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.

Everyday Hero

Eduardo Arias is a hero.

Bitch Is Too Good A Word

When Teresa whatever-her-last-name-once-was married Dale Earnhardt in 1982, she lined herself up with a legacy. It could have turned out to be what the late-great Earnhardt always wanted—to secure a future for his family. The same family he was unable to provide for as he had wanted…that is, until his success at NASCAR.

Dale Earnhardt died in the final turn of the final lap of the Daytona 500 in 2001. He was defending position for his son, Dale Earnhardt Jr., who was running in second place and his teammate Michael Waltrip, who was leading. They had a one-two finish.

The elder Earnhardt has “defended position” for his son, for his family, on and off the track. It was something he strived for his entire life and putting Dale Earnhardt Inc. (DEI) together was something to help those goals. Teresa took over after his death.

When Dale Jr. expressed concern with the quality of cars he was getting, Teresa didn’t listen. Senior's children, Dale Jr. and Kelley, wanted majority ownership of DEI so they can make the right changes to better the company. It seemed like the natural thing—what Dale Sr. would have wanted. But instead, Teresa fought them, offered 51% ownership for an astronomical fee (even for a millionaire), leaving the real Earnhardts with no choice but to leave the company their father founded. Teresa “defended” her position there. It’s a shame it wasn’t the position we can assume Dale Sr. wanted.

Dale Jr. has signed with the supergroup of Hendrick Motorsports, and his last request from Teresa was to let him keep his number, the 8. The same 8 his grandfather, Ralph Earnhardt, his namesake (Junior’s full name is Ralph Dale Earnhardt Jr.), used to drive. Hendrick even offered money, he has lots of it, but in the end, once again, an agreement could not be reached and the 8 stays with Teresa. Everyone wants to know why, but Teresa is silent most times, only opening her mouth to criticize her late husband's son. She's hardly ever at a race, which is rare for a car owner. There are many other curious things. In the days following Dale Jr.’s tough decision to leave DEI, Teresa's people announced a new venture with Childress to improve their motors, something Junior has asked for but never received. It’s funny how last week Junior’s engine blew up (when he was running in the top 5 most of the day) for the fifth time this season. Adding more insult is the fact that his engine was not a DEI-Childress information sharing motor. So Junior has been given the old crap, unlike his teammate Martin Truex Jr., who while a good racer in the Busch series, didn’t make much of an impression on the Nextel circuit until this motor-merger happened. Truex finished in 6th last week (and is 11th in points overall to Dale Jr.’s 14th). Something really stinks, and it isn’t the fact that a legion of Junior’s fans has 8s inked into their skin forever—blood is not something to be messed with.

*Note: Photo is not of me. I've got a 3.

Nothing "Junior" About This

Dale Earnhardt Jr. is going to be racing for Rick Hendrick in 2008. I knew it the minute he sat in Kyle Busch's car when Kyle left the racetrack a few months ago and Dale was already out of the race. (Kyle is moving on in '08.) This is huge. This is terrific. At the conference today, Rick Hendrick said he has known Junior since he was a "puppy" and that Senior must be looking down and smiling. Apparently there was a "napkin contract" between Rick and Junior when he was a kid where they signed it saying they would race together someday. It's finally coming true.

If Not For You...

My mother inched behind him, and with her frail frame, she overpowered the moment with a shriek. We locked eyes, my father and I, and for the first time I sensed his calmness. I aged a dozen more years in that one moment, boldly walking away toward my bottom bunk. Laying on my side with a bird’s eye view of the door just in case, I pulled my blue, floor length Smurf nightgown over my knees, taking solace in the synthetic.

Revved Up History

Dale Earnhardt Jr., my favorite driver in my favorite sport, is leaving the company his dad founded for him due to him and his step-mom's inability to reach an agreement on the terms of his involvement. It's so much more than that, I am sure, as I am sure it is and will continue to be a difficult time moving forward for him. But I am so excited to see how this transpires, and know this will only help him to win more. Let's start with this Saturday. The future, and Darlington under the lights, never seemed brighter.

Doppelgangbanger

If Not For You...

There are things that go through your mind when you are staring down the barrel of a shotgun. Especially if it’s your dad with his finger on the trigger.

I was calm. I felt the blood seemingly trickle from the top of my head draining downward—a numbness with a hint of cold taking over my cheeks. He was postured, with a Vietnam stance, flashbacks from 1970 in his eyes.

I was the enemy.
I was twelve.

A Mid-Winter's Nightmare

All is fair in love and war.
But is it?
As a society, we chastise those whose opinions differ.
We rally for what we believe will bring change.
And we dare to berate women who are childless.
Well, one woman did. One Barbara Boxer.
A democratic junior senator from California, Boxer said when debating with Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice about Bush’s plan to send more troops to Iraq, "Who pays the price? I'm not going to pay a personal price. My kids are too old, and my grandchild is too young."
Then came the left hook: "You're not going to pay a particular price, as I understand it, with an immediate family. So who pays the price? The American military and their families."
Fox New’s Tony Snow said it best: “Great leap backward for feminism."
Apparently, Boxer thought this would help Rice see the impact of this war on military families, as if Rice has been shielded from reality. Boxer apparently doesn’t realize she stepped into a ring with a pro, a woman who has spent countless hours with our troops and military families. You can’t play mind games with a someone with this kind of intelligence.
After this bout, Boxer was asked if she regretted her comments and she replied that she was saying that the two are in the same position because neither will pay a personal price for the proposed escalation in Iraq.
Personal price? There certainly is a lot more on the line in this war with issues that are not exclusive to those who have children directly fighting this war.
It’s very hip to be anti-war right now, but I’m with Senator John McCain who said, “I’d rather lose a campaign than lose a war.”

True

A memoir is how one remembers things, often with embellishment. Like remember when your dad yelled at you when you were five and he seemed like he turned into the big bad wolf and had fire coming out of his mouth when he screamed “Don’t ever touch what’s in my top drawer again!” while you stood there with his loaded gun in your hand?

That’s how you remembered it.

That gun may have actually been your mother’s dildo.

Main Coon

Animals are enchanting. I saw a baby black bear a few weeks ago outside of a Catskill rental home when I was there vacationing. I’ve seen possums on my parents’ deck in upstate NY. But never have I seen a raccoon in Brooklyn. Until Sunday. On that night, there he was on my third floor fire escape peering into the window. I have a rug out there that I set out there to dry, but never brought back in. He was sniffing it and sat down for a minute. He didn’t stay very long—long enough for us to snap some photos and short enough for me to think that maybe it was my cat, Mr. Meow Meow, who died last week, re-incarnated as this adorable woodland creature. So we put out some cat food in hope of his return.













I got home last night around 11:30pm and checked the bowl on the fire escape. No trace of “The Cooner” (my name for him), no sign he ate any of the Iams. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and just before going to bed, I looked out the window once more. There he was...eating. I had to watch him finish every last bite, his paws were monkey-like as he scraped the bottom of the bowl and brought the bits to his mouth. After he was done, he pawed at the rug like he wanted to lie down and sleep. He looked up at me often; his eyes were sweet, like Meow’s. I felt so lucky to be able to watch him. He stayed for about fifteen minutes, until he walked away, but not before looking back at me once more as if to say goodbye.

November 18, 2006

My heart is broken. When someone leaves your life like from a breakup or an ending of friendship, there is sometimes something romantic about it, like breaking your heart leads to inspiration or creativity. You can think of that person moving on, as you move on, but you know they are living their life and hope they are happy. You know somewhere they are smiling, living, doing. Your heart mends. But losing someone to death is entirely different. You don’t know where they go; you just know they are no longer with you, no longer of this earth. You hope they are in a better place, but you are devastated because never will they smile or cry or do whatever it is they do that you so loved about them again.

Mr. Meow died on November 18, 2006. He lived 15 years, all of them save for about his first six months with me. I rescued him from the Humane Society the day he was to be euthanized. Four years ago, he had surgery to remove a cancerous mass which was attached to his spleen. They didn’t expect him to live a year after that. He gave me four. The cancer returned, this time attacking his liver, and he couldn’t fight anymore.

People who don’t have pets may not understand, but this cat was everything to me. I have never been this sad. I’ve lost a lot in my life, but there was something about this cat that gave me strength, made me calm, helped me smile, he was like a part of my family. He was my family. I feel like my heart is being clenched, and it comes in waves. It’s a soft squeeze, like the way his little paws used to knead on my chest when he was getting ready to go to sleep.

Filthy White House

Al-Qaida says they are happy the Democrats were successful this election. And tickled pink (my words) Rummy is out. Is this good?

Kerry’s The Joke

Once again, Senator John Kerry has put his foot in his mouth. Today he is apologizing for what he is calling a “botched joke.”

Politics and comedy do go together in some instances, but I don’t want my politician to be a comedian. Maybe he just got riled up after watching that Robin Williams film.

Something very important that is so often overlooked in politics is respect. Yes, overlooked by both parties. (Note to John Spencer: Saying Hillary had plastic surgery was a low blow. And has anyone seen his wife?)

Kerry, the Democrat’s questionable sweetheart, spoke at a college Monday and said that young people might get "stuck in Iraq" if they don't study hard and do their homework.

Apparently, Kerry just doesn’t forget his Swift Boat ordeal, but delivery of his speeches as well. The comment purportedly was supposed to convey something more to the effect of "if you're intellectually lazy, you end up getting us stuck in a war in Iraq - just ask President Bush."

Um…who is intellectually lazy?

With rumors saying he’s eyeing Bush’s seat in 2008, Republican Senator John McCain, a Vietnam vet, said he had no idea "how you could construe" Kerry's comment as a joke.

Neither could I.

But I will get my real laughs from all those die-hard Kerry supporters who still walk around with their blinders on wondering why he wasn’t elected.

Cock-a-brooches

I would rather kill them than wear them, but for Halloween, aside from being spinach, I think the scariest costume isn’t really some put together ensemble with fake blood and guts, it’s a cockroach accessory.

My sister “wore” one once when a water bug decided to nestle itself in the towel she used after her shower. She was naked, save for the two-inches of black that crawled up her spine after the towel was flung off.

I have fought them in some of the most frightening battles involving a can of Oven Off to a soundtrack of my screams I never thought humanly possible. I may have won, but there is never a victory celebration. The fear stays with you forever.

And so, why anyone would purposely wear a giant Madagascar cockroach ($80) that hisses is beyond my realm of understanding, but it strikes such fear in my heart and soul, even if the thing is in a leash, pinned to my clothing and decorated with Austrian Swarovski crystals.

Only the brave and truly demeted would wear this. And I pray to Anton LaVey that some freak has one of these on a leash on Devil's Night.

From my blog at Shecky's

Not Sew Quick

I just got chills…I am so nervous. I was reading the news. Could it be? Please dear Lord no.

Jeffrey Sebeila of "Project Runway" is being accused of cheating and hiring helping hands to sew his clothes for the collection shown during Fashion Week.

Now we all know we cannot believe everything we hear and deem it to be true, right? Right. What’s worse is that it is supposedly some of that “your mom told my mom” type of chit-chat supposedly involving the moms of Jeffrey and Laura.

