Keep the glove

It's a fine fucking howdoyoudo when the highlight of your day is an intravaginal sonogram to check and make sure there are NO TUMORS UP IN THIS PIECE. The rest of my Wednesday skittered downhill from there, mostly.

I like the technicians at NY Radiology. They're plucky ladies of a certain age who are as adept as geishas at making small talk while they penetrate you with an implement that--who are we kidding--resembles a Steely Dan. (Waaaaay better than this place, where they make you feel bad about not breeding.)

In my visits there, the techs and I have variously discussed real estate, the Adirondacks, the heat (naturally), and, yesterday, the fantastic new paper robes.

Technically, I'm not sure what kind of material the robes are made from. It's some sort of fiber, like the kind of stuff the more tony boutiques make their shopping bags out of. Robin's egg blue, with very sturdy seams, and best of all, they have a brilliant shape that ensures total modesty: After you put your arms through each hole, you pull a flap of material around and put your right arm through YET ANOTHER HOLE, which keeps the front of the gown totally closed. There's no chance whatsoever of flashing anyone. This is award-winning design. The robes put to shame those metal flippers that allow amputees to run marathons.

So I mentioned to the technician that I really liked the new robe, that it was quite an improvement on the old ones. So sturdy, so accomodating.

"Oh, I know. They're just great. Why don't you take it home? You could reuse it when you need to dye your hair or something."

"Do people really do that? Take their robes home?"

"Sure, why not?" And with that, she slipped a condom on the wand and handed it to me. Springsteen sang "Dancing in the Dark" through a speaker in the ceiling. It was very reminiscent of high school, except I wasn't in the backseat of a 1978 Plymouth Valiant.

A half-hour later, after being thoroughly probed, I was in the changing room trying to decide what to do with the robe. The part of me that obsessively saves grocery bags thought She's right, this could come in handy. The pragmatic part of me debated whether going to a business meeting (at which someone said to me, in all hostile seriousness, "Stop bullshitting me." What am I, a hedge fund manager?) with a disposable examination gown in my purse was such a hot idea. Finally, the neurotic part of me that worries about hurting complete strangers' feelings decided that I should go ahead and take the robe so as not to make the tech think that I didn't like her suggestion.

And now, my medical fetish collection nears completion.

To is a preposition, come is a verb, Part II

Some people are suggestible drunks. In contrast, I am an overly cautious drunk. Whereas other folks, after a few beers, want to drive down to Atlantic City at 2 in the morning, I am transformed into an auxiliary policeman. I'm always the one who's like, Hey, get down off the table or The cabbie isn't interested in seeing your catbrain or Maybe liberating the chickens isn't such a hot idea.

I am offering this info as a sort of qualification to the following: Last week I went to what is, perhaps, the seediest of the seedy strip clubs in LIC. It is because I was in the company of two suggestible drunks, and they strong-armed me into it. And the whole situation is a bit of a double-edged sword, actually, because on one hand, you'd have to be pretty drunk to summon the stones to go into such an establishment (not to mention lessen the shame) and enjoy yourself, but on the other hand you'd really want your faculties in tip-top shape so as to avoid the concomitant knife fights that will break out.

To is a preposition, come is a verb

This morning I saw a guy get spectacularly crapped on. It was as though a squadron of pigeons swooped in at that very moment and aimed at him. A full-on assault. I don't know how it was possible.

The guy was wearing a blue blazer and carrying a Frappucino (and his hair was perfect), the sort of gentleman in whose beshitting (I claim that word and all of its riches) I'd ordinarily delight, but Jesus. If I had laughed at him, God would come down and smite my family.

I hope he keeps a spare blue blazer in his office.

As I steered clear of the point of impact on the sidewalk (and averted my eyes, of course), another witness--a sort of greasy hippie dude--turned to the flabbergasted man and said, "You got some serious pigeon there, man."

You might be wondering what this photo is all about. I'll get to that this afternoon in three or four days.

