What's that about history repeating?

Spied on a t-shirt in downtown Brooklyn...


Yeah, that about covers it.

I Wonder Monday, Numero Tres!

For those of you just tuning in, here's what's going on.

With me now? Okay, ready go:

• I wonder if my Irish heritage (50%, mom's a purebred mick) contributes to the power of Murphy's Law in my life. That would explain why I got wicked sick just in time to miss both the Mermaid and Gay Pride parades this weekend. It would also explain my continued need to use the term "wicked," as if it's not completely annoying.
• I wonder how the aforementioned Gay Pride parade was. Judging from some of the photos and the drunken phone calls, I definitely missed some shit. I'm really bummed that I didn't get to wear my rainbow-adorned wife beater (thanks Arrash!) and matching striped panties. Guess there's always next year...sigh...
• I wonder what my shrink'll say when I tell her I stayed home and rested when I was sick, instead of going out and wreaking havoc in spite of it. Maybe I'll get some kind of psychiatric gold star or something. Hot shit.
• I wonder who came up with this nugget of genius. Fifty bucks for the lesser Corey? I'll have to think that over... (Shit. I'll go. You know this.) [via Gawker]
• I wonder what would happen if I just up and asked out the adorable contractor boy working in my office. Not gonna do it, but only because...
• I wonder whom I like better...the adorable contractor boy working in my office, or his even more adorable coworker. Time will tell...
• I wonder how, in 2005, things like this are still permitted to go on. Fucking horrifying.
• I wonder how come it took me so long to see this film, given my interest in both the AIDS crisis and documentaries in general. Watch it. I'll be curious to hear your opinions.

Aaaaaand I'm spent. Happy Monday, bitchez.

Helen: Assless and loving it

My ass... gone!
It has officially been danced off.

Ho.
Lee.
CRAP!

Thank the powers that be for my darling Mohammed and his extra ticket to the STELLAR Junior/Senior gig last night at the Mercury Lounge. I do not exaggerate one bit when I tell you that this was the best show I've seen since Afrika Bambaataa and the Zulu Nation virtually destroyed the Lunatarium almost two years ago. J/S's unpretentious brand of what can only be described as pansexual-Euro-retro-electropop-ska-rock provided something indiepop typically lacks: Solid, memorable songs (Shake Your Coconuts and The Gays, in particular) that are cleverly evocative without straying into derivative banality. Truly impressive and refreshing. Junior, with his Shaun Cassidy-meets-Vince Neil mini-mullet and diminutive stature, blasted more rockness out of that little body than any gangly scene-poseur New York frontman I've had the dubious pleasure of watching. Senior was the clear favorite amongst the crowd's strong gay showing; he's all about the vibrant, bouncing energy and touchy-feely crowd bonding. Add in two gorgeous, stunningly talented backup singers and a drummer with the accuracy of a fucking machine, and you've got some serious unstoppable action on your hands.

If that doesn't convince you, consider this: Even the hipsters were dancing. Yeah. (For the record, however...they're still douchebags.)

See Junior/Senior. Buy Junior/Senior records. Love them like we love them. I command you!

Now, in other, sadder news...
The rumors are unfortunately true...Coco has officially rolled up the magic carpet. While I respect her decision, I won't hesitate to remind her ad nauseum that she was the coolest, most ahead-of-the-game music blogger in the 'sphere, and will be sorely missed. I'll do what I can to pass along her vast indie knowledge to you as she graces me with it. And feel free to lodge your protests in her comments section, as Charles and I have.

And, of course, YAY FOR THE GAY! Happy Pride, bitchez!
(Note: If, during/after the parade, you find a post-it on your back that says "Kick Me, I'm Gay!"...well, you can bank that myself or my cohorts did it. Don't worry, I'll be wearing one too, even though I'm only half-a-fag. We're not hatin'. It's love, Ninth Circle style. Feel it!)

Plan B

Denver, Colorado. Sometime in mid-2001 or so.
DFC, Nash, probably a few random freaks we had picked up in one place or the other, maybe D'Artagnan, and me.
DFC's apartment, conveniently located in the converted insane asylum behind God's own liquor store, right off of East Colfax Avenue.
Deep in the heart of the madness.
Perfect.

