twinkle twinkle blah blah blah etc.

When you think like a hermit you forget what you know

My friend John just interviewed Will Oldham.

Then Mark was like, "what would you think if we put a cello on this one song?" Looked in the Yellow Pages, found a cello player, he came over like 40 minutes later, he was wearing his tennis outfit. You know, brought his cello, and played his part, and 20 minutes later he was gone. I was like "Wow, it would be so awesome to make a record like that," and Mark said, "Well, we could do that." And also just talking about his history with the country music industry, cause that's where he started, and all the musicians and how sessions are done and so it was wanting to be in a situation for experience as much as anything, where everybody played like that.

A shorter version of this interview appears in next month's for Tape Op magazine, which is why it's a bit technical in nature. Still, I think it's a fascinating read, particularly given the insight that even "lo-fi" artists put a lot of thought into their recordings. Plus, BPB holds forth on Pink Floyd and bourbon. So go check it out. (And while you're at it, go listen to some of John's own compositions. He may be the first musician [well, he's certainly the first *drummer*] who can also read AND write.)(I kid because I love.)

And speaking of recordings, tangmonkey's got an mp3 of "New Partner," off the new "Bonny Prince Billy Sings Greatest Palace Songs." (Via Dust Congress.)

Bumpus dogs!

The other night I came home to an apartment full of natural gas. Turns out that Gordon, despite having no thumbs, is capable of turning knobs on the stove. Surprisingly he was still quite lively, mewling for food while I frantically ran around the apartment opening all my windows.

Then, as if on cue, my phone rang. It was my mother, wondering why I hadn't called her in two weeks. What timing.

After enduring a 45-minute conversation with my mother without the pacifier of a cigarette or 12, I am confident that if I had to I could withstand your basic South American interrogation techniques.

However, that doesn't compare to the dog party at SarahSpace's house:

I came home from work last night to find this:

• A bottle of red wine laying broken on the floor

• An empty formerly dog-proof container for dog food on top of the coffee table.

• A sealed gallon of water seeping on to the carpet from giant teeth marks.

• Every cardboard box in the house torn to shreads....

I suppose I should be glad that Gordon does not weigh 70 pounds.

I would've guessed a sopressata, but that's probably just my heritage talking

She did not tell me that I was gonna feel a little pressure, but just happily stuck in something that felt very much like a fluorescent lightbulb-- granted, I'm not used to guessing what items are using the muscles of my vagina, so take this with a grain of salt - and started fishing around again. Let me know if this hurts, she said. You bet your ass I will.

The liminal liberal goes to the ob/gyn.

I *do* believe in spooks!

I ::heart:: kookery.
How To Create a Ghost:

Many researchers of the paranormal suspect that ghostly manifestations and poltergeist phenomena (objects flying through the air, unexplained footsteps and door slammings) are products of the human mind. To test that idea, a fascinating experiment was conducted in the early 1970s by the Toronto Society for Psychical Research (TSPR) to see if they could create a ghost. The idea was to assemble a group of people who would make up a completely fictional character and then, through seances, see if they could contact him and receive messages and other physical phenomena - perhaps even an apparition.

Via Disinfo.

OK, I'll admit it: I *do* sorta believe in ghosts. Not that they're the souls of dead people or anything--just that they're manifestations of weird electrical energy. OK, I've said too much. This is more embarassing than admitting I liked that Nickelback song that came out a couple summers ago. (D'oh! I need to quit while I'm ahead.)

Another one of my obsessions: False memories and the myth of multiple personality disorder. There's a great review of two books on this very topic in the most recent issue of the NY Review of Books:The Trauma Trap.

If the origins of our mass delusion were complex, its dissipation in the mid-1990s is easily explained. Like the Salem witch hunt three centuries earlier, the sex panic had no internal brake that could prevent its accusations from racing beyond all bounds of credibility. The stirring motto "Believe the children" began to sound hollow when preschoolers who finally agreed that they must have been inappropriately touched went on to describe having been dropped into a pool of sharks or turned into a mouse.

Fuckin' whiners. If history has taught us nothing else, and it hasn't, it's this: Kids are big fat liars.

I forgot to forget to remember

Shite, I meant to post this yesterday. Have you all got anything planned for this evening? I mean, after you go to Church and get anointed and all, of course. Might I make a suggestion? Go see How to Kick People. Then head down to Sin-e to see the ever-glamorous Misty Roses. You might see me at one or both. (Hey, I fly if you buy!)

