Wednesday, January 27, 2010

all that's missing is adam lambert

my love's a red vulva...


a two-time attendee of the previous lilith fair music fests, i can say i've a pretty good handle on the concept. it was a celebration of women in music, and past acts that included sheryl crow, natalie merchant and the borderline lady lover in charge, sarah mclachlan, hewed lilith fair a stable place amongst music's finest fests in little over two summers.
it was all about an easygoing couple of hours. get there early, spark up, and let the 20 or so acts lull you into a feminist haze anybody could love, even reluctant boyfriends (who doesn't enjoy swaying to 'everyday is a winding road?').
the best occasion to crack open miller lights perched on your finest tapestry, the lilith fair dissolved just as quickly as it gained momentum and after an 11-year hiatus, it's back, slated to be one of summer's most amazing acts.
or at least that's the plan...and i'm not so sure i'm all that happy about the lineup. i was ecstatic when i heard confirmations included sheryl crow, erykah badu, tegan and sara, norah jones, cat power and heart--i was even still crossing my fingers ani difranco would drag her pink haired ass out for once. but my smile faded as quickly as a frat boy's hard on at an indigo girls show when i read that, joining the aforementioned legends, was ke$ha (the name alone turns my stomach inside out), la roux, AND the gossip! the only mismatch missing is miss adam lambert herself, obviously repudiated due to excessive use of eyeliner. ke$ha's been around for five minutes, and i'm sorry, but crows feet + bad extensions does NOT equal any type of lasting power, dear.
i can just imagine the digestive havoc wreaked when there's glitter in the granola...


Thursday, January 14, 2010


ke$ha does not make me feel young...

to stave off, yet not completely put to rest, speculation about my actual age, an official number that's escaped even me, i'm sharing a revelation i experienced yesterday. it's on--i've entered my late 20's/early 30's and not by tears shed over checking off the next age bracket on some random form. no, i was unofficially sworn in by a sudden appreciation of the columbine/harlequin tomfoolery forever enameled into the kandler-crafted miniature sculptures on display at the met.

modern translation: i like knick knacks. it all goes downhill from there.

embrace your age but certainly not ag(ing).


Tuesday, January 12, 2010

with a little help from my friends

there's nothing you can do that can't be done...

so as luck and a 21-year bout with insomnia would have it, i was awoken by one prickly pear of a dream last night involving a condition where my bladder was suddenly intolerant of acidity, rendering its very existence futile (and rather deadly). who dreams that?
so i propped myself up in bed to continue reading the book of the day, the witches by the magnificent roald dahl because, really, one childrens book a week is a trans-fat rich dessert for the soul. there i was reading about the laudable efforts of witches to turn children into mice, ridding the world of such excess pestilence, when i was suddenly aware that i wasn't alone. a quick glance downward spotted--you guessed it--a mouse! a tiny grey mouse with a little white tail and eyes that weren't as beady as mice usually have, but had a glimmer of personality to them. he knew he was seen, and by kind eyes because he didn't immediately scamper away. (could it have been that awful boy who lives upstairs, whose noisy existence i've rued since the day i moved in? supernatural things like that happen all the time, you know. so does wishful thinking). it was my characteristic index finger wave that finally got him on the run to whatever nest he had constructed under my dresser. unfortunately, he was a mouse, after all, and his teeny tiny brain probably construed my gleeful wave as some impending wave of doom, so 'bye, mouse.'

obviously my pristine existence has no room for some foraging rodent born of the filth that kernels this city, but the very nature of his small size couldn't have tracked in much dirt and he was merely seeking warmth, as this con-ed paying schlub was doing as well. also, due to my parents coming around to the fact that dogs are not furry incubi of rabies and mange and instead loyal (and potentially non-shedding) life companions until well after my departure to higher education, the faunal part of my childhood consisted of a multitude of rodents so i was no stranger to my unexpected (but certainly not uninvited) houseguest. still, i thought, he must go.