Flickr is Magic

N somehow managed to stumble across the following Flickr set: Pam's BoobJob.

Pam's bio reads: I enjoy going bra-less, and wearing see-thru tops to show off my Boob-Job. I also enjoy sharing my self and photos with others. Besides being an aerobics instructor, I am some what of an exhibitionist.

In addition, Pam is apparently a time traveler from the year 1983. I marvel at all the things we can learn from her.

Pam swims! Pam rides ATVs! Pam has a camper! And Pam posts her boobjob photos everywhere! Pam also has a blog. A blog that consists primarily of photos of her boobjob.

How much do you want to bet that Pam has no fucking clue that her photos are all over the internet?

...And we're back

Some of you will be disappointed to hear that a new suitor has taken the place of Johnny Damon in my Chocha Love Hall of Fame. His name is Grady Sizemore, and he just turned 23 years old.

Married, Not Buried

I am fickle about My Boyfriends, but don't think for a second that I'm a fair-weather Johnny Damon fan: here is a nice gallery of his big, oily, stupid self, writ large. (I'm not going to say anything about the fact that he takes his hairstylist on his honeymoon with him.)

Runnin' with the Devil

Even being mentioned in the same sentence as Jesus or God ... I mean,
those guys are awesome. -- Red Sox center fielder Johnny Damon, on
his famously throwback look, in the February issue of Boston magazine.[Excerpted here.]

Incidentally, what is the Johnny Damon diet? Outside of my fantasy world, I mean.

[via max]

Maximum Stretch Capacity as measured by the Flux Capacitor

A good friend of mine who cares about my vaginal well-being sent me a link to The Vagina Institute, a helpful organization that allows you to determine whether or not your womanhood more closely resembles a lotus flower or the Super Deluxe Extra Fatty Corned Beef Sandwich from the 2nd Avenue Deli. If this site is to be believed, a lot of men prefer ladies to resemble those plastic models used in Hygiene class. There's even a test on the site to see if you measure up. [WARNING: NSFW--any of it.]

Now, my chocha is closer to this than this, but there are those who will tell you otherwise.

True story about my gigantic pudendum: When I was in college, a friend--one to whom I was not even remotely attracted, sadly--and I had sex one night, probably because we were bored. This was in his apartment, which was in this Melrose Place-style warren of converted nun-apartments where a mutual friend of ours also lived. After it was over, we each told our mutual friend all about how lousy the sex was. Separately, of course. I remember complaining that he had a micropenis. "I could have told you that," mutual friend said.

Anyhow, the Tiny Man moved out of his apartment and another friend of ours moved in. A polite Southern boy, he admitted that he found something written in his closet-- an inscription (poem? Haiku? Something.) that he refused to disclose. He insisted I come see it myself.

It read:

Her first name is Dana
Her last name begins with an R
She has a huge pussy
May she be fucked by donkeys.

I still think fondly about that.

Of all the things I've lost, I miss my virtue the most

But here in Washington, in 2005, it is still illegal, under a 1909 law, to bring a woman's virtue into question publicly, to call her a hussy or a strumpet. And now, a state senator from Seattle - who is not saying she supports attacking the chastity of Washington women - is, nevertheless, trying to overturn the state's "Slander of a Woman" law.

Apparently there's still a similar law on the books here in NY. (See here, at S. 77.) I wish I had known about this law back when I still might've had a case.

Hooligans Don't Fall in Love

Goddammit, everyone and their brother has already posted this NYTimes article about lying and secrets.

But psychologists say that most normal adults are well equipped to start a secret life, if not to sustain it. The ability to hold a secret is fundamental to healthy social development, they say, and the desire to sample other identities - to reinvent oneself, to pretend - can last well into adulthood. And in recent years researchers have found that some of the same psychological skills that help many people avoid mental distress can also put them at heightened risk for prolonging covert activities....

Men love secrets.

Women hate secrets.

Women love secrets.

Everyone loves secrets!

