Levi Johnston in Playgirl -- Yeah OK....

Levi Johnston keeps talking about how he is working out so he's ready for his big Playgirl shoot. He even said he isn't sure what issue it will appear in.

Oh boy.

I worked there...for years and years. And it doesn't exist anymore. Shuttered in December of 08 or January 09. Sure, there's an online version, but posing naked online and being a featured nude in a magazine are two very different things.

I'm confused over why the very same media outlets who reported that Playgirl magazine is gone is also reporting that Levi will be in an upcoming issue. Are they that clueless?

Or maybe the joke is on Levi?

Michael Jackson Ruled

I still can't believe he's dead. It just doesn't seem real. But a lot of things in Michael Jackson's like didn't seem real. Like his talent -- it was outer-worldly.

His work as a kid with Jackson 5, Off the Wall, Thriller...such a big part of my childhood.

My mom's best friend Regina even made me a white glove like his because she knew how much I loved him.

My friend Colleen and I had a dance school for the neighborhood kids (when we were 11, I think). We charged kids 50 cents to teach them dance moves. Thriller was our first one. I studied that video and taught the kids every move.

Rest in peace, Michael Jackson.

I Wish I Could Afford McQueen

Oh Alexander McQueen RTW, you are so beautiful, feminine, and so very me. If only I had a ton of money.

As seen on Gilt.

Early Marilyn Monroe Photos

She's breathtaking.

From CNN

Gorgeous

Everything about this photo, or really still from a film, is gorgeous.

The color.
The lush woods.
The girl.
The dress.
The mood.

It's from the film The Fish Child currently being shown at the Tribeca Film Festival. Written by Lucia Puenzo, The Fish Child is based on a short story with a dog as the narrator. It's about two women in love. It's funny, dark, and mysterious.

I can't wait to see it!

Opposites Attract

Tiger: You know how much I love you....

Monkey: Baby, you're the best.

Blue Suede Shoes, I Love You

I wish I was a size 6. I would buy these.

Size 8 isn't a good size to be when shopping for vintage shoes. People had smaller feet.

I wonder if that means that in 30 years our feet grow even more?

Fuzzy Love

Honduran white bats...cute while sleeping.
A bit scary looking head on.
Still love.

People Are Getting Sloppy...

...or maybe careless or maybe it's just me...maybe I just respect the art of grammar too much.

I was reading a magazine that I really like -- a fashion glossy -- and they described a product that's name was clearly a French phrase as Spanish. The product was even from a well-known French company.

I know this magazine has a ton of editors. Many eyes see this copy before it goes to print. So how does it slip?

Then...something even worse happened.

I was reading a book by one of my favorite authors, published by a company I hold in high regard, and there it was...a spelling error.

I feel so let down.

I'm not perfect...I've made grammatical errors here and there (never hear and their). But it's usually on something only my eyes saw before publishing...like this blog. But even if I do make a mistake, it pains me.

It's a good thing there is only one way to spell "change."

Mating Game

What do you think about my little new baby Dale?
MakeMeBabies.com - What will your baby look like?

From Reality To A Run For Congress

I'm old enough to remember when MTV's Real World was something exciting—a reality show never before seen. And the token black guy on the first ever premiere of that show was Kevin Powell. I remember him being a poet. He's done quite a lot since then, including some really great articles, and he's now running for Congress representing the 10th District in Brooklyn, which just so happens to include my birthplace of East New York.

Real World: Red Hook's "job" should be to work with Powell on his bid. He's a Democrat so it could cause strife if some of those seven strangers were Republicans. It could open up a discussion on politics and increase political awareness in those young whippersnappers, but I doubt that will be their task. They're probably all in a bar right now getting hammered and complaining about their lame job at an online upstart or internship at a music magazine.

I Am Right Handed

McCain deserves to be President. The USA deserves Obama.

McCain represents incredible courage, he is a strong man, a war hero, and when he spoke at the RNC I was moved. He showed his family side, the pride he has in all seven of his children, and the faith he has in Sarah Palin. I was impressed with Palin. For the first time ever speaking in front of an audience of that magnitude, on the heels of the personal matters revealed in the press, she was terrific.

Obama was magnetic. At the DNC, he captured the hearts of so many, including mine. He spoke with authority, yet had a softness, he showed the love he has for his family, and the trust he has in Joe Biden. Biden was good, and you can tell how happy he was to be selected as Obama’s VP.

McCain deserves the honor of President. I have faith he would be incredible and his against-the-republican-grain ideals would fare well. I have always liked the man and when they discounted him out of the race before the primaries, I was disappointed. But a man like McCain cannot be held back from realizing his goals. I mean no disrespect by saying the USA deserves Obama—we would be lucky to have McCain as well. It’s just that McCain’s life has truly led him to deserve this honor. And he would treat it as such.

The USA deserves the promise of Obama. While I do feel McCain would change things, Obama is the symbol of change and yes, it has a lot to do with the fact that he is a young African-American man who embodies the characteristics of JFK. Does Obama deserve the presidency? His experiences haven’t taken him there just yet, but there is great promise. People rise to the occasion all the time. It’s America, the land of opportunity.

I feel we would be well-served from either of these men. And that’s a first.

Also, check out my post from January 2007

Deflated

Never order from Virtual Florist dot com. Never!

