to get wheeled into your public appearances on a handcart in a straightjacket with a goalie mask on. What you need to do is to start head-butting the people that gather at those speeches, like Wesley Willis used to. Start your speeches off with a nice roll in some peanut butter and broken glass like dear old Iggy. Don't let two consecutive interview minutes go by without a very frightened handler shoving his wallet in your foaming Cujo teeth so you don't lose it and get all Jeffry Dahmer on the poor reporter.

Tragedy is when I cut my finger...

Your search - "nosepicking fetish" - did not match any documents.

Exactly what is my problem? I haven't had my finger up my nose this much since my freshman year of college. And I'm suffering the consequences: blood. Blood and scabs.

It started out with this cold I had over the holidays, coupled with some supremely dry air in my apartment. Initially, I just wanted to keep the passages clean.

Then it became an obession. I began to suffer phantom booger syndrome.

And now I've lost all sense of shame about it, going to town like Charles Bronson in the Great Escape, right there on the subway or at my desk, whether there's anything in there or not. The inside of my nose looks like Dresden right now.

Beltway fat cats

(I just felt like writing that phrase. It has such a nice ring to it.)

Being a New Yorker, I couldn't possibly care less about what's going on in DC (or anywhere else, for that matter), but I want to welcome Wonkette, which is sure to be a smash success because of the lovely Ana Marie Cox at the helm. And she really is lovely; I had the pleasure of meeting her in person. She showed me her tattoos. All 18 of them. (t-i-g-E-r! Rrrowr!)

And just so's you know, all content today will be ganked directly from TMF,TML. Including this assertion:

One thing is for certain; we are NEVER drinking again.

In fact, I think I am *still* drunk.

A thing of beauty

God bless those boys at low culture.

Well you gotcher guitar and yer practice amp

Hey, for everyone who won't be kowtowing to the young and rich this evening (look for me in the background of the Styles section photos this weekend; I'll be the one doing a pressed ham), I highly recommend that you go see the Styrenes at Bowery Poetry Club tonight. Probably best known for the song Drano in Your Veins, tonight they'll be performing Terry Riley's "In C." (Oh, and it's a Voice Choice this week, so get there early. And pinch the drummer for me.*)

And, this Saturday, you must-must-MUST go to Grand Central Bar in Williamsburg and catch two of my favorite NYC bands: The Live Ones and Squirrels from Hell. At least, I *think* they're both playing together. They've both sent me separate emails saying that they're playing at the same bar on the same night. Maybe there will be a brawl to see who gets to play!

*I've been informed there are two drummers. In that case, pinch the hot one. If you're unable to discern which one is hotter, pinch both.

Pray for mojo

Happy Year of the Monkey!

Asia marks Year of the Monkey with fireworks, travel:

In China's north-east, an animal park marked the holiday by dyeing its monkeys bright red, gold and other colours, the official Xinhua news agency reported. "We had to anaesthetise them first," an unidentified employee of the Forest Safari Park in the city of Shenyang was quoted as saying. "They seemed to be surprised at their new strange coats when they woke up. But after a while, they indulged themselves in pleasure."

I wanna see blood and gore and veins in my teeth

Shit's been dull around these here parts due to an overwhelming influx of equal parts block and apathy. Also, I'm hitting one of those human distemper phases when I am easily angered. Easily angered to the point that I nearly attampted a haymaker on a man who was talking too loudly on his cell phone last night. Tryna eat a burrito in PEACE, you douche!

Then it's things like this that make me wanna stab all realtors in the eyes. Seriously.

Stab. Them. In. The. Eyes.

I know this Death to All Realtors is becoming somewhat of a hasty trope with me but my organs are failing from reading the CL apartment listings all day. I don't think that Saddam was this demoralized when they found him in his spider hole.

Also: This place? It's been on CL for months now. $895 for a one-bedroom in Williamsburg? Come now. That's reasonable. Why no renty?

I thought I'd hit a low point when, years back, I looked at that apartment on the south side that had 18 locks and a machete by the door, or that one on the northside that had religious murals that would frighten Bosch. And those places got rented right after I saw them! My brain was aswim in wonderment at the potential horrors this particular piece of real estate holds. Well, it turns out that not only is this particular apartment facing the BQE (which I guessed at, based on the address), it's located directly above a Halal chicken butcher.* If the smell doesn't get you, I can only assume the panoply of angry avian spirits will.

*A popular field trip spot for the local Catholic school, by the way.

Stand and deliver

I had never seen the Gunslinger before today. I may need one, just to keep up my cowboy image.