We were discussing marriage. Not surprising. D'Artagnan's had recently ended. DFC had a painfully broken engagement in his not-so-distant past. Nash...the serial bachelor. I was busily self-medicating my own newly trampled heart. Cynicism about the prospect and very practice understandably abounded. Had we not been fucked up on something or other, it could have been a miserable conversation.

Thankfully, though, we were. Fucked up, that is. Also not surprising. Not in those days.

When close friends get fucked up together and talk about emotional topics, one of two things typically happens (depending on what kind of fucked up they are):

1. They end up fighting, or
2. They end up demonstrating borderline inappropriate levels of affection for one another, making ridiculous promises of undying love, etc. and so forth. Bonding, if you will. (And I really won't, so no fair asking you to. Humor me.)

In this case, the latter erupted. The discourse had been primarily focused on the societal (and godawful parental) expectation that heterosexual adults in our general age range be married, engaged, or at least shacked up. And of course, how much that expectation sucks. And how we were all FINE with our singleness, because we had each other, and couldn't ask for anything more. Yeah. Sure, it'd be nice to find "the right person," but...

"What we need," said DFC, completely out of nowhere, "is a backup plan."

The three of us turned and stared quietly, waiting for him to flesh this out for us. DFC has a way of stopping conversations with declarations like that one. It's one of his many gifts.

"The thing is, you've gotta be prepared. You can't be walking around, forty years old, never been married. That's just not gonna work for anybody. That's not how life's supposed to be. You don't want people looking at you thinking, 'See, that guy's a fuckin' LOSER.'

"But hey, it's not easy to find somebody. Who's gonna put up with my shit they way you guys do? What if nobody gets it? So you need a backup plan. We need backup plans."

And then, of course, he turned to me. Me, his best friend, and also the only person in the room with a second X-chromosome.

"So what I'm saying is, if we're not married by the time I'm forty and you're thirty-eight...we get married. Perfect, right? There's worse things than that. That'd be just fine. What do you say?"

"DFC, I love you. But I'm not having sex with you, dude. Even if we get married."

"That's cool. We can fuck whoever we want. We're friends. But the point is...we'll be married people. Tax breaks, parents off our backs. I think it's a good deal. I mean, you'll wanna fuck me eventually, but whatever. All in good time." He gave me the inimitable DFC grin. He looks like a goddamned boy scout.

"Yeah. Yeah, okay. I mean, I love you. You're my best friend. Why not? Let's get married! In ten years!"

And we pinky swore on it. Nash and D'Artagnan were witnesses. The deal was sealed. We went back to our fucked up-edness, that night and in general.

Things changed. DFC went away to grad school, lived in Asia for awhile, moved around. Nash moved to Tennessee, Oregon, then Dallas. I moved to New York. D'Artagnan shacked up with a much younger woman, dumped her, and married a different much younger woman shortly thereafter. Our lives changed. We changed. But we wrote emails, sent post cards, had the occasional visit. We kept up with one another. All bets were still on.

And then...

Brooklyn, New York. June 21, 2005.
Me, by myself.
My apartment, conveniently located in the converted shower curtain factory, miles from the nearest train, but a mere two blocks from the White Castle on Myrtle Avenue. (Gross.)
Still plenty of madness around.
Not quite perfect...but pretty damn good.

A white envelope was waiting on the kitchen table for me when I arrived home, after a night of gallivanting amongst the gays. An envelope from DFC...and HFS.

He met HFS in grad school. They visited me in NY shortly after I moved here three years ago. She's wonderful. Pretty, smart, funny. She loves him tremendously. They've endured long separations, money struggles, cultural differences, and DFC's carousing with Nash and I. He told me about a year ago that he was going to marry her. Seemed like an outstanding idea to me.

And in the envelope, of couse, was the wedding invitation. They're getting married next month, in Colorado, at DFC's parents' house.

Because I have a vagina, I teared up a bit while reading it. Then I remembered the time we got fucked up and ran around ass-naked in the yard of DFC's parents' house all afternoon. On a Saturday. When all the neighbors were home. Hopefully they won't recognize me with clothes on.

I'm excited for them. I'm incredibly happy that my best friend found that elusive "one." I can't wait to see the kids, hear the stories, and watch them enjoy their life together.