They were supposed to deliver me balloons for a photo shoot.
I called to stress the importance of on-time delivery.
They were really nice, promised it wouldn't be a problem.
Time came.
No balloons.
I called. They said it was on the truck, "should be there any minute."
Half hour goes by. I call back.
I suggest she calls the truck to see where they are. Time is ticking, I needed to be at the shoot with the balloons.
She calls back twenty minutes later.
No balloons, no trace of order even though I got two confirmations (through email and verbally).
Disappointed, I still understand. Things happen.
So I tell her to credit my card. She assures me it was never charged and apologizes again.
I did my bills last night and there it was $45.90 from Virtual Florist charged to my account!
I called but it was ten at night and the kid answering the phone couldn't do anything for me.
This morning the woman called me. I'm being credited.

This is a dumb rant, I know.
I just needed to let it out.

Like Wow

Judging by the crowds in Bryant Park for their Summer Friday music series with GMA, Jonas Brothers are way more popular than Miley Cyrus.

Happy Birthday Duchovs

You hot, sexy man, you!

Rated PG

I heard. I know. Playgirl is folding. It’s going to be online only.

Kind of funny since when I worked there the company’s web presence was revoked. Big scandal. Arrests. Including Bruce Chew, a crusader and a man who called me a company person. He was awesome—tanned and toned and always smelled great. When we would have to have the cover approved, the last stop was Bruce. To earn his “BC” on the glossy was always a feat. Chew liked my ideas, but then he was locked up.

I was left with Carmine Bellucci, the Publisher, who caused his own bouts of scandal within the company. He didn’t like me. He used the word “cock” a lot. One day he went to Germany or Poland or somewhere like that to work on the production of hardcore videos in conjunction with one of the company’s other titles (High Society or Cheri perhaps) and he never came back. Word was he fell gravely ill, was flown home on the company owner’s private jet, and was “retired.”

Sometime in 2004 that owner, the man whose bust statue ominously peered at you when you stepped off the elevator to his office, took an unprecedented interest in Playgirl. Carl Ruderman took a trip to France, saw some chic gay mags, and came back with an idea: to make Playgirl more like “Sex And The City.”

It was something I fought for since I started there sometime in 1999, though I wouldn’t have phrased it quite that way.

The prototypes we created were some of the best Playgirls I’ve ever seen, save for the days of the 70s. Too bad they weren’t approved. We did manage to get one issue out and the higher ups weren’t happy with the lack of penises—they weren’t on every page anymore. There was more mystery, romance, sensuality. Four more issues came out with my imprint and then I was “retired” in my own way in 2005.

“We’re taking you off the magazine,” “I warned you about them,” “I tried to tell you not to push your ideas,” were some of the comments I heard from Ken Kimmel, a cherubic man who served as Creative Director. Ken discovered Jenna Jameson, but he never got any credit for that. He’s a man with great ideas that nobody listens to.

These men, the final say behind Playgirl, were all straight men (as far as I knew). Most of them married with kids.

Why do I think Playgirl failed? Well, when I was there was told it broke even. There were hardly any ads. I don’t think much had changed in those three years. And that’s the problem.

Straight women in middle America loved it for the hunks. Gay men in the metro areas liked it sometimes and they fantasized about turning the straight models gay. Others thought all the guys were gay and hated it. It’s hard to be a magazine hoping to satisfy so many. But it’s even harder to be a magazine about sex for women when the final approval must be made by straight men.

Playgirl started as a nightclub for women in the LA area. It was a response to the women’s movement in the early 70s. A magazine was created for those feminist gals who wanted to express themselves sexually. The magazine cost one dollar—every last one sold out. There was no nudity then, just crossed-legged poses. Lyle Waggoner was the centerfold.

Women complained and wanted to see more. They got what they wanted. But they won’t anymore.

Despite it all, I am really sad it’s not going to exist anymore. But maybe I am more sad about the idea of it or rather my ideas for it (and the team that I had), and all its promise, never being able to come back around and be what it once was.

I used to be Playgirl's Editor-in-Chief.


An addition:
I just thought of something...
Playgirl was a raging success in the 80s, and in that era, men were buffed, oiled, and all "Let's Get Physical" style. The problem with the higher ups at the mag is that they knew this and maybe thought that look was what was needed to make it successful again. Chances are that is when these higher up men were also in their prime. So that "look" was "hot" to them.

Still...a losing battle of the sexes.

Like Lionel Richie

There are times when I am just sitting and thinking, like when I am on the subway or in the back of a cab, and I am alone with my thoughts and my mind runs. Today I thought about my aunt Tina, who died many, many years ago. She is one of my very favorite people, on this earth or in it. She was actually my great-aunt, my grandmother’s sister. She never had children and she always told me that I was like a daughter to her. Today I thought about when she used to take me to Green Acres mall when I was just a kid. I remember when we would go in summer and drive in her car with the radio blasting singing as the hot air blew in from the windows. She was like Lucille Ball meets Wilma Flintstone. I often think of her in times when I wish I could get her advice or just hear her Forbell Street, Brooklyn-twang.

I still remember her phone number, but I can’t call.

Which makes me think of people who don’t call, don’t respond to emails or texts. But not because they don’t want to, but because they don’t have time or are not in the right frame of mind to talk.

I’ll admit; I hate the phone. Mostly this happened at the onset of cell phone-only use. I used to love it. Talked for hours sometimes. But not since I’ve gone cellular.

Why do we put off calling, meeting, talking in person? I wish I could talk to my aunt Tina. I wish I talked to her more when she was alive. I was in college when she passed away. Busy. Didn’t call a lot. Until her cancer returned some twenty-odd years later.

Then I called a lot. Visited her and brushed her hair. Fed her. I had major guilt that I was too wrapped up in my own life to be there for her more. To have her enrich my life by just talking more to her as an adult. She was an amazing woman. She always made sure my uncle had my favorite foods in the house when I stayed over—especially Entenmann’s Chocolate Chip cookies. I liked them before they had the new recipe, so it was always the original. Like her.

