Sunday, November 06, 2011

out and about and this is what i have to say:

it’s the first shortened day of the season and what better way to maximize the mass crankiness that abounds than with a day’s recount of old fashioned rants? so i present to you a critically personal walk through the city and a list of the truly important things that happened. nothing else really mattered. 

the marathon
today was the new york marathon. i’m really on the fence about this one: on one hand, as a potential participant two years straight (who, both times, had to bow down, err, out to a fucked up knee) i get a prickly sense of pride and accomplishment as i see those runners freshly crossed over the finish line clutching their foil capes and hobbling home; on the other hand, something is to be said about their piss poor attitudes toward anyone who didn’t run the marathon. that hawk-eyed look that basically says, “yeah, i did it. i ran 26 and change miles, and now i’m better than you. i’m gonna be on NPR tonight.” right. as if we’re all afforded the ability (and opportunity—getting in is some comPETitive shit) to run a marathon. maybe they’re just tired. anyway, my pissed meter may bob slightly, but nobody feels as badly as those people just “out for a sunday run” who, when reminded of the marathon that is going on basically all around them, must feel like total assholes. a defeatist surge of shame pulsates through their body as they turn up the lady gaga on their ipods and push even harder, their skin pitting like golf balls with the harsh, shameful glares from all the people around them. it’s like thumb wrestling at a WWF match.
the moral(s) of the story is(are): swap your hater-ade for some gatorade. -or- there’s always next year.

cafe prague
with our takeover of eastern europe almost nigh, i made a point to stop by the idlewild bookstore to rub elbows with the well-traveled intelligentsia i figured i’d encounter there to talk about, you know, books and traveling and stuff. but before i got there, several storefronts down, in probably my most cliche moment of the week, i stopped by a little restaurant called cafe prague.
still decked out in halloween decorations that included life-sized talking vampires and bloody brides, i found cafe prague irresistible and walked right in, hoping to leave all my mental baggage of the day outside. banking on a cliche and actually trying to cram some authentic culture into my afternoon, my visit to cafe prague was the escape i wished it would be. it’s run by czech staff and is actually czech in origin, a fact confirmed by the authentic menu items displayed on the large screen TV behind the counter: goulash, svikova, polom’s chicken (named after a village in the czech republic, otherwise nondescript save for its eponymous chicken dish) and other indigenous fare. i initally frowned upon the selection of pre-made panini in the deli case, but seeing them here granted me the realization that panini, the biggest sandwich trend to hit the US since, i don’t know, the big mac?, may, in fact, be a universal thing and i should turn down the snobbery should i encounter said panini once i’m actually in prague.  i sat down with a cherry tea and chocolate prague square (a two layer ganache/yellow cake thing) and enjoyed a nice departure from my sunday afternoon in nyc, but my real moment of escape came when the title song to the neverending story played on the sound system. i don’t know who was responsible for that musical blast from the past, but suddenly i felt not only worlds away, but decades as well and cafe prague earned a category of star that had never previously existed.
the moral of the story is: when in doubt, go to prague.

oh, and after complaining about the same thing like 74 times, i came up with a new concept: a regular series called “nothing is worse than:” that generally expresses the most recent things i find distasteful, and probably will for years to come. so yeah, go me for self-expression.

nothing is worse than: a door that closes loudly, and never gets fixed.