Jeffrey lashed back saying, "…be careful of what you read and also of what is presented in the press. Those people take any information they get (usually unfounded rumors) and just print them in order to bolster their own readership with no regard to the person they might be slandering. They are just doing their job as bottom feeding, sludge dredging, no-life having journalists."

Ouch.

God I love Jeffrey.

American Boys Don't Like To Lose

I went to see the Drive-By Truckers last night. They played for three and a half hours at Webster Hall and, in my opinion, are one of the best bands around. I think Jason Isbell is one of the most amazing singer/songwriters of our time. His songs are just so incredible...they actually hurt me in my heart. There is a song on their website that isn't on any albums save for a Neil Young "protest" record called "Dress Blues." Instead of tired rhetoric on why we shouldn't be in Iraq, Isbell's song is about a Marine who was 22 and died over there. The high school stadium is now filled with mourners, and he hasn't met his baby, and how he joked with his wife about being there two weeks, once saying she would barely miss him. The line "American boys don't like to lose" breaks me.

Relax

The Beauty Of Sardonicism

I don’t trust people who talk too much all the time. They don’t listen, hardly reflect, and barely seek out reality in its entirety.

There is so much weight in the follow through, so much importance in not just believing the bits that you read or hear, so much in seeking out the full truth yourself, just like so much can be heard from silence.

I finally read Forbes.com’s much talked about article “Don’t Marry Career Women” and it seems everyone has missed the point. They read the title, then the opening paragraph, but fail to ingest the rest.

Your opening sentence needs to be outrageous in some fashion—that’s how you draw people in to read further. Start flat, and the page gets turned. But I do think that what happened here was that people weren’t reading Forbes.com, they were reading Gawker.com or whoeverdotcom’s salacious bit on the article, which drew solely on the opening. Those who went on the google the piece in its entirety and then went on to bitch about the article’s horrendous sexism probably didn’t really read it in full. There are facts here, statistics gained from credible sources, and the author, Michael Noer (who I feel is getting a bad rep for doing something really good—getting people to talk about Forbes who normally wouldn’t know a thing about it) is taking this information and encouraging people to think. Yes, THINK.

I am writing a piece on the correlations between sex and power, in women, and in my research, I wanted to delve deep in this whole “Don’t Marry A Career Woman” article. While Noer’s opening statement makes me think he is furthering the fear that men have of a woman in power, my conclusion of the piece is quite different. It makes me think of how in the past, women got married young, had kids, stayed home, and raised them while dad went to work. This was the norm. Now, as women have gained more power in the workplace (and sexually of course, but I’m saving those thoughts for the New York Moves piece), the typical family structure has changed causing disruptions in traditional roles and most importantly, how to adjust to these roles in reflection of today’s societal norms. Simply put, we are not adapting well. Who’s watching the kids? Who should stay home if there’s not enough money to pay a sitter to watch the baby during the 9 to 5? Can couples even afford to have kids anymore when both incomes are needed to pay the bills? All of this contributes to having kids later, trouble in the marriage, and more.

Noer states, “women’s work hours consistently increase divorce, whereas increases in men’s work hours often have no statistical effect.” The man didn’t pull this info out of his ass; it’s from the Survey of Income and Program Participation. And it directly corresponds with the fact that we, as a generation of 20 and 30-somethings, are struggling with what we knew as tradition, the pressures from our elders to uphold those traditions, and creating a new tradition that is acceptable in both our own eyes and in society.

There are so many other gems in this piece for me to go on and on about, but instead, here it is, so you can have your own debate once you are fully educated on the full story. Sadly, even his colleague Elizabeth Corcoran gets it wrong. While her counterpoint is, um, funny, she misses the entire point. And she almost lost me by addressing women as “Girlfriends”. I never met you Elizabeth.

I also cannot help but see some similarities about what “went wrong” with this article and the public’s perception of it to my own debacle last year due to people not seeking out the entire story. Why is it that the entire story is too often overlooked? Well that's as good a question as to why women aren't making as much as men for the same job with the same experience or to why 99.94 percent of the CEOs and 97.3 percent of the wealthiest people in America are men. Yes, we still have a long way to go...girlfriend.

Being upset about this piece is like protesting the show "Desperate Housewives" because of its title and content.

If Michael Noer is a misogynist who spreads his brand of hate speech by saying not to marry a career woman, then I am a vacant, right wing conservative.

Seems Like You're Lucky If It Ever Change From Red To Green

You know when you have that feeling that decision you are making isn’t the right one, but you really have no other choice, so you have to go with that decision? Your back is against the wall (not in a good way), your options are null, you don’t want to do it at all, but your body goes through the motions, you get on that bus, walk a few blocks to the subway, through the tunnel to the transfer, up the stairs, then down again. The solace is in what the flat screen monitor delivers, the fact that your iPod on shuffle is amazing, the bright florescent array of highlighters and Post-Its, and the Pure Indulgence Shea Brulee ultra rich cream for hands and cuticles because the water is so harsh on your hands.

You have work to do. And the only decision that isn’t right is the fact that you are neglecting your own work, your own projects. The projects funded by lofty dreams in an empty piggy bank from Switzerland.

I went to New Orleans last week for six days.

Neglect. Wrong decisions. No options. Harsh water. Lofty dreams. Empty piggy banks.
Everything has changed.

I Remember A Soldier Sleeping Next To Me

“I saw Berlin last night,” I told the people I work with. They were amazed, and didn’t know they were still together even after that VH1 reunion show. I meant to say Beirut. They start with B, are six letters, and are capitals to countries that have had their fair share of strife. Or maybe I am just (too) old, or old enough to be around when the former was topping the charts. I think I had the 45.

Beirut played fairly private show at Spin magazine’s offices. They are what I call “gypsy folk” with their vagabond chic and nomadic-like swagger. Devendra Banhart and Sufjan Stevens, and Neutral Milk Hotel fit into this genre. It was NMH’s ex-drummer that helped the masses see the force of this Beirut.

The “stage” at Spin was adorned with horns, ukuleles, a violin, packs of American Spirit with cell phones resting on top, a pair of black wire-rimmed glasses, pachuco type matching Dickies outfits with bandanna headbands, and a slightly aloof fluffy-haired, regular looking kid leading the madness with a steadfast tenacity.

During the show, one of them tapped the drumstick on his bottle of beer for a song; they harmonized and enchanted, danced around and got spastic, all while Zach Condon stayed calm, his feet moving anxiously, but with caution. He apparently has had some failed attempts at wowing an audience. That was not the case here. At 20 years old, this “one man band” reminds me that feelings are free; it’s the expression that might cost you. But contained in his spot, Condon’s control over the frenzy of sound was liberating and fresh. I just hope the hype doesn’t put this Beirut in ruins.

Pretty Like A Primate

These are Pygmy Marmoset monkeys, the smallest simians in the world.
Often they are twins, but now in albino!

So, Should We Now Link Moore With Al Qaeda?

From Reuters:
"The Code of Silence" was posted on the Internet by the Rashedeen Army, thought to be a relatively small Sunni group which has produced videos in the past of attacks it claims to have carried out.

At almost an hour in length, it is the longest and most professionally made of recent postings by mainly Sunni militant and insurgent groups fighting the U.S.-backed government.


The U.S. military said earlier this week that recent intelligence indicated al Qaeda in Iraq was refining its strategy by producing propaganda and adding a political base to its violent campaign of suicide bombings.

Lifting scenes from Michael Moore's anti-war film "Fahrenheit 9/11", Rashedeen's narrator taunts President Bush in softly spoken English over graphic images of Humvees being blown up by roadside bombs, and purportedly dead U.S. troops.

Sounds Better In The Song

I work in a room with three others. We bring in our iPods, hook them up to my iTrip, and listen to music all day. Since the radio is on my desk, I usually play DJ with my iPod, but the others just put it on shuffle—that’s where you hear everyone’s guilty pleasure music. We’ve be subjected to everything from “I’m A Barbie Girl” to Michael Buble. The other day, I thought, why not, I’ll put mine on shuffle too and so what if My Chemical Romance and Kelly Clarkson happen to infiltrate the mix. That’s when I really realized that most of my music is really sad.

I went to listen to Iron and Wine play last night. Sad music.

Ray LaMontangne. Sad music.

Ryan Adams. Sad music.

Son Volt. Bonnie Prince Billy. Brandon L. Butler.

The saddest song from Drive By Truckers and Wilco are my favorites.

Possibly, my affection toward sad music is because inside we are all bruised. And we have all beaten others as well. Hearts have been tattered and torn, stepped on and crushed, from mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, friends, lovers, personal disappointments, failed triumphs, and unfulfilled hopes. It makes us real. Or really insane. It makes us learn. We should appreciate those times. Often, those who can cope with these sad occurrences have the most character and understanding. They are never boastful or adhere to a soapbox mentality. They are quietly strong. Silently intense. It’s okay to be sad sometimes, in fact, I think it is healthy. It’s the people who walk around overly happy all the time that you have to be worried about. They are dead inside.

Sad music is hope. “1000 Oceans” just played. And I hope that after the song “Trouble” finishes, another sad one plays again.

Real Knitting Circles

I’m reading the August issue of Real Simple where my friend Valerie has a great piece on sewing for all levels called “A Stitch In Time.” In the Life Lessons section, there is a piece by Merrill Markoe, who I have (embarrassingly) never heard of before. This terrific piece on spotting narcissists (and dealing/coping with them) is full of everything I love about the style of my favorite writers. Turns out, Markoe used to be a writer for Late Night with David Letterman and other similar shows. (I’ll forgive her for her workings with Michael Moore, but it was pre-Fahrenheit Moore so….) She’s also a novelist and is a contributing bloggist on Huffington Post.

Here is a snippet of her piece in Real Simple:

What is a narcissist? Any time you find yourself living inside that classic cartoon where two people are dining and one says to the other, “Well enough about me—let’s hear what you have to say about me,” your narcissism alert bells should be ringing.

Narcissists are people who cover up shame and self worthlessness inflicted during their own screwy childhoods by doing whatever it takes to maintain the false sense that they are very special and therefore not bound by ordinary rules. This requires them to surround themselves with people who will continually pump them up by agreeing with them about everything. …“Feeding their grandiosity.” Narcissists, because they never fully outgrow a phase of infantile behavioral development, essentially live in a world that is one-person big. Therefore, when a brilliant, charming, elegant, and grand narcissist honors you by allowing you into his or her very elite cadre, it is kind of like being annexed by an imperialist country. Your borders have now been erased. The subtext of all future interactions will be “What’s mine is mine, and what’s yours is mine. Welcome to a world where there is no you.” When you are with a narcissist, his needs must become your needs. It’s not enough for a narcissist to be the center of his own world; he must also be the center of yours. If you are not mirroring him or praising him, you are proving you are a separate person, and thus a threat.

…How did I get in the middle of this stupid fight when I am not even angry? The answer: I am probably hanging out with a narcissist.

[Solution]…Maintain emotional distance.