Loving you's my crime

Goddammit. Tony Villanueva, lead singer of the Derailers, is quitting:

Austin's hardest-working honky-tonk band has decided to hang up the matching Nudie suits. Singer Tony Villanueva says the Derailers are disbanding after a Dec. 31 farewell concert at Gruene Hall.

But guitarist Brian Hofeldt said he and the other remaining band members will continue to play together without Villanueva, who cited a desire to spend more time with his wife and three children.

When you're in Brooklyn, you best watch your back

All hail the Evil that is CANINUS... (Thanks Stv.)

Speaking of penises

Thanks, Fes, for the piece about the founders of Sweet Action magazine. If it didn't look so cool I'd be miffed that they did it before I did. Anyhow, as you can imagine, I've pre-ordered my copy.

You should always keep in touch with your friends

You know, you go into a booze-and-vicodin-induced coma for a few days, and what happens? Great things happen to everyone around you. Please take note of Comfort of strangers, an article about literary blogs that speaks quite highly of the usual suspects.

And speaking of The Old Hag, you should really go check out her piece in the latest New York Times Book Review. It's so well done that it almost makes me ashamed that I haven't read a book in the past year. Almost.

(Part of me believes that I could be included in this coterie of literary blogs if I laid off the penis-and-boobies links for awhile. And the crank.)

Hey ice machine

Thank you, dong, for introducing me to FactCheck.org, because frankly I haven't alienated enough people with my opinions yet.

This is not my beautiful house!

Well, it is actually, but it just moved. The Big Green House is now at a new URL. Welcome to the future, my friend!

Fame and fortune

Spoke to my aunt this weekend. I guess my cousin's getting serious with his Russian hooker girlfriend. I told her about how I'm looking for a new apartment and she says a friend of hers has a nice place for rent just down the street from the family compound, on Prospect Place. That I should think about it. Because then I can come by and have dinner every Sunday. I live in fear of that. I think I'll try to stay in Greenpoint. There's only so much brajole a person can eat.

Saturday night went to see Mission of Burma. The Rogers Sisters opened, and I was really impressed. In addition to operating my favorite bar, they can really rock out with their cocks out.

MOB was really, really good as well, even if they did stop after 45 minutes to take a ten-minute break. "There's no good excuse for that," one of my acquaintances opined, "unless one of them is on dialysis." But then they came back and played for another hour and a half, so I've no complaints.

Except for the fact that we were rousted from our comfy booth in the balcony by an insanely drunk man on crutches who plopped down next to us. He asked us to get him a beer. The other three people I was with all got up, and I looked at them imploringly. Don't leave me alone with this man, I telegraphed with my eyes. When MOB got onstage, he looked at me and shouted "GOD BLESS AMERICA!!!" That's when I knew we had to leave.

I was beginning to feel sorry for him, because I noticed he had a wedding band on. What kind of wife sends her husband out on crutches on a cold, snowy night by himself? Then I noticed he was wearing a Rolex--a REAL one--and I didn't feel so bad, because I figured he could take a taxi home. Then I started wondering just how fucked up he was and if I could roll him for it. I really did. Then I started to feel bad again. But not too bad.

Worked the antiques show this weekend. Saw the fantastically handsome Federico Castellucio. Saw the fantastically pancake make-up'ed Rudy Giuliani. He was positively orange. I guess this is your life if you expect to be photographed everywhere you go. He has beautiful skin underneath all that foundation, though, an observation my mother would have made.

Anyhow, gotta go shake it like a Polaroid picture.

Lookitdat lookitdat

Streakers in restaurant watch as their car is stolen:

Three men streaking through the warmth of a Denny's restaurant were chilled and chagrined when they spotted a thief driving away in their getaway car, their clothing inside.Naked in the 20-degree weather, the three young men huddled behind cars in an adjacent parking lot until police arrived....Restaurant manager Ryan Swennumson called the incident "funny," but declined further comment.

Stupid fucks of the republic unite

Looks as though Margaret Cho is being attacked by the Freepers. Very lame.

Noblesse ivre

Went to the preview night of the 2004 Winter Antiques Show, as I do every year (in exchange for an ass-to-ass private show, of course). Did not get to talk to the mayor this year. On the plus side, I didn't throw up on my shoes, either. Last year, I stood, postvomit, in my kitchen, saying I'm sorry over and over again.

Same food as last year. Thankfully no godawful mojitos. We saw doyennes. We saw socialites. We saw some truly frightful plastic surgery. Newsflash: Upper East Siders are the new Modern Primitives. Seriously, Fakir Musafar ain't got nothing on Mitsy and Tippie. ("Watch me as I pin my ears and the corners of my eyelids behind my head, darlings!")