So call. Make time. Return that email.

Trash Talk

Garbage men are curious creatures. They are always nice to me when I see them in the morning. Yesterday one said to me that I looked very pretty today and he followed it up with “but I bet you look pretty every day.” It was nice to hear.

When I lived on Eagle Street in Greenpoint, I would see this one garbage man often. He would always say hello or comment on the weather. I would smile and say hello back, make small chat, you know the kind you can only have while walking past someone without stopping.

I moved away, three years passed, and then I saw him again randomly outside a diner. He remembered me, even saying “you used to live on Eagle.” What a great memory.

My uncle Ronnie was a garbage man. He found two puppies inside a thick Hefty bag on the streets of East New York. He heard whimpers just before the metal thing smooshed the contents of the bin.

Lifesaver. This is funny if you knew my uncle Ronnie.

He brought them to my house and my parents let my sister and I have one. We named her Pookie. I watched her give birth to five puppies five years later. And three years after that I locked myself in the bathroom in hysterics when I found out my dad gave her away after she bit a couple of neighborhood kids.

That was really mean.

Not Pookie’s actions, but dad’s.

I’ve never seen a garbage woman. Yet, by the law of averages, it’s safe to say that men are the ones who most often take out the garbage. But essentially garbage men are part of a clean up, which, again, by the law of averages, isn’t most men’s specialty.

And maybe my view of men is a little messed up. Not all, just some.

And you know how if you do something all day at work, it’s often the last thing you want to do at home?

I wonder if garbage men take out their own garbage.

I would ask but it would require me to stop.

Eva Mendes Is Gorgeous

She's like Cindy Crawford meets Sophia Loren.

Coffee Talk

I am never cursing Starbucks again.

And this has nothing do with the closing of 600 stores.

Yesterday after work I wanted a little coffee delight and thought about trying Dunkin Donuts’ Coolata instead. The Coffee Coolata was my favorite frosty drink before Starbucks moved conveniently to every corner.

I was denied.

Apparently they didn’t have Coolatas even though the signs floating overhead were boasting their photos. The service was less friendly than the people on my overly crowded train this morning and a medium was going to set me back $4.79! More than a Grande Coffee Frappucino at Starbucks. And this wasn’t my only bad experience at D’n D—I have had countless negative experiences there and they always seem really dirty.

Sure Starbucks has sometimes left me waiting for my drink because someone forgot to yell it out (or forgot to hear) and the lines are sometimes out the door. But the people who work there are always nice. Maybe it’s because they hold the title of barista.

Maybe it’s because they don’t need Rachael Ray to get you to try their products. I can’t stand her, so it actually was a deterrent.

On a brighter note: The chocolate cake they have at Pret A Manger is heavenly.

Rhymes With Leslie Mann

For some reason I just remembered a guy I used to know whose name was Spam. Not his real name, obviously. But it was the boyfriend of a girl I was friends with in college (I cannot recall her name, though). They were ravers (did not approve) and this was before the Internet was as popular as it is now, so he was really nicknamed after real spam, which is fake ham. I guess calling the Internet popular isn't the right wording. Weird. Just like Spam.

Reasons For Our High Unemployment Rate

Newspapers are laying off workers and outsourcing to other countries!

OC Register to outsource some editing to India
From Business Week
Some highlights (or lowlights):
An Indian company will take over copy editing duties for some stories published in The Orange County Register and will handle page layout for a community newspaper at the company that owns the Pulitzer Prize-winning daily, the newspaper confirmed Tuesday.

The company has been through three rounds of layoffs in the past year, most recently in April when up to 90 employees lost their jobs. Employees were also offered a voluntary severance program in 2006.

Other newspapers also have outsourced some work to India. Mindworks began copyediting and design of a weekly community news section and other special advertising sections at The Miami Herald in January. A month earlier, the Sacramento Bee, also owned by the McClatchy Co., said it would outsource some of its advertising production work to India.

Loving Otis

Many moons ago, when I was in college, there was this open-all-night mini-market that sold Otis Spunkmeyer chocolate chip cookies. There were certain times of the day that they would bake them right there and when you got on that was fresh out of the oven it was pure heaven. The middle was gooey and not well-done, yet the outermost part was slightly crispy...perfect.

I used to buy four for a dollar and go down the street to the diner's vestibule to play Mortal Combat...or is it Kombat? I hate when people misspell on purpose. Maybe even more than when people misspell accidentally. Maybe. And maybe sometimes I even bought eight instead of four. Cookies for breakfast!

Did you know that Subway sells Otis Spunkmeyer chocolate chip cookies?!

Yum.

Junior Wins!

Dale Jr. wins! And I got weepy.

From Yahoo Sports

In two ironic twists, Earnhardt Jr.'s winless streak ends at 76, the same number of races his late father won in his Cup career. And the winless streak was snapped on Father's Day.

"It makes me feel good, even though I know I can't tell my father Happy Father's Day," Earnhardt said. "But I get the opportunity to wish it upon all the other fathers out there, and I genuinely mean that when I say it because that's what today is all about."

Friday The 13th

From Diane:

This is how my day started: I got up early to go to the gym only to find a drunken man outside my apartment door (my door - not the building door!) in a semi passed out state. And while I was trying to decide what to do, he manages to fall down the stairs and then just passes out where he lands. So I call 911 and have to wait for EMTs to arrive (15 minutes!). Then I have to go downstairs to let them in, meaning I have to step over his passed out body (I don't think he was really hurt, I just wanted him out of there). I open the door for them, ask if I need to stick around, they say no, so I went straight to gym and by the time I was back everyone was gone. All this before 6am!