so i enlisted the help of a few friends, namely j.d. salinger, kate chopin, nathaniel hawthorne and bell hooks to facilitate the containment and relocation of my small friend (bell hooks' all about love acting as appropriate motivator behind my humane approach). i was thinking maybe the central park zoo would fare him better, both warmth and fellow feral rodentia abounding. see above pic for cnn's account of my homemade mouse trap, baited with organic peanut butter rich in omega 3s and a small chip of a tostitos hint-of-lime. why shouldn't my mouse share my sapience of all things tasty on his last night here?

with the trap set, i resumed with my book and slowly dozed off, confident that i'd awake to my little mouse napping in the bowl that would find him safely taken to his new relocated home. unfortunately, the little fucker was smarter than i and managed to eat both the peanut butter AND tostito hint-of-lime before making a safe escape to wherever he might currently be hiding in my vast expanse of an apartment.
so much for literary ingenuity. there's always tonight to try, try again.

and that, my friends, is just one more way to live in a world so many see as nefarious. off to buy more tostitos hint-of-lime.


Monday, January 11, 2010

lobbying to the oldies

there's a she-wolf in the closet...

if i can extract two nuggets of wisdom from the burdens lifted from corporate participation rendered by the past two months of funemployment, they would be: that the term "professional dress code" is as obsolete as bloomers and the people living upstairs have way too much fucking time on their hands. but pressing on the former, a stiff suit is not, in fact, required to make the workday a productive one. if anything, i owe the folks at 2(x)ist major hugs for providing me with the new uniform of success i've so distinctly pioneered. nothing beats seamlessly moving from a crossword puzzle in bed to pressing my email's "send" button on the couch, releasing yet another literary contribution into the world, wearing little more than a polyester blend fig leaf.
and nowhere is the un-standardization of today's dress code for success more evident than on the exuberant back of america's favorite phys ed teacher, mr richard simmons (née milton teagle). while the wardrobe of high school gym teachers mostly stuck with two-piece pastel sweatsuits for the ladies and the ultra-stylish combination of a polo shirt paired with old navy's latest track pant offering for the men, simmons dares to venture out of the box-step and is rarely, if at all, seen sans his beloved sequined and rhinestoned creations. something even tells me he may have a creative hand in fashioning said attire, as such applique can't be found past bob mackie's HSN collection, and i doubt he'd don anything less than couture jersey, as pictured on today's wendy williams show (another louboutin-clad lass who stomps to no other beat than her own) pictured above.

but what really dampens my torso over richard simmons is the fact that these jo-ann fabric explosions comprise his everyday office attire, and not just in the sweatin' studios. the man who paradoxically made us dance and shimmy to aretha franklin has become america's latest, if not only, sequined political pundit. the rhinestone cowboy, if you will. most of simmons' time, including his 200 plus days traveling each year, is spent lobbying for the improvement of physical education in schools, extolling the virtues of not being a 12 year-old fat ass. and people listen to him. his seriousness, no doubt, stems not only from his longevity in being the poster child for personal fitness, but also from the onus of listening to someone with big hair and a whole lotta swarovski belting in your face. and while he's not exactly conducting synchronized knee thrusts on the congressional floor, his efforts are noticeably progressing. i seriously doubt he'd be as far along if he squatted in some gabardine tailored travesty all these years. and really, if his MO weren't so noble, i'd certainly pin this situation as being one where what was on the outside trumped what lied within.

so three of today's cheers goes to richard simmons (née milton teagle) because even though my level of excitement over sequins and rhinestones burns enough calories to keep me sweating to the oldies, i can definitely identify with the man who's using his own universe brimming with adoration to fuel a brigade for the betterment of the world, starting with making it ok to not conform to what 'everybody else is wearing' to work. and as one who brought bowties back to bergdorf's, i'll be sweating to my own tune for a long time to come.