Here's my best idea

I just studied the exit poll data on CNN. If you look at women's votes - we voted for Democrats almost every time.

So the solution is not for Democrats to move to Canada. Sorry, guys, the answer is to kill y'all.

Dangerously yours,
Tizzie

And on the 7th day, the chocha rested

Whoo-hoo! Yes, we are very happy that the Sox won the Series. They deserved it. I sincerely hope this means a lot of sexy, postseason Annie Leibowitz (or, even better, Terry Richardson)-style photos of Johnny.

[But we are quietly happy about the Sox given that some of the people closest to me (and my chocha) are Cardinals fans. Wah-waaaaaaah.]

Oh God Yes

I want one of these.

Today's First Johnny Damon Post

Just remember whose magic chocha powers got you the Pennant, darling.

Warm, soft, damp, with seeds inside, so round.

Friends, I give you the Johnny Damon pumpkin.

[Via The Great Leader.]

The Power of Pussy

Know why the Red Sox kicked IBM's* the Yankees' asses? It's because of the Twinkle Twinkle Blah Blah Blah Etc. Magic Chocha Benediction I offered up to my homeboy Johnny Damon the other day. He better remember that lovin' post-season, 'cos he sure as hell ain't getting any MVP awards this year.

*Hi HereIType.

Put me in, coach, I'm ready to have wild monkey sex with this centerfielder

I may be the only person in the universe who thinks about sex while watching baseball--it keeps me distracted--but goddamned if the Red Sox Johnny Damon isn't a sexy melange of XYY chromosome and simian good looks.

Clean cut, he's dashing. All scruffy-like, he's got a certain rake-cum-hobo charm.

And did you know that he's the only player in history to hit a single, double, and triple in one inning? [Fill in obvious sexual metaphor here.]

Go Red Sox!

It's Just Not a Good Week for Livin'

RIP Russ Meyer. He may be dead, but his art lives on. Long live the big bouncy titties.

Liquor in the front

Behold the cuteness that is David Williams, this year's World Series of Poker 2nd place winner. (Listen, you put me in front of a TV watching a show about a pasttime I couldn't even be arsed to pay attention to in real time, and this is what I come away with.)

NB: I can't be sure if he's legitimately attractive or if he just seems that way, given that he's surrounded by the ugly duality of both poker AND Magic players.

Porn and pastrami: A few of my favorite things

Al Goldstein: Unbreakable.

I promise not to come in your handbag

The NY Times was vascillating between the paternal and the prurient this weekend. What *is* it with their porn obsession? This week, it's all about what women want in their porn:

For the next round of films they produced, Mr. Graff and Ms. Holland passed over stylists who worked exclusively in adult films and instead hired an art director who also works in theater, a wardrobe person who also designs hats and handbags. "Women were telling us they were really into lingerie, and it has to be at least Victoria's Secret, but better you have Prada. And they complained a lot about over-the-top jewelry, so we paid attention to that," Ms. Holland says. The results are "closer to where we're going, if not there yet," she adds.

Ride that sexy horse

Wow, there is something more disturbing than outright bestiality*: My Dark Horse Is Horny, an artmercial for Diesel. [Via Popbitch.]

*And that is a man wearing nothing but a handlebar moustache and nude manties.

Improving Workplace Morale, Pt 1

It doesn't surprise me at all that dong would have discovered this, though why he knows they have them in red and white patent leather as well is a mystery.

Virtual Library of Eroticism

The Virtual Library of Eroticism: Exactly what it sounds like. You're welcome.

Art School Sluts

I ::heart:: Eon McKai. And not just because I was once an art school slut myself.

What else are you supposed to do in a town full of bars and devoid of bookstores?

"Hey, mind if I stop by after class and pick up that Spray Fix?" Wink.

Admittedly some of this was born from necessity: I lived in a house that had no heat, and it was cold, so cold during wintertime. The problem is that art school boys are so sensiteeev. I'd find myself running into them another time at the bar, and they'd take me aside and tell me, plaintively, "I thought we had something special."