There was one drag queen. She wore a tasteful small black cocktail dress, Jackie O sunglasses, and cuban heel stockings. S and I followed her around, trying to figure out who she was. Finally, by way of introduction, S stopped her and said, "You look awfully familiar."

"Of course I do, I'm at all these events. The Armory, the Pier Show...they can't have them without me."

Close up, I realized that she probably hadn't just *been* at Stonewall, she might've helped *build* it: She had four (very long) teeth in her head, and behind her big glasses I could see the loopy degenerate eyes of a truly senile person. "I'm Dana!" I shook her hand. "I'm Sandra," she said politely, and hobbled off.

Hmm, who else did we see? Mario Buatta. Oh, and Oprah. She wore a black turtleneck and black pants and was tailed by a security detail and a Greek chorus of three nattily attired interior decorators. As she pointed at items she liked, they scribbled furiously and foisted their cards onto the dealers. I had no idea how short she is. She's like 5'5! And tiny. Good for her. Even if she did knock me out of the way to look at some cast iron Victorian garden bench.

Meanwhile S and I were busy trying to keep our fathers from humiliating us in public. This got harder as the night wore on and more and more gratis glasses of Moet et Chandon were consumed. My father periodically grabbed my head and forcefully kissed it. S's father told some wildly inappropriate jokes. I decided it was time to leave.

Goody bag included Elle and Elle Decor mags (yawn), yet another umbrella from the East Side Settlement House, and a bottle of Ralph Lauren Purple Label Eau de Toilette, which I used once, on the way home, to fend off the pie-eyed subway buskers singing "I Believe I Can Fly."

I'm at a loss

So here, here's some free porn: Robin Suicide.

Whoo-hoo!

Looks like Ang Lee is directing the movie version of Brokeback Mountain, and it'll be starringHeath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal. Yay! (I was beginning to suspect that it wasn't ever gonna happen, seeing as Gus dropped the ball.)

Opprobrium, served fresh daily

This morning, after dodging strollers containing children like lunch meats under their plastic cover, frozen loogies, and steaming dog turds, I found myself sharing a pole on the train with a man and a woman who were presumably coworkers. The woman did most of the talking, on the topic of her spending problem.

"My son--he's two and a half--he has 18 pairs of shoes that fit him right now. Five pairs of Diesels. It's a problem. But I want him to look good in daycare."

The man nodded sympathetically.

"I used to be worse. I had a lotta cars. First I had a Por-sha, and I got ridda dat, then I had a truck, and I got ridda dat, then I got an Escalade, and I got ridda dat. Now I have an Altima. I'm going back to basics."

More sympathetic nodding.

"I swear, if I could just stay outta Century 21 for like 3 weeks, my money problems would be over. [beat] You're a shopaholic too, though, I can tell."

He cleared his throat, hesitated. "Yeah, one time? At a one-day sale at Macy's? I followed this guy around for a half-hour because he had the last sweater in my size in his hands."

"See? So you know what I'm talking about."

White people are getting lamer everyday

Todd holds forth on the "new" phenomenon of swingers:

Perhaps I'm old-fashioned or uncomfortably efficient, but I always thought sex was a little more immediately satisfying. I grew up believing all you needed for sex was a wiener, a hole, and the good sense to never announce, "the time to place my wiener within your hole is nigh. Present your hole!"

Fight this feeling, On being unable to...

Maud Newton, the karaoke Tigra to my Bunny, has returned from Miami with a sordid and sorted tale of how they do karaoke outside of Williamsburg:

A tall lad with a wispy moustache kicked things off with REO Speedwagon's "I Can't Fight This Feeling." He gazed out tenderly at his companion, who held a cellophane-wrapped rose close to her cheek and didn't seem to mind that he was flat from the second line.

Spalding Gray missing

How disturbing. Actor Spalding Gray Is Missing:

The disappearance of Mr. Gray was of particular concern to the authorities. Mr. Gray, 62, had a history of depression, was taking medication, the police said, and had attempted suicide in 2002.

I forgot to mention that I also really liked the latest edition of Intimacy with Amputees for Dummies

Newley has put together a ""Favorite Bloggers' Favorite Books of 2003" list, and I'm flattered to be among the likes of Choire and Lockhart Steele, though I am ashamed to realize how little I've read in the past 12 months. What's *wrong* with me?

Tilting at windmills, part 76

Greenpoint-the next big hot spot in Brooklyn:

These days as you know, it is a whole different ball game. Things have changed for the best and Many more women are in the work field, so more women and men are using the G train, and so many more trains have been added to the daily schedule. It is not as big of a "waiting" horror story as you may have heard.