Incidentally

I know my posts haven't been particularly high caliber of late, and I am very very sorry.

Punk Rock: Officially dead

Nah, jes' kiddin'. Sure, I remember these types in the scene. They generally went on to become neo-Nazis.
(via Drub)

Up to par and Katy bar the kitchen door

Did you know I'm more of a Southerner than Maud Newton? Me neither. How could this be? I've only lived a small part of my life there, and Maud *embodies* the South. I mean, my fondest memory of her is meeting her for brunch one spring morning. Fanning herself demurely as I approached (10 minutes late), she set down her sweet tea, peeked out from under the brim of her dramatic church lady hat and said, "Sweetie, I love that outfit more and more *every* time I see it."

Anyhow, so I took the Yankee or Dixie quiz, which bears a resemblance to the Harvard Dialect Survey, and it turns out that I am "46% (Yankee). Barely into the Yankee category." Well I'll be damned. Just wait 'till the ladies at the DOC meeting hear this!

After your perm sets, Marsha, why don't you go check out the new strap-ons?

A well-meaning, if slightly point-missing, article on women as porn's new entrepreneurs.

The business is attracting women like Alex Reyes, 52, a hairdresser in Austin, Tex., who said she had never bought a sex product — and had watched possibly two pornographic films in her life — but who planned to open an adult store in the fall next to her beauty salon. Ms. Reyes said that as she cut hair she often heard her clients discuss the lingerie, "edible stuff" and the sex toys they used.

(Via Daze.)

One for every year he's away, she said

Russian Prison Tattoos, via AskMe.

(Sorry my posts aren't fast and flowing this week. I've been busy trying to saw this damn house arrest ankle bracelet off.)

Pray for Mojo

If you've got a little extra dosh lying around I think the best way for you to spend it is to adopt a chimpanzee. For a six-month commitment, you'll receive a photo and a bio of the chimp you're supporting. And you won't have to worry about getting letters from him telling you about how he's forced to accept Jesus into his life in exchange for clean water and rice gruel. Win-win, people!

On why I like comment spam

Actually, I hate it like everyone else. But how could you not appreciate the personal touch that Asian Phone Sex UK offers?

It was them big ol titties she had that got me

You simply must check out XXXX GALUMPIA ADULT XXXX. It's actually SFW. Trust me. (Via Fleshbot, which is NSFW.)

Flowers for Al and Don

I think this is an awesome idea. Inspired by this post, this is how it works:

Basically, people are generously sending flowers to random gay couples waiting in line to get married in San Francisco. This is a brilliant idea, but I immediately recognized a problem. The flower shop cited ... is apparently charging a minimum of US $47 to deliver these flowers. That's probably market value, but it's a bit steep for individuals who might want to help out ... but can't spare fifty bucks. Hence, Flowers for Al and Don. I'm using a PayPal account to collect money, with which I'll buy bouquets in bulk for the couples in line. You can donate as much or little as you please, and I pledge that every cent (minus the PayPal fees) that I receive will go to this project.

Right fuckin' on, Darren Barefoot.

Koo-Ooh-Koo-Koo Koo-Ooh-Koo-Koo!

I knew I was riding up in the elevator with a Canadian national when he sneezed and then apologized profusely.

"Bless you," I said.

"Aw, geez, that was really gross. Sorry aboat that." He wiped his nose with a tissue. "Really. Sorry. That was a real keeper-inner."

I looked at him sideways. "So was that."

Blow your tuneless trumpet

I will be silent this morning as I await a "staff meeting" that may conclude with me being handed an empty copy paper box. In the meantime, if you're looking for something fun to do tonight, you could do worse than to go see Broken Social Scene and special guests at NYU's Kimmel Center. Five bucks! Look ma, what a bargain.

[UPDATE: No one had their ass handed to them. Yet. It was more like one of those "The beatings will continue until morale improves" dealies. Thanks for your well-wishes. I'm starting to devise my Plan B strategy, just in case. Just for the hell of it, I might apply for a writing gig at the New Yorker. Apparently they're not terribly picky these days.]

Mini-Gawker

Was that Steven Dorff I spotted at Houston and Mercer this afternoon???

