Snark And Cupcakes

Unlike "The World's Worst Gambler Post" This Is About You....

2008-06-08T09:08:00.002-04:00

A. (which is both your first initial and a simple way to abbreviate the word "Asshole"),

I know you've been lurking around this blog for months now. Fuck off. You showed zero concern for my welfare when you lied to me, endangered my health (and perhaps also the health of your new girlfriend, as the whole situation was sketchy) with your whoring, took my home that I worked my ass off for and used me for my body, money and time. I gave you the best of me, and you threw it away as if I was worthless. I'll always have a scar inside due to your cowardice, not even counting the sheer backbreaking physical strain it took to rebuild my life.

You have no right to know nor care how I am doing, because if you ever really gave a shit, you would have dealt with me in a decent, honest manner. Instead you lied to reap the last benefits of that hellish work summer, then used my trust to toss me out like the used condoms you'd been using on cheap whores all over town. Fuck off and die is still applicable.

Everything you've built since then (relationship and living situation wise)is based on those thefts and lies. I pity poor S., as she seems a decent person and believes your bullshit. You'll most likely harm her and her innocent son somewhere down the line. You "just can't love" a non biological child, even if "it's cute and all", remember? So what lies did you tell to get into this woman's heart and home?

Either speak your piece so I can tell you to fuck off right here in a public forum, or go the fuck away. I will forward all of the tracker logs of your visits to this site to your new girlfriend if needed, to prove I kept my end of the bargain and vanished....while you have still been sneaking around the edges of my life. Because knowing you you'll get caught and attempt to blame it on me in some fashion to save your sickening, pathetic hide and whatever dirty shit you're up to now.

This will be this blog's siren song, and the sentiment remains the same. I wouldn't spit on you if you were on fire, get the karmic payback you deserve (and the STD you seem to love to risk for yourself and others) then proceed to fuck off and die you waste of human oxygen (That didn't fall far from the goldigging whore tree you originated from).

Domain Name verizon.net ? (Network)
IP Address 72.90.68.# (RAYMOUR FLANNIGAN)
ISP Verizon Internet Services
Location Continent : North America
Country : United States (Facts)
State : New York
City : Liverpool
Lat/Long : 43.1532, -76.2116 (Map)

Language English (U.S.)
en-us
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Mozilla/4.0 (compatible; MSIE 6.0; Windows NT 5.0)
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Time of Visit Jun 7 2008 10:10:48 am
Last Page View Jun 7 2008 10:14:01 am
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After That Brief Word From Our Sponsors....

2008-04-03T20:14:00.003-04:00

I'm back. It took a 72 hour marathon of frenzied activity, but finally there is a lasting peace in this house and this adventure in rural hell can serve its proper purpose as a rest stop. For once I've done all that I can, and instead of pushing myself to be the small scale superhero I realize that it is enough. I've done my best and what happens from here on out is the responsibility of the principle characters, as I can't save them from themselves.

I've set a foundation on which they have the choice to build, and I can work on the many things I suspended to create that for them.

Gather my resources, choose my next port of call (due to things like school and travel being far easier to accomplish when you live in places that have mastered basic civilized skills like literacy and the wonders of a functional airport), and eventually find my way to whoever and whatever might someday be my place to call home.

I came here as another in a long series of vanishing acts, the words on this screen one of the few tangible reminders I was ever present at all. Where my wandering has prevented the gathering of the possessions and the long term relationships where most people keep their memories and their hopes, I have these little missives typed into the ether to remind me...and that makes it important to type this.

For the first time in quite a while, I am no longer the broken girl. All of the burdens of the past year or so have lifted and I'm finally peaceful and free. Whatever comes next I'm ready for it, and hopeful in the same way my teenage self was when she faked her ID and hit the road with little more than hope, a bit of talent and a trunk case. Life will have its ugly, lonely moments but they are temporary and no matter how battered and bruised I become I still have so much over which to smile. So here it is, a hastily written note to self so as I don't forget the potential for joy (and another set of adventures)lurking around the next (and most unexpected) of corners.

A Quick Note From The Editrix

2008-03-28T23:22:00.003-04:00

Due to last week's drama festival, we are sectioning this old house off. I have to pack/unpack/get the desk monkeys at my ISP to install new hardware for my landline and internet/assorted annoying administrative life tasks. I'll be on the grid until Tuesday (the fact that the date of that particular Tuesday is April Fool's Day is a detail not lost on me), followed by a blackout of what could be as long as a week. For those of you that were kind enough to ask, I am safe and well. In fact, I am hopeful that this will bring enough peace to all parties concerned that I can start telling the backlog of stories from Snark And Cupcakes central office, and other delayed goals from this latest of commercial interruptions to my otherwise happy life.

I'll try to squeeze in a pre hiatus post (or two) if I can, but I make no promises.

Never Mind The Bollocks, Here's Some Free MP3s

2008-02-22T15:51:00.000-05:00

It's that time of week again, and I am one extra snarky cupcake. If the herd of townies being randomly obnoxious wasn't bad enough, they've now taken to to spotting me everywhere I go like the bastard child of Where's Waldo and the paparazzi Special Olympics.

Upon arriving to work each day, my lovely neighbors/customers give me a verbally itemized list of every single time I've walked the dog, ran an errand, had a drink with my friends, visited my boyfriend, stole some more music off the internet or flicked a cigarette butt into the gutter. It's a brilliant display of collective idiot savantism. The fuckers couldn't add 2 digit numbers without the help of all 4 limbs and someone with fancy book learning who knows how to operate of them there fancy calculators. However, if you ask Little Timmy Bob Trailer Trash where the girl with the cherry pop hair was at 2:37 am last Tuesday, he'd be able to tell you my precise location faster than he scraped the fresh roadkill off the highway for breakfast.

Thus this week's bunch is a very special bundle dedicated to those who seem incapable of minding their own business rather than the comings and goings of your favorite not so friendly neighborhood Jezebel.

Keep Staring, I May Just Do A Trick

"Freakshow" Britney Spears- I've never shaved my head or gotten a quickie Vegas wedding, but attacking the next person I see (who feels the need to stare compulsively at me for daring to walk down the street) with an umbrella is starting to sound lovely.

"Outta My Head" Ashlee Simpson- Yeah, Ashlee sucks, but Timbaland and whoever he got to ghost sing this for her made a nice little 80's throwback...Toni Basil crossed with neo New Wave to create the aural eqivalent of holding your hands over your ears, sticking out your tongue and chanting "La,la,la...I'm not listening!" like a 6 year old.

"Fame" David Bowie- Or in this case, infamy. Famous people get paid.

"Somebody's Watching Me" Rockwell Featuring Michael Jackson- Everyone's second favorite Halloween novelty tale of paranoia, still an also ran to Thriller after all these years, even with an assist from a copycat production style and the Artist Formerly Known As The King Of Pop. Rockwell should've relaxed a bit, as it was all of 14:59 before no one was watching him (or at least buying his records) at all.

"Human Nature" Madonna- Where would this list be without pop icons and their persecution complexes? In this case a Main Source sample and a snarling retort to the "prudes" who panned Sex and its aural equivalent, the Erotica album. ( Perhaps due to the fact that for media devoted to all sorts of kinky fornication, the majority of both products were either accidental comedy or decidedly uncomfortable. After 20 years of being the master of mixing sex and spirituality as a matter of course, was anyone really shocked by the exploits detailed? As if Madonna forgot that that sort of repression is what she had been rallying against her entire career. )

"Stupid Girl" Garbage- Shirley Manson where have you gone? Team porcelain pale with dyed fire engine hair misses you and your sexy alt rock growl.

"Scream" Michael Jackson Featuring Janet Jackson- Though this song makes minor attempts to equate the tabloid frenzy with larger racial injustice, but it's hard to take seriously in the context of the borderline meglomaniacal promotional stunts that accompanied the album (massive statues of Michael as dictator floated down major waterways, the 4 minute short film where he gathers his moonwalking army, that insanely expensive Lost In Space video where the main object was scowling choreography and breaking shit). You know, it's not as if the plastic parts, creepy MTV make outs, child abuse trials, Peter Pan complex, and pet monkeys had anything to do with the scandal coverage overshadowing his musical output. Couldn't be!

"?Get Up Punk! 0200 Hours (Joint Special Operations Task Force)" General Patton vs. The X-Ecutioners- One of the few semi traditional songs on a very experimental sort of record. Analysis is futile, puny human.

"Blue Monday" New Order- After that glut of The ~insert noun here, like a Mad Lib~ bands who anyone only ever liked because they took a large shark bite out of New Order's electro rock leanings, why not just pull out the original? Xerox is a kind of an outdated technology anyway.

"Flagpole Sitta" Harvey Danger- This rally against the ever so hip late 90's Seattle scene works just as well as a protest agains the hell is other (rural) people situation I'm currently in. (It's also the theme song to the kick ass Brit com Peep Show ) Paranoia, paranoia (and hillbillies) are coming to get me!

20 Questions

2008-02-21T11:18:00.003-05:00

1. If idle hands are the Devil's work, what are idle people?

2. Is the correct answer to that first question, "raging alcoholics....with a taste for random vandalism" or am I merely speaking for the residents of New City?

3.Who wrote the book of love, and why are dancing frog toys that sing songs of romance while imitating illegal acts not specifically prohibited as proper tokens of it?

4.Was there no one at the KFC corporate office that realized that equating home, family, community, and fried chicken wasn't a good look as a means to annotate Black History Month?

5. Does anyone else have to yell at their mom to turn down the thrashy guitar rock while they're trying to sleep? (God damned parents and their God damned noisy music! ~shakes fist~)

6. While I can't fault this guy for sticking to his principles...who in the fuck goes to a strip club for the food?!

7. And while we're on the subject of that clip, isn't equating the dancers with hunks of lifeless meat ready for consumption tres creepy (even by sleazy strip club owner standards)?

8. Anyone care to venture a guess as to how many rocks will get tossed at me when I visit a friend's one stoplight and a liquor store home town tomorrow? (It'll be the extreme sports version of one of those primary school "guess how many jellybeans are in the jar" contests, bonus no prize for guessing the correct number of stitches it takes to close the wounds!)

9. Will the wraith of Mimi come to kill my blog/rupture my eardrums with a prolonged melisma in the whistle register if I say her name 3 times in the mirror and post this?

10. Granted it isn't a huge deal that a guy that you found to be as appealing as sex with Gary Coleman (and placed into the DO NOT WANT bin) is dating someone else, but it is human to be a bit concerned when their new toy is a good friend of yours, correct?

11. Is it so bad that you also want to kick said jackass in the head until his brain leaks out of his ears because you now have to hear the minutae of how said asshole is manipulating her personal issues to make her accept the fact that he treats her like shit?

12. Is Janet Jackson the new Michael Jackson?(Fading into history lesson just as quickly, but without those pesky molestation allegations!)

13. Who do rappers with an album that shipped double cardboard feel the need to imitate the big boys' boasts of Maybachs, popping expensive bottles and fucking supermodels? We know you couldn't even afford to rent that shit, much less own it.

14. Can we all please start a collection to buy this guy a well deserved (and non altered) drink?

15. In fact, would anyone like to tip your alcoholic hostess while we're at it?

16. Gary Coleman's "secret" wedding: Is it still a secret if no one gave enough of a shit to ask?

17. Am I the last female on Earth who cares that their lingerie matches? Looking for sets is like trying to find a coherent, correctly punctuated sentence on a livejournal.

18. Is it wrong to punch the next random ass dude that claims he's going convince me to marry him as a pick up line?

19. Does it make it less wrong if no one's looking?

20. Am I a complete 12 year old for finding this funny? I'll never be able to listen to any song titled "Digital Love" and/or "Computer Love", quite the same way ever again.

Coffee, Cream, And A Dash of Dysfunction

2008-02-16T10:25:00.000-05:00

Another morning, another random/innappropriate family moment, once again, verbatim. Enjoy, and thank whatever deities that be these are not your relatives:

~Mom sitting at her computer desk reading a news story about a daycare provider who was arrested for punishing a toddler by stuffing a pull up/not quite diaper into the poor kid's mouth~

Mom: ~to no one in particular~ Kid was probably being obnoxious and screaming or whatever...my parents would've beat my ass, screw the pull up....this guy does it and he's in jail.

Me: White trash on parade! It gets worse though...did you read that story about the couple in ~neighboring town~ who were pimping out their 16 year old daughter? Saltines run amok.

~My niece giggles hysterically at every repetition of any variant of the word meaning "white trash", for reasons known only to her and anyone else who can decode the vocalizations of 6 month olds~

Mom: I did. Hey! I've got two daughters, I wonder what I could get?

~Both myself and my sister shoot her the almighty queen of "bitch...please" looks. My nephew wanders up with his kiddie digital camera and takes a picture of my sister, she grimaces~

Sister: ~looks at her screwface picture on camera~ Lovely. Go show grandma.

Me: See Mom? She's making that face so you can't attempt to pimp her.

Mom: ~gazing at camera~ It'd sell somewhere. It may not sell for much, but if those fat bitches on Cops can do it, this face would sell.

Sister: ~imitating this infamous Maury Povich guest, who hit the ho stoll for a double cheeseburger~
I even had sex for a cheeseburger with bacon! It tastes good! It tastes good!
~switches back to normal speaking tone~
How degrading is it that you whored yourself out and didn't even manage to get something that isn't on the dollar menu?

Mom: I guess you have to work harder for the Happy Meal.

Sister: ~begins imitating teen hooker again~ I even had sex for this here toy! It plays good! It plays good!

Special Whiskey Tango Foxtrot Edition Of Free MP3 Friday

2008-02-15T13:15:00.000-05:00

Though I've been ever so worthy of a gold star and a cookie for managing to ~shock and awe~ actually type stuff lately, I'm still having fun with piracy too. Usually I dig out whatever catches my ear among the thousands of CDs that spill out of my closets and the digital excess that fills my overburdened hard drive/inbox, as I collect music with the same fervor that crazy old ladies acquire kittens from the local ASPCA. This week, it's a selection of the weird, wrong and just plain uncomfortable that I've encountered in my travels, submitted for your downloading pleasure (read: bemused mockery).

Same old legal shit in a new hat: This blog does not store any files on its server. Links expire in a short period of time. The postings are for promotional and preview purposes only and all the albums/songs downloaded from here should be deleted within 24 hours. If you like the albums you downloaded here please support the artist by buying the original cd. Failure to do as you're told will result in everyone finding out about your secret stash of atrocious and excessively guilty pleasures involving dwarf porn, Crisco and Yanni.

What Manner Of Fuckery Is This?

"Fuck It (I Don't Want You Back)" Eamon- Some Staten Island simp gets burned by a boardwalk betty, releases whiny ass record that sounds like it was written by a pissy high school freshman excited his English teacher lets him use expletives in his free verse. In some rip in the space time continuum that makes things like the success of Color Me Badd seem logical, it charts top 10 in several countries and inspires an answer record by an unknown named Frankee, entitled "Fuck You Right Back". In a further display of sheer madness, her version accomplishes the impressive task of sounding even suckier and junior high school burn book-esque than the original, and still manages to crack the top 100 in the US and elsewhere, riding on no more than its trainwreck value and the obvious publicity stunt of claiming to be the ex girlfriend that got Eamon all leaky in the first place. Skanky one hit wonder sissy slap fight over, both faded into welcome silence, and were last seen working the drive through at a suburban Taco Bell.

"This Is The Way" Rivers Cuomo- I've always been inclined to ride for Rivers (the geek genius behind Weezer), having experienced the whole post "Buddy Holly"/"The Sweater Song" mania first hand, and rushing to the record shop to buy Pinkerton (released on my birthday, 1996). Though I loved those first two records, and found songs like "Hash Pipe" or "Islands In The Sun" tolerable if nothing special, all I could do was manage to not wince by the time they got to the pompous bombast of "Beverly Hills" and wonder what the hell had turned my nerdy friends into a 3rd rate arena band, or if perhaps Mr. Cuomo had finally buried his head deeply enough into his navel that it couldn't ever be retrieved. The fact that he saw fit to allow this lame bit of pop fluff (that would make a 4th rate boy band like O Town cringe) to see the light of day, indicates that the long M.I.A. spark of wit he had is definitely to be presumed dead. Seriously, even the horrible harbingers of hipster "irony" didn't cosign this shit..... (considering some of the utterly inane things they willingly support), and that pretty much tells you how dire it is.

"Wrestlers" Hot Chip- Speaking of things only a certain sort of music blogger could love, I present to you a wobbly mish mash of bad R+B beats (think pre programmed Casio) and sex as professional wrestling metaphors. Note to the world at large: R. Kelly style ridiculousness is only funny because it is flamingly obvious he really doesn't get the joke most of the time. In fact, Trapped In The Closet became fatally boring once he took time out of his busy watersports schedule to realize we were laughing at (not with) him, and began purposely pandering to the expectations of absurdity we now held him to.

In fact, if this bullshit song becomes a big of a sensation as Closet, inspiring a legion of John Cena/ Vince Macmahon slash fiction and an IFC special edition of Monday Night Raw, I will personally begin cutting a swoopy bang destroying swath through all known bastions of dumbass hipsterism, introducing foot to ass with a wink and a nudge.

"Pop The Glock" Uffie- Boasts of guns,cash, beatdowns and other imagined badassery from rappers who've thus far shipped double cardboard is nothing new, and even my cranky ass can't really be bothered to snark at it, as it's basically Hiroshima bombing the proverbial fish in a barrel. However, when said bullshit comes from an Anglo trust fund baby who only has a deal because she's dating a DJ? In an affected accent? Claiming "rhymes like Twista, fast as hell" (in a cadence somewhere between a rehabilitating stroke victim and a Speak And Spell)? See TAFKA get insta stabby, just add stupid! DJ Feadz is at least getting some ass out of the deal (and it better be made of sunshine and rainbows to justify embarrassing himself this hard), but the herd of myspacers that allowed this most unpleasant strain of white rapper virus to spread don't have the slightest bit of excuse. They did it for the auditorily punishing lulz,probably (and to fatally disprove the idea behind the wisdom of crowds).

"Sexual Eruption" Snoop Dogg- Just when we finally got rid of all the fuckers in the shiny suits, version 2.0 saw the Invasion of the Half Assed Crooners,rappers like Ja Rule and 50 Cent warbling their way through their own hooks and making the likes of Akon and T Pain seem almost dulcet in comparison. Could gangster rappers pretty please go back to scaring the shit out of Middle America and leave the goofy retro vocorder/ blaxploitation caricature kitsch to the likes of Nate Dogg? He's got hospital bills to pay, have a heart and spare our eardrums.

"Cause The Beat's Hot" Board Bangers- In a post apocalyptic world where every vintage soul sample, incongruous rock record, pop footnote, and Broadway children's choir has been sampled ad nauseum, a former producer (who now is a freedom fighter in the epic battle against Cher and her vast army of cockroaches), makes one last aural battle cry in the form of a drum machine and a vintage Meow Mix commercial. His plan backfires when every remaining bio human kills themselves rather than hear this record ever again.

"In The Closet" Michael Jackson- In which the world's most asexual pop icon attempts to trade in his signature non threatening sweetness for a half assed attempt at New Jack Swing style sexual swagger. Between the utterly chemistry less chasing of Naomi Campbell through the music video (he was too busy vamping in doorways to pay her much attention),the weirdly violent metaphors("you can not cleave it...or put it in a furnace") that odd Princess Stephanie spoken word, and the excessively unfortunate title...this was the song that turned the whole world off(and launched 1,000 bad jokes on late night TV).

"Say Yeah" Wiz Khalifa- "Better Off Alone" by Alice Deejay barely even managed to crack the shitty pop stations' piss poor attempts at imitating after hours clubs, what executive jackass thought it was an excellent choice for an introductory rap single? Where's the target audience for this? The ever important Z100 Jingle Ball attendee/small time hustler subset? Angry post club kids who've turned to lives of (invented) thuggery? Perhaps we aren't too far from the extinction level scenario I was jesting about above, as this sample is scraping the bottom of the bucket so hard, it is about to fall out.

"Fancy Footwork" Chromeo- The internets are going nuts for these guys, but if this is the future of dance music, than that future is the creepy Hall and Oates fixated uncle at the family reunion giving out inappropriate dating advice (and hugs that last a few seconds too long for comfort) before getting extremely drunk and trying to show the young folks how the old dances go.

"Smart Girls" Brian Wilson- Rappers shouldn't sing, and surf rock legends shouldn't rap...though that didn't stop this Beach Boys member (and his psychologist Eugene Landy, who was obviously liberal with the good drugs, and who co- produced this dogpile) from attempting. The end result has Wilson sounding like a drugged out cartoon dog in a mid 80's PSA, while random bits of his previous hits blare in and out of the mix like foghorns. Though the single thankfully never made it past the stage of radio promo, the album this mess was attached to was ever so aptly named Sweet Insanity. (You know, that thing a proper shrink should've attempted to stop Brian from so publically and embarrassingly doing)

The Commerce Of Infidelity

2008-02-13T09:00:00.004-05:00

That one was dedicated to the lovers....and this one's dedicated to the whores...- Prince(interlude between "Damn U" and "Arrogance" from the 0(+> album)

Aside from making the rest of your life an exercise in walking backwards, a life on the overnight also creates its own holidays, twilight versions of the standard issue, the dark side of the various bastions of Hallmark sponsored good cheer. The night before Thanksgiving (where everyone gets as inebriated as possible in anticipation of running a gauntlet of relatives) is probably the best known example, but the label applies tonight as well. If Valentine's Day proper is for the wives and the girlfriends and the fiancees.....tonight is for the mistresses and side pieces and "secretaries" hired more for their measurements in the waist, hips and bust than their typed words per minute. A consolation prize for being a part time lover with full time obligations of home, hearth and false fidelity come morning.

They'll be tucked into corner booths in the classier edge of town restaurants, gifts of perfume and diamonds and lingerie (more brief than the package it's wrapped in) slid across tables. Tipsy tiptoeing into hotel suites, heels a bit too high and skirts a bit too short, all the better to compensate for the necessarily non descript stance of the men who booked the room under equally anonymous names. (I'm sure the bored suburban housewives are just as adept at keeping pretty pool boys, but Valintine's Day was never about men in the first place, and its shadow twin reflects this in kind.)

On a shift where the norm is not being able to hear yourself think over the sheer enormity of human oddities, on this particular night it will be blissfully still, as no one wants to draw too much attention to themselves. That alone is a gift, let alone the fact that you will be tipped exorbitantly for pretending not to notice the familiar face underneath the rumpled, furtive sex flush. Because what's done in the dark eventually comes into the light, but pockets full of small bills insure that this particular dawn won't be a final siren song.

I've been doing this far too long to muster the slightest shred of moral outrage, it would disrupt the rare oppertunity of silence,with the added bonus of being paid handsomely for my own. I just tuck the excess into a back pocket, and become another one of the masses slipping home in the half light. It's a fair trade.

And This Is Before We've Had Our Coffee

2008-02-12T08:10:00.001-05:00

I'm sitting around with my fellow residents in the New City Group Home For Maturity Challenged Adults (read: my family) waiting for our caffinated savior to finish making its way into the pot. The television is on one of those cheerfully interchangable network morning shows (as it usually is, the idiot box and Fudgicles are the only things I've found that keep everyone quiet for 5 minutes), and bland blonde anchorette is reporting on this year's Doodle 4 Google contest. Kids K-12 invited to draw a design for the Google homepage and win some nice little scholarship money. Nothing could be more innocuous, right?

You greatly underestimate the ridiculousness of my family. The entire conversation verbatim, in another entry for your reading amusement (and my analyst's records):

~news anchor reporting previously mentioned Google story on in background, with both Mom and Dad randomly repeating "google doodle" like a tongue twister they haven't yet mastered~

~Nephew runs through living room en route to kitchen~

Dad: Hey little man, why don't you do a Google doodle?

Mom: "Google Doodle"...sounds like something you'd do in your pants.

Me: Or something obscene that's inside of them

Mom: Oh! I get it! Like.... how big is your Google Doodle?

Dad: 10,000 scholarship....that's an expensive doodle....you know what the most expensive doodle ever was? Something JFK scribbled on a notepad, sold for a huge amount at some auction. He was a bored doodling president.

Mom: But we recently had a doodling president. Clinton.

Dad: But to make any money off him you'd have to find the cigar.

Mom: He probably smoked it.

Dad: Yep. He smoked it all right.

Me: What about the dress? Didn't Monica save it?

Mom: Bill Clinton, going down in history.

Me: Wouldn't that apply better to Monica? Going down in history for going down on history?

Dad: No one will remember her name in 50 years, he'll have his legacy and she'll have a faded dry cleaning bill.

Me: Well I heard she designs handbags now, but if that doesn't work out she's at least got a future as a trivia question. Is there any coffee?

Dad: She does.

Mom: I'm not sure if the coffee's done, but you're more than welcome to go check.... ~holds out cup and makes pitiful face~... and pour me some because you love me.

Me: Not so much. More because this is a bargaining chip to force you into actually making proper breakfast later.

Eternal Sunshine Of The Misanthropic Mind (Free MP3 Friday)

2008-02-01T11:50:00.000-05:00

There was no playlist last week, and I refuse to apologize, as I was umm....~searches for appropriate but not too revealing term, demure is not my strong suit ~ courting an out of town interest. (That works nicely.) Normal piracy service has now resumed.

It's that drab and dreary time of year, past the point of the holiday hells, but not quite the spring. When winter has already worn out any trival purpose or welcome it may have had and I get sick of snow and sniffles and slick grey slush making simple locomotion harder than it ever needed to be. As I'm going without an exotic get away this year (the money is better donated to the "Get out of this frigid hell for good" fund), my brain sprains itself for the sights and sounds of summer. Block parties and ice cream trucks. Bikinis and white sand beaches. Pretty girls in the park in sundresses and open toes, a Sunday drive with the top down and the stereo loud. Warm breeze from a cracked window sliding across bare skin after a lazy sun drenched afternoon tangled up in the tastes and sights and sounds of a lover, all smoothness of skin and temptation to touch..........

What the fuck was the point of this post? Playlist. That's it, sure, right. Got distracted for a second there.

This, That And The Third:This blog does not store any files on its server. Links expire in a short period of time. The postings are for promotional and preview purposes only and all the albums/songs downloaded from here should be deleted within 24 hours. If you like the songs you downloaded here please support the artist by buying the original cd. Otherwise may all of your summer sex result in sand in the most uncomfortable of places.

Steal My Sunshine

"Get Into The Party Life" Little Beaver- Last list, we had a remix of Jay Z's "Party Life", this week it's the song sampled for the album version of that same track. Little Beaver (AKA soul session guitar notable Willie Hale) turns in a meandering ode to the good life so happily infectious, even he can't help but shout it out come the 3 minute mark.

"Hot Thing"(Remix) Talib Kweli Featuring Ne-Yo and Jean Grae- The man okayplayers love to hate teams up with a criminally under appreciated female rapper and a lovely Luther Vandross sample for this remix of last year's minor hit. Toss in an easy to croon Ne-Yo hook, and some vocally talented but game challenged kid is probably going to get some girl's phone number (if not more) come June.

"Kiss You Back" Digital Underground- I miss these guys, and when hip hop had a sense of whimsy rather than the current contest of harder than thou. In this case, it's Shock G making a cool call and response attempt at a pretty girl's attention,interrupted in typically innappropiate alter ego fashion by his own Humpty persona. Even Tupac dropped the scowl and danced for the sake of this group...so you can too.

"I Need You Tonight" Junior M.A.F.I.A. Featuring Aaliyah- In a far more innocent and shiny suited time, Bad Boy could've dropped a record of some jackass reading the phone book and it would've sold. Aside from an Aaliyah cameo that sounds oddly Faith Evans-esque, and a pre plastic Lil' Kim there isn't anything much more enduring than that here.

"International Affair" Mark Ronson Featuring Sean Paul And Tweet- Tweet deserved a better shake than the also ran of Timbaland/Missy proteges, and Sean Paul never really deserved to be as huge as he was. Perhaps the balancing effect is the reason why this is one of the few records he's ever appeared on that doesn't irritate me. (Or maybe Mark Ronson has magic powers and owns my puny brain. Whatever.)

"Selfish" Slum Village- A chain letter to all the girls the principle players have loved and left, with the classic Kanye soul sample (in this case, Aretha Franklin) before that entire sound got flogged more than an entire glue factory's worth of dead horses.

"Georgy Porgy" Eric Benet Featuring Faith Evans- Though now mainly famous for being the made of FAIL jackass who cheated on Halle Berry, Eric Benet used to make journeyman neo soul records. ( In this case, a cover of a suprisingly soulful album track by otherwise blandness and bombast arena rockers Toto, probably most famous for a trunk footed tribute to actress Rosanna Arquette)

"Tell Me" Groove Theory- This song was one of the best one hit wonders of the 90's and Bryce Wilson was obscene levels of fine back then (circa this record/ his leading man turn in Toni Braxton's "You're Making Me High" video). That is all.

"Kissin' You" Total- Though the most of the rappers on Bad Boy made a Speak and Spell look like a 5 mic MC, they had a pretty decent R+B roster (112,Faith Evans, Mario Winans, these ladies.... likeable in spite of their vocal limitations) throughout most of their existence to date. Unfortunately, pretty much every one of the singers signed got a brief star turn then faded into obscurity/left the label/tossed a Diddy voodoo doll under a subway train due to being marketed as well as a package of defective pencils and being pushed aside for horrible Making The Band creations. Though only one of the trio was much to look at, and the video contained some god awful fake guitar playing, this track is one of several reasons(see also: "Can't You See?", "No One Else" and "Trippin'") I still miss Kima, Keisha and Pam.

"International Lover" Prince- In lesser hands this would be unbearably cheesy. When the singer in question is Prince in top form, it's freaky sex personified.

My Puppy Ate My (Late) Free Mp3s

2008-01-19T14:04:00.000-05:00

Actually, she got to a pair of my shoes(and anyone who reads even a tiny bit of this blog knows that footwear is serious business in my world) in yesterday's series of unfortunate events that made this week's list a day late. It was a marching parade of bad day cliches.Overslept, late to work, an overnight that may as well have been sponsored by the Society For Advancement Of Aspiring Jackasses, massive system failure once I got to demon job, coffee's gone cold, forgot my damned house keys and the resulting kicking of door frame/swearing in every language and dialect I know made small children cry as if I had just snatched their ice cream. By the time I got home I wasn't sure if I should cry/hit someone/hit someone then fake tears for the judge afterwards. Hence this week's dispatch from the desk of the skinny bitch being a bunch of stuff to simultaneously mellow me from homicidal and sugar rush me back up to my usual state of seen it all sarcasm.

CYA Blurb:This blog does not store any files on its server. Links expire in a short period of time. The postings are for promotional and preview purposes only and all the albums/songs downloaded from here should be deleted within 24 hours. If you like the songs you downloaded here please support the artist by buying the original cd. Should you defy this admonition, may you wake up to an endless stream of sunrise on Monday Mornings.

Electric Relaxation

"Relax" Etienne De Crecy- I fangirl over this guy (and French touch) in general, but this mellow midtempo is one of my favorite filter disco songs ever. Coming from the queen of the dive bar and the dance floor, that is extremely high praise.

"Electric Feel" MGMT- I'm always on the look out for the residual effects of His Royal Badness, and though the reediness of the vocals distract a bit, this is one stronger vocalist's cover away from being the sort of sexy summertime throw down that Prince used to deliver more regularly than tabloids run pictures of the herd of first name basis celebutards.

"Ease My Mind (DJ Premiere Remix)" Arrested Development- Remember when you couldn't escape these guys (best known for "Tennessee" and "Mr. Wendal"), until internal strife tanked the group and both Speech And Dionne Farris quickly vanished in a poof of so so solo albums? No? Damn, I'm getting old. No matter, a lot of the current boho resurgence still owes a tiny tip of the head wrap to them, as well as the Native Tongues collective. Besides, anyone sounds better backed by a Premier production.

"One In A Million (Remix)" Aaliyah Featuring Ginuwine and Missy- Crooning diva Aaliyah (R.I.P.)buried underneath snyth funk grind, where no amount of supersonic wailing stops the S&M groove of blips, bleeps and whines. News at 11.

"Foot Stomping The Super Freak" The Get Bizzy DJs- Doo wop/surf rock stomps lead a sing along of the funk classic "Super Freak", with bits of the atrocious Hammer sample thrown in for good measure (Sure to please Lupe Fiasco, that last bit.) It's goofy, sounds pretty damn good for something makes almost no sense on paper, but it is Rick James, bitch (I know you all were thinking it the second you read the name)...so shut up and dance.

"Kiss" Prince- As if there would ever be an attempt at cheering myself up that didn't involve Prince records. Sure, right....and I've just been hired as a Hawaiian Tropic model. (Note to those who have never seen my photo: Milk looks tan next to me.) This time it's Symbolina's minimalist funk masterpiece, moving asses and crowding dancefloors/DJ crates non stop since 1986.

"Oh Sheila" Ready For The World- This song raises so many questions (in my head). Why is a nasal vocalist from the Midwest lapsing in and out of a British accent? How much Soul Glo did it take to keep the group's Jheri curls intact? Is a tribute to the lovely Ms. Escovedo? Did Prince bother suing over the obvious production similarities? Why is this so damn catchy that my file sharing ass actually bothered to pay for it? The world may never know.

"Smile (Remix)" Lily Allen Featuring Wale- For all the press she's received, Lily Allen is right up there with Thicke for pretty but disaffected vocal wandering that sounds almost narcoleptic. Perhaps that's why I almost always end up liking the remixes better than the original composition (In this case all 60's soul gloss), because her blandness lets the tracks shine on their own. Guest star and official next big thing Wale just laughs off her vengeance, knowing she's not all that mad anyway, and will probably be back in her ex's bed by the end of the week.

"Outversion" Mark Ronson- Keeping the Holland Dozier Holland imitations flowing, here's yet another slice of instant vintage that's all brassy horns and Motown might've been dreams.

"Let's Stay Together" Al Green- This doesn't fit quite as well topically with the rest of this list, but the Reverend's voice is my foul mood Kryptonite...I find it impossible to stay angry in the face of those gorgeous epic string sections and falsetto runs that are hallmarks of his most famous work. In fact, I could've just as easily substituted "Call Me (Come Back Home)", "Livin For You" or a dozen other records from his extensive back catalog for the sheer beauty of the vocal. I'm still a sucker for page hits (and this is probably his most well known mainstream work) and this sexiest of possible tributes to still having someone to hold hands with when you're 80 is irresistible to even my blackened soul.

A Christmas Story For Misanthropes

2008-01-03T16:26:00.000-05:00

(Just in case anyone was wondering why I had not served up my usual dose of holiday hate, a belated recap from the random randomness department)

It's sunrise on Christmas morning, and 2007 has taken yet another opportunity to remind me that whatever gods that may be hate me, personally. If there was a deity and he/she or it was merciful it would've made the first shift late, or perhaps sent a tweaker to stab me for the $6.50 and Newports in my handbag...anything to delay the inevitable last gasp of commercialized cheer. Unfortunately, my relief is punctual for the first time in recorded history and I scowl out the door and catch my usual ride home with one of my neighbors. He says the phrase I knew he would, they all do, that dreaded two word combination that brings bile into my throat and visions of homicide dancing in my head.

Merry Christmas.

I tried really hard to just swallow the loathing, seethe quietly, and return the sentiment, but I've never been too talented at internal monologue. In a great big burst of a sentence I'm declaring how much I fucking HATE Christmas and all of its contemptible, credit card chargeable cheery crap and I would like nothing better than a stiff drink before even thinking about facing the rest of the day. Rather than proclaim heresy,he laughed and offered me one.

I spent the next hour in a bar deserted of everything except a trio of city employees, a septuagenarian landscaper, and myself. At an hour where small children are probably just starting to pester their sleep deprived parents for presents, I'm downing straight shots like Prohibition is tomorrow and getting a crash course in the finer points of small scale gambling from my benefactors.

When I finally stumbled to my front door, even my blackened heart sort of wished every day were Christmas......if only because it makes a lovely excuse for being dead drunk before 9 am.

As for the family? They didn't much care, as my advanced state of inebriation allowed them to finally get a Yuletide photo where I am actually smiling.

Almost Over Now (Mp3 Fridays)

2007-12-28T14:13:00.000-05:00

I can't speak for anyone else, but in my case 2007 was the equivalent of an elementary school playground bully, taking every possible opportunity to sucker punch me, snatch my candy and/or make my life generally miserable. Needless to say, I'm as happy to get the entire sordid affair over with as a congressman who got caught tapping his feet in the wrong rhythm in an airport bathroom. So for this final free shit Friday, a selection of mash ups, era/genre hops, remixes and mixtape tracks to end this final week of muddled mess in a far more pleasant fashion.

Tedious Legality:This blog does not store any files on its server. Links expire in a short period of time. The postings are for promotional and preview purposes only and all the albums/songs downloaded from here should be deleted within 24 hours. If you like the songs you downloaded here please support the artist by buying the original cd. Should you opt out of that proposition,may you meet your demise in an unfortunate champagne cork accident.

Remix Is The New Black

"Oblighetto ( J.Dilla Remix)" Brother Jack McDuff- Slice of flea market jazz funk gets a second life as A Tribe Called Quest sample, then gets remixed into a mellow meeting halfway between its two previous incarnations. Well played.

"Under the Influence (Extended 12" Mid Day Mix)" Vanity- Apparently,there is life after being a Prince protege, in the form of a fired Motown executive and two forgotten solo albums. Though not quite as technically sound as the rest of this list, it isn't terrible considering that Vanity had a vocal range comparable to a tracheotomy patient.

"Pull Up To The Bumper (Larry Levan's 12" Garage Mix)" Grace Jones- Dropping the vocals (and the disco gloss) way down into the mix until they're both ghosts in the proto house machine, and reminding us all why the pathetic 4/4 thump of current dance music must die. (Save the sounds and smack a pathetic excuse for a DJ who actually plays that hot mess.)

"Party Life (The Knocks Remix)" Jay Z- Just when the prospect of another American Gangster mash up had become as over done as Palm Beach matrons and plastic surgery, along came The Knocks pitch perfect marriage of Brooklyn bombast and soul loops that sound lifted from the soundtracks of 70's blaxploitation films.

"The Next Collarbone" Dr. Dre, Snoop Dogg and Nate Dogg Vs. Fujiya & Miyagi- Dr. Dre and friends become the backing chorus for breezy Saturday morning drive music like AM radio used to be good for.

"Roc Raida: Riot Control Agent/Combat Stress Control" General Patton Vs. The X-Ecutioners- Alt rock vocal tics are the backbone bouncy ball of a game of spot the samples in this little bit of heaven for audio structure nerds.

"Supa Sexy (Radio Edit)" Charlie Wilson Featuring T Pain- Wilson pulls a Mr. Biggs and comes out of creepy Snopp Dogg hook singer territory to teach the man who jacked his entire style (as well a good bit of the late Roger Troutman's, to be fair) a little bit about how it should be done. This could've easily veered into embarrassing territory of too much pandering to current pop trends, but manages to accomplish the worthy goal of making T Pain look as unnecessary as he actually is.

"LDN (South Rakkas Crack Whore Remix)" Lily Allen- British brat gets lost in dancehall and classic house DJ drops and becomes far more interesting than lightweight ska pop has any right to be. Do you think these guys could be convinced to make Natasha Bedingfield less boring while they're at it?

"Loose (DJ Ayers Potion Remix)" Bangers And Cash (a.k.a. Spank Rock And Benny Blanco) featuring Amanda Blank- In a year ruled by Soulja Boy, Mims and other ringtone fueled one hit wonders, it's nice to hear something that's fully aware and intentionally simplistic, with a sly wink to Florida booty bass and the over the top goofy raunch of 2 Live Crew.

"Goatit" Black Milk And Bishop Lamont featuring Phat Kat And Elzhi of Slum Village- While the lyricists here managed a passing average (The main drawback being Phat Kat...Xzhibit was not nearly interesting enough to merit the signing of his sound alike), the Dre via Dilla stylings of the beat is the star of the show, knocking harder than the frames of $1500 cars with $3000 stereos.

Your Foxhole Or Mine?

2007-11-23T11:04:00.000-05:00

It's that god damned time of year again, the season of force fed corporate cheer that by sheer force of its ever expanding saccharine stranglehold, makes me feel more bitter than Pete Best, Jarobi and Syd Barrett combined.

So in this edition of gratis goodies, a slightly bitter brew to backdrop the upcoming forced dysfunctional family fun time of Christmahanakwannzayule, and to prevent the incessant seasonal anthems blaring from bus stops, burger joints and big box department stores from infecting your collective brains for at least another week. (That will be the point where I get extra snarky and roll out the annual Anti Christmas parody carol for the year, check the "Black Christmas" tag for the ghosts of miserable bastards past)

You know the drill: This blog does not store any files on its server. Links expire in a short period of time. The postings are for promotional and preview purposes only and all the albums/songs downloaded from here should be deleted within 24 hours. If you like the songs you downloaded here please support the artist by buying the original cd. If you choose to ignore this warning, may your entire CD collection be replaced with copies of A Very Special Kenny G Christmas.

(This week's cover image courtesy of Cute Overload, formatting via I Can Has Cheezburger? generator tool, lolcat text/bile provided by yours truly)

"I Suck" Mark Ronson Featuring Rivers Cuomo- I do. Because if I was that awesome I would've created an army of giant crabs and zombie sharks with giant frickin laser beams on their fricken heads to stop this madness years ago.

"I'm Downright Amazed At What I Can Destroy With Just A Hammer" Atom And His Package- Shop windows, animatronic lighted displays of excess holiday flair in my neighbor's yard,my boss's car, inane people's skulls...the list is endless.

"We're A Happy Family" The Ramones- Sure we are. Just don't mention Auntie C.'s desperate need for psychiatric meds, the unfortunate "leg scratching" incident with the cousins or Grandma...well..her ~makes classic "drinks like a fish" hand motion~

"Bad Reputation" Joan Jett- Who needs Advil for the tension headache, when you have a soda to stealthily spike and a hip flask? Not I. (For the bonus style point, sneak a nip to Grandma and watch the fur fly with popcorn and a fresh drink in hand.)

"Earn Enough For Us" XTC- Then spend it at the local shopping mall(or the terrorists have WON)!

"Sin So Well" Rebekkah- A forgotten relic of the post Lilith Fair female singer/songwriter glut, with the first 4 lines being some of my favorite ever put to tape, as it seems a hell of a nice way to go about life.

"I'm Gonna Kick Your Ass" Zorak (From Space Ghost: Coast To Coast)- Someone needs to give this a flashy Broadway style dance number, good for bludgeoning the ultra conservatives at the dinner table (not out of sheer homicidal irritation, but the far higher minded service of your art), as well as providing a distraction for a stealthy escape out the back door.

"Karma" 1200 Techniques- What goes around comes around, (and hopefully into the path of a speeding Mack truck driven by someone too drunk to stop quickly enough, taking out annoying branches of the family tree and Ye Olde Holiday Knick Knack Shoppe in town square at the same time)

"White Horse" Laid Back-Because there are fewer things sweeter than seeing a smug overachiever reach in the wrong pants pocket and reveal the true nature of their fondness for "skiing".

"Things Got To Get Better (Get Together)" Marva Whitney- Come together indeed, as photo ops provide a handy gathering of the herd so as to waste a bit less of the gasoline and matches! Yay!

Memorandum From A (Retail) Whore

2007-11-22T11:21:00.000-05:00

Dear General Public:

That time of year is upon us again, full of faux premature Christmas cheer and the overhyped siren song of the consumer sector celebrating itself, Black Friday. I'm a veteran lot lizard of this particular truck stop, having spent more years in retail than any sane person should (A fact which also handily explains away my burgeoning liquor and prescription pill problem, come to think of it). For the sake of the sanity of both my fellow wage slaves and you unfortunates who are planning to rush out to the big box stores at 3am tomorrow, a few points to consider before you join the herd of overcaffinated lemmings:

$10 DVD Players,$300 desktop PCs, $40 stereos, oh my!- There is a reason these items are so cheap. They're off brand, out dated pieces of shoddy shit that even the sweatshop workers that probably produced them laugh at. They will break within 6 months (assuming they aren't already damaged from being hastily tossed on trucks and manhandled by stock persons frantic to be prepared for the psycho circus), and you'll be another disgruntled bastard for whom holiday triumph has turned to tragedy because the item was a one time only and the resulting store credit won't be enough for any other variant of the same electronic wonder. Stores do indeed take a loss bringing in these specials, but no retailer would take the suicidal loss leap needed to offer even semi quality goods that low. Spare yourself the aggravation and save the money to make a down payment on a computer with a current processor or a DVD player that isn't wired as poorly as my 105 year old house.
You don't NEED the Cusinart that badly-Speaking of so called "loss leaders", do you realize how the store recoups that cash? By enticing you to buy other crap once you walk through the door (often also advertised as being "on sale" or "specially priced"). Yipee skippy, it's 50 percent off! May as well pick one up along the way, right? Ummmm...no. Because the store has been incrementally marking up that coffee maker/bicycle/hunting gear/child leash/whatever the fuck since last month, and at 50 percent off the current price it's merely the same cost as it would've been before the holiday deluge. Except you've now woken up pre dawn and navigated Viking hordes for the privilege.
Recognize the merde du jour or the ad execs have won: You know what I mean.... everyone has a psycho tale of the hunt for Cabbage Patch Kids, Beanie Babies, Tickle Me Elmo or some other crap of Christmases past that spiraled into trampling stampedes and exorbitant Ebay sales to desperate late arrivals to the hype party. That sort of mania is one of the earmarks of a fad and before you've even finished paying off the credit card debt little Jimmy and Susie will let that relic collect dust on the shelf because every other kid in class has one and they've collectively moved on to the next Disney channel fueled sensation.
The childfree are not spared- Think you're spared the bulk of the madness because rugrats are not on your list and you don't have to use a holiday gift to one up the other parents at the playground? Feeling nice and smug and superior right about now? Sorry sweetie, but just like Dina Lohan and and any reunited bubblegum pop group you care to wave pitch correction technology at, you are severely deluding yourself. Even grown up toys (Iphones or the next gen Playstations/Xboxes), are just as fraught with peril. Prices will almost always drop significantly a month or two after release (and not all stores will do the retroactive refund, and some poor bastard at the customer service desk does not deserve to bear the brunt of your resulting tantrum), and the rush to push the item out in time for gift giving often results in the first wave of shipped product having severe bugs to work out (e.g. the Xbox processor snafu, the unfortunate Iphone connectivity incident) and non functionality is guaranteed to kill a nice new shiny gadget buzz.
And for those too dumb to heed, I admonish you- If you have already drank too much of the shiny flyer Kool Aid, and just can't help yourself but to join the shopping as contact sport spectacle, please have the decency to not be a complete dick about it. Sure you're tired, but the cashiers and clerks are probably stuck on a double shift without a break to eat, smoke or pee in 8 or so hours. By the time you get to their general direction they've been battered, trammeled, screamed at, threatened and are bruised from breaking up yet another intra customer fist fight and gotten paid not nearly enough for doing so. Mind your manners, show a little kindness, and respect the sheer mental and internal fortitude it took for the poor bastards behind the counter not to have gone completely postal on all of the obnoxious twits and strangle them with a string of their own gift receipts.

Gather The Stones

2007-11-16T11:25:00.000-05:00

I thought I couldn't possibly hate humanity any more, along comes something so heinous that even I can't be flippant about it.

This is Megan Meier:

She was pretty ordinary as far as thirteen year olds go. She played volleyball,loved dogs, listened to music and giggled over the cute guys in her classes. She was depressed and a bit awkward (as most of us are when we're in that odd limbo between child and adult, all self conciousness and hopes to kind of sort of fit in) and was taunted by classmates, but had recently gotten a nice confidence boost from a recent weight loss, the impending removal of her braces, and "Josh", her new myspace friend. He was 16, her strict parents had deemed him okay to add to her page, and he thought Megan was pretty.

Until one day he had a sudden change of heart, and decided that he didn't want to speak to Megan anymore, that he heard she was a "bad person" and posted bulletins that she was a "slut" and also "fat".

The girl's parents tried to comfort their daughter, but by the time they finished making dinner, tearful Megan had hung herself in a bedroom closet.

Kids can be cruel indeed. Unfortunately, the "Josh Evans" account that drove Megan to her death wasn't created by mean spirited classmates. Megan had recently had a falling out with a neighborhood girl,and Curt and Lori Drew, (the parents of Megan's former friend) decided to create the account specifically to humiliate Megan. To build her hopes up, and then dash them back down again. To add insult to injury, the Drews sent the Meiers condolences,invited them to their daughter's birthday party, even asked them to store an oversized Christmas gift in their garage....only when another local parent who declined to be in on the "joke" came forward did the Meiers know the truth behind the now deleted "Josh" account. No one had revealed that detail to the bereaved or the papers (though an intrepid blogger revealed their identities shortly after the story broke).

The police have done what little they could, but there is a lack of a proper criminal charges (though a civil case is possible) to fit the crime. The Meiers are divorcing, too guilty over what happened to stay together, and the lag between the law and technology is letting the Drews walk away virtually scot free. The dress Megan had chosen for her upcoming birthday is now making its debut at her funeral.

Please, if you have the extra second in your day contact the proper authorities to begin the slow process of getting legal protections in place, so that something this amazingly unnecessary never happens again:

Jack Banas, Prosecuting Attorney
Courts Administration Building Room 601300
North Second Street St. Charles, MO 63301
PH: 636-949-7355
Fax: 636-949-7360
Phone: (636)949-1818

Tom Neer, St Charles County Sheriff Department
101 Sheriff Dierker Court
O' Fallon, MO 63366
Phone: (636) 949-1818
Fax: (636) 949-3078
E-Mail: sheriff@sccmo.org

Just in case the legal system fails, and because these repugnant wastes of human oxygen have it coming, here is all available contact information for Curt and Lori Drew, who deserve a taste of their own bitter medicine for the life they cut short for the sake of their own entertainment:

Curt & L Drew
269 Waterford Crystal Dr
O Fallon, MO 63368-7130
(636) 272-2670

Rest in peace Megan (a concept I hope the responsible parties are denied for the rest of their natural lives).

The Monsters Are Due On A New City Street

2007-11-12T10:19:00.000-05:00

As you can tell by the scant amount of rants I've posted, my new city and I have quite the hate/ hate relationship. From garden variety rudeness, to the scariest incident in recent memory (which I don't yet have the ovarian fortitude to post yet), to the sheer what the fuck-osity of the blackmailing bad date, it is pretty clear that damn near this entire town is convinced that I killed its brother and it must run me out as quickly as possible.

Listing every single item of squirrel shit nuttiness would take all damn day, I will sum up the madness through the tale of the unfortunate bookstore affair.

On a sunny day very early in my tenure in New City (when I believed there at least was a prayer of a hope of a chance it wouldn't suck....innocent times), I got restless and decided to sacrifice a few more trees for the sake of boredom and empty space on my bookshelf and purchase some lovely printed materials. Fortified with all matter of geeky goodness and a bucket of espresso, I step out of the store cradling my overburdened shopping bag and wait for an aquaintaince I was supposed to meet for lunch shortly afterward.

I stop to light a smoke for my usual caffeine/nicotine daring duo and a random van pulls up in front of me. Maybe its driver is lost, perhaps they're running in to grab a newspaper, I'm a nerd on a beautiful day with a stack of fresh books and could honestly care less. I pay no mind and continue to smoke on my little patch of sidewalk.

Until the driver of the vehicle (an unfortunate cross between Janice Combs and a cinematic Gremlin, with a double size side of crack lip) feels the need to scream at me. What in the hell message was of such grand importance that she felt the need to break the sound barrier, despite not knowing me from an Olsen twin in a room of coat racks? Fire? Emergency? Herd of lost lingerie models?

(Wait for it.)

The direct quote from the wildebeest's mouth?

"BITCH! YOU ARE NOT ALL THAT!"

I don't know a damn soul, so I obviously haven't injured (or even engaged) this woman in any fashion. In fact, 30 seconds ago I was having a perfectly lovely day and something about my very existence provoked this moonbat into peeing in my Cheerios, without even the common courtesy of asking if they were regular or honey-nut. Banshee screech still ringing in my ears, I did what any self respecting diva would do. Popped my best super model pose, turned a perfect vamp on my stiletto heel and replied:

"Actually, bitch I am. Now proceed to fuck off."

After a moment of wrathful silence, she pulled away, and I had an odd anecdote/excuse for a drink at lunch.

Let's hope she used that quiet moment to reflect on how many yaks (and perhaps innocent sweatshop workers) had to die for the hot mess she called a weave, and considered the possibility of using conflict free extensions in the future. Even better yet, it is possible that she will recant her life of harassing innocent strangers and become a counselor to her fellow petty annoyances. Given the fact that chick was riding dirty in a 1986 Astrovan(and she herself hadn't seen the business end of a Chapstick since about then) with rust like an old lady's liver spots , I highly doubt it. The bitch probably was part of some secret society of asshattery that would tidily explain the subsequent deluge of idiocy I've been subjected to since then.

Like gravity and celebutards getting miniscule jail sentences, neither this place nor my status as the very all-est of that is going to change anytime soon. Ignoring the unpleasant is why whatever deities that be invented Ipods (and I waste so much time posting playlists). A pocket full of Twinkies and NASCAR trinkets to use as a distraction and I'll be (hopefully) safe.

The Return Of Free Shit Fridays!

2007-11-09T08:42:00.000-05:00

Finally I've climbed out of my bottle of Scotch (and not too many pictures of my bad behavior have hit the internet....yet) and it's time for another installment of programming the RIAA would deem too hot for the interwebs if they found it. Step into your best pair of stomp boots, avoid the snow, and enjoy sharing a set of headphones with me,won't you?

Blah, blah blah,obligatory weekly disclaimer: This blog does not store any files on its server. Links expire in a short period of time. The postings are for promotional and preview purposes only and all the albums/songs downloaded from here should be deleted within 24 hours. If you like the albums you downloaded here please support the artist by buying the original cd. Disobey and there are tons of creative uses for a metal snow shovel.

Pre Party Precipitation Tension

"Working The Midnight Shift" Donna Summer- Not tonight! I play this nugget from the Queen of Disco in sympathy. Pour out some Jolt Cola for my scheduled homies.

"Radio Pop Music" The Somnambulants- Between this and Kanye's "Good Life", Michael Jackson's voice is put to use better than the man himself has in about a decade. All of the poptacular joy, none of the retina scarring that is witnessing the grotesque transformation evidenced by a chronological flip through the former King Of Pop's album covers.

"Loose Wires" Kenna- Though his genre hopping will keep him from ever becoming a major star, I heart Kenna records so much I should (as Pee Wee used to say) marry them. In this case imagine Justin's "LoveStoned" without the smarmy blue eyed soul Prince impression, toss in a pinch of non plastic vocal color and crank the results to 11.

"Bob George" Prince- Speaking of the skinny motherfucker with the high voice, here he is in a studio warped soap opera of a jealous jilted lover, bordering on violent, set to a classic sparse dance groove. I never said he wasn't eccentric.

"Smile For The Paparazzi" Cobra Starship- Decaydence records (Fall Out Boy, Panic! At the Disco, various other generic Top 40 "rock") is generally the pop punk Satan, but this musical detrius of the Snakes On A Plane pop culture deluge is just as delightfully awful. Why is this tossed together band still making records? Why did they combine Latin light noodling with a chorus/riff deemed too trite for the next The Academy Is..... album? It's awkward. It's insane. It's incredibly fucking stupid and because of this, the shit fucking rocks.

"Miura" Metro Area- This is precisely the sort of hooky dance music that tends to get cannibalized for American commercials. At least you can say you heard it when...and enjoy it before it becomes a 45 times a day background earworm to the praises of a Toyota Prius.

"The Way I Are (One Republic Remix)" Timbaland Featuring Keri Hilson And DOE- This track from the lackluster Shock Value gets punched up by a band that's basically Fuzzbubble version 2.0. It's sad that non annoying rap-rock has been relagated to one off remixes and mash ups, but not nearly as painful as the dark rise (and thankfully, fall) of Fred Durst.

"FUNK ( The Bloody Beetroots Remix)" Etienne De Crecy- French filter disco meets the fetish ball, TAFKA injures self shaking ass in bondage boots for the second month in a row.

"Get Naked" Britney Spears- Blackout is a triumph of the machine over the squeaky voiced ghost within it. The producers have created a damn solid trash pop album, of which this delightfully weird track is a standout, reminding us of happier times when we weren't familiar with every contour of Ms. Spears in an uncomfortable attention whoring way (and would've perhaps even enjoyed this particular song's sentiment). Bravo, production team, gold star and a cookie for you.

"Me And Mandy" Example- My evil, blackened heart grew three sizes when I heard that example's long delayed What We Made, had finally been released. However it shrunk right back down again once I realized I have to pay nearly $50 to have an import shipped (Thanks for nothing US Itunes!) and that a rapper from the UK does a better job of making funny/irreverent rap that's not thug posturing(50 Cent), conscious boho posturing(Any Tribe Called Quest imitating indie darling you can name), or boring PG pablum (The Artist Formerly Known As Fresh Prince era Will Smith), than any of his American counterparts. Where has all of the middle ground between cliche hip hop extremes gone?

Purging for Jezebels

2007-10-23T11:35:00.000-04:00

There's very specific associations with the word catharsis. Maybe a hushed roster of sins in a rosewater scented confessional booth, consciousness raising disconnectedness on a wilderness retreat miles away from the web of email alerts, phones and Blackberries.... perhaps long fought hours on an analyst's couch. I'm sure you all get the idea. Some of you were probably raised on the same trite sitcom ready trash as I was. However there's only ever been one solution for a girl like me. A slink back into the subterranea of dive bars and dance floors, searching for what peace may come at the bottom of a shot glass or the other pleasures to be had on top of a scarred oak bar. That fleeting subspace where nothing matters but the post industrial thump vibrating through the floor and the grace with which you follow its pace. Full of sweat and sex and the sheer joyful mania of glamour for little more than its own sake.

So for those wondering where I've been the past few weeks I've been been tucked away in dark rooms of other scantily clad devotees of the rhythms pouring out the oversize speaker stacks. The the drag nun in latex and 7 inch heels has just used their turn under the spotlights to damn us all to hell from the stage, and the condemned all continue to happily dance their lives away. I stumble home in the dawn, smelling of smoke and smudged with a bit of a stranger's body glitter, bidding my companions (a fairytale Alice, a french maid and a drag king, darlings all of them) goodbye and just now realizing the sheer exertion of dancing all night in 5.5 inch bondage boots. With an ache in my muscles and the surefire start of a cold from wearing a corset in the frigid air, I drift off to sleep smiling, one small step closer to being something that resembles myself again.

Petty Theft Is The New Sexy

2007-10-01T14:10:00.000-04:00

Okay, your intrepid reporter once again reporting from the trenches of mating and relating hell with a WTF moment so beyond my comprehension I had to pull in special celebrity guests.

Remember Local Boy from this post? After spending an evening perfecting my Heisman trophy stance in deflecting advances best compared to a popcorn flick (lots of pyrotechnics, can't disguise the plot going absolutely NOWHERE, as per Seinfeld) and crankily wiping the drool produced by Sahara desert levels of thirst off of my boots, I realized one of my accessories was missing. Thinking it had been misplaced in my deflection tactics, I left a message letting him know I wanted the item back, polite as a Sunday school teacher.

A week later, I get a phone call at midnight to come pick up my stuff. At this point the bullshit reek has become unbearable, and I guarantee I'll be by to retrieve said item and be on my way. The ensuing conversation (bullet pointed for the sake of inanity) after it was revealed I was not going to be sticking around (as the day I agree to be anyone on Earth's sideline ho is the day I should be shot in the head and sent to the glue factory) is a new breed of asshatitude:

It isn't treating someone like a whore if you let them spend the night

Not sleeping with someone you've known for 6 hours total is an indication of an unbreakable chastity belt

In the end, it became clear that he was being a spiteful prick due to a severely damaged sense of entitlement. Forget dinner and a drink, nothing says "sleep with me" more than stealing an object you have no use for (and has little to no resale value) in the hopes of ransoming it back for some ass! It's a combination of shady, desperate and broke I haven't seen since crackheads in Bronx housing projects. Though the simple solution would be to bat my eyelashes and play along to gain entry and administer a solid beating before retrieving my stuff (using kinky sex as the rationale for the bruises and police issue handcuffs attached to my belt), I'm not going to bring needless theatrics near my family's house out of respect. I've already made a public fool of the jackass concerned and reputation is everything to the psuedo hardcore. Besides, shopping for better, bigger versions of the shiny object in question almost reduces the headache caused by the sheer lack of logic involved. There's only one thing to say, really......

In the name of cult religions and small purple guitar players, what the FUCK is wrong with these people? The only logical fragment I can think of is that crack is one hell of a drug.

Cue The Montage (Free Mp3 Friday)

2007-09-27T15:26:00.000-04:00

As you can tell by recent output, I amused myself during a good portion of my stint in this rural hell attempting to date (incidents 5.5-10 forthcoming). So this week's bunch of goodies is the soundtrack to the parade of bad auditions for something other than a walk on part in the circus that is my life.....from first phone call to disastrous attempts at seduction to the post mortem dissection over diner cheese fries with my friends.

Another batch of free MP3s, another obligatory weekly disclaimer: This blog does not store any files on its server. Links expire in a short period of time. The postings are for promotional and preview purposes only and all the albums/songs downloaded from here should be deleted within 24 hours. If you like the albums you downloaded here please support the artist by buying the original cd. Take heed, or suffer an eternity of blind dates selected by people who barely know you, and could care less if you have to suffer through an hour long graphic description of your companion's recent surgery over dinner.

Editrix Note: I've moved the weekly playlist by a day, as I like the idea of free shit on Fridays...it's a nice way to start the weekend.

50 First Dates

"I'm Not Gonna Teach You" Black Kids- I really should hate everything about this record. The indie darling status, the stupid "ironic" band name, its raging cheerfulness, but instead it has become a peppy little earworm and has grown on me. However, I can almost guarantee I'll have forgotten all about both song and band in 6 months, until I notice it's on this list.

"Let's Make Out" (Extended Mix) Does It Offend You, Yeah?- Yet another combination of things I can't stand (nu rave, bad band names), that in the bizarro universe I apparently now inhabit, cranks. Bonus points for these guys naming their equally catchy follow up (making myspace asses shake as we speak) after an insane and violent niche film.

"New York Groove" Ace Frehley- Note to Mom And (Step)Dad: I stole this record off the internet and did not put one cent in this particular ~~cokehead's~~ musician's pocket. Please don't disown me for listening to it. Consider it a tiny payback for the check he still owes Dad.

"Godmama Here" Godmama- Musical SAT study time! Rick James:Mary Jane Girls as Prince:Vanity/Appollonia 6 as Bootsy Collins:Godmama. The official girl group from the mothership only lasted one album before beaming into trivia question, but it's got more sweat sex and glitter than a gay bar after hours.

"Nasty Girl" Vanity 6- Before she joined the herd of born again televangelists, Denise Mathews was Vanity, the sluttiest, silliest character of the Prince protege harem, and it is the death of that incarnation that I pour out a bit of my purple kool aid for. Appollonia was never quite as delightfully bad (behaviorally or vocally).

"He Was A Big Freak" Betty Davis- And will eventually be publicly shamed on this blog for it, trust me.

"Look Good In Leather" Cody Chesnutt- A sunny little slice of summery soul, full of silly sartorial boasts and completely hilarious in contrast assertions of knowing how to "fuck her better".

"Stop Me" Mark Ronson Featuring Daniel Merriweather- Because a good dramatic exit requires not only a drink to the offender's face, but the swooping strings of a Motown influenced/sampling mash up.

"Everyone Has A Summer" Lovage- In my case, one I'd like to forget.

"Flashing Lights" Kanye West Featuring Dwele- No witty exposition here, as that would require personal revelation...I'm commitment phobic and after the cabal of crappy outings, can you blame me?

The Other 4 Letter Word

2007-09-26T17:53:00.000-04:00

I'm not rattled by much. Danger, disaster,doom, attacks of giant ninjas, I'm okay with. You grab your emergency kit or your blessed samurai sword and you deal. However, if there is one thing that strikes fear into my heart, it is the words " I'm a nice guy/girl" uttered by a potential romantic prospect. At this point the bitter among you are probably muttering about women loving assholes and other cliches, but bear with me. There's method to my madness, as to why such a seemingly innocuous adjective causes me to run screaming into that good night.

Semantic quibbles aside (Such a bland, broad word...aren't most people somewhere between Mother Teresa and Hitler on a curve? That's about all such a generic term manages to connotate.), "nice" like "interesting" is little more than euphemism for a one way ticket to passive aggressive-ville, with bonus stops at needy metropolis and paranoia town. A trainwreck in 4 acts:

Stage One: Happy Little Trees (until the mask comes off)

Nice person is sweet and attentive, remembers everything from the name of your pet to your favorite ice cream. Long conversations over dinner, call when they say they will, happy giddy fun time. They seem like a perfectly acceptable prospect for a few more dates, perhaps even official consort.

Stage Two: Cue the Claudio Simonetti (soon to be reprised)

With the early dates' witty banter out of the way, you start getting to know a bit more about their past history (family/friends/lovers). When the subjects come up, cue the violins for the long history of shitty friends and cheating exes, who were just too callous to appreciate all they had done. You, however? They just know you're different and special and are destined to live happily ever after with Mr./Ms. Nice.

Stage Three: Paranoia, Paranoia's Coming To Get Me

Calling when they say they will has grown into 5 and 6 phone calls/emails/IMs per day, with them just dying to fill you in on every tiny detail of their day like an overly talkative barnacle. Depending on the type and quality of nuts in the Mr./Ms. Goodbar, they'll make allusions to inappropriate relationship events (meeting parents/moving in/marriage) and/or freak out and accuse you of things when you didn't answer the 12th working hours phone call.

Stage Four: Hulk Smash, Owner Of Building Cry

After getting woken up with the details of their Starbucks run/interrupted during a meeting with their afternoon inventory of grievances with their boss/ getting a phone call at 3am just because they were thinking of you, you run screaming from the needy vortex and alert them that it's over. For the next two weeks you get voicemails alternating between tears of remorse and angry screaming that you're just like all the other assholes who used and abused them.They create IM usernames as fast as you can block them to attempt to plead their case, finally disappearing in a sea of hurled epithets and self pity bolstered by the false bravado of them being too good for you anyway.

Having played this out more times than I am comfortable with with varying stripes of "nice" folks with a finish last complex, I actually am starting to prefer assholes. If only for the fact that they wear their love them and leave them shithead intentions right on their sleeves, rather than trying to ever so "nicely" attempting to emotionally manipulate others (via pouting, tantrums, and guilt trips) into having their way. Since they take their toys and go home at the slightest provocation anyway, they can take their self pity complexes right along with them. In fact, a note to all of the flailing "nice" guys/girls, for future reference:

Your relationships fail not because you're too nice, but because you refuse to just come clean and admit that you are a new variety of selfish prick, who uses a sensitive stance rather than swagger to be just as irritatingly dishonest and manipulative. I don't love assholes on principle, but I do prefer truth in my advertising.

Forgive Me Carly, Lazy Days Make Freebies Late

2007-09-13T11:06:00.000-04:00

Another batch of free MP3s, another obligatory weekly disclaimer: This blog does not store any files on its server. Links expire in a short period of time. The postings are for promotional and preview purposes only and all the albums/songs downloaded from here should be deleted within 24 hours. If you like the albums you downloaded here please support the artist by buying the original cd. Ignore me, and may your morning caffeine boost by always be prepared by the incompetent trainee with lax hygiene standards. Ewww.

It'a a gray week in the upstate woods and when the air gets cold and the hillbillies get restless, it's all I can do to drag myself out of bed. A mellow tracklisting for sucking down the daily dose of stimulants and lounging around in bed before braving another day as a battle booted babe in a valley of ultra hillbillies.

Clouds In My Coffee

"Us Placers" Child Rebel Soldiers (Kanye West, Lupe Fiasco, Pharrell)- Let's see if the planned album ever materializes, but this Thom Yorke sampling mash up is good enough to make this atheist pray for a fate better than most of the radar blip hip hop supergroups.

"Intro/ Stronger Than Me" Amy Winehouse- Quick, jump on the bandwagon! From the looks of things Amy is headed for an Anna Nicole faster than her talent can attempt to save her. Back to Black (and the superior Frank) may unfortunately be all we ever have to remember her by.

"Don't Play Me" Prince- The Purple One throws an acoustic hissy fit. TAFKA tested, snark approved.

"Never Enough" Lamya- Somewhere this little girl with the lovely voice got lost on the way to grandmas and stuck in VH1 "You Oughta Know" hell. Can a girl at least get a milk carton? She deserved better than that.

"This Woman's Work" Kate Bush- Official addition to the canon of Snark And Cupcakes patron saints, for making lovely ethereal pop, back when pop didn't always mean "bubblegum". All of the bland little moppets making their name on concept albums and piano ballads, please bow before your superiors.

"Fortunate" Maxwell- He seems to have long since bowed to the curse of neo soul (disappearing into a cloud of vinyl and Nag Champa), but this gem is tucked onto the soundtrack of a crappy Eddie Murphy vehicle. Even more oddly? It's a R. Kelly production, but isn't full of sleaze and silliness, with an understatement that no one would ever suspect possible. The stars must have aligned for the 5:01 necessary, and they quietly slipped back to put our principle characters back into their expected places.

"Song Cry" (Unplugged) Jay Z Featuring Jaguar Wright- Though Jay Z is now a shadow of his former self, this unplugged performance is a fine one, particularly when considering how poorly most rappers translate in live shows.

"Me And Those Dreamin' Eyes Of Mine" D'Angelo- Speaking of neo soul trainwrecks, where have you gone D' Angelo? From all sex, sweat and abs to legal problem plagued hot mess, please come home soon.

"Valerie" Mark Ronson Featuring Amy Winehouse- From annoying also ran Zutons track to sexy, vaguely Sapphic soul......a cover that is that rare breed that surpasses the original. If Mark Ronson becomes nothing more than an annoying faded critics darling for the rest of this career, this expert re work makes up for it.

I Heard It Through The Graveyard......

2007-09-08T07:12:00.000-04:00

New town, new overnight shift haunt, and a whole new cast of freaks, geeks, junkies, pimps, and other punchlines in search of a joke. The one thing I can say for this bunch is that what they lack in class, they compensate for in entertainment value. When combined with the rotating staff of four third shift snarky fuckers and the fact that management has completely given up on trying to control the anarchy, the potential eavesdropping aspect almost makes the night bearable.

For your amusement (at my personal purgatory's expense), a selection of random kibbles and bits of found dialog from the wee hours.

Boosting Sporks Is So Much More Hard Core

Kid In Hoodie: I wasn't even gonna go with him for that shit....Fuck do I look like ending up locked up, motherfuckers asking what I'm in for and shit? Stealing some Dixie Cups? What kind of bullshit is that?

And Next Week...Taint

Fellow Employee: ~eyeing drunken obnoxious regular customer stuffed into slutwear like refuse dumps in New Jersey~ Hi J---! I see you've been shopping again!

Drunk Doorknob: ~lurching and slurring~ Tee hee...shopping for what? I wasn't shopping.

Fellow Employee: Another cock to add towards your cum dumpster certificate.

Drunk Doorknob: Hey! I guess I was!

(The employee in question is an elfin 50something man, who looks like he should be helping mall Santas pass out toys at Christmas instead of being the master of berating those too stupid to notice the difference. The combination of his innocent appearance with the sheer quickwitted apt vulgarity regularly causes one of us to spew a perfectly good cup of coffee into the parking lot)

I'm Glad My Nails Are Always Coordinated To My Leather Bracelets

Gay Man: ~brushes past stoned town rat in line on way out the door~ Sorry sweetie.
Town Rat: ~mumbles something incoherent~ Fucking faggot.
Gay Man: ~casts sideways glance at townie, hand on hip~ All this from a bitch who can't even match a polo shirt to pants!

The Bitchy Queens In This Town Are My New Best Friends

Strung Out Junkie In Tiny Shorts: Can I use your phone? I need to call a friend (read: dealer)
Killer Queen: The only person you need to call is someone to bring you something your ass and your belly aren't hanging out of...maybe a burlap sack?

Providing Dentists With Job Security

2007-09-06T09:22:00.001-04:00

Editrix's note: This post is the usual Thursday playlist,but for those more interested in the writing side of things, an actual entry is right beneath it. I'm back bitches.

Another batch of free MP3s, another obligatory weekly disclaimer: This blog does not store any files on its server. Links expire in a short period of time. The postings are for promotional and preview purposes only and all the albums/songs downloaded from here should be deleted within 24 hours. If you like the albums you downloaded here please support the artist by buying the original cd. Ignore me and be attacked by 1000 murderous B movie deadly doctors wanting to eradicate more than just your tooth decay, bitch.

Summer is officially over, and I'm in a mood to toss on the shimmery stripper on an off day stilettos and sweat the last of the toxins from the trainwreck right out of my system before the days turn cold again. Because nothing cures existential crisis quite like sugar shock, a candy coated batch of (mostly) dance pop fluff, with a few respectable ass shakers thrown in for balance (and avoidance of getting made fun of too much).

Bubblegum For Big Boys And Girls

"Pretty Green" Mark Ronson Featuring Santo Gold- Indie darling producer covers The Jam and takes it right down to Sesame Street, full of jump rope ready riffs and girly giggles.

"Chewing Gum(Vocal Mix)" Annie- A internet darling who never made it past her first album ( 2005's Anniemal) this is the sort of innocuous earworm pop made for video arcades and carnival rides.

"Love At First Sight" Kylie Minogue- The poor man's Madonna leads the panic at the Euro (roller) disco. It's all glittery vocal effects and sparkly touches, and as lightweight as a pre prom party streamer.

"Cold As Fire" Britney Spears-If Annie's playing nice at the carnival and Kylie's sweetly romancing the DJ, this internet leak from the formerly bald pop moppet is the girl at the roller rink dancing in too tight shorts. Sure, it isn't the irresistible "Toxic", but it's not the warmed over "SexyBack" of the (also leaked) "Gimme More" either.

"Into The Groove" Madonna- Before she was a pretentious pop icon, she was a squeaky voiced NYC club rat who infuriated parents and critics (one of whom notably dismissed her first LP as an "aerobics album") and stole this classic right out from under the future trivia question Cheyne (who's version was already in the can when Madonna decided she wanted to record it).

"Hella Good" No Doubt- Though Gwen Stefani's current attempts at dance pop make me want to strangle her with her own L.A.M.B. bag, the Neptunes manage to balance her more irritating quirks (and their associated various cultural approbations) into something that sounds a bit like a good girl gone Debbie Harry.

"Stronger" Kanye West- Another day, another internet leak, this time off of Kanye's upcoming Graduation. Though not by far the album's best track (which tells you how good it is), I dare you not to dance once this Daft Punk sample bounces out of the speakers of your local club.

"Upgrade U" Beyonce- I am not a fan of Ms. Knowles, but in this case her typical vocal histrionics and overproduced busy track actually work for sheer amount of aural excess. Besides, her assertions that she can buy whatever she wants (as well as upgrade her man's closet in the bargain) are a lot more credible lyrically than, say, Destiny's Child's "Soldier".

"Didn't Mean To Turn You On" Mariah Carey- What's a list of ear candy nonsense without Mariah, the queen of all things girly and fluffy (with album titles like Rainbow and Charmbracelet and self penned lyrics that sound like high school notebook poetry)? This version is actually nearly identical to the Cherrelle original, with Jimmy Jam And Terry Lewis at the helm and Mariah erasing out the old vocals and adding her own.

"777-9311" The Time- Speaking of Jimmy and Terry, let us not forget the incomparable (and fellow Snark And Cupcakes patron saint) Morris Day. I've been giving out the title of this funk classic (plus the local area code) as my dummy phone number for unsuitables as far back as I can remember. If any of the rejected caught the reference, I'd give them the real number on principle, but thus far, no one has.

"Do It" Nelly Furtado- Another breezy guilty pleasure from Furtado's delightfully dim( she doesn't even know what the word promiscuous means, apparently) recent album helmed by Timbaland, Loose. It's all bikinis, pink drinks with umbrellas, and pseudo retro 80's cheesetastic.

Personals Version Of Hell

2007-09-05T23:17:00.000-04:00

I think I may have mentioned this before, but I despise dating. However in a city full of things even more repugnant (posers of every stripe from hillbilly to paper thugs, open space, religious fundamentalists, Larry The Cable Guy live shows), one must choose the lesser of the evils to pass the time. Being that I'm even more of a fish out of water here than my previous location (another post entirely), it has been an exercise in elimination worthy of a junior high math class:

At the rate of 5 persons rejected per month, in a city with a population of 50,000 (45% straight male, 3% queer female) how long will it take TAFKA to have dated and rejected the entire community of sexual orientation compatible options and get chased out of town with flaming torches and pitchforks?

Submitted for your approval, future exile in 5 attempts:

Boy 1(The English Grad Student): Though my love for nerds, geeks and grinds of all sorts is quite large, the pretension that came along with your classical knowledge was strong enough to quite possibly be the only thing supporting your body weight, as opposed to a standard spine. Your sheer inability to fathom those who did not have parents able to pay our way through schooling, as well as your provincial views of anyone not of your sturdy West Virginia stock made you the perfect example of Ambrose Bierce's definition of "learning". Though given what crawls out of the foothills of your native state, perhaps you have reason to distinguish yourself as a more evolved primate (though all that means in this case is that you bathe and mostly walk upright).

Boy 2 (The Kindergarten Teacher): For someone in charge of forming young minds and teaching crucial skills like the alphabet and basic numbers, it would've been nice had you mastered them yourself, misspelling common words and hatcheting the difference between "it's" and "its" (plus a healthy smattering of wrong usages of "there", "they're" and "their") across a slew of typed communication. We all make occasional typos, but you're on a short bus all your own.

Boy 3 (Abs): You don't do drugs, but are full of the disjointed babble and conspiracy theory of the habitually high. Perhaps you were a nerdy kid and wanted to copy the far cooler badasses who smoked up and cut classes by imitating their cadences. However, to think that someone still thinks it's the new sexy to sound intentionally incoherent past the age of 20 or so is depressing. No matter how nice the 6 pack is, duct taping your mouth shut to admire it from the safety of my friend's car trunk is illegal, and that's just about the only way I could tolerate another 6 hours of your presence.

Boy 4 (Math Boy): On the surface I genuinely liked you, and you were amusing and intelligent enough. Unfortunately, your self imposed ignorance of the wider world, combined with a very large streak of petulant self righteousness made you unfit for even the most boring of afternoon time slots. Had I wanted to teach, guide, and babysit in equal turns I'd have stayed in childcare. Babies are far cuter and don't dare to claim to be punk rock musicians while never having heard of the Clash, Sex Pistols, or Ramones. I'll stay home and watch Maury, thanks.

Boy 5 (Local Boy): A drink and a few compliments do not make me automatically indebted to sleeping with you. Unlike most of the females in the area, I am fully aware of my own worth and am not that desperate for affirmation. For future reference, rarely is a girl who cares enough to wear $200 shades and $600 shoes to the corner store to grab cigarettes fond of actions that appallingly cheap.

For Geminis, Doublemint Twins And Other Multiple Personalities

2007-08-30T08:40:00.000-04:00

Editrix's note: Yes, I know I haven't actually written in a good bit. I'll get there soon as I get back to being able to type coherent sentences. In the mean time, enjoy the free shit and bear with me while I shake off the last bits of shellshock.

Obligatory weekly disclaimer: This blog does not store any files on its server. Links expire in a short period of time. The postings are for promotional and preview purposes only and all the albums/songs downloaded from here should be deleted within 24 hours. If you like the albums you downloaded here please support the artist by buying the original cd. Disregard me and this time it's an army of angry Sybils getting 16 times psycho on your sorry ass.

It's that time of week again and this group of gratis MP3s is all about the musical road not taken, lost recordings,answer records, reworked rarities, and that staple of bar bands and indie kids everywhere....the dreaded cover version.

A selection of variations on a theme battling it out for sonic supremacy and free space on your Ipod. Enjoy!

Battle Of The Bizarro Bands: Sounds For Schitzophrenics (A double disc, of course)

Disc 1- More Coverage Than A Celebrity Trainwreck

1. "Get Ur Freak On"- Missy Elliot vs. "Get Ur Freak On (live)" KT Turnstall- KT's version is actually pretty damn good, which only serves to make me even more annoyed at her for the cheeky little busker, Music To Fetch Your Frappucino By crapola that she releases on record. She can obviously do better.
Winner: Missy

2. "Wu-Tang Clan Aint Nuthing ta F' Wit"- Wu Tang Clan vs. "Wu-Tang Clan Aint Nuthing ta F' Wit"- Rage Against The Machine/Wu Tang Clan- This is a bit of a stretch to call a cover, as Wu Tang had a hand in both versions (with the RATM track most likely a byproduct of their joint tour a while back),and they're both equally good, so it's really is a matter of how you prefer the proportions of your rock/rap cocktail.
Draw

3. "Baby Got Back"- Sir Mix A Lot vs. "Baby Got Back" Johnathan Coulton- The original is pure cheese genius, but Coulton completely owns it, as his love sick croon makes you almost unsure what song it is you're listening to, then laugh hysterically once you figure it out in its puppy eyed indie guy context. Fucking great. (Just listen and see.)
Winner: Johnny C. by a landslide

4. "Ignition"- R. Kelly vs. "Ignition (live)"- Bonnie "Prince" Billy Featuring William Sweeney- A mutli alias folkie and a Billy Corgan sideman take over where the sex-o-sauraus King Of Ignorant But Infectious As Contagious Disease R+B left off and manage not to giggle at the sleazy come ons until about 3/4 of the way through. However, it's a testament to Kelly's idiot savant brilliance that it's just as much of an earworm in either form.
Winner: The Pied Piper Of R+B ( only because otherwise he might try to pee on me)

5. "I Feel For You"- Prince vs. "I Feel for You"- Chaka Khan- The former first lady of Rufus made this song famous with her hip hop inflected mid 80's hit cover version, but this song began as a Prince album cut with a far simpler backing track that let the sing along melody shine. I know Chaka mad, but we all know which way this one's going to go.

Winner: Prince (yes Virginia, I am biased)

And Now Ladies And Gentlemen, A Special Bonus Fatal Four Way......

"Hey Ya!"- Outkast vs. "Hey Ya! (live)"-The Supersuckers vs. "Hey Ya!"- Shawn Lee's Ping Pong Orchestra vs. "Hey Ya!" Ryan Miller- One of the most incessantly covered songs in recent memory (I could do at least 2 playlists of this track alone), versions run the gamut from guitar heavy sing alongs, to kitschy lounge to ~shudder~ alt country. However none manage to make for a second sighting of that rarest of musical unicorns....a quality novelty record.

Winner: Outkast

Disc 2-Bitch Fights,Bickering Pop Stars And Records Retooled More Than An Average Episode Of Reality TV

1. "Laisse Tomber Les Filles"- France Gall vs. "Chick Habit"- April March- This initial bit of 60's Franco pop had it's lyrics roughly translated and its backing track punched up to grace the soundtrack of Quentin Tarantino's Grindhouse entry, Death Proof. This makes it debatable if this belongs with the covers disc, but inarguable that either piece of music is far more interesting than that flat footed homage to 70's car chase films.

Winner: April March (because my French is merde)

2. "Smile"- Lily Allen vs. "Vile" Example- A Brit pop bitch fight for the ages, and a classic same backing track answer record, with Example defending his honor against Lily's wronged woman anthem. Allen's song is fun but as lightweight as Nicole Richie pre-pregnancy. Example carries it with a spiteful glee that makes his response the far more amusing record for replay value.

Winner: Example

3. "No Scrubs"- TLC vs. "No Pigeons" Sporty Thievz- Another massive hit track, another response record. The Sporty Thievz had a nice run making male POV answers to popular late 90's female hip pop records, until member Marlon Brando died in an unfortunate car accident. One doesn't disrespect the dead, and while TLC's watered down girl power seems a producer's contrivance, the Theivz tales of broke hood rats on the make have a bit more genuine vitriol to them, as well making pigeon the slang du jour for a hot minute.

Winner: Sporty Theivz

4. "Fast Car"- Tracy Chapman vs. "I Need A Fast Car" Example- Chapman delivered one of the quieter songwriting triumphs of the 90's with this single, but never lived up to her initial promise, rounding out the decade with increasingly sour and staid output and cultivating an uncanny resemblance to baseball's Ken Griffey Jr. (in drag). Example rides the loop well and puts a funny twist on what could be a very generic record about the eternal love affair between pretty girls and fast cars, but the silliness is a bit jarring against the seriousness of the original sample.

Draw

5. "State Of Shock"- The Jacksons Featuring Mick Jagger vs. "State Of Shock (Unreleased Demo)" The Jacksons Featuring Freddie Mercury- These were both meant for the final Jacksons album featuring all 6 brothers, but for reasons known only to God and the record label the Freddy Mercury version was shelved in favor of Jagger (as much guest spot whoring as he's done over the years, perhaps he had a cheaper day rate). Even calling these Jacksons records as a bit of a misnomer, as Michael is the only member audible, and he's reduced to a back up singer due to his post nose job reediness getting drowned out by either rocker's far superior pipes. Both tracks are identical except for the vocal, but Mr. Mercury and his enormous Vocal Range Of Doom are patron saints of this particular cupcake.

Winner: The killer queen and the future Diana Ross impersonator

6. "Under Pressure"-Queen And David Bowie vs. "Ice Ice Baby"- A Dead Heart vs. "Ben Kweller Baby" Ben Kweller- This genre classic was ripped off so badly by the white rapper Who Shall Not Be Named Or Linked (I'm not perpetuating that abomination and internet personality A Dead Heart's version sounds far more convincing than Mr. Van Winkle's ever did, which is pretty sad considering that the first words out of her mouth are how much of an ass she's making of herself) that the producers of "Under Pressure" sued for infringement and won. However, the beast of "Ice,Ice, Baby" lived on as the "ironic" cover du jour for every rocker, rapper and karaoke singing Brooklyn hipster, with even the perpetrator of the crime trying to ride the winking wave back to relevance in 1998 (With a rap/rock wreck titled Hard To Swallow, the title being one of the better examples of accidental comedy in recorded history). I don't hate you all enough to post any more here, but have little hope all who google the name of the Dark One plus the word MP3.

Winner: Undead Freddie Mercury spinning in his grave hard enough to collapse the homes of every single fucker who made the thievery more famous than the original to an entire generation. Word to your mother.

China Girls, White Ladies, And Babes Named Mary Jane

2007-08-23T10:34:00.000-04:00

When life hands you lemons, the standard tripe is to make lemonade. However even the most perfect citrus confection could use a shot of vodka and a Vicodin, to both quench your thirst and take the edge right the fuck off of your day.

Hard liquor makes me generous, so enjoy a playlist chock full of freebies almost as good as teetering into a really good stash, nose and major blood vessels first.

(Obligatory disclaimer: This blog does not store any files on its server. Links expire in a short period of time. The postings are for promotional and preview purposes only and all the albums/songs downloaded from here should be deleted within 24 hours. If you like the albums you downloaded here please support the artist by buying the original cd. Don't think I won't send an army of invincible gingerbread zombies after your ass, motherfucker. They leave nothing but dental records on a GOOD day.)

Beyond The Valley Of The Dolls

1. "Not An Addict" K's Choice- See also: principle river in Egypt

2. "Blow Out (Remix)" Radiohead- Unfortunately, none of the songs I could think of with references to a proper reverse King Midas (everything turning to shit, rather than stone) fit for tempo, so here's a kick ass Radiohead rarity instead.

3. "Imitosis" Andrew Bird- A pretty song for an ugly truth...in the end we all stand alone.

4. "6 Underground" Sneaker Pimps- Let us all reminisce on a simpler time when fancy designer drugs and trip hop ruled the Earth (or at least the sound system), and rave was not preceded by nu.

5. "Your Woman" White Town- A guy reads off his ex girlfriend's break up letter to himself from her perspective and without comment, turns into one hit wonder. Or something. The meta Dear John-ness of it all makes my head hurt. Where is that pile of happy little helpers again? (Or did this guy already gobble all of them?)

6. "Insomnia" Faithless- There was a 3:34 cut of this track that was a blip of an MTV buzz video about a decade or so ago, but it's my blog and my rules, so pass the codeine and a double stack Ecstasy hit and party like a candy kid through the full 8 minutes plus, bitches.

7. "Kill The DJ" Peeping Tom Featuring Massive Attack- Shit, I forgot in this case I am the fucking DJ. Disregard! Disregard! I have downers! Chill!

8. "I Don't Like The Drugs(But The Drugs Like Me)" Marilyn Manson- It's a really Heathers kind of relationship. And OMG Becky, did anyone else from the ages of 18-24 totally notice this was a complete hijack of "Fame" era Bowie?

9. "Psychotic Reaction" The Count Five- ~Insert your favorite drug addled urban legend here~ Perhaps the kid who did too much LSD and now thinks he's a glass of orange juice, living in fear of straws? Or the couple who had sex on Ecstasy and it was so mindblowing they couldn't function again? Paranoia, paranoia (and anecdotal evidence) is coming to get me!

10. "Not If You Were The Last Junkie On Earth" The Dandy Warhols- Ugh. Heroin overdose is so post Kurt Cobain. Get with the times and the inherent performance art of tragicomic meth lab accidents.

The First Rule Of Snark And Cupcakes Is.....

2007-08-03T14:16:00.000-04:00

...you don't talk about Snark and Cupcakes. Actually talk/link/toss stones at my idiot monkey html design all you want. All I ask is that those of you that are familiar with the beloved blog I just recently had to put down for the cyber dirt nap, is not to mention the title (or my former pen name) here or anyplace else. Both myself and the blog have new names and we're brand spanking newbs to self publishing as far as anyone is concerned.

A short synopsis of our programming before we were so rudely interrupted, for old friends and new aquaintances:

Once upon a time, there was a pretty girl with a pretty name who fell in love with a pretty boy and chronicled her misadventures (as well as digressions into overnight psychology, comic books, grindhouse films and snark-tastic observations on the behavior of the idiot monkeys) on the internet. Sarcasm and the slaughter of sacred cows were commonplace, as were random playlists of music. Though sharp of tongue and sharper of heel, she was essentially decent (somewhere between Hitler and Mother Theresa, for those grading on a curve).

After 5 years, the pretty boy did some exceedingly ugly things, and the once content pretty girl was homeless, jobless and betrayed. She took refuge in a strange new city (followed by a good friend and a moving truck), and though battered and bruised, found the time to seek revenge in a bit of evil genius that she herself still can't quite believe. (She's dying to tell the story, but that's a potential trail, and once her cash was received she had no desire to leave one. It would be a royal pain in her premium denim covered bum to change addresses, phone numbers, emails and all of the rest of it for the second time this month. Just know that a blow has been struck for all of those who got ran over by the flaming trainwreck of love gone wrong, and the bodies properly disposed of.) Safe in her new identity (from contact info to clothes) the pretty girl has a new house and job, and accompanying misadventures. This site is the home for the stories of whatever happens next, hopefully a happily (or at least stylishly) ever after somewhere down the line.

The heels were made for walking and the digressions are all around, feel free to join me as I amusingly waste the second half of my twenties as easily as I misused the first.

Vomiting Celebrities And Half Naked Frat Boys (Tales From The Overnight) (09/29/05)

2007-08-03T05:56:00.000-04:00

Being that I haven't seen daylight since 2002 or so, I guess I've become fully adjusted to working nights. I've completely forgotten how to function on a night sleepers schedule,but it's not like I was ever much of an early bird anyway.

It's the same hourly worker monotony with the lighting reversed. Sometimes something lovely happens, occasionally there's cause for genuine fear , most of the time it's just another day at the office.

The main difference between the hard core vampires and the folks who run screaming back into the daylight after a few miserable shifts is your tolerance for the strange, odd, and unusual. Like nymphomaniacs who tire of vanilla sex and start needing midgets and props, ordinary underwear on outside of the pants weird will not ever register on your radar. The crackheads, hookers and rambling conspiracy theorists, just white noise in the background. The whole group plays a nice trio to the schitzophrenics arguing with themselves.

However, just when you think the mundane quality of human oddities can't possibly get any more boring, someone comes along and knocks the "What the fuck?" meter up a couple notches. A few case examples:

Party Boy: I was working in a different town, down the street from a very prestigious college. Just as I'm about to sit down for my 4am coffee and newspaper, this twentysomething kid jumps on top of my counter, and proceeds to start dancing and stripping down to his boxers. After I realized that this was not a robbery and more likely a drunken frat prank, I sat and watched the show. I wasn't about to start pulling singles from my purse as he was a bit too pale and blandly attractive in a scrawny Anglo Saxon square jawed sense for my taste, though once his hazing was done with he'd most likely have to beat off sorostitutes (sorority sluts for the uninformed) with a stick. Performance over, I notice his frat brothers standing by the door with a video camera and after they let poor party boy put his clothes back on, hand me $40 for not calling the cops. I am now preserved for posterity, laughing at some poor Iowa farm boy making a damn fool of himself for the sake of instant friends.

Psycho Bar Girl: Self loathing gay woman with a side of mental illness, both parts to her tale are linked here.

The Bearded Lady: Had a decent run as our version of Saturday Night Live character Pat, where we avoided all gender specific pronouns because we didn't want to offend him or her. After careful consideration, it has been a staff and customer focus group consensus that she is indeed an actual female despite being 5 feet tall with a rather husky (300 lbs plus) frame and a full beard. Constantly tries to short us for money, waiting until we have rung up the pile of items to announce she only has half the needed cash, trying to get us to spot her the rest. I am one of the few people who doesn't let her get away with it and I'm thus gifted with her 7 am swearing filled tirades about how she comes in every day and that I have no idea how to treat customers, particularly one who is so very important that they met Billy Ray Cyrus! Twice!

I have up to this point resisted the urge to note that anyone could meet that washed up one annoying hit wonder asshole as I think he might be a bag boy at a local Walmart.

Bearded Lady actually has traits of overnight patrons I usually autopilot through (mentally ill, the very odd looking, and the stupid criminal), but I remember her due to the fact that she is an odd combination of all three.

Before I go into the bit that involve celebrities I make the following disclaimer:
1. These are written gossip column style. I will NOT be naming names, don't bother asking.
2. If I ever have job related celebrity run ins with someone whom is not an asshole or making a royal fool of themselves at any point in the course of this blog, I will name names and provide pictures if possible. Until then, please refer to disclaimer point Number One.

Slavering Gossip Slut Celebrity Item Number One: Two limos pull up sideways (blocking my entire parking lot) to the same location as the Party Boy incident. They're not the guys from the local limo service and most likely belong to one of several self important famous people playing concerts nearby that night. My suspicion is confirmed by the entrance of a bunch of blunted lackeys that reeked so strongly of entourage you'd think it was a new fragrance by Calvin Klein. They're lost, driver can't find their hotel. I give them directions, hoping these obnoxious dumbasses will be on their way. They then demand that I call the hotel for them (no cell phone signal here in Hell) to make sure that the back entrance and elevators are available for their star. Upon calling the hotel the tired sounding third shift clerk refuses the request, and I attempt to hand the phone over to the lackey so he can explain it to her. His response:
"Tell that bitch we're from THE TOUR, she's been....."

His tirade abruptly stops and everyone's heads turn to the second limo, where a very famous rapper is expelling his liquor onto the pavement, being barely held inside the car by some skanky groupies whom are definitely not his less famous but still notable R+B singer girlfriend.

As quickly as the limo door opened it closes again, and entourage pays for their purchases and leaves quickly, without one more peep of the prima donna bullshit. I apologize to the hotel clerk (who is still on the phone) and we have a good laugh over the possibility of calling the gossip columns, if we could afford the risk of lawsuit.

I spot one of the local fake ass gangsta white kids 10 bucks to hose down the puddle, which he initially refuses until I tell him who produced the mess, and he completes his task with a disturbing sense of obvious reverence.

Consumerism Prevents Homicide, News At 11 (02/22/06)

2007-08-03T05:14:00.000-04:00

If there is a Hell, my upstairs neighbors deserve a special place in it. These anonymous bastards play music so loudly that the songs (and accompanying vibrations) reach through the concrete walls and into my little fortress of misanthrophy. I usually stay awake most of the day, but I don't like being forced to. Especially by some volume challenged morons with eccentric musical tastes managing to find the suckiest sounds of 5 different genres.

Unfortunately, the local noise ordinance is only in effect during certain hours and Mr. Man (editrix's note: now my ex and a confirmed asshole) is not at home to start banging large objects against the ceiling ( Banging on the offender's connecting wall being the international apartment dweller's code for S.T.F.U.). To while away the minutes until I could call the rental office enforcers, I took some of that lovely online shopping morphine.

First stop was Itunes, where I made and purchased a special playlist for drowning out the mediocrity:

1."Queen Medley" Butch Walker- My favorite indie singer songwriter manages to make fun of Vanilla Ice, do some rocking Queen covers and (miracle of miracles) get a concert audience to sing coherently. Plus, enough hard edged guitar work to make a Mcmansion vibrate like a cheap wind up toy. Let's see how YOU like it, neighbor assholes.

2. "Only" Nine Inch Nails- Has a nice "goth kid discovers Talking Heads" quality, with a quirky groove and slightly removed semi spoken vocals. That and Trent Reznor screaming "There is no you, there is only me....." takes on an almost cathartic quality in this context.

3. "Caught Out There" Kelis- A sadistic off kilter beat before the Neptunes started REALLY repeating themselves and Kelis playing the scorned woman screeching "I hate YOU so much RIGHT NOW!" Perfect.

4."Ante Up (Remix)" M.O.P- A classic piece of 2 am nightclub fight music from an otherwise mediocre rap group. More aggressive than a room full of drunken teenybopper starlets fighting over Wilmer Valderrama.

5. "Maps" The Yeah Yeah Yeahs- Now that the initial aggression is out, something a bit mellower, but with enough crunch to be a sonic weapon at high volume. A perfect little piece of neo garage rock, with fuzzy guitar riffs (later stolen wholesale to butch up Kelly Clarkson's "Since U Been Gone") taking care of the angered pleading hidden by the smoky vocal.

6. "Red Alert" Basement Jaxx- The shitty music keeps on playing on and on, so I might as well dance my life away to this electronic music classic, with a catchy deep thump guaranteed to induce rhythmic movement and ruptured neighbor eardrums.

7. "White Lines" Grandmaster Flash And The Furious Five- I know he said don't do it, but a line would be helpful under current circumstances. A gem from the days when hip hop heavyweights and the East Village avant garde met in places other than photo ops at cheesy promotional parties.

8. "Galang" M.I.A.- War baby tales of death and destruction all set to club ready beats and structured like children's jump rope rhymes. Here's hoping the simpletons above me get the (irresistibly catchy) subliminal death wish.

9."Bad Girls" Donna Summer- Why this vintage slice of goofy streetwalking laments? Because those ultra busy Giorgio Moroder production details are extremely effective loud. The horn flourishes and whistles sound like an air raid. Also, if the noise polluting assholes are as young as I suspect, they'll hate disco and it's suggestions of when their parents were young and cool and knew everything, just like they think they do now.

10. "Black Sweat" Prince- His Royal Badness finishes the set with this piece of nasty minimalist funk that hints that he might have something better than The Rainbow Children left in him. Between the bass grind and the synth whistle, it's the perfect piece for what is basically my adult version of sticking my fingers in my ears and shouting "La,la,la,la! I'm NOT listening to your horrible music!"

Just in case the mixtape fails to teach them a permanent lesson about not trying to engage me in musical combat, I also headed over to http://www.deepdiscountdvd.com/ and ordered up some more grindhouse classics (Jungle Holocaust and the uncut version of Thriller: A Cruel Picture because I had bought the edit by mistake). This way when my specially shipped overnight package arrives tomorrow morning I can treat them to the awful sounds of 70's softcore sex( ultra Velveeta wah wah guitar and poorly dubbed moaning alert!) and cinematic bloodcurdling screams. I will continue with aural assaults until the desired silence is achieved.

I have a new excuse to buy more of the sort of things I gorge on anyway, I will rid myself of a pesky little nuisance and get to test Pavlovian conditioning theory.

Damn...... I love being a vengeful nerd.

(Note: If you'd like a copy of the playlist listed above, email me and I'll burn you one)

Can't Sleep......The Stalkers Will Get Me (09/14/05)

2007-08-03T05:12:00.000-04:00

Just when I was starting to enjoy my job again, the crazy bastard has to resurface. I posted about this a few months ago and deleted it, so a short synopsis of the events thus far:

A customer at my job(fetish photographer by profession,suspected Neo Nazi by rumor) starts stopping by regularly. However, despite the fact that I strongly suspect he's a bigoted jackass, I can not throw him out until he starts harassing people and he's been polite as punch to everyone.
All of the employees are polite and will answer a direct question (in case we're wrong), but we're NOT trying to engage this guy in our usual friendly banter.

Neo asks me out on a date. I let him down gently when I decline( pointing to the "wedding ring" on my left hand), as we have all decided he's a few records short of a crate.

Neo starts hanging around, waiting for me to come on shift and/or leave for the day, full of apologies and babble about how we have a "connection", finally culminating in my having to physically throw him out after he starts begging/trying to kiss me, that it will make me see things his way.

He disappears for months after that and I thought he was gone for good.

I couldn't have been more wrong if I was the head of FEMA talking about superdome refugees.

Lil' Hitler has returned and thus far has confined his staring and stalking to the tail end of my day, where I can use the trainees as human shields while I dash for the back office. I'll only have the trainees for another week and if he ramps up his activities I'm alone for 3/4 of my shift.

In my 4 years of overnights I've dealt with freaks,addicts and alkies of every stripe, and this guy is the first time I sense genuine threat. His fantasy/reality divide seems to be severely skewed. He's passive/aggressive to extremes. He's the walking talking tabloid stereotype of BDSM(i.e. incapable of acting out his fantasies safely and with consent, with the lifestyle merely being a step toward actual violence, an idea which is bullshit personified, but not in this guy's case). The kind of asshole that makes the rest of us "safe sane and consensual" kinksters, queers and deviants look bad.

I've been going through my days hyper-alert, watching every car that pulls in. I carry the phone in my jacket pocket at all times in case I need to call the police. Absolute worst case scenario, I'm pretty sure I can injure him enough to buy me time until police arrive. He's only about 5'10" 190lbs, bigger than me, but not massively so.

Pray to your deities of choice he stays away kids. I don't like the looks of this.

Note: Regularly scheduled goofy shit will resume tomorrow. Same bat time, same bat channel.

Dear Crabby (Yet Another Set Of After Hours Anecdotes) (02/02/07)

2007-08-03T05:07:00.000-04:00

I know this topic gets more spins around here than radio station playlists, but the supply of late night lost souls has yet to show signs of stopping. My regular readers know the drill. Once in a while, the planets align just right and some kind star smiles upon me to create something lovely and amazing (which in turn created the piece I just linked, probably one of the strongest pieces I've ever written for this blog).

The rest of the time, it's a steel cage match between the intoxicated,sufferers of verbal diarrhea,junkies, and the just plain stupid. Add in an extra heaping helping of idiot, a stalker (or two) to taste and a pinch of dead body and you have the recipe for the last several years of my working life.

Submitted for your approval, yet another subset of the traveling freak show that is my dusk to dawn world. These chatty cheapskates can't be bothered to shell out their cash to a good bartender or better shrink, so they use upstate's resident captive audience (read:me) as their very own free of cost advice columnist.

Itchy in the Forest (And It's Not Poison Ivy): Poor little underage drinker boy (and by underage drinking I'm thinking from fetal alcohol syndrome straight on through, judging by facial features and the atrocious standards of acceptable behavior of local breeding pairs) comes in sloshed and on the verge of tears. His female friend apparently went to one too many debaucherous barn dances and has caught a nasty case of the crotch crawlies and has now come to him devastated about it. Cleatus the should've been aborted fetus is not sure he wants to be this girl's friend anymore. Forgetting the sort I was dealing with and wanting him to leave me to my coffee as quickly as possible, I muttered some stock phrase about not crucifying her for her mistakes and to be supportive in the impending round of doctor visits, as her particular strain was not contagious in casual contact. That was easy. (Too easy.)

I then get treated to a steam of conciousness flood that Fetey and his future lot lizard they kinda fucked around a few times, but in a friend way and it looked funny once but they were in a hurry and now he's lost that loving feeling and replaced it with this nagging burning sensation.....and apparently she's got a lot of "friends".

Well,no shit Sherlock, give this man a prize for the longest possible journey from point A to logical conclusion B in human history. However, I was too busy trying to lock that highly unpleasant visual in that special room in my unconscious that has two steel doors and an Acme cartoon safe blocking it off to articulate that previous sentence. People should not say shit like this to me, the visuals my brain creates would be on par with the ones used to "reform" the protagonist of A Clockwork Orange.

Instead I chocked down the bile and sent the jackass off with a slip of paper containing the number of the nearest Planned Parenthood and instructions on how to get himself and his "friend" tested. Here's hoping he had a hard time telling the numbers 6 and 9 apart and waited long enough for treatment that it has since destroyed their ability to reproduce. For every bit of oxygen idiots like this pair breathes, a genius baby in India suffocates.

Not That There's ANYTHING Wrong With That- A downstate transplant, just passing though, comes in to bum a cigarette(he saw me smoking as he walked in) and instead of a simple thank you begins to regale me with his tale of woe, car on it's last legs, wife left him, the full on worthy of a country song misery trip, though it sounds odd in Brooklyn-ese. Fuck all, no good deed does go unpunished. (Though it could be a fair trade, I suppose, every cigarette smoked is 15 minutes off of the inhalers' life...he's wasted at least that much of mine.) This one is the type that doesn't believe in conversational pauses, and I'm mechanically inserting the slightest of head nods in appropriate places on cruise control, hoping for the other customer escape hatch.

".....I just wanted to stay over my best friend's house and watch TV and go to a bar and be away from her nagging and her feminine products in the bathroom cabinet and her yelling ...is THAT so wrong? He's my friend."

This was quite clearly my cue for an actual verbal response and my brain had subconsciously absorbed enough of his rambling that a familiar movement had started to hit my radar....the male "friends" , the odd pitch of his voice at the words feminine products, the slumber parties.

Then I saw it.

His head was cocked and just a tiny touch above the collar of his shirt was a smudge of sparkle matching the size and shade of the sort only favored by circus performers and drag queens. Barnum And Bailey were off for the season, so that only left one option and it gave me both an escape and an answer to his question.

"Honey, you're so gay you've miraculously developed the ability to sweat glitter ~pointing to collar~, the sooner you accept that fact the happier you, your "friend" and your soon to be ex wife will be. Take care!", and I scampered back to the relative safety of my office as he sped off.

Though I doubt any of them will ever read this ( I seriously doubt most of them can read at all), here's the best advice I can give:

Leave me alone. I don't get paid to deal with your issues, we don't even sell tissue! I'm not all knowing, I cracked the last of the crystal balls, I can not solve all of your problems, and I can't even give you a decent prognosis of what might be the best course of action...because ever since me and Dionne had that falling out, I am severely lacking in psychic friends.

(Though it's a fair bet that a high percentage of my patrons were one of the short bus riders who can't distinguish the difference between myself/everyone who reads this site laughing at them instead of with them. They'll just think they're the regular dictionary definition type of special.)

Sliced Spam (01/17/07)

2007-08-03T05:03:00.000-04:00

Lacking the luxury of a cable connection, my ventures in getting spindled, folded and mutilated (in a quest to remove the already present staples) by the American health care system left me in quite the painful predicament. Namely, utter boredom. I can't web wander while on the phone. Books were out too. On the rare occasions that a human would return to the line, the pause of looking up from my reading to regurgitate the required information would be deemed far too long for the chained to a computer liability lackey's taste, and I would be back in the Hades of my very important call being ignored in the order received.

There was nothing to keep me company in the void of unnecessary bureaucracy except the hold Muzak version of "La Isla Bonita" and an inbox more clogged with junk than a fast food addict's arteries. However, I know I have the reverse king Midas touch (everything I caress turns to stressful bullshit), and managed to resist the lures of my desk drawer staple remover. Hours of tedium lead to desperate measures, and I began to amuse myself by cutting and pasting bits of the spam into the online version of those (at one point) annoyingly ubiquitous free form verse fridge magnets, only correcting for spelling. Emily Dickenson and her ilk may be spinning poetically in their graves, but the whole ridiculous exercise spared me from becoming a one line self surgery joke come Darwin Award season. Enjoy.

Internet Trend Haiku
Don't be fooled by "friends"
Pretty girls on myspace use
Camera angles well

Barely Legal
Breasts are amazing in
peek boo bras
Cheaper than implants
Young teenage girls
Looking for a rich Nigerian Businessman
To take them away
On a Valentine’s getaway in Venice

Instead they are found cheap
Topless
Wet t shirt Contest
Girls Gone Wild
High off
Marlboros, vodkas
Without
Release forms
Beware
Joe Francis

Lawsuits
Incoming
No more naked tv fun
For you
Jackass

Buyer Beware

CHEAP PILLS
Viagra, Cialis,Horny goat weed
Promises to lengthen and extend your penis
Drive females wild

Oh no!
Poorly labeled foreign scribble
Too late
Condition critical

Lonely man
Attacked by
Herd Of
Actual
Lusty
Farm animals
Attracted by the pheromones

Horny goat
Indeed

Thank Bob Ross And 80's Nostalgia (01/15/07)

2007-08-03T04:59:00.000-04:00

Why? Because without them there would've been blood that wasn't mine spilled on the floor of my workplace, because I would've beaten someone over the head with the mountain of regifted paperwork and impact zone mess that was once something resembling a retail establishment. Once again, the gift to humanity that is my music library comes to the rescue with a sunshine yellow disc w/ a Bob Ross album cover and a pocket full of perky 80's hits. It is almost impossible to be homicidal in the face of all that shoulder padded optimism (Except perhaps in the case of Kajagoogoo, who for name alone should've had some tough talking guitar icon beat their mousse helmet heads in, add in gasoline and a lighter if we're talking about the crap those people decided to put on record), and the lives of the ~~monkeys~~ staff were spared.

Just in case any of you have less than optimal coworkers, a playlist of happy little trees, from my Ipod to yours.

1. "Snert" Audiomontage: Deep house has a bit of a panic at the disco and 6 minutes of dancing ensues, with porn movie bass and Kenny G horn loops somehow combining into a perfect piece for a modern Studio 54.

2. "Treat Her Sweeter" Paul Simpson Connection: At first glance there's nothing remarkable about this piece of proto-electronica. Except when you consider the fact that it's rapid fire drum snaps were recorded a decade and a half before the song that proceeded it. Retro homage and genuine vintage:two great tastes that taste great together!

3. "You And I Both" Jason Mraz: This is coasting along on little more than pretty vocal meandering, but it gives you a chance to catch a breath between dance tracks and keeps things from partying like it's rave night circa 1999.

4. "Our House" Madness: A one hit wonder sing along from a band that either had an odd sense of humor or the most well adjusted childhood in human history. If it's the latter, I hope that made their fade into trivial pursuit territory a tiny touch less painful.

5. "Going Back To Cali" LL Cool J: Show of hands, does anyone else remember when Ladies Love Cool James actually deserved the middle part of that moniker? He's at his best here, smooth but not sappy, tough but not caricature. It's almost enough (but not quite) to forgive the 45 minutes of lip licking he has the sheer audacity to call records these days.

6. "Once In A Lifetime" Talking Heads: The sort of avant garde pop genius that has been long forced underground, despite the sheer weirdness of almost every element (most notably those scenery chewing vocals that would be parody in lesser hands).

7."Genius Of Love" Tom Tom Club: Silly shoutouts to everyone from Kurtis Blow(3:23) to the late James Brown(3:38) anchored by a dance groove worthy of any of them, probably better known to the younger set as the sample behind Mariah Carey's "Fantasy".

8. "Rock The Casbah" The Clash: A bit of punk rock politics that is so damn catchy it's been misappropriated by everyone from the US Armed Forces to Will Smith (who should be judo chopped in the throat for raping my childhood to make that horrible "Willenium" track) to wireless carrier Cingulair, who use mondegreens of the lyrics ("lock the cash box", "stuff the cat box" etc.) in a recent commercial. FYI to the uniformed (read: people under 18, who have just graduated out of prepaids and are scoping for a new unnecessarily tiny cell phone for their parents to buy): The song is based on the banning of rock music in Iran under Ayatollah Khomeini. Like that movie Footloose except substitute guitar riffs for dancing and subtract the presence of Kevin Bacon and the whole thing's tremendous black hole of sucktasticness.

9. "Buddy Holly" Weezer: Just under 3 minutes of nothing but hooks and guitar fuzz, with the first verse the best nerdy white boy parody of pseudo gangster slang I've ever heard. Bow to the gods of geek rock at their ear candy best.

10. "Clothes Off!" Gym Class Heroes: What I think of these guys' full lengths is a subject for another post, but in this instance it's one of the few cases where everything works. Rapper Travie brings back memories of silly, no harm hip hop one hitters like Young MC and Positive K, the band rips their way through the sampled loop...even the horrendous attempts at an R+B vocal from Fall Out Boy's Patrick Stump fit like neon clothing in 1990. Elevating this to sheer cheese genius is the unmitigated balls it takes to sample/cover a song that wasn't any bloody good in the first place("We Don't Have to Take Our Clothes Off" by Jermaine Stewart) and twist it into a party anthem for people who don't want to grow up.

Sex, Drugs And Rock And Roll (Pass The Peas) (01/13/07)

2007-08-03T04:57:00.000-04:00

It was a fairly quiet year for the family's annual pilgrimage to my mom's house in the middle of nowhere. However, if you've ever read about any of the other various family gatherings I've posted about, the term "quiet"(much like "sanity") is highly relative. There was no need for a referee or a shovel to hide the evidence, and was thus it was a good year. However, for your amusement, a few favorites from the conversational end of the family dinner table:

White Lines And Contemplation of Murder: My stepdad is double the size of the average human (6'4" 400 lbs or so), and spent several years as a roadie/security worker for a bunch of late 70's into the mid 80's musicians. This year's moment of nostalgia from rock and roll high school was prompted by discussion of my planned trip to London. My stepfather recalled that Trafalgar Square looked interesting from the window of a dirty and cramped tour bus, which he traveled on while working for working for a member of a certain face painted super group who had decided to try a solo run. Apparently it was one of his worst experiences, with the conditions cramped, the groupies non existent, and good drugs scarce because the star had a nose like a vacuum cleaner and was constantly subjecting the crew to screaming coke addled rages. After a few months of abuse and no sign of a paycheck, my stepdad and his best friend found themselves at the receiving end of another tantrum, and poised high above the stage prepping sound equipment, seriously considered dropping an audio stack on the bastard's head and claiming accident, with millions of mourning fans never being the wiser. Luckily for music fans, my stepdad's friend had secured some calming substances and they smoked that instead, with the star in question allowed to live. He eventually had the good sense to reunite with his bandmates and cut back his drug use, continuing to perform to the present day. Neither my stepfather or his friend ever saw a paycheck( along with most of the rest of the staff from that tour).

Speaking Of Murder, A Bit Closer To Home: My parents actually knew each other in passing as teenagers, but didn't start dating until 20 or so years later. My stepfather loves to playfully provoke a reaction out of my mom, whom is often rather sphinx like in her craziness. Upon her mentioning his batshit nuts ex wife, he'll gleefully cackle "at least I didn't date a murderer!". My mother will get 10 different sorts of red faced, stammering about the fact that it was decades ago, and he didn't kill anyone until after they broke up, his brother went to jail for homicide during that time, but not him (Apparently, it only counts if you're the courtroom Bonnie, standing by your Clyde at the trial and pushing aside reporters, in the Bizarro world of Mommy). Everyone then joins in the Greek chorus of bullshit callers and starts in on her about hiding the body out in the woods of midstate. (Yes, I'm aware that we're all taking the number 6 express train to Hell for joking about it.)

The Turkey Will Be Done At 4:20: A pre dinner discussion of the merits (or lack of) various cinematic stoner comedies, led to the great marijuana debate. My stepfather admitted to the fondness for mary jane in his younger days, blaming his weight gain as he headed out of his teens on the munchies and a love of large slabs of cow, my mother played her usual coy, but she came from the same hard partying aesthetic, so the Greek chorus made its way back for an encore. I was never a smoker (hate the smell, it's worse than a herd of crack whores in cheap perfume), and preferred to drink myself silly, which given my behavior on previous Hellidays was accepted as fact. Mr. Man sat there inert, this being new territory in the annals of family ridiculousness (he comes from more prim and proper sorts) and was saved by the door bell, where the entrance of my sister and her subsequent denial of ever having experienced the demon weed caused everyone to collapse into hysterical fits of giggles better suited to the high.

I know I can't possibly be the only one with a family that lives on the corner of dysfunction junction...what's the most ridiculous holiday dinner conversation you've ever had?

Everyone Hates Smarties

2007-08-03T04:48:00.001-04:00

Halloween is fast approaching (one of the few holidays worth celebrating). As a kid there's the weeklong sugar high known as trick or treating, as an adult you get to put on a silly costume and do body shots off some chick dressed like a naughty nurse without having to confine it to your bedroom for fear of being labeled a pervert. Halloween kicks more ass than a mule herder. However, I know some of you aren't as enthusiastic as I am. I don't understand why not, but in your own best interest I thought I'd provide some guidelines so you don't become the house that's a target for a toilet paper barrage on Gate Night next year.

The Good

1. Chocolate- The trick or treaters Holy Grail. Mini sizes are standard currency, but the rare house that passed out full sized chocolate bars was always a delight. They had a line of ghosts and goblins a mile long, but they never suffered the indignity of smashed pumpkins, egged windows (or the above mentioned T.P.) either. It really doesn't matter which type you get (M+M, Reese's, Snickers, whatever) or if you only have enough to give one mini package per kid. Chocolate is pretty much fail proof.

2.Pixie Stix- The joys of colored sugar in a paper tube. Cheap, and a crowd favorite, mainly because of the lovely high provided by pure cane sugar. Hyperactivity inducing and a dentist's best friend due to sheer volume of tooth decay...buy even the strictest parents let that bouncing off walls shit pass on Halloween, cavities be damned.

3. Tootsie Pops/ Blow Pops- Bypassed the ranks of ordinary lollipops by virtue of having extra treats inside. Tootsie Pops were helped along by the popular urban myth that if you collected 10 wrappers that depicted the Indian on horseback aiming his arrow at a star and sent them to the company, you'd receive a free box of Tootsie Pops in return.

4. Pop Rocks- Forbidden fruit at its finest. I'm dating myself by including these, but I really don't care. Helped along by many other childhood legends...they damaged your teeth, your head/stomach could explode and they were potentially lethal if mixed with a can of Coca Cola. During my trick or treating days, they had already been pulled off the shelves and sneakily reintroduced, lending them even more cache.

The Bad
1. Safe T Pops- Crappy lollipops that tasted like cough syrup and had curved handles to prevent choking. An admirable idea, but all of the kids I knew still thought the person who passed these out was a really big fucking killjoy.

2. Smarties- These were of no value in the post trick or treating bargaining session with your siblings, unless you had one young enough to trade good stuff for things that taste like an unfortunate combination of classroom paste and chalk.

3. Dollar Store Candy- Rock hard caramel creams, those plain wrapper butterscotches and other generic crap that obviously was way past its prime and had been scraped out of a 75 percent off Safeway bin at the last minute.

The Really Really Ugly
1. Pretending not to be home- I don't care that you turned off your porch lights and didn't decorate. Your car is still visible and it is also obvious you are sitting in the living room watching TV. At least have the decency to put a "Sorry, out of candy" sign on your front door if you don't wish to be bothered, you fucking Halloween Scrooge.

2. The Community Candy Bowl- There was always one lazy motherfucker who put out a big ass bowl of candy out on the stoop. That "Please take One" sign was not deterring the local bully from jacking the whole damn bowl and threatening to kick the ass of anyone who even thought about telling.

3. Fast Food Restaurant Gift Certificates- Utterly useless, as they were for like $2 (this was before the days of the dollar menu) and required a parent to drive you there...which was not happening after they had just shuttled you through the whole damn neighborhood. Just give candy.....just as unhealthy but a lot quicker.

4. Apples, Popcorn Balls And Other Home Made/Unwrapped Treats- Regardless of how good of a confectioner you are, spare the effort. Due to another popular piece of Halloween lore , these items will get immediately thrown out by concerned parents fearful of razor blade inserting candy poisoners.

5. Pennies/Loose Change- The ultimate in shitty treats. You never made any "real" money (at that innocent time defined as more than $5) and it was rather disenheartening having dirty pennies tossed in your direction while the door slammed shut before you could even finish saying "trick or treat". Note the advice in number one of this section, as you are also a fucking Halloween Scrooge, you bastard. I should've created a special level of Hell for you people.

Your Stop For All Things Anti Holiday 2006 (11/27/06)

2007-08-03T04:39:00.000-04:00

I've kept my head buried in the cranky sand for the past three weeks, trying to enjoy those last bits of life without any of the trappings of the frenzy that marks the Judeo-Christian holiday season and all of its putrid overflow into every aspect of the secular world. I'd rather be forced to listen to Paris Hilton sing the solos in the microwaved squirrel and stray cat choir, than hearing about nothing but snow, Santa and credit card chargeable goodwill toward men from now until February.

If at all possible, I'd like to see the jolly saint trampled by angry and traitorous reindeer, who then themselves get attacked by half deranged elves who've turned feral after 364 days of sweatshop labor and then the whole bloody lot gets consumed in the explosion of millions of pairs of overburdened outside outlets filled with light strings and inflatable Nativities, leaving no trace of the dreaded Christmas except for an enormous mushroom cloud over the north pole and a stench of burned mistletoe and reindeer flesh that crosses several nearby meridians.

This would lead to the institution of a far less financially ruinous and stressful celebration, perhaps involving take out and curling up with a nice fluffy quilt for some much deserved rest after dealing with the onslaught of commercialized crap for the first however many years of our natural lives.

However, the yuletide apocalypse has yet to happen, so I suppose I'll have to soothe myself with yet another anti carol, feel free to follow the bouncing ball and sing along:

(This time, to the tune of "Let It Snow")

Oh, the weather outside is frightful
But locking the family out was so delightful
Until the in laws are popsicles
Let it Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!

It doesn't show sings of stopping
But darling your mother had it coming
Since you wouldn't let me tell her where to go
Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!

It's the middle of Christmas night
And I won't let them in from the storm
Who knew that the cold hearted bitch,
Would have such qualms about keeping warm?

The fire is slowly dying
Her rude remarks she's still denying
Until the wench learns to be respectful
Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!

Liquor And Pixie Sticks (10/31/06)

2007-08-03T04:37:00.000-04:00

It's Halloween, high holy day here at Snark And Cupcakesand perhaps the best excuse for a party humankind has ever invented, short of the day money finally does grow on trees and makes our collective parents STFU.

No annoying family gatherings or presents to buy, just get dressed, get drunk and shake your ass until dawn. For those who haven't yet joined my official Queen Of Halloween zombie army, a few reasons to hurry up and enlist:

Ghoulish Go Go Boys And Gore Gore Girlies- What other day of the year can you do body shots off the abs of a hunky fireman or navel of a naughty nurse in public without getting arrested? Bare your fangs and bite if asked or lead the sexy jailbird by the handcuffs and have no fear of a drink to the face, as it's all in character.
Vodka and Pop Rocks- Nuff said. For extra speedy inebriation, take a shot every time you see a girl dressed up as a slutty ~fill in the blank with just about anything you can think of~
Getting (Sugar) High- Who needs Red Bull when you have free reign to eat half a bag of fun size Snickers for breakfast (potential trick or treaters be damned)? Pack a handful of Pixie Sticks in a coat pocket and you'll be ready to bounce through a party like a speeding bullet and be able to leap up and dance on tables halfway across the room in a single bound. Nostalgia used for nefarious grown up purposes is fun.
Undead Musical Oddities Rise From The Grave- All Hallow's Eve doesn't have official carols, but all sorts of goofy schlock records get the dust blown off for guilt free fun. Usually buried deep in hidden Ipod playlists, the rotting corpses of everything from Warren Zevon's "Werewolves In London" to the theme from Ghostbusters re-enter the land of the living. Just roll with the novelty record punches and stop suppressing your advanced knowledge of the choreography from Thriller. Besides, I'm sure Rockwell's one hit wonder ass could sure use the residual check.

Happy Halloween everybody, and as always here's hoping you bags are full of more tricks that treats this year, regardless if those treats are candy,free drinks or a pile of costumed cuties' phone numbers.

As for me I'm off to pull on the spandex and over the knee boots for one last bit of pagan party time. Pass the pop rocks.

There's Always Something There To Remind Me (10/14/06)

2007-08-03T04:34:00.000-04:00

Being that the perception of friendliness is key to a peaceful retail existence, I've become an unwilling master of small talk. I always make a point of asking after wives and kids, complimenting women with new haircuts and keeping track of news, sports, and weather. Human interest will sooth most savage customer beasts and they're less likely to throw fits if I'm having inventory issues or an off day.

Some nuts are harder to crack than others, but there is one topic that will get a response out even the most cranky and laconic of customers:

Tattoos.

EVERYONE has a tattoo story and they're almost always entertaining. In jokes among groups of friends, memorials to loved ones and hometowns, a generic piece of flash chosen in a fit of tequila slammers, just about anything you can think of is tattooed on somebody somewhere and there's always an interesting backstory behind it. Jackasses who can't even remember which door is the exit will recall when they got it, which artist (in some cases use that term loosely) did it and how much it hurt. Even the non altered will get in on the fun, citing reasons why they never got one or the design they're trying to get just right before taking the plunge. They'll happily show you every self chosen scar and the skin show is lovely if the person in question happens to be cute.

What's not lovely is the number of unfortunate souls saddled with bad idea poorly executed modifications. In the hopes of saving someone out there expensive removal procedures, some advice culled from the pool of tattoo tales:

You Get What You Pay For- Bargain shopping is great for shoes, car insurance and hotels on priceline, but choosing an artist using a dartboard, a torn page from a phone book and and a discount coupon is a really bad idea. You may save $100, but will never live down the shame of neither you nor the supposed artist noticing there's only a one letter difference between "angel" and "angle".
Tattoos Last Longer Than Romances- Once a wild romantic, you will most likely become a bitter divorcee with a black ink block and an axe to grind. If you insist on a name, why not your child's instead?
Beware The Valley of The Ultra Cutesy-Hearts,flowers,unicorns,butterflies and Tweety Bird all look darling and sweet on a college girl. However, an innocuous image frilly and mass production ready enough to be plastered on a My Little Pony toy's ass will probably be a regrettable choice on yours 20 years down the line. If you absolutely love any of these things, get something custom and quirky enough to have more going for it over the long haul than the smell of saccharine substances gone rotten.
Today's Edgy Is Tomorrow's Sitcom Joke- Tribal armbands,vague allusions to Chinese hanzi or traditional Sanskrit, the waves of sailor's symbols on kids who haven't floated in anything choppier than bathwater......you get the idea. No one wants to get stuck with the inked equivalent of Tamagotchis and Pet Rocks. By the time the jokes subside and your trend whore tat cycles back into style, you'll most likely be more wrinkled than a pet pug and won't even get to enjoy it.
Don't Confuse Flash With A Takeout Menu- Hi there culture vulture! Speaking of bastardized hanzi and tribals, don't get tattoos in languages you don't speak/read or that have a heavy symbolic value to their native culture you know nothing about. If you are that fucking ignorant, the very least you deserve is a character than you thought meant "happiness" (but really reads as "stupid monkey") etched into your skin.
Put Down The Tequila- No one ever brags about their amazing inebriated decision making skills. besides, no amount of moonshine could explain away a permanent mishap of either of these (NWS) tats' staggeringly embarrassing proportions.

Because I Got High (Or Drunk...Or Both) (10/04/06)

2007-08-03T04:28:00.000-04:00

Now that I'm back on the joy that is graveyards, it's time for another bunch of midnight miscreants. Sadly, there isn't any universal handbook for dealing with the daily freakshow. However, if some enterprising soul were smart enough to write one, the following would be on the first page, in 60 point bold:

Rule of the overnight number 480: About 60 percent of your clientele will be dead shitfaced as well as shady.

Addendum to overnighter rules number 420: Another 35 percent will be some variety of high. Expect the two groups to overlap. Frequently.

The bars are open, the clubs packed and petty drug dealers everywhere dive for their cell phones once the sun sets. Eventually the party starts to wind down and all of the chemically altered crowds stumble their way home, or further out into the night in search of sex, munchies and more chemicals. Thus the grand overnight tradition of inebriated incidents, so many that I can better diagnose addictions than the local clinic and toss drunks quicker than Naomi Campbell lobs a cell phone.

This one goes out to all of those who permanently reside at the bottom of a fifth with occasional vacations to harder potions (the "occasion" being a day ending in Y). Feel free to laugh..it's not like any of them will remember it in the morning:

When Snack Cakes Fly: A scruffy local comes into the store and the girl whom I was coming in to relieve decides to be nice and make him her last customer of her day, rather than forcing him to wait for me.They exchange the basic customer service pleasantries as he pays for his stuff, and just as she is about to smile and wish him good night, there is a sound that I can't quite accurately describe.

It sounds like an angry hippopotamus with a basic command of English, and it's coming from the woman who just walked in. Said woman is wearing a housedress and curlers and inexplicably carrying a set of car keys and a box of Little Debbies, shouting so loudly and shaking so violently that the Ring Dings are threatening to escape the confines of the open box. Her mouth is full and between sprays of crumbs and the stink of Jim Beam, I finally manage to make out what it is she's saying. I quote:

"YOU CHEATING BASTARD! YOU NO GOOD LYING SONOFABITCH! HOW DARE YOU BEHAVE THAT WAY RIGHT IN FRONT OF MY FACE! DO YOU THINK I'M STUPID OR SOMETHING?"

The poor henpencked customer starts mumbling that he didn't mean any harm, that nothing happened, he was just being friendly and asks his girlfriend/wife/beached whale if they could please just go home. Once again, verbatim:

"WHY DON"T YOU ASK HER (points at my employee) FOR A GODDAMN RIDE?"

She then tosses the prepacked sweet with enough force for the wrapper to pop and a spray of cream filling spreads across his chest like he'd been playing pastry paintball. She keeps screaming, the Ring Dings keep flying and I'm dodging the rain of destructive desserts as I dive for the phone and call the cops. The tussling two some makes their way out the door and the woman hops in her truck and starts driving away, her man following behind apologizing. She continues to shout out the driver's side window and to make projectiles of anything she has at hand.

The police finally show up (probably after they had finished laughing at the bad country song unfolding in my parking lot) and my employee and I clean up the mess, both having learned two valuable lessons:

1. No good deed goes unpunished.

2. I have terrible luck with those damned snack cakes.

Our Children Are the Future (of America's Dumbest Criminals): A young teenager comes in, looks around to see if anyone else is in the building and asks me if I want to buy some weed, as he has the best shit in the area. When I tell him I don't smoke, he then proceeds to ask me for a job application.

Insert your own joke here, as it's just too easy.Bonus point for usage of punny Cheech and Chong reference.

People Pay Dominatrixes Big Money For That Sort Of Thing: Another young guy, bombed beyond coherence on what smart money would bet was meth (a common one in this place, being crack for crackers and all) and cheap liquor. Through the sort of exaggerated gestures you use to communicate with either small children or the smarter types of monkeys, I managed to figure out he needed a bathroom. I pointed down the hall and this somehow translated to him as the bathroom being out one of the doors. He then proceeds to open up one of the breaker boxes outside. I was tempted to let this kid die a Darwin Award worthy death by genital electroshock, but the joys of potentially being able to close the store were overwhelmed by the misery of the amount of police paperwork it would take to explain a large slap of deep fried moron sitting on the sidewalk.

I followed recommended procedure for idiots leaking potentially infectious bodily fluids and put on a pair of gloves. This kept my hands from being cold as I created a massive and well packed iceball to sneak around the corner and launch full force at the source of the problem. The kid went screeching groggily into the night and the resulting call to a cleaning service in the morning made an overworked receptionist laugh.

Here's hoping you all have a new respect for the potential of the common object as projectile weapon and have learned that drugs and alcohol are bad. Not because of any of that shit you learned from your parents and teachers, but because your wasted ass will do something stupid and be at the mercy of people like me and their twisted sense of amusement.....which is far more hazardous to your person than those blunts you smoked in college.

Public service announcement over, that's it for this latest batch of tales from the overnight, as recounting all of this nonsense has made me need a nice stiff drink.

An Idiot's Guide To Dating A Bi Girl (09/05/06)

2007-08-03T04:21:00.000-04:00

Though I've long since flipped the bird to the hell known as dating ( editrix note:scratch that, am now fully back embrolied in said hell) , I'd still like to provide this little PSA to spare my fellow Kinsey 3 kind some misery.

Gentlemen (I use this term very loosely):

"Cool! Got any hot friends?" or any other threesome related questioning is not a proper conversation starter on the first, second, third or 1,500th date. It's rude to automatically assume we exist for your voyeuristic kicks and even if the group thing happens to be our particular kink, we're certainly not going to go there with someone who has a sexual maturity level that stopped somewhere around bad porn 101.
Yes, we like girls too. Yes, we might think the waitress/ barista/ whomever is cute. What we find less cute is someone who thinks that full on vapid staring (complete with drip action drool puddle) at another woman while on a date with us is okay. Mind your manners or you'll be minding a drink tossed in your face for being so obviously parched, you thirsty motherfucker.
While we're discussing the blatantly obvious, we have dated women. Every single piece of relationship related game you have (From "I'll call you" to the classic getting in random contact after years of silence when you and your current lady just happen to be having problems spiel) has been used by either ourselves or our friends, ad nauseam. Do everyone concerned a favor and skip the cow excrement. Perhaps we'll have use for a boy toy, or perhaps we'll just laugh at you because we're too polite/lazy to call you on your fumbling attempts at smooth. Either way, grow a set and start being direct.

Ladies (see disclaimer in parenthesis above):

If your conversation is peppered with "I don't usually date bisexuals because they always leave for a man/bring in diseases from the straight community/ are confused about their sexuality/ insert other stupid stereotypical reason here", we will probably leave you pretty damn quickly. However, it will have a hell of a lot more to do with you being a narrow minded judgmental twit than anything regarding our next lucky lover's genitalia.
We like boys. Unlike the common cold and avian flu, this has not proven to be contagious. Spare us the identity crisis, because by all accepted definitions dating us does not change your status as a lesbian. Relax. Deep breaths.
Speaking of the need to relax, this business of being sexually attracted to men does not induce fits of rabid slobbering over every possessor of a penis we come across. A wee bit of jealousy if we're spending a bit too much time admiring the fit of the pool boy's swimming trunks is healthy. Throwing a screaming fit about the obese car salesman with the lazy eye who happened to call us a sweetheart after we signed the paperwork is not. If we didn't think you were worlds better than anyone else, guy or girl, we wouldn't be here. Anyone who sees every male as a threat (no matter how unseemly or unsuitable) does not make for a happy relationship.

Though this sounds like something out of a modern day after school special, the key to dating (or locking up in a four star hotel to do unmentionably dirty things no one ever has to know about, whatever floats your boat)that elusive creature known as the bisexual girl is to treat her just like any other person. Mind your manners, don't act like you've stumbled onto the world's most realistic sex toy and show a little respect. This may seem like common sense, but that's why the title includes the word idiot. I know I've personally suffered through enough of them.

(Unrelated sidenote: Thank you so much to everyone who called, emailed and offered comfort and advice during my trimester of torture. You guys are the best readers a girl could ever have, and I'll be touching base with you all soon, as I've finally returned to my regularly scheduled life.)

Anton Loves Jayne (And So Do I) (06/06/06)

2007-08-03T04:17:00.001-04:00

I've been on extended hiatus due to illness, but today's date is just too lovely to pass up. It's the dreaded 6/6/6, bane of the superstitious and Christian extremists, marketing boon for crappy remakes of classic horror films. While all of us kids in Satan's service ( a no prize to anyone who catches that pop culture reference) are partying like it's Armageddon, strike up the death metal band and give a warm welcome to some of the people, places and things who have been accused at one time or another of having the mark of the Beast.

The also gorgeous Bettie Page is the more commonly commodified dark angel, but Ms. Mansfield is the only real choice for official doomsday pin up doll. This pink obsessed publicity hound rose above the pack of forgotten Marilyn Monroe clones by virtue of macabre urban legends of death by decapitation and a curse placed (upon her lover) by Church Of Satan founder Anton LaVey.

The commonly circulated photos of Jayne's blonde wig lying on bloody pavement didn't help matters and a quick fact check reveals that LaVey did have a long standing infatuation with those 35-22-34 curves. He may have indeed attempted to contact the film star ( with some reports suggesting he met her), but only began alleging an affair and a jealous lover's curse after her death.

Adding to her status as the damned man's cult icon,she was also memorialized by producer Dick Randall in the unintentionally hilarious mondo film The Wild,Wild World Of Jayne Mansfield. This grand cinematic sham makes a Frankenstein's monster of stitched together scenes from her films, some standard sexual shockumentary footage and shots of the inside of Jayne's "Pink Palace" mansion. An actress with a bad wig (and an even worse voice over) stands in for the deceased star.

Being that Jayne would break a bra strap to attend the opening of an envelope, I'd think she'd be pleased with her cinematic send off (the purest example of exploitation I've yet come across), as well as having managed to keep people talking about her decades after her death.

The golden age of vinyl provided a whole new era of Beezelbub baiting, when fundamentalist groups claimed that there were Satanic subliminal messages inserted into popular songs (with metal albums bearing the brunt of the controversy, though the rumors abounded about everyone from the Beatles to Prince) that could only be heard audibly when the record was played backwards at the correct speed. A few famous examples:

The Beatles "I'm So Tired"- Allegedly the gibberish at the end reverses to "Paul is dead...miss him...miss him" This and several other messages supposedly contained in The White Album were debunked after the Paul Mcartney was finally accepted as being, well...not dead. Duh.

Judas Priest "Better By You, Better By Me"- Blamed for the suicide of two Nevada teenagers, it was claimed that there were backmasked chants of "Do It, Do it, Do it"as well as the hidden letter S, U, I (supposedly code for suicide) in the album artwork. This was at the height of the hysteria, but the band won in court, with the members noting that killing their own fans would be counterproductive and the only logical message to backmask would be "Buy more of our records".

Prince "Darling Nikki"- The chanting and rain sounds at the end of the track are backmasked. The message? "Hello. How are you? Fine, fine...because I know that the lord is coming soon." Given that Prince had recorded many records dealing with his deeply held Christian beliefs, the morality police would logically be more concerned with how delightfully smutty the record sounds forwards. The creation of the Parental Advisory sticker just wasn't enough and it was claimed that Symbolina could only be referring to Satan as "lord" otherwise he would not be so lyrically sexually explicit.

Though it has been researched that many of the supposed messages are little more than the power of psychological suggestion (with volunteers being mostly unable to identify any intelligible messages when not prompted to listen for specific words or phrases, but almost always able to hear them if told what message was supposedly present, even in Christian music ), the battle lines had been drawn and there are truckloads of cases of intentional backmasking. It's not like every musician and their mother wasn't getting blamed for it anyway, so a flood of interest in both old and new reversed records ensued.

Death metal bands desperate for cred (Darkthrone, Deicide) peppered tracks with things guaranteed to piss off parents, the more politically minded tossed off criticism of the controversy (Most famously of Pink Floyd's The Wall, where a voice intones, "...Congratulations. You've just discovered the secret message. Please send your answer to Old Pink, care of the funny farm, Chalfont.") and Christian acts (Petra) popped in pro Jesus platitudes in the hopes of converting some of the wayward flock. Backmasking became more popular than ever before.

Though vinyl and cassettes have gone mostly the way of the dodo, the easily manipulated recording formats of the digital age still lead some to search for the man behind the music.

Yep. Pokemon. The annoying trendy kiddie franchise of TV shows and video games. If you thought the only thing hellish was having to buy all of that overpriced crap for the rugrats in your life, think again. These cartoon creatures are the latest bit of rumored Satanist propaganda. Though the protests are thus far relatively small, it's never too early to work yourself into a moral panic for the sake of the children.

The rationale?

Capturing and invoking Pokemon to perform tasks is only steps away from invoking the Dark Lord on things like ouija boards. Some of the critters have psychic/paranormal abilities, which can't possibly derive from God (By that criterion how do they explain Joan of Arc?). Most offensively, Pokemon evolve, which is a slap in the face to Creationism. Besides it's produced by the same company responsible for Dungeons And Dragons and Magic: The Gathering and all of those other occult card game rituals.

To add the vintage patina of other classic bits of moral outrage, it is claimed that the line "Gotta catch them all!" in the American cartoon's theme song is supposedly backmasked to say "I love Satan...Oh Satan".

At this rate, the next kid to have an eplieptic seizure in the show's vicinity will be claimed as a possession. Let's hope there aren't any crucifixes or pea soup in that house.

America's Next Top Trainwreck (05/25/06)

2007-08-03T04:14:00.000-04:00

In another addendum to the pile of embarrassing shit I've admitted on this blog, I will cop to the fact that I faithfully watch the trash genius of America's Next Top Model.

For the uninitiated, the show is a competition between 13 leggy hopefuls who compete in a variety of modeling related challenges to curry the favor of host Tyra Banks (and her merry band of misfits,more on that in a second) and win their 15 minutes of fame and a Cover Girl advertising contract. Each week someone goes home and a maelstrom of editing created drama and couture comedy ensues.

The real attraction isn't the actual mechanics of the competition, (though watching Tyra play Faux-prah then viciously use the info against the girls come judging panel time has its charms), its the never ending parade of certified grade A hot mess that passes for the arbiters of fashion. For an industry based on image, an awful lot of these so called "experts" seem to be in need of a color blindness test, a heaping helping of their own advice and a functional wall mirror.

For example, Mr. Jay Manuel. He used to be a full fledged judge, but now has been demoted to job of "art director", where he makes snide comments about every single girl, steals quotables from fellow F.O.T (read: friend of Tyra) "miss" j. and chooses the most unflattering photos possible of the contestants he doesn't like. His most important duty seems to be announcing how fierce or fabulous this week's photo sponsor(read: grievous product placement shill) is.

This is Jay.

Does he resemble other any other small orange pop culture footnotes to you? I'll give you a badly painted hint.

Still not there? Not making the connection to other members of the small, orange and mostly useless community? I'll spell it out, picture being worth a thousand words and all that, spares me typing.

Oompa loompa doopity do, I've got another puzzle for you...who the fuck let this guy near any more self tanner? I didn't even know they made pancake make up and lip gloss to match that shade of day glo orange. Insiders' secret perhaps? For a guy who's a supposed expert on the art of photographing well, why hasn't he figured out that his fake bake is so damn bright that it makes my T.V. emanate a sickly Cheetos colored glow every time he appears on screen? I should sue Tyra for the resulting retina damage.

Let's move on to my personal favorite F.O.T., "Miss" J. Alexander. Unlike irritating Mr. Jay, he serves an odd but at least somewhat useful purpose, not only as a judge, but as the official "runway trainer". As the master teacher of that stylized sashay than stick thin catwalkers the world over use to fake having actual hips or ass, his job is very secure for the foreseeable future.

I like Miss J. He gives great quote, ("Walk like it's for sale and the rent is due tomorrow, honey!"), isn't unduly bitchy to the hopefuls and has the best legs on prime time TV. I searched for hours for a photo that would exempt him from hot mess status, but it was as fruitless as asking for a plus size in a designer boutique.

I know entire songs have been dedicated to being "Hot For Teacher", but I doubt any of them were talking about the Amish school marm variety. If only his stylists were as fabulous as his fucking with the binary concepts of gender.

As far as gone but not forgotten F.O.Ts (like the late, great at being a scary bitch Janice Dickinson, though her antics could merit another damn post entirely) I present stylist Nole Marin. He was a judge, but disappeared around season 3...perhaps his annoying dog as accessory pooped in Tyra's shoes. Aside from his fugly (a polite way of saying REALLY fucking ugly) factor he was pretty boring, doing little more than snarkily calling contestants fat or ugly, plus nodding along with Tyra's every word as if his puppet strings were attached to her weave.

Doesn't he look like a balding, male, Buddha bellied version of this 1970's C lister?

If only Nole had emulated Brett Somers' witty rejoinders (on 70's T.V. classic Match Game, known to my UK friends as Blankety Blank), instead of her odd sartorial choices, he might still have a job.

Along with our cast of usual suspects, the guest judges and challenges provide many wonderful moments of supposedly glamourous trainwrecks du jour, with stylists and shills alike proclaiming its "fierceness" (or that other code word for utterly ridiculous, "edgy"). A few of the tortures inflicted on contestants in the name of editorial:

A runway walk with live roaches as jewelry (Perfect for the former heiress with a pest control problem, they arrive complete with leashes and shells covered in Swarovski crystal. Personally, I think it'd make that much harder to crush those vile little fuckers. I'm just not fierce enough.)
Modeling lingerie while wearing giant animal heads reminiscent of stadium mascots (Think Alice in Wonderland made into a furry fetish porno.)
8 inch heels (Broken ankles are so heroin chic redux)

The girls are the usual bland bunch of lollipops, and none of them have much more than a nanosecond of a career,though it is interesting that the two girls who stand the best chance of ever actually continuing to work (Season 3's Eva and this years no prize, the super lovely and likeable Danielle) are the least like the iron clad traditional model standards. The rest will quietly fade into obscurity or pop back up as Surreal Life housemates (see: Adrianne Curry).

No one cares about the damn contest anyway. For any woman who's ever felt pressured by any of the ridiculous standards of the beauty industry, watching this bunch of circus clowns manipulate these girls into the sillest of silly caricatures of femininity is an inside pass to the joke. You'll never take any of those Cosmo/Vogue/whatever fashion or beauty articles seriously ever again. Visions of short orange men and the women who enable them will dance in your head.

Billboards of models posing like osteoporosis patients draped in diamonds and straddling a dangerous exotic animal will only have you feeling pity for some kid they plucked out of an obscure locale who has to balance 16 pounds of make up for the sake of some frumpy designer's (wearing all of yesterday's thrift store bin and a fright wig no less) concept of "vision". (This "vision" does not include the designers themselves, of course, they just know what the rest of us should look like.)

The show has just wrapped for the season, but pass the popcorn for next year, because it's not who wins or loses, what's really fabulous is who looks like an utter jackass while playing the game.

Stop Fucking Swearing So Fucking Much Redux: Mother's Day Edition (05/13/06)

2007-08-03T04:02:00.000-04:00

Being that the holiday is fast approaching (I hope all of you who can tolerate your mothers have remembered to send out not only gifts for your mom, but a shot of the top shelf stuff and a hug for friends and family members who's moms are absent, deceased or just plain old nuttier than squirrel shit), I figured I'd collect a few words of what passes for wisdom in my mother's world.

(In the interest of fairness, I'm not exactly sure what world that is, other than it's decidedly not the one the rest of us live on)

Without further adieu.....

Chicken Soup for the Angry Midget OCD Soul A.K.A. TAFKA's Mom

On Beauty: Pretty is the result of genetic accident or a good plastic surgeon, stupid, unfortunately, is incurable.

On Being Told She Looks Thin In An Old Photograph: That wasn't natural or the result of careful dieting.... if that picture was taken in the 80's it was probably lots of drugs. Nevermind probably, definitely lots of drugs.

On Drugs: Do what I say, not what I did. Unless you're sharing.

On Life As A Short (Barely 5'4" On A Good Day) Person: Stop holding that wallet/last chocolate chip cookie/bottle of psychiatric meds over my head. I can still break your knees, tall motherfucker.

On Disciplining Children: Can you please come over here and knock some sense into your sister? If I do it it's "child abuse", if you do it, it's "sisterly love".

On Husband #1: I was a young mom with manic symptoms and no meds. I could've spared us all a lot of misery by killing him and truly being insane enough to get away with it.

On Husband #2: Dumbass tattooed my his "love" for me on his chest. What does that even mean? He could've tattooed moneybags on his chest and it wouldn't have changed the fact that he was an asshole junkie too broke to even buy a vowel.

On Husband#3: Third time's the charm..... or a sign that I'm a really big masochist.

On Body Mods: Dye your hair purple, pierce yourself into a pincushion or cover yourself in ink, I'll sign for it. Why? Because I know you won't do it, as my not caring ruins all the fun!

On Profanity: Please refer to the title of this post.

Happy Mother's Day everybody. I hope those of you lucky enough to have them tell them how much they mean to you, or (if your mom is anything like mine) are nice enough to pass along some padding so the straight jacket doesn't chafe.

Live Nude Girls At Lunch (04/11/06)

2007-08-03T03:58:00.000-04:00

** Also before we get into today's post an obligatory disclaimer. This post deals with sexual topics and all links contains NSFW material. If you are offended with such material or under the age of 18 please go here for tamer information on safety and sexuality**

For those of you that have been reading me a while, you might've guessed that this is the follow up to this post about porn. Still in search for some perfect pieces of smut, I ran with Doris and Cheryl's suggestion of Euro porn and Woodstock's suggestion to try alt porn. I searched and scoured the dirty minds of the web and managed to encounter some more unusual fetishes, vapid starlets and a fresh batch of porn peeves. Ever the tireless researcher, I'll keep posting these things for as long as I have to. Somewhere in the 1 trillion trideca thousand elventy twelves pieces of porn on the internet, there's got to be something good enough to induce repetitive strain injury. Until then, another list of the bad things that can happen to perfectly good porn........

1. Attack Of The Fugly Costars- Nothing worse than finding a video that suits your particular taste, features attractive girls on the boxcover...only to be greeted by extreme close ups of her traffic accident on viagra co-star upon starting the DVD. I know that finding a Clive Owen look a like with the necessary ejaculatory control would be at bit much, but could we at least get male porn stars that don't look like used car salesmen or (the opposite extreme) Crisco covered steroid poppers? It seriously detracts from the action. Fuck it, let's call a cigar a cigar and name this one the Ron Jeremy rule.

2. Falsified fetishes- Unfortunately a lot of fetish/niche/alternative sexuality porn on the internet, breaks down to sending two generic pornbots down to the costume shop. BDSM is reduced to some girl in a vinyl clad corset pretending to wield a riding crop, lesbian becomes straight chicks licking vaguely in the general direction of a clitoris for the enjoyment of men, alt porn is often all of the same old whitewashed bland people and positions, just toss in a few piercings, punk rockers and tats like a smut peddling Hot Topic.

For fuck's sake if you can't find people who genuinely know practice and enjoy the less mainstream kinks, then don't try to toss some sprinkles on that vanilla hetero cone and tell me it's chocolate walnut.

3. "Reality" porn- So some random guy and his even less remarkable friends go to a bar, rent a bus , or wander the streets, wave some cash around and regular non professional chicks just happen to agree to fuck them. The guys in these things are a whole new level of greasy out of shape future date rapists of America and the chicks most often look like they need a methadone clinic rather than a shag. How does anyone believe this shit, much less get off to it?

4. The revolving wheel of stereotypes- Should you happen to prefer your eye candy in non Caucasian varieties, good luck finding something that isn't "Big Booty Hip Hop Hoes 5", "Me Luv U Long Time 12", "Spicy Latin Chicks 16", or "Massive Black Cock in Tiny Box 3". If I had a taste for sucking, fucking one note caricatures, I wouldn't be looking to escape the assembly line bleach brigades in the first place, dumbass.

5. Everybody's in Catholic school- I personally am not a fan of barely legal , but I must point this out anyway. Someone is only barely legal for 3 years of their life. So if you've been rocking that plaid jumper for the past half a decade it's time to move on to another niche (as well as a good dry cleaner) unless roleplay is the order of the day. That shit just looks increasingly pathetic with every year that passes.

Well kids, that's about it for this edition. I've got another 1000 or so news groups to ummmm...research! That's the word. If anyone has come across some erotica that is actually erotic, you can find the comments link perfectly well on your own.

Pass The Earl Grey (03/26/06)

2007-08-03T03:56:00.000-04:00

This cute little critter is a luwak. It's a relative to mongoose, with several related species scattered about South East Asia. They're peaceful, nocturnal and are extremely tolerant of humans, some even making their homes in large cities.

This is (of course) a cup of coffee. That caffeinated treat that's a savior of non morning people, cramming college students and other forms of the terminally sleep deprived.

The connection between these two things is both one of the most ingenious schemes to bilk money out of the wealthy and pretentious and one of the most the most disgusting things I've ever heard.

Apparently those cute little luwaks like the taste of coffee cherries(even the overnighters of the animal kingdom know the value of some well timed java) and sneak through farms with ninja stealth, filling their bellies full of cherries and the beans they contain.

We all know what happens after that, and the beans are eventually deposited on that great big animal porta potty known as the forest floor.

Then whoever pissed off the farm owner the most that week gets the fun job of scouring the area with the Indonesian equivalent of a pooper scooper, to retrieve the precious delicacy (now worth $300 a pound, because only 500 or so pounds can be produced per year, unless rival farmers invent some sort of mongoose ex lax to drive supply up and prices down).

I'm all for cultural exploration and expanding culinary horizons, but there should be some sort of gastronomical prohibition on involving fecal matter in the whole idea.

Is the coffee somehow good enough to make all of the ridiculousness worth it(perhaps the secret to eternal youth, but barring that I highly doubt it)?

I have better things to spend my money (and potential nausea) on, so I searched about.com:

Their coffee expert on the site admits the end product is not worth the price tag or the rather unsavory aspects of the process, saying "The coffee isn't so spectacular that it's truly worth that amount of money. You are paying for the experience of enjoying such an unusual and rare delicacy."

For those of you who may not be fluent in paid lackey diplomacy, let me translate:

"This stuff tastes like exactly what it is, but you're paying for the privlege of making your equally pretentious and moneyed friends jealous because you'll appear more knowlegable about the truly rare and hard to obtain brew, even though what makes it so damn rare is the fact that it is made out of waste products. You are so desperate for cool points you'll (literally) drink shit. "

Is anyone else finding they suddenly can't hear themselves think due to the sound of Indonesian farmers laughing at crazy white people willing to pay more than the average Indonesian probably makes in a year for (of all things) roasted mongoose poop?

Foreign Penises And Criminal Implications (More Tales from the Overnight) (03/08/06)

2007-08-03T03:47:00.000-04:00

Call it the curse of the overnight. Along with a daily variety of stupid human tricks and occasional corpses , my night as a wage slave is bound to include gross displays of too much information that make the average person wish they'd be reincarnated as Helen Keller.

Being that I'm 5 days away from taking my yearly sabbatical, it seems a good time to dedicate a post to those special few who use the world (or at least my store) as a confessional booth and bring a heaping helping of full disclosure overexposure to my midnight madness.

Cool Breeze- Yet another binge drinking college kid. (yawn) With his pants open. (double yawn). What elevated C. B. from the rank and file is that he is the only example of type that asked me to help close his pants. (Vulgar requests for me to help remove them just provide easy targets for snarking practice.) Apparently somewhere in his night of debauchery he had broken his zipper and was now begging for my help getting himself fastened again, as he couldn't possibly go home in his current state being that he wasn't wearing underwear. After I made the obvious notice that it sounded like a personal problem and that he really should get his pending indecent exposure charge to the bathroom, he added a lovely bit of exposition:

"It's tiny. I'm not trying to hit on you. It's so small you won't even get flashed. I just need help pulling this up."

I managed to resist the urge to the laugh and passed him a safety pin before sending him on his way. The sad part is that I'm inclined to believe him that he really wasn't a really sleazy pick up artist, as no guy in their rational mind would make their opening line involve any synonym of the words "toddler dick". To support the hypothesis, who would panic about driving home covering a broken fly with their shirt tail, but have zero problem playing penile peek a boo in public places except some fresh from the farm college dumb ass who's had one too many beer funnels?

True Love Is A Carton Of Newports- Drunken stumbling couple comes in during what I occasionally call the puking power action hour (i.e. after the bars close). After purchasing some stuff and lurching toward the door, the female of the species announces "That's why I love him....he lights my smokes and he has a big dick!" After all of the talk about the death of romance, isn't it just heartwarming to see a happy young couple with such sterling priorities?

Excuse Me Officer, May I Get an Escort?- This bit didn't come out firsthand, but it certainly belongs here. I have a regular older guy, probably about 60, he's a pain in the ass because he's always trying to scam free shit, but some of the other drunks are far worse. Everytime he comes in, he's always buying a ton of shit for his girlfriend and bubbles on for a good while about how hot his latest conquest is. I've yet to learn to control that involuntary eye roll reflex, but he's too trashed to notice.

He goes missing for decent stretches of time and I always hoped he's moved away, but he always comes back, just like Cher. I happened to talk to one of the local cops about it and I got an explanation.

Apparently, old boy goes into a nearby town to score his hooker girlfriends and Viagra and takes them back to his house. Street hookers don't survive long without a bit of enterprising ruthlessness, so they get the guy drunk and proceed to steal everything that isn't nailed down. Geriatric lothario comes to, realized his wallet, cash, T.V. and car are missing and calls the cops. They then promptly arrest him for solicitation of prostitution and possession of a prescription drug without the prescription. Lather, rinse, repeat, every single time he gets out of jail. Apparently this has been going on for years now, and probably continue until the old guy dies or ends up on one of those America's Dumbest Criminals TV specials.

On second thought, it'll stop only when this guy dies. TV exposure and the resulting mass fan base of $2 whores would only encourage him into trying to extend his 15 minutes of fame by asking uniformed cops where to buy a line or writing a robbery hold up note on the back of his own canceled check.

Another Gossipy Bit For Slavering Celebrity News Sluts- After yet another local festival of second rate has beens and never weres, a certain young latin R+B singer and his even less famous rapper collaborator offered sexual favors to a cabbie because they couldn't pay the fare. The cabbie ( a huge badass biker chick) laughed it off by saying she didn't bother with short guys and said rapper offered to make up for his lack of height, cash for the ride and vaguely Down Syndrome face via certain tongue related skills. Being that his other oral skills were likely as poor as his speak and spell "my first thesaurus" version of rapping, the Harley riding livery lady was smart enough to demand the pair produce the cash.

Though I doubt either of these flashes in the pan that can't even pick up their own transport tab has the cash to sue me, I'm not naming names. Unlike my customers, I've been privy to way too many displays that were enough to make anyone in their right mind head for the nearest eyeball and eardrum acid bath, thus I realize the perils of giving out what would certainly be WAY too much information.

Fads, Finances And Public Profiles (02/19/06)

2007-08-03T03:46:00.001-04:00

I'll be honest . I don't get myspace/friendster/facebook/insert trend whore new service here. The page layouts leave something to be desired even after editing, the blog functionality is pretty poor, what's so interesting about it that people are flocking to it like lemmings off a cliff?

Are people that desperate for attention that they become obsessed with making a few more pixelated headshots their "friends"? Is it the ease and convenience of being able to squeeze every annoying internet trend (pointless "Which sitcom character are you?" quizzes, blinkies, CReativz SpeLinG, crappy music built into the layout, out of focus webcam pictures) onto one page in an orgy of seizure inducing bad taste?

Besides, the maximum amount of myspace gawking fun can be had without ever starting your own account.

Not only do you have the warm up of any number of extortion worthy details and photos, you get the gold metal event of watching your friends and neighbors lie profusely about themselves.

Local cheesy radio DJ's become swingers making $250,000 and hobnobbing with celebrities. The local doorknob (everybody gets a turn) is a model/internet amateur porn star with a fan following. The poor ultra goth kid who gets beat up every day at school is now Vlad the Impaler, lords of the Dungeons(and dragons). You get the idea.

It's free, fun, and a Rubik's cube level time waster. Don't even bother starting a search unless you have some dead time, as birds of a feather do tend to flock together, and it becomes addictive to surf through one fantastically fabricated friends list of profiles to the next. Just when you think you've found the lowest common denominator, some mscutiekittisparkles comes along and knocks the trainwreck-ometer down another couple notches. It's impossible to take you eyes off of those hypnotically misspelled missives, in spite of being just plain awful. Like any other addictive guilty pleasure, it becomes damn near impossible to stop.

That is, impossible until you finally hit on the spectacularly unattractive local supermarket clerk in elaborate fetish gear, looking for a mate that will satisfy his various graphically detailed scatological interests. Boring old Google will be a life saver, both in getting the images off of your screen as quickly as possible and helping you find a new store in which to buy food.

The memory burned into your retinas will cause you to attempt to gouge out your eyeballs, or to at least swear off myspace forever .......until you realize that the second person in that particularly explicit set of photos looks an awful lot like a respected pillar of the community, who has taken the inverse approach and prefers to do his lying about himself in real life. Before you know it, you've wasted another Saturday afternoon in the gutters of revolting internet hilarity.

Myspace.....a place for friends (and future blackmail fodder).

Come And Play With Us Forever (2/2/06)

2007-08-03T03:43:00.001-04:00

This is my entertainment center.

You're probably wondering why in the hell I'm posting pictures of my furniture, as there's nothing remarkable about it (other than the amount of dust that manages to accrue in the short period between cleaning days).

No, dear readers, there is nothing remarkable about it, because I'm the only one here.

Had we had a few friends over in the past few hours, it would look like a certain type of fetishist's version of heaven.

Being that it's right in the living room (which is the room you enter upon walking in the front door), visitors will inevitably stop to play with the toys. Good clean, nostalgic, fun right?

Wrong.

Before long the Storm Troopers are posed into little all man roman orgies, Wonder Woman's lasso is being used for purposes that are entirely unrelated to the truth of any matter except perhaps S&M and Yoda is wearing that mysterious smile due to General Grevious showing how much more you really CAN do if you had an extra set of hands.

I'd expect sort of behavior from our more niche nerdy friends, who may perhaps be lacking in interpersonal social skills, they're not the only offenders.

Every single person who's walked through the door from punk rock babies to future fashion designers has had a little bit of perverse glee in creating their own little inappropriate tableau.
When they're done playing, they sit down on the couch and we always end up having the same opening conversation. We start talking about all of the twisted little soap operas we'd concoct as small children when left with a few action figures and our imagination.

Barbie gets made over with some scissors and magic markers into a candy haired punk rock bad girl with straight pin piercings, who slept around with Ken and Midge. Her two timing ways are found out and she meets a tragic fate from the business end of a Super Soaker. Midge and Skipper run happily off into the sunset, leaving poor Ken to take the rap.

The Green Plastic Army Men are planning a sneak attack on their nemesis, the Tan Plastic Army Men, the green side's brave commander, The Only Blue Plastic Army Man In The Package, leads a brillant raid and several enemy Tans are captured and swiftly put to death via melting in little sister's Easy Bake oven.

Story upon story, all of them as different as the person telling it, and all of them just as vividly remembered into adulthood.

However, I've noticed a few basic commonalities:

1. Siblings' toys were prime targets- From Barbie getting dismembered as a war trophy for G.I. Joe to stealing a brother's army men to die heroically down the toilet when Wonder Woman Barbie battled the tub toys, no one ever destroys their own toys first. It's twice as fun when you can irritate rival siblings in the process by wrecking their stuff.

2. The cheap die young- Things like plastic army men, paper dolls and other inexpensive toys hit the chopping block first. If they got broken, melted, chewed by the family pet, it wasn't to hard to convince parents to buy a new set. Things like Real Fighting Action Skeletor might get some tossing about the yard, a dip in a toilet or tub, but no kid is going to seriously damage the toy that they know they had to beg to get for Christmas. (exception: rich kids)

3. Easy Bake Ovens Are The Devil- Burning or melting things is pretty common, with all manner of implements (stoves, matches, in one really unattended person's case gasoline and a lighter) and toys (Barbies, G.I. Joe, plastic army men, nubs of Crayolas melted to make one mondo multi color crayon), but the Easy Bake is the weapon of choice by a landslide. Meant to churn out lukewarm little baked goods that tasted like (and often had the consistency of, due to the wimpy lightbulb) classroom paste, actually used for all manner of trial by fire.

4. EVERYONE hates Barbie- Everyone I talked to had defaced or destroyed Barbie in some humiliating fashion. I can easily understand why us girls wanted to destroy her perfect plastic perkiness, but apparently boys wanted to off her too. Maybe because annoying little sisters valued them so much? (see Rule 1)

5. A Small Sign Of The Good in Human Nature- Sure, Jem or He-Man might get a little nibbling from toy Godzilla, but whatever the assigned "villain" toy in any given game would be the one assured to get their ass kicked. Vises, flames, burial, it was all fair game for the bad guy.

I know my friends and I aren't the only kids that did this. Gather around the virtual entertainment center and tell me about your toys. Which ones were your favorites? Who was the first one to get broken? How did you deface stuff? It'll be fun.

Besides, I promise not to tell your parents what REALLY happened to the baby of the family's favorite race car. (As long as you don't tell mine that I buried my sister's doll in the back yard because it was the giant attacking my G.I. Joes.)

(Unrelated note, if can actually name what characters all of the toys in that picture are....you are a HUGE dork, and welcome to come for a cup of coffee if you are ever in the backwoods of New York and in the mood for plottting some nerdy world domination.)

PSA For Comic Shop Owners (1/24/06)

2007-08-03T03:37:00.000-04:00

I am a member of several message boards devoted to various facets of pop culture. Some of them are music, some focus on movies, but the best discussions are always had on the boards for comic books. They're some of the most devoted and informed fans of any medium on the planet. In my quest to share the panel to panel love and find someone else who cares to debate who would win a Superman vs. Batman battle, I've come across the same question many times.

Why lack of female comic book fans (or at least vocal ones)?

If my experiences are any indication, it's not the subject matter or a lack of well written books (a list of recommendations would take a separate post entirely, though I've provided handy linkage for non fans) that's the problem.

It's the damn comic book shops themselves.

In the interest of female fans everywhere, I offer up a handy little public service announcement for the owners of said establishments.

Don't Ignore Me- I'm aware of the fact that most of the females that come through the door are only there to bitch at their boyfriends to hurry up and stop debating the merits of the various Green Lanterns, but that is not me. Show passing interest in customer service and ask me if I need anything. I'll most likely be able to find the stuff on my pull list with no problem, but it's nice to know that you'd be willing to give me more than a dirty look when I ask you if you have a copy of an obscure or indie book.

If by chance you do catch me on the one trip I AM bitching at my (editrix note, now ex)boyfriend, I'm pissed because he balks at picking up any book that does not have ~insert adjective here~ and the words X-Men on the cover, and is missing out on some very interesting stuff. After all, this is a man who condemns things like Arkham Asylum (without ever having read it) as stupid. He needs guidance.

Don't Point Me Towards Stereotypically "Girly" Crap- This is just as bad, if not worse, than ignoring me. I know you read in some trade publication that girls love anime or non spandex related books with complex personal storylines. I'm not against any of those things, but you shouldn't paternalistically steer me towards them by the elbow when I asked for Sin City. Reading is fundamental, as is listening. I made the damn pull list for a reason, and relevant recommendations would be much appreciated. I'm here looking for Batman, Powers, Cry For Dawn, The Walking Dead and the latest IDW horror miniseries....why are you pushing me towards yaoi? Asshole. Even if you mention a comic that I already read, that shows you have been paying the slightest bit of attention to my shopping habits (For example, Ex Machina), I will be the most loyal customer that has ever existed.

Don't Assume I Just Started Collecting Yesterday- I know that I am in that deprived age group that picked up comics during its darkest age, when horrors like the Spider Clone and "Bad Girl" books (with limited edition chromium covers) roamed the Earth, with Rob Liefeld as the mighty demon king of all things disproportionate and lacking proper visual perspective . This doesn't mean I've never read Watchmen, or don't know the difference between Golden Age and Silver Age books. Thus, if yourself and your patrons are having some deep debate over some esoteric or classical comic detail, don't think I'm incapable of understanding or joining in.

For The Love Of Gnomes, DON'T Stare Down My Shirt- They're real and they're fabulous, but that shit is lawsuit fodder for you, and a left hook to the jaw worthy offense if I catch one of your customers. It's also emblematic of all the stereotyped juvenalia that keeps otherwise cool girls from venturing into comic shops in the first place.

None of this stuff is all that hard. With a few minor adjustments, we can all be healthy happy fanboys and girls. It's not like I'm asking for the impossible ( Impossible would be asking any book with painted art and/or that involves Kevin Smith in any way to come out on time), just some common retailer courtesy.

As an added bonus, you or some other lucky fan might just hit it off with one of your new lovely lady patrons sometime......then you'd get to do a lot more than just stare vacantly down her shirt.

It Eats Your Skin During Toolbox Murders In The Last House On the Left (12/29/05)

2007-07-27T14:36:00.000-04:00

I've spent way too many hours of my life watching horror movies. I love them, even when they're absolutely awful. From big budget Hollywood scare tactics(Exorcist, the American remake of The Ring) to 80's slashers with the sequels that wouldn't die(Nightmare On Elm Street,Halloween) to low budget shot on video camp fests (Ozone, Dead And Rotting) to my current exploration of grindhouse cinema and the infamous "video nasties" (Cannibal Holocaust, The Beyond), if it involves even the slightest potential for terror, I'm there with popcorn and a beer.

Thanks to the cinematic dogpile Scream, everyone has quoted your basic horror rules ad nauseum. Protagonists always run up the stairs rather than out the front door, never look behind themselves, and if drugged and/or slutty are doomed to die first...yadda, yadda, yadda. However, I think they missed some of the lesser known B movie bylaws of the horror film canon, equally important, just not as infamous.

1. There MUST be gratuitous female nudity- It doesn't how matter how inappropriate (a freshly killed victim, body on autopsy slab) or unlikely (attack by bats results in no injuries and also no clothing) or completely unnecessary (mid way through a chase scene), there will always be a victim, killer or heroine in some state of incogruous undress. I always chalked it up to most of these films already earning a hard "R" or even an NC-17 (if they're a large enough project to be rated at all) for profanity,vulgarity and violence. When you're already that far down the gutter rabbit hole, I guess the filmmakers see no harm in throwing a few breasts into the mix. Shit, it might help fill a few extra seats at the theater.

2.Creative Use Of Profanity- We've already mentioned the rating/nudity corollary, here's its little brother. When your rating is already down the toilet, your film pretty much critically damned before ever being seen, regular vulgarity just won't do. Characters aren't just "pieces of shit", but "flaming fucking shitfaces". "Pussy" is passe, try "twat" instead. Shock value is king, fuck the morality police. In fact, that brings us to our third rule....

3. Picket Lines Make Profits- Assaulting good taste at all times is recommended, as protests and bans elevate what would've been a drive in forgotten failure to the realm of cult classic mythic status. For the classic example, a cheaply made South American flop called Slaughter, with the help of a retooled end sequence, rumors of actual death on film and pay to play moral outrage, became the millionaire making Snuff. Had anyone actually watched the damn movie, it would've been quite obvious it was a shoddy trainwreck and the supposed "death" of the female lead tacked on the end was not at all real (and was obviously not the same damn actress), but the masses wanted to believe the macabre hype and cinematic crap that should've faded into obscurity became the stuff of urban legends and FBI investigations. Decades later, this false forbidden fruit allure still bilks unsuspecting DVD consumers into dropping $20 on one of the shittiest horror films ever made.

Just in case you think modern audiences are too smart to fall for this, the series of Japanese films known as the Ginuea Pig movies were believed to be real snuff films after (of all people) Charlie Sheen saw one and called the FBI. Though the gore more realistic, there are obvious multiple camera angles and other signs of staging. Thus what might've been a forgotten oddity (45 minutes of simulated gore with no plot, the horror equivalent of gonzo porn) became a hot commodity, spawning several sequels.

There are too many examples to list and not all of them involves the myth of the snuff film (a topic which could easily merit a separate post)...but enough offensiveness to get censored often turns trash to treasure and has filmmakers laughing all the way to the bloody bank.

4. When all else fails, throw in some zombies- Us horror heads and gore whores do (quite rightly) adore Romero's Night of The Living Dead series. Perhaps this explains why so many B movies that are stuck in a plot hole so deep even crap cinema aficionados couldn't forgive it, randomly toss in some shuffling undead. In case of script emergency, break the glass and blame those god damn zombies. Yeah.(Video games often do the same thing with Nazis but that's another post as well).

5. If you know the script sucks, spend most of the budget hiring scream queens- If B horror devotees see Debbie Rochon or Leanna Quigly's visage on the boxcover, they'll often pick it up based on track record and the hopes of seeing Rule 1 in action. Only after the drool has been mopped up will it become glaringly apparent how much the movie blows.

6. Common Household Implements Of Death- The subset of gorehounds out there will forgive a hell of a lot (crappy acting, nonsense plot, short run times, war crimes, whatever) if the red stuff is flowing freely. However, they're also a jaded bunch of motherfuckers. They nap through neck snapping, eat through evisceration, and drowse through decapitations. This might explain the tendency for the most odd objects to become lethal weapons. Sylvia Plath wasn't the only one to die via oven (It happened in Fulci's Touch Of Death too), but The Gore Gore Girls stands alone as being the only film I know of that emphasized the deadly qualities of spices and a meat tenderizer. Got to stay creative I guess.

7. The Signature Sign off- Like pro wrestlers and Mortal Kombat characters, horror directors have signature finishing moves. Dario Argento just pours out his characters' platelets, Lucio Fulci could write a book called You'll Shoot Your Eye Out With That Thing!: 1,000 Gruesome Eyeball Tortures. Like the stamp on a good piece of jewelry, you know you're getting the real deal and not some film student fanboy imitator.

Speaking of signature sign offs, I think it's time for me to make some breakfast and watch an Umberto Lenzi cannibal film I received for Christmas. I'll steal a line from one of my favorite horror hosts .......until next time, unpleasant dreams!

(For those of you who might be interested, my sporadic reviews of my ever growing collection of horror films can be found here )

Another Anti Christmas Carol (12/16/05)

2007-07-27T14:28:00.000-04:00

This time to the tune of "The Christmas Song"......

Useless trinkets sell like wildfire
Crazed shoppers throwing elbows
Yuletide guilt drives your debt even higher
You're buying presents for everyone you've ever known

Everybody knows, an X-box
And an Ipod Nano
Help you feel better about relatives you don't even like
Rest of the time, you fight like addicts fresh out of blow
Extravagance, will help you sleep well tonight

Christmas is the day
When little boys and girls
Always get their way
And every mother's child will surely try
To get everything
Money can buy

And so I'm offering this simple way
To make things less harried for all of you
Revenge is sweet many times, many ways
But in this case, lumps of coal will do

Let The Christmas Bashing Begin! (11/13/05)

2007-07-27T14:21:00.000-04:00

The lights are out, carols are playing and the rush to purchase cheery crap has begun.....if it's not too early to begin the marketing push, then it's not too early for me to start ripping it apart. To start the anti holiday cheer, let me present last year's twisted up carol. (A new one for the 2005 demon season forthcoming). Everyone sing along and let the scrooging begin!

TAFKA's Carol(Sung to the tune of "Winter Wonderland")

Sleighbells ring, are you listening?
It's way too early for fucking Christmas
Retailer's delight
A miserable sight
Walking with a bottle in my hand

Gone away, is the Thanksgiving bird
Here to stay,the rabid shopper herd
I get crushed by the throng
As I stroll along
Walking with a bottle in my hand

In the meadow there's a blow up snow man
A big nativity of Jesus's home town
We'll wait until the revelers disperse
Then laugh hysterically as we kick it down

Later on, we'll conspire
To set the mall on fire
A beautiful sight
As it goes a light
Walking with a bottle in my hand

In the meadow there is a policemen
Marveling at the chaos he has found
But he's gotta finish his holiday donut
Before he's gonna bother to chase us down

When it snows, it's quite thrilling
To destroy the symbols of this crazy institution
We'll frolic and play
Anarchists for a day
Walking with some SoCo in my hand!

Requiem For A Crackhead (A PSA) (08/29/05)

2007-07-23T16:44:00.000-04:00

I've deleted the other day's entry (which contained the sentence "my job is not THAT bad") as it seems that I jinxed myself simply by typing it, and I will not continue to do so by leaving it up on the site. A few highlights of last night's fun:

1. Getting woken up out of my sleep to rush to work early because the 2nd shift girl was ~cough,cough~ "sick" and the day manager refused to do his job and cover the shift.

2.Upon entering the building, massive computer/register failure, which apparently had been happening all day, but no one bothered to call the computer help desk. I spend several hours of my day with no registers, conducting business with a pad and pen. I have the computer tech in my one ear, walking me through reprogramming the damn computers, customers yelling at me in the other one.

3. The return of the Neo Nazi stalker

4. A customer finding a dead body in the adjacent parking lot, about 500 feet from our back door.

Yes, you read that correctly. All of a half hour before I'm free for the day and somebody has to go and find the first fresh corpse this town has seen in twenty years. Being that the customer who reported this event (using our phone to call the local police) is a few records short of a crate, I peek out the back door to verify. Cops on scene, and there is quite clearly a crumpled heap of a body. Tommy ,local neighborhood crackhead,finally managed to drink/drug himself to death.

Personally, I think we should make a nice little public service announcement out of the whole situation, so as good old Cracky's life was not a total waste. Certainly would be more effective than those "this is your brain on drugs" campaigns of my youth. Rather than preventing any of the Ecstasy/coke/insert hard drug here binges of my high school years, the somber voice over and frying egg imagery would only convince me of the immediate need to skip 2nd period to go get a nice fresh Mc Muffin.

~assumes serious announcer voice~

Think drugs are fun kids? Can't think of anything else to do on a boring suburban Saturday night? Neither did Tommy. Pretty soon his "only on weekends" fun was spiraling out of control. By 22 he was stealing his mama's couch(and anything else that wasn't nailed down) and by 24 he was homeless and HIV positive from a shitload of dirty needles. As his use increased, so did his tendencies for violence and irrational behavior, with the low point being that he tried to both hit on and threaten to kill his own sister in the space of a 24 hour period. He finally met his death sprawled in a chain restaurant parking lot, clutching a bottle of stolen $1.50 vodka and some crack rock. No one gave a shit and if he hadn't been in the way of the managers parking spot, he would've been left to decompose, a feast for local predatory animals.

Do YOU want to end up a pinata for a bunch of hillbilly cops poking your lifeless form with sticks? Remember kids.........
~enter close up shot of a disheveled looking Whitney Houston, doing the PSA as part of the plea bargain she got for her last possession conviction~

Whitney: CRACK IS WACK!

~she falls over in a stupor~

Note: I fully realize if there is a Hell (unlikely but possible) I will be going there for making fun of this. However, if we're taking the existence of Hades as fact, a queer identified atheist who swears and/or blasphemes every 2.5 seconds would be going there anyway. Thus, I may as well have my fun while I can.

Naughty French Maids Over Breakfast (A Rant About Porn) (08/21/05)

2007-07-23T16:42:00.000-04:00

Obligatory disclaimer: This post will be talking about explicitly sexual situations. If you are offended by such references or under the age of 18, please go here for tamer information on safe sex and sexuality.

Although I am a feminist, I'm not anti porn. In fact, sexuality, kink, fetish and gender roles and identity are all pet intellectual subjects of mine. Everything from safer sex, to queer gender concepts to the variety and mechanics of fetish are pretty damn fascinating to me. Anything from practices I have an active interest in (i.e. BDSM) to those I can understand on an intellectual level but am not turned on by in the least (i.e. vore,infantilism,bukkakke) are all fair game while I'm surfing away over my morning bowl of Lucky Charms. What this basically boils down to is this:

Along with the purely academic exercises,I've watched/seen/read a shitload of porn/erotica/insert random sex positive term here.

While I do not toe the standard party line that all porn is inherently dehumanizing or demeaning, I do have a few bones to pick about the industry at large.

The ubiquitous porn body #1- Gi-normous eyes(with tons of make up) and breasts, long flowing blonde hair, light tan, perhaps a navel piercing or one discreet tattoo. Even in the more specific porn niches the stereotype is held as closely as possible. African, Latin and Asian Americans are still as crack skinny, overly implanted, wigged and warpainted. They often look like identical Stepford starlets, slightly more melinated twins of their Caucasian counterparts. That's some bullshit.
The ubiquitous porn body #2- Usually marketed as barely legal or Asian school girl, here it's all about minimal make up, A cups and a body with about as many curves as a 10 year old boy. There's no happy medium at all.
The gi-normous breast fetish, period- Even the sites/magazines that advertise all natural (implant free girls) tend to feature mammaries that are the size of the average person's head ad nauseum. Large breasts are good. Small ones also. The B and C cup girls are cool too. Breasts of all kinds are lovely, kissable, touchable things and "not huge" does not equal "not sexy".
Out of sync soundtracks- Lips not moving, but creshendos of moaning are piping in from some hence unknown talking orifice. Corny.
EXTREME close ups- If I can nearly see a cervix or the constellations of bumps on the leading man's nut sack it's too close. Shots so zoomed in that it looks like a training film for the local proctologist are too damned much.
Porn with a plot- About a paragraph of dialog to set the scene is quite enough. If these people could act, they would've went to Hollywood rather than San Fernando Valley.
Trite terms in written erotica- Enough with the "lovepoles" and overdone references to the "glistening" of both slits and precum. It's over used and corny, like those awful Harlequin novels.

Dirty Tricks To Sell Cleansing Products (08/10/05)

2007-07-23T16:41:00.000-04:00

Okay I'm giving fair warning, so I don't want to hear any complaints about the following:

1. Yes, I know this is going to be the second time I've ripped on this topic in the past two days. It's my page and is not a democracy.

2. I am also aware that this "Campaign For Real Beauty" was pure bullshit upon it's inception, but I'm sure not everyone realizes this, just like not everyone realizes that women's magazines are better fire kindling than gospel. Besides, I lack the ability not to rant if something just puts a golden shower on my Cheerios.

Health warning over. Proceed to rant at your own risk.....

Okay to coincide with the promotion of their line of beauty products into a greater revenue earner, Dove has unveiled the "Campaign For Real Beauty". Pictures of ordinary women with "flaws" like freckles, rather regal looking grey hair, small breasts, whatever. Ads that have tag lines like "These women aren't hair models and neither are you. Dove shampoo to bring out your real beauty." Typical reverse feminist sell(If companies were truly about "real" beauty, they would not be pushing so much crap to fix our hair skin and waistlines into the unreal realm of airbrushed actresses and models. This would harm the bottom line however, and thus will never happen.), annoying but not enough to bunch my knickers just yet.

However this latest ad is such audacious bullshit, I can't take it anymore. Six normal (read: non stick thin, minimal make up, beautiful but not crack pipe runway divas) in their underwear. Some are tall, some short. The heaviest woman there looks to be about a size 14 (which is the AVERAGE for an American woman) You can find the photo here.

The accompanying ad copy?

"Firming the thighs of a size 2 supermodel is no challenge. Real Women have real bodies with real curves. And Dove wants to celebrate those curves."

Anyone else think this thing should read more like this?

"Firming the thighs of a size 2 supermodel is no challenge. They have enough sense to diet. You're going to be one hell of a challenge though, what are you? Like a ~gasp~ size 8? Oh my God, those ice cream sundaes do go straight to your thighs don't they? Real Women have real bodies with real curves. This is not what you should be shooting for but we'll have to play the hand you're given. Dove wants to celebrate those curves(by trying to eradicate and "firm" them of course). Perhaps you should celebrate your face with some microdermabrasion and that frumpy hair of yours with a completely different cut and color, styled with Dove products. Just a thought."

To add insult to injury the fact that the ad does not use pro models has stirred up enough "controversy" to prompt a front page headline in the most recent People magazine. How dare they shatter that perfect illusion! One of the respondants actually said "If I wanted to see average girls, I'd go to a bar. I like the illusion." and the general tone of the article seems to take off from there. Nevermind that it's two different ways of sending the EXACT SAME damn message! How much difference is there in not showing anyone who isn't Caucasian, Blonde and a size 2 in glamourous fashion ads and showing people who aren't any of these things and trying to tell them they need to "firm" (read: slim and remove that cellulite from) their curves? It's six of one and a half dozen of the other. It's sad that the narrow ideal has become so invasive that even using these women as visual shorthand for what not to do is applauded like true beauty democracy.

Dove needs to sell products. I understand that, but why applaud them for this false bravado that only supports the status quo? A truly brave move would have been to showcase these real and lovely ladies in an ad for ordinary body lotion, complete with the typical psuedo sensual sell used for the runway hos, of sexy touchable skin over those curves. Nope. Why would an ordinary woman be desirable, that's NEVER happened! ~insert voluntary eye roll here~ I guess that would just be too much for twits like those quoted in People to fathom. It's the coward's way out to just find a sneakier way to beat the same should've been dead long ago horse.

What's even sadder is that women are buying it. Dove won't disclose the sales figures, but will admit the campaign has done better than expected. As for me, I'm heading over to the message forum Dove set up here to let them know they're not fooling everybody and I certainly won't be buying their products.

Return Of Psycho Bar Girl (07/18/05)

2007-07-23T16:36:00.000-04:00

For those of you not familiar with the misadventures of myself and this self loathing, denial filled desperate housewife I've transferred the original incident from my now twice removed old site and posted it here.

I thought I was finally free of dealing with her (stalkers usually get bored after being ignored for a good six months, only the extremely persistent or deranged will keep going), but P.B.G. has come up with a new trick. It's not particularly EFFECTIVE but it's a new innovation in the annals of TAFKA stalkers.

She now shows up nightly at my job drooling all over some poor girl( she must be paying people to pose, because they have the same expression of discomfort that constipated infants often display) and introduces them as her girlfriend. I politely introduce myself to the latest paid reenactor of an actual lover and tell them to have fun where ever they're headed off to. Seeing no sign of my giving a damn she tries again with a different girl. It feels like a bad parody of Groundhog Day :

Clock reads 1 am, not that I have to look at it since P.B.G 's farce is punctual

P.B.G.- Hi E.! this is my new girlfriend!
Me- That's nice
~enter wasted looking crackhead~

Clock reads 1 am the following day

P.B.G- Hi E.! THIS is my new girlfriend!
~enter woman whom could easily pass as the title character from Willow~
Me- Good for you.

1am the day after that

P.B.G- Hi E.! It's THIS girl that's my new girlfriend!
~enter Janet Reno clone~
Me: ~zzzzzzzzzzz~ Huh? Oh. Have fun.

She's going to end up buying every woman in New York state a beer in some sort of attempt to make me jealous. The part that she's not getting is that jealousy would require me ever having wanted to date her in the first place. There's not going to be any variable that'll make me break down and beg for her to run away with me, but she gets a gold star and a seat on the short bus for the effort. Homophobic alcoholics with denial issues are just not my bag. However, if I'm still working at my current job by the time she's run out of chicks to bribe, it'll be damned interesting to see what she dredges up next. A blow up doll? A small guy in a wig? Only time will tell.

Considering The Advantages Of Hermitage (10/11/04)

2007-07-23T16:33:00.000-04:00

Friday night I went out dancing with this girl L. She seemed cool and a nice person to have as a friend so I agreed to go even though I only knew her in passing. First stop of the evening was this local hotel bar, having a brand new Latin themed night. Music's good, drinks are free (turns out one of my old coworkers works at the bar now), ran into some other acquaintances at the door, and L. is a pretty decent salsa partner. Unfortunately because the nightclub is inside a hotel the clubs shuts down at 2 am (2 hours shy of usual last call). My other friends had to work early and being that the night was going pretty well L. and I decided to hit another bar.

Right here is where an otherwise perfectly good night out detours into trainwreck in its own deliberate way. First off L. starts getting hammered, which wouldn't have been that bad except for two tiny conditions:1. I got stuck with the bar tab (only 1 drink of which I imbibed)2.We both rode in her car. I don't have a license....who's gonna drive? (because it sure as hell isn't L.) She is an absolutely obnoxious drunk, alternating between confrontational and loud to being as randy as a sex addict who OD'd on ecstasy. She starts asking me if what people say is true,how I act in bed, telling me I'm beautiful ect. ect. Apparently homegirl's got a man and 2 kids but he's away a lot and she thinks fucking a girl isn't cheating. However she is very passionate about how she isn't gay...she wants girls as "fun" and how she won't let a woman go down on her, she wants to be the aggressor. I'm trying to play this off as drunken prattle when she makes the grand idiotic comment of the night about how I shouldn't have relationships w/ women exclusively because that's "being really gay, not just bi". If anyone can explain what the fuck that means I'll kiss you.

Pissed as I am, I am not enough of an asshole to leave her drunk ass in the bar for some date rapists to prey upon. Ever the gentle-femme, I bite my tongue, explain politely that although I am bisexual I don't believe in cheating,regardless of gender. She derides me incessantly for this and with an annoyed sigh, tries to stumble to the bathroom. I know full well she isn't gonna make it and walk her in, prepared to hold her hair back and hoping the bitch act gets upchucked along with the beer.This crazy bitch locks the door behind us and tries to rip my pants off! Normally a quickie with a cute girl in a public bathroom would be the stuff of excellent wet dreams or bad porn. In this case it was the most unerotic thing I have ever seen in my entire life. I push ms thing off me and she only makes feeble attempts to stumble towards my navel, slurring about "let me show you what I can do." It was horrendous. I'm not going to jeopardize a wonderful relationship for some drunken head from some attention deprived chick who wants to use the whole thing as some sort of desperate attempt for attention and power and probably only fucks with girls as a way of titillating men to fuck around on her boyfriend with.

You know what there is more to this story( like how I finally got home safe the next day to my wonderful, fantanomous Mr.Man (note: he is now my ex and a confirmed asshole) but I'm way to disgusted to tell it. Someone sane please be my friend....

Crackheads, Geriatric Flashers And Other Small Town Diversions (07/05/05)

2007-07-23T16:27:00.001-04:00

I'm really not sure why I stay at my job. It would indicate either a tendency toward masochism or bravery that rivals on idiocy. You'd think that an overnight shift in a sleepy one horse town would be boring as hell, but the spectrum of freaks keeps getting wider. A few recent highlights of the strange, unusual and just plain too much information:

Tommy the crackhead. Notice I did not say A crackhead, but THE crackhead. Town's so tiny we've only got one. He wanders up and down the highway at random and was banned from our establishment long ago for abusive behavior towards employees. He's a tenacious one though and still tries to gain entrance regardless of how many times I've tossed him out. Depending on mood he'll either curse me out, claim I'm one of the spies sent by his ex wife, or leave odd gifts at the front door (dirty baggies of pennies, packets of toothbrushes, toys stolen from dumpsters) in the hopes of currying favor. Upon being rejected last night like a white midget at an NBA tryout, he walked out and started trying to smash in my front window with the kind of junkie super powers usually only displayed by meth freaks. Resist urge to laugh as I call the police, because the sight of frail crackhead bouncing against 4 inch thick bulletproof glass like a human game of Pong is so utterly fucking ridiculous.
As I'm filling out police report from the latest installment of the Freebase Diaries (something I've had to do so often that the local cops remember my birthday) he warns me of an older lady in a nearby senior citizen complex who gets her jollies by using her Med-Alert (I've fallen and I can't get up!) button to summon police and ambulance personnel then dropping her dressing gown with a smeared lipstick smile. He then asks me if I have any dull objects he can gouge his eyeballs out with, hoping the pain will burn the visual of sagging, liver spotted cleavage out of his brain.
Head to back office to do some filing and computer work, I notice that a large leather file folder on top of the keyboard. I move it out of the way and a large ledger of legal paper falls out. As I'm trying to stuff it back into the folder I happen to glance down at it. It reads:

Hi! My name is Hillbilly Leprechaun! I am 36 years old. I'm looking for hot, young, well hung truckers traveling through ~our county~ and ~nearby county~ looking to ~a long paragraph that sounds like a bad porn plot~ Write me or call me at ~his real home address and phone number~

Scrawled in the margins was the personals column the ad would appear in. When I politely brought up the fact that this is not what he should be doing on the clock, and that he could've gotten all of us in serious Human Resources hot water if the regional manager (who was visiting that day) had found it instead of me, his reply was:

"Oh I know. I couldn't even get to read my magazine (pulls porn out of backpack) , since he was here all day."

Cue Ella banging her head against desk like an autistic child. I do not have enough authority to fire him, and the person who does refuses to do so.

Finger Ornaments and Fake Feminists (06/20/05)

2007-07-23T16:25:00.001-04:00

Anyone seen these ads for the so called right hand rings? They're pretty ubiquitous in a variety of media. I can not think of anything more insulting to my intelligence than this lovely bit of copy:
Your left hand feeds the family
Your right hand takes the cake

Your left hand knows the limits
Your right hand knows no boundaries

Your left hand hold the keys
Your right hand drives the car

Your left hand weeds the garden
Your right hand picks the flowers

This in and of itself would only be mildly vomit inducing, considering it's an off shoot of the wedding goods and services market, which isn't exactly a paragon of gender equality. What gets my panties in a bunch is the pseudo empowering taglines. Like buying a $3,000 diamond from an industry with a horrendous record of the worst kinds of workers rights abuses is somehow on the level of suffragettes or even MS. magazine. A even bigger sticking point is these ads unspoken assumption that you couldn't afford or wouldn't allow yourself to purchase such a thing, you need PERMISSION to indulge, because you need affirmation that you deserve it.

To top it off, it just reeks of she who protests too much. If you need a magazine ad to encourage you to wave your jewel bedecked hand around, just to prove how empowered you are, how amazingly devil may care your post feminist attitude about marriage is, you are absolutely full of shit. You'd have already bought whatever sparkly object caught your fancy, worn where ever you choose. Perhaps you'd rather make a down payment on a nice convertible to zip through town with rather than jewelry. Whatever it was you'd have bought it because you would enjoy it, instead of waiting for Prince Charming to come and buy it for you. If you need a diamond on your right hand to show how "liberated" you are, my point of view is your desperately over compensating for how much you wish that rock was on your left.
If there was any truth in advertising (a bigger oxymoron than the phrase "military intelligence") these shit piles would read more like this:

Your left hand reaches for Krispy Kreme
Your right hand helps you purge it up

Your left hand reaches for a book
Your right hand settles for Cosmo

Your left hand holds the condom
Your right hand throws it away so it feels better for him

Your left hand reaches for the picture of a pixie cut
Your right hand reaches for the hair extensions because he likes it better long

Weak willed women of the world raise your right hand! (My assistant will be coming by to slit your exposed wrist, since you know life is over if you aren't engaged by age 30!)

Holy Fucking Disclaimer Batman! (06/17/05)

2007-07-23T16:24:00.001-04:00

Okay, forgive me all if this seems a bit scattered. This post started out as something entirely different.

I appreciate every person who visits me. It's great you're taking the time of day to sit in my corner and share a rant or two. However due to recent developments, I am posting this little health warning, in the grand spirit of the Golden Rule of covering one's own ass.

This site is the blog of an angry, left leaning , bisexual feminist with an ever changing roster of hair colors and a penchant for near constant use of the word "fuck". There is also some sexual content, and thus forth it is not appropriate for those under the age of 18. If any of this offends you, or you have not reached the magical age where you can buy your own cigarettes, please use that nifty little back button.

Those of consenting age who do not understand or appreciate satire, parody or sarcasm please get yourself over to http://www.dictionary.com and look them up, then proceed to the plastic surgeon to remove the stick (or your head, as the case may be) from your ass.

Thanks, (from your ever fabulous host)
Ella M.

Won Tons Of Wraith (05/16/05)

2007-07-23T16:21:00.001-04:00

Instead of boring you all with tales of my latest work stalker, a few words about my local Chinese restaurant.

It's good. Fantastically good. If there is a Heaven and I go there (I wouldn't bet too heavy on either of those), gorgeous Brazilian women would hand feed me while I sat on a chaise lounge, dressed in the latest couture. Sitting on the silver tray my fair maidens would fetch me 3 times a day, would be some Magic Dragon Broccoli and Scallops. It's just that tasty. However every good thing has a price, in this case a rather Seinfeldian (if that's not a word, it damn well should be) one:

They're a combination of Joseph McCarthy and the Moo Goo Gai Pan Mafia.

Scenario 1: Carryout
You walk into the tiny store front and quietly take your place in line. No one laughs or smiles and the miniscule amount of conversation is carried out in hushed tones. You finally get to the head of the line and wait patiently for the counterperson to finish taking the delivery phone calls. No one EVER complains about this, even if they stand there an extra 15 minutes. Complainers get blacklisted, no Moo Shu pork for you........ever. Better know what you want too. These people are less talkative than Gary Cooper's movie characters and will not wait for you. All you'll get is a broken eardrum from the loud shout of "Next!" and a bootprint in the back from the next patron. You place your order and fork over the cash and your wait time is announced in familiar accented English "10 mina!". I'm not sure how they do it, but anything your order in store is ready in 10 mina. 2 egg rolls? 10 mina. Pu Pu platter, 3 combination plates, fried rangoons and dumplings? 10 mina. World peace, fried rice and that hot chick in the shipping department's phone number? You guessed it, 10 mina. It's the untapped power of fortune cookies for all I know, but they're fast. You then either take a seat with the timidly hopeful souls seated at the tiny cramped tables with paper lanterns or more likely it'll be too crowded in there and you'll join the rest of the Kung Pau crackheads on the stoop of the apartment building next door to wait out your cooking time. Dreaming of duck saucy goodness with glazed eyes and the buildings tenants stepping over you like discarded furniture, your blessed bag finally arrives and you speed off toward home.

Scenario 2: Delivery
Call your local unfriendly Magic Dragon and recite your order, name, address and phone number in the fashion of military roll call. After brusquely pronouncing arrival time as "45 mina" they will promptly hang up on you. Delivery always takes longer, so I'm assuming whatever dark forces make the food so good and in store orders so quick get weaker as they travel from their point of origination. Perhaps the delivery guy just has a shitty car. I don't know. Make sure to answer door and agree with everything the delivery guys says. Tip well. If you miss the doorbell or argue you'll be facing the dreaded blacklist. they might let you pick up the food at the store if they're feeling charitable, but you'll never see delivery as long as you may live. No one has ever figured out a way to get back into their good graces.

I didn't believe they really did it, until one of my old roommates argued with the guy over some missing eggrolls. Although there were several people living in the house they'd hear our address on the phone and coldly announce "We don't deliver there.". We tried giving them the address next door and slinking back to our townhouse, but it was no match for their mythic power. They'd snatch the bag close to their chest "No delivery for you!" and speed off. Hell have no fury like an angry take out courier. That house was later sold, and I'm sure the family that lives there now is wondering why that when they call the Chinese restaurant, they get greeted with a colorful string of Cantonese invective. Maybe I should leave an apologetic letter in their mailbox:

I couldn't deal with it. I missed the dumplings so badly I moved out. Maybe you should too.

I'm sure your wondering what amazing little gluttons we must be to care about it that much. There must be other Chinese places right? Indeed we have the usual glut of suburban sprawl induced take out places, but none of them come even close. Magic Dragon has better food, lower prices, less of a delivery minimum and is open from dawn until way past dusk 7 days a week and all major holidays. Up here, the streets are empty and the stores are closed by 10pm. Nowhere else can you get your late night egg foo young fix. It just doesn't happen. So Mr. Man and I continue to curry the favor of Magic Dragon and try to avoid the dreaded list. Could you imagine trying to explain to the landlord we have to break our lease because of sesame chicken?

Hello, My Name Is TAFKA....... (05/13/05)

2007-07-23T16:18:00.000-04:00

.....and I have a problem. Admitting it is the first step after all, so here it is:

I'm addicted to the Home Shopping Network.

You heard me. For all of my fashionista leanings and badass rocker chick mannerisms, I curl up in front of my TV each morning for the "Black Hills Gold Hour" and "Park Avenue Jewelry" soothed to sleep with visions of sparkly things dancing in my head.

It started innocuously enough, good for the giggle of watching the ULTRA enthusiastic host with news anchor hair and career mom suits, bubble over at the thought that one could own a GENUINE piece of Joan Rivers designed gold "tone" (think a sickly yellow somewhere between urine and a brass house key) enamel costume jewelry for the LOW price of $79.99! Will the wonders never cease? Of course they don't! Next hour the host will bring you a lovely Jaddiamontekunizite ring set in 14k that is a NEW and RARE gemstone (read: an obscure and/or doctored stone rarely used in jewelry because it's brittle, synthetic or otherwise worthless, but due to this rarity you will be charged double the price.) ! BETTER CALL IN! It's going to, (gasp!) SELL OUT. Then you won't EVER see a piece of Jaddiamontekunizite again and you'll miss out on being the envy of all your friends at the bingo hall.

That's all it was. A laugh at over zealous hosts and the senior citizens calling the testimonial lines while speed ordering away their kids' inheritance. Until that fateful drunken evening I turned on good old home shopping, due to lack of any other programming. They have a dirty little secret. At odd hours (usually very late evening or early morning) they show genuine gold and quality graded stones, set in settings that don't look like they belong in a Lillian Vernon catalog (right next to the othepaedic support girdle). Amused at the fluke, I continued to watch, wondering if Satan was sleighriding in the newly frozen over Hell. That's when I saw it. The ring that started it all. A 15 karat blue topaz, the closest match I had ever seen to a beloved Ring Pop size piece I had owned, which my old roommate stole. I dialed so fast I permanently broke the number 5 on the phone keypad.

I began my sink into this addiction and my new digital cable didn't help. Instead of the usual two, I now had 5 options to choose from:
QVC- The granddaddy of all TV shopping. They invented the genre.
HSN-Pepsi to QVC's Coke
Shop At Home- Here's the RC Cola. Instead of Joan Rivers, the only Z grade celebrity designer they've got is Florence Henderson.
ShopNBC- My personal favorite. High quality stones in settings so gaudy and extravagant they'd make a Mafia wife blush and the one older platinum blonde pixie cut wearing host that runs her shows like a carnival barker on alternate doses of Quaaludes and speed. Being that I love the over the top and high camp, it's a perfect fit.
Jewelry Television- Shopping at home for the trailer parks that just got them there talking picture boxes. Cheap sets and molasses drawls. Good for when I feel like slumming.

Hence my current state, sitting through hours of $90 poodle embroidered totes and Diamonique in search for that one glittering treasure in the tv world's tackiest flea market.

Now that I've shared my guilty little pleasure with you all, I feel much better. I would stay to chat, but I've got to end this post.

Why, you ask?

"Generations 1912 Jewelry" is on and I'm sure as hell not missing out on the compliments I'll get on that fateful day I hit the nursing home. Item number JS30003-7876 is almost sold out.

No Sex In The Champagne Room (05/02/05)

2007-07-23T16:14:00.000-04:00

A fellow blogger's recent entry got me thinking about strip clubs....I briefly worked in one(Please don't ask.) In my experience there are 7 basic stripper archetypes...someone needs to step up and invigorate the genre a bit. For the sake of argument here are my observations (feel free to add your thoughts on the comments page):

The "Lolita"- She looks all of 16 and the club manager is not answering any questions from ANYONE about it, be it a fellow dancer or the local cops that are doing the asking.
Typical attire:pigtails,white panties,schoolgirl uniforms
Typical music choice:"Hit Me Baby One More Time" Britney Spears
Aspirations:to ummm....make money and have guys think she's hot and stuff

The "Jenna"-Is used to relying on her looks to acquire what she wants and the most likely to be suitcase pimped into porn in a year. Assuming that she hasn't found some octogenarian with lots of money to be her regular patron by then, that is.
Typical attire:bleached hair,breast implants, peek a boo bras, crotchless panties, sheer bodystockings and other equally cheesy items of mass seduction
Typical music choice: Corny mid 90's R+B, like old R. Kelly
Aspirations: Playboy magazine centerfold and a life of being a rich man's mistress

The "Chickenhead"- A ghettoish chick of any race who wants to make some fast cash and move to the big city to be a "model" just like the video honeys on that MTV special
Typical attire: weave, doorknocker earrings,pink lip gloss w/ black lip liner, coochie cutters, fake tough city girl accent, any lil square of fabric that has dollar bills printed on it
Typical music choice:"Hot In Herre" Nelly, "Back That Ass Up" Juvenile
Aspirations: to dance in a rap video

The "Temp"- Women who are stripping their way through school or perhaps supporting a small child..basically they have goals outside of the mirrored walls and aren't going to be there forever if they can possibly help it.Due to this fact tends to be a bit less likely to party as much as some other dancers.
Typical stage attire: skimpy lingerie in bright fabrics or colors, wigs, colored contacts (so this temporary income can't be tied to them as easily once they enter another business, temps often alter their appearances a little bit)
Typical music: Anything with a good strong bassline and uncomplicated rhythm as they can be danced to easily while thinking about other things
Aspirations:to graduate, to get their children into better neighborhoods or schools, basically whatever goal that they are stripping for the cash to attain

The "Sex Positive"- The rarest of all strippers, the "Sex Positive" is often feminist and activist, seeing her job as a way to expand narrow horizons on sex and the industry built on it. Has the skills to have an ordinary job, but genuinely enjoys what she does and puts a great deal of art and dance talent into it. "Sex Positives" are a joy to work with and talk to, as they are usually less catty than the other girls and hold much more intellectual conversation.
Typical music choice: Things you never would've thought to work for the purpose of dancing but works brilliantly for this particular girl...anything from retro funk to melodic goth..just expect the unexpected
Typical attire: quirky French lingerie, bustiers, sexy librarian glasses, classic black
Aspirations: To make sex and desire less shameful for everyone, to bring feminist perspective to a male dominated industry

The "Lifer"-Has been stripping since high school and has never wanted and or needed to do anything else. Often lacks the skills needed for life outside the platform. Makes up for her less youthful looks by being a master at talking men into big tips, a skill honed over years of practice. At best, the "Lifer" becomes a bit of a den mother to the steady stream of new girls. At worst, she is jealous and hostile, bitter of both the newer girls for getting more attention and tips and of the strip club system that is forcing her to dance at increasingly seedy clubs as she ages.
Typical stage attire: teased hair, orange red lipstick, biker chic
Typical music choice: Warrant or Ratt
Aspirations: When she was young it was her main goal to share a life and a can of Aqua Net with Brett Michaels...now she'd like to own her own club if for nothing more than to get the hell out of this one

The "Pretty Mess"- Usually young and fairly pretty but its obvious she's been through hell in her short lifespan. Has a serious drug/alcohol problem and has run out of other ways to make the cash to score. Is horrendous to work with as she's moody sulky and sometimes downright irrational. Also has frequent fights with the manager over everything from missing personal items to her common "overnight parties" with customers. Has a habit of being late or absent entirely, which puts extra work on all of the other dancers. These types burn out fast and its hard to know whether to pity them or just be happy they're gone.
Typical music choice: Whatever record she was snorting lines off of before her scheduled shift
Typical attire: Whatever is left in her closet that she hasn't pawned or left in some cheap hourly motel, heavy make up to hide the needle marks and the Rudolph (the coke addled reindeer) red nose.
Aspirations: To find a dealer who's got some REALLY good shit

Is That A Spatula In Your Pocket, Or Are You Just Happy To See Me? (03/03/05)

2007-07-23T16:12:00.000-04:00

I'll be moving into a new apartment shortly after I return from vacation, and Mr. Man (Note: This is a re post, he is now my ex and a confirmed asshole.) and I recently went on a shopping trip to get the stuff we didn't already have. Although we've lived together for the past year, we never really decorated or supplied the house we're in now with much, being that we shared it with another person and most of the usual housewares suspects were already here.

Now we're heading out into a place for just the two of us, and I have learned a major lesson. Forget all of that romantic, Cosmo magazine quiz, "Is He/She The ONE?" saccharine crap. The true test of any relationship is how you handle the buying of house stuff, particularly the decorative items. It's amazing how quickly it turns into a war of epic proportions or a set piece from a bad Woody Allen movie. A quick example:

Me: We need a few wineglasses, champagne flutes, stuff like that.
Him: Why? We have a bunch of cups.
Me: Because we're a bit too old to be sneaking alcohol into the house and drinking it out of plastic Dixie Cups. Last I checked, high school was as distant a memory as Kris Kross being popular. We're grown ups now, let's make it look it.
Him: Fine. ~wanders into nearby aisle~ Can we have a lava lamp?
Me: Only if I can have that chandelier I showed you.
Him: I don't like chandeliers.
Me: I don't like lava lamps. Remind me of the stoners in high school. All we'd need is a blacklight and a couple velvet pictures.
Him: Well, no chandelier.
Me: No lava lamp.
~proceed into bickering in which several items are rejected, both parties get quite cranky, and something highly unpleasant might've been said about somebody's mother~

Lather, rinse and repeat the process, for the next few hours. Other points of contention included:

The color choice made for ashtrays (A four pack of orange, green blue and pink was deemed too girly. I say he could choose not to use the pink one.)
The existence of other colors besides blue (Everything he picked out was blue. Not a bad color, but last I checked we weren't Smurfs.)
My choice in martini glasses (Brightly colored and over sized. He hates them. He also doesn't drink mixed drinks.)

Finally after much debate and a near break up, there was a small ray of hope. Shopping online at www.vintagevending.com we actually found some stuff we could agree on. What finally broke the tension was a tin sign reading:

Please do not throw cigarette butts in urinal. It makes them soggy and hard to light.

You know you've met someone just as skewed as you are when rather than being disgusted, you both start laughing hysterically and immediately order it to hang on your bathroom door. Crisis averted, for now. We've still got the living and bed rooms left to outfit. Here's hoping there are no arguements and no throwing of those nice new wineglasses.

Michael Jackson's Shrinking Nose A Sign Of Coming Apocalypse (2/11/05)

2007-07-23T16:10:00.000-04:00

I would love to write for the Weekly World News. It's basically free money. For those of you who aren't familiar with this publication, it is the trashiest of the trashy tabloids known to exist. They run such literary gold mines as "Psychic Can Set Women's Panties On Fire" and "Face Of Pop Idol Madonna Appears In Grilled Cheese Sandwich" on the splash page. Writing for them has got to be the easiest job in the known universe. The general submission format must be something along the lines of:

Make something totally ridiculous up (Having trouble? See easy DIY form below)
Create a pen name for yourself that came straight out of a Harlequin Romance novel or something equally asinine
Illustrate story with a "photo" obviously created with a Polaroid camera and a $1.50 bootleg copy of Photoshop.

Weekly World News Headline Generator

This works just like a Chinese take out menu. Chose an item from Columns A,B, and C and you will have a bouncy blurb fit to despoil the paper it's printed on.

Column A

Batboy
Satan
Pregnant Octogenarian
Jesus
Dog Psychic
Flying Saucer(s)
Alien(s)
Madonna(doesn't matter which)
The Government
Nostradamus
The Pope
Rich People
Women/Woman
Beer

Column B

Spotted In Idaho
Can't Read Or Write
Lust(s) After
Worship(s)
Rubs The Bazookas Of
Attack(s) Earth
Foretold
Fund(s) Study On
Ate World's Fattest Cat
Picture Appears In
Die(s) Of/From
Changes Name To
Puts Curse On
Is Better Than

Column C

In A Brothel
Potato Chip(s)
World's Fattest Man
Salma Hayek's Ass
Triple Breasted Intergalactic Whore
For The Twinkies
Bigfoot
9/11 And The Tsunami
Flatulence In France
Spontaneous Combustion
"God"
With A "Gay Bomb"
o+->
Hungarian Cannibal Choir

Adjust the syntax so the verb tenses and nouns match and you are ready to churn out the conspiracy theories! For example, numbers A3, B11 and C9 would create the headline "Pregnant Octogenarian Dies From Flatulence in France"

Have Fun!

This Is BEGGING For A Powerpoint Presentation (01/19/05)

2007-07-23T16:08:00.000-04:00

An old post from my now twice removed previous blog, but I'm giving it a new lease on life since a similar incident happened about a week ago. Those of you who are familiar with my old haunt may have already seen this.

The First Rule is that it is always when you have not had the time to eat,sleep or pee in a nominal 48 hours that you see an ex lover. A corollary to this law is that it is usually while you are dressed in ratty sweats, grabbing a pint of Ben and Jerry's and a bottle of Southern Comfort at three in the morning. Whatever gods that be must have smiled upon me last Tuesday, as I saw him at three in the afternoon and my shoes were only slightly mismatched to my clothing,not ratty at all. Sure it wasn't quite an "Eat Your Heart Out" vixen day, but at least I didn't look like a Jerry Springer reject. Man in question was an 34 year old I used to date when I was 17 and too stupid to know better. At least he had pretty chocolate skin and a nice smile....or at least I thought so then. Tell me, what is the correct thing to say to an ex who you haven't seen in nearly three years, possibly wish to reconcile with? In my mind, the correct answer is NOT "What are you doing so far away from home little girl?". What does this fool think, all of the sudden I'm upstate NY's Little Red Riding Hood, lost without my mommy on the way to Grandma's? I lived on my own when I dated him!(which was more than he could say for himself, even now).

Rule Number Two of ex encounters is that they will always utter some variation of "Did you lose my number? I miss you...blah blah blah...".(He did.) It has never occurred to them this may be intentional, that perhaps you burned the number in question, or attached the slip of paper it was written on to a voodoo doll, which you then threw under a subway train, shit happens you know? I prefer not to dignify these statements(always accompanied by a wistful grin) with anything other than a mono syllabic response. Remember an ex encounter is like being blindsided by a wild animal, and in the animal kingdom a smile is another show of teeth. Being that this lovely interruption to my afternoon was following all established cases of former flames, I followed my standard escape plan. Remember the three D's everyone:

DETATCH: Make a statement that creates a break in conversation (Anything from "It was nice to see you're doing well" to the more blunt "Fuck off" is appropriate and is a matter and mood and personal style. I prefer "It's been fun but I have to go home and watch paint dry.")

DISTRACT: Create a diversion by introducing a third party to the conversation, faking an illness or injury, or perhaps mentioning an emergency appointment with a lawyer,hairstylist, Hare Krishna, WHOEVER. (Just remember to make it appropriate to the time and place...It is highly unlikely you have an emergency meeting with a client at 3am in line for a nightclub bathroom. Unbelievable distractions will prove ineffective and hinder your escape.)

DISAPPEAR: Get the fuck out of there and quick! Take an alternate route home or hide in a dark corner of the club/office/oxygen bar if leaving for home is not possible. In fact upon entering a possible ex infested area, plan "safe havens" in case of an unsuspected attack of a former flame. Once you have executed the three prong plan and you are safely out of range, pour yourself a drink and be glad you didn't allow enough time for either of you to make an ass of yourself or perhaps, (depending on the situation that caused the breakup) having to explain to the cops why you had to wring the poor bastard's neck. Until it broke. In three places. Congratulations on a a job well done and a crisis averted. Now go have wild sex with you new boyfriend or girlfriend....they're so much hotter than your ex was anyway.

Attack Of The Killer Snack Cakes (1/11/05)

2007-07-23T16:04:00.000-04:00

There's a strange phenomenon brewing in the backwoods of Upstate New York. Well, a strange phenomenon that isn't the usual Bigfoot sightings and redneck carnival curiosities anyway. Giant sized foodstuffs are attacking in grand 60's sci fi style. Formerly harmless minimum wage workers with high embarrassment thresholds are becoming victim to the unique symbiosis incurred by their foam rubber suits. The suit is a parasite and uses heat stroke to weaken the wearer's brain into become part of this growing product army. These hapless souls become instruments of mass (product placement fueled) rages of destruction. I'm not sure what triggers their wraith, but it doesn't take much.

My emerging battle with the seething snacks began rather innocently one Tuesday. I was walking through the local bulk buying emporium looking for an industrial sized bottle of aspirin, to prepare for an upcoming visit from the Spawn Of Satan (a.k.a. my future mother in law). As I strolled through the food service condiment aisle, I nearly crashed my cart. A giant dill pickle was passing out samples and coupons. This wouldn't ordinarily be cause for a shopping cart collision, but said dill pickle was doing this hopping based dance as it fufilled its task. After doing a double take and putting on my glasses, I did what any sane person with a slightly dirty mind would do when confronted with a giant phallic object dancing like a smack addled vibrator. I laughed. I laughed increasingly hard the further I got from the person in the suit's earshot. I saw the pickle stop its antics momentarily out of the corner of my eye, figured it might've gotten tired of doing the Pocket Rocket. Just then one of those little pickle samples hit the contents of my cart like a guided missile. Before I could turn around and kick the necessary cucumber ass, it was back to doing its bizarre little two step for some kids and their mom. When its audience wasn't looking it shot me a rather inhuman glare out of its mesh airholes/eyeballs. What I thought has merely a disgruntled teenager with a crappy after school job turned out to be something much more sinister.

About a week later I made a run to the convenience store for a soda, smokes and a lotto ticket. Yet another costumed consumer product, this time a 6 foot tall Pepsi. Aside from a brief notion of how common these cheesy promotions were becoming, I thought nothing of it. I purchased the ticket,coffin nails and a Coke, and strolled happily toward home. The muffled cackling of the carbonated beverage was all I heard as it stuck out it spandex clad leg making me fall rather clumsily onto the pavement. The word must've traveled mighty fast that I was an enemy of the bad advertising state. The sidewalk was crowded and to all parties concerned, it must've looked as if I had tripped on the curb. I was the only one who knew better. The reality behind the facade of polystyrene smiles. Becoming increasingly paranoid, I took the long route home.

I avoided food shopping for three weeks straight, claiming exhaustion, leaving the job to a rather perplexed boyfriend. Finally the day arrived where I couldn't hide any longer. Boyfriend was working late, the cupboards were bare, and the stomachs of both housemate and dog were growling with hunger. I made my way to the grocery store, choosing the more remote of the two local options. Scoping the aisles carefully for any more of the manic munchies, I retrieved the items on my list and checked out. I tucked the receipt into my pocket and resisted the urge to skip like a schoolchild to the exit. That urge became very easy to resist when I saw what was lurking to the left of the exit. A Twinkie in a cowboy hat. A fucking foam rubber suited Twinkie. I dashed through pedestrians to the escape, giving the creamy confection as wide a berth as possible. I had made it about 45 feet down the road when I heard a loud noise from behind me.

Something along the lines of "MIZOHHFUGTALLET! ". Braying like a dying walrus, the twinkie was barreling straight towards me. I momentarily froze, wondering how one explains creamy filling injuries to the emergency room. Then better sense prevailed and I sprinted in the direction of home. The bellowing was getting closer and a large line of traffic was blocking the last street I had to cross. It was closing in, and I had nowhere to run but into incoming traffic. I was cornered. I had been bested by a Hostess snack cake. It towering over me, cowboy hat casting ominous shadows. It continued that strange sound and only when it was inches away did its words begin to form coherent English. What it said was this:

"Miss, you forgot your wallet."

I took the small black leather billfold out of its oversized palm and hugged the padding surrounding the person inside the suit. I did this mainly because I was that glad it wasn't trying to injure me. I still don't trust the giant products. They give me evil little grins and winks,from gas stations and grocery stores, smoke shops and highway rest stops. All I learned from this experience is that the grand snack food smackdown is like a John Wayne movie. Always trust the man( or the Twinkie) in the cowboy hat. The others don't be so sure.

How To Be A Hip Hop Star (Part V) (01/10/05)

2007-07-23T16:02:00.000-04:00

You've got the album out and the hit single, plus the equally commercially successful projects of your tag alongs. You're beginning to attain all you had dreamed of when you started reading this. However before we bid you goodbye, we have a few final tips.

How To Be A Hip Hop Star
(Part V-Shining Like The Lights In Times Square)

You're a star. Your record is racking up in soundscan, screaming fans track your every move and you've made the media rounds from the New York Times to TRL. However, some hungry newcomer will be happy to take your throne if you're not careful. Here are some tips:

Release an album every 6 months or so. Between albums do guest appearances on other people's songs. Quantity over quality at all times.
If you find public interest waning, start a feud. Nas, Jay Z, JA Rule and LL Cool J are popular choices of combatants.
Get shot. If 9 bullets helped 50 cent sell 9 million albums, a BB in the ass could do wonders for you as well.
Always claim you "have love for the hood" because "it made you who you are". However don't get all philanthropic buying desperately needed materials for inner city school kids or anything. Spend your money on platinum fronts and tricked out lowrider bicycles to show off on MTV Cribs.
Immediately after doing Cribs, do an MTV Diary special. Roll through said hood shopping at the record store and copping kicks at the sneaker shop. Smile and sign autographs. That'll show how "in touch" you are with your ghetto roots.
Put your name and likeness on everything from action figures and potato chips to nightclubs, record labels and clothing lines. What used to be known as "being a pathetic sellout" is now "entrepreneurship".
Avoid current events in videos. MTV and BET have no problem feeding their audiences a steady diet of ass wiggling sex objects and drug references, but making the slightest innuendo to politics (Madonna's original video for "American Life") or post 9/11 race relations (Prince "Cinnamon Girl") will be getting your clip banned. (Over) exposure is your lifeblood. Don't sever the artery.

Now will you have no problem having a long career (read: three albums) in the bling bling biosphere of modern hip hop. We here at Occasionally Glamorous Results Of A Misused Youth wish you the best. However far you climb, remember the How To Be A Hip Hop Star credo: Why make a ton of effort to make music that moves people's minds, when you can make tons of money effortlessly by making music that moves their asses?

How To Be A Hip Hop Star (Part IV) (01/09/05)

2007-07-23T16:01:00.000-04:00

How To Be A Hip Hop Star
(Part IV-In The Booth)

You created an image. You self promoted yourself shamelessly and signed your firstborn over to the label in ink that's your own blood. Finally the glorious moment arrives where you step into the booth to put your lyrics onto tape. Put your best foot forward, keep scribbling in your notebook and when you are through the execs will probably approve a final tracklisting that looks something like this:

"Intro"-Blather on about your greatness or all the possessions you wasted your advance on.
"Track About Your Hood"- Remember all of that stuff about pimping your city? It goes here in rhyming form, as do any paper thin catchpharses you've invented. Also insert regional big name producer muttering in the background. Come from a place that doesn't have a big name beat maker? Call Fonzworth Bentley. He's just as ubiquitous and just as pointless.
"Track About Expensive Stuff You Claim to Own, But Most Likely Rented"- (Featuring Nate Dogg)- The cars, clothes, and hos section. Every hip hop video cliche should be present if this is released as a single. Gloria Velez and Melissa Ford shaking ass, custom made Jacob The Jeweler chain, squirting champagne bottle=video ho pearl necklace innuendo shot.
"Pop Crossover/ Track For The Bitches" (featuring One Named Female R+B Crooner, Produced By K. West) - I don't care how "hard" you're supposed to be. Vital for survival in today's hip hop climate. T.I. has "Let's Get Away". Terror Squad has "Take Me Home". Lil' Flip made "Sunshine". Even a thug gets lonely sometimes.
"Violence Skit"- Badly acted skit about jail or drug dealing with worse sound effects.
"I'm So Hood Track" (Produced by and Featuring Lil Jon)-Bass heavy beat, call and response chorus, lyrics full of bloody gangsta tales, misogyny and swearing. Make it enough to earn you the almighty parental advisory sticker, to create a forbidden allure for the ever important suburbanites who wish they were that badass. Edited version should have so many bleeps that it sounds like the record is skipping.
"The Incogruous Sample Track"('Re"produced by P.Diddy)- Sample a very obvious loop of an obscure or unusual track(perhaps one from a genre your audience is unfamiliar with). Shock them with a showtune chorus, punch up some horrid 80's pop, take a cleaver to classic rock, ruin some 70's r+b. You get the idea.
"The Single (A.K.A. The Bait And Switch)" (Produced by the Neptunes, Featuring Superstar Rappers 1 and 2, your lyrics ghost written by Jay Z)- Lead single and the track that will dupe people into buying your album, thinking it's half decent. Choose a BIG superstar so he/she can withstand your piggybacking without injury.
"Outro" More boasts and braggadocio, except this time done through an echo chamber, DJ Clue style. Promise this is just the beginning, you got much more where that came from.

Part IVa- Rep Your Set

Once your single has hit radio and the album is briskly selling, announce the formation of your crew. This is the group of tag alongs you surround yourself with at all times. "Old friends from the hood who deserve to shine" is the press conference M.O. What you really want is a bunch of bland folks who are even less talented than you are. Your friends, your family, the pizza delivery guy just grab some people who need the extra cash and fill the standard crew archetypes. You should have one of each of the following:

"The Thug"- The hardcore version of you. Lends the grittier, grimy perspective to group projects. Gets arrested in off time, at which point your fans will start a "Free (Insert Name Here)!" T shirt campaign. Real life example: Young Buck of G Unit
"The Sideshow"- The punchline MC, comic relief, just as wacky onstage as off. Real Life Examples: ODB from Wu Tang, Bizarre of D-12
The "R+B Thug"- Spares you the trouble of outside hiring of hook singers. Real Life Examples: Nate Dogg Of Tha Dogg Pound, Tony Sunshine of Terror Squad
The "Token Female"- To balance out the bluster and reach out to the ladies. Could be a singer or rapper, preferably attractive. Real life examples: Remy Ma Of Terror Squad, Eve during her time at Ruff Ryders, Lil' Kim's stint in Junior Mafia
"That Other Guy"- You know...whats his name. The one with the hoodie in the back. Real Life Examples: U God in Wu Tang, Kunniva in D-12, Drag-On in Ruff Ryders, ANYONE in the St. Lunatics

Crews are there for:

A group record that you dominate most of
Solo projects that very rarely crawl out of your shadow
Crowding the podium at award shows
Spitting 16 bars on remixes so you have less work

Also their Most Important Duty:

Standing in the background shouting "Yeah", "Uh Huh", "What?" at your concerts. Rap concerts need more garbled audio and shouting, that's what keeps them "real".

How To Be A Hip Hop Star (Part III) (01/07/05)

2007-07-23T15:59:00.001-04:00

How To Be A Hip Hop Star
(Part III- Unsigned Hype)

You've got a persona and a notebook, but before you can begin your media take over you need a record deal. You may be wondering why there isn't a section on writing lyrics, but in all honesty, you don't need them. Buzz is everything. A few examples:

Northern State- Indie heroes and critics pets. Everyone was focused on their gimmicky names and the novelty of them being 3 college educated white chicks from Jersey, no one noticed they sucked. At least not until after tons of press, a major label deal, and 2 video releases.
Cam'ron- A substandard mediocrity who got lucky and signed with Rockafella,who are desperately trying to fill the gap from the pseudo retirement of Jay z. "Purple Haze" was a full cd of cartoon caricatures and Jabberwockian nonsense. Still made it on many critics "Best Of" list for the year 2004.

If you have talent, great. Nice bonus. If not, that's okay too. Just have something to commit to tape. Getting the deal will be the hardest part of this whole process but here are some strategies for signing your soul on the dotted line.

Battle any MC you come across. Even those little kids busting those bullshit nursery rhymes while jumping rope. Enter several high profile national contests, choke spectacularly at at least one of them. Makes good fodder for interviews and semi autobiographical films later.
Have any handy local DJ or producer feed you some poorly blended beats. Spit some freestyles over it, call it a mixtape. Sell copies out of the trunk of your car, even if you have to slash prices. If you can shamelessly self promote 100,000 copies of that crap to sell, a label is almost guaranteed to notice you. Plus it's good practice for selling your future major label dogpile with a smile.
Haunt any place where already signed stars or music executives will be. Hand out tapes and mutter freestyles incessantly from the bathroom to the elevator. If you can get past security, perhaps the celebrity will take notice of you and consider you a positive addition to his "crew". (More on crew dynamics in the next section.)
Be a relentless press and video cameo whore. Write endless letters to The Source and Vibe. Pull any stupid cheap publicity stunt you can think of to get in the local newspaper or television, even if it's public cable access.

Hopefully with a bit of hard work and perseverance, you'll soon be the indentured servant of the record company. You can always litigate out of your contract once you get big. Now all you have to do is make your debut record. Check out How To Be A Hip Hop Star (Part IV-In The Booth). Same bat-time, same bat-channel. It'll help you make a tremendously popular beer coaster...but not before laughing all the way to the bank.

How To Be A Hip Hop Star (Part II) (01/06/05)

2007-07-23T15:57:00.000-04:00

Welcome back! Now that you've got something to call yourself let's move on to:

How To Be A Hip Hop Star
(Part II-Location, Location, Location)

Where are you from? Seems like a simple question right? Wrong. Hip hop is global now and what dot on the map you decide to shout out determines everything from thee slang you use to the clothes you wear to the crews you run with. Whether you are from the sticky streets of New York or a Georgia peach you need to push your identity with your region to the forefront. Here's a few tips:

Got a local sports team? Wear their jersey constantly and you cap cocked to the side, so everyone can see it.
Create catchphrases. If you're from an established hood or a new city to the game, catch phrases are king. Think Nelly's "thurr", the ubiquitous West Coast "jiy-eah" or Puff Daddy murmuring "uh huh yeah". Give your fans some annoying phrase to imitate.
Name drop local sights and nightclubs incessantly in your lyrics, refer to your area code ad nauseum. You get the idea.
If you're from an obscure neighborhood you will get to have a ton of control of that city's style and image. If a reporter asks how much you could possibly know about the streets, being that you're from East Bumfuck R.I., Don't Panic. Claim that every neighborhood's got a ghetto. (Even if that means the side of town's kids that lacked trust funds, in your case.)

Ok you have a name and a location down....1 step closer to your dream. Tomorrow be ready for How To Be A Hip Hop Star (Part III Unsigned Hype)

How To Be A Hip Hop Star (Part I) (01/05/05)

2007-07-23T15:52:00.000-04:00

As I'm sure most of you have heard, Missy Elliot has a new reality series. She's taking a busload of hopefuls with her cross-country, each competing for $100,000 and the chance to work with her. Are you angry that you missed your opportunity? Do you feel the hours you've spent scribbling in a notebook and worshipping your Biggie and Tupac posters were in vain? Don't worry, we here at Snark And Cupcakes feel your pain. We proudly present to you.........

How To Be A Hip Hop Star

(Part I-What's Your Nizzle, Dizzle?)

So you want to be a rapper, huh? Well the first thing to do is choose what you are going to call yourself. This is the first step in creating the persona your lyrics and image will center around. Make it "hip" or "street" or perhaps even "gangsta". Whatever it is, make it tough. Doesn't even have to be authentic, just has to sound that way. Catering to true urbanites and their real experiences will get you a gold record, at best. The idea is to make rich suburban white kids bump you in their overpriced SUV's, to imitate your every mannerism and move. That my friend, is where the multiplatinum stratosphere lies.

Do you have a nickname? Something unusual or distinctive or even a contraction of your given name, whatever sounds best. Cornell Hayes became Nelly. Sean Combs became Puff Daddy, P. Diddy, Pop A Diddy Puff Puff. Everyone had something they got teased about in grade school, make that moniker work for you. For example, let's say your name was Leroy. In the 6th grade you were ugly,had a slight hunchback, and jug ears. Did you get called Leroy The Monkey Boy? That could be a very promising start with a little embellishment. (We'll get to that later on in this section).
Are you very large/old or very small/young? Put the prefix big or Lil' in front of your first name. Even something lame like Stewart sounds better as B.I.G Stewart or Big Stewie. King/Queen and Prince/Princess are good all condition prefixes as well.
Hijack the name of a movie gangster(Scarface), urban crime novelist(Ice T and Ice Cube both derived their name from writer Iceberg Slim) or blaxxplotation icon(Foxy Brown). Insta-cred, zero work. It's not like people will ask if you've actually seen the movie or read the book. They'll just assume you did.
Use your real name. It worked for Keith Murray. Eric Sermon and Ali Shaheed Muhammed from A Tribe Called Quest.

Special Notice To White Rappers: You have 2 options. Choose something very generic, so no one nails you as a white rapper until the video(i.e. Swify,MC Mike or anything equally bland). This will prevent some of the critical and cultural abuse from the reviewers and the dreadfully knowledgeable folks at http://www.okayplayer.com/. Option 2 is taking the bolder, yet still traditional, path of naming yourself something that has associations to the color white(i.e. Milky, Snow). Don't invoke the dreaded "Vanilla" though. Trust me, every critic from Tokyo to Tucson will do that for you.

Special Notice To Female Rappers: It doesn't really matter what you're name is. You'll be "token female in the blah blah blah crew" if you decide to join a group. If you solo you have 3 additional options, but your name doesn't matter in those either.

The "Next Lil' Kim" route is an oversexed video vixen in a chinchilla bikini. Place style over substance at all times, and make it questionable style at that.

The "Next Da Brat" route is a vaguely bulldyke like persona, with some posturing to being as rough as the boys. Not recommended as it's a tough one to pull off and if you decide to do the Vixen after some lackluster sales, you'll fall even more flatly on your face.

The"Next Lauryn Hill/Eve" route is that of the mass media darling. Dress well enough to make "best of " lists and the cover of Vogue. Make some semi decent records, but nothing so bold that an aging hipster or a dried up critic wouldn't play it in front of his mom. Do movies, TV, and lots of puff pieces in In Style and People. Be the person that old white people can name drop to their teenagers in a desperate attempt to sound cool and modern. Become so ubiquitous in mainstream media, your career as a rapper is a mere afterthought.

Section 1a- Giving Your Name The Extra Something To Earn You Props And Pounds

You have your name picked out, but you're not quite ready for the next level just yet. Every name needs a little more "flava" in the crowded hip hop field. Here's some tips on taking yours from"wack" to "mack":

Forget everything you have ever learned about spelling. Once used to convey accents of speech in written language, misspelling is now a deity in the modern hip hop canon. Feel free to use it on everything from names to liner notes to song and album titles. "The" is now "Tha" or "Da". "Boys" becomes "boyz". You get the idea. Miseducate the youth and sound more "gritty" in one easy step. If you need proof this works look at how many people spell the word in their writing as "F-A-B-O-L-O-U-S" since his record came out.
Add intimidating adjectives or nouns. Anything that belongs in a cheap crime drama will work. Nothing too multisyllabic, literary, or flowery sounding. "Sick", "Killer", "Mad" and "Ill" are good choices. "Verbose", "Anachronistic"or "Pleasant", wouldn't quite do.
Initials are your friend. Got something you like but its a bit too long? Make like a monogrammed towel and break out the initials. Join the ranks of R. Kelly, LL Cool J and the Notorious B.I.G.
Prefixes we discussed earlier in the chapter. (big/Lil', queen/king ect.)

Okay remember our example case Leroy?Here's some things you could do with his given name and or nickname ("Leroy The Monkey Boy"):

Creative Spelling- Leroy tha Monkee Boi, Da Monkey Boy
Adjectives- Lethal Leroy, Mad Monkee
Initials And Abbreviations-L to tha M.B., M.B.
Prefixes- Big Leroy, Large Leroy, Leroy tha King Of Monkeys, Prince Leroy
Combinations Of All 4 Techniques: L. Lethal tha M.B., Da Mad Monkey, Big Leroy Boss

The possibilities are endless, and all it took was a few simple changes. Experiment and see what you come up with. Now that you have a name, you're one step closer to being ready to rock the mic. Make sure to check back tomorrow for How To Be A Hip Hop Star (Part II-Location, Location, Location)

Over Anaylsis Of A Frat Boy Wet Dream (12/30/04)

2007-07-23T15:44:00.000-04:00

Every time you leave the house is the start of a potential adventure. It's easy to forget, simple fact that it is, in our daily routines of work and school and home. It isn't likely, but it is POSSIBLE that any number of things might lie around the next corner,a winning lotto ticket, the love of your life, a lone ninja in grave danger who you could save so he'd be forever in your debt (just like in your favorite childhood movie). Insert whatever applies to you. All I'm saying is that every once in a while, some space/time rip occurs, the stars align and some random event crashes into your ordinary day like Lizzie Grubman on a bender. Something that will become part or your stash of anecdotes for dinner parties and smoky bar conversation forever.

Groggily leave house, walk across street to work. Begin doing basic job functions slowly and on autopilot, as it's cold outside, business is slower than shit and being that it's the end of the month I've read all the new magazines. Got nothing but the daily delivery of newspapers to keep me company for the next 8 hours and I'm saving them for when I run out of pseudo-productive tasks and the deepest oceans of boredom set in.

Fast forward to 3:17 am. Quarter of the way through the New York Times crossword puzzle, the entrance bell rings and I remove myself from the tiny back office, grateful for occupation. A girl asks if she can use the bathroom and I point out the door,hand her the key. A glance tells me she is one of my own , high femme...glossy dark hair and pretty in the same way soap opera stars are, a glance at the rainbow bracelet peeking out of the sleeve of her denim jacket confirming what my finely honed gaydar already knows. I smile, glad at seeing something familiar here in upstate hetero-ville. Return to the office and the puzzle and think nothing of it.

Enter girl number 2. Another one of my own, this time a cute willowy androgene electroclash dyke. Asks if her friend just came in, I point to the bathroom and girl 2 walks in. Think nothing of this either, girl 1 looked a little tipsy and maybe she needs someone to hold her hair back when she pukes.(Wouldn't be the first time that's happened here.) Return to office and try to figure out a 7 letter word for "small falcon" that begins with a K.The walls are pretty thin and the sounds emanating from the bathroom are most decidedly not some upchucking bar chick.

Surprisingly it is a song and dance I know well, "Shhh" and giggles tucked between kisses, the pull of a zipper and admiration of that area just below the navel, the result of a long search for flawless skin. Brash newly out babydykes,acting on long held longings and conquests in backseats and bars and alleyways late at night. Lipstick smears on men's dress shirts, tears in fishnet and the first tastes of a not unfamiliar salty sweetness, the same but different. Images I used to know.... a person I used to be, before I exercise my right, utilized the "bi" in "bisexual" and ran off to the isle of monogamy with a darling, difficult much loved tangle of a man...the person I gave up to be his alone.

Just because you've bought and love the house it doesn't mean you don't sometimes miss the money...the possibilities of what else you could've had if the cards had been played a few pair differently. The tradeoffs of any decision, the path not taken and all that.I caught a glimpse in the security mirror of two rumpled women, flushed, with satiated smiles,holding hands as they wandered off into the night.

Thus ends my overanalysis of two girls having sex in my bathroom, construct a more pornographic version if it suits you. I wouldn't keep a journal if I was too greedy to share myself,or at least the self reflected in my stories.

Oh by the way, in case any of you were wondering, the seven letter word for "small falcon" is kestrel. According to a google search, it's a small hawk,beautiful and difficult for anyone but the most experienced of falconers to handle, due to the speed at which it snatches up that which it wants then flies rapidly away,seemingly unaware of the attempts to train it to accept limitations.

Cigarettes (5/5/03)

2007-07-23T15:41:00.000-04:00

I am a smoker. One of those evil non compliant lepers who voluntarily breathe pollutants and carcinogens. One of the remnants of a dying breed in this eat healthy, regular medical checkup, mini van (with airbags and anti lock brakes) driving, safety obsessed world. I'm fully aware of the health risks, and (despite the fact that I graduated in a dismal,many students at below grade level capacity NY high school) can read the warnings on the packages. Given all of this, I sometimes wonder where my great love affair with cancer sticks began.
My grandparents' basement,I think. Both of them smoked like chimneys, dangling cigarettes in gnarled and aged fingers. Wisps of smoke following their paths through the house like the particles of dust collected by a broom. Here they kept their cartons, orderly rows of shiny cellophane packages, green and white colors and bold letters, deadly little Christmas gifts, almost. My timid 9 year old fingers fumbled with the wrapper, pulled the inner lining out of the pack, testing the feel of one of the smooth cylinders in my hand. Turning to the mirror, testing the image...pale girl with cigarette, like a Helmut Newton photograph.
In that moment of mirror reflection, I saw it. Not the chubby, insecure little girl that I was, but the woman I prayed desperately someday to be. Tough, no nonsense, high cheekbones and sharp chin, a porcelain Lolita tempered with defiance. I lit the cigarette,chest tightening from the smoke, unfamiliar emphasis on the rhythm of my breathing as I exhaled. I might not be that which I saw in the mirror, but I could pretend, a little bit.
Here we are almost 11 years later, taller, thinner, strong cheekbones and sharp chin. By all accounts tough, but still girlish enough in action to portray the not quite innocent. No longer pay attention to the rhythms of my breathing, or the lace the smoke weaves in the air as I exhale. Cigarettes are purely a utilitarian system, delivering nicotine to my addicted cells. I am the woman I saw in the reflection lit by lighter flame all those years ago aren't I? I catch a glimpse of my face in a puddle,the woman is there, the physical appearance of her...the little girl still lurks deep inside her eyes though. Have I become who I wished to be inside? I always was a fine actor, perhaps I have picked up the props of this strong person, just enough to fool everyone. But the little girl knows the truth. She needs this, the final piece of armor. If she quit, lived without the haze of smoke as a blanket...what then? I exhale downward, high cheekbones, sharp chin. Strong underlying sensual porcelain Lolita. The reflection in the puddle ripples and softens...do I dare look? Am I brave enough to see myself clearly, once the ripples settle? To bear the truth of the moment where I am stripped of my props, my pretenses of who I was and what I wish someday to be? Am I brave enough to look into my own amber eyes and take responsibility for exactly who I am in this moment,the as yet unfinished hopes and dreams, the opportunities left behind, and the excuses stripped away? Am I ready to stand up and face that which I've allowed myself to become and say "This is me."? Maybe someday, I tell myself,unable to help but notice that even blurred and obscured a familiar face emerges. Chubby, pale, unsure,....the woman I am striving to be looking at the little girl she had thought she had left behind. I wonder if she could have known what she now is, if the little girl would have made the same choice that day in the basement....I drag again on the cigarette and my own reflected amber eyes and the unspoken judgment within them disappears in a comforting haze of smoke.