-More in the issue.

Tidy. Smart. Thought-provoking. Silent, but loud. Nuance. Love it.

So Does That Make Me A Queen?

My mom sends me these quizzes and such via email. I did one the other day that told me I was like Debbie Reynolds. The description read: You are cute and everyone loves you. You are a best friend that no one takes the chance of losing. You never hurt feelings and seldom have your own feelings hurt. Life is a breeze. You are witty, and calm most of the time. Just keep clear of back stabbers, and you are worry-free. Hilarious. My mom got the same result. We are totally different. She said, “Well maybe there is a part of you that is a Debbie Reynolds.” That’s deep.

I got a new one today and it’s called Feng Shui Horoscope. It told me the following:
You are conservative and aggressive.
You try to enjoy your life to the maximum and your love life is soon to blossom.
Your love life will be great; you will find your soul mate.
Your life will take on a different direction, it will be the best thing for you, and you will be glad for the change.
Jennifer is your best friend.
You will have 8 close friends in your lifetime.
You are a laid back person.
You are loyal to your friends and your lover, and are very reserved.

Hmmm...a bit more like it.

Speaking of my BFF, Jennifer, who doubles as sister, just won a clothing design and marketing contest sponsored by the fashion house she designs for. The line is called Cherry Pop, and she collaborated with Leila and Eriko for the win. Melody and I were their models.

How very Debbie of me.

Made In China

I want to squeeze this until the umbilical cord bursts.

It's a half pound newborn Panda, and the heaviest cub ever born in captivity.

Blacking Out

There is something about this heat that is making some people very generous. I got my free Starbucks iced café con leche today and the owner of the company I work for bought the entire office pizza, and also invited everyone to a BBQ, cocktail-infused party tonight at his apartment. (There are cases of liquor and booze outside my office waiting for transfer.) My boyfriend just told me that his company got them all smoothies.

While this is all terrific, it is God-awful hot outside, the kind of hot that if the only place in the entire NYC-area with a/c was at an Elizabeth Hasselbeck praise-party, I would suck it up and attend. Although that bitch was on Survivor, so maybe she’d rough it like the rest of us with our not-fully-functioning “cooling appliances.”

Bloomberg said we should turn our thermostats to 78 degrees. I know we are all listening. I wonder how cool it is in Mike’s house?

Definitely not as frigid at it is between Hasselbeck’s legs. Ice. And I'm being generous.

By the way, it is snowing in South Africa.

Finally...

...a new band bringing back the true spirit of rebellious rock. I haven't heard their music (yet) and I may not even like it, but with all the pre-fab, formulaic sounds, regurgitated ideology, and mindless trend followers infiltrating this scene of music today, Avenged Sevenfold may be the most punk yet.

Quote fromg singer M. Shadows in AMNY:
In fact, "Blinded In Chains" is about the philosophical war between Republicans and Democrats. The former are excessively closed-minded, says Shadows, 24, and the latter are "a bunch of -- idiots where everyone looks at Michael Moore and does what he says." If from that statement you can't glean the band's politics, consider that Avenged Sevenfold sells American-flag T-shirts proclaiming, "Love It Or Die."

"Most people know we're kind of one of the only bands around right now that will admit that we're Republican," says Shadows, who performs at Saturday's Ozzfest on Randalls Island. "When we went on the [punk-rock] Warped Tour last year - all of those bands, they're not only anti-war, they're anti-everything our country stands for. We were like, ' -- this.' We're going to wear our America shirts."

Crazy Diamond

I find it kind of odd that Syd Barrett’s death was announced on the very same day Pink Floyd’s new DVD was released. “Pulse” came out on 7/11, the very same day the world found out Barrett’s pulse stopped. (It was reported that he died several days prior.)

Also oddly coincidental, or not, I lost my virginity to the song “Comfortably Numb.”

The Kitten's Roar

At least he didn't kiss the kid's belly....

Uptown Locals

Heard on the uptown 6 train, while leaving Bleeker:

Man (white, 50-something, well-dressed) in stern voice: “I wish you wouldn’t drink and drug in my house!”

Woman (white, 50-something, well dressed) in very matter-of-fact kind of tone: “Well I wish you wouldn’t beat and strangle me in the living room.”

Over Troubled Water

As a kid, growing up in Ozone Park, Queens, there were certain structures that were signs of sophistication for me. They were the Triborough Bridge and the Twin Towers.

From the corner of Pitkin Avenue, I could see the towers perfectly, and depending on the sun and the time of day, there were moments they looked so close I could ride my bike toward them. Truth was that they weren’t far as in miles, but they were still a journey away into Manhattan. And if you lived in NYC in the 70s and early 80s, you would know that the subways aren’t as accessible as they are now. In fact, I was forbidden to ride them. Even today, I am amazed when I see twelve-year-old kids without their parents on the subway. (I am also amazed when I hear immigrants complain about their life in this country, but that is another blog.)

I remember the very first time I went to the Twin Towers—it was a P.S.64 class trip (one of the few), and we ate our sandwiches packed and prepared by our moms in one of those seats right next to the window on one of the top floors. I recall pressing my body against the windowpane and looking down, feeling safe, but still sensing risk. I was in awe.

As a family, almost everything we did was in Queens and Brooklyn, except when it came to the holidays. That’s when my parents packed us in the car and over the Triborough Bridge, we ventured into the city. We visited Rockefeller Center to ice skate, Macy’s to see Santa, and we ate hot pretzels from the street carts illuminated by the white lights in the small barren trees, which only heightened the feeling of elation when we saw “the tree” next to the rink. Everyone looked more sophisticated when we went to the city, especially my mom, who was often adorned in her fox fur coat. I’m sure my dad wore his initialed diamond pinky ring.

Today is the 70th birthday of the Triborough Bridge. It’s amazing to think that when my grandparents were kids, it didn’t even exist. Instead, people were grateful when they came through Ellis Island on a boat from wherever. But then again, MTV wasn’t around until I was in my teens, and the Internet, well, let’s just say that while I was given an email account in college, I had no interest in using it. I thought it was a fad, like CDs.

Things certainly change, as my beloved skyline has, and the one remaining thread of my thoughts of sophistication is the Triborough Bridge. Happy Birthday.

I'm Like, "No, You Are So Generic."

I guess Williamsburg is the new Hamptons.
Does that make the B61 the new Jitney?

I'm going to be, like, killed.

He Must Like Blonde Russians

Maybe Russians express themselves differently. In the United States, kissing a five-year-old boy you do not know on the belly (after lifting his shirt) is an action reserved for priests (and they sort of know the little fellas since they usually are alter boys). Putin himself even said he couldn’t control himself when he encountered the “defenseless” (his words) boy. "I tell you honestly, I just wanted to touch him like a kitten and that desire of mine ended in that act." The kid now refuses to wash the spot where Putin’s lips once rested.

Perhaps even more disturbing is the low-cut blazer the newscaster is wearing who reported on the event.

Cummuting

On the bus this morning, there was a blue-collar kind of dad who told his two kids (both under ten), “In the mornings, people are mean and stupid.”

Then on the train, there was a burly guy wearing skull rings, who I could swear was fondling the pole as if it was his penis. He was short stroking it up and down as the train barreled through the tunnel.

Apparently, in the mornings, people are jerks too.

The Heart Wants What The Heart Wants

Facing the rest of his life in prison, Kenneth Lay, one of the bad guys in the Enron debacle, died of a heart attack today. Back in January, during the trail, Lay’s lawyer, Michael Ramsey, was hospitalized due to a heart ailment.

There are some things the body simply cannot take.

When The Dog Bites, When The Bee Stings...

In The Pits

"Here I am in traffic's slow flow
Where the needle touched down
Carbon planes draw a cage round the air force base
Where the needle touched down
My foot on the brake it's ok to fly low
Over poor Spanaway..."




Pocono Raceway





Photos by Jackie Roman
Lyrics by Neko Case

On The Subject Of Funny Women...

In general, I don’t like women singers and don’t even get me started on female bass players. I guess I can say the same about female comedians—but when they are good, they are excellent. Andrea Savage is one of the best. She, along with the entire cast, made “Significant Others” one of the best shows I’ve ever seen on TV, and now, in “Dog Bites Man,” even though I’ve only seen one episode so far, she is proving her talents even more.

Maybe I am just not that forgiving when it comes to women, and not only in the fields of music and laughter.

Red States Win

Statement: "If men got pregnant, abortion would be a sacrament."

Statement: "If women had to pay for dates, rape would be a sacrament."

Debate?

It’s In The Silence We Listen To

I am reading Ann Coulter’s book, Godless: The Church of Liberalism. Gasp in horror, go right ahead. I bought the book on the day it came out (6/6/06, fittingly) and while on the bus on my way home from work, in the midst of reading Coulter’s sentence “The whole panoply of nutty things liberals believe flows from their belief that man is just another animal”, the devil got on in Williamsburg. No, it wasn’t a hipster; instead, it was some hybrid of bad red and black striped tights (not striped in the flattering way), a black mini-skirt and shirt, wearing elaborate demon wings replete with pitchforked tail. She had some horns in her hair, was sweating profusely, and pushing around an old lady cart full of newspapers, which blocked the main door to the bus. As the bus moved down Bedford Avenue, “Damiana” could barely maintain her balance as she struggled alone with the cart and the papers falling out of them. At the next stop, a couple of elderly women tried to get off, but had some trouble maneuvering their way past the cart. One, unknowingly, dropped her glasses. “Someone dropped their glasses! Hello! Someone dropped their glasses!” faux demon spawn yelled. The woman got them back and thanked her.

What a nice devil.

Can the same be said about Coulter? While you may not agree with all she says (I certainly don’t), she makes many valid points and challenges people to think in typically “unsafe” ways. I think she says things that so many people are thinking in their head, but wouldn’t dare to say aloud. It is often the things we hold in our minds that carry the most weight—as a burden or not. Now I have just begun this book, so my full opinion is yet to be realized, but I have always thought Coulter gives her educated opinion on matters (from seeing her interviews and reading her short writings), which is much more than Michael Moore has ever done (in my opinion). Moore, wildly revered, is perhaps as frightening to me as Al Qaeda. When have lies and twisted truths ever shed light on a situation? To me, it only clouds it.

I saw a photo exhibit recently, and in one of the photos, a woman had a tattoo across her chest that read, “Hold on to the hate that has helped you stay focused”. I agree with this statement, but I also see how it is totally wrong. Oxymoronic, all of it.

Prophetic

I was putting milk and sugar in my Grande Coffee this morning at Starbuck's and this man approached me, almost touching the tattoo on my arm with his pointing finger, and asked, "What does that mean on your arm?"

"It's an ohm," I responded.

"An omen?" he questioned.

"Yes."

6/6/06

The Black Night Sighs...