It was like This Is Your Life. Sans golden curtains.

Confidential to T.N.

Whoever it is at The Nation who wants to see me naked, your google-fu is seriously lacking.

Grant, call me.

Go read Grant Stoddard's latest "I Did It for Science" column, in which he casts a dildo from his own cock and allows an exgirlfriend to roger him with it.

It's pretty hot, actually.

Please excuse Dana from gym today

I feel terrible that I didn't make it to the party that Rick Bruner organizized in celebration of the Daily News piece.

What happened was this. I had this Bliss gift certificate that was about to expire. So I scheduled an appointment for last night at 6. For a Brazilian. Because I figured, heck, if it's free, why not? All the girl bloggers are doing it.

My aesthetitian was a Polish woman named Dorothy. She was the kindest aesthetitian I've ever encountered, which is an especially meaningful quality to look for if you're having the hairs professionally yanked off your asshole.

Which doesn't hurt nearly as much as you'd expect. I mean, it doesn't feel *great* or anything, but it's better than dumping a motorcycle at 60 mph wearing cut-off jeans. Being bendy helps.

I debated the merits of going for the full-on Jon Benet but decided to have her leave a little V of hair, for decoration. 20 minutes, in and out, easy-peasy.

Thus denuded, I sashayed up Broadway feeling a bit electrified. I went back to Brooklyn to have some dinner. "Then we'll come back to the city for the soiree," I told my chocha.

A bowl of moules frites and a weiss bier later, my chocha said to me, "Let's just have one more drink before we go back to the city." Who was I to argue? It was her night as much as mine.

Somehow, I found myself, three hours later, still at a Brooklyn bar. The bartender gave me a bunch of money to play the jukebox. We wanted to stay and hear all our songs. The chocha wasn't going anywhere until every last Fleetwood Mac song was played.

So it was then 11:30, and I was tipsy, and still in Brooklyn. I couldn't imagine making it back into the city. The chocha said "Fuck it, let's go home and jump on the bed in a thong."

So that's why I didn't make it to the party. I'm sorry.

4 parts bourbon, 1 part inspiration

Bear with me. I have had a vision, and it's of a new artform--half performance art, half porn. It's the Porno One Man Band.

Here's how it works: A naked woman, wearing standard one-man-band apparatus, performs sexual acts and music at the same time. Envision blow jobs with cymbals. Double anal with harmonica and washtub bass. The idea is still in its infancy, but I think it's got legs. I've got a couple crumpled cocktail napkins with the specs right in front of me.

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.

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.)

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.

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

Perhaps the One True Ring is a sphincter

Har: Hobbit Love.

Via Daze Reader.

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.

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."

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.

Stand and deliver

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

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.

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.)

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?"

As you look into the abyss and all that

The universe mocks me: I come up fifth in a search for vagina plastic surgery photos.

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.

HA!

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

Elegy

MC with guy who "cums" too fast.

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!)

Don't be gentle with me

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

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!

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."

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.

Levels of perversion

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

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

Has the once-groundbreaking magazine become culturally irrelevant?

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

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

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

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

Please, protect me from what I want.

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

Evanescent loveliness of boys translates into indistinct bitterness later on

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

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

(via Daze Reader)

If all the girls at Bennington were laid end to end

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

Charles Miller and Amy Sohn got married.

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

Oh ho ho. Ho ho ha ha hee.

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

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

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

Lubricated conversations flowed around us.

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

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

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

Yeah, I gots a way with the menfolk.

Boys are from Mars and Girls are from Doodypants Town

Over at Fussy:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She must feel, I thought, so hot.

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

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

I said no touching the radio!

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

Finally!

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

Watershed news from the Department of Duh

Having sex is good for you, says study:

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

Sensitivity training

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

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

"Oh, uh, March."

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

"..."

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

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

Boys the night will bury you

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

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

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

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

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

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

ONLY A GIFT GOD COULD GIVE.

