Thursday, December 25, 2008

Let It Blow

Christmas is complete. The stockings so carefully hung by the chimney have spilled out goodies galore. And while the kids fight over the controls of their new Wiis, a significantly less innocent scene is taking place up north. Twelve reindeer stand still hitched to their sleigh, just outside of a front door swinging back and forth in the North Pole Wind. For Mr. Claus was still too fucked up to remember that, as his wife nags every night, “This isn’t a barn!” A trail of patent leather boots, socks, a over-sized belt and various red winter gear leads to his bedroom, where Santa lays on his bed, starring at the ceiling, a chest that thuds hard enough to even make his belly shake. An open bottle of Tylenol PM, Xanax and several empty liquor bottles litter the scene. At its center is a cherry red nose caked in slowly hardening snot, mixed with the same white devil that blankets his entire neighborhood. For, my friends, it is my theory that the North Pole is blanketed in not snow, but blow.



Right now you could quite possibly be horrified by this apparent blaspheme of an xmas fable you’ve hung by the chimney of your traditions with care, but I do believe a quick examination of the evidence will have you chiming in with unrelenting agreement, when I call Santa Claus the greatest crackhead of all.

First off, there are obvious points, like “How else could he get around the world in one night?” And if he sees you when you’re sleeping and awake, then clearly he’s up at all hours.

But to really drive this theory home, let’s examine his motives for jumping in the sleigh in the first place. Of course we’d like to all believe it’s the magic of Christmas that inspires Cracky-Claus to grant the wish of every girl and boy. But, please. When else would anyone get the idea to jump off their happy ass and voluntarily trek the entire the world delivering gifts to billions of children with otherwise perfectly capable present-buying parents unless they’re a continent deep in blow? You don’t have to sit through too many teeth chattering sessions until six am to know some pretty stupid ideas get tossed around the mirrored table. This also proves his little green shirted midget cronies are hitting the slopes with him. Because the fateful night Santa’a eyes got all wide with the big idea as he said, “Oh my god, you know what we should do?" only another crackhead would respond by jumping into a toy factory and start building spinning wooden tops.

And then there’s that poem. The one that should be called, ‘Twas the Night on a Bunch of Mutherfuckin’ Blow.

We all know how this one goes, Santa ends up in this rhyming dude’s living room with his reindeer and sack o’ crack.



His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.


‘Course he left out the part about dilated pupils, but otherwise the evidence is all over his beard.

”The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.”




Cocaine can also be freebased and smoked in a drug called crack.



”And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!”


Often in literature, poets employ a technique called metaphor. I don’t think it takes a degree in English, to decipher the true meaning lurking in these lines. Plus Santa, at least as modern marketing understands him, is quite the corpulent old soul. One who really should have trouble squeezing himself through a narrow smokestack. But what better way to shed a few emergency pounds that a quick ride on the white horse? It’s all night fuel and a chimney squeezing diet all in one.

And then who could forget some of the poem’s most famous lines of all:

"Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! on, on Donner and Blitzen!”


Is it me or do those eight reindeer sound like they were renamed after the stage full of strippers? And where do cokeheads go when all the bars have closed but they’re not ready to face their angry Mrs. at home? Strip clubs. Sounds like Santa went and named his reindeer after his eight favorite whores of all time. And seeing as Santa hails from a continent covered in nose candy, I’m going to go out on a limb and assume he was a welcome customer.



ho ho ho!

But all Christmas Eves must come to an end. And it’s there we’ll find our Santa back at the north pole after his binge, in the blog’s opening scene, undoubtedly swearing off coke for the rest of his life. And to me, this is the biggest proof of all. Because, mhmmm. Yeah. “This was the last time I swear." I’ve heard that one before. See you next Christmas, crackhead.



oh...and there was this

Thursday, December 18, 2008

I'm Pretty Convinced that Cactuses are People, but Plants

Christopher Walken puts googly eyes on his cactuses.


“Cactuses have pricklers,” he explains. “They can stab you in your hands, in your face. And the only way to know where you stand with someone is by looking into their eyes, right?”

Right is mutherfuckin’ right. I’m on to you, Cactuses. I’m pretty much positive that you are people. Plant people.

Take a gander at the anatomy of your basic cactus:





Look how guilty this guy looks. He's come out with his hands up, like a busted drug dealer on an episode of Cops, Compton. Only instead of crack, this cactus was caught with a lie. A lie about his very existence. His people existence.

According to the most omniscient Wikipedia , Cactuses are spine plants. Hmmmm. Spine plants you say? Sea Sponges don’t have spines. But you know who has spines? Your vertebraed cousin People. Concha Libre may be a giant dumbass, but it doesn’t mean I can’t figure out the most obvious lie of all times stabbing me right in the face.

Take a look at these Cactuses who clearly cannot hide their very human fibers bursting from underneath their pricklers.



What's up, Cactus Club? Yeah, that's right. Get those hands up where we can see 'em.




Do bears have their own motels? Do seahorses? I think not, plantman.



Did somebody forget to hide their valentine from the real humans?



Bush's unfortunate influence on the plant people.



I found the cover of Perfect Ten Cactus Magazine.




What is this, Dance Party USPlantpeople????



What's up, Cactus. Copy the O Christo Redentor Statue much?







Yoda cactus people plant have.



Kids play outside, man. Put some fucking pants on, will you?



The cactus cheerleaders say, "Raa raa ree! We're people, I mean Plants...shit."



Looks like somecactus forgot to take his Valtrex...



I just hope the cactus people are more tolerant of gay parades than California.




Laugh it up, dickhead!




If this isn't proof, I don't know what is.



What are we to do with this news? Since the cactuses aren’t talking back and explaining (believe me, I’ve tried) I’m just going take The Man Who’s Very Scared of Plants’ advice: “A good rule of thumb is, don’t turn your back on a cactus.” Thanks, Christopher Walken. You are my favorite indoor gardener. To this I say, more cactus!



Gotta watch out for those ferns though.

WAAAAAAAAAAAA!




really???

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

keepin' the x in xmas

Maybe it’s because I’m an atheist. Maybe it’s because when I was two my parents gifted me the biggest spoiler of all time: “Concha, there’s no Santa.” Maybe it's because unless they’re on crack, no one is that fucking happy. Joy to the world, my ass. Tis the season for the crappiest noise pollutant of all – Christmas music.

I hate Christmas music. I hate people who don’t hate Christmas music. An oxymoron parading as melody. It’s the same fifty goddamn songs not rocking around the Christmas tree every December, yet not one mistletoe-wielding dickbag ever seems to get sick of them. I thought music by its very nature is supposed to evolve. Rock overthrows Doo Whop. Punk tells Rush to fuck itself. But I seriously start to doubt the whole “music” claim, when the biggest challenge to the genre is Mariah fucking Carey.

Still, for twenty five days (or even longer thanks to modern marketing) I’m supposed to throw out my decent music tastes cultivated by hundreds of hours in record stores, punk shows, fuck even piano lessons, to hear Bing Crosby wish for my streets to fill up with icy, pricey boot ruining, sky dandruff just because it’s fucking December.

What really pisses me off is Xmas music’s unavoidable ubiquity. Most songs I hate are deflected from my iPod by employing a clever technique called not stealing them illegally from the interwebs. But thanks to everybody else’s seasonal bad taste, I get to go shopping and hear That Which I Hate The Most over a visual of screaming children, parents screaming at their children, while store managers try to keep from screaming at the screaming parents and children. Meanwhile I’m trying to push through this mess because I just stopped in the store to pick up some fucking sour cream and I don’t know what the hell you people are bitching about because the last time I checked this was Wallgreens, not Rwanda!

More ear raping below.

Sleigh Ride

“Lovely weather for a sleigh ride together,” my frozen ass. I’ve been on a sleigh ride. Guess what? It’s fucking cold. The constant jingling of bells? Progresses from monotonous, to annoying, to I kinda wanna hurt someone, to oops I killed the Christ Child.

Silent Night

Not if you don’t shut the fuck up, it isn’t.

The Chipmunk Song

Whoever got the idea to inhale a bunch of helium and confuse it with cute, should’ve kept inhaling, and inhaling, until his head exploded. Really, Alvin? You still want a hula hoop? That’s the fucking shittiest gift I’ve ever heard of, unless I can hang you with it.



While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night

Only in Christmas music, is it acceptable to write lyrics about frigid temperatures, sleighs and other shitty forms of transportation, and smelly old men who walk around prodding sheep with staffs. In fact that little hillside scene sounds a lot like a documentary I watched called Zoo. And in Zoo, a bunch of freaks lived together specifically so they could fuck horses. Yeah, good tidings of great bestiality to ya. Say hi to your mother for me.



Santa Claus is Coming to Town

Like I said, Mom and Dad turned me into a Santa nihilist when I was two, so I know this is a big fat lie. Fuck you, song!

The Twelve Days of Christmas

This sounds like the worst fucking twelve days of anybody’s life. There you are with some normal wish list. Maybe you want a new digital camera, or a gift certificate to Applebees. A week and a half later you got a fucking circus on your hands. Who’s gonna feed all these god damn geese? The ten assholes leaping? And don’t get me started about eight bitches with nipples in their hands. That’s just fucking creepy.




So, you say, I suppose you’ll say you hate Santa now. And baby Jesus too. But that’s just crazy talk. How could I hate something that’s not real?

Really, all Concha wants for Christmas is you to shut the fuck up.

loyal fan club of 8

i am very very sorry i have not blogged in so long. i'm working on a piece about how much i hate xmas music, but i have been very busy shooting a bad commercial and keeping up this drinking habit. right now my brain feels like that last pickle in the pickle jar. i'm pretty sure it smells like a soggy bar wipe but i'm not about to go in and find out. i will finish the new blog soon, because i really fucking hate xmas music. i also think that xmas mart they got goin' on over in union square is pretty crap too. was thinking of profiling that, but it'll have to wait. i'm in LA and taking pictures of it from over here has proven impossible so far.


oh, and now would be a good time to suggest some songs for me to hate on. if you think of some good ones i'll give you a prize.

Wednesday, November 26, 2008

Wee Wee Wee, all the Way Home

Two months ago, I became the lucky lessee of what I’m convinced is the greatest apartment in the world. Your first few shoe boxes in New York can make any space that’s slightly more sophisticated than a freshman dorm room seem worthy of giving Robin Leach call. And I might, just as soon as I finish painting my kitchen, hanging curtains, and my new favorite hobby, using the power drill.

Upon, my first cathartic thrust into the plastered wall, I was overcome with envy. This must be one of the reasons guys love their dicks. So powerful. So liberating. Plus the entire world is your personal toilet – the bottom half of an oyster shell whose very cupped nature exists for your convenience.

Thanks to an ad in my Gmail a few days ago, I discovered that there is a product determined to erase one of my jealousies for good. Ladies, behold, the Shewee – the portable urinating device for women.






The Shewee is basically a plastic cup attached to a funnel, designed to make the often awkward process of unzipping and squatting as easy as it is say, for a guy. No more uncomfortable hovering or removal of the underpants. With the Shewee, answering the call of nature is as easy as, “securing the device to your crotch,” with "panties pushed to one side," (this order still puzzles me) and, “aiming at a convenient tree!” The ad I saw in my Gmail suggested giving it as a gift, creating new meaning to the Song “Dick in a Box.”



When to Shewee

The website offers examples of women who can benefit from a plastic urine funnel.

So many women, the site claims, can benefit from using the Shewee. From walkers, to landscape architects to bird watchers, there’s not a lifestyle or hobby that the Shewee can’t accommodate.

When camping, it says, “no more cold bottoms. You can Shewee right inside your tent!” I hope I speak for all ladies with a resounding WTF??? This behavior may be perfectly acceptable to the gender born with the Shewee built right in, but if one of my girlfriends friends woke up in the middle of the night in our tent, pulled out a plastic funnel and pushed aside the crotch of her panties, I’d kick her bottom outside in the cold for the rest of the night, and probably the rest of the camping trip altogether.

If traffic is moving slower than the coffee to your bladder, they suggest using the Shewee, “standing up on the grass verge - just turn your back to the jam and your dignity is maintained.” Because there’s nothing un-dignifying about stopping your car during rush hour, walking to the side of the road, fondling around your privates, pushing aside the crotch of your panties, and placing a small plastic urine funnel up to your hoo-ha in view of the passing, honking traffic – as long as your back is turned. Probably something to keep in mind when the urge to masturbate ever springs up behind the wheel, if that’s your thing.

It also suggests that hang gliders should use the Shewee, but offers no reasons why. My imagination suggests that a hang glider and a Shewee adds up to 100% chance of afternoon showers.

The list labeled for the “less mobile” is admittedly more sad. Proving that women recovering from surgery to the incontinent to the bedridden are not immune to ridiculous marketing.

It even attests that the Shewee is as much of a handbag essential as your mobile phone. I don’t know about you, but when I’m on the side of the road with a flat tire, “I sure wish my vagina had better aim” is really the last thing I’m thinking. However, having a Shewee would make drunk dialing interesting, especially to any nearby observers lucky enough to witness me try to make a booty call with a plastic, urine smelling funnel.


Finally, when the website offered a “Tip! Practise with Shewee in the shower to find the best position for you,” I kinda just Sheweed all over myself.

The future of Shewee

Since they already have a website, I think the next advertising foray the Sheweeres should jump into is the infomercial world. I can just imagine the beginning, where we’ll see black and white shots of otherwise housebroken women struggling with the call of nature. One woman might open up a public bathroom stall, shaking her head at it’s sprinkled and toilet paper covered seat. Another may look at a nurse with horror as she hands her a sample cup in the doctor’s office. “Such a small opening had to have been invented by a man!” And of course there’s the inevitable scene outdoors, where our bladder burst woman shakes her head at the camera as it pans down to reveal her urine soaked trousers and failed attempts to hit a tree’s bulls eye. Then the screen suddenly becomes colored when the Shewee debuts, as women exuberantly jump through prairies and fields, liberated from the old ball n’ chain they call a vagina. Baby, you’ve come a long way. An entire plastic funnel long to be exact.



You and I may wee, but we all Shewee!

These are the troubles born to the dickless – along with lower than average pay and the chance you might wake up one morning with another human in your stomach. But as I shudder to think how the makers of Shewee would try to remedy these sorts of problems, I'm quite happy squatting outside my camping tent. Both genders have their pros and cons, but mine was born with the from-experience-empathy to ridicule such a device. And if ever a day comes where the grass seems greener, I can always find something new to hang on my wall, and live vicariously through my power drill.

Sunday, November 23, 2008

i'm getting really fucking sick of seeing this ad




really, facebook? really? how 'bout you make an ad that says, "a copywriter that really can't write?" or "an alcoholic who's too lazy to walk to the corner and buy wine?"

to quote corky in waiting for guffman, "i hate you. and i hate your ass face!"

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

fucking stoked


the very thoughtful rep of Anthony Burrill sent me one of his prints a few weeks ago. for free! just had it framed. needless to say, i'm ...what my title said.


anthony burrill

Saturday, November 15, 2008

exxxcuse me, mr. cab driver.....

Living in New York over three years now, I've had time to ponder many questions. Am I working as hard as I could? Did I remember to put on deodorant? And, um, excuse me, Mr. Cab Driver, um WHAT THE FUCK ARE DOING ON THE PHONE???

I assume a cab driver gleans an abundance of anecdotes while carting around New York's drunkest that are quite worthy of sharing with friends. I certainly have plenty from my waitressing days , a profession which I'm sure is relatively comparable in this nature. But when I imagine my ear glued to a jawbone relating these stories to a far off friend while opening a bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape for a table, I also envision falling on my ass. And now I'm going to have a lot of explaining to do to the ER nurse as he dislodges a phallic
shaped bottle from my invaded rear. Because in both waitressing and driving, multitasking is dangerous, often deadly and can lead to an extremely awkward conversation with a proctologist.

I'm sure for you, Mr. Cab Driver, there are plenty of matters to discuss other than the trials and tribulations of driving Miss Drunken Daisy. But can it really not wait until I get to Sweet N Vicious or whatever pathetic establishment I'm paying you three hundred and thirty dollars plus tip to drive me to? I can just see the look on my CD's face if I walked into a meeting with a Blackberry attached to my ear, and gave him a "What, asshole?" look when he asked me to do my job. Just as I'm sure he doesn't want to hear me rattle on about God knows what the fuck during business hours, I don't like having to interrupt my podcast and take out my headphones because I saw your jaw flappin' and mistakenly assumed you were asking me to clarify my address in Brooklyn. You know, the one to which you didn't know the directions, and I had to explain them eight times, even though you're a cab driver and I would assume (wrongfully) that knowing the five boroughs, (or hell, at least three) would be part of your fucking attaché!

But now you're going the wrong way. And instead of being able to help you get back on the right track immediately, I have to interrupt your conversation. By the time you tell Herbie Hancock or whoever's on the other end of the line to hold on, we've gone down a one-way street. There goes four more blocks before we can turn around, racking my tab about another twenty-three dollars. Then you'll yell at me for paying it with a credit card.Sorry, but I don't carry around six thousand and eighty two dollars cash in my back pocket. How would I fit all my drugs?

Look. I cart home my fare share of drunken sorority girls (although in my line of work we call them "clients") and I can empathize with the need for show and tell time. But when you've got your hands at ten and phone and the seatbelts in the back are lodged under leather that smells like armadillo, I'd appreciate if you could keep your phone on "off" and your eyes on the LOOK OUT! LITTLE OLD NUNS!!!

Thursday, November 13, 2008

cry babies

It’s New Years in November. Obama is king. Champagne and overjoyed tears flow in equal time. A percussion set of noisemakers keeps the beat of screaming that could rival a Beatles reunion. Jen is standing across from me, a glass of prosecco in one hand, a phone in the other.

“Mom,” she’s crying halfway to the receiver, the other to the sky. “I can have kids now. This is the world I can bring them into.” Certainly Paul Krugman would have been proud of this scene. As, he said in the Times, “If the election of our first African-American president didn’t stir you, if it didn’t leave you teary-eyed and proud of your country, there’s something wrong with you.”

Tears of joy dry quickly, but the opposite kind still were falling all over Facebook the next morning. After last night’s scene of street dancing, hugging and hi-fiving strangers, and the sudden resurgence of faith and Obama fervor electrifying the streets of New York, it seemed like the only kind of McCain supporter that could be immune to it all, would be the kind of person who can’t catch a fever. The kind that’s dead. But the Facebook sphere was alive and kicking with status updates fueled by bitter resentment, growing like weeds in an otherwise pretty damn hopeful garden.

A few of my favorites:

XXX…is asking for privacy and respect during this grieving process.

Did someone die? I thought. Shit, should I call this person? But then I remembered the high cost of sympathy flowers, and that they’re not exactly how you consol the death of someone’s pride.


XXX…is hoping the next four years go by very quickly.

You and me both. Because no matter which man was elected, the next four years aren’t exactly going to be the heaven in the sky you and your God fearing friends think you’re headed to. We’ll have to do things like say, “work,” and “follow through on our word,” to repair the country. I know McCain swore he’d cut all earmark spending and other unrealistic promises of perfection the second he was sworn is, but as a democrat I’d like to introduce you to a little concept I call reality. A four years that will be difficult no matter who’s in office. Hopefully now, we’ll be better off when they’re over, not China’s bitch. (No offense to China.) Plus, considering you Christians are already wishing away your time on this Earth for afterlife’s reward, I’m sure you’ve gotten good at this by now.

My very favorite was some woman I who left a comment on this status. “I’m keeping my McCain sticker up in my office as a reminder to all.”

Next to your Bush poster perhaps? Or maybe your plunging 401k statements. Do you have footage of dead American soldiers playing on repeat? Or are you the kind that frames photos of Iraqi mothers carrying their dead innocent children, next to the kitty poster that says, “Hang in there!” Seriously, if you’re going to hang onto McCain paraphernalia, do so Marky Mark “Fear” style and carve “McCain Forever” on your middle-aged chest. I got a feeling there aren’t too many people are going there, and you’ll keep the foot-in-mouth moments to a minimum.

Another claimed she wanted to vomit. After reading that, it made two of us.

After I swallowed the urge to aim mine in a doggie bag and express mail her a sample, I still couldn’t figure out why, unlike McCain’s humble exit, his supporters were acting unsportsmanlike. Fuck me if I’m wrong, but after the announcement was made, I didn’t see any Obama supporters taunting the so-called losers. What we seemed to understand, and McCain even pointed out, is that the election wasn’t about chasing some political Stanley Cup. As Obama said, “Victory alone is not the change we seek, but the chance to make that change.” We weren’t taunting losers, because there were no losers to make fun of like Florida State Seminoles. It wasn’t a fucking game! Even if you didn’t vote for him most of your taxes will still be lower. You’ll get the healthcare, the education and basically all the spoils of the war you claim to have lost. And (with the exception of racist rednecks and the KKK) I don’t think there’s an Obama supporter out there who wants to rob you of the winning days ahead. And if you feel like a loser saving money on taxes, I’ve got a bank account that can relieve you of all your losses. For more information, my email is in my profile.

Paying the cab driver who drove me home last Tuesday night, “God Save the Queen,” randomly erupted in my ear buds. I found it a pretty fitting soundtrack to the coup’ de failed politics and hopeful spirit of democracy restored that evening. Except as Johnny Rotten lamented on the lack of tomorrow, in my head I tweaked the lyrics a bit.

There is a future
There is a future.


And if any of you are still admitting with your tears that you don’t agree, well, what Krugman said.

Tuesday, November 04, 2008

tomorrow

when i was eight years old, i remember sitting in the passenger side while my dad drove down the highway. Upon seeing the driver of the car in front of us had adorned their bumper with a Dukakis sticker of support, I promptly turned to my dad and announced my hope that the driver “fall off the face of the earth.”

I had no idea what Dukakis stood for. I didn’t know what it meant to be Democrat a Republican for that matter. All I knew was that the administration of our Baptist Christian school had given us that day off from the normal school day to hold mock elections. The local news had come, and we were driving home to see if I had gotten on TV. Our principal told us that when we each walked into the homemade election booths, we were free to make whatever choice we wanted, as long as it was for George Bush. George Bush Sr. was of course on the side of God and Pro life. And we knew you were either for God and little babies, or you were for Satan. Hence my vehement wish on the driver’s fate—a long walk off a short earth.

Little did I know that at eight-years-old, that my word was completely flat.

Not only would the earth have to be level to have an actual “face” from which the evil driver could fall, I was too young and misinformed to see a round world and take both points of view into consideration. I knew one side, and it was God’s. Why would He, or my principal waste time with the wrong side? But what scares the living shit out of me was my instinctive reaction to armor myself with blind hatred. I didn’t know anything about Dukakis, his party, or even the driver. But in a sort of primal way, it shows us how fear of the unknown and the desire to be "correct" are often just what the bartender ordered to mix a hate cocktail.

I’ve since sobered up from this kind of thinking. As a former republican, the past eight years have forced me to swallow the notion that I was wrong. Unfortunately I’ve seen much of the McCain camp still drunk on my eight-year-old attitude. People see someone they don’t identify with, talking about completely new ideas, and suddenly they’re making tenuous connections to Acorn. Using convenient puns like “Obamanation.” Accusing him of being a terrorist because of his middle name. Calling his tax plan “wealth redistribution” as if the Democratic Party is really the Bolshevik Army in disguise, biding their time before they come dump out their grandmother’s hope chest of heirlooms. They’re reduced to my eight-year-old logic desperately defending their beliefs because they haven’t seen or refuse perceive a world from all sides, one that’s round. Or simply because they’re so set in their ways and they don’t want to face the daunting proposition that they just might not be right.
Luckily my dad scolded my little Earth exiling ass that day. Although a republican, he at least knew it wasn’t right for anyone to be pushed out of the atmosphere over a bumper sticker. The other night I think I may have convinced him to take that logic one step further, and admit with his vote that the policies of the past eight years have failed. And to anyone else who takes that step, thank you. It’s gut wrenchingly difficult to face facts and admit you may have been wrong. But thanks to the nature of the curtains that surround you tomorrow, no one will have to know. I hope you can soften the armor of your heart, and find the part of it that knows how to do the right thing.

if you actually got to the end of this, thanks.

Friday, August 01, 2008

My Fucking Roommate

Three years. In my selfish, only child book, it’s a measurement of time that rivals geology. To date, live with, and try maintain love for someone else, to share every electrifying, “baby, can you please wash the dishes,” moment, I need patience, compromise and lots and lots of drugs. Watching paint dry has always been a lot more exciting when tripping balls.

But when monotony incarnate kicks you out on the streets, any given dealer in Brooklyn will shake his head, unable to offer you the specific kind of numbing you’re looking for. Being a fan of “the drugs” I can say from experience that moving out of an (un)happy home is quite similar to the only part of abuse that I don’t care for: quitting – all hope of that first high is swimming through the halls of Atlantis, but you still need to continue using to keep from throwing yourself permanently below the sea.

So I turned my back on the concept of cold turkey, and kept the IV hooked up and dripping. We did all the usual breakup stuff – divide the furniture, get a new place, wish violent death on the other – only to constantly make plans for me to come over, watch movies and pretend everything was still the same. I think the Kübler- Ross “grief model” refers to this as “denial.” And denial was the drug for me. But then my ex went to Spain for a few weeks, my roommate went on a first date and suddenly I never needed a hit so badly in my life.

While my new roommate was using her Saturday night to do the normal drink yourself silly and spread your legs sort of pastimes, I was home after a day spent working on the ad campaign from hell. With three years worth of breakup depression swimming in my skull, and even, I admit, a little rain on my face, I was served the daunting proposition of trying to sleep so I could do more of the same on Sunday. Finally, after a several hours of sword fighting insomnia, as E.B White wrote in Charlotte’s Web, “Sleep and Wilbur eventually found each other.”



That’s when my G rated evening hung a sharp left and woke up in Deep Throat.

Did you ever hear that old Adam Sandler sketch where he plays loud grunting noises and asks people to figure out if they’re working out or having sex? It was hilarious. And nothing like this. My roommate and her date came home, strapped bullhorns to their mouths and consummated their evening in the room that shares a wall with mine. She was moaning, but understandably so. He kept going for a good hour, maybe two. But while he could last like a real man, he screamed like a woman.

Knowing that she and the screaming woman had likely woken up Hellen Keller in her grave, the next day she apologized with the highly original “I was really drunk.” Later, through the paper-thin walls. I overheard a phone conversation where she said, “I hope my roommate doesn’t think I’m a slut.”

Now, let’s review. I had worked all Saturday. I had to stay home on Saturday night to rest for workday-Sunday. And just when I finally snuffed out the insomnia of a breakup, I’m greeted back into consciousness by an alarm I didn’t set. Also because the male equivalent for “slut” doesn’t exist, I’ve more or less omitted that word from my vocabulary.

So yes, I was sitting next-door questioning your morality, while praying for the Sweet Baby Jesus to spare you from hell fire and have mercy on your soul. You dumb, dumb slut.

I was hoping this night would be an isolated incident, a slip of the slut. But as weeks gave birth to night after goddamn night from hell, jumping back into the unhappiness of my last relationship would have been an orgasm in pill form.

I tried to fight fire with fire by jumping into a new relationship. Of course when the potential new flame asks your name and you respond by jumping on him begging to be rescued from breakup pain, it’s likely he’ll run for his life screaming like the opposite sex after flinging you violently back in the room for one. One night I came home a little down that things were going south with he and I, only to be greeted by the noises of two people intent on rubbing it in my face. When my headphones still didn’t drown out the noise, I needed to call someone, anyone, for a distraction to keep me from hand crafting a homemade machete Kenya style and slashing through our shared wall. Brilliantly I call my ex, who informs me that he’s recently become no stranger to making the sex noises in my former apartment with girls other than yours truly.

Timeout for an inventory check: I’ve got the depression of a failed rebound in my head, the soundtrack to the Karma Sutra at full volume in the next room, and an ex who’s moved on (and over and under) on the other end of the line.

Later, my friend Jessica observed, "That is a personal hell."

No it's not a personal hell. It's like the Devil himself tying you up and licking you in the face to the beat of a Savage Garden ring tone.

But Hades doesn’t have to be a horrific address if you figure out how to profit from it. A friend and I were chatting at a party, and my current woes gave us an idea to revolutionize the nature CD industry. You know, the ones where a tiny elf plays his lyre accompanied by the soothing percussion of Raindrops of Tranquility? We thought perhaps the one part of nature missing in this box set was Sounds of Sex®. Because hey, if people will buy Sounds of the Sea, why couldn’t the motion of their ocean sit on the same shelf?

This all changed when her partner-in-mating started making, what I guess can best be described as loud guttural noises. Up to now I presumed that unless it’s, “Ow! Wrong asshole!” sex was supposed to induce moans of pleasure. But living next door to observe Peter Rabbit and his Bitch, I’ve observed that mutual thrusting moans can range from soft and kinda gay to the groans of cattle too dumb to know they being slaughtered.

One night a friend and I were chatting in my room, when the happy couple pressed play on their Sounds of Sex CD. He turned to me and asked, “Er, is that a human?”

I’ve always thought one of the qualities that differentiate humans from animals has been our capacity for empathy. An empathy, which may have made him think twice about other people in the apartment. If he was incapable of thinking about others, he could have at least been selfish enough not to want to embarrass himself making noises that sounded like a dying diesel engine being raped in it’s first night in maximum security prison. If not in earshot of me, then at least not in front of the girl he wanted to fuck again. And again. And again. And I hate them.

No, kids. He’s not a human. He’s a slut.

I’ve tried headphones. I’ve tried calling people, but we know how that goes. I’ve tried smothering a pillow on my head just enough to muffle the moans, but not quite hard enough to kill me. I’ve tried playing electronic music so that the noises sound like they’ve been mixed into some kind of avant garde experimental track. I even toyed with the notion of planting traps to break them up.

Maybe I leave a pair of Scooby Do underpants in her bed for him to find and her to try and explain.

Maybe I try and one-up the happy couple, by inviting over ten of my friends to stand in my room (yeah, like they’d fit) and pretend we’re having a really hot fucking orgy in here! “Oh yeah.” “Oh baby.” “I think somebody just scored a hole in one.” “My goalie must be sleeping, because my net’s got some balls in it.” “I must look like Warsaw because, Adolph you sure know how to invade my lady parts.” Oh the joy of sex.

What I haven’t tried is simply talking to her.

I’m busy. And by busy I mean I have no balls. But get this. Apparently too much wine is fertilizer for entire crops of cojones. In fact I think we could solve the world’s balls shortage, simply by getting everybody drunk. And drunk is what I was one night, when I decided that two of my friends and I needed to keep the debauchery flowing by coming back to my room at 4am and use our outside voices. Why? Well, none of us can remember. Believe it or not, wine can also act as an effective bouncer to memory. Because I woke up the next day, two friends gone, a half consumed bottle of wine on the table, and what an AA patron might refer to as a “blackout.” I figured it would be best to send a ‘sorry bout the noise’ email to the (not so much) girl next door. But if I didn’t have the sensibility to assume I should apologize for any noise I wasn’t certain we’d made, she wouldn’t have enlightened me with this reply:

“I'm not sure if you recall what you said, but I felt as though that is what
really upset me, that on top of coming home loudly with two other
people at 4am on a weeknight. I’m referring to the exchange when I
opened the door. You said "Hey, want a glass of wine?" I said, "No, I'm trying to sleep." And then you said, "Well, when you and your boyfriend are fucking, it's fucking loud!"


Oh. Oops.

“Not only was that somewhat embarrassing, but also completely disrespectful and completely uncalled for.”

At first, a little bit of regret for my drunken actions actually welled up within my bosom. But then I remember the “Personal Hell.” The guttural noises. The nights of lost sleep and the grogginess following me through the next day. Yeah, we were loud one night. But we were loud one night. A loudness that came from laughter. Hits a slightly different level on the Skeeved The Fuck Out scale. Suddenly the three page email telling me I “had a lot to learn” seemed to be the equivalent of a fat man at the dinner table gnawing on a chicken leg with his mouth open, wiping away chunks and drool with his sleeve, and then with full mouth, turning to me and telling me to take my elbows off the table.

So, ok. I’m a grown up. I’ll use my manners and oblige. Look, bitch, no elbows. But trust, it won’t be too long before I’ll ask to be excused from the table… right after I grab your fucking chicken leg and smack you across your face. Your slutface.

ok, annie twill your tendrils

hey. you know what guys. this is a genuine apology.

i know im building it up too much.


tomorrow, tomorrow. i love ya...


and i love you. im gonna rejigger the order of the posts so i can get one up tomorrow. i was gonna put them up in a different order but i'll get one up tomorrow. just for timings sake. im really happy you guys wanna see it. that means a ton to me. thank you so much. have a great night. god bless you everyone.

this is tiny tim sending her love.

Wednesday, July 30, 2008

75% done with one post, 79% with the other

in the meantime check out the new awesome stuff by my old colleagues. i'll be back before you can say bitchface.


ross eats and other films

Monday, July 28, 2008

i never promised you forever.

i wasn't lying. it really is coming together. but, yaaaa'll, it's summer in new york. you know how that goes. i'm stuck at work paying the bills while my dopplegänger is passed out at home, face first on the hardwood, clutching her broken crackpipe and a binkie.

lucky bitch.

Saturday, July 26, 2008

summer blockbuster

to be continued, at a new URL. coming soon. stay tuned for part deux.