And even if it was, would you give a fuck? I know I don't. I hear he's still trying to get the director of The Gate to return his phonecalls. Something about a sequel idea.

Speaking of hasbeens. For those of you who are devastated that your pre-ordered copies of Citizen Girl may never arrive, I'll give you a synopsis of the 19-page proposal, which was shown to me by a mysterious woman in a caftan* this weekend. I'm not allowed to give you any direct quotes, save this one, which already appeared in the Times last week.

"In New York City, if you are of any age, denomination, or race, and own a penis, you can say anything that comes into your penis-owning head to anyone, of any age, denomination, or race, who does not own a penis."

That's the first line of the prologue. It actually pertains to nothing in the rest of the proposal, but it gives you an idea of the, ah, timbre of the writing.

The story is narrated by a twentysomething named Girl who is having a really ::stomp:: hard ::stomp:: time ::stomp:: at her nonprofit job, where she's being bossed around by a bunch of her superiors, all of whom are cretinous, backstabbing fatsos who love hemp clothing. A great deal of consideration is given to the colors of photocopy paper and desk space. Ooooh, potshots at the nonprofit world! There's an idea that's sure to resound with America's readers.

I'm not sure where the penis thing comes in because none of the (stereotyped: I mean, I've seen subtler renditions in the Protocols of the Elders of Zion) characters are male, but whatever. The whole thing read as though the writers were snorting rails off each others' fat advance checks the entire time. And also being distracted by butterflies. Reading it made my sphincter tighten impossibly and I became nauseated. "I'm impressed you got through the whole thing," Caftan Lady told me right before she ripped the smudged pages from my hands and roared off on her Ducati.

*Dominick Dunne told me that if you need to protect (or totally fabricate) someone's identity, refer to them as a mysterious woman in a caftan.

What do you call a group of them?

That's easy: A Plague of Artists.*

On Sunday afternoon, five young Hasidic men stood in freezing wind outside the Gretsch Building, a 10-story, 200,000-square-foot former musical instrument factory that is being converted to luxury condominiums selling for about $550 per square foot. They had just taken part in a protest, one of several that Hasidic men have staged outside the building in recent months. Across the street, on an apartment building occupied by Hasidim, a large banner read: "The neighborhood is NOT welcoming the Gretsch Building. We need AFFORDABLE housing!"

See, the funny thing is that I completely agree with them. There's a dearth of affordable housing, particularly in the areas that were formerly home to recent immigrants from Poland, Hungary, and Puerto Rico. "Market value" in Williamsburg is soaring absurdly, and square footage is going for a rate roughly comparable to Monte Carlo.

The problem with the Satmars' argument is that it's not artists who are buying Gretsch building condos. It's rich people. Really, really rich people. Artists originally moved to the neighborhood because it offered cheap, large spaces that were close to the city. As things started happening, more people wanted to move here. And they were willing to pay twice as much as the original "pioneers" were. Heck, I'm one of the neophytes. My first apartment in Williamsburg, circa 1997? $650. My second, circa 1998? $1200. More or less same square footage. So I know I'm in no position to cast aspersions on the people who moved here after me. (With the exception of the ones who wear driving moccasins and have $500 strollers and buy five dollar pastries at that bougie cafe on the northside...and...and...and ::pant pant pant::)(I'm preparing for my meltdown a la the end of the Body Snatchers.)

However. (And that's However with a capital HOWEVER.) It is the realtors and the developers who've created this untenable market. And the Bloomberg administration (and the Giuliani one before it) isn't helping. Community leaders have reasonable suggestions. But no one seems to be listening. They're just complaining. Plus:

Some say it is the Hasidim themselves who have helped drive up rents in the area by building market-rate units on the north side. "They're saying that they want affordable housing, but they're charging extortionist rents to non-Hasidic people," said Mark Firth, a local restaurant owner and resident. Hasidic-owned market-rate developments are also planned for the south side, but they will include some low-income units.

It's not *just* the Hasidic realtors and developers, of course. It's the rest of the rat fuck realtors and developers. They're not going to build affordable housing out of the goodness of their own nonexistent hearts. So until the day they load the hipsters onto trains to take them to reeducation camps, the only solution to affordable housing is for the city to step in with programs that don't create more waste or line the coffers of the administration's cronies.