at-home cake pops
walking aimlessly in the city is like the cheater’s edition of wheres waldo because it just throws in your face all the things you’ve been looking for your whole life. like this at-home cake pop maker at the bed, bath & beyond (editor’s note: initally, i wasn’t going to disclose the location, but i figured why delay fate, right?) so this is the at-home cake pop maker, another obesity-causing obsession started by starbucks now makes its way into american homes through the black hole of excess and waste known as “under the tree.” because who wouldn’t want this for Christmas? or Hanukkah? or Kwanzaa?
the cake pop started out innocently enough—a little cake to satisfy a big need.
but this is america, people—big needs need big cake. i’m sure the makers of the at-home cake pop maker thought, with the best of intentions, "we'll make 12 slots so there will be one cake pop for every girl at the sleepover" when the sad reality will go something like this: on a cold, frosty winter night some weeks after Christmas an obese female college student will find herself in the home aisle of the tj maxx deciding between the martini glasses with the flowers painted on them or the margarita glasses with the glittery pink cactuses, when both shrivel into oblivion as the at-home cake pop maker catches her eye and gives her 12 reasons to forget about the festive stemware entirely.
the moral of the story is: just say no.

(a modified version of the theme to “the price is right” that has more of the vintage 70s gameshow horns plays in the background)

and now it’s time for “that’s my obsession!”

the vibram five fingers information series
i love, with all ten toes, the five fingers line of footwear from the italian company vibram. aside from comfort and ridiculously engineered ergonomics, these shoes make you feel like a superhero. a superhuman sense of agility and strength comes to you and you find yourself (ok, i find myself) wanting to balance on curbs instead of simply walking home; curling my foot to avoid cracks in the sidewalk simply because the flexible sole allows me to; walking up the side of buildings to see how high i can get. and this feeling is mutual among other five fingers wearers—we have a code, a shared understanding signified by a smile, similar to the way jeep owners wave and beep while passing each other. we are partaking together in some esoteric way of life that has brought us fortune most of the world will never experience. or something like that. anyway, with the pros come the cons, and thankfully, mine have nothing to do with the design or performance of the shoe. it’s with the audience reaction.
let me start by saying vibram five fingers should be marketed exclusively to "exceptionally extroverted persons who may possess aspirations to pursue a career in motivational speaking" because the second you slip these suckers on and step out in public, you're the center of attention, the man with a plan, the one with all the answers, keanu reeves in speed, and expected to act accordingly. people look up to you for answers, asking left and right about your shoes and expecting an answer that can also solve the economic crisis. questions range from the inane "are they comfortable?" ("no, I find it easier to maintain my morning erection by stimulating my s&m fetish all day long") to the actually interesting, “i saw them in the conde nast traveler and was thinking about getting a pair...can you tell me about them?” at the beginning, i decided being called upon so frequently to deliver these lectures came with the territory of wearing such unique shoes, and it was my just duty to deliver the good. but once I started missing subway stops and fell behind on my book club reading because of my impromptu seminars, i raised my arms to the heavens and pleaded, “Lawd come save me!"
today, i got a break. kind of.  the public commentary on my vibram five fingers hit a new high...or low. or perhaps a new level of whoa! An MTA employee was all laughs as she told me on a recent episode of CSI (or it may have been CSI miami, apparently the difference is crucial) the killer had been wearing the same pair as me. (ha ha ha, oh). she was then kind enough to share some advice, which I could have predicted with one eye closed: “don’t go killing anybody now!” my response laugh was so over-rehearsed, its shallowness rivaled that of the puddle of pee on the seat adjacent to me. and with that the doors closed, separating our worlds forever, and the train pulled away taking me with it, head down and headphones on, avoiding eye contact and any future run-ins with tourists hungry for information on “those toe shoes that crazy boy is wearing.”
the moral of the story is: one doesn't want to be rude.

that’s all for now.
Xs and Os

a makeover is on the way

it sure is. and a new entry will follow this to usher in a new look, new thoughts, new philosophy, and a whole new underwear collection.

Tuesday, July 05, 2011

agua sucio

this is why coconut water never comes in clear bottles.