Love

An Affair To Remember
She was 82. He was 95. They had dementia. They fell in love. And then they started having sex.
By Melinda Henneberger
from Slate

Great article...here are some highlights:

"He was going, 'She had her mouth on my dad's penis! And it's not even clean!' " Bob's son became determined to keep the two apart and asked the facility's staff to ensure that they were never left alone together.

"We're all going to get old, if we're lucky," said the daughter, who is a lawyer. And if we get lucky when we're old, then we need to have drawn up a sexual power of attorney before it's too late.

One day, the staff noticed that they were sitting together, then before long they were taking all their meals together, and over a matter of weeks, it became constant. Whenever Bob caught sight of Dorothy, he lit up "like a young stud seeing his lady for the first time." Even at 95, he'd pop out of his chair and straighten his clothes when she walked into the room. She would sit, and then he would sit. And both of them began taking far greater pride in their appearance; Dorothy went from wearing the same ratty yellow dress all the time to appearing for breakfast every morning in a different outfit, accessorized with pearls and hair combs.

Crazy Love

I can hear her heart beat for a thousand miles
And the heavens open every time she smiles.
And when I come to her that's where I belong
Yet I'm running to her like a river's song.

She give me love, love, love, love, crazy love.
She give me love, love, love, love, crazy love.

She's got a fine sense of humor when I'm feeling low down
And I come to her when the sun goes down
Take away my trouble, take away my grief
Take away my heartache, in the night like a thief.

Yes, I need her in the daytime.
Yes, I need her in the night.
Yes, I want to throw my arms around her
Kiss her hug her, kiss her hug her tight.

And when I'm returning from so far away
She gives me some sweet lovin' brighten up my day.
Yes' it makes me righteous, yes it makes me feel whole
Yes' it makes me mellow down into my soul.

First dance, Van Morrison

Miss Mrs.

I wore my wedding shoes to work today...with jeans. Rose gold heels by Bettye Muller. I wish I could wear that dress again. Vintage-looking, A-line, sweetheart neck, lace, pleating, romantic.

I miss it.

I'm a Mrs.

Four Weddings And A Funeral

I'm always in awe of women who just exude glamour. Who seem to wake up with sunshine on their face and rosy glow on their cheeks, a subtle smile that makes the day better because she is a part of it. Women who are women, a feminine beauty so undeniable that no matter what age, what ailment, what sorrows of time, it's always evident.

My Aunt Eileen was one of the most incredibly beautiful women ever to grace this earth. She had a rasp to her voice that was both sexy and smart, a way about her that was endearing, yet fierce and strong. She was glamour. She was 67. She died on Saturday. Today I will mourn her.

I am finding it hard to face my Uncle Gene, my godfather, an equally elegant man, a man whose love for his wife was so apparent and enchanting. A man whose pain is beyond words.

Thank you Aunt Eileen, for making this world a more beautiful place.

The Return Of Brown Bear

Found in the kitchen area. Brown Bear is back.
Safe.
Who knows what mental trauma he may have been through.

The Doodie

So I am in the stall, going pee.
It's "Take Your Kids To Work Day" remember?
And two of them walk in. Mumbled talk...one boy, one girl.
She has to pee.
I'm done and washing my hands now.
She's undoing her diaper, he's standing right next to her in the stall, taking bites of his bagel.
She keeps saying, "That's a doodie."
I left.

The Teddy

Today is "Take Your Kids To Work Day" at my job. I don't have kids, but 99.999 percent of the people I work with do. It's a zoo in here. A menagerie of whiners from toddler to ten.

One stole my bear. She saw it as she was walking by and asked about it. I had my back to the opening of my cube and tried to ignore her. Kids don't play like that. Louder, she asked what his name was. He doesn't have one. She told me she had a bear just like him at home, but he's bigger, and his name is Brown Bear.

OMG...as I type one of the women I work with burst into tears and ran into the CEO's office. I don't know why.

Anyway...back to the kids.

I suggest naming my bear Brown Bear Junior. She says, no. He's just Brown Bear.

OK.

She asks if she can play with him today. No problem. He actually isn't really mine. He was already in my cube when I started working here and had on a promotional life insurance t-shirt. I took it off. He wasn't naked though...I tied a ribbon around his neck.

So little girl leaves with Brown Bear only to return about ten minutes later and asks if she can take the bow off.

Odd. He's so much cuter with the bow on.

I say yes. She leaves.

I wonder if I'll ever see him again.

Penis De Milo

"Police in Congo have arrested 13 suspected sorcerers accused of using black magic to steal or shrink men's penises after a wave of panic and attempted lynchings triggered by the alleged witchcraft."

-Penis snatching are not uncommon in West Africa.

-Beware of fellow passengers in communal taxis wearing gold rings.

-Sorcerers simply touched them to make their genitals shrink or disappear.

-In Ghana a decade ago, 12 suspected penis snatchers were beaten to death by angry mobs. Those who were jailed have been released.

From a witness: "It's real. Just yesterday here, there was a man who was a victim. We saw. What was left was tiny."

From Reuters

An Echo, A Stain

Most of the music I like is sung by men. That’s not to say I don’t like female singers, I do, just not that many of them—particularly when it comes to music released within the past ten to twenty years. But when I do like them, it’s like an obsession. When PJ Harvey’s Stories From The City, Stories From The Sea came out, it’s all I listened to…on repeat. And roll your eyes all you want—Tori Amos is amazing. “1000 Oceans” makes it into my favorite songs of all time list.