(Incidentally, in case the brainiacs out there want to suggest that if I'm so worried about the struggle for affordable housing why don't I move somewhere else: I am. To Queens. See you in hell, fuckos.)
*See also "An irony of hipsters"

Reading assignment

You should go out and get a copy of this week's New Yorker and read "The Brand" by David Grann, an engrossing article about the Aryan Brotherhood in America's prison system. It's one of the few New Yorker articles that I wish were longer. If you're skeptical, there is a Q&A on their site that should certainly whet your whistle.

Though maybe you all aren't as obsessed with Aryans as I am.

Just in time for Valentine's Day, Part II

An interesting post entitled What Causes Rape? Anatomy of a rape culture:

Men who have lost their masculinity are, in our culture's view, less than men, less even than women. They are the lowest of the low. One way to lose your masculinity is to be unable to "get" sex from a woman. This also breeds resentment of women (in much the same way that poverty can sometimes breed resentment of rich people): "how dare women not give something to me that I need so desperately? How dare women take away the masculinity that I'm entitled to?"

It's an interesting take, and though I don't entirely agree with the assessment, it's well-considered anyhow. Plus, there's a lot of interesting discourse going on in the comments.

Via LMB.

Shit on my prick, ten years later

The last day of GG, via Monkeyfilter.

My best friend was at this show. She met him afterward and shook his shit-encrusted hand. She mentioned that his girlfriend had two black eyes. They chatted amiably and he told her, "Well, I'd love to talk some more, but the thing I love most about NYC is how easy it is to score." And off he went into the night.

(Here's his grave, btw)

Update

Here's some good news: Texas Pharmacists Fired Over Prescription:

Gallagher said Eckerd's employment manual says pharmacists are not allowed to opt out of filling a prescription for religious, moral or ethical reasons.

Herr said he did not know about that policy until his supervisors questioned him about it shortly before he was fired.

Hey Herr, guess what? Tough darts.

Pop fuckin' quiz: If you work as a pharmacist for a company that stocks the morning after pill, and you don't wanna fill prescriptions for said medicine, shouldn't you look into whether or not your employer supports you in that? I mean, do you think they're stocking the MAP just for shits and giggles?

Someone has managed to ruin both sex and chocolate for me

...just in time for Valentine's Day. K emailed me about this: His and Her Chocolate Thongs.

Eat your heart out! As soon as she puts on this thong, the heat from her body will begin to melt the chocolate heart.

Um, yuck. In general, I try to keep chocolatey things AWAY from my asshole, lest there be any confusion.

I am shocked that there could be something more upsetting than maxipads for thongs.

Now I wanna be your dog

(I use that title with the apprehension that in all fuckin' likelihood Iggy will have sold the rights to it for next year's Westminster.)

So I went to the dog show and what did I see? Some unexciting dogs.

Awww, but who don't love dog photos? Herewith:

8 am is too early to see Steven Cojucaru:

What more can I say? Top billin'

Ever look back through everything you've written of late and said "This is complete fucking dross"? I'm barely entertaining myself (which was easier before that homeless guy stole my vibrator, admittedly).

Anyhow, here's stuff elsewhere that might be of interest.

Over at Izzle pfaff, a rundown on the latest hateful commercials:

The terrible wife, adopting a rather glacial tone, responds that she's just trying to educate the doomed little sprite as to the relative benefits of their war machine. The husband rolls his eyes extravagantly, as if to say, "I can't believe I put up with this horrific cunt every day." The wife of course looks like a vengeful rodent.

Over at Pornblography, Carly visits the set of a porn movie:

“So Quaze and I were talking about ass milkshakes on our show yesterday,” Gauge continues.

Ass milkshakes? That doesn’t sound like what Kellis sings about. “What the hell is that?” I ask her.

“It’s this new thing Extreme is doing now,” she says with an eye roll. “Three guys come in a girl’s ass and she already has ice cream and sugar up there, and then she shits it out in a bowl and eats it.”

Charming. “Would you ever do that?”

Gauge shakes her head violently. “No way. Cold ice cream would make my ass pucker up real fast.”

I didn’t get the chance to ask her if what was so repellent about the situation was the temperature of the ice cream or the actual ingesting of it after it had been expelled from her anus along with three borderline transient’s sperm acting as chocolate sauce, as she had to get back to shooting.