There was a time when the guys wore their hair like girls, and black eyeliner was shared by both sexes. Bathrooms were scented with hair spray and everyone’s jeans were so tight you would think anyone who survived this era wouldn’t be able to procreate. I was in high school. It was the time of heavy metal and it was happening in the city and suburbs of New York in the late 80s through early 90s. I hated high school, but I loved metal. I listened to the girly stuff like Poison, while the boys liked Iron Maiden. I dabbled in Dokken, when I knew Slayer was what real metal fans listened too. Still, it was all a part of being a fan of hard-hitting, heavy music. I’ve seen them all—from Ratt to Pantera to Guns N’ Roses when they opened for Mötley Crüe, or was it Metallica? I’ve watched the hair of Ian Astbury and Sebastian Bach headbang, and I will never forget Dimebag Darrell playing guitar while totally naked onstage. I remember trying to learn every word from Anthrax’s “I’m The Man” and debating on whether or not Dave Mustaine or James Hetfield was a better singer. From the guttural screams of Phil Anselmo to Max Cavalera, metal was the only kind of music I listened to back then. I went to “Metal Nights” at clubs once I was old enough and took the train into Manhattan if someone from my favorite umlaut-loving musical genre was playing.

Yes, VH1’s Metal Month has me feeling all nostalgic and it feels good to finally watch something about music on the channel. I cried while watching Pantera’s Behind The Music.

In honor of my favorites, here is my list of the metal bands I love the most, in no particular order:
Sepultura
Pantera
Metallica
Black Sabbath
Ozzy
Megadeth
Motörhead
AC/DC
Guns N’ Roses
Mötley Crüe
Skid Row

Flip Flops

I believe in the power of words.

Obviously.

And because of this power, there is also the risk of misuse of words or the abuse of words. But I believe a person should stand behind their words. Sure, sometimes things are said that are not really meant and apologies mend what could be a bad situation. People learn, eyes are opened, people move on.

Like Brandon Davis, the oil heir who has had his way around Hollywood, who used the word “firecrotch” to describe the unmentionables of Lindsay Lohan. Davis purportedly called Lohan to apologize.

Flip flopping can also be a term used to a person’s changed stance on a subject or matter. Not that anything is wrong with changed opinions. Oftentimes, as more facts are learned or available, a different conclusion can be derived from that new information. I think it is testament to a person’s intelligence if they are able to allow themselves to indulge in all the facts, even if the facts are opposing their original stance, to conclude with a new opinion.

But then there are the flip floppers that are as annoying as the click-clacking of those flat, toe-intrusive pieces of plastic that adorn the feet of the unfashionable. Case in point: Natalie Maines. After surviving death threats (and declining record sales), the Dixie Chick is going back on what she went back on. In 2003, she said she was ashamed Bush was from her home state of Texas. Backlash ensued. And Maines apologized for her disrespect. After a minute of hoopla (and a bunch of broken CDs), things quieted and we didn’t hear a peep from the Chicks…until now…conveniently in tune with their new record release (and auspiciously during Bush’s lowest ratings). Now, Maines says she is not sorry anymore.

Is Bush bashing in fashion? Whether being called firecrotch or incompetent, it appears the answer is yes.

Directly Effectual

I’m a protester of many things, but I’ve never been a fan of the act of protesting.

There are many causes that I feel strongly about, so strongly in fact that I am compelled to do something to help the cause. But I feel that so many protests hurt the goal that protesters are trying to achieve. I believe it is just as important to have integrity in the ways and means you accomplish things, than just attaining it in itself. This goes for all aspects of life—from work to love, political to personal.

In this past Tuesday’s New York Times "Metro" section, there was a pull quote from an article by Clyde Habeman’s piece “Their Rights, Exercised Civilly” that was utterly perfect and accurately sums up my feelings. “It is still possible to disagree without being disagreeable,” he wrote.

Habeman was talking about the anti-war protest in NYC last Saturday where 70-year-old Roslyn Fassett from Warwick, New York, dressed, with her friends, like trees. Her street theater group, Drama Dragons, is devoted to depictions of political satire and believed that wearing trees as costumes was a good way to encourage something new, some change. She said that not everything is about immediate results.

I agree. Especially with war.

If only the youth of today would realize this. In these times of instant gratification, it is understandable how Fassett’s words of wisdom are unfathomable to some.

I didn’t see a photo of Fassett or of the Drama Dragons, but I saw them in my mind, and in her words, I sensed her spirit. Habeman noted that the protest signs he read were of grievances not vulgarisms. A placard held by churchgoer Rita Pearl read, “The meek are ready”.

Is Pearl saying that she is armed with a loving hand?

I would venture to say yes. The economy is bad, jobs are disappearing, and even though we, as a society “eat the meek” maybe we should “savor the taste” and learn something.

NOFX also says in song:
“It's a scheme, a dream, a bartering, we want everyone to think the same. Because you know what you know is right and you feel what you can't ignore. And you try so hard to point the blame. A shame — what are we doing this for? The cause — we're just doing it for the cause.”

It is sad that “the cause” is often lost. Ask some protesters at out of control protests what the reason they are revolting is and they will say “the cause” without know what it’s really all about. We cannot all think the same. It is possible to disagree without being disagreeable. And vulgarisms will only place more distance between the opposing sides instead of fostering compromise and understanding.

That’s integral.

That’s integrity.

Sloppy Seconds

How Kaavya Viswanathan Took Megan McCafferty's Second Helpings, Made Half A Million, And Will Still Come Out Smelling Sweet And Woodsy

Let It Snow

Why are people questioning the abilities of Tony Snow, the newly tapped White House press secretary? Is it because he is coming from FOX News? What if George tapped Jon Stewart (not that he would say yes, or would he?)? Would Stewart get flack for being a not-smart-enough TV personality with good hair? Wasn’t the good hair shtick part of Kerry/Edwards campaign? Kerry said, “We've got better vision. We've got better ideas. We've got real plans. We've got a better sense of what's happening to America, and we've got better hair.” I guess that wasn’t enough for him.

Politicians. I dislike them all, equally. But newscasters…I do have my favorites. I’ve often watched Tony Snow’s “Weekend Live” and found it to be a bit dry. I prefer Bill O’Reilly, but that is a different type of show entirely. I like O’Reilly’s sass even though I do not agree with him on most occasions, but I do enjoy how riled up he gets. I like Monica Crowley and Anderson Cooper—both great looking and also seem very genuine in person.

But Snow, not just a newscaster with locks to love, is a noted political analyst who broke away from TV news in 1991 when he worked as deputy assistant to then President George H. W. Bush. He was the director of speechwriting and also worked on media affairs for the elder Bush.

Ronald Reagan was an actor before he was a politician and perhaps it was his screen abilities that enabled him to be called the “Great Communicator”. He had a good approval rating by the public when in office, the economy was great, and he always shared his optimism. Sure there were flaws in his leadership, there always are, for everyone. Flaws don’t take sides; they are bipartisan. Unless, of course, that flaw is of the head variety.

None of the aforementioned have/had bad hair. Not even gray hair stopped their likeability. Snow has even criticized the President calling him something of an embarrassment late last year. But he was still chosen as press secretary. Maybe it is all about giving good head. Perhaps Bill Clinton illustrated that best.

Let The Sunshine In

Thank you Dr. Sunshine.

United Space of My

What would happen if President George Bush joined MySpace? Maybe this would be the perfect forum for the dialogue so desperately needed. Would the Iran nuke conflict be settled in opposing blogs? Or would President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad bomb us because he thought Bush’s comment to Cheney that read “Let’s wipe him off the map!” was meant for him? Would Bush befriend Kim Jong-il? Would Hilary post a bulletin containing hidden disses for our Republican President that George won’t get, but all her other friends will laugh at? Was it Cheney’s snarky comments to Andy Card that made him quit?

Would Ann Coulter be friends with George Clooney?

Will Moses and Apple Martin create profiles pretending they are 18 so they can chat up Zahara and Maddox Jolie-Pitt?

Will the border patrol team up with Pro-Choicers to gain strength in numbers?
Look what it did for Tila Tequila? She’s a star.

Giving A Hoot

I just finished reading Life Of Pi by Yann Martel. I have to admit, I had little interest in reading this book—the cover didn’t lure me in and the back copy seemed silly and possibly more for kids, but it came recommended so I read. Upon reaching the end, Pi says the following: “I wept like a child. It was not because I was overcome at having survived my ordeal, thought I was. Nor was it the presence of my brothers and sister, thought that too was very moving. I was weeping because Richard Parker had left me so unceremoniously. What a terrible thing it is to botch a farewell. I am a person who believes in form, in the harmony of order. Where we can, we must give things a meaningful shape. …It’s important in life to conclude things properly. Only then can you let go. Otherwise you are left with words you should have said but never did, and your heart is heavy with remorse. That bungled goodbye hurts me to this day.”

I believe in what I call “proper goodbyes”. It bothers me immensely if I do not have this and I am often left feeling exactly as Pi puts it in the book—out of harmony. I hold onto things for a long time, hold onto words that were said or never said. The proper goodbye or a proper closure would have spared these feelings.

Today while walking home from the train I noticed a fake owl hanging from the roof of a building. The owl was tied up by the next by what looked like black cable wire strung from one arch of the building to the other. Maybe it was to ward off other birds? But something about it made me think of the book I just finished. It just seemed so ominous—a hanging owl.

According to folklore, the Greeks believed that spotting an owl meant victory for their armies, while the Romans thought of it as defeat. The Romans also believed that a dream of an owl was an omen of shipwreck for sailors. (This is fitting considering Pi’s misfortune.) To ward off the owl’s evil projections, the offending owl had to be killed and nailed to the door of the affected house. Owls are called "the daughter of greediness" and in some religions, an owl’s hoot signifies desolation and loneliness.

Things that are left hanging hold the greatest burden on my heart.

Rubbing Is Racing, Just Don't Rub The Wrong Way

I love news shows, but Dateline NBC went a little too far when they “planted Muslims” at Martinsville Speedway in Virginia to see how the crowd would react. I have been to quite a few NASCAR races and if you are not wearing clothes to show who your favorite driver is you are going to stick out. I stuck out and even got a snicker or two from some women who made fun of the fact that I was wearing heels in the pit and garage areas. But despite Dateline’s attempt to stir up what I believe they thought were racist rednecks, the heart of America made me proud. USA Today reported that “NASCAR spokesman Ramsey Poston said the group walked around outside the track without any reaction from fans.”

Poston also quipped, "It's outrageous that a news organization like NBC would seek to create the news instead of reporting the news."

I love NASCAR!

Go Dale Jr.!

ABC Cookies

I've worked for credit, for exposure, for products. I've written 2000 word pieces for 200 dollars. But something seems very wrong with working for cookies baked by a girl with an eating disorder.

Has Anybody Ever Made Such A Fool Out Of You?

I’ll admit it, I love American Idol, but something happened on Tuesday night’s show that filled me with worry. The gray-haired guy, Taylor Hicks, sang “Trouble” by Ray LaMontagne.

Worry is my only friend.

The theme was 21st Century music, so the American Idols sang tunes by Train, Beyonce, Tim McGraw, Christina Aguilera, Creed, you know, popular crap, mostly pre-fab, formulaic, and/or written by someone else. Simon even commented to the kid who sang the Creed song that it was a bad choice because Creed wouldn’t be caught dead on the show. I have to disagree there. If Scott Stapp was desperate enough to release some old footage of him and Kid Rock getting it on with cock-star sluts, I’d venture to bet that he would denounce God to get back some fame…with arms wide open.