I went to my friends wedding this weekend. Dan and Tracy danced to Bjork’s “Come To Me.” It was gorgeous, enchanting, sweet, delicate. I remember when I bought the album, Vespertine—I was visiting my friend, Kathleen, in San Francisco for a weekend and I was flying home, alone, listening to it on the plane. Massive turbulence. Flying through a wicked storm. I saw black clouds. Lightning. Scariest flight ever. Oddly, it was September 2, 2001. I thought I was going to die and Vespertine was my soundtrack. Not a bad way to go, I suppose. I could’ve been listening to The Strokes’ Is This It, the other album I bought at Amoeba Music that weekend. It was the cool cover with the naked chick that ended up being banned so they changed it. Oh yeah, they weren’t albums, they were discs. I was still listening to my SONY Walkman from college. What a great electronic device—lasted me until I bought an iPod…in 2004.

Kathleen flew to NYC a few days later to visit her family. She was booked on United Flight 93 to return to San Francisco. Thank god she changed her plans and went home the 9th instead. I don’t talk to her anymore, which is sad. I met her in high school.

I hate flying.

I saw Bjork at Radio City with my sister in support of that record. She was amazing. Had a choir of kids who sang like angels. It brought tears to both our eyes. It enveloped us, seduced, intoxicated. One of the best shows I’ve ever seen.

Bjork’s on repeat…going through her whole catalog...on that same iPod.

The Heart Never Forgets

I read this on Drudge's headlines: Man With Suicide Victim's Heart Kills Self

Twelve years ago, Sonny Graham received a heart transplant from a donor who died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound. Sonny killed himself on Tuesday in the same way. But get this...

Sonny was married to a woman named Cheryl, as in the former Cheryl Cottle, widow of Terry Cottle, the man whose heart was beating in Sonny's chest.

After he received his transplant, Sonny wrote letters to Terry's family. He eventually met Cheryl and fell in love with the woman, thirty years his junior.

"I felt like I had known her for years," Graham told The (Hilton Head) Island Packet for a story in 2006. "I couldn't keep my eyes off her. I just stared."

Wow.

Annoying

Today is annoying.

So is the use of the phrase "not to mention." Like if you were to say: "I really find Jimmy's habit of smoking in the house annoying, not to mention the fact that he always leaves the toilet seat up."

Why "not to mention" when you are in fact mentioning it?

I also get annoyed when people say "I could care less" as in "Dick and Jane are moving, thank God, because I could care less about those two losers!"

It's "couldn't care less" because if you could care less, well then you wouldn't be caring the least about it and apparently that's the point you are trying to make.

Also in the annoying category are people who smoke outside of a restaurant and then come in when they are done, but exhale that last long puff they took once they get inside. Gross.

Total Swoon

Josh Brolin is hot. I just saw No Country For Old Men last night. Great movie, but dare I say it...his performance was better than Javier Bardem's. I loved them both in it, but Brolin...damn he was good. Man also loves cooking and racing cars.

Littles

Babies are cute...especially baby possums and baby bats.

I want one of each, but I would want them to stay this size forever and carry them around in my bag.

Congestion Pricing BS

The Congestion Pricing plan is being hugely hyped today and there is a possibility it will be passed. This means $8 toll to cross over bridges south of 86th Street between 6am and 6pm. While this all sounds great for the environment and traffic, it is a major issue for those living in Brooklyn and Queens, deeming those lesser citizens and not allowing them the same luxuries as those who live in Manhattan. Anyone in Manhattan can take a cab during those hours without any fee, but those who are in the outer boroughs must pay $8? What kind of fairness is that? The MTA is not prepared to take on extra traffic—it can barely hold the riders they currently have. And what about when it rains a little bit and subway lines are deemed out of service? Those of us forced to cab it have to pay an extra $8? This will also affect the number of cabs available in Brooklyn. Yellow cabs will no longer want to travel in the outer boroughs because of this fee. This greatly affects quality of life. The city says, "only 5% of commuters in Brooklyn, Queens, Staten Island and the Bronx commute to the Manhattan CBD by private car." This means it mostly affects the taxis.

They say "the revenues collected through the charge will be used solely to fund expansions and improvements to our regional transit system and acheive (sic) a state of good repair on city streets and on the transit system." (Idiots.) But what about the money they do have? Where is the money from the raises in the cost of taking public transportation? Weren't they supposed to fix the system with that money? Plus, wasn't there was a surplus last year? Where is that money going?

I find it humorous that they mention they will make biking and walking safer. That's great...but why the hell would I ride my bike to work? I don't work at a sports facility where biking clothing is acceptable at the office...and I am not peddling in to go to college, so that's out of the question.

The main issue with this is that it deems anyone who doesn’t live in Manhattan second class citizens who are not allowed the same privileges. That’s some major BS.

Spitzer's Pussies

Oh Eliot!

Mmmustachios!

Emperor Tamarin monkeys. Oh la la!

How About Them Apples

Hans and I were walking to the train this morning and saw a truck that said, "Johnny Rotten's Produce."

So we were coming up with better names.

Freddy Fresh's...
Fresh Prince's...
No.

Sid Delicious'!

Aye Aye Aye

Poor little lemur! This Aye Aye Lemur is just a baby and is super rare. They were hunted in their native Madagascar because they were seen as bad omens. This one looks like my cat, Lil Louie Monster...if he was wet.

Question

How do you throw a garbage pail away?

Ouch

We Are Family

Meet the Marmoset family.

Hey, Hey We're The Monkeys!

Monkeys get married too!

Extra Extramarital

First New Jersey's Governor McGreevey, married to a woman and thought-to-be straight, had an affair with a man.

Now New York's Governor Spitzer, thought-to-be shady (by me), admits to getting it on with a prostitute.

Look out Connecticut...these things happen in threes and you complete the tri-state area.