Friday, June 17, 2011

weighing in on the weiner

i just have to say something. so anthony weiner: YOU ARE such a WEENIE to resign! a cocktail weenie, at that--small, unsatisfactory and somewhat wrinkly. after all that, you throw in the towel (most likely the one your bulge tented) leaving a legacy that's like an unfinished story in a freshman level creative writing course. i. just. can't.
i think anthony weiner's resignation is a bow to hypocrisy. yes, his resignation--not his twat tweets--serve as validation to pure dishonesty. everybody who pointed their fingers at him for this "awful thing" he did then go home and use those same fingers to click around Internet porn and tweet twats of their own. those insipid americans love the smell of blood, and this lust for an open wound completely dominates their purpose in life. now that they can't shake their fists at the weiner anymore, they'll squat like vultures until some other wounded figure comes on the scene, outwardly bleeding the same insecurities they hate about themselves, into whom they'll sink their blunt beaks and tear away the flesh. they're nothing without their tabloid dirt and high fructose corn syrup. if they didn't have the intouch "celebrities: they're just like us!" tutorial to follow, they wouldn't know how to shop at the CVS, eat at a restaurant or walk down the street. 
if you look at what anthony weiner actually did, or didn't do, for that matter, the actual deed shrinks in comparison to the hype and hullaballoo that's been made about it. so he jerked off to porn, sometimes interacting with those who moan onscreen--noooobody in america does that! the horror! perhaps the whole picture exchange crossed the line, especially since he was married, but the same heartfelt apology that would patch up any normal american couple should have applied to him. no, suddenly "weinergate" erupts and people who haven't even heard of anthony weiner before are yelling and screaming and holding signs. i guess that's what sad, unemployed people do instead of looking for jobs.
as a matter of fact, i think what weiner did with his weiner was probably good for him. getting his rocks off is normal for any red blooded male, and was a chance to let off some steam, increasing his effectiveness at his job (which, btw, is mighty stressful...representing constituents of such high levels of assholeism takes its toll). exchanging a few LOLs with a porn star (who, btw, is now rep'd by gloria allred. really?) now let's discuss her.
ginger lee--who currently makes her living as a stripper--this morning stammered through a twang-inflected speech where she exonerated herself from any inappropriate behavior with weiner. now that's assuming, of course, that every hard-dicked american male watching her had forgotten about the six months of porn star boot camp ladies such as herself endure, where she exclusively took it up the ass so she could get second-tier billing on the DVD cover. yes, let's listen to what ginger lee has to say, a real woman of repute. then we can all go get her autograph after she performs at the pink pony in atlanta tonight. and after paying gloria allred to stand next to her in a st. john suit, she'll be forced into another six months of hard anal labor just to pay her rent. 

and now, for more hard-earned america banter...

i think "weinergate" is a terrific example of what a daycare center this country is: a playpen full of simple-minded, easily-swayed, quickly-agitated toddlers who lust after the shiniest toy in the chest and only until it's ice cream time, at which a greed-fueled feeding frenzy ensues, followed by a nap. like toddlers, the swell of america are selfish because they haven't learned the virtue of consideration yet--they're hand fed, hand-held and told they're #1 from the beginning, inflating an ego that's easily damaged but never deflated. gay marriage can't happen 'cause God don't like it,' but nobody has voicemail from the big guy explicitly stating why. they take every word proclaimed by the neighborhood bullies as the truth, but only until a louder, bigger bully with a shinier toy (or a red skirt suit and rimless glasses) appears and steals the show. have you ever seen a daycare center on a class trip? it's a single line of followers, like a chain gang, absolute obedience, no questions asked. they listen to the leader until the leader stops giving them candy. then they throw rocks at him and look for another leader. when president obama couldn't make unicorns with soft serve machines strapped to their saddles appear in every american's backyard, they turned on him like every other "mean mommy" who wouldn't let their kid have more than one flintstone's vitamin every day. "too much of a good thing could make you sick," she used to say, and it has. but instead of a vomit fest, this sickness stays inside, telling people they are part of "the land of the free" when really, they're a mass army of good, little obedients.

