Thursday, July 31, 2008

HUNGOVER ON THIS LOVELY WED, ER, THURSDAY. SHOCKING. I KNOW.




Yep, as the headline suggests—I'm nursing a mucho wammy, Grade A body slam.

Man, oh man. 6 vodka drinks and 2 shots ain't what they used to be. I feel like I went on 32-hour bender, bathed in a tub of Patron, snorted through the country of Columbia, free based some glass cooked in a dingy, Wyoming tool shed, and ran a few marathons. Just for good measure.

Luckily, the geniuses at College Humor have managed to capture the very essence of over imbibing with this brilliant series of cartoon strips. Enjoy!
OK. FINE. I'LL BLOG ABOUT THIS TOO.



Whoever green-lighted the now notorious John McCain advertisement comparing Bama Mama to Britney Spears and Paris Hilton deserves a mother fucking Clio award.

The Internets just can't keep their fingers shut about this. Anyone with a pulse and functioning key boards have giddily unleashed massive amounts of "unimaginative" "racist" and "unfair" blah blahs and splashed it all over screens large and small.

Clearly this is just McCain's sour grapes at the media's new hotter, younger, much more virile boy toy. It sucks to get dumped. All you have left is memories, and it does seems like just yesterday that the media wet itself over McCain. They even had pet names--calling him the "maverick" and saying he was "too good to be true" as Steve Chapman so deftly pointed out in his Chicago Tribune article.

Personally, I think it's much ado about nothing. Although as nymag so snarkily added: "Andy Warhol would have appreciated the deadpan, if not the politics."

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

Sigh. The MTA wants more money. Again.





Ok, ok. This is *speculation* by a *source* (who wants to go unnamed), but jesus, you GOTTA be kidding me.

Next summer the MTA might be threatening to increase tolls and fares by another 8% to offset the $900 million defecit.

Note to MTA: get your shit together. Your turning into the crazy uncle who promises to get his drinking, drugging, and hooking under control but comes home every goddamn Christmas asking for mo' and mo' money.
Governer, take care of this mess. Thanks.
~New York City.

HEARD IN THE LUNCHROOM. IF HOLLYWOOD IS HIGH SCHOOL, THIS IS WHAT ALL THE COOL KIDS ARE TALKING ABOUT THIS A.M.

SAY IT AIN'T SO!
It seems like just yesterday (because it was) that I had a special moment with The Golden Girls. Perhaps this was the Lord's way of letting me say goodbye to Sophia Petrillo. Estelle Getty passed away today. She was 84. Cheesecake for everyone.

HE WAS JUST DOING FOLLOW UP RESEARCH FOR AMERICAN PSYCHO
That hot piece, Christian Bale, was arrested and then released after "pushing" one of his family members today. Eh, it was only "minor common assault." Pussy.

FILE UNDER: UGH
I've mentioned my disgust toward the ladies on The View before. So I'm just going to add this little tid bit to the pile. Sherri Shephard has had more abortions than she'd care to count. Quick somebody tell the show's writers, I would LOOOOOVE to hear Elisabeth's learned take on this.

I REALLY DON'T LIKE THIS KID

I've had it with this twit. She reminds of the girls who used to put out behind the bleachers, deny it, proclaim devotion to Jesus Christ, and then take drunk nudie pics and cry when they get out. Her bare back splashed across Vanity Fair was just a warm-up. Now she wants to star in a film where she plays a promiscious suburban chick who gets naked a lot. Cringe.

IS HE WORTH THE EXTRA NOTCH?

I'm a 27 year-old female with a pulse. These factors alone pretty much assure I'll never have too look too far and wide for sex. Men are men, and whether they're feeding us booze at a bar, discussing documents in the office, or standing next to us at a funeral, there's a good chance they're plotting ways to eventually con us into bed. For ladies, getting sex takes no skill other than basic language and eye contact (which may be negotiable with some guys). What does take talent, however, is discerning between who might be a good lay and who will be a lousy one.
I've managed to come up with a list of red flags and green lights that keep my number lower than my age. Here they are:

* Is he ambitious? Men who are passionate about their careers tend to be just as overachieving between the sheets. The downside? He might shuffle you out the door at 8am on a Sunday in order to "tie up loose ends at work." Which you can choose whether or not to believe.