UPDATE: Former Connecticut Governor John G. Rowland was sent to the slammer back in 2005 for corruption! He wasn't having sex with high-price call girls or men with names like Golan, which is why I probably forgot about this dousy.

Whoa, Man!

The moment I realized I was dating a guy who was also dating someone else was a weird one. I was twenty-three and been with Joe LaDouche (my sister's play on his real last name) for about seven months. I had suspected something wasn't right and I found a number in his wallet. (A snooper always finds what she is looking for.) I wrote the number down and called it. When a woman answered, I introduced myself as Michele, Joe LaDouche's girlfriend. She said, "What?" I repeated myself, and she told me to hold on that her sister was on the other line and she had to get off that call.

She came right back and what could have been a verbal cat fight turned out to be one of the greatest moments, where two women came together in a situation that could have turned them against each other.

Her name was Bernice and she didn't know Joe had a girlfriend. She was pissed he had two of us. She told me that Joe, a pizza delivery guy, was going to come over her house after he got off of work. She wanted me there too. So I went.

Bernice was beautiful. She had deep olive skin and super short hair that showed off her perfect cheekbones. I possessed no hatred for her. We were quite different in style and look, but we had Joe in common, as well as the desire to call him out on his betrayal.

Her plan when Joe was to arrive was different than the one I would have orchestrated, but I was on her turf, so I complied. I was to hide in the closet until he came into her apartment. She was going to start asking him about me and it was up to me when I wanted to pop out.

When I heard Joe respond, "She's my crazy ex-girlfriend who won't leave me alone," I opened the door with the question: "Your ex-girlfriend?!"

He was startled, started heading for the door, and shouted, "You bitches are crazy!"

Yes...we were, but Bernice then took out a bat and blocked him from leaving. She demanded to know details—the why, how could he—but it really didn't matter. Bernice wanted nothing to do with him and neither did I—she and I had formed a bond perhaps far greater than anything Joe and I experienced in those seven months. We were women, being women to each other.

She didn't hit him with the bat or anything. He left shortly after. Her first words to me were: "Are you OK?" Then we counseled each other on how we both deserved better.

Today I was encountered with a similar situation—not involving me, but someone I love more than life itself. The other woman was nothing like Bernice...in fact, woman is too good a word.

I thanked her so many times all those years ago, but this experience made me think of her again.

Thank you, Bernice.

Woman On Top?

Maybe Hillary and Barack should just decide who is going to be on top. Joining forces could make them the ultimate force to reckon with.

I wonder who is going to be McCain's running mate? If he gets Ron Paul, he may have a fighting chance.

Kissing Like Bret Michaels

Lemur! So cute!

Doing It For The Cause

I am an activist. There is a cause I am willing to sign online petitions for. A fight so good that I will boastfully declare it's valid enough for a blog in hopes to rally others to speak out and stop the atrocity.

Polaroid...please don't go.
We always look good on you because you wash out our flaws.
You make us want to jump on the bed in our undies amongst a splay of prints, camera in hand, snapping, laughing.
You are like a photobooth in the privacy of our own home.
You provide us with the ability to take naughty photos with instant printed satisfaction.
What will Dash Snow do now?

The petition is here. Your help is needed!

A Southern Man Tells Better Jokes

I have such an affection for a Southern-style of life. I'm talking taking a hollow-wheel pickup to the local store, spreading chicken feed on a farm, three-wheeling in the woods, dirt bike racing, and being able to stare up at the stars from a porch with nothing around for miles. Someday, I hope to drive my RV all over the country following the NASCAR circuit. I want to have a '77 Nova in starlight blue parked in the barn next to my tractor. But I will never give up my heels...ever. I can do all those things in them...and if there's mud, there's always Frye boots.

What's odd though, is that I grew up with concrete. My first house on Forbell Street in East New York, Brooklyn, maybe had one tree on the block. I spent most of my years on 77th Street in Ozone Park where I vividly remember the day the Parks Department came and planted trees in front of each row house stoop. They looked like sticks, held up by other sticks. I don't ever remember seeing leaves. We had a yard, but it was Astroturfed.

When my parents took the family upstate on a trip to the Catskills, my sister and I were in awe of the mountains. We went on a kids outing with the hotel to a bowling alley and I remember being on the bus and the other kids started moaning about how they smelled manure. We figured it out from the odor, but we had never heard that word before.

Later that year, when I was twelve, we moved to the "country" to a small town called Montgomery in Orange County, New York. I hated it. Oddly I didn't feel safe. I was scared of the vastness, but I didn't feel secure in Queens either since our home was broken into while we were there. I also didn't like the way the locals said "orange" and "banana." There was a twang to it, and I didn't understand why since we were further north. Something happened, albeit briefly, that I started to tell my parents that I didn't like the South or Southerners, and I honestly don't know why. It may have had something to do with a girl who had just moved from Tennessee and was new at my school. I didn't like her...but I can't remember why.

I eventually went to college further upstate, but then moved back down to Brooklyn, my birthplace, where I still live and where I dream of driving a '54 Chevy truck. I am engaged to a Southern man who was born in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, and spent most of his life in Savannah, Georgia. I am a member of Earnhardt Nation and I think Cooley is a stand-out on the new Drive-By Truckers record...but I do wish Isbell was still in the band, though "Chicago Promenade" off of his solo album gives me chills.

I'm getting hitched in the French Quarter of New Orleans and I love reading this Kentucky man's blog who I don't even know. My neice's name is Tennessee and she is the most amazing being I have ever met. To see her grow and learn with my own eyes is bigger than Jesus, and it taught me that there are things in this life that really don't matter and there are other things that really really do.


*Art by Wes Freed. He's amazing.