Along these lines, here's an interview with a fluffer.

Finally, a heads up for those of you looking for something to do on V-Day, go see Todd Levin and friends at the Grand Central Bar in Williamsburg. And look for me in the audience: I'll be the one in the back booth wearing my airbrushed "Free Blow Jobs" tank top that I got in Virginia Beach a couple years ago. I wear it every Valentine's Day. (PS fellas, TIPPING ain't a city in China!)

Alright, back to the salt mines.

HA HA HA HA HA HA

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha: Why Naughty Nannies Got Badly Spanked At Random House.

That is all.

Nope, wait: Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. Phew!

What makes a man play bongos?*

This little video of the Minutemen jamming unplugged has made me more fucking happy than I can possibly account for. Yay!

Via the Glorious Noise message boards.

*Props due to my man J for that one

Perhaps the One True Ring is a sphincter

Har: Hobbit Love.

Via Daze Reader.

Rub one out and collate at the same time

So tell me, how is this appreciably different from this, aside from cost?*

Via The Minor Fall, The Major Lift, whom I'm certain has ~no use whatsover~ for such things.

*True Confession Time: I once found one of these in my father's nightstand. To this day I cannot use them. Eek. EEEK!

If Adolf Hitler flew in today they'd send the limousine anyway

Even though I (and, probably, you) have aged out of the demographic they're talking at, go visit PunkVoter.com and show 'em some support.

Reason #782 that I love Octavia

Yes, I bought a vibrator off a homeless man for a dollar.

About fuckin' time

Take that, Abbot Labs! HIV drug maker faces probes, boycott:

"Norvir is not like a hay fever medication that people take to lessen symptoms and be more comfortable. It is a drug they take to survive," Madigan said in a press release. "Increasing its price is like increasing prices for life-saving cancer drugs or heart drugs. This investigation is aimed at determining the real reason for the price increase and assessing whether the increase violates Illinois law. Every consumer is affected by unfair or deceptive practices that drive up the costs of needed prescription drugs."

That's in me, is it not in you? Is it not your problem?

I meant to write about this last week and then I got all busy with the babies and the ladies and the ladies and you know how it goes.

Two professors' postmodern take on pornography: Defend your porn.

Adequately prepared, the students watch 20 minutes of video. It might be expected that the passive act of viewing would be followed by the active work of analysis. But we have found that porn doesn't allow this to happen so simply. Two minutes of pornography is titillating. Ten minutes is boring. Extend the viewing in this environment and critical analysis is the only option left. Watching pornography in a classroom becomes a Brechtian experience, causing discomfort and alienation. Porn then reveals not just flesh, but also its formal conventions, its repetitive narratives, its tableaux of power, its cold ideologies, its descent into bathos....Pornography is there because it has become a naturalised part of our environment. Like other phenomenally lucrative businesses, it is in the interests of the pornography industry to avoid scrutiny of its practices, products and environmental impact. It affects us all and we need to take account of that.

Watching 20 minutes of porn seems akin to watching an appendectomy. It's an interesting idea for a classroom activity. The professors say that they show it only after a secret vote is taken among the students, so I don't quite understand the outcry. I imagine that after the first few minutes, the discomfort (and errant boners) would subside. So why the outcry?

I mean, men like porn. Women like porn. The course in question is called Unpopular Texts, and includes, among other things, James Joyce, Spiderman, and the Turner Diaries.

Well, it seems that the professors weren't entirely forthcoming about what the students were voting on.

But it's funny, though: No one started a protest petition when they were forced to read Holocaust revisionism.

Via Maud Newton.

Do you like American music?

Right now I'm just happy to see "Keep on the Sunny Side" gettin' the Grammy. That and the numerous snafus dunning Celine Dion's live performance are proof to me that maybe there is a God and if there is he has good taste in music.

A coupla days ago I found a hit in my referrers from a site I've always liked, Glorious Noise. It hadda do with my blahbahdeblahing about "Pictures of You" on the HP commercials. But that's not the point--it led me to one of the founders' side projects: Grand Rapids Rocks! A veritable compendium of all that was good and garage-y in the '60s midwest. Hey ya! Sometimes good things fall into my lap, and they don't even leave a stain.