No user serviceable parts inside

Hmm. So apparently it *is* technically possible to replace one's iPod harddrive. A little knowledge is dangerous. Go fetch me a needlenose pliers, some WD-40, and a cheesegrater.

(Epilogue: I broke down and bought a refurb iPod from these guys. I figure any computer peripherals company whose logo is a Pomeranian must be cool.)

She's so cold

I'm glad it's not just us Northeasterners* who are suffering:

Earlier tonight, she grabbed onto me like a chimp on a soft-shell crab: she was very cold. "Warm up my nose!" she demanded. (This is sadly not the first time I've heard this request.) I felt her nose with my cheek, and it was positively Arctic: it felt like how Lara Flynn Boyle looks. Sort of knifelike and in the Kelvin range.

*Though a friend who has been cruelly stationed in Atlanta by her job says it's even in the 20s down there.

Foot fetish: Yes. Shrimping with peanutbutter: NO.

Smitten offers advice on picking and watching porn with the one you love: I learned it by watching you! I've experienced all the problems she's encountered, particularly the overeager sales staff conundrum. I find it easiest to deflect them by saying "You got anything where they're barely alive? Like, just wrigglin' around a little?"

It's an odd boy who doesn't like sport.*

Far be it from us to hate when our friends become successful, but the fact that TMFTML has been named ESPN's Hot Blog for 2004 has us a bit, well, puzzled. I mean, this is the same man who was heard to pronounce "There is nothing unmasculine about culottes, ok?"

*The Odd Boy lay down by the football field/Took out a slim volume of Mallarme.

...And the toothpaste flowed out

Sometimes I like to look at pictures. Go check out Gary Baseman's Happy Idiot (via Surfstation) and Silly Pink Bunnies via a scrap of paper I found in my purse from when I saw a show at Halcyon. There are numerous scraps of paper like this in my purse. I suppose they'll provide an excellent resource for those ~rare~ days when I have nothing of value to say.

Many brave hearts are asleep in the deep

My iPod is officially dead, which is a small-scale tragedy. It made the sad iPod face, then the exclamation-point-folder face, then it shut down. Over and over again. I tried every trick I could find on the web, and I finally took it down to the Genius Bar at the SoHo Apple store, and the iPod Genius confirmed it. Is a year and a half really the lifespan of am iPod? I'm so disillusioned.

The year in pictures

Here's a rundown of what I've been up to.

I don't want to look like a weirdo. I'll just go with the muumuu

Thank heavens, Dukes Mayonnaise offers free shipping anywhere in the US. With God as my witness, I shall never go hungry again.

For the record

Attention realtors:
Greenpoint is not North Williamsburg.
Bushwick is not East Williamsburg.
Bed-Stuy is not South Williamsburg.
Ridgewood is not Deep Williamsburg (though I admit, that gave me a chuckle).

Seriously, get fucked running, will you?

In my stead

I keep postponing my return, I know. I've got a photo spectacular lined up for later on this week, which I've tentatively scheduled to go live right about the time when I start giving a shit about anything again and crawl out of the bell jar.

In the meantime, however, you should go and read omg blog. It belongs to Frank, whom I had the absolute pleasure of meeting at Metropolitan on New Year's Eve, where he and his friend J (who had the coolest basketball jersey ever, emblazoned with SODOMITES in big letters) promised me that there was a straight guy in the next room. They were wrong, which was fine of course, and we had a nice time doing the Tootsie Roll and discussing L'Trimm.

Speaking of New Years. A long night. Lake. Big lake.

C, a friend of mine whom I hadn't seen since high school, came down to visit. I promised him a low-key New Years, maybe go out to eat, go to a bar, get home at a reasonable hour.

This did not happen, of course. Things that did happen: I broke two drink glasses. I (with the help of my friend S) implored the boys in our party to make out because, as Nicole Ritchie says, "It's a known thing" that two boys making out is HOTT. We teetered home around 3:30. The next morning, I woke up to find C completely rolled up in the comforter on the couch, as though he was auditioning for the summer stock version of I like America and America likes me. (Turns out, this wasn't too far from the truth, as Gordon had decided to focus all his manic kitty hatred on C's extremities during the night.) I wandered down to Graham Ave. in search of coffee and maybe some breakfast fixins, where I ran into my friend J (not to be confused with the J from Metropolitan) and his two kids. We chatted amiably about Batman. "Watch out for the puke behind you, mate," J warned his older child.

On my way back from the deli I realized that I had a voicemail on my cellphone. It was from C. There was a lot of background noise. "Dana," he breathed lifelessly into the phone, "I'm at Metropolitan. You're in the next room. Dancing. It's 3:30. Why won't you answer your phone. When can we leave. Please. It's C."