Easy, Heart

We give hearts filled with chocolate, we nibble on sugary heart-shaped candies, we draw hearts on cards, and we cross our hearts…but we really don’t hope to die. And we really don’t treat our heart, or the hearts of others, as good as we should.

People die of broken hearts. They really do. It happens a lot in the elderly. When a significant other dies, the other one, even if not ill, dies soon after.

If someone is going through great pain in matters of the heart, it can literally kill a person.

Two people in my life are going through a tremendously tough time right now. I love them both with all of my heart, and they are both in so much pain that I wish I could put a bandaid on the situation and make it all better. But I can’t. And now tomorrow is Valentine’s Day and the waves of pain will rise perhaps higher. The heart monitor will probably indicate increased levels, the stress will go higher and higher, things will be consumed in hopes to make the feelings all go away, but they won’t…it will all still be there in the morning, only with more stress, more strain, more pain.

Every time we hurt another person, and I mean hurt deeply, it’s like taking a piece of their heart, chipping away at its health, causing profound hurt and harm.

This Valentine’s Day, I hope we all treat the hearts of others with kindness.

Texas Treat

I recieved a press release today for PickleSickles and yes, it's what you would think...a frozen popsicle that tastes like a pickle. Made in Texas, this treat is, according to the PR company, super popular and even has health benefits. There's also a song devoted to this product on their site, PickleSickle.com. Wow.

Note: Don't the singing pickles look like condoms?

Giants!

"It's About Tynes." (My headline.)

"Third Tynes A Charm." (Jens' headline.)

I wonder what The Post will come up with.

Wacko Detox

Breaking up...it's hard when it's your significant other, but may be even harder when it's a friend. I've touched on this subject before (yawn...haven't we all), but I just got a press release for a new book called Wacko Detox 2008: Six Ways to Remove Problematic People from Your Life This Year, and it got me thinking.

From the release:
"Are the Wackos in your life bringing you down? Why not make this the year you get rid of them once and for all? Author Christina Eckert explains how ridding yourself of toxic acquaintances is your smartest goal yet."

When Eckert talks about tell-tale signs of a "Wacko," I will admit I fall into some of her stereotypes (I love a good grudge), but I think all this wacko talk is a way for the person who wants to end the relationship to feel better about themselves. In this me-me-me look-at-me self-absorbed society, it's fitting. But must we resort to calling another person a wacko just because we don't vibe with them as a friend anymore? People change (it's not a bad thing), lose touch, and sometimes don't feel the need or yearning to reconnect or continue with the friendship. It can be a big blowout that ended it or a slow fade, but sometimes friendships are irreparable...like a lot of romantic ones are. There doesn't have to be ill will, the nostalgia of the good times is still there, but it’s over, and it will never be like it once was. And that's OK.

Ouch! Holy! Dung!

John Kerry is supporting Obama. What a diss to his old running (and "great hair") mate John Edwards.

And why is the media calling John McCain's win in New Hampshire shocking? He won there last year. Now Giuliani winning there? That would be a sensational uproar similar to the one the former mayor caused at the Brooklyn Museum in 1999.

Bloody Hell

Sandwiched between two feminine hygiene commercials was a moment on "Celebrity Apprentice" when Gene Simmons mouths off some machismo remark about Ivanka going to tell her “sisters” what the men were up to. It was classic Simmons, but what disgusted me more were those commercials.

First up was Tampax. The commercial features young women in their home in Africa with a narrative about how x amount of girls miss school because they have their periods and have no protection. I’ve missed work because of crippling cramps, but thankfully have always had the proper barriers to both allow me to get my period and let me to function when Flow arrives. The ending slogan? “Use your period for good.”

Um…what?

While still wondering why Tampax just doesn’t donate a ton of tampons to these girls, another commercial similar in nature comes on. This time we see the African girls in school and it’s the brand Always conveying the same message. Their tagline? “Have a happy period.”

I’m all about the cause—no woman should have to go without at least a panty liner, but I don’t like how Tampax and Always incorporate this need into an ad to supposedly do good, yet it manipulates consumers. When I am in the store buying these products, it’s bad enough I have to choose between plastic and cardboard applicators. But now I need to think about using my time of the month for good? Isn’t it already good in its own bloody way? Besides, if people cannot afford or do not have the stores to acquire pads or tampons each month, we should be donating the washable, more practical cotton cloth re-usable pads. Makes more sense for the menses.

By the way, Nadia Comaneci looks fantastic.

No, I Don't Want To Call Now

Every weekend morning, while sitting half comatose drinking coffee and watching NY1 even through the repeat loops, The New York Times commercial comes on telling me to pick up the phone and order my Sunday Times. I'm a sucker for buying things seen on TV (Kinoki Foot Pads and Miracle Putty are on the way), but I am not interested in smug yuppies trying to push this tired and tarnished newspaper on me. As if they didn't learn from Jayson Blair, the pub is at it again.

From Guardian UK:

The Sunday Times inadvertently ran an article at the weekend that plagiarised material from a US magazine, it has emerged.

A piece headlined "50 Reasons Why You're Still Single" appeared in the Sunday Times Style magazine, bylined to the title's deputy editor, Camilla Long.

The feature was a humorous miscellany of men and women's irritating personal habits, such as "use the word babe" and "posed with your cat on your Facebook profile".

However, more than 15 of the Sunday Times' 50 entries were substantially similar to a list, "100 Reasons Why You're Still Single", that appeared in US pop culture Radar magazine last September.

The Style magazine editor, Tiffany Darke, confirmed that the magazine's deputy editor, Camilla Long, penned the piece.

Darke also confirmed that many of the items were the same as those included in Radar's list.

