Friday, July 28, 2006

Another Friday cop-out post

The beauty of growing up in So.Flo. is that it’s virtually impossible to not know somebody who knows somebody who knows one of the flaming falsetto fairies that Orlando used to pump out like Chicanas and newborns. Because of this dangerously close and inevitable first or second degree of separation, me as a drug and alcohol obsessed girl in my early twenties would often be minding my own business on a Saturday Afternoon when I would hear something like this: “Omigod. You know my cousin’s neighbor whose best friend is from Orlando, right? Well he’s totally letting us all into the VIP of Crobar for free tonight. And guess who’s gonna be there. Ok, ok, wait, I’ll tell you. The fucking, swear-to-god, Backstreet Boys!”

You would think statements like this would send my open palm flying towards the side of her head. But there’s something you must understand about 21-year-old Conchita. I would have to go, cause there would be bottles. Free bottles. It’s amazing how much your capacity to ignore sequin wearers and bad techno music explodes when your free cup runneth over.

So thanks to alcoholism, I’ve had to meet all the Backstreet Boys. And most of NSYNC. Even if I was strong enough to see beyond my vodkaholcic tunnel vision, we would have still been forced to exchange fake pleasantries. Cause in my Miami waitressing days, I had to wait on them. Often. Lance Bass in particular. And guess what he was drinking. Ok, ok, wait, I’ll tell you. A Madras: One part vodka, one part cranberry, one part orange juice, one part People magazine.



Never mind all the singing and gyrating and sequin wearing, for way back then, in his hand he held the dead giveaway. I’d hate to get all Stephen Colbert on ya’ll and yell, “I called it.” But well, I think I kinda did.

Tuesday, July 25, 2006

Born to be a douchebag

It never fails. Sunny evening. The occasional, yet miraculous night off from work. Strollin’ down the street. Telling a friend one of my stories. Aiming to inspire hilarity all around— when my voice gets dropped like I’m an actor in a Cingular commercial.



If you were wondering what else I hate, then allow me to quiet your little curious head. Motor-fucking-Cycles. It’s not even the actual bike I can't stand. If you choose a bike over a car, that’s your decision. It’s the “everybody look at me” battle cry from the head pounding motor sound, which totally disrespects everyone around them and the conversations they may be having. Your motorcycle is the equivalent to the guy who blasts a boom box on his shoulder, while the rest of us carry iPods. And just like the boom boxer in the mall who thinks everyone’s gotta know he’s listening to Master P, bikers are obviously under the delusion that motorcycles are fucking cool. Sorry, faggot. You’re wrong.


Did any of you stop to think that when you’re riding a motorcycle you’re just riding this:

with a motor on it?

Would this be any more cool with a motor on it?



How bout this?



And unless you’re Lance Armstrong (sans yellow bracelet) there’s nothing that says “super douche” louder than rolling up to a night-spot on a beach cruiser.


none of these people are cool

Not to say there’s anything wrong with riding a bicycle. Hell, if I was skilled enough to tackle the NYC streets with one, I would. I’m not cool. Never claimed to be. But with their deafening “look at me” motor revving, these guys think they’re born to be wild. Bad to the bone. Never realizing that once your anthem gets used in a fucking Pet Smart commercial (or any of the many others) it ceases being cool.

Furthermore, when you ride a bike, you’ve gotta wear one of these:


I understand helmet usage is necessary and applaud those who choose to be responsible. But why use all the noise to draw attention to yourself and your sartorial senselessness? This makes you look like some kind of fucking Cyborg alien Star Trek reject. Sup, Klingon? Have fun at your next convention, douche.

Not to mention, if you’re riding one of these, you’re also probably riding one of these:



Try putting a motor on her. See if that improves her chances for landing the cover of Cosmo.

Hey. Everyone’s entitled to their own thing. If Puff Daddy wants to rap all day at home in his PJs, then fine by me. But when he sets up stage under my window and starts performing, then we got problems. So when your bike feels the need to announce itself all over my conversation, as if I need to drop everything I’m doing just to look at you, that’s when you get an “I hate you” post on my blog.

(“Oooooo.” Yeah, I know. Shut up.)

Saturday, July 22, 2006

I am happy man

Please keep in mind that this theory fully excludes any actual truths about the real Chinese culture. So don't get pissy. I mean C’mon. This is not an insightful well-researched blog. It’s more like the looney guy who stands on the corner muttering incoherent diatribe to his fellow passerbys. Maybe you ignore me. Maybe you give me spare change. Actually, yes. Give me your spare change. Cause it’s Saturday and I need beer money.


I was jetlagged. Deliriously jetlagged in Berlin. I’d been there for 48 hours, but it had been about oh, 87 hours since I’d slept properly. And the fact that my first big night out was going to be a evening of Karaoke with a bunch of Germans, didn’t really have the effect of espresso on the fun meter.

And then meth was injected into my eyeballs.

“YOU PAY NOW!”

At the front door of the Karaoke bar, I found myself starring into the face of a Chinese man.

“But, I..”

“THREE EURO COVER CHARGE. YOU PAY NOW!”

These were not the polite, often timid words of my German hosts. And I had a feeling these may have been the only English words he knew. But they were all he needed. Cause I was totally deconfused. There was no arguing with this man. There would be no unfair blonde American chicky attempts at sweet-talking. Business is business. I would pay. Is now ok?

Yes, my friends. I firmly believe the world would be a lot better if we were more like the Chinese. Here are a few traits I love about my dim sum heroes. But don’t just read them as entertainment. Take them as suggestions for improving society.

Let’s be frank: I suppose as a (ahem-wannabe) writer, I should treasure descriptive prose that paints a vivid picture with eloquent imagery. But the Chinese’s candid language cuts through bullshit like a machete, and gets me moist like some Evil Discussing warm wet blog love. If the Karaoke bar owner would have been an American, the conversation may have gone something like this.

Generic American: “Uh, ma’am, Yes, hello. Hi. How are you? Good evening, yes. Welcome to Long-Time karaoke.”

I'd raise my left eyebrow.

GA: Oooo, that’s a nice tube top. Love the sparkles. Anyway, Ma’am if you wouldn’t mind, we actually have a three-dollar cover charge this evening, which is actually quite a bargain when you consider our 4873-song play list, and of course that wonderful feeling of getting to pretend you’re Britney Spears for the nigh…

Me: Whatves, bitch. I’m out.”

But the linguistically shrewd Chinese man made it clear. If I wanted to come in and sing a little “Eye of the Tiger” with my newfound German amigos, I must pay three Euro. He even gave me a payment time frame. Then he left me alone. This, my friends, is authority. This is how business gets done.

Imagine the peace and order we could restore to society by having Chinese men stationed in, for example, every subway car. The loud screaming of drunken teenagers would be effectively snuffed out with the iron fist command of “YOU SHUT UP NOW!” Sure, the most delinquent ones may initially protest. But ultimately no one can argue with such an uncompromising demand. The newfound quiet would free the rest of us to engage in peaceful activities such as reading our Time magazine undisturbed. Or watching porn, if that’s your thing.

Label whores at the Gucci altar: Or Prada or Fendi or any of the numerous ways you can drop European vacation money on a tiny bag. While some people wouldn’t dare blaspheme the church of high fashion, a few geniuses on Canal St. had another idea. “We make same bag. But with low price.” Sure you can flash your little “Channel authenticity card” all day, but there’s nothing more humbling than paying $4000 for a purse, only to have a little Chinese grandma say, “Look, see, I make one that look just like you for fifty dolla. Hahahahaha, you pay four thousand dolla! Hahahahaha!” Now any whore from Michigan can look as rich as you do. Take that, bitches.


Sweet Words of Encouragement:


In America we have inspirational posters. And “quotes.” And Chicken Puke for the Soul. They aim to enlighten us with advice and hope. But they only inspire me to bitch slap a random sorority girl on the street – just because it makes my soul tingle. But the Chinese have found a better way to accomplish this task – with the fortune cookie. While never actually telling me the future, I’ll usually open one and see something like this: “You are happy man!” And, suddenly I’m grinnin’ like a fat boy gettin’ a hand job. Goddamnit, I am happy man! How did I not realize this before? Maybe I don’t wanna slap that bitch anymore. Just push her a little. Into the east river.

But this is only a dream. My dream for the world that is peaceful and orderly. Quiet conversation is re-incarnated. Grocery stores are clean. And ringtone usage is subject to punishment by Chinese water torture. In fact, I think I have the solution for our Middle Eastern troubles. Just recruit a few Chinese men, send them to the Middle East and hand ‘em a few bullhorns.

“YOU STOP NOW!”

Then everyone could make friends and eat fortune cookies. And we’d have Happy Man! all around. And really, who can argue with that?

Tuesday, July 18, 2006

Been duped like Oprah reading a memoir

Every morning I wake up, I have to look in the mirror and face something horrible. It’s like a gigantified tumor on my face. But worse. The millionth reminder that, “Goddamnit!” I’m a fucking girl. And there’s nothing I can do about it. (No, that’s not an option.)

This would all be fine and peachy if I was the type of girl who didn't view her existence and fem-habits as an atrocity to society. And could buy tickets to see "The Devil Wears Prada" like it's completely acceptable social behavior. But personally I find 8-balls to be a much more time valuable way to massacre brain cells.

But my brain is not the only part of me that makes decisions. I have this other little bully inside me, who’s pretty fucking strong. (For a girl). A dumb little floozy we call Estrogen. I fucking hate this bitch.

My brain and Estrogen are constantly having battles that make Celebrity Death Match look like the Berlin fucking Love Parade. At sixteen or seventeen, Estrogen used to be the clear winner in these brawls. But as my brain has become more developed (read: smarter) Estrogen is starting to be revealed as the pussy she really is and losing these fights. (Thank fucking god.)

Estrogen: Omigod, you will look so totally hot in [perfectly useless fem-product that even Paris Hilton’s Ferret is smart enough to avoid].
Brain: “Shut up, whore."
Estrogen: “K!”

But sometimes she makes me do very stupid things that are completely out of my control. Like this weekend, when she discovered I was out of face wash. Even though my brain saw the perfectly acceptable bar of Ivory in the soap dish, I was drug by my heels to “check your logic at the door” Sephora . It was here that she successfully tied my brain to an outside poll and let it fry away in the mind melting Manhattan Heat. Thus, allowing me to fall under the temporary delusion that I would hand over my money to this store and try to, as their tagline says, “Believe in Miracles.”

I bought this:

Or as I like to call it, The Four Steps to Stupidity.

Step one: “Purity.”

A bottle of “soap” that really should be enough in one’s cleansing routine. But sadly, mostly for me, it’s only the first step. On the bottle it says, “Cleanliness is the beginning. Then you can begin to be who you really are.” What? A doltish shiny faced bitch who’s now slightly poorer in both intellect and pink coin purse for believing the mind numbing copy scrawled all over your box? I had no idea all that dirt and oil was hiding this. Thanks for exposing the idiot in me.

Step 2: Hope in a jar.

I’ll repeat. Hope in a jar. The actual name of the product makes a mockery of those dumb enough to consume it. (Including myself.) They’re selling fucking Hope. Not “Results.” Not "Shit that Actually Works." They’re selling, “Oooo, I hope it works! I wish, I pray, oh please, oh please!” I’ve also been hoping for an advertising job and, you know, eighteen million dollars. Will they sell me a jar of this too? (And if so, apparently I’ll be first in line to buy it.)

Step 3: Hope in a jar, part 2 for eyes and lips.

Notice the similarities of the bottle on the right to the former bottle of pipe dreams shown on the left. In this step, they have the nerve to sell a smaller jar of the same hope. Ironically creating less hope that I’ll ever regain a sliver of the former smartness that’s currently roasting away outside the entrance to Sephora. (If there ever was any in the first place.)

Step 4: Hope and a prayer.


The directions say to take a small scoop of this powder and mix it with a small dab of "Hope." Like this:



So let’s see. We've already established that I'm separating myself with my money for "hope." And thus, I’m a fucking dolt. So now you're just choosing to ignore this completely and expect me to be a fucking chemist? To take proper measurements and mix shit? You actually believe I’m capable of this? I think you may have won the Biggest Moron contest this time. And unfortunately your prize is my money.

So that makes one, two, three, four steps to what could have been a fifteen second affair with a bar of soap. Washing my face is now going to take about eight minutes every morning and night. Sixteen minutes a day stolen from what could have been time for more intellectually edifying activities like slapping my elbow with a spatula.

But time and brain cells are not the only treasures lost. The grand total of this cerebral abortion? Fifty-two bucks. I bet it’s not even that bad when you compare it to the beauty budget of your average “Devil Wears Prada” fanatic. But then I remember that most of the world lives off a dollar a day. And the girl inside me feels the sting of the bitch slap she deserves.

Luckily, it will take about 6 months to run out of this stuff. So, I’ll only fall victim to the bitch in me twice a year. My only wish is that next time I go, I’ll discover that Adobe has gone into the cosmetic industry, and started bottling Photoshop. Cause that’s a miracle that both Estrogen and I are willing to believe in.

Friday, July 14, 2006

sad news

I just learned that one of my favorite childhood rides in Busch Gardens, Williamsburg is closing. So, in it's honor, here's a pic of The Le Mans, Conchita and her father circa 1984. (i think).

Cherish those fake race car rides, my friends. They won't last forever. One tear. (And then a beer.)

sorry for the cop-out post. more real stuff after the weekend. (maybe)

Monday, July 10, 2006

Hey, Nacho. Why you all up in my name n shit?




Dear Mr. Libre,

We’ve got a bone to pick. You see, long ago, before you were just a twinkle in Jared Hess’ eye, I was christened the one and only “Concha Libre.” And it seems, my non-amigo, that you have stolen the title by which I'm known. How could you even dream of robbing the one and only Concha Libre: Famous Blogger with audience of eight? Did you think I wasn’t going to find out, Mr. Jack-my-name Black?

Maybe if you would have asked to borrow my name nicely, we could have been nombre compadres, no? We could live lovingly in happy Libre Land. We could lucha together and be the Libre champions of the world. You’d paralyze our opponent with a camel clutch. And I’d finish him off with some biting sarcasm. And it’s 1…2…3….and Libre victors we’d be!!!!

But no. You stole. And then something went wrong, didn’t it? Your movie sucked. Ass.

But don't take my word. In between the pained writhing, clutching their eyes and begging for mercy, here’s a few things the critics managed to get out:

“Nacho Libre is the kind of awful movie that ruins your whole day."

“After a while this movie just lays there like a wrestler body slammed one too many.”

“Slightly less funny than cancer.”


And cancer isn’t funny at all.

You know what else isn’t funny? Stealing. Oh it isn’t funny. No no no. Cause the Bible tells me so. And since you’re the mastermind behind this grande nomenclature larceny, you’ve got a life sentence to the unfunny jail. But I’m still free to live a life of libre. Do you see my commenters, my faithful loyal readers, mis amigos al fin, saying these things about me? Clearly, in la copa de lucha de nombres, I am the Italy to your France.

I bet you thought you were being sneaky by not stealing my whole name. "I’ll just steal the “Libre” part. She’s too stupid to notice anyway." Maybe you even thought your name is totally different. A concha is a shell, while a nacho is a chip. Let me tell you something, you Canal Street charlatan. A shell tastes a lot like a chip when it is stale. If you find the stalest chip in the whole pile, it would be just like eating a conch from the sea. And that’s all you are. Just a stale chip in the Mexican food of movie going.

But what can I do? You’re the one grossing 73 freakin’ mil. So go ahead. Steal my name. Bite my concha. Bite it hard. I hope you break your teeth.*

Signed,

The one and only: Concha Libre.

¡Viva la Concha!


*note: I realize some of you are familiar with Argentine Spanish slang and probably recognize the pun. It wasn’t really intended, as I have no interest in Mr. Libre getting anywhere near mi concha.

Thursday, July 06, 2006

it's called vibrate, bitches

A few weeks ago I was in the restaurant working a party, when a hush fell over the crowd. The party thrower decided it was time to inundate his guests with a little public masturbatory bather, otherwise known as a speech. During his rambles, a ringtone inevitably exploded from the silent crowd. The phone owner grabbed the disobedient device and ran to the back of the restaurant where I was standing.

“I put one of those ringtones on my phone,” he said to me holding it up. “So I’ve gotta wait here until it stops playing. You know, so I don’t interrupt his speech.”

I opened my palm and placed it in front of him.

“Sir, allow me.” He handed me the phone and I so very cleverly pushed the button labeled “off.”

And lo’ the angels ceased their song. And by angels I mean the idiot’s ring tone stopped playing.

He looked up at me incredulously. “How’d you do that?”

My friends, this is an accurate representation of the intelligence of a person who has chosen to replace his perfectly acceptable cell-phone ring with a ringtone: An illiterate technologically inept idiot. You can defend your awesome Kelly Clarkson song all day, but having a ringtone wins you a first place ribbon in The Biggest Loser Ever contest. Don’t believe me? Then look around you and take note of the type of people who purchase these sound pollutants and the songs they’re picking. With all the pop garbage spewing out of every fucking Motorola in this city, you’ll find the number of people with ringtones is almost directly proportional to those with embarrassingly bad music tastes.

Since they’re impossible to ignore, I’ve made a few observations about idiots with ringtones I often hear. Their selections usually say a lot about them, and quite possibly, what they think of themselves.

Jay-Z “Big Pimpin’”


Although the song conjures up mental images of yachts and blinged out bitches, I’ll turn around only to see a middle class white boy rocking out to the first few bars of his played out ringtone. News Flash: Getting a free Motorola for signing a contract that, if broken, demands your left nut, is not exactly the Cristal poppin’ lifestyle the phone’s crappy speaker is pathetically trying to blast. So put a normal ring on your phone and fucking answer it. It’s probably your mom.


Black Eyed Peas: “My humps” There are probably about 2.7 women in the world who have lovely enough “ lady lumps” to hypnotize a few jerk-off idiots into laying down their black American Express cards for some 7jeans. But unsurprisingly, the number of women touting this ringtone is significantly higher. The fact that your husband’s meager middle management salary purchased your new pair of Jordace jeans, does not make you a dancer in a Black Eyed Peas video. Quit shaking your swollen post pregnancy hips and answer the goddamn phone already.

Britney Spears: “Toxic” Not only is the name of this sound pollutant incredibly ironic, but let’s think back to the Britney we knew in the pre-I-married-me-some-white-trash-and-turned-into-a-beached-whale days. Remember her fan base? The ones you saw flipping out and screaming at her televised Disney World shows? Their average age was about nine fucking years old. So choosing Britney for your ringtone is like strapping a giant marquee onto your head that says “MY MUSIC TASTES HAVE NOT ADVANCED BEYOND A FIFTH GRADE LEVEL!” I’m guessing you don’t get a lot of dates, so you’re probably much better off storing your phone down your pants and setting it to vibrate.


Pussycat dolls: “Don’t Cha?” It amazes me the number of times I hear this ringtone and turn around to see a less than attractive young woman fall under the temporary delusion that she is “all that” and smugly pull her phone out of her purse as if to say to the world, well, “Don’t cha?” But if you’ve downloaded this eardrum atrocity to your phone, there’s something you should know: If you’re a chick, chances are, you’re not hot. I don’t mean this as an insult, but the fact that there are significantly less hot chicks than drastically unhot ones does not put the odds in your favor. And the chances of you being hotter than anyone’s girlfriend are about as likely as Britney getting a clue, an abortion and a divorce.



So, please. For the love of fucking god. Keep the Kelly Clarkson hidden in your iPod and the phone on fucking vibrate. Or you might find some crazy blonde chick grabbing your phone and snapping that little pink “buy one, get one free” razor in two.