I am, however, headed back to the drawing board, now that my backup plan partner no longer needs backing up. Maybe there's hope for me. My best friend found true love...it's still a possibility that I will too.

Boy, am I ever gonna get wicked drunk at that wedding.

Blood & liquor

I have very little to contribute at the moment.

I must, however, tell you NY peeps what you're doing tonight, because that's the kind of bitch I am. So...

Go see The Drew Blood, damn you! At 11 PM, at Bar Eleven. (LES, 152 Orchard between Stanton and Rivington.) Doors at 8, open bar from 9-10, woo hoo! With special guest DJ Michael T, who astounds me with his utter non-assholeness in spite of his status as a superstar of NYC nightlife. He's a peach, fer reals. And I don't even need to tell you how much I dig Drew.

Oh yeah...you'll be pleased to know that I received some comfort regarding the Jackson verdict from a fairly unlikely source...Stereogum posted this. For me to poop on, indeed.

I heart the internet

So many reasons to love the internet...the endless distractions from work, two gigs of email storage, the blogosphere (of course), the free porn...I could go on.

The main reason I love it today, though, is due to the fact that Mr. WWW brought me Big Dan. And I love me some Big Dan. Big Dan turns 27 today.

We met & bonded semi-randomly on myspace (of all godawful places), over our common wish to cause grave bodily harm to child molesters. A year later, the dude knows more about me than my mother (and thank god for that, coz there's plenty of things my mother should never, ever know about me.) Dan provides me with a daily reminder of two vitally important things:

1. There really ARE incredibly good, kind, caring people out there, and
2. When you find a friend who's as sick a fuck as you are, hold on to 'em.

Dan, you are absolutely priceless (and not in that MasterCard commercial kinda way, either.) I'm sure that your awesome, beautiful girlfriend is, at this moment, making sure that you have the most fantastic birthday ever. I hope you know how much you deserve it. Love you kid.

Special thanks to Al Gore, for, you know, inventing the 'net in the first place and all. Yeah.

Good news, America!

Wowie, things just keep gettin' better and better for us Americans! Talk about FREEDOM...we've got it fallin' out of our assholes!

Our latest victory...As of yesterday, not only is it okay to murder your ex-wife and her lover if you have enough money...no, that wasn't quite enough! Now, if you have cash in the bank to spare, you can get little kids drunk and screw 'em! YEAH! That's what I call progress!

For the sick fucks dancing in the streets after Michael Jackson's acquittal yesterday, I have one question: Would you let YOUR kid stay the night at Jacko's house alone?

See, if you say yes, you're an unfit fuck of a parent. And if you say no, you're a hypocritical piece of shit who knows he did it, and is celebrating some ludicrous principle you think that his "victory" represents. Either way, fuck you.

Yes, the victim's mother was suspicious and money-grubbing. No, she shouldn't have left her kid alone with an obvious psycho and known child molestor. Does that mean her kid wasn't victimized? Absolutely not. The case against Michael Jackson was strong to say the least (and don't take my word for it...read the details), but yet again a defense team's sleazy exploitation of celebrity was allowed to get the better of justice. This may be even more shameful than the last un-Presidential election, if that's even possible.

So what can we do? Write to our Congressmen? Like they care.

Here, here, and here are some resources to help you prevent and detect child sexual abuse. Michael Jackson is clearly not the only pedophile walking the streets. Protect the kids you love.

I Wonder Monday #2

Since I didn't attend any of the weekend's events that I suggested on Friday and have little to report (other than the fact that The Motorcycle Diaries is effing amazing), I'll just get right to it.

• I wonder how much money I have to spend at American Apparel before I get like, a free car or something. (It's officially outta control. There are more of these in my drawer than there are glasses in my dish cabinet.)
• I wonder how many people would be so deeply interested in whatever may have happened to Natalee Holloway if she was less...Aryan.
• I wonder if I'll always find this type of stuff funny. I hope so. [via Gawker]
• I wonder if I'll ever get up the nerve to take my hot neighbor up on his invitation to stop over for beers. (Not likely. Know thyself, and all that. Sigh...)
• I wonder what ever happened to my friend Willy, the Kiwi bartender from Luxx. Haven't seen him in forever. Willy got me my first paid gig in NY, bartending at a photography exhibit at the Gershwin during which I served about 40 rum & Cokes to the Naked Cowboy. Good times, good times.