* Does he look you in the eye? Steady eye contact denotes a healthy dose of self confidence. Sex might be the only time where a case of arrogance isn't nauseating. A delusional amount of ego may make a crappy conversationalist, but a fantastic booty call.

* Is he a germaphobe? Men who are too prissy to touch the subway seat might be equally skittish in bed. Beware of those who wince if you ask to share a fork or bitch if you forget to take your shoes off at the door. Trust me. A tad sloppy in life is just the right amount of dirty during sex.

* Can he focus? The man who eagle eyes the menu and remembers details about the ingredients is the same guy who will spend hours figuring out ways to please you. On the flip side, if he can't organize himself enough to even choose the restaurant, chances are slim that he'll ask for extra credit after dinner.

WARNING: this list has absolutely nothing to do with picking men who know how to use the phone. Hell, if I knew that I wouldn't still be trolling the tri-state area giving quizzes on whether my drink had a lemon or lime wedge. Enjoy!

Saturday, July 19, 2008


Hey Kitten, IT'S THE ECONOMY, STUPID

Like I've mentioned before in this blog, I ain't got no job!

Well, that's not entirely true. Technically, I'm employed by a good friend of mine to review gay porn. But that's just a dirty gig out of loyalty and incessant need of drug money.

I don't mean to be entirely ungrateful, though.

Without this illustrious job, the distinct difference between a twink and bear would be completely lost on me, and I'd still be in the dark about the pros and cons of cock docking.

Anyway, my current stint of unemployment is by choice not circumstance. Which is why I can't 100% relate to the winding lines of suits and ties, bitter by corporate downsizing.

Hell, I worked at a magazine.
We were always in a somewhat manic state of "trimming the fat." Literally and figurativelly.

Regardless, the recession is fascinating to me.

That and I'm going to be rubbing elbows with fianance guys in the meatpacking district tonight. I don't think a conversation about the psychosexual causes of jizz addiction would get me a second dirty martini.
I'd like to have some big girl topics tucked up my sleeve.

Regardless of what you may read in the New York Times, this isn't a repeat of the Great Depression.
Unemployment is at a paltry 5.5% in contrast to 25% of 1930, yet Goldman Sachs estimates that rate will accellerate to 6.5% by 2009—which is another "several hundred thousand" people out of a job. Frightening. Especially at gas being $4 a gallon
So who's to blame? According to the New York Times the Federal Reserve. They lowered interest rates, which led to Wall Street engineering dubious mortgage deals (no job? no credit? No problem!), where the normal run-of-the-mill American bit off more than they could chew (ie. afford).

Thursday, July 17, 2008

HILLARY CLINTON: A DSM IV ANALYSIS



I don't purport to be much of a political pundit.

I registered as a Democrat when I turned 18, but at the time was infinitely more passionate about wide leg pants, learning "liquid" at raves, and was much better at discerning between a good and bad "candy flip" than recognizing a political flip flopper.

Regardless, I've voted in every major election and primary. But hell, I'll be honest—I'm more suited to political bar debates where the panelists are a light beer away from not being able to mouth "Obama" then nit-pick fallacies in the latest headlines, or get my panties in a twist about some off-hand comment.

That said, I couldn't tear away my eyes or keep my fingers shut about August's Vanity Fair article, "Hillaryland at War" by Gail Sheehy.

Sheehy, author of Hillary's Choice and a certified "Hillarologist", covered Bill Clinton's campaign and witnessed first hand the rise and fall of the Clinton Empire part deux on the campaign trail this winter and spring.