Also, big ups to Ang for sending me a fantabulous all-Mountain Goats mix CD. She puts the bomb in the bom-ditty.

This hyperactive smoocherama brought to you by 36 pieces of Now'n'Laters purchased on the cheap at Dollar World, located across the street from the lovely Crandell Theatre, where I spent many a Friday night pulling chewed-up Skittles out of my hair.

I was upstate visiting my newly mommed friend. I got to hold little Paige who farted like a rocketship taking off the entire time. I asked her dad how he liked her so far. "She's kind of a useless annoyance at this point. 'Feed me! Change me! Now leave me alone!' I think I'll like her more in a few months." Yup, parenthood.

And what's Polish for "It rubs the lotion on its skin"?

It is very possible that we were meant to be close friends (never lovers) but the language barrier has always gotten in the way.

Baby put Ms. Martha in her place!

And then she made the most ridiculous sound I've heard coming from an adult in quite some time, kind of like a lion roaring underwater.

I always liked Doug. I just didn't know how much until now.

I feel nice when I sing this song

Interesting interview with Alexandra Aikhenvald, a linguist who catalogues dying languages:

A student of mine found an old man who said, "Yes, I speak Baré" - an Amazonian language that we thought was extinct. I checked that he knew the few Baré words I knew, then I sat down and talked with him for two months. Senhor Candelário was a great man. He would tell hunting stories, and stories about his life.

His mother had been the only person he could speak Baré with. After she died he kept it alive by talking to himself when he was drunk. So the language had been almost literally pickled in alcohol until I recorded it. When I left we both said: "See you again". Six months later I got news that he had died.

Via disinfo.

Jammin' Econo

Fishfucker's rolled into Sacramento in his fuck truck and offers us a tasty cocktail, the 3 AM Death Knell:

Just take the Green Apple Vodka, pour it into a tumbler you've filled with ice, and try to eyeball the halfway point. It really doesn't matter if you hit it, because let's face it, if you're making this drink you're already shitty enough to fuck that girl who lives upstairs with the wandering eye (which, hey, wandering eye girls, don't get me wrong -- that's hot, i mean, it's endearing, but, still, you live upstairs: COME ON)

::Sigh:: A man after my own heart.

Every night I tell myself I am the cosmos

The Old Hag has kindly posted the entire Salon "Anonyblogger" article so the rest of us don't have to suffer through some frickin' Valtrex ad or something. Is this shite what passes for journalism these days? Here's a taste:

And a quick scan of TMFTML will turn up a recent spoof of a column written by Christopher Hitchens for Vanity Fair that paints him as an anti-Semite who believes Jews have horns, and who doesn't know how to spell 'yarmulke.' TMFTML likes to swipe at the predictable media targets -- Peggy Noonan, Tina Brown, Michael Wolff -- but is distinguished in his desire to take the long knives out for writers whose names only the most obsessed mediaphiles would recognize (and whose gigs, a reader's left to guess, he may covet dearly). Not long ago he wrote elaborately of how a freelance writer for the Times, whose stories he disliked, should 'die, ideally in the most painful and protracted manner possible.'

OK, if you, the reader, don't believe that bloggers have a right to anonymity, whatever. You're entitled to your hairbrained opinion.* But if you can't see the difference between a site like Media Whores Online and TMF,TML--the former being a clearinghouse for all sorts of juicy bits of media gossip, the latter being something we in the business like to call SATIRE--then you apparently are dumber than a box of hair. Or, you're a Salon Fellow. Has Farah even read TMF,TML? Or did someone tip him off to the site a half-hour before he had to turn in this piece?

Anyhow, in addition to Lizzie's commentary, Soundbitten has a more cogent take than I do. Actually, pretty everyone, with the exception of Ol' Dirty Bastard, has a more cogent take on everything than I do. I'm just angry, is all.

*But seriously, fuck you. I don't get paid to write this blog. And I certainly don't get paid to be stalked, which is precisely what can happen when you reveal your identity. Heck, I'm only semianonymous and I have some jamoke in England I've never met posting photos of me on a site I have no connection to. So yeah, nevermind the fact that my employers don't like me slacking on the clock. I, personally, like to walk home every night not worrying about whether I'm going to be greeted by some crazy on my doorstep who will read me a 400-stanza love poem right before he penetrates me with a broken beer bottle. So, in short: I don't owe you anything. Oh, and: Get fucked in hell, Farah. And maybe take a Journo Bootcamp 101 class at MediaBistro.

Shitpigs

This sudden thaw has caused a frightening assortment of vile objects to find their way out of the snow banks on the sidewalk. It's like the Iceman of the Alps out there, only with dog turds and chicken bones.

I hope you're all pleased with yourselves.

I am fantasizing about James Spader's asshole as I write this

I hope you'll all note the newest item on my wishlist, theInternational Guidebook for Traffic Accident Reconstruction:

Covers the gamut from acceleration factor to measuring yaw striation angles. A must for the company traffic safety representative, legal department, and the police technical investigator/reconstructionist on the street.

Or, you know, just your average crash enthusiast.

The Saga of Mingering Mike

A couple weeks back, a post on metafilter linked to a message on a board for record collectors. The crux of the story is that one of the board's members had discovered an entire collection of hand-painted "record" albums, complete with cardboard "records" and lyrics. All had been done by the same mysterious person: Mingering Mike.

The artwork, though *naive*, was fairly incredible, and each record had its own imagined stories and bandmembers and release dates. (Sadly, the original thread, with all the photos of the artwork, was taken down, but you can read more about it here.)

Here's where the story gets even more interesting: the guy who found the Mingering Mike records managed to find him. You can read all about it in yesterday's Times.

Now there's the question of ownership, and if the collection is sold, who profits? The guy who originally found these records seems like an upright guy, so we'll see. Ideally, I think the American Visionary Art Museum is the perfect place for such a collection. I could see Ricco and Maresca drooling over the collection as well.

Who's lookin' good today, who's lookin' good in every way

Sunday morning found me particularly grateful that I had not chosen as my New Year's resolution "Must drink less, and more responsibly." (I do regret that my resolution wasn't something along the lines of "Get spectacularly drunk at least once a week and alienate your friends," because if that had been the case, I'd be doing splendidly, wouldn't I.)

So, okay, Saturday morning, I got up bright and early, puttered around the house with every intention of thoroughly cleaning it, and went to Teddy's for brunch with my friend N. This is how it all started. I had a bloody mary with brunch. And the problem with drinking a single boozy beverage at 1 pm is that you simply must continue drinking all day long or else you will fall into a torpor and be useless for the next 12 hours. My drinking bravura thoroughly stoked, I managed to convince N that we should have a pint or so at Iona, to which he grudgingly conceded after I promised him there'd be a football game to watch.

So it was me and N, the bartender (who was already a little tipsy), 4 postal carriers, an old guy, and a rather drunk Englishman whom, the tipsy bartender explained, had been there since last night. We were introduced to him unceremoniously when the bartender switched our drink orders. And from that moment on, our lives were changed.

His name was M, and he explained that he was a fashion stylist who also liked to spin records. The bartender grudgingly let him play some decent 60s R&B from the collection of 45s he'd arrived with at some point in the previous 24 hours. In between spinning records, M would come over and chat with us. He was entertaining if unintelligible. Oddly enough, the drunker we got, the more we understood him. After 6 hours of pints, we were practically communicating telepathically.

I hasten to add that I had no intention of spending all afternoon surrounded by drunks and letter carriers, but the bartender was (unwittingly) giving us pint after free pint, so who am I to argue?

We soon became M's guardians and, on a couple of occasions, his bodyguards.
"Don't roll around in the snow, M."
"Give the nice lady back her hat, M."
"Don't touch that. Seriously."

Finally, 8:30 rolled around and I realized I was going to be late for my friend's birthday party at The Bellevue. N and I announced that we were leaving, but M, in a sweet, sort of bathetic way, begged us not to leave him. OK, fine, you can come with us, we told him, but we must leave now.

"But I've got to drop off my records and have a shower and change my trainers and get a jumper to wear."

No, we told him, you may not. We must get on the subway NOW, we said.

"Subway? Why the tube? We're not students. We'll take a car service. I've got cash."

So we hailed a cab and went back to M's apartment where his unseen girlfriend politely gave him whatfor in the other room. N and I sat nervously on the couch. M wanted her to come out and meet us. She didn't want to. We wondered what we'd gotten ourselves into. Still, the couch was so, so comfortable.