...or, you know, 5 minutes in the stockroom.

This reminds me of when I was editor of my highschool literary magazine. This girl Amorette submitted a poem about the birth of her daughter. One of the couplets read She came as a surprise/Unexpected. Um, a surprise? Unexpected? Sweetheart, you're in my gym class. It was no surprise to the rest of us.

Of course I published the poem anyway, because I was afraid she'd beat me up.

Look, it's the Puss-idon Adventure

::groan::

Wow, how incredibly sexy, getting banged by a scuba diver.

Via Get Swank.

This brave new world's not like yesterday

Picked up free stuff at the Free Stuff Fair across the street. It's actually intended for students, but what, like they're gonna make me give back the Zyrtek Beer Koozie? I don't think so.

I got some safer sex stuff at one table, mostly out of curiosity (because I prefer my sex to be unsafe and preferably totally anonymous), and came away with pink dental dams, black condoms, and peach-flavored lube. Is this what they're teaching kids these days? "Be prepared to fuck Tawny Kitaen."

You're so pretty, you've got money and ambition

I remember at some point I used to read and see interesting things and occasionally write about them here. But now I feel like reading is for people who have run out of things to think of when they're rubbing one out.

Anyhow, this weekend I saw Cabin Fever, which was both better and worse than I'd anticipated.

Then over at Stereotypography this a.m. I found this: Zombie Pinups! Synchronicity.

Hormones

It started yesterday while I was reading the Men's Fashions of the Times (don't worry, I'll leave it up to TMF,TML to offer mo' better opprobrium of the Gray Lady) and thought to myself, This is a pretty good issue. I mean, those photos of Chris Elliott (which don't appear to be online) made me laugh out loud. HAR. And those big gay Dolce and Gabbana ads.

No, maybe it started on Saturday when I awoke to find three throbbing, subcutaneous pimples on my face. Grr. I poked at them and made them angry. GRRRRRR. No amount of Bobbi Brown could render me camera-worthy for my aforementioned interview yesterday. I asked my friend to smear some Vaseline on the camera lens. "That's what they do for Cybil Shepherd," I pleaded. No dice. Finally he agreed to film me in a dark bar, which is my natural habitat anyhow.

Or maybe it started this morning, when I ran into my most favorite, recently departed work stud(y) guy at the front desk. "What on earth are you doing here," I asked, secretly wishing for a fan or a hijab to cover my grotesquely deformed face. "Oh, I'm back working in the office."

"Really. Well, then you owe us for that pizza we bought you on your last day."

John Waters would've fainted had he witnessed the sheer salaciousness of my arched eyebrow. Work study guy looked nervous.

(Commence breathing exercises at my desk.)

My hootchie-cootchie man

Ah, nice visit to the gyno. I like to call him the Shoe Shine Boy (it's the stirrups). Sometimes, though, when I go to see him, he's not in, so his brother works in his place.

"Hi, I'm here to see Dr. B?"

"Great, have a seat. But he's not in today, so you'll have to see his brother."

[beat]

"OK. Is he a doctor too?"

That joke just never gets old. Seriously.

Dr. B2 is not as charming or as friendly as Dr. B1. He also dives into you like he's birthing a foal. This would explain why he's still single.

Both Dr. Bs are Orthodox jews. I kinda like this, because it means that they don't give you the usual scant hospital robes you're forced to wear by the Gentiles, they give you these huge swaths of fabric. By the time Dr. B comes into the exam room, I'm looking like a pink bathtub virgin. Right on.

So Dr. B2 came in today. Here's a rough approximation of our conversation:

"How are you, Dana? Still refusing to step on the office scale, I see. And how is your chocha?"

"Well, Doc, the chocha's fine, but I'm a little sad today."

"Why is that?"

"Oh, I'm just sad about my man JC dying is all."

Judging by the look on his face, I should've said "Johnny Cash." There was some confusion with the initials there. He got a little nervous 'cos I think he thought I was referring to the Crucifixion.