Monday, January 04, 2010

but we actually laughed

if it's on tv, then it's for real...

um so for real, before today, i was thoroughly repulsed by those commercials for mucinex. i thought, 'why would the concept of a talking, acting and fully-conversational mucus blob ever make it past the ideas table and into the ever-widening spaces between my favorite sitcoms?' then i was introduced to snookie, but i digress. after this morning's expulsion of technicolor nasal ephemera that could provide the couturiers of the emerald city with more baubles, bangles and beads than they'd know what to do with, i've realized that despite the throbbing and blinding pain of a maxillary sinus cavity stripped bare and bloody, there is, after all, a whole family of green and yellow blobs just hopping around up there refusing to make an appearance that would provide worlds of relief, like a staunch child or a poltergeist. this type of marketing, and i think i'm being quite fair when i regard it as rather shocking (i mean, it may not be profanity but last time i checked it was as equally uncool to snot rocket onto someone's sweater and expect a benign giggle in response), actually works. show me some arbitrary information climbing up a chart in two disparitious red and blue lines and i change the channel; show me an obnoxious family of mucus blobs with familial italian inflections, and i'm at the duane reade faster than when glaxo was giving out those free trial vouchers. and though drugging myself to prostration as way of treating aforementioned ailment usually isn't my style, i'm neither incapable nor beyond swigging some 12-hour relief with something that requires a corkscrew to pour.

some parents pass down blond hair and blue eyes to their children; mine lovingly bestowed upon me oily skin and poorly draining sinuses, rendering me an acneic nerd as a child and snorter as an adult. at least i've got my hair.

and as my parting gift to you, i present a commercial that has what i like to call the madonna effect: it's annoying as shit, but despite the most stalwart resistance, it will infect your brain and you'll sing it as you snap your orbit gum. without further ado, and you're welcome, cablevision, i present 877-393-4448: the musical. listen and fall in love again.


Saturday, January 02, 2010

booze-soaked bowties

never trust a man whose thighs touch when he walks...

so i realized something rather defeating today, that if it weren't for other people in my life, i would live in the dark. i'm not getting all sentimental on your asses, but literally--when light bulbs burn out, i rarely ever get around to changing them, rendering my physical existence dimmer than it could be. or should be.

last night was new years, and now it's 2010, and i'm not terribly excited about it but i'm not disappointed, either. i'm writing a book this year, so i've got a full vagenda to contend with.

the title of the aforementioned book, now that i've finished it, can finally be disclosed: call me by your name by andre aciman. NOT twilight, as foolishly propositioned by some, though i get how the "E." reference could have been linked to protagonist edward cullen and his admirable, yet paltry attempt to make pallid skin and jaundiced eyes sexy, though the movies only serve to parlay one director's vision of edward's character. no, my "E." referred to elio, and i'm still internally raging over him.

what's with this entry not being the yellow and white striped circus tent of positivity i've come to emit with semi-regularity? could it have something to do with my blinding hangover? or my mind's preoccupation with piecing the shards of last night together to make one coherent memory of one of the best new year celebrations i've ever had? either way, i figured it would be wickedly uncool not to start the year with some sort of blog contribution, and by the power vested in me and all the metallic shit i wore last night and well into the morning, i bring you this. and please run--don't walk--and buy call me by your name. it's not a love story; it's not even a lust story; it's a human story, a strong attempt to debunk and decode but never successfully dispel the inexplicable attractions human beings inevitably form between themselves, providing a sliver of insight into understanding our social proclivities, and presenting a side of desperation that would never survive the beer-fueled iteration of a hair-tossing, boy-eventually-gets-girl teen movie.
some endings are neither happy, nor sad, but when you've jerked off to pretend to have sex with a character you've never met, the pieces fall into place as you realize you're just as divine as someone you've idealized well beyond worship, and they just as human as you.

and to that boy on whom i spilled shiraz last night, i didn't mean it, and i'll gladly foot your dry cleaning bill. i'm surprised you weren't one of my 74 facebook friend requests today. flattered, i am.

xo and happy new yearaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa