My morning:
So you'll very kindly let me have my way today. Alright, I'm going to work.
Quickly! There's no time!
I gotta get my ass out the door to a meeting in a minute here, so two quick things.
1. Look at this picture of a picture of Tyra Banks:
Does girlfriend not have a touch of the crazy eye? Her left eye's looking at you, but the right one apparently sees something more interesting behind you. Is this something everybody has already noticed?
2. I wrote something for someone else's blog. The blog is Ration Reality, and you should read it. The article's about cussing. I also make fun of an innocent 14-year-old boy who's just trying to put some decency back into the world, so if that kind of thing upsets you, you should probably just turn around.
"You smell like a baby prostitute."
We went to play at the men's cologne counter at Lord and Taylor during our morning break, and now you can't come within 50 feet of me without your sinuses melting.
First I tried the Diesel fragrance, but it was too effeminate and faded into "Bath and Body Works Vanilla." Since I'm not a 14-year-old girl or Rainbow Brite, I couldn't possibly go all day smelling of that cloying sweetness. Not wanting to make the same mistake twice, I sprayed some Dolce & Gabbana Light Blue on a card. It reeked. I decided to put Kenneth Cole RSVP, which my coworker was buying for her husband, over the vanilla because that stuff's pretty nice. Now I smell like a man again. Sadly, it's a man who just had sex with a 14-year-old girl or Rainbow Brite.
But that's just my left side. On my right, I put on Kenneth Cole Reaction because we wanted to smell the fragrance on something that wasn't a piece of paper. It would have been fine, but then this Armenian man (I'm calling him Armenian to avoid calling him "foreigner" but really I have no idea what kind of infidel he was).... where was I? Oh, right, this man came and was talking on his cell phone and probably hadn't showered today because he picked up a sample bottle of something light blue and sprayed a noxious effluvium that made Chernobyl seem like a hamster fart. Naturally, half of it got all over me, so now I smell like 4 kinds of men's cologne and my throat is closing up.
I feel pretty.
Nick Hogan is a Douchebag
Hi everyone! I hope all your Thanksgivings were as fattening as mine! Highlights include: turkey AND ham on Thursday. Not one but two lasagnas on Friday. Steak AND lobster on Saturday. McDonalds AND Arby's on Sunday. The entire weekend was a gastronomic onslaught to rival the Great Binge of '03. It's about time. My "I Ate the Big One" t-shirt got destroyed in the wash.
Speaking of destruction and big things, I'm finally back home in New York where my internet history is not saved on any friend's computer, so I am free to do the important research to which my academic mind is accustomed. I like to learn a new thing every day. Today, I learned that the single cultural icon for which my father and I share an affinity, Hulk Hogan, has a reality show. Chronically behind in all things television and music, my late enlightenment to this program is actually right on schedule.
My dad loves the Hulk. He's met him on more than one occasion at airports, and there are some great signed pictures on our basement walls. Some of my earliest memories with my dad involve laying on him watching WCW (God rest it), and Hulk Hogan's image is this sensory trigger to all of those experiences: the smell of my dad's aftershave, the way he'd yell when one 'roidhead beat up another, and that one fateful day I decided to see what would happen if I pulled out one of my dad's chest hairs. To this day, I'm glad I have none of my own.
The existence of his show comes as no surprise since I got a glimpse of his flagging career last year when I saw him in Bryant Park. Incidentally, seeing Hulk Hogan in person did not cause me to regress to childhood like Hulkster iconography does. Don't ask me why. What does come as a surprise is that he has kids, which I never knew.
Obviously--though you could know this without a photo--his wife and daughter look like Russian whores, and his son is an idiot. Fabulous.
The wife is divorcing him, probably for some horrible reason because I imagine him being a nice guy. The daughter wants to be a singer, and I think you should all go support her at your local mall. Anyway, I don't want to talk about them. I want to talk about Nick Hogan.
Nick Hogan wants to be a racecar driver and professional wrestler just like every boy does when he's 5. Nick, however, is 17. His racing career is already well underway. He has been stopped numerous times for recklessly driving above the speed limit and has already served time for vegetizing one of his friends in a high-speed car accident. Add in the doofy half-smile and the abominable mohawk to the right and there you go. This is Trixie calling Mach 5! We have a Grade-A Large Douchebag around the next bend.
The only problem with this is that I have this occasional tendency to find douchebags really hot. They may act like morons and pop their collars and sometimes smell kinda off, but there's something raw and animalistic about them that speaks to my inner sex demon.
I've hooked up with a couple of douchebags in my time. One was a guy everyone knew in high school who (SURPRISE!) became gay in college and the other was this Hawaiian-shirt-wearing, Night-at-the-Roxbury-dancing bookie I met here in the city. Both not anything I'd ever show to anyone or even speak to without a quart of alcohol in my system, but I gotta say: Top Quality Coitus.
Douchebags don't care. They're so absorbed in their testosterony douchbagginess that they have no idea what they're doing, but somehow.... SOMEHOW when they've finished lumbering and pawing their way through an hour in the hay, even I'd be willing to bleach my hair, get some implants, and cheer them on in the ring wearing fake nails and a cat suit.
And so, it isn't without embarassment that I resurrect an old regular column that never took off and name Nick Hogan my Celebrity Hard-On for November 2007. Well done, Nick! Don't kill any more of your friends, ok?
Happy Fuckin' Turducken Day!
I'm dating a weirdo--Hey CB!--a weirdo who dislikes meat at that, but I did manage to get past his vegetarian deficiencies by enlightening him to the thrill of my favorite food that I've never had: the turducken. He sounded excited and insisted I write a blog entry with the title this one has, which he made up.
The turducken gets a bit of press every now and then, so you may know of it, but for the uninitiated, a turducken is a turkey stuffed with a duck stuffed with a chicken and then roasted. The birds are usually deboned. Observe:
Does that not look amazing? I imagine it being wet and fatty, much like having sex with me in the shower. Dear God, it makes me hungry. I don't even know how people can eat plain old boring turkey on Thanksgiving anymore.
There are variations on the turducken such as further stuffing the duck with sausage. Or, you can make a turduckencorpheail, which is a turducken with a cornish game hen, a pheasant, and a quail inside. It's like those nested babushka dolls, except you eat the turducken instead of taking it apart, getting bored, and being mad you received a shitty toy when all you wanted was a Wii. The point is, meaty bird animals can be combined in any number of ways. It's a medium of exquisite artistry completely lost on you hippie vegetarians.
I'd also like to draw your attention to the mother lode of birds in birds in birds: the Rôti Sans Pareil, or bustergophechiduckneaealcockidgeoverwingailusharkolanbler. It also goes by the name I just made up: Turduckenzilla. You can read the recipe here in Graham Greene's incomprehensible introduction to some weird recipe book. Apparently this dish is an aphrodisiac, which is just what every family Thanksgiving needs. The best part is that lots of those birds are endangered species, which makes juicy just a little bit juicier.
If Turduckenzilla is too much for your family to handle this holiday, I might suggest the simpler goose/pheasant/duck/another duck dish "Gophuckaduck."
Ok, that was a stretch. I'm done now. Have a good holiday everyone, even though mine will be better!
Watch this!
Saturday posting! Weird. I know! Anyway, I want to share a video that embodies two things I did in high school: marching and playing Tetris.
Please ignore how bad they are.
Ganked from: East Village Idiot
Dedicated to: Kev (P.S. 74!)
Happy Prattle
I'm gassy and broken out today, so I'm going to think about some positive things about this week. Here they are to brighten up your day too!
For one, I had a non-hellacious experience at D'Agostino's yesterday, which is pretty much unprecedented and might be considered a miracle but for the bottle of water I got not becoming wine. I went in, I found what I needed, I was undercharged for my marshmallows, and I left. No idiot employees. No moronic organization like how they hide the mayonnaise far away from all the other condiments. No babies, no old people, no inflated prices. It was almost like a regular grocery store!
You don't know how much I hate that place.
Secondly, I just found out that this boy exists, which pretty much makes the world livable again.
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Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, the guy that hands out the Metro newspaper (alongside the A.M. New York, this is a free paper that everyone reads on the subway and leaves on the seat) told me I brighten up his morning every day! It made me so happy, and now we're best friends. He said it because even though I don't want his shitty paper, I always smile and say "No thank you." I don't know why I started doing that. I guess he has friendly eyes.
Anyway, my hard work paid off because now he thinks I'm fucking Mother Theresa. Sadly, since he said this to me, he has disappeared. It must be illegal for those newspaper people to have good personalities. The guy doing it now is as surly and in the way as all the others.
Question of the day: Why do we say "Does anyone have a magic marker?" What in hell is so magical about markers?
Also, read this. It's important.
WTF, Vanessa? Srsly.
Last night I finally got to redeem my birthday gift to myself by going to see Vanessa at the New York City Opera with tickets I bought in September.... y'know, for my birthday.
I wrote a paper on this opera and a couple others in college. I think Vanessa's a great opera because I'm not this guy who feels the need to show us how artistic and intelligent he is with bad metaphors and silly jabs at the plebian tastes of American opera-goers AS IF HE WEREN'T ONE OF THEM HIMSELF. Well, to be fair, he's right about one thing, and that's that Menotti's libretto sucks. But I don't blame Menotti.
Here's the plot: Vanessa is about Vanessa. She's a rich girl who has been waiting 20 years for some trick to return to her from wherever he is. She covered all the mirrors and portraits in her house, presumably to create the illusion that she's preserving her youth. More like VAINessa! It doesn't make sense. What makes even less sense is why her niece and mother, who live with her, put up with such melodramatic bullshit. I'd be like "Woman, don't you touch my mirrors! Find yourself a new man or GTFOI!"
'GTFOI' stands for "get the fuck over it!" I just made it up. It applies to every character in this opera.
ANYWAY, the night Vanessa's old lover is slated to return, his son of the same name comes instead because daddy's dead. Now, instead of being sensible and greeting him like a normal, sane person, Vanessa decides to turn her back to him and NOT ALLOW HIM TO LOOK AT HER until he assures her that he still loves her. The son, Anatol, being a total dipshit, decides to say he loves her even though he has no idea who the fuck she is. Elated, she turns around, kisses him, and then realizes he's a stranger. The rest of Act I is quoted directly from an episode of Three's Company. She freaks out, says "Oh my God, who are you?!" and runs out of the room. I don't know why, but I was the only person laughing aloud when this happened.
Then Anatol seduced Vanessa's niece Erika, who falls in love with him but refuses to marry him because he's a gold-digging, smooth-talking user (a character point we must take Erika's word for because there's not evidence for it anywhere else in the libretto.) Anyway, since she won't marry him, Anatol gets Vanessa to marry him. (He's like 19, and she's over 40 by the way... and if I may say, a little bit hippy.) Anyway, Vanessa loves him too because she's demented and thinks he's the same as his father.
Turns out Erika's preggers (oh shit!) and when Vanessa and Anatol announce their engagement, she goes all nutso even though she rejected him, and runs away into the winter forest to have an abortion by hand. I mean what would YOU do? Then Vanessa and Anatol leave for Paris, and Erika puts the covers back over the mirrors and portraits, ending the opera by saying "Now it is my turn to wait."
For what the little drama queen is waiting is never made clear since nobody's coming back for her. There's no reason for her to freak out, I mean she didn't even like the guy. She slept with him ONE TIME. Anyway, her grandmother won't even talk to her anymore because she's being a total crybaby, so I say if she wants to fester away in her musty old house by herself with just her expanding hips and sagging boobs for company, let her. Man, the dude gave her every chance in the world, and even though Vanessa's only happy because she's deluded and refuses to accept reality (the message of the opera, by the way, is that happiness is only found in self-deception and forgetfulness) at least she's happy.
Right, so even though I really like this opera, you have to admit the plot really blows because all the characters are retarded and lacking in dimension. Anyway, I don't really blame Menotti as much as I blame women because they cry too much.
Just kidding, I blame Menotti.
Echo! (Echo!)
You can tell I'm getting fat because my belly button is like 3 inches deep.
I can stick my finger in there up to the first knuckle.
I need a Craigslist boyfriend with a fetish. "Roan cow seeks masculine soccer-playing model/massage therapist. Must enjoy spleunking, Doritos, and body contact because there is no escape."
Pervy Friday (not a regular feature, I promise)
I get so immature at the end of the week. I think I'm being set up for it because it's never until Thursday or Friday that I get music by Anton Titz and Richard Cumming, and I can't help but laugh like a 4-year-old.
Today it's already started with a book of songs from the Triestingtal in Austria. Nothing funny there, right? Yeah, not until you look up Triestingtal on German Wikipedia to find out it's a valley that forms the southern border of the Wienerwald.
First I giggled because of Wiener World. Then I remembered Wald means forest. Now my advanced brain is making up a story about Snow White getting lost in the Wiener Wald. Der Wald des Wieners. There are dwarves. There are monkeys. And mostly, there's magnificent flora.
If I weren't at work, I'd Photoshop you a picture.
Anyway, this brings up an issue that often comes to my mind. That issue is Disembodied Organs of Sexual Interest. I've often heard men make reference to the joys of swimming in a pool of boobs or diving into a vat of.... vaginas or something. I dunno. Basically, total immersion. Not having interacted with a naked breast since my senior year in high school, I find this hard to imagine.
So I turned it around and considered the prospect of jumping into a swimming pool filled with.... well, wieners. And the results are unappealing. I imagine it would be kinda rubbery. So total immersion is out.
But the question is, how much interest comes from the part and how much from the mere fact that it's attached to a person. Consider the following Achewood comic strip. Obviously, isolated breasts lead to insanity.
Imagine now walking through a forest of penises. Or even just seeing one sticking out of a wall or growing from the ground. Would you have any desire to interact with it? Would I?
Some people find dicks attractive and others don't. I, as it happens, do. So, CONFESSION TIME! Given a guarantee of cleanliess and a few minutes of privacy, I would be intrigued by a disembodied penis (but not in a bloody way) enough to see what I could do.
And I'm pretty sure I'm not alone.
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