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.