Even though he opened for Dave Matthews, I don’t think Ray LaMontagne would go on the show. Besides, to me, LaMontagne just doesn’t fit into that grouping. Maybe it’s because I felt like his music was sort of like my little secret and not for mass consumption. His album means something to me, and I just can’t accept if other people like it because they were jumping on the bandwagon, or because it was on Idol. It’s kind of similar to when I went to an Interpol concert two years ago and got so aggravated with the riffraff around me I just couldn’t stay for the whole show. Something happens when an artist becomes mainstream popular. It makes me not want to like them anymore.

Tomorrow Won't Thank You

People often do things and put the blame on something else.

When I worked at Playgirl magazine, I heard a lot of excuses and most of them came from the models. There was one Man of the Year, however, who topped all antics of past Centerfolds who were crowned with the prestigious honor. (Yes, we capitalized “Centerfold” but we didn’t go as far as to capitalize the word “he” mid-sentence. That’s only for God or Jesus because we so often referred to Him or Them in our copy.) Sure, there was the one who sold his sperm on the Internet and the one who joined Chippendale’s and then decided he couldn’t fulfill his MOTY duties due to his new, illustrious career. But this one, I’ll call him Buff, went above and beyond any fantastical happenings of MOTY past.
After a photo shoot in Los Angeles, Buff asked me if he could change his flight home to New York so he could stay and work another job. I told him that was fine, but he would have to take care of the changes himself. The other job was Buff being a houseboy for a very wealthy, older man who needed some “work” done around his mansion. A week later Buff called me from the airport in a panic saying that he wasn‘t booked on the flight. I had to remind him that it was his responsibility to change his ticket. He responded calmly, saying that he had no money for the change. I told him it wasn’t my problem.
Another time, Buff showed up at my office unannounced and told me he wanted to talk about the upcoming event we wanted him to promote. Since it was so difficult to get in touch with him over the phone, I thought this would be a good opportunity to wrap up the logistics, so I went to the reception area to greet him. He had beads of sweat on his forehead and asked to use the bathroom before we start. I showed him where it was and called “Tori”, the woman in charge of coordinating the event, to see if she had time to talk to Buff as well. We waited, and waited, and waited. Buff was still in the bathroom and over fifteen minutes had passed. We waited some more. After another fifteen minutes passed, I went over to “Chuck’s” office and asked if he could peek in the men’s room to make sure Buff was okay.
Chuck once had to remove a guy from the office after he took a bus from Atlanta saying that Playgirl paid his bus fare to come to the office to try out to become a Centerfold. This guy was nowhere close to “Playgirl material” (yeah, it’s funny) and we never host castings in the office. I tried to explain to this guy that we didn’t have an appointment and that this wasn’t our protocol for casting models. In his heavy Spanish accent, he said something like, “But you paid for my bus to come here.” I told him that we would never had made him travel by bus, we would have flown him in, but regardless, we’ve never seen his photographs and are not casting. He wouldn’t leave. Instead, with his voice cracking and slight tears welling in his eyes, he told me that he didn’t have a ticket home and he had no where to go. But then he seemed to get angry and threw his bag down on the floor. I told him I would be right back, closed the door to the reception area, and got Chuck to take care of it. I guess he dude-talked him and told him that his friends must have played a trick on him. Chuck gave him some money and the kid left.
When Chuck returned from the bathroom, he smirked and told us that Buff was still in there and might be a bit longer. Due to the stench, he figured Buff wasn’t feeling very well.
I had an appointment and had to leave, so I left Tori to handle Buff on her own. The next day she told me that when he finally emerged from the men’s room, his eyes weren’t focusing on anything and he asked her for five dollars so he could get home.
This should have been a sign that Buff was not fit to represent Playgirl, but he was MOTY so he went across the country (by plane) for a three-day event.
On day one, Buff showed up for his scheduled appearance and he didn’t look right, but the first day wasn’t the day that he was supposed to take the main stage for a dance performance, so it was chalked up to jet lag and he was told to get a good night’s sleep for day two.
Apparently, a good night’s sleep for Buff meant to score some drugs and party with a second rate hooker because the next morning at call time Buff was not in his room and not answering his phone. My coworker, “Andrea”, got in touch with him mid-day and he asked to meet her outside the conference center. She said he looked like hell and was worried about losing his pay for the event since he really needed it. She sent him to the hotel to sleep it off and told him to get himself ready for tomorrow.
He never made it because he slept right through the phone calls and the pounding on the door. Andrea even called the hotel front desk to ask them to check the room to make sure he was alive. He was in there, passed out cold.

Where did Buff place the blame? On Ambien.

The Last Word

Spelling errors happen, even to the best of us, however when you are a company posting a job, one would think that a serious spell check (not to mention grammar and structure assessment) would be mandatory. When applying to such a job, should the person point out the error? Or maybe it should be a sign that the company is just not the kind of place one would want to work. I find it humorous.

Deutschbag

Oftentimes, when I am in the back seat of a cab, I have very deep thoughts. There’s something about being alone (except for the driver) and watching the buildings go by that makes me introspective. Last night on my way home from my “job”, I was having such a moment, thinking about the past year of my life. I was feeling a bit down and deep in thought when I was almost involved in a near fatal cab incident involving a tractor trailer on the BQE. After putting on my seat belt, I just went back to my negative thoughts. But then today, I read this German article and it all makes sense.

According to the piece, those who have jobs that require them to be friendly to customers are more likely to suffer from depression. "Every time a person is forced to repress his true feelings, there are negative consequences for his health," said Professor Dieter Zapf, a researcher into human emotions.

Being of German descent (Dutch mostly really), I wholeheartedly believe this, of course. German engineering is quite superb, so why wouldn’t their human emotion researchers be? They did (and do) have to deal with the guilt of Hitler. Plus being a predominately Roman Catholic (and Protestant) country just exacerbates the feeling. Yes, I was raised Catholic too.

So it makes sense for them to deduce that if you have to pretend to be happy, you will only end up crying in your Weizenbier. If you bottle up your true feelings, you’ll suffer in other ways.

So next time someone in the service industry isn’t the nicest to you, please realize that they are just tired of being fake, and they should be rewarded for being real. It’s better for their health, after all.

But my biggest question is was The Happy Hooker really happy? Xaviera is Dutch.

Strong Like Liquor

Secret, the deodorant, used to have a marketing line “Strong enough for a man, but made for a woman.” I don’t know when they did it, but they changed the campaign slogan to say “Strong enough for a woman.” So it’s like a man?

It's All About The Angles

No one under 14 allowed.

Banning The Press

I was just one double A battery short. Almosts don't count. I'm adding it to the Vice list.

They Can't Smell It

The Village Voice shouldn’t be upset over a fabricated cover story, they should be embarrassed over the fact that Nick Sylvester’s mediocre and unentertaining piece was the best they could do for a cover.
I was shocked to read that an article about dating made the front page of a newspaper that heralds itself as non-conformist with it’s better than thou attitude. (Almost as shocked as seeing an omitted letter in an Oscar nominee’s name on today’s Gawker: “Inspired, no doubt, by the butt-clenching success of Jake Gyllenhaal and Heat Ledger, Brad Pitt considers going Gay for an upcoming role….”)
But then again, in the current sad state of me-me-me people, I’m sure when Nick speaks, his justification for fabricating will just make him even cooler and if he gets fired from the Voice, he’ll be offered a job at Vice and his words will further entertain the hipster, self-serving, overly obsessed with self types. But I don’t think the Voice is going to let him go—they have such a great eye for literary masterpieces.

In Your Face

"Be kind to me or treat me mean. I'll make the most of it, I'm an extraordinary machine."

I've been told my emotions are easily read. I wear them on my face and often can't hide if I am utterly disgusted by something. I recently had a conversation with a friend who has the very same "problem". She was even fired as a result.

I can relate.

But is it a problem?

I think the worst testament to someone’s personality is gossip. I don’t mind if people want to talk about me, but have some couth and say it to my face. Don’t smile at me and pretend to be a friend or someone who cares. What exactly does a person accomplish by talking bad about a person (be it distorted truth or flat-out lies) to other people?

I’m hot or cold. Lukewarm is for the feeble minded.

I’ve also noticed an epidemic of same-mindedness. Like a transmittable disease, someone says something, another repeats it to another, this time it accumulates a slightly new spin, and so on, and so on, and it goes on infecting minds and poisoning thoughts. People on the same bandwagon saying, "Yeah, that’s exactly it!" or "That must be true!" in unison over something they know next to nothing about. People taking a stab on a subject they presume is fact, when it is really an unjust juxtaposition lacking any regard to the truth.

My sister always tells me to trust first impressions. I believe what you think of a person when you first meet them will always ring true, even if at some time you change your mind. You will always find your way back to the original impression. I trust that opinion. And you can trust the look on my face—it always tells the truth.

Austerity

We do not live one life, but many lives. And they are one after another. This is why life is so tragic.

In Paul Auster's novel "The Book Of Illusions" he writes before the book starts:

Man has not one life but many lives placed end to end. That is the cause of his misery.
-Chateaubriand

Beautiful.

If You Pull The Plug Do You Have Battery Back-Up?

The publishers of New York Press pulled the plug on printing the Danish cartoons that have caused chaos above and beyond any debate over free speech.

The Editor-in-Chief Harry Siegel wrote, on behalf of the editorial staff:
"New York Press, like so many other publications, has suborned its own professed principles. For all the talk of freedom of speech, only the New York Sun locally and two other papers nationally have mustered the
minimal courage needed to print simple and not especially offensive editorial cartoons that have been used as a pretext for great and greatly menacing violence directed against journalists, cartoonists, humanitarian aid workers, diplomats and others who represent the basic values and obligations of Western civilization. Having been ordered at the 11th hour to pull the now-infamous Danish cartoons from an issue dedicated to them, the editorial group—consisting of myself, managing editor Tim Marchman, arts editor Jonathan Leaf and one-man city hall bureau Azi Paybarah, chose instead to resign our positions.

We have no desire to be free speech martyrs, but it would have been nakedly hypocritical to avoid the same cartoons we'd criticized others for not running, cartoons that however absurdly have inspired arson, kidnapping and murder and forced cartoonists in at least two continents to go into hiding. Editors have already been forced to leave papers in Jordan and France for having run these cartoons. We have no illusions about the power of the Press (NY Press, we mean), but even on the far margins of the world-historical stage, we are not willing to side with the enemies of the values we hold dear, a free press not least among them.

He mentions how it would be "nakedly hypocritical" to not run the cartoon he critized others for not running. This shows great character and will. I love a man who sticks to his beliefs and follows through. I think the follow through is one of the greatest qualities to posess—if you say you are going to do something, do it. If you chastise another for doing something, don't do it yourself, and vice versa. A person is their words, without them, they are nothing.