Although the article explores the administration's various shake-ups and how detrimental her third place finish in Iowa was to the economic vitality of the campaign (it cost them $25 million), the most poignant was the profile Sheehy paints of the woman who deemed herself the "only candidate with the testicular fortitude to be president." I felt like a fly on the wall of therapist's couch.

Let the Personality Profile begin

SUBJECT HAS A TENDENCY TO FIB. BIG TIME.
It turns out Hillary is a bit of a fib teller.
"One of her signature stories was about a young woman who worked for minimum wage, uninsured, and who got pregnant. She was twice refused treatment at a hospital for problems with her pregnancy because they had demanded $100 up front. Clinton’s voice would hush into a tender sigh. “The next time she went to the hospital, it was in an ambulance … and they couldn’t save the baby’s life.” Gasps would fly up from every seat.
Even though the story turned out to be untrue—the hospital protested that the woman was 35, managed a Pizza Hut, was insured, and hadn’t been turned away—it made people believe Hillary would take care of them (until she had to stop using the story, as she did the tale about landing under sniper fire in Bosnia)"


SUBJECT HAS UNCANNY ABILITY TO DETACH FROM ROMANTIC RELATIONSHIPS
Upon sitting through news reports of her philandering husband's exploits with Gennifer Flowers in 1992, her response was chilling:

"I watched Hillary flip on the motel-lobby TV only to see Gennifer Flowers mesmerizing a press conference by playing tapes of her steamy sex conversations with Governor Clinton...Hillary had ordered her tearful male assistant to get Bill, who was unconcerned, on the phone... a woman who showed no evidence of emotional wounding, I listened to Hillary vent about Republicans who were now using “paid political character assassination.” After a seething monologue of maybe 30 minutes, she hit upon the strategy she would use all through the White House years, after she had given birth to the “war room.” “What Bill doesn’t understand is, you’ve got to do the same thing: pound the Republican attack machine and run against the press.”

SUBJECT RESPONDS TO THOSE WITH A SENSE OF HUMOR

"But the real flaw in Hillary’s presidential campaign was the lack of any clear lines of authority. Her “team of rivals,” as she thought approvingly of them, assured she would remain in total top-down control. But it is often necessary to tell a candidate what she doesn’t want to hear in a cold, hard, neutral manner. With Hillary, the word among her staff was “I don’t want to get spanked by Mama.”


SUBJECT WEARS MANY MASKS, BUT IS SOFT UNDERNEATH IT ALL
"However, the other strong core of Hillary’s character is the Nurturer-Rescuer. It is what she has done all her life, starting out after law school at modest pay to work for the Children’s Defense Fund advocacy group. Hillary often hid this side of herself in large venues, where she could come across as brilliant but brittle. When she let it shine through, however, it was startlingly effective."
HEARD IN THE LUNCHROOM! (if Hollywood's high school, then this is what all the cool kids are talking about this a.m.)



**Star Jones' ex, and snarky blogger whipping boy, Al Reynolds swears up and down, with two finger snaps that he is NOT (and I repeat NOT) a homosexual. Queens just jelly.
Page Six

**Alex Shoumatoff, a contributing editor for Vanity Fair was arrested after trying to hang with the upper crust at the hoity toity gentleman's club Bohemian Grove, in San Francisco. The place has an annoyingly strict door where only douch bags with a memebership can enter. So Shoumatoff whipped out the aged old writer alibi. It was all for RESEARCH!
Page Six, again

**The ending of an era, Sarah Jessica Parker has officially dumped her fugly, witch mole. The mole was MIA during her latest outing. Now if only she could do something about the rest of her face. Oh, and speaking of SJP, her publicist must've given someone a blow job over at Maxim because she's now on the lad mag's "Unexpected Crush" list. Men are so fickle.

**Justin Timberlake needs to get an upper lip wax before he slips into those short shorts.
Just Jared

**Emmy forgot Tyra, but lurves Heidi and 30 Rock.
Dlisted

Wednesday, July 16, 2008


Breaking: Bama Mama Did Blow!