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

i'm so sick of hearing of celebrities and well-known people (there is a difference between the two) taking to twitter, as they call it, to tell someone off, instead of just saying it to them. it's like, because they are celebrities (or well-known) they only exist when their actions are witnessed by the public, and cant' do anything unless other people are watching (if a tree falls in a forest but nobody's there to hear it, does it make a sound? if a celebrity or well-known person does something in the privacy of their own home without tweeting a pic, does it actually happen?). i stumbled upon the ridiculousness of this while perusing an article about the whole showdown between donald trump and bill cosby. while i'd love to spend at least 5 minutes wondering why the latter even plays a role in this, i'll get straight to the point: donald trump, and i fully realize the positive implications i'm making in favor of the donald by saying this, to his merit, has always succeeded in doling out his grievances toward others right to their face--ok, with a little help from foxnews or the today show--but at least he backs up his bite with a little facetime. who can forget probably the most monumental public duel with rosie o'donnell? the one she apparently rekindled just last month, when she took to fucking twitter with some comment about his hair (that's only not old when oprah talks about it). but at least he voiced his opinion, no matter how assholic it might have been, directly to her, instead of hiding behind a bunch of @ and # signs. "he said/she said" sounds poetic; "he tweeted/she tweeted" just sounds fucking douche-y.

really. twitter has created a national epidemic of passive aggressive personality disorder, and there's nothing cute about that. as if today's celebrities and well-known people aren't megalomanic enough--now they can get their fixes for fame from the comfort of their own bedrooms or drug dens, one in the same, if you ask me, considering their craving for 'fame fixes' rivals that of the most addictive opiates, by sparking a fight with a fellow celebrity or well-known, over a poor dress choice or offensive hairstyle. because people live for twitter, and i mean liiiiiiiiive, my chica favorita kim kardashian is paid a paltry $10,000 per tweet, but that's all in a day's work right? $10,000 just so i can look at more pictures of her angled-downward-to-hide-her-huge-nose face sporting a pair of fucking skechers.

i'm glad i don't watch tv anymore.


Tuesday, April 12, 2011


yesterday's anger sure gave way to today's humming mood. i realized my obsession with "born this way" is borne of a repressed childhood need for such a song. at a young age riddled with confusion, hate, conflict and adversity, i really needed an anthem like "born this way" but all i really had was "express yourself." it's a great song and all, but i was a smart cookie and trying to adapt the message of "tell your man what you want so he will respect you" was too far of a stretch to actually to extract any actual confidence. and i wasn't a feminist, so an upbeat tune was all "express yourself" could ever really offer me. now born this way comes out and it's literally all about me because it's about everybody. if i had "born this way" in 6th grade, i would have told a lot more people to fuck off. hell, i'd actually have the guts to use the word "fuck" and that, in itself, would be an advancement.

and as far as "born this way" bearing any similarities to "express yourself," other than embracing your own needs of self-love before those of anyone else, i honestly don't hear them. like not at all. whatever. i'm beautiful in my way...


Monday, April 11, 2011

stuff that annoys me this week:

go blunt or go home, that's what i always say. i also say that the most important thing one should do each day at work is take care grooming one's desk flare. what's that? you don't have desk flare? well then it's time you started evaluating what it is by way of trinkets, tchotchkes and even cutouts from magazines that makes you happy, that stirs your mind and adds sugar to your creative juices. yes i'm talking about the mess of knick knacks and paintings, clipped quotes and fortune cookie fortunes so yellowed with age, the restaurant has since relocated three times. desk flare is essential to one's well-being at work. it's keeping what inspires the very essence of you all around, and watching each piece dance around in a mentally-construed choreography that brightens up the dullest of afternoons. no one understands the importance of desk flare as much as the very global proprietors of kitsch, none other than etsy, bestowing upon each new employee $200 to buy any variety of merchandise hawked on the .com flea market they think would make suitable desk flare. anything.
that makes me happy. as does my collection of desk flare, and the liberties that allow me to maintain my cubicle gallery that today welcomed two sanskit inscriptions of om mani padme hum.