While I completely agree with free speech, and admire his decision, doesn't he know how hard it is to get a job in this town?

Or maybe finding a job is hard only for those once labeled a GOP sex tigress?

I wish I had some double AAs.

"I’m The Great Pretender"

Isn’t there an unspoken something called a writer’s license where when you put a pen to paper (or a finger to a keyboard), even if it is a memoir, where is a certain allowance of stretching the facts? Since a memoir is a personal account of a personal story, what happens if the person writing it feels that certain occurrences will help further a point? Isn’t it a writer’s job essentially to entertain? If a story is juicier with some added features if only to satisfy the readers, should a writer be expelled from bookstores? Yes, James Frey wrote a memoir, A Million Little Pieces, and it sold lots of copies. He wrote about his dalliances with drugs and time spent in the slammer, and apparently there were some little white lies embedded within his truths.
Now I have never been one for little white lies. In fact, I think they can doom relationships and impeach presidents, but for the sake of writing…can little white lies be forgivable when the writer is not penning a personal letter but rather an experience for the masses (most of whom are strangers) to read?
James Frey is a man—he’s not President Bush (someone who we do demand the whole truth and nothing but the truth from). Frey is a writer, and that is what he did, he wrote a story about his life according to him. Even if he never spent a second behind bars, maybe he felt as if his addictions and self-loathing were like being imprisoned and to include a description as such would fail the point that he was trying to put forth.
I’ve never read Frey’s book. I tend to steer clear of anything on the Oprah book list (although I know she’s got great taste and if my own novel ever gets published and makes it to her favorites, I would be grinning from ear to ear). But still, great books have been pimped out on her show and she has done more for books and writers than…well…she’s done almost as much for books as the trees themselves. I’m not counting the books on tapes (or CDs) which I think should only be purchased by the blind.
But Oprah’s pathetic display of anger and even some welling of tears on her show while Frey sat there like a pig at a roast while the audience booed was unacceptable since only a couple of weeks before she phone in to the Larry King Show when Frey was a guest in support and to say that there was "much ado about nothing."
Frey may have told some tall tales about jail and not having Novocain at the dentist, but he cannot be deemed solely a liar. He is a writer. A writer who I read tried to first sell A Million Little Pieces as fiction, but who publishers were convinced was essentially a memoir. Frey maintains that the essence of his book is true.
Did you read his book and like it? Did you get a feel for his pain and suffering? Did it teach you something? Did you sympathize? Oprah sure thought so when she put it on her prized list. Millions thought so when they read it. Just because Frey fudged some words to make his story more enticing, does that mean the words imprinted on the page are no longer of any value?
Michael Moore did it with his films. And doesn’t Hollywood effin love him?
I wear makeup. Does that mean I lie to people everyday when I look them in the eye through my black mascara and eyelined lids because I used an enhancer to make my appearance more appealing?
Don’t we all expand a tale a bit to add some succulence to a story?
Don’t we often salt and pepper even our sweet mashed potatoes so they taste better?
What is truth when it comes to telling a story about a "common" man’s life?
I’ve heard that St. Martin's Press added a disclaimer to memoirist (and one of my favorite writers) Augusten Burroughs’ upcoming book. Would I care if I found out that Burroughs really didn’t have a much older boyfriend who said "he wished he could package my cum like ice cream so he could eat it all day"? No. I understand the point he was trying to convey by saying it.
I’ve said this before, and now again, all writing is full of half-truths and partial lies, even memoirs, if only for the lies we tell ourselves and believe every day. Memory is full of it too. How we all process memory is a unique transaction. The same thing can happen to two people and both parties could yield a difference experience. Like when my sister and I found film canisters in my parents’ room in a shoebox under the bed. She was maybe eight years old, which made me around eleven. We opened the gray-topped black plastic thing and found some sort of seeds in it. I had no idea what it was, but there were other things in the box that were far more interesting to us at the time—namely a cassette tape by The Platters featuring the song "The Great Pretender." My sister and I know every word to every song from that cassette.
Years and years later, she and I had a conversation about our find under the bed. After singing the lyrics "Oh yes, I’m the great pretender. Oooh, oooh, pretending that I’m doing well…" we touched on the film canister. "You know what that was?" she asked. "Yeah," I responded with some uncertainty. I’ve never smoked pot in my life so I really couldn’t be sure despite the fact that I’ve been in the presence of many people who have, parents included. We never fact-checked with them if it was pot or not. But it was.
In that very same conversation, my sister and I talked about the role we believed my dad played in a certain heist that earned headlines in the 80s, but then again, all this sleuthing was from two eavesdropping adolescents.
Do you believe me?
I do.
Did I entertain you?
Frey’s future career is said to be over.
There’s a million little pieces out there that I am going to pick up.

Faint Melancholy Exudes

At eleven years old, I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up. I had dabbled with the thought of being a nurse (thanks to my elite care of Cabbage Patch Kids and creating faux-hospital Babyland General), an ice skater (my Dorothy Hamil haircut was sheer perfection), and a newscaster (reporting live from the scene of course). The latter career choice came from my delight that Michelle Marsh shared my first name (not the spelling) and was fantastic reciting the Channel 2 New York City News.
But my number one choice in a profession was to be a hooker thanks to the incredible portrayal of struggle in the film Angel. Dangerous situations always seemed the most glamorous. Plus, I could go to school during the day (preferably a Catholic school, thus incorporating my pleated and plaid mini-skirt into my night job walking the streets). Of course, I never thought about the actual act of sucking d*cks, handjobs, and sex with sweaty old men with huge wallets when I was eleven. I had never even seen a penis yet…at least not one that I recalled. That came when I was thirteen.
The first time I saw a penis when I wasn’t going to have sex with it but had some semblance of sexual thought was when I first moved upstate New York. I have my parents to thank for sheltering me throughout those formative years living in Brooklyn and Queens. I don’t know how they did it, but maybe it was more of a don’t follow by example because they certainly weren’t censoring their activities. But for me, seeing them do things made me not want to do those things. So I managed to never see a penis nor did I have any sexual thoughts about it.
Sure, I’d seen them before like when I was babysitting and changing diapers and the little nub fascinated me. Sorry, Little Richie, it was you.
What’s really frightening is that Little Richie grew up to be quite a handsome man and when I saw him years and years later as an adult, I was mortified to find out that he in fact was older than some of the guys I had dated.
Nonetheless, I was fascinated, but I did not, repeat, did not have penis envy. Why would I want that thing hanging off my body like a wayward thumb? At least that’s what they looked like when you guys are still in diapers.
My first sort of sexual penis sighting was in Playgirl magazine. Hooking like Angel seemed like a day at the County Fair in comparison to the images I saw in that rag. Besides, I think hookers really have something to offer society. We’ve got priests molesting young boys (and sometimes girls), so why don't we get the hookers to dress up in little kiddie outfits and head on over to the rectories so God's chosen ones can get their rocks off and not corrupt the impressionable minds of the youth of today? Father John and his friends surely get enough hand outs during mass from neighborhood citizens, right? Hookers will get paid for doing what they do best and the Holy Fathers will keep their communion giving hands off the pre-pubescent. Just a church box suggestion. Think about it: The movie was called Angel.

I didn’t think much about that at the time, although I did have Father Bob in CCD class who was young and the girls all giggled at. We would line up in front of his confession booth instead of Father Joseph’s. Father Joseph was old and mean and ugly. Father Bob was young and sweet and cute. Kids always gravitate towards things that are cute. That’s why they love puppies and cartoons.

I hate to admit it, but the thought of turning men on in exchange for cash was really exciting to me. In fact, it is one of my top fantasies even today. I mean, there is nothing quite like having a great dinner, some cocktails, having my boyfriend pay for it all, then going home and having sex with him. I’m not saying that’s an exchange just like hooking, but in a way it is.

So penises. I was babysitting (not for Little Richie), but for Joey. But his sister’s were there, which is what I don’t understand really since his oldest sister was just four years younger than me. But I guess a thirteen-year-old needs to baby-sit a nine year old? I don’t know the rules. Maybe she came home early from softball practice or something, but the fact is that me, my ten year old sister, Kim (the nine year old), her younger sister Sarah (seven), and Joey (four) were at Kim’s house without any parental supervision. It needs to be noted that this house not only had the Playgirl magazines, but Playboy as well, possibly Penthouse, and also a hot tub and a master bedroom with lots of mirrors. It was basically a den of sex disguised as a family home. I once even heard a rumor about Kim’s parents that they were swingers. Which totally grosses me out to think of anyone who is friends with my parents as swingers for fear that they once swung with the people who made me. Gross. Almost as gross as thinking about the time I saw my own father’s penis, accidentally of course. I walked in on him while he was peeing and he yelled at me for a good ten minutes afterward. He was, um, pissed that his little girl walked in at the most inopportune moment. I think that was the first time I discovered that there were "growers" versus "show-ers" but I didn’t really know what that meant until much later. I retain a lot of odd memories. Try to get me to recall what I was wearing or what I revealed to you on Friday night and I’ll draw a blank, but the fact that I can remember seeing my dad’s penis twenty years ago, quite vividly I might add, and I can recall details and the color of the towels that were hanging on the towel rack confuses me.
At the house, Kim decides that we are going to play house and that I am the mother, she is the father and our siblings are our kids. We do what I assume is what her parents do every night before they retire to their perversions—put the kids to bed. She leads me to her parents room and slides open the mirrored closet doors and behind the shoes and bottoms of fancy dresses are a stack of porno magazines. She flips open a page of Playboy and there is an image of a woman barely wearing some lingerie. This sparks an idea in her nine-year-old head and she goes over to the bedside dresser and pulls out a frilly nightgown that looked like a hooker’s wedding dress and tells me to put it on. Since I am playing the "mommy" I do as "daddy" says.
We lay in the bed and flip through more pages of the magazines seeing oiled buff bodies with erections and photos of couples having sex.
"This is what my mommy and daddy do," she tells me while pointing at an image of the man going at it doggie style while pulling on the woman’s long blonde hair.
I think I was turned on or nervous or both.
Then she did what I had never done before with anyone, she kissed me.
My first kiss was with a girl, four years younger, lying in her parent’s bed, while I was wearing nothing but her mother’s negligee.
She was on top of me, being forceful sort of, like she probably saw her father do to her mother, on this very bed, wearing this very same nightie. And she humped me. And much like my first real time with a boy, I just laid there.
My sister walked in and she stopped. I don’t remember much after that, but I do believe I received money from her mom in exchange for my babysitting. Sex for money? Perhaps.

I'm Still A Suspect

Sometimes I wish for things and they really happen.

Sure, it happens to all of us. But sometimes it’s a bit uncanny.
That’s when I subscribe to karma.

There have been small instances, but some have been glaring. It has been some of the things that have hurt me most in my life where the outcome seemed just so suitable for the crime.

In high school, I dated a guy who constantly made fun of my hair and my teeth. Sure, it was the 80s and I was from Queens, so the hair was high with Aqua Net. He wanted his mother, a hairdresser who had her salon (and I use that term loosely) in the basement of their house, to "fix" my ’do. No thanks.