Sad as it is, that's pretty much it. Not much brain activity today. Those who know me are profoundly unsurprised.

What to do, what to do...

So much going on this weekend...I'm overwhelmed with the options & will probably end up in a fetal position with my thumb in my mouth. I've pared it down to my top recommendations with the hopes that you'll fare a bit better. Here goes...

Tonight:
Lisa Jackson and Girl Friday at Arlene's Crappy Grocery (LES), 10 PM, $7

I love this band. Hate the venue, but whatever. Lisa's parties inevitably rawk.
Be sure to congratulate drummer Fred on his recent nuptials.

Saturday:
The Sweet Action party at The Tainted Lady (Williamsburg), 7 PM, $10 donation suggested (which will get you a free copy of SA #3, a Sixpoint Sweet Action Beer, and a raffle ticket for fabulous prizes.)

My understanding is that there will be gratuitous nudity and madness at this event. I care for both a great deal.

Sunday:
Temptress Boat Cruise with THE GIRAFFES! and Local H, departing from 41st Street and West Side Highway, 7:30 PM, $20 advance/$25 day of show.

It's the Giraffes on a booze cruise. Duh.
No barfing allowed. (Damien excepted, of course.)

Additional notes:
*My guess is that the symbol on the cover of the new Coldplay album actually means "most overrated, overhyped, talentless douchebag band of all time."

*Deepest thanks to Tyler K., who made my day with this. The Star Wars Kid finally has some competition...it's about time. Vote for Pedro!

Happy Anniversary to Me

Yep. Three years ago today, I dropped off the turnip truck and landed, rather painfully, in Bushwick, Brooklyn. There have been many moments since then when I've wondered what the hell I was thinking, picking up and leaving a perfectly good life in Denver to come fend for myself in this steaming, crazy, gorgeous mess of a city. But all in all, some truly amazing people (we're talking un-fucking-believable, stellar human beings) and events have made it well worthwhile.

Who knows how long I'll stay, or where I'll go next...but whatever happens, no place compares to this one. The time spent here will almost certainly earn a book of its own. Or at least a long-winded, profanity-laden, often pointless blog that a few bored/brave individuals are kind enough to read.

So yeah...I heart NY, go Yankees, etc. and so forth.

(Yo Bloomberg...there you go, I did my bit. My check best be in the mail, bitch.)

Destroy your television!

Do it quick, before Being Bobby Brown premiers and you're tempted to actually watch it!

The highlight, via Popbitch:

The couple's drugged-up ghetto lifestyle in full glare. One episode has Bobby describing how he helped his wife with her constipation, by inserting his fingers to massage it out. Whitney says, "When I told my girlfriends about it, they said 'That's real love, baby. That's real black love.'" Bobby then holds up four fingers and wiggles them in front of the camera.

Mother of god.
Please.
No.
Please.

Here I was, thinking this was as bad as it could get. Stupid, stupid, stupid me.

I'm gonna have to watch Harold and Kumar about 1500 times now to repair the damage done to the media section of my delicate little psyche.

Pray for me. Pray for all of us.

Introducing "I Wonder" Mondays!

Okay, new game I made up for myself. I do stuff like that...try'n cope.

On Mondays, I'm typically too busy/tired to think, so from now on, I'll be using Mondays to create lists of bullshit I wonder about. "I Wonder Mondays."
Can you dig it? I knew that you could.

So here you go, Monday Number One:

• I wonder how, at 32 years old, it's still possible for me to lose individual shoes in my bedroom for days, sometimes weeks, at a time. (My mother the neat freak is always so pleased to hear of things like this, letmetellyou.)
• I wonder how Ray Charles could tell whether a chick was hot or not just by feeling her wrist.
• I wonder if I have hot wrists.
• I wonder how my ex's thoroughly skanky current girlfriend would feel if she knew that he reads my blog all the time. Oh, wait...she's too busy posting their sex pictures on the internet to care.
• I wonder how my ex's late father would feel about the fact that his son's thoroughly skanky girlfriend posts their sex pictures on the internet. Or his (living) mother, for that matter.
• I wonder what the fuck I was thinking.
• I wonder how and why this works. I only wish girls could poop so I could experience it myself. Alas...
• I wonder how I managed to sunburn the crap outta one boob, one hip, one arm, and selected portions of my legs, while the rest of my body still looks like super-bright copy paper.
• I wonder how long it's gonna take me to write my book. Oy.
• I wonder why the tabloids care about Lindsay, too. Especially now that she has no tits.
• I wonder how long it will be before my dad can't take care of himself or my mom anymore.
• I wonder why the nutjobs at Coney Island use fresh chicken as bait for fishing instead of just eating the damn chicken. (Thank you, David O, for that one.)
• I wonder why most of the freakin' loons at Coney Island do anything they do, come to think of it.
• I wonder why, in spite of its needle-laden beach, filthy water, utterly freakish and intensely unappealing crowds, and nasty food, Coney Island is still just about my favorite place in the world. (I think it's one of the last places in New York that anyone can afford to hang out...maybe that's it.)
• I wonder how long I'll stay single. Longer than it'll take me to finish the damn book, I'm betting. Fine by me.
• I wonder what would happen if I got enough sleep all the time. If this weekend is any indication, it could be scary. The book'd be done by like, next Tuesday or something. Good thing we don't have to worry about this happening, ever. Or something.

There you have it. I'm sure you'll be anxiously awaiting next week's equally pointless list.

Or not.

Temporary Solution to a Permanent Problem

I haven't blogged about politics for awhile. It's mostly because I'm well over 30 now, and need to keep an eye on the ol' blood pressure. And if you've read any of my previous diatribes concerning the Idiot Son of an Asshole, you know all too well that he sends mine through the roof. (Even if you haven't read my post-election rants, I hope you have reasons to hate Dubya yourself so that you understand. If not, please stop reading now and go jump in the nearest lake.) I've remained in the loop on this ridiculous debacle of a war, Tom DeLay's utter assclownness, etcetera and so forth. But talking about gay Hobbits and drunken madness...well, it's just more fun.

This, though, cannot go without mention. Read it. It came across my radar awhile back, but I went in-depth this week and, needless to say, am horrified and completely unsurprised.

So...what does a hip, politically savvy, sexy New York City chick do when the vile antics of her country's unelected imperialist government get her down? I have no idea. And Coco's out of town, so I can't ask her. Damn.

Me? I bought a pair of jeans that make my ass look fantastic for one-third of the retail price, some new tube socks, and a bag of Cosmoapple Twizzlers that I plan to eat in bed tonight while watching Napoleon Dynamite.

If anyone's interested in helping me overthrow the evil Republicans after that, I'll share what's left of my candy. Let me know, people, let me know.

Lord of the Rims?

Okay. I have now, finally, seen the Lord of the Rings movies. All three of them. Extended versions, even (thanks to my roomie Jenn.) That's like, 56 hours of LOTR, or something. It may be years too late already, but I have to admit...now I get what all those nerds have been carrying on about at such length. I'm down. I also get the Orlando Bloom thing. Never been much into him, but that's one sexy elf. Dang. And I loved the dirty, drunken, farting little dwarf, too, because (in case you hadn't noticed) I'm completely juvenile.

I would be remiss, however, not to mention that these may be the most insanely gay mainstream films I've ever seen. [insert obligatory notthattheresanythingwrongwiththat here] I mean, seriously...Frodo and Sam were SOOOO having nasty halfling man sex. That whole bit at the very end, when Frodo wrote to Sam about no longer being torn in two...yeah. Loosely interpreted (forgive the pun): "You don't have to lie to your wife anymore about going to the tavern for an ale while you're really pounding my Hobbit hole, baby. I'm off to a dwarf-friendly circuit party that lasts for all eternity!" The irony of Ian McKellen, who may be the nelliest mary on the planet (sorry, Joel), playing the straightest role in the films is...wow. Amazing. (And he was fucking magnificent, by the way. You GO, Gandalf!) The rings? Clearly representative of mansphincters. Makes so much more sense now. Tolkien was a closet case, no doubt in my mind.

Commence with the making fun of me for being so stunningly behind the cinematic eight ball. G'head. But you know I'm right.