While this isn't exactly breaking news (seeing as it was published in his memoir Dreams of My Father eons ago, and has been covered by everyone since then) I found this picture of him with a ciggie and couldn't resist.

The man has it all.

Not only does he want universal healthcare, a speedy withdrawal of troops from Iraq, and decreased dependence on foreign oil—but he can, like, totally relate to the late-night drug run and deep cleaning his kitchen floors at 5 a.m..

Oh, but, he only did a liiittttle bit.
I AM WOMAN, THEREFOR I... VIEW?




Since I've been unemployed I've done a fantastic job of inching ye grand ol' IQ score into the "below average" bracket.

Granted I wasn't too far from it when I was putting on my work pants, but with booze until 6 a.m., breakfast at 1 p.m., and absolutely no reason to see the sun, I've cemented a place in the "just above imbecile" range.

Funny how that works.

I mean I still haven't lost my razor-sharp problem solving skills.

Why, just this morning when I attempted to brew coffee it only took me 20 minutes to realize the pot wasn't plugged in.

Smart girl.

Anyway, one element that isn't helping my deteriating IQ is daytime television.

Today I watched The View.

Whenever I watch this show I feel like I'm trapped at a Sunday brunch with a friend of a friend who's part of some lame meet-up group I was bullied into attending. It's like everyone's had too many mimosas but I forgot my ID so I'm trying to keep up with massive amount of coffee, but alas, caffeine is no match for the mighty champagne.

It's rare anyone ever finishes a complete thought. Topics are tossed off, ideas run into one another like monster truck mash ups, conversations follow along a windy path, get lost somewhere, bumble around, and eventually fall into ditch.

Internet porn and Eva Longoria's new haircut glistened on the round table this a.m.

Bawa Wawa decided Eva's new cut was offensive, Whoopi thought it was OK, my eyes crusted shut, but soon shirked open by Whoopi's impersonation of a....vibrator?

Brought on by the Peter Cook fiasco (who was caught with a $3,000 a month porn habit) the round table debated the heady (no pun intended) existential question: Is it OK for your spouse to masturbate to Internet porn?

THE JURORS

Elisabeth: nay. Orgasm is a sacred experience and my annoying, blond presence should be enough to ward off the evil Jenna Jameson.

Sherri: nay. I don't even masturbate. And porn is a gateway to foreign pun.

Joy: neutral. Better than "putang" on the side. Touche.

Whoopi: yay.
and
Bawa? "What if you and your husband watching porn together?"

Oh, Bawa. Talk about problem solving. Something tells me the lady speaks from experience.....

Monday, July 14, 2008

Everything Bowie Touches Turns Carrot Gold



Sometimes a movie is so God Awful that the passing minutes on the cablebox are more captivating than the plotline.


The Man Who Fell To Earth narrowly misses the boat on this, but only by a hair. Thanks in part to... David Bowie's hair! If it weren't for his chalk white complexion, carrot orange hair shade (that perfectly epitomizes not only his character's alien-chic, but also the glam rock aesthetic of the 1970's), and the most bad ass wardrobe of crisp, sophisticated neutrals this side of Michael Kors, I never would've made it to the bedroom scene where we spy a David Bowie partial erection.


Anyway, Philip Lim was so awe-struck by the 1976 movie that he based his Fall 2008 collection on David Bowie's " Esoteric, elegant, eccentric" wardrobe.


Chances are I'll adopt the same attitude when the 2009 film of The Man Who Fell To Earth is released.

Either that or I'll pay full homage to the the Thin White Duke, hide behind some clear brown aviator shades, fire up Station to Station on my i-pod, snort an ounce of cocaine, in some gray wool coats and crisp black pants.

But if any of the douches from the The Hills or Gossip Girl make a cameo, I'm demanding a refund.