She told MediaGuardian.co.uk that Style magazine had decided to run a piece on the theme and invited contributions from friends, contacts and colleagues.

The Sunday Times' "50 Reasons..." piece had separate men's and women's lists with 25 items each, while Radar had a single list with 100 entries.

Darke said the items that were the same as on Radar's list came from an unnamed contributor and the magazine ran them without checking.

Some of the listed items the Sunday Times ran were adapted for the UK.

Number 58 on the Radar list, "Have taken more than one cell phone picture of your genitals", becomes on the Sunday Times men's list, at number 21, "Have ever taken more than one mobile-phone photograph of your genitals".

Similarly, number 78 in Radar - "Own all 24 volumes of Now That's What I Call Music!" - becomes in the Sunday Times women's list "Own 27 volumes of Now That's What I Call Music!".

The Radar magazine executive editor, Aaron Gell, said: "Although we never like to pile on when one of our fellow hacks gets in a jam, we'll take it as a sign we need to dust off our plans for Radar UK."

Compare and contrast: The Sunday Times' "50 Reasons Why You're Still Single" v Radar's "100 Reasons You're Still Single"
Radar: 5. Are only gay when you're drunk
Sunday Times: 16. Are only gay when you're drunk

Radar: 38. Refuse to remove your Bluetooth earpiece during sex
Sunday Times: 18. Refuse to remove your Bluetooth headset before making love

Radar: 52. Have more than zero stuffed animals on your bed
Sunday Times: 3. Have more than zero stuffed animals on your bed

Radar: 37. Prefer the "fist bump" when meeting strangers and always insist they "lock it in"
Sunday Times: 12. Prefer the "fist bump" when meeting strangers, and always insist they "lock it in"

Radar: 55. Think the energy crisis can be solved with crystals
Sunday Times: 19. Think the energy crisis can be solved with crystals

Radar: 58. Have taken more than one cell phone picture of your genitals
Sunday Times: 21. Have ever taken more than one mobile-phone photograph of your genitals

Radar: 78. Own all 24 volumes of Now That's What I Call Music!
Sunday Times: 22. Own 27 volumes of Now That's What I Call Music!

Radar: 13. Use emoticons in handwritten letters
Sunday Times: 18. Write in coloured ink and/or use smiley faces in handwritten letters

Radar: 70. Sold your forehead to goldenpalace.com
Sunday Times: 10. Have sold your forehead to an internet advertising agency

Radar: 8. Have a ferret on your shoulder
Sunday Times: 23. Have a stuffed parrot on your shoulder

Radar: 97. Phone in long-distance radio dedications
Sunday Times: 22. Have telephoned in a late-night radio dedication

Radar: 30. Own a calendar featuring babies dressed as cowboys
Sunday Times: 1. Have a calendar stuck to your wall with pictures of babies in plant pots

Radar: 47. Have a five o'clock shadow, on your ass
Sunday Times: 16. Have a five o'clock shadow

Radar: 99. Believe the mouth is self-cleaning
Sunday Times: 6. Believe that certain things are self-cleaning

Radar: 6. Have written poetry inside a Starbucks
Sunday Times: 8. Have written poetry in Costa Coffee

Radar: 57. Own a 60-inch flat-screen plasma television but sleep on a broken futon
Sunday Times: 5. Have nothing but a broken sandwich toaster, a camp bed and a 60in plasma screen in your flat

--------End Piece.

The Times should stick to the news...the hard news. Forget the flawed book lists and Sunday specials—they should spend time paying attention to the reporters who are supposed to be putting forth originial and reliable copy.

Reasons I Don’t Like This Warm Weather In January

-You add a little heat and everything smells worse. Winter’s chill keeps things crisp, frozen, nearly scentless.
-It’s too warm to wear gloves and I don’t mind having to hold the subway polls with this shield to protect my skin from touching the poll. No one wants subway hands.
-There were rollerbladers on the sidewalk…on Broadway…in NoHo…at 6:30pm.
-I can see sweatness on others.
-The birds and little woodland creatures get confused.
-I finally got my landlord to turn up the heat after freezing last week and now it’s hotter than David Duchovny in my apartment.
-People are riding bikes, but really they take the subway most of the way….during rush hour.
-Some aforementioned bike “riders” also decorate their “transportation” with stickers that say “Terrorists Ate My Homework,” carry a big drum (on way to protest rally, perhaps?), and sport a lick ’n’ stick tattoo of a happy looking bat on bicep…during rush hour. (Related to warm weather due to bike and bicep exposure.)
-I’ve heard others say, “Ahh…Al Gore was right!”

Besties

While reading a bunch of recaps of the year in music, I realized I haven’t been that excited about a lot this year. The White Stripes’ Icky Thump was…well, kind of icky. It was too stadium-rock, like you can only listen to it if it’s on 11. Feist had some strong points, but overall as an album I can’t put it in a best list. And even though Paul McCartney’s one-off “Dance Tonight” was utterly adorable (guilty pleasure), I had no interest in putting any more money into Heather Mills’ pocket. Paolo Nutini sounded better unplugged and live, and Ryan Adams may make better music in between speedballing.

I have yet to hear Iron & Wine’s new one, but I bet I would love it and I had no idea that Elliot Smith has a new one out or maybe I did and would just rather enjoy the songs he released while he was alive—XO is a gem.

So, with all that, here are my thoughts on the best of this oh-so fantastic year…even if I didn’t think it earned that title musically.

Best Albums Of 2007

Spoon Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga
Jason Isbell Sirens of the Ditch
Beirut The Flying Club Cup
Wilco Sky Blue Sky
Band of Horses Cease To Begin

Mr. Meow Meow

One year gone. I miss you more everyday.