Because it is bitter, and because it is my nougat-filled heart

As far as Valentine's Day goes, it's not so bad a holiday. I like pink and red, and I like candy. What I like best about it, though, is that it is a bookend to the litany of Eating Holidays that begin with Thanksgiving and don't fucking end until, well, today.

The thing I realized about Valentine's Day, though, is that while we have all these holidays that are meant to commemorate and celebrate our special loved ones, there aren't really any devoted to the folks who have driven us to murderous rage. Thus begat the Anti-Valentine Invitational, where I asked a number of friends whose writing (and freak-magneting) skill I admire to pen an Anti-Valentine to an unloved one, Platonic or otherwise.

Just in time for Women's History Month: A New Hair Removal Device

Although I receive reviewer’s copies of books and records, I’ve rarely been offered anything fancy or practical, like—hint hint—fine wines or All-Clad cookware. However, a friend of mine, noting that I am an adventurous, hirsute woman with a high tolerance for pain, and having in her possession a number of Philips Norelco Satin Ice Epilators to unload (read: focus group), offered me one and told me to take it for a test drive.

Youngian Analysis, or Crosby Stills & Nash Marked For Death

Dana has asked that I write about my favorite. Favorite what she’s left up to me, just so long as it is indeed a favorite. Oy. As soon as choose one, I feel as if I’ve essentially negated everything else, ad infinitum, in perpetuity throughout the universe and all the multifarious alphabets therein. I’ve had all sortsa favorites over the years – favorite songs, artists, albums. I gotta choose one?

OK, here goes: “Like A Hurricane”, by Neil Young. I’ve been able to return to it again and again for almost thirty years now and it still seems as fresh as the first time I heard it. That’s as good a definition of a favorite as anything else I can think of, so let’s go with that.

Point/Counterpoint: Clovis Press vs. Spoonbill and Sugartown

To round out the Number One Hit Song Hateweek Guest Opinion, I thought I'd throw in a new concept to blow your got-damned minds: A point/counterpoint review, the first half by none other than Maud Newton, and the second by yours truly. (Don't look so disappointed.) The topic? The two bookstores/imprimateurs in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Which, despite their paucity of novels with pink martinis and Manolos gracing their covers, still suck donkey dick.

Fuck New York

This is an auspicious day here at #1HS. We've been hating so much that we've been called "mean." What better time to welcome back my old drunk friend Tom, the author of this poignant essay?

EIGHT REASONS WHY CHICK LIT AUTHORS SHOULD BE KICKED UNTIL THEY’RE DEAD*

Editor's [HA!] note: This is the first anonymous submission to #1HS. (Unless, of course, you count the various witticisms posted in the Comments by people named "yousuck@eatshit.com.") Let's call the author of this particular essay Haitlin Louboutin. And no, I didn't write it--entirely too polished to be one of my dribblings, n'est-ce pas?--but the title *was* my idea. I insisted on the title, actually. In fact, I think I will entitle every fucking post from now on "[X] Reasons Why [X] Should Be Kicked to Death."