but you know what doesn't make me happy? many things in this world.

like nicki minaj. i've been ready to tear into this one for some time, and now my pink-hued moment of glory has arrived.

what, THE fuck, is so SURPRISING, nicki minaj, that you always have to wear a look of such profound amazement on your face? it can't be that pink hair because we've seen the 7,894,327 ways you can wear pink hair. you ain't nothing spektakalar, girlfriend. i don't even know what you sing, and because the sight of your face is instantly so repulsive, i am thus repulsed to give your music a go. so shut up because i'm running out of snarky things to say about you.

and the kardashians. speaking of uni-face, that kim kardashian always makes the same, exact, "i-point-my-face-down-yet-look-you-straight-in-the-eye-because-i-learned-from-my-bff-since-we-were-like-six-paris-hilton-that-it-makes-your-nose-look-smaller."

umm, why do we care, again, what kim kardashian's nose looks like? why do we care about kim kardashian? and why does their family have like 6 shows on every channel? i saw today that the tranny one (and i can call her that because she said so in her cosmo article) has ANOTHER show with her husband. am i odd man out because i just don't care about these girls with all the misspelled names?

ok i'm done venting negativity.
'till next time.

Monday, March 14, 2011


i love that little flash of "whoa, they got me" resignation i get when i transcend the normal consumer and realize a clever marketing campaign worked on me. sporting more than a savvy eye on the business, i know the ins and outs of clever words like "organic" and "natural" and their ability to turn shit to gold; i'm the pin to the happy balloon of hopeful language; i know why certain things are on certain pages of certain magazines, which makes them seem insipid before i even acknowledge what dry celebrity is even on the cover. and yet, i get a thrill out of catching myself past the threshold of "wendy's healthy options," actually thinking, because it's fish and has something to do with salad, it qualifies as healthy, this warm yellow thought washing over the next few weeks of menu planning before abruptly turning grey with the realization that the same rancid oil deep fryers and burger presses used to make the rest of the fare are most likely responsible for the preparation of said "healthy fare."

it's as sincere a marketing campaign as the eggland's best attempt at reconciling with PETA.

one day, the filibuster alone caused by a congressional bill called the "it's all fun and games until everybody dies of morbid obesity act" will spur reality shows, their sequels, and several tell-alls published on edible paper sweetened with high fructose corn syrup, and i'll be swinging on my trapeze in heaven, engaged in a straddle whip with my husband, laughing at all those silly people down below, chewing themselves to death.

was that  morbid or funny?


Friday, February 25, 2011

putting it out there

i have nothing to say but at the same time everything. somebody throw me a life saver filled with mental metamucil because i am creatively constipated. just the opposite of a block, i'm full of stuff to say but an inability to say it for whatever reason has caused my creative sphincter to clench without rest.
con. sti. pa. ted. is the opposite of constipated emancipated?

i've decided to start posting regularly on this thing again. i haven't contributed anything recently because, as i said, i've been creatively constipated. i felt that, if what i posted wasn't some huge, conceptual essay with the bite of baby and universal appeal of those damn stieg larsson books, then it wasn't worth posting. well, it's my blog. it's my voice, my wall, my forum, my shopping mall. if i choose to open a kiosk that sells outdated calendars well past the holiday season simply because i like the look of them, then i will open that kiosk and situate it right next to my favorite mall store, the hot topic. because in a high school like wyoming valley west, sometimes going goth is all a boy has to stand out from the logo t-shirt, ill-fitting jeans sporting crowds.

i want to shed my skin for a day and try something else on. see how the others live from their perspective, just so i can be reminded that the grass isn't always greener on the other side, so that at the end of the day, i can retire to my vividly verdant meadow and rest assured that i'm not missing out on somebody else's party. mine is just fine.

ok i rhymed enough to get some semblance of juice flowing. here i go, again on my own...