This very same guy used to point out the gap between my front two teeth and tell me that I should really get that fixed.

I dated him for way longer than I should have, but when I finally told him it was over, he cried to my mother and told her I was the one he wanted to love forever. He was 19.

Once it was over, I felt like I could breathe again. He was really controlling and used to forbid me from wearing skirts and going anywhere without him.

There were times that I wished ill will upon him, but it never happened…until many, many years later when he was in a terrible car accident and lost all of his teeth. He is now also, due to age and genetics I assume, pretty much completely bald.

Was this some type of divine intervention? Was it atonement from God to me? Or was it just an odd coincidence?

When my grandmother was just a kid, she was told she had to move from Brooklyn to Marlboro, New York, which is about 2 hours upstate, for the summer. She didn’t want to go, but her parents made her go to the farmhouse so she could pick apples and do whatever it is you do on a farm in the summer in the 30s.

I think it was about a week in when the entire farmhouse burned down. No one was hurt. And my grandma got to go back to Brooklyn.

There was a time that I did not get along with my father. At all. And I did wish horrible things upon him. About two years ago, he and I had a terrible fight, one of the worst ones, and we didn’t speak for weeks. I called him on Father’s Day because, well, it was Father’s Day and I thought it was a good time to break our silence. We made up the best we could over the phone and looked forward to seeing each other again.

A short time after that he crashed his motorcycle and could have died. He spent over a month in a hospital and I was there taking back every bad thing I ever wished upon the man who gave me life. I learned a lot from that.

I was, and I still maintain this stance, unjustly fired earlier this year. There were many whispers behind my back and at the final moment, they all hid like cowards behind an excuse that had no merit. There was controversy, sure. There was scandal, yes. After all, I did work in a den of sin filled with corrupt businessmen and backstabbing co-workers. Yes, there were some really great people there too, and I don’t want to lump them together with the scum that sucked the life out of any spirit of goodness that was there. Some people who were instrumental (or at the very least not vocal in my defense, which is an offense in my book) in my firing have recently found themselves on the wrong side of karma. One man broke his back and two others were fired.

I’m sure they will be fine, just as I am fine. Better off, even. Well, maybe not the guy with the broken back. But this is a man who once said to me that he didn’t like women like me because we have too much to say.

I have always been a big fan of justice.

When talking about this with someone, they said that "karma is a belief, I wonder if justice is the moral equivalent."

Take heed in what you wish for. Let karma put forth justice.

I've Tasted The Body Of Christ

I’m slightly perplexed.

I just found out that many Christmas songs were written by Jews.

Adolphe Adam wrote the music for "O Holy Night."
Mel Torme wrote "Christmas Song".
Irving Berlin wrote "White Christmas".
And "We Need a Little Christmas", "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer", "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree", "A Holly Jolly Christmas", "The Christmas Waltz", "Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow", "Silver Bells", and "I'm Getting' Nuttin' for Christmas" were all also written by people who have been Bat/Bar Mitzvahed.

Just last week, I was complaining about the Christmas music playing at my job because I thought it was disrespectful to play "religious" songs for people who may not be of the Christian faith.

Actually, I was really complaining because I cannot stand those songs even though I am of the Christmas celebrating variety. I don't care if the songs are wrapped up modern day versions of themselves with people like Nora Jones or Gwen Stefani singing—they still are horrible and do not put me in the Christmas mood.

I've never purchased one of those Very Special Christmas collections.

The only Christmas song that I do like is John Lennon's Happy Christmas.

But he's been long dead so I can't count on another one from him.

Plus, that song isn’t exactly your cookie-cutter variety of Christmas song.

I wondered if Mark David Chapman, the guy who killed Lennon, was Jewish. Turns out, he's not. He was actually briefly enrolled at Covenant College, a Christian university in Georgia and was supposedly a devout Christian despite the fact that he had attempted suicide by asphyxiation from the exhaust of a car. Chapman had an obsession with J.D. Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye.

The movie, The Good Girl features Jake Gyllenhaal as a kid who goes by the name Holden due to his obsession of Salinger’s character in that very same book. Supposedly Gyllenhall is also a big fan of Salinger’s work and even has named his production company Nine Stories after the author’s collection.

Jake is not starring in the movie they are making about Chapman. Jared Leto got the part and Lindsay Lohan is playing the Lennon fan who befriends him. Hmm…so that’s how those two met.

I’m glad Leto is back to acting. His band was really bad. But so are most bands that are "commercial". There is no more passion for rock music anymore. Not that I loved K-Rock, but it was one of the only NYC stations that played some of the songs I like and it’s going off the air on Monday with the format changing to talk/classic rock.

Even the music award shows all feature rap and country artists and the categories are blended into one. Will Smith, Mariah Carey, and 50 Cent were nominated in the Pop/Rock category at the American Music Awards. Will Smith won Favorite Pop/Rock Male Artist.

And almost every winner thanks Jesus.
Who is thanking Moses?

I am not going to say "I digress" because you obviously know I am.

There’s this band called The LeeVees who features ex-members of Guster and some other band I never heard of, and they sing Hanukah songs. The song I heard was pretty good. You know, these guys are Jewish, so they are passionate about their faith and wrote a song about it. And the song was good.

Sure, Lennon was certainly not a Christian crusader. But the man was certainly passionate and the lyrics of his song display that. One can certainly argue that Lennon did possess an ecclesiastic quality.

Maybe that’s why I dislike most Christmas songs—because they were written by Jewish people who don’t even like Jesus. There’s no passion for the Christ.

And no, I don’t like Christian rock, nor do I want to hear a Christmas song by Destiny’s Child.

But maybe I have nothing to worry about because apparently the word Christmas is too much for some people and they want to replace it with "Holiday". Like saying Holiday Tree instead of Christmas tree. You know, it was the Clinton administration who put forth that saying in the 90s, dubbing the White House tree a Holiday Tree.

Maybe I should follow another 1993-era Clinton idea: Don’t ask; don’t tell. Even though the former president denounced that ten years after he signed it into law.

I’ve never been one to keep my mouth shut when I am passionate about something.

Happy Jewmas.
Jesus was a Jew.

Maybe that could be the new chorus of a Holiday song sung by Beck.

Sex And The Cerebral

Where The Porn Stars Are
*written in June with an update

I was in Los Angeles for Erotica LA and Playboy radio. So, of course, I was surrounded by porn stars, agents, managers, directors, bodyguards, silicone, and a lot of guys who are walking around with huge boners waiting to see the girl they wack off to every night. It was an interesting day one at the convention.

Jenna was there with her signature blonde locks dyed a light brownish red. She looked terrific and graciously signed autograph after autograph as the photographers clicked away. Her bodyguard, who I was told is an Ultimate Fighting Champion or something, gave the evil eye to everyone who came within her reach.

I was a guest on Playboy radio's live broadcast from the event with Christy Canyon and Kylie Ireland as hosts. Both ladies were really sweet and really down to earth. I thought they had more substance than some of the girls I saw walking around wearing next to nothing and flashing their crotches at fans. Both of them were adorable. On Monday I am going to Playboy radio studios to do Night Calls so it should be interesting to see what kind of calls will come in while I am there. It's on XM in case you want to listen.

I got to see Jean Van Jean, a male porn star, and I have to say that he looked really hot. I've seen his movies and never thought he was sexy, in fact, I thought he was kind of gross, but in person he looks like a runway model capable of starring in a Gucci ad. Just don't ask him to speak. Even with his French accent, I wouldn't want to listen to what he has to say. It's not much. I personally like my men with a lot of substance and a really big brain.

There were some other neat things at the event like the glass dildos, a huge stripper pole with girls showing off their acrobatics, and The Touch Pool, which was an actual pool filled with latex body parts that can be fondled. Oh and I cannot forget the Buckfest booth that had a mechanical bull. Porn star girls saddled up wearing barely anything at all. I don't know how they didn't get all chafed up.

Later that night I went to "the best porn party ever" at Avalon. I thought it sucked. I wanted to dance or I wanted to sit, I needed a better drink, or maybe I just needed to be more drunk. But there were way too many guys there, all of whom wanted to get laid by a porn star I'm sure. They all looked at the women like we were meat. I did get to walk on the red carpet though to get in since I was VIP. I'm not bragging. It was so silly and odd and a little embarrassing since I didn't want anyone to take a photo of me and think that I might get double penetrated for a living. Yes, I've been f*cked but it was by a porn company, not for one.

The next day, I was a guest co-host on Playboy radio's Night Calls on XM. The witty and gorgeous (even with little makeup and sweatpants) Christy Canyon and I took calls from listeners who, well, wanted to talk about sex. "I want to have a threesome, but my girl isn't into it." "How do I get my lady to give me a blowjob?" "How do I get a date?" But the best one was from a man who wanted to know more about the procedure women are getting to increase their chances of G-spot orgasms.

The G-spot is the fleshy part of the inside of a woman's vagina that you can reach from making a "come hither" motion with your fingers when inserted with your fingers toward the front. Some people contest that the G-spot even exists, but many, many women disagree and have had orgasms (even squirted) from this stimulation alone. Then again, there are some women who can come just from playing with their nipples, so it's safe to say that it really depends on the girl.

The idea to help women with their sexual satisfaction in the G-spot area is to plump up its fleshiness and make it easier to find and thus more easily stimulated by a penis. I've read that some doctors use hyaluronic acid, a fluid that lubricates our joints, which is also used in cosmetic procedures to erase wrinkles, to plump it up. Other docs use collagen injections. One doctor performs the service, called the G-Shot ™, and for $1850 you can get collagen injected into your urethral sponge. Supposedly, it makes the area "swell" for up to four months.

What if a woman gets this injection and feels nothing? Will she feel less than a woman because she cannot orgasm even after a so-called revolutionary procedure. It's bad enough women's orgasms have been called inconsequential since they are not "necessary" for reproduction. Or maybe it has nothing to do with a bigger G-spot, maybe it's all mental, and after a woman gets this injection, her mind eases and she thinks that now she can come more easily, taking the pressure off, making her more relaxed, and thus making her more likely to come.

Is that worth the money? Some will argue yes. The ways in which a woman can orgasm is so much more complex than a man's. And if this helps some women, then why should they be denied the chance for pleasure? But I do believe that this procedure should be the last resort. Augmentation of your gentials is not reversible. I think we all need to look a little more on the surface. Like if a woman likes candlelight instead of the bright lights, or she prefers to keep her bra on during sex, or whatever her hang-up might be (we all have them)—listen to her. Chances are the sex will be better (and hopefully more satisfying) if we are all a little more "comfortable" doing it.