Finally, M re-emerged from the bedroom. We again denied him a shower, so he put on his gold trainers and his jacket and we went downstairs. He insisted we take a car service and pulled a twenty out of his shoe. Well, ok.

It became apparent after we got in the car that refusing M his shower hadn't been in our best interests. Then again, we'd been drinking all day as well, so perhaps we all smelled like that.

Things are spotty after that. I recall him patting the car service driver's head and asking him, "Have you got some disco music on the stereo? My mate's claustrophobic, he hates riding in cars." I think he might've intimated that the driver had sexual relations with his own mother. I was beginning to get uneasy.

The unease grew when we finally arrived at the bar and within five minutes of being there M had dumped a beer on one friend of mine and pulled another one's ponytail in a lewd manner. "Please don't molest my friends," I implored him, and did a quick headcount to see how many apologetic emails I'd be sending out in the morning.

He proceeded to buy us 3 rounds of tequila shots with money that magically appeared from his gold trainers. Now, I know what you're thinking: No good can come of this. And you're right.

M & N squished themselves onto the same brokedown chair and I sat on top of them, mostly in an attempt to keep M from touching anyone else in the bar.

N got up to use the bathroom. M sprung up a minute later and said, "I'm going to check on him," which was considerably more unnerving than anything else he'd said that day. I tried to persuade him to stay, that N would probably like to go to the bathroom on his own, to no avail.

He returned a minute later, looking a bit sheepish. "Yes, he's, ah, fine." I knew it was time to leave. There were other attendees at this party whom I knew would be less understanding about a drunk Brit barging in on their piss.

So we said goodbye (I hope we said goodbye; I'm a bit fuzzy) and hailed a cab, hailed at M's insistence. "We're not students," he repeated, and pulled another twenty out of his shoe.

This cabdriver was illhumored and did not respond well to having his head touched. He insisted we get out at 6th Ave. and 14th St. "Allright, M, we're taking the subway now."

Some tugging and armtwisting was involved. When we got onto the near-empty L, M's half-focused eyes trained on the innocent woman sitting across from us. He had just finished counting all the money he had left in his trainers when he noticed her Timberlands. "Now, those are some right trainers," he said to her. She smiled and said thank you.

"I'll bet you have a large vagina."

N and I exchanged a look of horror. This was like doing battle with a Hydra. An affable, generous one, but still.

Which was why, at Bedford Avenue, we encouraged him to go meet up with a girlfriend at the Blue Lounge. In fact, I escorted him to the door and put him out on the platform.

"Wait! Come with me. Don't leave me!"

"M, we are tired and we want to go to bed. You run off now."

He delayed the train twice by attempting to step back on the train. Twice I had to firmly shove him back onto the platform. People were beginning to groan angrily.

I kissed him on the forehead and told him "Good night, M."

As the train pulled away from the station we watched 4 off-duty cops descend on him.

I felt immediately awful. "Oh god, what did we just do?"

"He'll be fine," N said. "They won't arrest him for anything."

I wasn't so sure. M, if you're out there, mea culpa. It was fun while it lasted.

Addendum: N reminded me to point out that we didn't eat anything after brunch, so our sousedness was extra pronounced.

Morning-after pill and its detractors

Thanks to Ufez Jones for passing this article on to me:

The woman in this case, by the way, had been raped. A doctor at her rape exam wrote the prescription. The pharmacists knew this; they had been told so by a male friend of the woman (Buzz's tipster), who had ferried her to a number of drugstores in Denton looking for one that had the pills in stock. The Eckerd had it, but because of their own moral objections, pharmacists there refused to fill a lawful prescription for an innocent woman in dire need.

The morning-after pill has been in the news a lot lately, because Mexico is now selling it over the counter. Yet here in the US, pharmacists are allowed to refuse to fill such a prescription if they have ethical and moral objections to it. In fact, 44 states have a "conscience law" that protects medical practitioners from having to perform medical procedures they find objectionable, and so far, courts have sided with pharmacists who invoke this protection. Some retailers refuse to carry the morning after pill altogether.

What a worrisome series of precedents. A pharmacist who refuses to fill a morning-after pill prescription is acting with disregard for the customer, the doctor who wrote the prescription, and the pharmacy he or she works in. In a situation where one pharmacist's refusal could directly translate into an unwanted pregnancy--in a small town, for example--such a decision should be considered criminal.