Day 2 of the Erotica LA convention was a bit more interesting and had a lot more people. It is a consumer based event, so everything you see (possibly even some of the people) you could purchase. While walking around I saw this cute line of lingerie that was very 50s and 60s inspired and everything on the rack was $25. So I am looking for the set I liked best when the guy who worked the booth asked me if I danced. Of course I dance was my first thought. I dance all the time to cheesy music with my BFFs. I was thinking that this guy was a DJ and maybe he was spinning at a party that night, but then it dawned on me...he thought I was a dancer as in an exotic dancer. After all, it was Erotica LA I was at and I was wearing slut heels, a thong and little else. Totally kidding about the wardrobe part. I was wearing jeans and probably looked more like a soccer mom compared to most of the other girls there. But still, I was flattered (I think). Then the next thing I know one of the other guys who was working the same booth starts smelling my neck, then my shoulders. "Mmmmm, you smell so goooood!" he says. Then he starts grinding against my ass as I am trying to look for something in my size. "Don't be scared," he tells me. "I just want to dance with you, have fun."

I wasn't scared of him, exactly, but I was scared that maybe having him too close to me would then allow his awful smelling cologne to rub off on me and then I'd have to be reminded of his stench the rest of the night. Or maybe I was afraid that he had crabs and one would get on me. I was always afraid of cooties as a kid.

I left the booth without buying anything.

While at one of the other booths, I watched as three really cute porn starlets signed autographs and posed for photos. Each of the girls had her own small four by four platform with a chair and table. The one in the middle was doing this "sexy" squat pose for a fan when her left f*ck-me pump slipped off the edge causing her to tumble back off the platform and onto the floor, legs spread eagle in the air. A porn starlet going down! I didn't laugh out loud and I still have no idea why. Humans tripping and falling is some of my favorite fodder. But without hesitation, this chick got back up on her platform and continued to pose. The crowd grew after her fall and in seconds there were men clamoring for a spot to take the best, tight shot of her crotch. Yes, I saw a camera not one inch away from her hot box snap away.

Tera Patrick was there and I think she is absolutely beautiful, but I am very upset that she got breast implants. I know this is old news, but she was just perfect without them. Now they are too big and too porno. But I suppose this is the business she chose so the bigger the better?

Later that night was another red carpet event at the Whisky. We go there early in an attempt to get seats but the VIP list hadn't arrived so we were asked to wait outside. I was annoyed. We went into the Hustler Hollywood store to pass the time and checked out the Stunt Girl I and II box covers. They were $39.99 each so I didn't buy them. I really want to see them though. In the book section, they had one of the collections my story was featured in, Best Bondage Erotica. They also has The Sexual Life of Catherine M. which is a book I've been wanting to read. My friend recently told me to read The Story Of O, but they didn't have that there. Have you ever read an erotic story or novel? I highly advise you to. It is incredibly hot, even more so than watching a porn sometimes. At least that what I think. There is just something about reading the words and being able translate the image in your mind. You have the freedom to envision exactly what you want with the scenario supplied to you. Meaning no sweaty gross guy pumping away at a siliconed chick who moans more than humanly possible when in the midst of passion.

We did make it into the Whisky and sat amongst porns biggest and wettest and waited for the feature band "Not The Ramones" to play, yes, Ramones songs. But we left after about an hour because...well...it was "not New York" and there really is a different vibe in LA, one that I don't know if I could get used to. Maybe it was because I was surrounded by porn people who I have decided I have nothing in common with despite the fact that I once was editor-in-chief of Playgirl. What I did there was very different, and writing and thinking and provoking thought about sex, sexuality, and playful kink is not at all like sucking on cocks and waiting for the perfect come shot.

And now to present day....
Once again, hundreds of porn's biggest are gathered in Las Vegas for the AVN Awards hosted by Savannah Samson, mom/Score's girl/Howard Stern favorite/porn starlet. She once smooched me on the lips so she could have some of my lips gloss. Sin City is bursting with even more sinners. I wonder who is going to win the top honors. Or does that mean that they all have really lost? Or maybe just so lost themselves?

I have such mixed feelings about the industry. There are just too many unfortunate stories, tales of life destruction and degradation. As an outsider, one who just watches porn, you don't tend to think too much about the stars' lives off the screen. But as one who has been on location for these shoots and talked to the talent, it changes everything.

Just Like Candy

In Kansas, sex offenders cannot open the door on Halloween.

New York, Wisconsin, Florida, California and some other states have similar laws. There are curfews too where the sex offender cannot leave the house after 7PM.

There is a Sex Offender Compliance Squad and they put a big red piece of paper on the doors of sex offenders so the trick or treaters and their parents are warned.

These sex offenders are also not allowed to dress up like the Easter Bunny. They have candy, too. Kids love candy.

I am fascinated.

What about Santa Claus? Santa has presents and lets you sit on his lap. He also has candy canes. Kids love candy canes.

I am writing erotica for a collection about sex and candy. Somehow this inspires me. Not directly of course. But somehow. Just like Halloween. We dress up, go to parties, role play, and drink. If we are lucky, there's even some some candy to suck on. Perversions. Adults love perversions.

Like in the movie The Ballad Of Jack And Rose where there were hints of incest. Those moments were some of the best in the film. Profound. I loved it.

Maybe my mind is slightly warped from watching The Brown Bunny. Yes, I loved it, too. It was climactic. Just like sex. Just like candy.

Hookers & Priests

I've got a novel idea. Since all these priests keep molesting young boys (and sometimes girls) why don't we get the hookers to dress up in little kiddie outfits and head on over to the rectories so God's chosen ones can get their rocks off and not corrupt the impressionable minds of the youth of today? Father John and his friends surely get enough hand outs during mass from neighborhood citizens, right? Hookers will get paid for doing what they do best and the Holy Fathers will keep their communion giving hands off the pre-pubescent.

Maybe the new Pope, Pope Benedict XVI, will read this and take heed to my suggestion. He did pledge to work to unify all Christians and reach out to other religions.

But as a good little Christian, I did my research. This new Pope is a huge conservative. Naturally. Granted, to a secret heathen like me anyone devoted to serving the church is a huge conservative, but he's been dubbed "God's Rottweiler" and "The Enforcer", not to be confused with the late great Dale Earnhardt Sr. who was affectionately known as "The Intimidator."

No, the 78-year-old, 10 language speaking Pope Benedict (who is an accomplished pianist) participated in the Nazi Party as a youth in Germany, belonging even to "Hitler Youth" until he was drafted into the army. Benedict has since condemned his Nazi ties, but still holds antiquated views on homosexuality, the ordination of women, and lifting the celibacy requirement for priests. He has denounced rock music, dismissed anyone who had tried to find "feminist" meanings in the Bible, and last year told American bishops it was appropriate to deny Communion to those who support abortion and euthanasia. He seems unfit for the most pressing issues he faces: priest sex-abuse scandals that have cost the church millions of dollars in the United States and elsewhere, chronic shortages of priests and nuns in the West, and calls for easing the ban on condoms to help fight the spread of AIDS. A ban on condoms? What?

So I highly doubt Pope Benedict will heed my church box suggestion on hookers and priests. I doubt he will come through with his unification plan either—not when he is alienating the youth of today by being in discordance with our beliefs, but at least we can have faith that he is really old, and may not live that long to uphold his incongruous values.

A Pit Bull In Size 8 Shoes

*written in October 2005

We can all agree that everything we hear isn’t always true—especially if the words are not directly from the source.

But I’ve been hearing some things that are making me uneasy. Could it be possible that Roe V Wade be overturned?

I’ve read some Op-Eds where they pin Harriet Miers as unqualified. Most pieces fail to pick up on her 1985 feat that she was the first woman to become president of the Dallas Bar Association. Then seven years later, she became the first woman elected president of the State Bar of Texas. Miers has also been named one of the nation's 100 most powerful attorneys and as one of the nation's top 50 women lawyers by the National Law Journal.

But was she appointed because of her Southern Methodist education and/or her affiliations in Texas?

We’ll never know for certain.

White House officials say they want to relaunch the nomination of Harriet Miers for the Supreme Court by moving from what they call a "biographical phase" to an "accomplishment phase." So they want to focus less on her religion and the fact that she wrote Bush, who was then Governor of Texas, a birthday card in 1997 gushing, "You are the best Governor ever—deserving of great respect!" (Not the only schoolgirlish-type letter, they added.) Instead, they are switching the talk to her accomplishments as a pioneering female lawyer.

What a novel idea.

No one seems pleased with the nomination. TIME reports that after Chief Justice John Roberts’ 78-to-22 confirmation, congressional Republicans are now fearing Miers’ vote could be as low as 52. Still, it’s good enough for a lifetime appointment.

But the press is reporting of some interesting and all-too-easy and blunt mudslinging. For instance, sixty-year-old Ms. Miers was said to look more like a prom date next to the confident Senators than an omnipotent future Supreme Court Justice. It was also purported that Republicans said she seemed unwilling or unable to answer questions about whether she viewed particular cases as important precedents and said she offered little beyond banal chatter. A man just never would be referred to as a "prom date." I’m surprised they haven’t pointed out the fact that she is unmarried and without children. But I’m sure I’m not the first to mention it in this context.

Did I just contribute to the mudslinging?

That’s up for interpretation.

Laura Bush picked up on the sexism and spoke about it on NBC’s Today show. Conservatives were pissed.

The press called Laura’s comment a "stumble" and the President played up his nominee's evangelical Christianity as part of her qualifications for the court.

I bet Laura's pissed.

Laura Bush 2012. Then she can shut George up by calling his manspeak a "stumble." She'd be better than Hil on the Hill (who is about as good as Geena Davis).

Even more interesting speak is coming from the religious right’s James Dobson of Focus on the Family. On his radio broadcast, he said: "When you know some of the things that I know—that I probably shouldn't know—you will understand why I have said, with fear and trepidation, that I believe Harriet Miers will be a good justice."

What does he know?

The gossip is all in an op-ed piece in the Wall Street journal that states that Dobson quelled the controversy by saying that Karl Rove, the White House's deputy chief of staff, had not given him assurances about how a Justice Miers would vote. "I would have loved to have known how Harriet Miers views Roe V Wade. But even if Karl had known the answer to that—and I'm certain that he didn't because the president himself said he didn't know—Karl would not have told me that. That's the most incendiary information that's out there, and it was never part of our discussion."

Certain?

It was also written that the day the Miers nomination was announced, Mr. Dobson and other religious conservatives held a conference call discussing their belief that Miers would vote to overturn Roe.

It has to be noted that she could be pro-life, yet still not vote to overturn Roe V Wade.

These comments from the phone conference can be a prediction, but some believe it is an assurance.

Funny how these conservatives are so quick to want to overturn a set law on a woman’s right to choose, yet they won’t even consider amending a law that prevents same-sex marriages for those who are in love.

Will Ms. Miers be confirmed? If so, then the Supreme Court is more concerned with political outcomes than the rule of law.

Regardless, Miers is known for her cool determination. Bush once called her "a pit bull in size 6 shoes."

I wear size 8.

I thought pit bulls got a bad rep due to their trainers. Who then would Texan Miers’ trainer be?

By the way, Toledo, Ohio is currently on curfew due to a race riot when protesters came out in force during a Neo-Nazi rally. Some people are blaming the protesters for the violence. But how can a Neo-Nazi rally, even if they are acting "peaceful", be considered a sociable march when the message they are sending is of pure hate? ACLU, can you answer that?

Anything can happen. Even now.